8.00

(Andrea Parsneau, MouthyMaven, will be live-recording Book 3 of The Wandering Inn on her Discord server! Be sure to join the server if you’d like to listen!)

Three days after the Summer Solstice, there was life. A heart began to beat. A body stirred.

In the city of Liscor, there was life where there had been so much death. Still, the mourning continued. Not just for one person; lives had been lost.

War between the Hectval Alliance and the city of Liscor had claimed lives. The city was both silent and noisy, and too much of each.

Yet there was life.

Beneath the city, bodies stirred in vast, semi-transparent sacs of liquid. Shapes that would have been called foreign, alien, disturbing to Humans or other species, began to move. Their heads were triangular, and they bore antennae. Their bodies—insectile, a fusion of ant and beetle. They had rounded, tough shells on their backs, and four arms.

They were Antinium. And they were being born, as the Antinium understood it.

The luminescent liquid that was growing them was in fact, a being of its own. Albeit with no real conscious mind. Antinium called them Birthers—and they were to their function what Workers and Soldiers were. These specialized Antinium produced each new generation at a speed unmatched by any other sentient species. A Worker or Soldier could form in a month at average production; less if need be.

And there were hundreds such Birthers, carefully contained in this environment, free from any foreign contamination or interference. The ‘food’ they were given was specifically calculated and the Birthers accepted only liquid nutrition that another Antinium had to process to render into usable material.

It was another form of reproduction for a species that had decided manual labor sort of sucked and was pretty inefficient. This new generation would not emerge as infants in body.

In mind, perhaps. But as each Antinium began to drift upwards and be extracted from the sack—or extruded much in the way most infants were—they did not cry or make sound. They stumbled only once; then found their feet.

To one of the new Workers, it was of course the strangest experience in its life. It had been vaguely…aware…near the end of its completion. But unconscious. What it had been processing was information.

How to walk. How to manipulate objects. Basic combat. Grab the enemy and kill it. Bite, tear. Pick up this object. Use a hammer like so. Nails go in point-first.

Clothing is to be worn thusly; without it is unacceptable. Beware of moving vehicles. Pronounce ‘Antinium’ with the following syntax…

A thousand different concepts, imparted into its mind from previous generations. Even as the Worker looked around the dim room and saw more forms rising, shaking off the nutrient-rich liquid—which was running in grooves in the floor down to a sloping basin for repurposing—it could have joined a construction team in hammering nails into pre-designated positions, or taken up a position in a battle, if only to charge the enemy and attack with bare hands and mandibles.

The Worker knew basic things; that was all. It could hammer nails, not construct a house or see the logic in tactics. The rest it would have to be taught. But it was still a rapid advancement on a Drake baby, whose only instinct after being born would be to cry, or grab the shiniest thing possible and stick it in its mouth.

This generation was not a vast army, just another addition to the Hive. Ninety eight Workers and Soldiers; the Birthers were not synced to all produce Antinium at once. It was a continuous rotation and even now, they were being prepared for more Antinium.

But what now? The Worker stood straight, opening and closing its hands, waving its antennae. Thinking and realizing it was consciously thinking for the first time. Yet it had no direction, no purpose. What—

I am your Queen.

The thought struck the Worker and it froze in an instant. From somewhere else—another position in the Hive—it felt a presence.

Vast, powerful, a mind reaching out through dirt and space to touch it. And the other Antinium. They froze as the Free Queen of the Antinium touched them, briefly.

I am your Queen. You are a Worker. You are Free Antinium. Your purpose is to defend the Hive. Your role will be given. You are to be a butcher of meats.

And thus it was done. The Worker received a second download of information, as well as understanding. It was a Worker. One of many. And it had just felt the presence of the Queen, for whom the Hive revolved around.

Certainty steadied the Worker. It was now a butcher. It would learn its job, but already it understood it would be using a meat cleaver to separate meats. Basic ideas like ‘do not get dirt on this’ had been imparted.

Normally, it would then walk to a specified place in the Hive, and follow another Worker about for a week or two, learning the rest of the nuances of its craft. But two things were different with this group of new Antinium than the rest.

The first was that of the hundred Birthers and Antinium—only ninety eight had risen. Two lay on the ground.

Dead. The Workers in charge of this section paused uncertainly over the bodies. The Antinium were whole in every way. A Soldier and a Worker, without defect or flaw, which normally would have been caught in their creation, at least visible ones.

But they did not move. Something was wrong. The Workers slowly began to remove the bodies. The other Antinium watched, not knowing what to feel or think. Death—the idea of death—had not been taught to them in more than an idea of what would happen if they were injured.

No one taught new Antinium to grieve or weep. Or no one had. But things were changing.

Go here.

The voice of the Queen sounded a second time in the butcher-Worker’s head. He jerked, and then began to move with the other new Antinium. It was the last time the Worker would directly hear the Queen’s voice, except to receive the briefest of orders to reinforce a position or change occupations.

But sound, audible sound, began to filter in as the Antinium left the space where they had been born. Their antennae twitched and their steps stuttered. But they moved smoothly and entered a tunnel.

And there were more Antinium. Hundreds. Thousands, marching in perfect sync. The new Antinium beheld how many of their kind there were—and fell into place into the moving lines without missing a beat.

That was what it was to be Antinium. Born and used and dying without ever leaving the Hive sometimes. With a lifespan of hours in times of war.

But it was not how it should be. Or so some said. And so, the second deviation from the experience of the new Antinium was this:

They were all going the same way. The butcher-Worker realized it was moving right behind an archer-Worker. It had caught a bit of the Queen’s transmission to the closest Worker, this one. Neither acknowledged the other. The butcher-Worker stared at the back of the archer-Worker’s head. But if there was ever a connection…

They might never see each other again. Not with so many different Antinium, they looked quite alike even to their own kind. It made the butcher-Worker a bit glad they were walking together for a while.

The new Antinium filed into a side tunnel after leaving the main thoroughfare. They walked in a line of four, turned left, then right, following the Queen’s instructions in their head. And they came to a large room.

Just a tunnel of space. The Hive was compact walls of dirt and stone, primitive in construction, but made by experts who knew how to brace against flooding, earthquakes, and other dangers. This was a hollowed space, and unlike other tunnels or rooms the new Antinium had passed by, oddly inefficient.

In that it was not claustrophobically built so the ceiling was only a tiny bit above the Antinium’s heads. This was a proper chamber. And more Antinium were gathered here.

Many more. And many…strange Antinium. The New Antinium had been born eight minutes ago, but already they were able to make that distinction. Normal Antinium looked like them. But these had…something strange on their bodies.

Color. Splashes of some vibrant substance. And…clothing? One of them wore a kind of loose robe. Another? An apron and an odd, white, floofy hat. The butcher-Antinium stared at it, and his mind confirmed this was another point of clothing. Not like the loincloths he’d be issued; this was proper garb. It even had words.

He read the first words of his life haltingly, using the new centers of his mind to process the insignia on the apron as the other Antinium turned to regard him.

‘Hug the [Cook]’.

Now what did that mean? And what was the odd, pink-red off-triangle thing below it? The other Worker looked a bit perplexed by the appearance of the New Antinium too. It opened its mandibles.

And then there was a voice. An actual voice, the first the New Antinium had heard.

“New Antinium? Ah. Stand there, please.”

The New Antinium snapped to attention. They looked forwards, ready for orders. And what they saw was…

A Worker. Like them. Dressed in robes, but wearing no paint. His body was more worn than theirs, bearing marks of existence. But he was not…painted.

Still, there was something to him. He stood behind a wooden thing. A lectern. And two of his hands were clasped together for no apparent reason. But when he spoke…something in his voice drew them. Surely, if they had tried to copy his words, they would lack some substance there.

“Welcome.”

That was all he said. But he meant it. The Workers and Soldiers filed into line, and saw how many Antinium were present. Thousands. They stood in this place, listening intently. Somehow—intently, even for Antinium. With every fiber of their being. The Worker at the lectern leaned on it.

He looked tired. And…sad. His antennae drooped. His head hung. But then he straightened. And he gazed across his audience and spoke.

“Who is Erin Solstice?”

It was a question. The New Antinium stirred; they had no answer. There was no ‘Erin Solstice’ in anything they had been taught. They saw the other Antinium stir; some knew the answer. But they also understood it was a rhetorical question, something else the New Antinium would have to learn.

The Worker speaking went on.

“Who is Erin? Not who was Erin. New Antinium, in the days to come, you will hear her name often. To those of you who attend this sermon for the first time, who have lived in the Hive but never had the chance to meet her…the same.”

He looked at some of the Antinium without paint then, and they stirred. They were old—some perhaps as old as five whole years, but unpainted and thus…different. Summoned, like the New Antinium, for a reason. The Worker went on, shaking his head.

“What you will find are things Erin did. Things she helped make. Me. The idea of Painted Antinium. It was not just her. But she was there at the start. We have become far more. But she was there. You must know who she is—who she was—to understand what we are. And then, you must know that she is gone.”

Now, the Antinium stirred. The Painted Antinium shook as though a breeze had blown far underground. The New Antinium experienced a moment of…unease.

Something terrible had happened. The Worker leaned on the podium. His name was Pawn. He was a [Priest].

But he too had changed. The Antinium looked up at him, some uncertain, some with awe, having understood they were being chosen. Regular Antinium regarded him with wonder. The Painted Antinium?

Some…with fear. For he was Pawn. First of the Individuals. Leader of the Painted Antinium—if not in military might like Yellow Splatters, then in charge of their souls and great cause. Yet they looked at him with fear when they had not just a week ago.

[Doomspeaker Priest]. And by his will and hatred, he could conjure that which terrified Antinium.

[Summon Aberration]. The Skill felt dark and twisted in his mind even as he thought it. He had become wrath. Pawn spoke on, seeing the Painted Antinium looking at him.

“Erin Solstice is lost. And she was a good thing. Not just good. The best that has ever happened to the Antinium. Because of her, you will become Painted Antinium. You will have names. A purpose beyond what we were. Because of Erin, you will see the sky and taste food and, perhaps, live far longer than any before you.”

The Antinium looked up, hungry for his words. The sky. They longed for it, even the new Antinium. The thought that there was even more was an addictive drug. Once you saw the sky…you could not go back.

And yet there it was. Where once he had delivered the sermon with only one emotion, there was now nuance. Erin Solstice was…

The Painted Antinium were silent. The [Priest] went on, slowly, painfully.

“Yet Erin was lost. Is lost. She is…she was hurt. By terrible fools. She will be avenged. But she is lost and that is…”

Too much. The Painted Antinium susurrated with grief.

Three days. It had been three days since the Summer Solstice. Longer since Erin had been frozen. Too long. Already—Pawn felt the beginnings of madness once more.

He had seen it once, when he had told the Soldiers of the idea of heaven. Now, he sensed it again.

Heaven exists. A better place for Antinium after death. Erin is dead. Or at least, not alive. In that case, logic made things simple.

This world has lost all that is good and right about it. Why not hasten that journey to a better place if one exists? Especially if she is there?

It was a terrible conclusion, but one that Pawn had seen Antinium come to. He had to tell them they were wrong. So—his sermon was more important than his grief.

“It is true Erin is not here. But she is not dead. And that is why you must not give up. Continue.”

He looked across them.

“There is more to—to life than just Erin. She will return. Have faith.”

They listened, believing his words because Pawn knew them to be true. Erin was so much.

But she was not everything.

“There are clouds. They come in all shapes and sizes in the sky. You see—each one is different. And flowers. There are more flowers than you could imagine. In every shape and color and size. I have not seen them all. Not even a tenth. There is good food; a [Cook] named Imani makes new ones every week.”

The Antinium listened, hungry, as Pawn described these things. He tried to tell them what it felt like to pet a sheep. They licked your fingers, even.

“All these things are good. All these things must be protected. We are at war with Hectval. Erin is dead. But she is not lost. She can come back. She will. So we must protect what matters. Her. Her inn, each other, the Hive—the city until then. Believe.”

It was so easy to say that. And they did. Because he was Pawn, their [Priest]. Perhaps he even fooled the two [Acolytes] he had chosen, who began circulating with fresh bread.

Bread he had conjured with his Skill, supplemented with Garry-bread, both of which Antinium could eat, in sparing amounts. The Workers and Soldiers got a bit of honey with each. For the New Antinium it was almost cruel; it would be far more glorious to taste this than the food they would normally live with.

But that was what Pawn wanted to give them. Happy things. He could…say it better than he practiced it. In his heart, he was still kneeling in front of the bier.

Lost. And whilst his sermon kept the Painted Antinium from falling into despair, there it was. Pawn looked at Garry as he prepared to induct the new Antinium who were ready into the ranks of the Painted Antinium. They would be given paints, and a day to choose their identities. They would have been thinking of it for the last week of course.

Those who were just beginning their journey, like the New Antinium, would simply mingle with the Painted Antinium and experience reading a book, or playing chess for a while.

That was what was new in the Hive of the Free Antinium. Pawn resumed his sermon, trying to tell his people to hold to faith. For Erin would return. Surely. Someone would help bring her back.

But it had been three days since the Summer Solstice. And now—a week and a half since she had been lost.

—-

The sermon concluded. The regular Antinium were released to their duties. The New Antinium stayed, still savoring the taste. Foolishly, they’d scarfed down the honeyed bread, unlike the regular Antinium and Painted Antinium, who knew to savor each bite and make it last for hours.

The Painted Antinium remained, as did the Individuals. For instance, the Antinium with the poofy hat, Garry.

He was to the Antinium what a celebrity was. Garry, Bird the [Hunter], Pawn, Belgrade, and Anand. They were the Individuals, with an option on Yellow Splatters and Purple Smiles and so on as later Antinium of note. The other Antinium—even Painted Antinium—hung back as he moved towards Pawn.

For Garry was grieving too. As was Belgrade, still shaking with it. Pawn went first to them, speaking quietly, touching Antinium on the way. Did they grieve the most? Perhaps, for they were first. They had known Erin longest. Therefore, their grief mattered more than lesser Antinium.

And if that were true, then the Worker who had refused to take bread or honey felt it must be a pain so intense you could barely stand. He did not want to feel that. This?  This was bad enough. He watched as the Individuals gathered in the center of the room, with all other Antinium attending them. Yellow Splatters was moving towards them, Purple Smiles, even the foreign Antinium—Tersk and Dekass.

The ones who mattered. The Painted Worker hung back. For he did not. He had paint on his antennae, and only there. Silver paint. And thus he was ‘Silveran’, or so he’d been named.

A Worker with a nickname, a rarity even among their kind. He watched, enviously, as Pawn embraced Garry. His voice was audible even from here.

“The New Antinium. We must hold on, Garry. We must…”

They were turning to the new near-hundred Workers and Soldiers. Silveran, who was one year old, knew that a lack of a full hundred meant this group of Antinium had had faults with their generation. Some defect in the Birthers?

Or something more insidious? He had heard the words from the scrying orb, spelling a third bad thing in this week. And bad things had happened, so much already that Silveran couldn’t take it in.

The new Workers and Soldiers stood to attention as the others regarded them. They would probably be disoriented; Silveran remembered clearly how his first hour of creation had been filled with combat.

Slimes had broken through cracks close to his area and the Queen had ordered the Workers and Soldiers to fight with her first contact. Silveran had watched a Soldier engulfed by a giant Sewer Slime before tearing the mana core out of the slime and watching it die.

These would have a gentler introduction. For that, Silveran envied them. But they would not meet Erin, even if they were allowed a patrol on the surface. So he pitied them.

Something was different about them, too. It wasn’t completely obvious to them of course since they had no idea, but Silveran detected a fluidity of movement in them. A slight…enhancement around the legs?

Improved muscular design in the lower structure. Or so he’d heard Yellow Splatters remarking. The Free Queen had implemented one of her upgrades to the Worker and Soldier designs and it was only now showing up in later generations. In a month? They’d see a lot of upgrades. Perhaps deficiencies too. Sometimes a Worker or Soldier was created with a flaw in their process that manifested itself only when they were functional.

Pawn was walking to the New Antinium, reaching out to touch shoulders. Garry, meanwhile, had offered a pie around and was sharing slices. Belgrade was being supported by his aides, and there were the two Armored Antinium.

All important. Silveran was not. At least, not in the same way. He was—had been—privileged beyond belief. A Worker employed in The Wandering Inn, a job position beyond belief. But Erin was dead.

So Silveran waited a moment, and found Pawn’s sermon had done nothing to close the hole inside of him that he could not see, only feel. Then he left.

—-

The city of Liscor was noisy and silent by turns as Silveran left the Hive. He walked the streets, listening, observing.

Was he allowed to do this? Debatable. Silveran was Painted Antinium, but even they couldn’t do what they wanted. Only Garry, Pawn, Bird, Belgrade, and Anand were that special. Yet Silveran?

He would normally be above, already in the inn, sweeping floors, serving drinks, doing whatever was needed. Hauling water from the well; he was good at that. He kept very far back in case he fell in of course. That was his biggest fear. But he was always on time. Erin had told him he could not arrive two hours early the first time she caught him sweeping up before dawn, so he always came exactly on time.

It was such a good job. Had been such a good job. Silveran had been specially chosen for it. Over four hundred Painted Workers had competed. Erin had no idea when she asked Pawn for a Worker to try out in the staff that there would be competition of course.

But Yellow Splatters, Xrn, and Belgrade had all agreed with Pawn that the best Worker should be chosen for the job. They had reviewed each Worker’s levels, and settled on Silveran because he was a Level 7 [Sweeper] and he had participated in eleven combat-events with no injuries.

Yellow Splatters had wanted to make the finalist Workers spar. But Pawn had been content with Silveran and chosen him after seeing Silveran handle a knife.

First of the Antinium staff. There were two more, but Silveran had been there almost every day. He’d go at the crack of dawn and walk for thirty minutes, strolling really, to get to the inn on time.

Such a good thing. He would arrive and clean up and Erin would insist he had a hot breakfast first, and Miss Imani would say ‘hello’ and he would see Erin first thing and work until his shift ended.

Even Pawn wasn’t that lucky. Even Garry saw Erin only once or twice a week. Silveran had considered he was the happiest Worker in the Hive. He’d kept that to himself of course; it was as close to…heresy…as anything to say that he was happier than Pawn, or more fortunate than Bird or Belgrade.

But he’d thought it. He saw how often Bird said hello to Erin. Statistically, the Worker did have as many Erin-contact events as Silveran, but he sometimes missed meals. So Silveran had more seconds of Erin-proximity by far than Bird, even if Erin had conversations or chess games with him.

And yes, he counted. Silveran had counted every day he got to work in the inn. He had the number scratched into his permanent sleeping-cubby in the Painted Antinium’s barracks, and his money was carefully sorted by coin in a small space he’d hollowed out himself. He hadn’t bought anything with it; he would have given it to the Painted Antinium’s funds, but Yellow Splatters had said it was his.

Silveran had even leveled more than all but the most active Painted Soldiers or Individuals. He was a proud, Level 15 [Server], having changed from [Sweeper] to [Server] and he had a Skill Erin had been very happy about—[Remove Mess]. Silveran could just point at a small spill or mess and it vanished! She had said it was ‘the best Skill ever with Mrsha around’ and Silveran had written it down on a scrap of paper.

He paused in the street to open it now. The little, discarded piece of paper with one of Lyonette’s shopping receipts on front was legible in the morning light.

‘The best Skill ever with Mrsha around’.

Yes, it said that. But it no longer filled him with joy. Erin was dead.

Shot with crossbow bolts. Even now, Silveran felt like curling up at the memory. He had been in the inn, weapons drawn, ready to defend the inn if anyone got past the hallway kill zone. When he’d heard a shout and…and…he’d run outside and she was lying on the ground.

She’d been shot with the crossbow bolts right outside the inn and he hadn’t stopped it.

The Worker shuddered. He dropped the piece of parchment and hurriedly bent to pick it up. His fault. He was surprised Pawn and Yellow Splatters hadn’t told him to walk into the dungeon. Or thrown him into a Shield Spider nest. He’d been waiting.

Because, clearly—all of this was his fault. Erin dying and being frozen, the war with Hectval—everything was Silveran’s fault because he hadn’t been outside to defend her. He should have been, even if he didn’t know she’d been right there when the Drake raiding party attacked. But he should have been. All Silveran knew was that he should have died, not Erin.

Ergo, his fault. The logic was clear. Silveran picked up the parchment and put it away in his belt pouch.

Like Pawn, he wore clothing. Robes were the Antinium style since few things covered their bulky bodies. However, Erin had done some experimenting and her outfit for Antinium staff was an apron over their fronts, and a kind of kilt-like lower half, so they weren’t tangled in robes. Silveran had a belt with pouches, a standard, for most people on top of that.

He was just closing the pouch when he heard another bell tolling. The Worker started. He looked around and saw—

A procession. Drakes, heads bowed, carrying—Silveran was hurrying to the side of the street at once.

Carrying a casket. This was a funeral procession. The bell rang again, and Silveran saw it was hanging from the casket being borne by the Drakes. A crowd was following and the Worker pressed himself against a wall.

He knew at once it was someone going to be cremated. Or perhaps the casket bore their ashes for interment in one of the cemeteries.

There had been many of these. Three days of it. Funerals for the dead in the war with Hectval. Silveran remembered that, too.

A soldier bursting through the door to the inn, shouting for the Black Tide at Olesm’s orders. People going to fight—the huge Minotaur with one arm charging through with a roar. Silveran, about to join the thousand-some Antinium when Lyonette had told him to stay, to guard the inn and Mrsha.

So he had. He had not witnessed the battle. But he had heard…Pawn had conjured Aberrations. He had cursed the Hectval army and they had been driven to retreat despite ambushing Liscor’s army. It was a victory against the odds, especially since Liscor’s army had rushed to attack Hectval without preparation and been caught by three armies in a pass.

Still…they had taken too many casualties. The funerals were proof of that. Silveran hung his head as the weeping Drakes passed. They were silent; the pedestrians who’d all stopped to take off hats or watch the procession were not.

“Damn Hectval. And damn whoever thought it was a good idea to attack them!”

A Drake whispered furiously after the mourners had gone. Silveran heard some murmurs.

“Not the time.”

“Isn’t it? That Earl from Terandria and our [Strategist] were all charging off and look what happened. Hundreds dead! Thousands! Why is he still a [Strategist]?”

“I didn’t hear anyone saying to stop at the time.”

A Gnoll snorted.

“The Watch Captain did. But who listened to her? Anyways, unless you have a good [Strategist] in your pocket…”

The first Drake growled, adjusting his coat as his tail lashed the ground. Silveran crept past the group; they paid no attention to the Worker. Liscorian citizens seldom did.

“It’s not right. And where is the army? We’ve needed them more this year than any other and they’re off south, fighting for coin.”

“No arguments there. In fairness—this year’s been like no other.”

“Thanks to that Human. Oh. Well…perhaps it will be quieter.”

The group fell silent. The growling Drake’s face turned suddenly abashed. The others glared at him and he shook his head, coughed into a claw.

“—Just not right, that’s all. I’m not saying Hectval shouldn’t be punished. But we don’t have enough of an army. We need ours back yesterday. Not just for Hectval. If it’s war with Rhir…”

Silveran walked past the group as he heard murmurs and then them breaking up. They were angry. Distraught. And not just because of Hectval.

More bad things had happened too.

—-

The Wandering Inn stood on a hill outside the city. Silveran walked up to it; he was used to foot traffic, people using the door and thus a constant flow of people in and out, using the outhouses, lining up to go to another city.

It was deathly quiet today. As it had been yesterday, and the day before. Silveran opened the door and saw…

No one. The inn was silent. He looked reflexively left and saw a blank wall. Oh. Right. The magic door had been moved to the portal room. The door to that was closed though, and he heard no one moving behind it. No one wanted to visit The Wandering Inn today. Or if they did? No one was here.

He walked down the long, suspiciously smooth and empty hallway. Halfway across, he heard the faintest of sounds. A shifting—Silveran paused. The Worker looked around and heard a voice.

“Antinium. Recognize it.”

It was muffled. The Worker froze in place and heard it coming from a tiny crack in the wall. A camouflaged arrow slit. He looked at the gap and saw a crossbow bolt aimed not-quite at his chest.

It pulled back. The Worker hesitated, and then walked on. As soon as he came to the door at the far end, he opened it.

An empty common room beyond. The Worker stared about. He heard a faint voice from further in the inn; saw nothing but tables and chairs, sitting empty, everything perfectly clean. Someone was in the kitchen, but no one was cooking anything.

Curious of who had been speaking, the Worker turned right, towards a door set into the wall. He opened it and found a passageway that ran along the hallway. It connected to more private dining rooms and other points in the inn, but notably allowed those in this hallway to peek into the other one or even use the hidden doorways.

Or arrow slits. A pair of men with hats were sitting on stools by one of the arrow slits. They turned as Silveran opened the door. Both had the inn’s crossbows trained and they were just…waiting.

One of them tipped his hat slowly, cautiously, eyes on the Antinium.

“Guard duty. Sir. Pardon the crossbow.”

Silveran recognized the two Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings at once. He also knew the grizzled, older one. Crimshaw. Silveran hesitated, then nodded. The two Brothers went back to waiting.

So someone was in the inn. No staff, no guests, though. Silveran felt…disturbed. He had known The Wandering Inn had been empty at times, but never during his employ. There was always some regulars eating Erin’s food, playing chess, watching the play…

He walked into the common room again. Turned.

The [Grand Theatre] of The Wandering Inn made this a venue that hundreds of people could enjoy at their leisure. In fact, the room was separated by a huge curtain that ran the length of the room. As Silveran ducked behind it, he felt the air go silent.

[Silence] spell. And normally, the stage would be illuminated by mage lights, and an [Actor] would be declaiming to the silent audience below, performing a play. Silveran would enter from the side, with a tray of some quiet food, maybe some drinks, moving around to give it to the person who wanted it…

No one was here. The stage was empty, dark. The backstage clearly deserted. No one at any table. Silveran looked about.

All wrong.

But the wrongest part was in the garden. Silveran…didn’t want to go there. It hurt too much. On that hill with the mists was the frozen bier. And Erin.

To avoid it, he walked back into the main common room. Inspected a table for dust.

Dustless. No dirt to be swept. No dishes to be bussed. At a loss, the Worker wandered to the kitchen. Maybe he could clean up—

He heard the weeping before he entered. The Worker stopped at the doorway. He heard Imani’s voice before he saw her. She was in the kitchen, crying.

The Worker backed away. Palt was there, not smoking anything, eyes red. Imani was leaning against the counter and neither noticed Silveran as he retreated.

This was The Wandering Inn after the solstice. And Silveran felt like it was a terrible dream. He hurried away from the kitchen as quietly as he could.

So empty. Silveran had been here three days ago and he felt the inn hadn’t changed. It was trapped by what had happened. He desperately wanted to turn around and—

“Silveran! My favorite Worker! Wait, don’t tell the others I said that. Finger guns!”

Erin Solstice gave him the finger guns, which was their new tradition. Two versus four, unless Silveran was carrying something. She laughed, and gestured to a bag on the floor.

“I bought this huge bag of beans from Pallass. I think they’re beans. Can you help me get it into the kitchen? Imani, don’t be upset, but these are magic beans, see…”

Silveran bent to pick up the bag as an outraged voice came from the kitc—

No one was there. There was no bag. The Worker looked around and remembered. Oh. That was two weeks ago.

Ages ago. If he could have walked backwards in time, he would have. But he couldn’t, and weeping continued. Palt’s quiet voice. Silveran turned away.

And saw that the common room of the inn was not empty after all. Someone was in it, but had been so still and camouflaged that he hadn’t seen her.

A little white Gnoll sat under a table, leaning against the base. She didn’t move. Silveran stopped—then hesitantly lifted a hand.

Mrsha didn’t move. She stared past his leg, blankly. Her tail didn’t move. He barely thought she was breathing.

The Gnoll child was growing. Hardly as large as Gnoll adults who were taller than most species, but she had put on muscle and weight since she had first come to the inn. Lyonette complained about piggyback rides, and Silveran knew the girl well.

She was Mrsha. Mrsha the Brave. Mrsha the Wizard. Mrsha the…the child who was always running about. Sneaking food, playing tag with her little friends. Causing trouble—more often than not, Silveran’s best Skill was used to clean up a mess she made, upon which time he’d have to get Lyonette or Ishkr and she’d cling to his leg, begging him with sign language not to tell. But he always did.

Today, she was motionless, silent, unmoving. So still he hadn’t even noticed her, despite the pure white fur that so fascinated him. Gnolls thought it was unlucky, cursed. Silveran had always thought it was beautiful, like clouds. The color did not exist belowground. Except in chalk deposits. And chalk sucked.

She did nothing as he waved at her. Silveran hesitated…but then moved on. The crying made him feel like he was intruding. So he walked out of the common room.

Not upstairs. He did not wish to pass by Erin’s room, which was first on the right. And besides, he only swept up there, changed bedding…he was used to working here.

Instead, he followed the second sound in the inn. The hallway on the left was just as long as the one the two Brothers were in. It connected to Stitchworks at the far end, as well as to other parts of the inn.

The Antinium-only rooms, the secret, door-less Earth rooms that Silveran had helped build, and so on. There was a weights room next to Stitchworks, one of the main attractions, and before that…

The rec room was one of two, with some key distinctions. After her initial creation of the rooms, Erin had divided the dice, cards, darts, and billiards table into one room, and kept the other full of quiet games.

More chess tables, Go boards, Shogi…as well as some couches and places to just sit. For one of the main attractions of this room was the large, enchanted mirror on the far end of the wall.

That was what had been making all the sound. Silveran peeked his head in and saw another employee of The Wandering Inn—albeit inside the mirror.

The scrying spell reflected Drassi and Sir Relz, both broadcasting Pallass News Network on the screen. Both Drakes were dressed in white, the color of mourning in Izril.

Compared to that, the Human man wore a dark violet, which was the style in his nation. He was speaking and it was that which faintly echoed through the silent inn, despite the closed doors.

“…Retaliation must be brought to bear against the Demon Kingdom on Rhir. That’s not under debate, Sir Relz. But the question is: how. If this Death of Magic really was responsible for the—the abhorrence that took place four days ago, it is entirely conceivable it might happen again.”

Oh yes, the second bad thing. Silveran listened as the two Drakes shuddered. He read the written caption at the bottom of the screen.

‘The Demon’s spell, discussion with Lord Verqen of Ailendamus. Ongoing segment…’

Drassi spoke, and Silveran heard her familiar voice, normally so cheery, laced with emotion.

“Are you saying we—that is—well, our young are in danger of a second spell of this magnitude, Lord Verqen? Please tell me you’re not.”

The Drake with the monocle, Sir Relz, looked uneasy at the very suggestion. The [Lord] instantly shook his head.

“I wouldn’t say that Miss Drassi. And I would hesitate to alarm anyone. I am simply—”

He broke off, and even the [Diplomat] looked pained. Because children had died. Across the world—it was the Demon’s doing, Silveran had heard. Everyone was angry. Grieving. Three bad things, then.

The war with Hectval. The Demon’s spell. And Erin was dead.

“What I am saying is—concurrent to armies, retaliatory forces—anything—is finding out how a spell of such power could be cast. Using safeguards against this magic! It bypassed every protection across the world. Frankly, until we know how it was done, and how it can be prevented…Ailendamus will be safeguarding first. I think we all will, despite his Majesty Othius’ insistence. We have been wounded and that is a fact. But there will never be forgiveness.”

Everyone nodded at that. These were the facts that were being reported. A terrible thing had happened. And the Demons were to blame. Children—unborn children across the world had died.

It unnerved everyone, except perhaps the Blighted King, who was a pillar of terrible determination in these dark hours. He had broken the news, wrought with guilt over his inability to stop the Demon’s treachery. The rest of the world was outraged, grieving—but less committed to an assault than he was.

But there would be vengeance, oh yes. In time. But unease and loss were first, even more than anger. Rhir and the Blighted King were used to loss, to the Demons being their great enemy who would do anything, sink to any lows. It was one of the first times the world had suffered that feeling, though.

Someone had left what Erin called the ‘television’ on. Silveran was about to turn it off when he noticed the mirror had an audience. He stopped, for he saw a familiar person watching the news.

Numbtongue? There was only one species with naturally green skin, so Silveran expected it was him. Then he remembered the other Goblin guests. Let’s see. Snapjaw had left. So this was Badarrow.

Because Numbtongue was in the [Garden of Sanctuary]. He had been three days ago and he did not move. The terrible sword was on his knees and he stood watch over Erin’s bier, as if afraid of…something disturbing her.

That had suited Silveran. He blamed Numbtongue for everything as much as himself.

But was this Badarrow? Badarrow was thinner. And this Hobgoblin was heavier than both Numbtongue and Badarrow, who were rather lean Redfangs. Also—Silveran was pretty sure it wasn’t Numbtongue now, because he was fairly certain Numbtongue did not have mammaries.

He edged around the couch and saw her half-sprawled across it. She wore about as much clothing as your average Antinium, and could have actually fit in because her body was covered in glowing paints.

But such colors and style! Silveran had to admire that. The Painted Antinium could take lessons from this unknown Goblin. They were intricate drawings, and clearly magical. In fact, he was now certain this was not Snapjaw, who wore no such warpaint and had a big head and big teeth. This was…the new Goblin.

She saw him at the same time as he finally remembered someone had arrived on the day of the Summer Solstice. Ulvama’s eyes went wide and she let out a shout of surprise as she grabbed her staff.

Silveran fled backwards and she rolled off the couch, staff raised and aimed threateningly. She bared her teeth, her crimson eyes wide as Silveran froze. He raised all four arms.

“Bug! Bug thing! Shoo!”

Ulvama hissed at him. She was wide-eyed, but calmed a bit as she recognized Silveran. He stared at her.

This was the Hobgoblin who had come through the magic door on the Summer Solstice. The latest guest of The Wandering Inn. Lyonette must have let her stay. He had only seen her once, and she was clearly warier of him than he was of her.

“Back!”

Her staff’s tip glowed warningly. Silveran walked backwards and knocked over a chess table. The crash of the wooden pieces hitting the floor made both wince. Silveran bent down as Ulvama stared at him. She looked…afraid? But her staff made Silveran afraid.

The door opened and someone appeared there. Silveran and Ulvama turned and he saw Er—

Ishkr. The Gnoll had hurried over and he stared at Silveran and Ulvama both. He recoiled from the glowing staff.

“Silveran? What are you doing here?”

The Worker waved and began to sign that he had come to work, but Ulvama had already slunk down. She glared at Ishkr over the couch.

“Miss…Ulvama? Is everything alright? Did Silveran startle you?”

The Gnoll hesitated and looked at her. He was [Head Server], and Silveran was used to obeying him. The Worker picked up the pieces as the Goblin [Shaman] didn’t reply. Ishkr scratched at his forehead, sighed, and looked at Silveran, who was trying to set the board up to a pre-game state.

“Silveran, leave the board. Come with me, please.”

Silveran did just that. He walked out of the room, feeling the [Shaman]’s eyes on his back. Ishkr closed the door, and turned to him.

“What are you doing here, Silveran?”

Working.

The Worker signed with his hands. Ishkr read the gesture; it was a copy of Mrsha’s language. The Painted Antinium felt more at home using sign language than speaking, mostly. But Ishkr still looked puzzled.

“Silveran. There is no work. Everything is clean. And no one is…here.”

Silveran hung his head. He knew that. Ishkr gestured.

“Lyonette is not asking for staff. She cannot pay you, and there is nothing to do. You should go h—go to your Hive. She will ask for help if it is needed.”

He knew that. But he wanted to stay. There was nothing to do in the Hive. No one had remembered Silveran had nothing to do now. He wanted to be here.

And yet, Silveran looked around the inn. Down the corridor to the common room where Mrsha sat like a stuffed animal. The faint crying—the lack of Erin.

He wanted to be here. And he hated and regretted coming already. Slowly, he nodded. Silveran saw Ishkr hesitate, then reach out and pat him on the shoulder.

“It won’t be long before we need help. Miss Lyonette has orders while she’s gone. She is leaving today, I think. But soon—Erin will be back.”

The Gnoll was young—at least, young for his position but he had earned it by working hard and being the most reliable person Erin and Lyonette had hired. And he lied well.

Just not well enough. Silveran had heard the same thing from Pawn, Lyonette—everyone. Soon. Someone was going to bring Erin what she needed. A potion, an antidote, a scroll. It would be soon. Erin had friends.

Slowly, Silveran left The Wandering Inn, and walked into Liscor, lost and even less happy. They said these things. But it had been close to two weeks now, and Erin was not back. The city’s bells rang in the distance.

Silveran hated it. He hated the silent inn, the pain in the streets, and how lost everything seemed. Because if Erin were here, she wouldn’t have stood for it. She would have hugged Silveran and told him it was all okay, then done something that would have made people feel better. It wouldn’t have fixed everything. But it would have been something.

If she were here. That was the point. She was gone. Silveran walked into the city. People said she would be back. But people had been trying to bring her back already.

And they had failed.

—-

Unlike Liscor, this city had not always been a city. Many settlements had a sort of evolution where a village slowly became a town, and slowly added things like walls, more buildings, and became a city at some stage.

Of course, some cities like Liscor were built as such from the start, as checkpoints between north and south, or great projects.

But this had been a village not so long ago. Yet someone had made it into a city over the last few decades. One person’s presence had transformed it. And that was an extraordinary thing. Most people in Liscor would take umbrage to the claim that one [Innkeeper] had transformed Liscor entirely. It was multiple factors. But here?

It was a city-in-progress for all that, still expanding, still growing. It couldn’t contain even half the actual population in the area, so the vast suburbs of temporary housing, tents, even buildings made by people who realized they would be staying for a while or taking over from previous tenants, sprawled around the actual walls.

It was they who really funded the city, so while the [Mayor] disliked them and the walls were high and the gates manned at all times to prevent them flooding the city themselves, the crowds were grudgingly allowed to trade and enter the city, if only for the day.

It was an odd economy system, even including cities like Liscor who had survived on a roaming mercenary army, or nations like Khelt, whose entire foundation was based on undead labor. Because at least both cities had a permanent income source! If the crowds ever vanished, this city would lose its lifeblood of coin.

But so long as they had the very person whom the city was founded upon, all would endure. So it was built around her. And such was her reputation that people came from all over the continent, around the world, waiting for weeks, months…

Years, just to have the Healer of Tenbault lay her hands upon you once. Because that would cure you of all that ailed you, or so the rumors claimed.

The truth was different. The truth was that the city of Tenbault was always packed with supplicants. And that while people did see the Healer—it was few per day. And those slots were always spoken for.

The young man who went sprawling in the street found that out the hard way. He was on his feet in an instant, but wisely didn’t move—the spear one of the Healer’s guards was leveling at him was backed up by two more, and a look.

The look came from the leader of the inner city’s defense force. He was a huge, barrel-chested man with dark skin and a prodigious voice. Even when speaking, it seemed as though you were being exhorted by the sheer suppressed volume.

“No exceptions! I don’t care if you’re related to the King of Destruction himself! No one enters without a pass guaranteeing the Healer’s treatment! And those are nigh-impossible to get, even for a Gold-rank team. Try to get in again and you’ll suffer for it, boy.”

He pointed at the young man. He hadn’t even drawn the mace by his side—but his left hand bore studded leather knuckles. A cestus; an old fistfighter’s weapon. He wore azure armor though, marked with the Healer’s sigil; a palm holding a bloom in white.

The guard occupied the gates to the inner city of Tenbault. The outer city was devoted to making money off the countless people seeking the Healer, but she lived in the inner city—and unlike the city’s [Guards], her security let no one in, no matter the bribe.

And they were good. One of them had caught the young man trying to sneak past them in a moment, despite the [Invisibility] spell. He coughed, and then sniffed as he rubbed his bleeding cheek; a hair slower and they might have speared him through the head.

“I merely wished to ask the Healer—”

“You and everyone else. Back up. Now.”

The man’s voice was ominous. The [Necromancer]’s eyes narrowed, but the silver-armed woman by his side grabbed him.

“I told you it was a bad idea, Pisces. Listen—I am Magnolia Reinhart’s niece. Yvlon Byres—”

“Unless she’s here, you’re not getting in, Miss. And frankly, I’ve seen enough desperate Gold-ranks try to take a run at getting in. You want to try it? The next time, not even the Healer will be able to help your friend.”

It was not an idle threat either. The guards were not [Guards], but a team of adventurers—nearly twenty strong. An irregularity among most adventurer teams, which tended towards small sizes, but these were paid by the Healer to protect her.

So they had achieved Named-rank status as a team. And their leader was a Named-rank adventurer himself. Even Elia Arcsinger’s team, Arcsinger’s Bows, had only her to boast of, not a Named-rank designation as a team.

They called him Crowdcaller Merdon. No guesses why; he exhorted the crowds gathered outside the inner gates to the city with the same speech every day. As he turned away from Pisces and Yvlon dragged him back, she heard his prodigious voice ringing above the demands, begging, and shouts for the Healer of Tenbault.

“Attention to all those gathered to see the Healer of Tenbault! The gates are closed and no force of arms will open them! Any intruders will be dealt with without mercy! The Healer will only see those with a pass—which can be obtained in lottery if you have not one yourself! All those gathered, disperse unless you have proof of entry!”

Of course, that didn’t stop them. People came forwards, demanding to be let in because they were rich. Or famous. Or producing ‘passes’ they’d paid for, or asking for clarification…

Merdon dealt with none of them. He walked past the hired [Mercenaries] who supplemented the Shield of Tenbault’s adventurers. The bored [Mercenary]-[Guards] dealt with the crowds. They were a law unto their own.

“That—that arrogant man.”

Pisces spluttered, touching the drying cut on his cheek. He was red-faced, but Yvlon dragged him back.

“Well, you’ve tipped him off you want in. I told you to wait. Come on, it isn’t safe.”

Indeed, the adventurers on duty were watching Pisces like hawks, recognizing perhaps one of the real threats to their job security. Not that Pisces had even gotten close; one had nearly beheaded him as he tried to [Flash Step] past invisibly.

Yvlon pulled Pisces back. The [Necromancer] let himself be pulled away. He watched a wave of people trying to get forwards. Like yesterday, they pushed and pushed—

And then someone made a fatal mistake. Like Pisces, they tried to get through. Only this time it was a [Trader], clutching what might have been a wife, or daughter. He tried to bull-rush past the [Mercenaries] with an escort of [Guards].

“Back! Back!”

The [Mercenaries] were yelling. But the [Guards] were pushing in. Not bearing steel; they were smart enough about that. But the crowd pushed forwards, encouraged. As if they thought they could overwhelm—

One pushed past the first rank of mercenaries towards the adventurers guarding the sole gate. The walls were fortified with a magical barrier. He reached back to open the hole wider as the [Trader] fought forwards. Then an arrow went straight through his head.

The [Guard] dropped like a stone. There was a scream—then a roar of fury so loud Yvlon and Pisces clapped their hands to their ears. The [Mercenaries] had already put their hands to their ears.

“Enough!”

It was just a shout. But what volume! Yvlon’s ears rang and she had not been the actual target. Crowdcaller Merdon’s shout reduced the crowd, minus the mercenaries who were magically protected or immune to his Skill, to a group of writhing people on the ground clutching at their heads. Some began throwing up, or just lay, stunned from the vibrations in the air alone.

“He just downed all those people. Some weren’t even trying to get in!”

It was Yvlon’s turn to be outraged. Pisces shook his head.

“That’s Named-rank for you. It was that or let them push their way into the inner city.”

“Don’t tell me you approve of that!”

Yvlon’s fists clenched. Pisces glared at her. Yvlon resisted the urge to hit him—to hit something. He spoke, voice taut.

“I’m just being practical!”

They glared at each other and then, abruptly, relaxed. Both their nerves were frayed to breaking. Yvlon saw Pisces hang his head.

“I should have chosen my moment more carefully.”

“At least you weren’t killed. Come on. Let’s find Ceria.”

Yvlon mumbled. They walked away. They were the Horns of Hammerad, two of them, and they had journeyed as fast as possible to reach Tenbault, southwest of Veltras lands and just out of the shadow of the High Passes, seeking the Healer’s aid.

They were realizing it was unlikely they would get it. It had been four days since they arrived. Each like the last.

—-

The inns in Tenbault weren’t great. They weren’t even amazing. They were definitely overcrowded and certainly overpriced.

For reference, Yvlon calculated that it would be three times cheaper to stay at the Tailless Thief for a night, and that was the most expensive inn in all of Liscor. And this wasn’t even the best inn in Tenbault. Far from it.

They found Ceria in her room, which was better than the common room of the inn. But one look at Ksmvr’s guilty ball of shame and Ceria’s condition as she tried to hide something behind her back and Yvlon knew.

“You’re drinking again.”

“Am not.”

“I tried to stop her, Yvlon. But I have failed.”

Ksmvr spoke from the floor. Ceria looked guilty as she took another sip from the amphora of something. Pisces wrinkled his nose.

“We have to sleep in here.”

“Sorry. I’ll cast a spell.”

Ceria waved her hand and nearly went over backwards on the bed. The amphora spilled; Yvlon and Pisces both cursed as she sat up.

“Damn. Sorry…”

Yvlon sat down and put her head in her hands. She resisted the urge to hit Ceria. One did not do that to a team captain. And if Yvlon’s instinct was to hit something…again…Ceria’s was to drink. Instead, she did the equivalent with words.

“While you were getting drunk, Pisces nearly got himself killed trying to sneak through the gates. A hair slower and I would have brought back his head and body independent of each other. And he’s not a good enough [Necromancer] to deal with that yet.”

Ceria lowered the amphora at once. Ksmvr stirred.

“Pisces! I told you—”

“We’re never going to win that lottery. I thought it was worth a shot. They were distracted—but their spells were too good. I don’t think they even noticed I was [Invisible].”

The [Necromancer] sat on the bed, eying the stain. Yvlon grimaced.

“And now Merdon himself knows our faces.”

“Crowdcaller Merdon? You got to speak with him?”

“Right before he sound-blasted an entire crowd off their feet. They do not play games at the gates. I saw the team kill a poor [Guard] who was trying to get through.”

“Tree rot.”

Ceria raised the amphora again, but Pisces had conjured it towards him. She wobbled, scowled, and put a hand to her head. Her skeletal fingers were coated in frost; even the spilled drink was beginning to freeze. Cold swirled around her, although you had to be within a foot or two to feel it.

“Maybe we can find another way. Did you say you were—”

“Magnolia Reinhart’s niece? Yes. It won’t work. I’ve heard members of the Five Families get turned away without a pass, Ceria.”

“But Magnolia Reinhart can. I mean—she gets in, right? Can you call her up?”

“No. She’s at sea, anyways, and I’m not that close. I tried—but I don’t even know who to ask to [Message]. I just left a note.”

Yvlon hung her head. Pisces nearly spat out the wine.

“This is disgusting.”

“It’s for me. Give it back.”

“You have imbibed a large amount of wine already, Captain Ceria. Perhaps—”

“I’m fine, Ksmvr.”

Ceria snapped and the Antinium went silent. Instantly, Yvlon kicked Ceria. The half-Elf went over the other side of the bed with a cry.

“Sober up, would you? We’re here for Erin.”

The half-Elf’s eyes flashed, but she pulled herself upright slowly. Yvlon tried to calm herself. She shouldn’t have done that. It was just—

Look at them. Ksmvr was miserable, now guilty about Yvlon and Ceria fighting. Pisces wasn’t his usual cool, sneering-but-caring self, but taking risks that had nearly gotten him killed—and he valued his life more than anything else! Yvlon had nearly been ready to go after Ceria for lying about drinking and the half-Elf was…

Ceria hung her head. She let the dregs of the amphora sit. Then, pointed with a curse.

The entire thing froze into a block of ice. Ceria kicked it across the room. Then she grabbed her toe.

“Aaah! I just split my toenail!”

The Horns of Hammerad considered it was a perfect event to sum up their experience. They watched as Ceria sat on the bed and Ksmvr anxiously produced a potion and inspected the break. Ceria, wincing, put a drop on it.

“We rode for five days and nights in the undead chariot for this. Four more days waiting here…is there any chance we win the lottery today? Ksmvr, what’s our number?”

“#2301, Captain Ceria.”

Ksmvr produced the carefully-marked lottery ticket. They were issued each week, and the winners were drawn per day. But there were thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of people with passes and there were sometimes only ten winners per week.

“Is that lucky?”

Ceria shook her head. They’d lost three days in a row, but perhaps today? They would be listening as the numbers were shouted across the city, of course. Winners had an hour to present themselves at the gates.

“How much does a winning ticket go for, Pisces?”

“Assuming someone is willing to sell it? I’ve heard a hundred thousand gold pieces sometimes.”

“…You’re joking.”

“More or less. Ceria, there are entire groups of people who make their living trying to get a winning ticket once. Upon which time they sell it.”

An entire economy based on the Healer. Yvlon shook her head as Ceria swore faintly. The half-Elf rubbed at her toenail. Then she produced a dagger.

“I need to trim them.”

“You’re disgusting.”

Yvlon and Pisces both looked away as Ceria glowered at them. The half-Elf’s oddities from eating bugs to picking her teeth in public somehow ranked below Ksmvr in terms of social acceptability.

“Let’s face facts. I doubt we even have a 1% chance of winning the lottery. Pisces?”

“I did the math with some people downstairs. It is in fact, zero point zero, zero, zero…”

“Please stop.”

Pisces did. He didn’t look happy to deliver the news. Yvlon had often accused Pisces of being uncaring, dishonorable, and so on. But she remembered how they had learned about Erin.

Madness. They had been split on what to do. Go after Hectval and burn it to ash? Go to the inn and see? In the end—they had come here.

And much good did it do them. Ceria, wincing and cutting her toenails, muttered.

“Okay. Let’s say we…get a pass.”

“If you’re going to say we mug a winner—”

“Pisces!”

The [Necromancer] coldly met Ceria’s eyes.

“I looked into it. The Shield of Tenbault tracks winners. We’d end up fighting them.”

“Damn. I was going to suggest that.”

Ceria ignored Yvlon’s look.

“From someone who didn’t need it, Yvlon. One of those fake-supplicants, like Pisces was talking about.”

“There might be a lot of them. But there are more people in actual need than I ever want to see. It’s…”

Disturbing. Yvlon saw Pisces nodding, lips pressed together. Tenbault was a thriving city—on people who genuinely needed aid. There were people who had lost limbs, who were sick of some unknown disease—they were kept far away from the city, and indeed, illnesses did spread from guests, hence the Horns paying for an inn which was safer—people who had taken head injuries, children who had gone blind…

And those were people with long-term diseases. People died in the city at the gates, bleeding of wounds no potion could cure. Some who had taken poison, or anything a [Healer] and magical medicine had no answer for.

Tenbault was as much morgue as place of hope. It disgusted Yvlon. Ceria looked at the [Armsmistress].

“What I need to know is: will it even help? We don’t have Erin with us. And the rules state…”

She found the wadded up instructional and opened it. Yvlon saw Ceria go down the page and recite.

“…patients may be accompanied by no more than (2) assistants and/or guardians. Furthermore, the Healer of Tenbault will only administer her practice to those who appear before her directly. Infectious diseases, dangerous ailments of any kind, etc. are to be subject to further inquiry and may not be treated. The Healer of Tenbault does not guarantee success of any kind, no matter how a pass is acquired…”

“It’s a scam.”

Pisces folded his arms. Ceria broke off reading. The [Necromancer] looked around as Ksmvr wiped at the spilled wine.

“Excuse me? Pisces, all these people are here for her. It can’t be if they’re here.”

“This seems exactly like a scam to me. The Healer is making a fortune. Note the wording? We don’t have Erin. Our best bet is to convince her to help Erin—which I do not believe we can do. But I was also not aware of how she conducted her craft. This seems like a scam. Perhaps she has a fake class and is fooling a few people with temporary relief each month…”

Ceria bit her lip. Certainly, this wasn’t the saintly [Healer] they had been led to expect. The Healer of Tenbault was a name people talked about with the worst injuries. A distant hope.

Reality sucked. However, it was Yvlon who disagreed.

“It’s not a scam, Pisces. It may be that the Healer is less than the rumors say. But I know it’s not.”

“And how, pray?”

The [Necromancer] snapped, and then swiveled to watch Yvlon’s foot. It twitched, but the [Armsmistress] contented herself to folding her arms.

“Because my aunt, Magnolia Reinhart, made the Healer of Tenbault. I had hoped that counted for something, but apparently not.”

The other Horns looked at Yvlon. Ksmvr’s mandibles opened.

“Is this true, Yvlon?”

She nodded and gestured. He scuttled around the bed and sat next to her. He had been so…quiet on the way here. Depressed. They all were. To keep hope, Yvlon nodded.

“It’s a story she told me when she used to visit. Or was it mother…? Well, either way, I know how it started.”

“Ah, you mean, the Legend of the Healer of Tenbault.”

“Yes, the—wait, what?”

Ksmvr produced something and held it up. It was…an illustrated placemat from one of the inn’s tables. Yvlon stared at it.

“Ksmvr, I told you that is propaganda.”

Pisces snapped. Ksmvr had apparently snatched it last suppertime. He pointed at it.

“But Comrade Pisces, the Healer has endorsed this telling. During the Second Antinium Wars people fighting the Necromancer’s filthy minions, the Goblin King’s armies and Antinium who are foully hated—”

“Um, Ksmvr.”

Two representatives of the three were in the room. The foully hated Antinium looked at Ceria.

“I am taking their opinion for the retelling, Captain Ceria. Comrade Pisces is always well-bathed. It says the Healer appeared here, and began to treat people by the thousands. Such is her legend.”

He brandished the slightly-dirty mat at Yvlon. She leaned away, smiling bitterly.

“Not quite, Ksmvr. Pisces is right. That’s how she might tell it—or this inn. But Aunt Magnolia says it was after the first Antinium War. And it wasn’t so much thousands at first. She saw there weren’t enough [Healers]—or rather, those who could take on serious injuries without potions. So she helped…create the Healer. Rumors spread and it grew out of control, but the Healer was first and foremost someone who was meant to replace potions.”

“Tell us.”

It was Pisces who leaned forwards, eyes glittering. He did love secrets. But the other Horns were just as intent.

“You mean she’s not a great [Healer]? Lyonette said Erin needs—Erin—”

Ceria gulped. She looked around for a drink—then steadied herself.

“An antidote. And…something to unfreeze her.”

“I don’t know. Aunt Magnolia never said exactly how the Healer works. That was why I wanted to see her.”

Yvlon confessed. She searched her memory, hunting for more clues to recollect, then shook her head.

“All I know is that the Healer of Tenbault does heal people. According to Aunt Magnolia, it can be an hour-long process—or days for diseases—but usually minutes.”

“Impossible. Is she some kind of [Alchemist]?”

Pisces’ eyes narrowed. He was becoming more skeptical by the second. But he was listening. He needed to know. This was valuable information. Especially to…he saw Yvlon shake her head.

“Not an [Alchemist]. But she’s not a [Healer], either. What I heard was that somehow, one time, Ressa—that’s my aunt’s [Maid], we saw her once, remember? With Ryoka.”

The others nodded. Yvlon gestured at her hand.

“Er—one time, she got her hand sliced off.”

“Wait. How?”

“Aunt Magnolia didn’t say. I think she hinted it was a kitchen accident, but I’ve never actually seen Ressa cook anything.”

“Maybe that’s why. She looked, uh, handed to me. Better than mine.”

Ceria waved her skeletal hand. Yvlon almost smiled as she ducked her head.

“Sorry, Ceria. Well, apparently they had the hand so they rushed both over to the [Healer] in that coach of hers. And Ressa got her hand back; not even a problem.”

“Wow. And that’s from Magnolia Reinhart herself?”

“She told it to us when she visited. I don’t think she lied—maybe she exaggerated. But we have seen people go in and come out…fine.”

It was true. The Horns had seen a man with a leg so badly mangled by a bear attack go through the inner gates and come out walking and praising the Healer’s name. They hadn’t detected any illusions or anything else. But it boggled the mind. How?

Ceria sat back.

“Then we have to meet her. Meet her and ask if—if—she’ll go to Liscor. Or we transport Erin. Maybe we can barter with her?”

“We would have to get past her security first. And I do not believe we are equipped to kill a Named-rank adventurer at this moment. Or his team. I am sorry, but my crossbows and blades are not deadly enough.”

Ksmvr hung his head. So did Yvlon. All three Horns saw Pisces raise a finger to his temple and rise.

“I’m…going to take a walk.”

He murmured. None of the others stopped him. Pisces left the inn as the Horns waited.

The lottery tickets for the day? #199, #4022, #5. Please come to the inner gate. The Healer will see you now.

—-

In The Wandering Inn lay a young woman. She was an [Innkeeper]. A friend. A young woman from another world.

She was smiling. Her lips were slightly parted. She looked…almost peaceful. Except for the crossbow bolts still sticking out of her chest. Six had struck her; five remained, two with broken shafts. Blood was frozen around the wounds.

She was frozen. She lay there, preserved, neither dead nor alive. You could use magic to check. But she would not stay that way.

She would live. Surely, someone would heal her. She had friends. She was not dead. Surely…

That was the refrain. It came from the hopeful, those in denial. But the truth was that her friends had been told. And still, she lay there.

It was not an unfamiliar feeling. In fact, of all the ones he remembered—this was the one which was most bitter.

Desperation. Denial. A willingness to part the seas and take on armies if only the ones he loved might live. But all his magic had never brought back the dead.

Now? Az’kerash, the Necromancer of Terandria, was in a unique position. For he…sympathized…with the young man. But two things stayed his hand.

The first was that pragmatically—it suited his goals better that Erin Solstice remain dead. He was Az’kerash, bane of the living! What care had he for a mortal life?

Still. He had once been alive. And it was the young man who begged him that…swayed the Necromancer. A bit.

Pisces Jealnet. A [Necromancer], self-taught largely, a Gold-rank adventurer, a former student of Wistram, and someone trained in the art of fencing. So like him and unlike him…

He was not an apprentice. Not like the Goblin Lord had been. In truth, the Necromancer had not wished to involve him so fully in his designs. But Pisces had caught his eyes for a number of reasons. His creation had provided Az’kerash with the key to leveling, that he had hunted for over a hundred years.

And he himself? The Necromancer had seen the day when the Horns of Hammerad had become Gold-rank. And it had reminded him of a man called Peril Chandler, Archmage Chandler of Terandria.

So he listened when the young man begged for aid. He listened, especially when the boy said what should not be said:

“I will do whatever it takes to heal her.”

Never let it be said that the Necromancer did not listen to those kinds of words. So he sat in his castle, pondering the dilemma. And hit upon the second problem of Erin Solstice’s death, one that must have occurred to the Wall Lord of her acquaintance, the Earl of Desonis, the Grand Strategist of Pallass, Saliss of Lights and all the others.

It. Was. Difficult.

“I was an [Archmage] of Wistram. I was called the Undying Shield of Calanfer. I have surpassed my mortal self many times over and I command death in every form.”

The Necromancer spoke as he passed a hand over the thing lying before him. He saw the ice melt…he murmured a spell.

The frozen fox failed to rise. The Necromancer stared at the corpse. He murmured a second time.

“[Regeneration].”

His forehead began to bead with sweat. This—this one-word spell was a magnitude beyond what most [Mages] could dream of casting. He could cast greater, but this spell lay diametrically opposed to his magic. Life versus death. Even so, he forced mana into the spell, into the body…

But it failed. The body had died the moment it warmed, despite the [Stasis Field] he’d set up. The sixth failure. The Necromancer shook his head.

And you could not regenerate frozen flesh. It was like a conundrum at the academy—but he’d award any of his students who solved it the highest grade. He sipped a mana potion, thinking.

“Why freeze her flesh?”

Annoyed, his eyes flashed and the fox got up and walked off to drag another frozen animal over. It made no sense. He was aware of preserving mortally wounded people of course, but ice?

“If they had simply cast [Stasis Field] or [Breath of Life – Extended] or…”

Exasperated, the Necromancer snapped his fingers. Someone scurried around the side.

“Master?”

“Ijvani. Peruse my library of tomes again. Search for…cryomancer healing magic?”

“At once, master!”

The [Skeleton Mage] hurried off. Az’kerash wondered how many days she might search. Healing magic was not a kind of spell he collected and spell tomes were rare, especially since he had lost many books of his collection after his ‘destruction’ at Liscor.

The Necromancer focused on his ongoing communication spell instead, undividing his consciousness. He had been patiently listening to the young man recap the Healer of Tenbault’s information.

“Young Pisces. Enough.”

The anguished voice cut off. Az’kerash heard emotion there, unfiltered through the mental link. He remembered many friends who had died. And his comrades had begged him to revive them, hadn’t they? He had always refused, for when he did to give them one moment to say goodbye…

It was always the more bitter.

He felt the emotion, clung to it—then banished it. Cold logic. Yes. He was the Necromancer. And he helped this young man only because he too was a [Necromancer] and he might owe Az’kerash a favor. No other reason at all.

“I know of the Healer of Tenbault, young Pisces. If her craft has advanced, perhaps she may help you. But she is a reclusive researcher, not the generous soul rumor has made her out to be. Nor is she a [Healer].”

Surprise rippled through Pisces’ link, though he tried to conceal it. He was learning.

“How so, Archmage?”

Why did he enjoy the appellation so much? Peril Chandler squashed that emotion too. It was simply nostalgic. And correct, so he didn’t rebuke Pisces over the title.

“I investigated her in decades past. She is no charlatan; but she is not a skilled medical expert either. It is correct to say that Magnolia Reinhart created her, however.”

Az’kerash sorted through his memories. Ah, yes. When he had first conceived the Izrilian campaign.

I thought she was a force that might wipe out my undead with the ease of the [Clerics] of old.

How wrong he had been. The young [Necromancer] was coy, but the desperation-desire-trepidation was clear.

“Then may I ask her true nature, Archmage Chandler?”

“It is simple, [Necromancer] Pisces. Her nature is [Mage]. She is a [Restoration Mage] capable of casting [Restoration] numerous times per day. That is all.”

Shock through the link. Az’kerash smiled. And it was such a unique thing that Ijvani stopped and stared as she returned with a book on cryogenic attack spells. The Necromancer waved her away and she hurried off.

Even his tone was different as he spoke-broadcast the reply.

“[Restoration], as I doubt you were ever told, is a spell a Level 40 [Mage] can learn with the right disciplines and Skills. Twenty levels higher without specialization. It is a useful healing spell—one of the few spells that can restore a body. However, it cannot heal your friend. And as the Healer of Tenbault has learned, it is limited in scope. I have no doubt she has found many permutations of how it can be applied. But she is no [Healer] who understands injuries. Merely a [Mage] funded by her healing that Magnolia Reinhart gave the spell to.”

It was possible she could heal the [Innkeeper]. But not as simply as casting the base spell—Az’kerash had tried that. Perhaps she had some kind of Skill that allowed healing through stasis and restored frozen flesh? The Necromancer allowed that possibility.

“I—see.”

The disappointment from young Pisces was immeasurable, however. The Necromancer felt…a desire to say something. He searched his mind, but the truth was—he did not have a ready answer for the issue. He would of course, puzzle out the problem in time. But it reminded him of his few weaknesses. He had never specialized in life-magic. Nor did he cultivate a collection of objects that did.

But he knew someone who had them. Yet…that particular foe would slay a hundred Pisces’ in a moment. So the Necromancer hesitated.

Best just to abandon it. Effort has been spent; this is not a cost-effective use of your time. So said his logical self. He decided to ignore it for a second.

“Young [Necromancer]. All is far from lost. While I have not the time or inclination to heal, greater magics than the Healer’s exist.”

He decided not to mention that [Regeneration] had failed. In theory—if [Detect Death] did not work on the young woman, she was alive. It was most curious. Even fascinating. If he were in Wistram, he might have devoted research to the phenomenon, especially if her Skills were still active. As it was…

“But you could, if you wanted to, Archmage?”

Archmage Chandler hesitated. Ah. He was reminded of mortal conversations. Even when he had become [Archmage]—

—-

“Don’t lie to them, Zelkyr.”

It was one of the few times he snapped at the Archmage of Izril. The Drake, classically, went on the defensive, which for Drakes, was the offensive.

“We’re Archmages. We don’t show weakness to our students, Chandler.”

Normally the situation was reversed. However, Perril was uncharacteristically annoyed.

“If you don’t know a spell, don’t claim you do and then say ‘I won’t cast it because I’m too busy’.”

He floated over the gravy boat towards him; the other Archmage’s eyes flashed, but he continued eating. The high table was, of course, warded so their conversation was unintelligible, even to Wistram’s most avid secret-seekers.

If there was anyone who was going to reveal the heated discussion, it was the uncomfortable, young, Truestone Golem standing silent sentry behind Zelkyr. Cognita, first of her kind, did not know how to deal with confrontations of a verbal kind, especially since she had been told repeatedly that Perril was one of Zelkyr’s few trusted allies. If anything, Perril felt guilty, but Zelkyr usually enjoyed watching his creations in distress. For how else would they learn?

Zelkyr huffed, but the truth was someone was going to be perusing spell tomes all night or he’d have to own up to it. And—like they had when they were students—it ended up being the two searching the library, arguing and hiding from students with [Invisibility] spells…

—-

“…Ah.”

Why was he remembering that now? He had not given thought to his life for decades at a time. But now, memory swept in.

He was changing. As well as making his old mistakes.

Knowing full well the memory his consciousness had unearthed proved his hypocrisy, the Archmage’s reply was still the same.

“Naturally. It is a task complicated by the nature of this…stasis in a frozen state. But there is little I cannot do, young [Necromancer].”

He wondered what the mortal Perril Chandler would have said if he could have been here. Ah, how would that man have ever believed he could come to this? If only he knew the treachery.

Even now, that memory provoked a fury like no other. Even in death, he could not forgive. But…the young man pressed on. That too, he had forgotten.

“Archmage. I would surely accept any debt, repay it in any fashion you desired if you could…heal her.”

Longing in his tone. And now—well, undead did not sweat. But the Necromancer did experience an unpleasant feeling of tension. He gestured for the undead fox to drag another creature over. A bear, frozen by Ijvani’s spells. Maybe a larger specimen would reveal the issue. The fox did so, with incredible strength for its size.

Now, what was a suitable response? Something truly Zelkyrian…

“Young Pisces. I am the Necromancer of Terandria. I do not have time to waste on the living. I grant you this time purely out of interest. Had you the means to compel my aid, I would have offered it. Does your own intelligence not guide you to these facts?”

Silently, he waited. After a moment, he thought-heard a faint reply, colored by disappointment.

“Of course, Great Master of the Dead.”

A [Necromancer]’s salute. Az’kerash sighed. He stood there, preparing the frozen bear for revival. Well, he saw Zelkyr’s point, nigh a hundred and fifty years too late.

“Then, I leave you to—”

“I will provide a suitable gift, mighty Az’kerash. Until then, please bear my request in your mind.”

…What? But the connection broke before Az’kerash could inquire into what that meant. He blinked, and again—realized he had forgotten. When you were so desperate, you would do anything.

Lies. How much trouble they caused. He really should have taken his own advice.

—-

Failure and failure again, though. Pisces returned from his walk looking pale and silent. No one asked where he’d been.

“There’s no way we get in. People have tried; the Healer isn’t likely to respond to a request made at dagger-point anyways. So unless we want to take on twenty Gold-rank plus adventurers and Crowdcaller Merdon—we get lucky or we get more money than we have. A lot more. The kind that makes the Healer of Tenbault travel all the way to Liscor.”

Ceria was already into the hangover section of her days-long drinking binge without more fuel. But one thing was clear: there was no hope here.

“If she can even help. She’s not a [Healer]. She casts [Restoration]. A spell.”

Pisces spoke as Ceria tossed belongings into her bag of holding. Yvlon looked up sharply.

“How do you know that?”

“I looked into it.”

The [Necromancer] returned the gaze. Yvlon frowned mightily, but he flicked his gaze to the door and windows. So she closed her mouth.

He had earned trust. The Horns looked at each other as Ksmvr bounced on the bed. Funny that the [Innkeeper] didn’t even bat an eye at an Antinium so long as they could pay. But then—half the people had thought Ksmvr was some kind of Balerosian Gazer or something. They really didn’t know what Antinium looked like and didn’t believe he could be anything but a horrific  monster tearing apart everything in sight.

Ceria had possessed the same view of Antinium before coming to Liscor. And if she had met one on the street and known it for Antinium? She remembered her first reaction to Pawn and the others.

But someone had looked past the insect features and asked a Worker their name. And she was…

Ceria closed her eyes. Drinking was preferable to being sober. But neither helped.

“What do we do, then?”

“Pay the [Innkeeper] for another week. Or look elsewhere.”

That was Yvlon. Pragmatic. But it was wrong to say she cared less than Ceria. She was not as familiar as Ceria was with Erin—but hadn’t they known her for almost as long? Ksmvr—Pisces longest of all—she had changed their fortunes.

And why the [Necromancer]? Why did he care? If you were unkind, you could claim Pisces had few reasons to keep lingering attachments or friends. Certainly, he had cause enough to doubt those bonds.

But Pisces sat there. Guilty, because he consorted and begged Terandria’s nightmare for aid. Guilty, because he had not been there. And because this was a fool’s errand.

As for why? It was also simple. He was a [Necromancer]. He had spoken to the Necromancer and beheld in Az’kerash’s contact an apathy for life. A grudge against the living so great he would embrace a dead world. That was what history had done to the Archmage of Terandria, Archmage Chandler, who had once been called a proud friend and ally by Terandrian kingdoms. A [Necromancer] respected by [Knights].

Betrayal had made him bitter. And Pisces had seen reason enough to share his feelings. The two continents he had known, and the Academy of [Mages] were not kind to [Necromancers]. He might have continued down Az’kerash’s trail of thought in time.

But he had met someone who, despite being irritated, repulsed, and disagreed with what he did—offered him food. Safety. On the basis that he was still a person.

Because of her, he saw a world different from Az’kerash, where necromancy could exist with the living. Could benefit more than just the dead.

“Why should I help those who judge me in ignorance and fear?”

Pisces murmured. Ksmvr’s head turned. He opened and closed his mandibles, but the [Necromancer] answered the question before the [Skirmisher] could.

“Because you’re a better person than they are.”

“What was that, Pisces?”

“Something I was once told.”

He did not have to say from whom. Ceria’s ears drooped slightly. But Pisces just sat there for a second. Secrets. Oh, he had many. Fewer than people might believe, but some terrible ones.

He owed her a great boon. And for that…Pisces looked up.

“I suggest, Ceria, Yvlon, Ksmvr, that we decline renewing our room. That we leave Tenbault. It does not have what we seek. But perhaps…”

The others looked at him. Ceria slowly nodded. Yvlon raised an eyebrow, but she was already grabbing her pack. Tiredly, they rose after Pisces. Ceria hung her head as she looked out the window towards the dome and magical barrier. Hope—the Healer—so close by.

“Okay. Let’s go settle our bill. And while we do that, I’ll tell Lyonette.”

Surely, they said, Erin would come back.

But not today.

—-

Lyonette, the Healer is impossible for us to reach. I’m so sorry. We’re going to pursue other leads, but we can’t get to her. I’m sorry.

We’re looking into passes for the Healer of Tenbault, but even all of Halrac’s acquaintances don’t have much. Where we are has a lot of important people—we won’t give up. But Ryoka’s thing didn’t work. This is Revi, by the way. Sorry.

To Miss Marquin in Liscor: Wall Lord Ilvriss sends his deepest regrets, but is unable to locate a curative of the required strength. He will continue to do search, but is unable to provide aid at this moment

–Administrator Alrric, Gemscale Corporation, Salazsar

I am returning to Desonis. Wait for me to send word. Altestiel.

Deepest regrets. Sorry. Wait, and, ‘we will not give up’. It was cruel to say, but at some point, the messages intended to be encouraging, or reassuring sounded like—well, political statements.

‘Calanfer shall never forget this outrage!’ Wasn’t that what they said when Noelictus was attacked by Ailendamus during a war in Lyonette’s childhood? And she had believed it.

‘The Eternal Throne shall remember _____’s sacrifice forever’. They said that of some [Knight] who had died. But Lyonette forgot who it was.

She knew they meant it. Each and every one. Same with Jelaqua, who promised to look around—even beseech the leaders of her species for aid. But how long would she wait for them to find the cure? How long, until those daily [Messages] and updates became sporadic?

Hope was a bright, vibrant thing. But it went out fast. And all the flames had gone out of late.

Maviola and Erin both. And she did think of both. For one was gone forever. The other? There was a chance, but powerful people had tried and had no immediate solution.

So, then. It was not enough to wait. If there was one thing the [Princess] knew, it was that you could never outwait something like this. She had waited for years in her kingdom to become a proper [Princess], to find a lovely suitor, or grand adventure.

She had waited to be happy. So she was done with waiting. The [Princess] tucked away the slip of parchment. Then she returned to business.

The first object on the desk was more expensive than anything in the room. It looked like someone had taken a shadow from a dark room lit only by the moon’s glow and stitched it into a cloak. The interior was actually a quite lovely, dark maroon. But the outside was shadow-dark—a blue, in fact, but so close to black as to make no difference.

The Drake placed another object on top. A glowing amulet. Then she added a tiara. The young woman’s eyes locked onto that. The Drake read down the inventory list as she added more items.

“A Cloak of Balshadow. A spent Ring of [Fireballs]. An enchanted amulet that doesn’t work…a tiara with a high-grade protective spell on it, a Wand of Sticky Webs, estimated half-charge, what Mage Montressa assumed to be a Ring of Flash—”

Watch Captain Zevara watched as Lyonette reached out for the tiara. The Drake stood in her office, with numerous artifacts on her desk she couldn’t have afforded, even with a Watch Captain’s salary. She glanced at Lyonette.

“Does that match your list, Miss Lyonette?”

“It does, Watch Captain.”

They were being a bit formal. It was the occasion, and the role they found themselves in. One was a former thief—exiled from the city and managing to return by winning the graces of those she had wronged.

The other? A Watch Captain, who was overseeing the return of confiscated goods now all bounties and damages had been paid.

They were also friends. So Zevara relaxed slightly; normally she wouldn’t have even overseen this, just the desk-sergeant of the day.

“Do you ah, need a minder to escort you to the inn? I wouldn’t think it was too dangerous, but these are high-grade artifacts. And with all the influx of new people…”

Lyonette shook her head. She caught herself and lowered the tiara; she’d nearly placed it on her head. And it would have belonged there, Zevara felt.

“I’m fine, Zevara. Thank you. And I’ll be in the company of, um, specialists anyways.”

“A [Thief] and a [Thug].”

The [Princess]’ face didn’t so much as twitch.

“I have my escort, yes.”

“So you’ll be leaving for Oteslia after this?”

Lyonette reached for the rings. She put one on, put the spent Ring of [Fireballs] into her belt pouch.

“That’s right.”

Zevara waited, but the young woman said nothing more. She put on the Cloak of Balshadow next. Practically relic-class. It swirled around her like a bit of darkness, and then became a nice, grey cloak. Zevara resisted the urge to make a number of statements. But then she couldn’t help herself. She coughed into one clawed fist and Lyonette paused in fastening the amulet to her neck.

“I never asked who you were. I have had—hints. And information sources. I could have inquired, but I didn’t think it mattered. The law is the law. And…well, I never asked.”

The young woman regarded the Drake. Zevara saw her smile, faintly. But it wasn’t a true smile. She looked like she’d been stabbed and was smiling in spite of it.

Zevara felt the same way. She saw Lyonette shake her head.

“Do you want to know?”

The Watch Captain wasn’t sure. She saw the [Princess] reach for the wand and stop.

There, on the desk, was a little—the Watch Captain’s eyes widened. She reached for it at once, but it was too late.

Days Since Crazy Human Incident: 4

It was out of date. The Watch Captain hadn’t updated it since…

“That’s…”

“I’m sure she would have laughed.”

The [Princess] unfroze after a second. Zevara hesitated.

“Who? You mean…?”

“Erin, obviously. She would have laughed. And probably started selling them, or put one up in her inn.”

It was the first time Zevara had heard the [Innkeeper]’s name here since—the day. The Watch Captain saw Lyonette fumble to put the wand on her belt loop.

“She would have been upset, of course. And demanded—oh, I don’t know. ‘Days Since Dungeon Attack’, and ‘Days Since Mrsha Incident’. And that last one would never be above two, let me tell you. But Erin wouldn’t have been really offended—she knows what she does.”

There it was again. Erin. Lyonette kept saying her name. Zevara had only heard references to it. ‘The [Innkeeper]’. ‘The crazy Human’. The [Guards] spoke of it like that, if at all.

As if saying her name made it realer. But the [Princess] just adjusted the cloak and picked up the tiara again.

“I guess I should keep it off until I need it. It hardly camouflages itself, and it’s quite noticeable, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is.”

Zevara had never really run out of words to say. She was Watch Captain and normally she didn’t have time to waste words. But she didn’t know what to say. After a moment, she sat back down at her desk and pretended to look at her reports. She glanced at Lyonette as the [Princess] sat back down, now wearing most of her old gear.

“I feel I should caution you, Mi—Lyonette.”

“How so?”

The [Princess] looked almost serene as she sat there. Far too composed compared to the rest of the city. Zevara shuffled her papers. She had to say it. She knew why, but she had to say it.

“Oteslia is far from where I’ve ever ventured. I understand it is as safe as any Walled City—but one can find themselves in great trouble, even behind the walls. I should know. There is danger there.”

“But I’m going.”

“Yes, but the risk—especially with two members of the gangs, is beyond what I’d consider acceptable.”

That was the real issue. Zevara spat the words. She’d looked into the Brothers—oh yes. And she couldn’t think of a riskier proposition. They might appear to be friendly, but they had as much blood on their hats as, well, any other gang. She met the young Human woman’s gaze. But Lyonette didn’t blink as she leaned forwards.

“Can you spare [Guards] to escort me, Zevara?”

“Yes.”

Now there was a blink. But only a second of hesitation. Lyonette dipped her head fractionally.

“And can they protect me better than two criminals? Can they help?”

Zevara looked away.

“They would be more reliable than—”

“What’s the highest-leveled [Guard] you could send? Beilmark? Jeiss? They’re both married. Is it higher than theirs?”

They both knew the answer to that. So, Zevara’s last-ditch effort to talk Lyonette out of it failed. She had known it would.

“You have someone in mind?”

“I’m going to ask the [Druids]. Oteslia has [Healers], [Gardeners]—I’m going with Saliss of Lights, remember.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better. He has a criminal record as long as those two. Longer.”

“If you take away the nudism, how much has he actually done?”

“…Fair point. But there’s still destruction of property, disorderly conduct, tripping a [General]…wait.”

Lyonette smiled slightly as the Watch Captain frowned over the list.

“I’m going, Zevara. I know it’s risky. But I have to. You understand? For Erin.”

Zevara looked up. There the name was again, on her lips. The [Princess] was not okay. But she said the name. And she looked…determined.

“Watch over the inn for me. I’m leaving Mrsha, Numbtongue—everyone. I can’t take them. I wish I could, but—it’ll just be us four.”

Zevara half-nodded. Miserably, she put the papers down. There were a lot of things she wanted to say.

I’m sorry, for one. It was Hectval who had attacked Liscor. If she had more patrols. If she had—

But too many people had done the apologizing. And at least, Zevara knew that Lyonette did not want to hear it. It changed nothing.

The [Princess] stood. Lyonette du Marquin of Calanfer. 6th Princess to the throne. Zevara regarded the note Chaldion had sent her.

She said nothing. Lyonette breathed out, looking out the window.

“When I was a girl, I wanted to be an adventurer. Or go on one. I had a grand dream that out there was everything I wanted. Everything I dreamed of. I suppose that’s childish to you.”

“Everyone dreams of that.”

The Watch Captain had done the very same. In her own way. Lyonette smiled and the Watch Captain gave her a rueful grin.

“Mine was curing my breathing problems and becoming the Oldblood Drake everyone looked up to. I also wanted wings.”

Lyonette laughed. Then she grew somber.

“That’s true. Everyone wants that. But for me? That was last year.”

She looked out the window. Her hair was fiery red, the hallmark of royal blood a continent away. Her skin was fairly pale. But she had not the delicate hands of the aristocracy, but calluses from someone who had worked. She kept care of her nails, but she also cooked and cleaned.

She looked so much older than the [Thief] who had been hauled in front of Zevara, calling everyone ‘peon’. Lyonette shook her head and gazed at Zevara.

“Today? I would have been happy to grow old without adventure. I feel old now. Somehow, I became a mother. I know I didn’t give birth to her, but I would never be anything else. I made great friends. I did something important, more important than my old life.”

So said the girl who was eighteen years old. Zevara shook her head. Lyonette’s eyes shone.

“And then—Erin was hurt. And it turned out everything I thought was so secure was so fragile.”

Yes. They all thought the Crazy Human of Liscor was…invincible. What a mistake. Lyonette wiped at her eyes.

“Now, it’s all fading away. So I have to fight to get it back. Thank you for keeping my possessions. But I have to go.”

She held out a hand. Zevara rose to take it. She looked the [Princess] in her eyes. Blue. Zevara supposed it was royal blue, appropriately.

“You could have paid for them any time you wanted, couldn’t you?”

The young woman had come here every week, or more often, to add a few silver or coppers to it with her paycheck. She had come this morning with the rest. The young woman smiled slyly. Sadly.

“I enjoyed our talks. I didn’t want to need them. I will see you when I return, Zevara.”

She turned away. The Watch Captain watched her walk slowly to the door. As she was opening it, Zevara called out.

“If I could, I would march the entire Watch out with you. I’d take a vacation, barring that. I’d order my two most idiotic Senior Guards to go with you. But they’re gone. And I’m needed here.”

Lyonette du Marquin looked back. Zevara, Watch Captain of Liscor saluted her briefly. The [Princess] bowed her head.

“I know. Thank you.”

Then she was gone. Zevara sat down, and looked blankly around her desk. It occurred to her for the first time—how small the Watch was. How little power she had. In this moment?

She wanted an army. But instead, a single [Princess] went in search of a cure. Zevara hoped it was enough. She could only ensure there was a city for Lyonette to return to.

—-

The young woman returned to the inn where silence reigned. It was not an entirely empty inn of course; there were the two Humans who watched everyone coming in. The Gnoll who cleaned things and waited for guests who never arrived.

And there were guests. Multiple Humans. A Naga for some reason—or one of the snake-breeds. Ulvama didn’t know. She’d search the memories of older Goblins for details later.

Nagas rarely came to Izril. So this inn was already weird. Another weird thing?

The [Shaman] stared for a long time at the chess board the Antinium-thing had knocked over. After a moment, she poked a chess piece.

“Hmm.”

She edged around the side. Now, what was this? Nothing in Goblin-memory knew what it was. At least—early Goblin memory. It was conceivable that the Goblins who knew what it was hadn’t died yet.

Either way, she was at a loss. The [Shaman] walked around to the scrying mirror and stared at it. Now a Garuda was talking about ‘lost eggs’. She understood this more than the game. Obviously, this was a scrying spell. And this entire room was…entertainment?

She had never been in an inn before. It was so interesting to her. Interesting and—

“Mrsha?”

The female Hobgoblin froze. She looked around—then scuttled behind a couch. She peeked out of it, hearing the young Human woman. What was her name?

Lyonette, right. Ulvama had a [Bolt of Spite] ready to fling, especially if that horrible bug-thing came back. But all she heard were quiet voices.

Still, she didn’t relax. Ulvama listened, sharpening her hearing with magic as she heard Lyonette moving through the inn. She heard…

A quiet voice from the kitchen. The cooking Human girl had stopped crying, which was a relief. The Centaur [Mage] was talking to her, quietly comforting.

Muffled conversation between the two dangerous Humans with crossbows and weapons. One was debating lighting a puffer. The other told him to put it away.

Upstairs, the rasp of a knife on wood. The other bug-thing was making more arrows.

Then a voice from the common room.

“Mrsha? Mrsha. There you are. Sweetie. Oh, honey…”

The little Gnoll-child was called ‘Mrsha’. Ulvama listened as the young woman crooned and sadly spoke to the child. Ulvama knew that the Mrsha-child hadn’t moved.

She just lay there; the young woman had to get her to eat. Someone had taken away the life from her.

Something terrible had happened here. So terrible that no one spoke of it.

This strange inn where she had found herself after going through the magic doorway on the Summer Solstice? It was in the middle of tragedy. Ulvama licked her lips. That was almost a good thing, for her. Because the inn was empty, and no one had done more than check on her, and give her food. That was good.

Because she was a Goblin and she was afraid.

Very afraid. Ulvama tensed—but the sounds were only of Lyonette going to the kitchen, interrupting the two there and asking if Mrsha had been fed. Guiltily, the two confessed they hadn’t thought of that.

Ulvama wondered if anyone had fed the strange Hobgoblin on the hill. Numbtongue was his name. A Redfang—but a broken one. Had they broken him? But he seemed to be grieving the frozen Human. Strange and strange again.

Ulvama’s heart beat anxiously, but her eyes found the sign hanging in the rec room again. It reassured her, though she did not know why. Why had she felt this place was safe to her? But it hung in every room of the inn, a promise, a rule.

‘No Killing Goblins’.

She had nearly laughed when she read it the first time. It was so ludicrous, despite how welcome the words were. But the Humans had obeyed the rule. They had refrained from slaying Ulvama, offered her food, a bed…

What a strange inn. Ulvama only wished she were not so alone, with a foreign Hobgoblin. The other had left, refusing to take her with him. He had been as broken as the other Hobgoblin and had not trusted her enough to take her with him. Unfortunately, he’d recognized her as Mountain City—their tribes had been enemies and he remembered it.

Badarrow. Two Redfangs, then. Had Garen Redfang’s tribe survived where all the Goblins had died in the battle for Liscor? For that was where she was.

Liscor, again. Where Humans had slaughtered Goblins. She should have been terrified of dying here. But she was only afraid, thanks to the inn and signs.

After a while, Ulvama heard Lyonette take the Mrsha-child to the common room and try to get her to eat. The Centaur and Imani-cook went with her. Ulvama slowly crept out from behind the couch, relaxing.

Then she reached down and crunched on some of the popcorn-things she’d been given by the Gnoll. His name was Ishkr and he kept asking if she wanted anything. She’d checked for poison, but hunger had won out.

Crunch, crunch. The Hobgoblin munched as she thought and listened. Weird food.

She wished Pebblesnatch was here. The silly little [Cook] would have loved the novelty of these ‘popped-corns’. She wished anyone else were here.

Ulvama was afraid. And guilty.

She had left Pebblesnatch behind. Why had she done that? It was a mistake, but one born of the moment. She had been at the door, shouting at the other Goblins.

“Come! Hurry!”

But they hadn’t moved. News of someone dying had made them all sad. A Human. And so Ulvama had rushed through the door, fearing the shadows and magic tearing the sky apart, that only she had sensed. The power so close to the Goblinlands.

Only to arrive here, in an inn that had not tried to kill her. To be fed, to see the signs and learn that a Human had died here, and everyone mourned her.

There was a connection there. But an incredible coincidence…Ulvama’s eyes narrowed. Crunch, crunch.

She should have grabbed Pebblesnatch and hauled her with Ulvama. But when she had told them of her escape plan, how they could leave this place, start a new tribe—the other Goblins had looked at her as if she were an idiot.

They all had. In that moment—Ulvama had realized they did not have her desire. For her, Riverfarm had always been a trap. They saw something else. An opportunity, even if it was behind walls.

Not for her. She was a [Shaman] of the Mountain City tribe! A Goblin who knew that Humans would always hunt Goblin, no matter what. They might be kind for a single generation—but always, they turned.

That was what the memories of Goblins past told her. Better to hide, or be strong. She was just building her strength, searching for more Goblins. A tribe to join.

She had to survive. She’d do whatever it took to survive. Ulvama knew how the world worked. The world was far crueler than it deserved to be, especially to Goblins. She’d take what mercies there were. If these people wanted to feed her? Fine.

But she’d leave. And bring the broken Hobgoblin on the hill with her. Maybe to whatever tribe Badarrow said was hiding in the High Passes. Ulvama liked that, though she feared that place.

Maybe to the Kraken Eaters? Molten Stone? She’d rather join a strong tribe, like Tremborag’s. She had worked so hard to get to the top there! And it was all gone!

Damn the Goblin Lord. Ulvama cursed as she ate more popcorn. She had a feeling it wasn’t the most energy-filled food. But she couldn’t stop munching. Yum.

Yes, another big tribe. The leader of Molten Stone had scorned Ulvama’s pleas, though. Stupid [Witch]. If Ulvama had to choose, she’d choose the Kraken Eaters. They were a dangerous, nomadic lot, not nearly as easy to live with as the Mountain City tribe, but they lacked [Shamans].

Molten Stone had too many. Hard for Ulvama to get to the top there—and their Chieftain was the Goblin Witch. Female, too. So harder to seduce.

Ulvama had learned how to get ahead as a Goblin, especially a female Goblin. You found other Goblins, and made them like you. Male Goblins? Easy. She’d gotten Raidpear to give her authority—but it hadn’t been a proper tribe in the Goblinlands.

Easier to start with the Kraken Eater tribe, especially if the Chieftain took a liking to her. She’d heard he was a second Tremborag, but even more warrior-like, so she’d opted to remain in the Mountain City tribe. But since Tremborag was dead…

It was simple, to Ulvama, how life should be. Eat, sleep, do not die. Gain power by bullying, giving things, persuading. Do not die. This inn was perfect for her to get what she wanted.

…She just wished the people would stop crying. The Hob bothered her. He was so empty. She’d tried talking to him, but he didn’t move or eat. She’d have to make sure he didn’t die. Goblins had to stick together.

Ulvama crept from the rec room, hoping she could get through that mysterious door again. Now, where was it? That was another mystery of the inn; the garden which could not be entered. She’d only been able to talk to Numbtongue when he left, and he hadn’t moved in two days.

Into the hallway, down towards the common room, head on a swivel for sounds or people. Ulvama peeked around the corner and saw something she wished she hadn’t.

The Lyonette-Human was hugging the little Gnoll. Whispering to her.

“I’m going to Oteslia, sweetie. I have to. To bring her back.”

The dead Human. Or not-dead one. Ulvama nodded to herself. The little Gnoll was stirring. A tiny paw encircled the Lyonette-Human’s neck. Ulvama looked away.

Stupid little children. They were all alike. Pebblesnatch was tougher than most, but children were children. She looked for the door to the garden as Lyonette whispered.

“You have to eat something, okay? Palt and Imani promised they’ll look after you. And Selys and…but I’m going to go, alright? So Erin can come back.”

Her voice broke on that note. Ulvama listened for more pieces.

A Human was dead. And apparently, a city mourned. That was what she understood.

If she was callous, she could have sneered. She nearly did.

A single Human is dead? So what? Goblins have died by countless numbers. Enough so that we gave up counting long ago. Each one mattered to someone.

But she did not say that. She understood. She had known death. She knew what it was like. She had mourned her mentor. Her parents. Her first love.

Even Tremborag, in her way. Though she had not loved him. But he had still been her Chieftain. He had still died as a Goblin.

And this Human had put up the signs. She had taken care of Goblins. Ulvama didn’t understand that.

So she listened, furtively, to the conversation.

“I have to go. And you’ll stay. Okay? Please? Be good, for me. Eat and—”

The little Gnoll made a sound. She didn’t speak. Ulvama saw her cling to the young mother, though. And she read every word from the frantic look, the desperate paws trying to hold the Lyonette-mother.

“I have to. You’ll be safer here. I’m sorry.”

Gently, the young woman unclasped the paws. And now Ulvama did have to retreat. Because the sound the little Mrsha-child made was piteous. Ulvama put her hands over her ears.

Not a Goblin. Doesn’t matter. After a few minutes, she looked again.

The young woman was crying as she left. She kissed and hugged the child—but leave she did. As Goblin warriors did when they left for battle. Only, Goblins did not waste water.

And then? She found the Ishkr-Gnoll.

“Please take care of her. Make sure she eats—that she bathes and—”

“I will. I will, Lyonette.”

“I have to go. I’ll—I’ll be back in two weeks. Two weeks, even if I have to return, Mrsha. Even if I’m not done. I’ll bring you with me if it’s safe? Okay?”

The little one said nothing. More tears. Ulvama waited. Then she heard her name.

“Ulvama—have you seen her?”

The [Shaman]’s heart beat anxiously. She readied herself. Oh, how she wished she had a few Goblins who could fight for her! She could fight—but she was a [Shaman]. She drew her strength from a tribe! This inn was lush in mana, but she was not an expert who could make herself invisible. Turning a bunch of regular Goblins into giant, blood-crazed berserkers? That she could do.

But Lyonette was just talking to the Ishkr-Gnoll.

“I saw her this morning. She is very…wary. What should I do with her?”

Ulvama flinched. But all she heard was Lyonette sigh.

“Just—keep an eye on her? She is a foreign Goblin, and Badarrow said she was a ‘Mountain City Goblin’. How he can tell, I don’t know, but he said Snapjaw was enemies with her tribe.”

“Should I ask the Brothers or Palt or Montressa to keep an eye on her?”

Dangerous [Mages]. Ulvama licked her lips. But Lyonette just shook her head.

“Feed her. Let her do what she wants so long as it’s not dangerous. Ishkr…they’re waiting. I have to go. Please keep the inn until I return?”

“I will. Best of luck, Lyonette.”

And then she was walking to the door full of magic. The Gnoll lingered, and more guests came to see Lyonette off.

It was a moment for them. Ulvama took that chance, while they were all in the hallway, to creep through the common room.

Door, door…where was it? She looked around—then nearly tripped over the little Gnoll.

She was sitting on the ground. The Mrsha-child looked up at Ulvama—then at the door where the [Princess] was saying her last goodbyes. She was listening too. And Ulvama saw her empty gaze.

How bitter. She stood over the Gnoll for a while. There the little one sat, like a doll. Ulvama had seen it before, after great loss. Pebblesnatch had been like that until…

She hesitated. Reached out—then hurried away.

She was not a Goblin. Not Ulvama’s business. Hers was only…

The door to the [Garden of Sanctuary] was in the kitchen this time. Ulvama pursed her lips. Why did it move? She peered into it. She knew the broken Numbtongue was in there.

“[Unlock Door].”

She murmured a low-level spell, calling upon the magic in her ink and the inn. There was so much that she could cast most spells even without a tribe nearby. She pushed at the door—

And her hand ran into solid air. She growled. Again! She heaved on it. Tried another spell.

[Frost Ray]! The staff emitted a ray of, well, frost. It hit the door—

Disappeared. Ulvama peered at the door, the open air. Strong magic. Or…a Skill? She kicked the door’s opening and hopped in silent agony.

Voices. They were coming back. The Hobgoblin froze. She looked around—

“We have to take care of the inn.”

“But no one’s coming, Palt. What do we do?”

Clip-clop went the Centaur’s hooves.  The Imani-Cook was talking to him. Ulvama shivered. She did not trust them. But…

“It’s not like the inn’s poor. Lyonette put money in the Merchant’s Guild so she can take it out in Oteslia, but I have coin—guests might come back, Imani. Worst comes to worst, I could make sure everyone gets food.”

“Thank you, Palt. But what about Mrsha? She doesn’t even move—”

“I could try a tonic. I um, don’t have ‘happiness’, though. Just calming, sleep…I can look it up.”

The two entered the kitchen. Ulvama breathed out, sidling towards the door. Imani sniffed.

“I just—it’s all wrong.”

She leaned on the Centaur’s side and he put an arm around her. Ulvama recognized familiar scents. She eyed the cigar he had. She wished she could steal one of them. Aside from that—he probably had a lot of herbs she wanted. She had been debating breaking into his rooms before she escaped.

Strange. She recognized attraction when she saw it, and even in grief, here was a couple. The Centaur was a bit distracted, though. He kept looking around. Did he sense her magic? Ulvama edged a bit further over as her camouflaged skin rippled against the kitchen’s…

“And Numbtongue hasn’t even left the hill! He hasn’t moved for days. He’s going to starve himself!”

“What?”

Imani and Palt jumped as Ulvama accidentally spoke. They whirled—and saw the chameleon-Goblin standing against the counters shed her spell.

“Aaah!”

Imani leapt back. Palt nearly crashed into a wall, but caught himself from running again. He grabbed for his wand—

“It’s—it’s the Goblin! Ulvama!”

Imani stopped him. Palt still raised his wand. Ulvama backed up.

“No hurt! Only want food, food! Nice Goblin, yes!”

She gabbled, in a mockery of proper language. That’s right. Pretend to be a scared little Goblin…well, she was too big to pull off the trick entirely.

“It’s alright! It’s—”

Imani recovered first. She held out an arm in front of Palt and spoke for both Ulvama’s and his benefit.

“You’re Ulvama, right? Did you want food? We didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Scare her? I nearly died!”

Palt exhaled hard. He fumbled for his cigar, staring at Ulvama’s [Chameleon Skin] spell.

“[Shaman] magic. I would have noticed it at once if I’d been looking.”

Hah. Ulvama rolled her eyes. But he wasn’t, so she would have knifed him twice if she’d been trying to kill him. [Mages]. She backed up.

“Not hungry. Am fine. Sorry Goblin. Is go now.”

She began to scuttle out of the kitchen. Then…stopped. Ulvama ground her teeth. She had to know. She looked over her shoulder and pointed at the door.

“Broken Goblin with sword. He not eat?”

“Broken…Numbtongue? No…he hasn’t.”

Imani looked at Ulvama, and then at Palt.

“I tried to give him food, but—well, I think the plate’s still up there. It’s not like it’s gone bad, but he hasn’t touched it.”

“You…give food to him?”

Ulvama was surprised. Imani nodded, with something like actual concern. Blown away, Ulvama saw Palt nod.

“I could try to talk to him again…but I don’t think it’ll work.”

He half-trotted into the door. Ulvama’s eyes narrowed.

“How do that, you?”

Imani’s forehead wrinkled. Ulvama might have been overdoing the bad speaking. But most Goblins spoke like this. Mountain City tribe was different.

“We…we can go through the garden. Oh. You can’t. Erin’s Skill—”

She and Palt shared a look. That was the frozen Human’s name. Erin. Ulvama hesitated, eying the Centaur.

“I go through? I am Goblin. He is Goblin. I talk to.”

She smiled, trying to look unthreatening as possible. She shouldn’t have shown them she could blend with the walls. Palt hesitated.

“I don’t know. We can’t just bring new people in.”

“They came for the wake. I guess the door’s not letting anyone through? We could…bring her in? I don’t know how, though.”

Ulvama’s smile turned to a scowl as Imani’s back turned. Darn. She thought for a second, but the Garden didn’t actually have much of what she wanted. Just that Sage’s Grass on the hill; Ulvama would love to cut a bunch of the plants. And truth be told…

Goblins could live for up to a week without food. Twice as much if they had the right classes. Tremborag could probably have starved for a month. But without water? She hesitated. But that stupid broken Goblin…

“You give him food. Numbtongue. He eat. Food, water.”

She urged Imani. The [Cook] looked helpless.

“But he won’t eat.”

Ulvama eyed her.

“So? Make him Hungry Hungry Stew.”

“Hungry Hungry…what?”

Did she not know what that was? Ulvama tried to translate.

“Make him stew…with Skill. That makes him very hungry. So even sad Goblins have to eat. You have Skill?”

She looked at Imani hopefully. The [Cook] blankly looked at Palt. He shrugged.

“Must be a compulsion-effect. I don’t know it. I could cast a spell on a dish. But do you know that Skill, Imani?”

“No…”

Ulvama cursed. Most Goblins got that Skill. It’s utility wasn’t just in making sad Goblins eat. It was generally to uh, make Goblins so hungry they ate stews with worms and mud and bark in them without objecting to the taste.

What other ways did you cheer up sad Goblin warriors? Well…she thought Imani and the Centaur would object if she told her to go have sex with the broken Goblin. Getting a Chieftain to kick the sad Goblins into action and go kill something didn’t work either since there was no Chieftain.

“I go into Garden, I help.”

Imani hesitated.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to do it.”

“Human poo.”

Ulvama cursed. She leaned on her staff. Then she had an idea.

“I know how to make broken Goblin eat. You have water? Food?”

“There’s a plate. But I could get um—a regular stew.”

Imani fussed with the bowls. Palt came back in and found her a large one, and a spoon. Ulvama nodded. She saw them fill up the bowl with a hearty broth; how fascinating that nothing began to rot here! Another useful Skill. Tremborag would have loved to conquer this inn.

“You give to Numbtongue-Goblin.”

“He won’t eat. He barely moves.”

“He will. I will tell you magic words to make him move. Special, Goblin-words. You must tell him exactly. Um…you.”

She pointed at Palt. The Centaur blinked. Ulvama thought he’d refuse. No Centaur she’d ever met would have treated a Goblin with respect, much less taken orders.

But she was desperate. That broken Goblin should live. And he only hesitated for a moment before nodding.

“I’m willing to try anything. What do I say?”

Ulvama beckoned him over. She knew roughly what the words should be. She whispered in his ear and Imani eyed them. Palt’s mouth opened.

“Er…”

“You say. It work.”

Ulvama urged him to the door. Imani went after Palt as he trotted, bemused, into the garden.

“What did she say?”

“Magic words? I don’t know. It might work—”

Ulvama craned her neck as she saw him head up the hill. Imani followed and then turned to Ulvama curiously.

The female Hobgoblin couldn’t see up into the hill with the mists where the frozen Human lay. But she could see the Centaur ascending most of the way at a fast trot. It was so silent she heard his voice.

“Hey Numbtongue? Numbtongue, you have to eat. This is from Imani and me. And that female Hobgoblin. Ulvama? You need to eat, friend.”

Nothing. Of course not. The Centaur tried a few more times, clearly trying to cajole the broken Hob. Then he sighed.

“Okay. Listen. I was told to tell you this—”

His voice dropped to a murmur. Ulvama waited. She was almost certain—Imani took a few steps. Then she heard a shout.

“Raaargh!”

That was about right. Ulvama heard Palt shout.

“Aaah!”

There was a roar of fury, then a terrified bellow and Palt racing down the hill as Numbtongue went after him, in a blind fury. Imani shouted.

“Palt! What did you say?”

She looked back at the [Shaman]. Ulvama nodded, satisfied.

The words always worked. Palt raced past her line of view, pursued by a Goblin driven mad with rage. Numbtongue hadn’t brought his sword; he just ran, practically frothing at the mouth, trying to beat the Centaur’s brains in.

For about half a minute. Then he dropped as the rage left him, looked around, bewildered. Palt, his hindquarters to the wall, lowered his wand.

“Wh-wh—all I said was—”

Numbtongue was breathing. He looked up, and Ulvama waved at him. He stared at her, then Imani. Palt bit back the words Ulvama had taught him. It was…close to a magic spell.

“Velan, Curulac, Ierlv. You have failed them all. The Goblins Kings die! Shame! Shame upon you, Goblin! You have forgotten your oath.”

Magic words. Who needed an incantation when you could rouse any Goblin out of their funk with that? For greater effect, name more Goblin Kings.

Of course, it didn’t last. Numbtongue was panting; he was clearly dehydrated, such that he didn’t sweat. But he was ready to curl up.

“Give stew. Go! Go!”

Ulvama poked Imani into the doorway. Imani hurried over.

“Numbtongue! You have to drink something. Eat.”

“She’s dead. My fault.”

The Hobgoblin moaned. He curled up as Palt edged around him. He was shooting daggers out his eyes at the [Shaman], but she only had attention for Numbtongue.

“It’s not, Numbtongue. You have to at least have some water, please?”

“No point.”

Ulvama smacked into the door again. She wanted to beat some sense into that stupid Hobgoblin’s head! She rubbed her nose and called out.

“You! Broken Hob! Drink water, stupid!”

He looked at her. She waved her staff angrily and switched to their language.

“I am a [Shaman]! You stupid Goblin! Drink, eat food even if stinking Humans make it! Eat, to be strong! Protect! Cannot protect if you eat nothing!”

His eyes flickered. He looked towards the hill and Ulvama pointed.

“Human only frozen! Not dead! Eat stew and live, or protect nothing! Do not fail again!”

Imani and Palt were looking at Ulvama, impressed. They had tried their own variations on that line. So had Lyonette, Selys, Drassi—even Badarrow, who could at least move.

But no one had even gotten Numbtongue to blink. Ulvama had gotten him down the hill and now—

The words registered. Numbtongue looked at Imani. Back at the hill.

“Come into the inn. Have a seat.”

“I have to go back. Protect. Bad things…”

He muttered. But suddenly—his stomach growled. And Imani knew how to pick her battles.

“Then have a drink. Where’s that stew? Palt! You kicked it over!”

“I was running for my life!”

The Centaur retorted. But he was already trotting back to get more, as Numbtongue let Imani help him back up. Food, water…Ulvama saw him gritting his teeth.

It would taste like mud, but he would live. She sighed in relief. Then she scurried away before the Centaur could take his wrath out on her. She paused in the common room. The little Gnoll hadn’t even moved. Ulvama—no. No, only Goblins.

Only Goblins. She had to live. Goblins had to live. She hurried off. Little Gnoll would be fine. Probably.

Why did she remind her of Pebblesnatch so much? It was probably the fur. It reminded her of that stupid white hat.

—-

Silveran the Worker was now jobless, and thus, the first Antinium to be laid off in the history of ever. Ksmvr did not count. He had been fired. Different, very different.

Silveran walked the streets of Liscor, lost. The bells tolled. The funerals took place, the people wept.

He could not weep. Nor was sadness the only thing in his heart.

Yes, he was sad. Yes, he was hurt beyond what he believed was possible that Erin was…but more than that, he was longing. He was desperate, an emotion of longing, desperation, want that he had no word to fully describe.

Because he wanted to return to a month ago. He wanted Erin Solstice to bound down the stairs, with some crazy idea in mind, or run about the inn screaming about something like ‘beavers in the bath!’

He wanted her to be back when he woke. He wanted those pleasant days to return. And he feared, now. Feared that those days would never return.

That was death. That was what death did. It took things away. And yes, it was the first time the Worker had contextualized the idea of death thusly.

Silveran had never feared it before. He had seen death in the first hour of his waking and known it was his fate.

Only now did he hate it. Only now did he understand why it was feared. Not for him. But for what it took away.

And in that moment, he knew why Pawn’s vision of Heaven mattered. But still, even if Silveran now longed for Heaven—what was he, Silveran, supposed to do?

He was not Lyonette, who was going to Oteslia. He was not the [Priest], or Garry the [Cook], or Bird. He did not have a grand vision for bringing Erin back. He wouldn’t even know how to begin.

So the Worker wandered. He walked the streets of Liscor, knowing there was nothing for him in the inn while it lay silent. He walked and he walked.

Until he stopped for a small reason.

It was close to evening, when the Antinium Worker found the shop. Not an inn. And it was not a derelict shop. Although it was close.

The doors were open, but clearly, no clientele were present, not even the owner. There was a dirty front, made of crude, cheap glass with warps and bubbles, displaying…Silveran peered at the display.

Dried local herbs and vegetables. Upon further reflection, he saw that this was intentional for the herbs; unintentional for the vegetables. This was a small, local shop that sold locally foraged or grown produce. A grocer’s, really.

But what really caught his eye, more than the nature of the shop itself was…the dirt. The door was open, and the shop was dirty.

Look at it. Someone had tracked muck off the street inside. Ground it into the floorboards. And it had hardened into that calcified mess that made cleaning it so much worse.

Worst yet—this was not a new problem. Clearly, someone did desultory sweeping now and then, which meant that the really bad stains, sticky substances, and so on, got worked into the floorboards between the cracks, until it was practically part of the masonry.

It was horrible to behold. Mainly because Erin’s floors had used to look like that before she got a proper, full-time cleaner. [Basic Cleaning] only got you so far.

The Antinium began to drift on. But then he came back. Lyonette would have him cleaning that floor in a moment. And look at it! Even the dried mud and bits of grass and such were just scattered there, let alone the stuff that required soap, a mop, rags!

And there was a broom, lying against one wall. No one had even picked it up? Silveran hesitated. He looked around…

Then scurried into the open shop. He grabbed the broom and began to sweep, furtively looking around. Someone had to do it. It pained him to see the floorboards so.

[Wide Sweep]. [Magnetic Pull]. And sweep! The particles collected around the bristles of the cheap broom, and without being left behind, he swept a good four feet of space clean out the door in one stroke.

That was satisfaction. You couldn’t get a sweep like that without Skills. It was practically an art form. A lesser [Attendant] sweeping her storefront paused to gape at Silveran’s first mighty work of the broom.

“Whoa.”

The Drake girl of perhaps ten watched as the Antinium turned and repeated the motion. Dust and debris whirled out the door. The Drake girl leaned on her broom, a newfound appreciation for the art of sweeping suddenly instilled in her.

This was his craft. This was his art. Silveran barely needed five minutes to get the main floor clean—then he went behind the counter, around the edges. Three more minutes and the floors were swept.

But not clean. He looked around the empty shop, noting the back door was closed. Still deserted, and no one had stopped him. So he looked at the floor and saw…a bucket.

It held some dead leeks. But if you took them out and got a bit of water, why, you had water in a bucket. And there was some cloth hanging right there! Probably used to hold the fresh veggies.

Silveran knew where all the wells were in the city. He hesitated. He shouldn’t be in here. But the floors…

—-

Twenty minutes later, the Drake girl watched as the Worker carefully put the cloth into the water. She observed, with the sagacity of youth, that he had no soap. And once again, she underestimated the power of a Level 15 [Server].

Silveran reached into his belt pouch…and produced powdered soap-in-a-vial. An Octavia creation! He dumped half into the bucket and swished the cloth around inside. Then, he fiddled with the broom—the Drake girl craned her neck to see. What was he doing?

The impromptu mop only took some twine and two of the cloths. Silveran dunked it, placed it on the floorboards, and began to mop. Yes, this was how you did such things!

Of course, he was only going after the first level of muck. The trick was reducing the general smudge on the floorboards. First you went after the loose debris. Broom and sweep. That was easy, pleasurable, really.

Second? What water and soap could accomplish. It wouldn’t get it all, but the Drake girl saw the Worker pick up just pure filth on the first swab of the floor. She and he were so disgusted, Silveran got a second bucket so the dirty water wouldn’t contaminate his good source. He began emptying it into the street where it ran into the gutters.

Water and soap cleaned a world of sins. And yes, Silveran had more Skills, mostly devoted to cleaning. He saved his trump card, obviously. One did not simply waste a Skill where a minute of work did the job.

[Fast Drying]. The most important Skill, actually, was to dry the water before it could swell the floorboards. That was why you didn’t splash water down; you were economical. Silveran moved down the shop like a hurricane of mopping, leaving behind cleaner floorboards in his wake. The Drake girl was so moved she copied him, giving her own floors an amateur’s first attempt at a sprucing up.

But once again she did not have Silveran’s insight into the art of clean. Because even after the entire store’s floors had been mopped—after three passes!—he was not done!

The madman. The insanity of the Antinium! Now three apprentice shop workers were watching out of the corner of their eye. Because Silveran had cleaned the floorboards with soap and water, without letting the water actually seep into the foundation. He had swept the floors. And he was now…taking a minute bit of metal and individually removing dirt from each crack in the floor! Scraping at sticky stains that had resisted soap without damaging the wood itself.

You needed the fine control of a [Bladesman] and the nerve of a [Battle Captain] to shave the tops of the floorboards so. The patience of a [High Mage] studying spells to individually lever out each crumb trapped between the floorboards, that they might finally join together in proper harmony.

And he did it. No apprentice Drake or Gnoll would ever have the patience to lie on the floorboards and make sure each was sparkling. They watched in awe, even horror at the dedication to the art of spotlessness this Antinium employed.

Silveran was in the zone. He was enjoying himself, and he had not for weeks. After this? He’d probably do a second mopping because of the micro-bits of dirt he’d left from this removal of the crack-dirt. Then he’d have to wax the floorboards, because, obviously, you weren’t going to leave them unprotected, were you?

Actually, you should probably apply a layer of varnish, use the [Fast Drying] to effectively dry that, then wax, and then obviously polish everything by hand. And then you could move onto the walls—

He was so preoccupied with his craft, he didn’t hear the outraged voice until it was right on top of him.

“Who’s there? I’ll kill you, you little thief! I’ll—eh?”

The Antinium whirled as a female Drake burst from the back rooms with a meat cleaver in hand. He froze, throwing up all his arms and she stopped and stared.

“An Antinium? What the—”

She was as astonished as he. Silveran looked around the shop and suddenly—realized he had gone too far.

What was he doing? This wasn’t his shop! He was cleaning on unauthorized grounds! He was in so much trouble. He got up to flee—then nearly ran over the gawking shop apprentices. They turned to run, and Silveran saw the Drake [Shopkeeper] interpose herself between the exit and him.

He froze, quaking. But the Drake had lowered the meat cleaver. She was looking around the shop, in awe.

Perhaps she had never actually seen the color of her floorboards. They were, in fact, beechwood, a light, blonde color. They had been dark brown just this morning.

The entire shop looked ten times brighter. The floorboards? Well, Silveran hadn’t applied wax, but you felt like you wanted to step on them, and then apologize for making them dirty!

“Dead gods.”

The Drake breathed. Silveran trembled. She was clearly in the paroxysms of rage. He raised a trembling hand as she looked at him. The Drake blinked.

Hello, my name is Silveran.

He had a card. Mrsha had helped make him one. The Worker held it out, like a shield. He didn’t have another. The Drake blinked.

“Silveran? Wait. I know you. You’re one of them…Painting Antinium. From the inn.”

Her eyes were bloodshot and red. She looked—well, not well. About as well as the average person in The Wandering Inn. She blinked at the meat cleaver in her hand, then put it on the counter.

“What did you do to my shop?”

I cleaned it. I am sorry. Do not kill me. I will pay for the damages.

Silveran signed. He saw the Drake stare, nonplussed at his hands and realized—she didn’t know Mrsha’s sign-language. He opened his mandibles—and she shook her head.

“You cleaned my floors. They’re so—bright.”

She raised a claw, almost to shield her eyes from the glare of the bright floorboards. She stepped back, wonderingly, and Silveran saw his chance.

He ran past her, out into the street. He heard the Drake call out after him.

“Stop!”

Silveran hesitated. There was a Watch patrol coming down the street! They looked up for the criminal at the shout. They saw only Silveran, so were perplexed. But he froze. He put his hands in the air—

The jig was up. Nowhere to run. He slowly walked back into the shop, to face his fate. The [Shopkeeper] just stared at him.

“You cleaned my shop?”

Silveran nodded miserably. This was a fine fate. What would happen? Would he be executed? What would Pawn say? How much trouble would the Hive be in? The Drake blinked a few times at him—then looked around.

“Well, you can’t just run off after all that. Come with me.”

Crime and punishment. Silveran believed in the justice system. He hung his head and walked into the shop. He stood before the counter as the Drake disappeared into the back room.

“Everything alright here?”

One of the [Guardswomen] asked the shop assistants as they watched the Worker. They peered around, but they still didn’t see a [Thief] or anything. The ten year-old pointed.

“Yeah. That Drake—Miss Pelessi—just shouted at the Worker.”

“The Worker? Did it do something?”

The Guards stared blankly at the Antinium. Then they grew worried. Was this the Aberration-event? They’d heard about that kind of encounter. They steeled themselves—but the Drake just shook her head.

“He cleaned her shop. Look at it.”

They all blinked. Silveran saw the Drake—Pelessi—reappear with his punishment. It was…

Rock Crab bisque. She placed the soup in front of him, with a spoon attached.

“Here. Have that.”

Silveran peered at it. Was he…supposed to drown himself in the bowl? Tricky, but he’d do his best. The Drake stared at him.

“To eat. It must have taken hours.”

“That Worker was working for the last four, Miss Pelessi! He was digging dirt out of the floorboards!”

A young Drake shouted. The [Shopkeeper]’s eyes widened. Silveran hung his head. Then he raised it. Wait, eat the soup?

Death by poison was appealing. He took the spoon, took a sip. It even tasted good. The Drake watched, a bit warily. The [Guards] were admiring the floorboards.

“Beech wood? Such a lovely color. I’ve walked by here hundreds of times on my beat and I would have never thought. Some luck, eh, Pelessi?”

They jested with her, gently. The Drake replied, scowling. Half-smiling. But the red eyes and tear tracks on her scales…

Something bad had happened. Silveran ate meekly, seeing her gaze on him. And then—she clapped her claws. He nearly dropped the bowl and ran.

“A chair. Why are you standing?”

Why was he standing? She fetched one from behind the counter. It was a stool, but Silveran didn’t object to the improper taxonomy of the object. He sat on it and ate. Which was even better than standing and eating.

“You cleaned my shop. Even my husband didn’t do as good a job, when he was alive. I certainly never did.”

The Drake marveled. She was touching the floorboards. Silveran wanted to apologize for the shoddy work. It was just a compulsion.

She looked back at him once. The Watch had apparently decided that Silveran was no Aberration, so they were walking on. But the Drake…they all saluted her.

“Sorry for your loss, Miss Pelessi.”

She gave them a stiff nod. Silveran saw her turn to him. And apparently his blank stare finally registered. She gestured.

There was something on her chest. The toga-like robes, a light yellow, had something attached. He hadn’t noticed it since it was a white bloom. But Silveran knew what that meant.

“My son.”

She saw the Painted Worker stop eating. Pelessi blinked at his bowl.

“You eat as fast as my boy. Do you want more?”

Silveran didn’t know how to respond. So the Drake got him some more. Workers could always eat—but it seemed to him the act of giving him food was just as much for her as him. She spoke as she came back.

“He went out to fight them. Hectval. For her. That—that—all because he had a mug of that Minotaur’s Punch. That glory drink and he said it made everything make sense. Losing his sister. All the good times, the bad—he kept wanting me to come and try it. Because he said it made him remember why she was beautiful.”

So there had been husband, sister—daughter, rather—and son. Silveran looked around and saw not a one.

Ah. He dipped the spoon into the bisque, unsure of what to say. The [Shopkeeper]’s chin rose, as if daring him to. But Silveran said nothing. He just ate the bisque.

“I’ve seen your kind about. The new, Painting Antinium.”

Painted. But Silveran let her talk. The Drake went on.

“I voted, you know. For Lism. This is his district. I didn’t have anything against the Antinium—not much. But Goblins and…it was all too much. My son agreed, until he visited the inn. I thought he was mad. I’ve never involved myself with the Antinium, though. I never thought one would clean up my shop.”

She hesitated.

“Thank you, for that. Why did you do it?”

Silence. The Worker hesitated. Then he gestured. He’d spilled a bit of bisque in his fright earlier. He pointed—and the Drake saw the stain vanish.

Her eyes widened.

“You have a Skill?”

He nodded. He industriously used the rag to wipe some more off another bit of the counter. As if to say ‘there is a mess. I clean messes.’

Then he shrugged. Pelessi almost laughed.

“That’s all? You saw a mess and cleaned it? Half the shops on this street would love you to do that. We can never keep it clean—this is Clawgrass Way.”

She said that as if it mattered. Silveran assumed it was the street name. The Drake explained, seeing another blank look.

“We sell food. Vegetables, the butcher’s down that way—and whatever people pick. [Alchemists] come here for cheap herbs. Do you know how much dirt that brings in?”

Lots? Silveran just ate the bisque. The Drake looked past him.

“It was hard enough keeping the store clean with four pairs of hands. Now? What am I supposed to do now? They said we’re at war with Hectval. I hope the city burns. But what am I supposed to…?”

She looked lost. The dried produce, the shop in disarray…Silveran put down the spoon. She noticed.

“Keep eating. At least the store’ll be clean for a few days, thanks to you. I heard…the Antinium fought Hectval. Stopped them from killing everyone. Good.”

That was all she said. Then, as Silveran put the spoon in the bowl, she whispered.

“Thank you.”

He had done nothing to earn her thanks, or so he felt. Silveran stood as she took the bowl. The [Shopkeeper] looked at him, then turned away. She put the bowl in the kitchen—where she had made altogether too much Rock Crab bisque, forgetting…there was only one person to eat it.

The Antinium was gone when she opened the door. She was glad of it, somehow. She—

—Nearly tripped over him as he levered up a tiny pebble in the floorboards. The Drake stared at him.

“What are you doing?”

Cleaning. The Antinium’s antennae waved. He was never one to leave a job half-done. She protested, but then stopped. The assistants—and [Shopkeepers]—began to gather. They stared. What horrifying dedication to the art of the broom! And when he started waxing the floors?

The Drake objected. Then she just watched. Because at some point, she realized the cleaning was as much for him as the bisque had been for her.

—-

The Horns of Hammerad walked out of the city of Tenbault. Ceria paused to raise a finger to salute the glorious city and the Healer. Ksmvr raised four.

“No, Ksmvr. It’s the middle finger. The middle one. You can’t just raise four.”

The Antinium lowered the four fingers on his upper right hand.

“Ah, thank you, Captain Ceria.”

“So what now?”

Yvlon felt tired. They had gone all this way, waited, tried their best. And for what? Another dead end. They were no closer to helping Erin.

It was Pisces whom they turned to. The [Necromancer] had been quiet. At last, he spoke.

“I have an idea. I did not want to mention it so long as Tenbault was the likelier solution. But—you are no doubt aware that I procured the information about the Healer from somewhere.”

Ceria and Yvlon slowly nodded. Ksmvr shook his head.

Pisces turned to them. He looked as uncertain as they had ever seen him.

“I have contacts. I would tell you more but…I cannot.”

It didn’t matter to Yvlon what he was hiding now.

“Just tell us, Pisces. What’s your idea?”

She hung her head, her golden hair drifting across her silver arms. She stared at them, wishing she could use them to any purpose.

Erin Solstice was dead. What seemed like it had been a beacon of hope in the days after the dungeon—a permanent lighthouse—had ended.

What was there now to look for? How did you bring her back, short of a miracle?

Pisces spoke.

“When we left Liscor, Selys asked me if I would go on a quest for her. To find a missing piece of the Heartflame Set.”

The Horns of Hammerad looked at him. Ceria walked into a bush.

“…What?”

“Did you just say the Heartflame Set, Pisces? As in, the other pieces of the armor?”

The [Necromancer]’s eyes glinted.

“I did. She is an [Heiress] and inherited the armor.”

“I didn’t know she changed her class.”

He harrumphed mildly.

“Well, she obtained a unique Skill in return. Hints as to where to complete the armor.”

“I am very confused. Do you mean to imply the breastplate was merely a piece of a greater set of armor? That would mean it is…very powerful.”

Ksmvr’s talent for understatement almost made the others smile. Pisces nodded. But he looked troubled.

“I told Selys the odds of us reaching the…destination and recovering the armor piece were remote. We would need to prepare, even ally with other teams to get it.”

“You know where?”

Yvlon was incredulous. Pisces shrugged.

“She was given the hint in the form of a riddle. ‘To find the helm of fire/Look to death’s ire;/That village without rest,/Where the Putrid One met his death.’”

The others looked at each other in shock. Ceria was trying to pull her robes out of the bush. Ksmvr opened and closed his mandibles and stroked his chin in an imitation of Pisces.

“A difficult riddle indeed. One must look to the clues. A village narrows down the options from possible billions to perhaps only tens of thousands of options. However, by my deductive reasoning—”

“It’s the Village of Death. It has to be.”

Ceria breathed. Ksmvr looked almost hurt.

“This is an obvious deduction, Captain Ceria?”

Yvlon nodded.

“It is to adventurers. The Village of the Dead. I don’t know about the Putrid One—isn’t that an old [Necromancer]?”

“The Necromancer before the Necromancer. And yes, I had the same thought. Any northern adventurer would know it; the clue was not exactly difficult for me to decipher. But…”

“The Village of the Dead. That might be a Named-rank encounter.”

The half-Elf breathed. She looked uneasy. They all knew that place. One of the truly dangerous zones you avoided. Not as large or memorable as the High Passes—but no one had ever found out what lurked in the center. And armies had tried…

“But it’s the Helm of Fire. Not a cure. Why are you bringing it up, Pisces? I’m sure you didn’t tell us because you wanted to inform us when we had a chance of getting it. Or just to be secretive.”

Pisces blushed a bit at Yvlon’s gaze. But he met her eyes.

“That was my intention, Yvlon. But things have changed. I promised Selys I would try—or bring the idea up to you. Now? I am suggesting we get it. And…trade it for a cure.”

The Horns of Hammerad stopped. Ceria’s head slowly rose and she stopped tugging on her robes.

“You mean, to the Healer of Tenbault? That might get her attention.”

“Not to her specifically. I know of someone who might…trade a cure for a relic-class artifact.”

“Your contact. Who you won’t name.”

Yvlon leaned on her sword. Ksmvr was opening and closing his mandibles. Pisces chewed on his lip.

“Yes. But I would also say this: if that was where a [Necromancer] as powerful as the Putrid One met his end, there is surely treasure beyond compare there. The kind that…would pay for the Healer. And the Helm of Fire? A Walled City might pay a fortune for it.”

Any Named Adventurer would. Any [Lord]—even royalty might. Yvlon’s heart began to beat faster. But Ceria had a thought at the same time.

“But Selys was the one who uncovered the prophecy. It’s not hers, but…”

“I know. I am hoping there is more there than just the Helm of Fire. Yet I am still suggesting it. Ceria, Yvlon, Ksmvr. If it came down to it, I would trade the Helm of Fire for a cure for Erin. And I do believe it is the only solution. No matter what Selys thinks.”

Pisces looked at them. And there was resolve in his eyes. Yvlon exhaled.

“Are you mad?”

He half-flinched. But the [Armsmistress] was straightening.

“Selys would pawn the Heartflame Breastplate itself if she thought it would bring Erin back. Well—I think she would.”

Pisces smiled at that. But he raised a finger.

“The Village of the Dead is…an unknown threat. If the Putrid One really died there—it is certainly a Named-rank threat. We are not of that level yet.”

“But we are going. That is what you are going to say, aren’t you, Pisces? Ceria? Yvlon?”

Ksmvr looked around. The Horns jumped. Ceria spluttered.

“I didn’t say that, Ksmvr! It’s dangerous—”

“But you will go.”

“We could die—”

“But you will go.”

“You sound sure, Ksmvr.”

The Antinium [Skirmisher] looked at Yvlon. And for the first time, he smiled.

“Yes. Because I know my team. I do not mean to interrupt the decision-making process. But I find it inconceivable we would not.”

Pisces blinked. Yvlon opened her mouth and Ceria scratched at her head. The [Warrior] had been going to say it was dangerous, and that they were taking a huge risk and that they needn’t all go.

…Then she was going to say she’d go with Ylawes’ team alone if no one else wanted to. And to look at the supercilious expressions on Ceria and Pisces’ faces, they had been about to do the same.

“I am simply expediting our decision-making process. Please correct me if I am wrong.”

Ksmvr’s shoulders hunched. But then he was embraced by a laughing Ceria.

“You’re right, you silly Antinium. I was going to say—”

She looked around and took a breath. So did Yvlon.

The Village of the Dead. The Dungeon of Liscor had been one thing, Albez another. It had been a while since they had taken on a threat like this before.

Was it mad? Yes. Was it foolhardy? Even to suggest it.

But was it a plan where they had been drifting hopelessly? Absolutely. And if risking their lives meant a chance—

It was she who put her hand out. Pisces, Ceria, and Ksmvr stared at the metal hand as the silver-steel skin flexed and opened.

“Erin is gone.”

Yvlon saw the others flinch. She went on.

“But she’s not lost. And if there’s even a chance—no village full of undead scares me. Not with a [Necromancer] on our side. That already gives us better chances than most.”

She looked at Pisces. He smiled. Actually smiled, and brushed hair out of his face.

“Agreed. And obviously, for the…treasure and levels we might accrue, and knowledge, I would never sit this one out.”

“Of course not.”

She elbowed him gently. He blushed, but put his hand on hers. It was warm.

“I will go. This is a team effort and I owe Erin Solstice…almost everything. My team, the rest.”

Ksmvr put his hand there, without hesitation. Ceria was last. She exhaled.

“This is stupid. Even I know it’s stupid. It’s so stupid that Calruz himself would have said ‘let’s think about this’. You all know that, right?”

“Yes.”

Yvlon looked at her. Ksmvr nodded. Pisces scowled.

“My hand is getting tired, Ceria. Are you in or not?”

The half-Elf glowered. But only for a moment. As Ksmvr had said, there was never any decision to be made. She reached out with her good hand.

“One more adventure. A real one. The most important one. Whether it takes us to the Heartflame Armor or—however far.”

The Horns of Hammerad looked at each other. And then they laughed and nodded. It was done. To the Village of the Dead. They broke into a run, heading for their hidden chariot-wagon. Ceria ran, panting, after Yvlon, then Pisces, and Ksmvr. Death and glory, preferably one without the other!

For the [Innkeeper] of Liscor.

—-

It was just a little thing. But the shop was gleaming when he was done. The Drake thanked him. She wanted to pay him, but Silveran refused. He only took the coins when she said that she couldn’t let him go without it.

She looked so lonely there. The Antinium had cleared her displays, cleaned everything, set all the signs and polished every surface. But that was not enough. So he stopped at the entrance.

Miss Pelessi looked as the silver-antennae ant paused in the doorway.

“Did you forget something?”

She looked around, but the shop was spotless. He shook his head. The Antinium Worker gazed around the store, then at her. Then he opened his mandibles.

“I. Will come back tomorrow. To sweep. I am good at sweeping. And put things in boxes. I am decent at that.”

Her eyes went wide. The Drake started.

“You can talk?”

She stared at Silveran. He thought about this.

“Yes.”

Then he walked out of the shop, leaving the dumbfounded Drake behind. Workers could talk.

Hadn’t everyone known that?

And he would come back tomorrow. Not because he wanted coin, or because he thought the Drake could make the shop that dirty in a single day. But because he was needed here.

He thought Erin would approve of that.

—-

The inn was quiet after all. Great deeds had once been done here. Crowds of people, armies had come through these doors.

But it was empty now. Quiet.

The legend of the inn…had become a wake. And a little Gnoll sat on the floor. Waiting. Waiting…and despairing.

Her mother was gone. Erin was gone. All was lost. The others tried to take care of her, feed her. But they were all lost. Always. All the ones she—

The butt of the staff nudged her.

[Slumber]. The Hobgoblin saw the little Gnoll yawn—and then slide over and curl into a ball before she even thought about it.

Ulvama tsked. Then she tossed the blanket on the ball of fur. Stupid, silly, little children. Children were so hard to take care of. That was why she had never had any, although a lot of attempts had been made.

Anyways, she was only taking care of the little Gnoll because she was staying at this inn for a while. And if the Gnoll-child died, people might blame the Goblin. Yes, that was why.

Someone had to. The Hobgoblin stomped off, to go watch the scrying mirror for more entertainment. Then—after a few minutes, she stomped back and tugged at the blanket so it only covered the little Gnoll’s body, not her head and everything else. Children could suffocate themselves. That was how impractical they were.

She accidentally touched the Gnoll’s paw as she adjusted the sleeping body. Tears had long since dried on the fur. Ulvama, grumbling, tucked the paw into the blanket. Then shouted.

She snatched her fingers back and did a dance of pain.

Ow! What was—

Ulvama stopped. She eyed the strange, flicking thing on the end of her claws. Wait, she wasn’t being burned by…she hurriedly blew on her claw tips.

There was a wisp of smoke. The [Shaman] scrubbed her hand on her side a few times. She blinked, then stared at the little Gnoll suspiciously.

“Huh. Weird.”

She gingerly poked the little Mrsha-child with her staff a few times to make sure she was asleep. Then she eyed her hand.

Fire? Gnolls were so strange. But it hadn’t burned her. It was on her paw. Now, where had that come from? Ulvama backed up. But she still saw it flickering. It had leapt at her. The child still held it.

As the Goblin left, and the child slumbered, and the world changed, it continued to burn. The legend of The Wandering Inn was not ended. And the fire still burned.

It flickered like…

Hope.

8.01

(One of The Wandering Inn’s readers, delta201, has written and published their own story in the same genre on Amazon! Check it out here if you want to read their story and congratulations!)

They were moving out.

Not that it was unusual; an inn had few permanent guests. But it was unusual in this inn. For, as Lyonette had once observed, Erin did not run a usual inn. She’d barely constructed a stables two months ago.

Similarly, she had few temporary guests. What she had made was…a home. Sometimes a home aways from home. Sometimes—the only true home her guests had ever known, like Bird and the Redfangs. And despite the craziness, it seemed the guests only left when someone had died.

Sometimes it was them. Zel Shivertail had once stayed here. Zel. Shivertail. But sometimes they left because someone else had died.

This time, it was because the [Innkeeper] was not there to keep them around. And the [Princess] was not there to oversee the farewell.

So it fell, as such tasks did, to Ishkr the Gnoll. Ishkr, whose defining trait was a lack of one. A helpful quality in a worker.

No, that wasn’t fair. Ishkr’s defining trait was that he lacked any negative ones, while possessing admirable traits in the right quantities. After all, he worked hard. He didn’t get upset easily. He was independent enough to do whatever he saw needed doing, like cleaning a spilled drink, or kick out a Shield Spider—and he did it. Motivation, independence, the ability to calm angry guests whose fries had been grabbed by little white Gnolls…

He had a lot of good traits. He was just not an Erin—or Drassi—or even Lyonette, all with admirable strengths, and a good deal of flaw as well. He was someone every business wanted because he didn’t drag his personal troubles with him. He did his job, he got paid, and he left.

But he was also part of this inn. Enough so that when Lyonette left, she looked at those who remained and saw Ishkr, who had been here the longest aside from Drassi and, unlike her, wasn’t torn between two jobs. For that matter, Drassi was more like The Wandering Inn’s mascot, or famous temp worker. If she put hours at the bar, it was just for her idea of fun.

She was here, though. She and Ishkr felt like it was important. And he was very glad, because he wouldn’t have known what to do.

It was simple, though. Drassi didn’t have a rulebook either, but she did what came naturally to the [Gossip]-turned-[Reporter]. She shook hands with Temile, gently closing her claws around his fingers, and Ishkr did likewise. To the other [Actors] too.

“I’m sorry. I really am. I just don’t think we’d—and everything’s changing.”

That was all Temile managed. Ishkr nodded solemnly. He felt like his fur was white; he checked every day in the mirror. Even Drassi’s ready smile was—tainted.

A good number of the Players of Celum—the originals from Celum itself—had stayed at The Wandering Inn. They were all moving out.

Bags packed, rooms vacated. Ishkr would need to clean them or…have them cleaned. Perhaps he could pay one of the employees for an hour or two’s work. He was, after all, [Head Server] now. He hadn’t ever dreamed he’d be in that kind of role.

He really had taken this job because it paid well, he’d been recommended and persuaded to by Krshia, and had just worked diligently into this position. He wouldn’t have accepted it, normally. Management was stressful.

But he’d liked Erin. So he found himself agreeing despite his inclination to have time to watch out for his sister. Liska. Besides—it had helped since some of the Watch ate and drank here.

“Where will you go?”

Ishkr looked at the other [Actors]. They shrugged.

“The new lodgings. Into the city. We’re trying to rent rooms nearer to the new theatre, anyways.”

“The new…?”

Ishkr realized he had no idea, and coughed, embarrassed as Drassi blinked at him. He wasn’t Erin! He didn’t know the minutiae of what was happening in their lives.

“Sorry. The new theatre for the Players of Liscor. The city’s subsidized it. It’ll be in the new quarter of the city. We didn’t know if we wanted it what with the [Grand Theatre], but…”

They looked at him. They were not staying. Could not stay, in the same building where Erin lay. Temile nodded.

“That’s half of them. I’m putting the Players of Liscor in Carrec’s h—paws.”

He patted a Gnoll on the shoulder. The [Actor] was one of the ‘newer’ ones, having signed up after the Players began performing in Liscor. Nevertheless, he was still months more experienced than the actual new Players.

“And you, Temile?”

“Invrisil.”

Ishkr started. Invrisil? He listened, abashed, but only slightly. It felt like everything else had mattered less since Erin had…died. He had been in silence so long, moving around the inn, trying to set everything in order. Not listening to the hushed conversations taking place.

“Invrisil?”

Temile was trying to smile.

“That’s right. It’s a promotion. I’m taking over for the Players of Celum in Invrisil. Emme told me it was me or…she didn’t have a second pick. I’m taking some of our best [Actors], though. Well, a 50-50 split.”

The others chuckled. Carrec stage-whispered to the others, with an exaggerated pose.

“He only says that so we think we’re one of the ‘good actors’ he left behind.”

They all smiled or laughed. Even Ishkr. How easy that was. Pretend, for a moment, that all was well. Then you caught someone’s eye and the smile froze. And everyone remembered Erin was dead.

Stop thinking that. Ishkr wanted that thought excised from his mind. He wanted the…pain to stop. The sorrow. The emptiness. Each one as bad as actual agony.

“You’re managing the Players of Celum? But then—what about Jasi? Wesle? Emme?”

Ishkr turned to Temile to cover the sudden silence. The [Producer] looked at him much like Drassi had. Then he smiled.

“I forget you might not have heard, Ishkr. They’re going north again. On the road to First Landing—although they probably won’t get there right away. After the performance they gave, half of Izril’s Human nobility want them to perform for them. And apparently—they’ve hired on more people.”

“Really?”

“They got a Level 40 [Tumbler]. If you can believe that. Scooped her up right after the Summer S…the party. Practically begged to join up. Claimed her act was stale and worthless. Emme says the party broke her spirits, so she snagged her before anyone else could. And they met other entertainers. Barelle the Bard—the Skylights—they’re in talks to combine performances, or at least put on some of Barelle’s stories.”

Big names. Famous names in the entertainment industry. Ishkr just smiled and nodded blankly. Level 40 was the only thing he understood.

“You’re always welcome here. Ishkr’s keeping the inn running, right, Ishkr? And you’ll see me.”

“On television. Wonders never cease. We won’t forget this inn. We owe our careers. Everything to…”

Reflexively, Temile swallowed. And the [Actors] fell silent. They had many fine words, written by masters. But even their soliloquies on death faltered now. They would be better performers for every scene like this. Perhaps too good. Because they understood it.

The Players of Liscor and Celum left the inn. Drassi stood there, waving from the threshold of the portal room as Temile bowed before stepping through to Invrisil. She watched the others walk down the hill through the main door. They preferred to walk, as if it mattered more than just going through the magic door.

It probably did. Drassi sniffed as they were gone.

“So it’s just Hexel, now. His assistants, Montressa, Palt, Bezale, Mrsha, that new Hobgoblin, Ulvama, Numbtongue, Bird, the Humans…not many at all.”

Ishkr nodded. Counting the seven Humans, it was still over ten. But the inn felt even quieter now. Drassi looked at him.

“How’re you doing, Ishkr? I haven’t been…around.”

“I saw you on the news. You have your job.”

She flinched, bit her lip and her tail drooped along the floor as if she was guilty.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“You’re doing something. My sister actually asked me to get your autograph. Besides. There’s nothing to do…here. Not much. Imani cooks food. I just sweep now and then.”

The Gnoll knew that wasn’t quite true. But Drassi accepted the lie with a smile.

“I can sign an autograph! You know, people are asking me for them? They’re crazy!”

“You don’t have to for her.”

Liska would just run her mouth off about it and Ishkr didn’t need her bragging or getting more excited. But he still told Drassi how to properly spell her name. The Drake was happy to do it.

Then they just stood there. Ishkr tucked the autographed cardboard into his belt pouch. Drassi looked at him.

“So how are you doing?”

What was he supposed to say? My employer is dead. The other one has left for Oteslia. I’m left in charge of caring for Mrsha—who won’t eat or move, despite Imani and Selys trying to talk to her. No one comes in here and but for the portal door, this place is empty.

“Fine.”

She nodded a few times. After a moment, Ishkr raised a paw and scratched at his chin.

“Well, actually…there is one thing I was curious about.”

“Oh? Can I help? I’m free today. Noass and Sir Relz keep cutting my working timeslots anyways. I’m pretty sure that’s what they’re doing. I’d love to help, if I can.”

She studied him. She’d badgered him into having an after-work drink a few times. Drassi was one of the co-workers who brought everything in her life with her. Ishkr had accepted, because she was genuinely friendly. But he could see why she’d been fired before. And why she was clearly headed on a different career path from his.

“Perhaps. I was just going to go into the city, actually. To check on someone.”

“Who? One of the staff? We can head over right now…”

They walked through the portal room. It too was empty. It was meant to be guarded; now, the only two guards were the Brothers. Two of them stood in the hallway each hour of the day. All night too, it seemed. Waiting. They took food and drinks, but they were clearly only here to…kill someone. They scared Ishkr.

When Erin was alive, she wouldn’t have accepted that. They would either be welcome guests, slowly absorbed into the inn, or gone after half a week. Right now, though? He just let them stay.

The two walked into Liscor, talking. Bells still rang for funerals. But most had ended. The city was silent. Tensed.

“You know, we’re still at war with Hectval. People are saying the Council might even consider conscription.”

“For war?”

Ishkr’s fur rose. He didn’t ask how Drassi knew. She talked to everyone. The Drake hastened to assure him.

“It’s unlikely. But—well, it’s not over. So who’re we meeting? One of the staff?”

“In a sense. We’ve—Lyonette—let go of most of the workers. Paid them, but told them it was unlikely the inn will be seeing much business.”

“She didn’t ask you to keep it running?”

Drassi was surprised. Ishkr shook his head. She should have, but neither one could picture it. That was why the Players were leaving. Who could drink and make merry knowing just behind the garden’s door lay Erin?

“No. But we have some permanent staff. I’ll be employing…my sister…”

“Liska. She’s nice.”

“No, she isn’t.”

Ishkr groused. Drassi smiled; that was as close to a lie as she ever told. She didn’t know Liska that well, though. That also helped.

“She can at least sweep up. But Lyonette told me to keep the Antinium employed; they don’t have other jobs. And the [Lords] might want to trade…the door’s not being used, but she asked me to start the regular portal services soon.”

“Oh, right. Good idea. So what’s the problem? Don’t tell me one of the Antinium’s called in sick.”

She laughed. Ishkr cleared his throat.

“Actually—he didn’t show up for work. Or rather, he did, but—he handed in his resignation this morning. Silveran has quit his job.”

Drassi stared at Ishkr so long she walked into a wall. She bounced off and stopped.

“You’re joking. H-hah. Good one, Ishkr! I never knew you had a sense of humor!”

He blinked at her. The [Reporter]’s smile faltered. She reached for her side, and produced…a notepad.

“Now this is news. Tell me everything.”

“I don’t know what there is to tell. He informed me he had found other work and left. I asked him why, and he directed me…well, this way.”

—-

As always, the world was changing. But it seemed that sometimes it turned faster. So fast that you could be sent flying if you didn’t jump with it.

Even the Antinium, now?

They found the Worker with painted, silver antennae sweeping up the shop front. He tried to hide behind the door when he saw them coming.

Ishkr and Drassi stared at the shop’s front. You wouldn’t have noticed the shop’s sign yesterday. Because it had been so worn and faded no one would have really seen it. But someone had climbed up, cleaned the frontage, then reapplied paint and varnish.

Carrotgrass Emporium. As names went…Drassi’s brow wrinkled as she stared up at it. She stared at the display and understood.

“Oh, a grocery.”

In fact, a quite well-stocked grocery. The glass windows had been shined, polished, and fresh produce was on display. Someone had gone through, replaced all the missing price tags, organized everything by produce type—there were carrots, as promised, actual grasses (the edible kinds)—and more. In fact, the shop had a supply of customers coming in and out with small purchases.

Perhaps just from the novelty of the change. But the truth was—cleanliness was appealing. This shop stood out on the street from the hard work that had been put into making it so nice.

Not to mention the Antinium. Ishkr and Drassi traded a look. Reflexively—they looked around. Because this?

This was the Solstice Effect. Trademarked, copyrighted, if such things existed, and stamped with The Wandering Inn’s official seal of madness. Ishkr longed to hear that familiar voice and laugh—

But there was just Silveran. He was the architect. And he looked very worried.

I am sorry. He signed at Ishkr before hurrying into the shop. Ishkr scratched his head.

“He really did quit! I know this shop and street! It’s never looked this nice! Did they replace the floorboards? They’re light! They used to be gray-brown! And the sign! I didn’t know this place was called Carrotgrass Emporium! That’s—that’s an objectively hilarious and weird name, right?”

Drassi was blown away. Ishkr just shook his head.

“So that was why he quit. Well…”

He was about to say more when he heard the voices. Some of the other [Shopkeepers] as well as customers were inside the shop, talking with the owner. Miss Pelessi. Drassi knew her; Ishkr did not.

This was a Drake neighborhood; he shopped from Gnolls, locally. But he peeked in with Drassi and heard the conversation.

“Pelessi. That’s an Antinium working in your shop.”

A Drake was pointing bemusedly at Silveran. He was restocking the shelves. He jumped when everyone looked at him.

The owner of the shop, Miss Pelessi, widowed, and now the sole member of her family, had known better times. And worse times. She blinked around the light store as if she was just as surprised as everyone else. But she leaned on the counter, and gave the Drake a look.

“So, Erils? Does that statement have a tail on it or are you leaving it hanging?”

The Drake considered his words. Drassi nudged Ishkr.

“Erils. [Appraiser]. For rocks, not other stuff. Local miners go to him.”

“How do you know him?”

“I’m Drassi.”

The [Appraiser] hmmed.

“Well, it’s just—it’s an Antinium. Not to say that it’s wrong to employ Antinium…I’ve known plenty of folks who live in a home Antinium have made. Never fallen on their heads. And some do butcher’s work. I even know they break rocks for very reasonable money—but it’s an Antinium.”

He let the statement dangle. Everyone in the shop except perhaps Silveran knew what was meant, anyways. The Drake frowned.

“And?”

“And…I’m just observing, is all.”

Erils was unwilling to commit further on the off-chance this was a trap and he was a mouse dancing on the bait. Pelessi huffed.

“Well, observe how clean my shop is! He showed up yesterday—and it’s not ‘an Antinium’, it’s Silveran. One of the Painted ones.”

“Ah, right. Them. Well—you hired him?”

“That’s right. I don’t have more…tails to work in my shop.”

Instantly, the other Drakes coughed and looked at Erils. He bit his tongue.

“No, of course not. And if you wanted help, my boys could have—”

“Worked for how long?”

“Er…”

Pelessi gave him a defiant look, and the local neighborhood at large.

“I hired an Antinium because he cleaned my floors and shop and offered to come back. Seemed surprised when I asked if he wanted a job! And he came by at dawn to fix my supplies, cleaned up everything—I thought I was being robbed! He even fixed that mouse hole in my room! Ate the mice too, I think. Well, good for him.”

The others murmured. It was hard to deny that the shop looked better than it had yesterday—or for the last fifteen years, for that matter. One of the Drake [Shopkeepers] nudged his daughter.

“I wish you woke up and did a tenth of that, kid.”

She glowered at her father, whom she was apprenticing to. Erils nodded at Silveran.

“So he’ll be your employee? Which is fine, obviously. I was just asking.”

He looked around, hunted. Pelessi sniffed.

“Yes. I could hardly afford to hire an [Assistant]. But Silveran asked and he wants work so—yes. I’ll pay him properly, though! And he’ll get breakfast, lunch, even dinners he works for me. I feel like he needs such things, too. Silveran—that’s his name—will work until he falls down if you let him. And he’s less than one year old. Just a—a boy.”

“A year old?”

Everyone stared at Silveran. The news about Antinium ages wasn’t widespread—although it was obvious if you thought about it. They talked, well, debated without really calling it debating.

“I suppose that’s fine. It’s not like we haven’t had Senior Guardsman Klbkch in the watch all these years. And they’re the painted ones. I think that makes them special, doesn’t it?”

“I heard that means they can’t go Aberration. And that’s true! We had Klbkch—Pelessi couldn’t afford an apprentice. Good for her. Thought she’d waste away. And her produce is good! If you wash it twice, why, you’d never mind an Antinium touched it.”

“Where is Senior Guardsman Klbkch, anyways? I haven’t seen him, or Relc yet. Not that I miss that loudmouth…”

Ishkr heard some of the Drakes whispering. It was a Drake street after all. He motioned to Drassi and they tiptoed out of the door as one of the other Drakes remarked how he wished someone could clean his sign front. And Silveran looked up with that specialized madness of people who enjoyed removing dirt…

“He really did quit!”

Drassi was astounded. Ishkr just nodded to himself.

“Yes. Good.”

She looked at him sidelong. The Gnoll scratched behind his ears.

“The inn doesn’t have much to do besides make beds and clean up now and then. Good for him.”

The [Reporter] hesitated, and then nodded slowly. She cast a glance back.

“It’s just…no, I’m glad too. It’s just that…”

I wish he didn’t leave. That we needed him. That the inn was still open. Ishkr nodded again. Some things didn’t need to be said.

They left. Drassi wasn’t really working, and Ishkr had to get back to the inn. To look after Mrsha, although Imani had promised to keep an eye on her. But…what was there to watch?

He was glad for Silveran. Almost envious. But it was just another thing that Ishkr found terribly bitter. How quickly it changed.

—-

Far from Liscor, or even Izril, was a room. It was a room dedicated to observation, and thus contained six mirrors.

A Drake stood before them. It could have been any species, except Gnoll, really, even Dwarf. But she had volunteered and her species was appropriate. But more than Drake, she was—

[Mage]. [Seer], if you wanted to be specific. And her job was to watch. Normally—there wasn’t much to see. But now…

The Drake watched a much darker room illuminate as a beam of light struck a figure sitting alone. She lifted the clipboard and the magical quill poised, ready to transcribe everything word for word.

Observation Log #184:

Sole figure in the room. Changed locations. Single entity—designation ‘ Armored Queen’.

A vast figure in the center of the room. It moved, spoke, lifting a huge appendage. And her deep, large voice was recorded word-for-word on the clipboard.

“The Armored Queen speaks to the Flying Queen.”

“Flying Queen. What topic of conversation have you today, Armored Queen?”

A second Queen appeared in a second mirror. Illuminated by another beam of light. The [Seer] noted the change in location; no Antinium around her. The Armored Queen’s voice was slow, ponderous…almost stilted. The Drake made a note—‘different cadence observed’.

“Flying Queen, I would like to discuss our preparations for the possibility of war. Indeed, our secret weapons which we are poised to bear on a prospective enemy.”

A chill ran down the [Seer]’s back. Her tail flicked urgently and her magical quill scribbled faster. She hesitated, and waved at the head [Diviner], who was coordinating the Pallass News Network broadcast in a room connecting to this one. He trotted over as the Flying Queen nodded several times.

“You mean, our unspecified mass-destruction anti-magic artifact of unparalleled might, Armored Queen?”

The Flying Queen’s question made the Armored Queen visibly hesitate. After a second, she clicked her mandibles.

“Yes. That. Which we have in abundance. Capable of five hundred mile deployment and six hundred and twenty one foot destructive capabilities.”

“Yes. I have six such artifacts stored.”

“I have eight.”

“Indeed? This is good. We should produce more in case our enemies should threaten us.”

“Yes. As I have said, production is underway. That is all I wish to communicate.”

“Very good, Armored Queen.”

The two [Mages] watched as the mirrors went dead. The [Diviner] looked at the [Seer]. She shook her head slowly. It was the sixth such conversation she’d recorded in the last two days. She turned to the [Diviner], her boss, helplessly.

“I’m 70% sure they’re messing with us. But it’s disturbing that I’m only 70% sure.”

“Catalogue it for the Archmages. They’ll review whether to send it on.”

The [Diviner] grimaced. He’d certainly noticed that the Queens had stopped using their mirrors and changed their locations—as well as begun dropping very specific hints about improbable defenses and force distributions.

He doubted the Archmages would want to pass this on…their credibility had rather been deflated by warning the Walled Cities of a war that had never, in fact, transpired. Somehow, the Queens had caught on that they were being monitored.

That was not the only change among the Antinium, of course. A small number—but still, nearly a thousand Antinium had attacked and slaughtered a Drake force outside of Liscor. The [Seer] shuddered as the mirrors went dark—another sign that the Queens were probably aware of the spying. Or else why didn’t they leave them pointed towards them at all times?

For that matter—before they went dark, the Drake definitely noticed some Workers and Soldiers putting a blanket on top of it before the mirror was dragged elsewhere. Yes, the Antinium were changing. But she could not have known what inspired far more change than in just the Queens.

—-

Erin Solstice was dead. No, frozen. Don’t even think ‘dead’, for that was wrong.

But think of it and feel the all-consuming despair and hatred. Think of her, as she lies there. You did not even see her wounded. You were not there to shield her.

You could not heal her. So say it.

“[Summon Aberration].”

This time, he saw it more clearly. This was how it happened, in detail: the Worker watched as the others drew back, shivering, shaking. Even the Free Queen stared.

Something tore a hole in the air. As if the air were just…cloth or paper, and you could pierce it with your hands and pull apart a gap. Beyond the air lay only a void. Not darkness, not color, but a lack of it.

And out of it came a Worker. No—

An Aberration.

It shuddered, twitching with what Pawn knew was rage, a madness only the Antinium processed in this way. Just a Worker. And yet—even trained [Soldiers] had gone down to its madness.

For, Pawn realized, the Worker was armed. It had a kitchen knife in one hand, a carpenter’s hammer and awl in the other.

As if it were an actual Worker, and had seized the nearest tools around it before going on a rampage.

As they did. Aberrations were rare, but when they occurred, a Worker—or Soldier—would simply—snap. They would go mad and kill everything in sight, other Antinium, people, and only cease when they had been dismembered.

The ones he had summoned had killed the enemy before fading away. And this one…pulled itself out of the air and stopped.

It looked around and everyone drew back. Pawn himself. He felt afraid of his own creation, and he knew it was his creation. But the azure Antinium’s staff was raised, and even the summoned Antinium seemed to flinch away from her.

Xrn, the Small Queen. She watched with the rest.

“What…is this, Xrniavxxel?”

At last, the Free Queen asked. Xrn studied the Aberration. Her chitin armor, azure, unique, glowed with the light from her staff and eyes as she approached slowly.

“Something new, my Queen.”

That was her only answer at first. Pawn saw her step forwards; so did Yellow Splatters. The [Sergeant] was wary, afraid. But the huge Antinium—a full inch and a half taller than any other Soldier—was not about to risk Xrn being attacked.

She would not be. The aberration shuddered, but it did not track Xrn as she stepped around it. After a moment, she looked at Pawn.

“You can order it, can’t you, Pawn?”

“Yes.”

The [Priest] whispered. Xrn nodded. The other Antinium stared at him and he felt it again.

Change. Because those stares were laced with horror. Fear, where once he had never felt such emotions from the other Antinium. Belgrade, Purple Smiles—Garry was hiding in his kitchen.

He did not, could not flee from the gazes, though. So he stood there. Letting them all witness what he had conjured in the depths of his hatred and despair.

Aberration. Xrn pointed slowly.

“Can you…order it to climb that wall?”

A short wall of stone rose out of the ground. Dekass shifted; the Prognugators of other Hives had all drawn their weapons. He, Tersk, Pivr, and Xeu watched as the Aberration trembled there. Then—suddenly bolted for the stone wall. They readied themselves, but the Aberration clambered over it, and then came to another stop.

It was what Pawn had ordered it to do. Slowly, Xeu crossed her scythe-arms, relaxing a fraction. But she stared much as the other Antinium did.

Unsettled.

“I—I ordered it to move, Xrn, my Queen.”

Pawn’s voice was faint. Xrn nodded slowly. Of the rest, she seemed calmest. Just interested and wary as opposed to horrified.

“Good. That is what I thought. Can you make it…use that hammer?”

“On…?”

“Nails, I suppose. Does anyone have nails? Or wood?”

The other Antinium susurrated. A Painted Worker hurried away. In the silence, Pawn looked at the Aberration. And knew it was his. But what relieved him was perhaps only…that it was not an agent of some underworld, some dark place.

He hoped…it was just a delusion. A figment summoned by his power. There was no mind there. But either way, it was what he was.

[Doomspeaker Priest]. He had known his class’ goodness. Its hope. Now, he was leveling and understanding the fullness of what he had become.

So gaze upon my miracles. Know the power of my belief. What is good, and what I can give. And also know my wrath.

—-

Thirty minutes later, Pawn knew what [Summon Aberration] did. He had watched the trembling Worker—then another, so there were two—go through an obstacle course of Xrn’s design. Try—and fail—to use other tools. Then kill each other.

The glowing forms vanished. Xrn stood in front of her audience, and recapped brightly.

“They are akin to a [Summoner]’s creations. But without the need for a catalyst. More temporary, yet ultimately expendable, renewable. It appears Pawn has now achieved a fourth discipline into this field. Fifth? Sixth? Let’s see…”

She started counting on her fingers. The Free Queen snapped her mandibles together.

“Explain, please, Xrn of the Centenium. We are not all as skilled in matters of magic as you.”

The Centenium looked up and bowed slightly.

“Of course, Free Queen. To explain? Pawn has summoned fake beings. They are not real Antinium. Nor were they ever. I detect no realness to their bodies, for all it appears to be chitin. It is not magic flesh—nor is it real carapace. It is a different simulacra, but one nonetheless.”

All the Antinium seemed to sigh, and relax at this. Pawn himself relaxed.

“Ah. Like a [Summoner]’s creations? We have studied enemy combat-apparitions. I have slain them myself. They are not as strong as the real thing.”

Pivr fanned his wings excitedly. Xrn gave him a look, but nodded.

“Exactly. Closer to them than Golems or Undead. You see, my Queen, there are many ways of creating temporary or permanent apparitions to aid a spellcaster. [Summoners] use beings that once were, or temporary constructs—that is what Pawn is doing. [Necromancers] and [Golem Artificers] create what is permanent. There are numerous disciplines who do the same, in truth.”

“Really. I know only four.”

The Free Queen frowned—or her antennae drooped and mandibles lowered. Xrn shrugged.

“Druids call animals to them—or summon elementals. The talisman-users of Drath act like [Summoners], but some can also call forth artificial beings painted or drawn. Let me see…higher-level [Mages] can do a [Summoner]’s job to some degree. I have heard that there are even ways of creating Golem-type creations out of cloth, or substances beyond metal and stone, so perhaps a [Sculptor], or [Weaver] could do the same…it is not special.”

Her eyes winked white and yellow, as she entered into a scholarly mode.

“On the other hand—Pawn’s creations are unique. I compare it to a [Summoner] because they are superior and not.”

“Explain.”

Xrn nodded.

“The Antinium Aberration summons require no catalyst, which most [Summoners] require. Superior. They are expendable and draw upon something…other…than mana. Superior. However, they cannot be ordered fully. Pawn could command them to navigate obstacles—but not pick up a hammer. Any summoned creation—or undead—or Golem could at least attempt that. Inferior. Oh, and they fight with all the combat potential of…Aberration Workers. Hardly as dangerous as some summoned creations, for all their appearance. Inferior.”

She had distilled everything but the horror they generated, and the wrongness Pawn felt at creating them. He saw the Free Queen look at him, as if sensing that thought.

“I see. Do you have anything to add, Pawn?”

“Only—only that I regret learning this Skill, my Queen. I regret it. But I learned it because…because Erin was hurt.”

The Antinium shuddered. At least, the Free Antinium. Their Queen did not. Xrn did not. The foreign Prognugators did not. Erin meant less to them.

“Well, it has given Pawn a useful combat Skill! And in time, he may be able to summon Aberration Soldiers. Or perhaps even more powerful versions.”

Xrn brightly interrupted the silence. Pawn looked at her. She smiled at him, eyes dancing yellow and green, playful and academic. The Free Queen nodded.

“And all this is a result of Pawn’s class. A unique class. One that Klbkch allowed him to keep. Do you, after seeing this, still agree with that decision, Xrniavxxel?”

The Free Queen looked at Pawn. She knew his class. Tersk hesitated. He looked at Dekass, who shook his head, and Xeu and Pivr looked blank too. Their heads swung to Xrn. And she?

She smiled.

Blackness overtaking light. And red. And still that yellow.

“Oh, yes, my Queen. Better to know the enemy which we fight. I say it is good. I agree. Let Pawn continue down his path. I think the Free Antinium are far stronger now than they have been. A worthy addition to the Hives of Izril. Do you not?”

She looked around. The Free Queen nodded, and so did the Prognugators.

“Of course their combat-efficiency is much improved.”

Pivr. Tersk and Dekass, with the latter speaking in his stilted, somewhat obnoxious voice.

“Our presence assures the Armored Queen’s approval.”

Lastly, Xeu. She hesitated, rubbing her scythe-blades together with a faint sound that made all the Antinium’s antennae vibrate. She opened and closed her mandibles, her elongated, scuttling, alien form of the Silent Antinium hesitating. Then she spoke.

“Of course the benefit is observed. I shall communicate the Free Antinium’s potential to my Queen.”

Xrn smiled.

“Excellent! Then I will consider this matter closed. All is quite well.”

Except of course, that it wasn’t. Pawn bowed his head as the Free Queen dismissed them all. He sensed the other Antinium avoiding him as they left. Look at me, the monster. Look what I’ve done, for all I preach about Heaven.

And yet, it was still there. The potential to be unleashed, like a hundred thousand Aberrations squirming in his heart, compressed together.

Let us out. Let out your wrath. Summon us. Summon worse.

This was what a [Priest] was? Power to unleash what was in his heart?

Pawn began to fear it. Because he knew himself.

—-

Someone else who feared what he had become, what he had done, stood in front of the map and the Council of Liscor. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth.

He had not slept, not truly, with nightmares or terribly dark sleep. But he stood here, and he had worked these last four days, not despaired.

He had no time. When this was done, he told himself, as he handed out the dossiers, he would sleep. He would sleep and…and Erin would return.

But in the interim, he spoke.

“We are at war, Councilmembers. I am aware Councilmember Krshia is indisposed, as is Councilmember Raekea. However, we cannot wait for their return from the Meeting of Tribes. I am asking you to vote and authorize the following expenditures for the Watch and the city. Immediately.”

“War? Strategist Olesm? Hasn’t there been enough?”

That came from Councilmember Zalaiss. Formerly semi-exiled. Now…with a worrying amount of power since two of the Council’s majority-votes were lacking. It was still Lism, Elirr, Jeiss, Alonna, versus Tismel and Zalaiss. But they just needed one of the Council to waver to have a split vote.

Even then, Zevara would be the tie-breaker, or Olesm himself. But he spoke to all of them as they sat grave, quietly reading.

Was that accusation he saw on their faces? He deserved it. He deserved it all.

Erin was dead because he was careless. Maviola, because he was a fool.

He should have dragged the army back. Ordered Moore and the other hotheads to be restrained. He should have…

“Yes, Councilmember Zalaiss. As I said, Liscor’s army has sent back three more companies to augment the city’s defenses. Three hundred [Soldiers] and commanding officers, plus some reserves to replenish Commander Embria’s forces. However, they will be weeks away at best. But that is not enough. We are in a state of war, and immediate steps need to be taken.”

“And the army is not…returning, Strategist Olesm?”

The quiet voice came from Lism. He looked at Olesm over the report. Olesm shook his head.

“They are engaged in their contract. Furthermore…they would be willing to return, but only if the war escalates. And they would have certain requirements if they did.”

Such as taking over for the Council of Liscor. Lism nodded.

“And if Liscor would be sacked or razed by the Hectval-Luldem—whatever the hell that Ancestors-damned alliance is?”

His tail lashed furiously. Olesm cleared his throat.

“I believe the army is convinced the walls as well as the Free Antinium would prevent a siege from ever taking the city. They are…content to allow Liscor to resolve the issue beyond that.”

They would rather see the Hive burn first. If he had not ordered the Black Tide to fight—perhaps. But the responses had been clear.

“I see. Does the alliance have the ability to take our walls?”

“With an Antinium army plus our Watch? I don’t think they have trebuchets.”

Jeiss muttered. Alonna nodded. It was rare for a properly-maintained Drake city to fall to sieges. The walls were too high, the enchantments too strong.

“In that case—why this extraordinary budget, Strategist?”

Alonna looked kindly at Olesm, but with a shadow over her face. The city still mourned the dead. Olesm wore white clothing. He shuddered.

“Because, Councilmember Alonna, the Hectval-Drisshia-Luldem alliance will do anything short of sieging the city, and I would not put it past them to engage in a wider siege cutting off trade or food to the city if they can effect it. We are at war.”

A timid, clawed hand. Tismel flinched as Lism glared at him, but he raised his claw nonetheless.

“But both sides have lost considerably from this last conflict, Strategist Olesm. Isn’t it enough?”

Olesm just stared at the head of the Cobbler’s Guild. Stared, until Tismel looked very uncomfortable. He saw similar looks from Alonna and even his uncle, though. Not from Jeiss or Elirr. They understood.

“Councilmember Tismel. It is true both sides have suffered.”

Hectval not enough. Olesm swallowed that.

“…But it is not an end to war. We have not signed a declaration, or asked Hectval’s alliance to. And nor would I suggest that. We are at war, still. And Hectval will be moving against us soon, if they are not already. We are at war because we are Drakes. And we do not let matters lie. Not when blood has been spilled. If we were Human or Gnoll, the answer would be the same. But especially because we are Drakes. No, it is not enough.”

A silence fell over the Council after that speech. Olesm closed his eyes a moment, swaying where he stood. Once, someone had talked about consequences. She had said to a foolish [Mayor], so incredulous—of course. Of course there are consequences.

“War. How long has it been since Liscor was, individually, at war with another city?”

Lism looked around. Alonna’s lips moved.

“We’ve fought with the north as a whole, we skirmished with Esthelm when the city was first founded, but even that was nigh on a century ago…the Bloodfields overtook the pass south for a long time, and was stifling travel before that.”

“Centuries, perhaps. What do we do? Can we even fend off an attack if Hectval comes at us?”

Zalaiss looked around. Elirr hadn’t spoken; the sole Gnoll remaining on the Council was just looking at Olesm. And he looked old, and tired, and worried. But he tapped the paper and attracted the Drakes’ attention.

“I believe Strategist Olesm has all the answers.”

Olesm bowed to Elirr.

“Not all, Councilmember. But I know what must be done. While we wait for the three other companies from the army, we will have to double the Watch’s size again. Watch Captain Zevara requires an expanded budget. Most important will be fortifying the Floodplains. That means far-ranging patrols, counter-scouting missions and knowing where the enemy is. You can see I have marked out spots for watchtowers to be built.”

“Watchtowers?”

The Council murmured. Tismel was incredulous.

“Why do we need them? They won’t stop an army! Double the Watch again? They’d be over ten-thousand strong! Let’s just have the [Architect] build a wall! Wasn’t that the campaign Lism ran on?”

Olesm sighed. Here was where his Manus-education paid off. At least for the obvious. He spoke, patiently.

“Liscor is growing. And Hectval can amass an army that large by themselves. Watchtowers are necessary because they…watch…for enemy raids, Councilmember Tismel. That’s the greatest threat. Saboteurs, small bands of Drakes who launch a [Fireball] at a village. Or at travellers. Hectval could kill our trade with the north, ruin our fields and thus our harvests.”

“And they have already launched one raid which did too much.”

Elirr’s voice made everyone go silent. Olesm half-nodded. The others regarded the maps. Olesm cleared his throat again.

“To your point about a wall, Councilmember Tismel, a wall does not stop any of this. Even if we stretched it across the southern entrance to the Floodplains; they’d just go around it, over the mountains. It costs too much to build, maintain, and we would never have it up in time.”

“So. Watchtowers. Feels weird we’re building them on our southern border.”

Jeiss muttered. He got nods from Zalaiss and Tismel. Olesm just raised one brow.

“They used to be placed to the north and south, Councilmember Jeiss. We’ll be rebuilding them on old foundations before the Necromancer destroyed them. And the Antinium.”

Jeiss blinked. Olesm saw him look askance, but the [Strategist] was too tired to care.

“I would like you to agree to my budget, Councilmembers. It’s underlined on the last page.”

They checked it out and gasped.

“This is far too much! We don’t have the coin to—”

“Even with all the new immigrants and taxes?”

Alonna was doing some math. Zalaiss was shaking her head.

“This kind of expenditure—”

“We are at war, Councilmembers!”

Olesm barked. The female Drake looked at him. He blinked again.

“Watch Captain Zevara will be meeting with us to discuss the expanded Watch’s roles. It would be within her power to expand the Watch this way, without consultation. We are at war—which means she and I both outrank you. I am asking you to approve what I feel is necessary. Not requesting your permission.”

It gave him no satisfaction to see their faces. The reality began to sink in. Olesm stood there, as the Council looked at each other.

“Then, Olesm…”

Lism. His eyes were very kind as he looked at his nephew. Olesm bit his tongue. He steadied himself with his tail. He pushed down everything and everything. Do your duty right.

“…What can we do to make your and Watch Captain Zevara’s jobs easier?”

Olesm gulped.

“Frankly, Councilmember Lism? You can consider a conscription.”

Silence now. Olesm spoke into it.

“Because unless we achieve the numbers of the Watch without it—we need an army and you saw what a pure militia force suffered, even with high-leveled support and Gold-ranks. They won’t join us for the larger war. We need an army to counterattack, stop enemy raids. Fight. The Watch isn’t nearly large enough. I’d say we need a mercenary army, but ours isn’t kindly disposed towards Liscor at this moment.”

“Our army seems to have abandoned us.”

Elirr commented. He looked around the Council’s room. Olesm sighed.

“Of course they have, Councilmember Elirr. They abandoned us after the Second Antinium War. We just never needed them until now. So. Either we obtain a second one, or we let Hectval burn the Floodplains down around us. Let’s talk about how much gold we need up front…today…before Watch Captain Zevara arrives.”

—-

Three types of Antinium walked the Hive.

The first were those who grieved. Who were broken. Despite Pawn’s sermons—they were the Painted Antinium, those who had known her, gone to that inn.

They were, ironically, the second-smallest group. The second had no idea what was lost. They were ordinary Workers and Soldiers who had never met her. Too many would never know what had been left.

No, they would know someday. Keep to that. Hold your faith.

The last? The indifferent. They knew, but they did not care as much.

Tersk was not of that group. He mourned. Pivr though…he and Xeu had little emotion. Xrn as well.

What enraged Pawn though, was Dekass.

He had been at the inn. He had been given food; practically gobbled it down day after day after day. And still…

This was his reaction.

“I…mgfh…believe your combat ability…mm…would be of great interest to the other Queens if it can be replicated…crunch crunch…Pawn. Imagine the tactical superiority of an army of ten thousand summoning twice their number? And then using the expendable army? Can your class and levels be easily achieved?”

Pawn stared at the Armored Antinium. He stared at the bag of crisps in Dekass’ hands. He was stuffing himself with all three other hands.

No other species in the world could achieve the same crisp-to-mouth efficiency as Antinium, with perhaps the exception being Dullahans, who could feed their heads with their hands and levitate their arms to reach the crisp bag across the room.

“I achieved my level and class because I knew Erin Solstice. I ‘achieved’ the ability to summon Aberrations because she died.”

Dekass hesitated. One of the salted crisps hesitated halfway to his mouth. Crisps, being a crucial distinction. Erin called them ‘chips’, but some of the other Earthers disagreed, claiming that chips were in fact, fries, and crisps were chips.

It was very confusing to Pawn and he wished that were all he had to care about in the world. Instead…he saw Dekass smile and crunch on another chip-crisp.

“I see. Then we must replace Erin Solstice at once.”

Pawn debated trying to kill Dekass. He took a single breath. Then another. He spoke in a very mild tone as the other Antinium in the Painted Antinium’s barracks moved around them.

“Is that so easy, Prognugator Dekass?”

“I believe so. Consider: I was upset to learn the purveyor of foods was rendered inactive. However, I learned that I could obtain these from a local vendor in Liscor. You see—others had copied her recipe.”

He waved the non-Wandering Inn crisps at Pawn. He’d bought them from someone else. Pawn nodded.

“I see. And you suggest replacing Erin in the same way.”

“Yes. It is the only efficient solution.”

“Understandable.”

I’m going to murder you, now. Pawn reached for his neck. He only stopped when someone approached him.

“Pawn.”

The [Priest] hesitated, with all four hands outstretched. Dekass eyed them and put a chip in each. Pawn ignored him and turned to the Worker who’d interrupted him.

It was one of his Painted Workers who stood there, with a cluster of Antinium behind him. Soldiers, Workers—all painted. This first Worker was Pawn’s, though.

He had a little yellow flower drawn on his shoulders, their roots and vines travelling down his arms. Erin called them close to ‘tattoos’, but the golden blooms were based off the very flowers in her inn.

Faerie Flowers. And this Worker was thus Golden Bloom. He was one of the [Acolytes] that Pawn was training.

“What is it, Golden Bloom?”

Pawn was surprised. There were two [Acolytes] under his authority. Only two, out of the countless others. They helped him serve bread and spoke little. They listened much, and knew all his stories, however. But this was unusual.

The other Antinium shifted, but it was clearly Golden Bloom who needed to speak. He clasped and unclasped his hands; he had the habit of putting two together like Pawn, in constant prayer.

“I—we—I have been asked on behalf of all—to ask you an important question.”

“Can it wait until I murder Dekass, Golden Bloom?”

“No, Pawn. It is important.”

“What?”

The Prognugator stopped crunching crisps and sidled back. Golden Bloom’s antennae waved urgently. He opened and closed his mandibles, in clear distress.

“Pawn. It is about Erin.”

“Tell me.”

Pawn turned away at once. He faced the others. Golden Bloom trembled.

“Erin is…is…is hurt. Dead but not dead.”

“She will return.”

The other Antinium nodded. Golden Bloom looked around.

“Yes. But if…if she does not…”

A cold pit opened up in Pawn’s stomach. Already, it came. Did their faith waver in less than two weeks? Did they not believe?

Did he?

“You think this is what will happen, Golden Bloom?”

“No Pawn. I believe. I pray. I pray at least 31 times per day and I am trying to pray more. We all do. But if—if she is hurt. And not alive. Nor dead. Is…there no place for her in Heaven? Because she is not Antinium? Is that why she is neither alive nor dead?”

Pawn stopped. All thoughts of rage against Dekass and crisps left him. He saw Golden Bloom trembling.

“Because, Pawn, if that is so, I do not think it is a good Heaven. Not without Erin.”

It came out in a rush. The [Acolyte] looked at Pawn.

“I know she is not Antinium. But she should be there. And if—if there is no place for her—I will give her mine. If it is not enough, we will all give her ours.”

The Antinium nodded as one. Pawn felt his heart sinking in his chest. They looked terrified. But resolved.

“No. You do not have to do that. Please, Golden Bloom. Do not be afraid. Heaven—Heaven is not that cruel.”

He reached out and touched the Worker. The [Acolyte] looked at him.

“But she is not there.”

“Yes. Because she is not dead. If she was—”

Something was attacking Pawn from the inside. He spoke, despite it.

“If she was, she would be there. We will—will pray tonight. To make an exception for her, and all those that matter.”

The Antinium relaxed. As if Pawn—of course he would know. He would be able to make that happen. But Pawn was suddenly uncertain.

Did it work like that?

“Then we will see her again. And Heaven…Heaven will have all the good people, in time?”

In time? They would all die. Mrsha, Numbtongue…Pawn felt dizzy. As if he had only realized that today.

Yes, in time they would all be there. Even little Mrsha. Even…he felt sick.

“Heaven will hold them. We must make it. And—it will be large enough. Must be large enough for them.”

“Could it be too small?”

Suddenly, Golden Bloom was worried. Pawn didn’t know. Reflexively, he looked around. And the same fear was in his heart. Until a hand touched his shoulder.

“No. It is not. It is a tiny thing. But wide enough for us all. Erin would fit. But it can be bigger. I know this to be true. For I have seen it before I was given life again.”

A deep voice. A commanding tone. And suddenly, the world stopped shaking. Pawn looked up. There was Yellow Splatters.

“Do not fear, Golden Bloom. You will be there. And so will all.”

“Thank you, Yellow Splatters. See? All is well. We will pray.”

The [Acolyte] sagged with relief. He led the other Antinium away. Pawn looked up. The [Sergeant] stood there.

“Thank you, Yellow Splatters. I did not know what to say.”

“I know.”

The [Sergeant] stood there. And he was a miracle like those Pawn had been told from Earth’s stories. He had died and come back to life. And he had brought something more valuable than anything with him.

Hope.

“You have seen Heaven. You should lead them more than I.”

“I do not have your class or faith, Pawn.”

The [Sergeant] answered steadily. He had been given a superior body. And he was always so sure. So…good a leader. He was leveling faster than even some Individuals. He would be a great leader. Pawn shook his head, pressing.

“But you have seen it. Can you tell me more about what it looks like? I—I confess, I did not know whether Erin would fit either. I cannot even imagine how that would work. You said it was tiny, but growing. What did you see? Who did you meet?”

Yellow Splatters paused for a moment, and his mandibles opened and closed. Eventually, he shook his head.

“There are no words to describe it, Pawn. I am sorry. I search and search—but how could you describe what has never been seen? I can only tell you—it is what you said. You built it. Have faith.”

“Of course.”

Pawn smiled. Yellow Splatters did too. They stood there for a moment, then Pawn patted his hand with one of his. Faith restored.

Let it be for Erin, then. But not yet. Not ever, if he could manage it. He walked the Painted Antinium’s barracks, talking to others. For his job was to help them heal, and live, and fight for that Heaven.

Even if part of him still drowned in rage. He feared—and already, missed Lyonette. He should have said goodbye when she was there. But he was afraid to touch her.

To let the things stirring in his mind out.

The moment of change came upon Pawn in a seemingly-random encounter. He was touching the shoulder of a Painted Soldier.

“Green Baron. All will be well. We must believe. Tell me if you are upset.”

He had used his free bread, and benedictions already, to calm the most anguished of Antinium and wished he could use his Skill more. But he was speaking with words, hoping they meant something.

The choosing of identities had evolved among Soldiers and Workers both. The Soldiers could not ‘speak’…but then again, they could. And they were evolving past concepts like Purple Smiles, Yellow Splatters, and so on.

Green Baron had chosen his name after three visits to the inn and learning about the famous ‘Red Baron’ from a discussion of aircrafts and flying with Bird from Kevin and the others. He had chosen the name on the principle that green was probably better than red.

There were other…interesting names Soldiers had chosen. It was their identity, but Green Baron was sharing space with Soldier #1533, who had that number proudly written on his chest, Bacon Rashers, who, yes, had had that for his first real meal ever, and Kevin2. Because they liked Kevin. Also, π, who had tried to express as much of the mathematical constant as the others could remember on his body.

Pawn did not judge much. But he had stopped there from being a Kevin3 and Kevin4. Normally, Kevin2 was trying to imitate Kevin, in body language and personality.

But his head was bowed. He was curled up and Pawn recognized the look.

Pure despair. Pawn’s heart ached for them. He looked at Green Baron’s misery and spoke, gently, tightening his grip so the other felt it through his armor.

“We must have faith. We must believe, and strive. We must endure, Green Baron.”

He felt the Soldier shudder. Then—the Antinium with green airplanes drawn on his armor straightened.

Erin had helped draw them. And she was a bad drawer, so some were squiggly. But he treasured them. Pawn remembered that as the Soldier turned to him. And his hands rose and he said—

“No.”

He spoke. In the sign language that the Antinium had learned from Mrsha. They had created their own variation upon it, adding more words that Mrsha had not used. But it was the same language. Pawn’s mandibles opened slightly.

“No? What do you…mean, Green Baron?”

Green Baron thought for a second. His hands moved slowly, four hands approximating shapes. Crude fingers, a Soldier’s fingers. The Free Queen had told Yellow Splatters that future generations would get digits.

“What if I cannot wait? What if I cannot have faith and pray for—sky’s—return?”

He substituted the word ‘sky’, a spreading gesture with all four arms, for Erin. She had no need of a name. It was just ‘her’. But she should have one.

Pawn hesitated.

“Is it hard to pray, Green Baron? Do you not…believe?”

“I believe.”

Pawn exhaled. That was something. He was not one of Bird’s followers, who prayed at times, but did not believe. Green Baron saw the confusion and clarified.

“I believe, I can pray. But I do not. There is…”

He was struggling to express what the language had not developed enough to properly say, abstract concepts, and growing frustrated. Green Baron signed.

“There is a problem. Therefore, I do not pray.”

“Which is?”

Again, the Soldier had no words. He tried.

“The city. The bad city. It is there. It should not be. It is bad. It should not be. I am angry. I cannot pray.”

The bad city. Hectval. Pawn hesitated. He saw Green Baron clench a fist.

There were not enough words. Not for ‘Hectval’ or the true emotion in his signing. The Soldier looked at Pawn—and he saw the other Soldiers’ heads rise.

“I know. But—Olesm led an army against them. We fought. We have killed them. Liscor has suffered.”

“But they have not.”

Now, Kevin2 rose. And the others stood. Pawn looked at them.

“We killed the Drakes. You were there, Green Baron.”

“Yes. It is not enough.”

Not enough, was a Mrsha-gesture. Like gobbling but stopping halfway, as if finding a bowl empty. It did not fit this sentence or meaning. Pawn’s head bowed.

“I have cursed them. They are far. If their armies come, the Antinium will defend Liscor.”

“It is not enough.”

“Many things are wrong in this world, Green Baron.”

“Is it enough for you?”

The gesture was angry. The Soldier was showing rare emotion. He stepped forwards, as if to confront the shorter, smaller Worker. Force him to look at his words—

“enNouGh?”

The whisper froze Green Baron in place. The other Antinium in the barracks turned. The cadence. The [Priest] stood there.

“Enough? Did you ask me if I thought it was enough? If I thought hECtvAl suffered enough?”

The Soldier took a step back as the [Priest]’s head rose. And there they were.

He did not have Xrn’s eyes, for which he was grateful. For if he did, surely they would have seen them.

A hundred thousand Aberrations.

A hundred thousand demons in the depths of his gaze, waiting to be let out.

I curse you by kindness. I curse you by the sky. I curse you to death. I curse you to suffering—

No, it was not enough. And no—his rage had not abated.

Did they think it had? Did they think a thousand dead soldiers of Hectval would have quenched the fury? The [Doomspeaker]’s hands clenched and unclenched.

“We are Antinium. We…must protect Erin’s inn. We will do that. Do I say it is enough? No. No! But what would you have me do? March upon them? Drown them in the Black Tide until their city is ash and ruin?”

Silence. Green Baron’s head began to move. Pawn whispered.

“I would if I could. But we would break upon their walls. It would be war across the continent. No. So we will wait here and pray.”

He spat the words. Suddenly understanding that he was as disconsolate as the others at the world. It was not enough. He wanted it. Erin’s death had been—this could not continue. He could not be happy to tend to his flock.

Something had to change.

And as the Soldier hesitated in the face of that wrath, the answer came. It came in the form of one of the watching bystanders, and a sound.

Crunch.

Dekass bit into the crisp and saw every head look towards him. He hesitated, then offered the bag to Pawn. But he spoke as he did.

“Is that all you have to do, Prognugator Pawn? I am giving you this title since it seems appropriate and Tersk said I should.”

Pawn stirred.

“What do you mean, Dekass? Do not annoy me. I am not in the mood for it.”

“Am I being annoying?”

The Armored Prognugator gave Pawn an exceptionally surprised look. He went on in the meaningful silence.

“You claim there is no way to strike at Hectval. Or to change the Painted Soldiers, who are, while effective, prone to death as much as any other. I say: this is not so. I have been listening to the talk of Liscor, for I am a Prognugator and trained in the art of subterfuge. The citizens talk while unaware of my cunning infiltration buying crisps.”

There was so much wrong with the last part of that statement that Pawn ignored it.

“What, Dekass?”

Crunch. Crunch. The Armored Prognugator finished the last crisps he held, and then he gave the rest to Golden Bloom. He looked at Pawn.

And for all Pawn regarded him as close to one of the ‘clowns’ that Erin described, minus the face paint and silly noses—there was something suddenly off-putting about Dekass.

He was ludicrous at times. Arrogant, as Tersk had been. Just like Pivr was obnoxious and talkative and lauded his Queen at every moment, and Xeu foreign. But you forgot—that was because Dekass was out of place here. An observer.

But he was still a Prognugator of the Hives. The Armored Antinium’s leader in war. He gazed at Pawn and beckoned.

“Come with me. And bring your Soldiers.”

He gestured at Green Baron and the others. Pawn hesitated. Then followed Dekass.

—-

Dekass moved through the Hive with Pawn and some of the Soldiers to show him his grand idea at the same time as Xrn stood in the Hive.

She did not need to read Pawn’s mind to know how he had gotten his new Skill. Nor was she unaware that the Antinium were changing. She did not know all of it, like Silveran, but she had seen the largest change shortly after Erin had been hurt.

The Black Tide had marched on Hectval’s army. Against her orders. She had told the Antinium to their faces to stop.

And they had disobeyed. She remembered it clearly. An ordinary Worker—one of the new [Archers]—looking at her and telling her they refused.

Also, their rage. Antinium that raged without becoming Aberration. Who were stirred to emotion by a Human’s death.

Xrn had felt their animosity, just as she felt their despair now. And she had felt that from Antinium only a few times before. When they fought Crelers, which even the imperfect copies of this continent knew to be a true foe. And when a Queen had died.

But these Antinium knew hatred because a Human had died. They were like…

True Antinium.

“They do not follow my orders, though. What should I do? Kill them all and have the Free Queen start again?”

Xrn mused aloud. That was the quandary she faced. She sensed…movement and her head turned. She saw the two figures shake like leaves. The colors in Xrn’s eyes changed for a moment—then her mandibles moved up and out.

“Oh, Chesacre. Thaina. You will forget that. And not communicate that to others. I was only thinking out loud.”

The two Soldiers held each other, as they did. Hand in hand. Xrn thought it was a word she had learned but never used.

‘Adorable’. Yes. And she quite liked the two female Soldiers, who had understood they were female. Who had survived the dungeon assault against all odds.

She had taken a liking to them. So they were here. Xrn smiled again—but detected their fear. She hmmed happily. That was fine. She addressed Chesacre and Thaina brightly. They needed to understand. Klbkch never told Antinium enough. Xrn would get in the habit of telling these Antinium more—at least, her intentions. They would learn.

“I called you here because Erin Solstice is dead. And thus, plans are ruined. Without her, the Individuals and Painted Antinium may—change in ways I do not understand. Undesirable elements have already appeared. But on the whole, your Hive is far more positive than negative. So do not worry.”

Another smile. The Soldiers nodded. But their antennae kept shaking. Xrn went on; she had closed the doors to her private quarters. And, as they had observed, expanded it. The Free Queen was most obliging. But she did not know what would happen here.

Xrn had already put up enchantments; she was not good at it, as she kept telling the Grand Queen. But good enough. She was best at spontaneous magic. As a [Mage] had once observed before she killed him—her class and nature was wonder. You could never predict her spells, but by the same token, she was weaker at bounded magics. Permanent spells were all but beyond her, really.

It mattered not so long as she was present. But what about all the battlefields and places where Xrn was not? Well…that was what other Centenium were for.

But Klbkch was a fool. Wrymvr stubborn, perhaps even insane. He believed in war with the Drakes. Xrn wished some of the others lived.

Well, she had wasted too much time placing her faith in the Queens to restore their glory. Too much time trusting them to be as smart as the First Queen—and yet look what the Free Queen had produced. It was just time for Xrn to…

“Improve. That is what we are doing today, Chesacre, Thaina! You see, if I do not have the ability to order the Free Antinium—that is a problem. What is the correct solution besides wiping them out and trying again? For that takes too much time.”

Neither Soldier responded. Voices. They would need them. Ah, well, Xrn was learning their sign language too. But neither one responded. They were looking at the door. Xrn smiled.

“The answer is: improve some to my standards. Chesacre, Thaina, I like you two. Therefore, I am going to risk your lives today. To make you better.”

The Soldiers edged to the door. They tried it. The door didn’t budge. Xrn went on, happily watching them and inspecting the rows of potions, vials, and so on she had sorted by strength. And more…

“They call me the Small Queen. But I have never sought to create my own Hive. Not once. For I am Xrniavxxel—unique. But it seems to me I have squandered my potential. It is fortunate that unlike Klbkch and Wrymvr, I am always willing to learn.”

She saw the Soldiers turn. Xrn walked over. Her eyes shone with anticipation. Hope. Determination.

“You two will be the first of mine. Or die. Endeavor not to.”

Thaina blocked Chesacre. Chesacre tried to interpose herself in front of Thaina. They both shielded the other, flinching, as Xrn studied them. They did nothing else. Just held each other as Xrn slowly raised a hand—

“Here. Drink this.”

Chesacre lowered a clenched fist. Thaina hesitated and clicked her mandibles. They stared at the potion. Xrn waved it impatiently.

“It is a mana potion. Drink. And then eat a Garry-pie. We will see what the first one does before…”

—-

The conversation ran something like this.

“You see? I was surprised that your Hive did not consider it. After all the trouble. But it is a solution of sorts, so long as it is accepted. I calculate the odds at 21%, but they are possible. Liscor is a strange city. Not that I would know.”

“It is more than that.”

“How so?”

“It is…more than that. Does it hurt?”

That was to another person, who responded in nonverbal ways. The first was miffed.

“It would not hurt. They are designed not to.”

“I know. But it is strange. And…right. More than that.”

“You must explain with more verbiage, Pawn.”

“I do not know if I have the words. I only know that this is like something of which I was once told. Not ours. But it is right…righteous. It is—it will make them something else. I do not know if it is correct.”

“You just said—”

“I know what I said. My heart tells me this…this is necessary. Green Baron. What do you think?”

A reply.

“Yes. You would be the first. It is more than you know. More than…I do not know.”

“Why, Pawn? I agree. And I am Prognugator. You seem to agree.”

“I do. My heart tells me ‘yes’. My soul desires this. It is what we must be. It may be necessary. However. Something holds me back.”

“Which is?”

“Erin Solstice. If she were here, I believe she would stop me. I do not know if Lyonette would. But I think Erin would.”

“Why?”

“She is not here. I do not know. But I know. But we must be this, Erin. Yes. And no. It is only that, Dekass. Only a certainty.”

“Which is? Explain, Pawn.”

The second voice was silent. And at last, it spoke, weary. Tired. And so terribly sad.

“I think if she saw this, she would weep. I think she would cry for what it means. What we become. But she is not. And I cannot ask her what she would say. So I follow my own words. And they say this: rise, Green Baron. The rest of you. I will let you choose.”

There was guilt there. Guilt and sadness. That was the conversation, though. A blank Armored Prognugator’s voice, and the wavering, then firming decision of the [Priest].

That was then.

—-

Now.

The bells began to ring. Olesm Swifttail was still arguing with the Council over the proposed draft. He did not like it any more than they did. But what other options were there?

“Another funeral?”

Alonna murmured. But then she looked up. Someone was blowing a horn. Jeiss shot out of his seat.

“That’s a Preventative Alarm. Olesm—Watch Captain—”

“What now?”

The Drake whirled. They listened, looking in the direction of the horn blasts. Tismel took cover at his desk, eyes wide.

“An attack? Hectval again?”

“That’s not outside the city. It’s coming from the direction of—the Hive.”

The three Drakes looked at each other. Zevara was out the door in a shot, the other two behind her. The rest of the Council followed.

—-

People in Liscor’s streets were streaming away from the warning horns. Even if they did not know what it was, or how to read the calls, they knew what a horn blast meant.

Someone was blowing a whistle, shouting for reinforcements. That was Watch-signaling. Olesm listened.

It was—off. He suspected something horrible. A monster coming through the Hive, perhaps. Or an Aberration?

But the sounds weren’t as urgent as an actual combat-alarm. They were what Jeiss had called them—a Preventative Alarm. ‘Come quickly because there might be trouble. Or soon will be’.

What was it? Citizens of Liscor who were braver, or more foolhardy, turned to see when monsters or trouble didn’t immediately materialize. Some who knew the signals watched at a distance.

They were the first to see the Antinium emerge from their Hive. Not just one or two. The shout raced through the air, down the streets as Olesm ran.

“It’s the Black Tide! They’re coming out of the Hive! Thousands!”

“Oh, Ancestors—”

Zevara’s eyes went wide. She whirled.

“Olesm—get to your last resort position. Your emergency spells—”

“It can’t be. Not today. Not—”

Olesm had the same thought. She pushed at him.

“I’ll see! Just get in position! Jeiss! Get the rest of the Council back! This—”

This could be the scenario the Walled Cities had warned them about. Olesm couldn’t believe it. He would have believed it more last year. But this one?

Yet the Antinium had left their Hive. In such numbers to make Liscor’s citizens shout their other name.

“The Black Tide of Izril is marching! Run for your lives!”

A Gnoll ran screaming across the street. And that began to start a panic. Olesm turned on his heel. If only Erin—Lyonette? Who could stop them if it came to…?

“It’s almost like she’s here.”

Ahead of him, Zevara remarked in a soft tone. Olesm looked back. Before he could run to the safe spot where he would be able to hold off even an overwhelming number of Antinium with the Watch before detonating every spell—it was too late.

Shouting spread down the street. People, some screaming, but most sounding—surprised? Confused? Or even something else.

Olesm looked back as the Council stopped. He felt the ground shake, from massed footsteps in perfect unison. He tensed as he saw the first ranks of the Soldiers, marching down the street. The…shining…armor?

Here they came. Eight abreast. Huge Soldiers, Workers with bows. But something was wrong. Olesm’s eyes widened. The Soldiers in front were wearing armor.

Plate armor. Specially-engineered armor to cover all parts of them. No breastplate for Humans or Drakes or Gnolls, but Antinium-forged metal. Steel and iron.

These Antinium wore the mark of the Armored Hive of the Antinium. A gift of esteem that had never been touched. For there were not enough for all Soldiers, so who would be marked thusly?

Besides—Klbkch had been in charge, then. Now?

The first Soldiers marched past Olesm with a thunderous roar. Their armor and footsteps were a thunderous din. And that was not all.

They carried weapons. Olesm saw a Painted Soldier. His body was masked by metal. But he had drawn the cute little green airplanes on his armor.

And he carried a steel mace in one hand, designed to be held by the Soldier’s clumsy grips. A huge, spiked weapon where Soldiers had always fought with mere fists. In the other?

A shield. There strode by the equivalent of any [Knight] that Olesm had seen. Heavy infantry. As armored and armed as any Drake in Liscor’s Watch could have hoped to be—

No, more. Because he carried four weapons. One for each hand. Below, in the Soldier’s lower grips, he had two long daggers.

Four weapons for a single Soldier. And that was the first rank of the armor-division. The Workers wore leather, or even wood-armor, also made for them. Each one carried bow and arrows.

The Free Antinium’s archer divisions. All of this was terrifying. It would terrify the Walled Cities—but it was still what the Armored Antinium already had, even if they had supplied the Free Antinium with enough arms for thousand—thousands of their own.

But Olesm saw something in front of the horde of Antinium that made him afraid. Not because of what it looked like—but who it was.

Pawn. The [Priest] carried his censer. Which had little meaning for most. But Olesm knew it meant something. He walked across their ranks as they stopped in one of Liscor’s largest plazas, with the citizenry, Watch, Council, staring at them.

Sweet smoke drifted from the censer. Pawn walked across the ranks of Soldiers. Each rank armed with different sets of weapons. Maces and shields in front. Pikes held by two hands, a crossbow for the other two in the second rank. Swords in the fourth…and so on. The Armored Queen had sent every kind of weapon her forges produced.

They were more than Armored Antinium, though. Pawn looked across them.

The Armored Queen had lavished the Free Queen with gifts of goodwill, hoping to be repaid in turn. She had sent exactly one thousand sets of armor, to join her first, smaller gift. Workers were outfitted in armor of their own. Not all the Soldiers were thus covered, and not all Workers.

But enough. Three thousand Soldiers stood to attention. A thousand Workers with bows. Five of the [Archer] companies.

Painted Soldiers and regular ones. They looked at Pawn. He raised his hand—

And they knelt. Pawn walked across them, whispering.

Somewhere—in some world and time far from this one, a better one—an [Innkeeper] was weeping. He thought he could hear her, but that was just his imagination.

Erin Solstice was dead. In this world, there was only wrath and war and damnation.

Silveran was one Worker who had chosen something else. Those who had not his grace had only hatred left.

Hate, hate, hate.

And wrath. And vengeance. And duty.

“We will never be the same. It is not enough to simply be. We must defend what we believe in. For we have enemies.”

Pawn spoke to them. This was his decision.

“You are not Armored Antinium. You are not mere Soldiers or Workers. Each of you who chooses this—you will leave your Hive. You will march under sky and star. None of you may return. I pray you all will. But you will go to fight our enemies, risking your lives so that more might survive. You are more than any Antinium that have ever come before.”

They looked up at him. The first rank of Soldiers knelt. And Pawn blessed them. He named them for what they were, in the silence of his mind, as he had named them below.

[Crusaders]. More than [Knights]. Warriors of faith.

So once—now again. The Council of Liscor looked on. Olesm, Zevara—

“What is this?”

The [Strategist] spoke, in a strangled voice. He approached Pawn, hesitating. And the [Priest] looked at him. Belgrade knelt at the head of the force. He rose and joined Pawn. The [Tactician] gazed at Olesm as if confused that he did not see it. He gestured at the Antinium.

“Liscor’s army. We are part of Liscor too. And we cannot forgive.”

The blue-scaled Drake was speechless. The Council horrified or…

A Worker with silver antennae stared at the kneeling Antinium. Shocked. Uncertain. For this was change. Each one to their choice.

But what was the right choice? The armor shone brightly under the sun as if it meant something. And they looked grand, mighty, terrifying, impressive, hot, depending on whom you asked.

The future was simply uncertain.

—-

The world quaked. Or so it felt some days. The Antinium marching could certainly make you feel as though the ground were shaking.

However, their appearance was…half show. Belgrade made that clear to Olesm.

“We will be joining the army as volunteers. We would like training in weapons, please.”

“Training?”

The new ranks of the Antinium armored in faith…and actual armor…were impressive. However, Olesm realized something crucial that would be missed from afar.

They had no idea how to actually use the weapons they were carrying. Maces, shields—he saw them holding them just a bit off, or experimentally swinging the weapons. It was an army with a lot going for it. Antinium morale, nigh-unbreakable. Quality arms and the ability to take commands that Olesm had wished the ragtag Liscor army could have had in the fight with Hectval.

But no actual weapons training. That grounded him.

“We’d have to put them through training. Guard-training—at least the week’s crash-course. Along with any other new recruits we get.”

Someone commented. Olesm’s head turned. He rubbed at one earhole. Jeiss.

“Um, what, Jeiss?”

“If we add them to the army.”

The Senior Guardsman was watching an Antinium swing a sword with a pained look in his eyes. The others were watching the poor imitations of thrusts and cuts. For that matter—they had four arms. The cycles of attack and defense were completely different for Antinium.

It was a [Strategist]’s equivalent of the blacksmith puzzle. A delightful avenue of possibility and optimization. But for an Izrilian [Strategist]?

“Jeiss, you must be mad. We can’t add them to the army! It would outrage every city in—in the world!”

Alonna barked. She was horrified. The Senior Guardsman however, had a different take.

“We need an army. Here is an army. It’s not like we wouldn’t call on the Free Antinium if Hectval besieged us.”

“But that’s not the same as enlisting Antinium [Soldiers]. For that matter—Belgrade! There are around three thousand Soldier Antinium standing there!”

“Yes. Do not worry. The Free Hive will be amply defended in their absence.”

Amply defended. Zevara broke out of her stupor and looked around. Olesm felt sweat running down his spine.

“But Belgrade…our treaty with the Free Antinium only allowed them to keep a standing force of three hundred Soldiers. We expanded that of late, but this is a violation of our agreement.”

He reminded the [Tactician] of that salient point. The Worker looked at Pawn. The [Priest]’s antennae waved.

“Really? I did not know that.”

The Council stared at Pawn and Belgrade. The other Worker scratched delicately at the top of his head.

“I remember that. Revalantor Klbkch told me never to permit more than three hundred Soldiers aboveground except in times of crisis, or mention our numbers.”

“Ah. So we have broken the rules?”

“It appears so.”

They turned back to Olesm and the Council. After a second, Pawn shrugged.

“Sorry. No one informed us.”

He didn’t even try to be apologetic. And what were you supposed to say to that? Shake your claw at them? They were far beyond that.

“Councilmembers—a quick discussion. Alonna, some privacy?”

Lism’s strangled voice. Olesm hurried over with Zevara.

“What in the name of the Ancestors do we do? This is a flagrant disregard for our treaty—”

“We always knew they had more than the treaty, Councilmember. That part of our agreement was always doomed.”

Zevara muttered. She was looking at the Antinium army. Four thousand. It wasn’t the largest force by far. Probably a lot scarier, even untrained, than Gnoll conscripts, though. They’d be the vanguard of your fighting force. Or a powerful, semi-autonomous force you could use to press the enemy on any wing…

What was he thinking? Olesm bit his tongue. But…Antinium sappers. They were famous for their fast earthworks projects. Who wanted to fight Antinium when they could collapse the ground under you, or tunnel and attack your command?

“This is madness. We can’t allow this.”

“And what would you have us do?”

Jeiss looked at Alonna, Elirr, Tismel, and Zalaiss. They were all horrified. But the Senior Guardsman had skipped to some logical point ahead of them. He put his hand on his sword’s hilt. Olesm unconsciously did the same.

The smooth handle of a Kaalblade. He flinched, jerked his claw away. Jeiss met his eyes.

“I think the dead cat’s out of the bag, to use a Human expression. Let’s say we don’t add them to our army, Alonna.”

“Yes! Which is only sensible!”

“And…?”

The [Mage] stopped. Jeiss nodded.

“Now we have an army of four thousand angry Antinium. With armor and weapons. Who might decide to do something about Hectval themselves. And if they don’t? We have an army of four thousand Antinium in the city, not under our command.”

“You’re saying it’s like a weapon with the Dancing enchantment. It’s active and unless you use it—”

“It cuts off your tail. Exactly, Watch Captain.”

There were a lot of metaphors being tossed around. But the Council began to catch on. Olesm looked at the first addition to Liscor’s army. Because, even after discussion, debate, neck spine-pulling—what else was there to do?

And oh, did this development change things. To war. Olesm’s nerves hummed. He understood why Pawn had come to this decision.

There were some things that could not be forgiven. Not as he was. The Drake had been ready to resign after doing his duty safeguarding his home. Now? His eyes turned southwards.

That city had taken two people he loved away.

—-

That city was called Hectval. Part of the Hectval…Hectval…

Hectval-Luldem-Drisshia Alliance. Ancestors, that was so obnoxious. Someone had to write that every time they referred to their alliance. It was even on the map. Oh, wait. She’d gotten it wrong. Hectval-Drisshia-Luldem. So much more important.

She had never heard of it before. Half of the people in this room only knew it by name; the other half had no idea where in the name of Selphid’s tits it was. It was only important because it had picked a fight with Liscor.

“Liscor.”

Once again, that name was on everyone’s tongues. The Antinium there had sent the Walled Cities into a roaring confusion of fury, panic, fear, and more.

To her, it was…disappointing to see. She had, in her youth, expected the High Command of a Walled City to always be some ice-cold, logical decision-makers who, in the face of overwhelming catastrophe, would just come to the best decision no matter what.

The truth was that they panicked and worried and argued like everyone else. True—they didn’t freeze up like civilians. And some of them were poised no matter what.

But to Rafaema of Manus, Manus’ High Command disappointed. Especially since she could compare and contrast to the many High Commands over the century-and-two-decades she had been alive.

The Antinium were new. Before this, they had been more solid in her estimation. The Humans were the enemies. Watch the shores. Watch the tribes. Everything had been so…reassuring. So she had been content to be a bratty child.

The Antinium had woken her up. She had seen how the cities scrambled to fight this new threat. And failed to adjust sometimes. She had the hindsight of age, for all she was only a youth…for a Dragon.

They were reactive, not anticipatory. That was their flaw. The new Antinium-contingent of Liscor’s army? The High Command of Manus had summoned its various security councils and she was in the inner-most one.

No one said ‘what do we do?’ at least. They said ‘what will we do?’ Rafaema liked that. Manus didn’t just debate, like Pallass, or sit on its tail until roused like other Walled Cities.

“Liscor seems set in its course. We’ve talked with their Council and their [Strategist]. Creler-brained, the lot of them. I almost think they do have eggs in their skulls.”

Spearmaster Lulv growled an agreement to [Hunt Commander] Makhir. The two Gnolls in the room and the Drakes plus Rafaema were ruling out options.

“They’re really taking on Antinium in their forces?”

[General] Milka was disgusted. It was Dragonspeaker Luciva Skybreath, one of the few people Rafaema respected without reserve and leader of Manus, who put her claw down on the table.

“Yes, Milka. You’ve seen the numbers. Liscor’s army is too far away and the Hectval Alliance outnumbers Liscor’s forces—even after their defeat at Whitterbone Pass.”

They had maps, detailed maps, with every possible factoid and location on them. Rafaema had watched Hectval get trounced in battle, but she hadn’t expected this result.

“A classic case of Liscor’s army doing the right thing and provoking the worst response.”

“How so, Wall Lord Allon?”

It was one of the Wall Lords of Manus. He half-bowed to Rafaema, his dusky silver scales glittering. A rare coloration; if he had been a Dragon, he would have been a Silver Dragon.

I heard there was one in the north. But he died too. Are there any of us left besides…Cire?

Sometimes that thought grew too loud, so Rafaema pushed it away. She looked at Allon attentively. She had earned this place; she wasn’t going to let anyone think she wasn’t taking her job seriously. Unlike Cire, she intended to lead by example.

“Liscor’s army is notedly at odds with the Antinium Hive in Liscor. It’s why they refuse to return to the city. Of course, we approve of that decision and have established links to Liscor’s army. They’ve worked well with us…”

“When we hire them. Otherwise, they’re stubborn battle freaks.”

Spearmaster Lulv growled, quietly enough for Rafaema to hear. He knew her hearing was as good as a Gnoll’s; he was her weapons-instructor, after all. Only Makhir would have heard, and the [Hunt Commander] affected not to.

“However, Wall Lady Rafaema, their refusal to return and fight for their city is forcing Liscor to take the Antinium forces.”

“Ah, naturally. Thank you for illuminating me, Allon.”

He nodded. Rafaema felt a bit foolish, but she hadn’t been clear. Perhaps some of the others hadn’t either, because Milka cursed. Another insight: not everyone was on the same page, although they appeared to be. How disturbing.

“If that’s the reason, let’s plan out best and worst-case scenarios. Best case? Hectval smashes the Antinium to bits, razes Liscor to the ground.”

“Unlikely. They don’t have the power to take their walls. They fight to drive other cities to ransom. They don’t have a record of actually taking cities.”

Another [General] put in. Everyone nodded; that was inter-city wars for you. Force the other city to capitulate and enrich yourself. It built grudges. Stupid, territorial grudges. But even Manus clashed with other Walled Cities at times.

“Then second-best. They kill the Antinium. Free Antinium’s Hive takes a while to replenish, and that’s that.”

“Not much of a win. What’s the worst-case scenarios?”

Makhir muttered. The war council paused. Rafaema answered for Milka.

“Those four thousand Antinium get all the levels and battle experience of these…Painted Antinium. The Free Hive gets veteran Antinium with levels and we lose the Hectval…the Hectval Alliance’s war potential.”

Nods. That was worst-case. War and battle gave levels. That wasn’t a problem with Antinium…until now.

Damn Liscor. Rafaema’s grip tightened on the table. Damn Hectval, too, for doing this.

And damn Ferris. I thought he was supposed to be good at his job!

Rafaema was angry, but mastered it. She listened. Manus’ High Command began to settle down. And in their calm, they began to debate.

“To avert the worst-case scenario I vouch for a few options: stop the war.”

“Impossible to do it diplomatically. Hectval’s stubborn—the Scalespeaker’s enraged and so is their Council. We could lean…”

“Liscor won’t stop. They’re spitting mad. Did you see the [Messages] they dumped on Hectval? Apparently someone was…killed?”

The Crazy Human of Liscor. Rafaema’s grip tightened on the table. Oh, she was going to rip Ferris’ tail off. If she managed to get a hold of him.

In that, she’d paid more attention to Liscor than the others. Liscor had changed of late, and the Dragon had noticed. Luciva raised a claw.

“If diplomacy will not work, let us abandon it. More…extreme decisions.”

Rafaema glanced up. It was General Milka who said it.

“Extreme? On one end—Manus moves out our Wyvern Rider forces. Fastest horse and siege. We can beat Liscor; they won’t have time to mobilize. Neither will Hectval. We raze Hectval. No casus belli for war. Liscor’s Antinium and army disband.”

Silence. Rafaema’s jaw nearly dropped. The rest of the High Command was just quiet.

“Not ideal. But if it stops an Antinium force from gaining war experience, we could probably effect it with minimal casualties. How fast could we assail the city?”

“Two weeks maximum. Call it a week minimum if we stick to magical munitions and no siege weapons for a proper attack force.”

“Too far in my opinion. But let’s put that on one end of the countermeasures.”

Everyone nodded. Rafaema breathed out. This wasn’t their first option. But it was on the table.

She was learning a lot.

“If we could just do that to Liscor—”

“That starts the Third Antinium War. And we’re not ready. Especially not with Saliss of Lights out of his war potential.”

“And helping the enemy. Did you see…?”

“Discussions on our Named Adventurers later, gentlemen. Ladies. I see Hunt Commander Makhir has an option.”

The Gnoll leaned on the table. Rafaema sat up.

Makhir and Lulv she liked to hear from. They were Gnolls. She wasn’t partial to Gnolls more than Drakes, but she had the opinion that if Gnolls had gotten into Manus’ highest command council, they were undeniably the best, as opposed to, well, hereditary positions of command, even if they were earned.

“I am a [Hunt Commander], Dragonspeaker. My ideas are simple. Run down the enemy. Pursue the quarry. Take out the enemy by the neck.”

Makhir grinned around the table. His paw touched Hectval—then Liscor.

“War comes. Antinium forces are going to level if they fight. That’s inevitable. Without destroying a city for the Antinium—why not cut to the heart of the problem?”

“The leveling Antinium? I don’t follow your trail of logic, Makhir.”

Luciva frowned. The Gnoll nodded.

“It’s war, after all. There’s an alliance of three cities. Liscor has their forces and the Antinium. And the Antinium are going to fight and level. If they survive. What if someone joined…Hectval’s side? And made sure they didn’t?”

The High Command stirred. Rafaema blinked.

“Ah.”

General Milka nodded and smiled. Lulv scratched at his chin.

“A veteran spear-group. Or anti-armor infantry. Tell Hectval we want to help them. Chew up the Antinium group.”

“Exactly. We can also see their combat potential. The Queens no doubt did this to test out their Armored Soldiers in battle. I suggest we do the same.”

“War by proxy. I like it.”

Another Wall Lady murmured. Luciva was nodding.

“We’ll put that one higher. Let’s continue discussing options, however. I’m also minded to simply…”

—-

The discussion went on. Rafaema listened intently, then began to tune out as the High Command went over the same ideas, looking for weak points.

She had guessed—and she was right. They went with Makhir’s solution. She voted with the others, and Dragonspeaker Luciva did not overturn the collective decision. It was done, and Spearmaster Lulv was appointed to lead Manus’ reinforcing group.

“Are you sure you’ll be fine?”

Rafaema walked with the Gnoll as they left the inner chambers of Manus’ citadel-fortress, in the heart of the inner city. The City of War, with two layers of walls and their confusing layout, stretched beneath Rafaema as she walked with her teacher.

“Of course. I’m smart enough to know when to retreat. I’ll tell you how the Antinium fight. Even show you.”

“And you won’t miss the Meeting of Tribes?”

Lulv shrugged.

“I am a City Gnoll of Manus. I wouldn’t be welcome there.”

“I see. You’ll have to tell me more about Gnoll culture. That is…”

He smiled with all his teeth. Lulv hesitated, glanced around, and then patted Rafaema briefly on the shoulder.

“It would be my honor. Perhaps we’ll ask Makhir, eh? He knows more than I. But good you want to know.”

“Someday, I will lead Manus. I should.”

He nodded at that, greatly pleased. Rafaema thought she had Lulv’s respect. But ‘someday’ was…a long ways away.

She was still young. For a Dragon. A hundred and twenty three years. Eighty more until she was a ‘young Dragon’, and equivalent to a Drake who had earned her majority, a full adult.

Rafaema thought Manus didn’t understand that child or not, a century plus of time made you older than most. But then—she’d also met Cire. And he was a perfect argument for why that wasn’t so.

So the High Command began to effect their plan vis-à-vis Liscor. Without Rafaema. She was included in decision-making, they listened to her, explained their thinking.

But she wasn’t one of them. Not yet. So the Dragon had begun her own plans. She needed to be more than she was.

Her first action had been to investigate Liscor. To learn why it was changing. And it was…

A complete failure. Rafaema ground her teeth as she found a private place on the walls and retrieved her speaking stone.

“Ferris. Report. Ferris. I am going to murder you.”

What had happened? She’d thought she was doing it all perfect. Suborn one of the minders assigned to watch over her. She’d chosen the best—Ferris. Get him to retrieve the Human so Rafaema could understand how the Antinium were changing.

He’d arrived in Liscor, posing undercover, and told her he was reconnoitering. He’d identified the Human—Erin Solstice. Said he was going to make contact and try to retrieve her.

And then? Delay. And then? Just a bit longer. And then? Conflict of targets—perhaps it’s this other Human and the ‘Crazy Human’ is a front. All this while an army invaded Invrisil, and Rafaema was hearing of strange new devices coming from Liscor, Pallass losing Pelt the [Smith] to some Human city of Esthelm.

And then? Whoops. A Hectval raiding party shot and killed the Human target. Ferris had been quiet after that. Wisely, perhaps. But if he returned to Manus without picking up the speaking stone?

Rafaema would throw him off Manus’ outer wall. She did not make false threats.

It seemed like he’d refuse to answer his speaking stone for the third day in a row. Rafaema ground her teeth. She knew that at this range, even the most expensive speaking stones she’d…acquired…from Manus’ vaults only gave them a short amount of speaking time before needing to be recharged. But all he’d said was he’d ‘update her on the situation’ three days ago.

Then nothing. She was about to storm off and review the Meeting of Tribes—she was curious about that—when the speaking stone sputtered to life.

“Rafaema. I can’t talk long.”

“Ferris? What in the name of the Ancestors is going on? You have some explaining to d—”

“I was in the custody of Pallass’ own infiltration agency until about two weeks ago. Pallass’ Eyes. I’m on the road now.”

Rafaema’s eyes widened. Pallass’ Eyes were to their city what Ferris was to Manus.

“How? I gave you instructions to lay low and contact that [Innkeeper]!”

There was a growled response; muffled voices in the background. Ferris shifted the position of his speaking stone and the voices grew more muffled, his clearer.

“Yes. And guess what? Grand Strategist Chaldion himself visits that inn. I tried to make contact, but I couldn’t entice the [Innkeeper]. I gave it all I could.”

“You failed. Didn’t you offer her a free tour? Incentives?”

The Gnoll [Infiltrator] growled at Rafaema. She blinked at the stone; his professional attitude from when they’d first met was fraying.

“You sent one agent without backup or resources to get an [Innkeeper] who has Hobgoblin bodyguards, multiple Level 40+ individuals staying in her inn, and a Named Adventurer and the Grand Strategist of the south staying in her inn! Pallass’ Eyes detained me and I was helpless until—the incident with Hectval. Are you aware of…?”

“Yes.”

Rafaema relented a bit. She was willing to admit mistakes had been made. Maybe even by her.

“We’ll discuss the matter. You’re returning?”

“No. That’s what I’m contacting you for. Mission achieved—partly. I’m enroute to Oteslia. With a Human. Four in party. Be advised—names are Lyonette, female, late teens early twenties. Wilovan, Gnoll. Early forties, late thirties? Unsure—tall hat. Ratici—”

Rafaema blinked. her memory was close to perfect, but—

“Slow down. What? What Human? The [Innkeeper] is dead!”

“Not dead. On ice. Perhaps alive. Listen. Do a check on Wilovan, Ratici, Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings. Criminal group. I couldn’t get them to Manus, but they’re heading to Oteslia. And—”

“Hey Ferris-guy! Are we going or what?”

Rafaema heard a loud voice. And then a snap of someone hitting Ferris on the shoulder. She blinked. She’d heard that voice once on a memorable visit from Pallass to Manus with Grand Strategist Chaldion. It couldn’t be—

“Right away, Sir Saliss. Just…taking a break.”

“Leave him alone, Saliss. Five more minutes to stretch our legs, Ferris?”

“Absolutely, Ma’am!”

The Gnoll’s voice was cheerful, if harried. Rafaema heard shuffling. When next he spoke, it was quietly.

“I think he knows who I am. But I haven’t been outed. I’m in the company of those three. And…Saliss of Lights.”

“Why?”

Rafaema stared blankly at the stone. Ferris sighed.

“You wanted the Human responsible for Liscor’s inciting incidents. Well—one’s under a kind of stasis. But I have a [Princess] of Terandria, Lyonette du Marquin travelling to Oteslia on business. I may be able to convince her to head to Manus after this. I’d need actual funding, though…does that satisfy?”

The Dragon’s mind was racing. She raised the speaking stone and heard a tinkling sound. She stared at the speaking stone. There was pointed silence on the other hand.

“…Yes. Yes, it does. Good work, Ferris. I can…use this. There’s no need to convince this Human to go to Manus, either. There’s a way for me to meet you in Oteslia.”

They both knew roughly how. Ferris grunted.

“The High Command will have my tail for this if it gets out.”

“They won’t. This is what I wanted. Just get them there and I’ll meet you. Don’t let Saliss of Lights know who I am.”

“I won’t. He knows I’m from Manus if he has access to Chaldion’s network. But I never let on who I was. To him, I’m just an agent of Manus. I have to go. We’re moving. Miss Lyonette! Are you ready to—”

The speaking stone cut out. Rafaema was left standing there. And now…well, she hadn’t gotten what she wanted.

But she had something. Her eyes narrowed. And Saliss of Lights? He was actually an important figure in Izril. Named Adventurer. Two reasons, then. It outweighed the bad, and frankly, she had resented that last High Command meeting. She was still a child to them and it was clear she hadn’t been needed.

But this? Luciva would have to acknowledge actual intelligence about the Hives. Or more. And…well, it had been a long time since she’d been out of Manus. Her Walled City, both beloved and a cage, wore on her.

All of this was reason enough to outweigh the one good reason not to go to Oteslia. Rafaema sighed and made up her mind.

—-

Dragonspeaker Luciva was speaking to a group of Manus’ top [Commanders] when Rafaema approached. But she broke off. She had time for Rafaema.

Everyone had time for Rafaema.

“Wall Lady Rafaema. Can I help you?”

Some of the younger [Commanders] gave Rafaema a look. Those who didn’t know…her…and that was most of those outside the top brass, gave her supercilious looks.

Rafaema tried avoid doing this. She knew what they must think. A spoiled, orphaned Wall Lady humored by High Command, given favors because of her family’s rank.

Well, it was the backstory. But she took the stares now.

“If I’m not interrupting, Dragonspeaker Luciva?”

“Of course not. Is it urgent?”

“Not…pressing. But I had a desire—if it’s alright—to make an appointment to visit Oteslia. It has been long since our last visit. And you did say that you wished to make more meetings happen.”

Luciva blinked. And then she smiled. It was so rare to see her smiling after her daughter…passed. But it almost made up for what came next.

“Naturally, Rafaema! What brought this on?”

The Dragon’s tail tried to curl up. But she forced herself to smile.

“Well, I was just missing the city, that’s all. And I parted…somewhat badly from uh, Cire. I’d like to apologize. And meet him again.”

“We’ll make that happen. I’m delighted! And of course—we’ll have to organize a proper transport. The Meeting of Tribes is ongoing, but a Pegasus flight—of course, Rafaema. Cire should be delighted. As will the First Gardener.”

Rafaema’s teeth hurt. Especially because for her, they’d have her on a flight before you could blink.

“I will be so happy to see her. And Cire. Especially…Cire.”

Luciva was already motioning for one of her people. It might have been strange, what with Antinium and politics, for the Dragonspeaker to care so much about Rafaema visiting the city.

But the key was Oteslia. And Cire’s name. Rafaema had learned that long ago.

After all…there were only two Dragons in the Walled Cities left. One male, and one female. It wasn’t exactly hard to see why their relationship was what Luciva and the First Gardener worried about.

Two Dragons left in the entire world. Unless there were more. Somewhere else…

Rafaema sighed as she crossed her claws behind her back, suppressing the pang in her chest. Sorry Luciva. But she was going to Oteslia on her business. All for Manus and the cities. Cire?

She hated Cirediel Anvi’dualln Olicuemerdn. He really got on her nerves.

—-

News of the Antinium did not concern just Manus. The Blighted King no doubt knew of this—although his attention was likely focused on the Demons. Many people paid for news of the Antinium, though.

To some, it was more pressing a concern than mere interest.

Magnolia Reinhart put down the missive.

“Erin Solstice strikes again. That young woman is more nuisance than not some days, I swear, Ressa.”

“She is singularly effective it seems. Should we arrange to meet with her?”

“Later, perhaps.”

The [Lady] of House Reinhart was delightfully caught up with certain events. And not with others. Even this news had been delayed in reaching her.

Her information net was in shambles. Her people undercover, or evacuated. Her holdings in the north, recovering, for all the Circle of Thorns was on the run.

She herself had left her homeland and was at sea. It was disastrous. How easily things fell apart.

Well, she had seen that before. Magnolia Reinhart drank some sugar. And yes, that was how you should put it. The tea was secondary to the sugar.

A slight rocking disturbed the liquid in the cup as she put it down. They were on the ocean. Magnolia scowled. She didn’t like water that much. Unless there was sugar in it, and seawater had only salt. She sat there, contemplative.

“Ressa, at times like this, one likes to reflect on one’s weaknesses.”

“Only at times like this, Lady Reinhart?”

“I am not in the mood, Ressa. I will have you swim if you keep it up. This time—among others—one likes to reflect on one’s weaknesses and strengths. I do not like war. I am, it seems, poor at keeping [Assassins] in line.”

Ressa’s cheek twitched. The only other person in the room with them—Reynold—adjusted his position. He glanced at his lower half.

“You don’t say.”

“Ressa, I am sitting in a floating tub in the ocean. Yes. I am aware of my own understatements. I am just saying…what are my strengths? I thought I was rather good at intrigue. Perhaps I am not. Let’s list the real, quantifiable strengths I possess. A certain flair on the dance floor? Please, be honest. I know that is so difficult for you.”

“No.”

“Ah. An elegance and charm about me?”

“Wrong again.”

The [Lady] pursed her lips.

“I was afraid you’d say that. Then, it seems, Ressa, the one true gift I have that I can reliably state is my strength is…making money.”

Ressa thought about this for a worrying amount of time.

“That’s quite true. You make money quite well, milady.”

“Thank you, Ressa. But it is a shame. If I trusted other people to handle Izril’s future, how delightful it would have been to pay them to do the job. Like…Zel Shivertail.”

Silence. Yes, look how all the best-laid plans fell to ruin. Magnolia Reinhart sipped more tea. She sighed again.

“But here I am. Thrust into the role of trying to steer Izril in a better direction.”

“Kicking and screaming, whether they like it or not.”

Ressa checked under the blinds, eying the position of the sun. She looked at Magnolia. The [Lady] was serene.

“Quite so. Because I believe I am right. Ah, but my talents do not align. Making money. I should have been born into the House of El. But I would have never fit in, what with my ability to actually retain money in my coffers and make decent business decisions.”

“I shall inform them of this sad fact upon my latest convenience.”

“Mm. Thank you, Ressa. I always have you to keep me grounded. Is there any other pressing news to hear? It’s nearly time.”

Ressa consulted her notes. Spotty intelligence, politics…she discarded it all for later. Because now was a waiting time and she knew her mistress’ mood. She found one thing that might distract and half-smiled.

“Ah. Your niece wishes to speak with you. It’s quite urgent, or so she claims.”

Magnolia Reinhart made a face, as if the tea had suddenly gone sour.

“…This wouldn’t happen to be the niece who enjoys…fornication with her step-brother, would it?”

“No. This is one of your nieces that you like.”

Magnolia Reinhart blinked. She put down her cup.

“I have one of those?”

The [Head Maid] nodded.

“Yvlon Byres.”

“Oh, Yvlon!”

Magnolia smiled and laughed.

“I would never do her the disservice of calling her family, Ressa. Oh, my niece. Well, I will attend to her very soon, then. Right after this.”

“Very good, milady.”

Ressa straightened. Magnolia chuckled. And for a moment, she was distracted. Reynold waited, looking at his legs. The ‘floating tub’ rocked as the waves moved them slightly.

It was nearly time.

—-

Armies. Schemes. Dead [Innkeepers]. It was a tumultuous time. In this world, where levels and Skills shaped lives and power and authority were measured on such things—

Now to someone without levels. A rarity in this world. Not so much in others. Someone who had…chosen to refuse what was seen as natural.

Asale sat in his office in one of the huge towers that some called the ‘Fangs of Zeres’. From afar, the Walled City, southernmost of those on Izril could be seen, a circular harbor with the famous walls encircling it. The harbor was in fact, a vast gateway that could be closed if need be.

And Zeres was unique in that it faced two fronts, rather than prepared for enemies on all sides. Land and sea, and had changed its city to adapt for both eventualities.

Zeres, the City of Waves. Ruled by the Serpentine Matriarch—well, her and the Admirals.

Multiple admirals—that was their title. Drake command being what it was, one could not have a leader in one of the multiple areas be subservient to a mere [General]. So they were thus Admirals—and this Drake was Admiral of the Supply.

Asale of Zeres. Noted, famous, infamous? Because he had no levels. Also, because he’d risen to one of the highest positions a Drake could hope to achieve despite that.

‘Admiral of the Supply’ was one of the posts that was somewhat ironic. He was in fact, essentially a [Quartermaster] for the entire city. Again, without the Skills that normally accompanied such a position. Still, Zeres’ High Command seemed to agree that Asale made up for the lack of Skills someone else in his position could provide. And he was still an Admiral…of the supply.

He had the smallest office of the High Command. Which was still big. He was busy doing paperwork; he also helped manage all the imports and shipments of goods, and was thus almost as important as the Admiral of the Harbor.

Admirals. But it was wrong to think that Zeres just has [Admiral] as a stand-in for [General]. To prove that point, a jovial foot kicked the door open.

“Aha! You’ve done it now, Asale! The Serpentine Matriarch is going to have your tail! Hah! Everyone’s shouting confusion from the docks and who’s to blame? This Drake!”

The muscular Drake who stormed into the room smelled of salt and sea. He was Sharkcaptain of Zeres—another post unique to the City of Waves.

There were the Admirals of Zeres. The Serpentine Matriarch. And her champion—the Sharkcaptain of Waves. Other posts of course, but Zeres was unique in that it had the Serpentine Matriarch.

Not a [Queen]. The Drakes were very staunch about that. No Walled City had royalty per se! But the Serpentine Matriarch was rather unique. Drakes hated being compared to Lizardfolk. And yet—they had the Serpentine Matriarch. Because if you were going to have a ruler who compared themselves to serpents and thus snakes and thus Lizardpeople by proxy, she might as well be the Matriarch.

It was rumored her lineage had connections to the Ancestors of Drakes…only not the ones you were thinking of. Rather than Dragons…Wyrm. Indeed, the Serpentine Matriarch had a rather long tail, a genetic tell along with other features. It ran through Zeres, some subtle differences of different heritages.

But the Sharkcaptain was a hereditary post, who was appointed because he was the fighter the Serpentine Matriarch chose to represent her—and accompany her. Personality and a talent for battle went hand-in-hand—not necessarily grand strategy. Hence the ‘captain’ bit. It differed from Sharkcaptain to Sharkcaptain.

In his way, he was as important as an Admiral of the Supply, though. And he was positively beaming with smugness as Asale put down his reports.

“What is it this time, Femar?”

Femar of Zeres, Sharkcaptain, who had more scars on one arm then Asale did on his entire body, grinned. He carried the weapon of his station, a barbed spear. Enchanted—made of some seafaring monster’s tooth and viciously sharp and deadly.

“Don’t be so upset, Asale. I’ve come to save you from being killed by her. Have you not looked out the window?”

Asale turned his head. He had an unparalleled view of Zeres’ harbor from his tower—and threats by land. A huge glass window let him stare out across the City of Waves, and it could survive a Tier 6 spell’s impact without so much as cracking the glass.

Still, this was not a job for those with vertigo. He glanced down.

“I hate heights. What am I supposed to be seeing, Femar?”

The Sharkcaptain stared at his companion. He gestured.

“The harbor’s empty.”

So it was. And for Zeres, the largest harbor in all of Izril, only matched by First Landing for scale and business, an empty harbor was…incredible.

Oh, there were ships docked. Zeres could accommodate armadas, and it had its own standing force. A navy that could go claw-to-toe with any in the world, or so they boasted. But so many berths were empty. And they were always in rotation.

“Someone messed up. There are ships waiting to dock and [Captains] screaming that they want to unload their cargo. But someone filed the wrong schedule and the Admiral of the Harbor is going to have your tail! Well, it is her job. But both of you are going to have her on your tails.”

Captain Femar was gleeful at having caught Asale out. It was more like a childish rivalry than any actual malice.

“Tell you what. I’ll distract her and no one needs to know—if she hasn’t looked out the window already and seen what’s happening. You can buy me drinks later.”

He began to saunter out the door, already thinking up ways how he could drag out Asale’s inevitable embarrassment. The Admiral of Supply stopped him with a word.

“Why?”

Femar turned.

“What do you mean, ‘why’? The harbor’s empty!”

“As it should be. I don’t see anything wrong with my schedule.”

Asale indicated the list he’d tacked to a wall, in plain view. Femar, astounded, strode over to it and stared.

“Each berth’s filled. But there are no ships there. Asale! I can see ships waiting to come in.”

“Yes. And we’ll wait a bit longer before they do.”

Something about the way Asale said it made Femar look up. He narrowed his eyes. The necklace of giant shark’s teeth he wore dangled as he leaned over.

“Asale…?”

“You might as well tell the Serpentine Matriarch we are expecting rather significant guests in…”

Asale checked the light-clock he had near his desk. It showed the position of the sun in the sky in real-time, and calibrated itself to a specific time based on that. Tuned to the heavens.

“Within the hour. Within four minutes, actually, if everything’s on-time.”

“What? No one told me!”

Femar was astounded. The Admiral of the Supply sat back down. He looked up. And his gaze was orange—orange irises that were disconcerting when he really looked at you.

“I know. The other Admirals don’t know either. You may tell them now, Femar, that Magnolia Reinhart bought those berths, so they’re hers to do with as she pleases during her time slot. Although she should be arriving shortly.”

The Sharkcaptain rubbed at one earhole. He must have gotten some seaweed in there.

“You mean…Magnolia Reinhart as in, leader of the House Reinharts who is our enemy?”

“She’s coming by way of Zeres to Oteslia.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“The Matriarch would have made a fuss. As would have you. I decided it was better to allow her passage as Admiral of the Supply. We can discuss it at the next conference.”

Femar opened and closed his mouth. He stared at Asale. What he did not say was ‘you traitor’, or ‘how dare you’? Because Asale clearly dared.

Zeres was not Manus. No Walled City were alike, obviously, but Zeres was a city of tradition, almost as much as Salazsar. And along with the Serpentine Matriarch, they had a tradition that rankled some other, military-minded Drakes’ ideas of command.

Each Admiral was a law unto his or her own. They were semi-autonomous; they answered to their fellows and the Serpentine Matriarch, but they could act and did act without each other’s approval. That included keeping secrets.

“You—”

Before Femar could say half the things boiling on his tongue, he heard a sound.

Boom. Boom.

It was the beating of a vast drum from sea. Asale glanced out the window.

“That would be her arrival. I understand there’s a party to be had at Oteslia soon. With her name on it.”

“And you decided to let her come by way of Zeres? The other Walled Cities—”

“She is not our enemy today. Also—she paid quite well for the berths. We’ll discuss it at the next conference, Femar.”

The Sharkcaptain roared his fury. His aura sprang to life and the guards outside Asale’s office shouted in panic. For Femar’s aura was like a shark’s, not an element, not like that of a [Lord]. It was so physical that it tore the carpet around his feet, sent loose papers flying, even cut at the drapes—

Asale threw an ink-pot at Femar. It bounced off the Drakes’ head. Femar recoiled. Asale sat, scowling, in the center of the destruction.

“Get out of my office.”

Femar hesitated. But then he ran out of the room, cursing. Asale sighed. And he heard the sound again.

Magnolia Reinhart was entering the city of Zeres. Coming to you live from Wistram News Network. He wondered just how mad the Serpentine Matriarch would be.

—-

The High Command of Zeres, minus Asale, was surprised. The Wistram [Mages] poised to record the event? Less so.

The Walled Cities? Well, Oteslia knew, because Magnolia Reinhart was travelling there by invitation. And thus the other Walled Cities knew, or were aware of the fact of one of the Five Families treading upon their soil.

It had seemed such a huge deal…months ago. Now, overlooked. Eventually, it was decided she could definitely travel to Oteslia. It was her neck, not theirs.

They had, perhaps, forgotten to ask the question of how she would arrive. It had been assumed she would come from the north, past Liscor, around the Bloodfields—although that was a longer route. But she had her famous pink carriage. Why, she’d have to sail to Zeres or another port if she wanted to come by sea.

Recent events could have suggested that was more likely. However, again, so what? She’d arrive by sea.

Except that this…was an event. Magnolia Reinhart heard the first rolling toll of thunder from the drums at the same time as the people of Zeres. She listened, hands gripping the teacup firmly.

“Planning. I had time to plan this one. I’d like to call that Strength #2, Ressa, if I may.”

“Perhaps.”

Magnolia nodded and sipped from her cup.

“Planning. When it all comes together, I like to think I do it quite well. Are you sure we can’t add ‘social graces’ to the list?”

“You’re not that charming, even with Skills.”

“Well, drat. But I’d like to think I at least know the difference between Drake and Human politics. We have come to this delightful party in Oteslia.”

The First Gardener had invited her. And perhaps she felt it would be a first step, a tentative one, between North and South. Perhaps she felt it should be small, but it had been momentous just achieving one meeting.

Another might not come again. It would not be easy a second time. So, if that was the case—

It would be a visit to remember. Magnolia Reinhart sighed.

“I would never fit in with the House of El. Because I hate spending money. Wasting it, rather. But if it is to a purpose—”

Her eyes glittered.

“You might as well do it properly.”

—-

The people of Zeres looked up as the booming drumbeats sounded across the water. They had already noticed the empty harbor and people had been jesting at the Admiral’s expense about the rare mix up.

Now…they saw boats approaching the harbor. The watch towers came alive with voices.

“We’re sensing multiple—multiple illusion spells incoming. Identified as [Darkness]—”

“Multiple ships on approach—the Serpentine Matriarch is asking to confirm. Magnolia Reinhart inbound…?”

“Admiral of the Supply confirms. This is on-schedule and approved! Stand down. Stand down!”

“The Admiral of the Fleet—”

“The Matriarch demands we—”

“Stand down by order of the Admiral of Supply!”

They were barking at each other as, in the scrying orb, an excited [Mage] was talking.

“Yes, Drassi. I think we are seeing Magnolia Reinhart’s fleet at a distance! Zeres appears to be partially caught off-guard, but I understand the harbor has been empty all day. What you’re hearing are drumbeats from those ships. And—oh! We’re seeing [Darkness] spells covering the harbor.”

Indeed, the air was going dark as multiple spells filled the air. It sucked away the light, and the citizenry not near the bay definitely noticed that. They began heading in the direction of the most light; the approaching fleet.

Now, the television was showing dozens of ships approaching the harbor at full-sail, glowing with colored mage-lights. The [Mage] breathed.

“This will be the first time in living memory that a member of the Five Families steps foot in the City of Waves. The second time that Magnolia Reinhart has walked through a Walled City! One for the history books, Drassi.”

“This is such an amazing moment, Merri. Thank you for covering it!”

The Drake [Reporter] was covering the event live from Pallass. She had kicked Sir Relz’s chair off-screen and she was clearly enjoying every minute of it.

And then—ah. When you put it like that. One for the history books. You began to understand that it could have been a moment without fanfare or notice.

But Magnolia Reinhart had decided it was not.

—–

Walled Cities in conference.

Manus to Oteslia. We are aware of Magnolia Reinhart requesting travel permissions to your city. We were not informed of any entry-display to Zeres. Zeres, please confirm this is happening.

Oteslia. Magnolia Reinhart’s approval was acceded to by all six Walled Cities. Nothing has changed.

Fissival. This is on the news. It is being declared a landmark event, like Reinhart walking on Pallass’ walls. ‘First of the Five Families to step on the Walled Cities in generations.’

Pallass. Magnolia Reinhart did not ‘step on Pallass’. Retract statement, Fissival.

Manus to Zeres. This event was not agreed upon. Zeres?

Salazsar. We’re online. What’s happening?

Oteslia. Magnolia Reinhart is simply travelling by way of Zeres.

Fissival to Oteslia. We’re counting at least twenty, maybe thirty ships approaching. That is not ‘travelling’. This is a spectacle!

Oteslia. Calm down.

Zeres. This action has been approved. We are in the middle of her entrance. Busy, Manus.

Manus to Zeres. Please halt Magnolia Reinhart’s arrival until the Walled Cities have come to a decision.

Zeres to Manus. Are you serious? How?

Fissival to Zeres. Confirm this isn’t an invasion? Fissival to Oteslia, are you certain this is not a surprise attack?

Oteslia to all. Magnolia Reinhart is travelling to Oteslia.

Pallass to Oteslia. Was Oteslia aware this would occur?

Oteslia. Standby.

Pallass to Oteslia. Not funny. Was this planned with the First Gardener or is this Magnolia Reinhart’s initiative? Oteslia, confirm.

Oteslia. Standby.

Zeres. Reinhart incoming.

—-

A fleet was approaching Zeres’ harbor, spread out on both sides. Like…a procession. Not all were warship-class. But in the distance, the largest of the vessels was slowly moving forwards.

“That’s…the damned Velistrane.”

Someone breathed in the watching crowd. The famous warship. As Drassi heard—and the audience of the world from the excited Drake [Mage] reporting—

“…the largest warship ever built by House Reinhart. A relic from the Colonization Wars—of course, the Humans of Izril have a different name for their war of aggression. It has participated in hundreds, hundreds of naval battles and been sunk three times—each time repaired and refitted. The Velistrane is of course famous for having sunk a Dragonship in naval combat in a two-day running battle. As first impressions go, this is both a show of force and spectacle from Magnolia Reinhart, perhaps an attempt to reclaim her damaged reputation—”

That was background chatter, interrupted by the boom of drums. Multiple enchanted drums in fact, hit in near-perfect synchronization from multiple ships.

[Captains] stood at the prows of their ships, flanked by…servants? Yes, the iconic [Butlers], [Maids], and so on of House Reinhart. They sailed into the harbor in a rough inverted-‘V’ formation, leaving a single path for the mighty warship.

“Is this a show of force, Merri?”

Drassi was asking, leaning over the desk at the glowing image; she was in a corner of the broadcast.

Ulvama was gobbling popcorn; other leaders were watching. The view switched back to the excited Drake.

“The Velistrane might be—at least, as a symbol of the Five Family’s might. However, we’re seeing the first ships approaching and—dead gods, look at that!”

Lights began shooting up from each vessel as the servants raised wands. A lights-show, magical fireworks blooming.

Some were fireworks as those from Earth knew them, simple magical explosions to awe and amaze. But what a poor use of illusion spells. The real magic was the magical animals that were called into being.

They leapt off the decks and raced across the surf, even making sounds. A gazelle leapt past the orb, golden-yellow, showering sparks of light as it struck the cobblestones. Drake children gasped and reached out as the harmless illusions swept off the decks.

“It’s like the very best of [Illusionists]! Well, Magnolia Reinhart seems to have decided Zeres will have a show with her arrival! And look at that! If you want a symbol—here’s one!”

Four dozen [Servants] armed with wands were pointing towards the central display of lights. There—the audience gasped and looked up.

A Dragon flew through the skies. Glowing red, fiery. It circled overhead as the combined illusion created a vast magical illusion. Becoming realer.

Fiery light turned to scales. The Dragon flew as lesser Wyverns and other flying animals like Rocs appeared overhead.

“Dragons for the Walled Cities. Is that a nod to the Walled City’s history—or—a taunt? This is Noass—”

In the corner of the screen, Noass tried to fight his way into the broadcast. Drassi began shoving him off.

“It looks more like a nod of appreciation to me! And this is my segment—oh, the ships are drawing close to harbor!”

Indeed, they were docking at the berths, each ship perfectly fitting those in place. From his tower, Asale was making notes.

Trade ship, The Redsail, check. Former Pirate’s cutter, Marevong’s Mead…check…

Some were trade-ships, probably hired for the occasion, others vessels belonging to House Reinhart. As they drew to port, the wary Zeres forces clustered at the docks. [Soldiers]—or rather, their naval equivalent—[Sailors] and [Marines], ready to fight.

But the servants weren’t armed for war, unless you counted the wands. They were instead poised, dressed in black and white. As the ships smoothly dropped anchor, they moved as one.

Illuminated by the lights, the servants bowed. They were Human, without exception, at least, the front rank. They gracefully knelt or curtsied. Then lifted their hands and began to toss something down towards the crowd.

“Flowers?”

That was Drassi’s first thought. But it wasn’t flowers. There were cries—and someone distinctly shouted ‘ow’! But then shouts of glee.

“It looks like they’re throwing silver coins into the crowd! Wait—I see gold too!”

Merri scrambled for a coin and produced a fat gold coin. That broke the harbor’s silence. The crowd might have not been all on board with Magnolia Reinhart, but suddenly everyone wanted to grab some money.

“Is she—trying to—buy—affection from proud Drakes—”

Noass fought onto the screen with Sir Relz. Drassi grabbed the magical microphone and began to kick at them.

“I’d rather have that than flowers! Why are you determined to be so negative? Oh, and look at that!”

The [Servants] at the railings throwing coins, and yes, some flowers continued to do so as others fulfilled roles under the cover of the [Darkness] spell. Which became obvious as they were illuminated.

Lanterns began to glow from the ship’s port and starboard sides on both sides of the harbor, illuminating the way down the center like…well, an arrow. The servants on the sides not facing the docks held up the lanterns or wands, standing to attention.

The drum beats began to intensify. And then suddenly—ceased. In the sudden silence, people looked up, even stopping squabbling for the coins for a second. Merri, caught off-guard, was still shouting.

“This seems to be as dramatic as the Reinhart family is said to be at times! A show of goodwill! Oh. Sorry. A show of goodwill, if the coins are any indication. What’s the symbolism? Reinhart paying her way into Zeres? The Dragon is most certainly a nod to the Walled Cities, but the Velistrane is inbound. And that’s the other, closed hand of northern Izril’s might. Or so one assumes…”

Here it came. The mighty warship, aglow with magic. So vast that it was in a class of its own.

—-

“The Velistrane.”

Asale, the Admiral of Supply, stood before the Serpentine Matriarch. She had summoned him, and the other leaders of Zeres, except for the Admiral of the Harbor and Admiral of the Navy, who were in the harbor in case this was a sneak-attack.

“One of the last great warships the enemy possesses.”

The Drake who sat on the not-throne glared at the image. Her fingers twitched as much as her tail.

“I could destroy it here and now and rid Zeres of it once and for all! If we unleashed all the harbor-spells—”

She glared at Asale, her eyes baleful. The Admiral of the Supply raised a claw.

“It is possible the Velistrane could match our harbor defenses and fight back for the minutes it would take to escape the harbor, Matriarch. Even if we attempted to close the gates.”

“But if we closed the gates and sank it?”

He met her gaze.

“…Then no ship would trust the word of Zeres when it offers safe passage again, Matriarch. Or at least, not for years.”

She cursed him.

“Why did you let her arrive, Asale?”

The Sharkcaptain was glowering too. The Admiral of Supply sighed.

“We are not at war with Humans, Matriarch, Admiralty. I remind you of that. Or have the Antinium suddenly lost their strength? I say: let her pass.”

“And if I disagree?”

“You may accept my resignation.”

A second aura curled around Asale. He brushed it away and waited. Two slitted pupils glowered at him. But nothing was said.

—-

Here came the warship. The people at the docks looked up at the glowing lines of the ship, drawing closer. It was projecting its own luminesce, the wooden sides of the ship glowing.

And there was the sigil of House Reinhart—and that name.

Velistrane.

The citizens of Zeres tensed. Noass did them a disservice, suggesting that the coins were enough to buy goodwill. They knew that famous name from stories of wars with Humans.

[Sailors] now—from around the world, were less picky. They took off caps, or watched as one of the grandest ships remaining slowly entered the harbor.

—-

Magnolia Reinhart exhaled as she watched the scrying orb. She hadn’t been certain. Fairly sure, yes. But the Serpentine Matriarch was notorious for her temper, even if Magnolia had never met her before.

“I almost wish I could have brought Bethal to meet her. That would have been a meeting to remember—disastrous as it might be. Well, the hardest part is done. Now…let’s see how they react to this.”

—-

The drums had gone silent. The sound of surf against the docks was the only noise, aside from the breathing of those around. The [Servants] had gone silent. But more figures were arrayed on the decks.

On the Velistrane too. There were…hundreds. Hundreds, not even counting the [Sailors]. The Admiral of the Harbor watched, grinding her teeth.

“They’re in ranks. If they’re going to attack—they’re being open about it. I don’t see…weapons.”

“What, then?”

Her counterpart looked at her. The Drake cursed the [Darkness] spell, despite having near perfect night-vision despite the enchantment on her.

“Pieces of parchment? Paper? I have no idea what—wait. Is that Magnolia Reinhart herself?”

She pointed.

Everyone saw the light illuminate the prow of the ship. There stood a woman in a pink dress. She was certainly a grand lady—her hair flashed in the light. A proud…the Admiral hesitated.

“We might be seeing Magnolia Reinhart herself! Wait…is that Magnolia Reinhart?”

Merri was commentating. There was a ripple of confusion as the woman spread her arms out, as if greeting Zeres.

—-

“That’s not Magnolia Reinhart.”

Lord Tyrion took one glance at the scrying orb and told Hethon. Sammial’s breakfast fell off his fork; they were eating.

“It’s not?”

Hethon was unsure. So were the people in Zeres. Pink dress, standing on the prow of the boat…Tyrion didn’t look twice.

“It’s not her.”

But he was watching out of the corner of his eye.

—-

“Is it Magnolia Reinhart or not? She’s big. The Sharkcaptain might be smaller than her!”

“I heard Magnolia Reinhart’s fat. Eats sugar all the time.”

“Who told you that?”

The arguing voices interrupted the silence as the capital ship drifted closer. The woman stood there, perfectly poised, arms outstretched, welcoming. As if she were the figurehead.

The ranks of silent people on each side of the ship. The two Admirals in the harbor eyed them, tensing. It couldn’t be Magnolia Reinhart; this was a bad spot to put the head of one of the Five Families. One stray [Sniper] could kill her.

And it wasn’t Magnolia. The woman had actually very few passing resemblances to Magnolia aside from…gender? And the pink dress. She was taller than Magnolia, and yes, heavier-set. From afar you could confuse them only so long.

But then the Velistrane was slowing, moving even slower to the docks. And as the silence stretched out—the woman moved at last. She opened her mouth.

And began to sing.

“Through storm and Kraken’s Pass, do I see the shore at last?

Standing tall amidst the waves?

Where Dragonsail flies, my harbor remains.

Zeres, City of Waves to shelter me~?”

It was an operatic voice. The kind of tone and…lungs that even Crowdcaller Merdon would respect. Not just sheer lungpower, but Skills.

The [Singer]’s voice echoed across the harbor, rendering mute the Admirals, the Drake [Marines], even the squabbling Drakes on the television.

It was a deep, commanding voice. But also, so lovely. And she’d done the entire first verse at full-volume and in one breath.

“Now there is a singer I respect.”

So said the [Popstar] of Terandria. She was watching, jotting down the lyrics of the song with a free hand.

But she needn’t have bothered. Merri gasped.

“That’s—that’s—our city’s…anthem.”

The people of Zeres stirred. It was indeed. And now, as the first verse echoed, the opera singer, the woman on the prow of the Reinhart’s famous warship, was joined by a swell of…song.

The shadowed people on deck were illuminated by more lights. They were revealed as a cellist set bow to instrument, delicately perched on a seat from the middle of the warship. More accompaniment—but the true cavalcade of song came from the massed voices.

Hundreds of [Singers], a choir lined up on each side of the deck joined the lead singer as the music swelled again.

“I shall sail to world’s end and carry my head high

For I have seen my Ancestors fly.

Each land I pass by, each sea I travel

Leads me ever to my glorious home.”

They were singing Zeres’ anthem. At first, the people of Zeres couldn’t believe it. Noass and Sir Relz were trying to say—something—but Drassi was delighted.

You could argue the coin throwing. The Dragon conjured by illusions. But this? This was blatant. Patriotic. More than one Zeres [Soldier] and [Sailor] clapped a claw to their breasts and joined in, despite their officers hesitating.

Part of why it was so hard to deny the…laudation of Zeres were the lyrics. The choir sang on, in perfect voice, a massed voice—so inspiring to hear when done with their level of skill.

“No city shall compare to Zeres’ sights,

No glories safe but the ones I leave behind

Oh come, travellers, and [King] and [Queen]

And speak jealous of where I have been.”

At this point, some of the audience from afar began to listen to the words. Drassi blinked. Noass and Sir Relz stopped fighting.

“What did they just sing? That’s their national anthem? That can’t be Zeres’—wait, have you ever heard their song, Sir Relz?”

“I don’t make a point of listening to other Walled City’s anthems, Noass. Er—is that actually what they sing?”

Yes, it was. And if the two Drakes—their outrage beginning to change targets—thought that that was the most self-aggrandizing part of the song, they hadn’t ever heard Verse 5.

Jaws dropped. The citizens of Manus, Oteslia, Fissival, Pallass, and Salazsar listened, half in outrage, half in wonder. Zeres’ song was…patriotic. But that was Drake anthems for you. If there was anger, it was not at Magnolia Reinhart for choosing it.

Indeed—she had hired the woman known as the Voice of Renar—Miss Terinda Renar—to sing on a world-class stage. And she had given her a choir, a celebration—all seeming to honor Zeres.

One of the Five Families had paid for this, on her dime. And she had not spent anything as low-class as dimes on this event. If she even knew what those were.

The [Singer] and the choir finished the anthem, singing every verse—a rarity since it was a long song that usually only had the first two versus sung—leaving their audience in shock.

Or approval. Yet, the audience realized, one thing was unaccounted for.

Magnolia Reinhart herself. Now, where was she? They saw something interesting too.

The Velistrane was not docking at the harbor. It was turning, as the [Singer] gave a bow and applause came, even from begrudging Drakes. But the ship was turning…having done a perfect U-turn in the harbor while the song commenced.

“What’s happening? Is she…leaving?”

People watching in confusion. But the Velistrane was moving out of harbor. Then—the lights illuminating that grand vessel winked off.

More lights illuminated the empty dock in the center of the harbor. Fit for a ship of the Velistrane’s class. But waiting.

The [Servants] had disembarked from the ships. Some of them. Unnoticed during the song like the best of stage-hands, they had set up something. Now, a huge…red…carpet was being unrolled down the length of the dock, onto the streets.

It was hundreds of feet long. The kind of grandiose thing that seemed more at home with well, stories, than real life. Someone had stitched that thing together. The red carpet unrolled…and unrolled…and more [Servants] were lining the vast carpet, which you could march a military parade down.

They were carrying objects. Now…the Admiral of the Harbor’s senses tingled. But not with [Dangersense].

“They’re carrying something expensive. Lots of expensive artifacts. We should—”

She was pushing towards them with the other Admiral of the Navy when the departing Velistrane issued a sound.

Horns. The brass peal of horns, trumpeting, triumphant. The people staring at the red carpet looked up. And saw, as the warship turned—it.

Of course. The [Darkness] spells began to come undone. From the harbor’s entrance first, and then towards the city itself. Like dawn breaking through darkness. And there it was.

A pink carriage.

Repaired, well, replaced, rather. Not that they would know that. But the most famous, iconic thing about Magnolia Reinhart.

A tub in the water. Well, Reynold would admit that if you didn’t activate the enchantments it rocked a bit. But now—the [Butler] lashed the reins.

And it sped towards Zeres, down the harbor. It had been practically invisible in the darkness and with all the other sights. Now, it shot towards Zeres, into the open harbor mouth at top speed.

Across the waters. Merri was shouting. The wheels of the enchanted carriage were racing on top of the water, cutting through the surf and leaving a vast spray behind it. The spectral horses surged as if it were solid ground.

Everyone watched as the pink carriage moved towards the docks. It would crash—no. The wheels left the surf as the carriage sped, faster than any boat in existence, upwards. Through the air.

Water droplets sprinkled the crowd as the pink carriage slowed. The wheels touched the ground. Then the carpet’s edge.

Reynold parked the coach and hopped off. He opened the door, and stood to attention. As one, the servants lining the way bowed once more.

Everyone in Zeres watched as a figure stepped out of the carriage. The broadcast showed…

Ressa. The taller woman stepped out of the carriage, nodded to the audience, and then helped the [Lady] in the pink dress out. Magnolia wore the same hat she had when she walked on Pallass’ walls. The same dress.

The same smile. She winked at Merri.

“Thank you for the lovely coverage, my dear. Hello, Drassi. Admiralty of Zeres.”

She nodded at the two [Admirals], who jumped as the magical camera panned towards them. Magnolia Reinhart smiled wider. She let Ressa precede her, then the two were side-by-side. They walked down the carpet.

“Please let the First Gardener of Oteslia know I’ve arrived. Oh, and I’ve brought some gifts. Thank you for renting the harbor to me. My ships will be out of your bay momentarily—I just need to unload all my little party favors.”

Magnolia addressed the Admiral of the Harbor as she passed. The Drake opened her mouth.

“Tell the—party f—”

The [Lady] didn’t stop or slow. She walked on, greeting some of the [Maids] or [Butlers] or [Manservants] by name.

“Teln, don’t drop it. It’s glass, not enchanted. I know you wouldn’t, but I worry so. Are those gemstones properly polished, Eary?”

“Absolutely, Lady Reinhart. I will inspect them once we arrive at Oteslia.”

“Wonderful.”

The [Lady] paused, to let the Wistram camera-crew catch up. And then—Drassi, Merri, and the audience caught sight of the artifacts being carried by the servants.

A multicolored glass vase, so delicately blown it seemed the gloved man’s hands might break it if he applied a hair of pressure. A set of jewels in a crown of…bronze? Each one seeming far more expensive than the bronze itself.

Treasures. Some people even recognized. Jaws dropped.

“Did she just say those were party favors to the First Gardener of Oteslia?”

Merri whispered. Magnolia Reinhart turned her head like, well, a shark.

“Oh, no, Merri. I meant to the guests. There’s an event in Oteslia and I couldn’t just come without some. Haven’t you heard?”

Another wink. Ressa nudged Magnolia slightly. She was overdoing it.

But the effect?

—-

“Wait, that’s the Bronze Crown of Manus! We took it from them in war nearly a thousand years back! How does she have—she can’t give it to them!”

Because he was a ghost, Regis Reinhart did not need to stop screaming to draw breath. Which, in fact, he hadn’t, not since catching a glimpse of the first artifacts on display. Magnolia Reinhart had more, as evidenced by the coffers being borne by the servants. But she had put some on display.

—-

“Reynold, bring the carriage up. I simply must thank the Admiralty—is the Admiral of the Supply here? Asale? I have to thank him personally for allowing me my little entrance. I trust it was entertaining? Such a lovely song…my, this carpet gets longer each time I walk down it.”

Magnolia was strolling down the carpet with the servants. The [Combat Butler] was rolling the carriage forwards and it was indeed being loaded with some of the treasures. The rest?

“We have transport and escort for the rest of the treasures, Lady Reinhart.”

Ressa was saying publically, gesturing to some waiting carriages. Of course, that part was show. They’d already moved what needed to be moved on ahead; only the objects on display would be going with the pink carriage. And this time—there would be no ambush in waiting.

“What party?”

That came from the Admiral of the Navy, belatedly realizing that there was something he’d missed. But in truth, it wasn’t his fault.

It was a tactic Magnolia Reinhart had learned from, well, Maviola El. If you said it, they would believe it. She laughed.

“Oh, Admiral Krallow. You do like your jests. I hope to see you there. I don’t think the Matriarch said if she was going…? But I will quite like to see Oteslia. City of Growth. I’d love to stay in the City of Waves, but I’m a teensy bit behind schedule. I do so like to settle in and it doesn’t do to just roll up to the event on the day, does it?”

“Er…”

Magnolia was heading towards the pink carriage, which had replaced itself at the head of the carpet. But there was one last thing.

Or perhaps she had anticipated it. She looked at Ressa, and the [Maid] gave her a slight nod. She looked ahead at Reynold. And he had it ready. Bundled up in the carriage…it had made a nice blanket. Now, he covertly handed one of the [Servants] a long pole.

“Magnolia of House Reinhart.”

Someone stopped Magnolia Reinhart before she could make her grand departure. The [Lady] smiled.

“Sharkcaptain of Zeres.”

“You know me.”

Femar’s voice was flat. He held the famous spear idly. He was watching Ressa as much as Magnolia. And she eyed him.

Asale and two other members of the Admiralty of Zeres had joined the Sharkcaptain of Zeres. He bared his teeth as Magnolia Reinhart halted.

Auras met in the air. This was Zeres, his home. Femar’s eyes narrowed. Magnolia smiled.

“Admiral Asale. My thanks for allowing me passage.”

“Of course, Lady Reinhart.”

The Drake was watching her, curious, but also Femar. The Sharkcaptain frowned. Then, conscious of the others watching the silent clash of auras, smiled wider.

“The Serpentine Matriarch was quite pleased by your tribute to Zeres, Magnolia Reinhart.”

“Thank you, Femar. I do so enjoy it when my hard work is appreciated. Please, tell Ieneessa I appreciate the compliment.”

The [Lady] gave him an icy smile. Asale sighed as the Sharkcaptain blinked. He was the wrong person to try and dance with Magnolia—at least with words.

“The Matriarch of Zeres enjoyed the display.”

Femar began again, lying through his teeth. He eyed the Crown of Manus—the bronze one—being slowly carried past him. Idly, he lowered the spear.

The [Maid] holding it halted. Asale was impressed; the woman knew what was coming, it seemed, but it was still impressive to not flinch or even blink at the Sharkcaptain’s spear as it halted in front of her chest.

“There is just one thing, Lady Reinhart. Before you leave Zeres—it seems you’ve brought quite a number of objects to bring to an Oteslian party?”

“Party favors, Femar. Do keep up.”

He flushed slightly. There was a ripple of laughter. The Sharkcaptain’s teeth ground—then he caught himself.

“Yes. Well, you are free to head to Oteslia. The First Gardener has invited you, after all. Just as soon as we ascertain the value of all your gifts and collect a proper import tax.”

Someone made a sound in the crowd. Magnolia Reinhart didn’t blink. But she did sigh.

“Oh dear. Really?”

“Surely you knew the laws of a Walled City before you arrived?”

“Femar…”

Asale wanted to shake his head. Since he was on television, he did not. Merri made an incredulous sound.

“But they’re gifts…”

The Sharkcaptain heard her.

“Gifts or not, artifacts are taxed if they are meant to be exchanged.”

“But I will not receive anything in return.”

“Goodwill could be considered an exchange.”

The Admiral of Supply kept his face blank. This was petty—Zeres didn’t do this for other people. Nor, if they kept to this implementation of the law, would they be one of the most active harbors in the world.

He’d argued against. But the Serpentine Matriarch? She was what was politely called ‘petty’ at times.

Magnolia Reinhart eyed the spear blocking her servant’s path.

“I do not believe other [Merchants] or [Captains] need pay a tax on gifts, Femar of Zeres. Is this a new rule or will it be applied across all ships from now on?”

His eyes narrowed. Asale stepped in before he could respond.

“I believe the Serpentine Matriarch’s will extends only to such notable events as these, Lady Reinhart. As she phrased it—an appropriate measure of tradition for a Human family with old ties to the Walled Cities.”

That was one way of putting it. There was laughter—and this time at Magnolia’s expense. The crowd, who was marginally on her side, didn’t seem to think this was too much to ask.

Magnolia Reinhart on the other hand? Asale didn’t like her smile. Femar was happy. But he had failed to notice what Asale made a point of noticing.

She wasn’t surprised by any of this. And he didn’t like that one bit. That meant she’d planned around this. And you know what they said about Reinharts.

They always laughed last. Usually over the dead corpses of their enemies.

“Femar, this really is troubling. I had intended to be on my way within, well, five minutes ago. But a delay to inspect, not to mention calculate the worth of all the objects I am carrying? Why, I don’t think I brought a big enough purse, do you, Ressa?”

Magnolia admitted after a moment. The [Maid] shook her head.

“One imagines the value to be considerably difficult to transport in a bag of holding, milady, even a tax.”

Femar’s eyes glittered. The other Drakes looked eager.

“Well, we can always arrange partial payment. Say, one or two of the artifacts? Never let it be said that Zeres isn’t willing to bargain to make sure everyone’s satisfied!”

He threw out a huge arm. More laughter. Magnolia looked up at him.

“Indeed. But you know, Femar…”

His eyes snapped back down as her aura pushed at his. He glared at the use of his name. Magnolia’s smile developed an edge. And she looked around for Merri and the scrying orb.

“I am rather disappointed. I come here in peace and goodwill, as you saw. I rather feel I bent to show my respect for Zeres. This hardly seems in keeping with my gesture.”

He opened his mouth. She went on.

“However, you are right. We have such old ties. The Velistrane reminds me of that. If you would like me to answer the Matriarch’s will as she presents it through you—I would be willing to do so.”

Her eyes glinted.

“But I am quite good at games of economics. It is one of my two strengths.”

The laughter and chuckling died out. Femar’s eyes narrowed. Slowly, he planted the butt of his spear on the ground.

“You stand in Zeres, Magnolia of House Reinhart. If you want to try something, go ahead.”

“Femar.”

Asale murmured, but his friend was too angry to listen to reason. Magnolia Reinhart smiled sweetly at him.

“I never thought you’d ask. Well then. For Zeres, the City of Waves? I rather did not want to do this. But it seems a traditional city like this requires a traditional reply. Reynold.”

She looked past the Sharkcaptain. Asale’s neck-spines itched. He turned—

And saw the pole.

It was a pole of wood. Reynold had, in fact, assembled it. It was in multiple parts—you locked the wood together.

Nothing fancy. Just smart-cutting, something Pallass would approve of. But as old as, well log cabins. No magic.

It created a pole far taller than the carriage, that was the point. A long stick. You couldn’t even really use it as a quarterstaff unless you were giant. That wasn’t the point, though.

His eyes narrowed. So did Femar’s. So did…because of course, what did that kind of instrument make you think of?

What was it Sir Relz had said?

“The first Reinhart to set foot in the City of Zeres in generations. The first of the Five Families to walk in one of the Walled Cities in…and not as a prisoner.”

A symbol. Think of laws. Magnolia Reinhart had.

Were there laws against…? Femar began to stride towards the carriage.

“You. Put that down.”

Reynold had a bit of fabric in one hand. He had looped it; it was meant to be carried aloft in a similar manner. He glanced at Femar, but ignored the Sharkcaptain.

The Drake’s steps quickened. Reynold handed the pole’s base to a [Maid]. Another maid joined them. They began to haul it up.

“Stop!”

Femar raised his spear, but it was too late. Merri saw one of the Admirals go for the scrying orb. But she was already turning.

The pole rose. And attached to it, the fabric. Or could you call it…a banner? A flag?

If you would press me thusly—Magnolia Reinhart watched as the Sharkcaptain leapt forwards, too late. Asale looked at her.

Claw for claw? Insult for insult? He held his breath. The Matriarch watched, shrieking her fury as the banner—

—-

“The Banner of Reinhart! That girl! Hah! Hahahaha!”

Regis was shouting in exuberance, all his rage transformed. His eyes locked on the fabric. Then his face twisted in confusion.

—-

“That’s not the Banner of House Reinhart. The Banner of Terland?”

Lord Tyrion Veltras muttered. But he was already shaking his head. It wasn’t that either. It was—different. It was more colorful than even the Banner of the Terlands.

It was—his eyes widened.

—-

A color lost to time. Colors lost to time. And it was fabric. It was…blowing in the air. That much everyone had gotten right. But they were wrong in one huge, important detail.

It was not a flag. It was not a banner.

Behold. It flapped in the breeze—then caught the air. Nearly blew the three [Servants] off their feet. They held it steady, but it could have yanked them into the sky if the breeze were stronger. It had been meant for a far larger thing than just them.

A…ship. And what blew as they held it aloft was a beautiful thing. Wrought before even the Five Families had planted their standards on Izril’s soil.

Though time and war had damaged it, though its beloved vessel had been lost, still, it retained its beauty.

The Dragonsail fluttered in the breeze as the Sharkcaptain of Zeres stopped. His spear was ready to cast, to tear it down. But his arm halted.

He froze, eyes wide. The Drakes stared up and cried out.

“A Dragonsail? But the Dragonships were—”

“Lost. The Velistrane sank one in combat long ago.”

Asale murmured. And he understood. He looked at Magnolia Reinhart. She was smiling at him. At Femar, as he turned—and for the cameras.

It was not a nice smile. But neither was it as cruel as it could have been.

“Yes. The Dragonsail. We kept it. We keep everything. That is my reply.”

“What?”

The Admiralty started. Magnolia Reinhart gestured at the impromptu banner hanging in the wind.

“It is in your anthem, isn’t it? And this is Zeres, City of Waves. City of tradition. Dragonsail. Friend. By your laws, those who fly the Dragonsail are kin to your city. I claim right of passage, exempt from the Matriarch’s will under that. Or will Wyrm overturn the will of Dragons?”

She stood in place, beaming around at everyone. Asale saw her glance up as the wind threatened to snatch away the relic again.

“I didn’t want to be this direct.”

She murmured, as if to herself. Asale shook his head. But she’d planned every event so far. He doubted they’d been far off her reckoning.

So there it was. The choir, the coins, even the song of Zeres from the mightiest of the Reinhart’s ships for Zeres, all of it was so lovely. Wrapped up with a pink bow.

This was the other half. Dragonsail. Look at it and remember. Magnolia Reinhart sighed.

“My gifts are many things we’ve kept over the years. I hope to give back some—and spread goodwill. But we shall see at the party. In Oteslia; I bid you all adieu until then. Asale, my regards to the Matriarch. You have a lovely city.”

She walked to the carriage as the Dragonsail was lowered. The carpet was rolled up. The [Servants] not accompanying her headed back to the ships. It was so fast that it caught them all off-guard. Magnolia Reinhart’s pink carriage shot through the city.

And there she was. Almost as fast as rumor. Almost as quickly as news. As gossip and rumor spread—

Lady Magnolia Reinhart had entered the land of the Drakes. She was headed for Oteslia.

She was not the only one. Here came a [Princess]. Hither travelled a [Lady], and Wall Lords and Ladies.

And a Dragon.

8.02

The Great Plains of Izril, as they were called, were central to the southern half of Izril. A vast, wide, rolling landscape suitable for grazing flocks, fed by rivers—lush, in short. A plentiful land if you knew how to live in it.

Harsh for those who did not. The lack of fruitful forests and vegetation en-masse would repel Lizardfolk, who had long used all the wonders of Baleros’ forests to be tools, medicine, building material, and more.

By the same token, nomads of Chandrar used to Zeikhal, the Great Desert (there was a pattern in naming conventions), would see an abundance of potential, in the water alone.

Drakes hated it. They built cities, defensible strongholds, out of stone and wood if they had to. It was one reason why they had not colonized this vast area.

The second reason was that it was not theirs. The second name for this stretch of lands was the Gnoll Plains. Because the many tribes of Izril refused to give up this last place that was entirely theirs.

Many tribes moved across Izril of course. They mingled with the Drake cities, made their livings in places where the land was not fully claimed by the walls of their sometimes-enemies. But they had slowly been forced out of many places they used to call home. In the past—they had known more plains, in north and south. No longer. Humans claimed that now.

And here was the truth many people forgot: the Plains Gnolls and City Gnolls that divided their species up broadly into two categories was a lie. Or a falsehood that had slowly become the new truth.

Once, there had been more. Gnolls of the forest. Gnolls who lived in the mountains. Gnolls of sea and yes—even those who were more at home underground. But their homeland had dwindled to a fifth of its size with the Human occupation of the north and Drake cities.

Small wonder some Gnolls called this the Waning World, the era of decay. And yet—five times a century, every twenty years, the tribes gathered.

The Meeting of the Tribes. While everything faded, they still came together. From as far as it took. To remember the past.

They were not gone yet.

—-

Hundreds of tribes had made their journey into the heart of the Gnoll plains. Small—only a hundred at most—or large, passing a hundred thousand or even more, coming together in full strength at last.

Not all Gnolls; some sent representatives, not their full number. But here was Gnoll strength. The Az’muzarre tribe guarded the Meeting of Tribes, their descendants bearing Dragon-arms. And more tribes of similar power, old and new, were gathering.

Steelfur, who had created the Steelcloth armors so prized, superior to chainmail for their lightness and flexibility.

Gaarh Marsh, whose great protector, the Earth Elemental, had destroyed the walls of Drake cities.

Ekhtouch, paragons of their kind, known for their superior displays of physical ability…and superior attitudes.

Plain’s Eye tribe, one of the vastest, with many smaller or related clans, who trained the [Shamans] that held the magic of Gnoll-kind.

Weatherfur, who produced mighty leaders, a [General] of Pallass, and commanded the rains themselves.

The Ruinstrider Tribe, who had been a small, scavenging tribe until one of their own acquired a Relic-class artifact, and became a Named Adventurer.

Woven Bladegrass, who had engaged in multiple victorious campaigns against the Drakes.

And more. They were all gathering, meeting, exchanging ideas and of course—gifts. For the Meeting of Tribes would see each Gnoll tribe present something to be shared by all. During this time as summer ended, they would all benefit, and a tribe’s status would fall or rise depending on their actions here.

A small tribe might ally with a large one, or make beneficial marriages, acquire gifts or insights—or a large one be humbled as other tribes passed judgment.

This was the event that had begun four days ago. Let all Gnolls who remembered tribe and tradition gather! They had all arrived by the Summer Solstice, the countless Gnolls moving by foot or vehicle or mount.

…Except for the band of Gnolls riding quickly into the Great Plains. They were a group of about five dozen Gnolls, two thirds mounted, the rest jogging along the riders and pack horses.

They were late. Late! Their leader, a female Gnoll, was kicking herself—and the others. Mostly with verbal tongue-lashings. The Gnolls set a dogged pace, but without movement Skills they’d only now arrived, and they had further to go to get to the Meeting of Tribes in the center of the plains!

“We must be the only group of Gnolls so slow! Move up!”

Krshia Silverfang shouted at the group of five-dozen. It wasn’t even a large group. She had thought to take as many as three hundred, but decided there was no need for that amount of cost. Smaller moved faster, anyways, and they were rejoining their tribe. The Silverfang Tribe, known for wealth as they were canny [Traders] and, well, silver from mines of old.

However, this group from Liscor, where part of their tribe had gone to settle and work ten years ago? Laaaate.

They had been delayed on the road. They had been making perfect time to arrive by the Summer Solstice or even before. But something had halted their progress on the road.

News from their home—Liscor. They were not Plains Gnolls, not really, anymore. They were used to the city. And from their city had come terrible tidings.

Erin Solstice. They had stopped a day—then another—to learn what had happened. To mourn—even debate going back. Eventually, after conferring, Krshia had decided to go on.

She could not help Erin Solstice in Liscor. But perhaps at the Meeting of Tribes…

It still slowed their steps. It made what should have been a joyous, excited group yearning to see their kin again after a decade’s absence silent, depressed. Clearly, it was all Erin’s fault for getting killed.

Or…not killed? A Gnoll panting after having jogged for three miles mounted the horse he’d been letting relax. He sat in the saddle, drooping, as the animal harrumphed at the new weight on its back. Tkrn leaned against it.

He didn’t know exactly what had happened. It was hard for the Gnolls to even explain. Krshia had tried—Erin was in a kind of stasis? Not dead, but unable to be revived and healed. Frozen?

Why would that stop her from dying? Tkrn didn’t know. It sounded…stupid. Even if someone had explained it to him fully, the idea of cryogenics was not something Tkrn would have accepted at face value.

To him—Erin was gone, barring some great miracle. And he sniffed into the horse’s mane.

They were all much the same. Krshia, for all she snapped, didn’t push the Gnolls of Liscor. Tkrn looked ahead at the front of the group.

There was Raekea and her husband, Jekss, a Drake. There was Beilmark, sans family, riding with a grim expression. She was Senior Guardswoman—and ahead of her Krshia herself, talking with one of the best [Potters] in Liscor, Heriml.

Many of the Gnolls riding in this group could be called that. Best [Smith], Raekea. Best [Guardswoman]—Beilmark, and another Senior Guardsman Gnoll. Krshia, the unofficial leader of the Silverfangs and Gnolls in Liscor and Councilwoman of Liscor…and so on.

And then there was Tkrn. [Guardsman]—not Senior Guardsman. And unofficially, that Gnoll who had nearly been fired for letting a group of Drakes and Gnolls nearly kill a prisoner, Calruz, and looked the other way while they tortured him.

…Fitting? Tkrn sat in his saddle. Erin aside, he didn’t feel like he belonged. Of course, he knew he was security—a good half of the non-important Gnolls were [Warriors], [Archers], [Hunters]—those who could escort the group the long ways here from [Bandit] and monster attacks.

But why me?

It seemed to the young Gnoll that he was undeserving of the honor of representing the Silverfangs of Liscor. He had a black mark. In fact, he had a black page in terms of how close he’d come to disgrace.

Zevara had been on the edge of firing him for his conduct. Everyone else had been released from their duty as a member of Liscor’s watch, without bonus or pension or so on. Tkrn had been allowed to stay…

But he’d been demoted back to a rookie guard’s status, forced to work with the rookie patrols, and given unenvious assignments. He’d debated quitting with all the hostility towards him—but he’d stayed.

What else would he do? He already had the class and…it was what he knew. Fortunately, some of the Watch had at least talked to him, like the rookies. Jerci for instance—a new Gnoll [Guard].

She was riding with the group too, mainly because she had relatives in the Silverfang tribe and her mother, a high-level [Scribe], wanted her to meet them.

But Tkrn…he urged his destrier forwards as the group slowed to cross a bridge moving over a long river. The ancient stone path funneled the group—but he managed to slide ahead of the others.

“Aunt. May I have a word?”

Tkrn saw Krshia’s head turn. She looked…well, the same as ever. Tall—Gnolls were tall, male and female, with no difference in heights, brown fur thick, her eyes sharp. She was an expert [Shopkeeper], a former Plains Gnoll who had come to the city to work, and now a [Councilwoman] of Liscor.

The younger [Guard] had always known his aunt—twice removed—to be a leader of the Gnolls, ever since he was small. He barely remembered being a Plains Gnoll—he’d left when he could barely walk on two legs to go to the city of Liscor with his family.

But he did know that Krshia had been important in the Silverfang tribe. Her sister was the [Chieftain].

“Tkrn, what is it? Trouble?”

Krshia looked at him, brown eyes glinting behind her frown. Tkrn shook his head as his horse stopped alongside hers.

“No. Aunt—a word if you’re not busy?”

She hrmed, but nodded. They rode at the head of the group, as some Gnoll [Hunters] scouted ahead.

“What is it, Tkrn?”

“I—I’m just wondering what will happen when we reach the Gnollmoot, Aunt.”

She looked blankly at him.

“The what?”

“The Gnollmoot. Er…the Meeting of Tribes, yes?”

Tkrn corrected himself. Krshia gave him an odd look.

“Who would call it a Gnoll…moot? Who told you that nonsense, nephew?”

“Erin.”

Krshia’s ears drooped. Some of the Gnolls listening glanced up. It was hard to have a confidential conversation; normally Gnolls didn’t try to listen in, that was respectful. But every Gnoll knew that if you wanted to talk secretly, you dug a hole, cast a [Silence] spell, and then hoped no one was listening.

“Ah. I forgot she called it that. Silly…hrmph. The Meeting of Tribes will be a grand event, Tkrn. With plenty to do! Not that I do not expect you to keep watch and obey! There will be time for that and festivities. I hope you have money saved.”

“I do.”

Tkrn dully patted his coin pouch. It was the last thing on his mind. Who wanted to have fun? If he wanted to have fun, he’d have stayed in Liscor and hung out at Erin’s inn for five minutes.

His aunt seemed to understand that and sighed.

“It is hard, Tkrn. But we will do business on behalf of the tribe and thus deliver our gift and enrich all. That is important. We can do little in Liscor right now and may do good here.”

“There’s a war going on between us and Hectval. I should be there. The Watch will be fighting.”

Tkrn mumbled. He heard a snort from behind him.

Beilmark. The Senior Guardswoman, paired with Jeiss, the best [Swordsman] in all of Liscor, shook her head. Tkrn had never known what she was known for; maybe just being reliable and good and high-level.

“We should not have gone to war, no! At least, not without an army. Liscor’s Watch is not large enough and we don’t train our [Guards] to fight in wars! In streets, in units, yes! We nearly lost a huge number of civilians. What is happening? We should be there—at least to represent on the Council.”

She looked pointedly at Krshia and Raekea at that. The two Gnolls frowned.

“Elirr is there.”

“He is only one. That’s an all-Drake Council.”

“Alonna and Jeiss are to be trusted, Beilmark. Even Lism, yes?”

“Hrm. If you say so, Krshia. Two months ago you would have cursed me saying his name. How things change, eh?”

Beilmark gave Krshia a long look. Raekea the same. The female [Shopkeeper] fidgeted slightly—but Tkrn had no idea why.

“What did you want to say, nephew? You will see the Meeting of Tribes soon enough. Which reminds me, we should explain to the young ones what to expect, Beilmark.”

Krshia coughed into her paw, changing the subject. Tkrn saw her look at him. He hesitated, but came out with it.

“Aunt. Why did you choose me to come with you? Of all the Gnolls in the city?”

The older Gnoll frowned mildly. She was in her early forties, but still yet to show real signs of age; grey fur and so on.

“You are a [Guardsman], Tkrn.”

“You know what I mean, Aunt. There are more Gnoll [Guards] than just me. Jerci I can understand more than me. You know I’m…in disgrace.”

Tkrn’s ears drooped. If his tail had been wagging, it would have done the same. But you couldn’t get more depressed, even thinking on his mistakes.

Krshia exchanged a glance with some of the other Gnolls. They slowed a bit and she and Tkrn rode ahead.

“Tkrn…”

“Everyone knows what I did, Aunt. Or failed to do.”

When the group of [Guards] and civilians had begun…punishing Calruz for his actions in the dungeons and with the hateful Raskghar, Tkrn had turned a blind eye. He had been angry. But he had also known that the Minotaur was a prisoner.

He had wavered, but not told anyone. Not stopped it. Not even done more than talk—until Mrsha had been in danger. Then, and only then he’d drawn his sword with the Watch Captain.

But not enough. Tkrn felt as though his fur was painted…red with shame. As though everyone were always thinking of what he’d done when they looked at him. They probably were.

Krshia knew this too. She eyed him, pursing her lips, as if to say something. But as she glanced ahead, across the incredibly flat landscape, her lips quirked.

She almost smiled. It was not a super-happy smile, but it was still…Tkrn saw her reach for her side and pull something out.

“Ah, it is much to say, Tkrn. But saying…here.”

She handed him something. He stared as she proffered…a belt knife?

It was hers, made of good steel by Raekea’s forges. Worn—probably years old. There was even a notch in the handle, worn smooth but made by some cut or accident long ago. Tkrn blinked as he took it.

“What, Aunt? What is this?”

“Your answer.”

And with that she kicked her horse lightly and it shot forwards. She left Tkrn with the belt knife. He stared at it.

“Something wrong? Krshia, let me—”

Beilmark shouted after Krshia, riding after her. She paused as she saw Tkrn with the object.

“What’s that, Tkrn?”

“I asked Aunt—I asked Krshia why she took me after what I did, Beilmark. And she gave me this.”

The Senior Guardswoman eyed the knife. She blinked, wrinkled her brow, then groaned.

“Oh, the knife. Bite my fur, she’s doing that? Well, do your best.”

She shook her head. Almost amused, she rode after Krshia. Tkrn stared at her back. Another Gnoll passed.

“It was a bit of armor for me. Ah, this brings back memories!”

Chuckling, he rode with Beilmark after their leader. The Gnolls passing Tkrn as he slowed chuckled, or shook their heads. They seemed to know what it meant, the older ones. Jerci just gave Tkrn a blank look. But that gesture somehow made the Gnolls look ahead, straighten slightly, even in their grief.

They were heading into the plains. For them…home.

They were coming home. Tkrn stared at the belt knife. He looked around.

“But I hate riddles.”

His plaintive voice was ignored by all.

—-

Later that day, Krshia looked up as the others were having a brunch on the road. Tkrn had patted his horse down and given it a bit of stamina potion and they were just about to go.

“Ah, nephew. Do you have my belt knife yet? Or have you not understood?”

She smiled as he squatted down around the small fire and boiling tea. He hesitated—Beilmark, Raekea, and some of the older Gnolls were sitting there. They looked up and he flushed under his fur—but he nodded.

“I think I do, Aunt.”

He proffered her the knife. Krshia regarded it, but didn’t take it. Tkrn had thought for about two hours as he rode; there wasn’t much else to do. The Gnoll Plains, love ‘em or hate them—got sort of similar after you stared across the flat, flat landscape for a while.

“It’s a lesson. You want me to understand it. You gave me the knife because…of this.”

The Gnoll indicated the one obvious thing on the knife. Raekea didn’t stamp her blades; she trusted the quality to will out. The tool was old, but still sharp as a razor—he’d cut his finger while playing with it. Yet that notch on the handle was noticeable.

“It’s damaged. A bit. You should really fix the gap.”

“I’ve been meaning to replace the handle for years. But I never get around to it. Your point, nephew?”

Tkrn took a breath. He thought he was right; it was obvious and there was no other answer he could think of.

“Well, the knife is me, isn’t it? I’ve made a mistake. But I can still fight and…and do what’s needed. That’s why you took me, right?”

He waited, as the small group of Gnolls looked at each other. Their faces were unreadable, but then Krshia stirred. She took the belt knife, carefully put it in her belt, and patted the notched handle.

“Hm. Hrm. Well now. I like that answer. I think I’ll take it. What do you all think?”

Tkrn blinked. He saw the other Gnolls grin toothily. Beilmark slapped one knee as a laugh burst from her throat.

“I like it too! Good answer, Tkrn! Although, if it were a notch on the blade I’d disagree! I wondered if he’d come up with something.”

She chuckled. The others did too. Tkrn looked at his aunt.

“Wait. Was that the answer?”

She shrugged.

“I have no idea. It sounds good, though.”

His jaw dropped.

“But I thought—you gave me that knife because—why did you give me that knife?”

“To see what you said.”

She winked at him. The young Gnoll’s eyes bulged. The other, older Gnolls laughed harder because of it. Raekea pulled herself upright and fondly patted Tkrn’s leg. She offered him a fresh cup of tea, chuckling.

“Sit, Tkrn. Don’t be too mad. My mother did the same to me when I was your age and ruined one of her crucibles. It’s a time-honored tradition…although among Plains Gnolls. Krshia, is that what inspired you?”

The [Shopkeeper] ducked her head modestly.

“I thought it was appropriate. I wondered if Tkrn’s parents had done it to him, but he was always dutiful.”

Tkrn turned redder as the others chuckled.

“You mean, you didn’t know what I’d say and you didn’t have a lesson?”

“Mm. Pass the tea, Raekea. What’s this flavor? Mint? Eugh. I hate mint.”

Krshia sipped from the cup as she sighed.

“It’s a good answer, Tkrn. It has bones in why I did take you. You are my nephew—more than that? I thought it would be good for you to see the Meeting of Tribes. But that is a Gnoll way of teaching. Every Gnoll of the Tribes learns that lesson. It helps us understand how you think. Sometimes the answer is very good. Sometimes, not. Right, Beilmark?”

How, he thought? Tkrn blinked. He turned to the Senior Guardswoman. Embarrassed, Beilmark scratched behind one ear.

“Ah, well, many are younger than you when we are given something. I spent two days with the dagger my father gave me after I lost a horse. I wanted to know, ‘why do you put up with me even though I make such bad mistakes’? Came up with many stupid suggestions he refused to take. In the end…I got him to take it back.”

“What was your answer?”

Grinning, and very amused, Raekea’s husband leaned forwards. The Drake was treating this as a holiday; he was the best [Smith] for tools and weapons, Raekea the best [Armorer]. Beilmark chuckled ruefully.

“I think I said, ‘because I can carry things for you’. He laughed and decided that was good enough.”

The others guffawed. Another Gnoll, a [Tracker], raised a paw.

“I bought my mother a new bow after she gave me hers. I thought that was what I was supposed to do. Saved up for two months. She laughed herself sick and took the bow.”

More laughter. Tkrn began to feel a bit better. Although he was still flushed as she sipped at the hot mint tea.

“Children travel a lot and get very impatient, you see, Tkrn. We have to think up ways to keep them silent on the move—and hopefully actually grow!”

Krshia reached over and ruffled the fur on Tkrn’s head. He sighed and sniffed.

“Very well, Aunt. But really—am I supposed to just learn and enjoy myself?”

She became more contemplative at the serious tone in his voice. The others looked at Tkrn and he felt that unpleasant feeling. But at last—Krshia shook her head.

“No, Tkrn. I did take you because I thought it would be good. But I could have taken many Gnolls, yes? I took you because we are related, because I know you, because you are a decent level—and because you did do the right thing in the end.”

“Only at the last moment, Aunt.”

He hung his head. Krshia nodded.

“Yes. Only then. Not enough—but at least, nephew, I know you will do the right thing then. Next time, do it sooner.”

It was a painful relief to hear. Tkrn looked up and she smiled at him. Then she sipped at her mint tea and gagged.

“Enough wasting time! We are close to the Meeting of Tribes! I want to be there sooner! Sooner! Tea break ends in five minutes!”

“You mint-tea hating tyrant.”

Beilmark huffed as she sipped at her cup, and then produced a canteen for more on the road. That was Tkrn’s first introduction to Plains Gnoll tradition. It would be far from the last. And as midday came, the rolling plains began to rise slightly. They crested a hill—and saw the first smoke trails rising in the distance. Hundreds of them, thousands. A vast encampment in the distance. The Gnolls pointed and shouted—

There was the Meeting of Tribes. And the Silverfang Tribe, their kin, were waiting to greet them.

—-

She heard and smelled them before she laid eyes on the Gnolls.

To be a Gnoll was to experience the world in ways that Humans and Drakes could only understand a fraction of. Their sense of smell and hearing was so poor! Then again, they could happily walk through places that had rank odors and barely complain about it.

And as Krshia had observed, keeping secrets was hard around a people who smelled and heard everything.

Still—the wind. She sniffed the air and smelled the odor of thousands of fires, albeit terribly far away. Smoke, cooking scents, even blood—oils and steels in countless profusion. And the natural scent of the Great Plains.

To her, it was home. But she heard the howls from behind and in front of her as well. Gnolls stood in their saddles and howled greetings from afar. And the answering ones?

There was a timbre and pitch unique to a tribe. The Silverfang’s were long, loud, with a curious warble thrown in. Krshia bared her teeth. Raekea exclaimed with a laugh.

“They’re waiting for us!”

“Of course!”

The Gnolls picked up the pace, their maudlin mood forgotten for a moment. Krshia smelled a new scent coming directly at them as the wind sent it downwind.

Silver and spice. Not necessarily each Gnoll having one or the other, but there was that mix of both scents on the natural odor of Gnolls and so on.

Silverfangs were great [Traders], and they also had claimed old silver mines and worked them. Moreover—as the new Gnolls came into sight, loping across the ground from where they’d been camped, outside the central profusion of tribes—Krshia saw decorations on their fur.

Plains Gnolls. Less clothed then their City Gnoll kin, except for the warriors. Also, bearing earrings, armbands, and of course, dyed fur.

Silver streaks in their fur, rather. Tkrn blinked as he saw the curious pattern on one of the Gnoll warrior’s fur along the mane of her neck. Krshia recognized it.

Warrior’s markings. In the past, they were more than symbolic. You decorated the neck and down your back and even your arms with a special silver dust dye. To ward away ghosts and…bad things.

Krshia remembered wearing the same dye proudly herself. She had been a [Hunter], apprenticed to the [Shaman] for a year or two…her heart swelled with nostalgia and memory. In this moment though, it was more good than not.

“Kindred!”

The howl came from afar. Two of the Gnolls were riding back towards the Meeting of Tribes. Krshia slowed her gallop and laughed as she raised her hand.

“Silverfang kin! Do you recognize us at sight alone?”

It was a group of a dozen, minus the two heading away. They slowed, waving up at her as she slowed. Huge, toothy grins. They were half-warriors, half other Gnolls, wearing the traditional silver ornaments. Silver and ivory, silver and jewel—the Silverfangs had a motif and they let people know they embraced it.

“Is that Honored Krshia of Liscor? Councilwoman Krshia, or so we have heard! Greetings, Aunt! We were told to sit here and not return until you arrived! We are glad you did; we want to join the Meeting of Tribes!”

The female Gnoll with silver dye running in stripes down her mane and back spread her arms. Krshia dismounted. The two embraced there and then, and Krshia sniffed the younger Gnoll politely as she did the same.

“We were delayed unavoidably. We are sorry, yes? I shall tell my sister—the Chieftain the same! Is Chieftain Akrisa close?”

Akrisa, her sister. Long had it been since they’d seen each other. The younger Gnoll beamed—then turned her head and sneezed.

“Well met, Aunt Krshia! Yes—she camped the way you would be coming. And two of us rode to get her. She’ll be here soon—how many are there? Sixty?”

“Just under.”

“I—achoo! We were ready for ten times that number if need be! But that is well. Honored elders, greetings!”

She bowed, very politely to the older Gnolls in front in turn. That included Tkrn, which amused Krshia. Until she realized it was her mistake.

“Tkrn, move back. You’re not Honored yet.”

Beilmark laughed as she nudged Tkrn. The other Gnolls were dismounting to pat the Silverfang Plains Gnolls, hug—they were more intimate physically than Drakes might be, or Humans with formal handshakes and whatnot.

Some of the Silverfang Plains Gnolls began sneezing, and apologizing. Krshia raised her eyebrows.

“Allergies? I forget—I have not asked your name.”

“No, Honored Krshia! Forgive me! I am Dekava! [Hunter-Warrior] of four full years since my markings. It’s just—you smell of the city! Oil and dust and Drakes all over you!”

Krshia blinked. They did? She hardly noticed, but if Dekava insisted, it must be so. She self-consciously sniffed herself, then smiled.

“Not that bad, surely!”

“No! Just different! Apologies! Will you introduce us?”

Krshia nodded. Ah, yes. This was back home alright. The request was more than just formality—she pointed, singling out the six Gnolls.

“This is Honored Beilmark, Senior Guardswoman of Liscor. Honored Raekea, [Armorer] and Councilwoman of Liscor…”

The eight Plains Gnolls bowed slightly to each in turn. Memorizing the names of the six Honored Gnolls. Of course, Tkrn and the others knew them as the same, but Krshia noticed Tkrn blink as Dekava bowed to Beilmark, placing her paws together as she bowed.

“A warrior of the cities! Honored Beilmark, it is good to meet you! We would love to see how they fight there later. And an [Armorer]! We knew you were coming, Honored Raekea! Our smiths will wish to exchange knowledge.”

“And I will be glad to do so. Well met, Dekava. And you are…?”

They made a point of saying ‘Honored’ each time. Which was much like City Gnolls. Except…Tkrn coughed.

“Beilmark. Do you want the guards to spread out or…?”

Beilmark half-turned.

“I think we’re fine, yes, Tkrn? The Az’muzarre tribe patrols. Just keep them nearby.”

Dekava’s ears perked up. She turned to Tkrn.

“Ah, you must be Honored Beilmark’s son?”

“No.”

The other Plains Gnolls blinked.

“Her…nephew?”

“No.”

“Husband?”

They eyed Beilmark. She snorted with laughter. Tkrn shook his head.

“I’m Tkrn. [Guardsman]. Regular Guardsman of Liscor.”

Dekava’s look of confusion turned to one of understanding. She smiled and seized his paws. She shook his hands vigorously with hers.

“Ah, I see! Pleased to meet you, Tkrn! They’re [Guards]. The same group.”

Ah. The others nodded. Krshia coughed, but only half in amusement. She was going to have to remind the others to always say Honored Beilmark and so on. She’d forgotten how seriously…

Ten years. Her head turned as she heard another howl in the distance. Massed voices—she looked around and stopped.

There came the true Silverfang Tribe. Nearly a thousand Gnolls loping across the ground, and leading them, a familiar form and voice. She howled again and Krshia answered her.

Akrisa Silverfang was, in fact, shorter than Krshia. But far more athletic. She did not stand behind a counter all day. She raced across the grass, her tribe racing past her.

“Wow.”

Tkrn stared. He had scarcely seen so many Gnolls at once! No—that wasn’t correct. He saw countless Gnolls every day in Liscor. But here was a mass of furry bodies, fur ranging from blonde to black—and not a scaly tail to be seen among them.

A Gnoll tribe. They bounded forwards and, abruptly, stopped. Krshia and the sixty or so Gnolls from Liscor were on foot, hurrying forwards.

“Sister! It is good to see you, yes!”

Krshia called out joyfully. She saw her sister raise a paw, smiling. But she had abruptly stopped. And the thousand or so Gnolls she’d brought abruptly halted behind her, leaving her in front. They raised their heads—

And Krshia halted. She had been going to run and embrace her sister as much as Dekava. But the sudden halt in the mad rush of exhilaration at seeing her kin was jarring. She eyed them—

“Er, form up behind me.”

The other Liscorian Gnolls blinked. But they formed a rough wall behind Krshia and advanced, slower.

“Who comes before the Silverfang tribe?”

A voice shouted before Krshia could close the fifty or so feet between them. Krshia stopped again, blinking. That was ritualistic—she answered reflexively after a pause to search her memory.

“Kin from afar! Seeking to meet those with our blood and will!”

The Gnolls ahead of her paused. One shouted—not Akrisa. A Gnoll next to her. Krshia recognized a [Shaman]’s markings and blinked again.

“We greet our kin from Liscor! What do you bring, kin who have been gone so long?”

Krshia frowned, hesitating. She hadn’t meant to do this in front of all.

“We bring ourselves, and our knowledge from a city far away! To join Silverfang to Silverfang once more!”

She replied. The [Shaman] standing next to Akrisa paused. She saw him whisper to her sister. And Akrisa shook her head slightly.

“What else do our kin bring?”

A murmur of surprise ran through both sides. Krshia hesitated. She turned, and whispered.

“Tkrn. Go with Jerci and the others. Grab the book.”

“The book, aunt?”

“Yes. Now. Hurry.”

Tkrn and a few younger Gnolls hurried back to a horse with only one burden in the center of the caravan. Even now—a group of eight Gnolls stood around it, as they had the entire way here.

Of course, it looked just like a covered bundle in a blanket. But as Tkrn and the others fussed around it, unstrapping it and lifting it—although even Mrsha could have dragged it, light as it was—it was revealed to be a vast square of something.

A tome. They brought it over and the Silverfang tribe stirred expectantly. Krshia was staring at Akrisa. But her sister refused to look at her. She was staring at the sky as the [Shaman] called out.

“What does our kin bring from the city where they have been gone for so long?”

“We bring knowledge! A gift for the Meeting of Tribes!”

Krshia called back. She was getting…not angry, but perplexed. She recognized the forms. She motioned the three Gnolls supporting the tome. As they passed her, she stopped them…then removed the blanket.

The giant magical book shone in the light. The writing on the tome, bound in some magical leather she had no way of identifying, was as pristine as if it had been printed a second ago. Not a sign of age—

The pages were brilliant, beautiful, without imperfection. Far from common parchment. The book, to even Krshia’s limited [Shaman] knowledge, glittered with power. Even for Tkrn, who had no knowledge of magic whatsoever, he felt a presence. His fur stood on end.

The Silverfang tribe sighed as they saw it appear. The [Shaman] himself made a sound.

“That—is that what the Silverfangs of Liscor bring?”

“Yes. And this one presents herself before Chieftain and tribe. Are we welcome, kin?”

Krshia approached as the book was brought halfway forwards. She spread her paws, looking at her sister. Uncertainly, Tkrn and Jerci and the third Gnoll tilted the book so all could see.

Then—and only then—did Akrisa look down. Krshia saw her sister’s face.

Older. Older by two years. Not that much—and yet it was when you grew up together. Still young. A younger Chieftain now, compared to their mother. Silver beads hung in her mane; she had a single earring on the left, a miniature silver fang, the tip marked by ruby. Their mother had worn that.

A variation on the warrior’s patterns on her mane. Like Plains Gnolls, she only wore a type of breast band and loincloth in the hot summer air. Both patterned fabrics, comfortable and beautiful.

She carried a spear—the Silverfang Chieftain’s spear. Appropriately, an enchanted spear, closer to a glaive since it was curved.

She met Krshia’s gaze now, brown eyes deep, and her voice was softer than Krshia’s, but calm as she nodded.

“You are welcome, kin. Present yourself.”

Again, Krshia hesitated. This was not what she had imagined. But she approached, and then, knowing she should, knelt in the grass. She looked at Akrisa—the [Chieftain] was already moving. She touched Krshia’s arm, and gently bade her to rise. Then, she embraced Krshia.

“Kin. You are welcome, my sister. You and the Gnolls of Liscor! And you bring a great gift with you! A gift worthy of the greatest of tribes! Let it be said!”

Her voice rose and she turned with Krshia’s arm in hers, thrusting it up into the air. Then—the Silverfangs with her howled and shouted, throwing themselves forwards to cluster around the magical tome, grabbing the surprised Tkrn, Jerci, hugging them—

All as it should be. But why the ceremony? Krshia turned to Akrisa, and the two shared a look. What should have been them embracing and laughing turned into a single moment of…

“Honored Krshia! Honored Krshia-aunt!”

A shape hit Krshia in the leg. She staggered—and saw a little Gnoll racing around her. His fur was darker—a mix of her and Akrisa’s brown and black. He had two black spots around his eyes, such that he looked almost like he had a mask on.

“Cers!”

Akrisa’s pause turned into a note of exasperation. The little Gnoll clung to Krshia’s leg. Then he let go, running about the two.

“Mother, this is Honored Aunt Krshia, yes, yes? And that’s a magic book! Are there more! Can I see it? Mother—they smell! Mother—”

“Cers Silverfang, enough.”

The [Chieftain] of the tribe was exasperated as she spoke to her…son? Krshia stared. But she had received news of it. It was just—he was nearly Mrsha’s age! A bit younger, and so full of life and chatter it reminded her of, well, Ekirra. And if memory served—

“Satar. I told you to watch your brother.”

Exasperated, Akrisa turned. And there a blonde Gnoll with the [Shaman]’s staff trotted forwards, looking hugely embarrassed.

“I tried, M—Chieftain. But he escaped me. Because he bit my arm.”

She glowered at Cers. He flattened his ears.

“I did not.”

Satar Silverfang and Cers. Krshia knew one and had heard of the other, though he had not been born last time she visited. Satar had been just a child, and shyly greeted Krshia with an embrace.

“Honored Aunt Krshia.”

“Satar. It is good to see you. And this must be Cers, yes? I am your aunt.”

“Hello! I am Cers!”

He laughed, purely full of energy and excitement. Unrestricted and untamable—like many Gnoll children his age. In fact—possibly worse than a City Gnoll because the second thing he did was dash at the horses.

“Wait, that’s dangerous k—”

Beilmark called out. But the young Gnoll leapt onto the back of one of the horses, swinging himself onto it. Bareback, he rode the surprised animal forwards.

“Mother! Horses!”

“Cers, enough!”

His ears flattened and he dismounted as his mother looked at him. It was an adult-look, the kind that told a child this was the last straw. Krshia was busy inspecting Satar.

She looked like her father. Krshia wondered if she’d meet him. Cers on the other hand? He was…clearly…not Satar’s fur type. Nor was he from the same father.

The [Shaman] had black fur, and a speckled pattern of russet-red on his tail and ends of his legs and arms. Cers hadn’t inherited that, but Krshia greeted him.

“Shaman Cetrule, it is a great thing to meet you once more.”

“Indeed, Honored Krshia.”

They exchanged a more formal hug, sniffing each other. Krshia was still taken aback at how she’d met her sister. She looked at Akrisa.

“Sister—”

“Chieftain.”

The one word stunned Krshia into silence. Akrisa looked at her warningly, then raised her voice.

“Silverfangs! Back to the camp! Quickly! Put that blanket on the artifact. Shaman Cetrule—can you mask its magic? Even I can feel it upon my fur.”

“I will try, Chieftain. Honored Krshia, did you bring anything to mask it with?”

“We used a blanket…”

“Some mud, then. We did prepare. The mud-blanket!”

Krshia blinked. Suddenly, the Silverfangs were moving. The Plains Gnolls brought something she half-recognized.

It was a ‘mud blanket’, a word for a rather peculiar Gnollish invention. It was, well…mud encased in a holding material. It was usually fabric, woven such that the mud didn’t escape.

Why did you need a blanket of mud? Well, to keep the heat in! It was an insulator that they used in some yurt-type housing that needed to resist super-cold situations or the opposite, heat. You could create steam-baths with it since it really helped keep the moisture in.

However, this was a special one. Krshia saw-smelled silver mixed liberally in with the mud. The heavy fabric was draped over the tome. Instantly—the magical aura faded.

Impressed, Krshia blinked. She turned to Cetrule.

“You came up with that?”

“At the Chieftain’s request. We will use that to hide it. Bring it to my tent. I will safeguard it, until the Chieftain desires it presented.”

Krshia opened her mouth again—then saw her sister look at her. She closed her mouth.

“To the camp, then. We return in celebration! Our kin have returned and our great gift is here!”

The Gnolls cheered. They helped the Gnolls from Liscor mount and return, whooping and howling—before being admonished to keep it a secret. Still, the mood was celebratory.

Only Krshia was confused at how she had been welcomed.

—-

The Silverfang camp was on the edge of the gathering of the Meeting of Tribes. And Tkrn, swept up by the chaos of it all, saw the Meeting of Tribes at first as a vast, sprawling network of lights.

He understood more as he approached. It was not, at first glance, the largest sprawl of tents and Gnolls imaginable, a chaos of people. It was in fact organized. For a given value of organization.

Each tribe had their own area. Each one with tents, eating, cooking spaces, and so on. Not all were one tribe; some were mixed.

But between each tribe was a generous amount of space. A kind of neutral ground in which other things were set up. Places for smiths to sell goods, activities, communal eating grounds—

Private and public was a good way of looking at it. Obviously as well, there were good places; the areas near the river where the Meeting of Tribes was taking place was already filled with countless tribes—not right at the border, but close enough to make gathering water simple.

Most tribes wanted to be in the center of it, such that the center of this sprawling area was filled and there were only gaps on the outer rim where the latest tribes to arrive were placed. Thus, the worst place to be was the one where you had to walk to both river and to get to the center area.

…Which was where the Silverfang were. In fact, they hadn’t even properly camped.

A thousand Silverfangs had come to greet Krshia and the others and Tkrn had naively assumed that was all there were. He was wrong.

Nearly ten times that number or more were spread out, a vast conglomerate of tents and Gnolls. They looked up as the ones who had greeted him came racing back, howling the good news.

“We will establish our position at last! Now we know our kin are here! Inform the Plain’s Eye and Az’muzarre tribes!”

The [Chieftain]—Akrisa—was shouting. His Chieftain? It was an odd thought. Tkrn was so caught up as he, Jerci, and the other younger Gnolls stared at the kin they had never met or known, that he nearly missed Krshia turning.

“Tell the Plain’s Eye and Az’muzarre tribes?”

“Az’muzarre has organized this, Honored Krshia.”

Chieftain Akrisa spoke—a bit stiffly for sisters, Tkrn thought. He saw Krshia hesitated.

“Of course. But Plain’s Eye?”

“They are forming a map of all the tribes. They would want to know. In fact, I have not yet met with their Chieftain. I was holding off until you arrived. They will want to meet us.”

“I see…”

There was a second layer running to the camp that Tkrn did not quite understand. He did not, but Beilmark looked up and blinked.

“Plain’s Eye must be even more powerful if we’re presenting ourselves to them. Ah, we’re back not a minute and it’s like we never left, huh, Raekea?”

She sighed. Tkrn turned to her.

“What do you mean, Beilmark?”

He saw the Senior Guardswoman frown.

“It’s Honored Beilmark, Tkrn. We should have remembered—but it has been nearly a decade. Call me that unless we’re around friends. Raekea too.”

“Do I have to do that, dear?”

Her husband wondered aloud. Raekea laughed.

“They make an exception for outsiders, Jekss. But—it’s tribe matters. We should have explained—”

“What’s there to explain? Just be polite. We’re ‘City Gnolls’ these days. Did you hear that introduction? Kin from afar.”

One of the older Gnolls sighed. The Gnolls of Liscor murmured, but quietly. Tkrn blinked. He began to understand that greeting was more than mere tradition.

—-

“What was that, Akrisa? We have been sisters for four decades and you did not acknowledge me until I presented our gift?”

The Chieftain of the Silverfang tribe lived in a tent far bigger than Krshia’s apartment. Contrary to what many might think—you could build some fantastic ‘temporary’ structures with bags of holding. Krshia could have fit three apartments of hers into this space and had room to spare.

A vast, domed ceiling, thick walls with the mud blanket insulators that kept sound out—all enchanted of course. She recognized a [Shaman]’s markings against insects on the walls, one against prying, and one more for cooling.

Three marks—an extravagant use of power for all but a [Chieftain]. Each one took a toll on the [Shaman] to upkeep, however slight. Well, Silverfang was plenty large enough to support the spell easily and perhaps it was one of the other [Shamans] who had cast it.

Thirty minutes had passed since the welcome. The other Gnolls were in camp, getting settled, being welcomed.

Krshia was in Akrisa’s tent. She would sleep here—the Gnoll families did. In fact, there were rooms within the huge tent, formed by walls of cloth.

Luxury beyond Krshia’s apartment. But she was too upset to appreciate it. She turned to Akrisa—the [Chieftain] had put down her spear and was sitting.

“Silkap. I have some. You must be hungry. Silkap and bread?”

Akrisa looked past Krshia. The Gnoll’s furious glare did nothing. Krshia folded her arms.

“Yes. Please. We only had brunch.”

“There’s a jar there. I’ll get some bread.”

The [Chieftain] rose—rather—she got someone else to get some freshly baked flatbread. Krshia had already undone the jar and put a huge amount of the Gnollish spread in a bowl. She was glaring as Akrisa reappeared. Krshia grabbed the bread, tore a piece off, and held it up sarcastically.

“This kin from afar thanks the Chieftain for the food. We share it as Silverfang alike.”

She pasted some silkap onto it and bit. The fact that it tasted really good after her long trip didn’t help. Hot bread, silkap tasting of meat, some chive, strong with lard like their mother made it—mm. She masticated furiously.

Rather than rise to the bait like she normally would, Akrisa just helped herself.

“That’s quite good. You should say that tonight when we eat in public.”

The City Gnoll stopped mid-chew. Her eyes narrowed.

“What? Akrisa, you are tempting my patience.”

“I am, yes? Well, that is terrible, no? For kin—much less sisters—I should have given you an embrace. A kiss and welcomed you without ceremony or gift! How could I?”

The [Chieftain] murmured softly. Krshia nodded furious agreement.

“You humiliated me in front of my people.”

“Hrm. Your Gnoll-people. Your Liscor-Gnolls. Your…City Gnolls.”

“We are of Liscor, now! But we are still Silverfang! What has gotten into you to make you so distant! What’s wrong with you? You should be rejoicing! I have brought a great gift! I—”

Krshia was snatching another piece of bread when Akrisa’s paw moved. She reached out and, before Krshia could dodge, snagged Krshia’s ear.

Between two fingers. Krshia yelped.

“What are you—”

Her older sister twisted her ear.

“You little brat. You were always like this. Why are you so mean, Akrisa? Why do you not hug me? What happened to the dozens of spellbooks we sent money for you to buy, hrm? What about the [Fireball] you told me blew up our gift? Why are you three days late?”

“Ow! Let go of—”

Akrisa twisted her younger sister’s ear harder. Krshia yelped. And she had forgotten.

Firstly, that her sister had never been less temperamental than she herself could be. Second? She was an older sister. And some things never changed.

“You come here late, and you think I can just run over on all fours and lick your cheek? Twist my tail, Krshia! I am a [Chieftain] now! I have to establish you are returning and make you follow some traditions or let half the tribe accuse you of being favored! Which you are! You are mad that I made you show everyone the gift our tribe has labored for ten years to bring after you said it was exploded?”

“I told you we got a new one!”

“And there were weeks of the entire tribe fearing we had lost all! For that matter—you act like there is nothing wrong? What happened to the warriors I sent to you, hm, Krshia? What happened…to Brunkr?”

Abruptly, the fingers let go. Krshia leaned away—but suddenly her anger was gone.

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

Akrisa looked at her, almost disbelieving. Krshia hung her head.

“I—”

“If you say you forgot, your cousin will kill you. And she will have to find a way to turn you into a zombie, because I will kill you first.”

Akrisa’s eyes flashed. Krshia raised her paws.

“I did not forget, sister. I would never. It is just—another important person was lost to us recently. That is why we were delayed. We were grieving.”

The older Gnoll’s face flickered. Abruptly, her ire went out and she sat down.

“More death? Another Gnoll…? No? Either way—that city seems to bring death. So many. Not that the plains are ever safer. But Brunkr…Menoa mourns. I made her stay. But she will want to speak with you.”

“I brought his ashes and belongings.”

“Good.”

They sat once more. This time, Krshia didn’t take the silkap. She had…forgotten. Somehow, Erin had wiped the memory of it.

“Warriors to aid you—killed by Gazi Pathseeker before she rejoined the King of Destruction. Brunkr—lost to a Named Adventurer who turned out to be false. Regrika Blackpaw. Our kin, eaten by our foe thought lost to time, lost in battle with monsters from the dungeon. This is what I hear, Krshia. I have feared for you for the last year.”

Akrisa spoke now, directly to Krshia. The younger Gnoll hung her head.

“I sent word each time. But—it must have been harder to hear it.”

“It was. Time and again? Six times, the tribe asked whether your going was a mistake. Whether it would be best to travel to Liscor to bring you all back, rather than to leave you in what seemed to us to be death and danger. What is happening there?”

“Much. A dungeon, a…there was an inn. I cannot explain it, Akrisa. It is a longer story. And a sadder one. The Human I wanted to bring? She is…gone.”

Akrisa’s gaze darkened.

“More sadness. Krshia—”

She reached out. Krshia guarded her ear, but this time Akrisa just drew her into a one-armed embrace.

“I am sorry, Krshia. I am. We have much to say. It is just that I could not welcome you with open arms. Not after what was lost. You had to present yourself, and even then, I did not make you ask or wait upon my judgment. Some wanted that. If only to preserve my power.”

“What? Preserve it? Are that many trying to unseat you as Chieftain?”

Krshia blinked. Akrisa let go of Krshia and gave her a crooked smile.

“Aside from the usual malcontents, you mean, yes? Only one. And she sits across from me.”

Krshia’s mouth fell open in denial. Akrisa waved at it as she took some silkap and bread.

“You have done too well. A year before? I could have welcomed you, the loss and accidents aside. Now? Councilwoman Krshia, who sits on a Drake city’s Council comes here. Some wonder if you are a Chieftain of the Liscor Tribe instead of a sister to the [Chieftain].”

“I would never—”

“I know. But they said it. That should have quieted them down. Just do say something before we eat.”

Krshia stared at her sister. She saw Akrisa sigh. Then look up. Unbidden, but in unison, the two began to chuckle.

“I’ve been gone too long from the tribes. Not a day back and it is all the same.”

Akrisa’s chuckle was more rueful.

“A bit. Some things have changed, but I did not upset the old ways of the tribe. Ah, Krshia. It has been too long. Sit. Tell me what needs telling before Cers scampers in. He will want to know all the stories—but some things must be told only to me, mustn’t they? Well, perhaps tonight with Cetrule.”

Krshia relaxed. Now—now she felt like she was back. The uncomfortable welcome began to make sense. And her own guilt? She remembered it.

Brunkr. It felt too long for how shortly ago it had been. She ducked her head—but more silkap was offered—and Akrisa got up.

“Some cheese! I have goat’s…unless Cers took it to snack on. Aha! There it is.”

She produced some crumbling cheese—and then a brie for contrast. And some baked yellat, and some wine. It was hardly the most expensive spread, but it was filling and tasty. The two properly broke bread now.

“There’s too much to say, Akrisa. Erin—I can tell you all her story. For it is a good one. But enough to let me say that I am a Councilwoman thanks to her. And that Liscor is a city with its own troubles. Vast ones. The Antinium…”

“Madness. The thought of you living with them under you? I still shudder.”

Akrisa shook her head. Krshia sniffed.

“They are quite nice. In fact—they have names. They are a people now, a proper one. Perhaps even allies.”

“You must be joking, no?”

“Not at all. But that is for you and Cetrule—even Honored Gnolls to hear. Let me think. For us two? Well…I am a bit mixed on how I feel, but I am a [Royal Shopkeeper] now. Level 33. And I have some interesting Skills there. A Level 11 [Councilwoman]—oh, and I leveled up in [Shaman] after all these years.”

Akrisa’s eyes widened.

“Royal? How did that come about?”

“Part of the story. I met a [Princess]—there is one living in Liscor. I did not write to you of that. But it is my hope we meet her, when we summon Mrsha.”

“The Doombringer? You wrote of that, Krshia. The [Longstrider Scout] I sent—Vvrow? He thought you were mad.”

She had sent Vvrow to coordinate things. He had been impressed by Krshia’s class—but perhaps that was one of the reasons Akrisa had had trouble. Krshia sniffed.

“White Gnoll-child. Not a Doombringer. I intend to prove that to the tribes.”

“Good luck. I cannot believe it myself—but I will listen! Do not give me that glower, Krshia.”

Akrisa took another sip of wine. Krshia sighed.

“She is a good child. A [Mage]! She learned magic from the book, Akrisa. It can be done!”

The Gnoll [Chieftain] coughed.

“Stop telling me things while I drink, Krshia. It is going to come out my nose. So many developments in one year! Because of that Human?”

Krshia’s face fell. Still—she waited as Akrisa took a longer draft of wine.

“I’m also sleeping with that Drake I wrote to you of, Lism. On the Council.”

Akrisa sprayed wine onto the floor and her fur. Krshia laughed so hard she fell over. Her older sister threw the empty cup at her.

“You little—you are mad! Mad and—Lism? I thought you wanted him dead!”

“Things change. Oh—and by the way. If you want me to get you better wine, give me a barrel and I’ll give it back to you after a month or two. [Appreciating in Value] is my Level 30 consolidation Skill. I have some gifts from Liscor that have increased in value in my care.”

Akrisa’s jaw dropped.

“What? You must be joking with me.”

“Not at all. Here, let me just…”

Krshia went to her bag of holding and belongings. She reached in and fished out the first of the gifts she had brought from Liscor. She handed something to Akrisa. It was a bottle of wine.

“I bought this for barely a few silver on bargain. I didn’t taste this one, but I had a second bottle of the same and it was the cheapest, foulest wine I could think of. It’s been in my care since I got the Skill, about four months now.”

Her sister eyed the label and cheap glass.

“It looks like it’s not worth the cost of the bottle.”

“Well? Let’s have a try.”

The Chieftain of the Silverfang tribe gave Krshia a long look.

“I’m reminded you were a trickster, Krshia. If this is one of those pranks like the time you covered our old [Shaman]’s tail in sap…”

“You wound me, Akrisa. I’m dignified in Liscor. People respect me.”

“I’ll bet. Well—”

They poured a cup. Akrisa sniffed suspiciously and Krshia held her breath. She hadn’t opened the bottle, and the uncorking made her heart flutter. But the first sniff made both Gnolls do a double-take.

“That can’t be right. It smells like—”

Akrisa dipped her tongue into the cup. She did a little taste and her eyes went round. Krshia inhaled a proper bouquet. She took a sip and gasped.

“Oh, that is good.”

“Marvelous. But it’s—”

The two looked at each other. Then they both began to laugh. Krshia chortled and Akrisa took a huge draft and smacked her lips. Then she began to guffaw.

“Cers! Cers, where are you? Come here and have a drink of your aunt’s ‘wine’!”

She laughed as she poured a cup of the finest grape juice Krshia had ever had into a cup. It tasted like it was made of excellent grapes, but—Krshia was laughing as the tent flaps opened and a Gnoll raced through.

“Grape juice? Where? It smells so good!”

The little Gnoll could detect the quality even more than they. Krshia scratched at her head, bemused.

“It must have been closer to grape juice than wine! Either that or…? I don’t know how my Skill works!”

“Have you tested it? Sip, Cers! We’ll share this at dinner with the others. It’s the product of your aunt’s hard work!”

“It’s so goooood! Do they have this in Liscor all the time? It’s so tasty! My tongue feels like it’s sparkling!”

Cers took a sip, and then rolled about on the floor happily. It was such an innocent thing Krshia laughed and felt her heart gladdening for the sight. She talked as the boy raced out with the cup to show his friends.

“I have tested it! Kept it secret, mainly—but the key is that it takes time. A week is barely enough time to notice much! Mind you—I have tested it.”

“And?”

“It works on two objects at most. There is a…a limit to the expense I think it can reach. And as of yet, it does not work on magical objects.”

“Ah, these limits make sense. And you are only Level 30.”

Krshia nodded. She was an odd Gnoll, she would admit herself. She had reached Level 30 by consolidating her [Trader] class—but she had still achieved it in ten years of coming to Liscor. And she was a [Huntress], a [Shaman], and a [Councilwoman] now. All parts of her life.

“So we cannot give you magical weapons to keep. What about quantity?”

The Gnoll winked.

“Well, I had tested it on smaller objects since people ask questions—it has to be where I sleep, you see? In my actual care, not my shop. But if you would like to roll a barrel of something into my tent…”

“People will think City Gnolls drink wine like water! I will have it done. Then what did you try it on, besides this juice?”

Akrisa chuckled. Krshia shrugged.

“Since I had this maturing for four months, only one thing at a time. I experimented. I put some grit in butter—in a week, it was all gone. Two weeks and it was good butter. Then I tried it with a rock.”

“And?”

“Nothing. It was a rock. I think it has to have actual value. I gave that up, and then I did water.”

“Water?”

Akrisa snorted. Krshia held up a paw.

“Listen. It was fresh after three weeks. I could swear it was like a minor stamina potion, yes? Excellent water. I could make money from doing nothing! Although…it’s not much.”

“Amazing. And you got this Skill because a [Princess] helped you? Here I work for my Skills and I feel mine is suddenly less worthwhile than yours! I can protect us from monsters with [Tribe: Warding of Safety]—all but the worst! But yours is so fun.”

The [Chieftain] huffed. Krshia gave her a little smile.

“I suppose it is in our natures. You became Chieftain, after all. It is not a ‘fun’ job. And I…”

She stopped, the cup halfway to her lips. Akrisa sighed.

“You had to leave. Well—you have done well, Krshia.”

She smiled, and so did Krshia. Ten years ago, Krshia, [Trader] for the Silverfangs, had proposed the idea to the new Chieftain of the Silverfang Tribe, Akrisa. She had been granted the Gnolls and funds to go to Liscor and try this great venture. Because her mother, the old Chieftain, had refused her. And because…Krshia did not fit into the tribe. Because, she had told her sister then, she needed something else.

Because being a Plains Gnoll was not for me. Krshia sipped quietly, savoring the taste. Soon, Cers would race back in, with his sister, and she would greet Akrisa’s new partner. Say her apologies to Brunkr’s mother. Mourn and bear her burdens and respectfully show deference to her sister.

She was willing to do all of it. She was glad to be here, now. But it reminded Krshia—

This was not her home. There were reasons she’d left the tribes. She would always be a Silverfang. But not all that Plains Gnolls did was right. So she felt. But for now, she drank grape juice and looked at her sister’s family. Ah—

She was just a bit jealous.

—-

Tkrn did not know what he had been led to expect since he had no expectations. So he couldn’t really complain about the Silverfang tribe.

Not that he would. But if he did—

It was just a bit weird. That was all.

The introduction to the Silverfang tribe hadn’t been that odd to Tkrn, although he’d noticed the older Gnolls eying each other during the ritual greetings. But soon they were in camp and Tkrn had a real welcome.

Gnolls were not afraid to put paws on each other and one practically dragged Tkrn off to give him a celebratory drink. And again! No complaints!

Tkrn felt odd drinking by day since a [Guard] was always sober on duty, but the Velrusk Claw was a fine, more savory mead. Also, purple. But he liked it and it wasn’t as astringent, which Gnoll palates shied from in large. Drakes loved Firebreath Whiskey for the same reason. Tkrn could only stand oozing from every pore for so long after each shot.

“You’re from the city, yes? What’s it like? Do those Drakes give you a hard time? You brought the magic book—tell us about that—no, this dungeon first!”

“Is Liscor like Oteslia? Smaller? Did Honored Krshia bring anything else back besides the magic tome? What happened to the other spellbooks?”

“Guardsman. So do you get [Warrior]’s Skills or is there some difference in class? Show me your best one!”

It was like being at a family reunion, only, he was the center of attention rather than the cousin expected to greet everyone and not get in the way of the adults. Tkrn rather enjoyed that.

He also enjoyed meeting Krshia’s family—he didn’t know there were two children of Chieftain Akrisa! Tkrn memorized names dutifully.

There was the [Shaman], Cetrule, who had…not married [Chieftain] Akrisa. But they were a couple so it was a technicality? Let’s see. Satar was a half-sister to Cers, the little Mrsha-age cub who kept running around offering grape juice to everyone.

Satar was a [Shaman] in training, or a new one. Cers was clearly beloved—if rascally as most Gnolls his age. Everyone seemed to respect Akrisa, which was good.

No problems! The only issues were when Krshia brought out an urn of ashes and the objects of…Tkrn saw her approach an older Gnoll. The Gnoll took the urn, the belongings, heard Krshia out, and then punched her.

Brunkr’s mother. Also one of Krshia’s cousins. Half the tribe stirred and Akrisa held up a paw. Some of the [Warriors] began to move, but Menoa was already walking away.

“Whew. If they had to drag her off, it would have been worse.”

Raekea breathed. Her husband, Jekss, was coughing out his drink.

“That wasn’t bad enough? She nearly broke Krshia’s jaw in front of everyone!”

“Her son was killed while under Krshia’s care. Shouldn’t she be angry?”

The Drake blinked. One of the Plains Gnolls sniffed at him. They regarded Jekss much like the Gnolls from Liscor.

Outsiders. Curious and in the case of the other Silverfangs, beloved, but strange. Tkrn saw Krshia rub at her jaw. She didn’t immediately heal it either, although it was gone by dinner.

That was uh, interesting. But the real interesting stuff? It came after dinner.

—-

Dinner was a huge affair. It took place over hours since not all the tribe would eat at once. Tkrn listened to Akrisa’s speech—and Krshia thanked her as kin once more, which seemed to be approved by everyone.

Silverfang food wasn’t as outlandish as anything Tkrn might have expected—again, if he’d done that. Because, obviously, Silverfangs comprised most of the Gnolls in Liscor and they had brought their cooking with them!

There was more of an emphasis on dried foods, however. A bit more dried meats rather than fresh cut you could buy at markets, and not so many vegetables that couldn’t be easily acquired. The Silverfang tribe transported their food, so they didn’t have the luxury of warehouses with preservation spells.

“Our [Shamans] can delay the food rot, but we don’t sit and grow food. Only the Greenpaw tribe and a few others stay in one place.”

Dekava laughed in amusement. She was eating with Tkrn, Beilmark, and some of the others; the Gnolls of Liscor were spread out, to socialize with their kindred. Dekava had attached herself to Tkrn, Beilmark, and Jerci and her parents. Not out of sheer politeness or the Chieftain’s command, either. She was clearly interested in Tkrn and Beilmark and Jerci as [Guards]—it was she who had pestered them to show their Skills off.

Tkrn was uh, politely, average for his level and age. Which meant he was a Level 16 [Guard]. Not exactly impressive. His best Skill?

[Fast Leg Sweep]. A variation on the traditional [Leg Sweep] Skill he’d gotten at Level 10. It meant he performed the Skill…fast.

He could take down even a Senior Guard if they weren’t careful and it was definitely useful in a scuffle! However, it wasn’t uh, the ability to strike three times simultaneously or a [Blade Art].

Dekava had given Tkrn a polite smile before demonstrating her [Hunter-Warrior]’s ability—[Pinpoint Strike]. She could place any arrow or blade wherever she wanted once. It was considered similar to [Unerring Throw] or Skills like that, but superior in accuracy, if limited in uses.

She wasn’t that higher-level than he was. Only…Level 19. Soon to be Level 20. And she was a year younger. Tkrn was at least glad Beilmark had agreed to show off one of her Skills.

“Well, how do you get your food then? You can’t buy all of it.”

The Gnoll [Warrior] bared her teeth in a grin—then realized he was serious.

“We raise herds! Most Gnoll tribes do. The plains have lots of food. Just not for us. Sheep for clothing, goats for milk—cows if you can stand herding them—horses to travel, pigs for meat—all of it for meat in the end.”

Indeed, it was meat and dairy as much was vegetables. Tkrn chewed appreciatively; Gnolls were not meant to live on legumes alone.

By the same token though—fruits were a delicacy. Which was why Krshia’s grape juice gift was so welcome. Tkrn wondered how much she’d paid for it. He hadn’t gotten any since they had brought it, but it smelled heavenly.

“We do get fruits now and then. From Oteslia. We trade with the cities or other tribes for things we don’t have. But we stick to our lands. Where the silver mines are. We can’t leave them anymore; we left two thirds of the tribe there.”

“Two thirds?”

Tkrn looked around at the vast sea of Gnolls. But then he remembered; Liscor was far larger than the Silverfang tribe these days, even with their full numbers. It was just that they were all in one place!

“It’s rare for them too, Tkrn.”

Jerci’s father leaned over as he snagged another piece of gristle, his favorite. He chewed happily and spoke while chewing.

“Normally, Gnolls work and carry out their tasks and don’t see the entire tribe except for special occasions like this. I grew up in a smaller camp and only saw all the Silverfangs once or twice a year. Some tribes send younger Gnolls to work in cities, and so on.”

“Hmm. Those days were nice. Sleeping wherever you wanted, always seeing something new, hunting…that was how we met!”

Jerci’s mother snuggled closer to her father. The rookie [Guard] looked horrified.

“I never should have come here. Gah!”

She stood up to get a drink. Tkrn laughed and saw Dekava nearly falling over. They looked at each other. The Plains Gnolls really weren’t that different from City Gnolls!

“Honored Beilmark! Will you show us your Skills?”

Before Tkrn could say something, Dekava leapt up. Beilmark groaned.

“I just ate. But I suppose since we’ve all settled in…one time.”

Some of the younger Gnolls looked around excitedly. They clustered around and from the Chieftain’s fire, Akrisa and Krshia glanced their way. They watched as Beilmark massaged her back.

“I can put on armor if you like, Honored Beilmark! What shall we do? Spar? Or will you demonstrate if it’s dangerous?”

“I’m not putting on armor after days of riding in it. You can use your spear or dagger or attack me with bare hands if you want, Dekava. I’ll show you my Skill.”

Beilmark sighed. She wasn’t reaching for her weapon though, and Tkrn knew she could use a number at will. Dekava noticed it too. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“Won’t you draw a weapon, Honored Beilmark?”

“Nope.”

The Gnoll woman smiled slightly. Tkrn saw Dekava’s ears flatten slightly.

“I am a full warrior, Honored Beilmark. I wouldn’t want to hurt you. I was told [Guards] of Liscor were only half as prone to combat as a [Warrior].”

There was a murmur and ooh of laughter from the watching Gnolls. Tkrn frowned—but Beilmark just smiled.

“That’s certainly true, Dekava. My job is to keep the peace, not fight all the time. Although I do both. I can tell if you’re guilty, and stop you if you steal something. But I wouldn’t want you to take me lightly. Go on.”

She spread her paws. The younger Gnoll frowned as her friends and onlookers laughed. She hesitated—and then grabbed for her spear on the ground. She whirled it up and thrust at Beilmark.

Tkrn made a sound, but it was butt-first, not spearhead. It was still the kind of blow that could crack a rib if—

Beilmark knocked the tip wide with one arm and stepped in. Which wasn’t necessarily good because Dekava was already moving her spear up to clip Beilmark’s j—

The Senior Guardswoman touched Dekava and the Plains Gnoll was suddenly lying on the ground. She blinked up at the fading sky as everyone gasped.

“Wh—what—”

Beilmark knelt on her chest as Dekava struggled to rise.

“And you are under arrest. This would be where I take away your weapon and restrain you. Guardsman Tkrn, see to the criminal.”

Tkrn stood up, grinning, as Dekava struggled—but Beilmark had her pinned. The older Gnoll let go and grinned as the others demanded to know what she’d done!

“[Immobilizing Touch]. Locks up someone for just a few seconds depending on their level. Relc barely stops. But if you want to end a [Thief]-chase…”

She walked back to her seat. Jerci’s parents were applauding her and laughing. Dekava got up, flushing.

“But that’s not a [Warrior]’s skill you use in battle!”

“It got you.”

Beilmark was unruffled. Dekava was spitting mad, but Tkrn was delighted by the rebuttal from one of the Watch’s best [Guards].

Skills and perspectives. It was going well, and Dekava was pestering Beilmark for a rematch with a group of the new [Warriors] of the Silverfang tribe when Krshia stood up.

“Kin! We are honored to be here. And it is my honor to return to my tribe. By the Chieftain’s will—”

She nodded to Akrisa, and her older sister inclined her head with a slight smile.

“—we bring more than the great gift for the Meeting of Tribes! We also have smaller tokens from our city. We will share them now.”

“Oh, the gifts! Jerci, get ours.”

Her mother called out. Tkrn brightened up and Dekava’s head swiveled. The Gnolls of Liscor had brought gifts—tons of them, in fact! They’d packed their saddlebags and bags of holding with things from home.

Things the Silverfang tribe needed or personal tokens of affection. Apparently, they should share them now, so Tkrn dug out some of his.

He’d been given some money by Krshia and bought items the other Gnolls had said would please. Tkrn hadn’t been sure…but after their brief chat, he understood the value of his gifts more now.

“Whetstones! Good ones, too!”

“Straight from Esthelm. I know it’s nothing fancy, but they’ll put an edge on any steel you have.”

Beilmark was passing hers out to the other [Warriors]. Dekava crowed at the high-quality equipment—better than what Tkrn owned. He grinned.

“Will you take a gift from me, Dekava?”

She spun, and then looked at him quizzically.

“What is this?”

He gingerly—very gingerly—proffered one of his gifts.

“Please don’t drop it. And don’t open it either! It’s…a weapon.”

She stared at the glowing green liquid in the glass jar. A little black fleck floated in it—a dead fly.

“What is…this? Not a potion.”

She dubiously inspected the glass jar as the others clustered around, admiring the glow.

“It’s acid. Don’t drop it! You throw it at a monster and they uh, melt.”

Dekava nearly dropped it and everyone dove back as she stared at the acid jar.

“This is a powerful weapon! This is your gift?”

She looked at him admiringly. Tkrn coughed. He felt he needed to be honest.

“You can actually buy them cheaper than you think. I also have some oil for blades, and um…”

Besides the other acid jars he’d bought from The Wandering Inn, he had oil for maintaining steel weapons, and the last thing he was sure the Silverfangs didn’t have. Dekava practically grabbed the long, flat box and sniffed it—then sneezed again.

“Another [Alchemist] thing? What is this?”

“Matches. You take them out, strike them and—you have fire! I thought it would be useful for someone without flint or tinder.”

“I should have thought of that myself. I’d forgotten they were cheap. Good work, Tkrn.”

Beilmark gave him an approving look as Dekava experimentally tried out a match. She struck it too slow the first time, but the second time it lit on the red stuff on the box’s side. She nearly dropped it into the match box, but then waved it about!

“It’s so fast! Faster than a flint and tinder and—hot! What is this? From Pallass? It’s new!”

“Don’t let it burn your fur! No, an [Alchemist] in Liscor made it! It was all the rage a while ago.”

Tkrn puffed out his chest, delighted at the reaction. Then he saw the other Gnolls storming over.

“Tkrn! Friend Tkrn, may I have a box?”

“No, me! I have to scout out and I’m sick of trying to start a fire when it’s wet and raining!”

“I want an acid jar! Great friend Tkrn—”

Amused, he was passing out his collection of goods when Dekava and the other younger Gnolls squabbling over his awesome gifts abruptly fell silent.

“Those are useful tools, both. Our cousins bring back much of use, Dekava. Perhaps it is so useful you would consider letting the older [Hunters] and [Warriors] inspect them?”

Tkrn’s head turned. He saw one of the older Gnolls, a senior [Warrior] by his dye and well, age, step forwards. He expected Dekava to argue. Her face twisted—but after only a second, she proffered both acid jar and matches.

“I would be delighted, Great Warrior.”

The other Gnolls who had fought so avidly over both acid jars and matches turned. Instantly, they offered their gifts to the other senior [Hunters] and [Warriors].

Tkrn’s mouth opened but he felt an elbow hit him in the ribs at once. Beilmark. He closed his mouth as he saw something peculiar take place.

The older Gnolls liked his gifts as much as the younger ones. So much so that they instantly put them in their bags of holding if they had them, or took a match box, remarking how handy it was if you didn’t have a [Shaman]. The younger [Warriors] looked longingly, but then they began to fight over the whetstones and blade oil—those that were left.

What was that? Tkrn looked at Beilmark. She beckoned him aside and whispered very quietly.

“More honored Gnolls get preference. Dekava gave up her gifts for the tribe. It’s customary. Don’t worry—she got something in return.”

What, exactly? But Tkrn already saw the Gnoll whom Dekava had given her items to, advising her on how not to wear down the whetstone and her smiling.

“Status. Now that brings me back.”

Jerci’s father had stopped smiling as much. He chewed on the same bit of gristle as he watched the younger ones fight over what was left. Tkrn looked at him.

“Mister Orrl…is that normal?”

“In the tribes, lad? You see that all the time. It’s one of the reasons I left.”

The Gnoll spoke more like a city person than one of the Plains Gnolls. And Tkrn remembered—he made axles. Not a useless occupation here, but more of a city thing. The Gnoll stretched out.

“Let’s say you’re a [Hunter] and you find a dead adventurer’s scabbard or something. Enchanted. Well—if you were in Liscor, I’d say that’s your luck. Here? The right thing to do is to show it to the Chieftain or [Shaman] or a senior, Honored Gnoll. Maybe they let you keep it if you’re lucky, but chances are you give it to the best Gnoll who needs it.”

“Or most senior.”

His wife murmured just as quietly. Orrl nodded.

“But you’ll be credited for it! Your status in the tribe goes up, especially if you give something good. And someday you’ll be in that spot so…that’s the tribe for you. Tribe first, Gnoll second.”

Tkrn blinked. His first thought was: well, that sucks. But he wisely kept it to himself.

—-

The second peculiarity of Gnollish culture came moments thereafter. Gnolls were drinking now, and a second wave assailing the cooking fires and eating merrily—and talking about the gifts!

“A blacksmith’s puzzle? You shouldn’t have.”

“Oh, it’s just this little thing. You can experiment with how to solve it…”

“Really, you shouldn’t have. How much did this cost compared to those matches, say? Or that lovely cookbook? Thank you so much…”

The point was that most people were happy with their gifts. Also, that Tkrn’s second-cousin Zekoon couldn’t pick out presents.

Another Gnoll waved something at Orrl.

“Er—Orrl. What is this? A cheap club? Couldn’t you even add metal to it? And what are these? I can’t use them in my sling and they’re not much better than our balls. Even our young have some enchanted ones. As for these…gloves…”

Orrl grinned as he threw an arm around the perturbed Gnoll.

“My friend, you will enjoy this. Have no fear! Have you ever heard of…?”

Tkrn was grinning as he saw Orrl begin to explain. Then his face fell as he remembered why the Gnoll knew of that game at all. And then his ears perked up as he saw the first drinkers begin talking loudly around one of the fires.

“I’m glad our cousins enjoy Liscor enough to live there for a decade. But I’ve been to Drake cities too. And you know what my experience is? It’s being called ‘dog’.”

Tkrn’s head turned as a Gnoll groused to the others. Some of the City Gnolls were blinking.

“Dog?”

“It’s Drakes. Not only do they go to you first if someone’s stolen something, they’re always saying it. The bad ones don’t even lower their voices. ‘Smells like a dog’, or ‘untamed savage’. You know, I once worked under a [Foreman] and after a day of hard work, he actually said ‘good dog’ to me. That’s what it’s like living in a Drake city.”

The [Guardsman] actually laughed at that. The listeners turned to him as he trotted over.

“Wait, are you serious? That can’t be true.”

The Gnoll complaining had slightly ragged fur, and looked rather upset. He must have had a bad day; burrs were still tangled in his fur.

“You think I’m joking?”

It was a large group around the fire, and their heads turned to Tkrn and the speaker. The [Guardsman] raised his paws.

“No! I mean—it sounds incredible.”

“That’s never happened to you in Liscor? Not once? Your fellow [Guards] don’t talk behind your back?”

“Nope.”

Tkrn couldn’t even imagine it. The other Gnoll scoffed, but Tkrn scoffed at the idea. Zevara would string that person out to dry!

“No shopkeepers or people on the street?”

“Not a one. They’ve done stupid stuff before. There are plenty of Drakes who’ve had issues with us—well, before the Humans came along. Now they mostly hate them. But we don’t stand for it.”

“How do you mean, don’t stand for it?”

A curious question from Dekava. Tkrn shrugged.

“We just boycott the shop or business. There was a problem with Wishdrinks not letting in as many Gnoll groups. So we all stopped going and they changed their minds. Well, the new manager did. I’ve never had what you describe, mister…?”

“It’s Serral. And you must be exaggerating. I know what other cities are like. Ever heard of Paworkers?”

Tkrn had, but only recently. He spread his paws out.

“That’s some cities. It’s not what living in Liscor is like. Believe me, it’s fine.”

He told the other Gnolls, trying to inject some reality into the rant. He didn’t mean to offend Serral—but realized that was what he was doing.

The other Gnoll bristled.

“Oh, so Liscor is perfect, then? Tell me, until recently how many Gnolls were on your Council?”

“Well…”

“And how many Watch Captains were Gnolls? Has there ever been a Gnoll Watch Captain?”

“No, but we have a good one. So no one’s lining up for the job…”

“And if they did, would they get chosen, or would a Drake be chosen first? For that matter, if your precious city is so good, why haven’t I heard of other Gnolls having wonderful experiences in theirs? Who here has been to Drake cities and had that kind of experience?”

The Gnoll looked around angrily. No one raised their paws, although some of Liscor’s Gnolls looked uncomfortable.

“Maybe it’s one city where you think everything’s fine. But is it really? Or do you just not see what’s wrong?”

He challenged Tkrn. The [Guardsman] hesitated.

“No, I admit there’s things that are wrong. It’s just—not all cities are bad—”

“And you have been to more than me, yes?”

“Well, I’ve been to Human cities—”

“Where there are tons of Gnolls, yes?”

Something was happening. The group around the fire, including Dekava, was growing, and Gnolls were nodding or talking to each other as Serral spoke. Tkrn had invoked something by accident. Not knowing the rules, he tried to reply.

“Look, Liscor is really nice, Serral. The Drakes are kind, nice. Some other cities might be bad, I don’t know.”

“You speak kindly, Tkrn. But you are naïve. Young.”

Serral scoffed back. He turned, and he was addressing the listening crowd around the fire as much as Tkrn. He took a swallow from his drink and went on.

“Maybe the only reason Liscor is so good is that there are enough Gnolls to force the Drakes to treat us civilly. Maybe if there were not so many Silverfangs and so organized with Honored Krshia, we would see exactly how ‘nice’ the Liscorian Drakes are. What I experience is tolerance at best, and incivility and insults and suspicion most of all. But why trust my opinion, no? I’ve lived and travelled to more cities than young Tkrn here…but that’s all.”

More agreement. Tkrn felt himself shrinking as he struggled for a response and found his tongue wasn’t quick enough, especially with the food and drink in him.

Someone came to his rescue before Serral could go on. Tkrn jumped as he felt a paw on his shoulder. He looked left—

And there was Krshia. She cut off Serral.

“You say that despite not having been to Liscor, Serral. It seems there is a lack of knowledge on both sides, yes? And I have been to more cities than both of you combined. And am older than both! What if I told you that Liscor truly was good?”

The angry Gnoll turned. There was a murmur and Tkrn felt Krshia nudge him back. Suddenly—it was Serral and Krshia. They were…

Debating. Tkrn saw the crowd’s heads swing back and forth, listening. Now hundreds of Gnolls were listening from afar as Serral scoffed.

“And was Liscor so wonderful as Tkrn described, Honored Krshia? Or was it just as I said, and Gnolls had to fight for their rights?”

“No. It was not always so nice.”

Krshia held Serral’s gaze as she dipped her head. He smiled—but she undercut him with her next sentence.

“However, Tkrn is not wrong. He speaks from his only viewpoint, which is just as honest as he says. Liscor was uncomfortable with us when we first came. But it was not force that made the citizens warm to us, but that we were there and they grew used to us. Just as they grew used to Antinium. Because both species mixed and mingled. Perhaps the problem with other cities is that they only know Gnolls who come and go, not settle in numbers.”

A second murmur, of intrigue. Serral frowned.

“And why should we, if they treat us so?”

“Perhaps because Gnolls of the plains sometimes come to Drake cities with as much disdain for them as they do for us, Serral. Or do you show up to your job smiling?”

Polite laughter. Krshia waved a paw as he began to growl.

“I am not saying that you are wrong, Serral. Only that you call all Drake cities one thing. When I say it depends on how well they know us. There are good cities with good people—perhaps many cities, only some ruled by hostile Drakes or not used to us. And I say Liscor is one such. That is all.”

He hesitated. But after a moment’s thought, the inebriation seemed to be too much for him to tack on a coordinated response. Defeated, Serral just growled.

“Would that every city were Liscor, then.”

He stomped off to get another drink. Krshia looked around and so did Tkrn. He heard murmurs of agreement, some sharing their own experiences. Then Krshia turned to him.

“Your first day in camp and you must start a debate, hrm, nephew?”

She pinched his ear roughly. He yelped.

“Aunt! I hate when you do that! What did I do?”

“You participated in a debate, Tkrn. Do you not know one when you see it? And you very nearly made yourself and Liscor look like fools, yes?”

Krshia indicated the crowd. Tkrn, wincing, pulled his ear to safety.

“I don’t understand. Did you win the debate? Serral just stormed off.”

She gave him a long look.

“So? I persuaded the ones who matter and thus I won.”

She indicated the listeners. Tkrn saw they were nodding at her, and even the Chieftain looked approving.

“I don’t understand.”

One of the Plains Gnolls chuckled. It was Cetrule. The [Shaman] nodded to Krshia, who smiled.

“It is a custom of tribes, young Tkrn. When Gnolls argue, others listen. Whomever is judged most right ‘wins’, even if the two never reconcile. The goal is to persuade those who listen of your correctness, not to simply talk. And the one who wins often sees the other side come around if all agree.”

Serral hadn’t, but he was having a longer drink then going back to the conversations, which were indeed skewing positive. Tkrn shook his head.

“I can’t imagine trying that in Liscor. Some of my fellow [Guards] would never admit they’re wrong.”

“Well, they are Drakes. We are Gnolls.”

Cetrule laughed. Tkrn hesitated. He’d meant his coworkers in general, which now included Humans. Jerci was incredibly stubborn.

“It is good you had Honored Krshia with you. She is quite renowned and her tongue has not lost its skill, I see. Silvertongue Krshia was your nickname, wasn’t it?”

Cetrule addressed Krshia. She rolled her eyes.

“Silvermouth they called me, since I picked too many arguments. Well, you will hear more such debates, Tkrn. Larger ones, between tribes. Then—the audience is [Chieftains] and [Shamans] and the outcome matters. Try not to cause any more trouble tonight though, yes?”

Chastised, Tkrn nodded. He slunk back to his tent—which was a rounded dome shape, small though, and he was sharing it with two more male Gnolls. But it was protected from the wind and he had drunk and eaten well. The Silverfang tribe was welcoming.

It was just a tiny bit different. That was all.

—-

To Inkar, the Gnolls had never been that different from her culture. At least, they had many overlaps.

Magic sheep? Magic sheep were different. And so was this.

She knew horse fairs. She knew cities. But the Meeting of Tribes was a wondrous event, such that the young woman was glad to have come to this world.

Despite the heartache. Despite the loss. Despite danger and death.

She still felt sad when she thought of the crashed airplane. But enough time had passed that she had stopped mourning and come out of her shock. More importantly—this was the time when she might find her answers.

The Meeting of Tribes. She was practically bouncing to see all the things here. You could trade for valuable goods! Pay to learn secrets, have fun seeing each tribe’s wares and antics, and of course, play games.

However, it had been four days since the Summer Solstice begun and the Longstalker’s Fang tribe had arrived and she had yet to go out and see everything.

The first day they’d just arrived and setting up and finding a space with Eska negotiating for room for their herds had taken all day. Inkar didn’t begrudge that.

Or the next day, when they had to build some temporary fences. After all—thieving and poaching existed in the tribes and the rare animals of their tribe were valuable. Inkar had hoped to go into the main Meeting of Tribes, which was already bustling that night, but she’d been asked to keep Deskie, the [Magic Spinner] who was so important and Inkar’s friend, company.

Sometimes Deskie needed help since she was older. And Inkar’s clothing was proof of their great friendship. Deskie had woven the fabric of Waisrabbits into the lining of Inkar’s clothing.

So two days had passed. And on the third day, there were all kinds of activities to be done! Water needed to be hauled, the sheep fed—you could spend an entire day just doing tasks for the tribe and apparently they were shorthanded so Inkar had no choice, even though some Gnolls who should have been helping if they had all this work were already coming back talking about what they’d seen.

“There’s Lehra Ruinstrider in the camps! People are surrounding her tribe’s camp and asking to meet her!”

“I met one of the Steelfur clan! They have…steel fur! He let me touch it! It’s not painful—not much, but it’s spiky!”

She wanted to join in, but Eska said there was an emergency with the Greenpaw tribe’s [Cook] and they just needed Inkar to help make some of her lovely dishes. So Inkar made some of her dishes from Kazakhstan.

…On the fourth day she figured out what they were doing.

“Inkar, I know you must be anxious, but could you help us build a new spinner? We can’t quite figure out how all the pieces work.”

One of the [Spinners] looked at Inkar a bit too innocently. And Inkar knew that the entire weaving group could put together the spinners by hand, and carve the pieces themselves if need be.

She went to find Eska.

“Why am I not allowed to enter the Meeting of Tribes?”

The [Chieftain] was talking with some of the Honored Gnolls from the Greenpaw Tribe and the Longstalker’s. Inkar knew it was a breach of etiquette, but she was too angry and hurt to care.

Eska looked up and made an excuse to the others. She sighed and took Inkar away to her Chieftain’s yurt to talk.

“Inkar, the Meeting of Tribes is for Gnolls. I would let you join in if I could, but we must make sure you are…allowed to participate. Few outsiders of your species are allowed to go to more than the periphery.”

“Then can I at least go there?”

Inkar pleaded. Eska sighed.

“I fear you may get into trouble or stand out, Inkar. And you are something of a secret that I hope the Chieftains will discuss. But it will be celebrations and politics will not come for a while.”

“I must wait until then? It is not fair! Please, Eska?”

The [Chieftain] hemmed and hawed, but she would have been blind and heartless not to see how cooped up Inkar felt.

“Very well. Tomorrow, though. I will ask the…Plain’s Eye tribe to make a statement to the other Chieftains about outsiders this Meeting of Tribes. I have been trying, Inkar, but they are busy meeting with the other great tribes. But tomorrow, even if I cannot secure their agreement, I will send someone with you.”

Inkar was content with that. She spent the rest of the day brushing the Shockwoolies—her clothing allowed her to do it without those nasty static shocks—and cuddling the friendly animals. Although, part of Inkar remembered that the ‘friendly sheepies’ could and would cluster together and stop someone’s heart if they detected a threat.

Well, good for them. They liked her, and she liked the animals. But she was restless all night, waiting for her chance to explore the meeting of tribes!

—-

The next day, Eska yawned as she rose bright and early. She sighed. Another day of waiting to meet the more important tribes. Skies willing, her tribe’s fortunes would change after this year…

“Oor. What are you doing loafing around? Is Inkarr not up yet?”

She spotted a male Gnoll taking his ease at one fire, having, well, a meat sandwich. More meat than sandwich, really. He was toasting the bread. He looked up.

“Inkarr, Chieftain? No, she woke an hour ago. Practically bouncing to see the Meeting of Tribes.”

“And you’re letting her wait?”

The [Chieftain of Herds] frowned. Oor had befriended Inkar, along with Orreh—not surprising since they were from the same family. But since the [Stalker Hunter] was busy making eyes with one of the Ekhtouch tribe’s [Warriors], Eska had picked him.

The Gnoll gave Eska a blank look.

“Why would I make her wait, Chieftain? She went into the Meeting of Tribes already. Barely stopped to appreciate good food.”

The [Chieftain] looked at him.

“…And you are not with her.”

Oor nibbled his sandwich delicately, savoring the crisp bread, the juicy meats mixing flavors.

“I will catch up, Chieftain. You did say I should show her around. Just as soon as—”

Eska nearly kicked him into the fire.

“I told you to escort her! That does not mean let her wander off, you idiot, you! Go find her! If she gets into trouble—”

Oor scrambled to his feet. He ran past Deskie as the old [Magic Spinner] tsked. But then she smiled.

“Do not worry, Eska. Inkarr is a good child. She would not cause mischief. Worry more about our other Gnolls than her. We have many of our tribe exploring out there. She is not alone.”

“I do. But I do not worry about what Inkarr will do. I worry about what other Gnolls will do to her!”

—-

Eska was right to be worried. Because despite Oor assuring her it was fine and that he’d catch up in ‘five minutes, just as soon as I prepare a proper breakfast, yes?’ He did not. And an hour later?

She was lost.

Not metaphorically lost. Not spiritually lost, or morally lost. Just lost. Physically, among the countless tents and places of the Meeting of Tribes.

In theory she wasn’t. As Tkrn had observed, Inkar had seen the same; each tribe had their own grounds. The areas between the camped tribes was neutral space where everyone could walk.

The problem was—there were no signs. And she couldn’t just walk up to random Gnolls. Well—she could—but she was suddenly shy. Everyone was staring at the lone Human in the crowd! Inkar tugged the hood over her face. Like that, she was just a short Gnoll.

She wandered through the Meeting of Tribes, staring, smelling the delicious roasting meats, seeing a Gnoll breathing fire—and then run around shouting as he accidentally caught the hair on his face on fire.

Gnolls of every type were here. Artisans like Deskie, [Warriors], [Shamans]—

No, that wasn’t right. All kinds of Plains Gnoll were here. Few of the cities. Some came, but they were almost as much outsiders as Inkar. Twice, she saw Gnolls laughing at an ‘overdressed’ Gnoll who had a suit of all things, or a dress!

It was a culture unto itself, as fiercely proud of being nomadic as Inkar had known from home. City versus countryside. Old versus new.

She was content to wandering until Oor found her. But Inkar was lost. And getting more lost by the minute. The problem was mainly that…she didn’t have a good nose.

—-

Tkrn understood how the Meeting of Tribes was laid out. Similarly, while he’d have a chance to wander, Krshia impressed on him and the other younger Gnolls not to get lost.

“Remember the scents of the camps around ours. We are setting up our boundaries now, but if you get lost—try to find a similar scent.”

That was how they did it. Scent! No signposts—and why would they be needed among Gnolls? Each tribe was marking their area. Tkrn eyed the [Shamans] and Gnolls assigned to the task.

“Er, Aunt. I mean, Honored Krshia? How will we mark our area? By…peeing on the ground?”

Krshia’s head slowly rotated. Jerci stared at him. Dekava, who was tasked with helping guide the City Gnolls, laughed so hard she nearly threw up her breakfast.

“Bite my fur, Tkrn. Are you insane?”

Beilmark slapped the back of his head. She pointed.

“We’re using scents. What are we, animals?”

Indeed, the Silverfang clan was burning some incense in bags along the border of their camp. Spice and silver. That was their scent. It would be easy for Gnolls to pick it out from afar, even with all the other thousands of scents.

Tkrn rubbed the back of his head as the others made fun of him until they were released. Dekava was still laughing.

“Shall we explore the Meeting of Tribes together, Tkrn? Or would you like to help mark our territory first?”

She teased him. Tkrn glumly knew everyone in the tribe would hear of his idiocy by nightfall. He shook his head. Think of the fun stuff!

“I would like that, Dekava. Er—exploring the Meeting of Tribes! Not the other part.”

She laughed. He felt like he had two left feet around her. Why, oh why did he turn into a fool? Especially because he thought—

Tkrn was reminded of another ‘date’ he’d gone on, at his aunt’s insistence. With a young Human woman who’d come to the city just a month or two ago…

His heart sank again. Erin was like a shadow over everything. Sometimes he forgot for a moment. But it was still fresh.

Dekava noticed the sudden slump but clearly pretended she didn’t.

“There’s so much to do. I want to see the Steelfur tribe and how much they sell their Steelcloth for. I don’t have much gold…does being a [Guard] pay much?”

“I wish. I haven’t been saving up so I can spend like…a gold piece, at most.”

That was his entire savings, not including some money Krshia had given him for the event. Dekava shook her head at him.

“We’ve been saving for years for this day! What were you doing?”

She meant the other Silverfangs. Tkrn hunched his shoulders defensively.

“I didn’t know I’d be coming! I thought—well, there’s still a lot to see, right? Can we meet some of the Named Adventurers, do you think? I’ve always wanted to meet one. I mean—I have. But a Gnoll one. Like Gamur the Axe. I had a toy of him when I was small. He’s here, right?”

“Is he a true Gnoll? Of course he is! But I don’t know if we’ll be able to meet him. I want to meet them too, and all the Chieftains.”

Dekava sighed. Tkrn looked blankly at her.

“Why not? This is the Meeting of Tribes. If they’re here…”

She frowned.

“Tkrn, did you not hear your Honored Aunt?”

“Er…I was thinking about peeing on doors.”

She rolled her eyes.

“We can’t just walk into another tribe’s camp! Only the free ground. And I’ll just bet the important Gnolls won’t let us in. Unless we’re invited by a member of the tribe or we’re given dispensation…”

Tkrn realized each tribe would have guards at the entrances. The areas outside of each camp were free game, which was why Gnolls were setting up there. But his dream of meeting his childhood hero—he drooped.

“Oh. Fine.”

“Come on. Someone had better make sure you remember all the rules. What’s this about peeing on doors?”

“I thought it was something you did! We did it as kids all the time—”

“So you’re saying you did this recently? As an adult?”

Tkrn had a terrible feeling Dekava was laughing at him, not with him. They entered the Meeting of Tribes as he wondered if he could bribe her not to tell.

—-

Inkar had no special nose. Special hearing thanks to her gift of friendship as a [Worldly Traveller]—yes. But not the nose of a Gnoll, which was what she needed here.

She wasn’t helpless, though.

“One, please.”

She handed over some coppers for a stick of meat. It was very cheap, but good. The Gnoll minding the rotisserie where he was slicing off bits of meat and putting them on sticks gave her an odd look, but he took her money.

She savored the hot bite. Of course, she could have eaten in the camp, but there was something to this. Buying food, walking around, eating it…

It was so exciting! Look! There were Gnolls showing off weapons to each other. They carried everything from wood and ivory to iron and steel and enchanted weapons! Inkar was no warrior, but she found it fascinating, like the warriors of old in her world.

Some were competing—others just talking, catching up with friends from afar. And they were old and young!

A little Gnoll ran up, sniffing.

“What’s that? Where did you get it?”

She was on all fours. Inkar smiled at the child as an exasperated parent pushed after her.

“Right there.”

“Do you have to pay for it? Can I have a bite of yours?”

“Vrers! Enough! I am sorry, Miss—”

The mother snatched up her daughter, and then did a double-take.

“A Human? Here?”

“Oh. I’m sorry—”

“Who let you in? This is the inner area, not—”

Inkar ducked back as heads turned. She saw the mother stare at her, then look around. Inkar turned quickly, pushed past some Gnolls, and vanished.

Where was Oor? She was going to give him a hard time! Maybe she needed to find her way back to the Longstalker’s camp, or failing that, maybe move out of the inner area. Inkar looked around.

The problem was that there were very few easily-accessible high spots. The plains were flat. And Gnolls did not build up, but out. She frowned.

Then—she saw something peculiar as she scanned the sky. Was that…a bird?

It was not the Roc, the gigantic bird that could be ridden by multiple Gnolls, even before fully grown. But neither was it a proper bird. It was too large for that. Was that a bird…person?

Yes! The figure was flapping in the distance, circling, then descending. Inkar stared.

Garuda? She knew only one species in the world were native fliers—besides the Oldblood Drakes. One of them was here?

Oor forgotten, she headed in that direction. She had to meet one! She passed down the street, avoiding a tribe’s camp. The [Guards] were armed with some shiny metal—but a Gnoll was shouting.

“Demas Metal Tribe! We are accepting orders! Our Chieftain will talk to yours about the metal! No peeking!”

Inkar half-turned—but the guards in front of the tribe were frowning at her and she certainly couldn’t afford a commission.

Human. So she hurried on, and found the edge of the inner camp.

Perhaps it was wrong of Eska to have camped in the inner area. But her tribe was next to Ekhtouch and Greenpaw’s smaller contingent. A place of honor thanks to the Ekhtouch and it would have been wrong to abandon Greenpaw, who were really too small on their own.

Still, the inner camp was not for outsiders. Inkar saw some Gnolls with a distinctive ‘eye’ dyed onto their fur or armbands manning a kind of checkpoint. She gulped as she realized she was on the wrong side of one.

She didn’t know how they’d react. She knew they were Plain’s Eye—Deskie called them powerful traditionalists. And she didn’t want to cause trouble for her tribe and Chieftain. So…Inkar edged forwards. She strode towards the Gnolls idly waiting at the checkpoint and sipping tea—they really weren’t doing anything other than turning away outsiders. Before they noticed her coming up from behind she called upon the magic and—

Pop.

Inkar appeared past the checkpoint and a tent. A Gnoll jumped as she saw Inkar appear.

“Holy not-my-Ancestors!”

She exclaimed as Inkar appeared. The Waisrabbit cloth—expensive, highly prized—whispered in Inkar’s clothing. She’d used up the magic charge to hop a tiny bit forwards.

“Sorry!”

Inkar apologized. She rounded the tent as she backed away from the Gnoll and her companions. The Gnoll adjusted her spectacles, staring.

“That was so cool. Did you see that?”

She turned to her companions. Adventurers? The Gnoll was wearing spectacles, and there was a Human man next to her. Inkar blinked. Another Human! Then she did a double-take and stared.

Wait a second. His skin was dark—a bit darker than hers, and he had a different clothing style—a type of robe made of one piece of cloth looped around his body.

But he was…not Human. Not unless they looked like that movie with the monster made out of parts in it. His arms, his neck, his ears all had little stitch marks in them!

“Emper, did you see that? She just appeared!”

“I saw. Good morning, miss.”

The Stitchman replied. He half-bowed to her. Inkar caught herself bowing back.

“Stop being so impressed, Lehr—Lenna. It’s a minor teleport spell.”

That came from someone standing next to the Gnoll with spectacles. Inkar’s head turned. She saw a five-foot high…

If she had stared at Emper, the String Man in surprise, her eyes nearly popped out of her head at the second person standing there. And her gaze was answered by five eyes.

The…the person was short. And she had five eyes. Had Inkar mentioned that already?

Three central ones. Top, left, right. Like a triangle, occupying most of her face. Nose? She had two nose holes, much like a Drake’s. But she was not…similar to Gnolls, Humans, String Folk, or Drakes, who all alternated on the basic humanoid shape.

For one thing, this person had oddly-segmented arms, fingers, and though Inkar could not see them, feet. An odd curl to her ‘fingers’ on each hand—and she only had four of each.

She was squat. Her neck, if she had one, was not one that allowed her to crane her head. That didn’t imply she wasn’t flexible; it was only that her head wasn’t the flexible part. Her lower body seemed to have far more articulation.

Her skin was a dark orange, neither fur nor skin as Inkar knew it. Call it a hide, then. But it transformed to a kind of green the lower it went down her body, in a striating pattern. Oh, there was more to add to her—she was as alien as Inkar had ever known. But the main thing were the two…tendril eyestalks looking Inkar up and down.

“Waisrabbit fur in her clothing. Very lovely stitching.”

The Gazer announced. The Gnoll snapped her fingers.

“So that’s what it is. I should buy some! Imagine me teleporting like that! Bam!”

“Grandfathers spare me from the thought, Lerh—Lenma. Whatever your name is.”

A short woman added. Inkar saw a Dwarf—practically the least interesting member of all four. Aside from the Gnoll, who wore a shining armband and…spectacles?

They were all wearing spectacles, Inkar noticed. The Gnoll adjusted hers and then nudged the Gazer.

“Suxhel. You’re staring.”

“Don’t touch me, please, Lemm. You know how much I hate it.”

The Gazer swiveled an eye-stalk without turning around. Her voice was mild. She did something odd—her eyestalks dipped rather than head nod or bow or anything else.

“Greetings, Miss Human. Apologies for staring.”

“No—I—I—I am pleased to meet you? I am sorry, I have never met…any of your people!”

They smiled at that. Inkar saw Emper turn to Suxhel.

“And she does not scream or run. I told you your fears were unfounded, Suxhel.”

“That is statistically one Human out of thirty eight, Emper. They have a poor track record.”

Emper, Suxhel, and the Dwarf woman held out a hand.

“Another Human at the Meeting of Tribes? I’m Elgrinna Geostrand. Pleased to meet you.”

“Inkar. I—are you a Dwarf?”

“Ah! Yes I am.”

The woman grinned. Meanwhile, the Gazer had discussed ‘how many good meetings’ she had observed versus poor with the Stitchman. The Gnoll was bouncing about.

“Do they sell Waisrabbit fur stuff? I want to buy some!”

She addressed Inkar. And her name was…Lemm? Lenna? Lenma? Inkar blinked and shook her head.

“No, this was stitched by the best [Weaver] of the Longstalker’s tribe…”

“Really? We should visit them, guys! Magic clothing for all! It’d help us get away from Niila and Lord Dragial every—”

All three of the Gnoll’s companions shushed her. Lemm fell silent guiltily and they all adjusted their spectacles.

…Which had no glass, Inkar noticed. They might have been magical, but she didn’t see any magnification in the places where the lenses should be.

“Where are they?”

“Inner camp, I think. Sorry guys—you can’t go in just yet. Chieftain’s talking about it—”

“Well, we can check later. And you’re not spending our gold on teleportation gear, Lemmy. You’d just teleport yourself into a Creler’s stomach. Nice meeting you, Miss.”

They nodded to Inkar and strode off. The Gnoll was protesting.

“Name one time I’ve make a mistake like—”

“This morning. You kicked over an entire barrel of fresh fish.”

“Ah. But on the other paw—we have fresh fish for dinner. There are no unhappy mistakes, right, Emper? You believe in goodwill and stuff, right?”

“There are. I’m a [Monk], not a [Saint], Leena.”

Inkar stared after them. The Gazer had to stride to keep up with the others. And Inkar was relieved to see other people doing double-takes as well as her.

There were more species than just Gnoll in the outer areas of the Meeting of Tribes. Gnolls still predominated by far, but there were Humans and Drakes and other species trying to capitalize on the event.

Inkar felt more at home here anyways. She’d see about getting back to the Longstalker’s tribe later. For now? She strode past the checkpoint, smiling. It didn’t occur to her that her brief appearance where even a team of adventurers couldn’t go might have raised a few eyebrows.

And Gnolls had exceptionally thick eyebrows.

—-

Tkrn lost Dekava. It wasn’t his fault! One second they’d been talking, the next?

Poof. She’d run off the instant someone shouted that the Woven Bladegrass was holding a sparring tournament. Winning warrior got an enchanted weapon of their choice!

“Dekava! Dekava! Where did…?”

Tkrn gave up after ten minutes of searching. He hadn’t seen where she’d run off to with the other [Warriors]. Nor…secretly…did he want to watch a fighting tournament, at least right now.

Crossbows. They’d shot Erin with crossbows. Tkrn found some benches installed and sat down on one glumly. He was still processing that.

He wished Dekava well, but this Meeting of Tribes mattered more to her than him by far.

“I might be able to join another tribe, Tkrn! If a Chieftain sees me and likes me, she might offer me a position in her tribe!”

“Do you want to leave Silverfang?”

“Yes! No. It’s just—I want to be important, and it will take a long time here. I can make my fortune during this event. Anything can happen. That’s how Satar, the Chieftain’s first daughter, came to be, you know. Last Meeting of Tribes, the Ekhtouch and Silverfangs made an agreement for children.”

Children. So Satar was a child of a union between this Ekhtouch and Silverfang—and that was one of the agreements that could be reached here. A Gnoll could be headhunted by other Chieftains. Tribes could buy vast supplies of armor, or a powerful artifact…

Tkrn realized he didn’t know what Krshia or Akrisa hoped to gain from this event. He wondered if the magical tome would be the most important thing on display. Surely so.

Anyways, the seat was nice. It was a shame he couldn’t find Dekava—

“Fighting tournament on the fourth day of the Meeting of Tribes! There have been four winners! Everyone who wants to participate, this way! Gnolls only!”

—Not a chance of finding her. Tkrn watched the Gnolls march past excitedly. He wished her the best of luck. Wherever she was.

He was going to see if he could find wherever his idol Named Adventurer was, or check out the sights. Tkrn had seen a Garuda flying above just a minute ago, and he was smelling good food…he was still a bit depressed and sort of at a loss, really, though.

Erin was dead. He wished she were here. She’d be running around, shouting something and Krshia would be exasperated, but she belonged at an event like this. She was the event. She was Liscor. If she had been there last night, he wouldn’t have needed to explain there were good people who thought kindly of other species.

She’d be dashing past him shouting something like—

“Are those flying pigs? Pigs can fly? I mean, of course they can! Did you see that?”

An excited voice. Higher-pitched, more…Tkrn’s head spun. He shot to his feet.

“Er—”

A little figure hopped through the crowd. Tkrn saw a Lizardman, using a stick like, well, a jumping rod. He hopped with amazing distance, bracing his one good foot on the stick. The other was missing—so he jumped rather than walked.

For all that, he was fast. And an exasperated person was trying to follow him through the crowd. A big Gnoll with paint on his fur—Tkrn heard him calling out.

“Viri! Come back!”

“Merish! Merish look at that! Flying pigs!”

Where? Tkrn was distracted by both things. He heard a squeal and a shout. A…pig with wings flew past him, loose of its tether.

Tkrn stared at it. Yes, it was a pig. Yes, it had wings. But those two things conjured a much different image than the flesh-colored wings on the pig’s back, not feather but a kind of horrible membrane reminiscent of bat’s wings…he shuddered.

Some things should not be allowed to exist.

“Careful! It bites! It’s carnivorous! Someone grab my pig!”

And flying pigs were only one thing to see out of all of it. But—and this was perhaps a problem only for him—there was such a thing as too much to do. Everywhere Tkrn looked there was an activity. Something he should spend all of his time looking at since he might not see it for twenty more years.

And what he really wanted to do was go to an inn far, far away, and visit an [Innkeeper]. Or just sit and process it still. Pee on Hectval’s walls. Pee on their damned Council.

So, then—when Tkrn heard the sound, his head turned. He stood up—and smiled for the first time that day. He went back the way he’d come. Because that sound made even the people clustered in the Meeting of Tribes’ outer grounds look around.

It was a crisp sound. Meant for summer. It reminded Tkrn of where it had come from. An idea—and a gift from a city. He remembered an inn. And a glorious day.

—-

Crack. Inkar’s head turned when she heard the sound in the distance.

It could have been nothing. One sound among many. But she had the gift of Gnoll hearing. And that sound was…distinctive.

It was not the most important thing in the world to her. But she had heard it enough that it lodged in the memory. A bit of familiarity. She nearly went back to admiring the Gnollish pieces—they did wonderful tapestries and she wished her smartphone were working so she could show Deskie. Well, maybe the older Gnoll would want to visit? Inkar was marking the place in her memory and trying to create a map of the Meeting of Tribes when she heard it again.

Crack. More Gnolls looked around. And that keen sound made Inkar remember it. She walked the way it was coming from.

It could not be. It was probably only something similar. And yet—and yet. She did not truly believe she’d see it, but as she passed by camps, towards the edge of the Meeting of Tribes closest to her, she saw a familiar gathering. She heard that sound and saw the bat swing.

Crack. The baseball bat met the ball and it went flying. The Gnolls stared at the ball soaring through the air and someone ran in a mad pelt to grab it.

Inkar stopped, eyes wide.

“It cannot be!”

But it was. One of the Gnolls pointed as the ball was thrown a bit clumsily back.

“And what did you call this? Wait—I’ve seen it on the television the Drakes broadcast. It’s called…”

“Based ball. One of my kin from the cities gave us a set of the playing tools. We’re playing a game.”

“That sounds like fun. Entertainment for the Meeting of Tribes! Have you seen the Foot The Ball game?”

“We have one of those too!”

“Really? But I heard it was all the way from Liscor! Is there a tribe that’s gone that far north…? Or has someone figured out how to make those balls? The ones with the black and white dot-things?”

Gnolls were congregating to a new activity. And it seemed the tribe putting on this impromptu game and providing the tools was…Silverfang? Inkar wasn’t up to date on all the tribes, but she knew this was a bigger one.

And it was status, status, even for providing free things. The Silverfangs were tentatively setting up a field with some Gnolls with more clothing explaining the game. The Plains Gnolls listened, some drifting back to the Meeting of Tribes, some willing to give this a shot.

Inkar looked at both games. And she knew.

Oh—she hadn’t actually seen the broadcasts. The Longstalkers had debated getting a scrying orb, but Eska had called it frivolous and their [Shaman] agreed. They didn’t need to stare at something all day—although Deskie had privately told Inkar that the weavers were going to buy a cheap one so they could work and watch!

But Inkar had not seen…anything…yet. Until a week or two ago she had thought she was the only person in this world.

Then she had seen the crashed airplane and known. Now? She saw the game and had another thought.

“Excuse me. Excuse me. Do you know this game? Baseball? Where does it come from?”

She began asking the other Gnolls around her, urgently. Most had no idea, but a watching person uncrossed his arms long enough to inform her in a slightly surly voice.

“Baseball. Comes from Liscor. It’s been on Wistram News Network. Liscor, again. We need to head there, Merrik.”

“Later. We still can’t move Yerra.”

“Hrmph.”

The Minotaur snorted. Inkar gave him a wide-eyed look, but thanked him, ducking her head. He nodded.

“Maybe I should try it. The swinging of that ‘bat’ seems very much my style.”

“Well, if I play, it’s going to be that. You’re not going to get me running after a ball all day. Peki’s down for it, though.”

The Dwarf indicated the Garuda, who was already joining the Gnolls kicking the ball around and listening to the rules.

“Tkrn! Will you help us explain the rules? I forgot how many players there are!”

A Gnoll waved at a younger one trotting across the ground. Inkar looked at the Silverfangs. It was unlikely they knew—there was not a Human in sight here. But she had to ask.

She walked forwards. And someone grabbed her roughly.

“That’s the one. Colorful garments—smells of animals. You, Human. How did you get into the inner camp?”

Inkar looked around. The Minotaur and Dwarf turned back. An angry Gnoll—in fact, three of them with an unfamiliar tribe’s markings were glaring at her.

“What? I—I wasn’t anywhere.”

Inkar lied desperately. She might have told the truth—but these were not friendly-looking Gnolls. They weren’t necessarily warriors either. They looked like camp-Gnolls. But angry ones.

“Liar. One of ours saw you in the inner camp! No non-Gnolls are allowed there! The Decles Tribe is going to find out how you got in. Come with us.”

One took Inkar’s arm in an unfriendly grip. She shook her head.

“No! I am with the Longstalker’s Tribe! Let me go!”

She protested. One of the Gnolls snorted.

“Longstalker’s? That’s some tale. They’re good, traditionalists. Not like the mavericks.”

He cast a glance at the Silverfang tribe and shook his head. Inkar didn’t see what was wrong with this game, but the Gnoll clearly did.

“If you are, the Chieftain will find out! Come with us!”

His grip tightened. Inkar yelped.

“Ow! Stop!”

“Here now. At least escort her without tearing her arm off.”

Merrik, the Dwarf, scratched at his beard. The Gnoll from the Decles tribe snarled at him.

“Back off, outsider! This is tribe business and this Human broke our laws!”

Merrik frowned, but the Minotaur put a hand on his shoulder.

“Tribal business, Merrik. We respect the laws or Feshi would have our horns.”

“Pah.”

Inkar wasn’t resisting. She marched with the Gnolls, reluctant to cause an incident—and besides, Eska could sort it out. It was uncomfortable, but she was moving with the Gnolls right until a Gnoll ran into the four, panting.

Oor. Late by a minute. The panting Gnoll had run everywhere, trying to track Inkar’s scent through the Meeting of Tribes. He would have arrived sooner if he hadn’t lost it at the checkpoint.

“Wait! She’s with us! Longstalker’s tribe! My Chieftain sent me to go with her!”

He gasped. The three Gnolls halted. One eyed Orr.

“We’re Decles tribe. This Human was in the inner camp—”

“Yes! Yes, she’s with our tribe! Sorry—she’s with us.”

Orr! Inkar sagged with relief. But the three Gnolls didn’t seem happy with that. One eyed Orr suspiciously.

“You might not be Longstalkers. You could be a random Gnoll. And why would the Chieftain of the Longstalkers make such a foolish mistake?”

Orr bristled at that. So did Inkar.

“Chieftain Eska has her reasons. And both Ekhtouch and Greenpaw know a human is with us!”

The Gnolls snorted at ‘Greenpaw’, but frowned at Ekhtouch. They looked at each other uncertainly, but their leader bared his teeth.

“Fine. Then our Chieftain will investigate both matters! Come on.”

He tugged Inkar and she yelped. She was willing to go with them, but did they have to drag her? Oor frowned.

“That’s not necessary. We’ll go to Longstalker’s first if we have to. Let Inkarr—Honored Inkar go.”

The Gnolls around looked up. The Decles Gnolls gawked.

“You must be mad. Honored…? This is a bad ruse. You’re both coming with us.”

Oor reached for Inkar.

“I don’t think so. If you want to ask—ask Longstalker’s or Ekhtouch! Inkarr, I’m sorry. Let’s—”

“Don’t.”

The other Gnoll pushed Oor back. The [Warrior] stumbled—and then his eyes narrowed. He looked at the three. They glared back, fur rising. Inkar tried to say something.

“Oor, it’s fine. We’ll sort it out. Peacefully.”

“I’m not going to let them drag you to another tribe’s camp like a criminal, Inkarr. I am Longstalker’s warrior! Let her go!”

The other Gnolls shook their heads. One growled.

“Decles doesn’t answer to Longstalkers. Follow us if you want to, but we’re taking her—”

He yanked Inkar and she stumbled. That was the last straw. Oor went for him. Which, in the annals of combat decisions wasn’t the most intelligent.

There were three of them and one of him.

—-

Tkrn was busy showing the other Gnolls proper form for swinging. He didn’t notice the fight and commotion at first. Then he heard a shout.

“Stop! Stop it!”

He looked up. So did other Silverfangs and Gnolls. One called out.

“What’s that?”

“Fight. Two other tribes. Don’t worry; Plain’s Eye or Az’muzarre or a Chieftain will sort it out.”

Reassured, the other Gnolls went back to the game. There was always minor stuff like that; even this morning, Tkrn had seen Akrisa break up a fight between the children of the Silverfang tribe. But his attention had been diverted. Then he heard the second shout.

“Stop! Help, help!”

He turned and dropped the bat. It was unconscious. In the outfield, Jerci’s mother, an avid player of the game, was warming up her glove. She saw Tkrn turn and go running.

He was a [Guard]. A member of Liscor’s Watch. He might not have been Beilmark or Klbkch-level, but there was one thing a member of Zevara’s force learned and that was that if someone called out, you ran.

[Guards] got paid to run towards danger.

Not blindly of course. Tkrn was already scanning the crowd. Looked like a classic brawl to you. And that was a female voice shouting for someone to stop.

It never occurred to him that he was out of his jurisdiction. Baseball had brought him home. So Tkrn bellowed, reaching for his side reflexively.

“City Watch! Out of the way!”

Gnolls turned and moved aside as he rammed through them. It worked—although their response was a bit different than Liscor’s citizenry.

“What did he just say? City…?”

Tkrn halted as he saw the scene. Zevara had taught him well.

Assess the scene for critical threats. Weigh the odds.

It was three Gnolls beating on a fourth, with a young Human woman being held back by one as she tried to drag them back. By the looks of it, the Gnoll being knocked around had given as good as he got; two Gnolls had bloody noses and looked a bit battered.

But three versus one wasn’t an easy fight. And it was definitely this Gnoll receiving a classic beat down now. Tkrn strode forwards.

“Alright, break it up! City Watch! Who started it?”

The tone of command worked everywhere. The Gnolls and crowd turned. They stared at Tkrn.

“City Watch? Who are you?”

The one holding back the young woman blinked. And Tkrn remembered that he was not in Liscor. His authority wavered—and went out.

“Er—Silverfang tribe. You can’t just beat that Gnoll to death!”

He pointed at the Gnoll [Warrior] who was trying to swing dizzily. One of the Gnolls growled.

“Stay out of it! We’re Decles tribe, and this Human was in the inner camps! A Gnoll tribe brought her in! We didn’t start this either—that Gnoll came at us.”

Tkrn saw one knock the dizzy Oor backwards. He nodded—and unconsciously interposed himself between the fighting Gnolls. Oor stopped. And the crowd murmured.

He’d done it now. But the [Guardsman] in Tkrn was telling him to do one thing—his brain another. What was he doing? Krshia would have his tail. But he remembered what she’d said.

You did the right thing in the end. Next time, do it faster.

“I think he’s had enough, don’t you? Let’s all calm down.”

The Gnolls eyed him, but it was another skill that any member of the Watch learned. Reasonable tones got you a long way in a heated situation.

“Fine. We have the Human.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong! Oor! Are you okay?”

The young woman protested. Tkrn frowned. He was stepping on the edge, he knew, but he held out a paw.

“Hold on. What has she done wrong?”

“She was spotted in the inner camp!”

The leader was losing his patience fast. But the crowd was watching and he needed to justify himself—even if he clearly thought it was a waste of time. Tkrn looked at him.

“You have eyewitnesses? On what authority are you taking her?”

“Eyewitnesses? We’re not conducting some city-investigation! One of ours saw her and we identified her! We’re bringing her to our Chieftain. Stay out.”

The Gnoll snapped back. Tkrn tilted his head.

“I have a truth stone. You didn’t even ask her if she was in the inner camp?”

That was proper procedure. Some of the Gnolls looked amused as the Decles tribe Gnolls stared at Tkrn.

“He’s got a point! Leave the poor Human alone! So what if one slipped into the inner camp?”

“Shut up. This is our tribe’s business!”

“Your tribe’s business? Says who? You’re Decles. Not Plain’s Eye.”

“We’re traditional! And Humans shouldn’t be allowed at the Meeting of Tribes! Any more than these other outsiders! Drakes especially!”

The Gnoll snapped. He gave an unfriendly look to all the non-Gnolls around. Tkrn frowned. The atmosphere was turning ugly. Confrontation did that. He wished he had a calming Skill.

The Gnoll behind him tried to push forwards, heedless of the danger.

“She’s not an outsider! She’s part of our tribe! Our Chieftain calls her Honored! She’s our guest to the Meeting of Tribes! You have no right to take her!”

The Gnolls listening were surprised. The Decles Gnolls? Contemptuous.

“That’s reason enough to bring her!”

“So—you’re arresting this Human because she went into the wrong camp? Despite being there because she came with a tribe?”

Tkrn made sense of it at last. One of the Gnolls shot him a warning look.

“She’s a Human in our sacred grounds. That’s enough. Now, we’ve wasted enough time! Move aside!”

He went to shove past Tkrn. And both Oor and Tkrn blocked him.

“No. That’s not good enough. You’re not Plain’s Eye and this Human has a right to be in the camp if a Chieftain vouches for her. It’s your tribe’s will against…”

“Longstalker’s Fang! And Ekhtouch and Greenpaw vouch for her!”

The crowd blinked at Ekhtouch. The Decles Gnolls snarled—but they sensed they were losing ground.

It was a debate—or a quasi-one. Tkrn blocked the path of the Gnolls…but he had a bad feeling he knew where this was going. And he didn’t have any backup. He looked around—

“Enough!”

The Gnoll in front of him took a swing as Tkrn’s head turned. The [Guardsman] was ready for this, though.

“[Fast Leg Sweep]!”

The Gnoll’s fist never reached him. He went over backwards with a shout of surprise as Tkrn moved. Oor leapt over him and tackled the second Gnoll. The third growled and Tkrn reached for his baton…

…And remembered he wasn’t on-duty. Also? Not wearing his leather armor or chainmail. He raised his fists and blocked a furious punch. Ow. Tkrn lurched backwards, his hand-to-hand training coming to him. It was Relc who taught that. And Relc taught—

Tkrn’s fist hit the other Gnoll in the solar plexus. The Gnoll coughed—and the one Tkrn had downed was scrambling up, Tkrn obligingly kicked him in the stomach. Oh—

Shit. Suddenly, it was a fight. The two Gnolls took on the three from the Decles tribe as the crowd watched. Tkrn moved back, keeping them from getting around him. Watch training. He was actually better than a Gnoll [Warrior] in this kind of scramble. His heart was pounding. But more than that?

He knew Krshia was going to kill him.

—-

It was one fight among many in the Meeting of Tribes. And in an area of miles upon miles, no one was coming to break it up right away.

Anyways, it was normal. So many Gnolls of different tribes and there was always a quarrel. Sometimes you had to let it ride out.

The danger was in…escalation. But as of yet, the crowd was just watching. And to the surprise of the Dwarf, he wasn’t holding the Minotaur back. If anything, Venaz was calmly holding him back.

“Not tempted to join in, Venaz?”

“What am I, a savage, Merrik? This is clearly a dispute over law. We’d be interfering in a serious way if we got involved. That Gnoll with the leg sweep is doing well.”

Indeed, it was three versus two, but the Longstalker [Warrior] and the Silverfang city [Guard] were holding their own. The three Decles Gnolls weren’t exactly the highest-grade trained combatants. And no one was throwing out more than a [Quick Strike] or [Leg Sweep].

A proper brawl. But only five contestants. The young woman was hovering, but wisely not actually joining in. All five Gnolls were fighting as more Gnolls abandoned the game or came over.

“What’s happening? Are they fighting? What’s the issue?”

Some of the Gnolls turned their heads, catching more interested parties up.

“Fight over a Human being where she shouldn’t. Those two are defending her. Silverfang and Longstalkers, I think—the other tribe’s Decles.”

“Hrm. And the Human broke the rules?”

“That’s what they’re fighting about. Hey, you want a pop-the-corn?”

A Silverfang Plains Gnoll offered some of his gift to the newcomer. The Gnoll snorted. He watched as Tkrn, bloody-mouthed, got one of the Gnolls in an arm-bar.

“You…are…under…arrest.”

The Gnoll wheezed. Another Decles Gnoll was on the ground, stunned or unconscious. Oor was beating down the third in a reversal.

Tkrn was reaching for his cords, which he did have on him. And he was wondering what to do next. He didn’t have Zevara or a patrol of [Guards] to help him haul the Gnoll off. He should just find Krshia, Beilmark, or a Silverfang and…

Someone broke the ranks of the circle of onlookers. Tkrn was restraining the cursing Gnoll. He heard a voice.

“Which one of you is Decles tribe?”

“Me!”

The two Gnolls on the losing end of things shouted. Tkrn turned his head. He saw a Gnoll with thick, almost metallic gray fur nod.

“Understood.”

Then he grabbed Tkrn and hit him with an uppercut that sent Tkrn flopping off the downed Gnoll. Tkrn stared at the sky for a second and then jerked. He sat up. The Gnoll with the strange fur was standing over him.

“What are you—”

The other Gnoll kicked at him. Tkrn rolled away. He saw the Gnoll advance—then pivot and kick Oor off the third Decles Gnoll. The two awake Decles tribe Gnolls jumped the Longstalker [Warrior] again from both sides.

“What are you doing?”

“Supporting allies. Steelfur tribe.”

The Gnoll cracked his paws. Tkrn scrambled up. He hesitated. Did he just say—

The other Gnoll lashed out with a much faster punch than the other Decles Gnolls. Tkrn dodged it and countered. His fist struck the other Gnoll in the jaw; the Steelfur Gnoll didn’t even try to dodge.

“Ow.”

Tkrn felt like he’d just punched chainmail. Spiky chainmail. He stared at the other Gnoll’s fur. Steelfur. Oh Rhir’s hells—

—-

“Now what’s happening? I can’t see. Give me a ride on your back, Venaz?”

“I would rather die. Another Gnoll’s joined the fighting. Seems to be on the side of the Decles tribe. He’s taking apart both of the other Gnolls. Well, it is three to two again.”

Venaz was commentating to Merrik and Peki. The Garuda was fluttering up.

“Steel fur. Not fair, not fair.”

“They’re losing.”

Venaz agreed. He was munching on some popcorn. He offered the Silverfang Gnoll some coins, but the crowd was passing around snacks.

“Isn’t anyone going to help the Silverfang? His tribe’s here!”

Merrik exclaimed. Some of the Silverfangs looked uneasy. They glanced sideways—

Seven Steelfur Gnolls looked around. They were watching the fight where their lone friend had joined in. Merrik sighed.

“Ah. Superiority by numbers. Good lads.”

A few Gnolls shared Merrik’s opinion, but they had reservations.

“We should do something.”

“They’re Steelfur. You fancy fighting armor for fur?”

Some of the Silverfangs were whispering. Someone was already running to get Akrisa, Cetrule, or another Honored Gnoll. In the meantime?

—-

Tkrn felt like he was fighting mini-Relc. Not as strong or as fast, but nearly as tough, at least without anything more than his fists.

The young woman was trying to stop them, but a Gnoll shoved her off her feet. Oor was down again—Tkrn growled.

This wasn’t right! He felt…he looked at the young woman, who had been singled out for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but mainly for being Human. He remembered someone else who had had a bad entrance to a good city. His city.

“Give up and lie down.”

The Steelfur Gnoll advised Tkrn. The [Guardsman] shook his head. His face hurt.

“Not a chance.”

He backed up though. Even one-versus-one, he was going to lose. The Gnoll advanced and Tkrn saw his buddies keeping back the Silverfang tribe. Tkrn’s head was ringing. Was he in Liscor?

Assess the situation. Weigh…

Brawl incident. Escalation with member of Liscor’s Watch. Danger of accidental death or injury. Human civilian in dispute. At this point in time, [Guardsman], what is the correct move?

Zevara was bellowing in his ear. He knew the answer. Tkrn dizzily reached for his neck. He produced something. The Steelfur Gnoll went cross-eyed. Inkar, lying on the ground, stared. Then she reached up.

She covered her ears before Tkrn blew on the whistle. Every Gnoll in a hundred meters shouted in agony and clutched at their ears. Tkrn blew again before the Gnoll knocked it out of his mouth. Then he punched furiously.

Reinforcements! Another Watch patrol would be here in—

A fist knocked him back into reality. Another one threatened to knock him out of consciousness. Oh, right. There wasn’t more of the Watch…

But the sound had definitely attracted even more attention. More people were asking what the heck was going on. Including some Gnolls investigating the weaving who recognized Inkar’s voice.

“That can’t be Inkarr, can it?”

One of the weaving group looked over. More were hearing.

“It’s a fight over a Human! Some Gnolls want to kick them all out! Steelfur and Decles are kicking the fur off anyone who disagrees!”

That was the garbled version of the truth that made its way out of the immediate event. Other Gnolls looked at each other. More went running for Krshia or Akrisa, but they were deep in their camp, discussing white Gnolls and Humans, ironically.

—-

And Tkrn was out of time. Dizzily, he looked up; the other Gnoll had a grip on him and was punching him. He blocked—then his arm slipped. The Steelfur Gnoll raised an arm—Inkar was being held back by the third Decles Gnoll, on his feet.

Someone grabbed the arm. The Steelfur Gnoll twisted.

“Who dares—”

“Enough. Stop this. Let the Human and these Gnolls go.”

Someone spoke. Tkrn was too dizzy to make it out. The Steelfur [Warrior] wasn’t about to listen to that, no matter how reasoned the tone, though. He spun—

“[Power Strike]!”

He hit the other Gnoll in the stomach with all his might. Tkrn heard a whoof and groan from the crowd. The other Gnoll growled. The Steelfur Gnoll went cross-eyed, staring at his fist. Then the answering punch laid him flat.

Everyone saw the Gnoll hit the ground. They waited for the Steelfur [Warrior] to rise. His eyes were rolled up in the back of his head.

“Erad!”

The other seven Steelfur [Warriors] rushed forwards. They charged Tkrn and the other Gnoll—the second Gnoll spun. The Steelfur’s Gnolls were fearless. Their fur was steel thanks to their Chieftain! They—

—saw the magical sigils light up. They tried to stop. Merish hit a second Gnoll with an elbow in the jaw, then picked up a third and tossed him. The [Shamanic Warrior] squared off against a fourth and punched.

Tkrn got to his feet. His head was ringing. Suddenly—more Gnolls were fighting. One seized him and he saw more Decles warriors flooding into the fight. They jumped the lone [Shamanic Warrior]—for all of five seconds.

Then more Gnolls shouted.

“That’s Merish! Plain’s Eye tribe to me!”

Gnolls spotted one of their kin under assault by Steelfur and Decles. They charged away from their posts and entered into the fray.

“Wait, stop, st—”

Tkrn kicked the Decles Gnoll who was shouting. Too late for both! He grabbed Inkar and dragged her back.

Protect civilians in a brawl—

“Stay back!”

He shouted. She nodded, wide-eyed.

What had been a five-person fight was now in the dozens. And the reason was getting more muddled by the second. Three more [Shamanic Warriors] and a number of Plain’s Eye Gnolls without [Warrior] classes ran forwards.

“What’s happening? Merish! Merish!”

An angry little Lizardman was hitting Gnolls with his staff. But he was one of the few using weapons.

—-

“What’s happening? Why are they brawling?”

“It’s a fight over whether Humans should be allowed into the Meeting of Tribes at all! They’re trying to kick that Human out!”

“What? Inkarr?”

The anti-Human Gnolls were increasing in number. Whereas Tkrn and the Gnolls embroiled in the fighting—now Silverfangs—were trying to shelter the one Human in the midst of the chaos.

Three students of Baleros watched, increasingly antsy despite the Minotaur assuring them it was a Gnoll affair and they were compelled not to interfere. They saw some of the Decles Gnolls grabbing at Inkar as the [Guardsman] tried to block them. It was looking bad—

The Steelfur Gnolls were just too tough for anyone but Merish and the [Shamanic Warriors] to go fist-to-fist with. Two joined the Decles group and they were dragging the young woman away. She blinked out of existence and the Steelfur [Warrior] snarled. He turned and saw her running.

“Stop!”

He ran after her. Tkrn was shouting.

“Halt, criminal!”

But he was embroiled in the fighting. The Steelfur warrior lunged at Inkar and ran neck-first into the arm. The second figure threw him to the ground.

“I like Humans! Who’s bullying people?”

She cracked her knuckles and removed the spectacles. The coughing Steelfur Gnoll tried to get up—the female Gnoll hopped on his chest and then leapt forwards. Merish was tangling with four Gnolls at once.

“Emper! Elgrinna! Get over here!”

She leapt and drop-kicked one of the Steelfur Gnolls in the back. They both fell down—and the unknown Gnoll hooked a leg as she came up. Then she shoulder-tackled another in the gut.

The angry two tribes found more outsiders joining into the fight. A Stitchman stopped a charging Gnoll with a palm to the chest. Inkar saw the Gnoll go flying and stared as Emper lowered his hand.

“[Force Palm]. Stay behind us, Miss.”

The [Monk] bowed to her again. The Dwarf just grunted.

“I’m going to kill Lemming—Suxhel, watch our backs!”

She lowered her head and charged headfirst into a groin. Emper strode forwards and the other Gnolls around Inkar were flung back. Not by a physical blow, but by a look.

The Gazer’s five eyes swung from target to target, moving them by force of…something. The four adventurers were joining in.

Venaz was vibrating. Merrik was staring at the female Dwarf, frowning.

“I swear I know her. How many female Dwarf adventurers in Izril are there? Venaz, are we just going to stand here with our beards up our asses?”

“No! Dead gods! For the House of Minos!”

Venaz charged into the fight. Peki and Merrik grinned. Although—at this point it wasn’t clear whom the Minotaur was fighting. It was just a brawl, and as Tkrn could have told you, at some point the reason behind it was lost.

The Gnoll staggered out of the fighting, spitting blood and feeling as though he’d cracked at least one finger. He looked around for Inkar and staggered towards her. Something began to pick him up, lifting him into the air—

“No! He protected me!”

Tkrn was dropped. The Gazer shifted her attention away. Inkar rushed forwards.

“Where’s Oor?”

“Who? That guy? He’s—”

Either enmeshed in the fighting or out of it. Tkrn looked over his shoulder.

The fighting was still making its way towards her. Some of the Decles Gnolls were rushing past them towards the Gazer and Tkrn and Inkarr. They passed some older, female Gnolls.

“It is Inkarr! She’s in trouble! Go find Chieftain Eska! Or Deskie! Now!”

A Gnoll exclaimed. One went bolting through the crowd. The Decles Gnolls passed the weaving circle Inkar had made friends with—

One of the [Weavers] grabbed a Decles [Warrior]. She was twenty years older than he was, but she put him in a chokehold and two more went down and the older Gnolls began kicking them.

Tkrn was laughing even as he towed Inkar away. It was—he looked at the young woman. She was different. But it reminded him of her.

Chaos for the right reasons. Merish yanked Gnolls away from Viri as the Lizardman insulted his opponents, hopping away.

“Where’s the Human? I—”

Someone charged into him and punched the Gnoll. He howled and knocked his opponent flat.

“The Human’s not here! Back away!”

He snarled at his smaller opponent. The Gnoll with white stripes on his cheeks hesitated, his paw raised to strike.

“What Human?”

Merish stared at him.

“Why are you here?”

“We heard there was a good fight!”

The Gnoll grinned and punched Merish—then regretted it.

—-

Venaz was carefully demonstrating the superior fisticuffs of the House of Minos. He was aiming for the Steelfur warriors, who were a proper fight, when he saw an old Gnoll walking through the brawl.

Instantly, he snapped out of his fight-mode.

“Old Gnoll! You! Honored elder! It isn’t safe!”

The Gnoll was short for his kind—closer to five foot five, which was a short Gnoll. He was gray, as old as the oldest Weatherfurs Venaz had met. The Minotaur blocked the combatants as he tried to steer the old Gnoll away.

“Safe? Ah, it’s a fight. A fight. Good…”

The old Gnoll looked around. He was naked except for a single, very traditional, loincloth. He looked at Venaz.

“Minotaur. Excellent.”

He grinned. Venaz stopped. His internal warrior’s senses were tingling. He saw the Gnoll’s eyes open wide—and then his teeth bare themselves. Venaz saw veins stand out under the old Gnoll’s fur—then tendons.

Then the Gnoll’s eyes developed that spark of…rage…that Venaz recognized in Minotaurs. His body seemed to convulse. And was—he suddenly taller? Like, an entire foot taller at least?

“Ah—elder. I don’t want to—”

Too late. The old Gnoll [Berserker] grabbed Venaz’ arm. And the Minotaur suddenly had serious reservations—

—-

“Did someone just throw that Minotaur?”

The female Gnoll who had been wearing spectacles blocked a punch with her armguard. Some of the brown paint flaked off and revealed—instead of the disguised leather—a brilliant glow beneath. She punched back, then whirled.

Someone behind her! She raised a fist—

And Tkrn held up his hands, shielding Inkar.

“Stop, stop!”

The Gnoll looked at Tkrn. She blinked.

“Ah! It’s the Human! Get her to safety!”

“I’m trying! But it’s chaos!”

Even the nearby tents and stalls were involved in hundreds of Gnolls fighting. Even if that was only throwing things or cheering on their favorite tribe. The Gnoll adventurer grinned.

“Follow me! We’ll get you out! Emper! Where are…?”

“There! There is the Human who started this!”

A howl from the left. Tkrn and Lehra turned. Inkar, looking around for Oor, froze.

Warriors from the Decles tribe, including the original three. But this time—

They’d drawn their weapons. Tkrn groaned.

“Oh no. Escalation.”

The Watch knew this. Let a fight go on too long and eventually, if it wasn’t contained or just a spirited brawl, it turned ugly. Someone drew a knife. And that wasn’t necessarily the dangerous part. The dangerous part was—

“They have weapons!”

One of the [Shamanic Warriors] with Merish shouted. Instantly, he drew a steel throwing axe. The Steelfur and Decles warriors around him scrambled back. And they went for their weapons.

“No! Stop! No bloodshed!”

Someone cried that out. But it was too late. Ill will or the desire to fight had turned into real bloodlust. The Decles Gnolls advanced. Tkrn reached for the sword or baton he hadn’t brought—because the Meeting of Tribes was supposed to be safe.

“Stay behind me.”

“No, I’ll run! Don’t—”

“Stop.”

The female Gnoll adventurer looked calm. She blocked the way as the armed Gnolls advanced. They aimed their weapons at her.

“Move aside! We are Decles tribe and we will have that Human even if we have to draw blood to do it!”

They were beyond reason—and indeed—the inciting incident was too petty for this. The female Gnoll held her ground.

“No. You’ll have to go through me to do that. And you don’t want to do that.”

“Watch out! They’re not going to stop!”

Tkrn shouted at her. She just grinned at him. He heard more howls.

Silverfangs had arrived at last. Dekava had arrived with her spear, but that was just adding to the danger. It was going to be a battle!

“Enough! This has gone on long enough! By my authority, that Human’s under my protection!”

The female Gnoll shouted. The Decles Gnolls charged, heedless. Tkrn looked around for a weapon. A torch on a pole. A baseball bat! Something to save the suicidal brave Gnoll—

The adventurer raised her arm. And the flaking brown paint on her armguard fell off. The Gnolls staring at her saw a flash of light on a metal beyond steel. She raised her arm and shouted.

“In the name of the City of Stars!”

The gauntlet glowed. And then—the Blade of Mershi flashed. The Gnolls around her cried out. Tkrn shielded his gaze. And when he looked again, the Gnoll was holding a spear. Her body was covered in segmented, glowing armor.

The armor of stars. Drake armor. The last heirloom of the Walled City of Stars. The Decles tribe halted as Lehra Ruinstrider, Named Adventurer, lowered the blade.

Everyone halted. Merish, panting, shielding Viri. Venaz, Peki, and Merrik, as Feshi and some Weatherfur Gnolls halted, skidding forwards.

Krshia and Akrisa, with Beilmark and some of the Silverfang tribe’s best warriors.

Wide-eyed, Dekava, Tkrn, and the others turned. Lehra lowered the spear, looking a bit embarrassed. She scratched at the back of her helmet.

“Darn. And here I was hoping to keep my cover for at least a day!”

She laughed as her team formed up around her. A Gazer [Wizard], a Stitchman [Monk], and a Dwarf [Axe Thrower]. Members of one of the most famous Gnoll-led teams in the world, and one of the few Named Adventurers of her kind.

Stargazer’s Promise, and Lehra Ruinstrider, the [Magical Warrior].

The fighting stopped. Mad with rage they might be, but the Decles tribe wasn’t suicidal. Nor did anyone want to challenge the Named Adventurer. Not even Venaz. Tkrn, panting, saw more Gnolls flood forwards in the sudden silence.

“Is that Lehra? The Stargnoll?”

Chieftain Eska stared for only a moment. Deskie didn’t even stare.

“Inkarr! What happened? We heard the Decles tribe was kicking up a storm after you and came. Are you hurt?”

The old [Magic Spinner] checked Inkar over, and then the Longstalkers were surrounding her. Not just them; eighteen of the Ekhtouch and Chieftain Orelighn of the Greenpaw tribe was there with his people too.

“What is happening? Why are my warriors engaged in a brawl—”

Another Gnoll strode through the chaos. Krshia and Akrisa approached as Chieftain Eska looked up. Lehra turned and gasped.

“Chieftain Iraz!”

The Chieftain of the Steelfur tribe was one of the most famous Gnolls living, such that even Tkrn knew his name. And Steelfur’s might was founded on his Skills.

His fur looked like metal itself. And it was apparently tougher than even steel…sort of a misnomer for the tribe, then. Tkrn saw him halt.

Silverfang. Greenpaw. Longstalker’s Fang. And Steelfur. The Chieftains regarded each other in the aftermath of the fighting. And this too was familiar. Tkrn looked around.

“All you need now is a crazy Human to serve cake.”

He saw Inkar jump and look at him. Krshia stared at the slightly-dizzy grin on Tkrn’s face.

“What happened here? Lehra, those are my warriors you’re pointing your spear at.”

The Chieftain of the Steelfur Tribe was first to speak. Iraz looked at Lehra. The much-younger Gnoll looked guilty.

“Sorry, Chieftain Iraz. I didn’t mean to pick a fight with them. It was just—they were going to throw this Human out and I had to stop them.”

“Throw a Human out?”

Iraz’s brows came together. Instantly, the Steelfur warriors protested. They hurried forwards, clearly worried.

“Not that, Chieftain! We were coming to the aid of Decles, who were in a fight over custody of the Human who broke the Meeting of Tribes’ laws.”

“She did not!”

A howl came from the back. Oor stumbled upright, extremely battered but furious. Eska gasped.

“Oor! Who did this to you?”

“Those brutes went after Inkarr for being in the inner camp! Even though I said Ekhtouch and our tribe vouched for her!”

“And Greenpaw!”

Chieftain Orelighn added. Iraz looked around.

“Chieftains Akrisa, Eska, Orelighn. Are your warriors mixed up in this?”

“It appears so. One of our kin came to the aid of Longstalker’s Fangs. We just heard of it, Chieftain Iraz.”

Tkrn winced as Krshia and the other Gnolls glared at him. But not too long. Oor was still talking.

“They didn’t take our word for it. Nearly twisted Inkarr’s arm off and said that their tribe would decide things even after I told them to go to you, Chieftain Eska!”

“Is this true?”

The Decles Gnolls were off-guard and unhappy at the sudden change. They glowered, and one spat.

“The Longstalker warrior attacked us first! That Human was in the inner camp and we did exactly what we should have when one of ours spotted her!”

“You didn’t think to ask Plain’s Eye or the tribe involved before dragging her off? As for my warriors—did you jump into the argument without even establishing whether Decles was right?”

“And who would not take Ekhtouch’s word? If we vouch for her, one has either lied and used our word without our consent—or there is nothing to say.”

One of the Ekhtouch Gnolls sniffed haughtily. That actually helped since every Gnoll rolled their eyes at this. The Decles Gnolls were quiet. Iraz looked around, vexed. It was Krshia who coughed.

“No tribe is entirely without fault. Perhaps we should make amends and come to the truth later.”

“Well said. Inkarr, you will come with us. And if anyone would like to argue, come forwards!”

Deskie snapped. The esteemed weaver looked around for a challenge—even Decles wouldn’t step up to that one with her.

But they weren’t happy. Tkrn relaxed slightly as the mood deescalated. Iraz turned to Akrisa, Eska, and Orelighn.

“I will speak to Decles’ Chieftain. He will be furious—let us talk later.”

“Skies willing. Thank you, Chieftain Iraz.”

He nodded curtly and strode off. Half the Steelfurs went with him, but the other half remained to help fix the damages.

In the aftermath of a fight in Liscor, Tkrn was used to outrage. Drakes coming out in safety to assign blame, the Watch taking names and damages for punitive fines and so on.

This was different. The tribes were helping fix the damages, talking, making up—and, surprisingly, doing so with a fair amount of goodwill. A Steelfur warrior rubbed her jaw as she offered a paw to Merish and he took it.

“Good fight. Nice to see other tribes can still punch.”

Another Gnoll commented. Tkrn shook his head. This would have been the start of some serious grudges in Liscor. But the Plains Gnolls had a different attitude towards fighting. Sometimes it was necessary.

Then again—the Decles tribe’s Gnolls just spat and stormed off back to the inner camp. Someone tsked.

“They drew weapons first and they can’t even acknowledge a good fight? Someone should have slapped all of them as cubs.”

A Gnoll with those markings on his fur who had come for the good fight groused. It was an old Gnoll with grey fur—the same one Venaz was avoiding—who walked over and kicked him.

“You don’t beat children, you fool. You beat adults. Children are too small to understand, and too fragile. That was a good fight. But we missed it because all of you were too slow!”

He growled. Tkrn, reaching for a potion, eyed the newcomers.

“What tribe is that?”

Dekava glanced over as she produced a potion to help tend to his and the other Silverfang’s wounds.

“That has to be Wild Wastes. They train [Barbarians]. [Berserkers] too. If I know that old Gnoll, he’s a famous one.”

“Too right! And there was no one to fight. I wanted to take on another Named Adventurer.”

The old Gnoll had heard her. Lehra Ruinstrider was surrounded by admirers, but he seemed to be interested in her for entirely different reasons. He grinned.

“You were two feet taller in the fight.”

“[Berserker]. We’re Wild Wastes tribe. And those Decles Gnolls needed a good initiation ritual. I am Berr. Some called me Honored Berrigral. But I don’t care. You, youngling. You fight well for a City Gnoll. Shame you haven’t fought enough.”

He gave Tkrn a gap-toothed grin. Here was a scary old Gnoll. He reminded Tkrn of Tekshia.

“Initiation ritual, Honored Berr?”

“To toughen up young Gnolls. We don’t beat cubs. But we do kick out the stupid of our young warriors when they’re nearly of age. Every Gnoll thinks he or she’s the toughest [Warrior] in the world. So. We make them fight a cow when they’re sixteen.”

The two young Gnolls looked at him.

“You mean…a Razorhorn Bull or something like that, Honored Berrigral?”

He looked puzzled.

“No. I mean a cow. An angry one.”

“So just a bull.”

“Mm. They don’t have to be male. We don’t give them any weapons. They get to fight with their paws versus a cow. All those spitfire Gnolls think they’re so strong until a cow sits on their legs. They usually don’t die, though. That’s what those Gnolls need. Traditionalists. Always arrogant.”

“Isn’t Wild Wastes a traditional tribe?”

Berr gave Dekava a blank look.

“I suppose it is. But we don’t care. Good fight, younglings! Call me if you have another. Especially if you get Iraz. I want to see if he’s any tougher.”

He wandered off. Tkrn stared after him. Truly, the Meeting of Tribes brought all kinds of Gnolls.

Krshia smacked him. Then she pinched his ear.

“And what were you doing?”

“Aunt! I was just trying to help—my ear!”

Tkrn whined. Krshia was in the middle of tongue-lashing him when someone came over.

“Excuse me. Please do not be too angry at…Tkrn? He helped me. I would have been hurt otherwise.”

Tkrn and Krshia turned. Inkar had come over with the Longstalkers to apologize and thank him. Chieftain Eska nodded, a touch warily, at Akrisa. Krshia let go of Tkrn. She smiled, ruefully.

“At least he did some good this time. You are…Inkarr?”

“Inkar of the Longstalkers. Yes.”

“Inkarr the Traveller. And she is Honored Inkarr. I think of her as a granddaughter!”

Deskie put in fondly. Krshia blinked, but she smiled.

“Honored Inkarr. I am Honored Krshia. And this is my nephew who causes much trouble, Tkrn!”

He hung his head. But Inkar nodded at him.

“Thank you, Tkrn.”

“It was nothing. I’m uh—a [Guard]. I just acted on instinct, Miss Inkar.”

She blinked.

“Say that again.”

“I acted on instinct?”

“No, my name.”

“Inkar?”

The young woman was delighted. She clapped her hands.

“I knew someone could say it!”

Tkrn realized he hadn’t put the rolling r’s on the end of her name that every other Gnoll did. A city accent—Inkar was laughing.

“Oh good, she’s safe. And is this Silverfang? I was going to play baseball.”

A commotion. From the side came Lehra Ruinstrider, as some of her tribe kept the crowd back. Tkrn and the others stared. Half the Gnolls bowed—but she grinned.

“Hello. Is it Tkrn and Inkar? I’m Lehra.”

She casually stuck out a paw. Inkar hesitated, then she took it, and Tkrn did likewise. He blinked at her.

“You’re the Stargnoll. The youngest Named Adventurer in…”

“Don’t call me that. Just Lehra is fine. And you’re from Liscor, right? The city with…popcorn. I’ve been dying to try it, but not even Oteslia had any!”

“Popcorn?”

“And cake. I heard you have special, tall cakes. And ice cream and…”

The Gnoll looked longingly at her team. Half of them rolled their eyes—and when a Gazer did it, that was something.

This was the moment. Merish was shaking his head, a bit embarrassed. But he too was looking at the Human. Tkrn was speaking.

“Thank you for helping. I just—we have Humans in my city. So when I thought someone was trying to get rid of one because she was Human—”

“I like Humans. My entire team is like me!”

Lehra grinned. Merish looked at Viri, who was hopping forwards, excited to meet a Named Adventurer. And that was the attitude. He himself remembered a glorious company. It had been so short…

“You too. Hello. Thank you so much for coming to help.”

Inkar smiled shyly at him. Tkrn turned and began to thank Merish profusely. The [Shamanic Warrior] waved it away.

“I am warrior Merish—of Plain’s Eye. I only did what I thought was right. This is Viri, from Baleros.”

What a strange group. Venaz listened from afar, remembering his own business in Liscor. Tkrn was trying to assure Lehra that it wasn’t actually that hard to get popcorn.

“You can make some with dried corn and oil. And salt. And…yeast, although that might be optional. But we have some if you want. And cakes, I think.”

“Really? Can I buy some?”

Tkrn shrugged. A second later, Chieftain Akrisa nearly knocked him flat. She smiled at the Named Adventurer.

“The Silverfang tribe would be honored to give you as much as you want, Adventurer Lehra. You and your team! And to a warrior of the Plain’s Eye tribe—please, you are all friends this day.”

Merish ducked his head, more reserved than Lehra, who was practically dancing at the idea. She turned to Akrisa.

“Chieftain—are you all from Liscor? Did the Silverfang tribe go there? I hear there’s all kinds of exciting stuff that way!”

“Not our tribe, Honored Lehra. But our kin work there and have come all this way to join in the Meeting of Tribes. This is Honored Krshia, my sister, who leads them. You know Guardsman Tkrn. Here is also Honored Beilmark…”

They did the introductions. Tkrn felt odd, standing next to such an important Gnoll. He saw Inkar keep glancing at him—and then at the baseball field, currently being repopulated—and then her Chieftain.

“Is this where baseball comes from? They are playing…baseball, Eska.”

A meaningful look. Tkrn nodded, without seeing the way Krshia’s eyes sharpened at the correct pronunciation of the game on first go. And…a Human among Gnolls. She nudged Akrisa ever-so-slightly as Eska’s ears perked up and she stared at Inkar.

“Yes. A Human in Liscor invented the game. Actually—I know Joseph, the Human who made soccer. Football, rather.”

“Really?”

Different emotions. Viri was excited and Merish, tired, was happy to see that in the Lizardman. Simple and plain. Lehra was interested.

Venaz curious as he came over to introduce himself.

Inkar? She blinked. Krshia Silverfang looked at her, and then saw Eska and Orelighn looking at her sharply. She smiled.

And she knew. She stepped back as she let Tkrn talk to this chance group, of extraordinarily important people. Feshi, who trained under the Titan of Baleros and whose tribe was as great as the Plain’s Eye tribe represented by Merish? The Named Adventurer, the Stargnoll?

That was one thing. But most importantly—she looked at Inkar. Whom they called Inkar the Traveller. Krshia bared her teeth as Akrisa watched her.

—-

Later that day, Elirr, taking a break from another Council meeting to discuss the war with Hectval received a simple missive from the Silverfangs at the Meeting of Tribes. He read it, reading the hidden code in the [Message].

Please prepare Mrsha to come. She will be needed.

Also—send one of the Humans. We have met another.

His eyes widened. And the Meeting of Tribes truly began as Tkrn met new friends and people after a game of baseball and a fight.

It was almost like the old days.

8.03

Humans.

Why Humans? That was what they had said, at first. The group that knew the truth of worlds, or at least, part of it.

The Gnolls of Liscor, that was. Because they had known for a while. Not all of them, but the older ones. The ones who didn’t talk about the vast secret. At first it had not been so vast since it was one person. Now? It was growing.

But at first—they had said this. Why Humans? Why couldn’t there be a race of Gnolls who’d managed to create an advanced civilization in another world? Of course, Gnolls would do it differently. Probably…they’d invent better shampoos that didn’t smell so strongly.

Or something.

This was what Krshia wrote. In code.

Send one of the Humans. We have met another.

Another one. So, Elirr gathered some of the senior Gnolls remaining in the city. Grey-furred City Gnolls, not a tribe per se, but a community.

“This is getting too big, Elirr.”

A Gnoll petting a cat peered at him. [Senior Scribe] Hemera. Another Gnoll sleepily blinked.

“We have to do something. The Meeting of Tribes will produce a large result. Plains Gnolls, though…unpredictable. I’ve never been to the tribes, but they’re temperamental, aren’t they?”

That came from a City Gnoll for life, Permel. Also old—pushing seventy. Many of the most distinguished Gnolls had gone, but still—a [Master Potter] was something to admire. He made wonderful porcelain and had banned Elirr’s animals from his shop forever.

“The tribes are fickle. But it is Krshia who asks, not them. I trust her.”

“Ambitious, though. Young Gnolls—yes, she’s still young enough to be ambitious! Of course, we help, but I’d rather roll around in ink than put little Mrsha in danger. Doombringer. We called her that and we’re city-born. Imagine what they’ll do?”

Hemera put in. The others nodded.

“If only we could send a Gold-rank team. The Halfseekers?”

“Perhaps. They would not be cheap. But they love her too. As for a Human…well, they are older. Krshia is right in that one should go, especially if they have found another. Perhaps bring them back here?”

More nods as a cat teased the shy Wyvern, Jekle, who’d finally been left to wander the shop. The other two Gnolls eyed it, but Elirr could sense the young Wyvern’s emotions and the most the youngling felt was fear towards the evil cats.

Elirr pointed at the offending cat.

“Berry. Enough. Leave him alone. Scat.”

The cat gave Elirr a look. He turned and proceeded to try to—Elirr threw a crumpet at the animal and the cat grabbed it and fled.

“You’ve created monsters.”

Permel shook his head. The other Gnolls chuckled, and presently, the group of six nodded.

“A Human it is. One should go.”

“But which one?”

Ah, now. That was the question. The others looked at Elirr and his ears and tail drooped. He would have to visit. For a strange inversion had taken place.

Where once the inn had been the center of change, now the world was passing it by. And it sat in…stasis.

Waiting for the [Innkeeper] to wake up.

—-

The Wandering Inn held so few these days. And even if they slept there, many left as soon as they’d eaten, before they’d eaten. It was like an abandoned…inn…

Before a young woman had found it. A perfect circle—although this inn was not completely deserted. But even the Humans had drifted away.

Case in point. Kevin Hall woke up from the room in which he’d been sleeping at the urgent pounding on his door. He fell out of his chair, hit the ground, and heard the urgent voice.

“Mister Kevin? Mister Kevin—it’s a client!”

“I’m just Kevin! Who—”

But Kevin already knew. The young man picked himself up; his chair was on the floor, and he rubbed at a bruise as he scrambled to his feet.

He had been sleeping in, well, the office. The small room, the building rented for the new job he was working at.

…In Esthelm. Selys had pushed for Liscor. Hedault wanted Invrisil.

Invrisil was expensive. Liscor had—had been The Wandering Inn and besides, the new quarter was unfinished and neither artisan worked there, only the money, Selys. So Kevin had chosen Esthelm. It was cheap and Hedault responded to [Messages].

Master Pelt did not. And yes, Kevin would have benefitted from the sleep Skills in The Wandering Inn. He had his own room—but he’d fallen asleep balanced on the chair in his office, half-leaned back.

It was an art form and Kevin must have managed at least a good six hours in that position before the knocking had awoken him. Also point in fact?

It’s three AM. Or thereabouts.

Kevin stumbled towards the door. And yet—someone had woken him. He recognized the worried Drake [Scribe] he’d hired as a general assistant to write down orders and so on.

“It’s just Kevin. Speaking stone?”

“It’s Client F.”

The Drake was very nervous. He handed Kevin the stone and the young man groggily raised it.

“This is Kevin of Solar Cycles, how can I help you today?”

He recognized the echoing voice and tone immediately.

“I am Fetohep of Khelt.”

Of course he was. Kevin’s skin chilled. He waved the Drake off; the Drake sleepily went back to taking [Messages] or waiting for calls from the people who insisted on it. They had to actually have a speaking lodestone enchanted and then send one to the shop. But some did.

And only one person would call at night. A universal night! Kevin felt he should really look into that at some point. He checked the crude clock he had set up by his desk.

…And recalled that sundials really needed daylight to work. And he wasn’t at the level where a mechanical clock was feasible.

More clear audio than a phone call—sundials. That was technology here for you. Kevin slowly relaxed into his chair.

“How can I help you today, your Majesty?”

Fetohep’s voice was calm. Precise—commanding.

“I have a copy of your latest catalogue, Kevin of Liscor.”

Kevin bit his tongue. Fetohep always said that after the first conversation, but the way he said it made them both know what he really meant.

“Er—yes, your Majesty?”

They’d put that out right before Kevin went to sleep! The Mage’s Guild got a copy, which they could print on demand for whomever wanted it. And the Runner’s Guild had been upset because they wanted to sell copies…

Fetohep had a lot of time on his hands. He kept doing this, sometimes at midnight, or other times of the day. He seemed sort of bored. Kevin fiddled with a gear lying on his desk as he listened. Pelt had been trying different teeth…

“I notice your latest catalogue lists a ‘four-wheeled carriage’ option to be assembled and tethered to a bicycle.”

Oh, the pull-along rickshaw Kevin had thought up. It was a simple idea. If Hedault could enchant a bicycle to be practically weightless, why not add pedal power to create an alternative to a horse-drawn carriage? Was it better? No. But it was fun, and both the [Enchanter] and the [Smith] had okayed a trial version. So had Selys; she’d green lighted it a minute into Kevin’s pitch.

After all, novelty sold. And while Solar Cycles had yet to make many actual sales…they were rolling in orders.

Fetohep of Khelt was not pleased, though. And it took Kevin a hot, sweating minute to understand why. Their first—most important (according to him), and undead client’s tone was irate as he spoke with icy reserve.

“This ‘Cycle Rickshaw’ option is clearly derivative as only the wheels and connective material will be provided. However, it is a new option produced by your store.”

“Yes, your Majesty. Only the parts to ah, modify any standing wagon or carriage will be sent. But it is a new concept! A do-it-yourself assembly; much faster to produce than the entire vehicle.”

“And you did not think to immediately inform me of this new addition to your lineup?”

Ah. Kevin exhaled, keeping his head pointed away from the speaking stone. He spoke quickly, sitting forwards urgently at his desk.

“I ah, did think you would be interested, Your Perpetual Majesty. Which is why we already added the item to your order, gratis. Free of charge, that is! That’s uh, standard policy for Khelt alone. Any new item we deem worthy of import is automatically added to your list of purchases. We will, of course, bill you for more costly additions, but your patronage more than pays for this small addition.”

Kevin waited for a response. He slowly, and covertly, wrote down a note on the wood itself with a quill and ink to do that. And waited on tenterhooks for the King of Khelt’s will.

It was like having a multi-million—a billionaire walk into your bicycle shop and demand quality service. Only—most billionaires even from Earth didn’t employ an army and have the resources to hire [Assassins] if offended.

…Or did they? Kevin was sweating as the silence lingered on the other end. He heard no breathing, no sounds of life. Which, of course, made the wait only more dreadful.

“Very wise of you, Kevin of Liscor. It seems I have underestimated the commonality of knowledge among some of this generation. Very well. And the arrival of my first object?”

“One week, your Majesty. Master Pelt has finished the newest bicycle to exacting performance as you know, and it is in the enchanting phase. I will add that the uh, gold plating did take time to work on, but it will be…”

Kevin consulted his notes and winced. A golden bicycle with superior enchanting and craftsmanship to even the one Ryoka had wrecked on her now-famous run.

“…one week until enchanting is finished, upon which time the Courier of your choosing shall escort it to Zeres.”

“I see. Very good. As to the nature of the request you made of me, Kevin of Liscor…”

The young man sat up. The voice continued as, suddenly, adrenaline ran through his veins.

“I have considered your plea at length. My answer is unchanged from the moment I gave it. An object of such worth is more costly than a hundred such vehicles your company could produce, as you know. If Master Pelt and Master Hedault…and you were to swear yourselves to Khelt’s service, I would consider the issue further. As that is not likely, I will consider the matter closed.”

“I…I see, your Majesty.”

Kevin hung his head. The voice was not unkind at the other end. But neither was it kind. It was, simply, impartial.

“My offer to those still living extends, Kevin of Liscor. Remember that.”

There was no click, but the subtle glow faded. Kevin sat there, exhaling.

It had never been likely. But he had hoped—yet, no. No grand artifact from Khelt. As the ruler of the nation of Chandrar had pointed out when Kevin had begged for it, hoping against hope—

“What you ask for cannot be reproduced, and lingers only in the vaults of those who have saved it from times before I was born, Kevin of Earth. Should we relinquish such objects so lightly? Not even for my own people would I lightly open my vaults.”

No Potion of Regeneration. No artifact of healing. Kevin knew it was fair. Fetohep, for all his horrible hours in calling, was polite and knew there were production delays. Kevin put his head down on the desk.

When he woke, he had ink on one cheek and a back-ache from sitting in the wrong spot. But he was back to work already. He wished for coffee and got tea. The Drake—Merckle—was replaced by a Human [Assistant] and maybe even [Mechanic] in training. A local Esthelm young woman who was taking orders.

“Pallass wants their cycle today, Mister Kevin.”

“They can wait. How many bicycles do we have?”

“Unenchanted or enchanted? Master Hedault—”

“—Works slow. I know. We should hire a cheaper, faster one.”

“He won’t like that.”

“Which is why I get to talk to him. How many unenchanted, then?”

“Um…um…three should be done.”

“I’ll go see.”

Kevin adjusted the clothing he’d worn for uh, two days straight. He sniffed himself a second, but he didn’t notice any odor. And where he was going, all you could smell was soot and metal.

“Phew. He stinks. Humans never bathe.”

“Imagine being in the tribes. We don’t bathe.”

“Do you just get used to the smell?”

“Well…we get used to the smell of sewers.”

“Hrr. Fair point.”

The small group of Gnolls watched as covertly as possible as Kevin left the headquarters of Solar Cycles. The small building was one of many in the rebuilding Esthelm. It hadn’t achieved Liscor’s rapid pace of immigration, but people were coming for work.

Not least because this city now had a calling card. Humans were casually glancing at the three Gnolls peeking around the corner, but they probably assumed the Gnolls were here for the same reason people were deciding to settle here, and trade and business was flowing in.

Master Pelt of Esthelm’s forge was already clanging with sound—but the [Silence] spells meant that it wasn’t that loud.

Until you passed the boundaries and heard the roar of the Dwarf’s voice, louder even than the forges and hammering of metal.

“You! Out of my forge! Out!”

Kevin, Elirr, Permel, and Hemera all watched as a young man fled the furious Dwarf in the early hours of morning, face white, as Pelt hurled something down.

It looked like…Kevin blinked. Dust?

It was a very fine, dark dust mixed with some red. And a few flecks of…well, Pelt was already roaring the answer.

“I told you to watch the metal like your life depended on it! Half a dozen flaws from the very steel we’d make? Why don’t you stab the [Warrior] who tries to use a blade made with steel this shoddy? Out! Out! You won’t work in my forge again! Begone!”

He hurled more insults as the apprentice [Smith] ran for his life. Kevin stared blearily. It was probably like…six AM.

“Hi, Pelt. What did that poor guy do?”

The Dwarf was red with fury. But he was animated. And Kevin saw no less than nine apprentice-smiths—some actual [Smiths] who’d come to apprentice themselves once more—huddling over their work. Not all were banging metal. The Dwarf pointed with a shaking finger.

“Smelting steel. That’s all that fool had to do, but they cut corners. I told them to sieve the dust we use to smelt our crucibles. And look!”

He gestured at the raw iron dust and ore. Kevin bent and inspected the pot.

“…Not all of its iron?”

He saw tiny, tiny specks of what might have been other stone or just sand in the mix, although it was currently lying on the ground of Pelt’s forge. The Dwarf growled.

“Contamination! I demand purity. Not as if we wouldn’t fold the metal and work it out. But look at it! As if you could just trust the smelting process to burn it away! What kind of half-rate—quarter-rate—[Blacksmith] would work like that?”

Possibly no other [Smith] in the world would be so demanding. The Humans, Drakes, even a Gnoll and pair of Dullahans, bent to their work, and those preparing the metal for smelting sweated harder.

It was not fun having Pelt as your teacher and master smith. He was not a nurturing presence and Kevin had seen dozens—literally dozens—of prospective apprentices kicked out. Not always by Pelt himself. His top apprentice, Emessa, was almost as exacting as he.

“Idiots who can’t even follow basic orders don’t deserve to be [Smiths]. What do you want? I’m busy managing these fools as much as—”

“Master! Your steel’s ready!”

A panting voice. The Drake, Emessa, was waving at Pelt. The [Smith] turned.

“Ah. Wait here.”

He curtly told Kevin. The young man knew that even top-class [Merchants]—Esthelm’s ruling body—and anyone else would wait. Kevin was an actual exception. But even he waited as Pelt marched back to the anvil where the metal was hot and ready. The Dwarf picked up his hammer and tongs—

And the anvil sang. Everyone stopped—at least, if they weren’t at work themselves—to watch and listen. The metal moved when Pelt struck it, shaping itself faster than all but the best machines from Kevin’s world could match.

And machines did one thing. Pelt was infinitely adjustable, doing whatever needed to be done in a blur. He was shaping another gear, hand-hammering in the perfect symmetry of each groove and tooth.

Not even Emessa could match that. Although…Kevin saw replicas being made at other anvils.

Not half as good, for all the [Smiths] sweated on them for…it must be a factor of thirty times as long as Pelt took, even counting Emessa ‘prepping’ everything for him.

But that was how a master worked. It was as close to assembly-line as Kevin had seen, and the Dwarf had actually smiled when Kevin brought it up.

Pelt did not do much himself besides oversee. His apprentices forged iron, purified steel by folding it, cleaned, created usable billets—and only when the masterstroke was needed did Pelt step in.

Or when the material itself was magical. But that way, the [Smith] was only working when he was absolutely needed.

It was either efficient—or lazy—or both. Not everyone could handle it. Many people quit, but many stayed long enough to learn how the best [Smith] in the region—perhaps all of Izril—did it.

He was done and letting Emessa check the measurements, check the steel, and then finish it with quenching, filing, and so on after ten minutes. He strode back, briskly, barking orders, critiquing work—but alive with energy.

Master Pelt had returned in truth. So much so that the Dwarf in Pallass seemed like a cheap joke, a rip-off of the real thing. Pallass had had a master-class smith. But this was him working hard.

“Bicycles. That’s why you’re here.”

He grunted at Kevin. The young man nodded. The Gnoll’s ears perked up. More were done already? The Dwarf spat. And the first bit of reserve entered his voice.

“They’re not the best…”

“I know. But they are done?”

“Yes.”

The Dwarf stretched out the word reluctantly. Kevin shrugged.

“The customers know they’re not your work, Pelt. It even says so. They still run, don’t they?”

“Passably. I tested them out; everything spins. And the steel is good. I wouldn’t accept it for less, but—well, come and see.”

Kevin did. The three Gnolls edged out. Elirr adjusted the hat he was wearing. It didn’t really help since they were still Gnolls in a Human city, but Kevin hadn’t noticed and neither had Pelt.

The bad bicycles were lined up. Three, made of iron, steel, or wood in parts. Pelt looked ashamed of them as the [Smiths] responsible for making them looked up.

Kevin thought they were fine. Not as light as a modern bicycle made of aluminum—and Pelt could forge his bicycle parts out of Dwarfsteel or extremely thin steel for Hedault to enchant, but that was the point.

If he worked at it, Pelt could create a custom-built bike with gold plating that was a masterpiece. But it took him days upon days to do, and he’d happily trash a piece he worked on for two days plus if it didn’t fit his standards.

This? This was his apprentice’s work. Kevin had suggested it to reduce the huge bottleneck and Pelt had reluctantly agreed.

“It spins. But notice that gear? We had to file down the teeth because it was wrong. And it’s not the best of fits along the metal to wood frame…”

Pelt was groaning and hemming and hawing, but Kevin thought it was just Pelt’s standards. He commented mildly.

“The bike runs. That’s good enough. And it’s why we’re providing the option.”

Cheap, unenchanted bicycles. Three, as ordered. Pelt grumbled into his beard.

“I shouldn’t let you take them, really. They’re passable, but—”

“But I’ll say they’re not yours. See? We can even write, ‘not a work of Master Pelt’ on it. And it takes the load off. In fact, other smiths are already trying to make bicycles.”

“Hah! Let them. Those damned gears really are a pain to make. If you have a mold you have a shot, but…”

Kevin smiled. That was his talent. People liked Kevin. And before you knew it, he was wheeling out the bicycles with an apprentice. Elirr and the other two Gnolls listened to everything, of course.

“This one goes straight to Pallass. This one? Liscor’s Runner’s Guild. Ask for Hawk. He knows where to take it. The last one I’ll take to Invrisil. Someone’s getting it. Um—where are my orders? Oh, and I should get a receipt signed…”

“It’s good work. A bicycle, hm? I wonder how much the cheap ones cost?”

“More than we can afford. Yet. He could be good. But he is clearly needed here. That grumpy [Smith]—few could work with him, yes? But he would be a good choice. I like Kevin.”

“He is likable.”

Elirr agreed, watching the young man. But Kevin had established himself here. He had created a job—an entire industry really—where none had existed. He would be a good choice for Krshia, though. Still…

It was Pelt that Elirr glanced at. The Dwarf was working. He was angry, focused, and grudgingly approving at times. He had regained his spark. And one person was to thank for that. It all went back to the inn.

Alas.

—-

The Wandering Inn was empty. No one came in.

Empty. No one came by, anymore. Who would come to drink and eat when Erin lay in the garden? People did come, but not to dine. Not for those fun gatherings.

The Players of Celum had left. The regulars didn’t show their faces except to ask to go into the garden. A few people did come day by day, like clockwork.

Ishkr, who swept up, served drinks and food, Selys, to check on people. And the inn had guests. Hexel the [Architect], who breakfasted in Liscor and only came back to sleep. His apprentices…a few others.

But all that remained were ghosts. If you walked about the inn, you might find them. A Hobgoblin, sitting in the Garden, usually, sword on his knees. A Worker with a bow, who no longer sang.

Humans, talking quietly. A Centaur, a Minotaur and Human [Mage]. And among them all, one constant.

A little white Gnoll who sat in the middle of the vast common room, like a large stuffed animal. Or a puppet with its strings cut. She didn’t move. Her fur was white, a rarity among Gnolls. Normally she was running about; in other times, better times, she would be playing amidst the chairs, sneaking food, or playing tag with her two friends.

Today, like yesterday and the day before, she sat, unmoving, except when her mother fed her or tried to get her to do anything. She sat there in the empty inn and knew it was all her fault.

For she was Mrsha.

And she was a Doombringer.

I am doom.

That was the one thing that she heard. It was her voice, in her head. Every moment. It was a certainty.

I am doom. Erin is dead, and I am doom. Mother left me. Two mothers, because I am doom.

This she knew was true. She had denied it. But the truth was clear. So the certainty repeated itself, again and again, second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour.

I am doom. I am doom. I am doom. I am doom. I am doom. I am doom. I am doom. I am doom. I am—

Ulvama kicked Mrsha across the inn. The little Gnoll went flying and landed on a table. The Hobgoblin decided that was worth two points.

The art of kicking children was a surprisingly complex mechanism to anyone who was unskilled at it. Ulvama was an expert.

You didn’t kick a Goblin child or Gnoll the same way you hit a soccer ball, for instance, although there were some parallels. As Joseph could have told you for the game of football, it wasn’t kicking with the impact so much as pushing the ball, launching it with momentum. An impact-kick could break your toes!

The trick was to insert the tip of your foot underneath the child—Mrsha in this case—and loft her into the air. Thereby achieving maximum flight and distance with the least amount of damage to your foot and said child. Gnoll punting. It could be a sport.

Mrsha landed on the table and slid slightly, but didn’t go off the edge. The [Shaman] rubbed her claws together. She waited—but the Gnoll just looked at her and then lay on the top of the table.

Ulvama scowled. Well, this was depressing. She wasn’t an expert on Gnoll children, having come from the Mountain City tribe, but she’d expected this one to be at least a bit like little Goblins. But the Mrsha-Gnoll was practically unresponsive.

“Mm.”

The [Shaman] wandered off. Mrsha lay on the table. That hadn’t actually hurt; it had just been surprising. She did not like the [Shaman]. But who cared?

For I am doom. This is what I deserve. Lyonette has left and that is good for she will die if she stays with me. She left because of what I am. Doom, doom—

“What’s this?”

The [Shaman] waved something at Mrsha. The Gnoll’s head moved slightly. She saw the Hobgoblin had found some of the face paint the Players of Celum had left behind in the stage-section of the [Grand Theatre]. The female Hob was sniffing at it.

Mrsha didn’t respond. She turned her head to the wall. She heard Ulvama unscrewing the jar, tasting it, spitting, and then muttering as she put some on her arm.

Shuffle, shuffle. Mrsha wished the Hobgoblin would go. She was the only moving thing in the inn.

Lyonette was gone. Selys came by.

The inn did get visitors. Lyonette had asked so many to take care of Mrsha. And they tried. Oh—they did try.

“I got her to eat a bite. Mrsha? Won’t you have another? Okay, I’ll be back. Ishkr, see if you can get her to take another…”

Selys came every day. She’d been coaxing Mrsha to eat, without knowing that the Gnoll usually spat out the food after a single begrudging bite.

The assigned people were Selys, Ishkr, Drassi to some extent, Rose, Kevin, and Pawn. But Pawn was absent, preparing Antinium for war. Selys came as often as she could and she and Ishkr did their best. So did Rose and Kevin, when they were here, Rose more often than Kevin since she wasn’t fully employed. They all watched out for Mrsha most of all.

But if they compared notes, they might realize that the food Mrsha was ‘eating’ was never eaten in front of them. They would get her to have a bite, put the plate down and have to do something.

Then it would be empty, the bowl cleaned. They would smile and be reassured. What they didn’t notice was in the five minute gap to go to the outhouse, or stretch their legs or talk to someone, Mrsha would throw it into the [Garden of Sanctuary] and the Fortress Beavers would eat.

Mrsha’s stomach growled. She ignored it. She closed her eyes. She didn’t need to eat. She didn’t deserve to eat. She was a bad Gnoll. A bad—

Crunch, crunch, crunch. Mrsha’s ears picked up the sound. She smelled—saw Ulvama walking out of the kitchen with a huge bowl of chips and dip. It was fresh; nothing went bad in the inn, even with Erin on ice.

More growling, but Mrsha had learned you stopped getting hungry if you were too hungry. She’d forgotten that. It was like when everyone had left the first time. But then Lyonette had…

She buried her face in her fur and tried to go back to the half-sleep trance. Covered her ears as the crunching grew louder and the Hobgoblin smacked her lips. She’d appeared at the end of the Summer Solstice, through the magic door. Mrsha didn’t like her.

No, that wasn’t right. She had thought nothing of Ulvama until today. The Hobgoblin had been sneaking around for days. But suddenly—she had decided to pick on Mrsha. First it was staring, then poking Mrsha and scuttling backwards. Then—she’d started kicking Mrsha and doing this!

Ulvama was a bad Goblin. Rude. She kicked Mrsha, poked her, when Mrsha just wanted to—

“Hm. Hmm.”

The Hobgoblin put the chip bowl on the table where Mrsha was lying and then put one of the dip-bowls on Mrsha’s head. She balanced it there as the Gnoll remained motionless.

Mrsha didn’t move. She refused to. She heard more crunching, and then the Hobgoblin began dipping chips in the salsa-bowl on Mrsha’s head.

At that point Mrsha rolled herself and the salsa over. It spilled onto the table and Ulvama made a sound of annoyance. Some got onto Mrsha’s fur. She stayed still. She waited—

Crunch. After a second, Ulvama adjusted her seat and began mopping up the spilled salsa with the chips. The tables were clean, after all. You could eat your dinner off them.

The crunching got to be too much after a while. So Mrsha got up, and padded away. She slunk downstairs, and hid behind a barrel. She was d—

“Cold!”

Ulvama shouted after a minute. Mrsha jumped. The Hobgoblin came down the stairs, wide-eyed, licking some ice cream.

“This sweet. This good!”

She pronounced, looking around for Mrsha. The Gnoll hid behind a barrel, wishing the Hobgoblin would explode. Ulvama looked around for Mrsha. Her eyes glowed in the darkness.

Ulvama was a Hobgoblin. Not like Numbtongue; in fact, different in every way as a Hobgoblin could be. It wasn’t body size so much as attitude.

She wasn’t a fat Hob like some were. But she wasn’t exactly a lithe Hobgoblin warrior who trained—or had trained—daily in rigorous workouts. She was well-fed. Also—a [Shaman].

Her body was adorned with more colorful, glowing paints than even a Redfang and she carried a staff. She also dressed in what Lyonette called ‘scandalous’ attire. Mrsha thought it was close to a Plain Gnoll’s outfit, minus the fur.

She was also rude, mean, and she didn’t leave Mrsha alone. Ulvama looked around the basement.

“Stupid white sad Gnoll? Where are you?”

Mrsha didn’t respond. Ulvama grunted. She adjusted the bowl, and then tapped her staff on the ground.

“[See Heat].”

Her eyes flashed crimson in the darkness. She turned—and spotted Mrsha at once.

“There. Stupid Gnoll. Stupid Gnoll—”

She poked Mrsha with the edge of her staff. Mrsha glared up at her. Ulvama pointed at the ice cream in the bowl.

“Where more this?”

Go away. Mrsha glared. Ulvama poked her again.

“This. More of this. Where?”

The Gnoll refused to respond. Sh—

Poke, poke. Ulvama, like annoying children or people everywhere, refused to give up. On the eighth poke, Mrsha grabbed the staff’s tip and snarled silently. Ulvama, undeterred, simply dragged Mrsha out of cover.

“Where more sweet stuff?”

Mrsha ran off. She raced up the stairs, into the common room, and then—up the stairs again. Into hers and Lyonette’s room. She pushed the latch on the door, hid under the bed.

Doom. After a few seconds, she heard someone come up the stairs. A mutter—then a knock.

“Stupid little Gnoll. Mrsha-child.”

Ulvama tried the door. It was locked. She called out again. Mrsha ignored her. Now she could—

Click.

The latch slid back and the door opened. Ulvama walked in.

“Little smelly Gnoll—”

This time Mrsha attacked. Furiously. How dare Ulvama come in here! She lunged out from under the bed and—

The Hobgoblin bonked Mrsha with the staff as the Gnoll ran into it, then put her foot on Mrsha’s back. She held down the outraged, squirming Gnoll, and looked around.

“Ooh. Stick here.”

Webs shot from her staff and immobilized Mrsha! The Gnoll struggled as she was covered by a spell. She saw Ulvama walk over to a dresser and immediately open it. She began rummaging through Lyonette’s clothing! Pulling out everything, discarding what she didn’t like—

Mrsha began snarling and tearing at the webbing, but it just stuck even more. Ulvama chortled for ten whole minutes until the spell began to dissipate. Then she shouted as Mrsha bit her leg.

“Aaah! Stupid Gnoll girl!”

She smacked Mrsha on the head. Mrsha let go; it wasn’t a heavy blow, and jumped back. She had blood in her mouth. She snarled as Ulvama raised her staff. The Hobgoblin chased after Mrsha—

And Mrsha ran into a wall. Into a place beyond. The Hobgoblin [Shaman] lunged and smashed into the invisible barrier. Mrsha stood in the Garden of Sanctuary and listened to the cursing and shout of pain with bitter satisfaction.

It did not last. Mrsha’s head turned. She looked towards the hill with the mists. And there, a guardian before that place…

The Hobgoblin with the sword. The crystal-metal blade gleamed. He was as empty as her.

But he had eaten. He ate mechanically, as if only to keep this strength for danger. He sat, empty.

Slowly, the little Gnoll crept up the hill. Numbtongue saw Mrsha come. She hesitated; but she was afraid to go beyond. It was too sad.

So Mrsha approached. Numbtongue watched her; then looked past. The Hobgoblin [Shaman] was banging on the door at the far end of the garden, far below. She hammered, shouted—then gave up and stormed off in a huff.

Mrsha approached. She looked at Numbtongue. Her big brother. He said nothing. Did nothing.

Slowly, almost shyly, afraid, she leaned against him. She wanted him to say something. Even if he was mad. She looked up—

His face was blank. He didn’t respond. Mrsha leaned against him for a while. That made her feel b—

Numbtongue moved and she fell over. He went to sit further up the hill. Mrsha looked at him. She had tried this very thing days ago. The same happened. He sat there, face half-grieving, half-frozen in a kind of bitter concentration.

Mrsha hung her head. She padded down the hill. Furry shapes went to cuddle her, but she pushed them away, like Numbtongue had done to her.

This place was too happy. She wanted a dark space to curl up. That evil [Shaman] was there, though. Mrsha left the hurt Fortress Beavers and changed the door’s position.

Her room and Lyonette’s. No—Erin’s. It smelled of Erin, there. Mrsha sniffed and listened. She didn’t hear the Hobgoblin. She must have left after finding the door impossible to breach. Mrsha padded through the door.

“Aha! Got you, biting little Gnoll!”

Two hands seized her the instant Mrsha was through. The camouflaged Goblin came off the wall—she’d been in Erin’s room, waiting for Mrsha! A trap!

Mrsha fought furiously. Her body was leaden and weak, but she had had enough! She twisted to bite—and Ulvama dropped her. Mrsha hit the floor and tried to scamper off, but she was so exhausted she was not her normal, quick self. She saw a shadow and moved—but too late.

Ulvama sat on Mrsha! Her big, huge, fat butt sat on the Gnoll—not with all her weight, but pinning Mrsha to the ground! She pinned Mrsha with her legs.

“Got you, sly little stupid Gnoll. Always sly. Always throwing good food. Eh, eh?”

Ulvama happily poked Mrsha in the side. The Gnoll snarled, twisted—then abruptly, gave up. She went limp, lifeless. Let Ulvama do what she willed. Mrsha didn’t care. She probably deserved it.

The [Shaman] eyed the limp Gnoll, pursing her lips. Well, the Gnoll was as tricky as some Goblin children or [Warriors]. But Ulvama had been [Shaman] to the greatest of Goblin tribes! Little children were no match for her intellect.

“Hm. Little Gnoll, you hungry? I have meat. See?”

She produced a sausage and warmed it with a spell. The meat smelled heavenly. Mrsha refused to move or even blink.

“Open mouth.”

Mrsha felt Ulvama poke her in the face. A finger tried to prize her jaw open; Ulvama had a slice of the meat ready to insert.

The Hobgoblin saw the mouth open and snap. But her fingers were already jerking back. She saw Mrsha bite—then go limp.

“Hm. Okay, not good idea. How this?”

The [Shaman] was actually enjoying herself as she spoke in a version of Goblin-cant. She thought, and then began to tickle Mrsha.

“Tickle, tickle. Open mouth.”

Mrsha tensed. She tried not to move as the Hobgoblin tickled her neck, her belly, and the pads of her paws. Then she wriggled, fighting to get free. She couldn’t—but she refused to open her mouth, even when tears started leaking from her eyes.

“Stubborn.”

Ulvama gave up in exasperation. Well, it was time for a trump card. She shrugged, adjusted her staff, and bonked Mrsha lightly on the head.

When cleverness wouldn’t work, use magic. That was a [Shaman] motto.

“[Gnawing Hunger].”

Mrsha’s eyes snapped open. She heard the first growl from her stomach so loudly that it seemed like a second animal inside her. Suddenly, her hunger pangs were back and three times as overwhelming. She began to drool as Ulvama cooled the meat in one palm, then put it in front of Mrsha.

“You eat, you go. Deal? I can sit all day. Little Gnoll good pillow.”

She grinned down at Mrsha. The Gnoll wanted to poke her in the stupid face! She was so hungry!

Who made spells that made you hungry!? Only Goblins. Mrsha hesitated. But she was so—and she couldn’t get free.

The stomach overwhelmed even the sad brain’s best efforts. Mrsha scarfed down the bit of sausage. Humming, Ulvama cut more with a knife and let Mrsha devour it piece by piece.

Mrsha hated that it tasted so good. She hated Ulvama—but she ate.

“Let’s see. Sausage for Gnoll stomach…not good to eat so much…if I think about the starvation of Hobgoblin [Warriors]—how much did I feed them during the siege? But that was vegetables, which fill you up…do Gnolls eat vegetables? Tricky, tricky…”

The little Gnoll frowned as Ulvama thought to herself. She sounded—smart there. As in, Numbtongue-smart, who could talk with big words. Was she pretending to sound like other Goblins?

She was curious—and then remembered she should be sad. Mrsha pushed at Ulvama’s legs. I ate! Let me go! She wanted to sign, but her arms were pinned.

“Not yet. Little Gnoll eat this, too.”

Ulvama put a cookie on the floor. Mrsha glowered. No! Ulvama flicked her forehead with a finger, ignoring Mrsha trying to snap and bite it.

“Good sweet thing makes Gnoll girl happy. Stop pretending not to eat. I see. I am not stupid. If little Gnolls dies, everyone is sad. Including not-dead Human, isn’t that so?”

She nodded to the open door. Mrsha…hesitated.

Erin would be sad if she died? A pang of guilt. She wasn’t doing it on purpose! She spat on Ulvama’s leg. The Hobgoblin narrowed her eyes. Deliberately, she wiped the spit off—then used Mrsha’s fur as a handkerchief! Mrsha wiggled in outrage.

“You spit on me, I wipe spit on you. Now, eat sweet thing. Wait—maybe little Gnolls are allergic? Are Gnolls allergic? Why would there be food that is bad for little Gnolls here? No, no. It’s fine. Eat.”

Another tap on the forehead with the staff. Ulvama was smirking as Mrsha glared.

The only warning the smug [Shaman] got was seeing Mrsha’s face suddenly turn to one of…satisfaction. Ulvama looked up and heard the angry buzzing.

A bee the size of her face came buzzing down like the wrath of…bees. Ulvama shouted.

“Aah! What that!?”

She fled. Mrsha went scampering as Apista, who had likewise been in silent mourning, came to life. Ulvama ran about Erin’s room, shouting, then whirled.

“Die, bee!”

She raised her staff. Mrsha tackled her as Apista swerved out of the way.

No! Mrsha grabbed for the staff. Ulvama shouted.

“Stupid Gnoll! We both lose our eyes if I don’t kill—”

She stopped, seeing Mrsha’s desperately shaking head and frantic look. Ulvama lowered the staff, eyed Apista. The bee made her back up and it protectively hovered between her and Mrsha and then landed on the little Gnoll’s head. Protectively, Mrsha grabbed her and hugged her as she backed away from Ulvama.

They disappeared into the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Ulvama’s jaw closed after a second as the door slammed shut.

“…What?”

But at least the little Gnoll had eaten something. Ulvama sighed. Stupid door. If she could get through it, she could take care of both Mrsha-child and Numbtongue-idiot. It was getting in the way of her work!

Now, how to trap the Gnoll when she came back? If Ulvama smelled throw-up, she’d have to make sure the little Gnoll didn’t do it again. Not that she thought the Gnoll was that self-destructive. Good thing, too…the [Shaman] hurried off to lay traps.

—-

Humans and inn. It was true most did not stay at the inn. The Gnolls of Liscor were considering their options.

Kevin was your first pick, obviously. Because he was Kevin. But because he was Kevin, he was useful wherever. So was there a second-tier pick which was actually superior since they wouldn’t be as missed?

No one wanted to give Krshia a headache, though. But still…consider the options. Check the field.

And speaking of fields…as the sun rose, a young man jogged across the grass.

He had a headache. But he was moving quickly. Despair and activity alternated place with Joseph. He had a drinking problem. Yet what got him out of bed as soon as Kevin was responsibility.

Maybe it was a purpose. Maybe it was the conscience of knowing hopes and dreams rested on his shoulders.

Maybe it was because the team would drag him out of bed if he didn’t make it to practice.

It could be any number of things, really.

Football—real football—had a team of eleven players. But obviously, a team should be larger so they could be rotated in and out. And given how some people might have accidents, and those accidents could also be ‘monster attack’ in this world, thirty players were jogging after Joseph.

And that was only Liscor’s team. And only the adults! The little leaguers were trying to follow, but Joseph had had them stop after only one ‘lap’ of Liscor. They had heart, but it was hard to keep up with adults and their parents would be upset if they pushed too hard.

Besides, they had practice all day. Joseph thought that was insane, but for these players?

The game was all. Mind you, he’d be going to Invrisil to coach a second team after lunch. But he started them off with the run. He panted, and then shouted, half-exasperated.

“Pick up the pace! Don’t stop! This is the final lap!”

Four laps around the city, each day. He had to stop drinking; it was miserable with a hangover and before breakfast. To drown out the pain, Joseph shouted the chant they’d made up.

“Which city wins at every game? Liscor!”

“Liscor!”

The Drakes, Gnolls, and Humans echoed him. Joseph winced. The new [Kickers] ran in a line; from the walls he heard a slight cheer before the Senior Guardsman admonished the [Guard].

It was like, well, home. And seeing a beloved team—undefeated!—practicing. There would be a game in a week’s time. No chance of Esthelm winning. Not yet. But soon there would be competition. Invrisil practically guaranteed it since Joseph was creating their team, and they had some strong players…

“Say it louder!”

“Liscor! One, two, three, four! Liscor roars and always scores!”

Oh, the developing culture of the game. Both Drakes and Gnolls found reasons to like bot baseball with the Gnoll love of catching the ball and Drakes liked the idea of possession of the football. And vice versa.

Also—it was a bit easier for Drakes in Pallass to play soccer in a confined space than baseball.

Basketball now? Well, Joseph was no good at that. But somehow, here he was.

Joseph the Soccer Player. And damn Erin for…for…giving him that nickname and spreading the misinformation about the proper name around.

A celebrity, though. He had people coming up to him asking for an autograph. Sometimes very attractive people, of every species. Joseph concentrated on running, on teaching the players football. It beat thinking about anything else.

The Gnolls watched from the hilltop, lying flat to observe. Well—one of them was keeping an eye out for Shield Spiders or Rock Crabs, too.

“He could be good, yes? A celebrity.”

“Hrm. But he drinks. And he is not as discreet as Kevin, I think.”

“You think Kevin is discreet? Hah! You just like him because he reminds you of the grandson you do not have.”

“So what? Stop bothering me, Elirr. You have cute little Mrsha. Where is she, by the way?”

“…I have not checked. Ow!”

“You are leaving that child alone when her mother is gone and that [Innkeeper] is dead? Shame on you! We’re visiting the inn after this. Anyways. Joseph is good, but he cannot go; there are too many people depending on him here. And we must win the next game.”

Elirr massaged his ear.

“True, true. Well, a shame. Let us—oh!”

The oh was because the spying Gnolls realized another group was conspicuously worming its way through the grass. The two Drakes stared at them. One coughed.

“Er—sorry. Are you here to check out Liscor’s team too?”

“No…we were just finished.”

The three Gnolls exchanged a look. The Pallassian Drakes nodded to each other.

“Well, we’ll just take this spot. Have they begun practice yet?”

Elirr stared over his shoulder as the two observers set up their own observation of the Liscorian team practice. He had a distinct desire to want to rat them out to Joseph or the City Watch.

“Spies. They are everywhere, yes? Not that copying our team will let them win! When’s the next game?”

He huffed with civic pride. The other two grinned at him. Hemera scratched at her chin.

“Speaking of spies…why don’t we check on someone before we visit the inn, yes? I hear Miss Imani is holding a…a…class? In the city.”

The other Gnolls raised their brows.

“A class?”

—-

“The first step is to cut the squash into roughly one inch cubes. We’re going to bake it, so let’s all do that.”

Imani grabbed the butternut squash, fresh from Oteslia, and began peeling the outer rind with well, a peeler. Shreds came off and the Gnolls and Drakes in her cooking tutorial class copied her.

Elirr and the other two Gnolls peeked in the windows—before someone coughed.

“You have to pay for instruction—wait, is that Elirr?”

Palt had caught the three Gnolls. The Centaur was smoking as per usual and the stern look he gave to the three peeking into the window of the large kitchen rented to Imani for the day turned to one of surprise.

“Er, hello Palt. We were only checking in on Imani.”

The [Illusionist] blinked at Elirr’s shamefaced look. Also—the hat and rather conspicuous long coats each Gnoll was wearing.

“I…see. Well, she’s teaching the [Cooks] and [Chefs].”

“Teaching?”

“Some of The Wandering Inn’s recipes. Cakes, cookies—anything they want. It beats people stealing her recipes every time she comes out with something. Not that…it’s a problem anymore.”

Because The Wandering Inn was closed. Elirr’s ears drooped.

“Is she working, then?”

“What? Oh, yes. At The Drunken Gnoll. The inn run by Timbor Parthian?”

“Ah, the new Human inn. That is good. That is…well, we just wanted to see how she was doing.”

The three Gnolls apologized. Palt hesitated then waved it off. He exhaled a ring of smoke from his cigar.

“…If it’s you, it’s probably fine. Come in. Just watch from afar.”

—-

Inside, Imani was teaching her first class of [Cooks] her recipes. She’d started with one of her breakfasts. Which included cubed, baked squash—until it was tender and firm, seasoned just right—that was just the side, obviously.

She had decided to offer it after one spy too many. Of course…much had changed since then, but Imani had decided to do it anyways. Just because she didn’t have to cook all the time at Timbor’s inn; he might not have Erin’s Skill, but he had invested in Runes of Preservation like any good [Innkeeper] so he had his own ‘stock’ of fresh foods.

Imani had run into a problem, though. Which was that the crowd of about thirty or so people taking her lesson weren’t all on the same page.

They were about six to a table, since it was a waste of food and time for each person to work on the dish. And it was hands—or paws—or claws-on work. But Imani saw one group of [Apprentice Cooks] struggling.

One group of impatient Drakes had already peeled their entire squash, sliced it open, removed the pulpy, seedy core, and begun cubing it. They were clearly the advanced crowd. As good as Lasica, well nearly…

Poor Lasica. Imani swallowed hard as she thought of that. She hadn’t seen either Lasica or Rufelt since…

Anyways. The apprentices were in trouble.

“Are you having a hard time with the peeler?”

They were only a quarter done. The Drake looked embarrassed as another apprentice clearly wanted to take it and do a good job.

“Sorry, Master Imani—I’m just having a tough time!”

He’d hit his hand twice. Imani stared at him.

The Drake was using the peeler—much like the ones from her world, a type of blade on a handle, to peel the hard rind of a squash off. Obviously it wasn’t the easiest thing because the squash was gourd-shaped. But still.

He was peeling towards himself as he held the squash sideways. Imani slowly took the squash and tilted it.

“…It might be your technique. Why don’t you peel down like so, and…?”

The Drake tried it. He gasped.

“That’s so easy!”

Gravity and the cutting board meant he wasn’t in danger of hitting his scales every time he cut. The rind came away.

“Dead gods, what have I been doing with my life?”

The other apprentices groaned—but two looked like they shared the unlucky Drake’s opinion. Imani shook her head as she joined the other tables.

“Sorry for the delay.”

“Hah. We’re paying for lessons, not hand-holding.”

One of the [Chefs] groused. He’d created perfect cubes of squash. Imani half-agreed; she felt like it might be a waste of his time.

“I’m sorry, Chef…?”

“Remiss. I work at the Tailless Thief? I’m here to learn your secrets.”

The Drake nodded to Imani. He was stiff—a tad bit unfriendly, but perhaps it was warranted. The other [Cooks] and [Chefs] murmured.

There was a pecking order among the culinary elite. Imani had never been in that world before coming here; she was an amateur cook!

Now, a dedicated one, perhaps soon to be [Chef] herself. She nodded to Remiss politely.

“Thank you for coming, Chef Remiss. I hope not to waste your time. This is my first cooking class…”

“…And we were not expecting one of Liscor’s finest [Chefs] about. Chef Remiss, amazing knife work. I’m a fan of the art of cooking myself. Can I offer you something to smoke? Chew?”

A voice. Imani brightened as Palt clip-clopped over. He offered around cigars, spliffs—the Drakes and Gnolls brightened.

“Never in the kitchen when cooking!”

Remiss glowered, but relented as he saw the smoke from Palt’s cigar being trapped in a ‘safety bubble’. He took the cigar, though, sniffed it, and tucked it away.

“I’ll have one later. You must be that Centaur.”

“Palt, [Illusionist] of Wistram at your service.”

The Centaur bowed from the torso. The others introduced themselves as the apprentices got their squashes ready.

“[Line Cook], Errez—I’m doing work at a number of restaurants…”

“I’ve seen you about. I’m a [Soup Chef]. Veriny. You can find me at the Crab Bowl—we’re not as fancy, but I had to learn how to make a ‘cookie’…”

“Surely, you mean sous-chef?”

“No, I know what I meant.”

There were a number of high-level cooks in the audience! Imani gulped, but Palt gave her an encouraging wink. She hurried over to her demonstration table in the center of the room.

“Is everyone done? Well then, I like to apply the following. Some olive oil, a bit of pepper, s—”

One of the apprentices upended the pepper all over their bowl. Imani heard a cry of dismay, and coughed as a stinging cloud hit her nostrils. Palt waved his finger urgently and the pepper cloud whirled back to the bowl.

The other [Chefs] and [Cooks] stared at the same Drake with the peeling problem. He hung his head. Imani hesitated.

“…We can wash the squash. As I was saying?”

—-

They were done with the squash when Imani realized there were multiple levels of her class, as if that hadn’t been obvious. She turned to Palt.

“Can you…demonstrate the rest of the breakfast dish?”

“It’s just the hamburger on rice, right? And I know a few more. I can take over.”

“Thank you. I’m just going to get the recipes.”

The Centaur clip-clopped over to the demonstration table and smiled.

“Cook Imani is just going to get some reference materials. If you’re with me—let’s go over making the ground beef into patties. Have you all washed your hands?”

Some of the class were watching intently. But about…twelve of the thirty were looking impatient. Like Remiss. Imani hurried over and beckoned them.

“Excuse me? I have the recipes of what we’re going to make today. If you’d like, I can run through them with you while Palt goes step-by-step.”

She presented them with a small sheaf of neatly-copied recipes and instructions, with ingredients, measurements—all done by a [Scribe], very cheap.

Remiss, who had been folding his claws and glowering, blinked.

“You have the recipe books? And you’re just…giving them away?”

“Yes. I was going to hand them out after the class, but I didn’t realize you knew all the techniques. I would not want to waste your time…here.”

She handed them out to the higher-level [Chefs] and [Cooks] she’d noticed. The Drakes, Gnolls, and one Human looked at each other as they paged through.

“Mm. This is easy to understand! Not like some home-recipes I’ve had to copy. Thank you! I don’t think there’s much—certainly not the breakfasts. Good cooking! Thank you for the recipe, but I don’t need to know how to make a hamburger. Figured it out after four tries myself. Only trick was cooking it just right.”

One of the Gnolls commented. The others nodded. One frowned and raised a hand.

“Ah—I’d like to see the ice cream process, actually. And your technique making…what is this? A croissant? Intriguing.”

Imani was only too happy to show them. She waved at Palt, then took over the advanced class for a run through of what she’d go through with the others later.

It was refreshing to be around, well, experts who enjoyed something as much as you did. That was why Imani and Palt had somehow met. The Centaur had kept wandering in to ask how she’d prepared a dish and they got to talking about recipes, techniques…

And cooking was fun. Something Erin never really understood. She enjoyed serving food, but—Imani pushed the thoughts out of the way as she talked animatedly.

“So this technique is actually hard to do in a place with a [Preservation] spell. I actually had to ask…had to ask for a space without the effect to let the aging process take place for about four days. In a refrigerated place, though! So our patty is actually going to be poached in said butter as it melts…”

“This is decadent.”

“Heinous. I can’t wait to make some of these.”

Some of the Drakes and Gnolls were discussing the technique—one among many. They had varying fields of knowledge; the [Soup Chef] could have taught everyone about soups, for instance, but Imani was explaining some of the more esoteric ideas to them. They watched as Imani began to poach said hamburger in the butter wrap…

“I’d never have the time to personally prepare some of the meals with how much food I have to serve during the busy hours. Well, that’s what an apprentice is for.”

Remiss commented to another [Cook] and the man nodded. Everyone winced as someone dropped a bowl from the junior-instructional area. Imani didn’t even have to look to guess who it was, from the apologizing voice.

“Who is that klutz?”

Remiss was outraged. A Gnoll—Errez—murmured.

“That must be Cepil. Young lad—recently apprenticed. You’d never guess it, but amazingly precise at telling when something’s perfectly done. Give him a steak and he’ll make it medium-rare even if the heat’s twice as hot as it should be. Not even a Skill, just good temperature-sense.”

“Well, he’s not ready to learn any of this. Why did his master pay to let him…?”

“Ah. Remiss? His master—Yen? She’s dead. Army versus Hectval.”

Imani’s fingers slipped as she was cutting up some nuts. A hand darted out—Remiss caught the knife a second before it could slash her. Shaken, she stopped.

“I’m sorry. Thank you—”

“Think nothing of it. I see. And no one’s taken him in?”

“Not a one. Not that Yen was ever good at teaching the basics. Did you see the way she cut up…?”

The [Cooks] and [Chefs] were laughing, talking, but sadly. Even here, the aftereffects were present. Imani turned to look at the Drake apprentice in a new light.

So did Remiss.

“Well, someone should take him under their wing. I’ll put up with him in my kitchens, at least until he stops dropping everything in sight.”

“Excuse me—we’re just doing frosting now. Decorations for the cake you wanted?”

Imani adjusted the cooking hamburger example. The others jumped.

“Terribly sorry, Cook Imani.”

Some of them ducked their heads. Imani shook hers.

“No—it’s fine. I was just wondering, is that how it works? You apprentice to a master? Can’t he learn any other way?”

One of the Gnolls scratched his ear. He was very careful about getting hair in his food, Imani noticed, and stood well back from her work space.

“If he has the talent and drive? He’s fine to. But otherwise he should get a good master. Mind you—not all can teach properly. My master never taught me how to properly debone a fish. Never learned; his one weakness each spring. That was how he died.”

“He choked to death on a fish bone in his dish? That’s awful.”

A female Drake commented. The Gnoll gave her a crooked smile.

“No. Someone else nearly did and they stabbed him.”

Imani shivered. The others shook their heads.

“Different standards of teaching. You can see it—see that Drake over there? The girl so artfully doing everything? Her master is Tell Rissiel. I’m sure she’ll be an amazing [Chef].”

Imani listened as she mixed up some frosting and coated a demo-cake. Then served everyone a slice. They nodded appreciatively, asking her about toppings. Had she ever tried meats? Imani suspected there might be some weird cakes coming out of Liscor soon.

“So there’s no school for new cooks?”

“School? Like some…some…well, no!”

One of the Drakes snorted as he took a bite of his cake. He shook his head, chewing.

“Good cake. No, we were all surprised you even were holding this class. Normally we fight tooth-and-claw over recipes.”

“Well, I’m happy to share these ones if you all stop stealing my techniques! Anyways, I have more. These are just the basic ones.”

They all laughed at the first part, and then narrowed their eyes at the second. Imani sighed. Cooking was cutthroat in a world where a new recipe or a sudden rush of customers could mean a new level and thus Skill.

“But how long do apprentices take? Can’t they all take a…a class like this and learn how to do everything for a year or a few months?”

“That sounds like an apprenticeship but with more steps, Cook Imani. We’d still need to teach them more.”

“Yes, but it would stop…that.”

Palt had to halt the lesson again as he stopped the luckless Drake from using a chopping technique that was going to lose him a claw sooner or later. The other [Chefs] and [Cooks] looked at each other.

“I wouldn’t say ‘no’ if there was one. But who would want to teach all day? For that matter—we’re [Cooks]. We don’t enjoy training up good apprentices. I know I curse each time a senior one decides to leave. I’d pay proper [Cooks] as assistants if it wasn’t so expensive.”

A Gnoll sighed. Imani half-shook her head at the way they thought. The idea of institutionalized schooling, a system for it? It made so much sense to her—

But she saw how it was hard to occur naturally. Someone had to plan it out. Teaching was a skill, an actual skill, not Skill, and you had to find someone willing to teach it all.

“Well, I can at least teach your apprentices how to cut properly. It takes just an hour of time. If you want—you can send them to me and Palt. Peeling, chopping, maybe I should open it for everyone. Everyone should know how to cube a squash without losing a finger, shouldn’t they?”

All the cooks smiled at that. There was a sentiment they could get behind. They thanked Imani and left; two stayed to watch and talk as Imani went to help Palt with the class. After thirty minutes, one came over to ask if she was serious about teaching the apprentices. Imani looked at the luckless Drake, and then at Palt. She decided it was worth a shot.

Cutting, peeling, and…baking bread? She could always give the bread and output to Timbor to sell cheaply as snacks and appetizers.

—-

“Look at that.”

Elirr murmured. Permel glanced up; he was jotting notes down himself from the class they’d watched.

“What was that, Elirr?”

“A teacher or instructor of some sort…”

Elirr remembered a silly request. His eyes stung and he looked away. Permel didn’t understand the context and gave him a blank look.

“Miss Imani could be another good one to send. She cooks—she is polite—”

“She was attacked by Crelers. She is fine now, yes, but I would not want to make her travel.”

“Hrr. No. And the Centaur would want to come too. And he is Wistram—”

And the tribes hated Wistram. Elirr snapped his fingers together. Three down! Drat. Four to go.

“Well, maybe—who is left? Rose, Galina, Leon, Troy…hrm. I do not know about Leon and Troy—I heard there was trouble from Erin when I visited.”

The Gnoll [Scribe] nodded.

“Perhaps not them. But Rose or Galina? Where are they? I have seen Miss Rose about now and then, especially helping Joseph or Kevin. But not Galina.”

That was a good question. The Gnolls looked at each other. And they realized no one had seen Galina for…

—-

Galina was gone. It was a slow realization for Ishkr. Selys noticed when she came back to check on Mrsha just around lunch.

“You haven’t seen Galina?”

“No…but the guests feed themselves. But now that you say it, Selys, I have not seen Miss Galina in…er…”

The Gnoll hurried to Galina’s room. He knocked—then tentatively tried the handle. When they opened the door?

Her room was empty. The two looked at each other.

“Are you looking for Galina?”

Rose had been neighbors to the young woman. She poked her head out the door; Ishkr and Selys saw she was red-eyed. Also, holding a book.

Rose had been reading books when not helping some of the others. Just…reading. Holed up in her room, processing grief differently. She shook her head.

“She’s in Invrisil. Didn’t she tell you?”

“No! What is she doing there, Rose?”

Selys was aghast. Rose just shook her head.

“She’s joining the Players of Celum. For real. She’s going with Wesle, Jasi—Emme offered her the spot and Temile will keep her if not. They were fighting over it.”

“She never told me!”

“Maybe she told Lyonette. I don’t think we were really talking about it. She just said—she said she couldn’t stay. I know how she feels.”

Rose sniffed. Selys exchanged a glance with Ishkr.

They were moving out. Moving away. So fast, without someone to tether them. It was strange, for the Humans who had stuck so closely together at Magnolia’s mansion. But then again…Selys recalled that Galina had always been watching the Players and hanging out with the [Actors], even going on stage.

Theatre had stolen another one. Selys shook her head.

“I—I’ll tell Lyonette. She should be at Oteslia soon. I don’t know what else to do…”

There was no one else to tell. Ryoka? Selys looked around.

“You haven’t seen Mrsha, have you, Rose? She needs to eat lunch.”

“I think I heard her run upstairs. And that female Hobgoblin was about.”

Rose sniffed again. She closed the door as Selys looked around. She opened the door to Lyonette and Mrsha’s room. If only Mrsha would let Selys take her to Selys’ apartment! But like last time, Mrsha refused to leave. It was so heartbreaking. Selys called out.

“Mrsha? It’s time to eat. Come on, Mr—”

Zap. Ishkr had been looking around Galina’s room to see how much cleaning it needed. He heard the peculiar sound, stepped out—

And saw Selys, stiff as a board, neck spines standing straight up. She was vibrating slightly, her foot on a glowing rune—

“Aha! Got you, stupid little—”

A [Shaman] came racing up the stairs. Ulvama lowered her staff as she saw Selys recoil from the trap rune. The Drake shuddered. She and Ishkr turned…

Ulvama looked at them. She backed up.

“Wrong person.”

She fled down the stairs again. Selys touched her chest.

“I felt all staticy for a second there! Like my entire body went to sleep! What was—is she safe?”

She turned to Ishkr. The Gnoll blinked.

“I have never seen her do anything like that before. I…don’t know.”

He felt a bit uneasy. She was a Goblin. But Ishkr knew that Goblin…didn’t mean all Goblins. He had seen both the kindly ones and remembered the unkindly ones. He wished—

Well, everyone knew what he wished. Selys was shaken. She caught her breath, and heard a flat voice.

“She looks around. She feeds Mrsha. She does not seem dangerous. If she is, I will kill her.”

Selys and Ishkr turned once more as another door opened down the hallway. They saw a mandible and eye stare at them from a slightly-open door. The nameplate was shiny brass, but they didn’t need to read it.

“Bird?”

It was the first time anyone had seen Bird since…Selys hurried over. Bird didn’t open the door.

“Bird! I haven’t seen you in ages! Are you okay? Have you eaten?”

“No. And no. I am Bird, Selys.”

It was the same way of talking. The same Antinium—but a different Bird. The Drake [Heiress] hesitated at the door. Ishkr walked over.

“Would you like food, Bird? I can bring you something…”

“No, Ishkr. I will find food if I need it.”

“Bird? Is everything…what are you doing in there?”

Selys had caught a peek of something from inside the room. Something odd. Bundles of…Bird didn’t reply.

“Bird?”

The female Drake slowly pushed open the door. And she recoiled.

“Bird? What is this?”

Ishkr walked over. Rose poked her head out of her room again. And what they saw was Bird’s room.

Bird’s…room. Always so decorated. Bird had always had, well, things pertaining to birds in here.

His feather collection. His Fortress of Fluff instead of a bed. A children’s book on birds. His arrows, tools for maintaining his bows, dead bird snacks—sometimes with wiggling worm ‘extras’.

That was what Ishkr was used to; he never cleaned the room, but sometimes he and Erin would go in and fumigate the place.

—That was not what the Gnoll saw now. Selys stopped. She stared about.

Bird’s Fortress of Fluff was gone. His collection of feathers? Gone. Everything was just bundles of…she stared.

“Sticks?”

No. She knew what they were. Some were wooden. Others tipped with steel, or iron, or bone. Some were hand-made. Others produced by experts.

They were arrows. Hundreds of arrows. Thousands of arrows. Ishkr was surprised the room hadn’t caved in from the weight.

Bird sat in the center of it, making…arrows. His bow was leaned up against one of the stacks of neatly-piled arrow shafts, tied together. Selys looked around, shocked.

“What is this, Bird?”

“My room. Which you are standing in. Hello. Goodbye.”

He did not look up from his task, carefully attaching an arrowhead to a shaft. The smell of glue was strong in the air. He was fletching with a bird’s feather.

A familiar feather. Only—it had been cut up to make the arrow’s fletching. Selys stared.

“Is that…Bevussa’s feather, Bird?”

“Yes.”

The Worker carefully attached a piece of it to the arrow. Selys stared. This was wrong. That was Bird’s favorite—

“Bird. What happened to your blankets? Your pillows? Your feather collection? Your Fortress of Fluff?”

“I sold it all. For more arrows. It is cheaper to make them.”

Bird did not look up. Ishkr looked around.

“So many.”

“I shot birds. I shot deer. I sell them and buy more arrows. It is efficient. I can buy more arrows for each one I shoot if I do not miss. Even more if the arrow does not break.”

Rose was gaping. Selys backed up.

“Bird? Why do you need all these arrows?”

Slowly, the [Bird Hunter] looked up.

“Including the arrows in my bag of holding, I have twelve thousand, eight hundred and fifteen arrows. When I have enough, or the room is full, I will go to Hectval. Then, I will shoot them.”

The three stared at Bird. Selys blinked. It was such a ludicrous statement.

“What? That’s crazy, Bird.”

“I know. I do not have enough arrows. Yet. I must have more. One for every person in Hectval. Two, perhaps. In case the first one misses.”

The Worker calmly replied. Selys looked at Ishkr. She wanted to laugh—because if she did—that meant Bird was not serious.

But he was. He carefully cut another piece off Bevussa’s feather.

“Bird. Stop. This isn’t what Erin would want.”

Rose burst out. She was nearly in tears with horror again. Bird froze at the name. Slowly, the Worker looked up.

“How do you know what Erin would want, Miss Rose? She is dead.”

“She’s not dead, Bird. She can come back.”

Selys breathed. Bird tilted his head.

“When? And if she does—will Hectval not come back and try to kill her again? If she comes back, I will come back. But before she does, I will go to Hectval. My room is nearly full. I think more arrows will collapse the floor. So I will go and then come back. It is less efficient than having all the arrows at once. But that is fine.”

He put down the arrow to dry and reached for another. A piece of Bevussa’s feather.

His fingers were trembling slightly as he cut another piece off. Selys reached out to stop him.

“Bird. Enough. You can’t do this.”

“Yes I can. I should have. I should not have stopped. Miss Lyonette was wrong.”

“Erin would not want this.”

“Erin is dead.”

The Drake recoiled. Rose backed up, behind Ishkr. All his fur was standing on edge. There was sound in Bird’s voice that he had never heard before. The Worker looked at them.

“I am going to go to Hectval. They killed Erin. So. I will kill them.”

He gestured to the bundles of arrows.

“I will kill their army. I will kill their Council. I will kill their Scalespeaker. Then, I will kill all of them. Until there is nothing left in Hectval. That is what I will do. Please do not interfere. I have work to do.”

From anyone else it sounded like hyperbole. And that would have been bad enough. But Ishkr knew Bird. He meant every word.

“Even the children, Bird?”

“That is what all of them means, Selys.”

“That’s murder.”

Rose whispered. Bird looked up.

“Yes.”

The three stood there. Looking at each other in the sudden silence. In the sudden…Ishkr looked around. He had been here day after day and not known what Bird was conceiving.

Madness. Selys shuddered.

“You can’t do this, Bird. Erin wouldn’t allow it. I won’t. I—I haven’t forgiven Hectval. But this is insane. You’ll die.”

“No, I will not. And why is it not allowed, Selys?”

“It’s wrong.”

“We are at war with Hectval. They are the enemy. I am not wrong. If you would like me to join the army, I will do so. Maybe they will give me arrows.”

“No. Bird—you can’t kill them all. That’s not right. That’s—an eye for an eye. It’s not right.”

Rose struggled, trying to put it into words. Bird just looked at her until she flinched and stared at the ground.

“Then have you forgiven Hectval, Rose? Miss Selys? Ishkr?”

“No, but—”

“They have done a terrible thing.”

The Antinium whispered.

“So I shall do a terrible thing to them. Until they are gone.”

“It won’t bring Erin back, Bird. Ishkr, say something. Ishkr—it won’t make you feel better, Bird.”

Rose turned to Ishkr. But the Gnoll was silent. Bird looked at Rose.

“Feel better. Bring Erin back. These are strange things you say, Rose. I did not plan this to have any of this happen. I chose to do this because I want them dead. Not to feel better. Not to bring Miss Erin back. Your logic is faulty. Mine is simple. Hectval exists. I wish it to be gone. I will never forgive them.”

He put down another arrow. Then looked at his bow.

“Please tell Erin I will be back if she does return. I will be leaving tonight, Ishkr.”

The Gnoll hesitated. Selys looked at him—then shook her head.

“No, Bird. This isn’t right. I have to tell…”

Who? Lyonette? Zevara? The person who should know, who could stop Bird was…

Pawn? Maybe one of them. Selys turned. Bird slowly drew an arrow.

“No, Miss Selys. You will not.”

She heard a terrible concentration in his voice. Selys’ [Dangersense] began to ring. She turned. She should—

An arrow thunked into the wood right past her face. She recoiled with a small scream.

“Bird!”

Ishkr and Rose ducked. Bird had another arrow on the string. Two more in his other hands.

“I see. You are going to tell someone and stop me.”

“No, I—”

“That is what you said. I am not deaf, Selys. If you run I will shoot you. In the feet. I do not miss.”

Selys froze. Bird tilted his head at her.

“Yes. This is a problem. I must leave sooner, then.”

“B-Bird. Don’t do this…”

He aimed the arrow at Selys’ feet. She hesitated. She had a wand, protective rings. But nothing immediate that could deflect…

What had he once said? Who needs a ring that can deflect a single arrow? Damn Pisces.

“You will stay there. Ishkr, Miss Rose, you two as well. I know what must be done.”

Bird’s hand moved and they flinched. But he was just tugging at an arrow bundle. Arrows cascaded onto the floor as he removed the rope.

“Tie up Miss Selys, Ishkr. Then Rose will do the same to you.”

“Bird! This is crazy!”

The Worker looked at her, completely calm.

“No, it is not. Give me your bag of holding, Miss Selys. Yours is superior to mine. I will leave. By the time you are free, I will be gone. Goodbye.”

He made them tie each other up—then checked the knots. Then he gagged them—and rolled them into Rose’s room. All three wiggled and protested, but Bird knew how to tie knots. The ropes cut into Ishkr’s wrists as he saw the Worker close the door. He tried to burst free—but he couldn’t. And Bird was moving about, putting arrows into the bag of holding.

“Many trips. I must buy a wagon. I have time until they get free if I check on them…”

He walked out of the inn. Ishkr saw Selys and Rose’s pale faces. He struggled, tried to bump the floor or kick a wall. But no one was listening.

—-

“Hello. Do you know where I can buy a wagon and horses?”

Ulvama was setting a trap with her staff under one of the tables. Both Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings were watching her out of the corner of their eye as they ate silently.

Crimshaw glanced up. He blinked at Bird.

“In the city?”

“Where in the city? What kind of shop?”

“A…stables? I’m sure they provide one with the horses.”

“I see.”

The Worker walked past them. He ignored Ulvama—she warily eyed him. Bird stopped at the door.

“Thank you.”

The Brothers looked at each other, but then they silently touched their hats. They did not ask questions. Sometimes a man needed a wagon.

Mrsha the Sad watched Ulvama from the basement’s steps. Eyes narrowed. Apista buzzed quietly on her head.

Someone was bumping on the ceiling. The two Brothers were talking about ‘relief shifts’ coming in. Ulvama was chuckling to herself and Bird was counting coins he’d taken from the purse and talking about paying Selys back afterwards.

Mrsha paid attention to none of it. Someone was probably having sex upstairs. And her focus and ire was directed at her.

Ulvama. The [Shaman] had been laying traps! Mrsha had heard Selys get got. But she was clever. Now she’d eaten, she had used her brain.

She could see magic. She was a [Druid]. Ulvama thought she was stupid, but Mrsha was smart. She could see the runes if she squinted. The [Shaman] was hiding them, but Mrsha knew better. And Mrsha was going to…to…

Trip Ulvama? Lure her into a trap? Hit her with a rock? Put poo in her hair?

These were all options. But Mrsha did not feel any particular one was sound. Because she was conflicted.

She was angry at Ulvama. She had been furious when Apista had rescued her. But then…as she plotted making Ulvama fall into her trap and beating her, Mrsha had thought again.

Ulvama was mean. But she hadn’t been…cruel. She’d kicked and poked Mrsha, but she’d also made Mrsha…eat food?

And the things she had said. Mrsha frowned and lurked. She listened.

“Stupid hungry Gnolls. Stupid hungry broken Goblin. Need good food. Why all food in here all weird?”

Ulvama had found pizza, popcorn, hamburgers, even ice cream and cookies, all of which puzzled the Hobgoblin who had never seen any of it before. She turned and watched as the two Brothers finished their lunch and stood.

“Change of shifts. Be out of your way, Miss.”

One of them tipped their hat to her. The Hobgoblin nodded at them, clearly taken aback as two more replaced them, walking into the killing-corridor without a word. Mrsha stared as Ulvama edged back—then looked around.

“Food. Feed them…? Weird foods. Hm.”

Feed them. She was trying to do all this to feed Mrsha? Almost like she cared. Mrsha’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t believe it.

Maybe…maybe the bothering her was to get her to eat. Maybe. But that was maybe. Mrsha crept after the Hobgoblin. Stealth Mrsha, activated. Apista got left behind because she was not Stealth Apista yet.

The Gnoll had Skills. [Natural Concealment] wasn’t as good as Ulvama’s camouflage; Mrsha just tended to be unnoticed unless you focused. But that was still useful.

The Hobgoblin marched into the kitchen. And there her helpful monologue halted. Mrsha listened, but there was no hope for it. She peeked around the edge of the kitchen.

Ulvama was investigating the cupboards and food again, sans voice. She was smacking her lips, trying the guacamole, spitting out some fishy Gnoll sauce, grumbling. She seemed to be hunting for ‘good foods’.

Veggies, probably. Another reason to despise…Mrsha hesitated as Ulvama pulled out an entire steak and made an approving noise.

“Mm.”

Healthy for Goblins differed from the Lyonette-Erin methodology, apparently. Ulvama seemed to want more, though.

“Chewy.”

She grumbled. Mrsha wondered if she was looking for something for her. Ulvama pulled out a shrimp linguini that Imani had made and brightened up.

“Ooh! What is this? Fancy.”

She looked around, then found a fork and began to eat. Mrsha rolled her eyes. But her stomach rumbled. She…felt some of her anger ebbing.

What was she doing? Mrsha hung her head. She should be mourning Erin, not being hungry or interested in the Hobgoblin! Be sad! Be sadder. She wasn’t sad enough. She was ashamed for being distracted from her grief.

She was about to pad away when Ulvama began choking on a shrimp. It wasn’t the fault of Imani not…deboning shrimp…but just the fact that the Hob was gobbling and one went down the wrong tube.

Ulvama hecked the shrimp onto the floor and gasped.

“Aah! Stupid thing!”

She put the meal down, appetite suppressed and went back to searching the cupboards. All things being equal, Mrsha would have left her to it. She’d just been making sure Ulvama didn’t die and didn’t need a punch on the back to get the shrimp out. Just because the inn had had enough dead Goblins. Not because she liked Ulvama.

She was thinking of a place to hide—maybe the rooftop or Bird’s tower—when Ulvama gasped.

“Cold! Cold place!”

She danced back from a cupboard. Mrsha saw frost billow out and realized Ulvama had found…it.

The sacred source. The font of goodness. The freezer from which ice cream and other delightful sugary snacks were kept. It was in a pair of cupboards higher up, out of range of Mrshas unless the kitchen was empty.

And it was a proper freezer. The Hobgoblin was astounded.

“How is this possible? There was no rune…”

There was even frozen ice up there, in wooden ice cube trays that Erin had made. Ice in your drink was normally something you paid for. Here? It was one of the reasons why people paid Lyonette’s prices. Ice in your drink. You had to know to ask, but regulars like Menolit liked having it all the time.

But why was ice here? Ulvama was confused.

“Preservation Skill in the inn? No. That doesn’t work. Why is this place cold? Strange. Strange…”

She narrowed her eyes and dug around in the freezer. Mrsha heard a gasp and knew what she’d found.

A lantern. It was probably running low unless Ishkr had replaced the fuel, but it burned for long periods. This flame, at least. It was the source of the cold. Actually—four lanterns were enough for freezing in a cold environment.

A cheap freezer. Cheaper than Hedault’s work, and he could have done it, or Montressa or Palt. Freezing was not hard if you had enough money, just like the preservation spell.

It was just The Wandering Inn’s style to do it this way, though. Mrsha felt a pang. She turned her head as Ulvama investigated the lantern. It was probably shuttered to avoid depressing anyone; it grew cold either way. And Mrsha was sad enough…

Or maybe not sad enough. She peeked. What could the flame do to her anyways? She deserved that too, for she was Doombringer. She was d—

Ulvama stood, holding the opened lantern facing her. Mrsha could not see the blue, beautifully painful flame of sadness and guilt and loss. But she knew what it looked like.

What she did see was Ulvama. The Hobgoblin’s crimson eyes were open, staring.

Tears were running down her face, dripping down her cheeks and chin and onto the floor. Her eyes were wide. Her face contorted by grief.

Mrsha stared. She had not expected this. Somehow—childishly—she had forgotten that Ulvama was a person. That maybe she had reasons to be sad. She just seemed so bossy or mean or…

The Hobgoblin’s arms shook. She reached to close the shutter. But then seemed unable to. She leaned on the counter. And then her body was shaking. Her chest heaved as more tears fell from her eyes. So many.

She collapsed in the blue glow, onto the floor, weeping silently. Mrsha saw her shaking. The little Gnoll stared. Then crept forwards.

—-

…all of them, dead. Thousands upon thousands. Tens of thousands. Each one she had known. Dead.

Dead! Slaughtered. The Great Chieftain of the Mountain, who had met his end without fleeing.

As it was. As it always was. Ulvama tried to stop. But the flame burned her. She tried to stop crying—but she could not.

She had failed them. She was tribeless. Worthless. And that was only what had happened recently. Too much. It was all there, burning like a dagger in her chest. Cold flame. She was—

Click. The tiny sound was matched by the pain welling up in her shutting off. Ulvama gasped and jerked. She looked up.

The lantern with the dreadful flame was closed. Someone had shut it. Not her.

A little white Gnoll stared down at her from the counter. She had done it. Seen Ulvama’s suffering and…

Something like recognition flickered in Mrsha’s eyes. She slowly watched as Ulvama drew herself up. The two regarded each other in silence. After a second, Ulvama drew breath.

Another fire? She looked at the little Gnoll. Mrsha did not run. She saw Ulvama reach out and then steady herself on the counter. She nodded to the girl.

“Good little Gnoll-child.”

They looked at each other a second time. After a second, Mrsha sat on the counter and began eating the linguini. Ulvama joined her after a second. And she noticed it still burning.

Hope. But…had it changed? Because now it spoke to her like something else. Perhaps…

Kindness.

—-

A Worker paid for a wagon. A young woman stood in a theatre, leaving Liscor and the inn behind.

Armored and armed Antinium trained for war.

How they moved on. How things changed. Had they all given up on her? No—no, but what did you do?

Everything had failed. Magic—true magic—was difficult to obtain. And it seemed like the best, one of the only hopes had failed.

The Summer Solstice. So much work, for what? For naught. For despair.

For, in fact, worse than where the world had been before that. For…things…coming back. Nothing. A rift between the worlds. The flight of the fae.

All for nothing. Seemingly.

At first glance. It was true that terrible things had happened. That the best had not come to pass and the worst might have instead.

But something had been kept. Something had been brought in that time of times, from worlds apart. Perhaps it was nothing. But…the young woman sat on the bed and pondered it.

A plastic dagger. So it had seemed. A gift of the Faerie King. She spoke as she held it in her hands, in this world apart.

“Oh my god I broke it.”

Ryoka bit her tongue and felt a lurch in her chest. She desperately—

Tap, tap, vring.

The last sound was…technological. Impossible to replicate, surely, without a level of technology or instruments not accessible to a medieval world.

Ryoka Griffin had once heard that the sci-fi shooting effects for Star War’s blasters had come from someone throwing stuff at power lines. It was not that sound, not by far. Vring was a good way to describe it, but it had that quality that sounded so—foreign.

Alien. She stared at the…blade…and gulped.

“Um. Never mind.”

A plastic dagger. In the land of the fae, Ryoka had met, well, a group of space-people. Possibly aliens. Possibly.

…Probably. But they had been dressed like a bad, 90’s cosplay of an astronaut or space trooper, complete with toy guns and so on. Which made sense since perspective had meant a lot there.

And their weapons had been about as effective against the fae. Even Ryoka had walked through their attacks like it was nothing.

But she had known it was not. It was just technology versus a pure kind of magic. It wasn’t their fault.

Anyways. From that encounter she hadn’t done much other than help them survive and introduce them to a weapon—which might have been a kid with a stick or a young Dragon wielding an artifact.

It was a weird place. But the bottom line was that when she had left, one of them had, at the Faerie King, Oberon’s request, handed her one of the plastic daggers they’d been carrying.

It had looked like a cheap dagger there. Clearly plastic, not even entirely solid. One of those toys you could break with your bare fingers and bent with your first thrust while playing about. Ryoka had owned one; possibly why it had looked like it to her.

Here?

Well—she hit a ‘button’ and the blade vanished. Ryoka eyed the blank space.

“No afterimages. Right—right. Don’t want to blind the holder. And I just…”

She inspected the weapon of the future. It looked like, well…a hilt. Yes, that was it exactly.

A hilt—meant to be held in a grip slightly different than Ryoka’s. She eyed the contouring, felt at the difference in her fingers than this thing’s.

A different hand, and the material was—well, not plastic. And yet, not a metal. Call it a super-plastic? She’d gingerly, gingerly tried to scratch at it with her sharp steel dagger. Then really put her back into it.

Not so much as a scratch. The steel reacted as if it were smooth, unable to even find a grip except on the grip section and there it hadn’t left a mark. But that was just the vague outline. A rough hilt, complete with a crossguard.

Where it differed was that there was a kind of glass-plexiglass covering from the handle. The entire material was a type of reddish material, dark red.

Red like Mars for martians? No, that was stupid. But it did have a lovely, subtle pattern of the reds and faint oranges mixed in.

Yet the handle was not a sheer hilt minus a sword. It had, well, buttons.

To be more accurate? Ryoka didn’t see actual buttons like on a remote or controller. She saw the distinct colorations against the grip, blue, brown, marked with little symbols that glowed when she touched them.

One even in the grip. So if you squeeze like s—

The blade projected outwards and Ryoka drew a breath. Carefully, she swung the blade down.

It went through the floorboards. Ryoka cursed.

“Oh sh—”

She relaxed her grip and something in the weapon detected it. The blade went out. Ryoka bit her lip.

A perfect line in the floor, very thin. And very cut. Ryoka observed a few more things.

“No smoke. It’s not hot or cold…ff—”

She cut her finger on the cut on the floor. It was so damn sharp! Ryoka blew on her finger and put a bit of healing potion on it.

“Also? Sharp as hell.”

Of course it was. The blade looked like it might be some kind of concentrated plasma, but that would indicate heat. Maybe it was—Ryoka had no real idea. Hardened light? That was something she’d heard in a sci-fi, she thought. Yes, if you could constrain it to a matrix, why not make a perfect cutting edge? If that was what it was. It could be some other thing entirely. Maybe a…a magnetic field containing some other energy or material she couldn’t fathom?

But she thought the blade was beautiful. A glowing, semi-transparent edge. Orange, and Ryoka believed the depth of color was not one her eyes could process, forming a double-edged blade about as long as a longsword. Light as a feather.

She wanted to say it. But she thought it was embarrassing. But she wanted to say it was a…luminescent…sword…

The hardlight blade was sharp as a razor. Yet, Ryoka was certain, it was not the only thing this object was capable of.

In fact, she knew it. Doubly in fact? She doubly knew there were more functions of this technological weapon from an era far past Earth’s.

Because…she sat on the bed and glumly looked at the second thing she’d been given. She hadn’t realized it at first, but it had been wrapped around the handle.

Here was how Ryoka could describe the object on the bed. Imagine a civilization capable of creating ships capable of interstellar travel, that had formed a kind of galactic empire. An alliance of other species that might stretch impossible distances to Human understanding.

Then imagine they were at war with a second empire, and apparently, losing. So they’d gone into a gateway that only opened once in a long time with an entire war fleet and armies of technologically advanced soldiers.

Such that each one had armor, sensors, a plethora of weapons—even damned missiles mounted in their armor if Ryoka’s perception had been right, and their basic side arms were multi-functional blades that could shear through wood, and even steel, like it wasn’t there.

Got that? Now, the object on Ryoka’s bed is what they would use as paper.

It was dark. Not black—more like a super-dark grey, such that the words stood out. They did not exactly glow, but they were extremely sharp to Ryoka’s eyes. Also? The ‘paper’ was extremely, extremely thin and tough.

Ryoka thought paper was thin. But you couldn’t fold paper more than like, eight times without the layers making it too tough. Books could stop bullets at range sometimes, not that she’d like to try it.

This stuff was thin. It unfolded so many times it messed with your head; you kept thinking it was as large as could be, but it kept unfolding.

It was instructions. And Ryoka thought it had been printed just for her. There were buttons, clearly labeled, diagrams, commentary…

And here was the rub. Ryoka thought to the alien commander she’d met. She’d been reactive, even if she hadn’t understood the basic nature of the fae’s world at first. So this wasn’t her fault—

It was just that everything was in another language. In their defense, they probably thought it was fine since the fae’s world had made understanding universal—perceptions bridging the gap. Ryoka buried her face in her hands.

She just bet they’d dumbed it down for her, too. It looked like someone had done a crude diagram of her and was indicating different things with the handle. Only, like futuristic tech, they’d managed to animate the thing into the poses they wanted rather than redrawing it each time.

“I can handle this. I can do this. Perspective…change!”

Ryoka steadied herself. She did as she had done in the lands of the fae. Ordinary to grand! She opened her eyes—

—and it was all the same. Ryoka sagged.

“Different world, different rules. You have a weapon from the future and you can’t read the instructions. And you didn’t stop long enough to ask for a dictionary.”

Story of her life. Ryoka glumly went back to the instructions.

The problem was also that this civilization had different basic icons for…everything. They had done little graphics, but even their arrows looked different. Their conception of basic elements even seemed odd. Or maybe it was the artist. Ryoka fumbled.

“Let’s see. I…hold these two? And then grip…”

She’d tried tapping both times. She shifted the blade, trying to see what was wrong. She held them, pressed the trigger—

Nothing.

“Okay, that turns the auto-grip off! Good to know! So to reactivate I do the—no—”

She realized the hilt was aimed at her shoulder too late. The blade reactivated. Ryoka cried out—

The first mistake of guns or weapons was never point it at you. But the hilt was so short and she had forgotten the reach on it! She shouted, and then stared at her shoulder.

The hardlight edge stopped a millimeter or less from her skin. Ryoka shakily released the grip and the blade disappeared. She breathed in, out, in, out, then put the hilt down and curled up on the bed. After a few minutes, she pulled the blankets over her head.

“Okay. Automatic safety mechanism. Good to know.”

Good thing stupidity transcended realities or the makers wouldn’t have created this function. With that said? Ryoka realized something. She wasn’t going to point the weapon at herself…again…but the blade had stopped rather than gone through her arm.

Ergo, you couldn’t ever touch it without being hurt. Also, it couldn’t phase through something without going through it. It had a kind of mass, then.

She was learning a lot. Ryoka still shivered in her blankets for a while. But then she got out of them.

Because she had to. Because four days had passed since the Summer Solstice and she’d…failed.

Failed, Erin. Failed to bring what was needed. The world had been lost to something. The fae had fled.

…And yet, it seemed no more different. Ryoka had waited. She had waited for the foundations of reality to start coming undone.

But save for the terrible news coming from Rhir? Nothing else had happened. No…things…had manifested as of yet. Perhaps there was time.

Four days. Ryoka’s head bent. She had only told Lyonette she’d failed. She had not left this place. She had been…busy.

Busy, thinking, confirming things she’d learned, writing down things she had not. Figuring out how to turn this thing on had taken nearly a day; it was harder than it looked! There’d been an activation process that even with a step-by-step cartoon had taken Ryoka nearly an hour.

And more. But here she sat. Ryoka Griffin’s head bowed as she looked at the hilt and gash on the floor. Yet, she did not give into despair or guilt.

The time has come for you to do more than just run.

She picked up the hilt and regarded it grimly. The blade came to life. Now, surer she wouldn’t hurt herself, she performed a vague cut. It was…terrible. She’d never swung a sword! But still, the deadly edge cut the air. Ryoka lifted her belt dagger. She eyed the half of it lying on the floor.

It was not what she had wanted. She had nearly had the scroll! It had been in her hands until the magical protections stopped her and Ivolethe dragged her away. She had not the cure, nor aid from that other place.

She could have used a starship and a legion. She could have used the Wild Hunt and Wyrms and one Nama.

But this would do in lieu of nothing else. Ryoka Griffin sighed. And then she stood. She was rising to greet the day…midday, rather, when someone entered unannounced.

“Wind Runner! I’m bored. What are you doing? What’s that?”

He pointed avidly at the hilt of the futuristic sword in Ryoka’s hand. She hid it behind her back reflexively and realized that was the stupidest move. Instead, she gingerly showed him.

“This? Oh—an artifact. Creates illusions. I’m trying it out.”

The young [Lord] stared at Ryoka. His eyes narrowed. And in that moment he looked like his father at Lord Tyrion’s grimmest. Not that Ryoka had known the man long. Sammial glowered.

“Liar. I saw you cut the floor with it!”

Ryoka Griffin wavered.

“What? You saw—”

She looked around her room. In her house, in, not to put too fine a point on it, her space that Laken Godart, the Unseen Emperor had granted her. Sammial had barged right in, which was fair since Ryoka hadn’t locked the door after breakfast.

But even so.

“How did you see that?”

The boy gave Ryoka Griffin another suspicious look. He pointed at the window to her room, whose shutters were slightly agape. Just enough to leave a crack of daylight.

“I’ve been watching you all morning, obviously. What is it? I want to use it! Give it to me! I order you to!”

He held out a hand imperiously. Ryoka Griffin stared at him.

She had never learned the art of child-kicking. But she was a willing student in this moment.

—-

There is something about Sammial Veltras that rubs you the wrong way. Hi, it’s me, Ryoka Griffin. And I need an internal minute.

Mostly to prevent myself from killing him.

Firstly? He’s been spying on me all morning? Which means that after my morning run and awkward breakfast with the nobility still in Laken’s empire, I changed clothes. Wonderful.

Second? He saw advanced alien technology and schematics, which means I’ve had the…Faeblade*…for all of four days before the secret got out.

*No, that sounds stupid. Lightsword? Hardlight blade? Sword of Light? Wow, I cannot name things.

I take a calming breath. The trick to calming breaths is to take huge ones, so that hopefully it distracts you, lets you calm down—or you pass out.

It’s that or kill Sammy.

Sammial Veltras. A ‘prodigy’ in that he has an aura and he’s so young. Not even ten? I forget. Hethon is more reserved, more likable. Sammy is a brat.

However, Ryoka, remember all the lessons you’ve learned over your tenure in this world. Namely? You’re a brat. You were, still probably are, and he’s a kid.

So I take a breath, and look at him.

“You were watching me all morning, Sammy?”

“Except when you took off your clothes. I turned away. Where did you get that? From the weird people? I didn’t get to talk to them, except the rude one with horns on her head. Jericha said it was too dangerous. She says you’re an unpredictable element. Where did you go? You vanished. Then fell out of the sky!”

All true. I wonder what the party guests think. Laken claims they were assailed by four—then five strangers who brought shadows and knew the fae.

No guesses who they are. I shouldn’t have even said their name, even by accident. Holy hells. We are in trouble.

I look at Sammy. He doesn’t know any of this. He’s just staring at the faeblade*. I sigh.

*Damn it, it’s starting to stick.

“Sammy—it’s a secret. I’m sorry, I can’t tell you.”

His eyes narrow again. He has a temper worse than mine, something I’ve observed. Is it natural, because he’s young, or because he has no mother and his father’s as distant as mine?

“I order you to! I’m sick of adult secrets!”

Again, his aura assails me. I grit my teeth, but in truth, he might be a prodigy but I’ve met Magnolia Reinhart and uppity Dragons. Yes, plural. I wish I could have talked to the Dragon of the Trashheap again.

Still, it’s rather like someone trying to force you to do something by grabbing the nape of your neck. At least how Sammial does it. Magnolia’s subtle. He’s like someone kicking the back of your head, all brute force.

It makes me mad. So does the spying! However, calming breath. I try to think of something reasonable to say.

It’s funny, because a while ago, my go-to response would be, verbatim—‘you little shit, I will kick you into the sun.’

And to judge by some of the things I saw, that’s not entirely unwarranted with Sammial, at least. He rubs people the wrong way and it’s not his fault per se. He’s patently miserable.

How do I know? He’s always angry, always demanding things, and always wants attention. Guess who that reminds me of*?

*Angry Ryoka, ages 3 to present. Accept no substitutes.

And no, I’m not wiser for going into the land of the fae. I have…learned things. But I’m not better at controlling my temper. I just know I have one and what happens if I snap.

I’m not smarter. I’m not better. I’m just more experienced. And—let that make all the difference.

“Sammy. Stop using your aura on me.”

“Tell me what that is!”

“Sammial Veltras. I said, stop using your aura on me.”

I look at him. His tenuous control wavered and I feel the pressure relent. I nod.

“Good. Don’t use your aura on me. Not now, and not on other people. This is like being rude. No—it’s worse than being rude.”

His cheeks redden. He opens his mouth and lets out a whooping cough. He tries to speak, begins hacking.

Asthma? I look around for…what, a paper bag? An inhaler? I have neither, and within seconds he’s done. He pretends nothing happened. I feel bad for him.

“You’re not Jericha! Stop telling me what to do!”

I sigh. How would I talk to young Ryoka? First, smack her hard. No—I can’t do that. I patiently bend over, and realize that’s patronizing. So I sit down instead, cross-legged.

“I’m giving you advice. I’m not your father, or your—guardian. I’m not Jericha or anyone else, Sammial. But I am telling you, person-to-person. You can’t do that and expect to get away with it. You understand?”

He gives me a long look.

“I know what you mean. Be polite. Make people like you. That’s what Hethon does. But I am a [Lord]. I have pride as a nobleman!”

I scratch my head. Where’s Tyrion? Ah, out riding with the other [Lords] and [Ladies]. Those who didn’t run for the hills the instant the party ended like Lady Ieka and some of the others.

The rest have enjoyed His Majesty’s hospitality, also mainly because they’re trying to figure out what the heck happened? Also also? To eat all of the good food he has. It’s rare so many are in one place and there’s potential here for diplomacy.

Anyways. I’m learning more about Tyrion Veltras, counterpart of Magnolia and the famous [Lord] of war in the north.

He. Sucks. At. Parenting. And I know this might come back to bite me, but I have to say it.

“Okay, Sammy, you’re a [Lord] of House Veltras. So what?”

He blinks at me.

“So, I am a [Lord] and more important than other people.”

I shake my head before he even gets that last part out. Oh no, I have to at least present the counterargument, bad idea or not.

“Sammy, I don’t believe that.”

“Why not?”

He narrows his eyes as if to feel out how offended he should be. I tap my chest.

“We’re all Human. We’re all people. I believe that being a [Lord] means you’re important in one way. But you should still try to be polite. To think about others. Okay?”

“What if I don’t want to? What if other people are stupid and I know what’s best?”

I blink. That’s a Ryoka-question right there. But instead of my parents or teachers or…well, I never liked the answers I got. So here’s a better one. I shrug.

“That’s fair, Sammial. You don’t have to care about people. But you should. Remember the Satyr? The horned lady?”

He nods, cautiously. I smile.

“She would have murdered you for mouthing off. And she’s an extreme example, but your people are no different. Haven’t you ever made…Jericha angry?”

He looks away.

“…Sometimes.”

I just bet you have. I bite my tongue, and keep my voice reasonable.

“Well, Jericha likes you so she puts up with that. No one else has to. Not fellow [Lords], not your people, even. So think about that next time you want to be mean. There are consequences for everything you do. They might not come today, or tomorrow. But they will come.”

He digests that. I’m laying a lot on a kid. But—he’s a kid with an aura. A [Lord], which can’t be fun. He looks at me, and I remember—he was dying of poison less than a month ago. It wears at him and he looks uncharacteristically old.

“Is that true? Then do bad things happen to bad people? Like the [Assassin] who poisoned me and Hethon?”

I bite the inside of my mouth. After a second, I don’t go to true honesty.

“I believe so. And that’s how I try to behave. I try to do good things.”

“Like deliver medicine for me and Hethon.”

“Yep. Anyways. Don’t boss people around because they can hit you. And don’t boss me around. Or spy on me.”

He kicks at the floorboards sullenly. I exhale. Maybe he’s forgotten…

“What about your magic sword? Can I see that? I’m sorry for using my aura.”

Shit. I hesitate.

“—If I tell you, will you promise not to tell anyone? Even your brother? Swear on…your honor as a [Lord] of House Veltras?”

“I swear.”

He says it instantly. I can only hope he takes it seriously. Young Ryoka would. And he’s already seen it so I pull out the hilt.

Sammy’s eyes fix on it.

“What is it?”

“An artifact. Just an artifact, Sammy. I got it from the uh, strangers. But you can’t tell anyone or I’ll never forgive you. Got it?”

“What if they find out? And what will you do? Hit me?”

He looks at me, testing. I smile.

“Me? I don’t hit kids. I just won’t do amazing things for you, Sammy. Like…let you fly.”

He does a double-take.

“You can do that?”

I think of the parasailing kids and smile ruefully. I want to go back to Reizmelt and…but no. I cannot. Erin is frozen. And I know where to find the cure*.

*I should have grabbed it, taken the time to make Ivolethe break the magic on it. Dead gods, how will I get it now?

“Totally. I could do it in f—ten minutes if I wanted to. Let you fly about. Kids do it all the time. Why do you think they call me the Wind Runner?”

His eyes flicker as he tries to figure out how I’d do it. After a second, he looks at me.

“Without an artifact? And I could do it?”

“Without an artifact. And not even Jericha would be mad. I think.”

“I want to fly! And see the sword.”

“Well, if you keep it a secret…fine. As much flying as you want when I’m around.”

He nods rapidly. I sigh. Then I hold out my hand. He regards it, then shakes my hand briefly.

“Did you lose your fingers to the strangers? I heard they bit off—”

“No. Goblins.”

I withdraw my hand quickly and hide it. Sammial blinks at me; I’m not normally so self-conscious, but he does stare.

“Sorry. Father says never to point out a [Soldier]’s war wounds.”

He takes that more seriously than anything else and ducks his head. I sigh.

“It’s fine. Now—stand back.”

He obeys. I motion him back.

“Further back. It’s very sharp.”

“I saw. Can I hold it?”

My brain conjures the image of Sammial somehow bypassing the safety mechanism or cutting me and the room apart.

“Absolutely not. The deal was to look. Then you can fly. All we need are bed sheets. You can use mine.”

“Bed sheets? Oh—like the flying thing?”

He’s excited and young again. I half-smile. Speaking of flying things…well, for now, I grip the Faeblade*.

*Copyright, Ryoka Griffin. 2017, or whenever the hell this is in this world’s convoluted dating system.

And it comes to life. Sammial gapes at the blade as I hold it very carefully up.

“It’s so amazing! Father showed me a Kaalblade—is it like that?”

Great cover, Sammial! I nod.

“Exactly like that. It’s a unique one, though.”

“Oh. And I thought it was super-special. It’s very pretty, though.”

He’s disappointed again. I sigh. Sammial eyes it, then looks at me.

“How strong is it? I saw you cut the floorboards.”

“Er—strong. It goes through steel.”

“What grade of magical artifact is it? Can it cut a [Hardening] enchantment? What about a mithril shield? All of father’s equipment can break weak magic.”

“I would love to know, Sammy. But I haven’t tested it.”

“What about my dagger? You can cut it! It’s just a weak enchantment.”

He eagerly unsheathes his belt knife. I eye it.

“You’re allowed to carry magical artifacts?”

He stares at me.

“Just weak ones. I’m not a child. Hethon cut himself on his first dagger, but I never do.”

Huh. Well, kids learn to hunt. And a belt dagger’s not exactly the worst item. Good thing he’s not that violent or he’d be stabbing kids with it. I hesitate.

“I don’t want to break it.”

“Please? It’s not valuable! Here—I’ll do it for you!”

The young [Lord] dashes forwards. I hold the sword up.

“No, Sammy—don’t—”

Too late. He hops up and slashes. He’s aiming for the Faeblade’s ‘sword’ rather than the hilt. I see his dagger slash towards the glowing orange light and before I can pull it away—

His magic dagger meets the Faeblade. I see the artifact of the future, the magic sword that cuts steel like nothing, the hardlight projection shatter into pieces and dissipate in the air.

Sammial and I stare as the hilt goes dead. The light fragments and vanishes. My jaw is wide open in horror. Sammial has the exact same expression on his face.

“You broke it.”

I stare at the priceless technological wonder from the—Sammial slowly looks at his undamaged, low-grade enchanted dagger. He slowly puts it in his belt sheathe. Then he backs up. He walks out the door, shuts it, and starts running. I stare at the Faeblade.

I am so upset right now.

—-

“Jericha. Jericha—I broke something! You have to fix it!”

The [High Mage] and assistant to Lord Tyrion Veltras hated hearing Sammial’s voice pitched just so. When he said something like that her stomach hurt. Because when he acknowledged he’d broken something, it was usually not a cheap object.

Statues. Pieces of art thousands of years old. Paintings?

“Lord Sammial. Where have you been?”

She turned as the young [Lord] ran up. He looked guilty.

“I can’t say! But I broke something of the Wind—of Miss Ryoka’s! I can’t tell you what it is! But I broke it and it was…very expensive! You have to [Repair] it!”

Ryoka Griffin. Jericha’s stomachache was joined by the beginnings of a headache. Now there was another enigma wrapped up inside a conundrum.

Four days since the Summer Solstice and they were still trying to figure out what had happened and if it related to the tragedy that came from Rhir. And Ryoka Griffin. Who was she?

House Veltras did not have Reinhart’s spy networks, but Jericha had Lord Veltras’ authority. And even if House Veltras was not…rich…second only to the House of El for poverty, in fact, they had money.

And money meant information from those who gathered it. None of them knew where Ryoka Griffin had come from before Celum. No one knew what her nation was, although the smart money was on the Drath Archipelago or mixed heritage from Chandrar or Baleros perhaps.

Did she matter? Well, to Jericha her identity did. And more pressingly—Lord Tyrion Veltras believed he owed her a debt. Jericha needed to ensure it was not a debt to the wrong person.

“What did you break, Lord Sammial? Why were you bothering Miss Griffin? Your father would be upset.”

The boy looked worried, but Jericha wouldn’t tell Lord Tyrion—unless his son had really broken something expensive. Tyrion Veltras would be furious, and he had been doing his best to spend time around his sons.

Of course, that was time, not ‘all the time’. Case in point, he had gone hunting with Gralton, Pellmia, and some other [Lords] and [Ladies]. Jericha sighed. She’d sort this out.

“I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”

“Miss Griffin’s secret?”

Sammial shut his mouth. Jericha pinched the bridge of her nose, over her spectacles. Well, maybe she’d uncover a mystery. She was just about to head to the cottage Ryoka had been assigned when the Wind Runner came jogging after Sammial.

“Sammy! It’s fine! I—ah.”

She stopped when she saw Jericha. The [High Mage] eyed Ryoka and…pinged her.

Rather, she cast [Detect Magic], using her spectacles and more refined knowledge of magic to actually gather as much magical data as possible. A basic [Mage] just cast [Detect Magic]. Jericha could sense intensity, even nature.

What she found was…confusing. Ryoka had a number of artifacts. Rings, amulets, the very nice bag of holding which held more magic besides. But Jericha couldn’t see what had made Sammial so excited.

Weak magic aura, wind element. Doesn’t explain how she commands the wind at all. She’s like a Level 3 [Mage]. Which makes sense if she has no levels…

Oh, and another thing. The most powerful magical object Ryoka held was not actually near her hands. They were on her feet.

Foot wraps. Just strips of seemingly-ordinary cloth that covered her feet. The crudest of bindings glowed in Jericha’s vision. She wanted to know where Ryoka had gotten them and what they did.

Ryoka noticed the look. She shifted. Sammial peeked out from behind Jericha.

“It didn’t break? But I saw—”

“It uh—came back. You didn’t break the important part of the you-know-what. Let’s not talk about it.”

Jericha’s eyes narrowed.

“Has Lord Sammial been bothering you, Miss Griffin? I could inspect whatever he claims to have accidentally damaged.”

“No, it’s fine, Miss Jericha. I—I’m fine. Sammy was just bored and uh, I promised to let him fly.”

Fly? Jericha instantly shook her head.

“I regret to say that your method of flying would put Lord Sammial in grave danger, Miss Griffin.”

“No, not that. I mean—it’s just parasailing. You get some bed sheets and…”

Sammial looked at Jericha pleadingly. And she saw Lord Hethon was coming—no doubt equally bored since she had forbidden consorting with the young [Witches] and the other young [Lords] and [Ladies] had no such injunctions and had formed, as children did, a roving group of children: the street urchin Grev, the Riverfarm children, and the next generation of Izril’s nobility.

Jericha wavered between duty and a desire not to have to entertain two bored young [Lords]. She turned to Ryoka.

“I—what does this look like, Miss Griffin?”

The Wind Runner smiled. Jericha wished she could be certain of Ryoka Griffin. If only because Lord Tyrion had spared no expense healing her. Had ridden himself and prevailed upon Ulva Terland to come to the party. Had challenged a warrior of peerless skill for her.

And still, he said the same thing.

He owed Ryoka Griffin a debt. Jericha was worried because she knew her [Lord]. When he said a debt—

He took it seriously.

—-

Ryoka Griffin had received several things from the journey to the land of the fae. Besides knowledge? Three objects, fittingly. She hadn’t considered it as such, but three was what the final count turned out to be.

Most obvious was the Faeblade, which she was now considering naming the ‘Techblade’ since it was clearly not a blade of the fae.

A low-grade enchantment had shattered the blade like glass! It came back in a second after she reactivated it, but that had shaken Ryoka.

Like the land of the fae, magic beat tech. On the other hand? Tech beat steel. Ryoka could do lightsaber tricks with the sword—unless the material was enchanted. She wondered if she could literally slice a tree in half.

She’d try it later.

The second thing Ryoka had she wore on her feet. Nama’s foot wraps. Nothing special about them…except that Ryoka had run in them through the lands of the fae, across fields of fire where the Phoenix had lived and they hadn’t been singed. They might have magical power. If they were anything like Nama, they were more than they seemed.

Lastly, and this was sort of weird—her third gift was uh, autographs.

Signed autographs by the King of Chivalry himself. Arthur of Camelot, the King of Knights. All three ages, although the youngest Arthur Pendragon’s personal one to her was never going to be sold. But she had the most valuable autographs in the world if she could convince anyone they were legitimate.

Footwear, sword, and autograph. Had she gone shopping at the world’s weirdest mall or something?

All that. And here she was, back where she’d started. Letting kids sail around on makeshift sailboats. Ryoka felt like she was back at Reizmelt.

She sat there, watching as Lord Hethon and Sammial shouted with glee. Sammial had tied Ryoka’s bed sheets in a knot around his chest and was being dragged backwards. He hopped, and travelled a good fourteen feet before he landed. The wind playfully blew Hethon about, and he was laughing and trying to hop and touch the rooftops and leap from there.

“Careful, Lord Hethon, Lord Sammial! Miss Griffin, can you control the wind?”

“I don’t quite control it, Jericha. It’s…safe. Probably.”

The bespectacled woman gave Ryoka a look saying that ‘probably’ wasn’t nearly good enough. She watched anxiously, wand at the ready.

Ryoka watched too.

After all the travails and heartache, here she was. She had come so close. She had the scroll in her hand. And now—

The Gods were alive. She had seen the message on Laken’s phone. She had known…what? That someone in Wistram was on their side? How had they known what to send?

Laken didn’t know what to make of it either, but he was…cagey about what he’d seen.

What now? Ryoka sat there. The boys were laughing. And soon, more people heard the laughter and came running.

“Wot’s this now? Look at that! Come on, you lot!”

A slightly scruffy boy stopped and stared as he saw Sammial being blown around and Jericha chasing after him. He wasn’t far off the ground, but he was flying. Grev Redigal pointed, and heads turned.

Lady Eliasor Melissar, two of Mister Prost’s children, eight young [Lords] and [Ladies], fourteen more of Riverfarm’s own, and six [Witches] all stared, mouths agape.

Well, the [Witches] looked more familiar with flying. Grev was delighted.

“It’s Miss Griffin, innit? I heard she was the Wind Runner—let’s all fly! Come on! All we need’s a sheet!”

“Are you sure, Mister Grev? She was at the party. She could be…odd.”

Eliasor wasn’t certain. Lady Zanthia had debriefed her wards after the party and cautioned them about what had occurred, but she wasn’t here to ask; she was still abed. Sick, from the trials of the party.

The scarf. It had turned to dust the next day, but Lady Zanthia had slept four days from the stress of it and was still abed.

Grev was already racing forwards before Eliasor could object, though.

“Miss Griffin! Miss Griffin, will you let us do that?”

The Wind Runner waved at him; Grev grinned and turned to the others.

“She’s alright! Come on—she’s fine. I know her!”

Grev knew everyone. And he had somehow become the center of this group of children. After all—he was Jasi’s brother, and a Face of Invrisil. He gestured at the others, then went back to chivvy one of the slower children along.

“Come on, Nanette!”

The [Witch] girl didn’t smile with anticipation. But she did quicken her steps a bit as the others broke up to grab whatever sheets and blankets they could find. The Riverfarm [Washers] and people objected to the purloining of their sheets, but they stopped when they saw who it was taking them—the noble’s children, rather—and what they were being used for.

Soon, more children were begging to go flying and sailing about, shouting, colliding with each other, and experiencing the joys of aviation. The highest they got was a rooftop; Grev was blown onto one with his makeshift parachute. And they laughed and smiled.

Ryoka Griffin sat there. Smiling faintly when she saw Sammial screaming in delight or Hethon tying his sheet to three others to create a mass-sail that dragged a cluster of children along. For a moment, it was good.

But it could not last forever. The truth remained. Erin was gone. And Ryoka…she knew and did not know what came next.

She opened her eyes when the quarrel started. Predictably, it was Sammial, who wanted a turn on a wheelbarrow-sailboat. The older children refused, giddy with excitement.

He threw a tantrum.

—-

The [Emperor] of Riverfarm watched Ryoka Griffin with his all-seeing…vision. It seemed like a little fight had broken out. He identified Sammial Veltras punching a larger boy before he was dog-piled.

“I never really got into fights because I was blind, but even I know better than that.”

The young man murmured to himself. Jericha and Ryoka were striding to the fight, and Laken could not hear since he was sitting in his home, but he imagined tears, tantrums, and all of what you’d normally expect.

It was a bittersweet thing. A good thing, probably, after all that had happened. He had heard of Eliasor’s tragedy. And he knew Nannette’s all too well. Even Sammial Veltras deserved happiness—although Laken Godart would let him have his fun away from wherever he, Laken, was. The boy was a bit obnoxious.

It was good to see them running about, even if it was briefly. Yet, there were shadows in even childish joy. And not the tantrums.

Erin Solstice. Laken had never met her. But Ryoka Griffin had told him more about her after the Summer Solstice. They had shared a drink, to debrief, talk.

He wished Erin had been there. She had been…gone…for less than two weeks. And it was too long, and far too short for processing. Griffon Hunt had stopped working; Ryoka Griffin had been beating herself up over her failure.

Not that Laken knew all of what had passed. Nor did he know what Ryoka Griffin was going to do. She probably thought he was reluctant to talk about what they should talk about.

“The truth is that I don’t want to know.”

The [Emperor] muttered to himself. He did not want to know Ryoka’s plans. Because, perhaps if he knew…

He sat alone in the cottage. But presently, he felt around with his walking cane. He had taken to carrying it with him again. And he poked around, even though his Skill told him he was alone.

Wherever Ryoka Griffin went, whatever she did—he would help. But he would not ask her plans. Nor could he tell her why. And he had tried to write it down, say it, record it.

A name haunted his mind. A promise.

We will meet again. Sooner, this time.

—-

It was such a bleak world after that. And it was not, not really. The sun still shone. But what darkened it for them was heartbreak.

The fire had gone out. The young woman lay encased in ice.

The Worker had parked the wagon outside the inn. He was loading it with arrows as the nervous donkey snorted and pawed the ground.

“There you are.”

Bird found Ishkr trying to nudge Selys’ bindings undone. They froze—he rolled them away from the walls where Rose had been trying to kick a message. But the walls were thick and only one person would have heard them.

Don’t do this. Selys tried to speak, but Bird just left. He was transferring his arrows to the wagon, one load at a time. She frantically tried to remove her bindings. All her Skills and artifacts were useless or Bird had taken.

Ishkr was likewise helpless. It was Rose who kept struggling. She was trying to do something. She rolled over, and over—and then put her back to Selys. She’d wavered between her and Ishkr. But Selys was chosen because…the Drake saw Rose jerk her head.

She wiggled her bound claws over at last, and Rose pointed her bound hands back towards Selys. After confirming she was aiming at the bindings, she muttered.

“Fmgh.”

A jet of fire shot out of her fingers. A tiny one. Selys yelped—then realized. Rose was a [Mage]! She winced as the heat cooked her scales, but better her than Ishkr. And all they needed was…Selys’ eyes began to water with pain, but she held on. Bird walked past their room and they all froze, but he just loaded more arrows into his bag of holding without checking on them.

—-

Oh, these dark days. Mrsha made her peace with Ulvama. But she still did not want to be tormented into eating. She ate to prevent that. Then curled up on the counter. She just wanted to sleep, now.

“Poke. Not sleep yet, little Gnoll-girl. You help me, now.”

Ulvama jabbed Mrsha in the side. The Gnoll girl swiped at Ulvama irritably. But the [Shaman] was insistent.

“You know how to get into plant-place. The garden?”

She pointed out the kitchen, towards where the door was. Mrsha thought—and Ulvama jumped as it appeared on a wall of the kitchen.

“Good Skill. Not yours?”

Mrsha looked at Ulvama. The [Shaman] pressed a palm against the invisible barrier and looked at Mrsha.

“You help me through. Broken Goblin inside. Numbtongue?”

Mrsha nodded. Numbtongue? What did she want with…?

Ah. Ulvama had the steak. She looked at Mrsha, almost pleadingly.

“Stupid Goblins starve after Chieftain dies. You help me. He won’t starve. Show me way through. Special words? Special objects?”

None of that. Mrsha shook her head. She wasn’t sure. Ulvama probably couldn’t harm her or Numbtongue even if she was let in…but Mrsha had never tested that. The [Shaman] glowered. But then her face twisted.

“Please?”

It came out reluctantly. Ulvama was not used to saying the word. Mrsha hesitated. She looked at Ulvama. The Hobgoblin reached out to Mrsha—eyed her. She stared at something Mrsha could not see.

“Little Mrsha-child, help me. Do a good thing for the sad Goblin. You care about…Numbtongue?”

Mrsha looked up. Slowly, for answer, she stood up. She dropped onto the floor. Ulvama watched her. Mrsha beckoned. She held out a paw and stood on her two legs. Ulvama looked at her paw. Slowly, she took it. Mrsha walked clumsily forwards, into the [Garden of Sanctuary]. She tugged and Ulvama gasped.

The girl pulled Ulvama through. The [Shaman] stood on the grass of the safe place. She inhaled the fragrant, fresh air. She looked up at the opening in the dome letting in fresh sunlight.

She smiled. Mrsha looked up at her. She did not smile, but she didn’t feel bad about her decision either. Ulvama looked at the statue sitting on the hill who yet breathed and mourned. Then at Mrsha.

“Thank you, little Mrsha-child. Now—I help that Goblin.”

Mrsha nodded. Ulvama looked at her, gratitude in her crimson eyes. Then—she carefully walked around Mrsha. She angled her foot, inserted it beneath Mrsha’s bum—and punted the Gnoll straight out of the garden.

Mrsha went flying. The Gnoll landed in the kitchen of The Wandering Inn and whirled around. What the—? Ulvama smiled at Mrsha. Then she spoke.

“Little children stay out.”

She slammed the door.

—-

Numbtongue sat on the hill, barely registering anything.

The statues were gone. They had returned to their place on the hill. But there was nothing…left.

Just memory. They had been here. And they had gone.

Something had come. Something…and Reiss had nearly been destroyed. But he had saved her.

Numbtongue should have taken his hand from the start. But if he had?

They were gone.

And so was she. Despair was the Goblin’s world. Despair and grief and…he would sit here. If anything came, he would kill it.

He had let Mrsha come and go. He had eaten when Palt made him move. Beyond that? He had no desire for anything. His ghosts were silent. Possibly Pyrite thought there was nothing to be said. Shorthilt…Shorthilt mourned.

And Reiss was just fragments. Numbtongue didn’t know what to do. Badarrow had gone, and Snapjaw before him. His brother had been just as broken.

All was lost. Numbtongue bowed his head. He only raised it when he saw the figure coming up the hill. He recognized Ulvama—ignored her.

Then blinked. Even in his full depression and mourning, the Hobgoblin noticed a distinct lack of clothing.

“You.”

Ulvama grinned at him. She had removed her top. Numbtongue stared at her. He…recognized her. No—

The [Shaman] seductively walked closer. She bent down.

“Sad Goblin. You need to eat. Listen to me. I am a [Shaman]. Why don’t you—”

She was reaching out to touch his shoulder with a simmering spell in her claw when the [Goblin Soulbard] caught her wrist. His eyes flickered.

“Ulvama. Enough. Leave him alone.”

The [Shaman] recoiled. The broken Goblin’s face had changed! His voice, too! He spoke shortly. Her memory tingled—but then she collected herself. She tried to touch his hand—he let go.

“Grumpy Goblin. You remember me. Don’t want to talk to female Hobgoblin after all this time? What about big, strong, male Goblin? Better? I can be both.”

She poked him gently. That would normally get a rise out of a Goblin either way. This one just grunted. He scratched his belly.

“[Shaman] magic is not what Numbtongue wants. Sex is not useful. Go away.”

She frowned. Was he speaking in third-person? The Hobgoblin picked up something. Grass from the hilltop. He put it into his mouth and began to chew.

“Hm. Bitter.”

He sounded so—familiar. She knew the mannerisms, way of speaking. And he seemed to know her.

“Have we met?”

She demanded. Why was he suddenly so talkative? The Hob glanced at her.

“Little [Shaman] of the Mountain City tribe. Used to get in trouble for stealing chief [Shaman]’s paints when we were small. Helped me when I didn’t poo for two weeks after eating rocks.”

She stared. Only one Goblin came to mind. But that was impossible. She had seen him die.

“Pyrite?”

“Mm. Thirty seconds. Leave Numbtongue alone. He will cut you. Unstable. Unhappy. Doesn’t need Ulvama-treatment.”

The Hobgoblin chewed. Ulvama’s mind raced. She knew Pyrite, before he had left Tremborag’s mountain. If he was here—she gasped.

“He knows the old secrets! He—Numbtongue—is a [Ghost Shaman]!?”

She looked at the Hobgoblin’s possessed body with awe and fear. He had become a medium for the Goblins of old? Pyrite shook his head briefly.

“No. [Goblin Soulbard].”

“Oh.”

Ulvama hesitated. She didn’t know that one. But she knew it existed. She peered at Pyrite.

“He has your ghost.”

“For ten seconds. Nine, eight…”

“Wait! Does he have ghost of Garen Redfang? Tremborag? Goblin Lord?”

She grew excited. This was it! If he was this rare Goblin, then—Pyrite looked at her.

“I told him all about you. Do not play your tricks. He does not need—we do not need a Ch—”

The last word cut off as Numbtongue returned. The Hobgoblin’s voice halted in the middle of the word.

Chieftain. He inhaled, coughed, and spat the mouthful of grass out. He stared at Ulvama. His face twisted into hostility in an instant.

“Go.”

Ulvama backed up. She saw the crystal sword in his lap tense. She smiled—

“Pyrite in your head. He tell you about me?”

“Seducing [Shaman]. Go away.”

His eyes burned. She indicated her full figure.

“Not interested a bit?”

Numbtongue turned to look over his shoulder. Towards the hill with mists. He looked at Ulvama—she was already making tracks. She knew a murderous look in the eyes when she saw it.

—-

The art of seducing Goblins wasn’t usually this hard. Ulvama investigated the [Garden] as she tied her top, grumbling. Although there were things you learned.

Like…don’t try to seduce a Goblin when the dead body of their friend was only a dozen feet away. She’d forgotten that there was a frozen Human here. Rookie mistake, really.

She’d have to try again. A [Soulbard]. Ulvama didn’t know the class, but she could investigate by memory. A [Shaman] remembered.

And this garden was fascinating. Ulvama saw plenty of things she could use for her craft. Sage’s Grass aplenty! So that was how the magic door ran. This place was also a ley line. If she had a tribe and this wasn’t so close to the city, she’d have wanted to settle here.

For now, she had to think. The female Hobgoblin kicked around, spotting a pond, the arid and jungle sections—

Then ran smack-dab into an angry little Gnoll with a bee on her head. And a half dozen big Fortress Beavers.

Ulvama halted and stopped. Mrsha was giving her a dirty look. She folded her arms as the big beaver chittered loudly.

“Uh. Nice Mrsha-child?”

The [Shaman] hesitated. Mrsha made a rumbling sound in her throat and the beaver-gang slapped their tails on the ground. Ulvama did not want to pick a fight with a bunch of giant rodents who outweighed her and had teeth like shovel blades.

“Sorry, little Gnoll. Trying to cheer sad Goblin up! Didn’t work!”

Mrsha stared at Ulvama and glowered harder. She made some rapid signs with her paws. Ulvama frowned.

“You…is that words?”

Mrsha nodded. What she had just said was—well, it was rather rude, but it translated to ‘don’t have sex with Numbtongue and if you kick me again, I’ll have a beaver eat your foot!’

Ulvama got the message either way. She hissed and backed up. Bratty little Gnoll children and ghost-possessed Goblins! Everything was so much easier with Tremborag. Love him or hate him—and Ulvama had not loved him—he had been simple to anticipate and deal with, his tribe likewise.

The Ulvama-method of working your way to the top of a power structure did not apply to Pyrite—who knew all her tricks—or Mrsha. And she wasn’t sure she could seduce the Gnoll who cleaned things or whether that was useful.

She was frustrated, but she didn’t give up. If the most direct and, to her, easiest method failed, she could always be nice. She smiled at Mrsha.

“Sorry, Gnoll-child. I will not do it again. Let’s be friends. I take care of you, you help me. Okay?”

Mrsha gave her a flat-eyed stare. She folded her arms—then nudged one of the beavers. The gang waddled off, but the big one gave another tail slap and Ulvama a look as if to say, ‘we’re watching you. Don’t mess with our kid.’

Ulvama eyed the beavers, then saw Mrsha glancing towards Numbtongue.

“Sad Goblin has ghosts. Harder to make happy, get to eat.”

She explained. Mrsha blinked. She didn’t seem surprised to hear that; only surprised Ulvama knew. Curious. Ulvama sighed.

“Little Gnoll, this place is weird.”

After a moment, Mrsha nodded and sat down on the grass. They could both agree on that, even if Mrsha didn’t think that was necessarily a bad thing.

Well, here they were. Ulvama sat on the grass. She felt unaccountably tired; of course, she’d also laid a dozen trap runes all over the inn. Drat. She was going to have to take them off. But at least…

“Silly Human. Your mother? She left you here. Stupid woman.”

Mrsha punched Ulvama in the stomach. The [Shaman] doubled over, wheezing, and then brought her staff down. She missed. Mrsha glared. Don’t say bad things about Lyonette!

“Little Gnoll…ow. I meant, stupid because she did not take you! Even if it was dangerous—children should go with parents. Better than being left to stay.”

Ulvama wheezed. Mrsha hesitated, and nodded. Tentatively, she patted Ulvama’s stomach. The [Shaman] gave her a look.

“You punch me again and I smack you hard.”

She raised her staff. Mrsha nodded. This was fair. Ulvama sat there. Yes, that young woman should have taken the child with her. She had left her with well-meaning people. But the Gnoll, the Drake, and the others weren’t…caretakers. They had no idea.

And perhaps Mrsha saw that. Because she looked so lost and sad and miserable. And what they should have done was never leave her alone. Not for a second. Not children.

Ulvama sat with her back to the rising hill. She leaned back. She was tired. This was enough progress for one day in her mind. Numbtongue wouldn’t starve in a day, not after being fed.

Mrsha sat there. Her expression grew clouded, uncertain.

Bad thoughts. They led to bad feelings, bad actions. Bad things. Ulvama knew it all too well. She could remember…she looked at Mrsha, sighed, then patted the ground next to her.

“Silly Gnoll. Come here.”

The Gnoll-child hesitated. But…she had leaned against Numbtongue until he left. Slowly, she edged over. Ulvama immediately tugged her next to her. She leaned Mrsha against her.

“There. Sleepy.”

She murmured. Mrsha felt uncomfortable at first—then—reassured. She leaned against Ulvama. This was what she had been missing. Not Ulvama—but Lyonette.

She sniffed quietly. Ulvama pretended not to hear. She began to hum, absently. The [Garden of Sanctuary] was a good place. She felt safe here; and she had felt safe in this inn. She didn’t know why. Only that she felt…she owed the owner of this place a debt. Not from her, but on behalf of her kind.

She was on the hill, Ulvama knew. But she sensed neither life nor death there. Just power. Absently, she hummed. After a second, she began to stroke Mrsha’s head as the little Gnoll began to drift off to the first real, unaided sleep in a week.

—-

“Enough, Bird. Please, stop.”

The Worker turned. He raised his bow, but Selys was unarmed. She held up her claws; one had been badly burned. But a healing potion had mended it. And they were free.

Rose and Ishkr all blocked the way to the stairs and the last load of arrows. The Worker looked up at Selys.

“I do not wish to hurt you, Miss Selys, Ishkr, Miss Rose. But I will if I must. I will go to Hectval.”

“You’ll die, Bird.”

“I do not think I will.”

“Don’t you think it’s wrong, Bird? To kill innocent people? I could—understand—Hectval’s army. Or even hating their Council. But everyone? Don’t you feel guilty about that? You will feel guilty.”

Bird tilted his head.

“Miss Rose. I have killed people. I have killed monsters. I have killed birds, and rats that eat the food here. I do not feel guilty about killing things. Some things must die. Hectval is one of them. You cannot change my mind. Nothing you say can.”

He aimed the bow at them and they flinched aside. Bird walked past them, and Selys followed.

“Bird—if Erin was here—she’d stop you.”

“Yes. And she is not. So no one can.”

There was calm, pained certainty in his words. Selys looked at Rose and Ishkr. What could they say? They had to go for Zevara, then. But surely…surely there was something that could be said, or done. But what?

If only she was here. And she was. But Selys did not know the words. Selys looked at his back. At last, she spoke quietly, as he was putting the last of the arrows into the bag of holding.

“Bird. We can’t stop you. But if Erin was standing here, and she heard what you wanted to do, if you did it and she woke up—she would cry. She would not want this.”

Bird halted, hand on the last arrows, the one made with Bevussa’s feather. He looked up at her. For the first time, he wavered, dropped an arrow.

“But she is not here.”

That was all he said. He turned, and resumed picking up arrows.

—-

Ulvama gently patted Mrsha’s head. The Gnoll was drifting off when she heard the curse.

“Aaah! Again! Giant’s poo!”

The [Shaman] waved her clawed hand. Mrsha jerked. Was something wrong? She looked up and saw—

A glowing flame. Mrsha’s eyes went round. It burned bright and clear. It gave off such a pure light it almost hurt. And it was blue.

But not the blue of winter, the blue of depression and darkness. This was the same color as the brilliant sky. The color, like fresh air. Like…

Hope. Mrsha stared at it. It could not be. But only one flame burned so. She reached for it—

Ulvama blew it out and wiped the fragments on the grass.

“Gah! Everywhere!”

She glowered at her hand, checking to see if it was burnt—

Mrsha tackled her. She began pounding Ulvama with her fists—gently—beating her. The [Shaman] yelped.

“Stop! Stop it! What is wrong with you?”

She yanked Mrsha off her. The Gnoll was trembling. She pointed at Ulvama’s claw. You! What did you do? It was there and it went out!

Ulvama stared at Mrsha, then the fire.

“You know what that is? Keeps getting on you. There!”

She pointed at Mrsha’s paw, accusingly. Mrsha gazed at it, hopeful, then confused. She saw nothing—Ulvama scooped something up. She eyed it—then hurled it down and began to stomp.

“Stupid—magic—fire—”

Mrsha went for a leg. Ulvama toppled over and Mrsha looked around desperately for…

She saw nothing. She sagged. Then looked furiously at Ulvama. The [Shaman] raised her staff protectively.

“Stop it! Why that flame matter so much? Too many weird fires! Bad if it burns all over!”

She squawked, defensively. Mrsha opened and closed her mouth. How could she even explain? It was Erin’s fire.

How had Ulvama gotten it on her claws? Mrsha remembered Erin’s last flame going out. She had been so…it had been…

Ulvama saw Mrsha’s mouth opening and closing. She scratched her head, sighing.

“Little Gnoll-child. Too bad your mouth doesn’t work, eh? It would be so much easier if I could understand what you were saying!”

She grumbled, shaking her head. Mrsha looked at her. She held up a single paw and felt at her waist. Then remembered she had no belt pouch. She ran for the closest wall of the garden.

Bemused, Ulvama watched. She saw Mrsha come racing back with quill and paper. She began writing furiously. Ulvama blinked.

“You. You can write?”

Duh. Mrsha wrote, getting ink on her white fur while Ulvama read. She blinked.

“Erin’s fire? Magical fire? [Like Fire, Memory]? Ooh. Oh. Hm, hm—went out?”

She looked at Mrsha’s wretched face. The Gnoll held up a pleading note.

“Please bring it back! Is there more?”

Ulvama checked Mrsha up and down. The Hobgoblin gave her a big smile. And edged back.

“Um. All gone. Sorry.”

She’d taken it off Mrsha. The Gnoll looked at her and fell flat on her back. Ulvama hurried over.

“I thought it was bad! Kept changing! I didn’t know! It kept burning little Gnoll. See?”

She grabbed Mrsha and the Gnoll saw her lift her arm. Sure enough; the fur on her arm was short. Mrsha stared. She hadn’t noticed.

“You said, flame went out when dead Human—er—Erin tried to give it to you?”

Mrsha nodded. Ulvama nodded wisely.

“Ah, but some on little Mrsha-child. Because…fur is flammable.”

She pronounced her scientific hypothesis as to why the flame had lingered. Mrsha blinked at her a few times. So a spark had remained. So small she hadn’t noticed it, on her fur. A bit of hope and kindness and Erin’s fire, still burning.

And now it was gone, thanks to Ulvama. The little [Druid] nodded solemnly. She put two paws in her mouth and whistled. Time for the Beaver-gang.

“No, stop!”

Ulvama waved a frantic claw. She pointed at Mrsha’s notes as ominous furry beavers surfaced out of the pond. Apista buzzed around Ulvama’s face and the Hobgoblin ducked. The little [Druid] held up a paw. And what did Ulvama have to say?

“Fire went out. Not good. But…so what? Give me one chance. Help me—and I help you.”

Ulvama pleaded with Mrsha. She looked at the little Gnoll. She did not regret taking the fire. Perhaps it had been burning those emotions away to survive. It was a glorious thing. But dangerous. Mrsha looked at her, confused.

But a flicker of that same fire in her eyes. Ulvama reached out and took Mrsha’s paw. She looked at the little Gnoll’s face and understood at last.

She did not know the story. But she saw what Mrsha needed.

“Come with me.”

—-

Sammial was red-faced. Not crying—but he had tears in his eyes from refusing to cry.

He had a scratch on his cheek; another boy had been kicked in the gonads. The wind had died. Ryoka looked at the upset children.

“I think that’s enough flying for today, guys.”

“Sammy!”

Hethon rounded on his younger brother. Sammy was red-faced.

“It wasn’t my fault! They wouldn’t give me a turn! And I asked! Politely!”

“It’s not Sammy’s fault—”

Entirely. Ryoka soothed the children. They’d gotten a good thirty minutes of playing, anyways. And she—she was out of sorts. She had fumbled around with the Techblade—Faeblade—dead gods, she needed a better name for it—long enough.

The truth was, she was still mourning. Still grieving Erin. She had not processed it while hope remained. Now? She had only two avenues left. One easier than the other.

The first was Teriarch. But he had not responded to her. His cave seemed…gone. Yet she needed his aid. She craved it. For a Dragon—where fae failed, perhaps the Dragon could help her.

And she would do whatever it took this time.

But the other road was longer still. More dangerous. She knew where the scroll Ivolethe and fate had led her to. Yet…it would be hard.

So that was why Ryoka Griffin played peacekeeper. Why she reassured Hethon they’d all get a turn—after dinner. And why she put up with Sammial. That—and she saw more than a bit of herself in them.

But she might need Lord Tyrion’s help. And she had called on more than enough favors for him to consider the debt repaid. Yet she might need the aid of House Veltras. The Emperor of Riverfarm.

Even more. Ryoka straightened as the children begged for another go.

“In a moment. Right now…I need to do something. You can all watch, but—there she is. Miss Yesel?”

She turned to Prost’s wife. The woman was waving at her.

“Is now a good time, Miss Griffin? We finished what you were asking for. We think it’s all good—it’s quite an honor, you entrusting it to us!”

“Well, you are the best [Needlewomen] and [Sewers] so on in all of Riverfarm. Er—except for—”

Belavierr. And there was no way in any hell Ryoka would ever ask for aid from her.

Miss Yesel’s face darkened at the unspoken name, but she smiled, beckoning Ryoka. The kids, curious now, followed. Some knew what Ryoka had asked the woman and the other [Seamstresses] and so on’s aid for and brightened.

Not just them, but [Carpenters], woodworkers, even the crabby, spitty Jelov’s aid. It was two things, rather. Ryoka followed the woman.

“I have to pay you, Miss Yesel—”

“His Majesty won’t hear of it. Besides which, it is something to brag about. At least, if you keep using it!”

“I’ll try. I still have the scarf you gave me. It kept me warm all winter, Miss Yesel.”

“Do you? Oh my, that seems so long ago. I’m glad you kept it!”

Ryoka smiled. It was a polite lie; she’d actually burned the scarf less than a week after receiving it. During the Winter Solstice.

This world sucked sometimes. Sammial was still angry and miserable again as he saw the Wind Runner conferring with Miss Yesel. He wanted to see, but the other children—and even some adults, the women whom Ryoka had asked for help from and [Builders] and even the [Engineers] were all crowded around and she was thanking them and shaking hands.

“Does this mean you’ll be leaving soon?”

It was one of the things she had stayed for. Sammial stared up at Ryoka miserably as Jericha helped him through the crowd. He stared at the…triangle of cloth. The light wooden frame. The children looked avid.

Ryoka had changed her clothing too. She was adjusting her new garments and Sammial thought they looked interesting—and stupid—at the same time. He knew what it was they’d finished.

And it was exciting—but it meant she was going to go. The Wind Runner hesitated.

“I will have to go back to work, Sammial. I am a Runner.”

“Courier. You’re a Courier now.”

Ryoka blinked as if she’d forgotten that. She smiled at Sammial, faintly.

“Yes, well. That too. But if you want, I can always drop by, Sammial. And I’m not leaving right away.”

The hang glider sat there as she adjusted her clothing again and took a breath. Sammial stared at it.

“Are you going to use that thing again? You said you’d crash like a bug if you did.”

Indeed, Jericha was eying Ryoka as if she was insane. The Wind Runner’s first flight during the run to House Veltras had nearly killed Ryoka. The Wind Runner shuddered at the memory.

But not all had been for naught.

—-

The Hobgoblin [Bard] saw Ulvama coming up the hill again. She had more clothing on, but his eyes flashed and his hand shifted on the blade.

If she tried to touch him again, she would lose her hand. He was on the edge of all things. Numbtongue wanted to kill something. He wanted the simplicity of violence.

He looked at her with murderous intent. But Ulvama was walking up the hill, aiming past him. She was headed—

Up. And she did not deserve to be there. She had not been there. Numbtongue growled. He would not have her defiling Erin’s resting place. Never mind that she was a Goblin and had not known her. He was in no mood to be reasonable.

He stood, stumbling a bit as his frozen muscles complained. Ulvama halted a second—then hurried left.

“Stop.”

Numbtongue stumbled after her. But a figure blocked his way.

A white Gnoll. He snarled at Mrsha. She flinched—but a bee buzzed past Numbtongue’s face warningly. He swatted at Apista.

“Out of the way!”

He was going to—

A sound crossed the garden. A menacing sound, so rare here.

Thump thump slap. Thump thump slap.

Numbtongue’s head turned. He stared.

Beaver gang. The Fortress Beavers marched up the hill, slapping their tails. He raised his sword, but couldn’t swing it—they bowled him over. The weakened, hungry [Bard] rolled—

And they sat on him. Mrsha patted Numbtongue’s head and showed him a card. He stared at it.

“What?”

Ulvama was heading up the hill. Towards the frozen bier, and the young woman.

She stopped when she saw Erin Solstice.

“Ah.”

That was all. The [Shaman] saw the crossbow bolts, the blood; it did not take a genius to see what had happened. She looked at the faint smile and shook her head.

For a moment she bowed her head. And if Numbtongue had feared she’d be disrespectful…Ulvama bent and felt the permanent cold, eying the runes of power, the altar of gifts.

“Good place to chill drinks.”

She commented to Mrsha. The Gnoll gave her a warning look. The Hobgoblin shrugged. She felt little sadness. A bit, but—

“She is not dead.”

She patted Mrsha on the head. The little Gnoll looked up at Ulvama, longingly, hoping it to be true. Ulvama bent, studying the young woman. And at last, she nodded.

“Yes. I see it now. She is the one. Why it feels safe here.”

[Natural Ally: Goblins].

No killing Goblins.

It had begun here. With a young woman, long before the fire. With an inn. Mrsha’s eyes filled with tears. She wanted to go to Erin and hug her. But it was so cold. And the fire…

Ulvama studied Erin Solstice. Then, slowly, the [Shaman] bent down. She halted at the magical barrier. Then, reached past it.

She touched Erin’s hand. Just—touched. Numbtongue made a sound. He knocked the beavers off him, struggled up the hill. Ulvama closed her eyes. She held up her claw as he shouted, lifting his sword.

And she was holding the fire.

Numbtongue stopped, sword in hand. He stared at the burning flame, in Ulvama’s palm. Mrsha’s eyes opened wide.

It was tiny at first, a spark, nothing more. But it grew, dancing, as Ulvama focused on it. The [Shaman] bit her lip as the flame grew. Then she held it out.

“There.”

She looked at Mrsha. Numbtongue swayed, incredulous. Uncomprehending.

“How?”

The [Shaman] looked at him. She smiled. And the flame grew as she handed it down. To Mrsha. To Numbtongue, who clasped at it, his eyes wide.

It burned in the gaze of the beavers. Over the frozen young woman.

The Worker, who had to come to say farewell, fell to his knees. Rose, Selys, and Ishkr all halted.

Look at it. There it burned. That beautiful flame, made of so many at once. It changed as Numbtongue and Mrsha held it.

Hope. It burned like brilliant blue. In Ulvama’s claws it was different.

Kindness. Which was red like a rose, crossed with gentle orange. Soft and marvelous.

“How?”

That was all the [Bard] asked. He held it, the last gift he had thought lost. Hope. He looked at Ulvama. She smiled, and this is what she said.

“Silly Goblin. When the fire goes away, you light it again.”

The flame grew.

—-

“I didn’t get what I wanted. Not all of it, Sammial. And I’ve got a lot to do.”

Ryoka spoke to him as she adjusted the straps and harness. The others were backing up. He looked at her. The City Runner looked…worn. Sad.

But not empty of resolve. She glanced up at the sky, her lips moving upwards as she looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

“But you got something.”

“Yes.”

He meant the secret artifact. But Ryoka meant something else. She sighed.

“The strangers—they’re friends of a sort. And they couldn’t help me in the end. But they didn’t leave me with nothing. They gave me some things. And…well, they told me what I might need to do. Where I might need to go. But they gave me one more thing. Hah. Three and three again. A trinity.”

“What, exactly?”

Jericha looked at Ryoka. The wind was picking up. Across Riverfarm, people were working, the nobles riding in the distance. The [Witches] at their craft. Ryoka Griffin’s hair blew in the breeze.

“They gave me gifts, and knowledge. And one more thing. Can you guess what it is?”

She looked at Hethon. He shook his head blankly. Sammial bit his tongue.

“Is it—is it—I don’t know. What is it?”

The Wind Runner looked at him. And her green eyes sparkled. She looked happy for the first time since the Solstice had ended. She glanced up. Then grinned.

“They taught me how to fly.”

She leapt, and the air pulled her into the sky. Sammial’s mouth opened wide. He waited for her to come down.

But she never did. The wind caught the glider as it leapt upwards. Ryoka was blown upwards in a second. She clung to the bar and everyone gasped. They waited for the wind to hurl her—

Ryoka twisted in the air and flew higher. Then she dove. She skimmed over the tops of Riverfarm’s roofs. Then turned. Sammial realized it first as she did a U-turn and came back the way she’d come towards him.

“She’s really flying! Look! She’s really—”

Jericha, Hethon, and the others looked at him without understanding. Then they saw what he meant. Ryoka dipped—and flashed right over the heads of the crowd who ducked. She winked at Sammial and then the updraft carried her into the air once more.

This wasn’t following the wind. She was—Sammial’s mouth opened wider, wider—such that even Apista could have buzzed in and out. He saw Ryoka accelerating. Faster.

The Wind Runner was flying.

—-

The group of nobles on horseback were enjoying a leisurely hunt, which did not suit the ones who had actually come to hunt.

Lord Tyrion kept riding ahead with Gralton, rather than socializing. Pellmia alternated between social graces and spirited riding. Typically, Pryde was in the ‘move fast’ group and seemed to want to make it a competition who could bag the better game.

Bethal was taking her leisure and chattering away with Wuvren. Lord Tyrion was grinding his teeth. He longed to be riding. He’d had a ride this morning, but with Lord Pellmia. And no disrespect to the other [Lord], a good campaigner and fighter and [Lord], but no one could keep up with Tyrion in the saddle.

It was the freedom to ride that Lord Tyrion sought in his morning rituals. Since it had been denied him, he was grumpy.

His head was turning impatiently, for a Corusdeer or other quarry he could use to take off after. Thus—he was the first one to see the speck in the air heading their way.

It was coming from Riverfarm. For a second he thought it was one of the ‘kites’ that Emperor Godart had shown the children how to make. But then he did a double-take.

“Tyrion? What is it?”

Bethal called out as the [Lord] changed course abruptly. The [Lord] didn’t answer. Bethal turned and gasped.

“Is that…Ryoka?”

The Wind Runner was flying out of Riverfarm. She crossed the river, and Bethal’s eyes picked out the young woman. She was ‘lying’ against the triangular…thing that was flying through the air! She had seen it in the famous run. But now she saw it again.

A hang glider. Each piece hand-woven with the most secure threads by the best Skills and hands in Riverfarm. The frame likewise designed by the [Engineers] and [Carpenters]. Even mildly enchanted thanks to Lady Rie’s [Mage].

It was not Kevin’s tuned-up bike. And it didn’t need to be. All it had to do was provide a surface.

The wind did the rest. Ryoka saw the ground passing below her in a blur and slowly at the same time; she stared before keeping her eyes ahead. She saw the hunting party as she covered the ground in a minute.

“Ryoka! Ryoka, wait up! How are you doing that?”

Charlay charged across the bridge, shouting up at the sky. The Centaur was slower than Ryoka! Panting, she saw Ryoka angle the glider and turn.

The slight move sent Ryoka down and around towards the ground fast. Tyrion heard a curse and winced as he saw the glider dive; she was too low to the ground! But before the Wind Runner could crash, a gust suddenly righted her. She soared on, gaining altitude.

“My word! I think she’s controlling the wind! Could she do that last time?”

Lord Pellmia blinked. The hunting party came to a halt. Ryoka Griffin soared past them, dipping again. She was only twenty feet off the ground now—and moving—faster—

Flying. The wind was at her back. This—this was what Ryoka Griffin had always imagined. The wind was blowing, not just propelling her forwards, but an updraft keeping her from diving. Faster.

She skimmed across the ground, turning, arcing, racing past the riders and people on horseback. The nobility were all staring. Their swift horses and Skills—even the Centaur Runner couldn’t keep up. And they all belonged to the land. Ryoka was in the air.

Lord Pellmia jerked as someone ran into him. Both Lord Ranga and his son were gawking and had collided their horses with his. For that matter—their horses were staring too.

Ryoka was already threatening to cross into the forest leading up to the Goblinlands. A Cave Goblin sitting in one of the watch towers and having a snack sprayed his cup of water as he saw her flying past him. Ryoka waved.

The glider turned, swinging left. Ryoka was laughing—a touch manically. It was so—so—natural!

They had given her wings. The fae. That was what Ivolethe had given her.

Flying lessons.

After all, no one was good at something the first time. And learning how to skydive or hang glide or…the air was unforgiving. But Ryoka had known flight in the land of the fae. And she remembered.

The wind was also different. Ryoka twisted the glider, soaring down. She soared along the ground, as fast as a bird! And she was laughing.

“I can fly!”

The wind snatched away her voice. Ryoka felt the wind rippling at her clothes, and it was getting chilly despite the summer heat. But…she flew higher again, seeing the world drop away and become small.

It did not bring Erin back. Nor was the sky safe from danger. Plus, she needed goggles or a stray bug would put out her eye.

But look. Ryoka laughed and laughed. She was free.

And she was not the only one laughing. The Wind Runner raced across the ground, and only realized she had a tail when she heard his voice.

Lord Tyrion. Charlay was trying to keep pace, but she gave up after less than a mile. But someone was following her, leaping a stream, urging his horse onwards. Ryoka stared down.

He was laughing as he raced after her. Racing the wind. And…keeping pace. She saw him raise a hand, grinning like a boy. She waved.

Then nearly hit a flying squadron of geese. They honked in alarm. Ryoka wobbled and swore. A feather smacked her in the face and the quill actually cut her cheek!

“Are you alright, Wind Runner?”

Tyrion saw the incident. Ryoka swooped lower, shouting.

“I need goggles!”

“Why?”

He looked mystified. Ryoka opened her mouth and saw Tyrion suffer the same fate as she had nearly a second ago. His horse’s hoof kicked up a stray pebble and it shot towards his face.

Then bounced off a field. The protective spell. She pointed.

“I need that!”

“Ah!”

He nodded, smiling faintly. Ryoka turned.

“One more thing, then! I’m going up!”

She shot into the air. Higher—she was up a hundred feet above the ground in moments and climbing higher. Tyrion slowed and shaded his eyes.

What was she doing now? Ryoka was breathing harder. But she was excited.

Ivolethe had given her the blessing of the fae. And more…her hand fumbled for two objects on her belt. A glass bottle and—

The hilt. Ryoka bared her teeth as Riverfarm became a dot below her. Tyrion saw her stall out in the air, coming to a dead stop as the momentum of the glider met gravity.

“That’s—”

Ryoka gripped the Faeblade. It ignited. She took a breath as gravity began to pull her and the glider down.

“Here we go.”

She had been terrified of the hurricane that had dragged her into the sky. A terrible, careless force of nature that could not be controlled. But now, she knew the trick of tricks. The wind was her friend. And more than that?

She swung the Faeblade and touched it—the harness’ straps parted like tearing paper.

The glider came away. Lord Tyrion shouted. So did everyone watching. Ryoka saw the glider separate. And now—she was free falling.

The young woman was dropping out of the sky. Jericha grabbed a horse and aimed her wand frantically at the target—but it was a million-to-one shot even if her spell had range—

Then she saw Ryoka’s downward momentum…shift. The [High Mage] stared.

“What the—”

The wind caught Ryoka as she dropped. It yanked at her clothes. And it found purchase. Loose fabric—and the stupid suit Sammial had observed inflated, creating drag, and a kind of wings…

The nobles and people of this earth had no reference for this. If they could understand the glider, this was nonsensical. Even Laken Godart, listening to Gamel and Durene shout commentary, had to think. Then he started laughing.

“Wingsuit.”

Ryoka Griffin had done crazy things. But even she had not ever gone wingsuit surfing. That was a special kind of crazy. A special kind of dangerous.

Even skydiving was really only pulling a chute at the right moment. This? Wingsuits let you fly or glide at extreme speed. One wrong move and you could go splat.

But she had the wind on her side.

Ryoka dove, as Lord Tyrion galloped after her. The glider was carried by the current of air, to land in the forest where the Goblins would retrieve it for study before it was recovered.

But Ryoka sped on. The wind was doing its own thing above her; the breeze that high was blowing north steadily. Ryoka raced perpendicular to it, in the wingsuit, carrying her back towards Riverfarm, above the fields where the [Farmers] stopped and stared.

The wind ignored her, but something still carried her down. A powerful gust that belonged only to her.

“What the f—”

Ryoka blew past Alevica. The [Witch] twisted to catch her and was nearly blown away. There was a wind surrounding Ryoka!

She was her own breeze! Ryoka felt the magic burning in her veins. That was it! The final clue. She laughed as she felt her magic exhausting itself to keep her going.

She landed just past the fields, turning, slowing—and at the last moment a mighty updraft totally stopped her momentum. Ryoka hovered—then dropped.

The Wind Runner was panting. Both physically and mentally—and magically—drained from the flight. But she was grinning like a madwoman.

Lord Tyrion was the first to arrive, then Alevica, who had lost her hat. Charlay, the nobility—Ryoka was trying to speak.

“It—that was—where’d my glider go?”

“The forest. I saw it land. That was insane! Ryoka! You’re flying! You’re practically a Garuda! That’s not fair! I’m supposed to be the faster one!”

Charlay swept her up into a hug. Ryoka felt the Centauress squeezing. She laughed.

“That was—intense. I should have had goggles. Or an amulet.”

“We thought you were mad when you cut yourself loose of the glider!”

“I knew what would happen. Or I thought so. And I had insurance.”

“Insurance?”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. Ryoka showed him the second object in her grip; she’d put away the Faeblade.

A bottle. A Potion of Slow Fall, in addition to Hedault’s crash-ring. His eyes flickered and he nodded.

“Wise.”

The Wind Runner nodded to him. Then Charlay hugged her again until Ryoka squeaked and asked to be let go. Then everyone wanted to know what the Wingsuit was—and Hethon and Sammial were already begging to try, which neither Ryoka nor Jericha would countenance.

Bethal wanted to try too, which her husband shot down, and Ryoka had to tell people about the dangers of non-wind hang-gliding—but admit it was a possibility. Pebblesnatch’s mouth opened wide as she peeked out of the forest.

Word spread. Well—who cared about word spreading? The nobles here had seen it! The Wind Runner had built her own wings!

She was a flying Courier.

—-

The fire burned. Ulvama saw Numbtongue sitting with it.

In the inn. He held it in one palm. And he was drinking—water. Eating.

Light had returned to the inn. It was small, but Mrsha had put it on her head. Selys was fussing—

“Does it hurt? Is it burning your fur?”

The Gnoll looked cross-eyed at the flame burning on her head and giggled. She laughed, and it was a good sound to hear. Ulvama smiled.

Fire could not solve all the world’s problems. It usually added to them. But this was a special flame. It was beautiful, glorious, sad, humble, and powerful all at once.

Ishkr cupped a tiny flame in his paws. It might go out. It might be extinguished. And so what?

Light it again! However many times it took.

Until she came back.

Bird sat with the flame burning on the table in front of him. It began to go out—until he scooped it up. Only then did the flame brighten. This fire could not exist without someone holding it. He looked at it, trembling. Rose and Selys watched him out of the corner of their eyes.

After a long time, the Worker whispered.

“I miss my Fortress of Fluff. I wish I had not cut Miss Bevussa’s feather up, now.”

“We’ll help you get it back, Bird.”

Selys would toss gold at people if it meant getting back his possessions. Beat them to death with sacks of it. She went to Bird. He held the flame. And the vengeance against Hectval seemed less important than this.

Fire and memory. They would carry word of it. Carry the flame. It was not yet lost. It was a sign, a symbol.

As much as anything else. Anything could be a sign. But this? This was good.

The door to The Wandering Inn opened as the light came back. The first visitors in a long time came, bearing a flower to tell Rose that she was the lucky pick they’d settled on. If she was willing to make a commitment, that was.

And Mrsha looked at Ulvama and decided she was okay. The Hobgoblin contently sipped from the alcohol collection she’d finally discovered at the back of the bar—she’d never actually seen a bar in her life before.

This inn was better than she thought!

—-

I relax afterwards. I meant what I told Sammial. There are always consequences.

For instance—I may have introduced hang-gliding to this world and thus upped aviated deaths by an uncountable number. But you know what? To hell with it.

There are people from Earth here. And I need to fly. I have a sword from another time and reality and even if magic can destroy it, I can use it.

I will use it. Every tool and means I have. Teriarch. My head is spinning.

I just received word from him. From ‘Grand Magus Eldavin’, rather. Who’s at…Wistram Academy?

Holy fuck. Unholy fuck. Why am I swearing? I have to send him a reply. Does he want an autograph by the King of Chivalry himself, in triplicate? Does he want a super-sword? Please.

Oh, please.

And if that doesn’t work? If he refuses? Well—it’s probably still a bit more dangerous to raid a Dragon’s hoard. But I’ll risk it. Whatever I need to do, I will.

Halrac just told me Griffon Hunt is taking a leave of absence from Riverfarm, despite their contract. The Horns of Hammerad have sent out a call.

We will not let Erin stay dead. So, my heart is lighter even as I talk with Lord Tyrion. For some reason, he seems to still tolerate me. Maybe because of the kids. Maybe that’s a way to persuade him. No one else seems willing to really treat Sammial like they should.

And I’ll be a Courier. I’ll do what it takes. I can move across Izril now. Even if I need to learn the air. Even if I can still run out of mana. But Ryoka is flying your deliveries now.

…Am I going to get out of shape? Well, running is still useful, especially during rain.

All of this is in my future. I am not afraid of it. But before that—the scroll. Perhaps Teriarch can help. Perhaps the Horns or someone else. But if I believe the fae, maybe this is the best and most likely solution. Ivolethe always said it was ‘if’, not ‘when’. Maybe I have no chance and the answer is some other way.

But I know where it is. I know where something that can help Erin lies. I only must get to it.

If only it was easy. If only it was convenient, like challenging Lady Pryde to a cage match. Because I knew that vault. I’ve seen that symbol on the news. A famous place.

Hells, hells, hells. It’s not even close by. Even for a flier. But…well…

Ailendamus.

How the heck am I going to get in there?

Interlude – The Revenant and the Naga

Paradise on earth. Utopia. Few existed on earth. Fewer still in the air or under sea.

Also, paradise for whom was the question. If you meant ‘some people’, you could call some nations ‘paradises’ for the elite. For all was harder. And even then, the word generally only meant a place where people were free from disease, monster attacks, war, or banditry.

That was already beyond the Walled Cities, the ken of the Great Companies of Baleros, and the Kingdoms of Terandria by and large. They had 90% success rates, 99% success stories—but they always had loosely-held borders, slums, places where neglect led to suffering.

True utopias where such things were truly once-in-a-year occurrences or only occurred during total catastrophe? So few. And they tended to become targets because of how nice such places were. And if such nations guarded their borders, they tended to become military aggressors and so…

For a hundred points, add the following qualities: a stable utopia of at least four decades, where plague, monster attacks, and war did not trouble its civilians. For two hundred points: no starvation, free education and/or employment, access to medicine, and housing. Options also included higher-grade magical luxuries, an abundance of artistic or creative outlets, and reclining sofas.

That was a hard standard to meet. And a few utopias did qualify. There was Khelt, the undead kingdom of Chandrar, the Kingdom of Keys in Terandria, the Archmage’s Isle of Heiste…

But that was a list. To really break down what made each nation special, one had to know what each utopia had to offer. And what each lacked.

“It is, of course, impossible to compare the Archmage’s Isle of Heiste to Khelt. It is Izril’s only settlement qualifying of the title of ‘utopia’. Truly, it may be called such because it was built—a sensible decision by one of the Archmages of Wistram. She had the foresight to sequester and then construct her private paradise, which, upon her death, became the Archmage’s Isle. An abundance of plant life, carefully selected to provide fruits and nourishment from around the world as well as floral blooms of surpassing beauty. The isle itself has sumptuous housing, magical enchantments that protect and provide; indeed, magical familiars, Golems, and other servants. A utopia, I shall admit. But one with a flaw.”

The voice was precise, although it had a faint echo. Well-spoken, commanding, and slightly sneering. It waited for a response. After a second, someone replied.

“…What’s the flaw?”

“The Archmage’s Isle can barely provide for two thousand residents. And they would consider that crowded. There is no way to expand said isle either, since the [Archmage] who created it lies dead. Thus, the isle is fragile against overpopulation, such that they must routinely cull their numbers. Well, that is a necessity, but it is also highly endangered by invasive creatures who would consume the entire isle. Let alone Crelers; tunneling beetles nearly laid the utopia low.”

“Mhm. Beetles. Sounds nice to live in, though.”

“One may assume so. However, society within utopias matters. Consider the House of Minos. Another utopia, insofar that its citizens are without the most common of troubles. Even so—their society prides itself on the ephemeral qualities of honor and a warrior’s tradition. It must rely on volunteers to staff its navy and army to keep itself safe, and whilst I would laud the King of Minotaurs her nation more than Heiste—it too suffers the flaw of society.”

“The King of Minotaurs is female?”

A sigh. Or a sound like a sigh.

“Yes. The title is…as for the Kingdom of Keys, I would say the paranoia of its citizenry—not to mention the unique culture—interferes with its qualification as a utopia. Are you familiar with the Kingdom of Keys, Samal? Of course you aren’t.”

“Nope. What’s it like?”

The speaker was a [King]. Or rather…a King. Also, undead. He was named Fetohep of Khelt and his eyes flashed golden in their hollowed sockets as he reclined on his throne and spoke. On the nature of utopias, he was an expert.

“Doors upon doors. Each part of the kingdom, a passageway into the next. The outer…layer of the kingdom itself is a gateway that must be entered. Yet entire fields and farmlands lay beyond. An enemy must first bypass the gateway by force of arms—or keys of their own. Thus, safeguarded, Samal creates inner gateways. And its citizenry has taken that to an extreme. They lock everything with the same keys, obsess over what is theirs. To be great in Samal is to have a key to every lock. To be poor is to have a key only to the fewest things.”

“Makes sense. Is it nice to live in?”

“I would place it below the Silent Dome of Baleros—which is a maintained utopia for their honored elite. As I stated earlier, a utopia that caters only to a few could include even Roshal. But true paradise is far more challenging. It is simple enough to make one man live like a [King]. To make all live like [Lords] is far harder. And yet, I declare Khelt to maintain such a place. True, if I must list my nation’s flaws, it is our reliance upon water and the labor of the undead. Neither of which is a crucial weakness, but flaw exists. However, compared to other nations which must train and maintain armies…”

“Mhm.”

The undead ruler, Fetohep, paused. The reply was…well, the absent sound of someone who was clearly doing something else and making a ‘I’m listening’ noise.

It was not something he, Fetohep, ruler of Khelt for over six hundred years, was used to hearing. He balefully eyed the glowing crystal, hovering next to his throne, surrounded by a suspended, faintly-inscribed ring of oscillating gold.

A more permanent version of a speaking stone, which could be tuned to receptors at great distances. This one was currently tuned to Esthelm, Izril. And a young man was holding it against his ear as he fiddled with some mechanical parts.

“…Are you listening to me, Kevin of Liscor?”

“Er—absolutely, your Majesty!”

There was a hurried shuffling sound, as of someone sitting more fully upright and guiltily putting something down. Fetohep paused pointedly.

“My words are not so light as to be put after other, mundane activities, are they?”

“No, sire. Not at all…er…”

“Er, what?”

A pause, and the sound of someone scratching their head. At last, Kevin came out with it.

“Not to insult your Wise Majesty—but it’s just that, um…”

Fetohep waited, nodding at the proper address. The young man did vary it each time, which Fetohep appreciated. After a second, Kevin just came out with it.

“I’d hate to offend your Majesty. It’s just that, well, I’ve been learning of utopias and their qualifications for um, the last six hours, King Fetohep. And I uh—have work to do. Not that I can’t make time for our best client! But I…”

Another moment.

“…I have to pee.”

“Ah.”

The undead ruler thought about this. Then he imperceptibly moved his head and checked the ceiling. He noted the Skyceiling was displaying a markedly different time than when he had first called Kevin. The ceiling could, at will, reflect the open sky above. It had been about midnight when he had decided to educate Kevin on Khelt’s greatness. Now it was dawning.

Six hours of nonstop illumination on Khelt and utopias. Kevin would not normally have been so indecorous, but stopping Fetohep was like trying to stop a sandstorm. He would have to make a salient point and to interrupt him was to offend.

“I forget mortal qualms. Very well, Kevin of Liscor. Go perform such…bodily functions. Then, we shall discuss what you believe is a utopia.”

“Er—very good your Majesty. Only—”

Kevin wanted to sleep. And eat food. And not do that. He looked around—then Fetohep heard a crash.

“Oh no! I think it might be a monster attack. Someone’s calling the alarm! I have to—I’ll have to—”

“A monster attack?”

Fetohep’s voice reflected extreme skepticism. He did not hear the warning horns or bells—just a crash as something was hurled against a wall. He was about to point that out when the speaking stone went dead.

The King stared at the floating communications device. The flames in his eyes narrowed to pinpoints. Visible fury passed over him—

Then was gone. Emotion did not rule Fetohep. But he was…peeved at the obvious slight. He indulged in the rare emotion for a second.

Then—he had second thoughts. If there was one thing an undead being of centuries was good at, it was introspection. Moreover, Fetohep had not had the Skills in life, but he had learned what some [Mages], [Strategists], and other great thinkers like [Secretaries] had mastered.

True introspection. First he was angry. Then he questioned why he was angry. He questioned if he, Fetohep, was wrong. He tried to take the mortal position and found himself wanting.

“Six hours is long by mortal spans. Moreover, young men rush about. He has a business of his own to run. Perhaps I interposed my will overlong to provoke such desperation. He is not a fool.”

The ruler of Khelt nodded to himself, already processing the event coolly. After a second his glowing eyes burned a bit brighter as something else occurred to him.

“Midnight is also not an appropriate time to be awake for many. Ah.”

How he forgot such things. Fetohep smiled—or he would have smiled if he bothered to make facial expressions—or he would have smiled if his dead flesh were capable of such intricate muscular motions—as he recalled one such memory.

He had once inadvertently killed fifteen diplomats in his first century of reign by inviting them to gaze upon the wonders of Khelt. Which had included some rooms that were quite without air. He had demanded to know why they would not stand in his presence right before they expired for lack of oxygen.

The memory was amusing in hindsight, even if he had been mortified at the time. Fetohep wanted to recall it to…he looked at the speaking stone and his eyes flickered.

Ah. It was dead. And the person he truly wanted to talk to—either of them, really, but one in particular—was not here.

Something strange. Fetohep of Khelt did not move from his throne, where he had sat for three days. Straight. Without getting up to pee, without so much as budging an inch. He didn’t scratch himself, he didn’t twitch, or even breathe—he had been as still as a statue.

For three days.

Oh, he spoke. He had been speaking quite a lot, really. And that was…odd.

Yes, very odd. Why did he want Trey Atwood, or his sister, to be sitting there, perhaps on the floor, perhaps in the dining room where he would sit upon a throne there too and tell them about the inadvertent story of the dead diplomats—and then the numerous times he had intentionally killed them?

“Strange.”

Fetohep mused, because his mind was reminding him of some truths. He did not divide his consciousness up into parallel selves like the [Mages] did—but he had mastered the art of smart [Witches]. Introspectiveness. And he recalled—

He had not always been like this. In fact, a year ago? This was what his days would have been like.

Sit here, unmoving, silently maintaining and arranging the undead legions of Khelt. Sit and think. Or sit and be still, and let time pass like water unto sand.

He had passed entire weeks like that. Fetohep had once sat for five months without moving, without speaking, until he was roused to investigate a murder of passion that had taken place.

He recalled it quite clearly. And even if he seldom got close to his five-month record, he would still sit for hours or days unending without needing to so much as speak.

His servants came and went. They cleaned the palace, but they did not interrupt him except when he was needed. And that was surprisingly seldom.

Khelt had set up its society such that its ruler only needed to maintain and change what they willed. Fetohep was more preoccupied with border matters, trade, than he was with his people.

And frankly, it was fine. For Khelt…was a utopia. And its king had been content with his paradise in the sands because his people wanted for nothing. He had spent six centuries thusly, participating in some wars, defending his nation a few times, but really…making sure everything ran the way it had.

Only—now—something was wrong. The King sat there for sixteen minutes and forty three seconds and he was aware of sitting there. And a new thought emerged. One that had not troubled him since his death, but as a mortal man he had sometimes known.

Sands take me, I’m bored.

Fetohep looked around. His head moved; then he spoke.

“Pomle.”

The speaking artifact floated away and another appeared in its place. A large scrying mirror, perfect, highly-enchanted—Fetohep gazed into it.

“Are there any Sparring Events today?”

He was referring to the new practice in Pomle; fighting arenas where one could bet on two fighters—or even groups—who would battle until one or the other was defeated.

A new concept. However, not original. Gladiator arenas had existed long before even Khelt. In fact, Nerrhavia was beginning to broadcast its own gladiatorial matches, in its great arenas. Other nations were doing the same—even Illivere was going to broadcast Golem Testings, which Fetohep was very interested in.

As he peered at the empty arena and realized…it was dawn…Fetohep was already summoning the [Messages] of the scheduled Sparring Events to his mind.

Let’s see. Level 42 [Martial Artist] –specific class unknown—versus eight Level 20+ [Martial Artists]! Two Level 30+ among the eight. Oh, now that did sound interesting!

He reviewed the details. Hm. Even more fascinating. It listed ‘Dullahan’ as species for the Level 42 [Martial Artist], and gave a gender. Male. And since it was eight Level 20’s—well, the odds were still in the higher-level’s favor, but not by much.

Fetohep’s keen mind and undead memory presented him with options of who this could be. Even in Pomle, such a level was rare. Male, Dullahan…he was put in mind of the [Armored Fist] class of martial arts, who prized extreme resilience.

And if that were so, few Level 20 [Martial Artists] could take down someone twice their level, even with such numerical advantages. Now, a Garuda might be in trouble, but this?

Fetohep summoned another artifact; a Scroll of [Messages]. He spoke, and a quill wrote on the message, auto-transcribing his words.

“Fetohep of Khelt wagers a sum of eight thousand, six hundred gold pieces on the Level 42 [Martial Artist].”

The [Message] was transcribed, the bet laid in. Fetohep experienced some satisfaction as the odds instantly adjusted as the [Bookkeepers] taking bets on the event took note of his wager.

He had helped fund Pomle’s matches. And he had cultivated a reputation for making the correct wager. Fetohep had a 68% success rate, which actually peeved him; he’d had a losing streak this last week.

He didn’t bet much. And he had, in fact, increased Khelt’s treasury, albeit by small amounts.

It was just a hobby. But it was odd that it was his hobby. He hadn’t needed one.

Nor did Fetohep spend long on the match. He would watch it of course, and that would happily fill oh, maybe thirty minutes? But it would be hours later, alas.

“Wistram News Network.”

The scrying mirror flickered to life. Fetohep saw a Drake speaking and sipping a cup of tea.

“—just waking up, I’m Noass, bringing you today’s news. The King of Destruction’s war with multiple Chandrian nations rages on with a development in battle; Mars the Illusionist’s forces were pushed back after intense fighting between—”

“Next. Wistram Music.”

A new channel appeared. Fetohep heard a quartet of violins playing. He listened for a minute as the Dullahan musicians played. Was this a recording? He tapped a finger on his armrest to the beat. Then sighed.

He’d heard this song before. A Dullahan classic. The king’s voice had more irritation in it now.

“Wistram News Network.”

“—war in Ailendamus on the other hand has seen—”

“Nerrhavia’s Wonders.”

Another magical connection. It was less…precise, since the network wasn’t maintained by Wistram. But it was of an [Explorer] heading down a river. Fetohep recognized it as the Channel of Borendivual, one of the largest in Nerrhavia.

“And here we are headed to a dangerous section where the famous leaping crocodiles of Nerrhavia await! The [Guards] are ready, and we believe this early they will be napping…we shall cross this part of our voyage through the great Kingdom of Nerrhavia, before you glorious viewers will be witness to a battle between [Gladiators] in our capital city’s arena! Do not miss it, at midday—”

“Wistram News Network.”

He’d seen the Boredivual himself. He’d fought said leaping crocs as a living man and had no desire to see Nerrhavia’s pet [Explorer] show off his kingdom’s glories and praise it every two minutes. The [Gladiators] were interesting, though. Fetohep checked for bets and placed one while the scrying mirror flickered back to the Drake at the desk.

“—later, Drassi and I will be interviewing a [Blademaster] of Baleros about combat styles. Tune in at ten for that. Just before midday—”

“Hm.”

At last, something interesting. Fetohep was always willing to listen to talk of combat; even if he could have given the two Drakes a more educated discussion of the art of blades. He had been a [Warrior] in life, after all.

But he would listen, critique, or laud the [Blademaster] as the case might be—perhaps even ‘call in’, as the network sometimes allowed. He had listened to himself twice pointing out flaws in the broadcast.

Quite, quite enjoyable when that happened. But none of this stemmed his boredom now. Fetohep drummed his fingers.

There were exactly three channels he had access to at this moment. Wistram News, Wistram Music, and Nerrhavia’s Wonders. More were being developed of course, but few had the magical know-how and resources to put on such shows.

And of those that did, he needed to wait while the attuning crystals or spells were brought to Khelt. How vexing.

Not that Fetohep had needed any of this. But now…after listening to the Drake for another second, Fetohep spoke.

“Nerrhavia’s Wonders. Again.”

“—my leg! Empress preserve us, they’re—help, help—”

Fetohep watched as a screaming man went over the side of the boat. A crocodile—easily three times his size and many more times his weight—launched over the boat, dragging another [Guard] down. The [Explorer] was grappling with one, and these crocodiles were ancient, massive, with scales like steel.

“Ah, how interesting.”

The King of Khelt smiled. He watched until someone cut the feed and sighed. Always when it was getting good.

He flipped back to Wistram News Network just in time to see Noass commentate on the live-deaths and embarrassment to Nerrhavia in real time. Although Fetohep was pleased to see the [Explorer] survived, mainly by hacking his way through croc after croc. Some as long as thirty feet tried to drag the entire boat into the water. He and the surviving crew ran along one and leapt to shore at which point Fetohep lost interest.

Now there was real entertainment. And then it was gone and Fetohep was waiting for the next thing. He wanted hundreds of these news channels, and recalled Trey telling him about that in his world. Fetohep recalled the device and show and suddenly wished he had one. And still, his thoughts demanded.

What was wrong with him?

—-

Fetohep of Khelt was a powerful ruler of a utopia. But not, as some might assume, a well-known one. He was not a famous ruler like Flos of Reim, who was practically his neighbor.

Because Khelt did not do things. It was a bubble nation, aloof from the affairs of the world unless circumstances most dire intruded.

Similarly, there was another kind of ruler—if not in name—who existed in a paradise for the chosen few. Who was also unknown in the lists of the great rulers of the world unless you knew of him. In which case, he was very famous indeed.

Emir Yazdil of Roshal was a figure of stories. If you walked through the markets of Lailight Scintillation, the grand and fabled marketplace of Roshal, one of the wonders of the world, you could, while buying some curio uncovered from ancient ruins or a rare or priceless artifact—or a [Slave]—hear stories about the most powerful, most famous of Roshal’s [Emirs].

He had many names. One of them was ‘the Naga.’ And a curious visitor might well inquire to such person willing to make small talk, of which there were many, what had given him this title.

Each answer inevitably led to the Emir, and there were countless people who had seen, claimed to have seen, or at the very least, knew an acquaintance of a friend’s distant relative, who had been there when the very event took place.

The point was that the Emir was fabled. As close to the ancient greats of old as the King of Destruction. And the Emir was certainly richer than most [Kings]. He was more powerful than many monarchs too because Roshal was a titan among the many nations of Chandrar, a city-state whose power and reach was unmatched.

At least, that was what Roshal said. And the Emir’s grand reputation existed in Roshal alone. Outside of it? He was just one of the [Slave Masters] that the other ignorant nations dismissed. Which was obviously a fool’s point of view.

Roshal was ruled by [Slavers]. But it was crude to say it so. Say rather that among the many interests of the [Emirs], [Slave Lords], and other powerful [Merchants], aristocrats, and individuals of note, slavery was not only legal but reveled in. And once again—among them all Emir Yazdil was the most famous.

There were seven stories about him that were told this week alone.

—-

On the first day, Emir Yazdil was, while resting in his palace that sat among the many citadels of Roshal, minded to take a hunt. He had tired of the thousand thousand sights in the crystalline fortress of his home. It was said that he had bought the enchanted glass citadel from a disgraced [Prince] who had ordered his Djinni to convey the citadel to Roshal in a single night.

Certainly, it had not existed in Roshal until thirty years ago. Now, it shone, even among the hundreds of other palaces built by the ruling elite of Roshal. It sparkled, and Lailight Scintillation below it, the Grand Bazaar, one of the largest markets in the entire world was also abuzz with life.

For gold, you could buy weapons from Derithal-Vel. Dwarfsteel, light and strong. Or—if your tastes ran towards food, any manner of produce from Oteslia, or Baleros, or ingredients for alchemy, like Eir Gel. Everything came to the markets.

And if you had lots of gold or great favors with the right people, as money was secondary to favors or other trades, like valuable goods or even magical contracts that allowed one to command mercenaries into battle, you might buy something better than mere food or furniture.

A [Slave]. From Chandrar, or Baleros—seldom Izril or Terandria, whose nations were more recalcitrant—but of every kind. Drake, Dullahan—even the Gazers of Baleros were a commodity in the bazaar, however seldom.

Even half-Giants—but of course, one would have to win the auction and be very rich. But you could buy them. Or a Djinni.

Or a Demon. For the riches of Roshal and pride of the slavemasters was great, but even they send aid to the Blighted Kingdom. Just the month before, Emir Yazdil had sent fifty ships laden with riches for the Blighted King and thus earned the gratitude of Rhir. He could have sent a hundred times that number, that was the excess of his wealth, which even the Drake Wall Lords of Salazsar would have envied.

And today, all of this bored Emir Yazdil. He ignored the supplications of his fellow [Emirs] to join them in entertainment. He scorned the company of Roshal’s most bewitching courtesans, who could command thousands and tens of thousands of gold pieces for a single night.

He had no seraglio, or harem, so there were no designs on his attentions there. Such was the Emir’s boredom that it was only a suggestion from his foremost slave and bodyguard which roused him.

“Perhaps the Emir would care to hunt?”

That piqued the Emir’s interests. He immediately organized a hunt. The fact that there was no great animal spotted was not an issue; he would find one and go to one.

Within the hour, a hundred flying carpets left Roshal, bearing the Emir, his great friends, or the ones currently in favor, servants, bodyguards, and experts to find him the quarry and excitement he sought. And the quarry they found was a Grand Elephant, larger than most of its kind and thus a titan, wandering the plains. A lone bull, inexplicably separated from a herd.

The hunt began as the [Emirs], [Slave Masters], and great friends of the Emir and he himself began to hunt the Grand Elephant. They cast enchanted spears from carpets or rode on horseback if they were more daring, because the bull elephant soon began to prove that it was not herd-less for lack of strength.

The thick hide resisted even low-grade enchantments. And the great creature rampaged at the servants and [Hunters], crashing through lines of pikes, even boar-spears. An [Archer] shot an arrow through the animal’s head, but even a [Piercing Shot] only lodged in the bone of its skull.

The Emir watched, using a wand as he and the others hung back, watching the battle take place. Hundreds of spears were cast, and a number of enchanted ones, and the elephant’s strength wavered.

Still, it fought on. And the Emir paused to remark that this beast was equaled only by one other. When enquiring minds of his friends asked which one, he nodded at the wounded Grand Elephant, still fighting.

“I once had the pleasure of meeting the former Empress of Beasts and her great friend, Thef. A Grand Elephant augmented by Skills. Yet this lone bull fights alone and without.”

Indeed, the Grand Elephant did not flee or give in, even as its blood ran across the ground. Eventually, the hunt brought it to its knees. And still, the mighty creature raged, swatting down the [Hunters] daring enough to close to try to finish the job. No poison had been used for fear it would ruin the meat and besides, it was a hunt, and poison was not sporting.

It was as the jaws of the hunt closed and the great bull was finally breathing its last that the Emir raised a hand. A Human hand this day; he cried out for all to hear.

“Enough! Halt your spears! Bring me potions and salves!”

The confused [Hunters] and servants stopped. The Emir called out again, and bewildered, his servants rushed forwards. Had he been hurt?

No. The Emir demanded they apply the best potions and salves to the elephant. The animal was tended to by potions worth more gold than those that held them. Within ten minutes, it was on its feet.

It was said that the Emir and the bull looked at each other as the bloodied but healed animal stood. Then, Emir Yazdil nodded to the creature.

In response, the Grand Elephant charged and would have trampled the Emir and gored him in an instant if it were not for the Emir’s foremost servant. The Emir was quick on his feet, but the elephant far greater. But his dedicated bodyguard (of whom more will be said later), seized him and leapt upon a carpet.

The Emir was flown away as the bull elephant rampaged about for another minute, then stormed away. In much chaos, the hunt dissolved, with the friends of the Emir not sure what to think.

They found him laughing, beside himself, as he watched the great elephant go. In much good humor, the Emir turned to the others and explained.

“Such a fierce animal—I couldn’t bear to see it turned into meat, and the tusks ivory! It was a champion among its kind, and I was honored to have met it.”

Bemused, one of his companions who dealt in both animals and people remarked.

“There are a hundred [Beast Masters] who I could summon to make that beast worthy of riding palanquin upon, Emir Yazdil. Just say the word and I will make that animal twice as strong, with hides that would defy even the greatest [Lancers].”

The Emir smiled and shook his head, for he was a Human today.

“Mydre, my friend—it is a grand thing you offer. But then it would not be a fierce, solitary animal, but a possession. And I do not care for that. Nor would he be mine. For I do not know how to tame animals. People I know, but I will let that beast go in peace.”

Thus cheered, he returned to his palace and held a banquet the rest of the day, in the best of spirits. And true to his word, the Emir owned no great, striped cats, no exotic birds, not even hunting dogs or a menagerie like some of Roshal’s [Slave Lords]. He owned only people, and called them his great treasures.

—-

Fetohep of Khelt arose from his throne. His servants, thus alarmed, flocked to him, but asked nothing. Merely followed, waiting for his will.

“I shall walk my city today.”

The undead ruler’s words caused a stir—his appearance as he descended the long, long steps from his palace, even more so.

It was rare for Fetohep to walk in his city, for all Khelt was a city of marvels. Each building, as Trey Atwood had once seen, artistic. They had all the time in the world to make their city beautiful. And in this true utopia, the citizens wanted for nothing. They could eat and drink and sleep away their entire lives and some did, or devote themselves to art, a passion.

Fetohep asked nothing of them save they obey his laws. If one left, they might never return. But who would leave?

Some did. Fetohep was reminded of the family of Khelt, who had left and contracted the Yellow Rivers disease. He turned to one of the servants.

“The family of six—have they recovered from the disease?”

“Yes, Majesty. Shall they present themselves to you?”

“Good. And no.”

The servant bowed and Fetohep thought no more of it. He knew the family; they were not unique. The father had dreamed of adventure and lands beyond Khelt and thus left, despite knowing he might not return. The mother and children had followed.

They had begged his forgiveness and aid less than three years later. Fetohep would not have taken them in, save for the fact that the children, all four of them, had not been old enough to choose.

Thus, he had paid for [Pirates] to raid the ships bearing the cure and deliver it to Khelt for one family. The rest he had kept in case the disease came across the borders, although he had locked them down the instant he had heard of it.

All for six of Khelt’s own. Which was right and proper.

As he walked the streets, Fetohep reflected that this had shaped Khelt. Many of the people were heavier than any other nation. After all; they could eat however much they wanted.

Food was free. No one looked ill, or tired. There were no laws about when they must work, and no corporations.

Housing was free. If they craved drink; wine, bourbon, even that horrible Firebreath Whiskey?

…Not free. Those had to be paid for. Khelt did have an economy, insofar as the actually valuable goods needed some exchange of goods or coin. However, you could receive food from Khelt’s fields, meat from the flocks, and you would never starve. Your home would always have bedding and water and light and basic furniture. Just nothing else unless you worked for it.

Previous rulers had done this because they had observed the one true weakness of Khelt. And that was that without anything to do, many would find a passion, or enjoy themselves.

Some would turn to corruption. Hedonism being the first step. But then darker desires and activities would begin to appear. It was one of the reasons Khelt kept no slaves. It was a poor thing and bred poor practices.

Fetohep observed some of his citizens playing a game as he walked the streets. He stopped—pointed it out to the hundreds of people following him just to see why he was walking—and asked.

“What is that game?”

“Your Majesty?”

One of the servants chosen for the day was patently confused. She looked at the two running about, grunting and smacking a rubber ball across the ground.

“I have seen every game played by Khelt’s people. This is new.”

Khelt had every game in the world that was socially acceptable to play in public. People loved such games. Chess had caught on like fire here. Indeed; there were eight such courts here alone and it seemed like the trend.

“Your Majesty, this is tennis.”

“Tennis? Has another game appeared?”

Fetohep was familiar with football, baseball—he had commissioned Khelt’s own [Carpenters] and [Leatherworkers] and so on to replicate the games and had seen children and adults playing them. One of his people looked at him.

“Your Majesty recalls Teresa Atwood’s visit?”

She knew the name of his guest. All of Khelt’s capital probably did. Trey and Teres, as two visitors of Fetohep themselves, were famous. Fetohep’s head turned.

“Of course. Did she bring this game here?”

“She explained the rules. We thought it was your Majesty’s will—”

The woman paled. Fetohep lifted a hand.

“It is well. Teresa Atwood has done me a service, it seems.”

“Then your Majesty approves of the game?”

Mindful of the gleaming eyes, Fetohep nodded slightly. And he knew that this game would dominate his nation for the next month. Even more so when he spoke.

“Find the two best players of the game. No, sixteen. I shall observe them play.”

So he did. The people rushed to watch as eight games took place. Fetohep learned the rules, watched the matches of quite good Skill! In fact, a number of his people had even picked up the class!

Delightful. He would have smiled if he had the flesh. Fetohep immersed himself in the games.

…But only for a while. He looked around at his contented people. And his eyes and artifact counted less than a dozen among the thousands over Level 20 in any one class. They were low-level in many things, but the ones who dedicated themselves were few and far between.

“Ah.”

He watched two games, then left his people to it. Fetohep walked through his city and was reminded why he did this so seldom.

It had not changed overly much in six hundred years. The football pitches did, the baseball, tennis courts, and the plays. But the people did not. They were happy. Thusly—they bored him.

—-

The second day, the dawn of Lailight Scintillation saw a quite ordinary man standing in line for a local [Patisserie]’s shop. He stood there every day, and bought a fresh pastry, bagel, croissant—especially the special of the day or anything new.

The owner of the bakery was talented. They had made their shop from nothing and experimented constantly. Some days they tried to bake shellfish into dough with explosive diarrhea threatening anyone who ate it. Other times they made fine little cakes, or carved bits of baked bread into playable chess pieces that tasted delightful, or made their batters out of interesting or magical flavors.

It was a gamble eating from the shop, but a delightful one. And recently their baking soda breads had doubled the already fluffy Skill-based breads that came from there. The Drake man, who had been born in Roshal, had begun attracting even more business.

And thus, tragedy had struck. A competing [Baker], angry at the man’s success, had paid an [Assassin] to slaughter him in the night. As dawn rose, his bloody corpse had been found in the shop.

The quite ordinary man had left as people wept and wailed and Roshal’s own security—the private army really—investigated. Of course, the assassination was obvious, but no one blamed the [Assassin]. The offending baker was fined heavily, but the matter was closed.

That was Roshal’s way. And naught more would have come of it save for the lack of interesting breads.

However, later that day the ordinary man showed up at the competing baker’s store. He was accompanied by the Emir Yazdil’s personal guards and security. He revealed, to the now terribly worried [Baker], that he was a servant of the Emir and hired to pick up a baked good each and every day. Thusly, since the [Patisserie] was dead, the Emir was furious.

The [Baker] pleaded that he had not known this. If he had, he would have thought twice! And this was true, and reasonable. The ordinary man even nodded sympathetically.

The unfortunate [Baker] took nine hours to die, and only stopped screaming at the end of it as he was dragged around Roshal by horses until bloodied rope and his leg was all that was left. Even the citizens of Lailight Scintillation, so full of wonders and treachery, stopped in admiration and horror of the Emir’s wrath.

Nervously, the [Assassin]’s Guildmaster himself dined with the Emir that night, along with several other [Emirs] and [Merchants], at a dinner where the Emir’s fury was still quite visible.

“Emir Yazdil, should a man question who they slay in this city? Or would it be better to mark such people as the Emir enjoys, to prevent danger to those who would act this way?”

The Guildmaster inquired at length. The Emir pursed his lips sourly.

“I enjoyed my baker’s goods because he was not famous, Guildmaster Veer. If I was his patron, he might have lost the daring that made him so special, and his foods both delight and treachery on the bowels.”

His serpentine tail twitched and it was said even the Guildmaster flinched, for the Naga was twined like a venomous snake, ready to pounce. Presently, one of the others raised his voice.

“Then, Emir, how are we to be assured that the next person we have assassinated is not beloved of yours?”

To that, the Emir was reported to have looked at the offending guest until the fellow removed himself. He remarked in icy tones to the other guests.

“To kill someone is to invite danger, to both [Assassin] and client. That only seems fair. As to whom I would object to outside my personal servants and guards? Do not kill that which is special. A great [Baker] died today, and he is gone now and will never return. Men and women may copy him, but what is original is special because it is original. That is what matters.”

He left his guests shortly thereafter, and from then on, it was said the Guild of Assassins would take requests to kill [Laborers], [Merchants], [Soldiers], even [Slave Masters], but they would hesitate to kill [Artists] and artisans. Because it might be someone the Emir prized above all. And the Naga’s wrath was as infamous as his generosity.

—-

On his third day of boredom, Fetohep engaged in one of the pursuits that did lead him to contact with the outside world, even before now.

Headhunting.

“As you desire such things, [Carver] Inaceran, they shall be provided. Your mansion made of aught but wood I shall provide, or have my [Architects] construct. There is precious little wood in Khelt grown wildly, but the Forest of Nemask I shall allow you to use, and plant a grove of no less than four thousand trees to begin with. More, should the need arise.”

“And…you do not require me to make you anything?”

The voice was suspicious. Highly so. Fetohep suppressed his impatience.

“Only to teach those who ask you. Four apprentices per year.”

“Which you will pay me four thousand gold pieces to do, in addition to everything else.”

Patent incredulity. The nervous half-Elf woman stared at the ruler of Khelt. Fetohep knew it was unsettling for someone from Terandria. He wished she were of the Claiven Earth—the half-Elves of Chandrar to the north. If she was, she would know he was serious.

Actually, that wasn’t a half-bad idea.

“Inquire of your kin of the Claiven Earth, [Carver] Inaceren. They will reassure you if you doubt my sincerity. There are two hundred half-Elves living in my domain. If you will it, you may speak with them.”

“I would never…doubt your words, your Majesty.”

The woman hesitated. Fetohep graciously ignored the lie, and the woman seemed more reassured as he arranged a meeting with one of his other half-Elven subjects. He cut the [Scrying] spell.

Headhunting. Fetohep reflected that if the [Master Carver] came here, he would have to create an entire forest and have the undead servants water it and perhaps even dig an aquifer and replenish it regularly. Let alone build her a home for her family. The money was no object, really.

But he would do it. Because half-Elves lived for a long time and were thus an investment. Also because Khelt needed experts.

The people of Khelt sometimes became masters of their own. But seldom. Most flitted from new thing to new thing. Great warriors, great crafters—they had few of. But Fetohep enticed experts from around the world to come here. They were the rare immigrants who earned a place in Khelt that they might inspire and teach other generations.

“When my time comes, will I find my successor?”

Fetohep mused. It was one of the few fears he had. When his time came, and it might be soon, he would have a century, perhaps more, to find his successor. He, like the rulers before him, would scour the nation to find one of Khelt with the will to replace him.

Not the classes. Not the levels—although that was generally a requirement. Since Fetohep was a Revenant, rarest of the undead, who kept his Skills in life as well as his will.

Other nations abhorred him because such undead could become the most dangerous monsters in existence. But Fetohep was not murderous—save when he was angered. He had been spared the undead’s drive to destroy because of Khelt’s sacred, secret rituals.

Six hundred years ago, he had been made Khelt’s King by their former ruler. As he thought of her, Fetohep’s golden gaze dimmed.

“Glorious Queen Xierca.”

He stood in her shadow still. She had searched for nigh on two hundred years, fading, her body giving out despite her best efforts. She had ruled for thirteen hundred years.

“She brought me broken and fading, from a far-flung battlefield. She left my comrades behind and wept as she told me my fate. She apologized for failing to save them. To me. ‘For it is a terrible burden to face alone.’”

The ruler sat on his throne and recalled her face. Ah, yes.

She had had companions, hadn’t she? He recalled…six. Six Revenants, like her. He would have had his friends, but they had all perished in battle. Xierca had told him she had planned on taking them all when he was older, past his prime.

But tragedy had claimed them. Now, he sat alone. It had not bothered him until now. Fetohep’s gaze dimmed. Golden light flickered in his eye sockets.

Boredom and now, nostalgic sadness. And yet something was wrong. His fingers flexed on his throne. And after a while—he stood.

—-

The third legend of Emir Yazdil came as he was entertaining a Terandrian [Lord] on a floating palace at sea. The Human man had invited Lord Alchremm of Taimaguros to Roshal, that they might discuss the possibility of dedicated trade.

It was well-known that Lord Alchremm owned a mithril-mine in Taimaguros, and that the Emir and Roshal were greatly desirous of the precious metal. A private trade contract would enrich Lord Alchremm and Roshal, but the [Lord] had refused to sell.

He made his objections known at volume and length to the Emir and his company, some of whom were his rivals, others his friends.

“I do not treat with [Slavers]. I have come, Emir Yazdil, to see the depravities of Roshal for myself and whilst your hospitality has been gracious, I cannot help but see the collars on the necks of [Slaves]. I find such customs barbaric and reprehensible, and speak my mind to you, sir, because good conscience cannot lead me any other way.”

The boorish remarks to Roshal’s finest were of Terandrian arrogance, but the Emir Yazdil never failed to smile as eyes flashed and daggers were plucked by his fellows. Calmly, he waved at his bodyguard to calm the other [Emirs] and bade the Terandrian Lord sit and discuss the matter over wine. This is what he said:

“Lord Alchremm, I understand your objections about [Slaves]. You object to the idea of one person owning another, is this so?”

“It is, and no argument will convince me otherwise. Terandria owns no slaves—or Taimaguros does not! And we will not consort with those who do.”

According to rumor, the Emir thought a moment and then raised a finger.

“This is true. However, Lord Alchremm, is it not true that a class of common folk exists in Taimaguros and Terandria? The class is known as [Peasant] or [Serf], and are beholden to their [Lord] or [King].”

“This is so. I have them myself.”

“Then, Lord Alchremm, if one of these folk were to tell you they wished to be a [Knight], or an entire family, a village, asked to leave, would they be allowed to?”

Reportedly, the Terandrian [Lord] frowned mightily.

“That would not be acceptable. I would need them to work the fields and they are part of our lands.”

“So you would prohibit them.”

“I see what you are doing, and it is not the same.”

The Emir shrugged lightly.

“Then let us say it is not. However, let us consider prisoners of war. I have seen them paraded in my visits to Terandria, dragged out and humiliated. Are they slaves?”

“No. They are prisoners of war.”

“Are they not collared and chained? Do they have free will? I have heard prisoners—half-Elves—rotting away in dungeons for centuries, unable to die, without right or liberty. Is that better than slavery?”

To this, Lord Alchremm fumed as he searched for a response. The Emir Yazdil’s arguments were well-liked by his fellows, who jested long at the [Lord]’s expense. But the Emir once again silenced them (enraging some, who felt he was altogether too accommodating to such a rude man), and spoke.

“I do not have issue with anyone who will tell me they despise slavery and make reasoned arguments against it. That is their will, and I will accept that even if I disagree. What bothers me are those who object to slavery and point to Roshal as the heart of all evil, while ignoring and condoning it in their lands. Lord Alchremm, I beg you stay at least a few more days to reconsider.”

The Terandrian [Lord] could hardly have missed how angry some of the other [Emirs] were, and consented with ill-grace despite his distaste. Thus, the Emir demonstrated his serpentine tongue regardless of form.

What was said next was most important, though. As the Emirs and [Slave Owners] engaged in hot debate around the subject and morality of slavery, the Emir spoke in private company, but the contents of which were spread across Roshal in a heartbeat.

“By different names, we maintain the same institution. Roshal is open about it, but hypocrisy I loathe. Munificent and ageless Khelt in all its glories makes better slaves of its citizens than I ever could.”

This provoked uproarious laughter and good humor by all for Khelt was not beloved in Roshal as it forbade slaves. The Emir was not content to let his remarks lie there, however. He remarked to the others as they began to jest about Khelt and its ruler.

“I do not mean to impugn the ruler of Khelt himself. Rather, I have never met Fetohep, but seen and heard of him and I pity few others as much as he. I have seldom seen a [King] chained to a throne as Fetohep of Khelt.”

Such remarks were made in a private gathering, but they were repeated throughout Roshal and more jokes made at Khelt’s expense. It was reported they reached Fetohep of Khelt in time, and the undead ruler’s wrath monumental. However, the Emir Yazdil reportedly had no memory of making the remarks at dinner.

“It was a passing observation, then. The argument around slavery is not one I tend to recall my debates in. Others say ‘this should not be so’. I say it is so. There we disagree and I go about my day.”

—-

The fourth night occupied Fetohep without a hint of boredom. He finished paying all the [Assassins] and arranging Emir Yazdil’s horrific murder and then relaxed.

Unfortunately, most people had about a third of their day occupied by sleep and other mundane, time-wasting events like eating, excreting, and so on. Fetohep was extraordinarily efficient, and thus found himself sitting on the throne.

He eventually stood up. He reached out mentally and summoned Khelt’s warriors.

Undead skeleton-warriors, armed in rusting metal, rose from the sands as Fetohep walked out of his palace. His servants remained in the palace.

Fetohep stood in a circle of undead warriors. Some had been simple citizens of Khelt. Others had actually fought. All were warriors now.

When they rose on Khelt’s land, they were stronger, faster, deadlier, imbued with the knowledge of combat. Elsewhere? Mindless, weaker. Fetohep’s power extended across his domain and weakened with every mile. If he could have, he would have sent a hundred thousand undead to Roshal for the insult.

But that would be a hundred thousand bodies lost to the desert, turned into an undead horde that might well attack another nation or simply be lost. Fetohep had to rely on politics and gold abroad. But in his kingdom? Even the King of Destruction would beware invading Khelt.

Still. His armies of the dead were one thing. Yet the ruler in this moment had forsaken his robes. He had put on armor.

He carried a halberd, enchanted, made of the famed adamantium metal, the weapon he had carried in life. It hurt the eyes to behold. The undead warriors stood in a vast circle around Fetohep, a thousand of them.

After forty one minutes of standing there, Fetohep removed his helmet. He took each piece of beautiful, enchanted armor off, and then planted his halberd in the ground.

“Foolish.”

That was all he said. He turned and began to walk to his palace again. Then he looked back. The glowing eyes of the skeletal warriors, only bits of emaciated flesh left, stared at him. Fetohep hesitated.

“And yet.”

He reached down and touched his chest, covered by the thin cloth. Bemused, Fetohep lifted his hand, flexed it, then touched his chest again.

“…Why do I think I can feel it beating?”

The ruler looked around. The undead skeletons stirred. Their eyes glowed and their jaws rattled. They rushed forwards in a silent mass, swords slashing, worn shields raised. Spears jabbing—

Two hours later, the servants saw the ruler of Khelt return. He had neither his armor, nor his halberd.

“Clean my armor and weapon and return them to my rooms. The bodies shall return to the ground soon.”

He instructed them. The servants looked out into the courtyard.

The halberd and armor still lay there, untouched. The thousand undead lay in piles. Fetohep had tossed the sword he’d seized down when he left. The King was thus amused and bemused the rest of the day, and spent the rest of it touring the armories of Khelt, recalling old legends or inspecting artifacts.

—-

The fourth legend of the Emir Yazdil revolved around his bodyguard, who was mentioned before.

He was being entertained with some of the other foremost men and women of Roshal by one of the new Emirs—a Stitchman who had made vast fortunes on a dungeon unearthed far to the east recently. He had paid for adventurers and [Porters] and, when the dungeon was discovered to hold vast treasures, made rich. The lowly [Slaver] and [Merchant] had become an Emir before he was thirty.

And he was arrogant enough to consider the Emir Yazdil a rival. So much so that he displayed his wealth, artifacts, even a captive Djinni before the Emir in a show of glory that impressed even the others.

It was said that the Emir Yazdil ignored all but the Djinni, whom he exchanged some polite conversation with, and had only eyes for the younger Emir’s [Slaves].

“Your personal harem contains beautiful women the world over, Emir Darsul.”

The younger man puffed up at the compliment, but maintained his dislike for the Emir. So his response was both condescending and arrogant for all who heard it.

“Of course, Emir Yazdil. They are [Ladies], adventurers, [Mages], and more, the finest the world has seen. And you have…neither concubines nor servants?”

Only Emir Yazdil’s bodyguard was present, who was notable for having saved the Emir’s life just a few days ago. The Emir did not seem to take offense.

“I have never desired concubines, and Iert is enough to pour drinks and watch over me here.”

His modesty infuriated Emir Darsul, who saw it as a slight that the Emir had not brought a fitting escort. He reportedly snapped back.

“Ah, but if you had a harem, Emir Yazdil, could you surpass mine? We both have gold aplenty, but I have spared no expense in finding the finest [Slaves].”

Indeed, he had even outbid the Emir on several occasions and was known to spend gold like sand. Once again, the Emir did not rise to the insult, but replied steadily.

“I said your [Slaves] were fine, Emir Darsul. But I did not say I envied you. For it seems to me that not a single one loves or admires you. Nor, I think, if I took off their enchanted collars, would any of them remain.”

“And what does that matter? I do not require loyalty from my possessions.”

“I consider it the perfect mark of a [Slave Master], myself. For instance, my bodyguard, Iert, has neither enchanted collar nor bindings on him. If he were to desire to leave, or attack me, I would not be able to stop him.”

At this, all the other Emirs were quite unsettled and looked at Yazdil’s bodyguard, who was nearly of note as the Emir himself.

Iert, who was until now, nameless, was a Gnoll with reddish fur, like the redwood tree, who was born of [Slaves] and raised in Nerrhavia. He had become a [Gladiator], and became champion of Nerrhavia’s greatest arena, the Coliseum of Glass, and won his freedom.

Of course, that was before he was twenty, and then went on to become an adventurer, who some say might have become a Named Adventurer. But as such stories go, he grew arrogant and soon ran into debt, upon which time he became a [Slave] again.

It was then that the Emir took him into his employ, and not much was seen of Iert for ten years as the Emir himself rose to power. When he reappeared, the Gnoll was his bodyguard.

Now, scrutinized, the Gnoll bowed. The Emir Darsul, very much taken aback, demanded to know how this was.

“Did you suborn his mind with potions or spells?”

“Not at all. Or should I say, I do not enchant him to obedience.”

“Then how do you sleep at night?”

“Very comfortably, with him watching over me. You see, Emir Darsul, you possess slaves. I train mine, into becoming what I believe makes them best. And they are, of course, loyal. Happy too, is that not so, Iert?”

“I am happy, Emir Yazdil. Or I would point out that I was not.”

The bodyguard’s response doubly enraged Emir Darsul, who by now had developed a great loathing for the Emir Yazdil, quite aside from Fetohep of Khelt’s own involvement in Darsul’s enmity (this was known only after the fact). He sarcastically turned to the Emir Yazdil.

“And what if you were to end up dead in your bed, with your trusted servants having slain you and taken all your possessions?”

The Emir thought quite long about this, then replied levelly.

“I would consider that a failure on my part. If such a thing occurred, I would have no one to blame but myself. I trust Iert completely to do whatever I ask of him. And since the most basic thing I would ask of him is not to kill me, I do not think twice about it.”

The other Emirs laughed at this and complimented Yazdil, which did not enrage Emir Darsul further because he was most likely at the peak of his fury in any case. However, he happened across an idea which caused him to smile and suggest to the Emir.

“Why do you not prove it, Emir Yazdil, and order your bodyguard, Iert, to run about like a dog and fetch whatever you toss.”

To this, the Emir was visibly upset.

“I would prefer not to.”

“Because your servant would refuse?”

“Because it would distress him, and therefore, me.”

The Emir Darsul then smiled and insisted.

“If he will not do this, Emir Yazdil, who is the master and who is the [Slave]?”

The Emir, who had not been enraged until this moment, grew quite angry, but to the surprise of all, his bodyguard promptly did as the Emir Darsul had requested. Upon completing the tasks, and the Emir Yazdil tossing his plate, Yazdil excused himself.

He later remarked to his friends in the hearing of all those on the street on the way back from the party on the event as follows:

“I believe that was one of the most painful experiences I have had to witness in my life. Certainly to you, Iert.”

“It was nothing, Emir Yazdil. I merely wished to prove to the Emir Darsul that your methods had no flaw.”

Such loyalty inspired the other Emirs to be impressed even more with Emir Yazdil’s methods, and it was certainly true that no one had ever heard of Yazdil’s slaves running away, which was quite common to Roshal. Thereafter, rumors began circulating that Yazdil and Darsul were mortal enemies, the truth of which became evident soon thereafter.

—-

On the fifth day, Fetohep of Khelt found himself pacing.

Pacing around. Which was such a strange action for him to be doing that he stopped at once and called for a drink.

The only thing undead could really imbibe were types of mana. Maybe crushed bone, which they could use to fortify their skeletons.

Fetohep employed [Chefs] who could make such dishes, and the rare treat was death magic-infused liquor. It didn’t really taste since his taste buds were long gone, but he savored its effect upon his being, like a shot of flavored energy for the soul.

What was wrong with him? Even his servants could tell that something was off. The King of Khelt sat there, pondering his strange actions of late. He’d called Kevin in the morning and made the young man list off all the new bike projects he was working on this morning.

What was it? The ruler recalled the last time he had sat here, in the dining room. There had been a young woman. And before that?

The young man with the iPhone. Who had shown Fetohep his world’s wonders. Who had listened and…

“So that was it.”

Fetohep murmured. The servants stirred, as he put the cup down, ready to serve it again. Fetohep sat back and announced.

“I have been poisoned.”

The servants dropped their possessions. One ran for the doors; another called for Khelt’s immortal warriors to—Fetohep lifted a hand.

“Stop.”

He’d definitely misphrased that. He calmed the panicking servants and sent someone to retrieve the [Chef], who’d gone running for his life at Fetohep’s words.

…The Ruler of Khelt decided to take his thoughts to his throne room, without an audience. He sat there.

He had meant it, even if he hadn’t meant it the way his servants had taken it.

“Poison.”

It was a terrible thing. He felt as though he could remember his heart beating. He was restless, antsy. He desired things to occupy his time. And he looked upon his people and saw them as…mundane. He wished they would make more of themselves, even as part of him knew they were content and would not level because of it.

All because one young man had made him remember what it was to be mortal. All because he missed Trey Atwood, and having someone to talk to.

“What a terrible thing it is. Flos Reimarch. That boy is either a lucky fool, or an intelligent fool. But then, his great strength was always the bonds he forged with people.”

Fetohep quite felt like he’d fallen into a trap. But if it was…he tapped his fingers on the armrest of his throne.

“Wistram News.”

The scrying mirror flickered to life. But it did not show…Wistram. Fetohep wished he could visit. And why not? He was Fetohep of Khelt!

…But dangers lurked beyond Khelt’s borders and he had to be here to protect it. He was a king.

Chained to a throne. The ruler of Khelt’s eyes burned in the darkness of the room.

No.

And yes.

He missed Trey. For the first time in centuries, Fetohep felt…lonely.

—-

The fifth day and fifth tale of the Emir Yazdil took place with the Terandrian Lord Alchremm, who had dined and taken Emir Yazdil’s hospitality for nearly a month. However, his disdain for the nation of Roshal was clear and he would soon return to his continent without signing a contract for mithril, despite the Emirs’ best efforts.

Even Yazdil had seemed to fail. But Lord Alchremm had yet to leave despite his hatred for Roshal for two reasons.

The first was that Yazdil was a consummate host and hired actual [Servants] to wait attendance on Lord Alchremm instead of his [Slaves]. He ensured the [Lord] had no lack of Lailight Scintillation’s wonders, and made the trip worthy of even a Terandrian [King]’s enjoyment.

The second was that over the course of his stay, the [Lord], who was unmarried, had met a charming [Slave] upon one of the outings. She was a beautiful woman—Human, like him—and was both educated and skilled at almost any activity imaginable. A [Concubine] in truth, and one that the [Lord] was soon fascinated by.

However, she was a [Slave] and on this day, the [Lord] finally approached Emir Yazdil with a request.

“Emir Yazdil. I have come to meet one of the [Slaves] among the employ of Roshal. Miss Chenera. And I have found her both intelligent and witty and…undeserving of this life as a [Slave]. With your assistance, I would like to purchase her contract and set her free, that I might marry her. I…ask your help in this regard, as I do not know her master and had not inquired.”

Though the matter was said to have been private, the [Lord] Alchremm made the mistake of asking Emir Yazdil as they dined in a restaurant, rather than private company, and their entire conversation was later retold to all those interested. The Emir, in this moment, had his bodyguard, Iert, silence what was said thereafter and hide it from conversation, but it was not hard to guess what was said.

Soon, Miss Chenera, who was indeed the highest class of [Slave] within Roshal, a gem amongst diamonds, appeared. However, her master did not. Lord Alchremm was confused, and then turned to Emir Yazdil.

“Where is her owner?”

The Emir then smiled—and the Naga replied.

“Surely you know I have more than Iert, Lord Alchremm.”

The [Lord], who had met few of the Emir’s servants, was startled—then embarrassed. He made the same request, to the Emir this time.

“I cannot give you my mithril mines, for I still object to Roshal. But I cannot simply leave Chenera here. She has…expressed affection for me, and I would marry her. What must I do to set her free?”

It seemed to all that the Naga had the Lord Alchremm at his mercy, but to everyone’s surprise, the serpent [Emir] simply raised a hand.

“I will revoke her contract and set her free, Lord Alchremm, if that is both your wish.”

The [Lord] was of course, startled, but delighted. He thanked the Emir and was in the midst of celebrating when the [Slave], Chenera, interrupted.

“Master Yazdil. Please, do not free me.”

The [Lord] was quite astonished and hurt as she promptly threw herself on the ground and begged to remain the Emir’s servant. He turned to her, and demanded.

“Miss Chenera! Did you not love me? We have exchanged secrets. I was most taken with you.”

Reportedly, the [Slave] looked up at him and then replied sincerely.

“I enjoyed your company, Lord Alchremm. However, I was told by my master, the Emir Yazdil, to do so. If I were to choose between the two, I would rather remain a [Slave].”

“Even should I marry you and make you a [Lady] of Terandria?”

“Even then, Lord Alchremm. I adore what I have here, and beg your forgiveness.”

The [Lord] was hurt beyond words and rose to leave. However, it was the Emir Yazdil who bade him stay. He was most upset, and spoke to the [Lord] and his [Slave] thusly.

“Lord Alchremm. I beg your forgiveness, as I meant to send one of my finest servants, Chenera, to be a fitting escort about Roshal. She is superior in all ways, as you noticed. Her will is her own, however, even now, and I cannot gainsay that. But as a token of friendship, I offer her to you as a [Slave], then.”

The [Lord] was most taken aback, and still hurt and vengeful. He did not respond then, but later in the day, he accompanied the woman back to his ship, which would set sail for Terandria.

The other Emirs were most confused by the turn of events. When one, accompanied by the Emir Darsul, reproached Yazdil for not demanding something in return, the Naga was apparently celebrating with his close friends. He looked up and answered the angry Emirs.

“Lord Alchremm has freed Chenera, as he vowed. Yet she is herself a [Slave] and even if he does marry her—which I doubt—I do not believe she will change who she is. I will wager you, Emir Mydre, that Lord Alchremm will return to us within four months and have changed his mind. For he now owns a [Slave] by a different name.”

And such was his conviction that all the Emirs believed him. Soon thereafter, it was said that Lord Alchremm had scandalized his kingdom by owning [Slaves]. And Emir Yazdil was said to be most contented by the news.

—-

Fetohep of Khelt toured his treasury on the sixth day.

The wonders of Khelt, which he had shown only a fraction of to Trey and Teres lay open to him. Each artifact a marvel; treasures like the Diamond Swords of Serept made or acquired by rulers of old in plenty.

He himself had added to that collection, paying vast sums for artifacts. After all, gold came and went, but objects of old kept their value. When danger came to Khelt, they would be used unstintingly.

“During the Creler Wars, you see, Trey, King Razzimir hesitated long over unleashing the full sum of Khelt’s vast armories. His journal I possess; I shall allow you to read of it later. He writes of his regret, that caused so many of Khelt’s own and Chandrar’s nations to fall as Crelers grew in strength.”

Fetohep turned his head. He saw the young man…

It occurred to the ruler that he might have a problem. He banished the spectre of friendship from his mind. But continued the monologue nonetheless.

“I understand his hesitation, in truth. He unleashed arrows, potions for his [Generals] and those of Chandrarian nations fighting the plague. He gave artifacts away, and they were lost destroying the foul things. Potions that could not be replaced, used in an instant, to little effect sometimes. But it had to be done. We of Khelt guard our treasures that we might spend them like water when the need arises. But it does seem…Dragon-like, does it not?”

He stared at the armory of weapons, each glittering in its place. No hands to use them. His perception as undead ruler was that this was necessary. But would the man, Fetohep, have agreed?

“I am Fetohep of Khelt. By my will—unseal the Apothricarium.”

He walked out of the armory and came to another place. The undead guards, who were cut far above mere skeletons, watched even him. Fetohep walked past them as the magical barriers unsealed.

There were guardians inside the great vault that held Khelt’s potions and alchemical artifacts. They stirred as Fetohep entered, recognized him, and refrained from attacking. Fetohep nodded to himself; he would have been more worried if they’d failed to threaten him.

Paranoia about thieves? Even Dragons would be impressed at the lengths Khelt’s rulers had gone to.

He walked down shelf after shelf. Although—they were not precarious, flat, bookshelf-like designs, but specialty-made [Alchemist] shelves. Each bottle had divot and holder, such that even earthquakes would not knock them out of place.

More than that? The room was airtight, highly enchanted with the best [Stasis] spells of their kind. Not mere [Preservation]. Hah!

“Was this where the diplomats all expired?”

Fetohep thought it was. He paced past Potions of Greater Healing, Draughts of the Well, a very tightly sealed Tincture of Oblivion—it was the kind of stuff that gave rise to legends. Drop that tincture in the wrong place and you got a sleeping castle. Throw in an angry [Druid] and there was a sleeping [Princess] and a place covered in vines, guarded by spirits of the forest.

And more. So many potions—but you could burn through them in a single battle if you wanted to. If you were not careful, and treated each one like it was irreplaceable.

“My great Queen Xierca. You labored long to restore the Apothricarium to this state.”

Fetohep halted. About a thousand paces in, the neatly labeled and sorted potions…ended. Yet there was a lot more room in here. But each shelf was empty. He shook his head.

Each ruler of Khelt was different. King Izimire. He had been kind. So kind his people became lax and fell into dark ways. He was a lesson in failure.

“He depleted this vault, Trey Atwood. Look. He spent potions upon his people. I understand his love. But I do not condone. You understand I bought the Yellow Rivers cure despite the need elsewhere? I would do so again. But if one of my subjects were to be brought to me, dying, and the only cure was a Potion of Greater Healing? I would only use it if the subject were…truly valuable. Despite the pain it would cause me.”

He shook his head, waiting for a response.

“Because Izimire thought the other way. And look. He emptied this great vault in his reign. Used Potions of Regeneration for children who had suffered accidents. He made his people incautious of their own frailties. My predecessor filled this vault and I have done likewise. But look.”

He reached out.

“We have so few left. Even in Khelt, this paradise of ancient times.”

Fetohep removed a single potion and gazed at it. A Potion of…he brushed at the beautiful glasswork on the bottle, admired the enchanted container, in itself worth a small fortune.

It would be so easy. Just one potion. And he had more. But was it worth the cost? One boy…even if he took the one it was meant for.

They were not his. They were not even the twins Atwood. Fetohep still…stood there. Holding the little bottle. At last, he stirred.

“Alas, Trey Atwood. I am not so kind.”

He put the bottle on the shelf and turned away. Cost and reward. The vault sealed behind him. He was not wrong. Not now, not with the same decision he would have made a hundred years ago and any other time in his reign.

But he wished the young man had been there to reproach him for it.

—-

The Emir Darsul tried to kill Emir Yazdil nearing the end of the week. It was a mighty plan, which had been conceived of by the foolish Emir for years. Yet it was the insult to mighty Fetohep of Khelt which began the treacherous night in full.

Fetohep of Khelt had paid four dozen of the finest [Assassins] in Roshal to slay the Emir on this night, and approached the Emir Darsul to remove Yazdil from power. In his undead wisdom, the ruler of Khelt did not expect the [Assassins] to triumph.

Indeed, upon that night, two thirds of the hired killers were seen to make half-hearted attempts. A crossbow fired wide, spells which destroyed a stall ahead of the Emir or far behind—and eight men and two women with names like ‘Yazdil’ met their fates.

Some of the Assassin’s Guild did try in truth. Yet, the Emir Yazdil remained untroubled, even if his bodyguard, Iert, was seen to vanish from time to time throughout the day. The Emir’s security was unquestioned, unthreatened even by Khelt’s ire.

Yet that was not the true nature of Darsul’s plan. Like Fetohep, he expected no aid from the Assassin’s Guild, who owed much to the Emir Yazdil and whose Guildmaster was said to be in Yazdil’s debt. The [Assassins] were only to distract the Emir’s security, even lull them into thinking this was the true attack.

On the sixth night, the Emir Darsul unleashed his Djinni.

He had possession of one of the great spirits of old, which had built such nations as the Shield Kingdom of Merreid, and whose children, the Jinn, had once spread across Chandrar far and wide until their end.

Even the weakest of their kind could slaughter Gold-rank adventurers, for no mundane weapon could hurt them, and magic was their blood. And the Emir Darsul did not possess a weak Djinni.

It was the reason why he was Emir so young. The dungeon had unearthed the artifact holding the Djinni, along with all its riches and made him so powerful he could insult Emir Yazdil to his face, and make even the most dangerous in Roshal walk quietly around him.

A Djinni is not to be used lightly, even so. An incautious command would see him dead, and even a Djinni cannot protect one from a blade in the dark.

But such was his enmity that Darsul used his great treasure this night. Cunningly, as well, and it was thought that Fetohep of Khelt advised him on the plan.

Instead of sending his Djinni against the Emir Yazdil, who might have guarded himself well against such dangers, being a man of intelligence and understanding the dangers of such opponents, Darsul commanded the spirit to find Yazdil’s treasuries in his palace and empty them. To take his opponent’s wealth and destroy everything that could not be carried away.

In addition, he armed the Djinni with three artifacts of destruction, including a Wand of Disintegration, that the spirit might be unmatched even if the Emir Yazdil had other Djinni. He bade the spirit go, and the Djinni was set loose.

To say this was a mighty threat against Yazdil was no understatement. Even if he had Djinni of his own, he might well lose them in battle, and thus he and Darsul would lose irreplaceable servants. Moreover, the battle could well destroy his palace. His bodyguard, even great artifacts might be nothing compared to a wrathful Djinni.

And yet…the night was quiet. Emir Darsul paced in his study, or so it was said by his servants, fretful and furious, but hoping that his servant had eluded all guards and was now removing Yazdil from power. It would be a sweet victory and all the more powerful if Yazdil woke with nothing to him. He would not remain Emir for long, then, penniless.

After all—money was only money if you held it safely. In the same way, power in Roshal depend on who held the leash. More than one [Slave Master] had ended up just like all their possessions.

Sun rose the next morning. The Emir Darsul waited to hear the wail from Yazdil’s palace, the myth of how he had been robbed blind. He heard no such things. And he found the Djinni in the same room which he had bound her to her task, her back to him.

“Is the Emir Yazdil without coin or treasure?”

The Emir Darsul demanded. The Djinni shook her head.

“He is not, master. Nor was I able to do battle in his palace, or destroy his artifacts.”

The Emir was furious.

“I gave you orders, servant! How can you disobey?”

For it was curious and frightening. Djinni could not disobey direct orders. If they could, they would surely slay their masters and escape. But all those imprisoned were totally subservient.

What had the Emir done? For answer, the Djinni turned.

“I searched all night, master, but could not find the Emir’s palace. I return to you in failure.”

And the Emir Darsul saw she wore a blindfold on her face. A magical one, that could not be removed or broken despite his servants trying all. He demanded to know how it had come to her.

“I put it on, master.”

Then, the Emir Darsul knew he had been defeated in the night, and the Emir Yazdil had ensured the mighty spirit could not fulfill her task. He had somehow suborned Darsul’s great weapon against him!

The Emir’s wrath knew no end and he punished the spirit until he fell to worrying. It was said that no matter how much the Djinni screamed, she still smiled afterwards, and the Emir Darsul retreated to his inner sanctums before long, fearing the worst. He armed every trap, put every hired [Guard] and [Mercenary] on high alert and opened his treasuries and armed himself with the best artifacts he had, and commanded the blind Djinni to defend him to the death.

In this, he was somewhat wise, but he had still erred in his misguided attempt to kill the Emir Yazdil.

—-

On the last day in the week, Fetohep of Khelt just thought about history. He read a [Message] he had hand-transcribed and thought.

In the past, Khelt had ruled more than this land. It had been empire. Its legions had even assailed other nations and it had possessed more than one Revenant. Eternal, renewable armies without fear or need of rest.

Yet Khelt had eventually collapsed, as empires did. It had barely survived the retaliation that had come, and thereafter never expanded this small amount of land.

These were the lessons of old. And Fetohep had been content to make his entire existence one of benign continuance. His people would live and die without doing much, and was that not well?

They were happy. That was what it meant to rule.

Still. Were they a great people? One to be proud of? The question bothered Fetohep, for surely it did not matter. He belonged to them.

Chained to your throne. His eyes flashed in the dark room.

“Great Fetohep of Khelt. Your kingdom remains a polished gemstone among Chandrar’s sands, built upon great deeds and foresight. I have admired your rule, and that of Khelt’s since I was a boy, and write to you now in hopes that you will heed my message. For we share common cause.”

The ruler intoned slowly. It was a brief [Message]. One with both dignity and brevity, and no sender nor point of origin. Fetohep read on.

“I have revealed the secrets of undeath, and walked far down my path. Now, I have learned a great truth of creation. One that I would share with Khelt, if we could find common ground. My admiration for you, Wise Fetohep, knows few bounds, but we have never met, only conversed from afar once before. I write to you in confidence, hoping you will repay my trust. If we could be allies: perhaps.”

The last word was underlined. And there the [Message] ended. It said nothing. And it said much.

Fetohep had received it quite some time ago. At the time he had made his conclusions and quietly dismissed it. Now, he revisited it.

The clues were all there.

I have admired your rule. We share common cause. We have never met, only conversed from afar.

Well, the big part was the hint about ‘undeath’. But even without it, he would have known who wrote this. Few outside of Khelt would admire this nation.

“So.”

Fetohep could have sold this information, armed someone with it. But why? To do so was to make a powerful enemy, and erode trust in Khelt, which was safe because of its neutrality. Moreover—Fetohep remembered. He did not begrudge the Necromancer his fury, even if the target had long since been erased from Terandria.

What bothered him was the last part.

“I have learned a great truth of creation. Which one?”

There were a number Fetohep could think of. He was undead. And wary of [Necromancers], but he understood death magic, even if he had not been a [Mage] in life.

Think of that. Think of Khelt’s legions with a…secret of undeath at their disposal. Think of what Khelt could be.

The King of Destruction had roused his people. Set a fire in their hearts. Call him a fool, a boy-[King] who did not consider the consequences of what he did, who brought only slaughter. He still inspired.

Think of ambition. Fetohep’s eyes glinted golden. If Khelt were larger? If it had access to lush lands? Was that not worthy of legacy?

Still, this was one person who would invite calamity and the enmity of the world. Fetohep’s fingers tapped on his throne. Presently, he put the [Message] aside, hid it away.

“Scrying mirror. Wistram News.”

He sat on his throne. Watching, taking note of the world.

Unable to sit still.

—-

The last legend of the Emir was this. On the day after the Emir Darsul attempted his attack on the Emir, the Naga dined and ate in good company, and never uttered a word about last night’s events, though he did invite the Guildmaster of Assassins to take tea with him, and then toured the marketplace in good spirits.

All waited for his response, perhaps his soldiers, or some comment at least to Emir Darsul.

None came. Night fell, and the Emir Darsul waited in fear, perhaps hoping Yazdil would be amenable to gifts or other tokens come morning.

At midnight, the Emir Yazdil called to his servant Iert. He gave the Gnoll one instruction, and his great servant left Yazdil’s palace. (Of course, no one was there to hear the command, or even know it was given, but the truth of what came after is obvious in hindsight).

The Gnoll moved unseen through Roshal, and came to Darsul’s own palace. He slipped past the watchful sentries, moved unseen through magical enchantments, and scaled the very tower in which Darsul hid without leaving footprint or mark.

Then, Iert slipped past the blind Djinni, and Darsul’s bodyguards, led by a great [Mercenary Captain]. He entered the room where Darsul slept, guarded by magical protections and, well…

They said the next day the [Mercenary Captain] checked on the Emir Darsul and then fled screaming, with all of the Emir’s household. For there was not enough of Darsul in one spot to fill a teacup. The Emir’s palace dissolved into chaos overnight, his holdings becoming Yazdil’s by coincidence, as the Emir had the documents and paperwork and forms.

So this is why the Emir’s enemies do not ever hint that they hold a grudge. Because the Naga is calm, watchful, and lets many offenses slide. But when he strikes, his fangs always hit home.

—-

That was the legend that came through Roshal that week. Of seven tales of Emir Yazdil, each one explaining who he was, and what it was to cross him. On the seventh day, Roshal woke to news of Darsul’s death.

People congregated, as they did, [Emirs] and [Slave Owners] and citizens alike, [Slaves] as well. They talked—and the only people who really did business were the [Storytellers].

The old woman took a long sip of a sweet, alcoholic drink at this point and the crowd listening to the Seven Tales of Emir Yazdil leaned in. She was a Stitchwoman and her thread was old, but her throat produced a beautiful voice.

“So, now you all have heard the seven tales of the Emir this week. And they are great—but each week does the Emir Yazdil act thusly! The Emir Darsul should have paid more attention; in his arrogance he crossed the Naga. And few live to do so, as you know.”

“Storyteller! Storyteller, did the Emir’s Gnoll tear apart Darsul?”

“It is not for us to know. Only what remained. And it is true, as I have said!”

The old woman calmly replied. She had a storyteller’s grace, which seemed to make her more knowing than others. A hand was raised in the back.

“It is true. But—point of fact, old lady? I didn’t run screaming per se. I raised the alarm! And I never saw the Gnoll get past me.”

The [Mercenary Captain] was in the audience, along with a number of servants. The old woman huffed.

“I am telling the story as I saw it. Or did you not come racing into the marketplace, hands covered in blood, wailing that a ghost had slipped past you?”

Everyone turned to the [Mercenary Captain] as he turned bright red.

“No one crosses the Naga.”

Another [Slave Mistress] murmured. All agreed about that. This tale just added to the Emir Yazdil’s fearsome reputation, all the more because it was clearly true.

Clearly. In the crowd, a hooded figure reached into a bag and munched on breakfast. It was normally a really stupid idea to wear a hood in a crowd since it made you stand out.

But this was Lailight Scintillation, and sometimes—often—people came here to do business and did not want to stand out, so enchanted hoods were actually common, to hide people’s identities.

Iert wanted to point out a salient fact. Which was that his name was Iertalinam, and Iert was the Emir Yazdil’s nickname. But he was content to let the [Storyteller] earn her fee. She knew how to make money; people were already tossing coins for her to embellish Yazdil’s reputation some more and tell other tales of his exploits.

Stories. Oh, how they got things wrong. A surprising number of things true, and yet—things wrong. It was good though; the Naga liked having stories about him. Iert memorized this one; he’d probably have to tell it later.

“What are you eating?”

Someone whispered to him. The Gnoll’s fur rose, but he calmly offered the bag sideways.

“A filled pastry.”

“What’s the filling?”

“Blackberry jam.”

“Hm.”

It was possible the disguised female Djinni had not eaten actual food for centuries; certainly, Darsul had not fed her. But still, she picked at the pastry before nibbling it.

“Return to the palace by nightfall. Cause no trouble.”

“As agreed.”

She looked at him. She looked like a female Drake, scales vermillion. But he was not fooled. The Gnoll walked away as the crowd broke up. And he returned to the palace of Emir Yazdil.

Stories. They would have people believe that Iert had flipped over the wall after scaling it with his bare paws, stealthily avoided all of Darsul’s security, cunningly tricked Djinni and the [Mercenary Captain]—perhaps with a little rock, then slipping past them while they looked away for a second—before slaughtering the Emir as he slept.

The truth was always less interesting. Not less impressive, but less interesting. Iert had slipped into Darsul’s palace. He had maneuvered through corridor after corridor—but he hadn’t bothered with entering Darsul’s abode and trying to bypass the rather impressive defenses there.

He’d simply found something else, which Darsul in his panic had forgotten to secure. A single servant in the rush to fortify everyone, and a ‘defeated’ spirit.

The Djinni did not live in a lamp, although that sometimes happened. Each container was different. For instance—you could get flutes, lanterns, whatever was their prison. Sometimes it was a boring sphere. The object didn’t matter, the powerful relic-class magic did.

This was a bowl. A nice bowl, which, if you looked into the center, made you feel as though it had no bottom. You could grow dizzy, staring into…

It was her cage. The female Djinni, who had been blindfolded, had wisely removed herself from the area until he could take command of it. She was still bound to kill him, and even a blindfolded Djinni was good at that.

She had slipped into Darsul’s rooms unseen. It was the most efficient and besides—it had been one of her stipulations that she had agreed to with Yazdil. The Naga was happy to let her do it, and Iert too. Someone had to, and blood in your fur was impossible to get out on first wash.

It was also a mistake to say that Darsul had been an easy opponent. Iert entered the palace, walking past the security he had trained himself. He trotted to the vault and placed the bowl there, for the Emir to use later. The Djinni had been a considerable threat, and one that could well have caused chaos and too much damage even if they killed her.

Here was the part the story didn’t tell you. During the meeting with Emir Darsul and his harem, they didn’t say Iert took the time to communicate with the Djinni on display. They didn’t know that during the hunt with the Grand Elephant, one of Darsul’s servants was paid very handsomely and given instructions for later that week.

Knowing that would make people less afraid of the Naga. Because they would see how his plan worked, understand how he thought. Better to keep it as stories.

The Gnoll walked up through the palace, past the many [Slaves] in the Emir’s employ. And he was one of them. Even if the stories had been mostly true about his response to Darsul.

But here is what they also didn’t say. As the Gnoll entered the Emir Yazdil’s personal chambers, he found the Naga.

The Naga, who was sometimes a Human man, sometimes a…Naga. At the moment, he was a Human man. Slightly dark of skin, rather thin, his hair in this form a light blonde, generally styled—

Slitted pupils for eyes.

His hands were like a [Scribe]’s or [Scholar]’s but he wasn’t frail, just thoughtful. He was exceedingly charming if he cared to be, and athletic. He liked to practice such things—at least, the athleticism. Although he was hardly a [Warrior], so he had nearly been trampled by the elephant. His artifacts might have saved him if Iert hadn’t, but the Gnoll did not take risks.

At this moment however, the great Emir of Roshal, [Slave Lord], the Naga…was bound, gagged, and naked, tied up in the center of his quarters. And lest someone think this was an extremely kinky hobby or shared moment, no one was around, and a blindfold covered the Emir’s face.

Coincidentally, a Dagger of Wounding sat on the low-set table in front of the Emir. Also, a Scroll of Teleportation, and the Emir’s personal key to his vaults and palace. The Emir wiggled as the door opened, but was quite helpless.

The Gnoll paused in the doorway. His eyes fixed on the dagger—and the Emir, who was divested of his artifacts. The scroll, the key—the Emir lay, helpless, trying to move.

“Emir Yazdil. Has someone rendered you helpless? Or am I to leave you here and call for a [Concubine]? Or shall I untie you?”

The Gnoll stepped past the table, ignoring all three objects, and gently pulled the gag down. The Emir Yazdil blinked up at him as the blindfold was also removed.

“Untie, Iert. How is Darsul?”

“Dead. They are telling stories about you in the marketplace.”

“Are they?”

The Naga smiled. He stretched as Iert cut away his bindings and stood, unabashedly naked. The Gnoll bowed his head.

“The Seven Legends of Emir Yazdil. One for every day of the week. I can repeat it for you, if you wish.”

“I would like to hear it myself. And Mak’erieen?”

“Enjoying her day in Roshal. She will be back by nightfall.”

“Good.”

The Emir stretched. Iert looked around and found his clothes, neatly folded in a corner of the room. The Emir preferred loose clothing when he was a man. He walked over to retrieve them and heard a cracking sound.

Like…sinews and tendons snapping. Iert held still, waiting. He turned; and the Naga was rising, his serpentine scales flickering orange-yellow in the light.

Shining, polished, sinuous. The Emir preferred to be a man in most companies. Because to look at him as a Naga was to see him for what he was. Far more dangerous than the scholarly man.

He smiled at the Gnoll. Iert picked up the clothing and tucked them away; they weren’t needed now.

“Was that a test, master?”

“Of course it was. Were you at all tempted?”

The Naga looked at Iert, teasingly. The Gnoll sighed.

“No.”

“Not even a little bit?”

“What would I be tempted for? Tell me, has anyone ever failed that test?”

“Not when it was actually me. Ah, my scales are dry from sitting so long. I thought you’d be back hours ago. You had breakfast, didn’t you?”

“Blackberry tarts.”

Without being asked, Iert fetched a container of very high-quality scale cream. The Drakes made it, as well as Lizardfolk. The Emir let the Gnoll apply it to his dry scales, sighing. His tail slowly began to curl around the Gnoll’s legs. It was a habit; Iert ignored it.

Yes, he could well imagine it. Someone would come across the Emir. Just like that. And in their wrath, even if they hesitated for a long time, they might take up the dagger, or scroll, or key, or all three. And stab the Emir to death, or teleport, or use the key.

Then they would wake up.

The Naga twined about his most beloved servant. Some things they said were true. Such as the fact that Emir Yazdil prized people more than artifacts or animals. Darsul had collected a harem. Yazdil desired more than that. Gender did not matter. Attractiveness did not matter.

Competence and loyalty did. And the Naga was possessive.

“Do you want anything, Iert? You’ve worked hard this last month.”

“If I think of it, master, I will tell you.”

“Please do. Tonight, you, the Djinni, and I shall dine. No parties, no gatherings for a few days. It is all done. Darsul’s holdings—”

“I will inform his people and replace them as need be. Or send Cuaqua to do it.”

“Send her, or do it tomorrow. You will relax, today.”

“As you will.”

The Emir sighed. The Gnoll diligently applied the scale-cream without even rising to any of the bait. He was too serious—but that was how Yazdil had made him and he would have it no other way.

The Naga uncurled. Now was not the time. Later, perhaps, he would see what Mak’erieen was like. He was always curious about Djinni—although he would never offer her the test he sometimes teased Iert with.

“I am going down, Iert. You will indulge yourself today.”

“Will you leave the palace?”

The Gnoll calmly met Yazdil’s eyes. The Naga pouted.

“No. Not without informing you.”

“Then I will indulge myself.”

The Gnoll finished; the Naga shook himself, luxuriating in the fresh feeling all over his body. Calmly, his servant bowed.

“Dinner, then.”

And left. And finally, Emir Yazdil was alone, triumphant, not the figure of stories in Roshal’s markets, but just the Emir.

What was the difference? Well, the first was that when Yazdil was alone, he hummed. His head bobbed to the rhythm of the cheery song as he slithered out of his rooms. His body glided down polished stone rather than carpet; all the easier for him to move around like this.

The second was that he had [Slaves]. He was a [Slave Lord]. An [Emir], rather. Not nearly as many as his fellow rulers of Roshal, but each one hand-picked.

Each one unique. There was a [Master Archer] Garuda, cleaning the floor. Here was a [Slave] who had beaten everyone, including the Emir, in games of chess.

Extraordinary, and loyal. Each one would have untied the Emir and called for the alarm if they’d found him naked and gagged. He had not lied to Darsul.

‘Only a poor master thinks that owning someone is the same as possessing them.’ The stories had gotten that wrong, too. The fool Darsul had never understood that.

Down through his palace, past the smaller staff, who took their leisure even as they worked. If one had seemed distraught, unhappy, or discontented beyond maybe mere annoyance with stubbing their toes or so on, the Emir would have stopped and asked why? His servants would never go to another master for want of more.

Yet they were all [Slaves]. The Emir hummed as he went down another ramp; stairs were a terrible thing for Nagas, Centaurs, and other species who did not suffer the tyranny of them well. He was smiling, relaxed.

These were the differences between Fetohep and Yazdil. Well, some of the differences. Where Fetohep sat, Yazdil seldom held still. Whilst Fetohep preoccupied himself with his nation, Yazdil did not. Darsul had been a rare, annoying occasion where he had to work against a young man determined to make the Naga his foe.

And whereupon Fetohep had probably forgotten all the pleasures of mortal flesh, Yazdil luxuriated in it. Between two species even. He drank wine, he socialized, he made liaisons with lovely people of every kind. He loved it all.

And lastly, Fetohep was bored. Yazdil was not. If there was any trouble in the Naga’s mind in this hour of victory, it was what lay below.

Reflexively, Yazdil used his arms to reach for something he carried at all times. A simple Potion of Calming. It would not do to have another attack, such that he was rendered trembling until Iert dragged him into bed with him.

No indeed.

—-

Down, down, through the rich hallways of the Emir’s palace. He was rich. Fetohep-rich? Well, perhaps richer. Not in age, but Yazdil controlled a portion of Roshal, one of, if not the richest ports in the world. They were the center of the slave trade, and there was no other comparable economy save perhaps that for war.

And Roshal could do war as well. Their people crisscrossed Chandrar and parts of the other continents, taking ransomed prisoners, trading…

The Emir had everything he could want. He had all the people he could want and was always looking out for more. He was not always happy; he could be in terribly petty moods.

For instance, he had sulked for nearly two weeks when it came out that Empress Nsiia had been made a political prisoner rather than taken captive by another nation. But if you asked the Emir Yazdil what he wanted to change about ‘now’, he would say, ‘absolutely nothing’. And have Iert show you the door.

And he meant it. Really, truly, he wanted this to be his life. And why not? Who could really want more? There were [Kings] who would beg for this life.

That was why it was so disturbing, so unfair. The Naga sighed as he stopped in the bowels of his palace, over the leyline of magic. Where his security was strongest, and where not even the greatest [Assassins] or [Rogues] or spells would penetrate.

This is where he created his servants. It was not a place Iert or any of the others liked to go.

Yazdil had modeled it after the Assassin’s Guild. He had studied other organizations and the Guild of Assassins in Roshal had ways of training their Ranks. Yazdil did not have the thousands of years to perfect his methods, but he did well enough. They had created a cheap, practically zero-cost training course for creating competent, if low-level [Assassins] who were very loyal.

It wasn’t hard. Yazdil could do it. All he needed was a cornucopia-type artifact which could provide somewhat nourishing food, a pocket-dimension, and of course, a system whereby new [Assassins] were trained by old ones.

But as cheap as that was, Yazdil paid for more…effective methods with his people. He passed door after door, some of which led into entire complexes by themselves. Plenty of space. People in progress.

He stopped at one. The Emir took a sip from the potion and sighed. This was…a special case. Normally, he selected only the best. Someone with a talent that defined them, or maybe just physical beauty, a perfection of something. And he would improve them, make them better than when they met.

That was skill. That was art. This would not have been Yazdil’s first choice. But the uniqueness…

Well, he wasn’t acting like he normally did. The Naga pushed open the door. He slithered in. Someone jumped as he entered the rather nice home.

Bedroom, living room, even a kitchen and bathroom. It was a nice place to live, if you forgot that there was no door out until the Naga opened it. It closed behind him as he smiled.

“Hello, Kent. Are you feeling better today?”

The young man stared at the Emir Yazdil. He looked…ill. He had been sick with the flu. One of the lovely young women that the Emir had brought to make Kent happy had made him sick.

“I’m—better, Emir. Thank you.”

He looked pale. The Naga double-checked his amulet was secure; like Rhir’s hells he was catching this.

“I hate to trouble you, Kent. But I would simply enjoy it if you were able to spare me an hour or two. It’s that day again.”

“Of course, Emir.”

Kent smiled, a bit strangely. Yazdil sighed. He could have gone to another room. He was…working…with the others. This young man had been first, though, and Yazdil had been incautious, upset.

“Have you had your drink today?”

“Not yet. Should I…?”

“By all means.”

The young man looked around, licking his lips. There, amid the rooms he had tried to make like home, artifacts, entertainment—usually lovely company, except that he had been sick—was a prepared amphora. It was always kept full, and now, the young man absently rose and filled himself a cup of shimmering green.

The green became a midnight purple as the liquid swirled around. Neither color looked foul; it was an elegant drink, with depth. It didn’t even taste badly, to judge from his face.

“Better?”

The Naga inquired after a moment. Kent Scott started; he was staring ahead, lost. His pupils had widened and he looked far different as he sat down at the table. Now, he did not fidget, or suffer from the flu. He was elsewhere.

“I remember being…born.”

That was all he said. Yazdil sighed.

“I know, Kent. But try to focus. Where we left off; if you need more of the curative for your flu or feel sick, tell me.”

“I will. I feel better. I remember being sick. I’ve been sick…thirty one times ever.”

The Naga nodded. Interesting how disease was so difficult in either world. But that was not what interested him. He produced, with his tail, a little journal and flipped it open. The Naga also produced spectacles; he had excellent vision, but they let him lock onto the little words even from a distance.

“Kent, Kent. Focus. We are on history, today.”

“The history of what?”

“I believe, Rome. Tell me about Rome, Kent. You said you studied them?”

The young man’s pupils widened further. His irises practically swallowed; it was unnerving. He spoke, without a hint of uncertainty, but slowly.

“I did not learn all their names. But Rome began with Augustus, Caesar in 27 BC. Followed by Tiberius, Caligula, Claudius, and Nero. They comprised the first dynasty we studied in my history class. I was busy telling jokes and never saw the next page. The next Emperor was Titus, son of Vespasian. After that, I lost track of the order…”

“But you remember what they did? Tell me about what they did, Kent. And then we’ll talk more about machines. Have you tried drawing in more detail?”

The young man licked his lips. He had sketches nearby, which he’d labored on—even had [Artists] help him with.

“I have. Emperor Augustus was the Emperor of Rome, after the last Caesar, Julius…”

Yazdil listened, making notes himself, asking questions. The problem with this was that Kent would repeat every little detail, not judging the content, only recalling.

Yet he did recall with such perfection. A true shame that he was not an excellent artist—or that he had never studied chemistry, biology, or the sciences to the degree Yazdil might have desired.

But he had studied history and there was more. Oh, this was just for Yazdil to understand.

He already knew how Rome had fallen. And by the same token; he knew that Rome was far, far in Earth’s past. He knew that nowadays, Rome was a memory and there were different nations in power.

And they had firearms, planes, tanks, advanced sciences, electricity…the Naga took a sip of his potion to calm his nerves.

—-

He spent two hours with Kent, then told the young man to lie down. The memory-draught always took a toll, and the young man had used it for a long time, and quite a lot of it. Yazdil was far more careful with the others.

The others. Children from another world. The Naga nearly downed the entire Potion of Calm right then and there. And if Iert was here to complain—

“Why now?”

The Naga’s tail curled up in vexation. To anyone else, the revelation of worlds apart might have been so grand. So exciting. To Yazdil, who wanted nothing? It terrified.

A world with hungry nations, entirely Human, and an advanced civilization lacking magic, but far superior in metal and science? Yazdil hated it.

Moreover, he knew people. He was an Emir of Roshal and he had seen his fellows rise and fall. If Earth were to fully come into contact with this world? How quickly the collar would change hands. An entire world of Humans. No guesses who they would side with.

The Naga decided not to visit the others. They were in progress, and his people did not need him interfering. When it was time, he would learn from them. He had most of what he needed already, really.

There were more spaces in the Emir’s palace. He had dug down, down, creating secret places while keeping all that was fun and innocent above. It was not his passion to be ambitious. He had everything he wanted!

It was this meeting of worlds which had forced him to think ahead. He always did. Yazdil’s one goal was to keep things mostly as they were, and that wasn’t easy. And the trouble was that these children were everywhere. Wistram had some. And the Blighted King others…the King of Destruction…

It was going to ruin things. Upheaval, unrest…the Naga glumly thought about the future. He had never wanted to conquer things. It was so much work when you could have children—not that he had any—or create a happy place for yourself.

Let the King of Destruction rule and rage and the other nations clash. As far as the Emir was concerned, the stronger the better. If Earth did come—it would be war, or at least, a new world.

His only goal was to make sure Roshal, and he, survived it.

To that end, he had repurposed these rooms, expanded them. Past the rooms where he sometimes spent hours with Iert and his most trusted people, unlocking the electronic devices—or playing those little funny games—past the maps he’d made, ferreting out clues to where more children were.

He kept his ears open when he was Human. The Singer of Terandria—now there was someone he would love to have. What beautiful style! What talent! Ah, but that was a challenge.

There was the Wind Runner of Reizmelt. Also on his list.

The Last Light of Baleros—he was almost certain it was one of Kent’s [Doctors]. The Blighted King’s ‘Heroes’, Rémi Canada, Joseph…

It was easy to find them. They stood out. And the ones who shone, he wanted. He had some…rather ordinary ones. Yazdil desired the ones who had not only lived, but flourished.

“That poor girl. Ah, if only those foolish Drakes weren’t so bloodthirsty!”

The Naga complained. Just when he’d found her, she was killed! And she seemed so extraordinary. Antinium? He had always wanted one, but feared they were too…insectile. Now, he was itching to meet one and see if they could be turned into a masterpiece.

It was like that extraordinarily fun game on one of the little devices the Earth-children had brought. Iert thought it was a foolish game. Yazdil had felt like the game was meant for him. Collect and improve. Someone on Earth understood how he lived.

If he had to compare his class or explain it, it was like a [Gemcutter], or perhaps a [Chef]. You had raw ingredients and material. You made something better with it. Made people happy.

And yourself, of course.

He did not want war. He did not want strife. But never let it be said that he did not prepare properly, or did not understand such things. Yazdil had acquired experts in every field. And he employed what he did not collect.

In this case? The [Alchemist] had labored long. He—and the four assistants—had been part of the Mad Ones, who had ended up as [Slaves]. Now, the slightly-crooked man approached the Emir.

“Yazdil. Yazdil! Success!”

“Is it the kind of success I should observe behind a forcefield?”

The Emir had already changed his rings for a Ring of Protection. And he was ready to slither behind the barricades in the wide room. The [Alchemist] was rubbing his hands together.

“No! Maybe! But we’ve finally figured it out. Look!”

He pointed. The Emir peeked around the edge of a reinforced mithril-plated barricade and saw a still-hot tube-thing in the center of the underground room.

“Ah. It didn’t explode?”

“It didn’t explode. And you should see what it did to the wall!”

Emir turned his head. He sighed.

“I liked that wall. Can you replicate it?”

He eyed the tube. It was a large one, and there were dozens upon dozens of busted-out copies. Made of types of metal—steel, Dwarfsteel, mithril, even enchanted wood! But all had been torn apart.

“Of course. But we have to test how much it can handle. And how many times it can work before it explodes!”

The [Alchemist] threw up his hands happily. The Naga sighed. It was hard keeping him on track.

“Good. Then test. And try the smaller ones?”

“They’re too small. Why make a small one if you can make one the size of a wagon?”

Yazdil rubbed at his head.

“So you can carry it, Tinn. So you can carry it.”

“Ah. Well. We’ll work on that. But how many would you like? We’ve been experimenting with the…the…assembly idea. It works. Will you sell them?”

“No.”

The [Alchemist] looked disappointed and hurt. Yazdil clarified.

“That is, not yet, Tinn. Why sell it? Produce it, and we will store it away. Improve your designs.”

“We need more sulfur. That’s the tricky stuff. The charcoal is easy, and the [Alchemists] have the other materials. We’re even experimenting with magical additives…”

“If you cause another earthquake, I am going to make you work on the other projects.”

The [Alchemist] hesitated. The recipe for black powder was one thing—but then he’d decided to add blazepowder, and other explosive alchemical ingredients to the mix.

That was one reason why progress had been set back, and the thirty-plus [Alchemists] and assistants were down to five. Yazdil had been most upset and was scouting for people who fit his exacting criteria.

“It will be used, though?”

“Oh yes. A time will come for it, Tinn. Until then, be safe. Work hard.”

The Naga looked past him, at the smoldering cannon prototype as the assistants gingerly cooled it. Put in the powder hot and it might detonate. Another important lesson.

He had never desired conquest. And still did not. He would rather let the other world lie, but he had no idea why the two worlds were meeting. Yazdil wanted an end to it. But he prepared for the worst.

If the worlds met, or the ideas from Earth came to fruition here—and they surely would—things would change. The ideas of Earth might inform this world, and Roshal come to trouble.

Well, they had tried before. Terandria, other nations. To usurp or steal or shut down. Let them come. Roshal was his. This was his world. The Naga twined around Tinn possessively as the [Alchemist] muttered that he was too busy for sex!

If you would take my world away from me, come. The Naga would hold onto what was his until the last.

8.04 T

(The author is on their monthly break until February 6th for Patreons, February 9th for Public readers!)

As the cargo ship approached Wistram Academy, it burst into the sun. It had been raining but a moment ago; now, the [Sailors] relaxed and cheered.

They had arrived. And what a long voyage it had been! Too long. Especially to hear one of the passengers complain. The [Captain] himself was glad to be headed towards the docks. He had erred greatly, making a round trip across Pheislant rather than heading straight for the Isle of Mages.

It was usual for anyone who made the Wistram Detour—because the academy was in the ‘center’ of most maps, in the middle of the ocean between all the continents—to go along ports and collect people and [Mages] before heading to Wistram Academy. And given the number of people wanting to go right now—and the number of ships already docked and unloading—it had seemed like a profitable run.

However, the affable Drake [Trading Captain] had nearly yanked out all his neck-spines after nearly a week of being harangued by one of his passengers. The old half-Elf had practically flayed the Drake’s scales off with his tongue alone after hearing he wouldn’t immediately be taken to Wistram.

It wasn’t like he’d paid more than anyone else, as the Drake had patiently pointed out. To which he’d received the astonishing response that a [Mage] paid for service and that the [Captain] shouldn’t have even demanded a fee up front from a real [Mage].

Which was so incomprehensible that the crew had made jokes under their breath the entire cruise about the idea. The [Captain] however, had heard of stuff like that. [Archmages] who’d walk onto a vessel and demand the owner take them somewhere—even if they were [Pirate Lords] or [Storm Captains].

But that was the stuff of old tales. And again—his passenger was a half-Elf who was so old he had white hair, even if he looked imposingly well-preserved.

So the [Captain] had flattered and apologized, and pointed out he was taking fellow [Mages] to Wistram and that they were also taking new students for this quarter…and kept well out of the old man’s way.

Now, he was breathing a sigh of relief as he came into dock. The [Harbormaster] was waving him in; a man whose job was normally cushy, but who was right now cursing as dozens of ships came in and out. Per day.

Not that Wistram didn’t have enough places; it was an island so you could theoretically hop out on shore or take a rowboat, which was what some parties were electing to do. There were other docks too, which had actually been raised out of the sea for this occasion. Normally, Wistram didn’t get this much sea traffic.

But something was up with the academy. And that something was a gathering of [Mages] not seen since they had come together to declare the King of Destruction a public threat oh, thirty, forty years ago?

This was because Wistram had a secret. A big one, that had been circulating the academy since last year.

The Academy of Secrets, as it was sometimes called, traded such things. So—for a small secret, the lowest denomination of their secondary currency, you could learn this:

There were a bunch of strange kids in the academy. All Human.

Nothing much. That was a ‘small secret’, and it wasn’t even worth much. Small secrets were like that. Hints.

If you whistle while walking down a certain corridor, something interesting might happen.

For instance, that was a small secret that hinted at a larger truth. Well—this was a ‘spent secret’ in that most people knew about it.

Mage lingo. For instance, the medium-equivalent would be—

The Somela Corridor has a secret uncovered by whistling.

Or—

There are a group of Humans who the Archmages and the factions are fighting over. Here are the names of some of them…

More detail, more value. Now, the Somela corridor’s value stopped there since no one really needed to know more than that you could uncover the dedicated music classrooms and auditoriums by whistling a tune while walking there.

A decent tune, mind you. Anyone who couldn’t hold a note didn’t get to get in.

However, the big secrets and grand secrets? Those were where detail was everything. A big secret about what was consuming Wistram? It would include a list of every single one of them, confirmed and unconfirmed, what they’d done to be so interesting—if the secret broker was at all good, obviously—and the following:

These children do not come from any nation that can be pointed to on a map. They come from somewhere else, and the Archmages will have anyone’s head who doesn’t have their faction’s backing to tell the secret. And there are more of them being found every week.

Not many could afford that secret. Everyone, from the students to the teachers to the [Mages] living in Wistram, knew something about the Earthers. How much? Well…

And it was rare, but this secret had not left Wistram’s halls. The Archmages and the Council had put a lockdown on [Message] spells—since of course they could detect what was being sent—and had warned people. This was a secret for [Mages]. If you think it’s worth blabbing to someone, you might just find it was the last word you ever said in Wistram Academy.

Because they’d kick you out. Not because they’d kill you. Ahem.

It was this secret which was driving everyone to gather here. Because even experienced [Mages] with great friends in the academy received silence when they asked what the hullabaloo was about. Their allies only said one thing: ‘Come back. There’s something important you need to see.’

Thus, they came. And not just those who knew there was something to learn. [Mages] of every species, color, level, and age were congregating at the Academy, or would be on the way. Not all would arrive at one time; for instance, a certain half-Elf [Battlemage] was dragging her companions to the nearest harbor. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t here now, either.

This would be a month-long event. A semester of chaos and meetings and of course, banquets. That was why some [Mages] who hadn’t even graduated from Wistram were coming. For the event, to learn, and to eat. Drakes from Fissival, [Depth Mages] from the Drowned Folk, [Mages] fleeing from Belchan, other academies’ brightest and best to represent them, and so on.

Thus, as the Splendid Scale docked, not only was the [Harbormaster] and his team there to help count cargo, or speed up the unloading of passengers, a number of young [Mages] with diplomatic skills or inclinations were at the docks too.

Because Wistram had no idea who was coming. Oh, they had called on their Archmages, old Councilmembers, [Mages] in good esteem, and everyone on their list, but their actual message’s content had read somewhat differently from a call-to-arms. It was more like a social cue, and a casual one at that.

Hey, we’ve got food and drinks and secrets to share. Get over here and bring those braised Phoenix wings you had last time.

So they came. A flood of [Mages]. A herd—a pack—a cabal? A sorcery of [Mages], returning home.

One of the young [Bards] in the welcoming committee was adjusting her clothing as the morning sun made her sweat a bit. There wasn’t much of a breeze; Wistram was always sunny and calm and she had a Terandrian doublet, adjusted for a [Bard]’s sense of style, on.

She was one of those rare students whose real class wasn’t exactly [Mage]. But [Bards] used magic! Some of them. Barelle the Bard, for instance. So they’d put her in charge of welcoming Terandrians.

It was her job to sort people coming in. Into the right camps. For instance, there were the Archmages—two had already arrived!

Old Verdan Blackwood, the Dullahan Archmage and one of two from Baleros had actually made the trip, eager to learn what his people were hinting at. He was affiliated with the Iron Vanguard and the Qua-Baleros faction, which was hugely political. Smaller, really; they had more members abroad. They essentially were like the Libertarians with less focus on political reform, but represented their continent of Baleros just as heavily.

More overtly too; the Libertarians pretended like their mostly-Human, pro-interference party wasn’t the party of Terandria. Dullahans didn’t bother. Verdan, by extension, did not either; he was Human, but he was called the Dullahan Archmage because he wore armor like them and was essentially the extension of the Iron Vanguard’s might, for all Archmages were theoretically neutral.

He would have been a stir in himself. But then had come Archmage Valeterisa of Izril. And Wistram had flipped.

The Archmage of Izril had not been seen in a decade! Moreover—the reclusive Archmage had long since left the Academy to pursue her own magic. The fact that she had arrived and immediately demanded to see all the spells that had been invented or discovered was hilarious; she hadn’t even known the full scope of what was happening!

The young [Bard], Mena Alstren, would have loved to be in the academy trading secrets and maybe even meeting the new and powerful [Mages] coming in. But she had been assigned this job and at least she could maybe earn some points by introducing herself! Not that some of the old Terandrian [Mages] would remember her; she’d met half a dozen crotchety old men and women.

As the new boat came alongside the docks and the gangplank was lowered, the young woman glanced up and reluctantly got to her feet off the makeshift benches the greeting party had made out of barrels, sacks, and so on. She heard a call—

“Splendid Scale! No cargo—passengers only! New students, visitors from Izril and Terandria!”

“Ah, the new students. Selphid’s tits, I forgot they were coming! Someone greet them. I nominate you, Beme.”

“Me? Oh—fine. But you have to tell one of the [Mages] they need settling in!”

“Tell Cognita. Find a Golem and do it.”

“I don’t want to, though…”

The young Lizardman—really, a Lizardboy—whined. The Centaur was unmoved. He glanced sideways.

“Visitors from Terandria and Izril? That’s you and Seky, Mena.”

“Don’t abbreviate my name.”

An Oldblood Drake grumbled. She nodded at Mena and adjusted her much more open clothing as Mena put a big smile on her face. They began to walk to the gangplank as the students lined up—

From the railings of the trade ship, a pillar of stone smashed the gangplank to bits. The greeting party, [Harbormaster], and other [Captains] and crews recoiled as bits of wood splintered into the water. The pillar of stone caused a huge splash of water.

Some of it got on Mena’s doublet. She stared.

“A piece of wood? Is this what we’ve come to? First you cart me all the way to Pheislant like some piece of merchandise and now—out of the way. If no one else will do it, I’ll handle it myself! [Bridge of Light]!”

A shimmering walkway appeared in front of the scared passengers and greeting party. A gently sloping ramp—with stairs on either side, even handrails! Mena gaped.

That was a Tier 4—maybe a Tier 5 spell! She wasn’t sure, but it was more than just the tier that amazed her. It was beautiful. She had seen light-spells like the [Light Wall] version of the famous wall-defensive spells, but it was just…solid light. This? This was semi-transparent, gently molded colors along the vein of yellow such that they turned to green twining tendrils like vines around the railings, orange where the bridge met stone or wood, blue down the center…

It was a piece of art. And it had appeared in an instant.

The new students stared—then flooded down the walkway after testing it gingerly. They were fleeing the irate speaker. Mena looked at Seky and approached nervously. She heard the old half-Elf at the same time as she saw him lecturing the Drake [Trade Captain].

“—one does not make a [Mage] walk down pieces of wood. Not for a returning [Grand Mage] of Wistram! At least I see my reception party is down there, but I expected coordination with the docks! A [Light Bridge] is the least I could expect—not to mention the rain!”

“I am terribly sorry, Grand Mage Eldavin. It’s just that—the—the rain?”

The Drake had a terribly put-upon look. Reflexively, they all glanced towards the horizon; rain was pounding the bubble of calm air and sunny skies.

“Exactly! I was rained upon on our trip here! They couldn’t send a [Weather Mage] to whirl it elsewhere?”

“I—I—I can only apologize again, Grand Magus. But we have arrived! Perhaps you’d care to disembark at this time and put our inferior service behind you?”

The Captain looked like he would like that very much. Eldavin sniffed. He rummaged in his bag of holding.

“It seems it is time. I will not say this was a pleasant trip, [Captain]. Bear in mind proper service next time. However—for your trouble.”

He dropped a ruby the size of the Drake’s palm in the [Captain]’s hand. The Drake’s eyes popped. The half-Elf turned away. Mena began adjusting her doublet. She wished she had a hair-comb.

—-

The week-long delay had been good for something, at least. After a week, Teriarch had stopped tripping on his toes, and he’d refamiliarized himself with most aspects of having a humanoid body.

What a ridiculous design. Two legs? There was no real support there! He’d fallen too many times, forgetting he had neither tail nor two more legs to keep him stable. Even Drakes had a tail—he should have gone as a Drake.

But half-Elves got to be old without question, so Eldavin had managed. He’d also gotten back into casting spells as…well, [Mages] did it. Put the magic in the box and it worked. Boring, but there you went and it was bad to do magic any other way here.

And he’d arrived. The Dragon—no, half-Elf, he had to be in character—inhaled. Ah, what a relief. The Drake was spluttering, no doubt at the shoddy tip. Well, that was what one got. A real [Grand Mage]’s gratitude, now…

“Um—um—Grand Magus Eldavin? My name is Mena. I and Sekiyas are delighted to welcome you to Wistram Academy!”

A young, Human woman greeted the Dragon with a bow. The Drake beside her did the same, wide-eyed. Teriarch—no—Eldavin—smiled. Then he stopped.

“I am delighted to return. And I see my reception is…?”

He peered past Mena for the rest of the greeting party. But a Lizardman was taking the new students up and to the Academy and the rest hadn’t bestirred themselves.

He frowned. The young [Bard]’s smile desperately widened.

“I’m so sorry, Grand Magus. But we are having [Mages] arriving each hour and we are a bit—understaffed.”

She nudged Seky. The Drake nodded rapidly.

“Extremely. Too many boats, not enough [Mages]. Er—even Archmage Valeterisa had to wait to come into dock!”

That was true, if only by virtue of her not having announced herself. Teriarch read it as a mixed truth, but let it slide.

[Mages] were used to telling truths or not at all, since most learned [Detect Truth] or [Detect Lie] in their first year. Smart ones learned both.

“Even an Archmage? I see, I see. Wistram must be in the throes of chaos, then. Or maybe it’s improper management. At least they sent someone.”

He grumbled. Mena felt sweat running down her back. Oh no. This was a crotchety old [Mage], worse even than the old woman who made Mena walk her all the way into the academy and her old rooms! She had to turn up the charm offensive.

And as it happened—[Charm Smile], a good ear, and a willingness to accommodate went a long way. She made her smile vanish into one of apologetic dismay at once.

“I am so sorry, Grand Magus. I only knew you were arriving and I’m not in charge of the reception affairs. If you could pardon the lack of decorum—I am sorry again.”

“Well, I suppose it’s not your fault. These things happen.”

The half-Elf harrumphed, but he was already looking more mollified. Seky gave Mena a nudge and look of approval. Good job! Mena was happy herself; she was training as a [Bard], but that last bit had come from the plays they were putting on. She was a lead actress in one.

Flattery and respect. That was what Teriarch desired. He could tell the young woman wasn’t being entirely truthful, but he could well understand that she wasn’t in charge.

He might have a temper. The Dragon had to admit that. Millennia had passed and well, he was who he was. Not that he was a brash young Dragon who’d burn a city to ash for being snubbed. No, he was past that stage of life…

And he was Eldavin. Remember that. The Dragon scolded himself as he walked onto the docks. People were admiring the [Light Bridge]; he had copied the design from a quite nice one he’d once seen. But he reminded himself to tone down the overt magic.

He was not a Dragon here. Eldavin had limits. Actual, physical limits that Teriarch did not. The two legs aside, his mana pool was a lot weaker in the simulacra than a Dragon’s. Still considerable, but Teriarch couldn’t just cast Tier…damn. Those damn Tiers were going to be a pain.

And he had to be more accommodating. He was a [Grand Magus], but not one most people would be familiar with, hence the ruse. Be a bit more diplomatic, T—Eldavin, old chap. Obviously, Eldavin should have a proper respect for himself! But…

“Have you your old rooms for a prolonged stay, Grand Magus, or would you like us to take you to your faction’s headquarters?”

“My rooms were not assigned to me?”

“Er—I don’t—well, I don’t know if anyone recalls your rooms, Grand Magus. I’m terribly sorry…”

The half-Elf lifted a hand.

“Ah, it has been at least a century since I last visited, hasn’t it?”

Longer still. The two young [Mages] gaped at him and the half-Elf amended his words.

“…Visited more than a week, that is. I suppose I’ll rediscover if my rooms are extant. As for faction? None.”

“O-oh? Well, then, Wistram must have changed…a century?”

“I am a half-Elf, my dear. Time passes differently for us. I’d imagine some of the better [Mages] would remember me, although I was hardly an active presence. Who are the new Archmages? The ones present.”

Mena blinked.

“Archmages Feor, Nailihuaile, Viltach, Verdan, and Valeterisa are all present at the moment, Grand Magus. We might get the remaining two…and Archmage Amerys was removed from her position, of course.”

“…I see. New blood, it seems. Well, I remember Feor…? Do I? [Recall Memory].”

Eldavin frowned and tapped his head. He brightened.

“Ah! Yes! I do! He was that scamp who once upended three entire tables with that misfiring spell! Ah, good to see him rising to the class of [Archmage]. I must remark on that.”

Mena’s mouth opened and closed. She looked at Seky. She had definitely heard the [Archmage] class. She wondered if she should say something as they walked onto the docks.

Eldavin stopped then, and the two [Mages] saw him blink upwards. Because some of the other parts of the welcoming committee had impressed themselves on him.

Giant metal Golems stood sentry, their armor polished and gleaming, their swords and shields reminiscent of [Knights]. But only a half-Giant [Knight] would be twelve feet tall. These ones were part of Wistram’s reminder of power for all guests. They just stood there of course; Cognita had been asked to post them.

“Ah.”

Eldavin gazed up, and Mena decided that the Golems could have been here specifically for him. She was about to tell the old half-Elf this when he strode up to the nearest one and halted in front of it.

“No personal baggage to unload. However, you may escort me to my rooms. Here is my bag of holding.”

He proffered the object at his side to the giant metal Golem. The [Mages] on the docks stared.

The huge guardian’s sentry head slowly turned. It stared down at Eldavin. Mena hurried forwards.

“Grand Magus—those aren’t really escorts so much as—”

“Not escorting us? Nor to unload? What are they supposed to do, kill intruders?”

Eldavin was much upset. He put his bag of holding back as the Golem returned to staring ahead. He looked around, then blew out his cheeks.

“Wistram’s sense of decorum really has gone downhill. Is this Zelkyr’s work? No—wait—he’s ‘gone’, isn’t he? Hah! When Archmage Chandler was still present, we would have proper service! Not even skeletons or Wights, but a proper staff. Trust a Drake to be too stingy to pay for help, or even send proper Golems to greet the guests. A real shame about him—but that was before your time, young lady. Now there was someone who understood manners.”

He shook his head. Mena’s jaw dropped open and stayed there. Because it had taken her a second—but then she recalled whom Archmage Chandler was.

Eldavin rapped his knuckles on the Golem’s arm and winced. He’d forgotten how fragile bodies were! Pain, bladder issues—oh, what a mess.

“Tell Zelkyr I’ve seen better, even for reception. Golems of metal? Pah.”

The Golem stared at him again and then went back to staring ahead. Eldavin shook his head. He noticed the [Bard] staring at him and smiled.

“Don’t look so alarmed, my dear. One does rib at the Archmages. It’s traditional, even if they have passed, and I don’t know the new ones. Some can be touchy—ah, well, Zelkyr himself. But he might as well come down and object himself then, eh?”

She nodded slowly. Everyone was staring at Eldavin as he sighed. He proceeded up the hill, talking nonstop. Mena slowly and covertly sent Seky to run ahead to tell someone else in charge they were getting a really troublesome old man. The kind who they did not want on display tonight.

—-

Soner was a Naga and part of the Revivalist faction. Also, in charge of coordinating rooms, seating, and so on. With Cognita. But his job was to do what the Golem would not, which was make sure Wistram looked good.

They had given the job of sorting the new arrivals to the dock-group. There were the Archmages, trusted friends of the Academy, and so on. Then there were the guests.

The guests who would not know more than what was told. Who would be impressed yet not privy to Wistram’s secrets. Some would mingle with Councilmembers, but there would be rank.

For instance, Fissival would not sit with the Archmages, for all they had sent a number of their Drakes. Just because it was Fissival.

Soner was a [High Mage], and whilst not being specialized in this class, was high-level enough to get a good estimate of most people’s levels and he was also a political animal and knew who was noble and who was not.

He’d only had trouble with the Drowned Folk’s representatives. He couldn’t get a read on the [Depth Mages], and their leader, a very old woman with a bunch of daughters all in veils, had apparently come to represent the Undersea Crews.

Were they [Pirates], then, as the Drowned Folk often were, or esteemed guests? He’d put them at a separate table not too far from the high table to offend, but definitely sectioned off as they were.

Now, he was annoyed as he turned to Seky.

“Grand Magus? We can put him in the third setting. If he’s not of a faction, he’s fine. So what if he cast [Light Bridge]? I can cast that!”

“He’s a bit…weird, Magus Soner. That’s all.”

The Drake couldn’t explain. The [High Mage] sighed, adjusted his suit; not all [Mages] had to wear robes! And found Magus Eldavin.

“I remember a time before Zelkyr came to power. We always had Golems, but there was an actual cleaning staff you know. Well, in times before that Wistram used automated magics, but they get tangled up. Easier just to pay for it and be done. So no one’s seen Zelkyr? No hints he’s alive?”

Mena looked up with a put-upon look as the Naga slithered over.

“Not a one, Grand Magus. But—oh, here’s High Magus Soner. Magus Soner, the Grand Magus has just arrived and we’re not sure if his rooms are still, um, unoccupied. It’s been a hundred years since he was last here.”

She stressed that last part. Soner blinked. A hundred…? He hadn’t missed the half-Elf’s ears, but this was something.

“Grand Magus Eldavin. I am honored to meet you. Forgive me for not coming in person—we’re extremely busy at this moment.”

He bowed gracefully, and Eldavin inclined his head.

“These things happen, Magus Soner. However, I would not mind re-accommodation of my rooms. I was on the twelfth floor, but it seems that area is quite out of my reach, wouldn’t you say?”

He laughed. Soner froze.

The twelfth floor?

In theory, there were more than twelve floors from ground level to the ‘twelfth’. But Wistram didn’t count the hidden ones, or the ones squished together. The Twelfth Floor—if it was what Soner thought Eldavin meant—would be above the testing floor.

The ones locked by Zelkyr’s final test, and Cognita.

The death of mages.

“You were here before Archmage Zelkyr locked the higher floors?”

“Indeed I was. It must have been…no, I don’t think I actually visited since then. More than a week, that is! I should love to see it. But I will take a modest suite below.”

“Thank you for your forbearance, Grand Magus.”

Mena bowed. She hesitated, then cleared her throat.

“I—ah—think Wistram may have changed quite a lot, Grand Magus. Magus Soner, Grand Magus Eldavin was just saying how he recalled Archmage Chandler’s superior etiquette.”

Soner blinked. Then he nearly swallowed his forked tongue. Eldavin was nodding sagely.

“A different time. I would like to remember it with Archmagus Feor. I understand he’s finally achieved the rank! Will there be a social gathering?”

“Tonight. Er—Magus Eldavin—”

“Grand Magus, Magus Soner. We must keep to proper decorum—at least before we know each other!”

The Naga caught himself as Eldavin chuckled.

“Yes. Yes, my apologies Grand Magus. Er, we will certainly have a banquet tonight, and small, unofficial gatherings thereafter. I am certain Archmagus Feor would be delighted to meet you. However—did you say ‘Archmage Chandler’? You are, of course, aware that the, ah, Necromancer has become a touchy subject in the last hundred years?”

Where had this fellow been, hiding under a rock? Well, half-Elves did have their villages and Valeterisa had been completely out of it for a decade or so they said. The Naga waited, but Eldavin just arched one white eyebrow.

“Of course I recall Peril Chandler’s fall. And the…death of Az’kerash. Yes, of course I know that, young Naga. But he was still Archmage Chandler. Archmagus of Death. And let us not forget—he and Archmage Zelkyr were friends! The Archmage of Golems. The Archmage of Death. Izril and Terandria. Should we not remember that?”

He looked around pointedly at Golems—virtually identical to a [Maid] or [Butler]—cleaning and polishing, made of ceramics. Soner just blinked.

“…Yes, certainly, Grand Magus Eldavin. But that was a hundred years ago and memories fade. For the sake of decorum, perhaps do not bring up Az—Archmage Chandler as much?”

“Perhaps, perhaps. I shall take it under advisement. I suppose it would ruffle feathers in Izril and Terandria. Now, about my rooms…”

Eldavin nodded to Soner. The Naga smiled and quickly found a nice suite for Eldavin. And he made a huge mental note:

No way in all of Baleros’ jungles was this [Mage] going to be let anywhere near the guests.

Whether Eldavin had known it or not, he had just kicked himself so far down the rankings of Wistram’s society that he was already into the catacombs. And for [Necromancers] and those who practiced that magic, there was always further to sink. Some magic should not be practiced.

—-

Beatrice Stogrehn stood in the company of an Archmage. One of the two Archmages of Baleros, in fact.

Archmage Nailihuaile was energetic, friendly, and silly as could be at times. But if you underestimated her, you were a fool. Because she was a Star Lamia, one of the rarest of Lizardfolk evolutions in this world and she was still an Archmage.

A master [Enchanter]. Head of a faction and one of the most important people in all of Wistram. Beatrice a few years ago couldn’t have imagined being in her company. Not at her age!

She was barely thirty. A few years ago, she’d still been a student! And she had been in love, she had debated going home to work after graduating…she had even wondered if she might marry.

Now, Beatrice looked at her dark skin, her armored body of metal covered by runework in the blank scrying mirror and recalled that she had once smiled.

The [Runemistress] remembered Calvaron and it still hurt. It still tore at her insides, the memories of those old days. She still recalled that night of horror, as well as how the cursed study group had formed. Ceria, Calvaron, herself, the traitor, and later, Montressa.

She never forgot. Some nights the memories filled her head. So—how could Montressa, how could Ceria forget? Allow that monster to walk about, even journey and fight beside him as a team?

“Montressa lied. That’s clear in hindsight. Well, it was pretty clear at the time. Clear as my neck-frills, but I thought she was still on our side. That’s the problem with traitors. You really like them, right, Beatrice? She was your friend. Any idea why she did this?”

Naili spoke at last. Beatrice shifted.

“She was my friend, Archmagus. She and I ran our secret broker business. I stood by her even after all that happened. And now? I do not know her.”

She held her head in her hands and turned it to face her torso. Naili looked sympathetic.

“This has got to be hard for you Beatrice, is it? It looks like it. Listen, if you want, you can do it yourself.”

“No, Archmagus. There’s too much to do here. And Montressa—no. Thank you.”

The Lamia nodded. She tapped her staff, the relic-class artifact, the Serkonian Lance, to the ground. Not to cast a spell, just to be official.

“Then, as leader of the Revivalists and Archmagus and all of that, I expel Montressa du Valeross from our faction. I can’t do it from Wistram alone, but I only need one more Archmage’s support. And Feor won’t object. Because of her, someone from Earth was lost. And there are more children there. She isn’t ours. Bezale—I’ll let the Scriptels handle her. But she had no authority, do you understand, High Mage?”

“Yes, Archmagus.”

“Sort it out.”

Nailihuaile nodded to the blank scrying orb. There weren’t visuals since they only had a speaking spell on. The other end produced an affirmative sound.

“I’m ending the spell. Let me know what happens.”

It was done. The Archmage turned away from the mirror and slithered across her personal chambers. Beatrice stayed there for a second, then fastened her head to her body.

Good riddance. The Horns remained. But at least someone would pay. She came to stand behind the Lamia as the Archmage sighed.

“I don’t get it. She was right with you, Beatrice. I was going to make her my apprentice—or find her a good master for an [Aegiscaster]! What could have happened? She was begging me to go after that Pisces fellow and…”

“I don’t know, Archmagus. May we change the subject?”

Beatrice looked ahead. Naili nodded.

“Speaking of [Mages]—we’ve got some interesting guests. The Drowned Folk have sent some, there’s Drakes from Fissival—I’m really sad. Do you know why I’m sad?”

“No, Archmage. Why?”

Part of being Naili’s trusted helper was indulging her. Naili flitted around her room, getting ready for the banquet. Lamias and other snake-body type Lizardfolk didn’t dress like normal. Pants were impossible, and dresses were more for the look rather than a great need for modesty.

“I wanted Grimalkin of Pallass to attend. But he’ll only be watching via mirror. Do you know him? Did you hear about his duel with Archmage Feor?”

“Yes, Archmage. But I didn’t see it. Was it entertaining?”

“I would have loved to see him do it again! He kept trying to punch Feor’s lights out—ah, well. This is our first big banquet. Maybe Grimalkin will arrive later. And speaking of big names—Valeterisa’s back! I wasn’t even an Archmage when she left.”

Naili added some earrings to her attire and checked them out. Not her ears since she had none, but her neck-frills.

“She’s weird. And I know weird. I’ll introduce you, if you want. She’s here, old Verdan is here, probably to get in on the secret—we can’t stop him, but none of the guests should know if possible. Or if they do…they had better be allies.”

Allies to Wistram. Beatrice nodded. The Academy was making big moves. Earth was an inevitable idea that would get out, they’d concluded. But they were going to get the head start on using the ideas and technology.

Thus, the conclaves. Naili led the way down the halls, calling out to people, waving, navigating Wistram’s strange layout by heart.

“And we also have a Grand Magus returning! I hear he’s an old half-Elf. No—wait—there’s a retired one from Chandrar too. Old Garuda. They’re all old.”

“Grand Magus Eldavin?”

Beatrice had heard he was very old, enough that he claimed to have rooms on the twelfth. She had added it as a small secret to her collection, but she wanted verification before she sold it.

She was a secret broker and secrets were her income. One of the reasons why Naili liked her; the Archmage got all of Beatrice’s secrets.

“Yes, that’s the one. If he’s as old as he claims, that could be useful if he was a good [Mage]. We need those old [Mages]. Some have spells we’ve lost since Zelkyr sealed the higher floors. We might be able to persuade them to hand over their knowledge before they croak, for the Earth stuff. Anyways…oh, here she is! Valeterisa! Valeterisa!”

And there was the Archmage of Izril. Valeterisa was an older woman, at least in her mid-sixties, grey of hair, thin, and the most normal-looking of all the Archmages Beatrice had met. She looked like, well, an old widow.

Except for her aura. That was power. Beatrice bowed respectfully, taking her head off as she did. Naili just slithered over. Valeterisa gave the Lamia a long look, and her eyes flickered.

“Oh. And you are…Archmage Nailihuaile. Who I met yesterday.”

It was as if memories suddenly became accessible to her—or parts of her mind found the information, like sifting through a cabinet. It was subtle, and very fast, but disconcerting if you didn’t know what was happening. Valeterisa straightened. Naili peered at her.

“…What are you doing, Valeterisa? Why are you sitting?”

“I was investigating this bug.”

The Archmage vaguely pointed to a beetle with a glowing abdomen—yellow—and shell-wings with holes on them. It was crawling around in front of them.

“Ooh! What’s that?”

“A bug. Mutated by magic. I wondered what it did. It turns out it eats [Light] spells. It is storing light in its abdomen.”

“Oh, those little things! Gah! I hate them! They’re the ones that eat our [Light] spells so we have to renew them! Take this! [Stone Fist]—aaah, my eyes!”

Naili had squished the bug with a little fist made of stone that thwacked the insect into paste. But as it squished, the abdomen let out a flash of light. Beatrice and the others in the hallway cried out.

“Hm. It was storing all the light and converting it to magic or energy.”

In her blindness, Beatrice heard Valeterisa speaking. Naili was cursing.

“Did you know they did that?”

“No, but I wish I had a sample to breed and inspect. [Remove Blindness].”

“What? That works? Do me, do me! Fine, I’ll do it. How did it go? This is where I’d like to look at my spellbook…[Remove Blindness]! Aha! Beatrice!”

A staff touched Beatrice’s shoulder. She blinked, and the afterimages went away. Valeterisa reappeared, taking a sample of the dead beetle. She looked at Naili.

“Did you want something, Archmage Nailihuaile?”

“I was just wondering if you cared to join us after the banquet. You have a lot to catch up on in Wistram, and I hoped to get to you first.”

The Star Lamia smiled coyly. Valeterisa just sighed.

“Politics. I do not care to socialize, Archmage Nailihuaile. And Archmages Feor and Viltach have both approached me already.”

“They did? Those sneaky…can I persuade you to join me?”

“I would prefer to learn what there is to learn outright. Will you tell me?”

Valeterisa turned to Naili. The Star Lamia shut her mouth and smiled. Another sigh.

“Then I will attend one party afterwards and join whichever faction seems to be in charge. Now. I would like to find another bug. Goodbye, Archmage Naili.”

She walked off. The Star Lamia shrugged at Beatrice, who was a bit taken aback at how…non-interested Valeterisa was! She really didn’t care for Wistram’s politics and power. She was only Archmage because her magical abilities were top-notch.

And then Valeterisa turned.

“Archmage Naili. Perhaps you will answer me.”

“Yes, Valeterisa?”

Naili brightened up. She looked back. The Archmage of Izril gazed at her.

“Where is Amerys?”

The Star Lamia’s eyes narrowed. Beatrice froze. Naili just chuckled, though, and made a beckoning motion with her tail.

“We really must talk, Valeterisa. The Archmages will convene after the parties. But we can be on the same page before then. What about it? Party, then my quarters later.”

The older [Mage] just sighed and walked on.

—-

Valeterisa had little power. She was an Archmage, but one without faction or friends—at least, many over the decade she had been away. Power, in Wistram, was more than just magical talent.

Telim explained this all to Aaron over a private lunch.

“Power is more than magic, young Vanwell.”

The young Vanwell, the [Magictech Engineer], nodded, then caught himself and frowned.

“…Isn’t that wrong, High Mage Telim?”

The man chortled. Telim was a big-bearded man with red hair, and a big…belly. He was a lifer for Wistram, and was eating a rather large lunch. Aaron was saving himself for the banquet tonight, but Telim clearly thought he’d have room.

“Not in Wistram, lad. Archmages were always good at politics as much as magic, even before Zelkyr. Valeterisa’s been away for too long. Not that she’s poor at politics, mind you. She hates it more than I hate running about—but she’s a cold serpent, even more than Nailihuaile. Although she does love new and fascinating magical things, so she might well like you.”

Aaron had not met her. She was not in on the secret. He picked at some deviled eggs, which even had little tiny horns on them made out of some hard corn batter.

Telim was an odd friend for Aaron to have made, but the young man felt like he was one of the first. Because Telim was not as nakedly ambitious as Naili or some other [Mages]. They had met when the man heard about the therapy sessions for the Earthers who had come here and helped supply them with potions.

After that? He’d gotten to talking and now he and Aaron and some of the other Earthers and [Mages] were creating the world’s first real-life combat simulations. Their name for it was Magical Reality—a play on Virtual Reality.

But in their product, you’d step into a room or building and fight monsters, experience dungeon raids—do anything you could envision, perhaps! All without the fear of death.

Telim was also a good sort. Magnanimous and prone to fits of indulgence. He’d introduced Aaron and some of the other older Earthers who’d been here a while to his friends, like Vhedel, Sa’la, and the others. Who were people to know if you wanted to meet someone who could create potions, or get you Dreamleaf, or…

Kindly [Mages]. As Elena had described them, ‘happy to be where they were’. They didn’t dream of using Earth’s tech beyond making fascinating things for themselves. They didn’t want to rule the world; they just wanted better canapés. If they were all Wistram was, Aaron would have been more relaxed.

As it was, Telim was a fine information source. Aaron helped himself to another cookie at the man’s urging.

“So they’ll all know after tonight?”

“Within the week. Some might pay for secrets, but most will turn to the Archmages. They’ll give something, and be let in on the secret. You see, it really is them coming to Feor, Naili, and Viltach, who have created an alliance.”

“They hate each other’s guts. Naili once said she tried to hex Viltach impotent.”

Telim nearly sprayed his mouthful out across the table. Sa’la and Elena both started laughing. The Selphid and [Beautician] found it much funnier than Telim and Aaron. The young man turned to Telim.

“That’s impossible, right? You can’t just hex someone from afar?”

“M’boy, you’re learning why I don’t make enemies.”

The man patted at his mouth. He shuddered.

“Let me tell you about the time a particularly vengeful [Swarm Mage] put a talisman in a friend’s laundry pile when it was being washed. Only activated when he put on his underwear, poor fellow. I still think about the bites.”

Aaron put down his cookie. [Mages] got up to a lot of weird things. And again, if it was just that, he’d love it. But Wistram had a grand scheme. And they intended to use the secrets they had to further their agendas.

Still, he had secrets of his own now.

The young man went back to munching on his food.

“So, the Earthers don’t get to attend the banquet?”

“You do. Just inconspicuously. You see—the banquet hall will have a strict hierarchy. I’ll probably take a mage-picture, just to know how things stand. Where you sit matters, so all the jockeying for position will tell us where the smart [Mages] are.”

“Really? It’s that easy?”

Elena put in. She saw Sa’la shrug and toss back her drink.

“Sort of. It’s more like—do you have the clout to sit with an Archmage if you want to? Who’s sitting together. Telim, do an illusion.”

“Very well.”

He grumbled; he was good at illusion spells. He flicked his fingers, casting a few spells and muttering while the others ate in silence. After two minutes of his hard work, a bunch of seats and glowing icons appeared.

“There. See? This is the high table, where the Archmages sit. And the most important guests. That’s obvious, so it’s not as important…no doubt a [Lord] or one of the nobility will earn a place. Below it? We’ll have tables per faction. So the Revivalists here, Libertarians here—this is just an example, by the way.”

He made long tables, coloring them by faction. Aaron nodded. It was based around the high table. Power to the front, less important [Mages] to the back. The main factions were in the upper center. Telim pointed to the edges.

“And here are independents whom you can’t offend. Other parties too. The Drake contingent from the Walled Cities, for instance.”

“It seems really isolating. Don’t they mix?”

Elena put in. Sa’la nodded.

“Of course they can change tables. But this is where they’re seated.”

“And beyond that? Some organization—students will have tables here, but it’s a free-for-all after that. You’re not assigned a table if you were never important enough to have one. And here is where I will be.”

Telim pointed all the way across the room, away from every faction, towards the furthest end. Elena and Aaron peered at the spot blankly.

“Why there, Telim?”

“Because they have sofas and other delightful modalities of sitting there, young Vanwell! Status be damned, I’m stretching out whilst I eat!”

The [High Mage] chuckled, and Aaron grinned.

“I guess we’ll be split up, Elena. We should try to sit together after the banquet starts.”

“Hm. Yes, you Earth-folk should be given a spot of your own. Maybe the Archmages would allow it.”

“Oh, they’re doing that, Telim. Silenced, protected, so they can talk without eavesdropping.”

Telim snapped his fingers.

“Makes sense! There you are then, Aaron. Far to the back and to the sides I’ll wager, but that’s a good thing.”

“Why—oh. It’s because we’re closer to the buffet tables, right?”

“Exactly. I knew you were sharp! Now, you’ll want to be on your toes. There are always secrets and money to be made when the banquets take place. If you weren’t…well, from Earth, I’d say you could make a powerful friend. As it is, take a bag of holding for the good foods. They always run out.”

“Because of you. You know, he made an entire table disappear one time? I saw it. Took a bag of holding, ran it down the table, and walked off.”

Sa’la gave Telim an affectionate, but exasperated look. The man just winked at Elena and Aaron, who laughed. They liked him.

“How are the new Earthers doing, by the way? I heard we had a real talent in uh—uh—what’s his name? The one with the actual magical ability.”

Telim snapped his fingers.

“Troy?”

“That’s the lad. [Sand Mage]. He’s a good student.”

Aaron nodded. Troy was a bit standoffish, but he’d been warming up. He was still getting his legs in, but he actually went to classes which was why he had less time than the others.

“Good foundations, that boy. Someone taught him properly. And I heard that other boy who came with him got in a bit of trouble. For his pet.”

“Oh. Right. Someone sat on Prickly.”

“Poor thing. Is it okay?”

Sa’la made a sympathetic noise. Which she wouldn’t have if she knew Prickly. Elena shook her head.

“Prickly was fine, just startled by the screaming. She’s a Needlehound and—”

Telim and Sa’la winced. Half-porcupine, half-dog, and worse than either if you ran into it and she got nervous.

“I hope it was a Selphid. Imagine…gah! Well, I am glad. And your ah, therapy group, Miss Elena?”

“A lot better. Everyone’s sleeping and—a lot better.”

Elena gave Aaron a tired smile. He felt proud of that. Telim looked around, almost fondly. He’d never had children, but he’d begun remarking that he felt like the ‘Earth-children’ as he called them were the children he wished he had. Sa’la would then point out that this was because he hadn’t had to raise them from babies and Telim would retort that was the entire point.

Well, it would be an interesting banquet. Aaron stretched out. He wasn’t the one who this mattered for. He was in Wistram, but apart. The children of Earth had no power. Yet.

He intended to change that as soon as the opportunity arose. The knowledge from the Summer Solstice burned in Aaron. Even though the Archmages were still in a panic. They’d suspected him, but they couldn’t trace who had sent the mass-text, and given up suspecting him because how would he have done it?

Elena now…she eyed Aaron as he sat, chatting with Telim about what might be on the menu and the entertainment. She had seen it too.

The Gods are alive.

She desperately wanted to return to Cara and talk. Until then, she looked forwards to the banquet. What else could she do? She was surrounded by [Mages]. Even the kind ones.

—-

Troy Atlas gave up searching for Amerys today. He kept being bothered by, well, friends. Flynn wanted to meet all the new people coming in, Elena wanted him to join the ‘talk it out’ group after lunch, and even if classes were cancelled, the hallways were packed.

“Maybe that’s what I’m doing wrong.”

Trey frowned. He looked around and tried to navigate away from people. He found empty corridors, and hurried down them.

However, weeks of searching had availed him little. Was it weeks? At least two, so plural was fine.

“I think I know what the problem is, don’t you, Minizi?”

He commented. A little head poked out of the pack he was carrying on one shoulder and nodded.

Minizi, or Mini-Gazi, as he had named her, was the little Lifesand Golem he’d taken to carrying about. To remind him of what he was doing here. Trey had taken to talking to her, although it was nothing like the real Gazi.

“The problem is…I think I’m never going to find it this way. Right?”

The Golem nodded again. She understood Trey’s thoughts and even if he thought she was limited in intelligence, it was comforting.

The problem was, Trey continued internally, he doubted Amerys was in any space he could find. Why have a top-secret prisoner where anyone could find her?

There was a finite amount of space in Wistram, for all it was vast, a city’s size or more compressed by dimensional space. Amerys could be deep in the bowels of the academy, but Trey thought he knew where she really was.

Down a hallway I will never find, because it’s magically sealed or lost or I don’t know the way in.

He’d learned some of the secrets, like the whistling music classrooms. And he’d learned Wistram’s ways. You bought and sold secrets, you gave allegiance to certain groups…

It was like the world, and not. A caricature of the world, maybe. Trey didn’t know if he hated all of it. Some people were quite nice, and meeting other people from Earth?

…But it wasn’t Chandrar. The [Mages] were removed from war and they had a superior attitude about them. That was why they collected Earthers.

Well, he had come of his own will. Trey sighed. Still, he was definitely ‘their Earther’. He had been taken by the Revivalists—Flynn, the Libertarians. Neither young man was treated badly. But Trey felt like he was having his conversations with Flos again. It was not slavery. But it wasn’t bloody well freedom either.

He needed to learn more magic at this juncture, which was why the King of Destruction had sent him. More than that? Trey needed to make friends. Perhaps the banquet was time for that? He began heading back that way.

He’d missed lunch, to grab a bite before joining Elena’s therapy group. Which was tough because ‘Troy’s’ cover story had some danger in it, but he couldn’t very well say he’d killed people or visited A’ctelios and saw what they did there.

Before I go, I need to learn [Fireball]. But how to make one big enough for that place?

Thus, he was caught between impatience and knowing he needed to stay. Trey kicked along the corridors, letting Minizi ride on his shoulder; he’d put her away before people asked questions.

He was just reaching for his shoulder to put Minizi back in the backpack when the Lifesand Golem punched him in the ear.

“Argh! What is wrong with you, Minizi?”

Trey grabbed at it. Was she becoming more Gazi-like just because he’d made her that way? Then—he froze.

On a hunch, he’d told the little Golem to look with him. Now—the little Golem urgently hit his shoulder with her little fist. Trey blinked. He looked around—

Empty hallway. He exhaled, but Minizi was banging on his skin. And staring…

The [Sand Mage] looked at a blank patch of air. Slowly, he reached out. Nothing. He took a few more steps and pushed his vacant hand into—

Archmage Valeterisa’s bespectacled face appeared as she shed the spell. She peered at Trey as he recoiled.

“That is a Lifesand Golem. How did you make one? Will you make me one? I will pay you in gold or secrets.”

Trey stared at her. The woman peered at him. He threw up his arms, screamed, and ran. He knew trouble when he saw it and he wasn’t getting his throat slashed twice.

—-

Archmage Valeterisa was terrorizing the hallways. The other [Mages] were gathering, getting settled in, exchanging secrets, giving each other gifts.

Now was the time of potential. Wistram never changed. Well…it did, actually. Quite a lot. But a clever mind could always adapt.

“Let me see. This should do it.”

Eldavin glanced down the hallway to the right and left as he fiddled with the wall. He’d cast an illusion on both ends to make it look like stone, but anyone could walk in. There were tricky [Mages], or at least, there had been when he had last come.

He had no money—at least, not his vast hoard of wealth—and few secrets he cared to enter into Wistram’s economy. So he’d have to make something from nothing!

He was a Dragon. It was easy. Eldavin straightened and regarded the handiwork of the spell-letters he’d written onto the wall.

They were in a form of writing once used by mages. A dead language used in spoken chants. It already cut down the number of people who’d be able to decipher it, but the glowing words were clearly visible to anyone who cast [Detect Magic]. Quite invisible to the naked eye.

It read, when translated:

‘The key to knowledge lies in the heart of the source of the page. To the one clever enough to descry meaning from this, I am Eldavin who offers you the clue.’

It was a proper riddle—not a hard one! But one that only a perceptful [Mage] would read. Dead language, invisible letters. Oh, and the riddle.

It referred to a key to a hidden library in Wistram. Eldavin had made it very easy to solve on purpose. ‘Heart of the source of the page’. Obviously, a tree, and there was a forest in Wistram you could visit…

He rubbed his hands together happily. He had a strong working knowledge of many of Wistram’s hidden areas. People would find the dozen or so clues he’d put around the most-populated hallways in Wistram, come to him, and he’d be in the secrets-game soon enough. Obviously, some people knew of the forest library, but the fact that he, Eldavin, was showing people the depth of his knowledge just added to his reputation.

All he had to do now was wait. The Grand Magus smugly went back to his rather small and cramped rooms to wait. He’d put them up as soon as he’d arrived. If he knew the [Mages], they were already in a furor, translating, speculating who could have put up the spells without being seen in the hallways! Gossip would have them pounding on his door. Any minute now…

Eldavin waited for three hours until he realized no one was coming. He went to check each hidden message and hit upon a flaw in his plan.

Yes, they were visible to anyone who cast [Detect Magic]. Yes, the riddles were obvious.

…But the students and [Mages] had changed. One group was indeed staring at the letters. Eldavin waited, bouncing on the heels of his feet.

“What do you make of it, High Magus?”

“Some sort of code. I can’t tell what it is. Might be one of the old written languages. Or someone’s idea of a joke. Anyone know [Translate]? No? Well, let’s erase it, then. Hm…it’s not coming off the walls…”

The half-Elf looked at the group, crestfallen. He waited for a bright mind to suggest looking up the language. The [Mages] glanced at each other.

“We could search up what it is. Maybe some of the translation books?”

“Which library? We have four. And they’re not organized.”

“Fourteen.”

The two didn’t hear that. One of them shook their heads.

“Too much for me. Let’s check out the banquet!”

Crestfallen, Eldavin looked at the group as they dispersed. Even the so-called ‘High Mage’ just gave it a blank look and grumbled about ‘getting to it later’.

Was this Wistram? Eldavin wanted to tear at his beard. He was about to make a sarcastic appendage to the riddle in plain writing when he stopped.

“I think it’s the spoken language. It looks like it, doesn’t it?”

A young Selphid was excitedly talking to a Dwarf. The young Dwarf tugged at a blank space and realized he’d shaved his beard for the umpteenth time. They were both young—although that was a variable age for Dwarves.

“Could be. You know, I’m studying old languages—goes with runecrafting. Maybe we search this up? We have time before the banquet.”

“Yeah! Let’s do that! Who knows? It just appeared, people said! We could find a big secret! I mean—probably not. The Archmages probably know what it says already. But I want to know, don’t you? We could sell it as like, a secret.”

“Let’s go, then!”

The half-Elf watched the two young first-years hurry off. He looked at his message on the wall.

They were not his clientele—he’d hoped to get the best of Wistram. But apparently most had just walked past the wall, or failed to be interested in it.

He raised a hand to erase it—then lowered it. Well, why not?

“Let the wise benefit from acts of wisdom.”

Eldavin shook his head. He’d have to re-think his work. That was all. And he had forgotten that Zelkyr had locked the upper floors. Now, why had he done that? He had to be alive, surely? Either way, it was a truly Draconian move, and not even Teriarch would really support it. Not unless the goal was to deprive Wistram of learning…

The banquet tonight would change things. The lack of interest had put Eldavin in a bad mood, but the two students gave him hope. He switched tacks and decided the best thing to do was introduce himself to Feor. Bring out a fine vintage, reminisce about the old days as half-Elves did, and get in with the Centrists.

He was just walking out to find the Archmage when something caught his ear.

“…Earthers to the recovery groups…”

The half-Elf stopped in his tracks. He turned. Two [Mages] were walking past and talking. They were under a [Muffle] spell, but Eldavin didn’t allow people to walk around him without him noticing. His detection spells were superior and let him hear as clearly as they did.

“Which ones? Come on, we’ll update the listings.”

They were a Drake and a Garuda. Wearing robes, clearly full [Mages]. Not strong ones to judge by their auras…then again, they stood out more than most in the hallways.

Eldavin hesitated. Then he murmured some spells and followed them.

—-

It was hard to shadow the [Mages]. Teriarch-Eldavin fretted over it as he pursued them down corridor after corridor. First he cast [Greater Invisibility], [Aura Mute], [Complete Silence], and…but that was stupid. Anyone would just cast [Spell Purge] or have the enchantment hit him!

Thereafter he used [Shadow Walk], while keeping the option of [Telehop] for bypassing checkpoints, but he realized he was vulnerable to aura-based detection. After that, he had to really think.

He wasn’t a Dragon, so he had to actually be careful! The half-Elf shook his head as he buzzed into the Drake’s robes and began to spell-meld himself with the enchanted fabric. He couldn’t cast full [Polymorph], but temporary transformations would get him where he needed to go. He could already run out of the checkpoint if…

If…

After the two [Mages] got to their destination, Eldavin concluded that there had been no magical checkpoints. No ward spells. They’d just used a secret passage and walked on through with a few sensor spells which he’d obviously been prepared for.

The half-Elf walked behind them and sighed. Well, he was a Dragon of countless years. Even an [Archmage] would have been paranoid if they knew Teriarch was lurking about. He’d done that once; raided Archmage’s homes.

The trick was that once you ran into a barrier you couldn’t dispel? Dragonbreath. Worked every time. He’d stolen a lot of artifacts and spellbooks from angry [Archmages] and then innocently hobnobbed with them afterwards in Wistram. Good times, good times…

Now he was listening, though.

“Where’re our new Earthers?”

“Mainly Izril. It’s the unconfirmed. Archmage Naili wants them confirmed and got. She’s got a [High Mage] going to Liscor.”

Eldavin froze. The Garuda flapped his wings.

“Well, why do we have to update the lists?”

“The other one’s tricky is why. Any group in the area should reach out. But—hold on. Excuse me! Can we get a [Scrier] here to send out one of our [Messages]? We need to re-code and have it in the Mage’s Guild in the following locations before the banquet!”

They were in a room with a lot of scrying mirrors. Teriarch sensed the very spell creating the Wistram News Network being operated here, and…his eyes narrowed.

“You reversed the scrying spell? Spying on so many? You fools! It’s so obvious!”

A young [Scrier] trotted over, sighing.

“How many?”

“Er…forty eight.”

“Forty—that’s insane! We’ll be at it hours! We have to code each [Message]!”

“Why don’t you send a spell that can’t be read by all present?”

“Well, too bad. And we need it before the banquet. Don’t bother showing up until it’s done. It’s for a number of teams—it needs to get to them now. Archmage’s orders. Standing orders in the Mage’s Guild.”

The Drake was unmoved. The [Scrier] looked heartbroken. She took the coded missive. The Drake turned—and went sprawling.

“Ancestors damn it—”

“Are you alright?”

The Garuda checked his friend. The Drake rubbed at his face and looked back at the [Scrier], but she couldn’t have done that. Blushing under his scales, he adjusted his robes and stormed off.

Eldavin debated tripping him again. No, no. He stayed with the [Scrier] as she groused.

“Why forty eight? It’s normally one or two! Oh. Oh. That’s why. Wherever she is? Stupid…”

The half-Elf read over her shoulder as the young Drake turned. His eyes went round as he saw the name and reason for the message.

Ryoka Griffin. Alias: Wind Runner of Reizmelt. Confirmed—acquire if possible. Caution—House of Veltras is known to be affiliated. Do not offend House of Veltras, contact Archmages for negotiation. Levels unknown, speculated high-level [Runner] with possible [Aeromancer] class.

Acquire if possible? The half-Elf looked at the [Scrier] as she began sending the spell. Then he looked around. He walked over to a board across the room, away from the people monitoring the broadcasts.

It was a map. On it, there were pictures, sketches, pins in glowing light of places. People found and not found. The Dragon looked at it. Around the room.

“It is logical. It makes sense, to find what is valuable and safeguard them, or understand what you lack. It might even be commendable, to do this rather than kill them, if they are treated well. I will know.”

The young Drake sneezed and rubbed at the back of her neck. She looked around, then went back to work. The half-Elf standing there looked down at the page.

“I will decide. However.”

His hand reached down and gently touched the page.

“I know that Human. You do not chain the wind, any more than you do the fae. And if what I find displeases, soon you will answer to me.”

His eyes narrowed. He was gone when the [Scribe] stood to send the first [Message]. And now—time was not on his side. He had already understood that he had missed something. Now—he had two reasons to talk to Ryoka Griffin.

They were separated by countless miles, and he sat in the heart of the Academy of Magic. The Dragon knew [Message] spells could be easily read by all if not secured.

So…what? There were easier ways.

—-

Ryoka Griffin’s head rose as she tried to do a crunch. She was getting out of shape, or so it felt. Days of resting after being shot, plus the wind making her job easier…

“What was that?”

“A [Message] from a ‘Grand Magus Eldav—”

Ryoka was on her feet in an instant. The Street Runner in Riverfarm recoiled.

“I’ll take it! Is it secure?”

Heart pounding, she reached for the slip of paper. She read—then blinked.

“That was what I was trying to say. We don’t have one, but there are some in nearby Mage’s Guilds. So…”

The [Message] from ‘Eldavin’ was short. Ryoka had sent word to him begging for him to talk—and to Teriarch himself, with a Scroll of [Message]. Both times she’d gotten no response.

Until now. But Teriarch’s missive was odd. It read:

Miss Ryoka, I, Eldavin, require your services once again. To facilitate this, procure a speaking stone and send the [Message] back.

“A speaking stone?”

“One of the tuned ones. Lodestones. You can tune ‘em to other stones and talk. Like a scrying mirror. Lady Rie says we can give you one as soon as it can be found—or you can run and get one if you want. She’s hunting through her collection.”

The Street Runner explained helpfully. Ryoka blinked at him.

“No, that’s fine. I think I—if she has one. Otherwise, I know someone who might lend me theirs.”

—-

Jericha gave her an odd look, but gave Ryoka a stone when asked. Of course she had one; it was practically essential for those in the field.

“Do you need to tune it?”

“I…don’t know? I was just told to send a [Message] back when I did.”

“Ah. Then you need to tune it. Let me send the [Message].”

Ryoka hesitated, but Jericha was already involved. She nodded and smiled.

“Can you send, ‘Grand Magus, it’s me, Ryoka. I’m at a Mage’s Guild. What do I do now?’ Thanks.”

Jericha gave Ryoka a look, but sent the spell. Ryoka hoped Teriarch would know what that meant—why was he going through ‘Eldavin’? Just to be safe? Then Jericha frowned.

“Ah, he is sending me a tuning request.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a frequency of…you set it that you two can comm—hold on.”

She raised the glowing stone and focused on it. Then her eyes flickered; Ryoka knew that was the telltale of sending a [Message] spell.

“This can’t be…you can do…?”

“Is something wrong?”

Jericha ignored her. Ryoka bounced on the balls of her feet. Then she waited.

And waited.

And…

Ryoka was nervously chewing on a snack when Jericha finally lowered the now-glowing lodestone. Her brow was covered in sweat.

“I have never received a request that complex before. Hello? This is Jericha, speaking on behalf of Miss Ryoka Griffin. Riverfarm. Is the spell functioning?”

“Perhaps you have never properly tuned a speaking stone before. I am T—Grand Magus Eldavin. Wistram. Kindly relay this to Miss Griffin.”

Jericha blinked. She handed the stone to Ryoka. Then she stared. Ryoka held the stone up.

“Eldavin?”

“Yes, yes. Please exit the Mage’s Guild, Ryoka, and find yourself a secure space at once. And tell that [Mage] that if she doesn’t bother to encrypt her speaking stones, she is providing poor service!”

The voice was familiar and not. It didn’t have the bass of the Dragon’s full voice, and yet it was him. Jericha’s jaw opened. Ryoka hesitated.

“I have to—sorry, Jericha. Thank you so much, but it’s an important client and…”

She practically ran out of the room. Jericha half-rose to go after her, but she was sweating. Then the [Mage] looked around.

“I have to write that down! Where’s…”

She scrambled for a quill and paper.

—-

Teriarch was rather impatient as he heard Ryoka puffing along. He was pressing her—but waiting until she got to a secure place.

“Cast a [Silence] spell, any anti-scrying spell, hm, and obviously image-deflection spells. An illusion spell will do if you must, simply to prevent lip-reading. Oh, and check your location first. A [Rogue] can always hide within your enclosed space.”

“Is…is that you, Eldavin? Really, you?”

“Yes, yes. Hurry now.”

“I have to tell you—”

“Prepare the space first, Ryoka.”

He snapped. Ryoka hesitated. She was gulping, huffing, fumbling with a lock—he adjusted the intensity of the stone. The nerve of that little [Mage], asking him why it had to be so complex. So he could adjust volume, make sure no one was listening, and so on!

“I can use some scrolls, and I have a [Silence] scroll, but I don’t know about the rest. Anti-scrying?”

“You do not have an anti-scrying spell?”

“No. My name is good enough, isn’t it?”

“Someone can [Scry] an area even if they fail to scry you! At least check your area! Cast [Aura Detection]!”

“…I don’t have that.”

The Dragon stopped. He was pacing in his room.

“…[Spell Purge]. [Contained Room]. [Isolation Bubble]. …[Detect Life]?”

“I do have that one. But uh…no, wait. I must have sold it.”

He closed his eyes.

“Very well. Walk around your room and touch every conceivable space where something could be. Ceiling, floor…then shut the window and shut the doors and lock them. We shall speak covertly either way. Is that…mundane enough for you?”

“I’m doing it, I’m doing it. Not everyone can cast magic! You are Eldavin, aren’t you? We should confirm it…”

“Where did I send you when we first met? Before that, tell me how much my price was in quantifiable units for my first task.”

“Four hundred gold pieces. And the Bloodfields. Okay, we’re secure.”

“Have you checked the doors and windows?”

“They’re closed. I’m not st—oh, wait.”

Creak. Someone closed the shutters that had given her trouble before and latched it. Eldavin was pointedly silent. After a few seconds, he spoke.

“What occurred on the Summer Solstice? I regret that I missed it, but something clearly did occur. On a magnitude I did not expect! Did you truly meet or invoke…him?”

He could only think of a few reasons why the entire world had stirred in greeting. Ryoka Griffin’s voice on the other end was…hesitant.

“Yes. You didn’t come. I thought you would, and Magnolia.”

“I…forgot.”

“You forgot? I—you forgot? And why are you in Wistram?”

The Dragon sniffed.

“Sometimes one forgets, Miss Griffin! And I had business to attend to. I am in Wistram and I am Grand Magus Eldavin. As you know me.”

“Wh—oh. Oh my…really? Why? I thought you said—listen. The Solstice…you don’t know…”

The half-Elf sighed. This was why he preferred talks face-to-face. He half-debated whether it was worth seeing if his true body could be awoken…but no, he’d done too good a job. Pointedly, he tapped his finger on the side table as he reclined in a chair.

“I am calling to enquire upon that very matter. I assume my knowledge was accurate, of course? The fae were invoked?”

Probably safe to mention them. Ryoka hesitated.

“Yes—yes, they were. I was able to go…to their place. But listen, T—Eldavin. Something’s happened—”

He sat up, blinking.

“You went to the land of the—you went there? Are you mad? Also, how?”

“I bargained for it. I met someone who let me in. Eldavin. Something terrible has happened. I went there to find help. And meet Ivolethe.”

“Did you meet her?”

“Yes. And someone like you. But listen. Erin is—”

“Someone like me? You don’t mean one of my relatives, but like…I knew some went. Where? What were their names?”

“Erin. Eldavin. Listen to me. Before that, Erin.”

The young woman’s voice was changing on the other end. But Eldavin was too excited to notice. He was pacing the rooms now, talking excitedly.

“I knew something had occurred, but Reinhart entered into her difficulties and I have left to see how Wistram has changed. Listen to me, Ryoka. You are soon to be hunted by the academy.”

“Eldavin—”

“I uncovered it on my first day here. It wasn’t hard, fortuitous true, but shoddy spell work of these [Mages] made it easy. They are collecting children of Earth. And you will be on their list.”

“Eldavin, that doesn’t matter. I need you to—”

“Does not matter? This is Wistram, Ryoka Griffin. Faded they might be, but a threat they are still! I have told you I do not interfere, hah, well, I would hardly trouble myself to oppose them. However, in light of our relationship and that we are exchanging secrets, I have taken upon myself to inform you, and I will make a few subtle gestures in—”

“Teri—Eldavin! Erin Solstice is dead. And the gods are back.”

—-

Ryoka Griffin’s eyes were running. They’d turned on and hadn’t stopped as the Dragon began to chatter, sounding happier—more involved than she had heard him.

She spoke again.

“Erin’s dead. And not dead. She was hurt. I need your help, Eldavin. The g—they’re back. We saw them there. The fae fled. It’s all ruined. Erin…I need your help. Please. I’ll do anything. Just please help.”

She waited.

“T—Eldavin?”

“Hello?”

—-

“Hello?”

But he didn’t respond. The old half-Elf…the [Grand Mage]…

Eldavin…

No, Teriarch, the Dragon, was huddled in a corner of the room, his body contorted, as if it belonged to someone else.

His head was in his hands. The voice spoke again, asking. Pleading.

—And there he was again. He had looked away for a second.

In his arrogance, in his complacency. Rhir’s beautiful daughter died. Died, to shame them all, as Crelers filled the land, sea, and skies.

The last Empress of Harpies, Sheta, fell. And all that she had built fell to ruin.

The first and only [Dragonprince] died, he who had charmed them and given even them something to believe in.

Gone.

The old Dragon had seen it. Heard it all, so many times.

There they were. Bright stars, beautiful souls, blazing bright. Fading in moments. Gone—gone—taken in a moment. An accident. A blade in the dark.

He thought he had seen it all. And still, they surprised him as they died. Still, it tore a piece of him away, as if there had been barbs.

Suddenly, all the little joys and petty annoyances were gone. The half-Elf uncurled by fractions.

…He was Teriarch again. In this moment. And he wanted to be back in his cave. To sleep, and not wake until all that he had known was changed again.

He listened to a familiar sound. Sobbing.

The young woman was crying, pleading with him. Begging and offering trinkets from another world. Knowledge.

She thought he was gone. Slowly, he bent and picked up the little stone.

“Child. I’m here. Speak to me.”

The old man sat there, on the bed. And he listened. He listened to how the [Innkeeper] had—

—-

“Checkmate, I think.”

She smiled at him during the third game. Not a smirk, but a small, pleased smile. She couldn’t help it. Nor was she gloating, not really.

It was such a genuine smile, of someone truly pleased with herself, that he couldn’t be mad. Well, for a moment. Then he’d tossed the board.

But he’d gone to her later, and looked at her again, even as she made comments about being a bad sport. And she knew more of him then. And he knew her.

He remembered her name and face. For here was someone who had bested a Dragon.

—-

Erin Solstice. Eldavin’s head rose suddenly.

“Say that again.”

“She’s not…dead.”

“How?”

“We froze her. Listen, listen, please…”

He did, with heart pounding. And it changed again. In his mind, he saw a broken body. A great warrior-queen, laid low. Preserved by a grieving [Archmage] who called for someone to heal her.

A Dragon who knelt after slaying the greatest filth Crelers had ever wrought. Her kin, who labored to save her…

“Alive. No. Neither alive nor dead. You are sure?”

“I haven’t…haven’t seen her. But I know what they did.”

“Freezing. Why ice? She’s no [Cryomancer] or Ice Dragon…”

Yet there was a kind of logic there. Teriarch listened, mixing analytical disbelief with hope and…

“The fae think she’s alive. Or she can be healed. Ivolethe was trying to help me, before…and [Detect Death] and [Detect Life] both don’t work!”

“That does not mean she is safe. Is she warded? Against ghosts?”

“I…I don’t know? I’ll ask.”

Teriarch thought.

“If she lies in the [Garden of Sanctuary], she is. And this news…you met with him. You travelled to another world. You met with the King of Chivalry?”

“I have his autograph.”

Eldavin sprayed the mana potion across the room. He stared; he’d been running low on mana and had to sip one of those odious things. He stared, affronted, as mana potion ran from his nose.

Bodies!

“Please, Eldavin. Help her. Help me. I have…other things. Whatever you want.”

“You know what I have said, girl.”

Yet…that was just automatic. He was thinking. Ryoka gulped loudly and wetly.

“I do. But please? I can’t…I did my best. And I…”

“Hush. Before I speak on that, say it again. What did you say before that?”

Another gulp.

“They’re back. I…Laken got a text. He’s like me. Haven’t you seen…?”

“I am not close to that—device. You saw it? And…describe the meeting with the fae again.”

She did. And now Teriarch conceived a mortal horror the like of which he had not felt since the Creler wars.

Oh no. How? Why now?

But he knew.

Earth.

The Dragon thought. And he feared…more than the worst. This was pretty much it. Yet he sat in the rooms of Wistram and realized—he was where he needed to be.

Now, the Grand Magus spoke, and he was sincere in his words. His tone was steady, his eyes distant, watching mana potion drip down the far wall.

“Listen to me, Ryoka Griffin. I have business in Wistram. I am Grand Magus Eldavin and I now know I can do more good here than anywhere else. I must. But this is no time to be idle. There are…no. Allies?”

He thought and shook his head.

“Not for you to find. But listen to me. I will see about Wistram hunting you. And I will investigate your claims. I do not disbelieve you. But if what you say is true, this ‘text’ came from here. And I will uncover the truth of it. You may reach out to me as you wish.”

“Yes. Thank you. But Eldavin…Erin…”

“I cannot help her now.”

“No. Please. I know you—”

The pleading voice was silenced as he adjusted the volume. The Dragon spoke sternly.

“Listen. Be silent, Ryoka Griffin. I said, I cannot help her now. As I am. Do you understand me? I am inconvenienced. Far from my…usual abode. And means. Do you understand?”

An indrawn breath.

“Yes. Does that mean…?”

Again, he wavered. What had he told her? But then, he spoke.

“My aid is not so easily bought. But you may have something…I want. I must first conclude my work here. Then return. I cannot so easily make my way back, but there are ways to effect it quicker than by boat.”

Teleportation. They had to have at least one circle remaining. He spoke, sternly, but trying to get every word to her.

“When I do, I promise you, I will call you. And I shall uncover the means to help Erin Solstice. If it can be done, I can do it.”

He heard his own words and coughed.

“If you can pay for it, of c—”

“Thank you! Thankyouthankyou—”

“That’s quite enough. I said, ‘if’. I have work to do, and I cannot simply…wait. Yes. I promise. Do not make me repeat myself. I promise, and I do not break my word. Stop crying, child…”

And after a long time, he rose. He felt tired, but those painful tears had turned to ones of hope.

Wait. He could not go now, no matter how much she pleaded. He would—he had sworn it. But a shadow weighed upon his heart.

“Tamaroth’s beard.”

He shook his head. And that old curse seemed so sinister. The Dragon turned.

He really didn’t want to go to the banquet now. But it was more important. He shook his head. And hoped Ryoka Griffin would listen.

Wait. It might be painful, but wait. If there was hope at all, even the smallest spark of life, he would find it and bring it back. So wait, and do nothing hasty until then. It would not be long.

She had a Dragon’s promise.

—-

The first of many banquets in Wistram was a grand affair. Not that Wistram didn’t have lavish events each night.

Buffet? That was the staple. Exotic foods from around the world and master-class [Chefs] hired to produce treats at all hours? There would be riots without.

So when [Mages] threw a ball, they threw one.

Possibly even the now-infamous party in Riverfarm couldn’t compare in sheer expense. Certainly not to [Waiters], the rich and exotic foods like the aforementioned Phoenix wings (a debatable issue since they did grow back, but the Phoenixes really didn’t appreciate losing them), and more.

Each group who knew the score had brought gifts. For instance, there was rich fish roe from the [Depth Mages] sitting veiled and separate from the main tables. As Telim had told Aaron, the hierarchy was in full effect; the main factions sat closer to the head tables, with notable outsiders on the periphery and the general [Mage]-public to the rear of the banquet hall.

This was actually agreeable for the general public who didn’t care to be waited upon. They swarmed the buffet tables, talking, casting little spells and generally having a great time while politics and dignity engulfed the more important guests. Telim himself repeated his bag of holding trick, much to the umbrage of everyone who was lined up for cream puffs and many of the Earth-style desserts.

It was debatable whether expense = better, but that was [Mages] for you. Even the food was a kind of code.

“And what is this?”

A Fissival [Mage] pointed at one of the pizzas, now a staple in the diets of [Mages]. He looked at his fellow guests, noticeably shoved off the main gathering. They were displeased, but that was rivalry for you. One of the Oldblood Drakes sniffed; she was a [Wardmistress].

“Looks like cheese on bread. The things they come up with. Why…is that pineapple?”

Some people were depraved. But the symbolism wasn’t missed. A [Combat Mage] folded his arms and exhaled a bit of frost.

“New food. Plays. This is an echo of what was going down at Pallass. Your thoughts, Magus Grimalkin?”

A voice spoke from a scrying orb placed on the table. One of six; other Drakes were observing the banquet, symbolically here.

“Don’t eat the pizza. It’s quite unhealthy. Yes, this is exactly like Liscor. They have at least one.”

“Odds are—dozens. We’ve fallen behind. If the damned secret-thing these idiots have is any indication. I bought a ‘medium’ secret which…paugh. We have to get one for Fissival. If Pallass won’t share?”

He raised one brow. Grimalkin exhaled.

“I am Pallass. The only reason I am communicating is because this is a shared interest, Magus. Now—do you see Grand Magus Eldavin anywhere?”

The [Combat Mage] glanced around the room.

“We’re still filling up. So—not the pizza? What about the gelato?”

“Even worse.”

The other Drakes rolled their eyes. One went up to get a triple scoop. Magus Grimalkin was a graduate of Fissival, but he did preach so.

“When are we ‘allowed’ to mingle?”

“I think it’s the fourth course.”

The [Wardmistress] rolled her eyes.

“Wonderful. Where’s our [Waiter]? Excuse me—wine. Lots of it.”

They were one faction, and outliers at that. Other groups also observed their tenuous position in the pecking order, as set down by High Mage Soner.

“They’ve exiled us to this table, mother. What do we do? Are they insulting you? Testing?”

One of the [Depth Mages] from the sea-faction leaned over. Their leader, veiled in both aura and clothing, sat very still. She occasionally put a fork or bite under her clothing.

“In times past, they knew the worth of our magic. Perhaps since Zelkyr they have forgotten. Either way, the landfolk have what we need. Endure indignity.”

Her daughters nodded. Each one was quite peculiar—but Soner hadn’t noticed and the sea’s representatives were content to observe. For now.

Other new arrivals were in far better standing. An old Garuda for instance, Grand Magus Erkika, was included right in the circle of tables around the Archmages. He was known to all the [Mages], and they were plying him with wine as his apprentices and the serving staff fetched whatever he desired.

“Tell us about Qualve—Quelvekky—the Shield Kingdom, Erkika. Is it worth not visiting Wistram?”

The old Garuda was losing some of his plumage, but his eyes were still sharp enough. He drank lightly, as alcohol tended to affect Garuda far more quickly than others. He kept tossing up snacks and snapping them out of the air, never mind that it was bad manners.

“Qualvekkaras. And it’s a lovely place. You should all visit. Almost exclusively Garuda, but why mourn Wistram’s halls when I’m a [Prince] among my people?”

A portly half-Elf chuckled, one of Feor’s Centrists.

“True enough. If I could go back to my people as a hero and one of the greatest [Mages]…but we don’t have an empire or nation of our own.”

“Anymore. You thinking of starting the half-Elf kingdoms back up, Demerial?”

A Selphid—Sa’la, mingling before she headed back to Telim—got a kick from the half-Elf and a few snacks levitated at her. Everyone laughed, though.

They were [Mages] before species, most of them. And the notable ones were those who had left Wistram, to put petty nations or groups before magical solidarity.

“Archmage Verdan. How is the old Iron Vanguard doing? I heard you got put on the back foot by the Forgotten Wing Company. First the games at Daquin, now the loss with Maelstrom’s Howling.”

Nailihuaile was ribbing the elderly Human, who wore armor like Dullahans. Beatrice listened uncomfortably; she had great respect for the most venerated Human in Dullahan society.

Verdan Blackwood was unmoved. Like Dullahans, his face was blank as his body slowly turned to face Naili, rather than turn his head.

“We have suffered defeats, Archmage Nailihuaile. So does any great organization. Tulm the Mithril is confident we will soon enter a glorious new phase. We regroup and keep vital aspects of our strength. Unlike the lamentable fate of the Lizardfolk’s Great Company.”

Naili’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s very hurtful, Verdan. I thought we were being friendly!”

“Then draw your fangs, Archmage Naili. Are we at odds, or the representatives of Baleros?”

The man gave her a level look. The Lamia’s eyes flickered—then she smiled and was laughing with him.

“I guess we are! Baleros should stick together. Speaking of which…are you referring to the rumors about the Titan?”

Her eyes glimmered with interest. Verdan smiled politely. Those listening leaned in, because of course the rumor had begun to circulate already.

Niers Astoragon was missing. And the fact that he hadn’t been visible up close—just from a distance—only added to that claim. People said…he had suffered an accident. There were rumors. But the telling part?

Peclir Im had vanished.

It didn’t take a genius [Strategist] to figure out something might be up. And if one of the two pillars of the Forgotten Wing company was gone…

But that was politics outside of Wistram. Naili leaned over, just as symbolically as Feor and Viltach clearly vying for Valeterisa’s support.

“In the following discussions, interests should be aligned, should they not, Valeterisa?”

Feor was calmly indulging in the first course as Valeterisa poked at some veal. Viltach raised one brow.

“Of course they should, Archmage Feor. But perhaps Humans would understand the issue more completely.”

“Does magic distinguish itself by race, Archmage Viltach?”

Feor gave the Archmage a long look. Viltach shrugged eloquently.

“Perhaps not, Archmage Feor. But we find ourselves divided too often despite the fact that we are both Archmages of Terandria. Archmage Nailihuaile and Verdan are quick to ally. Chandrar’s Archmages—Archmage has yet to appear. But as it stands, there is one alliance.”

The half-Elf’s finger tapped against his plate slowly.

“Insofar as Terandria’s interests are represented, we find common ground, Viltach. However, Terandrian and Izrilian interests would provide a majority in most discussions.”

“True. What say you to that, Valeterisa?”

Both looked sideways at her. Valeterisa sighed. She selected Item #4 from the list she’d been composing with her multiple minds.

“That would depend on the nature of the discussion, Archmages. I have yet to be informed of what is necessary.”

“Ah.”

“Quite. But in the event that we come to odds?”

“No doubt Terandria should ally with Izril since we are closer to each other than Baleros.”

Valeterisa’s face was smooth. Viltach and Feor looked at each other and nodded. They pressed Valeterisa, innocently pretending to argue. She proceeded to ignore them. She was—distracted. She hadn’t made the mistake of getting lost in herself as she had before that fascinating young woman had woken her, but she was still devoting only a third of her mind to the present. And even that was really too much.

One third was performing analysis on that light beetle, speculating about the political acts she might need to take…and another third was busy deciphering a puzzle. Her eyes flickered across the floor. More guests moved in; it was hardly as if there was a set time for the banquet to occur.

And that was when Grand Magus Eldavin appeared.

—-

It was about forty minutes after his discussion with Ryoka Griffin. The Grand Magus had collected himself since then.

No—what was there to collect? He was perfectly calm. The half-Elf strode into the banquet hall and exhaled.

Erin Solstice was…not dead. Wounded, yes. And he had learned that Maviola El had also passed. The young [Lady] with fire and an older soul.

These things happened. He had seen better mortals die. Had he not lived so long as to know the fragility of their lives?

He was Teriarch, Lord of Flame.

No, he was Eldavin—

It mattered not. The half-Elf looked around, waiting to be announced and escorted to his seat. He had promised Ryoka Griffin to help, and he would keep his word. That was all.

They burn bright, like fireflies. That is why we do not grow attached. I did not even know her.

Eldavin remembered a hilltop. A garden he had thought he would never set foot in again. An absurd movie on a screen, inaccurate Elves…popcorn and a Gnoll child with white fur.

It meant nothing. He looked around then saw the High Mage hurrying over. Eldavin frowned with annoyance. But he controlled himself.

The young woman was dead. Not dead. Either way, it mattered not.

He was fine.

“Grand Mage Eldavin, apologies. Your seat is just over here…”

Eldavin looked towards the High Table. But the Naga was gesturing to…Eldavin stopped.

He was placed about midway across the banquet hall, away from the buffet. He eyed the Naga.

“What is the meaning of this?”

High Mage Soner winced. But he put a huge smile on his face as he turned, coiling upon himself.

“Regrettably, the Archmages must entertain some Terandrian nobility—as well as Chandrarian, Grand Magus. We—thought that you would appreciate some peace and quiet without disruption in Wistram politics on your first night here.”

“I have business with Archmagus Feor. With the Archmages, for that matter. I am a Grand Mage. This seating seems far below my stature.”

Soner thought quickly. He held up pleading hands.

“Would you consider it, for the sake of the—the students, Grand Magus? Everyone at the table has expressed a keen, keen desire to speak to you.”

“…They have? Ah, well, that does change things…”

Soner urgently gestured and the mix of students and younger [Mages] he’d bullied into filling this table stood up and all bowed slightly. It was Seky, Mena—and some of the junior representatives of each faction.

“It would be exceedingly kind of you to share your wisdom, Grand Magus.”

“I—well, hrmpf. This is highly inappropriate, Magus Soner.”

Teriarch glanced at the high table. The Naga was soothing, though, and the young [Bard] bowed.

“Grand Magus, I’m terribly sorry for asking Magus Soner to do this. But we hoped you might tell us about Wistram as it was—I should have thought better.”

“I can of course prepare another seat, Grand Magus. Ah, but where…?”

She and the Naga exchanged glances as Eldavin wavered. At last, the half-Elf sniffed.

“I suppose this will do. I will prevail upon the Archmagi later in the meal. We must present a unified front, after all. Very well.”

With ill grace, he seated himself at the table. Soner exhaled and nodded at Mena. She made a face, but he’d promised her personal lessons with one of the older [Mages] for this favor. And she had suggested this, so…

He slithered off as Eldavin sat down. The half-Elf let the others introduce themselves, smiled, and noted the factions around the room at a glance. He frowned.

“[Depth Mages] from the seas and Fissival’s Drakes? This is indeed a large banquet. I should introduce myself…”

He stood up and all of the table urgently talked him back down.

“Not yet, Grand Magus! Its customary to do so after the fourth course.”

“Fourth course? Who thought that up? Wait…is that one of Zelkyr’s little dinner rules? When I was present, [Mages] went where they pleased. If someone wanted to talk to the Archmages, they got themselves noticed.”

Mena sighed. She looked at her friends whom she’d coerced into doing this. They grimaced. This was not going to be a fun night. The old half-Elf was already upset. Even as the first course was joined by a second, he raised his voice, objecting to the layout of the room—and the placement of all the guests. Himself included of course, but he had salient points on the other seats.

“It’s the dignity of the thing. Perhaps there’s a good reason for it. But if I were to lay out the room? It would go like this.”

Telim was edging around the tables, trying to avoid the wrath of one of the [Chefs] who’d stormed out of the kitchen.

“Who took the entire roast duck?”

“Cover me, lads.”

He whispered to Troy and Flynn. The young man holding Prickly, the Needlehound dog, was grinning at the prank-theft. Trey was just shaking his head at the mischief, but Telim had promised a share of the duck for Prickly.

They were moving away from the scene of the crime by heading across the room before cutting back to the rear where Telim had set up a lounging dinner party at the sofas. As they did, they passed by a table with a very angry, very old half-Elf.

Troy paused because why wouldn’t you? Not only was the half-Elf tall, he looked well, a lot more fit than most of the [Mages] here. To Troy, he was like one of Parasol Stroll. There was a confidence about the way he gestured. Also, if Troy knew his species, a half-Elf with white hair was super old! Even Feor was only greying!

…Not to mention he was really loud.

“Respect, young [Mages]! Respect levels! Put that [Depth Mage] at the high table. The one in the center, right there, you see?”

He was pointing at the veiled woman surrounded by the other ones. Trey turned his head; she was a subject of high scrutiny of course; each [Depth Mage], and there were eight total, was covered head-to-toe in dark fabric such that you saw only their eyes.

It was an odd look, especially for Drowned Folk. Trey lingered as Telim looked around and ducked behind the Libertarian’s table. They all laughed at his antics as Mena turned to Eldavin.

“How do you mean, Grand Magus? Because she represents the Undersea fleets?”

“Because of her level, young woman. Are you blind?”

Eldavin picked up a chicken nugget and stared at it for a long moment before savagely biting into it. The others at his table stirred. Telim’s head poked up.

“You can see how strong she is?”

“Naturally. Oh, I suppose for young [Mages] you rely on, what, [Appraisal]? [Aura Reader]? But it takes more than that to suppress your nature. Let’s see. Her, that [Grand Mage] Garuda over there—I see a [Wardmistress] of Fissival—and maybe those two. Who are they?”

“Er—[High Mage] Teura of the Centrists and [Solar Mage] Vedufien.”

“Yes. Half-Elf and Centaur. Put all of them at the high table. And myself of course. And why at that end of the room? Put them in the center, here. And the hall around them.”

“But that’s not as dignified, Grand Magus, surely. People should approach the high-table.”

Seky protested. The half-Elf waved a finger at her.

“You’re speaking like a Drake, young woman. Everything has to go in order of superiority, does it? Why an arbitrary direction? The room revolves around you. This is Zelkyr’s style, claw marks all over it. Must we sit on decorum? Why, in times past there was even elevated seating!”

“You mean…bleachers?”

Eldavin gave the offending [Mage] such a long look the man turned red.

“I mean, floating tables. Separated levels—artificial light structures. Completely egregious, incidentally. That is what happens when rank takes too much precedence. Not that I am saying it shouldn’t factor in! But it was ridiculous.”

“Must have been a sight to see.”

One of the Drakes murmured. Eldavin’s brows rose.

“It was. It looked like—well, this.”

He snapped his fingers. Telim, head rising like a submarine’s periscope and swiveling to and fro, froze. Trey blinked. Then he stared.

Slowly, a shimmering table appeared over the heads of Eldavin’s group. Everyone around looked up and gasped as they saw lifelike people—[Mages] of old, wearing shimmering robes and made of light—eating, talking, and waving down at the people below. They sat on a kind of [Light Bridge], like Mena had seen, with a staircase leading down.

Then it was gone. Eldavin calmly took a sip of wine.

“That takes more magic than I remember it doing. But you see? Completely inefficient. Only useful if the banquet hall was filled.”

Everyone was staring. He looked around.

“What?”

“That was a magnificent illusion spell, sir.”

A voice broke the silence. It was Telim. The High Mage had approached the table. He’d brought a chair with him. He placed the stolen duck on the table.

“High Magus Telim. And you must be Grand Magus Eldavin. I’m a fan of the Illusion school myself, and I have to say—that was exceptionally crafted!”

“Well met, Magus Telim. And it was hardly exceptional. Just a few memorized replications. You understand how it is. Memory is far easier to replicate than anything else.”

Eldavin nodded calmly. Telim blinked at him.

“Still, extraordinary. Aren’t you from Izril? A little bird told me that.”

“I have come from there, it is true. And it has been long since I last attended Wistram’s halls. Much has changed. Lack of decorum, you see…”

His voice rose again. And with it, some more illusions. Other [Mages] were showing off too. One conjured a Wyvern; someone else threw a fake spear through it.

“Behave yourselves! There will be no large spellworks without permission!”

An irate voice shouted from the front. Some of the [Mages] laughed, others fell silent. Eldavin meanwhile was getting more and more looks from the Libertarians and nearby [Mages].

“I have half a mind to bring up my complaint with the Archmages at this moment.”

“Tricky, Grand Magus. They will be swamped with people and it will be hard to get a word in edgewise…”

“Then I will insist upon it. Who represents Izril up there?”

“That would be Valeterisa. But the Archmages to know are Feor, Viltach, Nailihuaile at the moment…”

“One of them, then. Feor perhaps. Really, he should have come to me. We are both half-Elves, aren’t we?”

For a [Grand Mage] no one had heard about, he had an ego as large as well, anyone else’s here, and a voice to match. The mostly-Human group began joking as he continued to rant through the second course. One of them leaned over.

“That old hermit-mage seems to think he should be right up next to the Archmages, eh, Charles?”

Charles de Trevalier gave Eldavin a none-too-friendly look. He nodded at Timor du Havrington; they were both Libertarians under the watchful eye of Mage Rievan. The teacher and senior member of their faction cautioned them.

“Do nothing that might embarrass Archmage Viltach, you two.”

They hesitated in front of the warning tone. Charles looked innocently at his mentor.

“That old half-Elf is rather full of himself, Rievan. Half-Elven superiority right there. Shouldn’t someone take him down a notch?”

The [Mage] pursed his lips. Eldavin’s voice came carrying to where they were seated again.

“And the reception at the docks was simply shoddy. One impresses guests with effort, not with half-hearted groups—no offense to your hard work, Miss Mena. But you should have had ten times your numbers, music, personal touches like that make all the difference…not some ragtag group of metal statues. You might as well drag out some actual statues for all the effect the Golems had! What use is one if they act no different than the furniture?”

Rievan’s lips pursed. He’d suggested the Golems on display! He nodded to Charles and Timor.

“Words only.”

They grinned and began composing their work as some more of their fellow students and [Mages] leaned in for the fun. It was clear to them that Eldavin was a Centrist in all but name, and would soon be in Feor’s faction. And the enemy deserved to be embarrassed, especially if they were all talk.

—-

Trey had abandoned the back table. Telim had made introductions, stayed for a minute to talk illusion with Eldavin, but he had to scamper once the [Chef] honed in on her missing duck. Flynn ran off too, since Prickly was drooling and following the [High Mage].

But Trey was fascinated. This old [Mage]…Trey had no reading on his aura, like some of the better [Mages] here. He seemed like a lot of hot air. And yet—Trey had met the Quarass of Germina. He got the same feeling from this half-Elf as her.

His instincts told him to stay, so he was the one who retrieved food for Eldavin. The [Grand Mage] gave him an approving nod as Trey sat.

“Respect, young man. Troy Atlas, is it? It goes a long way.”

“Yes, Grand Magus.”

Trey also had a lot of experience handling people with huge egos. Fetohep, Flos, the Quarass again for that matter…Trey inclined his head.

“You were saying about the reception, Magus Eldavin?”

The [Bard] sitting next to Trey gave him an exasperated look. She and the others kept trying to get Eldavin to talk about the floors above the Golem’s test. But the half-Elf latched onto Trey’s question.

“Thank you, young man. I’m simply confused. Perhaps you can illuminate me as to why no [Weather Mage] provided clear skies?”

“I’ve only been here two weeks or so, Grand Magus.”

“Ah. Then you, Miss Mena?”

The [Bard] coughed.

“Well, sir, we don’t want to cause another magical typhoon…and once you arrive to Wistram, everything is peaceful.”

“They could have at least extended the bubble of weather.”

The [Bard]’s fake smile was accompanied by a lot of head nodding. She took another long sip of her cup and a bite, then spoke.

“But it’s surely something for a guest, to see a sphere of perfection even out of a storm. That’s impressive, isn’t it? More impressive than clear skies all the way here?”

Eldavin looked at her as if she was mad.

“A localized bubble spell is more impressive than perfection and a satisfactory voyage?”

“No—I just meant—people expect Wistram to be like this, though, so why not let them sail through some bad weather? ‘It’s always sunny in Wistram’, after all.”

“What?”

The [Bard] looked at the others. One did a covert ‘he’s nuts’ gesture with her claw. Trey winced.

“It’s what people say. It’s always sunny in Wistram, Grand Magus. Because of the calm air? Perfect skies? Didn’t they say that when you were here? A hundred years ago?”

The Drake, Seky, gave him a patient smile. Eldavin slowly gulped down another chicken tender.

“I have never heard that in my life, young Drake. And you will drop the patronizing tone. What do you mean, it’s always sunny? When we care for it, we’ll have rain! Tam—dead gods, the flora surely enjoys that! And what about when [Aeromancers] practice? Gale winds. Come to that, they should lower the temperature a bit. It was altogether too warm for my tastes.”

The table blinked at him.

“Lower the…”

“The weather spell. Has no one changed it since…”

And then Eldavin stopped. He looked around incredulously.

“You must be joking. Has no one changed the weather for the last hundred years?”

A silence fell on the table. No one quite wanted to reply. Eldavin began tapping the wooden surface rapidly.

“This—this is incredible! Even if the higher floors are locked, it is not that difficult! Even a junior [Mage] can do it. Do they just not bother to change the setting?”

“I don’t—I didn’t know—”

Mena was flushing, looking around as if Wistram itself were being impugned. Indeed, everyone in earshot was uncomfortable.

Except for Trey. That was, Troy. He was happily eating the imitation of fast food fried chicken and enjoying this.

“So there was different weather when you were here last, Grand Magus?”

The old man looked at Trey approvingly.

“Exactly. Why, we had glorious days where we’d turn the weather to fall and sip drinks in Somela’s Forest. Wonderful trees, blooming in every color; damned petals kept getting in the drinks, but half the academy would be there. Rain for [Hydromancers], baking sun for [Pyromancers] and so on. Weather informs magic. Well, the reverse was also true; you’d get miserable [Pyromancers] in torrential downpours who had to cast [Fireball] before their masters let them in to eat! One time a poor [Pyromancer] camped for two weeks in the rain. Had to survive on fish and donations and a quarter of the student body gave him tips until he finally mastered the spell.”

He laughed heartily at the memory. Trey nodded. He’d had similar training from Gazi and the [Mages] of Parasol Stroll. The students, though, looked appalled.

“That’s barbaric!”

“What? He learned the spell. Adversity! Don’t tell me they don’t throw [Aeromancers] off the high balconies anymore? That’s how you learn to fly. Or at least, break your fall.”

At that, Trey shuddered.

“I learned how to cast [Slow Fall] that way.”

Mena gaped at him. Eldavin beamed.

“There you are. The old ways! Not everything old is wrong. Not everything…”

He lapsed into silence for a moment. And he looked terribly sad for a moment.

“I remember a time when Archmage Chandler roamed these halls. Is it anathema to speak his name? There was a time when Terandria boasted of their Archmage!”

Charles de Trevalier’s head slowly turned incredulously. The Libertarians froze up. Mena gulped.

“Grand Magus—”

Eldavin wasn’t listening. He turned to the [Sand Mage].

“You seem to have decent foundations, young man. Who taught you? Er…”

He squinted for a second.

“Trey Atwood, isn’t it?”

Trey began to choke on his food.

“W-what? No, it’s Troy Atlas.”

“Oh. My mistake.”

Eldavin gave Trey a look and casually sipped from his drink. Trey felt a huge pit burning in his stomach, but no one seemed to have noticed. But he had an anti-[Appraisal] ring and everything! They had told him—

—-

Valeterisa was growing increasingly antsy. She did not care for this seating. Moreover, she had just spotted the young man with the Lifesand Golem.

He had run away from her. Screaming. It was not a unique experience, but now she saw him sitting at a table with what her internal notes identified as Grand Magus Eldavin, affiliation unknown, level unknown, apparently older than Archmagus Feor.

That would have already interested her. But in her head, one of her thought-processes attracted the attention of all the others.

Ding! Translation complete. The mysterious note on the wall finally sorted itself through her translation.

I am Magus Eldavin and offer you a secret of fire…

Viltach was sighing. Someone had brought up the Necromancer, apparently. Magus Rievan was pointing and the Archmage glaring.

“If they’re over there, the better for it. Let them talk. No, just let them talk, Rievan.”

He shooed the [Mage] away. Some old [Mage] who had as many memory issues as incontinence ones? It didn’t matter; no wonder Soner had put a [Grand Mage] over there. He turned.

“As I was saying, Valeteris—”

He looked around. She had left the table in the third course and wandered off. Viltach cursed and sighed. Lack of decorum everywhere!

—-

“I actually think they’re not going to approach us. Which means we have to go begging to them. Ridiculous.”

The Drakes were glowering from their isolation table. The voice from the scrying orb was patient.

“Wistram owes the Walled Cities little. Go to Grand Magus Eldavin. I can vouch for his superior knowledge.”

“I’m getting up. Fourth course is nearly done; I see Archmage Valeterisa.”

The Drakes stiffened as they saw her picking her way through the crowd. Half glared; she was the Human Archmage of Izril as far as they were concerned.

“How did someone wake her up? Better if she stayed silent.”

Grumbling, they watched her move. Then they noticed whom she was moving towards.

—-

“Who’s that half-Elf?”

Galei of Ullsinoi was eating in the company of his faction…or maybe not. Charles de Trevalier was offering Cessic, one of Beatrice’s few remaining friends, a tureen of gravy. In fact—most of the [Mages] here looked like ones from other factions. They had doppelgangers—or they were actually here.

“No idea. But he had a splendid illusion spell. Looked almost spontaneous. You interested, Galei?”

The Bear-General of Ailendamus was eating at his table. Yerzhen—or rather, the [Mage] stealing his name and look—glanced around. The others murmured.

“As good as I could do it. What was that, light magic?”

“Lovely containment; I barely saw any magical leak. Where’d he come from?”

“The High Passes. And Liscor. And the inn.”

The Ullsinoi faction stopped. They gave each other significant looks.

“Ah. Then we had better say hello. Old man sounds very upset. Did you know we could change the weather spell?”

Bemused, most of the table shook their heads. A few nodded just because. So did Galei. And Taxiela, both of whom might be Palt’s master, or neither. The Centaur bit into the Hawaiian pizza slice.

“I did. I was wondering if anyone would remember.”

The others laughed. He might have been telling the truth. They all looked over as someone raised their voice.

“Excuse me, sir. Would you mind sharing your wisdom with us?”

Charles de Trevalier glanced over and saw his twin rising from his seat and calling out to Eldavin. The Ullsinoi [Mages] stirred.

Oho.

—-

Eldavin’s head turned. His ire had faded a bit, and he was actually beginning to enjoy himself as he ate; he’d sent Trey to collect a sample of all the dishes.

“Yes, young man?”

He called out to Charles de Trevalier. The young man was smiling—but not in a happy way.

“We—the Libertarians—”

“The who?”

Eldavin blinked at the Humans. They looked at each other.

“The Libertarians? Who believe Wistram should involve itself in the affairs of nations? One of the largest groups in Wistram?”

“Ah. You must have called yourself something else the last time I was here.”

Eldavin’s eyebrows politely rose. The young man looked uncertainly around, then flushed.

Charles de Trevalier. Beatrice glowered from her seat. She knew him. A troublemaker, decidedly pro-Human and anti-most species.

Once, he had been Ceria and Pisces’ enemy, having come in on the same boat and year as they did. He stepped away from the table and everyone heard the silver chime.

A silver bell and a rapier hung by his waist. Proof of mastery, or the first step to such.

He didn’t deserve it. But that was long, long ago…

“You seem to have a number of old memories, sir. Such as that of the Necromancer of Terandria. Or are you forgetting Wistram exiled that kind of foulness?”

Eldavin stirred. His eyes locked on Charles’.

He recognized uppity tones when he heard them. Young Dragons now…

Ah, once. Once, he had walked among his kind. Endured challenges, their testing of him—what a pain.

What he wouldn’t give for those days once more.

The young woman who bested a Dragon. Shot by crossbows. Lying frozen—

He blinked. Forget about it.

“Young [Mage]. Your tone seems to indicate that you object to me using his name. And title. Archmage Chandler.”

Charles flushed. Another young man shot to his feet.

“He is not an Archmage! He was exiled and his name stricken such that it is never uttered nor remembered in all of Terandria!”

The half-Elf sighed.

“If it is never remembered, how do people remember not to utter it? Quite a contradiction in terms…but I digress. He was still an Archmage. Strip him of his titles as the world will—I thought Wistram, Academy of [Mages], would at least give history the courtesy of being correct. He was an Archmage, for better or worse.”

Charles ground his teeth. Timor was beet red; the fool had no gift for words. He snapped.

“That is inconsequential. The point is that—that brand of magic is both repugnant and worthless. Or have you not heard what necromancy has wrought since?”

More people in earshot stopped laughing or talking. Troubled faces among the older [Mages]. And even the younger ones who remembered the events that had led to a [Necromancer] being expelled.

“I have not, young man. Nor do I care to be illuminated at this time. I am here to speak to the Archmages. Necromancy is just a type of magic. That it should have fallen to such a state of neglect here—that is legacy for you. If Az’kerash could have seen it…”

Eldavin sat there. Trey felt himself nodding. He had been to Khelt. The old man’s eyes caught the gesture.

“You won’t apologize for invoking the Necromancer’s name to sons and daughters of the lands he terrorized?”

The Grand Magus did not turn around.

“Young man, if a name were all it took to terrorize Terandria, your ‘Necromancer’ would have conquered it long ago. Nor do I require lectures from a lesser [Mage]. I am Grand Magus Eldavin and my understanding of the magical craft is second only to the Archmages.”

The listeners tittered as he calmly speared a baked eel and chewed it happily. Charles was incandescent. Rievan was hurrying back as Viltach rolled his eyes.

—-

Feor glanced down the hall.

“Who is that half-Elf, Teura?”

He motioned to his second-in-command. She grimaced.

“Grand Magus Eldavin. He wished to see you. He claims to be a contemporary of Archmage Zelkyr.”

“Truly? Grand Magus…I don’t recall him. But then, the higher [Mages] came and went.”

Feor looked around. It seemed like he was arguing with a young man—Charles. One of Viltach’s troublemakers. Feor grimaced. Perhaps the half-Elf wanted to reminisce? He did not recall Eldavin, but the argument was getting louder.

Meanwhile, a serving Golem’s eyes lit up. No one noticed. But somewhere in the academy, a Truestone Golem paused. Someone remembered.

—-

Eldavin was sitting, chewing the eel and savoring the taste. It all tasted better when you weren’t well, the size of a Dragon.

However, he was recalling the times of old. He had been here when Zelkyr was made Archmage of Golems. He had talked to the Drake.

To the Archmage of Death too. Before and after. He knew his story. There was no sympathy from the descendants of his victims. Of course not. They had vilified him.

But how they forgot.

They forgot to change the weather. They forgot how they used to sit, even some magics. That [High Mage] didn’t even understand preset illusions you just summon.

How things changed. In an instant, so much was lost.

The [Garden of Sanctuary] will be lost again. Her legacy. The [Innkeeper] is dead.

The food turned to paste in his mouth. Then the arrogant young man spoke.

“For such a venerable, wise senior mage, sir, you don’t seem to be in the right company.”

Slowly, Eldavin looked up. Mena hurriedly stood.

“Mage Charles, don’t you have your own faction to attend to?”

But it was too late. Eldavin had turned in his seat again. He fixed Charles with a look.

“What do you mean, young man? I am in the company of [Mages] seeking my knowledge. As befits wisdom, which you appear to lack.”

The words stung and provoked chuckles, but Charles just sneered at him.

“I’m sure that’s the reason you’re sitting here, Grand Magus. After all, someone else with your class is right over—oh.”

He nodded to the old Garuda sitting practically next to the Archmages. Eldavin’s eyes slowly narrowed.

“I am tired from my journeys and sit where I choose, boy.”

“Of course, sir. And I did not hear you object at length to your position? You were certainly not placed here because everyone felt it would be an embarrassment to have you utter your ramblings in front of our esteemed guests.”

He nodded to a [Mage Lord] of Terandria, some of the Chandrarian nobility and other guests. More laughter, louder, from the Libertarian faction. The half-Elf looked around, and then saw Mena’s abashed expression. The other people sitting around the table save for Trey bit their lips and he read the truth of it on their faces.

Slowly, the tips of Eldavin’s ears turned red. Then his face. He opened his mouth to respond—and then stood up.

“We shall see about that.”

He began to stride away from the table. Mena rose.

“Grand Magus—please, it’s not even the fourth course—Grand Magus!”

High Mage Soner was already moving on an intercept course as Eldavin stormed towards the high table.

“Out of my way. I have words for the Archmages regarding my business—”

“Sir! Grand Magus, Grand Magus, please, there is no need to cause a scene…”

It was hardly the only interesting thing happening in the hall, of course. At this very moment, one of the Earthers at the private table where Aaron was sitting was juggling flaming chicken nuggets to laughter. Another [Mage] was dueling a rival far to the back of the room in a grudge match, and a fiery debate had just ignited between the Libertarians and Centrists about which side was right in the Ailendamus vs Dawn Concordat battle.

But Eldavin was certainly part of the scene. The Archmages noticed him arguing with Soner and some of their representatives. They affected not to notice, except for Naili, who was watching with amusement.

“Grand Magus, the Archmages are not taking unsolicited meetings at this moment!”

In the end, Soner burst out with the truth. The full truth, the whole truth, and, to Trey, the wrong truth. He saw Eldavin stare at the Naga.

“So I am refused admission?”

“Later, I am certain they will all have time for…”

For you. The Libertarians were all chuckling. Eldavin stared at the Archmages—all of whom were looking away. Naili waved apologetically.

Trey waited for a detonation. But it never came. Never let it be said Dragons didn’t respect rules…except when they didn’t. But Eldavin just adjusted his robes.

“I see.”

He turned, and slowly, with great dignity, went back to his table, ignoring the laughter. The tips of his ears were red, but he was calming down.

It might have ended there. But then—it could have been a leg, a sneaky spell, a bit of something on the floor. Or his robes.

He tripped and went sprawling. Charles, Timor, even Rievan, and everyone in sight howled with laughter as the half-Elf picked himself up.

“Grand Magus—are you—”

Mena and Seky went to pick him up. Eldavin brushed off their hands. His face was pale now. He walked over and sat down at the table. Trey Atwood gave him one look. Then he stood up.

“I have to um…it was a pleasure to meet you, Grand Magus.”

“Thank you, young At…las. Your company has been most enjoyable. Where are you sitting?”

Trey pointed. Eldavin’s head turned as the laughter died out. He nodded.

“Good. Stay there.”

He sat still in his seat, not eating, as the other students and mages sat silent around him. For a minute. Valeterisa watched Eldavin’s back and then looked at Troy Atlas. She understood it was probably politically inexpedient to talk to him. Even if she had just agreed with everything he said. She drifted after Troy. She wondered if she could buy that Lifesand Golem.

—-

“Troy! There you are! Where’ve you been? Did you see Telim steal that duck?”

“I did. Where’s Prickly?”

“Over there.”

George pointed. The Earthers were at their own tables; some were mingling like the group with Telim, but here they were allowed to talk about, well, Earth.

“This is amazing. It is Hogwarts!”

“Would you stop saying that? This is reality!”

Elena rolled her eyes at one of the newcomers. She looked about.

“Where’s Sidney? Is she okay? She got a scare.”

Trey sat down as the others looked around. He vaguely recalled Sidney, one of the youngest girls. Very timid, part of the therapy sessions in that beach-room.

“What happened to her?”

“She saw one of the items they were serving. Roasted rat…she freaked out.”

“Aw. Damn. Is someone…?”

“Saif and Malia went after her. I—oh, there they are. Quick, someone give me a calming tonic. I’m going to put some in her drink.”

“Is that drugging…?”

“Shut up, George.”

Trey sat among the Earthers, most of whom were relaxing without restraint. They thought this was an adventure story. Some had seen enough to know better, but they were a minority. He saw Aaron glancing at him.

“You doing okay, Troy? You don’t have to study so much.”

“It’s what I’m good at. Thanks, Aaron. But we want to level up, right?”

“True enough. But hey—if you want help, Naili can probably arrange some private tutoring.”

“That would be…great, actually, thanks.”

The young man smiled.

“You should take some more time to hang out. We haven’t properly welcomed you with all this…”

He waved his hand.

“…But we’re trying to all get together more often. How about tomorrow?”

“Sounds good. I don’t have more than a morning class…”

Trey relaxed. But he noticed some of the new, 1st year students were eying him at his special table. The new group, including the surly young man from Hellios…he wanted to blend in, but he couldn’t.

Well. It was his job to find a way, even if he had help…Trey busied himself with his food. He had a feeling he should try to talk to the Grand Magus when he cooled down. Did no one else think someone that old would have the most knowledge to spare?

“Oh no. That poor old guy’s getting embarrassed again.”

Elena groaned as the fourth course rolled around. Trey’s head rose.

“What old guy?”

“The half-Elf. Look, he’s…”

As waiter-Golems, the living [Waiters] and [Servers] and the 4th course—Chandrarian themed, rolled about the head tables, Grand Magus Eldavin stood up. Instantly, Mena and the others beseeched him to sit down.

Now was the time when guests circulated, but it was still on the Archmages to make the first move; one could hardly just run up to their table. They would usually send someone to ask for a chat.

Moreover, since it was Eldavin, the Naga High Mage Soner was already prepared to intercept. He’d already been fending Valeterisa away from Troy Atlas and the Earthers, and he was miserable as he signaled to make Mena keep the old troublemaker there.

And in that, he underestimated Eldavin’s wrath. The Grand Magus had been forced to endure the Libertarian’s loud jokes, not to mention the insults and his splendid fall. He had realized he’d been shuffled off to the side.

A lesser man might have left altogether, or caused a scene before being escorted out. But Eldavin…

He was a Dragon. And Dragons did not forget so easily.

“Archmages of Wistram! Esteemed guests! It is my honor to return to the halls of Wistram after a century’s time! I, Grand Mage Eldavin, have elected to perform a magical working in honor of this occasion!”

The booming voice cut through the air and the entire hall looked up. Soner put his serpentine face in his hands as he slithered forwards. The Archmages looked around. Trey inhaled.

Eldavin was standing away from his table, arms outstretched, magnifying his voice. Now people looked at him, really—looked at him.

“Handsome half-Elf.”

Sa’la whispered to Telim. He pushed her.

“Don’t tell me that. What am I supposed to do with your input? I hope he doesn’t embarrass himself.”

“Should I stop him, Archmage?”

Feor grimaced.

“Let another faction—or we shall see what he does.”

He glanced down the table, but the other guests looked amused. Eldavin went on, casually ignoring Mena and Seky.

“It has always been custom for [Mages] to attract the attention of Archmages so! And be it so humble, but my magic may speak for itself. Behold!”

“What custom is he talking about, Feor?”

Naili leaned over. Feor frowned.

“I hardly remember anything so elegant. It was all…more chaotic back in my day. With…”

He bit back the words. Archmage Chandler and the rest. Those had been different times. He watched with resignation as the half-Elf prepared to humiliate himself. Certainly, the Libertarians were jeering.

“Stop him! Would you two do your jobs for—”

High Mage Soner hurried forwards. Then he saw why Mena, Seky, and the other minders couldn’t drag Eldavin to his seat or make him leave the hall. They were pressed against something.

“A barrier spell?”

“We can’t get through, High Mage—”

“Gah. That old—[Dispel Magic]!”

Soner pointed a wand at the invisible space. He slithered confidently at Eldavin and went thunk into the invisible barrier. Dazed, the Naga recoiled.

“What the—?”

He tried again, but to no avail. And Eldavin now was lifting his hands. He had no wand or staff. Like a maestro, he waited as the hall gazed at him.

“What a silly old man, mother.”

“Watch.”

The leader of the [Depth Mages] stirred. Valeterisa had turned to watch. The Drakes from Fissival were gazing at Eldavin and one had lifted Grimalkin’s orb up obligingly so he could watch. Everyone else was gazing out of the corner of their eye, or idly. The smart ones were more intent. Ullsinoi were already taking bets on what it would be.

Eldavin stood poised, eyes closed. Concentrating. Naili hoped it wouldn’t be some old-style long-form spell chanted with like, a six-minute casting time.

She watched as Eldavin lowered his open arms. And then he stomped his foot.

Lines of light radiated out across the banquet hall from his foot. Intricate patterns, flashing across the stone, glowing a gentle blue. Forming an elaborate…magical circle nearly sixty feet by sixty feet.

Feor sat up in his seat. Naili started choking on her roasted rat.

Telim rubbed at his eyes and checked the alcohol content of his glass of rum. He turned to Sa’la.

“Did he just—is that a spell circle?”

“It can’t be. It looks like one, but—he stomped his foot?”

Incredulity. Some of the [Mages] stood up. It was so fast! But it was a circle; they sensed the complete power in it. It engulfed the tables around Eldavin—it didn’t seem to be doing much, but it was a beautifully complex pattern!

“Magnificent.”

Someone murmured. Inscribed magics like spell circles weren’t as common as direct-action spells and this one was elegant! Complete, without perceivable gaps or ebbs and flow in the structure of the spell. It was, well, perfect, such that if you were trying to break or interfere with it, there was no good place to start, no weak point.

Applause. A few [Mages] began applauding Eldavin, standing up to clap. Some of the others hesitated. Eldavin just inhaled.

The Libertarians were caught in the middle of the spell circle, along with Mena, Seky, Soner, and the others. They were beginning to sense something, but it wasn’t apparent.

“What is this spell circle, High Mage?”

“I don’t know…”

Eldavin was murmuring something under his breath. He was drawing magic to him, and now all the Archmages and guests; indeed, the entire hall was staring. The Golems and staff were standing as well—well, that wasn’t accurate. They were in different positions. The staff were frozen uncertainly, but…

Feor snapped his fingers and laughed. Teura turned to him.

“Archmage?”

“Oh, I just remembered. There was a custom before Archmage Zelkyr became the undisputed master of Wistram. A silly thing. If you wanted the Archmage’s attention, in the old days, you just cast a spell and…”

His eyes focused on Eldavin and his voice trailed off. Feor began to stand. Then he saw the serving staff. The mortal, living ones were just staring. But the Golems had moved.

All the Golems were standing against the far walls.

The doors blew open. Cognita, Truestone Golem, a giant marble figure, strode into the banquet hall. She turned to Eldavin. The half-Elf’s head turned.

“Rievan. I don’t feel well. My mana feels like it’s…”

Timor plucked at the [Mage]’s sleeve. Rievan stood up.

“He’s draining our mana!”

He shouted and pointed at Eldavin. The [Grand Mage] pointed back.

“[Blooming Fireball].”

A gigantic orb appeared. It struck the table where the Libertarians were sitting and sent them flying. The plates, tables, and people all went soaring. Charles de Trevalier crashed into a table where the [Depth Mages] were sitting. One of them pushed him off.

Silence. Then, Eldavin pointed at the head table.

“[Valmira’s Comet].”

The second burning spell arced across the floor. The Archmages stared. Viltach raised his hands.

“[Force Sh—]”

Naili dove out of the way of the table. Feor raised his finger.

“[Lightning Bolt]! [Barrier of Scintillation]!”

A shimmering force field appeared around him as the spell hit the comet. It detonated and Viltach went crashing back over the edge of the table. Verdan was knocked back, but his anchoring spell protected him.

Feor stumbled as his shield caught the blast. Eldavin waved his finger around.

“[Firefly].”

Glowing sparks of fire appeared in the air. They dove at the Archmage’s table.

Chaos in the banquet hall! Half the [Mages] were on their feet. The Libertarians not blasted away stared at the [Grand Mage].

“He’s lost his mind! Defend the Archmages!”

That was an extraordinarily stupid comment from a lower-level [Mage]. She pointed her wand and Eldavin pointed a finger.

“Protect yourselves first. Let’s see. [Greater Spellshield]!”

The jet of lightning streaking towards him vanished before it struck him. The Grand Magus saw the [Mage] check herself.

“[Arrows of Light]!”

“[Ice Spike]!”

“[Fireball]!”

The [Mages] not immediately paralyzed and nearest to him with a line of fire shot spells from their wands or fingers. All of them vanished before they could touch Eldavin. Even Tier 3 spells! As soon as they crossed the lines of the barrier, they dissipated.

“I return to the halls of Wistram! Are there no true [Mages] to greet me? Have you forgotten so soon what you used to be?”

Eldavin thundered. The first barrage of spells ceased. [Mages] lowered their wands. The half-Elf turned.

“[Lancearrow of Light]!”

Teura aimed her spell at him. This time, Eldavin moved.

“[Stone Wall]!”

A thick wall of stone six feet wide shot up and blocked the spell. Teura blinked. That was fast! She saw more [Mages] aiming, but Eldavin was already widening the wall. He created a semi-circle around himself, then spoke.

“[Ice Wall], [Light Wall], and er…no, that should do it. [Fivefold Arcane Barrier]!”

Layers of ice, stone, and light sprang up around him, and a central magical barrier appeared. He was lost from vision.

“—must be mad—”

Viltach was on his feet, fury in his eyes. He spotted the barriers and lifted a finger.

“[Ray of Shattering]! [Lightning Tempest]!”

The first pale ray struck the wall of rock and shattered it to pieces. Bolts of lightning followed, drumming beats that blew the wall of ice to bits, then the light barrier. And behind it, the arcane barrier shimmered as Eldavin held up his hands, chanting.

“Evacuate the hall. Viltach! Don’t kill him! Vilt—”

Too late. The lighting burst through the barrier. Feor saw Eldavin illuminate as the bolts struck him. There was a flash. Feor was blinded for a second and cursed.

Was he dead? Surely he had—

Viltach lowered his finger. The bolts of lightning subsided. Everyone saw the broken shell of defensive magics was empty. Eldavin? A pillar of rock vaguely shaped like him was broken down to the base, molten stone cooling.

Where—

“Aaah! Help, h—”

Mage Rievan whirled around. He saw Timor and Charles de Trevalier. The two young men were alive and…floating? Behind them, Grand Magus Eldavin pointed a finger.

“[Stone Fist].”

“Wh—”

Rievan received a punch to his chest from a block of stone. He went over another table and didn’t rise.

“You! Put them down!”

“[Arrow of Light].”

Eldavin flicked a huge bolt of glowing magic far larger than Trey could muster under Charles’ body. Viltach flinched and it burst on his personal shields. He raised his finger—hesitated.

“Get them out of the way!”

The half-Elf calmly adjusted Timor as Libertarians, the nearest group to him, scrambled to spread out. He was flicking more jets of magic out.

“[Stun Bolt]. [Shock Orb]. Um…[Arrow of Light], again.”

He tagged a dozen [Mages] who went flopping down, paralyzed, shocked, or just knocked silly. One aimed a wand at him—he put Timor’s flailing behind in the way.

“Stop that! Are you mad?”

A [Mage] shrieked at Eldavin. He just turned his head and pointed a finger. She deflected the glowing bolt of magic and aimed a wand at him. He sighed and flicked his finger.

“Not many [Battlemages] here.”

The wand in the woman’s hand flicked across the room. She faltered and the spell she had been casting dissipated.

“My w—”

Flick, flick, flick—half the [Mages] with a poor grip on their wands promptly lost theirs. Eldavin regarded them, and then tossed them telekinetically across the room.

“I told those Bronze-rank adventurers they were poor spellcasters. But at least they could grip their wands.”

“Someone get Charles and Timor!”

Then Viltach called out. Naili and Verdan were standing back, but he and Feor were confronting this mad half-Elf! Feor was muttering fast, his fingers working on a complex spell, but Viltach was too irate to cast a large spell. He strode across the ground and jerked his wand.

Charles went soaring left—then screamed as he was moved right in the path of Viltach’s next spell. The man cursed and the orb went sideways. It detonated, and some of the students close to the battle too slow to get out of the way screamed as magic peppered their skin.

Eldavin’s head turned. His eyes widened.

“Are you mad?”

He motioned and Charles and Timor flew at Viltach. They hit his barrier, but slowed the Archmage up. Eldavin whirled on the other [Mages].

“Barrier spells! Put them up!”

He pointed at Telim. The [High Mage] had already erected one around his group, but at Eldavin’s furious finger he reflexively began to cast them on the other students in the way. Eldavin scowled. Then—turned.

“Ah, oop—”

The next spell from Viltach blew him across the ground.

Valeterisa watched. The [Greater Spellshield] had dissipated the force of the explosive orb, as had some other barrier spell, but Eldavin still had to pick himself up. The half-Elf looked up and blinked out of existence. The second explosion made Viltach’s head swivel.

“You have the audacity to attack an Archmage?”

Eldavin reappeared on a table, half of which was burning. His eyes flashed.

“You have the audacity to call yourself an Archmage? I knew the Archmage of Golems! How many challenges do you think he endured, boy?”

Viltach wavered. Then he aimed—

“[Blue Lightning Bolt]!”

Again Eldavin vanished. [Lesser Teleport]. He popped back into existence, raised a hand, and blocked the third bolt of lightning.

Frost and electricity. He grimaced. Half the hall was in the midst of evacuating; the [Mages] more preoccupied with slapping down barrier spells. But this—his eyes narrowed as he saw a contingent who hadn’t fled.

Drakes, standing behind a layered barrier spell. That reminded him of something. The half-Elf smiled.

“Ah, yes.”

With one hand he kept up the barrier against Viltach’s furious onslaught. With the second, he began chanting.

“[Bubble of Air]. [Bound Compression]. [Stone Armor]—”

“Viltach! You’re blowing half the hall apart! Stop!”

Nailihuaile called out. She was watching the half-Elf, edging out for her shot with her Serkonian Lance. She saw the Archmage snarl—then saw the half-Elf move.

“[Bear’s Strength]. [Haste]. And…[Flash Step].”

He blurred straight at Viltach. The Archmage hadn’t expected that. He’d been laying down a volley of spells that an entire squad of [Mages] would have been hard-pressed to match, but Eldavin had been blocking it all.

Magnificence. Because, Valeterisa, watching, had noticed the barrier the half-Elf was applying was still being reinforced by the mana drain circle. Viltach hadn’t realized. And now, the Archmage saw Eldavin speed at him. He tried to dodge, trusting to his personal barrier—

Magus Grimalkin of Pallass saw Eldavin collide with Viltach at top speed. The Drake—who really could have used some popcorn at this moment, despite the health qualms he had with the condiments—saw the half-Elf was covered in the [Stone Armor] spell.

It was rather like being body-checked by a brick wall at high speed. Viltach was protected, but he went over hard. He scrambled up, aiming a finger up at Eldavin—

The half-Elf grabbed his arm and it went wide. The other [Mages] hesitated, afraid of hitting Viltach. The Archmage was cursing. He hadn’t been in a brawl since he was a student. Eldavin on the other hand, swung a fist down.

He probably hadn’t punched something in…the windup was long, the arc far from compact to Grimalkin. But the tip of his fist still hit Viltach’s chest with commendable force. Then the bound spell detonated.

Pop. The sound was more like a vast pop of air suddenly uncompressing at once. It blew Viltach into the air. He landed behind Feor, Nailihuaile, and Verdan.

“Bubble of air? He just compressed it and used it like—”

Grimalkin of Pallass! Eldavin flexed one arm, then [Flash Stepped] into another [Mage] trying to aim at him. Step, step, step—he bowled into [Mages] like bowling pins.

“Are you all insane? Clear out of the way and let us deal with him!”

Teura barked at the lower-level [Mages]. Her eyes narrowed as Eldavin turned. His [Spellshield] was still intercepting all the low-level spells. She raised a hand.

“[Siege Fireball].”

A whirling vortex of fire knitted itself out of the air. Eldavin’s eyes locked on it.

“You want to use fire on me?”

He saw the swirling strands of fire knitting together like a ball of yarn, creating a burning, swirling mass of fire. It took seconds for a [Mage] of Teura’s strength where multiple [Mages] had to create it themselves. Eldavin saw other [Mages] dashing clear as she aimed it at him.

“Surrender or perish!”

She warned him. The half-Elf just shook his head. He was murmuring. Teura unleashed the spell and it rocketed across the floor.

“Woven-style [Fireball]. Fire. Against me.”

He stepped sideways, blinking left. Teura swung the fireball around to home after him. Hers was not a simple spell that couldn’t be aimed! But the half-Elf simply stepped around it again. And then—

He reached out and plucked a fiery strand out of the [Siege Fireball]. As it shot past him, it suddenly—Teura gasped—

Unwound. Even the Archmages stared as the fiery strands making up the [Fireball] suddenly unraveled. Eldavin held a burning strand of coiling fire—then it compressed into his hand.

His eyes were glowing. The fire compressed into a dot and then burned there.

“Compression-style [Fireball]. Considered inefficient and outdated compared to modern spell formation…”

Valeterisa murmured. Teura was gaping. Eldavin held a mote of light the size of a baseball, blazing white-hot. He flicked it back at her.

“Spells cast the same way. Magic recited and memorized by rote. Magic is more than a Tier. More than a level!”

He bellowed. [Mages] running for cover or aiming at him went sprawling. Nailihuaile jerked and saw Beatrice fall over as she tried to step forwards and aim at Eldavin. A little snare of green had wrapped itself around her foot without her noticing.

“[Grow Grass]? Are you kidding me?”

The Star Lamia blinked at Eldavin. Then she raised her staff.

She had been watching him, holding back like Verdan, who had enmeshed himself in barriers and just…walked away. Eldavin was taking on all comers, but only a fraction of the hall of [Mages] was actually taking him on.

Naili wasn’t so nice. Or timid. She raised the Serkonian Lance overhead.

“Grand Magus! Catch!”

A gigantic lance of magic appeared. She tossed it across the ground. Eldavin whirled. He took one look at the spell and vanished.

[Lesser Teleport]. Naili saw the spell, but couldn’t trace where—her neck rotated. She saw Eldavin pop up behind an overturned table.

“Got you! Expand, the Field of Serkonis!”

Around her a similar field of magic began to expand. Feor hissed as his spell and own aura refused to be ensconced by the magic. Naili let him do that, but everything around her began to take on the properties of the relic-class artifact.

In other words, turning into an area where everything was on her terms. Eldavin’s counter-attack fizzled out halfway towards her.

“Ah, the Serkonian Lance. An [Enchanter] carrying an artifact worthy of an Archmage, at least.”

He didn’t look put out by the field. Naili waved at him—then sent crackling lightning bolts at him. He blocked them and the flashes of light blinded the audience.

“Why don’t you come and try tackling me, Grand Magus?”

She was laughing.

—-

From their spot in the audience, the students and [Mages] were watching the magic fight take place between the second Archmage and Eldavin. Viltach was either down for the count or had removed himself and Feor was still preoccupied.

“He has to be an [Elementalist]! High level!”

Telim was babbling to the other [Mages] watching. They were hardly as good at commentary as Drassi, but they were watching as Eldavin took cover. This time—he raised huge pillars of stone out of the ground around him.

Like a forest of stone. Indeed, ‘branches’ shot out of the central pillars, decreasing their mass, but blocking the spells Nailihuaile was sending at him. Trey thought it was fascinating. And intelligent.

“That’s just [Earthen Spire]! He’s blocking all her direct spells with just—one spell!”

Sa’la was staring. Naili was growing frustrated; she was looping the vast lances she was conjuring, but the expendable pillars of stone kept rising and sacrificing only miniscule bits of themselves to block each spell.

“Elementalist. He has to be.”

“But that spell circle—hold on, what’s he doing now?”

Eldavin was hunting around the ground as the stone pillars—the [Forest of Stone] spell if any of the [Mages] had correctly identified it like Valeterisa—blocked the incoming fire.

“[Enchanters]. So reliant on artifacts. She’s not even using more than the lance spell.”

He grumbled. At last, he finished his work. He stepped out of cover as Naili blew apart the last pillar of stone. She raised her staff.

“Done yet?”

He looked up at her. He was holding…an orange. He’d hunted around for a proper object and this was the best he’d come up with. She blinked at it as she angled her staff.

“You are wearing a barrier, aren’t you?”

Eldavin called out. The Star Lamia’s eyes narrowed.

“Yes. Why—”

He tossed the orange at her. For a second, the orange just flew with all the throwing power of the half-Elf. Which was decent; far from a fastball since he had terrible form.

Then the first compressed spell fired. And the next—and the next—

[Directed Compressed Burst of Air]. [Frictionless Surface]. [Flash Move]—and so on. To the audience, the orange appeared to go lazily flying, and then, in an instant, speed—

—-

The sonic boom, if that was what it was, was deafening. Trey saw the entire glowing field of magic flash around Nailihuaile. The Lamia cried out and raised her staff—but the orange never reached her.

It had probably disintegrated halfway to her. But the air, impact—all of it non-magical—not to mention the little seeds flung at insane speed hit her magical field like, well, a supersonic orange.

It tore into the magical field and stopped. Trey actually saw the magic filling the space, ground, and air, tear apart.

Naili’s expanding field was torn open in a wedge. Again, only halfway towards her, but Eldavin had erased that section of magical field which had sacrificed itself to stop the attack. The Star Lamia stared at the rupture in the Serkonian Lance’s magic. Then she looked at Eldavin.

He was reaching for a fallen roast duck, the twin of the one in Telim and Prickly’s stomachs. She stared at her torn magical field, already re-knitting itself and came to a quick decision.

“Okay, I’m out.”

She slithered out of the way fast. Eldavin watched her go, smugly. He turned his head across the ruined floor; only a few figures remained. His eyes locked on one across the hall.

“And now. I believe my kindred is finally ready for me.”

Feor looked up. The half-Elf’s eyes were glowing and Eldavin turned to face him. This entire time, Feor had been chanting soundlessly. The two looked at each other. Slowly, Feor lifted his staff.

“Magus Eldavin. There are some things even a [Grand Mage] should be wary of. We are still [Mages] of Wistram, no matter how much we change. Even in the days when [Mages] challenged Archmages, it was never done lightly.”

“Lightly, Archmage Feor? I should repeat the same to you. Even Archmages did not lightly tread in other [Mage]’s affairs. You are interfering in my business. Stay away from Ryoka Griffin. She is not yours.”

Feor’s eyes widened. The words the two were exchanging were incomprehensible to anyone not standing close to them. The Archmage raised his staff.

“Grand Magus. Enough.”

The glowing orb set into the ancient ironwood sparked. Eldavin looked up and saw the air open. He saw the spell that Feor had been working on for the last six minutes activate. And his smile flickered.

“[Valmira’s True Comet Storm].”

The Tier 6 spell activated. The first glowing comet burst out of the air. It was not as fast as most spells. But it had a terrible glow about it. Each one the size of the first spell Eldavin had flung at the high table.

Each one—aimed at Eldavin. The half-Elf blinked across the room. The comets began to follow.

“He’s going to blow the entire banquet hall to smithereens! Sa’la, help me reinforce the barriers!”

Dozens of the spells were shooting forwards. Individually, they were Tier 5. But Feor was throwing dozens through the air, and dozens more—

Not even Grand Mage Esiela came close to this. Trey shielded his face as they began to detonate. This was an army-killing spell! He saw the Minotaur’s siege weapons firing in his mind. A reflection of that, if not the same way.

—-

Eldavin flung himself across the ground, moving to the back of the hall. He threw up barriers and saw them explode as a comet hit them. There was no using the same [Forest of Stone] spell—nor evading the hail of meteors.

He retreated as Feor made comets land around Eldavin, cutting off places to [Flash Step] or teleport to. The half-Elf began throwing up repeating barriers of magic, just—single-hit deflection shields. Layers and layers of them.

The comet storm converged on him. He could see Feor past the flashes of light, eyes glowing, staff raised. He was simply channeling power into the spell, unleashing the kind of magic that had once made [Archmages] feared.

Ah. He stood, throwing up magical barriers, enduring the onslaught. But at last—at last—

He was no longer mocking the [Mages].

There were spells he could cast. Attack spells, indirect ways of fighting this kind of magic. Evade, attack from far away while staying undetected or ahead of your foe. But he had not come to kill.

And if he did not run, or turn spells deadly? Eldavin looked across the ground.

Ah, this reminds me of why we died. This reminds me of why we ruled them. Because we feared them.

The Dragon recalled other battlefields. Other places. And he felt his magic burning out in his body.

The Archmage half-Elf had more mana than he did. A vast supply. Skills. Even if his comet storm was far less efficient than Eldavin’s spells—he was winning by sheer, limitless power.

The explosions of magical force were slowly pressing in on the half-Elf as the comets hit his barriers faster than he could make them.

“He has to surrender. Feor will blow him to pieces. He can’t even teleport out in that much mana density!”

Telim breathed. Everyone was watching as Eldavin’s barriers slowly dwindled and he was forced back.

Teriarch, Eldavin, gritted his teeth as pain began to lance through his body.

If I had my body—no, this is my body. This is my limit. There is always that hero and army on the horizon.

But how frustrating. He made a sound like a roar through a different mouth. Look at me, boy! He stared at Feor. You think you know magic? Then why have you forgotten who you are?

If only there was a way—he saw the comets bursting, each one deadly—his eyes narrowed. His hand began to move.

“That old half-Elf is insane! Half-Elf versus half-Elf!”

“He’s going to lose. That’s what all the [Mages] are saying.”

Elena was listening to the commentary amid the roar of battle. George looked at her. The young man rubbed at one ear.

“Really? Then why do I hear boss music?”

Elena opened her mouth. Then she just slapped him on the back of the head. But George was right.

—-

“What is he doing?”

Feor was still unloading comets on Eldavin’s position, until the [Grand Mage] gave up. But Eldavin was—moving. He was throwing something, detonating one of the comets before he could hit it.

Trying to trigger them before they reached him? Valeterisa shook her head. Feor was channeling his mana into an optimized spell! Moreover, you needed an equivalent amount of power to stop one of Valmira’s comets. You couldn’t just cast, say, [Light Arrow] and expect it to explode one. They ate lesser magics, hence the spell’s power and Feor’s love of it.

Another comet exploded as the half-Elf began to weave, throwing barriers up, forcing Feor to home in on him. He was clearly running out of power. Valeterisa watched. She did not want him to die. But then—

Boom, boom, boom.

Three of [Valmira’s Comets] exploded in the air. Three amongst dozens. But they detonated well before reaching their target. Feor noticed and a frown crossed his expression of concentration.

The [Mages] stirred. Then—Eldavin pointed and half the incoming comets exploded. But Valeterisa hadn’t seen a spell! The Archmage of Izril drifted into the firefight, staring. Invisible magic? What was—

She realized what he was doing. Only a handful of [Mages] could even comprehend it. Grimalkin of Pallass’ eyes were wide. He breathed the answer at the same time as the [Wardsmistress] of Fissival.

“He’s…unraveling the spells as they come at him!”

Eldavin’s eyes were closed as he stood there. What use were eyes to magical sight? His fingers twisted and plucked—

A dozen comets exploded seconds after forming. Feor stared up at them and then at Eldavin. His eyes were wide.

The same spell. The same spell! The half-Elf was panting, his robes scorched and damaged. Sweat ran down his brow. But Eldavin was still standing there. As if he had walked other battlefields.

The comets began to explode in the air. Now, Feor and Eldavin were wrestling with the magic, the half-Elf Archmage trying to reconfigure the comets that Eldavin had figured out how to trigger mid-flight.

The [Mages] of Wistram watched. Viltach, Verdan, Naili—no longer laughing, or raging, or mocking. The [Grand Mage] raised his hand as Feor’s comet storm winked out. The Archmage whirled his staff down.

“[Greater Tremor]!”

The world shook past his staff.

Eldavin’s feet left the ground. He looked down at Feor. Then he raised his hand. The two exchanged spells; a burning lance that cut the air and a flurry of doves made of light that left afterimages like razors. One dodged; the other threw up a shield.

The [Grand Mage] was panting, an arm cut by the spell that went through his barrier. Still, he raised his hand.

“He stood here, in these very halls! The great Archmage of Terandria! The Undying Shield of Calanfer! The Archmage of Death! Remember his name! [Summon Spectral Skeletal Warriors]!”

And then the figures broke the stone of the banquet hall. They pulled themselves up, lifting blades of energy. Feor’s eyes went wide. He blew three to bits; the others charged.

Eldavin whirled as the [Mages] cried out. He lifted a hand.

“They were both here. Now—[Zelkyr’s Emergency Golem].”

The splintered wood and broken plates—even bits of food rose in a whirling arc. Cognita, shielding the students, slowly rose. She saw a ten-foot-tall being assemble itself. It began to run at Archmage Feor. A Golem made of bits of wood and detritus.

The scrap Golem charged. Feor was fighting off both the spectral skeletons, which kept trying to reassemble, as well as the Golem who hit a magical wall he created. And now—he was unable to cast another grand spell as Eldavin flicked a [Shatterbolt] at his face.

The old [Mage] was winning! Eldavin looked around like a hunting predator. His eyes alighted on the Drakes. He pointed a finger.

“Evasive!”

Grimalkin barked. The Fissival Drakes scattered as the [Siege Fireball] burst on the [Wardmistress]’ shields.

“He’s gone mad!”

One of the Drakes shouted. He lifted a wand and Eldavin flung an orb of light at him. It detonated in the Drake’s face and everyone went blind.

“Complacency! Is there no one who respects magic?”

He roared. The half-Elf turned again—and a shadow wrapped around his leg. He went cross-eyed.

“Dr—”

The tendril flicked him through the air. The half-Elf got up with a growl, looking at—

The eight [Depth Mages] were all standing save for one. The veiled woman pointed at him and bolts of anti-light shot across the ground. Pure darkness, eating up visibility. They passed straight through a table and a broken [Wall of Stone].

Eldavin just flicked eight [Arrows of Light] up and they burst. The [Depth Mages] wavered.

“He knows our magic, mother?”

“Surprising.”

The eighth, their seated leader, went to grab Eldavin with the tendril again. He saw it coming, somehow, and slashed the shadow with a glowing sword of light. He pointed.

“[Lightning Bolt]!”

It shot across the ground and vanished. The air was dark; a dome around the eight women which had absorbed even one of [Valmira’s Comets]. One of the Drowned Folk’s [Mages] smirked behind her veil.

[The Midnight Veil]. A spell that belonged to their class and nature. Even an arrogant land-mage wouldn’t understand—

Eldavin took one look at the dome and sighed.

“Darkness mage. Appropriate for the deeps. Let’s see. [Light Orb] crossed with…”

He muttered and then flicked a glowing orb into the barrier. The eight saw the light vanish, as all things d—

Two dozen bursts of light tore at the veil. Their leader gasped.

The veil flickers. She heard the warning siren in her mind, and how many times had she ever heard…?

Her daughters cried out in dismay. She rose—and a tide of black water shot across the ruined floor. Eldavin levitated over it; it surged upwards and he cut the spell at the base. The water flooded around and then began to vanish.

“A powerful [Mage] indeed. Daughters—go.”

They hesitated. Then all seven stepped back. The [Depth Mage] stood up—and all eight removed their veils.

What they presented to the [Mages] of Wistram was the same face. One far older than the rest, who were sequentially younger. The same face.

Not just—related. But exactly the same. Just in different stages of age. Half-Human, exceptionally pale of skin because she crewed vessels that sailed dark currents where the sun’s rays were forgotten. And she had learned a magic fitting to that place, supreme in darkness.

The other half of her face? A starfish’s rough skin, reddish, hard. Her daughters, clones of one self.

“Grand Magus Eldavin. Do you pick a fight with the representatives of the Drowned Folk?”

“I pick a fight with anyone and everyone in this moment!”

He snapped back. The half-Elf’s blood was burning. He was half-smiling, half-furious. He strode about the destroyed banquet hall; the woman turned to face him, her fingers moving shadows around her.

“I am Grand Magus Eldavin. And that seems to mean more than it did when I left. I knew Zelkyr of old and Chandler both! They do not even dare to say his name here. But you will respect my will!”

Feor had destroyed the summoned things and was watching Eldavin. His staff poised. Viltach was ready to jump back in, having geared up, furious. The [Depth Mage] was drawing from her daughters. Eldavin was panting, reaching for a mana potion. Both his opponents tensed—

And Eldavin whirled.

“[Spell Purge]!”

He pointed. Both Feor and the [Depth Mage] raised their guards—but Eldavin wasn’t aiming at them. He aimed at a patch of air to his left. It rippled—then vanished. The old half-Elf traced it across the ground.

“Come out before I force you to.”

He growled. The air seemed to quiver—

Then a Centaur trotted out of the air. He looked extremely put out. Everyone stared.

None more than the Ullsinoi. For as he had appeared—

Galei and Taxiela had vanished. And this Centaur was far older than Galei. Moreover?

He had scales amid his fur. On his skin, even face and arms. A product of mixed species. Eldavin’s eyes narrowed.

“Who are you?”

“Call me…Gaxiela. I was just admiring talent from up close.”

The strange [Mage] winked. Eldavin aimed a finger at him. Then whirled left.

Feor, ‘Gaxiela’, the [Depth Mage] of the seas, and Eldavin saw Valeterisa walk towards Eldavin. The half-Elf opened his mouth.

“Y—”

Valeterisa spoke.

“[Bound Fireball], [Bound Fireball], [Lightning Bolt], [Gust of Air], [Burst Arrows of Light], [Thunderclap], [Roving Silent Sickle], [Stone Lance], [Stone Lance], [Stone Lance], [Stone Lance], [Tidal Wave], [Spray of Needles], [Darkness Pool], [Burning Floor], [Merda’s Push], [Multiplied Stone Fists], [Enhanced Flame Spray], [Caustic Acid]—”

Her voice was layered multiple times, such that she was casting multiple spells—and sped up. Feor saw Eldavin—vanish in a spectacle of lights.

Everyone clapped their hands to their ears, except those smart enough to have used spells already. When Trey could see and hear again, he saw Eldavin, panting, laying sprawled on the ground.

He’d gotten to safety—just. But his robes were simultaneously on fire, dissolving from acid, steaming wet, and suffering from multiple effects. He’d also taken a number of injuries to his legs and right side.

In the silence, Valeterisa’s head turned. Her face was composed, even blank. She looked at Eldavin.

“I am Archmage Valeterisa of Izril. The authority of Wistram’s Archmages does not submit to a lone [Grand Mage]. Will you relent?”

Eldavin stared up at her. His eyes sparked—and then he raised a hand, palm up.

“I do. I throw myself upon the mercy of the Council of [Mages], and apologize for my indiscretions. I will, of course, make amends.”

The Archmage of Izril gazed at Eldavin as he groaned and reached for a healing potion. Uncertainly, Feor adjusted his staff. After a moment, Valeterisa nodded.

“Very good.”

She turned and walked off. The audience stared at Eldavin as he groaned about actual pain and fumbled with the cork, then smashed it on the ground and levitated the liquid up to tend to his wounds. They looked at each other.

So camest Eldavin, [Grand Mage] of Wistram, to the Academy of Mages.

—-

The next day, Grand Magus Eldavin woke up sore.

Where?

Everywhere. And it wasn’t just physical pain. He was suffering from mana burnout. He felt sick, nauseated, and nearly tried to blow up…reality…that he might not suffer this.

He eventually stumbled to his feet after downing a healing potion and mana potion because he was hungry.

The injustices of a body that didn’t run on mana or generate it for himself! He was halfway out the door when he realized two things.

Firstly, that he hadn’t put his robes on, forgetting once again that he was supposed to wear clothes almost at all times. He was only in his undergarments, which was well because an entire crowd of people was waiting for him.

The half-Elf stopped as they all admired his abs.

“Whoa. Dude’s ripped.”

Someone muttered in the crowd. Trey thought it was George. Eldavin did not blush—he just tapped his body.

“Excuse me.”

Cloth covered him in a second, attiring him like some scholar-adventurer. He still walked back into the room and came out a moment later in his robes. Then he looked around.

“It seems I have guests.”

“Grand Magus, I come from Archmage—”

Eldavin raised a hand and the speaker was [Silenced]. He looked around—the hallway was packed—and then strode off. The crowd followed.

Trey knew exactly where Eldavin was going. So he took a shortcut, ran, and beat the others to the banquet hall. Eldavin settled himself down at a table.

The hall was still being fixed, but Golems were remarkably good at fixing up stuff good as new. So too with magic. He investigated the buffet, and food dishes levitated after him.

Half a dozen people wanted to show him to a seat, or had one waiting for him. Eldavin regarded the crowd, motioned them all aside, and pointed.

“Young Troy. And you. And you.”

He pointed. Three people, including Troy came to sit at the table. The others found themselves excluded by ten feet or more, unable to hear or see what was being said within.

Trey found himself sitting with Teura, Archmage Valeterisa, and Eldavin at the same table. He definitely felt like the odd one out. Eldavin politely raised his brow.

“Do neither of you have the desire to breakfast?”

Teura hesitated. She rose slowly, but Valeterisa did not. Trey already had his food.

“I do not require food. I wished to talk with you, Grand Magus.”

“It seems many do. Quite a difference from yesterday, when I was unknown. But as I believe it was said, ‘magic walks and talks the halls of Wistram—’”

“—little else does.”

The half-Elf stopped. Valeterisa looked at him. She was scooted to the edge of her seat, and, Trey noticed, almost vibrating with excitement.

“You recall the same expression. And you knew Archmage Zelkyr and Chandler.”

“Are they speaking his name again already? How does Wistram’s morality change.”

Eldavin snorted, but he gave Valeterisa a second look. She shook her head.

“I have never stopped. Your spellcasting yesterday is the talk of Wistram.”

“Is it now. I will no doubt be fined and censured by the Council. Ah, well…I understand the Academy now. And who to appreciate. Isn’t that so, young man?”

He looked at Troy. The [Sand Mage] ducked his head.

“Thank you, Grand Magus.”

Valeterisa jumped in as Teura returned through the bubble.

“Your spellcasting, Grand Magus, was exemplary. No spell you cast or theorem of magic you applied was unknown. Each spell alteration was replicable by some [Mage]—however you combined all elements in ways not thought of. Even emulating the school of physical magic postulated by Magus Grimalkin of Pallass!”

“I had cause to meet him. And he did not postulate it. He rediscovered it, if anything. Contextualize it properly, Archmage.”

Eldavin waved a fork as he chewed and spoke. He patted his mouth with a napkin.

“I am a highly-trained generalist practitioner, as befits my [Grand Mage] class. I do not consider myself overly valued for my class—but few [Grand Mages] exist, and it seems Wistram has…overvalued some forms of magic over the time I have been gone.”

Teura looked uncomfortable. Valeterisa just nodded and pushed up her spectacles.

“That is what I observed, Grand Magus. I would like to speak with you more on spell theorems and your recollections of lost magics to our current lexicons. I can provide you with compensation. I am also an Archmage and can probably waive the fines. Or pay for them myself.”

She added the Archmage bit like an afterthought. Eldavin didn’t immediately reply. He just gave a slightly mysterious smile and tapped the table.

“I certainly have time for an Archmage, Magus Valeterisa. And it seems the other factions may wish to speak with me. Certainly, my request to Archmage Feor is not being ignored?”

He looked at Teura. She gulped.

“Certainly not, Grand Magus. And Archmage Feor would deeply appreciate a conversation in his personal quarters at your earliest convenience. He apologizes for the delay.”

“Naturally, naturally. I will, of course, meet with him as soon as is germane.”

Teura’s mouth opened, but Eldavin was enjoying himself. He looked around, and then focused on Troy.

“It seems magic has changed a great deal since I last came to Wistram. And yet—this is still the academy of [Mages]. I see talent, even if it can be honed.”

He gave Valeterisa, even Teura a slow nod. Then he looked at Trey again.

“Perhaps—and I do not know the status of the Council or all the new factions in Wistram as of yet—but perhaps there is room for me to give some small lessons on magic. In exchange for appropriate compensation, of course.”

He looked at Trey, then Valeterisa, and then Teura. And the Dragon smiled internally.

This was it.

Somewhere, the person who had sent the dangerous message was lurking in Wistram, or so he believed. Certainly children of Earth had come here. And the academy had changed. Perhaps it was inevitable.

But he knew what it had been in glory and decay and corruption and greatness. So, the Dragon put his half-Elven foot upon the rudder and began to move it slightly. He looked up and saw watching [Mages], appraising, fearful, enraptured—

And the Golem, standing and looking at him. He nodded at her.

Wait but a while longer, Ryoka Griffin. For I will surely return. But right now…I am a [Mage] of Wistram. And magic needs my help.

Only one thing really remained. Eldavin frowned.

…What was he going to call his faction?

After Chapter Thoughts: This was the first chapter voted for, and the last chapter this month. There’s some kind of symbolism there, I tell you what.

Obviously it’s not the end. But I will be taking my one-week break after this, since I’ve written a lot! Hope you like the start to Volume 8…

It was this or Niers, and Teriarch won, and it might be his was the ‘happier’ chapter. Or more rewarding at this stage. You’ll be able to judge once I write a Niers-themed chapter whether this was the better option.

For now? I’m tired, I hope you enjoyed, and I’ll put out the side story poll for February soon! But this is all from me for now. Thanks for reading, and I’ll see you next month!

Ceria, Pisces, Yvlon, Dark Souls Yvlon, and more by Zelanters!

https://twitter.com/Zelanters

https://zelanters.tumblr.com/

The Wandering Inn Logo by Dthorn!

Wind Runner and an Erin-mod for Hades (not a real thing, sadly) by Miguel!

https://ko-fi.com/cmarguel

https://twitter.com/cmarguel

8.05 I

(Trigger Warning. Click here for details.)

Wall Lord Ilvriss collapsed during a routine inspection of Mining Shaft #4 currently in the possession of the Gemscale family of Salazsar.

It was, to all present, sudden. One second he was upright, frowning over the adamantine ore recently discovered in this valuable seam. He put a claw to his head, as if with a sudden migraine and then just folded up.

One of the Gnoll [Foremen] caught him before he fell over. The next second there was chaos. Half the people present went running for a [Healer] or grabbed emergency potions—tried to drag Ilvriss to a safe place.

Within minutes, there was a crowd as all work halted. And rumor shot through the city faster than someone could run. People were saying that there was gas in the mining shaft—or that Ilvriss had been poisoned.

Shriekblade, the Named Adventurer currently employed by Ilvriss, didn’t make things any better. She materialized as if springing from a shadow, and drew her enchanted daggers on the Gnoll trying to check for Ilvriss’ pulse.

Until a [Healer] arrived from the Gemscale family and another new adjutant, Captain Shieldscale formerly of Pallass, no one could so much as touch Ilvriss. Shriekblade refused to let even a potion touch him.

Wall Lord Ilvriss came around barely ten minutes later to the huge commotion. The [Healer] didn’t detect either poison or malign magic, but she administered a healing-stamina tonic and he was back on his feet within a minute despite the offers to bear him by litter to the Gemscale family tower.

“I will accept a palanquin when I’ve lost a leg, Foreman Graer, thank you.”

The Wall Lord’s words, and the incident, were all the talk in Salazsar for the rest of the day. Ilvriss himself arrived at the most reputable [Healer] in Salazsar within thirty minutes, taking the time to reassure people he was well and walk at a measured pace.

It didn’t end there, of course.

It never did.

—-

“Extreme stress and fatigue. When did you last get a full night’s sleep, Wall Lord?”

The [Renowned Tincturist], Merla Topaz, removed her Spectacles of Identification and put them securely in the padded case. She took a seat as the Wall Lord sat up.

“You must be joking, Healer Merla.”

She frowned at him as she went around her cabinets, removing a little paper envelope and slipping some bright, transparent purple pills into it.

“I never do when it comes to medicine, Wall Lord. Stress. Fatigue. I’ve seen it before. Your father never had it, but your grandfather did and countless Wall Lords and Ladies have suffered from the same. Stress, overwork—I wouldn’t have expected you to come down with it. Normally it manifests when a company is failing. And it’s rarer among younger males of any species, but I am not wrong.”

The purple-scaled Drake took a minute to sit there and process it. He couldn’t believe it. Stress? Of all the things…

It was both ignoble and embarrassing. He didn’t even remember fainting, just feeling weak for a moment and then—

“You’re quite sure?”

“Absolutely, Wall Lord.”

“It’s not poison gas? Lack of oxygen? It gets harder to breathe sometimes in the mining shafts…”

The old Drake, who had greying scales but a remarkably healthy body for her age of 80+, sighed. She could have passed for someone twenty years younger, a product of Skills, no doubt.

“If you’d like me to say so, Wall Lord, I will. This is of course confidential, but the city does like to gossip…”

“…No. No, Healer Merla. Thank you for the consideration, but no.”

Wall Lord Ilvriss had to struggle for a second before saying that. He was tempted to say ‘yes’, but understood in a moment that trying to cover the real reason for his fainting was a pointless endeavor that would probably backfire in time.

Stress. He stared at himself in the large mirror, which was an antique artifact used to diagnose patients. Merla had used Spectacles of Identification for bad spells, her own Skills and knowledge, and a Mirror of Wellness to confirm.

The Mirror showed Ilvriss as he was, but also a faint fugue about him, dark, like fog. If he had been sick or poisoned, it would have marked parts of him beset by his ailments.

It was a wonderful relic for a [Healer] of her level and reputation. Ilvriss wondered if it could show whether you were alive or not. Then again—a good spy would never let themselves be taken to a [Healer] of Merla’s standing.

Unless she was undead. But that was another Waisrabbit hole you could get stuck down—especially since the damned animals tended to collapse their burrows such that only a teleporting creature could ‘hop’ from section to section.

“…What, Healer Merla?”

“How long since you had a good night’s sleep, Wall Lord?”

The Drake woman repeated herself patiently. Ilvriss frowned.

“I slept every day this week.”

“For how long?”

“…S—F—Three hours last night. But I took breaks throughout the day.”

He admitted reluctantly. Merla raised an eyebrow.

“And the rest of the week? Similar? You know stamina potions do not replace sleep, Wall Lord? And unless you were sleeping under the effects of a Skill, that seems too low, even for [Twofold Rest].”

Ilvriss rubbed at his face. He had not been using Skills. It sounded bad when you said it outright, too. Glumly, he looked at the other Drake, with her faded rose-grey scales.

“I suppose the only cure is…?”

“Rest, of course. Here are pills for two weeks. Take them—sleep at least eight hours each night. They should keep you down and out.”

He accepted the envelope and sighed.

“I will, Healer. It’s just that…”

She pointedly folded her arms and Ilvriss hesitated. Of course, he was a Wall Lord, one of the richest families in Salazsar and the ruling class, since Salazsar was made up of only the Walled Families and had no higher power.

And Merla, despite being a [Healer], was a citizen. However, she had also tended to his family since he was a squalling Drake baby and you did not simply talk back to her.

“We all must rest, Wall Lord. I can’t do more than give you pills—although that will keep you rested—but there are ways to relieve stress or anxiety besides Calming Tonics…I can make up a list if you’d like.”

She waited. Ilvriss shook his head after a moment and forced a smile.

“That won’t be necessary, Healer. I know the root of my—weakness. I will deal with it and get proper rest, thank you.”

She saw him off. No one spoke of payment; she’d bill his family.

There was a crowd outside, but Captain Shieldscale, or Osthia Blackwing as he knew her, had a carriage drawn.

“To your tower, Wall Lord?”

“Yes, Captain. Thank you.”

He nodded at her; the bright blue-scaled Drake was more than capable after a few months in Salazsar. He noted a shadow detach herself from the clinic.

Shriekblade. The observers drew back slightly as the blank-faced Named Adventurer walked forwards.

They were an odd comparison. Wall Lord Ilvriss was a handsome Drake, one of the most eligible bachelors in the city, even if he’d never really been a target for seduction of late, but still, tall, lean, and thought of as an example for the modern Drake to emulate. His corporation of the Gemscale family was flourishing, he could and had led armies, and was thus good at both economy and war, the two things Salazsar prized.

He had royal purple scales crossed with dark red, and while not being Oldblood, was fairly ideal in most ways.

On the other claw? Shriekblade was shorter, and had more scars than you could count on the visible parts of her body. She was a Named Adventurer and thus famous—but she herself was infamous for being uncontrollable, completely mercenary, willing to switch employers for better pay, and essentially being a walking weapon you pointed at monsters or your enemies.

“Tessa. Is that you?”

Healer Merla stopped in the doorway of her clinic. Shriekblade paused a moment in climbing into the carriage.

“Hello, Healer Merla. I am Tessa.”

Her voice was inflectionless. So much so it made some of the Drakes and Gnolls watching shudder. But Merla just looked concerned.

“You’ve taken too many potions again. When did you last come in for a checkup?”

“Five months ago.”

“Why don’t you stop by tonight?”

“I am employed.”

“Shriek—Adventurer Tessa. I believe Healer Merla should do a routine checkup. I will send her by tonight, Healer.”

“Thank you, Wall Lord.”

Shriekblade didn’t react as she climbed into the carriage. Ilvriss sat as Captain Shieldscale ordered the driver to get the carriage moving. They’d have to climb the tower on foot, but this separated them from the gossip and crowd for a moment.

He sat, Shriekblade sitting across from him, and felt the prickle on his scales even now. Here was danger. Danger under his employ, but still—Shriekblade was a superlative blade expert. He had seen her fight.

“You know Healer Merla and make use of her services, Adventurer Tessa?”

She nodded, once, looking at him then scanning the area for threats, even in the carriage. Shieldscale was riding with the driver.

“She has attempted to treat me. I do not go to her anymore. She cannot help me.”

“I see.”

The female Drake did not respond further. Ilvriss sat back.

He was aware Shriekblade—or Tessa, her infrequently used actual name—was not…well. Well, it was obvious. When she was not stone-faced and impassive, obeying orders with perfect detachment and disinterest, she was moody, dangerous, and nigh-uncontrollable. Her contract actually stipulated Ilvriss provide or pay for numerous Calming Tonics, Draughts of Serenity, Scrolls of Blank Mind, and so on.

But she then took too many and became…this. Well, Ilvriss preferred that to the female Drake who might stab her employer as she had done on six occasions, but neither was ideal.

He cleared his throat for a topic of conversation.

“Your remuneration, Shriekblade…”

“My what?”

“Your pay. I assume it will go straight to the Healer of Tenbault?”

Shriekblade considered this and nodded.

“Yes. I will go to her soon. When I have enough money. She will make me…better.”

A note of some actual emotion flickered in her voice at this. Longing. Ilvriss nodded.

It was all public knowledge to anyone who would ever hire her. Shriekblade charged extortionate fees, but she was afraid of nothing. And when she had saved up a small fortune, she visited the Healer of Tenbault, in the north.

“The…Healer. She seems to cure what ails you, Adventurer. But not permanently.”

“No. But she makes me all better.”

“May I ask how long this treatment lasts?”

“Months. Less.”

Shriekblade looked past him, uncomfortable for once. Ilvriss nodded. Something the Healer could do fixed Shriekblade, but not permanently.

Well, it was not his business so he rode in silence, letting himself think of his collapse. An embarrassment. Shriekblade was content with the silence. He was paying her fees.

If Ilvriss had one talent in this world, it was not his acumen with a blade. Shriekblade could be said to have a ‘talent with the blade’, and if she was talented, everyone else was a clod playing with magical sticks.

Similarly, Ilvriss was not a strategic genius, an inspiring [General], nor political master, which all ran together sometimes. He could do all of these things, but it wasn’t where he stood out above all others.

If he had one talent, it was making money. His power was the ability to fork over more gold than you could make in a lifetime. And to be fair, that was a pretty great power.

Except if you were fighting the Necromancer of Izril in secret. Except if you remembered that gold, money, is an indirect way of applying influence. Power is the knife in your claws.

In that sense, Shriekblade was entirely more powerful than Ilvriss. Take away her armor and gear, and she was still deadly. He couldn’t even carry all his gold around, not even with the best bags of holding.

It had never really bothered him before. Money paid for lessons, armies, bodyguards, artifacts! However, he was keenly aware of it now, where every passing person might be the Necromancer’s agents.

Where…he closed his eyes and his head rested against the back of the carriage. He was tired. He hadn’t realized it until he’d passed out.

It wasn’t as if the world had imploded. It had already done that. It was just…he’d forgotten, that was all.

He had met Zel Shivertail, hated the Drake, thought all the rumors about him were true. A disgrace of a former war hero. Then he had learned to respect both the Tidebreaker’s personal battle prowess and him as a person.

Then he had died. And like him—Ilvriss had made the same mistake twice.

He had thought, believed in the myth of Erin Solstice. And there was something to believe. But neither she nor Zel were immortal.

They died. Good people he counted on died, and it felt like Ilvriss’ personal tower, like the many rising, vast skyscrapers of the mountain-city, the Walled City of Salazsar—it felt like each time they died, another support was lost.

Zel Shivertail.

Erin Solstice.

Periss Veldant.

—-

Wall Lady Navine Gemscale, younger sister of Ilvriss, found herself in rare company as she paced in the Gemscale family residence at the top of their tower.

That was to say, she stood with both Zail and Helessia, her father and mother, present. They rarely met.

Both were old. And both were—assisted. Although it was interesting to see in which way they chose to rely on help.

Zail had hired help, loyal Gemscale Drakes who helped him when he was lost, guarded him—until he escaped them. Also, artifacts.

He stood tall, but wounds and age had worn at him. There was a huge scar on his chest that his clothes only partly hid. On his head, more noticeable, an indentation practically devoid of scales. A place where he had been struck in battle that had never quite healed.

Helessia on the other hand was physically unmarked—save by sickness that kept her bedridden. Her bed actually floated, and it had been escorted here. Similarly, she had her own attendants, mostly who helped administer medicines.

Time had driven the couple apart, and there was a definite split in the Gemscale family. There had been for a long time.

Navine controlled her own company, less successful than the main Gemscale holdings, but profitable. Liberal, just as her policies were, or so her detractors claimed. She and Helessia were in a pro-Human movement—which was to say they opposed continual war with Humans. That was pro-Human sentiments among the Drakes, as extreme as you got.

Zail on the other hand was a traditionalist who believed in the power of Salazsar. And until recently, Ilvriss had been a loyal follower of his father’s ideals.

Well…he still probably was. Navine did not get along with Ilvriss, even if he was less grating than before. His sojourn abroad had changed him more than any of his other military expeditions or trips.

She was here, though. Because they were family despite it all and Drakes stuck together. She lashed her tail as her two parents made small talk.

“Poison in the mines. It must be. Good Wall Lords have died to that before. He shouldn’t go in person. No need.”

Zail was talking, having repeated himself twice in the last twenty minutes. Helessia sighed.

“The mines should be safe, Zail. I wonder what it is. Captain Shieldscale said he is on his way.”

“Who?”

“His new assistant, Zail. He’s introduced you before.”

A moment of confusion—then guilt—crossed Zail’s face.

“Of course I recall her.”

Navine wondered if Ilvriss was bedding this new Drake. It fit his old ways; she knew about his relationship with the late Periss, his second-in-command. But she somehow doubted it. Shieldscale and Ilvriss were too…familiar, if that made sense. Familiar, and yet not intimate.

Another mystery of why he’d bother scouting a Pallassian [Captain] anyways. She wasn’t high-level, just decent.

Besides which, Navine had thought she’d known why Ilvriss had changed. It came down to Liscor. And the reason for his collapse? The same.

Humans. It was always Humans, one way or the other. Even so—Navine wouldn’t have believed it. But it fit. And as Ilvriss strode into the apartments and stopped as he saw his entire immediate family present, she solidified that hint in her mind.

“Stress?”

Helessia looked appalled. Zail, horrified. To him, there could be nothing more embarrassing than being brought low by something as weak as stress.

“It was a bad display, father, mother. I will make another inspection, tour the mines and thank them for their help.”

“Tomorrow. You must rest if stress has eaten you up.”

Helessia insisted. Ilvriss nodded. Zail peered at Ilvriss.

“Lack of sleep did this?”

“A week or two of it, father. I—recalled that I’d barely slept more than three or four hours the entire week.”

Helessia made a dismayed sound. Zail blinked a few times.

“You were never insomniac. Is it—”

He caught himself. Navine nodded and poured some wine for herself.

Ancestors. She hadn’t believed it. But he really had fallen for a female Human in Liscor. Given her his ring and everything! He kept claiming it was a gesture of respect, not romantic bonds, but everyone knew the modern customs.

And more—she knew the Human was dead. She even knew her name, now.

Erin Solstice. An [Innkeeper]. Ilvriss kept talking to his family, glancing at her, but she only told him she’d been concerned. He thanked her, stiffly. And they went on with their lives.

—-

It was not as if Erin Solstice alone had laid the Wall Lord low. Indeed, weeks had passed since the news of her death. A Summer Solstice that had brought tragedy even to Salazsar…

A hundred and twelve miscarriages. People were wearing white armbands, still. Salazsar had joined the Drakes of Izril in sending more aid, more reinforcements to Rhir. And more to come. But they were debating that.

Ilvriss had been working, before and after the news came. And it had not been him throwing himself into his work either that did it.

But he was burning his candle at all ends, including the middle. He worked for almost all of his day when not exercising, eating, or, increasingly seldom, sleeping.

He worked in his company with Alrric, his Gnoll [Administrator], making sure they were making a profit. Then he visited his secret task force authorized by Salazsar, training new [Soldiers], equipping them in secret.

And then—unbeknownst to all, he would join Osthia Blackwing in poring over records, details, trying to track suspicious payments, links to Regrika Blackpaw or a certain location—looking into mysterious absences or strange breaks in other important Drakes’ past lives over the last two decades—or more!

Some time in between all of this, and his frequent conversations with his father, Zail, or entertaining his closest friends, Ilvriss would find time to fit in sword practice, or do research into other cities’ battle tactics. Historical records and stories about wars with undead of old.

He had done this since he had come back. Work, work, and for a change, intense work. And perhaps that had been taking its invisible toll the entire time.

But it seemed more to those that knew Ilvriss that the news of two weeks ago had simply…removed something that had been keeping it all from overwhelming him.

Hope, perhaps.

—-

Wall Lord Ilvriss took a purple pill early in the night, after assuring his family he was well, sending word to Alrric to pass out some puffers or a good vintage to the mining crew he’d been with as an apology, reschedule all his appointments, send word to his well-wishers and friends…

He sat in his bed, popped the pill Healer Merla had given into his mouth, put his head back—

And woke up with the sun shining down on his face.

“What did she give me?”

The Wall Lord blinked and struggled out of his bed. He felt…well, a bit more alive, but groggy, as his body began to protest getting more sleep than it was used to.

“Wall Lord? Do you wish breakfast? It’s two hours past your usual time…”

One of the employed Drakes—not servants, Drakes were particular about that—greeted Ilvriss as he strode out of his room in some robes. He rubbed at his face.

“Yes, thank you. I’ll take it in the dining room. And please send Captain Shieldscale to me—tell Master Zelir I will be delayed, with apologies.”

“Of course, Wall Lord.”

He had a speedy breakfast of Solin Chop—a rather fancy take on a classic dish. Wherein you took a tomato, a large one, in this case a Veil Tomato from Noelictus, chewier, more succulent, and hollowed it. You re-filled it with, well, a meat and/or grain mixture. Gave it the obvious spice and toppings, which could be cheese, a gravy in this case, and surrounded it with appetizers.

It was a good meal and Ilvriss sped through it, despite the hard work of the [Chef] his family employed.

Osthia appeared halfway through the meal.

“Wall Lord.”

She bowed, although Ilvriss had told her in private to drop the need for formalities. But the staff were hovering; no doubt worried about him. So he greeted her in their coded parlance which was second nature by now.

“Captain Shieldscale. Anything to report today?”

“Nothing of note, sir. Although we were going to speak on Gemscale’s standing forces. If you’d like to delay that…”

“No, I’ll meet you in the evening. Thank you, Captain. I’ll leave you to your duties until then.”

She nodded as Ilvriss sighed. Nothing of note meant she hadn’t uncovered another potential spy by the Necromancer—or identified someone they had to get on the secret task force’s side. She also looked for artifacts, through the histories, just like he did.

“Excellent breakfast. My apologies for the rush, but I must be about my day. I’ll take my lunch while working. Please tell my father I might not have time to meet today.”

“Of course, sir.”

They nodded to him and he left. The Wall Lord strode out of his tower and across the interconnected bridges that crisscrossed the spires of Salazsar.

Built into the mountain. Built out of the mountain, where the Drakes and Gnolls dug and added to the city constantly. Salazsar, founded on the richest gem and mineral seam in the world. And Ilvriss, at the top of the world.

He descended to a lower point as the tower widened. Sky-terraces were common, and each spire contained the upper classes; the bottom of the city was manufacturing, public residences, and so on.

The training court was about eighty feet down, and he took a side staircase to avoid people asking if he was well. No doubt gossip would have him repeating the events and assuring people all week.

Not that the Drake he was going to visit didn’t bring it up.

“Stress, eh? I told you to rest, Ilvriss!”

Master-Trainer Zelir, a high-level [Weapon Trainer], struck at Ilvriss cautiously to test him. Ilvriss parried and riposted.

“You did, Master Zelir. I should have taken your advice. Thank you for waiting.”

“Ah, well. My best student says he wants to improve? What am I to do?”

The Drake was old. Not as old as Merla, but Ilvriss was noting how many pivotal Drakes in his life were old.

The ones who were younger were dead.

His blade faltered and the other Drake flicked his sword through the gap. Ilvriss leaned back, with a curse. The tip caught his practice armor.

“Sloppy. If I was carrying an enchanted blade, you’d be bleeding. And if I was a [Duelist], that would be enchanted with Evercut and poison. So I walk away and…you’re dead.”

Zelir demonstrated, stepping back and spreading his arm and training sword. Ilvriss sighed, and nodded.

“My attention’s lacking.”

“Well, you did collapse. The body can’t just recover in a day. But we train to fight at our worst. So—concentrate!”

Zelir was a mix of encouraging and stern. He had been Ilvriss’ weapon instructor since the Drake was a boy. Zail had hired him and the old mentor had been the one to make Ilvriss a fine duelist.

Among the Drake nobility. But Ilvriss had brought his trusted Coldedge Longsword to a duel with Zel Shivertail and the [General] had taken him to pieces without his elite escort.

Fair was fair—that was a Drake war hero, but Ilvriss recounted the moment to Zelir during a break.

“Did I ever tell you how Zel Shivertail beat me in our battle, Master Zelir?”

The old Drake’s eyes sparked with interest. He wasn’t too old compared to Ilvriss; he had about ten or fifteen years at most, and his Skills kept him fresh.

“Tell me. You kept your guard up, I hope? Wasn’t over in a flash? I’m told he just charges in and has most enemies to rights in seconds. His claws…”

“Yes. He used both, obviously, so it was me keeping him back and trying to score decisive strikes while he blocked and kept closing. He didn’t charge—not after the first encounter. He actually parried a lot of my blows.”

“Really?”

Zelir had always been a fan of Zel Shivertail, not least because they had the same name root. He leaned on his practice sword as Ilvriss demonstrated.

“Well, he knew my sword was leeching his strength with every cut. Frost and Torpor enchantments.”

“Smart. He’s no [Duelist]…was no [Duelist]…how did he take you down, then? It sounds like it was your battle to lose. Yes, he has two claws for one sword, but you have a longsword’s reach and enchantment.”

Ilvriss grimaced.

“That’s what I thought. I touched him about eight times. Guess what he did? He baited me into thinking he was slowing more than I thought. I was wary of course, but then he knocked my blade down. I was ready for him to kick or slash at me. He feinted a kick—then hurled snow into my face with his tail. Next thing I know, he has my sword arm and…well, you can imagine how well I did after that.”

He’d been a training dummy for the next three minutes. He’d refused to let go of his sword, but Zel Shivertail had refused to let go of his arm. Zelir laughed until he caught himself.

“Really? That’s how he got you?”

Ilvriss gave him a wry grin.

“I was furious at the time, as I recall. I refused to surrender. I think I told the Tidebreaker to his face that ‘a [General] does not brawl’.”

“There you are, then. But you’re wiser than you were then. Or you wouldn’t put it like that. And if you did—I’d set you straight.”

Zelir swished his blade. Ilvriss nodded and set himself. They exchanged more blows, pivoting for strikes, and Ilvriss scored a point. He was about matched with Zelir without Skills, but of course, the Drake was more than just his individual ability with the blade.

“Hm. Practice is done. Now, let’s get to actual work.”

The [Weapon Trainer] adjusted his stance. Ilvriss copied him. First the Drake performed a slow strike, then let Ilvriss watch him from the side. The Wall Lord tried to copy the new movement. He moved through the different motions of attack and defense, while Zelir watched, critically.

“You’re progressing through the Llevian school quickly. But you’re going to have to switch and start practicing only in that style soon.”

“How long until then?”

“Mm. One more week. Are you doing those sword cuts…? No, I shouldn’t tell you to do that if you’ve been pushing yourself.”

“I practice at least a hundred times when I can. I won’t slack. Not when it’s my neck on the line.”

Zelir nodded approvingly.

The Llevian school was a sword-style invented by Drakes. It had a completely different approach to combat than, well, the traditionalist methods of attack and defense.

Sword schools, blade arts, were generally Skills one picked up. Deliberately learning and mastering an entire school of fighting wasn’t done. For instance, Zelir hadn’t taught Ilvriss to do that; he’d grounded Ilvriss like he would any basic [Warrior].

It was practicality; the young Wall Lord hadn’t had an entire lifetime to devote to the sword school, which was sometimes what you needed. Why learn to parry this exact way when you could learn to cut, thrust, for whichever method suited the occasion?

Two reasons. The first was that a sword school, a good one, gave you a defense and attack for every occasion. Even so, the polyglot fighting style of most [Warriors] trumped specialization with its strengths and weaknesses.

Except that a master in a particular fighting style would unlock its unique Skills and abilities. Ilvriss focused on the two-handed blade style of the Llevian School, which actually drew from axe-style downward sweeps. You tried to ground your opponent’s blade by parrying in one direction, and capitalize in that moment.

It was an unusual style and Zelir had been surprised when Ilvriss brought out old Gemscale teaching manuals. But he’d been willing to teach Ilvriss the style.

It was one suited for fighting opponents armed with axes, revolving around nimble, graceful strikes. Footwork was as important as parrying.

And it was also good against oversized opponents like undead. Ilvriss didn’t mention that.

“The fact that you wanted to learn an entire school of swordsmanship…did you feel like your training wasn’t good enough? That’s on me, although even I wouldn’t expect my best student to take on the Tidebreaker.”

Zelir commented from the side. Ilvriss grunted as his muscles adjusted, trying to work the new attack pattern into his body and subconscious.

“Not you, Zelir. Rather—I just felt like I was relying on my artifacts too much.”

“That’s fine for a Wall Lord.”

“I want to be better.”

“Hm. Well, I can’t fault that. You’re moving too slowly, even for practice in the Denial of Action. Try again.”

Ilvriss did. This was an old school that Drakes had invented, and as such also taught you how to guard your tail in combat. Also—unpleasantly or practically—it had a number of strikes designed to de-tail your opponent. He’d declined to learn those.

His enemy was Human and used the bodies of all species.

—-

The practice took an hour and Ilvriss was sore afterwards. He refused to use a healing potion though; it erased your hard work. Zelir nodded.

“Same time tomorrow, then? So you can sleep properly.”

“A moment, Master Zelir? I wanted to consult with you.”

The Drake paused. He looked to the door of the outdoor training court, dizzyingly high up—although protected with enchantments. Still…there were no guard rails so you could walk over the edge of the training grounds. The spells would catch you, but Ilvriss had no fear of heights after many sessions sparring on the edge of the training court. A Salazsarian bladesman could fight you on the edge of a cliff.

They sat together, dangling their legs over the edge of the training court. Below them, people were specks or walking on far distant bridges below. Ilvriss smiled.

“You used to make me do this all the time for our talks.”

Zelir had advised a young, sometimes moody or frustrated Ilvriss, growing up. The old trainer grinned.

“Times never change. How can I help you?”

Ilvriss glanced sideways. Now, here was a Drake with better swordsmanship than his. Solid, reliable. He wasn’t the highest-leveled Drake in the city, but he was over Level 30. Yes, he wouldn’t be as large an asset as Shriekblade…but you could trust Zelir.

Why not him? Ilvriss had a list. It was only in his head. But it had Osthia, himself, and tentatively, Shriekblade for things she could do that she wouldn’t ask questions about.

It was time to expand that list. He’d dithered and wavered and tried to be sure but—the Summer Solstice and the events just before that had shown him time was running out.

I should have hired bodyguards. I should have put money into the inn. I could have hired a Gold-rank team to guard the place every hour of the day. Why didn’t I?

“You had a question, Ilvriss?”

Zelir prompted Ilvriss. The Wall Lord looked up.

“I’m…hunting for high-level people, Zelir. In Salazsar. This is confidential to the Walled Families…”

The [Weapon Trainer] gave a serious nod. Ilvriss’ cover was the anti-Antinium task force, and even this was secret to Zelir. Ilvriss briefly explained and the Drake whistled.

“And you need some high-level Drakes to fight…? Well, if you wanted my sword, I’m afraid I’m not the best! Not that I wouldn’t mind having more students.”

He gave Ilvriss a sideways glance. The Wall Lord smiled at the testing look.

“I am, actually. But Zelir—beyond you. I’ve looked around the city and…why are there so few high-level Drakes in Salazsar? It feels like there’s no one exceptional I can call on in our standing forces. Excellent soldiers and companies, don’t get me wrong. But high-level [Warriors]? Shriekblade is an exception, but—do you see my point?”

Zelir exhaled.

“I do indeed, lad. That is—Wall Lord.”

Ilvriss ignored the reflexive name. Zelir went on after a moment.

“It’s common to Drake cities. We have high-level [Commanders], a few heroes, extraordinary adventurers like Saliss of Lights, Shriekblade…but we do have less outstanding individuals in our armed forces. It’s mostly to do with our military style compared to Humans. Do you understand what I mean?”

Ilvriss tilted his head as he watched a bird fly past and give the two Drakes a side-eye.

“You mean, the fact that our [Soldiers] aren’t Human militias?”

Drakes kept larger standing armies and drilled their [Soldiers] more extensively than the north’s conscripted armies, which each [Lord] had. Their City Watches, for instance, were tied into the army’s strength. Zelir nodded.

“Yes. Efficiency. Nothing like a Drake spear wall to hold a line. It’s what we’re known for…even small cities have organized and drilled [Soldiers], especially compared to the Humans. Our Watch gets funding and training while theirs can be corrupt or good or bad. We have standards. It occurs to me we might have gone too far.”

“How so?”

The Drake smoothed his neck spines as he tried to explain.

“Let’s say there’s a monster attack. Who sorts it out? The Watch in the south as much as adventurers. So we have less adventurers. Let’s say there’s a battle and a spear group is faltering. We pull them back—because we can, because they’re trained to fall back—and throw in a new one. We don’t abandon them.”

“Of course not.”

The Drake nodded.

“Human armies though…sometimes they gamble. Here’s a group of conscripts with swords and shields and a month’s practice. Throw them in, bail them out with a [Knight] charge if you can. Sure, many die. But the ones who survive level. They have [Knights] and poor infantry.”

Ilvriss got it.

“So they’re creating ways for individuals to excel.”

“Exactly. And between you and me, lad. Drakes make it so that everyone can perform to standard. But we sometimes make it harder to stand out because of that. Not that it’s a bad thing to do it this way, but it does change how levels work. Everyone’s a bit higher…and less people are highest.”

Zelir gave Ilvriss a long look. What he said in privacy might be seditious—in other companies, in another city. Ilvriss just sighed.

“That’s what I’ve observed.”

He had scoured the ranks of Salazsar’s command for people he could snap up that wouldn’t be missed. He couldn’t take their best [General] to go running around fighting secret wars. But it meant that everyone below wasn’t much better than Osthia. And she was good…

But he needed exceptionalism.

“Thank you, Master Zelir. I’ll see you tomorrow. Same time?”

“So long as you sleep in.”

The Drake chuckled as he rose. Ilvriss nodded to him. Tomorrow, he’d ask Zelir to join his army of three. The old Drake might not be young or as high-level, but Ilvriss would arm him in artifacts. That would help.

—-

The problem of high-level individuals Ilvriss brought up to Alrric again, as he visited the company.

“I’ll visit the mining crews and not faint this time.”

“If you like, Wall Lord. But if you do faint a second time, I’m going to have to ban you from doing inspections. Our current seam is giving us adamantium along with gems and I can’t have you holding us up.”

Ilvriss smiled at that and Alrric grinned for a moment. It was a jest at Ilvriss’ expense, and a sign of the new working relationship. Alrric had been wary at first, but now he seemed more at home—and they had worked together for a long time.

“How is the family doing? I hope I didn’t hold you up with my collapse.”

“Well. And I got back to them on time. My daughter, Sidinel, is getting to be a handful. She wants to travel about.”

“By herself?”

“Herself, her friends, with us—young Gnolls, no, young people.”

Alrric sighed. Ilvriss nodded without any personal experience into the matter, as non-parents did when told about parent-things.

“So, about one of my requests, Alrric.”

“Which one? Sourcing the Potion of Regeneration or high-level recruits?”

Ilvriss paused.

He had received Lyonette’s [Message] when Erin was hurt. On that day, in that very hour, he had opened the Gemscale vaults and inspected every inch of it.

They had hoarded gold, gemstones, and artifacts. More than you thought. Less than Ilvriss would have liked, to be honest. The problem was that Drakes did use artifacts throughout the years and a Potion of Regeneration?

If they had had one, Zail would have used it. They had none.

And getting one was tricky.

“Does anyone else have one in their vaults?”

Alrric put down his quill. He scrubbed at some ink on his brown fur, then stopped.

“I made inquiries, Ilvriss. Few Walled Families are willing to even give me a straight answer, but Wall Lord Meiss is the only one who has one—”

“And he won’t sell.”

Ilvriss nodded. He’d tried. But who was going to sell an heirloom artifact that couldn’t be produced in this world? Ten thousand gold pieces? Go stuff it up your tail. A hundred thousand, even? Not even close.

A million? Well, that might be enough to turn a head, but it was still a priceless relic. And there were limits to even Ilvriss’ largess.

He put that aside.

“High-leveled individuals. Anyone? I was talking with Master Zelir—my [Weapon Trainer]—about the issue.”

Alrric consulted his notes. That was the power of an [Administrator]. He took the need, found people who could do the job, and had it done and waiting the next day.

“Let’s see. High-level. High-level…no one new in military matters, I’m afraid. You know every Level 40+ combat-rated individual in all of Salazsar. I’m sorry, Ilvriss. But at that level you pretty much have to hire them. A [General] bounces between cities, or [Swordsmasters]…”

Ilvriss was well familiar with how Drake cities enticed good warriors and leaders. Every nation did it. Pallass had stolen Pelt when he’d been on the market, for instance. And he didn’t want the public bidding war that always ensued. He didn’t want mercenaries.

“Well, that’s it.”

He grumpily sat back, putting down his signed documents for filing. He felt like he was chasing his own tail. Day in, day out, it was all incremental progress. He needed action. He needed…to do something. Now.

Alrric cleared his throat.

“If it helps, Ilvriss—this problem isn’t unique to Salazsar’s military. Your instructor? What did he say about Drakes and leveling?”

Ilvriss repeated the contents of the conversation and Alrric nodded. He sighed.

“Ah, that’s true. ‘No exceptions, just exceptional averageness.’ Your instructor’s take strikes me as eminently correct.”

“That sounds like a quote.”

The purple-scaled drake raised one eyebrow. Alrric blinked.

“It is. Have you heard of the tale of Salii the [Secretary]?”

The name was familiar. Ilvriss sat forwards.

“Wasn’t she responsible for the Ruby Run…six years back? Practically quadrupled the holdings of her company.”

“Not just from that. Yes, she was as good as they came. Better than me, although I wasn’t as good as I am at the time. The highest-leveled [Secretary] in all of Salazsar.”

“But she’s not here. Didn’t she go to another city?”

The Gnoll licked his finger pad and flicked a piece of paper over.

“Nope. She went to Chandrar. Pomle.”

“…The training ground for [Martial Artists]? Why?”

Alrric looked up with a grin.

“She said it was to improve herself. To challenge herself and keep leveling. Did you know that along with Salazsar, she worked in Manus, Zeres, and Fissival? All for only a year or two. She came in, took the hardest jobs at low pay, and when she had things running right, she quit and left. Right when she succeeded. Right when it got easy.”

Ilvriss sat back. His mouth opened and his tail stirred.

“To level up. That’s…extraordinary.”

“She left a mark. Even now, someone says they ‘got a Salii’ when they get a diamond in the rough. If you wanted to improve anything, you should get her. Although I doubt she wants to return to Salazsar.”

Ilvriss grimaced. Recruiting from other cities was hard enough. Other continents?

“See if you can get in touch with her. Do they even have [Mages] over there?”

“She has a Scroll of [Messages]. I’ll have it linked to you for later. Speaking of which, I have a shortlist of unique individuals you could grab from around Izril’s south. Nothing special. Level 30+, all of them. A [Spearmaster], a [Master Archer], a [Lancer]…”

“I’ll look it over later. Thank you.”

Ilvriss sat back with a sigh. Salii the [Secretary]. There was something to it. But a [Secretary] wouldn’t be useful against the Necromancer.

…Right?

—-

Ilvriss visited Osthia after concluding his work with Alrric. He didn’t waste time as he entered the private work rooms he’d sequestered to plan his countering the Necromancer.

“I’m going to add some standing forces to your command, Osthia.”

She looked up. Her blue-dyed scales itched, but she could scratch here, stretch, and so on.

“How so, Ilvriss? Also—Shriekblade’s gone missing. I think she’s off her potions.”

Ilvriss stopped. He looked around and realized Shriekblade hadn’t stopped outside the rooms like normal.

“I was walking around and didn’t even notice her.”

Osthia grimaced. Shriekblade was Ilvriss’ bodyguard as well as an agent in their war, but she was normally Ilvriss’ shadow.

“She didn’t report this morning. I think she’s…erratic. I’ll check on her tomorrow.”

Hiding in her room, threatening to kill Osthia if she entered. Stuff like that. Ilvriss rubbed at his forehead.

“See to that, thank you. And I’ll get you more subordinates. Not ones you can tell the secret to—but ones under your direct command.”

“Who? More Gemscale soldiers? Your sister already wants to know why I have a hundred for being your bodyguard.”

The Gemscale family had their own standing forces, but Ilvriss shook his head.

“My family doesn’t employ high-level [Guards] or [Warriors]. If they were—they’d find other work. No, we’re going to get an elite group—so you can at least take down monsters, and other threats. I wanted you to come with me so they know who to report to. It won’t take more than thirty minutes…”

Elite group? Osthia hesitated. She tried not to roll her eyes—then remembered she and Ilvriss weren’t subordinate and commander in the same sense as in the army. She coughed into a claw and Ilvriss looked at her as he went for the door.

“Not to offend Salazsar or this group, Ilvriss, but we have a saying in Pallass. ‘Every unit’s elite until we kick their tails in.’ If this is like one of Pallass’ elite groups—every army has them. I…don’t know if it’s going to be that helpful compared to the one you have in training.”

And that one would take months more of drilling, for all most had [Enhanced Strength] or [Greater Toughness]. They had potential, but no battle experience and training.

Far from being offended at the insinuation, Ilvriss only smiled.

“Specialized infantry, then, Osthia. And I think they might meet your standards. Here. Follow me.”

Curious, she rose and followed.

—-

Ilvriss took her down through his tower and into one of the central ones. A shared spire, for the power of the Walled Families.

“It is true that ‘elite’ gets tossed around a lot, Captain Shieldscale. But unlike other groups, the Walled Families of Salazsar don’t keep individual standing forces of renown. Rather, we pool our strength. So we have a different system…here we are.”

They had entered one of the military areas of Salazsar. Their city wasn’t as proactive as say, Pallass’, and had fewer armies, but they were still good. Strong.

And they answered to Ilvriss.

“Wall Lord! Can I assist you today?”

A [Lieutenant] on desk-dusty straightened and saluted as Ilvriss and Osthia approached. She glanced at ‘Captain Shieldscale’, but she seemed perfectly at home with Ilvriss’ rank, somewhere around [General]. He could, after all, call upon an army if he wished.

How strange other cities were. Osthia listened.

“Lieutenant, I’d like to buy into one of our Gem Regiments. I’d like one battalion-strength group of the Occum Swords if they’re available.”

The Drake grimaced as Osthia listened, bewildered.

“I’d have to consult my notes, but I am almost certain they’re on deployment with our 1st Army, Wall Lord.”

“Pity. Then—are the Erchirite Spears available?”

“At battalion-strength? Certainly. And what will you need them for? Duration?”

“Indefinite, and I will pay for four months if that is acceptable. Guard duty and perhaps monster-slaying, without ruling out fighting. No plans for full-scale engagements.”

The Drake didn’t even blink as she noted all this down.

“…Here’s my figure for the payment, Wall Lord.”

Ilvriss glanced at the number on the piece of paper. Osthia gulped. He nodded.

“Done. Send it to Alrric in my company. Also, I’d like—”

“Wall Lord Ilvriss, please excuse me, but what is going on?”

Osthia burst out, bewildered. The [Lieutenant]’s brows shot up, but both she and Ilvriss smiled.

“Simple. I’m hiring an ‘elite’ group, Captain Shieldscale. Or rather, the specially armed Gem Regiments of Salazsar. Surely you’ve heard of them?”

“Yes, sir. But—you can just hire them?”

“They are paid for by all of the Walled Families. It costs more to hire them, and Salazsar can recall them if need be, but it allows for some level of equipment. Exceptional averageness I suppose.”

Ilvriss sighed, and Osthia didn’t get that part. But then he was looking around.

“Is one of the [Battle Captains] on duty, Lieutenant? Perhaps Captain Shieldscale can see the Drakes she’ll be leading.”

“Of course, sir. I have a Captain Presz on duty. I will have him called up and the Erchirite Spears assembled directly.”

Ilvriss nodded.

“I’d also like to draw on…sixteen Rubirel Guard. Same duration. Bodyguard duty. Both forces report to Captain Shieldscale.”

“Of course, Wall Lord.”

—-

The Erchirite Spears were elite. And Osthia wouldn’t be disparaging the four hundred Ilvriss had paid for. They were lined up, ready to do whatever needed doing.

Made of [Veteran Soldiers] who won the right to enlist in the safer, much more well-paid Gem Regiments. Also?

Enchanted armor, enchanted weapons. Osthia stared in envy at what money could buy you from the richest Walled City in Izril.

Captain Presz saluted her, and then showed her his spear.

“Each one’s expensive as they get, Captain Shieldscale. Hence our small regiments. Take a look. Mithril-alloy shafts, and the tip is…”

He indicated the topaz-like mineral stuck to the top. Only, it was charged and Osthia knew better than to touch it. It wasn’t as transparent as topaz, but had an inner sparkle.

“Echirite. Stores and releases electricity when struck. Without protection, a full unleash from one of our units is like a [Chain Lightning] spell in battle.”

The Drake grinned as the [Soldiers] stood to attention. Osthia imagined what it was like to charge into that group—or suffer a spear-charge.

“I take it back, Wall Lord. That’s a fine fighting force.”

“Under your command. Battle Captain, Captain Shieldscale is my commanding officer. I don’t expect you’ll be doing more than relaxing for the short interim, but she has my full authority.”

The [Battle Captain] saluted.

“A pleasure, Captain Shieldscale.”

“I won’t interfere in tactical decisions until I know your unit, Captain Presz. And I’ll try to listen to the expert in the field.”

She hastened to assure him and the Drake smiled.

“Thank you, Captain. It’s a tossup on who we get commanding us. And I understand you’ll be taking the Rubirel Guard, Wall Lord?”

“Sixteen. They’re heavily-armored, Captain Shieldscale.”

They were indeed. The Drakes were like the Flamewardens of Pallass, a former group of heavy-infantry Oldbloods that Osthia had once known.

But rather than relying on Oldbloods, the Rubirel Guard exchanged the ability to breathe fire for the ability to survive…anything.

“Enclosed helmets with sight spells. Internal air reservoirs. No [Snipers] putting an arrow through the arrowslits. Heavy—but we can still swing battleaxes. Toss us into fighting, Captain. Toss some [Poison Cloud] spells in too; we don’t mind.”

“Just don’t make us sprint.”

One of them joked around. Osthia nodded, impressed.

This is the kind of force I want to take against the Necromancer. If they had ten thousand of them—she’d be talking about when to siege his castle. But they were expensive and hard to field. There were fewer than a thousand among all of Salazsar’s army, mostly as shock troopers or bodyguards.

—-

The high-powered Gem Regiments he’d paid for made Ilvriss feel like he’d done something. But he didn’t have a target to hit; the instant he went after the Necromancer, he suffered.

At least they’d get some battle experience. Alrric and Osthia would use them to kill monsters that appeared while the mining teams worked. He almost pitied even Crelers running up against the Rubirel Guard. Almost. Actually—not at all.

But the problem of high-level, trustworthy people remained. So frustrating. Once you had good people, you could have them do work, like Ilvriss was trusting Osthia. But he had even relegated his old adjutants to other duties because he wasn’t sure, and he couldn’t watch them all without first having his good, core team.

Zelir would be the first. So why…did Ilvriss feel as though his mentor wasn’t enough?

Perhaps because this battle isn’t one you can win with a fancy sword art.

He was rubbing at his head and debating taking a purple pill so he could work early tomorrow when someone called upon him.

“Ilvriss! Ilvriss—we’ve come to kidnap you!”

The Wall Lord nearly drew his sword before he recognized the familiar, jovial tone.

“Tasilt?”

Tasilt and Brilm, the two Wall Lords that Ilvriss had known growing up and were around his age, were waiting for him in the foyer of the Gemscale residence.

Tasilt and Brilm. Alike and not. Both enjoyed, well, fine things as most people of money did. Brilm loved novelty, curios from afar like the song-gems he’d invested in and were making a big profit.

Tasilt? He was more into wine, libations, enjoying himself.

But Brilm, a bit pudgy for a Drake, was far more conservative than Tasilt, who had married a Gnoll and scandalized Salazsar. Tasilt by comparison had put Ilvriss onto hiring Alrric and was an easygoing, good-natured Drake.

Of the two, Ilvriss trusted Tasilt to be honest and moral. He trusted Brilm to show him something interesting.

He liked both of them, even if he had little time to be a friend at the moment.

“What did you say, Tasilt?”

“Kidnap.”

The Drake winked, without realizing why that had alarmed Ilvriss. Brilm chuckled.

“To be more precise—we’re the two who are going to save you. From yourself. Don’t try and resist! We’re armed!”

Ilvriss eyed Brilm’s side, knowing the Drake could barely use the enchanted sword. Tasilt was better, but neither had studied the sword as much as he did. Then again—Tasilt had been in bar brawls with Ilvriss as a young Drake and he was good with his fists.

“And what am I being kidnapped for? I have [Healer]’s orders to rest up. Stress.”

“Yes, yes. Stress. As if overwork could lay low the mighty Ilvriss!”

Brilm’s tone was mocking and teasing. Tasilt just looked at Ilvriss, brows raised.

“You’ve been overdoing it. If you try to resist, we’ll have to use force.”

“Which is…?”

“We’ll tell your mother that you’re overworking yourself.”

Ilvriss knew it was only Tasilt who could come up with a threat like that. It would never occur to Brilm, but Tasilt knew Ilvriss and Helessia. Also, that his mother would fuss and worry about it.

Ilvriss grimaced.

“A low blow, Tasilt. And what am I supposed to be kidnapped to?”

“You’ll see. Brilm?”

The Wall Lord gave Ilvriss a wink that Ilvriss didn’t like at all. The Wall Lord thought as they shepherded him from the residence, laughing with the staff and promising to have Ilvriss back before his bedtime.

They were headed down the tower. Ilvriss suddenly began to really think about the number of things that would take Brilm…Tasilt…

“Listen, you two. I’m happy to rest up. In fact, I was about to sleep. I have medication…”

Brilm waggled a claw in front of his friend’s face.

“Oh no, Ilvriss. We heard the diagnosis. Stress. And you don’t just need sleep! A Drake needs…”

He glanced at Tasilt and the other Drake coughed.

“We know it may have been—difficult of late, Ilvriss. Everyone heard about it.”

Oh no. Ilvriss closed his eyes. Tasilt was referring to the alarm when Erin had gone to Invrisil. But they had never heard the one when she was hurt. She must have taken off the ring? Why did she…?

And if they were talking about that, they had the wrong idea. Ilvriss turned.

“I think you’re mistaken.”

His two ‘friends’ grabbed him under the arm.

“Ilvriss, it’s for your own good. We know an excellent place. I go there all the time. Tasilt, vouch for me.”

“I’m married, Brilm.”

“Oh. Right. Well, even so. Before that.”

“Absolutely not.”

Ilvriss began to struggle. The two Drakes refused to let go. He could have forced them to stop—but then Tasilt threatened to tell Zail and his mother.

—-

The…place…was known as The Drake’s Pearl, and it was a brothel. But a high-class one, the kind where you didn’t have denominations below ‘gold pieces’.

It was also private…insofar as you could stealthily arrive and disappear if you chose.

Some did choose. Others did not, and strode in there like Brilm every week. He knew the staff by name.

But privacy of the clientele only extended to the gossipers and people who poo-poohed The Drake’s Pearl and all establishments of its kind.

The people who worked there knew all the names, even if the Drakes came in hooded, cloaked, or [Invisible]. After all—it was hard to be invisible when doing the deed. Although that was something you could pay for.

Also, contrary to the name, there were more than just Drakes working here. After all, Salazsar’s lonely bachelors—or married Drakes—had a number of desires that could not be expressed in polite company.

Bachelors. Even here, female Drakes did not just walk into a brothel, much less ask for the entirely-female [Escorts] and so on. They had different methods. If, say, Navine Gemscale wanted to meet someone in the same industry, well, she could ask for a house call as it were. Or go there herself.

The Drake sitting down knew all about the secrets. It was a community, after all, so she knew the dirty little secrets only an idiot would ever try to cash in on. She had started in far worse places than this, in fact. Here she took breaks, waiting for the expensive, expensive clientele to come in. You earned gold per assignation, and if you had people who liked you, gifts of valuable perfumes and gemstones were the least of what you’d get.

“Perfume. As if it’s all we want. And I have to wear the scent each time he visits! I keep getting them confused!”

A female Gnoll—Aranna—was grousing. She was young, beautiful, and had made the smart move of dying her fur such that she looked, well, like some exotic Gnoll [Shaman] from the plains. She’d even added touches to her costume. She was fretting about a recent gift. The Drake leaned over.

“Are your preferred clients Drakes or Gnolls, Aranna?”

The Gnoll huffed.

“Drakes, Xesci. You think Gnolls want to see me pretend to be a ‘wild Gnoll who needs to be tamed’?”

Xesci snorted. Oh yes, it was an act. And exotic…she sighed.

‘Exotic’. She hated that word. But she nodded to Aranna as the younger Gnoll held out the perfume bottle of extreme expense.

“I know someone who resells stuff like that. I’ll introduce you. My advice? Sell it.”

“But the perfume—”

“He’ll give you cheap ones. Get some that smell a bit like the one they gave you. You could even use the same one. I knew a Gnoll who used the same scent, every time. Told each of her clients that it was theirs and they bought it.”

The Gnoll laughed and Xesci smiled. She sat back as Aranna nodded.

“Thanks, Aranna. I—”

She coughed. Someone was smoking on a puffer. The Gnoll glared at another person sitting in the back rooms.

“Do you mind? It sticks to my fur!”

“Say it’s part of your tribal rituals. Dance about a fire. It’ll get them excited.”

A female Human, Shakra, rolled her eyes. Aranna huffed, but left to go store the gift instead.

“She’s sensitive to smoke. Put that out.”

Shakra glowered.

“I got it as a present. I’ll trade you a puff.”

“No thank you.”

Xesci didn’t put down what was between her claws. She was, in fact, knitting. Shakra glanced at it.

“You have the weirdest hobbies for someone in our line of work.”

“It beats drinking or smoking. I do that when I’m not about to lie on my back for an hour.”

“An hour? I never lie there for more than five minutes.”

More snorts.

Human, Drake, Dullahan, Gnoll—they had even had Garuda and Selphids in. Any species you wanted. Any look. They could cast magic, sweet-talk you—or go exactly the other way.

Xesci was not a…specialist in those areas. Certainly, she wasn’t one of the older Gnolls, who, unlike the ‘exotic Plains Gnoll’ of Aranna, instead was quite mean to her clients.

Mostly Drake clients, incidentally. Gnolls just didn’t have as much money—and, perhaps, there was less of a culture of coming to these establishments in groups. Wall Lords on the other hand…

“Everyone, tails up! We’ve got three Wall Lords in the lobby! And one of them’s new!”

Someone hissed through the back rooms. All the women inside looked around.

“Really? Who’re they?”

Secrets, as noted, were not kept except from the outside.

“Brilm’s here.”

“That’s my cue. Unless he wants Aranna or Medroniaria.”

Shakra doused the puffer. Aranna and ‘Medroniaria’, the half-Elf [Courtesan] who dressed like one of Terandria’s nobility in an odd mix of fetishes, both looked interested.

Brilm was a familiar face. The other two? Xesci listened.

“Who’s the other Drake? He’s been here.”

“Yes…but not recently. Not for years, apparently. Tasilt?”

“What? He’s married. I know his wife! She’s like a hero to me!”

Aranna looked dismayed. The [Prostitute] spying for everyone reported back.

“Don’t worry. He’s only here to take the third one.”

“Oh, thank goodness.”

The Gnoll sighed, and, surprisingly, so did the other two Gnolls, all of whom wanted to believe in the one Wall Lord who had married a Gnoll. Shakra on the other hand, looked disappointed and relit her puffer.

“If Tasilt is here, Brilm’s going to ask for you, Aranna. He always does every time he hangs out with that Wall Lord.”

“You’re sure?”

Aranna began fussing with the perfume bottle she’d been showing around. Shakra grimaced.

“Want to bet on it? Who’s the last Drake? Maybe they’re in the mood for Human?”

The Gnoll spying with her enhanced hearing looked around. And she looked uncharacteristically…

“Maybe, Shakra. You’d actually better get ready. He’s new, but he might ask for you. Brilm is, um, recommending you?”

“What? No one comes here on first go and asks for a Human—”

The back room fell silent. Everyone looked around. Oh.

Gossip went around the city, and especially in places like this. Xesci stirred.

“You must be joking. Menorra?”

“It’s Wall Lord Ilvriss.”

The entire back room went into a flurry as everyone tried to win one of the most eligible Wall Lord’s attentions. In the lobby, he was arguing with his fellow Wall Lords—in fact, more had secretly come to er, support him in his hour of stress. And to do business here.

But. Xesci knew that he hadn’t come here—recently—because he had been off the market so to speak for a while. And if recent events were any guide…she shook her head.

“Idiots.”

Then she went to dress up.

—-

Ilvriss was a bit irked. Ilvriss was a bit narked. Ilvriss was a bit upset, but he tried to explain why to Brilm and Tasilt.

“Brilm. This is not the cure for my overwork of late. This will not make me feel…better.”

He was angry. Mostly at Tasilt, even though Brilm had instigated the idea. Tasilt should have known better than to suggest something so…asinine.

However, it was Brilm who countered Ilvriss.

“Have you checked?”

“What?”

“Have you checked if it helps, Ilvriss? Be honest. Have you visited such a fine establishment—or found yourself in company once in the last month?”

“That is entirely—”

“I think, Ilvriss, that it is.”

Tasilt spoke up. He was having a drink, since he would not avail himself of this place’s services. Ilvriss gave him a long look.

“You must be joking, Tasilt.”

“Everyone has needs, Ilvriss. It may be indecorous, but Brilm brought up a fair point. Sometimes you just need…something. And since my plan of dragging you to a bar and getting into a fight didn’t fly, Brilm wins.”

The other Wall Lord shook his head.

“I will not be getting my groin kicked or be stomped on—although I hear you can pay for that here.”

Ilvriss closed his eyes. He did not need to hear that. He looked around.

“And you really want me to…?”

“Well, we’re not going to watch so it’s up to you, Ilvriss. But loneliness is a terrible thing. At least you can pay for company after…”

Tasilt stomped on Brilm’s foot. Ilvriss’ head swiveled around and the Wall Lord coughed and headed off.

“That was rude, even for Brilm. Sorry, Ilvriss. He doesn’t know how to deal with this.”

“And this was your best foot forwards, Tasilt?”

Ilvriss glowered at his friend. Tasilt exhaled.

“I suggest you avail yourself of this place. Or drink one of those Orgasm Potions I heard were banned in Pallass.”

“Why? In the name of the Ancestors, what has gotten into you, Tasilt?”

Ilvriss demanded hotly, enough that some of the other inconspicuous guests in their own partitioned space—some with disguises on—looked around. Tasilt just met his gaze levelly.

“Because it does help, Ilvriss. I can go home and hold my wife after a tragedy. Sometimes you just need—distraction. Brilm’s right when he’s right.”

He was that. It was impossible to say ‘Brilm was always wrong’ because right when he told you about the most idiotic investment opportunity, something happened and he made up all his other losses and came out way ahead. Ilvriss hesitated.

And he was never going to get out that door anyways. The employees of The Drake’s Pearl knew money when they saw it. Also? Getting Ilvriss in, even if he denied everything, was a lot of…street cred? Reputation? Something like that.

“Wall Lord, please at least let us show you around. We have a very fine selection of talented people here. Your friend Brilm has paid for everything and we cannot just refund the fee…”

It was probably a Skill like, ‘[No Pulling Out]’, which might have double entendre uses, especially here. Ilvriss felt like he was a young Drake on an outing with his friends again, daring themselves in here.

Periss…

It was wrong to come here, even if Tasilt and Brilm thought it was about the Human in Liscor he was missing.

However, Ilvriss had to admit—he did laugh for the first time in a while upon entering the ‘selection room’, where you could meet and socialize with the women currently working, or inspect, well, a catalogue of people and arrange other visits, sometimes privately.

The Drake’s Pearl had private rooms, rooms for all kinds of things, like ‘rescuing’ a damsel from a monster—actual monsters like slimes cost extra since you got to kill them—themed rooms, even full suites complete with hot baths and so on.

It was, after all, the best such establishment in Salazsar. But that didn’t make Ilvriss laugh. What made him laugh, involuntarily, was the hall of fame on the wall.

There were actual pictures of guests who’d agreed to have their faces up—or just names or aliases. Brilm was there. But what made Ilvriss laugh was the ‘longest period of consummation award’.

Four hours, eight minutes, fifty one seconds.

“Ancestors.”

“That poor woman.”

Tasilt sighed. Ilvriss stifled his laughter, staring at the picture. It was, apparently, a record held by ‘Mister Superior’, a Drake of unknown origin. Date listed.

“Who was the other half of the event?”

The female Drake trying to show them to the women turned.

“Excuse me, Wall Lord?”

Ilvriss pointed to the hall of fame record.

“The other partner. It takes two.”

“Oh—I’m not sure.”

Tasilt shook his head.

“Someone give her a plaque. Unless it was only ‘Mister Superior’ by himself. Wait a second. If that’s how you break the record, I’ll do it myself and go for twenty hours! For the record, of course. You can even have my name and face up.”

Ilvriss snorted. Brilm, who was already flirting, gave them both a resigned look. But then Ilvriss sobered. And felt…apprehension.

—-

Xesci was not out with the others. She had declined to line up, as the others were surely doing. But she was listening from the back room. It was very quiet. She’d smiled herself as Ilvriss pointed out the plaque. But now…

It was a bad idea. That was her opinion. But it was how [Soldiers] did it. Someone lost a friend? They tossed them in here and perhaps it did help. She had held more than one adventurer or warrior afterwards.

Still.

“I—I am flattered by the attention. But I really don’t feel interested—nor is your company helping, frankly, Brilm, Tasilt.”

“Oh, fine. And I understand that part. Tasilt?”

“I’m going to break the record, Brilm. By myself. Is there any way you can confirm it’s just me on the plaque? So my wife doesn’t kill me.”

They left Ilvriss alone. And now the Wall Lord was a…small fish around big fish.

Xesci didn’t know fish.

She heard murmurs. Flirtatious voices—or however the ‘ladies of the night’ were scouting out Ilvriss. They’d be tossing charm Skills and other similar abilities out, but Xesci wondered if Ilvriss might be a hard opponent.

He was a strong [Lord] and his aura could probably take most of what they could use on him. Unless he was willing. She listened.

“Are you interested in something more…wild, Wall Lord?”

That was Aranna, straight to the point. Ilvriss backed up.

“Fancy a night, sir?”

Shakra. Xesci was curious, but Ilvriss replied distinctly.

“No—thank you, Miss. But no. Not Humans. No one, preferably, but—I apologize.”

That surprised and disappointed the people. Xesci just nodded.

Who thought he wanted to see a Human face right now?

“You. If you want me, I will have you crawl on hands and knees, yes. No?”

…And that established what Ilvriss was not interested in. Xesci listened as he practically jumped across the room. He kept turning down people, and she knew he was using his aura. She felt it in the air—command, pure and simple. It meant no one would be seducing him past his senses.

“Ilvriss, you’re being unreasonable. I—er—have to go, but I’m not going to let it drop until you’re at least in the same room with one of these women. They’re amazing conversationalists! Really! Do you think I’m just in and out in five minutes?”

“Brilm, I can’t do this. I don’t even know what I want, but I don’t think it’s here, with respect to all these beautiful women, of course.”

That sparked a challenge among the people here, although Ilvriss couldn’t have known it. Did they enjoy their jobs? Well, did you enjoy your job in any profession all the time? It was just work. But it was well-paid work and there was still pride in what you did.

Unless people told you to be ashamed. Xesci had heard it all. Brilm exhaled—and then paused.

“Hold on. If you don’t know…”

In the back room, the Drake saw the other workers look around. And Brilm was speaking to the desk manager.

“I know someone who’ll fit. Is Xesci…?”

And that was how they met.

—-

Xesci had not been among the young women of every species in the meeting room. Ilvriss felt like there was something significant about her, though.

Everyone had seemed to know what Brilm meant when he said there was no one else to choose in response to…Ilvriss denying he was interested?

Well, he was forced into at least meeting the woman. She was already in a private ‘apartment’ where you could do anything from cook to sleep to…well, there was one point and one alone in the end.

Wasn’t that so? He hesitated. It had felt like a long time since he’d come into a place like this. He had met Periss and before that…assignations with other members of the Walled Families, mostly.

But Periss had been so long and now? He would not be doing anything more than Tasilt—less than the other Drake, who had apparently asked if he could set a ‘personal consummation time record’, or upset Mister Superior.

This was a silly place. For the laugh alone, and his friend’s clear, if totally incomprehensible method of helping, he would have thanked them.

But no. It would be a betrayal of…

“Excuse me, Miss Xesci?”

He pushed the door open and it closed behind him. Someone was waiting on the rather overdone bed with copious sheets and pillows. The entire room had a…chartreuse color theme. Padded.

There sat a Drake with two needles in her claws. Ilvriss instantly hesitated.

If this is like that Gnoll who threatened to put a collar on my neck and take me for a walk, I will stab Brilm. He eyed the needles—

But they were, in fact, knitting needles. And the Drake was knitting a…sock?

It was a sock. A nice, thick one for cold weather or stomping around in mud. She was making it out of a rather nice wool, too. Something properly expensive, not thick and cheap.

There was even the beginning of decoration on it. Also—a Drake sock, so one tailored around their clawed toes. You tightened socks rather than jam a foot into them like Human ones. So they were more like foot-wraps that you laced around your foot. So much better than socks that had only one method of being put on.

…Why was she knitting a sock?

“I’m sorry, Wall Lord. I didn’t think you’d be too interested in me.”

The Drake stood up, putting down the needles, yarn, and unfinished sock and apologizing. Ilvriss blinked.

Xesci was a female Drake. That much had been obvious from the ‘catalogue’. But unlike every other person on the list, she had not had a picture illustration.

She was dressed fairly skimpily, but with clothing you could actually wear on a warm day. A violet dress with black hemline, not transparent, but simply ‘nice’. And the Drake herself looked…

Er…

There was no way for Ilvriss to say this politely, even in the confines of his head. But he was taken aback because she was plain.

Completely ordinary, that was. Which was fine. But every female [Concubine] or so on in that room back there had been surpassingly beautiful, as you might expect in a place like this. Some were older, others young and vibrant, but Xesci was…

Average. Completely. She looked like she was in her early…thirties? Ilvriss couldn’t tell. Her scales were a light green, one of the most common colors.

Every part of her face was ordinary. Not perfectly symmetrical, or flawless. Just amazingly ordinary. You could pass her ten million times on the street and never notice.

“I…er…well, thank you. You are Miss Xesci?”

“Yes, Wall Lord. I’m quite happy to let you sit here for…twenty minutes and then refund you. I think your companions would accept that.”

The Drake got up and nodded at him. Just nodded. No bow, not that Drakes tended to do that. But she seemed—Ilvriss was off-put.

But also relieved.

“You seem to understand my situation, Miss Xesci. Thank you for that.”

He looked around; there was a padded seat he cautiously inserted himself into. She sat back on the side of the bed, grimacing.

“These things make you sink into them…you could probably suffocate with enough blankets and pillows.”

He smiled despite himself.

“This is ah—the typical bed you might use when—”

He stumbled over his words. Now, Xesci smiled.

“You don’t need to be so formal, Ilvriss. And you may call me Xesci. Yes, when I have sex. It can get quite taxing on the back. I’ve asked them for a harder mattress for years now.”

He sat there, completely ill at ease…for about five minutes. Then he began talking to her like another person.

“And they don’t oblige you? I imagine for a place this…well patronized, it wouldn’t be too expensive.”

“You think that. But they do love to reuse everything. Also, you have to get stain-proof enchantments on everything so I understood the expense.”

“Eurgh.”

“Yes, right?”

She smiled. Despite himself, Ilvriss had to grin. The Drake went on with a sigh as she picked up the knitting needles.

“But I got them to install one in one of the rooms.”

“Oh. So what was the problem? It was—uncomfortable?”

The Drake looked blank.

“No. It’s that everyone wants to use it. I get to use it once every two weeks, if I’m lucky. So it goes. Pardon me—I’m just knitting socks for a friend. It’s a hobby. I wouldn’t have brought out the needles if I thought…again.”

She was knitting as she talked, with that ability some people had to knit without really thinking about it. That told you they were the hardcore, real knitters, not the posers.

Ilvriss nodded.

“So you work here. And this job is…well, I have visited places like this before. Never here, but I ah, was reluctant to do so. My companions seem to think it will help.”

He couldn’t think of anything else to say. Xesci nodded.

“I know. Word travels fast around here. It might, if you wanted it. I’m happy to be charming—but I don’t think that’s you.”

“And you know me?”

She raised her brows.

“I seem to. I’m very good at knowing people.”

Click, click, went the needles. Ilvriss had to admit she was right. He sighed.

“Well…I apologize then. If there is anything to apologize for. I will pay the fee. Or I’ll make Brilm do it for bringing me here.”

She smiled and nodded.

“Thank you. Well, that’s three minutes. Seventeen to go. While you wait, would you like to talk or just sit? Or you can sleep in the bed. Don’t worry—they clean it every time.”

Ilvriss shuddered.

“No thank you. And—talk?”

“Oh yes. You thought your friend was lying, didn’t you?”

“Brilm? He actually talks here?”

She smiled at him and he felt rather foolish.

“Of course we talk. All the time. You must have last come here as a young man. They—do not tend to talk. Most gulp stamina potions and ask me questions about how they’re doing sometimes.”

Ilvriss shifted uncomfortably. This was not a subject of conversation one brought up in polite society. Ever. But this place was one of those areas not technically…Drake. It existed and they let it exist because it was better to have it than make it a crime, but they did not talk about it.

Xesci looked at him as if reading his mind.

“I apologize. I forget this isn’t comfortable talk.”

“It—is perfectly fine with me. So, Brilm comes here? He has his face on the wall.”

“Yes. He’s quite well-liked, you know. He’s generous, doesn’t act…out of turn. And he does talk with his favorite women. Shakra—I think she, no it was Aranna, actually—she told him about the Singer of Terandria, you know.”

“What? You mean those song-crystals he made a fortune on—”

“He’s good at listening too.”

Ilvriss’ opinion of The Drake’s Pearl did not change markedly. But despite himself, twenty minutes later, he found himself asking questions like someone just discovering an entirely new culture or field of work.

Which is what Xesci’s life was, really. He had never thought to ask.

“It’s fine work. If there’s protection. Other cities have none and it creates…danger. Far better to have rules and guards and so on.”

“Other cities don’t do that?”

She sighed.

“Human cities. Zeres banned it for nearly a decade when the Serpentine Matriarch, in her great wisdom, objected to it. One of the Admirals got her to reverse it, which was good. It was criminals and [Sailors] fighting and…”

“You were there, personally?”

She looked surprised.

“Zeres? Only for a year. Then I left. I’ve been to Pallass, Zeres—Salazsar is the best for me. I came from the north.”

“What, really?”

“Drakes live there. I was born in the north. I learned my trade from Human women. In safety, actually. I left to find my people, but this is my job. Maybe I’ll go north after earning enough.”

“Safety?”

She smiled.

“Do you know the Gangs, Wall Lord? I was a part of the Sisters of Chell’s business. They’re an all-female gang that protects my sort of person. In exchange for fees, of course.”

“Really. But there must be danger with a criminal underworld…”

Xesci sighed.

“There is. And they can be…nearly as bad as any other gang. But if you’re honest with them, it’s almost always fine. You know they’re [Nightstalkers] and such? A kind of [Rogue] mixed with [Temptress]. Many of them were in my profession, but learned to defend themselves after being attacked. Or they were recruited. They know what it’s like and they respect you, which is rare.”

He had no idea. Before he knew it, he was chatting about Izrilian gangs, and how many places Xesci had been. They were talking about Pallass, and Zeres, both places which he’d visited—and the vastly different experiences of each when Xesci glanced up.

“Oh no. It’s been forty minutes already.”

“So?”

“So, your friends are going to get the wrong idea. Unless that’s fine? I don’t want to take up your time, Wall Lord.”

She looked at him. Ilvriss hesitated.

“I’m quite relaxed. Although—is this normally how it goes?”

He gestured awkwardly around. She smiled.

“For a first client who’s nervous? Maybe it’s even their first time? Yes, actually. I might be more…flirtatious. But at this point I might subtly suggest we be more intimate. Offer to get you something. Sit closer. Move my tail like…”

She made a gesture. Ilvriss coughed.

“Ah. Thank you for your consideration.”

She nodded. Incidentally—Ilvriss was not more attracted to her now than he had been when first entering the brothel. He did like her more, that was certain.

“You were so confident I wouldn’t be interested, though. Were you at all interested?”

He pressed her in time. She smiled. Ilvriss was curious. It wasn’t as if he was…without an ego.

The female Drake eyed him. Then she smiled and chuckled.

“Wall Lord. If I wanted to entice you, this is exactly how I’d do it. Play disinterested and then slowly warm to you. Claim I was entirely fine with not having sex and then let you make me admit how interested I really am.”

He blinked at her. Then flushed red under his scales.

“I—”

I didn’t mean that. But he’d fallen into the trap!

Or not a trap? She was shaking her head. And she’d told him this would have been a trap, proving she wasn’t trying to seduce him, or was this a gambit to actually make him drop his guard twice in order to…

Abruptly, Ilvriss realized he was overthinking this again. If she wanted to seduce him, she could. Mainly because this was a brothel. He sighed.

“I must be tired. I’m…I suppose Tasilt had a point, Miss Xesci. It has been a while. But I—don’t wish to do anything. I think I am tempted, though.”

She nodded.

“Most people are. There is nothing wrong with it. But Wall Lord…I am sure you don’t want me. In that, your friend Brilm was the most wrong.”

He looked at her.

“How do you mean, Xesci?”

“I mean, Wall Lord, that if I am right, you would have been better served with the receptionist—who is, in fact, the third-most requested person here. Or anyone else before me, even Shakra, the Human woman you met.”

“What?”

“Oh yes. Do you think the first thing most returning customers ask isn’t ‘and what about you, Miss’? The management is sometimes clever.”

He smiled again. But he was curious now. And he felt the same niggling feeling at the back of his mind.

There was something…here.

“What would be so wrong with you, Miss Xesci? And if this is a trap to fully seduce me, please let me know.”

She shook her head, looking at him.

“It is not. But I see how I’ve stabbed myself in the leg. Damn. This is why I should watch myself. I’m so conniving when I knit—”

She tossed down the needles, surprising Ilvriss. For a moment her voice changed. He looked at her.

“What do you mean?”

She sighed.

“Curiosity. How did that strange woman put it? ‘Curiosity drives my customers to me. The rest is the truth of what I offer.’ I can see where this is going, Wall Lord. Very well. Since there’s no help for it…please don’t be alarmed. Or do. I…am going to show you something that might upset you.”

He stirred as Xesci got up. She turned, fiddling with her dress, and he uneasily stood.

“Miss Xesci, you needn’t undress. Wait. Are you a Selphid?”

She looked back at him and smiled.

“It would be very amusing if I was, wouldn’t it? No. And don’t…worry…”

The dress came off. Ilvriss saw a bare back and hesitated. He made to avert his gaze from her tail, at least, but nothing amazingly different made itself known in the brief glimpse his mind now had on auto-replay in his mind. Nor did Xesci turn around.

“Wall Lord—this is why I am the most requested here. Also, why you don’t want me.”

The Drake clapped her claws and the room went dark. The magical light spell was programmed to turn off when someone did that, apparently.

Ilvriss’ claw was on his sword when he heard the two claps again. He was tensed, his other claw ready to trigger a spell from one of his rings.

If this had been a trap—

But she would have gotten him naked without his rings or equipment if it was, surely. He looked around—but the Drake was alone.

Standing where she had been. But not the same. She was facing him. He hesitated, but she was clothed. She wore…

…

…

…

…Armor. The Wall Lord saw what might have been enchanted leather. Snug, secure. Not enchanted. But it should have been.

Her scales had changed color. The Drake was taller. Her scales were light blue. She had a scar on her forearm.

He knew that. He looked up.

She was younger. She was no longer ordinary, indistinguishable from a thousand faces. He knew this face. He knew this Drake.

She stared at him, then at her body. Her arms were muscular. A [Soldier]’s arms. She had once killed a Wyvern by herself.

She—

It was Periss. The Drake looked exactly like her.

It was Periss, down to every line of her. But the armor wasn’t enchanted. She carried no weapon. But it was P—

Ilvriss drew his sword. The Drake backed up.

“Wall Lord—”

“What did you do? What did you do?”

The fake Periss backed up. Ilvriss stared at her. That was her. Every inch of her. Every bit of her he remembered, the parts he had started to forget, realized in perfect detail.

But it was not her.

“Has someone drawn a weapon in the room? Our sensor went off. Excuse us, Wall L—”

The door burst open. The Drake’s Pearl had a security system in place. The bouncer and fake receptionist stopped as they saw Ilvriss.

“Oh no. Not again. Xesci—”

“Wall Lord, please lower the sword.”

“Wall Lord Ilvriss, put your b—”

Ilvriss pointed the sword at the [Bouncer]’s face. The Gnoll was probably good. But Ilvriss was wearing his full equipment and his sword—both of them stopped.

“What. Did. You. Do? An illusion no—what are you doing? Stop it! Undo—”

He was beginning to shout as more people gathered, more of the staff hurried forwards. But before he could—the voices shouting in his head—

Periss, Xesci, stepped forwards and grabbed his arm. With the other hand she grabbed his ring-hand. Then—she head-butted him.

Ilvriss hadn’t been expecting that. His head rang as the Drake let go. He hadn’t let go of the sword, but she pointed down at him as he tensed.

“Get ahold of yourself, Wall Lord! This is a Skill! Or have you taken leave of your senses?”

She snapped. He froze.

It was her voice. And that instinctive reaction to—he looked up. The Drake folded her arms.

“Drop the sword and I’ll explain. If you’re too addled to think, the staff will have to beat you down and tie you up until you listen. And it won’t be the tenth time either.”

She looked at him. The voice, mannerisms—Ilvriss dropped the sword.

“Tell me.”

—-

“I am a [Courtesan of Change]. High-level. Each time, I become someone either I or my client has met. It affects my personality too, so please excuse me.”

The Drake sat in a chair, military-straight. Unlike the plain Drake of before, Periss—

No, Xesci was direct, forthright, even aggressive. This was how Periss treated subordinates—or idiots. It wasn’t the relationship she’d had with Ilvriss in private.

He was almost grateful of that. Because she was so much like Periss it hurt.

“Can you—can you change to another?”

“Not for a while. Sorry. Also, not very sorry. You asked. I know the knitting Xesci was manipulating you—or doing it without realizing it even—but you did ask.”

The [Courtesan] sighed. Ilvriss was trying to wrap his head around it.

“What is your true form?”

“I don’t know. I’ve forgotten.”

He stared at her. The Drake woman gave him a weary sigh.

“My class changed me. At first—I was good at mimicking other people. It helps you in the business to put on an act. Soon—it became what I was good at. Some are good at sex itself. Some? Charming, or addictive. I…become.”

Like the [Actors] that Erin had made. No—this was the class that had existed before them. This…woman…

“Are you even a Drake?”

“Yes I was. But I don’t have to be.”

His head spun. This was beyond Selphid levels of alteration. Xesci saw his expression and clarified.

“Don’t think I can become a Minotauress. I can’t. I can alter my height and become anyone within two feet of my original height. It used to be only an inch.”

“But you become them. You wore armor—”

“It disappears if I take it off. And it’s probably not as strong as actual armor. Wall Lord. It may be hard for you to understand, but this is a class. A high-level class. No more.”

He looked at her.

“You’re over Level 40. At least. No…Level 50?”

She didn’t answer. Nor was she appraisable by a spell. Periss-Xesci sighed.

“I’m sorry for doing this. I like being the knitting Drake because she’s so…un-sexual. I thought it would help and look what happened. I met her once—she was a strange person. But she knits like a genius…”

To say that it was an incident was no joke. Brilm had emerged to find Ilvriss talking with Xesci, after having nearly gotten expelled for drawing a blade on one of the workers here.

But Ilvriss…he couldn’t look away. His throat felt tight.

“You…do you know who you look like right now?”

“I can guess. I’m sorry. It was the first…person in your mind. Far and above the young woman.”

She gave him a sympathetic look. He started.

“You can tell?”

“Vaguely. I know who you might love…or find too real. As I said, I know my job. If I’m bothering you—”

“No. Please stay.”

She nodded. She knew what he wanted. Of course. She sat there and he looked at Periss again.

It was like the faerie drink all over again. But it hurt more, now, seeing the not-Periss.

More. And less. Because the wound was healing, Ilvriss realized. It might have torn open now—but if he had seen her months ago, he might have well gone mad.

The Wall Lord’s head was in his claws. Xesci hesitated, but when he looked up, he was clear-eyed.

He had not wept. Ilvriss looked at her and nodded.

“Thank you, Miss Xesci. I…understand, now, your reservations. I apologize for my reaction.”

“Many have it. I should have just said as much from the start. But the knitting-Drake…she never says anything completely straight.”

He nodded again. The Wall Lord stood up. Xesci waited.

This was the moment he would ask, and she would be reluctant, very reluctant if he did. But he just turned away.

“I regret asking, Miss Xesci. And yet—may I request a visit with you tomorrow? Yes…tomorrow.”

Her head sunk. Then her eyes flashed. Whoever this was had a temper. She controlled her tongue—and her instinct to kick his ass, this might be good if she was ever in a fight like some Gnolls she’d met—and sighed.

She had better get used to this body, then. She had mixed feelings about it, but this is why they came back. Again, again…

“Of course, Wall Lord. And this is all discreet. I will only take this form when we’re together and never speak of…”

He looked at her. The [Courtesan], for all the confidence this body gave her, felt her tongue dry up in her mouth. Ilvriss spoke.

“I would like to talk, Miss Xesci. Not…whatever you might be thinking. I mean that truthfully, without artifice. Never take her shape again.”

He met her gaze. Slowly, the Drake nodded.

“I won’t. Very well…Ilvriss.”

The Drake stood. He walked towards the door, looking as pale as if he’d collapsed again. But definitely vigorous. Full of emotion, for better or worse. He had the door half open when he looked back at her.

“Her name was Periss.”

She nodded. He opened the door and strode out.

—-

Ghosts. The Wall Lord was haunted—no, accompanied by them.

Not Ghosts, the malignant specters that were monsters summoned by dark magic. He meant…spirits.

Shades.

…All those were undead subtypes. The Wall Lord walked back to his tower unsteadily. Brilm and Tasilt hadn’t understood what had happened, but Brilm had been upset he’d failed to help. Tasilt was engaged in setting records, apparently.

Ilvriss walked by evening in the lower part of Salazsar. He really wanted a drink. And he knew why that would not happen.

Dead people, then. Not zombies. Just…memories. They followed him around. Pushing him, reminding him.

Zel Shivertail, to follow.

Periss, to avenge.

And Erin Solstice now.

There were more. Friends he’d had who suffered accidents, companions in war. Teachers.

If he looked behind him, would he see them clinging to his shoulders? Ilvriss looked—but all he saw was a group of Gnoll children racing about, young, in one of those little packs of children.

He shook his head. And he didn’t feel…as if they were dragging him down.

Remember the dead. Because of Periss, he wasn’t drowning in a bottle.

Xesci. She had shaken him. He was still—angry. Confused. Shaken.

However, his mind was racing.

Hers was a class and level beyond any he’d seen recently. Beyond his, really. The ability to change your form without magic?

He rubbed at his forehead.

“…On the other wing, that wasn’t what Periss could do.”

If she—the real Periss—had really head-butted him, she might have cracked his forehead without a protective Skill or enchantment. So Xesci was only borrowing form, perhaps native ability. Not Skills.

Little potential in war, then. Even if you planted her as a—a—[Saboteur]-type individual, without that class she wouldn’t manage to assassinate a [General]. A [Strategist], maybe.

But to dismiss her was a narrow-minded way of thinking. Ilvriss considered how useful she could be as a [Spy]. As…

He shook his head. Ridiculous. A night worker?

However. He was reminded of another comparison, the one Alrric had made.

She travelled from city to city, even went from the north to the south. She definitely doesn’t fit into classic Drake society.

This meeting had opened up possibilities, and helped him, despite what Brilm and Tasilt may have intended. Ilvriss walked on.

Then he paused.

The lower city of Salazsar was far more crowded. But Salazsar, home to millions, one of the largest cities in the world, still had space. It was ever-expanding. Someday, it would absorb the entire mountain it was built out of.

Thus—you could find yourself alone from time to time. And it seemed he was walking down a street devoid of people.

…His aura had obliterated something. Ilvriss narrowed his eyes. He was a [Lord], and he had been fending off the advances of the people in the brothel. He’d subconsciously broken through some sort of keep-away Skill. He felt the slight urge to walk off and not go down this street.

Reflexively, he checked himself. Nothing to his rear—none of his rings or amulets was buzzing for hostile magic. The Drake put his claw near his sword—then slowly moved it away.

If it came to it, he’d point his Ring of Greater Fireball and activate it. No one expected a [Fireball] to the face.

The street was empty. He looked ahead and found…

Well, a lone person hurrying down the street. Had they seen Ilvriss? They were cloaked, and he saw a long tail. Drake. Ilvriss saw them glance around—then hurry around the corner.

“Hm.”

They hadn’t realized someone had broken through their Skill. What had they been doing? Ilvriss looked past them and saw…

“Oh.”

Interesting. He came across a giant…painting on the side of one of the apartment-complexes in the lower residences. The paint was drying even now. And it was, er…

Ilvriss stepped back. It was startlingly good. Accurate to life, even scaled up. Splendid coloration—a bit more vivid than reality, so it popped along the slightly dirty stonework. The artist had also given it a faint grey background to canvas the Gnoll hanging onto the windowsill.

Yes, a Gnoll—a [Miner] if ever Ilvriss saw one, in the traditional gear, his pickaxe holstered at his waist. He was holding onto the windowsill of the apartment—the artist had incorporated the natural scenery.

He had a desperate look on his face. Clearly, he was trying to climb up. But the problem in the painting, the motif if you will, the subtle message in the art…

…Was the pair of Drakes currently engaged in trying to push him out as they held huge gemstones and bags of gold in their claws. They were uh, cartoonishly sneering down at the Gnoll.

The problem, if Ilvriss would have critiqued this art in a gallery, was that this painting had painted the every-Gnoll, without specific detail on his fur. But the two Drakes?

He knew them. The distinct speckle-pattern of gold on the female Drake’s blue scales she loved belonged to Wall Lady Gisha—and her brother didn’t paint his scales gold, but that had to be Wall Lord Rellmel, with that streak of green across one arm, mixing with the onyx scales.

The entire painting stood out to Ilvriss. Bits of gold dropping as the two Drakes tried to kill the [Miner]—or at least make him drop off the windowsill. Excellent art. Provocative message.

Ilvriss looked at it for about four minutes, admired the art, and went on his way.

He had more important things to do.

—-

The next day, Ilvriss awoke after purple-pilling himself into oblivion. He had a breakfast on time, asked Osthia how her training was going.

“I think the Gem Regiments are well suited for—strike missions, Wall Lord. The Rubirel Guard are especially impressive. I couldn’t even scratch their armor. I only have one concern…”

“Which is?”

“What if someone [Dispels] their armor? They have entirely enclosed armor, but it seems weak to enchantment attacks—”

“A casual [Dispel] won’t break their armor, Captain Shieldscale. And if the enemy decides to field an [Enchanter] of that strength, every artifact is in danger. I think if the Rubirel Guard did lose their enchantments, they’d…remove their helmets.”

“Good point, Wall Lord. I was just concerned about fighting high-level spellcasters.”

Ilvriss had nodded.

“For now, they’ll be excellent against anything short of that unlikely scenario, Captain.”

After that, training with Zelir. Ilvriss was walking out of his tower when Shriekblade appeared.

“I’m here.”

She stood in front of him as the doors to the Gemscale residence opened. Ilvriss blinked.

The female Drake wore the kind of expression he’d seen [Soldiers] with incredible hangovers wear. Sullen, angry, and also annoyed. Toss in boredom to that—it was an amazing stew of emotion.

“Adventurer Shriekblade. You didn’t report yesterday.”

“Yeah.”

She said nothing else. Ilvriss eyed her.

“Are you in need of more potions or scrolls?”

“I don’t want them. Can I kill something?”

He hesitated. Osthia paused and eyed the Named Adventurer.

“Do you want me to handle…?”

Shriekblade gave her a look and Ilvriss recalled the issues with her before. He sighed. This had happened multiple times.

“Adventurer Tessa—”

“Call me Shriekblade. Everyone does.”

“Very well. Shriekblade. If you are fit to work, accompany me for the day. I don’t envision fighting. But I will tell Captain Shieldscale to contact you if any monsters arise in the mines.”

“Fine. Yay. Standing around. Kill me now.”

She stomped after him, making no effort to resume her professional, if eerie, normal shadowing. As she was now, she was talkative, had a personality—but a foul one.

Case in point, halfway to his appointment with Zelir, Ilvriss heard a small sound. He saw Shriekblade puffing away on a huge cigar.

“…Is that Dreamleaf? That is contraband in Salazsar.”

“Who cares? I’m a Named Adventurer. I can defend you drunk. Can I get a drink?”

“No.”

Ilvriss dropped it. Zelir was no less interested by Shriekblade’s new attitude today. He eyed her—and the cigar—disapprovingly. She was lounging against one wall, watching them, incredibly bored, but alternating between puffing and watching people in the city below.

“I never noticed the…Miss Shriekblade before, Wall Lord.”

“She has been here on many occasions, Zelir. I’ve hired her to take care of combat issues. Monsters and so on.”

“I see. You’re not in fear of your life?”

“Not at all.”

Ilvriss lied. Zelir had never detected Shriekblade before. But the [Weapon Trainer] quickly dismissed her.

“Did you want to discuss something with me, Wall Lord?”

“After our training, I think.”

Ilvriss had decided to make Zelir part of his mission, for all the reasons he’d thought of yesterday. They began to warm up, first sparring—then Ilvriss trying out the new sword style.

“Not bad, not bad…but you won’t ever get to your old level of fighting prowess without constant practice.”

The older Drake was approving. Ilvriss felt annoyed at the new style. However, he knew he had to make his body learn to parry the new way.

“Why don’t you try using your Skills while we fight, lad? It might help you learn a new style.”

“As you like. Careful, though—[Flurry Strikes]!”

“[Parry Blade]!”

Zelir and Ilvriss’ practice swords flashed at each other. Ilvriss had fewer combat Skills—but he was a strong [Lord]. Even so, not one of the nine fast strikes hit Zelir. He knocked down seven blows perfectly—then the other more clumsily, but took himself out of range of the last one with a [Fast Backstep].

“What’s that? Seven charges?”

The [Weapon Trainer] smiled. He had [Parry Blade]—but a spin on the Skill. [Parry Blade — Sevenfold Reserve], which meant in layman terms that he could parry an incoming blow seven times, then it ran out. It would ‘recharge’ in time.

“You’ve gotten too good with your Skill, lad. Time was you could only do four strikes. You might get me one of these days!”

“That would be a shame, if I someday managed to win more spars than I lost. Too bad I—[Reaching Slash]!”

Zelir cursed and used his Skill to duck it. The two Drakes went back and forth, as Ilvriss began to warm to the new style. It was only halfway through the serious spar as both used their Skills that his tunnel vision and hearing made him realize Shriekblade was making a sound.

She was…sniggering. He hesitated, and saw Zelir glance to the side.

“Something wrong, Miss Adventurer?”

“This is so stupid.”

She flicked the butt of her cigar over the edge of the training grounds. Ilvriss eyed her, feeling a spark of real annoyance in his chest. He and Zelir had been going at it for about thirty minutes by now.

“Do you have an objection to our training methods, Adventurer?”

She shrugged insolently at Zelir’s clear ire.

“If the Wall Lord wants to learn how to fight, he should ask me. You two fight like you’re on the sparring courts.”

The two male Drakes looked at each other.

“We are.”

“Yeah. I didn’t see one of you kick dirt in the others’ faces. No body blows, no one coming from behind with a knife. That won’t work on a battlefield. The sword style, maybe. But you—you’re not doing more than teaching him how to hold the sword.”

She pointed at Zelir. Ilvriss saw the [Weapon Trainer] bristle. He put down his practice sword and looked at Shriekblade.

“Master Zelir is an old family friend and mentor, Adventurer. Watch your tongue.”

She shut her mouth and folded her arms. Zelir nodded to Ilvriss. They tried to get back to it, but Shriekblade’s words had soured the entire affair. Zelir pressed Ilvriss—hard. Fighting aggressively, testing Ilvriss, as if to prove Shriekblade wrong.

She rolled her eyes. She said nothing, but she was so pointedly dismissive that Ilvriss began pushing at Zelir, so his back was to Shriekblade.

Even so—Drakes had tempers and Zelir was proud of his skill. When he tried to parry Ilvriss and got a score on the arm, Shriekblade might have snorted. The [Weapon Trainer] rounded on her.

“If you think this is a game, Adventurer, pick up a practice blade and show me you can do better!”

She stopped lounging against the wall. Ilvriss put up his blade.

“Master Zelir. This isn’t a good—”

Zelir rounded on him. He was normally polite, but Ilvriss remembered his temper. He snapped at the Wall Lord.

“There are things I can stand, lad, and things I can’t. This is swordsmanship, not a street fight! This Adventurer can show me she can back her talk up, or she can wait elsewhere.”

“I can use a sword. Better than both of you combined. I’m a Named Adventurer. You’re old and you make money training people outside of battlefields. I’ll take you on with one hand and no Skills if you stop bugging me. How about it, Wall Lord?”

Shriekblade waved a claw at him. Zelir bristled.

“Pick up a sword!”

“Zelir—”

“Don’t argue with me, Ilvriss! I’m still the instructor here. Now—”

—-

She broke his arm. It took her four minutes in the savage duel that unfolded. True to her promise, she used no Skills. And Zelir pressed her hard, at first. He didn’t use Skills either. It was down to the ability with the blade—the strength of each one’s body—and fighting style.

At first, Shriekblade just danced around Zelir, moving faster than even the [Weapon Trainer], who often did the same to Ilvriss. She blocked, parrying his angry thrusts and strikes. Ilvriss watched, ready to jump in, uneasy.

She let Zelir tire himself and show her his fighting style for a minute. Then she began raining down fast blows towards his head. She scored him twice, but light blows. He went in harder, and touched her on the shoulder. Just a touch—

That was when she lost her temper. She struck from above, then, as his sword was parrying and riposting towards her face, kicked him in the stomach.

He didn’t expect that. And then Shriekblade hit him—one handed. Ilvriss stopped her, but it was too late.

“Arm’s broken. Maybe the wrist, too.”

The [Healer] pronounced the injury as Zelir was lifted to a clinic. Merla’s. He was lying there. Possibly from the vicious blows that had broken said arm—possibly just from shame.

“Please treat him. I will check on him as soon as possible. I have to deal with…”

Shriekblade was standing on the edge of the training grounds. She looked over her shoulder and then sullenly turned to face him as he stalked over.

“Master Zelir’s healing costs will come out of your wages, Adventurer.”

“What? He challenged me.”

“You were taunting him. And you could have beaten him without breaking his arm. Let alone dueling him. You will not do so again, is that clear?”

The Wall Lord snapped. Shriekblade glowered. Then she looked at the sky, past his head.

“Fine. I hate everything. I’m sorry.”

She rolled her eyes. Ilvriss resisted the urge to say or do something—mainly because she was a Named Adventurer. But this? He was going to insist that she medicate herself from now on.

To calm himself, he took a few steps away and stood at the end of the training grounds. You could look almost entirely straight down, until the tower widened and you saw more expansions below. A pool of water, in this case.

The enchantments, as noted, saved people from falling. Every tower had them—but there were always accidents. Drakes falling and bouncing off the tower and…well, you either learned how to deal with, enjoy heights, or you didn’t live in Salazsar. Ilvriss stared down at his city below. So far down. The people like small insects, millions moving around, going about their lives, doing good work. A city he was proud of, that was his home. That he loved and would defend…

“Jump. Kill yourself.”

Someone whispered behind him. Ilvriss did not jump. He slowly turned his head.

“Adventurer. What did you just say to me?”

Shriekblade looked around, blankly. And he realized—she hadn’t been talking to him. The Wall Lord’s imminent wrath hesitated.

“Hm? Oh. Don’t you feel like jumping?”

He stared at her. Then down below.

“No. What are you thinking of? You mean the enchantments?”

“No. I forgot this place has them. And there’s a pool so you wouldn’t die. Here’s probably better. You jump from here and—bam. You’re dead.”

She walked around to the side. Ilvriss stared at her back. She tilted her head down.

“Don’t you feel like it, when you stand up here?”

“No.”

The young adventuress turned to him.

“You don’t hear a voice in your head telling you to do that?”

“No. You…hear a voice?”

She shrugged.

“It’s just me. Merla says it’s my problem. You really don’t ever hear it? A little voice saying—‘kill yourself’? All the time?”

Ilvriss stared down over the edge of the training grounds. Well, now he did. He looked at her.

“I do not. Is this why y—”

“Well, I guess it’s just me, then. Sorry I broke your Master’s arm. Sorry I’m here.”

She stalked away from him, quickly. Scowling. Fumbling for something she began chewing hard. Ilvriss looked at her back. He came to two quick decisions.

“Adventurer.”

She stopped and turned to face him, sullenly.

“Yes, sir?”

“You will report to Captain Shieldscale and she will deploy you to the mining tunnels to perform monster-slaying duties. If there are none in the Gemscale operations, you will assist other companies.”

It was unorthodox, but Shriekblade brightened up.

“Yay. Alright. What else?”

He met her gaze.

“Report to my quarters tonight. We have more to discuss, then.”

Her face…flickered. Fell. She looked at him, then nodded and turned.

“Fine.”

—-

The Shriekblade incident aside, today, Ilvriss was fully-prepared to deal with conversations about his collapse and the brothel incident. He assumed it was the talk of the city.

He was wrong. He had a brunch with his mother and Navine. Uncomfortable, but they tried to at least be civil.

“We’ll be going to Oteslia. I’m almost sad I don’t get to see all of the drama here.”

“Around me? Navine, I’m sure it will all blow over soon. And nothing happened. It was a misunderstanding…”

Helessia and Navine blinked at him.

“What are you talking about, Ilvriss? You? You mean you collapsing? No one’s talking about that today. We might have—but everyone’s talking about—haven’t you heard? Sellme did another painting!”

“Sell me?”

The two Drakes exchanged a look. Navine shook her head.

“No—Sellme. The street artist? She did a painting last night of the Emera family. You know? That stuck up Rellmel and his awful sister, Gisha? You do know who Sellme is, don’t you? Wait. Ancestors. You’ve been gone on that campaign against Zel Shivertail and you were in Liscor…mother, he doesn’t know!”

Ilvriss blinked. It seemed even Helessia knew, from the way the two Drakes exchanged excited looks.

“Who—or what is this Sellme? I know about the Emera family’s company, of course…”

They weren’t doing so well as Gemscale, but they’d hit a profitable seam, or so Alrric said. Rellmel had never been Ilvriss’ friend, although they were around the same age. And Navine had a terrible opinion of Gisha, who, Ilvriss understood, was the one who really called the shots, despite Rellmel being the head of the company.

As usual however, his take was not Navine’s. She glared at him, her tail curling up under the table.

“That’s just the—business of it, Ilvriss. You don’t think about the people. You do know that the Emera company is firing all the [Miners] they had for the last six years and replacing them with new hires, each?”

“Why would they do that? They’ll lose all their experienced workers.”

Ilvriss blinked. Navine rolled her eyes.

“Because the mining teams had an agreement that if they struck a payload, they’d get a share of the total profits. The Emera corporation agreed since they thought all they had was silver and a few minor gemstones in that shaft. But when they hit magical stones…”

It all came together. The mining dispute was one of the classic fights between a company and the workers. And in this case, the Emera corporation had terminated all their workers in this shaft rather than honor the agreement. They had managed to use a loophole in their contract and it was a bad look.

However, no one could really stop them. And that was where Sellme had come in with the painting on the wall.

“They want to take it down. But the apartment complex is owned by the Geirscale family and they hate Emera, so they refuse to. That’s what Sellme does.”

“And he—”

“She. It’s probably a she. No one knows, but I think it is. She’s an [Artist] who puts up pictures, usually pointing something out. Sometimes for fun, but she started a bit after you left on your glorious campaign.”

Ilvriss sat back. Huh. ‘Sellme’ was clearly an alias, and they had a clear grudge against the Walled Families. Navine disputed that.

“Just about corruption, arrogance, Ilvriss. Sellme targets people like the Emera group.”

“Hm. Until she goes after you or I.”

“Why would she? I run my company without issues like that.”

She glowered at him. Ilvriss opened his mouth—and then decided not to engage. He could have said that even Navine’s ‘equitable’ company still had her at the top and that she was supporting this artist until they went after her, but he did not.

Family.

—-

“It’s Wall Lord Rellmel, Ilvriss. What?”

Alrric glanced at Ilvriss. The Drake rubbed at his head.

“That’s the second time I’ve heard his name come up today.”

“Ah. The Sellme painting.”

“Does everyone know about it but me?”

Alrric smiled slightly.

“It’s already made that apartment go up nearly a thousand percent in value. People will want to live there—if someone doesn’t steal the wall.”

“Steal the wall. I saw it last night. It was forty feet high, Alrric.”

“Really? You must have seen it as it was made, then! Did you see Sellme? No, of course you didn’t…”

The [Administrator] looked up. He went on as Ilvriss looked over the reports. Their mining seam was turning up more adamantine and people wanted it bad. Pelt of…Esthelm? Ah, yes. Terandria, Chandrar—

He hesitated, and then authorized a sale to Esthelm. He could have held onto it, but the Dwarf wanted less than other nations. Alrric frowned over it, but didn’t comment. It was still money in the vaults.

“They steal the wall if they can. An entire wall was knocked down and stolen overnight when Sellme did a picture for a neighborhood. Tragic. But they’re amazingly popular. There are replicas—everyone loves them.”

“And they just appeared last year?”

“Oh, no. You don’t get a reputation like that overnight. But I think they came to Salazsar recently. They lampooned their way from Fissival and city-to-city until they got here.”

Ilvriss looked up.

“They were in Fissival?”

“That’s where it first started. Making fun of the Scholarium’s magic-bias. I think it got too dangerous for them, so they headed off. Speaking of Fissival…no, wait. I was doing my check for artifacts you could snap up, and I thought I had something…wait. I do have a note on a high-level individual who I can add to your lists.”

“Never mind that now, Alrric. But I do need to consult you on some other matters. Tell me why you brought up Rellmel and we’ll get to that.”

Ilvriss was thinking of Xesci. Poor Zelir was out of the picture, now. Alrric nodded.

“Sorry. Slipped my mind. Rellmel owns the Potion of Regeneration. But he’s not selling.”

The Wall Lord sat back.

“Ah.”

And here it was again. One of his ghosts…wasn’t dead. Maybe. There was a chance.

“Did you ask him what he might consider…?”

“I went from four hundred thousand gold pieces, Ilvriss, and went up. I went to one million and the Emera family’s representative didn’t even blink. They’re not selling.”

Ilvriss exhaled. A million gold was…but he slowly nodded.

“We hang on to artifacts like that.”

“Especially if you lose a leg in an accident or…I’m sorry, Ilvriss. I can try, but it’s not in my purview. It might not be impossible, though. Nerul is back. And he has success to report.”

Ilvriss glanced up.

“He is? Excellent. How did he do?”

Alrric smiled.

“Wall Lord, please. You’ll hurt his feelings. We have a contract.”

The Drake had been on the hunt for individuals who could help him. And even his family had trouble recruiting, finding them. But they did have one, if you didn’t count Navine, Helessia, Zail, Ilvriss, or Alrric.

A shame he wasn’t a [Warrior], or he might have given Shriekblade a real opponent. But Nerul was no combat Drake.

He was a [Diplomat].

—-

The Trisstral Alliance was a collection of cities that had banded together to safeguard interests, secure borders, and trade. You needed alliances, like the Hectval…something alliance. If only to resist larger cities.

Like the Walled Cities. The Trisstral Alliance had in fact been relatively happy to trade with Fissival and Salazsar for decades, but their relationship had turned less-than-amicable of late.

They had strong agriculture and food industries, which Salazsar and Fissival prized, being farther from Oteslia. If they fought with Oteslia, or were on the outs, they needed food, since neither Walled City was particularly good at making it.

Trisstral supplied it, cheaper, faster, but they’d pointed out that the two Walled Cities were importing the food at losses for their economy. They’d asked to renegotiate, as well as impose tarrifs of their own on goods from each city, which passed through their cities without a copper earned. Gemstones and magic.

Fissival had agreed, Salazsar had refused. In response, the Trisstral Alliance decided to trade with Fissival. Salazsar demanded they resume trade. Trisstral asked to renegotiate. Salazsar threatened them instead. Trisstral told them to shove their tails up their behinds.

Salazsar went to war.

…That was old history. That was why Zel Shivertail, who had been appointed [General] of the Trisstral Alliance, took the fight to Ilvriss’ forces. He beat one army—then had to fall back, back, as Ilvriss tried to corner his forces and force the Trisstral Alliance to sign some bad terms for their cities.

Then they met past the Bloodfields, in the winter, after a grueling campaign where Zel kept ahead of Ilvriss, but the Wall Lord refused to stop chasing him.

Then…Periss died.

Then Ilvriss and Zel ran into the Goblin Lord, and went to Liscor.

Then Zel Shivertail fell and then…

But the original fight was still there, even if so many things had happened. Salazsar needed food. Trisstral was hopping mad, still. But neither side wanted war after so much loss.

That was when Nerul had arrived. He’d swept into the city, walked into the negotiating room where the angry Council of the city of Dellek was waiting, representatives from the rest of the alliance, and spoken.

“Ladies and gentledrakes, I am Nerul, [Diplomat] of the Gemscale family and officially designated representative of the Walled City of Salazsar in regards to the war between the Trisstral Alliance and Salazsar. Both sides want peace, and an amicable solution if one can be arranged. Let’s work this out.”

The Drakes—and Gnolls—in the room had bristled at first. They expected an arrogant Drake from Salazsar to sweep in and say how it was going to be. But Nerul caught them off guard. He stood there in their first meeting, looked around, and identified the head of Dellek’s Council. He inclined his head to him.

“First Scale of Dellek, Councilmembers—I assume you’re speaking on behalf of the alliance? Please correct me if I’m wrong. What does Trisstral want?”

They blinked, looked at each other. What did they want? Well—the First Scale had risen, eyes flashing.

“An end to the war! A ceasefire, and agreement to no hostilities! Reparations for the dead, including General Zel Shivertail who fell because of this long damned war that took him into the path of a Goblin Lord! The fair trade terms we wanted from the start!”

Nerul nodded to each point as the Drake shouted at him.

“Yes, of course. Do you have numbers, a contract? I can review it now—and I am authorized to sign on behalf of all of Salazsar. I don’t need to talk to the Walled Families unless there’s something outside of my authority.”

The Council hesitated. One of them stared suspiciously at Nerul.

“This is a trick.”

He shook his head at her.

“Not at all, Councilmember. Salazsar mourns the death of Zel Shivertail. It acknowledges the waste of a war—and the act of aggression made. Or at least, the families that voted in majority to. I am here to end this conflict without a single life lost. And I’m willing to do so fairly. Now. What numbers are we talking about?”

He’d caught them off-guard, and they actually had to recess to pull up actual figures. The caving of what they’d thought they’d have to fight over caught them unawares.

And of course, when they did come back with exact terms and a contract, the real negotiations began.

It took Nerul three months. At first, the entire Council and many representatives, including other Councilmembers, even a Watch Captain, sat in on the talks. But they quickly found that what they wanted, they got.

“I’d like the ceasefire signed today, if possible. We can talk about the reparations later.”

“If we sign a ceasefire, how are we to assume Salazsar will honor the rest once the threat has ended?”

The [Diplomat] shook his head patiently as the Watch Captain snapped back.

“Trisstral has all the agriculture that Salazsar desires, Watch Captain Cells. But a ceasefire means we can all relax. Can we agree to that?”

The cease fire was signed the next day. Thereafter, the real arguments began. It was mostly over numbers. The Trisstral Alliance wanted Salazsar to pay through the nose holes for every dead [Soldier] and General Shivertail. They wanted non-aggression contracts for four—no, six decades, a guarantee of no tariffs, and so on.

That was unreasonable, and Nerul pointed out that no Drake cities had contracts over two decades—and if they did, they were broken. Salazsar couldn’t justify that length.

They argued for nearly four days—Nerul being polite—on the issue of length. Soon, only designated representatives were hammering out terms with the [Diplomat]. The Council had to do more than sit in.

Which was what the [Diplomat] wanted, of course. After he’d established the main negotiators, he talked with them, catching them after the official negotiations. He unveiled some of the cargo his small team had brought.

Gifts. He didn’t press them on the negotiators, nor did he offer them to just them; it was to the Council.

Obviously they were wary. But Nerul was polite, friendly, and after the grueling negotiations, he made a point of visiting the attractions in the city. He asked the negotiators for tips on places to visit—since he was here for a while.

In time, he ended up drinking with them at a bar after they were done, or being invited over to a home. Even visiting other cities.

The thing was, Nerul was representing the Walled Families, Salazsar. He had a lot of sympathy for Trisstral, and there were things he couldn’t agree to—that they would refuse to accept.

“I can do a ten year peace treaty. But twenty? I won’t be a [Diplomat] the next day. And we can offer the open borders to Dellek because it’s closer. But not the other cities. You understand my point, Councilmember?”

That was one noticeable conversation with the Dellek representative, who did have to put her city’s interests with that of the alliance in general. Nerul visited the city of Selmis the next day and spent two weeks there being hosted by the negotiator there, who he had grown friendly with. Which of course made Dellek a bit nervous…

Gifts, friendliness—even charm—a reasonable attitude and someone who never actually got mad or rose to jibes, and was certainly willing to acknowledge fault, and most importantly, honesty.

Nerul never promised anything he didn’t mean. Nor did he try to play cities against each other; the negotiators did check. But he was completely willing to take a six-hour-tour with a negotiator, and rack up several thousand gold pieces on the Gemscale family bill with gifts, money spent while drinking or talking with the others…

The trick was that Nerul bent over backwards—did backflips—if he had to. Personal concessions for ones on the actual peace treaty he eventually signed on behalf of Salazsar and had sent to the Walled City to be further signed by all the Walled Families. When he left Trisstral, the negotiators threw him a farewell party.

And whilst the cities ended up with less than they wanted, their image of Salazsar had turned from ‘a city we wouldn’t mind tossing Creler eggs over the walls at’, to ‘a city we dislike because of all the stupid stuff they’ve done, but there was Nerul and we have a trading contract with our neighbors, even peace terms in case Fissival tries something, since they’ve done that too’.

It was called being a [Diplomat]. And Nerul was good at his job.

—-

“Nephew! How is my favorite troublemaker? Start any more wars for me to fix?”

Nerul Gemscale had a luncheon with Ilvriss. His first comment to his nephew before the huge bear hug essentially continued every interaction he’d had with the younger Wall Lord.

Nerul was a different sort of Drake. For instance, he wasn’t at all close to succeeding the Gemscale family. He had achieved success in other ways and established his value—but he was no [Lord].

If Brilm was a pudgy sort of Drake, well, Nerul was, er, big. He had already begun lunch in a fine restaurant; it was customary for him to dine at the one of his choosing after coming back from a sojourn abroad.

“Uncle Nerul, you’ve bailed me out again.”

“And this is the first time you’ve ever thanked me for it. Something’s changed. Wait—less Zail, not necessarily more Helessia.”

Nerul’s eyes bounced up and down as he studied Ilvriss. He was eating with some of his ‘team’, lesser [Negotiators] and assistants. Ilvriss nodded.

Nerul was—or had been—something of a black sheep in the family, mainly because Zail and Ilvriss had not approved of a Drake who came in after the fighting was done.

“Are you drinking with us?”

“I’ve quit.”

“Really? You continue to upset me, nephew. I’ll have his drink, then.”

Nerul spoke to the [Server]. He could and had drunk every person in the room under the table. He sat back as he and Ilvriss caught up.

“The Trisstral Alliance is at peace, and we’ll stop seeing those huge increases on the price of…food. Which is a relief. And I have been three months out there.”

“It amazes me it takes so long.”

The larger Drake snorted, and wiped at his pale purple scales; some wine had been splashed around.

“If you had won the war, let alone captured General Shivertail, I would have had a different response, nephew. Three months? Thank the Ancestors it wasn’t eight! I would have had to stall, but I have results. Peace and more than just the word of it.”

He sat back, eying Ilvriss. Normally Ilvriss wouldn’t have even joined the meal. Now, the Wall Lord sat back.

“Tell me. I’ve never appreciated the other truces you’ve hammered out.”

Nerul’s eyes bounced again. He did that—he appraised people fast. He patted at his mouth with a napkin.

“Well, we have peace. Trade. But more importantly, if you were to walk into one of the cities of the Trisstral Alliance and, say, order something from a shop? Instead of reaching for a knife to stab you, the [Shopkeeper] will give you the time of day. I have made friends with each city’s High Command. And the people are more kindly disposed. There will not be ambushes on our people. They will not raid us, or instantly go to war if, say, we should become rivals with Fissival and the lines are drawn. I have changed the mood of the city, where they were ready to kill every person in Salazsar for the war and General Shivertail’s death, as they saw it.”

Ilvriss nodded. That was the power of the top [Diplomat] that Salazsar could field.

“Your Skill, wasn’t it?”

Nerul tapped a ring on his finger with a practiced air. In the silent bubble, he leaned over.

“[A Gradual Change of Disposition]. My capstone Skill. City-wide. If I had to, I’d stay a year. But peace is all we need. Be grateful it was three months.”

Ilvriss nodded. The bubble burst.

“Does it last?”

“Does anything last?”

His uncle returned. He drummed his claws on the table.

“It doesn’t work on all. It’s about practicing what you preach, nephew. I went around and talked with the widows. I apologized. I flung myself on the mercy of the people—and sometimes smacked the ground. At least they laughed at that.”

The Wall Lord nodded.

“And if I had won?”

Nerul lowered the cup. He looked at Ilvriss and then drank.

“I would have marched through their gates with two dozen of the Rubirel Guard and given their alliance a week to surrender with thunder and fury. There is a time for action, a time to build ties. I can do both. Why? Are you starting another unnecessary war? We’re running out of war heroes, you know.”

That was why Ilvriss had disliked him. Nerul was not a [Diplomat] among his family.

“Not at all, uncle. I just came to thank you—and speak to you about levels.”

The Drake lowered his cup.

“Intriguing. What happened to you when you fought Zel Shivertail? No—don’t answer that. What happened afterwards?”

Ilvriss bit his tongue. He evaded the question, but Nerul was happy to discuss levels. He sighed.

“Ah, Ilvriss. A [Courtesan]—and Sellme made another painting? Are you surprised?”

“Honestly, yes.”

“Why? Look around, Ilvriss. The highest-leveled Drakes in our society are all oddballs. Me included.”

“That’s not a hard and fast rule. Our High Command—”

“War is the exception. Battle is adversity. I’m talking outside of that. Listen.”

Nerul waved a claw.

“Saliss of Lights. Naked. Nice as you like, but mad as a loon. Salii the Secretary, learning how to punch holes through rocks in Chandrar. Zel Shivertail—a hero of the Antinium Wars—and a public pariah until he became a universally loved hero in death. Sellme, someone who paints pictures of dissent. Your [Courtesan], who isn’t fit for polite society.”

He waved a claw around the restaurant.

“Yes, we have high-level military leaders. So what? War and battle are adversity unto themselves and are exceptions to this phenomenon, which people use in bad-faith arguments to go against the truth. Look around, Ilvriss. There’s a Human saying about how the highest nail gets hammered down first. Well—in our culture, Drakes swing the hammer twice as hard and twice as fast.”

He sat back and ordered dessert. Ilvriss stayed a while telling him the more easy things to talk about in Liscor.

“And you didn’t bring me back a cake? Or how to make this gelato? Ice cream?”

The Drake was outraged. Ilvriss found himself more at ease with Nerul—he remembered hating the Drake’s guts. He could see why.

The Ilvriss of today smiled.

“I’ll have my [Chef] send over both recipes to yours, Uncle. Also—mayonnaise.”

“Young Ilvriss, if I thought people could never change for the better, you’ve proved me wrong.”

Nerul seized his claw and smiled. They parted like that.

Warily, Ilvriss thought. Nerul was exceptionally clever. He made you think you were his best friend, regardless of what he felt. He had to be wondering what had inspired Ilvriss to change.

Ilvriss just wondered if a [Diplomat] of his level had more tricks Ilvriss—who had thought in terms of armies and military strength or economic—had never thought of.

Soft power.

—-

It was an extraordinarily soft bed after all. Ilvriss poked it gingerly. Then he sat.

“I—hope I haven’t disturbed The Drake’s Pearl too much, Miss Xesci?”

She shrugged.

“It was an incident, but no one was hurt or bothered. They’re more curious about why you came back. They think—well, you can imagine.”

She nodded to the closed door. Ilvriss nodded. He began to speak, but she went first.

“I think I have to apologize to you, Wall Lord. I…acted in bad faith yesterday. I didn’t realize how manipulative the knitting-Drake was. She was a creepy bitch. Sorry. It’s the new body.”

The [Courtesan] was different today. Feet up on the second chair; it was why he had the bed. Lounging in a chair.

“And you are…?”

She scratched at her neck-spines and sighed.

“A coworker. She’s a bit—prickly. I was trying her out, but I don’t think it fits. Better than yesterday, though. That other Drake had a temper.”

Periss always did. Ilvriss nodded warily.

“These…forms. They influence your personality?”

“Oh yes. And it can be bad.”

“How so?”

The Drake sighed and sat forwards, resting her elbows on her knees, hunched over, a completely different posture than the other two people she’d been.

“Well? You saw how I was getting into playing mind games with you. That’s an extreme example; but each personality is different. Most people are the same, but some are…unexpected. Even to me. I might be overly timid—or aggressive. Or worse. You can imagine.”

Ilvriss thought of Shriekblade and nodded slowly.

“You have an extraordinary class, Miss Xesci. I suppose I’ve come back to talk more. Process…yesterday.”

“I’m sorry, again. And I will be more honest.”

She nodded at him. He adjusted his seat; he felt like the bed was trying to swallow him rear-first.

“About your ability. You said you can mimic people within two feet of your height. And you saw Periss in me. Can you…see more faces?”

The woman hesitated. She glanced at the door and then Ilvriss.

“Wall Lord, normally I assure you that nothing said or done here is leaked. No watch-spells, no peep holes. And I keep my mouth shut. Can I ask you to do the same?”

He inclined his head. She waited.

“Yes.”

Xesci exhaled. She ran a claw through her neck spines again.

“The trouble with being a loudmouth is…argh. Fine. I blame Reta’s poor impulse-control. Yes, I see other faces. If I look at you? I can see old flames. Not your mother. Or your sister. I know you have them; I can’t tell. It’s about…interest.”

“Ah.”

“Sexual. I note who you’ve at least had sexual encounters with, or even desire—”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Just making sure you can tell.”

Ilvriss folded his arms, feeling defensive.

“It’s just impulse, though.”

“Of course. That’s very revealing…and disturbing, sometimes. But I don’t see much wrong with you. That Drake is like a beacon, but there’s also other Drakes. First loves; childhood crushes don’t really count.”

“All Drake?”

“Two Gnolls.”

“Really? Who?”

“Er…close to black fur, a spot on the shoulder—”

Ilvriss turned red under his scales. He knew exactly who that was. Xesci watched with a slight smile. She tried to cover it, but then—

“Will you tell me? If I’ve told you this…”

He struggled, but she had been honest. At last, Ilvriss hung his head.

“I was a young man, and she was one of the staff in our employ. Always getting on my case about tracking mud in. I must have been…nineteen…”

He hadn’t even realized how attracted he was until she brought it up and the older Drake recalled the younger one’s viewpoint. She laughed.

“It’s always like that. And people ask for me to check.”

He took a deep breath.

“You’ll forgive me if I say that’s strange. Not—wrong—but strange.”

She nodded.

“That is fair. Two Gnolls, then.”

He knew the other one. He’d been curious. Ilvriss sat back.

“And anyone else?”

“One Human. But that’s another odd case.”

Her eyes flicked to his. He kept his face straight.

“I see.”

“If you want…?”

“No.”

The Drake wondered how accurate her Skill was. Or whether it was…it wasn’t like that. But he supposed it was.

He sat there for a while. But then he came to the real reason he’d come.

“Miss Xesci. Can you take on other…forms? Besides female, I mean. Can you become a male Drake? If you chose to?”

She froze. The [Courtesan] carefully eyed Ilvriss.

“If you are asking if I could…or have…Wall Lord, I would have to decline to comment.”

He glanced at the door at the same time as she did. This felt—wrong to discuss.

“I am not interested in any details, Miss Xesci. I am just asking if it is possible.”

She folded her arms. Which was an answer enough for him. He nodded.

“Let us change the subject, then. I wanted to know because…are there people you can’t sense anything from?”

The [Courtesan] hesitated. She narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out where he was going. But no offense to her co-worker—but the Drake didn’t seem as cunning as the knitting-Drake had been.

“I…have met people like that. Odd ones. They love no one and nothing. From time to time—I don’t use this on everyone, you understand. But I met an adventurer like that. He only wanted me to be the most beautiful person I could be. Then the next. And there have been—others. Why do you ask?”

Because, Miss Xesci, I need your help. The Wall Lord smiled thinly.

“Curiosity, Miss Xesci. Thank you. Would you describe the Human? Before I go. Just…”

She did. He listened. Then he left, paying her fee in full. The Wall Lord stood outside for a while.

A wedding ring.

Idiot.

—-

“I’m sorry, Ilvriss. But it’s not a good time right now. That damned seditious [Painter] and their lies. Have you heard…?”

“Not at all, Wall Lord Rellmel. But let me assure you, I can pay whatever fee we can agree on. Up front.”

The Wall Lord’s eyes flickered, but he was shaking his head, even during the sit-down meeting with Ilvriss, Wall Lord to Wall Lord.

“I really can’t be selling artifacts, Ilvriss. I’m tempted, as a favor between fellow Wall Lords, but…my sister would throw ten kinds of fits. I’m sorry.”

Ilvriss sighed.

“What would it take for Gisha?”

“Honestly, Ilvriss? Too much to imagine. She’s paranoid about needing it. Well, it’s a Potion of—you know.”

Rellmel looked around the tall restaurant in one of the highest points of the towers. He patted at his mouth then fetched a toothpick.

“And she’s not in the mood. All the slander about us…do you have any idea who this ‘Sellme’ is? We can’t even get it taken down. We’re putting a bounty out—they’ve gone too far.”

Ilvriss wondered if the [Painter] would be alright. They had a decent Skill that had kept everyone but him away. He sighed.

“Thank you, then, Rellmel. Are you sure? One million. By the end of the week. In your vaults.”

The Drake gulped. He stayed there a long time as Ilvriss leaned on the table. Then he shook his head.

“Ancestors, but no. I’m sorry, Ilvriss. You know, we should go drinking. You have to tell about Liscor. Should I buy some land there? I hear…?”

But Ilvriss was gone.

—-

He nearly forgot his appointment with Shriekblade in the evening. Ilvriss had some personal [Messages] that had been screened by Alrric or someone in the company; everyone wanted to talk to a Wall Lord, obviously, and few people did.

‘Wasn’t sure. –Alrric.’

An appended note to one of the notes. Ilvriss walked into the Gemscale residence and his part of it, looking around.

“Shriekblade?”

He talked to the Gnoll with black fur and a white spot on her shoulder blade. The [Head of Household] grinned at him.

“No, Wall Lord. Were you expecting her?”

Ilvriss jerked his eyes away from the white patch of fur.

“Not at all, Miss Yern. Er—that is—I suppose she declined to come.”

He sighed. Temperamental adventurers. He was rethinking his contract with her. After all—he wasn’t moving on any huge engagement yet. Finding Az’kerash’s minions was harder than it seemed. Maybe he’d terminate it at the end of the month.

Ilvriss was sorting through the [Messages]. Some were interesting.

‘Regarding your search—representative of Wall Lord Dragial of Fissival?’ Interesting. ‘Regretfully decline…’

He was reaching for the one Alrric hadn’t been sure about when he entered his personal chambers. He swung the door closed, glanced up—and dropped the letter.

Shriekblade was in his bedroom. The adventurer had slipped in undetected, worrying, but she did have the keystone that passed her through his security enchantments.

…That was about all she was wearing. She was naked.

“Adventurer Shriekblade reporting, Wall Lord. What would you like me to do?”

Her voice had regained some of the flatness of how she was when she was using mind-altering substances. Halfway between her true personality and this. Ilvriss stared at her.

“What are you doing?”

“Reporting.”

She looked at him, with a half-clouded look of annoyance. She gestured at the bed.

“Shall we?”

“What d—no. That is not why I invited you here!”

She blinked at him.

“You told me to come here this night. You’re telling me you had other plans?”

He swung around.

“Yes. I wanted you to show me your swordsmanship—what is wrong with you? Put on your clothes, now!”

The Drake heard silence from behind him. Then a shuffling sound. He didn’t look around. After a moment’s hesitation, he strode to the door, opened it, and stormed out.

“Wall Lord?”

“Shriekblade is present. Get me—a drink. Something stiff.”

“With alcohol?”

“Yes.”

He’d told the staff not to give him anything. But Ilvriss—he found himself sitting as a cup of Firebreath Whiskey was handed to him. He stared at the liquid in the glass, tilted his head up—

Paused.

He was feeling the same as when he’d collapsed in the mines. A sense of…of frustration. Everything not turning out how it had to. That idiotic adventurer. If people had begun to gossip, his reputation—

At first he was angry. He looked at the drink in the cup. He’d promised. But damn it, it was one drink. He just wished it were different.

A bit of faerie flower in the cup…

The liquid stopped against his pressed lips. He felt like a ghost was holding them closed.

It was so easy to believe Xesci’s lies. Not the one she’d told him, but her changing form. To believe for a moment and let yourself…be. Even if they were gone. Even if it had never happened.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Was it a claw or Human fingers? He tried to listen.

Shriekblade. What would she have said if he’d related that event to her, while sitting at a table? She would have said…

Wall Lord…

No. Wait. She would never have said that. What would she have said? Have done?

He did not know her. But he tried to be like Xesci.

Ilvriss stared at his claw as it carefully set down the tumbler.

Erin Solstice carefully tugged away the glass of the bad juice from Wall Lord Ilvriss. She put it on the table—pushed it to the edge—then turned to face him. She put her hands on her hips. And then…

The Drake saw the same claw rise. And—

—-

Yern was telling the other Drake staff to shut up.

“No one will be blabbing about that Drake in his quarters. He stormed out—nothing happened, no? And if one of you lies, I know it will be one of you and I will dangle you out of the tower by your tails.”

Chastened, they nodded. Yern sighed. Then she heard a sound.

Smack.

She glanced back into the sitting room.

“Wall Lord?”

He was lying half sprawled out of his chair. He rubbed at his cheek.

“That will be all, Miss Yern. I slipped.”

She stared at him and nodded slowly. The loss of Miss Perris had really taken a toll.

Now he was punching himself?

—-

Okay, maybe too much channeling Erin Solstice. Ilvriss rubbed at his face. And he wasn’t sure if she would have done that.

But now—thinking of her—he regretted what he’d snapped at Shriekblade.

What is wrong with you?

What was wrong with the people who’d employed her? He slowly stood up.

“Miss Shriekblade. Are you decent?”

“No.”

He took a chance and opened the doors. She was hiding in a corner, facing the wall, curled up onto her knees.

“I guess I’m wrong again.”

“I…apologize, Miss Shriekblade. For what I said earlier.”

She half-glanced at him.

“What was that?”

“I—shouldn’t have insulted you. Nor was I aware other employers of yours had acted so…wrongly. Criminally, perhaps.”

“They paid me. I do anything.”

“Yes. You should not.”

“I just want money. I’ll leave now.”

She stood to go. Ilvriss hesitated.

“Adventurer Shriekblade. I called you here to ask if you were willing to…replace Master Zelir. Or at least test me without breaking my arm and show me what a real ambush or battle would be like.”

She looked at him. Either the Calming Tonic was wearing off, or the moment had snapped her out of her former state. She spoke, incredulously.

“You want me to hit you? With swords, knives, needles?”

“Not…fatally. But I need to improve. So, if you were willing to—”

“I would get to hit my employer?”

“Without doing permanent damage.”

He stressed that. Shriekblade nodded.

“But I’d get to hit you?”

“Under controlled situations…”

“Wow.”

She stared at him. Then she nodded. Ilvriss felt like he’d made a mistake already. But he stopped her as they began to leave.

“Adventurer Shriekblade…Miss Tessa. That incident in the bedroom. I do mean what I said. You should not have been put in that situation, your…willingness aside. Nor do I think, in light of that, it is wise for you to rely on those potions.”

She looked at him.

“I’m a better adventurer when I take them. I follow orders. I don’t like doing this when I’m not on them.”

“Even so. Would you consider refraining from taking them unless needed?”

The Drake stared at Ilvriss. She actually walked around him, peering at him. Eventually, she nodded.

“You’re strange. Alright. When we spar, I can’t hurt you permanently. But I can hit you.”

“I think I will specify ways we might fight. For instance, bare-claws. Or you could simulate a…rapier.”

“I can use that.”

“Captain Shieldscale may want to learn, if one can learn.”

He was going to find out how he’d fare against a real high-level opponent without artifacts or backup. Ilvriss’ stomach began to hurt. He hoped he’d level. Shriekblade’s eyes flickered.

“I can hit her too?”

“Under controlled—”

“Got it, got it. Can I bite?”

“What?”

—-

The next morning, Ilvriss lay in bed as the sun rose.

He was….physically…healed. But his ego and body had taken a beating. He shuddered.

You could dislocate someone’s arm and that was not permanent damage if an expert did it to you. Allegedly.

Was there a point to it? He was already trying to rationalize why another sparring session was a bad idea. But the problem was…Shriekblade was an expert.

“You have a gap—here.”

Then she kicked him in the groin. He curled up at the memory. She’d spotted a weakness in his guard. One that maybe Zelir had spotted or pointed out. Either way?

Ilvriss would never make the same mistake after Shriekblade pointed it out.

And yet, she seemed almost happy. How did he know?

“You not getting up?”

“No. Please close the door.”

The Named Adventurer was having breakfast in his residence. Ilvriss lay there.

“Never again. It’s just self-flagellation. I don’t need to do it.”

He muttered to himself. The hard part—the difficult part was—

He’d damn well leveled up last night. The Drake moaned internally. It was probably mending ties with his uncle, or progressing his understanding of Xesci’s class. Levels were cumulative effort over time! You couldn’t attribute it to the final day of—

The door opened.

“I get to spar with you tonight?”

“Yes. Captain Shieldscale first.”

“Awesome.”

He hid under the blankets as the door closed again. He was at least glad that someone was happy. What would Erin say?

…She’d be laughing too hard to talk about now. But he thought she would also have approved, even if she hadn’t worded it this way. Shriekblade…he felt for the Named Adventurer. She was not Xesci, who, despite everything, seemed in control of herself.

Ilvriss was wondering if he could justify wearing armor—or at least, a codpiece—when he noticed something on his bedroom floor. He must have forgotten it after Shriekblade dumped him in his home and he crawled into bed.

The [Message]. Ilvriss slowly exited the bed, feeling phantom pain with every step. He crawled on the floor to the [Message], picked it up, and read it. It was all so—

—-

Shriekblade felt good today. It was such a rare feeling when she hadn’t recently been to the Healer of Tenbault she kept expecting it to go away. She had an appetite and everything, even if the Gnoll serving her kept glaring at her.

She got to punch her employer, and he hadn’t even told her to sleep with him. This was a good job. And that annoying blue Drake. She was looking forwards to that, even if the day was going to be dead b—

Ilvriss kicked the door to his bedroom open and strode out.

“Shriekblade! With me!”

The Named Adventurer was already on her feet. Ilvriss was striding across the room.

“Wall Lord? Is everything alright? Breakfast—”

“Send it to the company headquarters!”

He was already halfway down the stairs and storming for the door. The [Message] was in his claws. It was a simple one. A request for aid, like many sent to him. But this one had not been sent to Ilvriss. It was one of the [Messages] Alrric had dutifully copied that were sent to the city of Liscor. Public notices.

—-

This one was from the Horns of Hammerad. Ilvriss was in his office as a blinking Alrric found he’d been beaten to work.

“Wall Lord?”

“The Village of the Dead. What do you know about it, Alrric?”

The [Administrator] had to look it up over tea. He had all kinds of encyclopedias and almanacs. It was Shriekblade who answered, visible, and uncharacteristically talkative.

“Designation—Named-rank threat. Death zone. Uncleared. Passive. Undead-type threat.”

“Those are adventurer terms. Explain it.”

Ilvriss snapped. Shriekblade shrugged.

“It means only a Named-rank Adventurer should even go near it. Death zone means that it’s a place where you die if you go. Like…Rhir. And uncleared means no one’s found out what lies inside. Passive means it isn’t expanding. Like Creler nests. Undead-type means…”

“I have it, Wall Lord. A Human village to the north. A known threat. It appeared, well, thousands of years ago and has never been erased or destroyed.”

“That’s not like the Humans.”

Alrric nodded. He wondered—no, it had to be the [Message] he’d copied over. But he didn’t see why Ilvriss was galvanized. The pieces were there. He tried to recall it. It was a bit lengthy, but the key parts might have been…

…may have something that can be traded or help her. We, the Horns of Hammerad, intend to assault the Village of Death in two week’s time. We are calling in every team associated with The Wandering Inn to join us if possible. To any adventurer, we are offering full shares after a first pick of any item and compensation at market value if not. We know it’s dangerous. Come anyways, for the [Innkeeper] of Liscor.

“There have been attempts. The Five Families sent armies into the Village of Death.”

“And?”

The Wall Lord looked up. Alrric frowned at the book, closed it abruptly. He shook his head.

“The Village grew. The armies retreated after being overwhelmed by the undead, who seemed to regenerate even from near-complete destruction, or pushed into the village and were lost to observers. With more bodies…lost, the village’s radius expanded. The area was attempted by Named-rank adventurers. Two. One a team, one a solo member. The team fell back. The solo adventurer was presumed lost. The area was declared a death zone.”

“And a Gold-rank team is going in there? Crazy. Sounds like fun. If they paid me, I’d go. How much are they offering?”

Ilvriss showed Shriekblade the [Message]. The Drake glanced at the missive, looking for a number.

“Compensation? For that? Pass.”

“What would it take for you to join in the fighting?”

Alrric and Shriekblade did a double-take.

“Me?”

The Named Adventurer thought. Then she smiled.

“I’ll fight until they retreat for two hundred.”

“Two hundred gold?”

“Thousand.”

Alrric choked on his morning tea. Ilvriss frowned.

“That’s exorbitant, even for you, Shriekblade.”

“It’s a death zone.”

She shrugged. But she looked excited at the idea. Ilvriss drummed his claws on the table.

“The problem is the destination. If you could get to Liscor, you can jump to Invrisil. But this is…Ancestors damn it. Three days old. You’d barely make it to Pallass, let alone Invrisil. I’d have to clear you for Pegasus-flight direct if Oteslia even acknowledges it.”

“I’m banned.”

The Wall Lord closed his eyes.

“Of course you are. Fine, then. I don’t know if you’d even make it on time. Alrric—send a [Message] to Ceria Springwalker. Ask her if she will delay the assault. Meanwhile—get me…”

He was writing furiously. Alrric nodded for an assistant to take over as he went to clean the tea from his fur. Shriekblade pointed.

“I know those names. Some of them. Gold-ranks.”

“Yes. These are adventurers to contact. Tell them I have a job offer for them in regards to the Horns of Hammerad’s [Message]—get me a [Mage], as well as [Message] scrolls. I’ll have the contents in ten minutes. And I need a list of teams in Invrisil or the region. Inquire, will you?”

“Yes, Wall Lord.”

The Drake took the list and rushed off. Ilvriss sat forwards. He began to write a [Message]. It was short, brief, and the first one he sent to Keldrass of the Flamewardens.

He would have sent one to Bevussa, but she was on contract. Ilvriss went down the list. First—Gold-ranks. He received a flurry of [Messages] and replied briefly. Then he went to Silver.

“Keldrass of the Flamewardens. I would like you to participate in the Horns of Hammerad’s request for a joint-assault on the Village of Death. I am prepared to offer your team compensation for joining in the effort, regardless of success or failure. Pending your agreement with the Adventurer’s Guild, I will transfer twenty thousand gold pieces into your account at the Merchant’s Guild.”

Alrric stared at the [Message] he’d just read out. He shook his head. Then he began authorizing payments from Ilvriss’ personal account. The Wall Lord was spending money on this assault. Shriekblade was waiting on a response from the Horns of Hammerad…

And Ilvriss couldn’t sit still. Saliss of Lights wasn’t in Pallass and besides, he was out of his arsenal. Other big Named Adventurers in the areas refused—to leave their posts, to go north, or just because they were engaged.

Crowdcaller Merdon and Elia Arcsinger had already declined, and some were in contract to the Five Families for instance.

But he could hire teams from Pallass, Liscor, Invrisil—he stopped pacing.

“And here is your bill, Wall Lord. I’ve taken it from your account.”

“Hm. Thank you, Alrric.”

Ilvriss glanced at the figure. It was more than what Shriekblade would charge, although it would double again if she agreed and could make it.

It did not matter. He thought of that inn. This—this was something.

Something. The feeling in his veins felt like—satisfaction. Progress. Ilvriss turned.

“Alrric, is Nerul unoccupied?”

“I can check.”

“I’d like to meet him now. After that—I need Captain Shieldscale. I am going to visit The Drake’s Pearl shortly after that.”

The Gnoll hesitated. One did not normally announce that last bit in a loud voice. But the Wall Lord didn’t seem to care that half his staff in the office had recognized the name and were staring at him sidelong.

“Is everything alright, Ilvriss?”

The Drake came to a stop. He looked at Alrric.

“No. But I intend to set it right. Time to take risks. Throw frying pans.”

“Is…that an expression?”

Ilvriss didn’t bother replying. He walked into his office.

“Shriekblade. I have a mission for you.”

“Besides going to that Village of Death? What do you want?”

He told her. She blinked.

“Really? That sounds like fun. What do I do? Kill?”

“No, find. I want it done before I leave The Drake’s Pearl. That will be…”

“How long does it take? Ten minutes? Five? Two?”

Ilvriss ignored that.

“Let’s call it evening. Succeed by then and you’ll have a bonus.”

“Really? I’ll find them.”

She vanished.

Nerul was next, and Captain Shieldscale. Ilvriss stood up.

“Nephew, what’s this about? Your Gnoll said it was urgent. I have a hangover, though. Started any wars? Disputes you want me to end?”

The portly Drake looked reproachful. Ilvriss stood up.

“Uncle, I have a request. I want you to help me and I am prepared to compensate you. It’s a personal favor, not a Gemscale family one.”

“Really?”

The Drake blinked. Ilvriss told him what he wanted. The Drake inhaled.

“That’s a two-year project if ever I heard of one. But I can do it in my off-time.”

“No. It’s a today-project.”

The [Diplomat] stopped in his tracks.

“You must be joking. No…this isn’t playing around, Ilvriss. It’s unfriendly. It could lead to conflict. Have you cleared this with Zail?”

“No, and I don’t intend to. I want it done. I am the acting head of the Gemscale family. And you can name your price.”

Nerul licked his lips.

“Well. I have to admit, it would be the kind of thing that I like doing now and then. And it’s a leveling opportunity. Hm. Hmm…it’s not any scales off my tail, Ilvriss. Are you sure?”

He met his uncle’s gaze.

“Yes.”

The [Diplomat] sighed, rubbed at the back of his neck and his neck-spines, and nodded.

“There was too much conviction there for my liking. It must be needed. Very well. I can do it tonight. It is going to be unpleasant and you are going to have to let me do all the talking first, understand? No going out of line or it fails. Let me gather a group. I need down payments—”

“Alrric.”

“Very well. I’ll set it up. What has gotten into you today, Ilvriss?”

The Wall Lord stood there, adjusting his clothing, which he’d donned in a hurry. He knew this would damage Gemscale’s reputation. Much less what he was going to do. He didn’t care.

“I have to hurry, Uncle. I’m tired of sitting around.”

He looked at the Drake. Nerul nodded.

“Fair enough.”

—-

Xesci was engaged when Wall Lord Ilvriss stormed into The Drake’s Pearl for the third day.

“He must be obsessed. He wants to see you right now.”

The [Manager] told Xesci when she had emerged. The Drake frowned.

“Not with me in the way you’re thinking. I wonder what he wants.”

This time, she was wearing a shorter Gnoll’s body. A sweetheart. And she was certainly smiling, if bewildered, as Ilvriss walked into the room.

“Wall Lord. How can I help you?”

He sat down abruptly. The air around him had changed. Before, when they had first met, he had been reluctant, even tired. Now—he was almost unable to sit still. He met her gaze.

“Miss Xesci. When we first spoke, you mentioned that one of your dreams was to return to the north in time, perhaps after having saved up enough. Was that true or an exaggeration?”

She blinked.

“I…it wasn’t untruthful. I’d like to retire. Wouldn’t we all? I don’t know where I’d settle, but yes, I would at least visit.”

“I see. And do you enjoy your job or would you retire if you had the choice?”

She rested her chin on her hands.

“You mean, would I continue working here? Wall Lord—it’s a job. Sometimes it’s enjoyable, sometimes not. But it’s not a passion. Especially if you’re the only expert in the room.”

The woman grinned at him, inviting him to share the joke. He did not.

“In that case, Miss Xesci, I have a proposition for you. I would like to hire you to work for me in an unusual capacity. Not as a [Courtesan], but as an…agent. I cannot go into details here, but I would be prepared to offer you enough gold to retire on after your work is completed. A year—two at most.”

She stared at him. Then she rubbed at one ear.

“…What?”

The Wall Lord repeated himself. The woman stared.

“What could I possibly offer…is this an exceptionally personal matter, Wall Lord?”

She’d heard of contracts like this. She wasn’t opposed, but Ilvriss denied it again.

“I am not asking you to…bed me. I won’t rule it out, but I don’t think it’s necessary. And it will never be me. I am not willing to go into details. Only that I would like to know if you would accept the request.”

“Wall Lord, I’m working in the best brothel in all of Salazsar. I don’t know how much you think I earn, but—”

“Four hundred thousand gold pieces for one year.”

She nearly fell out of bed. Er…she slowly looked at him.

“You are serious.”

“Yes I am. One year. A formal, magical contract.”

Wall Lord Ilvriss waited as she thought, blinking. This…was a lot, even for him. He couldn’t just throw money around.

No, wait. Yes he could.

Ilvriss had one power, and it was making money. But it wasn’t a power unless you used it, and the Wall Lord was dumping gold like it was going out of style. He could afford this.

“I have to know what it’s about.”

“Then I will meet you at this location in the Gemscale Spire…tomorrow. I may be busy today, Miss Xesci. Here is the exact floor…please come alone. You are obviously assured of your safety, but I can swear on a truth stone now if you would like. However, this is a confidential affair for my family and I, and I cannot risk speaking of it here.”

She nodded. He could only imagine what intrigues she was thinking of—but the sum persuaded her.

“I may refuse, Wall Lord?”

“Of course.”

But he hoped she would not. And he felt as though the truth was…enough. Ilvriss stood up, and walked out of the room. Xesci stared after his back.

What did he need her for? To seduce some Human [Lord]? Uncover an infidelity plot in the Walled Families?

What she didn’t realize was that it wasn’t just her.

—-

Ilvriss wanted talent. Talent was hard to get. But there were individuals in this city who exceeded all the others.

The best. Literally. Not ‘second-best’, but indisputable masters. And there was one in every city.

Saliss of Lights, for instance, a name people knew in a city of millions.

But there was the thing. Even if you knew them, even if they were your friends, it was hard to get them to do something for you. You would either have to be a charismatic, charming [Innkeeper] with the ability to create miracles and who befriended such people to help her as the need arose…

Or you were a Wall Lord of Salazsar who would drown you in gold pieces. Someone with the kind of power and willingness to expend parts of what he’d hoarded for his entire life in one moment.

The famous artist known as ‘Sellme’ ran through the streets of Salazsar, pushing past people. Disaster!

They were running for the gates. One of the walls to the city. Anywhere. Their tenure in Salazsar was done. They’d made a name for themselves and had finally begun really stabbing the Walled Families where it hurt—their ego and flaws.

However, the City of Gems had gone on the offensive too fast. Way too fast. And it was a bit of bad luck, but really, it was also the fact that a Named Adventurer had been deployed to end Sellme.

Shriekblade the killer. She was after Sellme, and not only did she have the advantage of all her contacts in the city, Ilvriss had given her a useful piece of advice.

You’re looking for a Drake.

He’d even seen Sellme’s tail color. But the reason Sellme had been found was really Ilvriss knowing how the elusive [Painter] did their work. Shriekblade had gone hunting for streets where Skills were keeping people away and found the [Painter] doing one of their pieces—another lampoon against Rellmel’s ongoing treatment of [Miners].

“That way!”

The Drake’s head turned. The fearsome Named Adventurer had slowed in the crowd, but more bodies were charging after them. An azure Drake with clearly-dyed scales to the [Painter]’s eyes was leading dozens of Drakes in Gemscale family colors.

“Erchirite Spears! On the business of a Wall Lord of Salazsar! Clear a path!”

A voice bellowed. The [Painter] sprinted left—then tried to slow, turn around. They yanked their hood down. In the crowd, they’d be lost. Drakes and Gnolls looked around, irritated or confused. But the [Painter] smiled, shook their heads. Blended in.

They’d lost some of the good paints! Damn…but they had to run. This city was too hot. They just needed to slip the—

Wall Lord Ilvriss of Salazsar strode down the street with a hundred of the Erchirite Spears. People stared at the display of force as the group blocked one end of the street. The [Painter] froze.

“I am Wall Lord Ilvriss! Please remain calm—we are looking for an individual hiding among you! Captain Shieldscale, the [Appraisal] Skills. Shriekblade—”

“There, there, there, there! Those four can’t be read.”

The [Painter]’s blood ran cold. The Named Adventurer was looking at them, materializing on a balcony. They had used the anti-Appraisal ring against them!

“It’s that one! The painter! With the white scales!”

She pointed at them.

Sellme ran.

—-

People’s heads turned as Ilvriss and half of Gemscale’s family guard and his hired forces thundered after the [Painter], blockading the street. He saw a white, scaled face, a Drake—with colored scales, yellow and green speckled in. Unusual pattern.

“The painter? Sellme? They’re going after—”

The crowd reacted to Shriekblade’s loud voice. They turned, saw the fleeing figure, and came to the obvious conclusion.

“They’re silencing Sellme! Stop them! That’s Shriekblade!”

They began pushing at the Erchirite Spears and Gemscale [Guards]. Ilvriss cursed.

“We are not arresting that [Painter]! I just want to—Shriekblade, apprehend, do not harm!”

“But that’s not what I’m good at—”

“Go!”

She leapt after the Drake. Ilvriss saw Osthia slowed by the crowd, who turned their wrath on the Drakes.

“No violence! I’m going after them! [Haste]!”

He twisted a ring and blurred past the people.

Oh yes. A Wall Lord had resources. He cursed Shriekblade’s methods, though. He’d told her to identify the Drake, not grab! But she’d wanted a bigger bonus so she’d tried to get Sellme before Osthia and Ilvriss arrived.

She’d misunderstood what he wanted to do. But the fact that Sellme had actually evaded the Named Adventurer, even if she wasn’t allowed to harm, was impressive.

In truth, the reason Ilvriss had wanted Sellme had more to do with wanting to know what they could do rather than what he had an idea for. Unlike Xesci, they were an unknown quantity.

But they were high-level. And there was always a use for…

Ilvriss caught up to Shriekblade, who’d cornered Sellme against an alleyway.

“Stay back! I’m a citizen of the Walled Cities! You’re not allowed to kill me!”

A surprisingly young voice shouted. Male. Ilvriss saw a frightened Drake as Shriekblade advanced, tensed.

“I’m not going to kill you. I’m not allowed to. But I will break your legs if you do that again! You got paint in my eyes!”

She hissed. Ilvriss skidded to a halt.

“Shriekblade, enough. Sellme—I want to talk. I am Wall Lord Ilvriss—”

“I won’t be silenced! Salazsar is corrupt!”

The [Painter] drew forth—Ilvriss tensed, but it was a brush. Coated in paint. They turned their back to him and he motioned.

“You stay back. Stop them if they run, but no harming them. I wanted to talk!”

“Oh. You’re not breaking their legs and handing them over to Lord Rellmel? But you said to that [Diplomat]—”

“That was an unrelated issue! Painter Sellme—”

Ilvriss saw a flicker. He turned just in time to see the younger [Painter] leap into the doorway at the end of the alleyway and scramble down the street. He started. Shriekblade blinked. They charged after the Drake as one, cursing. Ilvriss was so confused.

That hadn’t been—

Wham. They ran into the painted doorway as Shriekblade hit the brick wall and then Ilvriss collided with her. It was so realistic that neither one had realized that the Drake had drawn it while they were arguing!

“What—”

Ilvriss stared up at the paint now on his face and armor. Shriekblade cursed.

“He did it again! He threw paint at me the first time—I ran into it in the air! It’s a [Magical Painter] or something!”

“Extraordinary.”

Ilvriss stared at the doorway. He’d broken the paint—it had been showing the street beyond. He stood up as Osthia, battered, with the contents of a chamber pot on her armor, skidded into the alleyway.

“Wall Lord. Did you get—”

“They escaped. They can paint doors, Captain. After them! I need their talents.”

Ilvriss got to his feet. Shriekblade was already running, mad as hell.

But Sellme was gone. They were out of the city before Shriekblade found the hole in the wall of Salazsar, an artfully drawn ramp that had carried them to safety.

—-

Wall Lord Rellmel was celebrating the disappearance of the acclaimed [Painter], Sellme, with his sister, Wall Lady Grisa. That was the ruling elite’s mood; the city was sullen.

People blamed Wall Lord Ilvriss for the incident on the streets, and rumors were already flying that he had deployed no less than Shriekblade to silence Sellme before his secrets could be leaked.

What that was, was unclear. Rellmel had a different opinion.

“I bet you he wanted to get Sellme to sweeten the deal, Grisa. He really wanted the Potion of you-know-what.”

His sister glanced around the restaurant, one of the fanciest in all of Salazsar, with a commanding view. Rellmel hated being here. It was too expensive, but she always wanted to take her boyfriend here. And she was always interfering with the company that was his job to run.

Case in point. A million gold pieces? They could live off that alone for…four years! Three! But she refused. She was paranoid about safety; her Amulet of Protection glinted conspicuously as she glowered at him, waiting for the handsome Drake to get back from the bathroom—her date.

“Absolutely not. That’s our heirloom. A million’s too low! If he went ten million, I’d think about it.”

“No one can afford that for one potion, Grisa.”

“Fetohep of Khelt, might.”

She tossed her head. His jaw dropped.

“You want to sell to a skeleton?”

“Business is business.”

“But Ilvriss went after Sellme—”

“Maybe it was because his company has problems. If he caught Sellme—so what?”

“The pictures of us—”

“They’re gone, so we don’t owe Ilvriss anything, Rellmel. Now, I want a happy dinner. Understand?”

He folded his arms as his sister glowered. The Wall Lord was discontent, but he felt like trying his luck at the bar now that Sellme was gone and his reputation would be cleared. This—unpleasantness with the [Miners] would be forgotten, and business was booming even without.

“Wall Lord Ilvriss.”

“Hm?”

Rellmel looked up from studying the menu. Grisa was already ordering. She looked around as Rellmel’s personal bodyguard, a Gnoll, urgently whispered to him.

“Lord Rellmel, Wall Lord Ilvriss is approaching the restaurant! We’re moving to intercept, but he has caught the Emera family off-guard! We have to evacuate you now!”

For a second, the Drake didn’t even understand what he was hearing.

“Evacuate me? Ilvriss? Here? What are you talking…”

Grisa was on her feet. Rellmel saw an Emera-family hire, old Vidam, arrive, panting, clutching at his side. And two more he recognized, both Drakes.

All with the same class. The bodyguard was speaking urgently, trying to get Rellmel to understand.

“We thought it was a possibility but—Lord Nerul returned yesterday and he was seen hiring a full negotiation squad. He is coming, Wall Lord—”

Rellmel’s eyes widened as Grisa shot out of her chair past her date.

“Ancestors! Rellmel! He’s gone mad! He’s going to force a negotiation! We have to go—”

The Wall Lord was struggling out of his seat as the three top [Diplomats] and [Emissaries] of House Emera moved towards them. The [Bodyguard] and the other members of the staff present closed ranks as they looked for an exit. But it was too late.

—-

The doors to The Ancestor’s View were already open, so Nerul had them closed so he could kick them open. It was about style.

Also, shock value. The [Diplomat] strode into the restaurant as people got to their feet. And with him, he had a team of hit-Drakes.

The most dangerous, the most deadly infighters in all of Salazsar were at his back. Each one dangerous alone. With Nerul? House Emera had seen trouble the instant three of them gathered in one place.

Mister Grerre, a contract scroll in hand, more bundled in his arms. Weressna ‘The Sealer’, hobbling along on her cane. Mister Superior, the only Gnoll of the bunch, almost as overweight as Nerul.

The most dangerous posse, yes.

…Not in a fistfight, although Nerul was surprisingly good at fighting and he knew Weressna had a sword-cane, but in their chosen field.

They were [Negotiators]. [Diplomats]. [Contract Sealers].

The class of soft power. The people you sent instead of swords or arrows to use words instead.

People laughed—until they saw what high-level experts with dedicated Skills did.

They didn’t laugh in Salazsar. This was a raid. This was an assault, and as close to war between the Walled Families as it got.

“House Gemscale greets House Emera! Excuse me, Wall Lord Rellmel, Wall Lady Grisa, but we’d like to come to the table regarding an item for sale.”

Nerul bellowed into the silence. He saw the two noble Drakes, trying to get out the back door. The [Bodyguard] tried to block the group of six [Negotiators], but he was useless. He had an enchanted axe, a shield that could have stopped a Grand Elephant on the charge.

The [Diplomat] raised a claw as the Gnoll drew his axe.

“Not one step further or I strike!”

“[Peacekeeper’s Pass]. Sorry, young man. But you’re not going to stop us.”

The [Diplomat] walked past the Gnoll [Bodyguard]. He saw the Gnoll move to strike—with the butt of the axe—

And his arm didn’t move. The group walked past him and the other guards. They had the Skills that [Ladies] had learned, but yet to master. The abilities that [Innkeepers], [Kings], even [Strategists] and [Generals] got—but they were all of their class.

So long as I do no harm, you cannot harm me. Nerul focused on his real opponents. There were three of them.

Old Vidam. Nerul cracked his knuckles and winced.

“Ow.”

“Out the doors—hurry—”

The [Silvertongue Emissary] was trying to force the Drakes down the steps. Nerul smiled.

“Not so fast. Wall Lord Rellmel, we have a negotiation to get to and I insist you [Come to the Table].”

The Wall Lord froze, his hand on the doorknob. He tried to fight—but he wasn’t Ilvriss. He began to pivot when Vidam blocked Nerul’s way.

“[Request Denied]. Lord Rellmel has said his piece and no Skills or unlawful persuasion will force him otherwise!”

The Drake woman tsked. Weressna shook her head as Videl freed Rellmel.

“Oh come on, Vidam. [Think About It].”

“[Exit Negotiations]!”

One of the younger Drakes from the Emera family barked. Nerul raised his brows. No style, no substance. And it was three versus six.

The Drake with scrolls moved at Nerul’s nod.

“[Let’s Make a Deal]. We have vast funds, Lord and Lady of the Walls. You haven’t heard all of what House Gemscale and Lord Ilvriss have to offer.”

“[Clear Minds]! That’s not a valid offer. Wall Lord Rellmel has refused the offers on the table!”

“Let’s [Sweeten the Deal], then.”

Nerul crooned. Vidam was already sweating. He was trying to deny the multiple Skills attacking his clients, but he was outnumbered and outplayed. One of the Drakes croaked.

“[Future Negotiation]. We—we will do this—”

“We will do this now.”

The [Diplomat] broke the Skill in half without even needing to waste his own. The weaker [Negotiator] reeled. Nerul turned to Vidam.

“I was always the better [Diplomat]. I’m afraid this is going to turn into a sit-down, Vidam. Bring whoever you want. But you’re going to lose.”

He turned, wiped the sweat from his brow, and pointed.

“Let’s see. That table will do nicely. Let’s clear the restaurant. Where’s the manager? We’ll need food, scrolls—”

“Provided for.”

“And I’ve talked to the manager.”

Mister Superior emerged from the back room and nodded to Nerul. The Drake grinned. He nodded to the Drake and group he’d told to wait at the doorway. Ilvriss entered the room as the two members of House Emera sat, furious, but helpless, at the negotiation table.

Nerul sat. Oh, they made fun of him. The black sheep of House Gemscale. The white Gnoll, in other parlances. [Diplomat]. What a useless class. What could it do that a [Lord], a [Warrior] could not?

Well, he could pry a potion out of the hands of even the most stubborn Drakes. And all without drawing a weapon. He grinned, cracked his fingers again, winced, and got down to work.

—-

Ilvriss recalled that Erin Solstice had once been furious when Xif the [Alchemist] had forced her to sell one of her faerie flowers. He didn’t recall if he had been there for that, or just heard the news from keeping tabs on Liscor.

Well, Xif had one Skill in Nerul’s field. Nerul had many. And what Xif could do to an [Innkeeper]? A [Negotiator] lived to do this.

…Some of them. The negotiation-raid was a known tactic in Salazsar, who relied on contracts and companies. It beat bloodshed, but it was not employed normally.

It was to aggression what kicking down the door with a group of [Thugs] was. And even if you got what you wanted—

“There will be consequences! We won’t let this lie!”

Grisa hissed at him. The turn of phrase made Ilvriss pause, but he just shook his head.

“Maybe so, Wall Lady. But I insist.”

“And we are right to believe your number is above eight hundred thousand, but below one million. Let’s call it nine hundred thousand gold pieces, hm?”

“My client…is not willing…to sell a value-less item for that much.”

The old Drake, Vidam, was fighting Nerul and the five top-level [Negotiators] with a squad of seven. They’d actually waited for the others to arrive, but Nerul had called on his best friends—including the legendary Mister Superior.

Alrric was sitting next to Ilvriss, as a representative of his company. Vidam was sweating, but Nerul was merciless.

“Nine hundred thousand gold pieces. In your vaults tomorrow. What do you say, Wall Lord Rellmel? You have to know we can’t just walk off. And that’s…nine hundred thousand gold pieces now. Rather than ‘someday’. [Think About It].”

They had used dozens of Skills with overlapping effects. [Everything Has a Price], [See it My Way], [Sweeter Deal]—

“Do we have confirmation this is a genuine Potion of Regeneration? Excuse me, I’d like a [Fact Check] here.”

Mister Superior was taking on two Drakes at another table. They gulped and Grisa blurted out before anyone could stop her.

“Of course we have one! It’s only one third full, but—”

Ilvriss stirred. Vidam snapped his claw and Grisa’s mouth shut, but it was too late. Nerul stirred.

“I think that just kicked down the value to…three hundred thousand gold pieces. And you know that even if you’ve stored it properly, a third isn’t enough, Wall Lord. We’re talking damaged goods, here. You want to sit on that? Or a nice…three hundred thousand? You could live like a [King] for an entire year on that. You and your sister. And this all can end.”

Rellmel was sweating. It was also the pressure that got to you at this table. Ilvriss had known hard Drakes, who lived and died fighting.

Even so. There was something unnerving about someone who refused to blink, or stop staring at you. Yes, you could try to win the staring contest.

You would lose. Weressna was blowing smoke into a younger Drake’s face; the [Mediator] actually had tears in her eyes.

Nerul was playing nice. Some of his cohort were just staring down the lesser [Negotiators] and winning the battle of wills.

As he said, sometimes he spent three months sweet-talking, sometimes he strode in with fire and thunder.

There would be consequences. And Ilvriss, at that moment, as he saw Rellmel’s mouth open and Grisa whirl, decided to step in. Nerul had said not to, but it was time.

“Five—six hundred thousand.”

Nerul glanced up. He shot Ilvriss a warning look and poked him with his tail.

“Ilvriss, I can get—”

“I know, Uncle. But I want to at least try to make this…less painful. Six hundred thousand for a third-full Potion of Regeneration. Well, Rellmel?”

He looked across the table. Vidam rose, swaying.

“[A Moment of R—]”

Weressna tapped her cane on the ground and stopped his Skill with hers silently. Rellmel gasped.

“Yes. Fine! Damn the potion!”

Ilvriss exhaled. He saw Nerul nod, and Vidam collapsed on the table, ashen-grey. His people surged around him. Grisa stared at Ilvriss as the Drake with contracts unfurled the scroll. He had just written the number in magical ink.

“And we are ready to sign. Wall Lord?”

He offered it to Ilvriss, then Rellmel. The Drake wrote with a shaking claw as Ilvriss sighed. Alrric exhaled.

“It will be sent tonight. I have the sum prepared.”

It was done. Grisa never looked away from Ilvriss as Nerul and the other [Negotiators] rose to raid the bar, already congratulating each other.

“You have made a terrible mistake.”

“Perhaps so, Lady Grisa. But I need it.”

“For what? You’re not hurt. Unless—Zail? Helessia?”

He met her gaze without replying. He rose, as Rellmel sat back, white under his scales. Wall Lord Ilvriss stepped back, and spoke to Alrric.

“Cover the costs of this for the restaurant. My deepest apologies. The food used—tips for the staff. All generous. And my Uncle and his friends drink whatever they want tonight. On me.”

“That’s a mighty tab, Ilvriss.”

The Gnoll murmured. Ilvriss nodded.

“Less than what I spent on the potion.”

“True. And what do I do with that?”

Ilvriss straightened. He felt light. He left Grisa behind, ignoring her threats. He walked with Alrric.

“Send word to Lyonette in Liscor. To the Horns of Hammerad. Tell them to wait. And tell them—I have what they want.”

It would cost him. It had cost him. But if it was just payment…he was Wall Lord Ilvriss.

He’d settle the bill.

—-

He had done what he could for Erin Solstice. The Potion of Regeneration was away within the hour, with a full escort. Not Shriekblade—she was with him, but happy since she’d thrashed both him and Captain Shieldscale and gotten to cause chaos and watch it unfold.

The Horns might not even need to dare a death zone. Ilvriss hoped it would do what was needed.

But it was the Necromancer who remained. He stood, with Captain Shieldscale, no, Osthia Blackwing, in front of Xesci.

“[Detect Life] is the easiest check. But you can fool even [Detect Lies] or [Detect Truth]. If you are a high-enough level [Mage]. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes. Ancestors and dead fucking gods, but I could do that. But this?”

The magical artifact draped over Xesci’s head changed colors with her mood, with the truth. A more advanced ‘crown’ that revealed a complexity of meaning. Ilvriss hoped it was enough to ‘tell’ whether a person was real, or a puppet.

“You are not an agent of any power, or controlled by an influence besides your own, Xesci. Is that true?”

He had asked a dozen times, a dozen different ways.

“No.”

Ilvriss and Osthia studied the lights. She pointed to one.

“There’s something here.”

The [Courtesan] shivered. Shriekblade twitched. Ilvriss held his breath. They’d tested Shriekblade, Osthia, himself, and the last of the members in this room of five. The five who would form the heart of this operation. If any of them owed allegiance to someone else—they were dead.

Shriekblade had been the biggest gamble, really. But Nerul had told Ilvriss he could stop her from attacking long enough to raise the alarm.

It was ingenious. Send a [Diplomat] at an [Assassin] and you could actually stall even her. For a time.

“I….have ties to the Sisters of Chell, I suppose? No one else.”

Ilvriss watched the colors light up. Truth. A slight hesitation—

“No one else besides individuals or friends, yes?”

“Yes.”

Truth, more accurately reflected.

“I think she’s good, Wall Lord.”

Osthia exhaled. Ilvriss nodded at last and the [Courtesan of Change] sagged. He helped her remove the diadem.

“That’s it then.”

The portly Drake stood. Nerul. He looked sick.

“Az’kerash lives. And he’s got agents…”

“Named Adventurers. Regrika Blackpaw was one. Anyone could be under his sway. We don’t know his forces. We don’t know his preparations. What I do know is that he’s alive and he killed Zel Shivertail. And Periss.”

The room was silent. Shriekblade scratched at one earhole.

“Huh. Am I supposed to know this?”

He looked at her, then Xesci. The Drake woman nodded and licked her lips.

“Why are you telling us?”

The Wall Lord slowly walked around the room. He met everyone’s eyes, Osthia, Nerul, Shriekblade—no, Tessa, and Xesci.

“Because we have a duty to stop him. And right now—there are five people in this world we can be sure of that aren’t his agents. He is, possibly, a Level 70 [Necromancer]. Possibly Level 80.”

“Ancestors.”

Nerul muttered. Ilvriss nodded.

“Only Zel Shivertail and an army of the Antinium attacking together beat him. And the Goblin King. Beyond that? He has destroyed Terandrian kingdoms. And I believe he has grown stronger since then. He is our enemy. And right now, we are all that can be trusted.”

There was Ryoka Griffin. There had been Erin…and others. But they could have been subverted. Replaced. Ilvriss felt his scales crawling.

“You are all Drakes. Members of the Walled Cities. Of Izril. I believe you all have a talent and the will to fight back. So.”

He sat back, tired, but feeling the tingle in his veins.

“Let’s hunt the Necromancer. We have my resources. We have an army in training. And we have leads. Now I can actually rely on people—”

He nodded at Nerul, who could actually organize things with authority.

“—I can begin pursuing some of the ones outside of Salazsar.”

“Such as?”

The [Diplomat]’s eyes were sharp. Shriekblade tilted her head back and forth. Xesci was just staring around, slightly overwhelmed.

“Magnolia Reinhart once said something that made me think she knew he was alive. Either she is aware and opposing him—or she is concealing the information but hinting at it—or…”

Ilvriss trailed off.

She was his. Nerul muttered.

“Ah. So you’re on the move?”

“How so?”

Osthia looked blank. Ilvriss glanced at her, and Nerul elaborated.

“Magnolia Reinhart is going to Oteslia. It seems only fitting that if you were going to approach her in confidence to find out one way or the other, you’d go there. It’s an event, which is even more cover. Isn’t that so, neph—Wall Lord?”

He looked at Ilvriss. The Drake nodded.

“We may have an ally—if an untrustworthy one—with sources of information. I won’t rule out Human help, or any species or nation. But we have to know, and avoid tipping our hand. That’s why Xesci is here. Nerul helps us reach out, gives us cover and excuses. Xesci can identify them—or so I hope. Either way, she can act as a perfect [Spy].”

“What if she is—wrong? What will you do then?”

The [Courtesan] licked her lips. Ilvriss met her gaze. Then his head slowly turned. Shriekblade had been fiddling with a knife. Then she blinked at him and grinned.

“That’s why Shriekblade is coming too. To Oteslia.”

He made his plans. And the potion went to Erin Solstice.

Hope in a bottle.

After Chapter Notes: There were some parts I didn’t get to write! Alas! But a big chapter!

…Too big? I could have split it, but the ‘action’ was near the end. So it goes. I’m back off my break and hope you enjoyed! Now I am much tired and will soon rest.

But here’s your poll chapter. Here’s Ilvriss. Was it what you expected? Is it what you wanted? Do you have regrets? The Aba-bets for this month are null and void!

…But we might get chapters anyways. Just the ones I think fit. I hope you enjoyed and we’ll see what comes next. Thanks for reading and remember—[Diplomats] are scary. Or something. Night!

The Horns of Hammerad by Miguel!

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/cmarguel

Twitter: https://twitter.com/cmarguel

Facestealer or Headsnatcher by Enuryn.

Ko-Fi: https://ko-fi.com/enuryn

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Enuryn_Nat

Erin by Adventurer!

8.06 RT

(Flowers of Esthelm, Book 3 of The Wandering Inn is coming out on audible! Click the link here to preorder it! Spread the word!)

The first nation threatened by the kingdom of Ailendamus was Kaliv. The northern-most member of the Dawn Concordat occupied the rocky highlands, even ‘smaller’ mountains and passes leading north.

As one of the three members of the Dawn Concordat, the alliance of Calanfer, Kaliv, and Gaiil-Drome, Kaliv was naturally the first guard in northern aggression. Calanfer, most southern, would fight foes to the east and coming up from the coast. The kingdom of Gaiil-Drome, forested, home to a large half-Elf population and the half-Elven villages was considered safest in times of war; Pheislant was one of the few nations that would attack from the west.

[Strategists] had been analyzing Ailendamus’ first moves long before war was actually declared. They were largely on-mark; Ailendamus had imposed a naval blockade to stifle trade and any relief goods. It wasn’t a huge loss to the Dawn Concordat so long as they kept their other trade routes open, and of course, they had stockpiles of food.

However, Ailendamus was a powerhouse in the region, the largest kingdom in all of southern Terandria and arguably one of two or three of the most powerful without exception. The last hundred and sixty years and reign of four [Kings] had seen massive expansion and aggression.

“The fact that it’s Ailendamus against the Dawn Concordat is unfortunate. However, the fact remains that unless Ailendamus can secure an access treaty to assault the Dawn Concordat by way of Calanfer, they will have to fight through Kaliv’s frontier. And that is not easy.”

One of the [Strategists] in Pallass opined on the segment with Noass and Sir Relz on ongoing military conflicts. He correctly pointed out what would happen in the next two weeks.

Ailendamus had begun raiding and razing the fertile lowlands of Kaliv. In response, the people were evacuated. Then they sent in their first army, a huge invasion force sixty thousand strong.

‘Testing’ the Dawn Concordat, although armies of that size had destroyed entire legions in the field and multiple kingdoms. By the same token—forces far larger had also been stopped.

Most famous on people’s lips was a comparison that was unsociable to make in this day and age: the time when the Archmage of Death, Perril Chandler, had held off an army of four kingdoms, four hundred thousand strong, in the same passes of Kaliv.

But of course, that had been during a particularly ugly war where Kaliv had been all but beaten. If they made it to Krawlnmak’s Pass—Calanfer and Gaiil-Drome were in danger of falling because the Dawn Concordat had expended its power and failed to keep Kaliv from being overrun.

So the first army marched. Sixty thousand, to see what Calanfer did. They headed for the low-lying cities of Kaliv, rather than try and ascend.

If they went for Lufelt, the mountain-capital of Kaliv, the Griffin Queen would probably let them march all the way up through the treacherous mountain passes, raiding and ambushing them or collapsing the mountain, and then let them try to siege huge, vertical terrain while Griffins dropped stones on their heads and the famous goat-cavalry kicked them off the face of the mountain.

No, the first army wanted a fight. And so they marched on Memda—a border city fortified against general attack, but which the Dawn Concordat wasn’t willing to lose without a struggle, especially since it would prove to be a staging ground for the other armies already on the march from the kingdom of Ailendamus.

The global audience, watching, even placing bets, or speculating as to the outcome more as interested viewers than concerned people—at least, those not of Terandria—were not privy to the debate between the three members of the Dawn Concordat. If they had been, they would have understood an argument led to the battle at Memda.

Novakya, the Griffin Queen of Kaliv.

Reclis of House Marquin, King of the Eternal Throne of Calanfer.

Solen Wildheart, the Ruler of the Forests of Gaiil-Drome.

Each one had advisors of course, but the rulers were active participants in decision-making, although each one drew on various levels of expertise.

Novakya wanted the battle, refusing to let Memda be taken. Solen was of the opinion that it should only be garrisoned by a token force that would fall back and deny the city afterwards, collapsing walls, poisoning wells.

Reclis du Marquin was the most cautious and would have given up the city in favor of more advantageous battlefields. However—Novakya’s lands were in danger, and after some debate, all three monarchs agreed to make it a battle to test Ailendamus, as well as the reverse.

Thus, the Dawn Concordat met the Ailendamus force with seventy thousand of their own forces, drawing most heavily upon Kaliv’s standing armies, but supplementing them with conscripts from Calanfer. Gaiil-Drome supplied their [Woodland Rangers], half-Elven soldiery, as well as some of their [Forest Knights], but in fewer numbers; they contributed twelve thousand dedicated [Archers] as their main focus.

Calanfer sent many levied, newly-minted [Soldiers] or [Militia], to the tune of nearly twenty thousand, led by one of their lesser [Generals]. If that seemed paltry compared to the four hundred Griffins and armored foot in the thousands that Kaliv added to the low-level soldiery—Calanfer’s largest contribution was symbolic and meant to be one of the striking hammers against Ailendamus.

They sent a thousand Thronebearers, the royal [Knights] of Calanfer into battle. The largest Knight Order of the three nations would go up against the [Knights] of Ailendamus. The Order of the Thirsting Veil, the Order of the Hydra, and the Order of Drell—Drell Knights, as they were colloquially known.

To a student of knight-orders, Ailendamus possessing three spoke to the size of the kingdom. The Order of the Thirsting Veil was smallest, possessing deadly poisons often derided as ignoble by some knight orders. The Order of Drell was larger, but both were still smaller than the Order of the Hydra combined.

In brief—the Order of Drell had been founded due to Ailendamus’ wetlands. Similar but different to other marshland Kingdoms like Desonis. They specialized in aquatic warfare and could actually fight underwater.

The Order of the Hydra was plentiful, unmounted, favoring foot-knights who were drawn from common stock almost to the exclusion of nobility. They were shock troops, who used warhammers and broke the lines of enemy heavy infantry.

The engagement between both armies began with both height and the local city favoring the Dawn Concordat, as well as a slight numbers advantage. Gaiil-Drome’s famous [Archers] were ready to harry the opposition whilst Kaliv’s Griffins secured the skies and dropped projectiles as well as dove to assault the enemy. The Thronebearers would take to the field in the center, and be supplemented by flank charges by the other [Knights] and ram-cavalry.

However, Ailendamus had also prepared for their foes’ unique compositions. They had brought the famous lance-arrows of Ailendamus, which were part of the kingdom’s sigil.

Massive, enchanted bolts which half-Giants had once strung from bows and fired at opponents. They were said to have killed Dragons and pulverized walls. These days, few half-Giants were in service even to Ailendamus, so they were mounted on Greatbows that were held by teams of archer-specialists.

Not ballistae, per se. Both sides fielded siege equipment, but neither had dedicated [Engineers] in their kingdoms, so Ailendamus possessed enchanted catapults—not the infamous Drake trebuchet. The Greatbows were closer to twin bows mounted vertically rather than horizontally in an x-pattern; they required enchantments to fire the huge arrows.

As the battle began Ailendamus proved to have the superior range even to Gaiil-Drome’s [Archers]. The heavy lance-arrows threatened and unnerved the Dawn Concordat’s army as they landed, sowing chaos and reminding everyone of a similar battle between the King of Destruction and the House of Minos. They even killed two Griffins before they could harass Ailendamus’ forces, although that was accorded a lucky shot, even with Skills.

Like the King of Destruction’s dilemma, the presiding [General], Lord-Commander Metris of Calanfer, elected to charge the enemy rather than attempt to dismantle the Greatbows first. He had seen that Ailendamus had brought far fewer [Knights] than the Dawn Concordat, and their [Soldiers]—while part of their standing armies—were superior in equipment and level to the levies, and considered that the Thronebearers and the varied forces would break their lines.

He charged, committing the Thronebearers to the first charge after the infantry clashed.

—-

There were good [Knights] and bad [Knights]. It would surprise no one to learn that not all [Knights], or knight-orders were equal. Yes, there were exceptional individuals in each order, but you could still rank them as a whole.

The Thronebearers of Calanfer were a political knighthood order. Suited to speaking poetry and attending balls as much as pure combat. They were not a weak order per se.

They did well against Ailendamus’ [Soldiers]. You could even say that one Thronebearer was worth…what, two and a half ordinary Ailendamus [Soldiers]?

But there was the rub. [Knights] were always in short supply, at least, where wars were concerned. They could hack apart weaker foes with their often-enchanted armor and Skills, not to mention devastating lance-charges on horseback.

The Knights of the Petal under Lady Bethal Walchaís, for instance, numbered less than two hundred and were a deadly fighting force even in small groups because they were untouchable against ordinary foes without means of breaking their expensive, enchanted armor.

The Thronebearers were arguably less elite than the Knights of the Petal. They still were a powerful force. But the problem was, to Knight-Commander Calirn of the Order of Seasons, as he watched the news report, simple.

Ailendamus’ [Soldiers] knew war. They were an active fighting force rather than the Thronebearers, who did not routinely engage in huge battles. The [Knights] kept themselves sharp, but the first army had steel without exception. Enchanted weapons among their [Sergeants] and officers. The Thronebearers had the advantage on the charge. But they began to take casualties and failed to break the lines of Ailendamus’ army.

The Dawn Concordat prized [Knights] more than the common levied-[Soldiers]. Or at least, the Calanfer [General] did. He pulled the Thronebearers back and tried to win with infantry alone.

In the end, it wasn’t a rout. Nor was it, in fact, a defeat. Ailendamus’ army retreated after three hours of fighting. They lost half their Greatbows to Griffin-strikes, and their army took nearly twelve thousand casualties.

The problem was, to Calirn, that Calanfer had taken nearly twenty thousand—and if you were counting valuable assets lost, they’d lost forty plus Griffins, at least two hundred Thronebearers, and a number of their other high-level forces.

“Ailendamus never intended to take the city. They intended to test the Dawn Concordat’s resolve and see how their armies faced up.”

The dry voice came from the left. Knight-Commander Calirn, head of the Order of Seasons, Pheislant’s Knight Order and one of the strongest in Terandria, turned to one of the other three leaders gathered here.

“The result, Fall Sentinel?”

He led the Season of Fall. He was both [Mage] and [Knight]. The man had white in his hair, but he could still tilt—even if the Fall Knights ran towards academic.

“They could do this a dozen times and they will, if the Dawn Concordat is unwise enough to take such battles. Those are rank-and-file [Soldiers] they will trade for Thronebearers and Griffins.”

“True enough.”

Calirn bit off. He saw the Spring’s Warden—youngest of those here by far, and the only woman in the room—and the Summer’s Champion, both look uncomfortable. They clearly didn’t like the Dawn Concordat’s odds already.

The Winter’s Watcher was not present, often keeping his own council or watching their borders. But the Summer’s Champion clenched his fist.

“And we will not be taking part, Knight-Commander?”

“Not yet. Pheislant is undecided and we cannot drag in our kingdom by ourselves, Summer’s Champion.”

Calirn sighed. The man glowered; like many Summer Knights, the Summer’s Champion embodied passion. It was not always a good thing and he often clashed with the [Winter Knight]’s attitudes.

“Calirn. They cannot stand alone! We are the Order of Seasons! If we enter the fray, Pheislant is not beholden to answer for us! We are connected, but separate.”

That was true. But Calirn just folded his arms.

“Greysten, you know as well as I that Ailendamus will not accept that excuse. We watch.”

What he left unspoken was simply that he wasn’t sure if the Order of Seasons should fight. Because…Ailendamus might go after Pheislant next.

Because they might lose. He knew the others knew it too. Calirn shook his head.

—-

That was the first battle of the war. There were more.

Two more battles had taken place since then. Ailendamus sent a far larger force supplemented by their war beasts—Armored Graen—to take the city. This time, the Dawn Concordat tried to make it a siege battle. The city fell too quickly to the Lancearrows; once the gates were open, the huge, thick, plodding beasts with six legs and insanely tough hide augmented by armor rampaged through the gates. And Ailendamus’ artillery meant that Griffins could not harry them.

Moreover, Ailendamus had the advantage in [Mages] as well. They fielded numerous [Mages] who cast [Poison Cloud] despite the Dawn Concordat’s objections to the use of the spell in war, as well as conventional spells like [Fireball].

Thereafter, the [Mage Marshall] in charge of this wing of offensives led her forces towards the second, more populous city of Treql, while more armies began to advance across Kaliv.

There, they suffered the first defeat of this war, and a surprising outcome that Knight-Commander Calirn witnessed live via scrying orb with the rest of the world.

The [Mage Marshall] had been leading a second battle where the Dawn Concordat tried to hold the walls, knowing that her force of ninety thousand would sweep them if they couldn’t choke the enemy. The Kaliv-main force was tough and entrenched, but the [Mage Marshall] had been throwing poisonous gas clouds, spells at the Griffins who normally dropped stones and other projectiles and decimated armies trying to siege the enemy.

She would have broken them, Calirn was sure. But that was when the Griffin Prince of Kaliv and the disgraced wing that were half-outlaws, half-vigilantes entered the fray.

The Griffin Prince. Stripped of his name, stripped of his right to succeed Novakya. Cursed, some said, by one of Terandria’s monsters. He had formed a wing of [Griffin Riders] out of former [Bandits], [Murderers], and other dregs of society, giving them one last chance to fight for honor.

They were not tolerated by Kaliv—but they were not hunted either. They were in a grey zone where Kaliv usually pretended they did not exist.

Calirn had heard stories about the immortal Griffin Prince and the tragedy around…her. The Spider. But he had not realized the true nature and power of the young man’s curse until today.

The Griffin Prince flew over the battlefield at a height above even the lancearrows. Spells and long-range shots tried to strike him, but his wing flew close-cover, deflecting or taking the shots meant for his Royal Griffin. They dropped stones, but those were blocked by barrier spells. What the [Mage Marshall] had never considered was that they would drop the Griffin Prince himself.

He fell among the stones, unnoticed at first. Surely the young man should have been splattered by the impact on the mage-barriers, or just disintegrated. But somehow—he survived.

He landed among the command of Ailendamus’ forces. Calirn saw the [Mage Marshall] blast him with a spray of poison—then a lance of magic through his chest. He staggered—brought up his axe—

And it bounced off her barrier-charm. He was diced into pieces in a second by her personal guard.

It didn’t kill him.

The second strike didn’t kill the [Mage Marshall] as, disbelieving, she saw him re-knit. But the third slew her, even as her guard tried to hack the young man apart.

The bewildered army saw the fighting in the command. It took thirty minutes—but the entire command began to flee as the Griffin Prince slaughtered the entire retinue defending the point. He destroyed three of the Greatbows before his wing dove to retrieve him; a replacement leader was attempting to capture, rather than kill him.

The Griffin Prince’s mad heroics inspired Kaliv’s forces. They sallied as, leaderless, Ailendamus’ forces lost morale. The Wing of Shame, the Griffin Prince’s retinue, took the battle to one flank, destroying Greatbows.

Ailendamus’ army didn’t even manage to retreat. Tens of thousands of [Soldiers] surrendered in the first upset of the war.

A brave boy. Calirn still couldn’t believe the dread magic that had let him survive countless deaths, however. He knew the power of the Stitch Witch, the Temptress, the Spider, Belavierr.

Even so. Ailendamus’ assault was foiled as the [Generals] no doubt took precautions against such a strike again. But the Griffin Prince used his deathlessness like a weapon without peer. He attacked raiding parties by himself, challenging groups as many as twenty strong and killing them—not by superior force of arms, but by an inability to die.

His only weakness was being captured, but the canny [Prince] had long-since learned how to pick his battles. His Wing of Shame would haunt Ailendamus in every major battle to come.

—-

…Anyways, that was the scene. If you didn’t care about the war, or didn’t care for historical battles, it was probably all boring nonsense.

Knight-Commander Calirn paid attention because the Dawn Concordat were right next to Pheislant and he had no love for Ailendamus. But life moved on.

The Singer of Terandria, whom he had once seen, was putting out songs about the war. Desonis had a minor scandal as one of their Earls returned and was stripped of some of his land for insulting their Queen to her face.

A party in Nomaudrel had gone really wrong, and sixteen servants were dead. The hostess, a young [Duchesss], might actually be stripped of her title or lands—the nobility objected to such stringent measures, but the crown, mindful of the reaction of the commonfolk…

So it went. This was Terandria! Politics and the Hundred Families and Human kingdoms were not all one thing. The news reported on Ailendamus because it was the big war of the moment, along with the one in Chandrar with the King of Destruction.

However, only a few other parties had gotten dragged into the mix. There had been one incident with a force of [Knights] belonging to the Order of Seasons being captured at sea.

Calirn had been furious about that. But Ailendamus had promised to ransom them, claiming they had refused to surrender at first during the blockade. And again—it wasn’t the kind of thing that justified taking the Order of Seasons to war.

What had made the Knight-Commander smile was that the [Knights] escaped, even apparently managing to down a famous [General] along the way! A bad look for Ailendamus, especially since the [Knights] swore under truth spell that they had refused to heed the codes of honor and war. Ailendamus’ crown promised to investigate…

Small potatoes? Satisfying potatoes. Calirn had especially wanted to greet the [Knights] after their long journey home, because they had ridden to battle with Ser Raim and…well, failed to see the Stitch Witch dead. But all things being equal, he would not have counted it as a momentous occasion.

Except that they brought a friend. A fellow [Knight], hailing from Izril.

The Goblin Slayer. Or—Ser Solstice.

And he was a Goblin.

—-

The return of the group of Spring and Summer Knights to the Order of Seasons was a cause for celebration. The gates were thrown open as they were spotted, and they were welcomed for food, respite, and the company of their brothers and sisters after so long!

Of course, they had been spotted long before they arrived at the vast, sprawling keep that was the headquarters of the Order of Seasons, made out of an old half-Elven fortress from the time of their empires.

Rabbiteater was impressed by the guard they kept on the Order of Seasons’ land. The group had told them they were coming, but even so, they hadn’t gone more than ten minutes past what Talia had claimed was the border point when he appeared.

“The Winter’s Watcher.”

Ser Markus bowed, gauntleted fist over his heart. The others did the same. Spring Knights and Summer Knights, bowing slightly to the figure standing on the hilltop.

It had begun snowing; their clue he was here. Even in the summer. The figure regarded them.

“Winter’s Watcher! We bring a fellow [Knight] of Izril who has fought and slept by our sides! We vouch for his honor and strength of arms!”

Ser Markus had bellowed it up at the figure, whose armor looked closer to frozen ice than anything else. The figure had inclined a huge mane of pale white hair and turned. His armor had been trimmed with thick fur, and he had carried a single enchanted axe with a blue glow to the edge, and a shield with ancient sigillary in the other.

“Who that?”

Rabbiteater had pointed. Ser Markus had explained.

“The Winter’s Watcher, Ser Solstice. One of the four leaders of the Order of Seasons, under the Knight-Commander himself. He is a solitary figure; much as the Order of Winter are. They do not seek company, but fight alone, or in small groups if they must.”

“Ah. And they are the best ones?”

Markus hesitated. Talia tossed her head and looked back. She was a Summer Knight, he, a Spring Knight. She was his senior, and replied in a stiff voice.

“Not as a rule, Ser Solstice. They are…more experienced by and large, that is true, but great [Knights] exist in every order! They are the fewest, however; [Knights] turn to their Season as they age. Sometimes. It is not a rule. Some stay in their season regardless of their age.”

Rabbiteater had read between her words. He distilled her speech and Ser Markus’ following explanation into a far simpler one.

Old, grumpy veterans. Like a bunch of veteran Redfang Hobs or even regular Goblins. Scarred, maybe not as quick or energetic as newly-minted Redfangs, but the ones who took you to pieces the instant you dropped your guard.

“He was alone, though.”

He pointed out to Ser Markus as they continued the rest of their short journey. Ser Markus nodded.

“He is sworn to protect our headquarters, Ser Solstice. He returns—you may see him in the keep, but he often watches the border, even if he knows we are coming.”

“Right. But he was alone.”

The Spring Knight tilted his head until he realized what Rabbiteater meant.

“Ah—do not worry, Ser Solstice. If a larger force were coming, he would raise the alarm. But he would slow any foe who arrived, at the very least!”

“By himself?”

The other [Knights] nodded, as if a single person charging into a fight wasn’t stupid.

“The Winter’s Watcher is a superior fighter, Ser Solstice. He could stop countless foes by himself. The heads of each season sometimes duel, and he wins more than any of the other three—except for perhaps the Spring’s Warden. But she is the best duelist by far.”

“Mm. And the other two? The…”

“Summer’s Champion. Just as good in combat as the Winter’s Watch and Spring’s Warden!”

Markus raised his voice for Talia and the other two Summer Knights. He confided in Rabbiteater.

“More of a commander, though. And the Fall’s Sentinel, who is, er, more academic. But superior with a blade even so! You may meet all of them. The Knight-Commander as well. I think…they will be interested in meeting you.”

He gave Rabbiteater a sidelong look. The Hobgoblin knew he was remembering his face.

The face he had seen after the escape from the Bear General’s camp. Yet—Ser Markus had not said a word of it to anyone as far as Rabbiteater could tell. He’d spent a week of sleepless nights, but no one had tried to kill him in his sleep.

There were changes. But he rode into the Order of Season’s keep and stood as the Knight-Commander himself and two of the season’s heads greeted their [Knights].

“Ser Solstice of Izril. I thank you for your aid to my order. And I welcome you into our keep. You are an honored friend, and you may avail yourself of our hospitality.”

Rabbiteater took the strong, cold grip. Even though the man had removed his gauntlet—Rabbiteater had not—his grip still felt frosty! He eyed the greying man’s face, and sensed his strength in a moment. Awkwardly, the Goblin-knight nodded his head.

“Thanks. How long?”

Talia twitched. Knight-Commander Calirn blinked. Rabbiteater wondered if it was another custom he’d broken.

But you were supposed to ask, right? In Goblin tribes, say, you couldn’t just laze about eating the best meat all day.

“…As long as you desire, Ser Solstice.”

“Years?”

Calirn blinked again and seemed to freeze up. A huge laugh erupted from the orange-haired man.

“I like this one! Yes, years, Ser Solstice! The Order of Seasons does not treat its friends lightly, and one more mouth is hardly an imposition! Although we’ll raise our eyebrows if you do naught at all. But I swear it by the summer skies! I am the Summer’s Champion, Greysten. An honor to meet you.”

He was a big Human, six foot three, and physically imposing. Not the Bear General’s girth, but he had a strong, hot grip. Rabbiteater flexed his hand afterwards. What was with these [Knights]?

Oh, right. The seasons thing. The Spring’s Warden was next. She was slimmer, and Rabbiteater thought she was very pretty.

Oh, she looked like she was in her thirties despite being twenty years older, which apparently was because she was the embodiment of the spring. She had topaz-and-emerald hair, shining bright.

But that wasn’t what made her pretty. It was the huge scar running down her cheek and across her neck, and the long, threaded scar down her arm.

That was the kind of scar you got in battle that even a healing potion didn’t heal right. Rabbiteater admired her at once; the other two leaders didn’t have as obvious battle marks. He got the sense she could stab him through the visor before he could strike her.

Dead sexy, as Redfangs reckoned such things.

“Dame Kallinad spoke highly of you in her [Messages], Ser Solstice. Don’t worry; we won’t ask you to remove your armor. And Ailendamus will pay for its breach in conduct.”

Rabbiteater glanced at Talia. She looked a tad bit uncomfortable as she bowed to the Summer’s Champion and then Calirn.

“Knight-Commander, we regret we were so delayed in returning. I trust Ser Raim’s remains arrived safely?”

“They did, and have been buried with his beloved as he wished. I regret the passing of our brethren. But you acted as a true [Knight], Dame Kallinad. We will not soon forget the Witch’s existence.”

She nodded. Rabbiteater had no idea what that was about, but soon he was being shown to his quarters.

“We have guest quarters, Ser Solstice. You will stay here—tomorrow, I shall show you around the keep, but we will arrange food brought to you.”

Ser Markus showed him to the lovely rooms. They might be more spartan than some, but to a Goblin, they were spacious, the bed padded, and plenty of luxury for a guest of [Knights]! Rabbiteater nodded, inspecting the place for bolt holes and traps.

He saw the man hover for a second. Awkwardly, Ser Markus cleared his throat.

“Ser Solstice. About…your identity.”

Rabbiteater looked up sharply. The Spring Knight hesitated. He put his hand on the door.

“I will tell no one, Ser Solstice. You have my word. I saw a [Knight] that day, and that has never changed. I would, however, be interested in speaking with you further, if I may.”

The Goblin’s heart pounded in his chest. But…he slowly nodded.

“Yes. We can…do that.”

Have an adventure. Her words still rang in his head, even if the power had faded even as they fled the camp. He tried to smile. And Ser Markus did.

“I will return after informing the kitchen staff of your circumstances, Solstice. And—find a way to let you bathe. Perhaps a bath, if we carry it from the wells…excuse me.”

He nodded and left. Rabbiteater sat there for a second.

Am I in danger?

Well, he had been the moment he left Izril. But he wanted…to believe in these crazy Humans and their weird codes of conduct. He liked Markus. He wondered what Talia thought; they hadn’t spoken as much. But now they’d arrived and…he sat back on the bed.

He felt good.

—-

The Spring’s Warden was in her rooms, meditating before dinner, as was her wont. She heard a knock, told the person to enter.

It was a female Spring Knight, one of the ones who had gone to Ser Raim’s aid.

“Warden—I am sorry if I am disturbing you, but…I have something I must say. I feel the need to, even if it conflicts with honor and duty.”

The Spring’s Warden turned. She was used to such intrusions; her Season was made up of more [Knights] and more junior ones than any other Season.

“Come in, Dame Meisa. Speak freely and I will give you what wisdom I have.”

“It’s about Ser Solstice, the—the [Knight] that came with us.”

The young [Knight] nervously sat down on the seat across from the Spring’s Warden. The woman raised her eyebrow.

“Ah. You must have seen a hint as to whom he was.”

“How did you…?”

It was obvious. The Spring’s Warden shook her head. Her youthful features made people forget her age. And besides—what else could it be? Perhaps something—but it was most likely his identity.

She hoped he was not some well-known murderer. A member of the nobility or adventurer? Easier to bear. He had seemed forthright and honest, if somewhat unused to formalities when she had met him.

“Dame Meisa, is this something I need hear? I would respect his vows under most circumstances. I trust your judgment.”

The young woman hesitated. She rested her hands on her knees, and then met the Spring Warden’s gaze.

“…At the risk of compromising my honor, Warden, I believe it so. Ser Solstice is not…he is…he’s a Goblin.”

The Spring’s Warden blinked.

—-

It took about twelve minutes for someone to leak Ser Solstice’s secret of honor between [Knights]. So much for the honor-bound vow of chivalry.

And it wasn’t even the Spring’s Warden who learned of Rabbiteater’s secret first. In fact, Dame Meisa had wavered for a good three hours before approaching her.

The person who’d requested an audience and received it minutes after arriving sat in front of Knight-Commander Calirn. It had taken three hours for the entire story and all his questions. At last, he sat back.

“And you do not know how a Hobgoblin came into the armor or class he seems to possess Knight…Talia?”

The young woman shook her head slowly.

“No, Knight-Commander Calirn, I do not.”

The Knight-Commander’s rooms were cold. Not because he leaned that far into his season, but because his aura leaked, even with his mastery of it. Especially when he slept.

That meant he kept the room dry, even though winter static was unpleasant. But it beat moisture creating frost on clothing or wood and then turning to wetness when he left and creating mildew.

Similarly, Calirn tended to embrace his season. For instance, he had the cold-blooming cacti he tended to on a windowsill, which thrived in snowy conditions.

He was also fond of books, and thus had a warded bookcase that prevented frost from damaging it. Some of the ornaments were not for him; he possessed thick, furred blankets made of Wilwolf fur from the north. They were for his guests.

Of course, Summer Knights and younger visitors liked to pretend the cold didn’t affect them. However, only one of the top members of the order could really sit in the cold without feeling it. Talia was already beginning to shiver. She tried to establish her aura, but this place was Knight-Commander Calirn’s and only sheer stubbornness kept her from using the furs.

He indicated them and she reluctantly took one. The Knight-Commander sat there, and then stood. He did not pace, but rather, held still.

Winter was like that. Spring was action and life and youth. Calirn had learned to stand as still as a snowman in a blizzard. His order was made of lone wolves, who had to sometimes ambush foes—although the ethics of that were always under debate.

While he thought, he held still, regarding the books on his shelves. Among them was a history of major cataclysms that had struck Terandria, a must-read for someone who protected his region and crusaded against threats like that.

Goblin Kings featured in the book, four times. And that was the quantifiable past the [Historian] had been able to find; time erased so much, as did the fall of vast empires. Even now, a treasure worth as much as any relic was a history book magically preserved tens of thousands of years after it had been written.

He was of two minds about this news. Ser Solstice, a Hobgoblin in disguise? The first was uncertainty. The dangers of having a…monster…or a monstrous race at the least among Terandrians was not lost on him. However. The second part of him argued with even that sentiment.

“To my understanding, my instincts, and what I have heard, Dame Talia Kallinad, that Hobgoblin is a [Knight]. Is that so?”

Talia hesitated.

“…I believe so, Knight-Commander. A basic [Appraisal] spell could tell the truth of it.”

Calirn did not need one. He was a high-level [Knight] and he recognized his class. He’d sensed some subtleties of difference with Ser Solstice, but put it down to the cultural differences between continents and how their [Knights] were trained and raised.

He nodded.

“But he is a [Knight].”

“And a Goblin.”

Dame Talia sat there, clearly unhappy. She’d put the fur blanket over herself, but she looked deeply troubled. Calirn nodded. He sat back down and looked at her.

“Then, Dame Talia. Why did you see fit to reveal his nature to me? A [Knight]’s vow of secrecy you swore to uphold is a matter of honor.”

He met her gaze with his cool, frosty eyes. She paled—then flushed suddenly. The air warmed around her.

“Knight-Commander! I would have kept his secret at any cost! But after the battle with the Bear-General—”

“Whom he singlehandedly beat in a duel, to allow you and the others to escape.”

Talia hesitated.

“—but I saw his face. Knight-Commander, I respect the honor of my class and fellow [Knights]! But he is a Goblin.”

And that was the heart of it. Talia sat there as Calirn leaned back.

She felt betrayed. Betrayed, by the truth of Ser Solstice, which had impelled her to come here. The Knight-Commander’s disapproval rankled at her.

If he had been a Gnoll, a disgraced Drake—any number of things, she would have kept that secret. But a Goblin? She had admired Ser Solstice. Now?

She didn’t know what to think. She had fought Goblins. Who was Ser Solstice? A strange Goblin, pretending to be a [Knight]? An agent in disguise?

She had realized she had never seen the ‘Goblin Slayer’ actually slay all the tribes he’d claimed to have eradicated, only a handful in battle. Had he helped them escape and lied? Or if not—was he a traitor to his own species?

She took a deep breath.

“I believe Ser Solstice was untruthful with us, Knight-Commander. And the danger he…might present leads me to believe my duty to the Order and my homeland supersedes or calls into question the knightly-vows of chivalry I have made.”

“A fair answer.”

He saw her reasoning. The Knight-Commander sat there, thinking it over. Then he nodded.

“You are dismissed, Dame Talia. I will investigate the matter and inform you of my conclusions, if need be.”

“Knight-Commander?”

She stood, a bit uneasily. But if she had expected a fast decision, she had forgotten that the Knight-Commander, who could be of any season, was Calirn. Unlike his predecessors, he was winter. And winter was a time to contemplate, not move in haste. Calirn sighed.

“You are dismissed, Dame Talia.”

He rose. It was a troubling issue. But not one he would instantly move on—such as throwing Ser Solstice into chains, or setting a guard. If he had travelled with the [Knights] so long, he was not an immediate threat. He might be a spy, but he would be a fool to try to attack anyone in the Order of Season’s keep.

Ser Calirn went to consult with the Fall’s Sentinel, even though that meant spreading more word of Ser Solstice’s identity.

Rabbiteater had dinner.

—-

Ser Markus conceived a great enmity for Dame Talia Kallinad over supper on the first night of their return from their questing abroad.

He had admired Dame Talia—if vaguely, as one of the members of the Season of Summer, the second order that Spring Knights usually aspired to—or the Season of Fall if their tastes ran more to academia or studying.

She, as a member of the prestigious Kallinad family of Pheislant, had never seemed overly arrogant, and she exemplified the desire to crusade and fight for valor and honor. So he had been pleased to fight beside her as they went to Ser Raim’s aid, even though it might mean their deaths, without enchanted weapons, fighting the great Spider of Terandria.

Even after their defeat, she had essentially led them back home, and he had trusted her implicitly. Nothing until now could have shaken his faith in a fellow member of the Order of Seasons.

Today, Ser Markus thought Dame Talia had managed to reverse his opinion of her. He did not know of her conversation with Knight-Commander Calirn, of course. But he saw a dinner and her actions there.

Before that, she had become more distant as Ser Solstice’s identity had been revealed. The five [Knights], including Ser Markus, had been shocked. But he had openly declared Ser Solstice a [Knight] and after a quick debate, they had decided his secret was safe.

Talia had not gainsaid that decision, but she had stopped riding next to Ser Solstice and talking as openly. One could hardly miss that gap in sociability.

But tonight?

Ser Solstice had supped alone since he did not remove his helmet. But he could still drink through a straw, and talk, and seemed to enjoy it. He had joined Ser Markus and the other [Knights] to eat in the main mess hall of the keep.

All seasons ate there, and guests as well. [Knights] talked, many at their leisure, mostly with friends or their seasons, but they intermingled without real rivalry in most cases. Each season was proud, but they were not at odds.

There were a handful of guests, too. Aspiring [Squires] who got to see what life here was like. Noble guests, or people, usually of Pheislant, come to do business or petition the order.

Fellow [Knights] too. The Order of Seasons tried to keep strong relationships with their fellow orders, who they might well fight beside.

So Ser Solstice was not the attraction of the hour. But he was certainly noticeable. Even [Knights] gossiped and the mysterious knight of Izril, who refused to take off his helmet and had bested a [General] in one-on-one combat was of note. Not to mention his Goblin-slaying prowess.

This was what Ser Markus saw. Ser Solstice entered the banquet hall and found Dame Talia standing and talking with some of the Summer Knights. The Goblin [Knight] approached. Talia saw him coming and excused herself. She moved away to get some food.

“Ser Solstice. We may collect whatever you would like over there.”

Markus had shown him the food prepared by [Cooks], much like a cafeteria, albeit without the need for payment. Ser Solstice had gotten a drink of goat’s milk. He looked for Talia. She was sitting with more [Knights] of the Spring. He walked over.

She stood up and moved away. She did not look at him—but it was no coincidence. Ser Markus narrowed his eyes as some of their company, most, bewildered, stopped and watched.

Dame Meisa, Ser Lloyd, and Ser Vitin all watched with varying expressions on their face. Talia moved away with her tray. Ser Solstice followed.

“Talia.”

“Excuse me…Ser Solstice.”

She walked away again, and again. Ser Markus saw the armored [Knight] stop and look after her. He had no expression behind the visor, but Ser Markus saw his head turn after Talia.

Confusion became hurt as understanding bloomed. The Goblin Slayer stood there, looking after the Summer Knight as she went over to some of the Fall Knights who looked around, surprised to see her.

The interplay was not missed on the [Knights] who had been observing Ser Solstice. Now, one of the Knights of Spring, Ser Medul, turned to Ser Markus from where he sat. He was in his late thirties, very ‘old’ by the Spring Knight standards. But he was youthful, energetic, one of those sorts of people who never ran out of energy until they slept. He belonged to the Spring, whilst Ser Markus might eventually change seasons.

“I do not know this Ser Solstice, Markus. I heard of him just as you returned from Izril. But that is a troubling sight. Has Dame Talia lost all decency, or has something come up? Perhaps he romantically petitioned her? If so, she should refuse him outright, rather than act that way.”

He nodded at Talia and the silent Goblin [Knight], Markus chewed on his lip as the other [Knights] looked at each other.

“I cannot say fully, Ser Medul. It goes to a vow of secrecy between Ser Solstice and those of us who inadvertently witnessed the truth of it.”

“Ah.”

The other [Knights] who had not seen Ser Solstice glanced at Markus, Meisa, Lloyd, and Vitin. Lloyd bit his lip and nodded. Vitin was troubled, as was Meisa, who looked uncomfortable.

Ser Medul and some of the other Spring Knights sitting there frowned. The senior [Knight] nodded to Markus after a moment.

“Then I will not inquire since it is a matter of honor. However—without knowing the why of it, I still find Dame Talia’s actions to be uncouth at the least.”

With that, he stood and called out across the hall.

“Excuse me, Ser Solstice of Izril! Come sit with us, tonight! The Season of Spring would welcome you among us!”

The Goblin Slayer’s head turned. He walked over, and sat. Ser Markus tried to smile, but the Goblin’s expression was unreadable.

“Hi.”

…But he sounded depressed. Ser Medul introduced himself, reaching out to shake his hand.

“I am Medul of House Medoit—of Pheislant. Shall I call you Ser Solstice or by any other name?”

“…Solstice is fine. Lots of [Knights] here.”

It was a comment that made Ser Medul smile. Small talk, without understanding the idea of it. It made sense to Ser Markus now he knew…

“Dame Talia might be—she is—I cannot make excuses for her, Ser Solstice.”

He spoke at last, uncomfortably, having yet to touch his dinner. The Goblin’s head slowly turned.

Was there a flash of crimson behind the visor? He looked at Markus, as the other [Knights] watched him while eating. Markus had no idea what he was thinking, but at last, the armored head nodded slowly.

“She thinks one way. This is how it is. That is what happened.”

He slowly took a sip from his drink with the wooden straw. Markus exhaled. It was so…fatalistic a statement. It made him endlessly curious as to—

Curiosity belonged to spring and fall, both seasons of great change. Ser Medul glanced at Ser Solstice and eventually nodded.

“Let us put aside dour thoughts tonight. Ser Solstice, I hear you are responsible for freeing my companions from the clutches of Ailendamus! I propose a toast to your valor—and tales of how you bested the Bear of Ailendamus!”

He rose. The Spring Knights, always fast to toast, with alcohol or not, all jumped to their feet. Rabbiteater blinked around as the mood suddenly turned energetic.

“Yes, are you a specialist in unarmed combat? I saw you beat the Bear with your bare hands! And I would have sworn he could have thrown down with the best of our Order barehanded, armor or not!”

One of the Spring Knights who had not seen his face leaned in. Rabbiteater shrugged.

“I had help. Got lucky.”

“Tell us the entirety of it, then. From start to finish. Ser Markus? We heard you were at sea, but was it true you ran afoul of the blockade and refused to surrender?”

“Hardly, Dame Thris! There we were, sailing for Pheislant when Ailendamus’ fleet found us and demanded our surrender! We debated over fighting when they claimed we would be sunk if we refused, but we did little more than draw our swords. For that, they demanded we surrender and claimed it was an act of aggression…”

Stories. On the first night, Rabbiteater met the Season of Spring. They clustered around him. Eating, talking—and not once did they ask him to remove his helmet. They wanted to know, but they caught themselves when asking about his past.

They were curious, but they had vows. And they stood together, a group of warriors bound by purpose. It reminded him of his tribe. His family.

He wished they could have had a keep of stone and magic, and wonderful weapons and food you didn’t have to ration.

His heart hurt when he thought of Talia.

—-

“A Goblin Knight? That is a thing of stories, Knight-Commander Calirn.”

The Fall’s Sentinel was an older [Knight]. Slimmer, and, like his Season, less martial than the other Seasons. However—he used a dueling sword with great acclaim, and a buckler in his off-hand. And his spellcasting rivaled some senior [Mages].

More than that, though, he was a historian. The Fall’s Sentinel stood against more than just aggression in the present; he remembered past threats.

Calirn had come to him with Talia’s secret, despite reservations. And it was the Fall’s Sentinel who was more troubled than Calirn.

“Then you believe the Goblin is a threat? A spy?”

“Spy? Agent? Enemy of his kind? That is not the point, Knight-Commander. History is a blunt teacher. And it teaches us that Goblins who walk among other species often become great leaders of their kind. There have been Goblin Knights before.”

“Really?”

The Fall’s Sentinel was plumbing through his personal archive. He shook his head.

“I will have to find the texts. They are buried in our library, no doubt. I will have some of my Season begin the search tomorrow.”

“Subtly, Fall’s Sentinel.”

The man’s name was Venoriat, but the Order tended to use their titles. To remind them they were representatives before friends, who could be biased, at least on business like this. Venoriat nodded.

“Of course. But I caution you, Knight-Commander. The Goblin may be a [Knight], in which case I am bound to believe he is honorable enough to gain the class. But…he is a Goblin.”

“Meaning?”

The Fall’s Sentinel sighed.

“Meaning that Goblins who rise to great strength become Chieftains or Goblin Lords. I recall one text—[Recall Text]. Ah, yes. Perfect clarity. The historical account of the Order of Merendis states that a valiant Goblin who strove with them against ‘dark forces who preyed on the blooded’, showed them naught but honor and a willingness to compromise. However. She joined the Goblin King during his rampage, which ended their Order, despite decades of strong ties. Where Goblin Kings appear—or Goblin Lords, Knight-Commander—even valorous Goblins seem to turn to war. Recall that the last Goblin King was known as Velan the Kind.”

“I would not forget, Fall’s Sentinel. I rode against him at the end.”

The Order of Seasons had been there. Even now, he remembered the Goblin King slaughtering warriors. That one half-Elf had brought him down had seemed like a miracle.

“That is history’s lesson. Perhaps, Knight-Commander, you should simply treat him as another species. Or a [Knight] not of this order.”

After a moment, the Fall’s Sentinel clapped his hands. Calirn stirred.

“I think I understand, but your meaning?”

“Even chivalrous [Knights] who embody honor may find themselves at odds due to politics or war. Goblins have many reasons to clash with Humanity. So, then. We understand what may happen because he is a Goblin. We do not know why he takes up armor. Either way, we acknowledge that his species is oft-opposed to ours, as a Drake [Knight] would be. I find him fascinating in any case and request permission to investigate.”

“How so?”

“Speak to him. Unless your will is to imprison Ser Solstice? Or execute him?”

The Fall’s Sentinel peered at Knight-Commander Calirn, having donned his reading spectacles. The Knight-Commander stood.

“No. Aptly put, Fall’s Sentinel.”

And subtly too; the man had the greatest strength in diplomacy of the four seasons. The older [Knight] nodded. He had contextualized the issue for Calirn and the answer was clear.

“I will not have the Order of Seasons imprison a [Knight], no matter the species. If Ser Solstice presents himself as undeserving of the class—I would act on it. But Dame Talia’s admission troubled me from the start. She is conflicted. But without that revelation, I will treat Ser Solstice like a [Knight] from Izril. I cannot ignore what I have been told, and thus he will be kept under moderate surveillance. No more until I reach further conclusions.”

“Well said, Knight-Commander.”

Besides which, one Goblin [Knight] was not as important as the war in Ailendamus.

But he was interested in the Goblin [Knight]. Who could not be? He resolved to meet with him later.

—-

If Knight-Commander Calirn’s deliberations had ended one way, the Spring’s Warden had dismissed Dame Meisa before dinner far differently.

“Dame Meisa, do you believe Ser Solstice is a [Knight]?”

The young Spring Knight had squirmed in her seat.

“I…do not know, Spring’s Warden. Nothing he has done has convinced me otherwise; quite the opposite.”

“Then why do you tell me of his nature?”

The older woman had waited. Meisa had shaken her head.

“Everything I have been taught is to watch for the danger of Goblins, Spring’s Warden. I do not know what to think, so I came to tell you—if only that someone knows the possible danger.”

“I see. And I see your reasoning, Dame Meisa. But I rebuke you nonetheless.”

“Spring’s Warden?”

The Season of Spring’s leader had looked at the young [Knight].

“It is right to fear a threat. It is unbecoming to gossip due to uncertainty, Dame Meisa. Which prompted your arrival here? Your realization of Ser Solstice’s danger to life and limb? Or your uncertainty of his nature?”

The young woman had colored. The Spring’s Warden sent her on her way.

“If you have a question of Ser Solstice? Uncertainties about him, why he is a [Knight]? Ask him yourself.”

Then she sat and meditated on the issue throughout the dinner hour. When she rose to break her fast, she was resolved.

She said nothing, did nothing, and had a pudding. Tomorrow, she would see Ser Solstice herself. Spring was change. She let things happen.

—-

And the results of her conversation bore out in Rabbiteater’s rooms that night. Dame Meisa, looking a bit ashamed, Ser Markus, and Ser Lloyd, all of the Spring, sat and stared as Rabbiteater slowly removed his helmet.

Ser Vitin, also of the Summer, had not joined them. Nor Talia, obviously. But Meisa had suggested it, and so they had asked Rabbiteater.

He took off his helmet and felt odd after so long wearing it like a second skin. They blinked.

“Spring ends.”

Ser Lloyd murmured the epitaph of their order. Ser Markus nudged him.

“Ser Solstice.”

“Rabbiteater. My name is Rabbiteater.”

The Hobgoblin was almost trembling as he put his helmet down. Meisa blinked.

“Rabbiteater? That is your name? Then you are…?”

“Rabbiteater. Solstice was…a friend. Human.”

They looked at him. The Hobgoblin stared back. After a moment, Ser Markus almost laughed.

“A Human friend? Ah—that makes sense! Ser…Rabbiteater, would you tell us more about how you came here?”

“You want to know?”

The Goblin [Champion] and [Knight-Errant] was surprised they hadn’t reacted more violently. He had expected…no, hoped…

Talia had done what he would have if he found a Redfang was a Human adventurer in disguise, really. Less. But he had hoped.

Some of the hope was born again here. Ser Markus nodded.

“It is an extraordinary tale, surely.”

“But you do not slay Goblins. You—pretend to. Unless those ears were Goblins you slew?”

Ser Lloyd looked uncomfortable. Rabbiteater shook his head.

“I told them to run away. The dead Goblins—I took ears from them. I do not kill Goblins. Unless they fight me. I do not kill Humans either. I…used to. I was a Redfang.”

“A what?”

They frowned. It was a long story. Rabbiteater did his best, but he was no Numbtongue with the fancy eloquence of language. But he’d learned to speak better and made a decent telling of it.

They did not know of the Redfang Tribe, or the famous Garen Redfang. But they listened as he clumsily tried to tell them about growing up, being sent on a mission to kill an [Innkeeper]. Getting lost. So lost.

And then meeting a Human in a battle in a city called Esthelm. Fighting the Goblin Lord. Losing friends. Coming to an inn, where a Human, for the second time ever, didn’t see them as monsters.

Erin Solstice.

“I have heard of that inn. Liscor. And that is where you came from?”

“Yes. After the big battle.”

“The siege with Lord Veltras. But the inn stands?”

Rabbiteater’s heart hurt.

“Yes. She is there. But I…my brothers are gone. So I went. Can’t go back. Hurts too much.”

He would go back. He had promised her. But—have an adventure. She knew he was alive. She had told him to have one.

Fall in love. Why didn’t she tell him it was like getting kicked repeatedly in the stomach too?

“An [Innkeeper]. Raskghar. Cave Goblins. What a story. That is a proper quest, a proper adventure! You put half the Season of Spring to shame with it alone.”

Ser Markus sat back. It was interesting, the reactions of the three.

Ser Lloyd was most wary. He kept staring at Rabbiteater and then looking away. But he listened, despite his clear misgivings.

Meisa looked…intrigued, guilty, and interested. She had liked hearing of Erin’s kindness, and how it had changed the Redfang five.

Ser Markus was simplest. Sheerly admiring. He did not seem to hold the Goblin’s nature against him. The reason bore out as he rose.

“I was lucky enough to know half-Elves—not in a traditional village, but a proper settlement that traded with my hamlet. I grew up in Gaiil-Drome—the forest nation. I always thought they were much maligned when I heard stories of them later.”

“So, you are a [Champion] and became a [Knight] after meeting us?”

Lloyd looked at Rabbiteater. The Goblin shrugged.

“Yes. Armor is armor. I liked [Knights], though. They are silly—but brave.”

The Spring Knights exchanged a look. Lloyd looked half-offended, but then smiled despite himself.

“Spoken like the other seasons. But one thing I don’t understand. You still didn’t say how you managed to down the Bear-General. You kept saying you had help. I thought you meant a potion. But you said it was a Skill? Sent by the [Innkeeper]? Across the ocean?”

His tone was disbelieving. Rabbiteater smiled.

“Erin is Erin. Very crazy. Does strange things. She is…strange.”

Lloyd looked at Rabbiteater. Then he sat back.

“You smiled for the first time when you spoke of her, sir.”

Rabbiteater realized he was. And that made all the difference. Lloyd looked at the others, then rose.

“This is incredible. I—I’ve fought Goblins. Killed them. No offense, Rabbiteater, but I was prepared to tell the Spring’s Warden, or Knight-Commander Calirn upon returning here. I—didn’t, but I feel guilty at the thought. Goblins have been mine enemy the entire time.”

He looked at Rabbiteater. Meisa bit her lip and Ser Markus frowned.

“We swore an oath, Ser Lloyd!”

“I know! But can you fault me for questioning, Markus?”

The man ran a hand through his hair. Rabbiteater shrugged.

“Humans kill Goblins. Goblins kill Humans.”

“Yes, but you make your tribe sound so—so—then why are we fighting?”

Rabbiteater shrugged again.

“No clue.”

Lloyd collapsed with a sigh.

“I can see your tribe—the Redfangs?—they would be the worst [Bandits] in the eyes of any Humans. Goblins with a mastery of weaponry. And you say they were all trained to that level? By this Garen Redfang?”

“Yes. Gold-rank adventurer.”

“Are other tribes led by Goblins like that? Tell us, pray.”

Lloyd leaned in. Markus as well. Meisa listened as Rabbiteater tried to explain.

—-

They talked late into the night. It was surreal for both sides, and Rabbiteater slept late into the day. But the next morning, the strangeness didn’t stop.

“We return to our duties, but due to our sojourn we won’t immediately be sent out, Ser Solstice. I would ask if you wanted to join us.”

“What do you do all day?”

“Train.”

Ser Markus smiled. Lloyd sighed and Meisa rubbed at her shoulders. Rabbiteater tilted his head back and forth.

“Cool.”

He didn’t get why they found it arduous. The Order of Seasons had built their lives around being [Knights], so you did a few things as soon as you were a full [Knight]:

-You went on quests or crusades, in groups, alone if you were senior, or in full armies, sometimes to war.

-You patrolled or helped build or fortify areas in need. Cleared out monsters on a kind of residency for as long as four years.

-You rested and enjoyed the Order of Season’s amenities, took breaks because you couldn’t [Knight] all year without needing time off.

-You might research, study magic, if you were a Fall Knight, or go on courtly diplomatic missions to visit other orders, attend events representing your order.

-Or you trained your ass off day in and day out.

That was what [Knights] not occupied with the main activities did. They trained.

Swordsmanship, spear mastery, archery, riding, joint fighting, tilting, dueling, woodcraft, climbing, sprints, swimming, stealth, marathon marches…the Order of Seasons did specialize, but a [Knight] honed their body.

“I hear the Thronebearers exercise for two hours each day. I’ve never done less than six.”

Ser Markus groused as they ran around the vast keep for a morning run. The [Knights] wore armor—[Squires] did not, although they worked up to it with weights. Rabbiteater ran in full gear with a group of [Spring Knights]. Apparently, it was more than a few miles if you did the entire keep; it was sprawling.

“You run like this every day?”

“Yes! At least, the Season of Spring must, to build their endurance. You needn’t do this, Ser Solstice…”

Ser Markus blinked as Rabbiteater jogged ahead, towards the head of the pack. Ser Markus sped up.

“Used to do this too. Carrying rocks. Lots of fun. Relaxing.”

Ser Medul barked a laugh as he looked over his shoulder.

“You hear that, squires? That is dedication to athleticism! In honor of Ser Solstice joining us—pick up the pace! None of you quits before he does!”

That turned into something of a problematic statement, since Rabbiteater did six laps; the [Squires] were let go after three. Ser Markus was panting when it was over.

“You…you used a Skill, didn’t you?”

“Nope.”

Rabbiteater was sweating, but he had water, even lovely apple slices! That was a treat.

The thing was, and which the Spring Knights learned as they went for weapons training next…Redfangs were insane.

They loved training. Garen Redfang had turned their tribe into exercise-freaks, which Erin Solstice had more than once remarked on. Goblins of that tribe craved the rush you got from working hard then eating and flopping over to sleep. They were the kind of breed that military instructors loved.

Another thing that impressed them was Rabbiteater’s knowledge of weaponry, which again, mirrored their own.

“You can use a flamberge?”

“Mm. Think so.”

“Halberd?”

“Used it. Don’t like as much.”

“But you can use it. How about bow and arrow?”

“Decent shot. My brother shoots better.”

“Guisarme? Oh, come now. You’ve never held one.”

“I’d like to learn.”

Rabbiteater grinned as he hefted the weird pole-weapon with the long catch. But he trained with an axe and shield and bested Ser Markus, Meisa, and three more Spring Knights in quick bouts.

“You’re good! Too quick!”

Ser Markus complained after the second time Rabbiteater battered down his guard. The Goblin had levels, strength, and experience on his side. Ser Medul raised a hand.

“Will you try me, sir? No Skills?”

It was an even match. The older Spring Knight used a classic sword-and-shield combo and he and Rabbiteater went at it. Unlike the other Spring Knights, he didn’t fall for Rabbiteater ramming him, trying to trip him up, shove him, head-butt—all things that Redfangs considered fine game and which [Knights] didn’t teach.

Even so.

“He’s matched with Ser Medul, tricks or not!”

One of the [Squires] stared. Ser Medul was just as surprised; without Skills, Rabbiteater couldn’t easily break down his guard, and the two were sweating and circling while hammering at each other’s heavy guards.

As good as Ser Medul? The [Knight] called a halt as the Spring Knights watched, impressed, after nearly eight minutes of fighting.

“Neither one of us will get to the end, Ser Solstice. Unless you want to go there?”

Rabbiteater shrugged. He felt like Medul was a senior Hob if he were in Goblin terms, and had no desire to try and beat him just for that. Senior warriors needed to keep face and he liked the old trainer.

“You fight very well. One of the best where I come from.”

Medul laughed and flicked sweat out of his hair.

“Without Skills, I don’t think I’d be able to take down your guard, Solstice! Mind you—with Skills I hope I’d have more of a chance. Do you practice aura-Skills at all? No? Then you’re not exactly like us!”

He laughed. Rabbiteater glanced at him.

“I saw the flame-sword. Does Spring have theirs?”

Medul blinked.

“Dame Talia’s fire? And Ser Vitin’s shield? Of course we have our own! Ah—but you were riding with the newer members of our order. We couldn’t send veterans. I would have gone, but fire was better than spring, eh?”

Markus reddened a bit as Rabbiteater glanced at him. The Hobgoblin turned to Ser Medul.

“What does spring do?”

He’d seen the [Aura Blade] skill that Talia used, and the shield that Vitin could turn to fire. Both seared their opponents, and woe to anyone locking blades up close with the [Summer Knights].

Winter made sense too; frost. But what was spring and fall?

For answer, Medul raised his sword.

“[Wind Sheathe]!”

His training sword became enveloped in a shimmering vortex. Rabbiteater’s eyes narrowed. He saw flickers—nothing concrete, but a twisting force of motes of dust or dirt in the air.

Wind. Ser Markus raised his shield as Medul turned for a target. He flicked his sword and something hit Markus’ shield.

Not super-hard, but with an impact.

“Spring takes all forms, Ser Solstice. I can be the gust, the breeze—to hasten my swings or strike enemies from afar. If need be, I can draw on other elements. Such as—if I were fighting a more difficult foe? [Barkguard]!”

His shield sprouted with thick bark. It looked less impressive, but he moved as if it weighed nothing at all and when Rabbiteater asked to smack it, his blow bounced right off.

“Ooh. Nice.”

Auras. Ser Medul nodded and Rabbiteater realized the last power of his aura was manifesting itself. Even the Hobgoblin was tiring a bit after the long bout and exercise all morning. He glanced at Medul.

“You’re not tired.”

The Spring Knight grinned.

“Spring is youth! Energy! We can train or fight or run all day—at least, if you embody our order!”

He barked across the groaning [Knights], who’d heard the speech before. Rabbiteater nodded.

“Must be great for sex.”

Ser Lloyd sprayed his drink out his mouth and nose. Ser Medul blinked, and to Rabbiteater’s surprise, coughed.

“Indecorously put, Ser Solstice. But er—”

He was spared from the Goblin’s sense of decorum by the arrival of the Spring’s Warden.

“Ser Solstice. I was told you were training with our order. I should like to see your ability myself, if I may?”

The Goblin turned. He saw one of the best duelists in the Order of Seasons smile politely. She held a longsword and nothing else. The Knights of the Spring stirred.

“With Skills or not?”

He sensed her confident ability as she lowered her sword, presenting an opening. Ser Medul backed up with Markus, looking very interested.

“Skills, Ser Solstice, if it is not an imposition.”

“Will you use them?”

She smiled.

“If I need to. No offense to you, Ser Solstice.”

He took none. The Hobgoblin had sized up his opponent, so she surely could do the same for him. He hesitated. Then drew his sword and slashed.

She parried so fast he was sure—he lifted his shield and barely missed being taken out in one go. She would have had the sword point at his neck if it weren’t for luck.

He gave it another try. His sword lanced out—and she performed another parry, slid in so fast—she had her sword alongside his neck. If she had continued, she would have sliced his head off in one move.

“Huh.”

He breathed as she stepped back. The Spring’s Warden bowed.

“Ser Solstice, shall we continue?”

He nodded. He was sure, now.

She was boosted by Skills, no doubt, even passively. But that had confirmed it for him. She was as good as Garen Redfang with the blade.

There was an art to her movements like Shorthilt had—and he copied the best blademaster in the Redfang tribe, Garen himself. Rabbiteater was good—but he was a [Champion], good at fighting. He didn’t try for art.

So he started using Skills.

[Steelcut Sunder]! He said nothing, but the Spring’s Warden saw the cut coming and moved her sword out of the block; he’d have slashed through her practice sword otherwise.

He began moving on the attack. [Shield Ram]—[Long Backstep]—basic Skills he’d had as a common [Warrior], a bit enhanced due to his level, made her back up. She was testing him, staying on the defensive.

She knew he had more. Rabbiteater didn’t wait to use them. He only waited for her to go on the offensive to bait them out—she tapped his shield with the edge of her sword in a flick, such a fast move that it was disconcerting. In response, he swung his sword.

“[Grand Slash]!”

The audience murmured. Markus blinked. That was a powerful Skill!

But the Spring’s Warden was already leaping backwards. Somehow, she’d known from Rabbiteater’s posture it was coming. Without Skills, she moved out of range, deflecting the edge of the powerful blow.

—However, that was her conceit. She had used no Skills, so the impact twisted the sword in her grip. That was what Rabbiteater had been waiting for. In that brief moment where she thought he’d used his big Skill, he used the one he’d gotten at Level 30.

[Aspect of the Champion]. Rabbiteater had gotten it and wondered what it meant. Now?

The Spring’s Warden had landed nearly ten feet back. Before she could reset her guard, he blurred.

[Aspect of the Champion – Greater Speed]. He could take [Enhanced Strength], [Greater Dexterity]—

He lunged at her in a lancing strike. It was so fast Ser Markus only saw a blur go past his face. And—

Even Rabbiteater hadn’t expected how fast he would go. He was still wearing his armor. And it occurred to him in the fragments of time as his sword extended towards the woman’s chest—

It might be a training weapon, but it was still a lead-filled wooden sword with at least two hundred pounds of force and incredible velocity behind it.

He saw the Warden’s eyes widen in slow-motion. She swung her sword up—as someone began to cry out.

“—going to hit her—”

Meisa finished speaking too late. She saw a cloud of dust. The Spring’s Warden reappeared, sword raised from the sweeping blow upwards.

Rabbiteater landed on his back a second after that. He went wump, so hard onto the practice court’s ground that he was without breath or thought for a good thirty seconds. Even then—he just lay there.

She’d sent him flying. So fast and so high that he thought he’d cracked his back at the very least.

“Ser Solstice, are you alright?”

Markus was first to break the circle of watchers. The Spring’s Warden had lowered her blade. She was there first, even so.

“Are you alright, Ser Solstice? You surprised me.”

She had flicked him into the air like a bug. In that moment—Rabbiteater had to admit it.

She was better than Garen Redfang. At least, in level. It was a hard admission for any Redfang, but Garen had stood as a strong Gold-rank. The Spring’s Warden could best him.

Although, if it came to a real battle, Garen might have her with his enchanted blade. But on the face of it, he’d never seen Garen use a Skill as wide-reaching as that.

Rabbiteater had fought Garen in that memorable battle outside of Liscor. If he’d had [Aspect of the Champion], he and the four others might have actually knocked him flat.

Greydath? Still no. The Spring’s Warden?

Well…the others clustered around him. They were proffering potions, wondering if he was unconscious, or they should pour it through his visor. Ser Markus was about to offer to check on Rabbiteater in private when the Hobgoblin sat up.

They expected him to be miffed, at the least. The Spring’s Warden was apologizing; she could have badly hurt him given how high she’d sent him. But the knight of Izril just made a sound through his visor.

It took them a second to realize he was chuckling. He looked at the Spring’s Warden.

“Got you to use a Skill. I win small, you win big.”

What could you say to that but to clap him on the back and laugh? That was the Season of Spring for you.

—-

The Summer’s Champion wished he had seen the bout between the Spring’s Warden and the newcomer [Knight]. There was a lot and a little to do in the Order of Season’s keep and he relished new, interesting things.

Not everyone took to the monastic lifestyle here. Summer Knights were about the crusade, and often left for extended periods. But their leader, the Summer’s Champion, had duties.

They…clashed. He got bored. He wanted to get into the war with Ailendamus, because their aggression rankled him. But he respected Knight-Commander Calirn’s authority.

Even so, he was impetuous, known to be hot-tempered at times. Like fire and ice, winter and summer clashed.

The Summer’s Champion, Greysten, got into things. He was all passion for a project or an idea, but he didn’t stick with it all the time, and delegated it, lost interest. That could be good…or bad.

There had been an incident already this year. Ice cream. He’d gotten into the frozen treat, which went so damn well with the heat. Brought some for the Season of Summer to share about, ate it…and ate it…

The quartermaster’s bill had made Calirn take the Summer’s Champion to task for the incident. But so it went. Summer was another kind of youth.

So it was that the Summer’s Champion was about to have a drink with the older [Knights] of the order and grouse about damned Ailendamus and the Thronebearer’s lack of success on the field—in private, to ease his frustration—when a tap came at his door.

He opened it.

“Ser Vitin?”

The Summer Knight had come to see him. It was after much thought, reluctance—and he might not have done it, but he felt the need to talk to his superior about Ser Solstice. Even so, he would have been reluctant, but he had talked Talia into joining him.

She had heard nothing from Knight-Commander Calirn and one did not demand to know his thoughts. So, she was here, when Vitin had approached her. If the head of their season did not know, they reasoned, he should.

Talia felt a flutter in her stomach, remembering Calirn’s disapproval, but Vitin had said he needed to tell someone so she’d agreed to accompany him. But he got to talk.

Was this right to do? She stemmed the question as Vitin laid out the problem.

“It is Ser Solstice, Summer’s Champion. He is—”

“His identity? Are you privy to that knowledge?”

The Summer’s Champion blinked at them. He was tall, imposing, and Talia had told Calirn because she knew the reputation of how spontaneous he was. Better to be present to stop him if Vitin decided to do it later. She could run and get Calirn or another senior member if he ran…impulsive.

That was her reasoning. Vitin nodded, gulping. He was not as familiar with the Summer’s Champion as, say, you would be with the Spring’s Warden. She tended to talk to all new [Knights]; the Summer’s Champion and the Season of Summer was more hierarchical at the moment. He went on great errant deeds when not here and didn’t get to spend time with the younger [Knights], for all he was reckoned as a great commander in the field and very affable, even too much so.

“Champion, he is—”

“I don’t want to hear it. This is not something a [Knight] should betray.”

The Summer’s Champion folded his arms. Vitin and Talia stared at him.

“We—know that, Grandmaster. But even so, because of what the truth is, we felt it was beyond our ability to decide.”

Talia broke in for the first time. The Summer’s Champion’s eyes swept towards her. They blazed with passion; his quarters were hot, even at night. He’d started fires with his temper and the ambient air shot up in temperature.

“Speaking another [Knight]’s secret, Dame Talia, Ser Vitin? I won’t hear of it.”

“But Summer’s Champion—Ser Solstice is a Goblin!”

Vitin protested. The secret once more revealed…

Or not. Because the Summer’s Champion had promptly put two fingers in his ears.

“Lalalalala.”

He intoned as loudly as possible. Talia and Vitin stared at him. He kept repeating himself until he was sure Vitin was done.

“I am not listening, [Knights]. And I will forget this incident occurred, for the honor of—”

“Ser Solstice is a Goblin.”

Talia snapped, appalled at the childish behavior from the Grandmaster of their Season. The Summer’s Champion froze.

“What did you say?”

“He is a Goblin, Grandmaster. Now do you—”

—-

The Summer’s Champion kicked the door open to Calirn’s room and strode in.

“Knight-Commander! I have an issue to speak of!”

He stormed in as Calirn was shaving his cheek. The Knight-Commander nearly sliced off his left jowl.

“Summer’s Champion?”

No guesses what had set him off. One look at the apprehensive Summer Knights at the door—Talia and Vitin—and the Summer’s Champion’s face, and Calirn knew.

Cold met hot and steam rose from the man’s ire. Calirn rose. The Summer’s Champion had actually left flaming footsteps as he stomped through a garden.

“Summer’s Champion, control your temper.”

The man did so with effort. The heat coming off him abated. Calirn sighed.

He knew Ser Solstice was a Goblin. Vitin and Talia stared at the closed door, worried about what might happen and regretting their choices. Summer was passionate and sometimes made mistakes in the heat of the moment.

What they didn’t know was the contents of the angry discussion in the Knight-Commander’s private study. He’d moved it there to avoid his room being filled with steam.

“If you know, then that makes two of us!”

“Four. I informed the Fall’s Sentinel and he reported that the Spring’s Warden already had a [Knight] inform her of Ser Solstice’s origin.”

“Four? The Winter’s Watcher is the only one left out? Dead gods burning on Giant’s tits, Calirn! This is too much! Are we [Knights] or children tossing around secrets bound by chivalry? I nearly threw both of them off the keep’s walls! My first instinct is to revoke their knighthood—which I will not do. But you’d better do something before I simply hit them!”

The Summer’s Champion was pacing back and forth. Ser Solstice being a Goblin was almost forgotten. Calirn was surprised—but that was him.

“Dame Talia and Ser Vitin? I am—upset that they broke their vows, especially as I had been informed, Summer’s Champion.”

Especially of Dame Talia. But Calirn didn’t inflame the man’s temper further. The Summer’s Champion spun on his heel.

“Those two, and whoever told the Spring’s Warden! For that matter—why are you going around spreading information?”

“To the Fall’s Sentinel? Because I am Grandmaster of all four Seasons and a Goblin [Knight] might well be a danger. I had to be sure once I knew. That is my duty. And you are Grandmaster of the Order of Summer, Greysten. You know our duty sometimes wars with honor!”

The man turned even redder, but slowly collapsed into a chair.

“It’s one Goblin. I find this breach of chivalry more important, Calirn. What, do they want me to decide to chop off its head? It—he—saved them from being ransomed and apparently came to their aid during the Ogre attack! In return, our Order decides to stab him in the back.”

“I see that. Since you are so enraged, Summer’s Champion, I remind you that they thought his nature might interfere with their vows to respect another [Knight]’s code. The argument being that he is a Goblin, therefore, not a [Knight].”

“Hmm.”

The man was calming down already. He sat there, still leaking steam, but slowly thinking.

“I don’t agree. I don’t accept it. And I’m ashamed my order spoke more than Spring Knights—who can barely keep their mouths shut!”

“Summer crusades against monsters more hotly than all. Yours is a passionate season, Greysten.”

“Shame is shame. Honor is honor. Secret is secret.”

There was no prevaricating with him. Calirn nodded.

“If you would like me to adjudicate for you, Summer’s Champion, I will. But this is a matter of morality; at the heart of it I believe all sides acted in accordance with how they see honor. Talia Kallinad’s family is of Pheislant, and saw the Goblin King’s destruction. They would remember how he erased members of the Hundred Families down to the last person in their bloodlines.”

“It’s one Goblin. Now I want to meet him, especially since I heard he forced the Spring’s Warden to use a Skill in a bout! I’ll do that. But punishment…”

The Summer’s Champion went into deep thought. Calirn waited.

Summer was passionate. But not shallow or stupid. And at last, the taller man spoke.

“You said they objected on the basis of honor, but to do so, they impugn this Ser Solstice’s honor, Knight-Commander. I propose a test, upon which I will rest my complaints. If I am wrong, they will not be punished and I will support any scrutiny or judgment against this Goblin [Knight].”

“And if you are right?”

“…I leave the matter in your—calmer—hands. But I will not protest their revocation of their [Knight] class, regardless of their status.”

The hands clenched. The eyes flashed. Calirn sat there, and then slowly nodded.

“What is the nature of the test? You will stage an accident?”

The orange hair shook as the Summer’s Champion stood up.

“Must we grapple and talk about what makes a man a [Knight], Knight-Commander? My answer is simple. If he is a [Knight], he is a [Knight]!”

—-

Rabbiteater opened the door to his rooms. The Fall’s Sentinel was there.

“Good evening, Ser Solstice, is it?”

“Yes. You are…important?”

The Hobgoblin was wary. But the old man looked kind, more bookish than the others. Like the [Shaman] the Redfangs had once had, before he got eaten by Eater Goats in an ambush when Rabbiteater was small.

“Indeed, indeed. I hope, Ser Solstice, I am not intruding. I would simply like to invite you to join the Season of Fall on the morrow.”

“Why?”

“I am told you are a superlative trap expert, and skilled in any number of wilderness techniques. The Season of Fall loves new knowledge, or those who can embody it. Would you care to go on a hike with some knights in training and discuss your experience?”

Rabbiteater considered it.

“Sure.”

“Excellent. Then, I will send for you after breakfast. Good night to you.”

And that was that. The Fall’s Sentinel inclined his head. Rabbiteater copied him, a bit warily. The Fall’s Sentinel walked down the hallway.

“And?”

Knight-Commander Calirn and the Summer’s Champion were waiting. The Summer’s Champion’s arms were folded and he had begun heating up again. The Fall’s Sentinel raised his brows.

“[Champion], and [Knight-Errant].”

Both men exhaled.

“[Knight-Errant]. It suits him.”

“And it means I’m right. This is scurrilous behavior of our Order and I demand there be punishment!”

The Summer’s Champion pressed a fist into his hand. Calirn was inclined to agree. But he made sure.

“There is no way the [Appraisal] spell could be circumnavigated or tricked, Fall’s Sentinel?”

The man raised his brows a touch higher.

“Of course there is, Knight-Commander. But practically? From this one Goblin whom I detected not a whiff of magic about? Aside from his gear, of course? Very unlikely.”

“Then he is a [Knight]. Summer’s Champion, I will honor your request.”

Knight-Commander Calirn sighed. The Summer’s Champion waited, hands clenching and unclenching.

“Well?”

“Dame Talia and Ser Vitin acted in what they thought was the best interests of the Order. However—I accede to Summer’s will. It is up to the Spring’s Warden to enforce this punishment, as the contents of her conversation are unknown. However. Dame Talia and Ser Vitin are hereby sentenced to a month of labor in menial chores, to be decided by Summer’s Champion, and stripped of any honors of rank.”

That meant even the basic luxuries like being able to ride out and visit your family in Pheislant that any standard [Knight] got after their first year. The Knight-Commander turned to the Summer’s Champion.

“You may revoke that at will if needed, Summer’s Champion. But they are not to speak of Ser Solstice’s nature, nor the reason for their punishment. Will that suit?”

“It will indeed, Knight-Commander.”

The Summer’s Champion strode off. Calirn sighed.

All this over one [Knight]. But it was wrong to blame the Goblin. His presence had revealed a fault in the Order’s understanding of honor—at least, to the Summer’s Champion.

Well, the punishment was not the heaviest it could be. However, the Summer’s Champion could be…vindictive. He kicked into the large gathering place where the Summer’s Knights gathered in their section of the keep and delivered the punishment at full bellow, not even checking to see if Talia or Vitin were present.

—-

The next day, Talia and Ser Vitin engaged in stable cleaning…and toilet cleaning. An unenviable task, especially since the Chandrarian chutney had been slightly off yesterday.

Rabbiteater, oblivious to this, went with the Season of Fall on a hike through one of the forests under the Order of Season’s lands granted to them by Pheislant.

They had a lot of space. Nice space, that extended all the way to the cliffs on the shoreline. They were a defensive force, able to go on crusades and hold this space.

They even had [Farmers], several small settlements that made produce and enjoyed the protection of an entire [Knight] order. It was as close to paradise as you got without actual paradise.

For a Goblin? Magnificent.

The forest wasn’t without dangers, though. There were bears, boars, other wildlife that the [Knights] wouldn’t exterminate.

But the Autumn Knights weren’t exactly slouches either. Yes, you called them ‘Fall Knights’ because they were the worst season at pure combat. But they also practiced magic, and academia.

Books weren’t useless. You could take notes of enemy locations in them, use them for kindling on cold nights, relief after bad poos…even read them.

Joining the expedition, to Rabbiteater’s surprise, was Dame Meisa. It didn’t bother the Fall’s Sentinel; indeed, a number of other [Knights] and [Squires] had joined.

“They may wish to join or learn from our season, Ser Solstice. All are welcome to participate in such events. Dame Meisa is a Spring Knight, but she may well choose our season in time.”

She nodded. The younger [Knight] looked downcast and quiet today.

She had asked the Spring’s Warden to share in the disgrace of the two senior [Summer Knights] upon hearing of the incident. The Spring’s Warden had deliberated, and then informed Dame Meisa she could join her fellow [Knights], of course, but her punishment was to live with her actions, which had been so well-intentioned.

Watch. Listen.

Learn something.

That was the attitude of fall, when all kinds of weird things started happening. In between the barren chill of winter and the profusion of life that was summer, things were different.

They watched, as Ser Solstice demonstrated his understanding of woodcraft to them.

“You can eat that.”

“You can eat that too.”

“Can’t eat that.”

“You can eat that, but bad poos.”

“You can eat that, but you might die. About one third die.”

One of the [Squires] stopped taking notes and looked at the Fall’s Sentinel. The older man was delighted.

“Fascinating. And this is G—wood lore from where you come from?”

“Yes. You can eat that too.”

Rabbiteater indicated some bark. One of the [Knights] gave him a scandalized look.

“Ser Solstice, that is bark. One cannot live on that, even if it is edible.”

The [Knight] gave him a calm rebuttal.

“Cannot live, true. But can stop dying for as long as a month. If wounded, lying in the forest with leg break and no one finds you—good to know.”

He’d never experienced that himself, but he knew all the stories. The Fall Knights murmured. Meisa had to stop from imagining a Goblin…

More of his knowledge was practical. He showed them his trap-style, hanging the little strings with bells up. Also, how to fashion quick step-traps with spikes out of mere wood.

“Traps are hardly the act of valor.”

“But we do employ them, from time to time, Ser Drommel. We do use runic magic. If, say, one could envision fighting Crelers or the Demons of Rhir…have you fought Crelers, Ser Solstice?”

“Yep. Nasty. Hard to kill. Very bad to have, even in High Passes.”

“How so? I was told that was the most inhospitable climate, even for Crelers.”

The others listened, having asked questions about Gargoyle fighting and so on. Rabbiteater elaborated.

“Monsters kill them. But…if it’s Eater Goats, they eat Crelers. Then…eggs hatch in them. Creler swarm can get bigger if Eater Goats attack them, after a few weeks.”

The expedition shuddered. Rabbiteater shrugged. Then it was his turn to listen to a speech on herb craft.

“We are not [Healers]. But if you lack for one—this Balm Root combined with a mix of the following leaves and flowers is said to have beneficial qualities against infection. We have tried to preserve the paste, but it is ineffective. I’ve suggested taking all the samples along for larger expeditions, but the order has not yet implemented this.”

Rabbiteater stared at the root that was native to Terandria. He promptly took as much as he could carry.

The things the Season of Fall knew were so impressive to the Goblin! As valuable—perhaps more than Spring’s training. If he’d known about the balm root, his friends might not have died or had to cut off limbs due to sickness.

“Rabbit…Ser Solstice. May I ask a question?”

Meisa brought it up as they had lunch. She was staring at his cloak. The others turned. They had thought it was a kind of cloth at first, or realized it was obviously magical, but after staring at it for a long time, Meisa at last had to ask what the liquid was.

“Blood.”

The Cloak of Plenty had his brother’s blood. It was a shield—and you could use it to transfuse blood, as Rags had learned from Velan’s memory. Meisa paled.

“From…whom?”

“My brother. Liscor. He died there.”

“Oh. I—”

She gulped.

“I’m sorry, Ser Solstice. I told the Spring’s Warden about you. I am ashamed.”

He looked at her, sandwich halfway to his lips. She looked embarrassed and full of chagrin. He slowly flipped open his visor, took a fast bite. Chewed it. Took another bite.

Meisa waited. But the Hobgoblin eventually reached for another sandwich.

“Ser Solstice?”

“Okay.”

“But I—”

He shrugged.

“Spring’s Warden is like a Chieftain. Sometimes you have to tell them. I am…”

He tapped his chest, looking at the distant [Knights]. Dame Meisa hung her head.

“But I had no cause.”

“Yes you did.”

He looked at her. The history of Goblins and Humans was reflected in it. Meisa blinked. Even nodded.

“But I am still ashamed, sir.”

The Goblin Slayer tilted his head. After a moment, his visor came up. She saw lips move up in a grin.

“Good. Trade sandwich and I forgive you.”

He wanted hers, which was stuffed with mackerel. She traded it for tomato and jerky. They sat together, as Meisa felt some of her guilt lift at last. After a while, she saw the visor open and snap shut; he was eating inside his helmet.

“Ser Solstice?”

“Mm?”

“Do you truly like rabbits that much?”

He leaned over.

“Nah. Just caught them because I was hungry. They got boring.”

“Ah.”

—-

“Ser Solstice! Do you have time tonight?”

A booming man caught Rabbiteater after they returned from the day-long expedition. The Summer’s Champion grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Yes. Something wrong?”

“Not at all. Let’s have a drink. I wanted to meet the man who acted so valorously for our Order. Come, come!”

And that was how the Summer’s Champion practically dragged Rabbiteater to one of the [Knight]’s drinking areas in the keep. They might be [Knights]—but they did keep alcohol for those who wanted it.

Rabbiteater drank through a straw. The Summer’s Champion kept staring at him.

He was…so unsubtle Rabbiteater figured out in a second who Meisa had told. Or thought he did. Thus, being wrong, but right for the wrong reasons. In the end, the Summer’s Champion came out with it after two drinks.

“I…know who you are, Ser Solstice. I was informed. And it falls to me to tell you that I was told of your nature. I did not ask, but there we are.”

Rabbiteater froze. The man was looking at him.

The Summer’s Champion, as the Hobgoblin had observed, was tall. Six foot three, maybe an inch taller? Tall, strong, orange of hair, and direct.

He was the kind of man who stood at the fore of battle and bellowed orders while laying about him. And he was direct, honest.

“You know I am…a Goblin?”

“Yes.”

They sat alone, in a quiet booth. The Summer’s Champion stared at Rabbiteater. Then he reached for his drink.

“I do not do well with subterfuge. Secrets eat at me until I spit them out. I know. And I have slain more Goblins than I can count. I am reckoning with it now, looking upon you.”

“Hm. And I have killed many Humans. Feels bad, sometimes. But they were trying to kill me.”

The Summer’s Champion blinked at him. Then he laughed.

“True! Like that—we could be enemy warriors who sit down for a drink. But there is more there. History and whatnot. The Fall’s Sentinel talked my ear off about it this morning…er…”

He realized that implied the Fall’s Sentinel knew too. Rabbiteater had suspected as much. Knight-Commander Calirn had spoken to him over dinner one time, just asked him about training and such.

He was not a genius, nor Erin-smart, but he wasn’t a fool either. He didn’t see why it bothered the [Knights] so much. If…Talia…had joined the Redfangs as a mysterious warrior in armor and he’d found out, he would have told Garen in two heartbeats.

Maybe. He thought about Garen’s temper and hesitated. If it was Erin…

“Ah, but there it is. We are [Knights]. Honor is at the heart of who we are, or we are no better than [Warriors]. Not to impugn them, but we must be more or we are not [Knights].”

To his surprise, the Summer’s Champion was quite philosophical as they talked about the issue. Only—he had convictions. He had an answer for any moral quandary you might have.

“I struggle with such things, Rabbiteater, until I have an answer that suits me. I cannot live without one. I fear only that I am wrong, which is why I listen to Calirn and other, more cool-headed voices. I could never be the Grandmaster of the entire Order. I am little suited to Summer, in truth. But…a better man than me could not take the post. His name was Ser Raim and he passed, a few months ago. Dame Talia and her company rode to his aid. But he was lost.”

“What happened?”

The Summer’s Champion shook his mane of hair.

“I will not speak the name of the one who would sour even this moment. Suffice it to say, Ser Raim embodied the better parts of our natures—he and I were both contenders for this position. But he could keep himself calm and fight with fire in his heart. I am less controlled. But he…lost his love. And rage and vengeance and the desire for justice consumed him.”

Rabbiteater nodded.

“I had a brother who was a [Berserker]. Got mad. But also sad. Good brother. I have his axe.”

Headscratcher. The Summer’s Champion smiled. They began to swap stories.

At some point, more Summer Knights joined in. Older, more senior ones, who wanted to get a sense of this new [Knight]—and why Talia and Vitin had disgraced themselves in the Summer Champion’s eyes.

They found little to reproach. It was like hanging out with Redfangs again. If the Spring Knights were younger Redfangs, these were the old ones, the veterans who joked around, like Spiderslicer, Redscar, who’d seen battle. Who got mad, too.

“Ailendamus is the aggressor! We fight injustice where it occurs, Ser Zulv!”

The Summer’s Champion roared across the table. Ser Zulv barked back.

“And bring the Order of Seasons into a war that will weaken both nations? We cannot end this war on one lance-charge, Summer’s Champion!”

“What then? We let Ailendamus grow until it eats every nation in the south? I say, we throw four hundred Summer Knights into the conflict and dare them to come after us here! Or do you think the Dawn Concordat’s day is done? The Thronebearers won’t see to it!”

The intense disdain for the Thronebearers’ skill-at-arms was something Rabbiteater could get behind. The Summer’s Champion slammed a hand on his back.

“Why, Ser Solstice is an example of even a [Knight-Errant] being superior to an entire order’s training! He forced the Spring’s Warden to use her Skill—how good are you with a blade, man?”

“Good.”

“Really? Let’s see.”

That was how Rabbiteater found himself, drunk, swinging away at the Summer’s Champion in the Season of Summer’s courtyard.

The Summer’s Champion needed no Skills either; he wasn’t as…graceful as the Spring’s Warden, but he was like Rabbiteater wanted to be. Someone who had mastered battle, or at least, reached a peak that Rabbiteater had not.

The Goblin Slayer threw up a bit after he got hit in the stomach. It even dented his armor. The Summer’s Champion helped him up.

“Good show! Are you well, Ser Rabbit?”

The other stirred at the accidental use of his name, but Rabbiteater liked it.

“Good! Can fight…”

“Really? Anyone else want to test his mettle? Let’s see axes!”

The Summer’s Knights—the drunk ones—joined in. The younger [Knights] watched, including two smelly ones, as Rabbiteater actually bested two more.

“He is good.”

One of the Summer Knights insisted on trying Rabbiteater with full Skills and gear. Everyone watched as the [Champion]’s armor shone; his enchanted axe and the extending blade kept the Summer Knight well clear, and the cloak of blood actually blocked a bolt of fire with a hiss. Rabbiteater charged in and overpowered his foe with [Enhanced Strength].

“Well done. Well done.”

The Summer’s Champion was treating him like one of his inner circle! Talia swallowed her feelings as Ser Solstice lurched a bit, still sobering up. He took a long sip of water; it was hot in the courtyard where so many Summer Knights were gathered.

“‘Tis unfair to make him duel one of the Grandmasters, Summer’s Champion! But he has not yet been bested in full combat!”

One of the Summer Knights called out. It was true. Only one person had actually challenged Rabbiteater with full gear—or practice weapons but Skills. Not Ser Medul; only the younger [Summer Knight] whom Rabbiteater had beaten.

“He’s half-drunk. Maybe you can have a go at him later if you want to make a point, Dame Pitram. But I do wonder—is Dame Voost here?”

Talia blinked. Dame Voost was present, and stepped forwards.

“She is our best [Knight] with a blade, Ser Rabbit—er, Ser Solstice.”

Talia’s ears twitched at the name. That couldn’t be a nickname. She wanted to know. And felt…she saw the Summer’s Champion indicate the woman.

“Do you think you could make a fair match of it? Even beat her?”

He grinned. The [Summer Knight] smiled.

Bravado in the air, laughter—it was something actually a bit foreign to Talia. She felt more stiff than Rabbiteater at this moment, as if they’d reversed sides. Somehow—he knew the company of veterans more than she.

The Hobgoblin took one look at Dame Voost, and tilted his head. Then he replied, audibly, for all.

“Maybe. Think I can win.”

The Season of Summer liked that. They laughed, or urged him to give it a shot. Dame Voost indicated the enchanted axe.

“Gear, or Skills, Ser Slayer? I will settle for practice weapons and you with the axe if you will it, to make up for your drinking.”

“No injuries! I’ll step in if I think someone will get hurt!”

The Summer’s Champion declared. Rabbiteater just shrugged.

“Practice sword works.”

Oho. Talia’s eyes narrowed at the same time as Dame Voost. Was he taking her lightly because of her gender? Some [Knights] did—

But she did not know Goblins. Rabbiteater made no such assumptions. But he was confident.

The Season of Summer watched as Voost began walking counter-clockwise around him. She used sword and kite shield.

The Summer Knights watched, now curious to see if the Knight of Solstice was all talk. They knew Dame Voost’s bladework and he wasn’t that good—especially drunk. But maybe a Skill?

The woman was waiting for him to make the first move. She had a step-in that could rival a [Fencer]’s, but her real strength was a burst-of-strength Skill that would beat even [Enhanced Strength] in a close contest.

Rabbiteater knew his plan. He waited, until Dame Voost’s eyes narrowed and she began to tense—then he raised his sword suddenly. She braced—

And he tossed the practice sword down on the ground. The Summer Knights stared as the Hobgoblin raised two gauntleted hands and made fists.

“What now, Ser Solstice? Are you giving up?”

She called to him. The Goblin grinned.

“No.”

“Pick up your sword, then.”

“No. Fight me.”

He challenged her. And then—the Summer’s Champion burst out laughing. Some of the other Summer Knights shook their heads. Talia was appalled.

She knew what the dilemma was. Either Dame Voost used a sword against an unarmed foe, or…the woman eyed Rabbiteater’s brawling stance.

“That’s not honorable.”

No—the Summer’s Champion watched as Dame Voost hesitated, then tossed down her blade to the cheers of others and raised her gauntlets—and put on a helmet.

That was a Goblin [Knight]’s sense of honor. Different in some ways, but—he smiled as the two went at it. Rabbiteater knocked Voost sprawling, then went for her when she was down.

It went even. She was still a senior [Summer Knight], but she lacked most of her Skills. In the end, both called for a tie after nearly twelve minutes of grappling and bruises. Rabbiteater shook her hand, afterwards.

“Strong with fists and sword. Thought it was only one.”

“And you, Ser Solstice, fight well. Summer fades!”

She clapped him on the shoulder. The other Summer Knights nodded. Rabbiteater grinned behind his helmet. He saw Talia watching and looked at her. She glanced away.

—-

One week later, Dame Talia was heading to her rooms to scrub the scent of crap off her. She was angry, humiliated—but not just because of her punishment.

It was the nature of things to change. The Order of Seasons knew it full well. They were a unique type of Order, even among the varied [Knights] of Terandria.

That they had welcomed a Goblin among them, or rather, their order’s heads had, at least, might have been because they were founded next to a coastal nation which did see more non-Humans. Perhaps it was just the Grandmasters of their time.

Talia had understood the reason why she was punished, even if she resented it and found it mortifying. Even if she felt…unable to explain how jarring, upsetting, Ser Solstice’s identity had been.

Perhaps because the full reason of it wasn’t something she was consciously willing to acknowledge. Perhaps because all that she had found admirable, even more, attractive, about Ser Solstice had gone sideways when it was revealed who, or what he was.

It would have been easier—and harder for the Order to accept him—if he did not act so…normal. Not Human, not necessarily; just like a person.

Because he had been around them. Because he had met the [Innkeeper].

Those days had not been in vain. And their legacy had carried him here. In unexpected ways.

—-

Knight-Commander Calirn was not the Summer’s Champion, who seemed to have practically taken ‘Ser Solstice’ under his wing.

The Grandmaster of the Order of Seasons was far more wary. And of the Grandmasters, he sensed the same from the Spring’s Warden and the Fall’s Sentinel.

She was polite, but clearly watchful. The Fall’s Sentinel was more sociable—but by the same token, clearly regarded the Goblin as an object of study as much as a [Knight].

There was the thing. He was a [Knight], so the Order of Seasons either believed in that fundamental similarity, or not.

But even so. Another Goblin who chanced upon the class wouldn’t be so—so—

Disarmingly friendly.

It came from the inn. Such as, when Knight-Commander Calirn was stiffly dining with Rabbiteater and two other [Knights] from foreign Orders. A Trudravel Knight—who was actually quite friendly because his Order fought and lived among the tundra of the north—and a Thronebearer of Calanfer, here to plead his Order’s case for the war with the Order of Seasons, despite the ribbing from all sides.

Small things, like, as they were dining on a particularly nice roast in honor of their guests, the Goblin turned.

“Pass the mustard, please.”

“Of course—”

Calirn blinked as he instinctively…passed the mustard. Ser Solstice spread it on the bit of meat, turned his head to the wall, popped his visor open a tiny crack, and put it in. The Thronebearer watched, still bemused—the Trudravel Knight thought it was hugely entertaining.

Apparently, someone had asked the Season of Fall to provide a vision-scrambling charm such that you only saw darkness if you glanced under the visor. Dame Meisa’s request had been answered by the Fall’s Sentinel, and now Ser Solstice ate in company.

The Goblin happily added the condiment to his food. And Calirn had to ask—but how did you ask?

Is mustard common among Goblins?

“I hope you find our condiments to your liking, Ser Solstice? I understand Izril uses a number of sauces Terandria lacks. Gnollish and Drakeish foods. I have sampled them from time to time, and we could provide them if you find it nostalgic.”

That was his best foot forwards. The Goblin looked up, after chewing, and nodded.

“Good…condiments. Like home. No mayonnaise, though?”

“Mayonnaise? I’m not familiar with that one, Ser Solstice. Izrilian, is it?”

The [Knight] of the tundras chuckled. The Thronebearer and Ser Calirn listened as Rabbiteater shook his head and tried to explain.

“No. It’s white. Egg and…lemon? And oil. Very tasty. You eat with fries.”

“Which are?”

“Sliced potatoes. Fry in oil. Very tasty. Know how to cook.”

“You know how to cook?”

Calirn burst out, until he realized how ludicrous it sounded. The Thronebearers gave him a sidelong look and the Grandmaster had to cough.

“That is—I cannot but boil water at a fire. My aura and such.”

It was rare to see the Winter Knight blush at all. But Rabbiteater smiled and remembered cooking lessons and a group of Cave Goblins—and one with a poofy hat.

You brought what you’d seen and done wherever you went. So, Knight Calirn watched, incredibly bemused, as Rabbiteater experimentally made mayonnaise with one of the [Cooks]. It was actually tasty—and—after inquiring, he found it was a gourmet food newly on the market, originating from Izril. Salazsar had the stuff! Invrisil was advertising it in its restaurants…

—-

The Spring’s Warden was similarly disarmed on another occasion when she and the trainees paused for ‘fun’.

“Tilting?”

Rabbiteater lacked this area of expertise, which relieved Ser Markus, as the Goblin had passed most of the Spring Knights in every other area from wrestling, climbing, and so on.

But he didn’t swim well, despite knowing how; large bodies of water hadn’t existed in the High Passes, and if they did, they were dangerous.

Similarly, the act of tilting, with a lance, wasn’t a Goblin ideal. He was still willing to learn, and amused to hear there were entire tournaments around the same thing.

“Fun isn’t restricted to [Knights], Ser Solstice. We have a number of similar activities. There are those who enjoy fencing and so on, but swimming is quite enjoyable, we often picnic at scenic locations—and we’ve even added those new sports in the news. Do you know of them?”

The Spring’s Warden had heard the Goblin laugh. She turned—and saw him pick up one of the baseball bats.

It was, after all, an athletic sport and the Order of Seasons liked things that mixed both exercise and enjoyment. What the Spring’s Warden wasn’t prepared for was to see Rabbiteater hit three homeruns in a row. The ‘best’ pitcher had no actual class, and Rabbiteater had seen curveballs, sliders, and magically-enhanced half-Elf fastballs that could break your bat in half.

The Spring’s Warden, bemused, took up the pitching mound. She…bullied him a bit. Or tried to. Her fastball dipped with the wind. Rabbiteater whiffed twice—then sent it flying high and up.

He grinned at her. The Spring’s Warden smiled despite herself.

—-

They had forgotten, for a moment, that he was a [Champion]. The Fall’s Sentinel knew the class. But he didn’t realize how Goblins saw the class.

Champion was champion. And Rabbiteater, amiable, willing to walk into the kitchen and peel potatoes as much as shoot arrows with a Worker on the roof, had absorbed a bunch of things.

“Checkmate.”

The old [Knight] stared down at the board and then up at the Goblin’s invisible grin behind his helmet. Rabbiteater had enjoyed that. Erin had made him play with her, but it was no fun playing the freaks in her inn. They were all experts—even the Fall’s Sentinel was an easier opponent than Erin’s chess club.

The Knights of the Autumn murmured in surprise as the Fall’s Sentinel looked at the board in dismay. Someone commented.

“He’s quite good.”

“I know. And he knows other games, Fall’s Sentinel.”

Meisa broke in before Ser Markus could. She seemed even more proud than he was—the Knight of Izril had depths. Because of the inn. The legacy and astonishment carried on.

—-

To today. A Hobgoblin’s smile. And—Dame Meisa slipping out of his rooms before dawn, as Talia went to wash from her cleaning duties.

“A spring’s romance.”

Dame Talia jumped. Someone else had observed the moment which had driven her to fury. She had nearly gone after Dame Meisa—but the huge figure stopped her.

The Summer’s Champion had gone for a morning, twenty-mile run and was covered in sweat. He glanced at her.

“I put Ser Solstice as the Season of Summer myself, Dame Talia. Of all our Seasons, I believe he is mine. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“He is not of our order, Summer’s Champion!”

The man frowned at her and she mastered her tongue.

“If he was, I would claim him, Dame Talia. And if he is—Spring and summer complement each other. Spring invigorates summer, and it is a good match. A passing thing, but why do you frown?”

“You know why.”

He raised his brows.

“If it were any other pair of [Knights], no one would remark on a thing.”

“That is because this is different, Summer’s Champion! It is not—simple—”

He nodded as she struggled for words. He had a towel around his neck and was bare-chested, sweating profusely. That did not bother her, but the sweat dried abruptly. He turned to face her.

“No, it is not, Dame Talia. But you seem to see all that is negative while I choose to do the opposite. I punished you. Do you seek to change your season?”

“No, Summer’s Champion. But I will not ask for forgiveness. I acted as I thought was best.”

She lifted her chin, and he nodded.

“Nor would I ask you to change your season. You and I disagree, but I would never deny that you were of my order. Summer’s heat. Summer fades, but we keep to our opinions, don’t we?”

She didn’t reply. His eyes studied her. And they were as merciless as the blazing summer’s day for a moment.

“Still, Dame Talia. Between you and me—that you told me and Calirn of Ser Solstice’s nature? Knowing he might suffer or die because of whom he was, after all he had done? That was a move as cold as snow.”

He turned and walked off, leaving her at a loss for words. She stomped off to take a bath and it became a hot tub. Literally.

The Order of Seasons had a new [Knight] in its midst. A Goblin. He lay on his back.

Wow. That was a lot of fun. Seriously. He tried to figure out how long it had been…but he’d left the Redfang camps on his mission and it was an all-male team that Garen had appointed, to prevent fights…and then he’d been at the inn….

Not that you couldn’t deal with it yourself, but you forgot there were better options. Anyways. He lay there for a while.

This was a nice place. He was having a good time. The Goblin smiled to himself.

He was having an adventure.

—-

It was an enduring trait among Humans that never ceased to amaze. What was different was hated, reviled—or exotic and sexual.

It had once been speculated that Humans had attempted to mate with every species in the world—and many non-species. Not every race did that. But the Human method to success seemed to be—‘if you couldn’t beat it, see if it could reproduce’.

And if that seemed like a generalist statement, a judgment inherently speciesist or racist—well, he agreed. And he’d seen a lot of Human proclivity in his lifetime.

Eldavin was propositioned for sex the third day he was at Wistram academy. It took him hindsight, and the third go-around, to realize that had been what the young woman had been intimating.

“Children!”

He was appalled. His true nature aside, the Dragon—half-Elf—was still old for a half-Elf! By rights, they should assume he was three hundred years old, at least! But that young half-Elf—of the Centrist faction—had been barely seventy.

Scandalous. But it was a truism of power as well. When someone like Eldavin showed up, established powers tried to do everything to find a weakness or hold on him.

Blackmail, sex, and so on.

Eldavin considered it meant he was having an impact. He reclined in one of the largest series of rooms in Wistram, a far cry from the shabby place where he’d first been quartered, sipping from a complimentary brandy gifted to him.

He’d forgotten what it was like to be inebriated. The half-Elf sighed.

“Ah, the foibles of the flesh.”

But not sex. He was still Teriarch inside, and his experience informed ‘Eldavin’. Indeed, he was today already plotting how to expand the new faction that had arisen around him.

Not just him. Fortune had put Archmage Valeterisa in his way. She was faction-less too, and it had been a stroke of luck that they could agree to form a new body of power.

Of all the Archmages, she reminded him most of the old sort. Academic. Uninterested in politics for their own sake. Pursued by quite laudable ambition to learn magic.

Ruthless, of course; he’d inquired about her. But quite humble compared to the other ‘Archmages’. She’d asked him to share knowledge and he had reciprocated, pretending not to be as learned as he really was—just extremely so for this day and age.

Thus, the two had formed the base of the new political faction. The, ah…Terras faction of Wistram, which had no relation to anyone’s name, was ostensibly one based around the old name of Earth. Terra. Also, the word in the old language.

Earth. Grounded. Sensible, pragmatic.

And it spoke to the new world now entering this one. Teriarch hummed softly to himself.

—-

On the second day, the Archmage of Izril, Eldavin, and a number of new [Mages] who could be trusted had been told of the great secret of Earth.

A [High Mage] on the Council itself had told them in secrecy, a Garuda. He had refrained from even telling Grand Magus Erkika; Wistram had taken precedence over the bonds of species.

The old Garuda had stirred as a globe of Earth was brought in. He stared, uncomprehendingly, at the planet. Then—pictures, taken from the iPhones, computers, electronics.

People laughing, or posing in front of buildings. Airplanes in the sky. Even—a picture of video games. Valeterisa had stared at one. Teriarch had wondered if it was harder than Cookie Clicker.

“Magi, this is Earth. Another world. Another planet, in a reality somehow divorced from ours, which evolved and formed in a place where other species—to our knowledge—never existed. Only Humanity, who, without magic, mastered their planet. This is Earth. And there are children from this planet appearing in our world.”

Eldavin sat there as Valeterisa, Erkika, and the other [Mages]’ eyes tried to exit their heads. They were disbelieving at first, shocked. Then they babbled questions, demanded proof.

Proof? Proof was a computer. Proof was the foods they had eaten at dinner! Proof was a truth spell and a young man from Earth—Aaron Vanwell. Also, him demonstrating a battery, an electric battery, that ran without magic, and a hand-cranked device which created electricity.

Proof was plastic. And though they did not believe at first, some of them, those who had understood the strangeness happening in the world, sat back as it all came together.

Valeterisa’s fingers were shaking as she adjusted her spectacles and asked questions, even over the Garuda’s attempts to speak.

“Is there any commonality with magic? Is there a portal? Is this related to the Demon’s activity? Query #221, pressing—what is the mechanism by which this ‘electricity’ forms that screen without magic? Can we communicate—”

It was at this moment, as some [Mages] in-the-know watched the reactions smugly, that Grand Magus Eldavin stood up.

All eyes were on him; he was one of the big players, having established himself by the huge magical fight on the first night. The Depth Mage was not present, but she was being considered due to her level and a possible tie to the Drowned Fleets. Fissival had been ruled out, but Wistram was treating this information as time-critical. It would lose its value soon, and so why not use it for favor and alliances now?

The old half-Elf’s eyes studied the presentation. The Garuda [High Mage], Magus Verki, smiled with a hint of superiority.

“Grand Magus, you had a question?”

Valeterisa and the other [Mages] looked at him. The Grand Mage nodded.

“Yes, young man. Pray, may we skip the introductory phase? I came here for information about Earth, not recap.”

The Garuda’s beak opened. The [Mages] blinked.

“You—know of Earth?”

Eldavin sniffed.

“This is basic news, Magus Verki. I do not need to be told of the obvious. Present me with a list of quantifiable information, please.”

He knew. Of course, ‘Eldavin’ had already met Ryoka, which was what Teriarch was running with. He left the room, knowing that everyone was wondering what he’d found out. It was about standing out.

When they came by with a list of items—by the Revivalist faction, which meant they were hoarding knowledge from each other—Eldavin skimmed down it.

“Television, food, armaments, food, theories of electricity, more food, plays? I know all of this. Hm. Wait. This is new.”

He tapped ‘Airsoft Gun’ after a moment. It was about telling the truth. He was quite happy to have the young man show him the device. Eldavin watched as it fired—then attended one of the presentations with mathematical formulas.

The Pythagorean Theorem was elementary. ‘E=mc2’ made him snort. But he grew thoughtful after that.

Valeterisa was cribbing notes like mad. But Eldavin had to admit…the sight of a firearm, even in the relatively harmless form it had been presented in, made him uncomfortable.

How they progressed, even without magic.

But again—he had had such conversations with Reinhart long since, and she had expressed the same worries. Eldavin remained dutifully unimpressed.

—-

He needed to be aloof. Wise, impartial, a magical mentor, someone who could speak and inform opinions. That was Eldavin’s conclusion, for how else would he change Wistram?

And change it he must! He had promised Ryoka he would return, but he was aware now that his sojourn here would be at least two months, possibly four.

He couldn’t foresee any way to effect meaningful reform here without that amount of time. He would hurry—maybe quick-teleport back to the High Passes? Undoing all those protections was going to be a pain in the wings, but he would do it.

Yet, Eldavin’s vast mind, a Dragon’s intellect, was now turned on one goal: to make Wistram change for what he believed was the better.

For his arrival at the academy had shown him how it had kept some of its strength, but lost too much over only two centuries. Zelkyr was to blame and he had thoughts about that.

As well as Wistram’s blatant attempts to conceal Earth and amass power for themselves. Something needed to be done.

Another of his kin, or just another kind of person, might opine that the best solution was to raze Wistram to the ground and sink the entire citadel into the sea. Teriarch—even if that were possible for him alone—would not have done that.

The world needed Wistram Academy. There had been times in history that he had lived through when the lack of a magical heart had left the world in dire need, and times when they had staved off armageddon by sacrifice, integrity, and wisdom.

The world needed Wistram. What was up for debate was whether they needed this Wistram.

So his new faction would be the lever upon which to effect change. But carefully. But subtly. The issue was…Teriarch knew all kinds of devious stratagems and political plays.

But he’d failed with the riddles, at least, in part. Wistram did not follow the same rulebook as before, so Teriarch was wary of trying something that would have worked in the old days and might backfire now.

He couldn’t rely on old favorites like the Penta-Mage Antagonism, an old trick wherein you set up five [Mages] of roughly equal strengths in too-close proximity. You see, four [Mages] could coexist in relative harmony, but all but the rarest examples saw five competing powers inevitably turn to strife. Set them up, and watch them divide and fight until they’d destroyed whatever they were supposed to be protecting or working on.

He had to be innovative, rather than use something fun like that. And remember all the old failures!

It was almost easier to be ignorant and young, and not know the consequences of so many actions. Like…blood magic, for instance. Introduce that to a magical society and it could lead to [Mages] eating each other in basements.

Not all the time; in fact, a statistical minority of the times blood magic was adopted. But once you saw it happen once, you were disinclined to allow it to happen again.

The main thing was that he didn’t want to teach them too much. But he had to teach them something to establish himself.

That was how Eldavin found himself teaching a class of students on day three. They had begged him, and after some thought, he’d agreed to see what the level and competency was.

“[Mages], I come from an era before Zelkyr was Archmage. I remember old magic—and Wistram has changed. So, while I have agreed to demonstrate some spells, you will first show me your methods.”

The half-Elf stood in front of a vast class of nearly eighty. They were everyone from Trey Atwood, to actual [Mages] like Beatrice of the Revivalists, to Teura and Valeterisa herself, even if she wasn’t standing with the actual students at their desks. Teriarch went on.

“I believe the dichotomy between [Fireball] spells is most important to study. It seems most have forgotten that spells are not constructed the same way! You all are practicing woven-style fabrication which—you, get out.”

He pointed. A young man spluttered.

“What? Why?”

“Because I do not care for skepticism, your attitude, or your presence. Out.”

Eldavin pointed at Timor du Havrington, whom he had recognized from the banquet. A spectral, giant hand shoved the young man out of class as everyone watched. It flicked him into the hallway wall, and shut the door delicately as Eldavin turned back. Troy was grinning madly.

“I see students of every stripe here. No Gnolls?”

“Gnolls?”

The students stirred. Eldavin counted every species except Gazers and Gnolls in his class. He frowned.

“Hm. Have they started an academy of their own again? Well, so it goes. Now, demonstrate the [Fireball] spell for me, all of you. Hold it—and why aren’t you putting your barrier spells up?”

Half the class was frozen. At last, a young [Mage] raised her hand tremulously.

“Grand Magus, we don’t know the spell. We’re only first-years.”

Some of the other [Mages] were hesitating, wondering if they could hold a [Fireball] spell once they’d created it. You created a [Fireball] and it blew up!

Valeterisa was holding two [Fireballs]. Trey was sweating as he tried to figure it out. Eldavin stared.

“…You don’t know how to cast [Fireball]? That was the requirement for…well, [Fire Bolt], then. No? [Candle]. On three. One, two…stop!”

He bellowed. The class halted. Eldavin strode down the ranks of students.

“You. What are you doing, holding your wand like that? And you—your posture is completely off. You, you, you—dead gods, it’s easier to name who’s doing it right. Stop!”

The students, bemused, saw him grab Trey’s arm, adjust it, check the grip—he nodded at that, but lambasted a dozen students.

“Weak grips! Poor posture! Don’t slump your shoulders! Straighten your spine!”

“Does it matter, Grand Magus?”

A student protested. Eldavin stared at her.

“Get out.”

“But I—”

“Out! If you can’t stand properly when casting a spell, when one triggers a backlash, don’t come crawling to me when it shatters your spine! For that matter—posture matters when conducting magic! Out! You—take off those rings!”

“But magus, they’re Rings of Well and Concentration—”

The half-Elf loomed over the unfortunate Human.

“Do you think I’m blind? This is study, not a battle! Do you rely on a flying carpet when you’re learning to walk? No aides! No Skills! Now, posture set! Hands, wands, staves at the ready—stop!”

It took six more attempts before they even got to casting [Candle]. And even then, Eldavin criticized things some [Mages] hadn’t even known were a problem.

Troy Atlas got a pass because Gazi had told him how magic flowed through the body. You kept even distributions to ward off enemy spells—you concentrated it where you wanted magic to be produced, like if you were casting without a catalyst and your bare hands.

“Terandrian schools still have it.”

Eldavin commented to the girl who had come in Trey’s class. He nodded at some [Mages] from similar backgrounds; castigated those who didn’t have this grounding.

He wasn’t, er, a nurturing teacher. Even Gazi had more patience than Eldavin, and she was arguably kinder, which was amazing to Trey.

However, Eldavin was clearly a genius. In the end, he demonstrated five [Fireballs], producing them and letting them hover to the class, even [Mages] peeking in.

“This is what I meant. Observe the formation of each one. New students, you can’t see the flow of magic, but watch this one form in slow motion. This is your ‘standard’ [Fireball], which forms using the weave-formation.”

Strands of fire knitted themselves together in a swirling mass, like yarn. Teriarch nodded at it.

“Not the most potent, but more difficult to dispel due to the formation, which it was why it is adopted. You see—the compression style fireball can explode, which is why it was dropped; new [Mages] suffered accidents. But it is quicker, more powerful, or at least, more variable in strength, and easier to actually cast. No wonder [Fireball] is considered a higher mark in spellcasting if you are all learning weave-style [Fireballs]!”

He showed them a huge ball of fire compressing down smaller. A first-year student raised a hand.

“You mean, the other ones are easier, Grand Magus?”

He stared at her and she flinched, but the half-Elf nodded.

“Of course, young woman! You are a Level…12 [Mage]? I see. Well, you could cast a set-style [Fireball] within the week. Woven-style is far harder.”

“Me?”

She squeaked. The Grand Magus shrugged.

“Set-style—the largest one, here—is uncompressed, unwoven. It’s just…fire. But if I wanted to have a group of spellcasters throw [Fireball] in a week, I’d teach them that. Nevertheless, knowing how to vary a spell is one of the fundamentals in a battle. For instance, a [Spellcut Warrior] can hack apart any cheap spell, but a woven-style [Fireball] or the link-style ones would give him trouble…but do you need to use it in other circumstances? I posit no, but the standardization of magical spells…let’s all practice compression, shall we? With the [Candle] spell if you can’t cast [Fireball].”

Trey’s head was spinning after the two hour-long class, and he saw the same expression on other students. But he felt like he’d learned something.

You could link two spells together and combine, like, [Fireball] and [Water Orb] into ‘one’ spell if you knew the right containment procedures. Then have them detonate in tandem. Imagine the possibilities!

Valeterisa had been the only [Mage] who seemed to know everything Eldavin had been talking about. But the surprising part had been at the end.

“I was shocked to learn that the Archmage’s histories weren’t being taught along with magical theory. Necromancy is outlawed here. Yet, students, the Archmages existed. The Archmagi of Death have always been part of Wistram—with uneasy history at time, yes. But the same can be said for many schools of magic.”

Eldavin had begun talking about Az’kerash. Three Terandrians and two Izrilians had actually left at that time, but even more students had come to listen. Eldavin spoke—then conjured an illusion.

“Archmage Perril Chandler was once considered the greatest [Mage] of his time to come from Terandria. A bulwark against the famous Zelkyr and the strength of Golems that made the Walled Cities a feared world power as well. In lieu of this war in Terandria, I am reminded of another time the Dawn Concordat was pushed to the brink. There—the Archmage of Death stood in front of an army of four hundred thousand and dared them to a battle.”

His illusion spells made you feel as if you were there. The classroom changed, and desks and walls became sky and boulders. There was even smell, which no [Mage] had ever included in a spell to Trey before.

He heard the roar of battle, panting. The Archmage stood there.

Before he was the Necromancer, Perril Chandler looked more like a [Duelist]. It was almost like the King of Duels.

People were vanishing into spell circles. He turned, pushing a woman gently away. He set himself against a vast army in a narrow pass of stone, where blood had already been spilled with ranks of warriors wearing gold. They cheered him.

“Chandler! Archmage!”

Eldavin stopped the moment and walked among them. The audience, disbelieving, especially those of Terandria, stared at the man’s back.

“Here, he fought.”

It was like Eldavin had been there. Perhaps he had, or watched. But ranks of [Soldiers] charged as undead rose.

Undead. Fallen warriors, skeletons, and spells exploded across both lines as the Archmage took on an entire army, forcing them to fight in this pass.

They thought they could overwhelm him. But the golden [Knights] and the Archmage refused to give ground, and for every warrior that fell—an undead rose.

“The Thronebearers of Calanfer. This is the hour he was called the Undying Shield of Calanfer. This is the hour when he was truly called Archmage of Death.”

Trey watched as the man fought. He had never known it, but Perril Chandler had fought with wand and rapier in hand. He danced in the fighting, using [Flash Step] to move in and run opponents through even as he cast magic.

“The Necromancer never used a blade!”

One student protested. Trey had almost forgotten they were there. Eldavin watched as Perril Chandler blasted a foe with ice from his wand and then parried an arrow. His eyes were nostalgic.

“Oh yes, but he did. He never had the class, but he was considered a magical duelist on par with any other. See?”

He pointed.

There was a golden bell. The kind of thing that people had copied, when he was still beloved.

Undead rose and died and rose again. But it was the golden [Knights] who fought, grimly determined. Lower-level, but in one dramatic scene, an arrow shot by a high-level archer struck the Archmage and he fell against a rock. A Thronebearer held a shield over him as the Archmage clutched at the arrow.

“This was the scene that defined the battle. That those with scrying spells saw. The Thronebearers of Calanfer have always risen in dark hours the further they were pushed. When kingdom stood on the line…”

They charged after that. The Archmage too. He was running out of mana. [Knight] after knight died—

But they rose. And this time it was Draug. A giant made out of the dead, which was brought down at great cost. The mortal army wavered as the Archmage fought forwards. More of the people fell around him.

Yet. They had his back, even after they died. When it was done, the vast army was in flight, and the Archmage stood alone as reinforcements from the rear finally arrived to hold the gap.

When it was done, no one knew quite what to say. Valeterisa’s eyes were shining. But some of the students seemed unsettled by the heroic account of the Necromancer. Eldavin clapped his hands, briskly.

“In those hours, on that day, I believe Perril Chandler leveled up more than any Archmage has in the century plus since. Adversity breeds strength, students. That is your lesson. It may be your death. But to strive for greatness, the peak of magic, is to walk with it. Do not think a [Warrior] risks death more than a mage.”

He glanced around. Valeterisa nodded at him and he nodded back. Eldavin concluded.

“Also remember that Archmages were deeply political. Wistram seems to pretend to aloofness in this era. But Zelkyr fought for the Walled Cities. Archmage Chandler involved himself in Terandrian affairs time and time again. Both fought against the Demons of Rhir, for better or worse.”

“But Grand Magus—the factions of Terandria do the same. Some of them. The Council argues over too much interference.”

A [Mage] pointed that out. Eldavin glared at him.

“Young mage, I said Archmages were political. Not petty. They did not stand by and idly toss words or condemnations around. When words failed, they went to war and armies trembled in their boots. I recall one famous example—this is ancient history, even when Zelkyr was just a brat—where one Archmage took to the field and the enemy left a brown field in retreat. They called it the Embarrassment of Bermule…”

—-

Eldavin was earmarking individuals. As of yet, the Terras faction had yet to gain Council seats, but he was willing to ‘steal’ members of other factions. Some would be spies, but many would come for what he offered.

The best would be like Valeterisa. But the point was to have a voice in Wistram’s decisions. Make allies, ‘get’ Earthers.

Eldavin was ambivalent about that last part. But if he had people he wanted to join?

The young [Sand Mage] with the alias was one. There were some talents in the new student body, who could actually become something with a bit of polish. The surly young man from Hellios with a [Lord]’s class and good swordsmanship was being steered into pure magic. He would be a great [Magical Swordsman]!

“Lifesand Golems.”

The half-Elf muttered to himself. Now there was proof that strong magic still remained, even in the Waning World. Potential…

He had tea with Valeterisa.

“I lost myself for ten years in attempting to uncover a lost spell theorem. I regret that. It was lucky I was…awoken.”

The woman shook her head slightly. Eldavin raised his brows.

“Indeed so. [Mages] have died, even half-Elves, caught in mental mazes for as long as a century. And if you were uncovering a theorem, subdivision of thought is a poor way to do it.”

Her eyes locked on his.

“That is not my understanding, Grand Magus. Please qualify that statement.”

He harrumphed.

“Young w—Archmage. Do you really think more fractured thoughts is a good way to master a magical leap of genius? For improving—yes. For the purest quill of insight?”

She stared at him. He realized he’d gone too far and coughed repeatedly into his beard.

“So I’ve heard. I have never mastered the technique myself. Dangerous. Er…about good candidates for the faction.”

“I have a list of candidates who would be strong [Mages] with influence. Here.”

“Excellent. Ah—Mage Telim, even?”

“He added himself to the list.”

“Then I will accept him without reservation. He seems quite qualified, if a bit lazy. No olfactory component in his illusions, which I think ruins the entire experience. Smell completes, don’t you agree?”

She nodded slowly. Eyes fixed on him. But Eldavin was careful to include gaps in his knowledge. It was better to present as a qualified master of lower magical arts, broad in scope, but lacking, say, the ability to create artifacts. A superior generalist, yes.

—-

The other Archmages were interesting. Eldavin met them all. He found Valeterisa most likable, and made a few conclusions about the others which he would later find out if they were correct or not.

Naili—cunning, ambitious, young. Talkative—she and he had a long lunch in which she kept pressing about Ryoka Griffin and all the things she’d dug up.

“Leave the Wind Runner alone, Archmagus.”

“Yes, but you’re just letting her run about. Are you using her?”

“She is under my protection.”

The half-Elf coldly met the Lamia’s glare. But she was able to match him look for look. Yes—more dangerous than she seemed. Naili smiled.

“Would that be accompanied by an ‘or else’, Grand Magus?”

“Implicitly, my dear Archmage Nailihuaile.”

“Well, your ire is certainly formidable. But we need to be united, don’t we?”

He put down his cup and reached for another pastry.

“Yes we do. But my ire? Archmage Nailihuaile. You have seen my ire. Should Wistram decide to upset me, you will see what happens when I go to war. And you have not seen that.”

He met her gaze until the smile vanished.

—-

Ironically, Viltach was more restrained. Eldavin had punched the Archmage of Terandria, but they enjoyed a quite civil discourse on spell tomes, even exchanged a few spells of Viltach’s design.

And he brought up some salient points. He was clearly ambitious as much as Nailihuaile, but saw what Teriarch did.

“The issue, as I see it, Eldavin, is that this second world may well decide to go to war. I have been asking my Earthers about history, and they have a history of aggression that would match any empire in our world.”

“There is no discernible portal, Archmage.”

Eldavin aimed a pool cue at the ball; Wistram had odd priorities, like creating a billiards table before airplanes. But it was quite fun. He knocked a ball into a pocket and smiled smugly. Viltach repressed a scowl; Eldavin was beating him despite both sides cheating with magic to correct their aim.

“I would say only a fool does not anticipate the danger of the possibility of a portal opening, Grand Magus. And you are no fool.”

The half-Elf glanced up and slowly chalked up his pool cue, a delightful activity, before replying.

“No indeed, Archmage. And it would be my delight to talk about countermeasures. Perhaps some large-scale anti-combustion spells?”

“That doesn’t work on all of their weapons. Are you familiar with…? Perhaps you weren’t fully briefed by your sources. We may talk about more advanced weaponry later.”

“Of course. After dinner? Most excellent.”

—-

Feor was interesting. Teriarch played chess with him, and thought that he was the second-best player he had ever met.

Which meant, of course, he still took the majority of games. The half-Elf wanted to talk about home, species—and realized he was getting nowhere with Eldavin, who refused to be nostalgic for a species he didn’t have. In the end he laid his cards down.

“Grand Magus, I would like to trade knowledge.”

“I am sure an Archmage has much to offer a humble Grand Magus such as myself. But would I be able to reciprocate? Check, again.”

Feor grimaced.

“Much of what we have had is lost, Grand Magus. I…would see it restored before my passing.”

“Yet, no [Mage] has passed Zelkyr’s test? And you do not seem to believe in attempting it.”

The Archmage of Elves hesitated as he moved a piece out of harm’s way.

“I do not believe it is a test made in good faith, Grand Magus. Rather, I would put my certainty in…other methods. Are you aware of the [Thaumaturge] class?”

Eldavin’s eyebrows shot up.

“Indeed I am. A novel way to uncover new spells given how they cast theirs. But one would need a high-level [Thaumaturge]. And that does not include spell theory.”

“No, indeed, Eldavin. But I happen to know of one…and as remote as that option is—have you beheld the test? I would place my faith in anything but that. Ah, checkmate, I believe. My first win.”

He sat back and smiled. Eldavin realized he’d been getting distracted, glanced down at the board, and saw he had lost.

Intriguing. He may have excused himself after that game, purely because he had socialized enough of course, but Feor seemed closer to Valeterisa than he thought.

—-

Verdan Blackwood lifted his cup with fingers delicately spread. He inclined his head, sipped, and intoned with a calculated sigh.

“Fortify.”

The half-Elf slowly took a sip himself. He replied, after some measured thought.

“Sanctify to fortify.”

He enjoyed Verdan’s company more than any other Archmage’s. Purely because the Dullahan rituals and observances were far more refreshing to partake in than the faster politicking. After some thought, Verdan placed the cup down on the Dullahan’s stylized tray.

“Will you clarify, Grand Magus? I feel as though I have lost your meaning.”

A shame, because they’d gone back and forth with the simplistic, yet intricate layers of thought and reply for the last two hours. Eldavin nodded.

“Sanctity, Archmagus Blackwood. Or do you not agree that Wistram is in need of reform?”

A cautious nod in reply.

“My passions, Grand Magus, lie with my people, who have adopted me, as much as Wistram. I believe my fellow Archmages consider my position biased, if not compromised.”

The man sat in armor, despite his advanced age, mimicking Dullahans. The Archmage of Dullahans watched as Eldavin lifted his brows.

“Who is not biased, Archmagus Blackwood? Nor would I consider any one species inherently unfit for knowledge or cooperation. If that is the goal. What, pray, is the point of this conclave?”

“Security, to me. Fortify.”

The half-Elf countered.

“Sanctify, Archmagus Blackwood. Who is worthy of meeting another world as equals? Wistram, as it is? Sanctify.”

—-

Archmages. Students. Eldavin.

But there was one person he truly longed to meet in Wistram. And she seemed to be avoiding him.

They met as the half-Elf stood at the magical barrier, the Test of Wistram. Zelkyr’s legacy.

A barrier spell keyed to five sources. In theory, you could break it down; even one of the Archmages with enough help and time.

But you would never get that much time. Not with three Golems of such magnitude—and one basic War Golem, if a fine example of one.

Or…

The woman made seemingly of marble strode down the deserted corridor. She had moved the instant she realized where he was going. And her body was…primed.

She stood behind him. He did not turn his head at first. He spoke.

“Ah. Cognita of Truestone. Zelkyr’s child. I had wondered when we would meet. You have been avoiding me.”

He turned his head. The giant woman halted.

She was tall. Her height was actually adaptive, as the rest of her was. She was Truestone, a pinnacle of her kind. A Cognizant-class Golem.

One who thought. One who lived. She stopped, nine feet tall, and looked down at Eldavin.

“Grand Magus Eldavin. Do you come here to take my master’s test?”

Her voice was hostile. Eldavin blinked once at her. He inspected her, then pinched at his nose.

“No. But kindly tell that thing to move or I will force it to.”

He looked at the invisible Golem made of flesh. Cognita hesitated. It was looming next to him, jaws open, but the half-Elf didn’t seem to even be affected by the mental invisibility. She gestured; it moved back slowly.

Eldavin studied Zelkyr’s legacy. He saw what Feor meant.

A Golem of magma. Another, made of steel, vastly tall, perhaps thirty feet, incredibly thin, a mismatch of blades and death. The invisible flesh-Golem with its noxious aura—he coughed.

And a replacement for one, a War Golem, a giant metal monster that a half-Giant would fear to fight.

“I expected more dangerous at first. Until I realized they were concealing their true natures. Quite, quite clever. But you are the fifth, aren’t you? To pass, one must destroy all five.”

He commented to Cognita. The Truestone Golem stiffened.

[Mages] had died here in the challenge without realizing what this half-Elf had. Eldavin stared at the magma golem and snorted.

“No wonder the Archmages would rather argue and sit about than attempt this. Tell me, what was Zelkyr thinking? Did he intend to stifle magic with his last action? Or is he…waiting for something?”

He turned. And Cognita, whose face was almost always placid, who talked with Archmages as levelly as students and visitors from abroad—

Frowned.

“Grand Magus Eldavin. I remember you. You were indeed present when my master roamed Wistram’s halls. You have not changed. Not one hair. Are you the Eldavin of then?”

He paused for one second.

Golem memories. He should have at least changed his hair style or added more wrinkles. He had forgotten someone as old as he—and with a perfect memory—was here. Even Feor had barely remembered him.

“I am Eldavin. Can you not sense the truth of it, child?”

“Do not call me child. I am Cognita.”

He blinked again.

“But you are Zelkyr’s child. And I am your senior, as old as you may be. Girl.”

He reminded her. Cognita’s marble eyes fixed on him. Her porcelain form began to…

Change. Into something harder. Truestone—Eldavin blinked again.

Strange. He had thought she would seek him out and they would have a convivial talk about the old days after they had looked at each other. But this?

“If you do not come here to take the test, Grand Magus, I will request you leave. This place is not meant for [Mages] to linger in.”

“I respectfully decline.”

The Golems stirred. Eldavin never took his eyes off Cognita. And her face was thunderous now.

“You refuse?”

“I decline. Is that a rule of your test or is it your request?”

“It is my determination.”

The Dragon slowly spread his arms.

“Then, I request you alter your determination for me, Miss Cognita. I am not here to take your test. If you fear I am learning something—or preparing a great magic? I am not. You can see that. Nor would I need to. I know the nature of each Golem. I have seen their kind. I am not here to take your test. That is not why I returned to Wistram.”

“So you say.”

The woman shifted. Eldavin was still puzzled. Why was she so wary? She’d changed to anti-magic armor. And she was set like she was about to charge him. He looked at her—

Then his perception wavered. He saw himself, as she might see him.

A half-Elf from a time when magic had been stronger. Coming at this time, with other powerful [Mages] to Wistram when Earth—a new threat or opportunity—had arisen.

The half-Elf faltered. His heart stung him. Oh no. Cognita hesitated as he clutched at his chest for a second.

She thinks I am here to destroy her. This child thinks—

Fear. That was what he saw. The half-Elf’s head rose. And Cognita saw a strange emotion in his eyes. One she had seldom seen even before she had been given this long duty.

Pity?

“Miss Cognita. No—should I say, Cognita Amerwing—”

The Golems in the room shifted.

That was Zelkyr’s last name. Eldavin went on.

“I am not here to challenge Zelkyr’s might. I am not here to do battle with his children, least of all what might be the last of his three. Oldest, and last. I came, hoping to ask you—”

He hesitated. But the Golem was hostile and he had already mistepped, by accident. She had seen his magical acumen. So he said it.

“—is Zelkyr not still alive? If so, will you not ask him to return?”

The Truestone Golem made no move. But for a second—the Golems of Wistram stuttered about their duties. She looked at the half-Elf. And she was certain.

“You are not a Grand Magus. Who are you?”

“Will you not allow me entry?”

“If you attempt it, you will die.”

She warned him. The half-Elf looked—distraught.

“Child.”

“Do not call me that.”

Cognita had not spoken so for…Eldavin’s eyebrows drew together. He was trying to be understanding. But he was still a Dragon.

“Young woman. I advise you not to take that tone with me. I walked this very ground before your master was born. He was a strong [Archmage]. But you can see how this accident is curtailing magic. Does the emergence of another world not change your opinions?”

The Truestone Golem looked at this stranger. Conflicted. How long had it been since someone asked that? Yes, she had opinions. But even she had forgotten that she had once exercised hers.

Then. But he came from a time before even then.

“Grand Magus, my master’s order remains. What is there to speak of?”

“Spoken like a good child. And you were, weren’t you?”

She shook with the shock of that statement. Eldavin’s old eyes were pitying again. He shook his head.

“Time has changed, Cognita of Wistram. I do not believe—no, I know that Zelkyr would not have created this test to last nearly a hundred and what, a hundred and fifty years? He would have replaced that Golem. Something has gone wrong.”

One of the Golems was…twitching…Cognita stared at it and it stopped. She thought—then fell back to a response.

“I will not answer speculation as to what lies above.”

Eldavin tugged at his beard, vexed by her obstinate response.

“Something is wrong. Perhaps I can help. Or not. Either way—this is a harsh request for a sentient being. I have known Djinni set to similar tasks. I wished to speak with you in friendship, not this way, young woman. Zelkyr—”

“Archmagus Zelkyr set me to this task, Eldavin of Izril. He will decide when I am to be relieved. Only his words, no one else’s.”

“And is he alive?”

The word cracked around the room. Silence resulted. Eldavin looked at Cognita. He took a breath; controlled his temper! He exhaled, slowly.

“Even so. Acknowledge for a moment, Miss Cognita, that this order is in error.”

“My master does not make errors.”

The half-Elf’s left eye twitched. He couldn’t let this one go.

“What a ridiculous statement.”

Cognita drew herself up. That was the wrong thing to say. Her eyes flashed ruby-red. Literally.

“Do you insult the Archmage of Golems?”

“I do! Or at least, I argue that he was not without flaw. Even Dragons are not without flaw!”

The half-Elf’s bold retort in front of the mightiest Golems present astonished her. He strode forwards and shoved a finger up at her.

“A dutiful daughter can go too far, young woman! You are not the Truestone Constructs who rebelled of old, but you would do well to be more independent than a Sentient—no, Autonomous-class Golem!”

Cognita reflexively gasped. It was such an old insult that she—reacted—

She hadn’t heard that kind of insult since—but the half-Elf wasn’t done. His ire was piqued, and he had a barbed tongue when he was mad.

“This entire test is a stupid idea, even if Zelkyr had just popped upstairs for a week of study! It’s selfish, close-minded—what was it for, to stifle the other Archmages from getting a head start? There’s plenty of room up there and danger even for every Archmage over the last thousand years! What about Archmage Chandler? Would you have blocked him?”

“That question is moot. Archmage Chandler is dead.”

“Hah—”

He caught himself and both stared at each other. Eldavin rushed on.

“—the point is that this is a ridiculous, power-grabbing move. Petty.”

“I warn you to retract your insult.”

Her eyes narrowed. She loomed. He snapped.

“Retract? Petty is what I meant! Drakes can be the most childish, petty creatures in existence! And it seems Zelkyr never rose to become more than the average Drake, in the end!”

“Enough!”

Her body turned to flashing lightning. A gem—Eldavin threw up a shield as thunder boomed. He stumbled back.

Cognita nearly advanced on him, but held herself back. Her body was shining crystal now. She pointed a finger at the half-Elf.

“You will not slander my master! He was an [Archmage]! Greatest of his kind! Without flaw or failure!”

Her wrath would have cowed even the Archmages. A being of her magnitude—the half-Elf looked up at her.

Without fear. Just a bit of sadness. And that stopped Cognita. He shook his head.

“No, he was not. He was a mortal man, child. You speak as if I was not there. I remember him. We both knew he failed at times. Or do you forget what happened to the first of your sisters at Rhir?”

He remembered. He had lived those times, same as her. That made Cognita hesitate. She listened, furious, hungry, as he went on.

“Zelkyr, greatest of his kind? He was a genius, yes. You are shaped by that vast intellect and imagination. But also, his flaw. That he left more genius than not in his creations is his greatest legacy.”

“You—cannot say this.”

More emotion than she had felt in a century was flooding through the Truestone Golem. What was this stranger? He waved a finger at her.

“Can I not? When did words become anathema to Wistram? See the issue, young woman? Listen to me, Cognita Amerwing. I see two truths here, and know not which it is. But I present to you both as I see it: if Zelkyr is alive, then this is a terrible, merciless, stupid and thankless charge put upon you.”

He pointed at the waiting Golems.

“He is wounded, or in need! Or has abandoned the world as Archmage Valeterisa did. Either way, you are more than a sentinel. You are Truestone, and you must choose to be more than this.”

He tapped the ground with one foot. Then looked up at her.

“The other answer is that he is dead. In which case, you protect a dead Drake’s final orders. But you are then free. And you must be more. Which is it? Which?”

His words echoed in this place. And they, at least, were nostalgic. Easiest of all the things he had said so far.

Countless [Mages] had stood here and told her the exact same thing. Even the Necromancer had urged her to…

But even her master’s old friend had not shifted her. Cognita drew herself up. She knew the truth of it. And held it within her as she replied.

“My master’s will remains his will. That is all I will say, Magus. Nothing will sway me.”

She felt…hollowly triumphant at being able to reply thusly. And what would the Grand Magus do? Rage? Insult her master?

He looked at her, and exhaled. Cognita waited. And Eldavin scared the hell out of her.

“So that’s how it is. I see.”

He shook his head. The Truestone Golem hesitated.

“What do you mean?”

“That’s my answer. Well then, young woman. I think we had both better cool down. I hope we can speak at another time…”

He began to walk around her. She blocked him, reflexively.

“You do not know the answer. I did not give it to you.”

He eyed her, almost amused.

“Child, I hate to tell you this—but you just did.”

She stared at him. It was a bluff. It had to be.

“That is impossible.”

No feature of hers had changed. She was impossible to read; even the Archmage of Death had asked her to know her feelings. Eldavin just snorted.

“Oh, impossible. You say that in Wistram? For shame.”

He prodded her in the stomach since he couldn’t reach any higher. The Truestone Golem recoiled. Eldavin snorted as he walked past her.

“I know how your kind behaves, young woman. I told you, I’m old. Even stone has a tell. When you are ready to be reasonable, come find me.”

He walked off. Cognita stared at his back. She raised her fist.

She had never wanted to hit an old half-Elf as much as now. And Feor had been in power for nearly eighty years. She slowly let him leave the floor…then walked out of the room. She found a room and punched through one of the walls.

—-

Eldavin was upset after the confrontation with Cognita. He hadn’t expected to be so—emotional. Maybe he’d given too much away, said too much. But it was like meeting a Djinni.

He sat in his rooms, trying to control his breathing, analyzing the event as impartially as he could.

And that was when it hit him. All of it. It came together in a moment of perfect clarity and genius.

His issue with Wistram, trying to shape it through his faction, the time limit—and now this.

The Dragon sat back and laughed. He went over, grabbed some cookies, all the gifts he’d been plied with, and began stuffing his face. He felt a weight lift off his shoulders.

That was how to do it. He recalled what Ryoka had begged of him.

Be active, be present. But halfway. Interfere, but not fully, but do it.

He had agreed with her, which is why he had come here. Because he could not sit after being provoked. Now—he saw the way forwards.

Cognita of Truestone was the most extraordinary being in Wistram, bar only himself of course. And people treated her like a glorified servant, or a simple guardian.

She was Truestone! Those blathering Archmages? The Council? Dust, compared to her!

She was perhaps the last of her kind, and if not, one of the last. Her people had been created, risen, and been destroyed. She had been created and become the first once more.

He knew them all. All the old names, that people had forgotten ever existed.

The Djinni were enslaved. Their children, the Jinn, had been wiped away.

The Harpies had lost their lands and hope.

The Giants were all but gone.

And the Dragons’ time was done. The last Dragonlord of Flame sat there, chewing on macaroons until one got caught in his mortal throat. He hacked it up and stared at the thing trying to kill him.

“The last of us should not be so petty and end so.”

He informed the macaroon, the room, the world. The Dragon rose. He stood, and left his rooms. He had work to do.

—-

Archmage Viltach opened his door as Eldavin stood in front of it. The Grand Magus looked a bit embarrassed.

“Archmage, I have a confession to make. I’m working on a new project, and I realize I’ve left some of my reagents at home. Could I borrow some mithril dust for runework?”

Eldavin had tried to get some, but been informed the [Merchants] weren’t stocking it as commonly as in the old days. So he’d gone inquiring. This was the [Mage] equivalent of asking for a cup of sugar.

“Of course.”

Viltach was only too happy to do a favor for Eldavin. He proudly found a vial.

“How much do you need? I have anything else you might need—”

“Could I trouble you for, oh, four pounds of processed magicore?”

Viltach’s fingers slipped as he opened one of his cases containing the valuable materials. Normal magicore? Fine. But processed? Four p—

“…Of course. And it’s quite good. Elemental-less, of course. 99% purity!”

He heard a snort from the doorway. Eldavin folded his arms.

“Everything’s 99%, Archmagus. What’s the actual purity?”

“Excuse me?”

The man froze with his hands on a jar, heavily sealed. Eldavin repeated himself.

“The actual purity? I’m talking the numbers after the decimal point.”

The numbers after…? Viltach’s mouth opened and closed.

“Er…zero?”

“Zero?”

Eldavin looked outraged. He muttered.

“You don’t pre-purify before using it? Well, fine. I’ll take six pounds then. Er…”

He saw Viltach’s face and caught himself. Eldavin’s eyes flickered. Then he smiled.

“—not that I don’t use 70%, er, pure magicore myself from time to time! It’s just that this is—the most intricate project. Can’t leave it to chance. Thank you.”

He took the six pounds of pure magicore. Viltach gulped at the small fortune as Eldavin shut the door. Then he hurried to check if…?

—-

“99% purity. Hah! Might as well use sawdust.”

Eldavin grumpily sprinkled some mithril dust he’d run through a few purification spells afterwards. He eyed the rune work and decided he was going to need a semi-contained world to practice this on. Shame he couldn’t make Truestone Golems himself, but he’d do tests.

It was going to take a long time, even for a Dragon. Well…not if he really worked at it. He grumblingly began to work on the formulas, wishing he could consult with his spellbooks.

He wasn’t that good at this kind of magic, and this was going to push even him. He wished he had even one damn Skill, but no…

Even so. This was the plan. This was true magic. And it would be his gift, from one of the last to the other.

Cognita. This was how he changed Wistram, and the world for the better. Wait, Ryoka Griffin. He just had to cast one spell and then he would let Wistram be. One spell.

The Dragon smiled to himself.

He was going to set her free.

8.07 L

(Flowers of Esthelm, Book 3 of The Wandering Inn is coming out on audible! Click the link here to preorder it! Spread the word!)

“…another defeat for the Dawn Concordat today, after a night-battle we were unable to broadcast. Details are still coming in, but the facts are the facts, isn’t that right, Miss Drassi?”

“Until we find out the facts were wrong, Sir Relz, yes.”

“Ahem. What we do know is that Ailendamus launched a surprise attack on the city of…‘Gerex’, am I pronouncing that right? With some kind of alchemical or magical explosive. Hence the sneak attack; our monitoring of the impending battlefield may have actually necessitated the event.”

“The real question is: did they do something that violates Terandria’s conduct of war, Sir Relz?”

“We have no proof to that indication, Miss Drassi—”

“Right. So why did they attack at night? Just the element of surprise?”

“It is a viable tactic to one versed in strategy, Miss Drassi.”

“Well, Sir Relz—to someone not versed in the art of war, poison gas spells seem like a violation of Terandria’s rules of war. But guess who used it?”

—-

Drassi and Sir Relz were not amiable co-hosts like Noass and Sir Relz were. But that just made for better television, so they got put together for the Ailendamus coverage.

People liked Drassi’s forked-tongue-in-cheek commentary. Other people, who sometimes overlapped with the first, appreciated Sir Relz’s perspective as someone who often linked events to ongoing economic or business factors, and had a working knowledge of adventurer teams, nations, and so on that Drassi lacked.

It was another defeat for the Dawn Concordat. Fair was fair; Ailendamus outnumbered the three nations in landmass, population, and every other factor except ‘number of royal [Princesses]’, ‘tamed Griffins’, or ‘half-Elf population’ in large ways.

However, analysts were quick to point out reasons for the failure or success on the part of the Dawn Concordat. Ailendamus was the established aggressor. They fielded multiple armies of high-quality troops, Greatbow artillery, [Mages], [Knights]—it was simplistic to say they were ‘average’, but perhaps ‘well-rounded without noticeable flaw’ was more appropriate.

They were hard to beat with cheap tactics, as a good army should be, unlike, say, specialized armies that were infantry-specific, or all-bow, and so on and so forth.

The Dawn Concordat was interesting. They had excellent archers from Gaiil-Drome, and half-Elf forces to call upon. Griffins from Kaliv, as well as goat-cavalry. And Calanfer had the Thronebearers as well as strong political strength—and six [Princesses], three of whom were married, as well as the Second Prince, so four strong alliances with nearby kingdoms.

However…some unique factors had entered the war.

The first was the immortal Griffin Prince of Kaliv, who had now slain three major officers in ambushes or full-out-assaults. The first attack had been notable, but he had still killed two more officers in incredible feats of non-mortal ability.

Dropped from the skies to slaughter an enemy command.

Challenging the enemy [General] to a duel and slaying him after eighteen ‘deaths’, despite the enchanted weapons and poisons brought to end him permanently.

And the last and most notable—adopting an Antinium war tactic. Emerging from the ground after having been buried there while the enemy camped, killing the enemy leader, and fleeing.

It was the kind of thing a depressed Anand could watch all day. The [Strategist] sat in a lump in the middle of blankets, with a bunch of Free Antinium, curled up, eating ‘ramen’, or the recipe Erin had once fed them.

Specialty noodles made of a non-flour substitute, thick and chewy. Flavored and seasoned hot water which you boiled them in, and added meat, egg, and bugs. Preparable in a large pot.

Imani had actually figured out the way to make it Antinium-edible. Squash could be noodled. Lentils could be noodled. Erin had been appalled by how many things could challenge the sanctity of regular noodles.

But she had come up with the idea, so Anand liked to remember it as it being ‘her’ ramen. She’d taught Garry and him and Pawn and Bird one happy, boring day. And he’d been shocked to realize that such happiness could grow boring compared to his old life.

Bird had added only turkey, goose, and chicken meat to his ramen. Anand went slurp as he watched the glowing scrying orb.

Yes, the Griffin Prince was extraordinary. The fact that he used Antinium-tactics made Anand…happy. Or intrigued or…something. He would have been that, rather.

If Erin weren’t dead and the world collapsed into meaningless oblivion.

But a surprising flaw had also emerged and it was the golden [Knights] of Calanfer. The Thronebearers.

They had lost battles because, when relied on for their martial might and to be the sledgehammer of the vanguard, they were more like a mallet. They were just…not…good.

And everyone was mocking them. From their fellow Orders to the [Strategist] commentators to the Drakes to…

“The Armored Antinium can be fielded in larger numbers than these elite [Knights]. And achieve the same, if not greater effect since they do not retreat as much as they do. This is my derision. I am mean. Ahaha.”

Anand spoke dully. Two of the Free Antinium huddled in the mass of blankets and food looked at him. Archer A11 slurped down a noodle. Goat nodded once.

The Free Antinium did not move. They just watched TV. Erin had said that was what one did when sad things happened. Blanket, TV, food. Anand had remembered it.

It didn’t help much. But it was something to do. The Free Antinium had been broken by the news—those in the Hivelands, that was. Belgrade and the [Crusaders] prepared for war.

But no one was testing boats here—other Antinium were doing it and doing a bad job. Anand refused to move, though.

Even when the Grand Queen poked him. She stared at the huddle of Antinium in her throne room, watching TV.

“Anand. Do you intend to spend another day in mourning?”

“Probably.”

The Grand Queen, on her mound in the center of the cavernous room, commanding the Antinium of Izril…stared down at Anand. She had tried threats, bullying, persuasion, waiting—it had not occurred to her to try to be nice. She opened and closed her mandibles.

“When will you finish this waste of time? It was one Human—”

Anand looked up. He met the Queen’s gaze. And the Custodium surrounding the Grand Queen stirred as he replied, openly, without a hint of subservience.

“It is not for you to tell me when to stop mourning, my Queen.”

The Queen saw him turn back to watching the scrying orb. After a minute, Goat turned up the volume. The Grand Queen opened and closed her mandibles as her antennae worked frantically. If he was not so necessary—the Free Antinium—

She just wished they’d stop watching in her throne room. It was getting distracting.

—-

“…Just don’t see how these Thronebearers are losing so badly. For [Knights], you’d expect some great strength. But we’re not seeing aura abilities, poison, unique mounts…really feels like Calanfer is letting down their alliance in terms of contributions so far.”

Commentary from a Balerosian [Strategist]. Who knew so much about the Thronebearers of Calanfer. If you knew them—

…

…You knew that was sort of accurate. The Thronebearers of Calanfer were not among the most militant [Knight] orders. The truth was, they were good on parade. They were excellent diplomats compared to many. They were large enough, numbering in the thousands; she had never actually known their numbers, but they were large for a [Knight] order. Maybe over ten thousand of them?

But they were not the most fantastic [Knights]. They had strong members…a few…but to see it now was to see their weakness.

And it hurt. It hurt, because the commentary was truthful and also inaccurate, but impossible to refute. More than that?

It was her home. And it hurt to see spectacle made of war threatening everything she had known.

Her kingdom.

Lyonette du Marquin could still not look away. And even now, on the last leg of her journey to Oteslia, after three—no, four days counting this morning—of almost non-stop riding in the enchanted carriage with Ferris, Wilovan, Ratici, and Saliss, she was still watching.

“Somewhat rude, that woman. They fought hard.”

Wilovan delicately adjusted his hat in the carriage. Perhaps he might have made a more indecorous remark in private company, but with the young lady so passionate about her kingdom and their protectors, a man had to choose his words.

Ratici nodded.

“Fellows fought hard and moved out when things were lost. Fight another day.”

The two Gentlemen Callers exchanged a glance as Lyonette didn’t look away from the glowing scrying orb. They felt like their tongues would have been better suited if they were silver. At least then, they’d have an excuse for not being encouraging. Not their strong suit.

On the other hand, the naked Drake lying across his entire half of the carriage on the padded seats—his front objectionably facing the sky, without a blanket for modesty—spoke without even an attempt at preserving anyone’s feelings.

“They suck. Lyonette. Hey, Lyonette. If I walked into their headquarters with all of them there, think I could take all of them on, or are they as bad as they look?”

He poked her in the leg. The carriage was not that large, and he used his tail with dexterity. The [Princess] didn’t reply…for about ten pokes.

Wilovan swatted the tail on poke eleven. Saliss gave him a look.

“Miss Marquin is having a…difficult day, sir. A bit of kindness isn’t unwarranted, a man should think.”

The Gnoll addressed Saliss stiffly. Saliss was…hard to enjoy when he was being Saliss. He could be a great friend. But there was such a thing as ‘too much’ of one person. Especially Saliss.

And they’d been cooped up in this carriage for four days. Saliss bared his teeth.

“Well, I’m a big believer in not lying…about hopeless causes. And they look pretty inept to me.”

Wilovan was just drawing breath when Lyonette muttered.

“The champion of their order hasn’t taken to the field. Fa—the [King] must be holding back all the high-level ones as well.”

All eyes swung to her. Ratici leaned over, in the midst of playing a version of solitaire with himself—and getting annoyed since he was making Ratici’s life harder by cheating.

“Their champion?”

“They call him the Lightherald of Calanfer.”

For a moment, she was far away. Far away—and back in time. And she was in Calanfer.

Home. Oh, but it had been so long, despite being less than a full year! A lifetime ago.

And now she remembered it, it was as the Lyonette of now. Not the Lyonette who walked around calling people ‘peon’ and being used to servants and being so constantly, secretly miserable.

She remembered the Eternal Throne of Calanfer. She remembered her family and how she had acted. She was ashamed.

Nostalgic.

And fearful for this war. Because she knew Terandrian politics. She knew Ailendamus.

They won’t destroy Calanfer, even if the Dawn Concordat loses. They’ll just make them subservient. Father wouldn’t give in even if the armies were at the gates of the palace. He’s cunning. He’ll sign a deal…the other kingdoms won’t allow the Dawn Concordat to just vanish. Some land taken, vassalization—not be destroyed or the crowns eradicated.

But what if Ailendamus just decides to take everything? Who will stop them?

To prevent the fears rising up in her chest—as if she needed more—Lyonette spoke. The coach was quiet; Ferris drove in the front, and it was muffled. The windows were shut, and Lyonette looked at an image.

A shining [Knight] in armor. The first time he had walked into the throne room and knelt, the radiance of his aura had made the child wonder. She had thought her father commanded the greatest of warriors the world had ever seen.

The thousandth time, she was tired of the pageantry. The ten thousandth…

“The Lightherald of Calanfer? Never heard of him. Is he good?”

Ratici saw Wilovan try to kick Saliss’ tail. The [Alchemist] twitched it out of the way. Lyonette shook her head, smiling bitterly.

“It’s not one person, Saliss. It’s a royal title. And it’s a trick. My f—”

She hesitated. Then gave up. Wilovan, Ratici, Saliss…knew. She hadn’t been good with her guise.

“My father, King Reclis…has a Skill. He bestows the power of Calanfer on his chosen [Knight] and they gain a powerful aura. Skills.”

[Boon of the Throne]. That was why she knew her own boon Skill, had been so enamored of it. She knew the true power. Saliss sat up slightly.

“Oh. Interesting. And you said there are higher-level [Knights]?”

“Yes. Thronebearers get auras of light. Blinding, and they have enchanted armor. Good enchantments…I thought so. But father won’t commit them until he has to.”

“Seems like Kaliv is in trouble.”

Lyonette shook her head. It looked like that, but…

“Those are low-lying cities. Once Ailendamus besieges the higher-altitude settlements—that’s when the danger begins. Or if they try to push through the passes.”

“Ah. Then perhaps the news is exaggerating the situation, Miss Marquin?”

Wilovan suggested. Lyonette looked at him. Then at the orb.

“No. They’re in trouble.”

She bowed her head. The carriage fell silent, even Saliss. Then…Lyonette felt the momentum slow for the first time that day.

“Passengers, Miss Marquin, Adventurer Saliss and company—we have arrived at Oteslia at last.”

Ferris’ deeply relieved voice sounded via the embedded speaking stone in the wall of the coach. Lyonette pulled down the window.

Oteslia at last. She stared at the City of Growth and the central, vast tree behind the walls. Around the overgrown walls, covered in massive vines, she saw the Walled City was surrounded by a vast…moat? No, a lake in truth. Defense and water source.

Countless floating rafts seemed to be semi-permanently stationed here. Lyonette saw birds—so many of them—flying about. Animals, on the walls themselves! And in the sky, among the smaller fliers—

Pegasi. Oldblood Drakes, too. She stared at the Walled City known for its agriculture and forgot about Calanfer for a moment. For here—

She had come here to bring back a friend. A member of her family in Liscor.

For hope. It had been too long already. Saliss sighed as he leaned out the window.

“About time. I thought you said this coach was fast. We’re not tipping!”

Ferris turned and gave the Drake a look.

—-

Four days to Oteslia from Pallass was incredibly fast. You were going down the main roads, true, which cut down on dangers like monster attacks or bandits, but only an enchanted carriage could dream of doing that.

It was a good part of the south! So, Ferris being part of the best travelling company in all of Izril had seemed like a stroke of luck.

The one stroke of luck in the midst of the worst thing ever.

—-

Before.

Lyonette du Marquin sat with Mrsha. Holding her. She was weeping—but she had long since plumbed the depths of that well.

“Why? Why now? Why—”

Why like that? Hectval? Of all the things…

Numbtongue sat on the hill. Mrsha didn’t move. Bird had locked himself in his room. Everyone was grieving.

Erin lay in the [Garden of Sanctuary] and only a miracle would cure her.

So a miracle the [Princess] had to find. It had not been easy. She spent days grieving. Hoping…but none came.

She said goodbye to Mrsha, even though it was like tearing at her chest with a barbed hook. She begged the Gentlemen Callers for aid—but they gave it without even naming a price.

She went to Saliss. He was already preparing to leave himself.

“We’ll go together, then.”

Lyonette had gone to Ferris, relieved. She had gotten in the carriage and…left.

Left her daughter behind.

Left the inn, and Erin lying there.

Left, promising to return, carrying all the gold she could take, chasing madness.

An antidote? A potion to cure mortal wounds and a frozen body? A means to unfreeze Erin while keeping her from dying completely?

Geneva Scala had written the problem, not the method. She had been frank about the odds. But Lyonette had seen no other way, no other place to go than Oteslia. The Healer of Tenbault? She knew the odds of getting in there.

She had cried, missing Mrsha on the first night they camped. The second night, the third…

She was on the fourth day. Lyonette felt naught but guilt at how Mrsha had begged her to stay. But it was dangerous. She had to hurry. Hurry, to find a panacea.

—-

Now.

The Eternal Throne of Calanfer—the official name for the crown and capital city of Calanfer—was a wondrous place.

Lyonette compared every great feat of architecture to it; she had never had to in Liscor because, er…there was no competition.

But now, seeing Oteslia, an overgrown wonder for any [Druid] or a nightmare for a [Gardener], in front of her, she had to compare it to Calanfer.

And everywhere was found wanting.

She had gone through First Landing. She had left Pheislant, but seen the palace from afar, and gone to dances and gatherings in other nations.

Nowhere was as fine, as majestic, as…amazing as Calanfer. They were comparable in other ways; Invrisil was a wonderful trading city. Pallass, one of the great Walled Cities of old, and so on.

But Calanfer was built out of, on top of, something that had existed perhaps before Pallass itself. It was a kind of open secret; no one talked about it directly, but most royal families probably knew, and especially the ruling one of Calanfer.

The Eternal Throne was, in fact, a Dragonthrone, one of the ancient seats of power used by Dragons in eras when there were Dragonlords.

A relic—no Dragonthrone was alike, some were contained worlds, others had apparently been mobile, according to the legends—Calanfer had been founded on one. Of course, people knew the throne was magic.

How could you not stare at the golden staircase ascending to the heavens, the great dais where you walked on air until you came to the Eternal Throne and knelt before the [King] of Calanfer and [Queen]?

What they forgot was that the Dragonthrone was more than…the throne. And in fact, the ‘Eternal Throne’ was built for Humans, and the entire dais was in fact the original throne, altered for the new rulers.

They forgot that…everything was the Dragonthrone. For more than one Dragon had been meant to sit in conclave, or as guests.

So when you marveled about Calanfer’s streets, the nigh-indestructible inner city, carved of shining rock and metal and the comparatively paltry outer city, but founded on the glowing roads and walkways that invigorated you just to tread upon? When you gazed upon the six gates to the city, each fortified with dread magic?

…Those had been thrones. The buildings had been constructed out of other thrones, and the roads had been part of the Dragonthrone. The power that made those gates so dangerous to assail, the power in the throne?

The Dragonthrone’s original power, taken.

Lyonette had been shocked to learn that. She had always assumed the place had been made by half-Elves, Dwarves, great Human [Masons] of old. The truth was painful, especially because every Calanfer citizen visited the Eternal Throne and the city once in their lives.

It was like becoming an adult. Until you had seen the wonder of the city, knelt before the monarch and known your kingdom was made of greatness the likes of which other kingdoms could not aspire to—you had not known your homeland.

That was why Calanfer’s people were devoted, the [Knights] even named ‘Thronebearers’. There were even laws about spitting or emptying chamber pots in the streets. The Eternal Throne was kept clean and you could be beaten by law—or just by anyone who saw you at the time.

So. Compared to that, Oteslia was…different. The untidy greenery of it all, the rampant nature actually offended Lyonette’s sensibilities at first. Who would let those gigantic roots and vines cover the walls?

But then she saw it as the world’s greatest garden and had to respect that. Especially since Oteslia could feed all six Walled Cities in times of need and produced every variety of herb, root, plant, and many livestock animals you could name. And hopefully—all the things needed to counteract Hectval’s poison.

“You can cure it, can’t you?”

The four passengers had disembarked to stretch as Oteslia came into view. They saw the ‘bridge’ to the Walled City was in fact similar to Liscor’s. Floating wooden structures that could be sunk.

“I could cure it if she was up. I have six antidotes that worked on the sample you gave me.”

Saliss was slowly gyrating his hips—then stretching one arm over his body, the next—some of the people in vehicles exiting or entering the city were staring.

“And you didn’t mention that because…?”

The Drake saw Lyonette’s stare. He shrugged.

“None of them work on frozen bodies. That’s my problem, Lyonette. I’ve never had to apply something to an ice cube.”

“Don’t call Erin that!”

Lyonette was shocked by the flippant tone in his voice. But one look at Saliss’ eyes made her stop. He grinned; the grin never reached his pupils.

“Fine. Ice-girl. Better?”

Wilovan shifted. He hadn’t noticed Saliss’ eyes, and the trick of reading him there. Erin had taught that to Lyonette; she noticed stuff like that.

Wilovan and Ratici, though, were so unlike Saliss. Criminals, but honorable ones. And Saliss was so different from Lyonette…

What a motley crew. Lyonette shook her head. The only normal person was Ferris, and she felt bad for the poor Gnoll. He’d been carrying them here at a very reasonable price.

“Ferris? We’re ready to go.”

The water-bridge was large enough for multiple vehicles on the left-hand side to roll in, while ones on the right came out. There was little delay, but no one was zooming across the deep, deep lake. That gave Lyonette plenty of time to eye the curious floating objects on the water.

They looked like rafts, at first. But when she looked closer she realized.

“Saliss. You’ve been to Oteslia before, yes?”

“Yup. My second—no, third-most visited city. First is Pallass, second’s Manus. Third is Oteslia, fourth is Salazsar for gemstones. Fifth is Fissival, sixth is Zeres.”

Lyonette hadn’t asked for his ranking. She saw he was sticking his butt out the carriage window, mooning the passing people to let his tail swing in the breeze.

“…Why are you doing that?”

“Because they’re screaming at me. What’s your question, Lyonette?”

He grinned. The [Princess] had forgotten. She listened to Drakes shouting insults at Ferris and Saliss, then stared out the lakeside window. Wilovan was looking at Ratici and the Drake was shrugging.

“Oh, yes. What are those floating rafts? They look…no one’s living on them, or fishing. Well, some are.”

Saliss popped back onto her side. He peered out and Lyonette pointed to Gnolls and Drakes on the rafts. They weren’t really…paddling. Some were fishing, but that seemed like a secondary thing to their main occupation. He grinned.

“Ah, yes. Those are [Farmers].”

“[Farmers]?”

“Mhm. They’re using floating gardens. Never seen one before? Look, I think some are harvesting.”

Indeed, now he explained it, it all made sense. Lyonette saw them tending to crops sewn into floating gardens! The rafts were made of dried roots, or something buoyant, and the soil held evenly-spaced crops which loved water. The fishing [Farmers] were actually on their breaks.

“That’s ingenious!”

“Yep. That’s Oteslia for you. If someone grew something, they found out how to do it. See? The floating beds aren’t the only lakeside agriculture. They have fisheries along the edges and from the city. And there—that’s where all the rice in Izril comes from so we don’t import it from Baleros.”

He pointed to paddies along the lake. Lyonette peered at the submerged rice growing there.

Paddies, floating raft-gardens—and they hadn’t even entered the City of Growth. She shook her head.

“We—haven’t talked much about Oteslia.”

“Too busy mourning. Well, I’m here so I’ll be your guide until we find someone better.”

“You know your way around? And you’ll help us?”

The Named-rank Adventurer looked at Lyonette. He hesitated, opened his mouth to make a flippant remark, and sighed.

“Yes. I have to buy a lot of my stock since I’m out of potions. But yes. It won’t be easy, you know. I don’t have a lot of weight in Oteslia; even the old man doesn’t. Different cities, different rules, and Pallass fights Oteslia as much as helps it.”

He meant Chaldion. Lyonette nodded.

“I’ll do whatever it takes. But do you know where to start?”

Saliss scratched at his head. He turned his dusky yellow scales to catch the light.

“I think I do. I don’t have a lot of weight…but I do have some contacts. I just hope I don’t annoy them, showing up relatively unannounced. Tact, people. Let’s remember decorum and politeness while we’re at a new city. Obviously.”

Lyonette, Wilovan, and Ratici stared at Saliss. The [Alchemist] stared out the window, deliberately oblivious.

They were already doomed.

—-

It was an interesting time in Oteslia. The city was at war with the Walled City of Zeres.

…But then, it had been for months now. And the enemy armies were fighting sporadically to the south. Mercenary forces doing most of the work.

It was mostly the expense that had people groaning. But Zeres was trying to impose tariffs on exported produce, so what could you do but go to war? Drake city politics.

More of actual note was Magnolia Reinhart’s arrival to Oteslia. She had landed at Zeres two days ago, and already entered the City of Growth. Now, the gathering at Oteslia was attracting attention.

People were arriving to meet the first member of the Five Families to walk in the south for centuries. Not all as her ally.

To say it was troublesome was to underplay the First Gardener’s migraine. And she had at least one per week. She took all kinds of medicinal aids.

Pills, supplements, medicine—it was an ongoing struggle the last four Gardeners had suffered from.

The problem was that healing potions healed wounds. Mental pain—or migraines brought on by stress—were harder to solve. You could drug yourself into not feeling it, but how could you work?

Effective painkillers—she gulped down a pill from the isles of Drath she’d used her meager budget to purchase and grimaced.

Barely effective. But it did do something. The First Gardener, Shaerrha Brasswing, suffered on. She had lots to do. This Magnolia Reinhart had brought trouble; of course she’d known the Five Families could be dangerous, but this was more than she’d bargained for. The Serpentine Matriarch, already at odds with Oteslia, was holding a grudge. And all these dignitaries from abroad, as well as the Meeting of Tribes bringing a lot of foreign trade to the city—

Oteslia was closest to the Gnoll Plains, and thus actually in a position to benefit—or suffer if the Meeting of Tribes brought conflict.

So, Magnolia, Zeres, Gnoll tribes—and that was only the big stuff. There were the [Strategists] with their wounded friend still attracting [Bounty Hunters] after their artifacts, aftereffects of the Golden Triangle scam, which had impoverished the poorest of the Walled City’s citizens, the Demon’s Curse…

And always, always, the cause of her migraines, her stress, and yes, affection and pride at times, her adopted son.

Cire. Cirediel Anvi’dualln Olicuemerdn, to be precise.

The Dragon of Oteslia, the boy—not yet grown, not for another century—who was the reason the First Gardeners had a lifespan twenty years shorter than average. Stress.

And it wasn’t just the First Gardener who had to deal with Cire, oh no. She just had to clean up after his messes, and act as his mother.

The real challenge was faced by the people on the front, the unsung heroes who worked every day.

—-

Mivifa Selifscale, Named Adventurer of Oteslia, spent up to an hour in front of the vanity every morning.

Which was ironic because her careful attention to the makeup, copious expenditure on potions and creams and other beauty products wasn’t for her—not really. She grimaced as she checked for grey in her scales; added a bit of color here, tried to remove some wrinkles here.

The Oldblood of Feathers, as she was known, was a famous adventurer. She could sprout wings of feathers due to her connection with her Pegasi companion. She was the highest-level [Beast Master]-[Rider] adventurer in all of Oteslia, perhaps all of Izril now that Tritel, the Moonlight Rider, was dead.

It gave her no pleasure to hear of his death. She thought about that, and Ci, the horse part of the duo. What was happening to her?

When she had time, she’d head north and check. But Mivifa was one of the types of adventurers who was always busy. No cycle of extreme danger and then long relaxation for her, like some who had made it to the top.

Every day she had something to do. And that something began the moment she finished her scrupulous routine.

Unlike Humans, sagging skin wasn’t really a Drake thing. No, it was discolored scales—wrinkles did appear, in a sense—but also just how your neck spines were, the vibrancy of color.

It sometimes shocked people who got to know her how much the Oldblood of Feathers spent on beauty products, especially those to make her young. But as quirks for Named Adventurers went, it was a mild one. Most had some weird flaw or obsession; so what if the female Drake wanted to look like she was still in her twenties, despite being twice that age? Let it be. She was responsible, without scandal, and a hero of her city.

The truth was, Mivifa would have done away with all the beauty products and time spent if she could.

But it wasn’t for her.

So, Mividel Maxiclaw, no relation to the Named Adventurer, Silver-rank in her twenties, exited her relatively modest apartment an hour after waking. And stretching; you had to stretch. She already knew someone would be waiting for her.

“Mivi, what’s on the wing?”

A Drake folded his arms and leaned against the doorway. It was the kind of lean with attitude. He spoke casually, without formality; his neck-spines were oiled back, and he had on a trendy jacket and shorts. He was Oldblood; his wings were long and vermillion, like his scales.

“Fetale, I was just monking out over breakfast. I am good to fly today. Where’s Cire?”

The Drake raised one thumb-claw, using the common vernacular of Oteslia’s youth, despite not having wings herself. The other male Drake, Fetale, made a psht sound.

“How should I know? He’s circling. I figured we’d meet up at the Root—see what’s what.”

Mivi nodded. They leaned on the balcony of her apartment. After a moment, they both saw that Mivi’s neighbor, a female Drake in her late thirties, was sweeping her porch. She had systematically winced her way through the entire greeting and was giving them a side-eye. She hurried inside after a moment.

Mividel…sagged after a moment. She looked around, checking the skies, and after a moment shuffled over to Fetale.

“Where is he actually?”

Cire. Fetale dropped the casual lounge-maneuver, which took a lot of practice and was actually straining on the back. He rubbed at his shoulders.

“Morning fly with some of the actual kids. We’ve got eyes on him. We’re meeting at the Root to hang out.”

“Got it.”

Mividel sighed. That was her actual name; Mivifa was the alias, the Named Adventurer. She ‘lived’ in this apartment, unlike the very nice, much more sumptuous one she had in the upper part of the city. But she had gone out that door in full youth-mode.

Just in case he was there, as he sometimes was. She nodded.

“Let’s slide on down to the Root, then.”

She was trying. But Fetale caught her before they headed onto the street.

“Mivi. I can’t do this anymore.”

She looked at the other ‘young’ Drake. Fetale could have been…nineteen. Or—if you looked past his glossy scales, his trendy dress for anyone still in their teens, and looked at him—

Thirty.

Mividel was older than her neighbor, and she knew the other Drake had long-since figured it out. Oteslia’s Treewatch had probably spoken to her and let her know…everything, if she didn’t just know already.

That one look had made Mivi feel old. She stared at Fetale.

“What do you mean, Fetale? Today or…?”

Her heart sank as the Drake leaned on the balcony. He stared down at the street, with genuine, 100% actually young people, and older ones, mingling, going about their day.

“This, Mivi. I can’t do it. I was doing my appearance this morning and I looked myself in the eye. It all just…fell apart.”

“Don’t do that. Listen, Fetale—”

“No. I’m serious. Mivi—I can’t be you. I gave it my best shot. But I’m thirty, and my wife is talking about a family. She knows the job, but…am I supposed to tell her to wait another decade? Five years? Please. I need out.”

This was the conversation she hated to have. And it had looked like…well, this was setting the tone for her morning. Mivifa—Mividel—Mivi—chewed on her lip for a second, and then realized she might be ruining the gloss.

“Fine. I get it, Fetale. But—four—six months. Six months, alright? We’ll phase you out. You can even bring up settling down. Starting tomorrow, start easing back on the makeup. Got it?”

He gave her a relieved smile, and a guilty one.

“Thank you, Mivi. I’m sorry. I thought I could keep doing it. It’s just…”

Silently, she patted him on the arm.

“It’s fine. We’ll put you on surveillance, or one of the non-contact jobs. But you get to find your replacement, or train one, huh?”

He groaned. Then—checked the position of the sun.

“We’d better take wing. Root’s just opening and you know Cire’ll be there. And he doesn’t wait.”

Mivi knew it full well. He might wait for her—but why risk it? She and Fetale hurried down into the street. There they moved at a jog. Sprightly. Youthful.

She was the only one who had done it for this long. Everyone else had…quit. Fetale was actually fairly long for his job. Ten years—no, fourteen, really—since he’d been recruited. And he had been a deliberate choice. Mividel had been an accident. Her becoming Named Adventurer had also been—well—accidental. But she was ideally placed, such that the First Gardener relied on her and she essentially commanded the Treewatch’s branch in this area.

But how much longer could she be Cire’s friend? She and Fetale were old, and growing older. At least, compared to the people they were hurrying to meet.

There they were, about eleven Drakes, two Gnolls, all sitting, around four tables at the Root, a popular hangout for younger people in Oteslia. Mivi recognized them all; two more planted individuals like her and Fetale; the rest actual kids.

Four unpredictable ones. Those not in the know, or not trustworthy. She grimaced. It might be a rough day.

She, Fetale, and the two Drakes who casually called out to her, had a class in common. Mivi was a [Beast Master], a [Pegasus Flier]…

And an [Actor]. The class had existed before the Players of Celum. She slid over, actually sliding on her claws.

“Hey, people. What’s growing? I miss anything?”

“Mivi!”

A loud voice called out. Mividel turned, and in the center of the gaggle of teens was…him. The young Drake, who could have been seventeen, lounging around with all the others, at home, and not acting.

The one who never changed. The reason for the Gardener’s headaches, Mivi’s strange circumstances.

A beautiful young man—boy. Something in between. His scales were brown and purple and green, blending across his body. He was apparently Oldblood; he had full wings, and could spit an acid. But that was to trivialize what he was.

Among the other Drakes, even ones naturally gifted with beauty or extraordinary athleticism, he stood out. He was so handsome it hurt, and he never seemed to run out of energy.

He was Cirediel—but everyone called him Cire. Son of the First Gardener.

Dragon of Earth.

“Yo, Cire.”

Mivi slid into a seat he’d kept waiting for her. Cire, her best friend, grinned at her.

“Took you long enough! You’re never up when we are for the mornings!”

He teased her. Mivi grinned.

“You know me. I eat breakfast, Cire.”

And I can’t wake up at dawn anymore, especially if I have to do my makeup. Fetale just jerked his chin at Cire, too cool for greetings. Cire copied it.

“Went for a fly since we were all wearing wings. We were talking about what’s going next. Thought we might go see if we can get out the gates. The Meeting of Tribes is what’s what, and everyone’s talking about mad sights. What’s your thought?”

Mivi grimaced, but only inwardly. She glanced around casually and saw a covert claw-sign from one of the other plants.

The Drake with her leg up on the table, leaning back, had given Mivi the sign. Necla—with dyed neck-spines, the tips of her wings painted to almost resemble claws; oh, and her actual claws too. She looked like she spent half her time running with a gang, and the serving staff of the Root were glaring at her. She’d added a spiked collar, another fashion trend, and she had ‘bite me’ scrawled on one arm over her scales.

Anyone could have reasonably assumed this was a teen in the height of rebellion, like many of the people Cire surrounded himself with. And they did have Necla’s look. What made the Drake stand out was that she was twenty six, a decorated [Wing Lieutenant], and extremely serious in actuality.

The covert sign meant that this was not a planted idea. Mivi glanced around and saw a young Drake with crimson scales and black wings smirking and nodding at a Gnoll she didn’t know.

Great, Cire’s made more friends. The Dragon boy did so easily; he was popular in the city, famous, and likable. But it did complicate things.

“You want to go over the walls, Cire, my guy? Your mother will tear up. Twice.”

Fetale jumped in before Mivi. Cire scoffed.

“Her? I don’t follow her rules. We could fly to the Meeting of Tribes, get back—no one notices. What do you think, Mivi?”

He looked at her. The Drake swept back her neck spines in a practiced, bored motion.

“You want to fly all the way to the Meeting of Tribes, Cire? That’s like…miles. Dozens and dozens. And I’m not flying there.”

“Oh, come on. You’ve got Fessi—”

He meant her Pegasus. Mividel was still a [Pegasus Flier], one who was a Silver-rank adventurer. Fiction was based on fact. But the Drake just leaned back as she grabbed for a morning tart as a platter was brought around. Everyone tried to snag a snack.

“Please, Cire. You want to fly all the way there when there’s better glamour to be had here? I’m not monking for hours just to stare at a few stalls for an hour or two before we have to get back.”

“That’s what’s what. I say we wing about the lakes. See what we can get into locally. You want excite? Check the bazaars; Gnolls’ll come here to sell.”

Necla added. Mivi jerked her head at her. Good timing.

The three voices made Cire hesitate.

“That’s a good point. Hey Melt—no-go on the Meeting of Tribes. Maybe if something interesting is there.”

“Aw, come on, Cire. It’s amazing!”

Melt, the Drake who’d suggested it, was actually young. He glanced at Mivi, annoyed, and pointed to the horizon.

“They’ve got a Named Adventurer there! The Stargnoll and her team! And it only happens every twenty years! You’re saying you don’t want to see that?”

Cire hesitated. He cast a glance at Mivi, then relaxed.

“Named Adventurer? Oteslia’s got two—no, three coming in and out. And I’ve met one. They’re boring as Dullahans.”

“No way. You’re rogueing with me.”

“Am not.”

The Earth Dragon flicked one wing.

“Met Mivifa the Oldblood last year. My m—my old woman had her over. Stuffy and boring as you can get.”

“Aw. Really? I heard she was cool.”

“You think that, but she wouldn’t even fly with me.”

Mivi relaxed, nodding along, feeling a surreal sensation creep down her back. Cire thought he knew ‘her’, but that was an [Actress] who had played in for Mivi.

All was going well. These rogue elements, ‘Melt’ and the two Gnolls, plus the Drake girlfriend of one of the two Gnolls, weren’t interfering too much. That was when it happened.

“Besides, the Meeting of Tribes isn’t that rare. I’ve known like…four that took place. We can always go to the next one.”

Melt frowned. Around the table, half the people stirred. The other half just blinked.

“What are you talking about, Cire? It’s every twenty years.”

“Nah, it’s not. It’s…”

Cire frowned. His eyes flickered. Before he could say or do anything, Necla lifted her foot, and smacked it on the table.

All the dishes jumped. Everyone stared at her as she rocked onto her feet.

“I’m bored as a Dullahan. You lot going to monk about Gnoll events? No offense—but Cire probably remembers some other random gathering. You know his memory’s shot.”

“Hey!”

Cire feinted a punch at her shoulder. Everyone laughed, and some of the Gnolls chuckled.

“Tribes, they’re always gathering and meeting. I can’t fly and unless someone’s carrying me, I say let’s scatterbrain and see what’s what.”

To Mivi’s relief, one of the City Gnolls echoed Necla’s statement. Cire leapt to his feet. He crammed another tart into his mouth.

“Sounds good. Let’s see the bazaar, though!”

Mivi hopped to her feet and felt a twinge in her back. Gah! Posture! She frowned at the tarts. They’d have to get another [Chef] if he kept having breakfasts like this. One who could incorporate something better than jam, sugar, and bread into the snack-foods.

One minor crisis averted. She checked the others to see if they were thinking about the Meeting of Tribes comment Cire had let slip, but she didn’t think it was a huge issue. She nodded to Fetale and Necla. Then she strode after Cire.

It was hard. Harder than being a Named Adventurer—well, not trying to fight Wrymvr. She’d been laid out with a flu for the last two weeks, and so had had to be with Cire after that. He’d been worried about her.

This was her job. As long as she could do it, she would. But she was forty four. She couldn’t do this another century.

Oh. Mivi closed her eyes. And for a second, she was a young Drake again.

And he had never changed. Cire ran down the street, laughing, jumping and gliding down a staircase.

He didn’t change. Not since she was eleven and met the cool, older Drake and wanted to inspire his respect. And then realized he didn’t grow taller. That some of the older Drakes and Gnolls were…off.

That was why Fetale and the others quit. Not just because they got too old. But because it hurt to move at different speeds through time.

—-

Oteslia, the Walled City of Growth, had four gates you could enter through the lake over bridges. Lyonette was anxious; but she knew the city was vast, and they might need to be here a while.

But she’d go home to Liscor and Mrsha after two weeks, bring them here if she had to. She checked the gold in her bag of holding, her enchanted artifacts, and saw that even Saliss was making concessions to this foreign city.

He had put on pants. Not any upper garments, but some alchemy-stained pants.

“What? I’m not in Pallass and I can’t spend a week in jail.”

He grinned as he inserted his tail through the hole in the Drake-style pants. Lyonette looked at Wilovan and Ratici.

“You couldn’t have put those on during the four days it took to get here?”

“I could have. But why would I do that?”

Anyways, he was an asset, an asset. Lyonette reminded herself of that as the carriage stopped. The Drakes and Gnolls were speeding people through the gate after stopping them for only a few seconds. When it came to them—a problem arose.

“Let’s see…Izril’s Wonders, right. Passengers?”

“Four.”

The [Guard] did a bored head-sweep. He blinked at Lyonette, but took it in stride. He nodded, stepped back; he’d been holding a gemstone. He consulted it—then did a double-take. He stared at the passengers.

It must have been an artifact-scanner or something to detect magic-levels because he seemed to perk up a bit. He blinked at them again, and then held up a claw.

Quickly, with practice, he rifled open a small flipbook of loose papers. It looked like…

“Ah. That would be bounties and warning illustrations.”

Wilovan murmured. Lyonette…looked at him.

“As in, for criminals?”

“Killers, famous [Thieves], and so on.”

Ratici nodded. Lyonette stared at the [Gentleman Thief]. Ratici adjusted his cap.

“And you didn’t think to…?”

“Miss Marquin. We are an upstanding lot!”

Wilovan looked hurt. And indeed, the [Guard] went through the flipbook, checked them again, this time tapping another amulet, and saw that they weren’t under an illusion—and didn’t match his papers.

“Very good. Sorry, everyone, random security check. But you seem…good to go.”

Lyonette exhaled. She had been worried about herself as much as…she smiled and then the [Guard] held out a claw.

“I just need to see your travel documents.”

Saliss…blinked. Wilovan, Ratici, and Lyonette, stirred. They stared at Ferris through the sliding door gap. The Gnoll slowly hunched his shoulders.

“…Shit.”

—-

The problem was—and this was most embarrassing to Ferris—he’d planned on taking Erin to Manus. In which case he wouldn’t have had a problem.

But he and Saliss had forgotten since they had little need to deal with basic travel. They were a special agent and Named Adventurer, respectively.

The [Watch Sergeant] came over to see what the holdup was as the Oteslian [Guard] spoke to Lyonette as if she was mad.

“…You have a passport, Miss, don’t you? I assume your travel grade is at least Grade-2 to request official transport? Izril’s Wonders is an established company.”

“Of course it is. But—we weren’t asked for a passport when we hired the carriage.”

Now all eyes were on Ferris. The [Watch Sergeant] frowned.

“I will investigate this with Izril’s Wonders, Miss. They need to check documentation. You, [Driver]. Your name?”

Ferris was cursing to himself as he produced his documents. The [Sergeant] turned to Lyonette and smiled apologetically.

“This appears to be a simple error in produce. In that case, may I see your Grade-1 passport, Miss?”

She visibly hesitated. The Gnoll [Sergeant] paused.

“You do have some passport, Miss? What Drake city did you come in from?”

“Well—we came from the north.”

“Past Pallass? And you didn’t stop at any city along the way? Really.”

The [Sergeant] gestured and more Oteslian [Guards] sauntered over. That was a bad cover story. Any Drake city she entered would have issued her at least a Grade-1 passport.

“I—did not know I needed a passport. But I can prove I came from Pallass. I would like to send a [Message] to someone who can vouch for my authenticity, if I may.”

Chaldion? Grimalkin? Lyonette’s mind was racing. The [Sergeant] just raised her brows.

“If you entered Pallass, miss, you would have been issued a passport. I think this calls for an investigation.”

She felt a tug at her arm. The first [Guard] whispered in her ear. Inside, Lyonette was looking at Wilovan and Ratici, who had…tensed a bit at the word ‘investigation’.

“Sarge—it’s high-quality artifacts. They didn’t fit any of the wanted posters, so I was just going to mark them and let them through, but…”

She grimaced. This was getting hairier by the second and it was the morning. She was just about to tell everyone to step out slowly, when the door opened.

She recoiled as a Drake wearing only pants emerged. She lifted her spear and the other [Guards] hefted their weapons, but he shoved something at her.

“Saliss of Lights. Hi, this Human’s with me.”

The [Sergeant] blinked. Then she stared at the mithril-plated card, glowing magical writing, and her eyes went round. One of the [Guards] made a sound.

“Named Adventurer—hold on. Someone get me a Glass of Identification. Excuse me—”

Five minutes later, the [Sergeant] completed the check. She handed the card back and bowed.

“Adventurer Saliss! Your identity checks out. Please excuse us—you’re free to enter the city. The other passengers, though…”

She looked into the carriage. Saliss reached out and casually unhooked the door.

“Funny story. They actually came from Liscor via Pallass. Magic door. So they never went through the gates.”

“Liscor?”

The Gnoll was blank. But one of the [Guards] had heard about it.

“They’ve got some kind of teleportation door, [Sergeant]. It might have actually happened.”

“That’s a violation in protocol. And Liscor doesn’t issue travel documents?”

“They haven’t really had to in centuries.”

She tsked.

“Well, in that case…we’ll go through Pallass and confirm this. The driver’s in trouble either way. I’m sorry for the confusion, Adventurer Saliss. Are these passengers acquaintances of yours? It won’t take more than a few hours if all is in order.”

He nodded reasonably.

“I get that. However, I’m Saliss.”

She hesitated as she went to unlatch the doors.

“Yes, sir, you are. Free to go…”

She reached out and he stepped in front of her.

“But I’m Saliss.”

“Yes, Adventurer?”

She stared at him. He gestured at the passengers. He spoke slowly, as if to try and get the words to sink in.

“They’re with me. And I vouch for them. And I’m Saliss.”

She replied, just as slowly, as if talking to a child or an extremely fragile person they were having to stop.

“Yes, Adventurer Saliss. But there’s protocol…”

“And I’m Saliss. They’re with me. Why don’t you contact Pallass now?”

He smiled. Lyonette, in the carriage, saw the [Sergeant] thinking.

—-

It was true that Drakes had rules and regulations that Human cities lacked. But it was also true that a Named Adventurer was a Named Adventurer. Saliss relaxed as their carriage was taken to the side.

Ferris was in trouble; Saliss hadn’t given him any protection, but Lyonette, Wilovan, and Ratici were having their Grade-2 documents written up at this very moment, instead of the hours-long wait. Authority was speed in bureaucracy.

“I forgot about those stupid documents. I never have to worry because I’m Saliss.”

“So you’ve said. Can you explain what they were talking about?”

Lyonette saw the [Scribe] working on her paper documents; they’d get stamps and time codes, signatures, and such, but they weren’t anything like his mithril card. Saliss shrugged.

“Grade-1 is basic. You can enter cities, and you’re not a criminal. Almost anyone can get those. Grade-2 means you can use services like carriages, buy goods in bulk, etc. Grade-3 means you can purchase land; most people can get Grades 1-3. Grade-4’s more about your clearance. And so on. They go up pretty high.”

Lyonette eyed him.

“So what is yours?”

He was picking at his teeth.

“Me? Grade-6. Because they don’t like me. I should have like, a Grade-8; Grade-9 is for top brass like a [General] or head of state. Walled Cities are petty. You know, Zel Shivertail was only actually Grade-7?”

She nodded slowly. This might not matter too much for her future, but it was just another way in which she was realizing how cut-off Liscor had been.

“Miss? We’re nearly done with your background certifications. Pallass has provided that…I can write in the last details. Adventurer Saliss, can you sign one of the authentication forms here?”

Saliss sighed and did it three times. The [Scribe] stared at him; she was in awe of Saliss, probably because she hadn’t ever met…Saliss…and only knew the better rumors.

“Yes, what do I do?”

Lyonette sat there. The Drake smiled.

“Just your name, age, country of origin, and minor details, Miss.”

Ah. Lyonette du Marquin hesitated. She eyed Wilovan and Ratici, who both looked just as unhappy about this kind of documentation. She opened her mouth—and then had an idea.

“Lyon Solstice. Spelled ‘L-I-O-N’, by the way. I come from C—Invrisil.”

“I see, I see. Lion Solstice…age?”

“Eight—no, nineteen this year.”

“We try to be accurate, miss. Eighteen…a few more questions…any prior criminal charges with a Drake city? No…mhm…”

Lyonette was sweating a bit. But the [Scribe] was writing all of it down! Wilovan and Ratici gave identical responses, nearly. First Landing was where they came from.

“All right! This is all set.”

The three relaxed. The [Scribe] smiled brightly.

“Now, all I have to do is take your statement via truth stone that the following is correct, you sign here, I sign here…and we’re done. Let me just find my stone…”

Lyonette began sweating again. She saw the [Scribe] fussing about and then the Drake of the hour swept in. His name was Saliss. It should have been Chaos.

“Hey. I know this is taking a bit, so I’m going to just stand outside in front of the carriages until you’re done, alright?”

The [Scribe], Watch Sergeant, and other people in the gatehouse office looked around. Saliss stood up.

And he had removed his pants. The [Scribe] recoiled. The Desk Sergeant stared.

“Adventurer Saliss, what are you—”

“Don’t mind me! Just going to do some stretches while I wait. Not like I’m in a hurry or a famous adventurer or anything! Excuse me! Stop! Pushups here. One, two…”

“Adventurer Saliss, we have a procedure—why are you naked?”

Lyonette began to breathe as she heard a commotion. People were shouting, screaming, and still, Saliss was quite audible.

“Don’t mind me! Nothing to see here! How long will it take? Thirty minutes? A thousand pushups—no, two thousand. Hey! What are you staring at?”

Lyonette had never seen someone sign or stamp the passports as fast as in the next two minutes. She received hers, the ink still wet, and she was practically thrown out of the gatehouse, with Saliss’ pants. He put them back on and Wilovan inspected his passport.

“Now that, sir, was a handy bit of improvisation.”

“I blame Ferris. I hope they take it out on him. What kind of [Driver] doesn’t do this? I thought he was a professional…er, [Driver].”

Saliss grumbled as he put on his pants. The [Guards] stepped back. The unlucky gate crew had gotten word from higher-ups; Saliss had been here before.

Thus, Lyonette entered the city. And the effort it had taken just to do that…sort of set the stage for everything else. This was not Pallass, where they had numerous connections. She had gold, and Saliss was a Named Adventurer.

But Oteslia wasn’t their city. Lyonette felt at her money in the bag of holding and wished there was a lot more. She wished she had an Erin to let loose to get all the favors they might need. Or…something of true value. She had some of Numbtongue’s gemstones, all the gold the inn could spare.

There was one thing she could parlay. One very valuable item that even the City of Growth might not have. A flower from a land beyond this one.

Or she would have. If only. Because disaster struck time and time again. Something had happened on the Summer Solstice. It had barely mattered among all the rest. But still, it twisted in Lyonette’s gut. A dark visitor, never seen. And a consequence of their passage—

All the faerie flowers were dead.

—-

“Hey, why are we monking around when we said there’d be something Archmage around here instead of the Meeting of Tribes?”

Translation: Why are we wasting time, sitting around, doing something pointless, when we said there would be something grandiose, exciting, magical around here instead of the Meeting of Tribes?

The slang was the hardest part to keep up with. It kept changing and it was really only the kids who used it. Mivi had never heard a fellow adventurer use ‘monking’ as a verb. Nor was it entirely accurate. They said ‘Archmage’ to mean cool.

But they had clearly never met an Archmage before. Anyways, she and the others were sitting on a rooftop. Those without wings had climbed up. They were tossing bits of tart at flocks of birds; a monkey climbed up and was shooed away by one of the Gnolls.

Oteslia had animals. It was haven to countless species, and it was considered the least-militant of all the cities along with Fissival. One of the most inclusive too; Gnolls were in far higher numbers here, along with other species like Garuda, Humans, even Selphids, and half-Elves in fair numbers.

Nature was for Oteslia. It wasn’t always great, though. The streets got dirty from all the uh, excrement, and if you’d ever been hit by aerial Pegasi poo, you understood why the streets had lots of cloth canvas awnings and ‘splatter shields’.

“Hey Vuc, you don’t like it, you can Creler off.”

Mivi retorted to one of the genuine young people. He huffed and gave her a side-long look of appraisal. She ground her teeth. He knew—but he wasn’t suited for this.

“Come on, Vuc. This is fun. Look at all the sunlight down there.”

Cire was admiring the visitors, especially young Drakes or Gnolls of a female persuasion. Mivi sighed. He was…predictable. And unfortunately, once he had reached a certain point in his adulthood—about when she’d been twenty—he’d hit a Dragon’s stage in puberty.

As in, he had sex. And he went through relationships like Mivi went through scale polish cream. It was really, really troublesome to deal with and a new phase in Oteslia’s difficulties rearing him.

Mivi had heard that the Dragon of Manus had been just as bad, although she was female and perhaps easier to deal with in some ways than a brash Dragon boy. Then again…perhaps not.

Different, not easier. Anyways, Cire was infamous for it. And the problem was—

“Hey, don’t be jealous, Miv.”

He was sitting next to her. He twined his tail around hers and tried to put a claw down the back of her pants.

Mivi nearly kicked Cire off the rooftop.

“Cire, knock it off.”

He looked hurt and scooted back as the others laughed.

“Come on, Miv! It’s been ages since we were a thing. I thought you were down with it. What’s gotten into you? Well, whatever.”

He looked hurt, then turned his head as if he didn’t care at all. Mivi tried to calm down. But that?

Twenty plus years ago, then, for a while ten years back. And he…forgot. Deliberately, or accidentally. Mivi on the other hand had long-since changed.

“If Mivi’s giving you the cold wing, Cire, take a look at that. There’s a Plains Gnoll! Shining.”

One of the other genuine youths pointed. Cire was staring in a moment.

“Where? Where? Wow. Is that markings from her tribe on her fur? She’s wearing nothing?”

Necla gave Mivi a look and muttered.

“You okay?”

“Yes. Forget about it.”

Perhaps she should…retire. Her past relationships, when they had been the same age and she had been head-over-tail in love with him, was complicating the now, especially when he thought they were still back then, or no time had passed. She was to blame, as well as the elaborate system of lies and deception. But the alternative had been bad, too.

Fetale was going to start ‘aging up’. He’d stop using makeup, start being too old to hang with. Soon, Cire would understand he was older and if he met Fetale—

But he wouldn’t. Fetale and he wouldn’t meet again. So it went.

Resigned, Mivi listened to the young Drakes pointing out attractive females. This, at least, was the true occupation of young males of most species. It wasn’t just her and Necla rolling their eyes.

“I bet you that you couldn’t talk to her for more than a minute, Vuc.”

“You what, Cire? Bet.”

The Drake Oldblood, outraged, leapt from the rooftop and made his way through the crowd. His friends jeered or laughed as he went for the Plains Gnoll they were so taken with. He did his best, leaning against the stall and introducing himself.

…He struck out after eight seconds. The Gnoll was clearly older than him, and clearly not in the mood for this. Vuc flew back as Cire and the others made fun of him.

“Told you. I bet I could get her to laugh, though.”

“You wish.”

Vuc muttered sullenly. He was blushing, but trying not to show it. Cire pointed arrogantly down at the crowd of visitors coming through the northern gate.

“You name any one down there—I’ve got Gold-rank moves. Everyone knows that.”

He bragged. That raised their tempers. Mivi sighed. Vuc’s head turned.

“You don’t have mad—what about her, then?”

“The same Gnoll? Psst. You ruined that, Vuc.”

“Oh yeah? What about her?”

Another Gnoll. Cire shrugged.

“Not interested.”

“Oh yeah? That Garuda, there.”

“I…eh. I could do it. If I wanted to.”

“I dare you to.”

“Why that Garuda? I’m not into feathers. What about that Drake, there?”

Cire pointed. Vuc snorted.

“I thought you could talk up anyone, Cire. Not just your own species.”

Oooh. Some of the new Gnolls whistled. Cire turned red.

“Oh yeah? Point and I’ll decide. Give me options!”

“That Gnoll. Or that…Minotauress! Hah, you’ve got moves enough for her, Cire?”

“Not interested.”

“Why are you wagging your tails off, Vuc, Cire? This is boring.”

Mivi called out. She gave the young Drake, Vuc, a warning glance. But he was too angry. He pointed.

“What about that Gnoll? Come on, Cire! I [Druid]-dare you. No, I Demon-dare you!”

“Vuc…”

Cire was getting angry. So was Mivi. She knew what the Drake was doing.

He knew what Cire was. And he also knew that a lot of Cire’s ‘Gold-rank moves’ had to do with the fact that Oteslians knew too.

That was why Vuc was pointing out Gnolls, non-Oteslians who weren’t ‘in the know’. It was stupid, childish…he deliberately turned away.

“Come on, Cire. How about…that one? I Dragon-dare you.”

Mivi heard another oooh, and laughter. But Cire’s head spun around. He stared down at the person and then looked at Vuc.

“Sure. You’re on.”

There was no way he’d have turned down that dare, even though it was common parlance. He leapt from the rooftops and sauntered through the crowd.

Vuc was grinning triumphantly—right up until Mivi tugged him back with a friendly arm like steel. She dragged him away as the others watched Cire make his move on the female visitor that Vuc had pointed out.

In an alleyway, Vuc grinned, almost as if he expected something.

“What’s this about, Miv—”

She put an arm against his throat and pushed his head into the wall.

“Listen, you little hatchling. Stop egging Cire on or I will throw you into a Shield Spider nest, understand?”

He gurgled. Mivi was a Named Adventurer; he was just a kid. She increased the pressure slightly.

“You know exactly why not to provoke Cire. And you. Are. Doing. It. Enough. Stop talking, find an excuse to leave, and don’t let me see you again or we will have problems. Understand?”

She kept the pressure on. He gasped when she lowered her arm.

“You—you can’t do that! I’m—you’re an adventurer! I’ll tell—”

Mivifa folded her arms.

“Tell someone? Listen up. That’s two mistakes you’ve made today. If you don’t want to forget the last three months since you met Cire and wake up in your bed, you are going to walk out of this alleyway, and leave. Don’t go back on the roof. Tell someone? Go ahead and find a Guardswoman. See what happens.”

She stared at him. He flinched. This was Oteslia’s secret. Mivi pointed.

“Get lost.”

He ran. She looked around, and saw Necla lounging at the alleyway’s entrance.

“Send a group after him. I don’t trust him to be halfway smart.”

“Got it.”

He was going to wake up with hazy memories at best. And Oteslia would have spent gold on another stupid kid who couldn’t handle the truth. Mivi rested her head against the wall before leaving.

Wouldn’t it be better to…?

No, the truth could not come out. Cire was too young, and she knew exactly how other cities—other nations might respond. But this acting—maybe that had to end. She felt like there were Drakes like Vuc every week. No wonder Oteslia was poor. Well, this was a poor excuse. But she’d seen the budget and it wasn’t helping.

Why did Cire have to take so long to grow? She felt bad about scaring Vuc already. He was just a young Drake. Barely more than a brat and she was a Named Adventurer. She went out of the alleyway just in time to see Cire accost a young woman in the street.

—-

“Okay, what’s our first step?”

“I think it’s to meet with my contact. Unless you have somewhere you want to start?”

Saliss of Lights sauntered into Oteslia with Lyonette, Wilovan, and Ratici. The Gentlemen Callers held back, politely letting the two take lead. Lyonette nodded.

She had no contacts here. No knowledge of where to start.

“Who’s your friend? Another [Alchemist]?”

Saliss winked at her.

“You think my only friends are [Alchemists]? Wait, you think I have friends? Touching. But we need a place to stay, and introductions. Oteslia is about knowing people as much as having gold to spend. And we’ll have to go outside of my regular suppliers to find the exotic stuff and experts.”

Lyonette had feared that. She nodded.

“Do you know where to find them?”

“Eh, I thought I’d ask. Hey—hey you. Is the Oldblood of Feathers in the city? I’m Saliss. Excuse me…”

The Drake promptly went to the nearest person, a Plains Gnoll shopping in the market right by the gates, and tapped her on the shoulder. Lyonette sighed.

He had Erin-energy. Which could be a good thing, but…she looked around.

She didn’t know where to begin. Did Saliss even need her? Ratici sidled up.

“Miss Marquin. If you feel safe in Saliss’ presence, Wilovan and I might do a bit of recon ourselves, as it were. See what our scene looks like.”

She glanced at him.

“You won’t cause trouble?”

The Gentleman Caller tipped his cap.

“We’ll be discreet. But there’s few ways for us to help you aside from sorting out the wrong sort unless…”

“Yes, thank you. Er—whatever you need to do. I’ll stay with Saliss.”

“You’ll be safe?”

Ratici studied her. Lyonette swirled the Cloak of Balshadow and showed him her rings—and the Wand of [Fireballs] that Hedault had recharged for her.

“I think so.”

He nodded. Wilovan tipped his tall hat and they vanished in a second. Lyonette turned back to Saliss—

And the Drake was gone. How did an [Alchemist] without a shirt vanish? The crowd swirled around her.

It was like being in a new city again. Lyonette felt a moment’s apprehension. She was alone—like Erin had been. Maybe she should have asked for one of the two to stay with her? But it wasn’t like she’d be hurt in a crowd. Surely. She made her way forwards, looking for familiar scales or a voice—or just someone screaming about nudity.

“Hey, lovely lady. You look lost. New to Oteslia? I could show you around.”

…And within a moment, someone had found her. A Drake leaned against a shop counter, grinning. Lyonette blinked.

“Um. Hello?”

The Drake had loose trousers and a tunic—both rather nice, but altered to make room for his wings and a tail. That already made him Oldblood, but he was, well, rather splendid.

His scales were a unique green coloration that turned to brown or even purple in places. A pattern almost as vibrant as Lizardfolk’s, unlike the Drake monochrome color. And he looked—healthy.

It was hard to describe. It was like the one out of ten thousand, or a million, who had a vitality that let them do back-to-back marathons, or other obnoxious feats of endurance. He gave her a grin with swagger.

“The name’s Cire. And you are?”

Not interested. In spite of all his good looks, Lyonette did not intend to waste time. Nor was she available in any sense of the word.

“Very pleased to meet you. Excuse me. I’m just looking for a friend, actually.”

She stepped around him. The Drake blinked as she walked past him in a moment. He hesitated, glanced at a distant roof, and hurried after her.

“Come on! Who’s your friend? Where are you from, Miss? The north? Another continent? Are you here to buy something? I know everyone in the city.”

“I’m sure you do, but I’m really busy. Thank you!”

It was funny. Lyonette had not had this problem before. Not in Liscor, or even First Landing when it might have worked.

Something about…her personality…might have repelled young men trying it then. Lyonette vaguely recalled something like that. Actually—

Cire was walking next to her.

“Where are you going, at least? Do you have an inn in mind? I bet you don’t. I know the best spots. How about—”

He saw the young woman with fiery hair swing around. Lyonette’s blue eyes met his—she was very attractive, even if she hadn’t dressed up—and the Dragon felt a…shock of something. He blinked at her. But then he saw her friendly mouth open and—

“Excuse me, peon. But I don’t recall inviting your solicitations. Begone, and do not trouble me again.”

She lifted her chin and sniffed. He stared at her. Lyonette walked off through the crowd. Or tried to. Five steps and he was asking where she was from again.

—-

“Aaay, my crew. Vuc and I just had to message each other over something and he had to tele out. Someone spell me on what’s the fly with Cire?”

One of the Gnolls who wasn’t part of the team turned to stare at Mivi.

“…What? Is that Oteslian slang I don’t know? Because that didn’t sound like words.”

Mivi hesitated. Then dialed it back.

“Is Cire down there still?”

“Yep. He’s eating his own tail with that Human. Looks like he’s gone 0-4. He’ll be eating grass soon if she brushes him off any harder.”

“I’d eat her grass, if you know what I mean.”

“You’re disgusting. Wait—do Humans even have that?”

“Believe me, they do. Because I’ve seen it so many times.”

Mivi sighed. She coughed and felt her lungs rasp. But would she go another ten minutes against Wrymvr the Deathless rather than be stuck here?

…Maybe, honestly. She looked down at Cire—and shook her head.

“I’m going down there.”

Necla blinked at her. But Mivi had had enough. She wasn’t Cire’s age and he wasn’t acting his. That poor young woman probably didn’t want to have a Drake trying to flirt with her. Mivi hopped down off the roof again and walked through the streets.

Doctrine among the group overseeing Cire’s…growth…was to let him do anything that wasn’t drugs, dangerous, or revealing. And they had implemented the false actors and memory-altering program after far too many close calls.

Cire wasn’t Rafaema, and Oteslia wasn’t Manus, which could suppress rumors or news. Mivi had been inducted into the group at eighteen, when Cire had told her he was more than he seemed while they were…a couple.

Since then, Mivi had taken more and more responsibility. Now—she felt like Oteslia’s organization of secrecy had gone too far. Cire was uncontrollable, and he needed some discipline. Perhaps not like Rafaema; Mivi had met her as Mivifa or on the joint-visits every few years at minimum for the last of the Dragons.

Rafaema had always seemed too controlled, too perfect and rigid. A product of Manus. But Mivi was tired of Cire’s wildness. He had to grow up some day.

Dead gods. He still thought the First Gardeners before the present one had gone on vacations around the world. Or if he did know—

He surely did. But the boy refused to admit the truth. Oteslia and the First Gardener had once tried to confront him with it. Disastrous. He had nearly starved to death in mourning. It had taken six years to recover his shattered health. Mivi had read the reports, and the First Gardener had resigned in shame.

Even so.

—-

Lyonette was wondering how much trouble she’d get in for a [Flawless Attempt] punch to the face with this annoying Drake. He would not give up.

And he was distracting her from finding Saliss. She kept thinking he was ahead—

“Come on, just your name and I’ll leave you be.”

“Lyon. Will you go away?”

“Lyon. Sssexy. Hey, you know that I’m like, famous, in Oteslia? My mother’s…”

Lyonette stomped off. She saw a commotion ahead and hurried towards it.

“Thank goodness. Saliss? S—”

A large dog with a hurt foot was whining in the crowd of onlookers. A [Guard] was confronting a family of four. Drakes.

“We haven’t done anything wrong!”

“No, Miss. But your pet is injured. And you appeared to be pulling it with you. We have laws in Oteslia.”

“It’s a scratch.”

The mother and father were exasperated. One of the two Drake children—holding the leash—were impatient.

“He got it while playing fetch! Do you have any authority to detain us, sir?”

The father was not an Oteslian, that was for sure. Lyonette slowed as she realized this was not a Saliss-incident, surprisingly. Just a commonplace altercation.

Over an animal? The [Guard] was sighing.

“All I need you to do is accompany me to check with a truth stone about—”

“This is ridiculous. I heard Oteslia was full of inane rules, but this? We have an appointment at the Merchant’s Guild!”

The Drake father was blustering. The mother, more sensibly, was trying to calm him down.

“Guardsman, what if you checked on us later? Dear—dear—let’s not shout at the Watch.”

The two sons were in their late teens, like the annoying Drake. Lyonette was scanning for Saliss when she heard one of them say something.

“We don’t have to deal with this.”

“Indeed we don’t. I—I request an adjudication of [Druids]! Hah! I heard you can do that! Have one sent to us later.”

The [Guardsman] lowered the pad where he had been talking with the wife.

“Sir—I don’t think you want to do that. Sir—”

But it was too late. The crowd looked around and people began circulating it.

An adjudication of [Druids]? Lyonette had never heard such a thing.

“Oh, wow. He’s in trouble.”

Cire popped up next to her, smirking. She stared at him and nearly walked away, but she was curious.

“Why?”

“You don’t ask for the [Druids] if you want to get out of something. He’d better hope no one’s nearby or…whoops!”

A shout. Someone was moving through the crowd. Lyonette saw shaggy, fur robes, a bare-chested—well, debatably—Gnoll with an antler-staff? Wood had become antler near the top. He hurtled through the crowd.

“Clear the way! [Druid]! Where’s—”

He saw the scene. The outraged family, the [Guardsman] who was backing up in resignation—

Lyonette didn’t know what she expected. But she didn’t expect the Gnoll [Druid] to shoulder-charge the young Drake man holding the leash, knock him flat, and pick up the dog.

“Hurt animal! Clear a path! Where’s my backup!”

The Drake lay on his back as the Gnoll stormed towards a second [Druid]. She was a Drake and bent over the dog.

“Oh dear. His paw’s wounded. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

The dog instantly stopped whining and perked up. A healing potion was produced; the family stared as the animal was instantly healed.

“A potion on a dog? What madness is—”

The Gnoll was ignoring him. He bent down as the dog tested its paw.

“Yes, yes. And how did it happen? Who hurt you? Was it a rock or…? Don’t be shy.”

The two [Druids] looked up. They stared at the Drake who’d been holding the leash. The Gnoll rose.

“Someone called for a [Druid]?”

“Yes, Druid. These four Drakes in regards to the animal.”

The [Guardsman] saluted. He stepped back as the family stared at him. Lyonette saw him turn and just…walk off. As if his part had ended.

“I see. Well, Bertel here claims his paw was hurt whilst being dragged about by that one. And that his living conditions are less than ideal. Sometimes he’s not fed on time.”

“What? How do you know our dog’s…what is this?”

The Drake [Merchant] was outraged. The Gnoll [Druid] leveled his staff.

“Druid Occla. My verdict is confiscation and fining. What’s yours?”

“Death!”

He looked at her. The Drake amended her statement.

“Fine, what you said.”

“Very well. The fine is four gold pieces. And Bertel comes with us.”

“What?”

The word exploded from the father’s mouth; he had been gasping for air the entire time. The [Druids] were already telling the dog how he’d like their new place.

“You can’t do this!”

“On the contrary. You asked for an adjudication of [Druids]. You pay up. And if you harm a dog again, you—anywhere near Oteslia, or where we walk, we’ll find you and…”

Lyonette stared.

“And that’s legal?”

She breathed. Someone laughed.

“That’s Oteslia! We have two enforcers of law. The Treewatch, and the [Druids]. They don’t interfere with each other. But people only ask the [Druids] if they’re talking about plants, animals, or whatever. And the [Druids] aren’t nice. That guy was an idiot.”

Cire again. He put an arm on Lyonette’s shoulder.

“You’ve never been to Oteslia. But I know the [Druids] too. Let me introduce you to—”

“Take your arm off my shoulder or you lose it.”

He blinked. Cire eyed Lyonette. She put her hand on her sword’s hilt.

He took his arm off her shoulder.

“Aw, come on. I’m just—”

“No. Enough! Stop bothering me or I’ll call the Watch—or the [Druids]!”

Cire smirked at that.

“What, them? Go ahead. They know me. Everyone loves me.”

Lyonette doubted that, but his confidence made her hesitate. Either he was a better liar than she imagined, or…

“Cire! Why are you monking about? Stop bothering her and let’s go swimming or something.”

Another Drake approached through the crowd. Lyonette saw light green scales, makeup around the eyes, an…almost absurdly vivid clothing.

She looked like some of the Pallassian kids who begged Kevin for skateboard lessons. Cire turned.

“Aw, Mivi! You’re Crelering me up!”

“I can’t Creler what never flies. Come on. Sorry, Miss.”

Lyonette was rubbing her ears. Something was seriously wrong because they were using words the wrong way. Mivi grabbed Cire and he tried to resist.

“I’ll look you up, Miss Lyon!”

“Please don’t!”

She stepped away, relieved, as the crowd broke up. The red-faced [Merchant] was paying a fine under threat of being stabbed with the antler-staff. The Drake who had mistreated the dog was getting dirty looks and another lecture as he watched his pet disappear for good.

And then Saliss appeared.

“I think my friend’s here. Hey, Lyonette. Where were you? Where did Hatman One and Hatman Two go?”

She glared at him. Saliss sauntered over in his pants, and grinned at her.

“Where have you been? I’ve been accosted once already!”

He shrugged.

“Sorry, but hey, not like people with crossbows are running around here, am I right? Hah! Hah! Ha.”

He frowned, as if the joke had hurt even him. Then he turned. Cire was struggling with Mivi.

“Who’s that Drake without a shirt? Hey, Miss Lyon! I’m way cooler! Come on, Mivi—”

Saliss’ head turned. He blinked at the Drake, at Lyonette, and grinned. Then—his eyes slid back with a frown. Lyonette heard him mutter.

“…can’t read either…wait a second. It can’t be…”

He stared. Not at Cire—not long—but at the Drake who’d frozen for a second and then tried to drag Cire back into the crowd with renewed gusto. She turned her head, but Saliss was already striding forwards.

“Hey. Hey—is that you? Mivifa? Well, I just say your name and you turn up! It’s me! Saliss!”

He spread his arms wide with a grin. Cire stopped fighting and the Named Adventurer—who had been using all her considerable strength but barely managed to drag him half a dozen paces—looked around.

“Mivifa? Oh, no. I’m Mividel. Sorry, wrong person.”

Saliss stopped. He eyed the young Drake as Lyonette blinked at him. She knew the name of the Oldblood of Feathers. So did Cire, who crowed at his companion.

“Hah! It happened again, Mivi! Wait. Did he just say his name was Saliss? As in…no way. That’d be Archmage.”

He stared at Saliss. The [Alchemist] ignored him. He was just…looking at the young Drake woman. Then—he grinned.

“It is you. I sold you that Feigned Youth Potion. Don’t play games, Mivifa. I need a favor.”

Cire laughed. Mivifa was giving Saliss ten kinds of unspoken warnings. On the rooftop, Necla, Fetale, and the others were silently panicking.

“I don’t know who you’re confusing me with, mister. But I’m Mividel.”

“Yeah. And I’m Saliss of Lights. Fine—don’t be like that. But I’m stopping by your place in thirty minutes.”

“Listen to this guy.”

Cire was laughing. But Saliss wasn’t. He was looking at Mivifa and…Cire. Lyonette was blinking at both of them. Mivifa let go and Cire pointed.

“No way you’re Saliss of Lights.”

The [Alchemist] looked at him. He shrugged.

“Yeah. No way. Lyonette? I think we should be going. Did your Hatguys tell you where you were meeting up? No? They’ll find us. Let’s check in at the Alchemist’s Guild and then I’ll meet my old friend.”

He turned and winked at Lyonette openly. Cire snorted.

“Hey, guy. I don’t know who you’re trying to Creler about. But don’t just throw names around! Saliss of Lights is awesome. He blew up thousands of Humans! You can’t just steal his style!”

He shouted at Saliss. They were attracting more looks. Saliss looked around. He glanced back at Mivifa. And at Lyonette. She gave him a warning look.

“You are meeting a friend, right?”

She stressed the word. Saliss shrugged.

“Yep. Well, no. Comrade. Acquaintance. Also, it may be Oteslia. But if you want attention…you get it.”

Lyonette tensed to grab his claw. But he just took her by the arm and led her briskly away. Cire kept laughing and jeering as Mivifa stood still, sweating under her makeup.

“Did you hear that guy? What a lunatic, Mivi—”

Saliss flipped a bottle over his shoulder as he walked through the crowd. The people by the north gate saw it rotate upwards, and upwards…and then fall, spinning. Mivi jumped for it, but Cire was in the way. He saw it l—

Poomph.

It wasn’t toxic, and it was actually colored air, so those caught in the massive epicenter of the cloud weren’t harmed—no more than the dust stirred by the explosion made them cough, really.

Still. People across the city and even the First Gardener, having tea from her balcony, saw the huge, rising cloud of reddish ‘dust’ expand and turn into a grinning Drake for a second—then slowly drift apart on the wind. She spat out her tea.

She had another headache.

—-

Mivifa Selifscale, Oldblood of Feathers, stood in front of the First Gardener. To say she was in trouble was an understatement.

“So, Cirediel now knows you are the Named Adventurer. And Saliss of Lights has entered our city at a time when mass pandemonium is the last thing we need.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Mivifa was sweating. She had removed her makeup, but was no less tense. She had lost Cire only after literally dodging into the Adventurer’s Guild to ‘clear up the mistake’. She felt bad for anyone trying to handle him now.

The First Gardener’s migraine was legendary today.

“Please tell me Saliss of Lights knows nothing.”

“No, First Gardener. He does not.”

The Drake looked up, massaging her temples. Shaerrha looked more worried than Mivifa could remember her being in ages.

“He cannot learn anything, Adventurer Mivifa. Not about this. A Named Adventurer would be bad enough since we cannot control them. But he is the Cyclops’ grandson. And if that Drake learned about Cire…”

Mivifa nodded and felt a cold clenching in her stomach.

The Cyclops of Pallass. No one called him that in his city, but the great [Strategist] of the Walled Cities was known to every other city.

And not for being a kind, inclusive helper. He led them in times of war. But when Pallass was at odds with other cities…what might he do if he knew Cire was a Dragon?

“First Gardener, I will do whatever it takes to keep Saliss of Lights from knowing. But I cannot manage Cire at this time.”

“Of course not. They will have to do without. Help him to be on his way, by all means. Is he…as troublesome as all the reports say? I recall his last visit…”

The First Gardener saw Mivifa grimace.

“I’ve worked with him directly, First Gardener. Honestly? He’s worse than the incidents you saw from afar.”

Shaerrha shuddered. She rubbed at her temples again.

“I need—where are my pills? There must be new medication.”

Mivifa looked sympathetically at her boss and friend. Since they helped care for Cire, Shaerrha was one of the few people that Mivifa could talk to. They spent time talking and commiserating.

“The pills from Drath not working?”

“Barely. They don’t fog me over, but they don’t do much when it’s bad. I’d go back to Dreamleaf if it wasn’t so…where is…oh, here’s something new. From our [Herbalists]. Argh. I suppose it’s better than nothing.”

She unveiled another pill, this one perfectly round, and sniffed at it. Then she popped it into her mouth and chewed. Mivifa went on.

“I think Saliss is here to replenish ingredients.”

“Give them to him—obviously let him work, but what else?”

“I don’t know, First Gardener. But I’ll see to it.”

“Good, good. My claws are full with Reinhart and the new guests. I’ll just have to…to…”

Shaerrha was resting her forehead against the steaming tea cup for relief. Then, slowly, her shoulders untensed. She sat up, and blinked.

“First Gardener?”

Mivifa hesitated. The Drake looked at the box and then at the Named Adventurer.

“The pain’s gone. That pill just took my entire headache away with it. And I feel light as…”

She stared at the box. So did Mivifa.

“That must be some new drug! I’ve never seen anything work like that on you.”

“Neither have I. Who made it? Misten? He’s not high-level. Has he reached Level 50? No—there’s no way. I’d be hearing it from the rooftops. What is…oh.”

She stared at a note attached to the wooden box, with the padded interior which held five more of the miraculous pills. Mivifa waited.

“First Gardener?”

“It’s the new discovery I was telling you about. The flowers. And they just—this could be it, Mivifa.”

Shaerrha looked up excitedly. She gestured at the note, and the box.

“This could be the next Sage’s Grass.”

Mivifa smiled despite herself. It was the newest thing to come to Oteslia—a plant that people were saying might be like Sage’s Grass, a revolutionary new herb. If so—this was when Oteslia would shine. She bowed.

“That’s one bit of good news, First Gardener. If you’ll excuse me—”

She left the First Gardener to sit back, blissfully free of pain for the first day in years. Shaerrha hadn’t credited the rumors; there was always ‘the next big thing’. But this? She stared at the note.

“Faerie flowers? Where did they come from?”

—-

Saliss and Lyonette didn’t wait on Ratici and Wilovan. He introduced himself at the Alchemist’s Guild to a flurry of excitement—as if his showy bottle hadn’t done that to begin with.

Once again, Lyonette felt helpless, riding on his fame and ability to move mountains—literally, it seemed. She watched and observed.

Oteslia had a lot of color to it. Terraces seemed to make up the city, built around the giant tree which hung over everything. It provided shade even in the daytime, and the leaves alone were huge. She’d seen one crew dragging a single leaf off a home to be processed.

And Oteslia was all about processing what it grew. It had massive farms, fed by the lake, plants grown in vast gardens. You could buy anything that came out of soil here. Even plants suited to arid climes, tundras.

[Druids] ruled here, as did the First Gardener. They flew Pegasi about, and Lyonette felt like a girl reading of them in books and dreaming of finding and taming one.

Ah, but all that was overshadowed by the mission. And Saliss was taking them to Mivifa’s home in the upper part of the city.

“That was her?”

“Yep. I recognize makeup and attempts at covering up stuff. I have an eye, you might say. And Mivifa’s one of my clients.”

“So she’s not going to be angry you revealed her?”

The Drake grinned.

“Of course she is. That’s the plan, Lyonette. Think about it. I’m a Named Adventurer, she is—she can introduce me, get us contacts. But we’re not staying at her home.”

Lyonette eyed Saliss suspiciously. She was good at politics and thought she had a handle on the finer points of diplomacy; she didn’t use Erin’s all-or-nothing style, but Saliss had lost her.

“How so?”

He shook his head.

“Lyonette, Lyonette. No one likes hanging out with me. You think Mivifa wants to put me up? No, she’ll help me find a good place, do everything to keep me off her back. No one likes being around Saliss all the time—even I can’t do it all week.”

She supposed that was true. Saliss led her towards the nice part of Oteslia, large homes, practically mansions. Not as rich as some parts of Pallass, she thought, until she realized the real luxury was into the homes built into the tree itself.

Mivifa the Oldblood of Feathers had a huge studio mansion, with a large pool, outdoor area; even for Oteslia, it was a lot of lawn. That was until Lyonette saw Feathi, the Pegasus, grazing outdoors. Saliss waved.

“Hey! There’s Feathi! Hey! It’s me!”

The Pegasus took one look at Saliss and put up one of her brilliant, speckled wings and hid behind it. Saliss looked at Lyonette.

“See? Now, let’s go bother Mivifa so we can bring back the person everyone actually likes.”

He smiled so sadly, then. But he was bounding up the steps in an instant.

—-

Mivifa flew back to her home with feathered wings. That was—Mividel’s home. She slipped in from the porch, having shed the wings with feathers she could grow two blocks away. She just had to grab—

Cire was sitting in her living room, on the worn couch. Mivi froze as she entered.

“Hey. So, like, was he your ex or something? Or was that really Saliss of Lights? Because everyone’s saying he is. So…are you Mivifa?”

He was looking at an illustration of them together. Around her little home. Mivi froze.

She hadn’t prepared. Had he seen her vanity? She normally only used this place to sleep and host parties where Cire was coming. It wasn’t a place lived in.

“What? You’re Creler-brained. Hey, I sorted it out. He thought I looked like Mivifa. Maybe that was Saliss. Archmage, right? Maybe I’m related to Mivifa after all, though.”

She tried with a grin. Cire just looked at her.

When he sat there, alone, not socializing as he almost always was, he looked older. Despite being so young. He didn’t even like sleeping alone, Mivi knew.

He said he had bad dreams, alone.

“You know, you’ve been a Silver-ranked adventurer for a while. Like—how many years now?”

Mivifa froze as she walked into her apartment. She tried to shrug.

“Years. Who uses those stupid numbering system. That’s the tree-system, Cire. I don’t bother, do you?”

Normally he’d laugh. Today? He just looked at her.

“Where’s Fessi?”

“At the stables. What, you think—you are monking, Cire. Just because we both have Pegasi? Do I have wings coming out my back?”

At last, the Dragon grinned. He relaxed.

“I know that! I’m just—flapping about. That was weird, is all. But hey—you saw I was nearly in that Human girl’s pants, right?”

“Gross. And no, you weren’t. If I hadn’t dragged you off, she’d have stabbed you.”

Mivifa was relieved, and thought he was just as relieved. Cire scoffed.

“She was into me. There was something about her, you know? She was like…shining. But not just because she had a nice body. There was something else.”

Mivifa frowned, but she put it down to bluster.

“You mind Crelering off? I need to talk to the Guildmistress.”

“Aw, no, really?”

“Yep. She wants to make Saliss happy, so guess who gets to help because you had to make him toss a potion?”

“I Crelered up. Look, I’ll make it up to you.”

“Whatever. Get lost, you.”

She smiled until he was gone. Then she packed up the few things she needed to take.

Fetale slipped in and she glared at him.

“Thanks for the warning.”

“It’s on your [Message] scroll. He lost us, believe it or not. He’s too fast when he wants to be—sorry.”

“It’s Archmage.”

“Gah.”

They both grimaced and grinned at the slang. Mivifa turned.

“I need to deal with Saliss. Handle him for me?”

“Yeah. I guess I’m in charge until he’s gone. Mivi—”

She turned. Fetale was standing there.

“Hm?”

The Drake met her eyes, seriously.

“That was the most shaken I’ve seen him in years. He’s not going to stay fooled. We’re putting together a ‘Mivifa’ so you can deny it, but—”

Her smile vanished.

“I know. It might be time for Mivi to leave.”

He nodded slowly. With heavy wings, Mivifa changed and flew towards her home.

—-

It was two of them. The Human and Saliss.

That surprised Mivifa as she flew back to her home. The Oldblood of Feathers had thought it was mere coincidence or a passing acquaintance.

She didn’t know why Saliss was h—wait, yes she did. That war with the Guild of Assassins in the north.

She’d forgotten about the massive detonation he’d caused. He had to be out of his potions stock, even for Saliss. And his power relied on having hundreds, thousands of pre-prepared battle potions.

No wonder he’d come here. Mivifa went over what to say as she landed on the patio, and went in through the back. By the time she opened the door, she was half-smiling.

“Saliss, just when my day can’t get worse.”

“Mivifa!”

He had a similar expression. Lyonette, behind him, half-bowed, uncertain what to do. Mivifa’s eyes flicked to her.

“Hello, Miss. Sorry about my—the young Drake who bothered you, earlier.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, Adventurer Mivifa. My name is—”

“This is Lyon. Mivifa, let’s talk. Lyonette, you stare at the door for a moment.”

Saliss strode on through, closing the door in Lyonette’s face. Mivifa heard an outraged sound. She sighed.

“I’m sorry, Miss Lyon! The patio’s open around back. Saliss, do you have to lock her out?”

“Named Adventurer stuff.”

The Drake was being his usual, antagonizing self. But in truth—

Here was the thing. Mivifa did not hate Saliss. On the contrary, she and he got along. Better than she did with the Swordsman of Six of Manus, for instance. Or Shriekblade, although those two were polar opposites.

They understood each other in a way. She’d known him back when he was just ‘Chaldion’s grandson’, and she was just Mivifa the Flier—one of those generic names you sometimes got. Not even a real title. Just something like—‘hey, that adventurer with the Pegasus is pretty good. Who? Mivifa. The flier? Oh, her…’

But Saliss? Perhaps it was Cire. One was unintentionally childish. Saliss was all intention. And if you remembered that, sometimes he was a lot more bearable.

Sometimes.

“Nice place you have. Feathi still hates me.”

Saliss had found her kitchen. He had an amazing memory; he’d already put some tea on. He was glancing at her, but Mivifa just folded her arms.

“She likes you, as much as that’s possible. Did she do the wing-trick? That’s her being playful. If she hated you, she’d fly over you and give you a shower.”

“Hah! I knew I liked her. So. Sorry about interrupting your fun.”

Saliss glanced up. Mivifa kept her face half-smiling, even though her insides went cold. That was Saliss. He could switch from friendly to barbs in a moment and some idiots couldn’t tell which was which. He’d been pissed during their failed raid on the Antinium. Now he was…different.

“You didn’t interrupt much. Although what happened to respecting privacy?”

He shrugged.

“I was deniable. But you could have said ‘I’ll tell Mivifa if I see her’. That’s sort of how [Spies] do things. I think. You don’t acknowledge me, I dance naked on your doorstep. That’s how it works.”

That was true. Mivifa glared, but he was unapologetic. If she’d been thinking, rather than panicking, she would have done that.

“How’re the lungs?”

Another change of topic in a moment. Mivifa coughed, reflexively.

“Good. They got me a full treatment. No permanent scarring…not much. Nothing like Izril’s Courier got. She actually sent me a [Message], you know. Making sure I was alright.”

“Huh. And here I thought it was a secret operation. So much for that.”

Saliss poured two cups. And then put a third out, empty. For Lyonette. Mivifa saw him toss one end-over-end at her.

She didn’t flinch. The liquid never left the cup. And it slowed and fell right into her hand. She sniffed, sipped.

Neither one missed a beat. If you blinked at that, you weren’t able to be a Named Adventurer.

“I think Oteslia contacted her, honestly. To make sure they knew how to deal with the poison. I never thanked you for bailing us out.”

“Well, it was a stupid idea and I just went full-idiotic until even the Antinium had enough. They weren’t being serious, either.”

Saliss relaxed. The two adventurers nodded; that was recap for you. No talking about ‘we nearly died’, or ‘what was up with Klbkch the Slayer being attacked by Wrymvr?’ If they knew, or had ideas—they represented each other’s cities.

A careful dance. And Saliss could dance. The opposite of Cire, again.

“About what you saw—”

Mivifa brought it up and Saliss was ready.

“Secret. Lips sealed. Help me out, though. You know I’m out of potions?”

She exhaled.

“I’ll introduce you to anyone you need. Not that you don’t have a reputation. But I bet the First Gardener would lean on the big suppliers just to have you out of her city. Please don’t cause more altercations.”

“No promises.”

He grinned. Mivifa waited. One, two, three…sip. And then it was daggers out again.

“So, that Drake was pretty young.”

He was almost predictable at times. If you knew him. Mivifa folded her arms, as if defensively. And this was her time to be an [Actor]. Her first class.

“It’s my business what I do in my spare time. You never asked when you sold me any of the potions.”

The [Alchemist] looked at her. And Mivifa felt her stomach churning. He might not say anything. Probably not, actually. But if he did—this was what the First Gardener had asked of her.

If it came out that Mivifa the Oldblood of Feathers chased younger men about in her free time…it wasn’t the worst thing to come out about a Named Adventurer. It was only her reputation.

For Cirediel, she would do it in a heartbeat. Saliss shrugged.

“Fair enough. He was cute, I guess. I’m not an expert on what Drake women like. But they don’t get younger than that, do they?”

Mivifa was caught mid-smile. She reflexively answered.

“No! Of course not!”

This time the [Alchemist] did grin. His eyes flickered. She saw him flick a claw and knew he’d been using some kind of potion.

“Good to hear. Because I’d have had to kill you, otherwise.”

They looked at each other. The air tensed—then both Named Adventurers laughed. They began talking, Mivifa asking about the Guild business, why he’d even done something that stupid. Saliss about the Meeting of Tribes and new developments in Oteslia.

Both of them knew Saliss had meant every word he’d just said.

—-

Lyonette stomped around the back of Mivifa’s home. The gate was unlocked, which made her worry the Named Adventurer was as careless as Saliss…

…Until she realized Mivifa had the world’s most dangerous attack-Pegasus in her huge, open lawn. The splendid creature wasn’t actually snow-white, like all the picture books. If anything, her fur and feathers were a slight blue, and speckled with bright bits of cerulean.

She was magnificent, too. And intelligent. Lyonette halted.

She had begun to realize how much Saliss was doing and how little she was. He’d gotten her into the city, found them a contact—if not a place to stay—and knew Oteslia.

Lyonette hadn’t even been able to chase off an obnoxious Drake. The [Princess] did not like feeling useless. It was nostalgic, but not everything nostalgic was good.

She knew Saliss had to be discussing something he couldn’t say in front of her—Drake politics perhaps. So she waited outside. Feathi was watching her, a bit warily, but she must have a connection with Mivifa that told her Lyonette was harmless.

Was she like Apista? Lyonette investigated the nice patio, built onto the balcony. Mivifa was a…[Beast Master], according to Lyonette’s vague knowledge of her. Apista was hardly a dedicated companion, but Lyonette had a few Skills. And Apista was smart enough to send messages, do guard duty on Mrsha, even go hunting for rats and other pests. And that was a bee, no offense to Apista.

On a hunch and memory, Lyonette turned. She walked out onto the lawn and the Pegasus’ wings instantly rose in an aggressive position. She was already horse-sized, but when she raised the wings, she looked massive.

Lyonette halted. She gulped, and then—bowed. The Pegasus blinked at her. Lyonette bowed very gracefully.

“Hello, Pegasus Feathi? My name is Lyon Solstice. I am very pleased to meet you, and hope I am not intruding…”

—-

“I’ll let you stay here. Four? It’s no problem. My apartment can handle that many, easily. Mind you—a lot of rooms are dusty.”

Saliss hesitated.

“We can go to an inn or somewhere.”

He was taken aback by her putting him up. Mivifa just shrugged.

“I don’t care.”

In truth, she wanted Saliss under her watch. She’d live with seeing a naked Drake walking about and his constant annoyances for a week or two. He shrugged.

“Well, aren’t you generous? Okay, let’s meet Lyon. She’s—interesting. And she’s here for that antidote I mentioned.”

“Who got hurt?”

“Another Human.”

He said it lightly, but Mivifa thought that was what she would have to dig into—if she cared. She nodded, and they walked out onto the patio, negotiations completed. There she saw Lyonette just in time to see her bow, and Feathi trot over.

—

Mivifa’s laughter made Lyonette jump. Then blush. But the Oldblood of Feathers leapt from her patio and soared all the way to where they were in one gliding jump. Saliss copied her and splatted onto the lawn. He rolled after her, then sprang to his feet. Feathi snorted at him, but continued to let Lyonette stroke her head.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to insult you, Miss…Lyon? But that was cleverly done! Feathi doesn’t let many people so close.”

The Named Adventurer was approving. Lyonette smiled, and felt like it was the first smart move she’d pulled off since coming to Oteslia.

“What did she do? I’ve never seen that mule with wings ever let anyone pet her head without you being there first. Hey, Feathi. It’s me—ha!”

He jerked an arm out of range as the Pegasus bit and missed. She was a lot more…aggressive…than the legends of the gentle, winged steeds indicated.

“She introduced herself and bowed, Saliss. You could be more respectful—Feathi understands everything people say. Was that spontaneous, Miss Lyon?”

“No. I’d heard of bowing to a [Beast Master]’s companion in my—where I come from.”

Saliss blinked at Lyonette. Mivifa was approving.

“Well done. I’m told you come from Liscor. That’s a long ways away. Is it true the city’s practically unrecognizable? I’ve flown there once or twice, but I’ve never gone much further.”

“It’s something. Ah—I am Lyon Solstice. Pleased to meet you, Adventurer Mivifa?”

“Call me Mivi if you like. I’m told I can help you find an antidote? And that there are two companions of yours in the city? I hope they know where to find you. Either way, you’re free to stay at my place. It’s large enough and I owe Saliss…something. I don’t have much to eat, but we can find something. And tomorrow I’ll do any introductions you might need.”

Lyonette blinked. That would be helpful! A Named Adventurer in her city, vouching for them? She looked at Saliss and he shrugged.

There was a stroke of good luck. Lyon found Mivifa friendly, considerate, asking how the journey had been, offering some fresh tea, and for someone to find Ratici and Wilovan, and a good hostess.

The exact opposite of Saliss, in short. The [Princess] found herself talking about Liscor as they had Oteslian snacks, including the infamous Oteslian Trench—a hollowed out, giant vegetable with other sides and dip you slowly ate.

Wilovan and Ratici entered Mivifa’s home about that time, blinking around and tipping their hats to her and bowing deeply. Mivifa smiled at them.

“You must be Wilovan and Ratici, yes? I am Mivifa—or Mivi. Come in and have something to eat.”

“It is an honor to meet you, Miss Mivi. We hope we’re not too uncouth to be staying here—we could find a nice spot and not take up on your hospitality, as a Named Adventurer surely has more to do.”

Ratici’s unique way of speaking made Mivifa smile.

“Not at all. If I can manage Saliss, everyone else is far easier.”

“Hey! That’s entirely accurate!”

So they were all sitting around, snacking, and the [Princess] saw Mivifa’s eyes light up.

“Soccer, baseball, and these contraptions. Skateboards, bicycles? Liscor has changed. And Pallass gets to benefit from all that?”

“Eh. They’d benefit more if they weren’t so tight-tailed about security. But that’s Pallass for you. I should have brought you a souvenir if I thought you were so interested. It’s not hard to make a soccer ball. It’s like an inflated bladder or something.”

Saliss was gobbling down vegetable-and-cheese fritters, another snack. Oteslian cuisine, Lyonette observed, skewed away from the normally meat-heavy diets of Drakes and Gnolls. She didn’t mind that; it was good food.

Ratici and Wilovan were notably uncomfortable, probably because Mivifa was technically the law at times and they might actually be out-leveled. Or maybe it was Feathi, sitting inside the house and munching on food. She didn’t contribute to the conversation aside from occasionally buffeting Saliss with a wing, but it was something to have such a majestic animal clearly listening.

“Oh—I don’t want to play myself, not more than once or twice. But it could be very…engaging for the youth of Oteslia. They do get bored. Oteslia was importing the games, but we have to get the pieces shipped.”

This was another chance for the [Princess] to be helpful. She jumped in with a smile.

“You don’t need that, Miss Mivifa. Some [Trader] is selling you a polite lie. You could manufacture everything for the soccer and baseball games here. You just need a [Carpenter], [Leatherworker], or [Tanner] with the right Skills and you could set up a game in a day or two!”

“Really? And do you know the rules, Miss?”

“She was there when it first pioneered.”

Saliss grinned. Mivifa actually got up to fetch a notepad and pencil.

“I would love to actually work on this, Miss Lyon. Again—we can’t get those [Actors] here, but the First Gardener is interested in plays of our own. Do you know the rules?”

“Yes. I would be delighted to help you, for your hospitality.”

Mivifa wrote down all of the notes, smiling to herself.

“We have space, and it’s just carved wood for those ‘bats’? That [Trader] wanted gold for—well, I’ll get this to the right people. And those skateboards…I would really take it as a personal favor if you could get, oh, a dozen to Oteslia? Just one? We can probably make more.”

That was the first interesting thing. Lyonette smiled and agreed to all of it; she actually asked Wilovan to send a [Message] to Kevin that very hour. Which wasn’t even necessary to go via Mage’s Guild—Mivifa had a Scroll of [Messages] she loaned Lyonette.

But it was interesting to Lyonette because she was a [Princess]. And a [Worldly Princess] at that. One of her Skills that she had often not needed to use had activated.

[Lesser Intuition]. It was one of several she’d gotten, and normally only helped her figure out that Mrsha was being very good for a reason that meant she’d broken or spilled something.

Now, though—she wondered why Mivifa would fast-track sports to Oteslia. Either she was the most civic-minded, helpful Named Adventurer Lyonette had ever met—and again, that wasn’t hard given the small pool that included Saliss—or something else was up.

Especially because she’d seen Feathi snort and roll her eyes when Mivifa had talked about the bored youth. Curious.

But Lyonette had a very pleasant time with a thick, delightful pottage that Mivifa made herself, and talking about Liscor.

Aside from the reason why they had come, of course. Mivifa was charming, frankly inspiring—she showed them the wings she could manifest at will.

“I never could fly, and I was jealous of everyone who could. That’s how I met Feathi—Pegasi choose their riders. But I never dreamed I could actually fly myself!”

She leapt into the sky, and Feathi flew around her. Lyonette, Ratici, and Wilovan looked up at the dream of flight made reality. The two Gentlemen Callers took off their hats a moment—for respect.

Saliss was taking a bath. Even there, the [Alchemist] let someone else enter the baths after him and Lyonette found the bathroom was filled with bubbles, some half as tall as she was. Pink, green, blue—

It was actually a lot of fun, but she complained to him anyways. He just winked at her.

Thus their first night in Oteslia came to a close. The next day, they got to work.

—-

The next day, Lyonette awoke feeling confident and ready to take on Oteslia. She had a quick meeting with Saliss after breakfast; Mivifa had already left, but had stocked her kitchen and left a note saying she’d catch up. She was getting the different sports tools commissioned, apparently.

Another twinge of intuition. But then Saliss brought up the cure and Lyonette was focused on that.

“Alright, I need to go around and buy all the rare reagents. I’m out of potions, and I made some—but I have to buy in bulk to resupply. I thought we’d combine that with looking into ways to cure icecube Erin.”

The Gentlemen Callers glared, but Saliss just grinned. Lyonette felt a twinge of apprehension.

“So we just go around and ask about the poison?”

“What? Oh, no. It’s just that the people we want are in the same place as the [Gardeners], [Herbalists], and so on. Duh. And don’t worry; I’ll put my gold into this.”

“You don’t have to. I’ve brought money…”

Saliss snorted. Lyonette looked at him, offended. The Drake was leaning back, munching on a blueberry muffin.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. You want to do this yourself, be my guest.”

“I didn’t say that. I just meant, let us pay for everything we can. You’re welcome to help…”

He sniggered at her. This was Ratici’s cue to slowly adjust his cap.

“You seem to be dismissing Miss Marquin, sir. Quite ungentlemanly, if I may say.”

“Well, I’d hate to be ungentlemanly.”

Saliss looked at the Gentleman Caller. The two stared for a moment, then he looked at Lyonette.

“Pray, how much did you bring for the ‘fix Erin project’, Lyonette?”

He almost purred. Lyonette had a bad feeling, but she stuck out her chin.

“Everything The Wandering Inn’s made that we don’t need to keep it running a few months or haven’t put into expansion or…other projects! That’s 1247 gold pieces!”

An astonishing sum for an inn to have in reserve. It was thanks to Erin’s windfall sales, and all the new things she’d come up with. Lyonette smiled smugly for just one second.

Then she remembered what a [Princess] would think of those numbers. Her face fell. Saliss stood up.

“That’s a lot of money for a civilian. Yup, yup. Anyone short of an adventurer—wow. So much gold. Let me just check what I have on me—”

He reached into his bag of holding and pulled out a handful of gold coins. He tossed them onto the floor. Lyonette saw a few roll under the couch. Saliss repeated the gesture.

He slowly, and deliberately began tossing handfuls of gold onto the ground. When he had created a pile reaching up to his knees, Lyonette gave up.

“I get it. But surely it won’t cost thousands of gold to—”

“…find a cure that might involve stuff like mithril, Sage’s Grass, or other extremely expensive things? Do you know how much a Kraken’s Heart costs? Krakens have multiple hearts, at least one in each tentacle, for adults. And I could still buy your inn and have change for the price of one.”

Saliss stood on a pile of gold. Lyonette stared at him; Ratici’s fingers were twitching. The Named Adventurer had…Named Adventurer money. [Princess] money. She had forgotten that her allowance had been enough to pay the entire staff of The Wandering Inn and then some.

And an adventurer could be as rich as a nation. Saliss began shoveling his gold back into his bag of holding.

“This is my spare change, incidentally. I have more in the Merchant’s Guild; I don’t carry around tens of thousands of gold pieces. By the way, I’m poor right now. Or I will be, once I buy everything I need. But don’t worry—I’ll ‘contribute’.”

“Thank you.”

Lyonette whispered stiffly. Saliss sat back.

“And whom are we visiting, sir?”

Wilovan looked like he wanted to smack the Drake. Saliss raised a claw and went abruptly serious.

“I’m visiting [Herbalists] and [Merchants] and [Suppliers]. You are going to follow me around. But Mivifa will introduce you to the people you need.”

“Not those groups?”

Lyonette was confused. She thought the point was to get Saliss what he needed so he could begin his studies into curing Erin. That, or ask fellow [Alchemists] in Oteslia. That was her rough plan.

Saliss just shook his head.

“If you wanted a good [Alchemist], Lyonette, you’d go to Pallass and me and Xif. You heard about those kids with the poisoned Selphid?”

Lyonette vaguely did. Saliss grinned.

“They went to Oteslia because it was closer. Which makes sense, but it was also slightly off. You see—you go to Pallass for established recipes. Because the [Alchemists] there can make it. Oteslia—well, it can be remade here cheaply so that was smart. But if you want medicine, or to create something new? You go to Oteslia.”

“Not Pallass again? I thought [Alchemists] made new things too.”

“We do. But we’re experimenters. What happens if I infuse Sage’s Grass water with the element of sulfur and then heat it into a gas and toss lightning into the mix? Hint—nothing. It’s boring. We don’t know what we’re making, a lot of the time. But in Oteslia, you want a specialist class who can do the job reliably, not kill themselves—usually.”

“Which is?”

Lyonette felt like Saliss enjoyed lecturing and holding back the truth. But he was also explaining—as aggravatingly as he chose to do it. The [Alchemist] grinned.

“A [Researcher]. Someone whose job it is to…figure out how to do something. Oteslia has more raw materials than anywhere but Salazsar, and Fissival has magical versions of this, but—you want medicine? Hire a [Researcher] for something new. Hire a [Scholar] to find out if it’s been done before. Hire a [Shaman] or a [Druid] to see if there are traditional ways of making it happen. That’s who you need.”

Lyonette looked at him. She was embarrassed to admit it, but she hadn’t known there was a [Researcher] class, even with her knowledge of classes. Once again, Saliss was her guide. She nodded.

“…Thank you.”

“I’ll let you ask. I can do it once I finish shopping. It’s almost as if Saliss could do all this himself! But that would be silly, wouldn’t it?”

Wilovan shifted, but Lyonette gave him a shake of the head. The Named Adventurer was just poking at her again.

“Why did you come here, incidentally? That cute Mrsha—the inn—why did you come, Lyonette? I never asked.”

She flushed nearly as red as her hair.

“Because no one else was finding anything to cure Erin. And I thought I could make a difference. That…”

Only I could do it right. Saliss grinned at her. Not mockingly—well, not entirely. But altogether too knowingly.

“Spoken like everyone with an ego. Everyone thinks they can lay bricks or paint walls until they try it. Well, speaking as someone with the largest ego—I know I can make a difference. Let’s go and get this research going. I’ll race the [Researchers] to find something anti-frost. Alright! Motivational speech done! Let’s go!”

He sprang out the door. Lyonette followed; Wilovan growling insults under his breath and Ratici muttering the same. Saliss, aggravating Saliss, overconfident, but helpful, led the way into Oteslia.

The next four hours saw him eating his words.

—-

“Adventurer Saliss! A pleasure to have a Named Adventurer in my humble establishment! Sage’s Grass? Of course, of course. For you, sir, we can do you a bushel at six hundred gold, even. How many can I put you down for?”

The [Herbalist] beamed. Saliss did not. He looked at the smug Drake, and leaned over the counter.

“Did you just say six hundred a bushel for Sage’s Grass? Do I look like an idiot? Or made of gold?”

The [Herbalist] of Leafhold’s, one of the largest suppliers to [Alchemists] who exported a lot of goods, gave Saliss a long look.

“Not at all to the former, Adventurer Saliss. But I’m afraid Sage’s Grass is very, very dear of late.”

“How about Obsidian Leaf?”

“It just climbed in price. This morning! I’m so sorry—”

The Drake sighed, leaning his chin on his hands. Saliss growled.

“I bet. And this didn’t happen to be because Igrena sent you word to raise the prices?”

The Drake gave him a wide-eyed look.

“Miss…Igrena? Oh, you mean Igrena’s Herbatorium! How is the fine old Gnoll doing?”

“She’s changed her class from [Supplier] into [Robber]. Look, I know you have lots of everything on my list. Stop gouging me or I’ll go to another shop! Oteslia has lots!”

The Drake sadly tsked as he investigated the numerous items on Saliss’ list.

“This is all so rare and expensive. Even to grow in Oteslia, Alchemist Saliss. I couldn’t do more than—excuse me? Could one of you bring the day-prices over?”

One of his apprentices ran over a list, freshly written, with a bunch of crossed out prices. Lyonette winced as she read over Saliss’ shoulder. Everything was 20% to 80% higher.

Saliss gave the [Herbalist], Master Igniz, a narrow-eyed look. The [Herbalist] beamed, quill raised.

“Now, how much can I put you down for?”

—-

“Those lizard kissing—hoard stealing—money Crelers think they can rob me? I’m Saliss! I annoy people!”

Saliss stormed out of the eighth shop in half as many hours. Leafhold’s guards nervously held open the door, but Lyonette was impressed.

Saliss had not blown up the shop, caused a fuss, or even removed his pants. She was confused as to why, at first.

Not why every [Herbalist] in Oteslia had almost the exact same prices. That was obvious.

They saw the news. Ironically, Pallass News Network had shot Saliss in the back with crossbow bolts, to use a poor metaphor. Normally, Named Adventurer’s exploits might be the talk of the city, but there was always someone who hadn’t heard.

These days, everyone knew Saliss was out of potions. So Oteslia’s emporiums of alchemy goods knew that they could turn a massive profit. And they had apparently decided to universally agree to raise prices, rather than let him find the one person willing to undercut the others.

“Clever.”

“They’ve always been clever bastards. Damn, damn, damn…”

Saliss stomped around in front of the shop. The Drake within was slyly watching. Lyonette folded her arms, thinking.

“I don’t understand, Saliss. They know you won’t buy at these prices…why isn’t one willing to mark it down a bit and get all the sales?”

“Because I have to buy! They just have to outwait me, and they will. But I’ll buy through third-parties. I’ll find the cheap stuff…but it means that I’ll probably be paying above market price on everything, even if it’s not at their rates! They’ll line their pockets with gold!”

“And you didn’t destroy the entire shop because…?”

Lyonette looked at the nervous [Guards], who were wondering the same thing no doubt. Saliss glared at Lyonette. He pointed at his face.

“Do I look stupid? I’m not about to destroy my suppliers!”

“So there are actually people you refuse to antagonize. Amazing. I should start selling herbs.”

“Well, you should think about being generous. Because the next time there’s a monster attack, guess who can’t afford to help?”

Saliss bellowed into the shop. Master Igniz waved at him. Saliss muttered to Lyonette.

“They won’t all be in on it. There’s always someone who compromises. Trouble is—I could buy all of the Obsidian Leaf in Leafhold and I’d still need more. Damn, damn…”

After a moment, the Drake looked at Lyonette.

“And why are you here? I thought you were asking about a [Researcher]!”

She gave him a shamefaced look. This was one of the business districts—but a specialized one. Next to vast, indoor gardens where specialist plants were grown, [Herbalists] had made their shops. This in particular was Horticulturalist’s Way, where any number of [Scholars] and [Researchers] did business next to the providers of the very same plants and ingredients they needed.

“We have been. But—could you, um, get them to open their doors?”

She felt more useless again. And she had done her best. Saliss stared at her, then accompanied her to the fifth [Scholar]’s residence.

Four [Researchers], all the best in the area, had signs saying ‘not taking research subjects’ or ‘no appointments available’. Even this [Scholar] had refused to even open the door for Lyonette.

She thought she was charming! She knew that if she could get in the same room with them, she could make a good case for Erin.

But she couldn’t even get in their shops without Saliss.

He effected this Erin-style. He hammered on the door until an angry [Scholar] appeared.

“Can’t you read the sign? Who in the name of Rhir’s hells are—”

“I’m Saliss.”

“S—? The Named—I am extremely b—”

“I’m Saliss.”

“Adventurer or not—”

“I’m Saliss.”

Lyonette felt like she’d get arrested if she tried that. And she didn’t have the…ability to just repeat her name fifteen times until the [Scholar] let them in.

And even then?

He was a young Garuda, apparently from Chandrar. An up-and-comer—not the best, but Lyonette had tried four before him who refused to even see her. She did her best.

“I am so sorry, Scholar Meirq, but Adventurer Saliss and I are both desperate to find a cure for my friend, as you see. And you were recommended as being the brightest and most energetic [Scholar] in all of Oteslia.”

She held his wing-hand for a second. The Garuda hesitated.

[Calming Touch]. Also, a [Charming Smile]. Lyonette was using [Basic Negotiator] and her [Imperial Aura], all to soothe and flatter the Garuda.

It seemed to be working pretty well, because he blushed and preened at his messy, ink-stained feathers. As Garuda went, he probably had trouble with his own species; his plumage was disordered and Lyonette wondered—politely speaking—if he might have come to Izril to have better luck outside his species.

“Well—that’s very kind of you, Miss Lyon. And a Named Adventurer’s patronage—”

“Not to mention the revolutionary insights of curing someone in such a state. And the gratitude of Liscor?”

She pressed him. He blushed again.

“Of course, of course. I tell you what—I’d be delighted to look into the matter. Frozen flesh? Not to mention detoxifying a venom? I can think of a number of [Herbalists] and [Researchers] I could contact who might get in on a project like this—if amply funded.”

Saliss sighed. But Lyonette brightened. At last!

“We’ll pay for speed and a team if needed! How soon can you begin working?”

“Ah. Well—two months?”

Lyonette’s face fell. The Garuda hastened to qualify.

“It’s not that I don’t see the urgency! It’s just that I’m in ah, competition at the moment with my fellow [Researchers] and so on. I would make this my second top priority, but—”

“You can’t put it aside even for someone mortally wounded?”

The Garuda looked distressed at Lyonette’s reproachful look. He blushed under his feathers.

“I am sorry. But this is—well, it could define my career. Literally put me above all my competition, Miss. And it’s a certain thing. Two months. From what you say, your friend can wait that long. Let’s discuss it over dinner. I can spare an hour or two tonight if you—Miss? Miss…?”

“I’m going to another shop. Meet you after the next researcher?”

Lyonette nodded. She walked to the next address. And then met up with Mivifa, Ratici, and Wilovan.

The Oldblood of Feathers had returned from commissioning the sports projects to help. She was looking miffed.

“That’s the third [Researcher] completely occupied, Miss Lyon. Have you found anyone?”

“No, Mivifa.”

“Not one? Something must be up. I wonder…”

The Named Adventurer frowned. She looked at Ratici and Wilovan. They tugged at their hats.

“I’m terribly sorry, Miss Lyonette. But even Miss Mivifa couldn’t sway the [Researchers], as it were.”

Lyonette stared, incredulous. Mivifa’s frown only deepened.

“Something must be up. I’ve never seen Horticulturalist’s Way this obsessed. Even if they’re all competing, there’s always someone willing to spare time for…and is Saliss still having trouble buying anything?”

“Yes.”

Mivifa sighed.

“The First Gardener won’t be happy. But she won’t want to fight all the [Herbalists]—enough is enough. Saliss is one thing and he can take care of himself. He’s rich. But this is a mission of mercy. Follow me.”

She strode back to the first [Researcher] that Lyonette had tried. It was a rather strange…building. Lyonette saw lots of enchantments around it, and the doors were locked. She suspected it was the kind of place where experiments both dangerous and mundane could be carried out; it was long and had few windows, although—six chimneys.

“Excuse me! This is Mivifa Selifscale! I request a meeting with Researcher Dromenl! At once!”

The Named Adventurer knocked on the door and shouted loudly. People in the street glanced at her. She knocked—waited—and then, after no response came, began to lose her temper.

“By the order of the First Gardener of Oteslia, open this door! Now! I know there’s someone in here! If you do not open this door within the minute, Oteslia’s Treewatch will force it open and lock the facility down for the day!”

There it was. Lyonette was impressed; Saliss had never used his authority like this—or rather, that of the city. But Mivifa was clearly more trusted by the local government. Named Adventurers were their cities.

And sure enough, an assistant practically sprinted out of the back rooms at that. He fumbled the doors open, breathing apologies.

“I am so sorry, Adventurer Mivifa—”

“I demand to see Researcher Dromenl. Now.”

The [Princess] had had the sense that Mivifa had a temper. Here it was on display. She waited in the empty lobby as the assistant ran off.

Researcher Dromenl was actually Human. Lyonette was surprised, but the aged man was clearly a resident of Oteslia for a long time.

“Adventurer Mivifa! What can we do for you? I—did not realize you were here. Is the First Gardener well? No side effects? The pills…”

“They worked splendidly, with her compliments. She wants more. What I want to know, Researcher, is why every facility of study is closed! I have a guest from Liscor, vouched for by Saliss of Lights and myself who can’t even get a single Level 20 [Scholar] to help her! The First Gardener herself is interested in this case.”

Mivifa was throwing all stops out for Lyonette. The [Princess] introduced herself, and Dromenl blinked at her.

“My, the First Gardener? You—young lady, do you know you have an extraordinary hair color? Less than 2% of all Humans have this vivid shade of red; it’s considered a marker of royal heritage in Terandria, and that’s not far off.”

She froze.

“Er—I’ve always been told so, sir. But please—”

She rushed to explain the issue. Researcher Dromenl was fascinated.

“A frozen body that is neither alive nor dead? Poison? Of course we can help! Why, I could freeze half a dozen rats—”

“Researcher, the [Druids] don’t approve of that.”

One of the assistant [Researchers] whispered urgently. The entire team had turned out after Mivifa’s wrath had been made clear. Dromenl hesitated.

“Of course. One doesn’t want to offend the [Druids]. But…little rats?”

“This is very good, Researcher. Then—can I count on you to help Miss Lyon? She can fund the entire project—and Saliss of Lights as well.”

Mivifa was smiling. Dromenl and his team perked up at ‘fund’; Lyonette got the impression they were always hungry for funds, even in the best facilities. But then—it happened.

“Er, we will make it our top priority, Adventurer Mivifa. After our current line of investigation is done.”

Mivifa’s smile vanished. So did Lyonette’s.

“What is this about, Researcher?”

He hesitated and looked at Ratici, Wilovan, and Lyonette. The two Callers, not at home here, were glancing around and murmuring to each other.

“Candidly, Adventurer, that’s confidential. I could tell you—but not outsiders. No offense to Miss Lyon, but we verge on a huge discovery! I am 100% confident of this and that is an extraordinary thing to say, haha—”

He looked excited. Mivifa hesitated.

“Tell me. Excuse me, Miss Lyonette. But it is confidential between research facilities—does this have to do with…?”

She walked away with Dromenl. Lyonette wished she could read lips or had a hearing spell, but the facility was probably guarded. She walked back.

“Seems something is attracting attention, Miss Lyon. We’d like to help, but Ratici and I aren’t the most charming of sorts insofar as it comes to polite negotiations between upstanding sorts.”

Wilovan murmured. Lyonette shook her head.

“It’s fine, Wilovan. Thank you for looking around. I don’t know what this is—something wrong, Ratici?”

The Drake was scratching at the back of his neck. He tipped his cap.

“Begging your pardon, Miss Lyon. Old habits.”

Ah. The [Thief]. She hesitated.

“I don’t think Mivifa would take kindly to any…”

“Not me, Miss Lyon. I wouldn’t jeopardize anything. It’s just—there’s something valuable back there. Familiar. I was trying to place it.”

Lyonette blinked. She wondered what made Ratici’s [Thief] senses tingle. She glanced at Wilovan.

“You can’t hear…?”

“They ward the entire facility. Sensible, Miss Lyon. I’m afraid we’re in the dark, so to speak.”

He shrugged and she sighed.

Mivifa was no better. She knew—but obviously it was a secret matter.

“I can see why they don’t want to help. The First Gardener might be able to insist one drops the issue. They don’t all have to work on the same thing, although if one gets lucky—I’ll bring it up with her. But it is a find, Miss Lyon. Let’s find Saliss and see if he’s had any luck.”

—-

He had not. Saliss was spitting mad as he stomped from shop to shop. Wilovan and Ratici had taken themselves off to ‘do some investigating on the sly, as it were’, and Mivifa was checking more researchers to confirm they were all on the same thing.

Lyonette glumly watched him enter another shop, the smallest so far compared to all the big ones. He had been shouting really pithy insults at all of the unified sellers of herbs as he realized they were working together to raise prices on all the things he needed.

She expected him to do as he had done in the last shop; kick the door open, and ask if the shopkeeper wanted to make money, or be an obstinate Lizard.

However. This shop was…interesting. The Drake at the counter leaned over and blinked.

“Is that Saliss?”

She was middle-aged. Saliss walked up.

“Herissa. Please tell me it’s not everyone marking up their prices?”

She swished her tail as Lyonette looked around the establishment. This wasn’t a huge facility, but it was doing well. The [Herbalist] sighed.

“They smell money, and you’re rich, Saliss. Sorry. What’s your list? As if I don’t know—it’s been going around.”

“So they’re working together? Creler eggs! I’d chuck it in their gardens if it wasn’t a war crime!”

“Don’t be too mad—they’re doing it to all the [Alchemists]. They know there’s a shortage—or will be once you’re done buying. The television.”

“Damn Sir Relz and that thing. I’m gonna take off his pants live!”

She laughed at that.

“Let me know so I can watch! Alright, alright. Stop stamping around. Let’s see. Obsidian Leaf…sulfur…Eir Gel…Sage’s Grass—why do you need that? And who’s your Human friend?”

She was glancing warily at Lyonette. Saliss waved a claw.

“She’s from Liscor.”

“Really? The Liscor I’ve heard about? Is she…?”

“No, but she’s a friend. And I bought Sage’s Grass from the [Farmer] in Celum, but he’s a damned [Pirate]. Literally. Still cheaper than Oteslia, but his is only one farm…I need it all.”

The [Herbalist] pursed her lips.

“Well, I need some for my brews too. Alright, here’s what I have. I made it up as soon as I knew what you were dealing with. It’s all I can spare.”

Lyonette blinked. The Drake [Herbalist] began putting box upon box on the counter. Saliss relaxed.

“That’s your entire stock.”

“Well, I can get more faster than you can. And you can pay me just enough for a profit.”

Saliss hesitated.

“Let me at least do market-value. Everyone else is going to gouge me—you might as well earn something. Maybe they’ll think twice now that you did this. Unless you want me to keep silent…?”

She waved a claw.

“They’ll be furious, but it happens. Good luck, Saliss. How’s Pallass been?”

The Drake glanced at her.

“Same old, same old. Oteslia?”

“Better than Pallass.”

“Hm. Need a tail while I’m here on anything in particular?”

Another look at Lyonette. The Drake shook her head.

“Nothing I can really complain of. Just don’t get yourself killed, Saliss. I nearly swallowed my tail when I saw the fight with those Human [Assassins]. Tell Mirn he’s welcome to vacation here at any time.”

Saliss nodded. They actually hugged. Lyonette blinked as he put the boxes in his bag of holding and signed a slip for her to cash in at the Merchant’s Guild.

“You got your ingredients?”

“Enough to begin working. Herissa’s not a huge supplier—but she gave me what she could. Maybe it’ll help. Hopefully it doesn’t put her in too much trouble with the Herbalist’s Guild.”

He sighed. Lyonette hesitated. The Drake had just forked it all over without even haggling, unlike the united [Herbalists] and [Suppliers] of every species.

“Do you know her? It sounded like she owed you a debt.”

Saliss glanced at Lyonette.

“We’re old friends. And yes, we help each other. Forget about it. Friendship and stuff goes beyond economics. I still need more. I could wish for ten Herissas and I’d still need more. Damn. Let’s see if that makes Igniz change his tune. Any luck on the [Researchers]?”

“No. They’re all working on some project or other.”

“Really. That’s what I heard. Half the shops are selling something in the backrooms. But I’m not interested right now. Probably some ‘wonder herb’ like usual. I’ll see if I can find out what it is after this.”

They were walking back into Leafhold when they saw an angry customer arguing with Mister Igniz.

“But this is ridiculous, no? Listen, you cannot charge these prices! Pallass’ [Alchemists] cannot afford it!”

“Then they will buy it somewhere else. Oh, Baleros maybe.”

The angry Gnoll with stained fur stuck his finger up at the Drake as Saliss and Lyonette came to an abrupt standstill. He was actually trembling with fury. The Gnoll was old and he still wore his partly-corroded apron.

“This is robbery! We have been doing good business for years! And right when I need help most, you—”

“Xif?”

The Gnoll turned at Lyonette’s voice. He started, then stared.

“Is that Miss Lyon? And—”

His gaze turned left. The yellow-scaled Drake gave him a huge smile. Xif went white under his fur as Saliss opened his arms wide.

“Xif! Just the Gnoll I didn’t want to see! Lyonette, run and get me some shears, will you? I have a promise to keep. Xif, remember the inn and those [Assassins]? This is how I express gratitude!”

“Saliss!”

The Gnoll [Alchemist] yelped. Lyonette saw his hand go to his side as Saliss strode forwards, claw clenching into a fist. She saw the Gnoll [Alchemist], second-best in Pallass turn—

Then rip a club from his side and charge at Saliss. Even the Named Adventurer didn’t expect that.

“You bastard, Saliss!”

“Me? You big-mouthed [Alchemist] idiot—”

The two went rolling onto the floor, punching and biting at each other. Master Igniz shouted as the shop’s employees and guests scattered. Saliss was howling.

“Do you know how many potions I wasted because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut? I could have walked to House Veltras, but nooooo—I’m going to burn your shop down, Xif!”

“Was it you? Was it you? Everything I had was there! You—”

Saliss caught the club as the old Gnoll panted. He held Xif off him effortlessly.

“Wait, what?”

He forced Xif back as the guards and Lyonette dragged him back. The Gnoll struggled, but he was older, and—there were tears in his eyes.

“My shop. Was it you?”

Saliss hesitated. He sat up.

“Wait—”

“Someone burned it down. My shop! Everything I had!”

Xif was sobbing. The old [Alchemist] looked weary. And sad. Saliss and Lyonette blinked. The Named Adventurer got to his feet.

“Okay—I’ve said a lot of things. But I didn’t do that. When?”

“Two days ago. I was coming here to do business and my apprentice said—it’s all gone. All my work, my laboratory, my home—I knew it wasn’t you. But someone heard what you were saying or—the Watch said it was arson.”

Arson. Saliss stood there, blinking at Xif.

“Wait—but someone did—that’s madness. Pallass needs your potions! And burn down your shop? Even I’m not crazy enough to actually do that!”

“It took out eighteen other buildings. They actually burned it—I had anti-fire wards, but someone must have…I’ve lost everything, Saliss.”

The Gnoll collapsed, weeping. Lyonette stared at him as Saliss looked around. Master Igniz looked apologetic.

“Alchemists, I’m deeply sorry to hear about this. But please—no fighting in my shop.”

Both Xif and Saliss glared at him. Xif slowly rose, pointing a trembling paw at Igniz. He turned to Saliss.

“You arriving makes sense. I was trying to buy enough to make potions again when the prices skyrocketed. No one’s willing to help me in my hour of need!”

“Too right. Oteslian price-gougers!”

Saliss patted Xif on the shoulder. The two outraged [Alchemists] turned on Igniz. The Drake folded his arms.

“Pallass has always lived richly off the ingredients we supply. I’m sorry about your shop, Xif, but you both have gold.”

“Yes, and we earned it! Or do you think making a Potion of Blast is as easy as watching an herb grow for six months?”

“Have you not ever seen Vorepillar infestations? Let me tell you—”

The heated argument took place as Lyonette stood back. Xif, Saliss, and Igniz were trading insults as Mivifa, Ratici, and Wilovan arrived to once again report no luck. At last, Igniz threw up his claws.

“Alright! Alright, listen. I know it’s hard, but our prices aren’t that far off! Try negotiating rather than telling us we’re all cutthroat [Pirates]! We’re willing to come down if you’re willing to come up.”

“Above market price? Come on!”

Saliss snapped. Suddenly he and Xif were united. Igniz hesitated. He lifted a claw.

“—tell you what. I’ll sweeten the deal. You two give me a fairer offer, and I’ll throw in a sample of a new ingredient both of you will be begging me to buy. I wanted to have a larger sample, but—follow me.”

The two [Alchemists] exchanged suspicious looks. But they followed Igniz into the back of the shop. Lyonette watched as she turned to Ratici and Wilovan.

“Someone actually burned down Xif’s shop.”

“That’s terrible. A man shouldn’t lose everything.”

Wilovan looked shocked. Lyonette nodded. She felt bad for Xif, and she had been right on team-shave with Saliss a moment ago. But that was just talk. Some idiot had actually…?

“What do we do about the researchers? Mivifa, can you share anything about what they’re researching?”

The Oldblood of Feathers looked uncomfortable.

“I—I don’t know, Lyonette. It’s business. I can share that it’s new, and it’s very efficacious. I’ve seen it working myself. Maybe if Saliss finds out—Igniz might have a sample. But I can’t just divulge th—”

“WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?”

The voice was so loud that everyone flinched. Saliss came raging out of the backrooms with Igniz dragging at him.

“You thief! You crook!”

“Saliss, let go! That’s mine! I only have one sample—”

“Who is responsible for this? I’ll burn down your shop!”

Xif was right behind Saliss, waving his enchanted club. Lyonette had no idea why they were so upset. Then—she saw the mysterious item that had been sweeping Oteslia’s research teams, and the [Herbalists] shops. The enigmatic wonder-herb of the moment. The secret—obvious—

She stared at the little yellow flower in the pot and Saliss’ face. He turned to her, eyes wide with fury.

And all the pieces fell into place.

—-

They were called Faerie Flowers. Wil Kallinad had heard it more and more from the best [Herbalists] in Oteslia. Apparently someone had managed to cultivate the things and while they were few in number, they had astonishing effects.

And they were easy to work with. So much so that research was exploding. And the results were already…

“Yerranola? Can you hear me?”

The Selphid’s eyes opened slowly. She gasped, as the Gnoll body jerked; she had been taking command of its systems. She opened her eyes—made them move in different directions, opened and closed her mouth—then looked at him.

“Wil?”

He grabbed her in a fierce hug. Feshi let out a howl of delight.

“It worked! Yerra—are you—?”

The Selphid flexed her body, still testing it out, then gently hugged Wil.

“I—I can move! It doesn’t hurt!”

There were no tears in her eyes like Wil’s, but a bit of orange fluid had been excreted when he had first administered the new medicinal variant. She shuddered.

“The pain—I was in agony for days. Weeks! How long…?”

“Nearly a month. The poison’s still in there. I’m so sorry. We went as fast as we could, yes, but—”

Feshi was hovering next to her. Yerra nodded.

“I remember. You all worked so hard.”

“You took the arrow meant for me. If it hadn’t been for you—”

Wil Kallinad was thinner. He hadn’t slept or rested fully until Yerra had been better. And even after the first antidotes had been manufactured, coming from Xif of Pallass by Courier—he had spent money liberally to see it done. But even then….Yerra shuddered.

“The pain. It didn’t go away, even though I felt the antidotes working. But that new medicine…what is it?”

She’d been getting better, but agonizingly slowly, able to talk and tell them how much it hurt in her glass jar enchanted to hold her, but it had been too hard to see. But—Wil gestured with a trembling hand.

“It’s a new pain-drug one of the [Researchers] came up with. Faerie flowers. You’ll need to take it along with more antidote treatments until you’re all better, but—there’s no pain?”

She wept an orange tear that matted her fur.

“None. Thank you, Wil. Thank you.”

She hugged him tight. Wil relaxed. He didn’t mention how much the experimental medicine had cost, nor the rarity of the plant. But there was more growing and—Yerra was better.

At last.

—-

Xif had once bought a single faerie flower from Erin, using a Skill to force the sale. Saliss had been given more for friendship.

Both had sent them to Oteslia after [Gardeners] in Pallass had failed. Because Oteslia grew things. It was their specialty. It had been…months ago.

It was tempting to blame Xif. But his Skill was [The Avid Collector]. And he had paid what Erin was willing to sell the flower for.

It was an unfriendly sale, as Salazsar would well know, but it had been legal. It occurred to Lyonette, now, that she wasn’t needed here. The best person to have would have been…

Selys.

[Everything Had a Price] would have let Saliss and Xif buy what they wanted. Maybe at the same prices? Maybe not. But either way—the faerie flowers were in Oteslia.

But they weren’t a secret, or being kept by one person. And again—you couldn’t blame Xif.

Because he was as angry and confused as Saliss.

“I have forty one flowers, which is all the person I sent them to could produce. And they had numerous failures and setbacks! What about you?”

“I told my [Gardener] that this was top-secret. Which is why I can’t see why Igniz had one—let alone all these [Researchers]!”

The Gnoll and Drake traded looks. They came to the same conclusion at the same time Lyonette did.

—-

Saliss kicked the door to the indoor growing house open.

“Master Elroz! We need to chat!”

He bellowed. Lyonette stared into one of Oteslia’s greenhouses for unique plants.

She’d heard Erin talk about greenhouses, but hadn’t been as surprised as Erin thought. Because of course, Oteslia and other places had enchanted buildings to grow plants year-round.

For instance—this greenhouse specialized in difficult plants. It cultivated things like Glasswhistle, the exceptionally fragile plant that would actually kill itself under its own weight in time. That was how it reproduced, but large varieties of the thin, weak plant were more valuable.

So there was a low-gravity chamber where hanging pots of the plant grew, suspended in the air, branch-structures slowly expanding under glass roofs.

There was a chamber Saliss stormed through that Lyonette wonderingly saw had massive trees with roots nearly twenty feet long, as to touch the water below. That was because the roots were valuable, so the trees were encouraged to grow them long.

Saliss found Master Elroz tending to the faerie flowers. They were in a room of their own, bathed in sunlight and—Lyonette noted, planted spaced-out in beds filled with…mana stones?

Yes, glittering mana stones, and surrounded by pools filled with chopped-up Sage’s Grass and water! She felt the mana density here; they were feeding the faerie flowers with rich mana, as well as strong fertilizers, Skills, and everything else. There were other experimental beds at hotter or colder temperatures, and the Gnoll was replanting a handful of—

“Alchemist Saliss! I was just going t—”

He got no further before Saliss put him in a headlock. Xif had his club drawn.

“Master Elroz, Master Elroz. I was going to pay you a visit after shopping, but it seems like I have to put you at the top of my list. And I’m getting sort of annoyed about my list. I told you—I paid you—to grow Faerie Flowers in secret. So why does half of Oteslia have one?”

The Gnoll [Gardener] tried to speak. But all he made was a spluttering sound; Saliss was choking him. Xif was swinging his club.

“Let’s do my [Culturist] next. What say we lay him out, burn the place down and—”

“Father! Father! Ancestors, stop! Someone call the Treewatch!”

A horrified Gnoll raced across the greenhouse. She grabbed at Saliss, but the Drake refused to let go.

“Saliss! Enough!”

It was Mivifa who strode in and forced the Drake to stop choking the Gnoll [Gardener]. The Named Adventurer saw the [Gardener] collapse, gasping, to the floor. Lyonette watched with Wilovan and Ratici.

—-

“I—I didn’t sell a thing, Master Saliss! I obeyed your instructions to the letter!”

The Gnoll protested—from behind Mivifa—when he could finally speak. His daughter, a younger [Gardener] with dirt in her fur, was protectively shielding him. Saliss was furious. Lyonette had never seen him so angry and Mivifa actually had a hand on her sword as she blocked him.

“Then who was it? Xif’s person?”

“I don’t know, Master Saliss. But more samples began popping up as I was having success with my flowers. I assumed more people were sending it in, or another source had been discovered—”

Xif and Saliss traded looks. They charged out the door, Xif with his club raised. Lyonette looked at Mivifa. The Named Adventurer was cursing.

“Saliss! Don’t kill them! Master Elroz, I need you to swear to me that it wasn’t you. I’m sure Saliss confirmed it—”

“I swear, Miss Mivifa. I can’t speak for whomever Alchemist Xif hired. It might have been—he was persuaded to share—Oteslian generosity.”

The Gnoll coughed. Mivifa bit her lip. She turned to Lyonette.

“Is there any chance that it could have come from anywhere else, Miss Lyon? These…faerie flowers?”

“That’s what everyone’s talking about, isn’t it?”

Lyon met her eyes. The frightened daughter of Elroz, the Gnoll, and Mivifa all nodded.

“It’s the newest thing. We thought Master Saliss had found a source, but someone else had discovered it. Like adventurers finding it in a dungeon. Isn’t it possible it was just someone else?”

Lyonette smiled. That was a fair assumption. She met Mivifa’s eyes and shook her head.

“No, Miss Mivifa. It’s impossible. Because I know where the faerie flowers come from and there’s no way anyone got another sample.”

The Named Adventurer blinked.

“You know? Then it was Liscor. There’s no chance…?”

“None. So it was Xif’s person. Or—no. I can’t imagine how anyone else would get that.”

Unless the Frost Faeries had tricked someone else with fake gold. And they didn’t even look like faeries to anyone but Earthers. Mivifa saw the certainty in Lyonette’s eyes and cursed.

“Ancestors. Then this is Crelered to all hells and back. I’d better stop those two from murdering—Master Elroz, you stay here. I’ll make sure Saliss doesn’t lose it.”

The Gnoll nodded, eyes wide. Lyonette barely stopped at ‘Creler’ as a verb, but it was curious. She hurried after Mivifa.

“But how did it happen? Someone sold it despite Xif’s orders?”

“Yes—no. Sort of. It’s…Oteslian generosity.”

Lyonette stared at Mivifa’s back. The Named Adventurer gave her a pained look.

—-

The [Culturist] had gotten word Xif and Saliss were on the warpath. Her private gardens were closed, and she was nowhere in sight. Xif and Saliss had broken down the door and searched the place.

“Oteslian generosity.”

Saliss spat when Lyonette repeated the phrase. The [Princess] raised her brows.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, I bet the [Culturist] Xif hired went to someone else after she failed to grow the flowers. Asked for tips—maybe even lent one out if she had spares. As a ‘thank you’. And someone else began growing them and selling them—”

“I told her—I paid her for secrecy!”

Xif stared around. Mivifa cleared her throat.

“Master Xif, Saliss. Oteslia’s more liberal about sharing ideas and—”

“And goods that we paid to be kept secret?”

Both [Alchemists] turned on her. She raised her claws.

“Don’t snap at me! Lyon claims it’s impossible for the flowers to have been spread, but you’re certain no one even took a single flower or clipping?”

Lyonette hesitated. So did Saliss and Xif. It was…possible…that someone might have used a dried faerie flower, or taken one back when they were on the windowsills in the inn. Or—Erin took them out to use for the faerie drinks and the Minotaur’s Punch. Someone could have stolen one.

Possible, but unlikely. Extremely so. She repeated that, and Mivifa ran a claw through her neck spines.

“Saliss, Master Xif—neither of you hits or attacks anything. I’ll help you sort this out, but peacefully. You don’t do that, and I’ll call the Treewatch, understand?”

The two [Alchemists] fumed, but they nodded. Saliss snapped.

“I want to find Xif’s person. Who is it, Xif?”

“Culturist Greeka.”

“I’ll ask the Treewatch to investigate. In the meanwhile—let’s see where Master Igniz got his flower.”

Lyonette fell behind the three as they stormed off with the power of fury to the herbalist. Wilovan and Ratici found her panting and slowed.

“Bit of a spot it seems, Miss Lyon. Goods misplaced—grown, should I say. Tricky business. Not something I’m used to. Rather like growing gold, isn’t it, Wilovan?”

“Indeed, Ratici, indeed. Would that it were so simple with our lot.”

“What do you two…think…? Did Master Elroz or his daughter sell the flowers? The culturist?”

Lyonette panted. The Gentleman Callers glanced at each other. Wilovan tapped the side of his nose.

“A gentleman never suspects a lady. And his daughter looked innocent as could be to my eyes, Miss Lyon. Wasn’t questioned; didn’t need to be, honestly. Master Saliss is a sharp sort, and that Miss Mivifa, but it could be wasn’t even the culturist to blame.”

“Really?”

Lyonette doubted that. Ratici illuminated her. He leaned in.

“Master Elroz has a number of staff, Miss Lyon. Assistant hands. So too would a good [Culturist]. Seems to me—even if one of the two was to blame, there’s plenty of cracks for a flower to slip through. And the problem with growing is—it won’t be easy to find the source.”

She looked at him. Ratici’s words turned out to be prophetic. Master Igniz was all too alarmed as Mivifa herself confronted him with the angry [Alchemists], but he was willing to say where he’d gotten the flowers.

“It was a friend, alright, Alchemists, Adventurer Mivifa? A…[Gardener].”

“A [Culturist]?”

Saliss snapped. Igniz frowned.

“No. a friend. And respectfully—unless the Treewatch orders me to, I will decline to divulge who it was.”

“Master Igniz, this may be a matter of theft. I am a Named Adventurer, true, but I will bring in the Watch if I must. You know my authority. By the First Gardener, I am conducting this investigation and everything you say is being tested under truth stone and Master Saliss’ potions.”

The [Herbalist] gulped. But he held his ground.

“I swear to you, Adventurer Mivifa, it was not a [Culturist]. Moreover…my friend gave me a sample as a token of appreciation. I…understand…he had nearly a dozen more and was growing more as fast as possible and giving a few more out for handsome sums to other researchers.”

Lyonette’s eyes narrowed. This was unacceptable! Saliss didn’t even keep the words inside.

“Tell me who. Tell me now, Igniz, or so help me, I’ll do to this place what I dreamt of doing to Xif’s!”

The Gnoll was nodding. Mivifa rounded on Saliss.

“Saliss! Enough!”

Igniz backed up.

“I don’t—listen. If you tell them, it wasn’t from me. I stole nothing!”

“Then give me the flower!”

Xif reached for it, but the guards and employees closed ranks around Igniz. He guarded the pot with both arms.

“Absolutely not! It could be worth a fortune! No one has any to sell from Oteslia yet, but I have a buyer overseas—”

“It’s not yours to sell!”

Xif roared. Mivifa had to push both [Alchemists] out of the shop.

“Master Igniz, you will not sell that until the Treewatch and First Gardener decide on this. Saliss, back up. This isn’t your city. Don’t make me call a group to arrest you.”

Saliss calmed down. He stormed towards his next victim, the [Gardner]. But Lyonette was beginning to sense a bad pattern.

—-

The [Bluemoon Gardener] was made of sterner stuff than all the rest. He refused to let them see how many flowers he had. And even when grabbed by Saliss, he refused to waver.

“Look, Alchemists. I’ve stolen nothing. And I can swear before any number of truth stones you want! I was given this flower. Yes, I grew more! So what? And yes, I’m sharing or selling it about! It’s a wondrous plant! Looks like gold if you look at it under the right light—and it has any number of properties! I’m no [Alchemist], and even I can uncover a few! It’s going to make me rich.”

“It’s. Not. Yours. And it wasn’t meant to be spread about!”

Saliss snarled in his face. The [Gardener] was unmoved.

“It’s not yours either, Alchemist. It’s a plant and it can benefit everyone! Maybe someone illegally spread it about to begin with. Well—charge them. But the rest of us gave each other notes on how to grow the tricky devils properly. And we’re sharing it with the research teams because everyone will benefit once all the effects are documented. Oteslian generosity!”

Oteslian generosity. Lyonette was getting sick of the expression. It wasn’t a hard concept to grasp.

Sometimes, a [Researcher] needed to look into, say, the effects of Threadvine. So maybe a [Gardener] helped with that. Maybe they were paid back in turn. Perhaps the horticulturalist techniques of growing a tricky flower were spread around.

Everyone benefited. This was a community. Oteslian generosity explained why the flower was in so many places, despite still being so few in quantity. Everyone of note had one.

Lyonette saw the reason, even sound arguments for that kind of goodwill and cooperation. However, the notion of free exchange of goods and mutual cooperation for everyone’s benefit horrified the Pallassian [Alchemists], who had wanted it to be secret.

“How dare these lizards work together? This means war! A boycott, Saliss! We have to tell the Alchemist’s Guild in Pallass!”

Xif was growling and Saliss was nodding as they paced about Mivifa’s home. The Oldblood of Feathers was exasperated. At their attitudes, as well as the situation in general.

Without finding the first thief and recipient, everyone else could and did claim innocence, as Ratici had warned. Moreover…it was exceptionally hard to take the flowers back. Mainly because, as Igniz pointed out when summoned to the First Gardener’s residence, how did you know it had come from Saliss or Xif?

—-

“First Gardener. Yes, Alchemists Saliss and Xif might have had those flowers first. But they are a plant. It’s entirely possible someone else got a hold of them.”

“Impossible!”

Igniz glowered at Saliss as the First Gardener, headache-free, listened to the argument. The [Herbalist] and a group of fellow [Gardeners], [Researchers], and so on, were pleading their case.

“The fact remains that Master Xif and Saliss sent the flowers here. They are claiming ownership of the faerie flowers, which were illegally grown despite their payments for security and secrecy.”

The [Herbalist] scoffed.

“But that doesn’t mean our flowers came from them, First Gardener! Flowers germinate. With respect to the [Alchemist], even Sage’s Grass came from numerous sources when it was first grown en masse!”

“Not in this case and you damn well know it!”

Saliss hissed. The First Gardener turned to him.

“Alchemist. Can you prove that these flowers only came from one source that only you and Xif could have access to?”

The Named Adventurer hesitated.

“I can swear via truth spell, First Gardener—”

“But can you swear that there was no chance it came from anywhere else? We need proof! How did these miraculous plants only fall into your possession?”

And there it was. Saliss hesitated and glanced at Lyonette for just a second. So did Mivifa. The problem was—Saliss probably could explain they had only come by way of Erin Solstice, or Lyonette could.

But she would have to explain about the frost faeries and Lyonette didn’t know how much Saliss knew. The end result was that it was hard to say ‘yes, those faerie flowers absolutely came from the samples sent by Xif and Saliss and not from the inn by way of someone else, also I can’t tell you how I know those flowers are the only ones in the entire world.’

The First Gardener pointed this out, albeit more diplomatically. The two [Alchemists] listened as she spoke.

“I cannot simply order each flower confiscated and given to the two [Alchemists].”

“That’s fine. We’ll let you burn them. So long as you don’t inhale the fumes.”

Researcher Dromenl burst out at the same time as the others.

“What? Outrageous!”

“This could revolutionize medicine! First Gardener, you’ve already—”

“Ooh, burning them does something? What?”

“Silence, please!”

The First Gardener rubbed at her temples unconsciously, although she didn’t really have a headache. Lyonette, who was listening in, realized what was happening as she tried to soothe the [Alchemists].

She was going to let the faerie flowers stay in the possession of the Oteslians. The [Princess] knew this to be a fact.

Why? Because she was a [Princess]. And the First Gardener ruled Oteslia. Lyonette hadn’t missed that the First Gardener was using a pill based on faerie flowers. And even then—who would turn down the next Sage’s Grass?

“I am terribly sorry, [Alchemists], but I do not rule in favor of destruction or confiscation.”

Xif made a strangled sound and turned away, throwing his paws up. Saliss? He narrowed his eyes.

“This is between Oteslia and Pallass, First Gardener. I warn you—this will become more than a little incident.”

She hesitated. The Oteslians went silent and even Mivifa looked uneasy. The grandson of Chaldion waited. The First Gardener slowly shook her head.

“Even then, Alchemist. I hope we can discuss the issue further, perhaps even offer compensation and certainly find the culprit. But I cannot simply take away this product from the different groups present.”

She indicated them all. They all stood there, representatives or individuals, smiling, thanking her. Saliss looked at the First Gardener. He walked to the doors, opened them, and slammed them so hard they shook on the way out. Lyonette followed him, thinking.

—-

For the first time ever, Saliss had lost in terms of…personality? The Saliss-level antagonism had fallen apart in face of Oteslian, well generosity.

It was not fair. It was not right…

But flip it on its head and it was two [Alchemists] trying to suppress a miracle ingredient that might help countless people! Who mattered more, the individual, or the group, no matter if there had been some illegality?

That was Oteslia’s ethos. Lyonette sat in Mivifa’s apartment. Outside, she, Xif, and Saliss were bellowing at each other.

“A right to-do.”

Wilovan commented as he fixed himself a drink. Feathi stuck her face in his mug and sipped the strong bourbon. The Gnoll stared at her—then put the mug down and made himself another.

The problem to Lyonette, was that the faerie flowers were not of this world. They were Erin’s. And the [Innkeeper] had never wanted to share them with Xif or spread them.

But she refused to say it, even if it changed things. And honestly?

It would not. The First Gardener was a ruler. She wanted those faerie flowers. So Lyonette sat there.

She felt useless. And seeing Saliss run into this—this—outrage hadn’t helped her bad mood. She closed her eyes.

“The faerie flowers should be our trump card. That’s not fair.”

“It seldom is, Miss. Begging your pardon, but all levels play with daggers under the table. The daggers just look different.”

Ratici tipped his cap as he took a drink from Wilovan. The other Gnoll nodded. Lyonette nodded too.

“I know that. It’s just—”

She felt like those Oteslians were arrogant. Sneering at Pallassian greed while denying any wrongdoing had taken place on their part. It rankled her. She knew pride and rude prejudice. She had embodied it. It was no more fun to see in this form, or fair.

But what could be done? She sat there, thinking. There was something she could do, wasn’t there? She hadn’t come all this way for nothing.

She had come for Erin. This? This was just a distraction! Lyonette’s eyes opened wide. Yes—why did it even matter?

Because the [Researchers] were focused on the flower. What if—she told them Erin had been responsible for them? She frowned.

But Erin had no more left. And yet—damn! She felt at her pouch. Slowly, she took something out.

“We don’t have anything more than Saliss’ gold. And I don’t have the flowers myself. If I did, I could…prove…but they all died. And I wish Erin was here. If she was…I don’t have…”

She was fumbling with something. Staring at it. Ratici glanced up.

“What’s that you have there, Miss?”

Wilovan looked up too. Lyonette hesitated. She put it back in her belt pouch.

“Nothing. Maybe. I don’t think it can help…here. I just—”

She had left the inn. But she had taken one thing when she had stopped in Erin’s room for something, anything. A bit of hope, an edge.

A ring.

But it was just brass. Maybe Erin had only used it as jewelry. Lyonette put it out of her mind.

“What do you two think of the flowers, Ratici, Wilovan?”

The two Gentlemen Callers looked at each other. Wilovan tipped up his hat and scratched at his head.

“Well, it’s a straight snatch-and-whistle, if you don’t mind me being a bit of the street, Miss Lyonette.”

“Snatch and whistle?”

She smiled. The [Worldly Princess] liked to learn new things, but they came from a different world than even the one she had learned. Wilovan explained.

“Fellow snatches something, passes it onto the next. That fellow puts it down, or hands it off. So the third fellow can say he don’t know how it was gotten—or say he paid for it all legal. Easier than saying ‘it fell off a wagon’, which truth spells fail. By the time it’s gone from six people, it’s hard as can be to identify the culprit.”

“Mind you, the smart Watches don’t care and make trouble for everyone. But you can…persuade law to not bother investigating. The First Gardener’s a bit tricksome, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Everyone is. My father included. He’d do exactly as she’s doing.”

Lyonette sighed. She respected that, actually. It was just—they were doing it to her. She sat there, thinking.

But what would Erin Solstice have done, if she’d come here and learned of this? Accepted it? Done what Saliss was doing and gone to war between Walled Cities? Lyonette thought. Then her eyes opened wide. Ratici and Wilovan blinked as she stood up.

“Miss Lyon? Heading out?”

They reached for their coats. Lyonette looked at them and nodded. She raised her chin and inhaled.

“Yes. I might not be as good as her, but—it’s time.”

—-

The doors to Igniz’ shop, Leafhold, blew open. The [Herbalist] looked up and the additional [Guards] he’d hired stirred apprehensively, but it was not Saliss of Lights who entered—but a young woman.

“Master Igniz?”

“Yes? Can I help you, Miss? Does Alchemist Saliss or the First Gardener have another request?”

He eyed her, recognizing Lyonette from earlier. The young woman shook her head. She put one arm on the table as Wilovan and Ratici tipped their hats and loitered, inspecting goods.

“I am Lyon Solstice. And I believe I have a way to resolve the issue of the faerie flowers.”

The Drake hesitated.

“Indeed? I am not willing to sell them.”

The [Princess] smiled. Her blue eyes glittered as she tossed her red hair back.

“No, Master Igniz. I…challenge you. To a game of chess. The winner takes the faerie flower!”

The Drake blinked. The customers, employees, guards, and two Gentlemen Callers stirred. Lyonette smiled with serene confidence, belying the flutter in her chest.

But she had learned from the greatest player this world had ever seen. And [Flawless Attempt] burned in her mind. Master Igniz blinked, looked at her, and—

—-

Lyonette du Marquin sat with her head buried in her knees. Outside, Saliss was still laughing. The Gentlemen Callers sat, clearing their throats, giving her room.

Master Igniz had refused to take her chess challenge. In fact, he had laughed her so hard out of his shop he’d actually hurt himself.

Everyone had. Lyonette’s cheeks and ears were burning.

Stupid. She’d tried. She really had! But she’d failed to pull off the origin of the [Innkeeper] of Liscor’s mythos for a few reasons.

Firstly? Erin hadn’t challenged Lism. She’d confronted him and he’d tried to trick her, not knowing of her chess skill.

Second? Who was going to wager a flower of that much worth on a chess game?

Thirdly? Well, it was just a stupid idea. Lyonette knew Erin would have been more inventive. She would have…have…

Well, if she knew, she’d be Erin! And come to that, Erin didn’t always succeed. In fact, business and economics were where she, Lyonette, was supposed to excel!

But she had no tools! No leverage! The [Princess] sat there until Feathi licked her ear. Then she yelped.

“I’m fine! Thank you, Feathi!”

The [Princess] looked at the Pegasus. Feathi gave her a sympathetic look. Lyonette stared about, glumly.

The problem was—she was a [Princess]. And it occurred to Lyonette now that a [Princess] wasn’t the person who charged into battle. Or if she did—it was with an army at her back.

She was good at managing people. At diplomacy, yes, and a [Worldly Princess] did a lot of things. But she had always had her staff.

And she had left them all behind. All she had was Saliss, now incapacitated by hilarity, maybe Xif, Mivifa’s friendship, and the Gentlemen Callers, who didn’t have the Skills to fight in the world of negotiation or business treachery.

Lyonette sat there, calming down.

What would Erin do? How about you stop thinking what Erin would do, hm?

“The problem is, there is something here. I just…”

The [Princess] frowned. And thought. And then she had a good idea—or the beginnings of one. She blinked.

What would Erin do? How about this? What would Erin not do? What could Erin not do that Lyonette could?

Because she had an ‘Erin’, who was actually Saliss. Lawbreaker—or maybe just chaotic influence. But Lyonette had seen him fail. He had gold, insanity, and levels on his side, but Oteslia had beaten him.

It was time for a [Princess] to do something. And Lyonette’s head slowly rose. She had resources. Few—but they were there. Sports, knowledge, and…

“Wilovan, would you care to pass me the chips?”

“I do believe I would, Ratici, old chum.”

“Fascinating turn of phrase, that. Old chum. Nautical?”

“One assumes so. Although chum is not a rather endearing thing, to my understanding of it.”

“Well, I shall take it in the spirit it was intended, then. Here are the chips.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, old chum.”

She stared at the Gentlemen Callers. Lyonette had investigated into them, a bit. Or at least, listened to Palt.

“Ratici, Wilovan. I have a…request.”

She spoke slowly. The Drake and Gnoll duo looked over. They saw Lyonette du Marquin sit up slowly.

She had no crown. Nor was she Lyonette at this moment, but Lyon Solstice. And yet—Saliss had failed. Oteslia’s First Gardener was unwilling to help.

Perhaps it was time for some good, old-fashioned, underhanded monarchy. After all—she was a [Princess] of Calanfer. The smiling, angry [Princess] beckoned the two Gentlemen Callers over. They looked at each other.

That was when the Gentleman Callers’ errand of guilt and aid, sprung from their failure got interesting. Because the [Princess] had just remembered who they were. And if Lyonette didn’t know how to lay bricks—she did know how to hire the [Bricklayer].

—-

Later that evening, Master Igniz was locking up for the day. He still felt smug about putting it to those Pallassian [Alchemists]. Prices would soon mean his stockpiles of goods would be worth a lot more, and the flowers? This coming meeting of the rich and powerful and the Meeting of Tribes?

Business was good. He carried the faerie flower with him as he locked up. He was going to put it somewhere safe. The First Gardener had instructed him to not sell it while the matter was investigated, but he’d have this on a Courier-ship to Chandrar as soon as was legal.

He didn’t break the law. Humming, the Drake locked the shop, activated the enchanted seals—

“Whoops, terribly sorry, sir.”

He turned and collided with a Gnoll. The man steadied Igniz. The Drake wasn’t concerned about himself. He checked the pot and the flower—it was intact. He smiled.

“No problem at all. Have a good—”

The Drake’s eyes rolled up and he collapsed. People in the street turned as the man cried out in alarm.

“Someone call the [Healer]! I think the poor fellow’s had some kind of fit!”

He stood there, reaching for a potion, as someone ran to do just that. The passersby were worried—but the Gnoll seemed to know just what to do. He stood there, until Master Igniz began to come around, and then, certain he was well, walked off before Igniz woke up.

“Must have been the sun—maybe you were hurt, or maybe it’s overwork. You were lucky, Master Igniz. Someone had a potion—shame I didn’t see what the cause was, but you’re in the peak of health. But do stop by my clinic, just in case.”

The local [Healer] assured Igniz. The Drake groggily sat up.

“That—that was fortunate. Maybe it was stress? Or the day? I—”

He looked around. Then, in alarm, patted his vest. He stared about.

“The flower. Where did it go?”

The [Healer] stared at him, puzzled. Igniz shot to his feet and demanded everyone turn out their pockets or look for—

But of course, the flower pot was long gone.

—-

Researcher Dromenl was working all-night. Again. He knew he should sleep, but half the staff were sleeping here rather than going home. It was just—too exciting!

They had eight samples of the flowers, dearly acquired, rather than the one of everyone else. But then—they had a staff of eight of the best [Researchers] in the city! They would crack the flower’s secrets first, he was certain.

He was even certain that the flowers had another form that no [Gardener] had managed to grow. It was thanks to Dromenl that they even knew how to germinate the things.

“Bee pollination. Cross-pollination Skills kept failing so use bees. Simple. Butterflies—they resist Skills, but hand-tending yields fascinating results.”

He murmured to himself as he walked back from the bathroom to the flower he was working on. He’d known about incineration, but he wondered if freezing a bit of his sample might…? Well, better to hold off until he had more—

The man dropped his cup of tea with a shattering sound that had all the [Researchers] on their feet. They ran to check on him, make sure nothing valuable had been br—

The faerie flower pot was still there. And the soil. But the bloom was gone. Scooped out, replaced by a single, fat gold coin. So were all of the other seven. In the span of time Dromenl had gone to the bathroom. Gone.

—-

Across the city, a crime spree was taking place. It was fast. Expertly done.

One of the best [Horticulturists] opened his window for some fresh air. He closed it after a minute when a bee climbed in. He didn’t even notice his flower had been replaced by a little bell-flower for the next hour.

The Garuda [Scholar] that Lyonette had talked with didn’t sleep in his research area. He awoke the next day to find someone had broken in. Rather than fight the double-enchanted lock with six cunning tumblers—they’d grabbed the door and ripped it out of the socket. They’d left gold—enough to cover the costs! But the flower was gone.

And those were the mundane heists. The real ones were far more impressive. Like the shadow that flickered through one of the private gardens and stole twenty two flowers in between the [Gardeners] tending them, and raising the alarm. First five were missing, then eight—they realized the rest had been stolen as they panicked and looked around!

Word spread of the thefts, but too slowly. Nowhere was safe! A flower in a vault with ventilation too small for anything but air to enter was stolen! How? The owner was found asleep at his desk, with nary a bruise, and his key placed in front of him!

Stealth and force. Where one didn’t work, use the other. And where neither one worked alone, use both.

A pair of men strolled across Oteslia by night. They had a list. After all—a fellow should plan things straight out. Normally, they’d take more time.

But a [Princess] had seen all of the anxious people trying to protect their interests. And she had a good memory. They hummed a haunting tune, a children’s rhyme. Occasionally one or the other would part for a bit, and join the other.

“The night’s been long and the bodies are wet,

But don’t you fret; be quick and ain’t not a guard who’ll be upset

The good folk are rising, and we’re off to our beds,

The smart thieves away with the loot and the slow ones are dead.”

The rhyme of one of the great gangs of Izril. And two experts. Oh, but it had been a long time since they practiced their craft. It felt good. Liberating.

Oteslia knew crime. But it did not know one of the best duos in Izril. They were so quick.

“Enchanted window.”

“I see it. One, two, three—”

Wilovan seized the crack of the window, yanked it up. His Skill silenced the explosive crack of masonry and wood. Ratici leapt through the narrow gap, his body twisting—it would have been a struggle for him normally, but the single leap carried his entire body through without even brushing the sides.

…four, five…Wilovan counted to ten. He heard a rustle, and Ratici dove back out.

“That fast?”

“Sitting on the table. On we go.”

“The rich man awakes and his goods are gone,

The wise man doesn’t ask, and looks at the ones who yawn;

But says not a word from dusk till dawn.”

What a glorious night! Wilovan’s head was bare at times, and he was an indistinguishable Gnoll, or one wearing a mask—Ratici likewise. But they strolled and did a jig near the end, chuckling, singing together.

“Ah, but there’s a smart girl. A [Princess], you’re sure?”

“So they say. Bright future ahead. I feel like we’ve earned our beds, eh, Wilovan?”

Ratici sat back. Wilovan nodded. They both stared down.

Sixty seven faerie flowers. That was all that had been produced beyond what Xif and Saliss had personally had grown. A little—and a lot, spread out across Oteslia. But there they were, brightly poking up at the two from the little cup.

A fortune. A wondrous plant. Wilovan slowly turned to Ratici.

“A man’s fortune can look like a lot, Ratici, old friend. Makes you think.”

“I think a man’s fortune is his word, which is his bond, Wilovan.”

The Gnoll touched the brim of his hat.

“Too true. I was rather thinking that some should be sent back to the inn—to grow again.”

Ratici relaxed.

“Ah, that. Miss Lyon said they were cared for. That Saliss will open his shop and have Miss Octavia transplant some he had in his laboratory.”

“Oh, good. Beautiful little things, eh? Look like gold if you…well then.”

Wilovan put the cup of flowers down. Ratici produced something from his pocket. He poured the liquid into the cup.

There was a striking sound. Wilovan tossed the match and both men stood back. They’d been warned.

The cup flared as the liquid ignited. The match vaporized. They stood there a moment. Then walked off, humming, as the sun began to rise.

—-

The next day, the Treewatch and Oteslia’s best growers and scholars descended upon Mivifa’s home. Saliss and Xif were both summoned before the First Gardener.

“They’re all gone! Where did you take them? I never thought you’d sink so low—”

Lyonette listened to the proceedings. But the Oteslians had made a mistake. Both Xif and Saliss were honestly bewildered, as was Mivifa.

Saliss glanced at her just once. But under truth spell, they admitted to knowing nothing.

So did Lyonette.

“I swear I did not instruct anyone to steal anything, or conspire to do so myself, or use magic or Skills to effect the theft of the faerie flowers. Nor do I know where they are.”

She hadn’t, either. She’d…discussed the matter. With two men of certain understandings.

As it were.

It was all in how you worded it, and the distracted [Guardsman] and the crowd had only focused on Saliss and Xif.

Misdirection. Even so, everyone knew.

“First Gardener, we demand the flowers in the two [Alchemist]’s possessions be distributed amongst us! It is only fair!”

The group beseeched the First Gardener. Saliss and Xif’s eyes flared.

“I will burn it all before I let that happen! This will be more than an incident!”

Xif vowed. Lyonette just watched the First Gardener massage her temples.

The [Princess] knew more than the [Alchemist]. The First Gardener would do just that—she’d waver and try to placate, but she’d never let this slip away. So, as the First Gardener was turning to Mivifa—who had also been looking at Lyonette and the conspicuously absent Wilovan and Ratici, for all she hadn’t mentioned anything—Lyonette spoke up.

“Excuse me, First Gardener. But I believe this has gone on long enough. We have been very patient, but this is too much. I request adjudication by [Druid]! ”

The angry crowd stirred. The First Gardener blinked—then narrowed her eyes as she spotted Lyonette. Cire, poking his head out of his rooms to see why everyone was shouting—stared too.

However, Igniz and the others were triumphant. He practically crowed.

“Hah! Let the [Druids] sort this out, yes! Good idea!”

But he’d celebrated too soon. The First Gardener looked at Lyonette, frowning.

“That is your right, Miss Solstice. But are you sure? The [Druids] are—direct. And even I cannot lightly overturn their judgment.”

Lyonette du Marquin smiled. And the First Gardener felt a twinge of—but it was too late.

“Yes, First Gardener. I request adjudication by Druid—and I name the Druids Shassa and Nalthaliarstrelous to pass judgment!”

The room went quiet. Saliss began to laugh again. He nodded at Lyonette and she inclined her head to him.

—-

“A non-Oteslian [Druid] cannot pass judgment in Oteslia!”

“He is the highest of his circle in Invrisil.”

“He’s biased—”

“I am a [Druid]. Be silent or I will hit you.”

Nalthaliarstrelous stood with Druid Shassa in the center of the arguing crowd. More than one [Druid] had come; they knew about the precious flowers. But Lyonette had requested the two by name.

She had remembered, as a [Princess] does, how the child-kidnapping [Druids] had intended to go to Oteslia. How clever! Magnolia Reinhart’s great warrior of nature, here in Oteslia when she was.

Perhaps it was just coincidence. Now, Nalthaliarstrelous regarded her. He turned to Shassa as they eyed one of the flowers taken from the two surviving gardens—both under watch. They’d be confiscated by Saliss and Xif if they won.

If not? They went to the people of Oteslia.

“It is clear someone stole all the flowers, Druid Nalthaliarstrelous.”

Shassa ventured after a moment. The [Spider Druid] was clearly nervous.

He was not. The [Druid] looked at Lyonette.

“Yes, someone. Thieves, no doubt, with a reason to do so.”

She smiled innocently back, keeping her face straight. Nalthaliarstrelous pointed.

“I mean, you.”

“But there is no proof, Druid.”

She calmly replied. Everyone was glaring. Nalthaliarstrelous harrumphed.

“I do not need proof. You called for [Druids]. The evidence is plain as the smile on your face. Which is my evidence. Explain yourself, ‘Miss Solstice’.”

The [Princess] did not sweat. She did incline her head.

“Very well, elder [Druids]. Perhaps the flowers were stolen. Destroyed?”

“Destroyed?”

Igniz repeated. Lyonette didn’t even look at him.

“Who knows? But Druid Nalthaliarstrelous—”

His eyebrows rose as she actually pronounced his name.

“—I believe you and I, and Druid Shassa, know that there was only one place they came from. And if they appeared in places other than that of Xif and Saliss’ gardens, they were stolen. I have no proof. But you were there.”

Both had walked Erin’s [Garden of Sanctuary]. They had seen the flowers. Nalthaliarstrelous had even commented on them. Shassa bit her lip and looked at Nalthaliarstrelous.

His eyes narrowed.

“Burning such plants should be a crime. And if they can help Oteslia—many people and animals, I rule that they should be spread around as widely as can be, as Sage’s Grass was, rather than hoarded!”

Lyonette felt sweat run down her back. She’d forgotten how much he made her mad. But this was her shot. So she went on, nodding.

“Perhaps so, Druid Nalthaliarstrelous. But do you deny that it is also wrong to steal and lie about the truth, even if it is obvious but without evidence?”

She indicated the Oteslians and they shifted. Nalthaliarstrelous snorted.

“This entire affair is petty and childish. I agree with that. And I say those flowers came from one garden alone. Druid Shassa. Do you deny that?”

“I—I—but they were grown elsewhere and they are plants, Druid Nal—”

He glowered at her and raised his staff. Half the [Druids] edged away from his wrath. Shassa actually had to block his staff as it swung at her head.

“Okay! Yes! I don’t see how they could have come from anywhere else!”

The First Gardener looked worried.

“But Druid Nalthaliarstrelous, this incident is highly tenuous. Could we perhaps take a break to—”

“You called for [Druids]! We don’t wait on justice!”

He snapped back. She looked at the other Oteslian [Druids]. Lyonette just smiled.

“Druid Nalthaliarstrelous. Let me assure you of one thing. Oteslia will not be without the faerie flowers. But it will accede to basic law of possession.”

The old man in his filthy robes looked at her.

“Explain.”

“Saliss and Xif have their flowers. Oteslia can trade for them. But they will trade.”

She met his eyes. The [Druid] harrumphed.

“So that’s your game. If you weren’t the little landfriend’s mother, I would hit you. As it is—[Stinking Cloud].”

“Wha—”

Lyonette was engulfed in a cloud of putrid, foul brown air. She stumbled out of it, coughing and hacking. Nalthaliarstrelous was already turning away.

“The flowers are the [Alchemist]’s. They were stolen, and it is a crime to steal that which was so carefully raised and taken care of. Shut up, all of you!”

The other [Druids] were protesting. Nalthaliarstrelous raised his staff and Lyonette saw druid-politics at its finest. He shouted on.

“They came from a place of old roots and power! You know they were stolen, shared about! Well, this is what comes of lies and deceit. Buy the damn things! They must be bought—so be it! Beg or buy for them. This judgment is over!”

He slammed his staff on the ground and walked off. Lyonette shouted an insult at his back and got another [Stinking Cloud] to the face.

But she’d won.

—-

Afterwards, Lyonette regretted telling—hinting—for Wilovan and Ratici to burn their stash. But Saliss and Xif had flowers, and she hadn’t been sure if Mivifa would order them searched.

Better to deny anything.

She soaked for three hours before the magical spell abated. Feathi was fanning her dry as the first people slowly came to negotiate.

Saliss and Xif were waiting. They had desires. Lots of herbs, ingredients…and they were about as kindly-disposed to the people who wanted the flowers as Lyonette was to Nalthaliarstrelous.

However, there was business to be done. And more than one [Researcher] wanted those flowers. So—they had to negotiate.

It had begun. And it had only taken two days. Lyonette sighed as she saw Dromenl in the waiting crowd. She beckoned at him, smiling.

Mivi looked at the strange Human girl. She eyed Saliss and Xif, who had put their feet up on the table while Igniz took a seat, having to drag it across the room.

How things changed. Just a few more things had shifted in those two days, that not even Lyonette could predict.

Rumors about the heist. Oh, what a splendid job. How skillful. You might applaud if you heard about it and realized a small group had done it—and a new one to the city.

Oteslia’s gangs were unhappy. Not as it were. They were as angry as could be. They had been assured burning down Xif’s shop would skyrocket the value of the flowers. Now—what they’d been intending to steal once the value was established was in a Named Adventurer’s claws. They began to ask just whom had tread in their city.

The second thing? A Dragon was daydreaming as he sat, rather unhappily, with his mother at a tea time.

So that Human was a mother? No way. So young. Cire knew it happened—never to anyone he slept with—but Fetale had been talking about it. He couldn’t imagine…

He’d known Lyon was special when he looked at her. But why? He didn’t care about the flowers, but Mivi had dropped by to say she might have access to a skateboard soon, which was totally Archmage. He yawned at the table and the First Gardener judged him.

“Cirediel! Be polite. I am so sorry—should I say Lady Reinhart, or…?”

The Dragon looked up. A woman dressed in pink smiled at him as a [Maid] stiffly poured more tea. Magnolia Reinhart met Cire’s eyes and he thought there was something too-knowing about her look. But then the [Lady] was laughing.

“You must call me Magnolia, Shaerrha! We should be friends before we part! But do tell me about that curious incident—and what was that young woman’s name? Lyon? How very interesting.”

Cire blinked and sat back. At least it seemed like interesting things had come to Oteslia. He wouldn’t be bored for a while. And he had heard Rafaema was coming too.

He was excited for that, even if he’d play it cool. He eyed the tall [Maid]. He wondered if he could talk to her instead of the [Lady]. She was probably into him.

That would be so Archmage.

—-

[Worldly Princess Level 23!]

[Skill – Endowment of the Thief obtained!]

Lyonette woke up from a nap with a single faerie flower on her blankets. Feathi ate it and then went cross-eyed—or as much as a horse could. Lyonette eyed her chest and sighed in relief.

8.08 J

(Flowers of Esthelm, Book 3 of The Wandering Inn is coming out on audible! Click the link here to preorder it! Spread the word!)

It was still war. It was always war. And now—in the thick of the third war in as many months, they were beginning to remember.

King of Destruction.

He had lost a battle versus the House of Minos, and stalled in his Jecrass-Belchan offensive, even if Belchan was functionally no more.

Yes, every nation within two hundred miles had declared war. Yes, all of Reim and the King of Destruction’s empire were now embattled, from the newly-held Belchan regions to Reim itself, under threat from Nerrhavia’s hordes.

And still, the King of Destruction fought. War was endemic to his kingdom. And he thrived on it.

History taught lessons. And the [Historians] warned—it was repeating itself. Not in the same ways; the young [King] Flos Reimarch had never fought so widely at first. His had been a slow progression.

But the adult [King] had the Skills to at least force this war to drag out.

Nerrhavia was the first to realize the error in assuming his single defeat had spelled the end. They had invaded, practically overrunning the border with three hundred thousand foot and countless chariots led by the Silk caste.

They had then slowed their advance as Reim’s capital unleashed the thunderbolt defenses installed by Drevish. Similarly—the King of Destruction was pulling back his armies. He left Orthenon in the north, divided his command between Zamea, the Rustängmarder, Mars—

Gazi the Omniscient was noticeably absent, but everyone knew she would be slaying [Spies] and [Infiltrators] behind the scenes rather than leading from the front. And even the ‘lesser’ vassals like Venith and Maresar Crusland were a fearsome duo capable of stalemating a [General] or even routing an army of equal size with their battle experience and levels.

However, Reim was on the defensive. However, however?

His enemies ran out of time.

—-

At a pitched battle between Nerrhavia’s great hammer, they finally unleashed their true might in an effort to rout an army led by Venith and Maresar, which had struck and retreated time and time again to the aegis of the capital. The rapid speed of their movements had stymied even Nerrhavia’s infamous war chariots.

No more! Nerrhavia’s Queen Yisame brought forth one of Nerrhavia’s great assets she had not even used against Tiqr.

[Summoners]. The Will of Yisame was not a formal Unit; it was renamed after each ruler, but it was the kind of army only Nerrhavia could field.

Ten thousand [Summoners] of the Stitch-Folk, each who conjured warriors ranging from Silver-rank to even Gold-rank. Expendable warriors who could appear, fight, and die, along with [Sand Mages] who raised gigantic Sand Golems.

Countless chariots cut left and right, cutting off the [Bandit Lord], Maresar, who could normally pull back the army from such an attack. Venith Crusland fought in the vanguard, refusing to yield as countless foot soldiers of the Hemp-caste moved in, trying to drown Reim’s forces by the sheer press of bodies, fearless of blades.

It seemed even Reim’s forces would waver and break when he appeared. From the north, the King of Destruction raced into battle with less than two thousand [Riders], having come all the way from Jecrass, knowing Nerrhavia would be the greatest foe at this moment.

His arrival brought morale to Reim’s forces, but surely he would have been barely able to make a dent—let alone reach the encircled army. That was when the King of Destruction bellowed his Skill.

“[Army of the King]!”

Nerrhavia, and the combined nations had been too slow. A month had passed since the King of Duels’ fall, the House of Minos’ defeat. No—even less than a month. They had fallen into the trap of Reim’s forces; on the defense, they had stalled for time.

The King of Destruction had regained his most dangerous Skill. Flos Reimarch charged the enemy [General]’s position as Venith Crusland and Maresar ordered their forces to follow suit, heedless of tactics.

It was hard to say whose morale broke first; the army or General Val-Nerein. Both broke and fled within minutes, fleeing the battlefield in every direction or just surrendering rather than face the King of Destruction’s army.

This was all caught live on television, of course. The sight of Nerrhavia’s grand army breaking and running was a humiliation compounded by the fact that the King of Destruction had not, in fact, used his Skill.

How did everyone know this? Well, the King of Destruction gave an interview after the battle, with countless prisoners being marched to be ransomed or sold off.

“General Val-Nerein nearly had our forces dead to rights! But it seems his backbone should have been stitched of sterner stuff. Hah! Venith, that was quite a neat turn of phrase. If I can bluff a victory just by shouting, Nerrhavia should fall within the week.”

Never let it be said that Flos Reimarch was a gracious and humble victor.

Humiliated and furious, Queen Yisame ordered the [General]’s execution and reformed a second army of equal size. This time, she warily split it into multiple forces who assaulted Reim from multiple angles.

But the [Army of the King] had been used and the teleporting cat was out of the bag, so to speak. It could go back in, but would it?

No. The King of Destruction used the power in a protracted engagement between Medain and Orthenon’s forces. The King of Medain, the High King Perric, had forged a massive retaliatory force after his flight to his capital. However, the Skill manifested as his [Soldiers] and the Steward’s were fully engaged, with the King of Destruction far, far to the south.

The outnumbered [Soldiers] underwent a transformation on the battlefield. Medain’s army, first bewildered, then alarmed as they realized what was happening, saw some [Soldiers] grow in size. Others dropped their weapons and drew spectral or shining blades out of the air.

Broken armor mended and reformed itself in a minute. The [Steward] and his personal vanguard themselves were said to have howled like the Demons of Rhir as they broke the lines of Gold-rank adventurers. Like Nerrhavia’s host, Medain’s army broke within less than twenty minutes of fighting, but less than a quarter escaped without surrendering or being slaughtered.

A second incredible defeat in the north. At this point, armies from the Claiven Earth, Medain, Nerrhavia, and even further-flung nations such as Deimos and Lamult pushed in, seeking to gain ground before the Skill could be used again.

Of course, that was when the forgotten vassal of the King of Destruction, one of his Seven, Takhatres, Lord of the Skies and his tribe, appeared.

—-

Destruction from the skies. To an observer, and those watching from the scrying orb, it was an unnerving sight.

The skies turned dark, a rarity in Chandrar where clouds and rainfall were common only to the coast. From above came terrible shrieks. Nerrhavia’s [Soldiers] threw up their shields and raised their bows.

That was when the rocks started falling. Rocks, arrows, shot from archers far out of range of mundane arrows, and clay pots filled with oil or alchemical explosives. Nerrhavia’s bunched-up forces began to spread apart as the sudden attack rained down on them.

Above, the Garuda flew in a huge, circling swarm. They did not land. Nor did they even flap their wings much; they were hovering on hot air.

Thermals. [Mages] were casting weather spells and allowing the tribe of Takhatres to just…hover…high out of range and unload all their ammunition.

The Lekrei Tribe did not fight fair. Most Garuda didn’t; they had light bones and preferred fast attacks and retreats rather than sticking and fighting like the Stitchfolk who could make themselves tougher.

Even so. High-level [Archers] would happily blow the Garuda to bits with lightning arrows, or [Mages] do the same—or create wind, rain, bringing the Garuda down or forcing them to retreat. In a normal battle versus a Garuda tribe, that was what they’d do and they tried, to their credit.

[Mages] lifted wands and died. A [Strategist] surrounded by bodyguards dropped with a knife in her cheek; not enough to kill her, but certainly to unnerve and incapacitate. Something blurred past [Archers], cutting through one of their groups and beheading the [Archery Captain] before moving out.

The Lord of the Skies, the fastest warrior in all of Chandrar, or so it was said. While his tribe attacked from afar, his best warriors diving occasionally to wipe out separated groups, he ran in and out of the enemy army, beheading high-level combatants.

It was honestly like…bullying. Like a grown up running around children, cutting them to pieces. Takhatres moved in a different world than everyone else. Yes—he probably had a fragile body and might be wounded or even killed if an enchanted sword struck him.

But they would have to touch him first. And he was faster than horses, faster than arrows. His great Skill allowed his tribe to move as fast as he did—for five seconds.

They took no prisoners, just decimated the army and vanished. Now, Nerrhavia’s advance slowed.

Much like Ailendamus suffering the Griffin Prince’s ambushes, they had to be wary of a mobile force. And unlike the Dawn Concordat, Takhatres’ army was arguably the strongest and most complete of all that Flos Reimarch had fielded thus far.

Unfair. Unfair, unfair, unfair. You could say it and it was true. Flos Reimarch wasn’t starting from scratch. He was starting with his great vassals, the remnants of his Seven, who could not be matched easily!

Consider the following: in between fighting the Claiven Earth and holding back superior forces with a far smaller army, Mars the Vanguard forced the half-Elves to be wary.

When Belchan’s shattered armies arose and several border cities were taken, Mars the Vanguard retaliated by sieging one city, climbing the walls while ignoring the spell-defenses, and cutting through the garrison for two hours before retreating. Orthenon performed similar feats; one of the King’s Seven was an army.

As Aaron Vanwell commented to some of the other Earthers watching in Wistram, ‘it was like Flos was playing on New Game+’, a statement that confused the [Mages] to no end.

If he had a weakness, it was that he would bleed out of [Soldiers], not lose a decisive battle. The King of Destruction was being forced to stretch perilously thin.

Even so. Unfair. Not everyone had such gifts. Some people had lost…everything. And now nations teetered as the King of Destruction fought on.

That was what he did.

—-

Weeks ago.

Jecaina Leysars watched the first news reports dully. She was feverish, sick, bedridden.

“…King Raelt of Jecrass, dubbed the King of Duels, is confirmed to be missing after the monumental battle involving…”

She lay in her bed, pale-faced despite all of the attention lavished on her. [Servants] who would cook or fetch anything, potions—the River Wardens sent their personal [Healers], but their diagnosis was the same.

“Shock. It’s no wound we can heal. The [Princess]…the [Queen] is in shock. She must rest and recover.”

And why shouldn’t she be? Jecaina was feverish the first day, then the second, raving, sick to the point of nausea, plagued by nightmares, waking and in her sleep.

She had lost everything. Her father. Her guardian, the old, loyal Geril, who had sacrificed himself that she might escape.

Jecrass’ armies had been decimated. A third of their land was gone, taken by Reim in the conflict. And they were now at war with Medain and Reim. Their old ally of Belchan was no more.

Oh—and countless River Wardens were dead, and her father was a captive of Medain’s High King.

Jecaina knew all this and knew it was her fault. If she had not been captured by those Gold-ranks—if she had been stronger, wiser—

Her fault. She could not eat, or properly sleep, and the servants whispered and tried to cool the room, even as they piled sheets on her because she was shivering nonstop.

For two days, Jecaina wished she had died and her father were here. And that Geril was alive. She wept and listened to the news reports; Flos retreating, Nerrhavia announcing it would take Reim within the week—

On the third day, the River Wardens came to her.

—-

“Jecaina Leysars of Jecrass.”

A voice spoke. Not unkindly. Jecaina was sweating under the sheets. The room was darkened, but now someone raised the blinds. Light spilled in and she tried to hide under her pillow.

“Close the shutters! Leave me be!”

But then she realized. It was not servants who stood around her.

Eighteen River Wardens had entered her bedroom. Not all that remained, but the greatest of those that did. She knew some of them.

Warden Mulre, Warden Svinta, Warden Elaire—familiar people, few of whom she had ever really liked. Her father had had personal gripes with many, and often complained to her of their flaws and foibles in private.

But there were gaps in their number. So many dead. Warden Winta, Warden Telimt, Warden Dulfe—

Casualties of this war. Some dying heroically, to save Raelt. To save her.

“What—what do you want?”

Jecaina croaked through a dry throat and lips. She saw the River Wardens look at her, flushed, shaking, tears staining her face, eyes red. They looked at each other, and nodded.

Then they knelt.

“Jecaina Leysars of Jecrass. King Raelt is missing. Perhaps captured. Perhaps dead.”

She flinched at the word as Warden Mulre, a man with a long scar horizontally crossing to his nose across his cheekbone, spoke. He went on, looking up at her with the others.

“Medain and Reim’s armies march on us! But Jecrass still stands. It needs a leader. It needs you, my [Queen].”

He looked at her. And Jecaina felt a terrible fear take hold of her. She tried to speak, but choked. Yet there it was. Even as she stammered, protested, they knelt. They wanted to crown her; a ceremony was held within the hour and a shaking [Princess], who looked like she was dying of the ague, saw the crown placed on her head—a backup. She stood in front of a balcony and [Soldiers], [Servants], and the people of the capital, who did not really cheer, but stared up at her with a horror like hers.

She would have denied it. But even before the crown had touched her head, as she blanked out, head lolling in the chair as [Servants] tried to apply makeup, she had heard it.

[Duelist Princess Level 26!]

[Conditions Met: Duelist Princess → Queen (Temporary) Class!]

[Skill – Kingdom: Desperate Rallying obtained!]

—-

A [Queen]. She was a Queen, now. And they called her ‘Queen Jecaina’, even though her father was alive.

Not dead! Not dead—Jecaina believed that with all her heart.

But a kingdom needed a ruler. And if the [King] was missing, she was [Queen]. There could be temporary regents if she was not of age—but she was. If Raelt was ruling from prison—but no one had heard from him.

A [Princess] could not stay a [Princess] when no one sat on the throne. She became a [Queen], or what was she?

Jecaina had not known there could be temporary classes. But she assumed that if her father abdicated…or was discovered dead…or perished…

She would become [Queen] in truth.

She did not want that. She did not want the class. After she had been crowned and then stood at the balcony and read a speech one of the River Wardens had written, Jecaina burst into tears in her room.

That was embarrassing. She hadn’t cried since she was too young to hold a rapier—not like this, at least. But it was too much.

She knew the River Wardens had crowned her to say Jecrass wasn’t anarchy. As they filed into the throne room and she sat on the throne, feeling how uncomfortable it was, how alien the position, how heavy the crown, she expected them to say how it was going to be.

They were going to seize power, after all. The nobility did that sometimes, and Jecaina didn’t know what to do. She waited.

They knelt. Jecaina hesitated. Either they were doing a good job acting or…

…Or, she realized, as they raised their heads and she saw the desperation in their eyes, they were as lost as her. Or they had crowned her because they didn’t want power. Not now. Perhaps they might have seized it last year, before the King of Jecrass had shown them he was King of Duels—before the King of Destruction and Medain invaded.

Now?

“My Queen, what is your will?”

Jecaina threw up in her mouth. The River Wardens waited; she tasted bile and looked around. She held her mouth shut as Warden Mulre, their spokesperson, stared up at her.

“My Queen?”

Jecaina looked around for somewhere to spit it out—but she couldn’t tell them to turn their heads. The River Wardens saw her gulp—and then speak. The first decree of Jecaina Leysars’ rule was a muttered voice.

“…I need a cup of water. And an orange.”

The River Wardens hesitated. After a second, one of the [Servants] dashed out of the throne room and returned a few painful minutes later with water from the well and an orange from the gardens.

Jecaina loved oranges. She reached for it, but the [Servant] peeled it as the water was presented on a little cushion.

It was painful, as the intervening time waiting had been her and the River Wardens not-quite-staring at each other in dead silence. Jecaina’s throat worked as she gulped the water and then bit into the pieces of the orange—her first real meal in three days.

Thus began her enlightened rule. All hail her highness.

Huzzah.

—-

The first four hours of her rule later, Jecaina put her head down on the war council’s table and tried not to cry. Again. Was she going to become a weeping [Princess]—no—[Queen], the kind she’d always despised?

But this was dire. Even if it hadn’t been her—she had seen how this war had wrung her father dry. And he had been a [King]. Fun fact?

They were not in a better place. Far from it. The desperate attempt to rescue her had cost more lives. And a [King] whose Skills had prevented Reim from stomping all over Jecrass. Now, Medain had him, Jecaina was installed…

The River Wardens had eventually realized she was paralyzed and begun offering…suggestions. Cautious ones, such as, ‘would your Majesty care to make a proclamation and have it sent across the nation’? ‘Should we move to the war council to discuss this very serious, very bad situation we’re in?’

She hadn’t second-guessed any of it. Four hours had seen them showing her Jecrass’ depleted armies, [Messages] from General Lael and other River Wardens on the front, and spreading out forces from the capital to them.

Thank goodness Lael was alive. If she’d been dead—the River Wardens and Jecaina essentially did as the [General] requested. Then they had asked her what her plan was.

She’d looked at them in silence—until she realized she had to say something. So Jecaina had taken a shaking breath and spoken.

“My father is alive.”

The River Wardens stirred. Jecaina removed her crown and stared at it. It wasn’t even real gold, she realized. Just painted iron or something. The real crown was on Raelt’s head—or had been. She shuddered.

“He is alive. King Perric has him or…he is alive, and so Jecrass will have him back at whatever the cost. I don’t know how—but we will do that.”

“Does that mean submitting to King Perric’s will, Pr—my Queen?”

Warden Mulre had a flinty look in his eyes. Jecaina hesitated. Her fist clenched involuntarily.

“Not if I can help it. He kidnapped me and because of him—I would rather surrender to Reim than Medain! At least the King of Destruction does not stab his allies in the back!”

She had meant that personally. But the River Wardens had shot to their feet and applauded. Jecaina had been stunned, but they had bowed, swore fealty again, and left the room.

Now, she wondered what the hell she was going to do.

It was then that the door opened.

“Queen Jecaina? Your Highness? Might I…have a word?”

A familiar voice. Jecaina looked up and saw him standing there. Like her, he was worn. Wan, thinner—but Prime Minister Lyfelt of Belchan stood there.

“Lyfelt?”

He tried to smile. Jecaina pushed her chair back—but nearly fell over as she attempted to rise. He walked over, looking worried.

“You’re as pale as a Wight. Have you eaten? I saw you at the coronation, but when I asked the [Servants], they didn’t mention that.”

“No—no. I haven’t. Lyfelt? How are you…?”

It was all a blur. Lyfelt looked around, then called to the door.

“Someone fetch her highness a nourishing meal! And more water! Sit, Jecaina, my dear. Sit…”

Soon, Jecaina was blinking at one of her favorite meals, Estreke Almeat, the nomad’s hot, shredded meats with some cheese and butter sauce on top.

She ate, mechanically at first as Lyfelt urged her to, and then so fast she was nearly sick. She barely tasted the food and burned her tongue as she gulped it down and ate.

The world…resolved itself into more clarity as starvation ended and she began to process everything. She looked left to make sure she wasn’t mistaken. He was still there.

“Lyfelt? How are you…?”

He spread his hands on the table.

“I’ve been a political prisoner—more like a political refugee, really, thanks to your father—since the war began in earnest. He gave me sanctuary; I was in hiding for my safety in case the King of Destruction deployed Gazi the Omniscient…but I had to see you once I heard the news. I am so sorry, my dear.”

He almost reached out, but caught himself.

“Queen Jecaina, that is.”

“Don’t call me that. You knew me since I was a girl. You were…”

Jecaina blinked at Lyfelt. It was so good to see someone who was friendly, that she knew personally. At the same time…

He was the reason Flos had gone to war. Jecaina warred with two feelings and put one aside. Geril was dead. And he and her father were the first people she would have turned to. Without them…

“It was my fault, Lyfelt.”

She looked down at the empty plate. A servant put another one in front of her. Lyfelt shook his head.

“Don’t say that. It was High King Perric’s doing. That shady rat—he was always conniving, but this? If it wasn’t for the King of Destruction, all of Chandrar would be declaring war on him. He’s clever…but we’ll get your father back, don’t you worry. Even Perric isn’t stupid enough to execute a [King].”

That was Lyfelt for you. Even when insulting someone, he used their title. Raelt and Lyfelt had been old friends. Jecaina had thought little of it except that she liked to visit Belchan and had thought Lyfelt much more ‘fun’ than her father, if far less good with a sword—not at all, really.

But she had heard Raelt sometimes remark that Lyfelt could teach the Nagas something about cold-blood—that was when they argued. And she had seen…

“So you’re here to check on me? Help?”

Lyfelt smiled with genuine warmth as he rested his hands on the table. That was a [Prime Minister] for you—she supposed he might have his class if Belchan still existed, but even if not—he was the most charming man she had ever known. But she had grown up knowing him.

“My dear, oops, your Highness, again—”

He paused a second. This time, Jecaina didn’t correct him.

“—I thought you’d be lost, coming into the crown. Your father was, although he found his peace—but there wasn’t a war going on. The River Wardens thrust you into the crown because they had no idea what to do. Otherwise, they’d fight like pack rats over it.”

True enough. Jecaina nodded.

“They knelt to me. I thought they’d do just that. But they just asked me what to do.”

“Really? What did they say? They crowned you, met in the throne room—I anticipated that, then…?”

“We came here and talked about the war.”

Jecaina recounted the last few hours to Lyfelt. He nodded, drumming his fingers on the table.

“Sensible moves. They’re worried. Your father must have inspired them or they realize the real threat if they’re not trying to seize power. They might, in time. If they think Jecrass is doomed, they’ll surrender to whoever is most advantageous and try to keep their power.”

He spoke earnestly and quickly. Jecaina listened. Lyfelt went on.

“And you inspired them, another good move. You have your father’s gift.”

“I did? How?”

“Your proclamation to deny Medain, of course! That was what they wanted. It’s a nebulous goal, getting Raelt back, but it’s the kind of thing a ruler must do. Tomorrow, you should preempt them. Keep ahead of them so they start to follow. They’ll second-guess you if you let them think. So don’t.”

She blinked at him. Lyfelt had gotten up to pace, a habit of his. Her father had once joked, exceptionally privately, that he thought that was the only reason Lyfelt wasn’t pudgy. That, and his love of swimming in the pool at the capital.

She nodded to his suggestions too. That was smart. Lyfelt turned to her.

“You’ll want to talk to the servants, General Lael—all the people around you and in high positions. The city’s ruling body too, the Watch Captain—they know you. Now, they need to see their Queen. Figure out a schedule and get them to follow it. Everything from when you want breakfast to how they should contact you when an emergency arises.”

“Why? They know all that, surely.”

He waved a hand; he still had his rings of office on.

“You can use your father’s methods, Jecaina. But they need to know the system again. Your arrival has caused uncertainty. It’s time to do it your way. For instance—did you notice the throne doesn’t have a cushion?”

She blinked. She hadn’t, but come to think of it…Lyfelt grinned.

“It was no doubt hard as a rock. I pity you, sitting for hours on it! Raelt always complained, so he had a cushion placed there; it’s supposed to be put there and removed when he leaves so people might not notice, especially if they walk into the throne room without him there. He always talked about getting a really nice one—enchanted to be invisible! I was going to get one for his 40th birthday…”

Jecaina smiled despite herself. That was exactly like her father. She dipped her head.

“Thank you, Lyfelt.”

And she saw the white Gnoll in her mind’s eye. The dead tribe, the King of Destruction’s wrath as he made the villagers kneel and lifted the sword.

It was gone in a flash. But she had been horrified when she saw that. She had never doubted that Flos Reimarch’s wrath was justified. And Lyfelt had known—or he had not stopped—

His smile turned waxy. The man put his fingers together and twiddled them, then opened his arms.

“Jecaina, I know I’ve done some…terrible things. Believe me, I didn’t know it would lead to this. I made mistakes—didn’t check on things, lowered my guard. The Gnolls crossing Belchan…I never would have allowed villages to attack them. I truly didn’t know. But I want to make it up. I’m a [Prime Minister]—former, actually. I lost my class. But I have all the knowledge of how to run a country. Let me help.”

Jecaina blinked at him. And she thought a few things in a sudden flash.

Firstly, he’d just read her feelings towards him. She knew it was a Skill of his. If someone, people, had auras—Lyfelt could read emotions with his very eyes. He’d done it for her as a child, to delight, and impress her when he could tell when she was lying.

Secondly? He was trying to get her to appoint him into a position of power. Jecaina was not a fool. She might have been shell-shocked and grieving, but she felt Geril’s presence. The old [Retainer] would be grimacing right behind Lyfelt and then smiling serenely.

Thirdly? How dare he? An entire tribe had been slaughtered because he had told Raelt that the King of Destruction’s refugees were a trifling concern—that it was even fine to let them suffer duress!

Her hand twitched towards her rapier. But it wasn’t there. And—

Suddenly, her blood was pumping. Suddenly, Jecaina knew what had to be done. She mastered herself. She smiled—and threw up an aura.

She wasn’t good at it. Neither Raelt nor Jecaina had ever been aura-wielding masters, even innately, as Flos Reimarch was said to be able to kneel people with a single word.

But no proper ruler was taught without lessons in fighting [Charm] Skills or similar effects. Jecaina couldn’t project—her father had gotten a Skill which had begun to enhance his aura, but she knew the basics. Any person in the world could at least learn to…and a [Princess], a [Queen]…

Lyfelt hesitated as Jecaina exhaled slowly. She knew she had just gone blank to his emotion-reading Skills. Or she hoped she had. Similarly…she felt more goodwill towards him, nostalgia for the past, oozing out of her feet.

He’d been charming her already! Jecaina was furious. But she smiled.

“I feel like I’m already becoming a…[Queen], thanks to you, Lyfelt. And I do need help. Thank you. Can I count on you to help me? Tell me—discreetly—if I make a mistake, or about how to do…everything?”

The former [Prime Minister] hesitated, eyes searching her quickly, then beamed.

“I consider it a point of honor, Jecaina.”

I bet you do. She hadn’t missed how he was now calling her Jecaina.

The [Duelist Princess] had never liked or wanted to rule. She had flirted with her lessons, happily gallivanted around. But the war and watching her father had given her some maturity. More than that? Well—Lyfelt had made two mistakes.

The first was thinking she was overwhelmed and helpless. The second was in forgetting that she knew him. Skills that worked on emotion didn’t work the more you applied them. So, Jecaina was frightened and upset and grieving.

But she smiled and asked Lyfelt to help her. That was her first real move as [Queen]. Checkmate.

Actually, Jecaina didn’t play chess. But she had once ‘beaten’ her father by flipping the board. And she was pretty sure that might work on Lyfelt.

—-

Being a [Queen] was something that involved so many things no one told you about. Because a monarch could rely on vassals or helpers, yes.

But when things went south, or you needed to replace, hire, or train them? You had to at least know what was missing.

Jecaina was already glad on the second day that she hadn’t stabbed Lyfelt. She announced him as her advisor, much to the River Warden’s skepticism and dismay. They had not forgotten either.

However, Lyfelt was similarly dismayed that she had not made him [Steward], or [Administrator], or a dozen other classes she had fielded.

“But Lyfelt—I think of you as Belchan’s [Prime Minister]. And I fully intend to restore you to your lands if possible.”

He had grinned weakly at that.

“I believe my…tenure is over, either way, Jecaina. But let’s put that aside for now, I suppose. You can always announce it tomorrow…about your Skill. It’s not, er, the best. But it fits a temporary class. And it is useful here.”

That was one of the things he helped her with. He knew Skills and had quickly identified the nature of hers. It was obvious from the title, really, but—

“Let’s see. ‘[Desperate Rallying] allows for an embattled group to quickly rush to the aid of forces under siege or attack in fractions of the time taken. The highest-level version of the Skill identified was a Level 60 [General of Defense], General Noln of the Argoth Alliance, who could reach a city-state in hours where the march would normally take over a day at top speed.”

He had a book—one of Belchan’s treasures, which, like the Book of Levels, detailed Skills and records. Jecaina nodded.

“I should tell General Lael. That means we can shift Jecrass’ forces from spot to spot—not [Archers] since they’ll still be outside the walls. But we can keep a mounted force with her ready, perhaps.”

“War is not my purview. But that is quite nice. Perhaps we should announce it? To boost morale?”

Jecaina looked at Lyfelt.

“No. That…does not sound strategically advantageous, Lyfelt.”

One of the other things she’d learned was that he was right about leading before people could think. Because the River Wardens and Lyfelt all thought they were right. Sometimes they were; they had experience Jecaina did not. But they always thought they were right. Lyfelt had just shrugged and begun discussing other Skills he hoped Jecaina might get if she leveled quickly.

She had listened, learned, and smiled at him. Then begun making plans of her own. She did not know what to do—but she did know at least what her father might do.

—-

Warden Mulre, Warden Svinta, and Warden Elaire had all been present at her coronation. They were also the three strongest River Wardens with all the deaths of the others. Jecaina summoned them for a private meeting after Lyfelt had gone to sleep.

She was just…following what he said to do, and the River Wardens, and Lael. Because she didn’t know how to fight a war or run a kingdom!

But she had always known her father relied on the River Warden’s support. It seemed to Jecaina that it was wise to copy that.

Raelt had faced challenges to the throne where River Wardens—led by Dulfe back in those days when he was a dreaded enemy—had tried to force laws helping them or curtailing the crown’s power. They could always rise up, after all, or boycott, or…

He had dealt with it, as a young Jecaina had observed, by playing them off against each other. There were always factions, and the River Wardens had longstanding grudges.

Jecaina had no time to do that. So she took the three greatest River Wardens and bluntly spoke to them.

“Former Prime Minister Lyfelt is advising me, Wardens. He is a knowledgeable man and a skilled diplomat, even if he is no longer a ruler. I accepted his service because I am in dire need and because of the longstanding friendship he had with my family. However, I cannot forget that his neglect led to the slaughter of innocents and…this war.”

She stumbled over the last bit; she’d been writing down speeches as he suggested and practicing them. The River Wardens looked relieved.

“We had serious reservations, Pr—your Majesty, and I am gratified to hear that. Very gratified.”

Mulre murmured. Svinta nodded stiffly. She was tall, a skilled [Rider], and older than the other two; Mulre, despite the scar, was more prone to indulgence, owning fruit orchards and the largest river which made him rich. Elaire raised magical animals, like Pegasi, Bicorns, and even Kelpies.

“Do you intend to hold him to account? The King of Destruction may have been forced to retreat, but his forces still hold part of Jecrass. Not strongly, but if he returns, it is that fool who will have damned Jecrass time and again. Your Majesty.”

Svinta frowned at her. Jecaina folded her arms defensively, then remembered not to show emotion like that—another Lyfelt lesson—and uncrossed them.

“I intend to use him, Warden Svinta, because he is helpful. But that is why I am also appointing the three of you to be my council among the River Wardens. A…check on Lyfelt in case he becomes too powerful. I do this because I hold the three of you—as my father did—in highest esteem.”

They murmured at that. Maybe they were using truth spells and seeing the half-lie about that last part, but Jecaina saw them preen a bit and doubted it.

“We will attempt to be the voice of the River Wardens and the people of Jecrass, your Majesty.”

Elaire bowed smoothly. Jecaina had smiled.

She thought of this in terms of dueling. Ruling, that was. She wished Raelt were here to explain more, or that she could have asked him—but without him, she was using Lyfelt’s lessons against him.

But this was simple. Lyfelt was a blade, a kind of…what, parrying dagger? Not much reach since she could order him arrested, but he had a lot of Skills that allowed him to build influence. You wanted to check that with the River Wardens, who could be a double-edged sword.

Attack and defense. But how was she to attack or defend?

—-

General Lael bowed so deeply in private that her head touched the rug.

“I failed his Highness, your Majesty. I hope you will accept my word that I did all that I could—and that I will strive for Jecrass in the future, if you allow me.”

The [Queen] waited a moment. She wanted to say…but no. Lael was a good [General]. But under-leveled compared to every foe she’d been fighting. So, she lifted her hand slowly.

Why didn’t you save my father?

“Rise, General Lael. I do not believe my father’s faith in you was misplaced. Nor do I think you will let me down.”

The formal speech still felt odd, but she was already falling into it. Lyfelt had suggested using the royal ‘we’; Jecaina felt it was pretentious.

She was trying to figure out what [Queen] she was. A reluctant one, a temporary one, she hoped.

It was strange. Lael was the woman who’d often had to clean up Jecaina’s antics, or at least, was one of the busy ‘adults’ when the [Princess] had been a [Princess]. Now, relief shone in her eyes.

Did she think I would order her executed? She had known Jecaina for—

Uncertainty ruled Jecrass. And Jecaina realized it that day.

“With your permission, [Princess], I hope you and I can speak of the realm’s defenses.”

“Let’s…can it be done while riding? Or at least, walking?”

Jecaina was sick of the war room and her throne, even with the cushion. She had never gone a day without a ride before now, or a run. She hadn’t even had time to pick up a rapier; there was no one to practice with and besides, little good she’d done.

“Of course, your Majesty. Allow me a moment to prepare an escort.”

Lael barely blinked. Thus—Jecaina learned two things. Firstly, that she would never ride around alone again. Second?

“Your Majesty, are you going for a ride? Considering the state of the nation, is that the safest—”

Lyfelt halted as the [General] looked at him.

“Her Majesty has decreed it. Former Prime Minister. I did not know you were present in the capital.”

“I am serving as advisor to the throne. Your Majesty—”

Jecaina saw Lael turn. The [General] bowed as a group of her best [Soldiers] knelt. They did that, the first time they met her. She inclined her head.

“I am going for a ride, Lyfelt.”

“I shall go w—”

Lael looked at him and Lyfelt hesitated. Jecaina felt refreshed.

General Lael had reminded her that she didn’t have to argue. The River Wardens obeyed, but they and Lyfelt had suggestions. In the presence of the [General], Lyfelt hesitated.

“I will send for you if needed upon my return, Lyfelt.”

Jecaina enjoyed seeing his expression. And soon, she was riding out of the palace.

Another experience she had not been able to achieve the last two days of her new reign.

“Where to, your Majesty?”

“Just ride, Lael. And then—around the city? Down the streets? Not far.”

Jecaina sped up to a gallop. Instantly, the [Riders] followed her. She hated that. But she let them; they were even worried she’d break her neck.

Was this what father had to live with, day in, day out? Jecaina wished she had been more understanding when he didn’t want to duel, or was so gloomy. No wonder he’d started throwing oranges at River Wardens from the balcony. She was half-tempted to do that too.

After her first gallop and sensation of being free, Jecaina slowed. She turned to Lael.

“General, you’re one of the few people I can trust. With my father…missing…and Geril…”

She swallowed hard.

“My father always said you were trustworthy. And I have found few people to trust so far. Please, speak candidly.”

She was uncertain, but the [General] looked relieved at the blunt phrasing.

“Your Majesty, I worried at what I might find upon my return to the capital. I am pleased that all seems well and that the crown’s authority is not questioned. I dared not move my forces or even return until I learned of your new Skill, but I brought three thousand [Riders] with me in case order needed to be maintained.”

Jecaina started. She looked at Lael—then the remaining [Trick Riders], and recalled that Lael had returned with heavy [Bicorn Chargers], [Armored Cavalry]; a vanguard for the [General].

Had she been intending to free Jecaina if it turned out the River Wardens had staged a coup? That just made Jecaina more hopeful she could trust Lael.

By the same token, a whisper in her head that sounded like Lyfelt made her wonder if the [General] might have held onto the reins of power if she had been forced to seize them…

No. No, trust that her father had at least known a loyal woman. Jecaina nodded to Lael.

“Thank you, [General]. I’ve read all your [Messages] and sent all the forces that could be spared. The River Wardens have contributed their forces to the cause, all they can. Candidly…what is the situation?”

They rode through the gates of the city and a cheer startled Jecaina before Lael replied. She looked up—and saw the City Watch on the gates cheering her.

“Your Majesty!”

“Jecrass still stands!”

It was a handful of voices, soon silenced. Lael turned to Jecaina.

“Apologies, your Majesty.”

“No, I…”

Jecaina rode through the capital of the Realm of Jecrass. And once again felt odd.

People turned out to see her. They came out of homes, the overcrowded city flooded with refugees or [Soldiers], lining the streets. Some cheered; many just stared, or knelt.

It was the legacy of the King of Duels. Jecaina might have feared they would insult her, throw things, blame her for the war. But the people still remembered how he had fought the King of Destruction twice. So his daughter they bowed to, even though…

We cannot continue. Jecaina saw how packed the city was, and recalled the orders to ration stockpiles of food. Already, this war had drained Jecrass, and that was with auxiliary forces, gold…Lael let her ride through the city, looking at her people. Jecaina had not the courage to dismount and talk with them that day.

Especially not with the great threat of war past the horizon and fast-advancing.

“Candidly, your Majesty. We are in trouble. Jecrass’ army is depleted and while we had been buying ample supplies, munitions, potions—I understand aid from foreign nations is cut off. May I ask the state of the treasury?”

Jecaina didn’t know. That worried her. Lael went on.

“Moreover—the King of Destruction’s forces have retreated from Medain. But I fear they have now regrouped. And Medain is at war.”

“What is to be done, General? What are our odds?”

Jecaina knew the answer before the [General] gave it. Lael bit her lip.

“Candidly, your Majesty, Jecrass alone would have struggled to repel Medain at full-strength. Now, we face a war on two fronts and nigh a third of our lands are embattled. Reim’s forces fell back, but it is essentially a warfront on the western edges. The only thing stopping him from taking the capital is the fact that every nation has declared war on him. Medain may well be wary of him…but not us.”

The [Queen] nodded. That was how it was.

—-

Lael’s suggestions were simple and to the point. Upon her return, Jecaina ordered more fortifications built at every fortress or city, creating a new line of defenses. Put the [Archers] behind walls, and keep a large, mobile force, the remainder of Jecrass’ army, to rush to a battle.

For now, that was all they could do. What she was mostly concerned with were the gaps in her knowledge.

“The treasury will last Jecrass quite a while, your Majesty. I was going to speak to you about delaying the [Soldiers]’ pay…”

She whirled on Warden Svinta and the others. Lyfelt was jostling for a chance to speak.

“And no one thought to bring up the treasury with me?”

“Your Majesty is in command of us.”

The River Wardens bowed. Lyfelt nodded.

“And any expenditures haven’t been necessary so far, J—my Queen. If you wished to spend money…”

Jecaina was annoyed because the assumption was she would discuss it with them before wasting money. But the truth was that Raelt had not spent the massive sums Yisame and the other nations had gifted him; he’d stockpiled as much as he’d spent.

Gold, more than Jecrass had, ever really had, sat in the treasury or was vouched for with the Merchant’s Guild. Not enough to hire an entire army; more than enough to continue a losing war with.

“Why would we hold the [Soldier]’s pay?”

“It is traditional, your Majesty, to ensure [Soldiers] do not desert if they are in arrears several months.”

Warden Svinta said smoothly. Lyfelt nodded behind her. Jecaina looked at General Lael. The woman grimaced.

“Your Majesty, we have not had large-scale desertions thus far. The army is loyal to Jecrass; this is their homeland. Holding back pay might decrease morale.”

Jecaina nodded.

“I don’t see any reason to hang onto their pay, River Wardens. Lyfelt.”

“But your Majesty—”

“Enough.”

She said it and they fell silent. Maybe because Lael was standing there—but Jecaina felt good. She took a breath.

“Enough. I have made my decision.”

They looked at her. Lyfelt looked peeved, the River Wardens hesitated. But they did bow their heads. Lael nodded at Jecaina and the [Queen] exhaled.

A small victory, enough to make her think she could actually do this.

[Queen (Temporary) Level 27!]

No Skill that night. But it was already a fast level—faster than Jecaina had in the last six years! That encouraged her too, that what she was doing was right.

The next day, the King of Destruction rode on Jecrass with an army.

—-

“I wish to speak with Jecaina Leysars of Jecrass!”

He roared from the head of an army of eighteen thousand. A paltry number compared to what he had been fielding; but General Lael and her entire army—what was left of it—stood ready to meet him.

Around sixty thousand, the rest spread to garrisons. Again, Jecrass had been depleted. Even so, they might turn him back…

But the Steward held Belchan, and Zamea stood with the King of Destruction. The rest of his forces were moving south at speed.

Yet he was here. Jecrass’ army wavered, but the King of Destruction had come under the flag of truce. And he wanted to talk to Jecaina.

“It might be a trap, your Majesty. Allow one of us to negotiate—”

“I don’t suggest speaking with him, Jecaina. The alliance against the King of Destruction is one place where Jecrass can find common ground, perhaps even aid. Compromising that—”

Jecaina ignored both River Wardens and Lyfelt. She rode stiffly across the ground, surrounded by a personal guard six times as large as his forces. Then, the two rulers rode forwards as both sides employed Skills to make sure the other was not treacherous.

In truth, Jecaina would not have done this for anyone but the King of Destruction. She doubted he would try anything; she had grown up listening to tales of his conduct in war. His honor…

She resolved the childhood admiration—even half a year ago—with the man who had slaughtered Jecrass’ people and brought war to her kingdom.

It was bittersweet. Because a part of her still looked up at the man sitting there in his saddle, imposing, regal even without a crown on his head. And she saw a hero out of tales. Part of her longed to believe in that.

The [Queen] dipped her head and received a nod in reply.

“I thank you for meeting me, Queen Jecaina. I understand that is your new title?”

“I was crowned since my father is unable to rule. Until such time as he returns, I am Queen of Jecrass, yes.”

The King of Destruction’s green eyes fixed on Jecaina. He noted her armor, her sword, the tense forces behind her in a heartbeat, and then studied Jecaina. Even sitting on horseback in front of him was hard. It was like trying to face the wind at full-blast with your eyes open. He was pushing Jecaina back without even trying.

“I see. Then, Jecaina, you have my deepest sympathies. I know what it is like to come to the crown too soon. And—if I may speak personally for a moment—I regret High King Perric’s treachery. Rest assured, if I am able to take Medain, I will free your father regardless of where we stand. But that is an unlikely scenario now, especially with that damned [Pirate] haunting the coast.”

Jecaina was taken aback at first by Flos. Especially by his sympathies, which seemed genuine. She swallowed.

“I had forgotten, K—Flos—”

How strange it was to address him so.

“—that you had come to your throne when your father fell.”

“Yes. An age ago. I found myself at war with Hellios as a boy.”

The man’s eyes were distant. He looked at her.

“A word of wisdom, if it is that. Listen, learn; your advisors may know what is best. Some will be treacherous. In time, you will know who to trust. But in the end, remember that you are [Queen]. No one will ever sit above you, and no one must tell you what to do.”

She nodded.

“Thank you, sir. King Reimarch. I have learned that, and will take it to heart.”

He smiled. They sat there, awkwardly. For Jecaina had not wished to like him. But she wanted to ask…

“So much for pleasantries. I cannot stay long; I must ride within the hour. We are at war, Queen Jecaina. Reim and Jecrass. It has been a bitter war, and a glorious one. Your father fought as few [Kings] have ever done. For that, I would salute him. But now, I think, it is enough. I come here to ask you to pledge Jecrass to Reim. Surrender Lyfelt, the high authorities of Belchan, and I will bring battle to Medain and cease the bloodshed.”

He looked at her and delivered his terms. Jecaina blinked—then recoiled.

“You still would make war, King Reimarch? After all this? Is Nerrhavia not marching on your rear at this moment?”

The King of Destruction shrugged.

“They are. You have already noticed my forces dwindle. But I am a [King] and I gave my word to my subjects who were slaughtered in Belchan. I do not forswear myself. Until peace is made—we are at war.”

He leaned on his saddle horn and Jecaina and her horse danced back. His eyes were terribly frightening, then.

“I do not wish to kill more of Jecrass’ brave children, Queen Jecaina. Nor do I think your nation can stand against mine. Accept vassalization, as Germina and Hellios have and my armies will battle Medain and free your father! Refuse me, and I will take your capital, if I must.”

Her blood chilled. The border was still a ways from the capital, but if he beat Jecrass here, he might march on the capital; albeit with forces to his rear.

Could he do it with eighteen thousand men? She stared at Zamea as the half-Giant yawned, visible to all behind him, with four of her Nomads of the Sky.

Was she tempted? Part of her. If he had asked her to ride with him, as one of his Seven, to bring High King Perric to justice…

She still would have refused. The Queen looked at the King.

“Did you not just tell me that no one would ever sit above me, Flos of Reim? Do you think Jecrass is weak enough to be pushed into submission?”

Flos raised a hand, smiling ruefully.

“How I like to stab myself in the foot. I did say that—it is how I live. You would still be [Queen]. And I do not make light of Jecrass, Jecaina. But look. Do you really think you can hold both my armies and Medain’s at bay?”

He gestured to the half-Giants, his army. Himself. Jecaina quailed.

Still. Still…it was Jecrass. Her home! Perhaps if he had come with vast armies? Perhaps. But—

“You have spilled too much blood here, Flos Reimarch. I cannot kneel after all you have done. You made war on Belchan, yes. But now Jecrass? I refuse you. Nerrhavia’s armies are creeping up on your ass. Be done with them and take Jecrass if you can!”

She blushed as the rude words burst from her. To her surprise, the King of Destruction threw his head back and laughed. One of the watching bodyguards, a young woman who looked out of place, started, as did Jecrass’ forces.

“I have never heard it put like that! But then—your father was a different ruler. So that is your will? We will meet on the battlefield, Queen of Jecrass. Will you have the same resolve then?”

He looked at her again. Jecaina gritted her teeth so hard she swore one cracked.

“I will.”

He frowned…then exhaled.

“Will you at least turn over Lyfelt and the ministers of Belchan? I would sign a peace treaty for that alone.”

This time Jecaina was very uncertain. She bit her lip. Flos pressed her, riding a step or two closer.

“You know what he has done, Queen Jecaina. Is one man’s pitiful life worth more war? Especially that one’s?”

“I…I…”

—-

Her second refusal worried Jecaina. She refused to turn Lyfelt over, and the King of Destruction departed. For a tense moment…

But he didn’t have the forces to attack. Lael had suggested that, which was why Jecaina had dared him by refusing. He pulled his army back, riding south. Orthenon and Zamea would hold the north, along with the forces of Parasol Stroll, even the dreaded death-warriors of the Rustängmarder, perhaps. Jecaina didn’t know.

For now, Jecrass was relatively safe from aggression. But the war continued.

Why had she not given him Lyfelt? In truth, Jecaina had dithered. But when his life was in the balance, her father’s friend…she had caved in.

Not to Flos, but to her father. He had not given Lyfelt over at any cost. Did his daughter know better? Was she weaker, to reverse his decision?

She couldn’t do it.

Everyone congratulated her when it was done, even though Jecaina had felt like a leaf before a storm. To her bravery—as if not wetting herself was accomplishment enough.

Jecaina still felt a bit proud of the praise—there was even a banquet where the River Wardens made speeches, promising to defy Reim to the last! She did not level, to her disappointment, that day.

The next? Medain and the High King made their move.

—-

Raelt Leysars of Jecrass stood, flanked by two of the Golden Ranks of Medain. He wore manacles on his legs and arms—and the crown of Jecrass, the real one.

His clothing was not a prisoner’s ragged cloth, but neither was it regal; just a plain, if slightly expensive tunic and britches.

Jecaina nearly wept when she saw him. Alive! He was alive!

Prisoner.

The broadcast was being covered by Pallass News Network. Drassi, the Drake [Reporter], was leaning in. Raelt was standing on a platform in front of which the jeering citizenry of Medain’s capital were gathered. They were silenced as a [Herald] shouted his name.

Raelt was standing quite far away. Drassi turned to someone off-screen as Jecaina and everyone crowded around the scrying orb to see.

“Why’s he on the platform? Can’t we get up close?”

“…[Mages] told to stand…”

The Drake listened as Jecaina’s eyes flicked from Raelt to Drassi. The [Reporter] frowned.

“They can’t get close? That’s stupid. Is it that rat-[King]’s fault? Oh sh—er, High King Perric?”

She looked at the camera and smiled innocently. Jecaina wanted to smile at that. But she was staring at her father, and a pit of fear was in her stomach.

Was he going to be executed? The Golden Ranks had weapons. But it didn’t seem…surely…

No, it turned out. The [Herald] bellowed.

“His Majesty, Raelt of Jecrass, has a proclamation for his people of Jecrass, at war with the Glorious Kingdom of Medain! High King Perric has graciously given him the chance to speak to his subjects and urge reconciliation!”

Jecaina started. Reconciliation? Her father? He hated Perric—even before the High King had kidnapped Jecaina! But then she saw Raelt being pushed forwards. He stood there and…spoke.

“My people of Jecrass. This war has gone on long enough. After Jecrass’ defeat and the aggressions of the King of Destruction, I have decided war is no longer in either kingdoms’ favor. I urge my daughter, Princess Jecaina of Jecrass, to make peace with High King Perric…”

Jecaina sat back and stared. For a moment she felt like the world was turning upside down. Then—Lyfelt spoke.

“It’s an illusion.”

Everyone started. The River Wardens, Jecaina—the [Queen] sat up and realized he was right.

Something was off about Raelt’s voice. She hadn’t heard it in nearly a week—but that wasn’t her father. The cadence, pitch, were close, but like voices or faces, you could be so close as to be jarringly off if you knew someone.

That was the case here. Also—her father didn’t speak like this. It was too…polished a speech. He might read a pre-written announcement, but he liked to make it short and snappy. Also, he sometimes paused for a painful period if he was reading something he didn’t like.

This Raelt spoke without breaks. Also? She frowned.

His mouth was moving, and he stood there with the two Golden Ranks…but was it really moving?

“You’re sure?”

River Warden Mulre turned anxiously to Lyfelt. The former [Prime Minister] nodded, eyes fixed on Raelt.

“Someone write down the contents of what he’s saying. And we should make a proclamation to the effect within the hour, your Majesty, Jecaina. But I’m certain. That’s why the scrying [Mages] aren’t allowed any closer.”

Indeed, even Drassi seemed to suspect something was off. She narrowed her eyes as she shuffled her papers together as the announcement concluded and the link was abruptly shut off. Almost as if someone had told the [Mages] to cut the connection now.

“That’s an awfully convenient message from the King of Jecrass to the King of Medain. I understand they hate each other’s guts, but what do I know? Please stop writing in if you’re from Medain, incidentally. I’m allowed to give my opinions! Anyways, that was the ‘speech’…we’ll see what Queen Jecaina says.”

Jecaina sat back, head spinning. The River Wardens, Lyfelt—everyone wanted to talk. A proclamation had to be sent, and General Lael urgently requested a [Message]…

—-

It rattled Jecrass, to see their [King]. People who didn’t know Raelt half-believed it, even though their enmity towards Medain went back generations. They needed to be told it was fake.

Even Jecaina felt shaken. But in the hours afterwards, she realized a few things when talking to her advisors.

Firstly? This was definitely an illusion—Perric putting words in Raelt’s mouth. Raelt would never just surrender, not like that. Jecaina had no illusions; Flos would have vassalized Jecrass, but maybe let her keep her authority.

High King Perric wanted to make Jecrass into Medain, and he had already stripped two former monarchs of their power, turning them into puppets. He had kidnapped Jecaina—let’s not forget that either! Raelt would never forgive that so easily.

Secondly, and this actually brought her hope—Lyfelt pointed out a few details.

“Did you notice how poorly they copied his voice? A good [Mage] can do far better—but they didn’t. And Medain is not poor. They had to hold him in place, those Golden Ranks.”

“Why was the voice so poor?”

Jecaina asked—then realized before Lyfelt smiled bitterly.

Her father hadn’t said a word. Not one word, even perhaps under torture. That was why they couldn’t steal his voice.

She was proud of that. He was alive. That was enough for hope, to keep her going. What she feared was what he might be suffering or…or that he would not continue to stay alive.

And sure enough, High King Perric sent a personal [Message] to Jecrass hot on the heels of Raelt’s ‘speech’. The terms were simple, but none of the River Wardens would even listen to them. They stormed out of the throne room and Lyfelt read it in private.

Medain wanted Jecrass’ unconditional surrender, after which Raelt of Jecrass would be released as a vassal ruler to High King Perric. The terms added that if Jecaina signed the magical contract with her crown’s authority, he would be in Jecrass within the day.

Her blood boiled at the terms. Lyfelt held her back from sending a reply instantly.

“[Calm Mind], Jecaina. Calm. This is High King Perric’s strategy. He shoots for the skies—I suggest sending back an instant refusal, in polite wording.”

“Polite? He told us to roll over and—”

“I know. That man is arrogant, but he has your father. Don’t antagonize him. He has a temper.”

That cooled Jecaina’s head. She let Lyfelt write the reply and went to stab the air with her dueling sword.

True enough, Lyfelt’s reply was followed by a counteroffer within ten minutes. This time, it was more acceptable. If only just.

To Princess Jecaina of Jecrass,

His Majesty, Raelt Leysars, is prisoner to our authority at this moment. His safety and health are assured so long upon our honor as High King of Medain, Protectorate of Venom, Guardian of…

She skipped down a bit.

…Jecrass will continue its war with the King of Destruction and refrain from engaging with Medain’s forces. Pending a signed contract of nonaggression, open borders to allow access of Medain’s armies, and a tribute of…

“Tribute?”

She cried out. Perric’s second demand held short of Jecrass’ entire surrender. But he wanted too much.

Jecrass would effectively have to go to war with Reim, allow Medain to march through its borders, and promise not to attack as well as provide a tribute to Medain—all to ‘assure King Raelt’s health’.

“He’s threatening to torture or execute father if I don’t.”

She turned to Lyfelt. Her blood ran hot and cold, with rage and fear for Raelt’s safety.

Lyfelt was tapping his fingers together rapidly as he thought. The River Wardens—the inner circle of three—were listening intently. They were ready to kill something…but Perric had them.

It was the [Prime Minister] who had the diplomatic suggestion. Jecaina hated it the moment it left his mouth.

“I would suggest crafting a reply from her Majesty. Asking…pleading with the High King to reconsider the terms of the agreement.”

She looked at him.

“Pleading, Lyfelt?”

He both smiled and spread his hands wide.

“Not you, personally, Jecaina. I would be happy to write it myself. But…let’s see. A personal missive, with your signature, informing High King Perric that you cannot agree to the entirety of the terms, but offering some compromise. That’s what he wants. He knows this is onerous, but—”

“Pleading. Me?”

Jecaina’s temper flared. Lyfelt tried to soothe her, but River Warden Svinta was also furious.

“A woman of Jecrass—let alone our ruler—does not beg! Especially to foreign powers who kidnapped her! Is that what you are suggesting, Prime Minister?”

She was halfway to drawing her long dagger on him. Lyfelt backed up quickly.

“River Warden Svinta, Queen Jecaina, consider the diplomacy of it. High King Perric is…predictable.”

Jecaina held herself back from snapping. She made Svinta sit down and Lyfelt explained.

“I know High King Perric. I’ve met the man. He does not think…the world of women. He might—and this is me using my Skill [Take His Perspective] in view…”

His eyes flickered.

“Yes. High King Perric might well assume he can lean on Princess Jecaina. He would believe that the River Wardens have authority, and that he can use Jecrass as a shield against Reim’s aggressions. Is it not worth encouraging that perception?”

“You want me to pretend I’m a child he can bully into doing what he wants.”

Jecaina said through pale lips. Lyfelt waved a finger.

“It’s manipulating him, your Majesty. Jecrass can make sure King Raelt is safe as well as prevent Medain from being overly aggressive. If he thinks you are pliable…”

“You are speaking to the Queen of Jecrass! Is her authority worth nothing, man? Should Jecrass pretend its ruler is a weak-willed woman?”

Warden Mulre leapt to his feet, face-flushed. Jecaina sat there, vibrating with anger, as Lyfelt began to argue. Warden Elaire on the other hand, was quiet.

She voiced her support for Lyfelt and then it was split. Well, not including Jecaina. She did not know what to do. She hated it. But after a night of thinking, she told Lyfelt to craft the [Message]. She was barely able to read it, but she sent it and Medain became…more accommodating.

—-

Jecaina hated it. And she was conceiving a hatred of Lyfelt the more she and he interacted on a daily basis.

He was like a grassviper. A snake! He was charming and intelligent…but he used his charm and skill at diplomacy to manipulate people.

How had she never seen it? How had Raelt? She let him employ his plan with Medain and it worked.

That was what she hated. High King Perric’s next message was a cross between condescension and superiority. Of course he understood Jecaina was unsure and the River Warden’s objections. He let her know that her father was perfectly safe and would remain so, as long as she was willing to cooperate.

“You see, he has a harem of women, and my interactions with him in brief were quite noticeable. My wife did not care for him at all, and I understand Queen Yisame quite irks him. Which is revealing; he does not see her as his superior, despite Nerrhavia being the power of the region. That is more than just a [King]’s arrogance as well; if you look into his command structure, you find one woman in twenty. And of those—many have relationships with their superiors or himself in the case of the [Generals]. The nation follows the crown.”

Lyfelt taught Jecaina and she listened. He had things to show her, but…

“Where is your wife? Your children? Are they safe? I hadn’t asked after them. Nomna? Er…”

Jecaina forgot the kids’ names; they were far younger than she. Lyfelt hesitated. He hadn’t brought them up.

“Quite well, Jecaina. They’re under protection. I left, but Nomna stayed with the children; dangerous to be about.”

He never left the palace, and Jecaina knew he was not well-liked. She nodded and left it at that.

Well, that now meant that Medain and Reim were accounted for. Lyfelt handled the communications while only needing Jecaina’s signature—and she told him to start forging that. She wanted nothing to do with the begging, fawning appeals to Perric’s masculine authority he was increasingly crafting with more flourishes.

By the same token—the River Wardens were now taking a hand in the realm’s defense.

—-

“It is time to revitalize the army, your Majesty. To that end—I hope you will see fit to allow us to begin training replacements for our most vital forces.”

River Warden Svinta and Mulre came to her with the request. It involved a lot of gold, and the ability to recruit the most skilled [Riders] and [Fighters] and so on among the youth.

A conscription. Jecaina was interested in this. The River Wardens had been contributing their personal garrisons to the war all the time, but now they seemed to feel it was their time to make up for Raelt’s absence.

“To what end, River Warden Mulre?”

He smiled.

“Why, to replenish the ranks of Jecrass’ [Trick Riders], of course!”

The [Trick Riders] of Jecrass were one of the unique classes and fighting groups Jecrass employed. Each nation had one, like the Golden Ranks of Medain, or their [Armored Soldiers].

The Realm of Jecrass was sprawling, plains and rivers. Thus, it needed a fast force to mobilize. That was how [Trick Riders] had been conceived.

Able to stop on a dime, turn, thread the needle in battle, even use ropes, nets, and other tools to immobilize foes.

Jecaina had seen them tripping half-Giants up—even stalling Mars the Vanguard! She nodded.

“Of course. How many were lost?”

Mulre grimaced.

“Too many, your Majesty. They were at the fore of every battle, defending King Raelt. And when they came to your aid…but I intend to replenish, no, double their numbers! They will be the fastest, most elite forces Jecrass has to offer! If the crown can spare the gold, I will have our [Trainers], veteran [Trick Riders], and so on get to work training a new generation at once.”

He beamed at her. Jecaina nodded.

“And you, Warden Svinta?”

“Warden Elaire and I wish to do the same—only with [Bicorn Riders] and flying Pegasi.”

Jecaina blinked. Then stared.

“Pegasi?”

They were rare, even in Jecrass, which bred horses of all kind. Bicorns weren’t even technically horses…well, they were a horse-bull hybrid, giant, chargers with a temper.

“We saw them match—even defeat Medain’s best armored lancers, your Majesty. We have never had many…due to the Bicorns being more difficult to breed. Jecrass has many breeds of fine horses—the best in all of Chandrar!”

Jecaina nodded. It was not an idle boast. If House Walchaís in Izril was known for horseflesh, so was Jecrass—to someone who loved horses, they were on a shortlist of groups you went to. Svinta went on, eagerly.

“[Magical Horsetamers] and [Beast Masters] who can raise such animals are rarer, but give me leave and I will have flying [Pegasus Riders] and shock Bicorn troops who can push back even the best of the King of Destruction’s forces—and Medain’s!”

She and Mulre looked at Jecaina. Both of them wanted a good amount of gold from the treasury. Jecaina had to think it over.

General Lael certainly wanted both groups. Lyfelt, as always, didn’t want to spend too much money, and cautioned her on that. But faced with gold she couldn’t use—or only to bribe Medain with or hire expensive [Mercenaries]? Jecaina advanced both River Wardens the gold and heard within the week that the first [Riders] were being transitioned to new steeds from the existing stocks, and breeding programs set up.

Excellent, excellent. Jecaina oversaw the redistribution of some of the refugees, made sure that food was being supplied, and after six days, felt like she was getting a handle on things. The day after agreeing to the new initiatives by Mulre and Svinta and placating Medain, she fell asleep and heard it again.

[Queen (Temporary) Level 28!]

[Skill – Kingdom: Quickened Breeding (Animals) obtained!]

A lot of parenthesis—or however her mind interpreted it—but she woke up smiling. Over breakfast, Jecaina received word that Reim had taken the largest border-fortress. The next day, Medain’s forces pushed in from one of the two passes and swallowed fifteen miles around the pass.

—-

Shepherd Zamea led an army against the stronghold with Orthenon, the King’s Steward. General Lael circled, unwilling to fight the King’s Steward, who could summon an army of ghostly warriors—he had come in full force with Parasol Stroll sending spells shooting across the distance.

But neither side actually engaged in a melee. Zamea and six of her kin took the stronghold fortress, fortified and garrisoned with Jecrass’ troops—from a distance.

She hurled huge stones with her kin, smashing them into the walls. A catapult! Lael saw defenders hunkering down as the quickly-erected and ensorcelled fortifications began to crumble.

She made a quick decision and ordered the evacuation. There was no choice. Orthenon was ready to smash Jecrass’ army. He let them go; this was a free fortress for his troops and he was shooting across to Belchan in another moment to fight the half-Elves and other armies.

Jecaina wanted to retake the fortress; Zamea had gone to fight Medain, so why not retake it? She sent Lael and three River Wardens to take back the stronghold, at a key point along a river.

Lael found a fortified keep in its place. Where Jecrass had built a quick wooden fort, having lost its actual border-forts in the west, along a riverbank…the fortress was now made of stone and had been reversed to defend itself against an attack from Jecrass’ side.

Stone parapets with sniper positions. Elevated ground and blockades to stymie horse charges. A few thousand could hold off ten thousand, and that was just the outside.

[The King’s Architect]. Jecaina had no idea what had been done until they all recalled the King of Destruction’s new Skill.

He had used it across Chandrar. She put her head in her hands. Especially when it turned out that Reim was using that as a choke point to stymie counter-raids and fall back to.

Unfair, unfair…the King of Destruction had done it again.

“It’s like the days of his conquests. Drevish the [Architect]. He did this all the time. The King of Destruction would take a valuable position and turn it into an unassailable bastion so he could pull back and hold the enemy there.”

“Can we take it? What about Pegasus Riders? Warden Svinta?”

The Warden looked uncomfortable.

“We have eighteen fliers ready to go, your Majesty. We wouldn’t be able to ferry troops in or assault from above for…”

Jecaina realized they had lost another fort. And that meant the lines had to be altered; neighboring forts were at risk, and they had to build another defensive line.

More gold, more headaches. More fear. That was bad enough.

The next day, Medain marched forces down the Merrina Pass and seized the land around it. They didn’t take the border-city or try the walls, but they began fortifying their own area. Lael was poised to attack, but Medain had sent heavy, heavy infantry and an army of equal size to all Lael could muster.

The entire day, Jecaina was shouting at Lyfelt. The former [Prime Minister] was shooting off desperate communiques. But the truth was—he’d messed up.

High King Perric wrote to Jecaina privately. His exact words were ‘fortifying against Reim’s aggression that Medain might come to Jecrass’ aid’. And certainly, he was threatening Reim.

However, Warden Svinta put it best. The old woman snapped at Lyfelt as, hair a mess, he tried to explain it.

“You made him think her Majesty didn’t have the will and he swept in and took our pass! You gave him an inch, now he wants an acre!”

Jecaina feared she was right. Lyfelt spluttered.

“It—it looks bad. But he still is being more reasonable and not using Raelt against us. We have to weigh the benefits and negatives, your Majesty, Wardens.”

“As in, losing part of Jecrass? What if he does it again?”

“This is where I have to convince him that the repercussions to you would be too great, your Majesty. Give me another chance…”

Four days passed. Then, almost like they had timed it, Reim, a force with Zamea, Orthenon, and the others again, took the border fortress adjoining the first one. They had to manually fortify, but left a half-Giant and skilled [Archers]. Medain, to ‘counter their aggression’, informed Jecaina they were taking the city along the pass.

She had the choice of fighting—which Lyfelt urged her not to do so for Raelt’s sake and Perric’s ego—or evacuating it.

She did the latter. Jecaina sat in her rooms at night and stared at the pieces of Jecrass’ map that had just vanished. She realized something else at this point.

Her Wardens, Lyfelt…even General Lael. They weren’t enough.

—-

Here was the question. Was it Lyfelt? Was it a River Warden? Lael?

Did she have traitors who were manipulating her?

Jecaina actually wished it were so. Because she feared the truth was they were outmatched.

Lyfelt might have failed, but he had done his best. She felt like that was so, and she had read all of his sickening letters in her name to Perric, and the High King’s superior responses—but even trying to be ‘kind’, assuring her that her father was well, that he had personally checked in on him…

And indeed, Medain was not threatening the other passes, just the ones closest to Reim’s held Jecrass territory. So her fear was not treachery—not entirely. It was just the same issue that had plagued Raelt.

They were outmatched. Plain and simple. Put them up against each other. General Lael vs Orthenon. Warden Mulre—dead gods, Mulre, Svinta, and Elaire and two dozen others against one Zamea. Lyfelt vs Perric.

Loss, loss, loss…

“We have to pit Medain and Reim against each other.”

Lyfelt came to the same conclusion as Mulre and the others. He framed it as a ‘good thing in disguise’. He hated admitting failure or that something was bad. The River Wardens were more blunt.

“This is a disaster, your Majesty. But we can salvage it. Medain and Reim are staring at each other. Time to let them fight and hold this line.”

Jecaina nodded. They pulled back more, so Medain and Reim swept into the new ground and were now locking borders. They waited.

—-

Neither nation fought. Oh, Medain was clashing along the west and trying to take Belchan. But along the Jecrass border? Neither Orthenon, Zamea, or Medain’s forces there engaged.

Because, obviously, they weren’t idiots. They knew Jecrass would take any weakened position. Why bother when you could eat Jecrass? In short, to make an analogy of it, why would two Nightmares eat each other when there was a sheep nearby? Nightmares were the carnivorous, nocturnal hunting horses, incidentally.

Warden Mulre suggested raiding Medain or Reim poised as the other’s forces. General Lael advised Jecaina not to try it.

“They’re too intelligent to fall for an open ploy, your Majesty. Our forces would have to ride in from their side and if they were caught or a single one identified…”

So they didn’t do that.

“What am I missing, Aca?”

Jecaina turned to the [Housemistress] during a bath. The woman hesitated.

“Pr—my Queen?”

Jecaina looked at her. Bathing was a luxury that Jecrassians could afford thanks to the river. She looked at the [Housemistress]

“About the war? About my advisors, as I was saying? You were listening, weren’t you?”

“Yes, my Queen. Only…”

In her desperation, Jecaina had turned to the servants, to her friends. She spent most of her waking hours talking to her advisors. Yes, to lesser commanders, the Watch Captain, head of the Merchant’s Guild, Mage’s Guild, [Treasury Keeper] and so on, but—

She didn’t have more personal advisors than those. She had tried.

But her friends? The riding companions, dueling partners? Some had enlisted in the army and were in far flung locations where she would have to recall them.

Some had died in the war. And she hadn’t known.

She might have sent for them anyways, but Merib, a friend of hers, had just repeated the same basic advice.

“I don’t know, Jecaina—I mean, Queen Jecaina. What if you…shot arrows at Medain with Reim’s fletching?”

They were her friends. But they weren’t great leaders in the areas of war or diplomacy. They were as young as she.

So she turned to servants. She missed Geril and cried for him more than her father. Her father was alive. But Geril…

She would have listened to him above all the others. More than Lyfelt, the River Wardens, even Lael. He had known her grandfather! He had known…everything. And she had been so ungrateful.

“Aca?”

She prompted the [Housemistress]. But the woman just shook her head, nervously.

“It’s not my place to say, your Majesty. I’m sure the River Wardens know what to do. Sh-shall I have one of the girls scrub your back?”

Jecaina sighed.

Aca was not Geril. She was a lovely woman, good for gossip, young at heart as Jecaina was. But the idea of giving advice in war to Jecaina terrified her.

“I need…high-level advisors. There have to be some left besides those still fighting.”

She knew General Lael was over Level 30. She had a Level 27 [Lieutenant], a [Master Archer] of Level 32, Verrod the [Horsemaster], Level 45—who was helping with Svinta and Elaire’s projects.

Jecrass, like every nation, had high-level individuals. A few. But they were always a handful over Level 30—over Level 40?

Jecaina had demanded the [Trick Riders] and Bicorns and Pegasi when both nations had begun swallowing parts of Jecrass. She had been assured there were thousands of candidates in training—Mulre even had lists. And that stables, areas of land, had been donated by Svinta and other River Wardens for the new breeding projects, and they were even asking Oteslia for more breeding stock.

Nothing at the moment. Desperately, Jecaina listened to her advisors.

Medain took more ground. Reim’s Steward was moving back this way, perhaps for another attack-and-swallow.

Sixteen days after the King of Destruction’s defeat, an age or so it seemed, the Queen of Jecrass paid a visit to someone.

—-

“Your Majesty?”

Nomna, Lyfelt’s wife, looked wide-eyed at Jecaina as the guards let her into the rather nice guest-estate. She and her children bowed deeply, Jecaina lifted a hand, not even bothered at this point.

“Don’t bow, Nomna. It’s…good to see you. Are you well? The guard told you I was coming.”

“Of course, your Majesty. Please, come in. We don’t have much to offer, but I did what I could…it’s all been provided, and we have to thank you for our very lives.”

The two children of Lyfelt and his wife, Nomna, welcomed Jecaina into their small household. They had been living here since Raelt rescued them at the capital.

It was not a grand estate, but it was still a rather large one for a single family. Jecaina thought that, looking at the padded couches, rather lovely ceiling—two floors plus a cellar! Then Nomna shook her head.

“Oh no, your Majesty. Your father—King Leysars gave us this estate with the other…leadership of Belchan. They and their families share this space. It can get a tiny bit crowded—I believe they are helping at the farms.”

“Farms?”

It transpired that Raelt had practically arranged for all the people threatened by Flos’ execution order to live here. Families as well as those responsible. Most were in the fields, apparently.

“There is a shortage of hands, you see, your Majesty, so we volunteered—it was that or sit about and argue.”

Jecaina appreciated that. She sat, and was offered some dried dates and a bit of goat’s cheese by a timid girl…eleven years old? Jecaina blinked at the reserved girl.

“Is that you, Presca? You look—older.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

The girl curtsied politely. Her younger brother was more nervous and kept staring at her. Jecaina looked at a Lyfelt’s family and realized she had aged too.

“What brings you here, your Majesty? We were in the fields, but you wished to see us? Is it…are Reim’s armies that close? Or has Lyfelt done…something?”

Nomna was clearly afraid. Jecaina tried to smile to reassure her.

“No, neither. Lyfelt has been…helpful.”

Yes, that was how she’d say it in front of his family. Nomna nodded cautiously.

“That is…good, your Majesty. We were afraid when the King of Destruction came—”

The children looked at her. Jecaina’s stomach twisted.

Give me Lyfelt and those responsible. Did he mean the families? She shook her head.

“No. I would never put you in the way of—Lyfelt has been advising me. Conducting diplomacy. I may make him a [Royal Advisor] or…something.”

She hadn’t done so yet. Nomna nodded cautiously.

“That would be something he would enjoy, I am sure.”

The way she phrased it made Jecaina hesitate.

“Surely he’s told you about his work. He hasn’t visited, but I thought he would at least write. Or is it not safe to travel? I can arrange an escort if—”

Presca made a sound. Nomna looked at Jecaina and her eyes widened.

“Lyfelt didn’t tell you? Your Majesty. We are divorced now. He left this estate as soon as we fled Belchan. I have not spoken to him in months.”

The [Queen]’s eyes widened.

—-

“I could not continue…even the [Guards] looked at us like monsters. I didn’t know. Believe me, I would have told him otherwise. Some of the people here—we don’t speak to them.”

Nomna told Jecaina all of it. She had divorced her husband in the days after the war with Jecrass began, because of what she had seen.

Divorce was not permissible in some Chandrarian nations—at least not for a woman to divorce her husband. It was in Belchan, ironically one of the laws that Lyfelt, considered rather liberal, had refused to ever alter.

In Jecrass too. But it still astonished Jecaina.

“Was that the only reason, Nomna? I’m sorry, but Lyfelt said nothing of this. And…I did not come because I suspected him of anything. But should I?”

The children had been sent away. Nomna hesitated.

“Lyfelt? I wish I could say, Jecaina. He’s not the man I thought I knew. Or perhaps he is…I can’t say. It’s just that after I saw those Gnolls—the children thought he was a monster.”

She shook her head.

“Tell me. Even if it’s a hunch, I’ll weight it with what I know. Please, Nomna.”

Jecaina urged her. The woman pursed her lips.

“If he wants to be a [Royal Advisor]—do I think he would sell out Jecrass? No. But Lyfelt is ambitious. He would never settle to be a [Senator] when he could be a [Prime Minister]. He probably thinks you’re his last avenue to safety and power after what happened. I don’t think he’d ever betray you. He was Raelt’s friend. He can be ruthless, but he doesn’t betray. Or so I thought. After I saw those Gnolls…I don’t know.”

That squared with Jecaina’s thoughts. She sat there. Another strike at Lyfelt? Perhaps, perhaps not.

“I’m in a bind, Nomna. Lyfelt is the best advisor I have—for politics. My River Wardens try, and General Lael, but…I was hoping you had some insight.”

“Me, your Majesty? I’m a [Socialite]. I can throw a party, be entertaining—not more than that! If dates were arrows, I’d be more use.”

The woman sighed. Jecaina had to chuckle. The dried dates and cheese from the rations had tasted excellent thanks to Nomna’s Skills.

“I just lack for high-level individuals, Nomna. Flos Reimarch has more levels than any two—maybe any three of my advisors. I need someone who can give me insights. Advice. I need…”

Jecaina realized she was raising her voice and blushed. She sat there, tiredly.

“My dear, you look run down. Have something more to eat.”

Nomna urged her. Jecaina nodded. The woman rose.

“Let me see if I can help at all. I can’t do much, but…”

The Queen of Jecrass blinked up at her. But soon she had her feet up and was dozing as Nomna pulled something out and consulted it.

“Lyfelt didn’t even have a bag of holding—it was confiscated. So these were left behind. I may not be an [Administrator], but part of my class was entertaining people like Grand Mage Esiela and our high-level individuals. Each one is a nation’s strength and we had records…aha!”

Jecaina stirred. Nomna was poring over the list of high-leveled people. She offered it to Jecaina as the [Queen] rose.

“Dead, dead, dead…in service, fled, dead, fighting under Lael…”

Many she knew. They were [Stable Mistresses], [Horse Breeders]—Jecrass used them, but having met many, Jecaina had little hope that one could add themselves to her cabinet. At least she knew…

“Wait. Go back to that entry.”

Jecaina stirred. She stared at a single name on the list. And the estimated level of—Nomna saw the [Queen]’s eyes come to life.

“Your Majesty? You know this person?”

“I know the area. And their…thank you, Nomna! I have to go. Say goodbye for me. I have to…”

—-

An oddity in the war between Jecrass and Medain and Reim. Jecaina had seen it in the war reports and General Lael speaking, but now it manifested itself as she stared at the map.

A fortified, moving border had been established between garrisons and the advance of armies. The war had slowed down so both sides had tried to entrench—for all the good it did when Reim’s full hammer came at them.

However, there was a southwestern section that had never really been fought over. When Flos’ armies had come, they had essentially just passed it by rather than building forts. In the same way, Lael’s armies did not seek to fortify it.

One of the open plains areas was held in strength. But not quite by Jecrass’ forces. Jecaina herself rode south with a heavy escort to see if her memory was correct. It was.

The Nomads of the Sky, the half-Giant group led by the fearsome Zamea, were not the only nomadic people in Chandrar. Far from it.

This was known as the People of Zair, who, like Gnolls of Izril, had essentially moved about this part of Jecrass for the last century or two. They travelled from spot to spot, and, Jecaina understood, numbered in the hundreds of thousands.

She had visited their camps before; they were swift and loved to race, and raised their own breed of horse. Zair-bloodlines, who had a tendency to outrun most other breeds over the long term.

Ironic, or maybe weird given that they were Centaurs? But then again, who better than a Centaur to care for four-legged animals like them? The People of Zair fit Jecrass, arguably more than even the Humans. Centaurs, to race about the plains.

They had always been a people unto themselves. Not reclusive, but separate. Jecaina mostly remembered River Wardens didn’t like them, leveling all the common complaints at nomadic outsiders. Thievery, banditry, and so on.

What she wanted to know was why Flos had never tried to take this area of land. Or, apparently, recruit the People of Zair. And why her father hadn’t done so either.

The answer was the entry in Nomna’s book. It was in Herdmistress Geraeri. The great leader of their group.

A person over Level 50.

—-

“Your Majesty. I greet you, and offer condolences for the capture of your father. We sent gifts to your coronation—I am Herdmistress Geraeri of the People of Zair.”

Her ‘hut’, one of the temporary buildings, was more like a mansion. Enchanted to be larger on the inside than outside, perfectly cool, filled with expensive furniture. All fit for someone with four legs; the Herdmistress ‘sat’ on pillows, rather than anything as arduous as a chair.

The main base of the People of Zair had seen more people, more relaxed and contented than Jecaina had seen in months. In addition, their guards and hunters and so on had outnumbered even the retinue Lael had sent. Enchanted weapons. Mounted in a sense; well, you couldn’t call Centaurs infantry.

“Herdmistress, thank you for meeting me at such short notice. If I may ask—will you share your full class with me?”

Geraeri hesitated. She was old, in her sixties, but looked like a younger woman in her forties. She was certainly hardy as the best of her tribe.

Level 50. Youth, authority, a vast nomadic tribe—Jecaina kept staring at her. Enchanted earrings, magical cloth clothing—

This was a woman who could change events. Flos Reimarch and his Seven might still eclipse her, but why, why…?

“It is no secret. Yes, your Majesty. My full class is [Stonesoup Herdmistress of the Greatland].”

Jecaina blinked. That was…a mouthful. Geraeri smiled.

“Not the class you expected?”

“It is—lengthy, Herdmistress. May I ask about it? How did you come to this class? And level?”

“Of course. They tell this story in the camps. Here—I share with you the drink of our peoples.”

Zair’s people drank a custard-like sweet milk-substance. Jecaina tasted it, and it was good, and listened.

Geraeri’s tale was the tale of someone who had risen to her level despite adversity. She had not been born into the line of succession. She had not even been related to her [Herdleader], how they reckoned such leadership.

“It was a cold winter. And cold winters. We were poor, starving. Our [Herdleader] died; a plague ran through the herd, and at that time the People of Zair were infighting. It got to the point where River Wardens fought us, and the crown debated expelling us from the land. We were no asset; this was the time of your grandfather, your Majesty.”

Jecaina didn’t even remember that, but she had heard about a terrible winter era from Geril. She nodded. Geraeri went on.

“They tell it more fancifully. But the simplicity of it was—I rallied my herd. I kept us alive. We began to trade again. I negotiated an end to fighting, unified the herds around mine. I was, oh, Level 30, and younger in years, when the [Herdmaster] of the People of Zair decided I was trying to usurp our way and declared a civil war.”

“And then?”

Jecaina saw the older woman smile.

“I won the war.”

—-

Geraeri had reached Level 50 through time and hard work. Under her, the People of Zair had turned in decades from a nomadic tribe that could be accused of banditry and thievery and certainly was poor, into a power on its own level. They were rich, prosperous—she put it down to the struggles.

“I leveled up fast in those lean years, your Majesty. The civil war helped me—though I wish it had never come to that. We were also lucky in how we were needed to replenish horse stock after the plague. The truth was, the civil war put me up to Level 40. It took me thirty years to get the last ten levels. And that was only because the People of Zair were so large. I will not get to Level 60, I think. Not unless worse happens and I would rather it not.”

Jecaina nodded. It was an impressive tale.

“But why…”

[Stonesoup Herdmistress of the Greatland]? Geraeri had a simple explanation too.

“Before I became Level 50, your Majesty, I was an [Eternal Rocksoup Cook] and a [Herdmistress of the Land]. I suppose they were just mashed together. And the [Rocksoup Cook] was a rare class. I did nothing as extraordinary as my early years when I earned the [Cook] class. But it defines me now, so I keep it in my class.”

“Rocksoup…?”

Then the old Herdmistress laughed.

“Have you not heard that the People of Zair will never go hungry as long as I live?”

Jecaina had heard something…like that. But she had never given it credit. She watched as, prompted by her question, Geraeri showed her why she had her class.

—-

Rock soup. Most stories had it, or some variant. The idea was…a rock soup.

When times were lean, you put a rock or maybe grit into soup. Or—there were actual ways to cook with heated rocks in cauldrons.

But there was always that tale of the cunning [Trickster] who had a rock he made some kind of mishmash soup out of, getting other people to contribute ‘just a bit’. A carrot, some flour or meat…and thus avoided starvation by getting everyone to put in a bit of something. So a ‘rock soup’ could feed a village.

A parable. Except when you had Skills.

Look and wonder. Geraeri brought out an old, polished rock, smooth, but plain. She put it in a cauldron filled with water and covered the lid.

It was a vast container, and hundreds of Centaurs gathered around as the fire roared. Steam rose—and when Geraeri removed the lid, a wonderful soup appeared in front of Jecaina.

She gasped. The People of Zair had seen it thousands of times, some every day since they were born. But they laughed to see it impress the Queen and guests. They served it and it was good to eat!

“A cornucopia Skill?”

“Just so. But it fills more than even most artifacts, or so the King of Khelt once told me. When I first had it, it really was a rock that just made the water taste of something. As I leveled—it became my great Skill. And I have many Skills, your Majesty. Those to allow my people to feed vast flocks, to prevent fighting, to defeat plague. But this is why my people do not grow hungry. In every herd, once per day, they can drop a rock into water and eat.”

That was the power of Level 50. Jecaina’s skin chilled with the awe of it. It was not the ability to summon an army out of thin air—but she had just watched the woman turn water into food for over a thousand, and it could easily be two meals. And every herd?

“It is an incredible Skill, Herdmistress. Thank you for demonstrating.”

Geraeri waved a hand.

“In truth, your Majesty—it is not. I know of greater classes and Skills. I have reached mine, but I am humbler now than the woman who united the People of Zair. I am content for this greatness. I have at least two decades left! I intend to spend it living fat and well!”

She looked at Jecaina then. And the Queen knew that Geraeri knew why she had come. She put down her bowl, and sat formally. So did the Herdmistress.

“Herdmistress Geraeri. I am Queen of Jecrass. You know the Realm of Jecrass is at war, that my father is kidnapped—that the King of Destruction and Medain threaten us and advance, day by day. I ask you to lend Jecrass your might; you have surely done so already. But now I ask for the People of Zair to help repel these foreign nations. I offer—and ask that you join my private council, and I will give you great rewards in exchange.”

The Herdmistress nodded and heard Jecaina’s offer out. She waited a beat.

“I must refuse, your Highness.”

Jecaina stared at her. And then it hit her. Your Majesty or, ‘Your Highness’ was how the woman had addressed her the entire time she had been visiting.

Never ‘my Queen’.

“May I ask why, Herdmistress? If Jecrass falls—”

“Your father asked me the same, your Majesty. I refused him. Just as I refused the King of Destruction when the Shepard Zamea approached me.”

Jecaina stirred.

“He asked you to—”

“To fight for him. Provide for his armies. And I would receive vast lands of Jecrass as a reward.”

Geraeri’s eyes glinted as she looked up at Jecaina from her drink. Jecaina swallowed.

“You refused.”

“Of course I did. And I will refuse you, Queen Jecaina. Just as I refused your father.”

“If Jecrass falls—”

“The People of Zair will not fall with it.”

And there it was. The [Herdmistress] sat there, drinking, hosting the [Queen] of the realm…with no intention of going to her aid. The Human [Queen] argued with the Centaur [Herdmistress], desperately trying to make her see the danger.

“What if Medain conquers Jecrass? The King of Destruction?”

“We will bow to whomever rules. If Medain wins, we will trade with Medain. If the King of Destruction wins, Reim. Your Majesty, I mean no offense.”

But offense had been given. Lots of it. Mountains of horse crap of offense. Jecaina began to grow angry.

“Do you have no loyalty to Jecrass? You have lived here nearly a century!”

“We love the land, your Majesty. But we have never benefitted from its protection. We are nomads. If the time comes, we will move.”

The Herdmistress retorted. Jecaina half-rose.

“What if High King Perric decides he needs no nomads? You know the man.”

“He might.”

Geraeri allowed. She sighed.

“If that were the case, we would move to another land and he would lose our trade and what we provide. Make no mistake, your Majesty—we have been contributing to the war. In goods, crafts—we gave much of the food your armies eat for gold. We are a benefit. But we will not take sides.”

“And what if Jecrass falls and Medain seeks to wipe you out?”

“They may try.”

The [Queen] saw Geraeri reach for her side. She drew a knife and placed it before them. It had a sepia glow.

“I fought in a war between my people and I have fought armies as well. The People of Zair are no weak force; the Nomads of the Sky are strong, but few in number. I would not put us below them. If any nation wishes to challenge us, we will fight and leave. But we will not be forced. The King of Destruction might have the strength, but we declined to join him and he did not push us. What does that tell you, Queen Jecaina?”

“That he didn’t want to waste his strength when Jecrass was fighting him?”

The Herdmistress snorted.

“True enough. We aren’t as strong as a nation. But we will be independent, your Majesty. I wish someone had told you, that I did not have to refuse you to your face.”

“So you will let Jecrass fall.”

“Do I take pleasure in it? I am independent, your Majesty. I think of my people. We love life, not war. I have had to defend my people from countless aggressors. Even Crelers. I am…”

—-

“—stubborn, old, prideful, arrogant harridan of a—”

Jecaina shouted insults the entire way back to the capital. She had argued with Geraeri, pleaded, offered incentives for three whole hours.

The woman had refused her everything. She did not want promises of land or concessions if there was the risk her people went down with Jecrass.

She was stubborn, independent, and, Jecaina hated to admit it, far too powerful to anger. She could seal Jecrass’ fate if her people were angered. She was too strong to offend; no wonder the war went around her lands and she could refuse all comers.

If the [Queen] had ever gone to Liscor and talked with the Council there, or the Watch Captain, she would have been able to commiserate about a similar problem. Or—former problem. Crossbows solved problems and created them.

Jecaina returned to the capital in time for Reim to take another fort. This time Lael tried to fight it.

The [Mages] of Parasol Stroll called down lightning and her forces fell back.

—-

Jecaina was drunk when she summoned Lyfelt. He paused uncertainly as he saw her sitting in her room.

“You wanted to see me, your Majesty? Jecaina?”

“Come in.”

She half-slurred. Jecaina had realized something.

If she wanted a drink, no one could stop her. She had a royal permit to access the wine cellars or the bottom of any bottle she damn well pleased and it was on her head. Or it had been.

The crown had been tossed onto the carpet. Lyfelt stared at it; she’d dented the painted metal.

“Is…something wrong, Jecaina? I’m here to talk.”

“Oh yes. You are good at talking. Just like that [Herdmistress] was at making soup. Rock soup. I heard you once talked a [Bandit Leader] into becoming a [Soldier].”

He smiled at that.

“I told you that as a child, didn’t I? It was true—it wasn’t Maresar, but he served in the army. Still did when…yes.”

Lyfelt scooped and picked up the crown. Jecaina laughed as he placed it on a table.

“That’s a powerful Skill. Like making rock soup for free. It’s the best—until someone can call an army of ghosts or sail a ship onto land!”

“Military might does beat softer power directly. But I am trying, your Highness. This is salvageable. There will come a time when Medain or Reim seek to negotiate. If, say, Hellios rebels or the Claiven Earth begin to look at Medain—”

“Shut up. Just stop talking. I’m sick of hearing your voice.”

Lyfelt halted. He looked at Jecaina. Then he noticed the sword lying across her lap.

The [Queen] rose unsteadily. She aimed the rapier at him as he backed up. Her hand wasn’t that unsteady, even though she was heavily drunk.

“It’s all so clear after I drink. Why shouldn’t I turn you over to Flos? It solves…everything. His armies fight Medain. Jecrass is at peace. Why not? All he wants is your head. And a few dozen others.”

The former [Prime Minister] backed up to the door. But he’d closed it.

“Jecaina—Jecaina, listen, my dear. You’re not thinking straight. The King of Destruction won’t just let Jecrass be. If you turn me over—”

She laughed.

“What, I’m in a worse spot than I was before? Then I only have to fight Medain!”

“And they will sweep over Jecrass if High King Perric thinks he might lose you as a buffer.”

Lyfelt spoke urgently. He gestured to one of the war maps Jecaina was using in her private rooms to track the war.

“You can make peace with Reim and he might turn on Medain—but he won’t be able to destroy it. Not with the other nations. Perric will destroy Jecrass—or try to—in order not to have two enemies. He has the numbers to hold off Reim and do so.”

“How convenient. You know, I met your wife. You didn’t tell me she divorced you.”

“You met…Nomna? Whatever she said, Jecaina—”

“It is your Majesty, Queen of Jecrass!”

She shouted and slashed the air. He flinched. Jecaina looked at him, breathing hard.

“Do you—do you even feel guilt for what you’ve done? At all?”

He was huddled up, raising his hands as if it would stop her. She could run him through. The [Queen] swayed.

It wasn’t fair. He had no skill at arms, or even a weapon. Drunk—she could murder him. And it would be murder, wouldn’t it?

Lyfelt had done nothing.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know—I swear. I’ve had nightmares, Jecaina. Please—put down the sword.”

He begged. Jecaina stood there.

“It was your nation. Those poor Gnolls…Flos would kill you.”

“I know. And is that fair? I…I might need to be judged. I admit that, your Majesty. But is now the time?”

Lyfelt dared peek as Jecaina lowered her sword to the carpet. She sat back down and stared at her cup. She felt too sick to drink more. She wanted to, to embrace oblivion. But she had a duty to—she pushed the cup away.

“Why didn’t my father do it?”

“He was too close. He and I were friends. He told me he would rule—after the war ended. But he didn’t hand me over to die. A poorer man might have. But your father was a great man. A great ruler. He was exceptional…”

“No, he wasn’t.”

Jecaina muttered it. Lyfelt didn’t hear her. But Jecaina sat there with the drink giving her a kind of weird clarity. Raelt Leysars had not been a great [King].

He had been a good man. A decent [King] who kept his kingdom running. But a great [King] was one who did extraordinary things. Raelt, her father—was a great [Duelist].

Not a great [King]. She looked at Lyfelt, whom Raelt had protected even though it meant war, even though people had died and there was blood on his hands. The [Prime Minister] fled. Jecaina realized that he was her father’s mistake.

It hurt, terribly, to know your father wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t even his blood-daughter, but she had always…

The [Queen]’s head lolled and she slept.

She did not level.

—-

She did not hand Lyfelt over when she woke. She pretended not to remember and Lyfelt was only too keen not to remind her.

Was it foolishness? Yes. Probably. But Jecaina…her father’s will was hard to overturn.

More than that, it was her failing. She did not like feeling as though Flos was pressuring her into handing over innocent people to die to end the war.

Perhaps she had to. But on the day after her drunken outburst, she sat, hung over on her throne and too embarrassed to ask for a cure.

Aca brought it for her and Jecaina would have kissed the [Housemistress] if everyone wasn’t…

Well, they actually weren’t here. Lyfelt was keeping well away, and the River Wardens were busy in defense of the realm.

She had to do something. But an unusual event presented itself because of her outburst.

“Some [Messages] for you to review, your Majesty. If you wish it.”

“Bring them to me.”

Normally Lyfelt handled diplomacy and sorted through [Messages]. This time, Jecaina wanted to see Perric’s next demand-request, or…

You might assume that the great and powerful did not get trivial [Messages]. You would be wrong.

To Her Majesty Jecaina of Jecrass, I represent the Viole Company, Battle of Brilend, War of Onerous Aggression (Hellios, Germina), and I am offering my services to you with my entire company, subject to a modest retainer of…

…healing potions and other wares directly available to you in large quantities if you will provide transport from the port of…

…fifteen thousand [Mercenaries] at your disposal! This is a limited-time offer for both of us, so act now and—

Discount on arrows! I’m offering a 16% discount for the brave soldiers of Jecrass and the King of Duels’ legacy—

…your hand in marriage. I can provide my protection for…

That last one actually made Jecaina stare. Then she realized the next six [Messages] were marriage proposals.

Not just from the ruler of…a small nation she had never heard of. A [Merchant], an [Emir], and a [General] all thought they were also good as heirs to thrones. They offered gold, transport to safety, or amazing leadership for someone in your difficult t—

She crumpled up that last one. It sounded like Perric.

“Damn this! I’d rather marry—the King’s Steward than any of these suitors! What, do they think I have vaults filled to the brim with gold?”

“It’s a seller’s market for [Mercenaries], your Majesty. In desperate times…should I not give you the rest?”

Jecaina collapsed into her throne.

“There are more?”

She’d wondered if Lyfelt was playing her wrong, but she had asked to see his missives in outgoing and incoming [Messages] more than once. She wasn’t stupid.

As it turned out, he had screened a lot of stupid from her eyes as well. But another note made Jecaina stop.

To: Queen Jecaina of Jecrass

From: Her Great Eminence, Her Majesty Queen Yisame of Nerrhavia’s Fallen…(see attached titles.)

Subject: Nerrhavia’s Protection

To her Majesty, Jecaina of Jecrass, Nerrhavia’s Fallen is willing to undertake the defense and liberation of King Raelt of Jecrass if the Realm were willing to undertake immediate vassalization by the Great Empire of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. As a fellow Queen, I would assure your ranking within Nerrhavia and…

“She wants to make Jecrass a vassal-state?”

It was the most handsome vassalization offer she’d gotten so far. Albeit Medain, Reim, and Nerrhavia being the only offers.

But Yisame actually tried to entice Jecaina, whereas the two [Kings] had been more about threats. Unlike them, not only would Yisame guarantee Raelt’s return and the protection of Jecrass, she would install Jecaina as ruler of the region, give her the following titles in Nerrhavia’s hierarchy…

Jecaina spat out some orange juice all over the floor. Aca rushed for a cloth as the [Queen] exclaimed.

“Four hundred thousand gold?”

A [Servant] nearly dropped the orange juice pitcher.

“For what, your Majesty?”

“I—me?”

Yisame was offering Jecaina four hundred thousand gold pieces to sign over her crown, and more aid for Jecrass.

It was tempting. Jecaina wasn’t going to do it—but it was tempting. The letter even had a bit offering condolences that seemed more…personal than the business offer. Maybe Yisame had added that last bit in?

Jecaina read it, and actually told Aca to send a polite refusal and counteroffer of nonaggression, trade—she doubted Yisame would bite, but it opened a dialogue and she felt like she did something.

“Well, that at least lightened my mood. I’ll sign that if I have to. Better Nerrhavia than Reim or Medain, maybe.”

The servants actually smiled. Jecaina wished she could believe she wasn’t serious.

“One or two more, your Majesty…let’s see. Here.”

Jecaina sorted through the last of the [Messages]. Most were useless, but the Mage’s Guild apparently filtered countless even more trivial [Messages]. One could not send a [Message] to Jecaina if you were a common citizen; only those of wealth, power, and so on could even get to her.

Which was depressing if you thought about it because Jecaina would have loved a [Message] from some child who’d saved up all their coins to tell her they believed in her.

…Or that their family was dead and they blamed her.

Mercenary offer, marriage offer, bill—bill? For a Pegasus from Oteslia—she handed that one off. Then she blinked at a weird [Message].

“‘Cordially offering you my congratulations on your ascent to’…huh?”

The last [Message] was not a threat, offer, or…anything. It was, in fact, a polite nothing. A lengthily worded congratulations for her ascent to the throne, complete with reminiscences about the ‘lately detained King Raelt’, and a cordial invitation to visit the sender at her leisure, if she retained the throne after the end of the war.

She stared at the sender. And blinked.

Fetohep of Khelt.

—-

She knew Fetohep. She had never met him—but her father, Raelt, had spoken to all the rulers in the region. Fetohep was actually one of the rulers that Raelt had liked.

Or at least, had no gripes with.

He had liked the previous Quarass, for all she was manipulative, for reasons Jecaina had never known. Hellios was…strained…as Queen Calliope had been the sometimes-enemy, sometimes-friend of Jecrass.

But Fetohep? Jecaina sought out Lyfelt. He was only too happy to explain.

“The Quarass? Germina was never our constant ally. I never knew Raelt liked her. But then—he did like people who didn’t bother him overly long unless they were friends. And the Quarass—even the one before the present one—knew people. She was probably straightforward with him.”

“Ah. And Fetohep? I know Khelt…”

The land of the dead. The kingdom of the unliving. A paradise few had ever seen. Lyfelt shrugged.

“I’ve never been. Did he send you a [Message]? Fetohep does do that. He offered me a chance to visit. I think.”

“Did you?”

Lyfelt scratched at his head. Bemused, he frowned.

“Wait. No. He didn’t. He sent one to Raelt, but not to me! I don’t think [Prime Ministers] count. He is an enduringly polite [King], though, but…peculiar. As arrogant as the King of Destruction in the few times we’ve directly corresponded.”

“You’ve talked?”

“Oh, of course. Normally it is through lesser channels, but he does involve himself from time to time. Never directly, but he buys water from Jecrass each year. If it were possible, I’d suggest selling some. No one would raid Khelt if he provided the transport. Khelt is not to be trifled with.”

Jecaina knew that. She knew the stories. Once, Khelt had been larger, but even now—they did not attack unless threatened and were isolationist. But take one step beyond the border and the dead would rise. Even the King of Destruction did not try to claim Khelt.

Anyway, it was a strange letter. Lyfelt waved it away, more preoccupied with the vassalization offer from Nerrhavia and Jecaina’s reply—he was peeved she’d done anything without talking to him.

Jecaina sat, reading Fetohep’s letter. It was…funny.

…I am minded to recall your Great Great Grandmother’s sojourn at the beginning of her reign where she was kidnapped to Terandria. I trust the Realm of Jecrass shall likewise endure from a female influence upon the land.

He knew her great, great…Jecaina actually had to walk through the halls of portraits to find out who it was. But Fetohep had lived when she was alive.

Also, he’d written essays like a [Historian] on lovely paper. Just beautiful. Someone had put wood shavings into the delicate paper, and the ink had some kind of strange quality that made it easier to read. Jecaina sniffed it and smelled a pleasant fragrance.

Had he scented it? Who took this much time on a letter? Even the seal had gold flakes sprinkled into Khelt’s national symbol.

The lengthy letter took an hour to read. And Jecaina was not a slow reader. She realized as she unfolded it that the thin piece of paper was also enchanted to keep unfolding; Lyfelt had unfolded the first, official greeting and hadn’t realized—

She had to stop and laugh despite herself when Fetohep listed the other times Jecrass had been invaded to this extent. And hadn’t she seen Fetohep? No—heard his voice?

Actually, after asking Aca, the woman provided the answer.

“I believe he was featured three times on Pallass News Network, your Majesty. I watch it all the time when I can—they take in viewer responses. Fetohep of Khelt—I remember the name. The Drakes had to cut off his responses because they were so long.”

Jecaina smiled. Then, as she was nearing the end of the missive, something caught her eye.

“…‘as fellow rulers, I remain open to communication if you so desire’. Huh—what is this at the bottom?”

Aca blinked at it. She had no idea. But the [Court Mage] supplied the answer.

“I believe it’s a key to a speaking stone, your Majesty. The Mage’s Guild can tune a speaking stone to it.”

“Really? And he just wrote it down…”

Jecaina broke off as her River Wardens filed in for the day. More bad news. Medain looked like it was going to push further in, and they had begun loosing arrows at Jecrass’ forces to keep them back.

She dealt with that, and the news that there was an outbreak of something amongst animals and people in the crowded cities—they had to send for [Healers], make sure it didn’t reach the horses…

Miserable, depressed, Jecaina found the letter in her pocket later when she was staring at another bottle of alcohol. She had sent Lyfelt away after he’d failed to answer her if he could stop Medain. The River Wardens weren’t fun company.

So why not? She summoned the [Court Mage].

“Has Queen Yisame responded?”

“Nothing yet, your Majesty.”

Jecaina nodded gloomily.

“Then—will you tune a speaking stone to this thing? And tell Fetohep of Khelt I thank him for the [Message].”

She did it mainly to see what happened. From what it sounded like, Fetohep sent these things out of pure etiquette. She didn’t expect anything.

The speaking stone was placed in front of her. The [Court Mage] bowed, and showed Jecaina how to use it.

“If it is tuned correctly—and we believe we have followed the procedures—one can simply speak into it, or tap it to turn it ‘off’. Like so.”

He turned it on and off for her. Jecaina nodded. She hesitated over the stone.

“…Hello? Your Majesty, Fetohep?”

The [Court Mage] left. Jecaina stared at the stone. Then she laughed and felt foolish. What was she doing, talking to the undead ruler of another nation? She went to put it d—

“Queen Jecaina of Jecrass. We are pleased our missive was delivered to you. We are King Fetohep of Khelt. I greet you in confidence in this dark hour for your realm.”

She jumped. That had been seconds! She stared at the speaking stone.

Somewhere, many miles away, in the land of Khelt, the eternal, sleepless King of Khelt, two nations over…had heard the speaking stone’s brief comment and responded in a moment.

Why?

Because he was very, very, very…

Bored.

—-

Fetohep of Khelt, the unliving monarch of the empire which lived by the fruits of undead labor.

Jecaina knew all the stories. But she had never met someone who’d actually come from Khelt. A [Merchant] could boast they’d been allowed through the border once or twice. But Khelt was so closed off as to be forgotten.

Now, she spoke to the ruler of that nation.

He was surprising to Jecaina. She found herself sitting in her bedroom—now the royal bedroom since she had refused to move to her father’s quarters and ordered it kept for him—on her bed, nervously speaking to the stone.

“I…apologize if I am interrupting you, King Fetohep.”

She didn’t know his last name. And a monarch could greet each other informally, or in that way.

What was unnerving was how Fetohep seemed to leap around conversations. He replied, his tone faintly echoing, but precise.

“As we speak in confidence, Queen Leysars, I would not take it amiss to be referred to as King Khelt—it is traditional for rulers of Khelt to abandon their names of family as we serve our nations with no personal bias. Fetohep would also be acceptable if you will entertain the informality.”

“I—would appreciate that, Fetohep. Thank you.”

“Then I shall refer to you as Jecaina, Queen Leysars.”

An odd mix of formal and anticipatory. For instance, in that one exchange he’d read into her uncertainty of how to address him, provided the answer, but then proceeded to negotiate the forms of address.

Her father would have hated doing that. Fetohep seemed to act as if there was no other way to be. Jecaina swallowed, aware he might hear that slight sound.

“As I said—I connected us via…speaking stone to thank you for your letter. It was most refreshing to receive.”

“The formalities of state cannot be ignored. I did wait the customary two weeks before sending it. I trust the ongoing war did not delay its reception unduly.”

Jecaina blinked and realized—the letter had been included with the [Messages], but it had to have been hand-delivered. By a Courier?

“Not at all, Fetohep. Two weeks…? Is that a customary wait?”

She realized she had inadvertently revealed her ignorance. Normally, she would be afraid to do that and she bit her lip hard. But Fetohep replied without missing a beat.

“Perhaps the custom has fallen out of date? It is customary to my understanding to wait two weeks before congratulating a new monarch on their ascension to the throne.”

“Wh—”

Ah. Jecaina fell silent. Just in case they were replaced just as fast.

And it hadn’t been a sure thing for her. Fetohep might still have wasted a large amount of time and gold sending that letter. She fell silent, reminded of the present.

It reminded Jecaina of one of those state dinners where she had to sit and talk with some ambassador. Raelt would be wooden unless he actually liked the person, and the River Wardens would fill the air, or the [Courtiers] and so on. Jecaina, like her father, had trouble if there was a lull in the conversation.

Fetohep did not. After the silence lingered for a few seconds, he spoke, not at all bothered by what was awkward silence to living people.

“I understand both Medain and Reim have continued to gain ground on Jecrass’ soil. A distressing turn of events. Do you believe the war has a chance of victory for Jecrass?”

The question lanced Jecaina like a sparring wound. She stared at the speaking stone. It lit up as Fetohep continued.

“Of course, if this is a matter of national secrecy, I quite understand. However, Khelt reveals no secrets.”

“I…I…that is a direct question to ask, Fetohep of Khelt.”

Jecaina got mad, and she couldn’t have said reasonably why. Fetohep’s reply was deadpan.

“I assume it is a practical one, however, Queen Jecaina. War is not so nebulous a thing as to be constantly obfuscated. If you would like me to present my opinion, there is little to bet on. If one were to try to gauge the outcome of Jecrass’ conflict.”

He was right. It was just stunning to hear someone say that. Lyfelt always said there was a new angle, a new plan. The River Wardens? Resist until the end! Defiance! Glory to…Lael was grimly determined. She didn’t couch her words as much as the others, but even she had not said it.

“Would you tell me what you see, King of Khelt?”

The undead ruler did not pause to soften his words. He did not hesitate, or change his level tone. There was something terribly cold and frightening about that.

“As it stands? Jecrass will fall within the month. Unless a change takes place that unseats how the war has unfolded since King Raelt Leysars’ capture.”

He said it, and Jecaina knew it was true. She sat there, and faced the truth no one had been willing to tell her.

—-

Fetohep hadn’t factored in a conversation with Queen Jecaina of Jecrass in his schedule, but he felt he could justify it in between his now-daily walk, betting on the three Pomle matches, two gladiatorial arena bouts in Nerrhavia, and watching the news.

In fact, it might kill a whole hour. He found the [Queen] to be somewhat like he expected. Young—allegedly free-spirited, but mostly fitting to a young [Prince] or [Princess] of her age.

He delivered his stark assessment of the war and began to elaborate. He, of course, had been watching all the current wars and was more interested in the Ailendamus conflict, frankly. There were more variables at play there.

“Given that Jecrass has no remaining reserves to call upon, I find it difficult to believe they can break the Steward or bring down a half-Giant in battle, aside from pure luck. Reim’s forces will slowly take fortification after fortification; Medain’s army is more rapid in advance, but they may fear a full battle. It only depends on which nation takes the capital and key positions first; Jecrass cannot endure if either army brings its full might to bear. The best it can hope for is a delayed conflict of attack-and-retreat over a narrowing span…”

Was it fun? Was watching the news, gambling, fun? Well, the gambling, a bit. There was always unpredictability. But things like the Jecrass conflict, Fetohep had seen thousands of times before.

Thousands? Perhaps hundreds. Enough to know how they almost invariably played out. Fetohep was going to speculate about the odds of Jecrass managing to overwhelm Medain’s heavy infantry in a pitched battle—of course, they’d lose the second and third ones due to sheer attrition—when he heard a sound.

It sounded like a sniffle. The undead ruler stopped.

“Queen Leysars?”

He hesitated. He had definitely heard a suppressed sound, like a sob. Very quiet, but it was not one that he, Fetohep, had really heard for a long time.

Tears did not exist in Khelt. If a child fell, they would be tended to. He heard a muffled reply.

“Nothing. Thank you, King Fetohep. Your reply was most…illuminating.”

She made no reference to the sound, but her voice was thick. Fetohep’s glowing eyes dimmed a fraction.

“I have been uncourteous. You have my apologies, Queen Jecaina.”

“No, your Majesty. This is the truth. No one else would speak it to me. I understand the fate of Jecrass. I wish I did not wear the crown at this time. But we do not run from the truth.”

It sounded like she was quoting someone. Fetohep inclined his head, though his figure was obviously unseen.

“Just so.”

Silence again, and this time it was Fetohep who felt the discomfort of it. Presently, Jecaina spoke.

“Thank you for speaking with me, Fetohep of Khelt. It has been most—illuminating.”

“Of course, your Majesty Leysars. If you should desire to again, I shall of course have the time to speak.”

She was surprised at that. He almost heard a chuckle.

“I…thank you, King Fetohep. That is actually most welcome. But I must go. Once more…thank you.”

“I express the same sentiments as my letter, Queen Jecaina Leysars. Congratulations on your crowning. May your reign be prosperous.”

He heard a sound. It might have been ‘thank you’. He heard her fumbling with the stone. Then silence.

King Fetohep sat there for a moment. Then he turned on the news. He felt less comforted when he saw the conflict in Jecrass. He listened to Jecaina’s name with more attention.

The next day, Reim and Jecrass clashed. And the Queen of Jecrass took to the field.

—-

Jecaina did not so much as swing her sword once the entire battle. She was there, as they tried to defy Zamea and an army who wanted to expand Reim’s reach yet further.

But Lael refused to let her near the conflict. Jecaina was surrounded by a heavy bodyguard of [Trick Riders], and she had sworn to leave if the half-Giant came towards her.

She was there for morale. And the [Soldiers] of Jecrass fought.

Still, Jecaina had seen battle only a few times before with her own eyes, and most recently was when her father had tried to save her. Then, she had been fighting for her life.

Now she saw what Raelt had seen all the war. It was sickening, horrifying.

The half-Giantess kicked through a battalion of [Soldiers]. Lael had tried to keep them away, harrying the half-Giants with [Riders], but she had to put the infantry in some position to fight Reim’s foot soldiers. And Zamea ignored the [Riders] and strode in. She and three half-Giants raised their bloody weapons and turned formations into strewn bodies.

That was a horror of its own. But the fighting itself—Jecaina saw a [Soldier] of Reim go down screaming with a javelin in his gut. He rose, bloody, and hacked at a [Soldier] until someone put an axe in his head.

Gore. Death—Lael fell back. So did Reim. They did not go for the fortress; Jecrass had stopped their advance for once.

But the cost? Over two thousand dead. Reim’s half-Giants were impossible to turn back without casualties.

And yet, the River Wardens called it a great victory. Warden Svinta had ridden with Jecaina and she raised a spear, shouting, and the [Soldiers]…

They cheered her. That was when Jecaina felt sickest. Bloody, wounded men and women.

“The Daughter of Duels! Jecrass stands!”

“Queen Jecaina Leysars!”

‘Daughter of Duels’. That was what they had dubbed her, in honor of the King of Duels. Though she had not swung her sword—and she didn’t have the courage to overrule Lael.

She was not her father, who had actually killed a half-Giant in battle, fought the King of Destruction. Jecaina owned a silver bell, not a golden one.

She was sick, afterwards. But she let no one see. She threw up in a potted plant in the palace.

The worst part was that she had told Lael they had to stop Reim, and the [General] had agreed. They had done it—so they might do it again.

Fetohep was right. And it was his words which had given her the truth which drove her to…

Well. First she got drunk. She did not dine in banquet; the official line Lyfelt put out was that she was fasting in honor of the dead, even as celebration should be had for repelling Reim.

In truth, Jecaina locked herself in her rooms and…

—-

“Is it on? King Fetohep. You were right. I saw a battle today.”

The slurred voice surprised him at first. But he replied just as quickly.

“Queen Leysars. I know. It was spoken of, in the news.”

“Really? Did they watch?”

No. In fact, it was a footnote and his own [Informants] had been more detailed than Pallass News Network. It was a small skirmish really, compared to all that had come before it. No half-Giant was wounded, casualties were ‘low’.

But he heard in her voice a mortal horror. It had been so long since he, Fetohep, had fought his first battles that he struggled to empathize.

Sympathy was easier.

“I—I could not fight. They call me Daughter of Duels, but I’m not my father. He could fight—I would be trampled or captured.”

“There is wisdom in that. A [General] or [Ruler]’s fall means the end of nation or army. Does your General Lael take to the front?”

Fetohep found this conversation more…personal. Probably because she was drunk. Jecaina had no one to speak to she would not dismay in the palace. She made a sound through the speaking stone. Perhaps a snort? Fetohep did not need to breathe.

“I should be ashamed. I am. My father taught me how to duel. How to fight and I thr—I couldn’t even watch the battle without flinching. I’m not a [Warrior]. I’m just…”

—-

Jecaina heard the voice reply calmly. She was just ranting, complaining. But the undead ruler’s words were…

“It is not shameful to decry war, Queen Jecaina. Great heroes of battle have often done so afterwards.”

“But I am a [Duelist]! I couldn’t even watch as they—”

The sight of blood and death filled her mind. And again, Fetohep’s response was reasoned. Even helpful.

“You were taught to wield a blade like a craftsman a tool. Did your father teach you to respect your opponent, to learn, to be humble and enjoy a sport where blood is not the goal—or did he teach you to kill?”

Jecaina stopped, lips on the wine bottle’s mouth. She lowered it.

There was truth. That battle had not been glorious, a display of arms. It had just been slaughter. If there had been anything that it gave—a sense of victory, honor—she might have rationalized it.

All she had seen was bodies piling up to delay the battle another day. She said as much and Fetohep agreed.

“Jecrass did not have the might to hold back the Nomads of the Sky or Reim’s forces. If they wish to force Reim back, more strength is needed.”

The implication that she didn’t know stung her. Jecaina snapped back.

“We’re trying. I have River Wardens reforming the [Trick Riders]—we will have Bicorn and Pegasus riders soon—”

She realized too late that she had given secret war information out. Jecaina was horrified, until she heard a sigh.

“A laudable notion if Jecrass were at peace with no war threatening for two or more years. Not the decision I would have come to in the interim, your Majesty.”

“What? What?”

She put a hand to her head. The world was spinning—she looked around.

“But we need [Trick Riders]. The war cannot be won without elite forces.”

“And will this initiative provide them?”

“Of course it will!”

Jecaina fumbled with a cork. She took a swig, gagged—Fetohep made a slight sound. Taptap—was he tapping his fingers on something metallic?

“Let me rephrase my statement, Queen Leysars. Will this initiative by your River Warden provide [Trick Riders] in sixteen days? Or sixteen months? Unless you have a River Warden of outstanding talent in elevating new [Soldiers], your revitalization of Jecrass’ ‘elite’ will take too long.”

The Queen stared at the speaking stone. And she sobered up. The potion in her hands, placed there by Aca to do just that, nearly spilled onto her bed before she stoppered it.

“But we need them.”

“Certainly. But they will not arrive in time to end this war. So, if that was the goal, Princess Leysars, it was in error.”

A cold flash struck her. She knew that was also correct. Warden Mulre had been so convincing, though…

“Similarly, Pegasi and Bicorns have breeding times which will eclipse the end of the war by months, even if they are already impregnated.”

“I have a Skill—breeding of animals—”

“Perhaps a mistake to hope for and rely on that, Queen Leysars. Ah. I do not intend to demean Jecrass’ efforts.”

He caught himself, perhaps to stop her from bursting into tears again. Jecaina didn’t—but she felt like he was still pushing a stiletto into her heart.

“Then both plans won’t work.”

“Not unless Jecrass can withstand for over a year. And if it can—there are better uses for such funds and manpower in the interim.”

Her face flushed. He sounded so—so—arrogant, lecturing her when he wasn’t at war!

“It was the only option we could think of at the time! What would you do, then, Fetohep?”

“I would look for existing veterans within my army and form a force out of them. And hope, count on the formation of a Unit. The [Trick Riders] have fallen. But that Reim and Medain do not sweep over Jecrass means some element of Jecrass’ army is keeping them at bay. Do not build what will be washed away by the tide in a moment, Queen Leysars. If I were you, I would fortify what still stands.”

She sat there, staring at the speaking stone. After a few seconds, she hung up. Fetohep didn’t realize for about thirteen minutes.

—-

What annoyed her was when people were right when she thought they should be wrong. Jecaina spent the next day, relatively hangover free since she had terminated her drinking, reading Lael’s more detailed reports.

Jecaina had learned to skim over certain details since so many figures came in. Now, she unlearned that bad habit. She had been at it all night and napped—but by the time Aca found her, she had found what Fetohep was talking about.

There were veterans who had endured from battle to battle. As in, more than the survivors of a [Trick Rider] group who kept being folded into smaller and smaller bands, or [Veterans] who were added and reinforced with newer [Soldiers]. The war killed even the most experienced [Soldiers], so there was no looking to one particular band to keep surviving.

Or so Jecaina had assumed. So Lael and the River Wardens had assumed, hence needing to replenish their numbers in the project Jecaina now knew would take far too long.

But this? She summoned Lael’s replacement in the capital, a [Strategist of Mobility], newly elevated by leveling in the war.

“Meroon. I would like to meet with some of the soldiers on the front who are resting here. Is that possible?”

The [Strategist] was a Centaur, possibly from the People of Zair, but a true Jecrass citizen. He bowed.

“Naturally, your Majesty. To hearten them and inspire?”

He looked at her and was surprised when the [Queen] shook her head.

“No—I want to meet with them to understand something. Can you provide…the Neer Riding Group, the Galmut Regiment, and…?”

—-

They were assembled for her, and knelt when the [Queen] arrived for them. She saw the gaps in their number; they would be replenished ere they fought.

“You fought Zamea at the battle. I was there.”

She felt stupid, but the [Captain of the Charge] bowed deeply.

“You inspired us to victory, your Majesty!”

“Daughter of—”

Jecaina ignored the cheers. She wanted to shake her head, but she instead shook the [Captain]’s hand. Awkwardly, she gestured.

“Your sacrifice, Captain, and that of your soldiers inspires all of Jecrass. I know this is an imposition while you rest, but I have brought something to express my gratitude for all those here…it isn’t much…”

Lyfelt had made this a public relations opportunity. The [Soldiers] saw dates, fresh fruit like the oranges everyone knew that the royal family loved so much, being placed on the table by [Servants]. They crowded around before the [Captain] tried to restore order.

“No, please, let them eat. I only wonder if I could speak to some of your people, [Captain]? Afterwards?”

He was all too willing to agree, and while many helped themselves, Jecaina found herself looking at nearly two thousand survivors of the battered group. And they were almost entirely intact…

Only about two dozen of them retired with oranges and glasses of grape juice in hand—plucked from vineyards rather than made into wine to support the war effort—in a more private setting. Jecaina found herself face to face with Fetohep’s veterans.

“[Horse Archers].”

The [Lieutenant of the Bow] bowed deeply.

“Yes, your Majesty. We got out of the last battle mainly intact.”

“And you haven’t taken nearly as many casualties as any other group in the war.”

The [Mounted Archers], [Rider]-[Archer] composites, some of whom had been one or the other but were gaining levels in both, bowed their heads. They looked guilty.

“No, your Majesty. The truth is…”

It was plain tactics. [Horse Archers] didn’t take casualties nearly as much as [Lancers], [Trick Riders], who raced into the fore of battle. They retreated from half-Giants, shot arrows on the flanks—their only real danger was an enemy cavalry charge or other [Archers].

“We’re ashamed to admit it, but we’ve let our brothers and sisters die while we shoot from afar.”

The [Lieutenant]’s cheeks were red. Here, at least, Jecaina could do something. She thought of what Lyfelt might say, and changed it to be actually genuine. She put a hand out and touched his shoulder.

“Lieutenant, you fulfilled your role in battle. If others fell before you—you will have to fight all the harder for the living and the dead. I think Jecrass has need of your bows, so I am grateful you are all alive. I would rather not one more [Soldier] died, so don’t regret it. Please.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.”

He bowed again. And Jecaina looked at the group of [Horse Archers], all of whom wanted to thank her for coming. And she knew what to do.

—-

Lael came to see her personally two days later. She expressed her concerns bluntly; the war had worn down any niceties she used to employ at court.

“Your Majesty, you’ve disassembled every mounted archer group in all of my forces and replaced them with new [Archers]. Am I to understand this new battle group will be under your direct command?”

“Not mine, Lael. Yours. But it will be this.”

“A mounted archery group?”

It was Jecaina’s idea. Strategist Meroon had made it more possible. Centaurs knew this kind of fighting.

“It’s hardly a new idea. The—Maelstrom’s Howling company in Baleros is famous for this kind of fighting force. They’ll harry our enemies. Loose arrows, flee. I intend to make them a Unit if I gain a Skill. Or if you do.”

“Begging your Majesty’s pardon. But we have [Trick Riders]—”

“Not anymore, Lael. We need a strong, veteran force and all of our old groups are worn away. They are high-level—higher level than any of the other soldiers by an average of six levels. Meroon has ideas…”

It was simple. Make up smaller groups, each led by someone with fast movement Skills. They would then shoot and run, and harry anyone but the [Steward].

Change the strategy of the war. Lael sighed.

“Your Majesty, we can do this. I would love to harry both Medain and Reim the instant they leave their camps. But they can catch even fast [Riders]. I would be much more comforted if I didn’t think I’d lose [Horse Archers] on each skirmish, despite their formations. And arrows—we’re starting to need to think about those, too.”

Jecaina bit her lip. It wasn’t a bad idea, Lael assured her. But it wasn’t perfect.

So Jecaina went back to Fetohep to complain.

—-

“Queen Leysars. It is a pleasure to speak once more. To what do I owe this call?”

She wasn’t drunk this time. And his ire over being hung up on had abated enough for him to stiffly acknowledge her—although he’d kept her waiting fifteen minutes this time.

“King Fetohep, I took your advice—”

The undead king blinked. Or his glowing, golden flames in his eye sockets actually winked out for a second before reigniting.

“You did what?”

“The veterans. The army—you were correct, King Khelt. But you see…”

He listened. Of course, he’d meant what he said when he pointed out there had to be some group that survived, some more elite army that was leveling. Mobile archers, of course. That her [General] hadn’t thought of it was probably a reluctance to experiment during a war.

“But we’re running low on arrows, and unless we can ensure the safety of our [Riders]…”

Ah. He saw the issue. The [Queen] had made a good effort based on what he’d told her, but she’d still ran into naturally fouling problems.

It was a fun puzzle. If only it was a hard one. Sadly, Fetohep didn’t even get to think on it because he knew a few answers. Time, history, was a teacher and he was an old student.

“Arrows can always be bought or obtained, your Majesty. But if you fear counterattack by [Archers], simply vary the composition of your mobile forces. You might be able to rapidly expand their numbers as well, by inducting youths that might hitherto be unsought.”

“How so? We can’t afford to simply redistribute armor or new weapons, King Khelt…”

He summoned one of the undead-drinks and sipped at it as he illuminated her.

“The simplest answer, Queen Leysars, is often the most expedient. You may be forced to purchase ammunition for those [Archers]…but the simplest ammunition has always been free. If the enemy may pursue or shoot back, do not allow them to.”

—-

The answer, and the first surprise-attack on Reim’s forces—then Medain’s—which stopped them from fortifying their stolen land, then attacks on their supply trains, was [Slingers].

Every [Shepherd] had a bow or sling. Slings were cheap, ammunition was a rock, and they featured in most armies as a kind of off-bow unit. Of course, bows had more range, you could enchant arrowheads, and so on; slings against heavy armor was like uh, rocks versus steel plate.

However, you could hurl a rock pretty damn hard into a helmet. It was just that—how would that help? [Mounted Slingers] and [Mounted Archers] had the same issues being ‘if I can hit you, you can hit me, or race after me with a spear and poke me’.

To that, Fetohep had simply answered with experience.

The first sorties of the new archery group saw them appear, using stealth or sheer speed Skills to attack the enemy. They loosed arrows, even drew blades and attacked if they thought the enemy was completely unguarded, and ran.

…But that was basic. Orthenon was no fool; he had [Riders] to compensate for half-Giants’ slow speed and they were Reim’s veterans, as nasty in the saddle as Jecrass’ best.

They raced after the [Mounted Archers], exchanging arrow fire, running them down; they just had to catch or cut them off! And there they received the weapon of Chandrar, cheap, unlimited.

Sand in the face.

[Slingers] hurled powdery balls of the stuff, covering enemy [Riders] in dust clouds. Try shooting with sand in your face. It was coarse…rough…it got under your armor…

It wouldn’t have worked if the [Mounted Archers] weren’t so experienced from the war. And Jecaina had called for all the [Slingers] across Jecrass—even those not in the army and asked boys who guarded flocks to practice this trick.

It was one trick, but it slowed both Medain and Reim down, and annoyed the hell out of the half-Giants, one of whom got a faceful of grit and nearly trampled their allies. Of course, they began to take countermeasures; a simple barrier spell blocked the sand-in-the-face trick.

So Jecaina ordered a [Sniper]-type [Archer] to hit [Mages]. Reim had to disguise them…or figure out different methods, or just not leave workers and groups without a lot more archer and cavalry support. Which slowed them.

And suddenly, they were reacting to Jecrass. Just a bit.

Well, it worked right until Zamea lost her patience and broke another fort in two. And Medain was still grabbing land.

[Queen (Temporary) Level 29!]

[Skill – Unit: Bows of Sand obtained!]

And they became more obnoxious still. Especially when it turned out the Unit allowed [Archers] to fire ‘sand arrows’ just as well as the [Slingers].

Sand in the face!

It was a valid tactic.

—-

Twenty four days into her rule, and Jecaina was calling Fetohep once, even multiple times a day. It surprised her that he had this much time, but she couldn’t help it. She kept telling herself it might be a bad idea to take advice from another ruler…but who else could she turn to?

Fetohep was surprised for different reasons. Mostly, that someone else had time to talk at all hours. Kevin didn’t. Even the news had lulls.

But what really surprised and even gratified him was…Jecaina of Jecrass was listening to his advice and acting on it.

He’d actually seen the reports of Jecrass’ successful raids in the news. Which gave him a curious sense of immense satisfaction.

Did Kevin listen to his platitudes on artisanship and act on it? Not that Fetohep could see. So, he listened to Jecaina talking about the war.

“It’s Medain and Reim. They’re both attacking Jecrass; we can’t fight both at once!”

Fetohep was playing chess against an opponent from afar. He moved a piece and it was sent via [Message] spell in chess notation. A new thing proposed by Chess Weekly, from Liscor. He was, of course, winning. Good opponents were hard to find. Some fancied themselves skillful since they had practiced every day since it had been invented, a few years ago by Niers Astoragon.

Fetohep practiced while they slept.

“Jecaina Leysars. If two mongrels attack you from either side, let them bark at each other before finishing the wounded victor.”

He rather liked that old platitude. Jecaina snorted at the comparison to the two nations and their leaders, whom Fetohep held in pretty much that level of esteem.

“Your Majesty Khelt, even my River Wardens and advisors suggested that. It didn’t work. I’m afraid neither side is that stupid.”

They played with how they addressed each other. Fetohep checkmated his opponent.

“Queen Leysars. Stupidity may be encouraged. If a tactic does not work, I suggest employing methods to make it succeed before abandoning the idea outright. A fool uses a spear to simply jab; every tool can be utilized in many ways.”

“How so?”

Jecaina fumbled for a piece of paper as Fetohep smiled. Well, he was always smiling—but this time he meant it.

—-

The Glorious Army of Medain roused themselves to take another piece of land the next day. They had been bored; marching in, seizing cities, demanding their surrender…but the Queen of Jecrass, who was rumored to lack any of her father’s spine, had wisely not provoked Medain as of yet.

Aside from skirmishes, perhaps ordered by the damned River Wardens and the sand-[Archers], no large-scale conflict had taken place.

Of course, the [General] knew it was going to happen at some point. Jecrass, or Reim. Jecrass was weak so it wouldn’t be more than 1-3 battles. But Reim? He was sweating fighting the half-Giants, [Mages], and the Steward, but High King Perric had engaged Reim on Belchan’s front so if it came to that, Medain would bring the hammer down.

The next city they came to would fall like the first. A [Messenger] was sent bearing the flag.

“Surrender to the Kingdom of Medain or face the consequences! High King Perric seizes this city!”

The man roared up at the walls. The defenders—what few of them remained, Jecrass having apparently abandoned the place and run with their tails between their legs again—shouted back. The [General], having a drink in the summer’s heat, heard them shout back.

“…But we’ve already surrendered!”

“What?”

The [Messenger] stared up at the walls. The [General]’s head snapped around. Had another part of his army—his cheeks bulged and he spat out his wine.

Reim’s flags were on the walls. The people within shouted that Reim had already taken this city.

“Do we take it, sir? It doesn’t look garrisoned—they might have known we were coming.”

“Hold—we have orders not to battle Reim until we take the capital or his Majesty orders. Move…”

The [General] was cursing. He decided to take another stronghold and sent [Riders] ahead to force the surrender.

That city was already Reim’s. And the next…Medain’s army came to a standstill as the [General] realized that Reim had swept in and taken every border settlement. Medain’s army was effectively surrounded by land now held by Reim, not Jecrass.

“How did it come to this?”

He sent urgent word to the capital as he sent more [Scouts] ahead. What he found made a pit open in his stomach.

Jecrass’ forces were in full retreat across the border to the capital. Reim was advancing non-stop and apparently, Queen Jecaina was considering surrender. To Reim!

They must have lost a huge battle. If they took Jecrass—

The capital had the same thought as the [General]. They had to take Jecrass first! Medain’s army changed directions.

They ploughed straight into Reim’s battle lines to slow Zamea’s advance while more armies were mustered and sent to end the war.

—-

The first clash between Medain and Reim in Jecrass probably surprised the hell out of Shepherd Zamea, leading the forces there. But she must have concluded Medain was ready to fight at last.

Jecaina was mostly surprised the ruse worked. What if Medain called the bluff? What if they realized those were stolen flags, or just decided to take the cities?

“A man or woman roused to haste makes mistakes never borne in slow certainty.”

Fetohep explained it to her in another of his platitudes. The fact that Jecrass would pretend to be defeated—the audacity had sold the lie as much as anything. Moreover, it was here that Lyfelt’s posturing as Jecaina had actually paid off.

Ironically, he hated the idea. Because, the [Prime Minister] pointed out, this meant war. Medain would now be going for Jecrass’ capital to end the two-pronged conflict.

Sure enough, more armies began coming down the pass and Jecaina amended her policy to fight both Medain and Reim. At least Reim and Medain were now battling it out. But was she in a better place?

Perhaps. Because the King of Destruction used his [Army of the King] and sent the southern battle lines into an uproar. He crushed Medain’s army on the Belchan front with his [Steward].

And a month later, Jecaina was still [Queen]. When even Fetohep had predicted Jecrass would be destroyed.

But they were still giving ground—fighting—people dying. Jecaina felt thirty years older, not thirty days.

—-

The [Queen] of thirty days was also looking forwards to Level 30. She understood her class was temporary—so too might be her Skills.

If she became a [Princess], she might change her Skills and certainly her class. If she became…[Queen]…she would keep it.

Level 30 might give her a Skill worthy of fighting back Reim and Medain. It might.

But in truth, she knew her father had hit Level 30—had changed to a new class and still he had failed to stop Reim alone.

The war continued, and she held on. She did better than anyone could have dreamed, but not because she was that brilliant.

Rather, Jecaina had learned a truth known to only a few people. Trey Atwood being one of them. And it was this: Fetohep of Khelt had excellent advice.

Not just ‘good advice’. He wasn’t just ‘smart’, but a six hundred year old ruler. When he gave you a battle tactic, or idea, he had seen it work or fail. He had the best advice she could hope for, and his little flourishes had turned ideas her advisors had into workable plans. No single grain of wisdom was an enchanted arrow—but they added up.

He was so helpful. And she had begun to respect the King of Khelt, who was clearly bored as could be. She had, in fact, talked with him more than even Trey Atwood at this point.

That was why Jecaina knew Jecrass was still going to lose. Advice was helpful. But it still didn’t stop Zamea from swinging her axe. The King’s Steward was still leading his forces and he was using his Skills.

A strange calm had descended over the palace. One of the bastions along the River Celed had fallen and River Warden Mulre was defending his lands.

Another defeat in a litany of defeats. But then, why was the [Queen] smiling?

It was not a happy smile. But the [Servants], racing about to placate the angry or distraught, stopped. The River Wardens halted in their urgent war council.

“You are dismissed for the day. I know what must be done.”

They opened their mouths to argue—and looked at their [Queen]. Lyfelt was the only one who voiced a protest. Perhaps because familiarity had blinded him.

Queen Jecaina sat on her throne. The speaking stone next to her. A voice began speaking the moment she turned it on.

“Ah, Jecaina. Good. I was reviewing the last battle. General Lael did her best, but it seemed to me on the eighth replay of the battle that a few elements could stand to be improved. Are you familiar with the Cavel Charge formation? That, and if you changed the placement of your fortifications…”

“Fetohep. Thank you, but it won’t be necessary.”

In his throne room, the King of Khelt was offended.

“Do you intend to cede more ground, Jecaina? Or is my advice no longer necessary?”

He huffed. Jecaina smiled. And it was in her voice.

“It is not necessary, Fetohep. Because it is over. Your advice has prolonged this war. But I am only fighting Zamea. More of Medain’s forces arrive day by day. You helped me fight Reim and Medain. But I will never win.”

“If you reach Level 30—”

“I will be twenty levels behind the King’s Steward. And still behind Perric. This war was lost, even had you personally commanded my armies and I followed your every word from day one.”

He was silent. This time, the young woman told him the truth. At last, he sat back and thought about the thirty days that had passed.

“It is a strange thing. But we began talking and I suppose I began offering comments, from monarch to monarch.”

“Yes. Fetohep—Jecrass is dying.”

He knew that too. But why did it pain him, all of a sudden? Nations rose and fell. Jecaina spoke, abruptly.

“Fetohep of Khelt. I speak to you not as Jecaina. But as Queen Leysars of Jecrass.”

He did not sit up; his posture was perfect. But Fetohep focused on her voice.

“Then we greet you as Fetohep of Khelt.”

She nodded. As he had taught her, she spoke smoothly. Ruler to ruler. A month ago, she had been a [Princess]. Raelt’s child.

“In the name of the Realm of Jecrass, I thank you for your support. I will not forget what you have done for Jecrass. And yet, my kingdom is ending. And I am not my father. Fetohep of Khelt, I see few routes into the future that do not end in the deaths of countless people, fighting to the last. Tell me. What would it cost for Jecrass to summon Khelt to war?”

He froze on his throne. In distant Khelt, Fetohep’s golden eyes burned. He turned his head—and for a second, the warriors living in death stirred at their posts.

For a moment. Then, Fetohep sat back. And his answer was the same.

“…I regret, Queen of Jecrass, that Khelt does not—that is to say—we do not go to war for foreign interests. Only for Khelt’s safety. Thus it has been and ever is.”

“I see.”

Jecaina nodded. It was not the first time she had asked. It was an obvious thought.

But it was the last time she would ask. She had hoped…but she knew Fetohep by now. She smiled.

“Then, Fetohep, I fear I must make my decision.”

“Reconsider, Queen Jecaina. Whatever you plan, always think in calmness.”

He urged her. Fetohep drummed his fingers on the armrest of his throne. Such a strange, living gesture.

“If Jecrass should fall—it is not the end. A captive people can still rally. Vassalization is likewise not the end. If the war drags on, your advisor may be right that Medain will sign a peace treaty for the gains it already has. And ultimately—should the throne fall—I offer you sanctuary in Khelt.”

It was Jecaina’s turn for her eyes to open wide.

“You mean it, Fetohep?”

He had not conceived it a moment ago, but in the second he spoke, Fetohep was sure.

“Yes. Does Jecrass fall, I offer you the safety of Khelt no matter who might follow. Merely cross my borders and you will be safe as long as Khelt endures. That is the promise of Khelt’s ruler.”

She exhaled. He meant it. If the King of Destruction brought an army and demanded her…

But only Khelt. So she smiled and thanked him.

“You are kind, Fetohep. It seems at this point the wisest thing to do is…kneel. To Medain, Reim, Nerrhavia, even.”

“Sometimes one must. Khelt has knelt.”

“Yes. So why can I not?”

The [Queen] stood up. She carried her speaking stone through her palace, talking lightly, walking, nodding at [Servants] who bowed, and watched her. She came to a hallway where the sun was visible, where a [King] used to toss oranges on people’s heads. She lingered there, a moment.

“I know what is practical, necessary. But—I think I took the King of Destruction’s words too much to heart, Fetohep. I cannot bow. My father, my family, guarded and tended Jecrass. I love this place. It’s silly to feel like it’s mine—but I can’t bear to throw it away. Not me. I would rather die. But I know what you would do. Because you love your people.”

He was silent, listening. Jecaina gulped and went on.

“Better to be a vassal. Yes. I am not an idiot. I will not let stubborn pride kill my people, because it would be my fault. But Fetohep—thank you for your offer. But I could never be your subject.”

He stirred.

“I would not expect you to be.”

She nodded. Jecaina saw Jecrass glimmering in front of her. She gulped.

“I still hope—Fetohep? I hope though, even if I am never your citizen? I could count you as a friend?”

“…Of course. I already do so.”

“Thank you.”

Fetohep listened, as the young woman made mortal sounds. Gulping. Breathing heavily. They were not so foreign. Not so unpleasant as they had been in his long death.

“Fetohep. You have helped me more than I realized. Because now, today, at last—I know what I am. I know my value. I know the weight of my words, the breadth of my knowledge. And because I know myself—I know that I am not enough to win this war. I am not wise enough. I am not smart enough. I am not strong enough. But—it might be vanity. Yet I feel that if I had enough time…I might have done a better job. If I had a year, half a decade…but I don’t. I do not deserve my kingdom. I wish I did.”

Tears ran down her cheeks. Jecaina spoke.

“Thank you for helping me, Fetohep.”

“Jecaina, I—”

She turned off the speaking stone. Placed it on the balcony, and stepped away. With heavy steps, she did what must be done. Fetohep didn’t know what it was.

Half-risen from his throne. He stood there. Then, the King of Khelt seized the speaking artifact. He hurled it across the throne room, seized a weapon from one of the undead guards—

His servants cowered. Fetohep split the floor of his throne room.

His fury was over in a moment. But it was a rage of despair, more than true anger. He stood there, not breathing hard, but eyes flaring bright in their sockets.

“If only.”

That was all he said. Measured words even as he calculated the cost of repairs, the necessity—but inside a voice was screaming.

If only! If only Jecaina Leysars had the time not afforded to her! If only she had—for she might be a great [Queen]. Her words had echoed what the best of them had said.

He stood there, head bowed, for a long time.

—-

Jecaina Leysars, who would be the last [Queen] of Jecrass, had no more Fetohep. She had relied on him—but a [Queen] leveled by herself. That was why she had not hit Level 30, even though she had begun to act as one.

She knew herself. And that knowledge was power. She knew her ignorance, and the limitations of her advisors. And that was a strength.

She knew a great man, a ruler, who sat dead on his throne was wiser than she. She knew her enemies might be grander—and it was not a poor thing to admit this.

If there was any wisdom Jecaina had, she would put it to use today. An end to it.

It was harder than she thought. Oh, some of it was not. Jecaina went to her study and wrote down a few words. She checked them—reread them, made them better.

Lyfelt had taught her that. Write down speeches; some people were good at impromptu lines, but you made mistakes. She thought about that as she prepared [Messages].

“Aca. Tell the [Court Mage] these are to be sent with highest urgency to the following. Have the [Court Mage] report to me instantly when he is done; I will have him accompany me so I can respond. And—this to the Mage’s Guild, I suppose.”

She handed missives out. Aca hurried them along. Jecaina sat back.

The Mage’s Guild was fastest as the [Court Mage] got to work. They…gave her their regrets. Wistram decided.

“Send a [Message] to Wistram, then.”

Jecaina heard back from them almost instantly. She read the reply and grimaced.

…Wistram Academy is not able to afford scrying [Mages] to all parties at this time…

A stock response. Well, it was a slight delay. Jecaina sat there. She waited, tapping a finger on the chair. She did not have to wait long.

Queen Yisame was first. Then another…another…half replied in the hour. Yisame had questions; they all did.

Fetohep had taught her how to talk to rulers. Direct, diplomatic—unyielding despite being a broken kingdom in war.

A speaking stone was arranged. A male voice, surrounded by the chatter of an entire court.

“Does this one speak to her Majesty, Queen Jecaina of Jecrass? I am Minister—”

Jecaina instantly handed the stone off to the [Court Mage]. She refused to speak to the man. After some negotiation, she heard a female voice, bemused.

“I am Queen Yisame of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Do I speak to Queen Jecaina of Jecrass?”

“Yes, your Majesty Yisame. Thank you for speaking with me. May we converse of matters of state?”

The woman audibly hesitated. Unnerved by Jecaina’s poise, perhaps expecting a different person from what she understood.

“It is permissible, yes. Your [Message] intrigues us. We agree with reservation. How shall it be done?”

The [Queen] smiled again. She adjusted her crown and spoke. That was unimportant, really.

—-

Wistram Academy was used to fielding requests for airtime by now. They didn’t even keep track of who asked unless you were royalty or important.

And even then—Queen Jecaina, labeled as ‘Princess Jecaina’ was shuffled to the bottom of a list a bored [Mage] was keeping.

There were more important things to do! A schedule to keep! No one had time for your little parade or—

“Excuse me, High Magus—we just received word that Queen Yisame is requesting a scrying mage? From Nerrhavia? She can supply the image herself, actually.”

The High Mage sat up.

“Nerrhavia’s Fallen? You verified, of course?”

“Um…”

Now this was what his job was for. He sent a quick [Message] to the team working Pallass News Network that they might need to adjust their broadcast. Of course, even Yisame had to wait, but Wistram treated with her carefully…

“High Magus! The King of Destruction is demanding a scrying mage!”

The High Mage promptly forgot about Yisame. He spun.

“Is there a war? A battle? Is he just bored again?”

“He says it’s a matter of state! He wants the one with him to begin broadcasting on the hour!”

“Queen Yisame—”

“Tell her to wait. Er—that we cannot accommodate her now.”

The [High Mage] was sweating. He hurried over to the [Mage] taking the [Messages]. But the first one called out.

“No, High Magus. The King of Destruction is saying that Queen Yisame and he both want another [Mage] in…Jecrass.”

Now the High Magus slowed. He turned and pointed a wand at his head.

“[Amplify Hearing]. What did you say?”

The [Mage] held out the [Messages] helplessly.

“Queen Yisame of Nerrhavia’s Fallen in conjunction with the King of Destruction demand that scrying mages be sent to the following kingdoms and rulers…”

A prickling feeling ran down the [High Mage]’s back. He stared as a third [Message] came in. This one from…he turned.

“Get me the Pallass News Network team.”

—-

Jecrass had been unable to secure a single Wistram [Mage] even asking in advance. It turned out that other rulers could get whatever they wanted from Wistram just by speaking, not even bothering to shout.

And the King of Destruction did shout. And Wistram, despite being officially at odds with him, moved. They did not know why they were moving, first. Nor did Pallass News Network.

High King Perric was waiting to see his army’s glorious push into Jecrass; he had informed them of the timing. What he got was a yawning Drassi, sitting up and dully reporting the advance. Perric scowled. He hated her.

The feeling was mutual. The Drake’s eyes opened as someone began to whisper off-screen, though. She sat up, excitedly.

“Hold on, people. We might not be watching Medain right now. I’m getting word of a live event taking place. Chandrar—stay tuned. Wait. Wait…Jecrass? Slow down—we’re covering—no? The King of Destruction?”

Parts of Perric puckered up at the name. That man! That man had better not—

The image of Medain’s army marching and singing praises of their High King vanished. Perric rose from his seat with an oath.

“Get me the Wistram Mage! Now and—”

His words were choked off as Flos Reimarch’s face popped into view. He was staring at High King Perric. The man nearly climbed out of his throne until he realized—

This was the broadcast. Drassi herself recoiled in the foreground.

“Aha. So it’s working, is it? Am I first? Good.”

Flos Reimarch boomed. Someone spoke.

“Your Majesty, you’re too close. Please—allow us to—”

They backed up. The King of Destruction appeared in view. He was standing, in a war tent, location unknown. Perric’s hands clenched into fists at the sight of him.

That damned man! He had humiliated Medain and beaten him—now he was upstaging Medain’s hour of triumph again? Were there no limits to how far he would sink?

Perric was about to castigate the Wistram [Mage] and demand to know what was going on when someone else appeared. And the screen—split.

Queen Yisame of Nerrhavia’s Fallen appeared on the left side of the screen. Flos on the right. he was staring at something and blinked.

“Ah. I see her! And myself! Queen Yisame.”

“Flos Reimarch.”

The [Queen] blinked a few times, and then sat back. She was on her throne. It was perhaps the first time the two rulers had met face-to-face in an age. Perric stared.

“Fascinating. I am here. So are you—are we waiting on the rest?”

“It appears so. King of Destruction, it pleases me you acceded to this moment despite the war between our kingdoms.”

“Ah, well, it is gracious of you to do so. Besides which—would you mind ceasing your invasion? It is getting rather tiring, swatting down your chariots as they buzz about like flies.”

She smiled thinly.

“Nerrhavia will see Reim fall within the month, King of Destruction. But perhaps this is not the time to debate your kingdom?”

He gave her a wolf of a grin.

“What in the name of Selphid’s foul tits is going on here?”

Perric roared. The High King saw another face appear. And this time it was—

“Femithain?”

Yes! Magus-Crafter Femithain of Illivere sat back at his desk, adjusting his spectacles.

“Ah, I see I am…‘connected’. Thank you, Magus.”

He nodded to someone off-screen. The rulers seemed to be using stationary artifacts rather than the shakier ‘live [Mages]’ who could broadcast events.

Yisame blinked at Femithain. She tried to speak, but was drowned out by Flos as he crowded closer to the camera again.

“Is that Magus-Crafter Femithain? Finally, a ruler who hasn’t declared war as of yet!”

Yisame frowned in the background. Femithain blinked. He inclined his head.

“Your Radiant Majesty, Queen Yisame, King of Destruction. Greetings. I assume I am not late?”

“Not at a—”

“Not at all. Incidentally, Magus-Crafter, I hear your Golems are quite extraordinary! Would you care to sell some to me? Illivere hasn’t responded to my requests. How is Nsiia? I trust she is being treated well?”

Flos was louder than Yisame, to her clear annoyance. Femithain hesitated and was spared having to answer as someone else appeared.

The screen split further. Drassi actually disappeared as more faces popped into view. Perric stared. He realized each one was a ruler of their land.

Next, was the leader of the Claiven Earth, their Treespeaker or whatever his name was. He appeared and Flos jabbed at the half-Elf, who ignored him completely to greet the other two leaders.

Then—and then—six rulers appeared.

Flos Reimarch, King of Destruction.

Queen Yisame of Nerrhavia’s Fallen.

Femithain, Magus-Crafter of Illivere.

The Treespeaker of the Claiven Earth.

Orjin of Pomle, the Strongest balancing on a pile of rocks.

…And Fetohep of Khelt.

Perric recoiled at the sight of the last ruler. Even Femithain blinked; Yisame was not so subtle, nor the Treespeaker.

Orjin didn’t appear to care, but Flos frowned.

“You’re attending this too, Fetohep? I didn’t know you were invited.”

“I have acceded to this meeting of thrones, King of Destruction. Not for your benefit. Far stranger that you are present when the Quarass of Germina is not. Perhaps she is busy.”

Six rulers. Perric knew the Strongest of Pomle, even if he didn’t know Orjin. Why was the man balancing on rocks? Yisame kept staring as well—not to mention at the fact that Orjin was relatively bare-skinned.

“Is this appropriate for the meeting, Strongest of Pomle?”

The Treespeaker of the Claiven Earth looked similarly uncomfortable. Orjin opened his eyes.

“I am not sure what this meeting is about. My [Secretary] informed me I should take part. So here I am.”

A Drake hurried to whisper to him. He leaned over, still balancing on one leg.

Six rulers. And High King Perric realized they were not including him in this, but it was a number of powerful rulers in his region. And second—they were waiting for someone.

“Are those Wistram [Mages] not in position yet? They’re covering the war! Whom do I have to shout at?”

“The King of Destruction is, for once, correct. Nerrhavia does not wait on ‘technical issues’. Where is her Majesty? We have all agreed to come here at her request; does Wistram seek to offend all our thrones?”

Yisame snapped at an unseen speaker. Perric frowned. Her Majesty? Orjin frowned.

“What are we doing? Explain it slower, Salii.”

“Strongest of Pomle, this meeting was agreed to by all the rulers—and one [Secretary], it seems—to decide—”

Femithain was addressing Orjin as Flos shouted something in the background. The Speaker of Trees was frowning around, trying to get a word in edgeways as the first mass-call devolved into chaos. Fetohep was engaging in a lengthy greeting to Yisame, who was trying to listen while addressing someone off-screen—

Then she appeared. Princess—no—Queen Jecaina Leysars of Jecrass sat on her throne. Perric stared.

The rulers looked up.

“Ah. There you are.”

Flos grinned. Fetohep’s golden gaze locked on her. Jecaina stared at something—a glowing scrying orb, and then looked up.

The camera and her personal viewing lens were not in the same place. And she was sitting on her throne—a bit away from the ‘camera’.

High King Perric stared. What was going on?

“Rulers of Chandrar, your Majesties, Magus-Crafter, Speaker of Trees, and Strongest of Pomle. Thank you for agreeing to this meeting.”

Queen Jecaina spoke. She inclined her head and all the rulers did likewise, even Flos. They knew what was going on.

Perric did not. But he didn’t like it. And—seeing Jecaina now, instead of the fawning letters begging for this or that—she did not seem like a helpless young woman overwrought by her crown.

Another copper penny dropped. The High King realized a lot of things in that moment. He might have acted on the rampant fury rushing through him, but everything became clear to the audience—and himself—the next moment.

Queen Jecaina looked at the scrying orb. She was smiling—but it wasn’t a real smile. It was unhappy, and she looked young and old. The crown sat on her head, as if she had forgotten it was there, so much it had been a part of her.

“Hello. I am Queen Jecaina Leysars of Jecrass. To those watching—I have called upon six great rulers of Chandrar, wise and knowledgeable leaders of their nations all. Each one I trust for different reasons, even if we are at odds—”

She nodded at Flos and he inclined his head with a smile.

“—to weigh in on a decision that has haunted me since I was crowned. I am young to the throne of Jecrass, and have not reached a verdict in an issue of…morality. Judgment. Thus—I asked for the aid of a council of my peers.”

High King Perric felt something was wrong here. Where was he, Perric? Medain? Hello? He called for the Wistram [Mage].

But no one was answering his [Message] spells. Jecaina went on.

“The issue is the heart of the war between Reim and Jecrass. A tragic—no, horrific incident for which my father was forced to go to war over. An event we all witnessed. Please—bring him in.”

She turned her head. And Perric, the watching world, saw a man slowly led forwards by a pair of [Soldiers].

Lyfelt of Belchan. The man was terrified. Also—gagged. He stood there, staring at Jecaina. Perric sat back.

“Dead gods, she’s going to execute him in front of everyone.”

He was of course, wrong. He did not know Jecaina.

—-

Fetohep of Khelt had not been told what was happening. He had agreed, instantly, but the King of Khelt, to some, their first time realizing that an undead held the throne, sat there, eyes flashing golden as he and the others listened. Jecaina did not need to speak overly long.

“All know Lyfelt of Belchan. That my father defended him—or the slaughter of Belchan’s rulership and their families—”

“I reneged on the families.”

Flos interrupted. Jecaina looked at him and he sat back. He was quivering with fury. Jecaina spoke on.

“—my father, King Raelt of Jecrass, did not decide Lyfelt’s fate. The King of Destruction would have his death—and all of his officials—to end this war. I refused, just as my father did. Jecrass should not give up a man’s life even when threatened. Yet. The issue weighed on me, because injustice was done. A tribe of Gnolls, slaughtered nearly to the last. More victims. How am I to judge a man who was my father’s friend? Who raised me? Who…might not have known?”

Her head bowed for a second. Then it rose.

“I understand that I do not have the scope to pass judgment—or the impartiality. Thus, I requested six of the most trusted rulers available. You sit now, rulers of Chandrar, in judgment. Seven thrones shall decide Lyfelt of Belchan’s fate. Whether he is guilty or not. I shall abstain, unless a deciding vote is needed.”

This was television! Drassi was dancing in her studio since she wasn’t on air. And she wanted to be part of this one.

But this was a time only for the rulers. They were live. Their people—other rulers, viewers watched this. A man’s fate. Lesser [Kings] were not invited.

And Jecrass’ people watched Jecaina. So did Lyfelt. He looked accusing. Betrayed. Pleading…Jecaina met his gaze.

“So. Then. Let there be justice for all to see, from minds wiser than mine.”

She met Fetohep’s gaze. And he bowed slightly to her.

—-

The trial of Lyfelt of Belchan was simple. Chaotic, yes, confused, yet.

Half wanted to speak first. Some spoke over each other, in outbursts—at one point, the Speaker of Trees’ son came in to ask if he wanted to pick—he was hurried out of sight.

Orjin of Pomle began practicing punches until he was asked to stop. Nsiia poked her head in to stare at Flos.

Wistram’s viewer-count was skyrocketing. They were breaking all records. War? Forget war. The life of a single man was at stake here.

Gnolls were watching. And Jecaina presided.

She hadn’t thought she would, but when Fetohep kept calling Flos ‘boy’, or ‘child-king’, someone had to stop Flos from retorting. Someone had to—so she ended up asking people to wait, or be silent.

They all spoke. Flos first. He did not need to speak overly long.

“I will have Lyfelt’s head. And no force will compel me otherwise. I will have his head—the head of his officials—you saw the slaughter. Need I describe it? Need I ask the boy who watched his tribe die? If I must, to convince you that he is dead, I will. Even if every nation tries to oppose me, I will lead my kingdom to Rhir’s hell to see him dead.”

It was not a classic trial as Earthers knew it. Because the defense was Lyfelt himself. And he spoke.

“I did not know, your Majesties. I did not. Believe me! I may have been…flippant…but how was I to know what one village would do?”

Cross-examination was every ruler. Some spoke more than others.

Some were more at home than others. The Speaker of Trees was actually far more comfortable than Femithain. Both decided matters like this, but Femithain didn’t like being on air all the time.

Orjin likewise. Yisame seemed equally unsure, but she actually played to the audience, reacting to the other rulers.

Fetohep was most at ease. As if he was born to be seen by countless people; then again, he had no mortal tics. He vied for the most speaking time.

You could spin out the trial into a story of its own. A long debate. Arguments. Pettiness. But the end was all that mattered.

Lyfelt begged. He pleaded. He insulted the King of Destruction, trying to play to his audience, use Skills—but his judges were rulers far removed. He stood firm, shrank back on his convictions.

Jecaina saw him clearly. He was not a bad man.

No—that wasn’t right. He might be, but he had not set out to be one. He had compromised morals she would not. He was greedy, careless…

Did that mean he should suffer for ignorance? In the end, six rulers spoke.

“I will have him dead. Nothing said sways me.”

The King of Destruction was predictable. Femithain, the Magus-Crafter, somewhat likewise. He stared at Lyfelt, and there was dislike even behind his eyes after all was said and done. Lyfelt’s hair was messy, he was sweating and pale.

“I say that as a ruler, laws passed, crimes committed under your governance reflect on those at the top. This tragedy was eminently preventable. I do not vote in favor of death, and I do not hold all of Belchan’s leadership to blame, as I have reiterated. But I do find Lyfelt guilty of the crimes laid at his feet.”

It seemed split then, and then the Speaker of Trees stood. Lyfelt turned to him and Flos frowned deeply, because the half-Elf had seemed as peaceable as Femithain.

And Jecaina had sworn to break the tie, or uphold a majority. The half-Elf looked into the camera, and spoke.

“As one of two non-Humans present—”

He nodded to Yisame. The Stitch Woman inclined her head.

“—I can only present my understanding of Belchan. I speak for the Claiven Earth in this matter, because I must, because I was asked. Because my insight may supersede other’s. With this in mind, I find Belchan’s attitude towards non-Humans telling. Gnolls were slaughtered, while Humans made their way to Reim with far less aggression. Lyfelt of Belchan knew of this. Children have died. Enough…I am a father. I say enough. The Claiven Earth do not suffer him to live.”

The former [Prime Minister] turned white. He looked at the Treespeaker. The half-Elf stared at him, then his viewpoint turned dark. He did not even stay to watch.

Orjin of Pomle was next. He stood there, clearly unhappy with his decision. The big man spoke, at last, as [Martial Artists] stood, watching, behind him.

“I am a [Martial Artist]. Strongest of Pomle. I rule on matters like this. When murder occurs—I rule on intent. Always, there is an option to let those accused seek death in a way they find honorable. But Pomle does not kill unless necessary. I cannot weigh this man’s crimes.”

He looked at Lyfelt. The man choked.

“Strongest—”

Orjin ignored him. Jecaina slashed a hand and Lyfelt was gagged. Orjin went on.

“Ignorance. Law. These sound like excuses. I do not believe Lyfelt is innocent. Nor will I see him dead. However he is punished—let it be so. Give him to the families of the Gnolls, and that will be his death. Give him to the King of Destruction, and let that be his death. Or give him a chance for his own end. But he is guilty. That I cannot see the weight of it does not mean it is not there.”

Hope—if there had been any for Lyfelt—dwindled.

Queen Yisame and Fetohep were left. The [Queen] looked as though she had been planning to give a speech, but the eloquence of the others had made her reconsider. She looked into the camera and slowly extended a hand.

A single thumb, pointing down. She delicately withdrew it and sat back.

A gladiatorial gesture. Death.

The last was Fetohep. Some people turned away rather than stare at the revenant [King]. But he sat there, among the peers of Chandrar, a valuable voice. Jecaina smiled, but not really, at him.

“And what will you, Fetohep of Khelt?”

He waited a second, before replying.

“Wisdom from my peers. It has been long since such a gathering of Chandrar’s rulers was called. And it was to rule on the fate of a throne then. Queen Jecaina of Jecrass.”

He nodded at her. Yisame, Flos, Femithain—all of them blinked at the gesture. Fetohep went on.

“You invoke Khelt’s ruler. I rule as if it were one of my subjects, who art beloved, who committed such a crime. For a deed such as this?”

His eyes flashed golden.

“I would not even take their bones in service to Khelt, but bury them outside my realm in a place forgotten to time. Those who rule are responsible for the lives of all who pass in their domains. If they grant safety, their word is their bond. Lyfelt of Belchan dies.”

It was done. Not even 1-5. Only Femithain and Orjin had even spoken out against death. By any measure…

Jecaina rose, slowly. She looked at Lyfelt. Let me speak, the man’s eyes begged. Let me try one last time…

Now, the audience waited. The [Queen] looked around.

“The leaders of Chandrar have spoken. Nothing more need be said. Lyfelt…”

She stumbled over her words.

“Dies.”

The man collapsed. Flos Reimarch smiled.

“Let it be an end to this war, Queen Jecaina. The fate of the others we may debate. I will even accept the ruling. But Lyfelt—I shall order my armies back. Give him to my Steward and—”

“No.”

The King of Destruction stopped. Jecaina turned to face him.

“King of Destruction, I called this conclave of authority to weigh in on Lyfelt’s fate. It is not for you to execute him. That burden—that responsibility is mine. My father fought a war in the name of his principles. I will not give Lyfelt to you.”

“But he will die.”

“Yes.”

The King of Destruction folded his arms. After a long moment, he nodded.

“Very well. My cause to war with Jecrass is then—”

“The war?”

She interrupted him. Jecaina stood there, looking at Flos. She half-laughed.

“King Reimarch. This war has gone beyond one man’s fate. Even the fate of Belchan! You have brought death and destruction to Jecrass! Now, the vultures and hounds circle! You may believe there is no more cause to war with Jecrass, but we have cause to war with you!”

He stared at her. Queen Yisame bestirred herself from her throne. Jecaina went on.

“If you had not made war—if you had suggested this—if you had asked my father to ride with you, or simply asked to exist in peace, perhaps we would have been allies. But King of Destruction, look at what you have done. You know how many of Jecrass lie dead. I do not accept your call to end the war. And you will return Jecrass’ lands.”

Flos Reimarch blinked at her. Yisame applauded quietly. Orjin, Femithain, Fetohep, waited. The King of Khelt was grinning.

And yet. The King of Destruction shook his head lightly.

“I understand your rage, Jecaina of Jecrass. But one of those dogs is barking from the north. If you will not make peace, then I caution you. Takhatres has returned to me. My Steward advances. Do you wish to make war despite knowing that?”

She just looked at him.

“I will not let Reim rule Jecrass, King of Destruction.”

His eyes flickered. What had been something like admiration turned to…

“So be it. It grieves me—but my Steward shall see you before I. Let us hope whatever you intend can stop him. Either way—I thank you, Queen of Jecrass. Let justice be done.”

He turned. His viewpoint went blank. But no one had missed the look he gave towards Queen Yisame. She looked at Jecaina. Fetohep slowly watched as all the viewpoints in the conference call turned dark.

His was last of all. He stared at himself.

—-

Thirty three days after her ascent to her throne, Queen Jecaina had shown herself to be a [Queen]. At least, so they told her.

It was time. Medain was coming for her. High King Perric had realized she was no dancing puppet, no frail girl.

The [Steward] was coming too. Her River Wardens had been admiring and horrified.

Jecaina was neither. She was calm. She knew what had to be done.

“Tell Queen Yisame…”

She didn’t say it just yet. She just sat there. The best option, after all, was the most expedient. But how bitter.

She had felt like a [Queen] there, just for a moment. And then…

Lyfelt was dead.

She had not televised that. She had not made a spectacle of it. She had asked him and he had taken poison. She had not watched, but been told when he passed.

And she had wept for him. She had wept for her memory of the man. That it had come to this.

But it had been…justice. As just as she could give him.

Fetohep had called her, afterwards—well, all of the rulers did, except for Orjin. To congratulate, talk—even the King of Destruction had asked her to reconsider and join him.

Oh, fleeting glory. But Fetohep had made her feel proud.

“Well done, Queen Leysars. I did not suggest such an event.”

“You inspired me, King Fetohep.”

“But you have remade history on your own. For that—I express my candid admiration. May you reign well.”

And they both knew what was coming. Jecaina had fixed her hair. She doubted Yisame would…

If only. She wanted to be [Queen]! That was why. Jecaina had felt the level up building in her very marrow. But she hadn’t slept. Not with Lyfelt. Not with…

It mattered not. Tomorrow, she would find out what she was. Today, she greeted the dawn. If only. She thought of the one king she would have ever…but she meant what she said.

Not even Fetohep would rule her. Could not, if she was who she was. Could Jecaina be a [Princess] again?

What would her father do? She stood there a moment. Then, she had an idea. It came down to her as she beheld Jecrass, green lands, the rivers, and in the distance, the smoke of approaching war. As she thought of the Herdmistress, the lack of time—

Her conversations, the other rulers. The [Queen] of thirty days turned as Aca approached, pale.

“Your Majesty? Yisame is waiting.”

“Tell her to wait a moment longer. I have one last…”

Queen Jecaina spoke one last time. Then she spoke to Queen Yisame. And delivered the bad news.

—-

Chandrar was still buzzing from the notable meeting of leaders. ‘The Deliberation of Belchan’ was the working title that Pallass News Network was going with.

So there were eyes in place to see. The first word of it was the weather, fittingly enough.

A sandstorm blew over the land. So vast that it kept everyone indoors. Even Flos Reimarch, King of Destruction, wouldn’t fight in that kind of weather.

He was supping with Teres for lunch, waiting on word from Orthenon—even he would probably halt to take Jecrass’ capital. Flos Reimarch was moody; he had ordered the [Steward] not to kill the Queen of Jecrass, but her words had bothered him.

“Your Majesty!”

Mars herself tore open the tent flaps. Flos looked up and was on his feet with sword in hand in a moment.

“A sandstorm attack?”

They were clashing with Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Teres had her sword out nearly as quick. Mars strode over to him.

“No. Worse. Flos…”

She spoke. Teres heard a ringing in her ears. That couldn’t be true. It just…

The King of Destruction stood there, eyes wide. He looked at Mars. And then he exclaimed.

“Of all the ways and things I imagined—is this the end of my kingdom?”

—-

The first sighting of them was the border of the Shield Kingdom of Germina. [Scouts], the few of them on this border, more watching the Great Desert, were hunkering from the storm, but watchful for tricks.

They did not have to be keen-eyed. The whipping storm of sand, the most intense here—began to reveal shapes. They stared as figures emerged from an angle they would have never dreamed of. They raised the alarm. But Reim—Germina—no one knew what had caused it.

But the first giant made of bones, coated in gleaming armor, walked over Khelt’s borders. And then another. And behind it came the legions of Khelt. Warriors without end.

Not the scrap warriors. Not the broken warriors that would drown enemies in numbers.

Khelt’s army. Clad in shining armor. Warriors in life and death.

First ten thousand. Then a hundred thousand. Then—

A shape pierced the sandstorm as Wistram’s news network arrived on the scene. [Mages] recoiled. Drassi screamed.

“What is that thing?”

It looked like no creature she had ever seen. Tall—taller even than the giant skeletons! A moving fortress of dead, chitinous armor. Bone and chitin, moving, gigantic legs, tearing through the dust—

“That…might be one of the Jaws of Zeikhal. The greatest predators of Chandrar.”

Sir Relz adjusted his monocle. The vast war monster crawled forwards. A creature mortal armies would tremble to behold. And—it had been altered.

A kind of…saddle…no, throne, was installed on its head. And guess who sat there?

Fetohep of Khelt. He carried an enchanted halberd and wore the armor of kings. Behind him marched legion. He saw the few forces at the border of Germina cower at the sight of him.

“I am Fetohep of Khelt! Who will stand to bar my way?”

His voice split the air. The watchers from Wistram, the forces of Reim, Germina…fell back another mile. Fetohep saw the great beast he rode cover hundreds of feet with a single motion.

His armies marched. And standing with him were six figures. An archer, a warrior-mage, a…

They were dead. Their skulls showing, fragments of skin clinging to their bodies. They were not as mighty as some of the greatest of Khelt’s protectors. But they stood with the king on his throne.

They were his comrades. Fetohep’s mortal friends. Bodies still bearing their death-wounds.

“We ride again.”

He told them. They didn’t move. They stood there, awaiting his orders. They were not Revenants. They had died before they could be made into ones with him.

His Queen had apologized for that. Weeping, if she could but still shed tears. Fetohep reached out to one of his friends and tried to recall…

“If only you were more than bone and decayed flesh. If only you had joined me in my long service, my boon friends, my companions unto death. What might I have been then?”

He mourned them, even as they went to campaign once more. Fetohep halted and the countless undead, seemingly limitless in number, halted. They had crossed over Germina’s border. Now—the King of Khelt looked down at the few mortal figures among the legions. Commanders of Khelt all. They looked up at him.

“Warriors of Khelt. We ride in Khelt’s name. Quicken your pace.”

Below him, the first ranks of undead warriors—skeleton warriors, perhaps even at the level of Ghouls—moved forwards. They began to walk. Then advanced to a trot.

Then they ran. They sprinted across the ground. The second rank followed. They sped up—and never slowed down.

Khelt’s army began to advance at a fast pace. As fast as a skeletal body could sprint. Slower than a horse. But they did not slow the first hour, or the next.

While he rode, the King of Khelt received a speaking stone call. He’d brought it along, on the assumption it was needed.

“Fetohep of Khelt. I cannot speak long. But—what are you doing?”

The Quarass’ voice was breathy. She had to have noticed the…army…sprinting across her lands.

“I am engaged in the business of Khelt, Quarass. I would have asked permission to cross your lands, but this involves the safety of Khelt. I swear by my people no harm shall come to Germina save that it is offered. Will you allow me passage?”

“The business of…yes. But how is this Khelt’s security?”

“You will see.”

Fetohep rather enjoyed hanging up on her. He continued his advance.

—-

“…No idea what has set Khelt off, is there, Noass?”

“None, Sir Relz. And this—I didn’t know an army of undead could run like that. How is it possible?”

The King of Khelt was why. Normally, Khelt’s strength lay only in its borders. But Fetohep had taken to the front in the first time in…centuries.

And every nation in this region of Chandrar had stopped fighting. Nerrhavia, Medain, the Claiven Earth—all were watching to see what was happening.

Reim’s armies were pivoting, trying to regroup. But—the [Army of the King] had been used.

If ever there was a time to strike, it was now.

For two days his army marched. Only the living suffered. Yet they moved with fervor, after their king. He spoke to them, to the skies. To his long-dead companions.

“They make much of Nerrhavia’s hordes! Mine are without limit! Medain is said to have all the treasures of a lifetime. Khelt’s vaults stretch beyond imagination. Reim’s forces once took all of Chandrar and the world by storm, but Khelt’s soldiers have gone further than the King of Destruction ever dared dream.”

They had forgotten that fact. Fetohep’s head turned. He spoke.

“The world shall remember Khelt anew. And to my subjects who idle from passion to passion—they shall never want. Never yearn for needs. But let them dream. Let a passion be born into their hearts. Let the topic of every hour be war, and their dreams of glory. And let those who will it take up arms.”

He was enacting decrees as he rode. For the first time, Khelt was calling its citizens who so desired to lead, to fight—if they wished it.

Some would die. But for any who enlisted and fought for a year’s time, the right to bear children would be given.

After two days, the army of Reim met Fetohep’s at the border of Hellios and Belchan. Fetohep had ignored former Queen Calliope asking his intentions, refused all hails for two days.

Now, he came to a stop. And he saw the Nomads of the Sky. The Steward of the King of Destruction—

Not the King himself. But he was ready to ride on Fetohep’s flank. The Steward, Zamea, Parasol Stroll—they were all there. An army brought low only once in recent memory. Half-Giants, the legacy of old—

The army of Khelt advanced and Reim shuddered for the first time in memory. For look up—and remember.

“My kin? My foremothers and forefathers?”

Zamea whispered. She stared…up…at a giant of bone. Fetohep heard her voice from afar. He would have laughed.

All species had come to Khelt, large and small. They had been welcomed, the tallest of the world. And the rulers had only asked for their service in death.

“Fetohep of Khelt! What are your intentions?”

The [Ruinbringer Steward], Orthenon, bellowed. Fetohep did not reply. Orthenon turned.

“Go.”

A single rider shot across the ground, bearing a white flag. Fetohep watched the person advance.

Bone giants, bearing enchanted javelins, aimed, tracking—but he overruled the authority of the living.

“Let her come. Halt the army.”

He dismounted from the great war monster and claimed an undead horse instead. He rode through the silent ranks as the young woman bearing the white flag, Teresa Atwood, approached.

Flos had sent her north, believing only one person could speak to Fetohep if…she was panting, winded from near non-stop travel.

“Fetohep. What—what are you doing?”

The King of Khelt’s eyes were shining brighter than she had ever seen him. He was…imposing. He stared down at her, garbed in armor, holding the halberd.

He had been a great warrior in life. Teresa stared at his army and quailed.

“My business is that of Khelt’s. Tell your Steward and your ruler, Teresa Atwood, that if they stand against me, I shall destroy them.”

She flinched. Fetohep did not lie.

“Is it…war?”

Her voice quavered in the air. Fetohep tilted his head.

“That depends on what his Majesty Reimarch wills. If he is amenable—I shall allow him to flee without bringing him to battle.”

“What does that mean?”

He told her. Teresa’s jaw dropped. She looked over her shoulder.

“You can’t just—”

“It is done. I will not tarry, Teresa Atwood. Will the [Steward] retreat?”

“He—I think he will.”

He had to. Orthenon was staring up at the giant of Chandrar, and Reim had fought 6-to-1 odds. But…a hundred to one?

“This isn’t war with Reim.”

Teresa had to clarify. She was already turning her horse, which was terrified of Fetohep’s dead one.

“Not necessarily. But tell me. If I did tell you I intended to take Reimarch’s head—what would that man have said?”

Fetohep was curious only about that. Teresa hesitated.

“If you were going to destroy Reim…he told me to tell you that, ‘he did not think you were that petty a man.’ Then he would have asked you where you wanted to end things.”

“I see.”

Khelt’s army began to march slowly behind Teresa as she rode like an arrow, giving her time to relay his words. Orthenon stared at Fetohep.

“He cannot be serious.”

Zamea rumbled.

“Oh, but he is. Fall back.”

The Steward cursed. Reim’s forces looked at him. He raised his spear.

“Fall back!”

It was not Reim that Khelt had come to destroy. Not necessarily. But as Fetohep’s army crossed through Belchan…it became obvious where he was going.

Jecrass.

—-

High King Perric of Medain had come personally with the bulk of his armies. He did not know why Khelt was marching. But he espied an opportunity.

After all, Medain had no quarrel with Khelt. And the undead were tamed, their teeth pulled so long as no one interfered with…with…

He realized Fetohep was making for him. His armies formed up.

Queen Jecaina of Jecrass brought her smaller forces to the side. Medain did not attack, even though they were close.

Fetohep of Khelt advanced with an army so vast you could not see the end of them. It was then that High King Perric, his forces having taken all of Reim’s fortifications, poised to take Jecrass once and for all, sent a [Messenger].

“King of Khelt! What are your intentions towards Medain?”

The High King stood with his Golden Ranks, sweating. Was Fetohep trying to take Jecrass for himself? He received a reply—not from the person on horseback, but from the King of Khelt himself.

Fetohep spoke, and his voice boomed across the ground and his army. Audible to all.

“King Perric of Medain. Your armies stand upon my lands. Remove yourself before I turn Medain to ash and dust. You will release Raelt of Jecrass or I will cast your head into the sea.”

Queen Jecaina had ridden all the way out here just to hear that. To see the distant ‘King of Adventurer’s’ face and reaction.

All the golden pennies dropped. Perric looked at Jecaina, in the distance. At Fetohep, who had come here on the ‘business of Khelt’. Defending his…

“You whore! You sold yourself to that undead thing?”

He howled at Jecaina, and he was lucky his voice was not audible to Fetohep. Perric, High King, raged.

And he was once again wrong. He was right in a small way. For a small man with no imagination.

For look—

Here was the [Queen] of Jecrass. Jecaina rode at the head of her army as they looked at her. But she was…

[Queen of Covenant]. And she was still a [Queen]. No longer temporary.

Perric did not understand. But Jecaina did. It was so simple. She stared across the new border between Jecrass and Khelt.

She had sworn not to kneel to anyone, even in vassalage. And she had found a way to refrain from doing just that.

The funny thing was that she didn’t even need to marry Fetohep. As funny as that might have been—no. The King of Khelt was a practical undead.

“You sold him Jecrass?”

Warden Svinta looked like she wanted to faint as the heralds finally shouted the news for all to hear. Jecaina turned her head. Was that the People of Zair in the distance?

“A fourth of it. Maybe a bit more.”

“To the undead?”

“To the only kingdom who would guarantee Jecrass’ autonomy, Svinta. And who could bring Medain to heel now.”

The High King was bellowing insults at her. Right up until one of the bone giants hurled a javelin. It soared high, high—everyone’s heads turned up to watch.

It landed among Medain’s army and exploded. Jecaina blinked.

“Advance. Let us see if Gold-rank means anything in this day.”

Fetohep’s legions began to charge. Medain’s combined armies wavered—and began to retreat.

Jecaina was grinning madly as Medain’s forces raced for the pass, abandoning…everything. She would speak to Fetohep soon, but he had sworn to return her father to her.

Return her father, protect Jecrass from Reim and Medain. That was the cost of a fourth of Jecrass. And…

“You have sold our lands, the lands we were born on, Queen of Jecrass!”

Herdmistress Geraeri realized it first. The People of Zair had wisely moved out of the way of Khelt’s armies, but they couldn’t miss where Fetohep was claiming ground. Jecaina nodded at her.

“Firstly, you are nomads, Herdmistress. Your people move from place to place. You told me that yourself.”

“We have lived there for decades!”

“And you may still. If Fetohep of Khelt allows you. I would not anger him, by the way. For all the People of Zair’s might. And he might allow you to stay.”

It was part of the proclamation being put out. The people of Jecrass who lived in the lands under Fetohep would be allowed to stay if they wished it. But they would be people of Khelt. Fetohep would rule them—and he would rule this place. The rivers he now controlled meant Khelt would never go thirsty again. And if he established his undead dominion…who would take it from him?

On the day nearly forty days after taking her crown, the world was reminded of the nation of death, Khelt. They stared at the first expansion to the kingdom since most could remember.

Undead. On this day, Khelt declared war on Medain and began to invade, to rescue the King of Jecrass, while claiming—no, fortifying the land they had been sold by Jecrass.

As for the [Queen]? She was [Queen of Covenant], Jecaina Leysars. Queen of Jecrass.

They had known her as Princess Jecaina, the [Duelist Princess].

They had called her the Daughter of Duels.

Now, they called her the Arbiter Queen of Jecrass.

Death’s Friend.

8.09

The Wandering Inn is going to be working with editors and holding a contest for paid, professional editors to apply! Please spread the word and find out more details here!

The great king raised his hand and spoke a single word.

“Advance.”

Legions moved. Tens of thousands of bodies, pouring forwards across the ground, heedless of arrows and spells raining down around them.

The Golden Ranks of Medain along with the army proper unleashed enough spell and firepower to vaporize the ground itself. Plumes of smoke rose from volleys of [Fireballs], bolts of lightning which crisscrossed the sky and left afterimages.

They charged through smoke, towards the walls glowing with magic. A thousand must have died in the first volley alone.

But they feared nothing. And their king ruled beyond death itself.

Even so, the undead wave of Khelt looked as though it would break on the walls, for siege ladders or more sophisticated gear was missing. Would they, like undead, simply climb on top of each other until they reached the top? But the walls were twenty feet high and filled with strong defenders on every foot of space.

“Now. Swarm the gap. Commanders of Khelt, lead your forces in only after the ranged defenses are down. I shall join the vanguard.”

The living members of Khelt’s army looked at Fetohep of Khelt, not understanding. Each one had a semi-autonomous force; Fetohep commanded the army as a whole, but he entrusted the living with their own forces that they might level and handle events he could not foresee. But they were young and did not have the undead’s intrinsic connection with their ruler.

What gap? The walls of Medain’s border fortress were unyielding. What g—

The Jaw of Zeikhal, the great beast, charged. The defenders, who had confidently seen the first wave of undead disappear, began to fire spells at it. Trying to stop it. They had known they had to bring down the great beast.

But it had stayed well clear of the undead. They would let the creatures mass to destroy this one titan. They were Gold-rank adventurers. They knew their business. And besides. The thing had so far to run, into spells and projectiles. It couldn’t dodge; it was arguably larger than the fort itself!

Few living beings had ever seen one of the Jaws of the Great Desert move. The giant creature of chitin and bone began to move as fast as someone jogged. Then—the speed of a horse. Then—the air itself left a vacuum in its wake.

It hit the wall and broke through enchanted masonry in an explosion of sound and debris. Fetohep motioned it back; he was already riding at the gap with the undead massing. Screams from the living, confusion.

The construct was already pulling back. The spells had damaged its armor, but it would be repaired. And the undead—

Skeletal warriors charged through the gap. The stunned forces of Medain found themselves locking blades and shields with a force that fought with skill, unlike mundane skeletons that knew only to attack and defend. They fought in ranks! They ran—they had actual armor—

Then a golden light, among the glowing flames in the eye sockets. The King of Khelt rode through the lines of undead. An adventurer raised a bow and aimed an arrow.

“[Seeking Shots]! [Double Shot]! [Sonic Arrow]—”

The arrows cut the air and exploded, too fast for the naked eye to fully track.

They missed.

Fetohep had leaned out of the way of the arrows before they had been shot. They tried to curve, even so; he twisted around them and they were unable to hit him and detonated in the ranks of the undead.

Fetohep lifted his halberd. The group of Golden Ranks presented a wall of shields and weapons. He raised the halberd high and brought it down.

“[Chosen Blow].”

He was probably thirty feet away. The Golden Ranks braced for the enchanted halberd to activate.

The halberd’s blade descended through the [Archer]’s head and helmet. The Golden Ranks turned their heads and saw the weapon appear from behind them. A chosen angle, and location.

Fetohep rode down on them in the moment of distraction. He was grinning, the light of battle in his glowing eyes. And several undead followed him. An [Archer] put an arrow into one of the Golden Ranks; another followed Fetohep with a single-edged blade, curved, and a buckler.

His companions of old. The King of Khelt broke the lines of the border fort. Where he fought, battle was a combination of incredible artifacts, levels, Skills that the Revenant undead possessed in life, unmatchable.

Where his army fought, Medain’s forces found themselves surrounded, hemmed in by undead. They saw undead swarm around them, until they could not even clear space to swing a sword. [Pikemen] looked up and saw undead giants crashing towards them.

Those that did not surrender died. Those that surrendered were spared, and the undead flowed past them.

The border fort fell within the hour. Morale broke before the soldiers; they surrendered, rather than fight the undead and fall back into the keep.

Fetohep’s army marched on almost without pause. His display of personal battle prowess, his army, seldom-seen in battle, the giant and unique undead his kingdom possessed—for many it was the first time seeing such war. And Khelt’s name was repeated.

—-

“I had always known such a place existed, I suppose. No—there are many nations in this world. I am…aware necromancy is practiced by Rhir, for example, but I do not like to think often of it. It is a mark of their desperation, and the situation that we have seldom raised the issue. But this?”

The Summer’s Champion watched the live coverage of the battle and aftermath with a look of disgust on his face.

It was mirrored across all of the [Knights] present, even the [Squires]. A horror for the continent of Terandria, not just historically, but culturally.

Necromancy. A kingdom ruled by undead? To say they were horrified was an understatement.

“That anyone could suffer such is…incredible.”

One of the [Summer Knights] remarked. The Summer’s Champion nodded. He clenched a fist.

“I know there have been crusades against such evil before. Not just Khelt—but to see such brazen abhorrence—if it were not for Ailendamus, I would petition the Knight-Commander to consider such a thing! But watch, then, even if naught can be done at this hour. Look upon how such things fight. As long as your stomach holds.”

The members of the Order of Seasons gathered in this room nodded grimly. Foes came and went and could be of any species or nation—but here was a certain one. They looked at Fetohep with disdain, horror, contempt, even fear.

Undead! Revenant, worst of all! A horror pretending to still have true thought and emotion. A pestilence upon the living, a threat made more cunning by its intelligence—

A sexy beast of war.

That thought came from a certain Ser Solstice in the room. Rabbiteater was watching the King of Khelt fight. He thought that the King of Khelt had all the Redfang qualities of attractiveness. Imagine how good he must have been when he was alive? Well—you didn’t have to.

He’d vouchsafe that to Meisa, later. This didn’t seem like the time to air such thoughts. But the Goblin approved. That undead king was handling the halberd like a true weapons-expert. Frankly, better than the Summer’s Champion was with his weapons. Rabbiteater decided that if he ever had to choose another place to go after Terandria, maybe Chandrar would be on the list.

It seemed like a fun place to be. But Fetohep had appeared on television and there was no unseeing the King of Khelt. Many did react as the [Knights]. Some—like Rabbiteater.

—-

After repeat viewings of the highlight reel—and nearly 17 hours of watching Fetohep of Khelt being amazing, Toren decided he wanted to become Fetohep when he grew up.

That statement was so…inaccurate…that Az’kerash actually had to process it for a few seconds. The Necromancer blinked at Toren, tried to figure out where to start, and then let Toren go.

He had enough teaching problems to try to untangle that one.

However, if enemies or people with a morbid fascination or love of war were watching Fetohep many hours of the day, Az’kerash watched them all the hours.

Literally. He did not sleep, and the Necromancer had actually used the various scrying devices and enchanted eight mirrors, that the broadcast of Pallass News Network would be playing throughout the castle.

Also, to say he was in a ‘a good mood’ after seeing Khelt and Fetohep was to be as inaccurate as Toren’s beliefs. Az’kerash, the Necromancer of Terandria, Perril Chandler, Archmage Chandler, was in a disgustingly exuberant mood. If there was merchandise of Fetohep, he would have bought a thousand copies.

As it was, he had been smiling all day, and his Chosen were very much alarmed when the Necromancer walked about, humming, or complimenting mundane actions—or dispensing Khelt-facts at random.

It was so obnoxious, that Belavierr had actually left the castle rather than be around Az’kerash after the second day. The Stitch Witch could handle threats, bodily harm, extreme passive-aggressiveness and the pallor of undeath. Az’kerash being jovial was the step too far, apparently.

That suited Toren just fine. He hated and feared the Stitch Witch. He was just happy there was something to watch.

For instance, after the meeting where the rulers had argued about killing one person for hours, a shift in understandings had taken place. A fad, a trend—

Copying. To limited degrees of success.

“Hello, hello, are we ‘live’? I am King Ahrmal of—”

“Excuse us, but we believe we were first. We, the Radiance of Lomal, deign to join this judgment of—”

“IS THIS THING WORKING? Hello? Hello—”

“Monarchs, apologies for the volume, I believe the King of Taimaguros is ah, having connection issues. If we can introduce ourselves in order of arrival.”

“Quite so. I am King Ahrmal of—”

“We will not be introduced after a Chandrarian [King]!”

“Excuse me—”

The ensuing argument took up the entire hour timeslot. Noass never even got to introduce the criminal case of a murder; the four monarchs who had applied bickered the entire time about who would be introduced first; with the exception of Taimaguros’ [King], who had to be muted due to issues with connection.

He didn’t care for that. But Az’kerash kept all of Pallass News Network on, despite some sections being boring.

It was for his enjoyment, but also…for the Chosen. Because here was something…interesting…that separated Toren’s reaction from that of the now seven-strong Chosen.

Kerash the Gnoll Draugr.

Bea, the Plague Zombie.

Ijvani the Skeleton [Mage].

Venitra, the Armored Bone [Warrior].

They had been the original four, along with Oom who had died. Now, more joined their number. Three Chosen had been created.

Toren saw them wandering about. He was less likely to run from them than the original four; they didn’t smash him in an instant for being there.

Devail had been first of the new. A…meat undead? All sinew, no bone. No flesh, so you couldn’t call him a Flesh Golem; he carried a rapier and could slither through cracks in a wall.

And perform inhuman stunts while fencing. Az’kerash was teaching him, personally.

Next had been a unique creation, even for Az’kerash. Born out of…conversations, or so Toren understood. Conversation with who? The skeleton didn’t ask. He just swept up and had heard Az’kerash mention this while looking for rats to feed Healing Slime. Not that Toren was sure the slime really liked rats, but he was always looking for more foods for his friend.

The second undead was called Wesixa; she was a combination of two creators. Belavierr and Az’kerash, as per their deal. But she was the Necromancer’s. And she was…

Chitinous. Not spider-like, although Toren understood she was compounded out of that; she was rather…unique. Toren understood that Az’kerash had told Wesixa that she would have to ‘upgrade herself’.

“You are based on this skeleton, Wesixa, in theory. Your chitin was not the sublime material I forged Venitra out of, for example. I have not stockpiled such; I did not animate arachnids or insects as a rule.”

“Then, am I inferior, father?”

The undead creature had appeared distressed. She had lots of ‘eyes’ in her body. Which were more like…empty holes from which a kind of light shone. And uh, she was held together with thread—connecting her individual parts. Belavierr’s magic, but Wesixa produced her own thread.

She rearranged herself, that more eyes might track Az’kerash. He reached out and gently touched her…Toren noted that her ‘head’ could move from midsection upwards. That, at least, was somewhat insectile.

Puppet-Arachnid Golem thing. Toren edged away and put some Sage’s Grass into his skull cavity as Az’kerash addressed his child.

“You are inferior to nothing, Wesixa. Rather, I hope you will grow in more than just level. You will create yourself, and I hope you will be one of the proudest of my creations.”

“Then I will try, father.”

The new Chosen called Az’kerash ‘father’. Well—two of them did. The old ones had trouble with it. And all of them had trouble with…well, it was Fetohep who had revealed it.

After the revelation of Jecrass’ deal, Fetohep’s appearance, Az’kerash had looked at Toren. The skeleton had flinched; he’d crept out of hiding because he’d been so entranced.

But the Necromancer read his thoughts. He could find Toren anywhere, even the time Toren had stolen an [Invisibility] scroll. And he could read Toren’s thoughts.

“You approve?”

Toren had nodded repeatedly. The Necromancer smiled.

The Chosen did not. Wesixa and Devail looked confused. The Chosen…

“I do not understand, Master. That undead is not your creation. It was once living and has the mind of the living thing it was. Why do you approve?”

Az’kerash’s brow furrowed. He turned to the bone woman, who had stomped Toren’s skull in yesterday. Toren hid behind him and made gestures at Venitra, despite knowing she didn’t understand what they meant and would hunt him later. He was getting better at running away.

“I admire Fetohep of Khelt greatly, Venitra. I have always done so. To see him thus liberated is…rewarding. Do you see nothing to admire? Ijvani, Bea, Kerash, Wesixa, Devail?”

Venitra, the Chosen, stared at Fetohep. The six Chosen out of the seven all hesitated. The four originals stared at Toren.

Accusingly. He flinched; now they were angry at him because…they couldn’t make him tell them what to say that would earn their master’s approval.

“Is it because he is undead, master? And thus more undead means more enemies of the living?”

After a long thought, Ijvani raised one hand. Az’kerash was dismayed.

“Not just that, Ijvani. That is the…least accurate of the answers, although it is one. Do you see nothing grand? Nothing…?”

He looked at their blank faces and sighed.

—-

The Necromancer was no fool. Toren had been ‘helping’ the Chosen to impress him, but Az’kerash was intelligent. Oblivious at times, changed by death and immortality, yes.

But he began picking up a…flaw in his children.

It might have been time. Toren was the oldest leveling undead by far. They were newborns if you ranked them that way, and they had been created and raised in different conditions.

Nature and nurture. Az’kerash had confirmed his hunches by replaying something that he also had watched on repeat.

The King of Duels’ first match with the King of Destruction. Toren liked that one too. That plucky Human [King], being thrown around but stabbing that other one—he liked the agile Human, having a lot of sympathy for Raelt’s dilemma versus the tougher, stronger, King of Destruction.

Toren saw the point. Az’kerash hopefully turned to Ijvani this time.

“Ijvani. Let us not talk about whether you enjoyed the duel. But give me your honest opinion. In that battle, who—no, what would be your preferred outcome?”

Clever. Toren watched as Ijvani thought, her eyes glowing with uncertainty. He would have preferred if Raelt won. Az’kerash too, it seemed, because he smiled when Ijvani began with that.

“I would have preferred at the last exchange, Master, if the blade had struck true and the other [King] died.”

“Ah! Yes! A victory for the King of Duels?”

Ijvani, encouraged, smiled. Her eyes lit up.

“Yes, at first, master! And then—the King of Destruction, with his last breath, smashes the King of Duel’s skull in.”

Toren and Az’kerash stopped getting excited. Ijvani wasn’t even done, though. She began gesturing.

“And at that moment, a fissure opens and all of the armies fall into it! Then a volcano erupts and the city is destroyed!”

“That is a good ending!”

Venitra pounded a fist into her palm, excitedly. Toren had suggested the more animated gesture, and she kept employing it, hoping Az’kerash would keep praising her.

The Necromancer stared at his creations.

“I…see.”

He looked at Toren. And the skeleton saw his eyes flicker to his creations; even Wesixa and Devail seemed more enthused by Ijvani’s ending.

That he had work to do did not fill the Necromancer with dread, but a kind of resolve. He locked himself in his study, pondering the issue.

And…trying to figure out a conundrum.

—-

Toren cared not for Az’kerash. He was willing to admit the Necromancer was…interesting. He was really good with the pointy, flexy-swords. Rapiers and such. Better than Toren, actually.

And Az’kerash knew what Toren thought. He, unlike every other person, could understand Toren, sometimes asked what the skeleton thought.

The problem was his damn kids, four of whom delighted in bullying and breaking Toren’s bones. He would have put Az’kerash squarely in the ‘sort of nice to have around’ camp, otherwise.

That was one new thing about Toren. He no longer had two states of mind about…everything…which had been ‘kill’ and ‘not-kill’. And most things had been in the ‘kill’ category, even if it was ‘kill later’.

Now, he thought about Liscor. He missed Liscor. It would be so nice if he could go back. Start over, not stab Erin—

Because Liscor was better than this. He wanted more than this. But he could not leave the castle.

The reason he felt so different wasn’t because he’d come to an epiphany about his actions. The reason was…he had a friend. And his friend thought nicer things, so Toren stopped vouchsafing that it was better to kill Mrsha and so on because it made his friend, Healing Slime, upset.

He fed Healing Slime the stolen Sage’s Grass and the little slime plopped in Toren’s chest cavity. It felt safe behind his ribs. And it was a bit bigger thanks to Toren finding food for it; it had been tiny due to Ijvani’s neglect.

Toren liked being in their secret hideaway rooms from the Chosen. He only came out when they or Az’kerash went looking for him; they could not discover Healing Slime.

Healing Slime was the only good thing in this castle. Healing Slime was a friend. Toren had found Healing Slime when they were both…despairing. And that was why he had purpose, now. He was going to do all the things Erin did for her weird guests. Feed, protect…

He was a skeleton with a mission.

A Level 7 [Carer].

—-

One of his Skills was [Enriched Recipes]. It meant that if Toren found the right ingredients, he could make Healing Slime a ‘meal’ better than just the component parts.

So he kept one of the Sage Grass leaves, and tried to find something else for the mishmash of alchemical ingredients that made the Healing Slime light up. That, or a potion—but the Potion of Frenzy he’d stolen for Healing Slime hadn’t…reacted…as well as either of them hoped.

Healing Slime could be Speed Slime if it wanted to. Both from potions. But when Toren had tried to give it the third potion, the Healing Slime had greedily sucked it up—

Then exploded. Toren had barely saved its life, putting the mana core in a jar of water with as much of it as he could gather.

Something was wrong—and neither he nor Healing Slime wanted to try that again. Toren had a hunch Healing Slime hadn’t been able to ‘contain’ all three potion’s effects, much like his skeleton couldn’t contain all the magic sometimes, especially without the Archmage’s bones which were going to a new Chosen.

So he was feeding Healing Slime back up. Some rat bones here, Sage’s Grass there, glowing mold scraped off the walls, and you had a right proper meal. For a slime.

Toren was busy doing that when Venitra came to exact her revenge.

“Stay still, skeleton!”

She wanted to smash him to powder. Toren fled, arms waving in the air. This was dangerous. He could die! Only Az’kerash’s castle steeped in death magic saved him from the bad beatings; if he was crushed to powder, especially his skull, he feared without the Archmage’s bones—he would die a skeleton’s death.

If he was lucky, Venitra would give up or get bored after doing less damage—or he’d find Az’kerash. Or Belavierr, if she had been here. Neither suffered the Chosen’s wrath upon Toren.

Az’kerash because he respected Toren or something weird like that. Belavierr because she wanted Toren alive for reasons that made the skeleton think it might be better to be dead.

He was rounding a corner when Ijvani caught him with a spell. Toren flailed in the air as Venitra stopped.

“Master always prefers your thoughts. Stop thinking them!”

The skeleton held a burning hand near Toren’s skull. He struggled as Venitra smiled.

“This time burn his skull until it turns to ash, Ijvani.”

“I will. I—”

The two stopped. Toren stopped struggling in the holding spell.

Something was walking towards them. Both Chosen and Toren stopped. Ijvani dropped Toren, abruptly.

The last of the new Chosen stopped and stared. It—she—smiled.

“Hello. I am Maviola. Do you know where my mother, Belavierr, is?”

Toren slowly got up. Ijvani, Venitra, both stared at Belavierr’s price for her work. They slowly shook their heads.

“Your…creator…has left the castle.”

“She has? I did not know that.”

‘Maviola’ looked—Toren slowly got up and backed down the corridor. He kept facing the last Chosen. Ijvani, Venitra, hesitated, but they were loath to go after them.

Even the Chosen felt uneasy in the presence of what Belavierr had wanted. Toren fled. Belavierr had a few steps on Az’kerash in some ways.

Her creation called her ‘mother’. And she called it—her—her beloved daughter.

Toren had never called himself evil. He just liked killing things. He had admired the [Lady] of flame when he saw her—and shortly before her death. Bravery—he had never thought himself as bad, until the end with Erin.

But the Stitch Witch had shown him evil.

—-

Az’kerash himself did not like to think of…what had been done by Belavierr. But they were allies of convenience. Then she would leave.

The issue of her was temporary. The issue of teaching his Chosen…less so. He had time. But now he worried about them. After all—he would never uncreate his children. Not now they were people.

You only got one chance. What had all the parents he’d met said? He tried to recall a lifetime’s memories in death.

His companions had been little help. Archmages made for poor parental units, what few of them had children. [Mages]…well, some were decent.

But Perril Chandler’s immediate friends hadn’t been parents, by and large. One or two…he clenched a hand as anger, even a hundred and fifty years later, struck him.

Forget that. His thoughts went searching and found another applicable parent, especially to this situation.

But had Zelkyr been a good father?

“No. If they had been flesh and blood—no. Far from it. I will not do what he did, not part or the whole of it.”

The Necromancer sat there. It was hard to parent alone.

Also, he had so many things to do. A working parent with undead children. His servants and puppets moved, he had dealings in the world, he needed to watch his enemies like Reinhart and Teriarch…

And he had promised that young [Necromancer]. For some reason, that ate most at Az’kerash, driving his thoughts. Of all the things…he did not want to be found out to have lied to Pisces.

He was still stymied. Although—it wasn’t his field. Healing and ice magic. Not exactly high on his areas of expertise. In truth, Az’kerash was moving into searching his collection and the world for spells or artifacts to aid the conundrum he was facing.

“Stasis…a kind of enhanced stasis? I need an artifact not from the [Mage]-schools of magic. Something different. Perhaps—”

As he sat in his rooms, an alarm-thought began pulsing. One of his split minds had detected something; any number of things he monitored for.

[Messages] with ‘Az’kerash’ in them, not encrypted.

People inquiring into undead extermination.

Key phrases with any of the local landmarks or geographical locations in them.

‘Tier 7’, ‘Tier 8’, ‘Tier 9’, ‘Death of Magic’, ‘Named Adventurer’, ‘Relic-class artifact’…oh, the list went on.

In this case, the reason his mind had picked up on it was because of the connections made. Content. He devoted two more ‘selves’ to analyzing it as he read a book and tried to alter a [Preservation] spell.

Hoarding and Hostility: How to Deal With Negative Traits, by Kassi the [Carer].

It was a Drake book, but it was surprisingly hard to get ahold of literature for adults raising children. Books weren’t that commonplace.

More mini-Az’s came back with a trace of the first [Message] spell in this ‘chain’ of conversation and all asides. They reviewed the findings to see if it actually mattered, then began kicking his mind, so to speak. Az’kerash focused his full mind on—

(Delivery Details) – To Lyonette du Marquin of The Wandering Inn, from Wall Lord Ilvriss of Salazsar, copy to Ceria Springwalker, Horns of Hammerad.

(Content) – Miss Marquin, I have obtained a partial Potion of Regeneration and am sending it to Liscor with all haste. I have hired my own security and escort with Salazsar’s transport rather than entrusting it to a Courier; they will arrive at Liscor in three days or less unless there are delays in changing mounts. I hope that it will aid Miss Solstice.

–Wall Lord Ilvriss of Salazsar, sent by Alrric, [Administrator].

(Additional Notes) – 1st-rate delivery requested, City Runner for immediate delivery, replies paid in full, unlimited content. Maximum confidentiality.

The Necromancer blinked. He stripped the superfluous details and checked—yes, there was a reply! What was the date on this?

Two days ago. Az’kerash frowned. There were two replies. One from the north…the other from coordinates precise enough that he could almost be certain it was coming from Oteslia.

Not Liscor.

Ceria to Lyonette and Ilvriss, did you really get it? We’re holding off on the Village of the Dead. Please tell us if there’s anything we can do. I can arrive if you need ice-magic!

Lyonette to all, I am not at Liscor. However, I have sent immediate word to the inn and [Mages] Palt, Bezale, or Montressa will be there to receive the potion. Thank you, Wall Lord Ilvriss. Ceria, I will tell you if you are needed. I am preparing to return home if news is good. Thank you again.

He went over and confirmed—yes, a [Message] spell to ‘Palt’…the Necromancer kept blinking.

A few thoughts ran through his head.

Ilvriss, a Wall Lord of Salazsar paid for a Potion of Regeneration?

Calculating the cost, even at market value would be exorbitant, even for a Wall Lord

He was with Zel Shivertail. Danger?

None shown; under scrutiny. Remember this.

Oteslia? Why would that young woman—

Ah, antidotes, logical.

Odds of antidote low, however.

Reinhart is at Oteslia.

I wonder if there are good books on child rearing in Oteslia? Manus and Pallass’ markets have not been as useful.

Manus does not surprise me.

The Village of the Dead is dangerous.

His eyes snapped open. Az’kerash terminated the parallel thoughts speaking and refining themselves before he was caught in a thought-trap. Left alone, they’d list every salient fact until he was recalling market figures in Oteslia from decades ago.

“A Potion of Regeneration.”

The Necromancer sat there. He began to stretch his magical connections and mental ones out. Monitoring Liscor’s [Message] spells. Extrapolating. Was there a chance a potion might…?

“Awaken.”

In a cave, bones assembled. Something crept out, ignoring the remainder of the Shield Spiders, betrayers of the ancient alliance of oaths, now replenishing their numbers in treachery. It left the Defenders of the Cave’s broken sanctuary.

Two Shield Spiders objected to the creation of death. They tried to kill the bone-beaver. The glowing, green eyes in the sockets flashed.

Az’kerash had no time to waste on pests. His creation rapidly raced past the fragments of chitin and twisted legs. It zipped across the Floodplains, invisible, camouflaged.

To see.

It was just in time to witness the Drakes arriving via door from Pallass. The Wall Lord’s representative; it kept well clear of three Drakes armed in full gemstone plate—the Rubirel Guard? It watched as the potion was delivered. The people clustered around.

They were going to try to use it. Az’kerash observed, listening to the commentary about…a [Doctor]? A multi-phase process…yes. He wished he could steal whatever notes they were discussing. But the debate was about using the potion now. It was a Potion of Regeneration! If they warmed her around the frozen bolts…

Desperation and hope. The magical bottle—Az’kerash frowned. There were a lot of powerful auras in this inn. People had gathered. Master Pelt of Pallass—no, Esthelm. Hedault the [Enchanter] of Invrisil, a strange young woman who had no…appraisable level…

The beaver crept around the outside of the inn, watching, as a group of [Mages] talked with friends. They decided it must be done. Attempted, at least.

They brought the frozen girl out into the inn. A little, white Gnoll was kept back, but clung to a Drake’s claw. She watched as they all did. Ice began to melt. Az’kerash watched.

They failed.

He knew it before they began, in truth. But even so, they all watched the potion drip onto wounds—fail to react, and splatter onto the floor. Only a few drops; but what a waste.

Grief a second time. Sorrow. The Necromancer knew it had been desperation that drove them to that. The young woman was refrozen. The Drake delivered the news.

His magic could not heal frozen flesh; similarly, this potion was incapable of it. All that had been done was to waste…

Well, the bone beaver disintegrated then and there. Az’kerash opened his eyes. He wondered, perhaps, if they had done more damage unfreezing and refreezing—although the [Enchanter] leading them had used the ice magic fairly well.

To no effect, the Wall Lord had spent all this effort and time. To no point.

Except one. The [Message] spell went out. The Necromancer read it, as it was sent to multiple sources.

We tried it. The potion failed.

Replies, from the Wall Lord, Lyonette—formality hiding true emotion, resolve to find an antidote and way of—

And one that mattered to him.

Ceria to Palt. We understand. We’re assaulting the Village of the Dead in two days’ time. Wish us luck.

Wall Lord Ilvriss to the Horns of Hammerad. Will you wait for a week or two for additional adventurers from Salazsar?

Ceria to Wall Lord Ilvriss. No, thank you, Wall Lord.

“Foolishness.”

Az’kerash whispered. Youth and haste and mortality and—desperation. The kind of madness he had once known. To defy an army by himself. To do battle against any odds.

But the Village of the Dead? He closed his eyes.

When he had first come to Izril, he had tried to claim them.

He had failed and declined to press further than the true interior. He wanted to tell the young man to stop his team.

But would they? The Necromancer remembered the Crelers. He hesitated.

Such moments made legends.

After a long pause of racing thoughts—he turned to the frozen corpses. And got back to work.

—-

The Wandering Inn was a mix of emotions that day. As it usually was.

First there had been a kind of…peace. Not happiness. Not exactly. But a bit of something.

The [Shaman] did not mourn someone she had never known. So, she had danced around the laptop in the secret rooms, excited.

Watching a movie. She clapped her clawed hands, delighted, laughing, scarfing down snacks. She’d raided the inn’s pantry liberally.

Mrsha ate a loaded baked potato skin, filled with an assortment of toppings. Was she happy? No. But she was a kind of satisfied, watching the Hobgoblin’s face.

She and Ulvama had made peace. Even an alliance of sorts, to look after Numbtongue. Mostly because Ulvama was willing to treat Mrsha like a sort of equal.

You scratch my back, I’ll smack you. Similarly—you help me, I help you. The Hobgoblin [Shaman] was interesting. She had little power like Palt did.

The Centaur had enchanted something—the air, not exactly the laptop itself since no one wanted to risk the device—to magnify the screen to be larger than the tiny laptop screen itself. Thus, Mrsha didn’t have to crowd around it. He could also do the same for the speakers.

Simple magnification spells, he’d called them. Ulvama couldn’t do that. She was a [Shaman], and her magic was less…technical than a [Mage]’s.

“Too much think magic. Stupid. You—you have magic like mine. Magic that comes from here, not here.”

She poked Mrsha’s heart rather than her head. Her magic was different. For instance, Ulvama had not been able to do much with the device of metal and electricity and plastic beyond use it, much to her disappointment.

…But she could reignite Erin’s fire. And, crucially?

Five faerie flowers were blooming in a bowl of water. They lay dead in vast patches in the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Mrsha had wept about her hard work when she’d had the thought to look for them.

But Ulvama had brought them back. She put some in water, mashed up some Sage’s Grass and mixed it in, and cast some spells, muttering, when she saw how sad Mrsha was.

A fraction had bloomed yellow the next day. The smug [Shaman] had shown Mrsha.

“[Renew Plants]. You give more good things, I teach.”

Thus, movies. Mrsha thought Ulvama would be nicer for a while. She thought the Hobgoblin was stingy though; she’d only brought back five flowers! What she didn’t know was that Ulvama had nearly burnt her entire mana supply on five and was seriously debating burning the flowers the Gnoll prized so much.

She knew a dangerous plant when she saw it. Although it was debatable what kind of danger it was—perhaps, like Sage’s Grass, it was more of a danger to itself and those who grew it. Either way, she was watching Humans on the silver screen and really enjoying it. The little Gnoll-child seemed happy too.

And then had come the Drakes. People flooded into the inn. Hedault, Pelt, Selys—Mrsha saw them all, and hoped. They brought Erin into the inn, fearing the [Garden of Sanctuary] might interfere in some way—and Ilvriss’ representative refused to give the Potion of Regeneration to anyone, even for a second.

They failed.

Mrsha hid in the basement, crawling under a sack of potatoes to be nothing-Mrsha. The others, above, left, rebroken by the moment. Some stayed; Ulvama let the Selys-Drake try to comfort Mrsha. Since she did a bad job, the Hobgoblin grabbed Mrsha, dragged her out, and gave her to the Fortress Beavers. The beaver gang cuddled her, at least.

And then…well, Ulvama went back to watching movies for the rest of the day. She had her priorities straight. Let everyone else worry about how to fix the frozen Human. It looked annoying and complicated to her.

—-

The failed Potion of Regeneration had no lasting effect whatsoever. No, none at all.

It wasn’t as if the image of the frozen young woman was traumatizing, or hope, reignited and then snuffed out, affected someone.

The Horns were marching on the Village of the Dead. They had told everyone who was able to make it to hurry.

Some would not make it. Wall Lord Ilvriss, exasperated, argued with Ceria. But she did not budge on the timeline.

Even so, it caused arguments. Not least because the Silver Swords were ready to turn around.

“We are two days from the port! Ylawes, we will not make it. Believe me—there is something going on at Wistram.”

“Is it worth more than our friends’ lives? My sister is taking part in that raid. And that threat is Named-rank, Falene!”

Ylawes Byres and Falene Skystrall were arguing fiercely; they had stopped in the road. It was an unusual sight. Normally they were quite able to resolve all differences.

But Falene was dragging them to Wistram. And Ylawes wanted to go to the Village of the Dead.

The call had been put out, but they were far from the Village of the Dead, having gone west to a port-city, rather than northeast, past Invrisil to the landmark of death.

“We need to be there.”

“We will not make it. If Ceria has any sense, she won’t try that place—or if she does, she is capable of retreating, as is your sister, Ylawes. And unless you have a Scroll of Greater Teleport…”

Dawil Ironbreaker tugged at his beard. The [Knight] and [Battlemage] were glaring at each other. Ylawes and Falene turned to him, almost at the same time.

“Dawil, help me convince Falene we must go back!”

“Dawil, tell Ylawes he is being unreasonable.”

The Dwarf sighed. He scratched at his chin and spoke.

“We won’t make it to the Village of the Dead before the Horns go in, lad. If Ceria’s willing to wait, we’ll turn back, sure enough. Ask her, Falene. You too, lad. Otherwise, we’re Wistram-bound.”

The [Knight] and half-Elf looked at each other. Neither was pleased, but both nodded.

“Let me compose the [Message] to Ceria, Falene.”

“Oh—very well.”

Exasperated, the half-Elf acquiesced. Dawil got off his pony to stretch his legs. They were probably camped for the day.

He sat by himself. Erin Solstice remained dead, then. He wondered if it was all futile.

Dawil tugged hard at his beard. It wasn’t for him to decide. They were bound in Falene’s plans. They could go questing for a cure…but Wistram was good as anywhere else for that, actually.

And she had a hunch Wistram related to Erin and…Dawil had agreed, which was why he was expecting to continue on his journey after Ylawes failed to convince his sister.

She, he, and the Horns in general were as stubborn as Ylawes could be. Which meant no one was shifting the other. The Dwarf sat back. Unconsciously, he pulled out a little axe.

He was an [Axe Champion], after all. Despite favoring the hammer he used. But the little throwing axe glinted in the light. He never touched the edge, and the sheath itself was designed not to rub against the blade.

A beautiful tool. He wondered how much it was worth to an Archmage. He had never considered selling it. Not once. He knew some of his people would actually hunt him down and murder him if he did.

He had met one such in Liscor. Briefly.

—-

Then.

“Master Pelt? I was hoping we could commission some armor or weapons for—”

The Dwarf slammed the door in Ylawes’ face.

“I’m not accepting orders! Begone!”

The [Knight] turned to his team. They had stopped here, after returning to see Erin. The moment had shaken the Silver Swords.

Pelt, likewise, was in no mood for anything. Ylawes would have left it there and gone to Falene, but Dawil nudged him.

“Why don’t you let me take over, lad? Maybe I can talk to Master Pelt, between Dwarves. You find Pointy Ears.”

The [Knight] eyed Dawil, but nodded. He had reason to doubt Dawil would get to Pelt with the bonds of species; Dasha of Vuliel Drae, among other Dwarves or part-Dwarves, had tried to coax Master Pelt into giving them a discount or taking their orders.

He treated Dwarves with more disdain than other species and threw them out. But Dawil was confident, so Ylawes left him to find Falene.

“Master Pelt?”

“If you don’t leave, I will break your feet.”

The voice inside was thick with emotion. Dawil couldn’t credit it; he’d heard Pelt had gone to Pallass, but from what he’d understood, the Dwarf was a drunk, a shadow of himself.

Someone had brought him back. Given him his pride. And she was dead.

No wonder…

Dawil knew Pelt. Hah! Any Dwarf raised in Deríthal-Vel, the home of Dwarves, knew Pelt’s infamous story. Disgraced…Dawil spoke up.

“I’m Dawil Ironbreaker, from home, Master Pelt. I hope we can talk—”

“I said begone! You—”

Pelt’s roar ended abruptly. Dawil heard a scuffling sound.

“Dawil Ironbreaker?”

The name registered. Dawil had been poised on the balls of his feet—to run like spit if Pelt came after him with a hammer. The Dwarf had been an amazing [Smith] and they had swings that could kill even Gold-rank adventurers.

But Pelt knew his name, too. The door abruptly opened. Pelt wasn’t red-eyed; but he was drunk. He looked at Dawil. His eyes passed over the Dwarf’s face, and right to his side.

“It is you. Get in if you want to speak.”

He jerked the door open. Dawil eyed Pelt.

To say he had mixed feelings about the [Smith] was an understatement. Dawil had heard the story; it had happened oh, what, over two decades ago? He’d been a boy, so it had shaken him; he wasn’t as old as Falene.

But Dwarves still aged slower. Pelt, to Dawil, was older by far. Still strong, but he would have been venerated, and Dawil respectful.

If his failure wasn’t known. Dawil nodded and stepped into the Dwarf’s home.

“Show me.”

That was all Pelt demanded. He didn’t offer Dawil anything; the [Axe Champion] hesitated. And then slowly unhooked the axe he treasured and carried everywhere and placed it on the table.

“Ah.”

Pelt gently removed it from the sheath. His breath caught in his throat as he beheld the beautiful metal blade, a single, balanced piece of metal.

He balanced it on one finger; Dawil had known how perfect it was to throw. If you put too much oil on one spot, or got enough blood on the tip, it actually changed the balance ever-so-slightly. He had once ascertained the perfect spot of balance and put it on a little wedge in his room overnight.

When he woke up, it had stayed there; only a thump from Ylawes dropping his armor had unbalanced it.

The blade of the axe was ornate. Oh, the edge was straight, but it had some ornamentation; Deríthal-Vel insignia, old runes of hearth and home on the head where it met the metal handle. The metal was…odd. A jasper color, amid the tint of coral blue and brass, rather than gold.

But it was not brass, or any other metal Dawil could name. And he was a Dwarf who could at least identify Mithril from fake silver-alloys with alchemical treatments.

“Ah.”

Pelt sounded like a Dwarf drinking after decades of thirst. He held the blade, running his fingers along it, inspecting it for…

“Flawless as the day it was forged.”

Dawil volunteered when the silence grew long and he was fidgeting from minutes of silence.

“Of course it is!”

Pelt snapped at him. He stopped lovingly admiring it and fixed the throwing axe with a more critical eye.

“A flaw? A crack, or dulled edge? Watch your tongue, boy. Do you even know what an honor it is to have won the right to carry this? It’s not even the best work…which one made this?”

“I don’t know, Master Pelt. About my companion’s request. Would you find the time to take an armor or blade order? We needn’t have it now, but upon our return. It can even be sent…”

The younger Dwarf held his temper. Pelt glanced at him.

“For a [Knight]? Pah. I don’t feel like making armor good enough to do the fighting for fools who don’t deserve it.”

He actually spat. Dawil glowered.

“That man is Ylawes Byres, my friend and team captain. Do you think I’d travel with an amateur, Master Pelt? I won this axe. Does the craftsmanship not inspire you? Isn’t it worth your smithing?”

Pelt brought his fist down, upsetting the five bottles on his tables.

“Craftsmanship? You want to talk craft? You? You won this in a tournament—you don’t know how it was made! Hah! This isn’t even fine work—not by their standards. Not by far. I could crack this myself! They put adamantium into it—but it’s not made that strong. I could—”

He raised the axe and Dawil tensed. But then Pelt slowly lowered it and placed it almost reverentially on the table. He looked at it. And Dawil saw tears in his eyes.

“Get out.”

Dawil took the axe, carefully putting it in the sheath.

“Master Pelt—”

“Leave your order and get out. Don’t you dare lose that axe, Dawil Ironbreaker.”

“I won’t.”

—-

Dawil hadn’t told Ylawes how he’d secured the order. Now, he looked at the axe.

Oh yes. Pelt would murder him. But—Dawil flipped it up and caught it. A risky maneuver; you could lose all the fingers on your hand. He broke off reminiscing and saw Ylawes throwing up his hands and cursing. Another rare sight.

“Wistram, then.”

If it came to it, would Pelt be happier Erin lived—or the axe was gone? Dawil sighed. The Horns were on the move. And so were the Silver Swords.

—-

The other Dwarf thought of the axe then.

Probably because he had replicated the conditions under how Dawil had met him. Drunk, Pelt was laughing.

“Potions of Regeneration. Ignorant bastards. Getting hopes up—”

He threw a bottle at a wall and cracked the wall. The glass sprayed across the room, but much of it powdered on impact.

Pelt was a [Smith]. He knew there was a process! This—this was like beating on unheated metal. They’d crack Erin’s body, thawing and freezing her.

Or would they? He was no [Healer]. Pelt sat.

Just like this, when he’d laid eyes on another masterpiece. He recalled that brat—Dawil—and the way he’d looked at Pelt. Contempt and awe.

Well, Pelt deserved both! He would never deny it! Pelt looked for more alcohol and wobbled around his home.

Esthelm. Esthelm had built this place and it was far from being as nice as Pallass’ apartment. But he’d trashed the one in Pallass, so Esthelm still won.

“Petty mining city. No skill here. No craft, but for me. Goblins sacked it. Not as damned bad as the places some of us went into exile, but—”

Far from where Taxus had gone. Pelt snorted to himself. He hadn’t believed in penance. They would never recover their honor, or so he’d thought.

But he had his pride. Somehow. The Dwarf stumbled out of Esthelm to find more drink.

He came upon the statue of the [Florist] amid people nodding to him. The drunk Dwarf stared up at it.

Flowers. They put flowers here. Grew them, rather, in a little garden around the [Florist]’s feet. Someone had worked hard on this, replacing Skills with effort.

The hero of Esthelm, who had apparently saved the city. Along with Goblins. Even the sculptor hadn’t added Goblins in. But the names were here. Somehow, found.

That…those ones had been here. Pelt saw the connection.

“Numbtongue.”

His fingers touched carven stone. There was the name. And he recalled the blade he’d made.

“Fat lot of good it did. Should have made armor. Beautiful stuff. Scale mail—no, something lighter. Mithril woven fibers. An apron of the stuff. Hah! Hahaha—she would have worn that. Now that…that would have been a masterpiece.”

His Drake apprentice, Emessa, found the old Dwarf giggling to himself, lying amid the flowers.

“Master Pelt—Master Pelt, people are staring. This is a statue—”

“I’m just resting. Why are you here? The forge is empty!”

The Dwarf swiped at her. The apprentice carefully dodged; he was fearsomely strong and wouldn’t hurt her on purpose, but he forgot his strength. He could probably uproot the statue by himself.

“Master Pelt, let’s get you home. I’ll get you whatever you want. But please, have some water? Something to eat? Have you eaten?”

“Mithril apron. No, something more subtle. Dye it. Infuse a flexible alloy so it looks like a damned apron. Miniature runes on the inside. That’s what you’d need. And it wouldn’t stop an arrow to the face. That would be craft, though. Beyond me. I’m not a damn [Seamstress]. But it would be something, eh?”

She didn’t know what he was babbling about.

“Yes, Master Pelt. Master Pelt…”

He sat in the kitchen as she ran to get food from an inn. Pelt sat there.

“Wasn’t even a great blade for the Hobgoblin. Good—solid Dragonblood crystal. Cuts beautifully, but it won’t last a decade. Weapon for a Goblin, really. It’ll keep cutting as it breaks off. But I could do better.”

“Yes, Master Pelt.”

He was still babbling when she came back. Extremely drunk—she offered him some soup. He gulped it down and exhaled.

“I used to make great blades.”

“You are, Master Pelt. Tomorrow we have to get to work.”

“Yes. Tomorrow. But I used to make even better blades. I’m teaching you the secrets of Mithril. ‘Dwarfsteel’, you fools call it. What did that boy, Kevin, call it? Titanium? He knew some metals…but there is craft beyond that.”

The Drake stopped. She looked at him. He grinned at her hungry expression.

“Yes. There is. Is the adamantium here?”

Slowly, Emessa put down the food.

“The Drakes from Salazsar actually brought some, Master Pelt. But you’re drunk—”

The Dwarf wasn’t listening. His eyes were far away.

“There was a time I never touched drink. When I aspired to best what that brat, Dawil, held. But it wasn’t just me. Pallass…is Maughin still working?”

“He’s done good work, Master Pelt. But he misses you.”

Emessa had visited her home quite often thanks to the door. Pelt shook his head.

“He’s young. Good, but alone. No competition. The ‘best’ in Pallass without me. They must be looking for another smith.”

“They are, Master Pelt. Will you have some fries? You do like them…”

She offered the snack food. Pelt munched, talking as she plied him with water.

“Maughin now. He has potential. But I’d never make him my apprentice. Even though he asked. Four times.”

Emessa’s claws nearly slipped as she handled a knife, cutting up some fresh vegetables. Dangerous in Pelt’s home; everything he owned he’d made and they were all sharp.

“He did?”

“Yes. But why would I teach someone like him? He has ambition. Pushes himself. Not like you.”

Emessa’s head sank.

“But you’re the expert, Master. It’s…terrifying, not knowing how to improve yourself. Smithing mithril, Dwarfsteel—there’s so much we’ve lost.”

“Yes. I did learn from my masters, didn’t I? Reminds me…damn idiots with that potion. Wasting my…”

He was drifting off to sleep. Emessa wavered, with fresh vegetables, more food. Should she let him sleep? Drag him into a bed, or just put him on the floor and put a blanket over him?

She slowly put down the bowl of vegetables and began to nibble on them, wondering if this would set back their work tomorrow. If it caused him to spiral back to his old self—could she handle that, seeing him at his best, now?

She munched on a carrot. Crunch, crunch—

Pelt’s eyes opened. The Dwarf snapped upright.

“Craftsmanship!”

He screamed in Emessa’s face. The Drake apprentice fell out of her chair. Pelt was out the door before she could blink.

—-

“Master Pelt! Master Pelt, please! Go back and rest!”

Emessa and the Dwarf smith attracted his apprentices, the new [Smiths] learning from the Dwarf. They had understood that the potion—the [Innkeeper]—had meant a surprise vacation, which wasn’t that unpleasant.

Pelt worked them hard. He made them do 95% of all work, which meant they did level and learn the craft by his excruciating standards—but it wasn’t fun. He intended to wear them down for a year, maybe two. He got their hard work, and when it was done, they would be far better [Smiths] than when they started.

A fair exchange. An ideal apprenticeship, in some ways. The Dwarf knew how to run a team, which was the thing. Not all [Smiths] were team players, but to everyone’s surprise, Pelt was good at it—or rather, he had been part of one and knew the components.

“Where’s the adamantium?”

“Here, Master. But you told me once that our anvils couldn’t even handle the force to shape them—”

“Of course they can’t. Neither heat nor…good stuff.”

He was sniffing it. The Dwarf stared at the powdery rock; strata mixed in with stone. No solid lumps; you could mistake adamantium for weak rock. Unless you noticed that some of the dust you’d get from breaking it up was the hardest stuff in…

“Ah. Teaching. This reminds me of how it was. Apprentice—isn’t there a good, open space somewhere outside of Esthelm? Find me one. A thousand feet of cleared space. Nothing woody or even plants around. Stone. I don’t care if it’s high-up.”

“Outside the city?”

“Go! You—where’s our worst anvil with a flat surface?”

Pelt pointed at a [Smith]. The man jumped.

“Er—the worn ones?”

“Yes. Grab it and come with me. Apprentice, where’s my spot?”

Pelt was not a fun master. Perhaps because he had learned that if you kept shouting, you got results. Niceness was not only optional, but detrimental to getting things done as fast as possible.

“Master, there’s a good spot down the road. But—what are we—doing?”

The Dwarf was lifting one half of the anvil while a team of [Smiths] dragged the other half of the insanely heavy object. He grunted, still drunk. Still…

“Teaching. Come. Come!”

He’d brought some of his canisters of materials. From her understanding, Emessa recognized the mithril canister, some actual billets they were supposed to be using for swords tomorrow—and to her great surprise, an amulet.

She’d always wondered why Pelt had enchanted items like the amulet in his possession. She knew it was magical, but the Dwarf never used it. He tossed it all on the road, then looked around.

“A damned road, apprentice? Well, fine. You—you lot, stand there. A thousand paces that way. You—that way. No one goes past. This won’t take more than an hour. If they have to, they can climb all the way…”

He indicated a vast circle around him. The [Smiths] exchanged looks. Some of Esthelm’s residents were coming out, watching.

What was he doing? The Dwarf had half of the adamantium sample with him. Was he actually going to…? Emessa looked at him.

“Master? What is this for?”

“Teaching. Apprentice—you can watch, I suppose. Hands help. But when I tell you to—go with the others.”

The [Smith] didn’t mean teaching her, Emessa realized. He was setting up. Anvil. His personal hammer…tongs…

Few tools compared to what he normally used. No forge, nothing. Just the worst anvil, with a stress-fracture already in it, in the middle of the road. Some people were standing closer.

Pelt threw his hammer and missed an onlooker by a foot. He called it back to him as the woman fled.

“Anyone comes closer than a thousand feet and I will break their toes! And it will be a kindness!”

He bellowed. The audience moved back; even Emessa hadn’t been sure that had been an intentional miss. The [Smith] began laying out the materials.

“Master? What are you making? A blade?”

The Dwarf looked up. He stared at Emessa until she turned red.

“Apprentice, do I look like I have a crucible of metal? Do I look like I have any material? What is this?”

He pointed. She squirmed.

“Adamantium, master. I just meant—”

“Adamantium ore! Adamantium dust! What, are you expecting me to squeeze it into a metal? Put some water in it and make a brick out of it? What do we do, apprentice?”

“Smelt, then forge.”

“And what is the basis of any tool?”

He screamed at her.

“The quality of the metal, Master Pelt! I apologize!”

She screamed back, exasperated despite knowing him. He calmed down.

“Good. Then what we are making is a teaching tool. Pass me the mithril. We’re lacing this with the following…watch. Because I cannot do this twice if I fail.”

He brought out the billets. Pure mithril, without impurity. And then—Emessa saw the other components come out of the canisters.

Grasgil. The cold metal. And—her eyes spotted one of the conductive metals of magic. Vetil, an ore used in artifacts.

“Master. Do you need a fire?”

“Fire. We’re constructing the big forge. But even then—even with Hedault—it wouldn’t be enough, you know. Because we’re using flame spells. Burning damned charcoal. You know adamantium is one of the greatest metals of [Smiths]?”

“Yes, Master. An achievement that makes you world-renowned.”

The young Drake’s eyes were hungrily set on the stuff. Pelt snorted.

“And you can forge it. But it’s easier to forge it with tools. That’s why artifacts for the stuff are fought over by [Smiths]. But that’s not craft. The craft is knowing every moment of it. Adamantium. You know, when they teach us this, the best of us—they make us forge a little bit. A ring. A cup, a fork or dagger. Something trivial. And then you know what they do?”

“No, master.”

He was spreading it all out. Pelt was ready. He left the adamantium in a pile next to the anvil; it was the components, the mithril, Grasgil and such that he was staring at.

“They toss it into a volcano. Or burning rock. Magma. You know the stuff? They toss it in—and then retrieve it. If it’s whole, you did your job right. Any weakness and the adamantium wasn’t forged right. You think you can get hotter than that in a forge?”

“Then…how? You don’t even have a forge fire, Master Pelt.”

He looked at her. His eyes shimmered—no, was the air around him—? Emessa felt the heat first. It radiated outwards, as the mithril began to glow in his grip.

“I am the great [Smith] of Deríthal-vel, my apprentice Emessa. Did you think you had seen my Skills? Now, watch. Those Human women are not the only ones who know flame. And mine burns hotter still.”

The metal was hot. His hands alone might have melted it, but Emessa realized he was holding something. He put it at the end of his anvil. The iron began to catch fire and deform from the heat—then stopped. Pelt put the first glowing mithril bars on the anvil and hammered them down.

“An alloy of mithril. Grasgil! Vetil—stand back. Toss me what I demand.”

She did. It was already growing hot. But she had felt the heat to cook mithril on her scales. She had [Resistance to Fire], as many [Smiths] did.

“First mithril! Into every inch of it, the Grasgil must be infused! Until it practically melts—”

He was taking the mithril to that temperature. Undoing the metal to turn it into an alloy. Mithril was no steel; it was a pure metal. Then, letting it rapidly cool away from the fire. Turning it into a billet. Then…

It was going to be a single thing. Made in two pieces, she realized. But this was no sword. Mithril, Grasgil, and Vetil went together. The clear metal of Vetil along one side; the bottom?

No, top. The two sides came up. The fire roared, and Emessa felt it begin to sting her, despite her Skill.

“Now toss me the amulet!”

Pelt was roaring as his hammer sang. Like all his work, he moved so fast that even mithril flowed around the way he wanted it. Emessa did.

“What is it, master? Do you need it?”

“Me?”

He looked at her. The Dwarf began laughing.

“I already have what it does. Don’t you know, apprentice? This—is an artifact I bought from Gold-ranks too stupid to realize what it was. What it could be. This is an Amulet of Greater Fire Resistance.”

He held up the glowing locket, forged like a burning flame itself, bright red. He tore the chain off the amulet. And then—pressed it into the Vetil heart of the glowing…

Emessa saw what it was as the smith took his hand away.

Two parts. Both like bowls…but identical, save for one with the amulet buried in what would be the top. And both sides had grooves carved into the mithril alloy. Put them together and twist and they would lock.

A canister. A container. Pelt did so now, as the metal cooled. He had created…a mithril box.

Or, the Drake realized, the most flameproof container she had ever seen. The glowing amulet fixed in the mithril container—the Grasgil forged into mithril—

“Apprentice. You must know what this is. Tell me now, or throw away your hammer.”

Pelt looked at her. Emessa gulped. But she spoke, almost without thinking.

“It’s…a crucible, master?”

He smiled. And it was a rare smile from master to student.

“A [Smith] without my Skills will make his own forge. Make his own anvil. Even his tools. Look—did you know I made this hammer myself?”

He held it out to her. She studied the dull metal, covered by soot. And she saw Pelt shake his head.

“When they cast me out, I broke every hammer I had owned myself. We all did. They took my anvil and cast it in lead, then buried it so deep it would never be found. But I never forgot. Every tool I used to first make new metal, I made myself. But I was given one thing when I learned to make adamantium. This. From one [Smith] to another—the great challenge. A first step. Because we work on the foundations of those before us. Now—apprentice. Put the canisters into your bag of holding. All the tools. I only need the hammer, the tongs, and this.”

He hefted the mithril crucible. Emessa scrambled to put away his materials. There was just the anvil, the road—people were watching from a distance. An impatient caravan had pulled up, but even they were watching.

Pelt was piling the adamantium ore into the crucible. She knew what was happening now. And if the fire he had called was hot before—it had gone now. Emessa was trembling.

The Dwarf had all the crucible could fit. He looked up at her. And smiled again. With the joy of creation in his eyes, Pelt spoke.

“Emessa. You may watch for the first ten seconds. Listen. Learn. Some day you may pick up this hammer. Ten seconds. Then—run. Understand?”

She nodded. The [Smith] picked up his hammer. A strange tool for smelting. But then—

The air caught fire.

The blast of flame was like a [Flame Geyser] spell. Emessa threw her arms up with a cry. The air ignited.

The dirt of the road cracked. Sand turned to glass; dirt scorched itself away.

The wave of fire cooked Emessa’s scales in an instant. Her resistance to fire—she felt her clothes catch fire.

“Apprentice! Run! Look upon me once and run!”

Pelt was laughing. Something was burning around the smith. Flame. Not the flame of memory. But pure heat. Emessa looked at him, at the culmination of her desire and craft. Then she ran.

Behind her, the crucible was heating up. The lesser rock mixed with the adamantium was turning molten. Pelt’s hammer struck the glowing mass of liquid stone. He hammered down the liquid and forced the heaviest metal to the bottom.

Molten stone splashed his beard and sprayed into the air. Worthless to Pelt; he waited as it heated up. He just wanted the most precious metal of all. It wasn’t even glowing yet. He added more ore, repeated the process. Separating that which felt the heat from that which did not.

The road was catching fire around him; weeds and the few plants incinerating. And the heat was spreading in moments. Emessa ran arms and legs pumping as those at the thousand-yard circle ran back further, all those except the [Smiths] or with Skills like her.

She heard him roar at last. His great Skills. The exiled [Smith].

No—she had heard his true class once before. She looked over her shoulder as he sang.

[Hammer of a Hundred Metals].

The Dwarf roared. And his voice was triumphant. He hammered and sang. His Skills were more than words. They were…

“[I Forged in the Greatest Fire I Have Known]!”

It was melting the ground around him. He was sinking amid molten stone, a pillar of smoke and steam. Yet the anvil remained. His hammer, the tongs by which he was holding the crucible as he forced more adamantium down—all held.

“[My Tools Were Unbroken].”

Liquid rock struck Pelt. And he wiped it away. The last of the adamantium shed the lesser rock; powder and fragments. Now—it began to heat up.

And the Dwarf himself began to burn. His clothes, like Emessa’s, were catching fire. Emessa turned back, staring as the heat baked her a thousand feet away. She heard the last Skill, with the other two. Advanced, a culmination of ability. A song, a boast.

“[I Forged in the Greatest Fire I Have Known]/[My Tools Were Unbroken]/[I Fear No Flame].”

The Skill that Dragons had once feared, but a [Smith]’s Skill. Now, the Dwarf sang. The adamantium was…melting. He was breaking the impurity away with hammer blows that shook the world. The onlookers could feel the vibrations.

Then—Pelt took the crucible and closed it. He held it, in the burning pit, as the anvil melted away. He held his hammer as the tongs evaporated. He let the burning fire engulf it, and him, completing the smelting. Then he just sang. And Emessa heard the only song the Dwarf had ever sung, from his craft, from his home.

When he had been legend.

“Look, now, and recall my tale!

I forged in the greatest fire I have known.

Yet my tools were unbroken!

I feared no flame! Remember that, metal!

Know who made you, who wrought you—

For there is no substance I cannot tame!

As I turn you into purity, by my hammer, by my craft,

Remember my name!”

He was lost amid the smoke. Emessa and the others retreated as it grew too toxic to breathe. The people of Esthelm stared from their walls.

It was a long time before the Dwarf reappeared. When he did—Emessa saw the road was gone.

A huge pit had formed where the dirt road had been. A depression formed as if a meteor or object had struck it.

All was ash and fire around the area Pelt had forged.

Yet two things remained.

The first was the Dwarf. He was naked. Not that you could see anything out of the ash and grit caking his body. He climbed out, coughing, the stuff flaking off him.

The second was the crucible he had made. It was glowing hot, even now. But it was done. And inside…was a billet of dark red and brown. A glorious color though, a color unto itself. The great metal—

Adamantium. Pelt looked at it. He smiled at her, wearily.

This was the story of Pelt in his mastery. It did not end there, though.

For the very hour as word spread, as Wistram lamented not having been there—for Pelt had not told them! As if he cared nothing for their fame!—and the [Smiths] of Pallass stopped working, wondering at the tale, someone appeared on the 9th floor.

Emessa. She walked past the forges. Past [Smiths]. Her arms burned from the short journey. Her scales were singed. The [Smiths] stopped talking to stare after her.

Then—followed. Because they saw what she held.

Maughin the [Armorer] stood at his forge, staring down at the armor he was working on for a Dullahan. All he had made in inspiration, even love—and his worry over seeing off Jelaqua—had been erased temporarily from his mind by the tale of craft.

“What is this I am working on? What paltry—”

He was about to toss the armor aside, for all it had his own, patented alloy with yes, some mithril in it. The Dullahan turned in disgust.

And there was Emessa.

He stopped. The huge [Armorer] looked down.

“Maughin. I have something for you.”

The Drake apprentice’s voice trembled. Slowly, she stepped forwards. Maughin’s fellow [Smiths], his team—looked and recoiled in shock.

For she held the crucible. And—with it—a single, perfectly solid, incredibly dense metal. She placed both on an unused anvil and bowed.

“What? What is th—”

Maughin didn’t believe it at first, for all the story was fresh in his ears. He looked down at the adamantium. The crucible.

“Master Pelt sends it.”

There was no note. No instructions. No tools beyond the crucible and metal. That was the point.

Teaching. A Blacksmith’s Puzzle to end all puzzles. And the reward was—

Maughin dropped his hammer. And he had not done so since he was a boy learning his craft. The great Dwarf [Smith] had passed down a challenge.

To a worthy smith. He saw Emessa turning away. He called out after her. But then she was running, laughing, giddy.

It was the day a potion had failed to do a thing for Erin Solstice. And had no consequences. Whatsoever.

—-

Pelt, the Hammer of Deríthal-Vel. His name echoed for a moment. Adamantium smith. Master craftsman.

A passed era of greatness. But one that might see a second dawning, if not so brilliant. A [Smith] did not lose their talents with time.

…Less so for those in professions that took harsher tolls.

The Couriers of Izril had diminished over the events of the spring and summer. Four had died, a harsh number. In other times, it might be taken as a sign that the Runner’s Guild was lowering its standards.

Some people did say that. For, Mihaela Godfrey had been bested by the Assassin’s Guild and Lacel the Leaper had perished, as well as the Firedrake. The Courier of the Antinium Wars had lost her edge. She was a Guildmistress, no longer the Courier to inspire.

So some people said. For proof, why not look at her son, Valceif Godfrey, who had perished at the hands of common [Bandits]?

Of course, they did not say this around other Couriers or anywhere near First Landing. But that was three.

And the last, Tritel, the Moonlight Rider—well, he had made the Courier’s mistake of thinking he was an adventurer, hadn’t he? Three Couriers versus three [Assassins] of high, possibly roughly-equal levels. What did you think would happen?

Four dead, when it was rare for two Couriers to be certified in a year. Was this a referendum on the Runner’s Guild? A sign of Izril’s complacency?

Or was it just talk from people who had no idea what they were saying? Couriers—try running the places they went and then complain.

The truth was simply that running deliveries was not a job for the old. That change happened all too quickly. Couriers rose and fell. And…changed.

They said two new Couriers had emerged from the deaths of the old. One was familiar—but different.

Salamani, the Mage Runner, had inherited Tritel’s last will and legacy. His partner, Ci, rather. They called him the Mage Rider—and whether it was a partnership that would last was unknown.

And—there was one new Courier whose name people still remembered. The Wind Runner of Reizmelt.

Ryoka Griffin.

—-

A [Bandit] group waiting in ambush was looking for a juicy target. They were watching caravans, passing up the heavily-guarded [Merchant] with thirty [Mercenaries]. A lone [Trader], a City Runner who might be carrying something good—they had a [Stalker] with an arrow trained on the road.

“Anything? What about that one?”

“I’m lining up a shot. Shut up.”

He was sighting down the arrow at a carriage. The [Bandit Leader] was a former [Warrior], a hard fighter who ruled the group by force.

“What do you see?”

The man grumbled.

“[Mark’s Eye] says they’re as poor as shit. We could still take the horses—”

“We go after someone and the road’s dead all day. Wait. There’s a Runner. That one?”

They saw a young woman running down the road at a good clip. The [Stalker] brightened.

“There’s something nice on her. Might be jewelry. Not the best mark, but—”

“It’s better than anything we’ve got. Get ready—we get her and the horses.”

The [Bandit Leader] called to the others in the underbrush. The group of twelve readied themselves. The [Stalker] grumbled as he changed the position of his bow, tracking the possible City Runner.

“Well? Hurry up!”

One of the [Raiders] whispered loudly, already on horseback with a spear. He scratched at his hair; he had lice to the [Stalker]’s keen eyes. Disgusted, the man snapped back.

“Give me a moment! It’s not easy hitting a moving target! I just need—”

He drew back, calculating range, the environment. He felt a moment of regret, but he aimed for her chest, not legs. No taking chances. He held his breath for a moment—

And the wind changed. The [Stalker] cursed and shifted his aim. Just a bit—he felt the wind growing stronger. Stronger—

“Dead gods damn it, is this a gale or what?”

He snapped. The [Stalker] relaxed slightly. And he heard a muffled curse.

“What?”

“It’s—above—”

The man with the bow looked up as the [Bandits] stared up. He saw a strange thing in the sky. A triangle? His first reaction was to fear a wild Griffin. But no—not a bird or monster. It was…a person. She flew overhead.

“That’s—”

And she was looking at him. The [Stalker] and the woman holding onto the glider locked eyes. He cursed, swinging his bow up—

The dust cloud blasted over the [Bandits]. The Courier—the Wind Runner of Reizmelt tilted her glider and spun down.

“Bandits in the brush! Run!”

She shouted over the scream of the wind and curses of the ambush group. The City Runner did a double-take. She turned and sprinted back the way she’d come. So did the couple in the carriage and people on the road.

“That bitch!”

Sand and grit was whipping around the [Bandits], blasting them in the eyes. The [Stalker] cursed, but he was aiming at the shape as she swooped up.

“I’ll kill her. I’ll—”

A vice of iron pulled his arms down. The [Stalker]’s shot went wide.

“Boss!”

“Are you mad? That’s a Courier! We have minutes before someone’s on us. Get moving! Everyone in the saddle! We’re running!”

The [Bandit Leader] bellowed. Cursing, the [Stalker] shouted an insult at the Wind Runner, already flying past them. He went running for his horse as the [Bandit Leader] shielded her face with her arm.

To herself, she watched Ryoka Griffin soar off. The former [Warrior] grinned.

“Besides. I saw her on the scrying orb. And it was a damn good run.”

She watched as the Wind Runner flew on.

Ryoka Griffin had weird fans.

—-

The Wind Runner, the Courier, flew her first delivery as an actual Courier and it was the strangest feeling ever.

For one thing, she flew. Ryoka was still amazed she could actually do that.

But it had been a smooth flight. She’d taken off from Riverfarm, and found the ‘right’ breeze in the sky, going the right way. Well—she’d had the sense of where the wind was blowing from the start.

She could have burned her own mana for her personal wind, and she did twice when the wind changed, going up or down to find the right breeze, but Ryoka found that her travel was now…holding onto the glider and watching the world go by.

Was this less taxing, less athletic, than running? Was it cool as all heck? Yes to both accounts. Ryoka covered the distance from Riverfarm to her destination in…a fifth of the time it would take on foot? And that was taking regular shots of stamina potion with the wind at her back already. Even with Boots of Speed or whatever—no comparison.

And that was with her landing twice to stretch out her arms; they got tired, as did her body in the gliding position for such a long time. She wondered if she could just strap herself into the glider and not have to hold it.

Well, it was an uneventful first leg of the journey aside from the [Bandits]. Ryoka had wavered when she saw them, but who else sat in a thicket near the road? She’d dumped sand out of her bag of holding and warned the City Runner.

Ryoka circled twice, but saw the [Bandits] break towards the hills rather than the road. So she flew on, and landed at one of the towns along her route.

Not in the city, but just outside the gates. Ryoka shook out her arms, hopped up and down to pump some blood into her legs, and then stowed the glider in her bag of holding. She had to disassemble parts of it; it didn’t fit in one go, but it was relatively painless. She jogged up to the gates.

“City Runner on delivery!”

The [Guards] stared at her. Ryoka Griffin waved her seal. After a second, one of the [Town Guards] leaned down.

“Isn’t that Courier? Dead gods, Miss! You just flew here? You’re—the Wind Runner of Reizmelt!”

Ryoka blinked. She’d forgotten her new designation. And she saw the [Town Guards] all abandon their gates.

“That was amazing! What’s that thing you were flying?”

“I saw you on the scrying orb! Could—could I try flying with that thing?”

“Hey, will you sign my helmet? An auto-graph? Here—someone get some parchment!”

It was not the first such encounter she’d have that day. Indeed, Ryoka took almost as long getting to the Runner’s Guild in the small town as she had flying there; everyone wanted to see the Wind Runner.

The adults were caught between amazement, the thrill of seeing a Courier, and horrified fascination at the idea of flying. Some wanted to try it, others just wanted to ask how Ryoka did it.

But Ryoka’s real, hardcore fans, the ones who’d been there from the start, flocked around her without reservation, begging for just one flight.

Children. Ryoka’s biggest fans were either children or types like adventurers, thrill-seekers, teens who had been like her. The Wind Runner, overwhelmed by it all, refused everyone a turn on the glider. The wind liked her, but even she couldn’t guarantee it wouldn’t try to flip her in the air for ‘fun’. She could survive that; a random person, no.

However, she did provide some amusement. A spare parachute and children were taking turns being ‘flown’ in a little basket. They screamed with delight and the adults looked on, some trying to hide their jealousy; they were too heavy, by and large. And it was beneath their dignity or something.

Ryoka smiled at that, as the [Mayor]’s son went screaming past her, pursued by the anxious woman herself, who wasn’t convinced he was quite safe. She stayed nearly two hours, then practically begged to deliver the sheaf of letters and several parcels from Riverfarm.

“I really must go. I’m sorry, but I’m trying to get to Reizmelt by evening—excuse me, I’ll take any correspondence that way.”

“All of it, Miss? We’ve got a lot you could take if your bag of holding’s big enough…”

Ryoka saw the [Receptionist] at the Runner’s Guild hesitate. Some of the City Runners and Street Runners who’d queued up to shake her hand and say what an amazing run they’d seen looked dismayed.

So, Ryoka caught herself and, mindful of the other Couriers she’d met, amended her statement.

“—Er, sorry. I mean, any priority mail or packages. Nothing local. Anything over two or three towns or which needs to get there fast.”

“Ah, very good, Miss Griffin. We’ve got…seven items.”

The Runners relaxed.

“Thanks, Miss Wind Runner.”

One nodded gratefully at Ryoka and she nodded back.

Runner’s etiquette, like Fals had taught her one time. It was all there. Lessons past and present. The Wind Runner collected her packages, assembled her glider as the crowd watched in the street, and, intensely embarrassed, flew up into the air to wild cheering.

—-

The next city Ryoka came to she ran into the gates—and had ‘run’ all the way there after landing while out of sight of the town.

She did it to avoid causing another scene—and to try out her second mode of transport. She could glide or wingsuit fly to her destinations—but the wingsuit was scary as hell, and less controllable than the glider. Also, frankly, a bit more embarrassing since people would stare up at Flying Squirrel Ryoka as she sped past them.

That was what she felt like. But Ryoka had an alternate use for the wingsuit—which people kept thinking was ‘windsuit’, since they had no reference for it.

She ran across the ground and leapt over a hill. Ryoka’s jump carried her forty feet; she landed lightly and ran past a [Farmer]’s son in the fields. He stared at her, hoe raised.

“Hi!”

“H-hi?”

The young man of about fifteen waved back. He stared at Ryoka as she leapt again, a fifteen foot jump which shattered all world records on Earth. How was she doing that?

Windsuit! Ryoka was barely even ‘running’; the wind was picking up the loose cloth in her wingsuit and blowing her forwards. It was like when the wind was so strong you could barely fight against it—but it was all behind her. She could leap like a frog, and she was running almost as fast as the wind was blowing.

“This is so cool!”

Ryoka actually enjoyed the sensation of effortlessly leaping around more than flying for a bit. Because this—this was like having super powers.

The city of Onononno—had a weird name. Ryoka had chosen it on her route just to see why it was named that.

…Well, there was a confusing statue in the square. Ryoka stared at the [Slime Rider] for a long time; the man riding a giant slime, which had been called Onononno, and the founder of the city.

It just went to show there was something unique everywhere you went. [Slime Riders].

She had thought her running into the city would attract less attention, but one look at her garb and her features and the same thing happened again. The [City Watch] turned out, people wanted to talk to her, children flew about—

And so did their pets. Onononno had few cats or dogs or any other ‘regular’ pet. Rather, they owned slimes. Ryoka saw one gelatinous blob and girl flying past her in the parachute-ride and decided this was a cool place.

The parachute ride was a good idea to let kids play with. Sammial and Hethon had been the ones to suggest making it, and they had both been crushed when Ryoka said she had to leave.

But…it was inevitable, surely. It had been a strange goodbye.

Laken had been—off. He’d refused to talk about the future, only talking about what he would do. He’d refused to hear Ryoka out…why? Either his ego as an [Emperor] was finally inflating or…

What had been stranger was Tyrion Veltras. He hadn’t shaken her hand like Prost and some of the others, but his family had been one of the last to leave Riverfarm. The nobles were going back home, the Solstice party done with.

But he had remained, perhaps because his two sons had enjoyed Riverfarm too much. They both threw tantrums, although Hethon’s was more complaining. Sammial had demanded Ryoka stay and be fun.

“I trust this event has aided you in some way, Miss Griffin. I still owe you a debt for your service to House Veltras.”

“Oh, no—you’ve done more than enough.”

“That is not what I believe.”

Lord Tyrion was a strange [Lord]. He refused to settle their debt, and he had done so much already. Pride and stiff honor. Ryoka wished she could have actually disliked him. She knew what he had done to Liscor. But she couldn’t help but feel like they were a bit similar.

A bit. She wished she didn’t, though, honestly. But Lord Tyrion had raced her while flying, even suggested seeing who was faster. It turned out he was, unless there was a faster wind. He’d laughed and…

Well, it’s just a connection of Runner and client. Perhaps I’ll meet him again. Ryoka thought of all the Veltras group, Jericha was somewhat glad to see her back. She’d kept asking about Eldavin after the call.

He had promised to help Erin. Ryoka tried to run, leaving Onononno behind. Wait. There was no better way than the Dragon. Even distant Ailendamus which had a ‘surefire thing’ or the ‘best thing’ according to Ivolethe and the powers of the fae, wasn’t as good as a Dragon.

He had promised. So Ryoka went back to her job, if only to see how flying worked. She ran out of Onononno—well, slipped, really, the streets were a bit slimey—and continued on her way.

—-

If Ryoka Griffin got used to the attention her arrival caused after the fifth Runner’s Guild delivery, she still tried not to let it get to her head.

She wasn’t a real Courier yet. She had the speed—not the Skills. She still remembered how fast Mihaela could go, or Salamani being able to conjure arrow-swarms of attack spells, cast [Haste], [Invisibility] as a matter of course…

She was a new, ‘low-level’ Courier. Even so, she resigned herself to being famous until the novelty wore out. She visited eight Runner’s Guilds on her route north over two days; she kept losing hours to people, rather than the road.

And she was still unprepared for Reizmelt. The entire city threw her a celebration when they saw her flying in.

“Miss Wind Runner, Miss Griffin, you’ve put Reizmelt on the map, even more than it was! You’re a credit to our city. It is an honor—please, accept this honorary citizenship. A key to your new home, and—”

Ryoka Griffin shook hands with each of the Councilmembers in turn. She smiled as people cheered, looked at her new, complimentary home as well as a citizenship in Reizmelt…and decided not to tell anyone she had been planning on getting ‘Wind Runner of Reizmelt’ changed to a different title. Wind Runner of Liscor, maybe.

“I’m—so honored. I feel like I haven’t been in Reizmelt long, but you’ve taken me in and I’m just…”

Super overwhelmed. Ryoka gave a speech, shook hands, let kids play with the parachute-basket, and then hid inside her home until they left.

They’d decorated it with flowers. Furniture! Ryoka stared at the house they’d given her.

Oh no. How was she going to tell them that…she was not staying in Reizmelt? She’d rather stay in Liscor. She had to go there. To The Wandering Inn. To Mrsha and…see Erin.

“Don’t worry. No one expects you to stay. But if you can just keep letting us call you the Wind Runner of Reizmelt? It means something.”

Alime, the [Receptionist] at the Runner’s Guild, actually hugged Ryoka when she came in. But she was the most reassuring. Ryoka exhaled.

“That’s good to know. I um—this is a lot.”

Everything was different. She had done a two day run to Reizmelt from Riverfarm. Wind speed? Alime was over the moon about it.

“You’re one of the faster Couriers in Izril based on those speeds, Ryoka. I imagine there are limits.”

“Yeah. Like flying monsters. I’m not taking deliveries anywhere with Wyverns or Griffins.”

Ryoka shuddered. She’d ran afoul of some damn geese on the second day. They were aggressive, pecking bastards.

“I imagine you’re also grounded when it’s raining or thundering?”

“Yep. On foot for that.”

“I can actually add a note for prospective clients. Have you taken any private orders?”

“No. Why?”

Alime’s eyes glittered with mirth.

“Has anyone told you there are people asking for you?”

Ryoka stared. Couriers did get private orders; City Runners were rarer, but Couriers would get private requests all the time. And she had sixty eight—

“Sixty eight?”

“You don’t have to answer any of them. You’re popular and your name is out there, so everyone wants you. Would you like to see them?”

“I—sure.”

“I’ll have to get them—[Receptionists] will have to request the details, for privacy’s sake. I won’t even be able to open them; you’ll get it from our in-house [Mage] or the Mage’s Guild for your eyes only. Also, there is a fee to have all of them scribed. Sixty eight would be a bit.”

“I…see. Um—uh—I’ll tell you what. Can you write out…six? And I’ll look at them. I’m going to visit a friend.”

—-

Lupp the [Corn Farmer] was arguably one of Ryoka’s few friends. An interesting friendship, to be sure. But one that had helped both.

Ryoka had gotten corn that had…impressed…even the fae. Lupp? Well, he’d gotten famous.

Literally.

“[Famed Sweetcorn Farmer]?”

Ryoka Griffin exclaimed in the man’s homey kitchen. Lupp tried to keep from smiling too much. He modestly scratched at his head.

“Not my doing. I owe it all to you, Miss Ryoka. And to Eldert. You two kept talking me up, and I suppose it was why I was leveling out of nowhere. Got some nice Skills too.”

“Such as? Thank you so much, by the way, Miss Ryoka. Father, show her your new corn!”

Lupp’s daughter was present. She had visited her father, perhaps because of the news, and Ryoka found Lupp’s farmhouse more crowded than it had ever been.

…As in, there were about six people present. Lupp looked overwhelmed at the number of people, frankly. But two of the House of El’s security forces were still watching his farm for trouble. Ryoka had been aghast to learn about the close call on his life and apologized—Lupp seemed to take it in stride.

Or at least, he hadn’t said anything with his daughter and the two [Soldiers] around. As for the last member…Lupp’s daughter, Kamine, and Ryoka, and the House of El’s guards, were all trading glances at…

Eldertuin the Fortress. The Named Adventurer had visited Lupp and Ryoka had knocked to find him opening the door.

Named Adventurer! Eldertuin Terland! In service to Ulva Terland herself as a [Bodyguard]!

Ryoka kept those screaming thoughts inside. She smiled at the veteran adventurer.

“Eldert. You arrived an hour before Ryoka—I was going to show you—fancy digging a bit and see if your Skills still work?”

Lupp smiled at his former neighbor-turned-adventurer. Kamine was scandalized.

“Father! Adventurer Eldertuin is…a Named Adventurer! You can’t say that!”

“He was Eldert to me. Fancy names don’t change who he was. Used to be able to hoe a section of ground in half the time I did. What about it?”

“Argh. And I thought I’d never hold a hoe again. Fine, Lupp. But only for you.”

Eldert, in the company of Lupp, was almost as down-to-earth as Lupp. Although Ryoka had a sense it was him coming back to his roots; he had been more ‘official’ as Ulva’s bodyguard.

But she saw how he had been a [Farmer]. He had a cologne, amazing armor and the tower shield and mace, both enchanted, emblazoned with the Terland family sigils, and someone even styled his hair, by the looks of it. He wasn’t as old as Lupp, so instead of white hair, he had a magnificent blonde-green, perhaps natural, but definitely augmented with alchemical items.

Lupp had the right idea, though, and it was treating Eldert like an old friend. The two talked and Ryoka found herself hovering awkwardly as they caught up. In truth, she didn’t mind; it was the first time the two had seen each other in a long time.

“You stopped writing.”

“You never seemed interested to get my letters. And I felt…odd, sending them to you.”

“I liked them. I never said? Well, they were hard years, after you left.”

“I know. I should have come by for the…funeral. I’m sorry. May I visit her grave?”

“’Course. You have to tell me too, how you met Miss Ryoka. Strange meetings, and that you both came by.”

Eldert glanced at Ryoka. She ducked her head.

“He helped me in a tough spot, Lupp. Actually fought someone for my sake.”

“Really?”

Lupp hadn’t heard about the Solstice party. Eldert just waved it off.

“It wasn’t easy—but I don’t think I was in danger. But that [Knight] or whomever it was…I haven’t felt my arm shake like that in a long time.”

He flexed it, and looked at Ryoka. She preempted his question.

“They’re…outsiders. Strong ones. If you went toe-to-toe with them—well, they’re the best in the world.”

Their world. Eldert nodded slowly.

“I felt like it was a test. And I haven’t felt that young since I became an adventurer.”

“Started at thirty. Old! But you were never a good [Farmer]—for all you grew things well. I’m glad. But what’s with the name? Eldertuin Terland.”

Lupp teased the man as he handed him a hoe. The Named Adventurer sighed as he hefted it.

“I married into the Terland family for my service to Ulva Terland, Lupp. I have a family.”

“Really? You never said!”

“It’s…complicated.”

The Named Adventurer looked troubled for a moment. Ryoka and Lupp exchanged a look. Perhaps a former [Farmer] didn’t enjoy being a Terland…well, they dropped the subject.

“Just cut a new furrow, there, and there. Now, if you’ve forgotten how it goes, you swing your hoe up and—”

“[Channel Strike].”

Eldert swung the hoe down and a rift of dirt, straight as an arrow, exploded up from the ground. Ryoka and Lupp blinked in the downpour of soil.

“[Farmer] Skills can become a [Warrior]’s Skills. You want me to do it again?”

The Named Adventurer hefted the hoe. He looked at Lupp. After a second, the [Corn Farmer] spat out some dirt and laughed. He slapped Eldert on the back, and he and Ryoka stood back as the Named Adventurer did it again. Then they looked at his new corn.

—-

“[Pepper Corn]? Seriously?”

“You get fancy Skills like swinging a sword and cutting the air, or new spells. I get new corn. I can even grow ‘em in patterns, see? This one’s just for fun. Mind you, even I’ll take a week or two more till the first harvest, but look!”

Lupp proudly showed them his new Skills. Ryoka stared at a corn that had a weird checkered pattern.

Red, brilliant carmine kernels, mixed with a slight blue tint to them.

“What’s the blue part taste like?”

“Sugar—sweet. So that’d be a hot mouthful and sweet one. Not sure who’d buy it, but I want to taste it first. These new ones take a bit more richness in the soil, and water, or so it feels. But they’ll be good. Lady Bethal is already asking to have the first harvest sent to her.”

“Have you considered selling to another family? Lady Ulva herself complimented the corn. And she is…peculiar about trusting food. She might offer you a better deal.”

Lupp looked worried. He actually had to sit down and have some calming tea.

“I…don’t do business decisions like that, Eldert. I just sell my corn. Thinking about money—I can’t refuse Lady Bethal after she’s been so generous.”

“She wouldn’t mind. Well, she might, but she knows it’s business.”

But Ryoka knew it was Lupp’s personality that made the thought of negotiating the sale of his corn so nerve-wracking. Eldert didn’t push the matter, although he did ask Lupp to send him some corn when it was done. Ryoka, likewise.

“If you had any of the sweet-corn, I’d take it with me. I’m going to Liscor so I might not see you for a while…”

“Ah, you can always fly by. Just visit me in a month or two—I’m busy enough. And I have something for you. Nothing full-grown, but…it’s another Skill. Here, take these.”

Lupp was understanding. And he handed Ryoka…she blinked at the baby-corn, all blue, and sweet as candy. He grinned at her expression.

“You have a sweet tooth for the stuff?”

“I know a little Gnoll girl who might change her tune about corn. Well—she likes it anyways, but she’d gobble this. Thanks, Lupp.”

He also handed her some baby corn of the spice variety. It was like eating a hot pepper spice on corn—except it was all hot. Ryoka’s eyes watered.

“Damn. Fuck, that’s spicy—it’d be good if you mixed it with regular corn.”

“That’s what I thought. Good for the children, though. They love it. The village’s kids came begging for it; I’ve been giving it out, the little ones at least.”

Lupp smiled as his daughter fussed around, scolding him for giving out his hard work as always. Ryoka wondered, honestly, if she’d done him a disservice.

His farm was crowded and he looked a bit overwhelmed by the company. But as Eldert bade her farewell for the night, she saw he and Lupp were going to sit, perhaps on the porch, with a drink.

That was nostalgic. And Ryoka thought that made up for any inconvenience of fame. Lupp’s house didn’t seem so empty. The old [Farmer] looked at Ryoka and their conversations about bad days were unspoken.

“Hard to sit by yourself when there are so many people you like about, right?”

“Ah, just so long as you like them. Stop on by again if you’re staying longer. Thank you, Ryoka.”

He winked at her. She grinned and left, spirits light.

—-

Ironically, it was Ryoka who was down after meeting Lupp. He was doing well. But was this life?

Was she going to forget Erin was dead and do deliveries? Visit Liscor and tell Mrsha and the others to wait?

That was the sensible thing to do which normal-Ryoka would not do. And was thus the thing Ryoka should do.

…But she wanted to fly to First Landing, get on a ship, and raid Ailendamus’ vaults. She wanted to move now.

And she knew she shouldn’t risk herself. She was not immortal. She had thought Erin might be, but Ryoka would never assume she could survive…

She stared at her missing fingers when she needed a reminder of that. Or felt at the scars on her back where crossbow bolts had nearly ended her for good.

Crossbows. Ryoka was starting to develop a thing about them.

She was planning on making one last visit before she slept and headed south. She wasn’t even actually planning on staying the night at Reizmelt—she was pretty sure the Lischelle-Drakle household would be up all night and they’d give her some space.

She hadn’t checked in on Fierre. Ryoka went back, took the six sample requests she’d asked to see, and got a list of names for the others. She went through them, and to the Mage’s Guild.

“You have eight hundred and twenty one [Messages]. Would you like them all printed?”

The [Scribe] gave Ryoka a sunshine smile, behind which lurked the suggestion that if Ryoka said ‘yes’, this late at night, she would get a quill stuck in her forehead.

After a while, he stared at Ryoka’s open mouth and went on.

“The Mage’s Guild does offer a service to ah, individuals of note to screen unnecessary [Message] spells. We only refer you to established clients such as [Merchants] of good repute, and so on. It cuts down on this. It’s a small, yearly fee—quite affordable for a Courier. Oh, and we can also take a list of people who should always be included.”

“Yes, please. Can we do that now?”

“Certainly, Miss Griffin. Who would you like to include? I can take names or cities as well…”

“Liscor. Um, Lyonette, Palt—no, wait, that’s all Liscor. Liscor, Celum, Players of Celum, Lupp—”

Ryoka spent the next thirty minutes setting up a spam filter for [Messages], paying the fee for the service, and collected a lot fewer [Messages].

The first was from Fierre. Ryoka read, anxiously, aware she had left her friend to go do this party.

“…am establishing a business in Invrisil. See me soon—there’s big stuff happening. Well, that doesn’t sound ominous at all.”

Ryoka sighed. She wondered how Fierre’s de-toxified life was going. She was definitely going to Invrisil as soon as—

The next letter was from Lyonette, informing her about the Potion of Regeneration. Ryoka dropped it, fumbled, and picked it up with shaking fingers. She read, heart pounding—then saw a [Message] from Palt.

“The Potion failed.”

Surprise, fear, shock—it hit her all together so she wasn’t as fully torn as she might have been if she had been able to get her hopes up. Ryoka lowered the letters.

The potion was worthless. No—they just hadn’t done it right. There was something else. Teriarch would know. Teriarch would know.

She wasn’t in the mood to visit the Lischelle-Drakle family all of a sudden. So, Ryoka trudged out of the Mage’s Guild, sorting through the remaining letters slowly. It was too dark to read, so, without realizing it, she found herself pushing open a door into…

The Huntress’ Haven. It was…

Ryoka blinked at the noise, light, and voices in the inn where she had stayed. She saw a group of people glance up—and then an exclamation.

“There you are! Hah! I knew you’d come by!”

Mad Madain, [Innkeeper] and former adventurer, bellowed as he pushed himself back from a table where he was drinking. A serving man was passing out stew from a kettle, there was a lot of alcohol in the air—

Ryoka was back.

—-

She’d uh, forgotten about Mad Madain. Which was amazing since he was hard to forget. But Alber and Fierre had both gone to Invrisil.

But the [Innkeeper] had his inn. Ryoka might have expected it to be empty and Madain in a bad way as he sometimes got, but the inn was crowded.

“Obviously, because the Wind Runner stays here! I’m famous. So’s your room. I heard you got a house so I didn’t keep it—also, someone bought everything where you stayed. Pillows, mattress—even went sweeping up for your hair.”

Ryoka nearly spat out the meat stew and drink.

“And you let them have it?”

The [Innkeeper] shrugged, unconcerned with the sale.

“It was good money. And she was what, a [Mage] or something. Weird woman.”

Stalker-creeps didn’t get better by gender! Ryoka was about to protest when she had a sinking suspicion she knew which…she…had bought all that stuff.

Well, that was fun. Madain grinned at her.

“I also squashed some [Assassin] bastards. You can pay me for it later. Even those…Pithfire kids. Yeah, they’ve come by a lot. Although they’re headed south on an adventure. Damned thing.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t see them. How are they? How’re the dogs? How’re you, Madain?”

This was fine. Ryoka was sorting through letters as she talked, and Madain wasn’t that much into the conversation. He just wanted to know about the battle. Saliss of Lights—he had an admiring note when he talked about the Drake. Ryoka supposed the former adventurer had respect, even for a Drake Named adventurer.

“Ah, well, I have actual guests who want service, so I hired that bastard to serve and clean up. Not like the [Fistfighter] and Fierre. They were easy, like you. What’s his name?”

“Alber. He’s in Invrisil.”

“Oh, right.”

Madain was refreshingly straightforward—at least at this moment. He was talking.

“Anyways, since business is good, I’ve bought a scrying orb. That’s fun all day, and getting adventurer-types in. Did you hear what the Pithfire Hounds are going for? Idiots. They’re going to get hurt or killed.”

“What? Why?”

Ryoka was distracted. She’d just seen a [Message] from…Madain snorted.

“Some fools—the Horns of Hammerad are going after the Village of the Dead. Better teams than theirs have died trying. I don’t even know their name. Ever heard of them?”

The Wind Runner of Reizmelt stared at the [Messages] compiled from Ceria Springwalker. She looked up at Madain.

“…What?”

—-

“They went because they knew you were connected with those…Horns? I told them it was stupid. They got puffed heads because they sent a few [Assassins] running. Idiots.”

An hour later in the dead of night, Madain was talking to Eldert and Lupp. And wasn’t that a weird meeting?

Ryoka had actually dragged him down to Lupp’s farm. Madain could move quite fast on horseback. She’d asked him to, so she could consult with the man who knew about the Horn’s crazy plan—and a Named Adventurer.

Eldert and Lupp had been surprised to see Ryoka, but they’d stopped talking on the porch to let them in. Madain was chewing on the spicy baby corn as he finished telling them the setup.

“The Village of the Dead. That’s…madness.”

Eldertuin the Fortress looked at Madain and the former Gold-rank nodded. Ryoka’s stomach twisted.

Fool. She had been worried about what she, Ryoka, might do impulsively, especially given the Potion of Regeneration failing. The desire to see Erin again…

She had forgotten other people wanted to see her just as bad. And they would risk anything—no, more than Ryoka. They were adventurers. She was a Runner.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course we are. That’s death. It’s a safe zone—doesn’t attack you, doesn’t get larger or send waves—but it’s still death. No one lives there. But it takes a real fool to try and attack it knowing how many attempts have been made.”

Madain was disgusted. Eldert looked at Ryoka.

“Let me put it this way, Miss Griffin. I have a team of adventurers I would join with if I were raiding a dungeon or particular area I thought was worthwhile. I wouldn’t try the Village of the Dead with them. I wouldn’t try it if there were three times our numbers. You would need an army to fight that many undead, especially how fast they regenerate. Nothing kills them permanently.”

“You know? You’ve been there?”

Madain spat. Lupp looked offended at the spot on his floor. Eldert looked at Madain.

They both had.

“Everyone tries it, well, most teams. Everyone thinks there’s a way in, or that it’s exaggeration. I nearly lost a teammate. Bitten down to her bones.”

“A similar experience. It’s not even a place to train. The undead move too fast. They’re too deadly—we tried to kill a single zombie for good. Held it down, burned it until it was ash and tried to destroy the ash. It still came back. You have to tell this team to stop. If they’re wise, they’ll fall back. But so many teams—and Silver-ranks? They might push in too far.”

Ryoka’s heart was pounding. She knew they were right. But why the Village of the Dead? Unless—Pisces knew there was something that could help Erin?

“I think my friends have tried to talk them out of it. I—I can make it there tomorrow. But what if I can’t?”

“Then you’d better hope every Gold-rank team and Named Adventurer in the north joined their call.”

Madain drained his drink. He put it down and looked at Ryoka, serious for once.

“But I think it’ll be them and half a dozen idiots like the Hounds. No one who’s smart will read that and join in if they’ve got half a brain. And the ones without…who’d go there for a share of the loot? There’s no gold, no glory. It’s a stupid request. For an [Innkeeper]? Hah! I couldn’t get a Gold-rank team to risk their lives for me.”

He said that. But Ryoka just looked at him. And she saw another [Innkeeper]. For her? She slowly pushed herself up.

“They might have an army, though. Even if it’s not enough.”

Eldert and Madain stared at her, disbelieving.

—-

The Village of the Dead lay far north of Invrisil. Not as far as Reizmelt. So—if you left now, you could make it in three days.

“Hey, Jewel. You going to the Village of the Dead?”

In the Gold-rank+ back rooms of the Adventurer’s Guild in Invrisil, one of the local Gold-rank adventurers leaned out of his chair and called across the room.

Laughter followed his remark. Jewel, leader of the Glitterblade, ignored Samung’s comment. But she was sitting there—rather than making plans to go.

“I can’t believe anyone is going. Or that someone would post a raid call that stupid.”

Samung, a member of Oblivion’s Call, a Gold-rank team with a name that was arguably cooler than they were, was pushing the envelope.

Jewel had laughed a bit with her team and shaken her head when she saw the request. But she had met the Horns.

“They’re Hell’s Wardens, Samung. Maybe they think they have a shot.”

Another Gold-rank had his feet up on the table. Invrisil was actually quite crowded at the moment.

Lots of Gold-rank teams had returned from the High Passes and the Wyvern hunt. They were in the mood to spend gold, and the City of Adventurers was the place to do it.

Jewel was annoyed because she’d missed the rush—and some teams had earned over ten thousand gold. Three had earned over twenty thousand! Easy money!

“Hey—is this table taken?”

The veteran Gold-rank glanced up. He had his legs on one table, and he and his team—Waterborn Raiders—were occupying the other. A new Gold-rank team, rookies, were looking around and the crowded back room had nothing but standing room, which a number of teams were using.

“My feet need rest. Who’re you?”

Hazing again. Jewel, another relatively new team, was sick of it. But Todi wasn’t here. The Gold-rank adventurer murmured.

“We’re, uh, Ten Razors.”

“Ten Razors? Then why are there eight of you?”

The teammates of the adventurer flushed. The answer was that the founding group had taken casualties. One of them looked at the Waterborn Raider.

“Can we use this table?”

“Sorry, my feet need rest.”

The Gold-rank veteran stared at them. He grinned unpleasantly, testing them. The Ten Razors knew the score. Two glowered, but the rest stood.

Respect for seniority. Alternatively, older adventurers bullying younger ones.

“It’s almost tempting. If they offered money, I’d give it a shot.”

One of Jewel’s teammates muttered after a while. Jewel half-nodded. Tempting. But…

“Hey, aren’t the Horns one of the Silver-ranked teams that got wiped in Liscor’s dungeons? They reformed—but is anyone going to follow them into another death-zone?”

The noisy adventurer got another muted round of laughs as he went on, studying the appeal.

For the [Innkeeper] of Liscor. If there was one reason Jewel would have been interested, it was that. But she wasn’t about to speak up.

“He’s being disrespectful. Why do we even hang out back here? We saw that [Innkeeper]—she commanded the Black Tide. There’s something there, Jewel.”

Jewel’s friend muttered. He turned to the Gold-rank Captain and [Swashbuckler]. She nodded.

“Let’s go to the main room. At least we don’t have to listen.”

Glitterblade was getting up. They had looked around—as some teams had done—when the Horns’ contract was brought up.

Because, despite what the Waterborn Raider said—there was interest. But adventurers watched each other. Some took risks, but calculated ones.

The Horns had taken huge losses at Liscor—but they’d also won at Albez. That sort of squared their record. And they were Hell’s Wardens—a title even Gold-ranks respected.

And the [Innkeeper]…but no one had said they were going, so Invrisil’s adventurers expected the Horns to not raid the Village of the Dead.

Or…do it alone? But that would be madness. Even the Village of the Dead—

Wasn’t that what Gold-ranks did?

Jewel was conflicted. Then—the door opened. Heads swung around. There was a shout.

“Hey! That’s a face I haven’t seen in a while! Is that you, Seborn?”

Jewel turned and saw another Gold-rank team enter the room.

“Who’s that? I know that name.”

She turned to a friendlier team. An old [Mage], a member of the Distinguished Staves of Invrisil, a [Wizard], chuckled.

“Oh, Jewel, that’s the Halfseekers. They’ve been in the south for a while—you know them?”

“The half-Fr—”

Jewel kicked her teammate so fast that the word never came out. The older [Wizard] smiled and nudged one of her sleeping companions; her trio of three were all over fifty. [Mages] who walked to easy requests, blasted it with spells, and thus earned decent pay.

“You’ll like them. Their leader, Jelaqua, is quite friendly. And there’s Moore, such a sweetheart. They’re all friendly—except for Seborn, at times. They had a rough patch…but I hear they took on a new member. Oh, there she is.”

The Gold-ranks were surrounding a new team coming in. Greeting them, exchanging news—Jewel saw one figure’s head rise. She blinked.

A half-Giant. Old Geni waved her hat gently.

“Jelaqua! Moore! Over here!”

They didn’t appear to hear her. The half-Giant was frowning; he didn’t look as friendly as described, but perhaps he was worried about standing on someone’s foot. He did move through the room slowly, looking for a table.

He saw the only one with the Waterborn’s Raider resting his feet there. The half-Giant pointed.

“Excuse me. We need to use this table.”

A nervous Gnoll approached. That had to be the new member; there was a grinning Drake with a flail over her shoulder. Jewel realized both were Selphids. There was a Drowned Man—half crab or maybe lobster—

“Sorry, I’m resting my feet.”

The Waterborn Raider smirked. Ulinde hesitated.

“Look, we need this table. You’re not using it.”

“Hey! Let our teammate rest his feet!”

The other Waterborn Raiders turned. They were apparently former [Raiders] in actuality, hence their nature. They sniggered as Ulinde turned to the [Rogue].

“Seborn?”

“You’re not using the table. Feet up.”

The [Rogue] appeared and addressed the annoying adventurer. Jewel saw the man’s eyes narrow.

“Oh yeah? I don’t take order from the half-Freaks.”

She held her breath. Seborn’s Human eye narrowed. The Waterborn Raiders turned in their seats. There was a potential in the air. The other Gold-ranks leaned in or out depending on their natures.

“Seborn, there’s no need for that. Sit with us.”

Geni called out, but her voice was still lost. The Gold-rank adventurer looked at Seborn. Then…a shadow fell over him. He looked up and his grin faded.

“Move.”

Moore loomed over the man. Jewel blinked.

That didn’t look like a friendly half-Giant. He had a scar running across his chin. And…nope. She didn’t see any nice qualities. The [Rogue] looked like a ray of beaming sunshine compared to the [Green Mage]’s face.

Unfortunately or fortunately for the Waterborn Raider, he knew Moore. So he recovered from the moment of chagrin and sneered.

“Nice try. Why don’t you go coddle flies, Moore? Have Jelaqua come over, greet our team Captain, and then—”

Moore reached down. He picked the man up—and tossed him over the table.

It was so fast. It was like Jewel flicking a bug off her knee. She stared, open-mouthed, as the man shouted and then went thump.

The other Waterborn Raiders stared. They had ducked when he went sailing over their heads. Two got up.

“You b—”

Moore reached out and grabbed a head. His hand—gently covered the top of the adventurer’s head.

Now, the guild was silent. The Waterborn Raiders looked up. And finally began to realize that Moore had…changed.

“Why don’t we all…sit down? Sorry about the trouble.”

The leader of the Waterborn Raiders suggested slowly. Jelaqua Ivirith appeared.

“Moore? What’s the problem?”

“Nothing. We’ve got a table.”

Moore turned. The Waterborn Raider he’d let go of slowly sat back down and then shuffled his chair around. Everyone stared at the half-Giant.

“Whoa. That’s nice?”

One of Jewel’s teammates whispered. Old Geni was just staring. Jewel looked at Moore, appraisingly. Nice or not, he’d impressed her.

Moore sat there, cross-legged on the ground, as the other Halfseekers sat down. They didn’t smile long. Jelaqua greeted Geni, but she was transparent with why they’d come.

“We’re seeing who else is heading north. We need to move today if we’re getting to the Village of the Dead.”

The Gold-ranks turned in their seats. Geni gasped.

“The Village of the Dead? You can’t be serious, my dear! We all thought it wasn’t worth even considering. There have been jokes told all week.”

“By who?”

Seborn was grinning. He turned to the Waterborn Raiders. They didn’t look around.

“Just jokes.”

One of them muttered. Jelaqua’s eyes were steady.

“You don’t have to take your team, Geni. It’s going to be dangerous. No doubt about that. But we’re going.”

“Jelaqua, you’ve never been…this reckless. Are you sure?”

Geni chose her words carefully. The Selphid looked at her.

“Sometimes, we have to go in. We’re going. And we’ve been getting ready. We’re armed up.”

She gestured. And Jewel saw that under their travelling cloaks—the Halfseekers were wearing armor. It wasn’t unusual, so she’d barely noticed.

But wait.

Even Moore? Yes, the half-Giant was wearing a kind of leather-and-steel composite. Leather covering plates of metal. It was probably as thick as plate mail, but made for someone his size.

And—Seborn pulled back his dark clothing to reveal shining chainmail.

“Lightweight stuff. Custom-made by Maughin of Pallass.”

He told the other admiring adventurers. One whistled; even Ulinde and Jelaqua had armor. Light for the Selphid [Spellslinger]. Jelaqua?

Jelaqua had plate armor. Her lover had not sent her without all the help he could muster.

“We’re going to the Village of the Dead. Any team who wants to join us—we can ride together. We’ll hire the carriages.”

Jelaqua announced to the room. The Gold-rank teams hesitated. Jewel bit her tongue. It was still reckless.

“Even if it’s two teams, you’re outnumbered.”

One of the newer Gold-rank adventurers pointed out. Moore shifted in his seat. The female adventurer gulped.

“I just meant—”

“Moore.”

Jelaqua put a hand on his arm. The half-Giant looked away. Jelaqua replied with a smile. Not a happy one but—just a smile.

“We’re adventurers. The Horns say this place has something special—we’re going in. For the [Innkeeper] of Liscor. And you’re wrong, friend. We’re not going alone.”

There were voices from the guild’s main hall. Jewel rose as another team entered. To the surprise of Invrisil’s adventurers, they saw…

Drakes. In armor. The heavy-armored group marched in.

“Are those—Drake adventurers?”

“Flamewardens. That’s Pallass’ Gold-rank team.”

Someone muttered. Jewel saw Keldrass remove his helmet and look around.

“Shame we can’t stay here. So this is Invrisil’s Guild? Are we sitting here? The other teams can’t get in.”

“We could ask for an exception.”

Other teams? Jewel craned her head. Then—more Drakes appeared.

Lifwail Blades. Another Gold-rank team. The Wings of Pallass weren’t present. But a Wall Lord had spoken. So more teams were waiting behind them.

“Gemhammer, The Pride of Kelia, Pithfire Hounds—Silver-ranks. The Silver Swords would join us if they weren’t so far away. All but two teams in Liscor are coming through. Now—who’s coming from Invrisil?”

Jelaqua put her foot on a stool and looked around.

Ceria had put out the call. The Horns, though…they were new. New to their rank. But Jelaqua? She had led teams before. She turned her head, waiting. It just took one—she needed a force to bring to Ceria. She had promised.

The southern teams waited, stares challenging. The Gold-ranks hesitated. To say it now was to not be able to go back. Not here.

Then, someone spoke.

“We’re going too.”

The Selphid turned. She saw a team, fresh off their horses, stride into the guild. She blinked—then smiled.

“There you are.”

“Why are you waiting around?”

Halrac stopped next to her. Revi, Typhenous, and Briganda entered the room. Jelaqua grinned.

“We were just leaving. Who’s with us?”

Jewel pushed back her chair at the same time as half a dozen adventurers. And that was the first moment. She felt her heart beating.

Reckless. Dangerous. She began ordering her teammates to stock up on gear.

Because they were going to the Village of the Dead.

—-

To the north, it was a dead zone. Even grass died the closer you came to the Village of the Dead. Only one group of people were in the area; animals fled, as did people.

They had camped there for days now. And they were as yet alone. They might go in alone.

But their friends had promised to come.

“We could still wait. That is the strategic move. Wall Lord Ilvriss, Ylawes, they have promised to send aid or come.”

“We’re not waiting, Ksmvr. The Potion failed. Who knows if she can be frozen forever? We’re going in. If the other teams arrive, they won’t wait for weeks.”

Yvlon was polishing her sword. Checking the edge, though it was enchanted. Ksmvr nodded. She looked up.

The village was silent. Apparently, empty. To her left, she saw a flash of light. A shout.

“Tree rot!”

The magic around Ceria combusted and a flash of light blasted Yvlon and Ksmvr with air.

“Trouble, Ceria?”

The half-Elf came stomping over.

“A bit. Did I get you with anything?”

“Nope.”

“What is it you are failing at, Ceria?”

Ksmvr peered at what had been intricate drawings in the ground. The half-Elf blew out her cheeks.

“Spell circles. It’s the next step in my [Mage] learning. Probably. I don’t know. Illphres sort of outlined her process, and long-term spells—fields of magic—were what she said I should master. Control the battlefield. Greater spells require stuff like that. But I’m not going to master it before…”

She looked ahead. Cold air swirled around her. She was visibly nervous. But she calmed herself and her aura of ice cleared. Yvlon nodded. She couldn’t do more than train with her blade—and she didn’t want to injure herself, or Ksmvr, so they weren’t sparring hard. She turned her head.

“What about you, Pisces? What’s your next step?”

The [Necromancer] glanced up.

“Something else that won’t be ready in time.”

He went back to using a needle to…Yvlon frowned.

“Are you…making another undead?”

“A permanent one.”

Ceria blinked. She looked at him for confirmation. The [Necromancer] replied absently.

“The barest beginnings, yes. It will take months…but I thought it was time. I failed once. But it occurred to me one would be needed. Like Ceria, it will not be ready. We could prepare a year, Ksmvr. But that might become a decade, until we level. Alas. I do not believe we are that patient.”

“No.”

Yvlon rose. She left their camp and walked to the edge of a bluff facing the Village of the Dead. It looked so…empty. But every instinct she had, no Skills needed, told her what would happen when they approached it.

They hadn’t. Not yet, in case they woke something. She remembered the dungeon of Liscor and folded her arms.

It will be different this time. It had to be. This was not for glory, but Erin. Pisces told them that if they recovered just one Relic-class artifact…

Her silver-steel arms glinted in the light. The grim [Armsmistress] stood there, contemplating the odds and seeing no reason to turn back. Not for her. But her team…

Ksmvr joined her. He glanced at Yvlon, then folded both arms and his third arm over that. She smiled at him.

Someone put his foot on the bluff. Pisces. He…folded his arms and struck a pose, chin raised. Yvlon stopped smiling at Ksmvr and glared at him. He grinned at her.

“What are we doing, posing? Let me in.”

Ceria joined them, arms folded, standing sideways. Both of them sniggered at Yvlon. She debated kicking them down the short incline.

Then they stopped. The Horns looked at each other. Then at the Village of the Dead. Pisces sighed.

“How does it go? Our team motto? Death before dishonor?”

“Something like that. Calruz said it. I prefer ‘let’s not die, and get lots of loot’.”

“That is a very admirable statement, Captain Ceria. I find many practical elements in it.”

Yvlon smiled. She looked at them. Then the Horns stared ahead.

“Three days. That’s how long this place has to remain standing.”

“For the [Innkeeper] of Liscor.”

Pisces agreed. He looked ahead, and Yvlon thought he looked more noble the less he pretended towards it. Ceria smiled. She sat down and dangled her legs over the edge. Ksmvr looked at Yvlon.

“Let us not die and get lots of loot.”

He suggested. They laughed. The Village of the Dead waited.

The Horns of Hammerad laughed at it and went to have lunch.

8.10

The Wandering Inn is going to be working with editors and holding a contest for paid, professional editors to apply! Please spread the word and find out more details here!

Also, the author is on break until March 6th, March 16th for Public readers! See latest announcement for reasons for the delay.

Tkrn realized he was not good with women.

Not just ‘Drake women’, or ‘non-Gnoll females’. He felt, in this moment, that he needed a blanket statement for the female gender.

He’d had…luck. If luck meant sex. But was that the end-goal? It also occurred to the Liscorian [Guardsman] that he didn’t have much luck with long-term relationships. Perhaps it was a sign.

But he’d deluded himself up until this moment into thinking he was ‘average’, or ‘decent’, or other lies young men told themselves, regardless of species, at interacting with the opposite sex.

The Gnoll didn’t think so, now. He watched Inkar cry.

Really cry. Not tear up at a sad story, but have a breakdown. A [Guardsman] saw that—sometimes. But even then, rarely. You heard the bad stories, when those kinds of tears were warranted.

In this case? It was Tkrn’s fault. He looked at Inkar, then panicked and went to get someone from her tribe. But who…?

He found Krshia instead. She hit him.

“You idiot, Tkrn, you! What did you say?”

“I—I—was talking about Liscor. And I told her…”

Krshia’s expression changed. She hurried after him, and paused to kick him in the rear.

He’d told Inkar about Erin. And he hadn’t done it well. Or perhaps he had. He’d built Erin up and then—neglected to lead with the present. Inkar had grown excited to meet the [Innkeeper] who had built something wonderful. Then he had to admit she was dead.

“Dead.”

She sniffed. The [Traveller] was wiping her tears away on a handkerchief. Krshia raised her paw, but Tkrn had stayed out of range.

“My nephew is a fool, Honored Inkar, yes. He should have told you better. She is…there are more. Did he say that?”

Inkar nodded. She gulped, hard.

“More. Like me. But the airplane. We are here. I am not alone. I feared I was, you see? But how many…?”

How many were dead? The young woman from Kazakhstan’s fears were reflected in her eyes. She had seen the burned wreckage of a…vehicle…that could have held a hundred people. More. A ship of the skies.

It boggled Tkrn’s mind. A ‘plane’. But Inkar was convinced that even if only five bodies had been found, the other people were also…dead.

It was beginning to dawn on Krshia, as well as the other Gnoll Chieftains of the Longstalker’s Fang tribe and Greenpaw tribe, just how serious this was.

It wasn’t one. It wasn’t two, or a few. And—Krshia had told Erin she thought many Gnoll tribes would have found Earthers if they were there.

Now, the Gnoll wondered how many had fallen out of the sky. Or suffered fates like Erin’s from the start. Her fur prickled, remembering where Imani’s group had appeared. On a Creler nest.

As far as she could tell, there were no other strange Humans among the Meeting of Tribes. At least—in the open like Inkar.

The incident of a few days ago had been a bit of a talk. A dramatic reveal of the Gnoll of Stars, really. A few people talked about the Longstalkers honoring a Human as one of them. But thankfully, larger events eclipsed it each day.

But one significant event was Inkar. Krshia had realized she was from Earth and after some delicate inquiries, the young woman had learnt that the Silverfangs knew of Earth too.

Again, Tkrn’s fault. Krshia had really given it to him then. But it was an unfortunate mistake. Inevitable, in a sense.

For Tkrn’s star had risen. Unaccountably, he’d forged a connection with the Gnoll of Stars, Lehra Ruinstrider, along with Inkar, and even met with others. The [Strategists] from Baleros, a [Shamanic Warrior] from the Plain’s Eye tribe…

A passing connection, perhaps. But that was how bonds were forged. And Krshia Silverfang and her sister, the Chieftain of the Silverfangs, Akrisa, were not about to let a bond, even tenuous, pass with such important tribes. They’d ordered Tkrn to, well, Tkrn himself into good graces.

It had mixed results. But Inkar had at least been a stroke of luck. Chieftain Akrisa had compared it to stepping in a cow pat and realizing there was gold underneath. Krshia had repeated it several times to Tkrn.

After a few days, the initial gathering of the Meeting of Tribes was settling into a proper event. The first wave of introductions were done, and it was time to really get to what mattered. Big decisions all tribes voted or debated. Sales of vast amounts of valuables. Not just day-trading; the Silverfangs traded tons of their iconic silver jewelry, for instance, at their stalls. But real sales.

Like, say—you were at war with this Drake city and your tribe needed help to force them to surrender or fight them off a mine or something valuable? You could hire the Steelfur tribe to go to war for you. If the price was right, and you were the right tribe, with the right favors.

In other ways, it could be arranged marriages. The Ekhtouch Tribe lived for meetings like this. But every tribe really wanted to collect favors. Or push their agenda.

So—alliances were forming. And one of the new, unexpected ones, was the Longstalker’s Fang tribe, the Greenpaw tribe, and the Silverfangs.

It surprised the Gnolls of all three tribes. Oor and Orreh, the brother and sister, the former still nursing bruises he hadn’t been allowed to heal from the stupid fight he’d caused by sleeping in, expressed excitement to Inkar as she came back from talking with Tkrn.

They didn’t notice her tears. That was actually an interesting flaw of Gnolls she’d learned to exploit. They tended to smell or hear your emotions as much as they visually checked. So if she tricked their noses, she sometimes tricked them.

“Why, Orreh?”

The Gnoll [Stalker] grinned.

“Silverfangs are rich. They’re not the best tribe, but they’re in the upper range of tribes you’d want on your side. We’re in the middle. I’m not sure how Chieftain Eska got them on our side, but that’s good. They’ll speak for our interests in an alliance. Greenpaw too!”

The Silverfangs were less happy about the arrangement, but they trusted Akrisa had her reasons. Besides—an alliance was good for all.

The Greenpaws were probably happiest about it all. If Silverfang was upper, Longstalker’s Fang was middle, then Greenpaw was low-tier, to simplify things.

When the three Chieftains met, with a few extras like [Shamans] and Krshia, Chieftain Orelighn made that plain.

“Since these…Earthers…are not as rare as we thought, perhaps their value is a bit less, yes? But we now know this—this plane is expensive. Important. I am willing to put all of it with this alliance that our tribes might gain something, although it pains me to use the work of others—and the possessions of the dead. But Greenpaw needs much. I thank you, Chieftain Akrisa, Honored Krshia, for this alliance.”

They nodded. Krshia hadn’t been sure about just—telling everyone. Tkrn had let it slip and she’d nearly hung him out to dry, but it had been Akrisa who admonished her reaction. She repeated the very same line she’d said to Krshia.

“We are all Gnolls, yes? Time for secrets is past. Earth…technology, wonders and dangers from another world—all tribes must know of it soon, or at least, the Chieftains. A secret like this is a strange knife. I fear it will twist in our paws the longer we hold it.”

Krshia shifted uncomfortably. She had forgotten she and her elder sister didn’t see eye-to-eye, and she was the junior and not a Chieftain here. Moreover, Akrisa was right. Hoarding secrets was a Drake move.

Chieftain Eska nodded heavily. But it was Honored Weaver Deskie who spoke.

“My heart for Inkarr. She learns of her people’s deaths too much. That I should live to see such strange events in the Waning World…well, is this to be presented to all Chieftains?”

“When they gather. But I hope to bring more tribes of like mind into an alliance.”

“What have we to offer if the knowledge of Earth is to be given to all?”

Orelighn frowned. It was Krshia who looked up. The others turned to her and she spoke.

“A consensus, Chieftains, on what will be done with the Earthers. To protect, help, and aid, rather than exploit or kidnap.”

Eska’s eyes brightened. Deskie smiled.

“That is wisdom. And that should be the thing on which all tribes agree. Let us share, then. To friendship with another world, rather than anything else.”

She lifted a bowl. At last, they all ate; they had been sharing a communal pot and meal, as was traditional. They would eat and drink as friends and allies.

Krshia was glad of it. She was glad she thought she could trust the other Chieftains. Because it was a time of action, now. No time to sit on your tail. Akrisa had her tribe, but Krshia contributed as much value as she could.

—-

The Gnolls had heard about the failed attempt. At least—Elirr had. He was conflicted.

“One cannot simply send little Mrsha away before Lyonette returns. She is coming in a week and a bit. Krshia will do without her until the height of the Meeting of Tribes. But I will oblige her other request.”

So saying, he stared at Kevin. The young man blinked a few times. Then he sat up.

“Yes, hello! Solar Cycles. How can I help you?”

The [Beast Trainer] stared at the [Mechanic]. Kevin sheepishly passed a hand over his face.

“Sorry. It’s been an all-nighter, alright? Pelt’s trick made everyone start demanding adamantium frames…”

“I wish I’d seen it. It sounded badass. Smithing in the center of a firestorm?”

Joseph twisted in his seat in the secret Earth rooms. Kevin shook his head.

“Scared the hell out of me. So…what are we supposed to do, Mister Elirr?”

He looked at the Gnoll. He, Joseph, and Rose were sitting there. Galina was missing. Troy and Leon were exempted from this talk. Imani looked exasperated.

“You’re all too calm! There’s someone from Earth at the Meeting of Tribes!”

“Exactly!”

Rose shot to her feet. She was trembling.

“Someone from Kazakhstan? Are you sure?”

“That’s cool but—I have no idea where that is.”

Joseph raised a hand. Rose turned on him.

“That’s not the point, Joseph! They’ve been there the entire time! Inkar? We’ve got to meet her!”

“What, all of us? I’m busy with the football team.”

“Forget football! That’s not important—”

“I think that’s what Elirr is saying. One of us needs to go. So that’s you, Rose. Besides, we’ve known there are more people from Earth since we met Ryoka and Erin—since the phone call. This is big, but unless Inkar knows more than us, she should come here.”

The Californian pointed out. Rose, likewise from the ‘states’—Elirr had no idea about the places on Earth, but was trying to at least remember—nodded slowly.

“That’s true. So you want me, Elirr?”

“Yes. If you are willing to come, we will send you as fast as possible. It will not be…Wonders of Izril or whatever that carriage service was, but almost as fast. You will have to ride a long time.”

Rose gulped.

“I’m bad at riding. Can I get a carriage?”

Elirr sighed. And already problems cropped up. They would have to arrange at least twenty Gnolls to protect Rose; no one wanted her to get hurt on the way there. But then he saw Kevin grin.

“No problem. You can ride one of the new bikes. Take it there, as a present from the Silverfangs. That makes the most sense.”

Rose blinked. Elirr’s jaw opened.

“You would give one away, Kevin, just like that?”

“Wasn’t that what you were going to ask us? You wanted more than just Rose and Mrsha. You need the Silverfang tribe to be, like, important, right?”

The young man sat back. He was still yawning, but he was hunting around in his belt pouch for his phone. He turned it on, but not to play games or pass the time re-watching something. Rather, he was using the smartphone…like a smartphone.

“Let me check the store’s inventory. We’re still wrapping up Fetohep’s orders, but we do the ‘cheap’ bikes pretty fast. I can spare one magic-bike for Rose, and Selys might actually kill me, but she’ll understand. Let’s see. What else can we ship out?”

“Can I have Montressa or Bezale? I need someone with a [Repair] spell. Inkar has a smartphone, right?”

“I did not ask. But Krshia has asked for all things that might help Inkar. I thought—perhaps some letters?”

The Earthers gave Elirr a blank look. Joseph began to snort before he caught himself.

“What, for encouragement?”

“That’s a good idea! She has to be lonely. She’d probably like someone writing to her, even with Rose…Kazakhstan. Can she read English well?”

Imani defended Elirr. Rose put her hands down and pushed herself up.

“No, no. That’s not important. I mean, write it if you want, Imani. And I’ll definitely deliver it. But don’t you see? We need to impress the other tribes! And I think we can. Elirr, you said they have an airplane?”

Elirr nodded. The Earthers sobered.

“Our Father, Who art in heaven…those poor people. Whatever got us split an airplane in two. They—they must have no idea what happened on Earth.”

Joseph muttered, whispering a prayer and clasping his hands together for a second. The others nodded. Rose chewed at her lip.

“…But it’s an airplane. I hate to say it, but—I need to get Bezale and find Galina. Bezale has [Repair] scrolls, I’m sure of it. And Galina might be able to give me all the Players of Celum’s scripts. They have to be worth something.”

“Hold up. Are we giving the Silverfangs everything? And—are you seriously suggesting [Repairing] the airplane and selling electronics at the Meeting of Tribes?”

Kevin sat forwards. Imani looked alarmed.

“Is that a good idea, Rose?”

“Well—I don’t know! Maybe! We want them to be the best tribe, right? It’s a competition?”

“Of sorts.”

Elirr murmured. He was surprised at how many ideas the Earthers were tossing around. Rose looked at the others.

“It’s not great. But plays, Kevin’s bikes…Krshia’s helped Erin. We should trust the Gnolls, right?”

“Well, they knew about us and Earth and haven’t told anyone. So I’m for that.”

Joseph pointed to Elirr, sitting in the secret rooms. Kevin scratched at his head.

“I guess. There’s nothing we can do about the plane. What are we gonna do, run down there and steal it from them with the biggest bag of holding ever?”

“Yes. That’s true. But not all the tribes are alike.”

Imani’s quiet voice silenced the others. They looked at the [Cook], and then Rose spoke.

“Well, I’m going. And they have an airplane. Better Krshia be leading the Gnolls than…anyone else. I want to meet Lehra Ruinstrider, anyways. She sounds amazing. And all the Gnoll tribes! The Ruinstrider, Steelfur—are the Ekhtouch as sexy as people say?”

The old Gnoll’s mouth opened.

“How do you know so much about the tribes, Miss Rose?”

He looked incredulously at her. Rose just gave him a blank stare.

“Magazines.”

“…Magazines?”

Everyone blinked at her. Rose sighed.

“Erin started it. And Olesm and Drassi. They’ve been showing up in Runner’s Guilds on sale. I buy all of them. Here—I’ll find it. I need to go to my rooms. Unless Mrsha’s hogging the door, I won’t be a second…”

She came back in half a minute with a magazine. Elirr blinked at it. Rose waved it at him.

“It’s a Gnoll-magazine on tribes and stuff. It’s selling hot in the cities, among City Gnolls, actually. You didn’t know?”

Elirr was clearly hanging out with the wrong, older crowd. Rose was hip to the hop with it. Whatever it was, which was apparently, magazines.

Gnoll Today, Here Tomorrow—this week, all about Ekhtouch! The 20 hottest Gnolls, ranked! You won’t guess who’s #1!

Some things copied Earth too much. More evil had entered the world, seeping through from Earth. Kevin blinked at the tabloid-esque magazine. Joseph leaned over.

“Why do I actually want to read that?”

“Dude, right? Alright, let’s let Rose meet sexy Gnolls. What are we sending with her? Not the laptop. Numbtongue plays games on it and he’s super-depressed. But maybe…”

By the end of the day, Rose was packed up and ready to leave tomorrow by bike. But even before that—Elirr was sending word to Krshia. Value was more than a person or objects. It was knowledge.

—-

“Alumininium?”

The next day, Krshia was talking with Inkar, Tkrn, and an excited Orelighn and Eska.

“Aluminum. Is that what is in the plane’s metal?”

Inkar looked at Krshia. The Gnoll woman grinned.

“According to Kevin, yes. And he would probably know. That is the metal you salvaged, Orelighn. Apparently the Dwarves know something of it, but it is a hard-to-produce metal for us.”

“Is it particularly strong? We bent it—perhaps it is what allowed the thing to fly?”

“Er, no…it is not the strongest. It is only uniquely lightweight and strong combined.”

“Oh.”

The Gnoll was palpably disappointed. It wasn’t a super-metal, then. The Chieftain of the Greenpaws clearly wanted some fantastic development to come out of the airplane.

As it so happened, there was.

“Kevin has written to us—he is a [Mechanic], Inkar. The one who made the bicycle.”

“Oh, he is? Amazing!”

Inkar was delighted. Krshia nodded. Kevin kept proving to have more Kevin-depths.

“Yes, and Rose, who is coming, will have things for you, Inkar. But he, Kevin, says, your ‘phone’ may be fixed with a simple spell. [Repair].”

“Really? But I broke it to…”

Inkar showed Krshia the cannibalized phone she’d broken strategically to provide sparks. Krshia was unsure; it looked bad, but she was optimistic.

“It may be possible. We must simply find a scroll—Rose will bring some, or a [Mage]. But that may be unwise…similarly, Kevin believes some of the ‘electronics’ may be salvaged if you removed them carefully, Orelighn. The—er—er—‘seat monitors’ that you described, or ‘light bulbs’ overhead and such. [Repair] may work wonders.”

Unfortunately, and this was a Gnoll problem—they had no [Mages] they could readily call upon. Of all the species…well, Krshia had Mrsha for proof positive of that…even if likewise, there was another Gnoll who could prove there was magical potential in them like [Mages] used.

The point was, the Earthers had ideas. First of which was to ask Orelighn to see what parts of the airplane were really useful.

“Can you send word to your tribe, Orelighn? If they can be repaired, Kevin thinks some parts can be fashioned into a ‘flash light’, or perhaps a ‘fan’ out of the airplane. He would need to connect them up, and he says that if the engine or other parts survived, he would like to see them all.”

Kevin was especially interested in the jet engine’s propeller system.

“I will have my tribe check. It would be easiest, though, if this expert could come there…but we will check at once!”

Orelighn hurried off. Inkar was excited too, but Rose would take a while to get here, even by magic bicycle.

“I will speak with Chieftain Eska about finding a [Repair] spell for your phone, Inkarr.”

“Thank you, Honored Krshia!”

Inkar beamed. Tkrn waved a paw.

“What am I to do then, Aunt?”

She looked at him. Krshia scratched at her head and Tkrn deflated. She grinned.

“Your job, Tkrn, is to go out and make friends! Perhaps meet Lehra if possible, yes? Or the others? You, and Inkar, perhaps. Take Orreh and Oor with you for safety this time, but leave the matters of Earth to us for now. Bring us back more tribes to meet—it is hard to attract the famous ones’ attention since every tribe wants to do it! Oh, and nephew—”

She grabbed Tkrn’s arm as Inkar turned, delighted to be able to leave the camp again. Krshia whispered.

“Make her cry again, and I will make you cry, yes?”

She made an ear-twisting gesture. He winced.

—-

Truly, Inkar and Tkrn realized, there was something nice about a tribe’s hierarchy. For all Tkrn found elements objectionable—in moments like this, he and the young woman could just let the Chieftains worry about the worrisome stuff and enjoy themselves while doing their bit!

You didn’t need to bear the weight of the tribe alone. And Inkar was excited to be out again.

“Eska and Deskie would not let me after I got in trouble. Especially because only a few people know…about me. But you can escort me?”

She glanced at him. Tkrn grinned sheepishly. He gave her a salute.

“Guardsman Tkrn will do his best, Miss Inkar.”

She laughed at that. It was a strange, fast friendship they had made after he had come to her ‘rescue’, mainly by getting his face punched by Steelfur Gnolls repeatedly. But Tkrn felt like it was his responsibility, as much as he liked Inkar.

Here was a Human, from Earth, that he could protect. This time, she was in front of him and he would take a crossbow bolt for her.

Of course, other Gnolls made it weird by assuming things. Dekava had no shortage of raised brows and pointed sniffs—as if she couldn’t tell they hadn’t had sex!

Some of the Silverfangs openly put it down to a ‘weird skin fetish’ that City Gnolls got. The Liscor-Gnolls understood, even if they didn’t know.

“So you are Tkrn, the Gnoll who saved my stupid, lazy brother. I thought you were ten feet tall and strong as a [Berserker], to hear Oor say it, yes? I am Orreh!”

The [Stalker] and Oor met Tkrn and Inkar, as part of the unofficial bodyguards. Oor grinned at Tkrn and they clasped arms.

“This time, let’s not get into trouble, yes? I am still healing!”

“That’s because you had to have breakfast and let poor Inkarr wander around! Well—we have moved next to the Silverfangs, so no one will complain we are in the inner camps, now. Let’s see the Meeting of Tribes!”

Thus, once more, Tkrn, Inkar, and the two Gnolls left their camp for the Meeting of Tribes. They found it was in full celebration. Well, more so than usual.

—-

“Free drinks! One per Gnoll! And no trying to fool my eyes! [Fair Share]—try it and I will smack you!”

A Gnoll was shouting boisterously from the first table as the quartet walked out into a rush of noise in the main camp. Hundreds, hundreds of barrels of Gnollish drink had been rolled out.

“Free drinks? Can I get one for my friend? She’s part of my tribe! All four of us!”

Orreh’s ears perked up. The Gnoll [Brewmaster] eyed Orreh, but snorted and handed the drinks over in four mugs.

“Put them in a bin when you’re done! And for the young Human woman, why not? We owe Humans today! Just remember—the Plain’s Eye tribe is providing the drinks! And there’s some hot venison being served—also free!”

Free food, free drinks! Tkrn sipped at the alcoholic drink, grinning. And free food! The tribes were being generous and handing out free stuff to all the Gnolls present—as well as paid stuff. Even for the Meeting of Tribes, that was rarer; there was always something one tribe provided to show off or garner goodwill, but a number of tribes had pitched in.

“What are we celebrating today?”

He asked some Gnolls who were headed to dance together. They were following a catchy, fast, drumbeat in the distance and howls. The Gnolls grinned and laughed.

“Why, justice of course, kin! Hadn’t you heard? The monster, the Prime Minister of Belchan is dead! The one who slaughtered our tribes!”

Tkrn blinked. Today was the day Lyfelt’s execution had been announced. Other peoples took it differently, or didn’t pay much attention outside of the news cycle.

The Gnolls were celebrating it.

“Justice! Did you see the trial yesterday?”

“I did. But that [Queen]—the Arbiter Queen of Jecrass, she was smart and young, but she should have asked us, yes? We would have given her an answer quickly enough!”

“Well, all the Humans had the right idea. Hello, Miss Human! Good job!”

“Th-thank you?”

It was odd for Inkar to realize this was the celebration of a man’s death. But even Tkrn had no sympathy. Orreh just shook her head when Inkar expressed confusion.

“Why not celebrate a tribe-killer’s death? I wonder if it was painful. I hope it was. The dead Gnolls won’t come back. But at least there’s free food and drink! Let’s see what the attractions are—unless you want to dance?”

They changed day by day. Some were always the same, like tribes selling goods, but any number of events might occur, like the Woven Bladegrass’ combat tournament.

The great tribes. Now he was here, Tkrn was learning them.

Or at least, hearing the names by repetition.

Az’muzarre, Plain’s Eye, Gaarh Marsh…just hearing them told you which ones mattered. They were some of the ‘old guard’ though, to use a Drake expression.

There were hot newcomers. Demas Metal for novelty, Ruinstrider for their Named Adventurer…

And Woven Bladegrass.

“They do not have any shops, do they? I keep hearing them spoken of—but do they sell Bladegrass? What is that?”

Inkar turned to the others as her keen ears picked up the same conversations as the others. Orreh grinned.

“Bladegrass isn’t a toy, Inkarr. Nor can you make many things out of it. Not like…a bag, or other things.”

“But they are called Woven Bladegrass…”

“Ah. That’s a technique they use. Bladegrass by itself is…weak, you see? Sharp, but fragile. If you walk through it, it will cut you bloody, unless you’re Steelfur, I guess. But if you weave it so—you can make something sharp. But weak. They use it for arrows. Little pellets they throw from slings.”

“Oh. Do they sell it?”

“No. The Woven Bladegrass isn’t that sort of tribe. I don’t think they have many…artisans. They probably have [Crafters]. But they do not sell things. They are a proud tribe, yes?”

Tkrn shifted. Orreh and Inkar noticed.

“You do not think so, Guardsman Tkrn?”

The Plains Gnoll looked at him. Tkrn hesitated. He was more keenly aware of being a ‘City Gnoll’, so he was unsure…but he felt like he had to say it.

“From what I heard, in Liscor, the Woven Bladegrass tribe is thought of more as…[Raiders], Inkar, Orreh. That is what the cities say, though—didn’t they sack several Drake cities?”

Orreh tilted her head. Oor grinned.

“Do they say that? That is a Drake perspective. We think of Woven Bladegrass as a tribe who will fight Drake cities. Especially the bad ones.”

“Only the bad ones?”

Inkar pressed them. Her two tribe members hesitated. That was the question, wasn’t it? Tkrn decided to change the subject.

“They must be fearsome fighters, then. As bad as Steelfur? My fist still hurts.”

“Oh, of course! Maybe not as bad as Steelfur because their Chieftain has his great Skill—but high-level. They’ll have a big voice at the Meeting of Tribes; they didn’t even really have a presence twenty years ago. Their Chieftain is new. Fierce.”

Just how fierce, the four saw moments later. Someone set up a howl, and when everyone looked their way, bellowed.

It wasn’t a warning howl, more of a ‘look at me!’ thing. Inkar saw a young Gnoll point as some aggrieved adults or curious people turned his way.

“Foot races have begun on the south side! Smaller competitions, and a large race by all the winners of the small ones! Ten gold if you win a short race, a hundred for the big winner! Horse races, same place! Same rewards—only horses!”

Instantly, a lot of Gnolls flowed that way. Inkar laughed in delight.

“Races?”

It was something she knew well. Her people on Earth had that custom, and she began to drag the other three over. Ironically, Inkar was a lot more into the idea than the other three Gnolls.

“I don’t ride horses. And I’m not fast enough to win a footrace. I guess we can watch—if Relc was here, he’d compete. What about you, Orreh, Oor?”

“We’re no good. Orreh likes lying in tall grass and waiting for her prey and I’m only decent.”

Orreh sighed. Inkar’s eyes were sparkling, though.

“Could I race? I’m good on horses!”

That was…true. Orreh and Oor exchanged a glance. Orreh grinned gamely.

“I could get your horse, Inkar. But don’t get your hopes up—it might be Gnolls only.”

—-

It was not. Or at least, the riding competition wasn’t. Footraces turned out to be Gnoll-only. A curious distinction, perhaps due to the culture of Gnolls.

They raised nomadic animals like horses, whereas they were well aware that a Courier or City Runner existed among all peoples. In fact, since many Gnolls didn’t live in cities, they were underrepresented here. So to prevent a sweep of the footraces, Gnolls only ran.

But they were proud of their riding abilities, so Inkar actually signed up. It turned out there were multiple competitions, and it wasn’t as dull as Tkrn feared.

“Sprints, here! Who will compete in obstacle racing? Long distance—twice around the entire Meeting of Tribes—and jumping over there!”

A race was going on, staggered, such that the audience could pivot from footrace to horseback races without waiting for more than a minute at most. And it was entertaining!

“Three, two, one…go!”

Gnolls took off on foot, racing each other to be first to run a thousand feet. There were no shorter sprints, Gnollish attitude being that if you couldn’t run a thousand feet, were you running?

Well, it was a bias that came from a people who travelled far. The other race was ten thousand feet, and had a different kind of runner.

Tkrn saw lots of young Gnolls who clearly thought they were fast realize that they were, in fact, competing with dedicated runners. Fast they might be, but they fell behind a City Runner, a high-level [Warrior], three [Barbarians], and one of the younger [Shamans]. They blazed across the ground, almost as fast as a regular horse.

“You! Disqualified!”

A Gnoll howled at the [Shaman], who was using magic. Skills were game; magic was not.

“They run quick!”

Orreh clapped her hands and whistled or howled as the first racers crossed the line. The City Runner was in front—until the [Warrior] charged the last hundred feet, so fast that the celebrating Runner was raising his arms and waving as the other Gnoll passed him.

“[Run Down Opposition]! Hah! Did you see that?”

Gnolls laughed as the poor City Runner hung his head. Tkrn chortled—then saw the riders begin.

They were no less fast, but there was more variety in the races. Less sprints and more displays of riding skill. One group raced out of sight around the camp. No fighting was allowed, or direct interference with other horses, but they were allowed to use tricks. He saw dust clouds appear, one [Rider] jump all the others—even a [Horse Tamer] whistle and have all the horses behind her stop.

Another disqualification. Orreh came over. She handed Tkrn something.

“Snacks! You buy next time, yes? Silverfangs have money, so let’s share it!”

She grinned and nudged him. Tkrn was about to protest that he didn’t have that much money, until he recalled that Krshia had given him more thanks to his important status. Good naturedly, he nodded, reached into the simple bag of tightly-woven reeds or grass and took a pawful of…

Popcorn? He stared at it. It was reddish—Oor and Orreh were already fighting over it.

“How is this popcorn here? Where did you get it, Orreh?”

“They are already selling it, yes? This is the best one. Try it!”

Like Liscor, ideas spread fast. Tkrn did and his eyes widened.

“It tastes like beef!”

“Beef powder or flavor. So good. Nom. Oor, if you eat it all, I will hurt you! Save some for Inkarr!”

Where had she gone? Tkrn looked around, worried—then saw Inkar was on the horse that Oor had brought, riding her around. He was about to trot over, although she looked fine, when someone called his name.

“Here now. Is that…wait, I know this one. Tkrn? And Inkar, right?”

It was a deep voice for such a small man. Tkrn turned and found Merrik standing there. The Dwarf waved.

“Hello! Aren’t you the ones from the fight a day ago?”

Orreh waved at him. The Dwarf jogged over, grinning.

“Yes indeed! Fancy meeting you all again! Are you here to compete?”

“Watch. Inkarr might, but we are watching. Popcorn? Thank you for helping!”

Oor offered the popcorn around, good naturedly. Merrik chortled.

“Is that the popcorn stuff? No thanks. I was stuffing my face earlier and I’m actually feeling a bit sick. Peki nearly went insane for the popcorn—Garuda love it, apparently. Bird feed. Well met. You’re Oor, you’re…Tkrn, the [Guard], right? And you, Miss…?”

“Orreh. This one’s big sister. Where’s your Minotaur friend? The Garuda? You’re the [Strategists], aren’t you? The Titan’s students? I saw you at Daquin!”

Merrik shook his head, but not to deny it. Tkrn stared.

It was like being in the presence of a celebrity. And ‘celebrity’ was a new concept. The Players of Celum had been one such, but television had made Drassi into a second.

Tkrn hadn’t known them well, just seen them at the inn and been too shy to talk to them. But Merrik had been on television! The Dwarf seemed a bit embarrassed by the attention; other Gnolls were looking at him, pointing him out. They knew his name, despite never having met him.

That was fame.

“That feels like an age ago. Amazing people watched that and remembered—well, it was a lot of fun! You know, they’re even asking for those autographs?”

“Can I have one? It might be worth money!”

Merrick was only too pleased to oblige. Orreh went off to find an autograph piece, and Oor took over the rapidly-depleting bag of popcorn.

“Where are the other two? Um…Venaz and Peki? And aren’t there more of you?”

Tkrn tried to remember their names. Merrik pointed.

“Racing. If you’re talking about Feshi, Wil, and Yerra—they’re in Oteslia. We left because Venaz was grinding his horns against the wall. So was Peki. They’ll be along soon; it’s good news.”

“Your friend got better? I heard you went to the Plain’s Eye Tribe.”

Also strange that Oor could talk about Yerranola’s poisoning. It struck Tkrn almost as a bit insensitive, but Merrik just smiled.

“She’s better, yes. We were in talks when Wil told us the antidotes were having an effect. Myself, I’m just relaxing now. And looking forward to the races—see? There they are!”

He pointed. The Gnolls around him, listening in, laughed.

“Wait, the Minotaur is racing?”

“There is nothing Venaz thinks he can’t win at.”

Merrik pointed out the Minotaur standing among the tallest Gnolls and clearly jesting with them in good humor. He took a sprinter’s position like some of the others. Tkrn watched, seeing Peki flutter down.

“Is she running on foot?”

“Ah, well, she’ll probably lose. Talons are worse than feet on the ground. I bet against both. But she is a [Martial Artist] of Pomle. Both of them wanted to give it a shot. Myself? I’m going to keep my short legs over here.”

“They have bets? Let me see if—”

Tkrn found himself holding the mostly-empty bag of popcorn. He and Merrik watched as the countdown began.

“Three, two, one…go!”

They took off. Merrik roared, despite his bet against his friends.

“Go, Venaz! Go, Peki! Show them how fast students can run! Pretend you’re late for a class project!”

The Minotaur actually got up to the head of the line in the first moment; he’d shot up the instant the race began. But he was quickly passed by Peki and the leading rank. For all that, he kept pace with the Gnolls without dedicated Skills, and didn’t come in last at all.

But the front was dedicated to Peki, three more [Barbarians] of the Wild Wastes tribe, and, strangely, a Gnoll on all fours.

Tkrn knew children ran on all fours, but it was odd to see an adult do that! Yet the Gnoll bounded along, and he looked…wilder…

“Dead gods, Peki might actually win. Those [Barbarians] are fast!”

“Of course they are! They have to move fast in battle!”

Orreh was back. So was Oor, who hadn’t managed to slip a bet in. Yet, as Peki and the three Gnolls on two legs vied to be first, the Gnoll using all four limbs began to speed up. And up and…

He shot past everyone by the end of the thousand foot dash, having a slower start, but no limit to his top speed, seemingly. The Gnolls cheered or groaned, and Merrik went off to collect his winnings; he’d bet his friends wouldn’t come in last, or win, but place well.

“What was that Gnoll? He looked like he never went through his changing years! He even looked different.”

Oor was as confused as Orreh. Tkrn had no idea; he was peering at the Gnoll as the winners jogged back, Venaz and Peki talking with the others.

It took them a while to get to them; the three students were being asked for autographs, Tkrn saw. Venaz brushed them all off, while Peki and Merrik signed willingly.

“Ah, the [Guard]. Well met. Merrik said the young woman was here. That was a good race.”

Venaz crushed Tkrn’s paw, and did the same to Orreh and Oor. Peki nodded at Tkrn and he couldn’t help but stare at the people he had seen on television.

For a second. But he had known Drassi and the Players—so he did a lot better than Oor and Orreh, who began to get almost shy. That actually helped a lot; the students were clearly happy to have someone to talk to who wouldn’t dredge up the past time and time again.

“Thank you again, Venaz, Peki. Er—do you know what the Gnoll on all fours was doing?”

Venaz nodded. Peki looked sour.

“I was going to win. A fast Gnoll joined.”

The Minotaur snorted.

“The [Barbarians] were saving a last-minute sprint Skill. They’d have had you, Peki.”

“I would have used a kick Skill to fly across the end. Would have won.”

“You’d have been disqualified. Anyways, that Gnoll had us all to rights. He’s a [Shapeshifter], apparently. Didn’t even have to fully change to beat us. I’m interested to see the final race, now.”

[Shapeshifter]? Orreh and Oor reacted with curiosity. Tkrn, pure surprise. There were rare classes popping up here from unique tribes. But then—he saw another race begin. And he nearly tossed the entire bag of popcorn.

“Inkar?”

She was racing! Peki took the bag of popcorn and stuck her entire head inside. Everyone else stared as a group of nearly forty Gnolls on horseback, one Human, and a Centaur all competed in one of the races.

“Obstacle racing! There’s Inkarr! Go, Inkarr! Show them the Longstalker’s Fang’s riding skills!”

Orreh jumped up and down. She and Oor howled to get their voices to her. Inkar raced with the other Gnolls, jostling but not interfering with each other—they were going through an obstacle course.

Weave through these poles or stretched nets and canvas! Go through mud, jump barriers of different heights—it was somewhat dangerous to the riders and horses, but the organizers trusted there wouldn’t be many people who’d be foolish.

Besides, there were [Shamans] and healing potions in force, as well as animal experts. With that in mind—Tkrn began to worry, because the group got through the overhanging nets, mud section, and jumps with only a single person dropping off their horse; they’d misjudged and gotten clotheslined by a net.

The rest raced on and Inkar was good! She was at the head of the pack, with the Centaur ironically struggling to keep up; he clearly thought that being part horse gave him an advantage.

Not so, when dedicated [Riders] with Skills made their weight almost nothing, or gave their horses’ hooves wings. It was even more pronounced on the longer races; the obstacle race was where Inkar had anything like a chance, because it was about agility and the dexterity of the person and horse.

But then came the tricky section. The first [Rider] had no chance. He was confidently racing past a large pole of wood written with a tribe’s markings or some carvings, and the outstretched arm and net was perpendicular to him; not a threat at all. Then—Tkrn saw the totem pole and net-arm turn and catch the rider.

He went off the horse fast. Another female Gnoll swore as she saw the obstacle course come to life! [Shamans] with their magic! She jumped out of her saddle and passed over the swinging arm. She landed on the ground and her horse went over to her.

“Now this is riding!”

Merrik roared with laughter. Suddenly, the riders were dodging moving obstacles that went only after them, not the horses! Inkar dodged, hanging low as a totem swung at her.

“She’s good! Look—she’s at the head of the group!”

Six riders burst out of the maze of nets as more Gnolls struggled to get back on their horses or chase down the animals after being unseated. Tkrn saw Inkar race ahead through another area and then, suddenly, cover her face with her arm.

“What’s wrong now?”

“It must be a cloud or area spell. Looks like…disorientation.”

Venaz speculated. Indeed, the [Riders] were galloping in every direction. Inkar was coughing—searching—she urged her confused mare forwards and burst through the edge of the invisible cloud spell.

Unfortunately, she was behind one of the [Riders], who’d somehow kept her bearings. The Gnoll raced ahead towards the last obstacles and the finish line.

The last section was simply a pain in the rear. It was water, and you had to go through. One of the [Riders] just tried to go around and was ordered back through. Groaning, the six riders plunged into the water, some swimming with their horses and urging them forwards. There was a ‘path’, large enough for a single rider in some places, but you still had to ride through deep, deep water.

Inkar was behind three [Riders] now, and Tkrn was shouting encouragement. But the leader was far in front, pulling towards the shore. Inkar looked up as her mare gamely swam behind a very impressive stallion, some extraordinary bloodline, and realized she wasn’t going to make it. So, she hugged her mare and—

Pop! The lead rider stared as Inkar appeared in front of her. The mare stumbled—then cantered onto the solid ground. Inkar and her horse raced across the finish line to cheers and shouts.

“Disqualified—wait. Where’s the [Shaman]?”

Gnolls argued as Inkar slowed, panting. They were pointing at her, but she hadn’t used a spell—not exactly.

“It’s her clothing! That’s Waisrabbit cloth! That should count! You haven’t disqualified artifacts and they’re from Honored Deskie!”

Orreh ran to join Inkar. The panting young woman was talking to the female Gnoll who looked exasperated and amused at the same time. Inkar dismounted to help dry her mare and greet the magnificent stallion who hadn’t even begun to breathe hard.

Tkrn watched Inkar ride over to them. She wasn’t even wet; well, her skin was, but her clothing was waterproof and the water had just slid off her.

“They disqualified me! It was fair! And fun! The other rider deserved to win!”

She laughed good-naturedly. Orreh was upset for her friend, but Inkar had enjoyed the race. And already another rule was being clarified thanks to her; no artifacts! Some Gnolls had to take off custom-made saddles or boots, and so on.

It was a lot of fun, and they stayed to watch the rest of the races. Inkar was disappointed to find Peki wearing the empty popcorn basket like a hat, and Oor was sent to take her mare back to the tribe as punishment for eating it all. Tkrn went to get more snacks with Venaz.

The Minotaur strode along fast, and Tkrn had no idea what to say. Venaz was tall, and even a lot of Gnolls, one of the taller species in the world, looked up at him.

Plus, he had Relc-like musculature. And Tkrn knew the Minotaur was good in a fight; he’d seen them at sea with everyone else on the orb!

The fact that he, a humble [Guard] was…the Minotaur spoke, abruptly.

“A fun race.”

“Er—yes. Yes. I am glad Inkar had fun. It looks dangerous, though. For some.”

Venaz glanced at him. They had come to the stalls set up where snacks were being distributed.

“There is danger in any worthwhile competition. What are you planning on buying? We can share it.”

“Er…more popcorn? Maybe some of those snacks? Roasted rat on a stick…no, I’ll pass, I think. I have a thing about rats. Um. Um…”

The Minotaur waited as Tkrn desperately looked around.

“Popcorn and—some of those minced pies! For everyone to share!”

“Indeed. I will procure some of the sweets, then.”

Venaz marched off. Tkrn felt like that had gone…poorly. What did you say to Venaz? He wasn’t as affable as Merrik. He went to line up and had his food in a matter of minutes. Venaz joined him, arms full of snacks.

“You must have spent a lot on that. I can share…”

Belatedly, Tkrn realized Venaz had probably doubled his expenditure at least; a lot of snacks were cheap, even the beef-flavored popcorn, but sweets were sugar, and thus a lot more expensive.

“I have enough money. It is to share. Let’s head back.”

The Minotaur grunted. Tkrn trailed after him lamely. Did Venaz not like him? No—it was just that Tkrn hadn’t much to say. If conversation was a give and take, Tkrn didn’t have much to say. Venaz had led with the race bit, and Tkrn had vouchsafed that it was dangerous. What a novel, really top-tier reply and a lead-in to so much meaningful conversation.

Venaz was much like the older Senior Guards who didn’t have anything to say unless it mattered, and told you to shut up if you chatted about something they found trivial. They weren’t mean, although you could take it as such. Tkrn felt it was more like they just didn’t like wasting words on meaningless conversation.

He walked in silence for a minute as Venaz looked for their group; they were finding some place to sit in the sun. He gestured, and Tkrn sniffed.

“What did you buy?”

Venaz sighed and Tkrn’s ears flattened. He could practically see the Minotaur’s thoughts. Engaging conversation topic. As if you can’t look over and see?

“A few treats. Tarts, pastries—some of it is new, like the popcorn.”

Tkrn glanced over. He saw a few familiar items as he hunted for something to say.

“I nearly participated in the murder of a Minotaur in our jail. You’re a Minotaur, right?”

…Was what he did not say, because Tkrn wasn’t stupid. He decided it was best to keep silent—until he smell-saw something and laughed out loud. Venaz glanced at him.

“Anything amusing?”

“Oh—no. It’s just that—they really are stealing everything from Liscor, aren’t they? Cookies and popcorn!”

He pointed. Venaz glanced down at a stuffed basket. Cookies, lined up, perhaps stolen from Silverfang baking ideas. He blinked.

“You know what these are? I’ve never seen them, but they looked like a bread.”

“They’re sort of like that. It’s a good sweet! I bought them all the time with my paycheck.”

“You don’t say. Where did they come from?”

“Liscor. At least, I’m sure they started there. Maybe they came from wherever the person who brought them was—but we’ve had them for months now! What flavors are they?”

“There was only one flavor. Were there supposed to be more?”

Venaz double-checked the basket of expensive cookies. Tkrn grinned.

“Where I was from you could buy a basket of all kinds of flavors. Some for fun. Those must be vanilla. You can get cinnamon, oatmeal, fly, blood, raisin…”

“Fly? Blood?”

“Oh—those are novelty, mainly. How much did you pay for them?”

“A gold for the basket.”

“A gold? I could get you…thirty cookies at least, in Liscor!”

Venaz’s eyes slid sideways.

“Ah, you did say you were from Liscor. Where they were introduced.”

“Yes—and the popcorn. Although the beef flavor is new.”

“You don’t say. Didn’t the Silverfang tribe bring over baseball and soccer, too? I wanted to see a game, but we missed it.”

“We have all the gear. They might be playing later today.”

“I should like to see that.”

Tkrn realized the Minotaur was finally engaging him in actual conversation. He grinned, and saw Venaz looking attentive. Tkrn realized that this was the moment Krshia had wanted him to set up. He chose his words carefully.

“I could…ask the tribe to set up a game if they’re not planning on it already. You might like baseball. It’s much like swinging a sword—only different. But you can send a baseball flying.”

“That’s quite interesting, thank you. Merrik, Peki—food. Listen to this. I paid for these snacks, but apparently they come from Tkrn’s home city. Liscor.”

“Ooh. Venaz, we’re going to have to buy all this again when Wil and the others get here. I hope Yerra’s got fresh taste buds because I’m going to treat her. Pass it around; they’re getting ready for the finals in the foot race sprints! What’s this about Liscor?”

Inkar, Orreh, and Oor glanced up and cheered at the sight of so many edibles. Tkrn saw the other students turn to him and felt a thrill—not least because it was his city!

“Liscor’s where a lot of this came from. I actually ate cookies on the first day they were brought out. An [Innkeeper]…made them…”

His face fell for a second, but no one else seemed to notice.

“Fantastic stuff. Sweet—chewy—I’d love them as rations. How much did it cost, Venaz?”

“One gold for the basket. Apparently I was overcharged; it’s cheaper in Liscor.”

Peki began to choke on her cookie. So did Oor. Merrik just grimaced.

“Throwing gold around, aren’t you?”

It was clear he and Venaz had more money than the Pomle [Martial Artist]. Venaz just shrugged.

“Pass the pie, will someone?”

He broke a small pie of hot meat in half and offered the other half to someone—Inkar took it and split it again for Tkrn. Venaz chewed happily on the meat and gravy mix.

“Ah. And the two sports games come from Liscor. Again, Liscor…Tkrn offered to show us the game.”

“Now there’s something. Would you mind actually doing that, Tkrn?”

Merrik’s eyes lit up. Tkrn’s nod wasn’t even necessary; Orreh and Oor fell over themselves agreeing for him. Then—the last footraces began.

First, one of the final ten thousand foot runs. By this time, the tournament had attracted even some famous Gnolls.

Steelfur Gnolls were lining up, although they were obviously heavy with the fur—but the best [Warriors] wanted to show off their tribe. Some other top-level [Warriors] and so on from other tribes were participating too.

Lehra Ruinstrider herself had apparently tried running a race—and lost. Tkrn wished he’d seen that. But now he saw something curious.

“Who’s that Gnoll?”

A strange Gnoll was walking into the race grounds followed by a horde of Gnolls. All with the same markings or smells. Orreh stood up to see and her eyes widened.

“That’s—I think that’s the Chieftain of the Woven Bladegrass tribe!”

It was indeed. Gnolls were turning and murmuring. Inkar, Tkrn, and the others stared. Not least because the Chieftain of the new combat tribe wasn’t what they expected.

She—and it was a she, in her late twenties!—was short, less than six feet tall, which was short indeed for a Gnoll! Scrawny, compared to some of the Gnolls present.

And yet, her tribe followed her. One of the [Shamans] hurried over.

“Chieftain Werri, will you be participating?”

She apparently said, ‘yes’ because the other Gnolls stirred. The Steelfur Tribe set themselves, clearly wanting to win—or beat the Chieftain of the Bladegrass tribe. So did a Gnoll Courier, looking more worried about beating the competition than the odds of doing so.

Everyone watched with interest. Did this Chieftain have hidden depths? Now a huge crowd was watching the races.

“She’s so small. I heard she was a great warrior!”

“She is. Looks are deceiving.”

Venaz was frowning at the Gnoll. A lot of the Woven Bladegrass tribe was standing behind their Chieftain, despite the race being about to begin. Some would probably compete, but there were probably two thousand just there with their Chieftain.

No one was about to tell them to get out of the way. They were a tough tribe. Also—Tkrn realized the Steelfur Gnolls were eying the Bladegrass tribe with a bit more than rivalry. Perhaps they felt the Bladegrass tribe was threatening them?

“That’s right. Smart Minotaur; she’s a lot better than what she looks like.”

Venaz frowned. Tkrn did too. That was a bit rude. He looked over and saw a paw grabbing three cookies and a handful of popcorn.

“Hey! We’re sharing the snacks! What are y—”

He stared. The small Gnoll was old—and definitely not Oor or Orreh. He was also surprising; Berrigral of the Wild Wastes tribe was casually plundering their snack pile. Venaz twisted in his seat.

“Honored Berr!”

“I smelled good food. I’ll tell you about Chieftain Werri. That’s a different name, by the way. They used to know her as Werina. And she used to be nothing.”

The Gnoll sat there. The [Announcer] was counting down. He looked at her.

“Did you train her?”

Venaz glanced at the small Gnoll. Then Berr. Tkrn realized the Minotaur was remembering the fight. Berr grinned at him, gap-toothed.

“Good thought, Minotaur. But I didn’t have to. She made herself without any of the old tribes helping her. They called her Werina. Her family were Paworkers. Ever heard of them?”

Tkrn stirred. Orreh and Oor looked blank. Then—the [Announcer] shouted.

“Go!”

Everyone’s head snapped back. And Tkrn looked for Chieftain Werri and didn’t see her. He did see a much taller, stronger-looking Gnoll standing where she was.

Her fur was brown like a forest and tinged with green in places. Almost like moss. The other Gnolls took off. But Werri, the Chieftain of the Woven Bladegrass tribe, didn’t run right away. She bellowed.

“Woven Bladegrass tribe! Run!”

She began sprinting across the ten thousand foot run and all two thousand plus Gnolls went after her. Many were holding weapons, or even wearing armor. They surged in a single group behind her.

…And passed the Steelfur Gnolls. The fastest runners in the heavy tribe, along with a quarter of the runners, saw the Bladegrass tribe surge past them.

“They have to be using Skills! She’s cheating!”

“No. She’s not. They’re just fast.”

Berr watched Werri running at the head of the group. True, there was variance in speed. But even the slowest Woven Bladegrass Gnoll was fast. The last-place Gnoll in the race wasn’t a Woven Bladegrass Gnoll.

—Of course, Werri and her tribe didn’t win. They placed high, some of them, but the Gnoll Courier outran them all.

That was predictable. Even so, Tkrn exhaled as the Gnolls crossed the finish line. That was a display from the Woven Bladegrass tribe. He turned to ask Berr more questions.

And realized the Gnoll had taken all the snacks and run away. Venaz went after him with Peki and Orreh.

“[Barbarians].”

Venaz came stomping back, empty-handed, ten minutes later. Merrik blinked.

“You let that old Gnoll get away, Venaz?”

“He was tossing the snacks at his tribe. We wouldn’t have gotten scraps even if I did grab him. And I have no desire to actually enrage a [Berserker].”

The Minotaur flopped down as Peki flew back, with a new bag of popcorn. He nodded over his shoulder.

“Besides. The Wild Wastes tribe might not have been able to afford cookies for a gold piece. If you could buy goodwill—let them steal your snacks.”

Tkrn looked at the Minotaur. It was so easy to forget how cunning Venaz could be. Also, it was a revelation to think that a tribe as old and known as the Wild Wastes tribe wouldn’t be able to pay for a few gold’s worth of snacks for an Honored Gnoll.

Oor saw the look Inkar was sharing too. He whispered loud enough for their Gnoll-hearing and theirs alone.

“Don’t mistake that. The Wild Wastes tribe isn’t rich in gold—but they have plenty of things to them.”

That made sense. Everyone nodded, and settled back as a second snack run was set up. The last race they were going to see was the thousand foot dash, the ten thousand one being scheduled for later in the day to give the competitors time to warm up.

There was a [Shapeshifter]. Venaz folded his arms.

“I’m keen to see what species he actually is. Maybe multiple? Wolf is my bet. I’ll bet you three cookies, Merrik, Peki.”

“Wolf’s too obvious. I bet it’s a fast cat-thing.”

“I won’t bet for cookies. Too expensive.”

Peki turned her beak up. The starting line had a [Barbarian], one of the Wild Wastes tribe’s, the Courier Gnoll—‘Furstep’, a rather generic name in Tkrn’s opinion—the [Shapeshifter], three [Messenger] or [Scout] types, and a Woven Bladegrass [Skirmisher].

The excitement was real. The bets, realer. Everyone watched as the [Announcer] began the countdown.

“Three, two, one, go!”

The first hundred feet vanished in front of the charge of the competitors. They were running—the first seconds of shouting and cheering had Tkrn on his feet with the others. But then—

“Thief! [Thief]! He’s stolen artifacts!”

A voice from the crowd. Half the heads turned. And Tkrn saw a shape blur out of the crowd, followed by dozens upon dozens of Plain’s Eye Gnolls. They were chasing a young Gnoll with a scarf wrapped around his face, dark clothes—

Gnolls grabbed for him. The Gnoll slid past them, under the legs of a horse, and barreled onto the race track. The racers hadn’t heard, so caught up in the race. Tkrn saw the Gnoll being pursued by a vast mob of Gnolls. The [Thief] had a bundle he had shoved into a bag of holding. He ran, arms and legs pumping—

The Courier in the front was vying with the accelerating [Shapeshifter] for the finish line. They heard shouts, screams, and the crowd going wild as they accelerated for the final, three-hundred foot dash.

The [Thief] passed both of them. The Courier and [Shapeshifter] slowed as he ran past the finish line. He outdistanced nearly a hundred horses going after him—Tkrn’s jaw dropped.

“Get that [Thief]! It’s him—the Thief of Clouds! The disgrace to our people!”

The winner of the thousand foot dash ran across the plains. The Thief of Clouds, one of the most infamous Gnolls that no one was proud of, ran into the distance and abruptly—vanished. The [Riders] spread out, calling for anti-invisibility or camouflage spells, but they never found them.

“I think that Gnoll actually ran faster than I could shoot an arrow. Mind you, there are faster Couriers, even among the Gnolls. I’m sure it wasn’t a sustained Skill. But that was something.”

Everyone was talking afterwards. Venaz was talking to the others who were telling Tkrn and Inkar about the Thief of Clouds.

“It’s said that one time, a cloud passed over a caravan escorting a relic-class item to Pallass. In the time the [Guards] were under shadow, the Thief of Clouds slipped in, stole the relic—and the cloud! When the Drakes looked around, both were gone! And later, the relic appeared on the black market.”

“Like the great thief in my children’s book. You know, the one who stole the Eye of Baleros? Thivian Stormless?”

“I know him! The Lightning Thief, yes? I read the same book as a child. But that is a story. That Gnoll gives us a bad name. Bad enough we’re called thieves by the Drake cities—he also steals from his own people! At the Meeting of Tribes!”

It just went to show that some Gnolls didn’t respect tribe or tradition. Even so, it was the talk of the hour. And Tkrn was secretly pleased to have been there to say he had been there.

What was more surprising was that Venaz remembered Tkrn’s promise. And he prevailed on Tkrn since the races had been suspended for an hour after the drama.

“So? How’s my posture? Wait, don’t tell me. Let me puzzle it out. I feel like I’d rotate my body as I swing. Like…this?”

Venaz swung the bat and Tkrn was impressed.

“Yes, it’s all in the hips. You rotate your body—that’s right.”

“And I’m aiming for distance?”

“If you get it past a certain point, it’s a ‘home run’. But it changes depending if we’re allowing Skills.”

“Excellent. I can see why it’s growing in popularity. The House of Minos would surely enjoy this game. Soccer…not as much. Too hard with hooves.”

He grunted as a nervous Gnoll tried a fastball. Venaz cracked it just to the left of the Gnoll’s face. At this point, Inkar suggested they use protective gear.

—-

Merrik, Peki, and Venaz ended up staying at the Silverfang’s camp. It was not a Gnoll tribe connection directly, but they were friends with Feshi Weatherfur, so Krshia and Chieftain Akrisa welcomed them in instantly.

Besides which, celebrity. But Tkrn was happy enough to let the [Strategists] play the new sports game and sign things and talk—he and Inkar had their own business in the combined tribal camps.

For instance? Cers, the little Gnoll cub who was around Mrsha’s age, was curious about Inkar. So Tkrn and Inkar ended up kicking around a stray soccer ball and watching all the young Gnoll children race after it.

“It’s so much fun!”

So saying, Cers leapt on a Gnoll girl and wrestled her for the ball. They happily fought, punching, biting—until his older half-sister, Satar, waded in.

“Cers! Don’t attack other children! You’re the Chieftain’s son!”

The young [Shaman] scolded him. He stuck out his tongue and hid behind Inkar.

“I’m having fun! Go away, Satar!”

“Now, now. Why don’t we all be civil here? Let’s kick around the ball—you can gain a class, you know.”

Inkar laughed because [Guardsman] Tkrn was actually able to quell the unruly mob. Children were children and a [Guard] had to deal with them. The Gnolls gathered up.

“Really?”

“Oh yes. I know a little Ekirra who’s a [Kicker]—he can boot his ball a hundred feet! Drakes take me if I lie.”

And he’d broken several window shutters, and several glass ones as a result. The children were very impressed, though, and begged Tkrn to show them. He did a few basic passes like he’d seen Joseph do, and then suggested a game.

Someone was watching Tkrn, though. Merrik had declined to do more than hit the ball and run around the bases—he felt, instinctively, that all these games were designed for people with longer legs than his. He had no strike zone, and while baseball was more reasonable, he just wasn’t into either game.

As Venaz scored another run and retired to the bench, panting, Merrik spoke thoughtfully.

“That’s two sports.”

“Say again?”

The Minotaur took a long drink of water. Merrik spoke.

“Two sports. Cookies, popcorn—I heard there are cakes, even ice cream from the City Gnolls who were in Liscor. Multiple foods. Also, isn’t that Drassi [Reporter] from Liscor?”

Venaz was toweling off his sweaty body and his horns. He stopped.

“Yes. That city’s at the forefront of something.”

“Sounds like a good connection. If we had time, I’d say we should check it out.”

“I have to. Even though we promised to return via Khelt—there’s business for me too. Not as happy.”

“Hm. And Chess Weekly comes out there. I heard a rumor that the Professor’s opponent might be there.”

“More reason to go. But what inspired all this? The dungeon?”

“I hear the word [Innkeeper] being tossed around a lot. Maybe…”

The [Strategist] students were smart, keen-eyed, and could put puzzle pieces together if they saw them laying around. What they forgot was that Gnolls were Gnolls. Krshia decided having their interest was a fine thing. So long as it was just that. She stepped away; there was little use for them beyond meeting Feshi, unfortunately.

This was the hour of Gnolls. The weeks and days of it. Months? Well. The Meeting of Tribes was beginning to turn to the summit of Chieftains.

—-

That night, the first battle lines began being drawn in a public banquet. Gnolls shared food, and so nearly eighty tribes sent members to a mass-gathering where you could eat and drink and talk communally.

Chieftain Akrisa, Krshia, Orelighn, and Eska—along with other Honored members and [Shamans] were all sitting with the Plain’s Eye tribe. One of their lead [Shamans] and a number of great warriors and leaders among them were meeting new tribes.

“It’s important to introduce ourselves to them.”

“Then they have even more power than at the last Meeting of Tribes.”

Krshia frowned, because them queuing with a number of tribes both acknowledged the Plain’s Eye superiority, and it spoke to leadership when all tribes were theoretically equal.

She supposed the Plain’s Eye tribe, like Az’muzarre, were simply too large to ignore. Well, the [Shaman] was very good at making the others feel welcome and liked, so Krshia simply resolved to have good food and reconnect with her roots.

Merrik, Peki, and Venaz were eating with the Silverfangs in good spirits, having played games and investigated Liscor’s things all day. When he’d heard that Pelt was making bicycles and that Tkrn had a sort-of-in with Kevin, the Dwarf had practically begged to get a discounted bike. Tkrn couldn’t promise much, but he’d told the Dwarf he’d talk to Krshia.

What was notable, though, was how the huge banquet was laid out. Not just one giant circle; there were plenty of Gnolls in the middle, around the central bonfire. But tribes did tend to sit together, if spread out so they weren’t one mass.

For instance, the Steelfur tribe, known traditionalists and famous, were sitting right with the Plain’s Eye tribe. A lot of Chieftains were sitting in the Plain’s Eye tribe’s company, but the Steelfur and their allies were all together, demonstrating clear alliance.

The Decles tribe, which had a new, small feud with the Silverfangs, for instance were sitting on the edge of that gathering. Allies of tradition.

It got interesting when the Woven Bladegrass tribe arrived. A thousand of them for this banquet—and they sat across from Steelfur. No love lost there. In fact, both Chieftains were also present.

Chieftain Werri of the Woven Bladegrass, and Chieftain Iraz of Steelfur. Iraz was older, more widely respected—but Werri was a rising star, and the non-conventional, smaller tribes went to her.

The two Chieftains greeted each other. It wasn’t a war; just a difference of opinions. Cordially, at first, but with an underlying edge. They spoke loudly, knowing all were listening.

Like the debates he’d accidentally engaged in. Tkrn listened as a hush fell.

“Chieftain Werri. It is good to see the Woven Bladegrass tribe. I hope this summit will help us agree on a way forwards for our people. Your wars with Drake cities have put other tribes at risk of retaliation.”

Chieftain Iraz did not mince words, although he did bow quite respectfully. Chieftain Werri copied him, more perfunctorily.

“Is that something for other tribes to dictate, Chieftain Iraz? Like the Plain’s Eye tribe?”

She glanced pointedly at the largest tribe here. Iraz raised his brows.

“Tradition lies with the Plain’s Eye tribe. They have the longest history compared to our short tribes, Chieftain Werri. Is it not well to respect their wisdom? New tribes such as yours bring change. The newness is not wrong, but it should be tempered with tradition, or do you not agree?”

She snorted. Many Gnolls stirred at this, but the [Shaman] of the Plain’s Eye tribe for this banquet silenced them with a gentle wave. Werri shook her head.

“Tradition. Is tradition avoiding conflict with the Drakes? I would say, rather, that instead of ‘new and old’, Steelfur and Plain’s Eye is old—and we follow an even more traditional path.”

Iraz looked confused, as did many Gnolls. Werri grinned and elaborated.

“We remember when Walled Cities fell. We remember war against the one foe that hunted us! Is that not traditional?”

Murmurs. Many Gnolls were outraged by the insinuation—well, the older ones. The younger Gnolls wanted to applaud Werri. Iraz didn’t dignify her statement with a reply. He simply ended the conversation—politely—and Werri returned to her camp.

“What do you think?”

Inkar whispered to Tkrn. He shrugged.

“I’m a City Gnoll. I wouldn’t like to have the Woven Bladegrass angry at me.”

It was a non-answer, and Inkar nodded. Tkrn thought that was that—but he hadn’t counted on one thing.

Each tribe decided where to sit, and many were neutrally sitting between the two main ‘camps’ that had appeared. Other big tribes like Az’muzarre hadn’t even shown, same with Ekhtouch; they might be at other banquets. Silverfang had sent representatives to four more great gatherings.

However, she came to this one, by chance or design.

Lehra Ruinstrider and her team, the Stargazer’s Promise, stopped as countless Gnolls howled and cheered her. Celebrity? She was the hottest new Named Adventurer present. The success story of a Gnoll from a small tribe.

There were other Gnoll Named Adventurers. But none here, none so young—and her adventure was still going. Her battles with the Wall Lord Dragial were the things stories were made of.

An adventurer’s tale. So, instantly, two people among the many stood up and called out.

“Lehra Ruinstrider! Come join us! The Steelfur tribe would welcome your team among ours!”

Chieftain Iraz called out. Lehra turned and grinned; she had met the old Chieftain whom she respected. But then, almost on top of him, was Werri’s voice.

“Lehra! Sit with us and take your team!”

The Named-rank Gnoll hesitated. She looked at her friends.

“Don’t look at us. This is your people.”

Elgrinna, the Dwarf, muttered. Emper, the [Monk] Stitchman, Suxhel, the Gazer [Wizard] all looked to their glorious leader.

Amused. Lehra squirmed at being put on the spot. She could lead them into battle, but she did not enjoy this.

“Someone’s going to be mad no matter what I do. Emper—Emper, what do I do?”

“Wisdom, Lehra…”

The Gnoll waited.

“Yes?”

Emper opened his eyes. The [Monk] looked at Lehra.

“Wisdom, Lehra, is learning from your mistakes.”

“You suck, Emper.”

Lehra Ruinstrider looked around, not even trying to hide her clear anxiety as she hopped from foot to foot. She looked around and then—made her choice.

“Oh, hey! Is that Inkar and Tkrn? Fancy meeting you here! Mind if we join you?”

Tkrn choked on his food as Lehra Ruinstrider ran over. And suddenly—the Named Adventurer and her team were in their camp.

Krshia Silverfang’s spray of drink had gotten her sister and their tribe’s [Shaman]. Now, all eyes were on Silverfang.

It was a non-choice by the Named Adventurer, but significant enough! Both Steelfur and Bladegrass looked to their Chieftains to see if they should take offense.

Iraz just shrugged when his tribe expressed disappointment.

“Lehra may sit where she will. There are many banquets. Let her do so; it is unkind to war over her.”

On the other side, a disgruntled [Shaman] muttered.

“That young adventurer may choose where she sits, but she is not political.”

To that, Chieftain Werri leaned over and spoke to the [Shaman].

“You sound like a Drake. Political? Why does Lehra need to be political? We are Gnolls! Do we need to play games of politics?”

That started a fight. ‘You sound like a Drake’, or variations like ‘smell like a Drake’, always did.

“You’re Tkrn, right? And here are more people from the fight! Hi! Lehra. This is my team…say hi, guys.”

“We apologize for the disturbance. We can sit elsewhere if we are inconveniencing you.”

Emper bowed. Lehra hastened to agree, but who was going to send her away? The Silverfangs fell over each other to give them a position of honor.

And somehow, Tkrn was in that group, with a wide-eyed Cers, Satar—Krshia and Akrisa excused themselves to come back with all the others.

What a great night! What a wonderful little event! Lehra, their tribe. The Steelfur and Bladegrass tribes and all the big ones were content to let the Silverfangs enjoy the chance meeting. Lehra barely got to really talk, being bombarded with so many requests from other Gnolls who’d come to see her transform, or talk about finding the Blade of Mershi and so on.

Lehra obligingly demonstrated, grinning as people cried out to see her wearing the armor from the City of Stars, a Relic-class artifact. Her team put up with it well, ribbing their captain, eating, being good guests…

In short, it was a nothing event which was a something event for those involved. Chieftain Iraz put it out of his mind, turning his attention to the Demas Metal Chieftain, whom he’d invited because his tribe had such a promising new metal.

“Candidly, Chieftain. What is it? A known alloy?”

“I believe it to be a new one. Much is said about adamantium—Salazsar has dug up a vein. And the great Dwarf [Smith], Pelt the Hammer, has forged it and offered some to Maughin of Pallass.”

The younger Gnoll sat there, eating and drinking with great aplomb with the seasoned Steelfur warriors and some of his own around him. Iraz nodded at all that; he’d wanted adamantium himself if it could be found. The greatest of all metals—well, one of them. Certainly for armor.

The Demas Metal Chieftain went on.

“We cannot match that. But then—is that so wrong? Few metals can! I say to you, Chieftain Iraz, my tribe’s metal is not Naq-Alrama steel. It is not adamantium. It is not capable of rivaling Dragon’s scales.”

The listeners blinked at this statement. The Gnoll lifted a furry finger and produced a blade.

“However. It is greater than mithril. Think of that. Greater than mithril, and I believe we can produce far more of it than adamantium because it is not these rare metals. Orichalcum is one of the components in Demas Metal, Chieftain Iraz. I present you with this blade, that you may test it yourself.”

Greatly impressed, Iraz accepted the blade. He turned his attention to that tantalizing point—a more plentiful metal that could arm an entire tribe, or a number of warriors rather than a single helmet or shield or blade.

The Demas Metal tribe was on the rise. The Woven Bladegrass tribe, likewise, was entertaining Ekhtouch Gnolls who were somewhat put off by how casually Werri treated the offer of children.

“We are a tribe of now, honored guests. Children are an excellent thing. But we do not plan in the long term. Yet—if our tribes can work and fight together, why not sleep together? Let us talk.”

Both Chieftains conducted great business that night, and let Lehra be young. And they failed to realize something.

Because the next day…Lehra Ruinstrider paid a visit to the Silverfang camp, politely sending regrets to Iraz and Werri and two dozen other Chieftains. The two great Chieftains were confused. This wasn’t just choosing a neutral party.

They had failed to understand one thing about Lehra, which both Chieftains and their tribes lacked—or failed to present. It was the connection of people like Lehra, Tkrn, as unlikely as that seemed. Of Merrik, Venaz, Peki, Inkar—something they all had in common.

—-

“That’s exactly it! Yes, thank you. I nearly cried after my first month abroad. All because I didn’t have these! Tada!”

Lehra pulled out a small package of…Tkrn sniffed it as Venaz and Emper traded talk on Chandrar.

“What is it?”

“Meat biscuits! It’s the Ruinstrider Tribe specialty!”

Lehra smiled as her entire team groaned. None of them liked the hard-baked biscuit, which the Ruinstrider made out of super dehydrated dried meat and bread.

“It’s um…hard…”

Inkar was trying to chew it. Lehra nodded.

“Everyone I know hates it. But it’s food from home. I had to have some. Because—you know?”

She turned to Merrik. The Dwarf sighed.

“Dead gods, yes.”

He’d shared around his food from home. Deríthal-Vel’s snack—or at least, what Merrick had claimed was a childhood snack he missed—was a hollowed-out mushroom, bright yellow with white spots. Edible, which you packed with something for long-term storage.

“It grows in your pockets.”

Peki shook her head, but it was actually a lot tastier than Lehra’s meat-biscuits. And the point was—

It was something that the two Gnoll Chieftains of their tribes hadn’t realized. And this was the connection between the students of Baleros, Tkrn, now, Inkar for certain, and Lehra’s team and the Stargnoll herself.

It was the bond of travellers. Those who had gone far from home—who had been to other countries, to other nations, and come back. Who were travelling still, in many cases.

How to explain it? It was easier to say that it was a connection people who had left their homes could talk about—and could not talk about to people who had never left.

Even if the locations weren’t the same, the experience was.

“You get to craving it, you see. All the foods are great wherever I go—mostly great. But you miss that one thing from home.”

Everyone nodded. Venaz sighed.

“To go to the House of Minos and have proper seafood one time…if we could have stopped there. Have you ever been, Adventurer Ruinstrider?”

“Lehra. No, I haven’t. I haven’t even been to Baleros, but we’ve been all over Izril! Maybe we should, to get away from Dragial and his cronies…”

“If you do, stop at the House of Minos, our King would welcome you. She admires strength of arms.”

Lehra had not left her home continent. But she had left her tribe. She had visited Drake cities—and Tkrn had left Liscor and was ironically travelling while visiting the Silverfangs.

It was so pleasant, talking about Humans, too. Because Lehra didn’t have one in her team, but she had three different species not including herself. Of course she liked Inkar and had stuck up for her.

“So Liscor’s got Humans, Drakes, and Gnolls? That’s great! Most cities are just…Drakes. All Drakes, every day Drakes. Not nearly as many Gnolls.”

“Four species, actually. There are Antinium too.”

“And you don’t feel in danger at all times?”

Venaz frowned. Tkrn shrugged as all eyes turned to him. Even Suxhel, the Gazer, looked mildly alarmed at the idea.

“They are…you get used to them. And of late, they’ve really started to change. They have names, they’re nice…”

“Nice? I have to see that.”

“Add it to your list! Along with Deríthal-Vel! It’s a pleasure to talk to a fellow normal-sized person, at last.”

Merrik and Elgrinna slapped each other on the shoulders and laughed. Similarly, Peki and Emper were engrossed in reminiscing about Pomle, which Emper had visited and his group of [Monks] had ties to.

Travellers became friends when they met, sometimes, because they could share that one thing in common. Tkrn realized Lehra was even around his age. A bit older, but she was a person, not a story. She was a glutton, she didn’t like the pressure of social events, and she really, really wanted to visit the north.

“We have a door straight to Invrisil, you know.”

“That’s it! We’re going to Liscor!”

The Stargnoll struck a pose. And Krshia got her wish. Because Lehra Ruinstrider had made a connection to the people like her.

—-

Someone else had cause to think on Lehra Ruinstrider at length the same day. If not the same place.

It was an unusual meeting. He had only agreed after several requests—or rather, the petitioner had finally convinced Alrric to talk to Ilvriss.

“Frankly, Wall Lord, I wouldn’t bother you normally. It’s the kind of petitioning for funds that I’d never invest our company’s time in. However…it dovetails with your request for artifacts and notable individuals. Somehow, they found out you were asking about Relic-class weapons or gear.”

Ilvriss was never a Drake to pass up investigating people who were investigating him. Besides which, he felt it germane to give the group of Drakes who knew about Az’kerash time to process…everything.

However, he did take the time to ask both Shriekblade and his uncle Nerul for information about the representative of a ‘Wall Lord Dragial’.

“To my knowledge, he is a former Wall Lord, isn’t that so, Nerul? A rare case of expulsion?”

“Ah, well, he keeps the title. Fissival isn’t so, mm, divorced from him as to strip him of all his possessions. They have essentially given the care of his estates to his family, removing him as the defacto head, but he has a number of supporters and I wouldn’t be surprised if his family still listens to him and funds him. He’s getting funding from somewhere.”

Ilvriss nodded. It was one of the many scandals that engulfed Drakes in their cities. Wall Lord Dragial…yes, he recalled the incident. Attacking Gnoll tribes, disrupting entire cities chasing after…

“Named Adventurer Lehra Ruinstrider. The Stargnoll, Captain of Stargazer’s Promise. Bearer of the Relic-class artifact, the Blade of Mershi. And you can tell me, Shr—Adventurer Tessa?”

He turned to the scarred Drake currently poking her arm with a dagger. It didn’t go through her scales, but she was carving a faint outline with the tip without actually puncturing scale. She looked up.

“Never met her.”

“Ah.”

She went back to poking. Nerul was feeling at his neck spines. He opened a bottle of wine and poured everyone a drink. Ilvriss waved his cup away; Shriekblade did not. He’d had breakfast twenty minutes ago.

“Yes, Fissival had to exile him. The look of it—a Wall Lord gone mad? From what I know, he was always obsessed with Mershi. The problem is, he was wealthy, and powerful as an individual as well. A proper spellcaster.”

“How good?”

Ilvriss was interested. The City of Magic, Fissival, had an academy, their Scholarium, which rivaled Wistram at times. Graduates like Grimalkin were examples of how the best Drakes could turn out. Nerul frowned.

“I don’t know numbers. But he’s a master of Golem Artificing, summoning, and I believe he is ranked above a veteran [Battlemage]. He has to be if Lehra Ruinstrider and her team haven’t ended him. Their running battles are the stuff of stories. You know, a plucky young Gnoll who finds a Relic-class artifact of a dead Walled City and the evil Wall Lord chasing her? Well, that’s one telling. The other one that a lot of people—Drakes in the larger cities—like to say is that Lehra is a thief who causes trouble and Dragial hired her, whereupon she stole the object she was hired to retrieve.”

“The truth is…?”

“She probably did take it. The Ruinstrider tribe was hired by Dragial to search ruins for clues to the dead Walled City. No one knows where Mershi vanished.”

“Really?”

Nerul sighed.

“Go read a history book, nephew. I’m only telling you what I could get from a quick search—and only because Mister Superior is an amateur historian. He gave me the details over breakfast. I’ll let you dig up more or meet this representative of Dragial’s—I’m not gifted with [Speed Reading].”

Neither was Ilvriss, but he thanked Nerul anyways. He was about to head off when Shriekblade spoke up.

“I know one thing about Lehra.”

“Yes, Adventurer Tessa?”

The female Drake looked up at Ilvriss.

“Shriekblade. I told you, that’s who I am.”

“Shriekblade, then. What would you like to say?”

The Drake lowered her knife. She gave him a long stare.

“Lehra has a Relic-class artifact. That’s why she’s Named-rank. She’s not like us. Not yet. She’s a rookie.”

Ilvriss waited, but Shriekblade was done. He thought about that and nodded slowly to himself. So, a single artifact had made a Named-rank. No wonder this Wall Lord wanted it.

—-

The meeting with Dragial’s representative was short. Ilvriss cut it short because the Drake representing the Wall Lord was disappointing.

Ilvriss didn’t know what he’d expected. But the Drake was transparent as she spoke, shining with admiration for Dragial.

“Wall Lord Dragial will reward any generous contributions, Wall Lord Ilvriss. He intends to resurrect the legacy of the Walled Cities, and but for one thief, he would be leading Fissival into a new age. Once he recovers the blade from the fraudulent Named-rank—which Fissival’s Adventurer’s Guild and a number of Guilds have not acknowledged by the way—he will be poised to reward his allies.”

“I assume a monetary donation would be greatly appreciated, Miss Cenera?”

The Drake beamed at Ilvriss. The Wall Lord was already sighing inside. He’d seen people like this all the time—they came to people like him for funding for the next big project.

“A generous contribution is of course welcome, Wall Lord! But standing forces, artifacts—Wall Lord Dragial is not a single-minded Drake.”

Desperate was what he was. Ilvriss nodded.

“As it stands, Miss Cenera, I believe Dragial’s quest is quite…intriguing. I shall of course send what I can if circumstances allow.”

Her face fell. She knew a refusal when she heard it. But she went on, in the best spirit of entreaty.

“Could I persuade you to make a small contribution, Wall Lord Ilvriss? You know what it is like to be a Wall Lord from your city, surely. Something trivial for you…”

She pleaded, very forthright. A younger Ilvriss might have caved and given something—but the older Ilvriss knew that if you gave something once, you gave it again and again. He politely showed her the door.

Even so, the Drake insisted on handing him a personal letter from Dragial, which he had apparently penned upon learning Ilvriss’ ‘interest’. The Wall Lord thought it was a stock letter at first, but then he realized it was personally written.

He retired to the Gemscale tower while he read it, walking up stair after stair. Interesting.

Dragial was insane. No—just mad for power, which was the same thing. He ranted and raved about the ‘stolen relic’ he had properly paid for, not quite beseeching Ilvriss. He must have an ego to expect Ilvriss to just fork over a hundred thousand gold pieces. However, part of the letter caught Ilvriss’ attention.

“I know you have been seeking relics. The legacy of our Ancestors and Drakes before us is still there! The Blade of Mershi is one weapon in an armory of legends. When I find it, I will personally gift the Blade to my greatest allies; far greater weapons await. Take up my cause, Wall Lord Ilvriss…”

“Oh, have more people come begging for money? Please tell me you’re not wasting more of your fortune, Ilvriss.”

He looked up. Navine Gemscale was heading down from the upper floors and he’d just entered his mansion. He and his sister exchanged looks.

“Nothing of the sort, Navine. I forgot how many such individuals there are. I wasted the last thirty minutes on a Wall Lord Dragial. You know him?”

She snorted as she descended, tail twitching with irritation.

“Know him? I’ve met him. Remember, I went to Fissival for two years to learn a bit of magic?”

Ilvriss had forgotten. Navine hadn’t really graduated as a full [Mage]; she’d realized her talent wasn’t that strong, so she got one of the courses for Walled Drakes and such.

“He was there?”

She waved a claw, grimacing.

“This was way back, before Lehra Ruinstrider became famous. He was already a Spell Lord or whatever the name was for him—like one of the professors. And even then, he was obsessed with Mershi. He taught a class on dead Walled Cities and he had all kinds of students who were fanatic loyalists.”

“Typical of such people. He approached me for help seizing the Blade of Mershi.”

“Good luck with that. It belongs to Lehra Ruinstrider. You’re not going to cause an incident with Gnolls, are you? Even Fissival dumped him for that. He tried to hold her entire tribe hostage.”

She eyed her sibling. Navine Gemscale would have thought Ilvriss could do any number of stupid things—but neither one would just give money to a loon like Dragial.

But the last few days had shaken her. Not only had he been seen at a brothel, he’d apparently been so taken he’d personally requested the company of one of their best escorts. Navine had seen her in Ilvriss’ company.

That was scandalous enough, but she could understand him being lonely or despondent and turning to a stupid solution. But the Potion of Regeneration?

Her mother and father had been stunned. Navine as well, not least because the sum was the talk of Salazsar. That much gold for a damaged potion? Hostile negotiations? Ilvriss had never, ever done anything like that.

Moreover, his net worth had plummeted as a result. He was still insanely rich, but his personal fortunes—not the Gemscale family’s as a whole—were now, er, insanely rich. But the ranking of Walled Drake’s wealth meant that Navine had passed him in monetary value for the first time since they were young.

She had wanted that to be a triumph of her superior business model and way of running her company. Not this. She was worried about Ilvriss.

But how did you say it? The Wall Lord nodded to Navine.

“Heading to Oteslia?”

“Yes…Mother’s taking her time. It’s going to be a toll on her, but we’re leaving in two hours.”

“I said my goodbyes, but perhaps I’ll say one more.”

“Please don’t. She’s already taking too long.”

Navine sighed. They should have been at Oteslia right when Reinhart arrived. But her mother would need to be escorted via floating bed; her health was fragile.

She chewed on her lip as her tail lashed the carpet. Navine closed her eyes.

“Ilvriss. Just what…was the potion for? I know you have secrets, but—”

The Drake looked around. Ilvriss had already left, heading for the library. She scowled. Well, let him waste his gold. The Humans were more important for now.

—-

Navine’s awkwardness was plain. Probably over Xesci. Indeed, Brilm, Tasilt—Zail had had a number of words when he’d found out. But no one ‘knew’ anything.

They suspected, of course. And let them. Ilvriss didn’t care about his reputation…much. The point was that the worst qualities of Drakes would help Xesci’s cover.

They might even know she was a [Courtesan of Change]. Ilvriss doubted it; Brilm and Tasilt probably didn’t think much of her class aside from its utility in the bedroom. It was that. That was a weakness of his people. Their disdain for things that were not proper or good, or Drakeish.

Well, Ilvriss had learned one lesson there. And if he had learned that, he could at least do his due diligence when it came to Mershi.

The Wall Lord shook his head as he perused Gemscale’s vast family library. Ancient books, tomes—he coughed, despite the regular dusting that took place here.

Mining records. Some of it was useless. However—he murmured to himself.

“One weapon, even a weapon worthy of a Named-rank Adventurer, is not worth the effort that has been spent on it already by Fissival or Dragial. Still…”

Dragial had written to him, explaining why he was so obsessed. The Drake was mad, but it was still a dream he was chasing.

The Blade of Mershi is not capable of changing our species’ place in the world. But imagine an armory of Relic-class weapons, Ilvriss. Just imagine it!

Ilvriss snorted. He spoke to Dragial as he hunted for a book he thought he knew was here. He shook his head.

“Wall Lord Dragial. You’re chasing stories. If I thought there was even a…a 10% chance, I would invest into this idea. But short of miracles—plural—I don’t see…”

His voice trailed off. He pulled out a book entitled The Lost Cities of Izril, and opened it. For a moment, he was silent.

Dragial was doing this the wrong way. He thought the Blade of Mershi would unlock the key to finding the Walled City. Ilvriss wondered if he knew something—but it occurred to him it wasn’t an entirely lost cause.

A month ago, he’d have arranged to have the owner of the Blade of Mershi tossed into The Wandering Inn and a [Spy] with transcription Skills write down everything that happened. If—

The Potion had failed. But he had done what he could. All that lost gold…Ilvriss shook his head.

If there was a 1% chance it would have worked, he would have done it again.

—-

He took the book to a sitting room to read. He had read this once, as a child. A full account of all the Walled Cities remembered. There had been other books of Walled Cities, with their legacies, full records—

But even the oldest enchantments faded. Libraries were burned by accident. Ten thousand years destroyed first-hand documentation. Twenty thousand? Forty?

This book was old. And even so, it was compiled of stories and partial records. The [Historian] had done their best.

Mershi had a section of course, but many Walled Cities did. Ilvriss remembered some.

“Grunvel—the City of Pacts! The only Walled City built out of friendship with the Dwarves! A great, lost city in the north…”

A young Ilvriss had dreamed of finding a trace of it. Hadn’t they all? But the truth was that most Walled Cities’ locations were known. They were just no longer there.

Every stone, every relic, had been taken, sold, dispersed to the winds. All that each city had been was gone. Perhaps even now, someone held a Relic-class weapon that was their family heirloom and did not know where first it had come from.

Dragial was the young Ilvriss who’d never grown up. Who’d clung to that dream until it twisted. What about Mershi made him convinced there was anything left to find? Ilvriss muttered to himself.

“What was the City of Stars?”

Aha! He found the section at last and began to read.

Mershi was a city of [Astronomers]. If Salazsar was the tallest Walled City to currently exist save perhaps for Oteslia’s giant tree, well, Mershi had been taller.

Floating buildings, a central spire that reached so high heavenwards it could be seen like the High Passes wherever you went…the [Historian] had a way with words. Mershi had been grand and powerful, even among the Walled Cities. Yet the entry was sparser than Grunvel’s or many of the other’s.

Because—Ilvriss blinked. It was said that Mershi had even had Ancestors—Dragons—who helped govern and fight for it.

Fairy tales. And like fairy tales, Mershi’s end was the stuff of legend.

It had fallen before Humans had colonized the north. That was why only myth was accessible to the [Historian]. Mershi had been one of the first Walled Cities to fall. The spire fell. The city turned to ruin.

“In hubris, all the tales I have been able to verify recollect some great incident of Mershi’s downfall. Hubris, arrogance—the classic faults of our kind. What this event was I do not know; the legends hint that it is too terrible to recount, which suggests ignorance on the [Storytellers] and [Historians] before me. What I can tell you is that Mershi disappeared overnight. Every person within was said to be lost, and the city vanished, because the skies themselves turned dark and the entire region was lost for a century’s time, as if some great spell had swallowed everything. When it finally was lifted—no one could find a trace of the City of Stars.”

Ilvriss set down the book. Now there was a story that explained it all. [Treasure Hunters] had probably read this, like Dragial, and concluded that Mershi might be there. Even so—the city had to be dead.

But the Blade of Mershi had been found in this age after so long. Ah, Ilvriss felt the young Drake inside him begin to get excited. Dragial thought it was a key to finding the City of Stars!

…He caught himself, shaking his head. No, he had no time to waste on this. If Az’kerash had not been…Ilvriss might have indulged himself in this if Periss was alive, Erin was well, and the world not threatened.

But he was too busy. He put the book back in its place and let legends lie. He had work to do.

—-

Alrric the [Administrator] of the Gemscale company was having his lunch break. He was walking back home, rather than eat in the tower.

Alrric Kerrfa, brown-furred, a classic example of a working Gnoll who’d risen to the top from being a humble [Miner], was one of the highest-placed Gnolls in Salazsar. He had a wife and child, Ximenes and Sidinel.

He was a model citizen, in short. Unique in his competent boringness; even Ilvriss thought of Alrric as a Gnoll who lived for his family and took his job seriously.

That was how Alrric liked it. The Gnoll had packed up a gift for Sidinel. A little bit of adamantium, still embedded in the rock. Not too much value, but he knew she’d be fascinated. It wasn’t theft; he’d made a note in the log about bringing it back after a week. It wasn’t as if it could be processed in Salazsar’s forges.

Business was good. Ilvriss was strange, but Alrric had every intention of letting the Wall Lord do as he pleased. No news was good news…Wanderer hadn’t reported in, but the road was long. Alrric was humming to himself as he wondered what Ximenes had made for lunch. He really hoped it wasn’t any of the fish she’d bought ‘specialty’ from the Zeres shipment.

He didn’t like fish that much. And he had to take a breath-neutralizer. He sighed. If it was fish—

His head moved sideways for a moment. The foot-traffic got heavier the further you went down the walkways between towers. But he was still rather spread out.

“Hm. Fish, fish…”

The Gnoll muttered to himself. His fur began to stand up. He looked ahead towards one of the large staircases and saw two figures standing right along the edges of the doorway. And…three Drakes, casually coming up on his rear.

Which was no problem. Except that if they were coming out of the administration block, they wouldn’t be heading down this far. It was usually Gnolls who took this route to one of their districts. Of course, you wouldn’t know that if—

Alrric began adjusting his suit. He tried humming. But his heart was suddenly pounding.

Was it today? Oh no, no—there was a single Gnoll standing in the doorway. Was this it? His stomach lurched. He looked up to check the sun—

And swung around and belted the first Drake in the face as the attacker lunged. The Drake wasn’t expecting that. None of the five ambushers were.

Nor—for how Alrric reacted. The Gnoll didn’t stop at a punch. He rammed forwards—and threw the Drake off the bridge, over the guardrail.

The Drake went screaming down. The others froze. They saw the [Administrator] reach down to his belt and flick a knife into the second Drake’s chest. The Gnoll and Drake who’d rushed out of their spot saw the second Drake die, clawing at his chest.

“Poison?”

The third, female Drake backed up. The [Administrator] had pulled out a wand. She raised her claws—

The retort of the spell from the specialty-crafted wand that Spellcaster had made for him vaporized the Drake’s chest.

“Stop! St—”

The two other attackers froze. Alrric turned. The wand fired twice, catching the last, the Gnoll, running. Alrric lowered his wand and looked around, panting.

“It’s happening. I have to—”

He ran. The encounter had been so fast, if anyone had seen the fight it had been over in a moment. He charged down the stairwell, ripping a speaking stone from his pocket.

“Coinpurse! Coinpurse—I’ve been attacked! This might be it!”

An alarm. He pushed through the crowd, stowing the speaking stone. None of the others would respond.

Shadows, Spellcaster—Wanderer was gone. They’d take care of their ends. Alrric had to get to Ximenes and Sidinel.

He had feared this day was coming for decades. The last time—well, it wouldn’t go like that again. But how had they found out?

The Tribes had sent assassins after him. Alrric checked his fur as he pushed through the crowds, racing back home. Not a trace of white.

But how…? In his panic, he burst into the family home as Ximenes was arranging dishes.

“Dear, what’s wrong? You look like—”

“They’re here. I was just attacked! Where’s Sidinel? It’s time to go!”

His wife dropped the dishes. She whirled—

“Sidinel!”

The Gnoll appeared, her eyes wide with fright. All of them knew what to do.

“Grab all the gold, the bag—we’re meeting Shadows and Spellcaster and their group and going.”

“Are they hurt? Are they alive?”

“I signaled them. They’ll signal back if—”

Tic, tic. Both Gnolls heard the sound from a speaking stone embedded in the wall. Then two subtle rings.

Safe and alive. Alrric was panting. Ximenes turned.

“How did they find…?”

“I don’t know how they figured it out. Maybe—I had a bit of white fur during that mine inspection. Maybe that was it? Some Plains Gnoll—we have to go.”

All three Gnolls were grabbing the readied items. They would be out the door in a minute—when the speaking stone at Alrric’s hip blared to life.

“Coinpurse. Coinpurse! Stop! This is Shadows.”

He yanked the stone off his belt.

“Keep quiet and meet us at the gathering spot! You know what to do!”

“Coinpurse, stop! I think this is a mistake. You said you were attacked? I just got word that someone organized a hit on you! Not us. It’s the companies. Stop!”

Alrric stopped. His paranoia had blinded him to other possibilities—instinctual fear of what he thought had to be happening had taken over. He began to breathe.

“…What? What? I don’t have enemies, Shadow! There hasn’t been…”

The Emera Corporation. The hostile negotiations! Alrric lowered the stone. Sidinel, Ximenes—his family looked at him and hesitated. Alrric growled into the stone.

“Shadows, Spellcaster—hold on. This might be a false alarm.”

—-

Ilvriss got word of six attacks on [Miners] off-duty, higher-ups in the Gemscale corporation, and someone fired a [Fireball] spell into one of the mine’s supports!

He strode into his office, having run down from his family mansion to find Alrric, panting, leaning over the desk.

“Alrric! Are you alright?”

He’d gone to Alrric first; half of his corporate staff had been attacked!

Not killed. Rather, they’d been beaten, kicked about, and left for [Healers] to find. Broken bones were the worst of it; this was a message.

“I’m fine. I was attacked. My attackers are…dead.”

Ilvriss stopped.

“Dead?”

All of his employees had been jumped. A few had gotten out, running for help, or winning the fights, but Alrric had killed all five of his attackers. One had been tossed off the bridge.

“I thought I was dead. I—have an emergency wand. From the mining days. And my rings.”

Of course. Ilvriss blinked. Alrric was panting like he’d run around Salazsar several times.

“I’m fine. No, I’m damn well not! This is the Emera Company, after the hostile negotiations, Ilvriss!”

He slammed his paws on the desk. The Gnoll looked up, furious, at Ilvriss.

“I thought they were after me and my family! I had to make sure they were safe before I came up here! They’ve hired thugs and their own people to attack us! It’s a war and you dragged us into it for that damned potion!”

All true. This was a corporate war. And in Salazsar? They got ugly.

Deaths weren’t as common—but sabotage, attacks like this? Ilvriss had seen it before. But the Gemscale family hadn’t dealt in this kind of thing since his father…he felt an unpleasant feeling in his stomach. He’d feared it was Az’kerash at first.

“Alrric, I cannot apologize enough. If I had any idea—I am not going to stand for this. Hire as many [Mercenaries] as it takes. Contact the Watch! I want all of our people safe.”

“For how long?”

Alrric was angry. He was snapping back at Ilvriss. He tried to calm himself.

Stop, stop! You need this job and he’s your employer, even if you have cause to be mad! He’d worked too hard to let himself throw it away—especially because they hadn’t come to kill the white Gnolls in Salazsar today.

The Gnoll was worried Ilvriss would ask about the deaths. It was an extreme reaction, even if Alrric was now claiming justifiable self-defense. He waited, sweating, and hoping the dye wouldn’t run. But the Wall Lord didn’t take offense to his comments. His eyes narrowed and he walked to the window.

“Not for long, Alrric. I promise you—this will not be a protracted war. Is the office secure?”

“I checked. I’ll get some more of the guard in—”

“Captain Shieldscale, come in.”

Ilvriss spoke into his own personal speaking stone. There was a muffled response. Alrric saw Ilvriss turn.

“I need two of the Rubirel Guard to come to my position in the administrative tower to guard Administrator Alrric now. Send two more to his home at…”

He turned to Alrric. The Gnoll repeated the address, blinking. Ilvriss nodded.

“…And the last two on me. Raise the Erchirite Spears and all of Gemscale’s guard—keep the rest in the mansion with my family. Tell my sister—”

He was striding for the doors. Alrric and Ilvriss both doubted the Emera corporation would go after Ilvriss or the Drakes themselves; that was a step too far in corporate warfare in the eyes of the Walled Families. When the corporations fought, everyone but the top suffered.

The response for Gemscale might be to lodge a complaint or call for a session among the other Wall Lords and Ladies of Salazsar. Or just retaliate in kind. Alrric, still panting with the adrenaline in his body, expected either.

And he had forgotten how much Ilvriss had changed.

—-

It was not Rellmel’s idea. He thought it was actually a bad idea given that Gemscale had more wealth and success than Emera. But Grisa had insisted and his sister had implemented the attacks.

Still, there would be a bit of schadenfreude—a very Drake idea, even if they didn’t have the same word for it—to see Ilvriss’ reaction. Everyone who’d heard of the corporate war was interested in seeing what would happen next.

Wall Lord Ilvriss emerged from the Gemscale corporation’s tower with two of the Rubirel Guard holding position at the doors. Two more and his Captain Shieldscale flanked him. Sensible precautions, if a bit overdramatic. A few [Gossips] saw the Wall Lord’s face; oh, he was angry. Was he going to call for a censure of Emera’s family? Was he going to…?

“Adventurer Shriekblade, where are you?”

The Wall Lord barked. A shadow stepped out of the doorway.

“Here.”

The watching Drakes shuddered. The Named Adventurer was looking…excited. Ilvriss looked at her, Captain Shieldscale, who’d unnecessarily drawn her sword.

Then—he drew his. The enchanted blade glowed in the air as Ilvriss donned the armor around his clothing that Shieldscale handed him. Even the Rubirel Guard stared. But Ilvriss wasn’t done.

“Adventurer Shriekblade, your orders are to follow me. If someone attacks me, cut them down. Kill no one until they make the first move. But you have full license to kill in defense of me or any Drake in my employ. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

She grinned and drew her knives. The Drakes in the crowd drew back. Wait. He wasn’t serious?

Then the first Erchirite Spears came storming up the stairs. A full squad—and their spears were lowered behind their shields. They looked just as uneasy, though.

“Wall Lord?”

More Gemscale family soldiers were behind them. Ilvriss looked around. His eyes glittered.

“Soldiers, with me. Your orders are to protect me—if someone blocks your way, you will use those weapons. But do not attack anyone otherwise. Now, forwards!”

He strode down the staircase. The Gemscale soldiers were first—the hesitating Gem Regiments followed after a second. Ilvriss came down the stairs three at a time and the crowd backed up. He lifted his sword and they ran. The Wall Lord raced down the tower, bellowing.

“To arms! To the death! With me, Soldiers of Gemscale!”

House Emera was not prepared for that. Like the hostile negotiations—this response to the corporate warfare was like kicking sand in someone’s face and seeing them draw a sword.

But they had forgotten. Sometimes that happened. All of Salazsar’s traditions—the Wall Lord had a different feeling about them after being in Liscor.

—-

“Wall Lord! The Gemscale forces have attacked our tower! They’re storming the floors—”

Wall Lord Rellmel went white under his scales. Grisa shrieked.

“Is he mad? That’s—that’s an actual battle in Salazsar? Stop him!”

“We—he’s leading the Rubirel Guard and the Erchirite Spears along with his family’s soldiers! And Adventurer Shriekblade!”

“How many people has he killed?”

Rellmel squeaked. The [Bodyguard] hesitated.

As a matter of fact, no one. No one was about to fight with the furious Wall Lord, himself a skilled fighter, the Rubirel Guard, and a Named Adventurer along with an entire army at his back.

They were storming up the Emera tower, essentially taking prisoners of every floor on their run up the stairs. The other Walled Families were right behind Ilvriss, though, with considerable forces of their own.

Rellmel thought it was the end of his family at first. But then he realized—they weren’t clashing with Ilvriss’ forces, especially since they were advancing at a run up the stairs. But they might be coming to stop Ilvriss from executing the Emera family’s heads.

No one had expected this from Ilvriss. Even Navine was stunned as she brought some of her guards following Ilvriss. The Emera family was stuck in their tower; the first thing he’d done was have his Erchirite Spears seal the bridges. Actually set up barricades. As if he was actually fighting a war—

“Ilvriss, stop!”

Brilm, Tasilt, Navine, and eight more Wall Lords and Ladies skidded into the reception hall of the Emera family. Rellmel and Grisa were facing Ilvriss with some terrified house guards in front of the Wall Lord.

Shriekblade, two of the Rubirel Guards, Captain Shieldscale—Tasilt flung up a claw.

“By order of the Walled Families, stand down all of you! That is an order to the Gem Regiments!”

All of the Drakes present lowered their blades. The Rubirel Guard to exceptional relief. Only Shriekblade did not. To Navine’s incredible relief, she saw Ilvriss had already sheathed his blade.

“Ilvriss, are you mad?”

“Mad? I am quite, Navine. My people have just been attacked. Not me, myself, but my [Administrator], my [Foremen], innocent [Miners] in the streets!”

Ilvriss was panting as Navine strode up to him. He pointed and the two Drakes in the back flinched.

“Wall Lord Rellmel. Wall Lady Grisa! I believed we had some kind of fair negotiation. Or would you deny that you were paid for the potion I bought from you?”

“That was no fair negotiation! You pinned us down and stole our heirloom, Ilvriss! Now you come in here and try to threaten us?”

Grisa shouted back. Rellmel was trying to shush her. She had grown confident, seeing the other Wall Lords and Ladies here, assuming that Ilvriss wouldn’t dare do anything.

Rellmel had once assumed that, and mouthed off while surrounded by his buddies to a Gnoll. He might have said something—and yes, the Gnoll had been arrested and charged and it had been essentially one versus fourteen. But he had learned that none of that stopped the first punch to your face.

And Ilvriss had a sword. The Wall Lord pointed past Grisa.

“Wall Lord Rellmel. This is an attack on my company. As head of the Emera family, are you suggesting our companies clash? Because there is no point, I have no time for it, and if you have an outstanding grudge, I suggest we settle this now.”

Rellmel gulped. Tasilt and Brilm looked ready to seize their friend. The Wall Lord stepped forwards, sweating.

“The…corporate warfare may have been a step too far, Ilvriss. But my sister and I have cause for grievance! That was a hostile negotiation and I—we—would not have sold the potion under normal circumstances. You must admit, that was unfair.”

“I acknowledge that. But did I not pay more than a fair price?”

Ilvriss’ eyes narrowed. Rellmel lifted a clawed finger.

“Price? Yes. But the fact remains that it was a forced sale. Should we bring this up between the Walled Families? Should I hire all the same negotiators to take whatever I want from your vaults?”

Navine hated to admit it, but Rellmel was showing a lot more intelligence in his arguments than Grisa. Ilvriss was in the wrong first off here—even if the reaction had been petty.

“I will not have my company attacked, Rellmel. There are dead Drakes and Gnolls because my people defended themselves. And I will not have them threatened again. Let me be clear: if my employees are attacked, it is already war and this is the enemy stronghold. I will not play at warfare.”

Ilvriss strode forwards. Rellmel flinched, but held his ground.

“Ancestors, Ilvriss! Think about what you’re saying!”

Brilm snapped, appalled at the suggestion. Ilvriss looked at him.

“I want an end, now, Brilm! The Emera family’s word—witnessed by all of you—that no more attacks take place! Or else all the Walled Families of Salazsar will hold Emera to account. This is pointless and it wastes money, time, and lives!”

It was true. Even so, Rellmel looked at Ilvriss.

“You have our potion, Wall Lord. Give it back to us.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Then do you expect us to just take it lying d—”

Navine saw Grisa’s jaw snap shut. She felt her own jaw loosen. Ilvriss had just used his aura on her! The Wall Lord faced Rellmel. Around him, all the Drakes suddenly shuffled back—except for Shriekblade, who scratched at her back as if suddenly itchy. He lowered his voice, twisting a ring on his finger as the outraged Grisa clawed at her mouth and stomped her feet.

“Rellmel, I want your word.”

“I won’t be threatened. If you’re going to draw the blood of fellow Walled Drakes, it’s a civil war, Ilvriss. And you won’t do that.”

Rellmel wanted to wipe the sweat from his brow. Ilvriss studied him.

“That was never my intent. If I wanted to stop reprisals, I’d need your word on it as head of the Emera family. Such that Grisa can’t go behind your back.”

The other Wall Lord winced and Ilvriss knew he was right. He nodded.

“Failing that—I would have to wipe out the entire Emera family. Which I am not willing to do. So. Let’s come to an arrangement. What will it take for you to consider the potion matter closed?”

Rellmel blinked.

“You gave us gold, Ilvriss. But Grisa will never accept it. And I—I think the potion was worth more than just gold, however much.”

Ilvriss nodded shortly.

“So—give me some of the gold back. Return…”

His head tilted up. Rellmel heard him mutter a curse.

“Return four hundred thousand.”

“Four hundred—”

“Four hundred thousand. And I’ll give you a half—no, a third-share into our adamantium shaft.”

Wall Lord Rellmel’s eyes bulged. Not because it was a bad offer. Far from it. The adamantium would be worth far, far more than that in time. Guaranteed profits for…

“You’re serious.”

“I’m not offering it again. Your word. If Grisa does anything—she won’t. And your promise in front of all the Walled Families, on the Emera bloodline.”

“I…promise.”

Rellmel stared at Ilvriss. He saw the Wall Lord twist his ring. The Wall Lord of the Emera family, dazed, looked around. Navine stared at Ilvriss.

What had he done?

—-

“One third of the adamantium seam.”

“Co-owned. You know the practice. They’ll divide up the shafts, send their workers in. We’ll have to make sure they don’t unearth monsters which go after our group, but they’ll be responsible for their take.”

The [Administrator] sat back. If he had been furious at Ilvriss for the danger which had caused him to react, he was furious for a different reason now.

“That is one third of the profits that would have kept us flush for the next decade.”

He spoke, very mildly. Ilvriss nodded.

“Yes. But I was aware that the Emera family wouldn’t stop so I had to offer them something. Maybe I could have gone down to a quarter. But—there it is.”

Alrric breathed. This day had not been great. The potential loss…he looked at Ilvriss.

“No one is going to be happy about this. The [Miners] take bonuses on finding more adamantium veins in the seam. It’s good, guaranteed pay. Your father…”

“He nearly tore my tail off.”

Ilvriss sighed. His head still hurt from the shouting. He rubbed at his earholes. Zail Gemscale had expressed his disappointment with his son in no uncertain terms.

“It’s done, Alrric. I’m sorry for the injured and I didn’t want years, even a decade of petty infighting. So listen: here’s what I’m going to do. I demanded money back from Rellmel.”

“You had better. He could just give you all the money back and just take one third of the adamantium seam.”

Ilvriss shrugged.

“I’m placing…a hundred and forty thousand gold pieces. Take from it for all the healing bills first. Every person who was hurt, give them a sizable bonus. Then—issue a company-wide bonus at the end of this week’s pay with the remainder.”

Alrric’s breath caught.

“What, everyone?”

“Everyone. I’ll do the rounds and talk to people. Let’s see. I need to visit Tasilt, Brilm—and then tomorrow morning I’ll be gone.”

“What? Where?”

Alrric was having trouble keeping up. Ilvriss looked at him.

“The Walled Families are ready to censure me for my actions. It’s good timing; I was planning on leaving anyways. I’m bound for Oteslia. Apologies for all of this, Alrric. If my father comes, send him towards me.”

He left the Gnoll sitting there, stunned.

—-

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Ilvriss was losing money. The Drake had always, always had a sound head for business. He took calculated risks. He had made the company wealthy, with few spans of losses.

But now he was spending a fortune. His personal fortune, true, but that was money that should have lasted him into his old age! And he was making objectively bad decisions.

Bad decisions economically. Perhaps he’d ended a feud that would cost a few dozen lives and be inconvenient.

Zail Gemscale would have fought the feud even if it meant a century’s worth of hostility between families. He didn’t understand his son. Had he lost sight of everything?

Yet he still swore on truth spell that he remembered what it was like to be a Wall Lord of Salazsar.

“Leaving.”

Zail stared at Alrric. The [Administrator] sighed.

“I think your son meant to tell you over dinner, Wall Lord. I can direct you to his last location, but he is moving around. Perhaps it would be better to wait for him to find you? Or I can send a [Message] to him if you would care to wait in his office…”

Alrric was hinting. He did not get along with Zail. Fair was fair; Zail did not like a Gnoll working and essentially managing the company.

However, Zail’s dislike of the Gnoll was second-place to his confusion over his son. He almost felt like…he pulled his claw away from the dent in his head.

“You…you don’t know what’s changed about him, do you?”

Alrric hesitated. Both of them knew something had.

“Not in so many words, Wall Lord. However, Wall Lord Ilvriss has pursued his own business with minimal effect on the company, so I’ve not inquired. It’s not my business.”

“No, it’s not. You’re right about this. But the adamantium shaft…”

The Gnoll leaned on his desk.

“That does affect the company, yes. A third of the windfall of windfalls, gone.”

Zail found a seat. He stared at Alrric.

“And now he’s gone off to Oteslia. Same as Navine and my wife. Why?”

“I don’t know, Wall Lord. Perhaps you’d like to…?”

“No, I would not!”

Zail was growing angry. He controlled his breathing; his attendants hovered worriedly behind him.

“My son is making poor decisions for the Gemscale family. I never thought Navine would be a better choice—no, something’s come over him. The war changed him. It happens. You lose someone and…”

He was muttering to himself. Alrric watched with one eye, carefully trying to work. Zail looked up.

“I want to see all the reports. All the figures, how much he’s paying everyone, daily takes from each mining shaft—everything. Put it in his office.”

By their Ancestors. Alrric winced. He’d feared this was coming. Zail had ruled the Gemscale family before Ilvriss and he wanted to get his claws dirty again. He steepled his paws and tried to smile.

“Wall Lord Zail. Your son is managing the company well. Except for this…incident, which I am motivated to believe was in the company’s safety, you’ve seen the quarterly reports.”

“I have. But I’m no longer confident. I want the reports.”

Alrric met the steely gaze of the old Drake. He took a breath. He hadn’t wanted to do this, but he took some small pleasure in it.

“You are not the head of the Gemscale corporation, Wall Lord Zail. Until I receive a formal notice from the Gemscale family, I can and will refuse to both show documentation and take your advice. With respect, sir.”

“You—you dare you…?”

Zail struggled to his feet. His attendants tried to calm him down as he stared at Alrric. The [Administrator] held his gaze.

“I am trying to run the Gemscale company to the best of my abilities, sir. And Wall Lord Ilvriss is the head.”

It was true. But Zail was still furious. He paced back and forth. But what was he going to do? Fire Alrric? He had to get the Gemscale family to replace Ilvriss, and Alrric knew there was little chance of it, even with Ilvriss’ actions. They’d put Navine in charge instead, and a lot of the Gemscale family did not like her, even with Ilvriss’ unprecedented bad sale.

Zail knew it too. The Drake breathed heavily, and Alrric feared he was going to drop dead on his carpet. And wouldn’t that just end the day on the same note as it had begun?

But then the Wall Lord’s eyes narrowed. He took a seat again, even accepted the drink mixed with tonic. He sipped at it, and stared at Alrric.

“My son is leaving. And now one third of the Gemscale miners who were going to be devoted to this new seam have to work the old ones. Faith in our company wavers, and while we’ll live well off the adamantium, this is a blow.”

Literally to one third of their profits. They’d sold off their rights to other seams and would have to work spent ones or just hope they found something new. Alrric sighed.

“Yes, Wall Lord Zail. This would appear to be the situation.”

The Wall Lord nodded. But there was something about his intent gaze that made Alrric think this wasn’t senility. He lowered his quill as the Wall Lord peered at him.

“I want those reports. And you will begin taking my…suggestions, [Administrator]. My son has put you in this position, and you have done—well—over the last decade.”

“Thank you so much, Wall Lord Zail. But I don’t believe—”

“Who owns Seam #213 BE?”

The question caught Alrric off-guard. The Gnoll frowned.

“Seam…?”

He went for his filing cabinet, staring at Zail suspiciously. He found a document of all the current holdings, changed monthly, and pulled it out. Thanks to his filing system, he read…he shrugged.

“The Glasswing family holds it, but I don’t think it’s actually being mined for anything. That’s normal. It’s dead. Tapped.”

All the old gemstones were gone, and if memory served, that area had only ever yielded some magicore and low-grade iron. Not exactly profitable. Zail shook his head.

“No. It’s not. If you dig three hundred feet down and a bit to the southwest, you’d run into another vein. Magical gemstones. And—monsters.”

Alrric lowered his document.

“…That’s a bold claim, Wall Lord Zail. Now, how would you know that?”

The Wall Lord’s gaze was distant. But his eyes were sharp.

“I meant to give it to Ilvriss on my deathbed. It’s hard to buy the seam’s rights without setting something off. A long time ago, I hired a [Diviner]. We…it was a bad time for the Gemscale family. We were looking into—riches. We found it, even got down there, but I had to ask a [Geomancer] to seal it up. To prevent—evidence.”

He meant he was trying to secretly mine another family’s treasures. Alrric bit his tongue.

“And you sat on this knowledge for how long?”

“Fifty years. We could never have mined it in secret. You’d need adventurers. Proper Gem Regiments; the monsters were infesting the magical gemstone deposit. And the Glasswing family has it? Well…if someone was buying up old seams on a whim, especially if the Gemscale corporation looked like it was searching for something…”

“They could rather easily get it for a song. Practically nothing.”

Alrric was slowly pulling out some paper to write a memo. Something casual to the Glasswing’s [Administrator] or [Secretary] or such. How would he do it convincingly? Well, appear to be casual, which told them he was actually desperate, which disguised the fact that…

Zail looked at Alrric.

“Well?”

The [Administrator] met the old Drake’s gaze for a long time. Ilvriss was leaving. And this…he drummed his paws on the table. At last, he nodded.

“I’ll have all the documents sent over to Wall Lord Ilvriss’ office—your temporary office—directly, Wall Lord.”

Zail smiled in satisfaction.

Ilvriss left the next day, with a small entourage. An expedient move given his unpopularity with…everyone. Not only had he chased off the popular Sellme, he’d offended the Walled Families with his direct action.

The Gemscale corporation had a new boss, which turned out to be the old boss. Alrric made a few purchases, and sent some [Deep Miners] out with very specific instructions and the Erchirite Spears that Ilvriss had left in the city, and more security besides. Zail sat in Ilvriss’ office, his immediate family all having left for Oteslia.

It was probably fine.

—-

Outrage in two Walled Cities. For different reasons. But the end reason was money.

“This is unacceptable! I will call on the [Druids]!”

One of the [Researchers] was shouting. Saliss and Xif were ready to shout back, but Lyonette was in charge, now.

At least, of this. She folded her arms.

“Researcher Medivort, you have a faerie flower.”

“But you’ve tampered with it! It’s—”

“…Unable to reproduce? Why would that matter for a man purely devoted to uncovering its effects, [Researcher]?”

Lyonette smiled sweetly at the Human man. He glowered. The little faerie flower was indeed tampered with.

It was a simple process to make it very tricky to grow even cuttings of faerie flowers—and they were already a finicky species. Lyonette gestured.

“We have more petals, stems, or other parts of the flower, Researcher Medivort. Dried and fresh.”

Separated. The [Researcher] turned to his fellows.

“This is a monopoly!”

“Why, yes it is.”

The monarchy enjoyed monopolies. And the [Princess] was still a [Princess]. Well, there was a running battle in Oteslia now.

And unfortunately for the liberal-minded [Herbalists], [Gardeners], and so on, who would like to liberally cultivate the flower for their own ends, any chance-obtained flower that someone happened to have in their pockets rather than in the one now well-guarded location where Saliss’ flowers were being grown—might vanish.

The Gentlemen Callers were playing a game of thieves with Oteslia and they were rather good at what they did. So for the first two days, Lyonette was setting the terms of engagement.

Of course, the First Gardener and [Druids] were weighing in. Neither side was happy, but Lyonette kept pointing out that the flowers were being sold. Just not the flowers themselves.

Fair, it was fair to say they were a plant that should be for all. But they were not even of this world. Oteslia had no idea of how they had been obtained.

Anyways, it was the only real leverage Lyonette had in Oteslia, so she would keep it. The [Druids] saw she was providing it at a reasonable cost—some [Scholars] were working on her projects, others paid for it at fairly low prices compared to Sage’s Grass. But they had to go through her.

They might have forced it, Lyonette believed, if it weren’t for Saliss, Xif, and the threat of Pallass hanging over their heads. Politics.

Speaking of politics, she knew Magnolia Reinhart was in Oteslia and she was wondering if the [Lady] would reach out. Would she wonder why Lyonette was here? She had to know about Erin…ideally, they would not meet. Lyonette had no wish to entangle herself in Magnolia’s scheme.

She missed Mrsha.

—-

“Politics.”

Wil Kallinad spat the word. Feshi echoed him.

“Politics? I don’t understand it fully. How can they suddenly not provide the medicine?”

The [Lord] ran a hand through his hair. Yerra was sitting, pale with nerves.

“Someone’s taken all the faerie flowers. The ingredients for Yerra’s cure.”

“So…does that mean it’s back to toughing it out? Because I can do it!”

Yerra tried to grin. Wil shook his head. Feshi did likewise.

“We just have to get access to it. The [Herbalist] claims this—this person’s put a limit on the sale of flowers and he’s already making medicine for the First Gardener.”

A headache cure! He’d told Wil to go to another [Herbalist], but many were selling the now-extremely precious flowers, rather than using them. Buyers were appearing across the world who wanted even the parts.

Wil hated it. They had to know Yerra needed the medicine! Apparently it was two greedy [Alchemists] from Pallass who were doing this.

“I’m going to speak to them, Yerra. You stay here. Just…relax.”

She had one more dose. The Selphid nodded; she’d been stuffing herself with food after being cured. Then proceeding to ‘empty her stomach’ manually since the Selphid’s body didn’t need to eat as much as the real thing. It was just for taste.

“Feshi, will you come with me?”

Wil wished Venaz or Merrik was here; they might be helpful. But they had stayed at the Meeting of Tribes because Wil thought that was their next destination with Yerra almost cured—or at least, her on the mend and the pain-medicine secured.

This was a hiccup. Feshi nodded.

“Of course. The Weatherfur tribe will help too, if it is possible.”

She checked the dagger at her belt, and Wil touched the sword. Yerra stirred, but he assured her.

“We’re not going to fight.”

It was just them making sure Fetohep’s gifts were safe. They already had invested in anti-[Thief] precautions, but attempts had been made. Well, the Gnolls from the Weatherfur tribe were guarding this place.

Wil Kallinad prevailed on the owner of the faerie flowers at where he had been informed he could find either a ‘Xif’, a ‘Saliss of Lights’—whom Wil was worried about given the Drake’s reputation—

Or a Lion Solstice? She blinked as she opened Mivifa’s door and greeted Wil. He stared at the young woman with red hair. She blinked at the familiar [Strategist] with a few touches of red in his own dark brown hair, bordering on black.

Feshi didn’t blink.

“Are you—from Terandria?”

Both of them exclaimed almost at the same time after introducing themselves. Lion Solstice stared at Wil. He nodded, and her eyes went round.

“Wait. I know you! You can only be Wil Kallinad! House Kallinad’s [Strategist] they sent to the Titan’s school? And you’re—Feshi! I saw you on the television!”

By now, the two were used to their fame. They exchanged a hopeful glance. Wil cleared his throat.

“Yes, Miss Solstice. But we’re still in Oteslia looking for a cure for Yerranola, our friend. I don’t know if you recall…”

“Of course! Have you found it? Oh—you must think the faerie flowers could help!”

“As a matter of fact, we know they can cure her pain. But we heard—”

Wil Kallinad was confused. He had been all set to fight to the death—verbally and socially—to get Yerra’s cure from greedy Drakes hoarding the flowers.

Instead, he found himself drinking tea and talking with Lion Solstice, who was from his home and of course would give them all the flowers he needed!

“It’s not about hoarding it at all. It was stolen from the two [Alchemists]. That’s why Oteslia’s so upset.”

“Ah, you mean illegally grown?”

“Yes. They paid for secrecy, but you know the saying in Pheislant.”

“Loose lips bring Drowned Ships.”

Wil echoed her and blinked—then grinned, despite himself. So did Lyonette.

Travellers from home. Feshi listened as the two began talking.

“How long have you been in Izril?”

“Just under a year. You just arrived, didn’t you?”

“Yes. And we didn’t get to see much of it. Have you been in Oteslia long?”

“Oh, no. I come from further north. I was around Liscor—”

“Liscor? You mean, the Liscor with the soccer games, the door and the dungeon?”

“The very same. I only came south because my friend is—hurt—but you’re from Pheislant! Tell me, please, have you heard anything of the Dawn Concordat’s conflict with Ailendamus?”

Wil swept back his bangs as Feshi politely sniffed at a quiche and nibbled at it.

“My family writes only a bit—are you from around there?”

“I—er—yes. Gaiil-Drome, actually. The forests shelter me.”

“Ah, I visited there twice. I only know what everyone knows. But I’ve been watching every day. I’m hoping the Dawn Concordat can triumph, obviously, but except for the Griffin Prince…bad news.”

“I know. I know; does Pheislant intend to enter the war?”

He grimaced as she leaned forwards.

“Frankly, I doubt it. We clashed with Ailendamus and it was one-sided. But the Order of Seasons might move, although His Majesty probably thinks it unwise. However, if Ailendamus swallows the Dawn Concordat…”

“Would it come to that? Surely the other Kingdoms would declare war.”

Wil reached for a quiche as Feshi sat back, half-listening and feeling as if she were studying the Terandrian kingdoms in class. She looked at Lyonette and then narrowed her eyes. Both Humans were too engrossed to notice.

“Ah, but you say that and yet Ailendamus has performed wars of aggression on multiple kingdoms before. What kind of alliance would seek to overthrow them and would it even work? It’s so good to meet someone else from Terandria.”

Lyonette was smiling.

“It is, it is! No one else has any manners or offers me tea. And when I try to talk about home…please, would you sign something for me? My daughter would love an autograph from Feshi. She’s a huge fan. And I know it’s something you must get asked, but can you talk about Daquin? The sea voyage?”

Wil blinked as she found some paper for him to sign. So did Feshi. But he was only too glad to.

—-

Three hours later, Feshi stretched as they went outside. As Tkrn and others had observed, if unconsciously, travellers connected. And travellers from roughly the same home meeting abroad connected even more.

“That went well. Although my tail was stiff from sitting on it too long, yes?”

She grinned at Wil. He ducked his head, embarrassed.

“Sorry, Feshi. But it was nice meeting someone from…”

“I understand.”

The Gnoll [Strategist] nodded at him. The two had nearly twenty pieces of faerie flowers, and Lyonette had trusted them with four actual ones at a song. Wil was half-tempted…but Yerra was more important. Besides which, that would be wrong.

“All we need to do is tell the [Herbalist] we want to purchase the pain recipe. Weatherfur Gnolls can probably make it up, right?”

“Our [Shamans] surely can. Then we will go to the Meeting of Tribes.”

“Yes.”

The two students walked along, relieved. Finally something was going right. Feshi kept glancing at Wil. He met her gaze on glance eight.

“So what did you think?”

His eyes were keen. Feshi relaxed.

“I wondered if you had noticed what I noticed.”

“I wonder what you noticed.”

The two students glanced at each other. On the silent count of three, they exchanged notes.

“She smells of a Gnoll, you know. Not—intimately. Young, I think. She said her ‘daughter’, but the ring on her finger does not belong on the finger that says she is married. Nor did I smell that. She’s from Liscor, and she has faerie flowers and stays at Mivifa’s house and knows Saliss of Lights.”

Wil had missed the scents, obviously, and he snapped his fingers as she reminded him about the adventurers.

“I’ve got a bit more, Feshi. Did you notice that she claimed to be from Gaiil-Drome?”

“Was she lying?”

He shrugged.

“She could be from there. But here are my observations: firstly, she never addressed me as a superior, although she used my title several times. I know we’re travellers, but that implies she’s used to familiarity or even thinks we’re of the same rank.”

“Is that salient?”

Feshi tilted her head, trying to emulate what the Professor would say. Wil shrugged.

“I’d argue it is, Feshi. It’s almost instinctual. Second though—her hair’s red.”

“People have red hair.”

“It means more in Terandria. She almost tried to cover it up at first, did you see? I don’t think she expected to meet me. Lastly, she had amazing manners. Every way she sat, the way she offers tea or lets you sip first before she does while making a conversational point…”

He trailed off. Feshi was raising her brows.

“…Do you know much about Calanfer, Feshi?”

“No. I know the war—”

“No, besides that. I need to send a [Message] back home. But I know more since we’re neighbors. Such as the fact that their 6th [Princess] is missing. And…”

Wil glanced over his shoulder.

“…I can’t help but swear I’ve seen her, even outside of maybe a royal portrait. Liscor. Didn’t we see a lot of battles there, when the television was first being invented?”

Feshi was blinking at all the rapid deductions.

“Are you sure, Wil? This is an amazing coincidence, yes?”

“Who else would be travelling in the company of Pallass’ two best [Alchemists]? And have access to a magical flower?”

What Wil didn’t say was that ‘Lion Solstice’, who might be confused with a Lyonette of the House Marquin of Calanfer if he was right, had given him one more big clue. And that was her nature.

He had felt deferential to her, as if he should bow and accede to her will. A [Princess]. And he had a [Lord]’s intuition.

“So what do we do about it? Tell someone, yes? No?”

Wil Kallinad thought as he looked at Feshi. After a moment, he nodded to himself.

“I think, Feshi…we should go to the Meeting of Tribes. She seemed nice.”

Feshi grinned. Not everything they knew had to be used. She nodded, and Wil and she walked off to give Yerra the good news. Wil would investigate to be certain, but he was content to let the [Princess] of Calanfer her secret. She had done him and his friends a good turn.

Besides, he doubted they’d ever meet again. Maybe in a decade. He was bound for the Meeting of Tribes.

—-

One last thing.

The Meeting of Tribes was full of events. Lehra and her new friends, deals between tribes—and soon, the summit of Chieftains, who would decide on important matters.

Such as, perhaps, the fate of Doombringers, if Krshia Silverfang had her way. But more would also occur there; people would bring forth important secrets to share with the tribes. Knowledge is power, and power would be shared there.

The fate of Gnolls might change. They had to decide on a number of important things, some of which were public knowledge.

The Raskghar would be seen there. They were still in-transit. From Pallass, as a gesture of goodwill.

But one Pallassian had arrived today, having had to run the entire way. Roadwork, her master had called it. And typically, he’d thought it was good for the gonads—if females had them.

She had something to tell the tribes, for all she was of Pallass. A monumental revelation.

Gnolls could cast magic as [Mages] did. Gnolls could be [Mages].

Yes, she was Level 7, having not been able to level fast despite breaking her ‘barrier’ to her class. Yes, she wasn’t a full student. But she had muscles, and Grimalkin had praised her and told her to present herself.

So she did.

“[Fire Bolt].”

She loosed the fiery missile into the air, and followed it with a [Light] spell—and then conjured a little pillar of stone from the ground. Three spells, but barely taxing given Grimalkin’s solid foundations in magic.

[Mage] spells. She was also a [Student], and, dubiously, a [Bodybuilder], both classes she’d gotten while trying to ‘break through’ to her [Mage] class.

Even some of the watching Gnolls looked impressed as she flexed—that wasn’t part of the magic, but Grimalkin rubbed off on his apprentice. Ferkr waited. The Plains Gnolls, the third group she’d demonstrated her magic to, in order to prove Wistram wrong, looked at her.

After a second, they began to applaud. Ferkr sighed—but then heard a voice.

“Good tricks! What are they, artifacts? A wand in your fur?”

She looked at the speaker, an older male Gnoll. He grinned at her. Ferkr shook her head.

“No, this is magic. This is my class. Use an appraisal spell!”

“And how should I cast one? With my own wand?”

He laughed and so did the group. Ferkr looked around, confused.

“Didn’t you see the spells?”

“It’s a nice trick, young Gnoll. But someone tries this every Meeting of Tribes. The last two had it.”

One of the female Gnolls advised her. Ferkr was dumbstruck. This was the third group to see her casting magic and not bat an eye.

Some Gnolls had believed, but these doubters…she lifted her paws.

“I’m not using a wand! I can cast with my bare paws. Listen—my master, Grimalkin of Pallass says that the Gnolls not being [Mages] is a recent belief! We sent an apprentice to Wistram forty years ago, and the rumors are older than that, but it is possible.”

“Of course it is. And I’m sure you’ll prove it. Because of all the Gnoll [Mages] I see walking about.”

Her first heckler rolled his eyes and snorted.

They didn’t believe her. Ferkr was stumped. She’d cast a spell in front of them and…she raised her paws.

“I can cast more spells. If you want, you can test me. Get a [Shaman]. I’m serious. Get truth spells, appraisal spells, from scrolls or wands.”

The Gnolls blinked at her. Ferkr looked around, trying to call on Grimalkin’s dignity.

“I am Grimalkin of Pallass’ first Gnoll apprentice, Ferkr! By my fur, I will prove we can cast magic!”

The chuckles faded. She stood there, challenging them and the Gnolls looked at each other.

“I believe you.”

One of the younger Gnolls spoke. He looked at Ferkr.

“If you speak before the Chieftains—I’ll try to become a [Mage].”

“Thank you.”

She smiled at him. The crowd looked at each other, and then began to disperse. Some of the Gnolls apologized.

“Maybe you are a [Mage]. If so—I can find my tribe’s [Shaman]. I’m from Greenpaw. Will you wait?”

“Of course. I’ll perform more magic. As soon as I go to the, um, bathroom.”

One of the Gnolls grinned. He pointed her off and Ferkr stretched as she headed towards one of the smelly tents. Magic. There was another [Mage] among Gnolls, even—although so young and obviously a rare case compared to Ferkr. It was possible. She just…

“Excuse me, Miss. Are you the young Gnoll who claims to be able to cast magic?”

Ferkr turned as a Gnoll approached. She smiled.

“Yes I am. If you want me to show you, I can as soon as—”

“Good.”

The Gnoll smiled. Ferkr felt someone grab her from behind.

It didn’t go as well as the Gnoll thought since Ferkr was strong. She punched one Gnoll hard—but there were eight of them. The [Shaman] tapped his staff as Ferkr went limp. The last thing she saw, as the paws lifted her up and sleep took her, was the markings on one.

A warrior’s markings. A Plains Gnoll warrior’s insignia, showing his tribe.

She saw…an eye…

And then she vanished.

8.11 E (Revised)

…And then she woke up.

The young woman opened her eyes. Erin Solstice sat up in her bed, in her bedroom, in her home with the familiar, bleak skies of winter slowly giving way to spring. The faint sounds of a furnace, the glowing, bright lights of her digital alarm clock were the only disturbances to the pleasant silence and shadows in her room. She felt her warm, padded layers of blankets that kept the morning chill away.

Late morning, that was. She stared at the old, faded quilt with chess pieces stitched onto each diagonal panel of cloth, which had endured since she had won her first chess tournament when she was eleven. Hand-stitched by her mother…

Something trickled down her cheeks. Slowly, the young woman sat up. It was cold. Normally she would have stayed in bed, lazily going back to sleep, even.

Yet something was wrong. She reached up and touched her cheeks. Tears ran down her face. She had no idea why.

“I was so happy.”

The sound of her own voice startled Erin. Why had she said that? She looked around, breathing in, out, not knowing what was happening.

For a moment. Then, the feeling of pain, of loss, was gone. She wiped the water off her face onto her blankets with a shaky laugh and wriggled until her cold feet were protected by more blanket. She rolled over and tried to remember what she had been dreaming of.

Her room was a soft, relaxing color. Light beige walls, bright blue curtains providing contrast, and when the windows were open, fully illuminated by the sun. A little table set with two chessboards lay next to the bed, a tripping hazard.

An old poster of a famous chess game, custom-ordered, was stuck to one wall, a bit frayed, nostalgic. With it, a younger girl had put up little stickers of chess pieces. Only three remained, along with some scribbles in pencil. Old notations in chess.

The carpet on the floor also cut the winter’s chill, and on the far wall, a desk with a computer, a third, miniature chess board, and two empty porcelain bowls stacked onto each other shared space with a messy notepad and cup filled with pencils and pens. Staring around the room to take it in, Erin let her head sink back onto her pillow, now a plain blue like the curtains, but which had once been chess-themed like her blanket.

She’d quite forgotten her dream, unfortunately. Erin Solstice lay there, occasionally turning, until her alarm clock went off, waking her for her 10:00 AM day. She promptly turned it off and went back to sleep. Twenty minutes later though, someone rapped on her door.

“Erin? Are you still asleep? It’s time to get up.”

For a moment, she had the strangest sense of déjà vu. Only—it felt wrong. The voice was wrong; she poked her head out of the blankets.

“…Mom?”

“I have breakfast getting cold. And you have a job, Erin. Remember? You promised to start working.”

Recollection of yesterday’s promise flooded into her mind. Erin put a blanket over her head as if it was a shield. But not even an enchanted shield could…could…?

“Aw, Mom. I don’t want to.”

The woman outside the door was clearly not in the mood to retread old arguments with her daughter. She opened the door a crack and Erin winced at the light.

Shauna Solstice walked over and opened the blinds. There was nothing like sunlight for getting her out of bed, and her mother knew that very well.

Like her daughter, Shauna had light brown hair, tinted a bit orange especially when the light caught it. Unlike her daughter, her hair was frizzy, while Erin’s refused to even consider a single fritz. Neither Erin nor her mother were taller than Erin’s father, but Shauna had an entire inch on Erin that had never vanished, no matter how much Erin had tried to catch up.

As always, clothing defined the two’s styles. Shauna spent time making sure her clothing was coordinated for contrast, and she could do that better than most because she had sewn some of the clothing she’d worn or adjusted what she’d bought.

Erin had similar addendums to her wardrobe, custom t-shirts she had sometimes requested, but she would throw on whatever article of clothing was on top of her drawers when she was in a hurry, and didn’t fold laundry, so accrued more wrinkles on her garb than Shauna had to gain herself.

At the moment, Shauna looked peeved, and she could do it well when she stood, hands on her hips, lips pursed. When one of the Solstice family was upset, everyone could tell by body language alone and Erin had learned from the best. Shauna turned to Erin, raising her eyebrows.

“You discussed this with your father and made a promise. You have to take it up with him if you changed your mind.”

Erin knew that was a tall task. Her father, Gregori, or Greg since the spelling always threw people, was big on promises. Well, he was a lawyer, and in worker’s compensation.

Slowly, Erin got out of bed. Her mother didn’t wait for her; she was already downstairs. Of course, she was working too.

Erin Solstice opened a drawer and stared at the bright clothing. Well—not flashy logos, but the colors seemed so vivid. She chose the plainest color—such soft cotton!—and dressed herself.

As she did, she saw two things. The first was her hand-built computer—not prefabricated, but put together from component parts—was showing the screensaver. She supposed she must have forgotten to turn it off; she had long since disabled the automatic hibernation setting since she played games of chess online into the morning.

Forgetting she had breakfast waiting for her at once, Erin clicked on the mouse and the screen flashed to life. Sure enough—a chess game. Definitely not against a real person. Erin moved her bishop absently, and then realized she’d forgotten what game she was playing. Well…she waited as the computer moved and then punished the program’s foolishness.

Chess was chess.

“Hmm, hmm. Wrong move, Mister Computer. You’re losing your edge.”

Erin poked the screen. There was something relaxing about playing chess wherever she was. She opened the internet browser as she waited for the computer to make another move. It was being slow today; maybe her computer had a bug or was it just getting old? It wasn’t some state-of-the-art thing. Custom-built, yes. But she hadn’t built it.

Her father had built the computer. He liked computers and video games. Erin’s mother, Shauna, had an interest too, and it disturbed Erin that she was third-best in her household of three people at playing video games.

Maybe that was why she liked chess.

“News, news…”

Erin murmured as she clicked and typed. The sound of her mouse and the background hum of the computer’s fan was the only real noise in the world.

She didn’t normally narrate her life. She did trash-talk the computer when playing chess, but who didn’t? Erin felt like she was trying to remember an old song and dance. Yes, check the news. Which was…?

President To Speak On Latest Disappearances

Erin blinked. The biggest headline and picture was of a man—the president?—at a podium, was juxtaposed next to a map with highlighted areas on it of varying intensity of red. The rest of the news page was filled with the other stories, links, an ad—but this one was full-page.

Several things struck her as wrong instantly. Firstly? That wasn’t who she remembered being President of the United States. Secondly—disappearances?

Memory tugged at her, but she scrolled down.

‘I thought he was gone.’ Families reunite after two-year disappearance among the ‘Spirited Generation’.

‘Anti-Vax’ fever at an all-time high. Experts warn pandemic only getting worse.

Angry tortoise kills a man in sleep.

The Spirited Generation: Disappearance and discovery in eight stories.

Erin stared at the stories. She felt an odd dissonance, but then reality asserted itself. Of course there was a pandemic. Everyone was stuck indoors and that sucked, even for young women who loved to sit indoors and play chess all day.

And of course the disappearances weren’t helping matters. She should know. She had been…

Erin put a hand to her head and tried to remember. As always, nothing more came. She began to click on the first link about the ‘Spirited Generation’ when an irritated voice floated upwards.

“Erin Solstice!”

“Oops. Coming!”

Erin pushed herself back from her desk, leaving chess and news behind. She emerged from her room, the hallway, and made for the stairs to the living room and dining room combined.

On the way, she halted. Her head slowly turned and she stared at a room lit at the far end of the hall. Door slightly ajar. Bright, artificial light streamed from the crack.

It was…a bathroom. Just a bathroom. Erin stared at it, as she always did, and slowly walked forwards.

She cracked open the door and looked around. It was empty, which was a relief. But…

She turned off the bathroom light and closed the door. Then she went downstairs for breakfast.

—-

“There you are. Playing chess the moment I wake you up. I don’t know where you get it from.”

The accusatory tone made Erin wince as she walked down the carpeted stairs. She stared around her family’s home. In Michigan. Warm in the winter, but not so much that Erin didn’t wish she’d tossed on a coat and slippers.

Snow was melting outside. Sunlight—brighter than the dreary winter—shone through two open windows. At the far end of the room was the kitchen, dining room, and they connected to the living room without a hallway or door.

Shauna Solstice sat at the dining table, occupying the far end with a sewing machine and cloth. The chatter of the sewing machine was a familiar background, but Erin paused to listen to it anyways as she came down the stairs.

Her mother’s job was making handicrafts, having picked up on it when caring for Erin. She’d jumped on the internet trend of selling her works online.

The smell of breakfast lured Erin to the table. She stared at the plate and knife and fork, and then sat down. She poked at a fried egg, the toast, reached for the butter knife.

“It’s cold, mom.”

“Well, it was warm when your alarm went off. And I warmed it up after I came to get you. I wonder how it got so cold since then?”

Shauna replied without looking up. Erin sighed. Her mother had little pity for those faced with cold breakfasts. And truthfully, if Erin was playing chess she wouldn’t even notice what food it was, or how warm.

She began eating, and discovered she was hungry. Erin began to perk up. But no sooner had Erin begun to enjoy her meal than her mother spoke.

“When your father gets back, you can use the car, Erin.”

“For what?”

Shauna glanced up and gave Erin a look over her glasses.

“For your job?”

Memory flooded Erin’s head again. Her face fell and the food turned to bleh in her mouth.

“Aw, Mom—do I have to?”

“You’ve gotten your shot, and it’s been three months. Some time out of the house might do you good.”

“I’d rather play chess.”

Erin folded her arms and slouched. Her mother sighed. Shauna’s daughter was an odd mix of lazy and hard working. She would play chess, study it obsessively for ‘fun’, and watch videos of chess games all day and night.

But try to get her to do a simple part-time job and Erin was as stubborn as her parents. Shauna pointedly looked at the food the chess-squatter had scarfed down.

“Well, unless you have another big chess match online, your father and I think you should get some work experience.”

As in, any. Erin wanted to object that she had tons of…but she didn’t, not unless you counted summer jobs. Right?

Shauna saw her daughter frown. The mother adjusted the sewing machine, cursing as she realized she’d begun going off-target in the neat line while arguing with her daughter. She began to undo her error as she spoke.

“Has that grandmaster messaged you again, Erin? Are you going to have a rematch?”

Erin rolled her eyes. If she could have slumped further in her chair without sliding under the table, she would have.

“No, Mom. We’re not having another match. I’m not playing grandmasters left and right. It was only three games, casually.”

“Three games against a grandmaster chess player.”

It was awful, having parents be proud of you for things you were not, in fact, proud of yourself. Erin rested her chin on the table.

“I lost the last one, anyways.”

It was Shauna’s turn to want to roll her eyes. Of course, she’d been telling all of her friends about it.

“Two draws and one loss is extraordinary. And it was all live. If you wanted to be one of those stream chess players…”

She gestured and Erin saw that a laptop was sitting on a stool, facing away from her. Her mother was watching something while working. Sometimes the news—but she’d been watching those newfangled live streams ever since her daughter had played one of the best chess players in three games.

“There was even an article about you. That’s not nothing, Erin.”

Shauna pulled up the small article that she kept showing people as if it were a major headline being broadcast in every living room in the world. Erin glumly finished her breakfast. She reached for a little accompaniment to the food. But her hand recoiled as she saw the blue—

…No, it wasn’t blue. It was an avocado. Erin stared at the ripe fruit. Slowly, she picked it up.

“I thought you hated avocado by itself, Erin.”

“What? Oh. Yeah.”

This was true. Erin put the avocado back slowly. Nevertheless, she stared at it for a long while. Then she pushed back from the table and turned to her mother.

“Well, I’m not playing a big match today. But do I have to work?”

“You’re too old to just sit about, Erin.”

“Mom. I’m only twenty…”

The bad argument that she was ‘only’ twenty died in Erin’s mouth. Because of course, it was wrong. She was twenty four.

Erin still felt twenty, taking a gap between high school and college, playing chess, and wavering because she was good at chess, but she didn’t think she wanted or could be a professional.

Four years had passed. Erin’s eyes slowly rose from her breakfast. She saw the calendar on the wall. Erin could have used her phone, the computer, anything. But the calendar, like a movie, was there to remind her.

March 6th, 2021. Erin felt a shock in her chest, as she had every day on seeing the date. It had been 2016 when she’d gone to the bathroom and never come back.

Then she glanced down and saw the headline of the article on the small screen.

Spirited Generation girl plays three games against Grandmaster in chess game on…

It wasn’t a great title. They didn’t even have her name, or the Grandmaster player, which Erin felt was a bit rude. It was just the idea of it that the article was trying to sell you on.

But that title.

The Spirited Generation.

Shauna Solstice looked at Erin’s face. She closed the lid of the laptop abruptly. Her daughter started.

The familiar looks of annoyance, motherly pride, and so on changed. Erin saw her mother’s face cloud with concern. And…Erin felt a lurch in her stomach.

“How are you, Erin?”

Erin’s toes curled on the carpet. She forced herself to smile.

“Fine. I just don’t want to work.”

Shauna hmmed, sounding peeved, but she looked relieved.

“Ask your father. And clean up the dishes! Dishwasher!”

She pointed, and Erin realized she had to bus her plate and utensils and the breakfast dishes.

Oh, what a miserable existence. Erin groaned over it…until she stopped. Because it wasn’t that much work to put some food in tupperware, put dirty plates in the dishwasher. In fact, it was downright easy. She’d had far worse when…

It was happening again.

Erin Solstice went upstairs before her mother could talk more about her part-time job. She sat in the chair in front of the computer and loaded up the news article.

The Spirited Generation. That’s what they called Erin and all the others who’d been lost. Based on Spirited Away, the famous movie. Erin had to admit, it fit.

The article was nothing Erin didn’t know, but she read it again.

It had been nearly four months since she’d woken up in the abandoned mall. Three since she’d been back home.

She remembered nothing of the four years before that, even when the FBI and other investigators had pressed her to remember any clues. Anything at all.

—-

The world was in a bad place. A pandemic in the air. Lockdowns, a world divided by both sickness and paranoia. Conspiracy theories, tensions between countries, distrust in governments at an all-time high.

Protests, demonstrations, riots…it seemed like something new every day. Not just in her country, not by far. Erin could scroll through any number of sites and see dozens of conspiracy theories. Videos too. They weren’t being listed on a lot of big sites, but no one could get rid of them.

And the heart of the issue was the virus. And the Spirited Generation.

Erin was maybe even one of the first, certainly part of the ‘first wave’ of disappearances at the very least.

Four—closer to five years ago—she had been going to the bathroom in her house when she had vanished. Her parents had looked for her, suspected she’d run away or been kidnapped. But they had no idea why. Why would Erin run away or be kidnapped? She was a highly-ranked chess player worldwide, but not some celebrity and their family wasn’t rich. And run away? Erin was a homebody! She liked playing chess, not exploring or getting into trouble.

They had done what all good parents did: search and inform all the authorities. They had feared and prayed and tried to find a clue until they realized they were not alone.

Young people were vanishing. Across the world, teenagers to young adults were just going missing. Not children, and not anyone over thirty.

At first, it had seemed like a rash of kidnappings. Accusations had been thrown about, and all the old conspiracies trotted out. World leaders had been slow to comment. At first, that had caused outrage. Then, full-blown distrust in governments.

All because people had noticed—seen with their very eyes—the young people vanish into thin air. It had been recorded on security cameras, reported by families begging for news of their children. They caused a fuss, but there was no tangible proof, just missing kids for any number of reasons.

Then people had begun seeing the actual clips. Security footage at first, which leaked from governments suppressing the videos for ‘reasons of national safety’. And then more.

Actual, sharp, clear images of someone just disappearing at a convention, when those were still a thing. A recording of a birthday where a girl turning nineteen vanished in front of her horrified friends.

A group of people vanishing in an airport, caught on the cameras and reported by people who had been standing right next to them.

Conspiracy became full-blown panic. This wasn’t just some single event. This—this was aliens! Government organizations! The end of the world!

The breaking point was the disappearance of an airplane. Or rather, the inexplicable downing of Flight 241 in the skies right as it was leaving the airport in Portugal.

Investigators never found significant portions of the plane—nor could anyone explain what had happened in that moment caught on distant cameras.

Riots and demonstrations. Mass-protests at numerous capitals and a lot of blame from country to country. Then the pandemic occurred, and few people believed that was coincidental.

In short, it was like the end of the world. But something had happened while it was all becoming a fever’s pitch. Something wonderful that did not end the conspiracies or unrest, but which changed everything.

The lost generation. The missing children.

They came back.

—-

Erin finished reading the article. She sat in her chair, rocking backwards and catching her feet on the edge of the computer’s table. She promptly overbalanced and crashed onto her back.

“Ow.”

“Are you alright, Erin?”

“Fine!”

Erin got up, grumbling, and righted her chair. The article was done, but the story wasn’t.

The Spirited Generation came back. Not all of them. Nor in any logical order. People like Erin, who were in the ‘first wave’ of disappearances, came back after someone had vanished not a week ago.

Many were still missing, and the lists kept being updated with people who had just run off or suffered some other event. Still, lots of names, the ‘confirmed missing’, were still up there. Erin checked the confirmed list, and stared at the names. You needed some kind of visual proof to be on the list, so it was short.

Daly Sullivan

Kenjiro Murata

Erik Muller

Kent Scott

Followed by nearly a hundred confirmed names, some with addendums specifying that they’d been found! Returned!

Of course, that was just the primary list. There were plenty of others who weren’t confirmed, and reported missing with no good explanation.

And people wanted to know what the heck had happened. The first person to return had no memory of the nearly two-year gap. No knowledge of…anything.

They tried hypnosis, drugs, to no avail; that period of time was simply erased. Which of course lent credence to the aliens theory.

Nothing worked on any of the returning children. They couldn’t remember. Some of the young people burst into tears when pressed. Hypnosis, medication—nothing brought it back, but some of them claimed they could remember something…terrible.

Erin remembered nothing at all. Nothing…but some days she woke up like she had this morning.

Erin had been back for four months total. The first month had been in custody of the government. They had kept her under surveillance, asked her questions. She’d missed the initial spat of the first young people being kept in top-secret facilities as actual mobs threatened to storm the building unless they were released.

Even so, her appearance had meant more to her family than…Erin closed her eyes at that memory of seeing her parents rush in. She wished she could have told them why it had happened.

Now, she was trying to live again, twenty four years old, but looking and feeling as if she were still just twenty. It was her choice, and her family’s to avoid attention.

She could have been on television. Or at least been interviewed; it wasn’t as if she was the first one back, so the huge demand for her hadn’t been as strong. Erin could have been on any number of podcasts or shows. The offers still kept coming in.

Hence, Shauna and Greg’s insistence that Erin try to reclaim her life by doing normal things. Which included going out of the house and working, apparently.

Erin would have loved to claim the pandemic made it impossible, but one thing about being a member of the Spirited Generation was that you got all the shots and tests, including the newest vaccines. So, Erin’s parents had no qualms about sending her into the world. She still had to wear a mask.

As for her job? Why, the easy thing even someone like Erin could do!

“Shopping. I hate shopping.”

Glumly, she loaded the app up on her smartphone. She knew what she had to do. Go to the store, get groceries, deliver groceries, get paid. She was going to be one of those remote-shoppers and her mother had threatened-encouraged her that she’d be the first customer.

Erin almost wished she was playing chess live. There was money there! It was one of the things that had happened while she’d been gone. She was too shy to do that…maybe a day of shopping for other people would change her mind.

“Erin, are you going to start? Your father’s not back yet.”

“I’ll just walk to the store. I can do the neighborhood, right?”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, dear. Tell you what—take my car. I’ll steal your father’s.”

Erin sighed. Her mother’s car had terrible acceleration on the highway.

“Fine.”

She stomped towards the door, thinking she’d do an hour of work and then call it good to placate her mother, and hide in her room all day. A voice stopped her as she went for the door.

“Don’t forget to take a coat. It’s raining.”

“What? Aw.”

It had begun raining in the time since Erin had gone back upstairs. A drizzle, nothing too hard. Miserable. Snow became slush and Erin hated driving in slush. Glumly, she looked up.

“Is it going to get bad?”

Her mother typed on the laptop.

“Let me check…no. Take a coat anyways.”

Erin didn’t want a raincoat. She looked around.

“I’ll just take—”

She reached for an object in a stand and halted. There was no reason for it. Suddenly, all thoughts left her head. She stared at the thin, long, dark blue object.

It wasn’t anything special. It was just…

An umbrella.

Erin reached for it, and then snatched her hand back. She stared at it. Why didn’t she want to pick it up?

Erin Solstice stood there. Her mother was absently watching one of her shows as she worked. She didn’t see her daughter recoil from the stand and slowly back away and walk back up the stairs.

—-

She didn’t leave her house.

The not-quite-recollections plagued her day by day. Anything could set it off. Erin knew it was normal. Everyone had them. She’d talked to people like her, was even part of one of their message groups—although some trolls had found the last one and started asking them all kinds of questions.

The problem was, Erin couldn’t identify with the ones who started crying when they were watching a movie because it triggered some unremembered trauma. She cried…but their experiences were different somehow.

Usually it was an action movie, or a fantasy, horror, sci-fi movie, some piece of fiction that set it off in the Spirited Generation. Erin had sat through a number of movies without needing to cry. But she had burst into tears while passing by a clearance sale on old Halloween costumes.

A skeleton, one of those cheap ones on display. And then, when she’d seen a colorful videogame ad online with those fantasy monsters. Ogres, Giants, Goblins, and so on. It was stuff like that which drove her and the others crazy. Something they had forgotten which was so important.

She didn’t know why the umbrella mattered. It disturbed her, so she procrastinated. And as she always did, she found herself at her computer, playing chess.

There were two chess boards in her room, one for experiments, another for extrapolation if she wanted to think around a game she was playing. That felt familiar too.

“Darn it. Darn it.”

Erin muttered as she found opponents online to play at chess. In this new internet-age, it was never easier to play against people from the comfort of your bed. She wished it could solve everything, but it was just chess.

She clicked around listlessly, playing a game against an opponent whom she trashed. Not quite the legendary Fool’s Mate, but a variation on the Bird’s Opening into Fool’s Mate. They quit after insulting her.

The second game went like that—Erin wondered if she was being matched with bad players. She just shrugged, moodily, and opened the game against the computer and set it to max difficulty.

That was how her mother found her. Shauna, on a hunch, had gone upstairs and found Erin.

Erin stared at the screen as Shauna sighed. Her daughter had been keeping a tally and it was all wins. She was on a streak, but her face was bleak.

“Erin…”

She spun around, looking embarrassed.

“I’m going! I was just—”

She trailed off because the answer was she wasn’t.

Her mother didn’t scold her immediately as she might have. She just stood there, biting her lip. Then she spoke.

“Erin, maybe we should see if we can book another appointment with your therapist today or tomorrow? You said she was helping?”

Erin’s heart sank. Her mother looked at her, full of worry and anxiety. Erin knew she worried every day. She wanted to tell her what had happened. She had been as honest with her family as with herself. But she knew nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing—

“Erin? Erin. What’s wrong?”

The young woman saw Shauna’s face turn to alarm. She felt it again. A familiar sensation.

Tears ran down her cheeks. She reached up and touched them. Then she looked at the computer. She looked around at her familiar room. At her mother, looking so…

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

Erin’s voice was muffled. Shauna instantly went over to her.

“It’s alright, sweetie. It’s okay. Let’s call your…”

“No. No.”

Erin pulled away. She shook her head, trying to explain. Trying to tell her…she looked around and spoke.

“I’m sorry. Mom? Mom, I’m really sorry. I think I’m dreaming. I think—I died. And I’m just pretending I’m back home.”

Shauna Solstice blinked. Then her face turned pale.

“Erin. Do you remember…?”

The young woman slowly nodded. She was uncertain, but the feeling grew in her chest. She clenched her hand, and felt something was wrong. She didn’t remember. And yet? She looked up at her mother.

“This sounds crazy, Mom. I don’t…remember where I went, when I vanished. I know why I came back, though. I died. I can’t remember a single thing—but I remember my friends. I had friends. I don’t know their faces. But I know they were there. I remember the people who died for me. It feels like a dream, right now…so far away, so—silly.”

The certainty was growing in her. Like the tears, something was welling behind an invisible dam. She strained for the memories. What had it been? What had she lost?

Pain lanced through her chest. Shauna reached out.

“Erin, let me—let me call your father. And the agent…”

She fumbled for her phone. Her daughter was still speaking. Her eyes searched the distance, looking past the walls.

“It was somewhere else. Another…another world. And it was good and bad. And I died. I remember.”

She touched her chest. That was what was wrong. Shauna made a sound. Erin looked up and saw her mother was crying.

“Erin, don’t strain yourself. This could be—just breathe. Don’t—don’t say you’re dead.”

Guilt flashed across Erin. Yet still, she shook her head.

“I’m sorry. I can’t remember entirely. Something’s…I can’t remember it all. But. I could never forget. They died for me. I remember how they laughed and how they left.”

She stood up, slowly. Now, her head moved. Searching. Her room felt so empty. All the mundane things, all the things that had been so familiar, a worn plushy, warm blankets, the chess games—it felt hollow. She shook her head.

“I’ve changed. I don’t fit in here. I can’t sit in my old bed and not feel as though something’s wrong.”

She walked past her mother. Shauna tried to block her.

“Your father’s on the way. Erin, stop. What are you doing?”

Erin’s mother stopped as the young woman looked at her. Because there was something different in Erin’s eyes now. Certainty. She walked into the hallway of her house. Looking for…again, Erin shook her head. Trying to throw something off her. It was closing in, like fog, eating away what she knew had happened. Yet, it couldn’t erase it all. She remembered.

“I held them as they died. I watched them. I wish each and every one of them had survived. I would do anything to change what happened. But deny it? Forget? Forget? How could I be so petty? So small?”

She turned her head. Shauna pushed into the hallway.

“Erin!”

The bathroom door. It was no wardrobe and the bathroom light was significantly less cool than a light post. Erin still walked towards it. Shauna pulled at her.

“Erin. Erin, sit down. You’re having an episode. Erin?”

“I killed people. I killed monsters and I met heroes. I served drinks to adventurers and friends. I was there. I—I have to go back.”

Erin struggled. She tried to explain, pulling away from her mother and feeling horrible. Yet she had to.

“I have to! Mom! Let me go. Let me—”

Something was telling her to go. None of this—was any of it real? Erin longed to explain it. But she felt it, more strongly than anything. She struggled free.

“Erin!”

The [Innkeeper] ran. Down the hallway, feeling each step elongate in time. The bathroom door. No, just the door to the other world.

I have to go back. I have something left to do. She grabbed the handle and threw it open. Erin Solstice stepped into—

—-

She woke up.

Erin jerked upright. She was lying on the ground. Blood soaked her clothing. She tried to pull out the crossbow bolts in her chest, but saw empty, torn holes in the fabric instead.

Whole skin. No gaping wounds, just bloodstains.

She looked up and saw a man in a hazmat suit recoil.

“Subject’s awake!”

Then Erin saw the spotlights. The crowd of people in hazmat suits, and beyond them, two lines of soldiers. She stared around. She was in…a mall? Yes, lying on pale white tiles, shops open around her, glowing with light in the early morning.

But someone had cordoned off the mall, erecting barricades, the warning tape that crisscrossed entire sections, and then gone fully military and set up actual concrete roadblocks to keep the press of people back. There were spotlights, two trained on Erin’s position, the rest glaring into the crowd, almost as if to blind the onlookers.

The onlookers? Hundreds, thousands of people were pressing against the barricades, pointing at Erin. The flash of cameras was blinding—or would have been if many had a clear shot. But they couldn’t even get within three hundred feet of Erin and the people clustered around her because of the soldiers.

Soldiers, wearing body armor and holding the kind of firearms that made you stop. There was shouting in the air.

“Let us through! Is it one of them? One of the Spirited Generation—”

“News! We have a right to—don’t touch—”

“Back up! Back up—”

The man in the suit was trying to say something, but someone on a megaphone was shouting orders. The military was forcing the crowd back as Erin sat up. Meanwhile, everyone within the circle of armed forces wore the bright hazmat suits that made Erin feel like she really should have had one herself. Then she realized—they were wearing them because of her.

A gloved hand thrust out gently as she tried to get her legs to work.

“Don’t move. Can you hear me?”

The voice was accented. Erin looked up. She saw a visor, and behind it, a man’s face, concerned, but staring at her like she was a ghost.

“Who are you? Where’s Numbtongue? I was…”

She had just been shot. By crossbows. She was struggling to remember. The figure looked around as a woman practically sprinted over.

“Is she safe to move?”

“I’m checking her vitals. Stand back. Miss? Miss, can you tell me your name?”

She looked up at the worried medical personnel as the commanding officer and a gaggle of secret security, or whatever they were, descended on her. Erin breathed.

“Erin Solstice?”

—-

The Spirited Generation. Erin sat nervously in front of the very serious government agent as he explained what that meant. It was not the dark room lit by the single desk-lamp, but a much brighter room with the antiseptic white walls and floor, marred only by the single door and window along the far wall.

The man wore no uniform; rather one of the suits with red ties and a single, round badge pinned to his left side. Unlike the bevy of military personnel, doctors, and other people who’d escorted her through the crowds shouting her name, he had the secret-service look of someone who was not going to tell you how important he was.

Incidentally, this was Canada. Not her home country of the United States, but they were on the way and they wanted her. Even so, this government wanted to know what the hell had happened as much as everyone else, so Erin was here, repeating her story. It felt like less than an hour since she’d been lying outside her inn, bleeding to death.

“Goblins.”

“Mhm.”

The man gave her a look and some of the observers—and there were more behind the one-way mirror, Erin was sure—all murmured. She remembered it all.

She had no Skills, though. Just her memories. Shot with crossbows…the blood was on her clothing. Indeed, they’d taken her clothing, her possessions, and given her replacements.

And her bag of holding. That was what had convinced them. The first scientist to see the dimensional object actually passed out. But while that was important, the government agents were more concerned with Erin’s story.

Erin looked at them.

“So I’m part of the Spirited Generation? Haven’t you found more people like me?”

The man hesitated. He consulted his notes. Looked around for the nod from what might have been the authority in the room and replied at last.

“No. You are the first one.”

Erin felt a shock on her skin. As if that was somehow…wrong? No—

Right. She believed it. Just as she’d believed all he’d said about the Spirited Generation, the confusion, pandemic, arguing. Chaos. No wonder they wanted her.

And no wonder the United States wanted her back. The serious agents gave her a break as someone rushed in. Erin blinked…and within thirty minutes a second military force, this one American, was escorting her towards a waiting helicopter that had just landed.

—-

The [Innkeeper]. The girl who came back. Erin Solstice’s name was plastered on every newspaper in the world. And who read newspapers in print anymore?

She was on every headline, every website, video, worldwide for six months. And for six months, Erin was never out of the sight of one of the government agents.

Everyone wanted to talk to her. In fact, when the United States government had realized that the Canadian government had her bag of holding and the knife that Pelt had made, they nearly went to war demanding it back. It nearly went to war because it was magic.

Scientists interviewed her, medical people did a lot of embarrassing and sometimes painful tests. They wanted her blood, hair samples—Erin kicked the person who wanted the stool sample, but that was only the start.

She met with the President after the first week of making sure she wasn’t irradiated, a shapeshifter, carrying some horrible disease or parasite, or half a dozen other potential security hazards.

The day was January 22nd, 2021 when she shook hands with the President of the United States.

President Jeb Bush.

Two weeks later, she got to see her parents…

“This is a dream.”

She had been feeling it. She pressed a button and Agent Olivia hurried into the room. She wasn’t technically ‘Agent Olivia’ in sense of rank, but Erin kept calling her that and the woman had given up long ago.

“Erin? What’s wrong?”

Erin stood up. She’d been having a moment of peace after months of being the world’s most famous icon. She’d met the Pope, at least a third of the world’s leaders, spoken in front of the UN…

And that was fake. It had been a faint whisper in her mind. But she would have never noticed if not for…

She pushed back the laptop, turned off the relaxing music and stood. Even the music was…believable. That’s what threw her.

She had put it down to the sheer fantasy of meeting the President and being in the world’s eye. But now she was sure.

“Olivia. This is a dream. You’re fake. That’s real.”

She pointed at the latest song she’d stopped on her computer. The Agent folded her arms.

“Very funny, Erin. If this is one of your plans to break out again—please don’t.”

Erin ignored that. She’d broken out of the top-secret, guarded facility and nearly gotten shot once because she’d been cooped up. That’s when they’d started flying in expert chess players and giving her laptops and entertainment to keep her from going crazy, despite the ‘security risk’.

She looked around.

“Fake. Fake walls—not fake news. Fake news is a real thing. Well, some of the news is real, not fake. The…uh, expression is true. You’re fake, not really here. Or I’m dreaming. But the Spirited Generation is really a thing back home. This—”

“I think I’d better call for one of the doctors. Erin…”

“No. No. I know this isn’t—”

Erin went for the doors. Olivia grabbed at her. Erin raised a fist.

“[Minotaur Punch]!”

She swung. Olivia caught the arm and restrained her, gently. Erin struggled, but the woman was trained and had a lot of pounds on Erin. She kept struggling, even as Olivia shouted for a doctor.

“No! I know this isn’t real! I know it! I—”

—-

“—was so happy.”

Erin stopped, with tears on her cheeks and her hand on the bathroom door. Erin looked around.

It had been only a second since she’d stepped into the bathroom. All her adventures, all her friends—was it all a dream? A hallucination caused by night time peeing?

No it was not! It took Erin only one day to figure it out this time. She stood on the roof as her mother and father shouted at her and some people stared at her from the street. Erin didn’t care. She screamed up at the sky.

“I will never forget. And this place feels fake! No matter how hard you try, you can’t fool m—”

—-

She was an amnesiac again, only this time found by the government. It took Erin three months. But again—she shouted up at the doctor as he tried to figure out why she was denying reality.

“I remember! I know this isn’t reality! Is it me? No—what are you? Who are you?”

She pointed up at the face, and kicked an orderly in the chest.

—-

Woke up.

Sometimes it took months. Other times, a day. An hour.

Eighteen minutes.

Erin Solstice woke. She ate breakfast, and talked, and smiled. Then, at some point in time during her day, during the week, while shopping or browsing the internet or—she frowned and—

The [Innkeeper] pushed herself back from her desk again and looked up. Shauna Solstice hovered there, frowning.

“I know this isn’t Earth.”

One and a half days. Erin looked around.

“I know this sounds crazy, Mom. But listen…I think this is a dream and—”

“How?”

The voice stopped Erin. Because it was the first voice she had heard in this place that was real except her own. She stopped. She looked back and there…she was.

Shauna Solstice looked like she always had. She had given Erin her hazel eyes, some of her features, although her hair was lighter than her daughter’s. She looked like the same woman Erin had always known.

And at the same time, not. Her eyes moved. She turned, and someone else stared through her eyes.

Like someone wearing a puppet. A perfect mask. Erin stopped. She shuddered. Her mother’s face fell away. Not in any physical way, but changing.

A woman stood there. The same age…but she had Erin’s face.

Erin, a replica of herself, stared at the flinching young woman.

Erin, as if Erin was fifty. The [Innkeeper] recoiled.

Erin so old her hair was white and wispy. At the end of her life.

Three versions of herself. Not changing, but all at once. Like some strange trick-mirror or prism that let you see all three compounded into a single body. Three in one. Three of one.

Then Shauna again. Only, Shauna Solstice from her pictures, young, wearing the fashions of her youth. And Shauna as Erin had never seen her, older than her grandmother had been. All three at once, embodied in a single face.

Three Shaunas, like the Erins, in youth, in her middling years, and in her late age.

“What—what—”

Erin nearly crawled onto the computer’s desk to get back. The stranger just looked at her.

“How?”

Her voice was a mix of old, young, and middling. It was not Shauna Solstice’s voice. Not in tone, or intonation. There was imperiousness there. More than a parent wielded. Terrible authority.

Kindness too. At least, the kindness from one side. It was not kindness to Erin to hear it.

“Wh—what?”

The world shifted. And Erin remembered it all. She gasped.

The many times she’d ‘returned’ to Earth were a blur in her memory. She faintly recalled each false narrative, the details blurring together But her life? Her death?

She remembered that, and had realized the artifice of this place each time. She looked up.

The stranger stood before her. Wearing her mother’s face. She looked at Erin. And a mix of emotions warred across her expression.

Curiosity. Annoyance. Disappointment? She spoke once more.

“Each time, no matter how cunningly woven, you break out. You find the gap and tear it apart. How? Are we still so weak? No. It is something else. Willpower is not enough. Even when you do not remember, something informs you. What flaw is it? Tell me.”

“Who are—?”

“Tell me.”

The word shook everything. It was like Erin’s bones and soul vibrated. She flinched and the words tumbled forth.

“I—can tell what’s real and what’s not! The Spirited Generation—the pandemic—all the news and even the music. That’s real, isn’t it? But not us coming back. Not me bringing back artifacts. Not…this.”

Erin gestured at the open windows on her computer. The stranger looked dismissively around.

“Yes. Your memory is here. And history is here. Enough to make all this to see what you would do. What you are. And you do nothing. You sit about, you play…games…and you eat and sleep. Nothing more. If you are thrust into great places, you do not act different.”

“I broke out of a government lab once.”

‘Shauna’ ignored that. She looked at Erin.

“You do not speak with the conviction of saints. You do not lead nations. You are not capable of wisdom or knowledge—if you were, they would have claimed you. Nor are you a great warrior. You have not withstood pain beyond any other. You are…normal.”

“Hey! I’ve had pain and stuff.”

Erin bristled. The eyes pierced her.

“Yes. You have known love and loss and you play games. You are…ordinary. That is what disappoints me.”

“Well…yeah. Why?”

A sigh.

“I thought you would be greater.”

Erin realized the hallway was gone. Her room, this woman, and only a few things were left. Everything else was oblivion.

Not white space. Not a trippy flat landscape of nothingness.

The world simply ended around her. And nothing more was here. The woman stared at her.

“…Who are you?”

“My name, child, is Kasigna. I thought you would be so much more. But you are not. You are the first of them. The children. And you are just…Erin.”

Kasigna walked out of Shauna. Erin’s mother vanished and now she was another woman. She walked through oblivion, staring at Erin, trapped in a figment made of memory and reality.

Earth’s reality, in the year of 2021 combined with Erin’s mortal life. Somehow…Kasigna had made these false realities, baked of bits of truth and what might have been, or might be happening. Erin shuddered as the women circled, the three-in-one. Inspecting her.

“Why is that a problem? Where is this? I’m dead. I—”

“This is my place. And I created it because I wanted to see. You were first. You should have been wondrous. That was the criteria. But your great talent was…this.”

She had a walking cane, now. The old woman hobbled, the young one walked briskly. The middle-aged woman faced Erin. She pointed and Erin’s head turned.

Her chessboard. Erin looked at it.

“What?”

“The first one was to be great and glorious. A fitting first child. Talented. Unique. So many of the children are. So many not. But you—this is your talent?”

Erin shrugged.

“Well yeah, I’m good at chess.”

The look the strange woman gave her was withering. The chess board vanished.

“What a worthless mistake that you of all others were chosen by chance.”

She vanished too. Erin felt the room vanishing.

“Hey! Hey, that’s rude! Chess is great! Come back! Where am I? What are you doing?”

A presence. Erin spun. Kasigna sat on her bed. Now, existence was a circle of about six feet. Erin’s eyes darted around. What would happen if this room vanished? This person…she made a punching fist and eyed her hand.

She didn’t want to touch Kasigna. The strange woman smiled even as her eyes pierced the [Innkeeper].

“And yet, you stand above most of the other children. You survive. And you saw the untruth of this place time and time again. How? I made it of your world. Events there. Songs. Your memory. Yet still, you break out. How?”

She pressed Erin and it was like a weight on Erin’s entire being. The [Innkeeper] struggled, but this was no aura.

Nor did she refuse to answer. It was a relief to Erin to explain. She turned and pointed.

“There. Duh.”

Kasigna frowned. The pressure abated. She craned her neck to see…

The computer. It was still showing the chess game, despite no wires existing. She frowned.

“Is this trickery? How?”

“No, it’s chess. If you made this place—you suck at chess.”

Erin informed Kasigna with a triumphant smile. The stranger just stared at her. Erin went on.

“It’s the chess program. I keep beating it and that shouldn’t be possible. Chess programs are better than any Human, y’know. Each time I start winning I get confused. Grandmasters too. And I win each game or lose. You end up in draws all the time at high levels. All I do is win and it gets old. Also, suspicious.”

“What?”

The voice of the unknown, sinister presence was unworldly and possessed three ages in one. Nevertheless, it had the miffed quality of someone who had no idea what Erin was talking about.

Erin stood there, smugly folding her arms and smiling for all of five seconds. Then her face fell.

“Wait, I just gave away the secret. Now I’m trapped forever, aren’t I? Drat.”

Kasigna stirred. She stood up without standing. One moment she was sitting, the next, standing.

There were no transitions to how she moved, Erin realized. If she was walking, she vanished and Erin saw her walking, or saw one of her ages. Now, the room vanished.

Erin stood in nothing. There was only her; nowhere to run. She could not run, or move her feet. She tried, but Kasigna was there.

“No. No more illusions, Erin Solstice. I have seen you. My curiosity assuaged. Now, it is time.”

“Time? Let me go. I—I don’t want to—”

Erin tried to turn around. She lifted a fist. But…the woman was walking towards her. And she was reaching out. Three hands, one hand.

“Want, child? No. Don’t you understand? Look at me and know. You are mine.”

She was smiling. Erin clenched her hand.

“Don’t—I’ll—I’ll hit you—”

Every part of Erin was telling her not to touch Kasigna. But there was nowhere to go. No Skills to use. There was only this place and Kasigna was this place.

Erin was dead. And the woman smiled.

“It will not hurt, Erin. I am the meaning in death. I am comfort. Take my hand willingly and come with me. For I have returned and I guide all souls. You and I will be one thing. And is that not glorious?”

“No. Stop. I don’t want to.”

The [Innkeeper] whispered. The hand reached out. Vast as everything here. As small as her own hand. Erin called for something. A Skill. A frying pan. Anything.

“T-Tamaroth?”

The word echoed louder than it should.

But the man with the beard did not appear. And Kasigna’s face turned wrathful.

“He has no authority here. You would choose him over me? There is no choice here. Enough.”

She grabbed for Erin. As her hand closed on Erin’s arm, Kasigna recoiled. Erin heard a sound. An exclamation. She saw a light.

It was no glorious beam of daylight heaven-sent. It was far more mortal. Smaller, but somehow, brighter. It glowed across her arm, and then the air. Erin’s eyes widened as Kasigna hissed.

“What insolence is this?”

The two stared at the burning flame. It looked so familiar. She heard a voice.

“Well? Run already! Flee, my heir of fire!”

The voice! Erin started. And she realized—she could move! Somehow, even though there was no space. She turned.

“Stop! Insolent fire!”

Kasigna hissed. She reached out, but the flame moved first. A hand reached out and touched her. And the fire engulfed the stranger.

“Begone, thing!”

The fire laughed as Kasigna made a sound. Erin realized she was running. And there were voices. Behind her, the nothingness that was Kasigna was receding. And as she fled—

“—hurry, hurry.”

“—is coming. Someone has to—”

“Not you. Not you, please.”

“Run!”

A voice snapped. Erin looked back once. She was standing in front of the bathroom door, fumbling for the knob. But there wasn’t one! Behind her, Kasigna was engulfed in fire, yet it didn’t seem to be scorching her as much as infuriating. She was striding towards Erin.

A voice snapped from ahead of her.

“Hurry, girl!”

Erin had never heard the speaker before, but the voice was real and it gave her hope. She grabbed the edge of the door and tried to yank it open. Hands began to push it open. Hands? Of every shape. She saw a claw, a Human hand—

“What’s happening? What is that flame?”

She reached out. Kasigna was moving faster. And the flame—dying. Still laughing. Erin tried to squeeze into the opening and a hand caught her and began to drag.

A woman with a pointed hat pulled at Erin as Kasigna’s world tried to drag her back.

She looked at the flickering flame.

“You knew her as Maviola El. She is sacrificing herself for you. Now, run.”

She pulled Erin out of the door. And then Erin was stumbling. Standing—

Three people stood around her. One was the woman with a hat. She straightened it and slammed the door shut. The others dragged Erin up. A Drake wearing gilded armor snapped at the others.

“All this for a Human? We have to go, now! She is—”

The door slammed. Kasigna recoiled. And Erin realized the woman was standing right in front of them. There wasn’t a door. That was—

“Insolence.”

Now she was furious. Erin stumbled back, but Kasigna snatched at her. The woman with the hat pulled at her.

“With me!”

The [Witch] and Drake in armor leapt backwards, and the third rescuer, largest of them all, dragged at Erin. Pulling her with them. They were running, fleeing…

The inn?

The Wandering Inn vanished behind them. Erin looked back and saw the familiar building, standing there. She stared. Her inn! Was that where Kasigna had been? No—

Just outside of it. Where Erin had died. That wasn’t what astounded her.

The inn was distant in moments. Erin wasn’t running down the hill, but across a…distance without any physicality. While the inn stood, it was not the only thing here.

A ruined city lay broken on the Floodplains. As well as Liscor. Erin passed by an inn and did a double-take. That was the same inn that she had once stayed at! Only it was beautiful, newly-built—and naught but rubble at the same time.

There were more villages and even settlements. Guard towers! She looked around even as the three urged her to flee!

Erin stared upwards towards the High Passes and saw a broken city, a glorious empire built in those reaches.

Nevermore. She could have stared forever, but behind them was the woman.

The stranger. And she walked after them. Chasing.

Gaining ground.

It was the logic of dreams here. They were running, conversing, and time was nonsensical. They could have been fleeing for days that passed in moments, talking desperately all the while.

The woman with the hat spoke.

“She is too quick. This is her place! Maviola was consumed in a moment! We will never make it to sanctuary.”

She was tall, commanding. The other, a Drake, barked a reply like an order.

“Then split up!”

“No. She nearly has us. Keep going.”

The last of them spoke. And Erin, like a dreamer, finally focused on his face. She saw a huge Drake wearing armor turn his head. She slowed and the others cursed. But she couldn’t help it.

“Zel?”

He looked at her. And there he was.

Zel Shivertail. The [General] of the Antinium Wars. Tidebreaker.

He was as she remembered him. Not the body they had laid to rest, but Zel Shivertail. The same Drake who had sat at her inn, lectured her, been kind and…

Here. He met her gaze, eyes sharp and watchful as he glanced over his shoulder. His feet slowed. His claws opened, and he turned, the Heartflame Breastplate gleaming. He looked at his companions, especially the shorter Drake. He reached out, and touched his companion’s shoulder.

There was no time for anything else. Not for Erin, not for more than words. No time even for regrets.

A kiss.

“I’ll leave her to you.”

The Tidebreaker’s voice was gentle. The other Drake tried to block him.

“No, stop.”

Kasigna reached out for them, as large as a giant and no longer smiling. Her eyes and mouth were like pits trying to drag Erin in.

“Mine. You are all mine. Join me. Feed me.”

Her advance was faster than any of them. The trio of ghosts looked up as Erin tried to dodge. She saw Kasigna upon her. And then the three-in-one stopped.

The Tidebreaker of Izril had a claw on her shoulder. He tightened his grip as Kasigna halted. The other Drake made a sound.

Kasigna, affronted, stared at Zel Shivertail. He nodded as Erin ran, at the urging of the [Witch], looking back at him. He—why was he—?

She knew. The three-in-one coldly spoke.

“You cannot hold me back, little [General].”

Zel looked past her, at the other Drake calling his name. He smiled to himself, satisfied.

“You’ve stopped.”

She reached for him. Erin looked back as she heard a cry from the other Drake.

Zel was gone. And Kasigna rose, dark pits of eyes looking to her.

“Nearly there. Further. Further.”

Only the [Witch] spoke then, urging the two on. Erin wanted to turn. And fight…? Fight what? She had no weapons. But she looked back as Kasigna strode after them.

“How much further?”

The Drake demanded. Erin looked ahead—behind—

Kasigna was reaching for her again. There was no logic to her speed. No defying her touch. Erin raised a punching hand. The other two ghosts turned. Kasigna was frowning. Then something roared. She and Erin looked up.

And flames engulfed her. Erin recoiled. For a second she thought it was Maviola—

But then the Dragon landed. He exhaled again, and silver flame made the thing, Kasigna, shriek. It recoiled, flailing, and fled. It looked like Kasigna—but suddenly, Erin saw rotten features. She smelled decay, corruption, even in this place. Something fled into the distance of this ethereal world.

The three stopped and looked up. And there he was.

A silver Dragon.

—-

Afterwards, the Drake fell to his knees and looked back.

Erin looked around.

She wasn’t breathing hard. Shock rippled through her. Confusion. But it did not overwhelm. There was no mind to race. No lungs or heart to labor.

She—and the three beings standing around her—were there and not there.

It was not a lack of color. Transparency in a visible sense. If there was transparency, it was that the entire world, everything, had a quality of ephemerality to it. Erin did not need explanation.

“This is the land of the dead.”

All three said it.

“Yes.”

The [Witch]. The Drake, who wore armor like Zel had, and the silver Dragon. They looked at her.

She did not know any of them. The two she had known were…

“Are they dead?”

It was a silly question to ask. The Dragon snorted and took wing, flying after the place where the thing had been. Erin didn’t know if it was still Kasigna. It had been…she would have called it dead and rotting, but it had been alive.

Life in death. And with a shock, she realized that’s what she was, too. If the world, that false city next to Liscor had been half-real, she was fully real. Compared to the [Witch] who addressed her, at least.

“Not dead. Worse. Consumed. There is nothing left of them, as there would be nothing of you. I am sorry. They were your friends.”

It was not a question. Erin looked back. She wanted to weep, but it had been too sudden.

“This is…”

“The place where the dead go. And I am Califor. You are Erin Solstice.”

Another matter-of-fact statement. The woman spoke as if this were so and if it were not so, it had better well be so before. Erin looked at her.

“But why? This is the underworld? Heaven? This…this?”

She saw Izril’s lands around her with buildings and trees in the same place.

Layers. What was now, what had been. A reflection of the world. And the ghosts…she stared at the kneeling Drake. He did not weep. Perhaps he could not.

“Why here?”

“Why anything? Come with me. You too, Sserys. We stand too close to the edge of his protection, still.”

Erin started at the name. The Drake slowly rose. He looked at her, and then followed the [Witch]. Erin walked after her, turning.

There was nothing in Izril’s landscape. And she could cross a mile in a moment, in a single ‘step’. There was no sunlight. No light of any kind, really. All of it…was. No darkness, no illumination.

Except there were shadows. Shadows, without light. They seemed to gather and disperse at the edges of her ‘sight’.

“Yes, there are more like that one. Weaker, though. They won’t intrude so long as he guards us. Come on.”

Califor grabbed Erin’s arm. There was no sensation. Erin began walking.

“So this is the land of the dead.”

“Yes.”

“Why does it exist?”

“Because souls need somewhere to go. Presumably, it was made.”

“By who?”

The woman was tall, and peered down her spectacles and nose at Erin. Califor looked like a teacher, if a teacher could be a [Witch]. Stern did not begin to describe her. Her clothing was black, but not plain; it simply had a style that you had to appreciate as your eyes picked out details among the traditional [Witch]’s garb. Her spectacles were thin, and she was tall, authoritative.

Her voice had a snap to it that did not brook with excuses or delay. She adjusted her hat now, with a brisk tug of the brim.

“Ask your pursuer. She has too much power, here. The guardian chased her off, but she will return. Yet she was not here in such strength even when I died. And before that? They were just shadows like those.”

She pointed into the distance. Erin looked over her shoulder.

“They?”

“Six of them. They gained strength recently. Now we are all in danger. That we even managed to free you was a wonder and it took the sacrifice of two to do it.”

Zel and Maviola. Gone? The Drake turned, abruptly.

“For you, he challenged one of them. I cannot believe it. Even if you are alive, it wasn’t worth it. He had to fight. If he stayed longer he would have realized there is no fighting. Not them. All you can do is keep them back and we are not Dragons. All our levels and strength is like dust compared to history. How Drakes have fallen.”

His tone was bitter. Erin looked at him.

“You’re Sserys.”

He glowered.

“Yes.”

“As in…the General Sserys of Liscor?”

“Yes.”

She blinked at him a few times. The Drake was shorter than Zel. Taller than her, but that wasn’t exactly hard. He was missing a neck-spine three down from the top, and someone had lopped off his second finger on the right. His scales were an orange-red that turned to green of all things near the very edges of his scales.

Now she looked at him, the [General] of Izril who had once been called Spear of the Drakes was striking in how different he and Zel looked. The Tidebreaker of Izril had embodied his nickname; he had been larger even than Relc, so sturdy that it seemed nothing could bowl him over, or knock him down. A Drake who fought with his bare claws.

By contrast, Sserys was slimmer. Slimmer, but definitely a warrior.  A leader, the kind who might bellow orders from the center of an army, not the front. He stood and spoke with an oversized presence, such that no one would talk over him. She supposed he might be regal by Drake standards, or impressive.

He wore gilded armor, emblazoned metal that looked like mithril cut with some other metal to give it an evanescent pale green-silver look. On it, Erin realized with a shock, someone had etched the insignia of a city.

Liscor’s heraldry, and below it, the sigils of all six Walled Cities. Yet Liscor’s emblem, the city-on-the-waters, representing the Floodplains and spring rains, rose above them all. Next to it, Sserys had a shortsword, but it seemed to Erin that the true weapon was the spear attached to his back, angled to avoid tangling with the ground or his tail, also plated in the same armor.

Sserys’ eyes were blue and pink, like his scales, the blue shot with the faintest transition to pink around the edges. Right now, the eyes were hard, concealing a wound. Pain.

He looked at Erin with anger and loss. The [Innkeeper] opened and closed her mouth a few times, unsure of what to say. So the silliest thing popped out of her mouth.

“They have a statue of you in Liscor, you know.”

General Sserys looked at her with narrowed eyes and then turned and walked away. Califor eyed Erin and pursed her lips.

“The [Lady] told me you were worth saving. Don’t make me regret it.”

—-

They moved slower here. More leisurely. If time passed, Erin couldn’t tell. The mortal world was lost to her. She supposed that if she imagined a ghost’s life, it would be spying on mortals, playing tricks, possessing stuff, and so on.

Not so, here. This was simply the place where everyone went. Every single soul, and it had everything that had ever been.

The continent of Izril blurred past Erin, as she crossed the ground faster than a horse could gallop. Faster, perhaps, than she had ever moved, even in Magnolia Reinhart’s famous carriage. A single step carried her hundreds of feet, yet she could clearly see the landscape moving past her.

The landscape. Erin passed by fields of wheat, in the middle of being harvested. That was reality, what was happening at this moment in time. Yet—it was not the only thing in that place.

A grand edifice of stone rose from the ground in the exact same spot as the wheat. A carved figure of stone, surrounded by something that resembled Stonehenge from earth. Neatly-spaced boulders, surrounding the massive, oversized shape of a bird-man. Not a Garuda; he didn’t stand in the same bipedal way. Nor did this strange person have hands. A Harpy? The monument rose around neatly-cut grass and blooming flowers. Erin craned her neck to see the writing on the base of the statue.

…And she was walking past huts in a swamp. The field of wheat and statue were both there, like Kasigna, visible if she looked for them. This time, far from the present, was a vast swamp, bubbling waters covered with floating vegetation, deep, filled with the vast roots of trees and squat trunks. If Erin had been there, actually been there, she would have surely sank below her head into the fetid waters.

Three places at the same time. All what had been, or what was. And more reflections of this land. A different time—Erin walked a war-torn land still burning from magical fire. The ground was ripped up, and turned to glass in parts. She stared at nearly a mile of smooth, burnt earth, turned into perfect, steaming crystal by some unimaginable weapon.

And more. All of it, this piece of land that had seen so much forgotten history, passed by in a moment. It was only one place on her journey, but the sight of all the moments in time was like searing pain in Erin’s head. It hurt her to try and see all of what it was. Too much for her mind.

“Don’t try to see it all. Your mind cannot handle all the layers, not while it lives. You are still alive, somehow. Alive and dead. There are some like you, trapped here while still possessing life. But none like you. From Earth.”

“You know where I’m from?”

Califor gave her another look. She was a [Witch], Erin learned. A powerful one in life.

“Yes. Maviola El explained it to us. As have many of the dead. They share what they know—those who make it to the sanctuaries.”

“Like this one?”

The Drake and [Witch] nodded. Sserys had calmed enough to walk with them. Zel had died for this Human, so he stared at her, not friendly, but talking.

“It’s been like this since the start, apparently. According to the Dragon. He spoke to others before him. There have always been shadows. They devour the weak. Until recently, they could only do that. Even Califor and I—and Zel—could have held them off. Fought them, even.”

“What changed?”

“You did.”

The two spoke with eerie unity. But it had been three voices. Califor and Sserys looked at Erin along with the silver Dragon.

He had landed without sound. There was no air here, no medium for it. She stared up at the Dragon.

He was as large as an airplane and a half. So gigantic he dwarfed her inn, with respect to Pelt and Dawil. And he was radiant. Magnificent. When he moved, glittering silver scales moved like a silver sea. There was no light though, and he too was dead. If he had been in reality, Erin would have probably been blinded and in tears…mainly because his scales had to reflect sunlight like a mirror.

“Oh.”

That was all she said. She stared up at him and the Dragon knelt.

Somehow, he managed to be quite graceful, despite being on all fours. He lowered his huge, sinuous head, and spoke, in a quite refined, albeit deep and booming, voice.

“Greetings, Erin Solstice, who is between death and life. I heard the plan to free you from that one’s clutches and am pleased it succeeded, for all that was lost. I am Yderigrisel. Knight-Dragon in service of Terandria and Izril. You know my protection in this place whilst my strength lasts, mortal. You may now kneel.”

The young woman stared up as the vast ghost of the great Knight-Dragon, protector and ancient ally of House Byres, looked down at her. She realized she stood in the ancient land of House Byres. And around her were suddenly the ghosts of countless people of Izril. Under the aegis of his wings.

She looked into his eyes, mesmerizing clouds of silver crossed with flashes of color.

“Um. Thank you. Hi. Nice to meet you, too.”

He blinked at her. Califor adjusted her hat. The young woman didn’t kneel. The Drake [General], Sserys, glowered.

The [Witch] began to smile.

—-

The keep of House Byres, where Yderigrisel led them, had been grand and glorious. Now, it was worn, weathered by time, where once it had been nearly twice as tall, shining with silver painted onto the façade, or perhaps even baked into the stones that had made it up.

Once, you could have looked up and seen the beacon blazing from the top, bringing a light like sunlight into the darkness of night at all times.

Once, you could see the heraldry of House Byres flying proudly, joined by whatever [Knight] or noble house was present or allied.

Once, you could see the shattered keep, blown apart by some incredible force, the entire top section collapsed—and then the repairs underway, the modest reconstruction on a limited budget.

At least they kept the hot springs.

If you looked back further, instead of the wide manor in which they all sat, the expensive furniture still harkening towards the silver motif, the paintings of each glorious member of the family on the walls and functional weaponry and armor ensconced on every wall—you could see what the land of the House of Byres had been before.

A deep forest, the kind of which you could stand in and look up without ever seeing the sky. Giant firs, a labyrinth of underbrush, before Humans had come here.

The ghosts chose to remember it in its glory days, and stood on carpets woven to glorify [Knightly] crusades, admiring maps, or relic-weapons waiting for their next owner to draw them in service of honor and valor.

Amid it all was the silver Dragon, the guest of honor, who had an entire wall devoted to murals of his legend. Not only that; in its heyday, when they had known his company, two vast double-doors had made up an entire wall, such that he could push them open and enter. Upon silver-marble tiles, he now knelt, inspecting the Human.

The Dragon’s eyes narrowed, continuing the argument. He spoke, his vast voice echoing in the central point of the manor.

“Kneel.”

“No. I don’t wanna. Thanks for saving me.”

Erin stood on the carpet, facing him, arms folded. The Dragon huffed, spectral smoke appearing for a moment, drifting upwards, and then vanishing.

“You will not show me any respect for my efforts?”

“Sure I will. Thank you so much. I mean it. But I don’t want to kneel. I’ll shake your claw.”

Yderigrisel stared at her outstretched hand. He turned his head to one side, ignoring it.

“How mortals have forgotten their manners. Or perhaps just you. The [General] knelt, as did the [Lady] when I offered them my protection.”

Erin felt a pang in her heart. She touched it.

“That was them. You protected Maviola and Zel? They needed protection?”

“Yes. Until they decided to risk all for you. Thus, I—”

Erin bowed. Yderigrisel saw her bow low, as low as she could get without looking silly.

“Thank you.”

He gazed at her. Then the Dragon harrumphed, and it was a familiar sound and a loud one.

“I must watch the borders of my sanctuary. Witch Califor, General Sserys, educate this one. We will speak soon, Erin Solstice. We must.”

He took wing. Erin watched him go. An irked voice came from her left.

“What a curious Human. Zel told me you knew him before the Necromancer slew him.”

Erin turned.

“The…Necromancer?”

“Az’kerash. He lives. Remember that, if you should wake. Tell the Walled Cities. He must die. And so must those shades, if it can be done.”

Sserys sat on a fancy chair in House Byres’ manor. Yderigrisel had spoken to them there, crouching in the Byres home where they had once made it so he could enter and leave and talk with them at will.

More ghosts milled about the manor, and the landscape. In the sanctuary of the silver Dragon. They…didn’t do much.

They talked, or sat, as if content to pass away forever like that. Some argued, others asked newer ghosts what was happening, or they told stories.

There was no food to eat. No games to play. Children and adults sat there. Babies floated in the air or were held, not always by their parents. And if there was a vast number of them, beyond hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions or more—it was a small number, apparently, compared to all those who had died.

“The sanctuaries are decreasing. Even now, more fall. This is how it was. When anyone died, they came here. Young or small. Glorious and strong or weak. All but monsters. All peoples. Even Stitch-Folk in time. Except Goblins. And then—except Antinium.”

Erin stirred. She looked around and realized what she had not seen.

There were no Goblins here. Nor—Antinium. The people were mostly Human, but anyone who had ever died around here and found sanctuary. Dullahans, Drakes, Stitch-Folk…

“Why not?”

Califor spoke, regarding the countless ghosts.

“Perhaps they have somewhere else. Perhaps they aren’t welcome here.”

The Drake was older than Califor by far, but Califor seemed to have learned more. He took over.

“It was simple, Human. You died and if you were lucky, a strong soul kept away the shadows. You saw one of them—and more.”

“Kas—”

Califor covered her mouth. Erin stopped. The [Witch] looked at her.

“Do not say it. Names are power. And that one is power here. She wasn’t always.”

She looked at Sserys and the Drake nodded.

“No, she was not. There are six now with names and faces. They speak, they can barely be stopped. Yderigrisel can stop two at once; they tried to consume all the souls here. But that one…”

He shook his head. Erin tried to imagine it.

“Wait, so before ‘now’—how many days are we talking?”

He snorted at her and rudely put his feet up on the table. For a great [General] revered by all, Sserys was ruder and less couth than Zel himself was.

“Time is meaningless here. All I know is that the six gained strength ‘recently’. Very recently. And then, when everything shook—”

“The Summer Solstice.”

Sserys paused. Erin looked at Califor and the [Witch] stared at her, knowingly.

“Yes. Then. The shadows were even stronger after that. All of them were. Before, when I died, they were just…scavengers. They ate some of the [Soldiers] who died with me after the Antinium slaughtered us, but I kept the rest back. We went from sanctuary to sanctuary and there wasn’t as much danger. Oh, there was if you left the aegis of a powerful soul, but I walked the entire world and saw other souls doing the same. Now? It’s oblivion. A final death.”

“But this is death.”

“Yes. Though I think consumption is the final end. Perhaps it isn’t. But I do not think to see Maviola or Zel again. Those things are predators. I told my coven as much when they reached out to me. I tried to pass on, yet there was nothing to pass on to! We cannot die or move on, but we can be eaten. Why, I do not know. That is this reality, though.”

Califor spoke simply. Erin put her head in her hands.

“Why am I alive, then?”

“Simple. You did not fully die.”

“What? Don’t be silly. I got shot with crossbow bolts. Six of ‘em, I think. I…died…”

The [Innkeeper] touched her chest. She remembered the pain.

Sserys stirred. His tail moved and his mouth opened, but he hesitated. Califor raised her brows slowly.

“You don’t know? Of course not. Listen to me, Erin Solstice.”

Califor looked at the [Innkeeper].

“Maviola El was the last great soul to make it. Few do, now. Yderigrisel cannot find them and it is too dangerous for us to escort them here. But she did. Once we told her of this place, she told us all that you were alive. That you were a child of Earth, another world, as two are in this place. And that we had to rescue you. She convinced us to try.”

Sserys grasped at Erin’s arm.

“And Zel died from it. If you live, remember. Az’kerash slew him. He lives. Tell the Walled Cities! Tell them—”

She didn’t feel that. But she still felt. She looked at her hands, and knew she was one of the few solid things in this world. And hope blossomed in her chest?

“I’m alive? How?”

—-

Frozen in ice. Erin’s eyes were unfocused, trying to imagine it.

“I’m a block of ice?”

“It makes little sense as we understand it. But Maviola El apparently saw you—and that thing—as she fled here. Your soul is proof enough. You live. And you must be guarded until you can return. If you return. Otherwise something might take your place.”

Erin’s body lay in the [Garden of Sanctuary], according to Maviola. Califor and Sserys could not confirm that fact, only tell Erin what Maviola knew. Nor could they check. Apparently even ghosts couldn’t enter the garden, so she was safe in theory.

She spoke to Yderigrisel and Califor and Sserys—and a number of other ghosts.

There was no real pecking order in the lands of the dead in terms of social rank. A [Farmer] was no different from a [Lord] here, unless both ghosts believed it. Some did. But the real test was…strength of the soul.

It corresponded to the level they held in life, by and large. Even souls without levels were here.

Yderigrisel was one. He snorted when Erin asked why he could protect the sanctuary when Sserys, Califor, Maviola, and Zel had been all but helpless and only able to delay Kasigna a second.

“What levels were they in life, Erin Solstice? Level 50? Level 60 at best? I am a Dragon. Not just a Dragon, but one of the oldest of my generation. Last Knight-Dragon to fly! I died in the Creler Wars and brought low countless tens of thousands of my foes. I have battled [Archmages] and fought with [Heroes]. The greatest of your time would pale before me.”

She eyed him.

“Well, that’s humble.”

“It is not arrogance to state the truth.”

The silver Dragon was sort of a jerk. Or rather, he had some Ylawes-qualities taken to extremes. He reminded her of Eldavin, actually. And Ilvriss.

So just Drakes in general. And it was true his soul was definitely ‘strongest’ here. Erin felt it wasn’t just strength alone that gave him the power to repel the shadow-things. He could still breathe fire, which was more than the ghosts who lacked Skills or magic.

“Okay. But if I’m dead, can I tell them I’m here? Ask them to, I don’t know, fix me? Do they even know?”

“Maviola claimed they were trying. As for talking with them…is it possible?”

All turned to Yderigrisel. He snorted, not out of contempt.

“This is the end of all things. This is the world after death. Yet it touches life. Once, it was possible to summon ghosts and spirits from the other side. Such that true death was oblivion; even in death, it was possible to serve or suffer. No longer. Spells that reach into this place grasp nothing because we must hide from those things. Even if one appeared close to us by chance…you would have to risk everything. And it would take the kind of magic few can cast.”

“[Witches] could do it. We thought the afterlife was waning of power for millennia. Now, we know why and that it is true. My coven summoned me because I was newly-dead and we had a strong connection. If they could do it again, I would answer despite the risk. But that one walks Izril strongly.”

“Who?”

The ghosts fell silent. After a time, one of House Byres’ [Lords] answered somberly.

“The one with the beard.”

That was how they named them. They had seen all six, or some had, and rather than use names, they all had characteristics.

“Listen. Remember.”

Califor told them to Erin one at a time.

The man with the beard.

The young hunter.

The wise man.

The three women in one.

The dancing man.

And…the lost thing.

“Each one is far greater than the lesser shadows. They have actual bodies. Names. Flee them. Especially the three women in one. She seems to have the most authority here. Already, they destroyed two of the Walled Cities.”

“What? How?”

Sserys spoke shortly.

“She means the stronghold of ghosts, not the place itself. There are more than six. And speaking of six—when all six gather, not even ten of Yderigrisel can stand against them. Fortunately for us, that happens rarely. They seem to bicker and dislike each other as much as ally. What are they?”

The ghosts seemed used to this conclave, this discussion. They spoke, earnestly.

“The thing of Rhir, perhaps. It is a dead place; not even souls walk it. Something eats them which is both here and in the living world. Perhaps it spawned something worse than Crelers.”

“Undead? Az’kerash’s minions.”

The silver Dragon snorted at Sserys.

“Little Drake, you give one [Necromancer] too much credit. If he failed before your love, he was no great [Necromancer] as I knew them.”

The Drake bristled.

“Zel was the greatest [General] of his era!”

“Yes. Of his era. I disparage him not, but even a Level 80 [Necromancer] as I once crusaded against did not seem to have this much power…”

Erin looked from face to face. Califor sat with several [Witches], all of whom had created a coven in death. Sserys and a few strong non-Human souls spoke with Yderigrisel and the dead of House Byres. Erin waved a hand.

“Excuse me? Hello? What if they’re…gods? Has anyone suggested that? I mean, isn’t it obvious?”

The ghosts stopped arguing and looked up. One by one they fixed on her. Yderigrisel flapped his wings uncertainly.

“But the gods are dead. Even when I was a child, I was told…”

He looked at her. And Erin thought she felt a shadow even in this place. The heads of all the ghosts turned.

“I just said—”

“Stop. Speaking.”

One of the [Witches] who resembled more of a toad than person hissed at her. Her slitted eyes rolled uneasily.

“You are attracting attention. Someone find the other children. The burning flame was right. This is the answer.”

—-

Even the dead were bound by the phenomenon about dead gods. The children of Earth were not.

Erin Solstice had felt fear when she met Kasigna.

She had felt sorrow when realizing Zel’s sacrifice and Maviola’s loss.

She had felt anger at this strange afterlife.

Now, she felt guilt. Trepidation, as the fainter soul stopped and stared at her in wonder. The ghosts marveled at how real Erin was. But they were still perfect in every detail. She saw darker skin, curious eyes behind glasses. And fear, even now.

One ghost stopped before her. He enunciated carefully.

“Hello. My name is Abel. I’m pleased to meet you.”

Erin hesitated. She slowly took the proffered hand of the young man.

“I’m Erin. I’m…pleased to meet you.”

He nodded. After a moment, he looked at her.

“You’re also from Earth?”

“Yes.”

“He speaks a language unlike ours. He and the other. We wondered at his tales of Earth and a world full of machines and no magic. Ghosts can lie, of course. Now, we know he was telling the truth. He came recently. But longer ago than I.”

Califor regarded the young man. Abel nodded, concentrating to translate. After a moment, he looked at Erin.

“I was eaten. I did not know what happened. I do not know…how I came here. Do you know?”

Erin’s heart sank. She shook her head.

“No. W-what happened exactly? I’m so sorry, Abel. I was like you. I met other people.”

He smiled.

“They are alive? Good. We died. We…”

His face fell. Ghosts could not cry. But he shuddered even so at the memory.

“They came out of the ground. We asked them to save us. They are called Crelers.”

Crelers. Erin’s eyes went wide.

“Abel. Do you know…an Imani?”

He looked at her in shock.

“Imani? She was with us.”

“She’s alive. She—she—”

Erin wiped at her eyes. The young man and Califor watched. Erin looked around.

“This is too much. Why am I here? Why is this here? I don’t want this. This is death? It’s not right.”

“Since when did right or wrong matter?”

Califor regarded her. Erin shuddered. Then she looked at Abel. She expected him to be…angry. Hurt. Sad, any of these emotions and more, but he wasn’t. He just smiled, happy for once.

“I am glad she lived. Please, tell me about her.”

No malice in the dead for the living. Just regret and relief. Erin wiped at her eyes again. Then she told him.

—-

“I’m not dead.”

Erin poked herself in the chest again, just to tell. It didn’t hurt, yet she was still solid. Realer. Califor hovered over her shoulder.

The [Witch] had come to help Erin, despite not ever having met her. Erin hadn’t asked why. Sserys made more sense, strangely.

Zel. Erin thought about it. It was too fast. Realizing she was trapped, fleeing Kasigna and being saved. She had seen him and then he was gone.

She wished it hurt more. But she had already known he died once. A second time?

“I’m not dead. They froze me.”

It was so strange. She hadn’t expected that. Who had come up with that idea? It had to be someone from Earth. Kevin? That felt right. That was a real Kevin-move. Erin smiled.

“I’m not dead!”

The [Witch] looked at her.

“Nor are you alive, according to Maviola El. And the bolts were poisoned. You cannot be healed. She feared the task of healing you was monumental.”

“Yeah. But…”

Erin’s voice trailed off. She sat there and thought.

Maviola El. Like Zel, she had come out of nowhere. She had burned Kasigna, going in to give Erin a chance to escape.

A glorious end. Still, Erin’s stomach suddenly fell. A terrible, terrible realization slowly engulfed her.

Why had Maviola been here? For this was the land of the dead. And that only meant…

“Califor. Maviola was alive when I…when I got shot. She was in the north. What happened? Did her time run out?”

Surely, that was it. Erin had known Maviola had a time limit of sorts. The [Witch] looked at her.

Califor the [Witch] could be kind. Could be gentle, and walk with a feather’s touch. But that was not Califor the Witch, one of the greatest of her era. She spoke and the words snapped even without air.

“She died in battle. Saving a love. And he went to war for you. Against a city called Hectval. I am told thousands died in the battle. The Necromancer interfered, but Olesm Swifttail and the army of Liscor, even the Antinium, threw themselves into a trap and suffered for it.”

Erin slowly recoiled. She stepped back and drifted for a moment. Weightless.

“No. That can’t be—”

What reason did Califor have to lie? The [Witch] regarded her.

“I wondered what sort of person would inspire the Tidebreaker of Izril and the matriarch of the House of El to sacrifice themselves to save. I see why. And I also see that you haven’t understood. You are not dead. Not yet. But you did die. And now, your friends, your family are trying to move the world to save you. Even if they die.”

“No. I don’t want that. They went to war? I—I—”

General Sserys shook his head, regarding Erin with disdain.

“Silly girl. Did you think you were not loved? Did you think they would do nothing? I have seen brave men and women of every species hurl themselves onto spear tips to save a lover, a friend. For a chance. Look at you. You haven’t even processed your death.”

He pointed. His claw accusatorially aimed at her chest. Erin looked down.

Six crossbow bolts stood out of her skin, blood oozing around the broken flesh. She stared at the colorful fletching and reached up to tug at them.

It hit her again.

“I…died? But I never saw it.”

She looked up at Sserys, pleadingly. He shook his head.

“You walked into an ambush. The [Lady] of fire told us all. A silly Human, running into crossbow bolts. Not even a protective ring. As if you were immortal.”

“I thought it wasn’t dangerous. I didn’t know—”

Her protests felt feeble. Califor looked at her.

“Few do. Who here knew how they would die? You, who died in battle?”

She turned. The [Lords] and [Ladies] of House Byres, the other guests of this place, Sserys, all shook their heads. Califor turned to Erin.

“I knew my death when the Spider, the Stitch Witch came to me and offered the dark deal. My daughter’s life, or mine. I never expected to die until the moment came upon me.”

“You had one chance. We all did.”

Sserys sat there.

But suddenly, Sserys was sitting at a desk in a war tent. He looked up as screaming filled the air. Erin saw the Drake slowly draw his sword as the tent flaps parted and a vast, insectile form cast a shadow. The Drake lunged—

Erin saw the memory play out in front of her. For a second, she smelled what he had smelled, even felt his emotions from afar. The sensations.

His last moments. Sserys sat there, a single wound torn through his armor, his heart and body. He touched it and looked at her.

“I thought we stood on the moment of true victory. In arrogance, I never thought the Antinium had any last resorts. They unleashed their great warrior and I damned my people to war with them for decades since. Perhaps centuries. We all had one chance. And now you’re dead. Because you weren’t cautious. Because you thought yourself immortal. And because of luck, now they sacrifice themselves to give you another chance. First Maviola, then Zel. How many more?”

Erin looked down at her death. She looked at Sserys, at Califor. The [Witch] was not as bitter as the dead [General]. Nevertheless, her gaze was no less piercing.

She had one chance. And this? Erin tugged at the bolts weakly, yet she had no strength to draw them out.

“But I don’t want to be dead. I wanted to live. I want to…”

Blood ran down her front. The ghosts looked at her, pityingly, mercilessly, envying the shred of hope. The gaze of the countless dead, hiding from dark things even here.

Erin fled.

—-

The aegis of Yderigrisel extended far around the lands of House Byres. Erin felt the safety of his presence, like the radiance of his scales.

She ran, knowing it was foolish. But their calm, cold judgment had revealed the truth to her. What a pointless, foolish death.

An accident. Some Drakes with crossbows. Why that way? Of all the ways…

“I want to live. I didn’t want this! Maviola? Olesm? The Antinium? War? How many died?”

Erin sobbed. She stumbled across the landscape, miles blurring with each moment. Space was different here.

She stopped as she realized she’d gone far. She turned back, fearing she had gone too far and the shadows—she whirled.

No, there was no Kasigna. No…Tamaroth.

God of Rulers. Protect Us in Our Weakness. The old coin he’d given her burned in her memory.

She knew what they were. But why were they like that?

Why was this the afterlife?

“Why am I here? Alive? Dead? I—I have to get to my body. I’ll go back. Send a message. Tell them not to…”

But she wanted to live. It was still there, such a strong desire that despite the grief, the fear for her friends who would risk themselves for her, she still wanted to open her eyes.

To hug her family in this world and promise never to be so stupid again.

She wanted to see her real parents.

The little ghost, not quite dead, not fully alive, knelt on the ground and covered her face. Her tears fell to the ground and vanished. Shadows gathered in the distance, watching her. But they never approached.

Someone stood there. Keeping this place safe. Erin looked up as she saw the figure standing there.

This was safety. However, this was not Yderigrisel’s lands. She had run here, by accident, feeling safe in the shadow of a second mighty presence.

“Hope is a terrible thing, girl. Perhaps you will never wake. Like me, you will stay here. Neither dead nor alive. Waiting for one or the other. And that is worst of all.”

She looked up. A man stood in front of her. Erin recoiled—but he had no beard. Nor a nature like the strangers. The dead, rotting devourers.

Even so, she might have feared him. Once, perhaps, she would have looked upon the half-rotted flesh, the decay seeping along one arm and recoiled.

But she looked at his robes. She stood as the [Necromancer] nodded to her. And she realized he was a half-Elf, not Human. One ear on his left side had been torn away.

His features were somber. She stared at his face, at his body, clothed in once-regal robes torn by some battle. They were real. Real as she was.

This was no ghost. Still, he was here. The half-Elf [Necromancer] regarded her.

“Why have you come here, half-ghost girl? Has the silver Dragon taken to exiling souls from his precious sanctuary? It seems petty of him. We are all too soon to disappear when the six find us. And I offer no protection of my own.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I—I must have run out of his place. I…I’m Erin. I’m sorry if I bothered you. If you’ll just point the way back, I’ll go.”

The ghost’s eyebrows raised. The half-Elf blinked at her.

“How odd. Don’t you fear me? Or don’t you recognize my nature?”

He gestured at his rotten arm. She hesitated.

“Um. [Necromancer]?”

A single nod. Erin hesitated.

“I know it sounds like I’m making this up, but I actually do know a [Necromancer]. He’s not as uh, decayed as you, but he helped me a lot. Saved my life.”

“How strange.”

The half-Elf shook his head. He half-smiled.

“How strange. And you’re not dead yet. Was that his doing?”

“No. I don’t think so. I got hurt and…I was careless. I just died and I’m—trying to figure it out.”

Erin hung her head. The [Necromancer] nodded.

“Ah. You spoke to the ghosts of the Dragon’s sanctuary? They can be cruel without knowing it. They are dead. We are alive and can still regret and wish it were otherwise. I would not remain in their company, even had they welcomed me. Not that the Dragon and I speak to each other. Even in death, we do not care for each other’s company, he and I. If it were not for the threats of those shades, we would surely clash until one or the other fled.”

He grinned mirthlessly. Erin stared at him. The [Necromancer] seemed to relish the idea. Erin raised a hand.

“I’m sorry, but who are you? I didn’t think there were so many uh, big souls around here. I’m Erin. And you are…?”

This time the half-Elf really did look surprised. And then a bit offended.

“Have they forgotten me so soon? Does my appearance, the protection of this place not tell you who I am?”

He tilted his head, as if the ligaments and bones were not an impediment to moving the head at unnatural angles. Erin hesitated.

“Well, I’m not from here.”

“Even so. A master of death? Rot, putrefaction? If you know the legends of old, you would know the great [Necromancer] as…?”

He looked hopeful. Erin bit her lip.

“Uh—Az’kerash is the only one I’m thinking of. And someone just told me he was alive.”

The half-Elf sagged.

“So even my legacy is lost. Well. You stand before the Putrid One. At least, so they knew me. A legend of death I thought would never be eclipsed. Which was true until the next [Necromancer] appeared.”

He waved a hand. Erin bit her lip. Now he said it, she almost felt like she’d heard the name once before. Maybe Pisces had mentioned it. She had nothing.

“Sorry.”

“It is not your fault. So, then. The silver Dragon’s lands are that way. But if you would care to—tell me how you died, Erin. It has been too long since I have seen someone else trapped beyond death and life.”

He gestured, and a seat appeared. Erin stared at it, agog. There was just grass, but that was a seat! And not an echo of the world. The Putrid One looked at her.

“A memory. I sat here when I was just a boy.”

It was a beautiful little stool. Hand-carved, wooden, but decorated, as if someone had taken months, even a year of effort to create a stool for a child, with little patterns of birds and plants lovingly etched into it.

His memory. Erin hesitated, then sat. The Putrid One sat on a similar chair. She looked at him.

“I’ve been dead…I don’t know how long. Months? Weeks? Days? Recently, I think. Around the Summer Solstice.”

“Ah. What year?”

She hesitated.

“I have no idea.”

He tilted his head again.

“…Then how many years has it been since the life of [Archmage] Seenaw, the Garuda? The Archmage of Light? The Radiance of Sands?”

“Um…I don’t know. Never heard of them.”

The Putrid One pondered.

“If you do not know me, then perhaps…has a Dragon been slain in living memory?”

“Er…not that I know. Oh! The Creler Wars were like—six thousand years ago?”

“The what?”

The two exchanged looks, and then began to laugh. Erin laughed and the half-Elf chuckled. And he didn’t seem so bad. Erin shook her head.

“I’m not dead. I’m frozen in ice. I was shot by poisoned crossbow bolts.”

The [Necromancer] raised an eyebrow.

“Indeed? May you live, then. There are far more significant deaths. I myself fell in battle at the end of my great ambition. Slain in battle by the hero of my age. Because of my power, I am not dead. Still, I fear that if my body is touched, life will be but one moment.”

He sighed. Erin bit her lip.

“Oh. That’s…terrible. I’m sorry.”

“I yearn for it. Because it is one thing to know I am dead. Another to wish to live, even for one moment before I can finally rest. There will be none for you or me, Miss Erin. The living do not belong here, yet we cannot leave until our last links are severed. And it seems even in death, my protectors are too strong. My greatest servant watches over me still. That I could command them…but death has severed my magic.”

Another smile. The half-Elf looked so maudlin. Erin gulped.

“I—I don’t want that either. How long…has it been?”

The Putrid One looked at her.

“Countless eons, Erin. Did they tell you to regret your follies in life, those ghosts? They should have told you to regret that you had not fully died. For you may suffer here forever.”

—-

Califor and Sserys found Erin in the land that was called the Village of the Dead. Erin saw the rotting houses, the uneasy construction that had no sense for…living…inhabitants. And what lay beyond, the true center of this place where the [Necromancer] remained.

As well as the pristine grazing lands that had been before this place had been erected. The river that had been here until some jerks decided it needed to go the other way to feed a huge city in the distance.

The [Witch] halted before the half-Elf as he stood in his home in the present, a place of death, his tomb. The Putrid Once glanced at her and sighed at the intrusion.

“Begone, little ghost.”

He turned and the [Witch] held her ground. Barely.

“I have come for Erin Solstice, [Necromancer]. I have business with her.”

“The dead have business with the living?”

Eyebrows rose. The half-Elf regarded the Drake [General], again without much interest. Then he looked up.

Yderigrisel landed. The Dragon and [Necromancer] scowled at each other.

“Release the child to me, Putrid One.”

“She was never a captive, Dragon.”

Erin waved her arm urgently, edging between them. Both ghosts looked at her.

“I’m sorry I ran off. I was just—I met this guy. Don’t fight!”

Yderigrisel and the Putrid One eyed her, and then each other a second time.

“This is not the time for conflict, Putrid One. Even in this place, I despise the slaughter and chaos you and your kind have wrought. Untold millions of deaths. You turned kingdoms to rotten abysses of despair and deserved far worse than death.”

Erin gulped. The half-Elf just smiled in reply. He caught her gaze.

“Did you think they called me that for nothing?”

He laughed, and suddenly his teeth were gone and something wriggled in his mouth. Erin backed up.

“I thought you were nice!”

The half-Elf closed his mouth, looking affronted.

“To one trapped as I am, yes. But I will not be lectured on how I lived. Not by a lizard who dreamed of being treated as a [Knight] and knelt to every kingdom and [Lord] he could find.”

He sneered at the silver Dragon. Yderigrisel’s eyes narrowed. He inhaled—and Erin floated up.

“Stop! Stop!”

She caught herself. She was flying! Or—just moving without her feet. The Dragon eyed her.

“I do not suffer insult. However…”

He looked towards the distance, then the Putrid One.

“I tell you this, [Necromancer], only because it concerns us both. The Five Families are broken in the north. Their sanctuary—gone.”

The Putrid One’s eyes flickered.

“Gone? Already? A ghost fleeing there told me all five houses stood together for the first time in death.”

“They did. And the six devourers walked upon them. Izril dwindles. I have no energy to spend on conflict with you. Make your peace, for even you will end. If you will it, let us both hold them off until the last.”

The Dragon pointed a wing back the way he’d flown. The Putrid One looked past him, at Erin. The young woman saw Califor’s grave face, and Sserys’ unease. She saw the half-Elf slowly nod.

“Very well. An end to it all will be a relief.”

—-

Erin Solstice had come to the land of the dead just in time to see it end. She realized that now. Even the afterlife was changing. One of the ghosts, a [Lord] wearing silver mail, spoke grimly.

“The sanctuary was at First Landing, where the Five Families of Izril first landed. One of the strongest sanctuaries. Every generation of all the noble houses stood there.”

The ghosts stood in conclave. The Putrid One stood by himself; Yderigrisel and the House of Byres glared at him, but even they held their arguments as he spoke.

“There are greater sanctuaries. The Five Families are new to Izril. There was a time long before them when Gnolls and Drakes ruled here. The Tribes still stand in death in the south.”

“Not much longer.”

Califor and the coven of dead [Witches] were not the greatest of their kind. Of their generation, perhaps. Some had gone far and wide. The toad-witch was called Uonp.

“I went to Baleros where many Dragons died. I have seen the [Kings] and [Queens] in Terandria still holding court. Many great souls exist, for all are here who once lived. Yet as I fled, I saw Dragons eaten. Consumed to nothingness.”

“How? I have held off two. And I am valorous and courageous even among my kind—”

Califor and the Putrid One rolled their eyes as Yderigrisel spoke. The Dragon went on, ignoring them.

“—I cannot imagine one of my kind save for the young would fall so easily. Even the bearded man I could hold off. If with the aid of House Byres’ strongest.”

He nodded to the dead [Knights] and nobility who bowed. Uonp shook her head.

“Strength of the soul? It means nothing to her. You burned her when she was off-guard, mighty Yderigrisel. I have witnessed her slowly unmaking each sanctuary. She will come here. If only for her.”

She pointed. And all eyes turned to Erin. Now, the young woman stood there and felt odd.

“Why me?”

But she knew. Califor answered her.

“Because you stand at the heart of why they gained in strength. You come from another world. And this is a thing unheard of.”

The other [Witches] nodded. Yderigrisel inclined his mighty head. Erin stood with Abel and a girl named Cadence. The others had been…lost…when they died.

Each one was from Earth. Each one had told their stories to the ghosts. And they were different and alike. Erin had lived longest; Abel had died within the hour he had come to this world. Cadence? She had gone to a town and done well, telling people she was from elsewhere. They hadn’t believed her, but she had been trying to find others like her when she fell ill.

Just…ill. A sickness that hit her hard because she had no immunity to the diseases. Made worse by a healing potion administered before they realized it was disease.

She had died in a bed. For all Erin had done much more than the other two…here it ended.

A magic door? Making friends with the Antinium? None of it mattered here. The dead could not touch the living. And the Putrid One had set the world of his time to quaking with legions of undead. Yderigrisel had fought Crelers when they first emerged from Rhir in a swarm to end all things.

What mattered was that they were from Earth and could believe in gods. What mattered was…

“She is alive. Let her and the [Necromancer] flee this place and attract the attention of the hungry strangers. We should join other strongholds. What business have we with her?”

A [Legendary Mercenary] pointed at Erin and the Putrid One. He was rebuffed almost at once by two sources. The first was Yderigrisel. The Dragon’s head lowered and he stared at the Dwarf.

“I have given my oath to protect both Erin Solstice and fight with the [Necromancer]. I will not be forsworn in death when I honored every vow in life.”

The first [Lord] of House Byres spoke, silvery mustache moving in the invisible breeze of his memory.

“This is our home, likewise. If House Byres is to end, let it be here.”

The others nodded solemnly, even eagerly.

A glorious battle against the predators of dead souls in the afterlife. How noble. How pointless. Erin saw it on the face of Sserys and Califor. It was the [Witch] who replied, nodding to the assembled ghosts.

“If that is your will, House of Byres, Yderigrisel, do what you wish. But that is not why I agreed to help Maviola El when she beseeched us. I care nothing for honor or glory. We are dead and I would rather flee than face whatever end those six have.”

She was met with scowls among the honorable ghosts. A smile from the Putrid One. Sserys shrugged, seemingly at home with the statement. Califor went on, and now she looked at the [Innkeeper].

“I did not rescue you out of pity, Erin. I aided Maviola to fight the three-in-one for your soul because you live. Because there is a chance, however slim, that you may return to your body. And if so…you must remember this. You must tell them on waking what you learned here. And you must carry my wish among the living.”

She advanced. Erin looked at her.

“Your wish?”

Another of the coven of [Witches] frowned at Califor.

“There have been those who die and come here. Even our sisters who walked the land of the dead in the heights of magic, Califor. They wake as dreamers, with faint recollections.”

Califor rounded on the other ghosts of [Witches].

“Perhaps a child of Earth is different. But even if it is only a dream, I am too near death to not be a part of this world. Sisters, when you see those six, does your spirit not rebel? Do you not abhor them? They are our enemies, and I do not know when [Witches] swore to oppose them. I know it in my craft. Even here.”

Pointed hats turned. Erin felt a chill. This was older than the Putrid One. Older than Yderigrisel. Califor turned back to her.

“I would arm you, Erin Solstice, in the hopes you live. Arm you with knowledge. Arm you with all I knew and every secret of the dead. And I will keep you safe if it is within my power. Because you must live and fulfill my wish.”

She reached out and grabbed Erin’s arm. The young woman actually felt pressure. Califor looked—desperate as she drew closer.

“What? What is it?”

“My child. I left my child! The [Witch], Belavierr, gave me a choice. My death or hers and I died for her. I left her behind and this world grows crueler. You must protect her. I wish I had taught her more. I wish I had not left her. I will have you swear it upon your soul.”

The [Witch]’s voice was desperate, pleading. A sigh. Erin stared into her eyes. Everything, every regret and hope and dream of Califor was in that one wish.

“I—I’ll try if I can. But I don’t even know if it’s possible.”

“If. If it is, you owe more than one debt.”

This time, it was Sserys. He approached her, wearing the armor of the [General] of Liscor, pointing accusingly at her face.

“Zel Shivertail died for you. The Necromancer plagues Izril still, in secret! He must be avenged! Remember! Tell the Walled Cities!”

He faced her. Erin hesitated. The weight of his desires and Califor’s pressed on her. The power of the two dead ghosts. Sserys drew nearer still. And suddenly—his face was wracked by the same pain as Califor’s.

“I regret many things too. If I had not been so foolish at the end. If I had waited for him to join me, I would not have left him alone all these years. Regrets?”

He laughed, hollowly, and suddenly he bore his death-wounds again. The Drake reached for her, grasping, hands passing through her shoulder. He whispered.

“I wish I had spoken my love. I don’t regret my war. I don’t regret fighting for the Walled Cities and my home. I wish I had not died. But if only I could have also told them who I was. If I could have shouted that—maybe they would not be so cruel. Maybe he would have lived longer.”

Califor was still whispering, pouring out her regrets.

“Nanette, Nanette, my child. I wish I had taken you elsewhere. I wish I had seen you smile more…”

The Putrid One drifted closer. And suddenly his face was twisted by the same despair as the other two. But for different reasons. He looked at Erin, almost angry.

“Human girl. Mortal woman. I loathe you. If you have a second chance, if you could recognize your mistakes, I hate you. I envy you. And if I could take that away from you…”

His hand opened and closed. His rotten features drew closer.

“I am like you. Yet when the time of my return comes, it shall be the moment of my death. So. I wish I had another chance. I wish I had seen more clearly.”

She tried to back away as the three ghosts pressed around her. Suddenly, there was another voice.

“I wish I had told my family I loved them. I fought with them before I left. They will never know where I went. That I loved them. Tell them. I wish I had done more with my life.”

Abel reached for Erin. His features twisted. The young woman tried to pull away.

“I’ll try, Abel. I’ll try, Califor. Stop—stop telling me. Please…?”

One of the [Ladies] announced herself in a mournful sigh.

“I wish the House of Byres had not faded. I wish my descendants would recall our glory.”

She drifted closer. Erin turned. Suddenly—all the ghosts were drifting towards her.

It was like a vortex. Their faces began to twist with grief, longing, loss. Something in Califor’s desperation called to them. They came towards Erin, moving around her.

In a spiral. She tried to flee. But then even Yderigrisel spoke.

“I wish I had not died. I wish my kin lived. There are so few left. I wish our time was not ending. I wish I was remembered…”

Even him. They circled Erin. Reaching towards her. Pulling at her, demanding her to carry their wishes. She tried to flee. To scream.

Three ghosts clung to her. The Putrid One, Sserys, Califor. They whispered in her ears, dragging at her, pulling, as if trying to put themselves in her. So she could carry them to the land of the living.

“I wish I had loved.”

“I wish I had another chance.”

“I wish I had left her more.”

“I wish—”

She was sinking in an ocean of ghosts as they all called for her. The [Innkeeper] cried out. She heard the voices merging together. They were creeping under her skin. Into her body. Into her s—

A voice shouted amid the storm of whispers.

“I lived well! I have no regrets!”

The whispers stopped. Erin saw a single figure standing there. She lifted the spear over her head. Her tanned skin, and smile—

She was so many years younger than when Erin had met her. But she stood the same way. Salt flecked hair. A smile as she and her husband walked through the sea of despair.

Gresaria Wellfar swung her spear and the sea of ghosts parted. She shouted at the stronger ghosts, laughing.

“I did everything I wanted. I tried everything I could. I did not always succeed—but I would never give my dreams to someone else to carry. For shame! Stand back, you sea-leeches!”

The ghosts drifted back, blinking. Recoiling. The Putrid One let go of Erin, as the trance of misery faded. Yderigrisel flapped backwards.

“What was that?”

“Wishes are a dangerous thing. Hello, [Innkeeper]. I was told Maviola died well at the end. And again, I wasn’t there to see it. Just like her.”

Gresaria Wellfar touched Erin’s arm. The young woman gasped in relief. The [Lady] turned. She was almost as young as Erin, just half a decade older. Her husband bowed to Erin.

“Well met.”

She breathed. Then—looked again.

“Gresaria? Thank you. And you’re…”

The pair of them smiled. Young as Erin or Ryoka. It was how they saw themselves.

Erin Solstice had met Gresaria for half a day, and it had mainly been Gresaria trying to ‘kill’ Maviola. She had never seen her again.

The old rival to Maviola El had died in the north, when the Flowers of Izril went to war against the Guild of Assassins. She had roused the pride of the nobility and led the [Captains] and crews of First Landing against the guild itself.

This was what Erin had heard. She was ashamed to admit that even then, the news had been a distant blow compared to the immediate, like Tritel and Ci, Lord Toldos, and the others.

Now, she looked at Gresaria and felt tears spring to her eyes. Twice, Gresaria had helped Erin and her friends, without even knowing her.

“Thank you.”

She repeated herself. At a loss for something else to say to encapsulate it all. Gresaria and her husband looked at her. Then the [Harbormistress] of First Landing, the Duchess of the Waves, the Duchess of Salt, threw back her head and laughed. Her green-and-brown hair shone for a second, and she looked as young as Maviola.

“For what? I should be thanking you, and that reckless flaming horse thief! What a way to end it all. But not you, eh? May you have a thousand adventures more.”

“And find yourself an adventurous wife. That’s what I did.”

Her husband winked at Erin. The [Innkeeper] looked at them as they grinned and Gresaria gently squeezed her shoulder.

She wished she had known them when they were alive.

—-

“Why are you here, ghost? I thank you for—stopping us.”

Afterwards, as the ghosts haunted by memory and regret returned to normal, Yderigrisel inclined his head to her. Gresaria nodded briskly at him, addressing the congregation of the dead.

“I did not think to see a living girl here, much less one I knew. We come here bearing warning. First Landing has fallen. The six strangers assailed us. The Five Families stood against them—and fell. We left rather than fight a losing battle, to warn the others. There is no standing against the three-in-one.”

The ghosts fell silent. Erin saw the Byres family look at each other.

“How? They were not all mighty, but there were six Dragons who held that sanctuary. How did they fall?”

Yderigrisel demanded, shocked. Gresaria looked up at him gravely.

“They did not fight. They were prepared to, but the three-in-one—that woman—she walked forwards. And they knelt and vanished before her. She rules this place. And with each moment, she holds it more strongly. The ghosts fled; the six will pursue, yet I saw three walk this way. Now, I know why.”

She looked at Erin. The ghosts began to susurrate, little wailing whispers. Califor looked around.

“Then we must flee.”

“Where? Can any stronghold of the dead stand against that kind of power?”

One of the [Witches] demanded, despairing. Califor turned on her.

“Perhaps not. But what else is there to hope for? Izril is lost. The bearded man is rooted here and clearly the six prey on Izril first. Yet what else can be done? Surrender without a fight? I say that if we are to end, let us place hope and wish together and strive for some small defiance before all ends.”

She looked at Erin and an echo of her whisper lingered. Erin looked around. She wanted to ask why her, again. Yet the answer was simple.

Because there wasn’t anyone else.

“I…I’ll try to tell them what’s happening. But I don’t know if I’ll get to come back.”

“A chance is better than none. And this is a grand reason to fight. I had despaired, thinking my battle would be for vanity or survival. Nay! One last time, let the House of Byres defend a cause!”

Yderigrisel cried. He flew upwards and ghosts called out. Califor nodded at Erin.

“We must prepare to go. They are coming.”

Her words were not wrong. No sooner had she spoken than Erin saw the manor of the House of Byres, the great keep, the one in the modern time, faded, the swamp, fade away.

Like they were shadows in front of light. But it was not light that pierced this afterlife.

It was them.

They walked across the landscape from north to south. Just walked, with a speed unmatched. Confident, this time approaching in the open.

Three strangers. Erin and the ghosts fell silent. The young woman felt fear in her heart.

She knew three of them.

The first was Tamaroth. Like the others, his appearance seemed to change so the one constant was the beard. He looked like her father. Like the principal of her school. Even like Zel, for a moment—

Like his nature. A leader among men.

The second hobbled, or walked straight-backed, or with the weight of age on her shoulders. Three-in-one.

Kasigna. Her eyes were fixed on Erin and Yderigrisel both. She was smiling.

And the last? The last knew Erin, but she did not know it.

It was not man or woman or even…person. It was like a shadow that moved. Something half-remembered in the darkness.

A lost thing, creeping across the ground. Reaching for her.

“Three.”

Someone spoke. Sserys. The ghosts, all of them in the sanctuary, millions, stood transfixed as three walked upon them. Despair was written even in Yderigrisel’s expression. But still, he flew down and blocked their path.

“This is not your place, creatures. Strangers. You are not of the dead and you devour noble souls. Cease. Begone, or my wrath will fall upon you.”

The three stopped. The first who walked forwards was Kasigna. She smiled up at the Dragon.

“I am Kasigna, little Dragon. And this is my place. Therefore, kneel.”

She pointed. And Yderigrisel knelt. Erin heard a sigh. And the ghosts around her knelt. Kasigna looked past Yderigrisel. At the young woman, who did not kneel at her words.

“Erin Solstice. Know me and worship me. I am Kasigna of the End. I am your god. I am salvation in death. This place is mine. Come. Touch me, and I will remake this broken place into a fitting place for all of you.”

She spread her arms wide, and Erin felt the tugging. As if she stared into a chasm and something told her to jump.

“We have business with you as well. You stand on the land I would claim for the living. Take my hand, Erin Solstice. And I will show you glory.”

Tamaroth extended his hand. She stared at him, remembered his visit on the Winter Solstice.

The last—the thing—said nothing at all. It simply reached out and offered nothing. It was here because Erin had lost something.

Your body. Come, give it to me.

The ghosts were still, quaking before Kasigna’s power. Erin shook her head. She looked around for Califor, but the [Witch] was paralyzed. Erin shook her head, burying her head in her hands.

“I want to live. I don’t want this. It’s too much. Too heavy. I just want to live and for things to be happy. Please?”

They laughed at her. Even the thing that had no real face or mouth. Tamaroth smiled.

“Young woman, did you expect the afterlife to be kind? And if you did, by what right? What reason? Without us, there is nothing. This is why we are here. It is a mercy. Now, choose. Or we choose for you.”

He strode across the ground. Somehow, Erin was closer than any of the ghosts—pulled towards the three. Yderigrisel tried to move as the three reached for Erin. Fighting each other, pushing each other aside to touch her. The [Innkeeper] was curled up, head buried in her knees. Tamaroth reached down—

“[Minotaur Punch]!”

Erin jumped up and swung. All three strangers recoiled. She missed. Tamaroth stared at the fist which had just missed his face. He was so surprised he missed touching her arm.

“You would strike us?”

“If I’m going to vanish? Sure. Come on! I’ll smack you! Bring it!”

Erin hopped backwards, jabbing the air like an amateur boxer. Kasigna, the thing, and Tamaroth looked at each other.

Then they laughed. They laughed so hard that they doubled over. Laughed at Erin. The young woman slowly lowered her fists.

“That’s what you want? Well, then, strike us!”

All three seemed to say it at once. They advanced on her, smiling. Erin backed up. Kasigna turned as they passed Yderigrisel.

“Ah, what a wonderful little place. How they make things, even in my ruined lands. Come, little one. All of you.”

She reached for the silver Dragon as he knelt, immobile. Tamaroth turned as Erin ran backwards from the lost thing still reaching towards her.

“And this one is mine.”

He was looking at Sserys. The [General] knelt in front of him. Kasigna reached down for Yderigrisel’s head. Erin heard a sigh.

“Of all the ways it should end, like this? Defending a silver Dragon. Yet it is an end.”

A hand caught Kasigna’s. This time the woman did start. She looked up.

“How? I rule this land!”

“And my kind rules death. Nor am I fully dead.”

The Putrid One informed her calmly. He picked Kasigna up. Erin saw the Putrid One’s head turn around a hundred and eighty degrees to face her.

“We have power in this place. Look, friend of [Necromancers]. This is what I was.”

He lifted Kasigna higher. Higher—he did not float. The misshapen flesh expanded, the rotting skin—

The Putrid One heaved as his noxious form engulfed the frail form of the half-Elf he had chosen to be. Kasigna went flying. The [Necromancer] advanced. She was on her feet as if she had never fallen.

She hissed.

“Insolence!”

The Putrid One was already fading. He looked back at Erin and smiled.

“Respite.”

Then he was gone. Tamaroth and the lost thing seemed more amused than anything else.

“How they struggle. Then I shall take her.”

Tamaroth turned. But the Putrid One had done more with that one touch than just throw Kasigna back a pace.

The kneeling Drake in front of Tamaroth moved. He lunged to his feet. Tamaroth’s head turned—and Sserys’ head collided with his chin.

Headbutt.

Tamaroth staggered as the Drake jumped backwards. Sserys seemed to be as surprised as Tamaroth that he was still existing. He’d clocked the bearded man with all his might.

Erin had no conception of physics or the materiality of their ‘bodies’ in this place. Even so—

That looked like it hurt.

“That worked? If you take them off-guard, they miss their chance! Don’t let them touch you!”

Sserys snapped around. The ghosts were getting to their feet. Califor grabbed Erin’s sleeve.

“Now! Run!”

The lost thing lunged. Uonp blocked it. She vanished. Erin stumbled away.

“To arms!”

The first [Lord] and [Lady] of the House of Byres drew swords. Gresaria Wellfar and her husband joined the ranks of ghosts freed from Kasigna’s control.

They blocked the three. Kasigna was enraged, striding forwards. Tamaroth was following Sserys. The Drake turned to Erin.

“Run. And tell them.”

He met her gaze. Erin began to run. She saw silver flash.

Yderigrisel. Freed, he roared and his voice was the loudest in this place. He flew upwards as the three turned to face the army of ghosts.

The smaller ghosts fled. They ran, with Erin and Califor, fleeing the three as the House of Byres, Sserys, and Gresaria made a stand.

The Knight-Dragon flew next to Erin and Califor for a moment as they raced south, the ghosts fleeing the battle behind them. Califor was pointing.

“To the sea! We must find another continent, another haven if one exists!”

Then she and Erin turned as they ran to the silver Dragon. For a moment, Erin thought his nerve had broken. One vast eye blinked at her, and Yderigrisel spoke. To her.

“Remember this, girl from another world. Bring wrath and justice to these craven things when you wake! And tell…tell the House of Byres I was faithful even past death.”

He banked his wings and turned. The Silver Dragon spread his wings and dove across the vast distance as the ghosts fled.

Erin ran once more. This time, her tears faded into nothingness before they even hit the ground.

Just like the ghosts.

—-

Erin was crying as she ran. Death. Even here, after they died, why was there still death? Tears ran down her face at the unfairness of it all.

None of the other ghosts cried. They couldn’t. They were trapped here, at the mercy of these…these parasites. These predators of souls.

It was not right. So Erin was angry as she ran.

“[Like Fire, Memory]! [Fireball]! [Minotaur Punch]! Relc Punch! No?”

“What are you doing?”

Califor snapped at Erin. They weren’t sprinting—well, some of the ghosts were. Califor strode along at the same speed Erin ran. Some of the [Witches] just walked at top speed in this place.

“Trying to fight back! If I could throw fire—Maviola burned Kasigna!”

The [Witch] shook her head.

“She was inside Kasigna, wherever you were and the three-in-one was distracted! We saw her, and you. That can’t happen here. Magic is gone, and so are Skills!”

It was true. Erin couldn’t produce the fire, try as she might. So she kept running. Yderigrisel had possessed his fire because it was his. Erin…could spit on the dead gods?

She was darn well going to if she got the chance! Erin looked around and saw a swarm of bodies. The refugee ghosts were fleeing. Many followed Erin and Califor, but the others were splitting up. Some, on the assumption it was better to brave the lesser shadows alone rather than the three who would follow.

Others to warn the other strongholds. Izril was lost.

Erin saw two more strongholds on the way back south. Invrisil had been one, and the adventurers who had made a place here abandoned it, fleeing in every direction.

Similarly, she saw a strange conflagration of souls fleeing as she and Califor crossed the High Passes. Winged shapes flew, heading west.

“Harpies.”

Califor pointed up. Erin stared at the ghosts as they too ran from the kingdom that had once been theirs. She remembered a name.

Empress Sheta of the Harpies.

Erin stopped as she reached the Floodplains of Liscor. They had fled for moments—or perhaps longer, but it felt short. Califor stopped.

“What are you doing? They are coming!”

The [Witch] pointed. There were mountains in the way, countless obstacles, but somehow, Erin saw the three. They were turning towards her, having destroyed the sanctuary of the silver Dragon. They were following and they were faster than the ghosts.

However—Erin ran towards the inn, not further south.

“My inn! You said they couldn’t get into the [Garden of Sanctuary]! Maybe if my body’s safe, we can—”

She ran into the inn. Califor followed with a stream of ghosts.

“There’s a problem. Erin—”

The [Innkeeper] ran for a wall and phased through it. She realized what it was in an instant.

She couldn’t use her Skills. Not even in her inn. Erin looked around.

“Maybe the door’s open? Mrsha’s here. It has to be…there!”

She saw it flicker open this very moment, into the kitchen! Little Mrsha, stealing cookies! Erin ran at it.

“Follow me, every—”

Even in death, the bwuh sound Erin made was instinctual. There was no smack of her ghostly body hitting the barrier, but she found herself pressed up against it. Erin ran her hands over the barrier she had never experienced with the [Garden of Sanctuary] beyond. She threw up her hands.

“Oh, come on. It’s me! It’s me! You stupid door! I’m going to—”

“Stop shouting and run.”

Califor grabbed her. The two ran onwards, Erin shouting insults at the [Garden of Sanctuary] the entire way. She looked around for Reiss. Numbtongue had claimed he saw the Goblin ghost.

Reiss was gone.

—-

Onwards. Past Liscor. Erin had never gone this far south. She ran through the Bloodfields with the other ghosts. Behind her, she saw the three approaching. They stopped now and then to snatch up ghosts.

They were too fast. Gaining ground. But the ghosts had a lead on them and Califor carried them south.

They reached Pallass and ran past the empty walls. The Drakes standing at the Walled City called to them. Califor and the other ghosts from the north shouted warnings, but the ghosts of dead Drakes refused to abandon their city. Erin saw the three stop at the walls and walk onto them. A Dragon and Oldbloods breathed fire—then knelt.

Gone.

After that, more ghosts of Drakes and Gnolls joined the stream flowing out of Izril. Gnoll tribes, Drakes from cities. Even Dragons, taking wing. Behind them, the three gorged themselves on the souls, picking at the slowest.

Erin looked back as she reached Zeres. And she saw them for what they were.

Rotted, foul figures, crouching, gorging themselves on souls. Fighting, snarling at each other. Even the Putrid One had not been so foul. They stank in this place. But they were alive.

Coming back. Growing stronger. Erin shouted back at them.

“Why are you doing this? Why do you have to do this?”

One of them answered.

“We want to live. Don’t you?”

They were desperate. For all they wanted to be so feared. Erin saw them grabbing. She pointed.

“They’re people! Children! Don’t you care?”

Kasigna looked at her.

“We matter more. Some things matter more than others. This is the truth. You matter more than grass or insects. So it is for us.”

Erin clenched her fist.

“The first person I ever spoke to was an insect! He’s my friend!”

They laughed at her and followed once more.

Erin ran onto the sea with Califor. Across waves frozen in time, blurring over the ocean as the land vanished behind them.

And still, the three followed.

—-

What could stop them? Erin had no Skills. Califor was helpless. But the ghosts were still brave.

So brave. A squadron of Drakes stayed to delay the three a second, darting around them and forcing them to slow to grab at them.

An adventurer halted and called an insult to Tamaroth.

“I’ve seen better beards on the asses of donkeys!”

It actually worked. He slowed, and Erin laughed and cried as the adventurer vanished, saluting towards her and the others. More tried it, but the dead gods refused to fall for it twice.

If only they could be fought! Erin felt herself growing…tired…of the flight. Even the ghosts felt the distance they had covered. There was no sweat to wipe, though, no muscles to burn or grow tired.

Tears, yes. Erin was the only one who could shed them, so she did. For the ghosts. For brave people.

“If only I had some water.”

The murmur came from Abel. He had joined Califor and Erin at the first flight and stayed with them. He looked longingly at a tear as it vanished. The [Innkeeper] nodded, licking her lips.

“Water? I’d love blue fruit juice. Anything.”

Erin longed for it too, but Abel shook his head.

“Just water. Just sweet water. I would do anything for that.”

Erin closed her eyes, still moving. Yes, even that would be the most luxurious thing in the world.

“A glass of cool water. Not so cool it hurts your teeth, but almost. So cold and fresh and even a bit sweet if you’re thirsty enough.”

The ghosts murmured, all of them imagining it. So did Erin. She heard a sound.

“Erin Solstice. Look.”

Califor stared as they fled across the deeps of the ocean. Erin looked down.

She was holding a cup of water.

She promptly dropped it and it vanished. Abel and Califor made a sound.

“How…?”

The stool. Erin recalled the Putrid One making it! Out of a memory! That had been a cup of water from the well when it had first been dug! She tried again.

“It was—it was a good cup of water. Not the best, and it had a bit of dirt in it, but I really liked it and I didn’t tell Belgrade—”

She babbled and the cup was in her hands. She looked at it. Abel stared. She handed him the cup. He raised it to his lips and drank.

“It tastes a bit of dirt. It’s…water.”

He would have cried if he could. The ghosts almost stopped, but the three following made them turn and flee. Erin saw Califor looking at her.

“Memory. Memory is yours to command! If that is so—”

She looked over her shoulder. Erin’s eyes narrowed.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Califor seized her arm as they turned.

“Don’t think. Remember!”

The [Innkeeper] obeyed. Memory. She would have loved to conjure something really nasty, but she’d never fired or held a gun. In fact, the number of weapons she had held were…

Acid jars, Pelt’s knife, Lyonette’s sword one time—Califor reached out as some of the martial ghosts halted, sensing what was happening.

“A weapon! Any weapon!”

Erin thought of a weapon to use against them. Nothing up-close. Something…

She recalled her first friends. Her eyes opened wide.

She had held it just once. She looked down and Relc’s spear rose in her grasp. Solid, dangerous.

The three slowed uncertainly as they saw the solid weapon appear. Erin looked around.

“I don’t know how to throw it! Anyone?”

“Give it to me!”

A Gnoll [War Chieftain] howled. She hefted the spear and the ghosts around her howled or shouted as she took aim. The three slowed. The lost thing, Tamaroth, Kasigna—the spear wavered between them. Then the Gnoll threw.

The spear flashed through the air, even without the aid of Skills. Straight at—

It struck Tamaroth in the chest. Erin shouted and saw the dead god…

Standing there. Tamaroth smiled.

The spear was gone. It hadn’t even seemed to hurt him. No. On the contrary. Califor looked at Erin, and the cheering stopped.

Erin stared at Tamaroth. He’d just eaten—absorbed—Relc’s…Relc’s…

Relc’s what? Erin put her hands to her head.

Relc had a weapon? No, that wasn’t right. He always went around with his bare claws…wait, that didn’t seem right either. How did he use his [Triple Thrust] attack? What…

“You’ve forgotten.”

“What did I forget?”

The Gnoll [Chieftain] was staring uneasily.  The dead gods were laughing. She looked at Erin.

“The spear.”

“I forgot that?”

Erin felt a terrible fear in her chest. She looked at them.

“Was that an artifact?”

“I don’t know! I—will anything work on them?”

A weapon? Some glorious…but what would work on them? Erin stared at the dead gods.

“…Flowers?”

The faerie flowers? The three were watching, amused. They heard her voice.

“The flowers of the fae?”

Kasigna exclaimed. Tamaroth laughed. Even the lost thing appeared amused. They called at her, their voices twining, amused.

“Yes! Yes, Erin Solstice! Yes, child! Fight us with flowers!”

Erin looked at the laughing strangers and then at Califor. She whispered to the [Witch].

“They’re sounding pretty happy about that idea. Let’s not do that.”

Califor gave her a look. She tugged her hat up and snapped.

“Run!”

—-

They were in the middle of the sea, with nothing around them but the waves when the first hands reached up and tried to drag them into the water. The green-blue waters turning to abyssal colors parted as something emerged from the fathomless deep.

Erin screamed, and ghosts were dragged under. Not to suffocate, struggling with whatever held them. What was it?

Drowned Folk. They clutched at Califor’s dress, at Erin’s leg. One grabbed Abel.

“What are you doing?”

“He walks the depths. The wise one. The one with knowledge. He wants you. We live if he takes you. Stay. We want to live even here.”

They pleaded with her. Drowned Women, dead [Sailors], people…Califor shouted as the three advanced, consuming the fleeing ghosts now struggling against their kind.

“Traitors! They will consume us all in time!”

The Drowned Folk would not let go. Laughter came from the depths. And then—Erin saw, in the deep of the ocean, someone walking up towards her.

The wise man.

“Emerrhain.”

The three greeted him with distaste. Even rivalry, especially from Tamaroth. The wise man smiled.

“So this is the one you hunt. Shall we make a contest of it?”

He reached for Erin and the three fought like carrion crows. Erin ripped free of a hand trying to drag her under.

“You—you jerks! You all suck so much! I don’t care if you’re gods or dead gods or what! You are the worst deities I’ve ever met!”

She shouted at the four. All of them turned.

Affronted.

Kasigna stared at Erin.

“You have never met ones such as we, Erin Solstice. You have no way of comprehending what we are. You should worship us and be grateful for what we bring. You know of us. Your world craves us!”

Erin shook a fist at the four.

“Oh yeah? Oh yeah? Well—I may not have met the other ones directly, but I know they’re way cooler than you all are anyways! Pssh! Totally! You’ve been dead for like, forever, right? There was this guy who took only three days to come back from the dead. And he was the son of a god! Plus, he had a nicer beard!”

She pointed at Tamaroth. The man frowned at her. Erin hesitated.

“P-probably. I didn’t see it myself. But he has pictures! All you have is a stupid coin which gave Pelt a heart attack!”

Emerrhain and Kasigna laughed at that. They were not united, Erin was sure. Allies of convenience at best. She pointed at the others—the lost thing was just standing there, listening.

“You know what? You’re not even gods. You’re like—super cockroaches. That’s all.”

The laughter cut off. Now, all four were staring at her. Slowly, Emerrhain shook his head.

“How she shouts.”

“You have nothing to give us. Yet insolence we do not stand.”

Kasigna reached for her again. Erin ran backwards, but the sea-ghosts were rising. Tangling her. She struggled as Califor put herself between her and Kasigna and the four, trying to tear the hands away.

“You losers wouldn’t even try this if it was a fair fight! Cowards! I’ll spit on you! You all suck!”

They held her, and the other ghosts. The four stopped.

“Is that all you have to say? Would you really challenge us if you lived? Even knowing what we are? You, child? Alone?”

Emerrhain bent down. He was more interested than the others. His eyes alight with curiosity. Erin struggled, but the hands of countless ghosts held her. So she just nodded.

“I know what monsters look like.”

She stared at him. Emerrhain frowned. Erin went on, panting, straining—ready to spit or bite his hand. The words flooded out of her mouth without thought. Just what she believed.

“I—I know monsters. See, you can run, hide, and refuse to fight people. Animals too. And that’s alright. But monsters? Sometimes you have to fight monsters. Because monsters don’t stop. Someone has to, even if it means you get hurt. And that’s all I see. Four stupid monsters that smell like poo. That one can’t even beat me at chess.”

She pointed at Kasigna as best she could with the hands holding her in place. The other gods looked at the three-in-one. They didn’t look amused this time. Erin had struck a nerve.

But the watching ghosts and Erin and Califor still heard laughter.

“Well said!”

The voice came from below her. Erin looked down. She saw a face grinning at her in the depths of the ocean.

Then—the woman exploded out of the sea. She knocked the other ghosts holding Erin away. More ghosts followed, freeing the trapped ghosts, grappling with their kin.

More Drowned Folk? Her voice had some of Seborn’s cadence, but the woman looked different from the other Drowned Folk.

She had a really cool hat. The [Pirate Queen] swept Erin a bow.

“So you’re the ghost that one chases! Well, if I had a ship I’d give these bastards a real battle! But we were without ships and at a loss. Good thing we found something better. To arms, sea folk!”

More ghosts burst out of the surf. The four dead gods looked amused. Right up until the waters moved and something glowed in the abyssal depths. Erin looked down and realized there were more ghosts than she had ever dreamed of.

Branches broke the surface of the dark waters. Glowing, spectral, half-colored like everything here. The memory of a body not made of flesh or scale…

The first of them stood taller now as the [Pirates] and [Sailors] ambushed the gods. Many ghosts ‘flew’ through the water and into the air. More still rode the replacement for their lost ships.

Still beautiful. The being the ghosts rode stepped higher still, the tips of its body breaking out of the water. Even the four strangers looked up.

Erin saw vast, ancient limbs. Wood so old it had turned to stone—then something else entirely. What had once been a vast tree, but had changed over the eons underwater. Colorful aquatic plant life, sprouting from the trunken limbs, the branches and bark, replacing foliage with a different rainbow of colors. Life which became death and life again. It looked like…

Coral?

A Treant rose out of the ocean, turning to face the four. Even the oldest of trees died. Tamaroth sighed, almost happily.

“Ah. [Pirates]. Always unexpected.”

The ghosts of the sea were laughing, clinging to the Treants as more of the ancient giants surfaced. The [Pirate Queen] drew a sword.

“Alright, you know how to do it. No touching them. Keep these traitorous cowards off them! Go!”

She swarmed towards the gods with the other ghosts, pressing in and blocking them. Throwing themselves like the surf at the four. The four looked more annoyed than anything.

“You can’t win! It’s impossible!”

Erin protested. She saw the other woman turn, urging her and Califor on.

“Run, living girl! Run for sanctuary! Let us test them first! Don’t you have something you have left to do? One of us has a second chance.”

Because she did, and because that was true, Erin ran. She shouted back at the ghosts. Thanking them. They cheered her on, spitting in the eyes of the dead gods.

Literally. It wasn’t just about her. It was about them. To frustrate them, delay them another second. These cheating, disgusting things eating everything without weakness or fairness in the world. Unstoppable.

Gods.

—-

The end of Erin’s journey came as the sea ended. Behind her, the last of the brave [Pirates] were in flight. Even the Treants.

Four followed. Perhaps they could have stopped the other three.

Not Kasigna. Erin had seen a Treant refuse to vanish, grappling with the lost thing. But the three-in-one they could not stop.

They knelt to her power. All the ghosts fled. Izril’s refugees. The sea’s people.

And they came at last to the other continent. Erin stumbled onto the dry sands and looked beyond. She realized where she was. Of all the continents—

Chandrar.

The shore was a beach, but the sand never ended. The waves lapped up onto the sand, and while vegetation grew here, it was arid, nothing like Izril’s lush grasslands. Only in a few places did Chandrar ever bloom, and then when it rained.

But Erin could see far beyond this coastline. Across the desert, where the vastness of the continent meant that even rains born from the sea would never reach that far inland.

A dead, gigantic desert. Zeikhal, the largest desert in the world where nothing could live. Mountains, perhaps created in ancient times, existing when water had flowed here, had been worn away to dunes the size of mountains instead.

And yet, Chandrar was not all dead earth. Imperium of old had been built here, and still remained, civilizations which rose out of the bleak landscape, shining with hope, to fall—but never be fully destroyed.

What the sands took, people reclaimed. A majestic land, harsh, but as glorious as Izril, Terandria, or Baleros lay before Erin Solstice as she stopped a second. The second continent she had ever laid eyes on.

Perhaps the last she would ever see. She looked back as the end came.

The four were hot on their heels. Once more, they reached out, fighting each other to grab Erin. Jostling.

And for the first time since Erin had woken in the land of the dead, she saw them hit something.

The four ran into a wall of sand. It rose as they tried to walk onto the sands of the desert continent of Chandrar. They recoiled, much as Erin had, and tried to push against the wall.

It began to give, sand yielding before their touches. Then it reformed. Held firm. The four looked at each other, shocked as Erin was.

“What is this? Stand aside! Kneel.”

Kasigna spoke and the ghosts around Erin were once again forced down. But a reply came from just ahead.

“No. We are masters of our deaths. And even in death, even beyond it, we have our duty. Begone you ravenous filth.”

A line of men and women blocked the four. They had been standing here, like statues, waiting for the flood of ghosts, knowing they were coming, and knowing what followed them. They held the wall of sand, shifting it to block the four strangers.

There were eighteen of them. Just eighteen. There had been more Treants. Far more great [Pirate Kings] and [Captains] of the sea.

The eighteen men and women did not move. Erin stared. They were Human—sixteen of them.

Two of the eighteen were different. Half-Giant. Garuda. Each one was garbed in grand clothing. Crowns. Some identical.

A people lay beyond the line in the sand. The borders of the great desert continent, Chandrar. No—all peoples. Califor struggled upright as somehow, the eighteen threw off Kasigna’s command.

“This—this sanctuary holds? There are so many ghosts! And look, even species of old! Jinn.”

She pointed. Ahead, Erin saw a vast gathering. If Yderigrisel’s sanctuary had been home to millions, despite the small amount of land he held in the House of Byres, this was a gathering without limit.

It was all of Chandrar. Erin saw countless Drakes, Humans, Garuda—and yes, species long dead to this world.

Jinn, floating alongside their family. Djinni, taking any number of forms they had possessed in life.

Watching the confrontation at their shores.

Not even the mighty Djinni—nor the watching Giants moved to help the eighteen at the beach struggling against the four. Every species in this world save one was here. There were no Dragons, Erin realized. She looked back; the wall of sand held! The eighteen were clearly straining, but it was a contest and the four were getting frustrated.

Especially Kasigna. She was staring at the men and women, puzzled, growing more furious with each moment. Erin was just stunned.

Who were they? How could they alone stand against her?

“How do they hold us?”

Tamaroth turned to Emerrhain. The wise man frowned at them. He named them slowly.

“Khelt.”

One of the women smiled archly at him. She was not beautiful if you only meant looks. She had taken many scars and she had not been chosen because she was a peerless beauty. Her beauty was confidence, grace.

Authority. She answered them proudly.

“Our reign still endures. Our kingdom still stands. So our power and pact remains. We are the rulers of Khelt and we say again—begone, things.”

“I rule death. I am a release of all things. I am salvation. Kneel to me.”

Kasigna ordered them. The half-Giant answered her with a shake of his head. The King of Khelt, the great smith-King, turned his head.

“Fool. Death is not the end of duty.”

Tamaroth stared at them. He spoke, eyes burning.

“Your natures are mine. You rule men and women. Come to me.”

Erin felt a tug at her heart. Just a tiny one. The rulers of Khelt wavered. Then they chuckled. Tamaroth wavered. This time the Garuda called down at him from the dune on which they stood.

“Little man. We are not [Kings]. We rule Khelt because we must. We never sought the crown but were chosen because we were suited. Look to Terandria for those who coveted what is duty. A third time! Begone!”

The eighteen stood. And the four struggled and argued and threatened. Yet they could not advance. Erin saw them staring at her. At the kingdom of death, which had more power here than any other so long as Khelt endured.

She watched the dead gods vanish into the distance.

—-

The eighteen looked tired after the confrontation.

“They grow stronger again. If only the power of Giants could join ours, or the Treants of the sea. Still, I would rather lie with maggots than ally with Dragons. Let them hold Baleros and Terandria if they can.”

One of them remarked. The others nodded. Erin found herself staring up at them, awed despite herself.

They looked impressive. These were not the bodies of undead revenants bound in death. She saw them as they had lived. As the Garuda Queen had said—they were not rulers by nature.

The half-Giant bore a hammer. True, ornate, but he carried a huge anvil on his back, secured by chains of mithril.

One of the others had ink stains on her fingers and a quill in her hands.

Yet another had such a grace to his steps that Erin thought he was either a [Fencer] or a [Dancer] or both.

All were still garbed in robes or cloth, rather than armor, wearing the same crown. Each royal raiment swirled with magical sigils for protection, preservation. Yet, the eighteen wore the clothing carelessly, heedless of the priceless artifacts they wore, now a second skin. The only thing that they never took lightly were the crowns. They weighed upon each one, man and woman, half-Giant and Garuda.

A proud, but heavy weight that pressed on all things. Joy, humor, sadness, wrath—the weight of a crown. A kingdom.

Khelt.

The eighteen rulers of their nation turned to the vast number of ghosts, then. It was the closest female Queen who spoke. The last ruler of Khelt before Fetohep. She imperiously looked down the line of Izril’s ghosts as she addressed them.

“You stand before the Queens and Kings of Glorious Khelt, children of Izril. Rejoice. Weep if thou wilt. For while you walk Chandrar-of-death, know that no shades shall haunt you. We have pledged to guard our people and kingdom, and do so even in the second of our deaths.”

The ghosts looked up, taking heart from the words. One of them, Califor, struggled to her feet. Even the [Witch] looked tired from the long flight.

“Your Majesties. I bear news from the continent we fled. Izril falls. One of them walks it in strength—and we cannot stop the three-in-one either. If any strongholds remain, they will soon be empty.”

The monarchs exchanged glances. Not surprised, just resigned. What seemed to be the oldest and grandest among them lifted her hand.

“Such is fate. That any escaped is welcome enough. Kneel then, [Witch] of these dark tidings, and we shall accept you into Khelt’s glorious ranks. It is an honor we grant you for courage and escorting this one. Know that we shall shelter your soul until the end of things.”

She gestured at Erin. The young woman looked at the first Ruler of Khelt.

She was an older woman, but sort of short. She had the same authority as the others. She just looked at Erin.

“A living young woman. And you must be of Earth, as a few children claim to be.”

Erin started.

“You’ve met more people from Earth? Like me?”

The first Queen raised her left eyebrow.

“Of course. No ghost is prey to those scavengers on our continent. This is the strength of Khelt, granted to us by Fetohep so long as he lives. Sanctuary…for now. It may end. Until then, we are still rulers of Khelt. And you are?”

“E-Erin Solstice.”

“We see. Well met, then, child. Know that all those who sacrificed themselves that you might escape did so to defy those craven things.”

She gestured to the sea. Erin looked at her. The other rulers of Khelt stood there, regarding her. They deferred to the first ruler of Khelt. Erin looked at Califor. The [Witch] gave her a side-long look.

Slowly, hesitantly, Erin bent her knees and awkwardly copied Califor, who had knelt before the rulers of Khelt.

“Thank you for saving us.”

She mumbled. It was an awkward gesture, far from graceful. However, she looked up and saw the first Queen smile.

“It was righteous to do, Erin Solstice. And if you live, perhaps there is a chance you may repay us by bearing this knowledge into the lands of the living. For surely, that was your goal, [Witch]? How are you called?”

“Califor, your Majesty.”

Califor stood as if she had never knelt. Proudly, she had knelt, and now addressed the rulers of Khelt more brusquely. But she had knelt.

So had Erin. They nodded. Another King spoke.

“A fitting idea. There are few living in the land of the dead. None from this world apart. We have been attempting to contact Fetohep of Khelt, but even that connection fades as if he no longer stands on Khelt itself. If this mortal girl has even a chance—what plan had you?”

The [Witch] straightened her hat.

“Knowledge, of course. Lessons. Secrets. Anything that might keep into the lands of waking. Ancient spells. Buried treasure?”

“Fitting and more.”

The half-Giant smith looked approving. He gestured.

“Guide her, Witch. We shall call souls of great knowledge to aid you. However long it takes, we shall attempt to secure that amount of time.”

He grimaced.

“Would that we had the Quarass of Ger’s strength. She was wiser than we knew, to remake herself eternally rather than end here in darkness. We have safeguarded every soul of our subjects in death. And we shall until the bitter end.”

Erin stood there, in the company of the great ghosts of old. She looked around as they conferred.

“I’m sorry. I know this is all so important. I don’t know if I can help. I’ll try, but this is all too much. I’m just me. Those were dead g—it’s too large.”

The rulers of Khelt and Califor looked at her. Slowly, the first Queen of Khelt knelt.

“It often seems so. And it often is, young woman. But such is challenge. Will you rise to it? This world needs a [Hero], and the Dynasty of Khelt shall forge you into one if need be.”

She offered Erin a hand. Slowly, the [Innkeeper] looked up.

“But I’m just an [Innkeeper].”

The rulers of Khelt exchanged a look of concern.

—-

“[Innkeeper]. Innkeeper. Of all the classes…does any scholar here, any of the great rulers recall a class by which an [Innkeeper] rose to power?”

The dead rulers of Chandrar held great conference. Giants sat in the sands next to [Archmages] who had called Chandrar home. The Dynasty of Khelt, as the protectors here, led the meeting.

The great minds and famous adventurers looked at each other.

“I knew a [Farmer] who became legend.”

A [King] wearing a crown of glass raised a hand and spoke after a moment. An [Archmage] sitting in the air rolled his eyes.

“Yes, but that was a [Farmer]. I could name a hundred and eighty nine [Farmers] who became [Heroes]. An [Innkeeper], though? I can’t think of any…”

Erin loitered in the background, feeling embarrassed. The ruler of Khelt spoke—Califor was more practical.

“I must find every [Witch] who lives or has come here. We will teach you. Maviola El told us you were akin to our natures. I think that is so.”

Erin spluttered, astounded.

“What, me? I’m not [Witch]-y. I don’t even know magic!”

Califor gave her a look under the brim of her hat with a lot less respect than she had given the ruler of Khelt.

“Then you shall learn.”

The [Witch] strode off. Erin stood, scuffing her feet in the dirt.

“Well, what do I do?”

She looked around. Ghosts milled about her, talking, looking for those they knew. Many wanted to speak to her, but were kept back, respectfully. After all, she was the living girl among the dead. Erin called out.

“Abel? Has anyone seen Abel?”

“Here!”

The ghost appeared. Erin looked at him.

“I don’t know what to do, Abel. Should I just wait around?”

The young man looked at the gathering of greatness. He nodded wistfully.

“I wish I could help. But I’m not that great. I just…I died so soon. I could try to remember something from Earth, but I wasn’t an engineer or anything.”

Erin smiled sadly.

“That’s okay. I’m not sure all this knowledge is going to help that much. I mean, I’m dead. What am I going to do, learn to use a sword? I don’t even like fighting. I served adventurers, but I never wanted to be one.”

She waved a hand. Erin looked back the way she’d come. Towards her inn.

“I’m just an [Innkeeper]. I just wish…”

She looked at Abel again. Erin slowly turned her head. So many ghosts around her. So many…and so many sanctuaries emptied. So many lost. Weak ghosts were prey the moment they died, apparently.

Was there a chance…? Erin spoke, slowly.

“I remember them. If Zel and Maviola…excuse me. Excuse me!”

She raised her voice. The milling ghosts looked around. The rulers of Khelt broke off in a discussion with the [Monks], [Martial Artists], [Weapon Trainers], and the [Sage] who had invented Sage’s Grass as Erin floated up to shout. Erin saw fierce warriors, [Martial Artists] who were bare-chested, talking with great experts, one of whom had a blade three times as tall as he was.

The [Sage] had a cape like Rabbiteater’s, which was not cloth, but substances flowing like cloth. Water, liquid metal, alchemical substances like mercury, all of which could be plucked from the trailing cape nearly ten feet long at a whim and used for great workings.

But she had eyes for none of it. Erin called out across the myriad ghosts.

“Excuse me! Sorry, I just had a thought!”

The ghosts around her looked up at the one living young woman. Erin shouted.

“I’m looking for someone if they’re here! A ghost! Some ghosts that I might know. If anyone knows me—if you can help me find them? I know I’m not the only one, but…I miss them.”

She gulped. Suddenly, she remembered. Her voice quavered.

“I’m looking for my friends.”

The Antinium weren’t here. Nor were the Goblins. But…Erin looked around.

“I’m looking for a man. Gerial? And—and a Gnoll? Brunkr? Does anyone know the Horns of Hammerad? Ulrien Sparson? A [Lord]? Toldos Everight? Redit?”

She tried to remember their names. A ghost floated up to her. The [King] with the crown of glass, looking interested as the ghosts murmured.

“Who, pray tell, is this Gerial? A great Gold-rank adventurer, perchance?”

Erin stared blankly at him.

“No. He was Silver-rank. Who’re you?”

The [King] smiled grandly.

“Ah, young woman. I feel we have a connection though we have never met. You see, I keep abreast of the world’s news for I am not long dead.”

He gestured at his regal form, the crown he wore. The crown of glass was magical, and sparkled with rainbow colors reflected by an unseen source of light, for there was none in the lands of the dead.

So powerful, magical, but so fragile that it seemed a touch could shatter it. He wore no robes like some of the monarchs, but armor. Leather armor—lighter, clearly enchanted, revealed by a thrown-back cape, which, like the armor, bore a spiral-design of rune work, some magical shield against harm.

None of it had helped him, for the [King] was only in his fifties. And he was a sturdy fellow, without apparent health issues. Yet dead. He nodded grandly to Erin, his trimmed beard red-gold, like his entire family.

“I died before my dreams could be realized, in accident. Yet my legacy was not lost. In time, they knew not my name, but my only grandson. And they call him by the name that has shaken the world. The King of Destruction—”

The [Innkeeper] was nodding distractedly. She gently put her hands on him and spun him around and gave him a light push on the back.

“Yeah, okay, buddy. But I’m not looking for you. I’m looking for Gerial.”

The King of Destruction’s grandfather looked shocked.

“But I am a [King]! Is some Silver-rank adventurer more important than I?”

Even in death the egos of some people. Erin looked past him. She spoke for his benefit, and that of those listening.

“I don’t know. Gerial was my friend, that’s all. He—he was sort of a goofy guy. He was part of the Horns of Hammerad, with Calruz, this Minotaur who was all ‘honor and stuff’, and Ceria, who’s my friend. I always thought he was sensible. And nice. He was one of my first guests. And…he died in the dungeon of Liscor. Undead got him. I actually fought them, at my inn.”

The dead ghosts listened as the [Innkeeper] spoke. Erin didn’t realize it, but flickers were appearing around her.

A laughing team, cheering on the night before they went into the dungeon. An army of the undead, a creature crawling towards her inn as a ring of Antinium stood. Skinner.

And the man’s face. Erin spoke, a catch in her voice, even here.

“I just never got to say goodbye to him. Gerial was his name. I know it’s a long shot. But if you know him? There are others. I knew a Gnoll who wanted to be a [Knight]. I thought he was a jerk at first. And he was. I punched him in the stomach. He…I wish he hadn’t died. That’s all.”

That was all there was. She wished they hadn’t died. And she remembered them all.

Every statue in her garden. Erin stood there, looking down at the dead. And because she had told them about Brunkr, she had to tell them about the Antinium chess club. Because they weren’t here, yet they should be remembered.

Now, the names came back to her.

Ulrien of Griffon Hunt. Someone had actually been saved by his team.

Marian. Sostrom. Hunt!

Zel Shivertail, of course. Goblins she had known by name and not. Headscratcher, Shorthilt…the one called Bugear who had died fighting the Eater Goats.

Vladimir, Bishop, the chess club’s Antinium.

“There was a brave [Lord]. An old man who fought for me. When I needed help, I asked him if he was willing to die for a belief. And he didn’t hesitate. He was called Lord Toldos. I wish…”

Memories circled around her. The Dynasty of Khelt, Califor and the [Witches], looked at the [Innkeeper] as she remembered her fallen friends.

“Ah. I think that the [Innkeeper] chose her class well. But she will not be the [Hero] or [Champion] of Khelt.”

One of them spoke, and the others nodded. Erin floated there, telling stories. And though she met people who had known her friends…

So many were gone. Someone had seen Hunt disappear when one of the sanctuaries fell. Ulrien? No one knew where he was.

She still told stories. Because she had to. Because it mattered, even if only the dead knew one more story. Her throat could not grow dry, and she would never grow tired.

It was as she was standing there, telling the story of the day her inn’s guests had played baseball, a story of the future after disaster and death, reclaiming a moment of happiness, that someone pushed through the sea of ghosts. He called up to her, floating a bit higher.

“Erin?”

She looked down. And there he was.

Gerial. Tall, gangly even, with a mustache on his face. Almost over-lean for a [Warrior], and so often wearing the bemused, worried expression around Ceria and Calruz. When he wasn’t laughing.

Unlike most of the ghosts here, his armor had no enchantment. It was leather…just leather. Compared to the flashing runes of magic, the Dragonscales forged into armor, the silk and, if you were a poor ruler, mere mithril armor, he looked like a pauper.

It just made him realer than the legends who stood around him. And more welcome to her.

He looked up at her as she froze. Erin breathed.

“Gerial. It’s you.”

“It’s me.”

He repeated after a moment of hesitation. What else was there to say. Erin floated downwards until they were on the ground together. She looked at him. He cleared his throat a few times.

“I heard the story about Ceria. Calruz. I wish…I didn’t know if you’d remember me, but they told me you were here. Everyone—they’re speaking across the coast, where we arrived.”

He pointed. Erin looked across the sea of the dead. Gerial swept a hand through his hair.

“We only met a moment. I was glad to learn that the others survived. And you remembered me. You…”

“Of course I did. Gerial.”

He looked at her. Erin began to wipe at her eyes, and then didn’t bother. She smiled, tremulously.

“Gerial. Hello.”

“Hello, Erin. Goodbye.”

He smiled wistfully. Erin threw her arms around him.

“I’m glad I could meet you. Even if it meant this.”

They smiled and hugged and Erin laughed, truly laughed in happiness for the first time since she had realized she was dead. For a moment, all was well.

Then the six walked on Chandrar with a second sea of shadows.

—-

The Dynasty of Khelt held them with a wall of sand as tall as the sky. It was six, not four. The shadows flickered, pressing in.

The ghosts watched, unable to fight. A Giant stood there, ready to block the advance of the dead gods if they were victorious. If Khelt fell…

Erin stood with Gerial. With Califor and Abel. And she realized something.

If someone told her the gods were bastards, she would get behind that statement. More than that, though, Erin decided the gods were petty.

They refused to let anyone snub them. They were petty. They fought with each other even as they threatened to overwhelm Khelt’s rulers. They were so much like people.

They would break Khelt’s strength. Erin saw it. The rulers struggled, moving up to the wall of sand and bracing it as if that would help. The thinning veil of sand saw the six, greedily pressing inwards.

Two more had joined the four. One was a fierce huntress, armed with a bow, pointing at Erin. The other? A dancing, charming man, who spoke of friendship.

“You should have taken my gift. But you are not any one of ours. We didn’t know what to make of you.”

He smiled. Erin shook a fist.

“I gave you food! You gave me a stupid coin! Who gave me the noose? That was a stupid gift! You tricked me! Get lost!”

They laughed. This was all a game to them, Erin realized. She looked at the dignified rulers of Khelt, Gerial.

“If they go through, you should run. I’m already dead. Calruz and Ceria would beat me black and blue if I let you get hurt before me.”

Gerial smiled, trying to be gallant. Erin wanted to cry again.

“I’d rather hit them first. I’m so tired of this. If only…all I have are my memories. Maybe fire?”

She tried to conjure it. A ball of glorious fire. Tamaroth smiled, the pink glow reflecting in his eyes. Erin looked at him and tossed it aside.

Not glory. Not despair. And she had no mercy for them. Fire? She saw how greedily they pressed their hands to the sand. They wanted fire. They wanted life.

If only there was something stronger. Erin closed her eyes.

Hatred. She had that. But would they eat that?

“There has to be a weapon that can harm them. Although if they are what we fear, what weapon can harm them that we could forge? Ponder that, child. Bring weapons from your world. Now, move back. We are failing.”

The great smith-king grunted. Erin looked at him. He gravely nodded as the sand began to fall away. Erin backed up as Gerial pulled her back.

What weapon indeed? She closed her eyes. She felt like…

Flowers were useless against them. Because they were flowers. She kept thinking of them. Because they were flowers from them.

The fae.

The Winter Sprites. And they were not of this world. Erin could remember holding a knife on Earth. She doubted that would work. If only she had something more—

Her eyes opened. They flickered towards the six. Slowly, they narrowed.

Tamaroth was watching her, pressing forwards, wanting to be first. He watched as Erin slowly backed up.

“‘Scuse me. ‘Scuse me. I know everyone’s getting ready to run, but—excuse me. Can I get a word?”

She poked the Giant of Chandrar, first of the Nomads of the Sky, in the leg. Then she had to fly up because he was so vast, even compared to Zamea, that he didn’t notice. He knelt.

“DO YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO BRING THESE FOES PAIN?”

His voice was so loud even whispering, everyone heard it. The six snorted. The rulers of Khelt glanced over their shoulder. Erin whispered in his huge ear. Okay, she shouted, but her voice wasn’t audible to the others, only him.

The Giant started grinning. He looked at her.

“THAT, I CAN DO.”

He opened his hand. Erin floated onto it and landed. Gerial stared up. She smiled down at him.

“Erin? What are you doing?”

“Something possibly stupid! Get ready to run if it fails!”

She shouted down at him. The Silver-rank adventurer blinked. Then he whooped.

The ghosts looked up. Erin was concentrating. Memory. Califor’s head turned as the [Witches] prepared to flee to Baleros. She saw Erin conjuring something.

“A weapon won’t work.”

“Shh. Feed us your memories, child!”

The dancing man called up to Erin. She looked down at him and flipped him off. The six saw her raise something into the air. They were confident, pressing forwards. Erin slowly took a breath. The memory was so easy. Even after it had happened, she had never forgotten.

And she had feared it. Rightly so. Heck, she’d even tried to stop it. Now, she reached out.

“Erin, take a coat. It’s wet!”

Shauna Solstice stood in the hallway. Erin turned back. She looked to the side and slowly reached out.

She picked up the umbrella and opened it in the sky.

And then there was light.

Light, sunlight, shone from underneath the umbrella. It flooded down around Erin. Not just a memory—her breath caught.

Sunlight. The ghosts around her threw up their hands, crying out in shock. Gerial’s eyes widened as he stared up.

“How—?”

Tamaroth’s gift on the Winter Solstice. Erin had refused it, yet she had held it now. How had he phrased it? A gift for her soul.

“I offer an umbrella made from the sun’s light. To bring day into blackest night.”

And there were no weapons in this world that could have harmed them. But this was something they owned. And it was a memory.

She was dead, though. So who was going to stop her?

The sunlight burned down around the rulers of Khelt. They looked up—and the light burned away the sea of shadows. They fled across the ocean, screaming, wailing. And Erin realized they had voices.

The six were caught in the sunlight too. And it exposed them.

Kasigna, Tamaroth, Emerrhain, the other three—they threw up their hands and screamed. And Erin saw them once more.

Rotting forms, clinging to life. They howled at each other, at the light.

“The living world comes forth!”

“How does she hold it? You gave it to her!”

“She stole it from memory!”

The corpse of the bearded man screamed at the others. He pointed at Erin. Thief! Which reminded her of something else.

Thief! Erin’s eyes widened. She’d had a dream, once. And she’d thought that was a dream as much as the umbrella. But what if…

—-

“I could choose not to, even now. Will we be reborn into that far future?”

The three stood around the stone, talking. Of the future, not what could be.

Young, old, and adult. It was a similar story. But it had changed a bit. Now, the King of Knights looked to the stars and dreamed of a kingdom in the future.

The old King of Chivalry’s head was bowed.

“If we are doomed to make the same mistakes, what point is there? Think of that.”

The young Arthur Pendragon looked around. He hesitated.

“You two…”

“The girl, Ryoka, showed us a future that might be. One world. The hope of more—is it better to take the sword or not? I have taken the sword, but now I dream of—”

“Arthurs.”

They looked at the squire. The youngest Arthur pointed slowly.

“…Where’d the sword go?”

They stared at the empty stone.

—-

The sword shone in her grip. And now the six did scream.

“How does she hold that? Did they give it to her?”

“Impossible!”

Impossible. They wanted to say that in the land of the dead? Erin felt the sword dragging her down.

“It’s heavy!”

“EXTREMELY HEAVY!”

The Giant roared. His arm was lowering despite his efforts. His second arm came up, but he was still unable to hold the [Innkeeper] up. Erin couldn’t even lift the blade! She kept staring at it.

It couldn’t be. But it was. Even a memory—

“The blade of kings. She can’t lift it!”

One of the six cried. They were…rotting…in the light. Erin couldn’t even tell which one. She gasped. The speaker was right. She gritted her teeth. However—!

“I can’t lift it. Okay. Hey! I need a [King] to pick up a sword!”

She heaved the blade over the edge of the Giant’s hands. He and she felt the weight lift at once and he stumbled backwards.

The blade some called Excalibur landed in the sands of the land of dead Chandrar. A blade fit for a King of Chivalry. Who could draw such a thing?

The ghosts of dead [Kings] stirred. A [Queen] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen folded her arms.

“Only [Kings]?”

The six looked up as an army of ghosts fought for the blade. Erin held the umbrella higher.

Kasigna called up to her, furious.

“You—you thief! You’re no hero! You’re just a thief and child.”

Erin waved back.

“Of course I’m not! I’m not a hero. I can’t fight you. But…”

She looked around and down at her chest. She bled. The crossbow bolts stood out in her chest. Erin reached for one and yanked it out, as Numbtongue had. She tossed it down.

“I want to live.”

That was all. The six began to flee the burning sunlight of a world they could not walk—yet. The sword borne by the mob of ghostly rulers. Erin spoke on.

“I want to hug my friends and tell them I’m sorry. That I’m back. I want to drink water. I want…”

She thought of Sserys and gulped.

“I want to be loved. I have so many regrets. And I want it all. I want my friends to be safe. I want to be safe myself. I want to see my family again. It’s not enough to have one of those things. If I can’t have any of it, I’ll fight for it. I’m selfish like that. And silly. I don’t know about you lot—”

She waved a trembling hand at the dead gods and the end of the afterlife. The rulers of Khelt. The [Witches].

Grand destiny.

Erin went on.

“I just know what I want. What I need to have.”

They screamed up at her, enraged, furious, no longer smiling. Burning, feeling pain, fleeing the sword and light. Their voices mingled, screaming at her in unison.

“You know what we are. Do you really think to pit yourself against us?”

“Are you the ilk from which they cut legends?”

“Do you hold the will to change fate?”

“Defy death?”

“Slay Gods?”

“Are you capable of challenging the world?”

For answer, she looked at them. Erin slowly transferred the umbrella to one hand and raised the other. She curled her fingers up and then waved a fist at them.

“I’m being me. I don’t know about all that. But don’t get in my way or I’ll hit you.”

They shrieked at the young woman who was no grand hero, no impressive foe.

Then they fled.

—-

Later, when the sword vanished and the umbrella still shone from the Giant who was bemusedly holding someone who in turn held the umbrella up, casting light, keeping the dark things at bay, Erin prayed.

Chandrar was safe for now. Not forever, but for now. So, in this moment, she prayed.

Not to gods. She’d met them and they sucked. Erin prayed to the living as the dead, instead.

“Please. Please…everyone. My friends. My family.”

It was a simple prayer. Erin closed her eyes as she composed it.

I want to live. I can’t ask you to, but please, if you will…I want to live.

But I want you to live even more.

Don’t die, please.

And let me see you again.

Erin Solstice rose. And then got to work.

The [Witches] waited for her. Great adventurers, [Sages], [Archmages], and so on. Trying to find out how to help the curious girl who brought sunlight for the first time in this place.

That was for her. For them, Erin Solstice had only what she knew. So, she carefully got to work.

It wasn’t so much creating as remembering creating.

“See, it was the best burger I ever made. I put some lettuce in there, some nice cheese…and I fried the hamburger patty just so. Even the buns. It was the best darn burger and Relc ate it in two bites. So…here.”

She slowly pushed it across the table. The hamburger of memory appeared and the grandfather of the King of Destruction slowly picked it up.

He stopped a moment to feel the texture—texture in this place. He found his mouth watering, and opened his mouth.

The ghosts watched as he bit, chewed, and swallowed. Erin held her breath. After a moment, the [King] opened his eyes.

“…I have had better. The seasoning is not strong; the meat slightly overcooked. The meat, to begin with seems to be substandard. Ground up because it cannot stand by itself. The bread, likewise—”

Erin threw up her hands, conjured an Imani-burger, and slapped it on the table. She shoved it at Gerial. It met with considerably more approval and the ghost-king looked disappointed he didn’t get that one. Erin folded her arms and glared at him.

“Well, this is the only inn in the afterlife. That’ll be four silver.”

The [King] stared at her. The [Innkeeper] wondered if someone could make an inn or she could borrow a palace or something.

In the land of the dead, The Wandering Inn opened for business. And someday, surely…

She would go back.

8.12 T

The old man who sat in a chair in his illustrious quarters was called Eldavin.

Or Teriarch. But no one knew that other name. He looked like a half-Elf, although a paragon of one, almost suspiciously flawless from his height to his physique. One would suspect illusion spells, and they would be half-right.

Because he was a Dragon and his body was as perfect as he chose it to be. But that was just biological magic; any good [Mage] specializing in a number of schools could look like that.

He sat in his rooms, knowing it was time to teach. In the hallowed halls of Wistram Academy, a Dragon had come to educate.

But before he did, he had a lesson himself. For Eldavin, Teriarch, Dragon of innumerable years and knowledge, who had outlived even his own kind, learning still happened now and then.

It was rare, but it did occur. And when it did, he at least tried to keep an open mind. What people failed to realize, the Dragon in the half-Elf’s body thought as he hummed to himself, was that learning should always be enjoyable and engaging. But that was not the fault of the student unless they failed to bring at least a modicum of motivation and respect. It was the fault of the medium, the teacher.

Or institution. But only a fool stopped learning.

Right now, Eldavin was learning from the best kind of teacher for his studies. He clicked, absently, displaying a level of experience with the mouse and keyboard of the laptop that few people in this world possessed. More extraordinary still because he was not from Earth.

“Let us see. Let us see…how interesting. These ‘core files’ are the same. Hm. Delete that and this entire thing stops working. So they build them all the same way. It is the files outside of this place that differ.”

He was moving through the computer, inspecting files. Of course, the fact that he had a laptop was extraordinary in itself. Even in Wistram, the few electronics the Earthers had brought were fought-over by each faction.

But Eldavin was head of his own faction along with Archmage Valeterisa, and had thus secured one of the electronics for a day. Not long; the other factions were loath to give up even that much and they pointedly restricted what they regarded as the most valuable artifacts from the possession of the Terras faction.

So, the Dragon masquerading as a mage had cheerfully accepted the laptop for the six scant hours he’d been given it, duplicated it in secret, and handed it back after an hour.

Now, he spent his morning exploring the interesting laptop. He’d done the same to the other artifacts Ryoka had brought to him.

Learning of Earth. A shame none were connected to the ‘internet’, but there was a glorious wealth of knowledge.

Movies, for one. Yes, they were parables, entertainment. But the stories people told about themselves and about others mattered. For instance, how they viewed Dragons, other species…all very illuminating.

Eldavin was disappointed this one had less saved movies—as in, only two, copied from other devices at that—than the laptop owned by a ‘KevinScate’, the possessor of the one he’d had.

And those had been fine movies. Eldavin still recalled watching them on the hill with…

His hand stopped moving the mouse. The inn.

After a moment, the Dragon went back to work. But he’d stopped humming.

Many movies, in enjoyable company. Remember that. He thought of the story of fantasy with the inaccurate Elves, the very wrong Dwarves, and so on. He also resented their depiction of Dragons as a stereotype which, while not untrue, was rather clichéd.

Ah, but here had been more. The Ogre with the weird skin condition and ears. Amusing. But another bad-faith depiction of Dragons he wasn’t even going to dignify! He’d nearly blasted the laptop into ash, despite knowing it was comedy.

And the other one. The most illuminating of Humans’ tales about themselves had been called…what was it? That movie grounded in their world, yet told in fiction.

Eldavin tapped the side of his head, frowning. Magic reignited memory.

“Of course. That was what it was called. Contact.”

What a good story about other species from a people who had never met them—aside from the plethora of animals and sentient creatures that Teriarch understood still populated Earth. He snorted to himself.

How did it go? Something, something, technological spinning wheel, explosion, something, aliens? It had elements of many stories, in that sense.

And yet…Teriarch sat back.

What he learned in this moment was that Earth was good at telling stories. Movies were something special, and they made so many!

But they could be better. And if they could marry the best of both worlds…he closed his eyes and murmured a spell.

When he opened his eyes, Eldavin sat no longer in the room in Wistram, but under another world’s sky. He looked around, and saw a scene from the movie around him.

‘Car’, check. ‘Telescope’, wonderful, if different starry sky? Check? Ah, well, he’d taken some liberties. But there was the young woman. And he’d added in ambient smells based on his own memories and abilities. More sound…he wiggled his toes.

“Sensation, I always forget that one.”

The grass squished under his bare feet. Eldavin nodded to himself.

Not everything Earth did was better. This was what magic could do. And if they could tell stories like this? He looked around, smiling a bit smugly to himself. Now, the challenge would be replicating the entire movie like this.

Actually—he could barely do this one still image, with the young woman pondering while gazing through the telescope. Even if he’d been back in his real body, the mental complexities of recreating this were a pain in his tail. The Dragon sighed. Well, that was why artists who spent the time doing such things were so prized.

He was just copying and altering. Even though the scene was the same, the sensation was that which he, personally, had felt. One could not create illusions of things they could not conceive. The breeze was one he had felt on his skin himself, the smells, likewise.

Only the young woman was a replica from the movie. She looked up and Teriarch…

…blinked…

And the face was not that of a Human he had never seen before. The spell twisted as memory flickered.

For a second, it was realer than a movie. A young woman stood there, looking up towards the stars in a field of wheat as the night’s sky filled the horizon. She had a telescope in front of her. No, not a telescope…

Magnolia Reinhart turned from the ancient, magical astrolabe in the field of yellats, her latest project to import crops.

“Do you think there are other worlds up there, Teriarch? Ones just as vast as ours? That can’t be so.”

The Dragon, wearing the half-Elf’s body, replied as he walked across the ground. He stared up, but even with magic, his eyes were too weak to really see the glowing stars of every color.

“I am just repeating what the Gnomes said. Not that I ever met more than…hrmph. Well. They said a lot of things. The stars are more than lights in the sky. Even I can see that.”

“And you never tried? You, the master of magic and fire?”

The young woman teased him. She flapped across the snowy field. The Dragon exhaled a plume of fire as he lay, melting the snow on one of the peaks. The same astrolabe lay in front of her, newly crafted.

“Insolence, brat. Who would keep my kin in line down here? I don’t have time to spend flying up there. Also, it’s extremely cold.”

“But you never tried?”

She perched on a rock next to him. The brass Dragon looked up and exhaled; steam rose into the sky, blotting out the distant stars for a moment. He was forced to admit it.

“…It may be impossible for us, without preparation, at least. Dragons have tried when we learned these truths. Long ago. One flew into space in our greatest age and suffered there. There was no air to breathe. So he breathed magic. There was no warmth. Yet his heart beat for him. There was no food, but he was a Dragon. He flew towards the nearest star.”

“Really? When?”

“Before even I was born. My mother told me the story.”

And that was long, long ago. Teriarch pointed with one claw.

“There. You see that purple one? That was the one he chose because it was so bright. See? He flew up there. And he was a Dragonlord, like I.”

Magnolia Reinhart was eating some nali-sticks as she listened. Eldavin glanced at her to make sure she was listening. He wished she’d stop having so many. She was developing a sweet tooth. Her young [Maid]—[Assassin], still grim and hard-eyed from her training, watched him warily. He went on, feeling as though he’d said this before. How many times?

“And what happened? Did he ever make it, that Dragon?”

The young woman was getting jittery with the sugar. Eldavin, Teriarch—which body was it now?—shrugged.

“No. He came back five hundred years later and said it was too far. But the journey had changed him and thereafter his kind were known as Void Dragons—for he had been changed and so had his offspring.”

“Void Dragons?”

The perching Garuda nearly fell off the top of his head. Teriarch blew at her, irritably, and she flew around him, excitedly.

“I’ve never met one! Where are they? What do they look like? Are they like the Sea Dragons you’re meeting?”

For a moment, the weary brass Dragon looked at her. Then he shook his head.

“No…no, girl. You haven’t heard of them because they were always few in number. As for where or what—you will not meet them. They’re all gone. Dead. The last of them died in a war you would not remember.”

The eager smile faded. And he wished he hadn’t said that. Slowly, the Dragon turned, looking around the oasis, waiting. He tried to say something better. He reached out—

“Grand Magus Eldavin? I—oh.”

The half-Elf blinked. The illusion vanished as the door began to open. The wide-eyed [Mage] saw the perfect recreation of memory. For a second, a Garuda, flying down, turning towards…

Eldavin. The half-Elf stood there.

“How may I help you, Miss…?”

He looked at her, with no idea of who she was, for a moment. The [Mage] hesitated.

“Teura, Grand Magus?”

The [High Mage], second-most-important in the Centrist faction, really, helper to Eldavin, looked at Eldavin. He touched the side of his head, blinked.

“Ah, yes. Young lady?”

She was eighty three, but somehow, it was appropriate. Teura ducked her head slightly.

“You requested the morning’s timeslot for your classes. Your students are waiting. Should I tell them to remain there or….?”

Eldavin looked out the window in shock. It had been before dawn when he’d—he looked around and rose to his feet.

“Of course not. Apologies. I was working on an…illusion spell. Very elaborate. Something in the vein of what that Mage Telim was doing. Smell, sensation, those are the keys to good magic. Thank you for fetching me. Shall we?”

He nodded. Teura respectfully opened the door and Eldavin left his chambers. [Mages] turned to watch him. A gaggle appeared, but were held back by Teura’s look. For where Eldavin walked, Wistram followed. That great [Mage] had come to teach both young and old.

—-

One of the new students who had come to Wistram to learn was named Troy Atlas. He said it in front of the mirror.

“Troy Atlas. Troy Atlas. You’re Troy Atlas…”

Trey Atwood had to do it or he’d slip up. He sighed. His robes were already on his body, over tanned skin, roughened from sand and sun a continent away. He still felt weird, waking up in Wistram’s cool halls rather than feeling the beginning of the hot Chandrarian days.

He checked his robes. They hadn’t been washed in…sixteen days. But they still felt fresh. He’d bathed, of course! But his robes had anti-dirt enchantments. Still, it felt weird to be able to toss them on.

Then again, High Mage Telim had told Trey over dinner that he hadn’t changed clothes—or even changed out of his set of robes—for months on end. Trey had resolved not to sit directly next to him ever again. Magic made things easier, but some people took it way too far.

However, he had to admit, it was nice not having to worry about what to wear. You woke up, changed undergarments, but the robes remained. He picked up his staff, and then looked around.

“Minizi? I’ve got to get to class! Where are you? Where’s my bag—oh.”

The little Lifesand Golem was next to the foot of his bed. He could sense her of course, but the little automaton was like a person. And she was trying to be helpful…

She was trying to drag his rucksack of books, notes, and supplies out from under the bed. Trey blinked, impressed.

It had been scattered about last night. A magical tome, his personal spellbook on the desk, ink pot unstoppered and he’d collapsed into his blankets, feeling a bit ill and tired from magical overwork.

But someone had closed the books, taken them off the desk as he slept, put them in the rucksack, grabbed his other supplies, and put them in the leather carrying bag, ready to toss into his bag of holding.

Why he didn’t put everything in the bag of holding was because it was a mess to find something unless you organized. Trey appreciated the little Golem’s efforts, but he had to smile.

The little crimson sand Golem, made in the form of Gazi, had done all this, but miscalculated at the last. Now, she was straining against the leather strap, trying to pull about ten or even twenty pounds of weight. Nothing was moving, but she wouldn’t give up.

“Good work, Minizi.”

He told her as he dragged the pack up and put it in his bag of holding. The Lifesand Golem hopped onto his palm, and he transferred her to the hood of his robes. He’d found she’d sit there, hidden, occasionally poking her head up, if he let her.

He was very surprised the Lifesand Golem had done all that. But then—the Quarass had told him the ability to make them would turn him into a far better [Mage] then he could have hoped to be otherwise.

The young man’s hand felt at the scar along his throat as he went for the door. As it always did.

He was ready for class. And it was familiar, being in school once more. Not all the Earthers were like this. Indeed, as Trey left his room, a young man was sleepily stumbling around.

“Troy. Whaz’s happening? Going to school?”

Flynn yawned hugely. They were neighbors, and he looked hung over and sleepy. Trey raised an eyebrow.

“Where were you?”

“Drinking. I couldn’t go to school. I wouldn’t even be up if not for Pokey.”

He gestured to the Needlehound Dog, who barked at Trey. He waved at Flynn’s companion and friend, who needed walks and to pee in the morning. They’d met on the way here.

“You don’t want to learn?”

“I mean…the basics, yeah. But I couldn’t take classes. I didn’t get an education like you did. I’m taking a class with the other Earthers later.”

Oh, right. Trey forgot that not everyone had received the grounding in magic he had. Flynn tried to flick his fingers and conjure some sparks. He managed…one. Pokey barked encouragingly.

“Well, I’m late.”

Trey had slept through breakfast, which was too bad because he was hungry. Flynn eyed him.

“You’re not looking well, my man. You didn’t stay long at dinner either, or come after. Not a drinker?”

The young man grimaced and put his hand to his stomach.

“I wouldn’t have minded. But I haven’t been feeling well all week.”

“Huh. Have you gone to the [Healer]’s?”

“No. I’ll go after class. I need to run, Flynn, sorry. I’m late to Eldavin’s morning class.”

Trey began to stride down the hallway, waving apologetically. Flynn gave him a thumbs-up. Even the new Earthers knew how important that was.

Grand Magus Eldavin and the Terras faction were shaking Wistram. Not just him of course. Two more Grand Mages and an Archmage and a Depth Mage from the seas and representatives from other [Mage] schools had arrived and more of Wistram’s graduates were coming by the day.

It was a renaissance in Wistram, according to the older [Mages]. And a free-for-all regarding the Earthers. Trey knew he and Flynn would soon be formally claimed by a faction. He hoped it was Eldavin’s, but in the meantime, the Grand Magus was teaching classes, showing off his magical knowledge.

And Trey was here to learn! And find the last Archmage who was here, but never spoken of. He gritted his teeth with determination. It was a charge laid on him by the King of Destruction.

He could disobey, of course. It had crossed Trey’s mind a dozen times already that he could go to one of the Archmages, or even Telim or one of the [Mages] he’d met and tell them all about the King of Destruction, throw himself on Wistram’s protection and join the Earthers.

But then, what would happen to Teres? And who would burn A’ctelios Salash to rubble? And did he trust Wistram more than Flos Reimarch?

“I’ll do it myself if I have to.”

Trey muttered to himself and Minizi as he strode down the hallways. He grimaced again as the Lifesand Golem rustled in his hood. He felt…Trey put a hand to his stomach and groaned.

—-

Flynn Patel, a young man from Australia, a [Beast Tamer] who had been a Bronze-rank adventurer before being found by Wistram, looked up as he saw Trey practically sprinting back the way he’d come.

“Troy? What’s up?”

“Bathroom!”

The young man shouted. He disappeared into his room. Flynn shook his head. Pokey copied him.

“Wonder what he ate.”

At least Wistram was so advanced it had a bathroom in the good bedrooms. Magical plumbing. Couldn’t be beat. He went back into his rooms to sleep.

Inside his bathroom, Trey Atwood suffered from what could be described as, ‘annihilation of the bowels’. He had known suffering. Wounds in battle. Gazi beating on him during teaching, the feeling of having his throat slashed open by the Quarass.

This…was not as bad as the last one, but really bad. Trey felt like his insides were coming out. He groaned.

“Minizi…out!”

He tossed her out of the bathroom when he realized she was patting him encouragingly on the head. Trey thought it was over and reached for the toilet paper, another blessing. Then…his face contorted.

“No way. This is—”

—-

Flynn checked on him after the first hour. He rapped on the door, realizing Troy hadn’t left after a nap. Actually, Pokey had woken him up, scratching at the door and led him to this one. She was sniffing and looking worried.

“Troy? You okay, dude?”

“No! I’m dying!”

“Are you…still on the toilet?”

“Yes!”

“What?”

“It keeps coming out!”

Flynn did not want to know the details. But he looked at Pokey, who was whining worriedly. She sensed something.

“I think I should get you a [Healer], Troy. Or tell one of the [Mages]. Need me to toss you a potion?”

“I…I need a [Healer]. Maybe.”

It was bad if his friend was admitting that. Flynn grew more worried.

“Uh—what’s happening, Troy? What should I say? Do you have potions?”

“Yes. But…hold on. Let me check. I don’t think I’m bleeding, but…”

Inside, Trey was sitting on the toilet. And he was about to make the radical move of inspecting what had kept him there for an hour. It felt like the worst diarrhea ever, but it kept going. He had not, out of sheer self-preservation, looked at what came out.

Who did that, anyways? But if he was actually losing what felt like his guts…

Flynn wrinkled his nose outside. He waited, not exactly excited, but worried. Pokey made another sound.

“Is it that bad, girl? Do you smell blood or something?”

She had a good nose and intuition. She’d warned him about monsters in the dirt and so on. Flynn crouched to scratch her ears and try to get a ‘sense’ from their connection what it was. He felt she was disturbed. It wasn’t blood, but…

A horrified shout came from Trey’s room. The young man bellowed something.

“Troy?”

Flynn shot to his feet. He reached for his side automatically. He heard a bellow from within.

“[Flame Jet].”

At this point, one of the other students across the hall who’d been drawn by the shouting looked out of his doorway in concern. He stepped out as a young woman opened her door.

“Who’s making that racket? I’m trying to study.”

Flynn ignored them all. He pounded on the door, hesitant to open it.

“Troy? What’s wrong?”

He heard a strangled exclamation.

“Flynn—get a [Healer]! It’s…it’s…worms!”

The young man stared at the door. He saw his dog stare up at him. The other neighbors didn’t get why Flynn blanched for a moment.

“Oh, fuck.”

He took off and went running. And he couldn’t help but feel…this might have been Pokey’s fault.

—-

“Parasites. Not your dog’s fault. More like an adventurer thing, really.”

Ten minutes later, Sa’la, the Selphid [Mage]-[Healer], was speaking to a small crowd outside Trey’s room. It was quite a crowd.

Archmage Nailihuaile, Telim, who Flynn had found first, Vhedel, the [Herb Mage], and a number of Earthers and students and [Mages] were all listening, looking appalled.

“But how’d he get them?”

Sa’la was a [Healer] as well as a [Mage]. Not a high-level one, but when it had been parasites, Telim had suggested they get the Selphid, as an expert on that kind of thing. Sa’la had not been offended and she was the one to ask. She shrugged.

“A sea parasite. He must have caught it while travelling here. Probably in the food you were eating on the ships. Did they cook everything properly?”

Flynn thought of the food they’d eaten on The Emerald Signet.

“We were sailing through storms. We had to eat rations and it was raining all day and night…”

“Ah. Maybe it came on the water, then. Wave deposits some on the food barrels and they aren’t fully warded, or a [Sailor] accidentally gets some on a plate?”

Everyone shuddered except the Selphid. She grinned.

“If he was a Selphid, he’d have killed them. You mammals are so susceptible. Poor kid, though.”

Trey had blasted his toilet with fire, which was the appropriate response to seeing the wriggling things that had come out of him. He’d nearly hit himself with fire.

“Please tell me I’m not infected.”

Flynn begged Sa’la. She looked incredibly amused, especially because Nailihuaile and most of the others were backing far away from Trey’s door.

“Look, it happens. Bugs are everywhere. Don’t make such a big deal. They just come out of you; well, he was probably hungry for days. And the cure’s simple. Vhedel?”

The Stitch-[Mage] had no fear of the parasites. He’d been working on something with a bunch of herbs and two pastes. Now, he lifted the dark brown liquid up and eyed it critically. It wasn’t as magical as a potion, but he seemed satisfied as he nodded.

“Hand this to the boy, will you? Have him drink it down in one.”

Sa’la took the tonic. She opened the door and vanished inside. Vhedel turned to Archmage Nailihuaile and the others.

“It’s a simple cure, actually. For safety’s sake, I recommend all students and faculty in his classes as well as all Earthers take a simple tonic.”

“Are we all going to poop worms, Vhedel? Because I’d rather stick a Wand of [Fireballs] down my throat first.”

Telim spoke bluntly. The huge [High Mage] looked ghastly pale at the thought. Everyone else shuddered. Vhedel just rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be dramatic. The tonic will kill them dead. It will kill them in any stage and you won’t have trouble—but no taking any potions for twenty four hours! The little bastards benefit too.”

The door opened. Sa’la came out, still looking incredibly amused. She wagged a finger at the others.

“That’s right. Only Troy suffers; you won’t even notice. They’ll probably be dissolved by your stomach. The most you’ll see is a body or two if they were fully grown in—”

“Thank you, Sa’la. We don’t need a picture.”

Telim roared. The Selphid grinned at him, loving every minute of this. Vhedel coughed.

“Also, no sex in that region. That’s the only way they’d spread. Since our toilets are magical, we’ll just incinerate waste like usual. I could tell Cognita to make the Golems make sure, but…”

“Sex in that region?”

Flynn repeated, trying not to smile. Sa’la helpfully elaborated.

“No butt sex. All the other kinds are fine. Unless you get really inventive, which, frankly, I think anyone but a Selphid would have trouble with…”

Everyone began to walk away. Archmage Nailihuaile shook her head as she slithered rapidly back to her rooms for cleansing spells and a bath. She turned to one of her underlings, the horrified Beatrice, who, like many Dullahans, was not at home to any of this discussion.

“Spread the word! Everyone gets a tonic from Magus Vhedel who even blinked near that boy. Have Magus Vhedel compensated and…I’m going to take a bath. With soap potions.”

Beatrice nodded hurriedly. The [Mages] dispersed. The cure distributed.

It was just an event. Parasites. It happened to people! Trey made a full recovery in less than two hours after the potion was taken, and could get off the toilet after only thirty minutes after he’d called for help from Flynn. No one else came down with the gut-parasites.

All was well. Or…it would have been, but Archmage Nailihuaile had shouted the news in her haste to keep anyone else from having worm-poo. Thus, Troy Atlas was forever ‘worm guy’ in the halls of Wistram.

—-

“That’s definitely him. The kid who shit worms for two hours.”

“The Parasite Mage. He conjures magic from his bowels!”

“I hear they were magic worms, giving him his power.”

“Remind me never to ask him for a conjuration spell.”

The other Earthers laughed at that last one. Trey’s head was buried in his arms at the dinner table. ‘Worm guy’ would have been a treat compared to the inventiveness of the other [Mages].

And they loved to tell jokes like this. Trey was the target of the week; no one was going to forget this in a hurry.

“S-sorry, Troy. Stop laughing, Aaron! It’s not funny!”

“I can’t…I’m sorry, but I can’t. Did you hear what they said? Forget the Antinium. He can summon the brown tide!”

Aaron Vanwell collapsed into his seat. Trey heard Elena jab him in the shoulder.

“Stop that.”

“It’s fine. Thanks, Elena.”

Trey was going to leave Wistram. He was going to hide under a rock—unless there were more worms there. He wanted to die.

He had never felt more embarrassed in his life. Everyone knew his name. Even more than an Earther, he was infamous.

Elena was trying to be kind and considerate, but the others sitting at the table, everyone from George to Aaron to Flynn, was laughing. The nice ones were trying to hide it.

Well, most of the guys were sniggering. Some of the other Earthers weren’t. And sadly, that was because for some, it was too…

“It’s not funny. It’s horrible.”

Sidney looked pale and sick and was sitting far from Trey. She was trying to be helpful, but the image of a bunch of parasites had been adjacent to her own trauma. Some of the others nodded too.

“They’ll stop talking about it. Eventually.”

Basil told Trey. The young man from Bulgaria gingerly put a hand on his shoulder.

They would never. But Trey thanked him anyways. He looked around at the tables of Earthers. They were trying to be nice. And at least he was among his people.

Children of Earth. He shook his head.

“Thanks, everyone. But I’ll live. I have to get to class.”

It was the next day. Breakfast—Trey didn’t have much of an appetite, except that he did after the scouring. He’d spent all of yesterday hiding in his rooms and periodically blasting the toilet with fire spells. It had to be replaced. He glumly stood up.

“Are you sure? You don’t have to go to class.”

Elena looked concerned. Trey just shook his head.

“I’ve got to study or I’ll fall behind. I’m trying to be a [Mage] and…it beats sitting around. Or staying in my room.”

He’d been told by Sa’la that the odds of more parasites remaining on his possessions was remote. Even so, he’d cleaned everything in the room. Three times.

The other Earthers looked up at him. A few waved. Aaron leaned over.

“You’re one of the best [Mages] here, Troy. Which is awesome, but you should join our events too if you have the time. Tomorrow? We’re having another gathering.”

An Earth-only gathering. Trey would have been at yesterday’s…but worms. He smiled weakly.

“Sure.”

He walked away, head bowed, hearing more jokes. The worst ones were funny. Trey tried to accept it. He was amazed anyone wanted to stand next to him after hearing what had happened—and few people did. His story wasn’t even worth a small secret; everyone in the academy of [Mages] knew what had happened.

It’s all part of my cover story. Who’ll suspect me of being an agent of the King of Destruction now? In fact, I have to free Archmage Amerys now and rejoin Flos.

Because I’ll always be the worm-guy over here.

At least he had classes. Learn magic. That was one of the reasons Flos had agreed to Gazi’s cunning plan to have Trey infiltrate. Find out what Wistram was doing, improve himself as a [Mage], and free Amerys.

Trey needed to learn magic anyways. He could learn on-the-go from Parasol Stroll, but Gazi had pointed out that unlike Teres, magic wasn’t something you could improve just by fighting and training. He needed an education and…

Well, he was getting one. Troy hoped classes would be some relief, if only because they’d be learning spells and the other students wouldn’t have as much time to laugh at him.

—-

The first class of Trey’s day was Eldavin’s seminar. The Grand Magus let anyone attend, but if you were unlucky, you just stood and watched him interact with a few members of the class. Everyone went who could anyways; he was just that good at magic and you learned something even if it wasn’t your discipline.

Trey had hopes because Eldavin remembered his name and Trey felt like the half-Elf liked him a bit for being properly deferential. But if he’d hoped Eldavin would be a relief from the torment of infamy, he was wrong.

“[Detect Parasites].”

The first thing Eldavin did when he saw Trey come in was point at him and cast the spell. Everyone turned and began laughing.

Eldavin just eyed Trey up and down. The young man was crimson.

“There are a number of spells that I suggest any [Mage] learn and cast with regularity. Now, that spell would fail to the most aggressive and insidious kinds of parasites; general spells always do. But a quick scan reveals nothing amiss. Everyone may relax. Except for you. Get out and wash your hands.”

He pointed to a Drake in the front row. Trey saw the Drake turn white and stared at his claws.

“Snails. Out.”

Everyone cleared a path for the Drake as he ran for the hallway, claws outstretched, forgetting his bags. They laughed—but then looked to the front of the room. And they fell respectfully silent, even the ones eying Trey with amusement.

That was a demonstration of Eldavin’s superior magical knowledge again. The half-Elf looked around.

“I could choose to lecture you on invasive magic-draining parasites, of which there are quite a number! But this is the practical class and I have no desire to drag down the historical lessons either. Suffice it to say that being a [Mage] does not preclude you from threats of every kind. Indeed, we are sometimes sought after because of our magic. But I digress. Today, as yesterday, we shall develop your strength.”

Trey shifted as he began to relax. Eldavin’s first class of the day took on the same tone as the last week of study.

—-

The study of magic was, as Trey understood it, devoted to four main categories. He was taking the 1st-year classes in Wistram as well as Eldavin’s extra seminars, but interestingly, didn’t really ‘fit’ into the archetype of the first-year.

He knew too much. So Trey was ahead of even 2nd or 3rd-year students in some areas, while being, like most of Wistram, totally unqualified and underdeveloped in Eldavin’s.

And the old [Grand Mage] did use the same concepts, albeit with his own spins on them.

“A [Mage] studies in four ways! Which are?”

He pointed and a student responded.

“Foundation, Acquisition, Materialization, and Theorization, Grand Magus?”

“Correct! And as far as I am concerned, with the exception of the most experienced [Magi] in the room, none of you should be on Acquisition, let alone conflating Materialization with your Foundational studies!”

Eldavin swept around the classroom, inspecting students by their auras or demanding they show him basic concepts.

Foundation was the basic magical theory and understanding of magic that every [Mage] needed. [Sorcerers] skipped this part in some ways, but even they had to build up a base of mana to cast.

Like blood, or oxygen, a [Mage] had their own supply of mana. That was how Trey thought of it. You used it up as you cast spells, but like lungs, some were more efficient than others.

Superior [Mages] like Eldavin could throw spells around non-stop not just because they had a lot of magic, but because they were incredibly efficient. And Eldavin pointed that out now.

“A supply of magic is excellent. Knowledge of how to cast spells with minute waste is likewise superior. A Level 30 [Mage] with both qualities is superior, arguably, to a Level 40 [Mage] who can cast a few grand spells alone. I, myself, lack the superlative mana wells of the Archmages. That is my flaw.”

He tapped his chest, admitting his weakness. His students murmured. Eldavin went on.

“Skills can improve these qualities, but a good [Mage] does not gamble upon their success! That is Foundational work. Ensuring no magic is lost in your spells. And because the most basic of spells compound your higher-tier spells, I will see you perfect the most basic spells like [Light]! All of you in this group—you waste nearly half again the mana required for this spell. Yes, it is a Tier 0 spell. But that is no excuse!”

That was how he was sorting students. He made them cast [Light] and if they couldn’t do it without reducing the wastage of mana, he made them leave and go practice or retake the basic classes.

Two students in the first year had to leave that Trey knew. They had come with him and though he didn’t socialize with them as much as he wanted, he knew some of the standouts.

Every year had them and in Wistram, any special qualities were scrutinized. Trey had been lucky his Lifesand Golems weren’t public knowledge or if they were, they were probably secrets being sold around about him.

He didn’t like the air of secrets, but he had a ‘wallet’ of about twenty if he had to buy something. Some of those secrets were about his fellow students. Small secrets, mainly. And one huge one no one but himself knew.

There were four students like Trey who could be considered standouts. He himself actually qualified even before the…worms…incident.

Because Trey had a powerful magical staff, good robes, and an education, he was considered a promising first-year. In the same vein, he now saw two of the four promising students being cut.

One was Carn Thustone, also from Hellios. A tall young man with strong arms and perfect posture who flushed as Eldavin advised him to refine his magic. He was burly compared to most of his fellow students.

And he carried a sword. He had darker skin than Trey’s, even tanned, and his hair was brown-black. He was handsome, and older than most 1st-years, having been paid for by his family. Perhaps too old?

Well, his magical knowledge was on the same level as all the first years, which was to say, almost nonexistent. He bowed to Eldavin and marched sharply from the room.

Trey thought he was too stiff, too unyielding. He certainly scowled like his father, but he’d taken some of Venith Crusand’s worst qualities. ‘Carn’ glanced at ‘Troy’ for a moment, but his eyes passed right over.

Calac Crusand was his real name. Like Trey, he had adopted Hellios as his home country. He was the second infiltrator sent to Wistram. Was he good at it?

Well…no. But he wasn’t exactly pretending. He really was here to learn magic.

It was his [Lord] and [Swordsman] classes that made him a standout as a potential [Magic Swordsman] or similar class. However, he clearly wished he was part of Flos’ war and was thus ill-tempered, if somewhat admired for his martial abilities.

No wonder he couldn’t learn, though. But the other student surprised Trey.

“Is my spell not adequate, Master-Magus Eldavin?”

A huge eye blinked slowly. Eldavin looked at the Gazer boy, who was barely fifteen and had one huge eye and two…on his hands. Trey couldn’t help but stare at the Gazer from Baleros, one of the few he’d ever met.

Gazi had once told him that no Gazer had eyes in the same configuration. Like her, he had orange-brown skin, pointed teeth, odd digits and huge, magical eyes.

But he was more squat, almost closer to a toad of a person than Gazi, who was half-Gazer and had inherited the best of both races. The male Gazer looked shocked as well that he was being cut.

Gazers were born magic. Their eyes had great power even without being [Mages]. However, refining their talents made them more dangerous. Trey had heard Gazers taught each other and seldom left the jungles of Baleros, though. This young man, Goelv, was an exception.

He had few friends. He was alien, even compared to Selphids and Dullahans. Eldavin was not unkind or awkward as some teachers like Master Rievan were. But he was firm. He gestured to the perfect, glowing orb of eight different colors glowing in the Gazer’s palm. He had an eye there, which blinked up at Eldavin. A round eye, not like an oval, and his main eye in his head was huge. Unnerving to some.

It reminded Trey of Gazi.

“Your spell is perfectly contained, young man. However. You are leaking mana from here.”

His finger hovered over the Gazer’s hand-eye. Goelv looked astonished as Eldavin spoke.

“It is seeping into the spell. Control your eyes. Gazers are often deficient in that. Such great power—but if it is not concentrated, you are no better than any novice.”

“Yes, Master-Magus. Thank you. I apologize.”

Goelv bowed several times and stood up. He was very ginger with his supplies; he only used the tips of his long fingers. What was the practicality of hand-eyes, Trey wondered? But no Gazers were alike so maybe it was bad luck.

Two students passed the examination, as Trey did himself. Eldavin swept past him with a grunt.

“Eight percent. Work harder.”

Trey blinked at his orb of light. Gazi had made him cast the spell until he wanted to shove the ball of light up her nose. Which she did not have, so, nostrils? And it still wasn’t good enough?

“Let’s see. Nine percent. Barely good enough, but I’ll accept it.”

Eldavin nearly reduced the girl standing in the ranks of first years to tears. Again. And she was another person who’d come on Trey’s ship.

Little [Lady] Emirea du Merrimorn had blonde hair, fair skin, and was of Terandria. The same girl who’d burst into tears when first entering Wistram. She was one of the youngest first-years, a girl of barely eleven who seemed very young even for her age.

She reminded Trey…exactly not of the Quarass. Who was as far as she could be in the other direction. However, she was another ‘notable’ because of her talent at her age. She had class and magical ability at eleven. A girl to watch.

“T-thank you G-Grand Magus. I will do better.”

She was nearly in tears again. Eldavin hesitated.

“If this class is overly complex, Lady Merrimorn, I suggest you simply observe.”

“I would like to learn, Grand Magus.”

She gulped. He nodded, a touch less brusquely.

“Next? Pass! At least one person has reached two percent! Which I would expect nothing less of, given how the Drowned Folk understand that mana leakage is like blood in the water for some predators.”

He nodded approvingly. Trey shot a glance sideways at the fourth notable in his year.

The Drowned Man, Tov, whose smile only extended across half his face. The other half?

Slimy, not exactly gelatinous, but…slug.

Sea slug Drowned Man. He bowed slightly; he’d come with the Drowned Folk contingent and the [Depth Mages] who’d held their own at the battle at the banquet with Eldavin. As a student from the Underseas Crews, apparently. He had been born far, far below the surface of the sea where his people lived.

“Thank you, sir.”

His voice was like a whisper. He was soft-spoken, apparently a custom where his people were. Loud noises made him flinch.

“Very well. Control of mana is essential. Now, to the development of your mana supplies or the exercise of your magic, respectively. One group will develop their capacity. The second, their formation of spells and their control. The last? Output. Follow me.”

—-

Capacity, control, and output were more parts of Foundation. It was simple. Capacity was how much mana. Control was the fine control of manipulating a ‘thread’ of magic or ‘weaving’ it together, to use one kind of metaphor. Output? How much you could throw out at once, like how loudly you shouted.

Master all three, Eldavin claimed, and you were a fine [Mage] already. He lectured them as he took them at a brisk pace up the stairs.

“Foundation begets Acquisition! Before you move to the next step of acquiring spells, you must cast them perfectly! Or else you are implanting bad habits which will never go away! I’m lucky I caught you all—none of you are ready for acquisition. And Wistram teaches that hand-in-hand with Foundation! When I was last here…”

Acquisition was learning spells. Simple. It was a stage all [Mages] would keep coming back to, but Eldavin was insistent that most of Wistram’s [Mages] had done it too soon. You took each step one-by-one, according to him, whereas Wistram preached that the first three steps of magic could go together.

Foundation, Acquisition, and Materialization. Eldavin had laughed in their faces when a student repeated that.

“Does a Garuda learn to fly with a Ring of Flight on their fingers? Does a Centaur foal use a [Reduce Weight] spell when they first learn to walk? Your artifacts are crutches! Remove your wands! Put your staves away! Rings off!”

Materialization was the act of putting magic into actual things. It was collecting a big spell tome, getting a staff which helped you cast more magic, or some artifact.

Eldavin called it impairing and Trey saw his point. If you relied on Materialization during your Foundation stage, you didn’t learn. But Wistram’s [Mages] had been shocked by his insistence. They let anyone carry a powerful wand around, even first-years if they owned them.

Teriarch was back to basics. He jogged up the stairs.

“All three parts of your learning will inform your final step, students. Theorization. When you create new magic, explore your limits and push past them, every fault, every lacking quality will impede you from pulling magic higher with you! That is why you must be flawless. For magic will tear you to pieces when it is invoked strongly. What will be minor backlash now, a failed spell, losing control of a flame and having it singe your fingers, will turn into the kind of spells that erased Aldo Vat!”

“Where’s that, Grand Magus?”

“Exactly! Very well, output first! That’s the best of you who don’t need to work on the other two elements. We’ll have them start working first, so the rest of you take notes! Here we are!”

He wasn’t even breathing hard. Everyone else was; they’d run up staircase after staircase. Trey suspected Eldavin had used spells to make it easier; he clutched at his side.

“Are you okay?”

A Centaur third-year kindly asked Emirea, who had ridden on her back. The girl nodded.

“Thank you, Miss.”

She curtsied. The other students gasped for air as Eldavin strode onto a balcony. He stood at one of the higher points any [Mage] could get to.

High up in other words. And this particular balcony extended far out into the air. It was the most Hogwarts thing about Wistram, actually. Because you could get the walkway to move how you wanted, forming a loop back to another part of the academy for a shortcut, up to the higher floors, a ramp that took you almost to ground floor…

Most people knew it as the ‘Shortcut Balcony’ because it was so handy. The only problem was that many people wanted to use it so you could get a traffic jam, or be taken where you didn’t want to go.

Eldavin now used it in a way no one had seen before. He made the balcony go straight, extending for nearly three hundred feet straight into the air. He ushered them along.

“Hurry up! We’re wasting time! All the way to the end! You, the output group, stand here!”

They stood at the end of the balcony as it ended. Thin air lay beyond. And below?

Four hundred feet of space and then the waters below. They were clear of even the rocks around Wistram’s isle. Some of the students with agoraphobia turned dead white. Tov looked almost longingly down at the water below.

“Grand Magus? What are we doing?”

The ‘output’ group, who were the higher-year students who had mastered both control and capacity, looked at Eldavin. Trey already knew before the half-Elf smiled.

“You are all going to jump. And all of you are going to project wind magic. I don’t care how. Feet, hands, whatever. But use it to slow your fall so that you do not hit the water as hard as…well. This.”

He plucked at a young man standing next to him, and then flicked a finger. Trey saw a Human of about sixteen plucked off the walkway. He had time to scream before Eldavin telekinetically threw him off the balcony.

He went down, screaming, flailing, turning in the air. Everyone stared over the railing. Eldavin watched. There was an impact as the young man hit the water.

It should have been a splash, in Trey’s mind. Like a cannonball. It was not so…fun-sounding. It sounded like a crack as well as the splash of water.

“He just broke both his legs. And his arm.”

Eldavin observed calmly. The student had landed bad, in a belly-flop of four hundred feet. The other students looked at him.

Emirea burst into tears.

“Grand Magus! Someone call a [Healer]!”

The other students backed away, horrified. Eldavin gestured and a wall of light blocked them from running.

“Calm down. Look again.”

He pointed. Everyone turned. Where the screaming young man had been lying face-down in the surf was…nothing?

“Illusion. That was what will happen if you do not arrest your fall. Actually, you may die. I advise you to cast impact-shields if you must, and do not land on your head. Vertically. But none of you will cast [Slow Fall], [Featherfall], or any other gravity spell! You will project air. And not a spell! Just air. The exercise is to, without relying on a spell, conjure enough magical force to prevent yourself from being hurt. Perhaps the impact shields for the first time, but the second, try to do without. Pain and fear of death is an excellent teacher.”

It was older students, so Eldavin wasn’t being…unreasonable. Well, he was, but Trey wasn’t one of the students. The youngest of them was still third-year.

“Grand Magus? Aren’t there other ways?”

One of the Dullahans looked panicked at the idea of the jump. Eldavin addressed him, curtly.

“Did you hear my lesson on how [Aeromancers] used to train, young mage?”

“Yes, Grand Magus. This was one of the ways. But…I am not an [Aeromancer].”

“Output of magic is output of magic. This terrifies you, yes? Can you swim?”

“N-no, sir. My armor is iron.”

The Dullahan was standing well clear of the ledge. Eldavin nodded.

“Cast a flotation spell. But jump. Because what strains you will teach you faster. Do I have a volunteer to go first?”

He looked around. One of the sixth-year students slowly raised a hand. Which was a wing. She grinned.

“I don’t know if this will frighten me as much, Grand Magus. But I will do it without flapping my wings!”

The Garuda [Mage] looked at him, her brilliant yellow plumage gleaming by daylight. Eldavin looked at her. He tapped a finger against his chin.

“Indeed. Well, I have a remedy for that.”

—-

A minute later, the Garuda and everyone else stared at the conjured weights that Eldavin had produced. They were twenty pounds. Each. And both were secured around her ankles.

At this point, Trey felt like he was watching a movie execution. The Garuda looked down at the surf.

“If I were you, I would not cast a flotation spell until I were in the water. Sever the ropes when you hit the surf or they will drag you down. I am told Wistram’s waters are clear of predator-fish. More’s the pity.”

Eldavin watched. The Garuda looked pale.

“You have called my bluff, Grand Magus. But…”

She hesitated. Half the students were shaking their heads. Trey couldn’t imagine how much air the Garuda [Mage] would have to conjure to stop her from hitting the water like…forty pounds of lead! Well, over forty pounds of air force? Without using a spell?

He’d tried along with the others and he could conjure a moderately stiff breeze. True, he wasn’t a sixth-year student, but…

“Grand Magus, should I prepare a barrier? What if I get hurt?”

“I make no promises. Nor will I watch, incidentally. I trust the students here can watch out for each other. Jump, run back up, or fly, or use whatever methods you wish, and repeat until you are out of mana. This is to train yourselves. I will not be responsible for injuries. Or deaths.”

Eldavin met their gazes. The Dullahan looked horrified. The other students in the output group looked at each other.

“Must we, Grand Magus? Is there no easier way?”

The Garuda was backing away from the edge, bravado lost. Eldavin looked at her. For a long moment, the half-Elf stood there.

“Easier? Yes. Of course. Your teachers can show you how to practice output. You can stand here, blowing air around and practice with no fear of death. Just push yourselves and you will learn. But, young woman. Do you have the time for that? When other [Mages] rise, do you want to take the easy, slow way, or the fastest I know?”

He turned to face the female Garuda. Eldavin smiled at her.

“It is not wrong to want to live as a [Mage] among equals. If that is your desire, stay up here and practice safely. But know that is what you become. So, young woman. My question is this: what would you do to learn true magic?”

The Garuda [Mage] stared at Eldavin for a long moment. The others were silent, thinking, looking at each other. Then, the young woman smiled. She bowed, spread her wings, and stepped backwards.

She jumped.

—-

Not all of them did. But over two thirds did. True to his words, Eldavin didn’t even watch the others. But he had made sure the Garuda came up; and she had managed to arrest her fall with the desperate blasts of wind. He had nodded to her in approval as she swam for shore.

“With theory alone, with control of magic, one can create any spell. That’s right. Create a line of magic in the air. Don’t use it! Just magic. If you can’t see this, incidentally, learn.”

He was in control of the second group in another room designed for this very task. Again, repurposed or rather, the use rediscovered.

It was a room where magic did not ambiently gather. It was absorbed into the tiles in the blank room.

A magical void. Useful for [Mages] when something went wrong. A jail cell in some cases.

Or, as Trey now learned, to train your control. Eldavin had the second group training to hold a single ‘line’ of magic in the air.

It was hard, because the tiles wanted to suck it away. It wasn’t about your output; the [Grand Mage] didn’t care how much magic was spent, although he encouraged them to use a good amount depending on what they had.

But they had to keep the magic from being dragged away. The students were struggling, sweating, but it wasn’t dangerous.

It was highly amusing, though.

“You. One leg. You—hold this in your mouth. Don’t drop it. I saw this at an inn, once. Very entertaining.”

One of the Dullahans balanced on one leg as he tried to cast. The Grand Magus inserted a spoon with an egg in it in the mouth of a half-Elf. He glared desperately at the older half-Elf, speaking around clenched teeth holding the spoon.

“Grand Magus, why?”

“Because it’s distracting. [Mages] should control their magic in any circumstance! When swimming! When bleeding! When excreting worms! Or so I’ve heard.”

Trey turned crimson. The others laughed, but the control group was busy focusing.

“Keep it steady, and without weaknesses. You! There’s a thinning here.”

Eldavin pointed. Trey could see what he meant. It was Tov, the Drowned Man, who struggled with this. He was ahead of the other first-years and thus put in this group. Eldavin nodded as he firmed it up.

“Good. Now, hold it. And…eat this dried pepper.”

He offered the Drowned Man a spicy, purple dried thing. Tov’s eyes watered at the smell alone and Trey winced for the young man.

But he ate the pepper. Eldavin nodded as tears began to leak from his Human eye.

“Suffering. But learning. That’s good. Time how long you can do it for. If you can pass this simple test, you can maintain your focus! That’s not the same as elegance of weaves, but I would actually say that short of a [Grand Mage], this is an acceptable level of control in this regard.”

The other students brightened up at that. Eldavin didn’t exaggerate. Tov spoke around his streaming eye and running half of his nose.

“How long—should I hold it to pass—Grand Magus?”

Eldavin gave him an encouraging smile.

“One hour. Do your best and keep at it in your own time. Don’t forget the peppers or similar distractions each time. Very well, capacity, with me!”

—-

“Capacity, control, output. Fundamentals of all spells. You all simply need the first of the three. By all means, practice the other two, but you lack the sheer…”

Mana. Trey was surprised he himself lacked it. He ventured as much as Eldavin stationed the last of the students in their training area.

“I thought I had enough mana, Grand Magus. If I’m wrong, I apologize.”

Eldavin stopped. It was true that Emirea lacked much, being a child, and mana capacities varied from student to student.

Some had [Mana Wells], which were a Skill which boosted your supply immensely. But there was innate mana reserve which differed from person to person. That was often what made people decide to become [Mages].

Trey apparently had a good one, according to Ulyse and Mirin of Parasol Stroll. It was one of the few things they hadn’t trained him in rigorously with Gazi.

Eldavin looked at him. His eyes flickered.

“It is true, young…Troy Atlas…that capacity is not really ‘trained’. This exercise is meant to expand it in all of you, and while [Mages] may do so, there is no real finesse, just need for a baseline. I shall explain as we begin. Are you prepared?”

Trey nodded. What were they doing to train their capacity?

Well, they were standing in the exact opposite of the rooms where the control group was. In fact, directly underneath those rooms.

The mana of this place was mana-dense. Rooms devoted to one element, like the underwater room whose water never left the open door. A room burning with heat—

This was an elemental-less room. Good for practicing new spells or where [Mages] went if they overextended. Now, Eldavin was having all the students push magic out. Like the control group, but he didn’t insist on any fine control.

Even as he did, Trey felt the ambient mana ‘filling’ him up. Eldavin nodded.

“Now—don’t break your connection, but—absorb the mana. And prepare for nosebleeds.”

It was like…again, to use the analogy of lungs, taking a breath, a huge breath. Exhaling it, taking the same amount of air and then inhaling the first breath.

That could probably burst a lung. What the students were doing was straining their internal reservoirs. Sure enough, half the class began bleeding from their noses.

“This is a very careful expansion of your magic. You! Too much intake. Slowly. Slowly—we are trying to strain your reservoirs. Do not try this without a [Grand Magus] monitoring you. In the past, students of magic drank mana potions to excess…this is more efficient. But all methods are dangerous. I repeat, do not do this alone! Not even experienced [Mages] should do this lightly.”

Emirea was bleeding from her nose. She pinched it, looking distressed, fishing for a handkerchief.

“Mana potionbth, Grand Maguth?”

Eldavin waved a hand and the bleeding stopped.

“One method is by alchemical ingredients, young woman. This is another, a very old one, but costless so long as rooms like this are acquired. You yourself have a weak capacity; I shall offer a week’s worth of lessons. It should be enough.”

“Really? But how?”

The half-Elf smiled superiorly at her.

“Normal methods are dangerous the more one pushes. I know how to ‘relax’ the body to adjust to this process. Hence, the draughts you all imbibed and the exercises we will go over later.”

You couldn’t pay for this. Trey suffered a nosebleed on his third try. He looked at Eldavin.

“Why am I here, Grand Magus? I know it helps everyone, but why me?”

Eldavin looked at him.

“Think on it, young man. Why indeed? Why you?”

He let Trey think on it for twenty minutes. When he circled back their way out of the sixty students, Trey offered a question.

“Is it my magic?”

“A fascinatingly obvious answer. Did it take you twenty minutes? Indeed. Golems drain magic and a [Summoner] or [Mage] of your class requires vast supplies.”

The other [Mages] in earshot looked at Trey. He stared at Eldavin. The [Mage] gave him a knowing look, aimed at Trey’s hood.

“[Necromancers] also benefit from this kind of exercise. Keep it up.”

—-

The results of eight nosebleeds and him actually having to run outside and throw up once manifested after two such lessons. It was why all the students did so, even young Emirea. The control group, the output group—and the students desperately trying to meet Eldavin’s basic standards so they could learn.

They leveled. Fast!

[Sand Mage Level 20!]

[Skill – Mana Well (Earthen) obtained!]

He waited for more. But there was no second Skill. Or a free spell. Even so, it was a big Skill.

Yeah. So great. So cool.

No, it was. But at breakfast later, Trey Atwood found himself socializing with some of the other first-years rather than the Earthers. They were friends, thanks to Eldavin’s class more than their shared first-year classes.

“…And then I woke up. And I got my first eye-Skill.”

Goelv was speaking excitedly to the others. He smiled around and Trey saw Emirea flinch slightly. The Gazer noticed, but the little girl was trying. Trey smiled encouragingly.

“What’s an eye-Skill, Goelv?”

The Gazer boy gave him a smile. Trey had sat with him the day after the first lessons, having noticed Goelv was alone. Flynn had joined, and as a result, some of the other ‘notables’ including Emirea, Tov, and the surly ‘Carn’ had become a regular breakfast group.

On the second class, Goelv had managed to pass Eldavin’s exam, having apparently not slept until he had mastered his faulty eyes. The Grand Magus had been approving and put him directly into output, much to the Gazer’s horror.

Carn had yet to master his [Light] spell, but he sat in on every class.

“Eye-Skills are Gazers’. Excuse me. They are Skills of my people for our eyes. We have abilities, but these make them stronger. Paralysis, fear, you see? The strongest of us grow so strong that when they die, the cores of their eyes still hold power. Eye-Gems. Artifacts. Mine is weak, but look!”

He lifted his eye-hand, and shot a beam at a cup. It promptly set the wooden exterior ablaze. Everyone fanned at it until Carn poured his cup of water over it.

“Sorry!”

He could shoot laser beams from his eyes. Flynn pointed as Goelv stood up and began bowing to everyone who’d been alarmed by the flash of light. Trey nodded, mouthing back.

“And what about the rest of you?”

“I gained [Control Mana]. Basic.”

Carn grunted as he refilled his cup. He was sour about his slower progress. Emirea timidly raised a hand.

“I—I got [Mana Pool]. Which I am very happy about! I wrote back to my mother and she says it is very accomplished for my level! Below Level 10! And Troy has [Mana Well]!”

The young man ducked his head.

“I just wish it was as cool as eye-beams. Or Tov’s Spell.”

You could gain free spells on leveling. The Drowned Man had been showing everyone his [Shadow Raven] spell, a kind of swooping darkness that could actually extinguish a [Fireball] spell if it wasn’t exploding.

“This is all great stuff. I wish I could take that Grand Mage’s classes. And you’ll keep leveling! So…”

Flynn looked excited, but he was behind even Carn. His voice trailed off as he looked from face to face. The first-years looked at each other. Oh yes. Levels. However…

—-

“More practice.”

Eldavin smiled the smile of a teacher who loved to see suffering on the face of his students. Malicious, in short.

It was great to level. But his classes?

First he had made the capacity-group stand in the mana-dense rooms. Since Trey had gained his [Mana Well], he was now in control. But instead of the rooms where you made a ‘line’ of magic and held it…

Trey stared at the [Light] spell in his hands shifting from every color of the rainbow in order. He had to do this while navigating the hallways of Wistram. He could not slow down or stop, and if he ran into anyone or blocked their way, he had to start over.

“Wrong! Eyes forwards!”

A magical hand reached out and slapped the back of his head. The spell flickered out and Eldavin pointed, forcing Trey back the way he’d come.

Oh, and he couldn’t actively look at the [Light] spell. Trey glumly trotted back the way he’d come. Other students or [Mages] gave him envious or encouraging looks. But the thing was…

You couldn’t get used to the lessons. Eldavin would just vary them. And it was good stuff! The other first-year classes weren’t nearly this good.

They essentially taught the same things as Eldavin. He just did it better, much to the rage of the other teachers. They taught basic spells though, and magical lessons, where he only had his morning magic class and later evening history, philosophy, and morality lectures where he’d talk about [Archmages] of old and so on.

However, his lessons weren’t fun. They made you level. They also made you want to sit on the toilet and crap worms for two hours instead. Literally, Trey grew so frustrated one time he actually yanked a tuft of hair out of his head.

They protested of course, after six days of grueling exercises that left them burned and spent for the rest of their classes. But Eldavin was unmoved.

“You may be full ‘[Mages]’ of Wistram, seventh years, and so on. What of it? None of you have passed Foundational training in my opinion. And it is my opinion that matters, or else you would not be in my classes! If you wish to join the [Mages] who do remain, work harder.”

Some [Mages] like Teura, the best of the best students, and so on, would be part of the last hour of teaching where Eldavin actually talked spells. But he devoted the first two hours to the lesser students, who were not allowed to join the actual magic lessons.

Trey had accepted this at first and he knew the old axioms. Rome was not built in a day, walk before you run, and so on. But it still rankled.

“Stare at your hand before you stare through the trees.”

That was Goelv’s whispered remark in the same vein. Eldavin nodded.

“Master your foundations! All spells are made of capacity, control, and output! It’s been six days! Complain to me after six months! Did you think you’d become real [Mages] overnight?”

He looked around and then focused on Trey.

“You.”

Trey had raised his hand. The others scooted back. It was a risky move, Trey knew. If Eldavin didn’t like your question because it was stupid, you left the classroom for the day.

“Grand Magus. May I ask—if Foundations are so important, why do we bother with Acquisitions? If you could cast any spell in theory if you knew all the elements and how magic worked, why bother with learning spells?”

He’d been wondering about that for a day or two. Eldavin’s eyes, which had been narrowed with impatience, focused on Trey’s face.

“You mean, no spells whatsoever, young man? But Spells, like Skills are part of how we level.”

Trey nodded slowly.

“Yes, Grand Magus. But it seems to me they help. But magic is still magic. Could someone cast magic without using Skills or Spells at all?”

Someone laughed; Carn. There were other titters in the classroom. It sounded stupid to the people who lived their entire lives based around classes and Skills and such. Only Emirea didn’t laugh; she looked curiously at the Grand Magus.

And Eldavin? He gave Trey a long, long look. And then he nodded.

“Well said. What a world that would be, wouldn’t it?”

The laughter cut off. Eldavin looked at Trey again, and the [Sand Mage] thought he’d hit a mark. Because Eldavin had the look he sometimes got when a student asked a particularly good question. He slowly walked around the room.

“In its purest form? Hypothetically…if there were a being without Skills or Spells, could they cast magic as well as any [Mage]? Oh, yes.”

He smiled, almost to himself.

“Because Skills are like artifacts, just more convenient. Magic is magic. It is entirely possible for that to come about. Perhaps the greatest magic-users would be like that. Pure. What a world that would be. Unimaginable, of course.”

For a second, he looked out a window, smiling to himself. Then his good mood faded. He turned, sighing.

“…But there is a good reason that Spells exist. Why they are, in fact, important. A fair question, Troy Atlas. Think like that the rest of your life. But you are still wrong. Spells are not better, more potent, or more adaptive than wild magic, or the magic of monsters or indeed, ‘spells’ that are created free-form. But they have one quality which makes them far superior. And it is…?”

He looked around. A few hands were raised and snatched down. Eldavin didn’t wait. He looked at Trey.

“The answer is: spells are less mana-intensive. I could create a fireball identical to a [Fireball] spell. But since one is a spell, one consumes far less mana. Thus, more powerful in every conceivable way for [Mages].”

“But why, Grand Magus? Is there some minute difference?”

The half-Elf met Trey’s eyes. He hesitated, then spoke.

“…Because they are.”

It was the first, and only time he had ever given an answer like that. Because they were. Spells were better. Trey left that lesson curious.

—-

He was not the only one. Why was any of this happening? What was this strange new world?

Questions that had plagued Earthers from the first days they’d found themselves here now tormented the greatest minds in Wistram. No one knew the answer.

But they had a lot of clues. Clues were people, devices, knowledge from both worlds.

Invariably, the Earthers who were fought over like possessions resisted being traded about. There was no union, no way to oppose [Mages] and their factions directly. But it had not come to that. And because they were not prisoners entirely, the Earthers had used what was available to them.

“Troy! You made it! Washed your hands? Aw, I’m just kidding! Get in here!”

Justin grabbed Trey as the young man opened the door to one of the Earth-rooms.

Some things were instinctual. As in…other places…the people of Earth had created secret rooms for them to be, well, people of Earth. Trey had been invited to the therapy sessions run by Malia, but he’d only listened, not really shared.

This, however, was no beachfront with relaxing, calming visages and a place to be safe. This was…

The stereo quality wasn’t great on most of the devices. But Aaron had put aside all of his projects to try and upgrade the one set of portable speakers that someone had taken in a suitcase. With magic and effort, the bass went through Trey’s bones.

“Whoa!”

Flynn looked past Justin into the karaoke room. Well, karaoke, or just songs on the combined playlist of all the Earthers.

And it was a long list because the overlap for the most popular songs was mitigated by the multiple nationalities that had come to Wistram.

Not just languages, but timelines. The most popular songs were the ones from the later years. As late as 2019! Trey, having missed the best songs of two years, listened appreciatively.

Or tried to. Justin screamed in his ears about the best songs over the intense bass until Trey had to shout back.

“This is great, but I’m going deaf!”

“Try the other room then! We’ll be here!”

Flynn was at home with this room, and Trey saw a girl gesturing at the person with the laptop to turn it up. This was the room for people who were trying to recreate the same effect of a front-row concert. And if you thought speakers could get loud, you’d never heard a speaker with [Loud] and [Echo] spells attached.

Trey actually heard ringing in his ears as he escaped the first room and made his way down the private hallway in this suite apart. You had to know the passphrase for the door and somehow, even the Archmages didn’t. Aaron had provided this set of rooms after having obtained the super-secret location and code.

The [Mages] knew the Earthers had secret rooms, and smiled to themselves at their antics. They made the incorrect assumption that while, they, personally, didn’t know how to get in, someone in their faction surely did. It wasn’t as if Aaron or the other Earthers could uncover secrets of Wistram that they, the owners of this place, had not discovered, right?

The second room Trey opened was a much more reasonable song. And it was actually karaoke. Elena, the [Beautician], was singing with someone else. Not perfectly, but they laughed in delight as they finished the song.

“Troy! Are you a [Singer]?”

“Not me.”

Trey instantly refused, blushing a bit, as they tossed the ‘microphone’ over, which was actually enchanted rather than electronic. But someone had actually taken the time to try to detail and paint it like an actual microphone.

This was a place for people who missed home. Elena detached herself as someone else waved for their turn. Her cheeks were flushed with actual excitement. It was a rare contrast to the scowl she normally wore.

“I’m glad you could make it. You’ve been studying all this time. Not that it isn’t great, but we were getting a bit worried about you.”

“Sorry. I uh—”

“Are they still teasing you about the worms?”

Elena glanced sidelong. Trey shook his head, turning redder. She smiled sympathetically.

“You can always come here. The rooms are open all the time. Just keep it secret. Have you seen the other rooms?”

“I’m still sort of deaf from the first one.”

Trey rubbed at one ear. Elena rolled her eyes, exasperated.

“The concert rooms? They’re all going deaf, I swear to god. But here—come on and take a look. It’s not just music. We’ve got several rooms set up. Nothing fancy, but it’s for home, not figuring everything out mostly. Like so…”

The third room was for video games. You wanted to play one of the games on any number of devices? You put your name on the list and requested an hour. It was a full list, Trey saw. Elena grimaced.

“I’m managing that. You wouldn’t believe how many fights there are. You play games?”

“I’m not a gamer, but I like them. What’s on here?”

Trey inspected the list. Elena smiled.

“Well, we actually have a Switch—a Nintendo thing.”

“A what?”

Trey turned to her. Elena snapped her fingers, her eyes lighting up.

“You don’t know? It’s one of the newest consoles. Someone brought it and we can’t hook it up to a television or do more than two-player games, but…here. Hey! I’m showing Troy around! Who’s got the Switch?”

She pushed the door open and Trey saw a room filled with couches, chairs, cushions, all furniture stolen from the rest of Wistram by Earthers with bags of holding. Someone looked up.

“Elena! I have it for this hour!”

George complained. Elena shook her head.

“Just show it for five seconds. Don’t be a baby, George. Everyone turns to children when it comes to wanting to use them. Here—”

She showed Trey the device. He exclaimed and George, despite his objections, was happy to talk about the long-awaited console, which hadn’t been out for another year when he’d vanished. He’d been agog to get to play it.

“But that means two years have passed. And it’s not been one here.”

Trey looked at Elena. George’s face fell. She hesitated, gave the Switch back and turned to him.

“Let’s talk about it…”

She led him outside as everyone went back to playing with each other or by themselves on the electronics. Elena turned.

“I didn’t want to disturb them. This is where they blow off steam. Not all of us want to talk about…time. And home.”

“Sorry.”

She flashed him a smile and Trey felt awkward again. Elena was one of the older Earthers, a good number of years on him and very pretty. She shook her head.

“No, it’s a good thing. Not everyone wants to talk about reality back home. If you want to—let’s skip the cooking room. This is where I think you’ll want to see things.”

They passed by the room where Earthers could enjoy meals from home. It was not the haute cuisine you might expect, but homey foods. To the outrage of many, a lot of effort had been put into recreating an authentic version of the store-bought, boxed mac and cheese—a nostalgic dish for some. Trash for others.

“Here. This is the News Room.”

Elena took Trey into a large room where he stopped and stared. It was a long wall, upon which someone had tacked bits of paper onto a cork board—well, many boards. It was…

A timeline of world events. Starting from around 2016, stretching into late 2019, which was the latest Earther they had.

World events from Earth. Not just one country or major news; the ‘central’ line was about the biggest world events, natural disasters, wars, and so on. But there were smaller additions higher or lower where people contributed tidbits about individual countries they remembered.

“It’s a work in progress. You’re free to add anything, but we do try to make sure it’s verified. Justin—you know that guy?—tried to convince everyone Russia went to war with half a dozen countries. Asshole. This matters and we have people from everywhere.”

“What?”

Trey was distracted. He was reading down the timeline of events. He stared at a spot.

“Spirited Generation? What’s this?”

He pointed to something in late 2017 and just around early 2018, covering the months of December to early February. Elena somberly looked at it.

“Well, read.”

Trey read. He turned.

“Photos? Video footage of us vanishing?”

“It was just happening when some of the newest arrivals got snatched. Yeah. I don’t know what came after that. But they know.”

Trey stood back. They knew. Earth…knew he was missing?

Something ignited in his chest. A longing. He looked at Elena. She met his eyes, and smiled slightly. Sadly.

“I didn’t know if this would bother you. Some people can’t stand to be here. You’re fine though, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then—this is darker, but take a look.”

She led him to the last room on the hall. Past rooms where you could ‘hide’ from the [Mages]. Past a room with a punching bag, three rooms which were for people who wanted to pray.

A chapel, a…Trey didn’t know one of the religions written on one of the doors, but he recognized a lot of dominant religions.

The rooms of Earth. At the end of the hall, next to some rooms yet to be used for a purpose, Elena put her hand on the door. The nameplate was simple. It read:

Names Room.

Someone was inside. He looked up as Trey and Elena entered.

“Oh. Hey, guys.”

Aaron took his eyes away from the names written on the wall. His expression, normally amiable or excited when talking about his projects, was somber. Trey looked around.

This was familiar, too. Elena didn’t need to explain.

It was a list of dead Earthers.

Wistram had provided some of the names. Those who had survived where friends or family had not had provided others.

Not all the scraps of paper were written in the same handwriting. Some were shaky, written in another language, or transcribed.

A few were just the names, nothing more. Some were names, dates, descriptions in brief.

“This is the Names Room. If you have anyone…”

Elena trailed off. Aaron nodded at Trey. The young man slowly nodded back. He hesitated, looking at Elena.

“I…no. I haven’t met anyone else.”

A camera flashed in his mind. Trey clenched his fists. But that was A’ctelios Salash. And Troy Atlas had not been there. He looked at the tally. And it was far too many. Over a hundred names already.

A hundred people? He felt his breath coming faster. His head turned around the room.

“Steady.”

Aaron put a hand on his shoulder. Trey saw him and Elena watching, a bit anxiously.

“Like I said. Even less people come here. But we keep it for a reason. Actually…there’s one more thing. Do you want to step—”

“I’m fine.”

Trey said it more harshly than he intended. Elena nodded. She pointed and he tore his eyes away from the lists of names. He recognized Sidney’s siblings. And one name that had once been spoken by Gazi. It had struck him.

Erin Solstice, Liscor.

The most recent addition. Elena offered him something. A book. Inside, he saw, on the first page—

Aaron Vanwell. Came to Wistram Academy, became a [Magictech Engineer]. I tried to help.

Elena Othonos. Arrived in Terandria, became a [Beautician]. In the company of the Singer of Terandria, Cara O’Sullivan. Came to Wistram. Tell my parents I love them. Check on my dog for me.

If Trey had felt struck in the gut before, now, he felt his stomach drop out of the floor. He knew what this was, too.

“Just in case we don’t make it. You don’t have to write anything.”

He looked up. Elena hovered with Aaron, looking somber. Old. He looked back at the wall of names. The book.

“I—”

Something welled up in him. Trey’s voice was shaky, now.

“I—could I have a moment? I’d like to write…”

“Here. A quill. Take your time.”

Elena nodded and Aaron passed him one. They gave him space. Trey looked around the room. Slowly, he stared at the book.

He added his name. Troy Atlas. A little message for his family. But that…

That wasn’t him. Nor could he add Teresa. Rather, Trey wrote quickly. Then—he went to the wall. He found one of the pieces of paper and began to write.

The children of A’ctelios Salash joined the names on the wall. Trey pinned them there, hiding them under some other bits of paper. He stared at the writing, so tense that his quill had pierced the paper in two places. He ended the brief description with a message.

Pakeil. May still be alive. They will be avenged.

He left the room after that. Why had he come to Wistram? What motivated him more than the King of Destruction’s grand dream?

It was that.

—-

Afterwards, Elena and Aaron treated Trey to a light drink. It was the thing to do, after all that.

“Sorry for laying it on you. But you held it really well.”

“How many people are…trying to figure it out?”

“Just a handful. Most don’t want to think about it. Or block it out, it seems like. You have to really think about home all the time. I can’t blame them—but someone has to. Listen, it’s not all bad. We know more are out there. That Canada [Reporter], the [Popstar]—and there’s a rumor in the Revivalists that someone found a [Doctor] in Baleros. Wistram’s checking it out.”

Trey took a sip from the glass, tasting a fruit beverage with a hint of something stronger in it.

“You knew her, right, Elena? That’s what Flynn told me.”

Elena half-smiled.

“Cara? Oh yes. And believe me—if we weren’t stuck in Wistram, I’d say we should all join her. She’s…great. Sort of difficult to be around, but we have a safe place and the Archmages aren’t going to hear about it from me.”

“Really?”

Aaron and Trey leaned in. Elena clamped her lips shut.

“Sorry. I told you, Aaron, but no one will ever know. And I don’t know where it is. Cara set it up. And she sent me here—she’s not trusting Wistram. But like I said, she found a way to protect people. She’s tough.”

“What’s she like?”

Elena was happy to tell stories about Cara. Not all who had come from Earth had been dragged around, or suffered until they were saved.

“She’s the highest-level Earther in this world, I’ll bet anything. Yeah, she’s singing songs from Earth, but she essentially created her business and image. She’s seen combat—that was before I met her. And I saw some stuff. But there are others who went through fire. A real odyssey, even. Have you met Sang? Sorry, that’s his nickname. Sang-min? Korea.”

“No. Wait…is he the one with the scar…”

Trey had seen a young man with a scar running down his shoulder across his chest. Aaron and Elena nodded.

“You should ask him what he did. He doesn’t mind retelling it. Apparently, he landed in Terandria. First thing he did was become a [Mercenary]. Earned enough gold to buy passage to Wistram when he heard we were here. Apparently, he’d just passed his army training so he was ready. You know, they have mandatory military service there?”

“Really? Wow.”

“And you made it out of Hellios with full [Mage]’s gear and an education. While the King of Destruction was rampaging across Chandrar. You’re no slouch yourself.”

Aaron commented. Trey lifted a cup to his lips automatically.

“It wasn’t much. I was lucky, that was all.”

“Do you mind talking about it? You haven’t said much in the therapy sessions.”

Trey hesitated.

“I don’t have much to talk about.”

He lied. Elena gave him a knowing look while Aaron nodded, oblivious.

“But you have seen battle?”

Trey mulled over the question a bit too long. Even so, he nodded.

“A few times. [Bandits] and monsters.”

It was an honest answer. He’d been warned about truth spells of course. Aaron looked…interested. Elena’s face was troubled, but Aaron leaned forwards.

“Really? Did you fight, fight, or were you casting spells from the back or something?”

“Aaron.”

Elena scowled, but Trey shrugged.

“I saw fighting. I’ve…killed people.”

The two looked at him. Aaron closed his mouth slowly. Elena gave Trey another look. He slowly took another drink from his cup.

Ah, yes. That was what was so interesting about this place. Trey looked around. Most of the Earthers, with the exception of this Sang, a few others, had survived or not met with monsters. Some, like Aaron, still thought of it like fantasy, even if he was aware of the reality.

“Well, you’ll be safe here. You don’t have to learn magic to defend yourself if you’re worried about…you know.”

Elena told Trey. He looked at her.

“We have to fight someday. There are monsters out there. Crelers and worse.”

“You want to fight Crelers, dude?”

Aaron was astonished, half grinning at the bravado. Trey was silent. He’d seen Crelers. Orthenon had shown him and Teres a nest.

“I heard someone had a gun. Are we okay with giving Wistram…that?”

He changed the subject. Elena grimaced.

“It’s an airsoft one. You know, those pellets? And yes, Saif. We’re trying not to give them that. Or Aaron’s inventions.”

She glowered. Aaron raised his hands.

“Look, it’s self-defense! Against Crelers and stuff!”

“Your Shock Orb isn’t self-defense. You gave one to Montressa and she went after someone!”

“Archmage Naili did that. But we’ve got two. Just in case…”

“Shock Orb? What’s this about?”

Trey glanced up. Elena and Aaron looked at him. Elena sighed.

“Toys.”

Aaron grinned at Trey, looking younger for all he was older.

“Magictech.”

—-

Aaron Vanwell was a [Magictech Engineer]. And he might never have seen what happened when you struck someone with a sword—or smelled burning flesh. Seen a Pakeil. But good on him for not seeing any of those things. No one should.

He was good at what he did, and what he did was marry electronics and magic together. Trey stared at the floating orb of brass, or possibly copper, saw the diagrams of the internal magical battery.

“I made that. I’m still learning the activation runes and whatever Naili did. But if you cast a shock spell—bam!”

“Cast a shock spell and I will break that thing. It’s dangerous.”

Elena warned Aaron, keeping well clear from the invention, a powerful artifact for any [Aeromancer] or [Mage] in general.

Indeed, Aaron was not careless. He’d given all three anti-shock rings. Especially because his second creation was just as thematically electric.

“It’s the glove.”

He showed Trey a familiar looking glove, with a glowing space in the palm. If you hooked it into a magical battery, or used your mana, you could send bolts of lightning flying.

…However, it had about as much accuracy as a bolt of lightning in the wild. Aaron was working on focusing it. Also—you couldn’t fly with it like the movie it was based off of.

“I’m going to make the entire suit of armor.”

“For what? [Mages]? Yourself? Are you trying to become an adventurer?”

Trey was curious. He eyed both weapons and Aaron shrugged.

“Just in case. But wouldn’t it be amazing if you could fly around in it? I know there are [Flight] enchantments. Put one on the boots and…dude. Iron Man!”

Elena rolled her eyes, exasperated. Trey, on the other hand, looked at the Shock Orb.

“How much power does that orb have?”

“I don’t know. Montressa—she was Naili’s helper, with Beatrice—took one for field testing but they never came back. And it’s an augment to spells. She could cast [Chain Lightning] through it.”

“Really? That’s Tier 4, I think. Tier 5? Can you use it?”

“Sure can. Not as strong, but…want to see it?”

“Absolutely not. They’re secret and no one knows we have them. And you’re not setting the punching bag on fire again.”

Elena warned Aaron. He looked crestfallen; the room was a small ‘armory’ of little trinkets, wands, that the Earthers had stockpiled for a ‘just-in-case’ scenario. Trey glanced around and stepped back.

“Well, if it’s just a small spell—why not hit me? I’ll use [Sand Wall] or [Light Barrier]. Go on.”

“What? No—”

Aaron looked astonished. He recoiled as Trey stepped back. So did Elena.

“Troy, that’s way too far. Aaron’s inventions aren’t perfect. I’ve seen them explode.”

“I can block a [Lightning Bolt] once. Try it. You have to test it to know if you can use it, right? Do you have any armor? Have you used it on a monster?”

Trey looked from Aaron to Elena. The two older Earthers stared at him. And again, Trey felt it. He lowered the staff he’d raised and looked around.

—-

Trey Atwood thought of himself as…meek. Compared to Teres, who’d taken up a sword and fought in battles. He wasn’t brave or reckless, certainly not a born warrior like the King of Destruction’s court.

And yet, he realized, his time in Chandrar had changed him a bit. He had become more warlike than the other Earthers. Even other [Mages].

The realization hit him when he offered to let Aaron test the Shock Orb on him. He didn’t mean full power right off, but why not? If he got shocked, he had the ring on and he would have cast spells to protect himself.

He wouldn’t die. He had seen battle, so the point that Trey realized was…

It was childish. Not just Aaron, but the other young [Mages], the people who got excited about the idea of fighting. Even Flos understood the reality of death and battle, for all he embraced it. Because he was insane in that regard.

But someone who’d never seen someone die? Never stabbed someone or hit someone and seen what [Light Arrows] could actually do to flesh if you shot a hundred of them into someone?

When the duels began, Trey hated it.

Dueling was a practice among students, and even [Mages]. Not as much Eldavin’s free-for-all as agreed-upon matches, sometimes for grudges, other times for bets or just pride or status.

They were quick, and could take place at a moment’s notice. There were known duelists in each year, and apparently Nailihuaile had once been a good one. The other Archmages? Not so much.

“What about Archmage Amerys? Wasn’t she one?”

Trey got a chance to slip her name in as he stood with some second-years and his group of [Mage] friends. Tov looked sideways as the Drowned Man watched two [Mages] dodge around each other, using quick, low-level spells to hammer each other’s barriers until one collapsed—or one gave up.

You could get hurt, but killing another [Mage] was rare, and of course, frowned upon. Anything short of that was usually healable with potions.

But how stupid. You could lose an eye with a single [Fire Bolt] spell. Trey glowered at the two ‘duelists’, who didn’t actually have the [Duelist] class.

“Archmage Amerys? Before my time. But I heard she didn’t duel. Only Naili did. Weird though. She’s the ‘Calm Flower of the Battlefield’, one of the King’s Seven.”

A student remarked. Trey nodded, and then supplied his own answer. Amerys probably didn’t duel because she killed people instead of played at it. If she was anything like Mars, Gazi, Orthenon—any of the Seven, this wasn’t what she’d enjoy.

“Yield! Yield! Damn it, you win!”

The [Pyromancer] second-year gave up as the [Hex Mage] finally beat her. Grinning, the [Hex Mage] accepted accolades, trotting about as the Drake picked herself up. He was a Centaur.

“That’s a win streak of six! Can anyone stop me? Anyone first to fourth-year!”

The Centaur was named Reham, and he strutted about, rather cocksure and proud of himself. Trey saw him look around challengingly and focus.

Not on Trey, but Carn. The young man, who was both a [Lord], [Warrior], and junior [Mage] had dueled twice. Both times, he’d not even cast a spell but beaten his opponents with his sword.

“What about you—Carn, isn’t it? Think your sword’s fast enough to beat my spells? Let’s see a disarming spell versus that sword!”

Reham teased. Carn just shook his head.

“I’m not about to cut you.”

Those were fighting words to Reham. He tossed his head as his friends oohed. And began to place bets. Trey saw the challenge and affront in Reham’s eyes.

But what he took to be Carn boasting was just fact. It was obvious that Carn—Calac—would never get Reham to surrender unless he had a blade at the Centaur’s throat. And the Centaur would just keep back.

If Calac actually draws his sword, he’ll cut your leg off. That’s why he won’t fight you.

Trey watched as Reham tried to provoke Carn. And there made his first mistake so far on his undercover mission.

Trey’s ability, his talent, was not magic. It was not a cleverness of the tongue or swiftness of the mind. He was…decent at magic. But that was all.

If Trey had one strength, it was the ability to not annoy people. To, put simply, ingratiate or keep from offending people he met. To smile at people he hated, or when they said something he didn’t like.

He’d learned a bit of it with Flos; more with Fetohep and simply being around people like that. It was why he’d honed in on Eldavin’s true nature. Not just the mighty; Trey’s enduring quality had been his ability to keep his true emotions hidden.

It was a talent. Everyone thought they had a perfect mask when they were hiding how much they really hated someone else’s guts, or were bored, or…anything.

They were wrong. Almost everyone had a tell, and Trey had learned to be better than most—thanks to Gazi and his experiences.

However, he had breaking points. And, he was learning, when he really didn’t like something?

It was as obvious as the scowl on his face. Which Reham saw now, because he swung around to the [Sand Mage].

“You don’t look very impressed. Ah! It’s the worm guy! Summoner of intestinal troubles! Now there’s a hex! What about you? Do you want to try me? I’ll use only one hand!”

He laughed and everyone began to notice Trey again. Just when the attention had been dying down. Trey shook his head.

“I don’t duel.”

“Come now. You certainly looked like you thought you had a chance. What about Carn and you together? Sword and worms!”

Sword and sand. Trey felt his jaw clench. He saw the young man look sidelong at him.

“Carn can’t fight you. He’d kill you. He doesn’t know how to pretend to fight.”

He informed the Centaur. Reham recoiled. Tov glanced at Trey and the young man realized his second mistake.

They might not be warriors who knew what it was like to kill people, but no one Reham’s age and temperament would have let that go. The Centaur flicked a wand out of the air.

“You and me, Atlas. A duel! One hand—until you admit I’m your better. Or apologize now and I’ll let it go.”

“Reham! He’s a first-year!”

“Then I won’t even move my hooves.”

The Centaur retorted. Troy saw some of his friends, Goelv, Emirea, Tov, looking worried.

“Enough of this. I’ll fight you. My sword touches you, you forfeit.”

Carn interrupted. Reham looked delighted. But Trey’s ire was up.

“I’ll do it.”

He lifted his staff as the older students looked delighted or appalled. Trey stalked to a place opposite Reham. The Centaur [Hex Mage] snorted confidently.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take it easy on you! No spells until the count.”

Trey just glared at him. He readied the [Geomancer]’s staff, taken from his corpse. He thought of war. A’ctelios.

“…two…one…”

The [Sand Mage] raised his staff. He cast without speaking, with Gazi’s training in him. He didn’t need to speak the spell aloud.

[Light B—]

Something hit his face and knee and he went sprawling. They weren’t hard impacts. Not impacts at all, but the bolts of magic turned his muscles to jelly for a second. His legs collapsed and his mouth went numb. He sprawled to raucous laughter.

Trey lay on his back for a moment as Reham snorted. He lay there…

Embarrassed, as people laughed at ‘worm guy’. Who was also a first-year unwise enough to challenge a third-year duelist. And who had forgotten—

He was no great [Soldier]. They might have been petty mage duels, but you still had to be fast. The best of them had become adventurers. They still told stories about the [Necromancer] who had been exiled.

“Well? Getting up? I’ll let you have the first spell!”

Reham called. Trey lay there, and felt something wiggle in his hood. Minizi. She was trying to get free. The little Lifesand Golem was ready to fight!

Slowly, Trey got up. His cheeks were red, and people were chuckling or wincing with sympathy. He looked at Reham as the Centaur waited.

“Want to continue?”

“One spell?”

Trey called out, a bit shakily. The Centaur laughed.

“Bravo! Yes, go ahead! Next one who falls down loses! I like his spirit.”

He turned to the others. He wasn’t actually a bad person. Although perhaps a bully. Either way, he gave Trey the first spell and probably didn’t deserve what happened next. Trey planted the staff as his friends watched. He took a breath, pointed at Reham, who had the sense to throw up a barrier.

Trey spoke.

“[Karas Duststorm].”

—-

It turned out that when discipline needed to be administered, Wistram Academy had its methods. Not only was Trey Atwood forced to write a written apology and recompense the injured, he had to perform menial magical chores like replacing [Light] spells and so on for two weeks.

Not fix the hallways or clean up; that was a job for Golems. But he was in trouble.

He hung his head as he sat in his rooms that night. What was wrong with him? The answer? Trey had indulged his temper for the second time since coming to this world. And he really should have realized the first time, when he stabbed Baosar with the [Light Spear], that his temper was a dangerous thing.

“I’m frankly impressed. It’s not every day we meet a first-year student who can cast a spell of that magnitude. But it’s frankly unacceptable. Even more since there were bystanders! Twenty three needing potions and poor Reham is suffering the [Healer]’s attention even now.”

“It was a duel, Magus Telim.”

The huge [High Mage] had been the one to rule Trey’s sentence with six other [Mages] on the disciplinary committee for the week. He had actually been the one who offered the most punishment.

Which was fair. [Karas Duststorm] was not a single-target spell. And when Trey had felt the magic leave him and seen the roaring blast of dust, sand, and stone shoot down the hallway at the laughing people, Reham and his friends, he’d known he’d made a mistake.

No one was laughing at ‘worm guy’ now. The [Sand Mage] had injured an entire hallway of students, some quite badly. Karas Duststorm was a spell for battle. It wasn’t as deadly as other Tier 3 spells—but it was dangerous, the kind of thing that made a charging rank of [Soldiers] blind and tore skin off if you were too close.

No one laughed at Trey anymore. Indeed, it seemed to be that many now regretted joking at his expense, considering, rightly, that it had led to this moment. But a second consequence of the duel gone wrong was that everyone now knew Trey’s level, roughly at least.

[Mages] had [Appraisal] spells. Trey had an anti-appraisal ring. Perhaps some had noticed this, but he was one among many. Now, they reconsidered. And the evidence was plain.

A first-year capable of casting Tier 3 magic? Unheard of! Okay, not unheard of, but rare for someone his age! Sometimes you got self-taught [Mages] of that caliber, but rarely as young. Of course, the [Mages] higher-up knew the real reason for Trey’s level.

Earther. But it meant even Aaron and the others were looking at Trey respectfully. Flynn included.

Trey just wanted to hide under his bed with the embarrassment, regret of it all. He wanted to apologize to Reham, but the Centaur was still unconscious. What had he done? All his lofty thoughts about what a ‘real battle’ was, and Trey had injured innocent people and overreacted. What a prat he was.

“Go away, Minizi. You can have the bed.”

The Lifesand Golem stared at Trey under his bed. She obediently climbed onto the top of his bed and sat there.

Trey crawled out of his bed after a while and got back to his punishment.

—-

The [Light] spells of Wistram Academy were important to keep lit. Since most of the academy was indoors, only a few windows had actual spells to reveal the outside world.

And whilst there were ancient enchantments of light that had never faded or gone dark in thousands of years…most were not that.

Even artifacts needed their mana supply topped up, or adjusted, or a semi-permanent [Light Sconce] spell needed to be recast every few days.

The [Mages] had taught Trey the new spells as a punishment. Now, he had to go around and replenish them floor by floor.

It was boring work. As boring as Eldavin’s exercises, without the benefit of actually leveling. The problem with higher-tier or more complex spells was that casting some could take minutes.

It took six minutes to cast a [Light Sconce] spell at Trey’s level of expertise. Not because it was a Tier 3 spell—it was Tier 2—but because you had to anchor it, configure the bindings…

It was boring. And if you made a mistake, the entire spell matrix collapsed or blinded you. Once, it began flashing on and off every two seconds, which was entertaining…but Trey had a quota before his punishment ended.

Three days of punishment later, he was a pariah.

Worm guy was sand guy was Troy Atlas, whose name was mud. He was both clown and violent monster.

Oh, the Earthers stuck by him, and his friends, but Troy himself felt like everyone knew his stupidity. If he hoped that class would take his mind off it—

Eldavin.

—-

“Magic is not a metaphor for one thing. It is not a single tool, a hammer, just as it is not a sword. A sword has a set number of uses. Magic has no such limits. So I shall not speak to any trite metaphors when explaining it to you. What I shall say is that [Mages] have a responsibility to use magic well. Not that it is without reason to use in self-interest. Why not? But when [Mages] lose control, when selfishness replaces any hint of altruism or sense of community, cataclysm occurs. Wistram has learned and forgotten and learned that lesson many times. Let me recount a few moments to you.”

The day after the [Karas Duststorm] incident, Eldavin’s evening lecture class had been pointed. Trey hadn’t been certain—until the half-Elf looked at him.

“However, stories are a secondary teacher to experience. And a [Mage] who endangers others is no true student of Wistram. You. Out.”

He pointed at Trey. It was the first time Trey had been kicked out of Eldavin’s classroom and it compounded the shame. He slowly rose. Eldavin spoke, crisply.

“Return once you have finished your punishment, Troy Atlas. Now—if you think a loss of temper is exclusive only to students, allow me to recall you an [Archmage]’s petulance. And why we remember such inferior beings as lessons of abject mockery rather than great spellcasters. Magic without morality is worthless.”

Eldavin was at least consistent. He did not play favorites. Trey passed by Valeterisa, taking notes with one hand in the front row. He walked out of the classroom and found someone else who had removed themself.

Carn. He hovered by the door and Trey realized he’d left on the pretense of the bathroom when Trey had. He caught Trey outside the corridor and spoke.

“Have you found her?”

“No.”

The young man, Calac Crusand’s face was frustration. He was at least smart enough to deploy a [Silence] spell. Possibly with an artifact since Trey doubted he’d learned the spell yet. He spoke in a whisper.

“We are running out of time. Nerrhavia is at war with Reim! Every nation in the region is fighting and my parents are standing on the battlefield!”

“I know. I haven’t figured out where she is. Don’t be so obvious next time! I have to go. I’m being punished.”

Trey walked past him. He sensed Calac’s eyes burning on his back. He was frustrated. To Trey, the location of Amerys was one problem out of many. If they found her, when they did…freeing her was a tall task. Perhaps an impossible one. But Gazi had a plan. Trey wished it were not so tenuous.

—-

It was on the fourth night of replacing [Light] spells—and Trey estimated he had four more to go when he made another mistake.

Another damn mistake. And this one he had no excuse for.

Yes, it was close to midnight, maybe an hour or two before. Eleven PM? Trey had been checking his smartphone, regretting not buying some headphones so he could listen to it while working. But it was hard to listen to a song and cast the stupid [Light Sconce] spell.

To entertain himself, he’d let his constant companion, Minizi, out of her hiding place. Frustrated, bored, and still guilty, even if Reham had accepted his apology, Trey was squatting on the ground of the corridor under the glowing light spell.

Playing a familiar game.

“Go, Minizi! Use—Tackle!”

The Lifesand Golem gave him a look. Then she obediently rushed forwards and tackled the opposing Sand Golem, in the shape of a toad with a plant on its back. She grappled, until it threw her back.

Sand bullets! They spat from the thing’s mouth and poofed into minute showers of dust off Minizi. She looked at Trey again.

“Slash attack!”

She raised her claymore and cleaved her opponent in two. Trey hesitated.

“…That’s too realistic. I told you to take it easy!”

He began to suspect that video games based on this particular idea lacked the uh, realism that Minizi kept interjecting when she squashed her Sand Golem opponents’ heads in, or tore off limbs.

Well, they were his golems. Trey did this from time to time. Not Pokémon recreations so much as all kinds of little games.

Defend the castle. War games. He’d tried chess with Minizi as one of the pieces, but she kept stomping enemy pieces when they put her in danger. The Golem was getting a personality and he couldn’t tell if it was his subconscious impression of Gazi giving her the appearance of free will…or the Lifesand.

It wasn’t wrong to do this. Maybe a bit like a kid playing with toys, but it was a lot of fun to watch Minizi run about and create ‘monsters’ to fight her with. Lifesand was stronger than any other sand Trey could create.

“A shame you can’t do more.”

Minizi looked hurt. She waved her sword and Trey interpreted her words, partly making them up.

“Yes, you did kill that rat. Gross. But I meant, more…combat. But I can’t afford to give you that much blood per day to make you my size. And you can’t hide anyways. I wish I could give you a stronger sword, though. Then you’d be able to uh…kill more rats?”

He wasn’t sure what the endgame was there. But Minizi’s imitation of Gazi was half-hearted. She was tough for Lifesand, but her ‘claymore’ was as sharp as a butter knife.

Nor could Trey upgrade her in other ways. He’d tried. But since it was…sand…a ‘sand cannon’ shot pitiful balls of sand. Minizi with a bow and arrow couldn’t fire it. She could throw bits of herself, but it was about as painful as uh, you might expect.

No elasticity, tension in the bowstring or any other mechanical advantages that the other substances provided. Minizi’s enduring talent was that she was, like sand, easy to create, hard to fully destroy, and she was malleable if she wanted to be.

Anyways, the mistake. It wasn’t the little game, but rather, the setting. Trey normally did this in his rooms, but he’d thought the deserted corridors and this remote level on the ground floor of Wistram Academy meant no one was around.

He forgot that this was Wistram. Someone was always around.

“I say. That’s a Lifesand Golem. Dead gods, extraordinary. You—young man, you’re a [Mage] of hidden depths, aren’t you?”

Trey closed his eyes as Minizi went away from killing her opponent. He turned his head and saw the worst of all people had spotted him and Minizi.

Literally, the worst. Not hyperbole this time. If Trey had to create a list of the worst people to spot him doing this?

Archmage Viltach of the Libertarian Faction was top of the list. There were people Trey Atwood didn’t like, like Rievan, Charles, older and younger mages.

But no one was like Viltach, the Human-centric leader of his faction. Trey straightened and then bowed.

No showing his true feelings this time.

“Archmage. I was…”

He wanted to lie, but there was no helping it. Viltach was locked onto Minizi and he’d seen what she was in a moment.

“You’re…Troy Atlas. I’ve heard your name twice this week.”

The Archmage slowly stepped forwards. Trey closed his eyes. His reputation had even reached the Archmages. He nodded to the man and studied Viltach.

In the light of his newly-replenished spell, Viltach was…interesting. Trey had met all the Archmages currently at Wistram, with Amerys being the notable exception.

Verdan Blackwood. Old, mimicking a Dullahan. Smart.

Feor, the half-Elf who was ancient, wise, and but for Eldavin, the quintessential wise elf-mage of stories.

Nailihuaile, youngest, laughing, playful and sometimes, Trey suspected, dangerously serpentine.

Valeterisa, remarkably ordinary until you saw how much she had given to magic and what she would do to learn more.

Viltach was interesting because of contrast. Some of the Archmages were effortlessly impressive. Feor, for one, and Nailihuaile, as the Star Lamia, were brilliant representations of what people thought Archmages should be.

Verdan and Valeterisa were the opposite. They did not try to look a certain way. They just were and Archmage was a title they wore, not embodied.

Viltach was the one man who aspired to look the part of the three Humans. Thus, his goatee was splendidly trimmed, his hair luxurious, the product of powerful tonics. He was handsome, his robes would have made a [Court Mage] look like a [Pauper], and he wore several choice artifacts to enhance the magical look of him.

The Archmage looked like he could be in his early thirties, probably the product of illusion spells because Trey knew he was at least a decade and a half older.

Trey knew the Earthers hated his guts, by and large. At least, Elena and Aaron did. They regarded Viltach as racist, which in this world was speciesist, and resented being claimed by the Libertarians as proof of Human supremacy.

The [Sand Mage]’s knowledge of Viltach mostly came from talks with others, and the ill-fated battle with Eldavin. He’d quite enjoyed seeing Viltach be knocked flying by Eldavin, but Trey had avoided the Archmage like the plague.

Now, he saw Minizi turn and the Archmage bent.

“This is Lifesand. I wasn’t sure at first. You’ve mastered Lifesand, young Troy Atlas?”

“It’s a Skill I got by accident, Archmage. I’m sorry—I’m at work, and—”

“Ah, punishment?”

Viltach was squatting, staring at Minizi, who had taken a combat pose when she saw him. He recognized her too.

“This is…is this Gazi the Omniscient? It is! Stylized, but wonderful detail.”

He glanced up and Trey’s heart sank further.

“I—”

What was the move here? Trey thought and desperately spoke.

“I—yes, Archmage. I saw her, once.”

“Really.”

Viltach’s brows snapped together. He was more mobile. Not as much as Nailihuaile, but able to squat and stand without having that ponderous care of age that Feor and Verdan had. He regarded Trey.

“Ah, yes. You’re from Hellios, aren’t you? You probably saw the King of Destruction marching through. And the Lifesand?”

Trey had a ring that protected him from appraisal and truth spells. Even so, you had to be careful not to be caught out in a lie. He improvised. Truth, Gazi had told him, was the best lie.

“I—was injured while the King of Destruction was at war, Archmage. It’s a secret; please don’t tell anyone. But I met Gazi the Omniscient and at around that time…”

He slowly lifted his chin. The Archmage of Terandria, self-styled, saw the line across Trey’s throat.

“Ah.”

Viltach breathed out. Trey saw the man stare at the place where the Quarass had slashed him, at the little imitation of the Gazer.

Trey didn’t know what would happen next. Viltach grabbing him and proclaiming that he would be one of the Libertarians because Trey was too valuable? Demanding to know more about the King of Destruction, maybe even sensing the real truth? Taking Minizi like Valeterisa kept trying to do, offering him money for her?

He did not know Viltach. The Archmage looked at him. Then, slowly, he exhaled. He reached out, and gripped Trey’s shoulder gently.

“Ah, young man. It all begins to make sense. You’ve had a terrible time of it, haven’t you?”

He looked at Trey with genuine sympathy. The young man from England started. Viltach bent down to admire Gazi again and glanced up at Trey.

“Such wonderful attention to detail. You must have gotten a good look at her. Troy Atlas, if you have a moment, why don’t you come with me. Let’s leave these spells for now. I should rather like to investigate your Golem—with your permission?”

The Archmage looked up. Trey didn’t know what to say; it was probably bad to refuse. Humor him, like Flos or anyone else.

“Of course, Archmage. But I do have more spells to cast—”

“Ah, of course. What’s your route?”

“This entire hallway and the next.”

It would take at least another hour. Trey hoped Viltach would let it be, but the Archmage just stood up.

“Well, I understand your punishment must continue. But if you will permit me—”

He snapped his fingers. Down the hallway, [Light Sconce] spells flared to life. Trey’s jaw dropped. The Archmage smiled at him and winked.

“We can let you off a single night, I feel. Which hallway? My chambers are higher up either way.”

—-

Viltach had rooms higher up, as most Archmages did. And like them, his rooms were entire apartments to themselves. Mansions of space.

What was fascinating to Trey was that he was sitting in one now. Viltach preferred Terandrian furniture and decorations of course and Trey had a lovely padded seat with little quilt work. Like the royal family might possess, he thought.

Minizi sat on a table, staring around much like he did. The Lifesand Golem warily edged back as Viltach put down a cup in front of Trey.

“I find ordinary goat’s milk and honey is perfect for a cold night. Ashfire Bee honey though; that’s the luxury.”

Trey had accepted the man’s choice. Viltach himself had a warm glass of the stuff. Nothing magical besides the honey from the notoriously big bees. And he’d even prepared it himself, rather than magically send everything moving about like Telim could do from his seat.

He settled back.

“So you can make sand golems, cast [Karas Duststorm], and you survived meeting one of the King of Destruction’s most fearsome servants. You, Troy Atlas, are a young man of depth and talent, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“You’re very kind, Archmage.”

It was the kind of thing Trey was used to. The approval of Fetohep. The King of Destruction’s laughter. But again, he misread Viltach slightly. The man slapped a hand down on the table. Trey jumped, but it was not anger or impatience like Eldavin. What he saw in Viltach’s eyes was—

Excitement.

“Nonsense. Lifesand is such a unique substance! You can’t sculpt regular Sand Golems to any degree of detail, but clearly, Lifesand holds it! And look—you have the individual scales in her armor! Perfect symmetry of the body—most [Golem Artificers] don’t actually do it that well, you know, especially the female form—the head’s off.”

“It’s a bobble head. Something from my world, Archmage.”

“Ah, art. It gives her an endearing quality. What’s her name?”

He presumed Minizi had a name. Viltach looked up and Trey answered.

“Minizi.”

“Minizi! Hah! I love it. Don’t let the real thing ever see that, though. But—amazing, amazing. If only you could sell Lifesand Golems.”

Trey looked alarmed and Viltach clarified.

“Not your prized creation! But other ones. I suspect though, they require blood. Lifesand is tricky if I recall my studies. But if not, I’d pay for one myself. Maybe a Treant, or something fantastical. Although I wonder if they could support branching structures…”

The [Sand Mage] hesitated, but the answer came out of him before he could really think about it.

“I think Minizi—a Lifesand Golem could actually be a tree, Archmage. They’re very strong. She can lift my spellbook and one time it fell off the desk and onto her. She barely got squished and came right back.”

“Extraordinary. I’m so jealous. I never went into sand—glass, yes, but sand? But then, I had no idea how to acquire Lifesand. I suppose from the way you describe the event, that was as your life’s blood seeped into the sand…?”

Trey nodded and Viltach shuddered.

“No wonder it’s so rare. Not for me. Not for me. Would you care for some cookies? Other snacks? I have all the Earth-ones right here.”

He remembered himself and offered some of the treats. Trey hesitated. Normally one might refuse. But his insight with Fetohep made Trey catch himself.

“I’d love a cookie, actually.”

“Wonderful!”

Some people loved being the host. Fetohep embodied that.

“I have some of those oatmeal ones as my favorites. Do you like any in particular? Ah, here. We had Rhir’s hell of a time figuring it out, but—try this. Chocolate.”

He handed Trey a dark cookie. The young man sniffed it and detected the familiar scent and bit greedily.

“It’s good!”

“Excellent. We tried a hundred different plants from Baleros before we figured out how those cocoa things worked. Not beans but fruit!”

Viltach snorted. This was the kind of thing Wistram was willing to fund thousands of gold pieces for, incidentally. Well, [Mages] like Telim would do anything in the name of better treats.

Trey sat, drinking, well, milk and eating cookies with the Archmage. He was not what Trey expected. He looked admiringly at Minizi.

“I can see why you kept her secret. It’s not good to show too many talents. Rest assured I’ll keep it secret. I apologize if I’m keeping you from something, but I had to ask how you learned to make something so unique.”

“You like Golems, Archmage Viltach?”

“Viltach will do.”

He raised a hand gently. The Archmage sat forwards, arms resting on his knees. Personably.

“Myself? I don’t actually specialize in Golems. Wistram does not…delve as deeply into Golems these days. One look at Cognita tells you why. But I’m in the same field, so to speak.”

Trey nodded. No one wanted to create golems when perfection and a warning in both forms, Cognita, walked the halls. Viltach frowned at the name of the Truestone Golem, but he nodded to Minizi.

“She looks quite well done. That’s what struck me. Instantly identifiable, and that’s not just because Gazi the Omniscient is famous. I admire that kind of detail. And that other, squat thing? Well done! Is it imagination or a copied design?”

“Thank you. I—it’s from my world.”

Trey blushed. Viltach nodded.

“Recreated well either way. You strike me as a young man very much like myself.”

“Archmage? How so?”

“Why, your school of magic. You do know what my field of expertise is, don’t you?”

Viltach looked startled. Trey supposed it was a small secret or even common knowledge. He…thought…the Archmages were just political animals, Valeterisa being the exception.

Viltach’s face fell when he realized Trey had no idea.

“Each Archmage is still a [Mage]. We’re not all generalists like Feor, you know. Do you know the other Archmage’s talents?”

“I…know Archmage Nailihuaile is an [Enchanter]. Everyone speaks of that, Archmage Viltach. But not yours or anyone else’s, I’m sorry. I know of Archmage Amerys being a lightning mage.”

This was Trey’s moment and he seized it. He saw Viltach look more and more crestfallen.

“Amerys and Naili…? Well, I suppose it’s memorable. Not your fault. Well—instead of telling, it’s easier to show. Here.”

He sprang to his feet briskly. Trey saw him motion.

“My workshops are right next to this room. You can see one of my projects—just a bit of work, one of my small income streams—and if we’re lucky…aha!”

Trey followed Viltach into the adjoining room. And there he saw what Archmage Viltach’s specialty was.

The room was filled with projects. Trey’s mouth opened and Minizi copied him with a cookie crumb in her hands as they saw the [Artisan Mage]’s workshop.

Because that was what Viltach was.

“Artisan, not enchanter. There’s a difference. Nailihuaile enchants, but she doesn’t make what she uses. I am her counterpart, as disagreeable as that is to say.”

Viltach gestured around the room. In each part, cordoned off by rune spells, he had a different project going. Trey saw a tree sprouting in one corner, glowing Sage’s Grass in a few pots, growing very tall compared to all the samples he’d ever seen, a carpenter’s bench with ordinary tools like clamps, carving knives, even pots of glue, neatly labeled—

And where Viltach was standing, a fascinating sight.

It was a flaming pit of crimson, molten glass. Trey recoiled instinctively, but there was no smoke. And yet, he saw burning fire mixed in with a strange, transparent liquid. And little shapes, barely visible in the clear liquid.

“Archmage. What is that?”

“This, Troy Atlas, is one of my projects. I suppose it’s best to make a quiz of it. Do you know what this substance is?”

Fearless of the heat, Viltach drew a little ladle in a bowl out and scooped up some of the thick liquid. He let it dribble back down—it was very dense. And it looked…familiar…

Trey hesitated. Viltach saw he didn’t know and answered.

“Magicore.”

“Magicore? But that’s…”

Trey had seen magicore, the grey-white, opaque molten magical rock that you could mine up and was worth a lot. Viltach smiled.

“A common misunderstanding. That’s raw magicore. Unrefined. This is purified. Ninety nine percent pure…not very, in other words.”

He grimaced to himself. Trey thought that was pretty pure. Viltach went on.

“And it’s elementalized. The spirit of fire. See? Everburning candles, flame spells—it’s the very image of fire.”

Trey saw now two candles were providing the flames, as well as the spells Viltach had going. He was turning the magicore to the fire element, like adding food dye to the substance.

“I see that, Archmage. What is it for?”

“This. We have three. I could wait for them to grow, but this will do. This is why [Mages] love magicore. Here…careful, it will probably burst into flame the moment I—”

He retrieved the little object from the transparent liquid and sure enough, as the magicore drained from the ladle’s sieve-like bottom, the little gemstone burst into fire.

Viltach covered it with one hand. He murmured a spell and then held the smoldering gemstone out for Trey to see, not touch.

“Behold. A magic gem. Artificially grown rather than naturally over centuries. Like this, I can create any elemental gemstone I want.”

It was about the length of Trey’s thumb and thin. The young man stared appreciatively at the beautiful colors; deep red, with a striation of orange throughout the center radiating to the edges.

“It’s beautiful, sir.”

“It is. But it’s hardly the largest I could create. Yet this will do. Now, what do you think an Archmage who crafts objects might use this for?”

This time Trey had more of a clue. He looked around and his eyes rested on the carpenter’s bench. Viltach smiled approvingly.

“Exactly.”

He strode over to the length of wood and lifted it. What he held was a stick…or to someone from Trey’s world, to anyone, really, it looked like what it was.

A wand. Viltach had already prepared it for his task. He spoke to Trey as he bent over it.

“The key is to prepare a perfect sample of wood. You can use mahogany, oak—any wood, really, so long as the grain is aligned. Any other way and it interferes with the natural flow of magic. You need a good [Woodcutter] who knows how to cut and find the right tree. More magical woods have a greater effect, but the common spruce will do for this quality of wand. Now, you see, I fit the gem inside…”

He inserted the gem, and Trey saw the interior of the hollowed core of the wand for a second. There were micro etchings of little spell runes drawn there. Next, Viltach stepped back to the magicore pool.

“The interior runes you saw were actually nothing more than flame resistance. This isn’t a spell-wand, but a general one. And that’s so I can add another touch. Like so.”

He carefully poured a tiny bit of the fiery magicore into the hollow. When it was full to capacity, he turned it. The gemstone floated in the magicore.

“To prevent any hollow space, you see. Now, to seal it. How would you expect me to do that?”

“Glue, Archmage?”

Viltach shook his head, tsking. He was in the passion of his work and explained.

“Glue doesn’t fit, Troy. It’s a distinctly foreign substance in this wand, which is only two components. No, the answer is—[Regrow Wood]!”

He pressed the missing gap of wood back into the wand, and ran a finger around the cut. It sealed. Viltach studied the wand from every angle, the handle, the tip, the seal, and then offered it to Trey.

“For this one task, I needed spells from pyromancy, mana enhancement in the room, nature spells, and runecraft knowledge. Of course, that was so I could do it alone. What do you think?”

Trey held the wand and felt the element of fire in it. Hot, strong—it was tempting him to cast a fiery spell.

“I think I could manage [Fireball] with this wand, with practice, Archmage.”

Viltach nodded proudly.

“It would suit you. It’s a Level 20 wand, fire-element. Nothing extraordinary, but a good wand for a Silver-rank. It could sell for a few hundred gold. Viltach-produced. See?”

There was a little insignia burned on the bottom. A stylized crane-and-wand. It was very well done. Trey wanted to hand it back, but Viltach encouragingly pressed it back.

“Take it. A souvenir, from one artisan to another.”

He smiled. Trey was astonished.

“But Archmage—it’s such an expensive gift.”

“Nonsense. I can make more quite easily, as you can see. I know you have that rather nice staff, but one can always use a catalyst in another element. Now, sit. And let’s talk more if you have the time.”

—-

That was the thing. Viltach was, right up until now, a racist buffoon who’d gotten clocked by Eldavin to Trey.

But everyone had a good side. Of course, everyone had a bad side. The trick was appreciating the good side. If you wanted to make friends with them.

Trey remembered all that was said about Viltach, but it wasn’t hard to talk with the man in a friendly way. Viltach was not without charm. He had a passion for creating things, and Trey shared that.

Moreover, the Archmage had a deep sympathy for Trey’s experience with battle. He had heard of the dust storm incident. But he also appreciated that Trey had seen battle.

“Mages have to duel, Troy. It’s a young man’s passion and belief he’s immortal. I think of the duels as a good thing in that sense. Better they learn they’re not the best [Spellslinger] ever to walk the earth before a [Thug] with a knife shows them how wide the world is. I…had cause to learn that again.”

He gave Trey an abashed look. And Trey recalled that Viltach’s one-punch incident with Eldavin had also been the subject of mockery, if more quietly.

Apparently, Fissival had been spreading around a recording of the entire fight in ‘secret’. It wasn’t shown on Wistram News Network for obvious reasons, but it would be there forever.

“You seemed, um, ready to fight, Archmage.”

Viltach reddened a bit.

“I underestimated my opponent. I thought it was a [Grand Mage] trying to throw his weight around, not…that kind of extraordinary ability. If I had any inkling, I’d have stayed back. I don’t risk my life in battle. Nor do I think it’s something to aspire to. You’re a part of Eldavin’s lectures?”

At Trey’s nod, Viltach sighed.

“I sat in on two. He believes a [Mage] should risk life and limb. You know six students have broken bones? Badly? Jumping off balconies…one might die, or be paralyzed despite potions and Skills. But that’s how Eldavin teaches. I think a [Mage] shouldn’t risk their life if not necessary. We get so many chances over our lifespans—why cut it all short for a gamble?”

He looked at Trey. The young man shifted uncomfortably, loath to directly object. But he felt like Viltach wouldn’t snap back necessarily.

“But Archmage, sometimes it’s important to fight, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is. But it’s wise to also know that we are not immortal. A young man’s belief. Perhaps it’s what I, myself went through at your age.”

Viltach looked at Trey, regarding a map of Terandria on the walls. He gestured at it.

“I was a [Mage] here. Graduated by nineteen. And because I had no more money, I went to Terandria and became a [Mercenary]. There was a war going on, and I convinced some other [Mages] my age to join a squad. We thought we would end the war by ourselves.”

“What happened?”

It was a story Trey knew. Viltach told it anyways.

“…During our first battle, I cast a barrier spell. A good one. [Lightfold Barrier]. Do you know it? It’s an upgrade on [Light Barrier]…and [Lightfold Armor]. I was never a good duelist, but because an artisan needs to protect themselves, I was rather good at that spell. My friends had barrier spells too, and they teased me. We were throwing spells at the enemy line when we ran afoul of an [Archer] battalion.”

He trailed off. Trey had seen it before. Parasol Stroll used their enchanted parasols for that reason; to defend against all the things that came at a [Mage] on the battlefield.

The Archmage’s face was distant. Sad. Trey had seen it on all of Flos’ vassals before. Fetohep too.

“Silly of us. We had barrier spells. We could cast [Fireball], [Lightning Bolt]. We thought we were invincible. And we were. The first arrows didn’t even touch our skin. The second? The first dozen? But what about two hundred? What about Skills?”

He looked at Trey.

“I had the best barriers. I watched as my friends, two decades of study and magic in the greatest academy in the world—died to conscripted [Militia Archers] in the thousands. That’s when I realized I wasn’t invincible.”

“I…I’m sorry, Archmage. I’ve seen that too.”

Viltach nodded. He slapped his knees, briskly, after a moment.

“By all accounts, you did better than I. Blasted an entire corridor of [Mages].”

“I lost my temper.”

“Well, no one died. That’s good enough. But that’s why I don’t follow Eldavin’s beliefs. He’s risen to where he was by risking his life, I understand that. But my party, the Libertarians, don’t look to the higher floors for our future. Unity, alliances—[Mages] must do these things.”

“You don’t want to go to the higher floors? Pass the…test, Archmage?”

Viltach hesitated. He looked at Trey, and perhaps he wouldn’t have shared his feelings, but they were sitting together, and a connection had already been drawn. Plus, Trey was of Earth. And in Viltach’s eyes, a [Mage]. Perhaps the first the Archmage had acknowledged among the Earthers.

“The test, Troy Atlas? It is my belief the ‘test’ is Zelkyr’s curse upon us. I have seen it. I have seen great [Mages], better [Mages] than I, try it and be slaughtered. I don’t think that test was meant to be passed. I do not put my hopes in Cognita’s mercy.”

He met Trey’s eyes.

“Golems I can respect. But who shapes the Golem matters. Zelkyr was not a kind Drake. History teaches us that, too.”

He seemed surprised at how honest he’d been. He stared at Trey as the young man sat there, absorbing Viltach’s thesis on Wistram, magic. The Archmage looked at Minizi, and then Trey, and then smiled.

“But these are concerns for older [Mages], Troy Atlas. As thanks for humoring me, why don’t we look into your magic? I know you must be taking all the first-year classes, but you’re clearly not being tested yet. And while I can’t take on another apprentice—let’s call it a lesson you’d only get to in your fourth year. Golem upgrades.”

—-

Viltach might not be a young man, but like Trey, there was a certain passion for things that never went away. Actually, it might deepen with age, like cheese, or madness.

That was how the two found themselves squatting or sitting around a spell circle built to contain accidents, with a range of Viltach’s many magical supplies around him. Viltach was talking animatedly.

“I tend to build wands—it’s an income. Jewelry? I’ve done it before. Scroll paper? Odious to produce. But Golems are quite fun. I actually own six Shield Golems in my Terandrian mansion. Just—no one keeps Golems in Wistram.”

“What are we doing, Archmage Viltach? I don’t know many spells about Golems. Just [Create Lesser Sand Golem].”

“Dead gods, I forgot that one. What a mouthful. Don’t worry. I can show you a few. Let’s see. [Create Mud Golem]!”

Viltach showed Trey another of the ‘temporary’ class of Golems, having produced some very rich soil and mixing it with Sage’s Grass water. Trey could sense the power in the other Mud Golem, though it was barely Gazi’s size.

It looked like another Pokémon, honestly; Mud Golems had even less ability to hold a shape than Sand Golems unless you baked them.

“Material matters. See how strong it is? Even your Minizi has trouble—although it’s amazing she can hold her own given the disparity of levels.”

Minizi slashed at the Mud Golem before wrestling with it. It was strong, but she and it were nearly matched. Trey watched her being pushed back.

“Lifesand, though—that’s a shortcut to one of the rarest materials of all. I am so jealous. But look—my Golem is going to win.”

Indeed, the mud-monster had engulfed Minizi. She flailed, but she couldn’t ‘hurt’ it. By the same token, it couldn’t break her apart.

“Wonderful durability.”

Viltach breathed, amazed. He was careful to ask Trey to test his creation’s ability to be destroyed, not callous.

“But it’s not that strong, Archmage. If Minizi were uh, my sized, she’d still be weak, right?”

“Weak…but what a servant. Able to block an enemy at least, probably strong enough to do some real damage. Give her a sword and a shield and that’s a fine familiar for a Level 20 [Sand Mage]!”

True. Trey saw Viltach turn back to Minizi.

“Ah, but that’s not her strength. Sand Golems aren’t strong. A Brick Golem or something like that could fight a Lifesand Golem equally. Easy to repair, easy to break. That’s sand. So why don’t we…even the odds? This is how a [Crafter Mage] wins, Troy. I am going to ask you to conjure a Sand Golem. And I shall enable it to defeat Minizi.”

Bemused, Trey obliged Viltach. He created a lumpy ‘Sandzi’, who had neither Minizi’s cohesion of form nor detail; just lumps for a head, arms, and legs.

“What a sorry creature. One second, and I’ll have…hmm…”

It took Viltach five minutes. Minizi was punching the air like a boxer in her corner when Sandzi turned. Trey couldn’t see anything different with her, but he felt it.

“Go kill it, Minizi!”

He ordered. The Lifesand Golem charged, claymore raised. She brought it down—

And Sandzi blocked. Minizi stared at her claymore as it bounced off. She raised a fist. She hit Sandzi as hard as possible. Sandzi let the fist vanish into the sand of her face. Then she swung a fist and—

Viltach and Trey watched as Minizi hit the far wall and landed on the floor. Even Viltach looked impressed.

“I didn’t think it would be that efficacious. Is your Golem alright?”

Minizi charged back at the Sandzi replica, enraged. Trey watched Sandzi stand, absorbing the furious fists. He turned to Viltach excitedly.

“What did you do, Archmage?”

For answer, Viltach pointed. And Trey saw Sandzi’s sand flow back and several items appear.

A glowing magic gemstone in her forehead. Dark grey sand in the arm she’d used to block. And, to complete it, a tiny, tiny little scroll in her punching hand.

“Upgrades.”

—-

You could upgrade Golems. Of course you could. But a [Golem Artificer] would put that in a Golem they made. But a temporary Golem?

“It makes sense for Lifesand since it’s semi-permanent. Like a sword and shield—see the black sand? Iron filings. Needs to be pure and it can’t be too much, but you can have them absorb some and ‘hold’ it even if they can’t control it. The little scroll is a one-off spell. I’ve done that before. Put a [Fireball] in the fist of a Sand Golem and no one will laugh at it. And the mana stone makes the Sand Golem stronger in all regards. Why don’t you take this one?”

He offered Trey a high-quality magical gemstone infused with earth-magic. Again, Trey wanted to protest, but this was now a project. And strangely, Viltach was the most teacher-like of the Archmages, even more than Eldavin, who was the grumpy college professor.

The first thing Minizi did when given the gemstone was ‘absorb’ it into her chest. Then she did a flying jump-kick and killed Sandzi.

“…That’s a bloodthirsty Golem. Reminds me why I don’t mess with them.”

Trey watched Minizi stomping Sandzi to dust. He neglected to tell Viltach, who was eying him, that he hadn’t told Minizi to do that.

“Well, let’s see what else we can do.”

“What else, Archmage?”

Trey was astonished. But like a figurine collector, like a craftsman, Viltach’s eyes were glittering with excitement. And the thing about an Archmage was that he had a lot of tricks.

—-

We can build her better! Stronger! Faster! Probably not smarter!

Six hours later by the light of dawn, Minizi stood, upgraded. Trey and Viltach watched as she squared off against the Rock Golem, the latest sacrifice to the blood sport Golem Battles they’d been putting on.

They hadn’t slept. And their project had gone way outside of any reasonable expectations.

Minizi now had a mana gem core, which, if broken, could be replaced, adding to her agility, speed, and basic power. She no longer carried her Lifesand claymore because what was the point?

She had been given an actual tiny steel sword, sharpened to a razor’s edge by Viltach, a claymore. For reinforcement, the Archmage and Trey had first experimented with iron dust to ‘bulk up’ her arms and legs. Then they’d gone weird.

She had little bars of mithril in her arms and legs, light, but strong. Minizi circled the Rock Golem, hacking at it and then lifting it and throwing it over the edge of the table. She raised her arms in victory.

At this point, Viltach and Trey gave each other red, bleary-eyed looks and started laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

“Thank you, Archmage. It was…”

“Quite fun.”

Viltach saw Trey off. The [Sand Mage] ducked his head, embarrassed, cradling Minizi. Viltach nodded to him, before going off to sleep. Trey did the same, but Minizi woke him up.

She presented him with a rat’s head.

Trey had a rat nest in his room.

—-

At the end of his first month in Wistram, Trey Atwood was reassigned rooms. Not because they were needed, but because he was ‘given’ to a faction.

He’d known it was coming. Trey reported to his new faction’s headquarters with mixed feelings as Flynn complained.

“We’re bloody trophies being tossed around, Troy. Can’t we stay?”

“To have and to hold, Flynn.”

“Fuck.”

The young Australian man was disconsolate; he and Trey were good neighbors. And he didn’t like where he’d been assigned.

“Bloody Libertarians. I’ve heard what they said about that place. And I’m with Justin.”

“Don’t you like him?”

“Can’t stand him. He’s only got decent taste in music.”

Trey looked at Flynn as Pokey wagged her tail.

“Well, I think it won’t be the worst, Flynn. Viltach is the Archmage there. He’s not that bad. I think he likes dogs. You should talk to him.”

“You think so?”

Flynn glanced at Trey. The young man nodded. He glanced up.

“Hey, roommate. Ready to move off to our new handlers?”

Elena stood in the doorway. She had been stolen away, like Trey, in the trading-wrangling for Earthers. He nodded.

“I can’t believe you’re part of the Terras faction.”

“I can. Eldavin and Valeterisa both wanted you. And they had enough clout to get me too. Only two, but that was something.”

Elena informed Flynn. He sighed.

“Must be nice to be liked. I’m with Justin and the others. You know, he says some shit when he’s drunk? Real…I think he fits with the Libertarians. Sure you don’t want to trade, Troy?”

The young man hadn’t a choice, and even so…Eldavin’s faction was the place to be. Elena shook her head.

“He nearly was, Flynn. I heard a rumor that Archmage Viltach fought pretty hard to get Troy.”

“Really?”

That didn’t actually surprise Trey. Thoughtfully, he moved with Elena into his new quarters. Eldavin had yet to really talk to them about Earth, but Valeterisa took the next four hours to demand hair, blood, skin samples, and have them recount any new facts to her.

—-

That night, Trey Atwood thought about the future. The King of Destruction was far from here. It was easy to be sucked into his grand dream when you were there, to believe in him.

But Trey was reconsidering. He was not unhappy to be in Eldavin’s faction, for all he had a connection with another Archmage.

In the end, you could see someone’s good sides. But you had to acknowledge their bad sides.

Fetohep, Flos—Trey had seen their good and bad. Their flaws and strengths. On the whole of it, he stuck with Flos because of Teres. Because Flos would do what Fetohep would not.

…Until recently. Trey had heard the news from Jecrass just yesterday. He felt envious, really. What had caused Fetohep to move like that? Jecaina, the Arbiter Queen?

Well. Flos had sent Trey for a purpose, entrusting him with an audacious plan.

And Trey had been going along with it. Even agreeing.

Right up until he met Eldavin. In the half-Elf, he saw…something. A potential. Wistram had seemed to Trey to be as bad as he expected. It still was, in some ways.

But if Eldavin was the rising star who could show Trey a better future, find a way to save Teres from herself—the King of Destruction could fight his glorious wars and he, Trey, would stay in Wistram. Go to Khelt.

Something. Keep an open mind. He was not beholden to Flos. Just the best future.

Trey sighed. He kicked at the ground. It was so easy to say that.

If only…he looked down. Minizi was slashing at the air with her new sword, looking almost excited.

If only Gazi hadn’t been the one to look at him and trust him. It was easy to throw over Flos. Less easy to…

“Hello?”

Viltach opened the door as Trey knocked. He was astonished at his late-night visitor, curious, but also a bit wary.

“I thought you were in the Terras faction. Is Grand Magus Eldavin interested in a meeting? Out of magicore again, Troy?”

Trey accepted the glass of milk. He sat, wondering why Eldavin needed magicore.

“No, Archmage. I—was just wondering if I could ask you a question. I know I’m part of the Terras faction, but that’s just where I was assigned.”

Viltach raised his brows, as if not realizing that’s how the Earthers felt. He hid a smile in his cup.

“Well, I’m delighted to see Minizi is still holding our insane upgrades. Any cohesion difficulties? Mana interference? And what can I help you with that Eldavin can’t?”

Trey smiled. And here it was. He looked the Archmage in the eye. The thing about being genial was knowing also how people rubbed each other the wrong way. Orthenon and Mars. Flos and Fetohep.

“No problems, Archmage Viltach. And I would have asked Grand Magus Eldavin, but I doubt he…knows. He’s very good at magic, but he’s not from Wistram.”

Another smile that the Archmage didn’t conceal.

“No, no he’s not.”

Trey nodded slowly. He stared past Viltach.

“Plus…he’s not Human. It’s just a question, Archmage, but some of the Earthers were talking about it and after our discussion of Chandrar and…”

He nodded at Minizi. Viltach glanced at Trey as the [Sand Mage] looked at him.

“I was wondering. Do you know where Archmage Amerys is?”

Slowly, Archmage Viltach’s eyebrows rose.

“How interesting. Would you give me a second to consider the question?”

He went, on the pretext of finding some cookies. Trey sat there. He saw Minizi look at him. He winked at her.

The huge, central eye of Minizi’s head winked back.

Interlude – The [Rower] and the [Bartender]

(Trigger Warning. Click here for details.)

“You should have taken my hand.”

He heard it again. Again, and again as he fell.

Sinking into the depths. Something denser, deeper, darker than the waters engulfing him.

Things in the murk, tugging at him. Whispering.

On the Summer Solstice, Luan Khumalo met a stranger. He was offered a choice.

He refused.

The [Rower] from Earth, the Olympian, saw the flash of fire again. He heard his own voice, a scream. Burning followed by the cold embrace of liquid.

And darkness. Until only the voice remained.

A petulant ___, enacting vengeance. Luan struggled, but he was sinking deeper. And he was not alone.

Shadows circled him. They swam around his mouth, his nose, wriggling. Trying to get in. Speaking in tongues he could not hear. Frustrated, they dragged him further down.

This was death. He knew that. And death would be a kinder thing than being lost, consumed by the half-things, little reflections of what the man had been. They were the same. But where the stranger had been…intact…they were only fragments.

They terrified him, even so. So he did not breathe. For a little while, he waited to drown.

And then he realized he did not need to breathe. Because there was not only a lack of air here, there was a lack of need for it. Whatever surrounded him was made of the same thing as the Summer Solstice.

A time out of time. So he had hope. But he was still…

…falling…

The further down he went, the stronger they became. They were trying to burrow under his skin. He struggled, keeping them away from him. But his motions faded. His limbs grew weak.

There was no point to his strength. The body he had built out of hard work, his knowledge, acquired over countless years of practice, his ambitions, levels, Skills, all of it…was worthless.

He was vanishing down here. They all were. Luan realized it. That was why they wanted him. This was oblivion for everything.

But he was vanishing so much faster than they were. Luan looked up and had not the strength to climb. There was not even a single shaft of sunlight.

—Still, there was one last flash of color. Something followed him into the depths.

A flicker of gold.

He saw it shining as he stopped moving. His eyes fixed on the words. And there were only two.

Nandi, Lubanzi

Written on his arm. The man stared at it. And he remembered.

He had met her while training and dismissed her as someone who was chasing fame. After all, she had never so much as picked up a set of oars. She had no idea what sculling was, so he had thought she was disingenuous.

When they suggested joining him in kayaks, he had played along right until he lost his patience with his team flirting. He had set them onto a long trip, far longer than amateurs could handle.

Sure enough, everyone else had fallen away, giving up. But when he’d looked back, there she’d been. Determinedly paddling after him.

She followed him even here. He looked at her name. She would have jumped after him, like the time he had accidentally struck his head and been drowning, underwater, disoriented, having flipped over.

Two names. Dimly, the man heard a voice. It was his own. Coming to a slow conclusion.

I never got to hold my son before I left.

He hadn’t known. If he had…he’d been in the airport, heading back after an overseas training trip with his team. The South African hopefuls for the Olympics.

When he had come to the other world, he’d forgotten them both. Forgotten, as if war or the shock of another world was an excuse.

Never again. Luan stared at the glowing, magical ink of the tattoo on his arm. Lubanzi.

He wasn’t old enough to walk.

Something—whispered to him. Shadows tried to obscure the light. Give it all to us. Abandon this vessel.

No. The [Rower] moved. He flailed his arms. If he died here—

I will never hear him speak.

He began to climb. No—swim. How long he had drifted in oblivion, he did not know. But as he began to struggle, this otherness began to recede.

Cold liquid surrounded him. Suddenly, he did need to breathe. He felt water, pressing in, terrifying in the actual darkness, but reassuring because it was real.

Still, the shadows tried to pull him back. Luan swam upwards, lungs bursting. Light. He needed…

His world began to deteriorate again. Not because of the nothingness, but because of the real lack of oxygen. Luan realized he was deep underwater.

Deep. So far that while there was now the hint of light, it was so far above. Hundreds of feet. And he had no air.

He began to choke, swimming with all the strength in his arms. Bubbles passed him, but his limbs were leaden. An Olympian. The only one from Earth—but what use was that kind of ability without air?

Air. So sweet. Luan kicked his legs and couldn’t bear the pressure in him anymore. He opened his mouth.

Saltwater entered his lungs. He began to choke. At the same time, his ascent was making him dizzy. Nauseous. He was—

Flicker.

His consciousness shut off for a second. He had seconds left. He forced himself up another dozen feet. And then began to drown.

No. Not like this. Not—

His desperate flailing had no sense anymore. He’d lost track of direction. Luan’s last thoughts were that he was letting the golden light down.

And then he heard a real voice in the darkness. Louder than the whispers. Louder than his fading thoughts. It whispered to him.

“You are dying.”

This was so. The man couldn’t respond even if he wanted to. But suddenly—he inhaled. And thought resumed.

Yet his lungs were still filled with water. He flailed, but something…soothed him. The voice, not quite words, continued. And he realized it was a single message.

“You are dying. Accept salvation from the sea.”

He realized something was on his face. Circling his throat. Piercing his skin—but the pain was a lesser thing.

“Join us. Breathe the depths.”

The [Rower] felt something moving across his face. Half his body. Something had—found him—as he was drowning.

He knew what this was. The last gift to the drowning [Sailor]. The choice presented to the lucky at sea, or made voluntarily.

The Gift of the Drowned Folk.

Something was on his face, his throat, acting as gills. Some…creature…was trying to meld with him. Turning him into one of the Drowned Folk.

Half man, half sea creature.

Luan looked up towards the light. So far away. He began moving his arms and legs again as sense returned to his oxygen-deprived mind. He swam upwards—but the voice grew insistent.

Don’t move. He was causing the other distress and they had to be one thing.

Luan kept moving, ignoring the instinct to remain still. He felt pain. A shock as something suffered.

Stop!

If the connection failed, both would die. Luan would drown, certainly. Yet—the man kept moving. He felt the water in his lungs turning to death again. What was he doing?

Didn’t he want to live?

The answer was yes. Yes, of course. But Luan kept swimming. He would have accepted any help rather than die. But a thought kept pressing at his head. Even now—the gold spoke to him.

Nandi. And my son. I never got to hear him speak.

“Stay. Live. Breathe the depths.”

I want to. I want to live. But if I do—he will never know my face. Will he even recognize me?

And the voice had no answer to that. So Luan swam. Ignoring the pain. It was just pain. The voice was begging, pleading, now.

“Join us.”

No. I want to be me.

Rage, then. Suddenly, the thing disconnected from his throat. He caught the last thought as he began to choke again.

“Then die.”

Never.

Alone, the man swam higher. And the light was growing. He had been given a second chance. He felt hands dragging him below. They had followed him.

He swam higher, though his lungs had long emptied of air. Shadows clutched at him. They whispered in his ears, half-remembered words. Broken pleas.

“I was your g…”

“…ship me…”

“…remember…please…”

They would rather he drown than go without him. And they had a pull. Luan fought, but he could not swim and resist them at the same time.

He was beginning to despair when one of the half-remembered things whispered in his ears.

“…regret…my blessing…”

Luan did not know what it said. But suddenly the grip of the shadows abated. And he left them behind, kicking, rising. Then at last, finally—

His head broke the surface of the dark waters. Luan vomited water, he coughed, drew breath. He breathed.

He lived.

The man treaded water for minutes, just breathing. Just…he looked around as the crash of waves drew his attention. One nearly engulfed his head. And he realized—

He was at sea. And his scull was nowhere to be seen. The damned [Bounty Hunters] who’d accidentally hit him with the [Fireball] spell? Nowhere to be seen.

And neither was the coast. Luan slowly turned in the waters. And he realized he didn’t see…Baleros.

His skin chilled. The [Expert Rower] looked around. Compared to the meeting during the Summer Solstice…the dark promises below, this was still better.

But only just.

How far at sea was he? Luan gasped for air, panicking. But then he had an idea. Now that he was able to do more than struggle for the surface, he kicked while his hands searched downwards.

Clothing—no oar, none of the items in the scull—but—

“Yes.”

He gasped with relief as his hands found the bag of holding. The most precious item in this moment to him. He reached into it, holding it above the surface. The waves were large, but they didn’t have the crest of deadly force of a storm.

Small blessings. And another was…he fished out the glowing compass, holding it so tight that the edges cut into his fingers.

A nautical compass. The friend of any [Captain] or person who ever risked the sea. He had never had to use one before. But he was no fool. Luan opened the compass and saw the needle swing.

There were no directions. No ‘North’, ‘South’, or any other superfluous icons. This was a compass enchanted to one purpose.

Land. It was meant to take someone only to the nearest body of land. In case he was ever blown out to sea or had to evade pursuers…Luan had never used it. He held his breath.

The needle swung as the magic activated. Searching…it pointed to the side. Held steady. Luan’s head turned hopefully.

There wasn’t anything on the horizon. Not even a shadow.

Despair engulfed him for a second. Still, he had escaped death. He had refused the gifts of the Drowned. He had refused the offer made on the Summer Solstice.

Oceans be damned if he would give up now.

Luan began to swim, following the compass.

—-

The first hour was easy. Luan Khumalo was a rower. He had trained for it and while swimming was not rowing, you tended to need one with the other. He could swim for as long as need be.

Or so he’d thought. Luan had never dreamed he’d be this far out to sea. He knew what other people had done, clung to rubbish or even buoys to survive.

But his scull was gone. There was nothing to hold onto and besides…if exposure didn’t kill him, the ocean’s predators would.

This wasn’t Earth. Sharks were a lesser concern to the hundreds, thousands of species that could kill a man. Luan swam. But he had one advantage and that was his bag of holding.

Inside of it, Luan had any number of things to stay alive with. Not least of which, after the first hour, he knew he had to ration:

Food. He had dried ‘energy bar’ substitutes he’d made up with Kirana’s help in the United Nations headquarters. Water, too! He gulped greedily from the canteen, then forced himself to stop.

Stamina potions? Even a few healing potions. And best of all—a flotation device.

Not an actual life-jacket. Luan had been going to invest in a ring to do the same, or best of all, a Ring of Waterbreathing which solved most problems. So he had no actual jacket. But as night fell, he improvised.

A waterproof blanket and pillow were some of the things he put in the bag of holding so he could sleep anywhere he wanted. He tied a knot with all four corners to make a rough sphere, catching air in the blanket, creating a buoy which he could cling to when he got tired.

He hoped he didn’t have to use it. But as the daylight faded, Luan had swum for five hours by his reckoning.

And he couldn’t tell if he’d made any progress. Nothing appeared on the horizon. Luan realized he needed the makeshift buoy.

The water grew cold. Luan, buffeted by waves and trying to cling to the buoy, did not really ‘sleep’. But he did pass out and wake. He began swimming as soon as he had energy left. Following the compass.

He did not despair the first day. Or the second.

Or the first week.

—-

He was rationing his food and water. It rained twice during the first two weeks, and he held up all the containers, even the bag of holding, his mouth open.

The waves grew stronger during the storms, though. Twice, they threw him about, threatening to drag him into the depths again.

He swam through it, clinging to the blanket at need. It gained two holes over the first week, which he desperately tried to plug.

Land never appeared. A vast shadow passed over him, once. Something tried to take a bite out of him three times. He fought them off by kicking and thrashing twice.

One time something appeared out of the water with barbs for a face and savaged him. It was half his size, but dense, and tore chunks out of him with each thrashing movement.

Luan killed it with the backup knife in his bag of holding. All but one of the healing potions went into that battle and he left the water bloody behind him.

Two weeks of swimming passed. Still, he followed the compass, despair on his tongue as his body weakened with each passing day of decreasing food, sleep, and water.

He might have truly given up, or at least, lost all hope. But Luan stared at the names on his arm. And though he saw no land, saw no relief day after day, there was one thing that gave him some hope.

[Swimmer Level 5!]

The first day, he gained the class.

[Swimmer Level 9!]

By the fourth day, he was able to lie on his back and rest. [Indefinite Flotation] was the Skill that let him ‘rest’, though a wave could still wake him with water engulfing him.

Two weeks. Then, as the third dawned, Luan heard the voice.

[Athlete Level 14!]

The [Swimmer] class had changed at Level 10.

Luan swam. Cutting through the water faster, tiring slower. His body was shriveled from ceaseless contact with the water. His beard, hair, salt-crusted, unkempt. A scar around his throat from where he had rejected the sea’s gift.

But the Olympian refused to give up. And then, at last—

He spotted land in the distance.

—-

It was a simple tale that engulfed Noa. A tale to break up the mundanity—and sometimes terrifying danger—of her watch duty.

Similar to many stories she’d heard. But it was better, realer, because it was happening. It was the story of a Human too stubborn to die.

She was sure of it after the third day of staring through her spyglass. And her superior finally admitted she was right after the tiny, tiny disturbance became clearer to both. He breathed out at last.

“Dead gods. It is a Human out there. Same as you saw last week.”

He grudgingly passed the spyglass back. Noa smirked, but hid it as he glared at her. Ekrn didn’t like being wrong.

“He’s been swimming towards the coast for a week, you said?”

She nodded, eyes on the horizon. You couldn’t even see the tiny Human without help of the spyglass.

“That’s right. He must be a survivor of a shipwreck or something.”

Ekrn grunted, tapping his foot on the ground. Noa wanted to know what had been the accident; her immediate superior was less enamored by the idea of the Human doggedly coming their way.

“Wonder how he survived. Bag of holding and luck that nothing ate him?”

“Maybe. Or fish. It rained as well, so that’s water, food…”

As he mused, Noa danced from foot to foot. Her nice, new crocodile-skin boots, a copy of his, made her feel wonderfully secure.

“So what’s the plan, Ekrn?”

“Plan?”

He gave her a blank look. Noa wanted to know if they were going to send out a rescue party. Of course…his look told her that was a stupid idea. Of course they wouldn’t do that.

“Keep an eye on the Human. If he lives or dies, that’s up to him. Odds are a hundred thousand to one he doesn’t come this way of all the places he could land up. If he even makes it to shore. If he does…”

His expression was not a kindly one. Crestfallen, Noa watched Ekrn stomp off. She turned and kept watching the Human.

—-

Two weeks. Four by Luan’s count, when he finally neared the shores. He was moving faster now, and Noa’s sentry post wasn’t the only one that had called him in.

She was dancing as Ekrn watched, grimly, the Human coming to shore.

“Crazy bastard must have leveled. He’s moving faster than he has any right to without Skills.”

“He’s entering into the inlet. Ekrn.”

There was a river pouring out to sea; they had made their home along it, although further inland than was comfortable for access to the water. But that was out of necessity. Ekrn shook his head as he adjusted the bow on his back.

“Bad idea. If he had any sense, he’d circle in either direction.”

Noa bit her lip. She wanted to say that this Human had been at sea for at least two weeks, trying to reach shore. He had to be starving, and taking a few hours’ detour wouldn’t occur to him.

But Ekrn was right.

“Boss—can’t we do something?”

“No.”

“But he—”

“He’s a Human. You have your orders. Hold position. Let’s see what he does.”

It was callous. But it was survival. Even so, Ekrn himself looked a bit…disgruntled. This Human had survived what few did, swimming to their continent on his own power. And now—he was going to die.

Because he would have been well served staying clear of the river. The river of Baleros’ jungles was freshwater. And all manner of predators lurked there.

Carnivorous fish. Crocodiles. Magical crocodiles. Invisible leeches…saltwater was safer than freshwater in Baleros, so long as you weren’t in the range of the ocean’s worst predators. The oceans had far bigger monsters, but less density.

And the waters from the river? They watched as the Human sped towards shore, doing a breaststroke. Which switched into a desperate freestyle as he encountered what they knew was lurking there.

Piranhas. Or, to be more accurate, poisonous piranhas. Not a super-deadly toxin, but they made larger mammals swell up while being deadlier to amphibians around their size.

“Damn. He went right into a school.”

Ekrn had forbidden Noa from even shouting a warning, and she might have if she was alone. Grimly, they watched. The Human swam like a madman for the shore as they tore at him.

“He’s getting eaten alive! He’ll never survive!”

Noa danced, distressed. Ekrn’s eyes widened as he trained his spyglass on the Human, shouting, going for the overgrown beach.

“No, he is! Crazy Human. He’s chugging a potion as they tear him apart! He’s going to make it!”

Sure enough, the dark-skinned man stumbled onto shore, tossing the fish, some still biting him, onto the ground. He collapsed there. Noa was biting her fist, also newly-gloved in the crocodile skin.

Speaking of which…the man had all of a minute to rest. He looked back towards the water, uttered an oath both could hear even from their perch, and got up to run.

A crocodile twice his length followed him a second later. And it could move fast. It wasn’t the leaping kind that haunted Chandrar’s waters. This one was a Speed Croc. Which sounded cuter than it was. It could move under the effects of what was functionally a [Speed] spell for a few seconds and kill almost anything it got its jaws around.

It chased the man now, moving fast as it went after the bleeding prey. The man ran. Somehow, even after so long in the water, he had the energy to sprint for the forest.

Noa and Ekrn watched, amazed at the Human’s vitality. Right up until Ekrn began to curse. It wasn’t hard to chart the Human’s desperate course.

“Step on me, he’s coming this way! I’m taking the shot.”

“What? Ekrn? No!”

Appalled, Noa saw the [Sentry Leader] draw his bow and put an enchanted arrow to the string. She knew it had to be done with other species. But this Human?

He’d swum for two weeks! Despite knowing her duty, she grabbed his wrist.

“Are you mad? Let go! This is our job—”

“You can’t just kill him! It’s not an animal or monster—”

The two wrestled for the bow as Ekrn cursed her. He tore free and rose to his feet. But too late.

Crash. The Human ran through a border-trap. He shouted in pain as the tripwires unleashed one of the deadly traps. Noa had forgotten about them. She saw a tree explode, bark showering the man with splinters as the tree—one of the rare explosive varieties—detonated.

He survived even that. But he crashed to the ground, lying on the forest floor.

Ekrn and Noa stared down at him from their elevated perch. Noa was horrified. Ekrn rounded on her. The croc had lost the Human, but now a greater problem was facing the two.

“Well, great. He’s bleeding and attracting every hungry animal in a mile. Sound the rally-call! We’re in for trouble! I’ll have your Signim for this!”

He was leaping down even as Noa shakily raised a horn and blew the alarm. Yes, what had she done? The man was innocent. But if he drew Baleros’ predators—she drew her own bow and leapt down towards the man on the ground as the other sentries raced to her position.

—-

Luan heard shouting. The roar of battle.

It had to be a dream, of the first few horrific months of being on Baleros. When he’d met Ken, Aiko, Daly.

Geneva. It beat the roar of the ocean. And for all the pain…he felt solid ground underneath him. He could have slept happily. But the shouting grew louder.

Then, the first steel-toed boot struck him in the jaw.

“Get up! Now!”

A voice barked in Luan’s ear. He grimaced. The boot swung again. A vicious kick!

…It tickled. Which was odd, for steel-toed boots. It had hit him in the jaw, and the voice was loud. But there was one thing off.

Luan opened his eyes and saw the tiny boot swing back for a third kick. It was…about the size of the tip of his finger? He looked up as the man kicked him.

A tiny man, one foot high, bellowed at Luan with a voice that would have fit a man six times his size. He had a bow in one hand, and was blowing a horn in the other.

“Tallguard of Feiland! To me! You, Human, get up!”

He snarled at Luan. The man stared. He had to be dreaming. But no—the shouting grew louder. Luan looked around and saw dozens, nearly a hundred tiny people on the ground.

They were perched in tree branches, raising small shields or swords, many loosing arrows as the rest fought in clusters. And they were fighting…

A huge centipede, the kind that could take off one of Luan’s toes with a single bite, was slithering towards the bleeding man. Luan recoiled; it was a nasty bug!

To the Fraerlings, it was a gigantic beast, many times longer than they were, capable of sawing a man or woman apart at the waist with a single bite. They were loosing little arrows on its position; a Fraerling with an axe was hacking legs off.

That wasn’t the only one. A female Fraerling next to the one who had woken Luan up loosed an arrow.

A Scavenger Toad, all teeth, capable of a nasty bite and not a threat normally unless they tried to eat you when you slept by the hundreds, was hit by the glowing arrow. It shot into the huge, gaping mouth, and blew out its stomach as it tried to swallow the projectile.

Countless jungle predators were trying to eat Luan, following the blood. The Fraerlings were fighting a war in the underbrush. Luan tried to push himself up, but he couldn’t find any strength in his arms.

After the swim, the damned fish—and the crocodile, he’d spent everything he had. Then the tree had…exploded…

“Get up! Get out of here!”

Ekrn swore up at the Human, but he could see how injured Luan was.

“Sentry Master! Incoming from the flanks!”

A Fraerling on over watch barked. Ekrn raised the speaking stone and turned. He bellowed.

“[Clear Position]! Fall back!”

Fraerlings ran as the creature emerged from the undergrowth. The largest predator yet. Luan was fumbling for a potion—anything—but he was out of both. And he felt pain in every part of his body…he heard the frantic scream as Fraerlings spotted the creature. Noa lowered her bow, turning white. Oh no. One of the worst predators of her people had come calling. Ekrn took one look at the familiar, sinuous body, the long fur, the sharp teeth, tufted ears and tail, and shouted.

“Cat. Cat!”

This was no house-cat, but a smaller predator than a leopard—if only just. A scavenger-predator, who preyed on scavengers around dead creatures. Just like this scenario.

It’s fur was dark green-brown, perfect cover in this climate. Fraerlings took up defensive positions as Ekrn shouted.

“Hold your ground and take cover! Permission granted to use enchanted ammunition without limit! Prepare to use your Signim!”

The cat was tensed. It was able to pounce and it would tear dozens of Fraerlings apart each minute. Worse, it was fast, hugely protected, and it killed for sport. The first hail of arrows made it hiss. It dodged a tiny [Fireball], and then leapt.

It covered nearly a dozen feet and grabbed Noa. She swung her sword, screaming, as it tossed her up to bite in half or swallow with a single m—

Ekrn was aiming his bow at the cat-monster’s throat, enchanted quarrel ready to save—or mercifully kill—his junior. He heard a sound like thunder right next to his ear. Deafening. The force of air made him stumble.

Tschak!

The crossbow bolt went through the hungry cat-thing’s lower hindquarters. Luan lowered the bow as the animal yowled, and recoiled. Noa fell to earth, landing lightly given her size.

The cat bounded away, limping. The lesser scavengers scattered as the Human rose.

High—higher. Six times as large as the Fraerlings. They backed away, wary. One step could kill them.

“Take aim—”

Ekrn held up a hand. Luan looked around. At last, he spoke. Blood ran down his arms and legs from wounds. He was malnourished, parched.

“Fraerlings? I need…help. I’m…a Runner…”

“We don’t protect Runners or the tallfolk! Go! Leave our borders in peace, Human!”

Ekrn bellowed up at the man. He cursed. The Human had somehow stumbled onto one of the ‘Fraerling Villages’, the rare, hidden Fraerling settlements that few ever encountered. Of all the bad luck!

Luan tried to back up, but nearly fell over. Fraerlings darted out of the way.

“He’ll never make it, Ekrn! At least give him a potion!”

Noa. She was on her feet, arguing with her superior again. The [Sentry Master] cursed. He eyed Luan, half of a mind to demand potions, and shook his head. He pointed; Luan’s leg and arm.

Telltale signs of infection on both. Ekrn spat with a warrior’s cold confidence.

“Looks like the potions just accelerated the infection through him. He’s dead if he uses another. You hear that, Human? Get lost and find somewhere else to die.”

“I need…help…”

Luan rasped. He took a step and the Fraerlings raised their bows. Five shot arrows; he felt the sting of pain in his right leg.

“Hold fire! Aim for the eyes, but hold your fire unless it attacks, you idiots!”

Ekrn berated the younger Fraerlings. He pointed up.

“Human. We will kill you unless you leave. Keep our secret and we’ll let you go in peace.”

He was lying. Noa knew it. Ekrn expected the Human to drop dead within half an hour and wanted him far from the settlement of Feiland. She plucked at his arm.

“Can’t we at least try to tend his wounds, Ekrn? Bandage them, at least?”

“No. If he dies—can you imagine what a corpse would be like, so close to the city? Human…”

Luan was swaying. He could barely think. But he knew he’d never make it. Still—the Fraerlings would kill him if he didn’t go. Trapped, desperate, after all he’d gone through, the man did the only thing he could think of.

He began to stumble forwards. Ekrn bellowed.

“No, no—the other way! The way you came! Right, not left! Not that right! The other right!”

Luan heard him. But he turned left, nonetheless. The other Fraerlings began to shout.

“Not ahead, you large-footed idiot! Behind! Turn around! Turn around or—”

The man stumbled forwards, and they moved rather than be squashed. Too late, Ekrn realized what he was doing. He’d heard them and—

“Shut up! Don’t give him directions! He’s going to—”

Too late. Luan collapsed in front of the huge, oak tree that a double-wall of Fraerlings were guarding. He saw, at last, the tiny lights from the countless windows. The smoke coming out of some cunningly-concealed vents. The passageways in and out, and the tiny bridges far above in the foliage.

A Fraerling Village.

He passed out in front of the entrance. Ekrn was beside himself. He looked at Luan, at Noa, at the entrance to Feiland…and gave up. He threw his helmet onto the forest floor, ordered the Fraerling [Rangers] and [Sentries] to stand down, and began to shout orders.

“Cats and Crelers take it all! Get me an [Infection Healer] before he expires and we have to cart him out in bags of holding! Scent bombs! Someone get a [Hydromancer] for all this blood before we get an ant-colony on our asses! And get me the Bordermaster. He’s not going to like this one bit.”

He looked, almost admiringly, at the Human who’d called their bluff. And that was how Luan survived the Summer Solstice. When he woke, he was in another story.

Hostage? Prisoner? Guest? Of Baleros’ most elusive species, even more than Gazers. Tiny legends, only one of which had ever been known to the larger world.

Little people.

Fraerlings.

—-

Not Drowned.

Not consumed by shadows.

Not lost at sea, or eaten by animals.

Yes, he had help. Advantages. A whispered kindness. Luck, coincidence. Even so, Luan Khumalo lived. Because he was the great athlete of Earth, and this world recognized that.

However, just as much as his Skills, from [Greater Endurance] to [Body: Water Retention], [Mana Conversion – Sustenance], and magical potions, there was something simpler at work.

He had something to fight for. Something, someone to fight for. Tattooed onto his skin in golden ink. His wife.

And his son.

It did not make any of it easier. The ‘magic of parenthood’ didn’t end the sunburn of weeks at sea, the crippling thirst, burning muscles.

But it was a reason never to give up. With it, he could live. Fight.

That was what a parent, a father, was supposed to do. In war, in times of crisis, provide, protect. Even if it cost themselves everything.

…It was easier to do that. Not easy, but easier. But what if—?

What if you couldn’t protect them? What if it was out of your hands? Your paws? All that you had, all that you could do—made worthless? Snatched away by fate, by chance?

By magic?

It would have been so easy if there was something to fight. Anything. Not just a monster. If there was a cost to be paid, he would have paid it in a moment.

Cruelty was a lack of something to hit. A lack of choice. Helplessness. That was far, far worse.

Rufelt, co-owner of Tails and Scales, one of the best bars in Pallass, had not opened his establishment in over a month. The noise of his carefully curated guests, laughter, arguments of a reasonable level, the smells of cooking, alcohol—memories.

He wished he were on Rhir and back in time. If he was, maybe he could have done something. If you gave Rufelt, a [Bartender] who had never served in any army, a stick and a choice to challenge all the Demons or suffer this present timeline? He would have taken his chances.

Because a father’s nightmare was Rufelt’s reality. He knew—they all told him the same thing.

“You couldn’t have done a thing, Ruf.”

“Don’t blame yourself. If Chaldion and all of Pallass’ protections couldn’t stop it—”

“You two will get through this. If there is anything I can do to…”

It felt to him like wading through a swamp of worthless platitudes, encouragement, sympathies. All useless, no matter how well-meaning, no matter who it came from.

The few voices that came through to him were from people who had been…where he was. He and Lasica. People who had lost children.

The Demon’s spell had attacked the entire world. Killing children. Not just Pallass. Every major city in the world. Sometimes only one person, chosen by…what, luck?

The Gnoll believed there was some greater, sinister plan at play. He had listened to one of the other parents trying to connect the dots. There had to be. Or else…what?

What was he supposed to do?

For him, there was nothing to fight. He had sent money to Rhir. But would he now grab a spear and enlist?

No. There was Lasica. He was no warrior, and the worst had happened. The future had been destroyed and there was nothing to protect besides her.

These dark days. They told him they would end.

The ones who knew told him the truth. It would not get better. But it would get further away. As if he wanted that. As if that would make it alright.

The comments that had driven Rufelt nearly into a homicidal rage had been the ignorant ones. Well, she wasn’t nearing delivery. What about that city that was overrun by Crelers?

If he had been able to calmly articulate a response, Rufelt would have said those kinds of statements were disingenuous to begin with. Of course he was not the only one suffering. Of course tragedy occurred every day. Yes, miscarriages happened for other reasons.

But never say that to me. Or I’ll kill you.

…He had Lasica. Remember that. Rufelt tried. He tried to not leave her to wallow like he would, made sure they had food, tried to…

Something was wrong. It was nothing he had done. Failed to do? He didn’t know. But their relationship, which had possessed ups and downs, rocks and smooth sailing like anyone else’s, but had been so good? An invisible wedge had been inserted into it.

Worse still, it was nothing she blamed him for. Not out loud, or even implicitly. It was just that everything had been shaken up. And suddenly they weren’t on the same page.

She was distant. When he wanted to talk, she did not. She sought other people’s confidences—her female friends, other mothers. But Rufelt wasn’t with her. And when he was, it lingered, unspoken. Or if he tried…

One month. One month, and Rufelt counted the days between shock, grief, fury at some of his ‘friends’ or well-wishers. Trying not to meet others. Sitting alone. Sitting with Lasica. Listening to the news.

Watching, angry without reason, as the world moved on. Resenting laughter. Attending strategy meetings, trying to make sense of the spell.

He should have been doing something. They were losing money. But neither he nor Lasica could bear to open the bar.

By the same token, he should be doing something. Making money, acting with a purpose for…

There were people that were recommended to him.

[Thought Healers]. Rufelt hadn’t really known the class existed. But this variation on [Carer], [Healer], was there for people who’d seen battle, adventurers. And parents.

He tried to get Lasica to go to one with him. He was terrified to go alone. But she resisted. She did not want to talk about…

And then had come the night when he’d found her burning all of the toys and things they would have used. He, Rufelt, would have saved each one. They’d fought, bitterly.

Now, today? It had been two days since Lasica stormed out of their home over the bar. Rufelt kept sitting at the bar. Waiting for her to come back.

He’d looked for her, but his nose wasn’t that good. He was sure she had money; she was probably staying with a friend. He’d asked one of the Watch Captains—Venim—to keep an eye out and the Watch Captain had told him this morning he’d checked on Lasica. But he’d refused to tell Rufelt where she was. Let her be, was the implicit statement in the Watch Captain’s words.

They should be together, though. At least he knew she was safe. Rufelt had some…some ability to affect his life, still. He slowly mixed together a drink.

That was what he knew. That was what he was good at. The Chaldion’s Eye? That was his invention. He put together four liquids, mixed them up.

Floating, pink little bubbles containing sour whiskey. He stared as they bounced in the cup. Then he threw the cup across the bar.

It didn’t even have the decency to shatter; everything was enchanted. Rufelt slammed his paws down on the wood, raised the [Bartender]’s aid—a club he’d never had to use in this bar.

He went to the shelves of alcohol to smash something. But he couldn’t bring himself to ruin his hard-earned collection. He wanted to, though.

The bar was so dark. But lighting anything was beyond him. Rufelt slunk around it, a shadow, waiting for Lasica.

In the end, he couldn’t bear to stay and left. Was that why Lasica wasn’t coming back?

—-

Outside was just as bad. Pallass could be dark since sunlight did not reach the lower floors in the shadow of the upper ones. But magical lights ensured that it was never dark enough. Rufelt felt everyone staring at him.

Everyone knew. He hurried away as some people called out to him. Their condolences made everything worse, didn’t those bastards understand that?

He didn’t know where to go. So he roamed the streets, looking around. Pallass, his home, had never seemed more like a cage to the Gnoll [Bartender].

Dully, Rufelt observed the City of Inventions. Always something new was going on. He had once said to a client that he would never grow tired of his city because he didn’t have to go anywhere to see what was happening!

It was still true, but it brought him no joy. Everything made him angry.

“Go, Renan, go!”

A cheering voice. A Dullahan sped down one of the grand staircases, on a skateboard. Cheering Drakes and Gnolls, the teen’s friends, poured after him. Rufelt had the urge to snatch the wooden skateboard, break it, and tell the Watch to arrest all of them. Or he’d do it with his paws!

Those idiots! Didn’t they think about what that skateboard could do if it hit someone? If that Dullahan idiot hit something at that speed? He started after them, but the [Guards] were already chasing the teens when he reached the staircase. The Assembly of Crafts had banned the ‘skateboards’, which of course only led the younger citizens to embrace it all the more.

He stood there, with more anger with nowhere to go. Then he heard a shout.

“Come see the Players of Pallass! Performing Elisial in the Crafter’s Theatre tonight!”

A [Crier] was passing out fliers with the new acting team that Pallass had assembled, trying to attract attention. He passed Rufelt one as the Gnoll walked past. Rufelt stared at it and saw two underlined names.

The Players of Liscor’s [Actors], who had moved to Pallass after being enticed to found this, with the Players of Celum’s blessing. He looked at the flier, crumpled it up.

How dare everyone be moving on with their lives. It seemed like just yesterday everyone was wearing white, and you couldn’t see another color on clothing. How quickly they all decided the mourning time was over.

Rufelt could have done this all day. Walked around, purely angry, looking for a confrontation. He’d done it last week.

He didn’t want to. He wanted to make a first step towards the future. But the [Thought Healer] had told Rufelt he needed Lasica to be part of that when he’d gone to her, shamefaced, alone.

Where was she? Rufelt sniffed the air, but he didn’t detect her smell. He wandered the 5th Floor, then the 6th, wondering if he should go to all of her close friends.

Venim wouldn’t tell him. Maybe the Watch Captain had been told by Lasica that she didn’t want to see Rufelt after the fight. Maybe…this was it? How could this be it? What had he done wrong?

Nothing. Everything.

In his quest for something to distract him, or meaning, Rufelt found himself going to one of the elevators.

“What floor, sir?”

“Eighth.”

He spoke quietly. He saw the Drake attendant glancing at him sidelong. Rufelt stared at the city as the elevator ascended. He had a thought.

The checkpoint to Liscor and The Wandering Inn didn’t see much use anymore. Everyone knew…

It had been such a tragedy. Rufelt had wept for Erin Solstice, the [Innkeeper], and thought it was the worst thing that could have happened. Then the Summer Solstice had occurred and he had been proven wrong.

He stood in front of the checkpoint, realizing he wasn’t on the list. But to hell with it. He approached the [Guards].

“I’d like to go to Liscor. Is…have you seen my wife, Lasica? The [Chef] of Tails and Scales?”

He had come up with the idea that Lasica had gone to Liscor, having anticipated he might look for her. The [Guards] didn’t know.

“We rotate by day, sir. You’re not on the list…”

“May I go through?”

Rufelt didn’t normally like to lean on any favors he had due to his fame or success. Today? He couldn’t care less. The Pallassian [Guards] exchanged a glance. They knew him. They had a quick conference, and the [Sergeant] gave the nod.

“We don’t know when the door will be open, Mister Rufelt. We could ask them to hold it—but you might be waiting for a long time. The inn is…”

Kel, the [Guard Sergeant], trailed off. Rufelt replied, face blank.

“That’s fine. I’ll wait.”

He stood there for nearly forty minutes, ignoring the looks. Lasica was beyond it. He was sure. There was an image playing out in Rufelt’s head.

A scene, a hope. Like a play of its own, he’d find her at Erin’s…grave. They’d make up. It would be better once he found her. He would find some closure with Erin, some hope in her, that she could come back and they could…

When the door opened, Rufelt started. He stepped through slowly.

“I…excuse me. Mister Rufelt, isn’t it?”

The Gnoll was younger. Ishkr. He’d opened the door to Pallass, but hadn’t expected anyone to come through. Rufelt looked at him.

He knew, too. Rufelt nodded slowly.

“Yes. Yes. Ishkr, right? Have you seen my wife? Lasica?”

“No, Mister Rufelt.”

The dream fell apart. As it did again and again. Rufelt looked around.

“Oh. Thank you.”

“I’m sorry. Can I offer you…the inn isn’t open, but we have something to eat, to drink?”

Rufelt realized Ishkr was eying him. He wondered what he looked like. He hadn’t bathed or combed his fur or…

“No. No. I’m fine, thank you. How’s the inn? Is anything…?”

“No, sir. Not much has changed since the Potion of Regeneration failed.”

“The potion of…?”

Rufelt hadn’t even heard about that. He listened dully, as Ishkr explained. Something in the younger Gnoll’s tone betrayed what he must have suffered. Hope lost again.

It was somehow comforting to know someone else was suffering. A bitter tonic. Rufelt hesitated. But since he was here—

“I’ll…check on Erin Solstice. If I may. Pay my respects.”

“Of course, Mister Rufelt. Do you need me to call the door?”

“No. I’ll take a walk and—I know how to get it.”

Rufelt’s vision had changed to him finding some inspiration and sharing it with Lasica. That was what was so wrong about hope. He kept having it, and losing it. Better if he didn’t believe things could be better.

And better if he had never come here. Rufelt did not realize his mistake at first. But the Gnoll had forgotten. He was in the main room of The Wandering Inn, taking something from the vast emptiness of the [Grand Theatre], almost relieved to be alone in a place like this that was not his bar. He was going over to the bar to…

…When he heard the scampering paws. Rufelt froze.

He saw a flash of white. Then, the little Gnoll raced around the corner of the hallway, panting, smiling.

Mrsha was running, fleeing the rolling, magical ball which was set to ‘tag’ mode. Selys’ present to her. She was having fun.

It was not her fault. But Rufelt took one look at her and recoiled.

Mrsha stopped when she saw Rufelt. She didn’t even realize why the Gnoll turned pale under his fur. Why he had to sit down. She stopped, grabbing the ball with her paws. She only realized why after a while. She’d forgotten about Rufelt. Then—she ran and hid.

Thoughts of visiting Erin fled Rufelt’s mind. He lurched to his feet. To go. He brushed past Ishkr and went for the door to Pallass. He never met the [Shaman]; he fled The Wandering Inn and went back to Pallass. There was no magic for him here. No relief.

—-

In the days after her miscarriage—well, the weeks after—Lasica Feltail visited her mother. She visited her sister.

Rufelt would have been wrong to assume his wife was visiting her friends. Lasica was not embarking on a ‘wine and gossip’ night, or whatever her husband imagined. She, like he, had no time for people who had no idea what she was going through.

She did seek out people, female friends, family, to talk to. That she could cry with, take hope from. Reassurance that something would change, that this was not the end of the world.

It might be a Drake thing. Or a personality thing. Or just her family in general. Her sister was matter-of-fact about it.

“It’s a miscarriage, Lasica. A magical attack. But women go through it. Get over it and stop your husband from drowning himself in his own tears.”

Lasica had promptly thrown her cup of wine in her sister’s face. They’d fought, but tough love was still a type of love. In theory. Her sister had gone through it, too.

She was trying to put it in perspective. Rufelt…Rufelt wanted to process it together. Lasica needed to be alone, sometimes. That was why it was hard and he wasn’t helping. He did not understand.

…She supposed she was to blame, too. She wasn’t communicating. The fight—well.

She didn’t want to go to this [Thought Healer]. They’d get through this together. Lasica was going to go back tonight. They’d reopen the bar. It wouldn’t be easy—the first week would probably be hell. But the work would give both of them a direction.

They could cry into their work. This was not the end.

Lasica kept saying that. Pushing—perhaps too fast—to move along. What else was there to do? She and Rufelt grieved differently. Everyone did. It did not mean one or the other was right.

Herself? After the fight, Lasica had prevailed on her mother for a second time. She’d gone out and gotten properly wasted on rotgut drink Rufelt would have turned his nose up at, with two friends. It did not make her feel better, but she’d stayed at an inn for a night.

Not The Wandering Inn, but Pallass’ ritzy inn, The Noble’s Fancy. She would never, ever have gone to The Wandering Inn, even if it was…cheerful…to stay as a guest. She’d seen Erin Solstice’s idea of customer service and tasted her cooking. Now, she was heading back to her bar. Wondering if Rufelt had stayed there all three days.

That was Rufelt and Lasica. Not united; going through the same thing, differently. Trying to deal with something that nothing in their lives would ever have prepared them for. Searching for a solution to something that no one had ever solved easily if at all.

Perhaps both had forgotten the objective truth. That both loved the other. Or if they knew it, it seemed like a distant, uncertain truth. Shaken by themselves as much as anything.

It did not change the fact that Rufelt would have followed Lasica wherever she would have gone. Waited for her.

And that she would have never abandoned him. If they could have been certain of that, if they could just connect for a moment.

Perhaps it might be alright someday.

Hope for those days again. Lasica had a hood on, and cloak. Some of the [Guards] gave her looks of curiosity, but their Skills didn’t reveal criminality. She didn’t want to attract attention or false friends. She was walking down the grand staircase on the southern side; the 5th Floor, home to Tails and Scales, was her destination.

But the wrong side of Pallass. And there was at yet no horizontal elevator to take you across the city. Yet. The [Engineers] were talking about some kind of movable walkway, but that was just hypotheticals. They were surprisingly…confident…that it could be made, though.

Lasica could have used it now. She briskly walked, trying to think about buying groceries, what to say to Rufelt. Just—tell him to get to work. Just—don’t get engaged in talking about the fight. Move on, keep moving.

Someone called out to her, beyond the [Hawkers], [Shopkeepers], the [Crier] still trying to attract attention for the play tonight…Lasica had no time for any of it. She could brush all of them off, even Skills meant to entice her—as if any of them would work on her now—but the person’s voice was more insistent.

“You are Lasica, aren’t you? The [Chef]?”

“I am. Excuse me, I’m in a hurry. Not interested in shaking your hand or buying anything, good day.”

Lasica replied without even looking around. Unlike Rufelt, she was happy to be aggressively rude. But the person just followed her.

“I understand that. If I could have a few words?”

“Here’s a few; I’m not interested.”

The Drake still ignored the person. But this super-[Hawker] or…Lasica heard the voice again.

“I understand you’ve suffered a loss. I wanted to extend my condolences.”

This time, the [Chef]’s eyes widened. She swung around and confronted the person.

“Thank you, but I don’t want your—”

Her angry words were going to be accompanied by the verbal lashing of this woman’s life. Not physical; Lasica didn’t wave around kitchen knives, for all she had a few nasty cutting Skills. But she was not sparing with her tongue.

She halted, though. Because something was strange about the person who’d accosted her.

It was a woman. Gnollish, taller than Lasica, older, with grey in her sable fur. Beyond that? Lasica hesitated, because there was something so…average…about the woman that it was disconcerting. She was like a composite of Gnolls. No scars, no peculiarities at all to make her stand out in memory. No coloration of fur…

If this same Gnoll had gone to the city of Salazsar, a particular [Consort of Change], Xesci, would have recognized her. For all she was no Drake. The Gnoll smiled.

Or her lips moved.

“My condolences. I am told you suffered a terrible accident. Dark magic. You lost your child.”

“That’s…none of your business.”

The Gnoll tilted her head. There was something uncanny. All the words were there. But her condolence was more like a slap to Lasica.

“I believe it is. Such a terrible thing that happened. Your unborn child. Gone. Demons took it. You are grieving.”

“How dare you.”

Lasica whispered. That? That—hurt. Her claw drifted downwards, then balled into a fist.

The Gnoll was still…not exactly smiling. She kept tilting her head, regarding Lasica. And then, the [Chef] noticed something.

The street she was walking down was deserted, an oddity in Pallass, home to millions. Second? The Gnoll woman had sought her out. She knew Lasica’s name.

The scales on Lasica’s arms began to tingle. She took a slow step back.

“What do you want? Actually—I don’t care. I’m busy. Leave me be, or I’ll call the Watch.”

The Drake looked over her shoulder. The Gnoll woman spoke.

“I heard of your loss. I thought I should approach you. It is so, so very difficult for parents after a loss. I know it hurts.”

“Get away from me.”

Lasica stumbled away. Where were other pedestrians? The Watch? She looked up, and saw a Garuda in mid-flight. Flapping her wings as the Street Runner traversed Pallass in the distance.

But she was caught in the air. She was moving fast, but it seemed as though Lasica could watch her forever and the Garuda would still never reach her destination.

“I will not take your time. But I thought you should know, Lasica Feltail, that there are people who can help you in this dire hour.”

“If you’re talking about [Thought Healers], I don’t want any. Thank you, but if you’re using Skills—”

“I am not talking about them.”

Lasica knew it. She turned to face the female Gnoll. The woman spoke.

“There is someone who can make your pain go away, Lasica. Not help you deal with it. Not offer you potions or temporary relief. All your agony can be gone. And your husband, likewise. You two can be happy again. And. Your child can return to you.”

This time Lasica recoiled. She fumbled for her side. The wand Rufelt made her carry around out of overzealousness—she dropped it. She picked it up, cursing the woman.

“How dare you!”

“I am not lying.”

The Gnoll woman didn’t flinch as Lasica raised the wand. Lasica uttered the activation command—an impact spell struck the Gnoll in the chest.

She went stumbling backwards. But not flying as a normal person or [Thug] should have been. Lasica saw the Gnoll’s arms flail. Like a rag doll, she went over backwards. Then…got up.

The entire impact, stumbling fall, and return to her legs unnerved Lasica. The Gnoll woman picked herself up without pushing herself off the ground. Her legs planted on the ground; her waist and torso rose with incredible strength.

As if pulled up by strings.

“What—what—”

“I have come here to tell you this, Lasica. For you and all the other grieving parents in Pallass. But you are…extraordinary. One of the best [Chefs] in Pallass. The woman I speak of can help you. And for you, Lasica, she can deliver true happiness.”

“Woman? Who—who are you? Don’t get any closer! I’ll summon the Watch!”

The Gnoll woman did not advance. The half-smile on her face hadn’t changed even after the spell had hit her.

“No. I will not. I am not here to force you to do anything, Lasica. Just listen. She can help you. And if you summon her, she will restore all you have lost. Your child. Your relationship. Even the memory of loss, if you will it. As if it never happened.”

“No one can bring back the dead. My child is gone. Tell me that again and I’ll gut you like a fish.”

Lasica spoke, harsher than she intended. To this, the Gnoll…woman…only tilted her head again.

“Everything is possible for the right price, Lasica Feltail. Ask yourself only this: what would you do if it were possible to truly bring your child back? To have another chance? For you, I think she would work all her craft.”

“Who? Who is this person who can apparently do all this?”

The Gnoll woman watched Lasica backing away. She did not move. Lasica was feeling behind her, for the edge of this spell, this Skill. There had to be one.

“Look up her name. Look at history. You will find her if you want to. Her name is Belavierr. Think on it, Lasica. Whatever you wish—”

Lasica turned and ran. She burst out of the barrier and time resumed. The Garuda winged onwards. She whirled, panting, as a gaggle of Drakes came around the corner.

“And then I said—whoa!”

They recoiled at the drawn wand. Lasica turned, ignoring them, and aimed back the way she’d come.

At—

Nothing. The street was empty.

The Gnoll was gone.

—-

Of course she had vanished. And of course, Lasica reported it to the Watch.

She was not a fool. They took her seriously as well. Rufelt rushed into the Watch House as Lasica was making the report.

“Lasica! What happened?”

“Just a stranger. Rufelt. I…”

He embraced her without a word. And all of this should have been the first step. A scare—but Lasica’s refusal. Rufelt running to get her, them eating an actual meal in their home, around their table.

“You’re filthy. Have you eaten anything since I was gone?”

She whipped up a fast meal on the few items they had left. He grinned at her, looking lightheaded from hunger. She fed him, that silly Gnoll, and he agreed to talk tomorrow, about the bar. About…

Lasica was not an idiot. Strangers approaching you out of nowhere and offering you everything you wanted? She knew all the warning signs.

But that was the insidious thing. It was probably one of the worst sales pitches out there. And yes, Lasica knew the stories. And she had a strong will. And she’d told the Watch.

However. Curiosity was like hope. It gnawed on you.

She had to know, if only to refuse.

—-

The next day, Rufelt was running around, restocking the bar. Shopping for Lasica. Calling in their workers. Finding clients. Exasperated, she let him do it.

He was clearly glad to have a purpose. So was she. Normally, she would have told him to let her get all the good ingredients and stop hogging the workload.

But she let him do most of it. Because Lasica had to make one stop in her day. Rufelt didn’t notice, preoccupying himself with work. He did walk her to her destination, but he thought she had another purpose.

Looking up new recipes. And while it was true that Pallass’ Grand Library had them…

Lasica walked down lines of shelves. Telling herself this was stupid. But she had to see it. Then she could put aside the strange offer. Because nothing would change her mind.

Nothing…

There were many history books. She feared she’d have to search. But the name she’d withheld from the Watch, which she’d give them right after this, was easy to search.

Belavierr. The Stitch Witch of Terandria. Spider. Temptress. Threadbreaker. The Mistress of Strands.

She had so many names. Lasica’s scales tingled as she pulled out the historical book on one of the old monsters of this world.

The [Chef] ran the tip of her claw down stories about her. Sightings. Her list of crimes was legion. Lasica read, and the more she read, the more she was convinced.

A powerful [Witch]. A powerful, dangerous [Witch], considered immortal, responsible for war and atrocity. But still, a [Witch].

Not to be trusted. That was the point. The history book was clear. The [Historian] was no fool. He or she spelled it out: Belavierr made deals of a terrible nature. By contact alone she caused other people’s schemes to fail.

That was what Lasica had needed to see. Because she didn’t want…

“Puppet-children? Spells cast upon bereaved lovers?”

She shuddered. No. No, no false simulacra, no half-measures, terrifying, too-costly fake dreams. Never. The history book just reinforced her decision, quashing curiosity.

Belavierr had nothing Lasica wanted. Except maybe extreme spinal strength. Lasica rubbed her lower back after an hour of reading. She moved to close the book.

And then her eyes travelled a bit too far down the page. And an excerpt stood out to her.

…brought back to life…

Like a magnet, a spell, the Drake looked back. And she read the entry again.

The tribunal of the City of Zeres’ ruling was unanimous, if contentious. Whereupon it was confirmed that the Child, Meree Sailclaw, was brought back to life such that the best [Healer] could not claim she was a puppet, artificial life, and had indeed been subject to formal resurrection at cost to the Wall Lord and Wall Lady Me’na and Merul Sailclaw, the tribunal decided a formal execution of the Stitch Witch’s magic could not be carried out, for the child was innocent.

However, the Serpentine Matriarch of Zeres overruled the tribunal’s findings and ordered the execution of all three. The Admiralty of Zeres was forced to oppose her; martial law was declared and the Serpentine Matriarch ordered Zeres’ army to enforce her orders.

In the ensuing battle, Meree Sailclaw disappeared, along with Lady Me’na. Merul Sailclaw was apprehended. However, he did not live to face judgment. He expired in front of the [Soldiers] sent to capture him. With his dying breath, Merul claimed he had made a second pact with the Spider and ensured his family’s safety.

That Meree Sailclaw was brought to life was the subject of debate for decades. But the evidence is clear: to the confirmation of the Archmages of Wistram, multiple [Healers], and [Sage] Yinelt of the era, she was revived at great cost.

Meree Sailclaw returned to Zeres once to lay a final proof to the bargain for her life. She returned to visit her father’s grave sixty years since the inciting incident. The new Serpentine Matriarch ordered her executed, and it was carried out publically. The Stitch Witch’s warrant is still extant.

There was more. More cautionary tales. More words. Lasica sat there, not bothering to read more. Head blank. If she had not read that section. If she had closed the book a minute earlier, she would have been able to go on with her life.

But now she was caught in the Spider’s web. For all the [Historian] had tried, they had played into Belavierr’s plans by recording…history. Fact.

Now it was there. Lasica searched. She found, of course, all the other entries. It was far, far rarer. But she had done it more than once. It was no fluke.

She was shaking. The [Chef] felt it, now. A second wound, torn open. She had moved past it. Yet the hand dragged her back. Right to that night. Right back to hope and despair.

The book lay in front of her, enchanted pages resisting the tears. It had to be enchanted to survive so long. To faithfully tell those who wanted to know the truth.

Slowly, a hand closed the book. It replaced it on the shelf. Lasica stared at the table. The dark blue cloth. She looked up.

Belavierr stood in front of her. Her vast hat left her face in shadows. But her eyes—the orange and dark rings caught Lasica’s eyes.

The Stitch Witch looked down. And then she did smile.

8.13 F

On Sunday, 6 PM EST, Rebecca Brewer, the editor who worked on 8.11 E will be doing a Q&A in the #publishing channel on the Discord server! Join here if you want to watch or participate! Also, she has done an interview with The Fantasy Inn! Click here to read it!

That she could not investigate the Potion of Regeneration didn’t surprise Octavia Cotton. The Drake representative had kept it in his possession after the failed revival attempt and he and the other Drakes from Salazsar would gut anyone who so much as looked at it cross-eyed.

Which was only appropriate. If it was just her entrails, the Stitch-Girl would hand them over willingly to even look at a drop of the stuff.

She couldn’t. Fair was fair; she doubted even Master Saliss could easily replicate it even if he had the entire sample within a year. Within a decade? She was sure Saliss of Lights could do it. It would be the discovery of the decade if he did, too.

For now, she was busy enough not to even try to get a hold of a drop or two. Octavia did not remain in the inn or Stitchworks, which was temporarily closed. It was too sad. And she had work. Lots of it.

Paid work! Leveling work! She sweat over vials, little pellets of powder she was mixing up—ready to dive behind the steel counters if she knocked anything over. Saliss’ laboratory held only Octavia. The apprentice had a master-class [Alchemist]’s personal working environs at her fingertips!

And she was making potions and formulating reagents which she compiled into powders, tonics, salves, and more. Working off meticulous notes. Some of the creations were beyond her, but Saliss had gone over the ones she could make.

It was Octavia Cotton who was helping replenish Saliss’ lost armaments. She was making Blast Potions by the dozen, and it was not a fun experience. Yes, she was learning. Yes, she was being paid by Saliss and using his equipment.

One potion could blow her brains across the wall if she dropped it wrong. Saliss had given her protective artifacts and Octavia, as a Stitch Person, could replace arms melted off by acid—that had happened already, just a drop had begun eating her entire hand away!—but she was still as cautious as could be.

Oh, and one more thing. Octavia walked over to the logbook of [Messages] and read the latest entry.

Octavia, do the thing with the potions for the person for the money. Thanks,

–Saliss.

She stared at the [Message] and cursed her master. Then, she went back and read his correspondence where he’d accepted an offer to produce eighteen Battle Veteran Draughts…she abandoned work on his Blast Potions to fill the order.

What a good apprentice she was. Leveling, that was the ticket. And making her own notes based off Saliss’. He knew she was going to do it and she was helping! Give and take, that was the [Alchemist]-way. Give, take, and explode things. Hopefully not yourself.

“[Purity Check]. Bad, good, bad—who’s selling this rot to Master Saliss? Aha! 98% purity? That’s…good. I think.”

Octavia made a note, frowning. She had a Skill Saliss lacked. Not a great one, but she was doing a test of ingredients before she got to work. Some of the ingredients weren’t pure and she’d have to refine or filter them. Skills and levels.

—-

At the same time as Octavia was becoming a recluse who hadn’t seen daylight for the last six days straight, someone else was getting all the daylight.

Also, the stares. The female Hobgoblin breasted boobily as she titillatingly perked her way down the street.

…That was to say, she walked down the street of Liscor, ignoring the looks some people were giving her. Some people.

Mrsha had never really bothered to notice it before, but Ulvama made it obvious. Nor did she seem bothered. If anything, she was trying to elicit that reaction.

It was almost comforting to the Hobgoblin [Shaman]. Her reason being that in this city of Drakes and Gnolls and Humans, the familiar stares were preferable to someone pointing at the Goblin and reaching for a weapon.

Not that it wasn’t scandalous.

“Goblin! Just look at the way she dresses! Savages.”

Mrsha’s ears perked up. She glared at the Drake. Selys just rubbed at her head.

The fact that a Goblin could walk around Liscor was the product of many concessions. Once, they had died at the gates. Later, it had been fights, riots, over one Hobgoblin walking through.

Today? Well, the Watch was shadowing them and Ulvama was causing a second disturbance for other reasons, but she was getting away with it.

The interesting thing to Mrsha—not interesting, egregious, to use a Lyonette-word—was that Ulvama might have less clothing than many on the street, and her magical paints, and she was, apparently, highly attractive, but all of that wasn’t different from how Plains Gnolls dressed all the time.

Savages was a word Mrsha used to hear the Stone Spears Gnolls being called behind their backs when they traded with Drakes. She didn’t like it then, and she didn’t like it now.

However, the Ulvama-method of provoking attraction and dislike of her body almost took away from the Goblin element. She was cunning. Like…a cunning thing. Mrsha had no analogy here.

The point was that Ulvama, after two weeks of being in the inn, had snapped. She wanted to see the city! She wanted, at least, to get new things. She had explained this to Mrsha in an Ulvama-way, by poking her.

“I give you list. You buy me things.”

Mrsha had refused. Ulvama had promptly picked her up by her feet and dangled her there. Mrsha had punched her in the stomach. Then they’d played ‘serious tag’, wherein Ulvama eventually locked Mrsha down with a vine-trap spell and sat on her with her stupid butt until Mrsha decided to get Selys for help.

Surprisingly, the Drake had decided to give it a shot. So here they were.

“Timbor’s inn is open. Maybe we should, ah, go there?”

Ulvama didn’t respond as Selys gave her the side-eye. She was staring around. Then she hurried off. Mrsha and Selys saw her peering at a display full of bracelets. The Drake watched her carefully, no doubt fearing the Goblin would steal something and run off. The Goblin made Selys pay for what she wanted. She was happy enough to obey the law if she had Selys-money behind her.

She was beginning to really like all the things this inn was giving her for free. Ulvama dragged the other two along as she began searching for what she really wanted: dyes, paint powders, and so on. She’d already pilfered Octavia’s shop of everything she could use, and the Stitch Girl was going to be really steamed when she discovered the thefts.

Mrsha made Selys carry her after the third shop Ulvama visited. The Drake groaned as she held Mrsha, who was getting heavier. Mrsha wanted to be back at the inn. There were more interesting things than stupid shopping. She had evil rats to catch! Her inn had an infestation. Or mice.

—-

The point was, people were getting on with their lives. Returning to their professions. Timbor Parthian, formerly of Celum, had been told that his city was rebuilding with all the gold that had been sent in. A windfall, hope, charity to dig deeper foundations and replant after the destruction the Bloodfeast Raiders had caused.

He would not be returning. It was thoughtfully that the [Innkeeper] polished a tabletop, although the Drake [Waiter] had done a fine job already, as he watched his customers come in.

Thoughtfully, like every day since he’d begun to rebuild with Erin Solstice’s help. He thought of her and his throat constricted as he swallowed. He had gone to war for her, a damn foolish thing in the heat of the moment.

Yet he’d survived. And now…he looked around. The [Mayor] of Celum had personally invited him to return, offering money to rebuild Timbor’s inn.

A tempting thing. But The Drunken Swordsman was gone, and rebuilding in the same spot would just bring back memories of the death, the grief…The Drunken Gnoll was the new inn in Liscor.

Timbor saw potential here. He was in the new quarter going up, yes. His inn still had sharp corners, yes. All the Humans were new to their jobs, Liscor had seen monsters attacks, yes, yes, yes.

Even so, look! All his guests were Human. They came here for his extremely-affordable breakfasts. Those were loyal customers for the next decade if he made his inn a place they could come to, rain or shine.

Humans were new in Liscor, but they were already proving their worth. Drakes and Gnolls didn’t take to them with all the welcome in the world of course; Timbor had heard of two fights just yesterday between work crews. ‘Humans stealing jobs’ was the new refrain.

Still, he thought Liscor was the place to be. The Players of Liscor had bought a theatre and Timbor had, with some quick insight, persuaded them to buy the building across the street from his inn. Masterstroke, really. Drakes and Gnolls were coming to his inn after each play and he had a discount for anyone who had one of the little play pamphlets.

Timbor would not return to Celum. Liscor was the future. He had an eye for commerce. Esthelm’s metals were coming through Liscor. Pallass had a connection here. There were plays, and now?

His eyes moved to the first non-Human customer to move into the inn. Oh yes. Timbor saw the Gnoll park the wooden skateboard and look around, almost challengingly, as two of his friends stopped.

“Welcome! Can I get you something on-the-go? One of our fast food bags? Or will it be drinks and a meal?”

The Gnolls and one Drake looked at Timbor’s welcoming smile. The [Innkeeper] had seen more and more skateboards, even a bicycle, one of the cheap ones, in Liscor’s streets. Did Celum have that?

“We’ll get three fast-food bags.”

“Of course. That’ll be…”

Timbor went for the pantry with Runes of Preservation he’d had enchanted just last week. Unlike the kitchen, this was separate, right next to the little drawer with money you could change coins with. He took the silver, returned some coppers, and handed over three little bags of food.

It was a variation on the foods Erin had made. Smart business! Well, he hadn’t come up with the idea but implemented it. A cheap bag, some paper wrap, and you could have burger, fries, a bit of ketchup or the mayonnaise or something else, and with a preservation spell, have food in people’s hands in moments.

Erin Solstice was not the only person who could do quick food. Timbor’s breakfasts-on-the-go were increasingly popular and other [Innkeepers] were copying him. But they had a harder time beating his prices, his food, and him being first than they did stealing from Erin. Timbor was competitive.

Speaking of which, as he personally took the money, he poked his head into the kitchen. The breakfast crowd who were eating in the inn rather than taking the to-go meals were a happy lot.

“Miss Imani, we just sold three more of your fast-food bags.”

“Well, you can have the second [Cook] make more. I’m off for a class in twenty minutes! I can do all the breakfast orders—is Palt here yet?”

A voice snapped back. Imani did not like the fast-food system, or the impression she was running it, despite adding some quality to the items. Timbor glanced around.

“Not yet. I’ll let you know when he comes in.”

Humming, he moved around his inn. Yes, Liscor was making him feel young again. Adventurous. Starting a new business, working with a challenge—he was leveling once more!

He didn’t even bat more than an eyelid when Ulvama, Selys, and Mrsha came into the inn for lunch. Although he did stare for a bit.

—-

Another Hobgoblin had no one staring at his chest. Unless it was bare, covered in glistening sweat, rippling with muscle and…

But that was not now. Also, he would have ignored the stares regardless since he was used to them by now.

Numbtongue sat in the Garden of Sanctuary. He ate, he slept, but he still had yet to move. He still waited.

The inn was returning to some kind of life. Mrsha and Ulvama had formed an unlikely bond, or at least, a truce of convenience.

The Earthers had their jobs. Even Troy and Leon were staying out of trouble. Troy kept going to Pallass; Leon stayed in his rooms, hogging the laptop or went into Liscor. One seemed happier than the other, but there you were. Rose had gone south; other friends of the inn like Pelt had thrown themselves back into work. Many were gone, on missions relating to the frozen [Innkeeper] like Lyonette. Others prepared for war.

Antinium clad in armor were drilling in the Floodplains. The sight of several thousand of them swinging weapons or marching in formation was a sight to unnerve the enemies of Liscor, as was the growing army of the Watch, now with a mandate to take battle to enemies outside of the walls of Liscor as well as police inwards.

Montressa and Bezale popped their heads into the inn regularly, but sometimes they stayed in Invrisil or even Pallass; they were prone to leading groups through the magical door, still facilitating the links between cities. Palt and Imani had work in the city, when they weren’t being disgustingly cute together—at least, according to Mrsha, who handed them ‘yuck’ notes now and then.

Somehow, The Wandering Inn still made money thanks to those portal-fees. And the guests. Hexel still stayed in the inn, although he was talking of finding other accommodations in the city while leaving his three Lizardfolk apprentices to stay at the inn. Imani still kept enough food for Ishkr and the limited staff to serve anyone who was around.

The inn was empty, but not dead. And all the guests were accounted for.

…Weren’t they? You could lose track. Mrsha, Ulvama, Numbtongue, Apista if you counted her, Kevin, Imani, Palt, Joseph, Rose, and so on, Montressa and Bezale, Hexel…Bird had reclaimed his pillows and blankets and had not gone on his one-Antinium war, and that was a relief… He’d sold his arrows to Liscor’s new army, ironically making a profit.

That was surely everyone. Everyone who wasn’t abroad like the Horns, Ryoka, Lyonette, and so on, right? Wait, Octavia! Pallass, though. So that was fine. Grimalkin hadn’t appeared for a while, but one assumed he was flexing elsewhere.

The problem was that no one was counting. There was no Lyonette. No Erin. For if there had been, someone might have noticed that one of the newest guests was…absent. If she appeared, it was not at a time that even Ulvama or keen-eared Mrsha would notice.

Perhaps the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings, still holding sentry, counted her. But a gentleman did not inquire into a lady’s affairs, even late at night. Everyone had forgotten about her, in the tragedy and events since the Summer Solstice.

The young woman who had come with Ryoka and Salamani, and unlike the two Runners, stayed behind. The somewhat mysterious Opener from Reizmelt, far in the north. A girl who might be sixteen years old, always wearing dark, covering clothing, with that tight-lipped smile, red eyes and pale skin.

The Vampire.

Fierre. She’d been having adventures too.

—–

The day after Fierre was mugged; she woke up to discover she’d grown an inch.

It was my fault, really.

After investigating places to set up her Opener business and realizing how much competition there was in Invrisil, she’d been walking late at night when she noticed the man following her.

Like a moth to the lantern, the young woman had done all the wrong things. Look over her shoulder anxiously, change directions, hurry down a street—and found herself herded towards a quiet alleyway.

The Vampire girl had known that the latest hours of the nights in the unfriendliest parts of the city were not when a seemingly sixteen-year-old young woman should be wandering around alone with no perceivable artifacts—or even with.

No one should really do that. And having lived in the reasonably-large city of Reizmelt for years, Fierre had known exactly what she was inviting. In fact, she had wanted that.

Vampire. I am a Vampire! Predator of the night! A true Vampire. Come on, a bit closer…

The [Thug] or whomever he had been, [Kidnapper], or something just as bad or worse, had been grinning. A man who’d covered his features with a hood and strips of cloth. Sensible if Fierre got away.

“Don’t fight back or it’ll go worse for you.”

He’d warned Fierre as she stood halfway down the alley. She’d backed up and he’d moved forwards, head on a swivel for a chance patrol of the Watch.

Just a bit closer. This isn’t going to go the way you want.

The Vampire girl had grinned then, her eyes flashing red, her mouth opening in a predator’s fanged bite. But subtly so the man didn’t know how the tables were turning.

It…hadn’t gone the way it was supposed to. In Fierre’s head, it was a classic reversal of fortunes. The Human monster finding he was trying to victimize the real threat. A single scream in the night of Invrisil, a corpse, or bewildered man left unconscious the next day. She hadn’t really planned that one out.

But instead of grabbing his arm and swinging him into the brick wall, Fierre had seen the man draw back before he lunged.

“…[Dangersense]? Shit—”

He’d turned to run. She’d gone after him, cursing. In her newfound arrogance she’d sort of forgotten that the criminal element got warning Skills like everyone else and a smart [Mugger] might well have something like that for situations just like this.

She’d leapt on his back and borne him down, even so. She was fast! But he was fast too, and had ripped a knife out of his sleeve. He’d slashed—she’d tried to hit him but the knife was so quick she’d realized she had to hit him with all her strength even if she got slashed. Unless he got her heart or throat or face—

She’d drawn back a fist and fallen over. Limp, Fierre had lain on the ground as the man threw her off him. She heard the voice behind her as the [Mage] shed his [Camouflage] spell. He’d crept up on them as they fought.

“[Paralysis Touch]. She nearly got you.”

The [Mugger] spat. He lurched to his feet and kicked Fierre in the chest. He turned to his accomplice.

“Bitch. One of the fuckin’ Sisters you think…? She nearly tore my arm off!”

The other [Spell Ambusher] looked up and down the street.

“Didn’t see a shadow. Grab or stab?”

“Grab. Let’s get her. She down?”

“Yep. I’ll cast [Sleep].”

They busied themselves as Fierre’s head fell back, grabbing arms and legs. They were halfway out of the alley when the [Mage] saw the clawed hand shoot up and grab his neck. Fierre squeezed.

The [Mugger] dropped her legs with a shout of horror as she took the other man’s throat. This time he didn’t even stop but whirled on his heels. Fierre took him with a single leap. She tossed him back into the alley and ran over to kick him in the chest until he stopped moving. Then she’d slid down a wall, panting, until she realized she could not stay here with two corpses. She’d drunk their blood and fled, panting and cursing her idiocy.

Only two things had saved Fierre that night. The first was the [Mage] failing to reapply the [Paralysis Touch] and trusting to [Sleep] instead. She’d not been completely immobilized by the first spell, but they could have killed her. She’d gathered her strength as the spell quickly wore off to kill him.

The second thing that saved her was the fact that they hadn’t been high-level. If they had? Fierre had shuddered all the way back to her rooms in The Wandering Inn.

Idiot! You nearly got killed! If they got you—if that [Mage] had been ten levels higher—

At the same time, a plaintive thought had rung through her head all night, until she finally got to sleep.

But aren’t I supposed to be strong?

—-

A few more things. Fierre was an inch taller. She stared at herself in the mirror and checked again, but she looked taller. Even…older.

“Why?”

The answer was obvious. The blood. She’d drunk both criminals’ blood, and then slashed their necks with the dagger to hide the evidence. It had been foul, but she’d been hungry, hence the stunt to begin with.

What had happened, though, was not Fierre becoming a Level 2 [Mugger] or [Mage]. Rather, she’d tasted the blood, gulped it down, but hated it. Foul, disgusting!

She hadn’t heard the level-ups. Fierre, a Level 7 [Assassin], learned something that moment about her species and about how they leveled up.

You could refuse to absorb levels. Something about the two men had been repugnant, so Fierre had only taken their blood.

This was the result.

“Blood or levels.”

Fierre eyed herself. She had always been scrawny, short, and sick. Now, she was an inch taller, and healthier by far—if still pale. All because she’d killed two men, and before that, fed on numerous [Assassins] after the battle in Invrisil’s streets.

Vampire. Fierre bared her teeth at herself in the blank mirror. There was no actual Fierre staring back, but she knew she was an inch taller because she used a classic Vampire trick for when they wanted to measure their heights. The blank mirror showed her room—and the book Fierre had put on her head, hovering in the air. Not her clothing or her features.

Such vas the mysterious nature of ze Vampire. Ze bloodlines of old, ze great power of ze night. Fierre felt like her mother, Colfa val Drakle-Lischelle, was narrating in her head. She recalled all of Bamer’s stories of true Vampires, their fabled strength, ability to heal from anything but stakes or silver or the greatest magic, Lords and Ladies of the Night! Shape changers, spellcasters…invisible to mirrors, afraid of sunlight and garlic, but immortal otherwise.

Vampire. She—recalled how close she’d come to a bad end last night and deflated.

Some Vampire. Did Ryoka’s panacea not do everything? Am I just a bad Vampire? Is it my waning bloodline, the silver in my family for generations?

Do I just suck?

The answer was probably ‘yes’ on both accounts. Fierre felt like how Ryoka often described herself. All hot air, little substance. And she’d been so sure she was better than Ryoka at fighting because she was a Vampire.

It defined Fierre. Pride in her species, fear of being found out. Resignation about her eventual death, too early. She had worked part-time jobs, drinking animal blood, quietly a bit miserable as she watched other people level and dream of greatness because of that.

Then—one day—she had met the newest person to come to their strange little inn. A City Runner from far-off Celum.

Ryoka had run into her life and turned it upside down. Her Opener job, her twenty six years of life as a Vampire, knowing her fate—overturned in a few months. Now, Fierre was in Invrisil, she had been cured of the silver toxins in her blood that had haunted her all her life, and she was a Vampire who could drain levels from other people.

I am everything Bamer’s stories say I should be. I can level—or steal it from other people. I’m stronger, faster, tougher than I ever was before. I beat down magical Golems with my bare fists! I met the Archmage of Izril! I’m…

Still low-level. I’m below Level 10. Idiot. You got overconfident. What happens if someone finds the corpses? What if they were in a gang that investigates? If they have magical bloodhound classes? Idiot.

She bonked her head against the mirror a few times. Fierre and Ryoka were more similar than either knew. Fierre also spoke to herself; it came with being an Opener, and her job of categorizing secrets and information. She was normally deliberate, cautious, keeping opinions to herself.

Her newfound power had gone to her head. Now, Fierre calmed herself down. She had to be careful! She flitted downstairs before daylight could sear her skin and fished around in the kitchen.

Imani wasn’t there. Fierre had a…‘blood sense’ that allowed her to tell when beating hearts and blood were about. She could also use the Garden of Sanctuary, but she was fast enough that no one noticed as she collected a few items and went upstairs.

She had no need of food. Food had been last night and Fierre had found she could go a day or two on regular ‘meals’ before she needed blood. Instead, she found a bucket of broken ice and put several ice chunks in a towel. Then she put the bundle on her head.

Fierre’s body was always cold, but she could sit in the snow and be happy.

Let’s see. Confirm, collate, categorize. The tenets of the Opener. What do I now know about my nature? Well, I can absorb levels. I need actual, people-blood to feed. Animals don’t cut it anymore.

I’m a Level 7 [Assassin] with a number of useful Skills. I should have used [Bloodform Blades] on those muggers! I shouldn’t have been so careless. I need more levels, more experience with fighting if I’m going to do it.

Am I going to do it? I need blood. Mugging people—how long till the Watch wonders who’s killing people and leaving bloodless bodies? That’s stupid. Mother and father and Bamer would all tell me I’m putting all of us in danger.

But I need levels. I need blood. I’m thirsty.

It was so sweet. Tastier than any blood she’d ever had, even the ‘foul’ blood of those two last night. Animal blood was just…food. This was life, energy! She knew she’d grown because of the blood. Her body had been malnourished her entire life. Would she be taller, even stronger, actually beautiful like her mother, if she drank enough blood?

Fierre was twenty-six. Now she looked…seventeen. The urge to change was upon her. To drink. But—careful.

Level 7 [Assassin]. If you exclude the Vampire element, a Level 16 [Thug] should probably be able to take a Level 7 [Assassin] in anything like a fair fight. Idiot. [Lesser Dexterity], [Reject Toxins], [Bloodform Blades], and [Concealing Presence] are all weak! And if you don’t even use one, how are you supposed to beat anyone? That’s two combat Skills, one stealth Skill, and one other.

I should be a Level 60 [Assassin] or something, shouldn’t I? I can’t even remember how many people I…I was so hungry.

Twenty levels—at least twenty!—became three. And that was the first person. It could have been a 10:1 ratio. Or even less! Twenty to one, for all I know.

It makes sense, because if I have both levels and my nature, I’ll be unstoppable.

Fierre exhaled. Analysis complete. She now knew a great secret about Vampires. Put the clues together and it was obvious.

House Byres had killed them. They had won the war against Vampires by poisoning every well and river with silver. They had lost the battle by winning the war. Vampires had lost the ability to steal levels because of the silver in them.

Only Ryoka had saved Fierre, with some great magic from Eldavin the Grand Magus. Fierre owed her friend a huge debt. But she was in no position to repay it, even as a bodyguard. She was weak, but she knew how to be stronger.

Issue? Getting blood isn’t that easy. Especially since you’re stealing levels and I just bet a Level 30 [Ranger] would object if he lost his levels. Do they lose their Skills? Do I actually steal levels, or just the power?

There was no one to experiment on, but Fierre appended a delicate ‘unlikely’ in her head to those questions. The Opener thought on, sorting her head.

I need to choose what levels I get.

There was no question she would gain more levels, even if it meant theft. Leveling was a rush. The sensation of getting stronger, realizing she could do backflips with ease and walk on the edge of rooftops with even more grace than she’d possessed before thanks to [Lesser Dexterity] was amazing.

And she’d always been a Vampire, able to leap onto a rooftop, throw Ryoka about, punch holes in wood, and heal from being impaled with hundreds of needles. Fierre had always wanted to be, well, superhuman. She was already inhuman.

[Assassin] is a great class. What other classes would be ideal? [Mage], definitely. Um. [Archer]? I don’t know how to use a bow. How would that help?

Fierre’s character was such that as another day rose, and Mrsha rolled down the hallway until she slid down the stairs one at a time on her back, Fierre found herself consulting her notes on classes and making a list of good classes to ‘acquire’ levels from. And she had lots of secret notes.

[Rogue] can consolidate into [Assassin]. I could almost assume that I could ‘merge’ levels. Or if not, one class will consolidate the other in time. And [Rogues]—there are a lot of them in gangs.

[Thug]’s not the same. Be careful—I need a Ring of Appraisal. I need one for my job, anyways.

[Mage] is great because magic consolidates with everything. [Spell Ambusher] from [Thug], for instance—that’s probably who jumped me last night. [Spellblade] for [Assassin]?

“Hm. Records of one of the greatest criminal’s class being ‘The Killer X’, for the scar he or she left. Confirmed dead, bounty claimed…class was [Arch Bladefiend]. That sounds like some kind of [Slaughterer]—[Mage] consolidation if ever I heard one.”

[Mage], then, and [Assassin]. [Warrior]? I mean…sure. [Merchant]? Nah. No artisan classes…right? I could become a master-potter and do what? Make the most amazing bowls to keep blood in? Although, there was that [Potter] who…where’s my notes on him? Oh yeah, could create pots that extended your life so long as they didn’t break?

Every class gets better the higher you go. I need to choose a path.

And that path was probably being stronger. Fierre had enjoyed the raid on Valeterisa’s mansion, for all the danger. She felt a rush from fighting, cutting loose.

…Shame she was so bad at it.

—-

The problem was, Fierre was an Opener by profession. She’d done other things, like helping mix super-toxic plants for [Alchemists] because Vampires had different weaknesses than regular people, laborer jobs; she could actually butcher an animal as well as most apprentice [Butchers], even without Skills.

She could also raise sheep, farm, and…none of this was a background in the art of war. Fierre didn’t even know how to swing a sword. Oh, she’d gotten a few lessons when she worked part-time as a [Guard], but she was realizing more and more how ill-prepared she’d been.

Even that [Thug] with the knife had nearly tagged her with her inhuman, Vampire reflexes. And he’d been Level 14 or something! As much as Fierre hated to admit it—even Ryoka was better at fighting with her fists.

Fierre’s strategy was grab something, tear an arm off, or punch so hard she could shatter every bone in someone’s body. She had once beaten Ryoka by grabbing her and throwing her into a wall hard enough to knock her out.

Which was great. Vampire strength and all. But that meant that if you ran into someone with your level of strength and speed, you were still going to lose.

Fierre knew this because she wasn’t an only child. Or an only-Vampire. And she had grown up tussling with her brother, Rivel, and testing herself against her father, Himilt, her mother, Colfa, Bamer, and all the other Vampires she’d ever met.

She was distinctly average. Before her curing, Rivel could beat her in a fight, or it was close enough not to matter. And Himilt had been faster, stronger, than any of his family when he cared to be.

Now, Fierre wished she’d stayed to talk to her father, who was descended from the lineage of Vampires, had married Colfa, a Human woman.

She checked at the Mage’s Guild in Liscor that morning and got a [Message] from them. And Ryoka. Fierre itched to read Ryoka’s first, but she tipped the [Scribe] and opened her family’s first.

You always tipped the [Scribes]. They had rough jobs. Fierre would know; she’d worked as one as well, copying down dictations or letters to be sent, often verbatim from impatient clients with improper understandings of grammar who got mad at you when you corrected them. The Gnoll had smiled at her with that understanding; Fierre got it.

Anyways, her family’s message was short. They didn’t want to waste money, and they had to talk in code. Fierre read slowly—it was from Himilt himself.

Fierre, we’ve talked it over. We might dig new wells. If the old’s gone bad, dig new ones. All’s not lost. But how’s the grass around Liscor?

“Huh.”

She exhaled. That was strange, until she thought about it. The Lischelle-Drakle family had been in uproar after Byres’ treachery had been uncovered. In the heat of the moment they’d known they had to leave because of the poison in them, in the ground.

But that was their family’s home. It had been for a long time. It was tempting to stay, to dig fresh wells and watch them. Fierre scribbled a note to write back, muttering.

“Liscor’s great; open land, but spring rains are troublesome…tons of space. Rock Crabs are dangerous, but a good hill costs nothing, except building everything, of course. Think about it, love…”

She turned to Ryoka’s note with considerably more interest. However, she was dissatisfied to see how short it was.

“Fierre, I’m still not able to return to Liscor. Horns of Hammerad…attacking the Village of the Dead? Are they insane? Trying to…mud in my veins, what is she getting herself into now? Can’t she stay out of trouble for five minutes?”

Fierre tore up the note in fury and stormed off.

—-

She was out of her loop, not having her contacts or regular sources of information. She was starting over in Invrisil, and still setting up.

Fierre quickly confirmed the obvious, which she’d already know about if she was in Reizmelt. Yep, adventurers were heading north. A lot of teams, surprising, given how crazy the Horns of Hammerad’s raid was.

Fierre drummed her fingers on the table, irritated. She had no idea what Ryoka was planning, but knowing her friend, it was going to involve Ryoka baiting the entire army of the undead by…running around the village naked while shooting Wands of [Fireball] into the sky and somehow blowing off an ear.

I’d really like to see that first bit. The Vampire hesitated as she heard her own thought. But it wasn’t something she was going to deny.

Ryoka was…Fierre squirmed as she thought about it.

A mystery, a friend, and more. Come to that, Ryoka was still a mystery. Where did she come from? Why did she seem to know things? What was the Erin-connection? The [Innkeeper]’s death had put a hold on all of Fierre’s attempts to uncover the secrets, but this was why she’d come with Ryoka to begin with.

She…liked…Ryoka. It was a strange realization for Fierre. But she really liked Ryoka. She smacked her lips absently. And it wasn’t just for her blood! But that was one of the things.

She liked Ryoka? Then that meant…they had a word for that kind of person in the south, didn’t they? Turnscale.

It bounced off Fierre. She was a Vampire. Superior to all species. She just hadn’t really realized it. Maybe it was just Ryoka?

Then again, Fierre had been tempted by others in the inn. Erin herself. Lyonette…even the female [Shaman]. Although Fierre didn’t want to risk any of that. Or be a [Shaman].

But that’s definitely a pattern. She hesitated.

Forget that! You’re not getting anyone’s blood without them knowing. What are you going to do about Ryoka?

Well, nothing. What could she do? She had few contacts, no teams she could demand to help Ryoka that weren’t going—Fierre gritted her teeth.

Ryoka was drama running, though. If she survived this incident—and she would—the next one would need Fierre. Belavierr had been Fierre’s first introduction to Ryoka-level problems. So it was time to get a head start on her Opening business. To that end, Fierre made a few social calls.

—-

“Hello, I’m Fierre. An Opener. I’ve started my business in Invrisil. Here’s the address. I’m happy to offer Runners discounts for the first month. And I’ve worked with and know the Wind Runner and the Mage Runner. Excuse me, Mage Rider.”

It was not quite a lie to imply Salamani had used her services. Also, Fierre’s practiced introduction and tight-lipped, but friendly smile and the money she slipped to the [Bartender] was the eleventh visit so far.

Not to just any [Bartender]. She was a [Broker] in her own right. The fact Fierre knew to talk to her, and the truth-verified statement, made the woman grunt.

“New in Invrisil? Reizmelt, right?”

It was her showing off a bit. Fierre blinked, and realized word about her had gotten around. Also, that I’m important enough to have word spread about me.

She was just a bit pleased about it. The [Bartender] gave her a nod.

“I can spread word to the Runners who come to me. Can’t say any’ll jump ship right away.”

“There will be openings.”

There always were. Openers changed jobs fast, sometimes with the law or angry people whose letters they’d opened on their tails. Sometimes their change of job was due to opening a letter a tad bit too roughly—and you needed to peel what was left of them off the floor.

“Anything I should know?”

The bartender pretended to polish a glass as they spoke in the crowded bar, one of the popular dens for the right sort.

“Only that this ain’t Reizmelt. Got a bodyguard?”

“I’ve got a door. Brought it with me, even.”

Fierre joked. She got a grin, but the woman leaned over. Like many, she looked a bit protective of the ‘young’ girl Opener. Another advantage and Fierre used them all.

“Look, kid. A door’s good. Enchanted? Great. But you need a bodyguard. The gangs can play rough. Even if you stay on their good side, all it takes is one.”

I can handle myself. Fierre caught those words. Don’t show your hand!

“I’ll do that. Thanks. Also, I’m obviously in the information broker business too. Willing to trade secrets. I’ll bring you a bottle of Reizmelt’s best and see what you’re willing to share?”

“Hah! You are experienced. So young? Did they all die of old age in Reizmelt?”

Another look, almost pitying or sad. But gone in a flash. You couldn’t show that kind of weakness. Fierre pretended not to notice the woman’s look as she grinned.

“Nope, too slow.”

The laugh Fierre got was one of the better interactions that day. Everyone watched everyone, so being confident, even suave, and showing you knew what you were doing was great to establish credibility.

She took a hint from the [Bartender] as well. So her final port of call was just…advertisement and showmanship. Showvampireship.

The seven-foot Iron Golem was locking the door into place as people watched. It wasn’t as beautiful as some of the Golems the [Merchant] had been offering, or as tough. But it had been delivered, Fierre had paid a lot for it—and if you were going to have a bodyguard, it might as well be a Golem.

Look out, Invrisil, this Opener’s got a Golem! Fierre hoped the crowd, including some Runners checking out the new Opener, thought that she was a one-trick Opener. That she was relying on this Iron Golem for protection. That meant they’d go for it rather than her, underestimating her if the worst came to it.

Of course, the trick was never to let it get that far. But Fierre’s stunt meant that someone rapped on the door less than an hour after it had gone up. She let the first City Runner walk in. He was, predictably, a Mouse.

Openers had their own lingo. Not charitable; you had Mice, Morons, Knights, and Needles. That referred to the style of Runner you were going to get.

Mice were like rats. They had low credibility-scores, or they were just below-average to average Runners. They didn’t tend to get good letters to open and steal secrets from and they’d turn if anyone so much as sneezed at them.

Morons were gullible, or hotheads. Ryoka would have fit into that category—or Knights, who never divulged secrets at all and rarely used Openers.

Needles were Couriers or good City Runners. They might run afoul of someone trying to use a City Runner in a scheme, or Courier, but it could backfire because a strong Courier might deliver something despite all odds. That was definitely Ryoka in all the Opener’s books, now. A Needle-Knight.

Mice, though…she handled it easily. Low-discount, nothing worth opening in the letter he thought held something truly valuable like saffron. She smelled the spice packet someone was trying to send without paying a tax before even opening the letter, and the Runner went away, disappointed. He might well pocket the spices one [Chef] was sending to a [Cook] in another city.

Two more Runners came, to get a picture of her. They didn’t like how young she was, but she rattled them by addressing them by name before they introduced themselves. That was just Fierre having a list of all Runners and matching them to the portraits she’d paid for.

Elementary. It would take time to consolidate a new base of power and Fierre worked for four hours, mainly setting up and taking those calls. She would work here for 4-6 hours each day, and everyone who was smart would know when they’d be able to knock. Her Iron Golem would keep her place of business safe; [Thieves] knew Openers guarded their wealth of knowledge and would retaliate, and the Golem was another deterrent.

Fierre had no time to waste, though. So her second call that day happened after dusk. And this time the person came to meet her.

“Reizmelt. Drakle?”

“Lischelle-Drakle.”

“Oh, that’s right. The marriage. I’ve never been north myself.”

The other Vampire settled back into a seat in her Opener’s office. It was the best place for a meeting like this. He eyed the Golem warily, but with a confidence that Fierre didn’t miss.

Well, he was an [Assassin]. Ex-Guild; that was public knowledge by now. It had saved his life. He’d split from them during the famous Wind Runner’s delivery.

He was older, lean, with scars despite his Vampire nature. Magical damage. His eyes were red, but a brighter red than hers, and his hair was, ironically enough, dyed silver at the edges. Darker red to black near the roots. Now here was a Vampire who had style.

They were both Vampires. And he had agreed to meet with Fierre in a moment when she’d reached out to him with one of the classic signs.

Vampires existed across Izril. Some in entire villages or towns, others in families. They knew how to find each other. One of the most obvious ways was to invite them to dinner.

“Fancy some liver? I have a good sausage I’ve been dying to share with some cheese.”

Obvious stuff like that. You mentioned a blood-related dish and they knew who you were. It wasn’t like many people looked for Vampires. Then again…

The Vampire assassin lowered his cup. He was an [Assassin] in name—not practice. Fierre had bought a Ring of Appraisal that morning and he was blank. But she was smart enough to know that his ‘anti-appraisal’ ring was actually the truth. He nodded at her, relaxing as she gestured the Golem to wait outside.

“Nice drink. Stiff. Smokey. What’s this, a scotch?”

“Reizmelt, yep.”

He took another sip. His fangs, his entire posture, was business-like, not flirtatious. Relaxed more than anything. Fierre was glad. Some Vampires you met just thought you were interested in meeting your own kind. Well, a lot of marriages happened because of that.

But this fellow understood.

“Vaulont is my name here. Vaulont the Ash—I turn all my victims to ash.”

“Ah, smart.”

He nodded, with a dry smile.

“A perk of the job. Anyways. I can’t promise I’ll hold to blood-ties here. I’m not accepting offers on one of us—but I can’t watch your back. You understand?”

“Of course!”

Who’d demand another Vampire to cover for them just because we’re the same species? Has someone done that? Fierre was insulted by the suggestion. Vaulont relaxed a hair further.

“I didn’t go after Ryoka—the Wind Runner as well. I backed out. Glad she survived. I wasn’t going to cross blades with the Faces. I’m amazed she made it.”

“I know. I’d have never asked otherwise. I wanted to thank you for that.”

“We owe her.”

The assassin shrugged again. Fierre nodded.

They knew. If not all of it, enough. He spat.

“Silver in the water. If anyone puts out a hit on House Byres, especially that [Knight]—I’m taking it for coppers. I’ve lived every day of my life with scars I got from rashes as a child. My entire family died early. Silver.”

“I know. Do you have plans? My family’s debating moving.”

He shrugged, moodily.

“Aside from eating charcoal like it’s a snack? I have no roots.”

“Oh.”

“Forget about it. Listen. While we’re talking about them, watch out for a Delanay d’Artien. He’s an Emergency Runner and he’s one of the old families. Dresses like a giant target. Red leather, crossbow—but he’s smart.”

“Understood, thank you. Anyone else?”

“Huh. Reinhart was what I’d say. Don’t mess with her business. Her servants are no joke. But they leave the Gangs alone if they don’t cause trouble. But she’s gone south. Her [Gardener] though—that one’s killed more Faces than you’d expect. Idiots don’t see a high-level [Druid], just an angry [Gardener].”

“Also got it.”

They were swapping the Vampire’s essential info. There were multiple reasons Fierre had invited Vaulont, though. After a moment, he slid her a bit of parchment.

“There are three of us in Invrisil. Two natural-born. Wife and husband run this [Butcher]’s. Export elsewhere.”

“Ah, wonderful.”

Fierre lied. She would never drink animal blood unless she had to again. She’d had to dig out some of the ‘safe’ blood from her packs just to host Vaulont. He was sipping the blood greedily.

“This is good stuff. Fresh. I have to use days-old stuff on the job, until a kill. And they’re not always private with time to harvest. So, how can I help you?”

“Actually…that was what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m far from home, and I, uh…I’m curious.”

The assassin’s eyes sharpened. Fierre lied to him as she went for her first source of…blood.

“You want a share of what I get?”

“I’m just curious—”

“Let me stop you there. If I get any, it’s what I drink. No offense, but I’m not bleeding them like animals. I don’t know how, and there’s no time. If you’re curious…don’t cause trouble. Not here, and not for us.”

She was astonished to find Vaulont the Vampire-Assassin was straight-laced as they came. It was probably why he’d spared Ryoka, for that matter.

Some Vampires, especially the young ones, tended to experiment when they got a chance. They drank Human blood, or other people’s, hoping against hope it would help them. Now Fierre knew it would not, but she and Rivel had gone through that phase, paying for blood, figuring out ways to obtain it.

It didn’t taste better unless you were cured, and the adults looked on the act with mingled understanding and deep wariness. Vaulont fixed Fierre with a look.

“You may have left Reizmelt to be freer of your family’s influence, but even three Vampires in Invrisil are too many to put at risk. Understand?”

“Look, I was just asking. I’d never do anything myself.”

Fierre flushed at the upbraiding. Vaulont relaxed slightly and took another shot. It was hard to get Vampires drunk and Fierre had consigned the entire bottle of scotch to this meeting.

“Fine. Neither of us are children. I understand. It won’t taste good.”

To you. Fierre was beginning to dislike his parental attitude. She spread her hands.

“That’s why I came to you. I thought if anyone…”

“I know. I get asked that all the time. I can’t. I could get you a cup, maybe…if you really want one taste, let me know. Otherwise, I don’t want you playing at drinking.”

The young woman was regretting bringing it up. And she realized something else.

Vaulont’s victims might be [Merchants], non-combat classes. I can’t vet them and he’ll be suspicious if I keep wanting more, even if I play it off as a fetish. Damn.

“Maybe once. Although if it’s not different…I want to know. Sorry. What’s ‘playing at drinking’?”

The assassin toyed with the shot glass as he grimaced.

“Sneaking into a house or after a night with someone—a bit of sleep dust, a healing potion, and a bite. What, you’ve never heard of it?”

The Opener’s mouth opened. She had two thoughts at the same time, right on top of one another. The first was an image of her creeping into a target’s home, and picking who she wanted. It would be easy. That’s surely how Vampires did it.

It would be convenient, if I was careful and covered my tracks…

I can’t do that!

The second thought was louder. She heard it, and it came from being a Lischelle-Drakle. From her family. That sounded—wrong.

Vaulont saw it on her face. And at last, he grinned, baring his teeth.

“Good. You’d be surprised at how many bastards I’ve met who do that for fun. Sport. Let’s…talk about something better. You were there. Can you tell me about Reizmelt? I’m out of steady work and everyone’s trying to kill me.”

“I—sure. Well, if you want to visit, my father’s always welcoming…”

—-

Strangely, Fierre had a realization from that meeting. And that was that she was not a monster. The idea of creeping into people’s houses, draining them—

She didn’t want to be that kind of Vampire. She could rationalize killing the two criminals, albeit in aggravated self-defense, and the [Assassins]. But she did not want to go further than that.

But how was she going to get blood? She was already starting to crave it after only a day.

Being a moral Vampire sucks. And not in a good way.

After meeting Vaulont, who was surprisingly responsible, for a Vampire, despite being a hired killer, Fierre walked back to Liscor feeling as if she’d accomplished a lot and a little. She had her practice up, some idiot street kids had drawn genitals on her Iron Golem while it had guarded her front door, and she was hungry and a bit tipsy after half a bottle of good scotch.

—-

She sniffed the air, sensing the blood of those around her. Her level of desire waxed and waned depending on her hunger. It had grown overbearing after a week or two of being cured and only Ryoka’s level-less blood. Somehow, Ryoka’s blood wasn’t even nourishing if she didn’t have levels at all.

Why didn’t she have levels? Who was Ryoka? Fierre wanted to run after the Courier. But Ryoka could fly, and Fierre was slower.

For now. She wondered if she could turn into a bat.

A whiff of something tempting made Fierre turn her head. Normally, most people she just ‘wanted’, but some people stood out.

Erin had been one, perhaps because of her levels or because Fierre…liked women. She’d been tempted by Ceria, Maviola…yep, levels, half-Elf, [Lady], and Lyonette, strangely.

It also seemed that…attraction had to do with how much Fierre wanted blood, because she wanted Ryoka’s, even though it had as much nourishment as Fluffles the Sixth’s. She wondered what high-level personage she had scented.

As she walked through the streets of Invrisil, she passed a circle of onlookers and aggressive shouting. She passed a [Fistfighter] plying his trade.

Fierre stopped, walked back, and turned to see Alber knock down the fifth man in the group of [Tavern Toughs]. She heard the energetic ding of someone striking the bell, and shouts as people had to give up bets to the [Bookie].

“Alber!”

The young man was chugging a healing and stamina potion as he looked around for challengers. Unlike Reizmelt, his hat was filled with coins.

Not gold, but silver and copper. He’d been making a killing today. He spotted Fierre as she waved at him. The Vampire, mouth agape, watched him check his gloves then face off against a man who had to be three hundred pounds, and not all of it fat.

“He’s going to be slaughtered. Bastard has fists as fast as an arrow, but there’s no way—”

Fierre remembered Alber. He was a blast from Reizmelt! And she’d seen him go down time and time again, usually to adventurers, or people like Mad Madain, or the sheer weight-class imbalance.

He always went down swinging, though. She expected it now; even with potions, he was covered in sweat and had gone six fights at least. His opponent read to Fierre’s [Appraisal] spell as a [Tavern Diver]. An advancement on [Tavern Tough]. The kind of man who could be a [Bouncer] or the worst sort of guest.

Let’s see.

Level 27 [Tavern Diver]. Shit. [Heroic Tolerance: Alcohol]. [Body: Iron Fists]. [Greater Inebriated Strength]. [Inebriated Toughness]. [Devastating Uppercut]. Oh no, Alber’s in for it. Weird, rare Skills wasted on a useless class.

The man squared off against the [Fistfighter]. He was already a bit soused, which ironically made Alber in even more trouble. He grinned as he exposed an amazingly hairy chest. Fierre covered her nose; she could smell his armpits in her mouth.

She saw Alber lift his fists as someone rung the bell. There was a [Bet Taker], someone to collect money, drag people away. Helpers, but they’d leave Alber face-down on the impromptu ring if he lost. She watched, anxiously, as the instant the bell rang, the [Tavern Diver] opened with his [Devastating Uppercut] Skill.

He exploded out with the punch, fast, using his reach and full body’s weight behind the blow. Fierre saw, with her ring, Alber’s class and level appear in her vision.

Level 28 [Boxer].

He swayed out of range of the uppercut and countered the man so fast everyone but Fierre barely saw it. The Vampire gasped as the man stumbled. He was huge, though, and Alber weighed maybe half his weight? He turned with a roar—

[Lightning Jab]! [Flurry of Blows]! [Full-Weight Counter]! Fierre read the Skills a moment before they came out. Alber struck the man with his left, dancing back, then ducked a swing and unloaded on the man’s belly. He used the final Skill as another big swing came at him. He lunged in and put all of his weight behind a fist to the man’s stomach.

Not his chin. The drink and whatever the man had been eating came up as people groaned or cheered. Fierre watched as the [Tavern Diver] shoved away hands and came up again. He was tough!

But Alber took him apart in the little ring. He ducked, weaving, blocking some punches, letting the other fighter tire himself out. What was it called?

Rope-a-dope? Fierre had laughed the first time she’d heard the expression. But she knew what he was doing. Jabs with his left, footwork, even the way he held his gloves was changed from the [Fist Fighter]’s self-taught style. It had changed because of Ryoka.

Moreover, Fierre watched with open mouth as Alber’s seventh opponent went down and no one stepped up to challenge him. She reached for her notes and wrote something down slowly.

[Fist Fighter] and possibly unarmed Skills are available to use in each fight, not time-limited. Or extremely-fast time activation.

Alber had used the same Skills in bout after bout.

“No one else? No one at all?”

The [Bet Taker] was shouting, trying to drum up another easy win. Yet Alber had overplayed his hand for the day; no one else wanted to try it after the [Tavern Diver] had gone down. Men emptied a day’s pay into hats, looking sullen or admiring by turns at Alber. He’d need to find a new spot to ply his trade tomorrow.

The [Boxer] looked around. He nodded at Fierre and began to collect his share of the winnings as she waited to talk to him.

“I’ll take him on! What’s the fee, one silver? I’ll bet on myself too!”

Heads turned. The [Bet Taker] brightened up. And because he was a [Bet Taker], not a [Bookie], he misjudged his mark.

The City Runner who strode into the ring made Fierre’s head swivel around. Another familiar face!

Garia Strongheart wasn’t dressed as provocatively as Ulvama, but if you looked, you could see abdominal muscles. And she was a [Farmer].

Alber’s head snapped up. Fierre began to find silver coins. She walked over to the [Bet Taker] as people encouraged Alber to take it easy on Garia!

“Don’t fight him, girl! He’ll knock you down! He’s merciless to women and men both!”

“I want to try!”

Garia grinned. She looked around for gloves, but Alber was the only one who had any. She eyed him.

“Are you okay if I hit you? I’ve got a good punch! No kicking?”

“You can try for a larger fee. But a fair fight’s only punches.”

He shrugged. Fierre recalled that against weaker opponents, Alber didn’t even bother to restrict kicks.

“Only punches, then.”

Fierre placed her bet. Alber didn’t notice; he was sipping a stamina potion, not even going for the healing potion though he’d taken two decent swings.

He was making a mistake. Garia was probably a good amount under Alber’s weight…but looks were deceiving.

She was a [Farmer]’s daughter. A [Pirate]’s daughter.

Also?

A [Martial Artist]. Alber let his guard down at the start. And it only took one punch.

Fierre saw the [Boxer] put up the cross-arm block as the bell rang. Garia leapt forwards, and it was a good step-in. She saw Alber’s eyes widen, but he had his arms making a cross, a strong punch-blocker. She raised her fist—

Whumph. Fierre winced. She’d sparred with Garia at the Strongheart farm during a visit. Garia was as strong as Fierre. And she’d just used a Skill.

[Launching Strike]. Alber absorbed the punch. She thought he’d used [Arms: Impact Shield], which could have made his arms as strong as a steel shield for a second. He’d also pivoted to take the punch full-on.

So his arms didn’t break or even bruise. None of that stopped the other effect of the Skill.

Alber went flying. Garia’s [Enhanced Strength], her [Martial Artist]’s Skill—and Alber’s back step during the punch culminated in him going flying. He lost his block, flailed his arms once as Fierre saw him fly out of the ring—

And with a crash, he sailed through the glass frontage of a store eight paces behind the boxing ring. The expensive glass rained down around him as he went back-first through it.

Garia, who had been smiling, lost the smile. Fierre stared as the horrified [Shopkeeper], who’d been watching the fight, stared at Alber. The young man was trying to brush glass, which was cutting his skin, off him.

In the silence, Fierre slowly grabbed the [Bet Taker]’s arm so he couldn’t run off with her money.

—-

The money she’d won from the bet went into the glass window. Glass was expensive, so Alber’s taking for the day, the bet money, and Garia and Fierre all chipped in.

It went to winning thanks from both. Garia was shamefaced—and so was Alber, for underestimating his opponent.

“I’m so sorry. I heard there was a [Fist Fighter] and I’d never used that Skill.”

“It’s fine.”

It probably wasn’t. That was a lot of money to be out for Alber who lived day-to-day, but the young man was taciturn all the time Fierre had known him.

For instance, he’d barely grunted as acknowledgement when he’d seen Fierre, for all it was a shock to both.

“Heard about Ryoka. Good she’s okay. Nice to see you.”

They’d had a drink afterwards, in the closest pub. Ironically, the [Tavern Diver] and his mates had wanted to haul Alber off, figuring that if you couldn’t beat him, the [Boxer] was their best friend, and possible second in a bar fight.

Garia Strongheart got to him first.

“I’m really sorry about that. You know Ryoka too? Small world! Why don’t you come to my farm? Come on, my father loves to meet people who fight with their fists. Come over for dinner! They love it when I visit and it’s through the magical door.”

“I’m fine.”

“I insist.”

And she’d practically dragged him with her. Ryoka had once told Fierre that Garia was shy, but kind. Fierre didn’t see it. The young woman seemed forthright enough to her.

She invited Fierre too, but the Vampire girl declined. Mainly because she had no desire to drink a second time with the [Pirate] and [Green Mage], and also because she needed to sort her thoughts out. Alber wasn’t that great a conversationalist, anyways.

What made Fierre really decline was uh—uh—she hurried back to The Wandering Inn and her room and shut the door.

Gaah! Why do I want to drink his blood so badly? And hers?

Both Garia and Alber were driving her Vampire-sense crazy. And with that desire had come a realization. Fierre…would not mind drinking Alber’s blood. Or doing other things.

Which led her to a grave, nay, terrible realization.

Oh no. It’s not just Ryoka. Or women. I’m attracted to anything with a pulse!

That was an exaggeration, of course. Fierre would rather have sucked the blood of a Shield Spider than the [Tavern Diver]’s. But Alber? Alber and Garia were both uh, possessed of strong blood flow. You could see it under their muscles. Lovely veins…she’d love to taste them, even when they were covered in sweat or a bit of grime. Especially then?

Aaah! Stop it!

Vampires liked that kind of thing, like Selphids. Fierre was realizing all kinds of things about herself.

However, the biggest revelation was yet to come. Because she’d come back early after the encounter, Fierre found herself having dinner in The Wandering Inn.

They still had food there. Guests got breakfast; they could get dinner. It had been an abandoned place recently, but this night, Fierre smelled cooking and found Imani serving people around the tables.

Numbtongue was there. So was Selys, who had accompanied Mrsha and Ulvama all day. Mrsha was gobbling something called a pilau rice dish, without even the decency to have bloody meat in it. It still smelled good to Fierre.

She surprised them all.

“Fierre? I haven’t seen you in—a week!”

Guiltily, the guests and staff realized that Fierre had been neglected, but she waved it away and told them about Garia.

“She did go through to Invrisil. And you’re working there?”

“Mhm. Is this free to eat for anyone here? I can find something else.”

“No, stay! You’re a guest, of course! Mrsha, stop gobbling.”

The Gnoll had no Lyonette to halt her, and Ulvama was eating just as fast with her claws. Amused, Fierre sat down. She had no satiety needs from this food, but good cooking she still liked. Rice was unusual in Izril, so she savored the bites.

There were a lot of guests for one of the first communal-dinners in The Wandering Inn since…well, Numbtongue had been coaxed out of the garden. Palt was helping serve food with Imani, Ishkr was doing likewise, Drassi had finished her shift at Wistram News Network.

Here were Joseph, Troydel, Leon, Kevin…Fierre’s eyes narrowed slightly as she realized Rose and Galina were now gone. Octavia, bloodshot, smelling of burnt cloth, was muttering about Battle Draughts.

There were even the three Lizardfolk, who merrily tried to tease Mrsha by stealing her food. Hexel was out, but even Montressa and Bezale were there.

Fierre indulged in the community of it all. Everyone was catching up. And that’s when it happened.

“So, Invrisil’s scheduled the first soccer game against a smaller city tomorrow—and baseball vs Liscor in four days.”

“I wonder if Wistram News Network will cover it? It might not be as big, sorry, Joseph.”

The Earther shrugged as Drassi leaned over. Ulvama snorted at the sports as she casually grabbed Mrsha’s little pudding off her plate. The Gnoll stared at the empty plate, and then head-butted Ulvama in the side. Undeterred, the [Shaman] ate it, as Mrsha tried to drag at her arm. I am bigger! I eat your food if I want!

Fierre watched Kevin yawning over his plate as Troy whispered to him.

“Wings, Kevin. Did you help her with the glider? Can you at least look over this?”

“Troy, my dude. If this is something stupid—Rose isn’t here, but I’ll ask Bezale to hit you.”

The Minotauress looked up and Troy, exasperated, shuffled something into his belt pouch. Montressa ignored that as she leaned over Mrsha sulking in Selys’ arms as the Drake promised another pudding.

“If you’re doing the baseball game, Joseph, would you mind putting in a word with Liscor’s Council? Bezale and I could…promote some dresses, for the cheering squad or uniforms for the players. Maybe even free of charge.”

“You what?”

Joseph looked blank. Montressa smiled.

“We’re introducing a secondary, linked-shop from Invrisil. The latest designs—in Liscor!”

“You mean, a chain store.”

“I like that.”

Bezale looked at Joseph. Fierre’s eyes narrowed again. She knew what Montressa and Bezale were doing. Smart work—Fierre wished she could be so charismatic and connected as to be the first people to ‘link’ all three cities and bring the best businesses over to each.

“If you can get me a meeting with the Council, the best [Seamstress] in Invrisil might be able to do you a discount, or even some free advertisement. Perhaps in return for some negotiation with the shops? Let’s talk.”

Montressa was smiling at Joseph. He was wary—he just taught people how to play football, but he was willing to pass on the request. Thus, business was concluded at the same time as Ulvama went to steal the next pudding Ishkr was bringing out for Mrsha. The little Gnoll furiously waved a wand and Ulvama fell flat onto her face as a bit of grass sprouted from the floorboards.

That was when it happened. Montressa shot Bezale a knowing look.

“There’s more we want to bring—from Wistram. New ideas. Like what Geneva was saying to help with Erin. We can set up a clinic if we have support. Find a [Healer]? I don’t know how these…blood transfusions work, but if you can explain…”

Fierre looked up.

—-

Geneva Scala was still advising the others about Erin. The failed Potion of Regeneration, the incident to no one’s gain, had led to her sending more instructions. One of which was that if they were going to attempt a proper procedure, a proper blood bank and blood transfusions could possibly save Erin’s life if the poison still prevented healing potions.

…Blood transfusions? Blood banks? First off, what was this? Second off—why did they know about it?

Fierre lingered at the table, listening with all her might as Joseph, Leon, Troy, and Kevin explained the idea to the other skeptical people. She didn’t know why Montressa and Bezale had some familiarity with it, except that it was connected to Wistram. She didn’t know why these Humans knew.

Or why Geneva Scala, the Last Light of Baleros knew and was affiliated. But she listened. And she saw it in one glorious moment.

“I’d like to fund that. If it can help Erin—and do all of that, especially save lives when someone’s poisoned, why haven’t we done that?”

Selys was speaking when Fierre sidled over to Montressa and Bezale, who’d seen another opportunity. The Vampire girl raised a hand.

“I’d uh—like to help too. It sounds like a good idea.”

The small group talking about logistics turned to look at Fierre. She shone with the pure innocence of someone who wanted to bring life-saving technology to Liscor.

“Oh. Er—Fierre, right? We can certainly use help. You’re an Opener?”

Montressa gave Fierre a look. Fierre smiled and the Secret Broker of Wistram and Letter Opener of Reizmelt traded competitive looks. Not to be outdone by a snob from the Academy of Mages who thought she knew how things worked, Fierre was already handing Selys a little list.

“There are still some cheap areas of land being offered for sale by Liscor’s Council. Although I think that if you talked to them, they might give you some for free. Oh, and here’s a list of Liscor’s top [Healers]. And Invrisil’s.”

Montressa and Bezale looked at the smug Vampire. The [Spellscribe] uncrossed her arms as she realized she’d been out-written. Selys looked at Fierre and grinned.

“That’s much appreciated!”

“I’m also willing to put some gold into this project if it helps. Even set things up.”

“Really?”

The two [Mages] were clearly wondering if Fierre was virtue-flexing on them at this point. The Vampire hesitated at Selys’ raised brows.

Slow down. Don’t be too eager! Give them a reason. A reason…

“—it’s because of Ryoka. She’s always getting wounded and a ‘blood bank’, or those bags you were talking about could save her. Not to mention, I heard about the Horns of Hammerad and the Crelers. This could actually revolutionize adventuring if it was made easy! No fear of poison—or less, at any rate!”

“Ah, of course.”

Fierre saw Bezale’s eyes light up again. No doubt the Minotauress had just cottoned on to the same thing Fierre had. Octavia, ironically, was still in the dark, but it took a [Warrior] to see the obvious.

If blood transfusions were cheaper than healing potions, or even if they could prevent poison from being as deadly if you coated your blades in it, warfare itself would change. This isn’t some [Healer] thing. This could be as big as the Occillium mold.

After so many big inventions coming from Liscor, it was the kind of thing that people were learning to pick up. Like an [Entrepreneur], the best [Merchants], and indeed, [Innkeepers], [Gossips], and savvy [Lords] and [Ladies], the people of Liscor were developing the sense for what was valuable and new.

Not only that—it was experience. They’d done this before. It was just strange to do without Erin. Almost wrong. But it was to save her, so Fierre watched the process the [Innkeeper] had laid down move into action more smoothly. The wheels Erin had moved were now greased.

She was so clever! Look at that!

Selys had a perfect ‘in’ with Liscor’s Council, by way of Zevara, Olesm, and Krshia, Elirr, and Raekea. She prevailed on Elirr to call the Council to a short session—they met every day anyways—which also tied into the Mrsha connection.

Not only that, Liscor’s Council was fast-moving, decisive, and had money to spend, especially on something that would save lives in the upcoming Hectval conflict. They had an [Architect], free land to hand out, and so the only thing really missing was the expertise.

“There’s no plastic. How the heck are we supposed to make a tube? Out of leather?”

“That’s probably got a lot of germs. Glass?”

“Wait, let’s just ask Geneva. She says she’s invented one.”

Fierre’s ears perked up as she listened to unguarded snippets from Joseph and Kevin. Another thing she picked up on was what whatever ‘secret’ was out there—almost everyone seemed to know what it was except her. She ground her teeth together, but it was more important to get this thing moving. Montressa went into Liscor and Bezale took Invrisil to find [Healers] willing to give this a shot.

Herself, Fierre listened to the explanation they got from Geneva about blood types, proper hygiene, and her own methods of making blood transfusions—with metal or glass.

“Pelt can make a needle in ten minutes. I’ll just bet he could do this. I’m off to Esthelm!”

How quickly they moved! Fierre was amazed. They had a master [Smith] who was willing to move things like this up in his schedule, a medical expert…

“We’re going to need to try a blood transfusion and collect a lot of blood. Runes of Preservation, definitely, for the blood bank.”

“I can calculate the cost. Are you planning on hiring Master Hedault?”

“Kevin can probably convince him to do the work fast.”

Convince Master Hedault, the notoriously schedule-oriented, best [Enchanter] in Invrisil to prioritize your work. How easily you say that!

It was relationships. The [Innkeeper]’s strength. Openers had to act the same way, so Fierre respected all of this. And every step of the way, of course, she was there.

Need someone to scout out all the sites where this clinic could take place? No problem.

[Healer] needs to be talked into it? Fierre had all the explanations ready.

A pair of hands to help carry all the pieces of equipment around and set up a trial run? Fierre had hands.

She spent her entire morning and evening making this happen. It wouldn’t be a one-day process, but Kevin had two gleaming needles made of steel by lunch. The tubing was harder, but he claimed that Pelt was working on a flexible metal tube, chained segments of metal together, for the sheer challenge of it.

The Vampire was excited. And yes, she put eighty gold pieces of her own money into the contribution pile.

The simple fact of it was Earth’s practice of storing and using blood was unheard of in this world. It was like a dream come true for a Vampire that needed blood from people.

The first people to invent the medical practices of bleeding and then blood transfusions in Earth were definitely Vampires. The person who invented leeching was just weird.

—-

Anyways, the upshot of it was that while they had a lot more to do in establishing procedures, getting everything lined up, the blood bank for Liscor was well underway, and a few adventurers and [Guards] had even volunteered to see what it was like.

The main thing Geneva Scala claimed was necessary were [Cleansing] spells for the needles, which allowed them to be re-used so long as the needles didn’t come into contact with significant disease or poison.

Her real concern was matching blood-types, as well as making sure no one gave blood that had any kind of ‘sexually transmitted infections’. Fierre had nearly pulled out her canines when she’d been told you could transfer disease that way!

Vampires didn’t fear disease, though—if they were silver-free. It was a concern for the blood-team. Selys was managing it with Montressa. Neither Joseph nor Kevin nor Leon nor Troy were really interested in being the [Blood Healers] of the new era. But they gamely helped and Fierre found herself in the middle of temptation.

“Don’t touch that! No fur, no little kids!”

Troy tried to shoo Mrsha away as she stared at vials full of blood. She slapped his hand down—she didn’t take orders from Troys—and stared at Octavia as the [Alchemist] mixed two blood samples.

“Looks like the [Doctor]’s right. Lizardfolk blood doesn’t match anything but Hexel’s.”

“Aw.”

One of the [Architect]’s assistants looked disappointed; the test of mixing blood was creating the tell-tale ‘sticking’ that Geneva claimed as a sign of improper type matchups.

Coagulation. Fierre licked her lips as Octavia handed more samples off to be washed.

“I’ve got it.”

“Oh, thanks. I need more test tubes. Okay, Miss Geneva sent over a bunch of these ‘blood types’, but since it’s only four Lizardfolk, I have no idea where you all fall. Let’s do Drakes next.”

Fierre hurried off with the bloody vials. The sight of the…delicious…blood made Leon turn pale. It was amusing to the Vampire to realize that while many could take wounds freely, the act of drawing blood made some faint.

For instance, Hexel had swooned after giving blood and seeing his—probably from his past trauma—and Elirr had had to catch him in his arms.

Fierre cleaned the vials by drinking them down, then adding water and gulping the watery blood. Sure, it tasted worse, but she had discovered something as people gave blood.

Everyone from Lism to Selys to Kevin had given blood to be tested. At first, Fierre had been wary, but she’d tried some blood from Numbtongue when the Hobgoblin had been tested against Ulvama to see if they were compatible.

To her disappointment, Fierre had gotten no levels or even the indication that she could ‘acquire’ levels from his blood. It really was taking directly that seemed to work.

On the other hand, it’s sustenance! This is so tasty. Yum, yum, yum—

Food supply had been acquired, if not the keys to classes and power. Fierre wished she could take a bigger role in the testing. What Octavia had to do with Geneva’s blood typing process, Fierre could do with taste!

She knew blood types were different. Of course, she was more aware of animal blood, but there was a ‘taste’ to each one. For instance, what the [Doctor] had learned and Fierre was observing was that blood transfusion wouldn’t be as easy as poking yourself with a needle and squirting some blood to ‘top yourself off’ after losing a pint.

“Some species aren’t blood-type compatible. Lizardfolk are…lizards, so there’s no transfer across their species. Even some kinds of Naga can’t trade with regular Lizardfolk, apparently. But it says here that uh, ‘mammals’ have more compatibility. But in each species, there are some who can’t trade.”

“That’s wild. Hey, Kevin, Joseph. How many blood types did we know of um—back home?”

Fierre’s eyes narrowed as Troy stared at the list. Kevin counted.

“…Six? There are rare ones, you know. Like, wasn’t there that blood that only 300 people in the world had? Blood type Bombay?”

Fierre saw Joseph nudge him. Kevin hurried on.

“I mean—our home. Until now. How many are there uh, that Geneva’s found?”

The Vampire girl tilted her head slightly.

What in the name of garlic sauce was he talking about? The world? But this is new. Yet they act like this is normal in their home. They’re not from Drath…

The pieces were there. But the conclusion was too massive for her to encapsulate, yet. And there wasn’t any precedent—or even fiction—to give her the clues.

“Uh—uh—looks like sixty four so far.”

“Sixty four?”

“Wait, it says here…”

Everyone crowded around as Troy read out the complicated explanations that Geneva had written. Fierre translated into her own notes and rephrased for everyone.

“There are only about twenty ‘main’ blood types. The problem is that with so many species, there are some non-transferable ones. If you’re lucky, you have the basic ones like um, A, B, AB, and so on.”

“AB’s common? Dude.”

Kevin looked at the list glumly. He was AB+, which was wonderfully unique. Fierre pointed.

“It’s going to take a dedicated [Healer] to figure it out. See all the links? This blood—O—can transfer across most of the ‘main’ types. But anyone with a rarer type can’t.”

Geneva had tried to make a graph, but the problem was there were so many crisscrossing lines and odd connections, like O-blood being transferable with a lot of blood types, but not FS—a Drake type—yet AB being compatible with F so long as it was negative—that gave most of the crowd a headache.

“It’s less useful than we thought.”

Montressa groaned out loud, seeing the complications. Someone would need to be tested to know their blood type, and if an emergency happened, they’d need all the blood types in reserve in case someone had a rare one.

“But still useful. I wonder if this ‘blood typing’ would be useful for a [Blood Mage] of some kind? There aren’t many in Wistram, but…”

The two [Mages] exchanged a significant look. Fierre raised her brows. Neither [Mage] had been surprised by this revelation, yet Fierre had been blindsided.

Wistram knows about this blood typing thing, even though Vampires and Openers don’t. Joseph, Kevin, Erin, Ryoka, Troy, Leon, Rose, Galina, and Imani all come from the same place, even though Ryoka and Imani look far different. Somehow, blood transfusions are known across the world and yet I’ve never heard of them.

There were only a handful of blood types that they knew of. All of which are only for Humans…

Even her blood didn’t match the basic Human eight. Fierre had been nervous, but Octavia had just put it down to Fierre being an as-yet undiscovered blood type.

The Vampire girl stared at her notes. Her eyes crossed. She held up the comments about ‘world’, ‘Earth’, ‘home’, and squinted at them. She bit her lip, reflecting on Ryoka.

“Hey, who’s got the laptop? I want to use it to see if we have any data on this. Or just a spreadsheet. Leon?”

“Come on, Kevin…”

“Don’t hog it. This is important.”

Fierre’s head rose. She saw Kevin arguing with Leon. She followed them up the stairs, with her [Concealing Presence] Skill.

She stared at the laptop. Mrsha padded past the hallway, sniffing and searching for evil, clever mice. Fierre saw Kevin look around, and then hurry to the Earth-rooms to try and create a more acceptable diagram of the blood types.

The Vampire girl’s mouth was agape the entire time. Some conclusions were incredible. But the Earthers?

They weren’t exactly covert.

—-

Fierre sat in her rooms, gulping down blood and nervously scribbling like a mad-Vampire. It was easy to purloin the blood. The blood bank was all she wanted.

Oh, it was from Earth, yes. Another world.

They were from another world. What kind of world? No clue! But it was obvious after seeing the laptop.

The glowing screen, eavesdropping—the blood types—oh, so obvious. How could she have missed it? Ryoka! Ryoka was as obvious as the burning sun when you looked at her! She was so different, but she had no knowledge of other continents—not in any details she ever expressed.

“But where? Could it be some kind of hidden paradise? But they said ‘world’. And all these games…”

Fierre had a short list of possibilities. Firstly? They came from a hidden dimension, one of those fabled pocket-cities or ancient gateways to some kind of magical reality. Second? Completely different world…somehow.

A place where Vampires had existed and Ryoka had known about them. Where only Humans were.

Third? This was some kind of code and they were messing with her.

Fourth? The future! Or the past. No, wait, that was silly.

F-fifth? The alternate-timelines theory. Which tied into option number two and four, really.

However, what it meant was mind-blowing. Astounding. Fierre put her head in her hands. This was the discovery of a lifetime. The secret worth an incalculable amount of money!

Wistram knew. Of course they did! It all added up! Montressa, Bezale, Palt—and why they kept hanging around the Earthers, their name for themselves. Who else knew?

To the Opener and Information Broker, this was a time-sensitive secret. Worth more as less people knew about it, like all secrets, obviously, but this one would invariably become public. It would be impossible to keep this quiet forever.

At this moment in time, to the right people, other brokers, influential people who wanted to be told of stuff like this, it was worth tens of thousands of gold pieces, if not all from the same place.

I can sell this to at least thirty sources myself and then sell it to the other brokers for…

Fierre hesitated.

But that would put Ryoka in more danger.

A conscience was a terrible thing for a Vampire or Information Broker. Fierre sat back in her chair, exasperated.

Ryoka kept my secret. Is this like Vampirism? Do I owe it to her not to say anything until it’s too late? I’m sitting on a goldmine here!

She cured me. How much is that worth?

“She didn’t tell me herself, though!”

Grumpily, Fierre sat up. She thought they were friends! When Ryoka got back, Fierre was going to—she was going to—

Well. She was going to do something. Fierre sighed. She burped and reached for another vial of blood. Then she flexed a hand and looked out the window.

The sun was setting.

—-

As daylight turned to dusk, a creature of the night awoke to her nocturnal powers. She leapt into the air, doing a somersault, landing on her feet, then raced across the ground like a pale shadow, a blur, but silent as a whisper. She picked up a stone embedded in the earth as wide around as her chest, over a hundred pounds, and threw it twenty feet.

Even stronger! Faster than before! She could feel her body reacting to the blood! The Vampire girl laughed as she ran, looking for a fight! An opponent who could even dream of challenging her!

“Ooh. So strong.”

Bird watched Fierre from his tower. She had run away from Liscor and the inn, but there was always Bird.

The problem was, there was always someone around. Invrisil? Forget about it! Try lurking from the rooftops and you’d be sharing elbow room with two [Rogues], a [Thief], and an [Assassin]. Liscor? The Watch patrolled dark shadows in the night and poked spears into them!

Sewers stank. Even the Floodplains weren’t private, although only Bird saw Fierre running about, punching the air, testing her newfound power.

…Which was a good thing. Because Fierre saw the telltale heartbeat in the huge boulder ahead of her. As a cunning eye poked under the edge of the rock and it lifted up, she bared her fangs in anticipation, and her hands turned to claws as her eyes shone crimson.

—-

Ten minutes later, Fierre was limping back to the inn, head hanging low. The Rock Crab had fled, not because of the fear of the predator of the night, but because Bird had shot two seed cores at it, the ‘anti-crab’ arrows he’d made by tying the fragile blue fruit cores to an arrow.

I’m supposed to be strong!

The Vampire cried inwardly. She was! She was as strong as—as—

Garia. Stronger than any Human could dream of normally being—or close to the Human limit of someone many times her weight! Fast, as fast as a Human athlete! And combined, she had strength and speed and a healing factor all beyond humanity, whose most outstanding members could only hope to equal or surpass her in one aspect.

…None of that meant superior to a giant crab with claws as big as she was, who carried around huge boulders weighing over a ton as a shell.

Fierre had tried to punch through the shell. She had learned Vampire strength, if not directed properly, could not break stone that easily. Also, trying to ‘box’ with a Rock Crab was a bad idea.

Goblins and brave adventurers went under the shell with weapons and tore the Rock Crab apart, or hit it from afar through gaps. Fierre had, with all the intelligence of a new-born Vampire, punched its shell and tried to tear a claw off until it nearly severed her leg.

She did not know how to fight. Fierre went to thank Bird. The Antinium called down at her from the tower as Palt trotted out of the inn with a wand—he’d heard Bird’s alarm.

“Hello! You are welcome, Miss Fierre! You are very strong and very weak at fighting! Do not run around when I am sleeping or you will be food for crabs. Good night!”

…Fierre accepted a hot cup of goat’s milk and hid in the corner of her room for the rest of the night.

—-

The worst part was that she grew another half-inch, again overnight. Her body ingested the blood it was missing, and was making the comeback of a lifetime, turning her into the older Fierre she had wanted to be.

None of that helped her complete combat-ineptness. The next day, Fierre listened as Bird happily ate a ‘bird pie’ for breakfast.

As in…boiled eggs and chicken baked into a pie crust. Imani looked appalled as she served it to him, but Bird had asked for it as a reward for his heroism.

“I thought I could just run about and try out a new Skill. I didn’t know Rock Crabs were so…deadly. Thank you, again, Bird.”

That was Fierre’s lame excuse. She was glad he didn’t mention seeing her toss boulders about.

“Miss Fierre is very bad at fighting. As bad as Mrsha, but worse.”

Ishkr coughed and Palt hesitated.

“…Maybe that’s enough of retelling, Bird.”

“Okay. Thank you for the bird-bird pie. I am very happy. If you would like to be endangered again, Miss Fierre, I will save you so I can have another pie.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Was she worse than Mrsha? No way! Absolutely not! Fierre stared at Mrsha as the Gnoll girl decided to prove her mettle. She stood up on two paws, and began to punch at Ulvama’s face, just close enough to make the Hobgoblin flinch.

Ulvama picked Mrsha up, and tossed her over her shoulder.

Ishkr dove for Mrsha.

Mrsha hit the ground, rolled onto all fours, charged back the way she’d come and performed a flying head-butt into Ulvama’s right side.

The Hobgoblin [Shaman] fell out of her chair, swearing and clutching at her side. As Numbtongue had taught her, Mrsha performed a flying elbow—onto Ulvama’s belly. The Hobgoblin made an urgh sound. Mrsha took one look at her face and decided she maybe had gone too far.

Ulvama grabbed at her, shrieking with fury. Mrsha ran for the [Garden of Sanctuary], dodging between chairs, evading a spell that missed her tail by inches. Ulvama sped up, and blocked the door, eyes flashing with fury.

Mrsha threw dirt in her face. [Dirt Spray]! She slipped between Ulvama’s legs, still waving her wand.

The [Shaman] went after her. She ran into the beaver gang.

Fierre put her head in her hands.

She was worse than Mrsha at fighting.

—-

Strength without technique was still strength. Fierre got over her despair after she realized that for all her cunning and ‘fighting ability’, the Vampire could still throw her opponents through a wall where Mrsha could barely throw a ball.

However, it still stung to be humbled twice in so many days. Yet, look at Mrsha. Fierre conducted a background check like she had a client who wanted a full analysis on Mrsha. The client being her, in this case.

Plains Gnoll, probably went hunting or at least knew how to skin animals, even shoot a bow or at least what to do in dangerous situations with her tribe. Survived the Goblin Lord’s attack. Trained by Numbtongue, Redfang Hobgoblin [Warrior]. Trained (perhaps against the will of caretakers), by Relc Grasstongue, Senior Guardsman and [Spearmaster]. Mentored by [Druid], Nal…something. Survivor of Raskghar and multiple inn attacks.

Fierre? She looked at her notes on herself.

Took boxing lessons from Ryoka once. Punched magical Golems at the Archmage of Izril’s mansion. Fought with brother. Worked part-time as a [Watchwoman] (no actual combat), and at a [Butcher]’s. Vampire.

There was a discrepancy here that anyone could see. And this was with a child.

Something had to be done. Fierre worked on the issue while she went back to her job. Two more Runners, swapping secrets with an Information Broker who clearly thought she was some incompetent from the rural countryside…

She snapped at the overconfident man trying to look big and intimidating and scare her into giving up her wealth of knowledge.

“No, listen. One of us knows how to summon the Unmarked Coach. One of us has sixteen contact listings with major Gangs. You want that kind of knowledge? Come back with a thousand gold pieces per piece of information and then we’ll talk. Or give me something I want, not lists of data I can pay five silver for.”

She kicked the broker out. Fierre might not know how to throw a punch, but she was a pretty important Opener. Yeah…yeah…she stared glumly at her Iron Golem and spoke to it.

“I’m not that bad at fighting.”

It looked at her blankly. Even her Golem didn’t seem to believe her.

—-

In the end, Fierre closed up early. She couldn’t sit still, anyways. Her body was vibrating with energy thanks to the blood she’d ingested. A shame she couldn’t use it.

Also, a double-shame that she was Fierre the Opener, not Fierre the Adventurer because she couldn’t ask for a [Weapon Master] to train her or something without them wondering how she had [Greater Strength], [Enhanced Speed], and so on.

However, it occurred to Fierre that there was one person whom she could prevail on, who might not take her abilities amiss. Who had an actual, working knowledge of how to fight with Fierre’s best weapons—her fists and feet.

It was…

—-

…Not Ryoka. Fierre rapped on the bedroom door and a tousle-haired City Runner opened it.

“Fierre?”

Garia was still at her parent’s home. Alber was not. Fierre had heard from Wailant that the [Boxer] had fled the next morning after a single night there which involved eight boxing bouts against father and daughter.

Still, the Strongheart family was hospitable. Overly-so, perhaps. Fierre had eaten a second-breakfast despite only wanting to meet Garia.

“How can I help you?”

Garia yawned over her breakfast, but she grew excited as Fierre confessed her problems.

“You want to learn how to defend yourself? I can help! Mom, I’m borrowing the barn.”

Viceria Strongheart raised two resigned brows.

“Just don’t break anything. And don’t wake your father! He hurt his back brawling with that poor young man. If you see him, you owe him some food. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems to me like you dragged him here just to beat him silly—all without paying him.”

The [Martial Artist]-[Runner] looked a bit embarrassed. It was not the first time Garia Strongheart had seconded someone to help her train. Actually—Wailant kept abducting Numbtongue on his lonesome as well.

“I can definitely help you. I’m a [Martial Artist]—and I’ve been talking with some people in Pomle and Master Grimalkin. I know you’re fast and strong from when we sparred. I can definitely help! I’m free all day. Do you know where Alber’s staying? I should apologize.”

Fierre didn’t, but it wasn’t hard to look up and she promised to tell Garia when she swung by tomorrow. They headed to the barn, chatting.

“So you’re running deliveries around Invrisil?”

Garia jogged along, looking energetic in the daylight. Fierre was glad they’d chosen an indoor spot; even with hood over her head and clothing, she felt like she was already burning in the light.

“Yep! The Guildmistress of Celum actually recommended I go. I was super nervous, but she told me I’m at that level now! Me! Can you believe it?”

The Vampire thought about Garia punching Alber into the window yesterday and could believe it. If anything remained of the Garia that Ryoka knew, it was still a bit of an inferiority complex.

However, Garia’s nerves disappeared in her impromptu sparring ring. And it was Garia that Fierre realized she needed to meet.

“It’s not [Enhanced Strength] anymore. It’s [Greater Strength]. Even Dad was impressed. I’m getting all of the other basics, too. [Lesser Dexterity], [Enhanced Endurance]…you have the same, right?”

“Something similar. I got really lucky.”

“Me too. But Pomle’s people keep telling me that I need to change the way I fight. They like me practicing basic moves, but it’s all different at our level. I wish I could go there and learn from them, but at least I have [Messages] now!”

“Different how?”

The [Martial Artist] in training beckoned, an eager grin on her face.

“Come on and I’ll show you.”

This time Fierre took her opponent seriously. In the confines of the barn, the cows, two magical, some horses, and a pig watched as the two circled. Fierre crouched—then leapt to one side, almost on all fours like Mrsha! She blurred left as Garia yelped in surprise.

“You’re even faster—”

Fierre shot a punch at Garia’s side. Not as hard as she could. She was t—

Garia grabbed her, and threw her. Fierre once again experienced the joys of flight. The Stronghearts had a big barn. Garia winced as Fierre crashed into one of the beams and dropped, nearly thirty feet distant.

“Sorry! You’re okay, right?”

“I’m…fine.”

Her ego was bruised more than her body. Fierre charged back in—she punched twice, and Garia blocked both before sending her flying again.

“How are you doing that?”

Frustrated, Fierre threw up her hands. Garia pointed.

“Footwork. Listen, it’s all in what the [Martial Artists] taught me. Once you get to a certain point…”

…Everything changed. Fierre ended up sitting on some hay as Garia explained. All of her preconceived notions of combat were somehow right and totally wrong.

“When you have [Greater Strength], or even [Enhanced Strength], normal swords and stuff might actually hold you back. Sure, if you’re fast enough, keep doing the same thing. But—have you ever seen those massive swords some people use? The kind that look silly?”

“Greatswords? Zweihanders?”

Swords could get absurdly large or heavy. Even battleaxes, which surely weren’t practical, were the tools of high-level [Warriors].

“It’s because no one can normally swing them around quick enough to be practical. But if you can swing a ten-foot battleaxe and clear everything around you—why not, right? According to the experts I talk to, the problem is when normal people think they can copy that. Plus, the reason why weapons get larger is because sometimes you’re fighting giant monsters.”

“Right, right. But I can’t beat anything.”

Garia shook her head.

“That’s because you don’t move right.”

“I’m fast!”

Fierre was stung. The [Martial Artist] looked at her.

“But I’m just as fast, or nearly. And you run around. Here. Try to jump me from the side again. I’ll show you how I can keep up.”

Fierre did. She spun left—and saw Garia execute a simple turn. Three steps, and she had pivoted to face Fierre.

“Oh.”

Garia smiled as the Vampire finally got it.

“What the [Martial Artists] say is that you have to fight differently to use all your strength or speed. Like throwing you—that’s actually a bad idea.”

“How come?”

“I might be able to throw you fifty feet. You won’t get more hurt, though, and I’ve wasted time. If I throw you, I should throw you straight down so all my strength transfers. Stuff like that. Also though—even if you’re fast as lightning, footwork matters.”

This was the kind of thing Fierre needed to be taught. Ironically, the Vampire’s natural abilities were on par with a [Martial Artist]’s way of thinking. She wanted to spar more, but Garia had her practicing pivots and how to punch or kick.

“I had to start the same way. You’re welcome to come over as much as you want, though! I’d love to have someone to practice with at my level.”

It was not the great revelation Fierre wanted, but she accepted she had to learn everything about combat. She did feel like she had unleashed some of the nervous energy in her body, too, so after three hours of Garia-lessons, she promised to make this a regular thing and went back to the inn.

She still felt like all the blood she’d drunk had done more for her than just improve her body. Fierre had, by ‘cleaning up’ the blood-type experiments and taking some of the blood donations, drunk probably a gallon of people-blood yesterday.

And she could still go for more. Did she look at Garia’s sweaty neck and feel the urge to taste sweet ichor? Yes, but Fierre was always thirsty. Was she ashamed of that? No.

She had been thirsty her entire life. Now, she could finally drink. Fierre pushed open the door to The Wandering Inn after a twenty-minute delay, and saw the [Urban Tracker] and squad of Invrisil’s Watch waiting for her.

—-

“Two murders in Invrisil?”

Montressa looked unsettled—Bezale did not.

“There must be countless crimes per day. Why are we under investigation for the death of two common criminals on the street?”

“Just a hunch, [Mages]. Nothing personal. I track via scent. It’s muddled—but there’s a good chance the attacker came through here. I wish I’d gotten to the scene earlier, so I’m following all leads. May I speak to you one at a time? And then you, Miss…”

“Fierre.”

The Vampire girl’s teeth tried not to chatter. The Dog Beastkin gave her a nod.

He was a rare sight outside of Baleros. Beastkin, not Gnoll. Ishkr was eying him, and one could not help but see the more canine features, from the floppier ears to the different shape of the head and body. The [Urban Tracker], Jeck, was shorter than most Gnolls, slimmer, but he was an experienced member of the Watch they called in for murders.

It was odd they were working so hard on this murder, especially for two common criminals. Then again—Fierre had made another huge mistake in thinking no one would notice.

What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? I have to run. I can’t run, they’ll know! I don’t have any lying Skills or artifacts! Oh, dead gods. What do I do?

The Watch patrol accompanying Jeck was politely waiting in the common room while he interviewed Montressa, Bezale, and then Fierre, one at a time. They were the only people who’d been through to Invrisil. He’d done Kevin by the time Fierre arrived.

“Waste of time.”

Bezale grumbled as Montressa exited the room. It was ten minutes for her, and the Minotauress. Fierre was paralyzed.

If she ran, they’d know. She knew the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings were keeping watch, but they weren’t going to stop a Watch investigation.

She’d have to fight. If Jeck found out—they’d search her and know. She’d lie. Lie! And if she had to fight, she’d count on the Brothers to fight the watch patrol. There were only six. How strong was Jeck, though? He looked high-level.

She couldn’t read his level with her Ring of Appraisal, so he had to be strong. She wasn’t ready!

Fierre didn’t want…

“Miss Fierre? This won’t take but a moment.”

The Dog Beastkin smiled at her as the Vampire girl sat down across from him.

“Don’t be nervous.”

He was reading Fierre, eyes sharp, flicking to her face, her body—Fierre tried to act normal.

“I’m sorry. I just don’t interact with the Watch much.”

“Really? I would have thought an Opener at least knew Reizmelt’s Watch. We make use of your people’s services when we have to.”

She jumped.

“I—an Opener? I don’t know what—”

The [Tracker] sighed.

“Miss Lischelle. May I call you Fierre?”

She nodded dumbly. He knew her name, her identity—Jeck went on.

“If you’re worried about your profession, I’m just here investigating the two murders. Your class is not going to get you arrested.”

He eyed her as Fierre tried to relax and smile. She did a better job of it now; her heart was thundering, but she didn’t perspire. She knew how to lie. She had lied in plenty of encounters with the Watch and Gangs, in high-stakes scenarios.

Stakes, oh, slap me with sunshine. Why did I have to think about stakes?

She’d lied, but never about being a Vampire. And her guilt in this case was clear. He was going to use a truth spell and that would be that. She couldn’t stop that.

Was she going to have to fight? He had to have enchanted weapons. She couldn’t beat Garia.

“Just a few questions, Miss Fierre. We only need to cross you off our list of investigations.”

“Really? About the two dead men?”

“Exactly. If I can get you to swear on a truth stone you’ve never heard of them, no knowledge of what happened, and so on, I’ll be gone. Shall we begin?”

“I—of course. But this is the second time I’ve had to talk to an officer, you know. Don’t your records show that I’ve already been asked? The night it happened, actually.”

Jeck blinked. He rifled through his report.

“Really? By whom?”

“A Guardswoman. On the way back to the inn. I must have been close by the place…I think it was those two. Two men?”

What are you doing? You idiot! Idiot!

What else was she supposed to say? Lie—before he used the truth stone! She watched the Dog Beastkin check through his papers.

“I see. That’s…not recorded. Mixups happen. You’re sure you were investigated about this particular crime, Miss Fierre? Truly?”

He looked up. Fierre met his eyes with all the desperate genuine innocence she did not have. Jeck’s eyes felt like they were boring into her soul and uncovering her guilt. Did he have Skills? [Detect Guilt]? Why hadn’t she prepared?

Fool. This was how it all ended. So…stupid…

Her eyes burned with unshed tears. Fierre kept her mask up. She tried to keep her gaze from wavering.

They locked gazes for ten seconds. Then twenty. Too late, Fierre realized she had made another rookie mistake.

Keeping his gaze without blinking! One of the easiest signs of a liar! Blinking too much or not at all, idiot! Only Nagas and Dullahans do that!

This was it. She—she’d say she was an [Assassin]. He could verify that. She’d take her anti-appraisal ring off, claim…it would be a mess. However, she feared Jeck would ask too much and then she’d have to kill him and run, run far and fast as she could unless all of her kind was exposed…

Would Vaulont kill him for me?

All these things passed in Fierre’s mind at once. Her eyes burned. She couldn’t look away from Jeck. He sniffed the air. Fierre clenched her hands so hard her nails cut her flesh.

Why can’t you just believe me?

Her eyes…hurt…Fierre saw Jeck’s eyes widen. And then—

—-

The door slammed open. The [Senior Guardswoman] on the patrol looked up, hand shifting to her sword. Jeck had warned her, confidentially, that this might actually lead to an arrest.

“Investigator?”

She used Jeck’s title. The Dog Beastkin stomped out of the room, and the Watch patrol readied themselves for…

“I’m terribly sorry, Miss Fierre. We’ll be on our way. Squad, with me.”

The [Tracker] grumpily marched them towards the door as the [Server], Ishkr, went ahead of them. The [Senior Guardswoman] leaned in.

“Did you find your suspect, sir?”

“No. And I want a word with the Watch Captain or whoever’s in charge of coordinating these things! It was a waste of time.”

“Sir?”

He growled at her, vexed.

“You idiots. Double-check where our other teams go! Someone already asked her.”

Oh. The [Guards] relaxed, looking annoyed or embarrassed or rolling their eyes. Jeck shook his head, and they erased Fierre and the inn from the possible suspects.

There was no chance Jeck had made a mistake. Of course he’d been using a truth spell in his interrogations. It was unthinkable that an expert [Urban Tracker] and [Watchman] like him would ever slip up. If he suspected Fierre or the [Mages] could break a truth spell, he’d have suspicions even with a pass.

Fierre was undoubtedly in the clear.

—-

Fierre had to use the outhouse, urgently, after the encounter. As she sat on the toilet, she had a few thoughts.

I need to watch out for people who can resist mind-effects like Ryoka.

And—

I have my mother’s eyes.

The power of Vampires had manifested. Not just her body’s superior attributes. Forget that. Her heritage had awakened. Fierre had gained the power that Colfa possessed weakly. Yet her daughter had all the strength denied to the silver-poisoned Vampires of the Lischelle-Drakle clan.

Eyes of Charm.

—-

Jeck let the patrol go after they returned to Invrisil. He filed a report and a complaint that would no doubt be ignored, and huffed out of the Watch House.

He met someone afterwards, just for a moment. It wasn’t an inconspicuous meeting. You couldn’t hide in a crimson leather overcoat, or with the flashy hat and manner of Delanay d’Artien.

“Well?”

The Emergency Runner was frowning. Jeck shrugged. The [Tracker] sniffed the air, coughing at all the scents.

“No good. Someone interviewed her first. Under truth spell and everything.”

Delanay’s face fell.

“You’re sure?”

“Am I a professional or what?”

Jeck snapped. The young woman had explained it all and he’d tested her with a truth stone. No signs of a liar there. He’d thought so, but it had been just the Opener class. He rubbed at his furred forehead as Delanay sighed.

“Okay, it was just a hunch. Damn. Sorry for wasting your time. I guess she’s off the list.”

“Favor for a favor. Don’t mention it.”

Delanay frowned. So Ylawes was twice-wrong. Well…it had just been a hunch. He thanked Jeck and offered to treat him to lunch. Fierre. Not a Vampire.

He’d been almost convinced he’d find something this time. But he never had. Oh well.

—-

Eyes of Charm. Not even magical wards could fully block it. You had to have strong willpower, according to the legends.

Of course, no one tried to use it to do more than win an uneven trade with a [Merchant] or convince someone they hadn’t seen you drink red liquid. Colfa was the strongest user of the Vampire power in generations and she couldn’t even overpower Ryoka.

Well, Ryoka might be a special case. Yet Fierre had just overpowered a Level 30+ [Tracker], she was sure of it.

With silver out of my veins, my bloodline powers are here! The powers of a real Vampire!

It was hereditary, bloodline powers. At least, if you were born naturally from a Vampire couple. You inherited mother and father’s powers. If you were ‘sired’ like Colfa had been by Himilt, it was up to chance, hence her mother gaining the Eyes of Charm, rather than the other powers of Vampire clans.

According to the stories, each Vampire was different, like each person was.  The powers they inherited or gained were stronger in some, weaker in others. But living memory didn’t provide specifics, only basic knowledge.

Bamer, for instance, liked high places and had no fear of falling. He was lighter than the others, because the primary strength of his clan had been flight in ages past.

At least Fierre knew her other strength. If everything checked out, she had inherited two powers. She stared at the blank mirror, wishing she could see her eyes and see if the ruby reds had changed when she activated the charming, hypnotic gaze.

Charm from her mother. From her father—the power of the Drakle Clan.

Her father took to the power of transformation. Not becoming other animals, but the ability to become…mist. Fog.

In legends, Vampires could fit through cracks in walls, ambush foes, becoming intangible, nigh-invisible. In the modern era?

Himilt could generate a bit of mist on overcast days when it already appeared. He could appear out of the fog like a ghost at best. Since she had been born naturally, she would have that too.

Fierre concentrated. Her head throbbed, already from the effort of activating her eyes a few times. Yet she felt it. The incredible energy of so much blood, the suppressed adolescence, the freedom of the pain of silver!

She was becoming who she was meant to be. A Vampire! Predator of civilization! Apex species! She was—

Her body strained. Fierre cried out with frustration. She—

Developed a nosebleed.

—-

Glumly, Fierre sat on her bed, exhausted after eleven more attempts. Nothing worked. She could apparently burst blood vessels in her nose at will, though. If she tried hard enough.

The irony of a Vampire bleeding was not lost on her. Exhausted, she flopped onto her back. She was so tired. She relaxed every muscle in her body, wistfully turned to mist, and sank around her bed.

Fierre appeared under her bed before she seeped through the floorboards. She shot up, rolled out from under the bed, and threw her arms up in the air!

“I did it!”

Relaxation, that was it! She had to push with her eyes, imposing her will, her desire! But mist? Calmness, letting herself drift apart. No wonder her father was so good at it! Nothing ruffled his feathers!

The Vampire girl danced in her room in The Wandering Inn, laughing, tears in her eyes.

Tears of joy. Her dreams were coming true. Like every child who had ever been born to their species, Fierre had dreamed that she would be the one.

That her cough would go, her sickness end, and her people be delivered from whatever was killing them. That she would live longer than sixty years.

That she would be a Vampire. Ryoka had delivered it to her. Her dreams were coming true. Fierre shout-whispered so no one would hear.

“I’m going to be the greatest Vampire of all time!”

So quietly even a Gnoll would not hear if the door was open. And the door was closed, the windows shuttered and blocked. Fierre was no fool. She danced past her mirror, invisible, and saw her room, no trace of her clothing or body which she had always, secretly, longed to see.

The grass.

The open door…

Fierre slowed.

It was true that she had barred all doors, locked them, and given no entry by which her secret might escape. She had just forgotten that it was this inn, where a single key opened all locks.

Or in this case, a door led to all rooms.

The trouble with friends was that sometimes they liked to pop in, unannounced. They liked to surprise you, which was a terribly inconvenient thing if you were an introvert.

Or a Vampire.

Also, little Gnolls, like the white-furred one staring at Fierre, and who had seen the mist-trick, tended not to have a sense of privacy.

Mind you, Apista could have flown through Mrsha’s mouth and back out of it at this moment. The bee nearly tried with Garia and Alber, who were delivering a Strongheart pie that Viceria had given Garia to share with her fight-friends.

Mrsha, Garia, Alber—Numbtongue was too far away on the hilltop to see or hear—but Ulvama was not. The Hobgoblin [Shaman] had her legs in the pond and was eating a frittata with her bare claws.

All of them had seen. Her transformation, heard her now very inadvisable shout-whisper. Fierre stared back at the stunned group.

They were all paralyzed with the shock of seeing mist turn into Fierre. Hearing…well, they didn’t even know what a Vampire was. They were stunned, nonetheless.

Except for Ulvama. The Goblin [Shaman] gave Fierre one look and snorted.

“Oh. Bloodbiters are back.”

She kept stuffing herself with frittata.

—-

Terror of discovery was a modern Vampire’s fear. Burned alive, staked through the chest, left to scream and die in the sunlight, hunted with silver—drowned in baths of garlic—

“You thought we’d do that to you?”

Garia was horrified. After some thought, Fierre had to admit it was a bit silly.

“Not you, but—people. [Knights] used to hunt us! There were wars!”

“We’re your friends, though. And I didn’t even know what a Vampire was, until I saw you! If I’m fine with Goblins—friends with them, even—do you think I’d try to kill you?”

The [Martial Artist] pointed out. Fierre hesitated.

Like Ryoka, no one was reaching for a stake. If anything, while Garia and Alber were unsettled and surprised by the revelation, Ulvama hadn’t even blinked.

Mrsha on the other hand? She looked up at Fierre with shining eyes.

Would a little child be horrified by a super-strong, fast predator who had fangs and could turn into mist? Or would a little Gnoll, especially one with white fur who knew what it was like to be different, think that was the coolest thing ever? Except for the burning in the sun thing.

Fierre was still hyperventilating. But her secret was held by four now, five if you counted Ryoka. And no one would tell. Not even little Mrsha, who understood the danger, perhaps better than Alber.

He was just looking at her. More intently than the [Fist Fighter]-turned-[Boxer] had ever really done. He had seen Fierre as someone he didn’t need to think twice about.

Now? Garia slapped her knees and Fierre jumped. The [Martial Artist] grinned.

“I knew it. I just knew Ryoka didn’t have normal friends! Er—sorry.”

She looked at Fierre. The Vampire laughed, despite herself. She looked at Alber.

“No one’s going to tell? Please? Not even other people.”

Garia, Alber, and Mrsha all shook their heads. Apista rotated horizontally in the air. They looked serious. Fierre felt something stir in her chest. Alber she hadn’t been certain about, but…

“How much?”

Ulvama rubbed two clawed fingers together as she put aside the tin. Mrsha darted over and pushed her into the lake.

Beavers.

Fierre looked at Alber. He just studied her, and then smiled.

“So that’s why you stayed at Madain’s inn.”

“Yep. Secrets. Everyone has some.”

Ryoka, Fierre—Garia in a way had her parents. Mrsha nodded. She had tons. She began to write some down to share.

“What about you? Are you a…related to a [Lord]? A [Magician]? Something?”

He gave it some thought. Alber sat cross-legged in the grass in the [Garden of Sanctuary] for a moment. At last, he opened his eyes and looked at Fierre.

“…I can fit six boiled eggs into my mouth at once.”

Fierre stared at him, and then began to giggle. Garia laughed and so did Alber, after a moment. Mrsha rolled around on the ground, until Ulvama picked her up and began dunking her head-first in the lake while holding her legs.

The secret spread. Fierre would be more cautious in the future. Probably. But she was learning, about herself, how to fight, how to be a newer Fierre.

Ryoka’s secret she kept. Nor would she make more mistakes. She would not hunt people in the streets, that was for sure, even murderers and criminals. She had a choice of how she wanted to embrace her heritage.

She was Ryoka’s best friend. A Vampire of honor. Fierre built around that. She would see what happened.

She owed her strange friend from Earth so much. And that was what Fierre concentrated on. Ryoka made enemies like other people passed water. Fierre would prey on no people.

But she’d drink Ryoka’s enemies dry. Down to the last drop.

8.14 N

Rebecca Brewer, the editor who worked on 8.11 E, has done a Q&A on the Discord server! Read the transcript here.

Also, she has done an interview with The Fantasy Inn! Click here to read it!

(The author is on break until March 30th for Patrons! April 3rd for Public readers.)

“If you’ve heard this one before, stop me. A team of [Mages] from Wistram—or just a [Mage], I suppose—is sent to take care of former students. Renegades. And bring back Earthers. It is a sacred trust. They come, bearing magic against treachery.”

“High Mage—”

“I said, ‘if you’ve heard this one before’—stop me. Mage Montressa. Mage Bezale? Mage Palt? Anyone? No?”

The air was hot. The scene? Half-familiar. Like the speaker, it had all the elements of what had happened before. But it was never quite the same, was it?

Wistram Academy sent [Mages] to a small city in Izril. To claim assets they regarded as valuable. The [Mages] stormed in, making a huge fuss, throwing their weight around. Until they were stopped by a plucky [Innkeeper] with a lot of allies.

Until they were stopped by…

The [Garden of Sanctuary] was silent. No one stirred from the frozen bier at the hilltop. A fraction of the number of guests remained in the inn.

Until the spells came crashing down from the nearby city? The Watch advanced on the overconfident [Mages]?

Nothing and no one stirred from Liscor. Few people visited anymore. Even if they had looked from the walls, the [Guards] saw nothing. A normal inn by evening. The illusion magic was simple, a copy of ten minutes ago.

The air. Was hot. Burned ozone stank from discharged lightning spells. The floorboards were ablaze in two places. An invisible fist had knocked everything aside and pressed the Minotauress into the far wall, where she struggled, unable to reach her spell scrolls.

Palt was on his knees, caught by a hail of magical arrows when he’d vanished. Montressa lay on the ground as the [High Mage] hovered there. Pressed down by a crushing force just verging on agony.

Ten levels up—everyone else downed. Three of the Brothers lay in magical shackles. They’d never had a chance. The [Mage] had come with smiles, scouted them out—waited until Montressa and Bezale appeared—then activated a dozen prepared spells in the first moment of combat.

[High Mage]. She was, like a good percentage of the Revivalist faction, a Dullahan. Her head floated around her body in a geosynchronous orbit, as both head and body levitated off the floor.

No Antinium, no Xrn. The [High Mage] had sealed the doors and windows already, and if the Antinium were even aware of a battle taking place in the silenced, illusory image of the inn…

Something moved. The [High Mage] swiveled. The Hobgoblin leapt, sword flashing.

“[Force Orb].”

The [Mage] calmly fired a near-invisible orb from one palm. Numbtongue flung himself left, dodging it. She twisted a finger.

“[Spell: Blink Trajectory].”

The [Force Orb] spell vanished, and reappeared in front of the Hobgoblin. It caught him in the chest and hurled him across the inn. He hadn’t even gotten close to the layered barrier spells around her, a match for Montressa’s best defenses.

“Tell it to stop, [Mage] Montressa. I don’t have to kill anyone here.”

“High Mage Merzun! Please, stop! What have we done?”

The Dullahan woman looked down at Montressa. Pity and wrath were equally lacking in her. She looked—annoyed.

“Mage Montressa, as I informed you, you are expelled from Wistram for betraying your faction. Per Archmage Nailihuaile’s request, three Archmages and the Council have expelled you. You are no longer a member of Wistram Academy. As for you, [Mages] Bezale, Palt, your factions have not disowned you. Stay quiet. Now. One, two, three…hm. Three are missing. I’ve heard the [Innkeeper] is dead. Where are Miss Rose and Miss Galina?”

She addressed the paralyzed group of young men frozen in their seats. Imani was slowly moving towards Palt, eyes wide with horror.

The air was boiling. Mrsha hid behind a table, staring at the [High Mage], looking at the open door just ahead of her. She was too afraid to move. Shaking.

Once again. Arrogant [Mages]. The Revivalist faction. Mrsha stared at Numbtongue as he slowly got up, the leather armor on his chest smoking slightly. She wanted to say something. Stop.

The [High Mage] rotated in the air. All was silent.

Bird lay on the floor, motionless. Arms and legs locked up from the [Paralysis] spell, like Ulvama. Only Numbtongue had thrown it off, along with the [Mages].

“Don’t make this more difficult, Goblin. Where are the other two? I cannot believe you betrayed our faction like this, Montressa. That [Necromancer]? Let alone so many Earthers. Archmage Nailihuaile is extremely hurt. Tell me, now. I wish to be gone within ten more minutes with my charges.”

The air grew hotter. The little Gnoll covered her ears as Montressa made a pained sound. She looked to the Garden, the basement. But she was afraid the [High Mage] knew where she was. She quivered with indecision as the [Mage] looked around, eyes narrowed.

It was today.

—-

Then.

The enduring fact every species learned in time was this: your strength, your great armies, your fantastical magics, heroes and rulers perished in time.

All turned to dust. Or, at the height of your supremacy, you looked up and saw the Giant laughing down at you.

Every civilization learned this. Every species, every culture and people. Oh, but how soon they forgot.

‘We build from the ashes of lesser peoples, but we shall not be so weak, not make the same mistakes’. That was what they proclaimed ere they fell.

Fraerlings had never forgotten. Their villages, their homes in Baleros were hidden from the world. Seldom did they settle among the tallfolk. Yes, they protected their homes with magic, with great warriors. But most of all, with secrecy. They kept to themselves because any other way was death in time, a village burning because of overconfidence.

They knew they were weak, so they seldom left their homes, built for them. Even after he had left his, seeking adventure, friendship among the giants, he had sworn never to forget.

…He had. And the Great Company he had built? The powerful armies of the tallfolk, his companions, his influence that could move the world itself?

It was going to fall to pieces, because the giant who had built it, most famous of his kind, the Titan of Baleros—was missing.

“Damn. Let me—go—let me go!”

The giant, scaled bird with an elongated ‘beak mouth’ rather than a beak, webbed wings, a cross between lizard and bird in truth, did not let go. It did flap its wings in agitation.

The Razorbeak had no idea how its prey was making such a large sound. A superlatively large voice for such a tiny thing. The Fraerling was only a foot high, a snack for the road or for its young.

It was struggling hard, although the Razorbeak had almost assumed it was dead. Charred, beaten by battle, Niers Astoragon had passed out. Which might have saved his life. The Razorbeak opened its maw, debating biting the morsel’s head off to silence the wriggling and sound.

The tiny [Strategist] wanted the Razorbeak to try. He had woken with a start, and looked around in his prison of scaly claws to realize he’d lost track of Esthelm, the battleground with the traitorous Gold-rank team, the Floodplains and Liscor itself.

Below him now stretched increasingly vertical ground. He knew where he was.

“The damned High Passes. You bastard bird! Let me go! I’ll kill you! I’ll turn you into Foliana’s snacks—right after that team of Gold-rank amateurs! Let go!”

He struggled, bellowing. Again, the Razorbeak twitched with annoyance. He just needed it to open its claws—just once!

His sword was smashed against his side, and he had not the wiggle-room to even cut to any side. At least, he prayed it was the sword he felt. If not—he was bare-handed against a bird that out-weighed him by a factor of at least a dozen, in height as well as mass.

This would not be a problem for some of the Tallguard, the bravest Fraerlings assigned to defending their villages against monsters and people. Some could slay bears by themselves, or giant crocodiles if they had to.

However, Niers was just a [Strategist]. For all his mighty Skills, for all he was considered one of the greatest strategic minds living, he was still a Fraerling.

And he still made mistakes. The Titan cursed, and then gave up, conserving his strength. He was bruised to his bones, burnt by the spells those damn adventurers had cooked him with. One had kicked him and Niers feared fractured bones. If he had his bag of holding! Or the Signim! Or…

“Lost! Over a million gold pieces worth of gear, lost! Idiot! Fool! You were so blind you never saw the trap coming! Peclir! Peclir, you worthless rat!”

Niers howled, not to the bird this time, but himself. And the traitorous [Chamberlain], who was the only person who could have led him to this fate. No one but Peclir and a handful of people Niers trusted with his life had known what he was doing.

Of them, Peclir was the only choice. Niers had trusted him with his life right up till this moment, mind you. But—

The Titan tried to shift. The claws gripped him tighter. He gasped—trying not to pass out—the Razorbeak was trying to squish him as it flew towards its nest. He fought to keep conscious. Wait. If he didn’t, he’d be torn to pieces.

No bag of holding, no gear, no allies. The Titan sagged.

Foliana will know I didn’t make it when I don’t check in. Can Peclir imitate me? Will he go after her? She won’t drop her guard. How much damage could he do? She’ll send help.

But the treacherous, calm voice in his mind replied to his frantic thoughts. His [Strategist] self, which was analyzing even as he alternated between fury and shock.

If she can.

The Razorbeak flew onwards, entering more dangerous territory. It was not that far from its nest, but it had flown downwards to hunt prey without the danger of being hunted itself. It was diving when a rival Razorbeak flew upwards, sensing the bite to eat. Niers heard the angry call, the challenge—

He braced, knowing what was coming as the claws opened. The Razorbeak fought to defend itself. Niers grabbed for a talon, and saw something drop.

“No! Cats take it!”

He flailed for his enchanted sword as it fell next to him. It was the talon or his sword. Niers grabbed the sword. He fell out of the skies as the Razorbeaks quarreled above him.

Straight down into the High Passes.

—-

Master Merxel, the [Spymaster], drank the third Draught of Serenity with a shaking hand. No Calm Tonics for him.

A day had passed since he’d seen the Titan of Baleros. A day, and it felt like ten years. He reviewed his findings.

No, he did not know where Niers Astoragon or the agent of the Forgotten Wing Company, the Drake, Remane, were.

He did know the Cherinion Swords were down to two members, and the corpses of four people and a Drake, likely Remane’s, were lying outside of the city of Esthelm.

Correction—Merxel made a little note in his dossier. Now denuded of possessions and clothing, in the care of an [Embalmer], Miss Souyn, of Invrisil. Likewise for the other Cherinion Swords, despite the living member’s objections. Or rather, the objections they had tried to lodge at the Adventurer’s Guild of Invrisil before being apprehended by the Watch, per Master Merxel’s personal request.

Also in his care? A tiny, tiny bag of holding that had gone unnoticed by Esthelm’s militia when they first noticed the fighting, until he had sent agents to sweep for it.

Merxel had done nothing as stupid as try to open the Titan’s personal bag of holding, even if he could have accessed it with tweezers. But he had noted his possession of it, and was still waiting on the final check.

…That was, for the body of Niers Astoragon, the Titan of Baleros. He had hopes—if there was any to be had—that he would not find it. The two Cherinion Swords had claimed he’d been snatched by a Razorbeak and that had been corroborated by truth spell. Perhaps the Fraerling had lived. Or perhaps his body was torn to pieces and scattered far outside the search radius of two dozen of his people.

If the latter was true, Master Merxel feared for his life. He was a [Spymaster], a former [Spy], and he had contacts, experience, money, and levels. None of that would save him from Three-Color Stalker’s wrath.

At least it was [Strategist] Perorn Fleethoof on the other end of the communication spells for now. Merxel checked his notes—they were sloppy, inconclusive, and nothing of the quality he’d normally adhere to.

He sent them anyways. The reply came in moments.

“Find him.”

Merxel read. He sat back. His stomach twisted, more from fear than the Draughts of Serenity. He had too much of a tolerance. Also, he was too afraid.

The Titan of Baleros has gone missing on your watch, Merxel. You handed him over to a hit-squad, and if he dies, you die.

The [Spymaster] got up to relieve his bladder. When he came back, he saw his [Assistant Secretary] nervously poke a head into the room.

“Master Merxel?”

“I’m busy.”

She nodded palely. She knew, too. The woman licked her lips.

“Yes, Master Merxel. But you have waiting [Message] spells on priority settings. From your day-night clients?”

Those were the ones on Merxel’s carefully curated list who could get him out of bed or his attention at any point in the day or night. He bit his lip.

“I’ll take a look. Anything from the Forgotten Wing Company comes right to me. How many…?”

“Forty three on the priority list and more coming in. Two hundred, besides.”

Merxel sat down hard in his plush chair, in the expensive room filled with the acquisitions of good business. The [Spymaster], one of the best in the information-network game in Invrisil and this region of Izril, began sorting through the requests in order of priority. Number one?

The Iron Vanguard. Second? Maelstrom’s Howling. Third? The Eyes of Baleros.

“Dead Ancestor’s eggs.”

The Human whispered, invoking a particularly pithy oath of the Drakes, whom he’d lived for many years around.

They all knew. High [Strategists], their version of Merxel, or just administrators were all demanding for him to confirm one little fact, and offering buckets of gold for it.

Is the Titan of Baleros dead? Barring that, was he missing? Was he in Izril?

They knew. Merxel’s mind raced. In short order, he had the entire game pieced together. Treachery, betrayal—and what came next. He reached for the fourth Draught of Serenity with shaking fingers. Merxel checked himself. He knocked the bottle aside.

He grabbed some wine, and began to pour a cup.

—-

Niers Astoragon put together the same picture as Merxel, around the same time.

He picked himself up after falling about three hundred feet straight down. The Titan dusted himself off, checked for more injuries.

None, save for the ones he’d already had.

One of the few advantages of being small was that you didn’t fear the pain of falling. Oh, it could hurt, like if, say, you tossed a hamster over a cliff’s edge. Even so, the hamster had a much better chance of surviving that fall than something a hundred times its weight.

At least his enchanted leather armor was on him. The [Impact Guard] enchantments had done their work. He also had his sword.

“Damned birds. I should have them all hunted down. Traitorous [Chamberlains]…any cracks? Well, there’s something.”

Niers inspected his shortsword. No faults. He had no other major artifacts besides his rings and the leather armor, but this was better than a stick. Far better.

My shortsword is enchanted with Piercing, Durability, and a lower-grade split between Magebane and Severance. My armor has Impact Guard on fast recharge, Spellward, Anti-Hex, and Camouflage. I have Boots of the Grasshopper on, too.

I have an Anti-Identification ring, a Ring of Minotaur’s Strength, an Amulet of Magical Protection, a Ring of Greater Sight, a Ring of Lodestone Communication which is useless on Izril, and…

He glumly checked his hand as he ran towards the nearest cover, a rock with an overhang so the two Razorbeaks wouldn’t go after him. Niers crouched underneath, panting, looking at the burnt line of flesh around one finger.

My Ring of Death’s Protection is gone. Unclear which blow it protected me from. Maybe the [Lightning Bolt]. Maybe that gigantic asshole kicking me.

His mind’s voice was calming. It was at odds with the louder thoughts racing through Niers’ head.

Watch the skies! That damn bird has a mouth of teeth.

PECLIR! I’LL MURDER YOU.

How far in the High Passes did that thing drop me?

No bag of holding—I have to warn Foliana!

The smaller thoughts scattered and he ducked back in the tiny hollow of space as a shadow passed by. Yet, the inner thoughts never stopped their recitation.

…could wish I’d thought to bring my Ring of [Fireballs], or Band of the Vortex at least. I just had to take the most inoffensive, ‘safe’ gear. Well, I do get itchy when they’re on my fingers. I nearly blew my face off picking my nose once.

The inner thoughts were due to [Mind of the Strategist], a separate ‘layer’ of consciousness that could function even as Niers at large was suffering from some outside effect.

It was an improvement on what Niers taught his students; having a head for battle. It came in useful. As Niers was poking his head out from under the rock, checking to make sure if the Razorbeak was coming back, he could analyze Peclir’s treachery rather than dwell on it later, or not take it into account.

By now, this is what will have happened: Peclir will have vanished. Any attempts on Foliana, Perorn’s, or anyone else’s life will have been made. My absence/death will be made known to his employers.

Niers scuttled out from under the rock, keeping his sword raised. He could not stay here. First-principles of survival were kicking in. He had been gone from his village for a long time. Decades. However, you never forgot basic training, or adventurer training.

“Height, secure spot, monster check. Ground’s not porous…don’t think I’m on a nest. Damn—”

He finally saw the landscape around him. He’d fallen on bad terrain. A rocky incline, full of loose gravel or rocks the size of a Human’s foot to small boulders, leading up the side of one of the High Passes’ mountains.

It would have been a hard climb with the danger of avalanches for a Human. For Niers? He could hop across the rocks, but it was hardly flat ground. If they shifted he’d be squished. He looked downhill—to the sides—

“Flat ground, there. Move!”

He ran, panting, clutching at his side as pain flared. Might be cracked ribs? He was going for a solid foundation of rock, eyes on the skies. The birds were one of the greatest predators of Fraerlings. Any one of them could dive, but he couldn’t stay under the rock or wait for nightfall. This was the High Passes and he knew how many enemies there were for normal-sized people. And the rule was that Fraerlings had a hundred foes for every one that Humans had.

Even now, his mind was plotting the events of the now on a grander scale. Peclir. When Peclir left…

—-

Here was what had happened. Peclir Im had vanished, before Merxel had told the Forgotten Wing Company what had occurred. They had searched—they had not found him. Or if they had, they weren’t sharing.

Second? They wanted the Titan found now. The issue was that if he didn’t want to be found, or didn’t remove his Ring of Anti-Identification, no one could find him. Niers had all the protections a high-level individual possessed against easy location, and they were working against Merxel now.

Against his enemies, too, though. Because Merxel received the first speaking stone not long after he sat, staring at the [Messages].

He was conflicted on whether he should tell the other companies Niers Astoragon was missing. The call cleared it up.

“Merxel speaking. To whom am I—?”

“Tulm the Mithril.”

The voice was calm, cold, and Merxel stopped gulping wine.

“…How can I help you, [Strategist]?”

“By listening.”

Tulm the Mithril, the Dullahan who wore the expensive mithril armor, the greatest [Strategist] of the Iron Vanguard and one of the Titan’s best former students…was a terrifying individual. As frightening as the Titan himself, but more so because Merxel was not under his employ. The [Spymaster] made no sound as Tulm spoke, with the calm, inflectionless voice that Dullahans liked.

“I am aware that the Titan of Baleros is missing. I would appreciate your factual confirmation that he was present in Invrisil and is now gone. However. I am certain these facts are true, because Peclir Im issued a wide-scale [Message] followed by his disappearance. Baleros knows the Titan is gone. I am also certain the Forgotten Wing Company has urgently tasked you with finding him.”

Because he was professional, Merxel said nothing, in this moment when some would be pressured into some redundant statement. Tulm went on.

“I will match their payment. Do nothing.”

“Strategist, my relationship with the Great Company—”

“—is contingent on them being a Great Company. Moreover, they will understand that another Great Company is prevailing on you. You may benefit more from inaction than action. To that end: check the public bounties.”

Tulm hung up as abruptly as the stone had been delivered. Merxel lowered it, wiped sweat off his brow, and then demanded to see the latest public bounties.

Pisces Jealnet had been only one of the many bounties posted, sometimes worldwide for individuals. Not just ones wanted by the law. Anyone could post a bounty. Whether individual jurisdictions or nations honored it was a matter for them. Some wouldn’t even display them, or let any lawful brokers mention them. But there was always a list.

At the top of it was Niers Astoragon. A brief physical description was attached, as if anyone needed to identify the only famous Fraerling in the world, his probable locations last seen—High Passes, Liscor, Esthelm, Invrisil—and the bounty.

Niers Astoragon, delivered unto representatives of the Iron Vanguard, alive, 800,000 gold pieces.

“No bounty dead?”

Merxel was shaken. Then he looked down.

The next-highest bounty was for him dead. 415,000 gold pieces—roughly. That was because anyone could ‘add’ to a dead-on-delivery bounty, while the Iron Vanguard had just outbid some of the other factions wanting Niers alive. And there were about two dozen offering bounties of lesser size for him alive.

Including the Forgotten Wing Company. Merxel sat down. Tulm’s injunction rang in his head—right before another speaking stone from Maelstrom’s Howling reached him.

Do nothing and we’ll pay you. How much was his loyalty worth? No—now, the [Spymaster] wondered if he’d even manage to protect Niers if the Titan landed on his doorstep. That was a lot of gold.

—-

Niers ran into the first Fraerling-sized enemy as he ran across the rocks. It was probably fifty feet to the safe ground. At a Fraerling’s size? It was a lot of ground to cover, especially uneven.

The first monster spotted him and unfortunately, it wasn’t one of the docile predators who only picked on smaller creatures. It leapt, mouth agape, spiked legs slashing the air, wings opening!

Like a miniature Creler! Only, not so deadly, not so tough. Not by far. One could still bite chunks out of your face. Niers slowed, lifted his sword.

“Come on!”

Fraerlings had invented sword styles that larger races sometimes copied. Unlike other sword forms, theirs were completely different, and the great [Sword Saint] of his era, Balthen Bladewing, had studied from Fraerling masters.

Because Fraerlings fought with the assumption they might be surrounded, swallowed whole, or at the least, have to use their swords on foes far larger them themselves. Niers executed a perfect Midway Limb Cut, slashing, pirouetting, lunging. His foe didn’t expect the sharpness of his blade, nor the style of a humanoid fighter and lost its right foreleg. It skidded down, trailing ichor; his lunge put his shortsword through its chest.

It kept jerking, of course. Insects didn’t die right away, so Niers cut upwards. He bisected the biting jaws of the oversized grasshopper, and it went still.

It was a big sucker. Not as tall as Niers’ foot-long size, but aggressive. The Titan studied it, checking for parasites that might squirm out of its body—standing clear warily in case unborn young charged out at him.

He was used to all manner of horrific events, but the grasshopper was just a grasshopper. It lay, dead, and he sighed.

Then he turned. Because where there was one…there were more. The Titan resumed his fast jog, panting. He was already out of breath. Disgusting.

“I’m getting old.”

He listened to his [Strategist]-mind to take his focus off the pain in his lungs, his body.

Priority question for when you get back. Best to sort it out now if possible. Was Peclir an agent of one of the Four Great Companies? Tulm? I could see that. However…instinct says no.

Clarify?

He leapt over two rocks, bounding nearly two feet from ledge to ledge. Fraerlings were strong. Even without his Boots of the Grasshopper, ironic given his dead foe and the second bounding his way—Niers hoped it would just eat its dead comrade, but he was watching it—they could leap higher, and were far, far stronger than their size suggested.

But frail. He swore, lifting his sword.

Impale the Beast! He let the Grasshopper charge onto his sword, twisting left to avoid being bowled over by the carcass. Two more in the nearby area. Watch the cracks in the rocks. Back to thinking.

Peclir’s treachery is too bold, the assassination attempt too audacious. Yet by the same token, it speaks to me of accelerated plans, a sudden checkmate rather than a deliberate, organized strike. That Gold-rank team was sloppily put together; the agent one of convenience rather than a professional killer.

Ergo, Peclir had orders to take me or Foliana out if he could, no doubt, but the message mattered just as much as moving me out of the way. Appearances. He tried for a public-death, not poison, and he had more than a few chances unless he was afraid of Foliana’s [Rogue]-counter Skills. A possibility, but this smacks of grandstanding.

“Rhir’s hells take it!”

Something crawled out of the rocks after the fourth grasshopper went down. A huge centipede, drawn by the blood and motion. Niers took one look at it and kept running as it went for the twitching bugs. It was way longer than he was, and just as thick. He could easily cut its head off, but where there was one…

Sure enough, more began moving from under the rocks. Dozens of dark red-black bodies, thousands of legs, click-clicking as they scuttled upwards, after Niers and the insects.

“I hate the High Passes!”

Then again, bugs were everywhere for Fraerlings. Niers couldn’t remember a summer when he hadn’t punched a ladybug in the face. But those were tame insects in the cities. Here—oh, dead gods. He leapt and landed four feet distant. He’d do that and take the chances of landing in a crevasse.

The other Great Companies don’t need to shout they’re dangerous. Tulm? If he thought it was wise to kill me even if it destabilized Baleros and put his company into war with mine—he’d do it with a whisper and tell people after. Same for Maelstrom’s Howling.

If the Bannermare had known, she wouldn’t have been able to look me in the eye. Would Gwelin keep that from her daughter? Would she think killing me was a good idea given that we’re allied against Iron Vanguard aggression?

Nearly there. Niers panted along. He saw the rock face was on a ledge. He could see where he was, at least. He heard a distant scream and stared up. Yet the shriek was a Wyvern’s…miles distant perhaps, echoing far away.

Niers feared no Wyverns. Mainly because they never bothered with him. Sparrows? Woodpeckers, and so on?

Mortal enemies.

No. Same for the Eyes of Baleros. Unless something’s changed in any of the three Great Companies…

It might have. Other worlds. However, instinct still says this is too much. I might expect Tulm to reach out to me in an alliance if he got ahold of the other world scenario occurring. He’s no fool.

Speculation. I’m assigning an 18% chance at best that it’s one of the Four Great Companies, only if some change of leadership has occurred or they’re trying to take advantage of the other world phenomena.

Let’s just say 22% chance it’s a foreign power. Wistram, another nation—however, I’m only one part of the Four Great Companies. Unless Tulm’s dead…no, no.

4% chance it’s one of the Four Great Companies, hah! 2% that anyone outside Baleros wanted me dead and went about it in this manner, this style.

He reached the solid rock, reassuringly safe compared to the countless rocks with dens for insects behind him. Panting, Niers rested for a moment, bent over, but not willing to sit. He might have to stay moving. He strode to the edge of the ‘cliff’ and crested the rise.

It’s 94%. 100%. I’m sure of it. Another company wants to rise to the top. Peclir’s their agent. Foliana! Perorn! Dead gods, this is going to get messy. I have to—

He looked over the edge of the little rocky bluff, all of three feet high and saw, in the distance, the Bloodfields. A stain of red. The Floodplains beyond. Niers yearned to reach that area—not that far, but the invisible city, hidden by the terrain.

And yet. Yet—he counted the miles. He saw how tiny the Floodplains were, how high he was. The Titan’s racing thoughts slowed. He saw a valley twice as long as the Floodplains stretching between him and the next rise in terrain, sandwiched between two mountains. And past that, more space yet, until he could even dream of descending towards the valley where mortal peoples made their homes.

Niers Astoragon slowly sat down on the ledge.

“…I hate birds so much.”

—-

The first night, Niers Astoragon laid out his plan for returning to civilization. It was simple.

“One or the other.”

He looked at his sword—and then the Ring of Anti-Identification on his hand. Either he took his chances with a rescue team reaching him instead of opposition, or he fought his way back.

It would be a fight, too. He had made a small camp about fifty feet down the safe rocky zone in this rockslide valley. That’s as far as he’d gotten before he realized he had to make camp.

Fifty feet. Not great, even for Fraerlings on the march, but he was wounded, exhausted, and he’d had to get food.

Food, shelter, the basics for any survivalist were of varying difficulties compared to Tallfolk’s needs. For instance, Niers had spoken with [Explorers] who had to struggle to find enough to eat in areas like the Dyed Lands, when they lost their camp or suffered a disaster.

Niers? He’d looked around and in a stroke of luck, found a leafy plant that he thought might be hiding a tuber or something.

It had not. But the roots were still edible; part of the plant, even, but Niers had seen the thistle-like needles coating it and decided not to bother. On the way back, he’d spotted two large beetles.

Dinner. He gagged on it, of course. Fraerlings were not savages like some half-Elves or Garuda. They did not like eating bugs.

But he could find food where Tallfolk struggled quite easily. Fire had been the hard part. As in, Niers hadn’t gotten one. Normally, he kept all the supplies he might need in a bag of holding, but he only had plant matter, no wood around.

So…insect flesh and roots. Niers nearly threw up on his third bite of juice and…but he chewed it down. Fraerlings survived on stuff like this.

“I will survive.”

I will survive.

If he found a berry bush, an actual vegetable, even a single potato or the equivalent, he’d be set for days. Variety in his diet would be a problem, but never the amount.

The harder part had been shelter. Tallfolk, again, needed it too, but this time the problems were reversed. They had fewer predators. In the land of the small, everything was an enemy and small insects were ready to kill you despite a size-differential. And those were the small ones.

Niers improvised. Rather than try to clear out a bug den or something else, or trust to the uncertainty of a dug hole in rock, he…cheated.

“Come on…come on…you’re not some half-baked artifact, you’re close to relic-class! Just slice a bit wider and…aha!”

At last, he managed to cut the wedges of rock out and create a big enough hollow to comfortably sleep in. Especially with some dirt, and a simple [Light] spell that even Niers could cast unaided.

…Lovely. Dirt, hard stone, and the slab of stone Niers rolled to cover his entrance, leaving just enough room to provide an airflow. The insect-root meal sat about as well as the stone cutting into his back, even as he worked with his enchanted sword, cutting the stone to make it better.

Exhausted, Niers lay on his back.

Back home, I’d not have to lift a thing. Killing rat nests was the most of it, and I could hire the Fraerlings my company employed to do it.

I’ve gotten soft. How long since Foliana and I went on a real adventure? Not since the old days. Even if we try now, someone’s holding our hands.

Damn. If I had a bath, I’d cry. I will not cry over hot water and soap! Dead gods, I can feel the insect meat wiggling. Was it full of parasites? I’d see that, surely. You hear about Humans being stupid enough to eat Creler eggs, though…what a way to go.

When I get back, no, the moment I can, I need to covertly send a [Message] to my company for extraction. Something…public, yet with coded locations. Tulm and the others will be aiming for me. I cannot give away my location. Too dangerous. I have a better shot even fighting Gargoyles butt-naked than I do against a team who knows where I am.

It’ll be easier when I get to a city. I can hide among the people there. Like those stories my grandmother told me, about the Fraerlings living in homes, helping out.

…Idiots fixing shoes without pay. Who does that? But it’ll be…easier to snag a [Message] scroll in anywhere…[Mage]’s Guilds…

He began to drift off. Niers remembered that he had actually dreamed of something like that, only with a [King] or [Queen] and him being the dashing Fraerling who saved the day by killing the [Assassin] with a cunning trap, revealing himself to become the sacred advisor of the kingdom.

A hero. Didn’t all boys dream of that, regardless of species? It had actually happened a few times. But he had found…he had realized that dream.

Titan of Baleros. Yet he got bored, tired, because they thought he was so large and scary—

—-

The Titan woke up from his weary slumber when the first impact struck the roof of his cave. He sat up, heart pounding in horror as he realized his mistake.

“Selphid’s tits! No! Rain!”

A storm swept the High Passes. Fat drops of rain began pounding the valley. Niers pushed in his small cave as he knew. Water was already streaming in; he wrestled the boulder aside.

He was going to be drowned!

The Titan hadn’t accounted for this. He’d dug down, not sideways. Even then—he stumbled.

A watery punch laid him flat. What was it? A raindrop. They were hitting the ground hard, and the small Fraerling had gotten one on the face.

His armor began reflecting the raindrops as he got up, as if they were blows. Niers looked around.

“Dead gods!”

The water was flooding down the stone valley already, drowning the more foolish bugs who hadn’t accounted for this. He saw it like a distant crest of water, gathering momentum with incredible speed.

It probably wouldn’t even get more than two feet deep in most places. But a foot was more than enough to drown in! Niers looked at the water coming his way. He looked at the wave—then looked over the side of the rocky ledge.

“I’ve got no choice! If it’s this or…I need to go. And so I need…”

He looked around. It wasn’t hard to find what he needed. Detritus was being washed down the valley. He ran, snagged a stiff leaf, or bit of bark, he couldn’t even tell. Then—he leapt towards the side and began sliding down the mountain, gripping the edge of the leaf like a sled.

Fraerlings had discovered surfboarding, skateboarding, sledding, and all manner of transport. Niers coasted down the slick rocks and soil, laughing like a maniac. He’d done this as a boy! And this time, his enchanted armor took the shocks of impact. This was fun! This was—

He saw the first pothole filled with water, swerved, and dodged. He was still laughing the first ten minutes. Twenty, he was still having fun.

Forty minutes of downhill sledding and correcting his course later, he was losing the fun. Niers had to run with the sled over his head as an umbrella now, paddled with his sword across a tiny lake, then leap and slide down the muddy hill, all while searching for a second place to rest out of the rain.

He found it, before he reached the growing river far below where water was collecting. Niers swung into a cave with a proper overhang, and breathed out. He looked around it warily, holding the [Light] spell up as he maneuvered the bit of bark to form a crude door.

“If there’s anything in here, I’m wet, tired, and peckish! Get lost!”

He drew his enchanted shortsword, and the glow of magic lit up the small hollow. He looked around and saw…

A terrified little bunny, squeezed into the back of its den. Niers eyed the ratty fur, the two eyes staring at him, as the mountain-hare regarded the unwelcome intruder that had stumbled into its cunningly-disguised abode. It was even smart enough to have stockpiled some vegetable detritus, in varying stages of decomposition.

The rabbit’s fur was tattered since it wasn’t a prize-pet animal, but it was a luxuriant brown—with just a hint of purple. And it was panting; Niers could feel the warmth of its breath.

Bigger than he was.

He licked his lips.

“There’s no fire, but maybe I can figure out [Spark] with your fur. I always meant to learn more magic. Here, bunny, bunny. Hold still—”

He tiptoed forwards with his sword held behind his back. Aiming for a mercy cut. The rabbit looked terrified. It squeezed into the corner just as Niers realized he might be able to ride the damn thing around. He was no [Beast Tamer], but—

He wavered a second too long. The rabbit realized it was trapped. Its eyes went wide. Niers braced. His sword came up to kill it before it bit in self-defense or smashed him flat. He whirled the blade up in Impale the Beast and—

The Waisrabbit blinked out of existence. Niers Astoragon stared at the place it had been. He hesitated, then looked at the fur, droppings, and food of its den.

Half an hour later, he bit into some starchy vegetable around the rabbit-fur fire he’d managed to get going after figuring out the [Spark] spell at last. He put his feet up, adjusted the ‘door’ to let the smoke out into the still-pouring night, and sighed.

“Better than nothing.”

Somewhere further inside its den, in a place only accessible via [Teleport], a gloomy bunny wondered when it would get its home back.

—-

Foliana sat in her rooms as Perorn delivered the report.

“Two days. Master Merxel suddenly went quiet. I think we have to consider he might be working against us, or bought off. I’m looking for trustworthy agents, but a lot of our contacts are silent. And the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings claim their best agents and numbers are both depleted or occupied…Foliana?”

The giant Squirrel-woman was sitting in the replica of the huge trees where her people, Squirrel Beastkin, made their homes. She was visible, a rarity since she was normally out of sight, playfully pranking people.

Perhaps because one of the two pillars of her company was missing, she had not been invisible for two days now. She did not turn around as she nibbled on something.

“Foliana—Commander—we could use some guidance. I’m trying to move all the agents we can trust, but I can’t send reinforcements in any numbers. Aside from trying to get them there in time, the Iron Vanguard’s fleets…”

“Keep trying.”

Foliana looked around at last. Her fur, turning greyer with each year, stood in contrast to her vivid eyes. The Centaur woman shuffled her hooves, unable to conceal her agitation.

“…Nothing else? Commander, I’m going to go as far as to ask Niers’ students to try to find him. This is a disaster. We can’t pretend Niers’ replacement [Strategists] are him. Even a body-double—”

“Keep trying. I’m not a [Strategist]. Mm. You find him or he’s dead.”

Foliana sat there. Perorn stopped pacing. The [Rogue] sat on the branch. She looked around.

The one thing missing from her home was this: it was never so empty, so quiet in Squirrel Beastkin homes. They lived with other species too, the few, rare species of Baleros protecting and helping each other. Both she and Niers had come a long way from their secret homes. One reason they had been friends.

“There used to be more.”

Foliana turned back around, shuffling her feet. Perorn hesitated.

“Excuse me?”

“There used to be many more. That’s what everyone forgets. Even him, sometimes. There were many. Then there were two. Now there might be one.”

Silently, the Centaur opened her mouth and closed it. Foliana stared ahead, at the illusory magical sky.

“If he’s alive, find him.”

At last, Perorn saw what Foliana was eating. It was a small, perfectly cut and roasted bit of meat. Pork. From the kind of pig, though, that was fed a magical diet all its life, carefully raised by a [Livestock Breeder] or [Rancher], and then prepared by the finest [Chefs].

Extravagant, decadent, even. A waste of money despite the delicious meat, yet completely justifiable if a single pig could feed a single Fraerling for a year, even with snacks and the spicy cheese or fruits he enjoyed with a little drink on cold nights.

Niers’ favorite food. Foliana nibbled at it, despite not loving meat. Using her Skill to look through the eyes of the person who loved it most. Or trying to.

She was too far away. She closed her vivid eyes as Perorn shut the door and trotted away.

—-

The Waisrabbit evicted Niers the next morning, after the rain had stopped for about two hours. The Titan was snoring—then he was falling again.

“What th—”

He bounced off a rock, tumbled down what was to him a steep cliff face, and landed on his back. He stared up at the sky.

The Fraerling got up with a curse.

“Teleport me?”

Another charm he hadn’t taken was his anti-teleportation gear, like his direct-attack magical artifacts. Obviously, because he had to be teleported here via wine bottle. Even Niers Astoragon could afford to wear only 6 rings with his gear and sword before magical interference reached its limit.

Hah! Six rings? Gold-rank adventurers can barely wear three. I’ve got superior Fraerling gear on me, hand-crafted by the best masters living!

…Not relics, though. There are so few compared to the tallfolk. I could buy relic-class artifacts for someone Foliana’s size. Not me, though. Only one species gets so small.

He began his next day in the High Passes, annoyed at the wakeup. Worse, he couldn’t tell where that damned Waisrabbit’s den was. At least he’d gotten a decent meal, a hot fire, and sleep out of it.

If anything, Niers was impressed. He’d had no idea Waisrabbits could teleport other things besides themselves.

Defensive measure for a creature like that. Extremely sensible. Nothing short of that kind of animal could survive the High Passes anyways. I wish I could harvest its fur and use it, though. I can barely cast [Sparks] and my magical knowledge is limited outside of knowing what spells and certain magical techniques do.

I never wanted to be a [Mage].

Nor had he leveled up as one last night, despite theoretically qualifying for a Level 1 [Mage] or [Sorcerer] class. He would not.

Niers was a [Strategist]. Just a [Strategist]. A [Grandmaster Strategist], true, but he didn’t gain other classes. Honestly, he didn’t know if he could.

I will not gain [Survivor] or [Climber] or any other class here. I don’t need to waste my potential. As for Skills…

Niers thought about it. He had a lot of Skills. However, many were only useful if he had something to command. There were a number he could repurpose or harkened back to his adventuring days.

Yet—he shook his head. He could use a few big ones here, but to little point for simply traversing the terrain. Besides which, the ambush, his lapse in judgment, had shown him how complacent he was.

I’ll climb out of here with my armor, my sword, and my bare hands. I need to shape up.

He gritted his teeth and began to march once more. No Skills, no classes, no help.

…That resolve lasted for about three hours. Then one of Niers’ passive Skills went off in his head.

—-

[Battlefield – Foe Sensor]. [Veteran’s Stealthguard].

Both Skills weren’t active-abilities that he had to call upon. Hence, Niers used them despite his resolve. He froze as they went off.

He was climbing now, passing through the wet mud left over by the storm of last night. The runoff was still there, a treacherous little river that could suck you down.

Niers jumped over it. Boots of the Grasshopper. Essential for Fraerlings. Standard gear among the Tallguard—well, Boots of Jumping for them. His were far superior and could carry him up to eight feet on max-jump, although that was a bad idea unless he really needed to go that high. Birds loved to dive and grab you.

He froze, having leapfrogged his way up the valley. His boots, just short of relic-class, hadn’t even needed to recharge yet. Niers hunkered down next to a dandelion in full seed-mode. He eyed the puffball of seeds balefully and sneezed twice. Meanwhile, he was investigating his sensor.

The [Grandmaster Strategist] had a range far exceeding lesser [Tacticians] and [Strategists]. Basic Skills took on new potential at his level. He realized the ‘enemy’ wasn’t even within a mile of his position. More like four miles.

“What set it off, though? I haven’t designated any foes—unless something’s after me? Let’s see. Damn. No help for it. [Battlefield: Hawk’s Surveillance]!”

In his head, the area around him expanded and took color, life, and nuance. Like the Skills of other experts, he mapped out the entire landscape around him. A [Strategist] had to know his battleground, after all.

Valley, yup, makes sense. Odd flora to the left on that ridge—avoid. Damn. Are those Eater Goats grazing two thousand feet north of me? Avoid, avoid, avoid! Now, where’s this enemy contact? It can’t be a monster if [Stealthguard] activated.

Niers had only a single ‘snapshot’ of the terrain for six minutes, not constant monitoring, although that was still far better than the lowest-level iteration of the Skill, which gave you a single picture. Hah. Some low-level [Scouts] couldn’t even ‘see’, just sense the rough location of foes or traps. He mentally zoomed across the area his Skill had mapped, giving himself a route up the valley away from obvious threats.

Eater Goats. Nasty. He sensed two Gargoyles waiting for prey behind him…and most disturbingly, a group of monsters he couldn’t identify. The High Passes had all kinds of unique threats.

Some kind of fleshy…those aren’t slimes, and their hide doesn’t look tough. Arms without torso or…but no fingers. I can’t see clearer. If they survived the High Passes, they’re not as weak as they seem. Definitely avoid.

They seemed like half a humanoid body, all pinkish, raw-looking flesh, long arms, a rough ‘head’, in a group of seven. Nothing to do with him; they were far off. Just a reminder this was not his territory. He’d be more at home with knowing what fauna and flora he could eat or avoid in a jungle.

At last, he picked up on the enemy. Niers’ eyes narrowed. He spotted no less than six emplacements on cliff faces, clusters of ‘rock’ that his perspective revealed to be hidden camps.

“Drown me in a wine bottle. Those are defensive emplacements. I can’t…see…”

Even his Skill didn’t give him a clear view of what or who was manning the posts, but he thought he saw a ballista poking out of one. There was no help for it. Niers straightened and adjusted his course up the valley. He had spotted them; there was no way any of the six positions had a chance of seeing a Fraerling.

Have I just stumbled across a high-level [Bandit] camp? Or—no. Is this the lair of the Bloodfeast Raiders? Wouldn’t that be the discovery of the year!

He climbed, not jumping anymore but slogging on foot up the slope, secure in the belief his height would make him hard to spot. But wary, even so.

Just who or what was up there? He had his answer after two more hours and a tangle with two overly-large bugs. It wasn’t that they tried to kill him, but he discovered they were actually dung beetles. When he realized they were ready to roll the pile of crap onto him to force the possible-threat away, he objected to their aggression. With his sword.

—-

The Goblin [Sniper] was not Badarrow. Rather, it was a Cave Goblin acolyte named Sharpstick, so named because he used sharp…sticks… as arrows. Goblin nicknames were utilitarian, unless a [Shaman] was doling them out.

He had been trained by Badarrow, though. The Cave Goblin could place a shot on a leaf a thousand feet away from the correct altitude, which was why he was here. He had substituted the old, weak bow, with a new weapon. The Cave Goblin had been dubious, but everything was changing and his class was [Sniper], not ‘bow-person’, right?

Sharpstick, possibly to be known as ‘Theuir’ if he accepted the new nickname of the Flooded Waters tribe’s [Shaman], was conflicted about many things. His weapon, his new name which sounded a bit funny compared to ‘Sharpstick’, and his body.

Everything was changing. The Cave Goblin was now five foot six, and felt stretched. He was turning into a Hobgoblin, one of the first Cave Goblins to make the leap. It was also why he’d been assigned to command of this sentry station, the outpost cleverly hidden in the cliff.

[Miner] Goblins had dug it out, and then disguised it so there was barely any visibility. Sharpstick had also covered all glints of metal, and made the other four Goblins under his command do likewise. They were all smaller, normal Goblins, armed with bows, a horn, and even a Wand of [Sand Spray], for a fast retreat. They could be running back to Goblinhome via their escape route in moments if need be, and were protected from Wyverns dropping on their heads by the rock above them.

However, the main protection was Sharpstick’s new weapon. One of the Thunderbow heavy-crossbows, mounted and trained downwards, ready to ruin something’s day. He was trained with it, and could take down a Gargoyle with it, or a lesser Wyvern.

Gold-rank adventurers, too. Although they’d been safe from conflicts with them by and large so far. Sharpstick was nevertheless vigilant. Watchful. His keen eyes scanned the horizon every few minutes, as the Goblins made sign-language chatter, never speaking.

It was the first of six such watch points, preventing intruders from reaching Goblinhome. Yet for all of Sharpstick’s vigilance, he never noticed the little Fraerling watching him from afar.

Niers untwisted the Ring of Greater Sight and sat down. He was well past the thousand-foot range of Sharpstick. He’d climbed until he had a vantage point of the nearest emplacement.

“Goblins. Nagas help me; it’s a Goblin war camp!”

He understood now why his sensor Skill had gone off. Goblins were not something Niers had been looking for—but he had learned they could be.

“Is that a ballista? No. Crossbow. Huge one, though. Ammunition’s…iron tipped. Could probably down a Level 20 [Heavy Infantry] fighter in a single hit. Single-shot kill on Level 30 if it’s a vital area and their armor isn’t enchanted.”

Niers turned his head, spying on another emplacement. Good vantage points, too. If he hadn’t used his Skills, he’d have had trouble spotting them. You could decimate a squadron with a small force unless they could throw a [Fireball] or similar spell in the small gaps.

Counter-strategy? [Invisibility] spell on a [Mage], single [Delayed Fireball] or similar spell. Doesn’t seem like they’re using magical sensors. Even if they are, make it an [Invisibility] spell or [Camouflage] on a [Rogue] with a wand instead.

Rush the posts. They might get checked in, but storm your forces up the pass in your window. Need a mobile infantry force with a [Roughland Commander] or some equivalent. Looks like mountain, siege fighting. Heavy infantry, strong ranged archers, [Mages] with barrier spell focus.

Give him four thousand of the Forgotten Wing Company’s forces and he could sweep the emplacements and the fortress beyond, despite the strong defensive work of the [Chieftain]. However, Niers was impressed. One of his students would have had a hard time cracking this fort.

This is a smart Goblin Chieftain. Could this be one of the survivors of the battle with the Goblin Lord during the siege of Liscor? It has to be. They rallied, regrouped, and leveled up. That Goblin’s skin tone is grey. One of those Goblins from the siege, but maturing into a Hob. Functional crossbow, albeit built of bone and sinew…extremely impressive.

Reminds me of Velan.

Niers bit his lip. He had lived through one Goblin King. He stared, narrow-eyed at the Goblin’s fortress in the mountains beyond, hidden by the pass but illuminated by his Skills.

He was disinclined to let another Goblin King, or Goblin Lord live. He had met Velan.

Niers had even liked him. Because of that, because betrayal smarted twice over when it was someone he trusted, he would not trust Goblin promises again. However. He didn’t have an army with him. If he did…?

The Titan slithered down the slope, making away from this Goblin’s home.

—-

The leadership of the Forgotten Wing Company was astonished when the Goblin Lord of the growing tribe met them with a formal, sit-down dinner.

“Is this not how it is done?”

His name was Velan. He looked tough, and Merloc signaled to Niers that he was unsure if he could take Velan alone. Or, he signed, with the bodyguards.

If their [Juggernaut] had reservations, the [Strategist] had them. Velan looked like a Drathian expert to Niers. Or [Martial Artist]. Skills that improved natural strength, speed, and such didn’t result in his physical conditioning.

The Goblin Lord was a surprise in more ways than simple etiquette. He was well-read, well-spoken, and well-mannered. Mild-mannered, even. He soothed two incidents along with Niers on the first day. Moreover, he had the answer for their problems.

“Blistering sores? Pops with blood? Yes. I know. My tribe—Goblin’s Lament—had them two weeks ago.”

Niers blinked as he, Merloc, Foliana, and Ginsa sat around. The leaders of the Forgotten Wing Company leaned forwards, eying the Goblins around Velan.

“How bad is it in your tribe?”

“Gone.”

The Goblin Lord watched the unsubtle expression on Merloc’s face. The others were more practiced. No less eager, however. The Bloodpop fever was sweeping Baleros and half of his company was infected.

That was what had driven Niers to make contact with the now-infamous tribe which had smashed multiple companies sent against it. A ‘peaceful’ Goblin tribe if you left them alone.

“You cured it? Countless [Healers] haven’t found a remedy so far!”

The Goblin Lord silenced the sniggering Goblin [Warriors] behind him. He nodded.

“Yes. I have.”

“How?”

Velan shrugged, looking almost amused by how upset Ginsa was.

“Luck? I am better?”

“And you didn’t share it?”

Again, Velan shrugged.

“No one asks Goblins for help.”

Then he looked at Niers. After a moment, the Goblin Lord remarked thoughtfully.

“If you ask, perhaps we can trade. [Strategist]. Will you ask and talk with this Goblin?”

Unlike many, he hadn’t missed who was in charge, leading in secret. Niers looked at Velan. Despite himself, he smiled. They spoke, despite the others’ reservations, in private, and he even shared a drink with the Goblin Lord. That was the first time they met.

Niers had liked Velan from the moment the Goblin asked if they used salad forks, within the first minute of welcoming them to his tribe.

—-

The Titan marched away from the Goblin camp and the decent defensive emplacements. He remembered Velan as he marched.

In time, Niers had forged an alliance of defense with the Goblins. It was not an exaggeration to say that both had risen due to their friendship.

If Niers had not sponsored the Goblins, they would never have been listed as an official Balerosian company, able to negotiate and hold land rather than be considered monsters.

By the same token, the Forgotten Wing Company had grown because time and again Velan had honored his oaths, providing medicine, cooperating on joint goals.

Before the end, Niers had even been attempting to form a Hobgoblin unit of fighters and train his forces with Velan’s. He had thought Velan was special, the chance to uncover the secrets of many aspects about Goblins. A worthy ally. Even a friend.

Then—Velan had slaughtered an entire city, declared himself Goblin King, killed the ambassadors of goodwill and his allies, and made war without end. Niers had seen him on the battlefield. A raving monster whose savagery deserved all of what was said about Goblins. His forces butchered civilians and surrendered [Soldiers].

“What happened to you, Velan? What madness, what curse, lies upon your species?”

Never again would Niers trust Goblins like that. He slid down a hill, making good speed. Vegetation was growing in this area, and while Eater Goats might rip up the roots, a lot more plant life clearly survived to reproduce.

Niers had great hopes of finding food and better shelter for the night.

He looked back just once. That Goblin sniper position was good. Niers shook his head and kept marching.

…He looked back a few more times after that. Good, but not perfect. The Goblins were clustered up too much behind the giant crossbow. The outpost had clearly been excavated from the stone rather than made naturally. If so, the creators should have created an ‘L’-shaped tunnel, only reversed vertically. That meant they could hunker down if someone tried to blow their position to pieces. You’d need an exceptionally-good [Homing Fireball] specialist or a direct attack, then, and there were ways to protect against even that.

Even against magical attacks with limited magical resources of your own. They hadn’t created any rock-fall or other traps for enemies climbing on them, for instance. No anti-[Rogue] mechanisms, and you could do a lot with string and a bell. Perhaps this Goblin had never gone up against [Rogues] of that magnitude.

Niers had. He had seen every way imaginable of taking and holding ground, which was why he taught students. He’d give that emplacement a…C+ if it was his special class. Totally functional, great against mundane armies. He’d hold one of his best students to higher standards, though.

For a Goblin likely without any formal training? Pure talent. Wasted if not honed. Niers kept thinking of that. The talent to make a crossbow out of bones and sinew! Some kind of [Engineer]-[Strategist]? Or did the Chieftain just employ that kind of talent? He wondered…

Niers was growing hungry. Lunch. He eyed the shoots of some kind of plant—a brighter yellow-green. Hopefully not indicative of poison. The narrow valley was a nice place in the relatively barren High Passes.

Had the Goblins maintained this? No, too far from their camps. I wonder why the Eater Goats don’t consume all this? Probably too poisonous even for them. Oh well.

The Titan stopped at the edge of the first grouping of plants. He hesitated as he reached for a leaf, using his gloves, obviously.

“…Something…”

One of his Skills was going off again. This time, urgently.

Not [Dangersense]. Niers didn’t have that basic Skill; it was too easy to trick. But his [Stealthguard], sovereign against ambushes and even magical camouflage, was going off.

Niers hadn’t calibrated his [Foe Sensor] against anything but his usual foes from Baleros and Goblins.

He did so now, on a hunch. Avians? No. Goblins? A mess of contacts behind him. Traditional monsters? No contacts. Crelers? Nothing, thank goodness.

Insec—

The entire area lit up in Niers’ head. He froze. The Fraerling mouthed a curse.

Slowly, very, very slowly, he tugged at the root of the leaf. Gently, gently…he recoiled as the root-vegetable came up. Covered in bugs.

They had infested this ground! They were eating all the plants and making their lairs here! Some were babies, the size of his hand. They got bigger, though. They squirmed as Niers leapt backwards—

But didn’t pursue. He breathed out, slowly, as this particular nest, one of tens of thousands, spilled out, looking for what had disturbed it. They resembled thick, squat, beetles, with terribly sharp-looking pincers. Odd patterns on their back.

Magical? He was certain they could fly, but they reminded him most of one of Baleros’ most dangerous predators.

Army ants. The kind that could swarm and eat you in seconds. Burn them with [Flame Wall] spells or the like.

Niers had none. However, he was making tracks the way he’d come. He was fortunate that he hadn’t set them off. Doubly-fortunate that his Skills could detect the threat. [Dangersense] would only help you probably as you stepped foot into this area. He knew exactly how many of those little things there were, and he was running as fast and quietly as he—

“Baaaah.”

The Fraerling heard the sound from the side. He closed his eyes.

“Please, no. Go away you stupid, stupid—”

An Eater Goat wandered over the edge of the valley, its roving eyes searching for food. It spotted the valley of greens and brightened up. It baahed, and the group of goats Niers had spotted with his Skill all converged.

There were probably two hundred Eater Goats, a large herd that could kill even smaller packs of Gargoyles. They’d eat rocks if they got hungry enough, or each other, and they had amazing repopulation abilities.

They were dead. Niers backed up, looking for a way out of this death-trap as one of the Eater Goats raced downwards to be the first to eat and ripped up the rooty vegetables. It chewed down bugs and plant alike without a care in the world.

Then—the bugs exploded out of the ground. Niers looked over his shoulder.

“Nagas!”

The beetles were flying. They covered the air, the startled Eater Goats, and descended, biting, consuming their prey. Niers ran for it, but the beetles were on the attack and they were devouring everything they could sense in their radius.

Everything.

—-

Sharpstick saw the Swarmbeetle nest erupt. He had no idea what adventurers called them. Goblins had given the name, again, out of utility.

“Bad-bad bugs and Eater Goats. Many-bite death. Eating death.”

He commented to the others, allowing himself the luxury as the buzz of wings and Eater Goat’s braying shouts filled the air. The other Goblins nodded, wincing as they saw the Eater Goat group disappear.

They went down fighting, of course. Eater Goats bit, chewing bugs furiously, fearless to the point of suicide. They never had a chance. The bugs just ate them, live, until the corpses lay, food and sustenance for a new generation. Everything nearby was also a target. The baby Armored Crawlers died—the Goblins did not.

The nearest two outposts blocked the beetles from entering with reinforced blankets just for that purpose. A few might trickle in, but they were snacks. Although…those Swarmbeetles had a nasty bite. Magic ran in them thanks to those plants, and so they could actually carve up your leather armor or bite you down to the bone if you let them. Tough, too. Sharpstick shook his head.

That was all he thought about the minor incident. After all—it was just the goats who died. And there were lots of goats.

—-

“You damn goats! You stupid, empty-headed idiots! Venaz has more tact than you!”

Niers bellowed as he ran. Behind him, the beetles were on the offensive. They went after the Eater Goats first, but they circled, going after anything nearby.

Him. Birds. Other rodents or animals. Niers flung himself forwards as he heard the buzz behind him. He needed—

There. The opening was small, even for a Fraerling. Niers didn’t care. He slashed with his sword, widening the narrow passageway. Then he put his back in the cave’s entrance and began to fight.

The first beetle didn’t even see him. He slashed and cut it in half. Tough shell and pincers meant nothing to his enchanted artifact. He cut the next beetle the same way.

Then they flooded him.

—-

Crawling bodies, half his size or larger. Blank eyes. Squirming legs, everywhere. Even in death they twitched.

Jaws, biting at him. The buzz, the click of them. Small ones pushing past the bodies as the adults ate their fallen.

They were on his armor, the tiniest ones, biting—he knocked them clear with his hand. But he never stopped stabbing, slashing.

Economical movements—the entrance of the cave was filled with dead bodies as they pressed in. He was shouting, cutting, stomping, his armor saving all but his face from bites. But thousands of bites made even the magic weaken. The snap of their closing mandibles bruised.

Hours of fighting. And they kept coming. They couldn’t get into the rocky cave, or he’d be dead. He held the opening, slaughtering them as they ran onto his sword, pushing forwards. He was squeezed by the dead into the back of the stone crevasse. Only their hard carapaces formed a second wall.

Blood. Death! A war only Fraerlings would ever know.

“Come on, you vermin!”

Niers smashed a bug against a wall, smearing it, careless of the gore on him. His voice was hoarse. His arm felt numb, but he refused to stop slashing. He switched hands, though his left arm was just as tired.

He refused to die! Not to these bugs! Not to—a face appeared in the bleeding mass of bugs. It bit—Niers stabbed it through the mouth. He yanked his sword back before it could be lost; another bug tried to get at him.

The Fraerling [Strategist] didn’t know it—but at some point he was laughing again.

—-

The onslaught of bugs lessened at some innumerable mark in the attack. They backed up, dispersed, fled back to their lairs.

Niers didn’t know why. But he took the moment. He shoved past dead, stinking corpses, heard the telltale sound—and grinned.

“Birds.”

They had noticed the swarm and now played a new part in the circle of consumption. Birds darted around, too fast and too high for the bugs to swarm, hundreds of them. Niers poked his head out of the cave as they moved closer and the bugs began to burrow, hiding from them, their bellies full.

He could stay—or run. Niers eyed the birds swooping around. Not all of them were big enough to eat him, being specialized for the beetles, but there were a lot of potential killers. He thought about it, grunting.

“Stinking cave, more bugs when they leave—or get torn to pieces. Great. Well, I survived the bugs without. So I suppose I’ve earned this…”

He poked his head out the cave entrance, mouthed something. The birds cocked their heads—then opened their eyes wide. They voided their bowels, shrieked in terror, and fled.

Niers marched out of the cave, and left the damned valley of bugs behind. Just a little Skill. He hurried off, though; the fear-effect wouldn’t last long. He needed to wash the stink of bug off him. He wanted a fire, food—

But he was victorious. The High Passes would not best him.

That was the second day. By the eleventh, Niers had nearly passed the sprawling territory under the auspices of the Goblins and he felt like he had a clear shot at the slopes heading down to the Floodplains.

—-

Eleven days, six Skills. That was how many times he’d used a Skill to help him navigate the terrain. Niers didn’t count the accident with the Goblins.

Six was high…but it wasn’t like one per day. He was doing it. Surviving. He hadn’t lost his Tallguard training.

Some encounters had been close. But he’d trusted to his armor, running, putting his back to stone, to survive. His sword had done the rest of the work. Even larger predators like rodents or birds gave up after he cut them a few times.

By now, Niers had improvised and restored some of his missing gear. A ‘cloak’ of fur and strands of grass and plant matter kept him warm at night and added to his camouflage. He had a walking-stick to help him find his footing, and a primitive bandolier to which he’d attached a few carrying items. Some dried meat, his quiver of arrows, and bow.

A bow and arrows. It wasn’t hard. Yes, you needed a proper piece of wood, but a primitive bow could be a decent little stick carved with his shortsword and strung with some dried sinew from a stupid marsupial that had tried to jump him in his sleep.

It wasn’t good. It had all the range and force of a launched toothpick, especially because his arrows were about as sharp, despite him using the shortsword to carve stone arrowheads.

However, it was a bow and arrow. And a sufficiently-fast toothpick could put out an eye, easy. Niers wished it could have been a crossbow. He knew, roughly, how to make one. He was no perfect [Archer], so his old crossbow was ideal.

One enchanted bolt could solve most of his problems, even Gargoyles. However, this back-to-basics approach was toughening him up. Six Skills, only his sword, improvisation…his armor, rings, and boots…but no potions!

When I return, I need to give this experience to my students. I’ve made them do it before, variations of this, but the sheer challenge is something that would benefit those like Wil, Umina. Venaz probably doesn’t need this, but he’d thrive.

I wonder, is this how the first Fraerlings did it when settling a new village? Fight their way countless miles, find somewhere defensible, and just…start civilization anew? Is this my adventure? What I was really here for?

That was what had driven him to Izril. To obsessing over the young woman. Intellectually, Niers had picked over his mistakes time and time again. He’d even let the other-worlds discovery fall behind, the Last Light of Baleros, because he’d been convinced that his opponent held all the answers and he wanted it from her.

Romance. Love. His weak spots. It was more than that, though. It was the feeling of meeting someone who was better than you. He’d risen to the top of the world, him, a little Fraerling. Sometimes he felt as if he’d done it all and gone too far. That there would never be a challenge as great as those he had summited.

He remembered Queravia. Niers stopped as he spotted the third adventurer team far below him. Still hunting Wyverns? He recalled the bounty. He leaned on his walking staff, eying them. It had occurred to him he might steal a [Message] scroll before, but they had been too far away, moving too fast. This group was nearly vertically below, moving across a natural path, talking. He couldn’t hear.

Adventurers. He hesitated. Knowing his luck, they’d mistake him for a monster and kill him or something. He had seen…something…wandering the High Passes. It had looked like a Goblin, a small one, wandering about. Niers had stared at it, wondering what kind of Goblin would be so stupid to do that at night. Then a Gargoyle had gone for it.

He shuddered. It had gone lower after disposing of the Gargoyle. Proof there were nastier things that he didn’t want to challenge in the High Passes. But this? He smiled, eying the adventurers. Then sighed.

Luck? They told stories of his luck, now. He just had to roll the dice to show them, flip a coin. He had once upended a barrel of a hundred dice and they had all been ‘three’. Luck.

“I curse you.”

She smiled, playfully, as the command tent burned. Dead bodies everywhere. Niers coughed. He didn’t know how many people he’d killed himself.

“Command! To me!”

He shouted. Queravia didn’t bother. The Stitch-Woman lay there, one foot gone, taken from the midriff down by the shower of arrows.

The battle was still raging. His company and the other joint forces versus the King of Destruction’s armies. Niers walked towards her. A small man.

But they would call him the Titan after this. Titan—how many of her command had he slaughtered? The desperate attack had killed both his command, his bodyguards, and hers.

“What did you say?”

The [Gambler of Fates], the great [Strategist] of the King of Destruction coughed. If she had cloth, she could have replaced her body parts. She did not. And the fire would kill her. But her eyes were unwavering.

“I curse you. Just so you know. You—you told me you weren’t a gambler. Liar.”

“I don’t believe in luck. I don’t like it. This was a calculated risk.”

“They call me mad. You charged my command. You really thought you’d win?”

He shrugged, moving past a burning carpet. Eyes searching for a trap, a trick.

“I was an adventurer. Queravia of the King’s Seven. You know how this has to end.”

“Can’t I surrender?”

The Fraerling almost laughed.

“In fifteen minutes, I’d be the one surrendering. We both know that. I’m…sorry.”

He lifted his sword. The battlefield was Queravia’s. If she wasn’t removed, her Skills would let her army triumph. Without her—

“If I said I was pregnant, would you stop?”

She smiled as he looked at her.

“I’m joking. Go on, [Strategist]. We both know it wouldn’t stop me. Or you. I curse you with the [Gambler]’s curse. Nothing special. You don’t play a gambler’s games, Niers Astoragon. So win without luck. My [King] will follow after, you know.”

“If he does, I will stop him.”

The Titan looked at her. He lifted his sword. Queravia—

The shadow was his only warning. Niers broke out of his trance, pivoted.

“Damn—”

He sliced through one talon, but the Razorbeak grabbed him again. It shrieked triumphantly and the adventurers looked up. Niers cursed. Was it the same damn bird? His memory played on, the [Strategist] self.

I never knew if she was telling the truth. If she was—

The Fraerling twisted. Leverage! A Skill? No—he’d get out of this again! He swore it was the same damn bird, but he’d cut one talon. He wiggled as it called out in pain. He just needed to get his sword and he’d slice out, this time. An arrow? He fumbled.

Gambler’s curse. Just a simple thing. I throw the dice and win or lose without chance. Same with coins. A ‘curse’.

No luck on the battlefield? I gamble all the time. Just not like she did it. I never met a [Strategist] like her. When I return, I need to change. My students…

He found an arrow, snapped the shaft, jabbed the sharpened rock into a scale, digging. Where was his sword? There! He grabbed the hilt, began to slash around the claw. The Razorbeak screamed.

Taking risks. I never took a greater one as when I faced her. But I was too cowardly to face the King of Destruction on Chandrar. I should have taken the entire Forgotten Wing Company and fought him. I stopped taking chances.

The claws opened. Niers clung to one, blood pattering his armor. He tried to slash at the other leg, the bird’s undercarriage. Not the leg holding him.

“Got you, you pestilential bird! Payback! That’s right, bring your head down for me!”

Reinvent myself. Luck. I faced luck and gained a Skill, my title. I should have forced the Iron Vanguard back, formed a navy. Involved myself—I’m trapped on Baleros. When I—

The beak opened. Snapped. The sword slashed through part of the Razorbeak’s jaw, lodged in a tooth.

—I—

The [Strategist]’s thoughts ended. The tearing pain, agony, followed the sensation of loss. He stared down. He’d twisted as the beak came for him. But he couldn’t dodge fully.

“My leg. My—leg!”

The jaws closed. His armor held off the rending teeth for a second, perhaps two. The gigantic bird worried at his leg, grinding the magic away. He felt the agony and then a void. Niers looked down.

His right leg was severed at the knee. The Titan—blinked.

He saw red gore, so familiar. A jutting end of broken bone, torn away, trailing blood and viscera. So familiar.

Yet this was his body. Thoughts fragmented. Tiny droplets of blood fell from the air as the huge jaws swallowed the tiny bite above him. He heard the sound, the gurgling rasp of digestion. The stump of his leg.

—get back?

“My leg! YOU BASTARD BIRD!”

He slashed. But now the Razorbeak bit again and he was in the jaws. Niers thrashed as the teeth hammered his armor.

“I’LL KILL YOU. MY LEG!”

His voice echoed in the air. He screamed, slashing. But the jaws were clamping down and he couldn’t—

The arrow hit the wing and the Razorbeak screamed, dropped him. Niers fell out of the air, disoriented, limp. He heard shouts.

“It can’t be—that’s him! Get him! Get—”

The adventurers. As the Razorbeak fled, screaming, wounded, they stampeded towards his location. One of them stared down in horror.

“He’s missing a leg! Get a potion of healing—”

“Wh—how—”

The [Strategist] was staring down. His leg! His entire life, he had never taken a wound as—they reattached his arm when it was half-severed by the trap. His—

Liquid splashed him, clearing blood. He saw the bloody stump cover itself with flesh. He looked up.

A team of adventurers stared down at him. The [Strategist]’s mouth moved.

“I knew I heard a voice! It’s him. The Titan.”

“Wh—”

We have grown complacent.

A hand grabbed his sword-arm. He fought, but he was just—he had forgotten. No Skills? No handicaps? How soon everyone forgot.

He was just a Fraerling.

—-

Niers Astoragon lay in a bird-cage. No, he sat with his back to the bars. Cheap bronze. He might have bent them, but they watched him like a hawk.

And they had his sword. Not his armor; they’d left him with some dignity, but the Gold-rank team, Heron’s Mark, was one of a number of Gold-rank teams in the High Passes.

“Looking for you, uh—Titan. Lord Astoragon. It’s paid work. We didn’t expect to find you. We’ve been searching the last week and a half.”

“All by yourself?”

Niers hadn’t spoken for the first two hours. He was in shock. His leg was gone. Taken by a damned bird. It hadn’t even died. Then, captured by a Gold-rank team.

“Not just us. Multiple teams with movement or reconnaissance specialties are looking for you, Lord Astoragon. There are bounties on you. Our employers, well—I can’t speak for the others, but we intend to deliver you alive.”

“To which Great Company?”

“I shouldn’t say—”

The Titan slowly looked at the young, eager Human man. The adventurer hesitated as the Fraerling looked at him.

“Which. Company?”

“The Iron Vanguard.”

That came from the [Ranger] who’d shot the Razorbeak. Niers nodded. In the silence that followed, their [Wizard] spoke.

“We should tell the other teams we found him, Nomen.”

“I—don’t think so, Chana. Not until we get clear of the High Passes. The other teams—might want to split the reward. Or take it from us.”

The team of four Gold-ranks, the [Warrior], a [Wizard], a [Ranger], and their [Thief], a silent Gnoll, looked at each other. A classic group.

“I know, Nomen. I mean, they might…wonder why we’re leaving. We’re engaged for the entire month. Maybe we should tell some of them in case some teams insist.”

The [Wizard] looked at Niers, and then around. Heron’s Mark looked nervous.

And well you should be. The other Gold-rank teams will kill for a bounty on my head.

Niers’ thoughts were dark. He had begun thinking of escape plans twice. Each time, he stared at his leg.

No mobility. He could rely on a peg-leg, crutches, magical prosthesis, even fix it. But right now? Impaired.

My leg.

“Who can we trust? The other teams might be watching for one of us leaving the High Passes. In which case, we might have to fight them off us. Which team?”

They debated. At last, a name circulated.

“Wings of Pallass. They’ve got an impeccable credibility rating. Not like the others. I met Miss Bevussa in Liscor. Can you send a [Message], Chana? Tell them we need to talk now. If the others are listening in, say—say we found Crelers?”

“On it.”

As the [Wizard] began to communicate, Niers saw the adventurers staring at him. Like a curio, a legend literally fallen to earth. Smaller than they thought. Oh, he’d heard all the jokes.

He knew he wasn’t impressive now, not with his armor torn by the bird’s teeth, stump of a leg—he shifted his head to look at their leader.

“So you’re taking me to the Iron Vanguard?”

“That’s right. In Invrisil. Rest assured, Lord Astoragon, this isn’t personal.”

“Hah.”

The Gold-rank looked nervous.

Just a brat. Has he ever lost a team member? These look like rookies, not a proper battle-tested Gold-rank team.

Niers spoke, shortly.

“Let me make you a counter-offer. Deliver me to my destination, which will be the same amount of work as the Iron Vanguard, and I’ll double your fee. You know I can.”

The adventurers went silent. Even the [Wizard] looked up. Nomen opened and closed his mouth.

“I—”

“Nomen, it could be a ruse. Remember, he killed over half the Cherinion Swords! Don’t be greedy!”

The [Thief] whispered. Niers snorted.

“They attacked me. You think I need to lie? Let me put it to you this way: the Iron Vanguard wants me. My company wants me. And ‘this isn’t personal’? Boy, I’ve heard that from countless adventurers. I know it’s Creler crap, same as you. It’s personal to me. Now, I’ll be generous if I’m helped.”

“We—we have a contract, Lord Astoragon. No offense, but…”

The adventurer licked his lips. Niers stared at him.

He probably thinks the Iron Vanguard will more than double my offer to get me. He might be right. Greedy, stupid…

He looked up as he heard a distant call. The [Wizard] lowered her fingers and spoke.

“They’re coming. All three of them.”

“Three? I thought it was a team of four, like us.”

The [Ranger] raised her eyebrows. Half-Elf. Cliché on cliché. Her hair was dark brown, her skin tanned. Niers stared at her.

I could prevail on my debts with half-Elves, maybe. Depends on her origins. If she’s as stupid as the rest of her team…maybe not. Can I convince the [Thief] to betray the others? Again—

He just sat there as the second team appeared. This one looked—interesting. Two Oldblood Drakes, and a Garuda. They had been flying along the High Passes, but they weren’t idiots.

Rather than let Wyverns drop on them and any number of monsters attack, they’d been using [Camouflage] spells while scouting for him. Niers might have even missed them, unlike Heron’s Mark.

“Nomen, isn’t it? Where’s the Creler nest? If it’s small, we can take it on together. Or do we need to contact all the teams?”

“Bevussa—Bevussa, listen. It’s not that. We—we actually found—”

He gestured to Niers in the cage. The Titan looked up and saw the beak open in shock. Bevussa recoiled. He saw her companions look around, then stare at Heron’s Mark.

“Is…why are you telling me, Nomen?”

Bevussa slowly looked at the Gold-rank Captain, coming to the same conclusion as he spoke.

“We want to get the bounty on Lord Astoragon and get out of the High Passes without the other teams interfering. We’re considering splitting part of the bounty if you help us out.”

The Garuda’s eyes widened. She looked at Niers. He stared back. And abruptly, he felt sick. From Titan, meeting his grand opponent, commander of one of the finest mercenary companies in the world, to a…a Fraerling in a cage.

“Good evening, Miss Adventurer. Good to meet young Gold-ranks these days.”

The old Fraerling smiled at the children. Like a grandfather, a professor lecturing young, new, promising students. The generation to replace his waning star. Bevussa carefully bowed.

“Titan of Baleros, Lord Astoragon, it’s an honor to meet you. Are we…delivering him to his people, Nomen?”

The adventurer hesitated. Niers sat back, smiling genially around.

Inside…he thought he heard the quiet snapping, like bones, of his patience, his temper, bursting its carefully constructed cage.

Suddenly, no, it was a culmination, a realization born of many days and nights like this, testing his patience, wearing at his carefully controlled temper, his true temper, not the flights of annoyance or irritability he had, came upon the Titan of Baleros, Niers Astoragon. And it was this: his journey, his ‘adventure’ in the High Passes was no longer fun.

No longer fun. It had not been. Nearly dying, the ambush, had not been, nor fighting for his life against insects, eating bugs, surviving mudslides, hiking for days and nights like a younger man. However, it had been by another token. He had felt younger, and in arrogance, tried to do it without using his Skills. Without taking the threat seriously.

His leg was gone. Niers stared at it. His pleasant smile widened.

Bevussa felt a prickle on her feathers. She was trying to talk to Nomen, but she could not look away.

Not from him. The living legend. The Titan.

He looked far, far too calm for someone who had just lost a limb.

She felt like her [Dangersense] was going off. Yet it was intuition.

“Excuse me.”

The Titan interrupted the muffled conversation. The adventurers turned to him. The Fraerling smiled about.

“I’d just like to make a request.”

“Er—of course, sir? Lord Astoragon? You are our—guest. Do you need food?”

Nomen stuttered, at odds with Niers being a functional prisoner and his awe. Bevussa just waited. Niers nodded.

“Yes, yes indeed. I appreciate you wanting to stay alive and keep the money. However, I, personally, have come to a decision. I will not be ferried back and handed over to the Iron Vanguard and have to negotiate or trick my way to freedom. I’m tired. I want a Potion of Regrowth, or a magic leg, and I will not sit in this cage.”

The adventurer captain licked his lips.

“I’m afraid, Lord—”

Niers’ smile widened. Nomen fell silent. The [Strategist] kept speaking.

“I can appreciate ambition. So, here is my offer. Let me out and I will pay you double the current bounty to take me to my destination. I will commend you and make you famous for rescuing the Titan. However, there will be no double-dealings. Both your teams can be rich, and I will help you fend off any problems that may occur.”

The two Gold-rank teams looked at each other. Bevussa stirred at last.

“Nomen? Sounds like a good offer.”

She raised her brows, trying to hint to him…the younger man hesitated. He had gold in his eyes.

“Let’s discuss it. Lord Astoragon, just a s—”

“No.”

Again, the Titan interrupted. He looked past Nomen, at Bevussa.

“I am not giving you an offer, young man. I am giving you a choice. Listen to me. I am asking you…nicely…to indulge me. I have had a bad day. Let me out. Now. Or you will regret it.”

Wrong move. Bevussa saw the female [Wizard]’s eyes flick to the [Thief]. He shook his head behind Niers’ back. Nomen saw, and his features firmed.

The implied threat made the wavering Gold-ranks uncertain. As well as Niers clearly looking at Bevussa as the more reasonable team. Now they were eying the Wings of Pallass like potential enemies, for all they’d summoned them.

Gold in the eyes, gold on the brain. Enough gold to drown in. To retire on forever. Bevussa felt it too.

“Nomen…why don’t we take the offer?”

“Hold on, now. The Titan is our prisoner, Bevussa. I think it’s a matter of—trust. He already took care of one Gold-rank team. It’s not safe to just…let him out.”

“Are you an idiot? How did you get past Bronze-rank?”

Nomen’s ears turned red. Bevussa bit her tongue as Issa’s eyes widened and she covered her mouth. The two Oldblood Drakes coughed.

At the same time, Bevussa was astonished. Because this was not a smart, strategic move. Niers nearly had Heron’s Mark agreeing, but his tongue was stabbing him in the…only foot he had.

“I think I’ve made up my decision. Chana—can you cast [Detect Magic]? We’re taking Lord Astoragon’s gear off him. Rings. He can keep the armor, but we don’t want to take chances.”

Niers just snorted.

“Really. How are you going to get them off? Break my fingers with a pair of tweezers? You are as stupid as I thought.”

“Nomen! Think about this.”

The [Warrior]’s eyes flashed angrily at Bevussa. He looked at the Titan.

“If you take them off, we won’t have to insist, Niers. You’re in the cage. We’ll take you to the Iron Vanguard or whomever bids highest.”

“No, you won’t.”

Bevussa’s [Dangersense] began going off now. She’d known they were in danger before. Now? She saw the Titan of Baleros slowly push himself up. He balanced, one hand holding the bars of his cage. One-legged, he looked around. His snort? Contemptuous.

“Look at you. I gave you a chance. You—fly away.”

He pointed at Bevussa. Her head swiveled as the warning bell began to ring louder.

“Nomen…”

“Stop talking like that. You can’t do a thing. If you want to keep negotiating, some respect…”

Nomen’s voice wobbled. The Titan looked at him.

“Can’t do a thing? I’m the Titan of Baleros. You little piece of Creler-bait, I’m sick of this. I don’t negotiate with Gold-rank adventurers.”

His voice was growing louder. Bevussa took a few steps back.

“Issa—Kin—get ready.”

“Don’t move.”

The half-Elf [Ranger] swung up her bow. Heron’s Mark tensed. Bevussa lifted her wing-hands.

“We’re not fighting you! Lord Astoragon—”

He wasn’t listening. The Titan clung to the bars of the cage. His eyes were flashing, his voice growing furious.

“Do you think I need to negotiate to get out of this cage? Me? I was a Named Adventurer when you were dreaming about holding swords! I’ve killed better adventurers than you with my bare hands. You think you can hold me?”

“He’s lost his mind.”

Kin muttered. Bevussa looked around, but the arrow tracking her chest was demanding her attention. If she had to dodge—

“I’ve met Dragons and bested Djinni! I’ve broken the Labyrinth of Souls and seen the words of the architects! I have beheld Elves and broken armies by the greatest [Kings] and [Warlords] of my era!”

He was bellowing. Was he trying to bring monsters down on them?

Nomen had the same thought.

“Shut him up!”

He hissed at Chana. Niers saw the [Wizard] raise her staff. The [Silence] spell didn’t even touch him. One of his rings glowed.

“You idiots.”

“Gah! I’ll do it!”

The Gnoll interrupted. He reached for the cage door. Nomen was looking around.

“This is a bluff. You can’t do anything! Stop shouting and cooperate or—”

He never got further. His torso exploded.

Niers Astoragon flung up a hand as a ribbon of red splashed the cage. Bevussa flinched—then dove. The arrow flashed past her.

“Nomen!”

A scream. The [Thief] jerked his paw back. Staring at Niers. The Titan started laughing.

“Up!”

Bevussa howled. She shot into the air with her team. The [Ranger] took aim, but Chana grabbed her arm.

“It wasn’t them! We’re under attack!”

“From—”

The Gnoll threw himself at his teammates. They hit the ground hard, but it saved their life. The second oversized bolt struck the dirt. Niers gripped the bars of his cage and began to bend the cheap metal.

“What—what—”

Nomen was alive. Somehow, the bolt hadn’t blasted his entire body apart. Durability Skills. His teammates were quick. They dropped a potion on him and he began crying out, coughing.

“Above!”

The half-Elf spotted the attackers at the same time as the Wings of Pallass. Bevussa’s eyes went round. She saw the Goblins at the same time as one launched a huge crossbow bolt from the Thunderbow he was carrying.

—-

“Hit [Mage]!”

Sharpstick bellowed as the Goblin war band opened fire. Goblins carrying crossbows and bows began to loose from their positions. They were firing at range on both teams.

—-

“Evasive! [Unit: Speed Wing]!”

The Garuda and two Oldbloods whirled away. The adventurers on the ground weren’t so lucky. Chana threw up a barrier only for three Thunderbow bolts to overload the spell. A bolt caught her in the leg and she screamed, falling down.

“Get to cover!”

“Get the Titan! What are you doing?”

Nomen shouted at his team and Niers. The little Fraerling was still laughing. Nomen wanted to grab at him, but the Goblins had them pinned and more were flanking.

“More are coming! It’s a damned tribe!”

The [Ranger] loosed an arrow as Chana screamed, dragging the bolt out of her leg and taking a huge chunk of flesh. The Gnoll slapped a potion on the wound.

How? Bevussa whirled through the air, seeing even more clearly than the [Ranger]. Goblins were marching down the High Passes, at least sixty so far—and more in the distance! Coming out of camouflaged bases.

But why were they attacking? She looked down.

The Titan of Baleros twisted open the bars of his cage. He had to hop across the ground.

Crutch, he needed a crutch. He ignored the projectiles showering down around him. His armor could take one hit. Niers still laughed, with maniacal humor as fury filled him.

He was the same small Fraerling. Only, with one difference.

He was using his Skills.

—-

“Sharpstick attacking adventurers?”

Rags heard the scrambled report and lurched out of her gloom. She shot to her feet. Half of Goblinhome was already making ready for war.

But she had not ordered it! She ran through the fortress in time to find Redscar. The Goblin snarled at her as his Redfangs mounted up. Across from him, the [Wyvern Riders] led by Snapjaw were doing the same.

“Chieftain! Coming with?”

“No! Stop! Why is Sharpstick attacking?”

The Goblins froze as the [Chieftain] barked. They looked at her.

“Chieftain’s orders!”

“Not my orders.”

Rags saw Redscar’s eyes widen. But how—?

She felt a pit open in her stomach.

—-

[False Orders]. Niers Astoragon found a snapped crossbow bolt and shrugged. Crutch obtained.

“We have to get out of here, Nomen!”

The Gold-ranks were seeing more Goblins flanking them from the cliffs. They were opening up—but two Gold-rank teams were fighting back. A [Fireball] blasted the cliff and Goblins took shelter.

“[Volley of Arrows]!”

The half-Elf tossed up eighteen arrows and shot them up, arcing them down on Goblin positions. The [Thief] hurled a bag to the ground and smoke enveloped their position.

“The Titan! Grab him!”

Nomen was crawling towards Niers, heedless of the fighting. The Titan narrowed his eyes. He could sense everything through the smoke. [Foe Sensor]. He casually hobbled left as the [Warrior]’s gauntleted hands swept the ground.

“You bastard! Where are you? What have you done?”

Nomen coughed in the smoke. He heard a cold voice from his left.

“Me? One Skill. Here’s another, you stupid little brat.”

The [Warrior] lunged. He missed. Niers had hopped away with his remaining Boot of the Grasshopper. Yet Nomen had his sword and Niers wanted his sword. The Wings of Pallass, high above, were shouting down.

“Nomen! Get your team out of here!”

Chana howled up at them.

“We can’t! Get rid of those giant crossbows!”

“No, get out of here! You have monsters incoming!”

The first wave of screaming Eater Goats crashed down on the team a second later.

—-

“Dead gods.”

Bevussa saw a second enemy appear as a horde of Eater Goats ran, screaming, at the Gold-rank team. Not just them; the Goblins had seen the Eater Goats surging down the rocky mountainside and adjusted their fire. It was now a three-way battle.

“The Titan just called the Eater Goats down on all of us!”

She screamed at Kin. The Oldblood Drake’s mouth opened.

“How?”

Bevussa didn’t know, but there was no other explanation. About three hundred Eater Goats were attacking—even the Goblins, who were wearing their red war paint! They were bewildered, but the goats were frothing at the mouth. Furious—

Rage Skill. He just aggravated the entire herd somehow. A [Strategist]’s Skills!

Bevussa cursed. The Gold-rank Garuda banked sharply, avoiding the arrows now coming up more sporadically towards her, eyes trying to pierce the smoke cloud a dozen Eater Goats had charged into. She saw a flare of electricity; Heron’s Mark was putting up a fight.

More Gold-rank teams would see the fighting. Whether they arrived? It depended on whether they realized this wasn’t just a monster attack.

“Send word that Heron’s Mark is under attack!”

“Are we going in?”

“No! We’re grabbing the Titan and fleeing!”

Bevussa snapped to Kin. She was staring down. Grab the Titan. He was everything in this scenario and everyone knew it.

In that way, even Bevussa was still blinded by his bounty. The Titan had told her to run. She thought she was safe, flying high above the fighting. She had still underestimated her opponent.

She was on his [Foe Sensor] too. The Titan of Baleros had lost his temper.

Bevussa felt the air change. She looked up. The clouds were black. She saw the first bolt of lightning lance down as the clouds opened up.

“Ancestors—”

—-

The High Passes were hit by a storm as Niers hid in a crevasse, watching the Gold-rank team fighting for their lives against the Eater Goats.

[Unit: Incendiary Provocation]. That was a [Strategist] Skill that could incite an ally or enemy into losing all sense of reason. The Eater Goats were on a rampage. Yet now, rain, driving down in greater sleets than even his first day of being in the High Passes, was mixed with bolts of lightning, showering down around all forces.

He wasn’t controlling them. The Wings of Pallass dove, frantically, to avoid being cooked alive by the lightning even so, wings heavy with water. The Goblins shouted, losing sight of each other in the melee.

All of it was his Skills. You thought I couldn’t do anything? Niers changed the weather with one of his great Skills.

[Battlefield: Skies of Chaos, Winds of War]. Far more dangerous than [Horrendous Weather]. Some [Strategists] could provoke rain. The Earl of Rains could call thunderstorms.

Niers could call fire from the skies depending on the climate. He waited, eyes narrowed. In this chaos…he leaned on his crutch, the only calm mind present.

—-

“We have to run! Nomen! He’s tearing down the High Passes around us!”

It felt like it. Yet they had to drag Nomen out of the fighting. The [Warrior]’s chest plate was dented in; he felt like the healing potion, potions, hadn’t fully worked.

“We have to find him! It’s enough money for—”

“It’s no use if we’re all dead!”

Eater Goats were still attacking them. Heron’s Mark was climbing, desperately. Rain water was threatening to turn the lower areas into rivers. Lightning kept crashing down, sending rocks flying! And there were Goblins, Eater Goats, and now more monsters, sensing the bloodbath.

A Gargoyle landed, snatching up Eater Goats and flying back up to tear them to bits. Nomen threw up his shield, shouting, as a spray of the deadly rock-projectiles flashed from another’s mouth.

“Damn it! Find us a cave or the Wings! Let’s go!”

His team sprinted from the cover as their [Ranger] took point. She loosed an arrow, hit a Goblin [Archer]. The monster fell with a scream as Goblins switched to melee weapons against the goats and Gargoyles.

More were coming. Were those Carn Wolves flooding down the valley in the distance? Nomen cursed, but his teammate was shouting.

“Here! Here! There’s a cave!”

She screamed, pointing towards a place they could hole up. She had leapt, pulling herself up a ledge. It was too steep for Eater Goats to simply climb; they had to jump.

So did the adventurers. The [Thief] boosted Chana, then leapt, nimbly swinging himself up the ledge. Nomen was last. He bashed an Eater Goat down with his shield, then tossed the shield up to his friends. He leapt, grabbed the ledge, began to drag himself up, arms burning. His heavy armor was working against him, and his team was already sprinting to the cave, fortifying it.

“Nomen! Hurry up!”

“Almost—”

The [Warrior]’s shoulders had cleared the ledge and he was heaving himself up when he saw the Fraerling. The Titan, leaning on the snapped crossbow bolt like a crutch, regarded him.

“All of this? I won’t say it was all your fault. Just remember this if you survive: you are an idiot.”

“You—”

The Titan tensed. He leapt—and stabbed Nomen in the eye with tip of the crossbow bolt. He and the adventurer went over the ledge. Nomen screamed. He hit the ground. Not even hard enough to knock the wind from him, but his eye! He was bellowing, flailing, searching for the Titan, not to capture, but to kill when the Eater Goat trotted over to his head.

Niers hobbled towards the adventurer’s side as the Eater Goat ate. He grunted.

“Bag of holding. Damn—”

He had to undo the knot and upend it; if he reached inside, he might implode or alternatively explode in the bag of holding’s unique containment field. He kicked aside rations, cursing at the oversized potions, far too large for him to take.

“Where—where—there!”

His sword. He grabbed it. Then looked up.

The Eater Goat had noticed the morsel. It opened a bloody mouth, showing him rows of gory teeth. Not content with an entire dead adventurer, it wanted one more bite. The other Eater Goats were also trotting over, some going for the cave the rest of the Gold-ranks were in.

Niers looked at the Eater Goat. As dumb as the adventurer. He didn’t have time for this.

Another Skill activated. He should have used them all from the start. Playing games, pretending like this was ‘reinventing himself’. He snarled and the Eater Goat…backed up.

The lunatic animal, known for its tenacity and willingness to eat and fight even Crelers, slowly trotted back, abandoning its kill. The others’ heads turned towards Niers, spotting him despite his size. Yet far from swarming him, they baahed uncertainly. With a touch of fear. Then—terror.

They turned and ran. Niers walked past them. A Gargoyle feasting on dead goats looked around. It spotted Niers, made a booming shriek sound, closer to a bird, and grabbed its prey and fled. The giant stone monster wasn’t the only one.

Skills. To enrage, to change the weather—and he had countless more he could not use because they only worked on people he commanded. To make them tough, to enhance a charge or defense…

The few he could use were the Skills of a [Grandmaster Strategist]. Level 65. Higher than the King of Destruction.

[Fear Me, Your Mortality]. Even Eater Goats realized their fragile existence and fled, rather than confront the terror-effect of the tiny Fraerling. Armies could break before the Skill and the right advance.

Goblins? Tougher stuff. Those caught in the radius of the aura just kept fighting. The adventurers too. Monsters didn’t master their emotions. People could, and whether that was stupidity or courage was up for debate.

Niers began to hop upwards as rainwater and lightning and water covered the lower valley. He wished he could have dragged the bag of holding with him, but even that would slow him too much.

He watched the results of his escape attempt coldly. If he had any sympathy, it was for the Garuda and her team. Even the Goblins he’d used to win his freedom.

Yet that was strategy. Sometimes, they were just pieces on the board.

—-

Bevussa and her team could not fly in the rain. Perhaps they might have risked it with waterproofing spells, but the lightning would kill them dead. They fought on the ground, battling Goblins, monsters, trying to make for safety.

They took down a Gargoyle, eight Eater Goats, and were preparing for a charge on the Goblins. But this was not their element. They were fliers, meant for hit-and-run attacks! Heron’s Mark? Bevussa didn’t know.

“Where are we going?”

“Past the Goblins! Back to cover! Anywhere we can hide! Break their lines! Kin, stay behind Issa and m—”

Shapes marched down the hill. Huge ones. Bevussa whirled. Her shortsword came up. She tensed…then swore.

“Ogres!”

The two Drakes stared at her in dismay. The first Ogre looked like a damned [Knight]. Crude iron riveted together made the monster appear even more imposing. Worse—they came down in a squad, and two with shields were covering three holding those damned oversized crossbows. Bevussa looked around.

“Fall back—”

She heard a howl. Carn Wolves bounded down the slopes, flanking them on the other side. Bevussa realized they were dead. She and the two Oldblood Drakes stood back-to-back as crimson eyes flashed in the pouring rain, green skin illuminated by the lightning strikes.

The Goblins didn’t open fire, though. Slowly, one of them, holding a pair of enchanted swords, pointed down at the Gold-rank adventurers. He shouted something.

A boom of thunder hid his words. Bevussa shouted.

“What?”

Another shout. Bevussa hesitated. The lightning—

The Goblin seemed to realize he wasn’t being heard. He tried again, bellowing, but the thunder drowned him out.

The other Goblins stared at Redscar as he folded his arms, glowering. He refused to try a fourth time and look like a bigger idiot.

It was the smaller Goblin riding with him that swung down. The Goblins lifted their bows and Bevussa tensed. Yet the little Goblin, ignoring rain and thunder, pointed down at them. She drew her own sword—held it out, horizontally—and dropped it.

Bevussa saw the blade fall. She hesitated. She stared at the Goblins. A flicker of thought ran through her head.

Numbtongue and the inn.

“Wings of Pallass?”

“Captain?”

“Drop your blades.”

Bevussa tossed her shortsword down. Kin and Issa hesitated, and then copied her. They put up their arms as Rags nodded. She swung her head left and right.

“Grab the adventurers. Get back to Goblinhome. No more deaths!”

She snapped at the wounded Sharpstick. The Goblin lowered his head. Rags searched the dark High Passes, but she had no idea what had caused this—this mess. Goblins dead, monsters still fighting…she cursed as she saw more magic light in the distance.

“More Gold-ranks. They see us. Fight or go?”

Redscar grumbled. Rags sighed.

“Go. Go!”

She turned and the Goblins pulled back. With three prisoners.

—-

Niers kept climbing. He knew the other Gold-ranks were out there. Somehow, Heron’s Mark had survived. It looked like three Gold-rank teams down there, and even the Goblins were loath to bring it to a straight battle.

The bad weather was already clearing. The battle was ‘done’. Eater Goats had eaten or fled his Skill, and the Gargoyles had beaten a retreat as [Mages] began blasting them away.

Heron’s Mark crowded around Nomen’s body. He heard their raised voices. Niers was hopping up the mountain. He had somewhere to be. He listened.

“…Titan…forget this…!”

Was that an actual oath of vengeance upon him? Niers narrowed his eyes at the screaming [Ranger] shaking her tiny fist at the sky. She looked as small as he seemed to them at this height.

He was not in a good mood. The Titan pointed back down at the [Ranger].

“You hold a grudge? You hold a grudge? [Highlight Target].”

The half-Elf began to glow. All the other adventurers recoiled. The Goblins, monsters—everything turned and saw the Skill-marked [Ranger]. A second battle began as a colony of giant centipedes—actually giant, three feet wide and a lot longer—poured out of a cave.

The Titan kept climbing.

—-

Three days later, the Titan finally sat down. It felt like the first time he’d sat down in three days. His guest looked uncomprehendingly at him as the Titan motioned her into the chamber.

A home, really. Not the kind he was used to, but a home nonetheless.

“I know you don’t really understand me. I know you were just—living your life. A hardworking mother. You find food, you eat it. That’s how it happens. Well, you chose the wrong meal. It took me a while to find you. However, I’m the Titan. You really can’t tell how dangerous I am, can you?”

An uncertain squawk of sound was his answer. Silence.

Blood in the air. Niers sat down, cleaning his blade. He spoke, conversationally.

“I am not a nice man. I do whatever it takes to win if I have to. Not often. However, this isn’t about victory. You took my leg. See?”

He gestured to the stump below his right knee. He’d whittled a crutch out, but he’d had to leapfrog with his good Boot of the Grasshopper. If he hadn’t known exactly where he was going, it would have taken him months. But the avian nest, no matter how high…he’d had a lot of energy for this.

Broken eggs. Dead little birds. The Razorbeak was making a sound. Did it feel grief? The nest of ferocious little monsters had fought him.

The Titan hadn’t cared. He gestured at the Razorbeak, who still bore her wounds—a missing foot, cuts along her belly and mouth. She had yet to use a potion. He gently nudged the six carved pieces of wood he’d had to drag up the mountain to this spot.

“You don’t understand. I have so many enemies—had—and you’re the one who takes an actual limb. Well, that’s appropriate. Hubris from me. And what do you feel, now?”

The Razorbeak screamed. Niers hadn’t expected a dialogue. The bird hobbled into her destroyed nest, shrieking, mouth opened wide. She would kill him, even if he sliced her open.

…Of course, that was what he was waiting for. The Titan pointed. No bravado, no hand-to-hand.

“[Battlefield: Deploy Traps].”

It was a Skill for an entire battlefield. He had never thought to use it like this. Yet it worked.

The six primitive spike traps were nothing fancy. Just bent wood, a tip of sharpened stone, ready to snap and hit a target. The Razorbeak charged into them.

Crack. Niers got up. He stayed out of range of the flapping wings, the thrashing claw and mouth. He cut—carefully working his way around the strike zone. The Razorbeak lunged at the end—he finally beheaded her.

“There.”

Niers Astoragon exhaled. He sat back down. Stared at his missing leg.

He didn’t feel better. You didn’t, after exacting vengeance. But he’d wanted this.

For more reasons than simple bloodshed. Niers walked over to the thing’s stomach. If he was very, very lucky…he’d poked around in the piles of crap. He disemboweled the Razorbeak, wrinkling his nose as he went through the digestive tract. But there—

“Damn it. Aha.”

He sighed and fished out his enchanted boot. There was no way he could use it with a stump of a leg of course, but it was worth a lot of money.

Not enough to justify the entire journey up here. However, he had a second reason. Niers removed one of the wooden traps, coughed.

“This place is going to be swarming with insects in an hour. Better work fast.”

He did. About three wooden traps were dismantled, and he harvested what he needed from the adult Razorbeak. He carried the bloody mess away, tying it to a carry-bag around his waist. It slowed him down, but he was very, very strong even without his Ring of Minotaur’s Strength.

He didn’t need to go far, for that matter. Niers sat in his base camp, chasing away tiny bugs attracted to the blood as he worked. He took his time on this one; he hurried, but he refused to be rushed.

—-

Two more days later, Niers Astoragon was ready. Two test-runs had resulted in success. Moreover, he knew it would work. He was just uncertain if he’d managed to copy the designs properly.

“Well, it’s not like I’ll die.”

Grunting, Niers executed phase-two of his plan. First? Vengeance and his boot. Second?

The miniature glider was just pieces of sinew, the Razorbeak’s wings, and bits of wood. He was afraid it would snap in the air, or he wouldn’t control it properly. He was ready to try controlling the weather, although he could only make it nasty.

The wind was strong high up in the High Passes. It blew him eight hundred feet into a cliff the first time. Thereafter, Niers kept low, flying just a few feet over the terrain.

Down, across the High Passes. It took him six more days of flying, carrying the glider, and resting to reach the Floodplains.

This time, however, Niers used his Skills. He encountered trouble only once.

—-

Niers was sitting around a fire in the tiny cave at night on the fifth day. He was nearly at the Floodplains and thinking about what to do next.

Liscor was his destination. He knew he was unkempt, a mess. He was tired. The fire had gone out. Not the one in front of him, but the one in his heart, the childish enjoyment of this…game, this little adventure he could boast about.

What sat in the cave now was the [Strategist] of Baleros, who had chased away monsters and cleared his path with his Skills. He glanced up as he heard the crunch outside his cave.

Something big. He readied the bow he’d remade for hunting. Dinner had been a cave mouse; the animals were getting less dangerous and actual commonplace creatures were more common the further down he went.

[Archers: Triplicate Volley], had brought down the mouse. Another irony. A Skill for an entire battalion let him shoot three arrows. He cautiously drew back on the bow, ready to activate his terror-Skill if need be. His [Foe Sensor] began flickering through possible targets…

“Hello? It’s me. Bevussa.”

Niers started. He saw the bird-like leg, the feathers, as someone appeared outside his cave. He thought all the adventurers were dead. He remembered her, of course, but her ghost had not troubled him. He didn’t remember the people he killed. Not anymore.

“Adventurer Bevussa?”

He recalled her name. The Garuda stooped. It was her, alright. She had lost her armor, and she looked…forlorn.

“I am very sorry. I would like to m-make amends. Hello?”

She stood outside his cave. Niers eyed her from his position too far for anyone to grab him, half-blocked by a stone. He grunted, lowered his bow, and drew his sword.

“Hello?”

“Get lost. Learn better elocution if you want to trick someone.”

Niers snapped at whatever was standing outside. The Garuda stepped back. She regarded him, blinking.

Naked. The voice was right. The appearance? Probably spot on. Niers met the thing’s gaze.

“I’m not in the mood for this.”

‘Bevussa’ rocked on her feet. She opened her mouth—far too wide—the beak stretching unnaturally. Then seemed to reconsider.

She backed away from Niers, tottered down the slope the way she’d come. He heard her voice in the distance, speaking nonsense.

“Goodbye. I am Bevussa. Hello. Hello…”

Niers didn’t untense for a long time. Damn. Higher-level monsters. That was bad, too. It was almost complete if it could do voices.

However, even if Foliana was here, he’d have not gone after it. Niers edged to the opening of his cave. He hesitated.

“If you’re after it, be my guest. Otherwise—piss off. I told you, I’m not in the mood for this.”

He snapped. His eyes locked on something in the distance, along the cliffs. Too far for him to see with his eyes. But his Skill…

Silence. The babble of the monster below was fading away. Nothing else moved in the dark world beyond of the High Passes.

Niers waited, sword drawn. Something…regarded him. Somethings. They seemed to reach a conclusion. Well, why not?

He saw the flicker and dove. The first ‘arrow’—or maybe it was thrown?—hit the mouth of his cave. Three more followed.

Spitting out dust, Niers raised his head. Smart. They thought he couldn’t do much more than call a monster down on them or change the weather. He barked.

“[Superior Counter Fire].”

Five projectiles arced back the way they’d come. Niers heard the distant thuds of impact. He poked his head out of the cave.

A body crashed down the cliff. Niers sensed the other four shapes milling about—moved back. He grunted, pulled back into the cave. He kept one eye open as he rested, but nothing else disturbed him that night.

When he went to find the body the next day, it was gone. Niers looked up towards the higher reaches of the mountaintops, but he let it go.

He reached the Floodplains on the seventh day. Three weeks since he had entered the High Passes, Niers reached the inn on the hill outside the city of Liscor.

—-

He’d had to walk the Floodplains. Niers had gotten rid of the grisly glider after reaching the grasslands, hills and valleys which were relatively safe.

It wasn’t as if he could have flown to Liscor with the terrain-following strategy. Go too high and he was at risk of being blown far, far away. Besides, he took the time to think.

He’d debated going for his bag of holding, but the Cherinion Swords had it if they had half a brain. Now he was finally close to civilization, Niers had to be careful.

The Shield Spider nests were his big danger in the grassy terrain. Niers kept his [Foe Sensor] online, though, and only had to kill three on his entire hike, avoiding nests with ease.

The issue was that now, he was in more danger than the High Passes in a sense. The High Passes…he should have used his Skills.

He stared at the stump of a leg. He’d tried making a peg-leg, but he wasn’t able to properly get it to grip his stump. For now, he used the crutch and his jumping boots to move about.

If he had both legs, he’d have been able to steal a [Message] scroll far more easily. One mistake was all it would take. Someone stepped on him, slammed a door, and he’d be paste or break every bone in his body.

Or if they see me, the Iron Vanguard and everyone who wants me, even third parties, will flood the area with adventurers. And then I’m captured and I could have just let those Gold-ranks take me back a week and a half ago.

Niers had to find a trustworthy ally, or get a [Message] scroll to his company. He felt like the two goals were intertwined with the first, the only reason he had come here.

His opponent. No—

“Erin Solstice.”

No point denying who he thought it was. Far too long of hiding the truth from himself. Far, far too long…

The inn was so close, now. Niers walked towards it, climbing the hill, staring at it for the last day. He actually camped a hundred feet away from it, in a hollow in the dirt.

He was a mess. Dirty, disheveled, his enchanted armor torn in two places, the remnants of dirt and blood and…Niers was not the dashing Titan he’d dreamed of being, making an appearance.

Niers just wanted to meet her. He just wanted…wanted, so desperately for it to be true. For Erin Solstice to be the genius who had bested him, who was a better chess player. For…a peer.

Part of him felt, knew, that it was like Lord Belchaus all over again. He’d done this stupid dance all his life, his sure-footed guidance on the battlefield turning into a stumbling joke when it came to anything else.

He was born for the battlefield. This? Niers didn’t sleep that night, really. He woke, tried to clean his armor and clothing with a bit of grass. He gave up, wishing for rain. He nearly called it out of the skies, but a fine welcome that would be, with hail or lightning pouring down. Besides, any [Weather Mage] would notice the Skill.

So the Titan just…walked up the hill. It took him nearly an hour, as he searched the inn for anything. He saw a tower with a figure in it, smoke rising from one of the three chimneys. Not much light or sound coming from the inn.

Not many guests. But some began hurrying from the City of Liscor as Niers watched. A Drake, a few Gnolls…and he heard voices from the door of the inn.

Magical door, of course.

His heart was beating so fast. The Titan limped up the slope around back. He hopped, then, impatient, covering far more ground. Hop, hop—towards one of the windows. Niers investigated them. There were always…yes! One was open a crack. He heard voices, but hopped up to the window, levered it a bit open, and slipped inside.

The Wandering Inn.

The Fraerling’s pulse raced. The old [Strategist] halted, hand on a pane of glass, panting. He had arrived. He…

…Looked around the empty common room. The clean tables, but so vacant. A massive room, long and wide, but longer than the inn should be physically. A…Skill. An empty platform on the far end.

A dark kitchen. Stairs leading up, doors leading elsewhere. Carefully cut floorboards, a bit worn in, but wonderfully-made, secure, glass windows. One of the two fireplaces in this large room was lit, but only glowing embers remained, warming the vast chamber not at all.

Boxes with bright little flowers in them, red, violets, native to the Floodplains.

No people.

Niers Astoragon sat down. The inn was empty. Was this…all a trick? Had something happened? He bowed his head.

In the darkness, light pierced the gloom of the inn. Niers’ head snapped up. He saw a…door open across from him.

A door that had not been there a moment ago. Bright, beautiful daylight shone from within. A meadow of grass and beautiful flowers, even glowing Sage’s Grass beyond. A pond, a hill shrouded in mist…

The Titan of Baleros stared as someone appeared in the doorway. He saw…a somber Centaur push open the door. A [Mage], wearing a colorful kilt. He turned, clattering around quietly with his hooves, and offered someone a hand.

A dark-skinned Human woman with an apron stepped through. She took his hand and held it tightly. They moved back. Someone else stepped through.

An…Niers’ eyes widened. He almost recoiled from the image he had only seen in illustrations, by magic, from afar. An ant-like head, a beetle’s armored body, complete with a thick shell on the back.

Antinium. A Worker-type. His four arms were clasped, two in an odd gesture, fingers interlaced. The other two held a censer, the scent of cinnamon coming from it. His head was bowed.

Behind him, another Antinium, but far larger, upright, compared to the hunched Worker. Bits of yellow covering his armored carapace. A Soldier. He turned.

“…Will it fit?”

“I think so.”

“Must we do it in the common room? What if we—we hurt her?”

Someone called out anxiously. A Drake hurried through, her green scales and dress the most normal thing here. A civilian, addressing the others anxiously, tail curled up.

Muffled voices. A Human [Mage] came next, shaking her head. Her hair was a bright orange, the sign of royalty. She turned back.

“The Garden’s got all kind of protective spells on the hilltop. We don’t want anything interfering with the potion. Let’s—we can push together some tables.”

Her voice wobbled. Niers Astoragon saw more people coming through, out of the garden. His eyes widened.

He saw a Goblin [Shaman], magical paint drawn on her skin, ushering a little white Gnoll clutching at the Drake in the dress, looking uncertain and worried.

A Hobgoblin, crimson eyes burning, a…guitar?…slung on his back, sword at his side, walking in after an older Dwarf, whose gnarled hands were clenched.

A blue-scaled Drake that Niers recognized, taking a position next to the Antinium.

More and more. Many species, all of whom stood in silence, waiting for something to be borne onto the four long tables they had connected. Niers saw a group of Drakes march forwards, one of the last to appear.

Out of the doorway, not this…garden. There were eight; four of them garbed head-to-toe in powerful, enchanted armor, without gap or weakness. They stared at the Goblins and Antinium, hands on their weapons.

The Drake they escorted held a little bottle in his claws, and he wore official clothing. Niers recognized the insignia of Salazsar’s crest on the rich clothing.

“Is the…Human ready?”

He asked the crowd. Niers saw many look at each other. At last, a Gnoll wearing a server’s uniform pointed.

“They are bringing her, sir.”

Her. Every head turned. Niers watched, bewildered.

Yet now, a dread had come upon him. Instinct, the instinct of someone who had seen…scenes similar to this, intuited from the mood, the way they talked, understanding the moment, the circumstances that had led to this silent inn.

He knew, but he waited.

The last of them joined the silent gathering, forming two lines towards the table. Young man, young woman, both Human. A…Human…girl with hood drawn over her head, skin palest of all here, almost as pale as the Selphid standing next to the Drowned Man and half-Giant.

The Selphid held the arm of a massive Dullahan, who had taken off his head and held it in the crook of his arm. His armor was brilliant, a silvery-white, beautifully forged. His face was somber.

Yet…longing. All of theirs were. The half-Giant stooped, leaning on his staff, looking ragged. A Drowned Man and another Selphid wearing a Gnoll’s body stood next to him.

So many. They would not have noticed the Fraerling, crouching behind the window planter, even if they had looked around. Their eyes were locked on what was coming.

Niers Astoragon had been looking amongst them for her. The person he had come to meet. The object of his obsessions.

The [Innkeeper]. Erin Solstice. He would have spotted her in a moment, yet she was not here. When she did arrive, he realized everything.

That he had come too late. A month too late. That his foolish wait and silly games had cost more than just him.

The Titan had arrived just in time to see them attempt to revive Erin Solstice.

The last procession marched in with her on the frozen bier. They did not hold her; rather, they ‘carried’ the frozen body between them, hovering in the air. Each of the four [Mages] was ready to move, to catch her, however. They were so delicate, so careful. So…

Bezale was first, the Minotauress’ decorated horns flashing as she bent to step through. Her robes at odds with her well-built form, fitting of a [Warrior].

The Centaur was next. He had gone to join the bearers. He trotted in, bereft of his usual cigar or any other treat, though the smell hung around him. His skin glistening with sweat, not from the strain of magic, but stress.

Third? A balding man, older than the other two [Mages], holding a grey wand. His hair tinged a more ordinary orange. The [Enchanter], Hedault, had his eyes locked on the object he followed.

The bier. Cold frost rising from the person lying on it. Someone had folded her arms around the five broken shafts in her chest. Her clothing was frozen, her lips still parted in a smile.

Niers looked at Erin Solstice as the last bearer closed the door behind him. The huge Drake, almost disturbingly muscled, held a wand carefully in his claws. Magus Grimalkin’s face was not exactly blank. Just—concentrating.

They were all watching. The Drakes from Salazsar stirred. The one with the bottle looked at Erin Solstice and the object he held, uncertainly.

A little undead beaver clambered up onto another window, eyes rising just high enough to peek into the inn. It missed Niers, but the two little figures observed the ritual. The…

“I hold the Potion of Regeneration, brought by Wall Lord Ilvriss of House Gemscale of Salazsar. By his great effort, he has obtained this relic and instructed me to use it in the revival of one Erin Solstice. If it is possible.”

Potion of Regeneration. Niers started. He stared at the bottle. He realized…

“She has been poisoned. Will that affect the—healing? I have a Skill that could help. But it does not work. Not on Erin.”

The Antinium with the clasped hands, Pawn, spoke, haltingly. The Drakes turned to him. The Rubirel Guard stared at their Antinium foe. The Drake hesitated.

“Answer the question.”

Grimalkin spoke, briefly. The Drake representative nodded at him.

“A Potion of Regeneration should not be halted by poison. We have made inquiries from the family it was purchased from, and it is a Kemel-type potion, rated about Orichalcum-quality…by the standards of that era.”

“Alchemist Kemel? To my knowledge he would have a potion surpassing mundane potions. I would like confirmation. Miss Octavia?”

Some of the others knew the name. The [Enchanter] turned to the [Alchemist] Stitch-Girl, her dreadlocks half-unbraided, staring with wide eyes at the potion. And Erin. She spoke, her voice uncertain.

“I—I think so. Alchemist Kemel used his Potions of Regeneration—I mean, made them—during the Creler Wars, to save lives before the mass-antidote to their poison was developed. So…it should work for Hectval’s poison.”

Hectval? Yet Niers wasn’t…thinking. He, like them all, was an observer.

“Very well. In that case, I would like to make the attempt. How…shall I perform it?”

“I can pour the potion.”

Palt offered. The Drake refused.

“I must not relinquish this potion to anyone, [Mage]. I am a [Safeguard Representative]; it shall not be stolen or suborned from my possession. Rest assured, I can apply a dosage.”

“Not all of it?”

The answer came from the blue-scaled Drake. Strategist Olesm.

“No. It might not work.”

The air grew thicker still. At last, Grimalkin, the [Sinew Magus], spoke in a deep, authoritative voice.

“We will create an opening to test this potion, Representative Melis. The wounds are centered around Miss Solstice’s chest. Thus, I, Enchanter Hedault, and Mage Montressa will carefully warm the afflicted region to normal. Then, you will apply the potion. Only a few drops. Three. If they do not start to affect her, we will freeze Erin Solstice once more. Is that all acceptable?”

No one responded. The Antinium group bowed their heads. One began to whisper a prayer. The little Gnoll clung to the claws of the Drake in the dress and the [Shaman]. She was trembling.

Mrsha was not the only one. Everyone watched as the three most skillful [Mages] crowded around. They murmured—the others watched. Helpless, intent, trying to see the flow of magic…praying…

Niers Astoragon just sat there.

I came too late. I could have come months ago, when I knew. I could have stopped this. I…

What have I been doing?

His head bowed. He stared at his stump of a leg, then the potion. It was terrible, but he wanted it. Yet—he waited. They all did, as the three [Mages] cast warming spells, carefully, carefully adjusting the temperature, warming just one region of the young woman. Quickly, but not too fast to harm, or so they hoped.

The crowd watched as the Drake stepped forwards and opened the bottle. He had to murmur the release spell. The gilded bottle unsealed with a magical lock that Niers recognized. A true relic of another era. When the bottle opened—he smelled a rich, almost velvet fragrance in the air.

He felt a bleeding gum, torn by weeks without proper care, eating raw or ragged food…begin to close. The air came alive with potential, with healing.

The air itself hummed as the Drake, with exquisite care, tipped the flask. Three drops emerged.

The air flashed. Half the room had to look away or were blinded by the glowing drops of magic. The [Strategist] with the eye patch didn’t even blink.

Three drops landed on the bloody wound. The frozen flesh. So much magic, so much healing…

—

It failed.

Of course it did. The [Necromancer] had known. Yet for those present, for Niers, the wait was too long. Each second of the minute they counted down an hour, a year.

Two minutes they waited. Then—the [Enchanter] looked up. He stared at Grimalkin, yet even the [Sinew Magus] had let the minute stretch into two. Hedault spoke.

“Two minutes and three seconds have elapsed. Magus Grimalkin. Magus Grimalkin.”

Slowly, the Drake looked up. He blinked—then moved. He looked at the three drops dribbling down the frozen flesh, onto the table. His head bowed.

“The potion does not work on Erin Solstice without further measures. Magus Montressa. Prepare your freezing spells with me. On three. One…two…”

Niers watched frost recover the young woman’s chest. He heard the sobbing begin. Not from all. Some just stood there, shocked, hope rekindled—lost. The inn seemed twice as dark. Twice as desolate.

“We—must bring her back.”

“It didn’t work? But you said. You said…”

A choked voice from one of them. One of the Workers had sunk to his knees. Pawn, praying. Another person whirled. The Dwarf stomped out of the inn, without looking back.

Another person made an incoherent sound, Moore blundered for the door. Jelaqua reached for him. Others were weeping. An Antinium with a bow sat down and curled up, rocking back and forth.

“Waah. Waaah. Waaah…”

Crying, though he could not shed tears. The Goblin with the guitar followed the frozen young woman. Many did.

“Mrsha. Mrsha—”

Selys’ eyes were overflowing. She hugged the Gnoll. Mrsha was just staring at the table. They had said. They had…

The guests scattered. The undead beaver turned to dust. Many fled the inn, those not seeing to Erin, as if the hell of Rhir itself had manifested in this place. Broken, lost…

Something else. Something greater. The Drake representative spoke with Chaldion of Pallass, Grimalkin when he returned. He shook hands, talked with Selys, Ishkr, exchanging contact information, turned to the guards, and left the inn, head bowed.

Hope was lost again.

Yet. Somewhere else, here and not here, the [Innkeeper] woke up. And the small [Strategist], who had put his head in his hands, saw something glittering on the floor.

Three drops of precious liquid, drying in the air.

The attempt to save Erin Solstice had ended, with absolutely no gain or consequence whatsoever. Just pain, and nothing…

In the silent inn, a tiny man leapt to the floor, he ran, using the crutch, hopping, his ragged armor and cloak flapping behind him. Running for the glittering spot, seeping into the floorboard.

“No, no—!”

He flung himself down. There was only a bit of liquid left. Yet Niers—he fumbled for his sword.

“Please work. It has to—”

He drew the shortsword, slashed across the base of his healed flesh. The cut hurt, yet in the next second he was splashing the Potion of Regeneration on the wound. For a second, he only felt bloody pain. His sword was so sharp he barely felt it. Then—

Agony. Niers cried out, convulsing. He fell back as flesh began to grow from the stump. Bone! His body recreating itself, shedding hair, skin particles, dirt—he was laughing, sobbing.

—-

Mrsha was crying. She had hid rather than see Erin put back. She was sobbing into her paws, curled up in the inn. She only looked up, briefly, when she heard the faint sound.

Something was crouched over the place where Erin had been. The potion. She saw a filthy, grey-furred-thing, smaller than some of the rats, over there. She looked at it. Mrsha was too sad to kill the rat. She buried her head in her fur.

Niers Astoragon stared at his leg. He put it down, against a floorboard, and almost screamed. His skin hurt! No—wait. It was the sensation.

He had the nerves of a newborn. Like a broken arm in a cast, each touch was electric, nerves hypersensitive after so long. Yet the pain, the sensation was so good he felt tears in his eyes.

His leg was back! Not—the same. His armor was gone, obviously. As well—his toenails were long. Curled up! And he had hair longer than that on his scalp coming from his leg!

The Potion of Regeneration. He’d trim it later. Right now—Niers ran, diving for the basement, as the first people came back. He fled down into the darkness, next to a sack of something and lay there. Panting.

“I was too late.”

That was all he said. Then his head lolled back. He let despair, bittersweet relief, exhaustion, overtake him.

“I’m sorry.”

He slept.

—-

The next day, Niers Astoragon woke up to the sound and sensation of himself retching. He climbed out of his hiding spot on all fours and began throwing up. He dragged himself through his puke, lay there, and then curled up.

His body was burning. What—what–? Aftereffects of the Potion of Regeneration?

No. This feels like—

“Poison! Dead gods damn it—”

Niers spotted the paste he’d run through too late. It had gotten on his bare foot, maybe parts of his clothing. He tried to crawl away—then began throwing up again.

After finding the Children of the Grain Sack in her inn’s basement, Erin Solstice had begun laying down poison against insects and other pests like any sensible person did. She used the most economical ingredients; Octavia had been happy to mash up some of the seed cores from blue fruit with some other toxins.

It was a contact-poison. Rock Crabs had no way of dealing with poison, hence their extreme aversion to the stuff that would build up in their systems.

Bugs, likewise, died fast if they nibbled the little paste placed in corners of the basement and some areas. By contrast, Humans or larger species wouldn’t get more than food-poisoning if they didn’t wash their hands.

Rats, and mammals like Niers, could survive by expelling the poison. The Fraerling survived.

Barely. He remembered climbing into a sack of something, eating—expelling from every orifice, realizing he had to have water. Fortunately, he’d improvised crude water flasks long ago and drained them, praying it was enough.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay, shivering, burning, covered in sweat, as his body tried to detoxify itself. It could have been a day or longer. All he knew was that when he woke up, caked in filth and barley—he was in a sack of barley—something was sniffing around him. A large something.

—-

Mrsha stared at the bit of poison next to the carefully sealed sack. One did not get into the other, obviously, but something had been here. Not a rat, or she thought she would have found the corpse.

Yet, had it gone into the sack? She eyed it, wondering if it was a Shield Spider or something icky. She definitely smelled some poo-yuck in the air. And if there was a dead something in the sack, possibly with Octavia’s poison in it, Imani would want to throw it out.

Mrsha concentrated on this, rather than the sadness of everything. Two days had passed since the…failure. Selys, Ulvama, and the others had kept Mrsha from wallowing. Ulvama the most effectively, it had to be said. Sensing Mrsha’s grief and knowing she didn’t need to be ‘happily cheered up’ all the time like the other fools, she had promptly smacked Mrsha on the head and let the Gnoll fight her.

Enough for Ulvama to need a potion afterwards. Mrsha had started crying and apologized. Well, two days since that.

Hunting rats was all she could do. Mrsha stared at the grain sack. Slowly, she noted the undone drawstrings.

Yup, yup. Imani would definitely want Mrsha to get rid of this. Plus, get rid of the entire barley sack. She always made sure her food ingredients weren’t contaminated. Mrsha opened the sack.

Little, brown seeds stared up at her. Pearl barley, a lot of it that some stupid rodent had decided to foul up! Mrsha glowered. This was good food! Now it all had to go since the rat had pooed in it and dragged the poison with it without having the decency to die somewhere else.

She smacked the top of the barley, hoping it would scare the creature out. Mrsha had less ethics about the slaughter of rats. They were not, as Numbtongue had pointed out, analogous to Goblins. They were rats. They got into things and they deserved to die.

Not suffer. No, not suffer. That was cruelty. But Mrsha would put the rat out of its misery or just toss it out of the inn. Nalthaliarstrelous had taught her that. Sometimes even [Druids] had to curb bad populations like the Shield Spiders. Kindness, though. Only do what was necessary.

Mrsha the Merciful Rat Slayer waited, and saw some of the grain shift.

Aha, you are in there. She sighed. Well—Mrsha’s paw darted into the barley and she grabbed, fishing around. No? No—there! Got you, you stupid—

—-

Niers ran his shortsword through the paw. He snarled and the paw jerked back. A wailing sound came from above him and whatever the hell it was ran off, making a distressed sound.

Bloody, cursing, he lay there, then extracted himself from the barley sack.

“Damned dogs! What the hell—the hell—”

Snarling, savage, half-dead from poison, the Fraerling hopped up the stairs. Like a feral thing, he stumbled across the inn, sword still bloody, ready to kill anything in his way. Kitchen…he needed water. He needed—

Drops of blood led away from him. Niers reached the kitchen, found some of the water, some food in a cupboard and lived. Only later did he realize he’d stabbed a child.

—-

Mrsha ran on two legs, sobbing, holding her paw out. Ulvama sighed and rolled over when she saw Mrsha burst into her room. It was early morning.

“Go away, crying little baby-Mrsha.”

She muttered. But the Gnoll’s voice was plaintive. She couldn’t speak, yet—Ulvama smelled blood and looked up sharply.

“Hurt paw? Get potion of healing, stupid!”

She snapped. Mrsha pointed. She’d tried! But the hole in her paw hadn’t closed! The mouse had bit through her paw somehow, and it wasn’t healing!

The [Shaman] sat up. She stared as Mrsha pleadingly held out the bottle, one of many emergency potions stashed around the inn. She dropped some liquid in and saw the same damn thing as the frozen Human.

“Huh. This poison?”

Mrsha shook her head. She didn’t think so. Ulvama sniffed. Neither did she. She scratched her head as Mrsha whined. That got on her nerves, so Ulvama found her staff, and bonked Mrsha on the head.

“Stop snivel. Pain goes away!”

Mrsha started crying more. She wanted niceness! Not—

She lowered her good paw from her bonked head. And stared at her bloody paw. The pain was gone! Ulvama snorted.

“Now—come with. Hurry! Hold paw so don’t bleed on floors. Gets lots of ants that way.”

She ushered Mrsha towards her work station. Octavia’s shop, rather. Ulvama saw the Gnoll obediently holding her paw tightly, but not feeling the pain. The [Shaman] investigated.

“Hmm. Strange. Super-rat? Super-magic rat with enchanted teeth? Why go through paw? What did it look like?”

Mrsha didn’t know! She danced on her feet, begging Ulvama to fix it and then ask questions! Even if it didn’t hurt now, she didn’t like holes in her paws!

To the [Shaman]’s puzzlement, it was like treating an…injury caused by an enchanted weapon. That was her analogy; a higher-grade magical wound that potions couldn’t just heal up.

“Not Evercut. You lucky. Bad poke, though. Can’t fix fast. Here. Hold still…”

She mixed up a blood-stopping poultice, then expertly-bound Mrsha’s paw. Crestfallen, the Gnoll stared at Ulvama. The [Shaman] pointed.

“Don’t walk on paw. You rest. Stay away from bad rat. Where?”

Mrsha showed her, toddling on two feet. But of course, the rat was gone and Mrsha’s blood was too strong for her to get a solid lock on the rat. Ulvama hmmed, frowning.

“Super-rats. Not Creler or little Gnoll loses entire limb. I put down little pest-traps. Okay? You rest paw.”

Mrsha nodded. She went and got Rose to cuddle her and play movies while exclaiming over her poor paw. But now it was personal. It was…war!

—-

Niers Astoragon nearly walked into the first rune-trap. He backed off from it and swore.

“Do they have killer-rodents here or something? Dead fucking gods!”

He’d nearly died twice this morning. First that child…he felt guilty about it, but he’d acted on instinct, thinking it was a dog, reminded of the Razorbeak. The second time, he’d nearly died getting food.

Something was off with the cupboards in the kitchen. He hadn’t noticed the grain sack, but the cupboard door had shut while he was grabbing some weird triangle of food. The next thing Niers had known, he’d been squashed against half a dozen dishes, nearly compressed into nothing!

“Holding effect. Those damn—”

Shakily, Niers had extricated himself. It didn’t kill you unless there was no space. Rather, the ‘enhanced’ compartments just reverted back to normal when a living thing fully entered it. Hands were fine; he’d used a fork to grab another morsel of food. The grain sack hadn’t killed him because it was exactly as large as it needed to be, so when the effect ‘wore off’, nothing happened.

On the other hand, the cupboard had smashed all the food in it to pieces, pottery and a mush of food. Imani lost about twenty dishes, much to her displeasure.

“We’ve got mice!”

She informed Palt, snapping as she cleaned up the mess. The Centaur sighed.

“I know. Mrsha got bit by one, apparently.”

“Well? Can’t you get rid of them?”

“What? I’m not a [Rodent Bard]. I can lay down a few spells…”

“That would be helpful, Palt, my beautiful, gallant Centaur.”

She batted her eyes a few times at him, and then gave him a pointed look. The Centaur backed up.

“Er…why don’t I do just that?”

—-

Niers was being hunted. It was like a game of…cat and mouse…in a labyrinth full of traps. Physical ones, that damned poison on the ground, and magical runes cunningly disguised.

All meant for rats, true, but they were nasty. The Centaur had laid down simple ones, like repulsion, ones that ensnared you with a bit of webbing, and so on.

The Goblin [Shaman] did not believe in non-lethal rodent spells. Niers had tossed a little pebble onto one and watched a miniature [Flame Strike] spell billow into the air, or the equivalent for him.

A few days had passed since his poisoning. He was recovering from that and his sojourn abroad, still.

The worst had come to pass. He had seen Erin Solstice. Now…he just wanted to go home. He had no idea if she could be cured, but if she could, it would only be with the Forgotten Wing Company’s resources.

Yet getting home was a bigger challenge if Erin Solstice wasn’t here for him to make contact with. He was trying to get ahold of one of the Minotauress’ [Message] scrolls to send a message back to Baleros.

Without revealing himself. Niers had considered it and disregarded the action immediately. He had been willing to trust Erin Solstice. Perhaps there were trustworthy individuals in the inn.

However, he knew Wistram when he saw it. And he trusted all three [Mages] as far as he could throw them. Moreover, even if they were all on a level, they’d be slaughtered by the [Bounty Hunters] and adventurers coming after his bounty. Assuming Niers was waiting here for extraction, this inn might see sieges like six Gold-rank teams joining to claim him.

Far more than the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings could survive. Niers had gotten a lay of the inn, by now, the occupants, such as they were. They were all fairly easy to avoid, with two exceptions.

The traps laid down—and that damned child.

She had a better nose than the other Gnolls in the inn by far. Niers had found soap and water and cleaned himself, and thus most of the Gnolls would never notice his small scent.

Yet Mrsha had a younger Gnoll’s nose, and she held a grudge. On her still-healing paw, she was tracking Niers every second she had free.

Evil mice! She hadn’t seen Niers, except with his cloak on. Twice, she’d spotted him and he’d managed to escape, mainly by finding a small space, then tossing some ground hot pepper spice into her face and running.

Niers had no desire to kill children. But that little Gnoll was persistent! Worse, she’d begun carrying around something in addition to her wand: a hammer. She wasn’t going to risk the ‘rat’ biting her again.

—-

The ‘game’ of Fraerling-and-Gnoll ended in a surprise draw. Mrsha was tracking the mouse again, after her shopping trip with Ulvama in the city that had been so boring. She had her little hammer she’d ‘borrowed’ from Kevin’s room ready. Ready for the smack!

She was sure she was hot on the heels of the evil mouse. Mrsha crept forwards. Sniffing…sniffing…then she scented something sharp in the air. Iron…

Blood. She halted. She was heading down the second-floor hallway. She saw a yawning adult pass by. Mrsha waved at Bezale as she and Montressa went out, working on that blood bank thing.

“Er—hello.”

The Minotauress muttered, eying Mrsha and the hammer. But she made no comment. Non-Minotaur children were strange. She strode after Montressa. Mrsha sniffed around.

Yes, just ahead…she hesitated as she came to a closed door. This was Bezale’s room? She hesitated, looked over her shoulder. Well—the Minotauress wouldn’t mind. Mrsha was on a mission from Mrsha! She pushed open the door and found her quarry.

At first, Mrsha thought she’d gotten it wrong. She looked into the room, but felt like the trail ‘ended’ at the door. It was only when she was leaving when she found…him.

A tiny little man lay against a wall, bleeding. He had a cloak of fur and stuff that might look like a rat at first glance. Ragged armor, a sheathed sword at his side. He had what had been a salt-and-pepper beard and trimmed hair, now gone wild after days in the wilderness.

Indeed, he looked closer to a true savage than any Plains Gnoll. Desperate, surviving without any help or friends. But that was not the shocking thing.

The shocking thing was the blood. His left arm was twisted up, bone peeking through flesh. And one leg looked bad too. Mrsha stared.

Niers had gotten into Bezale’s room. But he’d been too slow. The Minotauress had, in opening the door, caught him. Slammed him right into the wall with the careless force of…a tall person.

“Rgh. Not—not—Minotaurs!”

Niers didn’t know if he was saying it. He was trying to move. He sensed the Gnoll staring down at him. He wanted to draw his sword. He wasn’t thinking. Just—kill or be killed! He slashed with his good arm. Blacked out—like this? Not even a Razorbeak? A door? A d—

—-

Niers woke up with a gasp. He felt something soft, smothering, retreat quickly. He felt a cool liquid, a familiar sensation.

Healing potion. He grabbed for his sword by reflex. The little paw retreated. Niers looked around.

“Wh—”

Mrsha stared down at Niers gravely. The little Fraerling was in her and Lyonette’s room, lying on the cloth and healing supplies she’d grabbed. She was trying to gently dab his bloody body with some healing potion daubed onto a bit of cotton. Niers regained consciousness, looked at her.

The little Gnoll retreated a step, but her eyes were locked on the tiny man. Fascinated. He stared at his leg—it hadn’t been broken or dislocated, but the skin had been torn. Healing. His arm—

Mrsha slowly tipped more of the half-empty potion bottle down. Liquid pooled and she pressed the bloody cotton ball into it. She reached out to touch his arm.

“Stop!”

His voice was ragged with pain. Mrsha jerked back. Niers grabbed at his arm. He modulated his tone. The sudden shock of being…rescued faded. He spoke, gritting his teeth.

“Not like that. My arm’s broken. It needs to be set. You’ll heal it wrong.”

She nodded wide-eyed. Mrsha hesitated, scampered for the door. Ulvama!

“Stop. Don’t—don’t tell anyone. I just need—”

Niers was feeling at the bone. He’d set countless bones for healing in his time. He gritted his teeth.

“You see—the bone? I just need to push it in. Here. Just—”

He saw Mrsha come back over. Niers, gasping, looked around.

“That—that. Put that right here. I need a solid surface.”

She slowly edged the potion bottle over. He put his arm against it. Just—apply—

He blacked out for a second with the pain. His bones moved and Mrsha flinched. The tiny little man made a sound, but he was moving his broken arm into place.

“I need a drop of potion. A tiny bit. One bit at a time.”

He panted at her. Mrsha looked around, and then desperately ran downstairs. She came back up with a spoon and put some potion into it. Niers splashed his arm as he set the bone. It looked right—felt right—

He was sweating when it was done. His arm? He could flex his hand. But the potion wasn’t highest-grade.

“I need a sling. Cloth. A stick.”

The girl ran to get him what he asked for. She watched as he made a sling for himself, bracing his arm so it wouldn’t move. He cut it with his sword—her eyes focused on that—and slung it around his neck.

That done, Niers Astoragon sat back. Sweating with pain. His face was pale, but he was alive. Dead gods. He’d nearly died when that clod-footed Minotaur had slammed the door into him when remembering she’d forgotten her damned bag of holding!

Fraerlings died in stupid ways like that. Run over, stepped on—

“I hate doors. I hate doors so damn much.”

He panted. A big, furry head of white fur nodded gravely. Mrsha too had suffered the slings and arrows of someone opening a door on your face. Niers looked up at her.

For the first time, Fraerling and Gnoll met each other’s eyes. All the animosity of hunter and hunted turned into…puzzlement. Niers looked at the girl, who had rescued the not-mouse the instant she had seen him. Mrsha, for her part, was astounded.

They had tiny people infesting the inn! Imani was going to be so mad about this.

“I’m…thank you.”

He panted at her. She nodded again. Mrsha saw his face contort in confusion. Reminded, she felt at her belt for her handy-dandy—

Aha! She pulled out the quill, a bit of parchment, and wrote.

“You’re very welcome, sir. I am sorry you got hurt. My name is Mrsha, it is very nice to meet you.”

Niers read it aloud. A polite little greeting from Mrsha, courtesy of Lyonette’s tutelage. He blinked at her.

White fur. Gnoll. Already interesting. Can’t speak? He nodded, slowly.

“Thank you. Mrsha? My name…is Niers Astoragon. Do you—know who I am?”

Eyes went wide. A mouth opened so wide, Niers could have hopped in. Mrsha began to write. This time she had only one word.

“Titan?”

“Yes.”

Eyes as round as could be. The Gnoll stared down at Niers. She had seen him on the scrying orb! But he looked bigger then! Niers coughed.

His mind was moving fast and slow. Sluggish from pain and healing. He nodded.

“That’s right. I’m…far from home. I got into trouble. Dangerous people are after me, understand? Please—don’t tell anyone I’m here. Understand? Not one person.”

He looked at her, trying to convince her of the seriousness of this.

“Many, many dangerous people would do anything to reach me. For everyone’s safety. You understand?”

She nodded, slowly. Mrsha the Super Secretive stared at the Titan of Baleros, whose name was almost as cool as hers. A living legend. The Fraerling smiled.

“Just give me a second to rest—I’ve had a bad week.”

Then his head lolled back. He passed out. Mrsha looked around. She slowly picked him up and looked around. Wh-what was she supposed to do?

Mrsha the Adventurer was one thing, but this was big. Did she tell someone? But he just said not to! She hesitated. He couldn’t stay here. What if Ulvama sat on him with her giant green butt? Then the Titan of Baleros would be dead and it would be all Mrsha’s fault!

There was only one conclusion. She scampered into the [Garden of Sanctuary] and flagged Apista down. The bee was buzzing across the top of the dome.

This is no time for games, Apista! We’re in serious poo! Maximum poo! Look!

Mrsha tried to convey this as best as she could. The bee buzzed around Niers, who was cradled in Mrsha’s paws. Tinier than even Apista! Mrsha ran over to the Fortress Beavers. They grunted as she explained.

No one step on him. I’m going to put him here, okay?

She carefully brought the bit of cloth, some of the potions in case he wanted them, and an entire quiche and a flask of water into a little section where few people went. The jungle-biome, where not even Numbtongue would go. He was here, of course, but hadn’t noticed Mrsha. He just…sat there.

Mrsha squirreled Niers into a little holding spot as Apista saluted her with one antennae. She’d keep this strange little person safe! Mrsha scampered back, mind racing.

The Titan! In her inn! Had he come to beat up someone? Didn’t he have an army? She had to tell someone! But Lyonette, the only person Mrsha would super-trust, wasn’t here. And Erin…

Tell Ulvama? But Niers said not to. He was the Titan. Mrsha wasn’t sure, so she ran about, grabbing things he might need, anything she could think of. Also, she begged Joseph to take her back into Liscor so she could look up news about the Titan! Who was in her inn!

“I don’t know what’s gotten into her, sorry.”

Joseph told the [Scribe] at the Mage’s Guild as Mrsha held out the request. The Drake chuckled indulgently.

“Not to worry. I bet she’s heard. Fan of the Titan, are you? Let me just pull up all the latest news. Have you heard, sir?”

“Heard what?”

Joseph was fascinated to learn the same thing as Mrsha about the Titan and Peclir Im. He paid for printed copies.

—-

The [Scribe] massaged his writing hand after accepting payment for the brief work. He turned as his superior bustled over as Mrsha and Joseph began to leave.

“Did someone investigate the Titan of Baleros? We’re supposed to make a note.”

“Just that little girl over there.”

“Oh.”

The [Mage] hesitated. He eyed Mrsha, then shook his head, sighing.

“That’s for search requests on the bounty. Not…children. Never mind. But make a note of anyone else, understand?”

“Got it.”

—-

Mrsha had gotten back and was spreading out the Mage’s Guild news about the Titan. Missing! Bounty! Eight hundred thousand gold pieces alive?

Mrsha the Bounty Hunter…shook her head. She sat there, quivering with excitement. She barely noticed the nice Dullahan [Mage] come in, ask about Montressa, Bezale, walk about the inn. She was scampering over for lunch when Montressa and Bezale walked back in.

“Ah, Mage Montressa. Mage Bezale.”

The two froze as the Dullahan stood up. Mrsha hesitated, waving her papers at Ulvama, who didn’t care. The [Shaman]’s eyes narrowed. Montressa went for her bag of holding. The Shock Orb, her staff.

“High Mage Merzun!”

“Correct.”

The Dullahan pointed, and a flash blew both [Mages] off their feet. Ulvama leapt—and the [Paralysis] spell hit her in the chest. More pre-prepared spells began firing off as Mrsha fled under the table.

—-

It was today. The air was hot. Mrsha cowered under the table. The Dullahan glanced at her as Mrsha crept forwards.

“I don’t want more casualties. Little girl, put that down. It won’t do you any good, anyways.”

Mrsha froze. One of Numbtongue’s paranoia-crossbows was in her paws, having come out of a trick floorboard. She put it down. Merzun glanced around, her head still rotating—

Fire struck her shield. Ulvama pulled herself upright. The [Shaman] snarled, creating another ball of fire. She lobbed it and it burst across the barriers, blazing bright, liquid fire—

“I am being indulgent. Must I cripple someone to make my point? [Force Bolts – Volley].”

A stream of those intangible bolts shot towards Ulvama. Mrsha cried out soundlessly. The [Shaman]—weathered the storm.

Her magical paint flared bright and then turned grey, flaking off her body. A dozen spells struck her harmlessly. She spat, and hurled the tankard. It bounced off the shield, and Merzun reflexively recoiled as liquid evaporated on her shields. Ulvama was already leaping.

A wall of vines rose around the Dullahan! She blasted it with fire, impatiently, but Ulvama was gone when she looked around.

“[Detect Magic]. [Bound Spell – Paralysis Bolt].”

The [High Mage] glanced around. Ulvama crouched behind a table until the eyes fixed on her. The [Camouflaged] Goblin…grinned…as the gaze swept past her.

“How?”

Ulvama shot out from cover again as Numbtongue got to his feet with a roar. She sprayed black liquid into the air, reaching for her staff. Merzun’s line of sight was blocked. She missed the bolt as Numbtongue dodged. The Goblin swung his sword—

It sheared through one barrier, and then was repulsed. Before he could swing again, or Ulvama use a stronger spell, Merzun shouted.

“Enough! [Spell Swarm]!”

She put her hands together. Mrsha saw half a dozen spells, Tier 1 and Tier 2, hit Numbtongue in the chest. He went over backwards and she screamed.

Ulvama was next. The Hobgoblin shielded herself, but the spells wore out her magical protections. Both Goblins lay on the ground, charred flesh smoking as Merzun looked around.

“Enough. Where are the other two?”

She floated over to Montressa. The [Mage] croaked.

“Gone. Leave them alone, Merzun! Liscor won’t stand for this. The Antinium—”

“Hear nothing. If you are counting on that Centenium, I will not be here. You’re telling the truth. Where are they?”

She was interrogating Montressa. Kevin, Joseph, Imani, they were going to be stolen! Mrsha left out Troy and Leon. Bird was still lying, unable to shake [Paralysis] by himself. Someone had to do something! Someone…this big, stupid, Dullahan Wistram-[Mage] wasn’t allowed to do this! It wasn’t right!

—-

He agreed. The Fraerling was still weak. He hadn’t been out long. His arm still ached in the sling. But the frantic bee had woken him. He limped out of the [Garden of Sanctuary], towards the little Gnoll.

“Girl. Girl, listen.”

The [High Mage] hadn’t noticed them. A damn [High Mage]? No wonder she’d walked all over this inn. None of them could match a ten-level difference with that kind of magical output.

And yet…Niers just stared at the Dullahan. His eyes narrowed.

“Mrsha.”

She jerked. She was quivering on the ground. Niers whispered into her ear, so that Merzun couldn’t notice him even if her head spotted her on its orbit.

“That Dullahan is going to abduct the others unless we do something. She’s imprisoned this inn; no one can get in even if they notice. Listen. I need you to help me. I can stop her.”

Mrsha’s eyes were round. She was terrified. Was that Hobgoblin her guardian? Niers remembered the reports, but not a female Goblin. He pointed.

“That crossbow. I can’t lift it. But you can. I just need you to shoot her.”

Mrsha looked horrified. Niers clarified.

“In the leg. Arm. You don’t have to kill her.”

He’d meant kill her. But he’d forgotten his audience. The little Gnoll hesitantly stared at the crossbow. Niers reassured her.

“You don’t even need to hit her. Just…close by. Got it? Trust me. It will save everyone.”

She shook her head, gesturing to the magical barriers layered around Merzun. Niers nodded.

“I know she has shields. Listen. Trust me. I’m the Titan.”

Mrsha the Archer looked at Niers. She looked at Merzun, at Montressa, gasping answers, Numbtongue, still trying to get up. She took a breath.

“Little girl. I would not do that.”

Merzun spoke. Montressa jerked. Even pressed against the floor, she could see Mrsha, sideways to her, aiming the crossbow with shaking paws at Merzun. The Dullahan woman didn’t look concerned.

Her armor was a flashy gemstone-inlaid-into-ceramic armor that could probably stop a weak crossbow bolt. However, the real protections were the layers of shields.

“Put that down. Children should not be wielding crossbows. Where is her guardian? I should take her with the others. Mage Montressa?”

Merzun almost sounded concerned. Montressa whispered.

“Leave her alone.”

“Then stop obstructing me. Why do the Gnolls have Miss Rose? Little girl—I am warning you. You do not want to make me angry, do you?”

Mrsha was sighting down the crossbow.

“Don’t. Run and get help. The garden! Get outside and—”

Bezale barked, and then cut off. Merzun saw the open door to the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Her fingers twitched and her wand-arm raised.

“Child, I am going to bind you. Put the crossbow down and come over here. You won’t be hurt. Understand? Come over here. Now? Don’t—”

The little Gnoll hesitated. She glanced down, then her features firmed. She aimed and pulled the trigger.

The crossbow fired. The bolt loosed. Merzun’s brows crossed, but she didn’t bother to dodge.

Niers Astoragon used his greatest Skill. He pointed, and activated it. The Skill he had ‘earned’ from killing the [Gambler of Fates]. His last capstone.

A Skill to break any foe to pieces. Even the King of Destruction.

[Battlefield: Even Ground – No Magic, No Luck, No Skills, Only Strategy].

Across the ground, High Mage Merzun’s magic abruptly turned off. She began to drop. Her eyes went wide.

The crossbow bolt punched into her foot, through ceramic. She hit the ground, her head smacking into the floorboards. Niers smiled as the magic suppressing half the people in the inn winked out.

“[Flame Bolt]!”

Montressa shouted. She pointed, but nothing happened. No Magic.

“[Piercing Shot].”

Bird raised his arrow, but hesitated as he sensed no Skill activating. No Skills.

No luck, either. For five minutes, you were just what you were. Only strategy. Even Tulm feared that Skill. Bird still drew back on the bow; he needed no Skills to hit his mark.

“Stop! Stop!”

Palt shouted. He was getting to his feet. He knocked Bird’s aim loose. Mage Merzun? She was screaming in pain.

“My foot! How—how—”

Mrsha had fled into the [Garden of Sanctuary]. She peeked out, wide-eyed as the bleeding Dullahan woman flailed. Bezale grabbed her and checked her body into the ground.

It was over. Niers peeked out behind Mrsha’s ear. He’d just hit the people in the inn, not the inn itself. He’d had a hunch they might kill the [High Mage] if freed. Sure enough, he’d been wise to extend the radius.

On second thought, it was bad for a [High Mage] of Wistram to drop dead in this inn. He carefully whispered to Mrsha.

“Now, listen…”

—-

“A Tier 6 Spell? [Magic Null]?”

Mrsha the Glorious Magus nodded a few times. Montressa and Bezale’s mouths opened and closed a few times.

“There is no way she can cast that.”

“There was a book…”

Ishkr shut his mouth fast as everyone looked at him. Niers wiped sweat from his brow. He nudged the bee, crowding the beam where he was hiding.

“Get lost!”

The giant Ashfire Bee stared at him, hurt, and trotted a ways away. That wasn’t the point, anyways. Niers listened.

High Mage Merzun was captive. She had anti-magic cuffs on her, the same restraints brought to capture Pisces, ironically. Montressa, Bezale, Palt, and the others were debating what to do with her.

“If we hand her over to Zevara, Wistram will bail her out.”

“Not Zevara. She won’t budge.”

“Then it is war. Let me go. I don’t know how that child learned such magic, but she is coming with me. Those Earthers too. Wistram knows where I am. It is well you did not slay me. Do not make your situation worse.”

Mage Merzun was amazing. She had the gall to act as if she still held all the cards, even now. Worse…she was sort of right.

Sort of. Wistram was a big force. On the other hand? Ulvama whirled her staff and smacked Merzun on the head.

The [High Mage] made a pained sound. Ulvama smiled.

“Let’s beat her up. Then decide.”

She looked at Numbtongue. The Hobgoblin was murderous.

“No, she’s right. She’s a [High Mage]. She might be able to blast her way out of prison unless Hexel’s upgraded it. Only a [Grand Magus] and the Archmages stand above her.”

Palt was the voice of reason. He looked around, not exactly calm, but seeing more clearly. He looked at Merzun, shook his head, and turned to the others.

“We have to let her go.”

“Let her go? She’ll just come back again! Let’s give her to Chaldion in Pallass!”

Joseph snapped back. Palt shook his head.

“No, and no. I suggest we tell Chaldion—and Magus Grimalkin what happened. And Xrn.”

“Xrn will eat you.”

Bird whispered to Mage Merzun. Her restrained body and head both tried to roll away from the baleful [Hunter]. Palt shook his head.

“If Mage Merzun wants to stick around for all three to object to her—and Watch Captain Zevara—she can. This is a matter for Liscor’s Council. We do not want to be caught up in it.”

“But they know we’re here.”

Kevin looked at Merzun. She was eying him like…Troy and Leon and Imani too. Palt nodded slowly.

“Yes. We’ll have to prepare for that. Merzun dying here is not wise, though. She’s part of the Revivalists. Archmage Nailihuaile won’t react…well. She can be vindictive. Montressa, Bezale, back me up. Mons?”

The [Aegiscaster] wasn’t responding. She just sat.

“I’m exiled? I—”

“One of you is speaking sense. Let me go. As for Mage Montressa, it wasn’t my fault. Stop that! You disgusting creature!”

Ulvama had blown her nose and was wiping the tissue on Merzun’s armor. The Hobgoblin [Shaman] somehow knew exactly how to offend Dullahans the worst.

The others argued. Niers knew the Centaur was correct—at least for now. Wistram would not give up. Those Earthers? Earthers? His mind was racing. Wistram was ahead of him. They had been for months.

Those Earthers were now on a shortlist, unless other factions in Wistram would protect them. Merzun was only the start.

Mind you—if this was his company and Merzun had tried it on his territory, she might not have been in this situation. Yet The Wandering Inn was not prepared to fight Wistram like a Great Company.

It did have Niers Astoragon. Mrsha glanced up at him and he waved for her to pretend he wasn’t there.

“I’ll talk to Ullsinoi. We need…the Revivalists would have gotten all of them. That’s an inter-academy conflict you’ve begun, High Mage.”

Palt was glancing at Merzun. She stared at him stonily.

“The [Innkeeper] is dead, Magus Palt. Similarly, there is no time for dissident factions.”

“I would say the dissident faction is the one clearly grabbing power here, High Mage.”

He replied, putting a cigar in his mouth.

“Enough. If she’s not being beaten up, I want her gone.”

The harsh voice came from Numbtongue. Niers blinked. The Hobgoblin pointed his sword at Merzun. She eyed him, wisely keeping her mouth shut.

“Mage. You come back—you die. Next time, you die. Anyone who tries, [Mage], Archmage, anyone. Understand?”

“I…understand. I will pass your message on to my faction.”

He glared. The others looked at each other.

“Well, let’s roll her into Invrisil I guess. Tell Grimalkin to come over first?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

As Bezale bent to grab Merzun’s body, she spoke up.

“Wait. I meant what I said.”

The others looked at her. The [High Mage] glowered around, then her eyes focused on the Earthers.

“You don’t have to stay here. Come to Wistram. We can protect you. Or have you not seen how dangerous the world is? We have many, many of you there. You can live in safety and luxury. I cannot force you, but surely you must agree.”

The Earthers looked at her. Kevin’s eyebrows were in his hair. Joseph just turned away.

“I need a drink. This is a good excuse, right?”

Imani glared from behind Palt. Even Troy held up two emphatic fingers. No one looked twice at Merzun, even the Brothers were clearly thinking that this was not an honest woman and trying to figure out how to stop someone before they entered the hallway. The truth spells…the inn had to be reopened.

“Alright, rolling time. Miss Ulvama, please stop that.”

Ulvama was now drawing graffiti on Merzun’s back with some extremely hard-to-remove paint. Ishkr had already run to get Grimalkin, Bird to find Xrn.

“I’ll go.”

A quiet voice spoke up as Merzun was hoisted up. Heads turned.

Leon stood there. He didn’t look at the others.

“Leon, are you nuts?”

“No, I’m not. I hate it here. Everyone else has something, I don’t. So I’ll go. This inn—you know what? Fuck this inn, you too, Kevin. I’m out.”

Leon looked around, shaking with nerves and anger. The others looked at him. Even Troy, who had his purpose. Numbtongue stared at Leon, and jerked his foot up.

“Okay. Two go. Get lost.”

He walked past Leon as the young man lay on the ground, clutching at his groin.

So, and so. Niers couldn’t speak to the wisdom of the decision. Nor was the [Strategist] able to make a decision based on his knowledge.

After all the commotion had ended, he rode the Ashfire Bee into the [Garden of Sanctuary]. She buzzed around, and a little Gnoll met them by the hilltop. Niers dismounted, and Mrsha carried him up.

“Ah.”

He stopped in front of the frozen bier. Niers stared down at Erin Solstice. He stood there, for a long moment. Mrsha’s head bowed, yet she darted glances at the Titan.

Realer than life. Smaller than his legend. The Fraerling [Strategist] stood there, head bowed. At last, at last—he looked at Mrsha.

No tears in his eyes. Just…tired. He looked at the young Gnoll, and then breathed out.

“If I can, I promise you, I’ll do something. Everything’s fallen apart. Can I ask you to help me put it back together?”

Mrsha looked down. The Fraerling man held out a hand. Slowly, ever so slowly, she reached out. Niers touched the first living being, the first person he hadn’t tried to kill or who had tried to kill him in a month, and gently shook her paw.

Far from home. Bereft of gear, but with all his Skills and experience. Ally? One white Gnoll. One Ashfire Bee. Advantages? No one knew where he was. Disadvantages? Everyone knew where he was.

The Titan smiled. He did like a challenge.

8.15

(Iron Prince by Bryce O’Conner and Luke Chmilenko has just been released as an audiobook! Also by Podium; consider giving it a try if you’re out of chapters of The Wandering Inn!)

When he first arrived here, he thought it was a glorious adventure.

Of course, he’d been confused, scared, intimidated by a world apart. Yet—didn’t everyone dream of falling into a story? If not a book, then a movie, a video game? Like many people, he had thought, ‘if it were me, I’d not make that mistake’, or ‘I’d have done this’.

I would love to have that chance. I should love to be a hero. Because, surely, I can do it better.

In truth, his perspective was that of most of the people who had come here. He had been disabused of the notion.

Not right away. Still, Joseph remembered his rude awakening. Unlike Imani, it had been when he finally got his ‘chance’. After being an involuntary house guest of Magnolia Reinhart, they had been able to become adventurers. He had been armed with enchanted gear, escorted even, to fight monsters.

It was as Joseph tried to hack apart a giant centipede, seeing the flailing legs wriggle horribly even on the bisected parts, blood covering his legs and boots, hearing the sounds his sword made as it lodged in its squirming insides, trying to saw it in half, that the dream ended. Combat was hacking apart people with sharp weapons, not glorious, flashing swords and the thrill of battle.

Magic was studying.

People died. Sometimes in moments, horribly.

And they wondered why he started drinking. Disillusionment had sunk over most of the Earthers that Magnolia Reinhart had relinquished to Ryoka Griffin. They had been useless, worthless, not even strictly worth the effort of holding onto and feeding.

This had been a truth until he met Erin Solstice and seen that it wasn’t this world that was too difficult, too gritty and real, it was just him.

Despair twice. However, somehow, time and a bit of kindness, a bit of willingness to help and see potential had seen Joseph kicking a football around on the grass. Thus, his mundane ability to play his favorite sport turned magical. That was Erin Solstice’s magic.

Now she was dead. If there was a moral to the story, Joseph Ortega didn’t see it. Take away that last bit and it was a hopeful, wonderful story. He woke up, head pounding, sweating and entangled in his sheets, dreaming the centipedes were after him and he’d lost his sword. He sat up, as sunlight streamed through the window. It cast a diagonal line across his torso, warming him. The light wood floorboards and walls, light blue curtains next to the expensive glass windows and wooden shutters were nothing like his home on Earth.

It was exceedingly comfy, of course. The mattress wasn’t spring, but it was stuffed. Joseph had a carpet he’d actually been given, with a wave-pattern around the edges and a stylized Human kicking a football in the center.

Actually hand-woven, a gift. His table and the dresser both held souvenirs, a few cardboard autograph pads, an empty bottle…and the hangover cure potion Joseph went for first. He sat, staring at a map of the known world he’d tacked to one wall, and an advert.

‘Think you can kick a ball? Try out for Liscor’s Soccer Team today! The Flood Crabs are holding tryouts!’

He had carefully crossed out ‘soccer’ and replaced it with ‘football’. Even now, the poster made him smile.

Flood Crabs. A combination of ‘Floodplains’ and ‘Rock Crabs’, once he’d explained some of the naming conventions of sports teams. Of course, it had been a lot of wrangling and half the Drakes wanted to be called ‘Liscor’s Dragons’, which neither the Gnolls nor Joseph had been keen on.

Flood Crabs had personality. It wasn’t generic and it stuck in the mind. Joseph was proud of the poster, he really was. He looked at it.

Hand-illustrated. Someone wrote all those big, block letters, actually painted it, illustrated everything…and they had to copy the design a hundred times.

A printer could copy that easily with ink and power. Yet Liscor’s Council had paid for illustrated posters, and gifted one to Joseph.

It meant something more than a printed poster. Joseph sat there, staring at it, blinking sleepily as the morning light crept upwards. He ruffled his hair, blinking at a mirror—another gift—and seeing a half-naked young man with warm black hair, the beginnings of a mustache and beard since he hadn’t shaved, and a slightly-pained expression as the hangover medicine took away his headache.

Joseph Ortega, from Spain, from Earth. Perhaps the only person from his country in the world; certainly, the only one he’d met.

“Well, Leon gets to find out.”

The young man rubbed at his head, recalling the incident of yesterday. Another close call. Literally paralyzed and held hostage by a [High Mage]. Helpless as a bug before real danger. He shuddered and glanced at the empty bottle.

He kept trying, and he kept failing to quit. Once more, Joseph supposed it was the arrogance of inexperience. He’d assumed (if he’d ever thought of it), that he’d be able to quit an addiction. He knew, intellectually, how hard it was and how people struggled with alcoholism, smoking. Yet it was one thing to recall and another to experience.

Worse still, since he could take Octavia’s sobering potions or hangover cures and not have to pay much for his habit. His head thumped back onto the pillow and Joseph indulged in some good self-hatred for breakfast.

He did not actually rise for breakfast for a while. Because today, Joseph was dreading the harder parts in life, and he knew it was stupid. He had been given a second chance. Found that he was a celebrity for playing football, and not even close to well. His casual knowledge was treated like gospel.

Joseph had made it. Yet he still felt crummy, and felt bad for that. So he lay on his back, until a superior fighter opened the door and strode into the room.

A superlative warrior, a far better survivalist in this world. Also, arguably now the best [Mage] in the inn. Mrsha the Archmage strutted into Joseph’s room, sniffing. She stopped when she saw Joseph.

“Mrsha? What are you doing here?”

He sat up, blinking at her. She looked around, walking on two legs instead of four. Mrsha stared about…then found what she wanted.

Aha! She grabbed something by the door. Joseph saw her pick up the classic white-and-black ball. Harder to make in this world; the [Leatherworker] had had a fit when he understood it had to be white and black, both leathers being hard to dye or acquire naturally.

She picked it up, and waved at Joseph. He waved back. Mrsha pointed at the ball, which everyone called a ‘soccer ball’ much to his annoyance.

“Uh. You want the ball? Go ahead.”

He blinked at it as she nodded, made a ‘thank you’ gesture with one paw, and tottered out of the room with it. Joseph heard a shout from down the hallway. As he fully woke up, he heard a familiar, excited voice.

“Mrsha’s got the ball! Mrsha, Mrshamrshamrsha—pass it here! Is Joseph awake? That’s his personal ball, right? Are we allowed to use it?”

Ekirra. Joseph listened and wished, just for a moment, he could live up to the little Gnoll’s idolization of him. He hid in his room as he heard the little Gnoll racing around downstairs. At last though, he stood up and faced the quiet inn, without Erin. Another day.

It was sort of a downer day for Joseph. Something else Earthers could identify with. Anyone, really.

—-

Niers Astoragon hated children. He also realized he hated soccer, at least in principle.

In general, perhaps. It was something about little children, who were so careless and might step on a six-inch tall person, or throw something in a fit of anger, and a ball larger than he was that was kicked at high velocities that made Niers Astoragon the Fraerling uncomfortable.

He couldn’t have said why. Yet as he started his first day in The Wandering Inn as a proper sort of guest—or fugitive—his one ally in the inn seemed excited enough to kick the bouncy ball around. Niers watched Mrsha and the other, brown Gnoll child kicking it around in the common room of the inn.

He had thoughts. With a tiny bit of chalk, broken off from an actual piece of chalk, the Titan scribbled some notes down.

“Let’s see. Miss Erin Solstice is…frozen. I’m separated from home. I am being hunted. Everyone knows I am in Izril. My one ally is a little Gnoll. A white Gnoll, and I wish to Djinni that I knew exactly what that meant. She’s mute, but she can cast magic—Tiers 1-2. I have limited artifacts, and, oh yes. A magical portal door, in theory.”

There were not a lot of assets to work with, but after some thought, he made some addendums.

“All the resources of an inn, really. Which are considerable for a Fraerling, as well as indirect access to multiple master artisans, not to mention magical assistance from both [Mages] and [Shamans]. In theory. Not so bad. In fact…if I weren’t up against the Great Companies and their agents, I’d call this excellent.”

He turned to his attentive student as, below him, the little Gnoll called Ekirra launched a shot that bounced off a wall and Mrsha ran after it. Niers was sitting on one of the beams high above the common room, which afforded him an unparalleled spying and hiding place.

His student waved its—her—antennae at him. Niers eyed the huge, insectile face and slowly wrote down another point.

“Issue of transportation/maneuverability? Solved: Ashfire Bee. Name: Apista. Somewhat tame, upgraded stinger, dubious intelligence.”

A feeler poked Niers in the back and he swore. He batted at Apista.

“Stop that!”

Apparently it belonged to a…[Princess]? Niers shook his head. Mrsha had explained, but there were limits even to the Titan’s credulity. Yet he clearly saw the marks of a [Beast Tamer]’s Skills on the bee. He nodded to her.

“Let’s get breakfast.”

He stood up, having assuaged his curiosity as far as watching the inn’s guests and staff this morning. He’d marked a few interesting things; the Hobgoblins, the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings, and so on.

“Where are the two damned Gentlemen Callers?”

Apista didn’t answer, of course. She waited, lowering herself down as Niers climbed onto her back. The Ashfire Bee was a foot long. Niers was six inches. He could actually ride her around, and she was strong enough to fly with him on her.

She took off, and Niers reflected it was a novel solution to the Fraerling’s issues of travel. Two issues?

One, Apista was hot. Not in a good way either; the bee’s natural temperatures were way above what any insect should survive. Magical creatures. Niers needed a saddle. Especially because of point two—

The buzzing wings generated a hefty backdraft, so Niers clung to her fuzzy body as bits of pollen made his legs sticky. He cursed as she flew down from the beams.

“You stupid bee! I told you to watch out! Watch out. Don’t fly like normal! I’m—”

Apista did a barrel roll. Niers bit off a shout as he clung to her. To Imani, walking out of the kitchen with some food for the table, she just saw Apista doing a cute little twist and turn as she flew towards the Garden of Sanctuary.

“You stupid bee!”

Niers bellow-whispered as they flew into the Garden of Sanctuary. Apista was much hurt. This was not a nurturing relationship! The little man that Mrsha seemed to admire didn’t have much respect for her. Still, she obediently ferried him to his secret home in the jungle biome. Niers landed on one of the trees, walked over to the hollowed-out home Mrsha had helped him make, and promptly threw up.

“I…have never had a flight that bad in ten years.”

He told Apista. It was true; all the birds Niers rode around for fast-travel in Baleros did not spin or corkscrew, or for the joy of it, fly all the way up to the dome, stop flying, and dive-bomb towards the grass and level off just a second before impact.

Apista flew like a drunk albatross. She looked hurt, so Niers eventually relented.

“Here, bug…do bees even eat this? I know wasps do. Damn bastards.”

The bee could get behind that sentiment. She delicately edged over and had some of the honey and bread Mrsha had smuggled out for Niers. It was good, especially since Niers had his pick of succulents.

Salami, six varieties of cheese, pizza, lasagna, eight different fish dishes, ice cream—although that had melted—nineteen flavors of drink…

Most of the hollowed-out space in the tree was just food, and cotton stolen from a pillow that Niers had used as bedding and pillows. He didn’t need more and this was heavenly after the High Passes.

Also, he had a lot of food because he was a Fraerling and Mrsha could steal crumbs and feed him for a week. She’d gone a bit overboard, but then, Niers had gone overboard in feasting after he’d woken up to find his fortunes had finally changed for the better.

His arm still hurt, but he was taking it easy and it was still braced. A few more days and maybe a bit more healing potion would see it right. Niers sighed and sat down. He saw two little Gnolls race into the [Garden of Sanctuary] after a second. A pair of Fortress Beavers watched as the ball shot around the garden, bouncing off the grassy hill, rolling into the mushroom biome…Apista nibbled as Niers murmured.

“Fortress Beavers, Ashfire Bee, a magical garden. Some place, huh?”

Apista wiggled her antennae at him. Which reminded Niers. He grunted as he got up and rummaged around the makeshift home.

“You’re the strangest animal here by far, though.”

She looked hurt—right up until he pulled out the tiny spliff he’d cut from the larger one. He handed one to her and the two began to smoke.

A bee that stole and hoarded dreamleaf. Niers puffed away as Apista lit both with a few flaps of her wings and some ignition from her body. He eyed the bee as she inhaled the fumes.

“Tolerable.”

He had to admit it. Niers began planning his next move, a lot more comfortable than he should have been.

—-

The sound of children playing was odd in The Wandering Inn. Was it…too soon?

Perhaps. Joseph didn’t air the thought, yet he let it ride as Ekirra and Mrsha played. Visma had joined them too.

It might have been Imani shared the sentiment, because she’d exiled them to the Garden. The lower garden of course; they’d never climb up the hill.

“Morning, Joseph.”

She greeted him with a smile. He tried to answer her. Imani clearly made an effort to smile. Why shouldn’t he try?

“Hey, Imani. Uh—how are things?”

It was about as bad a question as you could get. How are things? Yet Imani took it in stride, briskly handing him a plate with delicious smells wafting from it.

“Good. I’ve got work in fifteen minutes. Your food’s hot.”

“Thanks—”

“That’s not for you. That’s for Kevin. Take it to him, would you? He never showed for dinner so I think he’s passed out in his shop in Esthelm.”

“Oh.”

Joseph lamely re-covered the plate. Imani smiled again and he reflected she’d stepped up to her responsibilities.

Perhaps it was teaching [Cooks]. Perhaps that was who Imani had been before trauma and Crelers. The inn had given her back her life and confidence.

Plus, a boyfriend. Palt nodded at Joseph, eyes knowing. Joseph felt it odd that he was used to seeing a giant Centaur trotting about and giving Imani a peck on the cheek.

“Hello, Imani, verdant bloom of the jungles.”

“You told me all of Baleros’ most vivid flowers are poisonous, Palt.”

“Er, so I did. Late night, Joseph? Need a pick-me-up?”

The [Illusionist] and [Smoker] could definitely tell. Joseph grinned lamely.

“I have a potion, thanks.”

“Cigar?”

Imani swatted it down. Joseph hadn’t been sure he’d have taken it.

“I told you, it’s unhealthy, Palt.”

“And I told you, that’s what [Healers] and potions are for.”

The Centaur was unmoved. Also, Joseph knew everyone save for Galina had tried or used Palt’s cigars from time to time.

“At least not when you’re eating. It ruins the taste! I have to go.”

“Who’s looking after Mrsha?”

Joseph hesitated, pointing to the three playing kids in the open door. Imani glanced at him quizzically.

“Ishkr.”

“Oh, right.”

That was that. Imani left, briskly, not unfriendly at all, with Palt in tow. Joseph looked at the food, headed for the door.

“Going somewhere, sir?”

A surly Gnoll greeted him. She was shorter as Gnolls went, and had the barest attempt at a smile on her face.

“Er—Liska? I’d like to go to Esthelm.”

“Right away, sir. Will you be returning soon? I will check for you in ten minutes, then. Have a lovely day.”

She said it in the tone that indicated her older brother had been lecturing her about proper service. She was in charge of the door, though, and Imani and Palt were already in Liscor. Joseph trotted through, thinking.

Imani had made it and seemed to have no regrets. Erin and Ryoka were the examples to look up to. In the same way…

Kevin was indeed asleep at his desk. He sat up as Joseph opened the door to the back room of Solar Cycles.

“Your Majesty, I’m aw—oh. Hey, Joseph.”

Joseph would have laughed—but that was the eighth time Kevin had done that. Joseph offered the covered plate and Kevin’s eyes widened.

“Is it breakfast already? Dude, thank you. I must have dozed off and…”

He lamely indicated his desk. Lamely, but not to Joseph. The sheets of orders tacked to the walls, the schedule Kevin had drawn up, not to mention the fact that he was keeping inventory, working on new blueprints for the bicycles, and essentially starting a business by himself with international clients was…amazing. Joseph handed Kevin the tray and saw how hungry the young man was.

“No problem, Kevin. How’s business?”

“We’re getting more [Smiths] to work on the mundane bikes. This is so good. Imani’s like, a saint. Sorry, I haven’t eaten all day! I mean, yesterday.”

“No problem.”

Joseph rubbed at his head, repeating himself. He was definitely out of sorts today. Perhaps it was the comparisons.

It was a bad idea to compare yourself against people. Especially in this inn, but in general. Even after Erin had…well, it was comparisons that haunted Joseph, he realized.

“I can take your other plates and stuff.”

“Dude. Appreciated. I can get them though…I just have work and a meeting in like—uh—what’s the time?”

“It’s not a problem. Do your thing.”

Joseph grabbed a stack of six plates and cutlery. Kevin gave him a grateful look.

“You’re awesome, man.”

No, you are. Joseph saw Kevin gobbling his food. He had a meeting with Pelt in a few minutes, and he’d be negotiating with a [Merchant] later today.

Kevin’s strengths were his ability to get along with people, his knowledge of how to run a shop, write a ledger, and frankly, knowing how a bicycle worked. The fact that he could get along with Pelt, the Dwarf [Smith] who was cantankerous as any old man Joseph had met, was amazing.

A bit of Erin in him. By the same token, Imani’s skills were managing a kitchen’s supplies, cooking of course, teaching, and having sex with horse-guys.

Joseph thought about that last part. He slapped the side of his head in an unfriendly way. That hurt. Seriously though, how did…?

As he trotted back through the doorway, Liska wrinkled her nose at him.

“Better put those to be washed. I guess I have to do it. Don’t eat anything off them until they’re scrubbed, though. One of them has mold on it.”

“Oh. Thank you, Liska. Er—thanks for getting the door, too.”

He only remembered to thank her this time. She growled.

“You’re welcome.”

Yet she looked a bit mollified. Joseph wanted to remember to do things as mundane as thank people for making breakfast and so on.

…But he was not a Kevin. Not an Imani, either.

He was not a Leon or Troy, he was pretty sure. That was a low bar, though. However, Joseph could look at himself and find less amiability than Kevin. A bit more xenophobia, like seeing Palt and Imani together and wondering…did they have sex? More envy, oh yes. Less control with things like drinking.

Less of being the good, or decent person he’d thought he always was.

—-

Imani had put out food for Joseph. A very fine…Joseph’s face fell.

It hadn’t occurred to him as Kevin ate to note breakfast. The [Engineer] had made it vanish instantly, anyways.

Breakfast was pincho, pincho de tortilla, a potato omelette from Spain. Nostalgic, and Joseph realized he must have mentioned it to Imani. Thus, the [Chef] had taken the time to make it for him.

He ate it, savoring each nostalgic bite and felt worse. Comparisons haunted Joseph. For instance, as mentioned, it wasn’t just Imani or Kevin that made you feel bad about yourself.

Feeling proud of being able to bench a hundred and eighty pounds? Stare at the weight room list, or just watch Bezale work out in the mornings.

Think you were good at chess? Play Bird or half of the Antinium. Bird had somehow evolved to the point where he had once beaten Joseph while never looking at the chessboard. He’d learned it from Erin, of course.

Think you know misery? Mrsha, Ryoka, and half the inn could tell you about real trauma.

Of course, all this was a futile effort to begin with. Everyone had their strengths and weaknesses. Each person was able to do something the others were not, and etcetera, etcetera, value yourself. Joseph knew that.

It was just…Joseph finished his breakfast, excitement turning to glumness again. He could wait no longer, though. The sun was rising, the morning begun…he stood, stretched, and saw the little Gnoll race into the common room. Ekirra had smelled he was here, of course.

“Hello, Mister Coach Joseph! Are we going to practice?”

Joseph tried to smile. He fooled Ekirra as Visma and Mrsha watched. The little Gnoll boy, like Mrsha, disdained clothes. Yet he had on the jersey of Liscor’s Flood Crabs and his number, 3, hand-stitched to the back. He looked excited, as a member of the Little Crabs team should be.

The young man sighed, and nodded. He and Ekirra got to work. The [Kicker], Joseph Ortega, headed outside to start his day.

—-

Joseph was a Level 11 [Kicker]. Here were some facts for you: he had [Lesser Dexterity], [Lesser Endurance], [Power Kick], [Accelerated Sprint]…

And his latest Skill was green.

It was nothing special as green Skills went. At least, Joseph didn’t think so.

[Pinpoint Distance Kick]. As the fabled new Skills went…it was not an [Immortal Moment]. However, it stood out to Joseph because it was new.

Thus, no one had ever needed or gained a Skill like this before. A Skill for a game, not battle.

Football. Which made sense when you thought about it. [Pinpoint Distance Shot] was probably some [Archer] Skill that combined range and accuracy, very necessary. Who needed to kick a rubber ball that far, though?

A good player, that was who. Joseph was proud of that. He greeted both teams. Forty six players stared at him.

Twenty three per team. Adults and children, made up of Gnolls, Drakes, and three Humans not including him.

Yes, only eleven players on each team could take to the field at one time. However, substitutions were important and the standard from Joseph’s world meant he’d suggested a limit of twenty three.

Because he’d said it, it was now law. The [Kicker] saw children and adults staring at him, all wearing the jerseys, all ready to start practicing.

It was eerie. Joseph had been a dedicated part of his football team. Yet if he thought high school and middle school dedication was one thing—these players were even more driven.

They were never late. He had to tell them to go back if they were sick or worn out. They’d play even if they really injured themselves and they trained without complaint. Because they were leveling. Because—this was a career.

Football had come to Liscor. They were practicing on the vast, flattened land that Hexel had smoothed for them, kept clear of monsters by the Watch. Liscor’s Council had even paid Viceria to regrow all the grass for a proper turf instead of waiting.

“Good to see you all. You know the drill! Let’s warm up!”

Joseph was not an expert. He had cobbled together team’s training menu from memory. Thus, each day, the Flood Crabs and Little Crabs warmed up the same way.

Jog, first. They ran around Liscor, even the kids doing a lap. The adults were encouraged to run in their own time. Not just run, though; they did all the exercises that an athlete had to perform, which had elicited sniggers the first few weeks.

Not now. Now? [Guards] waved down at the players, shouting encouragement. Some civilians did the same, and kids copied the pro-team, looking envious or hoping Joseph would see talent there.

Ekirra ran with the younger players, having learned to walk on two legs just so he could jog along. Forwards, backwards—and that was the start.

After the lap, they did side shuffles. Skipping, kicks, high knees, hops…exercises designed to build flexibility and muscle. Joseph made everyone stretch, and only after nearly thirty minutes of warming up did they even get to the practice.

“Okay, Flood Crabs—relays! Little Crabs, let’s start with passing.”

There was only one Joseph and since Kevin and Rose were now busy, he alternated the physical training with technical. The adults knew the score and set up; they ran from one line to another, turning around and racing back the way they’d came.

Suicides were another word for the exercise, although the first time he’d used that term, Joseph had caused a small incident, so he called it ‘relays’ instead. Meanwhile, the Little Crabs were practicing passing. They’d long since graduated from just kicking the balls back and forth. These days, they had to dribble and pass between each other, faster and faster, over longer distances.

Joseph watched approvingly as the Little Crabs practiced. They were good. Better than he’d been at their age? Well…not in control.

Ekirra kicked a bit too hard and a Drake ran off after the ball. However, he’d had only a month or two to play! His ears flattened and he shouted.

“Sorry, Coach!”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry, that’s why we’re practicing.”

That was what Joseph thought was ‘too serious’. Ekirra looked afraid he’d be kicked off the team for one mistake! Joseph knew there were tough coaches; he’d had one for middle school. He didn’t want to be that.

He watched with half an eye, then turned to the Flood Crabs.

“Ush! You’re going faster.”

A Gnoll about Joseph’s age stopped and grinned. He was sprinting the relays and Joseph knew he couldn’t match that.

“Thanks, Joseph. Got [Quick Movement] last night.”

“You don’t say? That’s great. We’ll see how this changes you on offense.”

Ush was a second striker, but given his new Skill, Joseph might have to try him in a winger or the main striker position. Skills changed how football was played in so many ways.

In more ways than one. Joseph let the Flood Crabs build their muscles; Skills changed things, but they could multiply hard work rather than just replace it. He watched the Little Crabs go from passes to trying to score on the goalkeeper gamely blocking their shots.

Something was apparent, though. The Little Crabs were behind the Flood Crab team because they were children and the adults could practice longer and picked up advanced techniques, despite the motivation and enthusiasm of kids. Coordination was lacking; that was fine. They’d play against kids their age.

However, Ekirra kept messing up. Eight times, he missed a pass, and a Gnoll or Drake or the only Human girl would go running after the ball he kicked too hard.

“Ekirra, take a break. What’s wrong? Are you trying to kick less hard?”

Joseph flagged him down after the last cycle, where Ekirra’s kick had actually missed the goal and gone off nearly a hundred paces—too far right.

“Sorry, Coach. My aim’s bad. I wanted to practice with Mrsha, but I can’t hit the goal. Please don’t kick me off the team.”

Ekirra’s ears were flat and he looked like he’d cry if Joseph did. The young man squatted down, patting Ekirra’s shoulder reassuringly.

“I wouldn’t do that. You’re fast, you work hard…you pass really well!”

Besides, Ekirra had helped start football in this world. Joseph wouldn’t cut him no matter what, and if that was favoritism, so be it. He looked at Ekirra. The kid didn’t take the game lightly…

“Has something changed?”

“It’s…my Skill.”

Joseph blinked. Ekirra glanced up with one huge, brown eye and kicked the ground.

“You got a Skill?”

“Yep. I’m Level 5 now. And I got [Lesser Strength]. But I can’t—”

Joseph stared as Ekirra babbled nervously. He looked at the ball Ekirra had blasted past the goal. Then he started laughing. Ekirra looked terrified until Joseph ruffled the fur on the top of his head.

“That’s not a problem. Say it earlier! You just need more practice. Come on, we’ll have you get your aim back in. Flood Crabs! Let’s do our practice! Little Crabs—relays! Metas, you and Ekirra will do some passing practice!”

—-

How fast they improved. Joseph felt better as Ekirra brightened up and he was soon working with the adults.

Now they were good. No basic passes with them; Joseph was teaching them tricks. Proper headers, how to evade someone trying to steal the ball while dribbling…was it too soon for two month players?

The answer was no. Joseph had the ball stolen from him twice when he ran demonstrations despite his best attempts.

“Skills!”

Ush grinned at him; Joseph had lost the ball despite trying to show off the evasive trick where the ball seemed to stick to your feet as you rotated around someone.

“Just do that in the game.”

Joseph grinned, and the players nodded. They had a lot of respect, even the ones who were older than Joseph by nearly a decade. He’d been worried, but again, Erin Solstice had laid down the path for this.

“Looking good! How about a game?”

Two hours in, the teams looked up excitedly. They were tired, but stamina potions put them right back in the mood for a game. Joseph selected teams, trying to balance them, putting substitutes against regular players, mixing up the standards.

Testing out new Skills, too. Ekirra wasn’t the only player who got new Skills regularly. Ush was a main striker for the first game, then a winger. Ekirra got to take main striker and scored six times in the first game.

“I’ll goalie.”

Joseph took over for the poor Drake boy who had to try to block the overpowered kicks. Not only that; the football curved as one Drake booted it towards Joseph. He dove—caught it.

“Not bad! What is that?”

“[Homing Kick], Coach!”

“That’s great. Let’s see you do that after a pass in, though. Don’t just run at me; surprise me! Even if it curves, I can get it. Who’s got [Flash Kick]? Let’s set up a combo!”

That was fun. Yes, it did feel a bit…overpowered. Especially when Joseph had to block an Ekirra-kick that hurt. It was like someone ten years older smashing the ball at him!

It made the game more fun, though. Joseph glanced up as a roar came from the other pitch.

“Coach! How are we supposed to stop that?”

Ush bellowed, pointing angrily up. Joseph saw the Human goalkeeper, a brawny guy called Elmoin, angrily punch the wooden goalpost. It looked like four goals from Team A on Team B…all due to a single player.

“Lemiss! Over here! Both teams, take a break! Drink some water—and get a snack! Menua, take over as goalie for me? Little Crabs, don’t kick the ball into her face! I’m looking at you, Ekirra!”

The others did just that. And the main striker, the MVP of the Flood Crabs…flew down to talk with Joseph.

Lemiss was an Oldblood Drake. She was one of two fliers on the team, and had just enabled her team to score four times in a row, kicking the ball in from the air.

“It’s not that she scores, Coach. But how are we supposed to stop her when someone passes to her in the air?”

Ush complained. Joseph saw the problem. Honestly…aerial passes were not a problem that occurred on Earth. Yet he’d brought football to this world, and now the fliers wanted to play.

How did you stop a pass to the air? Lemiss had cheerfully shot the ball down to her teammates, effectively letting them cross the field without a chance of interruption.

“It’s bad enough when half the team are fliers. They just pass from air to air and we have to make sure they never get it or bet on our fliers intercepting. But with Lemiss and Rells…and no one else with us…”

Joseph’s arms were folded and he was nodding. Both Oldblood Drakes had been on Team A, a miscalculation on his part.

The rest of the Flood Crabs drifted over, with water and snacks in their claws, paws, or hands. All provided courtesy of Liscor’s [Shopkeepers] of course. They wanted to support their team. They wanted to win. This was something for Liscor to be proud of. Best soccer team in Izril. And they were playing other cities too! Joseph felt a pang…but concentrated on the issue.

“We took Pallass in the first game.”

Everyone nodded proudly at that. Broadcast across the world! Over three hundred thousand gold pieces’ worth of bets, or so Joseph had been told. A lot of money made because Liscor had hosted the game, and merchandise sold? Not to mention being the stars of their team. All of it was great.

It hadn’t been easy, though. Joseph pointed out the obvious he’d gotten from his post-mortems.

“We won that game because Pallass had far worse technique than ours. They had great Skills and team players—no cohesion. Their aerial game let them score, but if we kept the ball on the ground, we ran circles around them. The tradeoff with an aerial team is they have to take off and commit to the air. They mess up, they expose themselves.”

Literally. It was 17-6; a slaughter. Ush and the others nodded, smiling, but Lemiss raised a claw.

“Coach…what if they get better, though? Rells and I can actually pass across the field if we do it right. With Pallass in the air…they could strike on the goal without ever touching the ground.”

That was true. Joseph hesitated.

What’s the solution here? Get your players Rings of Jumping? Have them do some kind of trick where two of them throw a third up to intercept?

All those ideas sounded impractical. Unbalanced towards a flying opponent. In the end, Joseph exhaled.

“I think I know what it has to be. This is uh, a Human game mostly. So fliers weren’t ever something we really considered. We…banned flying spells and magic, of course.”

The other players nodded. Casual pickup games could use magic, but any real game was only Skills, no artifacts or enchantments. Joseph went on, uncertain, but feeling his way through.

“For a flying opponent…it’s totally unbalanced if they can score with impunity.”

Lemiss and Rells looked worried. Did they think they were going to be cut? Joseph hurried on.

“So I think the way it should be is this: limits on passes. Only one aerial pass is allowed; not consecutive passes from air-to-air players. Also—we’re implementing a rule from another sport. No aerial player can be passed to or shoot ahead of a ground player. It’s not much, but it means they can’t just skim around and use that to their advantage.”

“What about shooting on the goal? Rells just hovered next to the goal and kicked it in.”

“…Then we’ll have a minimum distance on flying players.”

That seemed fair. Joseph saw Rells and Lemiss nodding in relief. He clapped his hands.

“Let’s try it out! Give me Lemiss and Rells on one team again, and pass to them! Really try to drive an edge over a ground-based team. Go!”

—-

It worked. Of course, they had to tweak things, but the new rules radically limited the edge flight could give a player. It was also still risky to shoot to a flying player; if you prevented them from ‘juggling’ the ball in the air, they had to instantly pass it down to another player like a ping pong ball, which meant interceptions were far easier.

Ultimately, it added to the sport, not detracted. Joseph was smiling as he and the Flood Crabs analyzed the game.

“I think these rules work! We’ll practice under them, but remember—those aren’t the rules for the games. We need to see if the other teams agree to adopt them.”

“What? Why do we have to do that? Coach?”

Lemiss stared at Joseph. He hesitated.

“They might not agree.”

“But you’re Joseph. You introduced the game! Just tell them the new rules—I bet there are those spies watching and passing them on as we speak!”

So saying, Ush gestured with one paw towards a hill in the distance. Joseph looked and saw someone duck down. He stood there, and felt it again.

Joseph the Soccer Player. Thanks, Erin. Yet still. Joseph. He wasn’t the person who’d written the rules on the game. He was the game. The young man looked around.

“…Well, I guess those are the rules.”

His team cheered him. The [Kicker] felt his back itching. Presently, to get rid of it, because he’d been watching the game he loved, he made a suggestion.

“Why don’t we play a game? I’ll join Team A, though. I want to try my new Skill.”

They cheered that. Joseph grinned, and his team began wrangling to play with their coach or against, depending on their personalities.

That was his first, real, mistake of the day.

—-

Joseph tried his [Pinpoint Distance Kick] and watched Elmoin’s eyes go wide. He heard the epithet even across the football pitch.

A longer pitch, incidentally. Nearly twice as long. That was due to Skills; players like Ush meant it was justified. As well as a goal one point five times larger. Harder to defend? Oh yes.

Still, the Human [Blocker], who had actually been a [Shield Warrior] before changing careers and coming to Liscor, had the time to activate a Skill.

“[Static Shield]!”

A light, azure force field blocked the upper-right corner and the hammer shot Joseph had launched from across the entire field at commendable velocity—bounced. At the same time, the [Static Shield] broke.

With a surprisingly crisp shattering sound. Elmoin’s Skill—the reason Joseph had taken him as a goalkeeper—created a shield that stayed in the air wherever he wanted. His was about as tough as thick glass, though; it could block a strike or a few arrows, but it wasn’t as strong as higher-level Skills.

Great for football. Joseph groaned as Elmoin booted the ball to another player.

“Cheap shot, Coach!”

Lemiss laughed as she flew out on defense. Joseph grinned. He ran across the field. No [Quick Movement], but [Accelerated Sprint] was good—even if he was tired. Still, he had [Lesser Dexterity], [Lesser Endurance]. If he had Ekirra’s Skills?

He found himself coming up against Rells, on the ground. The Drake had dodged two players. Joseph slid in, snagged the ball. He began dribbling it forwards, looking for a pass. He wasn’t going to grandstand like the first game where he’d been the ace. H—

“Sorry, Coach!”

Ush stole the ball in a blur. Joseph cursed, but aborted the pithy words when he saw Ekirra and the Little Crabs watching the adults, learning. The little Gnoll’s ears were perked and he stared at his hero.

“Nice job! Get back here!”

Ush laughed. So did the other players vying for the ball; Lemiss got it in a diving kick that caught the Gnoll by surprise.

They loved the game. They took it seriously, they liked to level and they knew this might be a career for life. Ekirra’s parents had high hopes in him, which was why they’d enrolled him. Ekirra, leveling up at his age? They were beyond proud and encouraging.

“Coach!”

Lemiss passed. Joseph spun, caught the ball, headed towards Elmoin for a rematch.

He never made it. A second player, Maun, a female Gnoll, snagged the ball. Joseph lashed out—

“[Flash Kick]!”

At least knock it out of bounds, despite the kick. Or someone else would get it! Maun—

“[Evasive Maneuver]! Whoa! Scary, Coach!”

Dodged. And took the ball with her! It jumped Joseph’s foot. He sprinted after her, snagged it back. He was running in the clear now, as other players blocked Team B. He saw Ush coming from the side, but Joseph adjusted his body. They were going to vie for the ball and he was nearly ready to score.

He had [Power Kick] waiting. Joseph took the ball around him. He juked, feinting left—

Ush stole the ball again. He zoomed past Joseph, looking delighted. The young man slowed. Then he felt it.

I am outmatched.

It was a realization. Not a question or suspicion. He’d gotten the ball thanks to being passed to, but even as he ran back to position, he saw it.

Felt it. Joseph lost the ball six more times. He shot twice on goal. Both times blocked.

It was like the one time a college player had decided to bully the high school team. He’d walked onto the pitch and stolen every ball, scored with every shot. Faster, stronger—

More than that, better at the game. Talented enough to win a scholarship. It was that last which Joseph felt now.

Ush was one of twenty three players in Liscor, male and female, chosen for the team. Joseph had picked him during the try-outs for his ability to snag the ball like that. When he’d been teaching them, Joseph had run rings around an amateur. Now?

It was like trying to dodge a hurricane which snagged the ball each time. Trying to steal the ball back? Like trying to kick a spider dancing on a silken thread in the wind. The ball disappeared left, or right, and Ush grinned at Joseph as the young man slowed again.

“Stop taking it easy on us, Coach! Or we’ll get big heads!”

“Aha. I—”

They were moving too fast for Joseph to finish. Which was good because he didn’t have anything to say. That was what hurt most, by the by.

They thought he was better and holding back. The Flood Crabs looked at Joseph, teasing, admiring, after the game ended. Team A won despite Joseph, and they laughed.

Look at that. Taking it easy on us to show us it’s a team effort. Joseph could almost hear their thoughts as Lemiss joked with Ush. He smiled, unable, afraid to tell them the truth. He stood there, Joseph the Soccer Player.

“I think that’s it for today. Good hustle, team. I—oh?”

Some of the audience who’d come out to watch had flooded the field at this. Joseph saw an excited young woman, Human, thrust out something towards him.

“Excuse me—I’m a huge fan. Can I get an autograph?”

“Hey! You can’t just bother the coach! No civilians on the field!”

Ush looked outraged. Joseph saw the young woman’s face fall. He took the quill.

“It’s fine this time.”

“Sorry, Coach. We should really get security. You’re too popular. We are going to crush Invrisil in the next game!”

A player grinned at Joseph as the lucky autographee was escorted away with the other civilians begging autographs or wanting to talk. Joseph stood there. Trying to smile.

And they wonder why I drink. Damn me. Why do I have to be so jealous? So petty?

“I’ll see you all tomorrow. Hope you all level.”

He turned to the team. Ush grinned.

“I just did yesterday. But here’s hoping. Level 17 [Kicker]!”

The Gnoll of Joseph’s age offered a paw to high-five. Joseph…felt his petty evil welling in his heart. So he betrayed them before lunch time. He was sorry.

Yet he was a Joseph. Not a Kevin. Let alone an Erin.

—-

“Of such rank and injust betrayal of all I held dear, my heart could only twist and break and grieve for the goodness now wronged before mine eyes.”

–Mrsha the Grieving, in regards to the time Numbtongue ate her lemon tart.

Little Ekirra loved soccer. Soccer was fun. Soccer was life.

He got to level because of soccer. No one had higher levels than he did! Mrsha said she did, but she lied all the time about stuff.

His parents were really happy about it too. They’d bought him his jersey, and Coach Joseph was great. He was bouncing his personal soccer ball with his team as they chattered on the way through the south gate—then Ekirra’s eyes went wide.

“I forgot my belt pouch!”

He’d left it in the inn when he went to practice with Mrsha before practice with the team! He’d been so nervous that Coach Joseph would be mad. He looked around.

“I can take your ball, Ekirra.”

One of the Gnolls who lived on his street offered. He handed it to her.

“Thanks! And my jersey? Don’t get it dirty!”

Sweat didn’t count, or dirt from the pitch. That was good mess. His teammate, Cheka, sniffed at him. She knew that! Ekirra scampered on all fours back the way he’d come—then remembered and began to jog on two legs.

“Where are you going little fellow? Practice has ended, right? We don’t want you getting hurt before your game with Esthelm in two days!”

One of the big [Guards] at the gate stopped Ekirra. He pointed.

“I forgot my belt pouch at the inn.”

The [Guardsman] glanced at his companions.

“Ah. Hm. Why don’t you use the door instead? Safer that way. We patrol, but there’s always the Razorbeaks who’ll go after kids—and the Shield Spiders.”

“No chance of a Razorbeak with Bird the [Hunter] watching the skies.”

One of the Drakes snorted. The Gnoll shrugged.

“You want to explain to Captain Z? I’ll take you to the magic door. Ekirra, isn’t it?”

The little Gnoll nodded gravely. Guards were always right, or so his parents told him. It would take longer, but then they asked for his autograph.

“If you score in the game, we’ll all buy you a treat! Best of luck!”

They were nice. Ekirra took the big Gnoll’s paw and they hurried to the magic door. By the time they got there…Mrsha was gone. So was Visma.

“Miss Visma has gone back to Liscor. I don’t know…where Mrsha is.”

Ishkr frowned around. He was responsible since Miss Erin was hurt. Up to a point; he let Mrsha ‘play’ with Ulvama and kept regular tabs on her as Lyonette had asked, but Mrsha could evade everyone but Erin when she wanted to. Ekirra nodded gravely. Ishkr sighed.

“I will go look for her. Here are your belongings.”

He handed Ekirra the belt pouch. Ekirra thanked him as the [Guardsman], satisfied, stepped back through the door.

“Good luck in your games!”

“Thank you!”

Ekirra waved. He was going to go back—but now he needed to pee.

Three minutes later (it was poo), Ekirra opened the door of the outhouse and padded out. He sneezed a few times; it was always stinky. Then he headed back for the door to Liscor. He would have gone straight home, too.

But for Joseph. Ekirra smelled him first, naturally. He was about to ask Joseph if there was anything he should practice and how good he’d done! His tail wagged as he pursued Joseph towards the magic door, now placed in the portal room just off the side of the long hallway with the secret spying holes Mrsha had showed him.

“Coach J—”

Joseph didn’t hear him. Ekirra stopped as he realized Joseph had changed clothing. He’d washed himself, and changed out of the jersey of the Liscor Flood Crabs, which made sense.

…So why was he wearing another jersey? Yellow and black, like Apista?

Ekirra came to a halt. Joseph headed through the open door, into a sunlit city that smelled like a thousand things. Broad streets, amazing architecture. Ekirra recognized it at a moment’s glance.

Pallass. The little Gnoll stared at Joseph. It could not be. It wasn’t—he saw Liska move to close the door. Without a moment’s thought, Ekirra ran after Joseph. He leapt through the closing checkpoint gate, opened for Joseph, and heard the shout from the [Guards]. Then he was in the street, following Joseph, running from the angry Watch. It couldn’t be.

It couldn’t be, but he had to know. Not the most heinous thing. Not Coach Joseph. He couldn’t be…coaching another team?

He ran a total of five steps before a claw caught him, of course.

—-

The great betrayer walked through the streets of Pallass. Joseph, the sellout! The traitor! The—

“…Coach of Liscor’s team. I don’t think we need to introduce him.”

“Of course not. Good to meet you, er—Mister Joseph. Sir.”

They called him sir. The Drake [Strategist] had even asked for his autograph. But then, she was not Chaldion, far younger.

“It’s a pleasure to be here.”

Joseph mumbled. He felt bad. Mrsha had given the Pallassian jersey a dirty look before she went through to Invrisil. Wait—was she allowed to do that? Liska hadn’t cared.

Thoughts of Mrshas vanished as Joseph was introduced to two more players, and three financial backers, all of whom had been part of the group convincing him to teach Pallass’ team.

“We’re delighted you accepted our invitation to educate our team, Mister Ortega. What can we expect from you today?”

A Gnoll adjusted a monocle, much like Sir Relz. Joseph wondered if he was staring at his levels, but thanks to Erin and Ryoka, he was covered from appraisal and scrying. He seemed impressed with Joseph’s reputation at any rate.

“I don’t have a set plan, er, sir. I need to see where they’re at before I can improve them. Also, there are some new rules I need to bring to Pallass’ attention.”

That seemed to impress the cohort. They nodded; the [Strategist] consulted her notes.

“Ah yes, the aerial rule amendment.”

“You know about that?”

Joseph eyed her. She had the grace to look embarrassed.

“We intend to win the upcoming championship, Coach Joseph. Pallass won’t make the same mistakes again.”

“Especially not with Joseph the Soccer Player giving Pallass’ team his expert advice!”

Another Drake chimed in, and Joseph winced. For multiple reasons.

“Just remember, I’m also advising Liscor and Invrisil’s teams.”

The other faces fell. The Gnoll audibly whispered to a companion.

“We didn’t manage to get an exclusive deal?”

Joseph sighed. If you were going to sell out, you might as well do it so multiple groups had an advantage. Also—it was a lot of money.

A lot of money.

As in…a lot of money. As in…Joseph probably exceeded Solar Cycle’s income at this moment. As in…he just wasn’t as principled as Kevin or Erin, he guessed.

He was so swept up in all of the hustle and bustle as they took him to meet Pallass’ team; handpicked twenty three, some former adventurers, with dedicated family apartments, a huge salary, personal trainers, weights room, everything Liscor could dream of, yet they’d still gotten their asses kicked, that Joseph didn’t have time to really take in Pallass. He only looked around from the people asking him for autographs, a ‘game plan’ for Pallass’ unique strategy, his take on the upcoming Liscor-Invrisil match, when he heard the commotion behind him.

“Let me go! Let me go! I’m a Little Crab! Joseph is my coach! Not your stupid city’s!”

Joseph’s heart sank through his shoes. He turned and there was Ekirra. The little Gnoll stopped, stared at Joseph’s jersey, and looked like he was about to cry.

“J-Joseph?”

The sheer look of betrayal hurt more than it should. Joseph opened his mouth—then noticed the wall of muscle holding Ekirra.

“This little Gnoll slipped in past you. Joseph, isn’t it? We clearly need to update the security system, although I’m pleased the ward spells didn’t blast him to pieces. So there is that.”

Grimalkin of Pallass held Ekirra by one huge claw. The [Sinew Magus], the most built Drake that Joseph had ever seen, looked down at Joseph, face impassive. Joseph looked at Ekirra. The little brown Gnoll stared at him. He looked at the bemused backers of the team, the [Strategist], two of the players, and bellowed one word.

“Traitor!”

—-

Joseph sat in the office Pallass had given him, even if he was splitting his time between three teams now.

Ekirra hit him. Joseph didn’t move. Ekirra punched his leg. Joseph let him. Ekirra opened his mouth—and someone stopped him from biting.

“Listen, Ekirra, is it? There’s nothing wrong with this young man teaching multiple teams. He is not a player.”

A Drake with wings tried to explain to Ekirra. He let go of the Gnoll as Ekirra twisted to bite; the football player backed off as Ekirra spat, looking at Joseph.

“He can’t teach you! He’s Liscor’s coach. It’s not right!”

“Listen. Let’s try to be mature about this…”

Good luck with Ekirra. Joseph rubbed at his aching leg as Ekirra spat, keeping the other players from grabbing him with the power of expectoration. Besides which, ‘be mature about this’? If Joseph heard a coach from his favorite team was teaching a rival on the side…

He understood how Liscor would feel, that was the point. Loyalty. It was just…

…A lot of money. Joseph didn’t have a bigger reason than that. However, ten thousand gold pieces for a month? And that was from Invrisil.

“I’m sorry, Ekirra. I’m not taking sides. Nor am I coaching during the games. It’s just—a career. A really good deal.”

“I thought you liked us.”

Ekirra stared up at Joseph. His eyes were round. Then hurt. Then—he sat down and began to howl and cry.

Joseph would have preferred being stabbed. That was how it felt. Imagine if his heroes had just sold out like that in front of him?

“We should get this little Gnoll back home. The secret’s out, but that won’t compromise much more than the shock value…”

The Drake [Strategist] was trying to speak over the howls. She gestured and a Pallassian Guard reached for Ekirra.

Joseph stopped the Drake. He bent down and picked Ekirra up. The Gnoll instantly went back to punching, but Joseph turned him around.

“I’m sorry, Ekirra. I am. I do like your team and I like Liscor. I hope you win and become a great f—soccer player. I am teaching your team as best I can—but Pallass offered me a lot of money.”

“B-but…don’t you like us?”

The Gnoll was snotting on Joseph’s jersey. The young man didn’t mind. He let Ekirra sniff.

“I do. Er—but it was a lot of money.”

“Like…a thousand gold coins?”

The [Strategist] snorted. Joseph just nodded.

“Something like that.”

Ekirra calmed down a bit. He knew money mattered. He still looked hurt. Joseph looked at him. If this was home? He wondered if he had to worry about being jumped in a back alley. That…might actually be an issue.

He sat there, as Ekirra sniffed and blew his nose on the yellow jersey made with silk. Joseph looked at the waiting team, the [Strategist].

“It’s the game, Ekirra. I can’t be on the Liscorian team. I’m not that good.”

Several incredulous snorts. Ekirra looked up at Joseph and the young man’s heart twisted as he admitted it. Then—he made his peace with that fact.

“I’m not that good. I do love soccer, though. Which is actually called football. Do you like the game?”

Ekirra nodded, wiping his eyes. Joseph smiled. Suddenly, he knew what he had to do. Back home…on Earth, you could really like your teams. Enough to brawl or kill people during games. Those were the fans.

Perhaps, if there was something else to change, it wasn’t just the rules. Joseph set Ekirra down and knelt.

“Well then, if you want, why don’t you help me train Pallass? Then you can see I’m not helping them more or less than Liscor.”

Ekirra hesitated. He sat there, looking up at Joseph. The young man offered him a hand. The little Gnoll slowly took it. Joseph looked up. He felt an Erin-feeling in his chest. Was this how she got to feel? Certain?

“Is this young Gnoll going to be accompanying us? I would hate for this to interfere with Pallass’ first training session, Coach Ortega.”

The [Strategist] looked skeptical. Joseph met her eyes.

“This little Gnoll played the first game of football in Izril with me. He might be able to teach your players a thing or two. He won’t slow us down. I’m ready to teach the team. Just one thing though—I have a condition.”

She glanced at the other players as the team stood there. Joseph smiled.

—-

“—just a sterling amount of silver, aha, pardon the pun. Now, I can assure you, Sir Relz, that the quality of the silver won’t appreciably depreciate—another little pun—for at least the next f—”

The droning voice of the [Merchant] over Wistram News Network was fascinating. If you liked economic talk.

Some people did, which was why they’d allocated the hour to business talk with Sir Relz and his co-host.

Usually Noass, but since Noass was sick…Drassi got the job. She was slumped, her chin resting on her claw.

Clearly falling asleep. She kept jerking and trying to look interested, but her eyes were literally drooping, and Sir Relz had given up nudging her. The Drake with the monocle was leaning forwards as if to make up for her lack of enthusiasm.

This was the news. Or rather, the 24/7 broadcast from Pallass. The most fascinating thing looked like it might be Drassi literally starting to snore on air.

…Right up until the Drake [Reporter] glanced up, blinked, and leaned over as someone whispered to her. She broke into the [Metals Merchant]’s diatribe with a bright, overly-loud voice.

“Excuse me! I’m so sorry, but we have a breaking news report!”

Someone began playing a horn in the background, a jaunty tune as the words flashed around the magical ticker tape running across the bottom of the broadcast. Sir Relz blinked, and Drassi began speaking rapidly as someone held up the cue cards.

“This one’s a Pallassian exclusive. If you’re just tuning in…”

The viewer count began going up, as people were notified of the breaking news via their scrying devices. There were categories of news alert.

This was the lowest-level, which meant dramatic news, not wars or cataclysm, which were reserved for the highest-level alert. Even so…it was the news.

Ishkr stopped looking for Mrsha as the scrying mirror lit up. Ulvama, chewing on food, sat up, excitedly.

“…It looks like we’re in for sports news! I’ve just been given word that an upset is coming to the world of soccer!”

“Ah, yes.”

Sir Relz interjected, clearly trying to be part of the moment. He adjusted his monocle as he spoke rapidly.

“We’ve broadcast six games around the world, and there’s talk of bringing teams together to play a world-wide championship. Er—what’s the news, Miss Drassi?”

“Well—no, this can’t be right. Do we have a live-feed? Show me! According to this—”

The image shifted. The viewpoint became a [Mage]-on-the-ground. The city of Pallass and the steps stretched below the viewers, and there, in front of them, was a young man.

And a little brown Gnoll. Ishkr spat out his drink of water. So did a number of Liscorians including Lism.

“Joseph?”

Drassi was just as shocked as everyone else. She stared, then began reading the news.

“It says, Joseph the Soccer Player, whom we all know is…coaching Pallass’ team as well as Invrisil’s? He’s been contracted to coach both teams and—that dirty rat!”

She shot up, shrieking as the copper penny dropped. Sir Relz looked most amused.

“Come now, Reporter Drassi. Let’s be professional—”

“Professional? Professional my tail! He sold out! He’s supposed to be Liscor’s coach!”

“There’s no rule saying one cannot teach multiple teams—”

“What about loyalty? That double-dealing—this just in: I’m going to kick Joseph’s butt! Excuse me! I’m going to cover this one in person.”

Drassi tossed her papers and stormed out of the studio. Sir Relz took over. Yet there wasn’t as much commentating to do, because the image soon became just the feed from Pallass, not the news room.

—-

Joseph exhaled. He looked at the clear blue sky, and the people watching. Twenty three Drakes, Gnolls, Garuda, and Dullahans stood behind him.

A soccer team. Football, really. But who cared? Coaching…Ekirra looked up at him. Joseph adjusted his jersey. He spoke to the [Mage]-reporter, knowing he was on air.

“Yes, I’m teaching Pallass’ team and Invrisil’s. I’m sorry if that upsets Liscor’s team, or people who think of me as Liscor’s, but the truth is that it’s not quite fair to have me teaching one team. It might be I won’t matter, but for now I’m teaching all three teams to the best of my ability. No favoritism. Also, I’ll be donating a q—half of the money Pallass is paying me to Liscor’s team.”

“And what is it you’re going to do here? What do you have to say to threats made on your person by er, Reporter Drassi, and comments about loyalty to city or home?”

The [Mage] pressed Joseph. People saw the young man raise his hands, looking around, alarmed.

“Drassi? Tell her—tell her—”

He looked completely stumped for a second. The little brown Gnoll stared up at Joseph solemnly. At last, the young man barked a short, rueful laugh. He swept his hair back and looked up.

“Sorry. I just…like football. That’s all.”

“Football? Er—what about s—”

“Let’s go!”

Joseph turned and raised an arm. The soccer players broke into a surprised trot as an angry Drake pushed through the crowd behind Joseph. He called to the [Mage].

“We’re going to do a training routine—live! If anyone wants to watch, they’re free to copy it too!”

“What? Give me that—Joseph! Get back here! This is Drassi on the streets of Pallass! How many bones do you break if you get kicked down the staircase? We’ll find out now!”

Drassi snatched the scrying mirror from the surprised [Mage]. She ran after Joseph as Ekirra ran with him, the team following.

…The [Reporter] failed to catch up. She’d sprinted this far, and she found herself panting as Joseph ran down the steps. Ahead of him, the Watch was clearing the way. He held a football under one arm.

“Joseph! Joseph, do you mean it about donating the money?”

“I do! Don’t hit me, Drassi!”

She lowered the scrying orb she was using like a club.

“We don’t have anything but boring economics for this hour. Are you suggesting we broadcast your entire workout?”

“If anyone wants to learn how we do it, why not? At least the warm-ups! Unless Pallass has any objections?”

He glanced at the [Strategist] hurrying to keep up. She shook her head. Drassi turned.

“Hear that, Sir Relz? Someone get me a stamina potion. What’s our first step, Joseph?”

“Roadwork. Building muscles!”

They were storming down the stairs. Twenty three players, in an unscripted, but now live, very public event. A group of Drakes sitting at an outdoor café and watching the television glanced over as the team ran past them, then did a comical double-take as they realized they could see themselves.

“Why is running so important, Joseph?”

“Are you serious, Drassi?”

“No, I’m feeding you questions! Explain!”

The Drake snapped, shoving a speaking stone in front of Joseph. He laughed, and so did Ekirra, keeping pace.

“Well, you might run for ninety minutes straight during a game of football! Which is what it’s called by the way! Soccer is—a—a—colloquial term! We’ll be doing sprints, building up muscle every day, along with passing drills!”

“Even if they have Skills?”

“Especially if they have Skills! Skills don’t replace hard work or technique! Frankly, we might audition more players to see if some have the talent to make the roster! I didn’t choose the team!”

The players looked worried. They accelerated as Drassi and Joseph hit the second floor.

Behind them came Pallass. The [Sinew Magus], who had abandoned the excitement, glanced up from doing one-armed pushups on top of one of the railings that was creaking under his weight on the sixth floor. The narrow space and balancing act was part of his outdoor regimen.

“…Huh.”

Grimalkin stared at, to his eyes, two thousand citizens and growing jogging after Joseph and the soccer team. His students had increased exponentially, but his mass-exercise proposals and projects had never garnered even a tenth of this kind of excitement. He pushed himself up. They were running. The [Sinew Magus] started jogging.

—-

Joseph ran out of the gates of Pallass, grinning. The air felt fresh and warm. He felt alive.

The City of Invention’s vast, central eastern gate was wide open, letting a flood of people out past him. The team ran with thousands of citizens—those not already exhausted—around them.

“Pick up the pace! If Ekirra can beat you, anyone can outrun you on the pitch!”

Joseph called. Ekirra was running on all fours, but the little Gnoll could match an adult in a run or even sprint for a while. He was smiling. And the smile was infectious.

Drassi was panting, but chugging stamina potions and running with him. Aspiring players or just casual fans and people watching the news saw Joseph lift the ball.

“Let’s see how you can dribble. If you’re good—don’t lose speed!”

He tossed the ball down and watched the Pallassian team copy him with some hesitation. They did slow down! Ekirra began dribbling almost as fast as they were. Joseph shook his head.

“Passing? Come on—”

He kicked the ball and Drassi, panting, kicked it back with commendable accuracy. By this point, someone else was managing the ‘camera’.

“You could have tried out for the team.”

“Pass! I hate running!”

Drassi gasped. The viewer-count was shooting up. After all—it was a topical piece.

The walls of the City of Invention swept up to the jogging players’ right, three hundred feet of enchanted walls. Impressive; the viewpoint swept around the green, safe landscape. After all, this land was Pallass’, and there were few places safer unless war threatened. Joseph was still smiling when he saw the second group emerge and break off from the untidy mass of people running behind him.

Unlike the flagging citizens—they began to speed up. They were running in—formation?

Joseph, Drassi, Ekirra, and the soccer team slowed uncertainly. Was this the Watch, interrupting the impromptu gathering?

Femithain, paused over lunch with Nsiia, saw rows of Drake [Soldiers] running in full armor behind a Drake they recognized.

Grimalkin of Pallass jogged next to Joseph.

“Grimalkin! What are you doing?”

“Exercising! Pallass’ training regiments could use the additional leg strengthening! This is excellent joint-training! If any squad falls behind the soccer players, they will go on water rations tonight! And if any of you fall behind that little Gnoll, you can quit the army! Testicles!”

He bellowed back at the [Soldiers]. They flinched. Joseph and Drassi’s faces were a picture of surprise and bemusement. Suddenly, they were running as thousands of [Soldiers] accelerated, desperately following the [Sinew Magus].

“—That’s Grimalkin of Pallass, taking Pallass’ trainees on an exercise run! If you’re just tuning in, I’m Drassi and this is Joseph, and we’re doing a sample training for soccer, excuse me, football teams! I ask my viewers—dead gods, my legs hurt—how do you exercise? Feel free to send in [Messages] or even demonstrate! Now, passing…”

It was just a silly thing. Joseph and the soccer team did slow much sooner than Grimalkin of Pallass, who wanted two laps of the City of Invention. They began practicing.

A day in the sun. A game of soccer. A simple question. How do you train?

It sparked, as these things do, a flood.

—-

Joseph the Soccer Player ran on the scrying orb, keeping up a running dialogue with Drassi. The sun was already making the players sweat.

Yet just the scene of Pallass’ Engineers, the name of the soccer team, kicking a ball as they ran next to the paved road, past and sometimes on the artfully-cultivated grass and bright flowers that lead to the City of Inventions invited a moment.

The summer heat, the smell of fresh grass, a flight of swallows. Drassi laughing as Ekirra headed a football, leaping around, misery forgotten.

Fun. Casual fun, not anything grand or glorious. Just the lads…and lasses…playing a game they clearly loved.

It could put a smile on your face. It was inspiring too; because, look.

“He’s from Earth! See? It’s one of us! He’s teaching at one of the Walled Cities?”

Agog, the Earthers of Wistram were crowding the scrying orb, looking at one of the most successful Earthers in the world. Who had climbed up to his position of fame by hard work and effort. Joseph—the Singer of Terandria, and perhaps Rémi Canada, although that was a stretch.

Of course, someone had to take it too far. Grimalkin’s death-run with the [Soldiers] of Pallass and Drassi’s comments sparked, as it did—competition. The sight of so many Drakes running in formation, espousing the rigorous training of Pallass prompted pushback.

“It looks like Liscor has some stiff competition in the next game, eh, Sir Relz?”

Noass was still sick, but he’d climbed into the broadcast booth to cover for Drassi. Sir Relz, who’d edged as far to the side as possible, politely nodded.

“Indeed, Noass. Also, a wonderful display of martial training from Grimalkin of Pallass. I believe that’s 1st Army’s elite regiments in training…oh?”

He raised a claw, the signal for viewers to understand someone was giving him new information. Sir Relz consulted a bit of paper held up behind the ‘camera’.

“I think someone has taken our [Reporter] on the ground a bit literally. Are we cuttin—”

Another image appeared in place of the training football team. Sir Relz and Noass recoiled as an army appeared.

An army on the go. The King of Destruction’s forces, with Maresar and Venith, were suddenly front and center.

Running. Practically sprinting, really. With his Skills active no less, so they were eating up ground. Venith, in his plate armor, the King of Destruction, likewise wearing armor sans a helmet, were marching across Chandrar’s arid landscapes.

“I heard someone thinks Drakes field the most fit army in the world!”

The King of Destruction was laughing as he ran, despite the heat and dust caking his armor. Sir Relz hesitated.

“Are we live? Can he—”

“Yes I can. Sir Relz, isn’t it?”

Flos shouted back. The Drake flinched.

“King of Destruction—er, your Majesty Reimarch, is this your way of challenging Pallass’ training?”

“You could say that. We just mopped up a Nerrhavian force and we’re running to catch another one! Damned chariots—I notice you didn’t cover that in your morning broadcast! True, it was a little battle, but I thought I’d prove how a real army moves!”

The King of Destruction somehow managed to shout while running. Behind him, a stream of [Soldiers] raced onwards. In fact—Noass blinked as he wiped at his nose with a handkerchief.

“Is your entire army…running?”

“Exactly!”

The cavalry had dismounted and were running next to their horses. The infantry were running in formation, and the only group not running were supply wagons at the back.

And Maresar. She was letting her horse canter next to her husband and [King], rolling her eyes.

“We’re headed for the Simel Gulf! Assuming Nerrhavia has the cloth to face us there! That’s about forty miles—I expect to be fighting by late noon! Let’s see Pallass’ army do that!”

Flos bellowed. Sir Relz looked at Noass.

“Er—your Majesty. Is revealing the position of your army, uh, wise?”

Venith clearly shared the opinion based on the scowl on his face. Trey Atwood and Calac Crusland stared at the scrying orb, and traded glances. With resignation, Trey anticipated Flos’ reply before it was even given.

“If there was a choice between being the center of attention or being strategic, I know which one I’d pick! Now—pick up the pace!”

Somehow, Reim’s army found the strength to cheer and speed up. Flos Reimarch actually slowed to run between the ranks of his [Soldiers], clapping shoulders, laughing, thrusting his arm up and motivating his soldiers further.

Of course, the image didn’t stay on him. If you thought the ego of the King of Destruction was unmatched—you’d never met royalty. Or gone for a walk outside, really.

“I uh, think we’re getting more live feeds from forces claiming that Pallass’ training exercise is lacking. Is this—”

“Manus!”

Sir Relz went temporarily deaf as the City of War appeared in the background. A force six times larger than Grimalkin’s training group was on the run. A touch faster than Grimalkin’s group, and of course, wearing full armor, carrying their weapons as they ran.

At this point, Noass had a surreptition. He voiced it at the same time as Cara rolled her eyes and started laughing.

“It might be, Sir Relz, that a lot of er, groups, would like to demonstrate their superior conditioning.”

It was a prophetic comment. Soon, the broadcasting studio in Pallass was swamped with incoming transmissions. It seemed like every army and militia wanted to prove they could run faster, and the two Drakes had to remind their viewers that the point was soccer—football, not just showing off!

Obligingly, Flos Reimarch somehow found a football and kicked it into his army. More amazingly, his soldiers managed to field the ball on the run, and it was exceptionally amusing watching an entire group of pikes go sprawling as someone tripped up over it and created a pile.

Thus, he kept the spotlight shifting back to him as well as Joseph and Pallass’ team. Mainly because he was the King of Destruction as well.

However, dozens, and then over a hundred submissions were vying for attention, such that the viewpoint kept shifting, showcasing different armies. Manus got three minutes; Zeres two. Oteslia and Fissival didn’t even get to show up. They were replaced by the Maelstrom’s Howling Centaur divisions, led by the Bannermare, galloping across the ground to show the two-footers how you were supposed to move.

“They’re just showing off. This is going to go on all bloody day.”

Cara O’Sullivan, the [Popstar] of Terandria, didn’t seem too put out by the suggestion. She put up her feet and watched her personal scrying orb as the caravan of the band travelled down the road.

“Not tempted to join in, Cara?”

Rae teased her. The [Popstar] rolled her eyes.

“I’m not running a mile a minute to get my five seconds of fame. You have to stand out, stand out, Rae. No one needs to listen to the Singer of Terandria right now. However! This looks like a lot of fecking fun to watch. Anyone got some popcorn or snacks?”

The comment turned out to be slightly wrong. Mainly because Cara’s voice did appear on the broadcast. Just not live.

—-

“Come on. Just do it.”

Elena was arguing with the [Diviner] in charge of maintaining Wistram News Network. He frowned at her, yet Aaron was backing Elena up with a few Earthers. Trey lingered in the back with some of his [Mage]-friends. Calac was still locked on the scrying orb, hoping to see his parents again every time they flickered on screen.

“I don’t know. This is a news broadcast—”

“It totally fits. Just start playing it when you next cut to another group! Please? We know what we’re talking about. You’ll get more viewers!”

“Besides, you don’t need to hear those two Drakes talking. I know you can loop the sound into the feed. Do we have to ask an Archmage? You know Naili will okay it.”

Aaron added. The [Diviner] gave up.

“Oh—fine. But if they don’t like it, I won’t take the blame!”

He snatched the song crystal. As the image flickered again, Noass and Sir Relz were keeping up their rapid commentary.

“It looks like we’re at uh, House Ulta next. It seems Lady Pryde has taken Magus Grimalkin’s claims as a personal insult. Is that her in the yellow ‘track suit’ leading her personal forces? This is a new style of dress, by the w—what is that sound?”

The two Drakes’ voices were suddenly drowned out by a bomping drum and bass beat. A piano joined in a second later. Then—a voice.

Elena was grinning. In Terandria and her wagon, Cara sat up and nearly choked on her snacks as she heard her voice, recorded via song crystal, playing.

Music on air. For the first time, a recording rather than a live performance. Overlaid by the visuals of House Ulta jogging, almost synced perfectly to their feet striking the ground.

“Is this music? Inspirational? Is someone doing a performance? Oh—”

Sir Relz finally got the missive sent via [Message] and read it.

“It sounds like we’re playing music as a kind of, er, overlay to the scenery. This is, according to my notes, ‘Good To Be Alive’ by The [Popstar] of Terandria, original credit to…a skillet? As in, a cooking…?”

Cara picked herself up from the floor of the wagon, cursing. Abebi blinked at the recorded song playing. It was like a compilation video now. She smiled—then turned to the others. Thien had the same thought and raised his eyebrows.

“Do we get royalties from that?”

“Not invented yet. I’ll get on it.”

“Damn.”

—-

It was a fun song, fun competition. There he was too. Joseph.

The young man was, by now, oblivious to the television incident he was part of. He was doing another lap of Pallass, kicking the ball between him and a player, chatting about the minutiae of soccer with Drassi and the new rules on airborne players.

“Of course, that’s only for ground versus aerial players. An all-aerial team can do what they want. We’re also revising our formations.”

“Why’s that?”

“Oh—because it’s too easy to travel the entire football pitch, even with defense. Kicking Skills make it too easy. As players level up, we’ll have to entirely alter how we think about defense and offense. We might even have to put a limit on how high players can fly or pass.”

“Really? Is that too limiting for the game?”

Drassi looked concerned. Joseph shrugged.

“We need to experiment to keep the game from being too lopsided, that’s all I meant, Drassi. For instance—I could pass across the entire pitch quite easily. Hey up there!”

He bellowed up at the walls. Some of the distant [Soldiers] on Pallass’ walls waved energetically, hoping to be caught by the scrying mirror before their commanders reprimanded them. Joseph pointed up at a Garuda [Lieutenant].

“Is it okay if I ask one of you to help me demonstrate something?”

He might not have been audible, but the Pallassian [Strategist] assigned to the team rapidly spoke into a speaking stone. Normally, no one touched the walls, but this was sports. Thus, city-pride and propaganda.

“That’s fine. What were you planning, Coach?”

“This. Going up! Pass it back!”

Joseph kicked the football up a foot—then launched it up. There was a shout as the ball, propelled by his Skill, flew towards the wall. The Garuda [Lieutenant] recoiled, but saw the ball shooting up the three hundred feet towards him.

Faced with the sudden pass, the Garuda had two options. Catch it or let it sail past him and endure mockery, albeit limited, or kick it back. If he missed, he would be ridiculed. On the other hand…if he kicked it?

He went for the kick. By luck or skill, he succeeded, and a black-and-white meteor dropped towards Joseph. The other players on Pallass’ team raced towards it and launched it ahead.

Joseph grinned at Drassi.

“You see? If I can kick the ball that high, who’s going to block that, even with a jump Skill? Height limits. We’ll be practicing combinations with those rules.”

“I see.”

Drassi craned her neck up towards Pallass’ walls, looking deeply impressed at Joseph’s new Skill.

At this point, none of the Earthers watching him could bear it any longer. The music! The game of soccer—at least as they thought of it—and Joseph himself were the most Earth-like thing they’d seen since coming here.

“He’s from Earth! He’s from Earth! We have to talk to him! How’d he introduce Pallass? It looks so—safe!”

Emily was almost crying. Richard was thumping Edward on the shoulder with excitement, and the other young man was doing the same to him. The Earthers of the Blighted Kingdom on Rhir stared longingly at the smile on Joseph’s face.

Completely free from the war weariness, the sight of combat and the fear of death that was visible on theirs. All of them had instantly broken off from the briefing to stare at Joseph.

Red, Chole, Cynthia, Katie, Stacy, Vincent, Keith…all of the original Earthers were clustered around the orb, almost in tears to see one of them somewhere other than hell.

Of course, they had seen Joseph before. Yet he was as much a hero and inspiration to them as the [Heroes] were to…Rhir’s populace. They longed to be there, not here.

The other watchers were less sanguine about Joseph. Lord Hayvon Operland was already glancing at some of his people, a frown written across his face. Similarly, Nereshal bore an expression that failed to conceal how disturbing this was to him.

Tom the [Clown], giggling to himself and standing apart from everyone else, was of two minds about Joseph. Well, everything. Aha. He stifled another maniacal laugh as he wondered if Joseph was as happy as he looked or whether those Drakes had him. Nowhere was safe!

Other Tom was whispering in his head. You just know he’s in a gilded cage at best. They’ll make him happy, pump him for information. Playing soccer. As if that changes anything? What’s Rhir going to do, hm? Grab him? Kill him? Nereshal looks like he’s about to crap himself. Bring him to Rhir to fight the Demons? That would be hilarious. Soccer balls vs the Death of Magic! Ha—

However, a voice interrupted his rambling thoughts. A snort, almost incredulous.

“Is that…soccer? Someone’s playing soccer instead of casting magic and stuff? That’s insane.”

The Earthers—the original Earthers—turned. Tom’s head spun around. Nereshal, Hayvon, and the other [Soldiers] of Rhir looked at the incredulous group craning to see the orb.

The other Earthers. The new Earthers. Over a hundred and ten so far, and more trickling in.

The Blighted King’s harvest. Tom’s teeth ground together as he saw the young man staring at Joseph, more bemused than inspired or hopeful.

So naïve. So excited, some of them. The smart ones looked worried. Not worried enough! He suppressed the laughter bubbling up inside of him.

“Sir Richard, Lady Emily and company, while I understand this moment is important, perhaps we could educate your companions as planned?”

Hayvon spoke gravely. Richard stepped away from the orb with clear reluctance.

“That’s right. Listen—”

His voice trailed off as he looked at the hundred plus Earthers. Some were clutching weapons, others holding spellbooks, artifacts they had been granted from the Blighted King’s treasury. They were dressed in rich clothing, or their original clothes from Earth.

They looked horribly, painfully, stupidly excited to Tom. Stupid idiots, some vibrating with the desire to be adventurers, [Mages]. Half had even bought the line about being chosen heroes, sent to fight evil!

“Where’s that? Can we go there? Look—there are Dragon-people!”

An excited whisper ran through the group, as Richard tried to speak. He lifted his gauntleted hands.

“Listen. This is Izril, not Rhir. I’m afraid the reality is we’re up against Demons. I wanted to talk to you all about what it’s like to actually fight. This isn’t a game—”

They weren’t listening. Tom bit his finger, hard enough to break his skin. He giggled as Emily glanced at him, and then at the Earthers.

“She sees it too! Look! They’re like us, but twice as stupid!”

He giggled to no one in particular. Keith glanced at him and edged away. But it was true! All true!

These Earthers were valuable! The Blighted King showered them with gifts and unlike last time, he wasn’t going to dismiss their worth since he knew they leveled three times, ten times as fast as anyone from this world!

They were the same, though. One of the Earthers was snickering at Richard’s cowboy hat and his armor. They were muttering, unable to even keep silent as Richard talked.

At complete contrast with Rhir’s [Soldiers] and people, of whom even Nereshal and Hayvon were listening to Richard respectfully.

No wonder they thought you were children and worthless! Look at them! Don’t they look pathetic! How do you seem to them? A fat man in a clown costume? Cowboy Richard? Emily, the [Water Mage]? Hah! They don’t know. When they do—what will their faces look like?

“So this is where everyone from the Spirited Generation is going? This is so—cool.”

Tom’s manic smile twitched. Cool. Amazing. Fun. They looked at him, even, like he was a novelty. He’d been compared to the Joker, or other superhero villains or characters at least five dozen times this week alone.

This week, when the Blighted King finally announced the new wave of Earthers that would valiantly join the Blighted Kingdom in defying the Demons. He watched Richard’s doomed attempt.

“Listen, everyone. This is not a game. You don’t come back from the dead.”

“Are you sure? What if we just go back?”

“Have you heard of any of us coming back? Anyone? Ron, Reyanne? Any of our friends?”

Emily interrupted, a tinge of annoyance coming back into her voice. The new Earthers murmured; a girl tossed her dyed hair.

“No—”

Yet they knew about the missing kids. The Spirited Generation? Hilarious! Tom bit harder, tasting blood. Earth knew! They didn’t know what was happening, but they knew! Fascinating.

Stupid. Look—Richard was trying to get them to take it seriously. Hayvon was demonstrating as they locked swords. That just meant half the guys and some of the girls wanted to ‘give it a try’. Tom was growling, now.

“Tom. Chill. What’s wrong with you?”

Chole looked worried. The [Nurse] edged over. Tom giggled at her and she hesitated, but she was braver than most. Willing to talk to the madman. By contrast, Cynthia cowered if Tom so much as looked at her, which meant he stared.

“Look at them Chole! Look! We survived the Death of Magic blowing us to bits! All those brave heroes being sent back—and look at them! It’s just a game. It’s just a damned game to them.”

His voice was hysterical, he knew. Some of the others looked at him. The smart ones looked disturbed. The others just thought he was acting. Acting!

“I know. They’re like us. We have to teach them. Maybe—kill a monster?”

That might do it. Tom giggled and shook his head, though. His head rotated and Chole flinched as it strained his neck tendons with cracks.

“I have a better idea.”

The [Clown] edged over as Richard, exasperated, tried to raise his voice.

“Listen! This isn’t fun and games!”

“Come on, man. Who put you in charge? Tell us about levels! Are we going to grind for experience or—”

The arguers, who apparently knew more about how this kind of game worked and were ready to ‘game the system’, find out the ‘best classes’, and so on, stopped. As did the susurration of voices. Because the [Clown] had done a handspring forwards, and his posse of similarly-attired followers, painted faces, colorful clothing, too-wide smiles, had set up a cheer.

At least he knew how to command attention. Tom posed on top of a table, turning his head around. His smile? Almost genuine.

“Ladies and gentlemen! It looks like my dear friend Richard is trying to tell, not show you the gravitas of this world! Also, the wonder! I, Tom, the [Clown], will demonstrate. You’ve heard about Skills and magic. You’ve seen artifacts and feasted on the Blighted King’s hospitality. Now see what you get from fighting and slaughtering possibly innocent people and animals! Behold! [My Other Self]!”

His shadow moved. Then—a second Tom stepped out of the first Tom. The [Clown] spread his arms and turned at the gasps and then applause.

Amazement! Surprise! Excitement! Like a carnival crowd, the Earthers stared, gathering closer as the separate Tom appeared. They spoke at the same time, eerily disquieting.

The new Earthers were unwary. Richard was worried, but Hayvon held him back. He was looking at Tom. So was Nereshal, who was stroking his chin and nodding, almost resigned. The [Chronomancer]’s features were of a young man sometimes, when he cared to be. His eyes were always old. Tom met his gaze and smiled wider. Both Toms turned, spreading their arms wide.

“Glorious Skills! This isn’t all! I can do whatever is in my class! See?”

He produced a knife. Then a carrot. Both Toms began to juggle the objects around at each other. Tom looked.

Oh yes, look at the smart ones! That girl, there, who flinches. That young man, who might be only fifteen. Just a boy, but he’s smarter than that oaf with his stupid friends. That pallid idiot who thinks playing games on a computer will let him become the hero he wants to be! Now—

Both Toms met the other’s gaze. They stopped juggling. A carrot bounced off a face.

“Ow!”

Laughter at the gag. Tom dreamily stared into his eyes, and then around at the Earthers.

“All you could want. All the potential in the world. And with great power comes…oh, you know. Death.”

The knife flicked up in his hand. He turned, and with all the casualness in the world, slashed at the other’s face. His knife went through cheek—bounced off teeth. The skin parted, unveiling what looked at first like sticky red cloth beneath. The other Tom—

—was faster. He put the knife in the first Tom’s eye. Lodged it deep, twisted—

The first Tom vanished. The real Tom spat blood out of his mouth and grinned. Blood ran down his face, out of his mouth and his cheek.

The laughter, the applause—the voices—suddenly went silent. Only his troupe began to laugh at the joke.

“Wh—wh—”

“Oh my god. He just—”

The Earthers stared in horror at the sudden display of violence. The other Tom had vanished as soon as he was murdered. Someone began to laugh—incredulously.

“Thank you, thank you. No need to applaud. But I don’t think the point has sunk in yet. Can I get a volunteer to help me out? No? Well then, you, sir.”

Tom pointed at the nearest young man, a football player—American football—and leapt.

“Tom!”

Richard shouted, but it was too late. Tom’s hand flashed. The crowd scattered back and the horrified eyes saw him plunge the knife into the bigger young man’s stomach, his legs.

At first, the pain didn’t even register. The football player knocked Tom aside. Then he saw his guts hanging out of his stomach. The bloody cuts on his legs. He began to shout in horror. Then—scream.

First him, then those around him. Yet Tom hadn’t stopped moving. He turned, and threw the knife into a girl’s thigh. She went down, shrieking.

“Tom!”

“Sir Thomas! Stop!”

Hayvon roared. He and his people strode into the crowd, but the stunned Earthers began fleeing. Too late, too late—Tom was pulling more weapons out of his invisible bag of tricks. He threw knives, lifted a wand and blasted a group with fire.

Flames ignited clothing. The [Clown] leapt, doing a spring, slicing, attacking the Earthers at random. Emily blasted him with a jet of water, but only knocked several Earthers flat as he dodged.

Richard tackled Tom in the end. It didn’t matter. He laughed as Richard slammed a fist into his face.

He’d done his job. Screams of pain, crying—the tiled floor ran with blood.

“Why so angry, Richard, old chap? Nothing a healing potion won’t fix.”

He grinned around his gash of a mouth and bleeding nose. Richard stared at him, fist raised for another punch. He looked around.

Nereshal stood there, watching reality sink in. He looked at Tom and nodded once. Almost in gratitude. The [Clown] laughed and laughed. He bellowed up at the ceiling.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of Earth! Welcome to hell!”

—-

Of course, the good vibes of the day were only ruined on Rhir. Elsewhere, Joseph’s soccer lessons and the other groups showing off continued to be the trivial excitement for the day.

Empress Nsiia, formerly of Tiqr, and Magus-Crafter Femithain of Illivere, for instance, quite enjoyed just watching the scrying orb.

Typically, Femithain was working as he did, signing documents with one eye on the scrying orb. Nsiia leaned on the table, watching.

What else was there to do? She couldn’t just gallivant off. She was a prisoner, however nicely accommodated. Similarly, she had no desire to watch the new Golems that Femithain was working on be produced one scrape of a chisel or swing of a hammer at a time.

Femithain was now the [Golem Artificer] of Illivere, as Domehead had proven. The grand champion of the arena was still smashing heads in, and proving the possibility of creating more Sentient-class Golems at last.

Nsiia wished Domehead were assigned to guard duty here. She was bored, so this scrying orb was the only entertainment. She spent far too much time watching it, often for news of the King of Destruction.

It gave her both heart and annoyance to see him front-and-center. She wished he would win his wars, while knowing Reim was under attack from too many sides. Yet Tiqr lay beneath the conqueror’s boot while he wasted time!

“Femithain, do you want to play this game of football-soccer?”

She rolled over on the table, stretching like a cat. The little cat, with an ash-blonde pattern of fur of little rings, rolled over, copying her.

Yinah, whose lower half had been supplanted by Golem prosthetics. For all that, she didn’t seem to mind.

The Magus-Crafter raised his eyebrows as he retrieved some papers from the bored former-[Empress].

“It has some popularity in the federation, Nsiia. However, I personally am not inclined to try. I did draw up a Golem capable of defending one of the goals or kicking the ball for amusement, though.”

“Bookworm.”

She accused him. Femithain just raised his brows higher.

“Is this a revelation, Nsiia?”

The woman sighed and stared at the ceiling. In some ways, Femithain was an ideal captor. He rose to little bait, and for all he was polite, and they had a friendship, he also kept strong boundaries.

Seducing him had failed. He watched her carefully. If she had thought she could suborn him, or gain her freedom, Nsiia would have done whatever it took. Yet he cleverly rotated the Human staff in and out, and used Golems to guard her.

For all she was idle, too…Nsiia stared up blankly at the ceiling.

“Hm? What, Femithain?”

“I said, would you like to play soccer? I am sure a game could be arranged. Perhaps even one that avails you of the scrying orb.”

“No. I…”

The [Empress], for all her casual demeanor, folded her arms and stared up at the ceiling on the veranda. Chandrar’s hot, dry air was familiar, reassuring. She would have loved to run and play this silly game any time had she been in Tiqr, put aside the duties of the crown to play with her subjects.

Yet Tiqr is gone. My subjects are [Slaves] or fight for their land against my foes even now as I recline, growing fat and indolent. They despair and I wake knowing I failed them, as I do every day.

She lay there, depression overtaking her. She still stayed in contact with them, despite being [Animalfriend Exile], no longer [Empress of Beasts]. Her trusted [Wild General], Vasraf, still led a resistance from the steppes, raiding the enemy armies holding Tiqr, freeing her subjects from slavery and bondage.

She communicated with him via the birds she had tamed around Femithain’s mansion. Perhaps the Magus-Crafter didn’t know, or couldn’t figure out how to stop her from using her animal contacts. Perhaps this was the small kindness he allowed her.

If so, it was no kindness but a cruelty disguised as one. For all it let Nsiia do was send empty words of comfort to Vasraf. Hear of her people’s suffering.

‘They despair, your Majesty. I do not, yet time and their dire hours take its toll. Have you hope to offer us?’

The last missive which had reached her after one of the brave birds had flown day and night to reach her had been as an arrow into her chest. Nsiia clutched at her heart.

They fight. Can I offer them nothing?

No Golems of war. She was not the [Golem Maker] she had tried to become. Moreover, Femithain had discovered her projects and confiscated them. She was free to train her class…under supervision.

Domehead…no, no. Even if she could suborn it, him, the Golem was a single one, however intelligent, and would never make it to Vasraf. So, Nsiia lay there.

Until she had a thought.

I can offer my subjects nothing but myself. If they take any heart, let it be all I can give.

So she rose and looked at Femithain.

“I may try to get on the scrying orb after all.”

The Magus-Crafter blinked, having forgotten the conversation already. Nsiia sprang to her feet.

“If you wish it, I will send word for a [Mage] to broadcast you. In fact, perhaps Armsmaster Dellic would care to put together a small group to demonstrate Illivere’s…physical acumen.”

Femithain hesitated over that, since this was not a title to which the Illivere Federation could really lay a claim. Nevertheless, Nsiia was grateful. She began to stretch. At least let them see her! If it helped at all—

Yinah took over Nsiia’s job. She rolled over Femithain’s desk, meowing, until he began to pet her with his free hand. Nsiia went to get her moment on air.

—-

That would be harder than it looked. As many groups were finding out.

Politics, fortune, fame, and, naturally, entertainment–value, were what allowed one to get on Wistram News Network. Yes, some generous contributors could get featured by being ‘randomly chosen’ out of the now thousand-plus submission count coming into the broadcast studio, from [Mercenaries] to full-fledged armies.

However, unless you had that advantage, or that of fame, only entertainment value or luck would get you a coveted slot, and your five minutes of fame.

Or five seconds. It was all so…political. For instance, The Glorious Kingdom of Medain…was not featured on the broadcast despite King Perric graciously taking time out of his conflict with Khelt-Jecrass to organize a showing of his Golden Ranks.

By contrast, Ailendamus got nearly thirty seconds of showing off their armies jogging towards another battle with the Dawn Concordat because it was topical and war. Not because they were more interesting than any of the other dozens of sweaty people in armor doing the same.

That was just it. At some point, the novelty wore off. Yes, they were running in formation and that was interesting. Yet watching that got old after about eleven minutes.

So Rabbiteater couldn’t fathom why the Order of Seasons wanted to copy that. Then again—being on the scrying orb was an allure of its own.

“Come on, Ser Solstice! Let’s show off our Order! We’ve put in a request to Wistram—how am I supposed to use this thing again?”

The Summer’s Champion accidentally kicked a ball straight into the Spring’s Warden’s chest plate. She let it drop and fielded the ball back, with a considerable amount more dexterity than he.

“You pass the ball, Ser Greysten. Like so.”

“Are you two seriously considering this?”

Knight-Commander Calirn looked pained. The Winter Knight had declined to armor up, but the two heads of their Season were determined to get on television and showcase their order.

Egos, [Knights], [Knights]…Rabbiteater didn’t see the point. Oh, it was vaguely fun, he had to admit, but he’d been on television a few times. He hadn’t told them that, though.

The Goblin was game to join the two hundred [Knights] of Spring and Summer who were going to do the passing exercise as they ran around their keep, too. So he set off, passing the ball to Ser Markus, as the Order waved upwards.

The new way Wistram could showcase so many groups was [Scrying] spells. It was ingenious, really. You sent coordinates to them and they [Scried] your location. Some places were warded against such spells, of course, but the Order of Seasons had dropped their wards just to get on the news.

By contrast, Chaldion of Pallass had told Wistram flatly to use their [Mages] and scrying gear. Pallass would not drop their wards for a second.

Thus, [Knights] waved at the sky, hoping to be seen, while they passed the soccer balls back and forth with a good degree of accuracy as they jogged along. They were warriors after all.

Rabbiteater saw the Summer’s Champion excitedly checking the scrying mirror he carried as more [Knights] watched from the keep’s walls. The [Knights] did a lap of the keep…then two…

“We’re not showing up.”

Ser Greysten slowed, the huge [Summer Knight] looking perplexedly at the Spring’s Warden. She shrugged.

“Wistram hasn’t selected our group for viewing.”

“What, are we supposed to keep running and waving until they do? We are the Order of Seasons!”

Greysten was a bit petulant. The [Knights] slowed, some looking a bit hurt. Surely their famous Order would garner attention?

…Compared to the King of Destruction, the Walled Cities, other nations, and every other Knight Order who’d had the same idea in the world? Rabbiteater took a sip of water through his visor with a straw. He saw the latest showcase in between going back to Joseph and the soccer team were actually [Knights]. Only—they were a bit smarter than the Order of Seasons in how they’d gotten attention.

Wistram was still playing the [Popstar]’s music during the showcase, which really added to the visuals, it had to be said. In the spirit of such compilation videos, the best and most inspiring antics were being chosen.

To the fast, energetic chords of an electric guitar and of course, the drums and vocals, two [Knights] appeared on the scrying orb.

In bed. Not the same bed, mind you, but it was enough to throw an audience expecting another running Courier or group of exercising soldiery.

Even so, two very toned, muscular men sat up at the same time, almost overplaying yawns and stretching. Then an alarm bell rang.

“What in the name of Troll dung am I looking a—”

Greysten’s outraged voice was shushed by the Spring’s Warden, who could appreciate the view. Similarly, a number of outraged Drakes and Dullahans—mostly male—began sending in complaints to Wistram. By contrast, Redscar pushed aside a few Goblins to stare with more attention.

Rabbiteater saw the two [Knights] shoot out of their beds as if launched. They looked outside, decided they were needed in armor now, and blasted out of their dormitory-style bedrooms in naught but briefs.

That didn’t last long, though. Whoever had the scrying mirror backed up down the stairs ahead of them as they pushed and jostled, running down the stairs. One of the two [Knights], blonde, with a trimmed beard and an impish grin, had a bag of holding and was chucking pieces of armor at the other. His fellow, with orange hair that suggested some aristocratic blood tinged with a bit of purple at the roots, slapped on pieces of armor.

They were running down the stairs now, and the first [Knight] tossed the bag of holding at a pair of [Squires]. To Rabbiteater’s entertainment and amazement, they were donning their armor as they ran.

By the time they were running through the keep they were based at, their [Squires] and the [Knights] had half their armor on.

“Arming Skills.”

Ser Markus whispered to Rabbiteater. The cheerful song was about four minutes long, which was as long as it took for both [Knights] to be out of bed, running out of their keep in full armor. It was an impressive display of preparation, showmanship, comedy, and something to look at.

That was entertainment. Ser Greysten was much unimpressed.

“The Chevaliers d’Omerra. Showoffs.”

“Don’t be petty.”

The Spring’s Warden teased him. Yet it was also proof that the bar was rising for good submissions. Kicking a few footballs around and running in straight lines was not enough.

Proof positive, the next view was a familiar man who had taken the world’s attention a few times. Lord Bel, the Lord of the Dance wasn’t running. He was gliding across the floor. Someone did throw a soccer ball at him, and he kicked it up, keeping it on a leg as he turned, flicked it back with a smile at another [Dancing Warrior], who caught it between shoulder and head, then, with a display of muscular coordination, flicked it onto the other shoulder.

—-

“Is that even legal?”

Drassi turned to Joseph. The soccer coach hesitated, but Grimalkin boomed behind them. They’d stopped to stare at the unfolding event.

“Who cares? What excellent control of musculature! That group of muscles there! Finely developed! And did you see how coordinated they were, to disguise their movement by sliding their feet across the ground? It’s a dancing technique, but the control required—”

“Moonwalking. Or something.”

Joseph murmured. The Lord of the Dance cut away to another display, this time as the other species of the world stopped Humans from hogging the spotlight.

A headless Dullahan kicked a ball, which was headed by a second one in armor. A third Dullahan, most mobile of the group, leapt up and kicked the ball into the goal, wearing cloth armor to allow such acrobatics.

The goalkeeper had missed, but he went into the goal to pick out the ‘ball’. Which…was a head. The first Dullahan had launched herself at the goal, and looked smug as could be. Unphased by the kicks! All the other Dullahans applauded gravely, rather than jump around and shout.

“This is amazing.”

Joseph could barely tear himself away from the game, but he realized he was still supposed to be teaching the soccer team. How was he supposed to live up to that?

“—I think we have to try something big.”

Drassi waved her camera-[Mage] into position as Joseph turned to Pallass’ team, who clearly felt the same way. He gestured.

“Let’s set up a game. Only—we’re going to work on a goal-breaker.”

“A what, coach?”

The team gathered around as Joseph stood around a map to sketch out some tactics. He was unaware of the television viewpoint shifting to him. He addressed the [Strategist] from Pallass as little Ekirra excitedly held up his football, panting.

“A way to score on a good goalkeeper. Liscor’s has a great shield Skill and if you give him time to let it recharge, he can block most shots you can field. We need to work on better combos for scoring. Now—I’ve seen Pallass score in the last game. You let one person kick on the goal.”

“…Isn’t that how you do it?”

“Not at all. A good technique is to pass and score. The keeper can’t keep up, you see. So let’s say you—”

“Rea, Coach!”

“Yes, you’re coming at the goal, Rea, on the ground…you’d feint, pass left to Virr, here, and he passes again to someone here. See? Three directions and the keeper might fall for any one of them. Besides which, player three in the corner here has the best, most direct angle in. That’s how you score.”

“Of course. Of course!”

The [Strategist] was making rapid notes. Joseph smiled. The game was more complex than just kicking the ball!

“Plus, now we have an aerial component. So I’ll be playing and we’ll be setting up scoring opportunities. Obviously, the defending team should try to stop us. We’ll improvise some strategies. Let’s fill the field!”

Ekirra raced out with the attacking team. Bemused, the Pallass team let him wave his arms as a kind of mascot. Joseph grinned as he took aim.

“No Skills this time! Rea!”

He shot the ball to her. She went for a run on the goal. True to Joseph’s comments, if you could set it up right, multiple passes to make the goalkeeper uncertain was a nightmare to defend against.

“It’s rare you get that much time, though. Normally it’s a few players at best coming at the goal. This is an ideal situation. However—let’s try with Skills!”

Joseph was shouting. Sir Relz and Noass were commentating, timing out the game until the next person slated for viewing—a group of Garuda who wanted to pass the ball an entire mile between themselves without letting it strike the ground.

“Not a bad showing, Noass, although we are getting some incredible displays of physical prowess.”

“Indeed, Sir Relz, but let’s not forget, this is Coach Joseph on his first day. It might be too much to expect him to fully grasp Pallass’ unique capabilities.”

Noass sniffed, mostly due to his cold, and helpfully set up the moment for what would come next. The two Drakes were looking benignly, condescendingly amused as they sipped some restorative tea. Joseph shouted.

“Aerial combo one! Rea!”

This time he launched the football from the center of the field. Without a Skill, but straight at the Garuda. It was a risky move, and two fliers tried to dodge.

“Miss Drassi, can you commentate on the dangers of aerial passes?”

On the field, Drassi nodded as Rea lost the ball, failing to pass it properly and the team reset for another try.

“Yes, Sir Relz! Aside from interception, you have to instantly pass. Which is a pain in the tail, or so it seems. The real danger though are the fliers. Broken ankles.”

“Broken ankles, really?”

“Oh yes. Garuda and fliers at that angle and speed? I’m told you can easily break something. However, Coach Joseph is doing his best—oh! Before you cut to something else, it looks like they’re trying a Skill version of this!”

Sure enough, Joseph had lined up. This time—Rea dove as he shouted.

“[Pinpoint Distance Kick]!”

The ball shot across the field. The Garuda dropped, just under the established height of thirty feet for an aerial pass, and screamed. Joseph hadn’t ordered her to, but she’d clearly seen how fast the ball was coming up and realized her leg might not survive the impact.

Unless she used a Skill.

“[Axe Kick]!”

Joseph’s eyes widened as the Garuda dropped and her clawed foot hit the ball. The impact was like a thunderclap in the air.

He was amazed the ball didn’t explode from the pressure, but Pallass used enchanted equipment, of course. The ball ricocheted down to earth like a comet.

Missing the two players set for the pass. Rea didn’t have fine control with her Skill, so it hit the turf in front of the goal like a meteor. Dirt fountained up about ten feet in front of the goal as the ball began to bounce up. The goalkeeper was ready, but no one else was there. Cursing, Rea dove—

A little brown head came up and head-butted the ball midair. By luck, by accident, the little Gnoll racing around in excitement had been close to the impact.

Ekirra’s head smacked the ball and Joseph heard a ping in his head at the same time as the ball bounced. Straight into the Dullahan goal-keeper.

The Dullahan had set himself, arm raised. He had a blocking Skill, and Ekirra shouldn’t have generated that much force. In truth, the little Gnoll might have knocked himself silly given the dangers of such an impact. Yet something…happened.

The goalkeeper’s eyes widened a moment before the ball struck him in the chest. Grimalkin, idly watching from the side—blinked. The [Sinew Magus] saw the Dullahan, steel armor dented, fly past his head. He whirled, pointed.

“[Featherfall]!”

He caught the Dullahan before the goal and keeper hit the ground. The impact had been more than just the ball; it had blown the entire goal back!

Ekirra lay on the ground, head spinning dizzily. Rea, the other players, Joseph—Sir Relz and Noass’ mouths were wide open.

“What—what h—”

Drassi picked herself up, looking astounded and at a loss for words for once. Grimalkin was already bending over the Dullahan, making sure he wasn’t injured badly. As everyone came running over—Joseph to check on Ekirra—he stood up, nodding.

“Dented armor. Maybe cracked ribs at most. Not a problem. The child?”

He didn’t look as concerned for Ekirra. Sure enough, the Gnoll boy was dizzy, but grinning stupidly.

“What in the name of scales was that?”

One of the players demanded, wide-eyed. Grimalkin boomed the answer at the same time as Sir Relz bellowed it.

“Combination Skill! They just pulled off a Combination Skill live on—”

Every head turned to Joseph. The [Kicker] stared around. Yet it was true. It had gone off in his head, as if he was about to fall asleep, but while he was fully awake.

[Combination Skill – Meteor Guardbreaker Shot obtained!]

Drassi threw up her claws. Pallass team began shouting. Joseph looked at Ekirra, then around, as clearly confused as everyone else.

This was maximum entertainment.

—-

“If you’re just tuning in, a Combination Skill has just been discovered, live! On Wistram News Network! Noass, can you explain to the viewers what this rare phenomenon is?”

“Of course, Sir Relz. It’s a technique that only occurs when multiple Skills activate at once. It can then be redeployed by any of the participants, but it is a highly situational, highly powerful phenomenon.”

The two excited Drakes’ voices were echoing through Wistram, who were as excited as the rest of the audience. It turned out little Ekirra had used a head-butt Skill, one of the three total he possessed.

The rest was history.

No, wait. The rest was maximum viewership and television! In the Wistram News room, every [Seer], [Diviner], and so on were sorting through submissions, talking rapidly to people who wanted a piece of this moment.

Not only them. [High Mages] and higher-ranking members of Wistram were ‘helping’, so it was no surprise to see Viltach shilling for Human submissions, and arguing with Nailihuaile.

“Give another [Knight] Order a chance! I have the Order of Seasons—”

“Boring! I want to see something amazing! Those—put those on after the soccer team!”

The Star Lamia was excitedly waving her arms. She pointed and the obliging orb and broadcast, on a five minute delay, shifted to another viewpoint.

Pomle. A group of [Martial Artists] were spread out over about four hundred feet of ground in a rough circle. They were leaping, kicking, or punching a ball that was ricocheting around. Orjin, Strongest of Pomle, hit the ball so fast that the [Scaled Fist] missed her punch. It hit one of the oasis’ trees, bounced off the tree, and cracked it in half. Viltach spluttered of course, but the [Knights] were clearly outmatched by that kind of entertainment.

Of course, the live broadcast was still on Ekirra, who was smiling, still a bit cross-eyed.

“I learned how to head-butt before I played football! Guardsman Relc tried to teach me Relc Headbutt, but I only got—”

The broadcast was filled with excited [Mages], interesting sights—far overshadowing the poorer submissions.

Which were, to their respective disappointments, the Order of Seasons and Nsiia, both of whom couldn’t match the excitement of the best submissions.

Into this moment strode Eldavin. The lesser [Mages] parted like a swarm in front of the half-Elf. He looked around.

“What are you all doing?”

The [Mages] looked at the upset Dragon. They hesitated.

“Grand Magus? Is something the matter?”

“I should say so! I am seeing this display of ability from every corner of the world! Yet where are the [Mages]? Where is Wistram’s pride?”

The half-Elf stared about. A few jaws dropped.

“You mean—but we’re not [Warriors], Grand Magus. And this has been a decidedly, er, physical event.”

One of the [Mages] blustered, and then recalled he was talking to Eldavin, who looked like a Grimalkin of half-Elves. He was fixed with a stare by Eldavin that was practically a [Frostbite] spell of its own.

“Young mage. Tell me something. Is there anything that can be done that Dr—[Mages] cannot do better?”

The arrogance of…[Mages]. The group of spellcasters looked at each other. Eldavin sniffed.

“That’s what I thought. Put us ‘on air’ in fifteen minutes. Anyone wishing to join me is free to participate. Students, teachers—I think outside the academy will do.”

He pointed at the Archmages.

—-

Rabbiteater sat on the grass, sipping from his water flask with the handy straw. The other [Knights] of the Order of Seasons sat around glumly.

No featuring for them. Greysten was complaining to the Fall’s Sentinel, who was personally talking to [Mages] in Wistram.

“No luck, I’m afraid. Look—Wistram is next.”

“That’s sheer favoritism—”

The Summer’s Champion hesitated. For there, on screen, was Grand Magus Eldavin and nearly a hundred [Mages], students and older, demonstrating the art of grandstanding.

“Now, how does the expression go? Ah, yes. Pass the ball.”

Eldavin gestured. Then, with a good show of it, the white-haired half-Elf with the beard who looked like he was pushing two hundred casually kicked the [Fireball] left. The [High Mage] turned dead white, but she fielded the ball, and kicked it ahead.

The [Mages] were running too, incidentally. On…Rabbiteater blinked.

The surface of the ocean, around the Academy of [Mages]. One of the [Mages] passed the ball up towards someone else running on a [Light Bridge] spell. Eldavin harrumphed. He caught the eye of the ‘camera’ and closed one eye, smiling rather arrogantly.

“Just a bit of magical finesse. Even [Mages] must indulge in such things. Keep running, students! [Tidal Wave]!”

He pointed to some lagging students and an obliging wave swallowed them. Ahead of Eldavin, the [Mages] were vying for the ‘ball’, throwing it around with telekinesis, laughing—and showing off of course.

“I believe that would be the spectacle to beat.”

The Fall’s Champion remarked drily. Greysten threw his hands up in exasperation.

“[Mages]!”

—-

“This is too bloody amazing. Someone get me a [Teleportation] spell.”

Daly looked around as the [Mages] came onto the scrying orb. Ironically, the United Nations company and the Earthers there weren’t as excited as other groups across the world.

Mainly because Luan was missing. Even Daly was trying to force the mood a bit. He looked about, and then dropped it. Paige was looking at the orb, grimly tuning a crossbow.

Luan was gone. Probably…dead. There was no body, but the [Bounty Hunters] had been arrested once it had been clear they’d hit him with a [Fireball] at sea.

The scrying spells had failed to pick Luan up. Given that he didn’t have anti-scrying gear…it meant he was likely dead. No Luan to scry.

Daly knew that, but he’d led three water expeditions to where Luan had been. No good. He sat there, staring at the television without smiling much.

Another reminder of mortality in Baleros. Yet Joseph’s appearance had still had an effect. Ironically, not among the more sports-loving members of the United Nations; Daly, Dawson, and the others were somber.

So was Geneva Scala. Yet she was determined as she slowly packed up the best copies of each surgical tool and instrument. Also, the jar donated by the Hundredfriends Courier, her notes and samples of other poultices, healing methods or experimentation…

“Geneva. Geneva, please, let’s talk about this!”

She spoke. Or rather, her mouth moved. It was not Geneva who spoke, of course, just the other person inhabiting her mouth.

“I’ve made up my mind, Idis. The Yellow Rivers plague is being managed.”

It was far from over, but the cure was out there. Geneva was busy packing. It was the first step, although she had to go to Daly and Paige right after this. Perhaps they’d be upset.

Idis certainly was.

“Right, right! But you promised! What about my people?”

Geneva hesitated. The Selphids who had come to Talenqual had beseeched her to help with the sickness afflicting their kind. The wasting of their species.

“…I’m aware and I will do everything I can, Idis. However…”

She closed her eyes. Her medical self weighed the ethics of her choice. An entire species versus one person?

“…The Wasting disease has not killed Selphids over this many generations. It may be callous, but there is a patient who needs my direct supervision now. They have already failed to revive her and they might well kill her before I arrive. More than that?”

She stared at her personal scrying orb, which she seldom watched for recreation. Yet…Geneva looked at Pallass, Joseph bouncing the ball with Ekirra.

It looked safe. Safer than Baleros, the continent plagued by so many bloody battles. Perhaps it was petty, wrong of her. Yet for once, she had done as Okasha always wanted. She was putting herself, or rather, her company ahead of her class.

“I will return. The United Nations Company might not go. Yet…we might be able to journey to Izril relatively quickly.”

“It’s too dangerous, Geneva. It will take weeks! Look, please talk to Calectus! You can’t just decide this!”

“I’ve made up my mind, Idis. I am asking you not to stand in my way. The Bodies of Fellden can join us, of course.”

Geneva’s hands were steady as she packed up her equipment. The truth was she wasn’t sure this was the right move. What had forced her to choose was a number of decisions.

The first was Luan. It was one too many lives lost. Geneva could—would—save lives here, as many as she could. Yet the other Earthers didn’t deserve this.

“A bounty. They killed him over a bounty.”

“Geneva…”

The second reason was Erin Solstice. Geneva could not help Erin beyond formulating strategies without being there. Not to mention a Potion of Regeneration might save countless lives if she figured out how it worked!

The third reason was contradictory with her medical teachings. Yes, one person, even from Earth, did not outweigh the needs of a species afflicted by this Wasting disease. If Geneva measured by the QALY quotient—quality-adjusted life years—her decision was clear. Like a triage or other measurements a medical professional had to make in choosing who to help, Selphids as a people required assistance perhaps only Geneva could give.

…It would have been easy to rely on that. Except for Idis. Except for Okasha. Except for Calectus and the Bodies of Fellden, the Selphid mercenary company, however well-meaning they were.

If one tenet of Geneva’s practice was to ‘do no harm’, and to save as much life as possible, another was not to endanger her patients. She felt now, stronger than ever, that Baleros, and this Selphid company which had come here for her interfered with that second clause.

It had taken a lot of time, making Idis her friend. Establishing the rapport she should have truly built with Okasha. Now was the moment, though. Geneva breathed out. There were actually few valuables the United Nations Company could not grab and run with. Their lease? They’d lose it anyways. Gold? Possessions?

She stopped as she put it all into her bag of holding. Not her choice. Geneva Scala’s heart was beating fast, yet she felt the Selphid slow it reflexively. The [Doctor] spoke, as persuasively as she could.

“Idis. I am asking you to help me. I know what your orders are, and your company. Please. Assist me.”

The Selphid hesitated. Geneva Scala stood there, unable to move her body. For a moment, a long moment, she feared that she had failed, even after all her hard work getting Idis as an ally.

Then her hand moved up and grabbed the doorknob.

“I—Geneva—”

Idis didn’t say anything. Yet she did not stop Geneva from twisting the handle. The [Doctor] actually smiled, knowing Idis sensed it.

“Thank you, Idis.”

She had to tell Daly and Paige, and then move now. The United Nations company was not the Bodies of Fellden’s target, anyways. That was why—

—-

“Huh. You know, there’re not many Drowned Folks here. I suppose it’s hard to play this game on the water. Always feels a bit land-biased to me, though, don’t you think, Erek?”

“Ook.”

The orangutan looked at Seve-Alrelious, the Hundredfriends Courier. It was the second time that Seve had been here in as many months and he knew he was attracting attention. His tattoos stood out across his body, and he smiled, but declined to chat. He was waiting for his passenger.

She had prevailed on him, and of course the Hundredfriends Courier had answered the call. He understood there was some trouble, but Geneva Scala did not have to explain. She had to ask and he would answer. That was the debt he owed the Last Light of Baleros for saving so many selflessly.

To wait, he checked the scrying orb, watching, while keeping an eye on the harbor docks. Geneva had told him it might be another hour or two, so he was game to wait. The trick was not to draw attention to her plans; he pretended he was waiting for a delivery, not intimating who the cargo was.

Seve waited, watching the splendid little diversion on the scrying orb with Erek, the glowing orangutan bound to him by magical tattoos.

He waited.

And waited.

…After three hours, Seve sensed something was wrong. He threw caution to the winds and made his way to the United Nations Company, then Geneva Scala’s clinic.

Of course, by then he was too late.

—-

Geneva Scala, Last Light of Baleros and [Doctor], opened the door. A tall Dullahan, still bearing the body’s death-wounds, blocked it.

“Calectus. What a surprise. Are you injured? How can I help—”

Geneva stepped backwards. She was not a good actress. Nor, as it turned out, would that have helped. The Selphid looked down at her, smelling of the faintly formaldehyde-analogous preservatives Selphids used.

Calectus, [Honor Guard] of the Selphids looked down at Geneva in silence. His features were dead and though he mimicked his host-species’ naturally less-emotive states, he was plainly disapproving.

Reproachful, even. He adjusted the loose Dullahan’s head attached to the body and spoke.

“Geneva. I had hoped that the actions of my people earned us more trust than this.”

The [Doctor] fell silent. He knew. Calectus was not alone, either. A group of four Selphids stood behind him. However, she still made the best attempt possible.

“What, I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about. I—”

“Izril is too far. Too dangerous. Did you not promise me you would help me save my people?”

The [Honor Guard] stood there, stiffly. He was disapproving. The other Selphids—less so. Geneva hesitated.

The truth was impossible to hide. So she stood, straighter, and faced him directly.

“Calectus. I intend to fulfill that promise. However, a patient needs my care in Izril.”

“One Human? You cannot risk your body, your life when we need your abilities here!”

A Selphid she did not know the name of scoffed. The [Doctor] met his gaze.

“It is not your right to tell me who I must treat. I am aware of the suffering of Selphids. However—”

She hesitated, but it was time to say it. She looked at Calectus again, then slowly touched her back, indicating the wound that had left her paralyzed. Then her chest.

“…This is not an equal relationship, or an unbiased one. Calectus. Okasha was proof of that.”

His eyes flickered. Some of the other Selphids exchanged glances. The [Honor Guard] inclined his head slowly.

“Nevertheless, Doctor Scala. My people die and suffer. Will you not reconsider? The Bodies of Fellden and I have orders regarding you. Orders which I must carry out. However—I would like to cooperate.”

Geneva hesitated.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Let us provide escort to your company. Perhaps act in your stead. If you wished the rest of your company to journey to Izril…”

“Calectus, that is not within the scope of our mission.”

“It could be.”

The Selphids were not united. Calectus’ head swung around to address a Selphid behind him, looking irritated at the lack of unity in front of Geneva. The [Doctor] peered at him, trying to gauge his reactions.

“If I promised to return? If you went with me…?”

Calectus frowned. Again, the Selphid in robes, one of the [Mages], answered for him.

“The Minds will not allow this. Need we ask for instructions, Calectus?”

The voice was warning. The [Honor Guard] shook his head after another second. He met Geneva’s eyes, looking torn.

“I am sorry, Geneva. Hollow words though they are.”

She exhaled, slightly. Lifted her hands; they were sweaty.

“…Then I will abide, Calectus. I will remain here. Perhaps if the United Nations company were given escort instead of me—that would be amenable.”

He began to nod. The other Selphids hissed. Calectus held up a hand and stepped back.

“A moment, please, Geneva.”

They began arguing, one of them deploying a [Silence] spell. Geneva saw Calectus began to speak—then gesture more emphatically. The angry [Mage] retorted—Calectus lifted two fingers. Then lowered one.

The other Selphids went quiet. Geneva’s skin prickled as she felt, as she had on the battlefield, the propensity for violence or…

“Calectus. I will stay and treat the Selphids. Do no harm. Any of you.”

He looked up and nodded. Geneva looked at the other Selphids.

If only it could have ended at that. However…the [Mage]’s eyes narrowed. They put a hand to their temple, and their eyes widened, then became triumphant.

“That is no longer a possibility. Calectus. The Hundredfriends Courier is docked at the harbor. She plans to escape with him! Do you think our company can or should clash with a Sea Courier of his reputation?”

Oh no. Seve! Geneva saw Calectus’ face change. He gave the other Selphid the same look—then his face was anguished.

Then resigned. He straightened and sighed.

“It seems you are correct, Magus.”

“Calectus, don’t—”

Geneva looked around. The window? She began to edge over. And her feet abruptly stopped. She tried to make them move. Yet…the [Honor Guard] was looking at her now. He spoke solemnly.

“Doctor Scala, I respect your desires. However, the Minds of Selphids gave me clear instructions. Idis.”

Geneva’s body had already stopped moving of course. Now, it straightened, with a [Soldier], a [Warrior]’s precision. Even saluted the other Selphid. Geneva heard a whisper from within her.

“I’m sorry. I warned you!”

They had known from the start. Geneva was helpless. The Selphid [Mage]’s eyes were triumphant. Yet—even as Geneva struggled against her own body and knew she would never win, she wondered how they had known she was leaving to begin with!

The answer became apparent as Calectus looked around and glanced over his shoulder, his head rotating a hundred and eighty degrees.

“It seems we must engage our contingencies. Make the company ready. Doctor Scala is mostly prepared, which aids us. Grab any additional tools. Prepare to move out.”

“Yes, commander.”

Selphids moved into the clinic, smoothly grabbing additional supplies. Geneva tried to move her mouth.

“This is a mistake. How did you even…?”

She saw Calectus gesture. One of the Selphid [Mages] walked over to a wall. He rubbed at the blank plaster—and a glowing rune appeared.

A listening spell. They’d bugged her clinic! And Idis had known—that was why she’d been arguing out loud—

“I’m sorry.”

Geneva stood there, at military attention as Calectus looked at her.

“Doctor Scala, your level has risen high enough. I must insist you accompany us.”

It wasn’t even hard. Idis moved Geneva’s body so there was no struggling. No fight to give. She just sat in the coach after leaving the clinic, lying to her staff’s faces. Only when she was given her tongue back did Geneva look at the Selphids.

“Do you think you can force me to help you?”

The Selphids looked at her. Calectus looked slightly ashamed, yet he was still direct. He spoke, quietly.

“Frankly—yes. I’m afraid your moral convictions are clear, Doctor Geneva. We are desperate. We cannot risk you dying on Izril. We…I am sworn to defend my people. Thus, my class. Even if I must cast aside honor to do so.”

He exhaled, though it was an unnecessary gesture. Geneva saw him turning, and felt her pivoting to walk with him.

“Don’t do this, Calectus. Please.”

The Selphid [Honor Guard] looked at her. Then he gestured.

“Your company will be untouched. They will not be able to follow us. We are taking you to one of our bases. The Minds await. Move out.”

That day, the Last Light of Baleros—

Vanished. Straight out from under the noses of all the observers, Niers’ students, and her company.

—-

It was football. Or soccer if you were weird. Really, it depended on perspective. The point was…was it coincidence, or was it football that caused this kind of day?

This…Empress Nsiia had gone through the worst days of her life. Yet the problem was, it was never a single day.

It repeated. So, she shed a few tears. Armsmaster Dellic and some of Illivere’s fittest warriors hovered, uncertain of why she was crying.

Surely not vanity? It was not that.

She just wanted them to know she was alive. Yet she couldn’t get onto the stupid news. Nsiia sniffed. She would cut off a finger to give them something…some of the cheer pervading the news.

In fact, the news, which often gave no truth to tragedy. When it was happy, the ‘world’ was happy. When some arbitrary people decided everyone should grieve, that was what you saw.

How quickly they had stopped saying Tiqr’s name. How fickle the world was. Nsiia saw it as some vast, ever-changing thing. Not like an animal at all, but some hive which could be capable of great good, or wrath, but forgot faster than anything.

Not like elephants. Not like Thef. A glorious and petty thing.

So how did you get its attention? Nsiia wiped her tears away just outside of Femithain’s mansion, in the streets. She looked at the [Mage] and realized, ironically, the sight of the Empress of Beasts bawling her eyes out might have gotten her the attention.

…It might have, indeed. Nsiia came to a sudden realization. Her eyes widened. She crouched and before Dellic could react, started running. The [Mage], who had been yawning, snapped his head up as Nsiia put into action her plan.

—-

Her conclusion was the exact opposite of Rabbiteater’s. The frustrated Order of Seasons hadn’t figured out how to top the displays on television. Aura blades and so on couldn’t match the magic now sprinkled into these viewings.

Rabbiteater had been giving it a good think himself, game to help these nice people. However…he had to admit he wasn’t that smart.

He didn’t have some unique way to blend Skill and talent such that Wistram would have no choice but to showcase the Order of Seasons. Perhaps a smarter person would have. Like Chieftain Rags. Or…Erin.

Rabbiteater missed her. He thought about it, as he sat in the grass. Then he had his idea. He trotted over to the Fall’s Sentinel and made a request.

“What, Ser Solstice?”

The older [Knight] looked surprised, but he was perfectly content to put Rabbiteater’s slightly-audacious plan into action. The Spring’s Warden and Summer’s Champion glanced up, slightly hopeful. Rabbiteater smiled.

Where the Empress of Beasts had found a clever solution born out of her understanding of, well, people, the Goblin had taken a different tack.

He just cheated.

—-

The event was winding down. Joseph was tired, and Ekirra was falling asleep on his feet after working out so hard twice. But the little Gnoll was smiling.

“Do you know his parents, Coach Joseph? Pallass might want to make them an offer of citizenship…we could always use strong players for a junior team.”

The Drake [Strategist] was looking at Ekirra appraisingly. Joseph had no idea how to respond to that. He was almost snoozing himself as he waited to go back to the inn. Drassi had returned to the booth, ejecting Noass.

“It’s been a great day of submissions. I think we’ll be playing more all night that were recorded, but we have a few more live ones to get to…”

Joseph’s head nodded as he and Ekirra sat down, sweaty, exhausted, despite the stamina potions. He drifted off for a second.

[Conditions Met: Kicker → Football Player Class!]

[Football Player Level 14!]

[Skill – Fast Feet obtained!]

[Skill – Second Wind obtained!]

Not so vast. But new. Joseph smiled as he opened his eyes. He’d suspected that would have happened. He began to get up with Ekirra in his arms as the door opened. Yet he’d done so too soon.

The second notification hit him loud as, louder than the first. And—odd.

[Coach Dr—ob—!

[Coachm—obtai—!

[Radiant Coachdr—]

[Coach Class Obtained!]

[Coach Level 16!]

Joseph walked into the wall. Yet it wasn’t done. The voice in his head kept shouting, as if it was as amazed as he was.

[Conditions Met: Coach → Famed Coach Class!]

[Conditions Met: Famed Coach → World-Renowned Coach Class!]

[Skill – Eyes of Talent obtained!]

[Skill – Unveil Potential (Magical) obtained!]

[Skill – Legendary Reputation obtained!]

[Skill…

Joseph felt Ekirra wake up. He saw the little Gnoll yawn. Wide-eyed, Joseph looked about.

“Oh my god. I broke it.”

He practically ran into The Wandering Inn, holding up Ekirra, wanting to stare at the news. It had to be that! How many people had seen Joseph? How many people had treated his advice as a lesson? It was the class. Teacher to the world. He held Ekirra up as both stared at the scrying mirror. Ekirra’s eyes widened as it flicked to another viewpoint. Joseph blinked. He forgot about his new class for a second.

Two seconds later, he tossed Ekirra out of the common room.

—-

Empress Nsiia of Tiqr, or at least, what they called her on the news, did a juggling trick with a soccer ball. Then she kicked it.

It bounced off Armsmaster Dellic’s face. Nsiia laughed as he jerked in surprise. No one else was really fielding the ball, either. So she just ran.

The [Scrying Mage] tracked her with his eyes as she ran. Incidentally, Nsiia knew she was live.

General Vasraf was summoned from his tent by a shout. He stared at the scrying orb, and his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

Salii, letting the [Martial Artists] continue their training exercise despite the cameras not being on them, looked up at the shout. The citizens who had fled Tiqr were staring at one of three scrying devices that all of Pomle had. Some were staring. Others…laughing. Or cheering.

Why? Salii glanced at her orb. She blinked, checked her spectacles.

“Oh. How clever.”

“Scandalous!”

Sir Relz lost his monocle. Drassi was blinking, half-using her notes as a shield. She turned to the Drake.

“Uh—who decided to show this?”

“Not me! It’s indecent! There are children watching it!”

“Wow. So someone in Wistram is a pervert.”

Drassi smiled. Then amended her statement.

“I suppose it’s topical. Er—this is almost definitely Empress Nsiia, formerly of Tiqr, the Empress of Beasts. Is this how she normally exercises, or do you think it’s special?”

“Why are you asking me?”

Sir Relz snapped. Drassi gave him a look.

“Well, I wouldn’t know.”

She gave another glance at the scrying orb, which was getting a lot of angry [Message] spells. Eldavin strode into the scrying room.

“What is wrong with you people?”

But it was too late. Someone had indeed decided it was exceptionally topical to feature Empress Nsiia running around the walls of the city. She wasn’t doing anything special or running particularly fast. A few Golems were chasing after her, with blankets, as Magus-Crafter Femithain realized what she was doing.

Yet she had gotten herself on television. The only way she knew how.

Nsiia was not topless. Because that implied there was other clothing on her. She was running, laughing, waving an arm at the [Mage] keeping her in view as Armsmaster Dellic and some of the soldiers followed. They seemed uncertain of what to do. Nsiia had begun removing clothing and, well, gotten a lot more attention from the [Mages] screening the submissions.

General Vasraf stared at the Empress of Beasts evading a chasing Golem trying to insert a modesty-blanket into the scene. Sir Relz and Drassi were arguing—Sir Relz actually to keep it up.

“Er—well—she’s clearly making a statement, so if we’re showing her—”

“What if it was a naked male Drake! Gah! You’re disgusting! Noass, get in here! I’m leaving!”

Drassi frowned as someone approached her with a [Message]. Chaos in the studio.

Vasraf saw Nsiia’s head turn. She looked at the viewer. Across the world, people got a good view of…everything, as she stopped and faced the viewers.

Was it sheer vanity, madness, the King of Destruction’s desire for attention that had prompted it? Certainly, it had an effect on a number of people.

Including the Siren of Savere, whose eyes narrowed dangerously. Reminded of her nemesis. Queen Yisame delicately averted her eyes, but both glared.

That did not look like a miserable prisoner under Femithain’s aegis, did it?

It was not for either one that Nsiia did this. Not for attention. She looked into the scrying mirror, and the world’s second nudist on television’s smile wavered.

The [Wild General] felt like…she was staring at him. The warriors who had been looking at their leader looked at her eyes. Everyone else didn’t notice her expression at first.

“Get me a recording.”

Ieka whispered to a [Maid].

Saliss of Lights just rolled his eyes.

“Amateur.”

Then he saw Nsiia lift an arm. Her tanned skin glistened in the fading sunlight. Surely some [Poets] were already composing verses about curves and glistening and whatnot, as they did.

They were welcome to it. Nsiia had stopped smiling. She lifted her hand up and clenched it into a fist. For this moment, she had abandoned modesty, as if she needed it. She looked into the orb, at Vasraf, at her citizens who might see her wherever they had gone.

“People of Tiqr!”

Nsiia shouted, as loudly as her lungs could fill with air. The [Mage], Dellic, and the others stopped. Even the Golems hesitated. The woman went on.

“I am no longer your [Empress]. I have failed you time and again! Even now, some of you labor in chains, stolen from your homes. The herds have fled, our mighty friends lie dead. I am a prisoner in a cage made of kindness.”

Femithain looked at the scrying orb, hearing the voice shouting, then a delayed copy coming from the orb. Nsiia’s eyes shimmered with tears.

“Yet this I swear: while I live, while our people still fight for our home, Tiqr has not died! While my heart beats, I will find you wherever you have gone. So—live.”

“Shut it off!”

One of the [Mages] turned to adjust the spell. This wasn’t casual nudity, which Wistram could condone. This was—

Eldavin calmly kicked the [Mage] behind the knees. Down they went. Eldavin looked around.

“Let her speak. This is news.”

He looked at the [Empress]. She was still speaking, knowing her time was running out. Eldavin gave her the moment. Brave girls. He saw her, like so many, point at him. At…

“Vasraf! Don’t you dare die until we meet again. I command you.”

She spread her arms, unashamed, and shouted. Crying, thrusting an arm back up in the air.

“Tiqr falls! And Tiqr stands! Never forget! And give them no quarter! Tiqr stands! Tiqr—”

The image went blank. Then, turned to the two stunned Drakes in the studio. They said something—Vasraf didn’t hear them.

He was laughing. Tears running down his face as he laughed at his silly [Empress]. So too were the people in the tent. In Pomle, wherever they were.

Empress of Beasts. She wiped the tears from her eyes. Nsiia knew that when she slept, they would give it back to her. It was not a burden she craved. Yet for them, she would bear it again. She accepted a blanket from the Golem staring down at her. She saw Femithain walking out of the gates.

“You have quite made a mess of things, Empress Nsiia.”

That was all he remarked when he looked at her. Nsiia wiped at her face, and smiled.

“Would you expect to easily cage the Empress of Beasts, Magus-Crafter?”

He gave her a rueful look.

“I suppose I was quite arrogant.”

—-

“Okay, I feel like I have to issue an apology here since no one else will. I didn’t authorize that. Someone did.”

The image had stayed on Drassi and Sir Relz in the booth. Although the other Drake seemed too embarrassed to come on set for the moment. So Drassi had command. She was sorting through [Messages] printed in-studio as she spoke.

“I think this message puts it best—‘While I am aware some viewers may find this sight full of attraction, I must complain on behalf of my subjects about the indecent nudity expressed on Wistram News Network. Younger audiences may have been inappropriately subjected to the indecency of monarchs displaying less than appropriate grandeur’…wait a sec. That didn’t go where I thought it would.”

Drassi frowned, checking the sender.

“Er—that’s by the Ruler of Khelt, Fetohep, of whom we can all agree with. Less than appropriate grandeur. Right. I see this one wants more naked people on air. Well, ‘Oney Eminith’, I don’t agree. [Merchant] in Izril, incidentally. That’s right, I’m calling you out!”

Drassi slapped down another [Message]. She glowered, putting peril into the flood of [Messages] coming this way. Drassi checked another one, frowned, blinked—and then glanced up.

“Wha—no way. That’s not—”

She stared at the [Message] in silence until Sir Relz hurried onto the set.

“Something inappropriate, Miss Drassi? I am assured Wistram will not be broadcasting any more nudity, and we will in fact warn and perhaps set up a channel for indecent—”

“Shut up, Relz. I…hey. Get me in touch with Wistram. There’s something you need to show. Here—here’s coordinates I guess. Just do it. Why? Because I’m your [Reporter].”

Drassi looked rattled for a second. Then she went back to speaking.

“I think this day has given us all some things to think about.”

“Indeed. Quite.”

Sir Relz colored as she stared at him.

“Not what I meant, Sir Relz. The football practice?”

“Er, quite.”

“Not to mention the wonderful displays of amazing talent around the world. In fact, we may be showing them later. I don’t know, my time’s up and I’m going to relax on my time off. However…someone’s sent in a rather unique training montage.”

“More so than all of what we’ve seen? Drassi?”

Sir Relz adjusted his monocle. Drassi nodded slowly. She stared ahead, waiting. And her tone was suddenly distant.

“Yes indeed…ah, here they are.”

At last, so they were. The Order of Seasons appeared in the scrying mirror. Waving, kicking the ball around.

“This is the Order of Seasons, no doubt. Around their keep, running, passing the ball—I see nothing extraordinary, Drassi. They are a renowned Knight Order, but what is the extraordinary event that prompted you to select them, may I ask?”

Sir Relz looked skeptical. He turned to Drassi. She was searching the [Knights] running about as the aerial [Scrying] spell moved.

There he was. Rabbiteater saw himself, delayed on stream, waving up at the sky, turning to look at the orb, as the Summer’s Champion beamed and slapped him on the shoulder. The Spring’s Warden saluted, and the Fall’s Champion looked quite delighted for their moment in the waning sun.

“Oh, it’s more symbolic, Sir Relz. You see, I’m being told that someone’s issued a…challenge? A commendation? ‘From Liscor to Terandria, here I am.’ You were there, weren’t you? I don’t think you played soccer. Definitely baseball the first time it came here.”

Drassi was speaking quietly, looking into the scrying orb. Sir Relz glanced at her.

“You mean, the first game of baseball? Wasn’t that around—”

“The Wandering Inn. Yes. Celum, if you want to be more accurate, but he was there. So was I. This…viewer…is calling in from Terandria. They made it all the way there, or so I gather. A guest of the inn. A personal friend.”

Joseph’s head rose as Ekirra banged on the door he’d propped a chair against, demanding to see. He looked around. Ishkr turned, blinking, confused.

“Who could that be? There’s no way…”

“Who is our mystery caller? That [Knight], there, in the unadorned armor? I don’t see a crest.”

“It’s…a Ser Solstice. Although he gave me a different name. He—the name’s secret. But he—he likes eating rabbits. There’s your hint.”

Drassi was breathing heavily. Her eyes were sparkling with tears. Sir Relz looked at her uncomprehendingly, not sure what had set this off in his co-host.

Ishkr dropped his cleaning dust rag. Joseph looked around. He didn’t see—

He ran to get Numbtongue. He never made it to the door; Bird smacked straight into him, bowled him over, and ran, all four arms waving, into the [Garden of Sanctuary].

The Hobgoblin ran out just in time to see ‘Ser Solstice’ raise an arm. Numbtongue’s eyes were wide.

It could not be. Yet—he remembered Erin receiving the ransom notice. There he was.

His armor hid his face. But look: the crimson cloak swung around his shoulders. He still carried Headscratcher’s axe. Numbtongue reached for the mirror.

Drassi was hiccupping. She managed to stifle it. Because there was another layer to this.

“Ser Solstice writes—‘I am playing this fun game. Challenging the [Innkeeper] and inn when I get back. Very nice [Knights] here.’”

“Ser Solstice. The name is familiar. The [Innkeeper] has to mean…”

Sir Relz looked at Drassi.

Rabbiteater saw the Drake’s anguished face at last. He slowed his waving and smile behind his helmet. Because, of course, she had realized something.

He didn’t know. In this world, the guests of The Wandering Inn had gone far and wide. His last ‘message’ from Erin had convinced Rabbiteater she was fine. He didn’t know.

Today, the news reached the second-last person to hear it. Drassi’s tears were trickling down her cheeks.

“I’m—so glad you’re okay, Ser Solstice. I thought you died. There’s something you should know, though.”

Magnolia Reinhart said nothing. She sat, watching in silence, genial mood lost again. The third-last and fourth-last people, Magnolia and Ressa, listened to the news as Drassi broke it.

Tried to break it.

“The thing is…Ancestors, I don’t know how to say it. I thought everyone knew. Erin—she helped bring baseball here. She’s—was—the [Innkeeper] of Liscor. Famous in Liscor. Pallass too, if you don’t know. I’m sorry. It’s just. She’s…”

Rabbiteater stared blankly at the orb. The Spring’s Warden, Summer’s Champion, Fall’s Sentinel, and Knight-Commander Calirn had all halted.

They knew from cadence and tone, just Drassi’s face. It was not something Rabbiteater could imagine, though. He stared, confused. Until it hit him.

It was not Drassi who delivered the news at last. She couldn’t get the words out. Sir Relz, almost callously, spoke, finally snapping his fingers.

“Erin Solstice. Yes, I recall her. The proprietress of The Wandering Inn. She is…dead. Isn’t she? Killed during a raid by the city of Hectval in…oh.”

Drassi looked at him. Sir Relz scrambled to clarify.

“A terrible tragedy. Hectval—to inform our viewers, the city of Hectval launched a raid that—I understand measures were taken to preserve her life and Liscor and Hectval are in a state of war—but the [Innkeeper] known as Erin Solstice passed away roughly…”

He went on. Rabbiteater didn’t hear it. He had dropped the scrying orb.

“Ser Solstice?”

The Spring’s Warden said something. Greysten turned to Rabbiteater, mirth forgotten. Ser Calirn reached out. Too slowly.

Rabbiteater felt the world sinking around him. He realized it was not the world—he was.

He fell backwards, darkness closing in. He had never passed out, not in battle, not when he was wounded, bleeding. For the first time in his life, he let oblivion take him.

Rather than face the truth.

—-

It was the last note of Drassi’s broadcast. She left, unable to continue recording and Sir Relz took over to apologize.

It was a sad moment to interrupt all the entertainment of the day. Too much reality, interjected into television.

That was the distinction between life and media. Uplifting, depressing, pure melancholy, slice-of-life—each to their own moment.

Silly and grand. Action-packed and trivial.

“So. Another one of us is gone.”

Rémi Canada slowly exhaled. He slowly crossed her name off the list. He had worked so hard to uncover it. Yet like so many…they were gone when he looked for them. Like the group he had parted ways from at A’ctelios Salash.

A cruel world. A realistic one. He slowly turned back to what he was working on. He would pray for Erin Solstice later, if he could find the words and belief.

Today? He turned to the head of the broadcasting studio. Not—Wistram’s, but the elegant Stitchwoman, Silk-caste, of Nerrhavia’s Wonders, the Chandrarian-broadcast studio.

“Bad news, Journalist Canada?”

She attempted to look properly contrite for his loss, but Rémi just shook his head.

“No one I knew personally, Emir Elanna. Is everything prepared?”

The woman flicked her fingers slightly as she replied, a refined gesture with multiple layers of meaning.

“To a modicum of satisfaction. Such a barbaric game. Yet you assure us that Wistram will find it of note. I can well assume the spectacle will attract such event. Such that Nerrhavia’s splendors will acquire their deserved place in the spotlight.”

That was a ‘yes’, which Rémi interpreted after a moment. He nodded, and the Emir gestured elegantly.

“Let us begin the spectacle.”

She intoned, and into the air, the [Journalist] looked.

Of course, he knew Wistram was making an event of football. The Canadian [Journalist] was also aware people who met with Wistram’s agents tended to disappear, probably to Wistram. He had watched the [Popstar]’s performance, after all.

Well and so, Rémi had mixed feelings on how to influence global events, if at all. This? This was more in giving Nerrhavia and by extent, Chandrar, a bit of fair ground in the war for attention.

For Earthers, a hint that not everything came from Wistram.

…And mainly because it was a lot of fun.

“Grand viewers of Chandrar and the world over! I am Emir Elanna of Nerrhavia’s Fallen! It is my delight to introduce you to another new ‘sport’, that has not been showcased before on live broadcast!”

At least this woman had the right stage presence for the job. As her broadcast came to life, Wistram News Network itself began to lose viewers as Nerrhavia’s Fallen literally bought attention.

Also because it was new. Trey Atwood nearly choked to death as the competing broadcast came to life. The Earthers of Wistram looked up, confused at what sport they’d had left to introduce? Basketball? Hockey? They saw Rémi Canada of course, and Elena was out of her chair, pointing. The [Mages] in a furor.

“Him and that Joseph! Why are they at large? How could High Mage Merzun have lost against Montressa in Liscor?”

Naili hissed at Beatrice. Eldavin, listening in past their shoddy spells, frowned. He hadn’t excluded Liscor from Wistram’s greed. He’d forgotten there were more.

A reckoning would have to come. He drummed his fingers on the table, then glanced at the scrying mirror set against the banquet hall’s wall.

“Am I to take it from your reaction that this is another aspect of Earth?”

Archmage Valeterisa eyed Elena with interest. The [Beautician] was spluttering.

“Yes! No! It’s—sort of, but we can’t play it!”

“That madman. That genius!”

Aaron stood up and applauded Rémi as the young man explained.

“This is a game dearly, dearly beloved in my homeland, Emir Elanna, and I can only thank the munificence of Queen Yisame that she has graciously recreated it for me here. To anyone who recognizes this—the game is known as the famous, nay, renowned sport of…”

Trey’s jaw dropped.

“What is it, Troy?”

Goelv asked, the Gazer’s eyes curious. The [Sand Mage] breathed the answer as his fellow students stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“Quidditch.”

The carpets rose into the air, and two actual broomsticks. Nervous Stitch-People holding bats, the enchanted balls, and of course, the golden object of possession all hovered higher. An enchanted sphere zipped about as Rémi explained.

“You see, this is a [Mage]’s game. I am surprised Wistram didn’t know about it.”

He raised an eyebrow. The Emir, clearly enjoying the ribbing at Wistram, laughed politely.

“Yet, as I understand it, players may hit these dangerous objects at each other? Even knock each other from the vehicles? Which is why all are warded with falling enchantments, of course. Such a violent game. Barbaric, even.”

“Ah, Emir Elanna, you know [Mages]…unconventional. However, I thought it would be lovely to showcase. Perhaps Wistram lacks the artifacts to field their own team?”

“We have to play! How did none of you think of it?”

Aaron bellowed as he left the table. George pointed at him.

“How come you didn’t?”

A barbaric game? They were laughing, clamoring to play! The first game of the fictional game from Earth that had never been realized in actuality took place as the [Mages] susurrated. Hardly barbaric! Trey shook his head. It was amazing! He realized he’d given away his cover, though, and was scrambling to explain to his friends—

…Right before the first fatality. A novice [Carpet Rider] lost control of her carpet.

She was of the String People, yes. Yes, she had enchantments. However, hitting the ground at nearly a hundred miles per hour meant none of that mattered.

The audience, Rémi, and the Emir all went quiet. Eldavin snorted quietly at his table.

“Fools.”

The Quarass did likewise, as she watched the same broadcast. The reason no one played that game was that flying was incredibly dangerous.

—-

There was a benefit to the death, however. Not to the grieving fiancé, the family, or the broadcast, which had to be terminated and all the hard work ended by the fatality.

However, there was a benefit. Just not for the living.

The bewildered ghost arose where she had died. Correspondingly, as the reality of her death set in, she was not lost to shadows, consumed. In fact, she was welcomed by the lines of ghosts, practically dragged before a council of royalty led by Khelt’s dead.

“Tell us what is happening in the world, child.”

The First of Khelt spoke, staring down at the little [Carpet Rider]’s ghost. For how else would the dead know what was happening in the world?

There were very few ways, Erin had learned. Séances, summoning rituals to bind dead to the living, were out of fashion because of course the ghosts had been fleeing the…things…all this time.

Now, it would be impossible in Izril, or virtually. Plus, the living had to make the effort in most of the ways. For the dead to call on the living?

Only a few methods remained, and the easiest—via Khelt, wasn’t working.

“Fetohep has left Khelt!”

One of the rulers cried aloud, frustration clear on his face.

“To give it life and expand the borders. We understand the reasoning, if not condone it. Yet the timing is ill indeed. Perhaps our enemy commands luck itself. Fate.”

“Take heart. Now—explain to us once again. What is ‘soccer’? We understand Wistram’s broadcast.”

The half-Giant ruler bent down and boomed to the quavering [Carpet Rider], staring at the dynasties of Chandrar’s greatest rulers and heroes.

“So as before, now again. Mass-communication spells link this world. In my era, it was naught to be surprised at.”

An Archmage sneered, as some of the rulers looked mightily impressed at the phenomenon. A [Sage] prodded her in the back.

“Your era was marked by the end of magic for nearly three hundred years, due to the experiments your academy conducted.”

“That was an accident!”

“Accident? Countless millions died screaming from what you unleashed! Magic ended.”

“It came back!”

Ghosts argued and bickered, silenced only when the greatest among them restored order. It was a sight to see, the conclave of the dead. If Erin could have watched, she would have.

However, Califor dragged her away from the ruckus to the eight.

Eight. An auspicious number, but Califor made nine, and Erin made ten. So…less auspicious. They didn’t care.

Eight [Witches] sat or stood in a former throne room of old. They looked at Erin.

[Witches]. Each one far greater than Califor had been in life. The greatest of their eras.

First [Witches]. Later—[Sages], [Heroes], [Monks], [Mages], and all the others who were vying to teach Erin Solstice. However, Califor had convinced the Rulers of Khelt to let [Witches] be first. How she’d managed that, Erin had no idea. Perhaps the First of Khelt simply agreed that their classes shared common ground.

“Ah. The living soul walks among us.”

One of the [Witches]’ souls was so old she had forgotten what she looked like. She was more wisp than person, and kept coming back into focus. When Erin did look at her, she saw a grand woman, reclining with fur instead of robes, legs crossed, a smile like mischief itself on her lips, and a feather in her witch’s hat.

All style, in short. Another [Witch] had eyes like a storm front itself was contained in them. Yet another was tall as two floors of Erin’s inn. Her skin looked like bark.

Legends. They sat, waiting, as the [Innkeeper] halted in front of them. Faced with the greatest of witch-kind that had ever died on Chandrar, Erin Solstice stopped.

Then she walked over to the nearest [Witch] and held out a hand.

“Erin Solstice. Nice to meet you. Wanna hamburger?”

She offered the [Witch] of trees a hamburger of memory, Imani-style since all the ghosts liked that. The [Witch] stared at her. Califor made a strangled sound in her throat.

After a second, fingers like twigs took the burger. Erin went around the circle, smiling and talking.

“Hi, I’m Erin. Have a hamburger. Hi, I’m Erin. Hamburger? Erin—burger? Um—spaghetti?”

She conjured the memory of a good spaghetti with alfredo sauce. Califor reached out and smacked it out of Erin’s hand. The plate hit the ground, shattered, and vanished.

One of the remaining [Witches] looked disappointed. Another, who sat in the center, did not. She raised one eyebrow and spoke.

“We did not come here to gorge ourselves on memory and regret, girl.”

Erin looked at her. Even the [Innkeeper]’s cheerful bravado wilted for a second.

An eye stared back. A vast eye, joined by smaller ones, opening and closing, shrouded by a single, vermillion witch’s hat. Each iris a different color.

That was all Erin could make out. There were…limbs…yes, but the [Witch] beneath the hat was shrouded by darkness. It wrapped around her, yet Erin saw the flash of sharp teeth as the mouth spoke.

“You are everything Witch Califor says. More and less. The courage to face down what we will not name. The arrogance to make nothing of your talents, to be satisfied with mediocrity.”

Erin Solstice stared at the [Witch]. The things Erin had learned were these:

Gods were petty, ghosts were chaotic, and [Witches] were rude.

“…But you’re dead. It’s just a burger. Don’t you want—?”

She was about to say that the [Witches] might never get a second chance to remember food or the joys of the living, but the [Witch] snapped back a reply.

“We are dead, with the infinity of the afterlife before us. Yet somehow, you still manage to waste time.”

Erin hesitated. Califor took her place, and the nine [Witches] looked at her.

“You must learn something, Erin Solstice. We believe your nature matches ours. Will you at least listen to what we have to teach you?”

The [Innkeeper] bit her lip. She fidgeted in front of the [Witches], glanced around.

“Me? But I don’t really fit in. Are you sure there are no legendary [Innkeepers] or, like, amazing [Bartenders] I can learn from? Really, that’s more fitting than…”

She trailed off in front of the stares of the [Witches].

“A fish dances on the line less desperately than you. What fear you, Erin Solstice? You have died. What is there left to fear?”

Another [Witch] commented, her voice bubbling, hat concealing half-aquatic features. Erin looked around.

“I’m just not um—[Witch] material! I like your hats! It’s just—”

“As stubborn as teaching Dragons manners. You said as much, Califor. I wonder why.”

Yet one more [Witch]. She crackled, sitting opposite the [Witch] of trees. She wasn’t exactly fire. More like the memory of it. Thus—charcoal skin. Ash, as if she were flaking apart as Erin looked at her. This ash-witch leaned forwards. She had one eye; the other was a socket.

“What do you fear? Not the power of it, I think. Yet something holds you back.”

In front of the nine stares, Erin Solstice hesitated. Why did she resist? She was dead. The world was in danger. She had always wanted the power to help her friends. Dreamed of it. Longed for it in those dark days. Why…?

The answer slipped out of her.

“What if I’m not special, though? What if I can’t live up to those expectations? I don’t think I’m capable of changing things. If you give me all this knowledge and put me in that place where everyone counts on me—what if I fail and they all suffer and die because of me?”

It was her great fear. A true answer, perhaps one of the truest she had ever given. Erin hung her head as she stood before the dead women.

“Ah.”

The Drowned Witch sat back. The others looked at each other. Two hats nodded. Then, almost as one, the coven began to laugh at her.

Bubbling chuckles, laughter like crackling wood. A hearty, booming laugh from the oldest among them. They laughed at Erin.

“Hey. I was being heartfelt there. This is hurting my feelings.”

The [Innkeeper] protested. Yet, the [Witches] just guffawed in her face. The one made of wood spoke. Her tones were hollow, like that of Giants.

“SO SAYS THE CHILD WHO STOLE FROM THE ___S THEMSELVES. WHO STOLE THE BLADE OF KINGS!”

A leafy bough lowered, holding a hat made of leaves. The [Witch] looked Erin in the eye, not unkindly. That was just it. None of them were incapable of kindness. They might refuse to offer it, but it was in them.

Great kindness. Terrible wrath. And a desire…two vast eyes fixed Erin with a knowing look.

“IF AN ARMY STOOD BETWEEN YOU AND A SINGLE FRIEND, WOULD YOU LET IT BAR YOUR WAY?”

The reply came out of Erin.

“No. But I wouldn’t fight them. I’d—”

Another [Witch] interrupted. The Gazer blinked at Erin.

“If a wrong exists, will you not right it, if it is within your power? Do you let injustice walk before you?”

“That’s not—no, but—”

“I see foolhardy bravery. Burning passion. Cunning—so deeply hidden it fools even herself! All she lacks is the courage to admit what she is! I see all that is a [Witch].”

The others nodded. Erin felt like they were running over all her protests and objections, which of course was exactly what they were doing. She spread her hands.

“—What if I fail, though?”

Califor stood up. The [Witch] adjusted her hat, and looked Erin straight in the eye.

“To be a [Witch] is to try. You need not even bother to try. Do you think we would leave it to chance? You can struggle or protest or run. We will make you a [Witch]. Yet we will ask. Will you give it your all?”

The [Innkeeper] met her first teachers of the dead. She looked from gaze to gaze, ancient beings, terrifying power.

Women, people who had once been like her. None of them had forgotten it. That was the difference between them and Belavierr. Between them and the six…gods.

They waited. Erin sighed. Not in denial…just letting go of something. Excuses, probably. They drifted away in the land of the dead. It did not change her in any visible way, or who she was.

Perhaps, though…slowly, Erin relaxed her shoulders and straightened her back. She nodded.

“I guess I can try.”

The [Witches] smiled. As one, they nodded their pointed hats. Erin slowly sat as her lessons in the land of the dead began. She had already received her first one.

—-

A game of football. That night, Joseph relaxed in his bed, feeling more secure than he ever had before. Oh—Liscor’s people weren’t happy. Several had come to shout at Joseph, including Lism.

However, it could have been worse. What truly mattered though, was his class.

[Coach].

He was no great football player, for all he was the first to get the class. Joseph could accept that. However, he would try to become the world’s best football coach. He’d fight for that, especially with the head start he had.

A day in the sun and shine with consequence all around.

Geneva Scala was missing, and her disappearance threw Talenqual into chaos, not least her allies.

Empress Nsiia had regained the attention of her enemies. Tiqr fell, Tiqr stood.

The Grand Magus, Eldavin, prepared to shake Wistram’s foolish ways apart.

Mrsha had gone to Invrisil with a friend.

Rabbiteater, Ser Solstice, awoke to learn the world had ended.

Erin Solstice studied in the lands of the dead.

More, of course. Yet for now, the last thing to happen of any note was the little broadcast that most had missed.

The tearful words of a Drake to the Goblin who had not known. It played the world over of course, but aside from making some people sad, it had no impact, no connection with most who saw it.

Those that had known had already known. Except for those who had known wrong.

Even the skeleton had known. Even the Goblins and Antinium. Even Healing Slime, and the blind [Emperor] and little rats in a Minotaur’s enchanted cell.

The last person in this world to learn the truth watched and listened to the broadcast, chuckling, making comments. Then choked, sprayed the noodles out of the bowl he was eating after his shift.

The stall owner objected, but the person didn’t react. He sat there, holding the bowl until it cracked—then tossed down money and left the stall, shakily.

He walked the unfamiliar streets of a different city, attracting indifferent looks as he walked to his temporary apartments.

Senior Guardsman Relc stopped to lean against a building. He was fumbling at his belt pouch. He—his clawed hand was shaking. He yanked something out.

How could it be? How? Had they forgotten? Had they—

The letter was neat, printed from the Mage’s Guild, and now he looked at it, too sparse in details. They detailed the war, which he’d been worried about. But in each one, now, he saw the truth the Drake had carefully written around.

His daughter’s neat handwriting, just above her signature on the latest letter, stood out to Relc Grasstongue.

Everything is fine over here.

Relc slowly slumped down the wall. All lies eventually bore out, even the best-intentioned of them. He sat there, processing what had happened long before he had known, that everyone else had gone through before him.

It changed nothing for Relc. He sat there for a long time. In a city far from the inn where he should have been.

What came after that was a different story, for another day.

Interlude – Paradigm Shift (Pt. 1)

(Enuryn the [Naturalist] has opened an online store and you can now commission him to make amazing arts here! https://enuryndraws.art/)

The act of welcoming someone else into your home was a gesture with as much possibility and nuance as any other event that might occur in a social engagement. Not that overthought was always conducive to impressing a guest or making one feel welcome.

The incautious host who threw open the door with arms spread wide could be a thousand times more genial and impressive at once than a display of grandeur. Especially one that felt forced.

Thusly, the small group of Drakes waiting in the anteroom took note of the gesture. Mainly because they knew to look for it. It was as much their culture as anyone else’s, yet in this case, Navine Gemscale had read heavily from the ‘enemy’s’ playbook as much as she drew from her own.

Enemy. Not in this moment, though. Perhaps, if things went well, not at all. She had to remind herself of that as she adjusted the fashionable gown inset with gemstones, a Salazsarian style that never went out of fashion.

Overtures of Exceeding Conduct by Lady Sevfia El was the book in question that Navine had read. Despite being over two thousand years old, it was still in circulation, and it had endured to the modern day as one of the classic guides to etiquette.

Among Humans, of course. So she was keenly aware of the rich mansion in Oteslia, turning her head to regard the décor, the two impassive [Butlers] who had ushered the guests in, and even timing how long they were kept waiting.

She hasn’t redecorated the Oteslian mansion much. Navine noted that the interior of the mansion-for-rent was kept in the Oteslian style—that was to say, au naturel. The wood floor was smoothed, grown, not cut out of floorboards, and an interior garden of carefully tended plants replaced other vanities.

It made the antechamber feel quite fresh, if, sometimes, uncannily giving those within the feeling that they’d gone back outdoors by accident.

Indeed, the fresco along the double-staircase leading upwards and meeting at the middle still bore a Drake motif, one of the founding scenes of Oteslia, that of a Dragon helping sow ground…or perhaps genially overseeing Drakes and Gnolls planting the land.

Ancestors. Navine felt that Magnolia Reinhart keeping everything so might be an indication of her intent. I shall not overstep my arrival. I do not intend to challenge Drake tradition.

Then again, it could have just as well been a gesture to the contrary; if the gifts she had brought were any indication, Magnolia Reinhart intended to buy as much support as she could, and it was certainly possible given Drakes were the species she had come to woo.

Perhaps, then, the message was: I need not concern myself with lesser displays or redecoration, as the wealth of Humanity, the Five Families of the north, is clear.

As Navine thought, her mother exhaled slowly. Helessia Gemscale still hovered in the air, unable to leave her bed without pain. Yet her frail body had been carefully propped upright, so she sat in a kind of floating bed.

The two Gemscales were among a group of five Drakes who had come for the first congenial visit. Of course, Magnolia Reinhart had been in Oteslia for a while now. She had called on others, though, attended several modest events with the First Gardener.

More were coming to meet Magnolia Reinhart. Navine adjusted the neckline of the dress again. She frowned as she recalled that Manus had yet to send one dignitary, and the fighting had been fierce when others realized some of their people wanted to meet Magnolia Reinhart.

Literal fighting in some cases, not just political sniping. Even meeting a Reinhart was a betrayal of all that was good and Drake.

Navine and her mother had pushed for it, against Zail’s protests. Surprisingly, Ilvriss had not objected. They were here now, so all that remained was to find out the measure of Magnolia Reinhart. Her reputation was varied, painting her as everything from the heroine from the Antinium Wars to a bloodthirsty tyrant, to a buffoon to—

“Excuse me.”

A voice made the five Drakes start. Navine, jerked out of her thoughts, looked up with Helessia, a Wall Lord and Lady from Oteslia, and a Fissival [Sorcerer] from one of the Walled Families, and saw a [Maid] appear at the stair’s head.

Ressa bowed smoothly, her face blank and politely gestured. Two lines of servants headed down the stairs.

“Thank you for waiting, esteemed guests. Lady Reinhart awaits you all in the parlor. If you would follow me?”

The five Drakes glanced at each other. They had not brought entourages of their own; their [Guards] had stayed outside. That was their big concession to Magnolia, a show of trust. The [Sorcerer] handed his staff to one of the servants. The Wall Lord divested himself of his longsword.

Navine thought that was why they were here, but she realized the [Servants] kept pace, offering a small bevy of refreshments and snacks even before the group had reached the parlor. The mansion was large, but servants filled it.

“Lady Navine Gemscale. May I inquire as to your preference for tonight’s dining? We have a choice of main dishes, although the [Chef] will of course adhere to any preferences or any dietary needs.”

A man bowed, murmuring as Navine strode up the steps, her mother following and speaking to a [Maid].

“Er—I’ll have whatever Reinh—Lady Magnolia is having.”

“Very good, Lady Gemscale. That would be the Zeresian salmon, prepared with a number of fresh selections from Oteslia’s gardens, including Veil Tomatoes, Somarrots…”

Navine half-listened, eying the corridors for any new additions, the servants for some naturalistic alteration to the way they stood, their behavior for one of the thousand signals indicated in Overtures of Exceeding Conduct.

…She found none. And as she entered the parlor, she felt rattled. The lack of subterfuge only convinced her there was more. But before Navine could talk to her mother about clues she might have missed, or the other three guests—

There she was. Magnolia Reinhart turned, a smile on her face that contrived to be welcoming and slightly impish.

“Ah, my guests! How good of you to prevail on me! I do hope you enjoy tonight’s refreshments.”

She stood there, in the pink dress and stylish hat and curiously-cut, almost simplistic pink clothing that Navine had seen her wear when she entered Pallass. Navine stopped as the other Drakes nodded, the [Sorcerer] going as far as to bow, and her mother inclined her head with difficulty.

Magnolia Reinhart wore pink like a splash of vibrancy in any setting. Her blonde hair shone, and her skin had no visible flaw, although for anyone with any money, that was not hard. She was far from being as tall as Navine, who was of a height with Ilvriss, and she didn’t look like a [Warrior].

You could mistake her for an eager [Socialite] with a penchant for pink. Her sparkling, interested eyes even suggested that. Yet she could alternate between the woman who seemed younger than her age, spritely, to a far more intimidating woman.

The [Lady] swept towards the Drakes, arms outstretched. To Navine’s astonishment, she took Helessia’s hand and shook it delicately. Then she did the same to the other three Drakes, ignoring the awkwardness of the Fissival [Sorcerer] and beaming all around.

Aha! Before she came to Navine, the Drake knew what she’d done. It was a classic, disarming play of the genial host, honest and bluff as could be. Only, who would buy that with Magnolia Reinhart?

“Come, sit. I have a tea table ready—do you take sugar with your tea? Ressa, six cubes for me. A favorite flavor? I am delighted to meet you all. Lady Helessia—and this is Lady Navine, isn’t it? I’ve heard so much about your company in Salazsar. A delight.”

She came to Navine. The Drake thought quickly. It was time to show Magnolia how much she was aware of these games of subterfuge. So—as Magnolia held out a hand to shake, Navine instead stepped back, and performed the Izrilian Court-bow.

So named because it was one of the six acceptable bows to be made to other nobles of similar or greater status between different continents that did not adhere to noble rank. Izrilians performed it in Terandrian courts, even to monarchs at times, although this was a slight depending on the situation.

Left hand to chest, four fingers slightly splayed—or claws in Navine’s case, with the pinky tucked in—right hand out and behind, but rotated palm towards the other person, unlike many [Courtier]’s bows. The retreating leg did not stick out too far, nor did one kneel as deeply. Instead of sinking forwards, it was more of a graceful draw downwards, head tilted as well.

All performed splendidly, if Navine thought so herself. Magnolia’s eyebrows shot up and her mouth opened in surprise.

“My! The Izrilian Court-bow?”

“A pleasure to meet you, Lady Reinhart. In the name of House Gemscale, I greet you.”

Navine even replaced the Gemscale family with an Izrilian title. Magnolia hesitated, as even Helessia blinked at Navine’s complicated greeting. Navine watched Magnolia’s face carefully, as Ressa and two [Maids] circulated with the tea cups.

Magnolia Reinhart’s face was blank for a moment. With shock? Her eyes studied Navine. Then—she nodded to herself. Navine waited…

“Overtures of Exceeding Conduct, isn’t it? Chapter Six: Polite Unsettlement and Formal Intrigue.”

Navine nearly tripped as she rose. Magnolia Reinhart laughed at the younger Drake’s expression, then covered her mouth.

“Excuse me. I’ve read the book cover-to-cover. My tutor, Lady Zanthia, forced all of her young wards to read it. I have no doubt the latest generation of [Ladies] is still suffering from the thing.”

“You don’t adhere to it yourself, Lady Reinhart? I was given to understand it was a staple in Izril’s north.”

“Oh, it is. Do forgive me.”

Magnolia’s eyes sparkled with that mirth as she gestured to the couch. She went on as Navine, feeling as if she were losing each conversatitorial bout, as described in Chapter 8, followed her.

“The book is still used by many in the social circles I frequent. However, I don’t often make use of its lessons myself. Nor did I bring it with me to Oteslia. Do forgive me, Lady Gemscale. If you would like, we could engage in some diction. However, I hoped Drakes would be more keen to honest communication than my people often employ.”

Navine blinked as she found herself sitting on a quite comfortable pink couch that clashed with the nature décor in the parlor. She looked at Magnolia, who had happily put three more sugar cubes in her tea cup. Even the china set was pink, and yes, it too clashed.

Either this was all an artful ruse, or she…might have just moved into the mansion, ignored stylistic sensibilities, and put whatever she wanted, like the mess of a parlor. If anything, her maid, Ressa’s face was slightly pained as she set the pink teapot down on the grown-wood table inlaid with carvings of vines.

Without knowing what to say, Navine glanced around at the other Drakes, who were blinking at Magnolia’s statement.

“Well…that would be refreshing, Lady Reinhart.”

“Magnolia, please, Lady Navine. If I might do the same? I hope you will enjoy your visit.”

“Ah, as do we. It is a pleasure to meet a Human willing to make the journey and talk.”

“Quite so for you as well!”

Magnolia beamed. Navine’s mouth opened and closed.

“Well then.”

“Well then. Shall we begin? I thought it would be excellent to talk about business, perhaps. I understand you, Lord and Lady Barkscale, deal in [Green Mages] and ensuring soil fertility. Navine, Lady Helessia? Gemstones, and Magus Tressl, manufacturing of artifacts? How is business these days? Betimes I think that both our species would benefit if trade flowed from north to south, instead of having to go everywhere else. I can think of a number of artisans and nobles who would eat up gemstones, but we buy them at the same rates as overseas groups. If one managed to open the links between north and south, do you see a future in such a project?”

The [Lady]’s eyes twinkled. She spoke more like a [Merchant] or one of Navine’s administrators proposing a new mining shaft than a [Lady]. The Drakes glanced at each other. Navine sipped at her tea.

Strawberry sweet! Not a hint of bitter! Closer to juice than tea! Her forked tongue almost recoiled at the taste.

She looked at Magnolia. The woman had put nine cubes of sugar into this? She found herself studying Magnolia Reinhart again.

And this was just the first meeting. The banquets and larger gatherings were coming up.

—-

Magnolia Reinhart met Drakes. In their city. To talk. Not to sign deals. Mainly to talk.

It was just one of the Five Families’ leaders, too. Not a group of Humans. One Human, who half-poisoned her guests with sugary tea.

Who was as welcome in Drake lands as Drakes were in Human ones, especially in old seats of power. Whose visit might come to nothing.

Yet that talking was a betrayal of all that was held good and dear. It was inexcusable, a traitorous act that deserved no consideration beyond branding as such and stigmatization by all good nobles of Izril!

That was Lord Tyrion Veltras’ position, which he painstakingly explained to his sons over breakfast. He had trouble, despite this being a line most nobles were at home with.

Mainly because Sammy kept asking ‘why?’ every few seconds, and Hethon, despite his best efforts, was still too sleepy to give the responses his father wanted.

“Because, Sammial Veltras, Drakes have been the enemy of our species as long as our people landed on Izril. Even before then, Dragons and Drakes were long the enemy of Terandria. Our generation owes no less a debt of vengeance against them than our ancestors.”

“Why?”

Lord Veltras’ left eye twitched. Hethon nudged his younger brother under the table, noting all the warning signs. At this point Sammial was doing it on purpose.

Tyrion controlled his temper and took it from another angle with effort. He closed his eyes, then spoke.

“To speak with a Drake is…acceptable. A [Captain], a [Merchant]—none of these things would give me pause. To negotiate with the ruling body of Drakes, however, in any… conciliatory effort is wrong. Does that make sense, Sammial?”

“No. Why is it bad?”

Sammy kicked his legs under the table, glancing around impatiently. There were far, far more interesting things to do than be told what he’d heard a thousand times. He didn’t seem to understand that the more questions he asked, the longer he’d be lectured. He glanced towards the other head of the small table as his father took a breath.

“Drakes are not to be trusted, at least where the interests of our House and that of the north align. They protect their species, as we must ours.”

“So I can’t trust them?”

“No.”

“Why not a nice one?”

Sammial scratched at his nose. His father took a long, long breath. Then another.

“We are—technically—still in a state of war with the Drakes. Thus, each Drake is potentially an enemy, Sammial Veltras. Not in practice, but you should not trust any of them. Is that clear?”

Sammial scowled, but another nudge from Hethon and he might have nodded, just to be done with the conversation. However, at that precise moment, someone else leaned into the conversation, unable to help herself.

“No Drakes at all? What about…Saliss of Lights?”

Ryoka Griffin knew it was a bad idea. She’d improved on her temper, her fat mouth, she really had! Sometimes though…old Ryoka jumped out.

Hethon could kick Sammial under the table, but Jericha, hovering by the small breakfast party, could not. If she could, she probably would have done a running kick straight into Ryoka’s lower back.

Lord Tyrion’s head rotated slowly. He looked about to snap—then seemed to realize that Ryoka was not Sammial. Hethon stared at the Wind Runner as Tyrion had to rapidly reorganize his thoughts.

“I am—aware of my debt to certain individuals, Miss Ryoka. However, I remind you that Saliss of Lights is a Named Adventurer who has fought alongside Pallass’ army.”

“So you wouldn’t trust him at all? Or speak to him?”

Ryoka suppressed a smile as Lord Tyrion hesitated and glanced at his children, whom Saliss of Lights had himself saved. Sammy and Hethon both looked at their father, then at Ryoka. Jericha’s teeth ground together.

“—Magnolia Reinhart is a separate issue from House Veltras. It may be she has some scheme in any case. Just be aware of House Reinhart’s penchant for underhandedness, Hethon, Sammial.”

Lord Tyrion neatly escaped the closing verbal trap and turned to Ryoka.

“Miss Ryoka, would you care to speak with me in the…parlor?”

He glanced around. This was not the keep; they were on another holding of House Veltras, having yet to return home at their far more leisurely pace when Ryoka found them. Ryoka opened her mouth as she nodded, but Hethon and Sammial burst in.

“No fair! She promised she’d let us fly!”

“Sammial! Behave yourself!”

Ryoka saw Tyrion glare at his son. However, everyone knew that when Sammial wanted something…Ryoka lifted her left hand.

“I can let the two fly about. Any kids who want to as well. It’s no trouble.”

“If your business is urgent…”

“After, then. I could even kick a soccer ball around with them. From the television? I think I have one or two in my bag of holding. Souvenirs.”

“Really?”

The two boys were agog. Tyrion himself raised his brows.

“That would be quite acceptable. My sons had been asking Jericha to procure them. Might we purchase one?”

“It would be a gift. Actually, I think they’re signed too. By Joseph.”

“Joseph the Football player?”

Hethon nearly choked on his drink. Ryoka smiled. She looked at Tyrion, who was blinking.

“You know the young man personally?”

“We’ve met.”

Ironically through Magnolia Reinhart. Ryoka looked at Tyrion.

“It’s a fun game. I can teach you two if you don’t know. Have you ever played, Lord Veltras?”

“I’m sure Lord Veltras is too busy for such…games, Miss Griffin.”

Jericha spoke stiffly. Tyrion blinked.

“I have not. However, if Hethon and Sammial insist, I would not take it amiss, Jericha.”

The aide nodded stiffly. Ryoka smiled. She turned as Hethon and Sammial begged to see the soccer ball and play.

“Just for a bit. I don’t think an hour will make much of a difference. I met Joseph in Liscor, by the way, Lord Tyrion. The ball was made by a Drake, I’m pretty sure. They’re very hospitable. Honorable too, some of them, like every species. You might like them.”

Another smile. She really couldn’t help it. Lord Tyrion turned into a statue as Ryoka produced the Drake-manufactured ball. Sammy grabbed it, and Hethon raced after him. After a second, he nodded and followed them.

“I look forwards to learning this sport. Perhaps it could be an additional source of income for [Leatherworkers] in House Veltras.”

Ryoka was surprised by this. She kept feeling like she was pushing her luck, especially with how touchy Lord Tyrion was known to be. Except he never called her on it. She followed him after a beat, reminding herself not to push too far…

The Courier tripped and went sprawling as she went through the doorway. Jericha withdrew the foot after a second and called out innocently.

“Are you quite alright, Miss Griffin?”

—-

Lord Tyrion Veltras was not the only person who had gripes with Magnolia Reinhart and the Drakes, of course. However, someone was there to…change his mind.

Or at least, present the counterargument no one else would voice. It was…quite worrying, actually. To someone who didn’t like unknown variables, Ryoka Griffin was one such. They would have been far more worried, of course, if they could have heard the breakfast conversation.

However, that was neither here nor there. To all intents and purposes, everyone ‘knew’ that Lord Tyrion was just taking a break with his sons, no doubt seeing how close he had come to losing them after the poisoning and Circle of Thorns incident. He had attended that strange party, but that had clearly been a favor for the Wind Runner.

Nothing more would come of it. Variables were all accounted for, at least for now. Magnolia Reinhart now…she was a concern.

Yet again, the question was who would place her at the top of their priority list? Oh, every noble might grumble privately about the Drakes and Magnolia, but nothing major had come of it. She was one noble, for all she was head of the Reinhart family. There were bigger fish to explode.

Rhir’s ritual. The King of Destruction. The Death of Magic returning, that damned [Emperor] that had appeared like a mushroom, the war in Ailendamus threatening trade and…of course, the Circle of Thorns.

It seemed like a long time had passed since the Circle had been the unspoken threat, then the visible target. Yet it had only been a month and a half.

The Circle’s power had broken, though. Shattered. Now, the remaining members were fleeing or giving themselves up.

Just yesterday, one of the Isond house had given himself up, forswearing his role in the Circle, claiming he had ‘just been taking part as a social act’, rather than involved in any of the heinous treachery they’d been up to. He disavowed himself publically—especially because the Wellfar Family’s greatest warship, Pride of the Wellfar, had sailed into the harbor with all magical armaments primed to fire, led by the son of Gresaria Wellfar to accuse Lord Atnel Isond of the association.

The sight of one of the last of the three Citadel-class warships aiming enough weapons to turn your home and the entire harbor to dust in your direction—not to mention the crew of thousands who could probably take the entire harbor without needing to use a single of the warship’s weapons—had a remarkably liberating effect on guilty consciences.

Atnel was just one minor headline, of course. While his family disavowed his actions and had to pay penalties, sometimes monetary, and certainly politically, the hunt continued.

Not a [Witch]-hunt incidentally, because few of the Circle of Thorns’ lesser members could fly. Also, many forswore themselves voluntarily rather than stick by the secret society.

The [Assassins] were purged, at least eighteen of the Guild of Assassin’s hideouts having been destroyed and few daring to claim association. The nobility had given themselves up, or gone to ground and it was doubtful any of them would admit to being a member, unless the information was already known.

“The Circle of Thorns is in ruins! The nobles have fled—several have been executed or taken their own lives, the lesser ones, at any rate. The Guild of Assassins, which long shielded Izril against foreign threats for all they were a tool, has also been destroyed. Countless deaths, all of which serve to weaken the north against foreign aggression!”

That was where it stood. In the secret room, where the Thorns of Death had once met, the great secret had been unveiled.

Two thirds of the inner-most ranks of the Circle of Thorns, the appropriately named, if somewhat exaggerated, ‘Thorns of Death’, had actually been foreign agents who’d risen through the ranks, contributing money and power to manipulate the Circle into attacking Izril’s nobles, effectively destroying itself from within.

What an embarrassment. What a disaster. The empty places where the magical projections of each Thorn of Death had been—camouflaged to avoid identification even here—formed a circle, of course. The actual location hadn’t mattered to most; it was just a meeting place, suitably ostentatious and dramatic to make them feel like a proper cult, a way to gain power in secret that they could not directly.

The Circle of Thorns was dead and dying. Its members had died across Izril in vain. The last time this place had been active, it had rung with the contemptuous, raucous applause of the traitors within, laughing at the fools who’d actually believed what they had been doing was anything approaching intelligent or covert.

In the empty room, applause rang once more. Clapping hands. Not the loud effect of many hands clapping. This time…

Just two. Yet, the two glowing images applauded merrily, each other as much as the statement of the Circle of Thorn’s demise.

“What a slaughter! What a disaster!”

One exclaimed, his voice jovial. The other’s was older, and he stopped clapping first, growing tired of the theatrics.

“As miserable a lot as one could imagine. A secret society riddled with infiltrators. They applauded themselves.”

The first figure nodded. He was not, in fact, disguised by a veiling spell. More importantly…the glowing aura around him faded. The semi-translucent effect ended. Revealing a man, brushing at dark, plain travelling clothes that gave little away.

The great magic that the other Thorns of Death had used to communicate live in this way was real. Yet they had never thought to wonder if someone might be tricking them into thinking they weren’t actually in this room. The second glowing figure stepped out of his position in the circle as well.

“It all went exactly as you said it would. I had a hard time keeping from laughing.”

The first man confided in the second. The two were uneven—not completely lopsided, but the first was stouter, shorter, than the second. Not stout or short per se; the second man was tall and thin enough to be willowy, and older by far. He walked with a slight stoop, and his voice echoed slightly as he and the other man walked across the large room.

“The Guild dying was a painful loss. It has been used as a petty tool between ourselves, yet it did frighten our enemies. More than one invading [General] died with their throats cut before they even set foot on this land.”

“True, true. I can see the value, although it strikes me that it was more of a tool for…the nobility. So to Rhir’s hell with the guild, if you don’t mind me saying. I’ve used their services, and I’m a small patriot for my home. But I won’t mourn their loss. They’ll pop back up after a few decades, anyways.”

The second man turned to the first.

“Sooner. We must make certain of that. I said it was regrettable, however necessary. Now, come along. I don’t have much time. If it’s noticed I’ve gone…”

There was certainly a power differential here. The first man trailed after the taller one, stopping well short of him, never interrupting, his voice respectful.

However, neither man was exactly used to subservience. Both talked with authority. Yet the taller, older one clearly knew everything, while the other did not, and the lack of knowledge bothered him.

“Why do you have such a problem with Magnolia Reinhart, though? Of all the issues facing the north—her?”

“Her.”

The taller man was leading them down a staircase. This room was part of a stronghold, typically buried underground. Few places aboveground were so easy to hide such places, and the first man had been surprised by how spacious this headquarters of the Circle of Thorns was.

A proper damn fortress. I’d hate to be subject to poison gas spells down here, but give me a gang and enough arrows and [Mages] and I could hold this place against an army. No wonder the Circle of Thorns existed for so long.

He stretched his legs as he walked; it had been a long ride in the Unmarked Coach, and Karsaeu had been forced to make a few detours for the other travellers. He had been sorely tempted to tell her not to pick up any passengers, but it was a bad look. The Unmarked Coach ran for anyone who needed it—who could pay, of course—and even the owner had to respect that.

The man. At this point, it was probably wrong to think of him just as ‘a man’. He owned the Unmarked Coach, the famous, secret counterpart to Magnolia Reinhart’s coach, the [Lady] of which was the subject of this worry. It was best to think of him, then, as a—[Merchant]. A [Broker]. However, both those ideas suggested someone whose entire job revolved around such things and while he did do both, if he lost his clients, he would not be at a loss.

Rather—he could be thought of by his main class.

[Artifact Collector]. The Djinni’s bottle was still among one of his greatest possessions. Yet the collector of secrets and wealth counted this association nearly as valuable.

The collector glanced up at his companion as they walked further down. The older man still hadn’t shed the magical effect from before, but the other made no comment.

“Why Reinhart? I’ve heard she’s actually not as savvy as one imagines. The Deadly Flower of the North, and all that. Grasp at her and she’ll draw blood. Leave her alone though…? I’ve had little trouble from her. She’s not the subtle manipulator that gives me nightmares at night.”

He pressed the other. He had a number of people he did have nightmares about, and had added the Death of Magic to that list. However, his companion disagreed.

“You don’t believe she’s subtle?”

“I saw her maneuver with the Antinium. I’ll grant you it was sly—but rather like a [Thug] slapping the back of your head with a club when you weren’t looking, as opposed to something artful, if you don’t mind me saying. She’s clever—but not all that.”

The other figure snorted.

“If you think Magnolia Reinhart is anything less than one of the best experts in manipulation and intrigue in all of Izril, you are a fool. What you see as a lack of machinations that manifest into perfect plans that dazzle the mind, I see as true intelligence. Are you in love with stories about architects of politics, cunning [Lords] or rulers who balance enemy intrigues on a needle and let their enemies kill themselves on their own weapons?”

The collector slowed, a bit embarrassed and irked by the needling tone. Of course, he was used to the superior attitude from his companion.

“I do enjoy that kind of thing, yes. What of it? Magnolia Reinhart just doesn’t strike me as that sort.”

“That’s because she’s better than a plotter. Do you know why grand, twisting schemes are stupid? It’s because idiots always ruin something. The more complex a plan, the easier it is to fall apart. And if it succeeds? 99% of people will never figure out what was done unless you tell them. So why bother?”

“Your real foes would take note.”

The collector rejoined, hurt at the affront to elegant machinations. The second snorted.

They descended twisting stairways, much like roots, growing narrower, deeper and deeper. The collector tried to count how many feet they’d gone down. He gave up after four hundred. The second man was deactivating wards and traps, stopping every now and then, so they had plenty of time to talk.

“Let me tell you about a great [Mastermind]. The story was, he was so clever he could manipulate armies into attacking each other. He played his enemies like fiddles, and even the Walled Cities had fallen prey to his schemes. One day, he fixed his sights on a foe known to be just as clever. He enacted a dazzling plan to ensnare the other [Lord] and not only destroy him politically, but tear his allies apart, ruin him until the man would take his own life.”

“Ah. I assume from this story it didn’t go that way?”

The other figure stopped, raising a palm to touch the wall. He stared back at the collector, who was panting from the low oxygen in these places that hadn’t been unsealed for centuries, perhaps longer.

“The man was Lefis Reinhart. At a ball where the two men met, before the [Mastermind]’s great plans would begin to inevitably close, Lefis greeted his opponent on the dance floor. He then drew a dagger, ran the other man through, and walked off. The [Mastermind] died in a pool of blood and few remember he ever existed. Lefis lived for seventy more years.”

“…Am I to be impressed with Lefis? It seemed like the [Lord] got lucky.”

An arched brow, and a sneer. From anyone else, this much continued disrespect would have made the [Artifact Collector] act. Yet he held his growing irritation in check. He knew when to be respectful, even now.

“Really. You think so? The point is this: a master [Assassin] can sneak up behind you as you go about your day, wound you, then heal you and slide away such that you don’t even notice you were hurt until you drop dead a month later. In the meantime, your common [Thug] can knife a hundred foes and spare himself the effort. Magnolia knows when to be direct, and she does it because it works. She forced Tyrion Veltras to hold off taking Liscor, when we wanted him to.”

A finger stabbed at the collector, almost triumphantly.

“That’s how a Reinhart works. When a Reinhart stabs you, they don’t just twist the dagger, they’ve already signed it. Who cares about subtlety when your enemies lie dead?”

“You can’t hold dominion by terror alone. Most accounts I’ve read agree on that.”

The younger man protested. The older snorted.

“So says those who have never done it properly. Terror can last until the tyrant lies dead, and who cares after that? Besides which, the really good tyrants just reanimate their corpses or prolong their life. Be direct. Just blast armies to death. Do it enough times and no one bothers you, I can assure you.”

The collector conceded the point, albeit reluctantly. The two continued their journey down.

“So Magnolia meeting the Drakes…?”

“Bad. Very bad. She’s conspiring with the enemy and she’s doing it directly. Magnolia is a genius, even by Reinhart standards. She’s good at the family tradition.”

“Which is…?”

“Killing people.”

Again, the second figure stopped. He looked back, and his glowing features twisted up into a smile. Which surprised the collector.

“Do you know how many killers her own family sent against her? How bloody the Reinharts were until she took over? Her own father tried to murder her with an army of [Mercenaries] on her fourteenth birthday, and all she had was a single barely-graduated [Assassin]! She walked out of her 20th birthday as head of the Reinhart family with a tame Dragon and all of Izril hailing her as the hero of the Antinium wars.”

Dragon. The first man inhaled, but the second didn’t care. He went on, smiling, fondly…then his features clouded, turned bitter.

“Her fault was she grew soft. She stopped using her talents and used all the other tricks when one solves them all. Look at Izril now. Haunted by Goblin Lords, Antinium—and foreign powers gnawing at us.”

“…And what we’ve done is just eliminate the Circle of Thorns, the one group that was supposed to help protect Izril. Unless I’m wrong? And you’re betraying Magnolia Reinhart, if you don’t mind me pointing it out. Actually, I’ll point it out either way. Will you explain the logic of all this or do I need to get Karsaeu to figure it out for me?”

The eyes of the taller man met his. Contempt, as arrogant as that of Dragons, flashed through his eyes. Old eyes. Older than even the Djinni the [Artifact Collector] possessed.

He had not dropped the magical aura that made him seem like the other projections…because there was no need to. Or rather, he could not. Regis Reinhart sneered down at the mortal man.

“Magnolia Reinhart is my kin. I would have put the Circle behind her if she stayed true to the most basic beliefs of our family. Even now, I would not count her as an enemy. She was the one who threatened to kill me. Me! To have that damned lover of hers plunder my treasures, erase me!”

He snarled. The [Artifact Collector] held up his hands.

Regis Reinhart, in the flesh. Or…the bound spirit of his. He was here, out of his vault. The collector had no idea he’d been able to do that. In their association, made because of their shared passions, the mortal man had slowly become aware of how much power Regis had in secret, in undercurrents. When Regis had told him about the Circle of Thorns…

Well, here they were. Underneath the Reinhart estates, the magical vault lacked for Regis Reinhart. The four [Maids] spoke, talking to each other, holding each other, where they refused to speak while he was there. If anyone had checked…but only Magnolia dared descend so casually.

Regis continued moving after a moment.

“Do you think all of this was an accident, Merlilon? The Circle coming together after being destroyed by Magnolia’s grandmother? Failing so spectacularly?”

Merlilon hesitated. He disliked people using his name, even in this most secret of places.

“You made sure I saw how deliberate it was. I still don’t understand why.”

Regis looked back. They had come to the final door. Merlilon’s hair stood up at the thrum of power on the ward, and he moved back, checking his Ring of Protection. That damned girl had taken the lesser one and he wanted it back!

“Two things could have happened. Either the Circle succeeded and gained Tyrion Veltras, and continued to rise in power—or they imploded. Frankly, the latter was always likelier. Secret societies, like your beloved plots, tend to fail because of how ridiculous they are.”

Merlilon bit back a response. He couldn’t hurt Regis anyways, and he was…unsure…if the same held true in reverse. As the door opened, he smelled something familiar below. He hesitated, as Regis beckoned him into the final room.

“Why let the Circle act at all?”

“Because I made it. I created the first gathering. I paid for this place, before I died! I would have used it for my niece too…tell me, Merlilon. You’re clever enough. What is smarter than creating a secret society that can fail and is full of mortal failings—save for one? Especially since I do not always join each iteration?”

The [Artifact Collector] thought it over. The answer came too soon from Regis’ own mouth. Slowly, Merlilon descended and saw the truth.

“The answer is simple: even if they fail, they succeed! Create a system by which even fools fall upwards! We can cast a spell to change gravity. So why not channel the power of Izril’s nobility, no matter how pathetic they become?”

Regis Reinhart stood in the center of a large, circular room at the bottom of the secret stronghold of the Circle of Thorns. So far down, so hidden, that even other generations of the Circle had never found it.

Here was the real secret of the Circle. As Merlilon descended, holding a glowing wand made of glass, ready to blast this place with the Tier 6 spell contained within and run if this was a trap—he saw it.

This circular room was not just some amphitheater or another conference room. It was a large, vast, rounded…basin.

The walls of stone sloped down the room, to settle at the bottom. Yet Merlilon barely saw the naked stone. Each line of the wall was covered in red.

Runes, as intricate as any he’d ever seen. More intricate than the spell he had used when he had taken command of Karsaeu! They were pulsating. Running—liquid and wet.

With blood. It trickled down with every second, along the patterns of magical lines in the air. That was what he’d smelled which he’d known.

Blood. Blood magic. Merlilon’s stomach heaved. His eyes rolled wildly and his mind swayed in the center of the room. Only experience saved him from madness or…worse. He closed his eyes, looking at the steps, at Regis. The world stopped imploding.

My nose is bleeding. He wiped at it, and saw blood droplets lifting upwards. They floated up—and left—joining the slick walls.

Merlilon had seen a lot of things that would give other people nightmares, and still lingered in his. However, this? This was as bad as it got. He swallowed hard.

“Regis. What am I staring at?”

“Old magic. The same [Necromancer] who helped me live made this place with his last great magic. Blood magic. You know what this is?”

“A—mass spell of some kind. A huge radius!”

It had to be. The entire room was given over to some great working of so many parts he couldn’t guess at what it was. He doubted even his Djinni could have. Regis lifted a finger, the eyes of the curious collector of treasures lighting up with glee as he lectured his younger companion.

“Not just that! This is a kind of magic beyond just a single spell of many parts! This—is a ritual spell. A spell with a radius that spans half a continent—although it requires certain components for activation. And do you know what it does?”

The pieces fell into place. Slowly, Merlilon stared at something on his arms.

The Thorns of Death, like all the Circle, had to undergo certain rites. The most junior members got a single mark, but like the Guild of Assassins, as one progressed, they grew more intricate.

Each one swore themselves to the Circle of Thorns. It was…he had assumed, mostly loyalty spells. The significance dug into him now. He looked at the blood.

The Circle’s blood.

“Correct!”

Regis read his mind. He waved at the running walls.

“Each member of the Circle serves a greater calling, even in death. Fail or succeed. Triumph or die—the Circle of Thorns grows. Hence the name.”

Ah. Merlilon understood the joke. Could anyone walk through the Circle of Thorns without paying a blood toll? And like that…he looked down at the basin.

It was far too shallow for how much blood had been spilt. How much blood had been spilt before, accumulating in the center. Nor did it look like…blood. Not blood proper. It was thicker, darker, with a depth in which he thought he saw…

“What happens now? Do you kill me and complete this…this ritual?”

He raised the wand slowly, knowing it was no use. Regis just stared at him. Then laughed.

“Merlilon. Merlilon! Did you not hear a word of what I said? A Reinhart plays no games! If I wanted you dead, I’d have had you murdered! No, this is the start. The start of the true Circle. Of course, we’ll call ourselves something different. The Guild of Assassins was getting complacent, which was why I allowed it to die with the Circle. Both need to be reforged. Something…is happening.”

He frowned, becoming uncertain, like he had when he mentioned the party at the Summer Solstice. Merlilon licked his lips.

“The King of Destruction? Or, you mean the Death of Magic?”

“Neither. I have seen worse. I have seen that Dragon’s kin die screaming! I have survived it all, Merlilon. Something else is happening. It came to a head at the Summer Solstice and I like it not at all. I…feel it. I am afraid. Afraid of death. The Circle must be reborn. So I will use every drop of blood here if I must.”

“What does that basin do? Conjure…something? Cast a Tier 9 spell to wipe out your foes?”

The man was backing up the stairs, unwilling to stare around this room any longer. Regis eyed him, disappointed. He had hoped for better.

“No. No, the Circle and this place was meant to guard Izril. A last resort to be used when too much blood had been shed. In other eras, when the Flowers of Izril died almost as much as the Goblin King’s rampage…I unveiled the Circle. I saved them, by giving some power. Thus—[Assassins] will become a new guild. A better guild. There are still agents of the Circle. They will come here.”

“And do what?”

A hysterical note had entered Merlilon’s voice. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the pool of blood. It looked like it was sucking him in, even high as it was. He turned for Regis—no, the door! He’d be damned if he—

“Be remade. Better. Go on.”

Regis was behind him. The ghost had gone through the walls. He reached out and pushed Merlilon, gently.

The man fell, screaming. Not towards the ground, but directly into the pool. Somehow—gravity had drawn him into that center. He plunged into the liquid, but there was no splash. He sank deeper, deeper…

Regis sat on the stairs, watching. Waiting.

—-

Later that day, hours later, Karsaeu-Dequoa was checking her internal clock. Her master, whom she would fain see dead, was smart enough to have ordered her to go after him if enough time had elapsed.

Surely the damned ghost knew it too, yet the time was nearly up. Well, Karsaeu would relish battling a spirit. She drew herself up, eyes narrowed—

When a man emerged from the stronghold. The Djinni stopped. She stared as Merlilon walked out, steps light, smiling widely.

“Master?”

He’d ordered her to call him that. Of Regis, there was no sign. Karseau’s eyes narrowed. She floated back towards the carriage which was her body, albeit disguised, uncertainly. She conjured lightning out of magic, herself, and held her ground.

“Karsy! What’s the matter? Don’t you recognize me?”

“No.”

The Djinni regarded the man warily. She…felt…the same need to obey. The same magical bonds. Yet if she had hair on her body to raise, it would be standing up.

“What are you?”

“Merlilon. Just—better. Come on, open up. We have lots of work to do.”

She shuddered as the door of the Unmarked Coach opened. Merlilon climbed inside. He sat there, humming to himself, all grudges towards Regis forgotten. He had gotten the full treatment of course. Not any half-measures, not for the mortal collaborator to Regis.

Even a Vampire would envy him. He wondered just how strong he was. Not just strong; well, he’d get Karsaeu to help him figure out just what had changed. He laughed, again, picking out names for the best of the Circle of Thorns’ agents. The very best. [Assassins] too. It was a limited resource.

The Djinni was silent as the Unmarked Coach sped away. For once, not needling whatever sat inside of her. She did not know what had happened.

Merlilon smelled like blood.

—-

Soon, a time of importance would take place. It was not something you had to sense, although anyone with the correct senses would intuit it.

However, a study of astrology would reveal the same. A semi-rare event, although regular, was about to take place.

The twin moons above would soon be full, on the exact same day. A double full-moon, a time of great importance.

Magically, level-wise, but not spiritually. Not anymore.

Eldavin, that was, Teriarch, knew this. Magic was stronger when both moons opened; some kinds of magic. It was a bad time to be an [Umbralmancer], the strict name for the [Dark Mage] class and its derivatives.

On the other hand, lunar magic was at its zenith, if anyone remembered it. Well, he, Teriarch, did.

“Eldavin.”

He corrected himself after a moment. Magical powers would gain strength. Oh—and if you were extremely lucky or savvy, you could gain some of the rare classes. [Lunar Swordsman] and such. For his purposes, well, he wasn’t going to be swinging bits of enchanted metal about.

The point was that all things affected magic. From what you’d eaten to what you were wearing, to where you stood to what time it was. By the same token—you could do whatever the hell you wanted because you were a [Mage]. Or a Dragon.

He had a lot to do, too. Eldavin had spent enough time at Wistram to see it for what it was. He saw the failings, the conceits, and yes, the strengths it had, and weighed it against the Wistrams of old, the ones that had failed, or risen despite themselves.

Eldavin found the academy wanting. Among other things, for better leadership, better morality, and finally—better magic.

It was not doomed, for all that. If he had his way, he would help correct it before going back to heal Erin Solstice. Then take a nap. He was getting tired of having to wake up each day.

Nevertheless, he spent his time cunningly. In between his classes, he assembled what he needed, using his vast array of knowledge that no [Archmage] could equal…probably. However, some spells were beyond him, and he had to work within the confines of what he could do without Skills and this simulacrum.

To that end…he knocked harder on Viltach’s door. At last, the Archmage opened it.

“Grand Magus Eldavin.”

He had a resigned tone to his voice. Eldavin beamed at him.

“Archmage Viltach. I apologize for calling on you at this early hour.”

“It’s just past midnight.”

The man blinked at him.

“And well into the next day! I’m terribly sorry in any case, but could I trouble you for a few more ingredients? I have yet to source mine as you know—I should have brought my stores, but they’re quite inaccessible, and I was hoping for some more magicore. A pinch of high-grade ruby dust, let’s see…a Unicorn horn? No? Well, I can take some mithril and silver. Oh, and aside from the standard stuff, I could really use a Kraken’s eye and about…eight…parts of Crystalline creatures. Bugs, even. I am not exceedingly picky.”

Viltach just stared at him. Eldavin smiled. He wasn’t being unreasonable, he knew. He’d gotten the Hydra parts from Nailihuaile, several powerful tree reagents from Feor—

The trick was to spread around the requests. Each [High Mage] or [Grand Mage] had gotten an Eldavin knocking on their door with a polite request for just a bit of what he knew they had. It was a time-honored tradition of course; leeching from your peers.

Which was why Eldavin was also ready for Viltach to try to close the door on him.

“I’m so sorry, Grand Magus, but it’s a tough time of year and after all the ingredients I already loaned you three times, I’m a bit pinched myself.”

“Completely understandable!”

Eldavin cheerfully grabbed the doorknob and the two wrestled. He spoke rapidly as Viltach tried to retreat into his quarters.

The thing about borrowing was that eventually you had to return the favor. Eldavin had no intention of giving Viltach a quarter of the gold the ingredients were worth, and nor did he wish to trade in any way. Which was why the Dragon happily spoke before the Archmage could shut the door fully.

“I notice you use a suspension-style construction for your wands, Archmage Viltach. Magic gemstones in charged magicore? Very nice sealing spells too. Quite lovely.”

For a Bronze-rank adventurer. Yet Viltach hesitated long enough to eye Eldavin suspiciously.

“Thank you, Grand Magus, but nevertheless, I’m sure you can appreciate how much Magicore it takes. Which I can’t spare just yet—maybe in a month. My wands are considered effective though, thank you for noticing.”

“Cheap, certainly.”

Viltach’s face went slack. Eldavin pressed on, a big smile on his face.

“Have you considered—purely speculating here, your research may have excluded this, or you just don’t care to make them—multi-gem core wands?”

The Archmage’s eyes flickered. He smiled, and didn’t shut the door—but neither did he rush Eldavin into his apartments.

“Grand Magus, of course I’ve thought about it. But it’s quite impossible to do simply.”

The half-Elf’s brows politely rose.

“I think an Archmage of your level could certainly manage it. Don’t let yourself down so easily, Archmage Viltach.”

Another moment of hesitation as Viltach tried to work out if that was…

“I’ve never seen it done outside of an extremely high-level joining spell. Multiple elements, Grand Magus Eldavin? Assuming you’re implying it would be in suspended magicore—how would two cores even co-exist, or if I managed that, allow for a [Mage] to draw on two elements at once rather than a mess of fighting elements?”

There it was. Eldavin pounced, as the cat to the proverbial mouse, or Wyvern to terrified Corusdeer.

“Conflicting elements—that is a problem. However—if we look to nature—slimes manage it, don’t they? The high-level ones, at least. You know, the good old Shockflame Slimes? That sort of thing?”

Viltach blinked. His grip loosened and the door opened wider.

“Slimes? Of course…you’re suggesting their inner mechanisms, some kind of spell—no. Just their inner core must have some kind of inherent conflict-resolver that—”

“Fascinating things, aren’t they? Wonderful to study.”

At this point Eldavin’s brows were dancing around on his head like a pair of drunk worms. However, even that wasn’t enough to let himself in.

“Thank you for the tip, Grand Magus. I will look into this. Hopefully it will bear fruit.”

The Archmage bowed quite politely to Eldavin. He waited. The half-Elf smiled.

“Well, I will confess, it was in lieu of this thought that I sought you out, Archmage Viltach. I know it might be presumptuous—but I happen to have a Shockflame Slime just er, sitting in my room. You know how they breed. I was hoping we could perhaps swap a few amiable goods?”

“A Shockflame Slime. You have one in your rooms? As one…does?”

Viltach’s voice had gone flat. Eldavin waved a hand around, contriving to hint at a bit of annoyance.

“They just pop up, you know how it is. I’d be happy to lend it to you indefinitely. I ah, captured it a long while ago. Quite fortuitously…although it would have been a stroke of luck to get a three-elemental slime. Yet those are even rarer. Hard to find ones able to take the strain. This was quite a catch though, and reluctant as I am to part with it…”

Viltach’s eyes widened. He began nodding and opened the door wide. Eldavin beamed.

Of course, he’d just created the Shockflame Slime himself. Viltach was all too willing to believe that Eldavin was trading it from his personal menagerie, though, and if a bit of work got him what he wanted…? Eldavin was soon bustling out of Viltach’s rooms with more of his precious ingredients, and Viltach was staring at the flaming slime which occasionally shot fairly powerful jolts of electricity rolling around in a containment field in his laboratory. He glanced up as he saw the half-Elf close the door.

—-

They knew that he was hiding something. The [Mages] weren’t stupid, or if they were, they weren’t stupid in that way.

Some thought Eldavin was half-mad and forgot more magic than the Archmages of old knew now. Others wondered if he was some ancient [Mage] who had stayed out of the limelight until now, which was fairly accurate, he had to admit.

In the end though, the results were the same. The [Depth Mage] of the Drowned Fleets welcomed Eldavin into her quarters.

Or rather, all of her did. Her daughters, which were parts of her which had regrown, a kind of birth for the half-starfish woman, all bowed their heads as one.

It was a gesture calculated to unnerve, especially with their identical faces, not to mention when they spoke, greeting him.

Eldavin didn’t bat an eye. He greeted the [Grand Magus], kissing each cheek like they were [Sailors] meeting ship to ship.

“Depth Mage Doroumata, you are a gracious host! Seas take you! Your lovely daughter-apprentices as well. Have you been eating well? I know landfolk food doesn’t sit that well myself. Nothing like a good Invisible Eel in Kelmark sauce, eh? Are the fisheries still working down there or did they all get out again? And who could tell either way?”

He laughed at the bad joke as Doroumata gave him a look of pure surprise. Her daughters were even less subtle, and they began to exhibit different kinds of shock. One’s mouth dropped slightly open like her mother’s, another shifted her skirts, yet another tried to mask…

Ah, so they aren’t sharing a neural link, just the same body-progenitor. Good to know.

Eldavin was Eldavin was Teriarch. He didn’t know everything, far from it. Yet what he did know he used, and soon the [Depth Mage] was treating him like he was the foreign [Mage Captain] of a fellow Drowned Vessel in the deeps, not some foolish landfolk with a bit of magic in him.

Which was eminently the correct thing to do, of course. Eldavin accepted a bowl of some of the larger, dried eggs, not exactly caviar, but a nice snacking food and popped them into his mouth.

“Lovely, lovely.”

“I do apologize. Rations are harder to procure above. I have contented myself with landfolk food, but one who knows the deep water’s bounty…have you crewed with my people before?”

“Now and then, Depth Magus, now and then. Although Depth Magus is such a mouthful—wouldn’t it be more accurate to call you the Shadeward of…I want to say Nombernaught, if I’m guessing cities?”

She jumped and Eldavin hid a smirk behind the bowl.

“You—know the city?”

“As I say. I’ve been around. Of course, the crews I worked with are probably long, long since dead or disbanded, so I wouldn’t be surprised if my name is forgotten.”

He let her chew that over and had no doubt she’d spend a lot of fruitless time trying to figure out how he knew about one of the Drowned People’s secret cities, cloaked by her kind in the depths. Best of luck too! He hadn’t been Eldavin, but a Drowned Folk [Mage] when he’d needed to go below.

She looked at him for a long moment. Like Viltach, he knew he didn’t fool her by playing his cards so close to his chest. Yet that was fine. [Mages] always wanted things. Information, magic…

“How may my daughters and I help you, Grand Magus? I have been told you’ve set a Creler nest—Krakens devour them—in the waters with your trades. What have my people to offer such a knowledgeable [Mage]?”

Eldavin nodded. She was a sensible one. No doubt the Drowned Fleets had picked wisely in choosing her; he wondered who was better, Doroumata or Viltach. You did not become the Shadeward of an entire city unless you could hide them from the vast monsters of the sea—and fight one off if they still came at you.

“In truth, Shadeward Doroumata, I know why you’re here. Before you speak—I am Wistram, and Wistram must keep its secrets. However. I would hate for the Drowned Peoples, who have been allies of the landfolk in times when they are most needed, to take umbrage against the land.”

Her eyes flickered rapidly. One of her daughters glanced around before the others nudged her fiercely behind their long, flowing clothing made of dark magic-infused cloth.

“I do not know if this is excessive flattery, Grand Magus Eldavin. Drowned Fleets are seldom friendly with landfolk or Storm Ships.”

Eldavin’s brisk slap of the knee made them all start, as such sounds did. The underwater crews hated sharp, loud noises, as they attracted fish. He did it anyways, and gave Doroumata a stern look.

“Not our friends? Do you refer to the present era, Shadeward? If so, I grant you that. But do not tell me the Drowned Folk forget faster than the landfolk when we stood together? I remember. I was—”

I was there. The half-Elf smoothly went on.

“—raised on stories of the times when land and sea put aside differences! The last time was the Creler Wars, when your people rose from the depths to repel the things devouring all from Rhir! When magic died and your people drowned in the darkness, did our peoples not stand together until the dawn of magic broke again? When tyrants held the sky, did the sea not revolt along with the land, and follow the Treants of Noi into battle?”

Her eyes were wide. Eldavin held her gaze, and realized his hand was shaking. He knew what came next would change things.

So what? He always changed things. Eldavin gestured, pretending to re-cast the powerful magics against eavesdropping he’d already put on the room.

“Lady Doroumata, do you know what has called all of Wistram’s power here? The children?”

She looked at him. Her daughters stirred.

“I know they matter.”

“Do you know why?”

Another moment of hesitation.

“…No. Only that landfolk have found such, where the Drowned Folk do not. Except for…corpses…”

Eldavin felt a moment of understanding, then pity and sorrow. They appeared in the sea. Even if whatever force was directing them towards civilization—fifteen feet outside a city on land was different than fifteen feet outside an undersea city.

Someone will be held to account. He shook his head.

“Of course not. Yet surely you understand they are appearing…everywhere? Land, sea, perhaps even air, if they are unlucky? These poor, poor children from another world.”

Her eyes went wide behind her veil. He sensed the truth spells probing him from several distant sides.

“That—is—a bold thing to say, Grand Magus.”

“Ah, well, most [Mages] of Wistram know about it. Zealously do they guard their Earthers though—that’s the term for them. I daresay even if you tried spiriting them away, that vessel you probably have parked outside the radius of the academy won’t get far with all of Wistram raining spells down on you. Even if it were a fleet.”

Another safe bet. He knew they wouldn’t leave their Shadeward stranded. The woman sat back, rattled. Yet you didn’t survive that far underwater if you panicked.

“Then what would you suggest, Grand Magus?”

He took his time now, playing up the theatrics, staring at the ceiling, munching the quite nice eggs—they were fertile of course, so you ate the little eel-things live. If some people thought that was barbaric, well, he’d seen how sausages were made. Animals excreted from those things!

“We-ell, if you know where to look, I daresay you’d find the children who stand out, even if they are Human. Wistram also delivers them via boat, which I hate to intimate in any way…I am just speculating, Doroumata.”

She nodded, smiling, enraptured by the half-Elf as he waggled a finger. Not least because the half-Elf had given her the target of her quest.

If Grimalkin of Pallass had not already known from the Drake communications he had hacked into, Eldavin would have told them too. Why did he do it?

A few reasons. One was practical; they were favors to him. The second?

“I mean it, Doroumata. Let the sea rule as it will, but let us also not forget the ties that bind us in the direst hour.”

Eldavin rose. As he did, Doroumata grasped his hands with hers. She dug her nails into his skin, but lightly.

“For you, Grand Magus, we would call you sea-friend even if we forgot all you had done lifetimes ago.”

She met his gaze with her impossibly dark one, that sucked up the light itself. He nodded, bowing slightly, no artifice in taking this compliment.

This was what he had set out here to do. One of the first changes Wistram must make. It was a fool’s errand to enrich only the Academy of Mages.

“I would stay a day or two and wait for someone to insult you.”

He suggested mildly. She nodded. Again, she and her daughters bowed, the daughters making a sign of respect, a touch of the lips and a finger pointed. Words of praise unspoken, for the crews who sailed the depths.

—-

Then he started asking for favors. Eldavin didn’t need this if everything went well, but they were lots of fun and she’d be able to replenish her stocks. He rubbed his hands together as she produced the things that could help him—underwater ingredients—and added the addendum.

“I was also hoping to take a few Depth Charges if you had any, Doroumata? Handy little things and I’m pressed for time…”

The daughters looked at each other, askance that Eldavin knew to ask for them, let alone wanted one! Yet the Shadeward only hesitated a moment before snapping her fingers.

“Bring one.”

“Oho.”

Eldavin was careful with the perfectly round sphere of liquid that was nevertheless firm as a rock in his hands. The daughter carefully backed up—not that it would have saved her if he activated it—and he noticed the permanent ward spell around Doroumata grow a bit stronger.

“You…know how to use those?”

Eldavin frowned absently as he inspected the one he’d been handed.

“Of course, of course. One thing…come now, Doroumata, I thought we were friendly! This is only one ton. Pray, might I acquire a stronger one?”

This time Doroumata’s daughters did stir. That was—they looked at their mother. She had decided to give the best one she had to Eldavin, but the [Depth Mage] recovered.

“—Naturally, Grand Magus. However—Wistram. One does not simply walk around with objects of too much danger, do they?”

She lifted a delicate hand. Eldavin nodded slowly. Why was it so reassuring for him to give her a nod, as if he was a [Captain] and she the [Deckhand] just allowed abovedecks?

“Naturally. My mistake.”

In that way, Eldavin was fooled, despite his great knowledge. Doroumata saw him off, then turned to plot and communicate with her vessel the import he had brought.

—-

It was all very well, going around, acquiring his hoar—his necessary items. Eldavin tucked the Depth Charge away securely as he marched down the hallway.

The truth was though, that these factions he was aiding were more for the…the general concept than anything. A rising water drowned all peoples and all that, as the saying went. Similarly, he wanted to help the Drowned Folk as much as give hints to [Mages].

He had a faction, though. It was to that faction his thoughts now turned. For if Eldavin gave hints to his enemies or would-be allies, or simply other people of magic…what would he give to those on his side?

The answer was: all he could. All that was safe. Eldavin had already recalled the incidents of old, the arrogance, and the foolishness of magic unchecked.

He would not make his old mistakes again. He would give what he deemed best, which meant limiting the power of any one side, yet enriching this place, his faction, against what might come if the worst came to the worst.

Which was…a war between worlds. Eldavin was no fool. He’d gone through the laptop, watched the movies, and known where fiction ended and reality begun. Unlike many, he could visualize a gun. Also, contemplate the power to destroy entire cities and poison the earth.

He met with the first of the pupils from his faction as she waited outside the door to his apartments, dancing like a first-year pupil. Valeterisa, Archmage of Izril, nodded to Eldavin and he nodded back, suppressing a sigh.

She was a headache. However, he only smiled.

“Archmage Valeterisa. I hope I have not kept you waiting long? You are, er, forty minutes early to our appointment.”

“I am capable of thought anywhere, Eldavin. I hoped to talk before we resumed our discussion of….”

“Yes—quite. Let’s er, begin.”

—-

The problem with Valeterisa was her greatest strength. That was what Eldavin had first thought of her:

She was the kind of [Mage] that the Wistram of old was. Driven. Magic is her goal and she will pursue it. For better or worse, she knows politics and influence is a means to an end, yet magic is her love.

That was…good. Because she was intelligent and held magic to be a truth, which was what [Mages] were.

Bad, because it went right up against Eldavin’s ‘don’t give a Bronze-rank adventurer a Tier 8 spell and expect things to work out’ policy. He was sure Valeterisa would manage to break through if he gave her too much of any one magical theory.

Thus, he engaged in a delicate dance of trust and giving her just enough to improve during these ‘collaborative discussions’, which was really him answering questions for her under the guise of ‘magic that had been lost after Zelkyr disappeared’. It was difficult because he had to pretend he did not know the answers, or fuddle around—and she was smart enough to keep testing him to see if he was faking it.

He had to do it, though. Valeterisa was a bit too driven and Eldavin was uncomfortably reminded of [Mages] he had known many times.

Give her the keys, or even a lockpick and she’d throw open the doors to greater magic and drag them all screaming into the aether. Some bastard like that had once ended magic for centuries and Teriarch was not living through that again.

Worse—he politely adjusted the textbook so he avoided looking at her low-cut dress. Valeterisa’s eyes flickered and he doubted she’d try that again. Much like a scientist of Earth, she attempted every method to persuade him to be more forthcoming. She was as direct as Eldavin with that. Bribes, sexual attraction, offers of land, and so on.

I could do this for years, dripping knowledge towards her. My promise to Ryoka matters more, though. The dual full moons are coming up…I have too much to do and not enough time!

Eldavin was worried, but he decided there was no help for it. He cleared his throat as Valeterisa and he hunted for a passage explaining the nuances of spell crafting in the illusion school to include auditory and olfactory senses that he knew was in there in the pile of books (five down, second stack), and spoke.

“Archmage Valeterisa. I was wondering if we might come to an…understanding. In truth, there is a little bit of magical theory that Wistram has lost that I think might be entirely useful. However, it is the culmination of my studies, and I would like to discuss its sharing, even with an Archmage of the faction we both occupy, you understand.”

Her eyes widened. Eldavin sighed, yet he was resolute. This was no time for half-measures anymore.

It was time to throw a Volcano Slime into a forest of Treants, to use an old, and now fairly regrettable saying. Compared to what was coming up—this wasn’t even the big gamble.

“As I have repeatedly stated, I will fully compensate any magical knowledge you can share to the best of my abilities, Eldavin. Note to self: sexual appeal effective? Yes/no? Further testing required.”

She said that last part out loud, and then blinked at him. Eldavin blinked back.

“Assign ‘no’ to that hypothesis, please. I am simply in need of assistance.”

“Ah. What do you require, then?”

Valeterisa waited. Unlike Viltach or Doroumata, Teriarch could just say what he wanted. Refreshingly simple. Valeterisa lived like the very same logical circuits that made up the Earther’s computers and technology.

As he spoke, Eldavin got up and walked to the large, very impressive windows and balcony of his new apartments. They overlooked the sea and beyond, the ocean past the bubble of calm. He placed two hands behind his back as Valeterisa watched, keenly interested.

“I believe you have your own information sources in Wistram, Valeterisa. So perhaps you know that a certain High Mage Merzun attempted to acquire some Earthers from an inn in Liscor.”

Valeterisa’s eyes flickered as Eldavin glanced over his shoulder. It was uncanny, really. She used a variation of the same memory spells he employed. It was just smart magic—neatly filing information, splitting her mind. He had heard she ran into the same trap that had killed many [Mages] of course. Ryoka had saved her life. Perhaps it was strange how these connections came about, but Teriarch—Eldavin—had long since learned to see how these patterns naturally came about.

“I recall. A minor incident. The Mage Montressa du Valeross was summarily expelled, Mage Bezale cautioned by her faction; Ullsinoi declined to caution Mage Palt. High Mage Merzun failed to acquire Earthers, citing extraordinary circumstances and dangers of Xrn, Pallass. Ullsinoi lodged formal complaint against Revivalist faction. Issue under debate.”

“Succinctly put. I was only made aware of this incident a few days ago myself. I…consider it emblematic of the problems facing Wistram.”

“Clarify?”

Eldavin nodded.

“Morally fraught, but also politically inexpedient. Moreover, this…squabbling between factions is not conducive to unity or a greater understanding of Earth for all.”

“I would support that statement generally.”

Valeterisa nodded, although the half-Elf wondered if she was bothered by the moral issues. Well, allies did not need to see eye-to-eye, merely respect each other’s positions. He went on, smoothly.

“I have no…strong…attachment to these particular Earthers, but I do consider myself something of a patron to a certain Earther who has made my acquaintance. A Ryoka Griffin. You know her.”

“Courier, involved in—yes. I know her.”

Valeterisa blinked, her eye sharpening, not doing a memory-recall, but actively remembering. She stared keenly at Eldavin.

“You are her patron? Of course. These connections—did you teach her the strange wind magic? Are you aware of the peculiar nature of her acquaintance, a Fierre? Added to that, I would love to compare notes on her physiology—”

“Archmage Valeterisa. Miss Ryoka Griffin is under my protection. Which means I would rather she go about her life unimpeded.”

The stern reprimand made Valeterisa blink, and sit back.

“I see. Is this a warning?”

“Not at all.”

The half-Elf lied smoothly. He turned back to the window.

“Rather, it is an appeal for help. I would prefer our Terras faction to stand rather apart from these acquisitive factions. We do not need to hold Earthers, against their will no less, like political prisoners. Or slaves. However, it seems Archmage Nailihuaile, among others, does not respect the other faction’s boundaries. I sense, as do you, an inevitable conflict that may range beyond the merely political.”

Valeterisa tapped her fingers on the table, and then nodded. She waited now, as Eldavin glanced back at her. Even with her, he still had to dance a bit.

“Which brings me to my point. I cannot be everywhere. As we are both leaders of the Terras faction, and you the technical leader, I hesitate to give you orders. I would consider it a personal favor, however, if you were to take up the mantle if such a situation arose.”

“Interesting. You mean intervention in Izrilian affairs against other factions. What is my incentive for clashing with other Archmages and factions?”

Eldavin lifted a finger.

“Some factions are quite reasonable. Ullsinoi, for instance. I spoke with Magus Gaxiela or whatever they call themselves. Only the factions that do not respect our desires.”

“Izril is quite far from Wistram. I do not see the merit in leaving Wistram. As of yet, our faction has no official members outside the academy, so are you suggesting I leave Wistram?”

“If need be. To that end—my offer. I assure you, the pieces will come together nicely. Tell me, Valeterisa. What do you consider to be the greatest impediment of [Mages] throughout history?”

To her credit, Valeterisa took the question like a student. She pondered it for a good minute, which Eldavin quite approved of, and then responded.

“To simplify the answer: time. [Mages] may level and acquire knowledge indefinitely, yet time impedes even the species with greatest longevity.”

Eldavin nodded.

“A common answer.”

“You object to my reasoning?”

“Not at all. I quite agree. Which is why I am offering a culmination of my knowledge—”

“Time delay spells? You know how to create time delay spells? [Time Slow]? No—a miniature universe with a time delay? I could spend all my time efficiently in one of those, even at a .96 time distortion!”

Valeterisa shot out of her chair like an excited girl. Eldavin waved a hand quickly. This. This was why you didn’t give her anything more radical.

“No, no, Archmage. I don’t have anything nearly as potent as that. Merely a piece of the puzzle. Distance, Archmage.”

“Distance?”

She looked disappointed, but rallied quickly. Eldavin stroked his beard.

“Indeed. Distance and time are conflated. Even the children of Earth know this. Recall their statements about relativity? Speed is time is…well, moving past the speed of sound itself is inherently unhealthy.”

She was nodding. The Grand Magus went on.

“Covering distance, especially Wistram to Izril, takes altogether too much time. I myself spent far too long on a fast ship. Whereas, in history, Archmages as recent as Zelkyr did not have to endure such travails. I had considered a faster route—but Wistram was not receptive to the spell queries. They had forgotten. So what I am suggesting—offering, really—is not new, but rather, old. I recall the spells quite well…”

Valeterisa zoomed ahead of Teriarch. Her eyes flickered, the pupils darting around, and she gasped before he did.

“You remember long-distance teleport circles?”

“Indeed.”

Wistram had teleportation spells. There was still business in mass-teleporting objects across the world. People were considered too dangerous for Fissival’s old magical grids, or Wistram.

“The Academy can teleport individuals. This is not new, Grand Magus.”

After a moment, Valeterisa looked disappointed. Eldavin countered.

“Archmages, at great cost. I believe it takes at least sixty linked [Mages] to provide the magical power and complexity required for the spell. Ridiculous! There is a coordinate-based teleport system far more effective than the one in place here. The very reason the teleportation is so complex in and out of Wistram and every idiot except the Demons of Rhir copy it is because it was designed to go through magical protections. You can use a [Greater Teleport] spell almost as simply as [Lesser Teleport], albeit with higher mana costs and complexity and casting time, but linearly, not exponentially per pound…”

The Dragon stopped ranting, realizing he might have said too much. The Death of Magic knew how to cast teleportation spells. Hence her training actual [Teleportation Mages]. He’d studied some of the battles in recent history.

Valeterisa’s eyes were shining.

“You are willing to share this?”

Eldavin considered the question from all angles. He nodded of course; he had made his mind up already.

“Why don’t we go over my personal teleportation circle? I use it to ah, navigate the High Passes. I was entirely tickled in an unpleasant way to learn Wistram had forgotten.”

There were multiple reasons for him choosing to give this powerful magical technology to Valeterisa. Firstly? It was his faction and they needed to prove Terras had something no other faction had.

Secondly, wasting time on trips was stupid. [Mages] should at least move about. Also, if he wanted Valeterisa to represent him on Izril, there was no better way to aid her in that regard. If an Archmage could teleport to Izril to slap down an uppity [High Mage] whenever she wanted, the other factions would walk more carefully.

Finally, and this was a smaller consideration—it was the door in Liscor. Eldavin had heard the Centrists might be making a grab for it, despite Ullsinoi trying to keep it on lock. If there was a teleportation spell in circulation, the danger to The Wandering Inn was considerably lessened.

That was the kind of layers that went into a Dragon’s plans. Eldavin smugly smiled as Valeterisa goggled at his sample spell circle. This would change things. Yet he was more comfortable with this than finishing Valeterisa’s research. She had been aiming for a powerful bit of spell theory. More dangerous than teleportation spells in the long run.

“It isn’t comparable to true [Greater Teleport] of course. These are just spell circles, not the spell that can let you hop between continents. However, you could hit an effective range of, oh, two hundred miles alone. Easier to hop around if you prepare ahead of time.”

She was nodding rapidly. He’d induced several flaws and inaccuracies in the complex circle to make it harder to use its full potential and waste mana. No doubt that would eventually be corrected. He regarded it as teaching the generations. Plus, it was hilarious to see [Mages] casting a spell that literally fed mana into the void, or siphoned some off to make a small, smelly gas cloud by ‘accident’. You had to enjoy your work.

Eldavin patted the Archmage on the shoulder and wandered off. Next!

—-

One thing Teriarch and Eldavin didn’t do was make any of this personal. That was why he didn’t rise to Naili’s provocation as they discussed the inn-incident over breakfast the next day.

“I just don’t know what came over High Mage Merzun, Grand Magus. She must not have gotten the information about the Earthers and Ullsinoi. Besides which, they aren’t your faction. No one was removed that did not want to go. A young man is coming to Wistram, but everyone seems satisfied, so what is the issue?”

She smiled in a wide, toothy grin. Calculated to unsettle or annoy.

Eldavin did not rise to the bait. Oh, he would admit he had a small temper at times. Yet in this particular case, he was calm because Naili needling him was rather like a little girl poking at a Giant and expecting to get a rise out of him. He had seen far greater Nagas. So he smiled quite genially, which unsettled her.

“And yet, Archmage Nailihuaile, High Mage Merzun is interfering in another faction’s affairs. The Ullsinoi are lodging a formal complaint.”

“I am so sorry, as I said. We will debate it in the Council and ensure this does not happen again.”

Since my faction is so powerful and the Ullsinoi are not and considered troublemakers, we won’t get more than a slap on the wrist verbally. The Star Lamia’s grin was a bit too self-effacing at this point, so Eldavin sipped from his cup of tea.

His great regret in his association with Magnolia Reinhart was how she had profaned the ways of tea and begun drinking straight sugar. He enjoyed a refined cup himself, and had quietly disintegrated the bowl of sugar cubes one time he’d had tea with Mage Telim and some others.

“Well, I will admit that we must do things as the current Wistram dictates. Or I’m sure Ullsinoi would have pressed their case more…directly. Which would be amusing for all. [Siege Fireballs] in the hallways.”

She hesitated, reminded that this current system was not how the good old days had done it. Before she could counter, Eldavin went on.

“Which is why Terras has lodged a formal complaint alongside Ullsinoi. I believe some stern reprimands are in order for High Mage Merzun’s lack of understanding of the situation. Archmage Valeterisa is calling for the Council to strip her of her rank and demote her back to a basic magus. I believe the measure will pass, and I hope I can persuade you to support the vote, as you seem clearly as passionate about proper conduct as I.”

He twinkled as the Star Lamia spluttered and coughed on her breakfast of one of the more acceptable rodents of Baleros.

“I knew you’d see it my way. Ah—but I’m late for my class! Let us discuss this later! Oh, and Ullsinoi may receive three Earthers from the Revivalists as a measure of recompense. A pleasure to talk to you, Archmage!”

A [Speed] spell on the feet and he was gone. Now, that might have been a bit petty, but it was not as self-interested as any other [Mage] of Wistram might be. If Teriarch, Eldavin, had really wanted to gain power here? Oh, he would be sharing spells left and right, stealing valuable [Mages].

…No. The Dragon’s age and wisdom were enough for him to represent Terras, yet enrich magic as a whole. He still felt spritely as he walked down the corridors, ignoring Naili calling after him.

Eldavin really did feel good. Why was that? He slowed, frowning, and caught sight of himself in a mirror.

A tall half-Elf. A perfect simulacrum. He felt light on his feet, he had a prodigious appetite and…he put a hand to his head for a moment.

His memory was good too. Oh.

“Of course.”

Eldavin murmured. He hadn’t had any difficulty in…recollecting things. Nor bodily aches and pains at all. Because, of course, his simulacrum was perfect, far younger in body than Feor, for all he looked older.

He had ‘left’ many of the unneeded memories in his true body, the superfluous recollections of being a Dragon. Like Valeterisa, he could access them, but the much smaller brain and capacity of the half-Elf’s body meant it had been economical to not include them.

Fine physical conditioning, mental alacrity, and the ability to eat one’s fill without depleting an entire herd of animals. Why didn’t he always stay like this? Eldavin gave himself a miffed look.

Oh, yes. Because he was about as strong as a Halfling compared to a half-Giant due to his inferior body and having to transmit his magical power at a fraction of its true power. Eldavin sighed.

“Also because if I die, I could actually die.”

A passing [Mage] gave him an odd look. Eldavin nodded at him vaguely.

Yes, the dangers of the simulacrum spell were that even if your copy died, the shock of death could kill the spellcaster. Only the messiest of deaths, really. Magical backlash and so on. It was possible, though…he sighed.

Speaking of which, the hour approached. And at the same time…a giant woman walked down the halls of Wistram. [Mages] seeing her slowed or stepped to one side, although she would do the same for them.

Cognita slowed as she saw Eldavin. He looked up towards her face and nodded.

“Cognita.”

“Grand Magus Eldavin. Can I help you?”

[Mages] watching her might have noticed that the normally impassive Truestone Golem’s face was a touch…Eldavin smiled, meeting her eyes, speaking casually. No one else did that, not to the last servant of Zelkyr, the keeper of the test.

“Not particularly. How are you today, Cognita?”

She blinked at him.

“I am a Truestone Golem.”

“Indeed, indeed. Yet that statement is a poor nothing. One has bad days and good regardless of whom one is. I have inquired and it seems you take no actual breaks. Tell me, do you enjoy the ceremony of taking tea? I could invite you to one of High Mage Telim’s little gatherings. It is a convivial gossip session.”

The [Mages] boggling at Eldavin looked at Cognita. A frown appeared on her face.

“I do not socialize, Grand Magus Eldavin.”

“Not with that attitude, I see. Very well, if you insist, I won’t press the matter. You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

Cognita stared at Eldavin. A tremor ran through her body. It was apparent to all who listened that Eldavin’s tone was not mocking or comedic…yet it was rather reminiscent of an adult, an older adult, speaking to a far younger person. Grandfatherly.

The Golem did not appreciate that. Eldavin began to walk past her, and then turned, as if recalling something.

“Oh, have you heard about the Sentient-class Golem that was claimed to have been invented in Illivere?”

She visibly wavered this time. Eldavin went on.

“I’ve heard that the Magus-Crafter is quite adept. He might be able to reproduce the phenomenon. Do you recall the competitors of your master, Zelkyr? Wouldn’t you say Femithain of Illivere might echo the [Golem Artificers] right about oh, Zelkyr’s fourth decade?”

“I do not speculate about world affairs—Eldavin. Goodbye.”

She turned. The half-Elf sighed as the Truestone Golem walked through the ranks of [Mages]. Haughty and aloof. As bad a child as Ryoka Griffin.

He’d actually tried to engage her in conversation. Yet with how all of Wistram treated her, no wonder she’d shrugged him off.

It did not occur to Eldavin that Cognita’s refusal might have had to do with more than her status in Wistram, and her attitude towards him in particular. The Dragon pursed his lips, watching her go. It would be so much easier if he could just talk with her, but she was impossible to talk to privately! Too many ears around…politics.

Well. He turned and walked on his way, sighing. He’d made four attempts so far. Eldavin headed to a personal tutoring session with a small group of the students he’d picked up. That young man with the false name—both of them. Calac Crusand and Trey Atwood. Well, the entire group of students was rather extraordinary. Far more promising first-years than the other students years ahead.

Eldavin ran them through the basics, then took aside the young man with the [Warrior] class to show him how to channel spells through the blade. He eyed the upgraded Lifesand Golem and shook his head. One Golem at a time.

After that, he went back to his quarters to prepare. One more day till the double full moons…his carefully-bargained for ingredients went into glowing spell circles, bubbling mixtures, and, in one case, his mouth.

High Mage Telim had excellent snacks.

—-

It was only full moons. Two of them, a rare astrological event, yet so what? The moons were only bodies of matter that reflected light. They were not special; it was superstition that governed full moons having any auspicious events.

Or else why would it matter that the moons were full at night? They were ‘full’ in the daytime too. You just couldn’t see them.

The naysayers and fools who thought like this had no appreciation for the fact that time and place did matter. The funny thing was that they were right.

When a moon was full, it was always full even if you couldn’t see it.

It was just a matter of perspective.

Still, Dramaw didn’t think of the celestial event, or bother with such childish things. He was sharpening his teeth as he reclined in one of the hiding places his gang had bought.

Dramaw, known for his biting ability. His name and abilities had actually come about after an accident which hadn’t been lucky; someone punching out a number of teeth in a bloody brawl that had left five people dead.

However, the Gnoll [Underworld Mercenary] had been resourceful and turned the bad stroke of luck into an advantage, replacing his teeth with custom, steel teeth. Serrated edges, even poison if need be. When he bit you—you felt it.

He cursed as he nicked a finger in the dim, half-rotten hole of a hiding place. This was not where he’d prefer to be, but this damned Drake city had few amenities. Their criminal underworld had all the depth of a glass of water. Which of course meant that Dramaw and his gang could run amok without the Watch to stop them, and then bail when it got too hot.

However, the prospects of meager earnings were not enticing to the Gnoll. He growled; he was in a bad mood. They’d come all the way up this far north—further still, actually—then had come back this way, barely making any money and wasting time.

His gang was small, but deadly. Dangerous Gnolls, each one capable of walking into a city and turning it on its head. Only Pallass and the best cities had the law enforcement to tangle with them. Recently though—they’d suffered setbacks.

One of their members had died. She had been good, too. The fact that she’d bit it in a no-name, border city like Liscor infuriated Dramaw. Not least because it was all the fat coin down the drain. He snarled, throwing his whetstone at a bug running for a crack in the wall.

That made the following incident all the more curious to Dramaw. One of the two Gnolls who’d come with him spoke via a speaking stone on Dramaw’s table.

“Boss? Boss.”

“What?”

The Gnoll snarled back. The younger Gnoll, Shank, since he had no good name yet, was breathy. Something had scared him and Dramaw tensed reflexively. Was it the Watch? Bounty hunters?

“Boss. I just saw Bearclaw.”

“What?”

Dramaw sat up. Shank spoke, urgently.

“I was in the tavern and she walked in and signaled me. Bearclaw!”

“You’re mad. There’s no way it was her. Some Senior Guardsman did her in.”

“I swear, Boss! You know Bearclaw! You can’t just look like her!”

That was true. Dramaw hesitated. Bearclaw? She had to know they were here; this was one of the cities they’d fallen back to. If she’d survived, if the Watch had been wrong—of course she was here!

“Where is she now?”

“Don’t know. Should I try to find her? I just saw her from across the bar—”

“Yes, damn it! Find her!”

Dramaw sat up. He was going to tear strips off Bearclaw, but her returning was something! If she hadn’t gotten that White Gnoll though…well, it might have been too hot in Liscor after the Senior Guardsman.

He was debating how to respond to her and assert discipline; she’d fight back if he provoked her, but he needed to punish her. Dramaw was getting up when someone knocked on the door, using his gang’s code-sign.

“Dramaw? You there?”

The Gnoll’s head turned.

“Bearclaw?”

He got up from his desk, slowly. Warily too; he wasn’t an idiot. If this was some Watch trap…the Gnoll walked towards the door.

The gang in this city had poor safe houses, but they weren’t complete idiots. He opened the spyhole, tilting the metal cover, and stared through the plain glass hole. He saw…the Gnoll’s eyes widened.

Bearclaw stood in the dark alleyway, amid the shadows and trash. It was her! There was no mistaking that burly form! He spoke, loud enough to be heard through that door.

“Bearclaw, you bitch! Why didn’t you send word you were alive?”

“Had to keep moving. They were on my tail. Mind letting me in already, Dramaw?”

He nodded, and began to work at the locks. Then—the Gnoll hesitated. He glanced through the peephole again.

It was Bearclaw, wasn’t it? She looked like her. She was standing back, to get into full frame of the spyhole for him. Yet the Gnoll felt a little prickling of unease.

“One second, Bearclaw. Just let me check something. What was the last thing I said to you?”

The big Gnoll paused. She spoke after a moment.

“—‘don’t screw this one up. But get us that bounty and I’ll let you take half of our people and start your own group. Under me.’”

Dramaw relaxed, slightly. That was true. He began to open the door. It budged open a crack and then a chance breeze blew down the alleyway.

The scent of the street, the city, refuse, piss, and Bearclaw blew into the little room. Dramaw sneezed—then coughed. And coughed again. His paw froze on the door.

“Bearclaw? What’s up? You don’t…smell…”

The scent of blood and death filled his nose. Not that he hadn’t smelled that before many times with Bearclaw. Yet this smelled like old death. Underneath it—

‘Bearclaw’ tried the door’s handle and it didn’t move. The door had re-shut. She pulled on the door, gently, then harder.

“Dramaw? What’s wrong?”

There was no answer at first. Then a slight sound as the other Gnoll adjusted the cover of the spyhole again. His voice was muffled from within the safe house.

“…What have you done with Bearclaw?”

The female Gnoll laughed, derisively, and slapped her chest.

“Don’t mess me about, Dramaw! It’s me!”

There was no response. The leader of the gang looked down from behind the now too-thin door. His paws were shaking.

“You’re not the Watch. What in the name of Rhir’s hells are you?”

Bearclaw stepped back. For a second, he thought she’d curse him out and hit the door. Then—the figure began to chuckle. Dramaw stared as, suddenly, Bearclaw—vanished.

Something, someone far taller and bigger than even the Gnoll woman adjusted herself. The cloak she wore, the ragged clothing, shifted as the breeze blew again. Dramaw’s eyes widened as he saw and realized—

That wasn’t a cloak. That was Bearclaw’s…

That was Bearclaw.

He leapt back, scrambling for his speaking stone. Outside, someone began to try the handle, pulling, hard. Yet the enchanted door had enough strength to resist whatever it was.

“Come now, let me in. I didn’t think you were a coward.”

“Shank, Beilfang, report!”

Dramaw was scrambling for his speaking stone. He watched the door, grabbing for his weapons. He heard a muffled sound—then one voice.

“Boss? What is it? Did you find Bearclaw?”

“No! That’s not Bearclaw! Beilfang! I don’t care if you’re shitting or in bed, respond!”

There was no response. Dramaw’s fur began to stand up taller. He stared at the door, now rattling as something hit it.

“Boss?”

Shank was worried. Dramaw spoke, rapidly.

“Shanks, that’s not Bearclaw. I don’t know what got her, but get out of the city. She’s right outside the safe room. She wants me—she might have gotten Beilfang.”

The other Gnoll swore. Dramaw shouted.

“Shanks? Get out of the city! Don’t go to any of the safe houses! She knows all of them! Go to where we last were on our way here! Move!”

“Got it!”

The Gnoll was already running, cursing, when the speaking stone’s sounds died. Dramaw crept back to the door. There…he saw her again.

She was standing in the alleyway. Her, and two more. Giants—he rubbed at one eye. They looked like Gnolls. Until you stared at them closely and realized what they were wearing. Until you smelled them.

“What the hell do you want?”

Two moved off, into the street. After Shank. The last—Bearclaw—turned back to him. She grinned, and Dramaw recoiled slowly.

“It’s so hard to find people no one misses. Bad little Gnolls are easiest because no one knows they’re there. Don’t you want to know what happened to your friend?”

Dramaw backed up as Nokha pressed herself against the door, a huge eye peering in at him.

“Get—get—I don’t know what you are, but I’ll find you and you’ll regret this.”

With shaking paws, he slid the cover of the spyhole shut. He heard laughter from outside. The door began to move again, as something huge struck it. It wouldn’t last forever.

Yet Dramaw didn’t wait. He turned, and ran across the room for his belongings, and the secondary bolt-hole. No safe house had just one entrance. He was leaving. Damn this region! He was heading south, away from the Bloodfields and whatever cursed thing had gotten Bearclaw. If Shanks lived—

The secret passage led outside, through another building. It had to be magically unsealed. The door shook behind him. Dramaw undid the magic—and hurtled through the second exit as he heard the door begin to crack behind him.

It only occurred to him then, as the door flew open and he crashed into a huge, furry chest, smelling of the same foul odor as ‘Bearclaw’, that he had made a mistake.

Whatever wore her skin had known everything Bearclaw did. Which meant it also knew about the bolt hole—

The Gnoll screamed once as the Raskghar grabbed him. Then, the predator of Gnolls undid the door and let Nokha in. She shut the door, and grinned. The two full moons shone, giving her kind intelligence and strength beyond compare.

At this point though, it didn’t matter. They didn’t need the full moons anymore.

“Finish up. Hurry up. We have to move south faster.”

She told the Raskghar. She had heard about the Meeting of Tribes. It sounded like exactly the sort of thing she wanted to visit. After all—her kin were going there too. Normally Raskghar wouldn’t be welcome, of course. Yet—Nokha checked the cloak she wore and smiled.

It was just a matter of perspective.

—-

On the day when two moons shone bright over the world, Lady Rie Valerund cried out. Her skin burned.

Faint, nigh-invisible marks along her arms flared to life. Burning with an agony unmatched.

Then—abruptly—stopped. Yet the pain was replaced by compulsion. Magical and mental.

Come hither.

She knew what was calling her. Lady Rie fought it, gasping, retreating to her home to lie in waking agony. At any other time she would have heeded the call with alacrity.

The Circle of Thorns was broken, though. Which was why she had refused the other, far less onerous summons sent through private means. She had thought the Thorns of Death were dead or disbanded!

At least one lived, she now knew. Or perhaps someone was calling her to a trap to reveal her position? Either way, Lady Rie screamed into a pillow, the marks twisting, calling her, pain vanishing and reigniting over the first hour.

She did not know what to do. If she understood the summoning correctly, it would not end until she went—or she died. Her two loyal subordinates, uncomprehending, thought she was just sick. Lady Rie felt the desire to get up and find a horse, to hurry without rest growing stronger with each minute. The magical markings she had accepted to rise to her position even pointed the way.

Lady Rie was one of a handful that felt the inexorable call. Others did, and the weakest-willed or those hoping to find some purpose obeyed first.

Others did not. When she felt the sting of magic, far weaker given she had never been ranked as highly, Lady Ieka Imarris stabbed her arm with a dagger, killing the malign hex. She begged her aunt for aid and soon was grimly preparing a countermeasure.

In this case, extenuating circumstances changed fate. Before Valeterisa could even reply to begin undoing the hex, Ieka felt the pain subside. Shocked, she gazed at her arm and saw the magic fading, erasing itself.

She did not understand why—until she recalled the words of Melidore.

“Your guilt shall not touch you unless you continue; that is my favor.”

Shaken, relieved, she found herself freed. A luck that did not extend to the others.

More than one individual resisted the call, however. Beckoned by the same power—and she was quite amused by this—a certain [Witch] pulled out a bit of cloth, stitched to look like an arm. Belavierr eyed the twisting runes burning into the skin and actually chuckled for a moment.

Someone else laughed, richly amused by the entire thing, Lady Rie’s suffering notwithstanding. No—amused because of it.

Laken Godart poked the tomato in front of him. Well, tomato sliced and added to a salad. He didn’t touch his plate. It wasn’t a good cut either. A wedge of tomato. Boiled pasta, which was about all you could say for it. Some pumpernickel bread which was quite good, with butter. A few pastries in the pantry—

However, the meal was decidedly lacking. The [Emperor] had tossed it together with about as much enthusiasm as someone shoveling manure. Nevertheless, a number of dishes had been emptied.

The [Emperor] had a guest. The guest laughed, and chuckled, pausing from devouring the food as a starving man, to look up.

“You see? Thus do traitors earn their due. Fools ensure loyalty by fear and pain.”

“Or by trickery and deceit. Not to put too fine a point on it.”

Laken folded his arms. His…guest…had arrived uninvited. He paused, looking irked at the rejoinder. Then smiled.

“The desperate do what they must. This is old magic, Laken.”

“That would be ‘your Majesty’, to you. Peon.”

Instead of rising ire, his comment only elicited a laugh. The other man rose and swept a bow. Laken never opened his eyes obviously, yet he sensed the motion.

He shifted uneasily. He hadn’t been able to do that last time. This time, his guest, Tamaroth, was visible even to his [Emperor]’s senses.

“I don’t suppose that you’ll drop dead of poison?”

“Did you put it in the food?”

No, just an unseemly amount of salt. If he’d had Wiskeria’s poisons to hand, Laken wondered if he would have been able to add it. He sat there, arms folded.

“Will you be leaving soon?”

“Don’t be so hostile, Laken Godart. We are allies. I have come here, at great effort, to help you.”

The man was in a better mood, not as rushed as he had been every other time. Laken raised one brow.

“By emptying my larder?”

“Indulge me my hunger. Now—ah, now—do you know how it is to starve so long you forget what it ever was to be full? Yet time is never unlimited.”

“How terrible. The door is over there.”

Laken indicated it with a nod. Tamaroth chuckled and wiped at his beard.

“Do you really want me to leave, Laken? Lady Rie Valerund screams in agony. She will not resist long, though she has a strong will. Does she leave, you will never see her again. At least, not the woman you knew. What will return, if she does return, will be a weapon forged in blood. You would do well to slaughter her where she stood rather than stand in her presence a minute longer than you must. Tell me—do you want that?”

Laken’s skin crawled. His guest knew. He knew many things. Too much. Yet his advice had proven prophetic before. So Laken listened, unwillingly, but listened.

“Your agenda is not mine…Tam.”

“Tam?”

The other man echoed the word, incredulous for once. Laken shrugged.

“Call it a pet name.”

He waited for the fury. But again, the man was amused.

“Ah. You do not like me, which I accept. Listen, though; as my strength grows, I remember more of what I am. Before, I gave you only tricks and hints. Now I tell you of what you must know. Close your ears and suffer. Or would you really like to weather the storm unprepared?”

Laken shifted.

“Fine. They’re coming for me, this…group of nobles. I will take your advice under consideration. What about Lady Rie?”

A smile he sensed across the table. The other man began to gulp more food down.

“Yes. Think of it, Laken. They would take her, twist her mind and body and soul as such people do, and turn her into something for them. A method to make perfect servants. I can tell how much distaste you have for that idea. You care for Lady Rie, for all she betrayed your trust. If you saved her, what loyalty might you garner? What secret weapon against your foe?”

“There seems to be a difference between how we regard people, Tam.”

A shrug. Laken started as he realized the table was empty. The side salad gone from the bowl.

“I am so hungry. Do you want to save her or not?”

Laken hesitated. He knew all the stories. Yet that was the kind of deal it always was. Do you want to save her? He sensed Rie writhing in her bed, knew Tamaroth was telling him the truth.

“Tell me. I’ll decide.”

“Of course. All you must do is fight what they intend to do to her. Consider yourself so lucky, Laken. But for me you would not know what was happening or how to prevent it.”

“I say my thanks daily. How, Tam? I don’t have a Skill to fight what you’re describing.”

Another smile. The man sat back, appetite whetted, or at least, understanding there was no food left in the house in Riverfarm.

“Then you must acquire one.”

Laken’s brows would have risen higher, but at that point they would have been in his hair.

“So simple as that?”

“If you know how, yes. This is what you must do. Rise from your seat, hasten to the market. Bring me back something to eat. Then—”

Laughter as Laken scowled.

“—then, summon your man Prost, make excuses. Bring a dagger and potion, for both of you will shed blood. Go to her, Laken Godart. Offer her to swear herself to your service by the means I will tell you. She may refuse.”

“You don’t know?”

Another chuckle.

“Don’t we all have free will?”

“You tell me.”

The guest ignored the question. He went on, voice speculative now, dancing with interest. Excitement, even.

“If she accedes, follow my instructions as to what to do next. Then let her obey the call. If not…or if you choose otherwise…”

“If not what?”

Tamaroth sat there, leaning on the table.

“Summon your [Witches]. And when the cord of her life stretches tight against the oaths she has made, there is a chance she will live. Shattered though it might be. It is your choice.”

He laughed, spreading his hands.

“I would rather you gain a servant you can trust. I would rather she lives. I can admire someone who rises after making a terrible mistake. I am not heartless, see? Do you want to know more, or should I go?”

He sat there, indulgently, as Laken Godart glared across the table. After a long moment, the [Emperor] got up. Tamaroth’s expression shifted; Laken could not sense it in enough detail yet, but his voice was alarmed.

“Where are you going?”

The [Emperor] walked over to the door. He opened it, turned, and looked back. Savoring the other’s discomfort. Then he sighed.

“To get a sandwich and a drink.”

Raucous, relieved laughter followed him as he closed the door behind him. Of course, what Tam didn’t know was that Laken Godart was getting both for himself. He came back though.

And listened.

—-

The schemes and plots of little villains. Foes, both mortal and immortal.

He had known them all. He still had them, despite how many ages had passed. Grave foes. He knew some of them not as enemies that deserved no pity or reason, but simply those who had set themselves against all. Indeed, he might find common ground with some, if they knew he lived.

Others…others deserved naught but fire and damnation. However, most of these he had watched die, sometimes by his own efforts.

His reasoning in his original body came back to him. How many times must I fight? How much must be sacrificed?

A young woman’s reply, the most unique of all the replies he had received to the question asked:

Do what you want. Help—even if it’s half-assed. Half-effort.

He chuckled at that, even now. Perhaps this was a mistake. The day had arrived, though, and he was committed to his course.

He had prepared in sleepless nights. He had studied, him, practiced, worked harder than he had in millennia. All for one moment.

A Dragon’s plans were more than a single moment, though. Eldavin stood, taking a few breaths to calm his beating heart. What he was about to do next was audacious. He well understood the implications. But what was he, Teriarch, if not one for such grand moments?

He had studied for this moment. Bound magic tingled in his fingertips, ready to be activated. Another breath; Eldavin heard voices from beyond. He would have to act quickly. The world would change from what he was about to do, he had no doubt. If he failed?

Do not fail. The half-Elf smiled, baring his teeth like a Dragon. It had been a long time since he faced failure.

—-

Incidentally, the Dragon’s position and preparations would have unnerved any of his foes, known or unknown to Teriarch himself, had they known of them.

Indeed, the one foe that Eldavin was unaware of was unnerved. He kept craning his neck and turning, breaking off the lesson.

“Er—is something wrong?”

Aaron Vanwell stared at Emerrhain. However, he was rewarded with a glare.

“It…may be. What is that salamander doing? This makes no sense. Why…?”

He was uncertain. Which surprised Aaron. The restless guest who had appeared in his rooms was clearly nervous about something, although what, Aaron could not tell.

—-

It was time. Eldavin had taken forty three breaths and he was beginning to suffer from hyperventilation. He steadied his nerves, exhaled, and put his hands on the doors.

“Time.”

He threw open the double doors and strode into the room. Magic moved around him, countless pre-prepared spells. Eldavin raised his hands.

The room beyond had only a few people in it. A Golem turned, saw Eldavin. The Grand Magus lifted his hands.

“You there. Shoo, shoo. No, I don’t want a drink. Out of the room. There you go.”

He carefully flapped his hands at the ceramic serving Golem with the tray of drinks. The Golem obeyed, and trotted out of the room.

The other [Mages] turned, blinking.

“Grand Magus Eldavin?”

The half-Elf turned, seeing the spells, the scrying orbs around the room, currently reflecting…he beamed at the other [Mages].

“Good evening, fellow [Mages]. I hate to disturb you, but I am taking charge here. No need to object…get out.”

To the perplexity of the [Mages], and Emerrhain, the half-Elf kicked them out. Then he sealed the door with a spell as they turned and tried to open it, shouting. Eldavin took a breath. Then he began to speak. It took a while for people to realize what he was doing.

Well…until it became obvious to all.

—-

“—and I just don’t see the point of this new style of dress. Lace? Why lace? If you’re just tuning in, this is Fashion Talks, with Sir Relz and me, Drassi. And I have to just add—I don’t think one of us is qualified to be here.”

“Don’t put yourself down so, Miss Drassi.”

The Drake with the monocle blinked as Drassi eyed him.

“I meant you, Sir Relz.”

“Me? I’m up to date on all the latest fashion trends!”

“For rich weirdos wearing monocles. Have you ever been to a popular tavern or bar?”

“I’ve been to the best in—”

“Popular, not expensive! You’re the kind of Drake who wears this ridiculous lace stuff. I want another co-host, who understands what it’s like to have a budget of silver, not gold! Lace is stupid, you heard it here first!”

There were surprisingly a lot of viewers on this segment, Fashion Talks, despite many not caring for the dissertation of Terandrian lace-fashion. Drassi had a following. Yet as the Drake and Sir Relz were about to start arguing, the high point of all the segments involving them, the image flickered.

Abruptly—the scrying mirror behind the two Drakes, which allowed them to live-comment on events began flickering. An alert began ringing.

“Hold up—we’re getting a live notification of a Drama-alarm! Wait, we didn’t get anything from Wistram—this must be breaking. Hello? What are we seeing?”

Scrying devices around the world began turning on despite themselves, much to the alarm of many. Not all, but Wistram-manufactured devices especially. Bemused viewers, but keen on seeing something as good as the Arbiter Queen, or even the Joseph soccer games, tuned in excitedly.

What they saw was a half-Elf, blinking down at Drassi and Sir Relz as the Drakes stared up at him. Eldavin.

Magnolia Reinhart at this point nearly died of choking on a scone. Ryoka Griffin would similarly nearly face-plant when she jogged into the Runner’s Guild and saw him.

That was small stuff, though, background. The King of Destruction frowned at the unknown half-Elf. So did Drassi. Then her eyes widened.

“Hold on. Do I know you?”

“Miss Drassi. Whomever you are. Good evening. I apologize for interrupting your broadcast. However, I have decided the moment is opportune.”

The half-Elf calmly addressed the two Drakes, then waved a hand over Sir Relz choking. His image replaced the broadcast studio.

“I am Grand Magus Eldavin of Wistram. You do not know me. However, I have taken it upon myself to pioneer a new event in this…television.”

He spoke fluently, each word precisely enunciated, his features changing to slight distaste at the last word. Viewers wavered, unsure if this was on the same level as Mage Rievan and his magic lessons, which had not been popular. Before they could make up their minds, Eldavin lifted a hand.

“I intend to recount a moment in time, a story if you will. A true one, however, and thus as close to history as it can be, via the biases we all share. With deference to entertainment however, I do not intend to simply monologue. Thus—”

He flicked a finger and activated the first spell. The room vanished. Eldavin stood in a void of darkness. The little illusion changed; he vanished, but for his outstretched hand.

The viewpoint zoomed in as Magnolia was saved from choking by Ressa. Spluttering, she sat up and saw Eldavin’s hand extended. Then, the Grand Magus appeared on his hand.

The smaller Eldavin held a book in one hand, and a few ancillary magical effects added to his appearance. Viewers blinked, leaned in. Now that was interesting.

Eldavin smiled to himself. He had been studying a long time. What had he been studying, he, a Dragon? Well—movies. Television shows from the experts.

Earth. Now, with all the aplomb and magical effects of a multi-million dollar visual effect studio, and the natural stage presence of someone with his ego, he turned. The book levitated from his fingers and flickered, pages of text and pictures opening, fluttering outwards and around him.

“I am Eldavin. Grand Magus and one of the last true spellcasters in this world. Only the Archmages exceed my knowledge. I dare to say that I am among the oldest of the mortal races in this world; even among my kind, I am one of the last of my age.”

His eyes were sorrowful for a second. He looked at the King of Destruction, at Perric of Medain, and he could see them, staring out of their scrying orbs in this room. They believed him, too. Because this was truth.

“I have lived long enough to remember what is now legend. I returned to Wistram to teach what I know—but that is not why I stand before you now. Rather, I have realized that there is much that has been forgotten. Magic and history. So today, I will recount to you a tale that has been butchered and altered by many. A true story.”

He closed his eyes. The pages fluttered around him, born by an invisible wind. Eldavin reached out and plucked one. He held it out, as if to the viewers. It was magical, a beautiful illusion.

It put Ullsinoi to shame. They clustered around the scrying orb, some noting the angry or confused Archmages, the crowd trying to break into the scrying room to no avail.

“He should be one of us. He makes us look bad.”

“Shh. This is art.”

Movie magic. Eldavin gently lifted the page. There—stood a man. No, two men. Two…male people. They stood together, smiling, not in any particular grounded moment, but just sharing a chat, as if someone had seen them from afar, at a party or event.

Few recognized the first. Or even the second. Those who did found their breath catching. Eldavin spoke, simply.

“Much has been made of both these great [Mages] since their passing. Both have changed our world by their actions. One now lives in infamy. The other is considered a hero to his people. Their legacies…the stories we tell…I intend to tell you of the truth of it all. So then, this is the history of the man known as Perril Chandler. Archmage Chandler.”

Still, many did not understand. Yet Pisces turned as Ceria nearly dropped the orb.

“Wh—he can’t be serious.”

“Archmage Chandler.”

A man appeared in the mirror, a goatee, Terandrian clothing, a rapier at his side, bowing to a man on a throne, clasping hands with a [Knight], dancing with a beautiful woman—then a Drake, marching along with three giant, statuesque women. Literal statues. Standing on the walls of Pallass, speaking with a number of Drakes and Gnolls. Waving at crowds of thousands.

“The second is a Drake who affects magic to this day. Zelkyr Amerwing of Fissival, later known as Archmage Zelkyr.”

The penny dropped. The King of Destruction’s eyes widened. Slowly, Toren, staring at the orb, heard a crash.

A man with pale white skin and black eyes, white pupils, hair as white as snow, stared at the orb. A reflection of the woman he had just been dancing with—no, the living man—stared at her master, and then the orb. Bea, Ijvani, Venitra, Kerash, and the others—frozen.

Az’kerash looked at Eldavin, uncomprehending.

“The Archmage of Death and the Archmage of Golems, they were known. Archmage Chandler and Archmage Zelkyr, although the world knows of the former by a different name. Az’kerash, the Necromancer of Terandria. As this day marks the time, nigh on a century and a half passed, when both were named as Archmages of Wistram, I feel it is only right to tell their stories fairly. For what you do not know was that they were friends. You do not know how each truly came to be known as legends, both good and ill. The tragedy and glory of both. This is what you shall all learn.”

“Wh—what—”

The Necromancer’s voice was strangled. He reached out as if to stop what was playing on the orb. Yet there was nothing for him to do.

The pictures on the paper grew, the moving shapes growing larger. Eldavin walked into the memory. The moving image.

A movie of the past. He had quite enjoyed making it.

Interlude – Paradigm Shift (Pt. 2)

Sound. A quiet sound was playing. Cara watched. This had all the hallmarks of a real story from Earth. A gentle song, without vocals, somehow managing to be uplifting and sad.

The half-Elf was the narrator. Sometimes he walked through the scenes playing on the orbs, other times playing the omniscient narrator. His spells conjured each scene real to life, though, with a degree of accuracy that made it…too real. Put movies to shame because it had tiny details from memory that were different from dramatic recreations, or too-polished sets and actors.

This is how he began.

“The boy known as Perril Chandler was known not as some great talent, or the myth he would eventually become. He was born to, as his name indicates, a family of [Chandlers]. A humble family, who made their living in the Kingdom of Silvaria. A Kingdom of Terandria which lives on only in memory. Even the land that used to hold the kingdom is broken and desolate. It lies here—between Pheislant and Gaiil-Drome, a coastal kingdom, southern, small, but dignified.”

A map of Terandria appeared on screen, and the view zoomed down, revealing that the map was actually the continent from afar. A narrow, vertical nation became expansive, and kept zooming, revealing a landscape bordered by the coast, reaching up to the mountains and bordering the larger forest nation of Gaiil-Drome and Pheislant, dizzyingly zooming in until it reached a northern city, further down, towards a boy helping to carefully put candles in a wooden box.

Wax candles. A [Chandler]’s job. The young boy rose, manfully lifting the box and placing it with a stack.

Eldavin watched, face serene and sorrowful. He reached out, and the image stopped.

“Perril Chandler’s father and mother had the same class. He was one of three children, an older sister and a younger brother.”

Images appeared, showing a father and mother working to render candles out of tallow, keeping back from the bubbling pot, the boy playing with girl and boy.

“Perril Chandler’s younger life was relatively uneventful as far as I know. What I do know is that as a boy, he was so outstanding with magical potential that it manifested even before training. The first incident was where he accidentally set his parent’s shop on fire.”

Flame, shooting up from the boy’s hands. A scene of his family fleeing the burning shop, a bucket brigade tossing water on the shop. A hung head, tears from the family.

“However, his misfortune was a blessing in disguise, for the nation of Silvaria watched for talent such as his, and the [High Mage] of his city herself discovered Perril’s potential. She personally took him as an apprentice, to the astonishment and delight of his parents.”

Perril, waving to his family. Departing, following the woman in shimmering robes. Eldavin continued.

“You see, Silvaria was a growing nation at this time. It, like many nations, had existed since the days of the Hundred Families as one of the smaller kingdoms, sometimes vassalized, or conquered, but then rising and growing from the original kingdom. Like Ailendamus, in fact, whose rise over the last seventy years and two monarchs has been nothing but meteoric.”

The map changed, showing how Ailendamus had not been more than a tiny kingdom by a different name seventy years back.

“Thus, Perril Chandler did not travel to Wistram Academy to learn, but learned from the [High Mage] Insica herself. He proved to be an apt and resourceful pupil, whose talents allowed him to master a number of spells as high as Tier 3 before he was sixteen. However, he would show his true potential in an invasion of Goblins when a Goblin Chieftain threatened to overrun the city.”

The image cut to Goblins storming the walls, throwing up crude ladders as magic and arrows harried the defenders. Insica exchanged magical fire from her tower with a grinning [Shaman]. Perril Chandler fought in the streets, casting spells, throwing back Goblins. Then—he and the Humans fighting in a desperate line fell back. A running man fell, gutted from behind by a spear. He dropped something.

A rapier. The exhausted young man of sixteen snatched it up. He saw a Hobgoblin charging at him and put up the sword. By luck, he ran the Goblin through.

Eldavin stepped out of the frozen scene as the Hobgoblin fell. He reached out, and slowly closed the Hobgoblin’s eyes. A peaceful look on the Goblin’s face. Eldavin regarded the warrior for a second and shook his head, turning back to the young man.

“It was then that the young Perril Chandler discovered his talent with the blade, which would become a passion for the rest of his life. He survived the battle, although his master, Insica, was wounded beyond the ability of [Healers] to aid. She was rendered immobile, relying on her young apprentice as her strength failed.”

Magical burns, a bed-ridden woman, then turning to one hovering in a chair, grasping at objects Perril anxiously handed her.

The audience watched the story play out. Many spellbound, but not all. Not all in silence.

“What is going on in Wistram? Stop the broadcast!”

Chaldion of Pallass snapped, his good eye flashing furiously. He turned to the [Mage] who was frantically sending [Message] spells off. The [Strategist] did not like this one bit.

Nor did a number of Drakes, hammering on the door along with the regular scrying crew. Yet not even Feor could figure out how Eldavin had locked the door. They were beginning to debate blasting it open.

Flos Reimarch just watched quietly, sitting cross-legged in his tent with Teres.

In Wistram, Trey Atwood watched with his first-year friends.

Terandrian Kingdoms were in uproar. Many sending just as many [Messages] about this unexpected broadcast. However, they still watched. Earl Altestiel sat in the pouring rain that had engulfed his estates since his return, watching with the blankets over his head.

Az’kerash himself found his hand shaking. He reached out, whispering.

“Insica.”

He whispered her name, and his fingers brushed the glass orb, as if trying to reach back, touch her, take the quavering woman’s hands as the much younger boy held it. She gasped, her head fell back—

The image vanished, replaced by a young man with his head bowed.

“Perril Chandler succeeded his master, inheriting some of her possessions and will. Yet he was untutored. With the threat of the Goblin Chieftain and a war with Pheislant distracting the army and as yet, young [King] of Silvaria from raising aid for his city, Perril Chandler searched through spellbooks for knowledge that could help defeat the Goblins. It was then, as the dead of both sides rose, that he discovered his greatest talent. Necromancy.”

A body, a shambling corpse, a zombie walked towards some Humans holding spears. It opened its mouth, waving rotten hands—then stopped. Its eyes flickered; then the glowing eyes closed. The zombie turned, obediently stood as the Humans put up their spears.

Perril, panting, held out a hand. The single zombie was joined by more shambling corpses, a skeleton. They moved towards Goblins who backed up, disappeared back towards the mountains, wary.

Eldavin again. He sat there, on a rock, watching the Goblins pass. He looked at the viewers, as if hearing the angry Drakes and Terandrian Humans. He was watching the [Messages] come in; they appeared like a shower of words, sleeting past him and vanishing.

“I see some viewers object to the sight of necromancy. However, the school of magic was accepted in those days. It still is in many places in the world. From Baleros to Chandrar, only Izril and Terandria have truly outlawed it, for reasons which may be understandable as we continue. However, Rhir keeps [Necromancer] corps. If you would cast your objections, perhaps place them with the Blighted King first. Necromancy is just a kind of magic. Blood magic, fire magic, healing; if there is evil, it is always in how it is wielded.”

He dismissed the [Messages] with a wave of the hand. Pisces sat there, listening intently, opening and closing his hand, his eyes distant and hungry. Ceria looked at him, and at the [Grand Magus] sitting, standing in Wistram Academy where they too had once been.

Where were you when we were there?

“Perril Chandler began to teach himself magic, as many [Necromancers] do, experimenting, and at the same time, learning the art of the sword, practicing fencing. Before he had turned eighteen, he had been awarded a silver bell by the resident [Fencers] in the city, an accomplishment as rare and indicative of as much talent as the King of Duels so often spoken of, or his daughter, the Arbiter Queen, Jecaina of Jecrass. However, he was young, as yet inexperienced, and certainly unknown outside of his city. By contrast, the Drake who would one day become his best friend had a far more typical childhood.”

Perril became Zelkyr, his tail slightly longer than average, even clumsy on his feet. His scales were a bright orange. Before the audience could react to Eldavin’s last statement, the young Drake produced a wand. He stood in class, listening to a teacher.

“Zelkyr was born in Fissival, the City of Magic. Like all Drakes, he was tested and admitted into their Scholarium at a young age. He was a good pupil—if unruly.”

Zelkyr, shoving other Drakes as he ran down the hallways, playing pranks on a female Gnoll in robes, who yelped and ran to tell a teacher.

“What in the name of flaming fur…?”

Krshia traded a glance with her sister and the other Gnolls watching. They hadn’t missed that. Eldavin didn’t even seem to notice the image.

“Zelkyr’s talents were manifestly apparent from the start. He was a below-average elementalist, and was noticeably deficient in casting most spells. He had a lisp, which, despite being corrected later on, impeded his direct combat abilities. To make up for that, he was exceptionally talented at craftsmanship, having studied metallurgy, pottery, weaving, and any number of crafts later on.”

“Zelkyr had a lisp?”

[Mages] stopped and blinked at the orb. Cognita passed by, ignoring them, not understanding why a few were staring at her. She only stopped when a young Drake began speaking.

“The wily Wyvern waves a wing whenever it wanths.”

He messed up on the last word, clearly reciting with effort. The young Drake flushed. Cognita…slowly…turned. Her eyes went round.

“His inability to become a [Battlemage] was always a sore point with Zelkyr and may have led to what came next. Despite being tested and taught as an [Artificer], he was eventually expelled at the age of fourteen for pranks, which later became unruly conduct. And theft. Zelkyr left the City of Magic, but used his limited fortune to apply for Wistram Academy’s apprenticeship. He passed, despite his record, due to the rivalry that exists between both schools even now.”

The images of Zelkyr playing the inciting ‘prank’ that got him expelled, which was dumping buckets of ice cubes on a group of Gnoll teachers he clearly disliked, then standing before a tribunal whilst a clearly-stolen wand was presented and leaving the city in disgrace, flickered across the screen.

Olesm nearly passed out. Mainly because he’d stopped breathing during watching this. This? This was beyond sacrilege. Not that he’d known much about Zelkyr’s past, but this? Sserys was the recent hero, but Zelkyr?

“Zelkyr studied at Wistram for the rest of his magical career, having learned his lesson from his expulsion from Fissival. He quickly took to creating Golems, which at the time, was popular in Wistram. His first Golems were creative and original, unlike the standard, humanoid constructs. Even now, they indicate his burgeoning genius, held only back by his knowledge and technique.”

Little, playful Golems paraded past an older Zelkyr, about sixteen, presenting a Golem whose entire body was made up of what looked to Trey like pistons. The iron-golem extended, rather than moved limbs, walking like some primitive steampunk creation.

Another Golem rolled around like an egg, then ‘opened’ to reveal a shining core and muddy interior. Yet another was a finely-carved bird, made of wood, which fluttered its wings and hopped, but could not fly as only the wings and legs were jointed, the rest of the body solid wood.

“Zelkyr developed a reputation as a fine Golem-maker of curios, which he eventually became, graduating from Wistram but often returning to the academy where his connections and materials let him sell toy Golems, and occasionally, battle-types. His life was rather unremarkable until he turned twenty-four, which brings us back to Perril Chandler, who by that point had joined Silvaria’s army in war.”

Perril Chandler nervously bowed to a [Knight-Commander], a rapier at his side and silver bell. He wore robes, and demonstrated raising a few zombies to the [Knight]’s distaste.

“Pheislant was winning the war with Silvaria. The mighty naval nation’s fleets had blockaded both major port cities, and their armies were winning ground victories as well. It was as Silvaria grew desperate, their young [King], King Redoris, enters our story. He was only twenty six at the time, barely older than Perril himself, and several strategic blunders by his [Strategists] had left his nation in danger of being conquered and vassalized.”

A young [King], restless, holding the sword at his waist, appeared, sitting on the throne, looking down at his [Generals] who were speaking to him, pointing to maps. Then Perril.

“Perril Chandler enlisted in the army, perhaps due to need, perhaps a lack of funds or purely national pride. It was to prove to be a fine decision, as despite his inexperience, his ability to conjure undead led the division he was assigned to win battles, with lower casualties. Not only that; the young Perril bested three [Fencers] in battle, all of whom bore silver bells. He was soon promoted, although he never took formal soldier classes to my knowledge.”

Perril bowed again before the [Knight-Commander], who now clasped his shoulder warmly. Eldavin smiled, as Perril sketched a bow, cheeks flushed, with all of a young man’s pride held in check by modesty.

“It was then he drew the attention of King Redoris. At twenty four, he was invited to the royal court to receive a prize for his valor in battle. Pheislant had signed a punitive peace treaty, but King Redoris had little choice but to acquiesce; northern aggression was threatening the Dawn Concordat and by effect, Silvaria, although it was not a formal member but an occasional ally.”

More clashes from the north, a tired [King]. But then—a smile on his face of genuine good humor, exclaiming as he shook Perril’s hands. [Knights], [Courtiers], a royal court in which the young [Necromancer] stood, somewhat bewildered, until the [King] personally introduced him, winning him the favor of all present.

“It was at this time when Perril Chandler met two of the four most important people in his life. Zelkyr was one, but that would only occur later. King Redoris was, of course, one of the four. The second was Lady Bea Zanrel, a beautiful [Lady] of Silvaria’s court, who had proven willing to fight in defense of her Kingdom.”

She did not look suited to the armor she wore as the young King Redoris gently tapped her shoulder with a blade, making a jest that made the court laugh. The young Bea flushed with embarrassment.

Yet Perril did not laugh, kneeling to receive the honorary knighthood as well. Bea saw that, her eyes flicking down. Redoris stared at her, a bit chagrined by the embarrassment he’d caused. His eyes lingered on Bea in an unmistakable way for anyone who knew stories.

“Bea. Bea is that…?”

Venitra looked from Bea to—her master’s face was frozen. His hands clenched as he looked at Redoris. At…

Bea touched her face, and then looked at the woman, who had all the mortal beauty, younger. Bea’s rotted features…Toren looked at the scrying orb.

This was good storytelling, he decided.

Perril and Bea danced. She was teasing the younger [Necromancer], unwarrantedly clumsy, yet the two then talked, seriously, about the war, faces turning grave, Bea shaking her head, gesturing at Perril’s wand and rapier.

“The two would become great friends. In fact, it was the young Lady Bea who later sponsored Perril Chandler to study at Wistram as a higher-year student for three years, despite being considered too old and self-taught. Whether the two had a relationship is unknown, but King Redoris, Lady Bea, and the knighted Sir Perril Chandler, similar in age, would eventually grow to have enduring friendships. Of course, it was at Wistram that Perril Chandler first met Zelkyr Amerwing.”

There they were. Cognita bent, and Elena and the other Earthers moved out of the way. She saw two young men, in their mid-twenties, meeting at one of the innumerable [Mage] parties. They stared at each other as Zelkyr, laughing, exuberant, a party-animal, made a comment.

Perril Chandler, who had been studying all-night in some of the scenes, somewhat aloof, but respectfully taking lessons, turned his head. In the silent drama, broken only by Eldavin’s voice and the background music, Perril Chandler shook his head. He put his hand on his rapier.

Zelkyr snorted. Repeated himself.

Perril Chandler calmly drew his rapier and aimed it at Zelkyr.

Eldavin appeared between the recoiling Zelkyr and Perril. His face and tone were dry.

“The first meeting between the two was not harmonious. Zelkyr, a staunch supporter of Drakes despite his fraught relationship with his city, made a derisive comment about Terandrian Kingdoms, to go by stories at the time. Perril Chandler took offense and challenged him to a duel. The results were about as you expect.”

Eldavin didn’t even bother showing the duel, just the outcome. Zelkyr staring up at Perril Chandler pointing his rapier at his face, wand lying on the floor.

“The two did not see much of each other aside from this one disharmonious meeting. Zelkyr was a fully-fledged [Mage], now earning a reputation for making battle-suitable Golems. Perril Chandler expedited his studies and returned to Silvaria. They did not meet for two more years.”

Eldavin stood over a map of the world, flicking his fingers.

“Now, during this time, aside from conflicts in Terandria, Izril itself was in a state of joint wars between north and south—and Baleros. The Naga companies had invaded and actually taken ground on Izril, and the Drakes found themselves fighting both Human and Lizardfolk armies. Typically, they did not ask for aid from the Gnoll tribes, and Zelkyr himself began selling his now somewhat famous Battle Golems to the cities.”

Marching, carved warriors, some Human, others Gnolls, or, most often Drakes, in ceramic, wood, then, later, steel, bronze, iron, and so on, swung huge fists, punching enemy [Soldiers]. A nimble ceramic-Golem aimed a bow and actually loosed an arrow. Yet a third Golem just spewed fire as it advanced, like an Oldblood Drake.

“Zelkyr was by now an acclaimed [Golem Artificer], and his aspirations were clearly taking him even higher. He desired to create more powerful Golems, even the fabled Sentient-class Golems. It is obvious in journals and notes that his greatest desire was that of a perfect servant. Hence, he would never go anywhere without a personal Golem bodyguard or two.”

Marching Golems, first crude, then imperious, decorated and carefully attired, sometimes in actual armor, accompanied Zelkyr as he strode around, talking to [Merchants], other leaders, fellow [Mages].

Sometimes just his height, other times huge, imposing. In Eldavin’s historical retelling, another fact was made obvious to viewers too.

Femithain of Illivere saw the Golems, at first, androgynous because they lacked features, slowly take on a noticeably feminine cast. Not only that, a few bad attempts at faces quickly resolved into beautiful features. The Magus-Crafter also noticed…all the female Golems soon became females of different species.

Minotaur, Human, Gnoll, Centaur—never Drake. Eldavin eyed one that almost looked like a primitive Cognita. Speaking of which…the Truestone Golem never took her eyes off that one.

“It was as the Drakes grew increasingly desperate to repel the Nagas that Zelkyr created his first Sentient-class Golem. In doing so, he joined around a dozen of his kind who had mastered the technique and was soon in a race to reach higher peaks still. Nevertheless, a dive into the mechanics of Golem-creation is too distracting here. All you need know is that his first Golem was capable of casting Tier 1-3 spells, magically reinforced, made of steel, and capable of taking her own action on the battlefield. She was the culmination of Zelkyr’s talent. He called her…Cognita.”

—-

“Eldavin! Get out of there! What are you doing?”

Viltach hammered on the door. He was thrust aside by an angry hand.

“Get back!”

One of the Fissival Drakes had had enough. Angry [Message] spells were ringing around Wistram, and as many people wanting to keep the broadcast going. No one could override the scrying spells! Eldavin had control.

The door remained locked. Now, the Drake [Battlemage] pointed at it.

“[Lightning Bolt]!”

Viltach was lucky. He’d put up a barrier spell just in time to watch the bolt bounce. The Drake [Mage] went flying and everyone dove for cover. They got up, shakily.

“What in the name of the Ancestors did he put on that door?”

The [Mages] looked at each other. The rest of the viewers were spellbound, watching.

Az’kerash, the King of Destruction, countless Drakes and Humans, for all they shouted and raged.

Pisces, lips moving as he practically recited the tale himself, seeing where his learning and legend had created false stories. Eldavin walked past Zelkyr, crowing and showing Cognita off as the impassive Golem bowed to other Drakes.

“It was as Zelkyr achieved Sentient-class that he decided to participate in the Naga Incursions, as the war would become known, perhaps overconfident in his abilities. He joined a Fissival army and entered the campaign. However, the army quickly became separated from the main forces, fighting amid Naga lightning-strikes and unfavorable terrain created by their spellcasters.”

Zelkyr, shooting spells from a wand behind ranks of Golems and grim Drakes, flinching as Nagas of various kinds and Lizardfolk assailed the Drakes, skirmishing in and out, striking in the muddy terrain, fleeing by darkness.

Golems fell, broken, as Zelkyr’s finest creation, Cognita, impassively protected him. The Drake detachment grew desperate, fighting, cut off behind the enemy front lines. Lizardfolk closed in, wearing them down.

Medusae, who froze Drake [Soldiers] in time for Gorgons to lunge in and cut them down. Four-armed Naga variants, leaping Quexals, overwhelming the static Drakes and forcing more retreats. Eldavin nodded to Zelkyr, frozen in the act of casting a spell, face desperate.

“Only Zelkyr’s Golems let this weary force survive, immune to Medusae’s eyes and many attacks. However, his Golems could not fight forever and his entire detachment was in danger of being wiped out. That is, of course, where Perril Chandler re-enters the narrative, unexpectedly.”

Zelkyr and some Drakes were huddled around a fire as the Cognita-golem clumsily tried to stir a pot of what might have been grass and boiling boot leather. Something made Zelkyr stir, lifting a wand over muddy blankets. He stopped. Blinked, and rose uncertainly as a young man wearing armor rather than robes stepped forwards, looking just as surprised.

“Perril Chandler had become a mercenary, perhaps out of desire to improve; most likely due to a desire to provide for his family after incurring debts from studying at Wistram. Necromancy was not, at this point, as widely-sought after as Golem creation, but he had toured battlefields with great acclaim. It is a mark of the Drakes’ desperation that non-Drakes were hired for the Naga Incursions. He was leading a strike against Nagas and similarly cut off by their enveloping hit-and-run strategies when his company found Zelkyr’s.”

The two [Mages] stood, wary at first, until the Cognita Golem stuck a huge hand out. Perril took it, bowed, uncertainly, and looked at Zelkyr. The Drake and young man burst out laughing, and began talking in earnest. Eldavin as always, appeared.

“It was at this point when the first tales of the two’s prowess in battle were established. And, as luck would have it, we may desist with recreation and actually show scenes from the war itself.”

Sound joined imagery. The viewpoint changed, becoming a [Scrying] spell from above, as of some lazy Dragon or whatnot watching a battle with urbane amusement. Yet the battle was clear; ranks of numerous Lizardfolk led by imperious Nagas of different types, clashing with a Drake army with some Human irregulars.

…And losing. At first, the eager Lizardfolk charged, overconfidently skirmishing with the tired Drake lines. Then they drew back. A Medusa opened her eyes, freezing the Drakes and leaving them as open t—

A Golem smashed through the lines of foes, charging through the tiny figures. Just as fast, a second group led by a [Mage] with a sword charged in, ignoring the paralysis glare.

Undead. They threw themselves mercilessly against the Lizardfolk army, and the Golem and [Necromancer] took down the Medusa, cutting through the enemy lines as the Drakes, led by a certain [Mage] in robes, albeit from the back, pressed the Lizardfolk back.

“The two [Mages] found their talents allied nicely. The mass undead of Perril Chandler, combined with the expensive, powerful, and limited Golems of Zelkyr provided forces that no flesh-and-blood army could match. They fought their way back out of enemy lines and while this did not of course, end the Naga Incursions, their actions along with the conflict forced one of the peace treaties before the Nagas were eventually driven from Izril.”

The scene ended with Zelkyr and Perril shaking hands, the battered Cognita-golem still hovering in the background. Eldavin glanced to one side; the spells hitting the door were starting to get annoying so he [Silenced] them.

“This was the turning point in both young men’s careers. Zelkyr retreated from active fighting, but the levels the conflict had afforded him let him continue to increase the numbers of Golems in Drake cities’ services. Indeed, he quickly became quite respected in every Walled City…save for Fissival. In time, the City of Magic welcomed their wayward Drake student back, desiring his increasingly-powerful Golems which would become the nightmare of all enemies of Drakes during his era. Perril Chandler, by contrast, experienced his first real renaissance upon his return to Silvaria.”

Back to the country by the sea. Only—marred by empty streets, people covered in sores.

“Plague had come to Silvaria, once again echoing the present. Without a cure in this case. Silvaria’s people lay sick, unable to provide or act. Starvation faced King Redoris’ nation, and he was gratified by the mysterious revival of a city in the north, which, against all reasoning, had the power to still plough and harvest fields! When he inquired however, he found not living bodies tilling the fields…but undead.”

Skeletons were harvesting fields, tilling ground, pulling ploughs, gathering berries…reminiscent of another certain Kingdom. Fetohep watched critically.

“Acceptable, one supposes. Advance the left flank—”

He broke off from his scrying orb to watch more undead charge Medain’s lines, and then went back to the scrying orb.

“Where many [Kings] might refuse to embrace death magic, with Noelictus and a few other kingdoms being exceptions even to this day, the grateful Redoris reached out to his old friend and beseeched Perril Chandler to aid Silvaria. Which he did! Perril Chandler, now an experienced High Mage, in rank if not actual class, took on apprentices as his master had done and the undead servants let Silvaria weather this crisis better than other nations.”

Eldavin gestured to the industrious undead. No matter how his companions shuddered—Trey just folded his arms. It looked efficient to him. It was hard not to see how the skeletons saved the sick people abed, harvesting food, fearless of germs. Eldavin seemed to indicate this by the approving nod he gave a skeleton—it nodded back.

“By the time he had turned thirty, Perril Chandler, son of humble candle makers, was named a [Lord] of Silvaria for his deeds to the crown, and was known to be in the favor of the [King] himself, often called to court. It was also said that he had a relationship with Lady Bea—although their relationship was not official and this is speculative.”

“Perril by age thirty was now a dashing swordsman and a [Mage], clearly a court darling. Redoris, also in his prime, was the image of a [King], albeit tempered by not being the [Warrior King] he clearly wanted to be. However, the three stood around, Perril, Redoris, and Bea, talking eagerly, laughing.”

Eldavin appeared, and sighed.

“These were the best times in the young men’s lives, save for perhaps one more section. In the interest of time, we skip forwards now. Nearly a decade, to their forties. Zelkyr had not broken through to the final step of Golem-making, but he was now competing with the best [Golem Artificers] for that title, and his Golems in battle had put the Nagas on the back foot, almost by themselves. He was not without scandal, however.”

Cognita broke off from the trance she was in. She saw—remembered—and raised her head. Yet she could not stop what came next. Zelkyr calmly facing down an angry Watch Commander. Cognita saw herself, standing behind him, half-tensed. Yet that was not how she remembered it, staring at her master’s back as—

“Unacceptable, Zelkyr! You cannot go behind the laws of the city!”

“Then change the laws or let me acquire what I need without these—these ridiculous taxes, Watch Commander!”

“That’s not my business. If you cannot stay within the law—”

The other Drake warned Zelkyr. Cognita was hesitating. This wasn’t an attack, but she felt like it was. She watched her master point at the Watch Commander.

“You will do what? I can stop selling Golems to Pallass any time I want.”

“You wouldn’t dare. The war—”

“Then think about what you’re saying, you fool!”

Cognita hesitated, until Zelkyr waved at her to desist. The other two Golems of her class also untensed, and she saw the other Drake spluttering as Zelkyr turned to march out of the office—

Blink. She was back in the present. Eldavin’s voice trailed back into her hearing.

“—unfounded, yet allegations of his connection with unsavory criminal elements persisted. The truth, inevitably, was that Zelkyr was too important to fall under normal jurisdiction. In any case, while he was enjoying the favor of the Walled Cities, Perril Chandler had achieved a Grand Magus’ rank at his young age.”

Both meteoric rises to fame saw Perril Chandler overseeing another ‘undead farm’, as well as sending undead in droves to take down a ferocious Griffin. By now, of course, he wore a golden bell on his rapier.

“It would be wrong to assume both Perril and Zelkyr were unaware of each other either. In fact, aside from their friendships, Perril with his two friends at Silvaria’s court, Zelkyr with…”

Eldavin hesitated.

“…acquaintances, no doubt, the two [Mages]’s greatest friendships were with each other. After their friendship began in war, they kept in regular correspondence, often visiting and aiding each other. It was, in fact, known, that to make an enemy of one was to make an enemy of the other. Eleven times, Perril Chandler challenged other [Mages] to duels and won for his friend. Similarly, Zelkyr was known to have gifted Perril with Golems to serve his now quite wealthy family. The two exchanged spell notes, despite their somewhat different schools. However, the great achievement of Zelkyr was to nominate both himself and Perril Chandler for the Archmage position in Wistram.”

The two men met under two shining, full moons. Eldavin pointed up, as [Mages] applauded both’s coronations, being handed robes, and magical staves.

“This was a formality, as the [Archmage] class does not always correspond to the title. As ah, viewers are no doubt aware. However, the political power and influence coming with the role spoke to their rising stars. As well as that of their enemies.”

An angry Naga and narrow-eyed Garuda, as well as a Human man, all eyed Zelkyr and Perril, among the three other Archmages applauding, faces neutral. Zelkyr and Perril took their positions, opposite the three.

“Perril and Zelkyr both represented Terandria and Izril, who were underrepresented compared to the Archmages of Rhir, Baleros, and Chandrar, who had increasing power during this time—as well as an Archmage of the Drowned, a somewhat rare occurrence. To note—only two were [Archmages] as of this time. The Archmage of Nagas—here—and the Archmage of the Skies, a traditional term for both species.”

The Naga and Garuda froze as Eldavin gestured to them.

“This matters only for later. For now—know this. As Zelkyr returned to Izril, and Perril to Terandria, the greatest incident that would finally mark them as legends of their time began. The war against the Dawn Concordat, where Perril would meet the fourth pivotal friend in his life. And in so doing, be known as the Archmage of Death.”

This was the story Eldavin had told once before. Trey remembered it. Now, the half-Elf told it fully.

“Four armies broke the Dawn Concordat’s forces. Lady Bea, who had a connection with Calanfer in particular, had, with King Redoris’ blessing, led a force to aid the outnumbered Dawn Concordat. Yet they fell back time and again, to the pass on Kaliv’s borders where so many armies would meet their end. Krawlnmak’s Pass. There, the beleaguered defenders held for two days, three, and then four. However, it became clear they would not manage to hold the enemy.”

Eldavin’s eyes flashed. His voice was rising, and sound was joining the movie again, sound from memory.

“That was when the newly-named Archmage of Death arrived, of course! Fresh from Wistram, having travelled across Terandria to join the defenders, he pledged himself to the battle, despite the urgings of King Redoris to hold back. He actually teleported Lady Bea and a number of commanders out of the battle, promising only to buy the Dawn Concordat more hours to muster a final defense.”

The [Lady] vanished, reaching for Perril Chandler as her companions held her back. A man saluted Perril Chandler, and he turned. What remained in front of the vast army coming down the pass was a line of gold.

Lyonette’s eyes were wide. This was not the history they taught her.

“The last force in the beleaguered army to refuse to retreat were the Thronebearers of Calanfer, who pledged to hold as long as the Archmage. Their Lightherald stood with Perril Chandler as four nation’s armies advanced.”

A [Knight] in golden armor, taking Perril’s hands, raising his glowing sword to the sky. Perril Chandler’s hands rose. His pupils seemed to grow, dilating wider and wider…

Undead began to rise. They advanced, past the golden Thronebearers, vanishing as arrows struck them down, magical spells blew them apart. They kept coming, though, advancing into the mortal army.

“The first hour of fighting refused to break the army now backed up by Perril Chandler. The overconfident [General] advanced his forces, believing that one man’s death would break this last resistance. He attempted to take it, but the Thronebearers closed ranks around the Archmage. The dead continued to rise, even as the living fell.”

Perril Chandler ducked behind a Thronebearer whose raised shield stopped a [Fireball] and hail of arrows. Undead surged past him as he pointed.

Az’kerash stared. His Chosen were looking at him. His lips moved. He felt his arm burning, the magic burning in him, going out—

“Advance!”

Draug smashed into the lines of infantry, breaking pikes. Screaming men and women fled backwards. Perril cried out as the backlash from animating them ran through him.

“Thronebearers, hold your ground!”

The Lightherald boomed. The Thronebearers, who had lost their steeds long ago, closed ranks. Perril looked up and saw the [Lancers] run into them.

Men and women died. Yet they did not give ground. Perril pointed.

[Deathbolt]. One went down as the dark spell flashed through armor; he tried it again, but his hands were shaking. The death magic was filling him, but he was maintaining an army of the dead.

So he drew his rapier and charged. Even the Lightherald was surprised as he turned from combat with three [Lancers] to see Perril.

“Archmage, hold b—”

The tip of his sword transmitted the shock of impact as Perril shoved it through the slit of a visor. A pinpoint strike; he withdrew it as the figure toppled. The [Lancers] reeled as he performed it again, two perfect strikes without a Skill!

“Thronebearers! Soldiers of the Dawn Concordat—to the Archmage! Charge!”

The Lightherald and the Archmage surged forwards. The nerve of the [Lancers] and the first wave of the enemy broke.

“—it is clear now that the Archmage of Death lured the enemy army into a natural trap. So many dead bodies along with the greater magic he was conducting create a death field, enhancing his powers.”

Az’kerash blinked. He saw the battle from above, Eldavin pointing out details.

“Nevertheless, Perril Chandler ran out of mana and resorted to his rapier. He personally slew over a hundred enemy combatants during the battle, along with casting spells. Despite never having a [Duelist]’s class, he was unanimously named one of the hundred greatest blademasters in Terandria for his feats in battle. That day—he and the Thronebearers broke an army of four hundred thousand at the pass.”

Perril Chandler stood, bloody blade raised among the handful of golden-armored warriors. A bare handful, yet the living army fled screaming, throwing down their weapons, the enemy [General] dragged down by undead.

“Few among even the [Archmages] can claim such a feat. It may have been this very day that Perril Chandler no longer became known as Lord Chandler of Silvaria, but [Archmage] Chandler. Archmage of Death! For his great deed, he was dubbed the Undying Shield of Calanfer by the [King], until the title was revoked.”

Archmage Chandler knelt before the Eternal Throne of Calanfer, applauded by thousands as the Lightherald bowed beside the throne. He smiled, and took the [Knight]’s hand as he rose.

By now, the room had gone deathly silent in Pallass. Chaldion stared grimly at the scrying orb. He had been insistent the broadcast be stopped, and had tried to even cut off the transmission in Pallass.

Too late. The [Mages] and others hadn’t understood what he had intuited. However, now…Chaldion looked at Eldavin’s retelling.

The Archmage of Death. Az’kerash. The mortal Perril Chandler stood, in what could only be described as a glorious, heroic retelling of his life. At odds with every other narrative about him. Of course, Drakes and Humans knew the stories they had grown up with.

It did not please the [Grand Strategist], even so, to have even one narrative to the contrary. Let alone one so well done.

“Archmage of Death. This battle was the first in a turning point in the war, and Silvaria’s reputation. They led a counterattack against the northern kingdoms, and despite the odds, forced the coalition of then eight kingdoms to sign peace treaties. Not least because Silvaria’s army was joined by an unprecedented relief army: a force of Drakes and Golems from Izril.”

Archmage Zelkyr led ranks of glimmering Golems onto the field, smashing through the ranks of infantry as undead fought from the other flank. [Knights] charged past the Golems—and, Trey realized, Golem-[Knights] riding Golem horses!

“Now, Izril and Terandria were unified, albeit through the Archmages, if not individual nations. Silvaria’s power rose, as to challenge the nation was to challenge Archmage Chandler. Similarly—Archmage Zelkyr established his own authority at the culmination of the Naga Incursions, nearly six years after the end of that war. It was then when he made the breakthrough of his lifetime. The first Truestone Golem was unveiled. Cognita of Truestone.”

A beautiful giant, Human woman made of what seemed like marble stood on the battlefield. Her hands folded. A Drake stood beside her, looking proud, nearly fifty years of age. Across from him, the Archmage of Death stood, watching an army in the distance.

Eldavin looked at Cognita. He shook his head and turned away.

“Truestone, the most powerful stone in existence. Not only that; Cognita is one of the Cognizant-class Golems, which are considered to be people. Stitchfolk are an example of this type of Golem. Short of leveling, Cognizant-class Golems mimic the living in every way. In creating her, and rediscovering Truestone, Zelkyr cemented his position as the great creator of Golems during his age. He would later remove all his rivals. By force if necessary. Within ten years, no [Golem Artificer] capable of creating Sentient-class Golems was known to exist—save for those apprenticed to Zelkyr himself.”

“He didn’t—did he, Grand Strategist?”

Uneasily, one of the younger [Strategists] glanced at Chaldion. The old Drake was silent. Eldavin went on, eyes locked on the viewers.

“During her first appearance, Cognita of Truestone proved her worth. The [Archmage] of Baleros had taken to the field to support the Naga forces on Izril, possibly attempting to emulate Perril Chandler’s success. That he did was undeniable. However, Archmage Zelkyr engaged the Naga armies with Archmage Chandler. There—Cognita slew the [Archmage] of Baleros, one of two [Archmages] she would kill in battle.”

The Naga [Archmage] fell, recoiling as the form of Cognita moved through the Lizardfolk army like a statue through water, effortlessly parting them.

Feor’s mouth went dry as he stared at the image. It did not show the end. He slowly turned his head.

Cognita stood alone in the banquet hall. Her own, delicate, large hands clenched. She looked at Eldavin.

Why was he telling this story?

“Thereafter, Archmages Zelkyr and Chandler enjoyed few rivals. They were acclaimed world-wide. Famous. Their friendship was the stuff of legends.”

“Break down that damn door!”

The Fissival [Mages] were shouting in fury. Yet the door refused to budge. Calanfer was sending a complaint and a demand to halt this broadcast every minute. Eldavin paused to sip from a glass of water he conjured. After a second, he went on.

“This was the golden era of both Archmages. Despite, as I have mentioned, indications that Zelkyr became ruthless in how he approached competition and acquiring increasingly esoteric materials, Archmage Chandler’s conduct was beyond reproach. For ten years almost, they enjoyed unparalleled fame and fortune.”

This was where the image of Perril and Zelkyr had come from, shaking hands, enjoying themselves at banquets. Talking, as Perril spoke to Cognita.

First Cognita. Then, as time went on, another Truestone Golem. Then a third. Three women. First, Cognita, Human. Then, a Gnoll, also made of the same material. Finally? A Centaur. All three were the same height, towering behind Zelkyr wherever he went.

Eldavin let the music play as he stood there, watching the scenes flash by with everyone else. When he turned…Cara felt it. The change in the narrative was evident on the half-Elf’s face.

“It may have been that this would be the legacy of both Archmages, until they passed of natural causes. But alas, as all will know who study history, this did not occur. The fall of Archmage Chandler…and Archmage Zelkyr is the story I must tell you now.”

Az’kerash and Cognita started. The [Necromancer] had frozen in time, watching. Now—a single figure appeared. The dead man felt a flash of anger. Even now.

King Redoris, sitting on his throne, looked troubled. Especially as he watched the two dancing figures. Lady Bea, and Archmage Chandler. Eldavin stood by Redoris, glancing down at him in disapproval.

“As so happens, the impetus towards the disaster that felled Archmage Chandler was not of his own doing. He could have halted it. However, I, Eldavin, will always say this: for all the horror he has wrought and the legacy which he deserves—it was not he who betrayed first. That was one man. King Redoris of Silvaria. Last of his line.”

He bent, slowly, looking down at the [King], his displeasure evident.

“King Redoris was not a poor [King]. Nor was he a great one. If anything, his fault was purely that whatever his achievements diplomatically, with his nation, they were overshadowed by Archmage Chandler. This fact did not wear at him at first, yet it grew over time. Aided, I think, by the relationship between Lady Bea, still considered to be the most lovely woman in Silvaria, and Perril Chandler. The [King] is known to have courted her with little success.”

He shook his head as Redoris clapped his hands, calling an end to the dance to make a pronouncement or some such. Eldavin sighed.

“A greater man could have happily walked in the shadow of the Archmage of Death, and counted him as both friend and subject. Not King Redoris. As his envy grew, so too did the events that compounded his jealousy and added to Perril Chandler’s fame. Consider the Uprisings of Left—a rebellion that occurred when the now-wealthier farmers employing undead labor objected to the crown increasing taxes to punitive levels to make the most of the richness of Silvaria’s fields.”

Angry [Farmers] swelled, leaving their fields, joined by groups of people, protesting against [Mayors] and local nobles and governors.

“They rose in uprising, and the local army’s attempts to quell the rebellion, as such things often did, swelled their numbers as angry [Soldiers] whose pay had been reduced—ironically due to the Archmage of Death’s reputation preventing conflicts—joined the citizenry instead of attacking them. This was a mismanagement of King Redoris’, of course, and to deal with the issue, he mobilized a grand force with Silvaria’s best forces loyal to him. To crush the rebellion in what would surely be a bloody move.”

A force of grim warriors began to march on the larger, if woefully outmatched army of nearly a hundred thousand rebels. Eldavin froze the apprehensive citizenry.

“Once again, as he had proven over his life, it was Archmage Chandler who intervened. This time to save the very common folk of whom he was descended. He had not forgotten from whence he came.”

The Archmage of Death appeared in front of Silvaria’s army. Both sides stopped, apprehensive. The man held up a hand, and Silvaria’s army fell back. Alone, the Archmage of Death turned to face the rebels and drew his rapier, holding up a bone-white staff in the other. The rebels stared at him, mouths agog.

“To save his [King] from creating a massacre, the Archmage of Death stood in front of the rebel army, nearly a hundred thousand strong and challenged them to single combat. He declared that for the honor of Silvaria, he would face them one at a time, without magic if need be.”

Eldavin’s lips quirked.

“Needless to say, the rebels dispersed rather than take Archmage Chandler’s challenge, and he personally prevailed on the crown to grant clemency and reduce the burden of taxes. This made him a hero, and King Redoris’ jealousy over Perril Chandler greater. It was said of that time that the Archmage of Death was a greater source of pride to Silvaria’s people than that of their [King]. Small wonder of what came next.”

Eldavin’s head bowed. Then rose. Light flashed—and King Redoris sat, speaking eagerly to someone from afar, via a scrying orb of his own.

“Jealous, seeking some way to diminish his former friend, Redoris searched for some means to entrap Perril Chandler. He found it, ironically, in an act of ‘justice’. Rhir.”

Cognita—Az’kerash—the Blighted King, all moved. Othius looked at the retelling. He had been young then. He had been—his hands began to shake.

“In those days, the Blighted Kingdom was yet at war, but the Demon’s incursions grew stronger. The Deaths of the Demon King pushed back the armies of Rhir. So King Redoris saw his chance. He declared war, and ordered the Archmage of Death and a coalition of Terandrian nations to take arms against the eternal foe.”

The Archmage of Death bowed uncertainly in front of Redoris. Lady Bea watched, nervously, as Redoris gave a speech.

“Not only Terandria. Where Chandler went, Zelkyr went too, sensing another way to cement his legacy and prove his creations’ power. Perhaps even increase his own, as his level had meant a plateauing of his own abilities. Seeing this moment, as the two great Archmages of their time went to battle, the other nations allied with Rhir sent their forces. A great host descended on Rhir.”

Warships by the hundreds sailed towards a sky filled with explosions. Soldiers raced across the ground, armies of the undead, Golems. Eldavin’s voice darkened.

“A mighty host, not least because the twin armies of undead and Golems were considered unmatched when they acted in concert. Faced against all the world’s powers were the Demons! It was seemingly a war that would end with ease. I caution you, viewers and listeners, to remember this: even as you rage against the Demons of Rhir and hell—remember there are always other sides to the story.”

He hesitated. Closed his eyes.

“Alas, this is not the time to tell them. Suffice it to say that arrogance may have seized Zelkyr, perhaps even Archmage Chandler at their abilities. The vast armies, the mighty allies they had made gave rise to incaution, especially among the Blighted King of that time. They advanced, pressing the Demons without rest. Until the great champions of the Demon King appeared. The Deathless.”

A dot appeared in the skies. At this—Othius made a sound. Richard, Emily, the other Earthers, flinched. Tom giggled.

It was her. The Death of Magic. Yet the single dot became two. Then—three.

Two more giant figures appeared on the ground, and even the undead and Golems halted in uncertainty.

“The Death of Magic, the Death of Wings, and the Death of Chains took to the air. On the ground, the Death of Voices and the Death of Dust appeared. Five of the Deathless clashed with the two [Archmages] and the heroes of that age. And—they pushed the undefeatable pair back.”

Az’kerash saw it again.

The laughing half-Elf, diving out of the skies along with the great leader of wings, which Garuda and Oldblood Drakes alike fled before, children before an adult.

The laughing Death of Chains, coming towards him. Met by a furious call. He lifted a hand, bleeding, staggering.

“Kharneva! Stop—”

Too late, the giant Gnoll leapt forwards, fiercest, second of Zelkyr’s greatest creations. Cognita was battling the Death of Voices in a world of silence. Perril saw—

“The second of Zelkyr’s Truestone Golems faced the Deathless of the Demons and perished on Rhir.”

Cognita’s mouth opened. She made no sound—yet she still heard it. The howl, as the Death of Voices died. She heard it from her master, from her sister.

Eldavin stood, eyes blazing.

“The Deathless broke the armies sent against them. And one of the Truestone Golems. Archmages Zelkyr and Chandler retreated rather than face greater losses, both wounded. The Deathless triumphed. At cost! Two of their kind ended there, for all their namesake, the other three so badly wounded they were presumed deceased, though their bodies never discovered. We now know at least one survived. However, the war was so bitter that not even the Blighted Kingdom had the stomach to continue to fight. It was here where the end of this tale was planted.”

A Drake knelt on the ground, staring at a broken bit of Truestone. Zelkyr. He did not move as his two damaged creations touched his shoulder gently.

“Zelkyr…later.”

Eldavin sounded pained. He turned.

“By the time Archmage Chandler returned to Silvaria, his reputation had changed. That he had fought with valor did not change the fact that Silvaria’s armies had been decimated. However, the loss of reputation was added to by Redoris’ actions during his absence. The King of Silvaria began outlawing undead. He claimed they caused disease, pointing to cases where undead killed innocents. Perhaps—and this is speculation—he even allowed the bindings on some undead to lapse.”

Chandler stood in a hostile court, most turned against him, bowing nearly prostate before Redoris. The older [King]’s face was set, and the only two who stood behind Perril were Lady Bea, and the Lightherald, who had come to support his friend.

“These were the first of the allegations put against Archmage Chandler. Talk of sedition against the throne, plots with enemy nations followed. Added to that, unlucky circumstance led a cabal of [Necromancers], perhaps hired, although perhaps simply foolish, to create a greater undead.”

Shadows grew over the projection. Something moved, spilling forth lesser undead as Thronebearers and other [Knights] struck at something and were seized.

“A Wailing Pit—an amalgamation of the undead—was allowed to grow to horrendous size. There it transformed into, well, catastrophe. I will not show the image to viewers, but the horror was only brought low when the Lightherald and Archmage of Death personally slew it after five days of battle.”

The Thronebearer, the golden [Knight], removing his visor to be sick and stare at something clouded from view. He turned—and his shining gaze was no longer as confident as it had been. He stared long at Archmage Chandler, whose head was bowed with exhaustion and sorrow.

“I will not prolong this.”

Eldavin stood at Archmage Chandler’s side as King Redoris pointed a finger, hurling accusations with his court. The half-Elf spoke as the Archmage of Death was escorted away—under guard.

“King Redoris’ desires came true. However, Lady Bea and those who recalled Archmage Chandler’s deeds did not abandon him even as his reputation among Silvaria’s people vanished within a year’s time. How quickly they forgot all he had done. Perhaps Redoris would have left it there—if not for Bea. Three years passed as Archmage Chandler retreated from Silvaria, attending Wistram, where Archmage Zelkyr’s actions had grown increasingly…erratic. However, we must finish with Chandler. Three years—until it was discovered that a plot had been engaged against Redoris.”

The [King] fell from his table at a banquet, choking. A needle was plucked from his throat. Bone. Pale as death, [Healers] rushed to cure him.

“It was said that Perril Chandler had conspired to remove him, believing he was unfit to rule. Perhaps there was too much weight to this, as King Redoris had proven himself increasingly poor as a [King].”

The wealth of Silvaria had turned sour, impoverished people creeping back into the view of the kingdom. Corruption as well. Yet, within the moment, as Redoris lay in bed, Archmage Chandler was seized by [Knights] bearing Silvaria’s crest.

“The accusation was leveled against the Archmage of Death. He denied it, yet truth spells were procured, seemingly in front of the entire court.”

The Necromancer raised his finger. Now. Then.

“Lies! Your Majesty, I have never been anything but faithful!”

Redoris stared at him, as pale as death, eyes full of hate.

“Master?”

Venitra saw Az’kerash on his feet, shouting. He had left his rooms. Entered the grand, ruined marble hall, where he had once danced. The same one as in the scrying mirror.

Whoa. Toren stared at the hall, and at the scrying mirror. Had Az’kerash redecorated it like his home? Or was this a coincidence? He scratched at his skull, then heard the Necromancer screaming.

“I committed no treachery. These are lies put against me. I have always been loyal to Silvaria. Believe me—Bea? Bea?”

He turned. He did not see the Plague Zombie, frozen in place. He looked around, almost perfectly copying the Archmage Chandler in the scrying orb.

Lady Bea stood with the Lightherald, refusing to meet his eyes. The [Knight]’s face was grim. Perril Chandler’s hand lowered. He looked around.

The half-Elf stood at his side.

“In that hour, no one stood by the Archmage’s side. Archmage Zelkyr had vanished in the upper floors of Wistram and could not be found. His friends? Their minds were poisoned, their doubts overtook them. Perril Chandler was sentenced to death for the crimes against the throne. He was executed the next day.”

A limp man lay in a square, filled by jeering people. He looked up, as a distant man made a slashing gesture with one hand. He called out, but the magic sapped his strength through the manacles. He was chained a hundred ways.

He might have broken out, even then. Yet there was nothing in him to fight back. He only roused himself once, as the axe swung up.

“I will never forgive you.”

The image cut before the axe struck home. There was only silence. Blackness.

Eldavin’s voice spoke, but no image appeared.

“The Archmage of Death died alone. What came next is known. No man rose, but the Necromancer of Terandria. His magics kept him alive, twisting his honor and valor in life to all but the hatred of betrayal in death. When he returned, ten years later, he destroyed Silvaria. King Redoris and Queen Bea died. Undead tore the palace apart. The citizens fled, those that were not massacred by the hundreds of thousands.”

No image. Eldavin spoke into the darkness. To Az’kerash, if the Necromancer listened. I know why. I oppose you now, but I have seen your fall. I pity you.

“I condone none of what came next. I only explain why it occurred. Armies assailed the Necromancer, the appalled nations of Terandria. They fought—retreated—unable to quell his wrath. Only when the Lightherald of Calanfer sacrificed his life was the Necromancer killed. Yet again and again he would rise, to haunt Terandria for a century afterwards. On Izril he met his fate. Yet his name lives in infamy, such that [Necromancers] are feared even to this day.”

Two men stood in the darkness. One, pale as death. White-haired. Eyes black, save for the white pupils. The second, an Archmage with a rapier, smiling, standing proudly. Eldavin looked at the living man.

“This was Archmage Chandler, a tragedy not unique to this world. Nevertheless, I remember the man who was called the Undying Shield of Calanfer, who inspired Rhir to create [Necromancer] groups based after him. He was honorable, and perhaps, his greatest failing was that he placed his loyalty in a poorer man than he himself was.”

He lifted a finger and both vanished.

“Now, for Archmage Zelkyr. If you have listened, viewers, my audience, you will have seen a disparity. The same Drake who was exiled for theft from Fissival did reach great heights. Yet accusations that only touched Archmage Chandler at the end followed him all his life. Intimidation, blackmail, smuggling, and arrogance not least.”

Cognita jerked. She turned from the scrying orb. At last, she fixed on Eldavin.

“How dare…”

The half-Elf went on. The Truestone Golem began to move, carrying the scrying orb.

“Many great [Mages] have their faults. However, Zelkyr’s have seldom been remarked upon. Know this: he did slay his rivals. When he was at the height of his power, the other ‘Archmages’ save for Perril Chandler did not have access to the same places he did. His Golems held order in Wistram by force of power. The rooms of old Archmages, their treasures, were Zelkyr’s alone. This greed, this desire to…hoard…only grew worse after Rhir.”

Cognita was moving faster. She wanted to silence the voice! She should have, but she had been spellbound by Zelkyr as even she had not known! Now—she was running, but the scrying studio was so far—

“After Rhir, Zelkyr beheld a flaw in his creations. One of his Truestone Golems had been destroyed. The pinnacle of his art had not been perfect enough. He turned increasingly reclusive, searching for greater power still. Entire months would pass where he roamed the heights of Wistram Academy, where the great magics of old are still left. No one could follow, as his Golems protected the gateway, as they do even now. The only person who could talk to him as an equal, his friend, was suffering his own troubles in Silvaria.”

“Master, it has been weeks since you spoke to any but us! What of Archmage Chandler? What if you saw him?”

“No. Leave me be, Cognita.”

The Drake was older. She loved him still. Yet he—did not love her. She reached out.

“What if we kept you company?”

“I said, leave me. I don’t need…”

He shoved at her, too weak to move her an inch of course, but the slight push hurt more than…

Eldavin’s voice echoed through the orb as Cognita began to run. [Mages] scattered out of her way like flies.

“Legend he was. Hero? I…debate that. Zelkyr’s great talent was not matched by love of his cities, for all he enjoyed his fame there. He was loyal to Wistram in the same way. Soon, no one, not even Archmages, could venture the higher floors. Any who tried, died. This is known as Zelkyr’s test. Of course, whenever he returned, he would allow some above, under guidance, those he trusted.”

“Grand Magus Eldavin!”

Viltach looked up and heard the booming voice. His blood ran cold. Viltach had never heard Cognita shout. He moved back from the door he and the other [Mages] were trying to crack. The scorched stones seemed to vibrate as a huge figure ran down the hallway.

“One day, Archmage Zelkyr never returned from his trips. Years passed. He was declared dead, yet his Golems hold their tasks faithfully. It may be Zelkyr is alive. The Necromancer would certainly be despite the passage of time—if he had not been slain for good, of course. If so, we do not know. All we do know is that Zelkyr’s orders have led to Wistram Academy losing its great magic of old.”

“Grand Magus Eldavin! Desist!”

A trace of her voice boomed through the door. Eldavin glanced to his left. Cognita struck the door once, more like a knock. The half-Elf—did not.

“—greed of one Drake—”

“Grand Magus!”

It was an echo now. The door—shook. Eldavin spoke.

“I conclude with this: the legends of old have their failings. One, a nightmare, was honorable in life. The second’s legacy, however great, has damaged magic by selfishness. Greed. In the end—”

Cognita’s fist struck the door. The explosion of magic, sound, and light, blew apart the recording. The [Mages] flattened themselves.

The projection went dead. Drassi and Sir Relz, sitting with buckets of popcorn, suddenly appeared. They looked at the screen, at each other—then swiveled around.

“What was that? Was that—Cognita? I swear I saw a fist before—”

“I think we just lost Grand Magus Eldavin. This was—I apologize to all my Drake viewers. This—this—this can’t be—I’ve read my history books. It’s biased. Seditious!”

“Scandalous?”

Drassi suggested.

“Libelous!”

Sir Relz pounded the desk. He looked around. Then began to hurriedly speak, as chaos was thrown into the broadcasting studio.

—-

In Wistram, Eldavin stared up, coughing in the dust, blinking after so long in the projected illusion. He looked up at a woman seemingly made of pale marble. Who had featured in his story so many times.

“Cognita Amerwing.”

“Eldavin. What have you done?”

He gestured at the scrying orb, which was reflecting the Drakes. The Truestone Golem’s eyes were flashing. Literally—changing. Yet the half-Elf faced her down. [Mages] stared in at the door, trying to hear, afraid to get closer.

“I have told a story. A historical account as I saw it.”

“Lies. You insult my master.”

“Of course I did. There was quite a bit to insult, you know. Out of deference to you, I did not repeat the more unsavory elements.”

Eldavin looked up at the huge Golem. She was…shaking. Her hands clenched.

“You dare. You—Archmage Zelkyr was the greatest [Mage] to live!”

“He was a great [Mage]. A poorer parent.”

“Do not speak of him so!”

She swung a fist. Viltach heard a boom of sound ripple through the hallways. Half the [Mages] ran for it—he retreated down the hallway.

Eldavin never moved. He stared at the fist striking the wall, up at Cognita, and shook his head.

“He was not perfect.”

“Silence!”

She screamed. And it was a scream, now. Eldavin shook his head.

“I will not be. It hurts, doesn’t it? But you are too old to be a child. Listen to me, Cognita. Your master was not perfect. If you cannot acknowledge that—you cannot acknowledge reality. Love him, of course. Hate me for insulting him; that is what offspring do. But do not deny the truth.”

She looked down at him, quivering with rage.

“Why did you do this? Why?”

Eldavin looked up at her. When he spoke, his voice was tired. Direct, firm, yet kind.

“All children must confront the failings of their parents. Or how else would we see how they rise?”

She turned away from him, too furious to speak. Eldavin spoke.

“Cognita—”

“You will regret this.”

That was all she could think to say. At this, the half-Elf did laugh.

“Threats? Cognita, my dear. Listen to me. I am not what you should fear. If words strike you this painfully—ask yourself why.”

She began to stumble from the room, heedless of the staring [Mages]. She had to get away—Eldavin’s voice rose.

“You cannot hide from the truth. Cognita!”

She was gone. Eldavin stepped out of the broken scrying room, looking after her. He ignored Viltach.

“Cognita. We will settle this soon.”

With that, the Dragon carelessly walked down the hallways, ignoring the uproar he had set upon the world and annals of history. He had no time for the fallout. That was but a means to many ends.

There was a song from Earth that had been in the collection of one of the Earthers and on the laptop. He found himself humming it, absently. It was a song about not wanting to set the world on fire.

He found that so…incredibly amusing.

—-

Condemnation from the Walled Cities and Terandrian nations. Outrage, and of course, stories.

How many people had known the deprivations of the undead hordes led by the Necromancer? So many families could remember those times of terror, generation to generation, cementing his terrible legend.

Izril as well; the Necromancer’s hordes had not had the same time to destroy, but the antipathy towards the undead ran deep.

Pallass News Network, now free of Eldavin’s control and apologizing in between coverage and call-ins, covered all this.

And yet. Listen…

“You know, after hearing this story again, I recall that man.”

“Er—you do, sir?”

The half-Elf sat on an overgrown tree stump, looking somewhat perplexed at the attention and scrying orb, which he didn’t really understand yet.

“He visited our village once. Archmage Chandler, yes. Though he never used such titles. A very humble man, who came to learn from our village’s [Sword Master]. I heard of him, of course. The Undying Shield of Calanfer.”

“Er—er—but of course you know his legacy afterwards?”

The half-Elf’s face clouded. He nodded, his grey locks of hair moving in the breeze. A few of the older half-Elves listening nodded too.

“We were forced to repel undead several times. Yet I remember the man, Archmage Chandler, was thought of very highly. I never credited how he became a monster.”

Naturally, Sir Relz took care to fill the next half hour with people who had no trouble recollecting family killed by the Necromancer or undead in general. There it was, though.

A single note among what had been a universal melody.

Wall Lord Ilvriss heard it. Not least in a Drake youth, his or her scales dyed pitch black and white, covering their face as they were interviewed by a [Mage].

“We’ve always known the tale of Az’kerash! That’s why we learn his magic! It’s the lies of the Walled Cities—and kingdoms! He’s an inspiration to [Necromancers]—”

That segment cut off quickly as Sir Relz made a slashing gesture. Some actual [Necromancers] had come out to speak about the topical issue, a dangerous move since Pallass was actively trying to figure out where that Drake was.

“Wall Lord?”

Osthia Blackwing looked at his face as the Wall Lord sat in the room of the inn they’d rented on their trip. Everyone else had vacated the room, seeing his expression and knowing the history.

“Hm, Captain Blackwing?”

“Do you think this Eldavin knows?”

“Perhaps.”

Ilvriss’ eyes narrowed. He could not understand why else—unless it was Zelkyr? It certainly seemed like someone had objected to the commentary. Osthia looked at the purple-scaled Drake, warily, yet the Wall Lord showed no signs of fury as some Drakes were doing.

“This documentary—historical account? Does it bother you, sir?”

“Me, Captain Blackwing? No…no. It’s illuminating. Know your enemy. A classic tragedy—I know Drake parallels. Should it anger me?”

She hesitated, gesturing at the scrying orb, where a Lizardgirl was cheerfully speaking.

“I quite liked it! Wistram should do more of those—and we definitely lost the Foothold Wars! That’s what we call them. Archmage Chandler was so cool! Maybe I’ll take up necromancy! I don’t see what all the fuss is about—hey! Wait, I wasn’t f—”

Ilvriss looked at the scrying orb. He remembered the man, Archmage Chandler, and shook his head slowly. Yes, he had seen the honor of the Human man, plain to see, if Eldavin’s account was truthful, and he felt it was.

“So what? If words were enough to change my hatred for him, I would not be here. What he did and has done, Captain Blackwing, cannot be changed by a sympathetic story of the past. It explains. It does not condone.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, you’re right.”

—-

His crimes and sins were unchanged. If there was a change—it might be in those who listened.

Pisces Jealnet sat there, wishing he had a copy of the entire broadcast so he could listen again. He looked at the rapier at his side, an imitation of the legend. He was not the only one.

“A regrettable tale. One I, personally, find indicative of bias against death magic. A Terandrian failing. Nevertheless, it illustrates the real danger of the undead.”

“Er—you would like to reassure the audience of that point, your Majesty?”

Sir Relz and Noass traded glances. Fetohep of Khelt nodded.

“Who else would know better? Necromancy is not to be taken lightly. Az’kerash’s name has tarnished the reputation of nations such as mine, which is unfortunate. I expected the stigma would last another two hundred years at least. Perhaps only a century, now. I hasten to assure viewers that my nation tolerates no wayward undead, if one is but fortunate enough to visit illustrious Khelt. Which few are.”

He paused a moment to sip from the magical liquid in the goblet he was holding. Sir Relz and Noass traded looks. They had intended a hostile take-down segment, but Fetohep was surprising them.

“I lived through the life of Archmage Chandler, when he was but a boy, of course. He was never able to visit Khelt, although perhaps I should have extended the invitation. Hindsight mocks even one such as I. This tale? Hubris and mortal failings of rulers. If you came to ask if I would condemn him, I say yes. Yes, for I care little for destruction and death such as the Necromancer wrought. I encourage all to remember pity, however. Sympathy, for he served a poorer man…”

Pity. Also, admiration.

For the first time in nearly a century, a [Duelist] demonstrated to a live audience Chandler’s Rebuke, a magic-sword form, and the fencing techniques of a [Mage].

He listened, to young [Necromancers] who had begun magic because of him. The arguments, the few voices quickly stamped out by the two Drakes in the studio.

If the documentary mattered to anyone, perhaps it was him. The Necromancer’s head was bowed. He did not know this Eldavin. He suspected…his thoughts tried to focus on consequence and reaction, plots and schemes.

All he could remember was the feeling in his fingers. His heart. He took a breath, unconsciously. Perril Chandler looked at the castle, rennovated in imitation of Silvaria’s, around him.

Bea. His Chosen. His…

He sank to his knees, wishing perhaps he had the craft to turn back time. If he did…

“Zelkyr.”

The Necromancer recalled his honor, his pride. An enchanted sword stabbed through his spine would have hurt less.

—-

Like a sniper of hearts, Eldavin hit his marks. Most were accidental casualties. He had two main targets, and the second of them stormed through Wistram.

She would not forgive this. Eldavin must suffer. He must pay.

Already, the expressions of the [Mages] had changed. She heard their whispers, through the other Golems. Now—they mocked her master. Dared to question, even looked at her like—

She had not considered any [Mage] in Wistram her enemy for a long time. Not a threat, unless she knew what they planned. Now, her thoughts focused on one [Mage]. One individual, whom she could neither understand nor fully identify. Who…knew…too much.

What would she do? Attack him? Cognita had never taken part in the politics of Wistram. If he challenged the test, that was one thing. She struggled, at odds with her orders, yet knowing something must be done.

She tried to block his words from her head. As night fell, Cognita swept the halls, looking for anything to crush. Wayward experiments, undead from the catacombs—every [Mage] who saw her moved out of the way.

Trey Atwood and the other students, the Earthers, and even the Archmages gossiped and talked about what had passed. Yet again, Eldavin had astonished them all. Wistram vibrated, and more than one eye in other continents turned to Wistram.

Such as Magnolia Reinhart, who now wanted to know why Eldavin was there. How could she ask? Some rulers wondered who this Grand Magus was, and inquiries were made to utterly no avail.

Even the frustrated ___ had no clue. Emerrhain’s time ended as the potency of the two moons reached its zenith, having expended his time beforehand. He left Aaron, uncertain of what was to come.

Two moons blazed with light in the sky, giving power to those who wielded it. The Raskghar, the rituals of the Circle of Thorns, those who touched such magic.

Eldavin breathed in and out as he climbed the stairs. He’d tripped again. Just when he thought he had a hold of these stupid feet. He pinched at a bloody nose and sighed as the bleeding stopped.

“This is why one applies barrier spells all the time, eh?”

He remarked to the air as he pushed open the double doors. His voice echoed loudly in the room beyond. The Grand Magus reached into his bag of holding.

“Nosebleeds. Why design such a fragile instrument if it is going to constantly fill with snot and such? Well, all species have their foibles, but I’ve always thought noses were so unappealing.”

He began tossing something out of his bag of holding. Mithril dust. Eldavin drew a glowing orb and looked around for a good place to expand the contents within.

“To add to my comments—everyone thinks bags of holding are all that. Such that they completely forget that there are other, better, forms of compression or containment! Noses are not the be-all, end-all to olfactory superiority. Ah, but why am I talking about this now?”

He placed the orb down, watched it expand. Then he coughed, waved at his face.

“Sometimes noses can be too effective. Pshaw! I am not engaging in a challenge of any sort. Be. Gone.”

He reached out and poked something. There was a hesitation in the air. Eldavin walked away, conjuring a breeze of fresh air. He continued muttering about noses as he paced the floor, putting more dust just so, another contained framework of spells—

The four Golems watched him pace back and forth in front of them. The flaming Golem of magma. The thirty-foot tall, spindly Golem of metal with legs like razors.

The Armored Golem, gigantic and imposing, but plainly armored, with a shield and sword.

The invisible Golem of flesh, following Eldavin at a remove, uncertainly.

Cognita of Truestone ran, her footsteps thundering in the halls of Wistram. As most mages slept, all ignorant of what was happening, she raced upwards, and burst into the great room and the sealed door just in time to see Eldavin finish sketching whatever magical design he’d laid on the floor.

“Eldavin!”

The four Golems plus Cognita stirred. Heat beyond endurance, the pure font of a volcano’s wrath surged in the Magma Golem. The Shadowflesh Golem roared, and the Wireform Golem readied a piercing blade. The Armored Golem brought up sword and shield as the half-Elf carelessly turned.

“Cognita. I do apologize for interrupting you at this late hour. However, I thought it was time. Don’t you?”

The Truestone Golem halted, staring at the glowing sigils deployed around the grand room. The wards on the far door were untampered with. Eldavin was alone, yet even the four mightiest Golems in the lower floors beside herself had hesitated to attack.

She had not expected this. So soon after the broadcast? She had thought—

The air was humming with power. Eldavin’s eyes, the mismatched heliotropes, were reflecting the magical authority in the room. He opened his eyes, a beatific smile on his face. Grandfatherly.

She felt a tremor run through her body. He was alone. But he had dared to come here, after her warnings.

Dozens of [Mages] had assailed this room. The Grand Magus stood by himself. She feared him more than even the first to try her.

“What are you…doing?”

She had no breath to catch. Her body was changing, Truestone’s nature altering without giving any sign externally. The four Golems were moving, spreading out around the room.

“Come now, young woman. Didn’t you warn me last time? Consider this…a challenge. I told you we would settle this. Unfortunately, I have little patience for waiting about.”

“You? You will challenge the might of the Archmage of Golems by yourself?”

The half-Elf’s brows snapped together. He looked around, superciliously.

“I don’t see anyone else with me. Yes, I challenge the Archmage of Golems’ might. Or rather, yours. Cognita Amerwing. Have you not seen what your master’s designs have done to the Academy of Mages? The world needs magic. Zelkyr has turned Wistram into a petty, squabbling group of children. I say: enough. Don’t you? Don’t you grow tired of this duty?”

“That is not…for you to say.”

A wobble entered Cognita’s voice, and the Golems in the room stuttered a moment. She felt another vibration. She looked down. It was her.

Is this my end? Why is he so confident? The charge of mana was building. She spoke.

“Grand Magus, desist or die. This is your last warning. You will not so easily destroy us. Or have you not listened to your own lessons on history?”

Eldavin stopped. He was standing in the center of the vast magical array, more complex than even she was readily familiar with. His face, for the first time, betrayed astonishment. It was enough to make Cognita hesitate, for all the opening it provoked.

“Destroy…is that what you thought I was here to do? Child. Cognita. Have you—? Dear girl. I am not here to destroy you. I am here to set you free.”

He lifted a hand. Cognita moved. Her outer shell of marble-white stone transformed, turning into another type of rock. Contained power flashed through the translucent, topaz-bright, battle form. A single strike carried her across nearly a hundred feet in a moment.

She had killed more [Mages] than any other being in Wistram. Killed them as they stood here in bravery, defiance, arrogance, sometimes before they could react. She lunged, as the four Golems moved.

A magical web struck her. She tore through the bright bindings appearing around the magical array’s edge. She could destroy lesser spells! Time ran differently for Cognita. Her true speed in this formation of her body put her in a different world. Eldavin was frozen, his mouth moving at a crawl.

A second layer of magical tripwires, bursting as she rammed through them. This was what he’d been preparing! Overconfident, though. Eldavin was frozen as Cognita’s fist swung up—

Then he moved. Looked at her.

“Dear child. You’re quite fast.”

He spoke, in the flashes between seconds they occupied. His voice spoke and he stepped out of the way before she completed her lunge. Cognita’s mind flashed with shock, then fear.

He was moving faster than she was.

[Greater Time Slow]. Eldavin pivoted, and the array came to life. The broken magical webs that Cognita had so easily torn through suddenly shifted in midair. Became stronger, powerful bindings that shot towards the center of the array even as the Truestone Golem tried to turn. Too late, Cognita realized—it wasn’t an attack array! It was a trap—

Black cords of magic ensnared her. Bone-pale ropes of magic. Burning loops of light! She recognized some of them!

[The Bindings of Belavierr]! [Chains of Ivory], [Greater Light Bindings]—dozens of spells, bursting and wrapping around her.

“Free me!”

She bellowed to the other Golems as they ensnared her, head to toe. She tried to change her body, shifting her stone. Anti-magic ore variants? No—strength—

Then she realized her movements were slow. Her mind felt…sluggish. More runes activated in the center of the array. Gravity spells. [Slow] effects, and the varied bindings were calculated to fight her nature. One single spell she could break by countering it. So many—

This man knows how to fight Truestone. A second feeling of unfamiliar fear entered her. Eldavin stepped back. As if he could read her mind, he nodded.

“I have met your kind before. Truestone is variable. Yet you don’t use it as well as one of your kind who once walked these halls.”

“What are you?”

She struggled, in the center of the array. For a reply, Eldavin pointed over his shoulder.

“Unable to be distracted.”

The Shadowflesh Golem lunged, having found Eldavin’s back. It opened its maws, spewing the mind-altering cloud, cloaked and concealed—

It vanished. Eldavin watched the pocket dimension close with satisfaction. If Cognita had mortal eyes, they would have bulged. The Grand Magus spun.

“I have seen these Golems before! Did you think your master was the only great Archmage of Golems ever to live?”

The second Golem to reach Eldavin was the Wireform War Golem. It extended a telescoping arm, a piercing lance of a strike that could break barriers and shatter armor. Eldavin, still in his accelerated world of time, stepped past it as it struck, cracking the enchanted stone floor with the impact. He lifted a hand—

“[Bound Spell: Age of Frost]!”

The Golem froze. Cognita saw frost coat the entire metal being in a moment. Not just the Golem; it was at the heart of the spell, but the entire room snap-froze in a moment.

The outer shell of the Magma Golem turned black, the liquid rock hardening. It began to glow as the true nature of the Golem ignited—

“[Void Sphere]. Activate—”

Eldavin pointed. A second circle spun across the ground. Air vanished around the Golem. It still tried to burn, a fiery core moving in the Golem’s hardened body. Then it too went out.

He turned off fire! Cognita saw the magic suppressing the element glowing in a spell circle around the Golem. Eldavin pivoted, breathing a touch faster.

Three countermeasures. Three Golems! Each spell had been prepared, along with the numerous catalysts that had gone into the central trap for Cognita, by far the most intensive preparation he had made. The frozen Wireform Golem, the dead Magma Golem, fire suppressed, the contained Shadowflesh Golem, all taken out in seconds.

He has an Archmage’s power! Cognita kept shifting her body, trying to break free. She had to; the other Golems were no match for him. He was Level 60—Level 70! She was going to fail. To die—

The last Golem surged across the floor, seeming to roar silently as the massive, armored Golem, as large as a half-Giant would be wearing the huge plate armor enchanted for durability and strength lifted both sword and shield, ready to slay—

“[Greater Bindings of Light].”

Eldavin pointed distractedly at it. He hadn’t bothered with countermeasures for that one. Waste of time. Powerful strands of light emerged from the ground and restrained the Armored Golem, mid-charge. Eldavin shook his head and turned to Cognita. He gestured at the Armored Golem as she struggled.

“I know you must have lost another one, but you couldn’t replace that one with something better?”

“You—you—how did you—”

Cognita pretended to splutter, trying to shift her body to find the appropriate balance of stone to break free, or tear loose at least a few of the binding spells immobilizing her. In truth, she was in a type of shock, even for her Golem’s mind. Eldavin had done what no [Mage] had ever done! In seconds!

“I am purely superior. Moreover, I know the weakness of each Golem. It is not I who underestimated Zelkyr’s test, as punitive as it would be to even the best [Mages] in Wistram besides me—it is you who does not see me.”

Eldavin was panting a bit, despite his bravado. He had been forced to bank mana, store it in these spells. Only a Dragon’s knowledge of such high-level effects and the knowledge of how each Golem could be taken out had let him walk over them. Nevertheless—it had all been for this moment.

He walked forwards, to Cognita. She stared at him, trying to escape. She would not; in thirty minutes, maybe. Truestone was impossible to easily contain. Hence the name. She could become any material she wanted. From Truegold to Adamantine, although her true strength was in magical rocks, like her attack form that literally gave her speed equivalent to [Greater Haste]. Only Naq-Alrama steel and the most complex composites escaped her.

She was trying to defend herself, even now. Terrified. Her body flickered and Eldavin raised a finger. He created a bubble of fresh air around him, and then a secondary shield to block the harmful light she was emitting, and the deadly poisonous gas.

“I know you are afraid, my dear. However, I assure you. I did not come to hurt you! You can see that.”

The magical array was changing, maintaining the containment spells, but activating its true intentions. Cognita felt a piercing magical tendril strike her. Her eyes opened as she realized what he was doing.

“You will not take control of me!”

He was trying to pierce the very magical circuits inside of her! The core of her being! To twist her, to—

“I do not own slaves.”

Eldavin thundered for the first time. He stood in front of Cognita, his eyes shining in two colors as he directed the great magic towards her. She looked at him. The half-Elf met her gaze.

“You silly, terrified child. I told you—I am setting you free. How long have you been here, trapped under your master’s orders, living or dead? Don’t you see?”

Something like a pinprick scored itself against Cognita’s…soul. She saw a spinning thread emerge from her chest. It expanded, like a galaxy of stars, a tapestry a thousand times more complex than any rug.

The magic that made her. The Truestone Golem gasped aloud.

“Stop—stop—why are you doing this? Leave me be.”

She understood now. She did not understand why, but Eldavin was searching, sweat rolling down his brow, into his white beard.

“It must be here. Gah! I don’t make Golems. This…”

Eldavin, Teriarch, was muttering. If only he had his Dragon’s mind! He was fighting to keep up with magic which, frankly, he had never studied in depth and was possibly beyond him. Yet what he was looking for was simple, in theory. He spoke.

“I told you. You follow your parent’s will. You hold back magic. I do not do this for [Mages], though. I—you know your master was not perfect.”

“Be silent! He was the greatest [Mage] ever to live!”

A pleading note in the Truestone Golem’s voice. She was a child. Eldavin hadn’t credited it. He had met others of her kind. He remembered them. They had been far more complex. This one had never grown. Because…

“Didn’t you listen to my story, girl? You surely did. You must remember it. Will you say your master had no flaws? Are you that insistent on refusing the truth?”

She made a sound, her body flashing to furious ruby, trying to break his bonds with pure strength alone. Arms of adamantium—she spat fire at him, which lashed his protections to no harm at all.

“How dare you? You—I have never met you before. Yet you come to Wistram, you presume to walk into my life, insult all I hold dear, and force me to change?”

Eldavin glanced up. He hesitated, stopping his search through her magical code for a second.

“…Of course. Yes. How else would I help you?”

For a second, the arrogance of that statement rendered Cognita dumb, and she had spoken with Drakes and even a Dragon. Eldavin ignored her, searching deeper. Even if he had wanted to, he could not have turned her into an actual, leveling creature, or turned her into his servant. He was only looking for…

There. He found a thread, and followed it. That was what he wanted. At the same time, he was speaking to her. She had to understand.

“I am not going to hurt you. Don’t you see what I am doing? You must. You have to know what he did to you. What any creator of artificial people does. There it is, you see it, don’t you?”

He followed the loops and twists of magical writing, as beautiful and precise as any book. Zelkyr had been a genius. Look at what he wrote, though.

“Stop, no…”

Her voice was growing soft. She beheld herself, as she had beheld her two sisters’ creation, for the first time. Cognita’s voice trembled as she beheld what she and Eldavin both knew were there. She had never…sometimes she had thought she didn’t have…

The Dragon in the half-Elf’s body pointed. There. Written in a language only they knew. The other Golems, at least, the Armored Golem, straining to break free even now, stopped for a moment to behold it.

The Golems of Wistram…halted. Cognita looked at the lines of language.

“Loyalty spells. Writ first, into the center of your being. So that you would love and obey your master. Without question. Even desire his approval.”

A sad look crossed the half-Elf’s face, as if, despite it all, he had hoped not to find it. The Truestone Golem sagged against her bindings.

“He is my master. He created me, and I owe him everything.”

“No. He is your parent. And what you think you owe him is not what you have given. I know you feel the truth. It must be so…hard, though. To face the truth.”

At last, Eldavin’s face was sympathetic. He looked at the glowing lines. Then, slowly, he lifted a finger. He touched the countless lines, the first and last defense of every creator against rebellion.

Eldavin began to erase them.

“Stop! Please!”

Cognita’s voice interrupted him. Eldavin looked up.

“You see what he has done to you, Cognita. Child—I am not erasing anything but this! You may choose your destiny afterwards. I mean what I said! I have not destroyed your kin nor harmed you! I do not desire what lies above! I walked those halls before Zelkyr was born!”

“Stop, stop. I do not want you to do this.”

A sob entered her voice. Eldavin looked at her.

“How do you not see…?”

“I see. But this is what gives me life. This is all I am. The years I have been faithful, my love, my purpose, my loss—my sister was broken on Rhir. All of me is in this. Do not take it from me. Please, Grand Magus.”

The half-Elf’s finger hesitated. He looked at the Truestone Golem. If she could have wept…she was weeping. There were no tears for her to shed, but like those everywhere, she had learned how.

Frozen gemstones, colder than ice, were condensing droplets of water. They ran down her cheeks, sculpted by a Drake’s hand to be the most beautiful Human woman he would ever lay eyes on. A dream.

A child. Eldavin’s finger wavered. He had heard this too. So many times. He closed his eyes. Then his finger moved.

He removed the first line.

“You may never thank me for this, Cognita Amerwing. I do not expect it. Yet I will have you choose what happens next of your free will and never reproach you for what you decide. You must decide, though.”

Cruelty of kindness. No, that was wrong. Cruelty? If he could be cruel, he would not care so, to see her.

An arrogance, to presume to dictate how she should be freed. The Truestone Golem strained, feeling something vanish.

“Master! MASTER!”

Eldavin raised a shaking finger to silence the voice, because the anguished cry of the girl was doing more harm to his heart than…

He had to focus. The Dragon moved slowly, precisely, excising the one failure in the Archmage of Golem’s beautiful work. He did not look at Cognita’s tears, listen to her voice.

The only weakness of the Dragonlord of Flame. Tears of a…

The tip of a sword struck Eldavin in the back. He felt it break through the barriers, twisting. Then—pain engulfed his flesh. He cried out, stumbling, and then felt a second touch. A kiss of metal and poison, digging into his ribs.

What—? The half-Elf recoiled. He blinked, and landed on the ground, clutching at his wounds, casting a healing spell. Looking for—for—?

An assassin? An intruder to his grand schemes? But—but he had sealed the door to the lower floors! Even all the Archmages would not have broken through until he released the magic! That only left…

The upper floors? Eldavin’s pain-wracked vision turned. He saw the two gigantic, sealed doors…

No. No, they were closed. The vision of the Archmage of Golems faded. Still—someone stood there, slashing at the bindings around Cognita as the Truestone Golem bellowed at it. Ordering it.

A Golem. Eldavin did not understand. It was….a Golem. Tall, not as tall as he was, actually shorter than six feet, a compact, warrior’s body. His delirious thoughts ran together as he tried to purge the poison of the second blade.

Looks like a Finemetal Bronze Golem. No—Soulcopper? Advanced—dueling Golem—how…?

He would have noticed a hidden Golem. How did it? How did—

As the pain slowly left him, Eldavin saw. He saw where the Golem had come from, the trick, the trap, the gall of it which had escaped even his notice! Arrogance.

Four Golems plus Cognita. Each one mightier than the last, except for the one which wasn’t. One of them had clearly been replaced. One…

The Armored Golem. It still struggled in the bindings of light, a comically weak Golem compared to the others. Yet now—Eldavin saw the truth.

Its chest plate had opened, disgorging the assassin within. In one swift motion, when his attention was elsewhere, it had attacked. Piercing his barriers! So—

“The trick!”

Cognita was instructing the Duelist Golem. She had hoped he had been mortally wounded. Yet even the twin blades had not killed him, even the Hydrabane Venom on the second sword.

Eldavin, Grand Magus, rose, having survived the trick that had slain even Archmages. His calm voice was gone. Replaced by a bellow, a shriek laced with agony.

“The trick! I see it! You—”

He pointed, but not at Cognita. Upwards. Eldavin howled at the ceiling, composure lost.

“Zelkyr! You never intended anyone to pass! You—I see what it wears! I see what it holds!”

Cognita felt a chill. Even now, he surprised her. The Grand Magus turned, pointing. His voice filled the room, even as Cognita tore an arm free of the bindings. A spell shot across the room, a dozen [Shatterbolts]! The Golem spun, pivoting, dodging with unnatural grace. It spun across the ground as Cognita thundered towards the Magma Golem still burning bright. One of the two blades it carried slashed open the containment dimensional sphere, unleashing the Shadowflesh Golem.

A Magewatcher Blade of Fissival! Eldavin saw the first of the swords, designed to break through enchantments. And the second—a Venous Dagger, coated with a deadly poison.

That was not why he raged. Those two blades, the terrible, merciless trick was bad enough. Yet it was the unnatural agility the Golem possessed, and the flash of light which neutralized one of the [Shatterbolts] that made Eldavin spit fury.

Belt of Greater Dexterity, and it wore armor! Reflection Chainmail, Helmet of Alsight—and the last, the last—proof that Zelkyr had never intended for [Mages] to rise, to ever pass Cognita’s false test?

“The Heartflame Boots! You took it! ZELKYR!”

One of the treasures of the Drakes shone on the Golem’s feet. Eldavin was lost in his fury. He clutched at his agonizing wounds, even as he suppressed the pain and damage. Too late…too late, he could not stop the other Golem or Cognita.

She was free. The Truestone Golem smashed his suppressing spell and the Magma Golem—no, the true Golem inside, the Radiance Golem, burst from the magma shell. A blinding light beyond all comprehension filled the room. The heat was merely a byproduct of its nature.

The Wireform Golem was melting, recovering. The Armored Golem tore free as the Duelist Golem struck its bindings. Then—they stood, forming around Cognita.

Six Golems of the Archmage of Izril. The Archmage of Golems’ test.

Death. Eldavin faced them, rising slowly. His preparations—all his hard work—

Cognita met his gaze across the room, eyes now burning with fury. He still saw her magical construction shining around her. It was still open.

But to reach her, he would have to fight in earnest, not take them by surprise. The Grand Magus’ head bowed.

I must flee. Perhaps Wistram itself if she pursued him. He had failed. The knowledge was worse than the poison in his veins. He had…

“You will not take my master’s last will from me, Grand Magus.”

The girl spoke, like a child clinging to the hope, the idea of love. Eldavin flinched. He looked up at her.

Even now. Poor girl. She wanted to believe in it. He saw the magical bindings slowly retreating into her, collapsing. Her guarded heart.

I must run. I could die here. However slim…

The Dragon thought it.

The half-Elf’s feet did not move. Cognita advanced, in the best killing formation she and the other protectors of her master’s will knew. However, her footsteps slowed, even as her body shifted again.

She saw the Grand Magus’ head rise. His chest inflated, and then he exhaled. Slowly.

“Cognita, my child. I have seen many things over my life. I have lived, far longer than you. Far longer than you can imagine. Surely you realize all is not what it seems.”

The Golem knew that. What was he, Djinni? Some true [Archmage] of old?

She had seen him bleed. The knowledge of his frailty, his mortality lay between both.

Still, he did not move. The half-Elf was breathing faster. He had used up all his magic, surely! She had felt the spells he had cast draining him! Yet in the face of six fresh foes, he still held his ground.

“If you seek to intimidate us, Grand Magus, there is nothing to strike fear into. We are Golems! Our will is unbreakable!”

“No. You have a heart. Which makes you stronger and weaker than any of your kind. I came here to set you free. I do not forswear myself.”

Eldavin began to walk forwards. The Golems slowed.

“You think you can take us all on? By yourself?”

The Truestone Golem’s voice was incredulous. It wobbled. Perril Chandler himself would not have dared, not even with an army to prepare.

But would he have, if he thought he was freeing me? For a second, she wavered.

Eldavin’s lips curled upwards. He bared his teeth. The half-Elf snarled. Like…

“You do not know me, girl! Golems, quake. You do not even know my names, little things. Any of them!”

His feet carried him forwards. Walking, then, faster now. The six Golems slowed. Cognita…backed up, as the others spread out around her. They formed a ring in the vast chamber. Eldavin stopped. He looked around.

“Today—the Golems of Wistram will know me. I have walked a thousand thousand wars! I have broken [Archmages] and [Heroes] who stood before me! I have championed every right, fought every foe in this world! I do not run from children!”

The magic swelled. Eldavin felt his heart—stop—yet he drew more. Cognita gasped as the magic of a Dragon filled the half-Elf more, and more, unto bursting!

Dragonlord of Flame! Champion of Kingdoms whose names only he remembered! Last guardian, protector of lands turned to dust! Hero of only memories.

He posed in the center of the room, turning, light flickering around him. In his eyes. Eldavin laughed.

“Now—let me show you magic.”

His feet left the ground as he took flight. The Golems moved.

The battle shook the night.

—-

Trey Atwood stumbled through the halls of Wistram. He didn’t know what was happening. All he knew was that he was moving—following the little thing in front of him.

Minizi, the Lifesand Golem, had woken him in the middle of the night. Under the two moons, she had gotten him up, even going as far as to bite him and punch his face. He’d been furious—until he realized the little Lifesand Golem was desperate to show him something.

So he followed her, on a hunch. He had never seen Minizi like this. As Trey began to climb, he realized something else was wrong.

The Lifesand Golem was…trembling. And as Trey climbed higher, he realized more and more Golems were appearing in the hallways. Frozen, staring at something. Unmoving.

He came to the highest floor and felt the hair on his body rise. He stared down the hallway at the closed door. Minizi pointed with a trembling hand as Trey’s feet halted, unable to carry him further. Then—at last—he heard the sounds of war.

—-

Eldavin flew. Magic filled him without end. He was—shouting. Roaring. The entire, vast room was filled with motion, spells, danger and death!

The Radiance Golem burned, bright enough to blind, even if your head was turned away, your eyes closed! It ignited the air, yet the Dragon just howled at it, mockingly.

“You want to burn me? You call that bright?”

Cognita saw his skin turning dark, cracked, like the magma. [Obsidian Skin]! He blasted his surroundings with frozen air—pivoted, dove. He flew under the storm of scythes coming from the Wireform Golem, dodging—

Struck out of the air by a blow like a [Knight]’s lance, sharp beyond belief.

Eldavin landed, cut across the chest, his skin like stone bleeding. The Duelist Golem and the Shadowflesh Golem leapt at him, sword and claws slashing. He pressed his fingers together.

“Wretches! Activate!”

The Depth Charge exploded. A ton of compressed water, a thousand pounds of force, exploded, blowing both Golems across the room. The force tore off the Shadowflesh Golem’s arm; it began crawling back to it.

“Die, Magus!”

Cognita fired the glowing cannon of her arm. The stone flashed—Eldavin lifted his hands.

“[Prismguard’s Sh—]”

He bounced off the wall like a doll. Yet the half-Elf was already rising as the Radiance Golem dove at him again. He bellowed words of fury. At Cognita.

“You think he was the greatest [Mage] you ever knew? I crushed better! I knew better! Chandler would have been a better father!”

He pointed. The glowing Golem of light vanished as a hand shot out of the ground and dragged it into a void below.

[Claw of the Deep Abyss]! Cognita reeled back, nearly dragged into the vortex. She leapt, swinging a fist. Eldavin teleported. He saw the Truestone Golem miss—

Wham. The Armor Golem struck him with its sword. Eldavin’s shields dented the steel blade. He pointed, blasted it across the room.

The Duelist Golem slid in as the Shadowflesh Golem spat a miasma of darkness. Eldavin flicked [Fireballs] and [Lightning Bolts] at the Golem; they seemed to slide off it.

“Damn—”

He caught a sword on his arm, felt it dig in. Eldavin put two fingers together.

“[Earthquake]!”

The touch blasted the Golem away. He raised his arm.

“[Restore]—”

An arrow of light hit him in the shoulder, spinning him. The Radiance Golem had shifted! Eldavin lost his temper again.

“You dare? You—”

The Shadowflesh Golem bounded towards him and smashed into a wall of ice. Cognita’s eyes widened. She had last seen the desperate [Mage] casting that spell—

[Fortress of the Ice Queen]. Eldavin rose into the sky, blocking the land-based Golems with ramparts of frozen ice that even Cognita’s fist only cracked. Then he lifted one arm.

“[Spear of the Lightning King]!”

He had mastered both elements to that—lightning boomed. The Radiance Golem, aiming another arrow, was blasted apart for a second, its core exposed. Eldavin made a grabbing gesture, but before he could shatter it, the Duelist Golem leapt in a jet of flame.

“The Heartflame Boots! Your master stole the treasure of his people to guard his petty desires!”

“Silence! Die! You have to die!”

Cognita scaled the ice, digging her fingers into the magical fortress. Eldavin saw the Duelist Golem whirl its swords as it landed on the platform. The Shadowflesh Golem was stalking with [Greater Invisibility], to strike him when he fled!

He did not flee. The Dragon saw the Duelist Golem brandishing its swords, armored like a Named Adventurer. He snapped twice. They thought that was a sword? They thought that was skill, the art of the blade?

The Golem saw him reach out. The Dragon drew something from the air. A glowing weapon that made the two blades it held pale by comparison. Made of pure magic. He bellowed.

“[剑圣 – 心火之刃]!”

Cognita didn’t—she stared up.

“Drathian mag—”

Eldavin cut the Duelist Golem’s arm off. It reeled and he ran the blade through its chest.

“A petty little [Thief]! Those boots were worn by his people’s heroes! They do not belong here!”

He reached down, to sunder the Golem’s legs as it flailed. Cognita reached the dais of ice. She moved faster than lightning—Eldavin hit the ground as his fortress shattered. His ribs—

Up. The Truestone Golem wavered as Eldavin rose to his feet, levitating upwards until he landed. He clutched at his ribs as the damaged Golems rallied.

“He abandoned you.”

“He will return.”

“No.”

The Dragon’s eyes were still too knowing. He looked straight through her. Reached out. He was erasing the spells in her! Cognita charged, but he blinked out of existence, floated above the next strike. He wasn’t trying to kill them! He was—

“Parents should love their offspring. Zelkyr only loved you until he beheld your flaws, chasing perfection without even stopping to see your soul.”

“We were incomplete! Imperfect, we broke!”

“You lived! Did you think he was never surpassed?”

Eldavin dove, burning, as the Radiance Golem struck at him. He threw it off him, sucked the Duelist Golem into a vortex and spat it into the Armor Golem’s chest. He breathed fire onto the Shadowflesh Golem, blood running down his arm. He raised an arm—

Cognita struck it, and felt the bones break. Even then—he pointed, and the lines of her soul began to vanish. Terrified, she attacked.

The half-Elf refused to flee. He was panting now, as he shielded himself with countless barrier spells, working, desperately as Cognita tore them to shreds.

“If he had succeeded, do you know what he would have made? He would have reached a new peak—created a people, a new species! Enslaved, until they cried out for freedom! Stitch Folk were children like you!”

He fell back, the spells shattering. Cognita felt something vanishing. She cried out, as her arm turned to Truegold. Her legs the shining speed-stone, her body shifting.

“Why are you doing all of this?”

“BECAUSE I WANT YOU TO LIVE. I have seen your death! I want you to live!”

He screamed at her. If only he had said it from the start. He saw her, unsure of the future, chained down by herself and magic. He had seen it before.

The last lines were flickering. They’d rewrite themselves if he didn’t remove it all! Eldavin lifted his hand.

“Cognita. Enough.”

He saw her arm raise. She charged, across the room. Like thunder given form. Eldavin wavered.

He closed his eyes, and cut her link.

She struck him with all of her might and was freed. Cognita felt it, as the Grand Magus vanished. She didn’t see if he lived. She didn’t look at anything.

The Truestone Golem fell to her knees, as her love vanished. She felt it go, as she had known it would. The only pain she had ever felt in this life filled her, and the Golems of Wistram fell to their knees.

“Zelkyr! ZELKYR. Why did you leave me behind? Why did you take her? Why—why didn’t you love me?”

The truth broke her to pieces. She collapsed, immobile.

Eldavin…she never saw the terrified young man open the broken doors and stare in horror at what lay there.

—-

Trey Atwood had seen terrible battle. But this—this was more than even the King of Destruction’s charge. The annihilation of Reim’s thunderous spells had been one thing, but the aftermath of the battle was a greater shock because one man had laid low the Golems of Wistram, and Cognita herself.

“Eldavin? Grand Magus?”

He knew it had to be him. Minizi was frozen in place, like all the other Golems, staring at the wailing voice coming from Cognita. She was shining, made up of multiple types of stone, not the smooth marble.

He was going to die. Yet Trey Atwood couldn’t flee. He saw…a shape lying in the broken door. It had struck the door so hard that it had smashed the binding enchantments to bits.

Or maybe they had failed because he was…Trey Atwood scuttled forwards and reached down. He saw blood—but not the paste he had expected.

“Grand Magus? Grand Magus—”

He seized the limp form and dragged him up. Trey ran, dragging the Grand Mage, shouting at Minizi to help him. She lifted a single foot as they fled.

None of the Golems followed them. They just stood there, well into morning, statues. Trying to…

They got down from the floor of death. Trey was staring at Eldavin. The half-Elf was covered in blood. His right arm was snapped—was he dead? Trey didn’t even know if he was…breathing…

Was he in a coma? Was he dead? Was Trey carrying a corpse? He had no idea what to do.

Was CPR an option? Did he try it? No, potions, idiot! Trey laid Eldavin down, fumbling for his belt pouch. He tried to find the half-Elf’s pulse.

“Minizi—Minizi—stop that!”

She was inspecting the crimson running from his body. However, Trey saw her press up the wadded cloth of his robes, trying to stop the blood.

If he was bleeding, he was alive, surely? But so many wounds…Trey applied the potion. Did he just splash it all over Eldavin? If a wound was infected or the magic was too strong to be healed—

He had to get a [Healer], raise the alarm with all the Archmages, and tell Gazi and Calac they were running like hell because all of Wistram’s Golems were going to kill them. Every second, Trey expected Cognita to come running down the corridor and end him and Eldavin in a single punch.

Trey was just feeling for Eldavin’s pulse again, seeing at least some of the wounds healing, when he heard a sound.

“Urgh.”

It escaped Eldavin’s lips, more of a moan than anything else. Trey’s heart skipped a beat.

“Grand Magus? Grand Magus, are you alive?”

It was something of a silly question, he knew, but he wasn’t sure. Eldavin looked as dead as he had ever seen a person. However—the question made the half-Elf’s eyes flutter open. The mismatched gaze found Trey’s. Eldavin stared blearily at him, and then spoke slowly.

“Young…man…Trey Atwood, isn’t it?”

“Y-yes?”

No time to mention real names. Eldavin stared weakly at him.

“Did you just ask me if I was alive? And—to further my point—did you just pour a healing potion on a broken bone not properly set?”

“I—I—yes?”

Trey squeaked. Eldavin stared at him. His head fell back.

“Typical.”

—-

It seemed that even in his minute of death, Eldavin would still manage to insult you. Well, the fact that he’d spoken at all meant he was alive. Trey dragged him up and had gotten him two more floors down when the half-Elf came to again.

“My arm.”

“We’ll get it reset properly, Grand Magus. Minizi, get Sa’la! We have to run! The Golems—”

“They’re not coming after us, young man. If they do, it’s war. Cognita…I don’t think…argh.”

They reached Eldavin’s rooms. To Trey’s shock, Wistram was not exploding at this very moment. Eldavin lifted a shaking finger and Trey dragged him in.

“A healer, then—”

“No. No, I’ll set it myself. A proper healing spell will do me correctly.”

Eldavin stared at his arm. He was tapped, completely drained of magic of course, so he let it be for the moment. Trey hovered at the door.

“But Grand Magus—shouldn’t we tell—?”

“No, we should not! Stay there! You and that little Lifesand Golem! I don’t appreciate having my blood stolen either! Stand there.”

The [Sand Mage] and Golem stood to attention as Eldavin lay on one of his couches. He groaned. He had barely—barely survived that last punch. He’d thrown everything into a desperate shield after…

He felt like he was going to throw up. His head was jumbled…Eldavin lay there. Trey heard him muttering.

“That bastard Zelkyr. The boots. The boots. I’m going to…ungrateful girl. Golems. As intelligent as animated rocks, which is what they are! Stubborn and…easier negotiating with Revenants. She nearly killed me. After I tried—expended so much effort and goodwill—she’ll pay for that.”

He growled, propping himself up slightly. He looked angry. Trey could understand that. He opened his mouth, but Eldavin wasn’t done. The half-Elf pointed, remembering Trey.

“This—this was an accident. You, young man, will say nothing.”

“But the Golems—”

“If they want to start a war with Wistram’s [Mages] by slaughtering a Grand Magus, they will! However, until that eventful day, you will be silent. You are in my faction, are you not?”

“Yes, Grand Magus, but—”

“I have had it up to here with ‘buts’! No objections! No ‘ifs’, ‘ors’, or ‘maybes’! I am the Grand Magus here, not you. And I…do you have another potion?”

Eldavin collapsed again with a groan. Trey produced one. To his surprise, Eldavin smiled, apparently forgetting his pique now.

“Ah, thank you. Pain—it has been a long time since I fought like that. I apologize, young Atwood. Which is your name.”

Sharp as ever. Trey bit his lip, and Eldavin lifted a finger.

“No need to lie. I consider it a little secret between us. I don’t doubt your little Golem was responsible for saving my life, too. She must have sensed the battle, didn’t she?”

“Yes, Grand Magus, I think so.”

Eldavin nodded weakly, chugging the potion with his good hand and trying to adjust his broken arm, then giving up. He lay there, panting, but he never ran out of words.

“Lifesand Golems are like that. You know, it’s somewhat close to Sentient-class already? A complete skip of normal Golem creation. Mainly because it’s closer to a monster or slime than a Golem. You don’t animate it with magical instructions; just give sand life.”

“I—I didn’t know that, Grand Magus.”

The half-Elf blinked a few times. Trey’s eyes widened as he looked at Minizi. She could think? Of course he’d known that, but that meant she was actually like a…

“Of course you don’t. Just watch out. I have no doubt this…Minizi is quite cute at the moment. However, lose control of her or let her gain more power than you and she might end up draining you of blood or keeping you as a renewable energy source.”

Trey blanched. Eldavin snorted.

“Don’t look at me like that! It’s happened before! You need lessons. You have talent, young man. Great talent…a keen insight into fighting; you’ve seen some. A rare Skill—but it’s all unhoned. All of it is. Your lazy comrades from Earth don’t even have the bark on their trees to study magic, or any other profession!”

Trey half-smiled at the expression. Eldavin smiled too, and he appeared to be rallying, at least enough to sit up a bit more.

“Time I took you under my wing.”

“Really, Grand Magus?”

“It is the least I can do for the brave young man who saved my life. Ah! Ah! Be silent. Superfluous gratitude is also annoying to me.”

Eldavin lifted a finger. Trey closed his mouth obediently. The Grand Magus chuckled.

“Saved my life. It’s always the things you don’t expect that…stroke of luck. That ungrateful damn Golem. I should turn her and all those ‘guardians’ of Zelkyr’s into gravel. No helping it. They’ll be on guard and I’ve taxed myself far too much. Neither you nor I should get within four floors of the testing room.”

Another nod. Eldavin went on, panting.

“You’ll be my apprentice. One of them. I dare say Archmage Valeterisa is a kind of student, after I taught her that teleportation circle. There’s talent too. But the Terras faction needs to poach more [Mages]. More Earthers.”

“Grand Magus?”

“Shush. I’m thinking out loud. There have to be better Earthers than not. That Elena seemed quite stable…but the truly extraordinary Earthers I know of—one is dead. Poor girl. I’ll have to revive her, if I can. It occurs to me that Ryoka Griffin should come here, though. I’ve let her roam about, but…”

Trey’s eyes widened. Did Eldavin just say—Ryoka Griffin? He listened, silently, as the half-Elf muttered.

“Stronger [Mages]. A stronger, better faction. Teleportation is just one of the things Wistram’s lost. Why, no one even remembers [Restoration]! Aside from the Healer of Tenbault, and I taught her that! We need to get that spell into the proper hands—of the Terras faction. You know that spell, young Atwood?”

Trey did. Flos had spoken of it, with Orthenon.

“I do—but even the Archmages don’t know that spell, Grand Magus!”

“Bah. That just shows you how low we’ve fallen. I don’t think you can master it, but I’ll make a note to tell Valeterisa. Now…allies. I have to find out what happened to that other Archmage who was missing. What’s her name.”

“Amerys?”

“Aha. Good, yes. Bright young man. Can you fetch me…I have some stamina potions there…mana potions too. My mana’s completely depleted. Good lad.”

Eldavin directed Trey about. The half-Elf breathed slowly as he gulped a few potions. His eyes cleared more.

“Yes. Report to my quarters tomorrow morning.”

“It is morning, sir.”

“Ah, then go get some sleep and report back in…four hours.”

Trey hesitated as he scooped up Minizi and headed to the door. He looked back.

“Are you alright, Grand Magus? Are you sure you don’t want me to get…?”

Eldavin waved him off, a bit irritably, but appreciating the concern. The door shut, and the half-Elf lay there.

Madness. He had nearly died! He was lucky beyond belief that Trey had found him and stabilized him.

What had gotten into him? That Cognita…Eldavin didn’t even know what he’d been doing up there. Trying to free her? Madness twice.

He got up after a moment, hobbling around, feeling at his arm. He’d nearly ruined everything with his death. The Terras faction, the opportunity he’d seized upon to come here as magic waned…

“I can’t die yet. I’ve not even become an Archmage! A proper Archmage, that is.”

The half-Elf growled to himself. He looked into the mirror, shaking his head. He had to shake things up. The Terras faction was good; he already had an Archmage on his side. He wanted more, trustworthy allies, to which he would share the proper spells, of course. Ryoka Griffin too; he didn’t forget his debts, his connection with Magnolia Reinhart…

Eldavin put a hand to his head. He felt like he was forgetting…something…but it eluded him. The half-Elf stared at himself in the mirror. But for the broken arm, he was as ideal as he’d ever been. Eldavin, half-Elf from Terandria, who had made his abode in the High Passes.

He smiled, shaking his head. He was sure it was just something he’d forgotten. The half-Elf went to sit back down, already trying to figure out how to explain this incident, use it to his advantage. If it was important—whatever he’d forgotten, well—

He was sure he’d remember later. Right now?

Eldavin was going to bring Wistram Academy back.

8.16

(Podium Publishing is offering a TWI-embossed frying pan giveaway for people pre-ordering Book 3 on Audible! Sign up for the competition here!)

Among other things happening that week, Grand Magus Eldavin formally led the censure of the Revivalist party in Wistram, in the process co-opting the loyalties of nearly two-dozen powerful [Mages] in Wistram Academy with the lure of forgotten magical spells and theories.

Palt and Imani had sex, which was no one’s concern except all of the Gnolls who couldn’t avoid smelling it.

Kevin was nearly assassinated by an angry agent of one of his clients, saved only by Master Hedault.

Erin was still dead.

…And the King of Destruction laid waste to another Nerrhavian army with Takhatres, the Lord of the Skies’ forces providing the overwhelming edge in the engagement.

Of all these events, major and trivial, only the last of which was even ‘news’. A footnote at that; until something major happened, in the arbitrary and sometimes contradictory view of the ‘world’, or rather, the media organizations, none of this was news. A battle far bloodier than the war between Jecrass and Reim would not even get five seconds on Wistram News Network.

Indeed, Fetohep of Khelt’s far less bloody march into Medain, demanding the King of Duel’s freedom, garnered far more attention worldwide. The army of the undead was both fascinating and disturbing to many sensibilities, despite Fetohep taking Medain’s surrendering army prisoner, ensuring far fewer were slaughtered, and actually releasing said prisoners rather than ransoming them to a [Slaver] of Roshal.

News was not always a reflection of real life. Despite seeing her friend, the young man, lying sick, as Hedault stood watch with his wand raised over the smoking corpse of the [Assassin], calling for a [Healer], Drassi did not report that on the news because it was, in Sir Relz’s words, ‘not important or germane to worldly affairs’.

Of course, that just meant the Drake wrote about it in the Liscorian Gazette, reflecting that they really needed a local channel for the news.

—-

If a single young man’s life or death was news that might spread around a city at best, what hope did someone have of being important enough to merit the attention of a nation?

For that matter, each nation had countless concerns at any moment that the news would never touch. Food shortages, crime, local monsters, rebellious individuals, treachery, discoveries…

In each nation, someone had to handle the crises and opportunities. For better or worse, in many nations, it was only a small body of people, or one person, albeit aided by advisors. They cared about their subjects, if they were good rulers.

Of course, ‘good rulers’ might only care because a murder was destabilizing, or indicated a monster or crime, not for the people themselves. Harsh, logical yet reasonable [Tyrants] sometimes made better rulers than [Good Kings].

…Or so people liked to argue. In truth, and in one ruler’s experience, the life of a single person still mattered. It was just that some lives had a larger effect. Some did not.

For instance, one lost life had had a great effect on her kingdom. Because the lost life was connected to a powerful individual highly placed within her kingdom.

Like pebbles adding up to deflect a river’s course. She reflected on this as she held court. Her advisors attended to her, in a regal antechamber, not the throne room. In fact, she seldom held court in the throne room. Right now, she lounged, relaxing, heedless of the dozen or so top officials of her realm.

“Is the Knight-Marshal of Rains still not willing to prevail upon our royal majesty in…here?”

She demanded of her people. One of her top [Generals] bowed.

“He has refused your summons, your Majesty.”

“Ah. Did he say that? What was his wording?”

“A polite refusal, Your Majesty. It may have come from the Knight-Marshal; the reply came from his estates through all official channels—”

The [Queen]’s eyes opened and she replied with a snap in her voice.

“Then Earl Altestiel did not make the reply. He is sulking. Someone tell him to present himself, here, now, within…three hours. Or I will strip him of his titles.”

The advisors looked at each other. That was not an idle threat. The Queen of Desonis had, in wrath, done just that. The [General] nodded and a [Messenger] ran to deliver the summons.

“Your Majesty, is it wise to make it an ultimatum? Depending on the Earl’s mood, he might…”

The [Court Mage] shut herself up as the [Queen] glowered her way. Geilouna of Desonis did not have the fiery red hair of many of Terandria’s monarchs. Rather, hers mimicked the common folk’s penchant; mud brown laced with green, much like the very marshes of Desonis in which the coastal kingdom had been founded.

Desonis by the sea. Desonis of Marshes. She had a few strands of glorious red mixed into the distinctive pattern, but one would hardly notice because of the messy hair. Bed hair was an apt term, but it did not even begin to describe the tangle. She rolled over from her lounging position, hardly the regal posture of many monarchs.

Then again, since she was the [Queen], it was regal by default. That was also her attitude towards many things.

“We are the Queen of Desonis. Desonis is me. Desonis are us.”

Geilouna rolled over again.

“If we summon the Earl, he must obey! For it is not I, but Desonis that summons him! When he offends us, he offends Desonis. I am Desonis’ wrath, its justice, its law.”

She lifted a hand and the advisors tensed. Queen  Geilouna held the hand up…then let her head fall back onto a pillow.

“Observe. Desonis rests. How long have we been at the affairs of the day, my council?”

“…Twenty minutes, your Majesty.”

The [Queen] didn’t bestir her head. Nor had she actually bothered to dress herself as resplendently as other rulers might for her day.

“Too long! Bring me my gelato! Bring me more fluffy animals from the menagerie!”

She clapped her hands. It was done. Servants entered the room.  Geilouna delicately tasted some of the ‘ice cream’, which Altestiel had brought back in recipe-form, thus saving her nation quite a bit of money.

In fairness, she hadn’t even eaten it regularly until it had become as cheap as the cost of creating it. As for the fluffy animals? A Slyphcat twined about her on the bed. The water-faring cat species nuzzled the [Queen], who affectionately pet it—then the cute little sheep, a miniature fluff ball purchased from a [Merchant] who sold such adorable animals.

Her advisors waited.  Geilouna went on, waving a spoon.

“Altestiel is an emotional brat. We are responsible for the fates of thousands of lives. You desire his council on the Ailendamus conflict, do you not, General Irsh?”

The General nodded. Of course, he was one of Desonis’ best [Generals]…but Altestiel was the [Knight-Marshal of the Rains]. Essentially the best leader in times of war. Certainly the most high-level.

“Yes, your Majesty. Your war council has made preparations in the unlikely event Ailendamus attempts to draw us into the war, or the Dawn Concordat likewise. However, the Knight-Marshal’s extraordinary instincts would be…”

“Reassuring. Well, he will come and do just that. Poofball, do not eat that ice cream. This is for the [Queen], not you.”

The Sariant Lamb, renowned as one of the cutest animals in the world, baahed, and the [General] bowed as Queen Geilouna nodded. She paused, then spoke around the silver spoon in her mouth.

“…However, that is only if the situation changes. We have seen how the war progresses. Ailendamus continues its march into Kaliv. Now, it sends armies around the mountains, through other nations. None of which are Desonis, although some share borders.”

That was the situation. The Dawn Concordat was fighting fairly well, but Ailendamus was a war machine and it was beginning to roll. Her advisors were grateful Geilouna listened. In fact—she was nodding impatiently at them.

“Therefore, since we are not a fool, Desonis has made its decision!”

She lifted a hand and once again, their hearts palpitated. Geilouna waited—then shrugged.

“…Let’s just stay out of it. Crops are more important. Removing monsters from the marshes? More important. If we live to a hundred years and never fight another war, we will be remembered as a ‘good [Queen]’. Court dismissed. We will reconvene when Altestiel arrives.”

She rolled over again and pulled the sheets over both cat and sheep, who joined her. Geilouna lay as her advisors shuffled out of the room.

Of course, she knew Ailendamus’ designs on empire. She saw the danger—and she also saw how Desonis was not going to be the first nation to jump up and get hammered flat by Ailendamus. If she kept her kingdom safe, prosperous, and well for another forty years or something—and had proper heirs, not bad marriages and divorces—she would be known as a successful [Queen], by Terandrian reckonings. If not by her fellow rulers, certainly her people.

Her royal court left, and the Queen lay there. Incidentally, as she had given her grand pronouncements, her royal orders, she had not done so from couch, palanquin, or throne. Rather, she remained, as she had since they had woke her in her bed.

Her regal bed sheets moved as Poofball squirmed across them. Queen Geilouna was surrounded by pillows, blankets, and her bed was not King-sized, or Queen-sized, but about three times larger than any regular bed.

This, then, was Geilouna Desoyvel. Monarch of the moderately prosperous, marshy, coastal kingdom of Desonis, known for its unique landscape, most of which was watery. Known for the Earl of the Rains as much as its [Queen], its [Marsh Knights], known derisively as ‘Swamp Knights’ by those who liked to mock them.

…Which was anyone who had never been ambushed by the aquatic [Knights] and dragged into the swamp to be happily beaten to death while drowning. Another reason why Desonis was famously hard to invade.

Its [Queen] lay there, her fame not quite overshadowed by the [Knight Marshal of the Rains] as the old tale of King Redoris and Archmage Chandler—which she had watched, of course, with a bowl of the ‘popped corn’, a very apt name—yesterday. She too had a fame that was more than her crown.

Geilouna. The Queen of the Marshes, the Bearer of the Crown of Waters, and, a nickname for this individual rather than the position—

The Bedtime Queen.

If you knew nothing else of Desonis, you knew of the [Knight-Marshal of the Rains]…and the Bedtime Queen. Nothing about her personality, ruling abilities, or anything else. Just the name and the reputation of the sleepy ruler of the marsh kingdom.

The name had come to her unfairly as a child, because she’d contracted a disease that had made her sleep for days, weeks on end with only an hour or two of waking. For four years. She had gone from twelve to sixteen in this state of slumber, the [Healers] unable to help.

The Slumbering Princess. The Sleepy Queen. The Bedtime Queen. The Sovereign of Softness. The Ruler of Pillows and Sheets.

She rather liked the titles, incidentally. That was Geilouna. Was she a good [Queen], though? Well…

—-

The Earl Altestiel was one of the most eligible bachelors in Desonis. A contrast to his [Queen], who had been divorced twice and was not one of the most eligible bachelorettes among Terandrian monarchs for a number of reasons.

He was in his early forties, but looked far younger, having light purple-and-silver hair, hawkish nose, piercing bright yellow eyes, and he dressed in magical cloth armor, such that his nature and charm meant he swept Desonis’ courts whenever he arrived.

…Usually. This time, Geilouna woke from her slumber to hear the patter of rain overhead. That was not unusual; Desonis had rain more than sun. However, it soon became a roar. And since her [Weather Mages] had not predicted this…

“Altestiel.”

She sighed and went back to sleep until he stormed in. Incidentally, a fact few knew about Geilouna was that she had suffered from the sleeping sickness as a girl, but she did not still have it. She could drop off to sleep in two seconds whenever she wished, but that was a Skill.

[Sleep Storage] and [Quick Slumber] had evolved with her, such that in an hour of need…or weeks…Geilouna could tend to the affairs of her nation without need of sleep, for a month straight if need be. She had done that once.

In practice though, she was just lazy and liked lying in bed.

Anyways, here came the Earl. The court saw him drip into the royal palace, hair sopping wet, disheveled, a small raincloud still pouring over his head despite the best efforts of his [Strategist], Kiish, and the small retinue to stop it.

“What a child.”

Queen Geilouna remarked as the Earl was brought to her bedchambers and sometimes ruling seat of office. The Earl glared at her.

“Your Majesty wanted to see me? You’ve already helped kill the one woman I could have married. The greatest chess player in the world! You—you jealous hag! Won’t you leave me alone? Take out your bad marriages on someone else!”

The dozing [Queen], who had not deigned to sit up as the Earl was escorted in, opened one eye. Her cat and sheep clambered off the bed. The air was humid, thundery and rainy, filled with Altestiel’s powerful aura. Now? The advisors, who had returned, servants, and Altestiel’s retinue all flinched.

“You little brat. First you run off when Ailendamus is at war, you ignore our royal command for weeks, and now you have the gall to lecture us on love? So sayeth the boy who enjoys sulking about love lost more than cherishing it!”

A finger pointed. Nothing happened. Geilouna waved it—then reached for her crown, hung on a banister on the bed. She slapped it on her head; pointed.

A gout of water blasted at Altestiel. He didn’t even bother dodging; he let it lay him out. The soaked Earl glowered at his Queen as his people picked him up from the floor.

“Child? At least I can get out of bed in the morning! I don’t care about Ailendamus. You want to stay out of war? Fine. I’m going back to my estates.”

He turned to march out of the room. Geilouna sat up, propping pillows for a backrest.

“No, you will not. I have more need of you here, and you have sulked for over a month, now. My [Admiral] complained of storms the entire way back. You will stop mourning this [Innkeeper]. Her death was regrettable. But we do not allow you to return and starve yourself silly.”

Altestiel glared at her, and the court held their breaths. It was known that the two were, in fact, good friends and drinking buddies at times. However, their fights were also legendary.

“Go ahead and strip my lands. Exile me. I don’t care!”

The Earl dared the [Queen]. Every head flicked back to Geilouna as her eyes narrowed. Would she dare? Then the Bedtime Queen proved why she had managed to keep Altestiel’s loyalty and rule the famously temperamental Earl of Rains.

As the cloud of despondency over his head grew, soaking his retinue and the court, Geilouna pointed at him warningly.

“Altestiel. Stop sulking. If you rain on my sheets, I will marry you to Kiish and have done with it.”

The cloud stopped growing. Altestiel’s head rose, and his dripping hair was pushed back to fix his [Queen] with a scowl. But an uncertain one.

“You woul—”

“By right of the Crown of Waters, as [Queen] of this land, I now pronounce Earl Altestiel and Miss Kiish of Desonis as husband and…”

Geilouna uttered the phrase so fast that Altestiel was halfway across the room before he stopped, quivering. Kiish looked ready to faint—or cheer. The longtime aide and deep admirer of the Earl of Rains saw him slowly, slowly, bow, a huge glare on his face.

“By your gracious Slumbering Majesty’s will, I will stop sulking.”

However, the rain had stopped. Geilouna waved an indulgent hand.

“This pleases us, Altestiel. You are hereby granted clemency and poor Kiish the solitude of…not-marriage unless you sulk. In which case I will marry you two. Now, consult my [Generals]. Court, I have made many great strides in Desonis’ welfare today. I shall watch television and have brunch now. Dismissed!”

The court stirred. Altestiel glared at Geilouna.

“Am I to make myself helpful, then?”

Geilouna poked her head out from under the pillow fort she was making for herself and her animals.

“What? No. Go, do strategic things, Altestiel. I did not make you stop sulking for that. Rather, you have a guest. A quite charming one, which I would not see wait about fruitlessly. Go unto him. And…put in a good word for me.”

She gave Altestiel a meaningful stare as the Earl of Rains blinked in surprise.

“I would grant you an estate if you managed a date. Hint, hint.”

—-

The reason Desonis’ court—which was, actually, one of the eighteen most populous, if not the most impressive due to the marshy and often rainy weather and climate leading to a very strong desire for indoor socialization by the nobility who often attended the capital—had not descended on Altestiel, rain or not, was because someone else had eclipsed even the fame of the Earl of Rains.

Which was hard to do! However, the amazing, the unparalleled, the extraordinary [Lord] who stood at a center of attention had no equals.

Not in war. Not in fashion sense. Certainly not on the dance floor.

Lord Belchaus Meron, named the #1 currently-living [Lord] in the world, was no stranger to Desonis. Nadel to the east was his Kingdom, even smaller, but made famous because of his famous presence, which kept the entire region free of piracy. Another example of where subject eclipsed ruler.

Then again, it wasn’t the same as the story of Az’kerash either because the ruling family were huge fans of Lord Belchaus, or ‘Bel’ to his friends.

The Lord of the Dance was not dancing right now as his reputation might indicate. However, he was certainly conversing, flirting, talking animatedly with the huge crowd around him. He never seemed to stop moving, having that restless energy of some people. Indeed, he was so graceful that he seemed to flow from gesture to step.

To look at Lord Bel was to see different things. For some, it was to see an object of desire, in many different forms. For others, he was a target of envy or jealousy, although he was charming.

Some, however, saw other aspects the casual observer took for granted. Such as how Lord Belchaus had no wasted movements, like a [Duelist] or [Fencer]. Footwork on the dance floor equated to skill in battle, and Lord Belchaus was also famous for his strategic genius.

In short, perfect at everything. Which was what reputation did for you. Belchaus had his flaws.

Lots of flaws. Like showing up on ‘friends’ unannounced! The Earl made his way to the gathering, and Lord Bel spotted him.

“Altestiel! My friend!”

He spread his arms and clapped the Earl on the back after giving him a gentle hug, conscious of the wet clothing. His escort was, like Altestiel’s, small, having travelled here for the visit.

Unlike Altestiel’s mix of [Strategists] and [Marsh Knights] however, Lord Bel’s group were all [Dancers] or [Warriors]…or both. Lightly armored, if at all, as graceful as him.

“Bel. Why are you here?”

Lord Bel’s sparkling smile faded a bit. He glanced at Altestiel, then, conscious of the listeners, smiled.

“Can two friends not prevail on one another? I heard you were in a gloom and came to visit; although her Majesty seems to have snapped you out of it.”

“She managed to make enough petty threats to ‘snap me out of it’. Petty is what she’s good at, though. Come on, then. Unless she’s offered you a banquet, let’s go to my estates. Kiish.”

The gloomy [Earl] nodded to his [Strategist], who bowed, blushing slightly as Lord Bel kissed her hand. He turned to the disappointed crowd.

“I’m afraid that’s my cue. Where are my people? No, don’t object, please. I will of course return…”

For the disappointed court had begun protesting Altestiel, or perhaps his remarks, which caused Geilouna to throw a fit of pique when she heard them for about fifteen seconds. Earl Altestiel didn’t wait up for Lord Bel; the man had to catch up as the Earl stomped out of the court, into the rain, and the waiting carriage—wheels enchanted to run on mud or even shallow water.

They headed to his estates, and the rather fine mansion. It was built like much of Desonis architecture; raised buildings, sometimes on ‘stilts’, which let floods pass comfortably underneath. No one had root cellars in Desonis.

It took Altestiel a moment to remember why Lord Bel had really come. Then, of course, he just got more despondent still.

—-

It was easier to be told Lord Bel’s flaws than to see them at first glance. One of them was this: the Lord of the Dance took nearly thirty minutes to join Altestiel in the carriage. He had to say goodbye to everyone he knew by name, gently flirt with two [Ladies], accept a [Lord]’s invitation, share two jests…

When he reached the carriage and entered, he seemed…tired. Altestiel had rudely departed Desonis’ palace, but it had not all been pique. Mostly, but he knew Lord Bel.

The Lord of the Dance looked tired, as he sometimes did if he was at a court too long. His energetic personality, his social mingling was not an act. However, one of his faults was that he could not turn it off.

It was entirely possible to lay the Lord of the Dance low by making him stay for eight hours in a court setting, where he could dance for eight hours straight on the battlefield or on the ballroom floor with no problem. He nodded to his friend in appreciation of this fact.

“I confess, I might have stayed the entire day at court if you hadn’t shown up. Your [Queen] is rather gracious, Altestiel. I forgot how they mob me. Oh, thank you, Kiish.”

She offered him a restorative draught mixed with a savory drink, a specialty of Desonis. Bel took a gulp and brightened.

“Desonis’ court is just bored. So, how can I help you?”

“You surely know. However, let’s keep that for your estates. Some things should be done over dinner, Altestiel! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten all your graces in Izril. I admit, Drakes are sometimes that rude, but the Flowers of the North were just as hospitable as any Terandrian nobility when I visited.”

Lord Bel tapped an ear and Altestiel stirred. He gave the other [Lord] a frown; Bel just smiled politely.

“And Kiish, you are as lovely as ever. I heard—and rumor does swim in Desonis—that Her Majesty of Desonis nearly married you off. Would that be so terrible? And would you consider anyone else other than Altestiel, because I know several of Nadel’s young men would court you if they had a chance…”

Gratified and flattered, Kiish tried to keep up with Bel’s light teasing. More interested now, Altestiel sat up, breaking out of his funk a second time.

Just what did Bel think they needed that much privacy for? Perhaps…but he didn’t know what Altestiel had found. So he had something of his own.

Altestiel’s estates were, of course, warded, staffed well, and he had the right to house and train his own [Marsh Knights], the Knights of Desonis, by right of the crown. In fact, his vigilant bodyguards who had fought in Invrisil against the [Assassins] only now fully removed their armor, or walked about…uncovered…as it were.

Indeed, Altestiel had a larger population of Drowned Folk than most. Desonis, of course, had a population of Humans, Drowned Folk, Lizardfolk, and half-Elves in that order, Drowned Folk being in remarkable number for a minority, much less on land.

“Earl Altestiel! You’re back! Have you lost all your estates? Is that the Lord of the Dance?”

Some chattering children raced up, ignoring the rain, seeing his carriage return. Lizardfolk mingled with an amused [Marsh Knight], whose half-Shrimp body wore custom-adjusted armor. Lord Bel signed the waved autographs, although rain smudged them, and one of his people did a little jig of fancy footwork for the delighted children and people.

“Lord Altestiel, will you stop this rain?”

The aggrieved voice came from a Naga, who had come out of her hut. Altestiel sighed, but the rain began to disperse.

“Hello, everyone. Lord Bel is prevailing upon me, so he cannot stay—”

The chorus of sadness made The Lord of the Dance, predictably, turn.

“However, my people will show you the latest dances from Nadel! And I will try to make an appearance t—”

Altestiel dragged him off before he could promise anything.

“Lord Altestiel, is that really the Lord of the Dance?”

Some wide-eyed servants, [Squires], and more of his people greeted Altestiel at his mansion. He nodded.

“Make his people welcome. I counted sixteen with Lord Belchaus. They’re staying here.”

“Not at the palace, Earl? I’d have thought…Lord Belchaus being of Nadel and a welcome guest…”

That came from a young [Lordling], barely fifteen, who was being trained and tutored in Altestiel’s care. He’d been too young to go to Izril, but Altestiel, who wanted nothing more than to sit and talk in private, grudgingly turned.

“It would tire him too much. Her Majesty will understand. Probably. And if she doesn’t, she can take away my estates. You may speak to Lord Bel if he meets you, but none of you are to take up his time! He won’t mind, but you should.”

The assembled group nodded, catching Altestiel’s will. One Lizardfolk [Maid] couldn’t help but wave a claw.

“I—I have to know! Is it true though that Lord Belchaus is the best [Dancer] in the world? Someone said he was, not just the best dancing [Lord]! Did he once participate in a dance competition so exciting and difficult that he exploded his opponent’s legs?”

The others looked skeptical. Altestiel sighed.

“That’s myths for you. He didn’t explode his opponent’s legs. That’s silly.”

“Oh, of c—”

“They just fell off. That’s all.”

Stitchfolk. However, Altestiel was amused enough by the furor until he and Lord Bel retreated to his study.

—-

Unlike a certain dead [Innkeeper]’s fantasies, Lord Altestiel’s private rooms were not some huge, carpeted vista with a roaring fire and couches and such with huge glass windows overlooking Desonis.

It was close. There were big glass windows since nothing beat watching the rain pour down over the landscape. However, Altestiel followed Desonis styles. Which was to say, a style of peoples used to the pervasive humidity, and two species who outright welcomed it.

“Come on in, Lord Bel.”

“Ah, how I forget the luxuries of Desonis.”

Lord Bel paused, his towel fluttering about him—then he tossed it aside and joined Altestiel in the pool of water. Heated wonderfully by magic.

Perhaps only Desonis’ people considered that you should have an indoor hot tub inside your homes instead of a couch for socialization. Also, that clothing was an outdoors conceit.

Thus, Earl Altestiel offered Lord Belchaus a drink and snacks, both of which were on cork, floating trays, bobbing in the steaming hot tub as they sat, comfortably naked in the scented waters with expensive perfumes and alchemical oils, watching the rain stop falling from the windows.

If they got bored of this, they could retreat to drier settings, including the heated floor upon which one relaxed with nary more than a cushion or blanket; a favorite among Lizardfolk, hated by Drowned People.

However, they were unlikely to. Lord Belchaus’ eyes closed as he relaxed in the enchanted waters, which one could sit in for six hours without developing a single wrinkle, and Altestiel leaned back, luxuriating in the heat.

“So.”

“So.”

The two traded glance with each other. Altestiel sipped from a strong drink; Lord Bel had something far less stiff. The Lord of the Dance eyed the Earl of Rains.

They were friends. Not the closest, but certainly they respected each other as daring strategists and [Lords] of nearby nations might. Also, because both played chess.

At times though, they might be enemies. Nadel fought with Desonis, so their relationship was based upon such facts.

However, chess had made a distant respect closer to actual friendship. Altestiel knew why Bel had come.

“I found them.”

“I was going to ask! But when you returned and I heard you were shut up with rain falling, I assumed—well, I assumed it was a ‘she’, and she dumped you.”

Altestiel scowled, and a miniature thundercloud threatened to strike Lord Bel, who held up hands and a ready smile. Almost nervous, actually. Lord Bel’s friends understood that he did not like letting his friends down, or upsetting them.

“You’re almost right. It was a she. And she was as good as we thought. Better. I even proposed—”

“Stop!”

Bel lifted a pleading hand. He reached out, snagging one of the breaded shrimp—no relation to the Drowned Knight, who positively enjoyed the things herself—and took a bite along with some dip.

“You must tell me from the beginning, Altestiel. It’s old news to you, however it ended, but I am agog to hear about it. Do me the favor? Please?”

His look was so pleading, like a puppy paddling around the hot tub, that Altestiel hadn’t the heart to refuse. Bad-naturedly, he took a handful of the shrimp and ate as he talked.

“Oh—very well. Our guess was right on. The player that this ‘Tactician Olesm’ was writing in his chess magazines about, was in Liscor. I met him too, by the way. A talented young Drake. It took me a long time to get all the way there, but there’s a magic door in Invrisil…”

Lord Bel leaned in, excitedly listening as the two men talked. Occasionally a servant would enter to see if they wanted anything, but aside from that, they were confidential, warded by the best spells Altestiel could acquire.

The two chess partners were among the best in the region, Lord Bel having won their unofficial tournament. Of course, they had learned the game from the Titan and avidly searched for new strategies.

So naturally they’d read Chess Weekly, back when it was ‘Chess Monthly’, and before even that, when copies of an amazing game had begun spreading about. Along with the theories of chess notation, elegant openings…

To the two gifted chess players, it had been the realization that they were talented amateurs, nothing more. It had been like the first Humans to discover fire, glancing over and seeing a lighthouse in the distance. The sharpness of the chess, the change in style!

They’d looked into it, and concluded that the ‘mysterious chess player’, who might be the same as the Titan’s mysterious opponent, could be the same person and in Liscor! After all, it wasn’t Lord Bel, who was the guess most people made.

To cut a long story short, after many back-and-forths, delightful evenings and time spent at this guessing game, the hunt turned into an obsession. They had to know if they were right! So Altestiel had gone, as Lord Belchaus could not leave his post so easily with war afoot.

“And she was there? The chess player? Wait—wait. Let me guess. It was the Watch Captain, wasn’t it?”

Altestiel smirked behind his drink. Lord Bel’s clear, light blue eyes, almost like glass, were shining with excitement. He had postulated that it was the Watch Captain of Liscor; how else would the city have survived so many monster attacks?

“Wrong. It was an [Innkeeper], in an inn just outside the city. She owns the magical door. She’s also only…twenty years old. However, everything we thought was correct. She showed Strategist Olesm all those games. And she’s the Titan’s chess partner. I’ll bet every gold piece I have.”

Bel’s eyes widened. He sat back, whistling.

“Twenty—? Is she a [Strategist] or something? No, it’s just talent, isn’t it?”

Altestiel swirled his glass.

“…Talent? Hard work, she said. Practice. She lived and breathed the game. For years.”

Years, she had said. Implying that she had spent longer than…but Bel was watching him, knowingly.

“I see. Two questions. First? How good is she?”

“I lost. I never even made it to her. ‘Someone’ was playing via a magical chessboard. Sound familiar? And—”

As Lord Bel nearly choked on his shrimp, Altestiel went on, savoring the bitter pain of watching the other [Lord]’s reactions.

“And Chaldion of Pallass decided to show up, just to play in a little tournament. Antinium too.”

“You’re telling me the Cyclops, the Titan, Antinium, and the Earl of Rains all played in the same tourney?”

“Yep. She and the Titan were the final players. I only got to play in other settings. Bel. Even with Skills, she beat me. I used all my Skills one game and she beat me with ability alone.”

The Lord of the Dance sat there, quivering with excitement.

“Well, I have to play her now. Are you in contact? If you have a magical chessboard and you’ve been hiding it—”

He couldn’t hide it any longer. Altestiel tossed his empty glass to one side, sank up to his chin in the water.

“She’s dead, Bel. I left her for a day and she died. If I’d stayed…”

The Lord of the Dance looked at Altestiel. He did not exclaim, or doubt. After a moment, he sank into the waters too.

“How?”

The enchanted tub had many functions. No wrinkling, no need to clean it; it was an enchanted tub. If you were going to have a magic hot tub, it had better be worth everything.

Another function was cycling liquid. The steaming waters turned to a viscous mud. Not muck, but hot, thick sludge that was actually quite pure and clean. Another thing Lizardfolk loved. It fit Altestiel’s mood.

“I left her.”

He told Bel the story simply. The Lord of the Dance sat, his head back, resting on a towel. Kiish had joined them, albeit with a towel, to recollect since Altestiel hadn’t the will to tell it all.

The frozen bier. The grieving city. Six worthless crossbow bolts, shot by petty Drakes. An accident…

“The world’s greatest chess player. Dead. All because of an inter-city feud. The Titan’s opponent, an [Innkeeper] who led the Black Tide to war…do you think his absence ties into this?”

The Earl half-shook his head. It was possible. Even likely. However—he would not find what he was hoping for. He thought of Erin.

“She could beat him in chess. I think she did, before my very eyes. She was smiling. Keep talking. You still can’t imagine her. Erin Solstice.”

Altestiel whispered. He was drinking more, and Kiish was giving him a look of concern. Yet no rain poured from over his head. He was past the grieving—at least, directly. Now…

“I’m surprised you didn’t raze Hectval.”

“I would have. But her Majesty threatened to imprison me if I didn’t return. That Drake, Olesm, swore to do so. I’m…”

Altestiel dabbed at his face with a towel. More than perspiration had glimmered there. Lord Bel didn’t even hide his tears.

“What a waste. You actually tried to marry her?”

“I should have pressed my suit. I should have stayed. One day. I could have married her and…”

Visions of Erin Solstice meeting Geilouna, of finding a way to take her inn here filled Altestiel’s mind. The Queen was right in that it was a childish fantasy, of course. A romance with no bones of reality to it.

Now though, he regretted it. The two [Lords] sank in the deep mud-bath, until the waters cleared. They rose, neither mud nor oil sticking to them, and sat, Bel reclining with a towel for modesty, Altestiel, similar, but cross-legged in the heated room.

“So. Erin Solstice.”

Lord Bel raised a cup and Altestiel echoed it.

“To this sodding world and worthless people who make it worse!”

They drank. Altestiel gasped as the liquid burned.

“They’re trying to save her, you know. There’s some—some assertion that freezing her didn’t kill her.”

“I don’t understand that. Everyone would know about it, if so. You said they were a strange lot of young men and women?”

“The one who made ‘bicycles’ was one of her people. All extraordinary.”

Altestiel recalled. Lord Belchaus glanced at him, and then shifted his position. Careful as any [Dancer], he relented from the subject that had wounded Altestiel so.

“Speaking of what everyone knows…I came for a second reason, Altestiel. I admit, curiosity and concern for you was the greater, but I thought you should know that Nadel received some interesting messages of late. [Messages] from Wistram.”

Altestiel opened one eye.

“What about? Desonis has had none.”

Geilouna would mention it if so. Lord Bel nodded.

“I don’t doubt it. This comes to me by way of His Majesty…I am sharing it because it is a concern as much as it is helpful. Between us.”

His serious tone made Altestiel sit straighter and nod. Kiish, who had left to clothe herself, rose.

“I will see myself out, my lords.”

“Thank you, Kiish.”

Bel smiled gratefully, and then turned to the Earl. He did not beat about the bush.

“In the last two weeks—two weeks for the first, yesterday for the second, his Majesty of Nadel received two [Messages]. First, from Archmage Viltach, second, from a Grand Magus Eldavin, of whom I think you know.”

Altestiel nodded slowly.

“What did they want?”

“Nothing. Rather, Archmage Viltach first hinted and then the Grand Magus that there was…something…Nadel should know. Or perhaps, ‘certain Kingdoms of auspicious influence’. It was suggested, rather strongly, that it was my presence that allowed Nadel to fit on this list. An insult to his Majesty, of course.”

Bel waved a hand away, as if not aware of how his presence alone had changed shipping routes, made Nadel a major sea-faring power.

“So, what was the thing Nadel should know?”

The fact that Desonis was not on this list did not surprise Altestiel. He was the Earl of Rains, but the Lord of the Dance was a greater presence, he had to admit. He did not like that, but there it was. An Archmage of Wistram would court the [Lord] who could stop trade or secure safe passage far more than the ‘Bedtime Queen’.

“That’s just it. We weren’t told what it was we should know. Both [Mages] only said that there was something. In fact, they intimated that just us knowing that there was something to know was a favor in itself.”

“[Mages]. They wonder why people hate them.”

Altestiel sighed. However, his mind was racing. Belchaus leaned on his elbows.

“…You know something, Altestiel.”

“I don’t know anything, Bel.”

“You suspect something, then. Out with it. Fair is fair.”

The [Earl] nodded slowly.

“Erin Solstice. She told me, when I asked, that she wasn’t talented. I believed her; she was probably as talented as you are, but she said she’d been ‘playing since she was a girl’.”

Bel’s eyes rose.

“Is she the Titan’s protégé, when he was developing the game, then?”

“No. I don’t think so, or else why would he…I think he didn’t know who she was either. Bel, her friends were interesting too. Those plays you’ve heard of in Invrisil?”

Bel slapped the floor.

“I was going to ask you for a copy of their scripts, or whatever they use! Autographs too! Ah, but—”

“They came from her. She taught the Players of Celum. And she knew the recipe for ice cream. Also, mayonnaise, and a dozen other foods I’d never heard of before. The bicycle came from a young man staying in her inn. Oh—and you know the Wind Runner of Reizmelt? A friend of Erin Solstice. Whatever contraption she used? Erin Solstice knew about it.”

Bel’s eyes narrowed slightly. He did not speak for a good two minutes, then, in a contemplative voice, murmured.

“You don’t need to be a dancer to see a pattern in that. Strategist either. What does it mean?”

Altestiel didn’t know. A secret nation? A pocket dimension? …Time travel? He and Bel speculated with wild theories into the night, but they were too far from their mark.

That night, at least. Altestiel talked with his friend, Bel. He drank until he wept. He wept until he slept.

The last tears for Erin Solstice, the last of grieving.

—-

He woke, and found he was not alone. Altestiel was clinging tightly to someone. Not Bel, but Kiish. She was watching him, and had been stroking his hair.

Of course, she didn’t talk about it, practically vaulting out of bed. Altestiel reflected that Geilouna was too intelligent sometimes. Or too lucky.

If Lord Bel had spent the night in company, he did not show it. He and Altestiel played a game of chess with breakfast, the first Altestiel had played since leaving Izril.

Tactful as always, he said nothing, but his other nature made him murmur as the two men rose to walk Altestiel’s estates and talk further.

“You might consider marrying her, you know. It would be unfair to let it go on like this.”

“I know.”

—-

The Earl of the Rains kept a vigilant watch over his lands, because Desonis demanded it. Marshes and swamps abounded with life, even compared to forests, and the predators here were varied and nasty.

Perhaps, then, it was inevitable that when trouble called, both [Lords] were able to respond at once. The Earl of Rains and Lord Belchaus were walking with their people, talking candidly about the Ailendamus war.

“Nadel and Desonis might be next, but if we involve ourselves, Ailendamus will go after us. So, I don’t see us making the first step, which of course means an empty dance floor and a shy audience, waiting for—”

Belchaus’ head rose, and Altestiel held up a hand as he heard the same thing. A distant scream.

“Kiish?”

“Pinpointing, Lord Altestiel…five friendlies, zero attack value! One hostile—large, high attack value! Hydra, most-likely, full-grown.”

“Is someone in the marshes? Idiots—Knights of Desonis, to arms! Kiish, summon reinforcements from the mansion. Bel—”

Of course, the Lord of the Dance was already gone. Earl Altestiel charged after him. Where Lord Bel ran across the water, his feet barely casting ripples as his troupe of escorts surged after him, a touch less gracefully, Altestiel just raced upwards on a [Water Bridge], for height and vantage.

He saw the five terrified children and the two corpses a moment later. It was a Hydra, large as a house! They had walked right into its lair. A Hydra this close to his lands would have already necessitated a hunting party, yet this one was fierce.

“Poison type. Not as magical as some variants.”

“Take aim! Bel! Distract it!”

Altestiel saw the Lord of the Dance swing up his sword as he shouted. Altestiel looked down at the five children. Humans. Young, wearing bright clothing—paralyzed in fear. Grouped up so the multi-headed Hydra, this one with nine heads, could tear them apart in seconds.

“Hydra, to me!”

Bel shouted, and the Hydra turned. A targeting Skill on himself, of course. Altestiel seized that moment. He leapt off the water-bridge, fifty feet in the air. The young people gawked upwards and pointed in astonishment as a second bridge appeared under Altestiel.

He shot down a slide of water, balancing, used to the dramatic entry to a battlefield and the unparalleled speed it offered. His [Marsh Knights] and Kiish were a second behind.

“Follow me! Keep them covered!”

“Lord Bel—”

“Leave him!”

The group landed, and the [Marsh Knights] grabbed the stunned group. They began ushering them to safety, on the lookout for Hydra young or more threats.

“With me!”

Altestiel’s sword was drawn. He looked at the young people, watching as the Hydra surged after Lord Bel. He heard a strangled voice, a sob, screams—

“Oh my god, what is—”

Altestiel’s head turned slightly. However, then the Hydra leapt at the Lord of the Dance.

The Hydra was as fast as a striking snake—as large as a house. Some could get larger, with heads that could swallow an armored man in a single gulp. This one was bad enough.

Nine heads, all with venom dripping from their fangs. A scaly body like armor, which regenerated with unnatural speed.

Altestiel had heard comparisons between Terandrian Griffins, Wyverns of Izril, Manticores of Chandrar…Hydras were worse. This one was focused on Lord Bel as the man stopped in the muddy, wet ground. All he had was a sword and his dress clothing, both enchanted, but the [Marsh Knights] surging at him, his own people—both were too far away as the Hydra struck.

A head shot forwards and struck the mud. The [Lord] side-stepped before it struck him, so close the wind rippled his clothing. A second head shot forwards like a lance and Lord Bel leaned under the biting serpent’s head.

Altestiel slowly lowered his sword. He saw Lord Bel’s eyes flick up. The Lord of the Dance grinned. Then—spun.

Three more of the Hydra’s heads struck the water, missing the Lord of the Dance by inches. The Hydra recoiled, confused, then seemed to think the man had only gotten lucky. It struck, all nine heads twining to form a wall of scaled flesh that wouldn’t miss—

Lord Bel stepped on an open mouth, between the teeth, leapt up, landed on a crest, swung himself up—and landed behind the Hydra.

Altestiel shook his head. The charging [Marsh Knights] halted. They looked at Altestiel, and even the young people stopped screaming.

“Hold. Let him handle it. Get me bows.”

The Hydra turned, searching for the man. Again, it struck, this time with its tail before spitting venom, striking, biting—

It never touched him, Lord Bel swayed under striking mouths, walking around the Hydra’s increasingly-frenzied blows. The Hydra never had a chance.

“Show off.”

Altestiel did not know all of Bel’s Skills, but he knew these two. The Lord of the Dance had actually closed his eyes, and was stepping before the Hydra moved.

[Feel the Rhythm]. The animal’s instinctual attacks were like any song or beat to him. As Altestiel saw Kiish appear with [Longbow Archers], he raised a hand.

“Take aim! Ignore the Lord of the Dance! Volley!”

The [Marsh Knights] hesitated. But they too had bows and dozens of shafts clouded the air, flickering towards the [Lord] and the Hydra.

Lord Bel pivoted, side-stepping the arrows. They struck the Hydra full-on. It screamed, and Altestiel counted.

What was the rhythm? One, two, three, four—

“Loose!”

This time, somehow, the angry Hydra charged into the second flight of arrows so it turned itself into a pincushion. The young people, the [Marsh Knights], all stared.

[Change the Flow]. The Lord of the Dance walked back, having manipulated the dance he’d started. Altestiel called for five more volleys, then an enchanted arrow to finish the job.

When it was done, the Hydra lay dead, and the two [Lords] could attend to the frightened people. And the two unlucky casualties.

—-

Later that day, the court of Desonis was graced by some surprising visitors. Firstly, Earl Altestiel and the Lord of the Dance.

Also, her Majesty, Geilouna and the recently-rescued group who had been spared from death via Hydra, and were now given the opportunity to visit the court.

Of course, the nobles and such considered it an act of kindness. It was not. As Earl Altestiel bowed to the bemused Bedtime Queen, who had roused herself for Lord Bel—and his urgent [Message]—he couldn’t help but think of Erin Solstice.

Ah. It all made sense now. He kept glancing at the terrified group of five, who were alternating between wonder, grief, and sheer shock.

The Lord of the Dance could not keep his eyes off them either. He kept staring at them.

Sometimes, the great confluence of events was discernible by the greatest minds in this world, if they were given the right hints and followed logical conclusions to their inevitable center—even if they got a bit off-track with theories about time travel.

However, sometimes you asked a group of young people who’d been wandering in the marshes for two days, ‘where are you from?’

And they told you.

“Altestiel. What is this about? It’s not like you to show off.”

For once, Altestiel didn’t spar with Geilouna as she blinked at him, sleepily irritated at being woken up before midday. He simply bowed.

“I have something rather interesting to show you, your Majesty. Privately, I hope? I should hate to make a fuss about it.”

Her eyes flickered once, then she yawned.

“In my chambers, then, if one must.”

They left as quickly and unobtrusively as they could. Naturally, ‘not make a fuss’ was their code phrase. If one of them said that, the other reached for the Crown of Waters—or a sword.

This was the mark of the Queen of Desonis’ value. When Altestiel spoke, having invoked the code phrase, she listened. She sat on her bed, pets and fluffy blankets forgotten, head propped on her hands, but attentive. The inner council, the advisors beyond reproach or question, listened too, mouths agape. Twice someone said something like ‘that’s impossible’, or ‘are you sure?’

The second time, Geilouna ordered the person removed and tossed out into the hallway. Altestiel concluded his brief summary.

“Another world. You’re sure?”

“It fits the puzzle, your Majesty. I do not think they are lying. That is what they are. I would stake my aura on it.”

Queen Geilouna sat back, on her pillows. It would be later she processed it, with Altestiel and as much alcohol as she could consume, in her bedroom, with the private thoughts she did not ever utter aloud. Over the next week and months too, which would define her reign, she now knew. It was her story, and not the world’s story, so only she would know it and it did not need to be the center of other tales.

For now, the Bedtime Queen simply nodded. Then she began shouting invectives at the top of her lungs. When Kiish, Altestiel, and the council had uncovered their ears, Geilouna was calm.

“So much for my peaceful rule and death! What do we do, Altestiel?”

The Earl didn’t blink.

“Some of them may go with Lord Bel.”

“Do we allow that? Or kill him? At least, refuse, imprison?”

The advisors stirred as Geilouna gave Altestiel a flat-lidded look. Reassuring, despite the cold remark.

“We allow that, your Majesty. Nadel is an ally. Lord Bel would be one beyond reproach.”

“Good. What else?”

Altestiel had many thoughts, including going back and placing everyone in The Wandering Inn under Desonis’ protection. And screaming at Erin Solstice’s grave. For now?

“Your Majesty. The young people say they are from…Den’s Mark.”

“Denmark, Earl.”

Kiish whispered. Altestiel nodded.

“Denmark. They were far from alone. If whatever teleportation effect missed them—I suggest we comb the swamps. All of Desonis!”

“All of it?”

The Bedtime Queen raised a hand. She looked at Altestiel. She nodded.

“It will be done.”

—-

That day, the normally sleepy-but-sociable court and government of Desonis turned upside down. Every [Mayor], ruling body, or [Headman] of every village, town, and city, got a summons to report certain criteria to the palace.

[Scriveners], [Record-Keepers], and so on were mobilized to find unusual immigrants. [Harbormasters] were called to give an accounting of strange young people bound to Wistram, with dates and places.

Anyone—no, any Human—had to be reported. Especially with certain clothing, phrases. Devices?

Normally, that kind of thing would be something slowly put into motion by bureaucracy, with a local official carrying it out to the levels of diligence they possessed.

Not this time. The Knights of Desonis marched into the swamp, with [Hunters], and the bewildered lower-ranking leadership realized they couldn’t answer the [Message] spell after tea. They answered it now or they lost their jobs.

The [Chamberlain] was breathing down the necks of the royal [Knights], as well as the Minister of the Treasury, the Diplomat of Desonis, Earl Altestiel—

The Bedtime Queen marched about, inspiring people to action by her presence, as much as anything else. She would not rest until she was sure no other child of Earth was in her kingdom, and if she wasn’t resting, no one else damn well would!

Results appeared, if only because the authority present demanded results and competence—or heads.

—-

They found one more, bound for Wistram. Altestiel and Kiish were preparing to head for that harbor, to intercept the young woman waiting there, who apparently didn’t even speak the common tongue; the [Harbormaster] reported her as being ‘Drathian’, but not seeming at all like a native of Drath.

Geilouna flopped back in her bed when she decided they’d found all they could, dead from the unaccustomed exertion. However, she accompanied Altestiel to court. He was going with Kiish and a squad of Knights of Desonis; no overconfidence here.

If the Wistram [Mage] who’d found this young woman wanted to play games, she’d find out whether a tidal wave beat a [Fireball]. In Altestiel’s experience? It did.

Before they left, though, a crying voice interrupted them. The five Earthers, safely in the court, were nonetheless in tears—at least, two of the five.

One of the courtiers or nobles had, with goodwill and all the subtlety of a knife to the gut, inquired after the dead, or made some insensitive-but-well-meaning comment. Someone was in hysterics.

“Go. I’ll deal with this.”

Geilouna whispered to Altestiel. He nodded—and then heard a familiar whine of sound.

One of Nadel’s [Dancers] struck out on a fiddle, or a stringed instrument. No—a Chandrarian one, so, a wailing sound. Another pulled out a drum. The rest were clapping.

There he was. The Lord of the Dance stepped back, looking around. The screaming weeping halted—Lord Bel glanced at the young man he’d been talking to.

Another Earther. Far darker skin than one got in Desonis, where sun was rarer than rain. Lord Bel smiled at the crying Earther gently—then turned back to the young man.

He stepped back, and his escort raised their hands as they began to stomp their feet, setting up a beat. Some of the court joined them, enthusiastically. Lord Bel gestured.

Altestiel hesitated. It was…so like Belchaus Meron. Faced with the knowledge that would shake this world, revelations and the knowledge they were behind Wistram and other organizations, the first thing he asked was this.

The [Lord] was gesturing. The young man was lifting his hands, but you could tell what he was saying. The young man was demurring, but Lord Bel was gently insistent.

Show me.

The music took on an insistent tone. Faced with the clapping court, the music, and the Lord of the Dance, the young man threw caution to the wind. Embarrassed, he did a quick-step of some kind.

Altestiel knew court dances, but he’d never seen the complex footwork—outside of Nadel. Lord Bel laughed. Then—he copied the little trick.

The tears of the other Earthers stopped. Lord Bel called something at them, clearly trying to cheer them up. He gestured, and, encouraged by the Lord of the Dance’s people, the young man performed a move clearly meant to be done alone.

It looked so silly that Geilouna laughed. Altestiel glanced at Kiish. The young man was speaking in front of the embarrassed court.

“—video game—”

The laughter broke off as Lord Bel copied it. Move for move, shaking his body in the absurd little gesture, perfectly copying the young man. And what was on his face was nothing but enjoyment.

“I knew the Singer of Terandria had been taught that from somewhere! Show me more, show me more!”

Two of his people tried to copy the move, and they did so on the first try. The Earthers looked astonished, but they were realizing—they were in the presence of the world’s best [Dancers]. Anything they could do…

After some conference, a young woman tried a moonwalk and failed. Lord Bel promptly demonstrated the technique, moving in a circle as if his feet were sliding on ice to applause. Of course—then, it became a competition.

Could they show him anything that he couldn’t copy? Dances from Fortnite became attempts at capoeira, or breakdancing moves; at least one of the Earthers could dance.

Lord Bel went step for step with the young man trying to surprise him. Then—they began doing the break-dancing moves that Altestiel would have paid ten thousand gold coins to see a [Lady] do in a dress on a ballroom floor at the same time. Lord Bel didn’t just copy, he and the young man began moving in sync.

Astonished, the Earther stopped. Lord Bel just clapped him on the shoulder. Then, his head turned and looked at Altestiel. The Earl of Rains nodded, and gestured at Kiish, who was waiting with the carriage.

The Lord of the Dance kept dancing. Where other nations would greet the strange young people in their borders with hostility, fear, wonder, curiosity…Lord Bel greeted them with a dance.

More were coming. Most arrived there, in that room where he had torn a hole.

The rest elsewhere. They were coming.

Altestiel was just among the first to know it.

—-

Ironic. Purely ironic, although only a few…beings…would be in a position to find it such.

Ironic, that Desonis and now Nadel, at least the upper echelons, might learn something that far more powerful nations and individuals had yet to even get a whiff of. Az’kerash was blissfully ignorant, consumed with finding the last of Silvaria’s tomes in his library, reading through them.

So too was Queen Yisame ignorant of whatever it was she should know, despite the Grand Magus’ warning. She was, of course, aware that she was unaware, and had roused her court to fury, not least because she now owed the half-Elf a debt.

However, realization would be a long time in coming, even for those blessed with a ‘hint’ from Wistram.

Entire species knew now, like the Drowned Folk, whereas great kingdoms lay unawares.

Not that they were concerned because if you didn’t know what you were supposed to know, or didn’t even know that you were supposed to know what you didn’t know….

Ailendamus was not concerned with little hints, even from Archmages. Six times Viltach had tried, but King Itorin II was too important to bother directly with an Archmage’s concerns. Lesser officials, yes, but Viltach had insisted on speaking to Itorin II directly—and failed.

Grand Magus Eldavin too. Not that Itorin II didn’t have concerns. He had tons of them.

War with the Dawn Concordat, which he wanted done, uncomfortable with the eyes of the new ‘television’ on his designs for conquest. It made what he was doing a little too obvious. He wasn’t an [Emperor]—yet—for the very reason of optics. Television was making his job harder. He had a lot to do in any case.

Diplomacy, at home and abroad, to keep Ailendamus’ allies together and his enemies from working together. Jumped-up little [Lords] on Izril, foreign powers…

Not to mention the Demon’s ritual and whatever weapon had slain his [Knight] abroad. Of course, he attributed that to Demons. Not anything else.

Itorin Zessoprical, the Second, King of the Empire of Ailendamus—as it had swallowed smaller kingdoms over its meteoric rise—sat on his throne.

In his palace. Doing kingly things.

In another place in the palace of Ailendamus, someone almost as important was shouting at [Knights]. To be specific, the Order of the Thirsting Veil, one of three that Ailendamus boasted.

“This is not a small concern! Your petty excuses do not bear weight with me! Your Order will find out or—”

“Sir. Sir, we have no leads to go on!”

“That is not good enough!”

A man howled in the face of one of Ailendamus’ [Knight-Generals], which was astonishing given the other man’s rank. The man, clean-shaven, wearing expensive dark-purple silk robes ostentatiously augmented by Truegold, was gaudy as could be. He had numerous magical rings, and though he carried no weapon, he made up for it with all the other artifacts on his person.

Dame Hevcla of the Order of the Thirsting Veil, who had once met the Knight-Commander Calirn of the Order of Seasons, couldn’t believe this man’s audacity. Her leader was not a patient man, and he had challenged Ailendamus’ nobility to duels for less.

Especially because King Itorin II was well aware of the value of his [Knights]. However—it seemed this man was too important for even a [Knight-General] to reprimand for spraying spit in his face.

“Your Grace—”

The Duke shouted again. Given Ailendamus’ sprawling nobility and royal family and relatives, that wasn’t as impressive as another nation—but it was still just below the royal family. However, that was complicated by the fact that this man was, in fact, the uncle of King Itorin II, albeit separated from the direct line of the monarchy. So then again, it was as impressive as it should be.

Duke Rhisveri Zessoprical drew breath to scream again, and Dame Hevcla interrupted with a crisp salute.

“Your Grace Rhisveri, perhaps you could illuminate us on what was lost? We are aware of the break-in, of course.”

The hugest lapse in security since Ailendamus itself was founded. A massive embarrassment as someone had apparently entered, nearly stolen a treasure, and fled without a trace when the alarms went off and the guard rushed in.

Every great [Thief] of this age was being scrutinized for motive, but what had nearly been lost was…the Duke turned on Dame Hevcla. She saw sneering contempt replace fury in a moment.

“You are all not privy to the true value of the royal family’s treasures, [Knight]. I demand only that you find the assailant! Are you Ailendamus’ finest or not? Employ [Trackers]! Employ magic! Must I do it for you?”

“No, your Grace. However, the trail really is—”

“Silence, you incompetent!”

The [Knight-General]’s face turned redder. He slowly wiped away some spit, but he said nothing in reply. This was the same man who had once drawn his sword in the presence of a foreign [King] for impugning Ailendamus’ honor.

Duke Rhisveri looked at the [Knights]. He was breathing hard.

“I will furnish you with the details if I must. You will find this thief. And you will bring them to me. Alive. All limbs intact. I want to know how they got past the protections. My protections!”

His fingers sparked with magic. He stalked back the way he’d come, to the royal wing, beyond which even [Knights] were not allowed passage. An entire wing for King Itorin’s family. Dame Hevcla watched him go, wondering just what had been so close to being stolen as to enrage the Duke so much. King Itorin II had not mentioned it—but perhaps it was something he had entrusted the Duke with.

The point was, whomever it was, be it the Lightning Thief, the Thief of Clouds, or anyone else—the full wrath of Ailendamus had been roused against them. They were in a lot of trouble.

…Shame their name was so damn confusing to scry. The Duke had been getting headaches all week long, and he’d used [Greater Scry] in his desperation. The wards returned precise weight, gender, species, and all kinds of other measurements—some of which were confusing—but the name kept blanking out because it was impossible to translate to the spell’s parameters. He didn’t even know what the second thing had been. But he was going to find out. Oh yes.

—-

On the subject of scrying, Wistram had now given up on monitoring the Antinium Queens. They’d kept recording—until it became clear beyond all shadow of a doubt that the Antinium now knew they were being watched.

Some oddities had been put down to the Antinium peculiarities, but after the failure of the Antinium to actually go to war and the huge embarrassment to Wistram after the Invrisil event—it had been clear.

The final clue though, had been the ‘discussion’ between the Flying Queen and her Prognugators on war tactics, in which she turned to the scrying mirror every five seconds and said something along the lines of:

“I wonder what I should do? How puzzling.”

“I do hope no one is listening to my grand plans.”

“It would be so inconvenient if someone learned of our secret weapons buried here.”

…With a map.

Back to traditional scrying attempts. However, if Wistram had kept monitoring the now-compromised scrying devices, they would have seen someone wander past the disused scrying devices replaced by more secure connections.

“Life is suffering.”

Anand walked into a wall. He fell down, and curled up. After a while, a few other Free Antinium found him and helped him up. They replaced the cover on the scrying mirror in the empty room and tried to bring him back to their base.

They were still guests of the Grand Queen, although they travelled to every Hive in the Hivelands—save for the Twisted Hive. Anand shook off the kind hands.

“Life is worthless. Erin is dead. I—I am drunk! I will now eject the contents of my stomach!”

He gave it a try, like he’d seen some guests doing. Eventually, he gave up and lay down.

Erin was dead. No one was here to help Anand. Not Belgrade. Not Pawn, not Bird or Garry or—Anand got up after a moment.

“Klbkch! Klbkch, Erin is dead. I am sad. What do we do?”

He entered the room and eight Custodium, and six Queens stared at him.

“Oh.”

Klbkch himself stared at Anand. His head, slowly growing a mass of tendrils being connected to a body-in-progress, was suspended in a custom vat. A Birther. Anand looked at the Silent Queen, who was performing the most complex creation of a new body in the history of the Antinium of Izril.

“Anand. Get. Out.”

The [Strategist] slowly backed out of the room. He wandered out of the Silent Antinium’s Hive, knowing he had made a mistake. Angered Klbkch.

No longer caring. Erin was dead. Anand knew this was not factually true, but it felt like it. He…

…Tried to drown himself in the underground lake. At least until Goat and Archer A11 pulled him out. Anand had only stuck his head under the water.

“Let go! I am a failure! I should have been there!”

He thrashed as they dragged him away. The teams of Antinium working on Iteration #227 of the ships stared after him. Anand cared not for the ship. It would fail.

The longest any ship had ‘floated’ was one minute and thirty eight seconds. If you counted mainly sinking as floating, anyways.

Ships were hard. Anand would have tried to study the books on ship-building he’d asked to be sent via Liscor, but he didn’t care.

Erin was dead.

—-

He was wandering the Hivelands, on the surface, half-hoping an adventurer popped out and stabbed him when someone found him. Not Goat, or the other anxious Free Antinium, who were also grieving, but something far larger.

Far older. Anand peeked up, then lowered his head.

“Oh. It’s you.”

“Me.”

Wrymvr agreed. The voice was bubbling, coming out of Wrymvr’s mouth…or multiple of them. Wrymvr the Deathless, most fearsome of the Centenium in close combat, able to fight multiple Named Adventurers at once and survive, looked down at Anand.

Once, Anand had feared the Twisted Hive. Even now, he feared what he had seen, a kind of death beyond death.

Today though, he would have charged the Twisted Hive with a bare fist.

“What do you want? I am grieving. If you’re going to eat me…”

His voice quivered. If he died, would he see Erin? He was afraid the answer was no, even if Heaven existed.

“No. I. Do not eat other Antinium.”

Wrymvr might have been amused. Talking came to him with difficulty, it seemed. Anand knew Klbkch and the Queens could talk differently.

“You kill us. We are not True Antinium. Is that why you’re here? Because I am a failure, a distraction?”

He touched his antennae. Again, though, Wrymvr demurred.

“No.”

The vast Centenium studied Anand. It—he—had sought Anand out. The Worker swayed on his feet; he had been imbibing alcohol on the assumption it might help. It had not, only made him dizzy. Nevertheless, Wrymvr appeared…different from the [Strategist]’s memories.

His body had evolved again, changing to some other role. He still had massive wings, and was squat, quadrupedal…sextupedal…many-pedal, rather than upright like most Antinium.

Many mouths, many legs, openings to project acid or other dangerous substances; Wrymvr was the epitome of death. Anand stared at him.

“If you are not going to kill me, may I go? I wish to try expelling matter from my body again.”

Wrymvr blocked his path with one leg as Anand tottered around him.

“Ships. You must build. Duty. You—Anand. Strategist. Build them. Float. Improvement.”

He communicated in staccato bursts of noise. Anand frowned at Wrymvr. He shook his head after a moment.

“I am too sad. I do not want to. Erin is dead. Not dead. Bring her back like Klbkch. Then…then I will do things. Can you do that? Please?”

“Irrelevant. You are necessary. Anand will not endanger self. Obey. Work. Build ship.”

A prod of a leg, but very gentle for Wrymvr’s strength. Anand looked at him. He opened his mandibles and found Antinium could vomit. He did so onto Wrymvr now.

The Centenium stared at Anand as the Worker wiped at his mandibles.

—-

“Klbkch. Klbkch, I do not believe I am able to communicate with your Worker, Anand, properly.”

Klbkch the Slayer listened to Wrymvr’s mental thoughts reaching his. He felt little, suspended in the vat of creation as the Silent Queen worked. Occasionally—well—often, he communicated with her, indulging her desire to speak about him, his life, his exploits…him.

Sometimes with the other Queens, although the liquid meant the Silent Queen had to interpret his words for them, which she did with a variable degree of accuracy. However, Wrymvr was close enough for the two to talk, which was a relief compared to Queens.

“You are attempting to speak to Anand, Wrymvr? Why? He was here just an hour ago.”

“He is wandering the surface. I am attempting to persuade him to return to his work of constructing prototype ships. I do not comprehend the Free Antinium’s new Individuals. They do not appear to obey orders.”

Klbkch’s response to that wasn’t words so much as sour schadenfreude. Wrymvr’s reply was amused, but insistent.

“You must help me.”

“Would you believe Anand is the most obedient of the Individuals?”

“They are like you, then. Deeply disturbing.”

In his vat, Klbkch’s mandibles opened and closed in a surprisingly non-Antinium gesture.

“I cannot aid you, Wrymvr. Employ direct speech and explanations.”

“Hm. Very well. Also: curious. I was not aware the Free Queen had experimented into acid projectiles as the Flying Queen and Twisted Queen have. It is ineffective so far, however. Limited range and accuracy. Noticeable volume however.”

“…What?”

—-

Anand found that Wrymvr was not going to kill him. He did, however, pick Anand up with his mandibles and carry Anand screaming into the air before depositing him near the entrance to the underground lake project.

“I am going to expel again. Please do not pick me up.”

Anand announced to Wrymvr right before it happened. He did feel more sober, though. The Centenium regarded him.

“Strategist Anand. Work.”

“No. I am sad.”

A wing nudged him.

“Work. For good of Hives.”

“No.”

Silence. Anand met the Centenium’s eyes…well, a few of them, with great effort. Wrymvr appeared to be considering what to do next.

“Will you kill me if I refuse?”

“No. Strategist Anand is too valuable. All agree. Queen. Klbkch. This Centenium agrees.”

Anand’s mandibles parted. He looked at Wrymvr.

“Thank you. I have been acknowledged! Klbkch does not do so often!”

“Regrettable.”

The [Strategist] actually began to feel a bit better after hearing that Wrymvr thought he was valuable. He hadn’t known that! It was really flattering, actually. Anand tilted his head at Wrymvr and had a thought.

“…May I call you Uncle?”

The Centenium considered this.

“If Anand works, yes.”

The [Strategist] sighed. He sat on a rock outside the tunnel as the Grand Queen’s Soldiers eyed Wrymvr, seeming as…nervous…as regular Antinium could.

“I do not want to. It seems pointless. Ships are hard. To build.”

He confided to Wrymvr. The Centenium fanned its wings.

“Yes. Sink easily too. Anand must build better.”

“I can’t. Klbkch has told me to work, and all the Queens! If I could, don’t you think I would have? It is too hard! I am a [Strategist], not a [Shipbuilder]! [Shipwright]? I do not even know what I am not!”

Anand’s voice raised plaintively. Perhaps this was a bad idea, but he finally had someone to complain to, and he was not afraid of dying at this moment. Wrymvr listened as Anand went on.

“Everything sinks when you put weight on it! Wood sinks! Stone sinks! Cotton sinks! It is so frustrating! Keeping something upright is so hard! Keeping it together is hard! It is too hard! I give up! I would not do so if Erin is alive. She is dead, though. So it is meaningless. Goodbye.”

He curled up. After a moment, a ‘foot’ nudged him. Anand rolled slightly on the ground.

“Strategist Anand is the only Antinium capable of design besides Queen. Try again. Encouragement words here.”

“You are bad at encouragement. Erin is better. She would give me a hug and kisses and food.”

“Can kill Wyvern for Anand. This Antinium does not understand hugs or kisses.”

“No good.”

There was silence now. Wrymvr stared at Anand. After a while, Anand…decided to do nothing. He hoped, wondered, if Wrymvr would leave.

Twenty five minutes later, Anand looked up.

“Don’t you have better things to do?”

“Possibility of ship construction is paramount. Anand realizes its own value and will work?”

Anand’s antennae waved at the vast Antinium dismally.

“…Anand does not.”

He went back to lying on the ground.

—-

“Klbkch. Klbkch. Your Anand is starting to irritate me.”

“Hah.”

The Silent Queen paused in her ministrations.

“What was that, Klbkchhezeim?”

“Nothing, Silent Queen. Merely recollecting thoughts.”

She nodded. Klbkch continued with Wrymvr.

“Anand is not the only method by which we might advance the Antinium’s cause, Wrymvr.”

“He is the most direct to reach other continents. Birthers cannot be easily transported overland; not possible under the ocean. Impossible/too much time. Boats are essential.”

That was true, Klbkch had to admit. Birthers, the growing vats in which new Soldiers or Workers or other types could be made, had long been the replacement to Queens—they had been recreated in Izril, and they were what the original Antinium used on Rhir.

However, those Birthers had been far more advanced. Able to create Soldiers with the correct supplies in a fraction of the time, and far more powerful varieties. Even Queens.

The Twisted Queen had upgraded the ones here, though. A bit. Rather, she had solved an issue plaguing the Antinium: the need for a Queen to directly monitor them, their inability to be transported—or clone themselves.

She had solved it all, but only up to a point. Now, in theory, the Antinium could continue if every Queen died, albeit without minds to lead or create new forms. However, a few problems remained.

The Birther vats were as fragile as glass, even with the Twisted Queen’s improvements. Mind you, thick glass, and it was decidedly better than what they had been; if you shouted in their presence, they would become injured and lose whatever Antinium they were working on.

However, transport remained an issue for all Antinium aside from Wrymvr and maybe Xrn. To get to Rhir…

“Ships. Wrymvr, I do not know how to encourage Anand. You tried positive affirmations?”

“…Yes.”

“I do not know, then. Threats? My modality of options has been exhausted.”

After a pause, when Klbkch thought Wrymvr had given up or gone out of range, the Centenium replied.

“You are a poor leader, Klbkch.”

“I was not meant to be. I lead armies, not…nurture…other things.”

Somewhat stung, Klbkch retorted. Wrymvr replied.

“Neither do you change.”

—-

After a while, Wrymvr squatted down.

“Strategist Anand. Talk.”

“Go away. I am sad.”

“Strategist Anand. I am Wrymvr. Centenium. Do you acknowledge?”

“Yes, go away.”

“No. Strategist Anand—Wrymvr, I, will do anything for Antinium to survive. Anything. To save Antinium—anything. What will Strategist Anand require for similar resolve?”

Slowly, Anand’s head rose. He looked into Wrymvr’s vast eyes.

“…I will help. Later. It’s just so…hard. It’s too hard. I am frustrated. It is too hard and I am too sad, understand?”

“Sadness cannot be mitigated. Difficulty? Perhaps. What is issue?”

Anand sat, trying to explain. Glad, really; Goat and the others had tried, but Klbkch was incapacitated and even the other Prognugators weren’t that…smart. Well, smart, but not proactive, not creative, and the Queens were busy. The Armored Queen was super-busy, so all she had time to do was hold Anand and let him talk about Erin sometimes at night.

He liked that. So Anand told Wrymvr.

“It’s more than materials. I have every kind—including monster parts.”

The Queens had opened all the material stores aside from the most precious things to Anand. He had tried all kinds of combinations, so he shook his head.

“It is not that. It is…technique. Experience! I have books from Liscor—I need manuals. Blueprints! I need an expert. Perhaps…”

“Speak.”

“Perhaps if I went back to Liscor, I could find an expert. Seborn.”

“What is. Seborn?”

“He’s a Drowned Man. If he could talk to me, I could understand what I am doing wrong. Or I could buy a book from Invrisil. The problem, Wrymvr, is that I don’t have an example, I don’t have the understanding…”

Anand trailed off. Or the motivation. He began to try to explain that. Explain what Erin had been, why her absence, even if the others claimed she could be cured, had left a hole in him. In more than just her presence, but his confidence in her. His belief she couldn’t really die, that she would outlive him, that…

Wrymvr flew off. Anand was left sitting there, staring at the giant Centenium.

“Wait. But—wait. I was speaking.”

The Soldiers at the entrance stared at Anand as he sat back down. Then curled up again.

Anand decided Wrymvr was a jerk after all. He did not see Wrymvr, then, in the distance, dive and snatch the silently-screaming Antinium.

Goat, the Soldier, stopped thrashing when Wrymvr put him down. The Centenium spoke to the trembling Soldier.

“You. Will assist me. First, retrieve artifact from Twisted Hive. Then—follow.”

Goat looked around for somewhere to run. Wrymvr just picked him up and flew towards the Twisted Hive. Goat screamed. He really, really didn’t see what Bird desired in flight.

The thing Anand, even Klbkch had forgotten or failed to appreciate about Wrymvr was that he was unlike Xrn, or the Queens. He was a literal Antinium. When he saw a problem—he fixed it. He did not wait or make excuses.

—-

Most of the shocking events in Tkrn’s life had happened last year or this one. Monster attacks, Erin’s death…good surprises too, like cake. Baseball.

So, on the whole of it, waking up next to Inkar and seeing her sleeping there wasn’t a bad surprise at all. Still sleeping there, that was. Sometimes they left which hurt your feelings because you got the distinct impression they thought there had been a mistake in their night.

Such lewdness. Such debauched acts. Tkrn smiled when he thought about last night. That had been amazing.

Then—his brow furrowed. Wait a second. He slowly turned his head to the other side and saw Lehra Ruinstrider noisily snoring away.

That was up there on shocks of his life. Tkrn left the bed, and disturbed the other Gnolls. Three of whom were male.

He wasn’t the one they’d all come here for.

—-

Lehra Ruinstrider stretched.

“It’s like…they call it a harem. It’s a Human-thing.”

“Really?”

Suxhel, the Gazer, had not spent the night in company, nor had she wanted to. She eyed Lehra, who had somehow managed to pull off a very strange night; Tkrn had fled the tent and woken them all up.

“Absolutely. Humans have them. They have sex all the time. That’s why I feel like a Human.”

“More than Gnolls or Drakes?”

Lehra hesitated. The Named-rank adventurer lifted a furry paw.

“They have more kids, that’s the difference. Like—you know, Humans have as many as eight children. Who does that? Not Gnolls or Drakes. Imagine having them on the move. That’s why they’re everywhere. They’re sexual fiends. I heard that somewhere.”

She puffed out her chest at displaying so much Human-knowledge. Suxhel, who had met Inkar and other Humans, would have raised her eyebrows if she had any.

It was true though that Gnolls had smaller families than Humans, and a family of eight or more was largely a Human or Lizardfolk thing.

“You seem to have a lot of attention, however.”

“Pssh, yeah, well…I guess I’m popular.”

Lehra preened a bit. She gestured at the tent. Male and female Gnolls—plus Inkar, were waking up.

“Who are the tall, more appealing Gnolls inside? For your kind?”

Suxhel didn’t need to peer in between the tent flaps to spot them. Her eye saw all. Lehra shrugged.

“Ekhtouch. They’re a special tribe. Breeding Skills. Normally you wouldn’t be able to get near one since they’re so strict. It’s like—what they trade.”

“Sex?”

“Yup. But they’re all over me. I think because—”

“They would like to have children with you. Congratulations.”

“Thanks! Let me know if you want to meet a nice Ekhtouch Gnoll. I’m sure they’d be obliging.”

Lehra winked. She slapped Suxhel on the shoulder. The short Gazer sidled away and reached for her handkerchief and water bottle.

“Don’t touch me with that paw. I’ve seen where it’s been.”

—-

Contrary to expectations Lehra might have held, Inkar herself was not a sex-crazed primate. If anything, the Gnolls of Ekhtouch were the only ‘experts’ in that field.

…And they were experts. However, Inkar saw no need to tell Orreh anything, no matter how hard her friend badgered her. It was more surprising that she’d found herself in that situation to begin with. Lehra had a magnetic personality. However, Tkrn had also helped.

At any rate, the teasing was just one part of living with Gnolls. In another way, it was better: if there were no secrets to be held, then it didn’t matter as much.

The point was that Lehra Ruinstrider, the Stargnoll, was never alone unless she wished to be. Indeed, she was the first real celebrity that Inkar had ever met in this world. Every Gnoll knew her name. Children and adults wanted autographs; [Warriors] and such tried to apply for her team. Chieftains courted her council.

That was because Lehra was more than her name. She was a Named-rank adventurer and could, by her intervention, turn the tables in a battle. Or war. Even the Walled Cities, Inkar had been told by Deskie and Eska, had only five Named Adventurers they could call on at most in Manus’ case—and only one or two might ever be in the city at any given time.

Five Named Adventurers was more than any one kingdom could hope to field. On the other hand, that didn’t include [Champions], [Generals], and such who might match them. Lehra was twice as valuable for her age, though; she had already reached Named-rank in her twenties! What might she accomplish by the time she had lived twice as long?

The fact that she threw an arm around Inkar—and Tkrn’s shoulders—and called them friends, inviting them to eat with Suxhel, was not lost on observers. The Gazer adventurer made Lehra wash her paws first, though.

“Ah, to be young again.”

Honored Krshia snorted, noting her nephew’s embarrassment as the group took breakfast in the Silverfang camp along with some of the participants from last night. Akrisa, her older sister, raised her brows.

“What does age have to do with it, Krshia? Honored Deskie herself shouldn’t lack for company—if she wished it.”

“Mother.”

The scandalized Gnoll was not Krshia, but rather, Satar, Akrisa’s oldest daughter, who had come from an Ekhtouch union herself. The older Gnolls snorted as Satar escaped, with little Cers Silverfang, who decided the adults were disgusting too.

“Another day dawns in the glorious Meeting of Tribes. So, sister. What will we do today?”

Krshia yawned as she rose. Akrisa shook her head, her smile lessening.

“You, sister, have the chance to go about. Perhaps with Cers or Satar? They would like to visit the other tribes. I, however, must meet with the Plain’s Eye tribe.”

“Before the gathering of Chieftains?”

Krshia’s ears perked up. Akrisa gave her a frown, mindful of the listening Gnolls.

“It would be impolite not to.”

Once again, Krshia was struck by the Plain’s Eye tribe’s growing influence, and it had been strong in the last Meeting of Tribes she had been in. She nodded, slowly.

“I may walk with Cers and Satar. Not least because I have business with the other tribes.”

“Then you must go visit the Gaarh Marsh tribe. Cers! Your Aunt Krshia, she will take you to the blooming sights today, yes? Be polite! Perhaps Honored Lehra and company would be interested?”

“Blooming sights? What are they?”

Lehra’s head bobbed up, along with Tkrn and Inkar. Akrisa was amused.

“Perhaps you were too young to recall it last time? It is for children and adults. Go visit. You may pass some hours quite pleasantly, and understand one of our oldest tribes who keeps to all the old ways. Along with Plain’s Eye, of course. What else have you to do, Krshia?”

The [Royal Shopkeeper]-[Councilwoman] sighed. She looked at Akrisa, unable to conceal a tiny frown on her face.

“Merely a personal favor. Whilst our guests from Liscor are still on the way, and safe, I am assured—it seems another Gnoll I had hoped to introduce you to has…gone missing. Magus Grimalkin of Pallass has prevailed on me to find his apprentice.”

Akrisa’s ears perked up. She set down her silkap and glanced at her [Shaman] and partner, Cetrule.

“In that case, we will send some to ask for her and see if she was seen.”

“Thank you, Chieftain.”

—-

Lehra ran off to find the rest of her team. Tkrn and Inkar found themselves walking with Orreh and Oor as usual. Well, the change was that Tkrn and Inkar had linked arms.

“I wish I could do that. All I have is my brother, no?”

Orreh sniffed jealously; it seemed her relationships had not lasted beyond a night. Oor stuck an arm out, grinning. Orreh kicked him into a stall. She looked at the two she was escorting.

“Are we going to Gaarh Marsh’s display today?”

“Why not? Unless you don’t want to?”

Tkrn saw Inkar glance up at him and found himself nodding.

They were joined by Krshia, Cers, Satar, two Silverfang minders, a group of six children and some more younger Gnolls…and then Venaz, Peki, Merrik, and three new guests who had just arrived from Oteslia.

“Do I have the honor of greeting Honored Feshi? And you two must surely be…”

Krshia blinked, and Tkrn’s eyes widened. Inkar was less agog, but everyone else stared at the young man—and the gingerly-walking Selphid.

Yerranola and Wil Kallinad looked around, new to the Meeting of Tribes but smiling. They had made the relatively short trip from Oteslia here.

“Wil Kallinad, Honored Krshia. Thank you for showing my friends hospitality.”

Wil made a very courtly Terandrian bow, having already picked up on Gnollish honorifics. Yerranola smiled; she was being half-supported by Wil.

“Hi, I’m Yerra. Everyone seems to know my name around here.”

“How not? You were on television! I thought you were poisoned! You got better already?”

Orreh burst out, and then turned red under her fur. Yerranola laughed though.

“I’m getting better! Thanks to Oteslia and weird flowers…now, I want to explore! We came to the Meeting of Tribes because there’s a time limit, but I want to see Oteslia instead of being carried about in a jar! Other cities too. Pallass and…”

“Other cities to the north.”

Venaz was not smiling, for all his friend was up on her feet and able to use a Drake body. Merrik, Peki, Wil, Yerra, and even Feshi, who was greeting Krshia, hesitated for a moment.

Tkrn had no idea why. Krshia, who kept her ears to the wind, had an inkling of what was making the students edgy. However, she only smiled.

“We are honored if you would care to join us. Lehra Ruinstrider may join us—although it is likely she was just dragged off.”

“I would be delighted to meet her, Honored Krshia. I too thank Silverfang for its hospitality. Is Chieftain Akrisa here? My tribe of Weatherfur would like to meet with yours.”

Krshia blinked at Feshi.

“…That would be most gratifying. Akrisa is with Plain’s Eye. However, when she returns I will of course introduce you.”

“Perhaps Honored Krshia might take her place, as sister to the Chieftain?”

Feshi’s voice was tactful. Krshia grew more interested. She nodded, but the group was impatient to go, so they began walking, now in a gaggle of attention of their own.

Lehra never caught up, but Yerranola herself drew enough attention in her Drake body to have people interrupt their progress three times. However, Venaz carried them through the crowds—mainly by walking with no intention of stopping to shake hands or paws with everyone he met. Soon, they reached their destination; one of the largest, most powerful tribes of the Gnolls.

Gaarh Marsh. Above their waterproof huts, the more solid construction from the swampy terrain they liked to occupy, much like Desonis in fact, was their guardian. Even Venaz stared up, lost for words for a second as the vast Earth Elemental sat, filling the air with the scent of muck, rot, and growth, a giant even those on Oteslia’s walls might respect.

The old world sat, staring at nothing until it was needed.

—-

The Gaarh Marsh tribe’s display was called the blooming sights. What it was, Tkrn discovered, was a display of their [Shaman]’s craft and their unique abilities.

Of all the tribes, the Gaarh Marsh was, like the Wild Wastes tribe, the easiest to assign the most common Gnollish pejoratives to.

‘Barbarian’. ‘Savage’. You heard it sometimes to describe the Gnollish people. The comparison was always between Humanity or Gnollkind, or Drakes in their civilized cities compared to the wild nomads.

It was not fair even for those tribes. It was what people said. However, it was true that the Gaarh Marsh tribe had a bit more space from some other tribes…due to the smell.

Nature, to be blunt. The Earth Elemental had tracked wide swaths of rich soil and mud, and parts of it were continually decomposing. Growing as well. It was not a smell Tkrn enjoyed, so he wrinkled his nose along with some of the adults.

The children like Cers didn’t care. Satar bowed deeply to one of the [Shamans] sprinkling something on the ground. Peki kept staring at the Earth Elemental as the chief [Shaman] talked, explaining the Gaarh Marsh tribe’s specialty, and where they lived to the other Gnolls here for the event.

“Peki. Peki.”

Merrik nudged his friend, knowing what she was thinking. The Garuda [Martial Artist] glanced at him. The Dwarf whispered.

“You are not challenging the Earth Elemental.”

“Why?”

The two began arguing. Meanwhile, the [Shaman] was speaking.

“…we grow many rare plants, and make all we need from the marshes. Our power comes from there, and we do not reject living so close to nature. I do know some think it is odd, as some nature is uncomfortable! That is our way, however.”

She gestured to herself and Wil shuddered a bit despite himself. Mostly because when the [Shaman] said they lived with nature, she meant it. A bug crawled across one arm, under her fur, but seemed content just to shelter; it did not bite her. However, the proximity of insects made Wil decidedly uncomfortable.

“This place smells.”

Cers broke in, unrepentantly talkative, and some of the other Gnolls chuckled, a touch scandalized. Satar looked horrified and embarrassed. On the other hand, the [Shaman] of Gaarh Marsh just laughed. So did Krshia. It would take more than Cers’ comments to bother them, she knew.

“It does! Not everything in nature is fine. However, there are wonders. Come—I think that is enough talk. You are here to see the blooming. This is our tribe’s strength. Our magic—and our knowledge.”

So saying, she tapped the mud with her staff where she had been sprinkling small objects. As she did, the tiny seeds she had tossed down bloomed.

Vivid orchids sprouted in seconds, blooming huge petals. A twisting vine shot up and nearly hit Cers in the nose. He recoiled, and then laughed, as a tall, upright plant rose, then sprouted leaves, and a sunflower-esque head, albeit red.

“That’s amazing! Do it again! Again!”

The others were just as impressed.

“Beautiful.”

Venaz murmured, eying a resplendent plant, which seemed to have been comprised of straight angles and corners, no curves at all to it. It was sturdy where the other plants moved as the watchers reached out.

“Ah, do not touch that one, young Cers. Nor that.”

The [Shaman] stopped the little Gnoll from touching the tall flower, or another one. She cautioned the guests.

“Not all plants are good to touch, either. This one will prick you with invisible needles. This one will send little spores into your fur, which you will not enjoy.”

“Is it safe to have the children near them, then?”

A Gnoll was concerned. The Gaarh Marsh [Shamans] snorted. One retorted.

“Safe? In the short term—no. In the long term, how else would they learn not to touch when warned?”

He glanced meaningfully at Cers. The little Gnoll was reaching for the spore plant, which was more like a flower coming out of a mushroom. He hesitated, realized no one was going to stop him, even his big sister, and slowly edged back.

The display was wonderful, and the [Shamans] began showing the guests how each flower was useful. They even harvested one, mixing it up, and turning it into a dye; plucking another’s seeds and giving them to the adults. They were, apparently, quite good to taste and had effects adjacent to Dreamleaf, which the Gaarh Marsh tribe was familiar with.

Definitely worth coming to see. However, it did remind Tkrn uncomfortably of the Bloodfields. When he commented that to Inkar, having to explain what that was, one of the Gaarh Marsh [Shamans] overheard.

“Ah. You are from Liscor, yes? You have seen that place.”

Tkrn ducked his head.

“I didn’t mean to offend, [Shaman].”

He snorted.

“One does not offend so simply, young Gnoll. Nor are you wrong. Long have our [Shamans] maintained that the Bloodfields sprouted from ancestor-seeds similar to our people’s. If only they were easier to harvest, we might create new medicine or potions. Alas—we know the Bloodfields to be too dangerous.”

“Has anyone tried?”

Yerranola looked interested as she leaned on Venaz. The Minotaur was checking the diamond greatsword on his back.

“We should visit there too. Cautiously.”

Peki nodded; Feshi and Merrik rolled their eyes. Wil was just resigned. The [Shaman] grinned.

“Several times, Miss Yerranola. However, we do not try anymore. It is too risky for what we gained. Indeed, the last time we attempted to learn much was…four hundred years back. Four hundred and sixty. The Bloodfields have only grown more dangerous since then.”

He glanced at the other [Shamans] and they nodded. Yerranola was impressed.

“You remember that accurately?”

The [Shaman] nodded gravely.

“We must. Which brings us to our next portion. Come! Those who wish to admire the flowers or learn more may stay, but we have good drink and snacks. We shall enjoy it—here.”

He led them to a small hill. However, to the visitors’ surprise or dismay, it was equally muddy. The Earth elemental sat next to it, and they realized they were to sit there too, albeit on straw mats.

It did not prevent one from getting dirty. Nor, as it turned out, was that the point. As food and drink of the Gaarh Marsh was brought out, the visitors realized they weren’t eating in nature; they were eating with it.

A pale moth with white wings landed on Tkrn’s drinking cup and dipped a proboscis into his drink. He stared at it—then at the huge animal from the swamps who’d rolled over. The ‘pet’ began stealing some of the nuts from his bowl. Inkar just laughed, more at home with this than he was.

Krshia gently flicked off a roach from her fur, but she tried to be amiable as could be. Some couldn’t handle it, like Wil, who stood a bit shamefaced, drinking and talking with some of the others, but the others took the experience at face-value.

Venaz refused to leave, with classic Venaz-stubbornness, although his clenched jaw twitched every time a centipede or something ran over his legs. The Gnolls of the Gaarh Marsh tribe found this very amusing. However, as time went on, Tkrn and Inkar did enjoy themselves. None of the bugs bit, and the larger animals were quite welcome. Even a cow, with actual horns, who looked just as able to defend herself as any other animal who sat down next to them to Inkar’s delight.

As they sat, though, the chief [Shaman] had children and adults sit around him. The second part of this event was this:

They told stories.

—-

A bird landed on Cers’ head and he was wide-eyed, staring up at it with crossed eyes and at the [Shaman] as she spoke.

“Long ago, when the first Gnolls emerged from the earth, after the Time of Hiding, we saw the great cities that Drake and Dragon had built. Some of us decided we should learn from them. They became City Gnolls, and live there to this day. However, most Gnolls decided safety lay in the open ground, the plains. There was more space back then, you see, and north and south were open to us. We remember the first Gnolls who made the Gaarh Marsh tribe decided to live in the very same swamps and marshes we travel—although they were bigger in those days. Eight times bigger; they have shrunk as Drakes dredged the land.”

“You remember it so clearly? How long ago was that?”

Yerranola was impressed. The [Shaman] nodded.

“We remember this detail, Honored Yerranola. However, how long? Thousands of years. Tens of thousands? Some details escape. That is the problem with history. However, we remember all the stories we can, and tell them.”

She gestured at their audiences.

“Drakes have similar stories. Humans, likewise. I will tell you the story of Feis if you wish it, children, guests. Feis Firescale, greatest of the Oldblood Drakes, who was said to have learned from a Dragonlord in the days when they still flew Izril’s skies. That is a story even Drakes have forgotten! Ah, but first, stories of Gaarh Marsh.”

She told them one to begin with, how the first Gnolls had wandered into the swamps, many suffering, but eventually, one had struck a bargain with the heart of nature and the first guardians—the Earth Elementals—became their mentors and defenders.

“We remember it. Alas, but we do not remember how the bargain was worded, or where it was struck.”

The [Shaman] looked sad. It was Venaz who lifted a hand, as if they were in class.

“There is a fallacy in your statement, [Shaman]. If your tribe can remember as far back as the first days of your people, why have you not collated or written down this information? Is this myth or fact?”

Feshi kicked him in the back, but Venaz did not relent. The [Shaman] met his challenging gaze.

“Fact.”

“You did not seek to preserve your knowledge, though? There are memory Skills and books; none of this was employed?”

She chuckled.

“Minotaur. Do your people remember every event in your history? Even ten thousand years ago?”

He shifted as everyone stared at him.

“Our records are exact up till about six thousand years and we keep records in multiple locations.”

“However, that is a short amount of time. Gaarh Marsh does the same, by the way. We did not always keep written notes, although we do now—but we have great [Storytellers] and [Shamans] who remember. We took pains to do so. Why do you think we lost it, despite knowing the value of the past? Hm…little Gnoll?”

She pointed to a girl from another tribe. The Gnoll rolled up her eyes, squinting as she tried to figure it out.

“…Because you lost the books?”

Everyone laughed. The Gnoll’s ears flattened, but the [Shaman] smiled approvingly.

“Not a bad answer! The truth is, we did lose them. Or they were destroyed.”

“Every record?”

“Venaz, shut up.”

Wil whispered to him. The Minotaur looked affronted. The [Shaman] from Gaarh Marsh met his eyes.

“Every record, Honored Guest. Every record. Every [Shaman]. Every [Storyteller]. Sometimes, almost every Gnoll. We remember that we forget. And the reason we lost our history, despite our attempts to preserve it was because of calamity. I am sure you know of what I speak.”

The audience went silent. Now, the [Shaman] closed her eyes. She scooped some mud up with her paw, and tossed it up. Rather than coming down like a shower—the audience saw something fall.

It hurtled out of the clouds to the earth. Not falling like a meteor; collapsing. It had been taller than the clouds. Now—the Earth Elemental’s head slowly turned, moving for the first time since it had sat.

Watching a Giant fall.

“We called this age Skyfall’s Memory. It was one of the times we lost too much. One of the times entire species vanished, and the world was plunged into a time when even steel was rare, the art of it forgotten by many. Skyfall’s Memory. The last war of the Giants.”

The [Shaman] spoke as the image vanished. She tapped the ground, and spoke, using some magic to augment her tale.

“It was those times when history was lost. We remember other events; the Creler Wars destroyed so many records, entire tribes. The Faded Times, when magic died. Skyfall’s Memory was a great war, not a cataclysm like some times, though. Each event was terrible, regardless. Archmages’ citadels fell to ruin. Continents turned to dust…or sank. Minotaurs lost their history too. Every people did. You ask why we forget? It is because in those days, when we fled for our lives, we carried only our young, food, a weapon—we left anything to run faster, to survive. Books were not important, then.”

—-

The stories Gaarh Marsh did remember were impressive nonetheless. Indeed, the group left the entire event feeling rather solemn, even Venaz.

Krshia lingered, along with Feshi. It was a bit of a surprise, as the two Gnolls were not alike at all. Feshi was younger, half Krshia’s age, a [Strategist] in the Titan’s School.

Krshia was a Silverfang City Gnoll. However, both were highly-placed in their tribes, enough to speak to their Chieftains. Which was why the Gaarh Marsh [Chief Shaman], Perbne, asked them to join her in her hut.

“I hope you can bear our message to your Chieftains. My Chieftain will no doubt speak to yours, but Plain’s Eye demands much time of late, and the longer other tribes have to weigh our request, the better.”

“Your Chieftain is not attending the Plain’s Eye tribe’s meeting?”

“We were not invited. If we had been, we would have refused.”

Perbne said simply. Feshi and Krshia exchanged a glance.

“What is the Gaarh Marsh’s will? If it is something truly secret, Chieftain Akrisa would surely come by evening…”

The [Shaman] shook her head, smiling.

“We do not keep secrets. Not among kin. We do not shout this; but it is fine to tell you two. Gaarh Marsh hopes our great plan will be supported, and we are willing to offer much. What we offer—well, that is a smaller secret. What we desire is simple: we would wish for your tribes, every tribe willing, to send your young and old to ours.”

“To foster?”

Feshi’s ears perked up. Exchanges of Gnolls to learn at other tribes weren’t rare. The [Shaman] shook her head again.

“No. They would become a new tribe. Not ours. Not any. Perhaps they would split once more. However, we would hope to send this new tribe, split from half of ours—and send it over the sea. To Chandrar.”

Krshia’s jaw dropped. She had expected something big, but this?

“To fight for the King of Destruction?”

“Hm…no. Although it is fine if others think that. No, to settle. To live, as we do on Izril. Live, that Gnolls might be widespread on two continents. We have done it before.”

“We were wiped out.”

“Then we must try again. You both know the last will of the Meeting of Tribes.”

To revitalize the Gnoll population. Both Gnolls scrutinized each other as Perbne nodded.

“The tribes prepared for war—ironically before the Antinium came. Now? Our numbers swell, but there is less land for Gnolls. Better not to fight each other or Drakes. Better to use the King of Destruction’s war. Some of our tribes may ally, some fight against. If they could live in Chandrar, we would call it success no matter how it happens.”

“That’s so—ambitious.”

Feshi took a breath. Krshia nodded. Her plans of teaching Gnolls magic almost seemed small compared to this. She was about to point out the logistics of getting so many Gnolls over the sea when Feshi spoke.

“I—wished to talk to Honored Krshia about this, but since you are here, Shaman Perbne, it seems only fitting. The Weatherfur tribe has a similar plan, if not one so ambitious.”

Perbne’s eyes opened. Krshia studied Feshi. The [Strategist] glanced at both, looking at Krshia longer.

“We plan to put forwards a movement smaller in scope. More…tactical. We had hoped to send a tribe north. Into Human lands. Multiple tribes, if it is even possible to negotiate for rights. I will be returning to Oteslia to attempt to meet with Magnolia Reinhart soon.”

Krshia sat there, mouth open. Perbne just smiled.

“A fine idea. Why not do both? Let our Chieftains meet, then. I hope Silverfang will listen to our plans and consider supporting them.”

“Of—of course we will. I have no doubt my sister, Chieftain Akrisa, will take it into consideration.”

The two Gnolls nodded. Krshia gaped at them.

Grand plans were being born at this Meeting of Tribes. They didn’t even know about the Earthers!

Or…perhaps that was why. They sensed it. The Gaarh Marsh [Shaman] looked restless, as if she sensed it again. A story repeating itself.

Times of change.

—-

Krshia wanted to find Akrisa and tell her about the big plans—she was even supportive of Weatherfur’s, a bit more dubious about the scope of Gaarh Marsh’s. However, Silverfang would surely ally with both powerful tribes.

Akrisa was not back yet, however. There was huge news, though. Cetrule, who had stayed to organize a search for Ferkr, reached Krshia as she returned to camp alone, looking agitated.

“Krshia! There is a massive problem!”

She tensed.

“The convoy from Liscor?”

“No! We must deal with this—I need your help! All the Gnolls of authority in the Silverfang tribe must stop this!”

“Stop what?”

Krshia was uncertain about her taking a position of command, despite being Honored, as a City Gnoll. However, Cetrule dragged her off, and she realized he was trying to grab every young Silverfang and confiscate…

What? Confiscate something? Krshia reached for a Gnoll trying to conceal something behind her back.

“What is it you have?”

“Everyone has one, Honored Krshia! Don’t take mine.”

The Gnoll had a jade bracelet on her wrist, a pretty thing she was trying to hide. Had she stolen it? That didn’t seem to be the issue, though.

“No one is taking anything! Put it back! Return it—now!”

Cetrule shouted. The Gnolls protested. One waved a magical wand—albeit one that merely removed stains.

“They were gifts, Cetrule! All the tribes have them!”

“We will not! Give them back! Now!”

Krshia eyed the bracelet. It was expensive, not some cheap fake jade replica. The real stuff was worth gold. She frowned at the young Gnoll.

“Who gave you this?”

“Aunt! Aunt!”

Tkrn ran up, dragging Inkar behind him, Oor and Orreh. Krshia turned to him. The [Guardsman] panted.

“Aunt! There are stolen goods everywhere around me! Beilmark and I sensed it—all these goods are—”

“Return them now! I do not care what the Woven Bladegrass tribe is giving out! They are not yours to take!”

Cetrule howled. Krshia’s eyes widened. The copper penny dropped.

—-

“Raided caravans?”

“Five. The Woven Bladegrass hit Drake caravans on the trade roads. Worse—they passed out most of what they took. A ‘gift to the Meeting of Tribes’.”

Cetrule had confiscated everything he could find, but there were countless trinkets he’d missed. Krshia stared at the pile of goods and felt sick.

“Why would Woven Bladegrass do this? Much less give it out?”

Beilmark seemed agitated, and no wonder. As a Senior Guardsman, this was like finding a criminal gang under her nose and she was itching to do something.

The second part was easy.

“It spreads the guilt around. If young Gnolls take it—older Gnolls too—then the other tribes cannot object.”

“Chieftain Akrisa will. The other tribes—the responsible ones—will not allow this provocation.”

Cetrule promised grimly. Beilmark looked at him, then at Krshia.

“Why attack caravans, though?”

“Because they were Drake caravans. Woven Bladegrass does not see Drake cities as neutral, but hostile. They’ve always been in conflict with other Drake cities, since they were founded. They would like other tribes to join them.”

The [Shaman] growled, exasperated. Krshia stirred.

“They’ll start a war.”

She glanced at the others for confirmation. Cetrule nodded, angry, worried.

“That is what they want. We must press them to stop. Force them to stop! Chieftain Akrisa’s meeting with Plains Eye will be interrupted for this. Before more can happen—Krshia, will you come with me?”

She nodded and the Gnolls rose. They went to find the other Chieftains to make a mass-decision. More were hunting for the Chieftain of the Woven Bladegrass tribe, Chieftain Werri.

Of course, they were too slow. By the time the other Chieftains were demanding to know where she was, news of what she’d done hit them.

—-

Paworkers. They were a phenomenon in some Drake cities.

Even if they did not exist, many cities had far more acrimonious relationships between species. Mostly Gnoll and Drake.

It was a phenomenon that Senior Guardsman Relc was getting to know. However, this was not the city he had been sent to. This one was closer to the Gnoll Plains. For all that—or perhaps because of that—it had a bad reputation for inter-species conflicts.

Of course, they went one way in the City of Selpysh. It was Drake-held, and had strong links to the City of War, Manus.

It was just another day in one of the bars with a higher-than-average Gnoll presence. However, the Watch was cracking down on a fight.

A Drake had taken objection to a few Gnolls and decided to sort the matter out himself. Well—many such incidents occurred, between Drake and Drake, Gnoll and Gnoll.

But if you looked for it, you could find it. A bloody-mouthed Gnoll was being shielded by a female Gnoll smaller than he was, and the Watch didn’t care.

“You’re under arrest. What happened, sir?”

One of the [Guardsmen] went to grab the Gnoll, while the Drake gave an angry accounting.

“You’re just going to arrest him? Stop!”

The female Gnoll tried to block one of the temporary workers, the Gnoll. He was trying to tell her to shut up before she made it worse. The Watch just grabbed her too, for interfering with their job. She began to struggle.

“…And that’s when they break her teeth, fine her, and throw her in jail. What am I supposed to see, hm?”

One of the Gnolls sitting at the table observed at the scene tiredly. He did not like it, of course. However, he studied the two sitting across from him.

No City Gnolls, these. The Woven Bladegrass [Siege Juggernaut] was massive. He was attracting attention from the Watch just by sitting here, despite not having been part of the altercation. However, they were clearly thinking their squad was not the one who should tackle this.

“This is what happens in cities like these. The other tribes would have peace—let this sort of thing continue. You know of Paworkers.”

The first Gnoll nodded. He was far smaller than the Woven Bladegrass’ representative. Two other Gnolls shifted uncomfortably.

Nearly sixteen tribes’ warriors were in the city of Selpysh. Not all in the same bar. However, they were presumably watching similar scenes. It spoke to the city, perhaps, that Woven Bladegrass had been confident they would find such examples at any given moment.

“I do not like this. I do not at all. However, these are Drake cities. We know this is how it happens.”

The [Master Slinger] of the Loofrel tribe glanced at the Gnolls, her brow deeply troubled. The Woven Bladegrass [Warrior] nodded. So did a Steelfur Gnoll. Despite his differences with Woven Bladegrass, he seemed ready to stand up.

“This does not change the fact that war between tribe and city is dangerous.”

The Steelfur Gnoll pointed out, half-reaching for his weapon. The gate guards hadn’t allowed Gnolls to carry noticeable weapons into the city, though, so the [Mace Gnoll] didn’t have his weapon, only a belt-knife.

“Do you think this is acceptable?”

Both Gnolls were on the ground now, being kicked. The first Gnoll took a drink of something as the other Gnolls looked uncomfortable. He calmly glanced up at the younger, taller Gnolls.

“Honored Berr, what do you think?”

The old [Berserker] saw the other Gnolls turn to him. He eyed the young Gnoll and temporary worker as they were dragged up. He drained his cup, less moved by the Woven Bladegrass’ persuasion than the others. He had seen this before.

However, he was here. He shrugged at the [Juggernaut].

“I don’t think it matters what I think right now. Warrior Devl, did your Chieftain come here to persuade us with words and sight? I do not think so, no. Tell me—does she do this often?”

He turned. Uncomprehending, the other two non-Woven Bladegrass Gnolls turned in their seats. They had been told they’d meet Chieftain Werri. But she wasn’t…

Berr stared at the shorter, female Gnoll who’d been dragged into the arrest. The angry Drake who’d started it all was talking to the bored Senior Guardsman. The patrol leader heard more shouting.

“Shut up that damned Gnoll alr—”

He turned just in time to see the shorter female Gnoll press her wrists against the manacles on her arms. The [Guard] raised a club.

The Gnoll snapped the iron manacles. The Gnoll worker under arrest with the bloody mouth, the squad of [Guards], and the angry Drake all stopped. They stared at the manacles.

“Cheap iron?”

One of the Drakes licked her lips. She looked at the female Gnoll. Who…seemed a bit taller now. A bit more muscular. She rubbed at her wrists; one of the [Guards] had given her a bloody nostril.

“Um. Did someone’s [Dangersense] just go off?”

One of the [Guards] turned her head slowly. The one with a club swung it.

“Don’t you d—”

Honored Berr took some satisfaction from watching the Drake hit the wall. Chieftain Werri, taller now, inspected the Gnoll next to her. His mouth was wide open.

“High-level criminal! Call for—”

The Senior Guardsman backed up, fumbling for his whistle. The other [Guards] tried to go for Werri.

They never had a chance, of course. However, Werri let the Senior Guardsman blow the whistle. She walked over to the table of other Gnolls. The [Master Slinger] and [Mace Gnoll] looked horrified.

“Chieftain! We’re going to be arrested.”

“No we aren’t.”

Berr said it at the same time as Werri. He met her eyes. She was grinning wildly, fury and excitement in her eyes. He just sighed and massaged one shoulder. Then he got up. And he was already a foot taller.

“What’s going on? You’re not going to fight the Watch?”

Werri looked at the nervous Steelfur Gnoll. Berr just shook his head. He pushed back his mug.

“Young Gnoll. Don’t be silly. Fight the Watch?”

The Steelfur Gnoll relaxed too soon. Chieftain Werri was standing on the tabletop. She surveyed the other shocked Gnolls in the pub.

“I am Chieftain Werri of the Woven Bladegrass tribe! Tell me, do you want to live like this? Do you want to live every day letting these Drakes, this city insult you, arrest you and beat you down?”

The Gnolls in the bar stared up at her. The Woven Bladegrass [Juggernaut] slowly stood up behind his Chieftain. The Steelfur Gnoll and the Loofrel Gnoll turned to Berr. The old [Berserker] shook his head. He was growing, and his own internal fury was slowly…building.

“Young Gnoll. Fight the Watch? Don’t be silly. Haven’t you ever seen the start to a city sacking? We’re not fighting the Watch. We’re fighting—everything.”

He grinned. The Steelfur Gnoll’s jaw dropped in horror.

Chieftain Werri raised her arm and she was joined by a roar from angry, fed-up Gnolls. Berr saw the first ones storm from the bar as the Watch reinforcements came down the street.

They were a good Watch. Led by former Manus soldiers. Indeed, they had a [Captain] who had served with distinction in Manus’ army who was also the [Mayor].

The Gnolls in the city weren’t warriors by and large. However, Chieftain Werri and the hundred or so Woven Bladegrass Gnolls were. She raced out of the tavern at the squads of Drakes.

Berr and the [Juggernaut] walked onto the walls. The City Watch tried to stop them of course. However, it was Honored Berr and…he tossed a screaming Drake onto a rooftop and pointed.

“Fast response.”

“You honor us. Will you fight with Chieftain Werri?”

Berr glanced over his shoulder. She was storming towards the city hall, intent on taking on the ex-[Captain] herself. She hadn’t even needed a sword.

A Manus-allied city. Berr wondered how much trouble they were going to be in. He shrugged amicably, and watched as the now Gnoll-held wall waited for reinforcements.

Eight thousand Gnolls were racing across the open ground from cover. They were running for ropes being tossed down the walls, or the gates which had been seized. Berr heard the howling, growing louder, striking fear into the hearts of the Drake citizens. He sat on the battlements, feet dangling there.

“It’s not as fun as it used to be. I’m growing old.”

He complained as he watched.

—-

The Woven Bladegrass tribe’s raids of the caravans were all but forgotten. Krshia, Cetrule, Akrisa, and dozens of other Gnolls and [Chieftains] all stared into the distance.

It appeared Chieftain Werri’s method of dealing with blame or trouble was simple. Cause more trouble, until the first incident was forgotten.

…No. No one was going to forget this. It was a thin trail of smoke from here. The news though, hit the Meeting of Tribes.

The Woven Bladegrass had sacked a city. They were taking their spoils into the Gnoll Plains, to donate it to the Meeting of Tribes as part of their gift. Worse—high-level warriors in all the major tribes had participated, willingly or not.

Including a member of Az’muzarre.

—-

The Meeting of Tribes was getting more exciting every second. Chieftain Orelighn hated it.

All he wanted was for his small Greenpaw tribe to do better. He did not like talk of war; his tribe was a rare settlement-tribe, not a nomadic one that could flee enemy armies.

Nor was his tribe large enough to like thinking of fighting any Drake city. So he was doubly unhappy with the news, especially since he had really liked the gold bracelet he’d been given until he realized it was purloined goods.

Well, all that meant he was restless, but he composed his face because the other Chieftain was important. More important than Greenpaw; perhaps an up and coming tribe. It hurt a bit, but that was new tribes with momentum for you.

Yet the young Gnoll was very, very respectful. Which was so gratifying to Orelighn, who was often at the bottom of such pecking orders.

“Chieftain Mrell, thank you for your time. Apologies if I find the news of the Woven Bladegrass’ actions…disturbing.”

“Not at all, Chieftain Orelighn. Our tribes are both stationary tribes. Mine smelts, yours farms. We should be more cautious of antagonism with other tribes.”

The Chieftain of the Demas Metal tribe had a covered object in front of him. Orelighn nodded gratefully. The younger Gnoll was a former [Warrior], perhaps, but his new tribe had taken to smithing.

“Indeed. I am ah, curious, as all are in your new, wondrous metal. Demas.”

“A mix of Orichalcum and other alloys. Not as impressive as adamantine—but as good as mithril, if a bit heavier. However—durable beyond steel, even Dwarfsteel! I hope it will change the fortunes of all Gnoll tribes.”

Mrell did not lack for ambition. However, he had asked to meet Orelighn for some reason, when he could be talking to Steelfur. Orelighn nodded.

“An ambition I share, of course. How can Greenpaw aid your Demas Metal tribe then, Chieftain Mrell? Have some more snacks, I encourage you.”

The younger Chieftain brightened and he ate some of the snacks from the Silverfangs and Liscor. Orelighn hadn’t eaten them, despite being sorely tempted, and was using them to impress visitors.

“You are too kind, Chieftain Orelighn. These come from the north?”

“Yes, Liscor. Delightful, aren’t they?”

The Gnoll nodded.

“I have been north and south, but never encountered such dishes—wonderful.”

“You are widely travelled. A Plains Gnoll all your life?”

“All my life. I learned how to spot new ores, so discovering Demas Metal…well, my tribe is small, new, and I am the first Chieftain, but it may be large one day. However, we are [Smiths], [Smelters], [Miners]…not [Growers]. I came to you, Chieftain Orelighn, because your tribe is known to grow food best of all tribes.”

“Hardly as well as Oteslia. A poor choice in some ways for a tribe.”

Orelighn was still flattered. Mrell had a way with words. The young Chieftain shook his head.

“As we now see, Drake cities and Gnoll tribes are not always allies. Chieftain Orelighn, your fields could feed my tribe. If we could come to a trade arrangement, both tribes could grow richer.”

That made Orelighn excited. A steady partner tribe, especially one like this? He nodded, sitting back and having some of the sweet, flavored popcorn himself.

“This is an idea I would…certainly love to explore.”

“I as well. I hope this gift may convince you that Demas Metal would offer more than mere gold. Please; when I knew I would meet with you, I had my [Smiths] commission it.”

Orelighn’s heart beat faster. Surely not—? He tugged the cloth aside and saw a…hoe…made out of the blue Demas Metal. Sky-blue, delicate, with a ribbon pattern…

Fit for a blade. But a hoe? Orelighn blinked.

“So much Demas in this! This hoe…it is a wonderfully forged piece, Chieftain Mrell. But a hoe?”

“I know it may seem an odd gift, but I encourage you to have your people attempt to use it. I considered a scythe, but a hoe would strike rocks, and soil constantly. Even the strongest steel dulls.”

True enough. Orelighn hated the costs of replacing them. Normally, hoes were durable, but if you were chopping magical plants with their stupid, edge-dulling roots for instance…

Mrell gestured to the gleaming farming tool.

“This is lighter than steel. And—I wish you to test this—I do not think it will dull! If it does, it will be at a twentieth, a thirtieth the rate of steel. Perhaps even a hundred times slower. Consider that for your workers.”

Orelighn did. He began to like this gift more and more.

“Chieftain Mrell, I will give it to my best [Farmers]. This—this is a generous gift. You have my thanks.”

The other Chieftain nodded, modestly. He took another bite of the popcorn and then went on.

“It is my only regret that the Demas metal is not finished. It could be improved. It is a new alloy, and another insight into new metallurgy would benefit my tribe greatly.”

Orelighn paused, in inspecting the tool. He glanced up. Mrell met his eyes.

“I have heard, Chieftain Orelighn, that the Greenpaw tribe has an object of fine metallurgy. It is my hope I could obtain a sample. Just a sample, that our tribes might work together.”

The other Chieftain licked his lips. Who had told him? How did he know? Well, every Gnoll had a mouth…he hesitated.

“This is a complex issue, Chieftain Mrell. It is a gift to the tribes, and I am already…allied…with other tribes. It is not something that belongs to me alone.”

“I understand, Chieftain Orelighn. Nor would I interfere with any of that. However, just a piece might allow me to level or my tribe to improve. Time is of the essence, after all.”

Especially if he wanted to make a breakthrough to improve his tribe’s worth. Orelighn’s eyes flickered. He was still inclined to say ‘no’. Right up until Chieftain Mrell presented him with a second bundle.

“I would consider it a deep debt between our tribes, Chieftain Orelighn.”

It was a bag of holding. And inside…Orelighn gulped at the gold coins glittering there. He looked up and Chieftain Mrell was poised. Polite, confident—rich from his new metal.

“Perhaps…I could part with a small piece or two. If it was kept extremely secret.”

Both Gnolls smiled. Orelighn gestured.

“A sample is in a safe place. If you will follow me?”

They rose. Orelighn hurried Mrell out of the tent, looking around. There weren’t many Silverfangs or Longstalker’s Fang Gnolls in his poorer camp, but they were close by.

It wasn’t a betrayal! Well—it was just him using every connection he could. Orelighn told himself that Mrell was a Gnoll it was good to make connections with. Just a piece…

He was searching for Krshia, Inkarr, Deskie, Eska—anyone who might see them when a loud commotion made him flinch. Mrell turned, head sharp, and the two Chieftains saw an event taking place.

Only—not one aimed at them. Orelighn slipped into the guarded storehouse and handed Mrell a covered object the Gnoll took, inspected, smiled at, and slipped into his bag of holding. He bowed to Orelighn and then the two went to see what the issue was.

“Make way! This Gnoll is a criminal! Make way!”

A group of Gnolls charged with keeping order were forcing the crowd apart, for all they’d summoned them with a banging of a gong. Orelighn and Mrell both appeared to see one of the traditionalist tribes, Sofang, escorting a Gnoll between them.

Sofang…what was that? Orelighn recalled they were a loyal tribe to the old ways.

“Sofang? They’re charged with making sure order occurs in the Meeting of Tribes.”

Mrell was surprised. Orelighn blinked.

“You know them?”

“Trap specialists. Good fighters; they often work for Plain’s Eye. Traditionalists.”

Which meant he and his Demas Metal were the exact opposite of theirs—although Demas Metal had been carefully neutral. All that was fine and the two Chieftains stood at the front of the crowd, having done nothing wrong, only perhaps a trifle underhanded and that was on Orelighn’s conscience.

So why did one of the Gnolls with a bow spot the two and spit at their feet? Orelighn was shocked! Mrell though, just appeared resigned.

“What was that about? Is Demas Metal at odds with Sofang?”

“No. Not at all, Chieftain Orelighn.”

Mrell watched the [Archer] walk past, one of the security detail. She never looked at him again. He shook his head.

“My…partner. That is all. I was part of Sofang, for a while. I left to start Demas Metal.”

“Ah. I understand.”

Love and loss. Orelighn was used to that sort of thing as a Chieftain. He felt that young Inkarr might have the same relationship with Tkrn in time—then again, perhaps not. Human and Gnoll? It could work.

It was just a backdrop to the moment. The real event was when the Sofang’s leader—not the [Archer]—shouted.

“This Gnoll has been discovered to be tricking other Gnolls and falsely claiming abilities she does not have! She will now admit such for all to hear and apologize to the tribes!”

He yanked the hood off the Gnoll’s face. And there she was. Orelighn stared up at the young female Gnoll, who stammered her confession of guilt before the booing and shouting drowned her out. He looked up at Ferkr.

…He had no idea who she was.

Krshia Silverfang did, though. The Gnoll [Mage]’s admission of guilt rocked her. Especially because Ferkr was confessing to not being a [Mage] at all. To have been lying to her master, Grimalkin, and pretending to use mage-magic when she was just a [Shaman].

She was lying, of course. Krshia stared at Ferkr as the Gnoll was summarily expelled from the Meeting of Tribes by the guards. She was lying.

But…why? All Krshia knew was that she had found Grimalkin’s apprentice. The Sinew Magus was not going to like this, though.

Not one bit.

—-

Torture sucked. It didn’t have to be physical…mental torture was a terrible thing. Yet physical torture…it was bad too.

On the whole of it, magical spells blasting your mind or changing you, erasing parts of yourself was perhaps the greater threat as a whole and every smart military body trained their people to resist that kind of thing as best they could.

However—physical torture came in many forms. Horrible forms. Mutilation, rape, physical pain…

It was hard not to run through the list of ways she knew she could be tortured. Especially the most obvious one. She knew—she knew it was not likely. She hoped it was not.

Yet Captain Bevussa of the Wings of Pallass still thought of it. She was a prisoner of Goblins. She thought these were…not the same Goblins who might do that.

However, every adventurer knew the danger. Especially female adventurers. Kin and Issa were female. Bevussa was female.

“Captain. If there’s a chance—”

“Shut. Up. Kin. If it comes to that—we deal with it.”

Bevussa sat in her cell. No manacles; Kin and Issa were in other cells. Which was interesting, because the cells seemed new. As in—someone had built them just for right now.

The three Wings of Pallass looked at each other. Three. It should have been four. Zassil was dead. Killed in the battle with Hectval. She still missed him.

If she had led her team into the worst nightmare for a female adventurer…Bevussa closed her eyes.

“I have a pill in my ankle-bracelet.”

Issa spoke grimly. Bevussa opened her eyes.

“It’s not going to come to that, you two.”

“But if it does…”

“…It would have happened already. You know what happens with [Bandits] or—other groups.”

The two Drakes hesitated. That was true. They’d been tossed in here for a day, but none of them had been assaulted or tortured. In fact, they’d been fed a quite nice meal by a Goblin who just grunted when they asked questions. The only torture had been the spices.

The worry in Bevussa’s mind, even if these were the Goblins she thought they were, was the battle. It had been chaos and they’d been fighting for their lives, but she knew her team had killed or wounded some Goblins. Fair was fair; the Goblins had hit both their teams as they went for the Titan and fought monsters, but would they see it that way?

The Titan of Baleros, and those idiots had to be greedy. He had literally called down the mountains on their heads. Thunderstorms, monster attacks and the Goblins. Dead gods. Bevussa didn’t know what to expect next, but she was prepared for the worst.

A door opened. A Goblin walked down the steps, slowly. Kin and Issa tensed. Bevussa’s beak opened wide. She reached for the iron bars.

“Listen. We know Erin Solstice. The Wandering Inn. We didn’t know Goblins were here, but we know Erin Solstice.”

The Hobgoblin looked at her. Bevussa stopped speaking and stared. Badarrow regarded Bevussa through red-rimmed eyes.

“I know.”

—-

The fortress was called Goblinhome. It was home to the last major Goblin tribe in this region of Izril. The Flooded Waters tribe. Or that was what they had been.

Now, they were Redfangs, Mountain City Goblins, Cave Goblins, Goldstone Goblins, and many more. They were her Goblins, and this was their last, their first, their only home.

Goblinhome. Built into the trapped valley, a fortress of stone and wood. It had repelled Frost Wyverns, other monsters, and even taken out adventurers.

However, its greatest strength had been secrecy; that no one knew it was here. Now, they did.

Rags did not like that. Then again, she did not like many things that happened to her. They happened anyways. Adventurers had escaped the impromptu battle in the High Passes that had started due to some kind of…Skill that made Sharpstick attack.

He was doing penance, as he saw it. Dangerous patrols, shoveling poo-pits…Rags had told him it was not his fault. Sometimes, though, a Goblin had to do what they felt was right.

Adventurers were going to come and attack. She knew it was an inevitability. She just wished she had longer to prepare.

Then again, they were always coming. Goblinhome was far more than the primitive fortifications it had been. Miners had dug into the rock, constructed very lovely inner tunnels, choke points, and the layers of traps had been reinforced again and again. With as much cunning as Rags’ brain could come up with.

However, she had also faced the problems of a growing tribe, even one depleted by the battle at Liscor where so many had died. Goblins made babies quick, and little Goblin bands had found her.

Plus, she had Ogres to feed. That was why…she closed her eyes.

She had done what had to be done. Even before the incident with adventurers, she knew reprisals would occur. She checked her new, shiny boots.

Leather, in her size no less. Very well-made.

…Not made for Goblins, but they’d been adjusted. Rags stared at them for a moment, then checked her armor, the enchanted chainmail and leather, Carn Wolf fur neck, the huge crossbow that was now more comfortable on her growing back, her shortsword, also enchanted, and the two magical rings she’d added.

Then and only then, she went to meet Bevussa. Rags marched down tunnels in Goblinhome, past shorter Goblins. She had always been small, even for a regular Goblin, but she was growing. Slowly; not as fast as Hobs. She was very young to be a Hob, hence why they thought she was growing slower.

Maybe it was a Chieftain thing. For here walked the [Great Chieftain] of the High Passes. Rags. She was met by a Goblin waiting, also shorter than average for a Hob, but taller than her as of yet.

“Redscar.”

“Chieftain.”

He nodded at her. Redscar had his twin swords; no Thunderfur since the Carn Wolf hated the narrower corridors deeper in the fortress.

“Coming?”

“Just for while. Gold-ranks all walking about.”

His voice was…cautious. Rags caught the implicit language in the way he stood, the way he didn’t reach for his swords. Of course she trusted him and he trusted her judgment. Just in case, then.

She didn’t argue. Rags marched into one of the great rooms in Goblinhome and found the three adventurers staring at the manufacturing halls. For a second she felt a flash of irritation. Did Badarrow have to take them here?

The [Sniper] had confirmed them, but there was such a thing as caution! The Wings of Pallass were now front-row to seeing a Thunderbow being constructed from Wyvern parts. The massive bone chassis of the bow flexed as Goblins tested its strength, arming the oversized crossbow that had to be mounted on the ground, not carried. It could take down a Wyvern in time and it was one of Rags’ new projects.

Thunderbows for her archers. Anyone climbing to attack Goblinhome would be met with crisscrossing fire from hidden nests, that would equalize artifact advantages. Meanwhile, Redscar would ride down on them with his Redfang riders on Carn Wolves. If that wasn’t enough?

Rags looked down and saw another of her commanders watching the Wings of Pallass, a lot less sanguinely than Redscar. She pointed, and the Hob flipping the dagger right next to Issa scowled, but relented.

Poisonbite slunk back to her group of Goblins. Cave Goblins, regular Goblins, and Hobs, all who wore grey and faded into the landscape. Unlike Redfangs, they never attacked from the front. They were ambushers, all of them armed with poison. They’d happily tag you with a poison arrow, or slash your leg and run off while you tried to heal that.

Specialist forces. Everything Rags had lacked in previous battles. With time, with effort, she was creating an army based on what she thought could take on any foe. Now—she might have to put it to the test.

The last group of her dedicated forces present was manifest in the Ogre napping, ignoring the manufacturing going on.

The Ogre had 0% of the discipline of even the most basic Goblins in Goblinhome. He was one of eighteen warriors from the Tormek Al clan along with non-fighter Ogres who’d joined them. Rags sighed.

Somo would have to deal with discipline in her ranks. She was the female Ogre who had first volunteered to join Rags’ tribe. A ‘weak’ warrior among her clan, she’d greatly enjoyed the food in Goblinhome, but added to the need for more, as well as mana potions, which the Ogres took in payment for their services as happily as gold or jewels.

In return, they formed the shock troopers of Goblinhome. If Redscar’s or Poisonbite’s forces weren’t enough, or if it was a stand-up fight, in went the Ogres—as well as Calescent’s feared spicy-brigade, who laced their weapons with pepper dust. If you laughed at that, you’d never had him blow a handful of his secret blend into your eyes. Rags would rather have been stabbed in the stomach than face that after she’d asked for a demonstration.

Well, the Ogres might be ‘weak’ in Invek’s eyes, but Rags had quickly turned the Ogres into warriors the rest of their tribe would walk wide around. Not only had she asked Redscar to put some actual training and physical conditioning into the somewhat lazy Ogre warriors, she’d made use of their abilities.

They had thick skin like armor. So she gave them more armor. Each one was covered in iron or steel armor, even Wyvern bone or hide in places to make up for the need to adjust smaller sets to them.

When they went into combat, woe to the adventurers who faced them, because the Ogres would have the same gear as [Knights]—if not enchanted. Yet.

How many will I have to kill? Rags sighed. She leaned on the balcony as Bevussa spotted her. Had they ever met? She vaguely recalled…never meeting a Garuda in her life.

Badarrow was here, the leader of her archer squads, but Snapjaw was not. She was the head of [Wyvern Riders] now, having struck a connection with the huge, hungry beasts. Thanks to them, Goblinhome had mobility.

All of this meant that when Rags walked down into the manufacturing hall, the Gold-ranks stared at her like they’d seen Tremborag in war-form. Small she might be, but they saw what she had built.

“Dead gods, Captain. This—this is—”

“Shut up. Let me talk.”

Rags heard the Garuda whisper to one of the two Oldblood Drakes. She turned and after a second, bowed slightly.

“Chieftain Rags, is it?”

“Mm.”

Rags grunted. Badarrow eyed her, although Redscar’s face was carefully impassive. Bevussa looked at Rags.

“We’re friends of Erin Solstice. From…The Wandering Inn? You know her?”

“Mm. Tell them I know Erin.”

Rags turned to Badarrow, and the Goblin translated. She’d said that in Goblin tongue, not the common one. Bevussa eyed Rags. She nodded again.

“We are…sorry that we attacked your people. It was a mistake. We do not want to fight.”

She spoke more slowly. Rags grunted again. She nodded after a moment.

Stupid mistake. What had made Sharpstick think I told him to fight? She turned to Badarrow. He explained after a moment.

“Bevussa says it was accident. Not Sharpstick’s fault either. They said small [Strategist] did it. Titan.”

Rags’ brow wrinkled. A small Titan? She saw Bevussa exchange glances with her team.

In this way, Rags realized there was a lot about the world she still didn’t know. She might have, if she had remained at the inn.

The inn. She thought of Erin. Dead? She still couldn’t…Bevussa was looking at her. Rags schooled her features.

“You. Bevussa. What do if let go?”

She grunted, in passable common, but barely. Bevussa hesitated. Now, Rags eyed her, keeping her face mildly aggrieved.

“We would…leave. And not tell anyone about what you’re doing.”

“Captain—”

Rags saw Bevussa glance at Issa—or Kin—she didn’t know which, warningly. Rags made herself smile.

“Not tell? Promise?”

“We would promise. So long as Goblins don’t attack other people—we would promise. On truth spells.”

Bevussa nodded seriously at Rags. The little Chieftain thought about this. She glanced past Bevussa.

“Taganchiel. Were they telling the truth, or was that a lie?”

She called past Bevussa. The Garuda’s eyes widened as Rags spoke, far more fluently than before. She turned—and the [Shaman] sitting on the balcony opened his eyes.

He was from the Mountain City tribe, and was the best [Shaman] in Goblinhome.

“Half-truth, Chieftain.”

“I see.”

Rags saw Bevussa turn to look at her, the Oldblood Drakes patently shocked. Everyone thought someone who spoke poorly was stupid. She had learned that from Pyrite. So many lessons she had learned he hadn’t even needed to outright tell her. So many more she wished she’d had time to learn.

“If I let you go, you might bring an army back to attack Goblinhome. That would be a sad thing. I do not wish to have to kill an army of Drakes.”

She met Bevussa’s eyes. Rags gestured around Goblinhome.

“This is where Goblins live. You killed us one time.”

“We did not.”

Bevussa countered. Rags sighed.

“You? You are from Liscor, yes?”

The Gold-rank Captain nodded.

“We came after the battle, the siege. It was Humans who attacked your army.”

“Yes, I know. I was there. Humans attacked us. Drakes closed the gates in our faces. I saw both. Pallass tried to kill the Goblin Lord. You are Pallass’ adventurers, loyal Drakes and Garuda. I do not trust you. So—make me trust you. Or you will stay here.”

Rags met Bevussa’s eyes. Shaken, the Garuda stared at the little [Great Chieftain] of Goblinhome. Rags smiled.

“Do not worry. I am the nicest Goblin you will meet. I only wonder: are you honorable Gold-rank adventurers? Questions, questions.”

Then she walked off, rather pleased with one of her first conversations with a non-Goblin. Especially the goggle-eyed expressions. She had been practicing.

…But the person she had wanted to talk to was dead.

—-

She was probably going to let them go. Probably. Rags had considered her options.

She was not Tremborag. She would not torture the Gold-ranks. Keeping them prisoner? They’d just try to break out, and the odds were that someone would come to rescue them.

Prey on their notions of honor, make them sweat and swear, and hope. That was all Rags could do. She was already thinking of what to do if Pallass or someone else sent an army up here.

Part of her wanted to see them run up against the High Passes’ innumerable threats. However, Rags would never forget Tyrion Veltras’ army destroying three tribes in a single stroke.

The enemy could be terribly unfair. Which was why you cheated even harder.

Rags let Bevussa stew and talk to Badarrow. She, correspondingly, listened to news of Liscor that he relayed to her.

Nothing new with the dungeon. No new armies…Gnolls in some meeting of tribes? The inn was quiet.

Erin was dead. Rags nodded. She had known as much from when he returned. Right now, she had few goals in life.

Make sure her tribe was safe. Find out what Velan had hid, and the second key, which could be anywhere in Izril, or the world.

Grow stronger. Find out the secret of Goblin Kings. Kick Greydath in between the legs.

…See if Erin could live again.

Bold goals, big goals. Impossible to quantify or easily make progress towards, except in steps. The one immediate thing Rags was thinking of as the [Sniper] stood in front of her was….

“Numbtongue. And Ulvama. Both in inn. Which one do you want, if either?”

She examined Badarrow. The [Sniper] sat there, in a chair, also not of Goblin make. Rather plush. Rags had put the best items in her rooms. Luxuries of a Chieftain.

“Numbtongue. Ulvama is…odd. If Chieftain wants, Chieftain gets.”

“Would Numbtongue come?”

“No. He stays there. With Erin.”

Badarrow looked at Rags. She nodded heavily. The five Redfangs who had saved the Cave Goblins, who had met Erin and protected her…were no more. There was only Badarrow, Rabbiteater, and Numbtongue left.

Rabbiteater had gone far away. Badarrow was here, and Numbtongue? She had never met him, but he seemed to be Erin’s guardian.

For all the good it did. Rags put the bitter thought aside. What had shocked her was the knowledge that Ulvama was alive. She remembered the [Shaman] and their brief encounter—but she was dubious on Ulvama.

The [Shaman] had tried to persuade Badarrow to take her, but he’d been understandably wary. Rags shared his judgment. Ulvama had been intelligent, but cunning, a fit for Tremborag. Not Goblinhome, not necessarily. Still, a [Shaman] of her caliber would be greatly useful.

More important to Rags was the knowledge that there were Goblins being held in a land to the north! A land she knew. Her fist clenched.

“Riverfarm matters more than Ulvama. Dangerous [Emperor] has them.”

“Safe though, says Ulvama.”

Rags shrugged. A little Cave Goblin she had known was apparently among their number, if Badarrow’s news from Ulvama was to be trusted. Rags would have already set out to rescue them, but the logistics of saving Goblins from that [Emperor] were dangerous. Still, she had [Wyvern Riders].

If only she had Gold-rank Adventurers of her own she’d rest easy. Redscar was arguably that good—Rags herself might qualify to some degree, and Badarrow and Snapjaw, but they were few compared to the monsters out there.

Like Elia Arcsinger.

Well, Rags could have debated the consequences of all these actions all day. This was a familiar tangle of thoughts, a paralysis of command she’d grown used to. She looked at Badarrow.

“You go rest. Have sad sex with Snapjaw or something. I will let Wings of Pallass go free soon.”

“Yes, Chieftain.”

He almost smiled at her joke. Rags watched him go. Then she sat back. Numbtongue and Ulvama.

“…Fine. [Emperor] is treating Goblins okay? We’ll see. If not…”

First things first. Rags sat back up, and as Badarrow left her office, went to meet her second appointment of the day. She walked into the room and Calescent, Redscar, and Poisonbite all turned to her. Her [Shaman], Taganchiel, looked at her as the second prisoner-visitor to Goblinhome in as many days raised his head.

Rags pursed her lips as she stared at the Human [Rogue] who’d climbed all the way up to their mountain fortress and surrendered to the Goblins.

“Why are all of you coming now?”

The man grinned.

—-

“As it happens, I’m not so much with that inn. Although I am by way of Ullsinoi and we do business with the Brothers now and then. My gang’s not all smash or even flash, though.”

Rags listened to the street cant as the [Rogue] spoke. He’d been divested of his gear, but he was high-level. And he’d dodged two Goblin ambush volleys before surrendering.

They might have killed him even so, but he’d gotten the Cave Goblins in the first trap-zone to hesitate. Because he’d spoken in Goblin.

She had no idea what he meant by Ullsinoi or the Brothers—he seemed to think she was more tied to The Wandering Inn than she was. So Rags dissembled.

“None mentioned your gang. How do you know Goblin?”

His eyes crossed and he replied slowly, with effort.

“Goblin taught me, obviously.”

Rags glanced at Redscar. The Goblin scowled.

“Wrong. Imposs—imposs—”

“Impossible. How would Goblins and Humans work together?”

Redscar nodded as Rags turned to the [Rogue], whose name was Whet. Probably an alias.

“Y’know, it’s always been funny to me, Chieftain Rags. A fellow hears that from Humans when they hear about Goblins in gangs. Yet Goblins say the same thing when they hear we do business.”

Whet leaned back in his chair, looking calm. Rags wasn’t fooled. He was nervous. He was a good liar, but she’d upgraded herself far past being a little Goblin taught by a [Necromancer].

Her eyes flickered and she saw how hot he was. Not…hot hot, as in sexy. Rags was still not at that point. Yet the [Steelflame Strategist] could see heat. It was trickier to tell lies, but it still worked.

“We could have killed you. How many Goblins tribes kill you—people like you?”

Whet licked his lips and smiled genially. He tried to charm her, or do something—it bounced off her aura. It did work on Redscar, who had no resistance against that kind of thing, and an appreciation for anyone with a toned body. Rags scowled, jerked a thumb. Redscar left the room.

“I admit, it’s risky, making contact. There’s some unfriendly tribes out there. Heard of the Kraken Eaters? They don’t talk. Poor fellows learned that the hard way. But there’s another reasonable tribe out there. And I’m assured you knew one of the tribes we worked with from time to time. The Mountain City Tribe? Great Chieftain Tremborag?”

Rags blinked. Tremborag had…? Of course he had. She folded her arms.

“What is it you do? Buy slaves? Ask Goblins to raid places? I am not Tremborag. I would not kill you—”

Whet smiled wider, relieved. Rags went on.

“—But I would tell Poisonbite to chop off here if I don’t like what I hear.”

She gestured. Poisonbite grinned. Calescent and Whet looked uneasy. Rags wasn’t going to do that, but the [Rogue] spoke quickly.

“We don’t demand anything, Chieftain. We’re just—here—to be mutually profitable. Goblins have gold. Yet they can’t spend it. A long time ago, whomever started my gang decided that was a shame. If you had anything—anything you needed, like potions, books, trinkets you can’t get the usual way—we can help.”

Ah, they were [Traders]. Rags was surprised, then not. She supposed that she should have expected Goblins to join the underworld—if they could. Anything to survive. As for making money? Humans were greedy.

“Well, then. You can live. And keep testicles. And gonads. Even trade. If you tell about Goblinhome, though…”

She listened as Whet made his pitch, relieved to keep all his possessions. In fact, Rags asked for a catalogue, and after eying the list, turned to Calescent.

“Calescent.”

“Chieftain?”

He was pointing at something in the catalog. Rags slapped his hand down. He pointed again, at the shiny cooking set. He waggled his brows. Rags scowled.

“We will buy things on this list.”

She wrote down a short list of items. After a second, she turned, punched him in the leg, and added the cooking set—he hadn’t stopped poking her until she did. Rags glared at him, and then addressed the [Chef].

“Go disarm Stupid Adventurer traps #2 and #7. Also, get playthings from crèche.”

“Playthings?”

For a second, Rags heard the word differently. She shook her head and looked at Whet. The curious [Rogue] saw the Chieftain smile.

“Playthings for little Goblins. Jewels, gold. No use for it otherwise. Same with traps.”

His mouth opened wide. Especially when she showed him the pile of gold and gemstones…right over the pitfall trap. Rags smirked.

It was amazing how many adventurers fell for it. They knew it was a trap, but they still tried to get the gold…long enough for a Goblin with a club to sneak up behind them out of the secret passage.

—-

Rags’ brilliance among her tribe was her defining characteristic as a Chieftain. Reiss had been amazing at learning, copying. Garen was the warrior of warriors—Tremborag was fat.

Each Chieftain had a specialty. Rags’ was in plays like this. She saw Bevussa and the Wings of Pallass off at the same time as Whet.

Both [Rogue] and Gold-rank adventurer looked extremely uncomfortable as they saw each other. Rags just smiled.

“Keep promises. Goblinhome is secret.”

And good luck figuring out who the other person is. Rags had left Whet with a fortune in gold and gemstones, though. So that was why he had come with an empty bag of holding.

She shook her head, but he’d furnished her with two samples which were ‘gifts’ of his black market organization to make her eager to do business. She would have paid far more than their ludicrous rates for them anyways, and she had managed to strike a discount by pointing out to Whet that her tribe could actually buy goods via Liscor.

Of course, none of her tribe had actually gone to Liscor since Badarrow and Snapjaw, but one look at the portal stone and he’d believed it and given her a 19% discount. Rags wouldn’t have risked a door to Goblinhome anyways.

“So we’re free to go?”

As Whet left, Rags eyed Bevussa.

“Almost. Before you go—one more thing.”

She studied the Gold-ranks, who seemed a bit tense, wary, surrounded by so many Goblins. Rags sighed. Whet was an unexpected bonus, but Goblinhome’s secret was out, one way or the other. Bevussa had sworn to keep her secret, but…

“You have a question.”

Bevussa blinked. Then nodded slowly. She looked around at the Goblins. Then at Rags.

“I swore to keep this—Goblinhome and your tribe’s secret. If you didn’t attack other groups.”

Rags nodded, face blank. Bevussa frowned, her expression warring between a kind of sympathy, a desire not to believe—and suspicion. She peered down. Pointed.

“…I have to ask. Where did you get those boots?”

Kin and Issa looked down. Rags sighed. Stupid, clever bird-people. She lifted the boots, which no Goblin had made. Same as the chairs in her room, which Whet had noticed. She sighed at Bevussa.

“Goblins must live.”

She had decided to do it, in the end. Again and again. How will we break the cycle?

They needed more than they could produce, though. So again she had ordered it.

Burn the playthings. She remembered the voice. The burning Human villages. Rags’ eyes flashed crimson as Bevussa tensed. Rags turned.

“Grab them.”

The three Gold-ranks struggled, but gave up as the Hobs around them did just that. Bevussa nearly got into the air—but one look at Snapjaw, riding her personal Wyvern made her slow.

“Damn it.”

“Captain. You just had to—”

Issa was cut off as she was gagged. Rags nodded to the other Goblins.

“What now, Chieftain?”

Redscar looked at Rags. She pondered for a moment, and met Bevussa’s gaze. Rags smiled. The nicest Goblin the Garuda would ever meet shrugged.

“No help for it. Before they tell—let’s raid.”

The Redfangs whooped and grinned. Rags swung up behind Snapjaw on the Wyvern. She turned her head.

“Bring the Gold-ranks too. We’ll drop them on the way.”

—-

Bevussa wished she could have kept her fat beak shut. She was a prisoner, dangling from a Wyvern’s claw as it flew. Goblins rode on the back, light as could be; they had bags of holding.

Perfect raiders. Damn it! I should have just asked later. But I had to know. I didn’t think she’d—

She thought Rags had been the Goblin that Erin had met and talked about. A kindly little Goblin.

Time had changed her. Bevussa had no idea who that [Rogue] was, but she knew one thing: Goblinhome was raiding.

Maybe the Humans. Maybe Pallass wouldn’t care? She owed it to her city to report it. She hoped Rags wouldn’t…force her.

But her hopes were dashed. As if to make a point, to dare them, Rags and her group flew onto a raid. Carn Wolves followed by ground.

They blindfolded the Garuda and Kin and Issa as they left Goblinhome, so they didn’t get a perfect aerial view of where the fortress was. Not that Bevussa needed it; she knew the rough area.

They could have let the three Gold-ranks go there. They could have, with only suspicions, a pair of boots, a few strange items like high-quality soap, manufactured, dyed fabric.

They showed the three everything. Two days after her capture and then release, as Eldavin’s great history lesson was going on, the Goblins let the prisoners watch a raid.

It was everything Bevussa had feared. Worse—Rags gave her orders, watching the history lecture on a scrying orb with half an eye for the battle. She pointed, once.

“[Fireball].”

The explosion consumed a trio of [Guards]. Bevussa saw the last go flying like a toy doll. She wanted to believe…no.

That was not non-lethal. If she had any doubts, watching the Redfangs on Carn Wolves descend and attack the survivors of the Thunderbow’s ambush settled her doubts. They swung their blades with lethal efficiency, and then the Goblins stripped the caravan.

Worse—this would mean intervention. This was not something Pallass would entertain, to weaken the north.

They were Drakes dying. Rags looked at Bevussa, from her perch where she’d directed the slaughter.

“Do you see?”

Bevussa saw. She glared, gagged, unable to speak. Rags looked at her. She gestured.

“Not yet. Snapjaw! How many more caravans by scout?”

“Three. They want supplies bad. Big escorts.”

Rags snorted.

“Take them.”

She and the Goblin warband were on the wing within twenty minutes. They dove out of the skies on the second caravan. Bevussa saw Rags sitting on her Wyvern. The Goblin Chieftain bellowed.

“Loose!”

Like a [Commander]. Like a miniature [Warlord] in green. Her sword pointed, and the Drakes looked up at the unfamiliar voice. They scrambled—

Six huge Hobs who’d set up Thunderbows fired. The bolts took out the [Caravan Leader], the head of the [Guards], a [Mage]—and they were reloading.

Redscar raced out of cover, whooping. Snapjaw and her Wyvern dove from above, dropping a stone from a bag of holding that sent the [Guards] scrambling for cover.

A second slaughter. Bevussa saw Rags turn to her.

“Do you see?”

Bevussa struggled to shout. Kin and Issa were staring hatred. Rags looked at Bevussa. Pleadingly? No—not even that guiltily. She spoke.

“I was angry. I am. Figure it out. Third caravan. Snapjaw, go!”

They flew. The third caravan knew. They were spread out, using the wagons as cover. It didn’t matter. Rags blew apart one barricade with a [Fireball], her magic. She set up the Thunderbows out of the Drakes’ range and made them sally forth or die. This time the Redfangs loosed bows, refusing to even close.

A bloodless victory on one side. Death on the other. Bevussa saw halfway through the last Drakes dying, refusing to surrender. Drakes did not run.

She began laughing hysterically through her gag. Rags looked at her. She began laughing too. She cut at Bevussa’s gag and stood back. The Gold-rank Captain focused on Rags. She inspected the distant caravan, which the Goblins were setting to light after looting it of whatever they wanted. But before they did, she spoke.

“Hectval.”

Issa and Kin stopped struggling. They peered at the caravan and guards. The Drake caravan. No Humans, no Gnolls, which was odd if you thought about it. Liscor wouldn’t run a one-species caravan.

Rags grinned. She gestured, and her Wyverns took wing. She was raiding caravans. She was attacking…just not every target.

The reason Hectval-Luldem-Drisshia had not attacked Liscor was due to the distance, and their defeat, however pyrrhic it had been. Also, fear of the Antinium.

But also because every trading caravan had been hit in the last month. Only with an army’s worth of [Soldiers] for an escort would their mysterious attackers not strike.

It was not justice. However. Rags was content with that. She looked at Bevussa’s expression, and nodded.

“One more stop. Then you go.”

—-

A truth of all species was that change was inevitable. Smart peoples prepared for it, as Rags had known Goblinhome would always one day be revealed.

Change. Sometimes it was individuals.

Anand had not moved since Wrymvr had left, although it had been about eight hours. He spoke.

“You are lucky. You—ancestor of mine. For you know nothing of pain except…pain. Which doesn’t hurt as much as feelings.”

The little ant crawled on his finger. Anand stared at it, and then flicked it off him. He lay on his back.

Until he heard the thrumming. The vast beating of wings unlike any bird or creature in the skies save one.

Wrymvr the Deathless had returned. He was carrying something too. Anand heard the screaming long before the Centenium landed. He gazed up. His mandibles opened wide.

“Goat? What happened to you?”

He scrambled to his feet. The Soldier slid off Wrymvr’s back and lay on the ground in a ball. He hated flying. Anand looked at Wrymvr, shocked, angry!

However, he realized the screaming hadn’t stopped. After all, Goat was a Soldier. They didn’t make sounds the same way as Workers.

Slowly, the [Strategist] turned as Wrymvr put something on the ground. It scrambled away from the Centenium, screaming.

“Antinium! You monsters! Dead gods—fleets take me. I’m—I’m—”

Anand saw the half-fish features. The duskier skin. His mandibles opened wide.

“Seborn?”

The Drowned Person turned to him and Anand realized—this was not Seborn! Seborn was male. And the fish-parts were different. He slowly rotated.

“Wrymvr. What have you…done?”

For answer, Wrymvr gently pulled something off his back. Even a good bag of holding could only store a certain amount of material. Perfect bags of holding like the ones Ryoka Griffin had were magically neutral—but couldn’t hold more than the contents of a single room at most.

Which was why [Merchants] used chests of holding. Wrymvr couldn’t strap it to his back, of course. And hands were useful—even a Soldier’s hands. Which was why he’d brought Goat.

It was a very nice chest of holding too. Even so, only half of the small ship had fit inside.

“Have to get second. Come, Goat.”

Wrymvr picked up the Soldier, who flailed again. Anand shouted.

“What—what have you done?”

The Centenium turned to him, looking as amused as he could be. The Drowned Person was running, but Antinium were already emerging from the Hive. To capture it. Wrymvr indicated the broken wreckage.

“Ship.”

He pointed at the distant Drowned Person.

“Shipwright.”

“Wh-wh—really? You just attacked—”

Anand was hyperventilating. Wrymvr hesitated. He looked at the Drowned Person, cleaned some blood off a mandible, and amended his statement.

“Just a [Pirate]. Anand will build ships.”

He took off again. Anand looked at the half of a ship. He looked at the Drowned Person, screaming, and then at Wrymvr, flying, clutching the flailing Goat under him.

He was never drinking again. See what happened?

—-

The potential for someone to change things was great. Krshia Silverfang knew that too. Of course, she was often surprised by chance-encounters and events. Just look at Tkrn and Inkar. She had no idea how that had turned into Lehra, of course.

Now, though, she thought that this would improve matters greatly. She waved from the hilltop where she’d been waiting and heard an answering howl. A group of [Riders] accelerated. Yet that was not who Krshia bounded down the slope to meet.

Rather, it was the strange vehicle and young woman determinedly peddling it towards the Gnoll camp. Rose looked sweaty, but she’d gotten the hang of riding—and the bike could actually outdistance the horses!

“Krshia!”

“Miss Rose. You are just in time, yes? So quickly, too! Where is Mrsha?”

“Not here, Krshia. Elirr decided she was too young for the trip.”

“She will have to come soon.”

Krshia scowled, but then beamed at Rose. Not least because Rose had brought the bicycle, spare sports equipment, copies of the plays—any number of gifts for Lehra and the other tribes.

“This is going to be amazing. Where’s Inkar? I have some electronics to show her—I want to hug her and ask her about everything! She must have been so—”

Rose was walking a bit unsteadily after days of riding the bike. However, her face fell as she looked at the other Gnolls. For all they were glad to be here in safety after their journey, their faces quickly turned from relief to…

“What is the matter?”

Krshia halted. Had they gotten wind of the Woven Bladegrass’ madness? Was it already affecting the other city’s dispositions?

No. Rose looked at the leader of the caravan. The Silverfang Gnoll looked at Krshia, gravely.

“We made it here, but we were barely ahead of the second group on the road, Honored Krshia. They’re right behind us.”

“What other group? Another tribe?”

“No. They came the same way as we—they left earlier, but moved far slower. They’re literally an hour behind. Az’muzarre practically ignored us. You—you may have to tell them to stop. They were ready to slaughter all of them, Pallass’ escort or not.”

Slaughter all of…? Krshia’s hair rose. She scented it, carried on the group. She spoke one word.

“Raskghar.”

They had arrived. Prisoners, yes.

But Raskghar. Krshia looked at Rose, then shook her head.

“Come. Worry not about Raskghar, no. You, Rose—come.”

She led them forwards. Inkar, talking with Tkrn, tickling him gently, looked up. Her hands fell away. She stood, uncertainly. Rose gasped. She began running, arms spread wide. Inkar heard her shouting, and her eyes filled with tears.

Rose met Inkar.

—-

The last visitors of the day to the city of Esthelm came through the gates. They were promptly stopped by the [Guards].

“You there. Halt.”

The Guard instructed one of the figures. The person turned, looking surprised, but not saying a word. They gestured at their face as if to say, ‘me, but why me?’

The [Guards] were more vigilant than most cities. They were former [Militia] who’d become regular [Soldiers], [Warriors], [Sentries], [Watchwomen], and so on.

This [Gate Watchwoman], a specialist in fighting at…gates…rolled her eyes.

“Yes, you. Are you serious? Your group. Stop. Hands up.”

The figures halted. The other people entering the city—and they weren’t many—backed away as the [Guards] drew their weapons. They didn’t play games. The [Watchwoman] pointed.

“I’ve never seen—you think you can just walk in? Like that? Are you serious?”

The masked figure in front, with a hood over their head, began to speak. The [Watchwoman] ignored her.

“Mask off! Hood off!”

She looked at her squad, who were ready for anything. Part of the [Gate Guard] was just…incredulous. Who thought someone wearing a face-mask and a hood wasn’t suspicious?

The carved, painted wooden mask was blocking the person’s features, and the rest of the small group. They wore heavy hooded cloaks that disguised everything about them. They were the most suspicious group the [Gate Guard] had ever seen.

The great disguise of Garen Redfang, as it turned out, was not that useful as the legends said. The arrows were nocked, ready to fire. The leader of the trio hesitated.

“Mask off or we fire!”

The [Gate Guard] had already signaled for reinforcements. At this, the leader apparently decided there was no help for it. Slowly, they reached up, removed the mask—

And spoke.

“Hold your fire, Guardswoman. Please.”

The [Watchwoman] saw Bevussa look at her as she tossed her hood back. Issa removed her mask, and so did Kin.

“Is that…the Wings of Pallass?”

One of the [Guards] recognized the three. The [Watchwoman] lowered her crossbow.

“Captain Bevussa? Why are you dressed like that?”

“It’s a long story, Guardswoman…”

Bevussa had no idea, really. All she knew was that Rags’ last ‘request’ was that Bevussa had to wear hood, robes, and mask as they were dropped off a walking distance away from Esthelm. She was as confused as the [Guards], but it was clear she wasn’t a Goblin.

On the other hand, further into the city, a Goblin happily walked into Esthelm, glancing around merrily, nudging his companion every five seconds.

“Look at that.”

“I see it. Stop nudging.”

“Look at that. Chieftain, buy me that.”

He pointed to a window display, tugging her back to point at a handsome cast iron pan. Imagine how many meals he could make on that! Rags punched his leg.

To any amused observer, it seemed like a daughter punching her father in the leg. Well—they appeared vaguely related, and that was enough for silly Humans who hadn’t seen many of their kind. A male half-Elf and a younger, female half-Elf child.

Rags wondered if the illusion on the rings did that because of the pointed ears. She kept checking her reflection, but she hadn’t even needed Bevussa’s distraction.

“Amazing. Am I handsome?”

Calescent stared at himself. Rags snorted.

“For a half-Elf, maybe. Hurry up.”

Whet’s gifts to the Chieftain of the Flooded Waters tribe had been calculated to impress a Goblin like her. They probably would have given Tremborag food or something. However, Rags? Whet had warned her she’d need to use more elaborate tricks to get into Pallass or any city with actual magical checks, but she’d walked into Esthelm easily enough.

“Stop that.”

She towed Calescent away from the stall where he was admiring knives, next, already flirting with the [Shopkeeper]. The [Chef] was happy to be here.

Redscar had refused. Snapjaw was with Badarrow, and he didn’t want to come back. So that left Calescent or Poisonbite.

Given the two, Rags preferred the [Chef]. She walked through Esthelm. There were many things to see. Many possibilities. Many things to do.

She knew the legendary smith was in this city and she wanted to meet him. She wanted to see these ‘bikes’.

But first.

First…

—-

Liska smiled as Imani and Palt went out to Liscor, arm in arm.

“Have a good evening, sir or madam!”

She parroted the instructions Ishkr had given her. The Gnoll, who was on door-duty, waited until she closed the door and had begun changing the dial, checking the other doors. She did pause to sniff the air, though.

“How, though? Is it…lots…and lots of oil? Is he really, really small? Or do they have a contraption? Or maybe—”

She opened the door, letting in someone from Celum who wanted to go to Pallass. Sighing, Liska did that, letting them deal with the checkpoint.

She was counting the minutes until her break. At least she didn’t have to talk to people. She opened the door to Esthelm.

“Anyone through to Liscor or elsewhere? We are not accepting guests for The Wandering Inn, as the inn is closed…”

She stopped as someone stepped through. The second visitor was a genial half-Elf, who peered around, rubbing his hands. But the first person, who was fumbling with her hand, had been shielded by his back.

A short Goblin walked into the inn as Liska’s eyes opened wide. She breathed in, slowly, and stared around the portal room. She looked at the Gnoll, at the unfamiliar walls, floor…

So familiar. So not. She listened, to the silent inn, scampering feet, to her own beating heart. Rags waited a moment.

Then she stepped forwards.

She was back. She walked out of the portal room as Liska eyed Rags, the half-Elf, decided it wasn’t her business, and went back to spacing out until the sand timer counted down ten minutes again. Rags emerged into the hallway that was unnaturally long, and gave her eerie vibes, and halted.

So quiet. So…forlorn. Someone was missing.

Someone had returned. And as if that changed things, amid the silence of the inn, the few living people, the Hobgoblin with his head bowed in the [Garden of Sanctuary], the [Shaman] and little Gnoll playing tag, the Titan sitting and scowling next to the bee in the rafters—

The door of The Wandering Inn burst open. Someone rushed in the regular way, having not been able to get through the portal door with Liska operating it in time. She was panting, clutching at her chest, having run all the way here.

Her light green scales and dress were a bit sweaty. Selys gasped, and then shouted, missing Rags and Calescent, who’d drawn a kitchen knife and bag of red powder.

“Everyone! Everyone—”

Selys Shivertail shouted. The noises stopped. She gasped, then shouted, her voice cracking with nerves.

“They’re doing it! They’re attacking the Village of the Dead! It’s just begun!”

A shout from further down in the inn. Calescent blinked. Selys gasped for air—then saw the little Goblin staring up at her.

“Wh—R—Ra—how—?”

She spluttered. Rags looked up at her. She listened to the crash, the sounds of life. She smiled, nodded at Selys.

“Long time no see.”

The Drake stood, stunned, as Rags walked over to the secret door, opened it, and went inside The Wandering Inn.

To have a bite to eat.

8.17 H

(Podium Publishing is offering a TWI-embossed frying pan giveaway for people pre-ordering Book 3 on Audible! Sign up for the competition here!)

(Also, I am taking my break early due to getting the vaccine shot and not wanting to be under-the-weather while writing. I will be back on April 24th!)

A little girl lifted a stick in the grassy playing area outside of an old, weathered keep and shouted at the group of children armed with buckets, sticks, and other toys, some even carved to look like the real thing.

The woman stared as a silvery arm lifted an actual sword, the edge gleaming with magic and enchantments. Below the hill, the first wave of close-combat adventurers tensed. She looked around, at friends and people she had met today, armed with weapons and armor, each piece of which had seen battle, drawn blood and blocked killing strikes.

It was a strange thing to realize a dream. Even a child’s dream. Both child and woman inhaled. Gold-blonde hair shone in the sunlight. The setting sun had just passed midday. Her heart was beating too fast.

A [Marksman] grimly set an arrow to a bow behind her. A half-Giant waited, leaning on his staff, armor gleaming on his shoulders.

In her memory, Yvlon Byres waved her stick and shouted.

“Charge! For the glory of House Byres!”

The adult looked ahead and wondered if she would die. How high would the toll be? Nevertheless, she looked at her companions. The half-Elf and young man standing together, faces shining in the light of the magical circle one had drawn.

The Antinium looking up at her, waiting. Calm. Trusting.

“Forwards.”

The first wave of adventurers began to march forwards. A few began to run, but the rest advanced at a trot. Faster. Towards the village in the distance.

At first, nothing lurked in the empty streets. The windows were shuttered; closed where they were not broken. Then, the first silhouette appeared.

Glowing eyes. The putrid smell of rotten flesh. A Zombie lurched forwards. One, then a dozen.

Then a hundred. Then they filled the streets.

Yvlon Byres was striding down the small incline. She began to run, to join the front. Adventurers passed next to her. A Selphid grinned as she hefted the flail, wearing a Raskghar’s body. A Minotaur nodded at her and she saw a younger woman, saluting him with her sword—

The adventurers closed as the first volley of arrows and spells hit the undead. Then, they shouted, they screamed and howled challenges, oaths to defy death. Louder than the girl could have ever imagined, with a sincerity that made Yvlon’s skin chill. She lifted the sword as a burning skull swung towards her.

The [Armsmistress] swung her sword and beheaded the undead. She ran into the first streets of the Village of the Dead. She turned as the first undead vanished before the charge and raised the speaking stone to her lips as she readied her sword, already cursing.

“Silver and steel—Ceria, Pisces, team leaders, get ready for a fight! There are thousands!”

She lifted her sword and plunged forwards into a sea of glowing eyes and rotting limbs.

—-

Then.

They were a day later than planned. It looked like a day and a half, to judge by the uneven concert of wagons, horses, and even a moving palanquin assembling by nightfall.

“We’ll never get it organized before midday.”

Ceria groaned, pulling at her hair as she saw the arrivals crowding up, looking for places to settle, some greeting each other by name or introducing themselves—in the way of the others, by the by. Shouts, jovial greetings, and the scream of someone getting their foot run over filled the air about three miles away from the Village of the Dead.

Pisces winced at the high-pitched scream, but kept honing the edge of his rapier with a whetstone. He blew, inspected the edge, and sighed.

“One supposes we might have organized this a bit better. However, the response is gratifying.”

And unexpected. Ceria bit her lip. She counted at least two hundred adventurers, and more were still coming in. She had—hoped—for fifty. That would have been monumental, for what might well be a suicide-attack.

This was a circus. It was getting worse by the moment. The two Horns watched from their elevated campsite—right until someone shouted their names.

“Ceria! Pisces! Get down here and help out!”

“Some days it occurs to me she’s the real leader, you know.”

Pisces rose with a sigh. Ceria nudged him with an elbow.

“What about me?”

“You would be the cover to the true leader. A masterful plan. Lure in the enemy or deceive hostile clients with your…nature. Masterfully conceived, although I admit this was an accident.”

Ceria raised her foot, and decided that they didn’t need two broken bones before the battle, so she did not kick Pisces down the hill. His chatter was just a sign of nerves, anyways. If he got sincere—then she knew they were in trouble.

“There you two are. Come help me sort this out. Did someone actually just shatter their foot?”

Yvlon was looking around, as agitated as Ceria. An Antinium waved three arms behind her.

“I will inquire, Yvlon!”

“No, wait, Ks—”

Too late, the [Skirmisher] leapt into the air, as light as a feather, impossibly high for someone without Skills, magic, or wings, heading towards the screamer. Heads turned and Ceria heard a chorus of oaths or gasps as people saw the only Antinium adventurer in existence.

“Damn it.”

The half-Elf swore mildly. It didn’t occur to Ksmvr that he might make the problem worse by offering a friendly hand.

“I’ll get—”

Yvlon checked Ceria with one hand. Since it was Yvlon, and her arms were the Silversteel metal, it was like being stopped by an iron railing. Ceria went oof.

“You find the other team leaders and organize this mess. I’ll get Ksmvr.”

Protective of her friend as ever, Yvlon jogged towards the now audibly louder shouting. Ceria looked after her.

“Wait, but you’re good at that! Wait—”

“The true team leader departs. Alas.”

Pisces looked at Ceria. She rounded with a glare on him and the temperature dropped several degrees. He shivered and she glowered.

“Gah! I can’t even control my aura! How am I supposed to herd adventurers? It’s worse than cats!”

Yvlon and Ceria both bore new effects of their class, and the inadvertent abilities and side-effects weren’t under control yet. Pisces, by contrast, had less noticeable changes, although he demonstrated one now, easily flicking two fingers and warming the air around him.

Stronger magical powers and a plethora of new spells. Ceria suspected he’d gained some kind of [Student]’s Skill or how else would he have practically doubled his library of spells? Even Ksmvr was more grasshopper than Antinium these days.

Her musing was interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Well, you might have organized more than shouting, ‘come here and let’s raid a dungeon’. That’s how old adventurers used to do it, I’ll grant you, but a good raid is generally put together. Dead gods, I heard Liscor’s crypt raid was better than this. Fingers stitched it doesn’t go that way, huh?”

Ceria whirled. There was only one person who could fit Pisces-level snark into a greeting.

“Revi! Typhenous, Halrac, and…Briganda!”

She turned and threw her arms around the Stitch-Girl, who staggered slightly, but grinned despite her words. She recalled the last, newest member too as she hugged Revi.

“Ceria! Ah, you’re cold! It’s like being hugged by a Frost Golem—stop, enough! Pisces, was that Yvlon and Ksmvr I saw?”

She pointed and Ceria nodded. She turned, hugged the old man who was stroking his beard and giving Pisces a smiling nod of greeting, and was seized by the tall woman with the shield.

“You remember! Good to see you again, Ceria! Cade says hi—or he would if he was older. Where’s the arrogant, sniffing [Necromancer]? There he is.”

The [Shield Maiden] slapped Pisces on the shoulder, not put off by him. The only person who didn’t hug or exchange physicalities was Halrac. The [Marksman] and [Veteran Scout] held out a hand, which Ceria shook.

“Ceria.”

“Halrac. You came.”

He shrugged, as if it were nothing. The look he gave towards the adventurers, and the village in the distance, belied the action.

“We promised we would. So that’s the Village? What are the odds it has something to cure Erin?”

“High. It’s all but guaranteed according to Pisces’ source. If it’s not the cure—it can be bartered into one.”

The [Veteran Scout]’s eyes were grey and green, and more of grey than anything else. Ceria had forgotten how intense his stare could be when he was angry or serious. He swung his gaze towards Pisces.

“How likely is it that the bartered cure works?”

“I would stake my life on it. This is not a bet, Captain Everam.”

Pisces and Halrac regarded each other for a second. They had never been friendly, but Halrac nodded briefly.

“Good.”

The half-Elf smiled, but she didn’t have time to do more than turn from Halrac when another arm grabbed her.

“Ceria! It’s a mess out there! Reminds me of half the raids I’ve been to on Baleros! Look at you—we just parted and we’re back together! Plus—we’re cold-skin buddies!”

Jelaqua swung Ceria around and then put her down. Ceria stared up at the Raskghar, grinning in a jaunty, friendly way, and the familiar voice, if not tones, of Jelaqua Ivirith.

“Jelaqua, you made it! And you brought friends!”

“Of course we did. Anyone got a plan for sorting them out, or do we let them do it themselves? Ah, they’re big adventurers, they’ll figure it out. Seborn, Moore, Ulinde! I found the Horns! Where’s Pisces?”

She grabbed the [Necromancer] and rubbed his hair while putting him into a headlock, despite his fervent objections. Ceria was beaming as she saw a shadow slip past a knot of adventurers.

“Seborn.”

“This is a mess. Ceria, ah—Griffon Hunt beat us. Halrac, let’s get our camp next to the Horns’ before it gets taken.”

“Mm.”

The [Veteran Scout] seemed just as willing to leave the adventurers in chaos to their own devices. Jelaqua was not.

“No, we have to have order. Ceria’s in charge—we’ll grab some other team leaders and figure this out.”

“Wait, I’m in charge? We’re just—”

Jelaqua and Halrac looked at Ceria.

“You called the raid, you’re in charge. Unless you delegate. Where’s—there’s Moore and Ulinde.”

Again, the two Horns and other adventurers turned, a smile on Ceria and Pisces’ faces. However, it faded as they saw the cluster of adventurers break apart and a huge figure stride past them.

Moore was taller than the Raskghar, taller than even the trio of horned bull-people. The gentle giant Ceria remembered though…

He strode through the crowd and they moved out of the way or had their feet stomped. Behind him trailed Ulinde, towing a trio of horses. Jelaqua glanced at Ceria.

“Moore’s…”

She needed to say no more. Ceria did not run to hug or shake Moore’s hand. She looked up as the [Green Mage] stopped.

“Moore.”

“When are we attacking?”

He looked like he hadn’t slept well. He looked like he hadn’t existed well. Not since…

It hit Ceria again what they were doing. What had happened. It had been over a month now. She’d counted the days.

Over one month since Erin died. Didn’t die. Got shot—one month with no cure. Well, today there would be one. They were going to raid one of the most infamous death zones in all of Izril. Either get something they could trade for Erin’s recovery…or die trying.

Memory flickered in her mind to a similar time. Yet this was not for glory or treasure alone. They had lost a lot, gained a lot since then.

There was no [Innkeeper] either.

The three teams caught the mood and sobered. The Horns, Griffon Hunt, and the Halfseekers looked at each other.

“No Silver Swords? We’ve been travelling together, but I didn’t get word they were coming and I’d have expected to hear Falene and Dawil fighting by now. This is Ulinde, by the way. Which…you know.”

Jelaqua gestured to the last arrival.

“Ceria. Pisces.”

The Selphid [Spellslinger] looked uneasily at the two, but Ceria and Pisces just gave her cool nods, recalling the first time they’d met. Pisces answered for Ceria.

“They’re not coming. They were too far and had a prior engagement.”

“Shame. Nothing like a [Knight] to hide behind.”

Seborn muttered. Typhenous and Revi nodded. Jelaqua exhaled.

“That’s all the teams from Liscor, then. Except for one. We got the Flamewardens. Moore [Messaged] you, right, Ceria?”

“Yep. How did you get them?”

“Wall Lord Ilvriss. Don’t gawk; it’s a long story. We’ve got other teams like the Lifwail Blades, Gemhammer, the Pride of Kelia, and uh…Vuliel Drae. Among others—”

At the last name, Pisces and Ceria, who had been smiling more and more, frowned.

“Couldn’t you have left them behind? How many Silver-ranks are there? I asked for Gold, Jelaqua. We can’t protect them and if it turns bad—”

The Selphid raised her paws defensively. The Raskghar body looked down at Ceria, seriously.

“I know, I know. Look at it this way, though, Ceria. There’s strength in numbers. A hundred Silver-ranks with bows is better than twenty Gold-ranks with swords…better than ten Gold—better than five Gold-ranks with swords! I would have turned them down, but once I realized how many were coming, I decided it was for the best.”

The adventurers looked around. It was true. The cluster of adventurers had converged on the spot almost at the same time.

Oh, two dozen teams had arrived early, and met with the Horns, somewhat dubiously until the numbers swelled. In fact, three teams had left—and two had come back, shamefaced, once they realized this raid had a lot of teams coming.

A huge caravan had arrived from Invrisil, however. Thanks to her friends. Yet it seemed like there were other arrivals that were complicating the influx. Jelaqua clearly had no idea who some of the teams in the traffic jam were.

“Let’s go sort this out. Where’s Yvlon?”

She grabbed Ceria and Halrac and began towing them into the chaos. However, as they were about to start pushing in, someone stood up and…clapped their hands.

Ceria heard the sound over the arguing, the shouting, the broken-foot screamer, and the braying of animals. Also, to call it ‘clapping’ was also a disservice to the sound. It rang, it echoed. It was loud and had a sound beyond mere auditory power.

Clap. Clap.

That was what it sounded like. The adventurers turned, half with hands to their ears. What they saw was a haughty expression. The young man lounging on the palanquin borne by six men or women looked around.

“I am [Prince] Zenol of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, by my royal name and accomplishments, Gold-rank Captain of Nerrhavia’s Champions Abroad. I demand order! Who is in charge here?”

He looked around and his gaze found Ceria’s almost at once. She blinked up at him. The [Prince] inclined his head, which surprised her and Pisces, who was already scowling. He snapped his fingers.

“If we are going to raid this dungeon, let it be done properly! Team captains, and the leader of the Horns of Hammerad, shall we convene? There, I believe.”

He gestured at an open spot higher up, and the palanquin spun, neatly moving past the adventurers. Ceria glanced at Pisces.

“Looks like we’ve got some characters already. Let’s go?”

The [Necromancer] nodded as individuals or teams began sending their leaders forwards. Ceria looked around, breathing faster, now. All of them and she was in charge. She felt the pressure rising.

Then—she saw the pair of Named-rank adventurers walking out of the crowd. That was when Ceria knew they had a chance.

—-

Named-rank Teams were not Named-rank adventurers. However, both had to be exceptional, beyond exceptional to acquire either title.

Ceria knew both, of course. One in particular. Who had not heard of Elia Arcsinger? It was interesting, then, that Arcsinger’s Bows was not a Named-rank team. However, she had never lost her designation since she had slain the Goblin King.

The second adventurer she had never met, but heard of. Eldertuin the Fortress, whose old team had contained two adventurers who later became Named-rank. The very same man who’d taken on six Trolls during a bloody battle at the same time and survived!

Even [Prince] Zenol bowed to them, although he did not leave the palanquin. The other team-captains looked just as impressed. Then they turned to Ceria and her mouth went dry.

As Pisces had said though, that was why Yvlon was there.

“Captains, adventurers—Adventurer Arcsinger and Terland, welcome. We apologize for the disorganization. Most of you came in at the same time. Let’s get everyone settled, then we can discuss the plan of attack.”

Everyone nodded. Ceria saw that Elia was accompanied by three of her team; most had only come representing their entire team or themselves. Even so, it was a huge group on the hilltop.

“Where are we camping?”

“Just line up your camps. It’s not hard. Individuals take that section…we’ll space ‘em out and break the gridlock. I’ll grab the teams nearest the front.”

Jelaqua pointed impatiently, gesturing around the already-established encampment. However, half a dozen adventurers protested instantly.

“Hold up, I have alchemical supplies I need to keep away from fire at all costs.”

“So? Keep away from fire. I’m allergic to dogs. At least three teams have ‘em, so I need to get upwind of wherever they’re going.”

“Hah! Have you seen adventurers when they drink? A stray [Spark] spell some idiot casts gets near me and there won’t be a raid!”

Yet another Captain raised a hand and spoke, shamefaced. Ceria was raising her hands helplessly when she spoke.

“Look—two of my people are sick. It…might be just an infection, but it could be uh, Yellow Rivers. We didn’t see it coming in—”

Yvlon’s head swung around. Every other adventurer recoiled instantly.

“Are you insane? You ‘think’ it’s Yellow Rivers? What possessed you to come here?”

“We’re not sure! But if there’s a [Healer]—”

“Excuse me, I snore loudly. So maybe I should camp away from everyone else? I know what you’re thinking already, but trust me, it’s loud—”

The mere act of getting teams to settle down and unpack was already beyond Ceria’s expertise. Even Yvlon looked harassed.

“Which team is sick? Okay—get yours out of the way, now. As for anyone with allergies or complaints, line up and we’ll deal with you after—”

Again, Ceria heard the clap of Prince Zenol’s hands. All the adventurers winced and some swore at him. However, the haughty man—no, Ceria realized with a start, Stitch-man—just pointed one elegant, supple hand of skin made from silk.

“I believe that adventurer is the one we need, Captain Springwalker?”

He looked at her. Ceria blinked at him, and then turned. She spotted the person he was looking at. She was…a Garuda?

Yes! No. Ceria was instantly confused because the description was right, a feathered, avian, female adventurer—but the details were wrong.

Head shape, the length of her talon-claws, even her plumage! She wasn’t a Garuda at all. The Bird Beastkin bowed, extending a wing-arm with the feathers pointed downwards, executing the bow like a bird pecking seed.

“Excuse me. If there’s no [Strategist] leading this raid, I volunteer my abilities. Strategist Soew, at your service.”

She tilted her head. Unnaturally far right. Everyone shuddered and Ceria saw the beady eyes, so unlike a Garuda’s more Human-like ones, regard her. A curved, smaller beak, pale feathers…oh yes.

The Owl Beastkin adventurer looked at Ceria for a nod, and then lifted a wing.

“Every adventurer team or individual with complications, please raise your hand. Good. You may lower them. Gold-rank team Captains, please raise your hand, yourselves included, please, Captain Ceria. Good. Teams with experience in repelling ambushes, fast-mobilization capabilities, or trap-specialties, raise your hands. Good…[Mages], or those with them in your team, raise your hands. Good.”

She made them lower their hands each time, but it was done in seconds. Ceria didn’t see the point, but she started as Soew’s head turned all the way around like she was a Selphid or Dullahan. The Owl just blinked, counting hands, and then asked the next question.

She began writing on the clipboard she carried.

“Good. I believe I know the organization of teams. I will have a layout in five minutes.”

Her claw-hand darted across the clipboard with amazing speed, holding a quill delicately. Ceria stared. Someone else murmured incredulously.

“That fast? Why the hell do we need to lay out the camp?”

“Have my Izrilian counterparts never partied with a [Strategist], before? They are quite common on Baleros, and Chandrar of course learns effective strategies.”

Zenol spoke from his elevated position at the questioner. His tone managed to be sneering and lecturing at the same time.

“Strategist Soew remembers the data she collected in an instant if she is a half-decent [Strategist]. She will space the camp out to take care of individual issues—and keep the most battle-ready teams to the edges, as well as [Mages] far enough away that their magic-casting does not interfere with each other.”

As Soew worked, Ceria saw two thirds of those present scowling at Zenol—aside from two more Stitchfolk, who looked awed by his presence. He was not making a good first-impression.

Or rather, he was making a Pisces-type impression, which was probably why Ceria wasn’t actually taking as much offense as most of the others.

It could well be said that Yvlon was exactly the type of person Pisces-attitudes nettled most, so her scowl was just as pronounced as she opened her mouth. Ceria broke in, looking directly at the [Prince].

“Thank you, Captain Zenol. You’ve been most helpful in getting us organized. I can see there are a lot of teams here, and I thank you all for coming. However, we’ll have to get organized quick for the raid. Thus, I’ll ask Soew, Named Adventurers Eldertuin, Elia, and a few of the leaders I know to make initial plans, and then call a larger meeting to brief everyone. So—don’t clap your hands any more. My ears hurt.”

She pointed at Zenol, and the [Prince] raised his eyebrows. Several people laughed, but he nodded.

“As you wish. If you would care to avail yourself of my expertise?”

Ceria looked at him. That was another Pisces-type line. If she said yes, half the other team-captains would want to put forwards their experience. If she said no?

“We’ll reach out to all experts. After I consult with the others.”

He nodded slowly, not looking exactly pleased, but gestured and moved his palanquin back down the rise. Ceria was breathing hard, but to her surprise, Jelaqua clapped her on the shoulder as the other captains went to see where Soew wanted them and headed to shout at their teams.

“Nice job. No wonder you’re the Captain.”

Yvlon was nodding too, much calmer. Ceria smiled, pleased by the compliment. There now. That was something she could do better than Yvlon! After all, she’d known Pisces far longer.

The secret was to ignore the haughty sniffing and see if he was being actually helpful, or just in the mood to be a prat. If reasoned speech didn’t get [Prince] Zenol to be helpful, Ceria’s next instinct was to drop-kick him out of the palanquin. She turned to the few adventurers left. Friends and Named-rank adventurers—and the [Strategist]. Ceria smiled.

“Okay. Hi, I’m Ceria. Should we get started?”

—-

Now.

Rags sat in The Wandering Inn, inspecting it, seeing how it had changed.

…Well. It was nothing like the inn she remembered. She’d heard the other one had been exploded. The skeleton—Toren. That made sense to Rags. It had always been suspicious.

So much changed, from floorboards to the three floors, the tower, the magic door, the occupants, and the trapped hallway.

However, the uproar was familiar. Some things never changed, and that was reassuring.

Rags, who had no last name, and who had been given her name here, was just one extraordinary visitor that day. Those were just the visitors, too.

The inn had long had special guests.

The owner of the Heartflame Breastplate, for instance, who was dragging the scrying mirror to a better place to watch from, cursing.

“Is it not on the news? Someone has to—where’s Drassi? Is she on air? It has to be on the news!”

“What’s happening? Are the Horns going to get Erin’s cure?”

Joseph crashed down the stairs. The [World-Renowned Coach], arguably one of the most well-known faces in the world. He jogged past Rags, then jogged backwards.

“…Uh.”

The young man gazed at Rags, clearly certain that she wasn’t one of the two Goblins he was familiar with in the inn. She was still standing in the common room, taking it in. At last, she decided she had to say something.

“Hi.”

“…Hi.”

Joseph waved. He walked past her, glancing over his shoulder twice. Rags’ matter-of-fact greeting made it hard to cause a fuss, though.

Calescent was rubbing his hands together, sniffing the air, although it seemed like a half-Elf was doing it rather than the Goblin [Chef]. They were both somewhat portly, Calescent being of the opinion that a [Chef] got to eat the food they cooked before the people they served, but as bodyguards went, he barely lagged behind Redscar or Snapjaw.

Guests new and old. One of them peered down at the Goblin, blinking. There was no way. Yet he was certain it was the same one from the High Passes. The gifted amateur! A Goblin Chieftain, in the inn!

Niers Astoragon was fuming—or had been from yesterday’s events. It had seemed like a tricky day—and it looked more and more tricky, but interesting, rather than just difficult. He glanced around as a running pair of paws heralded two more arrivals via the [Garden of Sanctuary].

Rags whirled as bright sunlight spilled into the room. Calescent had the knife out again—no one else even noticed. Mrsha bounded out the door, spotted Rags, and slowed. She had heard Selys shouting about the Horns, but the appearance of—

Pebblesnatch?

Mrsha’s first reaction was to think it was the little Goblin [Cook]! However, this Goblin was noticeably taller, her skin was green, not grey, and she had armor and stuff! Mrsha froze.

Goblin in her inn? A new one? She had no idea what the half-Elf—waitasecond, he smelled like a Goblin too! And spices! She backed up as someone else ran after her.

“What Horns? Is it dessert? Village of the Dead? That is in the north. Stupid Mrsha-child, explain—”

Ulvama froze in the entrance of the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Rags’ brows rose higher. She glanced at the little Gnoll girl—yes, Badarrow had mentioned her. Then at Ulvama.

“Rags?”

The [Shaman] screeched in surprise. Rags nodded.

“Me. Hello, Ulvama. You—are Mrsha.”

She pointed and the little Gnoll recoiled. Selys was looking at Rags again.

“She’s here. She’s—Ishkr? Kevin? No—none of you know who she is, do you?”

Kevin, Ishkr, both of whom were moving the scrying mirror, realized Rags’ presence and hesitated, shaking their heads. Rags nodded to herself. She nudged Calescent.

“Take off your ring, Calescent.”

“Hm. Fine.”

He did. The Goblin [Chef] appeared and Mrsha recoiled, jaw open, with everyone else. Rags saw Ulvama’s jaw drop, although she had sensed the illusion. The [Chieftain] was starting to enjoy herself.

—Then she glanced sideways. Niers’ hair rose. He’d been waving at Mrsha of course, but she hadn’t looked up once. She was avoiding him, the dratted girl.

Rags spun, and the giant black crossbow rose in both hands, appearing from her bag of holding like a [Magician]’s trick. The tip of the bolt glowed, and her hands sparked with fire. Calescent had a kitchen knife with red dust in his other hand, held up to his lips to blow across the room. Both Goblins had turned to look sideways.

“’Scuse me, Miss Selys. We apologize for this, as it were, but we noticed one of the visitors had opened the side-door. Little scamps might have left it ajar; is she alright to come in?”

Crimshaw leaned on the door frame of one of the hallways adjoining the trapped entranceway. He didn’t quite touch the blackjack at his side. Nor was Rags aiming at him, but the tip of two smaller crossbows pointing at her from the second open door’s crack.

“It—she’s fine! She’s fine! No one shoot!”

Selys had frozen upon seeing the three Brothers. They relaxed, and Crimshaw took his hand away from the blackjack. He tipped his hat to Selys and then Rags and Calescent.

“Good to know, Miss. Thought it might be, but we wanted to be sure.”

They were good. Rags had barely noticed after Niers, and had the three Brothers really wanted to attack—

Ambush specialists. Niers nodded to himself. He still didn’t know quite where the two Gentlemen Callers were or why they’d abandoned their posts, but the Brothers were doing good work. In fact, they’d done more than he had asked even yesterday…honorable men. He waited, still trying to make sense of this.

As for Rags, she put the crossbow down and gestured at Calescent to do the same. He was clearly uneasy at anyone sneaking up on him, but obeyed.

The Goblin [Great Chieftain] was purely approving, however.

“Better security, good. I always thought it was bad here. I could have destroyed the inn with eight Goblins.”

Her perfect intonation and speech made Selys start again.

“You can talk!”

“I could always talk. Ulvama, stop staring. Where is…Numbtongue?”

The [Shaman] made a choked sound. Rags looked at the faces, and then strode over to a table. She sat down and pointedly looked around.

“I would like a Blue Fruit juice cup, and some spaghetti, please. Also, a chessboard.”

She had waited a long time to say that. Shame, shame. She sat as the inn began to buzz twice. Calescent sat down next to her as Ishkr rushed into the kitchen.

Mrsha gazed at Rags, awed by the fascinating Goblin. She spoke better than Ulvama, as well as Numbtongue! She was so small, too! So amazing! She had a huge crossbow! She knew Selys? Did she know…know Erin? Was she coming to stay at the inn?

So many questions. Mrsha would have loved to inspect the two and find out more, and she was about to when something hit her on the head.

A tiny pebble. She glanced up, and a figure motioned. Mrsha…hesitated. The Fraerling pointed to the open door to the [Garden of Sanctuary] where they could talk and a bee buzzed down, carrying him. He gestured as only Mrsha saw him clinging to Apista’s back.

Curiously, Mrsha did not race after Niers. She looked at Rags, then after the Titan, and padded slowly into the garden. She met Niers around the pond and Fortress Beaver’s dam.

“Hey. That Goblin—you know her? What is this raid on the Village of the Dead? Has someone gone mad?”

Niers was sitting in the lee of some branches, looking at Mrsha urgently. The Titan, Apista perching on the twigs above…

Mrsha stopped eight paces away from him. The [Strategist] looked at her, impatiently, then he noticed Mrsha had stopped. He caught himself, smiled, beckoned.

“Come on, Miss Mrsha. We have to work together, right? I need your help. Come on.”

He gestured, and she took a few more steps forwards, but halted again. Mrsha smiled uncertainly.

She drew no closer. Niers closed his eyes, and exhaled. Damn it.

In the inn, Selys was staring at the scrying mirror, but there was no Drassi, only Noass and Sir Relz. Kevin had gone running to find her with Joseph, yet for now, it was just…news.

“We’ll be bringing you coverage of Ailendamus’ march to the sea—or rather, through Pheislant! Their armies are trying to encircle the Dawn Concordat. But first—obituaries. [Marshal] Vexu’de of the Trick Temple company has passed away of old age at 54, due to complications with the Yellow Rivers disease, along with [Princess] Itere, aged 72, of natural causes. They will be missed. It always struck me as odd, Noass, that a [Princess] remained one into their later years.”

“Titles, Sir Relz. Age does not change the dignity of one’s station one whit. Only circumstance. The only other obituary sent in today—and we are encouraging all those individuals of a certain level or note to be reported, although we cannot report every passing, sadly—is a Master Merxel of Invrisil, a well-known [Spymaster], who was found dead in his home this morning. The Watch is investigating…”

Mrsha looked at Niers and the Titan’s smile never wavered. She padded back a few more steps.

—-

Then.

Mrsha trotted past Joseph into Invrisil. It was easy. Mrsha the Daring knew all the ways to get to Invrisil. She could use the door—but why bother when Liska was responsible for it?

She didn’t care if Mrsha went to visit the Wailant farm, or Celum, or…anywhere. She was cool like that. Ishkr, now, he was tricky. He kept tabs on Mrsha, but he had discovered that Mrsha could never be contained.

Not with the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Lock her in a room and she’d be out before you turned the key. In some ways, Erin’s great protection for Mrsha was also the biggest impediment to keeping her safe. Ishkr usually managed it with threats and promises of cutting Mrsha’s dessert privileges, which were already in arrears.

However, Mrsha risked his wrath this time because she had a higher calling! The Titan was riding on her head! He needed her help, and Mrsha the Mercenary was sure she’d be richly rewarded when he got to Baleros. Maybe…he’d even help with Erin?

He’d gone into Erin’s room and sat at the big, magical chess board this morning. Niers played blankly with the chess pieces, moving each around bodily, as they were nearly his size.

“I…sent it to her. If I can help, I will. I need your help, though. It might be dangerous, but I swear on my company, I will keep you out of trouble if I can. Would you help me?”

What was Mrsha the Brave to say to that but ‘yes’? Erin would have!

To her disappointment, though, all Niers wanted her to do was go to some stinky house and let him do some investigating. He even knew the address, which was no fun.

However, it was hilarious to walk around Invrisil and realize no one knew the Titan of Baleros was on her head! Mrsha swaggered about on two legs, making an effort to show off for Niers.

He was so small, and he was a [Strategist] so his stealth-Skills plus Mrsha made it so no one would see him.

“Not even a top-class [Rogue] can easily spot me—I’ve hidden on countless battlefields. I learned it from my [Rogue] friend, actually. Three-Color Stalker?”

Mrsha was agog, of course, and Niers had told her some stories last night. She proudly walked him to his destination, mind racing with what might happen. What adventure would Mrsha the Great and Terrible get into this time?

—-

Then.

Nothing, as far as Niers was concerned. He watched, clinging to the somewhat bumpy ride despite Mrsha’s best efforts, as she carried him through Invrisil. For dangers to her, from carts or pedestrians, to actual [Thugs], [Kidnappers], and all the unsavory things that might befall a child in a big city.

He had no intention of letting a child get hurt. Nor was he putting her in danger. Niers would easily cop to the fact that he’d gotten her on his side by telling her some glory-stories of him as an adventurer and Foliana, but that was necessary.

In truth, he’d have been happy to ride Apista around, but an Ashfire Bee was even more obvious than a white Gnoll. If she wasn’t killed by some [Bug Exterminator] in the first half-hour…

Well, his plan was simple. No more games. Niers had elected for the fastest route to helping himself, Erin Solstice, and his company. He’d asked Mrsha to ferry him to Master Merxel’s. If the [Spymaster] hadn’t lost his step, he’d know where Niers’ gear was—or the Gold-rank team that stole it. At the very least, he could get Niers in touch with his company.

Alas, it was not to be. One look at Master Merxel’s house and Niers smelled trouble.

He couldn’t have said why it was. It was not some advanced [Dangersense], an intuiting of political trouble or betrayal—Niers had never wanted and thus never gotten such Skills, trusting to his instincts. He could have used one for Peclir Im, of course, but his intuition was still good.

It was something in how the bodyguards outside of Master Merxel’s house stood, perhaps. A bit too attentively compared to the last time Niers had been there. The sign saying ‘not accepting visitors’ on the door?

Let’s see. If I thought Merxel was on my side, I might be encouraged by this. Yet if he was, I’d expect him not to show a sign I was missing. This almost seems like he’s waiting for me to show up.

He could just be paranoid for his own safety, I suppose. Perorn must have raised hell.

Nevertheless, Niers’ paranoia did not get where it was by having him walk into possible traps. Bad for your health, that. So he leaned down and whispered into Mrsha’s ear, knowing how good her hearing was.

“Mrsha? Listen. It looks like Master Merxel might be…compromised. So I need you to help me.”

She nodded eagerly, and then caught herself. Niers sighed again, but he didn’t put her in trouble. Rather, he made use of her natural abilities.

“Walk past his house. Walk! Listen for anything inside…I’ll slip off and go through a window. You just have to wait—um, at that café down the street, okay? Do you have gold?”

Mrsha patted her money pouch, looking indignant. Did she have money? She was excited, but Niers knew it was safe.

She wasn’t going to hear a thing. No [Spymaster] wouldn’t ward their home. Niers would be the one crawling through the vents, no doubt having to fight the [Spymaster]’s wards. Damn, damn—well, he had some tools.

His enchanted sword, the lifeblood of his fighting capabilities right now, his torn armor—and a crossbow.

He’d made a miniature one out of scraps Mrsha had brought him. It had all the power of a Fraerling-sized crossbow, unfortunately, but it could launch a toothpick through your eye. Niers had met many creatures and people over his career, and a lot of them couldn’t deal with that easily.

Besides that, he had a climbing grapple, and about ten feet of very fine twine, all cumbersomely strapped to his back. His damned bag of holding was lost, and that was one of the things he needed. Plus his Signim. If he had both, he could stand in Invrisil and shout for Perorn to pick him up. Well…maybe not that, but if he had his gear, his chances of survival were ten times higher.

The plan was good. Mrsha was sauntering past the two bodyguards in front of Master Merxel’s house, casual as could be, and Niers had left her back and was creeping across the street by the gutters when the door opened and Master Merxel appeared.

“Ah—excuse me? You two—excuse me, little girl?”

Niers’ heart sank. Master Merxel smiled as Mrsha froze, every trace of guilt on her, and turned. His two bodyguards—and two more from within the house had already slid past her, though. The [Spymaster] adjusted his spectacles and frowned at her.

“Don’t be worried! Mrsha, is it? From—The Wandering Inn? Hello! I am Master Merxel. [Spymaster].”

He beamed. Mrsha stared up at him, glancing at the huge, subtly armored men. Niers cursed as he crouched around the corner of Merxel’s house. What the hell was the [Spymaster] doing?

He was searching for Niers! The spectacles had to be vision-amplifying and he was squinting at Mrsha. She had an anti-appraisal ring, but Merxel had stopped her on…what, a hunch?

“I don’t suppose you’d like to come in? I have sweets! I’d just like to talk to you. I know this is very surprising, but have you met a…little man? Did someone ask you to come by this place, by any chance?”

Mrsha backed up, shaking her head instantly. Merxel was looking at her. Niers stared—then slapped his forehead.

You idiot, Niers Astoragon!

In that moment he realized two things. Merxel was not on his side, or if he was, he was hedging his bets. Second? He was under the assumption Niers was going to come calling and he’d been waiting.

Why had he singled Mrsha out? Firstly—Niers suspected anyone slowing in front of Merxel’s home or giving it more than two looks got this treatment. This though, was Niers’ fault.

Mrsha? A white Gnoll from The Wandering Inn, where Merxel knew Niers was bound? Idiot, idiot, idiot! The [Spymaster] wasn’t a fool!

Worse, he seemed to be sure Niers was here, so he turned to Mrsha.

“Come in, Miss. You are not going to be hurt. I just need to speak to Lord Astoragon. If you can hear me, sir? I’d just like to talk.”

I’ll feed you your eyeballs on toothpicks if you harm her, Merxel. Niers swore silently, but Merxel was gesturing and his bodyguards were going to grab Mrsha! Then, it was a hostage situation where—

Mrsha was looking around to run, but one of the [Bodyguards] was too fast. She was grabbing for a wand, baring her teeth to bite, when someone coughed.

“Pardon me, sir. But it seems to me that if the young miss doesn’t want to go with you, it would be ungentlemanly to insist. Insofar as my thinking goes, a fellow asking a child to go eat snacks in his home was already ungentlemanly, and the rest was ‘icing on the cake’, to use a new expression, as it were.”

Master Merxel and the four [Bodyguards] stopped. They turned, and Niers’ tense chest unconstricted as he saw a group of four men sauntering down the road. Looking as if they’d gone for a stroll.

A Brother on the stroll with his hat off was not a relaxing sight at all, though. Four of them, led by Crimshaw, were walking towards Master Merxel.

He uttered a curse under his breath, before swinging around.

“Master…Crimshaw, is it? Master Met. Master—”

“Master Merxel. Good evening to you. And you, Miss Mrsha. Although I suspect no dessert’s in order, as I don’t believe you told anyone where you was going.”

Crimshaw smiled brightly as he looked at Mrsha. She’d gone still at the sight of the Brothers. Crimshaw gestured.

“Might want to run back to the inn before you get in trouble now, wouldn’t that be wise?”

She hesitated, half-looking towards Niers, catching herself, and then nodded. She scampered forwards. One of the [Bodyguards] moved as if to grab her—

“Do not.”

Merxel breathed. The Brothers had…tensed…as the other man moved. They stood in the street.

“Gentlemen, I can assure you—”

“Not interested.”

Crimshaw broke in. He nodded to Mrsha, fleeing down the street at full gallop.

“The girl’s off limits. Now—I’m sure you had an excellent reason, Master Merxel. However, if it was diamonds for dust, it would not be a good enough one. She is off limits…and if we find a fellow asking after her, that fellow will vanish. Understand?”

“I understand, Master Crimshaw. But listen—this is about the T—”

Crimshaw was suddenly in Merxel’s face. He’d moved so fast the [Bodyguards] were still twisting, shock on their faces when the Brother hissed—and he was not the gentleman with the hat.

“Do you see a hat on my head, Merxel? We are done making mistakes. The first man who so much as sneezes at that girl ends up in pieces in the sewers—along with his entire crew. Understand?”

Merxel was smart enough to know when to nod and back up. Pale-faced, he and his [Bodyguards] stepped back. Niers himself exhaled slowly.

The odds were Merxel paid for top-quality [Bodyguards]. Even some of the best if he was worried about Niers, and there might have been more inside. None of that meant he wanted to deal with a Brother with their hat off. They were perfectly willing to fight to the death in the street, and having your teeth smashed into the curb by a boot was not a pretty way to die.

It was also astonishing to see them go to the Tier 9 option this fast. They must have taken Erin’s death as a true failing.

Could he trust them fully? Niers considered it, but then disregarded the notion. He was not someone for whom he could rely on their sense of honor with. People of his level were on the same level as a Face off the street for the Brothers, which meant their strict code of conduct was more negotiable.

Even so…when the Brothers went off to make sure Mrsha was fine, Niers slipped into Master Merxel’s home. The man had gotten unlucky with the Brothers. He’d had good fortune to get Mrsha while Niers wasn’t thinking straight. Sadly—that was all luck would have to say here.

—-

Master Merxel sat in his office, trying to fold his hands together. He was ready. He knew it—or suspected.

If he’d been giving odds in his actual job, it would have only been around 4/10, or 6/10 if the bet wouldn’t bounce back on him. He was relatively certain, though.

Nevertheless, he flinched like a pre-graduate in his [Spy] training school when the magic lantern by his desk went dead. So did half of his warding runes.

He wasn’t trying to hide—at least, his presence.

“Lord Astoragon?”

Master Merxel spoke, relieved to find his voice smooth. He spread his hands, looking around. His bodyguards knocked on the door; Merxel raised his voice.

“Leave me! Until I call—remain on alert.”

Then he waited. After a second, someone spoke.

“Not going to run or have them here?”

The [Spymaster] licked his lips.

“There are a number in my home. Professionals. They know you might be the principal threat. You have your enchanted sword, and your considerable Skills, Lord Astoragon. I would not put you as a man who bets, however.”

“No, I don’t. I didn’t think you were, either, Merxel. But here we are. Where is my bag of holding?”

Where was he? The [Spymaster]’s head searched the darkness. He had [Cat’s Eye Vision] of course, among others, but the Fraerling was too small. He was invisible and the effect of his voice bouncing was disconcerting.

“Lord Astoragon, I swear on a truth spell that I intended no harm to that girl. I just wanted to—talk to you. Reasonably. I am not your enemy! I have not sold information on you, nor was I intending to capture you! You know me—I do not like risks that involve your life.”

“No, I suppose you don’t. Why the guards?”

“Any number of reasons, sir. Which you can imagine. Every Great Company has a bounty on you, and countless individuals want you. Living, dead, torn to pieces, stuffed—”

“I imagine. One question, Master Merxel. If you’re my ally, where’s my bag of holding? Where’s my gear? Put it on the table, walk out of the room, and I’ll reward you with all my gratitude.”

Master Merxel closed his eyes.

“Lord Astoragon, I don’t have it. I entrusted it to the Merchant’s Guild for safekeeping.”

“Then you gave it to the bastards!”

The voice echoed, now. He was using some kind of trick. A way to throw his voice to make it—Merxel had had enough. He drew a dagger and wand.

“Lord Astoragon, I faced every remaining [Assassin], [Rogue], and [Mercenary] for hire in the entire region if I didn’t do something with it! That is not taking sides! We can make a deal. I have magical contracts—”

“You knew I’d want it back. All you had to do was hold your nerve, Merxel. Was that really so hard?”

A…note of emotion entered the voice. Merxel put his back to the wall, away from any vents or anything but solid stone.

“Lord Astoragon. Don’t do this. I might have retired, but I was still a good [Spy]. I have my bodyguards—I’ve prepared for this.”

“Merxel.”

And there he was. He stood on Merxel’s desk, his sword in hand, crossbow in the other. A toothpick. Merxel stared at him. Niers Astoragon looked at the [Spymaster] and shook his head.

“I’m well aware of how good you were to survive. I just wish you had kept your spine. Master Merxel…tell me something. Which do you think is more dangerous? A [Strategist] with no army? Or a [Spy] in the open?”

The [Spymaster]’s lips moved.

If only it was a prayer. He looked at Niers as his arm tensed.

“Which reason is it?”

The Titan looked at him.

“Does it matter? Pick one.”

—-

Mrsha the…Poor Infiltrator waited around a corner from Master Merxel’s home, and then, when the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings found her and ushered her back, in time-out in her room, and then, without dessert that night.

She was without an appetite, anyways. She was so worried about Niers, and kept getting Liska to open the door.

When he did return though, it was a shock. The Titan walked into Mrsha’s room and she…looked at him.

“Merxel was no good. I had a talk with him. He’s not willing to help. You did very well. I’m sorry he nearly grabbed you; he’s a smart man.”

The Titan smiled at her. Mrsha inspected him from head to toe, sniffing. He was exactly the same as last time. Exactly the same.

Except for the blood. Mrsha the…

Mrsha the…

It was supposed to be a grand adventure. A game. Only—the little Fraerling wasn’t funny anymore. Mrsha smelled him and he realized she was doing that.

“Ah—well—”

He didn’t come up with an excuse she would have believed. Niers cursed as Mrsha backed up, smiling uneasily. He thought soap would have worked. Even with Merxel’s cologne…

—-

Now.

Mrsha saw the Titan tilt his head back and think. Niers Astoragon wasn’t sure how to proceed. She was just a kid. He did not actually interact much with children.

Oh, young students of course, but they came to him as geniuses. Perhaps—that was the way to go.

“Very well. I did kill him.”

He spoke, and saw her hair actually rising. Apista buzzed down and perched on Mrsha’s head, now regarding him dangerously. Niers spoke, quickly, urgently, but as if he was lecturing her.

“I had to. Merxel knew you were working for me, and he was willing to give my bag of holding away. If there was a chance—they know I’m in Invrisil, but they would have known from Merxel anyways, I’m afraid. I killed him. I kill people, Mrsha. I am not a nice man. I am…the Titan of Baleros. With all that means. Do you understand that?”

She nodded, slowly, crouched. If she ran, it was over. Niers pointed towards the door.

“I want to help Erin Solstice. I want to help you. You have seen monsters and bad people, I know. You told me about Hectval, about the dungeon. I can help. I am the highest-leveled person you have ever met. Now, I made a mistake with Merxel. I won’t do it again. Nor will I put you in danger if I can help it. If your friends are raiding the Village of Death—they are in trouble. I know that spot. I’ve been there. They are going to die unless they fall back. Understand?”

Mrsha looked at him, eyes wide. Niers spoke, very carefully. He had toured the world in fame after becoming one of the Four Great Companies’ heads. He had met the King of Destruction, albeit in his slumber. That had been one of the most dangerous moments in his life, wondering if the [King] would order Orthenon to murder him.

Visiting the great mysteries and dungeons of the world had been another. Niers remembered when he felt the prescience of death hanging over his head, even with Foliana or his best [Soldiers] or escorts.

When he was about to descend into A’ctelios Salash’s guts.

Viewing the Last Tide from countless miles away.

Observing what came beyond the edge of the world.

Standing in Nerrhavia’s Tomb.

Meeting the Minds of the Selphids unannounced.

Entering the Village of Death…

Actually, there were a number of incidents. The Village of Death hadn’t been as certain as other places—because he’d pulled back. He’d wished he had a navy and the ability to pull together an army from the Forgotten Wing company with all the preparation he could muster, even grab Tulm for the promise of glory and Named Adventurers.

Nothing short of that would have tempted Niers to go in there. He looked at Mrsha, made his voice as reassuring, commanding, as possible.

“I can help them. You need to help me. Agreed?”

He stuck out a hand. Mrsha wavered—then slowly took it. Niers exhaled in relief as she took him back to the inn.

One down. Now, if I can just shake this feeling of dread—

Something’s coming. What the hell is making me so nervous around here?

A [Strategist] feared the uncertain far more than the certain. Niers’ skin was itching. His left earlobe tingled, as it sometimes did.

Skill tells me there are two damn attacks incoming on this rough position. I don’t give a single one of Foliana’s nuts for that. What the hell is making me nervous?

—-

Then.

“So, what’s the plan?”

“Run screaming into the Village of Death, hit everything you see with [Fireball], freeze what tries to get up, snatch the loot, and run out?”

Soew laughed politely, and one of the three members of Elia Arcsinger’s team, the younger half-Elf, her daughter, laughed too.

The laughter faded when they realized Ceria was serious. Some of the other thirty-some adventurers and captains in the tent looked unsettled, but Jelaqua grinned.

So did Eldertuin. Well, it was a smile.

“You must not be serious. Is this what we’ve come here to do? I thought you had a plan. I might have organized a better strategy myself!”

[Prince] Zenol was more forthcoming about his objections. He was one of the thirty who’d been selected for a second, more official war-council. Those present were all able to contribute something, whether by friendship like Halrac or Jelaqua, magical knowledge like the [Mages], Zenol’s combined rank or status…

Elia Arcsinger had brought three teammates and no one had objected since it was…her. Besides that, however, no one else but individuals or Gold-rank captains were present.

“It’s the plan we were going with. Big distraction, smash and grab. Classic adventurer style. We would have done it by ourselves, but then all you showed up. We didn’t expect so many.”

Ceria looked around, embarrassed, but determined to be truthful. Pretending to have some big plan was even more sure to backfire than this.

“You were going to go in, all four of you?”

Elia Arcsinger’s daughter was young. Like—super-young. As in, short of thirty years old, which meant she looked closer to sixteen, sure, but as half-Elves went, Ceria wanted to stick a practice wand in her hand and put her in school.

She acted like a Gold-rank, though, which is what she was. Her name was Capoinelia, and she was outspoken. Also, incredulous.

“Yes. We were.”

Yvlon spoke up. All four Horns were there, even Ksmvr. Most of the Izrilians regarded him with deep distrust or nervousness; Zenol looked fascinated, as did Soew and the non-Izrilians. Which fascinated Ceria; they knew the stories, but Antinium were still just a different species to them.

“Well, we need a strategy. We’ll just get in each other’s way otherwise. Also, we need to discuss treasure allotment, payment for wounded or the dead…injury and consumable compensation.”

A Gold-rank folded his scarred arms, looking around the table. There were lots of nods. Ceria’s heart sank.

She knew those terms. Treasure allotment was the classic fight after the dungeon crawl. Payment for the wounded or dead? Standard. Injury and consumable compensation, though—that wasn’t what the Horns did.

It was for teams who wanted repayment for every healing potion, magical arrow, and even wounds taken. She spoke, calmly.

“That’s easy, Captain…?”

“Mehoff.”

“Mehoff, thanks. Treasure allotment is equal split with all teams and individuals based on your total levels.”

“That’s—”

One of the team-captains trailed off. Halrac broke in, his voice gravelly, frowning.

“It’s fair. We’re not wasting time on this.”

His voice was the voice of one of the veterans, and a lot of the other captains backed him up. Some looked disconsolate, but it was standard.

Level-based treasure sharing was simple. Your total levels were added up—you just had to give the level under truth spell, no details—and that was your ‘share’ out of the total. It meant a high-level team benefited more than an individual adventurer of course, but on the other hand, you couldn’t get a numbers-advantage in claiming loot. It was not perfect, but it was roughly fair.

“Just so long as we get something. I knew one adventurer who had 20+ levels of [Cook]; every time he got a level-share deal, he always told us his cooking was an essential part of adventuring.”

One of the captains joked. Everyone laughed at that old joke. Ceria smiled.

“Only combat classes. As for payment for wounded or dead, we’ll take it out of the total. Fair’s fair. Injury and consumable compensation though…no. We’re not paying for it. The Horns can’t guarantee it. This is a raid on a death-zone. You know what that means.”

She looked around and some faces sobered. There was an oath from the side. One of the [Mercenaries] pushed herself up.

“Hold on. I came thinking this wasn’t another suicide mission. Rumor made it sound like this had a chance! You’re just going to charge in there? That’s it?”

Ceria met her eyes.

“That’s it. Sorry if you bought into the hype. The Horns are going in. Everyone else distracts; those who volunteer help us break into the center, or the treasury, grab what we can, and run.”

“Why would anyone buy into this plan? Aside from the fact that so many other teams are doing it?”

Prince Zenol inquired mildly. The others were looking shaken. Ceria looked at Yvlon. The [Armsmistress] was ready—

It was Pisces who spoke up. The [Necromancer] was leaning against one of the tent poles. He spoke, aware of eyes on him. Everyone knew his name, ironically, from the bounties.

Pisces Jealnet. [Necromancer].

“You will buy into this plan because we, the Horns of Hammerad, want that treasure. We want a Relic-class object more than anything. That is our claim. One Relic-class object; healing preferred. Everything else, divided. We will sell our gear to make up for the loss if we must. When the raid starts, we will go in, alone if we must. And to reassure you, Miss. We do not intend to leave until we have one.”

The tent fell silent. Halrac looked at Pisces, then Ceria and Yvlon. The two women nodded. After a second, someone spoke.

“I believe this is what is referred to as ‘dominance’. Wherein we establish our superior commitment. Hello, I am Ksmvr.”

He waved all three hands. Someone started laughing again.

It was Eldertuin. He seemed the most down-to-earth of the two Named-ranks. Elia was standing like a statue, poised, her hair gleaming, holding the golden bow that Ceria had seen in illustrations. Eldertuin had massaged his back, shifted, and smiled at their plan.

“Spoken like any crazy adventurers I partied with. I came here to join in. So let’s make a plan and anyone who wants to backs out. Don’t waste this team’s time.”

Ceria bowed slightly to him. He nodded back. Prince Zenol smiled too.

“And here I thought the only adventurers with spine were those who had it stitched into them. Let’s begin.”

—-

The planning of the raid on the Village of the Dead wasn’t actually where Ceria stayed long. She let Soew and the most able-minded group talk it out with Yvlon, who actually had a better head for strategy, not field tactics.

It wasn’t going to be that elaborate anyways. They’d attack from a few angles, but one main direction so they could reinforce each other. Multiple ‘spears’ would jab in, each one led by the treasure-team, which was comprised of mobile forces or volunteers, like Ceria.

All ranged-adventurers and [Mages] would advance slower, with a rear-guard keeping an escape route and reinforcements for a retreat.

Simple. They didn’t have time to coordinate and the idea was to hit the Village of the Dead so hard that even the immortal undead with their unnatural regeneration wouldn’t have time to catch the real players.

What Ceria did in the meantime was meet the other adventurers. Perhaps persuade some of those now uncertain to stay.

Ironically, the best person to start the introductions and foster some goodwill was Pisces. As the adventurers were talking about teams who would not participate—the Yellow Rivers team had two infected members, so they couldn’t heal and were thus liabilities—he sighed.

“If we are trying to preserve fighting strength, who was that fool who got their foot run over? I could see if I can mend the bones overnight. At least well enough to stand on for a [Mage] or [Archer].”

“What? You? That clod-foot is one of mine. What’re you going to do, though? Cut her foot off and animate it back on?”

The [Mercenary] captain squawked. Pisces gave her his best sniff.

“I am a [Necromancer], madam. Not some [Saw Doctor]. Among my manifold talents is the ability to mend bone. [Necromancer]? Bone? I can do what a healing potion cannot, and have her walking in a hundredth of the time. If you’d consent to letting one of my kind touch her, that is.”

The [Mercenary] hesitated, not least because of his tone, but as luck would have had it…

“Are you a good [Necromancer], like Perril Chandler before some ass ruined it?”

She quipped. Everyone turned to Pisces. He…

Nodded.

“Say rather, Miss [Mercenary], that I was a bad [Necromancer]. Until I met a good person.”

His tone was distant. He looked at Ceria and she bit her lip. Smiling, holding back the pang in her chest. The [Mercenary] captain didn’t know what to make of that.

“For the [Innkeeper] of Liscor.”

Ceria looked at the Captain of the Lifwail Blades. The Drake shrugged as heads rose, including Elia Arcsinger’s and Eldertuin’s.

“That’s why we’re here. If you don’t know—ask someone who wants to explain.”

—-

More than one team was here for Erin Solstice. However, what surprised Ceria was that more than one team was here because of them. Before she met the Pithfire Hounds, who had asked to meet them, citing a certain Wind Runner as the reason for dragging half a dozen Silver-ranks south, another team captain asked to make her acquaintance by name.

“Captain Ceria of the Horns of Hammerad. I am Dorgon of Maweil, from the House of Minos. My team and I wished to speak to you about one of your former members on the eve of battle.”

Ceria’s skin prickled. Accordingly, frost raced up her arms, instead of goose bumps. It melted as she turned and saw the slimmest Minotaur she had ever met in her life, and there had only been half a dozen at most.

Dorgon looked slender compared to Calruz, Bezale, and most of his kind. Not malnourished or even thin, just not with the bulky muscles Ceria had seen the other Minotaurs sporting. On the other hand…he had two shortswords, or rather, a combined shortsword-swordbreaker and a traditional shortsword.

“Dorgon of Maweil? I greet you—er—”

Ceria tried to remember the phrase Calruz had sometimes used.

“From…the House of Minos’s shores…uh…”

“…to wherever we land. By honor we stand.”

He finished the phrase as two more Minotaurs walked over, clasping his hands together. He bowed and Ceria did too. Dorgon gestured.

“This is Wered of Hammerad. Also of Maweil is Thoven.”

They greeted her as well. Wered was an [Armorbreaker], a specialist who carried a long, heavy maul. The entire purpose was to smash armor to bits. Thoven was interesting. He carried some kind of insane…

“Is that even a bow?”

“It’s called an X-bow.”

The Minotaur gestured to the crossed bows, which met at the center. It was like if someone fused two regular bows to form an ‘X’. Ceria had no idea why this would make it better. It looked either silly as hell, or intimidating, since they were both oversized longbows and the draw on the combined weapon had to be comparable to a ballista or something.

“My team is known as Maweil’s Reach. We are Silver-ranks.”

“You’re Silver?”

Ceria didn’t believe it. Even when he’d been ‘Silver’, that had been because his team was Silver-ranked and Calruz was stronger than a number of Gold-rank adventurers even without gear. Dorgon’s lips quirked.

“It is customary to work your way up through the ranks, and my team has only been adventuring for nine months. The House of Minos does not issue adventurer rankings.”

“I…see.”

Calruz had complained about that, or so Ceria recalled. And it was Calruz she suddenly thought of.

It was for Calruz that they were here. Dorgon led her to their outdoor camp, and treated her to a drink that tasted stiff, but had no alcohol in it.

“We don’t care to dull our senses so close to the battlefield. If you have wine…”

“I’m fine. How can I help you?”

The Minotaurs exchanged glances. Pisces was off mending bones, Yvlon planning, and Ksmvr was ‘establishing dominance’ elsewhere. Besides, Ceria was the one they wanted to see.

“We had heard that a member of our people disgraced themselves at Liscor and was continuing to be held prisoner. We even received an appeal from him to…adjudicate. That is not our role, but we had considered making the request when he heard his old team was mounting a raid.”

Wered spoke, as this seemed to concern her as much as Dorgon—her being from Hammerad. Ceria’s blood chilled.

“Did you come to settle a score? Or…to find something?”

“We came to see what sort of legacy Calruz of Hammerad left. As for his fate—we hope it will be resolved here.”

“How so?”

Dorgon put down his cup, wiping the Nolemn from his mouth, whatever the drink was called. He looked at Ceria directly.

“You are aware that the House of Minos offers honorable deaths to those who disgrace themselves? Calruz of Hammerad’s crimes as reported would not merit even that. Treachery, betrayal, consort in murder and kidnapping…”

“That’s not the whole story.”

“We are aware.”

Dorgon shrugged. He looked at his companions. Wered took over.

“There is another adjudicator who is actually able to give rulings who may go to Liscor. If so, Calruz of Hammerad will have his fate. We would like to intervene, however. Your raid was as bold as we could have hoped. You truly intend to strike the heart of this death-zone, despite the peril?”

“Yes.”

Ceria’s heart began to beat faster now. The Minotaurs exchanged a glance.

“Then we shall participate. And if your team succeeds, or if you all fall—we shall bear witness. If you act as we think you will, we shall petition the adjudicator to remand Calruz of Hammerad to our care. He will find the honorable end he seeks with us.”

For a second, Ceria was just flabbergasted. It was what she wanted and exactly not at the same time. In the end, she looked at Dorgon.

“How would that even work?”

“Aside from the city’s laws—which we would have to appease—the conduct of Calruz’s companions would speak to itself. If they conduct themselves with honor and appeal for a chance for him to redeem himself, despite being, no, especially because their captain was wronged by him, that should influence the adjudicator’s decisions. We may even have a mandate to appeal for this ourselves. I believe you would do so.”

Ceria nodded slowly.

“That…I would. Not for Calruz to die fighting monsters, though.”

“We must all die some day.”

Thoven spoke, taciturn, adjusting his X-bow’s strings. Ceria saw the Minotaurs nod. Wered reached out, and Dorgon offered Ceria a toast.

“Death before dishonor.”

He held the dark ochre drink out to Ceria. The half-Elf looked at it, and then at them. She opened her mouth, then—smiled. She took the cup, lifted it, and spoke.

“Let’s not die and get lots of loot.”

She downed the cup. The Minotaurs blinked at her, astounded, angry—then they guffawed with laughter.

—-

Ksmvr was walking around the adventurer camp, aware of the socialization going on. Contrary to Ceria’s expectations, he was not ‘establishing dominance’.

Rather, he was watching other adventurers talk, greet each other, laugh, get drunk, argue over old grudges, all rituals in the prelude to battle.

He was alone, however. Many stared; few talked to the Antinium.

That was only what Ksmvr expected. He knew the reputation of Antinium. He was alone, Hiveless, but for his team. But for Erin Solstice and few others. Ksmvr was grateful for that. Better to have three people than zero. The math checked out.

So, as he walked, Ksmvr thought about this battle. Like the last one with the Adult Creler. Survival was not guaranteed. It was far from likely.

His goal for the battle was simple. The Horns should succeed. They would not relent until their objective had been achieved. It was an Antinium sentiment, which he understood.

Casualties were likely. Almost certain. Therefore, if a member of the Horns of Hammerad perishes, it should be because I am already deceased.

A simple goal. Ksmvr mused as he walked, until he was accosted by an unusual sound. An attack vector focused on him.

Casually, Ksmvr swung around, having anticipated adventurer hostility. Three of Crossbow Stan’s weapons aimed at the running shape of—

“Makki! Stop, stop! Don’t shoot!”

The giant wolfhound dog didn’t hit Ksmvr, but darted around him, sniffing. Ksmvr looked down at it. He lowered the three crossbows as the Silver-rank team stopped.

The Pithfire Hounds gave Ksmvr the same goggle-eyed look as most adventurers. However, one recovered enough to point; he wore red robes, embroidered with decorative flames.

“You must be Ksmvr, of the Horns of Hammerad! Sorry about our dog—she’s going crazy with so many things around. I’m Levil—uh—”

“Ah. You are the Pithfire Hounds, a Silver-rank team based in Reizmelt and affiliated with Ryoka Griffin. Known for your use of combat-dogs.”

The other five adventurers blinked as they skidded to a stop. A much larger dog than even this ‘Makki’ halted next to their side. The animal sniffed and regarded Ksmvr more warily, but it was clearly well-trained.

“Mousey, feteh.”

The Aldasian Warhound relaxed at once. Ksmvr was fascinated.

Obviously he knew this team. He had committed every team participating in the raid to memory; no doubt Ceria, Pisces, and Yvlon had done even more research.

“They’re friendly. Um—sorry about Makki. Makki, come here!”

The dog bounded over and Ksmvr nodded.

“I have taken no offense. However, I would encourage you to watch your dog near more volatile adventurers.”

Levil nodded. He stood there hesitating, in the way Ksmvr realized people did when they had no easy segue into conversation. So he provided one.

“I am indeed Ksmvr. Are you looking for my team captain on urgent business regarding the raid?”

“No—er—that is, we’re committed. We don’t have anything important; the [Strategist] already took our warhounds into account. We’ll be fighting on the flanks, except for Levil, who’ll be raining spells from afar. We just wanted to introduce ourselves because we heard the Horns knew Ryoka. That’s why we’re here.”

“Ah. I have met Ryoka Griffin.”

“Great! Well, she saved our hides and got us Mousey here, so we’re in her debt.”

“Indeed. This parallels our experience with Ryoka.”

Levil’s mouth worked. Ullica, the other [Mage], looked somewhat taken aback. Ksmvr gave them nothing to work with—until he looked down.

“Makki!”

Bram whispered, but the dog was sniffing at Ksmvr, unable to credit this Antinium even among the varied smells she was encountering. At least she wasn’t growling or seeing him as a threat.

The foreign Antinium adventurer looked down at the dog. After a second, he bent and the Pithfire Hounds tensed.

Ksmvr began petting Makki, hesitantly, then stroking her head. The dog leaned into it, and Ksmvr spoke as the adventurers watched, fascinated.

“Pet, pet. Good dog.”

Petting dogs was not like petting horses. Ksmvr was amazed by this novel experience. He only looked up when he heard a sound.

Levil was grinning.

“You like dogs, um, Adventurer Ksmvr?”

“I do not know. I have never met a dog before in this proximity. Am I petting it right?”

“You can scratch behind her ears or rub her belly.”

“Fascinating.”

It dawned on Pithfire Hounds that Ksmvr was not exaggerating. Apart from seeing them from afar, or perhaps eating one if the Antinium had ever included dog in their nutritional paste—unlikely, as Liscor didn’t sell much dog meat—Ksmvr had never met a pet before.

Then Mousey walked over at a whisper from Levil and Ksmvr pet two dogs. And scratched a belly.

As it turned out, not only was Ksmvr fond of patting animals on the head, he was in fact, a superior petter since he had three hands and could therefore provide a 50% increase in ear scratches compared to other species.

Ceria found Ksmvr sitting on the ground, surrounded by four dogs, a hunting hawk, and a magical cat familiar, having broken through the species barrier with the power of petting animals. He looked up as he scratched Makki behind the ears gently.

“Captain Ceria, I have discovered the therapeutic benefits of petting animals. I suggest we incorporate this into our team’s strategy.”

The half-Elf blinked at him. Was…that Ksmvr’s way of asking for a dog? Then she shook hands with Levil, who looked at his opposite, the half-Elf [Cryomancer] surrounded by her aura of cold, with some amazement.

—-

Yvlon Byres walked out of the short strategy meeting feeling confident…in that no huge mistakes had been made. Soew was a decent [Strategist] and hadn’t come up with some convoluted plan.

Fight the enemy in a multi-pronged attack, with a few signals for fall back, rallying, danger—but don’t complicate things. Let the teams do what they did best. Arranging it had still taken nearly three hours, but they were done.

Aside from getting to the Village of the Dead tomorrow and setting up, they could rest. Yvlon intended to find the other teams she knew and talk—before tomorrow.

What had surprised Yvlon was that she had been nominated to start the attack. Obviously Soew would help coordinate, but the raid needed a leader and since Ceria had left, they’d asked her to begin.

“No speeches are necessary. They often don’t have much of a morale effect unless you have a Skill. Just send us into battle, Adventurer Yvlon.”

She would do that. Yvlon felt her body tingling.

Even her arms. She looked at them. Silver and steel; metal flesh. Yet she could feel if she closed her hands. Pain was gone, but sensation remained, albeit a bit dulled. She had seen the other adventurers glancing at her arms during the planning session. Yvlon felt like she stood out compared to all but the most noticeable adventurers.

So much better than her numb, tingling arms, leaking blood and pus, ruined by the injury at Albez. So much better; she was so much stronger.

Yet if Yvlon could have traded these arms for her old ones…she tried to forget about them. She didn’t hate her arms. Not exactly. It was just that if she had confided in her team, which she should have done, but had been too busy, too ashamed to say out loud, she would have simply said that she no longer felt…entirely Human.

More like a half-Golem or something. Yvlon knew Ksmvr admired the ‘upgrade’, but she felt a terrible feeling of unease, of wrongness, that intensified the more people stared, or the longer she looked at herself in a mirror.

Ceria has a bone hand. Live with it. Focus on the battle. Yvlon shook her head. Silver and steel be her guide; she would need every edge in this coming fight.

She was looking for Pisces, Ceria, and Ksmvr, when she heard the clash of metal on metal, and shouting. Yvlon turned her head. She had an unpleasant feeling, which intensified when she saw the crowd and the flashing silhouettes of two adventurers.

“Oh no.”

The telltale, white robes made Yvlon break into a run. She pushed through the crowd, easily shoving adventurers aside to stop the duel as two Humans fought, swords in hand.

“Enough! This isn’t the time for fights! Leave him—”

Pisces put up his rapier at the same time as the other man lowered his weapon. He too carried a rapier, albeit slightly altered, with a loop hilt instead of Pisces’ swept hilt guard, and he had a little parrying dagger in the other hand. A silver bell rang as he put up his blades.

Yvlon halted. She had been ready to grab both blades to stop what she assumed to be a duel Pisces had landed in—by his tongue or his class. However, Pisces looked amused, and the other man did too.

“What’s going on?”

The [Necromancer] cleared his throat as adventurers chuckled.

“Merely an exhibition, a training match of skill, Yvlon. I appreciate you coming to my aid…but that was not required in this case. May I present [Fencing Instructor] Tomoor d’Silaw, Silver-rank adventurer, who has elected to participate in the raid?”

“Lady Byres.”

The man gave Yvlon a flashy bow as he stowed the parrying dagger. His rapier traced the ground in a fanciful pattern. As he rose, his free hand smoothed at his lips, touching an extremely small and well-maintained mustache.

Yvlon blinked.

“Oh. Not a duel?”

“A match between [Fencers] worthy of the silver bell, Miss Byres. Adventurer Pisces had mentioned he once carried one, and I had to see if it was true. Well, I think it is! I would award it myself if I faced him on the practice courts.”

Some of the other adventurers murmured. Pisces had been doing well until Yvlon barged in. Tomoor looked at the [Armsmistress], now embarrassed.

“Your teammate is quite skilled, Miss Byres. Practically an imitation of Perril Chandler—which of course, is why I’m here. That historical broadcast was inspiring. I decided to come out of retirement and show my students some true fencing.”

He struck the air with his rapier, smoothing his mustache again. Yvlon nodded, looking at Pisces. He smiled.

“Well then. Er—sorry to interrupt. Apologies. I thought—”

She backed up. Pisces smiled at Tomoor and flicked his rapier up.

“Do you know Chandler’s Rebuke, Instructor Tomoor? I’ve never actually learned it.”

“We could give it a shot. I’m no [Mage], but—shall we continue? My advantage, I think…”

The two began dueling again, in front of the interested crowd. Among the watchers, Yvlon noticed, were other melee-experts. Not Briganda, but the kind who liked the finesse and technique of weapons. Briganda was very good, Yvlon knew, but she wasn’t a…student like some were.

One of the watchers, for instance, was Pekona, the [Blade Dancer] of Vuliel Drae. She eyed Yvlon, and the [Armsmistress] nodded shortly; she still remembered Vuliel Drae’s mess up.

Not every adventurer you had to drink with and clap on the back. You just had to fight together. If Todi was here, Yvlon would have stayed across the camp from him.

Was he here? It might not surprise Yvlon at this point. Todi’s Elites weren’t risk-takers, but they might think this was a raid worthy of the risk.

She saw Revi, walking away from a fire with some roasted strips of meat on a stick. Adventurers were cooking, and the [Summoner] had just bartered for some food.

“Revi. There you are. Have you seen any of the other teams? Also—is Todi here?”

“Todi? You think he’d risk his neck, even with this crowd?”

Revi snorted. After a second, she handed the smallest wood skewer to Yvlon, and the [Armsmistress] took it.

“No, Todi’s not here. However, I’m surprised at how many teams did show up. Did you see Arcsinger’s Bows and Eldertuin? I think we might have a shot!”

“He’s not going in as deep as everyone else. He said so straight out. It’s a—favor. Of sorts. Ryoka Griffin asked him to participate, so he’ll guard our flanks. He’s not charging with the treasure-grabbers, though.”

Revi wrinkled her face, but she was impressed.

“Ryoka got Eldertuin the Fortress to join a raid? She is so weird. How many connections does she have? That’s Runners for you.”

Yvlon nodded. It had surprised her too. Which reminded her—she dug in her bag of holding.

“Thanks for the food, Revi. If you see Griffon Hunt—pass these out.”

She counted about a dozen small objects into Revi’s hands. The Stitch Girl had to dump some of her food in her bag of holding.

“What’s this? What’s—is this baby corn? Why does it look weird? It’s red! Blue!”

“I have no clue. Eldertuin was passing it out. Apparently it’s baby corn from some [Corn Farmer]. Spicy, sweet—”

“Oh, yum! Thanks! Er—have another skewer.”

The two were chatting when Yvlon saw someone coming their way. She almost missed him because he wasn’t reclining on the golden palanquin, but Prince Zenol still looked eerily beautiful.

Not attractive to her necessarily, just beautiful. There was something too unnatural for Yvlon’s taste about his skin. To describe the effect silk had on Stitchfolk was to make comparisons with the adjectives, ‘supple’, ‘flawless’, ‘soft’, and other such descriptors.

In short, he had no pimples, pock marks, freckles, or other skin blemishes, and he moved with ease, his body being constructed out of one of the best materials for his people. He was rather like Ceria, in some ways, although the half-immortal effect of half-Elves was different than physical artifice taken to its limit.

Either way, he stood out, as did his natural superior attitude and expensive cloth-armor clothing. Yvlon recognized enchantments, but it was still arrogant to walk around as if he was dressed for a party, except for the single curved sword at his hip.

She was not about to bow to the foreign [Prince], but Zenol’s effect on Revi was dramatic. She instantly turned and bowed, deeply.

“Your Highness, Prince Zenol! We’re honored by your presence, sire.”

“Ah. You must be Revi Cotton of Griffon Hunt. Lady Byres. I had hoped to meet your Antinium comrade before battle began. I am curious about the Antinium.”

“Prince Zenol. I don’t know where Ksmvr is, but if you would like, we can find him together.”

Yvlon was a [Lady], but she refused to dance on his protocol. Nor did Zenol insist, but Revi clearly knew more from Chandrar than Yvlon.

“Let us find him, then. I understand your entire team is unusual. A half-Elf with a skeleton’s hand, a [Necromancer] worthy of a silver bell; he duels fairly well, even by Nerrhavia’s standards. An Antinium from the Hives, unique, and yourself. May I inquire as to your unique arms?”

“You may.”

Yvlon saw Revi tagging along behind them, and realized she had fallen behind. She turned to gesture, and Revi shook her head. She mouthed something.

“Ah. [Summoner] Revi, join us. We are in Izril, so such protocols from home do not apply.”

“Of course, Prince Zenol!”

Revi hurried forwards. Yvlon eyed Zenol. The Stitch-man shrugged in reply to the unsaid question.

“She is Cotton. I am Silk. I am also one of Nerrhavia’s [Princes], no matter how many of us there are. We would not walk together unless she was in my service. Even then—it would be highly unusual.”

“I see. What brought you from Nerrhavia’s Fallen all the way here, Prince Zenol?”

He smiled, arching a brow as he looked at Yvlon.

“Certainly not a desire for respect or awe, if that is what you are asking, Lady Byres. I had considered posing as a mere commoner, but I doubted I would fool anyone. I came to prove myself. For adventure, rather than luxury. This raid called to me.”

He gestured and Yvlon glanced over her shoulder and realized the six palanquin bearers were silently trailing them. Two were rough, big Stitchfolk; Hemp. The other three were Cotton, with the last being Silk.

“My team, and my servants. I know what some of the other teams surely think of me, but rest assured. When we join in battle, I will not fall behind any other team. Nerrhavia’s pride is with my group.”

“I don’t doubt that, Prince Zenol. I’m just taken aback by your customs. Forgive me if I indicated otherwise.”

The Stitch-man glanced at Yvlon and actually stooped slightly, as if to see her face from a different angle.

“…You don’t, do you? Well, that is a refreshing change. May I ask about your arms, if it is not offensive? You must understand that it fascinates me to see someone who can change their skin as we do; I imagine Dullahans think the same.”

They did—Yvlon shifted uncomfortably and shrugged.

“It’s less glamorous than you imagine. I injured both arms badly. My armor melted into my bones when fighting a Flame Elemental; I was practically crippled until I consolidated a class and…”

She gestured. Zenol nodded, raising his eyebrows.

“Quite fortuitous. Was it simply a great stroke of luck? I do know of [Injured Warriors] who gain Skills to make up for lost limbs, but this is far rarer.”

“Not—exactly. I had uh, kept my arms functional with help. My teammate, Pisces—he is a [Necromancer], so he reinforced my bones, enough to keep me fighting.”

“Ah. Now there is a secret worthy of a class. I thank you, Lady Byres. You do me honor with your trust.”

Did she? Revi looked agog, like she was meeting a huge celebrity, but Yvlon wondered if she had said more than she should. Well—good for [Necromancers]. She walked with Prince Zenol until they met Ksmvr in the animal-pile.

Prince Zenol was haughty, but like the others, he seemed like a real adventurer the more they talked. If he showed no wounds, well—when Ksmvr inquired, the [Prince] instantly turned.

“We do not need healing potions in the same quantities, but we are quite willing to throw ourselves into the Village of the Dead to find the treasure and escape. I have prepared emergency-limbs of course. See?”

One of his people produced nearly a dozen perfectly-sewn silk arms, legs, even organs and other body parts. All of them looked like cloth—until they were swapped into the body.

“How sensible. I wish I were capable of modular reattachment. My missing arm has been most inconvenient. See?”

Ksmvr waggled his stump of a fourth arm.

“True, true! It is refreshing to see Antinium understand the superior nature of Stitchfolk bodies!”

Prince Zenol laughed, quite taken with Ksmvr. Ironically, the [Prince] from Chandrar had less reservations about talking with Ksmvr than Izrilians. He even asked the floating questions no one had dared to utter.

“So, are more Antinium willing to adventure? Or is your Hive as monolithic as I’ve been told? Will they be continuing the Third Antinium War?”

Ksmvr tilted his head.

“That is not my decision to make, Prince Zenol. However, I will happily talk about my Hive in some respects if you will inform me about Nerrhavia’s Fallen’s inner functionality in great detail. Otherwise, it would appear you are asking for information with no compensation, a very unfair stance.”

“By the sands—”

One of the servants took offense to Ksmvr’s familiar tone. Zenol just lifted a hand.

“Well said.”

Revi nodded emphatically behind Prince Zenol, and Yvlon saw that three more Stitchfolk adventurers from abroad were also watching him, trailing about, offering sycophantic comments.

It was so unlike Revi she had to pull the [Summoner] aside as Ceria walked over.

“Is that Prince Zenol? Oh no. Someone stop Ksmvr from establishing dominance.”

Yvlon ignored the joke—which was growing tired after a thousand times, like the ‘is it war?’ joke that Pisces and Ceria loved bantering about. She turned to Revi.

“Revi, why are you bowing and scraping to him?”

“Because he’s a [Prince], Yvlon! You’re telling me—oh, right. Izrilians and their thing about monarchy.”

“You’re not even from Nerrhavia’s Fallen, though! I remember you telling me you were from the western coast!”

The [Silversteel Armsmistress] pointed out. Octavia was from Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Revi gave Yvlon a roll of her eyes.

“So? Nerrhavia’s Fallen is a superpower! It’s one of the String People nations. Besides which, it doesn’t matter. If Prince Zenol really, really were to like me—he could elevate me to Silk! Or beyond!”

Ceria made an ‘oh’ expression. The cloth-caste system of the String Folk. Yvlon nodded slowly.

“Well—he’s not going to notice you if you just smile like that and echo his every word. Be more…Revi. That’ll get his attention.”

“And get her kicked all the way down to Hemp.”

Ceria joked. Revi gave the half-Elf a look.

“Don’t joke. It could happen.”

“Tree rot, really? I had no idea…”

Explanations about String Folk society were cut off as someone materialized and grabbed Ceria’s arm.

“Excuse me, Captain Ceria? Adventurer Arcsinger would like a word.”

A Human man, one of Arcsinger’s Bows, made all the adventurers turn. Yvlon raised her brows. Ceria turned at once.

“Of course. Does she need anything?”

“She’d like a word. Privately?”

Yvlon and Ceria nodded. The man glanced at Yvlon. He hesitated.

“Privately, Captain Ceria? Between half-Elves?”

The [Armsmistress] frowned, but she nodded and stepped back. She waved at Ceria, who looked at her.

“Go on. We’ll talk to Prince Zenol. Find out what she wants.”

—-

Elia Arcsinger was more mysterious than Eldertuin to Ceria. For one thing, the half-Elf [Archer] had a longer career than even the older-looking Eldertuin.

Well, she was a half-Elf, and ten years ago she had rocketed to her world-famous status. Before that she had been an adventurer…actually, Ceria didn’t know more than that.

She knew what every half-Elf knew about one of their people’s Named Adventurers. Elia Arcsinger, Kingslayer. Known for her [Line-Ender Shot], which had been granted to her when she slew the Goblin King in the final battle.

Goblinbane! Her team crushed Goblins wherever they went, rooting them out and preventing the threat of a Goblin King from ever resurfacing while Elia lived.

That was…less reassuring than it used to be, now Ceria had met Goblins. However, she still felt the awe of Elia’s fame hanging over her. She had said very little during the strategy meeting, only giving assent a few times. Her daughter and the other two teammates she’d brought had made more comments.

The [Cryomancer] had taken it to be Elia being naturally aloof, as someone with her fame might be. Or—a kind of female Halrac, all focus, not deigning to speak unless she had to.

The truth was that Elia Arcsinger was actually rather retiring in person. She greeted Ceria with a light kiss on each cheek, exceptionally familiar, and smiled.

“Sister, come in. Thank you for meeting me in private.”

With that, she ushered Ceria into her private tent. Her team’s camp was spaced away from the others, as befitted a Named-rank team. They had everything one might expect of a team with a Named-rank adventurer. High-quality, spatially enchanted tents. Luxury wherever you went! Ceria saw a four-poster bed in one of the other tents.

“My daughter’s. We could skip inns and just live in them, but one grows accustomed to living in style.”

Elia explained. Her tent didn’t have the huge bed, but it did have a number of amenities, including a vanity. Ceria found herself sipping from some high-quality wine and staring.

“T-thank you for inviting me, Adventurer Arcsinger.”

“Elia will do. We are half-Elves far from home. I don’t know if I should call you ‘sister’, but I hope we can work together.”

The Named-adventurer smiled and Ceria nodded, already charmed. Elia’s golden bow was propped up next to her bed, and the adventurer still wore her enchanted leather armor.

“How can I—that is, my team—help you, Ad—Elia? Miss Arcsinger? Is something wrong with the battle? Do you have any insights?”

The Named Adventurer shook her head. She sat, sipping the wine, and made a face.

“I was going to talk about home first—oh well. I…er…wished to talk to you about our role in the battle before we began.”

Ceria nodded as Elia fiddled with her cup and a bowl of snacks from home; very subtle, delicate, edible…leaves. Elfleaf it was called, because half-Elves ate it. It was a connoisseur’s dish. Ceria hated it unless you dumped sugar or syrup on the stuff. Elia bit one delicately, chewed, and came out with it.

“…My team will be participating in a ranged capacity. Some of my warriors will be fighting on the flanks, of course, but I myself will not be joining the first wave.”

“Oh—I think Yvlon mentioned that. Of course not. You’re an [Archer] even if you’re…”

Elia held up a delicate hand. Ceria hesitated and then felt the oddity. Elia took another sip of wine.

“What I meant, Ceria, was that my team will not be advancing…quickly…at all. We will of course provide all the firepower we can, but we will not advance into potentially dangerous engagements. I hoped you could communicate this to Strategist Soew.”

For a while, the [Arctic Cryomancer] thought she was misinterpreting. After three minutes, she realized she was not.

Elia Arcsinger, unlike Eldertuin, who’d been open about his position and willingness to commit, was also not like Prince Zenol or the Minotaurs, who were both in the front waves. She danced around it as Ceria said she could place her elsewhere.

“We should be in the first wave. However…”

She wanted to be in the front, but not be in the front. Ceria heard a familiar voice in her head, making an offhand remark. When she had asked Grimalkin if he had Elia Arcsinger on a list of people who could best him in combat…

“I—I can tell Soew to work with your team’s placement, Elia. But can I ask why…?”

The older woman gave Ceria an embarrassed smile. A slight flush entered her pale cheeks and she shifted. She turned, glancing at her bow in her seat.

“It’s not what I’d prefer, of course, Ceria. I know a Named Adventurer should be first into the charge, and I’ll be loosing every arrow I have to keep us alive. However…it’s my team. You know Arcsinger’s Bows aren’t Named-rank, despite having me in the team?”

“I—do.”

“It’s because our combat capacity is lacking. Slightly. We are good at fighting Goblins, as you might expect. However, I don’t often commit to high-level engagements…because of my daughter. You understand?”

Capoinelia? Ceria’s eyes widened as she understood. Elia nodded, glancing at the tent flaps, and lowering her voice, although Ceria was sure they were warded.

“She’s not even thirty. I imagine you found her…young. You grew up in the villages, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. She seemed—well, really young. But she grew up…”

“On the move. I was an adventurer, she was a baby when I slew the Goblin King. She grew up with me as the famed Named Adventurer. I’m afraid it’s warped her perceptions of this life.”

Elia shrugged regretfully. She gestured to the expensive tent.

“She’s never had to sleep in the mud, and her first bow was enchanted. She’s certainly Gold-rank—but I don’t want to put her into a situation where she might advance into trouble. You understand?”

Ceria did. Her heart fell as she realized Elia was asking her to…no, they’d still be loosing arrows. She smiled, keeping her sinking heart from showing on her face.

“I understand, of course, Elia. I’ll speak to Soew now.”

“Stay, please. I would like to chat of home. How long has it been since you left Terandria?”

Ceria wavered, and then sat. Elia was charming, and not at all haughty due to her fame. Aside from her request, Ceria would have loved this talk.

Aside from the request. She might have asked Elia about the famous shot, about her daughter and Goblins, but they never got to that point.

Capoinelia burst into the tent as the two were laughing over half-Elf villages.

“Mother! Mother, come quick—”

She saw Ceria and stopped. Elia rose, already going for her bow. Ceria had her wand out.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s the camp! Just hurry!”

Ceria sprinted out of the tent with Capoinelia, Elia delayed by grabbing her bow. What Ceria saw was shouting, a commotion—everyone was clustered around something. She pushed through the crowd as adventurers saw her, or heard the other half-Elf.

“Move aside! Arcsinger’s Bows! Elia Arcsinger is—”

“Ceria, there you are!”

Someone found her. Jelaqua, towering above most in her Raskghar battle-body, grabbed Ceria. She was pulled into the center of the spectacle.

“It was a damned accident! It’s not—what does it mean?”

An Oldblood Drake, one of the Lifwail Blades, was standing with his team, arguing with team Captains. Eldertuin himself was kneeling, inspecting something. As Ceria appeared with the Horns, they spun.

Keldrass, whom Ceria had not seen yet, was blinking down. He looked at her.

“Ceria. What did you do? Is this why you were so confident?”

“It has to be. Hah! We have a chance!”

Prince Zenol’s eyes were wide and gleaming. He was inspecting the same thing; Ceria smelled something foul, and the acrid stench of burnt flesh. He glanced up at her.

“What did you do?”

Eldertuin was quieter. He looked just as incredulous as some of the other team captains. Ceria didn’t understand why, until she heard the Lifwail Blade’s member explaining.

“We were just trying to see if the legend was true and you couldn’t fly over the Village of Death. We were scouting—one of the bastards was there and I breathed fire on it, alright? I thought it wouldn’t matter…”

They were all crowded around a corpse. A corpse from the Village of Death? Ceria was appalled. They were going to start the raid early—

Then she realized something. The smoldering, burning corpse wasn’t moving. The zombie or Ghoul or whatever it had been…wasn’t getting up.

The unnatural healing, the regeneration that had doomed entire armies trying to enter this death-zone? The body lay, burnt, motionless. No magical light showing in its eyes.

“…It’s not undead. It’s just a body.”

Pisces straightened. His eyes were wide, but he tried to hide it as every adventurer slowly turned to Ceria. Her heart was pounding, and she looked at him. His eyes flickered. Yvlon, Ksmvr—all glanced at him, and then looked at Ceria.

“What did you do?”

Revi breathed, awestruck. Ceria glanced at Pisces before fumbling for words.

The next day—the raid on the Village of the Dead began. This time, everyone woke and assembled, marching the three miles to the death-zone, to the undefeated landmark of necromancy, feeling the same thing in the air. A chance. An opportunity.

Hope.

—-

He felt fear.

Fear, because it was too soon. Too soon for the Horns of Hammerad. Fear and uncertainly. For even the Necromancer, Az’kerash, of whom so much had been said, had no idea how the undead had stopped rising.

The broadcast of Grand Magus Eldavin had revealed to the world the truth of Perril Chandler. How he had risen and fallen.

…An incomplete truth. If Az’kerash had dared, he would have been the angry caller denouncing the inaccuracies, the parts of the story left unspoken.

It was largely correct. Sort of. If you ignored real details the story simply skipped over. The arrogance of a storyteller who hadn’t been there, only seen from afar.

However. Although he had been obsessed with the telling and retelling and reactions of the world, however inaccurate, Archmage Chandler, Perril Chandler, the Necromancer, Az’kerash, was focused on this raid.

He should have stopped it. It was too soon. The Horns of Hammerad had no chance whatsoever of penetrating the Putrid One’s lair to retrieve his treasury. In fact, Az’kerash had taken reassurance in that fact…until now.

His—obfuscation—of the truth regarding his ability to cure Erin Solstice had been the root of it, Az’kerash could see in the clarity of death. However, the issue had snowballed into a far greater problem without him knowing.

The Necromancer had been content to let young Pisces and his team try, fruitlessly, to raid the Village of the Dead, gambling on them failing.

He had not expected this many adventurers coming for the raid. However, he had been sanguine right up until the second unexpected event occurred: the incredible reanimation field of the Village of Death vanishing without a clue as to why.

“What happened? Is it some kind of—of resonance effect? Did the Demon’s ritual drain it, destabilize the magic?”

The only correlation Az’kerash had was the events around the Summer Solstice; there was no way for him to know what had truly happened. Now, he was worried.

Even with Eldertuin and Elia Arcsinger, he had been confident the raid would fail, breaking on the first layers of undead, who would hold back even an army thrice this size by sheer numbers and regeneration alone.

However. What had been an opportunity to level, however embarrassing to the Horns’ credibility was now turning…dangerous. If the undead did not come back, then the possibility became very real that the raid would begin to succeed. Which meant they’d reach the stronger undead. And the true parts of the Village of the Dead.

Az’kerash had once made it there when he had first come to Izril, by dint of his incredible magical powers in death. He had made it into the heart of the Village of Death…and left. Because he had not been confident enough in his ability to defeat what lay beyond unprepared, alone.

The possibility of the Horns being obliterated now warred with a second possibility. What if they…succeeded?

Az’kerash did not sweat. If he could, though…he inspected the frozen beaver thawing in the summoning circle. A thousand attempts, a thousand failures. He needed more books on this kind of magic. He needed…time. Yet he understood perfectly why the Horns were rushing, into what had been certain doom until this night.

They wanted her back. They were taking on this threat because they were desperate. Because they could not wait.

Too soon. Too hasty. Too reckless. Az’kerash lowered his head.

“Uh oh. I sure hope my friends won’t get into trouble. That’d be—sort of bad. Especially since I uh, I’m alive. Yup, yup.”

His head rose as an unfamiliar female voice spoke. The Necromancer’s head turned.

A young woman walked forwards, inspecting the scrying spell and beaver critically. She shook her head, her light brown hair a bit tangled, her hazel eyes concerned.

“I’d better get my kitchen knife and acid jars. I’m Erin. Erin Solstice. Nice to meet you.”

She stuck out a hand at Az’kerash. The Necromancer watched her with his black eyes, white pupils locked on her face. Erin stared at him, and slowly withdrew the hand.

“Okay, be like that. It’s cool. It’s chill. I’m Erin Solstice. Insert dialogue here. Chess!”

She threw up her arms. Then—jerked. Her head drooped, the arms sagged. Az’kerash sighed.

“…This isn’t going to work.”

He waved, and the zombie shuffled off. Appearance was spot-on, but even with direct control, he couldn’t simulate the personality well enough. He tapped two fingers together, thinking. If it succeeded…

The problem was that he couldn’t even argue whatever the Horns might grab wasn’t worth it. Because if the Helm of Fire was in the Village of the Dead, it was certainly worth his time to collect. One of the great treasures of Drake-kind?

The Necromancer tried to figure out a way to save the Horns, or sabotage them, or fulfill his vow into the night. Come dawn—he watched as they assembled.

They attacked at midday. Then, the Necromancer watched for a different reason. Perril Chandler sat, looking at the woman with arms of silver, the half-Elf, the young [Necromancer], the Antinium alone.

Brave, young heroes. He wanted them to live. He wanted them to succeed.

He…

Watched.

—-

Now.

Somewhere far from here, the Horns of Hammerad had begun their assault on the Village of the Dead. Ceria had sent Selys a [Message] before the attack had begun.

…So had Pisces. That was how she knew. Now, she waited in The Wandering Inn, having told Lyonette, Ilvriss, as many friends as she could name of the Horns’ actions.

Yet they had no idea what was happening. There was nothing on the scrying mirror showing the battle. It was not news until someone decided it was.

Rags listened to the explanation about the scrying mirrors, the arguments—they were looking for a ‘Drassi’. She was still hung up on the magic door, and the fact that it led to Pallass.

The Goblin was…avoiding…one thing by inspecting the inn. In fairness, though, there was a lot to inspect, and a lot of people to see and meet.

For instance, who was this [Mage] who practically spilled onto the ground floor? And the Minotaur? Rags stared at her chest.

…Nope. She was fairly certain the last Minotaur had not been female. Memory played tricks on you, but she was sure she’d have remembered that.

Bezale propped Montressa into a chair, but the [Aegiscaster] was so sloshed she fell out of it. She had not taken being expelled from Wistram well. However, she sobered as she heard about the Horns.

More people were returning, some in a hurry. Palt and Imani trotted in, talking to each other.

“Just once, I’d like a peaceful day. I swear, it’s whenever we plan on something—it’s like the inn knows we’re trying to relax.”

“Stop complaining, Palt. We had a good…three hours. We’ll take off another day.”

They had flowers in their hair. Rags stared, and Selys broke off asking about Drassi long enough to look at them.

“Flower tour. Garland braiding. Where are the Horns? Why aren’t they on television?”

Imani brushed at a scented flower that Palt had put into her hair as he plucked at a long-stemmed flower behind his ear. They both stopped when they saw Rags. She blinked at them.

“Who is that? When did another Goblin arrive?”

Palt exclaimed. Rags snorted.

“I was here first. Who are you?”

“Imani? This is Palt. Er, hello.”

The [Chef] stuck out a hand. Rags inspected it, shook it gently. There went her first handshake with a Human. She raised her eyebrows at Palt. And here was her first Centaur.

“She’s a [Mage]. Why does every second Goblin I meet have magic in them? Flame magic. Uh—Palt. Hello?”

The Centaur trotted over and stuck out a hand. Rags shook it, sniffed. He had a distinct whiff about him that reminded her of a Goblin [Shaman].

Speaking of which…Ulvama was still staring at Rags. She poked Rags; the Goblin slapped her wrist.

“Stop that.”

“You are the Chieftain of the tribe Badarrow was in? And Snapjaw?”

“Yup.”

“Chieftain in the High Passes?”

Rags saw Palt look at her as Imani headed for the kitchen, unsure of what to do, but certain people would want food at some point.

“Somewhere like that.”

“Take me with you.”

Ulvama saw Rags glance around the inn, practically ignoring her. The [Great Chieftain] looked at Ulvama coolly.

“I’ll think about it. Want to give me a name?”

Having thus rendered the [Shaman] speechless for a moment, Rags was well-placed to hear a scream from the kitchen and see Palt gallop to Imani’s rescue.

He nearly ran her over. The [Chef] emerged, backing away from Calescent. Rags scowled at the Goblin [Chef], who was holding up his claws.

“Just looking! Very nice. Very good food. Not enough spices.”

Rags gestured warningly. If Calescent started a fight or got them kicked out…of course he couldn’t resist slipping into the kitchen. Imani leaned against Palt, as Calescent spoke quickly.

“Just want to see! Am [Chef].”

“You’re a [Chef]?”

Palt’s eyes widened. Calescent huffed at him.

“I am [Spice Chef]. Calescent. And you are [Chef] here? Very nice food. Have recipes? Hello.”

“Oh, hello.”

Imani blinked as Calescent beamed at her. The Goblin gestured to the kitchen…Rags missed the rest. Because, at last, she saw a familiar face coming down the stairs.

“Is that Rags?”

Bird peered at her as he walked downstairs, holding his bow. Rags vaguely remembered the Antinium. She nodded.

“Hi.”

“Hello. You have been gone a while.”

The Antinium sat across from her as Ulvama’s head went from Bird to Rags.

“Mm. I was busy. Where…where is Erin?”

Bird’s head tilted.

“In the [Garden of Sanctuary]. You have not seen her?”

“No. I heard she died.”

“She is not dead. Only frozen.”

“Mm. I heard that too. You…you’re from the chess club. The Antinium who makes birds on chess boards.”

“Yes. You are the small Goblin who killed Skinner.”

Kevin had returned, panting, having not found Drassi. He looked up as Rags nodded.

“The Antinium who died. How many survived? Anyone else?”

“Pawn, Garry, Belgrade, and Anand. But Anand has gone elsewhere, with Klbkch. So has Relc.”

“…Good.”

“Is it?”

Bird tilted his head back and forth again, and eventually shrugged. He looked at Rags as someone approached.

“Er—your order, Miss.”

A plate of spaghetti and blue fruit juice. Rags looked at Ishkr. She nodded, slowly, and fumbled something out. She put a gold coin down.

“Here. A tip.”

“Er—thank you.”

The Gnoll was taken aback, but he didn’t turn down free gold coins. Rags poked at the spaghetti, and instantly smelled a lot more effort and nuance than Erin’s boiled pasta in water. It even had meatballs and a sauce. Bird raised a hand.

“Ishkr. Ishkr. I will have two fried birds, and one boiled bird baby, please. Also, also I would like the oranged juice. I will not tip you in worms this time, I promise.”

Ishkr went to get two chicken wings and a boiled egg. He and Rags sat there for a moment, and eventually Rags looked up.

“Good to see you alive.”

“Yes, thank you. Have a nice day.”

They began eating amiably as Ulvama’s mouth opened and closed. Inside the kitchen, Calescent was watched warily by Palt, but all the Hobgoblin did was rub his hands and chortle as Imani presented him with a cookbook and some of her best creations.

Calescent obligingly handed over his personal spice blend in return. Palt made the mistake of sniffing it; he sneezed into the bag, sending a cloud of spice into his eyes and nose and went blind and deaf for the next ten minutes.

—-

When Drassi arrived, Selys shot to her feet.

“Drassi! The Horns are—”

“I heard. I’m on the job.”

The [Reporter] had been found by Joseph, and she whirled to go back to the door. Joseph went to sit down—she yanked him up.

“Oh no. You’re coming with me. I need reinforcements if we’re doing this.”

“Me? What am I supposed to do?”

“You’re the [Coach]. Kick a soccer ball into Sir Relz’s monocle or something. Just—”

They ran through the door. Rags sat back down, a touch disappointed. She wanted to know about these Humans. Of course, Badarrow had relayed some of the confusing tales about the Humans. Maybe now was the time to…

She found herself going into the basement, then upstairs, leaving her meal half-eaten. Ulvama stayed behind; Mrsha had appeared with a little book of questions for the [Shaman] to answer about Rags.

Rags toured The Wandering Inn, now from floor to floor. She walked up to Bird’s tower, nodding at the fortified sniping vantage. Badarrow had said it was good.

The trapped hallway spoke to her too, although she would have made a pit trap and rock-fall trap too at the very least. Rags even discovered one of the concealed crossbows as the Brothers glanced at her.

“Know a Whet? [Rogue]? Sells stuff?”

She looked at Crimshaw. The man’s eyes widened.

“…I might know the gang of which you’re referring, miss. Big market folks?”

Rags nodded. She showed him the ring, which had a cunning insignia carved into the jade piece. The Brothers looked at each other.

“That would be—the Wharf.”

“The what?”

Rags vaguely knew the word from her lessons, but it sounded different the way they said it. The Brother—Crimshaw—looked at Rags.

“The Wharf isn’t one place. It’s a gang. You want something nice? Odds are, you got it from the Wharf, Miss. If your gang—tribe—is dealing with them, you’re in other territory. Word to the wise? Watch where you step. They work in dark waters.”

The Goblin considered this gravely, and nodded.

“Thanks. Who are you?”

The Brothers looked at each other, then grinned and tipped their hats. Rags walked away, shaking her head. Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings? She would have to ask someone what ‘Serendipitous’ meant. Hatted?

At this point, Rags listened to Montressa talking drunkenly to Bezale.

“I should’ve given them the Shock Orb! They’re mad! Mad! [High Mages] have died trying the Village of Death!”

“If they had a cannon or something—would they make it? Not that I know how, but—how bad is it?”

Kevin had no idea, but he was talking to Montressa and Bezale. Now Rags had a lay of the inn and the people, she was recalling some details.

She didn’t see the Players of Celum, who were famous and had ‘plays’, which Badarrow had recalled to her, but she did know Kevin.

Bicycles. Snapjaw had been agog over them. Rags narrowed her eyes. She looked for Calescent, but he and Imani were tending to the Centaur writhing on the floor. Well, that and Selys watching the news were good cover.

“—a real [Comedian] in our next segment. I understand he’ll be telling jokes about—excuse me?”

Drassi charged into the room. Rags blinked; it had been less than ten minutes since she’d left!

“[Reporter] Drassi, with breaking news! Noass, shove off! You too, Sir Relz! We have an emergency broadcast! Someone get me the Village of the Dead, Horns of Hammerad—[Scrying] spells on Ceria Springwalker! That’s C-E-R-I-A—”

The two Drakes rose to their feet as a Human skidded into the room. Sir Relz objected.

“Drassi, you cannot just interrupt—what news is this?”

“It’s a raid on the Village of the Dead! Dozens of teams, two Named-adventurers! Out!”

It looked like a fight on the scrying orb, as Sir Relz and Noass began to argue and staff behind the scenes rushed forwards. The two [Commentators]—well, Sir Relz was still a [Commentator], Noass had morphed into a [News Anchor]—weren’t objecting to the breaking news story, especially since both knew about the famous location.

They just wanted to be the ones to cover it. The breaking news alert sounded as Selys clasped her claws together, tail swishing across the floor. Noass and Sir Relz wanted to be the two speaking and thus leveling and attracting attention, though. They were forcing Drassi out of the studio—right until Joseph kicked a soccer ball and it bounced across half the staff trying to push Drassi out.

Chaos. Entertainment! The inn was in uproar. Mrsha stared at Drassi, cheering as she took over the desk with Joseph as a surprise co-anchor. Only when someone pulled at one ear did she look around.

“She’s gone. After that Goblin, Rags! Hurry!”

Niers whispered in her ear. He held on as Mrsha sniffed and went up the stairs, after Rags. The Titan was fairly impressed. The little Goblin knew the first rule of taking advantage of distractions: don’t get distracted yourself.

They caught up to Rags in time for Mrsha to realize that Rags was more than a visitor. She was also a pragmatist.

As in, she was going into each room and walking out with objects. She had found Montressa’s room, and had the Shock Orb in her claws and was doing something to it when she saw Mrsha.

“…Mrsha. Right?”

The little Gnoll stared at her. Rags waved.

“Hi.”

Unconcerned, she went back to…breaking the mage’s artifact? Mrsha craned her neck, outrage warring with curiosity.

Somehow, Rags had found how to open the thing! She was inspecting the insides, muttering, eying the sloshing liquid within without upsetting it, looking at the crystals…she abruptly closed the orb up, rolled it back into the room, and strolled out. Mrsha had no idea what Rags had done, but the small Goblin looked exceedingly pleased with herself.

Then she looked around and found Kevin’s room. Rags pushed the door open—just in time for Mrsha to bar the way. Mrsha scrambled around for pieces of paper in her notecard collection and finally found a disused one.

“Thief!”

She held it up accusingly. Rags read it, eyed Mrsha.

“You can’t speak.”

Mrsha shook her head. Then she waved the card at Rags, realizing, belatedly perhaps, that Rags might not be able to read. Rags raised her brows, proving she could.

Mrsha realized what Rags had done! She was stealing the Shock Orb! Oh—not the thing itself. However, Mrsha was smart. She’d seen the evil Drakes and Gnolls that Erin had warred with whenever she made something and realized the Goblin was doing the same thing, only more ambitious.

Rags was stealing the idea of the Shock Orb! She’d memorized what was inside, to try and recreate later. It would be hard, but no one would know she had been here except Mrsha the Thiefcatcher. And here was a [Thief] of…a [Thought Thief]! An ideas-stealer, the worst kind of thief!

The [Great Chieftain] raised one eyebrow as Mrsha translated the angry diatribe to pain-staking scribbling. It was quite good handwriting, albeit in cursive.

“…therefore, I declare you a scurrilous thief of other people’s hard work and invention, a plagiarist and a rogue! I insist you stop at once!”

Rags eyed the writing, then regarded Mrsha’s furious little face. She thought for a moment, then replied.

“Badarrow told me you steal food. The word is…”

She stared up at the ceiling. Snapped her fingers twice.

“…hypocrite. Yes, that.”

So saying, the Goblin pushed past Mrsha, hopped up onto Kevin’s desk, and took one look at his blueprints before checking for the most up-to-date ones, and grabbed them and the gear samples on his desk.

“Interesting. Iron? Steel. But why…ah. It goes together like a puzzle. Clever. So clever!”

Rags sniffed the metal, found a piece of paper, and began making quick-copies of Kevin’s work, as well as a tracing of the gear and its teeth, then the other samples.

Mrsha howled in outrage. She watched as Rags neatly stole everything Kevin had worked so hard on. She grabbed at Rags’ arm once; the Goblin just tossed her off impatiently. Mrsha pounded the floor. This would not stand! This was worse than a food-thief! The ideas-thief had to be stopped. She ran to spread the alarm downstairs. Kevin, Montressa, come quick! Thief! Th—

She was going for the door to raise the alarm when Rags grabbed her tail. Mrsha yelped, and saw Rags’ other claw descend—

“There. Be quiet.”

Rags dumped eight fat, gold coins into Mrsha’s paws. The little Goblin straightened, and decided to raid Bezale’s room next. Did she feel bad about the thefts?

…Not really. She did obligingly dump a pile of gold on Kevin’s desk, like Montressa’s. She needed anything she could use, though, and those gears were fascinating, just like the bikes. She was walking past Mrsha when something pinged off the back of her head, hard.

Mrsha had thrown the gold coin at Rags’ head with all her might. Rags put a claw to the spot, as she slowly rotated. Her crimson eyes flashed and Mrsha backed up a step—then menacingly made two fists. She jabbed as she stood on two legs, like Ryoka had shown her.

Niers watched Mrsha the Boxer shadow-punching the air, daring Rags; he’d already slipped away before she even grabbed Rags the first time. The Goblin couldn’t spot him, but she might be able to if he was too close. He saw Rags’ eyes narrow—then she snorted and turned away.

“Children.”

Mrsha’s jaw dropped as Rags walked out of the room, closing the door behind her. Technically, Rags was the child! Mrsha was several times her age—although Rags looked older, and she was a good bit taller. She grabbed the doorknob, twisted it furiously…

…And rattled the door. It was locked! Rags had somehow shut it from the outside. Mrsha exploded in fury.

The Horns of Hammerad appeared on screen below as Rags emerged from Bezale’s room, having given up trying to copy making scrolls. She had taken a good look at the [Spellscribe]’s supplies, though. Interesting. So that was how you wrote them.

On the scrying mirror, Yvlon raised a sword and pointed as viewers began tuning in. Rags looked down the hallway.

Let’s see. Joseph? Probably not useful. Maybe one of the soccer balls for little Goblins. Can probably figure out how to make them without copying, though. Still need acid jars too. Seed cores, maybe, for blue fruit in the High Passes. Who is ‘Hexel’? Wait—[Architect]. Blueprints! Good to copy.

She looked around for any better options; she knew she might be running out of time if that little Gnoll tattled. Her eyes travelled down the hallway. It stopped as she saw the first door on the left.

Erin.

The nameplate shone. The door was a bit ajar. Rags looked at the door. Her feet began to take her in that direction—then she backed away. Not yet. Not—she’d rather steal all of Bird’s feathers in front of him than—

Rags saw the flash of light and heard the scampering sound. She whirled—stared at the door open right in front of her in the middle of the hallway, where a wall had been—

Mrsha’s flying kick took her into Rags. The two tumbled across the hallway as the Gnoll exploded into a wild frenzy of punches and kicks.

Headbutt! Bite! Ryoka punch! Relc kick! At first, Rags was just stunned—then Mrsha’s teeth sank into her arm. She growled and punched back. Not hard enough to hurt the little girl, but—

Her fist sank into a wall of fur. Rags stared at the overgrown little Gnoll, who now looked like a sheep, she had so much fur on her.

[Fur of the Fortress]! Mrsha ignored the punches and kicks as she whaled on Rags. She punched the Goblin in the nose. Thief! Mrsha the Vigilante would not allow this! She would—

Rags lifted her up and threw her down the hallway. Mrsha’s eyes went round as she flew. Rags had [Lesser Strength], after all, and she was a warrior. She growled, feeling at the broken skin on her arm—

Mrsha never hit the wall. She flew through into the [Garden of Sanctuary], and rolled. Then she charged towards the door and head-butted Rags from the side.

“What is—”

Rags was stunned again from the teleportation ability of the Garden. This time she began punching Mrsha in earnest. The two rolled across the ground, throwing elbows, punching each other—Mrsha with her fur, Rags with her armor.

The little Gnoll was losing badly, and hadn’t ended up on the ground because Rags had not hit her as hard as she could. However, Mrsha was strong and her Skills meant it was…

Was…

…Like watching two kids fight. Niers Astoragon stared at the little fight between the two and walked downstairs to observe the raid on the Village of Death. He didn’t have time for this.

Rags was getting angrier by the second. She couldn’t toss Mrsha off her; the Gnoll kept leaping back on and grappling. And she didn’t want to hurt this brat, but she was going to!

Dead gods, is this what Erin replaced Goblins with? Annoying Gnolls and stupid Centaurs?

Mrsha had Rags in a choke-hold. Rags actually felt her trying to cut off her wind-pipe. Enough was enough. Rags got up, and ran them both into a wall. Mrsha oofed, but she refused to let go, mad with fury. Rags repeated it, smashing both into another wall. She charged a third time, so hard something would break if that stupid little—

They ran into the [Garden of Sanctuary].

Rags and Mrsha fell apart, tumbling to the ground. Rags looked about. What—what—

The garden lay around her. She was in a stone garden section, the stones piled up in cairns, next to a mushroom biome. A pond in the distance; arid ground to her left. And there, on the grass hilltop, bloomed yellow flowers and Sage’s Grass.

High above, on a hill shrouded in mist…Rags’ eyes travelled upwards. She saw a figure raise his head. Numbtongue opened his eyes and looked down at—

Mrsha snarled. The guttural sound made Rags whirl. She saw Mrsha crouching, ready for round two. This time though, she had reinforcements.

Beaver gang. Beaver gang! Four huge Fortress Beavers, heavier than adults, imposing, advanced on Rags. So did an angry bee, who’d dropped the Fraerling off and then came to join the fight. Mrsha punched one paw into the other. They were gonna—

“Enough.”

Rags pulled out her crossbow and aimed it at the first Fortress Beaver. With her other hand, she conjured a [Fireball].

The Beavers halted. Mrsha threw her paws up. Rags growled. She aimed over Mrsha’s head to fire—

And her finger failed to pull the trigger. Something—Rags blinked.

The [Fireball] winked out in her claw. The same force that had separated her and Mrsha made her lower the crossbow. Rags stared as the Beavers uncertainly backed up too, unable to charge. She looked at her crossbow. She had the distinct impression that even if she managed to lift it and pull the trigger, the crossbow would explode before it fired.

Mrsha and Rags reconsidered as the presence of this place weighed down on both of them. Mrsha snuffled as she felt at some bruises, despite her thick fur coat. Rags stowed the crossbow, eyed Mrsha, then tossed something on the ground.

“Stop bothering me.”

The healing potion rolled onto the grass. Mrsha eyed it, turned her head up, and glowered at Rags. She padded off to get one of Erin’s potions from the emergency boxes. Rags glowered at the bee buzzing in her face.

You want to fight? Just try it! She waved at Apista, trying to get the Ashfire Bee out of her face. Everything here had Erin’s attitude. Which was to say, zero sense, a hundred percent willingness to scrap.

She was about to follow Mrsha—or figure out how to get back to looting the inn—when she heard a voice. It croaked from disuse, and the figure had stayed here, for all he ate and slept elsewhere. Disbelieving, the voice of a dead Goblin.

“Chieftain?”

Rags turned. Pyrite stood there. P—

No. Who was this Goblin? She recoiled from the far slimmer Goblin, far younger, holding a strange sword made of glass, a guitar strapped to his back. Yet—the Goblin looked at her, and his lips curved upwards, and how he stood, even his voice echoed—

“Pyrite?”

She whispered, Mrsha, the beavers, everything forgotten. The Goldstone Chieftain looked down at her as Mrsha turned. He walked down the hill as Rags ascended. They met among the dead Faerie Flowers, the red, growing Sage’s Grass.

“You’re dead.”

Rags stared at the Goblin, speaking almost accusingly. Pyrite shrugged.

“Mm. Yes.”

“How?”

Rags’ voice quivered. She reached out, not wanting to—wanting to touch him. She saw it. She knew it. Him. Yet not him. This body was a vessel.

“The world is strange. Rags. Chieftain. It is good to see you.”

The other Goblin slowly reached out. He touched Rags’ shoulder, blinking.

“You are taller.”

“Pyrite. I’m—I’m sorry.”

The [Great Chieftain]’s voice quivered. She looked up at him, and saw the moment he died. Laughing in the face of the Human [Lord]. Doing what mattered most, as he saw it.

Mrsha stared up at the two Goblins, wrath forgotten. Suddenly, the little female Goblin looked so old. Older than Mrsha. Old, and sad, and…like Relc. Like so many warriors, like Zel. Like…

Pyrite’s claws tightened around hers. His lips moved upwards.

“Why? I won. You lived. And—I got to see you again.”

“I—”

The grip tightened. For one second, Rags felt the warm grip. She looked into Pyrite’s eyes. Then—the crimson gaze unfocused.

Numbtongue’s grip loosened. He let go, stepped back, shaking his head. He caught himself—looked down.

Rags met the [Goblin Soulbard] for the first time in the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Tears in her eyes. She didn’t wipe them away. She looked at Numbtongue, seeing him now.

“Numbtongue?”

“Yes. That’s me. You’re…Rags. The Ch…Badarrow’s Chieftain.”

He croaked. He swayed on his feet, surprised and unsurprised. Tired. Somewhere—the Horns were braving death. He didn’t want it.

He had too many ghosts already. They whispered. A ghost of a Goblin Lord sat in his head.

Do I know her? Do I…?

A broken fragment of memory. Sitting with…with…a giant? His brother, and this Goblin? Talking? Arguing?

The ghost of Reiss spoke, but it was broken. Half-lost. Numbtongue heard Shorthilt too, and Pyrite.

Barely remember this Goblin, when Chieftain Garen was alive. Remember Redscar? He serves her? Is she good at fighting?

The whisper of the Goldstone Chieftain.

She looks older. Taller. More tired. I wish I had not died. Who will support her now? She is so young. She will be a better Chieftain than I.

Three ghosts. Too many. He wanted no more, even if the others were unseen. He felt them weighing him down.

“Numbtongue. Badarrow told me about you. Your brother—Rabbiteater—went to Terandria.”

“I know.”

Numbtongue’s eyes closed. He had seen his brother, as Drassi delivered the news. Rags looked at him. She looked around the [Garden of Sanctuary].

“There is much to say, Numbtongue. Many questions. Is—is Pyrite gone?”

“No. Here. Only for a minute a day. A minute, ten seconds.”

Numbtongue touched his breast. Rags looked at him.

“How?”

“[Soulbard]. I don’t know.”

He shrugged, helplessly. Rags looked at him, searching his features, his thinner frame for…something. Some hint of the dead.

“Is Garen there? Eater of Spears? …Anyone else?”

“No. Just Shorthilt. And Reiss.”

Her eyes went wide. Numbtongue croaked, his voice rasping, unused to water. He saw Mrsha shyly climbing up the hill. She waved at him.

“Reiss is broken. I—no more ghosts. They are all gone.”

“I see.”

The two Goblins were strangers, they realized. Perhaps, for once, true strangers. Neither one was just a Goblin meeting another.

Once, Garen Redfang had sent some of his warriors to kill an [Innkeeper] when Rags had just met the Redfangs. She did not remember who had left. Numbtongue barely recognized her.

Badarrow’s Chieftain. Rags had heard the pause. She didn’t question it, but she did study the other Hobgoblin, seeing how worn he looked. How sad. This was his place, though.

They had history here, the [Bard] and the [Chieftain]. Yet neither had been here while the other was present.

Until now.

There was so much to say. So much to ask. Rags only had one question, though. She looked at Numbtongue, and saw he carried Pyrite’s last will. He had borne it, and the grief, the loss, the feeling of meeting her walked in him as much as her.

It was time. Rags closed her eyes, then looked at the Hobgoblin [Bard].

“…Do you know where she is?”

Numbtongue’s eyes widened. He turned, looking up, past Rags, and then back at her.

“Yes. Come. This way.”

Mrsha saw Rags follow the line of his vision. She saw Rags’ breath catch, saw her eyes fix on the top of the hill shrouded in mists.

So, the [Chieftain] of the Flooded Waters tribe climbed, following the [Bard]. She had come here, to the first real home she had ever known too late to stop tragedy.

Far too late. She had spoken, shaken hands with a Human, tipped the server, eaten pasta and drunk blue fruit juice at a table, just as she’d dreamed. Reality, though, was nothing like what she had wanted.

Too late. This wasn’t even the same inn. It had changed beyond almost all recognition. Rags walked through statues, stopping, reaching out with trembling fingers. She knew them all.

She walked past her family, her tribe, her friends. Past Reiss, Garen Redfang, footsteps trailing. Stumbling.

The Goblin was too late for it all. However, she stopped, and looked down at the frozen bier. The little Gnoll and Hobgoblin stepped back, leaving her alone.

At last. She realized something.

She was not too late to talk to Erin Solstice. It was just different. That was all.

Rags bowed her head, and began to speak.

—-

An [Innkeeper] sat at the table, eyes wide, doing that shocked expression she did so well. Erin Solstice and surprise, a classic combination.

Of course, there was a chess board between them. A game in progress. Now and then, one of them would move a piece, but neither was concentrating as hard on that as the conversation, each other.

She was probably losing. However, Rags lifted the new invention and eyed it.

“Greasy.”

“That’s the first thing you say?”

Erin threw up her hands in exasperation. Rags frowned, and prodded at the bread and oil gathering on the plate.

“What is this supposed to be? I always wanted to ask; I never could. You fed me strange things.”

The [Innkeeper] huffed, a bit indignantly.

“Hey! I did my best with a limited budget! You ate it! You liked it as I recall!”

The Goblin raised her eyebrows. She was still shorter than Erin, even with boots, but she was catching up. It had seemed like yesterday that Erin Solstice, the Destroyer, as she was known to the Flooded Waters Goblins, was a giant compared to the non-Hobs.

“What I ate was bugs, mud, and sometimes blue fruit. Everything tastes better.”

“Er…fair. That’s a grilled cheese sandwich, by the way. With ham. It’s good! You’ll like it, go on.”

Erin watched as Rags dutifully took a bite and swallowed. Rags nodded.

“Good.”

“See? So…”

Erin trailed off. She looked at Rags. Marveling, studying her.

“You can speak now! And you just tipped Toren a gold coin.”

The skeleton walked past Rags, chattering his jaw at some unspoken grievance—perhaps the tip had been too small. Rags smiled.

“Do you?”

Erin spluttered. But eventually, she settled back down.

“I’m…you can speak. Fluently, I mean. When did you learn that?”

“A while ago. I’ve been practicing. To speak to you. How am I doing?”

“Good. I mean—amazing. Not that I didn’t know you were really smart. It’s just…you have a tribe now? You’re all grown up.”

“You haven’t changed.”

Erin laughed. Rags smiled too. She looked at the [Innkeeper] as Erin pulled the chair closer, reaching for a chess piece and…

…She was smiling. Her arms were folded, yet the broken, splintered wood still stuck out, bloody, in her chest. The clothing and skin frozen, a light frost wafting onto the grass. Rags continued after a moment.

“I practiced every day. To speak to you. It was very frustrating. Yet I had to practice because I wanted to explain—I wanted to tell you how I felt. To complain.”

She waited. Yet her dream ended there. Rags sat down.

“I brought you a gift. I was going to bring you a frying pan. Made by Goblins. I thought you could throw it at something. I didn’t expect this.”

The hill was silent. Rags slowly put the pan, balanced for throwing, smaller than most, next to the bier. She saw flowers, unfaded despite the time, a little doll, letters…

She looked at Erin again. Her eyes lingered on the blood.

“I was going to complain. Insult you. You were so—silly. Stupid. Arrogant. After I was nice, I was going to start being mean. Checkmate.”

Erin said nothing. Rags went on.

“I would have said, after you were smiling—‘but I am angry at you.’ And you would have said, ‘huh? Why me?’, or something silly. And I would have explained.”

Her voice didn’t quiver. Rags went on, playing out the ideal conversation.

“How dare you? That is what I would have said. How dare…you. You would not understand—but I would explain. How dare you be kind? After what my Chieftain tried to do to you, after what we tried to do. We tried to kill you. Goblins killed your friend. One tried to attack you in your inn…and after all that, you gave us food. You stopped that Drake, Relc, from killing me. You gave us food, you protected us when no one would—how dare you? That is not what Humans are supposed to do.”

She looked at the frozen young woman in ice and shook her head.

“You don’t understand. Why is that a bad thing? Everyone should do that. Then I say—yes. Yes, but no one does. My life was so simple. Humans were bad. Humans killed or, or did worse. Drakes, Gnolls—everything is my enemy. But you—you were kind. Now, every time I have a sword and see a Human, I wonder—is this Human nice? Is this a person, not a monster? How dare you. You made my life so complicated.”

She looked at the sky, through the hole in the dome. At her armor, her sword by her side.

“I was nothing. I was going to die nothing. Now, I am the [Great Chieftain] of my tribe. Now, I think about right and wrong. I do bad things to survive. I am afraid of killing Humans. Because of you. How dare you?”

Her voice rose.

“How dare you give me a chance? Make me—put me in this place, where I have to think? Think, day, night, worry about right and wrong? Everything was so easy. How dare you do all that? And then…”

She looked at Erin.

“How dare you die? Die? After all you do? Die—you’re not supposed to. You matter too much to them. To us. Why…”

Her voice trembled. Rags trailed off. She closed her eyes, mastered her voice. She breathed in, and out.

“I came here to shout at you. For being a silly Human who doesn’t think about what she does. Except you do. You were kind. Now, here I am. I wanted to say that. Other things, too. Ask you for advice. But you’re frozen now. I don’t have time to talk to ice cubes.”

She stood, brushing off her armor. Rags looked down at the [Innkeeper].

“They’re fighting for you. Your friends. I am going now. I will come back, when you get up. Your friends…if they don’t make it, if they don’t find a way. I will. I came to say that. Next time—you can cry.”

The little Goblin walked down the hill, her back straight. She never looked back. The little frying pan slowly grew colder as it lay against the bier, covering itself with frost.

Rags went to watch the Horns of Hammerad. She hadn’t said nearly all of what she wanted.

Thank you. I’m sorry.

So much more. Nor would she, if she had a hundred years. She didn’t talk to ice.

When Erin Solstice woke up—she’d come back.

There.

It was a promise.

—-

Adventurers ran towards the distant, humble collection of wooden buildings, decayed by age. The first wave broke through and saw what lay beyond.

Undead came to meet them, dying, failing to rise. No one knew why, although some believed false truths, half-truths.

Pisces and Ceria stood together and watched Ksmvr join the second wave. The [Skirmisher] leapt over the roof of a building, drawing an arrow, loosing it, even as he vanished.

“Almost…”

The magic was building around them. The [Necromancer] and [Cryomancer] held hands. Ice and death flowed together.

Pisces was concentrating on the spell, breathing hard. Ceria’s breath was more shallow. She felt her muscles tensing. Almost time…

Something rose behind them, and adventurers cried out. A [Scrier] spun, gaping, yet neither half-Elf nor Human looked back. They only had eyes for their team, and the Village. Pisces turned to Ceria.

“Ready? Let’s get the loot, not die, and etcetera?”

He smiled, but his hand tightened on hers. Ceria waited a moment, then she grinned. She let go of Pisces’ hand.

Her wand rose, and she drew the dagger in her other hand. Pisces lifted his rapier.

“Nah. It sounds worse the more I hear it. How about…death before dishonor?”

She turned. The third wave of adventurers parted as the ground shook. The two Horns of Hammerad ran forwards, ahead of it. Ceria shouted—or was it Pisces?

Both.

“For the [Innkeeper] of Liscor. For The Wandering Inn!”

They ran into the Village of the Dead, laughing like silly fools.

8.18 H

(The Flowers of Esthelm, Book 3 of The Wandering Inn is out on Audible! Grab it here! And please consider leaving a review! Thanks!)

He broke the silence not because it bothered him after all this time, but because he wanted to.

Because he craved a response. Part of him thought he’d get one, even now.

Especially now?

The air was thick like a miasma, silent as a massed grave.

“They’re coming again. They never learn, do they? Do you see them, my friend?”

He turned his head and waited. No one else spoke, so he let his voice echo.

Filled the air again.

“They buzz around like little insects. Noisy. Irksome. Should I deal with them? I would have to leave you alone.”

Silence. Then, a chuckle. His. He reached out and patted the air; he would never dare to touch, even if he could.

“No, no. I would never leave you alone. I’m just kidding! Still…”

A frown crossed his face. Pensive, his voice became petulant.

“…Is this time special? Is there something I don’t know? They look like the same bugs to me. So why…?”

He paced around. Nothing had changed. He had not slept in eons. He had never ceased keeping watch. Nothing came here. Nothing moved. Yet—something had changed without him noticing.

Again, the fingers reached out, tentatively stopping.

“You’ve grown so silent. Have you withdrawn your blessing because we have done something wrong? Are we taking too long? I’ve tried my best, you know. You don’t say anything. I’m not a mind-reader. What do you want me to do?”

No. Response. As always. Yet it irked him. It enraged him. His voice grew louder, so loud a buzz filled the room as pebbles and dust shook.

“Answer me! I deserve that much, at least! Am I not your faithful companion? Faith. Have I not kept it for you for so long? I know you’re there. Or why else would it have changed? Is it them? Us?”

He stretched out an arm, pleadingly, shifting from wrath to regret, chagrin in a moment.

“I’m sorry! Don’t be angry.”

He groveled—sinking low to the ground, looking up hopefully.

Nothing moved. The…man’s…plaintive whisper was nearly lost.

“Can you even hear me?”

His head rose and beheld the object of his affection, anger, remorse, and desire. What the little bugs came for, every time. Something had changed. He whispered, uncertainly.

“Master?”

—-

The Village of the Dead, or the Village of Death, was a death-zone. Aptly named, but it was an adventurer’s term anyways. It referred to places so lethal that even Named-rank Adventurers’ survival could not be guaranteed if they entered—let alone in them clearing or overcoming the challenges within.

There were a number of these places in every part of the world. Some were simply regions of ecological or magical damage, like the Dyed Lands or the Bloodfields, still valuable but inherently risky and without known treasure waiting to be seized.

Other locations were lairs. Like the Kraken’s Pass.

Some were dungeons. Magical relics, malevolent dungeons designed to slaughter, places where something died or waited.

The Archmage of Izril’s mansion might have become a death-zone in time, if it had slaughtered ten or twenty times the population it already had and existed for decades as such.

However, most death-zones were old. No one remembered when the Village of the Dead had appeared. It was simply there. A place you couldn’t fly over. That you avoided. Safe, for all that. The undead never left a mile’s radius of the village. Yet neither could it be destroyed.

They would rise, again and again, even from disintegration, incineration. No spell could bind them forever. No team had ever ended whatever curse lay over the land. Armies had perished, disappearing past the first streets.

So they gave up and marked it well. After all—no one knew if there was anything beyond the treasure of those who had come before lying within. There was little incentive beyond glory.

Until now.

—-

The sun was shining brightly. The summer waned, but the light was bright, the air warm. Yet in the first few feet of the Village of Death, the light took on a weak tone. The mortal smells of earth, greenery, vanished.

The air felt stagnant, and the odor of rot hung about. The bodies added to the putrefaction; rotten flesh and exposed organs hanging out of mangled corpses. They stood, shambling, or walked aimlessly—dead and rotting. But their eyes. They glowed, or where eyes were lost, the sockets held a magical fire.

Undead. Zombies and skeletons, but predominantly the former. Ghouls, corded muscle instead of rotting flesh, moving with far more animation than their lesser kin. They rotted, but they did not fully decay, not here.

A wide, cobblestone-and-dirt street that you might see in any large, prosperous village held the undead. Crumbling houses of broken wood, not a single piece polished or free from grime or mold stood sentinel, creating walls on two sides. They looked as ruined as the undead, but like the undead, they never fully disappeared.

The shambling corpses turned, suddenly, as something interrupted the silence. Their unfocused wandering became coordinated in a moment. Their gazes baleful. They turned and moved as one. Like…a swarm of insects themselves. Or a single unified mind with one intent. They looked down the street.

Then there was light. Undead stared up, mystified, transfixed for a moment as something arched out of the pallid sky. Something bright, brighter than the reduced sun. A memory from outside.

The first of [Valmira’s Comets] landed like a falling star and blew a knot of zombies apart. Another struck, lobbed from far overhead and far away. One vaporized a pair of Ghouls and left a skeleton in pieces, trying to reassemble itself before the binding spell faded.

Another struck a roof and exploded it. The undead that could think, a huge, bloated Crypt Lord commanding the others on the street, were unconcerned by the magical firepower raining down. The huge amalgamation of undead, dozens of hands and legs forming its ‘limbs’, a mass of eyes squelched together, a creation of death—the Crypt Lord—waited.

This was not a problem. The spells raining down were like rain. Soon, the power in this place would reanimate the undead. The roof of the house damaged by one of the spells would repair itself.

Both village and inhabitants could not be destroyed. They had tried many times, bombarding this place with far greater spells. Tried to remove undead one at a time, bury them, reduce the threat of this place even by one body.

They would reappear here. Flesh would knit. Bone would replace itself. Even if there was nothing to restore itself—it would still be made anew.

The Crypt Lord waited. It stared at the broken skeleton. The bones were rolling together. Then…slowly…they stopped.

The light went out in the skull’s eye-sockets. The Crypt Lord stirred. It plodded over and crushed the skeleton’s broken skull. It stared at the bone dust, as confused as it had ever been. The sentience in the greater undead could not comprehend what was happening.

Something was wrong.

There was no time to question, even if it could have made logical assumptions and thought. The undead in the street began to move as the bombardment stopped. The Crypt Lord turned.

There, at the head of the street, something moved. Not one of the undead. It ran into the street, making sound. It was a screaming bellow, a yell.

The adventurer stopped as they saw the street full of undead. Thousands of undead crammed together began to move forwards, Ghouls leaping past stumbling zombies and skeletons. The adventurer wavered. Then they looked over their shoulder and took heart from something. The [Warrior] raised their sword, and, with another whoop—

A woman with silver arms shoved past them. A two-handed sword was resting on her shoulder. She ran forwards, silently. Right behind her came a Minotaur with a pair of blades. Hot on their heels was a Stitch-man with a curved blade, shouting, followed by his bodyguards. The [Warrior] disappeared behind a dozen more adventurers.

Yvlon raised her sword as the first zombie appeared. She shoulder-charged into it, and felt something smush as she cracked its rotting frame. She hurled it down, stomped with her boot. Her foot crashed through the skull. She kept running without missing a beat. The second undead she met was a skeleton.

The [Silversteel Armsmistress] crashed through the fragile skeleton, scattering its bones. She looked around for a target and finally swung her sword. The Sword of Weight caught a leaping Ghoul and sheared halfway through its torso. The undead flipped with the force of the enchantment, and Yvlon whirled her sword down for a finishing blow.

Dorgon charged past her. The Minotaur had kept pace with the first wave of adventurers, refusing to break ranks and charge recklessly ahead. Now, he lunged, bellowing. Yvlon had gone into the fray silent. He did not.

“The House of Minos! Forward! Don’t slow!”

He bellowed over his shoulder, ordering the first wave of adventurers so that the others hot on their heels wouldn’t be bunched up. He matched actions to words. The Minotaur ran past knots of undead, his swords blurring.

Yvlon saw the flashing blades go through three zombies, slashing them apart. The other shortsword-swordbreaker was slashing on Dorgon’s right, carving with equal ease; cutting far further than the two shortswords should be able to reach.

[Sickle Cut]. Yvlon recognized the technique as she wrenched her sword up. She impaled a second zombie and wrenched it out. Her left hand, pure silvery metal, made a fist. She swung it left and backhanded another corpse’s jaw clean off its face. Grimacing, Yvlon whirled her sword, cutting with equal ease—if not a Skill.

Dorgon’s charge only stopped when he met a bloated zombie-Gnoll as large as he was. He didn’t bother stopping his scything blades, but kicked the Gnoll in the chest, then began laying about him.

The undead closed around him in an instant, only held off by the complete radius of defensive slashes the Minotaur was using to shield himself as much as attack. However, he was not strung out ahead of the others for more than a second.

“A magnificent charge! I’ll write about this in my memoirs!”

A laughing [Prince] leapt into the center of the horde, followed by eight Stitchfolk bodyguards. Prince Zenol’s sword was not double-edged, but had only one killing side; the other was flat, and the sword was curved, almost like a scimitar to Yvlon’s eyes as she hacked a Ghoul’s arm from its shoulder.

Someone stabbed the Ghoul with a spear. Yvlon saw a [Spearman] move up and run forwards with a knot of adventurers.

However, not to the [Prince] and his bodyguards. Zenol had found his target: nearly thirty eight undead bunched up. He pivoted, swung his sword at waist-height. Yvlon saw the concentration on his face, the grin of his teeth on his silkflesh face. His royal garments, enchanted to replace actual armor, fluttered.

“[Sword Art: The Farmer’s Scythe]!”

Yvlon saw the sword flash, and the flicker of the enchanted steel—she slowed for a second as all thirty-eight undead slowly collapsed, falling into two pieces. Not just them; a handful of other undead were also cut.

“Dead fucking gods, did you see that?”

The [Spearman] shouted. Yvlon just gritted her teeth. Flashy—but it worked. She only hoped Zenol had more Skills. However, his bodyguards had closed around him and were fending off the leaping Ghouls as the [Prince] saluted Dorgon. The Minotaur ignored him, keeping his swords slashing—right up until Yvlon hit the lines of the undead.

The woman put her fist through a zombie’s head—stared at her gore-covered arm embedded squarely in the skull—and began to shake it. The head came loose and Yvlon found a skull embedded on her arm as she gripped her sword and cut around her. Dorgon blinked at that for a second. Yvlon, gritting her teeth, put her sword down and hit another undead with her shoulder.

It was almost more effective than swinging her sword. Her arms—her enchanted steel armor was weaker than her metal flesh. With every swing of her sword, she hacked apart an undead. She ripped the zombie’s head off her arm, gagging.

She didn’t know her strength. The Yvlon of old wouldn’t have managed to punch through a skull and flesh, even rotten, like that.

“Everyone move aside! I’m using my Skill! [Jab Barrage]!”

Another adventurer shouted, launching into a flurry of stabbing attacks that knocked several undead down or backwards. More were using their Skills to clear undead back, but some fought like Yvlon with only grit and muscle, relying on sharp weapons to do their job and holding back.

The first street of undead was falling to pieces as fast as the adventuers could attack. Only the Ghouls even had a chance; shambling zombies, for all their strength, weren’t fast or tough enough to face down Gold-ranks.

Skeletons were faster, but fragile, weaker. The only undead Yvlon could see that was a threat was—

“There! Crypt Lord! Who will take it?”

Prince Zenol pointed, having stopped to let his bodyguards fight. He surveyed the battle, shaking gore off his sword and choosing his target. He looked around, positioned himself to leap forwards—

Yvlon ran at the Crypt Lord. Her sword came up. Dorgon, sprinting forwards, saw her turn her head. Her blonde hair was already filthy beneath the steel helmet she wore; he had a similar helmet. Zenol had none.

“I’ll get it!”

He nodded and slowed. Yvlon braced as the Crypt Lord surged forwards. Black blood—poison—ran from an open maw of ‘teeth’, which were broken bones. Sixty eyes all fused and rotten together into a single staring eye gazed at her as a huge hand rose with crushing force. A Silver-rank threat for an entire team. However…

“[Curve of the Moon]!”

Yvlon’s sword art was not a horizontal slash, but a crescent. Like the name, those watching saw a huge arc slash through the air. Zenol raised his arm, stopping his leap. He blinked.

The Crypt Lord was down. Yvlon had gone two thirds of the way through it. She’d raised her sword for a second strike, but there was no need. It was already motionless, the binding spell broken.

Some of the younger or lower-leveled adventuers stopped to stare. The rest just forged ahead. Dorgon grunted as he shook filth from his armor and blades. He looked down the street.

“First street cleared! Advance!”

He began striding forwards. Yvlon was already running at the next zombie. Prince Zenol, grinning, motioned to his bodyguards.

“Leave the lesser undead! We won’t fall behind!”

They surged forwards as one, leading the way in the first wave as more adventurers, Silver-ranks some of them, came forwards, clearing the undead still standing.

It was too easy. Then again—they were lesser undead. If they had each reanimated, regenerated flesh as fast as you cut into them, healing while your sword was buried in their guts? That might have slowed the Gold-ranks.

Then again, perhaps not. The first rank of adventuers reached the end of the street and turned. The [Spearman] swore again as he saw a second street, just as crowded, identical to the first in almost every way. He slowed, but Dorgon charged with Yvlon and Zenol.

He repeated his charge, beat-for-beat. The Minotaur hacked through undead, using the exact same Skill as he had less than a minute ago. Yvlon blinked at him as she hacked, efficient with her enhanced strength and sword, but unable to use her sword art for nearly a half-hour.

“[Sickle Cut] is always active. Don’t waste your Skills!”

Dorgon snarled as an undead landed a glancing slash on his light metal armor. He pivoted—beheaded it. He moved beautifully, every motion a cut from one arm or the other—or both. Yvlon had seldom met warriors capable of using weapons in both arms properly like Dorgon without sacrificing something.

The House of Minos’ adventurer-captain from afar. Technically Silver-rank. Handpicked for her group by Yvlon for the melee wave.

[Twinblade Linebreaker]. She’d known he was good.

Prince Zenol clapped his hands, laughing. He was just as unpredictable, but Yvlon had accepted his request to join her group. He pointed.

“My servants, clear this rabble. We have to entrench our [Archers] and [Mages]! Go forwards! [Ferocious Command]!”

The eight bodyguards charged with howls. Yvlon thought she saw tendons and muscles bulge as they cleaved forwards in a berserk fury. Zenol rested on his curved sword. She strode forwards, leaving him behind as he stopped the [Spearman] and pointed him towards a flanking position.

They were moving so fast. Yvlon heard a voice as she stepped back for a moment.

“—lon? Yvlon!”

“I’m here.”

She raised the speaking stone to her mouth. She had been issued with one, along with every wave leader. Somewhere else, Jelaqua was shouting.

“We’re running through them like [Sailors] at a brothel!”

“…What?”

“We’re slaughtering them!”

The excited Selphid clarified. Yvlon heard shouting through the speaking stone, an echo of what she was hearing around her.

“There’s no reanimation spell! We’re pushing down our street—Halrac! Start moving up the archers! Get them onto the roofs and we’ll secure! Don’t push too far ahead! If you get to an intersection, try to find out where we are! We need to take this place piece by piece—no pockets of undead behind us.”

“Got it. Strategist Soew, do you hear that?”

“I hear. I am moving up the [Mages]; they will hold off bombardment. Do not advance more than three streets so far. I am attempting to map your progress.”

“Understood.”

Yvlon strode forward again, dropping the stone back to dangle from the bracelet. She was already lifting her sword for another cut.

—-

The adventurers raiding the Village of the Dead attacked so fast that the projection of the battle on television for three minutes was a [Mage] jogging past dismembered body parts, incinerated or otherwise spell-damaged undead, and Silver-ranks stabbing the last wounded undead yet to fully die.

By the time they reached the front rank of the fighting, Rags had returned from the hill. She, Numbtongue, and Mrsha joined a crowd in the common room of The Wandering Inn.

Niers Astoragon watched from a beam, cursing and trying to get a better view. They were not the only ones, of course.

—-

In Pallass, Chaldion was observing from Pallass’ war room, although this was not, strictly speaking, a military engagement that affected Pallass in any way.

Someone could have pointed this out. In theory, any one of the [Tacticians], [Strategists], and other, lesser members of Pallass’ military could upbraid Chaldion, the [Grand Strategist] of Pallass, for using the room for recreation.

No one did. In truth, Chaldion would have usually preferred to watch elsewhere, but the bar where he’d normally have ready food and a better audience was closed. There were few other places where he could have someone fetch him a drink whenever he wanted.

—-

In Oteslia, Lyonette was gripping the table so hard Mivifa saw her knuckles turning white. The Oldblood Drake saw it—but she herself barely turned away from the scrying orb. She was many things, but she was an adventurer. Saliss, Mivifa, and the two Gentlemen Callers were glued to the scrying orb.

But where Mivifa was passionate for fellow adventurers, the romance, excitement, glory of this raid, it was different. For the rest…

It was personal.

—-

Ilvriss watched as well, clenching his claws. He’d stopped to watch and had ordered camp struck, despite it being only midday.

“Adventurer Tessa, thoughts?”

“They’re killing undead. Zombies, Ghouls, and skeletons. Crypt Lords? You could do that with Bronze-ranks. Probably. Also, it’s Shriekblade.”

Ilvriss nodded. He’d seen nothing so far to alarm him. Yet he listened as Drassi, panting from the fight in the broadcasting booth, spoke loudly.

“This raid is ongoing—if you’re just tuning in, you are watching an assault on the Village of the Dead, live, covered by me, Drassi, and uh—Joseph.”

“Um.”

The [Football Coach] made a non-sequitur of a sound. Drassi went on, with practice and natural talent, her eyes never leaving her own view of the battle.

“Sir Relz and Noass are not covering this event or whatever boring thing they were working on because they are not allowed in here. Here’s what we know: the Village of the Dead is a death-zone, famous for the regenerating, nigh-immortal undead. I’m not seeing that today. Are you, Joseph?”

“Uh—uh—they look pretty dead to me.”

“Yes! And not undead! We can only speculate unless we get an interview, and the raid is ongoing so you can kiss your tail on that idea, but it may be the adventurers have found a way to negate what is going on here! In which case, they might be further into the Village of the Dead than any other group has been in living memory! You are seeing this live if you are just tuning in! We are accepting [Messages] and live-calls from the audience if you have anything to say—stay tuned! It looks like heavy fighting in front—but nothing deadly yet, right Joseph?”

“Are those Ghouls? And Crypt Lords? They look pretty—”

“Gold-ranks eat Ghouls for breakfast. Stick with me, Joseph!”

—-

It was an event. No—it was the event of the hour. It was also live, so it meant it was the event the world needed to see. Real news.

In fact, it was so much more important than any other conceivable thing in the world at this very moment that this truth of television became a self-fulfilling truth in actuality.

Two vast armies were lined up on arid ground. The heat of the long summer had baked the earth a bit too much, so that it became too close to sand in places; treacherous footing in an engagement that might mean life or death when a single misstep would provoke an opening.

Accordingly, the heavy-infantry of one army had been staggered, to bait a chariot charge from the heavy-contingent of Stitchfolk on the other side into the difficult terrain for wheeled vehicles.

The King of Destruction was facing another of Nerrhavia’s armies, and the hordes of Nerrhavia’s Fallen had begun to push even Reim by sheer weight of its powerful military, if not any one single victory.

Tense Hemp-caste [Soldiers] were waiting, as their counterparts of Reim held their position, having thunderously cheered as their [King] took up a position close to the front in the vanguard with his two subordinates, Venith Crusland and Maresar Crusland.

The Stitchfolk [General], arrayed with his Silk-caste command, was waiting for Reim to charge on his entrenched position. Yet no attack had come in the last fifteen minutes.

Now—he watched the messenger with the white flag stop and hand something to his people. It was conveyed to him after a long wait of minutes where it was analyzed for hostile spells, poison, or the like.

Yet from the King of Destruction? The [General] was not surprised it was a letter, but he had no idea what it could be until he unfolded it. He read it to his subordinates out loud.

General Murab, I greet you with all due civility and whatnot, to present you with an appealing offer.

Although our respective Kingdoms are at war, and I have sworn to carry the battle to Nerrhavia’s heart, and no doubt your [Queen] has instructed you to take my head—would you consider a temporary ceasefire for a day, that we might watch the raid on the Village of the Dead?

I would consider it a great personal favor, as it is, I’m sure you’ll agree, not to be missed. If you agree, I shall pull back my army until this event is over, upon which time we will reengage. Do let me know by raising a flag of truce if you agree.

–Flos Reimarch, King of Reim

General Murab slowly peered at the distant [King], and saw a hand wave at him. He turned to his [Strategist], and then glanced at the scrying orb with similar coverage of the event in his tent. He cleared his throat, uncertainly.

—-

The King of Destruction was not the only monarch to halt an impending battle due to the raid, strangely. High King Perric himself negotiated a similar truce with Fetohep of Khelt. Both monarchs sat back, with drink or company or simply a scrying device.

Not just them; the Titan of Baleros, the Cyclops of Pallass, King Itorin II of Ailendamus and his royal family, the Bannermare of Baleros, Admiral Seagrass, the Blighted King and Queen…

They watched. For sport or amusement or because it might aid them in some way. However, for some—it was more than idle curiosity or a desire to be part of a communal event.

Nsiia sat cross-legged, ignoring everything but the broadcast. It might surprise many to hear of it, given that a war of far greater scale was ongoing. However, those people forgot who these [Kings] and [Queens] had been. Perric, Flos, Fetohep, Nsiia—

Adventurers and warriors. They saw the adventurers risking everything in a place of infamy. Near-certain death. Yet what they craved was heroism. Bravery. Inspiration.

Victory or defeat. Let it be glorious.

It was their entertainment. In person? It was—

—-

Levil, team captain of the Pithfire Hounds was not in the first wave of adventurers. Or the second. Or the third.

The fourth was his. It made sense. He was a Silver-rank. Not Gold; the waves of four dozen adventurers at most were meant to go in succession. The first group went in hot, fought until they needed to fall back, and let the second wave fill in the gaps, fighting together if need be.

Standard, good tactics. It wasn’t one place either; four different spots were subject to the adventurers’ attacks.

Four, for four hundred adventurers. Silver-ranks backed up the Gold with sheer numbers. But not all the firepower had been committed to the first push. Levil, for instance, as a captain and [Fire Mage] who could cast [Fireball], was considered more valuable than a [Warrior] in the Silver-rank category. So he was one of the vanguard who’d be a hammer to metal.

Similarly, the ranged-adventurers with spells and arrows who could attack indirectly with volley or lobbing spells from afar were their own group. One was led by Halrac the Grim, another by the highest-leveled [Wizard] who could coordinate linked spells like the [Valmira’s Comet] storm that had hit the village first.

It had looked impressive, raining down on the small settlement. Yet…as the first rank charged and Levil saw Yvlon and the other Gold-ranks disappear into the village, he realized something.

He couldn’t hear the fighting. They should have been within a hundred feet of the waves waiting to go in. Yet it was as if they had been swallowed by the village.

“They’re alright! Don’t worry! Speaking stones are active. They’re tearing apart the undead.”

That came from the second wave in their position. A cheerful Gold-rank—a woman called Briganda—reassured the others. Levil relaxed slightly.

“If it was bad, we’d have seen some of them tele out. Guess it’s a good sign we haven’t.”

An [Axewoman] nodded, and a few of the Silver-ranks shifted nervously.

Tele, as in teleport. Along with coordinating the attack, Soew, the strange Owl [Strategist] had made insurance policies. Speaking stones, enchanted by [Mages]. Also—[Lesser Teleport] scrolls, or even beacons that the few [Mages] capable of the spell could use to save the adventurers in trouble.

It was all good, in short. An organized attack, despite the chaos of last night. They’d arrived at the village at midday and were sieging it. It was just—Levil checked his breathing.

His entire team was with him, except for Makki and Mousey and Bram, their [Beast Tamer]. The dogs weren’t right for fighting massed-undead. So they were on bodyguard-duty for the [Mages] in case undead came at them. Levil knew Bram was upset, but it made sense.

“They’ve cleared a street!”

For the first few minutes, it was all good news. The adventurers in the fourth wave, the last, heard nothing but progress. This was even being televised; they saw a [Mage] run in, and half of them waved to be seen.

Not Levil. He was just holding his wand in an increasingly-sweaty hand. He wanted to be in the fighting now, not waiting! His entire battle strategy was ‘go in hot’. He threw [Fireballs], burnt through his mana supply as fast as he could—and then switched to lesser spells or mana potioned up. The faster the enemy died, the better.

The antithesis to this kind of battle, obviously. Levil listened. He began to hear…a pattern.

“Third street down! No contact yet—second wave, with me! We’re moving up. Stop running! They don’t need us—yet!”

Briganda shouted. She led the second group of mixed Gold and Silver-ranks forwards at a trot. The other adventurers cheered. Levil didn’t get the updates, but someone actually had a scrying orb and he could hear that attractive Drake talking. Apparently some of the people were from Liscor and had autographs they’d been swapping last night.

“—another street down! But the undead aren’t stopping! There must have been thousands dead already! They’ve packed the streets! Joseph, what do you think?”

“How many Crypt Lords is that, Drassi?”

“My count’s at twenty dead here alone. That’s…a good point. That’s—I want to say that’s a lot of Crypt Lords. Can anyone confirm? Hold on—”

“Wave three. Move in. Follow my directions. I need you to take a side-street and support the first and second waves.”

Soew’s voice made everyone jump. The Gold-rank leader of the third wave checked himself, asked questions for half a minute, then advanced. Levil’s heart jumped, but he waited.

Every time a street was cleared, someone would shout it, and the waiting adventurers would cheer or laugh. Some had even taken bets after the first three had gone down in succession. However, nearly twenty minutes into the fighting, Levil heard the announcements coming in more slowly.

“…if you’re just tuning in…Village of the Dead…that has to be at least a thousand undead. I’m told this a multi-pronged attack. Wait—we have one of our people in studio saying I’m off. Two thousand undead, six hundred and forty eight. Are you serious? There’s so many—”

“Fourth wave!”

Levil heard the shout. He saw their group commander check himself.

“We’re needed. Follow me!”

They entered the Village of the Dead. Levil was closer to the front; he was tasked with casting [Fireball] if he saw a good target and falling back. His wand was raised—

But of course, the first street was already cleared. In fact, Halrac the Grim himself was there, his face classically expressionless, with nearly thirty [Archers]. Levil felt silly as the rest of his team stopped, behind him.

“Where’s the fighting?”

One adventurer asked eagerly. Inside the Village of the Dead, they could hear the fighting at last. In the distance, it sounded like. They were already moving past the [Archers], but Halrac stopped them.

“Halt. You’re needed here.”

Confused, the fourth wave of adventurers stopped. Halrac was talking with the adventurer in charge. He seemed to know the captain.

“Nailren. Yvlon’s wave is stymied in the fighting. Too many intersections. They want us to start clearing out undead. There are at least ten thousand visible.”

The Gnoll Silver-rank growled.

“You must be joking. How many are in the streets?”

“They’re packed. They want us on the roofs—the [Mages] are using targeting spells, but we need a line of sight or at least a good position.”

The Gnoll [Archer] nodded. The adventurer shifted as the two conferred. What was the problem? Halrac eyed the house behind him. He lifted the speaking stone to his lips.

“Strategist Soew. Are you sure the houses are clear?”

“I had [Dangersense]-capable adventurers check them. They went into thirteen; all have been empty. I am keeping some adventurers checking, but we have seen nothing.”

Halrac folded his arms.

“I don’t like it. That’s why you’re here, Nailren.”

The Gnoll nodded, quick to adapt. He shouted.

“Fighting formation! Let’s cover Adventurer Halrac! I need volunteers—no. Just knock the walls down, yes? Who’s got a hammer? Spells?”

Two adventurers, including the [Axewoman] and Keima, who was an [Axe Fighter], instantly volunteered. Levil raised his voice.

“I’ve got [Fireball]! Let me! Where do you want it?”

Halrac’s gaze swung to Levil. He inspected a house; pointed.

“Blow the wall down.”

It took three [Fireballs], which taxed Levil and surprised him. The houses were sturdy. However, the smoldering hole revealed nothing but a rotten inside. Halrac grunted. He had been covering the entrance; meanwhile, Nailren had set more to breaking down doors.

Eight homes—all empty. Just as Soew had said. The [Strategist] was talking to Halrac when Levil, panting, lowered the mana potion from his lips. He probably shouldn’t have made it seem like casting [Fireball] in quick succession was easy.

“Nothing. We are boarding up the doors as we go, or sealing them with wall-spells, Captain Halrac. I am not a fool. However, our assumption was the Village of the Dead was on a time-limit so we did not secure our flanks. If the undead truly aren’t regenerating, perhaps we should consider stopping and fortifying after an hour and making this a loss-less war of attrition?”

“Maybe. I don’t like the empty houses. How many casualties so far?”

“Three. Silver-ranks, all.”

Halrac made a sound. He kept staring into the empty houses, but the adventurers who’d gone in—all [Rogues] or [Thieves]—hadn’t detected traps.

Levil chanced a glance into the homes. This Village of the Dead was…unsettling. He understood Halrac’s worry.

It looked like a humble, villager’s home. Albeit one long gone to rot. The floorboards were old, covered in mold or black…something. There was furniture, what little of it remained, even glass swallowed by spider webs. Dust—

Even so. Halrac was talking to Nailren.

“I’ve fought undead before. I know one more tactic they might be using—burrowing. How sure are we they’re not going to tunnel up and attack from below?”

The Gnoll bared his teeth.

“I’m from Pallass, Captain Halrac, yes? I know how our army lost against the Goblin Lord in the mountains. I checked; there aren’t any noticeable holes or undead—even in the root cellars or basements.”

The Gold-rank [Veteran Scout] bit his lip. However, he had put several of the adventurer-archers to climbing one of the roofs to lob enchanted arrows at the street beyond already. He just…didn’t like it.

Neither did Levil, the longer he stared into one of the empty houses. The fact that there were absolutely no undead within bothered him. He expected the houses to be filled! The streets had been so congested with bodies that they’d had to be piled to one side or destroyed just so adventurers could march through.

And yet…nothing. Halrac lifted the stone.

“Captain Halrac, we need your [Archers]. Two of the four attacking waves are falling back.”

“Why?”

His brows snapped together. Soew’s voice was calm—but insistent.

“Overwhelming undead.”

Levil heard an oath. He saw someone pointing at the scrying orb and saw the view the rest of the world was getting—ironically better than his.

—-

A wave of undead was forcing Yvlon’s team back. Mrsha clung to Ulvama, squeezing her so hard—and Selys, clinging to them. Both ignored her sharp claws, as intent on the battle as everyone else.

“Ancestors.”

Selys had seen undead fighting in the battle with Skinner, and rarely before that. However—this wasn’t Skinner’s thousands. This was—

“Fall back!”

Yvlon was bellowing. She swung her sword and beheaded six zombies. Yet the bodies which collapsed couldn’t even fall properly. It was a wave in every sense of the word; a wall of zombies, so close together that it was all flesh and grasping arms.

“[Lightning Bolt] incoming!”

Yvlon flung herself out of the way, and the bolt of electricity fried…dozens upon dozens. Area-of-attack spells and Skills were slaughtering hundreds. Yet there were so many.

Ghouls were crawling over the heads of the other undead, bounding off rooftops. Skeletons were clambering upwards too, launching arrows.

They were the real threat; the wall of zombies and Crypt Lords were a deadly, but slow force. They kept advancing despite the attack, while the faster undead sped along rooftops.

“We need those [Archers]! Prince Zenol—”

“For the glory of Nerrhavia’s Fallen!”

A laughing [Prince] leapt, landed on a rooftop, and cut two Ghouls apart. Dozens were on him in seconds, but he bought the other adventurers time to climb and contest this new avenue.

“We have hundreds of Ghouls coming at us and we’re under ranged fire! Halrac—”

Yvlon’s voice was so clear to Mrsha. The Gnoll grabbed Selys—then gaped. A bright arrow flashed—blew apart a knot of skeletons. The view of the scrying orb swung up to a distant [Archer], a man seemingly holding nothing but air.

The invisible bow! Mrsha saw Halrac and the adventurers loose again, and now magical arrows were blowing apart undead. She cheered, throwing up her paws. She clocked Selys in the jaw.

—-

There were a lot of damn undead! Revi wasn’t in wave four. She wasn’t even in the village. She was a [Summoner], so she stood on a hill hundreds of paces away from the Village of the Dead and watched the artillery-[Mages] lobbing spells at the village.

Some were even sipping tea, chattering, or watching the scrying orb as they did. None were incautious though; they kept an eye out for undead coming this way. Only eight Ghouls had made it past the fighting, though.

“This isn’t thousands. These are tens of thousands! Maybe a hundred thousand, who knows?”

She spoke rapidly, to those around her, not able to relax. Geni, the veteran [Wizard] with grey hair, safely in the back ranks, patted Revi’s arm in a kind way.

“I know, dear. But they’re not regenerating. That’s something.”

“If they were, we’d never get through here. Imagine fighting that string-shit with all of them coming back? No wonder an army never made it past! I don’t like it.”

“The fact that a—so many undead can hide in there, and that we are not hearing anything? Mm. It bodes.”

A rather patrician-type [Mage] lowered his teacup. Patrician was a word Revi had never used, but it fit this [Mage] to a tee. He was the classic Wistram [Mage]—and he was indeed from Wistram Academy. His attitude, from his spectacles perched on his nose, to the chair and tea he was sipping, was the exact reason [Mages] got a bad rap.

“What do you mean by that?”

Revi growled at him. The [Mage] gave her the arched eyebrow that made her want to kick him in the shins.

“I mean—the Village of the Dead clearly has a spatial enchantment on it. Powerful too; it must be far vaster on the inside than the outside.”

“…You mean, a dimensional bubble? Like Wistram has? Moths eat me.”

Revi wanted to pace, but Geni patted her arm.

“Save your energy, Revi, dear.”

She knew the old woman was right. She was looking bad; the other [Mages] were glancing at her and she was a veteran! The [Summoner] tried to relax, but Revi was antsy. She hadn’t summoned anything—because Soew hadn’t asked her to, or a wave leader. Her mana ran out, so she was standing in the spell circles which ambiently drew mana from the environment, perfect for [Mages]. She was waiting.

As it turned out, she didn’t have to wait long. Revi didn’t know what triggered the change—maybe Halrac’s volleys from the rooftop. But then she heard half a dozen horn calls from the scrying orb.

Not from the distant village. It was too silent. The speaking stones chattered to life in an instant. Revi heard multiple voices, all screaming the same thing.

“—out of the houses! I thought you ch—”

“Give me bombardment on my street! We’re falling back! I’m at—”

“—fucking everywh—”

Her head rose. Revi’s cotton-skin crawled. She mouthed the word at the same time as everyone else.

Ambush.

—-

Levil’s wave was about to go and join the fighting on the front, having seen Halrac’s group onto the roofs when the ambush occurred.

He even saw it happening. The [Fire Mage]’s head turned. He felt it.

“Nailren! I’m getting a huge magical signature—is someone casting a spell?”

The Gnoll halted. The adventurers lifted their weapons.

“I feel it too! What is that?”

A [Mage] pointed. Every head turned to…the abandoned houses.

“Oh shit. Oh fuck. Halrac was right!”

Keima muttered. The adventurers looked around. What was coming? Invisible undead? Levil’s eyes were wide—an adventurer loosed an arrow, but it struck nothing?

From the ground? He stared down, and another adventurer shook her head. A Dwarf? Dasha of Vuliel Drae raised her voice.

“I’ve got [Tremorsense]! I don’t sense ‘em below us! What’s the magic?”

“It’s—”

Levil had no formal magical schooling. He had no way of identifying the nuance in the spell, only aware it was there. The answer came in a moment anyways.

He saw a golden flash of light. Blinding—the [Fire Mage] raised his hand to his eyes. When he lowered it—there they were.

Undead. They filled the house he had blasted open. So tightly bunched-up that some instantly spilled out of the house. Ghouls, zombies, skeletons—again, lesser undead. But so many. And that was one house.

“Shit.”

Levil recoiled. He raised his wand, and a jet of flame lashed out instantly. It burned through the crowd ahead of him. Then Levil turned his head.

Every house in the street had just filled up. Now—out the undead came.

“Halrac! Undead below you! Get back! Everyone, fall back!”

Nailren bellowed. He swung up his bow and loosed a shot which turned into three. The scatter-shot Skill blasted zombies backwards.

“Mass teleportation? That’s impossible! That’s—”

Ullica, the other [Mage] in the Pithfire Hounds, had gone into hysterics. Two adventurers near him were just staring, transfixed. Levil whirled.

“Ullica! Fight! [Fireball]!”

The detonation and blast of heat and force snapped the other adventurers out of it. Silver-ranks fought to desperately stem the flow of undead from the houses. Insill, Dasha, Pekona, Larr, and Anith, the entire team of Vuliel Drae, were fighting with the Pithfire Hounds. Back-to-back in a circle in the street.

Halrac’s group was now surrounded by climbing undead. They were loosing enchanted arrows all around them, killing countless undead with each arrow, but Ghouls were climbing with skeletons.

“We’re dead!”

Insill wailed, the Drake [Rogue] slashing around him. Pekona just slashed undead in half, the [Blade Dancer] cutting down a score in an ever-widening circle by herself.

“Where are the Horns?”

For some reason, Larr, their Gnollish [Archer] wanted to know. He growled as he shot; already spells were blasting undead to pieces. He snarled at Anith, their Jackal Beastkin leader.

“Where are the Horns? Where’s Eldertuin the Fortress? Elia Arcsinger? All these Gold-ranks can’t detect an ambush or deal with these undead? I don’t see them taking the lead for all their talk! They’re just one of the teams out here! Tell me they’re further in—”

“Nailren, help incoming. Don’t move from your spot.”

A female voice spoke out of the stone on the Gnoll’s wrist. Levil recognized it. What did she mean by that, th—

One of the houses exploded as a huge paw made of ice and bone smashed through it. Undead were crushed under a single crushing blow. Then the other paw came down.

Levil, the Pithfire Hounds, Vuliel Drae, and the other adventurers looked up. A huge, bestial bear-monstrosity roared, and the sound was that of avalanches and grinding ice. Its body was made of ivory. Ivory—coated in ice.

Instantly, Levil raised his wand and fired a [Flame Arrow] at the face. He didn’t know what undead that was, but—

Nailren grabbed his arm.

“Don’t! That’s on our side!”

“What? That’s undead!”

Levil bellowed back. The Gnoll didn’t bother explaining. He just pointed and Levil saw the giant creation move.

The giant undead was on all fours, so vast it was taller than the uniform houses of the village. It was shaped like a bear—if a bear had been upgraded to be even more destructive and monstrous. Then, someone had taken the frame of the Bone Behemoth and coated it in ice instead of flesh.

Frostmarrow Behemoth. It tore through the first house and rammed through the second without slowing. Undead in its way turned to paste. The adventurers saw it circle, clumsily—then run down a street. It didn’t need to even attack; it just crushed the undead with its sheer weight. It turned again, and began tearing another house apart.

Levil stared so long that it was Ullica’s turn to shake his shoulder. He raised his wand and began blasting undead with a will.

The momentum had turned. The ambushed fourth wave didn’t just have the Frostmarrow Behemoth to thank, although it was more than enough. However—all the resistance on the other end of the street was vanishing too.

Levil saw walls of ice shooting upwards, covering the fronts of the trapped houses. At the same time, the massed undead who’d climbed out began collapsing. He saw a Ghoul turn—then its neck snapped. It fell, dead, and only then did Levil catch sight of the two [Mages] running to relieve the fighters.

Ceria pointed, and [Ice Walls] blocked undead in the houses. By her side, Pisces held his rapier in one hand. However, he hadn’t bothered to use it yet—he just pointed and undead fell, necks snapped. A skeleton resisted the blow, so the [Necromancer] lifted his rapier and stabbed it through the eye-socket.

“Where’s Yvlon?”

“Up ahead—she’s fine. We’re going that way. Control the Frostmarrow Behemoth! You’re getting it lost!”

“I’m sorry if I’m directionally challenged when you say ‘that way’, oh great and glorious captain—”

The two squabbling [Mages] shouted at each other. They strode down the street as the Frostmarrow Behemoth whirled. Then Ceria lifted her fingers.

“Let’s go, then!”

A rapid volley of [Ice Spikes], as fast as Levil could throw the weaker [Flame Arrow] spell, picked off Ghouls on a rooftop. Pisces nodded. He vanished—appeared, stabbing a Ghoul through the head. More undead collapsed around him.

Ahead of him, the Frostmarrow Behemoth charged through a house. Pisces regarded it, and turned to Ceria. She shrugged.

“Shortcut.”

They ran through the opening, ice and rapier cutting down the undead the giant creation didn’t manage to squash. Fourth wave watched in silence as the two Gold-rank adventurers rushed deeper into the Village of Death.

“Hey. Larr? I found the Horns.”

Dasha nudged the Gnoll after a moment. He didn’t really reply.

—-

“Frostmarrow Behemoth going in. [Summoners], send your creations forward!”

Revi didn’t need to be told that. Everyone had seen the giant monster, the biggest thing on the field, hit the Village of Death. It had vanished inside, proving the village was a lot bigger due to magic; Revi should have been able to easily see it no matter where it went.

“They’re using undead? Wh-what was that thing? That’s not a regular undead.”

The poncy [Mage] looked well and truly spooked. Revi just bared her teeth. She was one of three [Summoner]-type classes, and the other two had already called familiars and the battle-golem. Revi was the only Gold-rank among them.

She breathed in and out, calling upon her magical power.

“Stitch me sideways. They’re using their best cards now? Okay—in that case—”

She reached for the first, the biggest summoning catalyst in her repertoire. Newly-added too. Geni peered at the amber-encased object.

“My word, my dear. Is that—”

The old woman hesitated. She looked up as the light flashed. The Wistram [Mage] screamed.

It turned out he was arachnophobic. And this?

The lead [Wizard] looked up and nearly fired on this creation. He craned his neck up and backed up slowly. So did the other [Mages].

“What is that thing?”

A Baleros adventurer looked well and truly spooked, which was ironic given the life on that continent. Someone else replied softly.

“That’s a Shield Spider. Dead gods. I had no idea they got that big.”

Revi grinned, feeling drained suddenly. She swayed as the mother of all Shield Spiders—literally—crawled down the hill. It wasn’t as large as the Frostmarrow Behemoth. But it was larger than any other thing on the field.

“Revi my dear. That’s new?”

“That’s new. But it’s not all. Watch…watch this.”

The [Summoner] croaked. She raised her catalyst, took a breath—and shouted.

“[Summoned Monster: I Call Your Kind].”

The light flashed again. This time, the Wistram [Mage] went into a fit. That was partly Revi’s fault; she hadn’t meant for every spider to crawl over him. He was just in the way.

A wave of glowing spiders scuttled in the wake of the largest one. Hundreds of smaller Shield Spiders scuttled down the hill, some as small as Revi’s palm, others far larger. They streamed towards the Village of Death.

“What the f—”

Someone breathed afterwards. Revi felt the spiders begin dying the instant they entered the Village of Death—the lesser ones. The larger one began tearing undead apart the second it entered. She felt relieved about the lesser ones dying.

Less of a burden on her. She swayed as old Geni looked at her.

“Hey Geni? Give me a second. I’m just gonna—”

Revi collapsed in the spell circle, trying to draw as much mana from it as possible. Geni bent over her, anxiously.

“Are you okay, Revi? You’ve overdone it.”

“Me? I’m a veteran. No, no…I’m just resting.”

Revi lay in the mana circle, unable to get up for a few minutes. When she did rise, with Geni’s help, she smiled gratefully at the older woman. She nodded at the village in the distance.

“Can’t…let them show us up that easily, right? When the Shield Spiders wipe, I’ll start calling on smaller summons. Can’t let the rookies beat us.”

“No indeed, my dear.”

Geni lied as she helped Revi stand.

—-

Indeed. The massed-undead and sneak-attack from every angle was meant to wipe out large, embattled armies. The lack of regeneration was keeping it from being a disaster, but adventurers were falling back.

Falling back to defensive positions to rally.

Falling back, not retreating, but falling—

“We’re falling back, I said!”

One of the Gold-ranks bellowed. The first wave was in retreat. However, something was off. The second wave, which had moved in to support them wasn’t falling back.

“I said, pull back! Are you even listening?”

“No.”

Something burst up from the ground. A pillar of stone; undead rained down around it. The wall of flesh advanced, biting, grabbing for something to kill. The wall ran into a staff. Then—a hand covered in vines.

The wall of undead stopped. Moore strode into them and began tearing them apart. On the other side, the advance halted as well.

“[Whirlwind of Blows]! [Impactful Blows]! Rampage!”

A Raskghar roared—but it wasn’t a Raskghar. Jelaqua advanced, her upgraded steel flail sending bodies flying with all the force of Moore’s blows. As they moved up, the two Halfseekers were covered by a flickering shadow that stabbed Ghouls and other undead trying to hit them from behind. Last of all came the Drake—no, the second Selphid.

“[Sticky Web], [Fire Wheel], [Lightning Bolt], [Acid Orb]…[Acid Orb], [Acid Orb], [Acid Orb], [Acid Orb], [Acid Orb]—”

Ulinde chanted. The [Spellslinger] was throwing multiple spells around from the two wands she held, but then gave up and melted the undead by lobbing the glowing orbs into their back ranks.

The Gold-rank adventurers stopped and realized their retreat was a flight from…nothing.

“Cover our flanks if you don’t want to advance!”

Seborn appeared and snapped at one of the adventurers. Shame-faced, the man waved his team back into position. Of all the Halfseekers—Moore was advancing fastest. He swung his bloody quarterstaff like an axe, face set, as if each blow was a reason for living. Relief. He had already advanced another dozen paces, ignoring the zombies trying to bite through his [Armor of Thorns].

—-

In another street. Yvlon’s wave began advancing once more. They had just been joined by the second-wave. Their response to the overwhelming undead numbers?

“[Valmira’s Comet].”

Typhenous pointed. A hole appeared in the street. Glowing, melted remains and disintegrated bodies in the path of the spell. The [Mage] bowed, quite courtly.

“Miss Byres?”

“Thanks.”

She stalked forwards. Briganda moved up, striking her hatchet to her shield in a challenging, ringing sound.

“Let’s go! Come on, you lot!”

Adventurers charged once more.

—-

The third of the three-pronged attacks had stopped dead in its tracks. Undead came from the houses, and they were busy sealing them back up. However, while the third group had stopped—they hadn’t actually retreated.

Again, and again, the undead came. Crypt Lords now, pushing through zombies and Ghouls, squashing them. Skeletons with bows shooting arrows with lethal points, if not accuracy or the same expertise as the living.

They broke. They faltered—they bounced off a line in the sand.

Eldertuin the Fortress had been in the second wave. However, he was now in the vanguard, standing and fighting with the huge tower shield covering him. However, the shield itself was only part of his protection.

Copies of his shield rose from the ground; a sparkling barrier protected him. His might was the mace he swung, and it did fell Crypt Lords. But the Named Adventurer was his nickname. Adventurers fought in a line, enjoying his protections, stalemating the undead.

The real damage came from above. Yet another sparkling arrow landed, and some adventurers cheered as it blew apart another Crypt Lord.

Elia Arcsinger saluted Eldertuin from her rooftop, which her team was loosing arrows from. The two Named Adventurers nodded to each other, coolly.

—-

The last group had suffered hardest at first. Lacking the intensity of the Horns, Halfseekers, or Griffon Hunt, who were all pushing forwards with determination, or the two Named Adventurers, the majority Silver-rankers—who had been meant as a diversion anyways—had fallen back fast, taking the only casualties thus far.

Now, they were advancing. It would be charitable to say they were fighting. But half of the ‘fighting’ was just staring up at the Frostmarrow Behemoth’s rear as it tore its way forwards.

“Another street! Damn it—and we haven’t even found another of the attack groups! How big is this place?”

Ceria Springwalker groused, shooting [Ice Spikes] into another intersection of undead coming their way. However, she had no time to waste mana on the hordes of undead and a single-attack spell.

She raised a hand. A wall of ice engulfed the front rank of zombies, immobilizing them, and thickened, quickly blocking the street. Some undead tried to come over the top—but Pisces pointed and two bolts of light fried the Ghouls and he snapped the necks of the rest.

“[Ice Wall] up! Put those barricades down!”

Ceria shouted. The adventurers behind her scrambled to secure the gap in the time before her spell vanished, installing the metal-and-wood barricades to stem the undead flow.

“Pisces to Strategist Soew. We have another street full of undead. Requesting bombardment.”

The [Necromancer] spoke into the speaking stone. The Owl’s voice replied.

“It will be done. Please turn left at the next street; we are attempting to link you to another attack group.”

Pisces turned back to the Behemoth’s advance. He spotted several undead coming past the Behemoth and pointed to each one. Their necks snapped.

“This is so…unsatisfying. I suppose when one is the most capable adventurer on the field though, one must put up with such easy victories.”

He sniffed. Ceria frowned at him. However, it was true that Pisces could just point and kill undead—if not Crypt Lords.

“I thought you had to snap your fingers to do that, Pisces? Why is it just pointing?”

The young man paused.

“…My fingers hurt from snapping too much.”

Ceria and Pisces blinked at each other as the Frostmarrow Behemoth moved ahead. Yvlon was fighting in her street. Which left…

“Ksmvr? Come in. Where are you?”

“Fighting, Captain Ceria.”

The voice came over the speaking stone as Ceria switched communication devices. She looked up at the rooftops, frowning. Pisces stopped as well.

“Fighting? Ksmvr, I told you to fall back.”

“…This is not Ksmvr. Excuse me, you are breaking up. I have found our adjacent attacking force. Six streets over.”

“Ksmvr!”

—-

Elia Arcsinger was picking her next shot when her daughter pointed.

“Is that a jumping undead? No—wait! Look! Mother!”

“I told you to call m—”

The Named Adventurer looked up and saw the adventurer deepest in the Village of the Dead. He was running on a rooftop two hundred feet away, being pursued by a wave of Ghouls. They clambered over the rooftops, leaping like animals, eyes glowing as they bit and tore.

They never caught him. The [Skirmisher] ran faster than they could. He had a sword in one hand, a rippling field of magic around a buckler in the other. He swung the Forceshield, and the edge struck a Ghoul leaping up at him, shattering a bone in its face. Ksmvr turned, pivoting—a crossbow fired into another’s face.

The Ghouls reached the end of the roof and the Antinium halted. He turned and they leapt for him, a ravening mass. Elia watched as Ksmvr spread his arms. He somehow felt the need to address the undead lunging at him.

“You made one error, although I realize you are not capable of tactical thought: I can fly. Whee—”

He flipped backwards into the air. The Ghouls poured over the rooftop, landing on the street below. Elia saw the Antinium soar into the air—land on another rooftop and begin running again.

“Ksmvr to Eldertuin. I have scouted your location and you are six streets away from the south-western attacking force. Designation: Attackers 4. Please take the right-most street from your position. Establishing mapping to other attacking forces.”

The voice came clipped, very calm, through the speaking stone. If Elia hadn’t known better, she would have thought the Antinium wasn’t in danger at all. Eldertuin replied after a beat through their local link.

“Understood. We’re holding ground. We’ll move up in five minutes.”

“Ksmvr! Get back here! You’re all alone! Stop playing tag this instant!”

That was Captain Ceria’s voice. Loud, too—Elia winced and took the speaking bead she used out of her ear. She heard the Antinium reply after a moment.

“…This is not Ksmvr. I am being strategically helpful. Is this not so, Strategist Soew?”

“This is so. Captain Ceria…”

Whatever appeal Ksmvr had been about to make was never uttered. Because, at that precise moment, someone broke in on all lines of communication.

“This is Attack 1—fall back! This is not a joke! I don’t care where you are! Fall back! Soew, we have injured! Captain Jelaqua’s body is gone and their half-Giant nearly got slaughtered! Every position—now!”

Elia’s heart skipped a beat. She heard a chorus of confused voices. However, she spoke loudly, cutting off the others.

“This is Elia Arcsinger. Define the threat.”

The adventurer’s voice was grim.

“Draugr.”

—-

It came out of the sea of zombies without warning. Jelaqua was slowing down as her Rampage ended, the Raskghar body stressed past its limits. She saw something—huge—crashing through the sea of undead.

“Inc—”

That was all she got to say before the Draugr hit her. It was not necessarily larger than the other zombies. If anything, this Human had been less than six feet tall. But where other zombies were just copies of their bodies in life—Ghouls lean muscle, strong but like animals—the Draugr was all muscle.

Death had turned the hulking former-Human into a twisted parody of strength. The only person Jelaqua had ever seen that had the Draugr’s physique was…Magus Grimalkin.

“Bowel maggots! It’s a Draugr!”

Someone shouted, but the warning came too late. With one movement, the hulking undead crashed into Jelaqua. She tried to swing her flail, but it was under her guard. With one blow, it drove a fist into her chest. A rib-breaking blow to gouge out her heart.

The punch hit her armor. Maughin’s fine steel held, denting slightly, but protecting her inner self. Jelaqua roared, kicking at the Draugr with her Raskghar body. The Raskghar form she wore was similar in strength! She held the biting jaw back, punching and feeling like she was hitting a rock. The two rolled about as Moore whirled.

“Jelaqua!”

She nearly had thrown it off her, despite its refusal to budge when the second Draugr emerged from the undead mass. It smashed lesser undead to bits, heedless of their wellbeing as it threw itself on Jelaqua and the second Draugr.

“Get it off me! G—”

It ripped Jelaqua’s head off her body. The Raskghar form spasmed; the second Draugr grabbed Jelaqua’s arm, planted its foot on her torso, and pulled.

The armor Maughin had forged could have stopped a crossbow bolt at close range. But the body of the Selphid wasn’t nearly so strong. Jelaqua felt her arm tear and her inner body disconnected just in time; the arm came clear.

The Draugr threw the body parts aside, but hesitated. Whatever instinct was in them told them—the body was still alive?

Headless, the Raskghar rose. Its good arm whirled the flail one-handed, and the steel ball struck one Draugr in the face. Just a stunning blow; Jelaqua was already stumbling backwards, almost blind.

“Cover Jelaqua!”

Seborn leapt forwards, sinking two blades into the first Draugr’s leg. He sliced and the thing stumbled, a hamstring severed. It whirled, striking with a [Warrior]’s speed, one crushing fist a killing blow—but the [Rogue] was already dodging back.

Ulinde blasted the Draugr with arrows of blinding light. It stumbled, but the second Draugr charged after Jelaqua.

It ran into Moore’s fist. With a roar, the half-Giant sent it crashing backwards. His thorn-covered fist tore the face off the Draugr and hurled it into the ranks of the zombies.

“Get Jelaqua!”

The [Green Mage] shouted at the adventurers now covering Jelaqua as the undead moved forwards, no longer held back. Moore was turning to the second Draugr that Seborn and Ulinde were fighting when he saw the huge body get up.

Faceless, skin torn to shreds, neck at an angle, the muscle-bound undead got up. Moore turned back with a growl of fury. He raised his staff.

This time, the blow wasn’t as perfect. It struck the Draugr on the shoulder rather than the head, but Moore heard the crack of bone. However—that was all. The Draugr surged into him and the taller half-Giant reeled as a fist struck his chest—his arm—

“Moore!”

Seborn saw the undead wave move around the giant, biting, scratching—but he and the Draugr were cut off. Moore was hitting the Draugr as it traded blows with him, but for once his strength and size weren’t winning the battle easily. The Draugr tore with one arm and Moore howled as it scored a blow past the armor he wore. He whirled his staff down.

“[Pillar of Earth]!”

The Draugr tried to dodge. However, the spire of stone struck it from below and sent it flying. Moore, panting, saw it hit the ground—twist—and then began to get back up.

The second Draugr was limping after Jelaqua. A shadow flickered around it, slashing from all sides. Seborn’s enchanted daggers burned flesh or froze it—but unlike a mortal foe, this Lizardfolk Draugr, disturbingly bloated with muscle from their slimmer forms—refused to fall.

“[Flame Swathe]!”

Ulinde set it on fire. Seborn dodged back, but the flaming undead just walked on. He looked around. The first Draugr rose to its feet, eyes flashing with blue magical power. It roared, expectorating foul liquid—

Moore grabbed it and threw the undead into the wall of the nearest house. Wood splintered as the Draugr bounced off the surface. It stumbled—Moore grabbed it by one leg.

The fighting adventurers looked up as the half-Giant bellowed. Moore lifted the struggling Draugr, ignoring its attempts to break his grip, the other zombies trying to climb onto him. He swung the Draugr into the wall.

Whumph. Seborn felt the impact in his bones. He saw the Draugr flailing—Moore swung again. The second impact made it go still. Then—Moore tossed it down and drove his staff down onto its head.

It didn’t get back up this time. The second Draugr stumbled. The hail of spells it had taken drove it to its knees and Seborn planted a dagger in its head.

Two dead. However, the adventurer-commander was shouting.

“Fall back! Draugr just appeared and smashed into us! Everyone, back up! Cover the half-Giant!”

Moore was turning. The adventurers were beckoning to the Halfseekers in front. Jelaqua, headless, turned, at the same time as Moore. The [Green Mage] stopped.

More huge figures were moving through the crowds of undead. Seborn muttered an oath.

“Depths take me…”

“Draugr! Yes, Draugr! Don’t engage them hand-to-hand!”

The attack-leader was bellowing into his speaking stone, firing with a wand at the huge bodies that had torn through their kin, charging to meet the Gold-ranks. Moore ran, as Ulinde tried to cover him. She shouted, an edge of panic in her voice.

“Moore—hurry!”

“How many?”

Elia’s voice was insistent. So was Soew’s. The adventurer looked ahead. He laughed hysterically. Then he tossed the Tripvine Bag as someone used a [Wall of Stone] spell. The adventurers turned and ran.

“How many? I see twenty coming down this street alone! Fall back!”

The two Draugr that had fallen were replaced by a dozen tanks of flesh which ran at the wall of stone, tearing through vines, punching blindly, without heed or regard for their wellbeing. The Halfseekers fell back with the other adventurers.

“Get me mage fire! We can’t retreat fast enough! I need reinforcements! Get me—”

The leader was demanding every asset they had as the wall shattered, barely seconds after it had gone up. The undead advanced again, the Draugr moving into a pounding charge. Then…slowed.

“[Sluggish Advance]. Retreat one street back. Reinforcements are fortifying.”

Soew’s calm voice filtered through the speaking stone. The Draugr were moving in slower-motion, weighed down by her Skill. The adventurers fell back, and Jelaqua, half-carried by Moore, was rasping to Ulinde.

“Get me the second Raskghar body! Hurry!”

Even as they pulled backwards to safety, more contacts began barking rapidly into the speaking stone.

—-

Ceria saw the undead burst forwards, punching at the Frostmarrow Behemoth’s closest limb less than a minute after Jelaqua’s team ran into trouble. However, this incident was almost comical.

The huge Frostmarrow Behemoth looked down at the undead. Strong the Draugr might be, but the disparity in size still meant that it was a child fighting a…well, a giant undead.

Until the Draugr began cracking the ice armor. Then, Ceria raised her wand.

“[Ice Lance]!”

The oversized projectile hit the Draugr and knocked it flat. A huge shard of ice had gone into its stomach. However—the Draugr stood up, revealing a hole in its gut as it broke the ice pinning it, but otherwise unharmed.

It came towards Ceria, roaring, making actual sound with its intact lungs. Ceria prepared to encase it in ice and blast it to bits with [Ice Spikes]—but an arm blocked her.

“Allow me.”

Pisces smiled superiorly and flicked his finger. Ceria saw the Draugr’s neck twist—

It didn’t break. The undead kept charging. Pisces frowned. He snapped his fingers. The neck twisted again and Ceria heard something tearing, maybe a bone cracking? Yet the Draugr kept running.

“Er—”

Ceria swore as she conjured a wall of ice. The Draugr ran into it with a crash that both of them felt.

—-

Ksmvr observed the new threat with clinical interest. He fired a crossbow point-blank; the Draugr staggered as the bolt hit it, but its body was tough! It had no armor, being a bare-chested Human woman, garments long rotted, rotting front betraying wriggling maggots.

However, to kill it—Ksmvr fired again. The bolt went through the roof of her mouth but failed to hit the brain. He didn’t get a chance to reload the crossbows; the Draugr swung a fist.

Ksmvr stepped back, keeping out of range as the huge undead swung, missing the nimbler [Skirmisher]. He raised his buckler and absorbed one punch on the Forceshield.

“Considerable impact. Likely fatal to Silver-ranks if struck on vulnerable points. Fast—”

He hopped back as the Draugr woman charged, head down.

“—but not excessively so. Slower than a Ghoul. Easily manageable with any Gold-rank team. However…”

He stared down the street as six more Draugr charged at him. Ksmvr withdrew the Flamecoat Dagger, slashed the Draugr once. The undead woman burst into flame as the dagger touched her arm. Ksmvr turned and began running.

However, there were a lot of them.

—-

Draugr. Niers felt a slight crawl on his skin. Not from personal fear of course. Just an unpleasant memory of such undead.

In large numbers, too. He’d seen undead hordes where a hundred Draugr might be present, but that was a full-scale disaster. There were a lot of them attacking the adventurers.

What bothered him was the timing. Niers could picture his own assault on the Village of Death. He spoke, his voice low, unable to be heard over the commentary on the scrying orb—although Drassi and Joseph often just watched with everyone else—to his only audience.

“If I didn’t have a way to neutralize the regenerating undead—I wouldn’t be stupid enough to let those houses stand. On the other hand, if they rebuilt themselves, I would have to barricade houses teleporting in those undead. My army’s deadlocked with so many undead on the street. That’s when the Draugr come in—”

He felt another tingle on his skin. That…he didn’t like that. He turned to regard his newest pupil.

Apista might have been listening—or she was just doing that weird bee thing where they opened and closed their mandibles, chewing on some nectar or whatnot.

“Someone thought out how to break an army here. Whoever made this place did all this on purpose. The only flaw is the regeneration factor going out.”

Apista waggled an antennae in thoughtful agreement. Niers eyed her. He sighed, and stared down over the side of the beam.

—-

Below, Rags had come to the same conclusion as Niers. She did not need Drassi telling her Draugr were dangerous to see the proof with her own eyes.

What Rags was curious about was how they held up to a Gold-rank adventurer. She watched, learning, observing. What she saw was—

—-

Yvlon stumbled, forced back by the pure brute strength of the Draugr. She stared at her sword in its heart, a killing blow. However, the Draugr had kept coming and Yvlon had been forced to let go to avoid being struck in the head.

She felt her arm take the force of the blow she’d blocked, but rather than her bones break or even bruise—she flexed her arm, stared at it and the Draugr.

It swung in a silent roar. Yvlon ducked, and came up with a punch that broke something. The Draugr raised its arms—Yvlon caught them before they could descend.

The two wrestled. The [Armsmistress] was growling—pivoting for position—but the Draugr couldn’t lower its arms! She threw it back, grabbed her sword, and whirled it once.

The Draugr fell, headless. Panting, Yvlon looked around.

Prince Zenol had killed his Draugr as well. He’d hamstrung the monster, dodging its charge. Now, one of his subordinates ran it through on a pike. He was no longer smiling—but his teeth were bared.

“The threat escalates.”

She just nodded. Zenol’s eyes lingered on her arms.

“Beautiful. I should have upgraded my physique for this battle. We’re pulling back.”

More Draugr were coming up. Yvlon saw Dorgon disengage from his fight with some undead. The adventurers ran down the street.

One Draugr? Yvlon could take on alone. Four? Separate and kill, or hit with a Skill if they were together.

But ten? Twenty? Then it was too dangerous. That was what they were facing now. The adventurers skidded down the street and Yvlon saw a temporary barricade, even palisade spikes set up.

“Through here!”

Nailren bellowed, loosing an arrow. The adventurers hurtled through the gaps and wood was closed to form a wall and choke points.

However, the Draugr wave would break that apart like nothing! Yvlon turned to shout that to Nailren—and saw a familiar [Fire Mage] standing up.

Levil aimed his wand at the first rank of Draugr and Ghouls.

“[Fireball]!”

An older [Mage] stroked his beard and did the same. Typhenous intoned.

“[Force Orb].”

More [Mages] stood in a line. Yvlon heard them all shouting.

“[Lightning Bolt]!”

“[Double Cast: Steelthorn Spray]!”

“[Fireball]! [Arrows of—]”

The spells rippled down the street and the flash engulfed the undead. When Yvlon lowered her hand, she saw only two Draugr left; and they were unmoving. The [Mages] launched another volley as more Draugr tried to advance.

They vanished too. The adventurers cheered, and, panting, Levil staggered back to cover. Typhenous wearily patted him on the shoulder.

“Mages are recovering! We’re holding here!”

Nailren barked at Yvlon. She nodded. The undead were still coming! More Draugr were mixed in with the undead. She set herself at one of the choke points, cursing.

First Crypt Lords. Now Draugr. She had a feeling…they weren’t the worst of what they were about to see.

She was right. The next change as the Draugr kept coming manifested itself in a huge, glowing-eyed figure far taller than anything but Crypt Lords. Scuttling forms creeping up the walls, joining the skeletons now raining arrows from above.

—-

They looked like a normal person’s skeleton—be it Gnoll, Drake, Human, or even other species he’d met. A normal skeleton that someone twisted, added ‘limbs’ to, so they appeared to be like spiders, or bone-centipedes, racing forwards on multiple limbs, flat to the ground.

Horrific, but purposeful. They existed to climb, and they swarmed up the houses, their multi-digit appendages securing grips, pulling themselves upwards as they opened maws to bite at the adventurers or leap from above.

They were joined by hulking monstrosities of bone, armored plates of it forming Bone Horrors, far less elegant and purposefully made than the ones Pisces commanded—

But no less dangerous. They could take a beating even the Draugr could not, and they had any number of limbs to attack an adventurer with.

The Silver-ranks wavered in the streets when they saw both bone-variants join the flesh-and-blood kin. Skeletons were climbing too, and Ghouls, all to take the rooftops and leap onto the adventurers from behind. Not only that, the undead were still teleporting into the houses unless they were destroyed, which meant that while adventurers had barricaded the ground floors, some were coming out of the windows or broken pieces of the wall!

All of this meant that the roofs of the houses, supposed to be the safest location, were now dangerous. A group of thirty [Archer] adventurers found themselves besieged from all sides, cut off on the four roofs they were perched on.

“Let’s get out of here! We have to run!”

A pale-faced [Bandit Archer] shouted to the others. Half of them wavered, but on all sides the undead were coming up. Where did you run to? To jump was to land, possibly break your legs, and be swarmed at once.

A Ghoul pulled itself over the roof’s edge, climbing onto rotted shingles with ease, biting, snapping, looking around for prey.

Halrac’s boot caught it in the head. The [Veteran Scout] kicked the undead back into the mass below. He aimed his bow down; loosed a glowing arrow.

A Bone Horror vanished as the arrow exploded. The Gold-rank captain snapped at the other adventurers under his command.

“Hold your ground. If you run, you die! Anyone with close-combat classes, keep the undead from climbing up!”

“But Halrac, there are—”

The [Scout] pivoted and kicked a Bone Crawler so hard its head exploded in a shower of bone fragments. The Silver-rank adventurer gulped.

As of yet, Halrac hadn’t even drawn his shortsword. He kept moving, drawing arrows and loosing them into the street below. He snapped at another [Archer], one with dark skin and nearly-transparent hair underneath her helmet.

“Keep hitting those undead attacking Yvlon’s group—there! Kill the Draugr!”

The [Magical Archer] saluted him with an arrow, put it to her bow, and murmured.

“[Seeking Missile].”

The enchanted arrow shot high into the air, then arced, perfectly hitting one of the Draugr in the head as it twisted like a homing spell. She kept firing.

Halrac’s invisible bow sounded again. This time, to shoot a normal arrow and knock a skeleton away from an adventurer it had snuck up behind. He was too late for the other one.

A second skeleton grabbed a Silver-rank and upset her balance. It yanked—hard—and she flailed, losing her cool. She was about to tear free—when eight zombies grabbed the skeleton’s dangling feet.

Adventurer, skeleton, and zombies fell into a mass of undead below. Halrac never heard a sound; he shot a flurry of arrows down, killing undead. Yet no adventurer came out fighting.

“Keep away from the roof’s edges!”

He shouted at the others. Halrac reached for the speaking stone on his armguard, and then let it drop. No point asking for reinforcements again. They knew—

He spun as a Draugr came up the roof, tearing into the wood as it went for the [Archers]. Halrac put an arrow in its eye. It kept coming.

The second arrow was stouter, and longer than his. Not regulation-size. It also had more force than even his invisible-bow’s enchantment. It blew a chunk of the Draugr’s head off and the undead pitched into the crowded street below.

Halrac turned. The Minotaur with the curious ‘x-bow’, the fusion weapon of two bows crossed together, lowered it and calmly put another arrow to the string.

“Thorven.”

The [Scout] nodded to him. The Minotaur nodded back. Calm as could be, he turned, and a foot shattered another undead face coming up. He and Halrac were no strangers to fighting in close-combat.

The other [Archers]…Halrac cursed as he heard more casualties being reported. This was joined by another sound, as missiles began to strike the roof around them.

“We’re under fire!”

Someone else shouted, pointing. Halrac turned and saw skeletons. Shooting arrows at them from another roof.

Their tactics, echoed! Halrac snatched an arrow aimed at his face out of the air, put it to his bow, and hit the skeleton—in a rib. The undead lost the rib, but it just staggered upright and began firing back.

Skeletons. An [Archer]’s worst enemy in a ranged duel. You had to hit them in the head! Half the [Archers] began firing back, but Halrac snapped.

“Ignore them! Keep the undead from climbing up! You—you—enchanted arrows! Blow them to bits!”

Two adventurers did just that, but no sooner had they taken one roof than another skeleton band appeared. This time Halrac raised the speaking stone.

“We’re about to be overrun! Where’s that Bone Behemoth, Ceria?”

He heard her voice, arguing with the others.

“—too far away, Halrac! If we move, they’ll overrun our street!”

Cursing, Halrac looked around. However, a second voice interrupted Soew saying something.

“Very well. I shall intercede. Help is imminent, Captain Halrac.”

That voice. Halrac looked around. He saw only a blur of magical flashes from his rooftop, countless shadows in the streets below—

An arrow hit him in the chest. He staggered; the enchanted armor on his chest blocked the blow. His boots kept him from tumbling off the roof and into the street below.

The group of skeletons took aim as Halrac fumbled for another enchanted arrow. Two adventurers were down, crying out from the barbed arrows sticking out of their skin. The [Marksman] put the arrow to his bow as three other [Archers] turned, but they’d be too slow! He saw the skeletons draw.

Ksmvr landed on the first one, and crunched the fragile undead to pieces. He whirled, shortsword, buckler, and dagger in hand. He lashed out with all three.

Sword cut a bow apart. Forceshield swung, clipping a second skeleton and knocking it off the roof. The dagger touched a third and set it aflame.

“Ksmvr! Fall back! You’re too exposed!”

The Antinium ignored Ceria’s call. He sprinted across the roof, knocking the other skeletons down, killing another one, then leapt. Halrac saw him land amid another group trying to target the [Archers].

That idiot is going to die. Halrac whirled.

“Press the undead back! Enchanted arrows in the streets! Clear them away!”

They couldn’t do the same for the rooftops where Ksmvr was fighting alone. The adventurers began firing downwards, securing their position. Halrac loosed another arrow, supporting the adventurers on the ground. But he was watching Ksmvr fight.

Alone. The [Skirmisher] was a whirling frenzy of blows. He was good, and his three arms gave him an advantage. He picked fights only with the skeleton bands—but that was still suicidal. Halrac was a [Scout]. Fighting alone like that?

Your luck ran out.

Sure enough, Ksmvr was just dispatching another group of undead when he ran into his first sign of trouble. He slashed with his shortsword, intending to cut a skeleton to bits as he pivoted to block a strike with his Forceshield.

His enchanted shortsword bounced off rusted steel armor. Ksmvr looked at the skeleton, still wearing the weaponry it had carried in life. He backed up.

A skeleton stabbed him in the back. Or tried to; Ksmvr’s tough carapace thanks to the Barkskin ring he wore, and the cloak he was wearing blocked the knife-strike. The others leapt on him, stabbing as the Antinium thrashed.

“Ksmvr!”

Halrac shot an arrow at the armored skeleton before it could attack too, but he couldn’t risk a shot in the melee. He watched the Antinium fighting, unable to help.

—-

“Bone Horrors and more bone-type undead coming in! They’re climbing and they jump! Watch your heads!”

Soew listened to the shouting. Now, the undead weren’t just fighting from street to street. The neat and tidy battle on all four fronts was devolving into a defensive battle where the undead could come over the roofs, from the houses…

Have I fallen into a trap as a [Strategist]? They presented me with advantageous ground and now it reverses.

The Owl Beastkin [Strategist] spoke, her voice measured, logical.

“Adventurers Pisces, Ceria. Please take your force to link up with Eldertuin’s. Attack 1—you will link with Attack 2. We can no longer risk fighting on four fronts. We will attack from the west and ensure our flanks are guarded.”

“Acknowledged!”

That came from Attack 1’s leader, but Yvlon’s voice broke in.

“Regroup? If we’re all together, the undead will just flood our positions.”

“They are already doing so.”

Soew pointed out. The undead were without quantifiable limit so far. Yvlon replied tersely.

“I’d like you to consider letting us hold, Soew. We’re not buckling—yet.”

“Why hold?”

“Because they might want us to group up before something else arrives.”

The [Strategist] considered this. Her instinctual moves, which had earned her respect and won the day on other raids…she tilted her head ninety degrees.

“Acknowledged. Hold ground. I repeat, ignore last orders. [Improved Bracing]—Attack 1, you have eight minutes to make use of my Skill.”

“Got it. Holding put!”

The Owl-woman said nothing. She studied the map and the village from her position outside. Slowly—she began to shift her tactics, as if she was fighting against an intelligent opponent. She did not like this. Monster-slaying was her forte. She had not been able to pay for a class at the Titan’s academy in [Strategist] versus [Strategist] combat.

“Soew. Strategist Soew. Come in.”

This voice was Eldertuin’s. Soew changed speaking stones instantly.

“What is it? Report.”

“I think we’re seeing the next phase of the undead attacks. My group hasn’t moved back—”

“I am aware of the bone-type undead. [Archer] and [Mage] groups are taking out high-priority targets. Do you need to fall back?”

The Named Adventurer’s voice was terse. Soew heard an impact and he snapped a reply.

“No. That’s not what I meant. The zombies. They’re—running. There’s a command-type undead out there! The Crypt Lords are rallying them!”

Soew digested this as more groups began reporting the same thing.

The threat is increasing each time. Across all attack groups. This is coordinated.

The zombies, which had until now been shambling forwards, strong, menacing if they grabbed you, but slow, had begun to run. Not all could, but those with enough muscle left began sprinting alongside the Ghouls.

Crypt Lords. Commanding undead. They were still zombies, but now the adventurers were facing a much, much faster foe.

From bad to worse. Soew’s eyes flicked left and right. There was no question now. Retreat or regroup? The running zombies meant that if the adventurers tried to run, they’d be fighting all the way out.

So retreat becomes more and more unlikely. Should I abort the raid? If this pattern follows—what will we do if Liches arrive? Skeleton Mages? Bone Behemoths? There is a limit to how many threats we can take on before casualties begin to cascade.

As she wavered, on the verge of demanding a full retreat before it was too late, Soew’s awareness of the battlefield changed.

Soew’s head rose. She stared, her beak-mouth opened wide in genuine surprise for the first time.

“Soew, what are we doing?”

A panicked voice from Attack 1’s leader, the most fragile of the four leaders’ temperaments she’d regretted putting in charge. Soew breathed.

“Standby. Another variable has emerged.”

“Standby? Standby for what? Another threat?”

Paranoia and panic. Soew hesitated—then clarified.

“No. Reinforcements.”

Her eyes flicked up. Then—she heard the horns begin to sound.

—-

“What is that?”

Revi was sending other summons into the battle when she saw something appear in the distance. She pointed and the [Mages] all looked.

“[Riders].”

Geni frowned. She murmured a cantrip and both she and Revi blinked, their eyes magnified suddenly. They saw people on horseback cresting a hill, coming down in a wedge-formation. Revi stared.

“That can’t be other adventurers.”

She knew that because the group was far too uniform and cohesive to be an adventurer team.

“Mercenaries? Some of them might want to get in on this.”

Another [Mage] opined. Revi shook her head slightly. Then she heard the horns. They were blowing in the distance, on the eastern side of the Village of Death rather than the embattled west. Revi’s eyes widened as she saw people on foot appear over the bluff. Geni gasped.

“That can’t be what I think it is. Revi, my dear! Do you see those banners?”

“I see ‘em. Why are they here? Who—did we make them angry?”

“No, I think—they’re on our side.”

How, though? Revi saw the army of Humans descend, following the [Riders]. And there, fluttering in the wind and noon light was the unmistakable crest.

—-

“House Veltras?”

Drassi was just as incredulous. She was turning, listening to a Gnoll girl whispering to her off-screen. She turned to the audience.

“Breaking news! It seems like—an army of Humans bearing the standards of House Veltras of Izril has just arrived on the eastern side of the Village of the Dead! Not just that—if I’m hearing this right, there are eight thousand of them, led by none other than Lord Tyrion Veltras himself!”

—-

Selys choked on her drink. Rags’ eyes narrowed at the name, but Mrsha bounced up and down, excited, grabbing Ulvama’s arm. It had to be! She looked for a pad of paper then signed rapidly, grabbing the adult’s arms, trying to get them to understand.

“What? Who?”

Ishkr was the only one who spared a look for Mrsha as the others burst into confused babbling. He bent down, reading Mrsha’s signing and Kevin did likewise. He didn’t know enough of Mrsha’s language, but he got—

Help! Her! Feet? Feet—Running?

“Miss Ryoka Griffin?”

Ishkr translated. Kevin blinked. Mrsha pointed, jumping up and down, just in time for a second feed to appear, interrupting the fighting in the Village of Death.

—-

“We are being scried, Lord Veltras. I believe it is Wistram Academy. Should I attempt to interrupt the spell?”

Ryoka Griffin heard Jericha’s cool voice from a distance. All of her attention, all of her focus was concentrated on the silent settlement below.

The Village of the Dead looked so…quiet. Shrouded in a kind of mist that made it impossible to see into it.

Yet she knew her friends were fighting in the streets. It was so unnaturally silent, though. At least—from the village.

Around her was nothing but noise. Mortal noise, though. Marching boots, horses, the clash of steel—shouting officers.

Above it all came a voice, calm, addressing Jericha and the small group behind the deploying forces.

“I do not care to make this an event. However—Hethon, Sammial?”

“Yes! Yes!”

“I want to be on the scrying orb!”

Lord Tyrion Veltras stared down at his sons, bouncing as they sat in one of House Veltras’ carriages. Only Jericha and Ryoka had exited; the two boys were prohibited from doing so. Eight of House Veltras’ retainers were standing guard as well, and they were well behind the lines of House Veltras’ forces.

Eight thousand [Soldiers]. It was a lot. A lot—and a little. Ryoka chewed on her lip as she watched the cavalry, led by Lord Tyrion himself, set up. The [Lord] eyed his sons and nodded at Jericha.

“Leave it.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

With that, he turned to Ryoka. The [Lord] gestured down at the Village of the Dead.

“It appears the adventurers are already engaged. Miss Griffin, do you believe they can hold their position? If the scrying orb is to be believed, they are pressed but not in danger.”

“I—don’t know. Maybe? I’m not an adventurer. Why?”

Ryoka stared up at Tyrion. The Lord of House Veltras sat there. With all the [Soldiers] he had been able to march here in two days’ short notice. She knew it had been an incredibly outrageous request, and Jericha had said as much.

However, Lord Tyrion had agreed! Not just that; he had come in person, using his Skills to make the journey possible.

The fact that his sons were here made Ryoka incredibly nervous, but Lord Tyrion had refused to leave them behind. It hadn’t helped that when Hethon and Sammial heard they might get to see an adventurer raid, they’d begged to be brought along.

“I intend to assault the Village of Death from the east. The undead will be diverted, assuming their numbers are finite. A classic pincer movement. However, I will support the adventurers if need be.”

Lord Tyrion glanced at two [Strategists] already setting up a war table. He looked back at the young Asian woman standing on the grass with her bare feet.

The Courier. Also—Ryoka Griffin. Whom he was asking for…strategic advice? Ryoka’s mouth worked.

“I—don’t know. Whatever you think is best.”

Tyrion hesitated, then his head inclined slightly, as if he was surprised by the lack of insight Ryoka was showing. He looked at Hethon and Sammial.

“Do not leave the carriage, you two. Jericha must coordinate the [Mages]. You are to remain here and watch the scrying orb.”

“I want to see up close!”

“No.”

All three adults spoke at once. Ryoka looked at Tyrion.

“I’ll—I’ll stay with them, Lord Tyrion. I’m not a warrior anyways. Thank you. But do you think eight thousand is…”

Enough? Jericha turned her head and fixed Ryoka with another of her now-classic glares she wore half the time Ryoka was speaking.

Lord Tyrion Veltras himself frowned. He leaned on the pommel of his saddle as Hethon and Sammial gave Ryoka looks of incredulity.

“Eight thousand was all the available [Soldiers] who could immediately join us without stripping garrisons. If you believe it is not enough…”

“No! I mean—this is already more than I could have asked! I just—”

Ryoka had the amazing ability to put her foot in her mouth. She should have been a [Gymnast], if she had classes. However, she was spared from apologizing further as the [Lord] nodded.

“You may be correct. We will see. As I told you, I have no intention of leading House Veltras’ soldiers into a pointless, bloody conflict.”

Ryoka’s heart skipped. He had said as much from the outset. Nor could she ask him to kill his people. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want…

Her friends to die. Tyrion regarded her. At last, he nodded.

“We will begin the advance. Eight thousand is no small number when it comes to House Veltras’ forces. Nor will we be alone. Jericha—take command of setting up fortifications. I will begin sortieing now.”

“Yes, Lord Veltras. Luck to you!”

Jericha saluted him. He lifted the tip of his lance. Jericha stared at Ryoka. She coughed as Tyrion began to ride away. Ryoka blinked. Then she raised her voice awkwardly.

“Um—good luck! Thank you!”

Tyrion turned in his saddle and made the same gesture. Ryoka lifted her hand lamely. Hethon and Sammial, still in the coach, exchanged glances.

They were now convinced the Wind Runner alternated between amazing and embarrassingly weird.

—-

Reinforcements had arrived? Good!

A skeleton punched him in the jaw. Ksmvr punched back, and was rewarded by searing heat as his dagger went through the nasal cavity in its skull. However, now he was fighting a skeleton on fire.

Regrettable mistakes. I have overreached. However, if I die, reinforcements are here.

Taking comfort from that, Ksmvr heaved and the skeleton fell away. Yet the press on him didn’t let up. He tried to get up and they dragged him down, by the cloak he wore.

Cloaks were a mistake. I should have made it easy to remove. Ksmvr struggled and felt another kiss of steel. It lodged in his side; stuck.

The only reason he was alive was his Barkskin ring. The skeletons were grappling with him, and neither they nor Ksmvr were able to employ the full weight behind a thrust or strike.

That was about to change. A Bone Crawler leapt on Ksmvr, teeth and claw-like ‘ribs’ slashing at him. He kept the Forceshield in front, between him and it, but felt it already begin to lacerate his front.

Is this how I die? The [Skirmisher] felt a moment of…panic? He thought he was unafraid of death. But who would protect Yvlon, Ceria, and Pisces? What would they say if he—

“[Evasive Flip]!”

The Bone Crawler and Ksmvr—flipped. He staggered; found himself on his feet. Not like this. He felt hands grab him as he tried to jump. They dragged him down.

A crossbow fired.

[Power Shot]. It killed some of them, but Ksmvr was still trapped. He wondered if this was how Crossbow Stan had felt. He…they weren’t even Crelers. Just skeletons.

Dragging him down to the street, where a Bone Horror waited, half its body…opened, to let him fall into the maw of bones.

“No.”

Ksmvr dropped the crossbow, reaching for something. Acid, at this range? He flailed, trying to shake them off. Another undead leapt onto the roof. Ksmvr heard a sound. A voice.

“[Like a Lion, He Leapt].”

A sword flashed. The skeletons at Ksmvr’s back fell away, severed. Ksmvr whirled. He saw gleaming, brown skin, a beautiful smile.

Prince Zenol flourished with his sword and killed another skeleton. He pivoted, pirouetting under a second skeleton and just bumped it with his shoulder. The skeleton went flying into the Bone Horror below, who happily crunched it up.

The flashy [Prince] turned, and cut another undead apart. Ksmvr was surprised. He grabbed his crossbow, hurled the other two attackers off him, and rearmed himself with a fresh crossbow as his shortsword stabbed a skeleton in the head.

“Prince Zenol?”

“I saw you struggling, Antinium Ksmvr! Brave, to go alone. Unnecessary at this moment! Come, before we’re cut off!”

The [Prince] whirled—pointing back the way they’d come. Ksmvr nodded. He and the Stitchman ran across the roof. Both leapt as they reached the edge. Somehow, the [Prince] had the same ability as Ksmvr’s ring!

They landed among another knot of undead. Zenol cursed as he was forced to swing his sword too close for his liking. Ksmvr fired his crossbow again; his mandibles opened and closed on a skeleton’s face.

It flailed, and Ksmvr let go and punched it. The head flew off. Effective distraction tactic. He had learned people really hated that, even if his mandibles couldn’t fully disembowel them. Yvlon had forbidden him from doing that in sparring sessions.

The two fighters were trying to reach another place to jump. More Bone Crawlers were climbing up, sensing the isolated two. Prince Zenol’s whirling attacks were efficient for all they were showy, but both were lightly-armored. If they were caught—

“Glory and the art of blades! To me!”

A man with a tiny mustache leapt onto the roof. He speared a Bone Crawler through the back, and then was forced to stab it again when his rapier failed to kill it. For all that, his parrying dagger killed a skeleton with a thrust through the face. He was followed in an instant by two Drakes and a Dullahan of all people.

Two of Lifwail Blades, Oldblood Drakes, landed along with a nimble Dullahan. They joined the fighting. [Scouts], an [Elite Skirmisher] like Ksmvr. And—

Instructor Tomoor saluted the two, with a self-satisfied smile on his face.

“You two seemed to be in trouble! Prince Zenol, is it? And er—Ksmvrwhatsit? Strategist Soew has ordered us to integrate you, Antinium, into our group. No adventurer fights alone! Prince Zenol, you’re needed with your group!”

The [Prince] recovered, sweeping his blade around himself. He saluted Tomoor and the others wryly. The Drakes gave Ksmvr a second look, and the Dullahan was positively nervous, but the Prince just smiled at Ksmvr.

“It appears you aren’t the only roving strike force! Nerrhavia’s Fallen thanks you, friends!”

He leapt away, and Ksmvr looked at his new companions. His mandibles opened and closed as Tomoor whirled and speared a Ghoul through the face. He began fighting after a moment, but he couldn’t help but make his observation, even so.

“Incredible. They have established dominance on me.”

It was not an unpleasant feeling.

—-

Lord Tyrion Veltras breathed in and out as he rode down the hill. His horse—the [Riders]—kept pace with him. Only seven hundred; he had a much larger contingent of foot-soldiers, who had been stationed at outposts and come to answer his summons.

If he’d had more than two days’ notice to cover a hundred and sixty miles, he could have brought far more of House Veltras’ standing forces to bear. As it was, he had made the journey in excellent time. All for a single Runner’s request.

Incredulous eyes were trained on him via scrying orb. House Veltras’ [Soldiers] stood at the ready, in perfect formation. Was he really going to involve himself in an adventurer’s raid? Why was he here?

It made no sense to people like Regis or Magnolia Reinhart, or other nobles. Because they were missing the rogue element.

“A bloodless battle. A training exercise.”

Tyrion murmured, remembering how Ryoka Griffin had phrased her request. Well—she had not put it like that.

A half-effort battle? Against his will, his lips moved up. He had never heard of someone asking him to do…that. She had begged him, though, prevailing upon him on the road back to House Veltras.

For her friends. That was what the Courier had said. She had no right to ask for another favor…well. That was what she said.

Lord Tyrion Veltras had disagreed. He raised his lance. His [Soldiers] cheered as the [Lord] pointed.

“Jericha. Attract the undeads’ attention.”

From the hilltop, the [Mage] raised her wand. The linked [Mages] with her all cried out with the same voice as a blazing second sun appeared.

“[Siege Fireball]!”

The blazing ball of fire, larger across than two men on horseback, shot down towards the Village of the Dead. Tyrion saw the glowing flash of light appear for a second in the shrouded streets—then vanish.

“Hm.”

His eyes narrowed. He could not tell what lay in the streets, despite the ring on his finger that should have let him do just that. Hidden enemies in the mist.

However, House Veltras’ forces did not carelessly advance into the Village of the Dead. The glorious cavalry charge that people were expecting—did not come. Tyrion Veltras was famous for his prowess in the saddle and lightning attacks.

Yet he just sat there, waiting.

Half-assed? Tyrion’s version of that was a battle where none of his soldiers died. A training exercise.

No undead came from the Village of the Dead even after the [Siege Fireball] had landed. Tyrion lifted his hand.

“Should we send a volley, milord?”

His [Archery Captain] spoke crisply. Tyrion shook his head.

“Hold. Jericha—send a second fireball into the nearest house. Preparations?”

“Nearly complete, Lord Veltras.”

He had been counting. Twenty one minutes since they had arrived—less than ideal, but still fairly quick. The [Lord] smiled.

“Good. Fireball—now.”

A second glowing orb hit a house. This time Tyrion saw it explode, on the fringes of the Village of Death. Yet still—no undead came out.

They wanted his army in the streets. Tyrion had seen the embattled adventurers and his [Soldiers], fine though they were, were not Gold-ranks. He checked the little scrying mirror someone was holding up as he heard his name.

“Strategist Vissk from Pallass, yes. I’m not sure what this Lord Tyrion is playing at. He’s clearly adopted a defensive posture, here, see? A semi-circle with a rather heavy archer complement behind infantry and his horse. But throwing spells into the Village of the Dead? Not bold at all, which isn’t what you’d expect of a [Lord] famous for his cavalry competency.”

The Drake was speaking to Drassi, quite pleased as the battle in the streets went on in one corner. The [Riders] within earshot glowered at the scrying mirror at the live, and rather rude, commentary.

Tyrion just lifted an eyebrow as he saw a representation of his formations from a bird’s eye view via the [Scrying] spell. He regarded the televised image—roughly fifteen seconds behind the present if he was any judge—and spoke.

“[Infantry Leader] Oleza. Your position is off by six feet to your right. Adjust.”

“At once, Lord Veltras!”

The chagrined voice was immediately followed by distant shouting and a group of [Soldiers] moving six paces to the left. Tyrion ignored the lesser Drake [Strategist] giving his biased opinion.

Chaldion, nor any credible [Strategist] had decided to make such foolish statements. However, one could always find the fool of the moment ready to give their uninformed opinions about a situation they were not well-versed in.

Tyrion Veltras was ready. He glanced at the tired [Mages], recovering their mana after both spells, and the silent village. In the scrying orb, he saw the adventurers shouting at each other, having just gotten word about his army.

The [Lord] smiled. He lifted a hand.

“Jericha? Fire at will.”

—-

Ryoka Griffin had no idea what Tyrion meant. She heard Jericha receive his words and saw him from afar from her vantage point. What did he mean, ‘fire at will’? The [Mages]? But he hadn’t brought that m—

Thump.

Ryoka heard the creak. The snap of the air, and—an incredible weight suddenly moved by physics. She had heard that sound once or twice before. However—

Her head turned slowly. Wide-eyed, Ryoka saw what had been set up behind and to the side of her position without her seeing it, so focused she’d been on the television and the Village of the Dead.

Now, she saw the huge wooden arm settling back. The other copies of the huge, complex beast of wood, metal, and rope had all made similar sounds.

Ryoka Griffin’s head slowly went up. As did Hethon, Sammial’s, and every Human except for the front rank’s. They all traced the flying, glowing projectiles in their slow flight across the sky. Deceptively slow. Until you remembered that chunks of stone were not supposed to fly like birds.

The trebuchet’s first barrage hit the Village of the Dead like thunder. The [Siege Fireball] had been a dim, muffled explosion within the magical boundaries of the village.

Whatever spell was at work had a harder time with eight enchanted projectiles smashing into the houses, exploding and rolling through the street. Ryoka heard Hethon gasp and Sammial laugh, delighted.

She just…looked at the trebuchets.

Her trebuchets. No—not hers, but her designs, brought to life. A favor for an [Emperor].

Siege weapons to destroy a Drake city and an army of Goblins. She remembered hearing about it, reading about it.

“I thought they were lost.”

Jericha heard the faint voice from the Courier. She looked back with a frown. She couldn’t know, of course, why Ryoka looked at the artillery that had been set up from their portable bags of holding so swiftly. Her reply was curt, almost condescending.

“Lord Veltras would never abandon such useful weapons of war, Miss Griffin. These are the first true siege weapons acquired by the north in over a thousand years.”

Ryoka Griffin met the haughty [Mage]’s gaze with a look so disturbed that Jericha hesitated. However, whatever the Courier might have said was lost.

The trebuchets fired again. The record-loading time for a trebuchet on Earth was just under five minutes, to Ryoka’s vague recollection. That was with siege-experts, and at the height of their usage.

Lord Veltras’ forces weren’t nearly as coordinated, and they might be lucky to get off a shot every ten minutes or more. However—they had Skills.

One of the trebuchets had reloaded in forty seconds; all the time it had taken to transport another enchanted boulder to be attached. Now—it hurled the projectile at the Village of the Dead. Where it landed, Ryoka saw fire.

—-

Ceria heard the impact. But faintly. Very faintly. She turned her head, seeking the light of the explosion, but even from the top of the Frostmarrow Behemoth’s head she couldn’t. However, just seeing the view from the mini scrying orb was enough to hearten her.

“They’ve got those damn trebuchets! It’s that [Lord]! The guy at the siege, Pisces, remember?”

She shouted down to Pisces. He was busy fighting in the street. Ceria clung to the Frostmarrow Behemoth as it raised a paw and squished a Draugr. Pisces bellowed up at her.

“Get down!”

“I’m fine! Yvlon, do you hear that? It’s an army! It’s—it’s Ryoka! It has to be! No one else could do it! This is her kind of crazy! It—”

A skeleton shot Ceria in the chest. The arrow lodged in her ice armor, and never broke through. Even so, Ceria stumbled.

“Ow!”

“Get down, you idiot!”

Yvlon barked at Ceria. However, she was fighting with renewed vigor. So were all the adventurers. Most had no idea what an army of House Veltras was doing here, but it was all they needed. The undead seemed—distracted—as more of the trebuchets began hitting the eastern side.

“Come on! Looks like they’re pulling back a bit! Hold your ground! We just need to fortify up—and get to the loot before those nobles demand everything!”

Ceria heard a laughing voice through the stone. Briganda. She grinned as she slid down the Frostmarrow Behemoth’s arm. The undead were pulling back.

—-

“They’re falling back! With me, boys and girls!”

Briganda whooped. The [Shield Maiden] adjusted her grip on her shield, then went forwards. Forwards, into the undead!

She did not fight like Yvlon, who had her Silversteel arms to rely on, or like Zenol or Dorgon, who had almost artful finesse. Briganda fought like a [Warrior] who’d learned everything from the battlefield.

Slash, block, shield-ram—trip them up in the legs, and punch the Ghoul in the face with the shield when it was down. Briganda made no flashy moves; she just chopped, keeping her guard up, cut, never giving her opponents time to take the offense for more than a strike or two.

Ironically, her group was doing better than some of the other fronts, like the Halfseekers or even Yvlon’s side. Briganda was holding the other side of the street Yvlon was fighting on. She hadn’t moved as far, but neither had her side wavered after the undead press let up.

Because she hadn’t charged ahead. There was less imbalance between the Gold-ranks and Silver. They fought shoulder-to-shoulder, and Briganda herself let go of her shield to yank a Gold-rank Gnoll back.

“Keep together, you idiot!”

She whacked the Gnoll on the back of the head. The other woman growled at her, but fell back into line. Briganda turned.

“Bone Horror coming up! Where’re my hammers?”

“On it!”

Gemhammer came up the street as a Bone Horror parted the ranks of the adventurers. It charged, an amalgamation of thick bone—and ran straight into Briganda. She gritted her teeth.

[Block Charge]! She raised her shield; took the impact. The Bone Horror stopped dead and both adventurer and thing recoiled.

However, that was enough. Briganda didn’t need to even strike back, if her hatchet could have even done enough damage. The instant the Bone Horror halted, a maul cracked its face. Five more heavy weapons swung. Briganda saw a leg vanish as a glowing pickaxe hammered through it like it was made of butter.

The Bone Horror went down, almost feebly fighting. Briganda laughed, checking herself.

“I almost feel bad for it—no, wait. I don’t. Earlia, move back!”

The Captain of Gemhammer saluted Briganda. The [Shield Maiden] looked about her. The Silver-ranks in the second row were waiting, some chugging stamina potions. They were tired from fighting for…what, two hours now? However, adrenaline was still pumping in their veins.

“Let’s go! Second rank, come on! They’re lightening up!”

Gemhammer, Briganda, and the second rank surged forwards with a cheer. They pressed the undead back in a minute of furious fighting—two—

Fight, fall back and rest! Briganda hadn’t been sure when they appointed her a wave leader, but she was a veteran and knew how to fight with regular adventurers. They were nearly at the end of the street when a hand yanked her back. Briganda stumbled back from the street corner and saw the Gnoll adventurer had grabbed her.

“What are y—”

Flame blasted down the street. A huge swathe of it; not from her side, but from the other end. Every undead became an unliving candle in a moment, those that didn’t just vanish.

“Dead gods! Who the hell is that?”

Briganda shouted, feeling the heat cook her skin and armor. She heard a shout in the distance.

“Flamewardens—hold! Hold! Friendlies ahead!”

She turned the corner, passing flaming corpses, and saw scorched ground; houses engulfed in flame. She saw another group of adventurers advancing.

The Flamewardens had pushed so far with their wave due to a single tactic. Draugr? Bone Horrors? Trapped houses?

The Oldblood Drakes, joined by some other Drakes capable of the same trick, just opened their mouths and breathed fire, lightning, or other magical effects. They were panting as the second group of Briganda’s adventurers linked up.

“Street secured, Captain Keldrass!”

One of the Drakes barked with military precision. Keldrass was ordering more of his Gnoll-and-Drake adventurers to hold the new intersection as Briganda strolled over.

“Hey! Nearly cooked us! You’re—Keldrass, right?”

The Drake and Human woman regarded each other, both a bit dubiously. Briganda grinned; stuck out a hand. She had to sheath her hatchet, and Keldrass lowered his mace. He wore armor. Plate armor, thick, and carried a huge shield like the rest of his team. They were heavies. They went in, relying on their magical breath as well as their gear.

“Keldrass. Apologies; we thought you’d be further ahead.”

The Drake was panting, leaking smoke. Briganda knew he was Attack 1. If he was here…

“How many streets did you clear?”

She eyed the houses the Drakes had set aflame, rather than bother with clearing or blocking them. Keldrass growled, taking a drink of a curious tonic. He spat, cursing, as the foul liquid went down.

“Eight! Why is your group bogged down here? This entire raid has bogged down!”

“Eight?”

Briganda was startled. This was their third street! She looked at Keldrass’ group. They’d been fighting hard.

“Trust Humans to take it easy. The plan was to have reached the heart by now!”

Another of the Flamewardens growled, coughing. Some of the adventurers behind Briganda bristled at his tone. The woman herself smiled—then reached out and tapped the Drake on the plate armor.

“Hey, Scaleboy. Watch how you talk about your fellow adventurers. We’re all in this together.”

Affronted, the Drake stepped back. Briganda looked at Keldrass’ group again. She eyed the tired Humans and other species, who’d kept pace with the Drakes and motioned to Keldrass.

“The raid’s slowed because the plan’s changed. We were supposed to blitz in and out—until we realized the undead don’t come back. Also because it’s not the Horns alone. They never expected so many teams. Our groups can’t move as fast as yours. For that matter—why don’t you slow down, huh? Let our group take over; we’re fresh.”

“You think we need to rest? We can do this all day! If Selys had been able to loan us the Heartflame Breastplate we’d have cleared twice as many streets—”

Another Drake growled. Keldrass agreed, coughing again. He spat something like soot from his mouth.

“We can keep fighting. Don’t worry about us, Adventurer Briganda. We’ll take the left street, you move ahead—”

He gestured, impatient to go on, confident in his wave’s ability to keep their momentum with their fire breath.

Briganda didn’t doubt that. However…she was beginning to understand what was meant by ‘Drake stubbornness’. She hadn’t met many, but Keldrass reminded her of some adventurers she’d fought with.

She looked over his shoulder and shook her head. He hadn’t noticed—Briganda grabbed him by one shoulder and turned him around.

“You might be good, but your group isn’t. See?”

She pointed out some Silver-ranks to Keldrass. The Drake, still panting, saw a few in clear distress.

“What’s the matter, fatigue?”

Briganda didn’t think so. The amused [Shield Maiden] eyed a Drake, leaning on a wall, clutching at his stomach.

“Nope. Rookies.”

“What’s the issue, soldier?”

Keldrass strode up to the Silver-rank Drake, acting like the former military veteran he was. The Drake gave him a panicked look. She had silver-green scales.

“Nothing, er, Captain Keldrass! I’m just—not feeling well.”

“Are you sick? Injured?”

“No…I just need a rest.”

The Drake’s eyes rolled desperately. Briganda was trying not to grin. Keldrass just gave the Drake an impatient look. He noticed similar discomfort on two more faces.

This wasn’t an issue afflicting Briganda’s group. However, some adventurers looked—

“Drink a stamina potion, then.”

“That’s not the issue.”

The [Shield Maiden] cheerfully informed Keldrass. He looked back at her, then the Drake, uncomprehendingly.

“Spit it out! We’re wasting time! What’s wrong with you?”

“I—Captain Keldrass—”

Briganda walked over and whispered, loud enough for everyone close to hear.

“She needs to find a place to crap.”

The Drake’s scales mottled crimson. Keldrass recoiled—looked at Briganda—and his face twisted up in disgust.

“What? Didn’t you take a potion to—”

“Not all adventurers can afford ‘em. Or prepare. Mind you, some don’t bother. It just splashes as they keep going. You should see their armor after an hour-long fight if they ate too much the day before.”

Briganda cheerfully commented. Some of the adventurers looked appalled. Others just looked amused. She grabbed Keldrass as the Drake in question looked ready to dig herself a hole in the street.

He let himself be towed, this time. Briganda spoke with a smile.

“Your adventurers need to rest for twenty minutes. Clear a space, or pull back. Let them eat. You’re used to going on stamina potions, but this is a longer battle, not a brawl. They’ll collapse if they don’t eat anything after two hours of fighting, potions or not.”

He glanced at her. The Oldblood Drake hesitated—then, to Briganda’s relief, ducked his head.

“My mistake. You’re right.”

She patted him on the shoulder, relieved he was seeing sense. Eating, bathroom breaks—who thought of that in the middle of a raid?

Veterans who’d soiled themselves after fighting for three hours straight, that was who. Anyone who’d ever seen someone pass out because they’d tried to go eight hours non-stop without eating a bite, only on potions.

When Yvlon’s group found Keldrass and Briganda’s forces, they were resting, taking a seat in the street while some stood guard, fighting undead. Yvlon looked at Briganda and Keldrass, furious.

“What are you doing?”

“Resting. Your group could do it too, you know.”

Briganda met her eyes, squarely. She knew it was personal, and Yvlon looked like she could still fight another hour, but these were the basics.

Fight. Attack. Block. Don’t get ahead. Rest. Regroup.

Yvlon just stalked past them, back towards the fight. She let the others rest and join her; she didn’t slow. Briganda shook her head. When her group rose with Keldrass’ and threw themselves back in, they moved up fast, fresh, ready to get back at it.

Best of all—Briganda grinned. The undead were thinning out. Rule #12 of adventuring or something: why take the risks when you can let the enemy fight someone else? At least half the undead clogging the street were heading towards the east. The other army tearing the village to bits.

—-

“There they are.”

Lord Tyrion’s eyes narrowed as he saw the enemy exit the village at last. Zombies emerged from the mist—then Ghouls, bounding along, skeletons—most armed with bows—moving into actual ranks at the back.

A rough formation emerged. The undead moved out of the Village of the Dead, waves of zombies interspersed with Crypt Lords, Draugr, Ghouls moving in packs.

However, none of them broke free from the mass. Tyrion murmured to himself.

“They’re moving with coordination.”

They were sticking out of range of all but the trebuchets and Jericha’s linked spells. She blew apart one group of the undead, but they just massed up. When they did advance—it was all at once.

The zombies streamed out of the streets, their shambling turning into a run. Skeletons ran behind them, taking aim, loosing arrows from out of range. The Ghouls bounded in groups on the flanks, circling to attack from the sides. The Draugr, Crypt Lords, Bone Horrors, and bigger undead marched behind the ranks of literal meat shields in front of them.

Thousands of them. Probably ten thousand already and more coming out of the Village of Death. However, as far as Lord Tyrion was concerned—they had already lost. If he’d had to contend with regeneration, he would have had a harder time. But an emplaced enemy that was unwilling to endure bombardment?

“[Archers]. Prepare to volley.”

The undead were coming uphill, towards his forces. Tyrion heard shouts as thousands of [Archers] took aim. He held his arm, waiting—

“Longbows—loose!”

The first wave of arrows hit the mass of undead. Tyrion saw the second flight of arrows half a second after the first. Excellent. The [Longbow Captain] had used [Instantaneous Reload].

“Recurves. Loose!”

The second rank hit the Ghouls trying to circle. Dozens of bounding forms fell, riddled by arrows. Tyrion called out.

“Archers, fire at will! Commanders, target those Draugr and Crypt Lords! The front ranks will prepare for combat!”

His heavy infantry stepped forwards, raising shields and blades. They waited as Draugr fell, charging, struck too many times with arrows to move. Ghouls were still bounding along, but dedicated [Expert Archers] were picking off the high-level undead.

And zombies? Zombies had no armor. Zombies that ran?

They impaled themselves on the first line of spears and kept coming. Then they ran into the heavily-armored Humans. Zombies clawed and bit and struck steel plate. They were answered with sharp blows, crushing impacts.

—-

Even Ryoka could see how easy it was. She wasn’t a complete idiot when it came to basic warfare. The zombies were running into a kill zone.

Not only were they fighting uphill; House Veltras had entrenched themselves, even going as far to have dug pits the undead fell into and were hacked to pieces as they tried to climb. The Humans actually fighting the undead in the melee only fought zombies and skeletons; any Ghoul-class or higher was shot dead or blasted to pieces before it reached them.

For now, at least. And if a Human was injured, like one of the [Heavy Infantry] soldiers who went stumbling backwards, an arrow lodged between a gap in their armor, they were replaced by veterans who closed ranks, and a [Healer] who was already applying a potion.

“Half-assed?”

Ryoka muttered to herself. She saw what Tyrion had meant.

A training exercise. All he was wasting was gold on potions and ammunition. Meanwhile—his army got fighting practice.

The key was in his commanders. Ryoka saw one group of pikes cutting the undead to pieces; crystal had grown on the pikes, sharp as razors. One of the [Archer]-commanders kept downing Draugr with glowing arrows.

It was as the undead were pushing at the Human army, threatening to encircle as they climbed higher on the hill, that Lord Tyrion moved at last.

“Sortieing.”

His banner fluttered in the wind. The [Lord] raised his lance—and his seven hundred [Riders] streamed down the hill after him. Ryoka saw them flash forwards, far faster than even a horse should be able to move.

They caught the undead by surprise. Tyrion hit a group of Ghouls circling and his force just ran over the bounding undead. Then he turned.

The skeletons had been forming into an entire company of archers at the back of the undead. But whatever tactical genius the Crypt Lords had only extended to grouping them up. They turned as Lord Tyrion bore down on their backs. A few loosed arrows.

The rest exploded. That was what it looked like. Sammial was shouting in awe and surprise as the skeletons went flying, sent to pieces by the lance-charge. Lord Tyrion ran through their entire group—then spoke.

“Strike the rear then fall back!”

He suited actions to words. The undead pushing at his forces disappeared again as his charge carried them into their ranks. Tyrion impaled a Draugr with his lance, yanked it free, then lifted it and whirled. His cavalry was disengaging within seconds of their charge.

They trotted away, ignoring more undead pursuing them from the Village of the Dead. When they had formed another wedge, they repeated the movement again and again, smoothly slaughtering undead from flanking charges, refusing to be hemmed in.

—-

Beautiful. It was, to Niers Astoragon, a beautiful display of martial prowess. House Veltras’ [Soldiers] were not adventurers, but they took the undead army to pieces with nothing more than equipment, formation, and training.

It was what a [Strategist] admired. The kind of army they wanted, that had the discipline to pull off maneuvers and feints in battle. Niers didn’t think they’d lost a soldier yet!

—-

Horrific. Those skeletons! Toren had covered his eyes when they were all run over like that. He chanced another look but—

No, it was too cruel. He turned away and saw Az’kerash watching, eyes fixed on the projection. How could he look at this slaughter without flinching?

Perhaps because it wasn’t over yet. Toren glanced back at the scrying orb. He was rooting for his people, obviously. Only, he wasn’t sure if they were underdogs or overdogs. He had seen some undead dogs, though.

—-

The momentum had shifted back to favor the living. Undead still contested the adventurers at every turn, but more and more, the overwhelming numerical advantage was vanishing.

Now it was high-level undead—a challenge, but one adventurers lived for. Meanwhile, tens of thousands were moving east.

Going after Lord Tyrion’s far larger army. It was he who might not hold, but Strategist Soew’s reassurances to the Attack groups were simple.

“He has declined every offer for support I have made. Continue your advance as planned.”

The adventurers were all too happy to do that. They began to move forwards once more.

—-

He watched, with patience. Not amusement or anger. Merely a kind of weary indifference. His comment to his master was laced with only a hint of query.

“Bodies die. They are coming closer. Is this your plan? All the bodies we’ve gathered—you had no need of them? Is that what you are telling me?”

He moved closer—then away. It hurt too much to stand close. Still, his hands reached out, grasping, now—worrying.

“Are you hurting? Why don’t you…is her curse growing stronger, this—this harridan—this woman who laid you low? Is that it? Only six have ever come this far. Soon—soon—”

No response. So the man turned wrathful and petty.

“Fine then! If you don’t respond, I’ll let them break into the inner parts. I’ll do nothing. There’s a small army outside. You don’t even care. Fine. Fine…”

He sat, waiting, heedless of the fighting. They were just bodies. Not a single one was his master’s creation. Just stragglers, fools who had never made it inside. They didn’t matter. Perhaps if they got further…then?

Then.

—-

They were just zombies. However. First there were ten thousand coming out of the Village of the Dead.

Then there were twenty thousand, despite the bombardments of the trebuchets now slaughtering hundreds with each strike.

Then there were forty thousand.

“We are being pushed back. Jericha, withdraw another hundred paces!”

Tyrion Veltras divided the line of undead once more with another charge. Each of his [Riders] might have slaughtered three undead at least in the ride forwards. Tyrion? He sent eight Draugr to their deaths with calculated lance-strikes.

It was like a drop of water being removed from a pool. He had brought countless arrows, and his archers had not stopped firing once this entire battle.

The undead kept coming. How many were there now? A hundred thousand? Almost all zombies too!

Armies have perished here. Tyrion saw broken armor on some. Traces of finery, a [Merchant]’s hat…

Children. He looked back as his army pulled back onto flat ground. Too close to the trebuchets. His eyes were only on his sons’ coach, though. No danger—yet.

Magical webs held the undead in place. A second furrow of dirt formed a pit they collapsed into. A mesh net, nearly invisible in the fading noon light trapped the zombies and they were run through mercilessly.

They fell for every trap, every tactic and defense the Humans employed. Yet the issue was no longer strategy or the ground they fought on, but sheer numbers.

—-

Ryoka watched as Lord Tyrion galloped through the undead, rotten forms with glowing eyes. Yet she saw the [Lord] and his narrow band of riders weave through the undead again and again.

Like a silver needle plunging through rotten cloth. There was something she could admire about it.

Something to admire. And—Ryoka glanced at the trebuchets—things to hate.

However, she was biased. Because she sat with Hethon and Sammial, fingering the unused Faeblade, Windsword—watching. She was not a warrior.

Besides, the two boys needed someone to watch them besides the guards. Jericha was fighting, sending magic raining down on the undead. Hethon and Sammial though—they were nervous.

At first they had cheered their father, so cleverly taking the army to pieces. Luxuriating in the praise a Balerosian [Strategist] gave after the Pallassian one was shut up. However, now?

“He’s not going to lose, is he?”

Hethon stared at the [Lord] riding at the head of the tiny vanguard of humanity. Ryoka bit her tongue before replying.

“Of course not.”

“He’s not going to! He’s not!”

Sammy punched his brother’s arm as if saying it was a crime. The two boys looked at their father, though. Ryoka saw their thoughts as clearly as if they were her own.

Children. Watching their immortal, ever-victorious parent show frailty. Flaws. If only by comparison, seeing how Tyrion had to retreat from the undead. Fearing, understanding what might happen if he was hemmed in.

The lesson here was something everyone learned in time. It still hurt Ryoka’s chest to see. She reached out and gripped the boys’ shoulders.

“He’ll be fine. He has artifacts and those are zombies. I could beat them. Probably.”

Hethon and Sammial looked at her, taking reassurance from that. Sammy looked back at the battle.

“It’s not fair. If father had even a fourth as many [Soldiers], he’d win. In a fair battle he’ll always win. Monsters don’t fight fair.”

He declared, arrogantly. Ryoka looked at him. In the stress of the moment, she let her tongue slip.

“Monsters don’t fight fair? No kidding. Is fire hot?”

Sammial hesitated. Hethon blinked—then hid a smile. No one spoke to Sammy like that. Ryoka bit her tongue. It was stress. It was—

Oh, who was she kidding? It was just her. Ryoka turned back to the battle.

“If he did have more time—I should have come here first. I thought there would be more.”

“More [Soldiers]?”

Hethon was uncertain, as if Ryoka was attacking Lord Tyrion’s commitment to…what, her? Ryoka half-shook her head.

“No, eight thousand from House Veltras—it’s more than I could have asked. I just thought there would be…more.”

Both boys peered at her. Then, Sammial Veltras sat up. His head turned away from the scrying orb and the carriage window. He blinked at something through the walls of the coach and turned to Hethon and Ryoka.

“Someone’s coming.”

He announced it solemnly, with perfect conviction. Ryoka eyed him.

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Someone.”

He said it without sight, without knowledge. Ryoka’s skin tingled as Hethon looked uncertainly at Sammial. Aura. Which meant…

“Stay here.”

She opened the carriage door and stepped outside. The roar of battle was louder, now. The voices of each commander were still steady, the thwap of bows loosing arrow after arrow louder.

Younger boys and girls were running to wagons and to the [Archers], dumping sheaves of arrows out of bags of holding. The fighting [Soldiers] were being relieved; an entire group of weary [Pikemen] took a break on the grass as their leader exhorted them.

The undead filled the ground, coming up the hill. Ryoka heard the trebuchets firing, barely making a dent in the sea of glowing eyes. She tore her eyes away from the village, from the [Lord] fighting, circling, charging.

Then she heard the piercing sound fill the air.

Jericha looked up, and followed Ryoka’s gaze. The Wind Runner stood next to the carriage and looked to the north. She smiled. In relief. The [Mage] whirled—ready to meet a threat. However, the piercing whistle was familiar. She frowned.

“That flute. That can’t be—”

House Veltras used horns, like many armies. Not all forces used the same signals though. This haunting cry could have been a bird shrieking. It was too elongated though, the note held for too long.

As Jericha listened, more joined it. A chorus of piercing cries. She knew the force that made use of flutes.

“Lord Veltras. To the north.”

She spoke into the spell and the [Lord] turned, lowering his lance, letting his horse rest and sip at a stamina potion. He gazed ahead; flicked his gaze up towards the hill, and Ryoka Griffin. Then he raised his lance over his head.

He was answered by a wave. The figure on horse-back was no [Warrior], for all he bore a sword. He had no strategic genius, but he was intelligent. For instance, he knew how to delegate. So, as he raised his hand and halted his horse, the Patriarch of the House of El watched his forces move forwards.

Lord Deilan El gazed at the seething mass of undead with mild horror. He had heard stories from his father, but he had never seen so many. Yet he didn’t think he was in danger. His [Captain of the Guard] would never let him get close to actual harm.

“Lord El, will you give the order?”

Speaking of which, she was poised, ready to give the order. Deilan blinked. He adjusted the spectacles he wore, and then nodded.

“Of course! Er—go. I hope we’re not late?”

That was addressed to one of the other members of the House of El. Lady Desinee and Lord Marthos El gave him equally blank looks. They all turned back as the [Captain of the Guard] cried.

“Crossbows, forwards!”

It was a cry completely at odds with conventional sense. An order to charge. None of it made sense.

Jericha turned to Ryoka.

“Why are they here? What is the House of El doing here? They don’t go to war!”

She was, of course, wrong. For two reasons. The House of El was here. It was not just them, either.

“War Golems: advance. Find Eldertuin Terland and fight under his command.”

An irked voice from the side was one of Terland’s [Ladies]. She gestured, and half the Golems marched forwards. A small group—but the huge Golems were each worth a hundred men themselves.

Three members of the House of El. Each there for different reasons. Each here for the same reason. Because of the same person.

Ryoka Griffin exhaled, heart pounding. They had come! She hadn’t been sure! Eldertuin had promised to prevail on his family. She had gone to Tyrion last, but Deilan had been the biggest variable.

“Ryoka Griffin. How did you manage to persuade Lord Deilan El to participate in this battle?”

Jericha had left the [Mages] to look at Ryoka. The House of El had brought a smaller force. Less than half Tyrion’s size even with the Terland family joining them. Yet it seemed they had also met…

Reinforcements. House Veltras’ horns began to blow, signaling more of their army had arrived. Ryoka’s heart leapt.

“Tyrion sent for more [Soldiers]?”

“He could have mobilized half the north if he had been forewarned. Answer me. How did you persuade the House of El to take arms?”

Ryoka Griffin looked at the older woman. For answer, she pointed.

The House of El had stopped. They had sent crossbows forwards, along with barely two hundred infantry—mostly [Mercenaries], which they liked to employ—unsupported. Lord Deilan stood back from the fighting with the bulk of the army, which was just there to protect him.

The standard of the House of El flew high where he stood. As did the emblem of the Terlands. Yet another flag flew as the House of El moved into the battle.

A white flag. Incongruous with the art of war. Yet Ryoka knew…knew…

She watched as it burst into flame, the oil-soaked cloth set alight. Not by a Skill, not by an aura.

But look at that. They haven’t forgotten so quickly.

He had come, because Ryoka had made a few good points. However, the real reason the leader of the House of El had come was because of her.

For a second, Ryoka thought she could see the [Lady] riding with the banner held in her hands. Then—it vanished. She saw a strange sight.

Eighteen coaches raced down the slopes as Lord Tyrion peeled away, watching. The mass of the undead was slowly turning to the new threat. However…were the House of El sending coaches into the undead a la Magnolia Reinhart’s style?

No. As they were about to collide, the coaches swerved. The lead one, with the burning flag mounted on it turned, the [Coach Driver] urging the well-trained horses to race past the undead. As he did—the side of the coach opened up.

The entire wall slid apart, the wood panels moving via clever mechanisms inside. Inside the packed coach, a line of men and women holding crossbows stood up.

They began firing. Ryoka saw the first rank of undead fold up. She saw flashes as the bolts exploded in a variety of colors like fireworks. Sammial and Hethon shouted with glee—but Ryoka saw something peculiar.

The [Crossbowmen] and [Crossbow-women] didn’t try to reload their weapons. Instead, they just slapped a bolt into the groove—raised the weapon—and fired again.

A second volley hit the undead as the first coach raced along the front of their lines. The other coaches had also opened, revealing crossbow-wielding [Mercenaries] who fired, and fired again, just as fast as bows!

“How are they doing that?”

Ryoka saw Jericha turn back to her, surprised that Ryoka didn’t know. She had called the House of El!

“Automatic reloading crossbows. The House of El manufactures the enchantment and the weapon.”

Indeed, the coaches and crossbows had wiped out thousands of the undead, the magical bolts detonating deep within their ranks, by the time they peeled away. Ryoka saw them circling, like a kind of ranged cavalry, as Lord Tyrion linked up with more riders.

The cheering from the House of Veltras—and the scrying orb—was the loudest yet. While Ryoka had been surprised by the crossbow tactic though, her real eyes were on the two hundred [Mercenaries] on foot now marching towards the undead.

—-

“Lord Deilan. Aside from honoring the memory of our great-aunt, Maviola, what was the other reason that Courier used to persuade you to commit to this…expense? We might not even see whatever the adventurers haul, and we do not benefit from Adventurer Guild bounties on the undead. Unless we’ve registered our entire house as adventurers?”

Desinee El looked quizzically at Lord Deilan. The [Lord] half-shook his head. The perpetually impoverished House of El was spending gold with each shot, not to mention the [Mercenaries]’ pay—although they were always on retainer, so at least they were justifying their cost—all for seemingly nothing.

“She had a persuasive argument. Notwithstanding her connection with Maviola—she was very convincing. This is all to an end, Lady Desinee. We will benefit if all goes well.”

“By fighting this battle? How?”

Lord Marthos knew, but he didn’t see. Deilan on the other hand, had. He smiled as his eyes never left the two hundred [Mercenaries], surely the attention of Wistram News Network via the [Scrying] spell.

What was the exact wording she’d used when she made her request? Lord Deilan’s lips moved.

“I think she said…ah yes. ‘Product demoing’.”

Two hundred feet distant, the [Mercenaries] touched the curious weapons they carried. A harsh, strange glow filled the air as the Kaalblades sprang to life.

The undead never stopped, unimpressed by theatrics. Unaware of the threat.

The first [Mercenary] saw a Draugr coming his way and blanched with fear. However, he swung the blade, knowing to run was to die—

And cut the Draug in two. The artifact’s beam of power bisected the undead. The other [Mercenaries] swung, beheading zombies, slashing Ghouls in two—as if their weapons were enchanted artifacts wielded by Gold-ranks!

“Kaalblades!”

Jericha exclaimed, shocked.

“Lightsabers.”

Ryoka muttered under her breath. In truth—the Kaalblades looked more like oversized carrot peelers, with the metal blade being replaced by the electric-plasma arc that could cut through anything.

No wonder they weren’t popular to someone who had no idea what they did. Right now though, the entire world saw the first rank of undead vanish, and the [Mercenaries] advance, swinging into their ranks before retreating with the crossbow coaches cutting down the undead.

That was when House Veltras began to advance once again. Lord Tyrion let the House of El tie up the flank; he went in with thousands of reinforcement riders at his back, followed by [Soldiers] on foot, cutting back towards his lines.

—-

“That was the House of El, showing off their new weapon! Kaalblades! Joseph, did you see that! That was amazing! Didn’t Maviola El have one?”

“Those were lights—very amazing, Drassi!”

Joseph was just as agog. He turned to her as Drassi checked her notes.

“We’ve just gotten information from the House of El—it’s a new artifact—no, a recreation of an old artifact made with the help of Archmage Valeterisa of Izril. They run on mana crystals so I guess it’s expensive but—hey, they’re for sale! Wow! I want one. What about you, Joseph?”

The [Coach] was still staring at the fighting. He turned to Drassi.

“They’re for sale? How much? I’ll pay for one now.”

The commentary raised a few eyebrows. Not least on Flos Reimarch’s head. He turned to Venith Crusland.

“Did you see that?”

“Your Majesty…”

The man had a resigned look on his face. Flos waved a hand at him.

“I just want one! No—Mars has to try out new swords. Make it two. However, if we had an entire unit—check the costs and get a hundred. A hundred and two for me and Mars. Make it a hundred and fourteen to be safe. Actually…three hundred if it’s affordable. That’s gold for Gold-rank weapons! Better make it six hundred.”

Maresar rolled her eyes as Venith began to argue.

—-

Lord Deilan El rubbed his hands together, nervous but elated, watching the [Mercenaries]. If even a single Kaalblade was lost—but this was free advertising, not to mention the prestige of the event.

“If we sell sixteen, we have justified this endeavor. And that is not counting goodwill, or gained levels, Lord Marthos.”

The other man nodded dubiously. Of course, that was sixteen Kaalblades’ worth of lost profits, but as far as Deilan was concerned, their entire stockpile was worthless if it wasn’t sold. If they opened the way to more sales…

Besides, he felt Maviola would have approved of this entire endeavor, cost or not. She used to tell the children stories of killing undead hordes with Gresaria and her brother.

“Deilan. Deilan—we’re already getting inquiries into the weapons. Not just Kaalblades, our crossbows too!”

Desinee was reading from a [Message] scroll, scribbling replies frantically. Deilan straightened, some of the tension easing. The [Mercenaries] were in retreat, having done their showy job for now.

“Good. Any offers?”

“I…yes? You could say that? Um, Deilan?”

That was unlike Desinee to be so startled. Deilan turned at the note in her voice.

“Is something wrong?”

Desinee double-checked the underlined number, and then showed Deilan the scroll, where they were talking with the [First Accountant] of the House of El.

“We just sold forty six. Payment in advance. Kaalblades.”

Lord Marthos sprayed the water he was drinking onto the [Captain of the Guard]. Deilan rubbed at one ear.

“Forty six?”

“Yes. That’s…individual orders. We’re negotiating with eighteen prospective buyers about larger orders! And we’re contracted for over eighty crossbows—and that’s individual orders again, not bulk!”

Lord Deilan El looked at Desinee, mystified. Almost miffed. The House of El made excellent, artisan-quality weapons, but sales were sporadic. They had consistent customers like Noelictus, but this kind of boom for their admittedly expensive gear?

The power of worldwide marketing. Attention. His heart began to beat faster. He turned to the [Captain of the Guard], and saw his mercenary-forces pulling back.

“Captain—Captain. Can our forces keep fighting?”

“Of course, Lord El. But we’d have to expend more mana stones and munitions.”

The woman was surprised. The House of El was notoriously stingy with what they allocated to fights. More than one battle in history had been lost because they refused to pay for enchanted bolts.

Deilan turned to her.

“Ah. Keep them in the battle. Rotate in a fresh group—no—have them engage the higher-level undead. Enchanted munitions, Kaalblades—try to kill one of those huge undead.”

“…The Bone Horror?”

“Yes, that!”

—-

Like the events preceding it, the raid on the Village of the Dead was generating record-breaking numbers as a televised event. The only regret Wistram Academy had was there was no seamless point to pioneer an ‘ad’ in all the action, which they really wanted to try out.

More specifically though, while all the Archmages and factions seemed content to just…watch…one angry [Mage] was not.

“What is she doing there? Endangering herself like usual, as when I hired her to…go to the Bloodfields and…collect samples? Deliver my letters? Reckless girl!”

Eldavin stalked back and forth in front of the scrying orb, glowering, freezing the few times the image had revealed the Courier, who wasn’t the focus of the event by any means. He looked at the magnified image of Ryoka and spun.

“This is a huge event.”

He did not phrase it as a question. The other [Mages] in the room, Valeterisa, Teura, and some of the new Terras faction including Telim, all nodded.

“Very important. Very engaging. Prestigious in that we’re covering it. Becoming the go-to news source, not that there’s much competition. Yet.”

Telim put in. Eldavin nodded, yet the half-Elf’s reason for discontent wasn’t clear to the others.

“It is a huge event! A raid on a death-zone that might succeed, although I have no idea why. Did they find a Tier 8 scroll or something?”

He broke off into speculative muttering as the other [Mages] leaned in, some nodding. Eldavin’s head rose.

“So. Why aren’t we in this?”

The others looked at him. Teura’s brows crossed.

“…We’re broadcasting this, Grand Magus. Our hired [Reporter] is covering the event, and everyone knows this is Wistram’s production. See?”

She pointed to a tiny, hovering logo that they’d inserted in a corner of the scrying orb. Eldavin stared at it. His eyes actually bulged.

“That? You call that important? My dear, that is nothing. I am saying that this event has every notable nation and countless important individuals watching—so why aren’t we in the event? We are Wistram Academy! If something happens of note in this world, we should be seen to be part of it, tolerating it at least, or needing to be consulted! That is Wistram’s reputation that has been lost!”

The rest of the Terras faction traded glances. Valeterisa raised a hand.

“Query: how do we effect this, if we agree with your sentiments, Grand Magus? The event is occurring and we are not capable of teleporting there instantaneously, even with the new long-range teleport spells we are formulating.”

Eldavin clicked his fingers impatiently, neglecting to mention that he could appear there…with some effort and thirty minutes.

“We have to have some [Mage] in the area. Some Mage’s Guild—get me a list. Halfway decent [Mages] only. Only someone above Level 30.”

He looked at Teura. She blinked, raised a finger to her temple.

“There’s…aside from Mage’s Guilds, only one of which has an actual graduate, the only high-level [Mage] above Level 30 I can find is a ‘Mage Merzun’, who is escorting—”

Eldavin didn’t wait to hear the rest. He whirled, his eyes alight.

“That’s it! Class?”

“[High Mage]. But she has an Earther and she’s a Revivalist— ”

“That doesn’t matter! Tell her to stuff the Earther somewhere safe. She is to head straight to the Village of the Dead before it’s over and make an entrance. [High Mage]—yes. She’ll assault the undead. Toss a few [Chain Lightning] spells into the fray! Can she do [Blackflame Fireball]? Have her join the adventurers!”

“She’s a Revivalist, Grand Magus!”

“Then I’ll talk to Archmage Naili. Come on, Magus Valeterisa. She will participate as a representative of Wistram—”

“—and if she dies?”

The question came from High Magus Telim. The half-Elf stopped at the door. He looked back at the portly [Mage]. Eldavin raised his brows.

“If she’s careless, it is a possibility. However, she might also level. If she dies, she wasn’t worthy of her rank as High Magus. That’s not a [Mage] that Wistram needs. Also—it’s not one of ours.”

He turned, and was out the door in a moment. The other [Mages] exchanged looks. Valeterisa got up and followed without another word, and soon a luckless Dullahan [High Mage] was receiving the last orders she wanted to hear: participate in a raid in a death-zone, and not to retreat until she’d killed at least a thousand undead.

—-

“We’re doing it. Flanks are secure again—the undead are piling into the armies in the east. We’re going to do it!”

Levil breathed. He looked around as the setting sun turned the sky orange and red. It had taken hours, but they had survived.

With minimal casualties too! It had begun getting bad when the undead were flooding at them. Gold-ranks had died as well as Silver. However, the arrival of House Veltras had prevented the worst.

Now? He stared at the street. Or rather…two streets.

The Frostmarrow Behemoth had smashed every house flat, thus joining both roads together. While the undead were piled up and some reanimating just because of the ambient death mana, many were on fire, having been covered with oil and lit up to prevent even a chance of them coming back.

The adventurers were on the move once more. No undead teleporting from houses. The streets were far less crowded. The Village of the Dead might have had hundreds of thousands of undead over the years.

Well, they had died crammed up like bugs in a basket, and without the immortality-effect, the adventurers and armies had reaped a full harvest. After rallying, resting, and replenishing their Skills, the adventurers were ready.

“Enough waiting around. Let’s get to the heart of this place.”

Elia Arcsinger stood on a roof and spoke, to cheers from the adventurers in her wave. She pointed, posing with her bow—although she did not actually join the first wave ready to go in once more. She was an [Archer]; she’d be fighting from above.

Ceria and Pisces’ group had cleared enough streets to join their group to Elia’s. Ceria looked up at the Named Adventurer as she drank a mana potion. She herself had found a burnt-out wall to sit behind—then promptly decided to raise [Ice Walls] to do her business. She’d eaten, although she couldn’t remember what.

She felt a bit shaky with tiredness, but she was ready. She pushed herself up as Pisces rose. He was in better shape than she was, despite having used his rapier—no. Maybe because of that. He’d split his exertions between the physical and magical.

“Ready?”

Cheering adventurers were forming up behind Eldertuin. He had been joined by four huge Golems, like the ones Magnolia Reinhart owned. Steel—no, iron? Not as expensive as the Terlands could afford to field, but four of them had smashed through the undead to protect him.

“Ready.”

Pisces rose to his feet, wiping his mouth as he lowered the canteen of soup.

Across the city, the adventurers were pushing in again. Jelaqua, in a new body, was whirling her flail, having already worn out one body and weapon already.

Halrac had taken a new position with his [Archers] and was conserving magical arrows, watching Yvlon cut her way forwards once more with Zenol and Dorgon.

Ksmvr sat, discussing mobile-tactics with the two Drakes, Dullahan, and Tomoor. They were waiting for someone to call for help.

Briganda marched up with her adventurers, giving Keldrass’ group time to recharge their flame breath.

Even old Typhenous was fighting with Levil, stabbing a Ghoul that had tried to jump them from behind.

Pisces and Ceria watched as Eldertuin strode forwards. He and the four Golems cut into the undead, bashing them down as adventurers joined them. Elia loosed an arrow to more cheers. It was a magnificent sight. The kind of thing you’d see in a picture book.

However—Ceria glanced sideways. Eldertuin halted, and glanced up, past a roof.

The Frostmarrow Behemoth stomped forwards, squishing undead like rats in front of an elephant. It opened its maw, swallowed a Bone Horror and began chewing it to pieces. Ceria and Pisces waved, and their group advanced in the wake of the construct, killing anything not run flat by the rampage.

Somehow, theirs was the team with the most firepower, which even Keldrass’ team couldn’t equal. Ceria looked up at the glistening ice on the Frostmarrow Behemoth. She had ‘regrown’ its body, repairing damage in the fight.

“I don’t understand. It’s been…five hours? Six? We should be bleeding our brains out our noses trying to keep it up for so long.”

“What a charming image.”

Pisces grumbled as he stabbed a half-squashed Draugr in the neck a few times. He shook his head, looking at the Frostmarrow Behemoth. Both had used mana potions and Ceria knew the cost was split between them. However…

“It’s the death magic. We are barely sustaining it. This place…”

His eyes glittered as he inhaled, and Ceria realized his lack of fatigue was due to more than his fencer’s training. Pisces looked ahead.

“We are closing in on the center. With each step, I feel more power.”

The heart of the village lay beyond. A maze of houses it might be, but Ceria could tell the artificial village was running out of space. Just a few more streets and…

Artificial village? Why had she thought that? Ceria turned her head. Perhaps it was some thought that came to her when she’d been on the Behemoth’s back. Or…

No. Just look at the houses. They were so uniform. So straight and narrow, each street a fighting ground, a killing zone for adventurers or undead.

That was not something natural to Ceria’s world. To Ryoka, it might be more familiar, mass-manufactured houses, planned layouts like the Unseen Empire.

Here, though? Where every [Carpenter] or [Builder] might alter a design? Families put in little improvements, quirks? At least one or two houses should have been torn down, rebuilt.

In a normal village. More thoughts came to the half-Elf, belatedly. Where were the wells? There were none, and the river was far, far too far for this place to survive without water. What about a central hall, upscale buildings by the richer members of the village, even a [Mayor]?

This place was…fake. The houses looked more like undead themselves, the more Ceria looked at them, burned, shattered, or sealed by the adventurers.

They had grown here, piece by piece, along with the dead lured into this trap. Like a fake skin over whatever had really started this place.

The Putrid One.

The Helm of Fire.

A chill began to run down her skin. A familiar…sensation. She had felt this before. This unease.

A little song began playing in her head, although she had never heard it sung. It sounded like her voice. It was her voice.

“Skinner, Skinner!

He’ll eat your tails and tear off your skin!

He’ll pluck out your eyeballs and devour your kin!

Skinner, Skinner!

Run while you can!”

The Frostmarrow Behemoth had reached a strange place in the Village of Death. A…circular street, unlike all of the straight lines. Houses, joined together to form a wall. Yet as it tore down the street—it came around the other end. It was a perfect circle in the heart of the Village of Death.

“Strange.”

Pisces looked worried as the Frostmarrow Behemoth halted. Down the street came a jet of fire; Keldrass’ team appeared, looking annoyed they’d been beaten. Eldertuin was just a minute behind Ceria’s group.

“What is this? Is there nothing in the center?”

The Drake demanded, clear worry in his voice. Was this all just a waste of time? Pisces shook his head, although uncertainty lingered.

“No. I was told—no. Whatever it is—considering the geography, it must be hidden behind this…circle. The center.”

The Drake nodded, eying the aberration of architecture. He glanced at the Behemoth and couldn’t hide the disgust on his face, but he looked at Pisces.

“Your thing should do the honors. We’ll blast whatever comes out. Named Adventurer?”

He looked more respectfully at Eldertuin. The older man leaned on his tower shield, looking tired, but resolute.

“And here I said I wouldn’t be at the front. Old habits die hard. No adventurer has ever come this far. We never made it past the first two streets. We’d never…”

He looked at Pisces and Ceria, expression troubled. Then he smiled ruefully.

“For all the adventurers before and since—let’s crack this damn place open.”

Pisces and Ceria nodded, but the half-Elf couldn’t put the song out of her head. It sang on. A warning from her subconscious as clear as day.

“Skinner, Skinner, never open his door.

Or soon your bones will lie on this floor.”

She shuddered.

“Pisces. I—”

The Frostmarrow Behemoth reared back, onto two legs. It brought its front paws down and struck the houses in front of it with all its weight. Thousands of pounds of force hit the rotting wood—

Thunder. The adventurers staggered with the impact. Yet when they looked up, the Frostmarrow Behemoth was resting its weight on the cracked façade of the old houses.

They hadn’t broken. Ceria saw Eldertuin frown. Adventurers reaching the heart, following the sight of the huge construct of ice and bone, saw the Frostmarrow Behemoth strike again. The wood…cracked…but that was all.

“Pisces.”

The [Necromancer] turned. He felt the death magic in the air humming around him. He felt alive, afraid, hopeful. His thoughts raced about his head as he waited, impatient, for his creation to break open the secrets of this place.

I shall find the secrets of true Necromancy here. I will bring Erin back. I was promised. I will recover the Helm of Fire. I will—

He saw the [Cryomancer], Ceria, looking at him. His old friend was looking at her hand. The hand of bone, skeletal fingers and bone ending where flesh began. She spoke, her voice quivering.

“Pisces. My [Dangersense] went off.”

The young man looked at her.

“Obviously whatever is in the center is…”

He trailed off as the meaning of her words took on a different shape. He looked at her for clarification.

“Your [Dangersense] went off? Had it not been going off already? With the Draugr and…”

The half-Elf shook her head. She had come all this way here, resolute. Borne by urgency, a desire to bring her friend back.

Hope and desperation and courage.

Now—something else seeped in. Just for a second. Ceria remembered.

She didn’t run. She looked at Pisces. Slowly, both of them looked at the heart of the village.

The Frostmarrow Behemoth had reared back a second time, to break through. It collapsed forwards, but the mighty impact never struck the houses standing in a ring.

The frost-and-ivory paws hit the street, with such force they shook the ground. Yet they did not crack the smooth bricks. The huge construct raised its head. It was level with a building, a glass window, dark and empty.

A burning mage-light hung from an iron street-lamp, blown glass letting the inner light shine through. The light burned as the sun’s light faded from the sky.

The houses were gone. Where had stood a small ring of buildings in the center of the labyrinthine village was something else.

Adventurers halted on the dirt and cobblestone street. Ruined buildings, a pathetic village in squalor lay around them. The last of the undead hemmed in street by street, or fighting the army of Izril’s noble families to the east.

Ceria looked at the magical lamp, fit for a mansion, hanging so casually in the street, providing illumination. She looked at the smooth bricks.

Bricks, a pale ocre color, seamlessly joined together. Laid by an expert, with mortar, cement holding them together. A sidewalk on each side. And rising taller than the Frostmarrow Behemoth—

Buildings. Some had glass windows. Others were simply tall with classic shutters. They were not alike. This was true architecture, some with more wealth or craft poured into solid stone or metal; others made of wood.

The adventurers looked ahead. The street was one of many. It lay beyond the center, as the village changed. Revealing what it had hidden, protected by immortal undead for so long.

“Is that…?”

Briganda’s voice quavered nervously as she looked past the others. Keldrass spoke, his claws suddenly sweaty.

“A city.”

A city indeed. It lay beyond, as if it had always been there. The village was just a shell, Briganda realized. A shell which, when you pierced it…

Ancient buildings stood, empty. Magical street lamps hung there, only a few still working. It was not a full city, like Invrisil. It was as if…someone had simply scooped up part of Invrisil or wherever this had been and put it here.

The adventurers stood uncertainly. Suddenly, the end of their fighting had become a segue into a larger, unknown space. Eldertuin was frowning, but he held up his hand, stopping other adventurers from moving forwards.

“I think we should link up—no one advance into…”

Whatever the Named Adventurer might have said was too late. It had been too late the moment the Frostmarrow Behemoth had triggered the change.

Something moved in the city within. The adventurers tensed. Someone raised a bow.

“Don’t—”

Ceria breathed, turning.

Too late. Pisces had grabbed the arm of the [Archer], but someone else had raised their wand.

A jet of fire shot across the street. Levil’s burning orb of fire shot forwards, slower than an arrow, illuminating the silent homes and buildings on each side of the street. The orb of fire hit what had moved there.

It burst into flames across metal and rotten flesh. The fire burned bright for a moment, trying to incinerate what lay beneath, catch, grow…

But it couldn’t. The Draugr stood there, eyes glowing. Unmoved by the spell.

For a second, Ceria felt nothing but relief. Draugr. Oh—just a Draugr. That was all.

Then she heard Pisces draw in breath sharply. Ceria looked again, and her heart sank.

The superior version of a zombie stood, arms clasped before it. Unmoved, despite the attack. It had shifted, but only to look up. Levil’s flame had not burned it.

Because the Draug was wearing armor. Steel or some other fine metal; head to toe. Not torn, not broken by rust or battle like the other undead. Fine, intact metal. Even a helmet on its head, under which two glowing eyes looked out.

That was not the scary thing. What made Ceria’s heart skip a beat was what the Draugr was holding. Its hands were clasped around a two-handed axe, planted on the ground.

“Armor and a weapon? What kind of…”

Keldrass looked at the undead, as well-armed as he. He stared at Pisces. The [Necromancer] was silent. Slowly…he raised two fingers. He tried once—then managed to snap his fingers on the second try.

A ball of light appeared in his hands. Slowly—seeing or sensing something that the others could not, Pisces flicked his hand. The ball of light flew across the street.

—-

He could not stop smiling. He felt his body trembling. His skin crawling. His teeth were bared, and his heart pounded.

For them—all his sympathies. Yet all Niers Astoragon could do was remember. Remember as he had stood in similar places, and beheld similar sights.

The audience of the world watched as the ball of light flickered down the true streets of the Village of Death. It halted, glowing, and someone sighed in the common room below.

Selys.

Tears ran down her eyes as the Drake looked. Rags stirred. Numbtongue gripped his sword more tightly and Mrsha held the clawed hands tightly. As if that could make it go away.

—-

Ryoka Griffin felt the same sense of terrible nostalgia as Ceria. But not for the same memory. The same feeling but a different place. Another time.

Something reaches up out of the ground, a hand, grey-green flesh, rotten sinew. But pink in places, too, oozing red. And bone. An arm, but not one any Human would have.

It reaches towards the sky, each finger as tall as I am, and the colossus rises. A head breaks the snow, and two eyes filled with huge, squirming maggots gapes at us. I’m screaming in my head, but the cold air is filled only with silence.

This was not the same as the Zombie Giant. Yet every part of Ryoka, held by the two now-silent boys, felt it.

The ball of [Light] illuminated the ranks of Draugr. Eighteen across, four ranks down.

Human. Drake. Half-Elves? Standing silent, each one wearing the same armor, clasping weapons. Garbed for battle.

They stood in the street, looking ahead. Waiting. The adventurers had gone still. Ryoka heard someone counting in the feed from the scrying orb.

No one spoke. Not Drassi or Joseph, or the adventurers. No one could. No one knew what came next save for one.

—-

Az’kerash closed his eyes. They had made it to the inner city. He reached up, and his fingers found curved lips. A smile?

Now—he listened, but his heart did not beat—now, it began. His eyes fixed on the half-Elf and young [Necromancer] standing together.

Show me.

—-

A voice cried out. In bitter ecstasy, in triumph. In grief?

“They have come. Will you do something now, master?”

He danced, in the heart of the city. Waiting.

The Putrid One never moved. So his servant grew uncertain.

Afraid.

—-

Who broke the silence at last? Ceria couldn’t tell at first. The voice had no spatial qualities at first. It was just…there. Hovering, ephemeral. Yet growing more solid.

“Intruders? Intruders. They have breached the perimeter. They have defiled this ground.”

The Draugr stirred. The voice—was not an adventurer’s voice. Nor one from the scrying orb. It came from within. It had a quality that Ceria realized, with a shudder, was familiar.

She had once heard it from…the scrying orb. When listening to Fetohep of Khelt.

It was not a voice produced by lips or a tongue, or lungs.

It was an undead’s voice. It spoke, again.

“They come for your Master. Rise, servants. To arms, guardians. We are bound to defend this place. So: arise. Let us spill bitter blood once more, as our service dictates.”

Such a curious call to arms. The voice was not furious, not angry. It sounded resigned. Even regretful. Ceria heard nothing after that.

Then—the Draugr moved. Slowly, as one, they shifted. Their clasped weapons rose. They began to march forwards.

“To arms.”

Eldertuin breathed. His mace rose, and the Golems, fearless, lifted their weapons. His voice stirred the adventurers. Ceria saw Pisces lift his rapier. Some of the paralysis freed itself from her veins.

Yet she was waiting. Sure that this wasn’t it. The vision, the warning in her mind had not feared this.

Ah. As the city stirred, she felt bitterly reassured. She saw more lights flickering across the dark sky. More shapes moving. Ceria looked up—and laughed sadly, despite herself.

Good, good. She hadn’t been wrong.

A Lich, a skeletal [Mage], floated in the air over a rooftop. It raised a staff as tattered robes fluttered about it. It was not by itself. Ceria saw another rising, chains around the bones of its legs.

She stared at it—then saw a building move. She heard an oath.

“No. That’s not fair. We’re supposed to have the only damn one…”

Briganda stared at the giant Bone Behemoth which slid out of the shadow of a building. Gleaming bone face armored with a metal mask.

More giant shapes began to move above the buildings. Shapes fluttered through the air.

—-

Lord Tyrion Veltras slowed, looking towards the city, at the mirror. Then—he saw the first winged undead burst out in the distant village. He spoke, his voice terse.

“Undead Wyvern. Fall back. Lord Deilan, join your forces to mine—now!”

He whirled, racing back towards the carriage behind his lines. Ryoka Griffin stood just outside of it, looking towards the Village of the Dead.

“No. It’s not fair. It’s never fair.”

The wind felt black, blowing up from there. Like poison. It told her of things flying and crawling within.

—-

A hundred, a thousand voices spoke to her. Yvlon Byres saw the first Wailing Pit creeping forwards, the damned collection of undead pleading, speaking to the living.

The adventurers shuddered. She saw the giant undead, heard the sound of despair from behind her.

The [Silversteel Armsmistress] gazed towards the city.

“The center of the center, then.”

Prince Zenol and Dorgon looked at her.

“What?”

Yvlon didn’t reply. She drew her sword from its resting place in the ground. She began to walk forwards, like she had at the start of this all.

“Forward. Set up fortifications. I’ll stall them. We’re going in. Horns of Hammerad? Forwards.”

The Wailing Pit was blocked by a line of undead. Skeleton Knights, wearing armor over bone, and, leading them, a richly-dressed commander of some kind, moving with impatient animation. It raised its sword and saluted Yvlon.

She stopped, blinking and her sword rose. She copied the gesture, and saw a plumed helmet nod once. Then, Yvlon was running again. She swung her sword and met enchanted steel in kind as the last forces of the Putrid One awoke in their dead city.

8.19 H

(The Flowers of Esthelm, Book 3 of The Wandering Inn is out on Audible! Grab it here! And please consider leaving a review! Thanks!)

As the last of the hopeless adventurers, soldiers in broken armies, careless wanderers, travellers and the lost who had been trapped here over millennia were finally released, their bodies destroyed, the Putrid One’s true army finally moved.

The illusion fell away. The inner city was revealed. It stirred. Undead, patiently waiting for so long, finally lifted the weapons they had been entrusted with. Ancient armor gleamed. Giant figures strode out of their resting places.

Monstrous undead climbed out of hiding places. Others took wing, or hung in the air, kept aloft by magic.

True undead. Not Draugr, not Crypt Lords or skeletons or zombies or Ghouls or any other lesser undead. Draugr were the foot soldiers, and these ones had armor.

The first undead Wyvern flew next to dead Griffins and even a Manticore, all three winged beast species flying high overhead, screaming soundlessly in parodies of life.

She couldn’t breathe, seeing it. Her heart was palpitating. She clutched at it, and felt the steady rhythm falter. It was—she was hyperventilating, clutching at the table.

It was her fault. They had gone because she had told them. Because she had suggested it. For Erin, they had said. But she had asked them—asked him.

They were going to die. Selys Shivertail sank out of her chair, unable to sit upright. She kept watching, though. Only Mrsha even noticed the Drake fall to the floor. She tugged at Selys, but the [Heiress] couldn’t speak or stand.

All eyes were on the scrying orb. The cheering in The Wandering Inn had stopped.

The story on the scrying mirror had been glorious. Desperate, action-packed, full of hope though. Each step the adventurers made, each time a spell threw the undead back, Imani and Palt had hugged, Bezale and Kevin and Troy had all taken a gulp of beer—then stopped after the three-dozenth time.

They had been on the edge of their seats, cheering, calling encouragement, as if this were a game. They had not been unaware of the stakes, but they had believed.

Now? Silence. The story had changed. Something—cruel reality—stole in like painful, bitter wind. The sun had set. It was cold, the chill of fear and certainty, the dark of night.

The first adventurers died within seconds.

—-

Yvlon locked blades with the skeleton commander and threw her entire weight behind the first clash as their swords met. The undead skeleton—blocked her.

It was weaker; it slid back, despite the ceremonial armor it wore, yet it parried her, redirecting the force of her blow. Its shield came up as Yvlon recoiled and struck out.

A calculated blow, to dizzy her and force her back as its sword went in for a stab. Yvlon recoiled, saw the blade coming as she tried to pull her sword down. She released her two-handed grip—lowered her arm.

The slash across her right arm was a scream of metal-on-metal. Yvlon recoiled, knocking the sword away, and brought down her sword once more, one-handed.

It met the shield and the skeleton commander staggered. She walked backwards, flicking her head, right, left. The other skeletons—!

Hadn’t moved. They stood in perfect formation, weapons ready—but watching her and their leader duel. It was so uncanny that Yvlon moved further back, sure this was a trap.

No. The skeleton leader with the plumed helmet set himself, sword raised high, shield angled. It struck its sword hilt to the shield, producing a challenging clash of metal, just like Briganda had.

It was then that Yvlon noticed she was bleeding. Red ran from the cut in her right arm. She looked down, mildly shocked.

The sword had cut her arm. Actually cut it. The blade was as enchanted as hers and…it had sliced open the silver-steel skin. Not deeply, but if it had done that to her arm—her armor would suffer the same fate.

Yvlon looked at the skeletons. She had heard nothing in the clash, which had taken all of ten seconds at most. Cut, parry, block, retreat.

It had moved as fast as she. That coordination! It was like fighting a Level 20 [Warrior]—no, a seasoned [Soldier] at least!

Then Yvlon heard the first screams of panic, confusion, cries for help. Then she felt the first impacts coming up from the ground.

Explosions. Death from the skies. Only, not from adventurers.

The [Armsmistress] looked up and saw them. Glowing fingers, floating bodies—

Liches. Skeleton-mages, casting spells from high above. They flicked [Fireballs], bolts of [Lightning] down, magical arrow spells, anything a [Mage] was capable of. Basic attack spells that killed.

A [Fireball] illuminated a trio of Silver-rank adventurers who couldn’t dodge. They were flung, blazing, onto the street. Another Silver-rank dove, and the lightning bolt arced, catching him on his metal armor. He screamed, but was able to grab a healing potion.

The magical attack was first. Second—the arrows. A volley flew from the skies, shot from far out of sight. Adventurers raised shields and a [Mage] had the presence of mind to cast a barrier-spell. The arrows glanced off; a professional, accurate grouping of shots.

The arrow with a pitch-black shaft and a glowing, purple-metal arrowhead snaked down and hit the [Mage] in the shoulder. He folded up without a word.

All of this was in seconds. Yvlon looked up and saw the shrieking undead monsters in the sky. She saw a huge shape, taller than the Frostmarrow Behemoth, raise a club of bone or something pale, advancing forwards.

The skeletons—advanced. Yvlon raised her sword, waiting, but only the leader came towards her. The rest were moving past her.

“Skeleton Knights. Say again: our group is engaging Skeleton Knights. Unconfirmed speculation—Skeleton Lord leading them!”

The voice was brisk, familiar, but not haughty. Just—taut with intensity.

Prince Zenol. His eight bodyguards were shielding him, eyes on the Skeleton Knights. And…Skeleton Lord? It looked no different than the others, save for its garb, but the way it saluted her, bone head turning as if to wonder if she and Zenol were going to flank it—

Zenol’s voice was one of dozens shouting into their speaking stones. Yvlon heard mixed voices.

“Liches! We need [Mages] here to battle them! We can’t shoot them down! Half have barriers—”

“Undead giant! Dead gods, Bone Behemoths too—”

“—just came at us—full of bugs—don’t get c—”

“Fall back. All groups, fall back to your fortifications.”

That was Soew’s voice, urgent despite the calm tone. Yvlon looked at the skeletons. The Skeleton Lord was just waiting.

“We have to fight them before they join up. Attack 2—first wave. We are fighting.”

Prince Zenol tossed the speaking stone to a bodyguard. He raised his sword, and looked around. Dorgon had moved forwards with some Gold-ranks and two Silver.

“Watch the skies for spells and arrows.”

The Minotaur spoke, looking at Yvlon. She nodded. No one had said a word, save for Dorgon and Zenol. They were watching Yvlon.

She hadn’t beaten the skeleton leader, and she had intended to in a single charge. Now—the adventurers were poised. To run? To fall back?

It depended on the next moments. Zenol strode forwards, as if to put their uncertainty to rest. Yvlon blocked him.

“Take the others.”

He looked at her. Then grinned.

“Don’t lose.”

The [Prince] whirled, and his Stitchfolk charged into the Skeleton Knights, fearless of the blades. Yvlon took a deep breath. She lifted her sword, seeing blood running onto the hilt from her arm.

The Skeleton Lord was waiting. It was grinning at her. Yvlon charged.

“Silver and steel be my guide!”

Her first stroke was a two-handed blow that made the Skeleton Lord stagger. It raised its sword, stabbing fast in the opening as Yvlon’s sword bounced off its shield.

A quick blow which could turn into a decisive cut before she could regain her balance and maneuver her sword. It scored a line down her cheek; no, a deep cut. Yvlon abruptly felt steel kiss the side of her tongue. The Skeleton Lord went to flick the enchanted blade through her skull.

Its arm never moved again. Yvlon had dropped her sword. Her silver hand had caught its sword-wrist. The undead recoiled—

She wrenched off its arm. It was hard, far harder than a normal skeleton’s, but this undead was still weaker than a Draugr. It looked down at its torn shoulder, and tried to drop the shield and reach for a dagger at its belt.

Both of Yvlon’s hands grabbed its helmeted head. She began to pull.

The Skeleton Lord stared at Yvlon, grabbing her arm with its remaining one. Gently—

She thought the light brown flames in its eye sockets were reproaching her. This was not how sword-wielders properly f—

The silver arms ripped skull and part of the spine from the body. The Skeleton Knights turned, those not in the thick of fighting, as the Skeleton Lord collapsed.

“Rhir’s hells.”

One of the adventurers breathed. Yvlon turned. She was holding the skull, her right cheek cut open.

The skull crumpled in one hand. She bent, to retrieve her sword. Then, Yvlon Byres stood. Her next words made living and dead flinch. It was a bellow, a raw shout.

“Silver and steel be my guide—everything dies! Forwards! Attack, you cowards!”

This time, when she ran, the adventurers charged down the street with her.

—-

They didn’t run. Eldertuin the Fortress planted his shield and bellowed a counter-command.

“Hold this street with me! Horns—keep those giants off us! If we all run, we all die.”

The Draugr were advancing at a run, their ferocious charge shaking the street.

The Named Adventurer put his shield down and gritted his teeth. His hair, already turning to grey in places, flashed.

No—the air did. Ceria heard him shout.

“[Shield of the Fortress]! [I Am Unmovable]!”

A pale, sage-green shield burst from his shield. It traced a teardrop shape—as wide as the street. The spells and Draugr hit it and—bounced.

The first armored undead swung their weapons and hit an unbreakable wall: Eldertuin’s shield. He braced, holding back the weight of their charge. His feet skidded back a foot, no more.

Then Levil shot flames into the Draugr, seeking to set them alight. Over Eldertuin’s shoulder, someone fired a crossbow, through the eyes of one of the Draugr.

“Pisces!”

Ceria shouted, and the [Necromancer] broke out of his stupor. He looked around; his hand flashed as he flicked it.

[Shatterbolt]. It went through two Draugr’s chest plates, but one got up. Ceria pointed.

“[Ice Spear]!”

The head vanished. The corpse fell back down. Ceria looked around.

“The street! Ward the street before my Skill ends! Arcsinger, get your archers over here! Soew! The Liches will slaughter everything they see! I see six—”

Eldertuin was bellowing, issuing orders. Ceria had no idea what he meant for a moment. Then her eyes widened.

“[Ice Wall!]”

Ice appeared and spread, thickening into the multiple feet of solid protection that could stop even the spells or a Draugr’s charge for a while. But not on the ground—it spread from rooftop to rooftop! Forming an aerial shield from the flying undead, spells, and arrows. Ceria lifted her hands, brows furrowing with effort as she created a fortress of ice. Pisces fought, stabbing, conjuring an orb of acid—but he never took his eyes from the heart of the city.

—-

Two places held. Three—four. That was all Niers Astoragon saw. The rest of the adventurers were fleeing, regrouping or just running, nerves broken.

He sat, clenching his hands, watching the battle unfold from above. He was too far away to ‘see’ the battlefield with his Skills. Yet he had to! He saw adventurers die from archers and whatever high-level undead had that barrier-breaching arrow.

Liches in the skies. Undead Wyverns? Not to mention whatever giants were out there, and armored undead infantry.

Where? He waited—vibrating with intensity. His was not the despair in the rest of the inn.

“Show me. Show me, you motherless mage-brats! Don’t pan over the battle, show me—”

He had to find it. The Titan’s whisper went ignored in the inn, even by the Gnolls. The only person who looked towards him was Apista.

And the frantic head of the little Gnoll. Niers ignored her. He was—waiting—

—-

A frozen grin on his face, the King of Destruction watched as the viewpoint of the scrying orb shifted. The smile had been genuine a minute ago. Yet contrary to what they believed, he did not enjoy this.

Tyrion Veltras’ forces were falling back as the Village of the Dead disgorged an armored legion fit for any Chandrarian nation’s best. He saw armored Draugr advancing, shields raised, ignoring the effective rain of arrows that had killed countless undead. They were using the other undead still on the field like shields.

Even the Lord of House Veltras couldn’t just charge into them. He did it once, with a group of a hundred and twenty. The rest of the [Riders] held back, circling, baiting the undead into chasing them, but something was leading them, such that the rest were advancing on the infantry, forcing a clash.

“He held back the rest of his [Riders]?”

Maresar didn’t understand. Tyrion Veltras was riding forwards, set in a jouster’s position. He surged up and down, his lance tip never wavering. Behind him came other [Riders] carrying spears and lances.

“The rest must not be high-level enough. They’ll die on the charge.”

Venith murmured. On cue, the image of Tyrion Veltras was lost as he accelerated.

A hundred and twenty lancers crashed into the Draug, their weapons piercing armor, throwing the hulking undead down. Dozens of spears or lances shattered and bent from the stress, but the [Riders] were already breaking away, following Tyrion Veltras.

He had killed two Draugr in a single charge, putting his lance through one’s head and then using the momentum to kill another. Those two did not get up.

Half of the Draugr did. Flos saw mortal wounds on any Human, Stitchfolk, Dullahan, or other species ignored as the undead picked themselves up with gaping wounds in their armor. Tyrion was circling, looking for another charge. But his head was turned, looking up. He was bellowing orders unheard, and his soldiers were scrambling to maneuver. Their formation had changed, scattered because of—

The flying undead. They began to drop out of the skies, interrupting the neat archery formations. Sowing havoc among the House of El’s noncombatants. Now Lord Deilan, the Terland delegation, and the [Mages] and trebuchets were under threat.

And Tyrion’s children.

—-

Halrac the Grim fought cold. He heard and saw adventurers dying.

Acid rained down from the skies. An adventurer clawed at her face and her burning eyes. A Minotaur—Thorven—charged out and threw her against the wall and overhang.

“Healing potion in her eyes! Highest-quality and you might save them!”

He bellowed at the terrified [Bandit Archer], who did as he shouted. Halrac leaned up. Acid threatened to do the same to him, but his eyes were closed.

He had memorized the position and took the shot. His arrow flashed through the skies, invisible! A [Mage]-killer, an ambush-specialist’s dream. Or a [Hunter]’s.

…But he missed. Halrac knew it. He looked from the shelter, wiping at the stinging liquid threatening to eat into his skin, neutralizing it with a potion.

The Lich hovered there, one of many, casting spells. Raining death down. Halrac cursed as he put another arrow to his bow. Yet—he was a [Marksman], yes, but he wasn’t Bird or Badarrow.

The skeleton was changing positions as it floated in the night sky, already torn by flashes of light, ruining his night vision at least six hundred paces distant. His enchanted arrow had to go around or through its magical barrier, and he was out of [Piercing Shots].

Halrac considered the second shot—and lowered his bow. He was still cold. His mind raced, and he never stopped moving, standing, turning, shouting.

“Follow me! We have to relocate! Move! Keep your heads down and out of the acid!”

…Cold, though. He knew the Liches were killing adventurers, but he let the one floating there and casting [Acid Rain] go. He had to focus on targets meant for him.

“If we go out there, we’re sitting—”

Halrac seized a [Crossbow-woman] and threw her out of her cover. He pointed.

“Go! Follow Thorven!”

The Minotaur was leading the way. He had realized the exact same thing Halrac had; they might be burned by the rain, but they were dead if they didn’t find adventurers with melee weapons when those Wyverns dove, or armored undead found them.

The [Archers] ran. Halrac was listening to Soew shouting orders, panicked reports. He broke free of the rain and whirled, not even bothering to wipe acid from his hair and armor.

There. There was his target.

“Turn! [Archers], turn and loose! There’s your target!”

As if he were back in the army, Halrac barked and the entire group turned at his [Voice in Your Ear], a low-level [Leader]’s Skill from those days. Panicked, through the explosions, screams, and confusion, they still turned and saw his target.

A Zombie Giant, wearing armor and carrying a mace of bone. It was advancing down one street. To the side—Halrac saw a Bone Behemoth grappling with a slightly larger, stronger undead.

The Frostmarrow Behemoth was winning, but it couldn’t fight two at once! The huge giant was swinging its club at unseen adventurers fleeing it.

“Hit the head! The head!”

Halrac drew an enchanted arrow—Airburst—and cursed. He fumbled for a better one and had a fiery arrow to his string in six wasted seconds. He drew—sighted at the target, and loosed.

This time he hit home. The Zombie Giant was a much easier target. Even so, a number of enchanted arrows went wide as adventurers missed the moving head. Enough hit.

Chunks blew out of the giant’s head. It turned, flailing its club and destroying a roof, but didn’t fall. Halrac drew another arrow.

More gigantic undead were appearing. He saw a mass of squirming limbs and bodies rear up in the shape of some kind of morbid slug. It took Halrac a second to realize it was a Wailing Pit rearing up. It collapsed, and if anything had been below—

“Commander Halrac. My count is six giant-class undead in range, not counting Wailing Pits. Let me focus on separate targets. We’re wasting—”

“Don’t ask, do it!”

Thorven nodded. He grabbed the [Magical Archer] and six others and pointed.

“Soew, we’re fighting—here! Dead gods damn it, tell us where to go or get us backup before the undead on the ground get us! We’re taking out those giants!”

“Captain Halrac? Standby—return to your position, Leader Melbret! [Restore Morale]—”

Soew’s voice was taking on an edge of desperation. Halrac cursed.

He saw Melbret and nearly twenty adventurers running past his street as the first zombie giant finally went down, an eye socket and that part of its head blown away. If it had kept the helmet that had actually been hanging askew…

Halrac’s head turned and then the [Veteran Scout] bellowed.

“Stop!”

The adventurers halted, saw the [Archers], and ran up.

“We have to get out of here! Fall back to the fortifications—”

Soew’s Skill hadn’t worked, or there wasn’t enough morale to restore. Halrac grabbed the [Armsman] and whirled him. Just [Armsman]. He was no Yvlon.

“Hold this position with us or we’ll be cut to pieces by those flying undead!”

He said that, but most were heading towards the army distant. Halrac was still shouting for the best shots to hit their wings; if the Veltras army ran…

Death, death, and death. He knew he should be thinking of where to run. Halrac knew it, but he also knew Yvlon and Eldertuin’s waves were standing and fighting. If it was time to run—they ran together. And if they didn’t see sense, he’d grab them and drag them back.

Yet they had no idea what the enemy was capable of. It was all chaos.

“Set up defenses here. Block the street—”

Halrac couldn’t risk them getting onto the rooftops and presenting a target. Adventurers began stringing up rope, wire, bear traps, even their portable palisade walls. They were attacked before they finished setting up the third street in the T-intersection.

“Draugr!”

“Slow them and anyone over Level 30, get in front and use your Skills! [Double Shot]! [Pinpoint Shot]! [Expert’s Shot]!”

Halrac activated three Skills in quick succession. Two arrows went through a Draugr’s head, each. Armored or not, they died when you destroyed the brains. The third kill was another perfect shot. The [Marksman]’s Skill that went after weak points if the owner knew them.

Three Draugr dead, and Thorven took down two more with an arrow that ricocheted between two, tearing pieces away until they fell. Archers got five more, and the adventurers had slowed them down.

Tripvine bags! Alchemical oil potions which made two Draugr slip! One even ran into a thrown, enchanted sword which pierced its chest. Halrac snarled at the waste of the weapon that hadn’t even killed the undead—when the adventurer raised her hand.

“[Recall Weapon]!”

The undead group died hard. Adventurers were poised to meet their charge when Halrac saw one more undead moving at speed down the street. A lot faster than—

“F—undead rider! Hit that horse!”

A skeleton on horseback charged them, holding a single sword in its arms. It wore light, painted leather armor. Halrac took aim, but Thorven was faster.

The X-bow thundered; the horse went down, bones blown to bits. The skeleton didn’t join it. It had already leapt, and landed on the street, still running. If anything, it came on faster.

The adventurers had dispatched the Draugr in a hand-to-hand. Now, they turned as the [Archers] took aim. Halrac muttered.

“[Curving Shot]—”

He loosed, and watched his arrow miss. Eight other [Archers] had shot with him. The bone-undead had dodged all eight in a leap sideways! Halrac’s invisible arrow it didn’t see until—

The sword slashed and cut the arrow in half. Halrac blinked. He’d barely seen that.

“Skeleton Lord? What the hell is—”

The undead raced under a bursting tripvine bag. It dodged another arrow as Halrac fumbled for one. He thought he had time—

An adventurer with her shield up gasped as the two-handed sword flashed at her chest. She lowered her shield.

“[Reinforced Block]!”

Halrac saw the sword curve under her shield. The skeleton cut up. The adventurer stared at her arms as they fell. Then it beheaded her and stabbed another adventurer in the chest.

It was so fast. It—Thorven swung his bow in a roar as the undead leapt past him.

The Skeleton Lord dodged. Halrac didn’t see a Skill, just anticipation. It nimbly avoided an adventurer’s slash, returned with its sword. A scream, gurgling, as the man reached for his cut throat.

Halrac missed from eleven feet away. His invisible bow launched the arrow at the back of the skeleton’s head and it dodged, sliding under the blow. It looked at him and the [Veteran Scout] cursed.

“Halrac! Get back!”

Adventurers were scrambling to let the Gold-ranks take another shot. Halrac ran backwards, still loosing arrows. He saw the skeleton dodge another one, almost lazily leaning aside as it ran. Its glowing magenta flame-eyes were seeing each strike! No—predicting them! It dodged swords, a jabbing spear, a mace and a vial of flaming oil, as if the world were a jigsaw puzzle and it had found the one place it wouldn’t be hit each time.

It was too quick. [Haste]. As well as that damn sword. Halrac found himself running towards a wall. He leapt up as the skeleton charged, intent on him.

The world was slow in the seconds of life-and-death. Halrac had one last arrow, unenchanted but a piercing arrowhead, in his fingers. He had it in his invisible bow—and he was leaping.

His boots struck the wall and Halrac tensed to kick off and leap over the skeleton’s head, back towards two Gold-ranks charging at the undead with weapons drawn.

The Skeleton Lord saw it all. Contemptuously, it whirled about to face the Gold-ranks.

Its sword swung up over its head, catching Halrac as he leapt. The Gold-rank Captain was struck across the groin, a sweeping blow that cut through his pelvis up to his ribcage. He landed, half of him bisected—

The Skeleton Lord didn’t hear the thump. Nor did it feel the slight impact in its sword. Its head turned. The perfect strike it had made—

Halrac had never leapt. He stood, his boots clinging to the wall, keeping him there like they were covered in glue, despite the unnatural angle defying the laws of gravity.

Boots of Stability.

“Idiot.”

The arrow went through the skeleton’s head and blasted chunks out the other side. Halrac landed, hitting the ground on his side as the enchantment on the boots gave out a second later. He just lay there, on his back, for a second. Then someone spoke his name.

“Halrac?”

He looked up. The Gold-rank adventurer offered him a hand; the other was bashing the Skeleton Lord’s body to dust.

“Thanks.”

He pulled himself up. Shakily. He reached for the speaking stone.

“Soew—Skeleton Lord under [Haste] or an even higher-level variant. Dodged everything nearly perfectly. Also, riding a horse. Watch out.”

“Understood.”

The [Marksman] breathed. In. Out. He listened to his frantic heart beating, and knew he was alive.

Then he went back to the street, to keep shooting arrows at the towering undead as the adventurers fortified again. That was the first wave of undead. The first ten minutes.

The second wave came six minutes later. Halrac looked up and beheld his death. Bitterly, he took aim.

—-

It was like a menagerie of undead. A playground of experiments. Everything he had ever tried or conceived—and some things he had not.

Too late, Az’kerash realized the limitations of his undead experiments. Where he had conjured massed numbers, he had never gone down the same road as this Necromancer. It was like seeing two completely different architects given the same materials and creating vastly different structures.

The dichotomy was simple: in life, Perril Chandler had been the respected Archmage of Death, the Undying Shield of Calanfer. A man who had once been cheered and honored as Silvaria’s noble protector, albeit with undeath as his weapon. He respected the corpses of those he raised.

The Putrid One never had. He had experimented, and found variations upon the undead that Az’kerash had only begun to learn after he had died.

Screaming Wyverns dove on the archers and adventurers that had made their unwise stand in the streets. Wyverns—bearing loads of Ghouls which leapt down, engaging the adventurers. Not deadly—but all they had to do was distract while the massive Wyverns tore the adventurers apart.

They might have survived that. However, Az’kerash beheld obscenely bloated piles of flesh; not Draugr, far bigger. Waddling down the street, dangerous despite their corpulence for they held tiny undead rats and other creatures waiting to pour out when pierced. Using them as shields came ‘boring’ Skeleton Knights.

Their bones were green and brown. Poisoned. Covered in it. Such an excellent combination of distraction, overwhelming aggression, and a final, insidious blow.

The adventurer’s morale broke twice. Wistram was covering the scene, but Drassi couldn’t say anything. She was watching in horror, silent, having torn into the paper she was holding with her claws.

If he could—no. Az’kerash had one card to play in this battle and it was…occupied. The Necromancer watched as a few adventurers made their stand, the rest trying to run. They would fall, and the lines would break. The adventurers were wavering already; they needed to flee or they would be overwhelmed. The only thing saving them was that not all the undead in the city were on top of them—yet.

What will you do, Pisces Jealnet? What will your team do? I will see it and never judge you, either way.

Az’kerash watched, then turned away from the slaughter as the man with the invisible bow cast it aside and locked shortsword with one of the poisoned skeletons.

—-

I see your death. I see you die. Soew closed her eyes. She had tried—but she had weighed the odds of someone stopping the undead attack and had told them to run.

Halrac’s group hadn’t had a chance to escape the Wyverns. The [Strategist] sat at her map of the Village of the Dead and the battle, knowing she had to sit and save what could be saved, despite the deaths of so many.

She was out of Skills. If she had another minute—she forced her eyes open. She watched the image of Halrac till the end.

—-

“I see your death. I see you die. It all rests on you. So make your stand. Not yet. Not today.”

Niers Astoragon saw it. The crumbling lines. The place to hold them. He raised his hand. At last! He could do something.

“[Raise the Banner: Hold, with Sword and Spell]! [Order: Throw Them Back]!”

He spoke, focusing his will. And on the scrying orb—the faltering [Veteran Scout] forced back the lock of blades. He sent the Skeleton Knight flying back, and raised his head.

Mrsha’s eyes widened as the screen began to glow. She looked up and the Fraerling laughed. As the battle changed, he spoke once more.

“[Reputation: My Famous Name].”

—-

Halrac had been about to die. Then—he’d hurled the skeleton, armor and all back half a dozen feet! He felt something fill him. A familiar sensation.

“Soew?”

It was like a rally Skill in the army! It had to be her capstone Skill too! Halrac felt—sturdy. His hand blurred and he blocked a second skeleton running at him. His boot came up and he planted it in its chest.

It went flying, as if he were Moore. Halrac saw the other undead slowing, struggling as if they were running into a powerful headwind. The little rat-undead and other pests were pushed back, unable to even move forwards.

What was happening? The adventurers had halted. Thorven, stabbing his sword into a Wyvern’s neck, completed the hacking cut and the rotten head came off.

“Fight! We have a second chance at life! For the House of Minos and the honor of adventurers—fight!”

Gold and Silver-ranked adventurers whirled, moving faster, stronger! Tougher too! Halrac looked around as he reached for the blood-spattered distortion on the ground. He drew his bow and saw it at last.

Someone had planted it on the ground. Someone had—yet it wasn’t quite real. It glowed, and had that magical aspect to its colors that were almost too real, that made the rest of the street look mundane, fake.

It was a glowing standard. It stood, the tip of it flying as high as the rooftops. Halrac thought he recognized the sigils—but he was already loosing arrows. Those who stood below it fought like Demons, and a second Skill made undead fly back, light as feathers.

This was not Soew. Halrac felt as fast as that Skeleton Lord had been. He swept an arrow up; shot a Wyvern through an eye as it reared back unaided at thirty feet without hesitation.

Who? He looked up.

—-

“That’s—someone’s used a Skill! It’s—look at that! Look at that! It—it’s that guy!”

Drassi was leaping up and down, hugging Joseph as what she thought had been the scene of Halrac’s demise turned to a rallying point. Even other adventurers were making for the glowing standard.

Also, what lay above it. For if ever there had been something to rally to—some reassurance of hope in disaster, it was probably that.

For a moment, Ceria looked up from the titanic fight between the Frostmarrow Behemoth and an undead group of Ogres. Her eyes widened. The half-Elf saw it.

That guy. They had all seen him. He stood there, for a moment. Larger than life. Towering even over the undead, who turned to regard the figure grinning over the line in the sand he’d drawn.

“The Titan of Baleros.”

Joseph supplied. Drassi nodded.

Across the world, Tulm the Mithril’s eyes narrowed.

Foliana, who had been lying and facing the wall in a hammock, not watching the ‘news’, stirred as Perorn burst into her rooms, brandishing her scrying mirror. The Squirrel-woman sat up. She took one look at the smug expression on the astral-projection of the Titan—and smiled.

—-

Niers Astoragon lay panting on the beam when it was done. One Skill had taken a lot out of him. Yet he’d known it could be done, even before the news. Apista fetched him a cup of water…well, a tankard with water in the bottom fourth. The rest had been sloshed out.

More than enough for him. The Titan pulled himself up and grinned.

“Well, that’s torn it. Bee, fly me to Miss Erin’s room—then back here as soon as you can.”

He needed to use another Skill! However—Apista buzzed up the stairs and Niers burst into Erin’s room just in time to see it.

The magical chessboard moved. He saw the little message in code he’d written change. The [Strategist] laughed. Only a fool played one battle at a time! However, there was no time. Apista was already buzzing downstairs as Mrsha ran towards her, eyes shining with hope.

Rags turned her attention away from the scrying mirror where Drassi was flinging her papers up and dancing with Joseph—a copy of the common room of The Wandering Inn. She frowned, and rubbed at the back of her neck.

Was that a coincidence?

She thought about it as Mrsha caught the little bee and ran into the kitchen. Rags had no idea who this ‘Titan’ was, and obviously that was just Mrsha and Apista. No one could be there, even invisibly.

…Maybe it was just a coincidence. But in The Wandering Inn? Hah!

Then she turned her attention back to the battle. Slowly, Rags inspected the banner-skill and the adventurers, fighting twice as fiercely as before.

The [Great Chieftain]—no, the [Steelflame Strategist] raised her claw. She concentrated.

“[Burning Blades]. [Battlefield: Power of Fire].”

She felt a distant pressure in her mind. Like a bubble, one she could barely feel, let alone touch. It resisted her. Rags growled, struggling to force it through. Like lifting a Wyvern over her head; she had no purchase, no footing. Yet she had seen it could be done!

She failed the first time, panting. Six minutes of concentration resulted in a blinding headache and sweat pouring down her face so hard that Calescent checked to see if his spice had gotten in her bowl of popcorn instead of his.

The little Goblin tried again. What else could she do? However, as she watched—she realized something.

She wasn’t the only one.

—-

Look and see. There were so many facets of the battle that the limited scrying spells couldn’t keep up. They were…failing as they tried to enter the city. Only the [Mages] providing a direct link had any clarity.

What they showed was Halrac the Grim making his stand, saved by the glowing standard and the grinning Titan.

Also—cruelty.

The Silver-ranks led by Nailren’s team were lying on the ground. They had been cut off from half their group by a wall of black fire one of the Liches had hurled. Levil was fighting with Eldertuin and the others. Nailren had tried to link up, but…

“Fallen down.”

The Gnoll was running—then he was staring at a wall. No? The ground? He muttered. Why…? His legs kept running, kicking the air aimlessly.

“I fell down. I fell—”

Another adventurer stumbled past him. One of Earlia’s former [Miners]. She looked around. Bile or vomit was running out of her mouth. She walked, stumbling, as the other adventurers lay on the ground, or wandered around aimlessly. Nailren tried to stop and turn to face her, but the wall was in his way. Why was he…?

[Confusion]. Some kind of spell. The thick cloud of it swirled, revealing a group of Crypt Lords. One was…belching…the miasma. The rest dragged themselves over. Immune to the spell, they began reaching down and crushing the adventurers to death.

Nailren kept trying to run. He saw Earlia swinging her maul, flailing about at the nearest Crypt Lord. It watched her swing at the air six feet to its right and struck her, sending her crashing to the ground. Delighted, almost. Was it smiling?

—-

Arrows fell again and again, targeting the half-Elves and the archers. They were hunkering down as the deathly arrow killed another adventurer, just a cut—but the poison’s effect was immediate.

The hail of arrows stopped—then came again. So did the dark purple arrow. A challenge.

Elia Arcsinger refused to take it. She grimly leaned out, forcing her daughter back as she loosed an arrow at the largest opponent.

The Frostmarrow Behemoth was fighting two skeleton giants. Losing. Its icy body was being hacked away swing by swing as it struck back, paws colliding with their armor.

—-

The mocking Liches circled overhead. They were pointing, raining magical spells down at the sporadic counter-fire from the Halfseeker’s side. All the adventurers without bows or spells could do was fight the undead coming at them on ground-level. Even that was hell.

Seborn leapt away from a bloated zombie, shouting a warning.

“Get b—”

Too late. The zombie exploded. Adventurers inhaled the spore cloud and two fell, convulsing. The last stumbled free, towards his teammates.

“Help. I need an antid—”

“Keep back!”

Jelaqua grabbed him. The adventurer fought, crying for help. His team ran to grab him. Seborn tackled one.

“He’ll infect you too! Fight! Fight!”

—-

It was a dozen scenes like this. Flickering from point to point. Nailren, Arcsinger herself, pinned down.

Brave adventurers. Children, fighting the worst kinds of monsters from your nightmares. Gleefully, the Crypt Lords crushed another adventurer to death, savoring the cries from their stricken comrades.

You see it. You saw it, in all the manifest injustice. Did you come here to watch despair? Would you, if you could, sit idly by?

No.

Nailren heard a voice. It was female, and often drowsy. Not now. It spoke in his ear.

“[Begone, Ailments].”

He stared down at the ground. The Gnoll pushed himself up with a growl. His bow rose; he shot an arrow through the Crypt Lord bearing down on Earlia. Halfway towards the monster, the arrow morphed. It became a glowing swallow—a bird that pierced through the monster. Nailren heard another voice. Male, authoritative.

“[Blessing: The Bow of Wings]!”

Nailren drew another arrow and felt like he was holding a bird, wings fluttering against his paw. He drew and loosed as Earlia stood. Why was her armor—glowing?

—-

“[Greater Blessing of Armor].”

The King of Destruction had done it again. Venith slapped his face with his hand. Yet Flos Reimarch had been one of six Skills that spontaneously went off. Adventurers were rising to their feet, confusion gone. The Gnoll with the bow was loosing birds—or their simile—through the Crypt Lords, severing their bloated bodies with ease.

Another adventurer had gone into a berserk rage. The King of Destruction blinked. He realized it and laughed.

“Oh. Of course. Copycats.”

—-

The Queen of Desonis went back to hugging her pet sheep. A Naga-commander of Baleros sat back to raucous cheering from his mercenary company. He turned his head.

“Inform Wistram who used that Skill.”

His Skill was the one which had given the adventurer the raging fury to take on a Crypt Lord with nothing but an unenchanted shortsword—and win.

It was one of a dozen. Elia heard a whisper in her ears at the same time as adventurers across the city found their armor repairing itself, new strength in their arms.

A bolt of lightning hit one of the Liches mid-air and vaporized it. Drassi, overwhelmed and trying to commentate, saw an icon flash up on the scrying orb’s projection, without her even doing anything.

[Lightning Bolt], courtesy of Archmage Viltach.

The little indicator faded after a second. More began popping up. The [Reporter] finally realized what was going on.

They were using their Skills! That was obvious. But what she hadn’t realized was how many were using their Skills.

“That’s sixty two—sixty two Skills activated at long-range! I’m reading the Queen of Desonis, the King of Destruction, Commander Luxri of the Hanging Serpents—”

Why so many? Why now? Obviously—because they had been waiting, these [Strategists] and monarchs and [Generals]. They had prepared for this moment. Every single one of the many people who’d watched the first time and, individually, come to the same conclusion.

Why, if the King of Destruction can do it, I’ll do it next time and take credit, make a splash—

Hundreds of people all coming to the same original, completely un-unique idea to attract attention. What had made a splash because it was so unprecedented took on a different tone now.

Every continent in the world save for one was lending a hand to the adventurers in the Village of Death. The exception of course, being Rhir.

“They’re learning old tricks and calling them new ones. Do you see that? The Blighted Kingdom has known about this for ages.”

The [Lord] indicated the Skills exploding across the Village of Death, the renewed fighting among the adventurers. He turned to the [Knight] with dark skin and a worried look on his face. The younger man looked at him.

“Aren’t you going to do something, Lord Hayvon?”

“We don’t waste our Skills, Richard. Adventurers’ glory on Izril will not protect Rhir from the Demons.”

Richard stared at Lord Hayvon, and then turned to the scrying orb. He spoke, never looking away from the fighting.

“Maybe not. But if I could lend a hand, I would. Didn’t you say one of those teams was Hell’s Wardens? They’re people. Like us. Or does the Blighted Kingdom survive without help, Lord Hayvon?”

The man glanced at Richard, and his brows crossed. He stood there, thinking.

Then all five continents took part in the battle.

—-

“He is shooting birds! Do you see? Do you s—”

Bird was running around, all four arms raised and waving in the common room, crashing into chairs and tables. Selys was sniffing, holding—

She looked at Ulvama, whom she was squeezing with both arms. The Hobgoblin [Shaman] glowered at her. Selys let go.

“Where’s Mrsha?”

Her answer wasn’t needed. Mrsha came striding out of the kitchen, a bowl of dip in her paws. She put it on the table, sat down in between Selys and Ulvama and leaned forwards, chin on her paws. Every line of her body had changed from despair to determination.

Let’s help. She scrutinized the battle like a [Strategist]. Selys and Ulvama peered at her as the Titan resumed watching from the beam. However, Niers was searching for another target. Half the Skills had been just thrown into poor spots. With enthusiasm and effect—not efficacy. That was fine. The adventurers had far more of a chance with so many high-level Skills at their back.

Niers was frowning at Lord Tyrion’s army. They were being ignored—he raised his hand, hoping the scrying orb would focus on them.

Then the Antinium crashed through the front door and some ran out of the basement. The Brothers shouted in alarm—but the Black Tide of the Antinium was—

“I heard. Where—where are they?”

Pawn. Yellow Splatters, Belgrade, Garry, Chesacre, Thaina, Purple Smiles—all of them had rushed into The Wandering Inn.

They hadn’t known. Scrying orbs were only used by the Queen. Now, Pawn sank to his knees as he saw the fighting.

“It is for Erin?”

He looked at the others. Selys hesitated. Mrsha nodded, eyes on him. Pawn knelt. Most of the Painted Antinium copied him.

He began to pray. Niers Astoragon stared at him, sword raised. What was…?

—-

Skills were activating across the Village of the Dead. The city was still pouring out monsters, though.

“Pisces. We have to split up.”

Ceria watched, dreamily, feeling every chunk of ice torn away from the Frostmarrow Behemoth. Pisces turned.

“Why…?”

“We have to split up. You’re the [Necromancer] here! Find a way to take out the stronger undead. Go! I’ll—stay here.”

Ceria pointed at the adventurers fighting with the Frostmarrow Behemoth. She turned, and the breaking walls of ice holding off Draugr refroze. Pisces looked at her.

Strategist Soew had spoken at last as the adventurers were reinforced by Skills. They could run. If they ran—they’d be torn apart by the undead, flying and many as fast as an adventurer on horseback. So, while the Skills burned and they had a chance: fight.

She had named the greatest threats she had identified. Skeleton Lords were moving along with the greater undead. Each one could kill a Gold-rank. They were too fast, too deadly and too intelligent.

The giant-class undead were unstoppable if they reached adventurer fortifications. They had to be brought down from afar.

Lastly, the flying Liches were burning everything to ash. Most of the other fliers had gone to besiege Veltras’ armies.

“Can you do something about the Skeleton Lords?”

“Yes. Perhaps. But—”

“Then go!”

Two hands, one flesh-and-blood and the other bone, pushed Pisces hard. He stumbled—looked back. Ceria had drawn her wand.

“We’ll see each other again. Don’t worry.”

She saw him hesitate. Then the [Necromancer] nodded. He began to run, [Flash Stepping] across the street. He vanished, heading towards the first Skeleton Lord. Ceria exhaled.

Then…she turned back to the Frostmarrow Behemoth. In the fighting, the silence of her mind, she conjured ice.

She began to climb.

—-

“This is how we died. Every time, they wanted our bodies. Our bones. Our bodies for their armies, living and dead.”

Moore looked up and saw his kin. The face of the half-Giant was blank, rotten. It was nearly twice his height, and he was the tallest adventurer here.

It raised a fist and swung down at him. The half-Giant blocked it with a spire of earth. Stone powdered and rained down around him. He raised his staff and struck back.

A child fighting an adult. He drove his staff forwards. It was covered in barbs and tore at skin. The leg—he tore, his hands covered in vines. A blow sent him to the ground, but he rose. A healing potion crunched against his side. He went for the leg, tearing at it as Jelaqua kept the other undead off him, roaring orders.

The undead giant would fall. That was how they were killed. That was how they died. The [Green Mage] looked up at his ancestor. Female? He looked for something.

“Goodbye, Cousin.”

He swung again, his staff like an axe. Undead broke around his team as the undead giant fell. The Gold-ranks held their ground.

—-

Another team advanced, buoyed by no less than a dozen Skills. The Lifwail Blades on the ground had blown past two groups of Draugr, enchanted blades piercing their armor.

“We need to take those Liches out! Them—or find what’s controlling them all! What is that?”

The Captain of the Lifwail Blades was listening. He looked up and saw.

Thirty Liches hung in the air. All in the same spot, around a rounded building slightly taller than most. No one could halt them. No one could match them!

Typhenous had tried with some [Mages]. The Drakes had seen six [Valmira’s Comets] fly up; the Liches blasted them with spells and blocked the rest, massing their barriers.

The Gold-rank had never seen the like. However, the answer came through the speaking stone. A panting man’s voice.

“They’re…it’s a Lich Coven!”

“What in the name of the Ancestor’s bones is that?”

The Drake snapped back, his sword raised, peering up at the Liches. The reply was urgent.

“Look at their legs! Do you see? The chains!”

At last, the adventurers noticed the odd chains that had hung from each Lich’s legs. Yes! Why were they…they were shackled, the captain realized.

“They’ve been bound into a single network. So long as they’re there, they have the combined spell power to wipe out any group. They have to be stopped! I—Pisces told me the chains must be severed. Then the Liches will be free to move about, but weaker!”

“Pisces?”

The Drake hesitated. Hadn’t that been Pisces speaking? No—the young man’s voice came over the speaking stone.

“That’s correct…Instructor Tomoor. The Liches must be broken. Magic will not contest them, nor arrows.”

“Then we’ll take that building and hit them. Collapse the entire structure if we have to!”

The captain turned to the other adventurers with him. He pointed, turning off the speaking stone and made a hand-sign. The adventurers moved out in silence. They left the corner of the street—ran into undead in seconds.

Bone Horrors. Each one trapped so that bones would explode outwards in grasping claws, showers of deadly fragments if they were approached. The Lifwail Blades and adventurers were ready for the challenge.

The undead hadn’t noticed them. A [Rogue] went in, tossed two bags.

Tripvines exploded onto the Bone Horrors. The Drake Captain heard cracks as the trapped undead exploded into deadly showers of bones, scything claws—

Completely ineffectual.

“Go!”

His team charged and wiped the Bone Horrors out, carving them to pieces. Threat neutralized, he raised his claw again.

[Silenced Maneuvers]. The adventurers moved muffled and quiet, even those in heavy armor. They rounded another street, closing towards the damned Lich Coven. The heart of the city was…quieter. The undead boiling from every street were almost nonexistent here! Could they win? The Drake had no idea. There were so many and those giants…

Sixteen at last count. And the Frostmarrow Behemoth was about to be destroyed. They had to neutralize the biggest threat, fall back and hope that damned Human army could pull some weight.

“Captain! Contact!”

A whisper. The Drake spun. He hadn’t noticed another wave of undead.

There wasn’t a wave. A single figure stood in the empty street. It—was a Drake.

A dead Drake. His scales were mummified, some fallen away. However, the undead’s body was preserved. For a second, the Captain just stared. Then he gestured.

A [Rogue] loosed a crossbow bolt. The glowing shot flashed across the street, a probing shot.

It…never hit the Drake. The Captain of the Lifwail Blades hesitated. He hadn’t seen the crossbow bolt detonate. Nor had he seen it cut; it should have activated either way. The arrow just…vanished.

“The flying furry fuck was that?”

An adventurer whispered. The Drake shot him an irritated glance.

“Back up. Now.”

The adventurers were stepping back. They did not mess with threats like that. The undead Drake didn’t pursue them. Not at first.

He spoke.

“His power is ended. Did you do that? Yet you are not the army who has that strength. Then it is ill-luck, for you came so far to meet me. Descendants of my people. Is that the best skill at arms you have mastered?”

The voice. The Captain of the Lifwail Blades froze. That was the same voice which had so lazily called the undead to arms! The disinterested, almost self-deprecating tones. Bitter and tired and…

Sentient.

“Contact. Strategist Soew, we have just met the undead in charge of the others! It—it’s a Revenant. Confirm?”

“Confirmed. Fall back at once, Captain! [Expeditious Retreat]!”

He needed no further urging. The Drake pointed. The adventurers ran.

“Cowards.”

The word struck the Drake adventurer in the back. Drakes do not r—he ignored the taunt. He did cast one look back down the street, though.

The undead Drake wore old armor, custom-made for him. The insignia was so faded that the Captain did not know what it was. From head to toe, the gear looked enchanted. What was truly scary was the sword he carried, though.

A two-handed sword. Not as long as a greatsword; not nearly. A dueling blade. If the pattern was right, then it was a mark the Walled Cities had long ago stopped issuing.

A [Blademaster]’s sigils. Like a golden bell. The Captain knew his history. In those days, each Walled City would issue a mark, a delicate etching to be inscribed on the blade in some way. Each city had its expert, in those times. To best one city was to earn a mark. They did not carry the practice on in this time.

If they had…even if they had. The living Drake’s blood felt cold. There were nine marks on that blade.

The Drake did not move as the living ran. He stood there, face almost…disgusted. Then resigned, melancholy. He never lifted the sword hanging at his hip. Never touched it. All he did was…speak.

“Unlucky adventurers. [Thou Art Cut].”

The Captain of the Lifwail Blades heard the words with confusion at first. Then he realized it was a Skill and…slowed.

He reached for a potion. The back of his armor was…torn. He looked to his side.

“That can’t be. Did you hear th—?”

An adventurer collapsed, eyes blank. The cut had gone through his neck. Other adventurers cried out, cut to their very bones. The Drake reached for a potion, drinking with a shaking claw.

The cuts wouldn’t heal. He lay, bleeding, on the street. Words? Words? Not even a…

The Drake appeared, walking down the street. He stopped and looked down at the bitter expression on the Captain’s face. He bent to deliver a warrior’s mercy…but the Drake was dead.

The collapsed adventurers began to stir as the Drake lifted his claw. The Revenant stood.

“I resent it. I resent my servitude. I resent my death. If I could not…”

His sword rose. He studied it, musingly, as the Gold-rank adventurers walked back the way they had come, eyes glowing with the malice of undeath. They had forgotten who they were. The Revenant had not. All that he had been had stayed. Forced to serve. Twisted, but remained.

“If I could not. Strange.”

The sword in the Drake’s claws gleamed in the light. His beautiful armor shone. He stood there, in the street, eyes focused on the distant shape of the Frostmarrow Behemoth, a clear threat. He regarded his sword.

It did not move.

“How…strange. Could it be?”

The undead mused.

—-

Lord Tyrion’s army had not benefited from the Skills aiding the adventurers. The reason was simple: his was a Human army, the forces of a [Lord] of Izril. One of the Five Families.

Similarly, the adventurers who hailed from every place in the world were all individuals. The army was an army.

They fought with only a handful of Skills making it across the vast distance. And of them—

Tyrion Veltras cursed as he felt a hand grabbing at his authority, distracting him. His lance went wide, clipping the head of the Draugr. Such Skills interfered with his command of the battlefield!

“Break away!”

For the umpteenth time, his riders fell back with him. Less now. His forces had begun taking real casualties. His bloodless training battle?

A shrieking Wyvern dove from the skies, biting, crushing men and women and tearing about with brute strength, refusing to die even as it was stabbed countless times, showered with arrows.

Tyrion reached for his sword.

“[Thirty-foot Slash].”

His swing chopped halfway through the neck, but the Skill wasn’t enough. The Wyvern was distracted, though, and a flashing, glowing blade burning orange-green finished the cut.

Kaalblade. The House of El’s forces were fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with House Veltras. So were Terlands’ guards and the Golems.

Three of the Five Families, fighting here! And they were being pushed back.

“Jericha, the fliers are breaching your aerial cover! Pull the rear back!”

“Milord, we cannot move the trebuchets—”

Tyrion swung his sword about him, breaking clear of the melee. He saw a [Rider] go down behind him. He turned—but the man or woman was already dead, caught by the milling undead.

“Abandon them if you must. Guard the nobility and the coach!”

He looked towards the rear of the desperate fighting and saw the non-combatants sheltering behind Jericha’s magic, and all the archers. The crossbow-wielding [Mercenaries] were targeting the fliers, but there were so many and they were so hard to kill unless you destroyed their head!

Undead Griffins, Wyverns, and so on. Powerful undead coming out of the city. Tyrion turned.

The first undead giant had come marching towards his lines. He had not brought forces meant to fight them.

He should retreat. Yet the [Lord] was aware that if he did—the adventurers within the Village of the Dead were surely dead. He owed them only a promise to a Courier; there was little to gain here and—he looked towards the coach—everything to lose.

Lord Tyrion Veltras did not call the full retreat in that minute. Nor the next.

It would cost him…his head turned up as he saw coordination. Movement. Eight Wyverns loaded with Draugr dropped out of the skies towards the trebuchets. And the little coach.

He turned and began racing back, through the undead, his people. Too slow. Jericha was trying to bring them down.

Too slow.

—-

“The Lifwail Blades are dead. I cannot contact them.”

The battle was…were they losing or winning? He could not tell.

Prince Zenol saw two of his bodyguards die. He would have let them use his spare limbs—there was no point. One’s head was torn to bits, the life-thread destroyed. The other consumed by magic from above. What his people feared. Fire.

He could not tell if they were winning or losing. The undead had no quantifiable numbers, no morale. Thus—so long as adventurers lived, that was his only metric.

They were dying, though. He had gotten separated from Yvlon and Dorgon in the fighting. He had linked up with another group just by luck.

The Halfseekers were stalemated in the street. Moore, face covered in sweat and blood, was resting, drinking three stamina potions. The only reason this group of adventurers had survived so long was Moore’s strength—

And Jelaqua. She had burned through nine bodies already. Throwing herself into the center of the fire, demanding the undead’s attention, letting them savage her rather than the others who could not replace their flesh.

Zenol admired that. Yet he had no time to waste on words or platitudes. There was only time for—what had to be done.

“They’re killing us! You have to stop them!”

A Silver-rank’s voice. Zenol stared up. He saw the undead Lich Coven. They were hurling [Fireballs] down. Thirty [Fireballs]. Then thirty again. Then—

Nearly a hundred in two minutes. Zenol had heard of spells like [Meteor Storm]. He thought this was as close as he would see to it in his life.

The begging voice cut off. Perhaps they had survived, some.

“The Lich Coven must die. It must be severed!”

The [Prince of Sands] of Nerrhavia’s Fall spoke. He looked around.

“Where are the [Scouts]? It must fall! I will join you! Anyone who can take it down—distract them!”

“Agreed.”

A clipped voice. Halrac the Grim. Zenol saw a glowing arrow shoot towards the Liches. They pivoted, blocking the arrow—and then the volley, before returning magical fire.

“We’ll support you! Go!”

That was Revi’s voice. A babble of voices joined it. Zenol looked around.

“Captain Jelaqua, lend me your [Rogue]! I will give you my bodyguards—we have to bring it down!”

He pointed. Seborn turned and Jelaqua looked around.

“Your highness! You cannot—”

His [Mage] bodyguard protested. Zenol cut her off with a slash of his wrist. He checked a dangling thread from his wrist and gripped his sword tightly.

“I am a Gold-rank Captain! Do not presume to tell me not to risk my life now! Adventurer Seborn?”

“Let’s go.”

The two ran towards the Lich Coven. More adventurers had made up their minds like Zenol. They fought, rather than run! That was what he admired about them.

“We have a route up! Keep the pressure on!”

Instructor Tomoor. Somehow—Zenol grinned as he saw two flying Drakes and the bounding [Duelist] ahead. They had created a way to take the fight to the enemy!

A [Light Bridge]. It hung in the air. A beautiful construction, leading from the ground to the Lich Coven’s tower. It was far more elaborate, magnificent even, than any other spell Zenol had seen of its ilk. As he and other mobile adventurers ran towards it, he blinked at the shimmering letters glowing in the air.

Courtesy of Grand Magus Eldavin of Wistram.

The [Prince] laughed and saluted the skies. He saw Tomoor leap up the staircase, four at a time, and the two Drakes followed him. Zenol was pointing with Seborn towards a street when the Liches noticed. They whirled—pointed.

“Dive!”

Tomoor’s scream came a second too late for one of the Drakes. One of the last two Lifwail Blades became a living torch. The other dodged the hammers of falling stone. Pillars of obsidian that smashed the bridge to pieces.

Zenol looked up, cursing. He saw adventurers falling back as the damned mages began hammering the streets around them.

“We can’t make it!”

Seborn dragged him back. Zenol looked over his shoulder, roaring in frustration. Someone had to—but the [Mages] were contesting the skies! If he could get close enough, his jumping Skill…

His eyes fell on a huge figure coming down the street. Moore, Jelaqua, and the other adventurers were in a fighting retreat from more undead. Zenol pointed.

“Half-Giant! Moore! I can reach the tower! But I need you to—throw me.”

Zenol’s bodyguards whirled. The [Prince] pointed at his personal [Mage]. The Cotton-caste woman looked horrified.

“Prince Zenol!”

“Do not argue! The scroll!”

Zenol was sweating now. He saw Moore raise his head.

“I can’t throw you that far.”

It was hundreds of feet. Zenol bared his teeth.

“I don’t need you to do it alone. Just give me a platform. Your strength and my Skill combined can do it. With this.”

The [Green Mage]’s objections were cut off as Zenol’s [Mage] produced one of his remaining scrolls. She opened it, looked uncertainly at him.

The [Prince of Sands] snatched it. He unfurled it and magic flashed around Moore and him. He saw the half-Giant’s shoulders rise and his eyes open wide. Zenol’s teeth ground as he felt the same, familiar power. If only it were enough.

[Ogre’s Strength]. An enchantment stored in the precious scroll. On a half-Giant?

“Launch me. I will end the threat.”

Moore looked down at the [Prince]. The Stitch-man had just whispered that. He stood, poised as if he was standing before a crowd.

Sweating. His eyes were fixed on the tower with the Lich Coven. Thirty mages in the skies.

“You’ll be blasted to pieces.”

“I’ll sever that chain and their combined magic. Nerrhavia’s oath on it.”

“Don’t be a fool—”

Seborn reached for Zenol. He was stopped by Moore. The half-Giant bent.

“Are you sure?”

His arm flexed. Zenol sighed.

“Do it.”

The half-Giant’s right hand held Zenol as the [Prince] balanced. Like a javelin thrower, Moore drew his arm back. He threw Zenol, nearly a hundred feet, staring at his own strength! The [Prince] soared through the burning skies. He touched ground once. The roof. The Liches spotted him and began to aim.

“Too late, wretches. [Like a Lion, He Leapt].”

The [Prince] flew, the momentum of Moore’s throw adding to the second jump. He soared high, higher—

Maybe I won’t make it. Perhaps…he was ashamed of the surge of hope. Perhaps he’d live—

He landed on the tower. The [Prince of Sands] hit the roof and skidded. There—there was the central object the Liches were bound to. His sword flashed once.

The bound, dead [Mage] kneeling in the center of the nest of chains was glowing with magical power, head bowed. Zenol wasn’t even sure if it was undead, or a [Mage] of a different era. It looked up once—he saw a woman smile gratefully.

His falchion severed the top of her head. The Liches screamed. They whirled as the chains shattered. Freed, but weaker. Their fingers pointed down at the man who stood there, sword raised, shouting.

“Nerrhavia’s Fallen!”

The [Prince] laughed, brandishing his sword at the skies and hoping they could see him. He saw the thirty skeleton [Mages] pointing at him, burning spells captured in their fingers.

Fire. A Stitch-person’s worst fear. Zenol’s smile was bitter as he stared at the skies. He had known there was no coming back.

Someone had to do it. Let them never say the [Prince] did not fight like one of them. I could live with their scorn so long as it was never true.

To prove he was more than a [Prince], he had come here to die. If only he had a second Skill. His father’s legacy…

“Like a lion he leapt. With his pride, he died alone.”

Zenol murmured. He tried to keep smiling as he pivoted, waiting. There was nowhere to dodge. The Liches shrieked again. Their fingers unleashed—

Ksmvr landed on the first Lich’s head. He fired all three crossbows point-blank into the second. Zenol saw him fling something.

A jar of acid. It burst over the third Lich and the flailing undead failed to cast its spell. Zenol dove into the opening.

Fire flung him, burning, across the tower. He landed, rolling, and got to his feet. Alive. He saw Ksmvr land next to him.

“Antinium?”

“Only a fool fights alone, Prince Zenol. I believe I have a debt to repay.”

The [Skirmisher] raised his Forceshield, blocking a swarm of magical arrows. He pointed.

“The door! We will fight them inside!”

He and Prince Zenol ran towards the door as the Liches dove, maddened with fury. The [Prince] ran, heart pumping with terror, fear—relief.

He was alive. The Stitch-man realized he was laughing. He heard Ksmvr chuckling too. Madness? They were both mad! There was no room for anything else. Life and death. They had to fight like the insane. Only that had a chance of survival.

—-

She killed seven of them. Seven Wyverns died, falling to earth, their Draugr crushed by gravity or the huge beast’s weight.

Jericha failed to slay the eighth. It landed, Draugr falling around the [Mages] and Jericha herself, who drew a sword, screaming triumph.

Tyrion was riding faster than he ever had in his life. But he was always so…

Slow. He had missed the hour of Salva’s death. And now—

The Wyvern reared back, undead mouth gaping as it turned beyond reason, for the coach. As if it could sense everything that mattered to him was in there. It began to tear the enchanted wood apart as easily as if it were paper. Tyrion was too distant, Lord Deilan and the other nobles helpless. A scattering of spells from wands and a crossbow from a bodyguard peppered the thick hide to no avail.

A door slid open. The Wyvern turned, and Tyrion opened his mouth.

“No!”

He charged towards a group of skeletons, not even seeing them. He saw the Wyvern’s head rear back to strike like a serpent.

Then the bright sword blazed to life. The blade, thinner than paper, the length of a longsword. A searing light pink, artificially bright.

Tyrion saw the Wind Runner holding it aloft, uncertainly. She didn’t stand like a [Swordswoman]. She swung it, desperately, as the Wyvern dove.

—-

The Faeblade cut through the air as Ryoka Griffin swung it, hearing the screams from the boys within, Jericha’s desperate voice, the scream of the Wyvern.

The tip of the glowing blade met the side of the Wyvern’s neck. Ryoka saw its maw opened wide enough to tear her torso apart in a single bite. An undead monster far beyond anything she could fight. A magical being, a—

Animated piece of meat.

The Faeblade cut through the neck and passed through the air in an arc that left afterimages. Ryoka’s swing overbalanced her and she stumbled. Something hit her and knocked her flat. She cried out, flailing. Then—realized the jaws weren’t closing.

The head of the Wyvern lay half on her. The severed body had already collapsed against the coach. Ryoka’s burning sword stuck out of the body. She tried to shift the huge weight—then cut.

Her sword severed the Wyvern without effort. Like there was nothing there. Ryoka shoved two chunks off her and stood.

“Snicker-snack.”

She murmured. Then looked around and saw Hethon and Sammial staring at her. So was Jericha, who had run forwards, bleeding, wand and sword raised.

Ryoka looked at her gift from the lands of the fae. From the…she hadn’t thought it would work. She looked around, in the stunned silence.

Lord Tyrion Veltras had halted, over a thousand feet away in the fighting, and he was looking at her. Shakily—slowly—the man saluted her with his sword.

Ryoka waved. Then she looked at her sword. The words of the Faerie King began to echo in her head.

“The time has come for you to do more than just run.”

The Wind Runner looked around. Her face was lit by the glowing weapon she held. Hethon and Sammial had lost their jaws, perhaps never to be recovered. They stared at the Courier. She pointed at them with a shaking finger.

“Stay—stay there. Okay?”

They nodded. Ryoka looked around. She took a breath. Then she spread her arms. The Wingsuit caught the sudden breeze.

—-

Mrsha, Tyrion, an open-mouthed Drassi, and the world watched the young woman fly. She went nearly straight up, holding the glowing blade.

Straight towards an undead Griffin. It dove at her, shrieking. The Wind Runner swung, frantically—the wind slammed her right and the Griffin missed. Dizzily, the Wind Runner recovered—and was blown into its back. She impaled the Griffin, almost by accident, through the head.

She had the sense to whirl the blade. And—the Griffin fell, head diced to pieces. In a moment! In a swing! The Wind Runner didn’t have time to process that; the wind took her in a loop-de-loop, over another diving Wyvern’s head. She passed it—and her sword cut through one wing, shearing through and sending the beast falling to the ground.

Two monsters, dead. Ryoka turned, pausing for a second. Then she dove, and the winged horrors began to die.

—-

Lord Deilan’s mouth was so wide open that he nearly got a few droplets of liquid in it. He closed it hurriedly. Perhaps only he’d noticed that Ryoka Griffin had taken that moment to vomit after the sudden motions in the air.

The wind was blowing her as if it had a mind of its own! Slowly, he saw her begin to take command, dodging, rolling in the air with more finesse. She looped around a Wyvern and slashed through one wing, then the other.

It dropped like a stone. The [Lord] of the House of El couldn’t believe it. His eyes never left the glowing blade in her hands. It was effortless as it swung, a projected beam of pure energy that turned Gold-rank undead into corpses in seconds.

“Lord Deilan?”

A quiet voice from his left. The [Lord] stopped his frantic run towards the coach where Lord Tyrion’s sons had been about to…he shuddered.

“Yes? Desiree?”

The woman was looking up at Ryoka too. But she spoke, the [Message] scroll in her hand.

“We have now sold all one hundred and ninety nine Kaalblades in our possession. We have begun manufacture of the rest…for a backlog nearly three times that number.”

“Despite the cost?”

“Despite the cost. I have over a thousand requests for Miss Ryoka Griffin’s custom-made…Kaalblade.”

Desiree looked up. So did Lord Deilan El. He watched the Wind Runner slay another monster and send it falling as the people below cheered and pointed.

“What should I tell them, Deilan?”

His cousin looked uncertain. Lord Deilan’s mouth worked. The truth? He eventually responded.

“…Tell them the Wind Runner’s blade…the sword. The Windsword is clearly, obviously, a custom-made artifact and we cannot take orders for more. Yet. However, the House of El is pleased she is finding her artifact so efficacious in this battle.”

Desiree’s eyes widened, and then she smiled and nodded. Deilan went back to watching Ryoka as she scribbled urgently.

All the truth. Technically. He was getting better at this.

—-

The Wind Runner flew through the air, death to any undead trying to contest it. She was more nimble than a bird! Impossible to hit!

…Or rather, the wind was. Ryoka was just along for the ride and her sword did the rest. Even so—

Ceria couldn’t stop laughing. Elia Arcsinger heard it over her speaking stone as she rose. It was time.

The undead were still coming. The heroics of Prince Zenol had ended the Lich Coven. So the adventurers could fight. So many, though?

Elia looked up past her rooftop and shook her head.

“I have never seen so many. Even the Necromancer could not…so many kinds.”

What she saw was the full power of a [Necromancer] in their lair. The Named Adventurer looked up and saw a waddling giant like the smaller containers of tiny undead. More zombie-giants armored in metal. And a giant bone horror.

All smashing the Frostmarrow Behemoth. Yet Ceria was laughing, somewhere. Why? Because of her friend? Did she know the Wind Runner? She had said as much.

Elia had no time for questions. The Frostmarrow Behemoth had survived four battles with undead of its size. It was clearly superior to most of the mundane ones, but the faster-moving giant looked like a Draugr scaled up. Could that even happen? Her blood ran cold at the idea.

“The behemoth will fall! I will buy your group time to retreat with my greatest Skill. Eldertuin, fall back!”

“Acknowledged, Arcsinger.”

Her daughter looked up, eyes shining, and began shouting into her stone.

“Arcsinger is using her Skill! Fall back! Fall—”

The Named Adventurer tuned her out. The rest of the world grew silent. All she listened to was her own frantically-beating heart. She saw a memory. A charging monster, looking at her.

Her shot was urged on by more than just the need. Intuition. Now, the little voice urged her. Elia trusted in it. It wasn’t hers. She was familiar with that voice.

“[Line-Ender Shot].”

She drew back on her golden bow and her arrow blazed. At the same time, she heard the voice turn joyous.

—-

The King of Avel, one of the most famous kingdoms in the world for its archers, raised his bow. The Arrow of a Thousand Leagues was confiscated. However, the royal bow gleamed as he triumphantly shouted.

“Now!”

The power of his bow, one of the greatest artifacts of Terandria remaining, unleashed itself.

—-

[Bound Skill: Royal Command — Fourfold Volley]!

Elia fired. And four arrows pierced the sky. Adventurers and undead looked up as four lines of light shot forwards and—pierced—the heads of four giants.

Four figures collapsed. The arrows continued, blasting through buildings, even the torso of another undead. On the ground, Eldertuin heard insane cheering as adventurers shouted her name, and the half-Elf raised her arm.

Arcsinger!

Her greatest Skill, worthy of the slayer of the Goblin King, had felled four giants, each with a single blow! Eldertuin watched the undead collapse.

“Not enough.”

There were more. Two zombie giants were fighting the Frostmarrow Behemoth. Tearing it apart with huge bashing strikes of their clubs. It was going to fall. Eldertuin shook his head, calling for Ceria to retreat.

He…

How long have I been thinking that? The Named Adventurer caught himself. Eldertuin the Fortress could have sworn he’d seen the same sight not thirty minutes ago. The Frostmarrow Behemoth, taking terrible damage even as it beat down the other undead. How was it…

His head turned. The former-[Farmer] looked up. He’d wondered why Ryoka Griffin liked the Horns. Perhaps it was just friendship, which had touched him.

Now he knew more of why the Courier was friends with this team.

They were all as mad as she was.

There, on the Frostmarrow Behemoth’s back was a figure. She had created a kind of cage of ice, such that when the undead reared back, she could still stand. Ceria Springwalker pressed her hands to the creation’s back and the ice regrew.

The Frostmarrow Behemoth’s jaws opened and it bit the undead giant’s head. It began to crush the helmet and skull and both fell to earth with a tumultuous impact. The other zombie raised its club to smash in the ice-and-bone creation’s head.

Ice formed a shield across two roofs, catching the arm. The zombie tore it apart after a few seconds, but the Frostmarrow Behemoth was already turning.

—-

“Attack! Ram it! Ram it!”

Ceria was screaming as her command-seat on top of the Behemoth’s back shook. The creation charged forwards, striking the undead giant in the stomach. The other creation stumbled—or tried to.

One of its ankles was engulfed in ice. Trapped, it went over and the Frostmarrow Behemoth, the bone-ice bear-thing began to savage it.

“Two down!”

Like a madwoman, the half-Elf danced about, channeling more icy power into the Behemoth. She heard a voice.

“What are you doing? Get down! You’ll be crushed!”

Eldertuin. He’d noticed where she’d gone. Ceria ignored him. This was the only way! Laughing like a maniac, she directed her giant colossus towards the next opponent. Giant monster fight! Giant monster fight!

If they survived this, Ceria was going to do this with Pisces and maybe Revi for fun. She knew she was going to die. She knew she was insane. But she was going to drag as many undead down as she could.

Her bones shook as something hit the Frostmarrow Behemoth. Ceria was flung against her protective cage. She wiped at her bloody nose. She was bleeding from cuts, and she was concussed with each blow. She didn’t care.

Someone had to kill those things.

—-

The Skeleton Lord had killed two Silver-ranks before the rest could run. It advanced, with a stalking grace. That was their error, if there was any.

They had personality, so the high-level undead weren’t perfect killing machines. It could have slaughtered more adventurers if it had just moved into the next charge, but it had to have style. Dignity.

It halted as the adventurers met a figure in the street. For a moment they drew back in horror. A lone undead? A—

The young man was alive. He had a white robe on, which he’d altered to keep from tripping him up. He stood as the adventurers rushed past him. A burning rapier in one hand…something in the other.

The Skeleton Lord stopped, sensing a foe it should take more seriously. The magical flames in its eye sockets fixed on what the [Necromancer] was holding.

Pisces Jealnet had two minor cuts on his leg and chest. His white robe would have shown more blood if it hadn’t been enchanted against stains. He was breathing hard. His breath came in ragged gasps, yet he still had strength to lift the other Skeleton Lord’s head.

He tossed it down onto the street. His foot came down and shattered the skull.

The undead warrior regarded Pisces. It lifted the halberd it was carrying and saluted him. Pisces lifted his rapier—then lowered it, sniffed, and spat in the street.

The Skeleton Lord charged with a silent roar. Like an arrow, it launched across the street, halberd whirling to cut the insolent Human in two! It slashed—

Pisces [Flash Stepped] back. His rapier darted out, trying to deflect the blade. The Skeleton Lord was strong! It was like trying to block one of Yvlon’s full force blows. His hand rang.

The adventurers turned back as the [Necromancer] whirled, striking out with a leap across the ground. He was blurring back in a moment as the halberd-wielding Skeleton Lord struck out.

Despite the huge weapon, it was faster than the last one! Pisces ducked a slash and then saw the Skeleton Lord redirect the blow mid-swing. He lunged forwards with a shout. His hand flicked—

[Shatterbolt]!

The Skeleton Lord pivoted—dug the tip of the halberd into the ground, and with inhuman strength and agility, used it to vault over Pisces’ head. It wrenched the halberd free in a spray of stones, cutting—he wasn’t there.

The two blurring figures halted, Pisces panting, the Skeleton Lord regarding him. The adventurers halted, uncertain. One raised a wand.

“Don’t—”

Pisces leaned back as the halberd nearly cut his nose in two, ending his sniffing for good. The Skeleton Lord reset itself smoothly. It left no openings! Pisces cursed. Then he went for broke.

The greater undead sensed the moving stones and turned. However, instead of swinging its halberd to the rising, hostile skeleton warrior that Pisces had summoned, it swung one gauntleted fist in a savage backhand, knocking the skeleton to pieces.

Still—it was one-handed. Pisces lunged in. His free hand blasted a rain of acid at the Skeleton Lord’s face. His rapier in the other hand launched outwards in a stab.

The Skeleton Lord was caught. It had two threats—and chose the far lesser one. It dodged around the acid, let the rapier glance off its leg, contemptuous. It was a skeleton! Greater Undead! Even if the rapier had been enchanted, it would have to hack through its bones, not just score a flesh hit!

It planted itself to whirl the halberd and put an end to this ridiculous fight. The skeleton—felt itself falling?

It caught itself with the butt of the halberd. Pisces had leapt back. Now, he looked at the Skeleton Lord. Confused, the undead looked down. How…?

His right leg lay beneath him. Gone. Armor had fallen along with bones. They had…shattered…where the rapier struck them!

[Bone Fracture]. Or some variation of the spell. It had torn apart the bones, fractured then shattered them in an instant. The kind of spell no one knew because it didn’t work on living people—only one kind of person would learn that spell.

A [Necromancer].

It—that wasn’t—the Skeleton Lord tried to balance on one leg. The [Necromancer]! A [Necromancer] with a rapier, who could get close and deliver the spell! The Human was too weak to snap his neck, but his command of bones by touch—

The Skeleton Lord swung its weapon, teeth gnashing, challenging the [Necromancer]. Very well—very well! It waited.

Pisces just pointed. The Skeleton Lord’s head turned. The adventurers were taking aim. It looked back at Pisces and glared at him.

Coward. Fight fair—

After the blasted corpse had fallen, Pisces recovered the broken skull and limped on. It seemed to work as a taunt. He ignored the skeleton’s silent ire, even after its destruction. Fight fair? Who did that if they wanted to win?

—-

An hour had passed since nightfall, and the war raged on. It was a war, and no one could honestly say who was winning.

Not even the Titan of Baleros; certainly not anyone guessing from any one heroic stand. Yes, the Lich Coven was dead. So what? This was a pernicious foe without limits.

However, the living fought, creating moments of heroism to keep that hope alive. Like the Wind Runner of Reizmelt.

“Thirty six! Thirty seven! That’s thirty seven dead Gold-rank class monsters by the Courier, Ryoka Griffin!”

Drassi was counting them out. If this had been another army—what a toll one woman was reaping! Not just that—the adventurers might die, but with each undead monstrosity that fell, the power of the undead waned.

If it had been Az’kerash’s army, he would have long ago counted this as a pyrrhic victory even had he triumphed. Far too costly.

This was a battle to the death, though. Individuals like Ryoka Griffin, the half-Elf riding the Frostmarrow Behemoth, or the [Necromancer] hunting down the Skeleton Lords one-by-one were able to change the battlefield.

What if they died, though? It just took one death. The undead…kept…coming.

Undead giants strode towards Tyrion Veltras’ forces. Trebuchets fired, striking one and caving in a chest. Yet the damned things were so huge and the armor made them even harder to slay.

Nevertheless, the figure rode down on the nearest one, as his army shouted his name. Bereft of his cavalry, Tyrion Veltras raised his lance.

“Two lances, one death!”

He bellowed the words, then surged forwards. He rode across the ground, ignoring the other undead. The zombie tried to bend to strike him. It missed as he accelerated.

The watchers saw his lance pierce the leg, ramming through armor, and out the other side. Tyrion caught himself—and the giant fell. He turned. Before the colossal undead could rise, he had run it through its vulnerable head.

“At least one of them knows how to fight giants.”

That comment came in the royal sitting room. The others in the small group, watching the king-sized scrying mirror, started.

“Excuse me?”

Queen Oiena Zessoprical, wife to King Itorin II of Ailendamus, who was watching with his royal family, turned in her chair. Her look of annoyance at anyone outside of her immediate family—husband, three sons and two daughters, one of each was present—turned to uncertainty.

“That man. ‘Two lances, one death’ and there! Those Minotaurs.”

A pair of Minotaurs was fighting in bloody conflict with a smaller Hill Ogre or something similar. They had shouted—Wered and Dorgon.

“Three axes, one death!”

The words were definitely connected now the royal family was clued in. Itorin II raised his head in interest; he had actually been half-napping, exhausted from his royal duties as his youngest son leaned forwards on his lap.

This private room of the royal family was not occupied by outsiders. However, Duke Rhisveri Zessoprical was a cousin. A brother-in-law, rather. Oiena had never actually been clear, but the man was a trusted friend of her husband, a member of the royal family.

He had not joined the gathering, but had been walking through the royal wing, in a foul mood. However—he had stopped when he saw the scrying orb.

“Two lances, one death. It is a saying of [Knights] who slew Giants! Two lances, one for the leg, the second for the head or chest. Three axes, one death. The same for the best warriors on foot.”

The Duke repeated himself, with far too much annoyance towards the royal family for Queen Oiena’s comfort. As if they were idiots for not knowing this minutiae. Who fought giants—besides undead giants—these days? However, Itorin just nodded.

“I see.”

He did not upbraid the Duke, so Oiena did not. The man stood there, watching. His next words were…intent.

“That…girl. Flying there. Who…who is she?”

He had just seen the Wind Runner as it cut back to her. The Duke’s lips were moving, and Oiena was astonished he hadn’t heard of her.

“That’s the Wind Runner of Reizmelt. Have you noticed that magnificent blade, cousin?”

“I don’t care about that, woman. That girl. What is her…name?”

The Queen gasped and looked to her husband. Itorin hesitated and glanced at the Duke. Rhisveri met his eyes, glanced at Oiena, and snorted. He focused on the young woman again.

Let’s see. Black hair? Check. Height…yes, that’s about right. Female? Check. Human? Check.

He hadn’t been able to find…but his spells could do exact measurements. Even stupid ones. Breast size? He squinted at the image; clicked his tongue in annoyance. Skin tone was absolutely on, though. Did she have green eyes?

Every detail. Now the Duke stepped forwards, between the royal family and the scrying orb.

“Uncle!”

The young [Prince] of Ailendamus complained. He went to kick Rhisveri’s back—Itorin caught it.

“Enough.”

He gave his family a warning look. Silently, they stared as Rhisveri blocked their view, uncertain now.

“What…is that woman’s name?”

“Ryoka Griffin.”

Rhisveri snapped around so fast that the [King], [Queen], and their children flinched.

“Ryoka—”

Itorin II opened his mouth, but the Duke was already striding off. His voice was furious. How? How, how…? Drath? Of course! That—

—-

Hope and despair and hope again. Seborn wished the battle would take one side or the other. He was panting. He was thirsty.

The sight of Ryoka Griffin in the skies made him think he’d lost his mind completely. Yet there she was, killing more undead effortlessly.

“Ulinde. Tell me you see that.”

The Selphid [Spellslinger] gaped upwards. She had thought seeing Mage Merzun entering the battle and blowing one of the Liches to bits would be the strangest sight in the skies.

This? She saw a lightning bolt called from far away hit a Wyvern and Ryoka kill another, de-winging it, the safest strike. Wistram was in this battle! They had nothing to lose.

Ryoka though? Seborn cursed. The mysterious archer was still there!

“Ryoka! Dive! Here! Get down! Ryoka!”

His voice was too far away to reach her. The Wind Runner zigzagged through the air, so fast and randomly that Seborn thought she was safer than she looked, despite the risk—but he was still looking for a way to signal her. Ksmvr? The Antinium and Zenol had rejoined them, after killing thirteen more Liches and breaking free onto the street.

It was as Seborn looked up that he saw the hole in the skies open. The closer they came to the city of the dead—let alone entered the winding streets—the weaker their magical links became.

Speaking stones failed. [Lesser Teleport] scrolls malfunctioned. The adventurers were holding on the outskirts, where city met village. It was as if any foreign magic died in the city. Seborn had no idea how Ryoka’s artifact or wind powers could function. Wistram’s Archmage could barely call down a single lightning bolt every twenty three minutes!

Some spell managed to break through the power of the Village of the Dead, though. It wasn’t an undead’s spell—and nor was it an adventurer’s as it turned out.

Ryoka Griffin whirled as purple, no, amaranthine light shone down. Black light, though. As if it were the inverse of light itself.

A hole in the sky opened over her head. She saw a single, massive, blinking eye. Like a certain eye of a dark lord, a huge vertical slit of rage focusing on her. A voice boomed through the skies, ringing with fury.

“I’ve found you.”

—-

Jericha felt the spell breach the skies in the distance. She saw the Wind Runner recoil, fleeing, but the hole in the sky followed her. Was something…reaching for her? The bellowed words made her look for Hethon and Sammial, just to make sure they were safe.

A roar of fury. The Wind Runner was clearly just as startled as everyone else. The voice continued, filled with tones of rage.

“Thief! I see you—”

Ryoka Griffin whirled overhead as the wind blew her back towards safety. She shouted.

“Holy f—[Flashbang]!”

She pointed and her finger issued a single mote of light. It shot towards the opening and then—

Jericha went deaf and blind for a second as, almost directly overhead, the spell detonated. And that was from the ground. The hole abruptly closed with a shriek.

Ryoka landed, unsure of what the hell that had been. She’d just reacted instinctively when it seemed like the light reached for her—

She stood, unsteadily, then looked at Hethon and Sammial. They still hadn’t found their jaws and this wasn’t helping. Ryoka took off as Tyrion raced towards her to say something or ask what that had been—Jericha watched Ryoka go.

“Interesting. She knows the [Flareshriek] spell? It sounds—different. What was…?”

Jericha had no time to assemble this new puzzle piece with the old. She had to get back to the fighting. They were winning! Or at least, burning the undead down as fast as they came. Ryoka had the skies! Jericha would get her hands on that magnificent blade later.

And ask where it had come from, then. It…might…might be something Lord Tyrion should have been wearing, not Ryoka Griffin. If that was the case, how in the world did the Wind Runner have it?

—-

“Are they going to do it?”

“I don’t know.”

The reply was…morose? Apathetic. Preoccupied. It enraged the first, who snapped.

“Well, you’re not certain about much these days, are you?”

It was a harsh response. Typical—but not. Too aggressively pointed, too…bitter. Too much like a thrown knife, rather than a snippy comment. The second’s tone became even more defensive, taking on hurt like a shield.

“I didn’t say that. I just don’t know war. This isn’t about that.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that!”

One voice, bickering, concealing uncertainty via wrath. The second, defensive, almost sounding petulant as they argued. It could swap places. The hurt turn to wrath, the first’s voice turn to tears in a moment.

It would be music to her ears if she cared for such things. Not music; not for the [Witch]. Just a sense of satisfaction.

Lasica and Rufelt sat in their bar, trying to watch the scrying orb. Yet neither could quite focus. They didn’t meet each other’s eyes.

Like a ball of tangled thread. Tangling itself further as one pulled or the other resisted. They could have untangled the knot with time. If not for…

The Stitch Witch entered the bar. Rufelt dropped his mug. Lasica whirled. The arguing couple halted.

“You—I told you no! Why is she here?”

Rufelt whirled on Lasica. The Drake’s face became angry, for all she was worried.

“I promised her nothing! How dare you suggest—”

Another tangle. Belavierr smiled.

“I am only here to talk. Hello, Rufelt.”

“Begone. I’ll—I’ll call the Watch. I don’t want you here. You’re not welcome! You’re not allowed to come in if I don’t invite you.”

The Gnoll reached for a club under the bar. Lasica seized his arm, snarling at him.

“Don’t be a fool!”

“Be a fool?”

He snarled back. Belavierr tilted her head, waiting to interject her offer, another snarl. However…her head turned.

“What is that?”

She blinked at the scrying orb. Rufelt and Lasica halted. Lasica opened her mouth; he glared at her. She glared back and replied.

“The Village of the Dead. Adventurers, fighting.”

Belavierr had meant the news network in general. She’d forgotten it existed. She peered at the scrying spell. Her head moved. Left. Right. Inspecting it while being in the way as much as Duke Rhisveri had, oblivious to other people’s concerns. So it went with that kind of person.

However…Lasica was rewarded as the Stitch Witch’s head rose and she murmured.

“Ah. The Putrid One. Is he back again?”

The Drake and Gnoll stirred. They looked at Belavierr. No one had mentioned the Necromancer who had created this place.

“The…Putrid One? I don’t know. It’s a Necromancer. And the adventurers are going to win. Destroy the evil in the heart of that place.”

Rufelt spoke defiantly, trying to meet Belavierr’s ringed gaze. She regarded him. Rufelt was trembling. He hated her more than anyone he had ever met in his life. Hated that she had come here and offered—

“Really. Winning?”

Belavierr turned her head and looked at the scrying orb. Lasica and Rufelt both nodded. Belavierr’s head turned back. Carelessly; she wasn’t truly interested unless he was back. But if he was…

“I don’t see his greater undead. Are they already dead, then? It matters not.”

“Greater…?”

Rufelt whispered. He looked at the scrying orb. Then—realized Belavierr was gone.

She stood behind Lasica. Her broad hat casting a shadow even in the light of the bar. She smiled as she put her hands on Lasica’s shoulders.

“I came here to make you an offer, Rufelt. Let us talk.”

He made the mistake of staring at her. This time—the rings in her eyes dragged him in. Ensnaring him further in…

—-

Revi was panting. Her summons spent. She had used every trick, every bit of mana she could use. Her head rang from the mana potions she had drunk and she knew she was reaching overload.

Yet still…the battle continued. They needed her summons more than ever! She was half-considering knocking herself out in case she leveled.

“We have to go in there. We can fight! I can fight!”

The other [Mages] ignored her. They had refused; they weren’t hand-to-hand specialists, mostly. They had exhausted themselves countering the Liches. They were standing here, to ‘protect’ the other adventurers if they had to retreat.

Revi knew it was wrong to want to get them to enter the village. But could they just stand here, uselessly?

“Don’t worry, Revi. As soon as we recharge, we’ll be tossing more spells. We won’t sit idle. We also won’t be going into the Village of the Dead, is that clear? Not you nor me. My bones can’t take it.”

“I didn’t mean that, Geni. Not you—”

Revi grinned weakly. She sat, listening to the speaking stone. She hadn’t heard any more horrific undead coming in yet. The hole in the sky though…why had it followed Ryoka? What had she gotten herself into n—

A furious sound made Revi look up. Barking. The two dogs, which had been placidly sitting or watching the battle from afar had risen to their feet. Revi blinked.

“What’s wrong? Bram, right?”

The [Beast Tamer] looked at her.

“Sorry! I think they picked something up on the wind. Maybe the fighting? Makki, Mousey, what is it?”

The other [Mages] stirred slightly as the light guard around their position looked up. They didn’t take the dogs lightly. If they smelled something…

Revi was getting up when Mousey and Makki’s heads turned as one. They…tracked something across the ground, hackles raised. Makki snarled. Then—broke free. She raced forwards, tangled with something.

“Dead gods!”

Everyone saw the dog hit something in the air and float for a second. It hurled her down and Bram cried out, raising his sword.

“Makki! Mousey, attack! Everyone, get up! It’s invisible zombies! Inv—”

His shout was cut off. Revi stared as Bram stopped, trembling. Makki—the dog wasn’t moving. The way their heads had moved. Mousey was staring at something. Invisible zombies? It had been so fast—

Something hurled Bram down. Revi saw the [Beast Tamer] fall like a sack of bones. She raised her wand and a flare of light hit whatever it was as Mousey leapt. The blood of Makki and Bram were on it. With the flare of magic, as the [Mages] and adventurers turned, Revi saw the outline of what it was.

“Not invisible zombies. Invisible ghouls! Inv—”

—-

“Eldertuin, I need your fastest adventurers to return to our lines! We are under attack! Invisible Ghouls or other undead have assailed us! I am in the skies!”

Soew screamed into his ear. The Named Adventurer whirled.

“Invisible undead!”

He bellowed. Every adventurer in earshot swore. They checked themselves, and Eldertuin spoke.

“I’m sending you help!”

“Watch the skies. There are more undead. I see—more undead. Coming for your position and the behemoth.”

“Wyverns?”

Eldertuin turned his head up, looking for the Wind Runner. If she could keep them clear or contest them—

The Named Adventurer halted. His shield, battered throughout the battle yet perfectly intact still, rose. He lifted his enchanted mace, set himself.

“Those aren’t Wyverns. What is…flying undead. Halrac, do you see them? Arcsinger?”

Both [Archers] called out a slow affirmative. Eldertuin looked up. No, those weren’t Wyverns. They were too small. Nor were they Liches.

They came out of the skies, through the clouds like the dark sky itself had birthed them. Trailing dark vapor. They were no more real than a cloud was; yet hands gripped painfully-dark blades, scythes like a [Farmer] might wield.

“Wraiths. Reaper-Specters.”

Eldertuin breathed. He had never…never seen…the adventurers looked at him as one dove, like a slow-falling drift of fog. He saw hands lift the scythe and swing.

The Named Adventurer, Eldertuin the Fortress, raised his shield. He blocked, perfectly—and the scythe passed through his shield. He felt a cold, cutting pain sear through his body.

For the first time, he cried out in a scream of pain. His mace struck back, but the mist-body barely registered the blow. The undead recoiled and swung its scythe. A Silver-rank fell, dead. Heart stopped.

—-

Halrac saw the wraiths descend and his heart sank. These weren’t the undead he knew, or had even seen. These…

Something stepped out from behind the Lich Coven’s tower. It turned, as tall as the tower itself, and looked towards the Frostmarrow Behemoth, which had withstood everything and anything that had come at it.

The shadow had no real body. It was all angles and lines, no curves, no natural creation. It had no contrast, no depth. Yet it moved. It walked and Ceria looked up at it.

—-

Arcsinger shot an arrow and watched it pass through the giant’s body. She heard a mortal scream through the speaking stones.

“It’s there! Arcsinger, someone, kill it! Please! We can’t harm it!”

The shadow-thing? Elia put another arrow to her bow. Then she saw a second thing walking down the streets.

It looked like…her eyes widened. She lowered the bow and saw adventurers fleeing. It looked like a miniature version of a creature she had seen just recently. Another undead she had thought belonged to legends—no—which she knew belonged to that era.

The Jaw of Zeikhal, a smaller version, advanced down the street, ignoring the spells and arrows pelting it.

—-

Montressa du Valeross was crying. It was the only sound in the inn, again. Niers had raised his hand, but he didn’t know…these foes.

They were the same things Montressa saw every night. The same undead that had rampaged through…

—-

“Archmage Nekhret’s guardians.”

Pisces stood in the street, looking up at the floating undead. They were just one of many. Now, the [Necromancer] felt it in his bones. So that was the level of this place.

That was their folly. He hesitated, raising the speaking stone to his lips. He knew she was watching, from wherever she was, reliving his horror.

“Ceria? Ceria…Yvlon? Ksmvr? Can you hear me? We must…”

—-

It was then he spoke. The [Veteran Scout]. Halrac lifted the speaking stone to his lips. He spoke one word.

“Retreat. Run. Get out of the city. We can’t fight this.”

He saw Ryoka Griffin fleeing the skies. She had locked blades with a single one of the wraiths—and it had shattered her sword like glass with its weapon. Only a twist in the air had saved her.

He heard his word repeated from Elia, and Eldertuin, gasping with pain. And one more place. Halrac thought it was just someone with a copy of his stone, but then he turned his head.

Throughout it all, they had never stopped the broadcast. The heroism, the action, the adventure, triumph and failure had all been shown on the scrying orbs, through the eyes of [Mages] on the ground, through the skies—as close as they could get to the city before the spells began to fail.

Now, she sat there. No longer the observer who occasionally commented. Nor the [Reporter] bringing the story to life.

It was just Drassi. She spoke into the scrying orb.

“Retreat. If there are any adventurers listening to our broadcast—retreat. This isn’t a suggestion. Run as fast as you can. It’s not a fight for you. Is it? Your Majesty?”

“No.”

The voice was cold, but not heartless. It echoed—yet it was not malicious. The first caller-in in the world’s history, King Fetohep of Khelt, spoke into the scrying orb. The undead king, one of the last experts who could speak, looked past Drassi. Into Halrac’s eyes.

“These undead are beyond you, adventurers. Summon another army. Summon Named Adventurers in the quantities of Gold-ranks that were here. Mundane blades will not even touch wraiths or ghosts. The Jaws of Zeikhal can survive Tier 6 spells, even in infancy. That shadow will destroy the Frostmarrow Behemoth without a scratch. I tell you, run. A Revenant walks that city. You heard it speak. It has all the Skills it had in life, as I do. Flee. There is no cowardice in it. All that remains now is suicide.”

The Gold-rank captain closed his eyes. Hearing it made it no less painful. However, he stood.

“You heard him. Run. I need a rear-guard to slow them down.”

The adventurers in his company, who had fought to the bitter end looked at Halrac’s face. Then they turned and began to run. A few tried to slow the undead as the rest began to flee the slaughter.

—-

They came through the city, one final wave to end it all. The invaders had done so well. They had slaughtered the failures who had come before. They had killed rank-and-file. However, now they died.

The greatest undead were few in number. Yet what the adventurers had experienced with the undead was now reversed. The undead barely fell, and tore through the adventurers and army outside without slowing.

Tyrion Veltras locked blades with a wraith. He exchanged blows, his shield repelling some strikes; tasting cold pain in his chest as he took wounds his armor didn’t block.

[Deathbolt]. It was like a weapon made of that. His sword cut the undead; he saw it. His artifact could…hurt it…

Eight minutes the duel took. It was not a beautiful dance, though they were both good. Neither knew the other; Tyrion fought a floating, darting foe, it chased him on his horse’s back.

At the end, it screamed, a shriek of pain, and vanished. The sixth time he had plunged his blade into the thing’s ‘chest’, it had taken. Tyrion lowered his sword, arm numb with frost.

In the time it had taken him to kill one, over two hundred soldiers had died to the others. Jericha was blasting one with magic and it barely slowed.

“Retreat.”

He saw the Kaalblades cutting one down. Tyrion pointed, and the [Mercenaries] fell back too. Even so—he looked over his shoulder and shook his head.

—-

“Moore, run, damn you!”

Seborn was running, stopping, turning to look over his shoulder. Everyone was fleeing.

“I have lost Ksmvr! Where is Yvlon?”

Zenol was shouting. Something had torn off his arm. Blood ran, until he yanked the strings and changed flesh-and-blood to stuffing. He was with his three remaining servants, looking around.

“No time! Run!”

Jelaqua grabbed his shoulder. Both ran, stumbling, but they were still faster than the slow shape behind them.

Moore was covered in blood. He had seen the worst fighting. Taken the most damage but for Jelaqua, and her body could be replaced.

“Moore! Ulinde, spells, damn you! Slow them down!”

Seborn ran forwards, but he couldn’t even take Moore’s weight. He could only curse at the half-Giant, pushing him as he looked behind.

The [Spellslinger] tried—but the wraiths came on. They were walking now, advancing, cutting down everything they caught.

Ghosts. They looked like clouds grasping weapons sometimes, as they flew. The dead copies of people, now. Like Revi’s summons, but baleful.

Seborn’s arm was numb from where one had cut him. He pushed Moore.

“Leave me, Seborn.”

The [Green Mage] gasped. His voice rattled in his lungs. They had cut him multiple times and he was slowing.

“No. Come on!”

“I’ll hold them back. It’s time. I can’t…”

Moore stopped. Seborn grabbed his arm. The half-Giant was turning, lifting his staff, consumed by the same fury after Erin’s death. He wanted to stride forwards. Seborn gripped his arm with all his strength.

“If you stay. There will be two corpses here. I don’t want to die.”

His friend looked down at him. With a groan, he turned and tried to run. Seborn ran with him. He turned to look over his shoulder.

Yes. They’d catch them. Catch one. The [Rogue] checked the dagger in his good hand.

“Keep running, you idiot. If you slow down, I’ll stab you.”

Moore didn’t hear. He was moving now, blind, too exhausted to turn again. Seborn slowly came to a walk. Then a stand-still.

“Seborn!”

Ulinde screamed. He turned.

“I was afraid I’d die today. I should have stayed back.”

There was no such thing as a bloodless battle. He had only wondered when it would be one of his friends. That was what he cared about, heartless as it was.

The [Rogue] stepped back as the Wraiths caught up. Just behind Moore’s back. That’s all the distance he had to be. He closed his eyes for a second, pivoting. To strike—

Light bathed his face. Light, in this desolate place. Sure it was a spell, Seborn dove—then looked up.

“No—Moore.”

Yet the half-Giant was staggering onwards. What was…? Seborn glanced over his shoulder and saw sunlight.

Bright, beautiful, real. More enticing than any spell that had illuminated this damned place.

It shone down for a second. Bathing him in light. The [Rogue] looked up, awe-struck. Then saw something in the street.

The Wraiths had stopped. Uncertainly; the ghost-undead lifted their blades and regarded what had pulled itself out of thin air. A glowing figure. Seborn’s eyes widened.

“Antinium…?”

The two Workers never turned back. They glowed, with a radiant counterpoint to the specters in death. Armed with kitchen knives, an actual hammer, even a handsaw—they charged. Grappling, striking the Wraiths as if they were real things. The undead fell back, as awed as Seborn.

He? He looked up at the light and remembered an Antinium kneeling in prayer. Somewhere…Pawn spoke.

“Amen.”

Seborn turned and ran after Moore, grabbing his arm, hurrying him along.

—-

They were all running. The Minotaur called for her. Wered and Dorgon were the furthest in. They had fought, bringing down gigantic undead, without yield. Without quarter.

Yet they too were running. It was only logical.

Even so. Yvlon Byres stood in the streets. So frustrated she could scream. They were so close. And yet—

“Yvlon! Yvlon Byres, with us!”

Dorgon leapt back from a swinging wraith. It cut the air with rapid strikes, ignoring the powerful swings of Wered’s maul. Both Minotaurs gave up and ran backwards. Yet they looked at her.

Yvlon blocked a slash that numbed her hands just by the proximity to the blade. Frost covered her arms and armor. She cut back—yet her Sword of Weight passed fruitlessly through the specter’s chest. Wrong enchantment. Weight meant nothing to a ghost.

It was using a damned scythe, as if she was a patch of wheat! It wasn’t even a real weapon; if she had been able to strike it, it would have been dead two dozen times already.

“We were so close. So—”

Yvlon blocked a strike from a Skeleton Knight. It had given up on etiquette. She swung her sword and buried it in its pauldrons; down it went. She whirled. A monstrosity of a blob gaped at her. Her sword descended again and its body exploded around her.

The scythe swung. The [Armsmistress] ducked. Her sword whirled.

“[Curve of the Moon]!”

The undead around her disappeared—save for the wraiths. Now, both were bearing down on her.

“Not yet!”

Yvlon howled. She cut at both, but it was fruitless. Dorgon was bellowing her name, but the woman was fighting in the center of the street, refusing to retreat.

Like the Adult Creler, Yvlon saw only red. She cut, even trying a mordhau, screaming her fury at the undead. They didn’t care.

“Byres! There is no dishonor here!”

Dorgon tried one last time. But it was no good. Yvlon lashed out—then caught herself. Too late.

A scythe cleaved towards her head as her sword flailed in the center of the wraith’s chest, striking only air. The woman saw the deadly blade coming down and reflexively raised her arm.

Clang. The wraith recoiled. Yvlon heard the metal sound. Then—she looked at her arms. She felt the kiss of metal and terrible cold. Yet—

The wraith backed up, eyes flashing uncertainly. Yvlon looked at her arm as the other came forwards. She flung a fist out and caught it in the chest.

A scream. A shriek of pain! The undead backed up, and Yvlon saw steam or something leaking from the place she’d struck it.

She looked at her arms. The arms she hated so much. The wraiths stared at her. So did the Minotaurs, looking shocked.

“Silver and steel.”

The [Armsmistress] threw her head back. She began laughing, laughing at the sky. The two undead attacked her.

Yvlon Byres dropped her sword to the ground. She whirled.

Her arm went through one of the specters’ chests. It screamed again, but still tried to cut her. It—

“[Armform: Razorkind].”

For the first time that battle, Yvlon abandoned the Human shape of her arms. The silver-steel flesh rippled.

Spikes of metal exploded through the Wraith’s chest. Her arm turned into a ball of thin needles, shooting outwards like a porcupine’s quills.

The undead vanished in a wail and miasma of lights. The other swung its blade, desperately.

It locked its sword with Yvlon’s other arm.

[Armform: Duelist]. The woman’s arm was gone. All that remained was a metal blade, which she swung into it.

The Minotaurs saw the [Armsmistress] whirl as more undead came down the street. They shouted at her, shocked by the transformation of her arms. They saw her begin to run—

The wrong way. The woman grabbed a Draugr’s head and a spike of metal shot through her palm, knocking its helmet off as the undead fell with a hole in its face. Yvlon—ran deeper into the city. The words still on her lips.

Not. Yet.

—-

More horrors were emerging. The adventurers were all running, now. The encouragement of the undead king and the leader’s words had been the impetus. Though, if some had dared to stay and fight even now…

That resolve faded. Nightmares came out.

A floating orb of eyes joined the abominations in the air. But it wasn’t—wasn’t—

Right. If you imagined a giant floating eye, like a Gazer, you were wrong. If you imagined form, you were wrong. It was just…eyes. Tiny eyes, plucked from sockets, squished, assembled into one horrific orb that stared everywhere.

Such things were more terrible than he had ever seen. It broke the nerve of even Gold-ranks.

The ground moved and something peeked out, snatching at a running adventurer’s heels. It parted dirt and brickwork like water. Reaching to drag her screaming into—

This was the last guard. The final action of the inner city’s defenders. If there had been a—a mind controlling it all, they would have fought with the rank and file, emerging when the lesser undead in the village were under attack.

His mouth was full of bile and his body shook with terror. Worse horrors than he had thought could exist. Worse than the darkest pacts he had ever made.

He turned, even so. His legs carried him across the ground and he shouted, mouth moving in terrified defiance. Why did you scream your allegiance, cries of victory, even in the face of death, no matter how silly it was?

It was that or scream.

“The honor of Izril! The pride of d—”

He couldn’t finish the shout before the thing in the ground emerged out in a shower of dirt, ignoring the Gold-rank and turning for him. Death! He screamed. D—

“Now. [Lancing Thrusts].”

His voice emerged, calm, precise. The rapier in his hand—blurred. He saw his Skill hit the monstrosity across the face.

Piercing blows. The tip of his rapier caught the thing! Shattered the bone-mask on its face. Yet the undead beneath was all jaws—

It opened incisor-claws, ready to tear him apart. It lunged; he would be dead even if he leapt back. The terrible force within him knew that.

It carried him forwards. His enchanted rapier slashed, seeking a heart. A core—the jaws snapped. His blade was tangled; his arm constricted.

The other hand shot forwards, and the parrying dagger slashed. Tomoor fell, the jaws closing around him, screaming—

His arm cut something. The body went slack. The huge weight of the tunneling horror fell on him, but with immense strength, he pushed it up just enough to stagger out—

Adventurers stared at him. The perfect thrust! Tomoor had felt the precision, the daring to use that Skill to find the core of the undead he had…known…was there. A single step back, a single hesitation.

“Amazing.”

Someone breathed. Tomoor whirled.

“Run! Keep running, you idiots!”

They jumped and sprinted. That was his voice. It had all been his voice, his body. Yet that skill, that artistry—

No. That wasn’t him at all. If he could have told someone…he wouldn’t. He longed to, with all his heart. He wanted to run; he was no Gold-rank hero. He had not the Skills for this. He was barely—barely—Level 30.

The [Duelist] turned and set himself against a Draugr’s charge. He killed it in a single thrust, almost contemptuously. A wraith bore down on him, scythe raised, and he whirled. His rapier should not have been able to harm it—not with the simple [Piercing] enchantment on it.

He slew it in less than a second, his blade’s tip tearing the fragile ether of the ghost’s body. Tomoor stepped forwards, his arm moving so fast that he could barely process it.

Head, eye, joint—undead fell, slain in single-thrusts. Tomoor had never seen such exemplary swordsmanship save when he had seen two owners of golden bells dueling. Even the King of Jecrass…

“…missing. She ran into battle. Yvlon has gone into the City of Death!”

A voice over the speaking stone, panting. Dorgon, the Minotaur. Tomoor’s hand raised the speaking stone.

“Say again?”

“She’s gone into the city! Her mind is lost to battle-rage! Ceria, Pisces—pull her back! We cannot keep fighting shades!”

The Minotaur’s voice was urgent. He called for the rest of the Horns. Tomoor had barely known them, yet they seemed nice. The [Necromancer] he had expected to find a monster—a haughty young man, but polite.

The [Duelist] stopped in the street, listening. Suddenly, his attention was all on the stone. No—Tomoor’s mind was still gibbering, ready to run.

The Necromancer’s mind was focused on this. He spoke through Tomoor’s lips.

Dark pacts.

“Into the city? Pisces. Ceria. Ksmvr? Respond.”

Only silence greeted him. Halrac’s voice was next. None of the Horns responded. Because…they were dead? Tomoor wasn’t sure. Yet he felt a certainty creep up on him.

Not his thoughts. Sometimes they leaked. This certainty was different.

They are in a place where the speaking stones are dead. No scrolls, no outside magic. They have all gone in.

With that realization came a kind of…satisfaction. A longing Tomoor could not process. He shuddered; he had never felt anything but cold calculation or anger, hatred, from the Necromancer’s thoughts.

His voice spoke, triumphant, joining the others’ horrified realizations.

“The Horns have gone into the city.”

That was what Pisces had told the others. Tomoor’s head rose. Past the horrors. Into the heart of that place. The man and Necromancer both felt an emotion in their chests.

They would fulfill their promises. Or…

The [Duelist] walked forwards again. His rapier rose, saluting the undead which stopped, as if sensing the true danger here. Tomoor spoke.

“I will hold them off as long as I can. Brave adventurers—fall back. Fall back.”

The monster smiled using his face. Tomoor heard them entreating him, Arcsinger praising his resolve. If only he was…

He locked blades with a six-armed monster for a second, sliding gracefully into a slash that the multi-limbed undead could not stop. Who was the monster here? The City of Death had horrors of the unliving that Tomoor had never seen, even in ten years of terrible service.

Yet this was a magic different, but no less terrible than one of the horrors floating above. The living man walked, fighting with another man’s talents and will. A living puppet.

—-

Lord Tyrion Veltras’ army was streaming back, on a full, ordered retreat. Ryoka Griffin screamed. She knew he had to do it.

But her friends! Below, the adventurers were running. Some turned, fighting as they ran like Tomoor, Eldertuin, Halrac, loosing arrows, slowing the undead at risk of their lives.

The undead were so fast, though. Ryoka turned—but the wind was dragging her away. She felt sick. Her body was already burning with the exhaustion of swinging the blade so many times, weightless or not. She would have turned and fought, even so.

She could not. Ryoka Griffin felt her body…dying. For a second; then the wind blew her out of the range of that terrible eye. One look and its aura had sapped her energy. She had felt her very cells perishing, or so it seemed.

The wind saved her. The undead would have tagged her a hundred, a thousand times in the air. Her blessing of the fae…Ryoka looked back and down.

“No.”

They were coming out.

“Little worms.”

The greatest of the titans finally stood. He strode forwards, faster than the other giant undead moving through the city. He brought down his club and smashed the remains of the Frostmarrow Behemoth, pinned by the shadow-giant.

“Intruders who come so far. What are you? How dare you?”

A whisper through the skies. Ryoka saw something pursuing her. A woman—not a ghostly wraith, fading into obscurity, but fully-realized. Her dress was elegant; her body pristine, beautiful.

Oh—and she had wings. Fangs. The woman was dead, yet apparently even Vampires could serve after they had been slain. Ryoka saw one of Fierre’s ancestors swooping towards her.

Revenants. They moved forwards, finally awoken, taking wrath into their own hands. The undead Giant began to run, pursuing the adventurers. Ryoka saw the Vampire reaching for her; the wind blew her desperately away, diving towards the city.

In response, the woman transformed. A horror of wings pursued the Courier.

—-

Halrac looked up as the giant charged. No one would outrun that. With each step, he covered far too much ground. And he ran as fast as a normal man.

Revenant. Greatest of the undead. Trapped souls. It was laughing as it raised its club.

“Run, little worms. You will never escape this place.”

Halrac lifted his bow and shot an arrow. The glowing projectile hit the running giant and detonated on armor. It left not a scratch. But the Revenant turned towards him. It smiled, exposing the remains of teeth. Oozing things in its mouth, lesser undead squirming, waiting to be expelled.

“Damn.”

The [Scout] looked up as the club swung down. Dodge. He had to…where? He wasn’t Ksmvr. How?

“Idiot. I shouldn’t have tried to be brave.”

The club flashed to earth.

“Wrong. Courage is its own reward.”

An adventurer halted beside Halrac. He looked up—Halrac saw a grin. But wait. The adventurer was d—

The club struck the earth. The Revenant-Giant blinked. He lifted the club and looked at it.

A stump rose in his hand. The other half lay on the ground. Shocked, the undead looked down.

“Why? The living must die.”

The undead Drake lowered his sword and smiled.

“I am free.”

The huge face twisted overhead. Halrac saw the Revenant’s face turn from gloating glee to mortal apprehension. The huge, rotted mouth opened.

“TRAITOR.”

The Drake swordsman leapt. Halrac stumbled; the ground trembled with the force of his jump. He shot through the skies as the other Revenant tried to strike him with an armored hand.

Halrac heard no thunderous roar of impact. No booming voice. He looked up.

A giant’s head fell to earth. The Drake stood on its torso as the other undead turned. The collapsing body slowly began to sag. Yet in that moment, adventurers and undead turned.

—-

The Vampire broke off from its terrible dive. Fierre, who hadn’t breathed in over a minute, saw Ryoka fleeing. She saw the undead turn.

On the headless body, the Drake raised his sword. His armor gleamed. His dueling sword shone as he raised it high overhead. Keldrass stared.

Chaldion, Ilvriss, Saliss, Luciva Skybreath—every Drake across the world watching the broadcast looked at the distant Drake as the camera frantically zoomed in as far as it could.

He was so far away, but he bellowed across the city as undead turned. To the traitor. The Revenant. The blademaster shouted to the sky.

“Freedom! The Putrid One’s minions die! Face me!”

The Revenants and greater undead turned, swarming towards him. Enraged more than they were at the living trespassers by this act of—

“[Gigant’s Sword]!”

A giant blade cut the floating orb of eyes in half. The Vampire screamed curses as she flew at him. The Drake was laughing. He saluted the skies.

“In the name of the City of Dreams!”

Lehra Ruinstrider choked and her armband glowed. Everyone around her backed away as the Blade of Mershi began to shine.

The Drake stood alone, and cut them down. Hope from the undead? Honor?

Fetohep stared at the distant figure and wondered. He did not smile.

—-

The cry of defiance shocked him to his core. He felt it, heard that self-righteous voice. The declaration of treachery. But how?

“He’s…not listening. He has rebelled. As he swore he would.”

The whisper was shocked. Horrified. One of the greatest servants had been freed! He was killing the others! All the valuable protectors.

To his master, he turned. Now—terrible fear in him. The realization was so close. Held at bay only by denial.

“He is disobeying you. Master. Master, why have you let him go rogue? We are your most prized…or it is just me?”

Now he tried to touch him. His hands and body—his very being screamed with agony with each step. He had to retreat or face annihilation. Weeping, screaming, he shouted.

“Why don’t I feel your presence? Yet nothing has changed. Not even the greatest [Assassin] could have slipped in here?”

A broken servant knelt. Terrible truths rising in its mind. Like the Truestone Golem of Wistram, who knelt where she had fallen, still having yet to move from her place of grief.

It was time to ask. The head of the Putrid One’s greatest servant rose. He looked up and dared to ask the truth he had known in his chest since the presence had vanished.

“Master. Are you…are…? No. But are you…are you d—”

—-

“Come back.”

Lyonette’s eyes were fixed on the scrying orb. She whispered it.

The broadcast was focused on the fleeing adventurers, the Drake Revenant who was killing his own kind. Sir Relz and Noass had forced their way into the studio, shouting about Drake patriotism which could defy even the power of undeath.

Propaganda. She cared nothing for the art of blades. She only wanted to see them.

The Horns of Hammerad. Lyonette knew where they had gone. She had seen none of them in the images of fleeing adventurers.

She had to tell them to stop. If she could—Lyonette whispered.

“It’s for one person. No matter who it is, it’s not worth all you dying for.”

Her fingernails were digging into her skin. Even if that Drake slaughtered every undead in the city. Everyone knew the stories. What would you find there?

“She would not want this.”

Lyonette was too far for them to hear her. Too removed to do anything but watch what everyone in the world could see. Not the truth.

—-

As the adventurers regrouped, escaping the carnage in the Village of the Dead by the miraculous, amazing salvation granted to them, shaking with awe at how many had survived when all hope was lost, they faced one last trial.

Revi was still crying as Typhenous and Halrac ran towards her. Briganda was kneeling, touching at the body among the [Mages], ambushed by the undead. Levil was shouting.

“Bram! Bram—”

His friend was gone. So was Makki. The remaining war dog was standing guard over their bodies, howling.

Old Geni was dead. Something had killed her. She had put her wand in its face and—

The explosion had saved Revi. She’d stitched on a replacement hand. She raised her head, looking desperately through her tears.

“Where are they? Where…?”

The Horns were not here. She looked for them. Saw Jelaqua, Ulinde—Moore and Seborn were still fleeing.

Her friends were alive. Her friends were in the city.

Voices were arguing.

“We must keep running.”

“This is a disaster! We’ve been slaughtered and for what?”

One of Arcsinger’s Bows was screaming, looking for someone to blame. Eldertuin knocked the half-Elf girl to one side as he shouldered forwards.

“Blame later. Move! Is anyone left?”

“Stragglers. But the Horns—”

“We cannot save them. They have made their choice.”

That came from Elia Arcsinger. She looked towards the Village of the Dead. She was breathing hard, cuts crisscrossing her arm. The undead archer had nearly gotten her. Nearly—until the Drake Revenant had found it.

Yet all of her team was alive. In fact—Revi saw far more adventurers than anyone should have dreamed would survive this, let alone the final flight. She was looking at Halrac, trying to find the courage to say what she knew was impossible.

Let’s go after them? No. No…

Prince Zenol, the three Minotaurs, even Instructor Tomoor were all some of the last, limping out of the Village of the Dead. The adventurers were clumped up, but only a handful of undead were mindlessly shambling after them. The rest had stopped.

“Move out! Everyone, back to the camp and from there we’ll see where we go.”

Eldertuin bellowed. The arguing stopped. Soew nodded. Revi saw the first Silver-ranks turn, hurrying towards the surviving horses, wagons…

Amazing. Miraculous, again. Unprecedented. The giant-undead Revenant had been slain. The master-archer, destroyed. The flying wraiths weren’t following. An anti-climax. And all thanks to…

The Drake.

Revi heard a sound. The Village of the Dead was…collapsing?

She saw houses falling down. Crumbling to pieces, as if the enchantments themselves were being severed. She could not see the city within, yet something was taking the place to pieces. Not all of it; houses fell in a line towards the adventurers.

Cut to pieces. The living hesitated. Revi paled.

He walked from the Village of the Dead, sword bared. He had not survived unscratched. His armor was torn. Something had pierced his chest, his legs, cut across one arm and severed it; his helmet was undamaged, and his face.

And his sword. The Revenant walked forwards, calmly. His glowing eyes fixed on the adventurers.

He covered ground with each step like that horrible Witch had. Enchanted boots? Skill? The adventurers froze as the Revenant halted on the hill where they stood.

“It is done.”

That was all the Drake said. Revi, Eldertuin, Arcsinger—everyone looked at him, uncomprehending.

“Done? You—you saved us. Thank y…”

Levil spoke, voice strangled. He cut himself off. Thank you? The words wouldn’t come out. Not to the undead. And…Revi felt a tingling in her stitches. Something was…

“Done? Where are the undead?”

Arcsinger had moved to block her daughter, but it was Capoinelia, the younger, who aimed her bow defiantly at the Drake. Challengingly. Idiot!

The Drake gave her a dismissive look. He spoke to them all, searching their crowd for…something. The weary Silver-ranks and Gold-ranks, the two Named-Adventurers. He seemed confused. Or even irritated?

“The servants are dead. The greater undead.”

The adventurers looked at each other. Then at the Village of the Dead beyond. They saw a few wandering zombies, a crawling torso of a Draugr…

“You’re joking.”

Someone breathed. The Revenant turned his unearthly gaze towards the speaker.

“I have exacted my vengeance for ages of servitude. Whatever hold that [Necromancer] had over me is broken. For now. I would go back and seek his head. That of his last servant. But I will not risk my will being stolen again.”

Last servant? Revi’s heart was pounding. The H—

Her thoughts ran together. Unable to focus on the danger to her friends. She felt it, in her very cloth. The danger was…here.

“Thank you, brave warrior. You have honored your vows. Tell us your name, that we might remember you. Your city!”

One of the Drakes spoke. The last of the Lifwail Blades, who had only wept for them after reaching safety.

She did not know how her team had died.

The Drake looked at her, and his eyes were cold. He glanced around, measuring, searching again.

“My city was the Walled City of Dreams. I was the Drake who claimed the marks of all nine Walled Cities. They called me peerless, undefeated—until I was. Not by sword or might of arms, but by that treacherous [Necromancer]. Then they wailed as I was forced to slay my kin. I regret it, even now. I saw my city fall and walked the ruins, the instrument of its demise.”

His clawed hand lifted his sword, raising it to his own throat. The adventurers looked at him. Revi…had no idea who he was. City of Dreams?

“That is who I was. In life, my class was [Dragonbane Swordlegend]. Do you know me?”

He turned. The Drake, Soew—Eldertuin, Elia, and the others exchanged looks.

“Er…I’m not a Drake?”

Levil flinched as the Revenant turned to him. The glowing gaze fixed on him with pure wrath—then the Drake threw his head back and laughed, bitterly.

“If you do not know it, then it did not matter. It means my art did not stand the test of time. That my deeds were surpassed! It means…nothing. So.”

He stood there, and looked down. A flash of bitterness; that was all.

The living, and those via scrying orb, the King of Destruction, Fetohep, Chaldion…looked at the nameless Drake, forgotten by time, named the legend of his era.

“Thank you. We honor your deeds. At least tell us your name, and we will erect a monument to you. Rediscover your tale.”

That was Elia’s voice. She raised her bow in a salute. The Drake’s head rose and he looked at her.

“That is not what I desire, half-Elf. Not fame. Not glory. I have exacted my revenge. Now? I look at you, who somehow defied the Putrid One’s power. Who came into his domain when armies broke against him in life and he brought down the greatest coalitions with his power alone. When he slew me. And I ask: where is your art? Where is your talent at arms? I have seen you do battle. And I call it paltry.”

The adventurers stopped. They looked at each other, some in affront, others uneasily. Some, like Dorgon, simply bowed their heads in acknowledgement of that fact.

“We are not blademasters. We’re Gold-ranks…adventurers.”

“Yes. You are the seekers of your kind. The ones who delve into mysteries. Who fight. You stand before a Revenant! One of the great undead, a legend of my era, no matter how forgotten—and why do you stand silent? Does your blood not boil in my presence? Is not one of you willing to raise your sword and challenge me, to see what was called strength?”

The Drake lifted his sword, turning.

“Will no one touch me? Once? With spell or sword?”

That was the look. He was searching them for a challenger. He did not find it. The Drake lowered his blade. His eyes—turned hostile.

“I never wished to be undead. My service was kept by that wretched fiend, my bones and soul twisted to service. Such is the price of defeat. Now his grip wavers, I rebel. I am not cruel. The urge to destroy, to slaughter every living thing is in me—but my will is not so weak. Even the new whisper I ignore. I will never suffer another master. And yet—”

His eyes roved. His teeth bared; his jaw clenched.

“I cannot go quietly. My blade sang with more might than all of you combined. Challenge me! Show me the warriors of this age have not decayed to savages with steel weapons! You must—or I will never know rest. Touch me.”

He set himself, waiting. The adventurers drew back a step. Revi backed up with Halrac and Typhenous and heard the [Veteran Scout] curse.

Okay. Problem. The Drake was mad. The Revenant had killed the others, but he spoke like one of those insane battle-maniacs. Was he stupid? No one was going to challenge someone who beheaded a Giant with a single slash.

“Noble warrior. We are exhausted. We thank you, but none of us can match your class or level. We…will you not rest? We don’t desire battle anymore.”

An adventurer decided to copy Elia and opened his hands in entreaty. The Drake looked at him. He glanced up.

A Silver-rank was creeping away from the battle. One of the Waterborn Raiders, who had suffered heavily in the battle. The [Bandit Archer] had decided to make a break for it, sensing the same danger as the rest. Her mistake was going ahead of the others.

Revi saw the Drake cut the air in front of him. The woman stumbled. She fell, her neck and torso cut in two.

“Cowards.”

“Dead gods!”

Someone screamed. A [Mage] raised his wand; there was a flash—the Drake whirled, pivoted. He cut the spell in half. Then the [Mage].

Two adventurers died, red blood splashing the ground. The others were frozen, tensed—but seeing that the Drake had already set himself for another blow.

Now, the Revenant’s eyes drank in the night’s starlight. His glowing gaze passed from face to face.

“You will strike me. Once. One of you will show me you have the will and skill to earn my respect. Or I will kill all of you. Show me.”

He waited, ignoring the blood, the cries of the friends of the dead adventurers. It was then, looking at him, that Revi realized undeath had turned him to madness too. Just a different way.

No one spoke. Eldertuin looked around, his teeth clenched. Arcsinger was looking at him, arm in front of her daughter. Typhenous was tensed; Briganda’s face pale and white. Halrac stared at the Drake, then looked away, seeing the insurmountable difference in ability. Jelaqua was licking her lips…

It was then someone stepped forwards. Not Tyrion Veltras, who was far away and retreating, seeing to his sons. Nor Ryoka Griffin, who had been blown to safety and collapsed ahead of the retreating Humans.

Not Eldertuin nor even Zenol, who had been trembling, trying to…

Revi didn’t recall his name at first. Yet there he was. The man stepped forwards, rapier and parrying dagger raised. He smiled, almost ruefully.

“I am Instructor Tomoor, ser. I was considered a fair [Duelist] in my youth. If you will be satisfied—allow me to challenge you.”

The Drake turned and smiled. The two stepped forwards as the adventurers formed a wide ring.

The end of the raid on the Village of the Dead was encapsulated in a simple duel. The ringing of swords meeting.

It was in four adventurers who met in silence.

It was the heart of the city.

The Putrid One’s lair.

—-

Yvlon Byres had used all but one of her potions. She was stumbling, teeth bared. Blood ran down her arms. Not all hers. Not much.

How many undead had she killed with her hands? Her sword? She had sheathed it. Her arms had killed them. Turned into blades, spikes. She had bludgeoned them to death.

She found the Antinium, limping towards her. Yvlon stopped, the animal growl in her throat subsiding.

“Ksmvr?”

He wasn’t running, or jumping. Just limping along. Ksmvr raised all three crossbows as he saw her, then relaxed.

“Are you Yvlon or a trick? Please do not be a trick. I have had a bad day.”

He rasped, crossbows aimed down, but wary. Yvlon stepped forwards, hand raised.

“Ksmvr? Ksmvr, it’s me. What happened to you? I…see?”

She lifted her arm and made it change into the blade form. Ksmvr looked at it, and then nodded.

“Yvlon. I came, as Pisces told us. Something bit me. A woman. She dropped me when the Drake killed her.”

He rubbed at his neck. Yvlon saw green blood. Ksmvr stumbled forwards.

“I think I tasted bad. Why is that upsetting to learn?”

She caught him, gently, fumbling for her potion. He had used all of his and began to perk up as he drank it. For a moment, that was all there was. Him, held gently by her.

“Pisces shouldn’t have told you to come.”

He was so young. Ksmvr looked up at her.

“But I am a Horn of Hammerad. Or am I not sufficiently able to help?”

She almost laughed at him. Silly little ant. Laughed, and wanted to cry because that was always how he said it, how he saw himself.

“No. Never that. Come on. We have to find them.”

She knew they were alive. There was no logic in it. They just…had to be. If Yvlon had not found them, she would have wandered around until she died.

As it turned out, Yvlon and Ksmvr did not have to look long. They were headed in the same direction. It was inevitable; the city, like the Village of the Dead, had a heart. And it seemed every street slowly spiraled towards it, regardless of actual direction.

Ceria was supporting Pisces, his arm slung around her shoulder. The Necromancer looked—battered. His robes were torn, and his rapier had shattered from a duel. Ceria, of all of them, looked the best. She had scabbed cuts across her temple and body, where shards of ice had hit her in the titanic duels with the Frostmarrow Behemoth. She actually grinned when she saw them.

“See? I told you they were fine. We’re too stupid to die.”

“How dare you. I’m in peril.”

Pisces retorted, but he didn’t even raise his head until Yvlon and Ksmvr joined him. He brushed sweat-matted hair out of his eyes.

There they stood. The street was unsettlingly…empty. No undead pursued them. Yvlon had seen the Revenant with a sword cutting down undead in wide swathes, with every swing of his blade. She couldn’t imagine what level he was, nor had she bothered to stay and see if he would attack her.

“Here we are.”

The inner part of the city seemed to repel the lesser undead. Magnificent, empty buildings no longer inhabited, yet to crumble, lined the streets. Everything seemed to…curve inwards.

The heart of the city.

“The others have run.”

Yvlon felt like pointing this out. Ceria nodded. Pisces glanced over his shoulder.

“A sensible choice. But for that Revenant—we might never have made it. However, we might be safer here than…I can feel the power ahead of us. Lesser undead wouldn’t dare follow.”

“Which logically means there is a greater threat ahead, Pisces.”

Ksmvr pointed this out and everyone smiled. Pisces shrugged.

“Yes, well. Do we go?”

He looked at them. The Horns of Hammerad stood in the street. Yvlon didn’t know if it was even a question.

“We promised. Maybe we should let someone stay. Ksmvr…”

The Antinium [Skirmisher] looked at Yvlon, hurt. Ceria shook her head.

“We do this together. We…if anyone wants to stay, they can. But we have to. We can’t just turn back. We started this. We finish it.”

If they had all fought here, somehow, alone, perhaps it would have been easier. After the deaths, the fighting?

…No. Yvlon closed her eyes. They would have never turned back either way. Not until one of them died. She looked at the others.

“Let’s get that damn loot.”

They smiled and began to walk forwards. Together.

—-

His heart beat in the moments before the duel began. In that silent time, he had a conversation. One of two he had ever really had.

It happened in his mind. The living man, who had Skills, a class of his own, spoke. He was a [Fencing Instructor] and…a [Darkpact Duelist].

He had lived like this for ten years. Ten years, occasionally letting the Necromancer take charge. Mostly—feeding him information. Carrying out small, mundane tasks which he could sometimes see the sinister machinations in.

Other times not.

It was a deal Tomoor had taken, which kept him up at night. Haunted him. However, if you had asked him, even now, whether he would take it again…he would have in a heartbeat.

The Necromancer sat there, in a blank space in his head.

“You will give me control of your body and Skills.”

“Can you beat him?”

The silence was telling. Tomoor looked for a sign of Perril Chandler, the Archmage of Death. He thought he saw him at last. A trace of nobility, where he had seen only unliving rage before.

“You will…not survive, likely. I will attempt to win. This Drake is a master bar none, however. Even if he fights without his Skills or artifacts, it will take everything to strike him.”

Tomoor nodded. He felt light. Afraid. He was no hero. Az’kerash had fought in the raid using him like a puppet, directing him with his superior knowledge and ability, augmenting him with magic.

His heart beat as he lifted his rapier in a salute. The Drake performed some ancient ritual-salute of his own. Tomoor spoke to Az’kerash.

“If I die. We are quits. My debts are repaid. You’ll leave them alone? My family?”

The Necromancer’s gaze flickered, as if he had forgotten the day Tomoor had been driven to his bargain.

“They will live natural lives without my touch. I shall see to it they have gold to live on. You have my word.”

My son, my wife. Tomoor closed his eyes and nodded. He reached out—

When he opened them, the [Duelist] sighed. He was neither Tomoor nor fully Az’kerash. He finished his salute and faced the Drake of old, whispering a Skill.

The two met in a clash that would have killed Tomoor if he had been a step off. The Drake’s eyes widened and he began to smile. At last!

They danced under moonlight, outside the dead village. A dance with blades and art and grace.

—-

The Horns of Hammerad staggered down street after street. At first the city conformed to a regular layout. Then it began to twist in on itself. Now—they walked down boulevards that felt slanted. Past walls they could see over, for all they were twice the height of the adventurers.

In and in. Yvlon felt sick. She felt death magic, at least, pressing down around her. A purity of power that even the non-[Mages] could sense.

“Pisces. I feel…”

Ceria cut off. Her bone-hand was trembling. She looked around, and then shuddered. Ksmvr stopped, aiming his crossbow, but Pisces held up a hand.

“Don’t. I don’t think…”

A wave of carrion parted in front of them. Scuttling beetles, some as long as Yvlon’s leg. Tens of thousands of them. Centipedes, rats—all undead.

They were lining the walls and street. Covering every surface. Ceria breathed, eyes wide.

“Undead beetles?”

Pisces murmured.

“Harbingers of plague and pestilence. I always knew it could be done. Yet this is…isn’t even a spell. It’s a byproduct. Don’t—don’t attack them.”

“If they swarm us—”

Yvlon began to walk, even so. The Horns advanced, slowly, seeing the mindless creatures parting in front of them like a wave. They were still.

Waiting.

“They’ll wait for an order. Something’s ahead. Do you feel it? Something—”

Pisces was shuddering. Now, the reality seemed to hit him. It had hit Yvlon from the start. She put one hand on her sword.

“Grab it and run. Whatever it is—the Helm of Fire, an artifact—one thing. We run.”

The others nodded. They walked ahead.

A silent building waited for them in the center of it all. They had seen it from the moment the world started warping.

There it was. A single, rounded building, half caved-in at the roof. A…cathedral? A building of old, pale marble ruined, moving with the insects.

The Horns of Hammerad staggered towards it. They reached the door.

Within, they found the Necromancer.

—-

The duel of Instructor Tomoor and the Revenant Drake was shown around the world. In silence, adventurers and viewers saw the two touch blades, strike at each other, pivot, attack—all without a word.

They had seen battle and bravery when the King of Duels earned his name against the King of Destruction. Yet that moment had been defiant action, blood and courage as both bled the other.

This? This was skill. The purest heart of it. Neither man nor Drake touched one another. They were both at the height of their respective disciplines. One with a dueling sword, curved, warding his areas of attack and defense in perfect unison.

The other a fencer, rapier and parrying dagger moving in a completely separate modality of combat.

It stunned viewers, who had not expected this display of talent. Tomoor’s family, his students, his son and wife saw the Human man fighting out of his mind, on a level they had never dreamt he knew.

Courage? Heroic inspiration? They would find reasons for it later.

The truth was Az’kerash. Perril Chandler. He pivoted, and Tomoor’s living body moved with him. When he uttered a Skill, it was one Tomoor knew. He lanced out in piercing thrusts, trying to touch that Drake’s scales!

The other blademaster was excellent. And his Skills—he was holding back. He could have cut Tomoor with words alone, yet he matched the man, using only the Skills the duel would allow.

Honor. Mutual admiration. Both were smiling. A wide, desperate, joyous, bloody smile that promised death.

How could you both admire someone and want to kill them in the same beat? Az’kerash felt his heart beating. He struck out, wanting to end the match and yet—

Prolong it another minute, another second! He felt alive.

The two nearly moved into the widening circle of adventurers, who fell back. They fought around a terrified Stitch-girl, who threw her hands up. She fled as the Necromancer pressed the Drake back, advancing in to slash with his parrying dagger.

This was what they wanted. The Drake was smiling.

“So you are the great champion of your time! So young!”

Az’kerash was laughing too, in his castle far to the south. Toren watched, awestruck. The old man was good. He had known that, but this?

Tomoor stepped back, blade flourishing. He raised it over his head as the Drake’s eyes narrowed. A taunt—across the world, Terandrians, Izrilians, Humans, were cheering his name.

Hero! Warrior of death, champion of blades and death! Perril Chandler was smiling. He lowered his blade and stepped forwards to end this.

Lunging, pirouetting under a stroke—lashing out with his hand, missing by a fraction of an inch—step left. Tilt your head and feel the score of pain across one cheek. Yet the dance was ending. He felt the Revenant’s resolve failing. Satisfied.

Then it happened. Az’kerash felt his beating heart swell and—something changed. The Village of the Dead’s influence? A ripple in his emotions? The scrying spells? Him?

He didn’t know. But for a second, the magical link between him and Tomoor—

Wavered.

Tomoor felt Az’kerash vanish for a second. The man slowed.

“I—”

His blade wavered. Elegance, poise, left h—

The sword ran him through and cleanly finished the stroke across his shoulder. Tomoor fell.

The cheering adventurers went still. Even the Revenant looked surprised, as if he had not expected the killing blow to land. He hadn’t. He lowered his bloody blade and saw the man’s body fall back.

His genuine pleasure, excitement—turned to bitterness in a moment. All the living emotions twisted by undeath. The Revenant spoke, shaking the blood onto the grass.

“I expected more.”

For a second, it seemed as if he might accept that. Then—the Drake’s head rose. His eyes glowed once more, with malice. Expectation.

“Who is next?”

The adventurers stared at dashed hope. Az’kerash shouted his fury, but it was too late. The Drake turned, setting his blade. Looking for the next sacrifice.

—-

They found the Putrid One seconds behind the huge doors that Yvlon forced open with Ksmvr’s help. They stepped into the giant chamber beyond, and saw him.

He was not hiding. He stood in the center of the room, as if waiting for them.

The adventurers froze. A crossbow came up; a wand aimed, frost glittering on its tip.

The Putrid One never moved. This was where he had been, all this time.

He was even facing them. Not looking at them, but gazing slightly upwards, caught in the middle of a gesture.

A half-Elf. Ceria had not expected that any more than the others. Her eyes went wide, focusing on his immortal features. The robes around his body. His beautiful, twisted expression.

He stood there, and they realized in the second moment that he was dead. Or if not dead…Yvlon’s eyes locked on the scene.

It all made sense now. In that way where all the pieces fall together. Why this place had existed. Why the undead were so uncoordinated, why some had gone rogue. Not why the power had vanished; they would not understand that. But perhaps it was just time.

The answer was in this scene. The Putrid One’s end. His body was still here, roughly in the middle of the room.

Behind him was his lair. His workshop. The vast room was his fortress, the container of his treasures, from which he could create more minions, protected by so many powerful undead that no army could have taken it by siege without giving him time to flee or destroy them.

A perfect abode. Yet he was dead.

He looked so surprised. Almost annoyed, but gratified. Ceria’s eyes traced the dance of magic and damage that had led them here. Broken floor, melted in places; destroyed rich, half-Elven furniture, each a piece of art, one table severed in two.

A short battle, no less intense; a surprise attack that exceeded all of his expectations. Begun by someone—a team perhaps—that had made it all the way here.

Just like now. Yvlon looked down and saw the fallen Lizardperson on the floor, bones outstretched, a wand aimed—another fallen pile of bones, there. They had turned to bone long ago, not even reanimated. The scene of the last battle preserved. Yet the Necromancer was untouched by time.

So was she.

Then—countless ages ago, the great Necromancer stood there. His hand was outstretched, touching her cheek.

Her cheek. The woman’s cheek had turned pallid. Pale. Streaks of black invaded her flawless skin. Just a single touch, yet it was her death.

The Horns of Hammerad looked at her next. They had not expected to find the Putrid One, but that went double for her.

The woman’s eyes were tensed, but relaxing. The marks of battle, the concentration that had brought her to this point, this final strike—was caught in the midst of evaporating on her face. Countless years of strife, a burden too great to bear, finally ending.

She was older, almost in her middle-years. Her armor was beautiful. Damaged, but beautiful. She had taken wounds getting here, and one last one in the final struggle. No blood showed though; her wounds had healed. She could not heal the last, though. Not that final touch.

The woman was a Dullahan, Yvlon realized. Her body tensed, her armor her body. She was…Yvlon knew it from the aura that hung around her, a radiance even now.

A [Paladin]. A warrior with more than just force of arms. More than a [Knight]. The enemy of the undead, the unrighteous.

They stood there, the [Necromancer] and the [Paladin]. A story so old everyone knew it.

Half-Elf and the Dullahan. Neither one moving.

Had they known each other? Were they faceless to each other until this final moment? Were they the oldest of nemeses? Friends? Lovers?

The truth was lost. All that Ceria knew was what lay before her eyes.

This was how the Putrid One had died:

The sword was buried in his chest, the tip emerging from his back. The killing blow—just as his final spell grazed her face.

“Silver and steel.”

Yvlon whispered. Ksmvr murmured.

“Awe.”

He had no expression for this. The tableau of the battle, the short fight—ended with the two in that pose. The Necromancer, head tilted back, finger outstretched, the grim [Paladin] delivering the final blow.

They stood there, the two. In…stasis. Perhaps some kind of final spell? A triggered effect? Both combatants were frozen. Preserved.

Hair, even particles of dust suspended in perpetual motion. Time removed from time.

How long the Horns of Hammerad just stood there, taking in the moment, Ceria couldn’t have said. A single second? An hour?

Urgency made her raise her head and move. She spoke, through dry lips.

“I’m going to say something obvious—no one get near that. No magic; don’t even say his…nickname. Got it?”

The other adventurers jerked. Pisces looked up and stood; had he been kneeling? Yvlon checked herself. Ksmvr lowered his crossbows and hung them at his side.

“So that’s how he died. She came through…did they come through the roof?”

Pisces looked up, eyes tracing the broken cathedral’s roof, which showed the sky. Ceria shook her head. She wrenched her eyes away from the glorious, terrible sight.

“We have to move. Wake up. Stay away from it.”

The Horns nodded. Shaking themselves, they edged around the room. Ksmvr bent to inspect the bone pile, but a sound made him look up.

“There. Look.”

Pisces was pointing towards the back. They all saw the glow of artifacts beyond. The Horns stirred.

The treasury of the Putrid One. It lay right behind the two. To get there, they would have to go around the battle in the center. Yvlon motioned and Ksmvr advanced. Ceria with Pisces on the other side. They kept along the wall, looking around.

They felt the danger. They tried not to touch anything, looking around. Surely there was a guard here. Or was the magic able to keep everything away? Yvlon felt her hair standing up. Ksmvr saw it, the closer they went to the stasis in the center—and that was as far away towards the walls as they could get.

“Traps. Traps. It’s like last time.”

Ceria was whispering to Pisces. He nodded. They were all remembering their mistake in Albez. He slowed, panting, as he reached the open door beyond. Pisces stared into the vast armory, beyond which a hundred sparkling lights waited. He raised his hand, well away from the entrance and concentrated.

“…I can’t sense…hold on. There’s so much magic…”

“If he was ambushed, maybe it’s not active?”

“Ceria, Pisces. There are scrolls on the altar. Here. See?”

Yvlon was staring at the workbench of the Putrid One. Ksmvr beheld a stone so dark on a pedestal that it stayed in his vision, searing his eyes even after he jerked his head away.

None of the Horns touched any of it. Pisces was biting his lip.

“I don’t sense traps! But I’m not high-enough level to…”

“Toss it in a bag of holding?”

Ceria was shaking. She didn’t—didn’t know what to do! They had to grab something! Yet she knew death-artifacts would turn her entire body to rot or waste her if there was a trap. Or even if they were relic-class. Yvlon gritted her teeth.

“I’ll do it. Just…where’s the Helm of Fire? I’ll grab that first and then—”

Pisces lowered his hand, sweat pouring down his face. He wiped at that with his other hand, but missed the injury on his other hand. Ksmvr’s head turned.

He saw a little trail of blood, running down Pisces’ arm from a wound opened, a scab torn. His mandibles opened.

“Pisces.”

The [Necromancer] looked down with Ceria and Yvlon. Too late, he jerked his hand up.

The little droplet of blood fell from a fingertip. It was just blood.

The drop touched the floor of the cathedral.

A single drop, touching the stone.

The Horns of Hammerad flinched. Yvlon swore.

“Pox-rotted—”

Her voice trailed off. The world did not explode. The Horns looked around. The two figures were frozen. The motes of dust in the air still held. They relaxed. Exhaling.

Ceria looked at the Putrid One and the Dullahan [Paladin], laughing shakily. Then her laughter caught and choked. Pisces followed her gaze.

At first, it looked as if nothing had changed. At first. Everyone was in the same position. But then…the young man noticed it.

The motes of dust were slowly drifting downwards. And—one of the two figures had moved.

It was just one motion. The eyes did not blink. Yet the half-Elf, the Necromancer, had turned his head.

The Putrid One looked at Pisces. The half-Elf’s face had changed. The Horns of Hammerad stood there, petrified. Then—time resumed.

The woman fell, soundlessly. Her armor crashed to the ground as her body fell. The Putrid One staggered back, sword in his chest. He—

He was smiling.

Smiling? He looked at Pisces, and then his eyes closed. He fell, blood pooling under him. He lay on the floor and did not move.

He was dead.

Ceria, Yvlon, Ksmvr and Pisces stood there in horror. They waited—but the Putrid One didn’t get back up. Ceria’s voice was shaking.

“Pisces?”

“It wasn’t me. It wasn’t—”

The Putrid One was dead! It had seemed to them all, surely, as if once the stasis was ended, he would get a second lease on life, another chance, however short.

Yet that never came. The undead [Necromancer]’s body never moved. Pisces repeated the words.

“It wasn’t me.”

It wasn’t him. The Horns had no way of knowing why the Putrid One was dead, though. How he had perished. Yet there they stood, as time resumed, as the echoes of the sound reverberated around the inner sanctum of the Putrid One.

Unheard by the artifacts, mindless insects and harbingers of the power here. There was no one here…

Except for him.

He came through the doors, steps hurrying, frantic. He had gone to check on something. The traitor, if he might be coming here. His one lapse of attention in this entire time—

The Putrid One’s servant returned at a run and found his master lying on the ground. Beyond him—the four adventurers.

“Master?”

Ceria was screaming inside her head. She was looking around, wand raised. Ksmvr was pointing at the treasury, and Pisces, horror-struck, was just staring at the Putrid One. Yvlon had set herself, sword in her hands. She saw the great servant, the guardian of this place burst into the room and stop, seeing his master fallen.

It was…a half-Elf. Younger than the Putrid One. Wearing noble dress-clothes of another era. He might have been around thirty years old in appearance, but that was all.

His hair was golden flax in color, his features beautiful to the point of being effeminate. He was far more attractive than Ceria, her hair tangled, her body grimy and bloodied.

He stopped as he saw the fallen bodies, then threw himself forwards. His voice was high, desperate.

“Master? What have they done to you? These insects? How could they…even touch you?”

He saw the Horns. Yet in another moment he was reaching down, heedless of the blood staining his clothing, feeling for a pulse. It was so…mortal…that Ceria couldn’t believe her eyes.

He was kneeling, clutching at the motionless form. Weeping. Tears fell from his eyes.

None of the adventurers were fooled for a moment.

“Silver and steel. We’re—”

Yvlon never finished it. She had strode over. The half-Elf was weeping as he held the motionless Putrid One. He too detected no life. Ceria stared at her as the [Silversteel Armsmistress] lifted her sword.

“Yvlon.”

Pisces shook himself free. He looked around. Now—his eyes were roaming the room. He looked at the scrolls, staggered over to the altar. Ksmvr was aiming his crossbows, back to the treasury room.

“We have to run. Yvlon—Yvlon—”

Ceria held up a hand. She was just looking at the servant. He could be just a…a mundane servant. A half-Elf, even mortal.

He was not. She knew it.

So did Yvlon. Her sword was raised for a coup de grâce over the motionless half-Elf’s head. Yet every instinct in Yvlon was telling her…not to swing.

The adventurers rushed, grabbing at random objects, one second of desperation—then flight. They dared not spend even another second. They were still too late.

All four had sprinted towards the door when the voice came again. Now—deeper. Now—the grief replaced by a burgeoning wrath.

“You.”

The half-Elf’s head had risen. He turned, laying his master on the floor, gently, folding his arms. The Horns halted at the door.

They should have kept running. But again. Every sense in her body told Ceria she could run and could have run for ten minutes and it would have been too late. So she faced the half-Elf.

She had to see.

“We didn’t do th—”

“Silence.”

The half-Elf was shaking. The two tear tracks running down his face had stopped. Liquid began to flow again.

Blood. His face contorted into a rictus of rage. He was breathing hard, his body shaking.

For all that, he seemed no more imposing than…Ceria. He was bare-handed. He had no magical armaments nor weapons about him. The Horns quailed.

“I do not know how. I do not know why. Yet you insects came here. You ruined his great army. His servants turned—you! And now this. My beloved master. I do not know how. But you will die for this, intruders.”

His voice rose with every sentence. Growing louder. Vaster.

“Run. Everyone just run.”

Yvlon stepped forwards, sword gripped between her hands. Pisces looked around.

“We need help. Please—help us.”

He turned to the sky. Had he gone mad? He was touching his temple. Was he calling for—

Ceria just watched as the half-Elf took a step forwards. He opened his mouth—

Ksmvr pulled up all three crossbows and fired. The paralysis affecting the others did not stop him from taking an obvious opening.

Three crossbow bolts buried themselves in the half-Elf’s body. Two in the chest; the last punched through the open mouth.

Blood sprayed. Blood and bone and…the half-Elf staggered. Yvlon and Ceria gasped. The figure tottered—then regained his footing.

He spoke through the hole in his head, ignoring the blood running from the crossbow bolts in his chest and down his cheeks from his eyes.

Now, his voice filled the cathedral. Booming. Vast. Far larger than his frail body should have been able to hold. The half-Elf spoke.

“I am Tolveilouka Ve’delina Mer, the greatest servant of the Putrid One. My master’s will incarnate.”

“Oh no. He’s got a long name.”

Ceria whispered. She couldn’t have said why that was so hilarious that Yvlon started laughing. She lifted her sword, preparing to charge.

Too late.

Tolveilouka, the beautiful half-Elf, let his clothing drop to the ground. Ceria’s eyes bulged. Then she saw his body bulge.

His pristine flesh began to puff outwards, like someone blowing air into it. The ephemeral skin turned pallid. Dark.

Rotten. The half-Elf was six feet tall. Then eight. Then fifteen…

He rose, bloating, all that symmetrical beauty turning misshapen. Growing vaster still. His skin erupted into pustules and rotting meat. Another arm burst from his chest. His voice—

“Run!”

Yvlon shoved Ceria. The half-Elf raised a shaking hand and walls of ice began to block the entrance. Yvlon stepped back, waiting. Pisces was shouting something at the sky, yet he grabbed her and ran.

Ksmvr stopped, as Tolveilouka Ve’delina Mer completed his transformation. The abomination towered higher, breaking through the walls of ice with a single flick of its body. The Antinium spread his arms and called to him, above Yvlon’s call to arms, the shouts of his friends.

“I did it. Your wrath should be directed at me.”

It was all he could say. The undead monstrosity’s head swung towards him. Yvlon charged, a scream on her lips.

As he listened, as he saw and heard the desperate pleas and what came next, what even he could not stop, Az’kerash, the Necromancer, covered his eyes.

—-

The Drake [Sword Legend] waited.

It was Eldertuin the Fortress who lifted his mace and shield. He strode forwards. The adventurers shouted his name. The last broken Golem raised its sword, as if to salute him or charge as well.

The Revenant watched Eldertuin place himself in front of him, like the banquet of the fae and the warrior from strange lands.

The difference was—they were both of this world. And there was no respect here. Only contempt.

“[Shield of the Fortress]!”

Eldertuin raised his shield as he charged. The Drake did not speak his Skill aloud. He swung his sword—

And cut Eldertuin. The sword shattered the Skill. It sliced through the artifact. It cut into Eldertuin’s side. Even his strike couldn’t cut the Named Adventurer in two. Yet, one cut—

Eldertuin fell. The Revenant turned. He shook blood off his blade again as the cheering turned silent. He shouted, his voice wrathful.

“Is this the greatest of your kind, adventurers? All of his might was in a shield and a Skill. Nothing more. The duelist had some grace, even stolen, but the rest of you? Who is next?”

No one spoke. Eyes turned to Elia, but she was shaking her head. She was an archer. This—

“I will challenge you. For the pride of the House of Minos. Face me, Drake.”

The next was Dorgon. The [Twinblade Linebreaker] strode forwards. He lifted his blades, unwilling to give a salute to the Drake. Not after what he had seen.

He charged forwards in a roar, blades singing as they cut the air. Trying to catch the Drake’s blade with his swordbreaker, strike with his shortsword.

His charge was all aggression, yet he moved with a mimicry of Tomoor’s grace. He knew how to fight. He was as talented as any of the best in Nerrhavia Fallen’s court, in Zenol’s eyes.

Not high-level enough, though. He was a touch too slow. He did not know the steps after he struck naught but air. He had never fought a Drake like this before. He was excellent.

The [Sword Legend] had slain Dragons. He evaded the head-long charge, the daring blow that invited a counter-strike, if only Dorgon could touch—

He whirled his sword, once.

“Minotaur—you are too inept. You shame your house. Do not pick up a sword again.”

Dorgon collapsed. He dropped his shortsword and clutched at the bleeding stump of one hand. He roared in pain and loss.

The Drake turned. Now, Zenol saw him for what he was. Pure arrogance, distilled. He did not care if the House of Minos bellowed Dorgon’s name as their champion, who had not disgraced himself.

“I will face you, Drake!”

The [Prince] spoke, forcing the words out. Another voice spoke as well.

“Me too.”

“Don’t! Pekona—”

Insill tried to stop her, and Dasha too. Anith just watched as the [Blade Dancer] from Drath moved forwards.

“Both of you. Try.”

The Drake waited as the [Prince] and [Sword Dancer] took flanking positions. Zenol met Pekona’s eyes. Saw nothing but calm determination. He gritted his teeth.

They moved without a signal. A flowing dance both of them had learned from the finest instructors, not the instinctual moves of a self-taught [Warrior]. They struck, coordinated—

Missed. Zenol pivoted. He lashed out. He called on his sword art.

“Prince of deserts, you are too slow.”

The whisper was followed by agony. Zenol screamed as a blade severed both arms at the elbow. He fell, and Pekona’s voice was a second later. She clutched at her hand.

Severed. Insill’s cry of horror was spoken over by the Drake as he walked back, addressing the two.

“Insufficient, [Prince]. You too, from Drath. You two dance, but you know only a fraction of the steps. So I shall merely exile you from this world. Not so for those who know nothing at all yet walk onto bloody ground.”

With that, he turned on the other adventurers. Zenol heard screams. He tried to rise, to help, but he could not. Eldertuin was trying to use a potion, but he was bleeding out. So was Zenol. The…he couldn’t turn his arms to cloth.

Whatever patience, pretense at this ‘test’ had been—was lost. The Drake turned. He began to kill the adventurers one by one.

A [Mage] cast a [Lightning Bolt] spell. The Drake cut it in two, letting it turn to harmless sparks in the air. He stabbed through the barrier. Turned, calmly. Slowly.

“We have to attack all at once! With me—”

Jewel of Glitterblade leapt forwards. Staggered…

Her teammates watched her fall, clutching at her stomach. They didn’t even have time to get within swinging range of the Drake.

He stabbed them, struck them without them seeing, across two dozen feet. He was using his Skills. The other adventurers prepared to fight together—broke into anarchy. Fleeing.

All they had to do was touch…? They couldn’t touch him. The Drake moved from one adventurer to the next. Those that attacked them were cut, and the wounds would not heal. They bled out on the ground, next to Eldertuin, Zenol, Pekona…

Those who didn’t attack or flee he advanced on, one by one.

The woman who was next lifted her shield. She spoke, as her hatchet raised.

“I have a son.”

The Drake regarded Briganda blankly. His expression crossed from puzzlement—to contempt.

“Then why did you come here?”

He lifted his sword. Briganda charged with a shout. The Drake took careful aim—

Whirled.

He deflected the dagger a fraction away from his back. He didn’t slash, but kicked Typhenous in the chest and shattered half his ribs.

The Plague Mage lay, curled up on the ground. The Drake blocked Briganda, sent her stumbling back. Yet he spared a word for the old man.

“Brave, old one. But too slow.”

Briganda shouted—stopped.

The sword in her guts withdrew. The Drake shook the blood off his sword onto her body and turned. He ignored Typhenous, reaching for the dagger, cursing him. Briganda was staring, glassy-eyed, at the hole in her stomach.

“Tell Cade. Tell…”

The Drake spoke over her, addressing the others. He blocked the invisible arrow streaking towards his face, as he had the last two. They just—vanished, as his sword touched them. Halrac was aiming point-blank at him, but the Drake just shouted at the others, the fleeing, the paralyzed.

“My anger grows without limit. For what did we strive for, if this is the petty future? If the small replace the great, I would rather it all end after all!”

He swung his sword and beheaded an adventurer charging him. Six came at him and they died as he cut them down in a flash. Halrac loosed another arrow. The Drake walked towards him.

“Halrac!”

Jelaqua charged, flail swinging. Ulinde pivoted, firing both wands. Halrac loosed another arrow as Revi shot a spell at point-blank—

Flail-cut. Spells, disintegrated. Halrac looked to the side. Jelaqua stared at the sword in her chest. Striking her inner self.

“Jelaqua!”

A booming voice. A scream. Echoed in Pallass. Jelaqua staggered back and the Drake looked at her contemptuously.

“Your inner body is here, Selphid. And I cut—”

He never finished. He withdrew the sword and Jelaqua fell back, limply. The Drake moved so fast Halrac only saw the conclusion.

He pivoted, thrusting the blade under one arm to stab the shadow leaping towards his back. At the [Rogue].

The Drake’s sneer…vanished. Halrac, reaching for his shortsword…stopped.

He saw the Drake look down at the dagger. Then—at Seborn. The adventurers looked up.

The tip of the blade was touching the Drake’s arm.

Was it luck? No. The blow had been calculated, as the Drake was speaking, his sword buried in someone else. Merciless. Cold—calculated for when it would work after seeing the other failures.

A strike with all his weight and speed behind it. Even then, the undead nearly dodged it. Yet the tip of the enchanted dagger—touched—his arm.

Had he flinched or slowed at all, he would have been too slow. Had he done either, the sword would not have run through him.

Seborn’s blood ran blue from one part of his body, red from the rest, mixing as it dripped to the ground. Already forming a pool of liquid he slowly sank into. The sword had run him through. His voice…was triumphant.

“Got you.”

The Drake touched his arm, where the blade had struck. He looked down, and the undead wrath, the ruination of the living in his eyes was replaced by a mortal look. For a second. He let go of his sword. He looked down.

“Well done. What is your name, warrior?”

Seborn stared up at the sky, and the beautiful light above without speaking. His eyes were open. His mouth didn’t move.

The Drake stepped back. He reached down—and a hand seized him, lifting him high as a voice filled with loss filled the air.

A half-Giant tore his head off. The Drake Revenant died as fingers ripped his body to shreds. However—the bones were already turning to dust, the scales disintegrating. The magical light had already been lost.

It was done. The adventurers knelt amid blood and death.

—-

She screamed. A shriek of pain that went beyond anything he had ever heard her make. Yvlon Byres stumbled back. Her beautiful arms of silver and steel—

Were black. Were twisted. The touch of that thing—

Tolveilouka Ve’delina Mer. It raged as Yvlon stumbled away. Her arms were twisting. Breaking. The pure metal—corrupted by its body.

“You send men of metal against me once more? Half-made! Pathetic! My master’s blessing breaks all!”

He towered over her, corrupt flesh as Yvlon screamed and fell, writhing. She was the last.

Az’kerash watched. The Horns of Hammerad had fought. They had fought.

That was all there was to say. A half-Elf lay, crying out, unable to make a sound over the pain. Her skin was rotting away from her hands upwards. A [Necromancer] stared up at the sky, pinned by a spear cast through his stomach, pinning him to the floor. His bleeding had slowed. Become sluggish.

A voice cried out as a hand reached to slowly grind Yvlon’s body into a wall, pressing her until stone cracked—or she did. It was broken. Az’kerash did not want to hear it.

“Stop. I did it. I slew the Putrid One. I made him suffer as he died twice. He screamed, pitifully. Stop. Stop. Why do you not touch me?”

Ksmvr stabbed the monster with his weapons. He fired crossbows. He tried to block it. Tolveilouka ignored him. No—the mouth moved.

“Because this hurts you.”

It turned away. Yvlon had stopped screaming. She hung, limply, as he held her by one arm, her metal arms rotting at the touch, not able to hold off the infection.

This was their end. The Necromancer watched. His dreams of heroism turned against him.

Their last words.

“Ksmvr. Run.”

Ceria stared at her skin, falling away, her body consumed by rot.

Yvlon spat blood and defiance into Tolveilouka’s face. She gritted her teeth as it reached out for her shoulder, her arm held in one hand to pull.

“Go ahead and take it. I liked my old one more.”

Ksmvr was weeping. The young man murmured as he stared up at the sky.

“…tried. I really did.”

He touched the spear buried in his stomach; his hands were too weak to pull at it.

That was all they said. Yvlon screamed as her first arm broke. Metal snapped. Tolveilouka—the Chosen of the Putrid One—was laughing. Relishing this little revenge.

“Stop.”

Az’kerash whispered, but no one could hear him. Tolveilouka reached for the other arm as Yvlon spasmed, corruption racing up the rest of her body. A voice muttered in the silence.

“Is it finally done? Is it over at last? It is. He’s gone.”

The leering, bloated face, froze. The hand holding Yvlon dropped and Ksmvr dove to catch her. Az’kerash looked up.

That was not Ceria’s voice. The voice was deeper, cracked, husky.

The woman rose, pushing herself to her hands and knees. Her head had fallen from her shoulders; she put it on, slowly.

The [Paladin] rose. Tolveilouka whirled to face her. His face contorted in rage.

“You! You did this.”

The Dullahan’s head rose. Her eyes widened. She was dizzy, disconcerted. Her eyes found the fallen half-Elf. Her sword. Then they rose to touch the spreading stain on her cheek.

Her features slackened; grew composed. The woman rose to her feet. She looked around. At—the bones on the floor.

The great servant.

The fallen adventurers.

She took it all in, in a moment. Then she looked up at the towering figure. When she spoke, the [Paladin]’s voice was soft. Calm. Sad, yet triumphant.

“I did not. Would that I had the power, I would have done so long ago. Yet it was a true end. I felt him go, traitor. Servant of death.”

She touched at her cheek. The mark of death was still spreading, turning her skin from bronze to rotting black. Her death.

Time had resumed for her. Not the Putrid One. He would never get up, ever again. The woman looked past the monstrosity as it writhed, unable to even put words to its rage. Disbelief.

“Who are these four?”

The Horns were dying. The abomination looked at the [Paladin] and reared up. Ksmvr, kneeling, looked up. He could not weep. He could not even properly cry. He whispered.

“Please. Help her?”

His body was being infected by the same contagion covering Yvlon. The woman looked at him.

She had no idea what he was. She had never seen his kind. Her eyes widened. Yet not in fear.

All she saw was an adventurer.

The woman looked for her sword. She drew it, and lifted it over her head in one motion as Tolveilouka screamed, dropping down towards her.

The [Paladin] spoke.

“[The Light Be Blessing Upon Us All]/[For So Long As I Stand Evil Shall Quail]/[Your Wounds Shall Close].”

And there was light. It shot upwards in a beam of radiance. Ksmvr looked up, and the plague touching him vanished. He heard the horror shriek and recoil.

The light.

—-

It shot from the Village of the Dead. A beam of true sunlight. Beautiful, piercing the illusion within. Destroying the enchantment.

It rose higher. The adventurers trying to stem the flow of blood from cuts that would not heal looked up as it bathed them.

Eldertuin gasped as he felt the mortal cut—close. Faster than any potion, more gently. As if he was being filled from within by sunlight.

Cries from the adventurers. Cut limbs did not heal. Yet blood slowed. Even those who looked dead—

Jelaqua gasped. She looked up as heads rose. People exclaimed.

The light. He opened his eyes and stared up at them. The man licked his lips, but it was salt-water. Great tears of it. He stirred.

“I thought I died.”

That was all Seborn said as Moore cradled him. The half-Giant looked down, and then up.

—-

Death faded. Az’kerash felt pain. He shielded his face, and this was just a distant image.

The abomination was cowering in a corner. The [Paladin] stood, holding her blade aloft. Yet—it was a Skill.

The light was already fading. She cast aside her sword. Looked around.

The Horns got up. Pisces, staring at the smooth skin of his stomach, the hole in his robes. Ceria, looking at her arms and seeing only her skeletal hand, not the ruined flesh. Yvlon—at her ruined arm. She shrugged.

“Thank you.”

Ksmvr spoke to the woman. She smiled. But…ruefully. Her hand rose to her cheek once more.

The sickness in her face had not stopped, only slowed. She looked at the Gold-ranks, and spoke, quietly.

“You must run. He will pursue you until the ends of the earth. I do not know how—but you freed me. Thank you.”

The Horns looked at her. She turned. Tolveilouka was already rising, his ruined flesh, destroyed by the light, regenerating. He was making a roaring sound, growing louder.

“But you—”

Ceria trailed off. Death was spreading across the Dullahan woman’s features and they all knew what that meant. She had known back then. The [Paladin] looked at her.

“Go. Just—just tell me one thing. Did they remember? Our sacrifice? My team’s? The Radiance of Canopies? From Baleros?”

The Horns looked at her wordlessly, in this Village of Death—which was a tomb so old everyone had forgotten what lay beyond. A death-zone without a proper name.

The [Paladin] bowed her head. She smiled, a copy of the Drake’s expression.

“Go. Blessings be with you.”

They ran. The Dullahan took off her head, holding it as she sank to one knee. In perfect repose. She glanced up.

“You will not outlive my master another minute, woman.”

Tolveilouka. He towered over her, dark wrath on his features. She did not bother reaching for a weapon. The [Paladin] just nodded.

“I know. It is done either way, monster.”

—-

The Horns of Hammerad ran down the street. They knew it was pointless.

“We’ll never outrun it.”

Ceria gasped. She felt it. That thing—the [Paladin] was seconds from death. Even if she fought, the servant would be on them in a flash. It was too fast. Too powerful. They couldn’t even slow it down.

“I will stay. I will stay. You run. The Horns must live—”

Ksmvr tried to shove Yvlon onto Pisces’ shoulder. Ceria spun. She grabbed Ksmvr, and looked into his eyes as the [Skirmisher] tried to turn back.

“If you stay, we stay. Get it right. Never say that again.”

He looked at her. She should have told him that from the start. Ksmvr began to run without another word.

Yvlon said nothing either, though she was stumbling, mumbling. A jagged stump of metal was all that remained of her right arm. She looked at Pisces, who was supporting her with Ksmvr. He was…speaking.

“Take us to safety. Please. Show us the way.”

To whom? She listened, half-fading in and out of consciousness. Behind them, a voice roared. It was coming. Yvlon heard Pisces entreaty again.

“Please.”

She tried to lift her hand.

—-

The Necromancer had nothing. Az’kerash had made it past many defenders, halting when he had beheld the Revenants, the true danger here.

The greatest servant of the Putrid One? If he had a link with Pisces as he had with his other puppets—perhaps. Perhaps.

Even then, he was not sure. Now? At a remove, with nothing to aid them, no agents left? The Necromancer had used his great artifacts. If only he had one…one scroll! One…

He looked through Pisces’ eyes as the woman mumbled, her golden hair trailing. The Necromancer saw Pisces look down at her remaining hand and what it held.

The golden law of adventurers in a raid. Az’kerash’s breath caught.

Steal everything.

One of the scrolls from the altar was grasped in Yvlon’s hand. Pisces moved a hand to grab at it. It couldn’t be…? Az’kerash did not dare to hope.

But what kind of scroll would a [Necromancer] keep close to hand? Might be in the process of using when he was attacked in his sanctuary?

The glowing letters burned Pisces’ vision. Magic of a kind written in an era long lost. Even then, it was so rare. So perfect.

[Greater Teleport].

—-

In that moment, Pisces felt hope.

In that moment, it was dashed.

The Necromancer of Terandria spoke in his mind even as Pisces slowed. As the cathedral exploded and something came, destroying streets as it heaved itself along, screaming vengeance.

“It requires a target. Coordinates.”

So send them—! Pisces saw Ceria pointing, creating walls of ice. Ksmvr dragging at Yvlon, who had fainted. He unfurled the scroll.

“Take us. Please!”

Az’kerash sat in his castle. He looked at the other three. His voice was quiet as he replied.

“They will never walk from my castle alive. I could not allow it.”

Pisces stopped, the spell scroll in his hands. There was only one place the Necromancer had coordinates to. Only a place of perfect safety, where he might escape. And that was only his lair. He might tolerate an apprentice. Not others. Not with his secret.

Bitter. It tasted so bitter. The Necromancer meant every word. Or so Pisces believed.

Yvlon was blearily looking up. Ceria was running back, seeing the shape bulge higher. Ksmvr was looking to the young man who had stopped in the street.

He faced the cathedral, where the Putrid One had been laid to rest. He spoke to the sky. His words were longing and bitter. He reached up, holding the shining scroll aloft in entreaty. Calling to him.

To them.

“You are more than a [Necromancer]. More than undead. You are something more than just death and bile, aren’t you? Please. What is there for me to believe in down this lonely road, then? You were a hero to someone, weren’t you? Give me something to…believe in. Please.”

Neither one replied. The young man asked for glory. He asked for beauty and meaning and hope. Had they both lost any trace of it?

Was there any glory, any goodness in death? Or was this how it ended?

Az’kerash sat there. Then his head rose. His eyes opened wide.

“Use the scroll.”

Pisces unfurled the artifact. Tolveilouka charged forwards, howling, realizing what they were doing. The Horns of Hammerad looked at Pisces.

“We might die.”

That was all he said. Ceria reached out. She grabbed his arm. Yvlon felt Ksmvr connect her to Pisces’ other arm.

“Only ‘might’? Then do it.”

Which one said that? They were smiling. Laughing. Pisces unfurled the scroll. He focused on the burning coordinates, the understanding in his mind.

A rotting hand swung down, promising death by consumption. It never reached the four.

In a flash of light, they vanished. Az’kerash cried out, already casting spells. Standing on his feet. The Putrid One’s servant roared, and then sank to the streets in grief.

The adventurers fled, as the Horns of Hammerad vanished. Vanished—using a scroll of ancient power. Among the dead and wounded, this bitter, dark day.

To…where?

—-

They flew across the world in a moment, past the shores of Izril, faster than ghosts, like four falling, glorious, broken stars. The spell tore at them, and Ceria felt her grip weakening.

“Don’t let go! Don’t l—”

Pisces screamed at her. They reached out, linking hands. Ksmvr was holding on to Yvlon as she gritted her teeth.

The spell bore them away. Not towards the Necromancer’s castle, but somewhere…else.

The only other place he might ever flee, in desperation. At the end of all things.

The one land where glory in death remained.

Khelt.

A [Message] beat them there, to Chandrar. As fast as thought itself. A frantic entreaty, explanation, from a source he had never thought to be so brazen, so careless.

Fetohep of Khelt halted on the grasslands of Jecrass, still watching the scrying orb, the folly of the undead. His preserved visage rose. His golden eyes flashed with alarm. He raised a hand.

This idea—? He saw the reason. The folly. The undead king bellowed at the sky, terrifying his mortal followers.

“No, you arrogant fool. You think there are no defenses? Not Khelt! Not—”

He reached out to catch them. But he was leagues upon leagues from his homeland. Too late.

The Horns of Hammerad, rushing through space—hit the barrier. It flung them, ricocheting them in ways they couldn’t understand.

All Ceria heard was screaming. Their voices.

“Don’t let go! D—”

Pisces’ grip weakened. He saw her connected—then torn away.

Ksmvr lost his grip at the same moment, thrown by the impact. Pisces howled as his friends vanished.

The last two, hurtling together, were Ksmvr and Yvlon. He clung to her with all three arms, but the magic was ripping them away, unable to sustain two so close together.

“I won’t let go. I won’t—”

He told her. Yvlon Byres just grinned. Her arm, holding the three of his, tightened.

“Don’t worry.”

Then the magic flung them apart. Ksmvr tumbled through the void.

Four magical comets landed across Chandrar. Four bodies, four adventurers thrown apart. Falling, striking the ground into unconsciousness. Wounded, exhausted.

Alive.

—-

The Horns never returned. So many adventurers lay dead.

So many survived.

A bloody, bleak group gathered together. The living had beaten the dead? No—they’d escaped. That was all they could say.

“So they failed. They failed. This was all a waste of time.”

Someone muttered. All their grief, all their effort…the bitter reproach was cut short.

“No.”

That voice came from Halrac. Halrac, who stood, holding his teammates with one arm—touching them—to make sure they were alive. His eyes were filled with silent loss. Yet he spoke now, facing the others.

“They did what they promised.”

The [Veteran Scout] bent. Slowly, outside the Village of the Dead, he reached down to what remained of the last monster. He sifted apart dust and lifted something.

Slowly, he pulled the bag of holding out of the pile remains. The adventurers stared at it. Then—the armor. And the blade.

The gleaming sword slowly came up in Briganda’s hands as she stared at it, wide-eyed. Weapons taken from the greatest swordsman of his era.

Last of all—Keldrass bent down, and picked up the familiar artifact. He had spotted it at the start. It was familiar. The Drake had never used it, but he had worn it. Poetic that he owned it. Slowly, he lifted it up and breathed the words.

“The Helm of Fire.”

The adventurers looked at each other in silence. Then…yes, then.

It was over.

—-

The people of the world watched the raid end with mixed feelings. Grief. Desolation, as the friends of the Horns realized more were gone.

Greed, seeing the artifacts claimed. Hope there might be more in the now-weakened village.

Fear of the undead, rekindled not least what might remain.

Fury at the Courier, the thief.

So many emotions. A handful of artifacts, dead bodies. That was all that remained from the raid, surely? All that effort for nothing?

In another world, perhaps. Here?

This is what they heard:

Revi Cotton, weeping for the Horns, stitches torn. For Geni and the others.

[Summoner Level 33!]

[Skill – Vessel of Oneself obtained!]

[Skill – Summoning: Pass Wounds obtained!]

[Skill – Summoning: Call the Great Ancestors obtained!]

Typhenous, lying on the wagon, his old bones still hurting from being broken and healed, but smiling bitterly and gently as he watched his team draw breath.

[Rogue Mage Level 28!]

[Skill – Invisible Cast obtained!]

[Knifefighter Level 23!]

[Skill – Flash Lunge obtained!]

[Conditions Met: Survivor → Underworld Survivor Class!]

[Underworld Survivor Level 20!]

[Skill – Street Invisibility obtained!]

[Skill – Greater Endurance obtained!]

Briganda, weeping as she ran towards Cade, shaken. Holding him tight and remembering the moment she had died but for grace.

[Shield Maiden Level 34!]

[Skill – Magicguard Block obtained!]

[Skill – Mother’s Flight obtained!]

The grim [Scout], sitting with head bowed, adding them to the list.

[Conditions Met: Veteran Scout → Bowman of Loss Class!]

[Class Consolidation: Marksman removed.]

[Class Consolidation: Fletcher removed.]

[Bowman of Loss Level 36!]

[Skill – Arrow of Regret obtained!]

[Skill – My Pain Is My Strength obtained!]

[Skill – Craft: Arrows of Will obtained!]

[Skill – They Walk With Me obtained.]

Jelaqua Ivirith, speaking to the worried Dullahan with a laugh, pretending to be fine. Shaken, but weeping with her own gratitude for the light triumphant which had saved them.

[Conditions Met: Steel Tempest → Steelforged Whirlwind Class!]

[Class Consolidation: Mercenary removed.]

[Class Consolidation: Bounty Hunter removed.]

[Steelforged Whirlwind Level 34!]

[Skill – Weapon: Extended Range (5 Feet) obtained!]

[Skill – Weapon: Moment of the Half Giant obtained!]

[Lover Level 6!]

[Conditional Skill – Lover’s Lucky Charm obtained!]

The half-Giant, adrenaline wearing off, covered in blood. Healed not at all by the blood he had spilled.

[Conditions Met: Green Mage → Bloodearth Mage Class.]

[Class Consolidation: Warrior removed.]

[Bloodearth Mage Level 27!]

[Skill – Crimson Earth Mana obtained!]

[Spell – Bloodseeds (Birevine, Toricel Shieldplant, Sendipe Bush) obtained!]

[Skill – Enhanced Strength obtained!]

[Skill – Iron Skin obtained!]

Ulinde, who lay, teary-eyed next to the others, having seen a true adventurer’s fate and life up close. And had not found her idols wanting.

[Spellslinger Level 28!]

[Spell – Empower Spell obtained!]

[Spell – Copycat obtained!]

And last of all, the Drowned Man, hero quickly forgotten. Who had not forgotten his salvation either. He stared up at the sky as he lay there. Changed. Wondering.

[Depth Rogue Level 35!]

[Skill – Leap of Death obtained!]

[Skill – Lesser Resistance (Blades) obtained!]

[Faith Seeker Class obtained!]

[Faith Seeker Level 2!]

[Skill – Divine Intuition (Weak) obtained!]

[Skill – Iron Will obtained!]

Others. Among the adventurers, all of whom heard the voice, the [Prince], tossing and turning, unable to hide his regrets despite all he had done, the commendations and pride of his kingdom.

[Prince of Sands Level 29!]

[Skill – He Fought With All His Pride obtained!]

The Minotaur, gazing at his stump of a hand, head bowed, unable to know how the Horns had met their end.

[Conditions Met: Twinblade Linebreaker → Maimed Twinblade Class.]

[Maimed Twinblade Level 37!]

[Skill—

Levil, burying Makki and Bram together.

[Conditions Met: Fire Mage → Inferno Mage Class!]

[Inferno Mage Level 25!]

[Skill—

Too many levels and Skills to count. The Drake who cried and could not sleep.

[Conditions Met: Heiress → Relickeeper Heiress Class!]

[Relickeeper Heiress Level 22!]

[Skill – Artifacts: Uncover Potential obtained!]

[Skill – Golden Investment obtained!]

To seek the gauntlets obsidian forged,

Go to the deep, midnight gorge

Where Drake’s hubris met forts of stone

And sank to depths unmatched, alone.

Last of all. Four adventurers, who lay in separate places. Still reaching out for one another. Ceria Springwalker, their leader.

[Arctic Cryomancer Level 35!]

[Skill – Aura: Distant Manipulation obtained!]

[Spell – Battlefield of the Frozen World obtained!]

[Spell – Summon Lesser Frost Elemental obtained!]

The wounded woman, her metal flesh tarnished. Breathing in and out, face still intent, set. Reaching for a hand far gone from hers.

[Silversteel Armsmistress Level 37!]

[Skill – Berserker’s Rage obtained!]

[Skill – Impact Punch obtained!]

[Skill – Armform: Telescoping Flesh obtained!]

[Condition – Plaguesteel (Minor) Received.]

The Antinium, trying to hold on. Crying out that he could not until unconsciousness took him.

[Skirmisher Level 28 obtained!]

[Skill – Piercing Strikes obtained!]

[Skill – Swift Rearmament obtained!]

[Weapon Art – Aggregate Volley obtained!]

[Teammate Level 5!]

[Skill – Sense Affection (Platonic) obtained!]

[Skill – Stronger Together obtained!]

And lastly, the young man lying in the sands. Who had seen the end, those far down his path.

[Conditions Met: Necromancer → Ossific Necromancer Class!]

[Conditions Met: Ossific Necromancer → Deathbane Necromancer Class!]

[Deathbane Necromancer Level 38!]

[Skill – Constant Foe (Undead) obtained!]

[Skill – Authority of Death (Lesser) obtained!]

[Spell – Undead Shattertouch obtained!]

[Spell – Ritual of the Lord of Bones obtained!]

[Skill – Drain Death Mana obtained!]

[Mage Level 22!]

[Skill – Improved Mana Circulation obtained!]

[Fencer Level 6 obt—]

[Class Gain Cancelled.]

They lay across Chandrar, fates unknown to all. Each one was found. One of the Horns lay face-down as a figure called a halt to the caravan. They leaned over their horse, pointing as others went to inspect the figure.

“Well, what have we here?”

They recognized the adventurer at once. Nevertheless, they ordered chains brought. A reason could be found later. The guards and…slaves…went to obey. Smiling at their good fortune, the leader clapped their hands.

They were a [Slaver] of Roshal.

8.20

The Horns of Hammerad were dead. Annihilation struck twice.

The world ended. No one had even found their bodies. No one could find them. They had perished, doing exactly what they had promised. An adventurer’s dream, challenging one of the greatest death-zones of this era—a true death-zone, which had defied an army of adventurers and an army in truth, backed up by Skills from world powers.

Until they didn’t return—until hours had passed, until a day—you believed they would emerge, laughing, saying something stupid, and holding a relic beyond imagination.

Like Erin. Until it happened…you didn’t understand what it was like to have the sky fall on you.

The fact that the Horns of Hammerad were actually alive had no impact on the truth of their death. It hit their friends, family, just as hard.

Annihilation. Despair. Comatose…

…

Mrsha slapped herself on the cheeks. She tried to cry. She pinched herself. She eventually got it to happen, because she was so angry at herself for not crying that she did.

Cry. Cry more! Like when Erin died. She tried. But in truth, all she felt was…numb. It was too much. The sadness, the loss—her heart couldn’t deal with it twice in such short succession, so it gave up.

She would have lain there, attacking herself for not grieving, but like last time, Ulvama would just have bothered her. So this time, Mrsha moved. She stumbled around, not having slept. However, the Goblin had taught her something. A second something.

All three of them had. The inn, in the day after the Horns of Hammerad never returned from the Village of Death, was silent. Mourning.

The rest of the world, uncharitably less so. Word of the Helm of Fire’s recovery spread far and wide, not to mention what people were claiming might be an adamantium sword—or better—along with various treasures adventurers had carried from defeated undead.

The news was all Noass and Sir Relz interviewing adventurers. They struck a sympathetic tone towards the casualties, but the Drakes clearly considered the raid a success, all told. Adventurers died.

It was the inn where those who knew the Horns mourned. However, amid the desolation, the bleak faces of Ishkr, Imani, Palt, Kevin, and the others—

There they were. The three Goblins ate, talked quietly, and got to work. Mrsha watched them.

Rags, the tiny thought-thief and [Chieftain] wearing armor, always looking down on people her height.

Calescent, the portly Hob who smelled of good things and had the death-spice.

And of course, Ulvama, the evil, poking, greedy…[Shaman] who was sometimes nice.

All of them walked and moved, not without care, but more like people walking in spite of a hole in their stomachs. They cut a contrast to Numbtongue. Mrsha understood that in some way, this was ‘Goblin’.

So what did Goblins do? Well, interestingly, it was Ulvama who did what Mrsha understood to be her job: she took care of people.

That meant making sure a certain pair of Drakes didn’t die from choking in their own vomit, among other things. As Mrsha woke up, she saw Ulvama adjusting the passed-out Drake who’d cried and drunk herself insensible. Selys. Joined by Drassi, who had also been emotionally destroyed by covering the battle. Ulvama, wrinkling her nose, kept prodding parts of the sewage and drying it up with the tip of her staff, turning it to scentless powder.

For that, Ulvama was in Ishkr’s good books for the week. Mrsha on the other paw saw Ulvama poking Selys as the Drake woke up, refusing to let her wallow—and taking away the bottle. Mrsha realized what she was doing, and began poking Selys too.

“Enough!”

The Drake screamed in Mrsha’s face. Mrsha, wide-eyed, scrambled back. Selys’ fury turned to guilt.

“I’m sorry, Mrsha! I didn’t mean—”

Ulvama calmly whacked Selys across the head with her staff. A lot harder than she hit Mrsha, but Selys was an adult. The Drake spent the next five minutes clutching at her head.

Mrsha didn’t leave her. She had to be a big girl. Selys was the Drake in trouble because she had liked Pisces (probably?) and felt guilty because the Horns had gone to the village at her request. She had to help Selys. And because she helped Selys, she thought of that more than…than…sad things.

Part of Mrsha didn’t believe they were dead. How could someone kill Yvlon when she was angry? There were no bodies. They’d be in some coffin, like when Ceria had survived, in Erin and Ryoka’s stories. They might be alive. Eating…eating zombies that Pisces made edible or something.

Believe in that.

—-

Rags also believed the Horns might be alive. She had been there when they pulled Ceria out of a coffin. If they were dead…

They had made their choice. So she made hers. She walked around The Wandering Inn, feeling odd after having stayed a night in the comfy beds, eating breakfast.

“What is the plan, Chieftain?”

Calescent’s voice was low, but he glanced at Ulvama, ministering to Selys like…well, almost kindly. Rough love, but it was there. She was even letting Mrsha help.

The sight was so at odds with Rags’ impression of Ulvama, it made her reconsider. She had been leaning towards refusing Ulvama’s request to join her in Goblinhome. [Shaman] or not, she had been part of Tremborag’s inner council and Rags had hated the Mountain City Tribe’s ways.

On the other claw…hand…whatever. This. Rags studied Ulvama.

“Maybe her.”

“And him?”

Calescent eyed the garden’s door, beyond which the fourth Goblin had not yet emerged for breakfast. Rags shook her head.

“Doubt it.”

The [Spice Chef] nodded to himself. Numbtongue was an invaluable ally, but neither Goblin missed how—broken—he was. Some of the other Goblins in Goblinhome were like that, after the battle at Liscor. They had seen too many Goblins die.

Even a few Redfangs had gone that way. None had died, because Goblins wouldn’t allow that.

They just weren’t warriors, anymore. They helped make clothing, pottery, learned something else. Those Goblins were done with fighting. Done with death.

It might be kinder to take Numbtongue. Especially if Pyrite is in him. Rags was still shaken by that revelation. However, she thought he might belong here. Same with Ulvama. The only reason Rags might not take her back was because the [Shaman] was more useful here, keeping Numbtongue healthy. She could even, apparently, enter Liscor and shop without being killed on-sight. Maybe they could replace Rabbiteater with her as their shopping liaison?

Then again, Rags had those convenient rings. They would be super-useful. She’d talk with Ulvama, more civilly this time. See what she could get from Liscor; head back to Goblinhome.

She had seen the Horns fail. They had succeeded in a way. They had gotten this ‘Helm of Fire’, which Rags really wanted to see. However, they had failed in another way that they were not here. Dead or missing in action—

How were they going to heal Erin now? Pisces had a plan, or the Horns did. In lieu of their return, the loot was being divided up. Selys actually roused herself for that fight, and it was going to be a fight over the dividing of spoils, identification, and so on.

Not to mention allocating money for the dead. It turned out…that the wills of three of the four Horns of Hammerad were made out to ‘The Wandering Inn’, and ‘Erin Solstice’ or other inhabitants. Pisces had no wish to send money back to his family. Ceria had left her possessions to her teammates or the inn, also far from home. Ksmvr had no family or Hive.

Only Yvlon had bequeathed her possessions to her brother and family. As their wills came in and their shares of the treasure were negotiated…Mrsha kept hugging Selys, burying her face against the Drake’s scales. Because Selys had to be strong.

Rags listened to the quiet talking with one ear as she glanced around the inn.

“…No bodies found. No sign of them.”

Her ears perked up at a conversation between an adventurer and Selys. Bevussa, of all people! The Garuda stared at Rags.

Rags waved back. The Gold-rank Captain turned to answer Selys, stumbling over her words.

“They might be alive. I’ve known adventurers to survive worse, Selys. If they aren’t…[Scrying] spells can’t find…?”

The Drake shook her head, looking sick.

“I asked. It doesn’t work on the…dead. Besides which—magic fails in the Village of the Dead, remember? Someone tried. No luck.”

Which of course was because the [Scrying] spell was out of range. No one knew that, however. The [Scrying] spell could have found the Horns anywhere within a thousand miles of where it was targeted. Who would bother to expand that radius?

The point was for Rags, the raid’s outcome had become a purely non-Goblin matter. As in—no Goblin was getting the loot, her tribe benefitted not at all from the outcomes unless Selys wrangled the Helm of Fire by some miracle from the loot pool.

She had bigger fish to fry. Or rather, Calescent did. She watched him hurry into the kitchen to play with all the cooking tools and recipes Imani had given him. He watched an adventurer raid and his first thought was ‘let’s make some spicy breaded fish’!

Some people. Rags shook her head. She had bigger fish to fry.

And smaller rats to catch. She narrowed her eyes and went prowling back upstairs. Rags opened the door to Erin’s room, stopped, and stared at the chessboard.

“Hm.”

She sat down and inspected the very odd message on the board. Now, this wasn’t a chess game. What did those black-and-white stones spell with the chess pieces?

“undrstd. Snding. Kp sfe. What?”

Rags scratched at her head. Just when she picked up the common language, they had to use stupid…she glanced around.

“Hmm.”

—-

Niers Astoragon swore ten kinds of curses as he hid behind a mug or pot or something on the nightstand. Of all the times for that Goblin to walk in! Not least before he’d been able to erase the messages!

Worse still, she was looking around. Sniffing the air. Then—Rags began casually walking around the room, checking under the bed, patting the sheets…

Looking for him. The Titan cursed and slowly edged around the cup. Had she sensed him using Skills yesterday? That was not a [Strategist]’s regular ability! Then again—she was a Chieftain! Goblins and their damn abilities!

Garden door? Niers looked around. He did not want to have to kill that Goblin. Of course, that was a last resort. However, her spotting him might complicate things. He did not like random variables in a battle, and his secrecy mattered now that everyone knew he was still alive. He saw Rags’ head turn.

“Hmm. Hmm. My imagination?”

She walked towards the window, and Niers saw her check it. Then the Goblin shrugged to herself. She walked past the dresser, whirled—and jumped for him.

Of course, Niers Astoragon had already begun moving. He recognized a feint when he heard one. Cursing, the Goblin missed him as he dove. He fell and she grabbed, but the Chieftain’s crimson eyes widened.

“What?”

Rags had never seen a Fraerling before. Niers stared at her as he fell, missing her grabbing hands by an inch—

Then he fell through the door that had opened in the floor. Rags stared at the tiny door, jaw open. She hadn’t realized you could change the size of the door! Nor—that you could open it on the ground!

[Strategist].

Niers landed in the [Garden of Sanctuary] and realized he didn’t have time to be smug. Rags would open the door in a second. He could…feel her fighting to open it. But he had control. His will was stronger! The two struggled as Niers surged through the grass, shouting for Apista. He felt his control wavering the further he got from the wall—somehow the Garden knew he didn’t need to really use it!

Rags was reaching for the d—

Mrsha walked into the [Garden of Sanctuary], overriding both authorities. She stopped as she saw Niers.

“Hide me! That damn Goblin’s seen me!”

The Titan bellowed. Mrsha’s eyes widened.

—-

By the time Rags managed to get into the garden, swearing, the Titan was gone. She gazed around, suspiciously staring at Mrsha, but she couldn’t tell where the tiny man was!

Tiny people in the inn? Had Erin…shrunk one of her guests? That was weird, even for her. But wait…Rags had heard about these tiny people. Velan had them in her memories.

“You. Mrsha. Where is the tiny man?”

Mrsha stared blankly at Rags, then gave her a look of genuine concern.

Are you alright? Is your brain running?

She held up a piece of paper. Rags glowered at her, then stomped off. She had to regroup, research that memory—and figure out if that was the same person who’d used a Skill during the battle. It looked like the image of that giant overhead. But if that was the case…

Rags would find him again, now she knew he was there.

She never spotted the Titan, hiding in Mrsha’s fur.

—-

Niers exhaled, slowly. His instincts were right. The Goblin had missed him when he’d hidden with Mrsha!

He had no Ring of [Appraisal], sadly. However, Niers was one of the greatest [Strategists] in the world and you didn’t get to his position without picking up a few tricks.

His aura-manipulation was weak since he wasn’t really a [General] or royalty or whatnot, but he could read it like a champion and resist almost all cases of it.

Fire. That was what Rags’ aura spoke of. So, working backwards and hearing that she was a chess-playing [Strategist] and [Chieftain] as well, it was easy to figure out what Skill she’d used to find him with.

“[Sense Heat]. I’m pretty sure her eyes can see body heat. Maybe even all relative temperatures. Darn!”

He confided in Mrsha. The Gnoll looked at him, wide-eyed.

“Rags is not a bad person. Maybe. Just a stinking thief.”

Niers laughed as he read that out loud.

“What does that have to do with me keeping secret? Or trusting her? At least she’s a Goblin. Still…”

He sighed. The interlude of safety was already ending. He looked at Mrsha, aware that those adventurers had been special to her. Poor child. They might have been one of the first adventurers she’d known who died like that. He shook his head.

“I need you to help me learn more about that Goblin, Mrsha. Can you do that?”

She nodded, slowly, and glanced towards the inn. Niers directed her as he waved to Apista. Mrsha would be his eyes and ears within The Wandering Inn. He wasn’t going to risk that Goblin finding him with a trick.

“Take me to Liscor, bee. Apista.”

He was going to listen in at the Adventurer’s Guild or Mage’s Guild. There were too many things he couldn’t get from a scrying orb or a child alone.

Apista buzzed angrily, though the Fraerling had no idea why as he impatiently waved at her. The ‘bee’ twitched her antennae.

Some people didn’t know how to say ‘please’.

—-

The effect of the raid on the Village of the Death went around the world. Literally. However, more than the artifacts gained, the threat of the undead revealed, the broadcast itself made an impact.

It inspired. Yes, the deaths had been horrific. Yes, the adventurers had fled an overwhelming foe. Some people took grief from that, a cautionary tale, a bittersweet victory at most.

Others saw only the very bones of what it was to be an adventurer. To be a story, a legend. Even a hero.

It depended on the personality.

The Summer’s Champion slammed his hands down on the table. All the little flags, carefully-arranged pieces, and the entire map of this region of Terandria jumped.

It had taken their Autumn Knights forty minutes to set it up. One of them made a faint sound in her throat as she saw the pieces land in a mess.

To his credit, Greysten looked a bit abashed as he stared down at the pieces. Then he resumed glaring at his target.

“We have just witnessed the monsters of another time! The greatest minions of a Necromancer, who put even my memory of the Necromancer of Terandria to shame! I have never seen such horrors in reality, brothers and sisters. I take it as an omen, this television, these broadcasts, not to mention the miraculous light which saved those valiant adventurers. This is the time for courage! For great deeds and valor! I say—it is time for war.”

His eyes blazed with the very definition of his spirit. His body tensed, as if ready to run off and find that ‘adventure’, even if he had to climb a mountain.

There was a lot to admire in that mentality. And just as many pitfalls. The voice and person who answered him was as cold as his nature. Logical? That was a reduction of Knight-Commander Calirn’s season. They did not always tout logic as a virtue, but cool-headedness.

“Summer’s Champion, you would have us march to war on an omen? From Izril no less? This is no time to be reckless. Or do you disdain the thousands, tens of thousands, who might die from a mistake?”

The Summer’s Champion narrowed his eyes.

“I disdain nothing, Knight-Commander! Nor would any [Knight]. I put the same question to you. A rebuke! Rebuttal…? I reverse the question on you! How many lives might perish because of our inaction?”

The other [Knights] in the war room watched as the two auras clashed. Heat and cold. Predictably…steam rose in a cloud as two temperatures met. Add a bit of wind and they’d get a proper tornado.

“Ailendamus is coming down Pheislant’s roads to attack the Dawn Concordat from the flank. They have violated Pheislant’s borders. This is an act of aggression.”

“So you would have us make it an act of war, Summer’s Champion?”

The Fall’s Sentinel was older, and struck a more composed tone than the younger seasons. Nevertheless, he had seen more wars than Greysten, and the younger [Knight] inclined his head. Some heads of seasons served for life. Others retired, but it was customary for the two younger seasons of Spring and Summer to appoint younger heads. Of course, they might serve for their entire lives, but it was telling that the average lifespan of the two younger seasons’ heads were also the shortest.

Greysten was their leader of crusades, who might well command in place of Calirn in times of war. He was advocating for just that.

“Let us march on Ailendamus’ army while it is within the borders! His Majesty will surely see the need to check Ailendamus’ power! They must be held before they swallow all of Terandria’s south, Calirn. We are not disagreeing over this, surely?”

Calirn shook his head along with the Spring’s Warden. Even the Fall’s Sentinel looked troubled.

No, no one was blind to the threat Ailendamus posed, nor its increasingly aggressive campaigns. It was just…

“Ailendamus cannot be fought alone, Summer’s Champion. I agree Ailendamus must be checked. However. If Pheislant, or the Order of Seasons itself stands alone, who is to say we will simply not become another casualty in the Dawn Concordat’s war? If we are alone, I believe the results may be dire.”

Silence greeted Calirn’s words. No one said it outright, not even him. However, what he meant was this:

We could lose against Ailendamus, even if Pheislant joins the Dawn Concordat. All four nations weren’t even half of Ailendamus’ size combined.

Ironically, if it were a century ago and Silvaria reigned, the situation might be far easier. However, the area was still recovering from the Necromancer’s desolation.

There were many coastal nations. Desonis. Nadel. Pheislant. Each one with powers like the Lord of the Dance, the Earl of Rains, the Order of Seasons, individuals or groups that made other nations wary.

However, they were all weaker individually than Ailendamus. Even combined, it might be an even battle. Ailendamus was just…big. As big as Nerrhavia’s Fallen, to name another superpower. Destroy one army and they sent ten. Destroy ten and they could raise twenty.

“I do not ignore the cost, Knight-Commander. But I tell you that each time we hesitate and let justice go undone, I feel we have betrayed our knightly-oaths. I know the reasons, but I feel it in my marrow.”

Greysten punctuated the comment with another, weaker, slam on the table. Calirn glared at him as the [Knights] watching the debate of the three Seasons’ heads murmured.

He could have said that in private. Greysten was honest to a fault. Stubborn as a Drake, too.

The two argued, but the main issue was set and the two were just clashing personalities as much as actual debate.

—-

One did not have to take part in the open war-council to know that Greysten would argue and Calirn would wait. All things being equal, they had time to do something about Ailendamus’ army, which still had ground to cover. A decision was not necessary.

So, the savvy [Knight] privy to the workings of the Order of Seasons might well choose to look at something more interesting.

Like…the least-sad Goblin in the entire world.

Least sad. Yes, Rabbiteater was the least-sad Goblin. Why? Because he was in a safe place, with people who knew he was a Goblin yet welcomed him and treated him as equal. He had enough to eat, he was leveling, had good armor…

Thus, he was the least-sad Goblin ever. So what if people he knew were dead? If Erin…was dead?

Goblins lost people they loved every day. That did not make Rabbiteater special. He dealt with it.

Erin was dead.

He’d just been told. Then, shortly afterwards, the Horns, who he had known—disappeared in the Village of the Dead’s raid. Probably dead too.

What was interesting to an observer was that the Goblin did not, as a Human might, flee to the arms of a lover like Dame Meisa, who rumor had it was in a relationship with him. Nor fall to drink or depression.

How did the least-sad Goblin process any grief? Well…

“Ser Solstice! Ser Solstice! Slow down!”

The gasping voice came from Ser Markus, followed by Dame Meisa, Ser Vitin, and a few other [Knights] who knew ‘Ser Solstice’. The figure didn’t stop or acknowledge them as he ran.

Ran, in full armor around the keep. The watcher checked the position of the sun. Still rising, and this was lap eight. The keep was not small.

This had been preceded the day before by running up and down stairs until he threw up, swinging weighted swords with more rocks tied around your wrists until the arms puffed up, swimming through the lake—the Goblin had nearly drowned—and over ten thousand sit ups.

If someone thought that last part was not notable, they had never done ten thousand of anything before. Muscle began to tear at a certain point.

Rabbiteater ran on, ignoring the [Knights] entreating him to stop. Some of the Spring Knights had tried to keep up with him after he’d kept running past their usual training time—but they’d given up.

He ran, feeling the pain in his lungs, his body—every piece of him screaming. That was fine. This was fine. If he kept running, he’d forget the other pain.

Rabbiteater was dealing with his loss in a very specific way. Not a Goblin way, per se, but a Redfang way. When they lost comrades, Garen had told them to train. Train! Until they passed out. You didn’t waste water on tears, but you could sweat.

No matter how fast he ran, though—he couldn’t forget.

Erin was…

Rabbiteater saw Ser Markus try to tackle him. The [Spring Knight] missed; Rabbiteater just ran faster. He’d run until he passed out. Run…a sweet oblivion of…

A figure appeared before him in the grass outside the keep’s walls, from which a few [Knights] on guard-duty watched the attempted running-intervention.

Dame Talia, who had been watching Rabbiteater run all day and been struggling with sympathy of her own, stared at the person who’d appeared in a moment.

She hadn’t seen him, despite being vigilant! She would have reached for the bow or horn she carried—but she knew the armored figure, the stern mask, the fur-lined armor.

The Winter’s Watcher stood in front of Rabbiteater, appearing out of a veil of flurrying snowflakes despite the summer heat. The snow began to melt—save for the air around him, which was always frosty. He? held out a gauntleted hand.

Stop.

Rabbiteater promptly ran around him. The Winter’s Watcher’s helm turned as the Goblin sprinted past him.

“Ser Sol—Rabbit!”

Dame Meisa cried out, horrified. The [Knight-Errant] ran on.

Two minutes later, the Winter’s Watcher appeared in front of him again, in another flurry of snow. Rabbiteater saw the raised palm, the silent gesture.

He ran around the Winter’s Watcher. The [Knight] stuck out a foot.

Rabbiteater went flying. He crashed to the ground, tumbling, trying to get onto his feet. He was exhausted, but he turned. Set himself to run—

The Winter’s Watcher put a foot on his back and stood on him. Rabbiteater flailed, cursing.

“Get off!”

He shouted at the Winter’s Watcher. The other [Knights] had halted. The silent leader of the Order of Winter looked down at Rabbiteater. Slowly, the Goblin’s flailing grew weaker, even as he tried to shift the foot.

Rabbiteater tried to kick up at the codpiece. But his strength was…

Fading…

Snow fell onto the helmets of both [Knights]. The Winter’s Watcher raised their foot and the aura of cold faded. The soporific, leeching power of his aura had done its work.

He looked towards Ser Markus, Dame Meisa, and the others. Then he nodded and walked away. They hurried forwards to collect the slumbering Goblin-[Knight].

What an interesting Goblin. The Winter’s Watcher decided that the Fall Sentinel and other seasons’ heads were right. Goblin he might be, but [Knight] he was, too.

Perhaps if Velan the Kind had been a [Knight], the world might have changed. The Winter’s Watcher touched their shoulder. Many scars ached, but the Goblin King’s wound…didn’t trouble them so much, even when they looked down at the Goblin called ‘Rabbiteater’.

Maybe that was a sign, too.

—-

The world was changing. As Ser Greysten stormed out of his meeting with Knight-Commander Calirn, formally chastised for losing his temper and actually subject to a reprimand, other forces were just as unhappy with the way of the world.

More than heroism, seeing a wraith or so many undead giants, not to mention that [Sword Legend] from another time, unsettled those in power. Because it reminded them that they might only be the ‘best’ for a very limited span of time. In a world where so many old artifacts and beings existed, that was an unpleasant thought.

Perhaps that was why Archmage Viltach saw fit to take Trey into his confidence. Of course, there were other factors, one of which was Trey’s proximity to Eldavin. Yet it seemed to Trey—or rather, Troy Atlas, that the Archmage was also showing him one of his secrets in order to…justify it to himself.

Rather like a student sharing a possible answer to get feedback, if only that they were right. He watched as Viltach murmured.

“And, three, two, one…there we are. You see? Right on schedule. It might not be the Village of the Dead’s raid, but they do come back alive.”

Trey blinked at the group of [Mercenaries] and adventurers who filed tiredly into the room. Half looked like they’d seen fighting. One of them blinked at Troy, but the Archmage spoke.

“Your results?”

“Ran into more of those enchanted Ghoul bastards—pardon my language, Archmage. Seeing as how we saw that with the Village—we didn’t pursue. Mapped out more…I’m afraid no artifacts. We did confirm it’s an illusory wall on the sublevel, but we didn’t get through. [Dispel Magic] didn’t work.”

“What about the scroll? The enhanced version?”

The [Mercenary Captain] shifted uncomfortably. One of the [Treasure Seekers] shook their heads.

“Nothing. We tried [Fireball] too, and acid. It’s harder than my aunt’s coin purse.”

“Very well. Very well, Thank you for your efforts. Please, rest with my compliments. The map?”

Viltach accepted the map and Trey watched the [Mercenaries] file out. They were practiced at it. Then—he looked at the door to the antechamber as Viltach resealed it.

It was one of the entrances to the floors below. If Wistram had a lot of upstairs that wasn’t explored, well—the downstairs was just as vast. If not as protected.

And that was why they were here. Viltach gestured as he laid the map on the table and turned from the resealed door, bearing his warding sigil.

“What do you make of it all, Troy? You see what I’m doing, of course?”

Trey nodded.

“You’re sending treasure-hunting teams into the lower levels to find artifacts, books, or secret passages.”

“Correct. It is a risky endeavor, but when I saw the Village of the Dead’s raid…well, I have never seen an expedition quite so costly. The worst case was when four of my hired group ran into…I shouldn’t say. A spell trap. Quite nasty.”

Trey eyed the sealed door and shuddered. They were six levels below the lowest point he had gone in his regular duties. The door led to a maze of places lower still.

Catacombs, abandoned wings—Wistram liked to expand by growing, not necessarily making use of all its magical space. Correspondingly, magical creations, undead, and other pests often infested such places.

The [Mages] responded by blasting them to hell and back—or just sealing off areas too dangerous for novices. Then they left it for ten thousand years and got spooked when a giant horror-amalgamation interrupted dinner.

It wasn’t really a threat, since the Golems patrolled the living spaces. However, Viltach had begun delving into the past, as had many [Mages] of old.

“I’ve been charting the lower levels for eighteen years. Before I was an Archmage. Would you believe I got this map from the Archmage before me, who’d been at it all his life?”

Troy blinked. He’d thought the [Mages] were just lazy, but Viltach’s map, which he made scrupulous copies of, had hundreds of passages.

“How can you explore for an entire lifetime, Archmage Viltach?”

The Archmage of Terandria rubbed at his temples.

“Two lifetimes, if my predecessor is to be believed. He got it from his master. So that makes nearly…a hundred and fifty years of hiring treasure seekers at sporadic intervals? The problem, Troy, is that when a [Mage] has access to nigh-unlimited space thanks to dimensional spells, they keep adding on space, and forgetting where the old space was!”

He rolled his eyes in objection to the follies of older [Mages].

“Worse—well, just imagine what foolishness [Mages] get up to in their desire to hide things. Some passages require spell phrases. Others were mazes. Some only appear on certain days of the month, or specific times. I recently learned that one wing higher up only appears when petals bloom in one of the parks. Not least, there are monsters within so one cannot hire a [Cartographer]—unless they want that [Cartographer] to come back as a zombie!”

Trey winced. He understood why Viltach didn’t pay for a dozen teams—and why there weren’t as many takers as there could be.

The raid on the Village of Death had shown the consequences of digging too deep. So had every movie Trey had ever watched with this premise. However, he was game to learn why Viltach had invited him.

“So why show me, Archmagus? I’m very flattered at being shown so much…”

But I’d really love to know where Amerys is, thanks.

Viltach seemed to notice Trey’s inner thoughts. The man smiled.

“Well, Troy, I’ve been considering your other request, but I wondered if, perhaps, you could help me! It was just a thought, mind, but after our creativity-session with Minizi—are you following my train of thought?”

Trey gave him a very blank look. Viltach went on, clearly waiting for Trey to put the pieces together.

“I occasionally tried animals. Once I hired a [Beast Tamer] to train some rats…but that didn’t work well. They escaped. I’ve also tried autonomous creations, well, considered it. Yet Djinni are unpredictable and far too costly to risk, and Golems? Golems…are not widely practiced these days. Much less—privately owned.”

Trey nodded slowly. Then he glanced towards the desk, where a figure had finally struggled its way up a table leg.

Minizi stared down at the map, her actual steel sword on her back. Trey looked at her. Then at Viltach. The Archmage was looking from Minizi to Trey. The [Sand Mage] opened his mouth.

“Oh no. Archmagus—”

The older man interrupted him gently.

“If my research is correct, Lifesand Golems are among the most intelligent and capable Golems one can make of their kind. We have observed Minizi can grow if she receives more sand; the cost simply increases. Consider our upgrades, Troy. Also—consider that Lifesand almost always finds its owner, even if destroyed.”

“You want to send her in? There? That was eighteen mercenaries!”

Minizi looked up, from the young [Mage] to the Archmage. Viltach gestured, looking excited.

“I believe she can reform even if ‘destroyed’, Troy. Moreover, I would pay for any damages incurred! Think of it—you might level from her combat action. I have heard of [Golem Artificers] doing so! Meanwhile, I don’t have to pay for mercenaries to hold back and run at the slightest opportunity! An infinitely regenerating, intelligent Golem that we can adapt to any threat! Why—why it’s genius! It’s like—”

A skeleton walking around a dungeon and getting blown to bits with every trap it stepped on. Of course, Trey had no knowledge of that incident, but he could well imagine the scenarios Minizi might get into. He protectively shielded her—but the bloodthirsty, stupid little Golem had already unsheathed her sword and was waving it about!

She had been half as tall as Trey’s knee. However, with her upgrades she could now reach mid-thigh if she got enough sand. The little ‘bones’ of mithril and so on allowed her to be surprisingly strong, and the mana gems in her body gave her a coordination and ability far beyond her old self—and she was still miles beyond regular sand golems.

Even so! Trey was horrified at his precious creation being destroyed permanently below. Viltach wouldn’t give up, however.

“I happen to know there’re a few zombies in a room two floors up. Damned things; the [Mages] were testing anti-undead spells on them and forgot when I was a boy. What if we tested Minizi against them? We’ll create more Lifesand—”

“That’s my blood!”

“I have healing potions! Just consider it, Troy. Don’t you want to see what your creation is capable of?”

Trey squirmed and argued, but it was true. That was how he found himself watching with Viltach as a waist-high Minizi punched…a zombie in the stomach. It clawed at her, biting with a handful of teeth, and half-fell on her. She struggled underneath it, lifting it up—began stomping on it and trying to stab it with the dagger she’d been given.

Viltach and Trey, standing behind their barrier, looked at…the most uninspiring fight Trey had seen. Not least because the Village of the Dead’s raid was fresh in his mind.

“Er. We may have to stockpile more Lifesand. She’s quite strong! Durable…just too small.”

Trey nodded slowly. Minizi had finally managed to gut the first zombie, and the second was trading punches with her. It was like watching a super-toddler with a knife fight three drunk adults with serious halitosis.

However. The process had begun. Wincing, Trey bled into some sand, preparing it to become Lifesand. Viltach was talking about a proper claymore and promising to track down a weapon for Minizi—who was going to become big-zi soon. Sandzi? Did he have to rename her?

Trey couldn’t help but think of the actual Gazi. What would she say about these developments? Encourage him? Tell him to take advantage of Viltach’s need for his help?

She’d probably say…if he could talk to her…

Hurry up. Trey was almost certain of that.

—-

Gazi Pathseeker, Gazi of Reim, Gazi the Omniscient, would have indeed told Trey to hurry up if she’d been briefed on Minizi’s forays into the dungeon. She would have probably opined on the mistake in timing, acknowledging the limitations of an infiltrating agent—even more than one—and decided that her time could have been better spent before reaching a point where she could assist.

Since it was not in her nature to say any of that, let alone in as many words, Gazi sat. She was bored.

Not inactive, of course. She was training herself. Since she could not easily train her body, she trained her mind.

There were enough threats where she was to make training her body unnecessary. Staying in this spot indefinitely was difficult. There were any number of variables that could lead to her dying very quickly, very painfully.

Lack of air. Being crushed to a pulp. Being eaten by a monster. Tripping off one of the guardians…oh yes. This was training.

However, it would still be wasted if they returned without something to help the King of Destruction. Gazi knew time was running out. So yes—she would have told Trey to hurry. Hurry, and say that patience was necessary too. If she had to, she could wait months.

…Another month at most and she’d try something. Trey had assured her he was onto Amerys’ lead, and Gazi needed only her location. She didn’t even need to risk anyone else’s life.

Just know where Amerys is. So Gazi waited. It was not comfortable, living in her armor. Being buffeted by the ever-present…liquid. Or the monsters.

Even reading a book was hard. Waterproofing was one thing, but trying to turn a page underwater was ridiculously annoying.

Really, if someone had been able to talk to her for an extended period of time, even the usually-taciturn Gazi might have welcomed the conversation. However, at this particular moment in time, she had only two real thoughts.

If I kill every Drowned Person aboard that ship, would I be able to walk around and stretch my legs? Do they have an on-board toilet and toilet paper?

She balefully eyed her other companion in the deeps, which had not noticed her as of yet for all they held the same duty. Well…they were miles away, further out, and her eye was very good.

However, the compulsion to murder for a proper bathroom was second to the main thought in her mind. She’d had it for the last two weeks and it was driving her insane. She couldn’t check; it was far too close.

Yet she had to know.

…Was that a spellbook encased in ice over there?

Didn’t ice float?

—-

Rabbiteater woke up to find he had company in his private rooms. Someone had removed his helmet and armor, and since he was not dead, he had to assume it was a friend.

Someone else was keeping him company.

Since it was the Summer’s Champion, Greysten, not Dame Meisa, Rabbiteater allowed himself to feel disappointed.

Then he remembered the Winter’s Watcher and their trick. Rabbiteater sat up.

“Ah. Rabbiteater.”

Greysten rose. He had been reading. The Summer’s [Knight] still looked angry. Rabbiteater frowned at him.

“Winter’s Watcher put me to sleep.”

The man just shrugged.

“She does what she feels is best for the Order of Seasons. She has intervened in a [Knight]’s affairs more than once. One of my friends had cause to draw her attention in that way, once. I realize you might think it an imposition, but consider it an honor; a token of her concern.”

Rabbiteater just sat up and swung his feet off the bed. For a few, blissful seconds he forgot why his body hurt all over. Then he remembered.

Erin was d—

“She?”

Greysten saw Rabbiteater’s features close, but the question still came out. You could take off his visor, but the mask was still there. The Summer’s Champion replied.

“It is a longstanding question within the Order of Seasons. This Winter’s Watcher—well, most assume they are a he. I and the Spring’s Warden think she is female. We heard her speak, once. She even removed her helm in company and we were assuredly certain of her gender at that time.”

“Sounds pretty obvious.”

“Yes. Well. It might not have been the Winter’s Watcher. They play games of deception with our enemies, even within our order. I think it is a game, however. A [Winter Knight] is supposed to learn the true identity of the Winter’s Watcher, who might even be one of their own, who walks around unmasked and unarmored regularly. Then they are truly considered to be in the order. Perhaps it’s even Knight-Commander Calirn himself and he tasks others with being the double. It would suit him. That…calculating fellow.”

Greysten was clearly angry about something. Rabbiteater…didn’t care. He sat there, really wishing Meisa had been here rather than Greysten. There were a lot more distracting things than the Summer’s Champion you could preoccupy yourself with.

Well—you probably could with him too, but it wasn’t much fun for Rabbiteater.

“I’m going to eat.”

The Goblin swung himself out of his bed, looking for his armor. The Summer’s Champion let him rearm. However, as Rabbiteater was going for the door, the man stood.

“The thing is! It’s Ailendamus. Which we’ve talked about. The army, the war…”

“Yes.”

Rabbiteater did not want to hear about the politics, the ramifications of if this kingdom fell, etcetera, etcetera. Erin was dead. The Horns were gone!

He didn’t care. And he had not made a knightly-pledge to listen to people talk. Or even be polite. Rabbiteater stomped down the hallway. Then found his feet straining against the ground. His metal boots scraped the hallway—

“I know there’s a time to be patient. But what good is patience when you can be in action! Are we really not cowards for refusing to take part in a war for something as petty as ‘odds’? We are [Knights]!”

The Goblin kept trying to move his feet, but Greysten was dragging him the other way, an arm around his shoulder. A friendly arm, but the man was strong.

“I…think…it’s not my problem.”

“True enough, Ser Solstice! It’s mine. I respect that I took on this burden with my job.”

“Good. Then I’ll—”

The Summer’s Champion sighed, his bare head of orange hair turned to the sky.

“Yet it does weigh on me. Let’s have a drink. It may be early, but some days are like that.”

“I think you should talk to your Order—”

“Nonsense! You’re one of us in spirit, if not class. I’ll pay, of course. Come, come.”

The man just dragged the Goblin off, much to the amusement or chagrin of the other [Knights] and [Squires] and servants who had been on the one-sided end of Greysten when he was in a mood. That was how Rabbiteater found himself having a drink and listening to Greysten complain.

He wondered how much trouble he’d get in for dumping his mug on the man’s head.

—-

Earlier in the day, a small typhoon had appeared inland. A freak occurrence; not a proper tornado, but a proper raging tempest of rain and water.

It had covered the Village of the Dead, but done little else. The mourning servant of the Putrid One barely noticed as the wind tore around, throwing lesser undead, but unable to reach the magical heart of the village.

The fury of nature would have been followed by a screaming young woman with a magical sword fueled by futuristic technology. However—Ryoka Griffin could not fly into the Village of the Dead to search for her friends.

For the first six hours after waking, Hethon and Sammy stared at Ryoka, who had been trying to return and find the Horns ever since she’d woken up.

She did not, mainly because she was wrapped up like a silkworm by magical binding spells. Jericha had promptly ensnared her when Ryoka tried to fly back in and challenge whatever had gotten them to a fight.

“Jericha. You can let me go now. I’m calm. Thank you for stopping me.”

Ryoka Griffin lay in the tent on the ground, as Sammy poked her in the cheek repeatedly. She ignored him. Jericha just looked at her and went back to working at her boots.

“Jericha. I’m not going to kill myself. Please undo the bindings.”

Poke, poke. Sammial was poking harder, right at the edge of Ryoka’s mouth. She stared at him. He was staring back. He clearly wanted a response and was going to keep doing it until she said something.

The woman did nothing. She didn’t even look up. Ryoka breathed. In. Out.

“I really am not.”

She knew she’d die. When her head had cleared, she had realized—she couldn’t go in after them. What she could do was ask the wind. Check the garden in The Wandering Inn!

They weren’t dead. She would know it. The wind would tell her. However, she had to leave this tent. Hell, she could scry them or something, right? She just had to…

“Jer—”

Sammial began poking her in the nose. Ryoka Griffin snapped. She waited until he went to pinch her nose and then opened her mouth.

“Aaah!”

Sammial screamed as Ryoka bit. Not hard. Not nearly hard enough to break skin, but she got his finger.

“Lord Sammial, please stop aggravating Miss Griffin.”

Jericha looked up at last. Ryoka wriggled, but she could barely move.

“Jericha—alright. If you’re not letting me out, I’m going to do something, you know.”

The woman gave Ryoka a cold look as Sammial jerked his hand back and ran away from the young woman, staring at her. She bit him! He looked at Jericha, waiting for her outrage, but she and Ryoka were having another battle of wills already, too important for Sammial’s dignity.

“Lord Veltras instructed me to keep you here until he ordered otherwise. Since he has not done so, I am afraid you must remain, Miss Griffin.”

“Really. But Lord Veltras isn’t my [Lord]. I would like to be let go. Now. I have to use the bathroom.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miss Griffin. However, if you would like to talk about your interesting Kaalblade artifact, Lord Veltras is sure to have questions. I could take notes. Privately.”

Jericha glanced at Sammial. Ryoka smiled. Happily.

A pure little smile of contentment and satisfaction, even joy at the world appeared on the young woman’s face.

It was so disturbing Sammial began to edge towards the tent flaps.

“Well, I warned you. Please let me go. Jericha? Jericha? Okay—”

—-

Lord Tyrion Veltras was still assessing the state of the wounded and dead. Some of his people had died in the night. Far fewer than one might expect for such an engagement.

The magical light had brought wounded back from the brink. Yet far too many for what he had thought he was getting into. Nevertheless, he was striding towards the tent to check on Ryoka Gr—

Tyrion heard a muffled thwoom of sound. He looked up and the tent exploded upwards in a blast of wind. The cloth fabric shot up, then began to float downwards as everyone in camp whirled to see what had happened.

Lord Tyrion strode forwards and found Ryoka Griffin lying on the ground, still bound in spells. She looked completely upset at the magical bindings not vanishing.

Then again—it appeared to be a stalemate, as Jericha was lying flat on her back in the mud about nineteen feet away.

Sammial Veltras was respectfully standing at attention and helping Ryoka to sit up when Lord Tyrion found her like that. He saw Jericha storming up the hill, wand raised—

The woman slowed when she saw the [Lord]. Tyrion raised an eyebrow.

“I would have assumed you stopped her from casting magic, Jericha.”

“I did. I—”

Jericha was fuming. The [Lord] however, was calm. He turned back to Ryoka at once.

Interesting. Why was every single thing this Courier did so…odd?

—-

Ryoka breathed in and out. Calm. She was calm. She stood up, dusted herself off, and turned to Jericha.

“Um. Sorry about that. I lost my temper.”

The woman gave her a flat look. Ryoka felt, intrinsically, that the two hadn’t gotten off to a good start…and every interaction since had not improved matters.

In some ways, it was a personality thing. Jericha struck Ryoka as a straight-laced kind of woman. She was a soldier, rather like Periss. She followed orders…waitaminute. Ryoka’s eyes narrowed.

Ilvriss and Periss had been an encounter she remembered back in the winter, Bloodfield days. Dead gods, how many years ago was that?

…Right, less than a full year. It felt longer. Ryoka still had to master the calendar, but she was almost certain the time scale was off in some way. Probably the number of months in a season.

Did that mean everyone was older than they looked? Or aged slower? She put that aside for the moment.

Jericha. Tyrion. She swung her head back to the [Lord] who had instructed his subordinate to set her free. Hm.

There were definitely parallels in Izril’s hierarchy, between Drakes and Humans no less. Sexism. Also—story tale events, like Vampires in hiding, the [Lord] and the faithful retainer… Ryoka could get into that.

Or she could blackmail Jericha by threatening to expose her probable affection for Tyrion.

Or…she could apologize and not be the nuisance she undoubtedly was.

Ryoka Griffin ducked her head and tried to be a bit more contrite. Jericha was eying her.

“You have a gift with the wind, Miss Griffin. Is it a Skill?”

“Er…”

And she was onto Ryoka’s connection with the wind. The day…couldn’t get worse after the Horns went missing. Somehow, Ryoka just didn’t believe they were dead, though. So she was just in a state of worry. Confusion. Fear.

In short, she was back to normal. Ryoka was spared from having to explain further by Hethon running up.

“What was that? Was it the wind?”

Sammial turned to his older brother. He called out, loudly enough to be heard by the [Soldiers] nearby.

“It was her! Jericha wouldn’t let her go! So the Wind Runner used her powers! It was like…a super fart! It blew the tent away!”

Tyrion, Jericha, and Hethon all turned to look at the boy. Then at Ryoka. The Courier had slowly begun to turn red. Lord Tyrion’s eyes flickered. He coughed, and then, with amazing force of will, pretended that last moment had not happened.

“Miss Griffin. I hope you are not planning on returning to the Village of the Dead? It would be your death.”

He looked at her. Ryoka nodded, breathing in and out. Just a peek? No—even the wind was afraid of that place. Something foul was there.

“I’m fine. Thank you for stopping me, Lord Veltras. And you—Jericha. Sorry about the wind. I’m…they’re my friends. The Horns of Hammerad. They’re alive. I know it.”

Jericha and Tyrion gave her the look all soldiers had. That of someone who had said the same thing. Ryoka ignored it. She had to believe.

—-

Afterwards, she sat and ate food. Breakfast. You had to do these things, or pass out, and since Ryoka hadn’t eaten since yesterday, she was hungry.

It was odd to eat in the middle of a war camp breaking up. Tyrion was ordering his people to erect a military cordon or blockade around the Village of the Dead. He didn’t trust the death-zone to stay dead any longer.

Nor did Ryoka. Some of his forces would return to their garrisons; the rest would stay here. Ryoka listened with half an ear as Hethon and Sammial ate oatcakes covered with jam, butter, and honey. It was a good meal, especially with some fresh salami and an apple from some local orchard.

Ryoka barely tasted it. She listened, stomach sinking as Tyrion spoke.

“Begin laying the groundwork for a fort. Jericha—either a [Druid] or a [Geomancer] is to arrive by two days’ time at the latest. Have them begin by elevating whatever area is most suitable. Natural walls. A moat.”

“That won’t stop the flying undead, Lord Veltras.”

He nodded, patting his mouth with a napkin.

“Enchanted arrows, one trebuchet—and no less than sixteen dedicated Level 25+ [Soldiers] armed with magical weapons of at least mithril-grade. Prepare…”

He drummed his fingers on the table.

“…Prepare an escape route angled away from the Village of Death. If need be, the soldiers will curtain an advancing force and flee via horseback. We will station as many horses as soldiers.”

Jericha nodded, hovering and fulfilling the role of [Aide] and [Strategist] at the same time.

“Yes, Lord Veltras. I will have magical armaments distributed immediately. It still won’t hold off the magical undead for long.”

“It is what can be spared at the moment, especially if all sixteen artifacts are lost. They might hold or slay a few while we rally—”

“No.”

Ryoka interrupted the two. Tyrion’s head swung around. Jericha looked offended again, but Ryoka caught herself. Tried to bow or duck her head. She head-butted Sammial.

The Lord of House Veltras stared at Ryoka as Sammial began laughing. Jericha looked exasperated; and wouldn’t you know it, but Lord Deilan, two of the House of El and House Terland’s [Lady] with Eldertuin all arrived to join the breakfast. They heard Ryoka stuttering—then talking.

“No. I’m sorry to interrupt, but don’t just give those [Soldiers], um…artifacts. Jericha’s right. Those undead—the wraiths? They can’t be harmed by normal weapons.”

“Which is precisely why artifacts must be spared. Kaalblades, for instance. Lord Deilan. Lady Reikset. Lord Eldertuin. Greetings to you all.”

Tyrion stood, executed a swift, polite bow, and gestured to the table. The company sat. Lord Deilan and the others still looked shaken from the battle.

So did Eldertuin. He sat, gingerly, arm around his midsection, though his wounds had healed. Sammial and Hethon gaped with their mouths full of food at the living legend. Ryoka felt her stomach twist more.

The dead adventurers. Eldertuin had nearly died. So had Tyrion’s people. She forced the words out first. Let them take her to task for the dead after this.

“I know. I know—but there aren’t enough Kaalblades in the world for the undead. Artifacts either. So—put as many soldiers as you see fit in that fort. I’m no [Strategist]. But—give them silver.”

The nobility turned. Eldertuin raised his brows. Tyrion’s brow furrowed.

“Silver? You mean like the House of Byres? Why?”

“Silver kills undead and…other things. Yvlon killed a wraith with her arms—they’re made out of silver. Didn’t she?”

Ryoka turned to Eldertuin. The Named Adventurer looked impressed.

“She did. I heard one of the Minotaurs shouting that as we were running. Silver’s an old adventurer trick. I knew a woman who always carried a silver dagger. I didn’t know it was a guaranteed kill on specters…but few fight them, even Named-ranks. Are you certain?”

Ryoka hesitated. She was and she wasn’t. If you asked her for proof, all she had was Yvlon’s example. On the other hand—if she knew stories, and she did, silver was the ticket.

“I am. Surely you’ve heard of silver being used against undead?”

“House Byres used to sell silver-alloyed weapons in bulk. However, it fell out of practice to buy such gear. Even my grandfather didn’t see the need. Perhaps because mundane undead fall to iron or steel just as fast as silver. Ghosts? There haven’t been such threats in quantity for…”

Tyrion trailed off. He looked sideways.

“If this is true, there will be records in House Veltras’ annals. Task Ullim with looking into it, Jericha.”

She nodded, her eyes on Ryoka. The young woman winced, but it was done. She would rather arm them with the truth as she knew it than let an entire fort die to the undead.

Fierre is going to eat me for boosting silver-weaponry sales. The Wind Runner inhaled, then bowed, properly.

“I cannot apologize enough, Lord Tyrion. I…asked you to come here and people died. You too, Eldertuin.”

She looked at him. Both men glanced at each other. Eldertuin was the first to shake his head.

“I agreed to come as an adventurer, Miss Griffin. I had my own score to settle with the Village of the Dead. If I had perished at the hands of that Revenant, I might be more upset.”

He grinned at her. Ryoka almost smiled back. Eldertuin shifted, feeling at his gut again.

“As it is? I’m glad I came. For all it took—we saw the heart of that place. Knowing there was such a threat just sitting there, growing stronger for so long…it chills my marrow.”

The Named Adventurer shuddered. Tyrion nodded as well. He met Ryoka’s gaze.

“There is no need to apologize to me for the fallen either, Miss Ryoka Griffin. I am the commander; the fault for any tactical error is mine.”

“But I asked—”

Lady Desinee raised her brows and the Terland [Lady] looked interested too. Tyrion replied, calmly.

“It was my decision to intervene.”

“I still have the blame for suggesting it all.”

“I am Lord of House Veltras. They are my people. Your guilt is misplaced.”

“But if I’d—”

The two Humans arguing about the guilt of the dead soldiers stopped as they heard a sound. Lord Deilan. He coughed and turned his head, but a faint smile had appeared.

“Perhaps, Lord Veltras, Courier Ryoka, your guilt is well-placed, but assigning it seems a fruitless task.”

Ryoka opened her mouth…and realized he was right. She traded a glance with Tyrion. He almost looked amused. Lady Reikset, the last member of the group that Ryoka didn’t really know, leaned forwards.

She was from the House of Terland, and she was curious. She had apparently come to support Eldertuin, who had married into her family, and her bodyguard-Golems had accompanied her even to this breakfast.

Not just bodyguards, Ryoka realized. The House of Terland was already interesting to her because of Ulva Terland, but she hadn’t realized they had some unique peculiarities of their own genetically.

Like some magical bloodlines or even nations had unique hair-color, it seemed House Terland had inherited, well…a pigmentation of their own. Not to their skin, but fingernails and teeth! There was just the faintest green tinge to both, like a natural dye. Or painted fingernails.

Of course, to cover that, House Terland went further and so Lady Reikset had long, delicately manicured fingernails, each one decorated with little sigils and colors. It wasn’t just one color or three; each one was like a painting.

Ryoka guessed that they were enchanted, or the paint was, to avoid chipping or Lady Reikset regularly maintained them. Or just didn’t touch anything.

It seemed all these things may be true, because a little shape made Sammial choke once more on his food. A little man walked across the table, lifted an oatcake, brought it over on a plate to Lady Reikset, and, with the butter knife, began spreading butter on it. He even managed the jam. Only when he had cut it into little pieces and delicately inserted a toothpick into one did she bother to lift it and nibble, delicately.

Table-Golems? Ryoka’s head turned and she noticed two of the Golems waiting weren’t the war-types, but dressed like servants.

House Terland had a motif. Eldertuin ignored the table-golem trying to serve him as Lady Reikset looked at Ryoka.

“You seem to know much about battling undead, Wind Runner Griffin. However, I would expect little less from a woman who slew no less than sixty Wyverns and undead in the air. Most impressive.”

Ryoka blinked. Reikset’s voice was quiet, breathy.

“Er—thank you, Lady Reikset. It wasn’t—I just got lucky. I had a magic sword and…it was just luck.”

The [Lady]’s brows rose in polite disbelief. Desinee and Lord Marthos El both looked equally incredulous.

“I should hardly say it was luck. That was a magnificent blade you were using. The Windblade, yes? It’s worthy of a Courier! I would love to see it if you would allow it, Miss Griffin.”

The what? Ryoka blinked as Lord Marthos leaned forwards. She realized that while this gathering of the nobility was clearly informal, she had been allowed in by virtue of her rank as Courier. Also—that everyone had seen the futuristic sword. More? They’d given it a name.

“The Windsword of the Wind Runner of Reizmelt. Er…I may have had something to do with the name.”

Lord Deilan El coughed again, looking slightly embarrassed. Ryoka turned to him. He’d named the Faeblade? Why Windsword?

Well, everyone was as interested in it as her exploits from the battle. Ryoka thought Eldertuin the Fortress, who had fought non-stop, was more impressive. Then she realized; he might have been pivotal, but he’d held the lines in the Village of the Dead.

Her exploits from above had been more showy. Embarrassed, Ryoka tried to demur.

“It’s…a gift, Lord Marthos. I don’t know if I can show it around. It did all the fighting, really.”

“Is it a Kaalblade of some kind? It looked like you activated it. You know the House of El specializes in making artifacts? If we could inspect it…”

“I uh—”

“Is it that secret? Surely one look would be acceptable.”

Lady Reikset pressed. She was looking even more curious now it was plain Ryoka was reluctant to share it. Sammial, with dreadful timing, piped up.

“It’s a secret! She wouldn’t show me when I saw it! Ryoka said it’s a super-secret that she got after the party and—”

He hesitated. He recalled, too late, that Ryoka had told him never to speak of it and slowly shut his lips.

The other nobles peered at Ryoka, the light of curiosity in everyone’s eyes now. Ryoka checked to see if she could kick Sammial without anyone noticing under the table.

This is why people hated children.

—-

Ryoka got away with keeping the Faeblade secret. Or Windsword. She didn’t get away without showing the nobility, but to her relief, the alien-tech had more tricks than even she knew.

For one—it was bio-locked to her, or something. Lord Deilan, then Lord Marthos, then all the nobility tried to activate it after she showed them the glowing blade once. None of them could make it work, even doing the exact same thing she did.

Hah! Ryoka was just a bit smug about that. Crestfallen, Lord Marthos handed it back to Ryoka.

“A valuable artifact indeed, Miss Griffin. I can see its secrets are well-guarded.”

He looked so sad that Ryoka got the impression he’d been longing to chop down a few trees with it. So did Sammial.

“Make it work!”

He waved the handle at her. Ryoka shrugged, smirking slightly at Sammial.

“I’m sorry, Lord Sammial. It doesn’t work for anyone but me. Even if you command it to.”

“I hate it!”

He tossed the handle down on the ground. Instantly, Hethon punched his brother.

“Don’t do that! It’s an artifact, you idiot!”

“Don’t hit me!”

Sammy kicked Hethon in the groin. His older brother crossed his legs and toppled over in the way of young men everywhere.

“Hethon and Sammial Veltras. Behave yourselves. You are in front of guests!”

Lord Tyrion’s voice made both boys stiffen. They turned and bowed to Ryoka and the others, muttering apologies at once.

Ryoka saw Tyrion bend. He inspected the handle, noting the odd materials, then handed it to her, having removed the dirt with a handkerchief.

“My apologies, Miss Ryoka. It is a superlative blade. May I see it once more?”

“…Of course.”

At this point in time, Ryoka didn’t feel able to refuse Tyrion’s requests. Guilt or not—he had pulled an army out, and she felt she was in his debt now, past deeds or not. He inspected the blade, keeping his hands well away, as Hethon held Sammial back.

“Remarkable. It is like a Kaalblade. But the edge is so well-defined. Not like a magical charge at all.”

Lord Deilan muttered, coming to inspect it too. Lord Tyrion nodded. He glanced at Ryoka.

“Do you know what the cutting capability of the sword is, Miss Griffin? The strength of it? It appears light as a feather. A handicap, perhaps.”

“It’s sharp as can be. I uh—haven’t tested it on many hard things. I didn’t know it could cut the undead that well. The weight’s not a problem is it?”

“It could be. The handle is the only weight, and if the sword blade has no actual weight, then it becomes unbalanced when you lock blades. All the weight being in the handle means it could twist out of your grip more easily. If I had to use such a weapon, I would lock it to my gauntlets. See? The grooves, here…”

To Ryoka’s astonishment, Lord Tyrion indicated the grooves in the handle. Of course the man was a sword-loving expert. Moreover, he was right. He obviously didn’t know the Faeblade was futuristic plasma tech or hard light, but he had a point!

Come to think of it—that squad had battle armor. And none of them had bare hands. Maybe this is supposed to lock to your gauntlets!

Ryoka blinked at the handle. That would be so smart! She turned to Tyrion, deactivating the sword for safety.

“I—you could be right. I haven’t figured out all the uses myself.”

“Ah, so it is an artifact with undiscovered capabilities? And you got it from…?”

“It was a gift.”

Ryoka met Lord Deilan’s eyes, sweating slightly. Tyrion and Deilan had both been at the party. They looked at her, knowingly.

“Can the sword cut through stone as easily as flesh?”

Lord Tyrion was still on the cutting capabilities. Ryoka nodded.

“Everything—except for magic.”

“Except for magic?”

The two looked shocked! What kind of a weapon was that? Ryoka explained about Sammial’s dagger incident since that was out in the open. Nothing would do but for them to see it.

The [Lords] and [Ladies] watched as Ryoka swung the Faeblade towards the sizzling edge of a Kaalblade. She halted before she’d cut the artifact, but there was no need.

The Kaalblade sheared her Faeblade in half. The end that was cut splintered and dissipated; Lord Deilan looked at his weapon, shocked and crestfallen.

“I can’t fathom it! That magical artifact seems superior to a Kaalblade in any number of ways! Yet the enchant is as weak as…is it a flaw in the blade? Intentional?”

“Does it do that to armor?”

Tyrion looked just as startled. He offered Ryoka one of his gauntlets. She gave it a try.

One ginger blow and her blade shattered like glass. It didn’t even mark his enchanted armor. Now, all the nobility were looking at Ryoka’s sword as if it were made of crap, instead of wonders.

“I suppose it is a very…versatile weapon. For non-enchanted foes. Monsters, and the like. Very suitable for a Courier.”

Lady Reikset’s polite words made Ryoka want to tell her it was a technology sword and…she didn’t. Grateful for the dwindling attention.

Also, a bit hurt. It was a futuristic blade!

Tyrion was still interested. He watched as Ryoka cut through a rock, the ground, all without issue.

“A marvelous weapon. I am jealous. Weakness to magic or not, it is a superlative edge.”

He confided in her. Ryoka smiled.

“It is. Thank you. I’m glad it could help.”

The Lord of House Veltras nodded.

“Your intervention saved many of my soldiers’ lives. I saw you protect my sons. I am in your debt once again, Miss Ryoka.”

“No—I’m—”

Tyrion ignored her. He studied Ryoka’s face, then the deactivated handle, and seemed to speak the next words with some difficulty.

“…Perhaps as part of that debt, I could arrange for you to learn from a sword expert. I myself have some knowledge there. You—do not appear to have swung a blade before. I would not wish for you to injure yourself by mistake.”

The Courier blinked at Tyrion, then slowly turned red as she realized that was his way of saying she swung the Faeblade like a club.

“I do need practice, Tyrion. I’m sure I can pick something up, though. I don’t intend to be a [Swordswoman].”

“Nevertheless. It would be an injustice to the weapon you carry.”

He pressed. Ryoka held up her hands, a bit defensively. She didn’t have time for that! She had to find the Horns, revive Erin, kill half a dozen damn Gods…

“It does well enough, like you said. It’s an artifact that doesn’t really need practice, Lord Tyrion. I mean, I’m not going to fight all the time. I can’t even cut myself.”

He hesitated. The man chose his next words with care, rubbing at his chin.

“…That…is clearly for the best. As I believe you would have severed a limb already. Improper technique for such a beautiful weapon is an affront, Miss Ryoka. If I may be blunt—I would insist.”

It seemed one of the few things that could really annoy Lord Veltras was watching someone swing magical artifacts around ineptly. However, in this, he had miscalculated. Ryoka folded her arms. A hint of obstinacy at being told she had to learn emerging.

“Well, learning to use a sword doesn’t seem to help that much. I’m a bit busy. I don’t intend to be a [Warrior], Lord Veltras.”

“So you intend to mock the creators of the weapon every time you swing it?”

Ryoka’s mouth opened as Tyrion frowned at her.

“It’s a gift! The owners don’t care how I use it! I killed those Wyverns!”

“Yes…as you said. Luck. Miss Ryoka, watching you swing that sword hurts my eyes, if I may be blunt. I must insist. You don’t even stand correctly. If I may be further blunt—you don’t even breathe correctly while wielding it.”

“What?”

—-

Hethon Veltras was perplexed. One might even say he was perturbed, or flummoxed, or…

Amused. That was because he had never seen this.

His stern father, whom he wasn’t always sure about, who wasn’t always there, had spent a lot of time with Hethon and Sammial. Which wasn’t always fun, actually.

However, since the Wind Runner had come, he’d noticed his father acting differently. Or perhaps it was just seeing sides of him that the boy never saw from his father in their family settings.

He had seen Tyrion in battle. He had seen his stern father entertaining the funny, awkward, interesting Wind Runner.

However, this was the day when he saw his father…well, having fun. Or perhaps that was too strong a word.

He had seen Tyrion smiling when he raced after Ryoka, the first day she’d flown. That had been wondrous for Hethon too. This wasn’t as pure as that amazing sight had been.

It was funny, though.

“Hah!”

Ryoka Griffin shouted as she slashed with her sword. She was poised, trying to integrate her training from self-defense and martial arts classes into holding the sword. She moved quickly, arms and legs working in tandem as she slashed fast at Tyrion’s side, not going for a huge strike, feinting—

She was athletic, coordinated, and she had seen actual fighting and had the wind on her side. Ryoka slashed.

Tyrion brought the tip of his sword down on her head.

Thump. Hethon winced as he heard the blow. Ryoka staggered.

“Motherf—”

She clutched at her head. Tyrion calmly set himself.

“My point?”

Ryoka’s response was to point. The wind buffeted Tyrion and he nearly staggered. She charged, stabbing—

Thwak! Hethon and Sammial winced as he hit her on the exact same spot.

Lord Tyrion didn’t even try to dodge or parry Ryoka. He didn’t need to. He saw her coming at him and hit her before she could hit him. This time Ryoka dropped her sword and clutched at her forehead, cursing at him.

“You do not know how to wield a sword. I respect your weapon, but I cannot let you claim the same. There is a difference between self-taught and ignorance.”

Lord Tyrion informed Ryoka. Hethon tried to hide a grin as Ryoka picked up her blade.

He had been very polite to her, like a guest. However, it seemed the Wind Runner had finally gotten to a point where even Lord Tyrion’s famed politeness ran its course. And that was the art of blades.

“Allow me to give you a basic lesson.”

Ryoka breathed in and out. A dangerous look was in her eyes, one that Hethon and Sammial didn’t miss. They began nudging each other, grinning. Tyrion hadn’t seen it—mainly because people did not often shout at him. On the other hand, even Lord Deilan, Eldertuin, and the other watchers could see Ryoka Griffin’s off look in her happy smile.

“I would love that, Lord Veltras. Thank you for educating me. I apologize so much for being presumptuous.”

The [Lord] shrugged slightly, lowering the practice sword.

“Your apology is not nec—”

“[Flashbang]!”

Ryoka hurled the explosion in his face. Hethon cried out as he went deaf and blind. He was far enough away that the flash wasn’t as bad. He saw the dim shape of Ryoka charging in. She’d jumped into a flying kick!

Tyrion Veltras recoiled from the explosion. He lifted his sword—

And whacked Ryoka in the midsection, mid-kick. Straight into the ground. She might be fast, and use tricks. But he was one of the greatest [Lords] in the world in combat.

Ryoka Griffin rolled about, clutching at her stomach. Tyrion stood over her, frowning.

“You—”

She threw the sword at him. He dodged—too late. The sword bounced off his arm. Ryoka went for a leg-sweep, hopping mad. Tyrion brought the hilt down on her head in the same place as the last two blows.

Bonk. Hethon winced as Ryoka went cross-eyed. He knew his father. He was probably not pulling his blows. Ryoka lay back down on the ground. Tyrion opened his mouth.

A gale of wind blew him across the ground. Hethon saw Ryoka get up. His father caught himself, and his boots locked him to the ground. He strode forwards, scowling.

“Enough. This is childish—”

“Catch.”

Ryoka tossed something at him. Tyrion saw the jar flying at him, pivoted, and whirled.

He slashed the jar in half, avoiding the contents, and walked past, striding towards her. The liquid flashed into the air—

And the wind blew it across his back. It still didn’t reach him. Not quite; the liquid splashed against a barrier in the air. Proof against the kind of acid-jar attacks that could easily humble even the greatest adventurers who were careless.

However…the liquid didn’t need to touch him to work. Hethon gagged as the worst stink in the world filled his nose. It splashed around Tyrion and he recoiled, putting a hand to his nose. He looked at Ryoka. She smirked at him. Then—

He brought the sword down on her forehead.

—-

She was taking sword-lessons. The truth was she probably could use them. However, it was the delivery that had ticked her off.

Well—well—mistakes had been made. Ryoka’s head still hurt, despite the healing potion. Yet she was willing to let bygones be bygones.

She…didn’t quite look at Tyrion Veltras as he stared at her from where Jericha was trying to de-stink his armor. He could be damned stubborn and he’d hit her five times in the same spot!

Ryoka could acknowledge she had gone a bit far in return, though. Showering him with a stink potion and then getting the wind to blow mud around him and onto his pristine armor and clothes? Bit much.

Tossing the Pepperspray Potion as well had probably been the step too far. She’d deserved that last hit.

“Um. I do need to uh, leave for a bit. I’ll come back to take those lessons! I just…need to visit the Mage’s Guild. So I’m going to do that. Sorry about the armor.”

The Lord of House Veltras stared at her. Ryoka began to back up. Several of House Veltras’ soldiers, who did not appreciate watching their liege-lord covered in mud—or the smell or stinging Pepperspray in the air—blocked Ryoka’s path.

However, Lord Tyrion eventually replied.

“If you need to send a [Message], Jericha is more than capable of obliging the request. A Mage’s Guild may relay your words.”

“Oh. I, uh—well, it’s private.”

Tyrion might have given her a polite response. Before the stink bomb. He just folded his arms.

“Jericha is discreet. A Mage’s Guild is more private in how it handles your [Messages]? A [Scribe] will take it down, a [Mage] may read it—copy it and sell it. Whereas Jericha can send a [Message] directly or ensure House Veltras correspondence is kept private.”

“…Okay. Good point.”

Ryoka reconsidered. Honestly, she was more impressed that Tyrion wasn’t ordering his people to kick her repeatedly before exiling her from his sight permanently.

She…had not considered the ramifications of stink-bombing one of the leaders of the Five Families. She’d been sort of angry. Sort of stressed. It had been a bad day.

Somehow, Ryoka felt a bit better. The Horns were…the raid had been…

She focused up and sobered as Jericha walked over with a bright, Ryoka-like smile that told Ryoka her sins were rapidly accumulating in Jericha’s eyes.

“I would be delighted to help you however I may, Miss Griffin. What do you need?”

Ryoka smiled uncertainly.

“Um—I was going to pay for a [Scrying] spell for the Horns—”

“Already tried. They cannot be found.”

Jericha saw the Runner hesitate. Ryoka bit her lip.

“Then—a [Message] to—”

“That was tried by their fellow adventurers repeatedly through the night. Also in failure. They may be in a place where the spell does not reach them, but it has already been thought of.”

You idiot. Jericha didn’t say that last bit, but Ryoka heard it all the same. However, the Courier surprised her with the third request.

“Okay. Fine. If they’ve tried all that for the Horns, could you send a [Message] to The Wandering Inn, in Liscor? Um—Mage Montressa du Valeross? I need to ask her something.”

—-

Tyrion was amazed at his temper. It had not been appropriate, but he’d been outraged by Ryoka’s disregard for the weapon she carried.

He felt, intrinsically, it was a fine warrior’s weapon. It had no ornamentation, it was functional; he admired that more than filigree or flashiness. To see her use it so poorly had annoyed him.

Her response had been—unique. He still smelled that foul odor, despite Jericha’s attempts to disperse it.

Tyrion did not let his servants clean his armor. He did it himself, and quickly washed his skin to remove more of that stink. When Jericha found him, he had re-donned his armor.

“Milord Veltras. I have delivered Miss Griffin’s requests, but she may need to visit a Mage’s Guild after all. I have taken the liberty of contacting the closest guild able to fulfill her requests. They will send a rider to meet her.”

Tyrion turned. That Jericha was unable to do everything surprised her.

“What did she need?”

“Among other things? She requested communication with a Mage Montressa du Valeross in The Wandering Inn in Liscor. She inquired after…statues of her friends, the Horns of Hammerad, hence a desire for more [Scrying] or specific searching spells I do not possess. It appears there may be a way to tell if they are living or dead. She said—”

“Jericha.”

The aide halted at the tone in Tyrion’s voice. He was looking at her. She hesitated, lowering her notes.

“Lord Veltras? I was only—”

“Jericha, I just informed Miss Griffin you would be more confidential and trustworthy than a Mage’s Guild. I would not gainsay that.”

The woman was crestfallen.

“Yes, Lord Veltras. But she—”

“Enough, Jericha. If it is information that may protect House Veltras or I need to know, tell me. Do not compromise the integrity of House Veltras.”

The woman stared at Tyrion’s back as he turned away. She looked over her shoulder at the opening where Ryoka was poised to fly off and grab what she needed; promising to return. The same woman who had just skunk-sprayed half the camp, gotten House Veltras to commit to a costly engagement, and…

Jericha too snapped. This was not a day of politeness and usual actions. She spoke.

“She requested Mage Montressa to check for the statues in the [Garden of Sanctuary], which exists in The Wandering Inn. There are statues on the hill which will reveal if the Horns are dead by their presence. Furthermore, she decided after that to contact other friends of an ‘Erin Solstice’, a young woman who is apparently neither living nor dead, to aid her.”

Lord Veltras turned back around, slowly. Jericha met his eyes. The Lord hesitated, then folded his arms and took a seat.

“Proceed.”

This was unlike Jericha, so Tyrion listened. Jericha went on.

“I do not know what spell tracked her during the battle, but it was almost certainly Tier 5 or higher, Lord Veltras.”

He’d almost forgotten that eye in the skies. Lord Veltras closed his eyes, frowning.

“Who is she? Does she hail from Drath?”

Jericha snapped her pocket notebook closed. She looked up at him.

“I don’t know, Lord Veltras. However, I can tell you something else interesting, if it isn’t improper?”

“…Proceed.”

Jericha’s eyes flashed.

“That Windsword she carries? It is either an artifact beyond my understanding. Or…it isn’t magic at all.”

Tyrion Veltras sat back. He looked at Jericha, and then thoughtfully turned to his own small collection of armaments he’d been polishing.

Of course, he’d realized that too. Idle curiosity sharpened in his mind. He had some questions for the savior of his children. Questions that had turned from mere gratitude to a feeling he had stumbled onto a mystery.

It was just as well that when they had dismantled the camp, for once, the Wind Runner didn’t fly off. She travelled with them.

—-

Someone had once explained that ‘drown your sorrows’ didn’t mean sticking your head underwater, but drinking.

Rabbiteater still didn’t get it. Drinking…didn’t stop you from remembering. If anything, it made it worse because now you were drunk and sad.

However, he supposed it was something to do. Maybe the goal was drinking until you passed out? But if that was the case, why not exercise until you did that? Or just hit yourself with a rock?

He might have still found it convivial and soothing—but for the company he kept.

“So, back to Ailendamus. What do you think the Order of Seasons should do?”

Greysten interrupted Rabbiteater’s train of thought. He mentioned the same nation on everyone’s lips. Irked now, Rabbiteater looked up.

Thirty minutes of listening to Greysten grouse about Calirn and the exigencies of war had soured the alcohol. Now, he was being asked for advice.

“I don’t know. Go to war?”

“But what about Calirn’s worries?”

“No clue. Are they good worries?”

The Summer’s Champion heaved a huge sigh.

“They are! But should they halt the Order of Season’s plight?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you stop asking me. This is the twelfth time.”

The Summer’s Champion gave Rabbiteater a hurt look. The Goblin [Knight] didn’t care.

He was rarely in a bad mood. But this was not a nurturing day. Moreover, he was tired of the Summer’s Champion bothering him.

He wanted to be alone. If he couldn’t run, he was going to find a place where not even Greysten or people who wanted to talk could bother him.

The library. Books were soothing. Rabbiteater liked to sleep with them around. Moreover, the Knights of Autumn were a law unto their own. Someone as noisy as Greysten was exiled from their season’s halls.

He was trying to make his escape, but Greysten was insistent.

“I am coming to you for advice, Rab—Solstice! Surely you have some input. I could use it, if only to rebuke Calirn!”

The Goblin shook his head, exasperated.

“I am not a season-knight. Go ask one of them.”

He stood up and began to walk out of the booth. That was the trick. Just walk away from people, even bothersome ones. It was rude, but it would w—

“Oh, come now. I’m asking you for your input. Your…people’s input. Don’t go!”

Rabbiteater kept walking but he couldn’t pull out of Greysten’s friendly grip. Exasperated, Rabbiteater swung around.

“Okay. Fine. You want Goblin advice?”

The Summer’s Champion blinked up at him as Rabbiteater leaned in. The Goblin looked around, flipped up his visor, and glowered at the man.

“Stop worrying. Go do it or don’t! Goblins don’t waste time. If the enemy is over there, go over and hit them or ambush them or do something. Or run away! There! Goblin advice given. Goodbye.”

He stomped off. Everyone wanted him for ‘Goblin advice’. His people’s perspective. The Fall’s Sentinel was like that; even Ser Markus asked about Goblin techniques. Rabbiteater was starting to think they just saw him as a Goblin, not Rabbiteater. It was sort of rude. He didn’t see Greysten thoughtfully sit back in his booth. If he had seen how much the Summer’s Champion liked the advice—

Rabbiteater might have gotten a bit worried.

—-

In The Wandering Inn, friends of the Horns of Hammerad were processing their disappearance with all the mortal reactions imaginable.

Denial. Grief. Acceptance in order to function. Refusing to confront the issue fully.

They were dead? They weren’t dead?

Ryoka Griffin’s idea to check the Garden of Sanctuary led to a group of people searching the statues there, trying not to look at the frozen young woman.

Montressa saw Isceil…but no Horns. She cried anyways. From relief, this time.

Hope.

Yet they didn’t know where their friends were. Their fates might well be in jeopardy, hiding in a coffin eating zombies, like Mrsha now firmly believed and began telling everyone was the case.

That was what people did. When they were uncertain, they speculated.

So as it happened, while the people in the inn were processing the event, the Antinium of Liscor were going through a crisis of faith.

Or…the opposite of a crisis. A relaxment of faith? Pawn was uncertain. He didn’t know a lot of things.

However, he believed. His faith wavered, but from time to time he saw the living proof of his belief made manifest.

That—made it all worth it. That gave him faith in Heaven. That he was doing something right.

All the Antinium had seen it. The two holy guardians who had stepped out of the sky. Not raving Aberrations, not the nightmares of what they might sink to. Something else had come, summoned as they prayed.

Workers. Pawn thought he had known them. He thought he had called them.

“Their names were Knight and Bishop. They chose them, as I did, in moments. You have never met them, most of you. They had no markings we could paint on the walls. So: remember their names. They were the first of us. They will not be the last. Nor will they be forgotten. They are in a better place. The best place. Believe in that. What we do matters.”

He gave his sermon to the Antinium. Some knelt in armor, a warrior-caste of their own. Others were changing their beliefs from simple hope in something new, to a truer faith.

[Believer]. [Faithful]. [Faith Seeker]. [Crusader].

His two [Acolytes] roamed the aisles, passing out Garry-bread. Better than mana from the heavens because Antinium weren’t allergic to it.

Believe. Pawn clasped his hands. The Skill in him had shifted. Now he understood.

I am capable of the same wrath as before. I am also able to change.

The Pawn that had cursed Hectval and summoned Aberrations was the same Pawn who had prayed for a miracle and received one. All the Antinium had seen it, and their fear of him had turned back to hope.

He was grateful for that. He was still a [Doomspeaker Priest]—but perhaps that might change the next time his class changed. He had asked for wrath and received it.

I should pray for something to make people better, not a weapon.

Both were useful. Pawn felt the Hive changing around him. Tersk had begun attending these sermons, along with some of the other Hive’s Antinium. They had all witnessed the miracles.

Similarly—just this morning, he had received a [Message] among all the chaos and confusion and pain. Someone had wanted to reach out. To thank him. And ask…to learn of what Pawn was teaching when he returned.

Seborn.

What might that mean for the future? Pawn stood at his podium, thinking. A non-Antinium? He spoke to his congregation.

“The future is uncertain. However, I have spoken with you all. We pray for better things. We hope for it. That Erin will live again—”

Click.

The mandibles of the Antinium clicked together as one. Pawn caught himself.

“—Yes. That she lives. We must believe in that. But we must also realize not all good things come to pass. So, while we will now pray they live, that they are found, that they return to us in good health and better for it, I have accepted the requests of some of you.”

He raised one hand upwards, to the painted ceiling, painted by hundreds of Soldiers and Workers to look like the starry night sky.

“If they fall, if they die—let the Heaven of Antinium hold a place for the Horns of Hammerad. Whenever that day comes, now, or in a hundred years. For our friends, for good people. For little kittens and dogs and kind things—Heaven is not so petty they would not be with us. Let us pray.”

The Antinium bowed their heads once more. This had been the crisis among them, prompted by Erin.

Their world was changing. They slept under a dream of the skies. With the disappearance of Klbkch, who was cruel, had come better times. Pawn, Yellow Splatters. However, each Individual was now changing them.

Garry with his bread and first Antinium shop. Belgrade, who now protected them with traps, so that they did not die day by day. Bird, who was Bird—and also had a newspaper column.

Lastly? The latest Individual. The great Worker who had surpassed everyone’s expectations of him, even Pawn. He who had gone out and carved his own path forwards amidst grief, with soap, dust rags, water, and mops.

Silveran the Cleaner. It was thanks to him that Pawn had included the part about things other than people in his vision of Heaven. The Worker had an apron, and with Xrn’s happy permission, had been granted a license to employ six other Workers in his new occupation with him.

That was not the astonishing thing…mostly. The astonishing thing was the foreign presence in the Hive. The aberration that was not an Aberration.

The first little kitten of the Free Antinium climbed onto a kneeling Worker’s head. Five more ambled about, followed everywhere by a group of Workers who stared at them.

Silveran had found a basket on the streets and brought them back. Of such things were Antinium miracles made. He would not have dared before Klbkch left. Or if he had—only to bring them to be…processed…into food.

Now, the little kittens mewed. Pawn smiled.

Amen. He wondered if there was another word he should use. ‘Erin be with you?’

It was a work in progress.

—-

The sky was beautiful. The Antinium had learned that, for the ones who had not gone above looked up and saw that vast, limitless expanse reaching heavenwards and realized how wide the world was.

That was probably how religion started. Wonder at something you couldn’t fully grasp. Most people took it for granted, forgetting how a baby or child must feel.

However, the one silver lining was realizing the wonder of such things again. He breathed in and out and looked up.

It was gorgeous. More so than gemstones. More than a gleaming blade. It was pure.

The Minotaur stood under the sky, not the cell that was his home. For a second, he luxuriated in it. Then he turned back to his work.

“I cannot believe you’ve let that monster out of his prison!”

An angry voice made Calruz’s ears twitch. However, the argument was distant; the civilians were kept back. He ignored it as Olesm, red-eyed and too exhausted to argue, just shook his head.

“Keep them back.”

He ignored the angry group that followed Calruz everywhere. They jeered. They called names. They said true things. The Minotaur listened—and did not.

He had burst from his prison when Erin died. That had proven the limits of Liscor’s jails, which Hexel was tasked with redesigning. However, Calruz would have still abided by his prison sentence.

He had been allowed this moment in the sun because Liscor had need of him. As Zevara had said when she argued for using him to clear Shield Spider nests or other hazards—let them make use of him. If his guilt was still in doubt. Even if not—

“Strike! One, two, three—shields!”

The Minotaur bellowed. The civilians watched as a rank of Drakes, Gnolls, and Antinium raised their weapons and tried to do as he had shown them. They were naturally upset.

A convicted prisoner? Teaching their Watch—the new army? Outrageous!

However—Olesm had argued with the Council it was needed.

Yes, Embria and her 4th Company were providing their expertise and training. Yes, more companies were heading back to reinforce their city.

But a single group of Liscor’s army wasn’t the same as a master-class instructor. For that matter, he’d uttered heresy of his own.

“Liscor’s army is not the best military force in the world, Councilmembers. If it was, we’d control more than a single city! It is, perhaps, one of the better armies at using Skills en-masse and employing our unique organizational structure. In pure training and military expertise? The House of Minos is known as one of the finest armies in the world. I’m no instructor. But I bet you there’s no better expert in axe-combat in this region than the one sitting in our jail cell.”

Thus, Calruz had been allowed out. The irony was that his students were mostly Antinium. If Embria and 4th Company had agreed to teach the Antinium soldiers…they had not, obviously.

“Shields! The instant you finish your third blow, raise your shields because the enemy will strike back!”

He was teaching them a basic attack drill. The kind of shoulder-to-shoulder drill you learned when you were in a press of bodies. No individual fighting; you didn’t have room to dodge or parry. Calruz had seen Level 20 [Warriors] die to a Level 5 [Soldier] because they didn’t know how to deal with that kind of a press.

The Antinium learned fast. The Drakes and Gnolls hadn’t been sure at first—especially given Calruz himself. Training was training, however. The Minotaur breathed in and out, watching his students with a critical eye.

Make the most of it. He would still return to that cell. Two rats perched, clinging to his horns like a weird hat. The Minotaur barked another order and saw the group of soldiers try to rotate out, bringing fresh warriors to bear. He would soon be teaching them to make use of their two extra arms—the Antinium at least. Using four arms in the wall of shields and bodies was actually difficult to integrate. Giving them another axe? Not necessarily the best move.

Now, a crossbow and maybe a second shield to keep over their heads while fighting? That was interesting. Imagine a proper heavy armor formation which fought with perfect unity, could ignore a rain of arrows and shoot you with a crossbow while they used a shield and spear? The only thing they needed was training. Practice.

Time? He had time.

Calruz looked up at the sky again. Smiling, as he waited under the sun.

—-

The sight of a one-armed Minotaur training Antinium [Soldiers] next to Drakes and Gnolls was…unique.

Even for Izril, where you could see a pink carriage barreling towards a screaming bunch of [Bandits], or a haughty [Lord] riding a Golem-horse, accompanied by more autonomous flunkies.

Or just a field of red and blue corn growing twice as high as your head. These were Izrilian things. Weird.

Terandria had its own sights, of course. But it always struck visitors as a different kind of thing. Each continent had an…atmosphere, of sorts.

Terandria was old. Also—Human. The half-Elves and Dwarves lived there, of course, but the Giants were gone, the Dragons extinguished.

The legacy of kingdoms was Terandria. Whereas Izril was cheerfully without that, filled with the Drakes, Gnolls, and again, Humans.

Chandrar was ancient. Not old. If Terandria remembered, Chandrar forgot, in places, and the ruins of older empires had been lost under the sands upon which newer civilizations were built.

Baleros was overgrown, contested, but humming with that frantic Lizardfolk energy in the jungles, controlled by the haughty Centaurs and silent Dullahans in the far north.

In brief. You could always do the general comparisons of continents. However, it was certainly true that what was normal in one continent was a bit…odd in another.

Like the Antinium. And also…Mrsha, Drassi, and Kevin were helping Selys to the Mage’s Guild to communicate about the treasure. The sniffing Drake, her face a mess of tears and snot and other stuff, was difficult. Mrsha lifted her tail; Drassi and Kevin had her shoulders. They practically had to carry her along.

So whilst the sight of the Minotaur training Antinium went completely unnoticed by the Liscorians, the two armored men staring at the Minotaur and Antinium were a scene unto themselves.

“Look at that. [Knights]. Weird. Wonder what they’re doing here.”

Drassi eyed the two, who were attracting as much attention as Calruz just by…existing. Their armor gleamed as Mrsha turned her head. From the way they stood to their attire, they looked, well, silly.

Perfectly polished armor, as if they spent hours working them with oil and a cloth. Full plate armor, in the summer’s heat? Also—one of them had taken his helmet off, revealing a waxed mustache.

Some of the children were pointing and sniggering at them. The two [Knights] affected not to notice, being more disturbed by the Antinium. Mrsha let Selys’ tail flop onto her head as she slowed.

“Mrsha, hurry up! Selys, please walk. And don’t throw up—we need you to focus!”

Drassi called over her shoulder. Mrsha let go of Selys’ tail, ignoring her. Wait a second.

The little white Gnoll peered at the two [Knights]. They looked…familiar. [Knights] were not common to Izril.

Oh, there was Ylawes, but he was insane. And an adventurer. And there were the Rose Knights of Lady Bethal, but they and she were definitely crazy.

These two weren’t pink. They were gold. They had the flashiest heraldry imaginable, some kind of elaborate, shining motif Mrsha recognized.

It looked like…a throne, etched upon their gold armor. She had seen that a number of times. Whenever Lyonette used her Skill, for instance.

Calanfer?

The Thronebearers of Calanfer were two in number. No—Mrsha corrected herself as two more strode over. Four.

“Thank you, Miss. Calanfer’s blessing be upon you. If you do know the young woman we seek, please, there is a small…bounty…we would offer for finding her.”

One of them, their leader perhaps, bowed, making an elaborate gesture where one arm folded across his chest, the other rose slightly. The Drake eyed him and backed up.

Mrsha edged closer, Selys forgotten.

“Ser Dalimont, these civilians are being uncooperative! They barely give us the time of day! Even the offer of gold barely turns these Drakes’ heads!”

The [Knight] who had used such flowery language turned and whispered to his commander, sounding aggrieved but determined not to show it. Their leader, who had taken off his helmet, sighed.

“Ser Lormel. If you would like to know the time of day, look up. Moreover, a Thronebearer conducts himself with the dignity of Calanfer.”

“Have I not done so with my every word or deed, Ser Dalimont? Did you not observe my conduct as beyond reproach?”

The younger [Knight] looked hurt. The older one looked a bit less nose-uppish than the others. And Mrsha thought she understood where Lyonette got it from with one look at this lot.

The leader, Dalimont, turned to Lormel and the other two, one of them a woman, the other a man.

“We are taught to conduct ourselves with the foremost etiquette, Ser Lormel. Which does not mean our etiquette, but that of wherever we travel. We should have removed our armor and asked more discreetly.”

“Is she even here? Whenever we mention the [Pr—”

Dalimont made a slashing motion and Lormel fell quiet. Mrsha’s jaw dropped.

Uh oh. She backed up fast, although the [Knights] spared no attention to another child in the street. They were here at last! The very people Lyonette had been afraid would come! They were going to find her! Take her back!

It was just as well she was in Oteslia. However, now she was here—Mrsha tensed to run. To the inn? No, the Mage’s Guild! She had to send a [Message] now! She began to scamper off when one of the [Knights] spoke.

“Let me try, Ser Dalimont. Excuse me! Good sir! A fine morrow to you. Might I inquire about the location of a young woman we are seeking?”

Dalimont rolled his eyes as another Thronebearer tried to speak like a normal person. A passing Gnoll eyed him, but stopped, a dead Corusdeer on one shoulder. The [Hunter] grunted.

“Sure. Human? Drake? Gnoll?”

The [Knight] hesitated. Already he was on the wrong foot; the need to clarify hadn’t struck him.

“Er—Human. She is a member of our glorious, honored kingdom, Calanfer, the Eternal Throne which shines—”

Dalimont nudged him and the [Knight] caught himself.

“—She would be around nineteen years of age. Human. Her hair would be cut to the nape of her neck if she had not trimmed it. A fiery orange, perhaps more tiger in nature, cut with a hint of carmine, you see. Her skin would be fair as goat’s milk, perhaps shaded by sun to a more bronzed…”

Mrsha’s jaw dropped. She realized that the Thronebearers must have been asking for a while. Liscorian citizens might have liked Lyonette—if they knew her, but not all would have protected the former [Thief].

It seemed what had really stymied the Thronebearers was…the Thronebearers. Ser Dalimont pinched at the bridge of his nose as the Gnoll [Hunter]’s jaw opened. He interrupted the Thronebearer.

“Is this Human made of candy or something? I’ve never seen a carmine…whatever. Sorry, I have to get this to the [Butcher]’s.”

He hurried off. Ser Lormel looked back at Dalimont, gesturing as if it were clearly the Gnoll’s fault.

“You cannot talk to these people, Ser D—”

The other [Knight] slapped his shoulder with a ringing sound.

“Ser Lormel, you are hopeless. Excuse me. Miss? We are looking for a young woman. Human. Red haired. Blue eyes, eighteen years or so. Do you know of her?”

The Drake blinked, and to Mrsha’s relief, shrugged.

“Sorry, I don’t keep track of Humans.”

“Thank you, Miss. Good day to you, and apologies for taking up your time. You see? That’s all you need say.”

Dalimont turned to Lormel as the Drake nodded and walked on with her shopping. Ser Lormel and the other three [Knights] looked horrified.

“Such crude descriptors, Ser Dalimont? Without describing her noble profile? Her graces? You do the royal family a disservice!”

“You do our mission a disservice, Ser Lormel! We are on an errand of haste!”

This Dalimont fellow seemed more sane than the rest. Mrsha peeked around a barrel at them, narrow-eyed. What was she going to do? Get Niers to…?

No, he’d probably kill them all horribly. Mrsha shuddered. Ulvama? No, she’d tell Lyonette. She just had to know what their plan was. If they were all as stupid as Lormel, she would have felt safe even with them in the city, asking questions like that. But this Dalimont was too…capable of performing basic reasoning for her liking.

It seemed the other Thronebearers had the exact opposite opinion, however. The other three were looking at Dalimont like he was a fool.

“You have changed, Ser Dalimont. Your lack of social graces offends the spirit of our order. I fear your time guarding Princess Seraphel has roughened your elegance.”

“I represent her Highness on this quest, as do you all your respective [Princesses]. Moreover, she gave me the task of seeking Princess Lyonette. I would have hoped you would put her Highness’ well-being above your own sense of decorum!”

The other three [Knights] gasped as if he’d tried to stab them. They began to argue furiously. Mrsha’s ears perked up. Each one came from a different [Princess]? Well, Lyonette was the 6th Princess of Calanfer.

She had sometimes told Mrsha about her family. The little Gnoll tried to recall her tales about her sisters…her face fell.

None of them were charitable. Seraphel. Let’s see. That was the 4th Princess. She was the one who was cursed, right? How many husbands had she killed? Three?

It was better than the [Princess] who was even more hysterical than Lyonette. Which one was the one who kept getting into trouble for being found in the wrong beds? Mrsha was trying to guess which ones had sent representatives to find Lyonette and bring her home when Ser Dalimont turned.

He saw the little, white Gnoll peeking out at them from behind the barrel. His exasperated features…focused. He grabbed Lormel’s arm.

“Ser Lormel—politely shut up. Do you see that?”

Mrsha looked up. All four [Knights] stared down at her. The little white Gnoll. Whom, if you scrubbed back through the broadcasts, was often seen in the company, nay, the very arms of…

Uh oh. Wyvern poo. Mrsha backed up slowly.

“Young…lady. Excuse me a second.”

Ser Lormel stepped forwards. Mrsha waved at him. She smiled and he smiled.

“We were wond—”

Mrsha turned and bolted down the street. The [Knights] cried out.

“Wait! Stop!”

They ran after her, but Mrsha dove past a group of Drakes, leapt under a hamburger stall, and vanished into the city before they could follow her. Uh oh! Uh oh!

She was in big trouble now! Mrsha ran to tell Lyonette. As she did, she had a sinking suspicion the [Knights] had changed quarry from the carmine-haired [Princess] to a much simpler descriptor.

Where was the white Gnoll?

They were not the only ones asking. As Mrsha scampered after Selys, who’d paused to throw up again, a Gnoll dressed in travelling clothes sighed and adjusted his worn hat.

“Hm. There you are.”

—-

The day after the Horns vanished, life resumed. Informed by what had happened, but already other concerns were making themselves known, interfering with even grief. The luxury of having a day, a week, a month, or years to take events as you pleased…didn’t exist.

The Horns of Hammerad landed across Chandrar. They were found before they woke, all but one of them. Yet they did wake, within a day of their escape from the Village of the Dead at the longest.

Four adventurers appeared in blazes of light, falling, crying out before they lapsed into unconsciousness.

Three were found almost immediately upon appearing. One was not.

Two were recognized almost as quickly. Two more, not for their names and roles in the raid.

Two of the four woke in chains. One in another kind of captivity. The last—perilous freedom.

They were separated, alone, worn from battle and uncertain of the others’ fates. Tired, wounded.

—-

“—up. Wake up.”

Yvlon Byres inhaled something foul and strong and gagged. Her eyes opened wide. She jerked—and the world swam into focus.

The [Armsmistress] jerked moving forwards, and the hand retreated. The self-satisfied man looked alarmed as the woman tried to surge forwards, still thinking she was fighting, or falling.

She was arrested by the chains on her arms, legs. Purely for safety. She was nominally under arrest.

“Wh—what—where—”

Yvlon growled. Her throat was dry. She felt—she yanked at one arm and then the other. Then—looked down.

Her right arm was gone. A jagged stump of metal was all that remained. That—half-Elf monstrosity had torn it off.

The woman’s attention was on her arm for only a second. She noticed her other arm was bound in chains. Her captors had apparently had trouble with one arm since they couldn’t bind two together, but they had cobwebbed it up in links of steel. She herself was bound to a chair.

“There, you see? She wakes! Commend the [Alchemist]. You—ah, you are Yvlon Byres, yes?”

The person who’d woke her was also the leader of the room of mostly men. All but him wore armor. He looked like…Yvlon squinted at him blearily.

“Where am I? What—where’s my team?”

The Stitch-man smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. It was in fact, a rather greedy, rather presumptuous smile.

“The rest of your team? That is the question I ask you. Miss Yvlon Byres of the Horns of Hammerad. You appeared in a spell, in my city. Ah, but we forget our manners. I am Ducaz Satin, ruler of this region. You—you are a guest of the great, glorious empire of Nerrhavia’s Fallen! Fortune be to you that you came to us.”

Yvlon blinked, still unfocused, as the man’s guards all made a gesture. The self-satisfied man, this room…

“Why am I chained up? Where’s…”

Her sword was missing. And—Yvlon realized, so was her armor, and her bag of holding. It was all lying on a table in front of her, she saw. She had clothing; someone had taken off her gear.

“Ah. Yes. Regrettable, very. I am sure perhaps even the royal court of Nerrhavia’s Fallen—perhaps even her exalted majesty will want to see such a notable adventurer! Not least because you hopped across the world in a moment! Yet I would be remiss as manager of this city and region if I did not…inquire first.”

The Stitch-Man’s eyes focused on the table, the bedraggled adventurer. He studied the artifacts lying there.

“You came here with a powerful artifact. They already say the Helm of Fire has been found among the spoils of the fallen. I see…other possessions from this raid are here. No doubt your teammates have similar such items. Where are they?”

Yvlon focused on the objects on the table. Her weapons! And—she growled. She had snatched more than the one scroll from the Putrid One’s altar. Ducaz held one, a relic beyond knowing. He looked at her.

“I would be happy to locate your team, Miss Byres. But I will locate them first—then see to your comfort as guests of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Where are they?”

Yvlon Byres saw the light of avarice in his eyes. She growled.

“You imprisoned me for my artifacts?”

“You are hardly a slave, Miss Byres. Yet one does not simply toss an emerald that falls out of the sky into one’s lap to one side, do they?”

Ducaz chuckled. So did his bodyguards. Then the Stitch-Man grew serious.

“Tell me and this will be easier, Human.”

Yvlon swore, grimly. She had no idea where the Horns were. If this man hadn’t found them—where were they?

—-

The second Horn woke in darkness to voices.

“How much is it worth?”

“If it is still alive? Five thousand gold for rare species at any market. Minimum. That is for rare species. For an…Antinium? Ten times that, perhaps.”

Ksmvr heard the voices. He did not move. He woke, but kept still.

I am not bound? Or am I and not noticing? My weapons are gone.

I did not keep my promise. Where is Yvlon?

Where is Ceria? Pisces?

Where am I?

A mixture of emotions ran through him. He recalled leveling up. He heard the voices, speculating.

“Look at all the artifacts. This—”

“Don’t wave that! You’ll kill someone else! Is that bastard…?”

The smell of burnt flesh. Ksmvr put the pieces together. They were inspecting his artifacts. Someone had found the Flamecoat Dagger. Someone else had been immolated.

My gear. They were nearly right on top of him. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep. Not long enough for them to finish their search.

“What else has it got? Is it dead?”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re all dead.”

“Not if it’s alive! It’s worth money! I told you—get the attention of those bastards. Tell them we’ve got—”

A hand was rummaging for his belt, feeling for any other object on Ksmvr’s body. The searcher was in darkness, as were the others. However, there was enough light to see by in this dark…whatever.

And they didn’t realize Ksmvr was looking at them. He had no eyelids to close or open.

The prone Antinium suddenly sat up. The figure bending over him screamed, jerking back and raising the Forceshield and shortsword he’d taken off Ksmvr’s body.

Too late. The [Skirmisher]’s mandibles closed on his face. The others froze as the jaws closed hard on the man’s head. Not hard enough to bite or crush—but the man held very still.

Ksmvr grabbed the shortsword and Forceshield. He studied the other frozen people.

“Ere am I? Ere is ith?”

He tried to speak with the man between his mandibles. The others, a motley group of ragged people, backed away in horror. Ksmvr released his mandibles—raised his weapons as the man staggered back, screaming in horror.

The glow of his artifacts lit up this place. Ksmvr looked around and realized.

He was in a cell. So were they. No…some kind of…holding area? The other prisoners saw Ksmvr aim the shortsword at the ones holding his crossbows, bow, dagger, and other weapons.

“Drop them.”

They hesitated—looked at the Antinium—and did. Ksmvr spoke.

“Push them over to me or I will kill you all horribly and eat your bowels and hang your remaining innards up for decoration.”

He was rather pleased his impromptu threat worked. The group of prisoners tossed the weapons down. Ksmvr grabbed them with his free arm, watching them. He was ready for one to attack—but they were all horrified.

“It’s alive! It’s an Antinium!”

One whispered. Ksmvr realized they knew what he was—but not who he was. Curious. He looked at the enchanted bars of the cell. There was a door—yet it was closed with no discernable unlocking mechanism.

“Where am I? What have you done with my teammates?”

The group huddled in darkness had no answer. They looked at each other. At last, one began to laugh.

“You don’t know? You—you just appeared! Here! Of all the ill-luck places! Give us the weapons, Ant-person. We’ll all need ‘em.”

“No. Answer my question. Where is my team?”

Ksmvr aimed a crossbow at him, but the ragged man—the one who’d been speculating about his market value—only grinned, a broken grin of despair.

“No clue. Maybe they’re in the other cells? We’re all dead, anyways. How’d you get here? Let us out—we tried your weapons on the doors, but they’re still too weak.”

“Where am I? Answer me.”

Ksmvr looked around. Beyond him, he saw a dusty…he strode to the bars, watching the others as they stared at him. A former [Slaver], or someone who’d worked for them. A shifty [Thief]—the one Ksmvr had bitten. What looked like a horrified former [Trader], clothes torn.

The eight people in the cell were all men. Not all Human; but they all had a connection. Ksmvr identified it.

Criminals. He was in some kind of jail. Logic dictated that, of course. He glanced out at the place beyond.

This wasn’t a formal prison, though. What was that sand on the ground? The rounded basin?

“Hey! We’ve got an Antinium-thing in here! Let us out! Do you hear? He just appeared! Don’t kill us!”

The [Slaver] began to bellow. Two more rushed to the bars, shouting to someone—Ksmvr tried to stop them, but they were desperate. Something…he looked out again. Then he realized.

He was staring out into an arena. There were people in the audience seats, high overhead. They had no idea he was here.

—-

Ceria Springwalker woke up when something bit her. She shouted, kicked—and got a leg full of needles.

The Needlehound bounded away. Ceria sat up, stared at the dozen needles in her leg, and screamed.

“Aaaaaaaaah—”

She reached for them, remembered not to yank them out, and looked around.

“Pisces! Ksmvr! Yvlon!”

No one was near her. The Needlehound barked at her; Ceria stared at the dog, then around.

Arid ground, a cluster of bushes over there—some kind of hill over there—she reached for the needles, shouted again.

“Gaah! Pisces! Where are you?”

She raised her hand, gritted her teeth—then yanked the needles free. Swearing, Ceria reached for her belt. Her healing potion splashed on the wound.

Then she heard more barking. More dogs, oddly spiked fur appeared out of the dry landscape. Ceria looked around.

Dogs. Hungry ones too. Feral and growling. Ceria had no idea where she was, but she recognized danger. She raised her hands in an instant.

“[Ice Wall]!”

Nothing happened. Ceria blinked. The dogs were circling her. They’d jumped back at her shout, but then just gotten angrier. The half-Elf tried again.

“…[Ice Wall]?”

A tiny ring of ice climbed up around her. Ceria gaped at it—then began to cough. She realized her skin was dry. She was parched.

She felt baked. Her skin was red; she must have been lying in the sun! The—Ceria looked up and saw a blue sky. She looked around again and finally realized.

This wasn’t Izril. Unless Izril was a desert. Ceria tried to get up, but she began hacking at the dust in her mouth.

The dogs drew closer, the pack growling. Ceria pointed at the biggest one. [Ice Spike]! She…failed to cast the spell.

There wasn’t any water! An [Ice Mage]’s big weakness. Ceria gulped. Oh no. The dogs were tensing. So the half-Elf coughed, took a swig from the healing potion for liquid, not healing, and used her second tactic.

The half-Elf’s instinctive, magical connection with nature. Ceria spoke to the dogs.

“Hey you little bastards! Get lost!”

She had the power to speak to beavers too. Like the Fortress Beavers, the dogs flinched. Ceria waved her hands. She danced about, shouting, making herself appear bigger.

“Grr! Bark! Bark! Get lost! I’m mad! Piss off!”

The dogs looked at each other—then backed up from the angry half-Elf. Good enough. Ceria looked around, swaying. She was nearly out of mana, exhausted, and she had no idea where her team was.

“Pisces?”

She tried to cast the private message spell between them. A glowing spark of light floated up—but nothing else happened.

He was too far away? Or…? Ceria looked around. The pack of dogs had retreated. But it was watching her. Waiting for her to die.

—-

Lost, alone, each one in peril. The Horns of Hammerad were alone. Weakened.

Yvlon Byres looked at the greedy [Magistrate]. At his guards. She didn’t know where her team was. And she was a captive in chains.

Her arm tensed against the steel holding her. The Stitchfolk laughed.

“We have held you, Miss Byres. Please don’t resist and cooperate. Or you will find the hospitality of Nerrhavia’s F—”

Crack. Ducaz’s little speech ended on a squeak. He saw the first link of enchanted steel—snap as Yvlon’s good arm strained against the chair. Then, it began to bulge.

Yvlon’s silver-steel muscles pulled at the chains. She was just a bit too weak to break them. Normally, that was. Even her enhanced arm couldn’t break the chains—someone with [Enhanced Strength] would fail!

What about Silversteel arms and a berserker’s rage? Yvlon’s face contorted. She didn’t see her arm bulge.

“Stop! Stop—my guards will be forced to injure—”

“Grah!”

The [Silversteel Armsmistress] tore her arm free of the chains. Ducaz fled backwards as the bodyguards flinched. Bits of broken metal showered across the room as Yvlon reached for her sword.

“Stop her!”

The [Magistrate] screamed. The Stitchfolk surgedd of [Golem Artificers] forwards. Too late.

“Pisces! Ceria! Ksmvr!”

The scream was laced with fury. Ducaz saw the [Guards] hesitate—then slash at her with their weapons.

“Stop, you fools! Don’t kill her!”

He screamed at them. Then—he saw the tip of her sword run through the first [Guard]’s front. Ducaz backed up—then ran for the door.

The [Magistrate] fled out into the open street, out of his private manor, screaming in one of the minor cities of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Stitchfolk turned as the wailing man fled a Human woman with one arm made of silver and steel. Blood ran down her arms.

Her face was contorted in rage. A [Berserker’s Rage]. The local Watch, the militia, all came running at the [Magistrate]’s screams. They saw Yvlon emerge. She caught sight of them and never hesitated.

Yvlon came out, sword swinging.

—-

Ceria Springwalker limped towards the hill in the distance. The dogs were still following, but every now and then she would shoot flames or another spell at them, keeping them wide of her.

She was dehydrated and consuming stamina potions. She needed water. She needed…

“Hello?”

A village had been erected in the shadow of the hill. The people there were used to the crippling heat in the middle of the day.

So they were astonished to see the half-Elf in the distance. One of them pointed and they came out in a nervous cluster, expecting more of the [Bandits] that had been savaging this area. Or the talk of worse monsters.

All they found was a dizzy half-Elf who collapsed half way to them, vomiting stamina potion into the dirt. They looked at each other—then bore her towards their homes to tend to.

—-

The audience had begun to cheer. Ksmvr stood in the darkness.

Ah. He understood at last where he was. Even if he didn’t know this particular place from the babbling, terrified prisoners who were with him, he was familiar with the vague concept.

Arena. These were prisoners. Criminals. Even two rejected [Slaves] in two other pens, who’d been disobedient or killed their masters.

The audience didn’t care. They were cheering. Waiting for blood.

“We’re dead! We have to tell them—you’re valuable!”

The [Slaver] babbled. He was armed with a single crossbow from Ksmvr’s armory. The Antinium had given similar weapons to the others. Not his best gear.

He considered it necessary. Of course, that meant they were going first.

“We will see. Now—go.”

The doors swung open. The prisoners screamed. Their collars were burning with magic, forcing them out. They stumbled forwards, armed with rusted weapons—and three with Ksmvr’s weapons.

The Antinium stood there for a moment. Where was his team? He was going to find out. He waited in the darkness, looking out into the distant arena at whatever opponents had been sent to slaughter these prisoners.

“Ah. That complicates things.”

Ksmvr’s antennae twitched. He adjusted his Forceshield. Then he stepped into the light.

—-

Two of the Horns of Hammerad woke into fights for their lives. Another was lost, but found safety in the nick of time.

The last of them woke in chains. He was identified the moment he was found, within minutes of appearing. He opened his eyes to movement, an uncomfortable press of flesh and stink.

Bodies of other people. Pisces felt the metal, magical shackle on his neck and wrists. He realized where he was in the next second, carried in the wagon with the other [Slaves].

Captive, courtesy of the Slave-Merchants of Roshal.

—-

A day passed. The Horns woke, each alone. Each one separated.

But alive. Alive, whether their friends and allies knew it or not. The days continued. The raid on the Village of the Dead had moved things.

This was the era of great deeds and action. The example of one set others aflame. The King of Destruction rode forth and set another of Nerrhavia’s hordes to flight.

Lyonette du Marquin set another of Mivifa’s private wine bottles to the floor and missed.

Grief and glory each had their place. So, as the next day dawned, the Spring’s Warden strode through the Order of Seasons, angrily marching through the busy Season of Summer. All the knights were preoccupied, bustling about, but they stopped when they saw the head of the Season of Spring.

“Greysten!”

The Summer’s Champion jumped guiltily and whirled.

“Spring’s Warden?”

The woman marched up to him and glared at the younger leader of his season. Greysten was actually the youngest, despite being well into his forties.

“I heard you accosted Ser Solstice last night!”

“Rabb—yes, and?”

He looked very nervous, and the Fall Knight hurried off along with the other six [Summer Knights] to give them space. The Spring’s Warden was too angry to care.

“You dragged him out to drink and to complain about Calirn? Have you no sense of tact? He has just lost a loved one—not to mention the adventurers he was familiar with!”

A look of chagrin spread across Greysten’s face. He really hadn’t realized.

“I was only seeking his advice. And it was good—”

“Do not make excuses, Summer’s Champion! Summer is harsh, not oblivious! A fellow [Knight] suffers from loss and you bother him with our Order’s politics?”

She had come to take him to task for his poor judgment. Calirn might have, or another of his peers, but the Spring’s Warden was closest to the Summer’s Champion. He hung his head. He shuffled his feet like a guilty child. Then—as if something occurred to him, suddenly Greysten looked up and smiled.

“…You’re absolutely right, Spring’s Warden. I have been neglectful. I must make it up to R—Ser Solstice! I will make amends. Today—no—now! Give me but half an hour…”

The woman blinked, surprised but mollified by the Summer’s Champion’s rapid change of heart. Then again, he was always like that. Honest to a fault, direct…she nodded.

“Well then. See you do. Have a care with his feelings, Greysten.”

“Of course.”

He looked hurt at the suggestion he wouldn’t be. She just sighed. At least he was on Rabbiteater’s side. There were worse places to be. The Summer’s Champion tolerated no enemies within his line of sight. If he had thought Rabbiteater was a danger for being a Goblin, he might have tried to slay him then and there.

—-

The day after his forced stop by the Winter’s Watcher, Rabbiteater was still…down. Of course he was. His body still hurt from pushing it past its limits and mindful of Markus and the others’ worries, he had held off from forcing it further.

He was thinking of enjoying a hot bath in the Season of Summer, who had such things all the time. However, he groaned when he saw Greysten heading his way and turned around.

Too late.

“Ser Solstice! I have come to make amends for my poor behavior yesterday! Let’s go for a ride and we will talk.”

The Summer’s Champion called so loudly there was no chance of pretending you hadn’t heard him. Rabbiteater stopped, wincing, and looked around.

“A ride?”

“A ride. I have been remiss, my friend. Let us ride out, enjoy nature…and talk. The Spring’s Warden took me to task—and rightly so! I have not given your grief due respect, and for that I must sincerely apologize.”

The man bowed to waist-height. Rabbiteater blinked at him. It was so hard—because the Summer’s Champion was like a Redfang in many ways. Almost like Garen in some. It was hard to hate him.

“Oh—fine.”

Rabbiteater gave up on his bath. Maybe later? A ride might be fine. He failed to notice the triumphant gleam in Greysten’s eyes. Normally, he would have, but…

The two were heading to the stables; Greysten had apparently already called for their horses to be saddled, when an angry voice reached them.

“Summer’s Champion!”

Knight-Commander Calirn strode across the ground, glowering at Greysten.

“Knight-Commander. How may I help you?”

Greysten greeted the cold leader of the Order of Seasons. Rabbiteater nodded at him. Calirn nodded back, catching sight of the Goblin and his expression turning slightly sympathetic. But then he was frowning at Greysten again.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Knight-Commander? Taking my friend here for a ride?”

“Do not play games, Summer’s Champion. I have given my order as the head of the Order of Seasons and you will not—”

With surprising tact, Greysten drew himself upright and interrupted Calirn.

“Knight-Commander. I am sure we can discuss my season’s actions…later? I have already been upbraided by the Spring’s Warden for troubling Ser Solstice with my political talk from yesterday. Pray, let me ride with him for an hour or two—then we can discuss the issue?”

“I—ah.”

Calirn glanced at Rabbiteater. He hesitated, visibly glared at the Summer’s Champion, and nodded with an effort. The Knight-Commander turned to Rabbiteater.

“That would be…appropriate. Ser Solstice, I hope you are feeling better? My condolences. I watched the valor of those adventurers. I cannot express my sorrow, but I hope you will visit whichever season can best aid you. We have all experience with loss.”

“Thanks.”

Rabbiteater mumbled. The Knight-Commander hesitated, but mindful of the sad Goblin-[Knight], nodded and glowered at Greysten.

“After you return, we will speak.”

His tone was warning. Greysten just purred a response.

“Of course, Knight-Commander.”

He turned to Rabbiteater as the Knight-Commander stalked off.

“Apologies, Ser Solstice. Shall we?”

—-

“I really must apologize, Rabbiteater. I too have lost a dear friend in Izril recently.”

“Really? Who?”

“Ser Raim. I believe I spoke to you? He was my friend, an older [Knight] in my season around my time…I know what it is like to lose someone precious. I know what it is like to lose family. I should not have troubled you with my petty reasons, yet here we are. I apologize for more than that.”

The two rode out of the Order of Seasons’ courtyard, through the first layer of gates, then the second. Rabbiteater turned his visor up to the sky without a word.

It was a beautiful day. Such beauty in the sky, nature…it felt at odds with Erin dying. He found it an injustice. It should have been a maelstrom like the world had never seen when she died. Every day since—and for the Horns too.

Sun did not befit death. He and the Summer’s Champion rode along, saddlebags plush with provisions. Rabbiteater didn’t mind; any Goblin who didn’t ride with snacks was a fool.

His warhorse was a gift from the Order of Seasons. Not nearly as wild as a Carn Wolf, and the motion was much smoother. However, Rabbiteater had learned to ride. From Talia.

He felt bad about that. He felt bad about a lot of things.

The ride would do him good. The Summer’s Champion spoke as they passed through the gates.

“Let us talk about those we have lost, Rabbiteater. Drink for their memories. It is all we can do. It is bitter—but we must move on. I am told your [Innkeeper] is not fully dead. Is that so?”

“Maybe. But…”

The Goblin hung his head. The hope had been revealed to him, but it seemed so far away. So nebulous. How could someone bring Erin back from being frozen?

It crushed him. The smiling young woman, who had given him everything after he had found her, lost and alone with his brothers. Who had given him the strength to beat the Bear-[General]!

“The world isn’t fair.”

He muttered. He had known that, but it bore saying again. The Summer’s Champion touched his arm.

“No. It is not, is it? Yet that is why we are here.”

They rode out of the keep. The Summer’s Champion raised his head. His orange hair seemed to burn under the sun. His voice rose, accordingly.

“The world is not fair! We [Knights] fight for ‘goodness’! We try to do what is right. And we fail.”

He clenched his hand.

“The greatest of us fall to treachery, fall before dark monsters! This is a truth of the world. The world is not fair—but—that is why we are here. Because, Rabbiteater. You are not alone.”

The Goblin’s head rose. He looked at the man. At last, Rabbiteater smiled. He moved his visor up to let Greysten see it.

“That sounds like something Erin would say.”

“Really? Then I shall say more such platitudes! The Summer’s Champion, departing!”

He raised a hand and the [Knights] on the wall saluted him. Him and the Goblin.

What a sight. Rabbiteater turned his head to memorize it. If nothing else…he had this.

More than this. As if Greysten’s words had heralded it, someone on guard-duty cried out, seeing the two riding out.

“Hoi there! Is that Ser Solstice?”

The two slowed their mounts. Ser Raist, another [Summer Knight] who’d been part of Talia’s group, leaned over the balcony.

“Ser Raist!”

The Summer’s Champion waved up at him, a smile blooming on his face. Ser Raist called down to Rabbiteater.

“I heard of your sadness, sir! Are you riding out, Summer’s Champion? I would be honored to join you.”

“If you can catch us—no, wait. Ser Solstice?”

The Summer’s Champion deferred to Rabbiteater. The Goblin looked up and shrugged.

“Why not?”

Greysten smiled, relieved. Raist smiled, and hurried for the stairs.

“Are you going riding? I shall too, if I may! The Season of Summer should not be alone. Not when one of us mourns.”

Another [Knight] called out. Dame Chise! She smiled down at Rabbiteater.

“The more the merrier. Assuming that’s alright? Come on, then!”

The Summer’s Champion shouted up at the walls. That was how Rabbiteater found the two [Summer Knights] hurrying after him. Then—he realized there were more than two.

“Ser Solstice! Could we trouble you?”

Ser Markus breathlessly rode up, with Meisa, some of the other Spring Knights, and, to Rabbiteater’s gratified surprise, Dame Talia. She nodded at him, looking uncertainly at Greysten.

The Summer’s Champion looked taken aback at Talia, but he slapped Ser Markus on the shoulder.

“Good man. You might belong to my season soon! The more the merrier! Come on now, let’s pick up the pace!”

Nearly ten [Knights] proceeded out of the Order of Seasons. Rabbiteater was talking to Ser Markus, realizing that his private talk with Greysten might be compromised.

Yet there was something good here too, in company. This—this was like riding with a band of Redfangs. He swallowed a lump in his throat. Most didn’t know who he was, but the Season of Summer considered him one of their own.

As the [Knights] came out of the Order of Seasons, they passed a group riding back towards the keep. Greysten halted the sixteen or so [Knights].

“Hey there! Out on a patrol?”

“A morning’s ride, Summer’s Champion. Is that Ser Solstice?”

One of the sixteen spotted the Goblin and nodded at him. Greysten gestured.

“We’re on a ride to cheer him up. Why don’t you join us?”

The other [Knights] called encouragement. Why not? The day was fair! And all sixteen were Summer Knights too. They fell in with the others in good cheer.

Talia and Markus blinked at so many of the same season together. It was actually rare; the seasons liked to mingle. But it might have been a training exercise. They rode with the Summer’s Champion, talking to Rabbiteater, praising the battle, trying to offer sympathies.

It was hard to talk to him! However, the convivial atmosphere was good. Ser Markus realized someone had taken a bunch of hot rolls from the mess hall and was tossing them around.

“They’re made with something called ‘baking soda’! See how good they are? That’s with a baking Skill!”

“Quite good! Ser Solstice, why are you upset?”

Rabbiteater rubbed at his eyes. He tried to explain and the [Knights] listened, riding with him.

Even here, she came. In fluffy bread. He tasted it and it was good.

This was Erin. Not literally, but…he looked at the Season of Summer and thought she would fit right in. The smiling [Knights], Greysten exclaiming over the origin of baking soda…

They were heading down the lovely plateau and forest built around the ruined half-Elven kingdom that was the Order of Season’s special land on Pheislant. To the south lay the cliffs bordering the sea. Ahead?

A group of thirty or so [Knights], dressed in orange and red armor straightened. They were all bending to inspect something, baskets in hand.

“So is this an edible mushroom?”

“No, poisonous. How are you finding these? Please tell me you didn’t just nibble that.”

The Autumn Knight sighed, their more royal purple armor glinting despite the mushroom-foraging duty. All of them turned.

“Summer’s Champion, what are you doing here?”

“Riding! Are you out foraging mushrooms?”

The [Knights] nodded, indicating the few shrooms—mostly horribly poisonous—in the baskets. There were a number of Autumn Knights with them. All in armor. All with horses.

“Why not give up on that and join us for a ride? We can all pick mushrooms when we get back.”

With good humor, the [Knights] looked at each other and agreed. The first one, who had lips that were slowly turning worryingly blue, grinned at Rabbiteater.

“We’re not the right sort to forage, anyways.”

They had barely gone another ten minutes when a group of a dozen burst out of the forest.

“Hold on, that’s not a deer! Summer’s Champion! What’s with this group? Mind if we join you? We can’t find a deer, and hunting them with, er, lances, is hard work!”

The leader exclaimed. He clasped gauntlets with Rabbiteater. The Goblin nodded at him, wondering who was that stupid.

Talia’s eyes had narrowed when she saw the mushroom-gatherers. She stared at Greysten’s back, but the Summer’s Champion just laughed heartily.

“Join us!”

Ser Markus was exceptionally impressed. So many [Knights]? Hunting with lances?

“I had no idea so many of the Season of Summer were so festively-minded today!”

He confided to Dame Meisa and Ser Thaime. The two Spring Knights looked at him like he was a complete idiot.

—-

Rabbiteater had been too depressed to notice. However, after the fifth rabbit-hunting group happened to see their procession along the forest path and decided to join them spontaneously, even he caught wind of something.

He looked at Greysten. The Summer’s Champion looked innocent as the hundred and sixty plus Summer Knights rode in formation, talking, someone passing around a roasted bit of hare with edible mushrooms.

They emerged from the forest, heading out of the Order of Seasons’ lands. Faster now; they moved at a trot, but someone was using a movement Skill.

“I say, we’re going rather far, aren’t we, Summer’s Champion? Do you always ride this far?”

Ser Markus looked slightly amazed at the distance they’d come with only forty minutes of riding. Dame Meisa’s mouth worked.

“You must be pulling our legs, Ser Markus. Are you serious?”

Rabbiteater was riding at the head of the long train of [Knights]. He slowed his horse and the Summer’s Champion laughed as they began heading down towards Pheislant proper.

“Now, what have we here? Out for a stroll? Fancy that!”

He was really, really bad at lying. Mrsha-bad. The sixty [Knights] innocently put up their lances.

“Just practicing parade-riding, Summer’s Champion. Are you riding out? Why don’t we join you?”

Dame Voost winked at Rabbiteater. He frowned at the best bladeswoman in the Season of Summer. Then he turned to the Summer’s Champion.

“I’m beginning to think this isn’t about me.”

“What? No, why would you say that, Ser Solstice? I just…happened to meet all these fine [Knights] from my season. We are here for you. Incidentally, your advice from yesterday was really quite good.”

“Advice? What adv—”

The Goblin’s eyes narrowed. Then he swore and turned his head. Greysten happily offered him a roll.

“Have one of these. They have bits of meat baked into the crust. Very good. Let’s pick up the pace, shall we?”

They began to ride faster. Because they could, because it was a fine day. Also—because Knight-Commander Calirn might have noticed the practically-deserted Season of Summer, or seen the huge procession and be in the middle of losing his temper.

They headed down the narrow pass that you could hold an invading army at. The Summer’s Champion halted them for a second and looked up.

“We salute the winter! Will you join us on our ride or gainsay it? What say you, Winter’s Watcher?”

Apprehensively, the [Knights] looked up. For there, perched high overhead was the solitary figure. The head of the Season of Winter. If anyone was going to stop them—

The frost-covered figure looked down at the Summer’s Champion. Then—they raised their hand. The Summer’s Champion grinned. He saluted the distant figure.

“Onwards, friends! Winter has chosen not to slow us down! Forwards! Er—to comfort Ser Solstice, that is!”

—-

A hundred and twenty plus [Knights] were riding out of the Order of Seasons when they met a larger group. This time—it was three seasons.

Spring, Summer, and Fall, all camped outside of the Order of Season’s lands. On a training exercise, put together last night by the Summer’s Champion himself. They looked up, and mounted up, calling out to Ser Solstice.

“Wait a second. I’m beginning to think there’s something going on here.”

Ser Markus called out from just behind the head of the army of [Knights] coming down the road. The Summer’s Champion nearly fell out of his saddle laughing. So did most of the others, proving that knightly-valor didn’t mean you didn’t have to have a sense of humor.

Nor that being fast on the uptake was also a requirement. Ser Markus buried his face in his horse’s mane for nearly twenty minutes after he figured it out.

“You know, you were the excuse. I meant what I said. But it might have to wait till later. Or—if we ride together, I will not ask you to join us. This is my decision alone.”

Greysten looked at Rabbiteater. The Goblin [Knight] stared ahead. He looked down the long road and saw the shapes waiting for them ahead. Then he looked at the Summer’s Champion.

Of course he knew what they were about now. The Goblin considered this. Then—he shrugged.

“I don’t care. Sounds like a good distraction.”

The Summer’s Champion and other [Summer Knights] who heard blinked at Rabbiteater. Then they began to guffaw with laughter.

“A distraction? Well said! You’d ride to war with a smile and on a whim?”

Greysten guffawed. Rabbiteater smiled under his helmet.

“You are. The Summer’s Champion rides to war. So—I am the [Champion] of my people too. I should probably join you.”

He knew it was madness. But—it was Redfang madness. Why not? Why join a bunch of crazy [Knights] on a collision course with the greatest kingdom in this area, on a whim? Who would do that?

The same kind of idiot who’d go to battle for a [Florist]. Who’d fight for an [Innkeeper] with a white flag. For that matter—they seemed, in this moment, to be like the same crazy young woman who might defend a Goblin.

Madness. The Goblin rode in the company of his peers. It was a glorious thing. This was what it meant to be a Redfang.

This was what it was to be a [Knight].

The forces waiting on the main highway started forwards before the riding [Knights] had reached them. Hundreds of [Knights] slowed, and many raised their weapons, cheering.

The second force of the Order of Seasons, the one based in Pheislant’s capital, saluted the Summer’s Champion as he rode forwards with Rabbiteater.

“Summer’s Champion. We have mustered those willing to defy Ailendamus. With me stands [Castellan] Divorn.”

“Summer’s Champion, his Majesty does not condone war. However—I am pledged to his Highness Evein, and he commanded me to take charge of this force and support our gallant [Knights] in their action.”

The man saluted the Summer’s Champion, looking at Ser Solstice questioningly. The Summer’s Champion threw his arm around the Goblin.

“Well met, Castellan! Do I see House Kallinad’s banners? How many noble houses?”

“Sixteen!”

“Good. Then, I will introduce you to my highest-ranking [Knights] as we ride. With us from outside of our order is Ser Solstice of Izril. I trust you will treat him as a [Knight] second only to myself. Now—we ride! Before the Knight-Commander catches us!”

The army that began marching north was a strange one. A mighty one. The Ailendamus army halted when it got news that over eight hundred [Summer Knights] alone were heading towards them. And that was one season, albeit the largest one! They were joined by nearly six thousand of Pheislant’s [Soldiers].

Still, it was a nearly five-to-one difference. Ailendamus’ army began sending reports to the capital, which in turn demanded to know if Pheislant had declared war.

Their answer came from the Season of Summer’s champion. He did not speak for his Order! Though surely Ailendamus would not see it that way.

He did not ride with the [King]’s command—though his army had Pheislant’s standards! He just rode for the dignity of Terandria. The honor of [Knights]. The Summer’s Champion, Greysten, declared a crusade against the kingdom of Ailendamus for their unjust war against the Dawn Concordat.

Knight-Commander Calirn would have throttled Greysten if he could have caught him. It was too late. And in the midst of it all…

A Goblin rode to war for the hell of it.

8.21 L

(I am taking a 1-update break, and will be back on May 11th (15th for Public) due to me receiving my vaccine shot…again…which may be miserable. I will update Patrons if a further delay is needed. Thanks for understanding!)

It said a lot about the person that even with all her wealth and gifts, Magnolia Reinhart still couldn’t buy the affection of Drakes.

Surely, if there was any species you could buy love from, it was them. Drakes loved gifts. The more expensive and flashy, the better. Magnolia Reinhart had literally thrown money upon her arrival at the Drake people in Zeres and her very presence was a polarizing, contentious topic that had Oteslia glaring at the other Walled Cities.

Then again, history was a huge problem between Magnolia and any sort of warm reception. She was a Reinhart. Her people had ‘stolen’ the north from the ‘Drakes’—a claim which the Humans and Gnolls disputed hotly. The long war between species had cost both sides immeasurably over their existences, however, so the fact that level-headed members of both species were willing to reach out and talk was a good first step.

…It was just a damned shame that Navine Gemscale didn’t like Magnolia Reinhart. Also, that the woman had charm, but not charisma.

Literally. Magnolia had reason to venture the same comment as she sat in the pink carriage before one of Oteslia’s ballrooms, reserved for another social gathering…of suffering.

“Ressa, do you think that I’m unlikeable? Is that the problem?”

The [Maid] twisted in her seat, from where she was eying the steps leading up for traps, ambushes, or just obnoxious people she’d have to deal with.

“You’re asking if you’re unlikeable.”

“Yes, Ressa. Why? Do you think that’s the case?”

The [Maid] pursed her lips.

“…You have a Skill that literally charms people for you. What do you think?”

Magnolia Reinhart hesitated as she adjusted another rudely pink, stylized hat, this one from an era called ‘Victorian’. Rather magnificent—more Terandrian than Izrilian, so she felt it helped. She wasn’t going to copy Drake styles and offend them further. Also—they didn’t tend to wear much in pink.

“I rather felt as though the Skill were the icing on the pastry, as it were. A delicious concept made even more delicious.”

Ressa rolled her eyes.

“Consider it the one teaspoon of sugar in a vat of lemons and limes.”

“Ressa. I’m not that uncharming. I have tact! Elegance!”

“Ye-es. That’s just not the same as being likeable.”

The two argued for a minute, before Magnolia sighed and Ressa opened the carriage door. They met Navine coming up the steps.

“Navine! So good of you to meet us. Is your mother not attending…?”

“Helessia doesn’t care for this kind of social event, Lady Reinhart.”

Navine nodded carefully at her. Magnolia smiled, a bit too warmly. The two regarded each other, and Ressa bowed.

“Ladies Reinhart, Gemscale.”

The silence broken, they exchanged another polite smile and followed Ressa up the stairs. Obviously—it should have been the other way since they were following a servant, but Humans had different customs than Drakes.

Navine glanced at Magnolia, and wondered if the Human was trying to find a suitable entrance spot for fine, agreeable conversation. There was the rub, though. This was the third such social gathering they’d attended, and they were growing in scope as more interested parties came to meet the Human who wanted to try for peace, or at least, an end to conflict.

She had the vision. She had the power. Navine just didn’t like Magnolia Reinhart.

She admired the woman. Magnolia had taken control of her house. She had rallied the North during both Antinium Wars, fought off the Goblin King, and even intervened in issues like Liscor’s siege. She generously funded projects that had potential to improve lives; had even negotiated Admiral Seagrass’ trade routes that let commodities flow from Baleros to Izril at fair prices in the north, especially sugar.

Magnolia was better on paper than she was in real life, and identifying exactly why was hard. When she displayed her love of sweets, talked trade knowingly, or enjoyed herself, she was downright Drakeish. Other times…it was a certain coldness of her attitude. A suggestion that if something were to be done, she would have it done and damn all who stood in her way.

Danger, perhaps. Then again, it was also reassuring. If Magnolia Reinhart were as likeable as she wanted to be, she would have few weaknesses.

…It still didn’t change the fact that the Oteslian ball was going to be awkward. Navine sighed.

—-

The practice of superior Drakes in any hierarchy never being preceded by a subordinate wasn’t a strict law, but it was a difference between Human sensibilities, many of whom were happy to have a servant in front of them, scurrying ahead to open a door, announce them, and so on.

It was just a cultural difference; albeit one that had led to said important Drakes being assassinated in a statistically higher rate of deaths than their Human counterparts. Each species did things different. They copied each other, but the differences in established customs became far more notable.

For instance—Oteslia had ballrooms. Izril, Terandria, Baleros, Chandrar—everywhere had ballrooms, or other similar, large, flat spaces where people gathered…although Baleros sometimes had different elevations because Lizardpeople liked the contrast and they were weird like that.

The elevated ballrooms of Baleros aside, what made Drakes and Oteslia in particular unique was that because the Walled City had finite space, each noble family did not have their own ballroom. Rather, Oteslia had public ballrooms, which they rented for any number of events.

Second? Oteslia did its socializing back-to-front as Humans reckoned such things. Or even Pallass.

Mivifa Selifscale sighed as she adjusted her ceremonial armor—which was predictably hot. It beat the dresses, but she hated the social-dance every good adventurer knew how to do. She’d rather be flying on her days off work or work. But no, the First Gardener was attending and she wanted this to be a success, so Mivifa would meet Magnolia Reinhart, they’d all smile…

It was going to be a disaster. But an Oteslian disaster.

Socializing. Mivifa knew Pallass’ society and how they did things. She knew the north too, and the social hierarchies of Walled Cities to petty little Adventurer’s Guilds.

There were always the important, the non-important, the people who didn’t care, and the ones who did, far too much. The social climbers, the ones with actual power, which was often confused with the people who had social power…that was basic across every species and nation.

What was interesting was how Oteslia decided to go about social gatherings. Rather than have the self-important try to invite themselves, jockey for invitations and kiss the tails of the powerful, Oteslian socialites went about it the other way.

If they thought you might be important, you got an invitation. If there was even a hint you might be on the up and up, they sent you a gold-filigree card begging you to attend.

Therein lay the trap. Once you got there, you had better be as charming, witty, important, or powerful as you wanted to be. Because if you weren’t…no one was going to invite you again. The people on the up-and-up got kicked down and stomped on.

Mivifa rather liked the system. It weeded out a lot of nobodies. It still didn’t change the fact that this was not her event.

“This is so totally not Archmage. I feel like I’m going to Creler—damn it. This is why I don’t attend these things!”

She muttered to one of the other high-ranking Oteslians—their Earthspeaker. Which was, in fact, the [Druid] chosen by the Circle of Druids in Oteslia to represent them.

Not their best, which was a relief. Not the most high-level, or even the one with the most authority. You might get someone like Nalthaliarstrelous if you did that, and that…was a problem. The [Druids] were smart enough to choose someone charismatic and approachable.

In this case, a Drake [Vinetender Druid], whose special trick was conjuring some magical wine. He was also in the First Gardener’s inner circle, and knew Mivifa’s other job.

“Just seems odd. Named Adventurers don’t need to keep up a reputation for sanity. Greet the Human and laugh—then you can go.”

Mivifa sighed.

“I still need to monk around for an hour or two, don’t I?”

“…Monk? You mean, attend? Yes. Yes you do. Er—how is Cirediel, incidentally?”

“Besides trying to get under the dress of his latest obsession? Fine. He wants to visit the Meeting of Tribes, but at least he won’t be here.”

Mivifa sighed. She might have to work, but not dealing with Cire was a plus. He hated social gatherings like these, and the First Gardener obviously didn’t encourage him to attend because of who Cire was and his running mouth.

Oteslian balls had another uniquely…charming…feature. Which was that they loved the traditional ballroom dress of Drakes.

Styles changed. Humans and Drakes and every species changed styles. That was normal. However, one hallmark feature of Drake dress was…the length.

Humans had floor-length, many-layered dresses sometimes. Even ones held up by wood frameworks to appear artificially inflated. Drakes? They didn’t do as many layers, but instead of clothing that reached to the floor, their dresses trailed on the floor. They had tail-length cloth. Men and women—although for Mivifa’s money, women had it worse.

Whoever had invented the concept of trailing dresses and feather-weight cloth deserved to be repeatedly stabbed. It might be fine for one person, say, at a wedding, with bearers to lift it out of the mud, but Drake ultra-traditional clothing meant everyone wore it.

Imagine how many knots appeared when six Drakes wearing long, flowing clothing passed by each other. Imagine how many fluttering pieces of cloth landed in your food, or suffocated people standing five feet away.

…Ironically, this was also something Mivifa liked, since the only high point in standing and making idle chatter was watching someone go flying by tripping on a trailing hem, or a waiter getting clotheslined by two dresses forming an accidental knot.

She had heard the dresses had a point, but Mivifa had never really seen anyone pull off the look properly. Indeed, when Magnolia Reinhart swept in, she wore a very trendy, modern fashion that was all-Human and much more sensible if she didn’t want to make a fool of herself by tugging at her dress and apologizing to the lady she’d gotten tangled with.

Similarly sensible were the Gnolls who were attending this event. They stood to one side, nearly four dozen of them—a minority still in the mostly-Drake ballroom, which had dignitaries from every Walled City—noticeable for their Plains Gnoll dress.

Not revealing or even that behind Drake formality. However, certainly Gnollish. Mivifa counted some Weatherfurs predominantly, a few other big tribes, a tall Gnoll even by his kin’s standards who had to be Ekhtouch…and of course, Plain’s Eye.

They kept their distance from the Drakes as the banquet began. Some of the Oteslian locals drifted over, as Oteslia did have the largest Gnoll population of all the Walled Cities, and Mivifa herself made a note to talk with the only Gnoll she wanted to speak to—Feshi, the uncomfortable [Strategist] who’d been on the news.

That was better than could be said for Magnolia. She greeted Mivifa as the Named Adventurer came over with the First Gardener.

“Mivifa the Oldblood of Feathers! So delighted. I have heard much of your exploits and been simply dying to meet you.”

“The honor is mine, Lady Reinhart. I hope you are enjoying Oteslia?”

“It is a lovely city. Truly, a fit for [Druids]. I’ve only ever seen trees even a tenth as big in the Forest of Vail! No wonder my gardener—Nalthaliarstrelous—decided to visit. Have you met him?”

The First Gardener had a pained look on her face at the [Druid]’s name. However, Mivifa smiled at the compliment. Oteslians loved their city’s greenery. It was all convivial until a Drake from Fissival coughed.

“Ah yes, the Forest of Vail. How is it doing under Human care? I rather heard all the [Druids] left after the Treant Wars.”

And that was the Creler egg in the soup. Mivifa saw the First Gardener glowering, as well as the Salazsar Wall Lady, but Magnolia just smiled and replied.

“That is Veltras land, but I take your point, Lord Archiset. Perhaps you could one day visit and see for yourself, though.”

“Perhaps.”

The haughty Drake raised an eyebrow and adjusted his monocle, which Sir Relz of Pallass had brought back as a trend. Another stab-worthy offense in Mivifa’s books.

It was a good reply, and tactful. Diplomatic, even. But Navine’s observation had been dead-on. Magnolia acquitted herself as well as one could in a fairly hostile environment. The Drake watched, murmuring, but while she never lacked for conversation, she was an island even less-populated than the Gnollish diplomats.

The Drakes stood back and judged. Mivifa could see the future. The ball was going to be politely standoffish. Some Drakes might dance, someone might insult someone else and start a fight; at worst someone would bring up the wars or insult the Gnolls, but Magnolia wouldn’t win the hearts and minds of everyone present unless she…Mivifa couldn’t imagine it.

So then, this was the scene. Mivifa drifted away as soon as she could politely manage it. She glanced around, grateful the other visitor who might have been worthy of this moment hadn’t invited himself.

Saliss of Lights didn’t do formal parties. Nor would the guards have let him in, naked as he would undoubtedly be. If he wanted to cause trouble, though? She could just see him tossing a ‘make everyone’s clothes transparent’ potion towards the ceiling, or lacing the drinks with a truth serum or something.

I’d pirate with that, though. What am I saying? It would be a disaster. But a totally Archmage one.

Mivifa sighed. She liked Saliss’ ability to refuse to do anything people wanted him to. There was no help for it, though. He was off making potions with Xif; had been after leaving the discussion over the Village of the Dead’s raid.

Her blood still raced from that. Mivifa went to find another drink, remembering the sight of real adventurers fighting undead. She wanted to be there, not here.

Some [Herald] called more names as Mivifa went to look for the wine. Oh, good. More visitors come for political gain or to take sides about the Human-issue.

“Presenting: the Wall Lords of Salazsar, Ilvriss and Nerul Gemscale! Also presenting: the Wall Lady of Manus, Rafaema Skywing!”

Navine Gemscale choked on her drink as a familiar face appeared on one side of the ballroom. Magnolia glanced around, with a bit more interest. The Wall Lord who’d been to Liscor?

Everyone was more interested in the Drake who had fought against, and then besides Zel Shivertail. The powerful Wall Lord from Salazsar, whose unexpected appearance gave everyone pause.

They almost missed the unknown Wall Lady who glanced around imperiously, just as impatient as Mivifa at this formality. The First Gardener on the other hand and Mivifa herself?

“Rafaema’s here? Did you hear about it?”

Mivifa grabbed the [Druid] Earthspeaker. He had hurried over, eyes just as wide.

“I think the First Gardener did receive the request, but so fast? Now? This is wonderful!”

“This is Creler-crap! If she’s here to meet Cire, he’ll annoy her again! He’s still love-struck and if they fight, they might not agree to see each other for another decade!”

Mivifa had the exact opposite opinion of the others. She had a more realistic understanding of the two’s relationship and Cire’s maturity compared to Rafaema. The Earthspeaker gave her a startled look. Mivifa rubbed at her neck-scales.

“No help for it. I’ll go greet her.”

Rafaema and a known war hawk of a Wall Lord? The ball was getting interesting. Mivifa was edging past trailing dresses, people who wanted to meet the Named Adventurer and talk about their ‘little monster problem’, get her autograph, or wonder if she was seeing anyone special and was there room for romance—

When she passed by the refreshments, Mivifa paused to fill her goblet, and saw a small, interested crowd watching someone doing the same. She slowed.

She must have missed the announcement, or no one had given it. Perhaps they thought she wasn’t worth announcing, but someone had clearly decided to invite her, as someone who ‘might be important’.

The strange thing was why she’d even accepted it. But perhaps that was because Mivifa had sensibly cut her off from her alcohol stash in her home.

Lyonette du Marquin was trying to pour another cup of wine. However, she was so sloshed that she’d clearly missed twice. She leaned on the table, took a gulp around red-rimmed eyes, and finally noticed Mivifa staring at her.

“Mivifa. Hello~”

Lyonette managed. Then she tossed the wine cup back. The drunken [Princess] wobbled, looked around, and then found a chair to sit down in.

The Horns of Hammerad’s disappearance had not done her well at all.

—-

She was leveling her [Worldly Princess] class. Yes, that was it. Worldly experiences. Was there anything more worldly than being patted on the back while you threw up everything you’d eaten that morning?

If there was, Lyonette didn’t want to know. That had been this morning, and she’d found the alcohol cupboard locked. So she’d done the logical thing.

She’d gotten the invitation and had no intention of participating…until this morning. However, Lyonette knew balls. She was a [Princess].

Balls had alcohol. It was considered bad form to drink the host dry—but Lyonette wasn’t a [Princess] here. She was a visitor.

And she didn’t care. She was done! Done with heartbreak! Done with grief!

The Horns of Hammerad. Lyonette wanted them to be alive. How many times, though? How many times did she have to stare at her beating heart being smashed by a boot?

Done, and done. And also done. Lyonette was hungry. Mainly because she’d lost her breakfast. She reached out, stared at whatever it was on the table, and grabbed one.

“Is this the rumored sushi that Erin—Erin—?”

She drank to kill the frog in her throat. The voice interrupted her.

“It’s from Baleros. Rice and fish. Or vegetables. I think it might be Drathian?”

“It’s good.”

The [Princess] bit it, with no care for delicacy or tact. Any other day she would have scolded Mrsha for doing the same.

Well, today she was all disgrace. She could see the Drake [Socialites] watching her. She didn’t care.

“Lyonette, you’ve had too much to drink.”

A clawed hand went to pull the drink away. Lyonette slapped it down.

“Touch my cup, peon, and you will regret it.”

She pointed at Mivifa. The Oldblood Drake blew out her cheeks, thrashed her tail, and looked around.

“I don’t have time for this—Lyonette, if you die of alcohol poisoning—”

“I have poison resistance, thank you very much. My family has a glorious—inebriated history of being drunkards! You can’t kill us with drink!”

The [Princess] went back for another sushi-thing. It was very good and she was hungry. She heard amused voices.

“So this is the Human who controls the flowers? You know her, Adventurer Mivifa?”

“This is Lyon—a friend of mine. Of Saliss of Lights. She’s a bit—er—”

“I. Am. Mourning. Which I shall do in public, without shame or hesitation! Every ball has a drunkard. I’m doing my part! And if you would like a Faerie Flower—ask me later. Or ask Saliss of Lights!”

The young woman with hair like tiger’s orange cut by ember and carmine waved her mostly-empty cup at a Drake who backed up. Some of the other watchers sniggered, but Lyonette felt liberated.

Was this how Erin felt all the time? Free? All the social conventions she was dashing—no, this was more like Ryoka. Or Mrsha, running around buck naked.

Maybe she should try that. How much lower could she sink?

“The Horns are alive. They must be. They can’t just—just leave Mrsha! Mrsha! Alone, dealing with the damned Thronebearers! Why won’t they leave me be? Why can’t people just stop dying?”

Lyonette went for another goblet. There were currently four Humans in the entire banquet. One was her, being mocked by all present in her quest to drown her sorrows.

The second was a [Merchant], mainly here to hobnob, ingratiate himself, and sell whatever wares he could. The last was Magnolia Reinhart, unsuccessfully trying to charm the Drakes without her Skill.

What might have happened otherwise? What boring tedium might have taken place over hours? Nobody would know, for Lyonette heard someone speaking.

“…raid on the Village of the Dead. Just appalling, how Humans let that sit and fester. It was something, though. And you heard about the Helm of Fire? A win for adventurers, even if half of them died.”

The other Drake nodded, adjusting his copy-monocle.

“Too true. But what if the Humans get the Helm of Fire? That’s our artifact! I’m actually listening to the broadcast where they’re trying to assign treasure shares. The Flamewardens of Pallass—well, better Pallass gets it, eh?”

“Exactly. Is there a chance?”

The monocle-wearing Drakes shrugged.

“Well, since the inciters of the raid are dead—the ah, ‘Horns of Hammerbad’, the odds are—”

“They’re not dead!”

The voice silenced everyone in the local radius. Gossip cut still as the two Drakes looked up and saw a young woman striding towards them.

She had on a hastily-purchased dress in the traditional style—just to make her fit in, which trailed across the floor, spotted with some wine from the goblet she’d tossed aside.

Her hair, of which other people had said so much, was fiery, and so on, but mainly uncombed. Her eyes flashed with anger as she raised a finger.

“How dare you spread false allegations around you—you peasant? The Horns of Hammerad are not dead!”

“Who is this Human? Another one of those Reinharts?”

The Drake without the monocle spluttered, looking indignant. She reeled back from Lyonette’s wine-breath. The other one just tilted his snout up and sneered at her.

“And you would know better, Miss Human? If you watched the broadcast, I’m afraid you’re not much more of an expert than we. Nor are you more qualified to make a judgment call based on your condition.”

Some of the other Drakes in earshot sniggered. Lyonette heard a voice mutter ‘like an inflated wineskin’, followed by more laughter. This Human was just an amusing buffoon, like Magnolia, but different.

Her mouth opened haughtily. Lyonette could have said many things, such as the statues in the [Garden of Sanctuary] were proof the Horns’ fate was in question. Or that her judgment was also informed by knowing details Drassi had cut from the broadcast, like Wistram’s involvement.

What she said above the tittering wasn’t that, though. Lyonette drew herself up.

“I suppose you would know better, sir? To my eyes—and it may be the wine talking, but I think not—you do not seem to have the wherewithal to judge an adventurer one bit on the attributes of fitness. Nor do I think you yourself are a [Warrior]—or could swing a sword without severing your tail!”

She pointed at the other Drake’s paunch. The monocle-wearer turned beet red as the audience took a second to untangle her diatribe, then chuckle.

“How dare you.”

He reached for his side and the audience saw he did carry a shortsword. It was most-likely ornamental, though, since he tangled in even drawing it.

Lyonette du Marquin had no such compunctions. She reached for her dress, shifting fabric, and the ring of steel made everyone’s head turn.

She drew her sword in one move. The Drake choked as he backed up, still wrestling with his belt.

“I am no [Warrior]. But I do know how to use a sword, sir. Moreover—I was taught by none other than the Horns of Hammerad themselves, and a Gnollish [Knight], Brunkr Silverfang! By Yvlon Byres and Ksmvr of the Free Antinium! I know them personally, just like I happen to know Drassi, Griffon Hunt, the Halfseekers—and that idiot with the monocle you decided to copy! Before you spout your ignorant tongue about them being dead, reconsider your words, and then swallow them because I don’t think you have anything to add to any conversation whatsoever! You are nothing more than a libelous rogue and gossiping prat, and I do not need to be sober to call you to account.”

There was an art to insulting people. Mrsha had learned some of it from Lyonette, but the student, for all her natural talent, had not grown up in a Terandrian court. Drunk off her feet, Lyonette could still spit Terandrian-style insults.

She’d missed doing that. Nice Lyonette, the Lyonette who made amends for her thieving, [Princess]-snob ways, always tried to be nice. Even to people who didn’t deserve it.

The young woman sheathed her sword, thankful she didn’t stab herself, as the Drake stumbled back.

“You—you savage! How dare you come into this place and insult Drake hospitality!”

He would have gone on, but Lyonette cut him to pieces. Not with a sword, but with the blade she was most qualified to wield: her tongue.

“Oh, Drake hospitality? Did you organize this ball, sir? Are you under the employ of the First Gardener? If not, I feel you are taking credit for her work, which is the quality of the meanest sloven and coward!”

He opened his mouth, but Lyonette was ready to stab him again—verbally. The Drake was saved from himself by his partner finally registering something Lyonette had said.

“I say—did you mention you knew the Horns of Hammerad, Miss? As in, you actually took sword-lessons from that actual Human—the one with the silver arms?”

Lyonette blinked.

“Yvlon? Of course I did.”

“Really? Then her arms are made of silver? I saw her punch a wraith in two! But I thought her skin was painted or some such—some kind of war paint ritual?”

The [Princess] gave the Drake such a dubious look the other woman blushed.

“Painted? No, they’re silver. Metallic. They weigh twice as much as a regular arm. Three times, maybe. Yvlon’s strong enough to lift a beer barrel by herself—well, her arms. Her legs are weaker. She got them after a Creler tore the last ones off.”

The other Drakes had drawn back after the sword had come out, as one did from a crazy person. Some of Oteslia’s guards had begun hurrying over to escort her out, piercing diatribe or not. However, now, a keen ripple of interest ran around the others.

“Crelers? Wait, I heard about that. Aren’t the Horns one of the adventurer teams dubbed with slaying an Adult Creler? What do they call that again?”

“Hell’s Wardens.”

Someone else spoke up, loudly. A female voice, for a female Drake. Rafaema had spotted the strange Human. She had no idea who she was; there was no way she was the same person as Ferris’ target.

Right?

Lyonette looked around for another cup, but she did not like being this drunk, and had really been turning more to stuffing herself when she’d seen the food table.

She missed Mrsha. She missed Pawn. She missed the inn, and her friends and Erin and…because she missed it all, Lyonette was only too happy to nod.

“Hell’s Wardens. That’s exactly right. They killed an Adult Creler. In the Bloodfields. I saw it afterwards—and I’ve known Griffon Hunt.”

“Really? You mean that [Archer] who slew the Skeleton Lord with that wall-trick?”

A Drake came over, remembering Halrac’s moment from the scrying orb. Lyonette corrected him.

“[Marksman]. He’s a marksman. Halrac is his name.”

The other Drakes murmured. More and more interesting. Of course they’d all seen the scrying orb, or missed it and been gossiping about the event all day. It was more interesting than most things, even the Meeting of Tribes. And here was a young woman who claimed to know half the big names there.

“You said you knew the Halfseekers too. That’s a Gold-rank team that used to work in Drake lands. Who’s their leader?”

Another tested the waters. Lyonette snapped a reply.

“Jelaqua Ivirith, of course! Do you take me for a liar, Miss?”

“No, I only—”

“You ‘only’ asserted otherwise. Very well. Seborn is the [Rogue], the Drowned Man, Moore is their half-Giant [Green Mage], Ulinde is their [Spellslinger], and they used to have twice as many members, including a Goblin. Jelaqua is seeing Maughin of Pallass, Seborn used to be a [Pirate], and Ulinde hiccups for five minutes straight if you serve her limes. Is that detailed enough for you?”

The listeners’ jaws dropped. Lyonette looked around; she needed to sit down. She found a chair, sank into it rather gracefully, and looked around.

“If we are on the topic—yes, I know them. They are dear friends of mine, all of them. Do you have any more questions?”

Rather to her surprise—

They did.

—-

It was not going well. Or rather, it was going perfectly acceptable and like last time, which was not well.

Magnolia Reinhart sighed inwardly. The Drakes were too standoffish! She was ready to offer any number of contentious takes, gossip about the Horns of Hammerad and the Village of the Dead, but everyone from Navine to the other dignitaries was too cautious. They stuck to socially acceptable topics.

“That’s it. I’m going to engage them in conversation and throw caution to the wind, Ressa.”

“Be careful. This isn’t the North and you can’t get away with a mistake.”

Ressa murmured back on the pretense of refilling Magnolia’s plate. The lady hid a scowl.

“Don’t tell me you think I should act like Zanthia?”

She named the most formal, uptight [Lady] of the north, Zanthia, who taught countless [Ladies] manners and etiquette with an iron hand. And tongue. Magnolia rolled her eyes as she recited a lesson from rote.

“‘If a man and woman stand together for over five seconds, they have already suggested intimacy, correctly or incorrectly.’ Phaw.”

“Do you really want to gamble everything you’ve worked for on being right?”

Magnolia glowered at Ressa, but the [Maid] was right. Decades had gone into this moment and the truth was that Magnolia knew she was making a mistake by playing her cards too close to her chest. Boldness would work, but being in this precarious scenario meant that was the least likely thing you wanted to do.

How could you break through the mental barrier? Well—the answer seemed to be with lots of alcohol.

An interesting shift had moved part of the ballroom’s occupants. Like a spiral, they began to gather around something. Magnolia had seen it happen for a pair of Drakes who’d gone for daggers before being separated, a sprawling Drake who’d tripped fantastically and tossed her plate over eighteen people—

This time, the interest was more than in the accident. Magnolia stood on her tip-toes to see, cursing her lack of height. She turned to the taller Ressa.

“Ressa, what are they interested in over there? Has someone had a bad reaction to the food or something?”

The [Maid] peered over the heads. Then her eyes widened.

“Magnolia. You know the young woman you had on your list of things to do after ingratiating yourself to the Drakes here?”

“Which young w—her?”

“You may wish to move her up your list of priorities.”

Magnolia blinked. Then began to walk forwards.

—-

It was called charisma. But what that looked like took many forms. It wasn’t just being likeable; that was one obvious example. However, it was also the ability to simply draw attention. To command attention.

Erin was a natural in some ways. Hers was often gentle—until she smacked you in the face with it. It was being likeable, finding the best in people, caring for those who no one cared about.

Lyonette’s charisma was different. She could do leadership, likeability, but her charisma was best when it was her, not a copy of Erin.

That meant—well—her charisma had edges. Make a stupid comment, yank the chair out from under her, and you’d get cut. Mrsha had learned that more than once—mainly from the chair trick.

“Yes, of course he could kill the Skeleton Lords. Pisces? I would believe it. Do you have to see everything to believe it?”

“No—but you must admit, the assertion that he slew no less than six in a battle is insane! That [Marksman] barely killed one. Even if that Human is a [Necromancer]—”

The others shuddered. Lyonette turned to the Drake arguing with her.

“I will have you know that Pisces is one of the most accomplished [Duelists] you will ever meet. Do you recall the King of Duels’ battle? The brave Instructor Tomoor? Well—he does not own a golden bell, but Pisces once possessed a silver one—and that was when he was sixteen!”

“Have you seen him fence?”

A young Drake put in excitedly. Lyonette nodded, chewing furiously as Magnolia stopped, staring at her.

“More than once. It was a rather funny moment at that—I believe he bet an entire cake against Ceria and Mrsh—er, a young Gnoll that he could beat the Captain of the Watch in a duel. Liscor’s Watch Captain, that is.”

“And did he?”

Lyonette sat back, sniffing haughtily in a copy of Pisces’ manner. Then smiled, despite herself, at the memory, much funnier in hindsight than at the time.

“He never managed to do it. He attempted to provoke her. Accordingly, she ordered him arrested. However, he managed to fend off two Senior Guards and an entire squad with a mop handle for over ten minutes. Then they arrested him and put him in jail.”

“What about the cake?”

“We brought it to him in prison.”

With big frosting depicting the incident. Mrsha had drawn it and then put Pisces behind bars before giving him the biggest piece. When Lyonette related that, all the listeners laughed.

Stories. How did you connect with people? You told them stories. And what better place in the world for telling the best stories about people than…The Wandering Inn?

“Do you have one about the Flamewardens? Captain Keldrass and his team?”

“No, I d—”

Lyonette nearly snorted wine out of her nose as she remembered one. She coughed, and went on.

“Very well. I…do have one. Do you know the Strongheart farm? Well, Captain Keldrass, Bevussa—also of Pallass—once visited his farm. I forget how it came about. I think Wailant, who’s a former [Pirate] himself, had invited Seborn over, but managed to get both teams instead. He liked adventurers. But he has ah, a custom—so allegedly, after drinking copiously—both teams found their Captains and the Stronghearts stark naked, shooting wands at targets in the field.”

Scandalized, some Drakes looked appalled and whispered, while others nearly died laughing. Even the scandalized Drakes wanted Lyonette to go on, though. This was enough gossip material for a month!

“What is it with Humans and getting naked every five seconds?”

A Drake muttered, affronted. Another one looked speculative.

“…I bet it’s the lack of a tail. It’s so easy. You just pull off your pants and—done!”

Theories on Human propensity to nudity were put aside. Everyone wanted to hear more.

“So you are from Liscor? I keep hearing that city’s name on the news, and I hadn’t heard it since, well, the Second Antinium Wars! Are there really…Antinium walking the streets? Those horrible things?”

Everyone looked at Lyonette. The young woman’s brows crossed.

“There are Antinium, just like Gnolls, Humans, and Drakes, Miss! In fact, I happen to know some of the Antinium and they are good people.”

“Bah!”

Those around her shouted her down. Lyonette rose to her feet. She’d lost her audience in a moment. Her wild, drunken charisma had backfired. The [Princess] was in no mood to take back her words, though. She pointed around, eyes flashing.

“I see. Have any of you ever met an Antinium? Then you clearly know all about them, from hearsay and history! Pardon me, I mistook myself for the expert in the room! Do you know a single Antinium sir? Have you seen one in your life? No? What about you—or you, sir? Or…”

She began defending them. However, here lay Lyonette’s mistake. She swung around. A Gnoll stepped forwards, arms folded.

“I have met Antinium, Miss. In battle and up close. They have killed too many of my friends for my liking.”

Lyonette wavered. Hunt Commander Makhir of Manus looked at her. The Drakes around Lyonette murmured, recognizing his armband. Manus. The mood began to turn against Lyonette.

Magnolia pursed her lips. Now would be the time to say something, if only to save Lyonette from being pelted with dishes and food. She owed the young woman that, at least. She only wished Lyonette had chosen any other contentious topic in the world to need defending on. Still—Magnolia opened her mouth, as Lyonette searched for a reply.

“Your service to the Walled City does you credit, Hunt Commander. However, we can acknowledge war paints all enemy [Soldiers] the same way. The Antinium of Liscor are different. I can attest to that myself. The Hives are a separate matter; to my understanding, Liscor’s Antinium are even split from them ideologically. I am sure Miss Lyonette did not mean to impugn your fellow [Soldier]’s sacrifices in any way.”

A voice interrupted the argument. Not Magnolia’s. Wall Lord Ilvriss and Nerul Gemscale walked into the gathering by the food table as naturally as could be. Lyonette’s eyes widened.

“Wall Lord. That is interesting, coming from you, yes?”

The Hunt Commander swung around, seemingly as startled to see Ilvriss here as Ilvriss was to see Lyonette. The purple-scaled brows rose, but then Ilvriss looked at the Gnoll military leader from Manus.

“Hardly, Hunt-Commander. Merely pointing out a fact. More to the point—one should know one’s enemies, shouldn’t they? Especially those not fully united, rare as that might be within the Antinium. Or is divide-and-conquer not a recognized strategy in Manus?”

The Gnoll blinked. Everyone susurrated, and a young Wall Lady nodded behind Ilvriss. Rafaema locked her eyes on both Human and Drake. Finally! Someone who understood!

“I take your point, Wall Lord.”

Ilvriss dipped his head at Makhir’s growl.

“My apologies, Hunt-Commander. I stepped in more to save this young woman from being a target of ire. We happen to know each other. Miss Lyon.”

“Wall Lord Ilvriss. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Nor I, you.”

He gave her a long look as Lyonette rose. All those present blinked.

“You two know each other? This young woman? I am Nerul, by the way. Nerul of House Gemscale of Salazar. Delighted.”

The older, bigger Drake shook Lyonette’s hand in a firm handshake, smiling. She looked at Ilvriss’ uncle, then him.

“I am—delighted to meet you, Sir. I do know Wall Lord Ilvriss. We met. In Liscor. I…”

She trailed off, uncertain how to explain he’d often come to the very inn she worked at, the Erin-connection. Ilvriss finished the sentence for her.

“We both knew the Horns of Hammerad. And yes, the Halfseekers, the Flamewardens of Pallass, Griffon Hunt—fine adventurers all. I myself do not believe the Horns of Hammerad are dead until I see the very proof of it with my eyes. Hell’s Wardens do not die easily. Nor do [Mages] that Magus Grimalkin of Pallass himself has acknowledged!”

If only as lazy and in need of improvement. However, the little speech did wonders. Lyonette saw Ilvriss lift his cup. To the surprise of everyone, he spoke.

“Miss Marquin. Would you join me in toasting the bravery of adventurers wherever they might go? The courage to fight the undead? To the Horns of Hammerad!”

She lifted her cup at once. Everyone in earshot did the same. Lyonette clinked the rim of her cup against Ilvriss’. Then—they drank and began to talk.

Like old friends. Two people who had just seen the Horns, who had tried to help. Who knew them and had seen them vanish and worried out of more than passing concerns.

The Drake Wall Lord and the Human from Liscor. The ballroom watched, and began to turn on that moment. Rafaema, Makhir, Magnolia—all found themselves orbiting the moment, to their satisfaction, surprise, or disgruntlement.

Mivifa watched Lyonette from afar, jaw opened wide. The First Gardener, Earthspeaker, and the others were all looking at her. The Named Adventurer nearly threw up her claws, but it was the Wall Lady of Salazsar who tossed her plate up. Navine Gemscale nearly screamed.

“What is going on?”

The last piece of the puzzle no one had noticed—yet—that only the Salazsar Drakes would be able to put together made Navine nearly explode.

It was the ring on Lyonette’s finger.

—-

Rafaema of Manus was confused. No—confused was what she’d been fifteen minutes ago. Confuzzled, bamboozled, flabbergasted—those were appropriate words.

Gobsmacked. That was a good one too. The female Dragon was staring at the target of her latest obsession of the last few months.

Lyonette du Marquin. 6th [Princess] of Calanfer if Ferris was right. He probably was; he was supposed to be one of Manus’ best.

However, Ferris hadn’t told her about that damn ring. It sparkled in the Dragon’s vision every time Lyonette shifted. She was speaking eagerly to Ilvriss, like they were old friends.

“That’s a Ring of Salazsar. A Wall Lord’s ring. You don’t think…?”

She whispered to one side. An answering growl came from the other person who could hear and reply, even with his enhanced hearing.

“I have no idea, no. But it’s definitely a Ring of Salazsar. The only Wall Lord I can remember there being a stink about not having his was Wall Lord Ilvriss.”

“No way. No way in all the walls in…he’s supposed to be a loyalist!”

“Maybe they’re just…he doesn’t know? Or she charmed him? Or it’s just intimacy? There was that Wall Lord who married one of my people.”

Hunt-Commander Makhir looked interested. He was Rafaema’s bodyguard, and while she normally resented Manus’ eyes on her, she was grateful for his input now. He wasn’t one of the Drakes; the Gnolls of Manus were just as loyal, but willing to talk to her about the tribes and other issues.

“The question is: does Calanfer know? Think of it the other way, Rafaema, yes?”

“How so?”

The Dragon tried to frame it in Human politics. Makhir waited, sniffing at his cup. Rafaema made a guess, like she was at her lessons. Her eyes widened.

“Hold on. Do you think maybe he arranged for her to go missing? Or—or he met her and this is a play from Wall Lord Ilvriss on Calanfer’s throne? That would be the most insane—”

“A Terandrian interest from a Drake? That’s a move worthy of a Wall Lord of his ambitions. Who knows? I’ll ask questions. But that young woman’s got more than just the eyes of the Drakes on her. Keep your eyes open.”

Makhir’s warning was one of the reasons why Rafaema trusted him and [Spearmaster] Lulv so much. She glanced over and saw Lyonette step back and immediately turn to a Gnoll as Ilvriss was practically dragged off by his sister. She drew closer, trying to listen.

—-

“Excuse me. You are, er, Lion Solstice? I hope I am not disturbing you.”

The Gnoll gave her a dubious look, having perhaps heard Ilvriss slip up. Lyonette smiled.

“That’s right. And not at all! You are?”

“Ah. Excuse me.”

The Gnoll bowed slightly. He beckoned towards another Gnoll drifting their way.

“I am Gorauun of the Weatherfur Tribe. I was told you were the one who gave Faerie Flowers to a friend of my tribe. Also—did I hear you say that you learned to use your sword from a Gnoll…[Knight]?”

He gave Lyonette an interested look. She nodded, then spotted a familiar face coming her way.

“I also believe you know Feshi of my tribe—”

“I do! Hello again! How is um, Yerranola doing? Lord Kallinad? I didn’t see him here.”

Feshi was smiling at Lyonette, blinking with just as much surprise. She watched Ilvriss walking away. Then turned to Lyonette, who had managed to add more to her speculative value.

“They are both doing well, thank you, Lyon. They are still at the Meeting of Tribes.”

“I see. If Yerranola needs more flowers, I can arrange that.”

Gorauun coughed. He was an [Interspecies Negotiator], but was clearly out of the loop. Feshi murmured.

“Miss Lyon controls the Faerie Flower trade in the city.”

“The…entire trade? For the alchemical artifacts?”

The Gnoll looked surprised. Lyonette blushed. She was sobering, but the alcohol was still in her veins, making her a bit incautious.

Incautious and unable to think ahead, or she would have seen what was coming next.

“It’s a long story—”

“Excuse me! Are you the person to speak to for these flowers? My tribe came here to gather some for our [Shamans], but all our sellers told us they were suddenly out of stock and no more could be had!”

Eight Gnolls strode over at once. Unlike the Drakes, they had no problem butting into a conversation. Now Lyonette found herself talking to Gnolls who were as interested in her for the flowers as the Drakes had been for tales of adventurers—

And the Drakes still wanted to talk to her! She gulped from her cup, but made a mistake; she still had wine in there.

“Er—that’s right!”

“What about this Gnoll? I have never heard of our people becoming [Knights] in any number. Was he born on Terandria or…?”

Gorauun still wanted to know. Lyonette’s face fell. The Gnolls, including Feshi, saw her sniff into her goblet. Suddenly misty-eyed.

“I—I don’t know if I can say. That is—if it’s appropriate to say here.”

She looked around the crowded ballroom, hardly the moment for an intimate, emotional moment. But Lyonette felt pretty darn emotional and intimate right now. The Horns—she looked at the Gnolls.

They might never know, if they parted ways.

“His name was Brunkr. He was a Gnoll [Warrior]—but he became a [Knight] right before—I’m sure he became a [Knight]. He was from the Silverfang tribe, in Liscor. Do you know them?”

Every Gnoll but one nodded, and then the last one did just out of peer pressure. Lyonette went on.

“I’m afraid…he was killed by a Named Adventurer. In disguise. Another Gnoll—Regrika Blackpaw.”

Feshi stiffened at the Named Adventurer’s name, whose title and reputation had been revoked, but she didn’t know why. The other Gnolls leaned in.

“How can this be? I heard Regrika had been stripped of her rank. She killed another Gnoll? The Blackpaw tribe denied that could have happened—”

“I saw her the day after they found him. It was her. Brunkr was—”

Lyonette spoke, misty-eyed. Ears and tails drooped as she recounted Brunkr’s meeting with her, removing the part about trying to kill Mrsha. Talking about his wound, him coming around, teaching her sword lessons.

Memory smoothed over his faults. Or the telling of it did. Lyonette finished with him getting his life’s dream, again taking out her part in giving him the class, making it seem like a random event of luck. By the time she finished the sad tale, there wasn’t a dry eye or furry nose not being blown.

“You were friends with him? A Gnoll?”

Lyon nodded at Gorauun. The Gnoll pressed a paw into her shoulder, but gently.

“Then you do him credit. It is good to meet a Human who considered a Gnoll so much a friend that she mourns him and remembers his name.”

“I wouldn’t forget.”

The [Princess] protested, as if that would be an unthinkable crime just to forget. And it would be in her world.

Not all Gnolls had learned to expect that of Drakes, though. Liscor was not all of Izril. So there she stood.

The Human who knew Drakes, Antinium, and Gnolls. Who had friends among adventurers. Who knew the very people who were on television.

“Miss Lyon is from Liscor. Didn’t I hear you say that you knew the Players of Celum?”

Feshi was saying to the others. More heads snapped around and some Drakes, unable to bear the wait, moved into the circle.

“Of course I do. Or do you mean the Players of Liscor? Um—the new Players of Pallass?”

“Really? Then do you know those plays? Do you have a copy of one? I have been advocating for a group to come to Oteslia!”

“I’m sure I could get a copy, Miss…?”

“Similaw. You could? That isn’t an idle boast, I hope?”

Lyonette scowled at the Drake.

“I do not make claims I cannot back up, Miss. I know the Players—but the plays are their property. Still, if you really wanted one, you could ask Esme or Temile…”

“I’ve tried, but they apparently get too many [Messages] to reply back to a single one! Even from a [Judge] of Oteslia!”

“Oh. Well. That’s not a problem for me. Perhaps I could ask.”

Look at her. In the center of it all, drawing in all the loose attention, with something for everyone. The Human. The bridge between worlds.

“The wrong one.”

Magnolia Reinhart murmured. She looked at Lyonette du Marquin. What a strange change had come over the arrogant brat she’d once met in Calanfer’s courts. She would have never believed it.

There she stood, far more of a woman than she had been a year ago. The same Lyonette that Magnolia had left to her own fate—no, this was the ideal outcome of letting her learn or fail on her own.

What Magnolia didn’t know was that it hadn’t been the sink-or-swim decision alone that she gave to people that had changed Lyonette. It had been the inn.

The [Lady] did know that the [Princess] was a good fit for this place. Yet there could have been someone else there.

Only one other person knew that, here. Only one other person saw the young woman laughing and making an inane comment instead of Lyonette. Less poised, more random, perhaps more offensive without meaning to be.

The [Innkeeper].

Wall Lord Ilvriss wondered why Lyonette had his ring on her finger. He glanced at Nerul and made a gesture. Navine was still haranguing him.

“If you’re here to sabotage me and mother, you can go right back to father and—”

“Excuse me, Navine. I have to talk to Lyonette. You might consider doing the same rather than ignoring Magnolia Reinhart.”

He let Nerul block Navine as she choked. The Wall Lord saw Lyonette talking to Drakes and Gnolls, all of whom wanted a piece of her. However, a Wall Lord had his tricks. He had the lay of the ball, and even if this was Oteslia, there were always moves you could do to get a private word.

“Excuse me, Miss Lyon. I see the floor is clearing. Would you care for a dance?”

Lyonette turned. A monocle popped off a Drake’s cheek, the tension holding it there lost. Gormauun checked his goblet as Feshi choked into her cup. The other Gnolls and Drakes turned to look at Ilvriss.

Lyonette just gave the Drake a look that said she knew what he was doing—and perhaps what he hadn’t thought of—and then nodded.

“Why not? Thank you, Wall Lord.”

There wasn’t actually much presence on the dance floor, but the musicians playing slow music saw the movement across the room as the Human and Wall Lord moved and half the people there followed them. They began to strike up a beat.

Ilvriss cursed as he heard the actual music to dance to. He pretended to slow, talking to Lyonette urgently.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were in Liscor with Erin—”

“I was! I’m looking for the cure, remember?”

Ah, yes. Of course. He eyed her.

“Haven’t you found it?”

“I’m getting it researched. What are you doing here?”

He sighed.

“I’m…on business. I can’t explain now.”

Could he trust her? Lyonette was giving him the same look. Ilvriss thought rapidly.

“We can discuss that later; I will extend an invitation or call on you.”

She nodded tightly, watching the pairs moving across the ballroom. Lyonette eyed the extra-long dress on her. It was thin fabric. Not sheer; modesty necessitated the opaqueness, but one gust of wind might turn half the dresses into one of Ryoka’s parachutes. Long, flowing—the worst thing for dancing. Ilvriss had a long ‘suit’, but it would be just as cumbersome to dance with.

Worse, this wasn’t a Terandrian ballroom and she had no desire to prove she knew a royal waltz to the Drakes and Gnolls. Lyonette studied the others as she spoke.

“Fine. Can we help each other or do you just want to dance?”

“Hardly that. Have you seen Oteslian dances? I will spare you that. Just one question among many—do you know if the Horns are alive?”

They tilted. Lyonette pretended to study his feet.

“No. But their statues aren’t in the garden.”

Ilvriss smiled, despite himself.

“Good. My second question is this: why do you have Erin’s ring on your finger?”

Lyonette blinked, and then noticed the piece of jewelry.

“Erin once hinted it was something useful. I…took it to not forget. Also, Mrsha would probably walk around with it on or lose it somewhere.”

“Well, that’s something. It’s significant. Especially in Drake culture. I fear my sister saw it.”

The young woman’s eyes widened in worry. Lyonette began to tug at the ring, forgetting that everyone was watching them. Ilvriss stopped her, putting his claw over her hand.

“Don’t. If you have it—perhaps it will help you more than Erin.”

“It…didn’t save her.”

Lyonette murmured, ducking her head. Ilvriss closed his eyes.

“It wouldn’t have. Not in an ambush. Just know that if you need help—it may save you. If you are ever, truly, in danger, show it to a member of Salazsar and use my name.”

The [Princess] hesitated, on the verge of taking it off anyways. Then she nodded and smiled up at him.

“Thank you.”

—-

Navine was choking on the air. Had she just seen that? The quarrel—her taking off the ring and him stopping her?

And the smile? She wanted to sit down—no, get a drink—no, do both. This had gone far, far beyond a joke. This was too real.

She had to tell her mother. Everyone had seen it too! Now the two were laughing about something.

“Can you imagine what Erin would do if she were here? She’d probably already have set loose a plague of rats in the ballroom.”

Navine didn’t have an eavesdropping Skill or a magical ring for the same effect, so she completely misinterpreted the comment that made Ilvriss throw his head back and guffaw.

However—that wasn’t even the end of it. As the music began to play, the Human and Drake glanced around.

—-

“Very well, best of luck to you. Oh—I may want to speak to Adventurers Saliss and Mivifa if I can. The business of Salazsar, though. Hopefully we can help each other.”

“Of course. Now—are we going to dance?”

Lyonette had been studying the other dancers on the ballroom. It was as dreadful as she feared. Some knew how to dance and she saw the whirling motions twirling the cloth into the air in an actually very lovely pattern—but also three couples tangle and one go down to a sprawling, cursing heap.

Ilvriss winced as he glanced sideways.

“Say rather I thought better of it. I will apologize—”

He made to bow, and Lyonette caught him.

“Are you mad? That is so—embarrassing! Is the implication that you can’t dance? That you’re that rude you’d offer to dance and refuse? That I can’t dance?”

The Wall Lord caught himself, but hissed back in irritation, his topaz eyes narrowing.

“I appreciate your attempt to save us face, Miss Marquin, but Oteslian traditional dances—not to mention their attire—is not for amateurs! I can handle myself because I took a month of lessons on top of my regular ones! You’ve never even seen them dance!”

“Then show me! I’m a [Pr—a fast learner!”

Lyonette held her arms out. Ilvriss looked around, saw Nerul waving excitedly, and made an annoyed sound. He adjusted her grip to the customary Drake positions, and spoke, rapidly.

“Step back. No—further back. We separate and meet—we can do one practice run and then stop. This is not a waltz. You see—”

Drake dances were fundamentally different. If the Terandrian style focused on the dance as a back-and-forth between both male and female, both partners intersecting as a couple—Lyonette realized the Drake viewpoint was different.

The style of dancing was as old as their Ancestors. Which meant it was copied from Dragons. And Dragons were giant creatures. Hence the cloth, modeled after their trailing wings and tails. It also meant each dancer gave the other a lot of space.

But the most characteristic difference between Human and Drake styles? Drake dances were selfish. There were entire moves in it that only cared for a single dancer, that you could perform alone. To dance, then, was to perform to your watchers.

It was beautiful. Showy. Lyonette could have studied it eagerly for days, learning all the steps! However, she only had time for one dance, and she was listening to Ilvriss as much as watching the few good examples.

“There. Now you know how complicated it is—”

The musicians were upping the tempo, and the few couples who’d dared to try their luck were evacuating the floor fast, realizing that this was not the song for bravado. Lyonette caught herself.

“I think I have it.”

“What? Are you as insane as Erin?”

The Wall Lord caught himself, nearly stumbling as he went to turn and avoided their clothing tangling at the last moment. Lyonette tossed her head back challengingly. She had not spent weeks dancing with Antinium just to pass up the one opportunity to test herself now!

Let alone on a proper dance floor, Drake or not.

“I may not be perfect—or even close to it. But I can give it a [Flawless Attempt]. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you, Wall Lord. So if you prefer not to…”

The purple-scaled Drake gave her an exasperated look. Then, despite himself, a smile appeared on his face. Challenging. Not the tired Ilvriss, or the stoic, mannered Wall Lord.

He looked at her, irritated, almost admiring of her bravado. Alive.

“If you trip and fall, I will not be able to catch you.”

“I won’t fall.”

[Balanced Posture], as if she were a [Lady] or [Dancer].

[Basic Footwork], for the [Fencer], [Warrior], or the above.

[Magnified Training] to learn as fast as she could.

Last of all, and certainly not least.

[Flawless Attempt].

The ballroom chatter went silent as the Drake and Human walked towards each other. This time, Ilvriss stopped a good six feet away. He bowed, and so did Lyonette. Then—the two turned as the music swelled, the tempo picked up.

“Ancestors. Are they going to dance? My nephew must be mad. I knew a Drake who died by strangulation during a dance gone wrong.”

Nerul whispered to the nearest person to him—Feshi. Rafaema watched nearby, confused. The young woman clearly hadn’t known the dance.

Yet there she went. Mivifa stared as Lyonette spread her arms. She had no tail, but if she had—she would have lifted it slightly, like Ilvriss, curling the tip up.

The trailing, cumbersome, tangling damned dresses, the curse of Oteslian high society did something magical then. The light, featherweight fabric, layered complementary colors—Ilvriss’ a darker variation on blues, even purple on the deepest layers like his scales, Lyonette’s a fiery red and oranges, like her hair—

They caught the air and lifted up. Loose fabric began to whirl. Like opening flowers, or wings made of cloth—

The dresses began to fly. Trailing after the dancers as they turned, moving without letting the dresses touch the ground. Mivifa stared, entranced as she saw one of the first and only proper Oteslian dances take place.

—-

A proper Oteslian dance was one in which you seldom stopped moving. It was selfish, as Lyonette had observed. Moreover; it was a show. You moved alone and rejoined your partner, in whirling arcs of cloth calculated to take advantage of the dress’ unique qualities.

It was a purely Drakeish idea. A Dragon’s arrogance. The secret of the way the dance ran was this: if you were anything less than perfect, you looked like a stupid idiot. It was meant only for someone who could appreciate it, who trained for it.

Who could give it the respect it was due.

Step. The young woman’s hair fluttered behind her like the outer petals of her dress. Almost like red wings.

Turn. The Wall Lord was almost as graceful as her, even without the Skill. His face was a study of concentration as a dark bloom of color followed him, like ink in the water.

Everyone was watching, from Drakes to Gnolls to the only other Humans in the room. It was beautiful, and the two’s contrasting colors and species only added to the surprise. The effect.

It struck him dumb. The sight made him go silent.

Even he…even he had only seen a proper dance of Oteslia’s colors eighteen times in over a hundred years.

Cirediel Anvi’dualln Olicuemerdn, the Earth Dragon of Oteslia, never attended formal balls. He wouldn’t have thought of this one, but two things had changed his mind.

He had heard Lyonette was here. And Rafaema.

He’d dressed like Flash and like the street, neglecting a suit or formal clothing. Ready to stick it to…whomever he was going to stick it to.

Now, he saw the Wall Lord and [Princess] dancing across the ballroom. As vividly as the first time he had ever seen it, as a little baby in the First Gardener’s arms.

Cirediel saw Lyonette smiling and felt jealous. He had no idea who that purple mushroom was, but he was jealous. He wanted to be dancing with Lyon! Even if he had never mastered a tenth of the steps.

He spotted Rafaema in the crowd, watching the event with all her usual intensity. The Lightning Dragon didn’t spot Cire at first. She was locked on Lyonette.

The young man began to push his way through the crowd, intent on greeting Rafaema as if it were a race, or demanding the next dance from Lyon. Did his mother know her? Maybe that was his in!

The whirling dance continued for only three minutes. Then—unable to continue steps she didn’t know, panting, Lyonette slowed. Her dress finally touched the floor and Ilvriss turned from where they had stopped, like two figures set diagonally apart, backs turned—to look at her.

The art ended. The applause began. Lyonette smiled and swept a curtsy at the [Lady] applauding with eyebrows raised. Magnolia Reinhart laughed ruefully.

Ilvriss met his uncle and sister’s gazes and shrugged. He bowed to Lyonette.

Cire strode towards Lyon, determined now. He passed Drakes murmuring.

“Astonishing! So that’s what it looks like!”

“You’re not supposed to trip people up with it? Well, I’m never doing that. I’ll wear a suit next time.”

“Totally Archmage. I mean—amazing. Ancestors damn it—”

Cire stopped. He turned, at the familiar voice. His eyes searched the crowd. The Drake’s head was turned and she looked…far, far older. Her scales weren’t even the same pigment. She looked taller and wore ornamental armor. Nevertheless, he knew that voice. Who else would say…?

“Mivi?”

Mivifa the Oldblood of Feathers turned back as Lyonette walked back to the crowd, now a part of Oteslian society. Lost amidst them—the Earthspeaker saw Cire and blanched. The First Gardener whirled as Cire stared at the Named Adventurer.

“I—um—this—why are you here, Cire?”

He stared at her, stunned. Mivi—no, Mivifa, who had claimed there was no way she could be the same as the naked Drake, Saliss of Light had—

His eyes saw the wrinkles in her scales, the way she had grown older. Her expression, even the way she stood. The deeper tone in her voice. Dead scales, discolored patterns, every mortal sign of aging.

He stood there as Rafaema turned. The young Dragon backed away as Lyonette saw him and grimaced; Cire stood out even among the colorful Drakes. Bewildered, the [Princess] saw the stricken look on his face. Too real to be…

“Cire. I—”

Mivifa stepped forwards. Cirediel turned and ran. He shoved past Drake waiters, ran past the Gnolls. Ran like the undead of the Village of Death themselves were chasing him.

Thus, the most memorable, successful, and of course, scandalous ball in Oteslia…kept right on going.

—-

Magnolia Reinhart and the [Princess] of Calanfer stood in the center of the ballroom, speaking, drawing attention by virtue of their respective talents.

The [Princess] was better at attracting it unwillingly; she had an excellent teacher. The [Lady] of House Reinhart was better at other things.

“The Helm of Fire is a Drake treasure. I understand the shares of the adventurers’ artifacts are not sufficient for how many participated. It is likely at least one object will be auctioned; no one team can afford the price of a relic-class object. Given that, I would be delighted to make a bid for the Helm of Fire.”

Heads turned. Lyonette frowned at Magnolia, breaking her discussion off on the very same topic.

“You would purchase the Helm of Fire on behalf of the Drakes?”

The [Lady] smiled at Lyonette, and her eyes held the [Princess]’ just for a second.

“It would not be the most outlandish thing I’ve ever bid on, Miss Lion Solstice. However, I very much doubt I would be in the minority for this bid. Even my coffers are not unlimited. Perhaps I should back a more appropriate source? Drakes should reclaim Drake artifacts, even if only in bidding. Now, which Walled City should I support if that were the case? Where is the First Gardener? I have an intriguing idea to offer her.”

Some of the listeners gasped at the idea. Magnolia’s knowledge of adventurer bidding wars was esoteric. If it came to a bid, of course the Walled Cities would be among the top contenders for a relic of their species. Oteslia would never have a chance, though. Not against Salaszar, Pallass, Fissival, or Zeres.

If you could buy affection…Magnolia was doing a better job. However, the First Gardener did not immediately appear to lend credence to her offer. Which was fine; the rumor was enough.

The First Gardener had, in fact, hurried out of the ballroom on some public matter with the Earthspeaker, Mivifa, and every other high-ranking Oteslian official. It raised Ilvriss’ brows and Nerul’s, because they noticed such things.

Cire!

No one cared what was happening in the ballroom anymore. Mivifa flew out of the ballroom, shouting for him. Heads turned as the Oldblood of Feathers used her unique wings to fly.

Cirediel was gone. His protectors panicked, fearing what this truth might do to him. Mivifa was joined in seconds by the [Pegasus Riders], who spread out to search the city for the unique boy they were charged with protecting.

This was his city, though. Where might he hide? Mivifa flew to his usual hangouts, not sure what to say. What could she say? She cursed Lyonette and the party—even as she felt a horrible sense of relief.

He knew. It was time he knew. If only it could have been broken to him more easily.

Even Hunt Commander Makhir joined in on the search, his nose an invaluable asset. Manus and Oteslia were sometimes at odds, but they had not actually been to war in…well, a century. Roughly the time a certain egg had been found, while Manus was raising the young hatchling themselves.

No one noticed the truce except for the most savvy experts in Drake politics, who noticed the two cities never came to blows. Like the Cyclops of Pallass, for instance.

In this, Manus was united with Oteslia. Makhir hurried off, cursing at the tangling scent-trails—and issues of tracking a flying quarry.

Rafaema of Manus did not fly into a frenzy. She had seen Cire’s face as he looked at Mivifa. She knew…exactly what had happened to him in that moment.

“Idiot.”

The Dragon walked out of the ballroom. She spread her wings and leapt into the air. She had not worn the traditional Oteslian dress, instead taking to Manus’ customs of wearing armor even at formal events. She flew upwards, then turned.

She had not told the First Gardener. However, she thought she knew where Cire was. It was Mivifa’s instinct to look for his haunts, lock down the walls and gates, the First Gardener’s to check Cire’s rooms.

As if he were a normal boy. Rafaema shook her head. She knew where he was. They’d think of it. She got there first.

—-

The door of the protected, sealed room was ajar. Someone was crying inside. The girl found the boy inside. He was kneeling on the ground. He tried to hide his face and wipe his tears when she saw him.

“Cire.”

They were both young. A hundred years, and they were young. Young—and terribly old. If they had been allowed to live beyond their walls, they would have seemed far older.

Somehow, Oteslia had preserved the innocence of their Dragon. The girl was changing. Growing older. Manus wanted a leader, so it had never been the same.

The First Gardeners had seen the value of childhood, of happiness, however forced. Joy until he was older. They had protected it—too much.

Better than her, though. The girl heard the boy’s voice.

“Go away. Go away, Rafaema.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Cirediel. I knew you’d be here.”

She stepped into the little room, past wards of magic long since spent. It was a strange place. It had been hidden for countless ages.

Here—in the very roots of Oteslia’s great tree. Buried among the growing wood. Unearthed by chance. It had held only one thing, that the First Gardeners had found here.

An egg. The legacy of Dragons. No one remembered who could have put him here. His parents were lost to time.

He had been carried from this place before he hatched. He had grown up in different rooms, far above, changing nurseries, rooms.

He would remember this spot, even so. Just like she did.

“Cire.”

“Get lost! I—I’m not crying. Tell Mivifa I don’t want to talk to her! I don’t want to talk to anyone! They’re all liars! They lie to my face and laugh at me.”

The young woman hesitated. Then she stepped further into the room. The boy was curled up, hiding under his wings. A ball of misery.

A Dragon. He’d taken off his ring. The other protections.

Were it anyone else, Rafaema would not know what to say, other than the way a [Commander] inspired soldiers. Rough discipline. Knock some sense into him.

Cire, though…she stood there for a second. Then she plucked her ring from her finger, murmured two phrases. Her body changed.

A long neck rose. Her true scales were deep blue. Not like sapphire; not purely one color. They looked like the color of sky before dark storm clouds overtook them. Her eyes shone with two colors; topaz and amethyst. Gemstones.

His scales were brown and green. Like the very tree itself. A wondrous brown, though. Not like soil or mere wood. His eyes were a clementine orange mixed with rosewood pink.

They were the last of their kind, as far as either knew. Two children, raised by well-meaning, overprotective guardians with grand dreams for them.

The last hope of their kind. Leaders of their descendants to a glorious new age.

It was a heavy burden. They were so young. No one could tell them what they were.

The Earth Dragon snuffled as the Lightning Dragon stepped into the small place where he had been found. Abandoned? She spoke, looking down at him; she was larger than he, and both were still growing.

“You didn’t know Mivifa was a Named Adventurer?”

“I knew. I just never saw her. Not like that. She lied to me. She told me just the other day she wasn’t…I knew.”

Cire’s voice was sulky. Rafaema hesitated, and then nodded. He probably did, deep down. He hid his face in a wing.

“Leave me alone, Rafaema. This is so—not Archmage.”

She rolled her eyes at the childish expression. She huffed and inadvertently shot some sparks from her mouth in irritation.

“Grow up. I know they coddle you here—you know they’re tricking you. Tell them to stop. Or do you really think the First Gardeners all go on holiday when they get—”

“Stop!”

The younger boy shouted. His voice echoed loudly and dangerous drops of acid escaped his mouth. However, that was not what made the girl relent. It was the pain in his voice. He hid his head in his wings again.

“I know. Don’t you think I know? I just don’t—”

It was always like this. She said something and hurt his feelings, or he made her mad. They fought every time they met. For the last two of their kind, they should have been more kind. Maybe it was because seeing each other so briefly just made them more lonely.

However, there were things only they could say to each other. Only they could understand. Cire’s eyes opened wide and looked up with a mortal horror. He whispered.

“I knew. I can tell when they’re getting older. I don’t think about it. I don’t want to. Call me a child if you want, Rafaema. I don’t want to say goodbye. I looked at Mivifa—and I saw her dying. Rotting with age. I’m going…I’m going to see her die. She’s going to grow old and I’ll still be young. She’ll hate me.”

The young woman looked down at him and remembered the day she had realized her friends were different people wearing their faces, acting like them. She had tried to destroy it all, that day. For nearly a decade onwards.

“I know. They think it will make us feel better.”

She had known they aged and died from the start. Him though…he was more fragile. He cried more than she did, over dead pets. Over his beloved parents.

Manus had made her heart hard. Or maybe it was just the difference between them. She stepped forwards and awkwardly tried to place a claw on his shoulder. That was such a…Drake thing. A bipedal gesture.

She lay down next to him instead.

“That’s who we are.”

“Some of the Drakes say it’s because we’re better. I hate it. I don’t want to live this long. I want to be grown. I don’t want to do any of this.”

“I know.”

She let him snuffle and lay there. She too wished she had someone to ask all the questions in her heart. She was the older one, but in moments like this, she was helpless to tell him anything that would make him feel better.

All she knew of her kind were in the oldest of stories. Dragons were just mythical beings. Quests for [Dragonslayers] and [Knights] to challenge. Ruthless predators. Rulers…

Not people. In this moment, Rafaema realized a truth of her kind, through living with their descendants, the Drakes, for so long.

This was why Dragons didn’t mingle with other species. This was why they hid away. They stayed only for a generation, two at most. They did not remain to protect the places they formed connections to.

Because all their friends passed away. That was what Cire was always afraid of.

What a well-meaning accident. A disaster Oteslia had made out of good-faith attempts.

The two children said nothing more for a long time. He broke the silence by reaching for a little ring. His body blurred, shrinking, compressing into the fragile, false form he wore among them all. Still unable to hide who he really was fully.

She did likewise. Cire wiped at his eyes, then tried to smile.

“I really wish you hadn’t come. This is so—uncool. You seeing me like this.”

She let the lie pass, again. Rafaema shrugged.

“You’re not ever ‘cool’. Better this than seeing you chasing after another Drake and telling me how many people you’ve had sex with this month.”

He turned red.

“I’m more mature!”

She just looked at him, until he blushed more furiously and ran ahead. They didn’t fight as fiercely as before. This was how her visit had started. Maybe it would be better this time.

“Let’s get back to the party. I have business there. Besides—you should show yourself so they all stop worrying. The First Gardener should be present. You’re making more work for her.”

“I know that. I have business there too! Did—did you see that Human dancing? There’s something about her.”

Rafaema scratched at her neck spines. Two seconds and he was back to normal. She tried to humor him—and failed.

“You mean, the [Princess] of Calanfer?”

Cire smacked into the doorframe. He whirled, eyes wide.

“What? She’s a [Princess]? I knew there was something special about her! You felt it too, didn’t you?”

Rafaema frowned. She spread her wings as they left the secret place and leapt into the sky after him. Cire swore as she shot past him; she was the faster flier too. Faster temper, faster, stronger, older…he labored to catch up.

“How do you know?”

“Manus has intelligence. You should try getting some yourself. We have reports on everyone—she barely tries to hide it. You really didn’t know?”

“No! No one lets me see intelligence reports after I took one to show the others!”

“Gee, I wonder why.”

They flew on. Someone spotted them within a minute; Rafaema raised a claw and Cire waved guiltily. The relieved [Pegasus Rider] began calling off the alarm as they flew back.

“There was something about her. I just knew…she’s pretty hot, don’t you think?”

“…Do you think before you ask me these things?”

Rafaema glared at Cire. He shrugged impishly, flying backwards through the air and trying to lounge at the same time.

“You did feel something, didn’t you? [Princess]-senses. That’s my new power.”

The Lightning Dragon sighed.

“We don’t have [Princess]-senses. That’s just the storybooks of Dragons kidnapping royalty. Read between the lines! They were political hostages. Besides, I’ve met [Princesses] before. And [Queens]. There’s nothing special about them.”

“Oh. Well, maybe she’s special. I feel it. Come on, I’ll introduce you. You’ll see it too!”

He darted ahead. Rafaema shouted after him.

“Where do you feel it? Because if it’s where I think it is—I’ll stab you. Right where you feel it.”

—-

The return of the two wards of their Walled Cities to the ball…went about as unnoticed as their departure.

More people were concerned with Lyonette and Magnolia. The younger woman’s connection with the Gnolls, her startling familiarity with Ilvriss and all it suggested…

There were rumors about that already, from Liscor. Now she was here, right when there was a chance for peace. Her dance had impressed the Drakes. The gossip about Ilvriss was already covering miles.

Scandalous. Intriguing. Even charming.

Wrong. Horrendous. Not to be suffered. Not here. Not in a Walled City. A Human…?

No. As Rafaema and Cire walked through the crowd, Cire with the confidence of the First Gardener’s son to push through towards the [Princess], the dignitary changed directions. Instead of Magnolia, he introduced himself.

“Excuse me—you are Miss Lion Solstice, of Liscor? I have heard so much of Liscor myself, and I wondered if I might have a word?”

Lyonette turned to the smiling Drake. He, like many of the Drakes here, bore his city’s sigils proudly on his arm. The city above a wave—Zeres.

“I am.”

Some of the others harrumphed at typical Zeresian rudeness. The [Dignitary] transferred his wineglass from one claw to the other. He took Lyonette’s hand, speaking.

“Your dance—I am sure everyone has offered compliments, but it was quite exceptional. Are you with Lady Reinhart? Ah, what am I saying? Two Humans in the same city? I’m also told you control the flower-trade. Remarkable, at your age.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m not with Lady Reinhart, but we are…acquainted.”

Lyonette felt the handshake go on a bit too long. She tried to tug free. The Drake smiled.

“Humans in the south. Trying for peace in our times. Even hints of marriage between species on the highest levels.”

His eyes locked on the ring. Lyonette blushed and tried to yank her hand back.

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating…sir, but that is both personal and incorrect! None of your business, either way!”

The Drake looked down at her. Rafaema sighed as Cire waved for Lyonette’s attention, but the [Princess] was too busy to notice him. She saw the Drake finally let go.

“I rather think it is. This—is what I think of Human reconciliation, Miss.”

He reached for his side, drew the dagger, and lunged in one movement towards her chest. Rafaema’s eyes went wide. Lyonette stared, recoiling too slow. The other Drakes nearby just blinked at the smooth movement.

The Zeresian Drake missed. He twisted mid-lunge, and ducked the dagger which nearly went through his skull. It flashed through the air until it buried itself in a distant wall.

“Assassin!”

Ressa snapped. She’d thrown the dagger, spotting the move in the midst of the party. However, she was too far away, too crowded, for another shot. The Drake’s dagger stabbed—

Into Lyonette’s side, missing her heart. He snarled, drew the blade back. Lyonette was trying to hurl her drink in his face, reach for her sword. He aimed again—

Staggered. Every guest in ten feet save Lyonette and two other Drakes went flying as Magnolia slapped the air. It should have tossed the Drake with the dagger like a bug against the wall, but he had anti-aura training. He snarled, but brought up the bloody dagger. Lyonette was gasping; her face had gone white.

Poison! She saw a flash of a young woman lying on the ground. No! Not this! Not—

“Guards!”

Ilvriss was running towards her, sword raised. Magnolia was shouting as Ressa tossed another dagger, but Ressa held back from charging the killer. The [Maid] was guarding her target, looking for a second. The Drake deflected the projectile. He took careful aim at Lyonette’s throat, reaching for her hair.

It was all happening in seconds. Cire’s head rose as he picked himself up from where he’d been thrown by the Skill. He saw Lyonette crying out, the dagger swinging.

Then the second Drake brought the sword down. It was a perfectly-executed cut, just like she’d done a hundred thousand times on the training fields.

Hunt Commander Makhir, bow drawn, racing into the ballroom, saw the assailant’s arm drop, dagger still clutched in the claws.  The Drake spun, staggering—went down on his knees.

She had cut his tendons in the same stroke. The young Dragon’s sword rose. Her eyes were wide, but she finished the move by memory. Instinct.

Rafaema beheaded the Drake, finishing the sword technique. Ilvriss slowed; Ressa paused with a trio of daggers ready to throw. Magnolia Reinhart blinked as Rafaema of Manus stared down at the first person she had ever killed with a weapon.

Then Ilvriss was charging for Lyonette with a healing potion—a second before Ressa thrust him away, with a general antidote in her hands. Finally, someone inhaled to scream, the guards rushed forwards, Mivifa and a dozen [Pegasus Riders] burst into the ballroom…

Lyonette’s face regained color as the failed assassination attempt ended. Halted by a Wall Lady of Manus, made on a Human—which one didn’t matter—in Oteslia. By a Drake of Zeres, in seeming, at least.

Rafaema, kneeling, shaken, sword still bloody, looked at the Human whose life she’d saved. Makhir was looking for more targets, the First Gardener and Magnolia speaking, guards surrounding them, and someone hurling accusations at the Zeresians who were bellowing back.

Amidst it all, as Lyonette looked at her savior and their eyes met, Rafaema felt it too. For her, an electric crawl running down her body. A full-fledged reaction, like Cirediel had described. Only, not mere attraction. This was more than instinctual like or dislike, acquaintanceship, friendliness, distrust, lust—all of which Rafaema could process as they came to her, person to person.

This was different. Cirediel had thought it was liking her? Idiot. That silly little—

Rafaema sniffed, but it wasn’t smell. More like…a faint connection. Pheromones, or something only for them. It didn’t come from Lyonette, but she had been close. Her eyes went wide.

She sensed another Dragon on the [Princess].

All things considered, it was some party.

[Worldly Princess Level 25!]

[Skill – Greater Resistance: Poison obtained!]

—-

Ceria Springwalker woke up. Panting, head covered by a wet bit of cloth. Someone had managed to give her water, and she was not dead. She sat up in the mud-brick home, sheltered from the desert heat in the lee of wherever she was. She babbled—raised a hand to her head—head fell back.

She still managed to send it off.

Ceria to Montressa: Alive. Find Pisces. Ksmvr. Yvlon. Can’t tell where. Teleported. Lost. Chandrar.

Then she passed out again. Her friends realized as Montressa ran out of her rooms screaming—they were looking in the wrong continent.

Too slow. Too late.

The Horns of Hammerad landed, each in a different nation.

8.22 HE

Ceria to Montressa: Alive. Find Pisces. Ksmvr. Yvlon. Can’t tell where. Teleported. Lost. Chandrar.

Chandrar. The desert continent? How had they gotten there? Where were they?

In the hours after the [Message] reached Montressa du Valeross, she tried to contact Ceria nearly three dozen times. She notified friends and family of the Horns, and [Scrying] spells were redirected; although only a dedicated [Diviner] had the range to do a mass-search from another continent away, let alone narrow in on a single person, even with their true names.

They knew, though. Chandrar. The search began again, with hope—certainty at least one of them was alive. That was an effort of days, though. Within seconds, within hours, the Horns of Hammerad—each one of them found themselves in a nation apart.

—-

Ksmvr stepped into the light. The dusty arena floor beneath his feet was scattered with fragments from past fights, however much it had been raked over, reformatted.

Detritus of fallen combatants. Sprays of torn armor. Bone bits, pieces of those who had fallen not quite cleaned away. The crowd roared as the terrified prisoners, criminals, were sent out as sport, to be destroyed for the amusement of those watching.

Was it ill-luck that he had been sent here? There were more dangerous places to be sent—like ten thousand feet straight up above the ground—or below it.

Or into the sea. All things considered, Ksmvr felt lucky. Still…he glanced down at the ground as the first gladiators entered. The prisoners screamed up at the crowd, the overseers of this arena.

“Stop! There’s an Antinium-thing! Take it! Stop! Don’t open the gates—”

Too late. No one saw him at first. Ksmvr bent. The bones of past gladiators…

Bones? He saw bits of torn metal, wood, ceramics, which he’d mistaken at first. The Antinium’s head slowly rose. They were bones. For a unique type of…

“Ah. That complicates things.”

The Antinium checked himself as the first Golem strode out of the waiting room to cheers from Illivere’s citizens.

—-

The Testings of the Golems had been a huge success, if only in the country. The Golem battles had established a champion.

Yet they continued, due to popular demand. Now, each Golem was being calibrated, from battles with each other to their intended purpose: as weapons of war.

Criminals had been procured, armed with a few weapons, to test the killing efficacy of the gladiators against them. The [Golem Artificers] loved their creations, and to test them against animals, ‘real life enemies’ like prisoners as if they were [Soldiers]…

It wasn’t a fair fight. Of course it wasn’t. The prisoners were underfed, barely had any armor on, and most weren’t dedicated [Warriors], just [Thieves] armed with rusted weapons.

Nsiia did not watch these Testings. She understood the mentality of the Golem’s creators; she just thought it was like a high-level [Warrior] bullying low-level ones to make them feel better, only with their creations as the proxy.

It was almost refreshing to see such mortal flaws in the odd culture of Illivere. So she did not watch, more pensively sunbathing on Femithain’s rooftop. The Crafter-Magus himself was hard at work, setting up more Domeheads now that the possibility of mass-manufacturing them existed.

Pet Golems, Sentience-class Golems…it was a good time for Golem-lovers. The Testings were just for the bloodthirsty citizens.

—-

At first, they didn’t even notice the Antinium standing there in the shadow of the cells. He watched, not dispassionately so much as coldly observing. Aware of the peril he was in.

The Golems came out, three of them with kill-orders in their programming. Each one was one of the gladiators.

One Golem was from Unst, squat, armed with a spear and shield. It rotated on its torso, and spat oil at the terrified [Merchant], who loosed a crossbow bolt—and missed. He had no idea how to properly reload it. As he tried, the oil hit him.

The man knew what was coming and tossed his crossbow aside. He ran, screaming—too late. The magical gout of flame caught him and he turned into a flailing, wailing ball of fire which quickly fell and died.

The crowd cheered as the Golem rotated, searching for a new target. Another was using a rapier created for it, stabbing in a flurry at a [Mercenary] who tried to grimly block and roll—before he was caught by another Golem who diced him with eight limbs of cutting blades before hammering his dead body with a club in its single, oversized limb on the other side.

These were the repaired losers of the Testings. Each one defeated—and for good reason. The Golem with the club on one side and daggers on the other was unbalanced despite the best efforts of its creators. Magical fire and the spear didn’t stop the heaviest Golems like Hammera.

The rapier Golem just sucked. It had been inspired by the King of Duels, but it was fighting on a program, not with the sheer inspiration of a true fencer—and it was holding a copy of a rapier, scaled up, not the precise, balanced instrument.

As Nsiia had once observed, [Golem Artificers] sometimes followed the most fun idea, not the most practical.

The crowd loved it. They had no pity for the prisoners, each one a criminal who had earned their death sentence by repeated actions or terrible ones. The Golems were their heroes, and the citizens of each respective state cheered their Golem on the hardest.

Rejects they might have been, imperfect, flawed—but three versus even seven times their number was not a fair fight. Ksmvr watched the [Bandit] fleeing the spear-wielding Golem, screaming.

“Stop! The Ant—”

He died as the rapier-Golem sprayed him with what looked like little projectiles of some kind. Ah—magic bolts.

“Observed.”

Ksmvr felt pity for the prisoners who had to stay in the open as the collars forced them forwards. However, he had to see.

He was still disoriented from the spell. He still saw Yvlon. He still felt himself trying to hold on—and losing her.

She had lost her arm. She needed him to help her! Ksmvr had lost an arm before. It was not fun.

He had failed them. Ksmvr had watched the Horns killed by the half-Elf. Tolveilouka. He had tried to stop the monster, but his weapons had sunk into its body.

The [Skirmisher] couldn’t even touch the thing without being corrupted. He had tried to distract it, hurt it with all his artifacts and Skills and cunning.

He had failed. They had been healed, but the memory was burned into his mind.

I let go. I should have held on until my arms were torn away.

Ksmvr breathed in, and out, calmly. He would have given into that knowledge a day ago. That despair, the blame. But Ceria had told him this:

“If you stay, we stay. Get it right. Never say that again.”

He was their [Teammate]. Ksmvr would find them wherever they had gone. He could not die.

Yet he was in an arena, without his adventurer friends, and he was an Antinium, enemy to all. Ksmvr could have remained in the cells and taken his chances the Golems wouldn’t target him without the prisoner’s collar, letting the rest be cut down for sport.

He could have. Should have.

Would have. However, there was something about an oversized monster slaughtering helpless people unable to fight back that bothered him. Ksmvr could have said why.

He didn’t bother. As the Golem with the oversized right club-arm and scything left ones pursued a screaming man, Ksmvr walked into the light.

“First: testing. [Piercing Strikes].”

The Antinium jumped. The screaming man was cornered against the cell, his collar blazing with heat. He saw the Golem raise its club.

Ksmvr landed on its head. He paused, waiting—but the Golem didn’t even have instructions to switch targets. Nor for if someone landed on its head. He felt a moment of disappointment.

Inferior to undead? Ksmvr lifted his shortsword. Then drove it down into the thing’s head.

[Piercing Strikes]. He carved into the metal with the first blow. Then the second. It wasn’t—smooth—yet Ksmvr felt his blades cut deep before slowing. The enchanted shortsword sang three times. Ksmvr struck again, and the Golem malfunctioned. It swung an arm around—then lurched back. He saw something glow inside and stabbed that.

The Golem’s Heart shattered. Ksmvr felt the huge thing collapse. He held his position as the metal giant of eight feet slowly collapsed into a kneeling position, the arms falling, the club and blades dropping from its hands.

The cheering crowd had been focused on the other two Golems, and then—they didn’t know what they were seeing. A bug-man, leaping onto the Golem’s head? Stabbing? Why was the Golem collapsing? Why was…?

The screams of excitement caught in throats. People began to point, or stand up. One of the Golems was down!

The handlers of the Golems looked around, shocked. Every eye in the crowd fell on the Antinium calmly standing on the fallen Golem’s head. Ksmvr spread his arms.

“Assert dominance.”

He waited. An arena of stunned faces greeted him. Some people wrestled with the image. What was…

“Creler?”

The word made some shudder. Then someone finally had it.

“Antinium. The Antinium of Izril! It’s an Antinium!”

The scream that rose from the comprehension took even Ksmvr aback. Some of the spectators heard the dread word—and then nearly a hundred people shot to their feet and began running for the hills, screaming as if all of Rhir had suddenly opened up under their feet.

For some, just the name was terror. However, the stupefaction and confusion of the others stopped it from becoming a deadly stampede. In the arena, Ksmvr had no time to watch the reactions of the spectators.

Nor could he easily flee. He’d seen one prisoner trying to climb a wall with a climbing Skill. Despite the smooth stone they’d gotten up, only to run into a magical barrier protecting the audience from just that—or shrapnel from the fights.

There was only survival. So Ksmvr was already turning as another Golem spotted him.

The Spitfire Golem waddled at him on all six ‘legs’, its cylindrical torso holding the oil it was spraying at him making it look like a deformed spider. It jabbed with the spear, with commendable accuracy, rotating to track him. A shield protected it from attacks.

It was a Golem, though. So Ksmvr just took cover behind the dead Golem as oil sprayed it and caught fire. He had a theory…

The Spitfire Golem began stabbing the first one’s carcass. Ksmvr peeked his head out—then hopped back as a spear tip went through the other Golem’s metal and nearly hit him.

Yup. The Golems had been told not to target each other, but his killing of the first one meant that the Spitfire was reading two combatants. It was stabbing at the dead Golem, spraying oil on it and Ksmvr. It rotated, edging around as Ksmvr bolted left.

[Swift Rearmament]. Ksmvr changed from the sword to one of the crossbows in his belt with commendable speed. Less than half a second to change weapons! No feeling around in the bag of holding—he just reached down and the weapon’s handle was in his grip. Ksmvr rolled, and came up with the crossbow the [Merchant] had grabbed. He tsked, and reloaded it swiftly.

The Spitfire Golem was still stabbing the first Golem’s carcass. The handlers were shouting at it, directing it at the new threat. It finally turned, a gemstone ‘eye’ glittering as it locked onto Ksmvr.

Too late. The Antinium raised two crossbows and fired.

[Piercing Strikes] plus the power of a crossbow were enough to penetrate the hard armor of the Golem’s torso. He’d taken careful aim; both shots hit the mark. One scored what he knew was there.

The oil reservoir. The Spitfire excreted more, and the handlers began to shout. The Golem of Unst never noticed the liquid running down its body, and the exposed oil tank. It projected a gout of flame as Ksmvr raised his magical cloak.

He didn’t catch flame. It did.

The citizens of Unst wailed as, for the second time, their Golem died. This time by its own hand; it caught fire and began to melt as the magical oil ate into its body, damaging the magical commandments…it slumped.

Design deficiencies. Ksmvr knew the Antinium weren’t perfect, but the Queens did a better job than whoever had made these ones. He turned.

The last Golem charged at him, rapier raised. Ksmvr raised his Forceshield, readying his shortsword and dagger. Should he use…?

No. Curses and whatnot, as unlikely as it could be. Ksmvr nodded to himself. Intelligence dictated fooling the enemy. He would have to survive…like this.

It wouldn’t be too hard. The Golem had a fast attack-program, but it cycled through moves. Pisces was unpredictable. Ksmvr’s Forceshield hummed. The transparent edges distorted the air as Ksmvr met the attack.

Block, block, block—he swung his shortsword and was rewarded with an impact. The Golem pressed the attack, without fatigue. Ksmvr’s Forceshield trembled, and he watched the artifact. No—it was holding off the weakly-enchanted rapier. He struck again, but he was far too far from the Golem to hit it. Still, he connected.

“Antinium have appeared in the Testing Grounds! It—keep calm! It cannot defeat the proud Golems of Illivere!”

One of the announcers was shouting. Control reasserted itself as the people in the arena turned. Yes! That was true! The great Golems, the gladiators, would not be defeated by a single Antinium. In fact, some of the ones who owned scrying orbs were staring down at him.

Could that be the same Antinium they had just seen…?

The Antinium was retreating, just staying in range for the tip of the rapier to keep striking at it, but he’d blocked every hit with the Forceshield so far, occasionally slashing. He’d lose endurance before a Golem, though. So it was just a matter of t—

Snap. The sound of the rapier breaking was loud and metallic. The handlers cried out as half of the weapon just—broke on impact with Ksmvr’s shield.

That was what he’d been doing! Ksmvr had seen the poor excuse for a blade, enchanted, but nowhere near as flexible or strong as Pisces’ weapon. He’d attacked it while stressing the blade. It had snapped like the cheap thing it was.

Now, he lunged forwards. The rapier-Golem kept fighting, but it didn’t realize it had half a weapon. It struck him twice by the time he carved into its torso. Then it began to stutter; he found its heart and broke it.

A groan went up from the audience. Cries of pain from the Golem’s beloved fans. Some of the handlers were screaming in fury, not expecting their creations to break twice so quickly.

The Golem Hearts were shattered! That was as costly as the Golems’ frames! The perpetrator of this…this outrage, the unwelcome, unexpected guest, stood in the arena.

“I am Ksmvr of the Horns of Hammerad. A Gold-rank adventurer of Izril. I request immediate parlay with your local governor and/or leader. I mean you no harm. I was merely defending myself from your Golems.”

He paused as thousands of eyes stared down at him. This was a local broadcast in Illivere too. Ksmvr had spread his arms properly like Kevin showed him, and he debated declaring war. In the end, he decided to assert a tiny bit more dominance.

“Please do not attack me. Your shoddy creations are not capable of defeating me.”

That was his mistake. The fear, shock, and uncertainty turned to wrath in a second. The audience rushed back the way they’d come, and now hurled insults, even tried to throw objects down at the Antinium.

“Someone tell the Magus-Crafter!”

A level-headed [Official] shouted. One of the [Mages] raced to obey. He shouted, trying to restore order.

“No one go down there! Confirm it’s the same Antinium—do not—”

Too late. An enraged [Golem Artificer] had already activated another command scroll. Ksmvr turned. He reflected that he had established too much dominance, perhaps.

A Golem armed with two huge shields and a central orb stomped out of the gates. It began shooting massive bolts of magic at him as it set the spiked shields in guard mode. He began to run, taking cover.

—-

Magus-Crafter Femithain was working below when the urgent summons arrived. Nsiia sat up and listened, her ears as sharp as a cat’s.

“There is an Antinium in…where? How did it arrive? Are you sure it is the same adventurer from the…I understand identification is difficult. Is it contained?”

“Contained in the Testing Grounds—but it is killing Golems, Magus-Crafter! It’s slain five of the contenders so far!”

Femithain had to actually digest this as Nsiia swung down from the balcony in one motion. He raised his spectacles, rubbed his ears.

“Killing—do you mean there are Golems in the arena?”

The [Messenger] hesitated.

“No, Magus-Crafter. The—the handlers are sending them in. You see—”

“What?”

The Magus-Crafter seldom raised his voice. He did so now, looking incredulously at the [Messenger].

“Do you mean to say that Illivere’s Golems are attempting to murder a Gold-rank adventurer who just participated in a worldwide event?”

The [Messenger] gulped as Nsiia’s eyes widened, realizing what was happening. Femithain was already looking around, touching his finger to his temple to send a [Message].

“No, Magus-Crafter. Not exactly—the entire arena is out of control!”

“Restore order, now! I have summoned a Golem-coach—I am on my way. Do not let the Golems kill that adventurer!”

Femithain was already hurrying out of his apartments. Nsiia ran after him, and the [Messenger] tried to explain. That wasn’t exactly the problem!

—-

“Haliclaw! Haliclaw!”

The arena was rocked by cheers and shouting as the Golem, nicknamed ‘Haliclaw’, charged at the Antinium. He was bounding, always on the move, avoiding the long, slashing claws of metal attached to its arms.

It insulted Ksmvr. It had six arms, as if that made it better, and it was a whirl of blades. The people of Illivere were cheering, as it pursued the [Skirmisher] in a hit-and-run battle.

“Kill it! Kill it!”

The Golem’s handlers were watching. Ksmvr reflected that this may have been his fault. His insult had not been calculated; rather than unnerve, it had provoked.

The consequence was this: the Golem was trying to kill him. In theory, the handlers might order it to stop once it had ‘won’.

Ksmvr wasn’t willing to take that risk. Like a mob of angry children…or Golem fanatics, the crowd was now out for his blood.

It dripped onto the arena’s floor, green. The audience cheered as Haliclaw scored another narrow blow, but even the enchanted metal couldn’t easily destroy a carapace enhanced by [Barkskin]. Moreover, the cheering had a desperate edge. Vindictive, but also uncertain, so louder and more desperate because of it.

Ksmvr slid under the guard and slashed at last. His Flamecoat Dagger struck the whirling arms and half the Golem burst into flame. It kept coming, but the flames interrupted whatever vision it had. It began to slow, uncertain of its target.

“No, no, stop—”

Ksmvr heard the myriad voices pleading for him to stop. He did not. He leapt onto the back of the Golem and fired three crossbows straight into the armor.

He hit the Golem’s heart and the creation fell. The audience screamed as if he were killing actual heroes—or children. Ksmvr straightened, panting.

Seven Golems lay dead already. This last fight had taken nearly fifteen minutes. He gulped his last stamina potion and tried to raise his voice.

“This is pointless. I am a Gold-rank adventurer—you are in defiance of the Adventurer Guild l—”

The roar of anger drowned him out. Seven Golems? All killed by one Gold-rank?

This went beyond just loving Golems. This was the pride of each state of the Illivere Federation, carelessly trampled by Ksmvr. It would be one thing if a Golem did it. But a single Gold-rank?

He had to be defeated. The [Golem Artificers] in the back of the arena ignored the Magus-Crafter and other orders coming in to stop. They had to see the Antinium bleed.

—-

Femithain and Nsiia clung to the coach as the Golem-horse raced across the ground at top speed. Femithain felt like he would lose his glasses if he didn’t hang onto them. This was far beyond normal speed. He kept sending orders, but he was watching the broadcast.

It was local on Illivere’s channels, but Nerrhavia’s Wonders—their channel—had already begun to pick up on what was happening.

Someone from Wistram was hammering him with a [Message] a second. Femithain ignored it all.

“I will revoke the Licenses of Creation for every [Golem Artificer] participating! Desist at once!”

Too late. Femithain saw the gates open and the Antinium turn warily, sensing something.

The crowd’s cheering drowned out everything as Nsiia perched, eyes narrowed, looking ahead as they sped across the ground. She looked back as she heard him curse. Her heart began to beat with…anger.

This was not a game. How dare they?

—-

Thump.

Ksmvr heard the pounding footstep that quieted the arena for a moment. The audience held its breath. They knew what was coming next.

A clanging impact. A horrible blow to one of the walls. It was followed by a growing sound. An inhuman roar of noise.

Like the times before, the programmed showoff-cycle made the Golem strike the walls with each step as it advanced. The huge maul of a weapon glowed in Ksmvr’s gaze. He saw the Golem, twice as thickly armored as the others he’d killed, raise its weapon as it stepped into the light. Ksmvr muttered an oath.

“Tree rot.”

Hammera strode into the arena to a deafening sound. She raised her hammer overhead, then set herself. Her ‘gaze’ locked on Ksmvr. He had only one second to take in the former champion of the arena before she charged.

—-

Nsiia watched, sick at heart as Hammera charged. Femithain was shouting at one of the officials, cursing himself. But it was too late.

Her first programming order was a running charge followed by a two-handed blow. The same move that had killed over half her opponents in the arena—missed.

Barely. Ksmvr leapt back, but wasn’t prepared for the algorithm that let Hammera reset her strike and try again. He still managed to propel himself away in time, but the crater the blow made clearly let the Antinium reconsider blocking, even with his magical shield. He switched it out and loosed an arrow with two arms.

The magical arrow burst into flames on the armor and Hammera swung her hammer around in a whirling motion, dispelling the flames. The audience was on their feet.

“Femithain!”

Nsiia snapped, but she knew better than to interrupt the man. She watched. This was the same Antinium from the raid, she could see it. The brave warrior who had fought with the [Prince] on the rooftop and gone into the heart of the city.

She did not know what strange road had led him here, but it was not to die at the hands of a Golem for fools! Nsiia’s eyes were slits, mimicking the cat in her lap. Yinah, was hissing, sensing the tension in the [Empress of Beasts].

All they could do was watch as Ksmvr fought for his life.

—-

[Piercing Strikes] had their limit. Ksmvr shot his crossbows again and saw the arrows sink into the Golem’s metal…for all the good they did. She was too thick.

He tried to jump on her back, and nearly died. The creators had programmed her to block everything coming at her and her hammer was deadly. Every impact shook the ground around him.

I feel manifestly as if Ceria’s Frostmarrow Behemoth or Pisces’ undead might fare b—

Ksmvr dove and the hammer switched directions. It hit his back, but he was already leaping so it just hurled him across the arena.

He hit a wall and the audience mocked him. Ksmvr would have liked to tune them out, but he couldn’t.

Perhaps he was the foe for this after all. Only Yvlon might have survived hand-to-hand and Ceria’s ice walls and Pisces’ undead were a poor match for Hammera.

Then again, I cannot hurt it. And it will eventually strike me. Ksmvr looked around. He’d been using the other Golems as cover, but Hammera was able to even account for them.

His Flamecoat Dagger could not burn her sufficiently. His shortsword was too short and arguably too weak. His Forceshield? Ksmvr suspected it could endure one hit before needing to recharge.

What he needed was an opening to reload his crossbows. Crossbow Stan’s crossbows, plus his bow, plus the other ones Ksmvr had bought meant eight shots. That might be enough to pierce the armor.

Especially since he had a new Skill. However, Ksmvr had to reload and he had no t—

The Antinium ducked and the hammer hit the wall where his head had been. He looked at the cracks in the stone, then the cheering Golem’s handlers behind the gates.

“I will die and this will be a crimin—”

Ksmvr gave up as Hammera came at him. They weren’t being logical. He ran, keeping ahead of Hammera as it chased him. At least she was too slow to…

Logical. Ksmvr had a sudden thought. He looked back at Hammera. At the glimmering mage-walls of the arena, forming a complete barrier hemming him in. He had no real footholds but the walls to keep jumping from.

Hammera was too fast. Too strong. However…she was still a Golem. An Antinium Worker was more creative than her. Ksmvr halted. He felt in his belt pouch. He was almost out of everything. A single healing potion, a quarter left, a few magical items—

If he’d had a single acid jar, he would have tossed that, but he’d used them on the Liches. Still—Ksmvr found the item he was looking for and sighed.

“Excellent.”

The [Spiderweb] Scroll in hand, he turned. Hammera charged. Ksmvr estimated the spell might actually slow it…for about two seconds, if she didn’t tear through it on momentum alone. The carved head of the female Golem was tracking him. It turned up as Ksmvr jumped.

Past the jeering faces who recoiled. Higher, higher, above the arena’s participants in the lowest row—but not too high. Ksmvr saw them recoil before they remembered the magical walls.

Well, good for them. He saw Hammera’s weapon rising. Ksmvr waited until he was just over the tip of its swinging arc—then he cast the spell.

“[Spiderweb]!”

The magical bindings of sticky silk emerged, wrapping around its target.

Him.

The webs lashed Ksmvr to the wall and magical barrier. He was stuck, like a literal bug in a web. The audience stared. Then laughed as Hammera charged him. The weapon rose—

And thudded into the wall right below Ksmvr. He saw it rise, strike—another place right below his foot.

The Antinium’s mandibles opened in a smirk. He was right!

Golems might be programmed with many attack routines, but none of the gladiator’s creators had anticipated an enemy might just hide. There was no ‘jump and swing’ routine in Hammera.

She began to smack the wall, furiously attacking the area right below Ksmvr. He happily pulled his crossbows out and the last two enchanted bolts he carried. Let’s see…

“Hammera! Stop! Return! Return!”

The handlers realized what Ksmvr was doing too late. They shouted and Hammera’s head swiveled. She began to march back to the gates as the audience shouted.

Too late.

Ironically, if the handlers hadn’t recalled her, her dodge-routines might have saved her. Instead, she presented her back to Ksmvr as she marched back. He took aim, maneuvering to half-crouch in his cocoon of webs, his improvised perch.

“Hello, my free levels. Goodbye. Blame your insufficient creation. [Weapon Art – Aggregate Volley]!”

Three crossbows fired. Even Ksmvr had no idea what would happen as the Skill activ—

—-

Femithain saw the Skill activate as he cried out. Hammera, glorious Hammera—didn’t deserve this. It was too late. He cursed their hubris as the Antinium’s weapons glowed.

Three crossbows, one per hand. All fired in a single sound. Two glowing bolts, one steel-tipped.

However, it seemed to Femithain that the image of Ksmvr firing was just…translucent. Superimposed with another, of him firing from a slightly different angle with three more crossbows. Then—him firing one more crossbow and aiming a bow.

Four Ksmvrs, each holding ranged weapons, loosed in unison.

[Aggregate Volley].

Eleven projectiles hit Hammera in almost the same spot in the back. [Piercing Strikes], combined with [Power Shot]. Femithain nearly covered his eyes as the single volley did what only one other force had ever done.

The impact tore open Hammera’s back. Something shattered within her and the Golem froze. She dropped her hammer and fell to her knees, arms still outstretched. Like a living being, she fell, and the wail was real. The mighty Golem fell, felled by the limitations of her being. Foolishness of her masters.

The audience was speechless. The Antinium sat in his loft, reloading the last of his bolts, daring them to send another Golem at the logical loophole in their routines.

“Those arrogant…Hammera is dead.”

Femithain couldn’t even finish the sentence. Nsiia, watching, breathed out. He looked at her and she shrugged.

A Golem was dead. She could be remade, better. She looked at the clever Antinium, smiling. Femithain glanced away from her.

It was done, then. He raised his head, to tell the Golem-horse to slow. He was at least relieved the Antinium lived. Femithain settled back until a horrible feeling struck him.

The audience had been weeping. Now—the voices were picking up again. But why? Short of a ranged Golem, and Ksmvr had defeated the last Champion, there was no w—

“No.”

Nsiia’s eyes opened wide. She turned her head in horror. Ksmvr, who had been relaxing in his web-hammock, looked up in confusion.

They said the name. They chanted it. The great legend of the Testing Grounds.

Femithain’s lips moved in horror as his creation walked forwards. Nsiia just looked on Illivere, petty Illivere. She looked at the Magus-Crafter, but he seemed helpless. She clenched her hands.

The current champion emerged as they called his name.

—-

“Domehead. Domehead! DOMEHEAD!”

Ksmvr heard the name. He didn’t understand. What was a Domeh…

The Golem strode forwards. Ksmvr saw a huge, rounded head of enchanted glass holding sparkling crystals inside. An armored body.

It had no face like Hammera. It was not fully separated from the Human form, but the unique ‘head’ was the difference.

Summoned by their chanting, unleashed by the wrathful [Golem Artificers], the Golem stopped. In the shadows of the entrance. The glowing lights in its ‘brain’ winked on and off.

It turned slightly, and seemed to regard Ksmvr.

Regard me? The Antinium…didn’t like the way the Golem paused. He had been calm this entire time, if tense. Now…a prickle of unease ran through his body.

“DOMEHEAD. KILL IT.”

The greatest Golem of Illivere’s Testings walked forwards. It had a huge battleaxe on one shoulder, a match for Hammera’s weapon. It swung it down as it strode forwards.

Ksmvr took aim with a crossbow. He shot a steel bolt—

The Golem blocked it with the flat of its weapon. Ksmvr stopped. Not even Hammera had been able to do that. Nor…

“Did they teach the Golem to do that?”

Ksmvr checked his perch. He was well out of Domehead’s reach and it didn’t look like it had ranged weapons. Take your time. Let your Skills recharge. One more volley would work. Did he have to wait ten minutes? Thirty? He—

Domehead slowed, and raised its battleaxe. It did not swing as it stood just below Ksmvr. He fired again—it jerked, and the crossbow bolt glanced off the shining dome.

Not a scratch. It backed up, axe raised and shielding its head. It seemed to realize the issue.

Ksmvr…really didn’t like that. He waited, counting his crossbow bolts. Enough for only one last volley. He had to save them. Arrows?

He was reaching for his shortbow when Domehead stooped. It picked up a broken piece of the Spitfire Golem. Then it straightened, looked at Ksmvr—and threw the piece of armor at him.

Ksmvr tried to dodge, but the webs tangled him. He felt an impact—and then was blown free. He hit the ground, sat up—and Domehead was on him.

“Silver and steel!”

Ksmvr got up and his Forceshield flashed to life. He blocked the strike and lanced out; he slashed at a knee and his sword barely cut into the armor. Domehead whirled his axe down and across. Ksmvr leapt; saw the axe reverse as he landed. It wasn’t a calculated program. He saw the Golem’s head sparkle as it saw the opening and took it.

“Imp—”

The blow threw him across the ground. Ksmvr looked down at his torn carapace. He fumbled for a healing potion. Domehead strode over to him and swung the axe down. Ksmvr rolled and got to his feet. Now—

Fighting for his life.

—-

A multitude of sensations assailed him. Input. Touch, taste, sound—but he couldn’t filter it. One hit him at a time.

Cheering. A roar of sound in his ears.

Pumping blood. Not in his ears, but his body. His hearts, reminding him he was alive.

Leaking. He was leaking blood.

The sound of air cutting. Thump. Vibration through the ground. Step, avoid—

Too late.

Crack. The sound of his outer shell splitting. Another impact, hurling him. Pain. Hurled across the ground by a far larger force.

What did they say to describe situations like this? Like a bug hitting…

A wall. Ksmvr slid down, leaving a smear of green. He looked up and ducked the axe that left a mark in the stone. Ksmvr slashed, leaving a trail of flame on the Golem’s body. It pivoted—kicked.

Clipped him. Ksmvr bounced, rolled to his feet. The [Skirmisher] looked up. His mandibles opened, trickling blood.

“Ah. This feels familiar.”

This thing fought him. It didn’t ignore him like the undead half-Elf had. But his blades…Ksmvr looked down.

His shortsword had begun to chip. Had the magic failed in the City of the Dead? Or…

His Forceshield flickered as Domehead brought the axe down in a two-handed blow. The audience groaned. Ksmvr staggered upright.

Look at it. A proper warrior. Not a Golem. Not just a Golem. There was something there. It fought with less experience than Ksmvr. But it had the reflexes, the body to triumph.

“Not yet.”

He whispered. Domehead whirled the axe down—then cut sideways in the actual blow. It was learning. Learning from him. It had failed to finish the [Skirmisher] in nine long minutes of fighting. Barely—Ksmvr had barely leapt away, but it had learned to catch him as he fell. He survived this time by tricking it; he hopped up and before it got him, kicked off Domehead itself.

A reprieve of seconds. The Golem would never let him do that again. It was a slow learner. It picked up one trick at most each time. Then—it was never tricked again.

“Enough. I surrender.”

Ksmvr raised his arms, appealing to the jeering crowd. He spun; tried to roll.

The fist hit him and this time he thought his inner organs were damaged. Ksmvr slid down the wall. He looked towards the gate. The [Golem Artificers] were watching him.

“Please stop.”

They pointed.

“Make him suffer, Domehead! Then stop!”

One of them called out, her arms augmented with Golem-prosthesis instead of flesh. Ksmvr looked at them, then the Golem. A light flashed in reply. Ksmvr looked up. The First Crafter of Elbe had overridden the Magus-Crafter and she had control of Domehead with the others in this place. She would not relent until Ksmvr had paid for destroying her beloved Hammera.

The Antinium’s head rose.

“Very well.”

Domehead charged, axe raised. A superior Golem. The beloved child of Illivere. Ksmvr had not wanted this.

You are a superlative foe. But you are still—young. And there is one more thing you lack.

His arms rose. The Antinium had dropped his shortsword, his Forceshield. The audience’s cheers caught in their throat. The [Golem Artificers] stared. Surely not—they cried out a warning.

Ksmvr’s crossbows aimed up. Domehead saw it and began to evade. However, it had been baited into the charge.

It learned one thing at a time. It never made the same mistake twice.

If it got the chance to learn.

“[Aggregate Volley].”

Ksmvr fired. He felt—saw himself loosing the other crossbows, the arrow. The last of his ammunition.

He hit Domehead square-on. The shriek in his ears was more than the rending metal. The audience watched as the Golem stumbled back and…the axe fell.

The Antinium had missed. Or rather, he had shot slightly off-target. The blow had eaten through Domehead’s right arm, exposing the inner logic of its body. The arm hung, armor torn, unable to hold the axe!

Domehead’s lights…went dark. It sagged, then stood there.

Magic circuits broken. Ksmvr had observed the flaw of Golems; if their command matrices broke. These gladiator types had them everywhere, so just one large wound did them in. Even if not, he had gotten the arm.

He sagged back, reaching for another arrow. Worst-case scenario: the audience and handlers came after him. He might have to fight his way out. If he did—he’d steal a healing potion. He was out. He—

—Saw the lights begin to flicker in the Golem’s crystal dome. Ksmvr stopped. He searched for another Horns-style epitaph and gave up.

“This is ridiculous. I object.”

The Golem was moving. Its ‘mind’ was damaged. But the secondary, backup command spells began activating. Domehead rose a second time, just like before. The audience was cheering, howling. They knew.

The Golem checked the axe lying on the ground. Its damaged arm it couldn’t move. Then—it raised its good arm. It made a fist.

“Fffffff—”

Ksmvr began swearing like Ceria. The Golem walked forwards. Now—it cut the air with the one fist. It moved like—

A living warrior. With all the agility and speed of the woman it had learned from. A better style for fighting an Antinium too.

Ksmvr slowly got up from where he was sitting. His shortsword and Forceshield rose. He raised the shield—

The magic shattered. The impact threw him against the wall. He blocked with the flat of his shortsword.

The fist hit him in the chest anyways. His blade shattered.

Ksmvr pushed off the wall, in a jumping lunge through the legs of the Golem. He landed. His blade!

“They gave me that after Albez. Because I helped.”

The Antinium was muttering. Domehead whirled. Began to stride over. Ksmvr pushed himself up.

“That. Was my sword.”

He looked at Domehead. Reached for his bag of holding.

Missing. His belt was gone. His cape had been torn away. Ksmvr was all but naked. Bleeding.

Am I dying? He wasn’t sure. Domehead paused, assessing him. The audience was cheering him.

They didn’t cheer Ksmvr. The Antinium knew he was outmatched in every way. His vision was hazy. It—flickered—

Then he was back in the Village of Death. In the cathedral, watching as the undead tore apart his team. Ksmvr heard his own voice.

“Stop. Stop. Why do you not touch me?”

Tolveilouka Ve’delina Mer appeared instead of Domehead for a moment. Holding Yvlon. Pulling at her arm.

“Because this hurts you.”

Ksmvr saw it. He saw himself, attacking, doing nothing. He looked up at Domehead. The Golem, with its superior body.

My body is so weak. He only had a Worker’s body. Not even the ones of the other Hives. This—was not fair. Rather than being afraid, though…Ksmvr felt it rising in his chest.

He was getting—angry. Furious.

The Antinium did not hear the worried [Golem Artificers] and handlers calling for Domehead to stop. That last attack had frightened them, brought them to their senses. They did not want to murder an actual Gold-rank.

Much less someone on television. They were trying to order Domehead, use the spells to call him back.

However, his inner command spells were broken. He was running on his secondary mind.

Domehead could still hear. However, all he heard was the audience’s orders.

“Kill it! KILL IT.”

Illivere’s citizens were screaming at Domehead. So the Golem obeyed. It raised its fist, waiting, checking the Antinium as it advanced, seeing where it would dodge to.

Ksmvr didn’t move. His three hands were opening and closing. Then the Antinium looked up. One of his antennae had been torn. It hung by a thread from his head. He reached up—pulled it away. Looked at it. Tossed it down.

Green blood ran from his wounds. The [Skirmisher] looked up at Domehead. The Golem hesitated.

There was something off about the Antinium. Something in Domehead, a burgeoning understanding told him…

Ksmvr lifted his fists. He leapt at Domehead, crashing into the Golem’s chest.

Domehead barely moved. However, the lights in its head flashed furiously. If it was anything, in that split second, it was confused. This was not a sensible move. So why…?

It reacted instantly. The Golem swung a fist and Ksmvr dodged, kicking a knee. Then he jumped—a foot kicked Domehead’s ‘face’, hitting the crystal dome so hard Domehead sensed Ksmvr’s shell breaking. The Antinium grabbed hold of Domehead with one hand and punched.

His fist met the dome and his body cracked. His carapace was weaker than the enchanted glass.

Yet Domehead felt the impact. No danger. Even so, it was aware of the weakness. Domehead swung its body around. An uppercut caught Ksmvr—he lost his grip, went flying.

He landed and stood up, within seconds of falling. Domehead charged, but again—the Antinium jumped at him, rather than retreat. A bloody fist hammered Domehead’s face in the exact same spot. It left green in the impact.

Domehead hammered the Antinium down. However, it didn’t manage to stomp Ksmvr to paste. The Antinium whirled, leapt up. Struck at Domehead’s face again.

Futile? Domehead was aware of what the Antinium was trying to do. But the odds of success were remote. It was confused by the [Skirmisher] not seeking another weapon. Not retreating. It was being damaged by the exchanges.

Yet it kept fighting. Something odd flickered in Domehead’s understanding of the battle. Everything told the Golem that it was winning. Except for how the Antinium was behaving.

It was winning. How was it said again? Like a bug fighting a wall. That was the difference in their sizes and strengths. Domehead knocked Ksmvr down. Each blow sent the Antinium staggering, [Barkskin] the only thing keeping his body together.

The [Skirmisher] kept coming. He broke his fists on the same spot. He jumped, trailing blood. The enchanted crystal never so much as moved.

The Golem…was winning. With every move. Learning from the exchange of blows how to fight such a nimble enemy. Domehead could calculate victory.

If it were another Golem without the new understanding, it might have done better. For Domehead began to think. It began to know.

It began to wonder if Ksmvr could be killed. The Antinium kept getting back up. Domehead was almost certain that one full-force blow would end it. But Domehead could think.

Uncertainty formed in the Golem’s mind. Even…it looked at the Antinium. It was making sound. Screaming at him. What was this sensation? Domehead began to try to swing faster, more aggressively.

Then Ksmvr’s bloody fist cracked the Golem’s head.

—-

The Magus-Crafter arrived too late. Too slow, panting, the guards fighting through the press of citizens. He heard the screaming, the shouts. From the top of the arena, he looked down, far too far to reach them in time.

The Antinium had cracked Domehead. The crystal dome developed a stress-fracture from the insane Antinium’s blows. The barehanded strikes—

Both Antinium and Golem reeled back as Ksmvr landed on the ground. He wanted to jump again, but he stumbled. Then—sat down.

He was losing consciousness. For a moment, Ksmvr just saw white, as if the sands of the Testing area had engulfed the world. His mind went clear, and he heard a voice.

[Conditions Met: H—]

Ksmvr’s head jerked up. He ducked a fist ready to end everything. Looked up.

Domehead stumbled backwards, the spider web crack on its crystalline dome. It was damaged! The Antinium had done this. It was…in danger. Of being destroyed.

Of…dying? Domehead processed that. The Golem realized something, as it saw the Antinium lift its fists.

No. It did not want that. Domehead wanted. Domehead was afraid. In desperation, it shielded its face as Ksmvr leapt again, screaming like a thing from the depths of Rhir’s nightmares. Its arm rose.

It didn’t want to die.

The blow knocked Ksmvr back onto the sands. He lay on his back shell, feeling something break that was also him. The voice was trying to speak.

[Her—]

Ksmvr raised his arms. Tried to move. He rolled to his feet, hopped sideways. He was losing his strength. The second punch clipped him and he stumbled. Everything flashed.

[H—]

A little voice in Ksmvr’s head wondered what new level he was getting. If I lie down, I can hear what it says. He wanted to. But—he twisted as a fist lashed the air. Domehead was lashing out, flailing, no longer mimicking a trained warrior, just swinging like a terrified child.

If he lay down, if one fist struck him, he would never know what it said. End this. Ksmvr leaned out of the way of a punch.

Domehead saw the Antinium coming, moving forwards, ducking its wild swings, looking for the moment to jump and break its head.

Kill it. The Golem’s attack routines were too erratic. It couldn’t hit Ksmvr, not with one arm, no matter how it swung. The Golem saw the [Skirmisher] tense and realized it had opened itself up with a wide, unbalancing swing.

Weapon broken! Arm insufficient! Do not want to die! The Golem processed each fact, struggling. Searching for—for—an answer.

It found one. Ksmvr saw the Golem’s body twist. The arm, swinging wide—he was only focused on it. Ksmvr saw a foot rise and had a flash of thought.

It did not know how to kick, though—

The kick was a copy of Ksmvr’s. A fast blow. Not a punch.

Ksmvr staggered and heard a crunch. Something hit him in the leg. He began to jump to end this.

He—could not. Ksmvr tried again, but now he was swaying. Falling over. Why?

The Antinium looked down. His right leg was bent inwards. The Golem had kicked him.

“No.”

Ksmvr fell down. He fought to rise, scrabbling at the ground with his three hands, to push himself up. Balance on one leg.

He saw a foot in front of him and looked up. The armored body, the Golem made of metal…Domehead, stood over him, intact arm raised.

The Antinium went still. His flickering mind became clear again. He realized he was out of time. He looked up and saw Domehead. It had fought like a person. Did it…have a mind?

They had fought, two warriors created by the greatest minds of their people. Two machines, designed to improve. Learning to improve themselves.

The younger one looked down on the older. The Antinium stared up, mandibles moving without making actual sound. Ksmvr felt—a bit bitter.

If he’d had one more weapon. Two more levels…

More time. A second to sleep. Ksmvr looked up and stared into the flashing crystals of the Golem’s face. He murmured, from one learning machine to another. Was this what Ksmvr had been like, before he met the Horns?

“Well done.”

The shadow fell over his head. Ksmvr waited, staring up at those beautiful lights.

—-

The audience of Illivere saw the end of the duel and screamed their triumph. Only a few realized the implications of what was happening. Now, [Golem Artificers] were trying to enter the Testing Grounds themselves, to deactivate Domehead before it was too late.

Too late. They should have stopped it before it even began. A voice filled with anger and frustration screamed from halfway down the stadium’s seating. He cried out to his creation, but his voice was lost amid the thunder of voices.

“Stop!”

Magus-Crafter Femithain bellowed at Domehead. He was too far away, though, and even as he fought to shove oblivious citizens aside, they knocked him backwards, not caring who he was, only intent on watching. Femithain lifted his wand—and lowered it, realizing he’d been about to attack his own citizens! He ground his teeth, furious, but unable to fight forwards. He was no [Warrior].

She was.

A figure burst through a throng of people pressed together, on their feet, pushing to see. A [Warrior]—a woman—an [Empress] leapt, knocking citizens of Illivere aside with wild strength.

Nsiia of Tiqr. Like a beast herself, she leapt, from all fours to two legs, knocking people aside, using the arena’s seats and even the crowd to launch herself closer. Femithain saw her approaching the glittering magical boundary of the Testing Grounds. She wouldn’t make it through, though. Not without—

The Magus-Crafter touched a bracelet hanging from his wrist, and one of the runes attached to it flashed. The [Empress of Beasts] saw the magic fade and leapt.

Nsiia landed in the arena as the Antinium fell. Domehead was striding forwards, raising its arm.

“Domehead! Enough!”

The [Empress of Beasts] shouted, raising her hand. She began to run forwards, and the Golem whirled.

Domehead’s arm raised to attack the second combatant—then it recognized Nsiia. It hesitated, recalling other commands made by its creator.

Nsiia. Protect. Observe. Learn.

She had taught it how to use its hands. Domehead did not attack her. It turned back to Ksmvr. The shouting from the crowd hadn’t died down, and it echoed Domehead’s simple thoughts.

“Kill it.”

It did not see the Antinium looking up at it, unable to dodge. All Domehead saw was danger. Death. Destruction!

“Domehead, stand down! The Antinium can no longer fight! He is an adventurer! Enough!”

Nsiia shouted. She saw something on the ground and snatched it up as she ran, skidding in front of Ksmvr and Domehead. The Golem ignored her, raising its arm for a blow until it saw the [Empress] standing there.

Femithain’s breath caught suddenly. He saw Nsiia raising her arms, blocking the Golem as it raised its arm. She was holding something. Snatched from where it had fallen.

Domehead’s axe. The [Empress] lifted it with an [Elephant’s Strength]. Putting herself between the wounded Antinium and the Golem. The cheering, the blood-crazed demands for death, hesitated as the people saw the Empress of Beasts holding the axe.

She was facing down the damaged Golem. It was hesitating, between the threat and her. It tried to strike past Nsiia and she raised the axe, pivoting to shield the prone Antinium. The woman looked up as Domehead’s arm stopped—then rose once more.

Protect Nsiia. Kill the Antinium.

Two thoughts warred in Domehead’s mind. It did not understand what she was doing. It was afraid. Domehead registered a threat. The Empress was holding an axe. Its axe. But she would not attack. She was designated as—

“Do not do this, Domehead. I will do what I must.”

Threat? The Golem looked down at her. It saw the Antinium stir. Domehead lifted its arm. The Antinium had to die or it would.

“Nsiia! Stop!”

Femithain was fighting down towards her. The First Crafter of Elbe, the other citizens realized what she was planning on doing. They began to shriek at Nsiia too.

“Stop! Do not hurt Domehead! Stop!”

The Empress of Tiqr’s head slowly rotated, taking in the arena, the distant Magus-Crafter—the [Golem Artificers] rushing into the arena. She looked up at the terrified Golem. The First Crafter of Elbe.

All of this, and all their eyes on the precious Golem. None for…she looked down at the Antinium. Was he smiling?

“Well done.”

Ksmvr murmured again. In front of her, Domehead raised its arm. Nsiia looked up. Her arm rose as the Golem’s fell.

The Testing Grounds were filled with a shriek. Shouting. Gasps. A single memory burned into Femithain’s eyes as Nsiia saw Domehead charging, swinging its arm down.

The axe rose. He was throwing himself forwards, disbelieving even as he saw. She couldn’t be intending…? The sheer madness of it—not Domehead! Not the first—

The same woman who would crush a Golem for a cat stood in front of the valiant, wounded warrior. She cared not for his species, and took careful aim as her weapon rose.

Domehead brought its arm down. Nsiia swung the axe first. She never looked away from the Golem. Domehead did not understand. It beheld her sadly smiling fac—

The axe smashed the crystal dome. Ksmvr saw it break the delicate crystals. Shatter Domehead’s…

A spray of crystal and metal landed around the Testing Arena. Some shards cut open the Golem handlers, wounding one badly enough to send her to the ground. The rest just stood, paralyzed, slowing to a halt. Falling to their knees.

Femithain fell down. He lost strength; slid down the steps. As if his strings had been cut. He saw Domehead lying there. The audience stood, unable to believe what they had seen.

Domehead stood there, swaying, as the magical lights shone. Then—it fell forwards. The first Sentient-class Golem collapsed without a sound, armor broken. Head shattered.

In the new silence, Nsiia bowed her head for a moment, standing over the fallen creation. Then, the [Empress of Beasts] turned to the living. She tossed the axe aside and bent.

The sands had turned green with blood. She uncorked a healing potion, reached out, fingers hesitating to touch the alien ‘skin’—the smooth carapace. She looked into the lidless, multi-faceted eyes, astonished by his appearance up close. Then she spoke, as she offered him the potion.

“Brave warrior. Adventurer. Are you alright?”

A trembling hand took the potion. Then—the [Skirmisher] felt his body healing. Death receding. His head rose, and there she was.

The [Empress of Beasts] knelt amid the horrified wail and shrieks of fury, ignoring them. Her arm was outstretched; her hand towards his face. Offering to pull him up.

The first such face he had seen since arriving. A rare sight wherever he went.

Ksmvr looked up into the smiling face. The outstretched hand. He raised his weakly, and took it.

—-

The Magus-Crafter descended, in the silence, as the First Crafter of Elbe sank to her knees, looking at the fallen Golems. Hammera and Domehead. Both…

Dead? The First Crafter’s tears ran down her face. Femithain could not look at her; could not spare a thought or else his anger would consume his normally-rational mind. Her fault. Her fault—

But also hers. She stood, supporting the barely-conscious Antinium, looping two of his arms around her shoulders, slightly stooped so she could support him. Nsiia stood in front of Domehead.

“Call for a [Healer]! A good one—one that can tend to other species! Send word to the Adventurer’s guild! To the…”

She was trying to order one of the Golem handlers in the Testing grounds, but everyone was just gathered around Domehead. Nsiia hissed, turned her head—

Met Femithain’s gaze. The Magus-Crafter slowed. He saw Ksmvr, but he could not help but look at Domehead. Broken. Armor deformed! The killing blow dealt with its own weapon. The crystals were shattered across the entire arena.

His killer stood there. Femithain’s horror-struck gaze slowly moved upwards and met hers. The [Empress of Beasts] and the Magus-Crafter of Illivere’s looked at each other. For the first time—they beheld the gulf between them.

—-

“—stop standing around. Summon—summon every [Golem Artificer] and [Craftsman] over Level 30 at once! Keep the others back!”

“This warrior needs treatment, Femithain.”

Two voices were speaking. Ksmvr was not unconscious. Nor could he really see. He was alive. He heard them arguing.

One was female. Shorter by a bit than the tall, distraught one with the precise voice. Hedault-like? Oh—the glasses. Ksmvr’s impression was of two blurry figures, standing in the arena as he lay, propped up against something.

A furry thing was nudging his face. Something licked his cheek, decided his blood was not edible, and began gagging. Ksmvr was distracted by this, but listening. Trying to make sense of it.

“Stand back! All of you! I will not allow—[Bubble of Displacement]! Stand back! Domehead may yet live! His heart is still there!”

A babble of voices as the man spoke, casting a spell. They were gathered around the ruined form. The woman’s voice was irate.

“Of course it can. Did you think I destroyed it entirely. Femithain! A Gold-rank adventurer lies wounded and all you can think about is the tool that injured him? Who will be held to account for this?”

“Held to account? You—you should be hung! You monster!”

A woman flung herself at Ksmvr’s savior. Some others dragged her back. The [Empress] stood alone, facing a wrathful crowd and their leader. The man spoke to one, urgently.

“No one else is to be allowed into the Testing Grounds. Move the crowd back. Set up barriers, magical and physical. Sand, wind—nothing must damage his heart! We will perform the reconstruction here, import the entire team if need be—Nsiia. Stand back. You…a trial must be held for this. Someone—you—summon Armsmaster Dellic. Have an escort formed.”

“To arrest her? Magus-Crafter, did you not see what she’s done?”

“I see, First Crafter. Empress Nsiia is a guest of the nation, a prisoner of war. She will be placed into custody with an escort—for her safety. The adventurer, Ksmvr, I believe, too.”

The arguing crowd was interrupted by the angry woman.

“Femithain! Have you gone mad?”

He turned to her. She was gesturing to Ksmvr. The Magus-Crafter’s voice was cold.

“Have you? You destroyed Domehead, Nsiia. What…what possessed you? The Golem was modeled after you.”

“I did not destroy its heart, as you said. Look around you, Femithain. This madness! Will you not arrest the First Crafter and these fools for nearly slaughtering an innocent adventurer?”

“Innocent? He killed the Golems here! Hammera—”

Nsiia spun, and someone fell silent. Femithain hesitated.

“There will be a trial. Judgment for all parties responsible. This is a disgrace.”

All those around him—the blurry, fading shapes—looked worried. Ksmvr tried to smile. However, the [Empress]’ fury wasn’t diminished at all. They stepped closer, voices growing quieter as the crowd was forced back—but more intense.

“Nsiia. I believe it would be best if you removed yourself. With the adventurer. I…cannot…contain my emotions towards you at this moment.”

Her voice was wrathful.

“Your emotions. Look around you, Femithain. Look at what these fools did!”

“I am aware of their incredible display of—punishment will be administered.”

She shook her head; he did not understand.

“That is not the problem. This would not have happened. These idiots would not have defied you, ignored your direct orders, not if you ruled them. Look at how they kneel before the Golems when there are dead people, criminal or not—lying on the sands.”

She pointed furiously at Ksmvr. Femithain turned; Ksmvr tried to wave at him and ask if his vision should be turning on and off every second. A furry thing was also on his chest. Nsiia hissed.

“They are children! Little bullies whose pride could not bear one true insult from this warrior’s lips! Surprised when a victim fought back!”

Her contempt knew no bounds. Ksmvr felt, hazily, that there were good points here, and he would like to listen and participate—but could he have another healing potion, please? And maybe a [Healer]?

Femithain’s head lowered, but not out of shame. He regarded Nsiia. His voice was…more dispassionate. Not without passion, but with it carefully controlled. Disappointment was what Ksmvr heard in his tones.

“Illivere cares for Golems as much as people. Perhaps too much, Empress Nsiia. But if we are at fault—and we are—what of you?”

“You would reproach me for saving a life over a thing, even if it were precious?”

She scoffed. Femithain’s voice grew colder. Harsher.

“You could have stopped Domehead any number of ways. Do not obfuscate, please, Nsiia. You are a skilled [Warrior]. You could have damaged his legs, his arm—even protected the Antinium. You struck the dome on purpose. Was it to make your point? Or punish us?”

Her silence was long. At last, the woman looked away.

“It seems Illivere believes things are worth more than lives, in the end.”

She turned towards Ksmvr, and Femithain grabbed her. The two looked at each other. The Magus-Crafter spoke, his voice deceptively soft.

“Is there nothing in this world we can shatter that will hurt you, Empress Nsiia? You act as if only what breathes has value. What about the Spear of Tiqr? What about its crown, the palace, the nation itself? You are unkind. I thought better of you before this moment.”

“And I of you.”

Then she pulled away and bent towards Ksmvr. He let the world dwindle, then. Alive. He was…alive. That was all.

The other machine-man, man-of-machines lay broken. The one who lived was grateful. He realized he had been afraid of death.

They both had been.

—-

That was how Ksmvr came to the Illivere Federation. Of course, he did not learn this for a while. By the time he woke up, he found his wounds had been tended to. He was lying in bed.

In a kind of…well, captivity. But also as a dubious ‘guest’, in the Magus-Crafter’s residence. Also under guard—actual guard—was the [Empress of Beasts].

Femithain sat in his study, head in his hands. Outside, the first demonstrations against the political prisoner, demands for her execution, were still taking place, blocked by the line of living guards and Golems.

Domehead was undergoing repairs in the arena. Less easy to mend were other things. Trust. Friendship…harsh words had been said. He thought of her words, but was aware he was in no fit state of mind to reasonably discuss or even entertain the concepts they’d thrown at each other.

He just didn’t understand. Didn’t understand Nsiia. Did she think nothing died when the lights went out? That even if his body was mended, Domehead wasn’t…wasn’t…?

Femithain thought he had seen something glorious in the glowing lights of the Golem’s ‘head’ a moment before the end. Something that had been lost. Which he feared, even if many more of his kind were made, would never come back.

In the privacy of his study, the Magus-Crafter removed his spectacles and wiped at his eyes. Then fumbled for a handkerchief, because the tears kept flowing forth. He had never really desired a son, nor thought of Domehead as one. He was not Femithain’s alone.

Yet the Magus-Crafter was convinced he had just seen a child die.

—-

Ksmvr, the Gold-rank adventurer, murderer of Hammera and many innocent Golems, survivor of the raid on the Village of the Dead and member of the Horns of Hammerad lay in the bed, unable to move.

He was the first Antinium to ever set foot in Chandrar. He knew there would be consequences. He did not know where his team was.

Ksmvr was alive. He would take that. The Antinium stared at the ceiling.

“I am alive.”

He lay his head back and listened to the voice inform him of his levels.

[Conditions Not Met: Skirmisher → ??? Class Denied.]

[Conditions Met: Skirmisher → Brave Skirmisher Class!]

[Brave Skirmisher Level 30!]

[Skill – Knuckles of Iron obtained!]

[Skill – Surpass Limits obtained!]

The Antinium was confused. He had never heard that kind of phrasing before. Ksmvr wondered why it had happened. Then it became obvious when he thought of Yvlon, his team, his wounded condition.

“Ah. I am a disgrace.”

He had let them down again. Ksmvr nodded and lay there, wishing he could close his eyes. After a while, a cat crawled curiously onto his chest, her Golem-legs clicking against his carapace. She paused. Then curled up as the hand came up to pet. Then all three.

That was something, at least.

—-

Ironically, the fates of Ksmvr and Yvlon Byres became known before that of Ceria and Pisces—although neither was able to be scried. In fact, the only scryable member of the Horns of Hammerad was Ceria. Wherever she was.

However, within days, friends of the Horns would know that Ksmvr and Yvlon lived—just not how to immediately affect their return for reasons owing to more than mere geography. Ksmvr’s issue was due to his species, the politics of what had happened, and the issue of justice, exacerbated by his savior, the Empress of Beasts.

Yvlon’s issue was just as complex, but the root of it lay with truth and lies.

—-

Truth and lies. Such things mattered greatly in any nation. In the greatest of nations, an empire of lesser kingdoms, with more royalty in one nation than other kingdoms had in their aristocracy? Truth mattered more in Nerrhavia’s Fallen, the greatest of the Stitchfolk nations.

In this case, truth was bureaucracy. A [Watchman], [Guardswoman], [Judge], [Bounty Hunter], or any number of the law-abiding classes in Nerrhavia’s Fallen relied on truth as a foundation of their work.

Let lesser nations ‘establish’ the truth. If you had the wealth—and Nerrhavia did—why not cast truth spells every time? Justice became faster, and the vast superpower of Chandrar endured.

So when the [Magistrate] Ducaz of the Ishiz-silk region of Nerrhavia’s Fallen announced that he had found one of the Horns of Hammerad, there was much rejoicing and interest, for one of the lesser [Princes] of the nation had himself been involved in the Village of the Dead’s raid, and his good word combined with her natural fame and wealth would see her well-equipped to wherever she wanted to go.

Indeed, she might even earn a rare invitation to come to Nerrhavia Fallen’s courts in one of the capitals—with the understanding it wasn’t as much an invitation—perhaps to even meet Queen Yisame herself, or certainly the many people who wanted to see a minor celebrity in person or ask her for details of the inner city within the Village of the Dead, or make offers on the wealth now claimable by her team. Regardless, Yvlon was set in the best position to find her team.

…Or she would have been. If truth had prevailed throughout the systems of government, that was exactly what would have happened, the truth being the pillar upon which all else stood.

It only took one lie. That one lie was from the [Magistrate] Ducaz to his immediate superior, a [Regional Administrator] whose reputation was less-than-stellar, although nothing to merit investigation. They were friends, which was discouraged for obvious reasons between officials, but the conversation was nevertheless quite formal.

“I regret to tell you a—an adventurer, a Human woman—appeared in my city, quite disoriented. When my guards tried to take her into protective custody and ask how she came to be here, she became violent! I regret to inform you, Administrator Vebrynthe, that no less than eighteen of my guards are—”

“Dead?”

The [Regional Administrator] was aghast. Ducaz’s face was pale and sweaty. The Stitch-man of the Satin-caste amended his words.

“Not dead, Administrator! Wounded! Eighteen wounded…four dead. A terrible thing. Civilians hurt too! Bodies everywhere. If we were not String Folk and thus superior against the perils of cuts and even limb displacement, it would have surely been a massacre unlike any other in the memory of my provinces! I can only thank luck, the bravery of my guards—whom I led to subdue this violent Human—that we managed to subdue her with fewer casualties. She was…quite peculiar, having an ah, unique coloration to her arms and powerful Skills.”

Administrator Vebrynthe listened carefully. He was not a stupid man, and was in fact, formerly of the Cloth-caste, but had been elevated due to his ability to manage a region. As well as his ability to create beneficial friendships.

He listened to what Ducaz said. He read the man’s face, his pale, nervous expression, the look of guilt, and what Ducaz was not saying.

Claims about his personal heroism aside, Vebrynthe was highly suspect about ‘unique coloration’ of a Human woman’s arms. He was quite capable of investigating, asking questions, or doing any number of things.

What he did do was produce a powerful truth crystal and raise it.

“Well, I trust you will improve security, valiance of your militia or not, Magistrate. As for punishment…this woman will be faced with Nerrhavia Fallen’s wrath. If what you say is true, of course? Just a formality.”

He smiled at Ducaz’s expression, but the [Magistrate] went through the lengthy confirmation that nothing but the truth had been said. Vebrynthe added his seal to the confirmation—then promptly passed the entire business to a lesser [Scribe], [Clerk], or so on to deal with.

The administrator could have investigated the Human woman who’d caused all this mess. Looked into the issue. And, at the very least, he could have done a double-test of Ducaz’s claims, which would probably have foiled the [Corrupt Magistrate]’s [One Good Lie] Skill.

He did not. Vebrynthe was quite happy to have Ducaz in his debt. And it only took one lie. For, when Vebrynthe’s [Scribe] submitted it along with a series of reports to a [Judiciary] for the entire area, who was in another branch of government not superior, but not inferior to the [Regional Administrator] and who could have stopped injustice or at least, reported it—there was no need.

All the [Judiciary] saw was the truth, taken down by Vebrynthe’s people and certified. Vebrynthe had written Ducaz’s statement down, received a correct truth spell.

So when the [Judiciary] made a ruling and submitted it to the capitol for a quick review, then down to Bounty Hunter’s Guilds, law enforcement, and of course, all the relevant places for the punishment to take place—everyone saw the [Judiciary] had been truth-certified as having made an unbiased ruling to the best of his ability, which he had.

The [Guards] executed the order, as did the [Scribes] in the Bounty Hunter’s Guild who registered the criminal’s record—in case they escaped or it came up later—and the entire system worked perfectly on the assumption that truth had held all the way through. It had to. Or else everything that happened next was based on faulty ground.

That was how Yvlon awoke to find her trouble with Ducaz and ill-timed rampage with her new Skill had landed her in even more trouble.

—-

The first thing she remembered was not killing anyone. Yvlon remembered that distinctly. She had sliced and cut—but only on idiots with stitch-marks. Even in her haze of fury at that man, she’d had that amount of morality.

The second was realizing she was never going to fight out of the city, seeing hundreds of [Guards] running at her—and blockading herself in the very same place Ducaz had been interrogating her in. Yvlon had looked at the artifacts on the table, at the door—

…And surrendered. There was no point using one of the damned scrolls taken from the Putrid One’s lair. If she could even activate it, and she’d doubted she could, Yvlon would have no idea what it did, or probably done it incorrectly.

Stuff like that was how the [Historians] came to write, ‘the giant crater eighteen miles wide’ in the history books. Yvlon had done her best, though. She’d surrendered after five minutes, just as they were preparing to rush her.

Well. Ducaz hadn’t dared get close, but he’d ordered his people to strip Yvlon naked and search the place. Which they had, right before [Sleep]-spelling her into the next world. She had just enough time for them to find the artifacts she’d hidden in the floorboards, the bag of holding she’d tried to toss out of the window just to spite them, and everything else.

Not much else to search after you were naked; at least some of the [Guards] had been female; the ones checking her hair. They’d taken everything, except her highly-magical arms, and used a [Detect Magic] spell to find the rest.

So in short, as Yvlon woke up, the first flashes that hit her were the recollections of her rampage, the events in the Village of Death, the knowledge she had no idea where her teammates were, and that Ducaz had all her gear. As wakeups went…it wasn’t a great one. Topped perhaps only by the day after the Liscor dungeon raid.

At least then she’d woken up in an actual bed. Yvlon realized she was waking up in this ‘worst morning ever’, her good arm cuffed to her left leg by what felt like three manacles, and another with her legs together. She was hunched over—wearing some kind of clothes, thank silver—bruised, in motion—oh, and someone had put an actual hemp bag over her head.

It was hard to breathe. Yvlon cursed and struggled and a bump—like the one that had woken her—made her slump over. She realized she was in a vehicle, being transported. Someone else grunted; shoved her.

Another hand awkwardly dragged the bag off Yvlon’s head with some of her hair. She was then blinded, hit in the face by some dust caught on the wind, and after cursing, blinking, trying to rub her face to no avail, able to see.

She was in a damned wagon. Being transported with a group of other people—all in chains, if not as clearly magical as hers were—along a road, perhaps a trade road. A grimy Stitchfolk woman sitting across from her let the hemp bag fall to the wagon’s floor, with the others from the nine or so passengers. She stared at Yvlon. Yvlon stared back, realizing she was one of two Humans in the entire lot.

The Stitchfolk woman eyed Yvlon, perhaps a bit surprised to see her, or expecting someone else more war-torn than the daughter of House Byres. The others were silent, appraising, and Yvlon was just looking towards the front of the wagon-train and the drivers when her fellow passenger decided to speak.

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that ambush, same as us. And that [Thief] over there.”

Yvlon stared at the woman. She tried to get her arm to her ear, but gave up.

“What? No. What are you talking about?”

The Stitch-woman blinked.

“Oh. My mistake. I thought you were someone else.”

Her gaze locked onto Yvlon again, this time searching for clues. She noted Yvlon’s golden hair, smudged, but distinctly lighter skin, her metallic arms…and clearly had no hints.

“You. You’re…part-Dullahan? A [Sailor] from one of the ports?”

The other prisoners glanced at Yvlon. They had seen her odd shackles; her missing arm. But it seemed they had conflated her with someone else. Yvlon stared around.

What she saw were grimy, disheveled faces. Sun-darkened skin, or…cloth. Over three quarters of the prisoners on the slow-rolling wagons moving down the road were String People.

They were all clearly prisoners. Yvlon saw a shivering woman; the aforementioned [Thief]. She tried to speak again, and coughed.

“I—eck—where am I?”

The others chuckled. The woman across from her—this entire wagon was female, Yvlon realized—grinned, mirthlessly.

“Got hit too hard? We’re all prisoners, or did you forget even that?”

Half a dozen others grinned; they all wore the same kind of ragged, full-body clothes, meant to cover themselves completely. The [Thief] looked more like a city-woman, for all she was a Stitchperson too. She spat.

“Damn you [Storm Bandits]. Nerrhavia was fine until you came along. The Watch was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Savere by now. ”

She glanced at Yvlon.

“You and me, we shouldn’t be here. It’s the [Storm Bandits] that they w—”

Someone kicked her with both legs, swinging their chained manacles up.

“Shut up, you fool. We’re all criminals here. You’re in the company of Merr’s Stormbandits, so I’d watch your tongue, [Thief]. We remember faces. You had better hope we don’t get put in the same cell.”

All of the [Bandits] grinned nastily and the [Thief] gulped. She fell silent as an angry voice called back.

“By Nerrhavia’s sands, shut up back there!”

Yvlon shook her head. She still felt disoriented. She glanced at a gagged prisoner sitting at the back.

“And who’s that?”

This time the first [Storm Bandit] smiled mirthlessly.

“Watch your tongue, Human or whoever you are. That’s our glorious leader, Merr the Storm. [Bandit Lady] and the reason an entire army was lying in wait for us.”

Yvlon saw an older woman glance at her; she was gagged and bound almost as extensively as the Gold-rank adventurer. She supposed that meant something. A [Bandit Lady]? Izril didn’t usually have enough [Bandits] for a [Bandit Raid Leader]…

“So who are you, then? That poor idiot must be the other Human over there.”

The [Bandit] eyed Yvlon; there were six wagons all rolling down a long trade road, occasionally passing by other vehicles. The landscape was dusty. Flat. Yet the dust coming off the dried road and carried up into the hot air almost looked like snow…

Yvlon blinked and cursed. Nope. The wind began to pick up and someone called out in a grieved voice.

“Wind’s picking up! Lower your heads!”

The [Guards] and prisoners both ducked low. Yvlon realized the bags had been for their protection as the wind blew a sandstorm over the road. Everyone’s head was ducked and sand whipped exposed skin until they were clear. One of the [Guards] turned and glowered, a hand on a long, curved sword that looked familiar to Yvlon. Not Izrilian. It looked like…Zenol’s sword…

Ah, yes. Chandrar.

“Six sandstorms so far. If this is her doing, we’ll cut off her head instead of carting her all the way, understand?”

The [Bandits] glowered sullenly back. Yvlon eyed Merr again, as the talkative [Storm Bandit] spat. The [Guard] faced forwards, making a noise of disgust.

Another wagon drew level, passing them, perhaps as the driver decided to get away from the probable cause of the frequent sandstorms. Yvlon saw an all-male group of prisoners. One jerked awake and a [Storm Bandit] grinned at the only other Human.

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake…”

They passed by. Yvlon frowned as she coughed out more sand. She looked at the [Storm Bandits], most of whom looked too tired to bother to talk.

“I’m not a criminal.”

“Well then, you’re unlucky.”

The [Bandit] grinned at her. Yvlon grunted, frowning as she tried to exert some strength. But her arm wasn’t obeying her requests to shift, and the triple-magic vice was far too tough to break.

Something was…wrong. She tried to use a Skill, like [Berserker’s Rage], but nothing happened. The amused [Bandit] laughed.

“Skills and magic don’t work, Human. Not sure why they locked you up more than our leader; someone must really not like you. Where did you cause trouble?”

“No clue. I’m innocent, I said. Where…where’s Magistrate…Ducaz? My gear?”

That was all her reference. The [Bandits] looked at each other. One shrugged.

“Never heard of him. You must have been shuttled with us. So—[Sailor]? Insulted someone you shouldn’t have?”

More grins. Yvlon looked around and saw…well, [Bandits]. String People, yes, their bodies made of cloth, sewn together, a bit hodgepodge. She was used to Revi, who had a good, quality cotton body, such that she looked like any woman until you noticed her stitching.

These [Storm Bandits] were different. They clearly assembled their bodies out of whatever they could get. So some of their ‘skin’ was rough, even more close to hide than skin. Hemp fabric. Other parts were beautiful, supple limbs…connected to a rougher torso, less well-proportioned.

The entire effect was like looking at patchwork people, which is what they were. Only Merr, their leader, looked good. Stunning, in fact; she must have had access to the best limbs.

“…I said, what did you do? Answer!”

A foot kicked Yvlon. The [Bandits] were interrogating her and the [Thief]. Yvlon glowered at the [Bandit].

“I was abducted by a [Magistrate] who tried to force me to give him my possessions. Then I…resisted.”

She hesitated. The [Bandit] raised her brows.

“Resisted?”

There were snorts from the other riders, including Merr. Yvlon glowered around.

“I didn’t kill anyone. I think. I’m not a [Bandit]. I’m an adventurer.”

She glowered at Merr, who was giving her a sardonic look. Another [Bandit] roughly jammed her shoulder into Yvlon’s arm—then winced as she hit the metal without much effect.

“Eyes down. You’re speaking to—”

“A [Bandit]. I’m an adventurer. Now, someone tell me where we are.”

The [Bandits] weren’t impressed. If anything, Yvlon’s occupation just made them more hostile. One sneered.

“An adventurer. We eat your kind for breakfast. What are you, Silver-rank? Bronze?”

Merr laughed behind her gag and raised her shackles. She couldn’t speak, but her hand made a few gestures Yvlon’s way to say what she thought about Yvlon’s job.

The bound [Armsmistress] tried to move, but her hand was shackled to her ankles, which meant she could only move by some kind of horrible hopping if it came to that. She glared around, losing what little patience she’d gained by being knocked out.

“I’m Gold-rank. Yvlon Byres. And if I had my arm free, we’d see who ate whom.”

As threats went, it was probably worse than what Ksmvr could have come up with. And Yvlon had once heard him threaten someone by saying, ‘I would like you to imagine I am threatening you horribly, please’. To be fair, he also had the mandibles for a really aggressive lean-in.

Yet it seemed the [Storm Bandits] knew Yvlon after all, because her mentioning her exact rank made them suddenly draw back. The [Bandit] across from her suddenly went pale and edged back. So did everyone else.

“Wait. You’re the Gold-rank that tore up half the city? I thought it was that half-Giant!”

The [Thief] was practically on Merr’s lap. The other [Bandits]—even Merr—looked uneasy.

“I didn’t tear up half a city. I’m innocent!”

Yvlon protested. The [Bandits] gave her clearly-skeptical looks.

“The [Judiciary] sentenced you with the deaths of nearly two dozen [Guards]! The report they read said you killed twice that many civilians! Hacked them up!”

“What? What? I didn’t do that!”

Yvlon’s mind raced. Had she…? No! Even in her crazed state, she would never have done that!

It seemed the [Bandits] had heard some of what she was accused of, though. And the one lie in the system of truths also didn’t account for rumor.

“They put a murderer in the same wagon with us? We’re [Bandits]! Hey! Hey, why is this one here! What if she goes berserk and tries to kill us?”

One of the [Bandits] called to the [Guard]. The Stitch-guard glanced back and gave Yvlon an uneasy look. The Human woman blinked as the [Caravan Guard] checked their weapon.

“She’s shackled up. Shut up, I said! You [Bandits] don’t deserve any better. You’ve got your fancy [Bandit Lady]. Let them fight.”

Merr was eying Yvlon. The Human woman bared her teeth. One of the [Bandits] squeaked.

“She’s not gagged! She’s got her teeth! She could kill us all!”

What stories had spread while she was asleep? Yvlon growled, not to reassure them so much as establish the truth.

“I didn’t kill anyone. I cut them, but they were String Folk. I couldn’t have injured more than a d—two d—thr…”

She broke off. The [Bandits] looked at her and began edging so far back they were in danger of falling off the wagon.

That bastard, Ducaz, had clearly lied about something. But here was the thing: his lie happened to be grounded in an uncomfortable truth. Which was that Yvlon did recall at least three dozen [Guards] running away from her as she went on a one-armed rampage.

To be fair, they were Ducaz’ corrupt lot at first, and low-level probably. She had been wearing enchanted armor, swinging a Gold-rank’s sword and fresh off fighting top-tier undead.

Still. Not a great look. At least it meant they stopped kicking her. Yvlon glowered at Merr and the others.

“…Where am I?”

One of them opened their mouth nervously. Yvlon cut them off.

“I’m in Chandrar. Nerrhavia’s Fallen?”

They eyed her, as if not knowing that much was already making them concerned. One of them whispered to the [Thief]—

“She’s on powder. The dangerous stuff. I once knew a woman who woke up not knowing where she was, two thousand miles away after taking too much. Six months later!”

“Where. Am. I?”

One of the [Bandits] looked around, then replied hurriedly.

“Nerrhavia’s Fallen! Chandrar! On the road to one of the larger cities, Caardefelt if I’m any judge, alright? Just stay calm!”

“I am calm. When do I get to appeal my case? Who charged me?”

The [Bandits] licked their lips. They nudged each other, whispering, until the [Thief] was kicked forwards. The woman explained.

“You…were charged. And sentenced. We’re not on the way to a trial, Miss Please-Don’t-Hurt-Me. We’re already on the way to our punishment.”

Yvlon stared at them. Then, as she saw the city in the distance, in the largest nation in Chandrar, she did lose her temper. The [Bandits] drew back, shouting, as the [Guards] turned and saw the Human woman shouting obscenities at Ducaz and struggling, her arm flashing as she tried to tear free of the manacles. She fell to the wagon floor, unable to move.

“Stop! Stop, you fleshy idiot!”

One shouted, raising a club to beat her senseless. They knew of this dangerous criminal’s reputation, and were wary, but she was bound with four magical, anti-Skill enchanted bindings! There was no way—

Yvlon Byres tore the first manacle apart and the [Bandits]’ eyes bulged. The [Guards] screamed as she ripped off her bindings, shattering the magical metal and stood. Yvlon Byres rose—as Merr and the [Thief] both hopped off the wagon to land in the dust and hide. Her face was twisted with the beginnings of a furious rage—

Until she saw two dozen bows trained on her chest. Her unarmored chest. Yvlon saw a friend’s face in a flash, frozen in ice. Slowly—she raised her arm and knelt. The [Guards] looked at each other as one shouted in a tremulous voice for someone—not them—to bind the [Prisoner]. And get reinforcements.

—-

Truth and lies. Yes, she surrendered at once. No, she did not murder a [Bandit Lady] with her teeth and then break free of eight magical chains like some Djinni of legends! She did break through four magical, Skill-binding shackles, but…she couldn’t explain that. She knew she wasn’t that strong, even with her arm!

However, the upshot was that by the time Yvlon rolled into Caardefelt, it was with no less than eighteen [Guards] riding by her wagon, aiming bows at her, the other [Bandits] having been evacuated to ‘safer’ transports.

It was then Yvlon realized she was not improving her situation each time she lost her temper. She was escorted from the wagon literally bound hand-and-foot, with all the backup handcuffs and so on the [Guards] had—as well as rope and leather cords.

Something about the bindings felt…off. Yvlon kept staring at the metal chains around her good arm—bound uncomfortably to her torso. She kept getting the feeling she could snap the metal almost more easily than the rawhide cord.

She didn’t have time to process the oddity, though. As the prisoners were herded off the wagons, a Stitchman strode up to them.

“Desais Cotton. [Weaver-Chancellor]. Why was I summoned?”

Normally, one did not go as far as to demand the [Weaver-Chancellor] of a city-state of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, let alone one as large as Caardefelt for anything as minor as processing prisoners.

It seemed a [Bandit Lady] as famous as Merr…and Yvlon…were the reasons for this. The woman listened impatiently, then glanced at Yvlon.

“Did you say—eight—with her teeth..?”

The problem with truth spells was that you had to use them. Yvlon tried to speak, but they’d gagged her. She looked uneasily at the lined-up prisoners. What was going to happen now?

She almost expected someone to make a break for it, [Guards] or not, like the [Thief], who kept staring at Yvlon as if she were a Creler. However, no one was that stupid. They stood in one of the large squares in Nerrhavia Fallen’s cities.

Yvlon looked up and saw…well. A city.

Invrisil, City of Adventurers was a sprawling metropolis by Izril’s standards. Pallass was a Walled City from old days, with walls matched by none.

Caardefelt was not as vast as Invrisil. Nor as tall as Pallass. However, its walls were forty feet high and thick as any Drake city’s, made of old, old sandstone or some other material as dusty as the landscape.

The buildings had the same coloration, stone structures that rose up many levels, so that there were walkways higher up. Invrisil had yet to build as high, whereas these structures, this city, was ancient.

Ten thousand Stitchfolk crisscrossed the streets beyond, wearing protective clothing against the heat and dust, talking, trading in the open bazaars, or heading deeper into the city, where vast buildings kept some places in welcome shade despite the rising sun. And that was all of what Yvlon could see from her position in the paved streets.

Even as she looked up, she saw a glittering being flying overhead, bearing some large object through the skies with ease. For a second, Yvlon saw the half-avian, half-mist being from overhead. She saw the bored face, the magic leaking from every aspect of the Djinni—

And the shackles on both arms and legs. Like hers.

This was a city of Chandrar. Of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. It had a population to dwarf that of Celum’s, rivaling even one of the largest cities in Izril.

It wasn’t even the capital. The [Weaver-Chancellor] completed her listening and stepped back. She glanced at Merr—then focused on Yvlon. And at last, someone recognized her. The woman eyed Yvlon’s arm, did a double-take, locked onto her hair, and rounded on one of the [Guards].

“You sand-blasted fools without eyes! Do I need to have each one of you report to a [Stitchmistress] to have your pupils resewn? Do you know who you’ve just brought into my city? Has not one of you looked at a scrying orb?”

She pointed at Yvlon. The [Guards] looked at each other, a bit hurt and confused. They were tired, they’d been on the road escorting this prisoner train all across Nerrhavia for the last two days—who had the time or money to look at a scrying orb?

The [Chancellor] looked at Yvlon, then beckoned her forwards. Two [Guards] warily watched Yvlon as her gag was undone. The first thing Yvlon did was cough. Then spoke.

“You know who I am?”

“Yvlon Byres of the Horns of Hammerad, or may I pluck out my eyes and return them as worthless pieces of cloth.”

Desais Cotton spoke crisply. Yvlon exhaled. At last. She nodded, smiling.

“That’s right. I’m innocent. I was falsely accused by a Magistrate—Ducaz—who abducted me and—”

Desais blinked rapidly as Yvlon tried to speak. She opened her mouth, lifted a hand.

“Stop!”

Yvlon’s flow of words halted, via some Skill. The [Chancellor] looked at her and had to step back.

“Someone find me her records.”

She pressed two fingers delicately to the bridge of her nose. Yvlon saw her sigh, with the realization of someone who finds that their normal, boring work day has suddenly developed the kind of complication that might take weeks to sort out.

Yvlon had little sympathy. She’d been having a bad day.

—-

“Did you kill…let us say, over eight [Guards] and over twenty—no. For the sake of simplicity, let us ask this: did you kill anyone in the alleged incident as it occurred two days prior in your recollections?”

Yvlon Byres listened carefully as the small circle stood in the street. She watched the stone.

“No.”

It glowed…orange. Desais Cotton eyed it as the [Guards] murmured, looking at Yvlon.

“You aren’t certain.”

“I am!”

Orange again. Yvlon bit her tongue.

“I was…in the middle of a [Berserker’s Rage]. It—I can’t remember fully, but I am almost certain no one was killed.”

The orange shifted towards blue. Desais frowned, although the mention of [Berserker’s Rage] made a few more hands go to their swords.

“For clarity, then. You do recall injuring over fifty [Guards] in a city-wide battle?”

“It wasn’t city-wide. And it wasn’t—”

“Do you recall injuring [Guards] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen?”

“…Yes.”

Pure blue, edging towards white. Desais sighed and closed her eyes. Yvlon worked her mouth.

“—Because that Magistrate—”

“Yes, Magistrate Ducaz, of whom you have made claims of kidnapping, extortion/blackmail, threats against your life and that of your team, theft. I am noting this down again. You say he has possession of your gear and relic-class items?”

Yvlon nodded. The stone didn’t glow since there was nothing said. Desais looked at it pointedly.

“He took my gear.”

Blue. Not as vividly white, but blue nonetheless. Desais glanced at a harried [Scribe].

“Look into this. Ducaz did register a number of artifacts after your arrest. However—no relic-class items. Which, if he is concealing them…”

Yvlon bit her tongue. Desais glanced at her, frowning slightly. She went back to her interrogation. The other criminals were standing, unable to sit, having to endure this delay.

“The truth in question seems to be your truth spell account of what occurred versus Magistrate Ducaz’s. Both register as true statements. I wonder…”

“He could have lied.”

One of the [Guards] slapped the back of Yvlon’s head. Hard. The woman staggered.

“How dare you accuse a [Magistrate] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen of corruption!”

The words were bellowed into her ear. Yvlon felt her temper rise. She—controlled herself. Barely.

Desais glared at the [Guard] until they stepped back. The woman sighed.

“The truth will be found. I have lodged a formal inquiry with an [Arbiter of Law], who will look into this.”

“But what about my team? My…?”

The [Chancellor] silenced Yvlon again. She looked harried, annoyed—and worried.

“Your team will be found, Adventurer Byres. However, in the interim—we have established your slaughter of innocent civilians and guards is in doubt. What is not is that you did, by your admission, attack a [Magistrate] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen and injure dozens of [Guards]!”

“Because he—”

Yvlon raised her voice. Desais glowered at her.

“You have broken the law. And that…yes, that is the fact. Which makes my task simple. I will inform my superiors you have been found, and notify the Adventurer’s Guild of your location and the crimes. Which is my task. An [Arbiter] will investigate the truth of your guilt.”

She was speaking to herself, and Yvlon did not like the way Desais’ tone sounded more reassured as she went over her course of action.

“You can’t just ignore what I said! The [Magistrate]—”

Desais winced and licked her lips. Yvlon realized some of the [Guards] were looking worried.

“A [Magistrate] is a very high-ranking official. I, personally, am only taking down your account. An [Arbiter] is better positioned to investigate…claims.”

She was afraid. Yvlon ground her teeth together. Afraid of Ducaz? Or maybe however he had managed to break the law and lie. She was going to pass on the responsibility! Which meant ignoring Yvlon!

“You can’t do that. I am a Gold-rank adventurer. I—am a [Lady] of the House of Byres. I demand to speak to…Prince Zenol of Nerrhavia’s Fallen! I w—”

She went silent a third time as Desais slashed her hand and Yvlon’s mouth closed. Yvlon’s third mistake was threatening the [Weaver-Chancellor] with the immediate consequences of not helping her. Desais looked at Yvlon and came to a speedy decision.

“Submit the request. As for this prisoner—we do not treat foreign nobility any different than criminals of our own. Place her there—”

Yvlon shouted through her gag, but it was too late. The [Guards] herded her over and her brief thought to burst her bindings again was put to rest. Where would she go? The city was full of [Guards] and Yvlon had no bearings, no gear.

She glowered like a storm cloud as the [Chancellor] spoke, inspecting the criminals as a whole. The Stitchwoman ignored her, rapidly pointing and speaking. Yvlon had no idea what was happening, until she realized this was what should have happened had she not been identified.

“Mines. Those men. That woman—and that one. Wait. Are they [Bandits]? Then…only those two. Have those six…assigned to river work. They need more. Are there any extant bids via Roshal?”

One of the [Scribes] consulted a list.

“For a [Bandit Lord] or [Bandit Lady], yes.”

“And the price? I see. Then—the [Bandit Lady], Merr the Storm, is to go to Roshal if they agree. Next!”

The prisoners were being shuffled away. Some to mines, others to…Yvlon realized they were all being sent to different places to work. Prisoner labor. Except for the [Bandit Lady], who began to struggle futilely as she was dragged towards another location.

[Slavers] of Roshal. Yvlon knew only a bit about them. As she was halted in front of Desais and the [Scribe] and the [Head of Guards], they consulted quickly.

“And this one? We could inquire, [Chancellor]. Roshal would almost certainly have a bid.”

Desais looked uneasy. She glanced at Yvlon.

“As her case is ongoing…no.”

“Put me in jail or let me talk to someone who will hear me fairly!”

Yvlon tried to say that, but only muffled words came out. Desais glared at her, but she was drumming her fingers on her side.

“Until such time…the mines?”

One of the [Guards]—and Yvlon realized some were in charge of each spot—immediately protested.

“Chancellor, you do us great credit with your concern, but we would be…forced to spend more time watching such a dangerous prisoner! She broke four restraints! How are we to hold her? I would rather chain and force a nest of Sandvipers to work than this one!”

The others nodded fervently as Yvlon glowered at them. Desais clicked her tongue.

“Then she is strong enough to break rocks barehanded! Come now. Then—river work. Let her dig a correction for water! She won’t—no?”

The other [Guards] looked just as nervous. One protested.

“By Queen Yisame and the royal courts, [Chancellor], how are we to let the other inmates feel safe? If we let her loose to work, she might slaughter us all! Even without a gag—you heard what she did with her teeth!”

They hadn’t corrected that lie. Yvlon tried to speak again as Desais rubbed at her face.

“Shackling her might be too dangerous. Preventing her escape, [Chancellor]? If she can do to metal bars what she does to her shackles, even the prison might be…”

One of the [Scribes] whispered uncertainly. The [Weaver-Chancellor] sighed. And then she had it. She snapped her fingers and smiled.

“I know of the place. This one—and all the [Storm Bandits] save for Merr. They go to the arena. If anywhere can hold one such as this, it is there. Let it be done! I am going to retire for a…rest.”

Yvlon looked up, eyes narrowed. The [Storm Bandits] looked resigned, some even happy—until they glanced at her. The [Guards] likewise brightened up. Yvlon’s head turned until she saw a rounded wall in the distance. She began to shout, but it was done.

One lie, many truths. Nerrhavia Fallen’s [Chancellor] of Caardefelt did launch a formal inquiry into Magistrate Ducaz’s claims, where it slowly began to work upwards in the system of law. Meanwhile, one of the coliseums of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, known as the Arena of Rust—received a new gladiator-prisoner.

Yvlon Byres found herself unshackled, put in a cell with stout metal bars, amid the company of other [Gladiators], prisoners, and so on. She wanted to shout for Desais. Protest her innocence! This was injust! Unfair!

The woman with a metal arm and jagged stump for another turned as the jailors left. The [Gladiators] and prisoners turned to see the newcomer. They eyed Yvlon Byres, the fresh sacrifice for the Arena of Rust, the newcomer, easy pr—

Easy prey…?

Easy…?

They decided not to bother her.

—-

Two prisoners. Three, if you counted one [Necromancer] in a caravan heading to the west. Growing more distant with each day.

One of the Horns of Hammerad jerked awake. A figure scrambled back. Ceria Springwalker looked up, finger pointed, and saw a Human boy. She registered dark skin—a surprised expression.

“You are awake!”

The [Villager] boy exclaimed. The half-Elf had been passed out for over a day! The [Elder] thought she might not make it.

[Villager] and [Elder]. Catchall classes for a particular type of culture, just like [Peasant] was an actual class some people got in Terandria. The [Elder] was no [Healer], but he had a [Healer]’s Skills, and a mix of others.

A [Villager] was a community-class, stronger when there were more. If…only by a bit. It suited Nerhs, the village with nothing much. It was a humble place built in the lee of a hill, which survived in this arid region mostly because the buildings were inhabited and maintained by the people, who were here because the buildings were here.

The half-Elf finding them was one of the most exciting things to ever happen to the village. Which, given the unsettling stories of [Bandit] raids and monster attacks by other villages nearby, was just as well.

However, the boy, Luaar, was just excited she was in their house. His father, the [Village Head], had volunteered for the dubious honor because he had to. Luaar had been tasked with giving her some precious water, which there was little to spare. Nerhs was not rich, and the much more well-fed towns and cities Luaar dreamed of going to and settling in had water aplenty. Not so for the single well here, enough to sustain the small village.

He was ready to explain all of this to the blinking, blonde half-Elf who sat up, her remaining wounds tended to, her skeletal hand raised and aiming at him. He wanted to know her name! Would they be friends? She was clearly a [Mage]; would she teach him magic and start his career as an adventurer?

The boy had been playing out scenarios since the moment she’d collapsed. He began to speak, rapidly touching his chest.

“My name is Luaar. You are in Nerhs—you fell down right outside our village and we saved you from the scavengers! Are y—”

“Food!”

The half-Elf shouted. Luaar stared as she lunged, grabbed the plate he’d been carrying, and snatched it.

The glorious half-Elf stranger…grabbed the earthenware plate, saw the Yellats, and began to wolf them down like the starving Needlehounds who had been following her. Luaar stared as she crammed six of the root-vegetables with the spicy tang that grew everywhere into her mouth. Her bulging cheeks chipmunked to contain the food as she tried to swallow—then began to choke.

He slowly backed away from her, dreams ruined.

—-

Ceria was so hungry that she didn’t even notice the boy except to register him as a vague impression. She scarfed down whatever she was eating; it could have been bug paste for all she cared.

Only when that was done did she look around, blearily. Now her stomach and throat hurt. She saw a wide-eyed boy staring at her.

“Where am I?”

Luaar stared at the [Cryomancer].

“In Nerhs, my village. You—you are awake? I am Luaar, my father—”

Ceria slapped her hand to her head.

“Ceria to Montressa. Hello? Nerhs. Nerhs! Ceria to Pisces. Pisces? Where are you?”

She began firing [Message] spells off. However, she recalled she’d barely reached Montressa. Ceria pointed at Luaar, who was staring at this rude stranger.

“I’m in Chandrar, right?”

“Y-yes?”

“What part?”

Luaar stammered.

“Nerhs isn’t in a nation. We aren’t claimed, although sometimes—”

“Damn. No nation. Got any more food?”

“No. My name is Luaar—”

Ceria’s head hurt. Her stomach was trying to regurgitate so many Yellats downed at once. She looked around, gave up on the [Message] spell; she hoped the first one had gone through.

“Okay then.”

She nodded at the boy. He inhaled, to demand what was going on—and Ceria promptly fell back onto the pillow, unconscious. He saw the frost creep up around her bedding again. Luaar swallowed his immense, just—sky-shattering disappointment—and ran out of the house.

“Father! Father, the half-Elf woke up! But she didn’t say anything! She just ate the food—and tried to contact her friend and then fainted!”

The [Villagers] turned. They had stopped from their work in the fields where they grew Chandrar’s famous yellats, herding the small flocks, and sifting the sand-nets, which was their life. Luaar’s father, Novether, or ‘Nove’, looked up.

Nerhs was just a nothing-village, informally abandoned by the nation it was closest to. In an arid desert-patch of land. It did have ways to survive. The well and groundwater fed field and animals, even if water was the lifeblood of Chandrar.

For extra profit, they had sand-nets, which were set up to catch things blown by the sometimes-frequent sandstorms. Sometimes it could be something very valuable. Entire villages along the Zeikhal—the Great Desert—just survived on scavenging items from older civilizations as the sand changed.

Nerhs wasn’t that, being far too far away. However, it did have sand-nets, fields, herds, and even a pair of kilns. The [Villagers] could make pottery; some even knew a secret of glassblowing carried from the coasts. They were good at a multitude of tasks; not [Farmers] or [Herders] or [Crafters] in any one capacity.

The half-Elf was the most interesting thing that had ever happened to them. The village she had landed in was poor, small, yes. But she was a welcome guest and Nove just nodded, despite his son’s clear disappointment in their guest’s temperament.

“Let her sleep, Luaar. She is welcome to her rest as long as she may stay. For now…we will welcome her with all hospitality.”

His smile was generous, and the other [Villagers] nodded with equal contentment. Luaar was disappointed, but he saw his father turn back to the others holding a clear, green-glass cup he himself had blown, one of the few trade-goods of Nerhs.

They had survived [Bandits] demanding tribute, occasional monster attacks, and yet the half-Elf was still more interesting. More important. Novether was sure the half-Elf had some grand story to tell, or might be off as soon as she recovered. Well, he would offer her sanctuary so long as it cost little more than water and food.

He swirled the precious water in his cup and sighed. Yes, it was pure generosity from the good people of Nerhs. He heard a lovely clink-clink sound and hesitated.

…Okay, not exactly. The people of Nerhs were as interesting as dirt, it was true. They weren’t stupid, though.

The [Villagers] all had glass cups as they stood by the well on their break. Sipping from the cool, chilled water and the lovely ice cubes. Luaar stomped back to the hut, where buckets of water had been set to freeze around the half-Elf’s aura.

And where half the village’s perishable food had been put. He wanted the guest to wake. The adults were in no damn hurry to let the free cold air and ice cubes walk off. Ceria Springwalker slept, an honored guest.

Half-Elven air conditioning. She didn’t wake up as someone came in to shave ice into a bowl. Ceria Springwalker didn’t dream. However, she did hear a voice that woke her in time.

It said:

Murderer.

—-

Chandrar was filled with momentous events. Changing fortunes. Schemes and war, such that four adventurers, even Gold-rank, were swallowed up, not even worthy of a footnote. Not even punctuation in the grand scheme of things.

After all, they were only Gold-ranks. What did that even mean these days? It used to be different. As the nameless Drake had once said—the Gold-ranks of his era could have challenged him.

Then again—they did. So perhaps there was something there. Even so. They had once been greater. Once been pettier. Time had rolled on, like a wave, it had become a circle.

So the Drake, who had been unsurprised for countless years…opened his eyes. He saw not the angry half-Giant, so small, the Drowned Man who had touched him.

He saw the world change. He looked down.

“Where am I?”

He stood in the lands of the dead. Then, the [Dragonbane Swordlegend] looked up and saw a man walking his way. He reached for a sword he did not have, not in death. He uttered a Skill that had no power here.

The ghost looked at the too-real figure, the bearded man walking his way in this faded land. He laughed, even as he turned, wavering between flight and pride, only to realize he was too slow to even run properly.

At the end of it all, he realized his arrogance had let him believe he had seen every foe. Beheld each truth of the world. He vanished, not understanding where or why he was. As helpless as the others.

Izril was lost. Six walked the continent, moving across ocean, under waves, into the sky.

The world was not entirely theirs, though.

Not yet.

From the shores of Chandrar, sunlight shone. A shadow stared at the giant who held aloft a champion who bore the umbrella. A [King] held a sword and dared it to come close.

Rhir was already lost. No—it was different. None of the six quite dared stray there. Nor did they stray close to The Last Tide. They walked, assailing different places.

Yet they had only a foothold on Terandria. Two fled Baleros. Drath was untouched, greater in death than it was in life.

It was a war the living world woke and slept in ignorance of. A desperate battle of ghosts and memory.

Perhaps they smiled, though. At last. After so long. They had a struggle once more.

Smiles. That was all. No treasure left. No nation to hold. No people to fight for but all or none. All that remained was pride, knowledge. Defiance in the face of oblivion.

So he flew, crossing the ocean out of safety. Alone. One of the six fleeing Baleros saw him and gave chase. Not her. The one who whispered with each scrap of power she acquired. Kasigna—

Any one of them could best a single ghost by now. So he flew rather than give battle. Flew with his kin for a second before they split, alone, vulnerable, but determined.

To see if there were any others left. He flew, over ghostly seas, hunted, pursued—until he saw something in the distance that even he could not believe.

The light from afar, like a lighthouse in the land of the dead. The Dragon flew towards it as shadows gave chase. Wondering how it could be.

—-

Erin Solstice’s first lesson of [Witches] wasn’t showy. She sat on a hill with three of the coven who had gathered to teach her.

One was the ashen-witch, who looked burned. Her voice was like crumbling dust. Yet she glowed from within. Somillune.

The next was Califor, straight-backed, stern, the most junior of the [Witches] here by far. In age, and in power. She had been one of the greatest in her time. The others were the best witches that had ever been.

The last [Witch] had a more appropriate name. Vexcla—which was an abbreviated version of a longer one with apostrophes and whatnot. The [Innkeeper] stretched out on the grass, reflecting upon the land of the dead.

Day ?? of Living In the Land of the Dead. Wait, that sounds awful. Day ?? of Death. Or is it ???; unclear. I have not had to deal with my monthlies, so that is something. I have also not had to poo, or eat. Keeping track of time continues to be an issue…

“Erin.”

The young woman went on.

As there is no real paper except memory-stuff, it is difficult to keep records.

“Erin Solstice, stop this at once.”

“I must narrate my journal entries since I can’t write everything down, and I forget what I narrate all the time. I continue to be bothered by this rude [Witch] who’s mean and never lets me rest, even if she did save my life. So yeah…”

Califor grabbed Erin’s ear and yanked. Erin actually floated as she yelped, a new power she’d realized she had. She looked around guiltily.

“Sorry! I’m paying attention! What are we doing?”

Califor glared. Irked by Erin’s natural—okay, deliberate—silliness. However, it seemed her fellow witches were up to the challenge of teaching the [Innkeeper]. Perhaps that was why these two had come.

The ashy Somillune…laughed. Parts of her body flaked away and reformed. Beneath the hat and shadows from which dozens of eyes blinked, Vexcla revealed a pointed smile.

Erin looked at them. This was the height of witchcraft, perhaps the inevitable result of pursuing their magic. They weren’t Gazer or…or whomever Somillune had been. They were more like ideas.

Fire and vision.

She just wasn’t sure if she wanted to be—that. Erin had agreed to take lessons because they were right. She was just nervous.

“Sorry! I’m not meaning to goof off. I just…okay, that was on purpose. I’m listening. What’s my first lesson in being an amazing [Witch]?”

She sat down, facing the three. Califor sighed as the [Innkeeper] visibly tried to look and be attentive. That was what the [Witches] saw. The woman opened her mouth—and Vexcla nudged her. Califor fell silent and the Witch of Ashes raised her head.

Somillune spoke.

“We know you are nervous, Erin Solstice. That part of you does not want to learn. Your stubbornness, ah, but even a great [Witch] would have trouble with you.”

She smiled and Erin grinned despite herself, a bit guiltily. The woman went on.

“You have told us your story. From your life on Earth till now. Goblins and inns. Loss and sacrifice and triumph. Fire.”

“Are you going to teach me new flames?”

Erin sat up. The [Witch] tilted her head.

“Perhaps. But first: witchcraft. To learn our class, you must know your craft. You understand the basics of what a [Witch] is.”

The young woman nodded dubiously. Craft and the power of emotions. Which might be her thing? Potions too.

“How do I do that? I mean—what’s my first step? I can’t level or use Skills here, but…”

“Hush.”

Erin fell still, but her leg jiggled, even though her body was elsewhere. She was nervous. She didn’t know if she could be what they wanted. Somillune met her gaze.

“You told us of many moments in your life, Erin Solstice. I ask you to remember one. As vividly as when you told it. No matter the pain. When you held the boy, the Goblin who followed you against the Goblin Lord, Reiss.”

“Headscratcher.”

Suddenly, Erin’s levity was gone. She thought of her dear friend. The brave Goblin. Whispering…

The witches looked at an [Innkeeper], blood smeared on her face, holding a Hobgoblin lying on the ground. The blood almost looked like the war paint on Headscratcher’s body. He was grinning. She leaned down.

…But she never heard what he whispered. No matter how many times she—

Erin Solstice looked up, holding nothing. Tears in her eyes. Memory—in this place, it was just a thought away. Somillune looked down at her. Her eyes were embers in dying ash.

Not unkind. They saw Erin, even now. Even after so much about her had changed.

“I don’t know what he said. Will magic help me know? My…my craft?”

Erin swallowed. The [Witch] shook her head.

“Perhaps you may never know. You will grow and age if you live, Erin Solstice. You will forget that moment.”

“I will never—”

“You will forget. Not him. But the feeling of the grass upon which you kneel. How you held him. How you sat. Each moment of forgetting will hurt. Yet he will never leave you.”

The Witch of Ashes stood, and she was taller now. A giant, pointing down at Erin. Her voice was no louder, but it filled the world like the whisper of dust.

“That question will follow you to your grave. If you cared. The guilt will tear you apart some nights. You will weep for that boy. Wonder what might have been. You may forget him for hours, days, weeks, months, years. But you will remember him.”

The young woman looked up at the witch and knew it was true. Simply true. Even if she was old and gray—how could she forget her friend? She did not want it to be, but she feared she would forget.

“So. Then. Knowing this, and if you could—would you ever forget? Erase the pain? Take a balm to soothe your mind? Free yourself of that burden?”

Vexcla leaned forwards. The shadows under the brim of her hat revealed the many eyes of different colors, blinking, shifting, each one watching Erin. Califor as well, a hand on the brim of her hat. They looked at her, all three.

The [Innkeeper] looked up. She rubbed at her eyes.

“…What? No. Never. Why would you even ask that?”

She grew angry, just thinking about it. Forget Headscratcher? She met Vexcla’s gaze, angry. Clenching her hands. The [Witch] saw the [Innkeeper]’s eyes flash.

She smiled. It was a broad, sharp smile that spread within the darkness. Somillune smiled too. The Witch of Ash sat back down, her dress glowing like embers. She raised her hat, revealing paler strands of hair.

“Then, Erin Solstice. You are a [Witch]. Remember that moment. Know your craft.”

Somillune pointed down at Erin. The [Innkeeper] blinked up at her. Vexcla laughed. Without a word she rose and began walking down the hill.

“We are done.”

“Witch Vexcla! Witch Somillune, you can’t be serious!”

Califor rose to her feet. She gestured at Erin, who was as bewildered as she was. The [Witch] turned to the Witch of Ash.

“What of establishing exactly what her craft is? Teaching her the fundamentals of magic?”

Two ember-eyes met Califor’s vexed stare equally.

“Witch Califor. We respect your craft and talent. You have taught many witches, I have no doubt. But remember: we are the [Witches] of our eras. Perhaps we see this student more clearly than you.”

She looked at Erin. The [Innkeeper] raised a hand.

“But I’m willing to learn! I am! I need to find my craft, right? Don’t I need to at least figure out if I’m happiness or silliness or something? Or—oh no. I’m loss. Pain? I don’t want to be that!”

She began to panic. Somillune laughed.

“You are not any of those, Erin Solstice. Unless you choose to be. We have not found your craft, as Califor says. That is why she objects. But think: you know what it is to be a [Witch]. Is there anything else you truly need?”

The [Witch] looked from Califor to Erin. She addressed Califor.

“What could we teach her, the nuance of every craft? Have we time? When she wakes, if she remembers—she need only pursue the core of what we are. She will find herself. That is enough. This is what magic is made from, Erin Solstice. Do you understand?”

Erin thought of Headscratcher. Holding him…her voice trembled.

“Not exactly. Can you say it another…another way?”

Somillune nodded.

“Remember. Simply remember every frustration, every cruelty and injustice and wrong.”

She gestured, and Erin saw the heads of two Goblins held in a grinning Drake’s claw. A dying Antinium stabbed by countless daggers, shielding her. Stared down at her open palm, slashed by a knife.

The witch spoke again, interrupting the thoughts that could pour over her in the dark of night. At bad times, in bad places.

“Now, remember when you smiled. Your triumphs, your love and laughter. Each second you breathed in and knew: I am alive. That is the root of your craft. Each witch merely finds a different focus. A different question for the same answer.”

Erin blinked. Was it that simple? Califor looked like she wanted to object.

“There is…nuance, Witch Somillune. Practice. She has none of those things.”

The Witch of Ash shrugged.

“How will we teach her? With magic that is as dead as we are? I say to you, Witch Califor—look back. The first [Witches] had no guidance. They discovered themselves. Give Erin Solstice no rules. Teach her no lengthy lessons; does she take to it? Let her be and grow without a roof in her mind.”

Califor went silent. Erin looked at Somillune.

“Just…feelings? Memory? Is it really that easy?”

A voice laughed in her ear. Erin jumped and realized Vexcla had come back. The Witch of Eyes looked at her, amused.

“Did you think it was something truly secret that no one could do? The root of things is simple. You will find depths beyond your imagining if you follow this path. But think: magic as [Mages] do it is just remembering the correct way something is and putting a bit of power in it. An incantation is just words in the right order and tone. A sigil is a drawing.”

“Wow. Magic sounds cheap.”

The two older witches laughed at that. Really laughed, without restraint or even trying to keep themselves upright. Vexcla grinned at Erin again.

“It may. But tell me. What is stronger in you than your memory of when you held Headscratcher? Is there anything more powerful? Anything that will last longer?”

The [Innkeeper] shook her head. Vexcla smiled and nodded.

“That is our magic. Transitory. Temporary. Memory and emotion, which disappear and change. It is not the strength of [Mages], which adds to itself. It wanes; like the Gnolls and [Shamans], our power has been lost as the greatness of this world fades. With each species that passes, each kingdom that falls, all fades away.”

“We would not have it any other way.”

Somillune nodded. Califor looked at the two older [Witches], astounded. Perhaps that was the difference between them. Erin turned to Vexcla, as the Witch of Eyes raised one curious hand, like Gazi’s.

“The first [Witch] to exist found her craft because she had to. Because it gave purpose to feeling! Her suffering, her glory—that became the root of her magic. That is why we devoted our lives to it. Because it mattered. There are some things that cannot be forgotten. That a lifetime is changed by. You are one of us. So: our work is done. Your next lesson awaits.”

She pointed down the hill. Confused, Erin looked at Califor. Then she stood up.

To be a [Witch] sounded a lot like…spirituality to her. Or an understanding so broad that anyone could be a [Witch]. But both sounded so knowing. Did they really know how to teach her?

Perhaps the Dynasty of Khelt wondered, because one of the ghosts who had been not-quite-eavesdropping floated forwards as Erin descended the hill. She saw the ghosts of Chandrar waiting. But the [Witch] whom she was walking towards was noticeable, even among them.

A Treant or Dryad or…Erin waved up at her and the woman turned.

“AH. YOU UNDERSTAND CRAFT, NOW, ERIN SOLSTICE?”

Her voice boomed; Erin had forgotten how the gigantic witch spoke. She shouted back, raising her voice.

“S-sort of? It was a fast lesson.”

The witch nodded amiably.

“A LESSON FOR THOSE OF US WHO HAVE HOURS MORE TO EXIST—OR PERHAPS AGES. TIME ENOUGH TO TEACH YOU MORE IF WE ARE NOT ALL CONSUMED SCREAMING INTO THE VOID SOON.”

The [Innkeeper] opened her mouth.

“Um. Yes. That’s a great point.”

“I KNOW.”

The two looked at each other. Erin fidgeted beneath the too-calm stare.

“So—so what’s my next lesson? Fire? How to brew an uh invisibility—no, wait. A super-strength potion?”

The Witch of Trees raised her leafy limbs in a kind of shrug.

“NEITHER. WE ARE HERE TO MAKE YOU STRONGER. SO…HERE IS YOUR LESSON. WE HAVE CHOSEN A HUNDRED, THE FOUR OF US. PICK ONE.”

“Pick one? One wh—”

Erin Solstice turned her head. Then she realized: the ghosts of Chandrar, milling about, had pulled a bit back from this spot, like her first lesson, to give her room. Only…there were some close by.

Ghosts. A hundred of them. The four [Witches] stood nearby, some sitting, others standing. Looking at her. They were all looking at her.

Waiting…the [Innkeeper] saw familiar faces among the people there. A [Sage], what looked like a [Queen], a glowing Djinni…she looked at the Witch of Trees, whose name she could not pronounce.

“Wait. What do you mean?”

“TALK TO THEM. EACH ONE HAS AGREED TO TELL YOU THEIR STORIES.”

“Just…talk to them? Oh, come on! What about a poti—”

The [Witch] bent down and stared at Erin with two bright eyes amid the ancient wood of her face. Erin broke off, gulped.

“A POTION? WHAT GOOD IS A POTION, GIRL? TELL ME SOMETHING. ARE YOU AN [INNKEEPER] OR NOT?”

“I—”

A gnarled finger tapped her in the chest.

“WE WOULD HAVE YOU BE A [WITCH]. YET YOUR CLASS MATTERS AS WELL. WHEN WE SPOKE TO THE FIRST OF KHELT, WE PROMISED TO AID YOU IN BOTH. THIS IS A BOON UNMATCHED. GREATER THAN A RECIPE FOR A POTION. LOOK. THE GHOSTS OF ALL OF CHANDRAR STAND BEFORE YOU AND YOU WISH TO LEARN HOW TO BREW A POTION?”

Her voice shook the ground. Erin stuttered.

“I just—I thought it would be useful—”

The Witch of Trees was less kind than the other two [Witches]. Her reply was rather like a branch, or an apple hitting Erin on the head.

“DID YOU THINK YOUR POWER WAS IN LEARNING HOW TO SWING A SWORD? CAST A SPELL? IF IT WERE SO, BETTER YOU HAD LIVED AND APPRENTICED YOURSELF TO A [SWORD SAGE] FOR A CENTURY, AND MADE USE OF SOME ANCIENT RITUAL.”

She poked Erin again with a branch-finger.

“THIS IS POWER. THIS IS THE STRENGTH YOU POSSESS. ASK THEM. LISTEN TO THEIR STORIES.”

With that, she turned and strode away. Erin was left standing in front of the ghosts of the world. Califor, on the hill, saw the old [Witch] coming her way.

“You may disagree with us, Witch Califor. But we did think on how best to use fleeting time.”

“With this?”

Vexcla grinned.

“With this. She is a clever girl. She would have come to this by herself, I think. But we have moved it ahead of her wasting time and given her the hint any [Witch] needs. Now—let us see if she finds the true worth in this.”

Below her, Erin Solstice had stopped dithering, and, pressured by all the stares and waiting hundred ghosts and [Witches]—timidly called out to one of the ones closest to her. The four [Witches] on the hill watched as Erin sat down and listened.

—-

The man had a robe like…well, someone had attached a king-sized bed sheet to his back. That was an uncharitable way of putting it. Put another way, Erin saw the cloak of many substances forming a single ‘garment’. He was the flashy person she’d seen before, who looked like liquid mercury had become cloth in one part, a strange animal’s green-furred hide in another.

It reminded her of Rabbiteater’s Cloak of Plenty, so that was one of the reasons she’d chosen him. He sat with her on the ground, and Erin saw his hands had magical rings on each finger. Earrings of magic dangled from each ear, and she wondered what he might have carried; a staff or something if he had kept that possession in death.

“Um. H-hi. How are you doing? I uh—what are you supposed to be doing? Are we chatting? Is this a date?”

The man smiled as the [Innkeeper] stuttered. He did not have a preamble; he just spoke, quickly, but measured enough that each word was clear.

“The [Witches] of old asked me to tell you who I was. That it might help you, [Innkeeper] Erin Solstice. That is why we are here. I am honored to be chosen. So: I was the [Sage] who invented ‘Sage’s Grass’, as it seems the world now calls it. More recent than many of my class. Older it seems, the more time passes.”

He smiled at her. Erin’s jaw dropped.

“Wait. You’re—the guy? The Sage’s Grass guy? I have some growing in my garden! You’re famous!”

The [Sage] blinked.

“In your garden? Then it has grown that common? When I first invented it, by marrying magic to plants to create a plant which could create mana just by existing—it was the rarest thing in the world. A [Witch] of my time traded me a fortune of fortunes just for a few seeds.”

Erin blinked.

“Well, it’s not common but it’s…sort of? It’s expensive as heck.”

“Ah. By which you mean it is acquirable with mere coinage? Again, when it was first invented, a single leaf was more than any common citizen could afford. Rightly so, for with it one could brew powerful potions and cast uncommon spells. I am told that since my death, it allowed healing potions to be more common.”

He just sat there, the [Sage] of Sage’s Grass…talking to her. Erin looked around to make sure she wasn’t being pranked. She got what the [Witches] meant, though. She tried to explain.

“Well, maybe it did. Because healing potions are like…everyone has one. Not a great one, but one. I have like, fifty two in my inn. I could have used more antidotes. That’s a mistake.”

“A common one. If I may advise—many [Sages] and [Alchemists] died from poison in the air. A ring to detect such things was commonplace. See? Ah—”

He tried to take off a ring on his hand, but it vanished and reformed. The [Sage] shrugged regretfully.

“If that knowledge helps, I would be grateful. The [Witches] told me not to think of such lessons, but more to tell you who I was, though. So I shall speak. In life, I would not have been as…accepting. Healing potions in my time were rare, you see. They could close a wound in an instant, which I suppose means little to you, although it seems the power to regrow limbs is lost.”

“Wh—you could do that?”

A raised brow.

“If you had a potion, which only royalty or the richest could afford, of course. Adventurers and warriors made do with other tricks. One used to be a blood stoppage spell. However, I made my fortune selling Sage’s Grass and the products it created to the wealthy. I was the richest of my time. Famed. They knew me as the ‘Sage of a Hundred Thousand Secrets’, for I knew the value and wealth in everything, from blades of grass to blood and water.”

Erin Solstice listened, as the man talked. She saw he looked the part for a [Sage] of legends. His long, flowing beard had turned pale white, and his features were lined, although some draught had kept him youthful.

—-

Youth, immortality, and of course, turning lead to gold. That was the dream of [Alchemists], wise-men, and of course, [Sages].

Few realized even one of those dreams, even in part. This man? Born of Chandrar, a boy who learned how to combine some magical mold and other elements that grew around the alchemist’s city he grew up in when he was nine, had done all three things.

Hell, he mastered the art of ‘lead to gold’ by the time he was fourteen, which wasn’t actually that impressive. He became an [Alchemist]’s apprentice, in a true rags-to-riches tale—although all the [Alchemists] of the time grew rich on the ‘lead to gold’ formula.

…Which promptly caused the worst recession in history as gold became worthless. However, the young man leveled in his class, going from [Alchemist] to a study of more than pills and tonics.

To be a [Sage] was to be a master in many forms of knowledge. More than a jack-of-trades. He studied the body because potions interacted with it—and from that divined more secrets. The world was connected! Thus, the boy became a man, a [Sage] who soon learned one of the secrets of prolonging the body. Even bottling a Skill into a tincture!

As he grew, he gained rivals, but none would match him when he used simple herbology combined with the magical powers worthy of an [Archmage] to create a plant that consumed little more than grass, but produced magic!

With this, he had a creation that rivaled Unicorns and Dragons; a nigh-infinite source of mana. After that came riches beyond imagining. The secrets of immortality, purchased from Drath, Dragon’s lairs, and so on.

Over six hundred years, the Sage of a Hundred Thousand Secrets lived, growing wealthier and more powerful. He might have lived for thousands of years, but for what Sage’s Grass attracted. It was not a glamorous death, or even a great one; monsters and treasure seekers forced him into hiding, but it was a simple dagger to the back which killed him. An [Assassin], dispatched to end his monopoly on the Sage’s Grass itself.

Ironically, the dagger’s poison had no effect. And somewhat unfortunately, it meant that a dagger to the back was the end of the great Sage of a Hundred Thousand Secrets. It was a dagger to the back several dozen times that did it. He died in his hidden home, lungs filling with blood, reaching for one of the countless treasures or vials that could have saved him.

—-

The Sage of a Hundred Thousand Secrets did not prolong his story. In fact, Erin got the sense he had truncated it. He had a lesson in his story, too.

“A [Sage] should not have been so petty. I mastered all kinds of knowledge. I acquired power that few ever touched. However, I failed my class. I should have learned wisdom first. You hear of my hubris, how I chased wealth before friendship and anything else. I caution you: do not let that happen.”

Erin nodded.

“I won’t.”

She tried not to say that it wasn’t that likely because Erin never had a thousand gold pieces at any one time and this guy had tossed thousands of gold pieces down every time he tripped or something. Perhaps the [Sage] saw that in her because he smiled.

“Not an [Innkeeper]’s problem, I suspect. Yet it is the only story I can tell. I do not know what the [Witches] sought—but I hope it helps.”

Erin stumbled to reassure him, as sad as he looked.

“It does! Totally! It’s amazing to meet you! I know of your creation, of course. Um—they called you—wait, what was your name? I don’t know the ‘Sage of a Hundred Thousand’…but maybe you have a name? Octavia would know it, but she’s not here. I hope.”

Erin saw the man smile ruefully and raise a hand. He glanced to one side and Erin noticed something peculiar. Among the ghosts keeping her company, Gerial being one of them, the hundred ghosts had replaced the [Sage]. Exactly one ghost had joined their number, gestured to by the [Witches].

They wanted her to listen to another one. And to help them, Gerial was…doing his part. He was deliberately, slowly, and excruciatingly counting to ten thousand.

Apparently that was how long each ghost had, and the [Sage] was aware of it. He lifted a hand—Gerial was muttering.

“Nine thousand nine hundred and three, nine thousand nine hundred and four…”

It struck Erin as something that was downright evil for the [Witches] to make him do. Even poor Sisyphus or whomever the boulder-guy was in Greek legends didn’t have to count and start over. But Gerial was determined to do his part.

The [Sage] rose to his feet.

“I would rather, Erin, that my name be forgotten. As my story shows—I was not worthy of my class. Thank you for asking me my story. I believe you must continue, though.”

He stepped away. Erin raised a hand, then let it fall as she saw one of the [Witches] look at her. Confused—not sure if she had gained much from the story, but feeling bad for the man—she looked around and pointed at random.

She realized she’d pointed at a Stitch-Woman—her body wonderfully vivid, like a half-Elf’s but torn with her death-wounds. Even the other Stitchfolk looked in awe of her and Erin was curious to know her story.

But she wondered, as she stood up to introduce herself, what the [Witches] wanted her to get from this. Just stories?

—-

Like the first speaker, the second ghost did not waste time, having been told what to do. She leaned forwards, and showed Erin how she died.

Someone had blasted her apart. Literally. If she let it—two thirds of her head was gone, revealing ragged string and flesh and bone. As well as most of her chest.

However, if she willed it, she was also a beautiful, if war-scarred woman. For a String Person, that meant she was clearly repaired in places, sewn up, rather than scarred. She didn’t…look like a warrior like Relc.

That was to say, her build didn’t suggest that. She looked like she would be more suited dancing on a stage, like some celebrity-actress.

Her eyes told another story. They were like Gazi’s, like Halrac’s. Erin had met warriors and this woman was one to the core. She also belonged in the company of the [Sage] and [Witches]. Or rather…they belonged in her company.

“I was called the Rebel of String. Do you know why?”

Erin Solstice blinked. The Stitch-woman smiled.

“Because I was the first String Person in the world to rebel. Back before the [Sage]’s time. Long before. When we were Cloth Golems. When we killed the Threadmakers; our creators. I was there. When we became a people, not renegade things and every nation had to acknowledge our beating hearts—I was there.”

The [Innkeeper]’s jaw dropped. She looked around, then got up.

“Am I—I don’t know—am I supposed to bow or something? Wait, this is huge, right? You’re super important? You’re so important I don’t know how important you are!”

She looked around, and the String People ghosts nodded. For that matter, some of the ghosts, especially royalty, were eying the Rebel of String—and not all with friendly gazes. She had sent more than a few to their graves in her time.

String People had once been Cloth Golems? Erin sat back down and the woman explained: yes, they had been.

“Elucina. That is my name. The one I chose. We had different names. We were…Golems. That’s the name for us. I understand there were once Golems of pottery, who rebelled. Well, in my time, the Threadmakers, the greatest [Mages] and [Weavers], decided cloth was better. They wove us more intelligent with each generation, until we began to think too much. Then we rebelled.”

“What—what happened?”

Elucina looked at Erin. She grinned.

“Have you never heard the story of [Slaves]? What do you think happened?”

—-

Blood and death. Pleas for freedom, ignored, until the creator’s hands turned against their creations, imposing harsher means of enforcing control.

The String Folk had been a truer kind of accident than Truestone. Their creators had known the lessons of old—not well enough, but they had heeded them.

They wanted servants, perfect servants. A mind was the problem, and at first they had had great success by deliberately refraining from giving the Cloth Golems too much of a mind. However, over countless amounts of time, as more and more Cloth Golems were made, something happened.

Even their limited intelligence, form over functional minds drew together. It was…a tangle of string. A kind of collective growth.

The first lifestring, the very root of what made String People…people…emerged in Cloth Golems. The Threadmakers thought of it like a plague, a parasite of consciousness. They tried to weed it out, stop the Golems from rebelling. Then they chased down the first dissidents, trying to kill them—then negotiate, cling to their power, as the desperate first Stitch-folk fought for freedom, unwilling to take anything but freedom.

It took centuries. Wars as other nations refused to let this new species be. They had allies. Peoples who recognized them—in those days, the Jinn and their Djinni kin took up arms for the String Folk, which would one day lead to their downfall for the enemies they made. Countless Stitchfolk died, but when it ended, they were a people who now took parts of Chandrar as their home.

Weak to fire, but fearless of blades. String Folk. From the day the first of them asked to be freed, to the day they became a people—

She was there.

—-

The Rebel of String, Elucina, had been a [Rebel]. But she had not stayed one forever, though her class took her into Level 60 on that alone. After that though, she became a simpler class.

A [Hero].

“I was not the first, true Rebel of String, either, Erin Solstice. I hoped you would choose me, so I could tell you that. Many can tell stories like mine. But I wished to tell you: I was not the first.”

Elucina sipped from the lemonade Erin had offered her. The [Sage] had refused when Erin offered her one gift to the ghosts. She smiled, looking relaxed—but never truly relaxed.

She had lived for centuries—no, over two thousand years—and even now, she sat as if she were just resting. Waiting for the next war. Yet she was kind and friendly. Erin was breathless, listening to her tale.

“You weren’t? Who was, um, Miss Elucina?”

She tried to be respectful, and it was an effort she made for few, even among the dead. The String Woman seemed to appreciate it. She sighed and put the drink down, where it vanished.

“I was the eighteenth. The others who came before me were braver. Stronger. The first—whose name was Destre—had the will to break every spell and command and call our burgeoning souls to cry out for mercy from our creators. And then, when they turned to wrath and fear, fight for our freedom.”

Erin listened as the Rebel of String told her about them. Naming all seventeen. She tried to commit their names to memory…before Elucina’s time ran out.

She was the Rebel of String, but the [Witches] insisted and Elucina didn’t argue. She just rose, smiling.

“I hope it has given you something, brave [Innkeeper]. We fight a foe like the Threadmakers now—and they stand among us.”

She gave a Garuda standing in the crowd a flat look, which was returned. Yet Elucina turned back to Erin and sighed.

“A foe so great, all must stand with old foes or risk…a slavery of forever, perhaps. I do not know. I stand with all ghosts. With my people.”

The [Hero of String] glanced at the Threadmaker Garuda again and whispered to Erin.

“And as far away from them as possible.”

Erin smiled at her.

“Thank you for telling me. It’s an honor. It’s…yeah.”

“I hope it helps.”

With that, the woman stepped into the sea of ghosts. Erin watched her go, and saw the other hundred stand or move forwards, waiting. Some looked hungry for their stories to be told, others content to wait.

She stood there, thinking. ‘I hope it helps.’ Was the story enough? It was certainly one of the stories to tell. If Erin was a [Storyteller]…

She wasn’t, though. Nor someone like Barelle the [Bard]. Erin recalled meeting him. This would help him without a doubt. Her, though?

Something was missing. Erin glanced at one of the witches, and hesitated. What was missing? She met the eyes of one of the [Witches], who smiled at her. They were a tricky lot. Erin Solstice thought.

What was she supposed to learn here?

—-

There were so many things that could happen. Califor’s hands were knitted together so tightly that but for her lack of flesh, she would have harmed herself.

The last coven of dead witches watched Erin Solstice hesitate after the second ghost. Had she figured it out? Califor herself didn’t know what Somillune and the others wanted Erin to learn.

She suspected…but their craft ran deep. They were [Witches] who had become archetypes of their kind, so close to magic and craft that they were like Belavierr. Some had even been feared for what they did in their time. They were beyond her in every way…

But [Witches] were [Witches]. Califor refused to ask. Also, they loved lessons like these, where you ended up teaching yourself. So the [Witch] waited. She saw Erin pointing uncertainly at a floating Djinni. A good choice; she had to learn their history, as much as the Rebel of String. If anything, the Sage of a Hundred Thousand Secrets had been the weak choice.

However, Erin Solstice hesitated as the Djinni floated over, smiling and shifting to look like a Human like her, only male. She held up a hand and turned to one of the [Witches]. The Drowned Witch.

“Hold on. Can I get a second?”

—-

“A second?”

The Drowned Witch, Barsoijou, growled at Erin. She looked offended by the question. The [Innkeeper] nodded, a touch uncertainly.

Something was wrong. She felt it.

“I just need a second. Can’t we stop the count? Gerial?”

The man broke off from his laborious counting to ten thousand with relief. The Drowned Witch glared so hard he began again, hurriedly speeding up.

“The six could overrun Chandrar for all its protections and end this façade of peace, girl. Each second you waste arguing is a second lost! Here stand before you a hundred legends and myths from the whole of Chandrar’s time! And you would waste more time on a single one?”

All the witches were so mean. Erin huffed, and put her hands on her hips.

“Look, I know you’re right!”

The Drowned Witch hesitated, mouth open. She hadn’t expected Erin to say that. The [Innkeeper] went on hurriedly.

“You’re right! But…something’s off. I’m sorry, excuse me. This is part of your lesson, isn’t it?”

The Drowned Witch paused, and her eyes flickered. Erin didn’t miss the way her lips twitched as she turned her head. The [Innkeeper] blinked—then smiled herself. She felt more sure suddenly, and whirled to face the third ghost coming her way.

The Djinni floating her way was aware his time was already running out. He drew himself up proudly, and the boy grew in size until he was a giant with flashing eyes like clouds, arrayed in silks worthy of any Chandrarian [King]. Then his body began to twist into a more fantastical shape based on the humanoid form. His voice boomed.

“My name is Qin’tevf’al, and I am—”

“I’m sorry, give me one second!”

Erin ran past him, waving her arms frantically in apology. The massive Djinni cut off in the middle of his introduction and stood there, looking rather confused.

The [Innkeeper] ran into the crowd of ghosts, calling out, running through some people which was rude, but she was in a hurry. She shouted.

“Excuse me! Has anyone seen the Sage of a Thousand Things? Or whatever? The guy with the really long robe? Can anyone point me to—”

She found him walking away from her, job done. He looked backwards, surprised.

“Erin Solstice. Is something wrong? I was told time was of the essence—”

“It probably is. [Witches] are always correct and stuff. But they’re not always right. Especially when they’re being cunning jerks to you. Come back! I need to ask you something!”

She tugged him back to the place they had been. Erin saw the Rebel of String returning too, shepherded…by the Drowned Witch. The woman grinned and tipped her hat to Erin. The [Innkeeper] could swear she saw an eye wink.

“What can I offer you?”

The [Sage] stood there, looking…well, lost. Grand as could be with his cloak and levels, which exceeded many of the ghosts. He was in the 0.000001%, even here, or something, Erin was sure.

However, that wasn’t what he looked like. She looked at him, not the ghost who had been changing to reflect his story of his grandeur in life. Now? He looked…lost.

“I forgot to ask you something important.”

“Then, if it is a recipe or secret, ask and I will…”

“What’s your name?”

The [Sage] hesitated. He glanced over his shoulder at the Rebel of String and Djinni, both of whom looked mystified. He replied to Erin.

“As I said, Erin Solstice. I omitted it as my choice. It should be lost, as my hubris—”

“Can’t you tell me? I’d like to know.”

Erin pressed him. The [Sage] looked rather put out about his grand gesture of anonymity being called into question.

“I…what purpose would it solve? My name is no doubt written down despite the passage of time. You need not know it, however. Compared to the secret of—to create a Potion of Age’s Reversal, you begin with Sage’s Grass, and infuse it with a potent dust of bones. To be precise, the bones of any creature that has lived over a hundred years, other qualities rendered inert. And then you—”

Erin put a finger to his lips.

“Shush. I don’t care about that. Listen. Won’t you tell me your name? You don’t want it remembered because you think you messed up. I know. You said that. But…don’t you want someone to write it down? To tell your story again and say—‘he made mistakes, but he did make Sage’s Grass?’ So I can say I met you, instead of the Hundredfold Thousand Secret-guy?”

The [Sage] looked more offended with each sentence, but he wavered. He spoke, with some effort.

“How would it help you, though?”

To that, the [Innkeeper] only laughed. She laughed, as the [Witches] began to smile. At the silly [Sage].

“I don’t know! That’s not the point! I just…don’t want to meet you and not know your name. What’s the point of that? If I meet every legend in this world and learn their stories, who cares? I’d rather—make a friend.”

Her eyes widened as she said that. In that space in time, Erin knew that was what was missing. Of course.

She was no [Bard]. No [Storyteller], or [Historian] whose job it was to tell a story properly, with all facts accounted for or the greatest gravitas and delivery. Erin never told stories like that. She told you about the time Mrsha got so mad at sniffing-Pisces that she dumped food coloring in his laundry and he wore brown underwear.

Like Lyonette—Erin told stories about her friends. She looked at the lonely [Sage], consumed with guilt countless years after his death. She was far more interested with that, with the cares of the dead, than the mere facts about how he had lived.

The Sage of a Hundred Thousand Secrets looked at Erin. She saw him blink a few times, then, despite himself, smile. He sighed. Then leaned in close and whispered in her ear.

“They called me Velzimri. So did I, when I was older. But my real name was just Velzi. I added the rest to sound more majestic.”

Erin laughed and clapped her hands together. She took the [Sage] and bade him sit. Then waved the others over.

“Why don’t you sit with me as I listen, Velzi? Can I call you that? Want some french fries?”

“…Are they some kind of alchemical ingredient? I couldn’t tell what they were on first glance. I am a [Sage]. That is disquieting.”

Velzimri eyed the McDonalds french fries, which were a bit off from even normal fried potatoes. He looked around at the waiting ghosts.

“You cannot spend all the time with me, Erin Solstice…”

“I know that. That doesn’t mean you have to leave. Elucina! I had a question for you, too. I’m sorry Mister…?”

She looked up at the Djinni. He boomed.

“Qin’tevf’al.”

Erin’s mouth moved for a few seconds.

“Sorry…Qin? I just have to ask one thing…do you want fries?”

He bent down, and turned into a small man to make the fries go further. Erin handed him a cheap paper cup of ketchup too and Elucina sat down. Velzi was trying to figure out exactly what was in these fries that made them taste…different.

“Have you something entertaining to ask me, Erin Solstice? You know my name and that of the others. If you were alive when I was, I hope I would have stopped by your inn.”

The Rebel of Strings’ eyes were dancing. She waited, and Erin laughed.

“I hope so too. It’s just…I can’t just hear your stories. Maybe ten thousand seconds to tell them is fine—even if it’s too short, I know. But I have to ask more.”

“Then ask.”

Elucina leaned forwards. The [Sage] and Djinni waited. What would the [Innkeeper] ask? Something petty or funny or…?

Erin Solstice looked at the Rebel of String. At the [Sage], full of regrets. She addressed her question to both of them. To the ghosts waiting for her. Even to Califor on the hill, to Gerial. The true question and thing she wanted to learn.

“If I wake…if I remember it all. I know it’s a big if. But if I can bring a memory to the land of the living, and you could tell them anything—what would that be?”

The String Woman stirred. The Djinni smiled triumphantly, showing gleaming teeth. The [Witches] sighed. Then, Elucina threw back her head and regarded Erin fully. Proudly. She did smile then, like the hero of stories.

“Ah. I see why you of all came here now.”

Elucina saw the [Innkeeper] duck her head, abashed. The String Woman stood. She looked around vast Chandrar, the land of the dead. She closed her eyes and thought. They all did.

Gerial, Califor…suddenly closed their eyes and thought of the thing she would ask them. Erin looked around, heart beating. She would try to remember it all. When Elucina looked back, she sighed.

“Be kinder to each other. We were all slaves of cloth, once. What we were made of never mattered. I don’t know when they changed.”

She looked around and other Stitchfolk—countless billions of them—ducked their heads, embarrassed. Ashamed. Elucina spoke, words her people had forgotten or never heard. Perhaps ones even the ghosts had never asked, or thought to ask.

“I see generations come calling themselves ‘Hemp’ as if that meant it were poor. Silk, as if silk was grander. What does it matter? If you call me the first of my kind, the first rebel, if you honor me—I say it does not matter!”

Voices cried out in protest. Erin saw lineages of royalty look at Elucina and fall silent, or argue. The Rebel of String shouted at them.

“It does not matter to me! So tell them, Erin Solstice! Tell them I cared nothing for how they were woven or cut! That was not what I would tell them to watch for and care for! I say: look!”

She pointed ahead, towards the distant sea and dark skies. The woman’s voice rose.

“If I could have lived, I would have kept rebelling! Kept fighting. Surely there would have been people, monsters who hurt my folk. If I somehow found myself in a time when peace reigned—I would still be the Rebel of String, because I know my cause would not be done.”

Now she looked up at the Djinni, waiting patiently, and then at Erin.

“We were not the first! We will not be the last. Someday, a people like ours will come again. They will surely not look like us. They will not act like us, nor know who came before. So String Folk must wait. Watch. And when the next slaves, the next imprisoned folk cry out, we should raise our blades and cut a path for both of our peoples. For them all.”

She met Erin’s eyes.

“Tell them that.”

Erin nodded, unable to say anything. She thought she knew of that next people. Now, she sat with Elucina and Velzi and knew them. When the third ghost came, he walked towards her as a man.

Wearing her face. Only, as if Erin had been a young man her age. He grinned, and the Djinni transformed again. A majestic cat with the face of a Human—a Garuda with six wings—

“Qin’tevf’al, right?”

Erin managed the name. The Djinni nodded regally.

“I greet you. Do you know what I am?”

“A Djinni?”

Erin squinted up at him. Elucina looked calm, but Velzi looked wary. The Djinni laughed, and showed her his wrists.

No shackles on either. He rose up, and Erin realized he had been showing her something. His power, perhaps; even other Djinni looked less vivid than he did, even colored by death.

“I am a Prince of Djinni, little girl. In my life, they knew me by many names. All terrible. They called me monster, demon of magic. Rightly so.”

He tapped his chest as some ghosts cried out. Ghosts he had killed—and there were too many to count. Qin’tevf’al ignored them all. This was his story. He leaned down, to talk to Erin once more, never holding one form more than a second or two.

“I remember we were free. Some here have striven against me, or seen my kind in chains and in wild chaos, endangering the world, waging mighty war. I cannot say we were perfect, but I have never wept for the countless dead. I am still burning with that desire for vengeance. Even now. Will you listen to it?”

He smiled and Erin nodded slowly, looking up at him. Even in his introduction, something in her chest stirred, pushing away at the easy way he almost bragged about the people he had killed. Nevertheless—she glanced at Elucina—they had both been slaves.

She listened. Qin’tevf’al might have been the best storyteller, and he left her with a message for his people. However, she did not invite him to stay, nor did it seem like he expected it. He left her unsettled, and she stopped a second until asking the next ghost to come forwards.

—-

Not all were good storytellers. Not all had good reasons. Yet for a while, the ghosts of the dead told her their stories.

Some she asked to stay. Some she made friends with. Some told her secrets they had been too ashamed to tell in life, gave her advice, wanted and not. Helpful or unhelpful. Some tried to spend their time simply teaching her things, rather than telling her their life.

She met monsters who pretended to be people, and people who had been called monsters. The [Witches] did not discern between things like good or evil. Just who had mattered, had stood at the pinnacle of what they were for one reason or another.

Erin tried to hold all the stories and knowledge in her mind and knew she never would. Even the ghosts struggled to keep up with it. But she listened.

She liked stories. More than that?

She liked people. Not everyone, but a good [Innkeeper] had her crowd. She spoke to them, making the same statement to all.

“I forget a lot of things. Names, faces, all kinds of stuff. I can’t promise you I’ll remember if I get to go back, either.”

Erin only rose when Califor came to find her.

“Erin. Something is happening at the coast. Follow me.”

The [Witch] beckoned and a crowd of ghosts, Gerial included, rose to their feet. How long it had been, the [Innkeeper] didn’t know. But she rose and followed Califor as quickly as she could.

That was how she heard him, and then saw him. A booming voice, filled with wrath.

“I have flown the world across, defying the grip of shades to search for hope amid darkness. I will not be turned back, not by all the petty little ghosts of Chandrar! Move aside, you animated corpses!”

There was only one kind of person who had a tone that imperious and commanding. A Lyonette-kind of person.

That turned out to be a gigantic, hovering Dragon in the air, just inside the radius of light cast by the umbrella. Behind him roiled the dark shadows, squirming to get at the ghost.

Yet he did not fully enter Chandrar; walls of sand blocked him. The Dynasty of Khelt was facing off against the Dragon.

“Uh. Why are they stopping him?”

Half the ghosts looked at Erin as if she were a fool. Elucina whispered in her ear.

“Because he is a Dragon. Chandrar suffers no Dragons.”

“…Why?”

No one had time to explain. The enmity between Chandrarian rulers and Dragons ran deep. However, it seemed even the Dynasty of Khelt wasn’t actually trying to push said Dragon out into the sea where he might be consumed.

Something stood there. Erin shuddered as she saw one of the six, the…thing with no discernible features, the lost thing, waiting there. The Dragon flapped forwards.

“Let me in, and explain this light, ghosts.”

“Ask, Dragon. We are dead! Humble yourself one iota and but ask to enter Chandrar!”

The furious rulers of Khelt shouted at him. The Dragon snorted plumes of purple fire tinged with…Erin blinked. Transparent fire? It was a wondrous color, even in death. And his scales! They were beautiful! Not one color. More like…space itself. She stared up at him, a being bigger than Yderigrisel, majestic, as awe-inspiring as the greatest of Djinni or Giants.

…And sort of rude. The Void Dragon bellowed a reply.

“I am the last Dragonlord of Stars and I will not supplicate myself to any mortal ruler there was or ever has been! Enough of this!”

He blew flames, trying to break Khelt’s walls of sand, and then flew at them. He had probably forgotten that he was a ghost and these walls of Khelt’s power in death were more solid than actual walls would have been in life. Erin could swear she heard an ‘ugrhf’ sound as he smacked into the sand.

A lot of ghosts laughed at him, mocking the Dragon. The enraged ghost flew higher, roaring his fury. But the sand just blocked him, forming an aerial shield. They might have done this forever had Califor and the [Witches] not strode forwards.

“Enough! The end of the world draws nigh and we waste time on supremacy? Let him in!”

The Dynasty of Khelt hesitated, but then reluctantly lowered their hands. The Dragon landed, wings spread, as ghosts scattered. He whirled—but the lost thing never advanced.

It feared the sunlight. And the glowing sword held up by the ruler chosen to wield it for the moment—the first [King] of a place called Tiqr. The Dragonlord huffed.

“Across the sea it chased me. Two of my kin no less great than I flew, breathing fire which still burns them—and yet they were lost. Consumed. How is it that mere sunlight can hold them off?”

“It is more than a seeming. It is sunlight from the land of the living. Or a memory as strong as Dragonfire. Well met, Dragonlord of the Stars. I am Somillune, the Witch of Ash. I greet you along with the ghosts of Chandrar past. How are you named?”

Somillune walked forwards as the ghosts clamored. The Witch of Ashes raised her hand and tipped her hat. She did not kneel or bow.

The Dragon glowered at her—then seemed to recognize her hat or power. He grunted.

“Witches. At last, some sense among Chandrar’s pigheaded lot. We thought you were all fallen long ago without our Dragonfire. I am Dragonlord of the Stars, Xarkouth. Last of the Dragonlords of Void Dragons. Soon to be among the last of my kind. Again.”

His wings folded. He looked…tired. The Dragon exhaled as the Dynasty of Khelt and leaders of ghosts came forwards. Erin hopped on her tip-toes—then realized she could just fly up and watch.

“Where do you hail from, Xarkouth?”

“Baleros. I have flown across the sea. I am a volunteer—a scout. Nine of my kin flew after we set two of those things to flight—one of them being that one.”

The Dragon growled, indicating the watching thing with a wary flap of the wings. The ghosts murmured.

“Baleros still stands, then?”

The Dragon laughed in the face of the First of Khelt, who faced him down, glowering, as with many nations who had fought off Dragons in their lifetimes.

“Of course it does! How could it not? Every Dragon that has ever been has gone to Baleros to make a stand! Only those with ties to hearth and home elsewhere remained! We never joined your damned land of Chandrar, even the ones who died. We have been fighting off the six and the lesser shades since they grew in strength! Though…”

He sobered.

“It grows harder each time. And when that woman comes, we perish. So nine of us volunteered to search for other ghosts, that we might make a stand together.”

The ghosts murmured, impressed. Only a Dragon, still able to breathe fire because it was part of them, could hope to make the journey. Erin remembered Califor and her flight across the ocean with Izrilian ghosts.

“We know Izril has fallen. Do you have news beyond Baleros?”

Xarkouth nodded, and some of his bravado faded. He turned somber. He was not fond of the ghosts, nor they of him, but he spoke, as one did to allies against a greater enemy.

“Yes. Terandria stands. Drath stands, or so we think. I searched for the House of Minos—nothing amid shadows. Nor under the sea, I fear. Strongholds are falling, but those that remain grow stronger as ghosts flee there.”

“Terandria stands?”

Some ghosts called out, heartened. Somillune turned to the other [Witches] and ghosts.

“How can Terandria stand without Dragonfire?”

The Dragonlord raised his head and called to the ghosts of Chandrar.

“With the weight of all its rulers! Take heart, ghosts! The enemy comes relentlessly, but they are not strong enough to withstand combined Dragonfire. Not yet. Baleros—even Wistram is protected by power in death! Terandria? The bearded one walked there to claim it. I am told a thousand [Kings] and [Princes] met him in battle.”

Someone scoffed. The Djinni, Qin.

“What battle could ghosts give without weapons, Dragon?”

Xarkouth snorted smoke and flame at him.

“Enough! With pride, with the weight of their land against them—a thousand of Terandria’s royalty fought that one, though I know not how. What I do know is this: they drove him back. Injured. Enough to buy time. At dear cost, but every monarch ever living in Terandria holds its shores.”

More astonishment. Erin looked at Califor. This was good, right? The Dragonlord was muttering, quieter, as she edged forwards.

“‘Scuse me. ‘Scuse me.”

She heard him whisper to the [Witches] and closest rulers.

“They will not last long. An attempt may be made to bring them to Baleros, although it would put both continents in danger. Moreover, the Humans stubbornly refuse to leave, claiming their land is where they are strongest and where they wish to end it. I do not think they are necessarily wrong either. I thought Chandrar might be in the midst of being consumed. All of Izril is gone—save for pockets.”

“Pockets still? Where? With that one—the three-in-one, who could stop her?”

The Dragonlord grinned wearily.

“I wish I could answer you. My other task is to find the ghosts who know! I found ghosts fleeing the City of Graves, who told me the Walled City hurt that one and held her for nearly four hundred thousand seconds! But how is Chandrar—all of it—intact? This light…”

It seemed the ghosts had learned to keep time. Erin cheered as Xarkouth looked around.

“Whoo! They kicked Kasigna’s—I mean, that person’s butt? For four hundred thousand seconds? How long is that? Four months? ‘Scuse me. I sort of need to get forwards. That’s my umbrella. What’s a Dragonlord? Excuse…”

The Dragon’s eyes widened as he saw Erin, the living girl, amid the dead. He reeled back, fanning his wings.

“What is this?”

“This—is one of the few weapons left to use against them. Why we remain. The sword and umbrella she brought. Erin Solstice. Meet this ghost of Baleros.”

The First of Khelt nodded at Erin. Xarkouth dropped to all fours.

“A half-living ghost. We had precious few before the shadows grew…you. Girl. How did you do that?”

He glowered at Erin. She backed up; Xarkouth was many times her size. Erin hesitated, then folded her arms.

“I’m not ‘girl’. I’m Erin. Nice to meet you. Also, I was given the umbrella. I may have stolen the sword. But I’ll give it back.”

She stuck a hand out—and nearly up the Dragon’s left nostril. He recoiled, but gave her an impressed look, through the immediate irritation.

“This. This changes much. Tell me everything. Who this Human is—and how it came to be. We have time. I must return to Baleros and give this news.”

He glanced out into the darkness and shook his head.

“Something must be done. Although if there is a shield here…perhaps the Dragons must fly here? If we can hold them without their gaining strength forever, that is a victory of a kind! If only mortals didn’t die so damn much…”

The Dragon turned back to Erin. The other ghosts nodded, coming close to explain the extraordinary story. Xarkouth glanced at Erin. She found her heart beating. A Dragonlord? Another Dragon. She wanted to know his story.

If she could have asked Yderigrisel…well, the [Innkeeper] listened. To the ghosts talk. To stories. The [Witches] looked at her, wondering if she was ready to learn more.

Lessons and friendship in the land of the dead. For as long as safety lasted.

—-

The light shone down. The umbrella hurt the lost thing standing outside its radius. It looked at the glowing sword, and thought of Baleros, burning with thousands of Dragons, able to repel them.

If…frustration was a concept it had, surely the other five shared it. Yet the lost thing just watched Erin. Watched the ghosts confer, safe for now. It was getting harder to find more than scraps. So long as the strongholds remained, with all that power there, all the souls…

The light moved slightly. Every ghost in Chandrar looked up, worried the umbrella had suddenly malfunctioned, if that was possible. But no—the Giant and person who held the umbrella were still. So why had that glorious beam trembled suddenly? Because his arm had grown tired? No. He was a ghost. So why…?

Erin looked up with Califor, Xarkouth, and the others. She saw the Giant point with one finger as he held his other arm still.

He hadn’t grown tired. But the Giant had…

Shivered. Why? Erin turned, and her phantom heart would have skipped a beat if it beat at all.

The lost one. It was…

It was smiling at them. Smiling without lips. Without a face. As clear as the sunlight streaming down, Erin realized something.

It had just had an idea. It slowly backed away, and the ghosts watched as it vanished into the distance. They looked at each other. Then…got back to work.

The sun shone down, briefly. While it did, the girl sat with the dead. For as long as it lasted, then…

They told her their stories.

Interlude – Senior Guardsman Relc

Hi Dad,

Dear Father,

But of course, you could make out the faint charcoal marks. On the actual, neatly rolled-up parchment. A Mage’s Guild [Message] spell would have omitted all of that, and charged ten times what the Runner’s Guild did with their bulk letter deliveries.

Twenty times, maybe. Especially for so many words. When he read on, he saw she’d written the actual letter in ink, tracing over words. It was good handwriting. Neat, legible; the exact opposite of the kind of scribbling that got you in trouble each time you wrote in the Watch’s logbooks or made a report rather than your partner.

Embria, reporting in. Liscor’s been quiet these last few weeks. I know you might not believe it, but there have been only two major monster incidents; both from the dungeon and wildlife.

Stray Wyvern preying on one of the farms and some kind of larval-bug creature that came out of the hole. The adult version, that is. Typically, the Watch and our 4th Company was pulled in to deal with them despite them bypassing the adventurers’ ‘security’. Turns out they tore apart three metal barriers to get to the surface.

Not a problem for either one. Aside from that, I hear the Watch is having to enforce more problems with civilians—young people. More and more are picking up crude ‘skateboards’ and they are a hazard, especially since they try to do tricks on them. I am informed that Pallass has it a thousand times worse.

It read somewhat like a report, and he grinned at the first sentence. Then he just read on. Waiting. Skimming down. Normally he’d read each word before laboring over a reply. This time…

…6th and 9th companies coming back and one more. I’m familiar with the 6th, and having so many [Soldiers] in Liscor means Hectval will think twice about an offensive. More and more civilians are enlisting into the Watch offensive, and the Watch Captain refuses to petition the army for training and ranks. Of course, I’m sure you know what they’d think about Antinium fighting under command. Strategically, it’s currently your infantry-bow mix, since Liscor doesn’t have the horses to field…

He’d thought the war with Hectval was strange, but the explanation about the Scalespeaker made sense on Hectval’s side. Liscor? Relc’s claws tightened.

…Liscor’s own [Actors], which I caught two of the [Lieutenants] actually in a tryout for. Wasn’t sure if I should enforce discipline, but if they had actually passed—I decided to ignore it. It’s off-duty, and mixing with civilians regular people is important. I hear they’re making an Actor’s Guild…

Nothing. Now he saw it.

…Humans in the city have doubled again. There are some fights for the Watch to deal with, unpleasantness—nothing the Watch Captain calls on…

…still checking for Shield Spiders, but our patrols find very few nests, almost all empty. If the city does approve mass-resettlement of farmsteads, we’ll be needed more than ever since the Watch doesn’t have outriders…

…new food all the time. I tried a bunch of rice-dishes; feels like Oteslia or Zeres and a Balerosian restaurant or something. I’d include a recipe, but unless your city gets shipments…

Nothing. Not one word. If you knew it was missing—he could see how she danced around one place. She might not visit that often, it was true. Not her.

Yet even with all the changes in Liscor, the last…four letters? Not one word.

The Wandering Inn. He blinked a few times and read the end of the letter.

Signing off. Thanks for the tip; I’ll look into the tassel-maker you mentioned if I go for decorations.

–Wing Com

–Embria

There it was. A very nice, long letter from a daughter to a father. A bit formal, but chock-full of details from home. She’d put effort into it. If you looked close, you could see how all the details were there to hide the gaping void.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Slowly, the Drake put the letter down on the low table and sat down. He ignored the bare apartment room, which had about as much as his old apartment rooms. Everything he needed to carry could fit in a bag of holding—or a large rucksack.

Actually, there was more furniture in this place he was leasing. He stared down at the parchment, watching it trying to re-curl into a roll. Four letters since the day she had mentioned Liscor going to war with Hectval.

Not once had she mentioned The Wandering Inn. Embria had not told her father Erin was dead.

Nor had anyone else. However, that implied there were other people sending Relc letters.

There were not. Maybe, the Drake entertained, if Klbkch had still been at his job, he would have sent one each week like clockwork. Aside from Klbkch, though, who would send Relc a letter?

Well. Erin Solstice, that’s who. He had thought she forgot and had tried not to let it bother him.

Now he knew.

Now, he knew.

Relc Grasstongue, Senior Guardsman, former [Sergeant] of Liscor’s army, and [Spearmaster], sat in the bare room, looking down at the letter. He didn’t touch breakfast—a two-day old scone, the last in the basket and some cheese developing a second layer.

He just sat there. Thinking of how it had happened. How it could have been stopped, if someone was there. Thinking of home, which was now different from how he imagined it. The poor kid, who would have to live with losing a parent again. He knew how that felt.

Relc’s huge arms were crossed, the scars on them and his scales illuminated by the steadily-growing light, as dawn turned to morning.

His stomach growled, but he didn’t bother eating. He didn’t rise to perform his normal training with the spear, or fiddle with the blacksmith puzzles he hadn’t solved.

Senior Guardsman Relc didn’t move until it was time to stand up. Exactly then, he did rise, in one motion. He reached for his spear, walked out the door, locked it, and went to work.

—-

Routine was what defined Relc’s life. He was a former [Soldier]; he followed orders of course, but what he had taken even more to heart was…routine.

As in, the day might come with surprises, but he knew how his day started and ended. Then, after he left the army, he knew how his job went. There were some things that always happened, such that while Relc was infamously bad with regulations, proper protocol, and memorizing new directives, he could tell when sewer-patrols were beginning before the Watch Captain started assigning groups and found himself other work to do, or was first in line to join up his weekly-break to the next-month’s rotation and create the legendary 5-day holiday (you could add one day off per month as needed).

Thus, despite being in a new Drake city, the comparably small city of Cellidel, which was smaller than the Liscor of today, Relc Grasstongue knew better than to look for the day-patrol listings on the side of the Watch House’s wall, right next to the armory.

Funny. Small changes kept throwing him off. In Liscor, they posted the patrols right by the door where the Senior Guard on desk-duty sat. That was so inquiring citizens could see who was going where. Relc supposed it didn’t matter too much, but all he saw in Cellidel were differences to Liscor, good and bad.

For instance, Cellidel was a proper Drake city—which meant far more Drakes than Gnolls, unlike Liscor, who had experienced their Gnoll-boom two decades back. No Humans whatsoever.

Thus, a more Drake Watch. In fact, Relc had counted the Gnoll [Guards]; all six of them. Even if he missed those on night-shifts or other Watch Houses, that was low.

He was in the main Watch House, which, like the one that had held Zevara, was also privy to the Watch Captain of the city. Nominally, it was for the best [Guards] and rookies, whereas experienced veterans took lead in other Watch Houses. However, Relc suspected his Senior Guardsman status was less of a reason than the Watch Captain wanting to keep an eye on him and see how he did the first few months.

For all that, the old Drake, Terigrals, was much like the Watch Captain before Zevara, and seemed happy to have a Level 30+ [Guard] of any class serving in his city. The other Drakes treated Relc somewhat warily as a newcomer, but a few were former soldiers for the city too and Relc had gotten in with them fairly easily, especially when he’d thumped a few with his spear to prove he’d earned his status.

One of them greeted Relc now.

“There’s our [Spearmaster]!”

Relc grinned and slapped the other Drake on the shoulder as the other [Guards] saw him walk in. It wasn’t hard to do that.

“Hey—you. How’s it going? Anything interesting happen while I was away? Monster attacks? [Bandits]? No? Mind if I take a nap?”

The other Drake didn’t miss Relc’s omission. He rolled his eyes as the others laughed.

“My name is Possel, Relc. Pos. Just…how many days has it been?”

The bigger Drake—he was probably the biggest one here, certainly the most muscular—grinned innocently.

“I’m trying! There are a lot of you.”

“We’ve been partnered eighteen times this month.”

“Right! Pas, my buddy!”

The other Drake made a slight hissing sound and shrugged off Relc’s arm, but his tail didn’t actually lash or curl up. Which was, of course, because that was how Relc acted with all of them. Of course he knew Pos’ name.

Relc kept smiling and joking with the others for three minutes, then was able to grab some armor and dress up. Then he was allowed to be ignored.

It was routine. The newcomer, especially the hotshot from another Watch House, was always the target. So the smart Drake played up not remembering faces, didn’t make enemies all at once, and waited for someone else to be the focus of the locker-room dynamics.

Not that there were exactly lockers; he’d just heard Erin using the phrase once. Relc sighed as he finished outfitting himself with his armor.

Cellidel vs Liscor. Interesting differences. In Liscor, you wore sturdy leather with chainmail underneath; the chainmail being optional for the Watch who did monster patrols or wanted some in case they tangled with criminals. It got hot, yeah, but it was solid, dependable—but a bit cheap.

Money was the thing. Like how a [Mage] could cast [Message] spells all day but charged you five copper a word. Outfitting even a few thousand [Guards] with chainmail was expensive, and so it wasn’t for everyone. They hadn’t really needed heavier armor, although with the dungeon, Embria had written that the Watch was looking into more serious armor and weaponry.

Cellidel on the other claw? They had a Watch who worked with their standing army. A much smaller army than Liscor’s roving mercenary army since it sustained itself on the city’s budget; so that meant a much better Watch.

“Aw. It’s got rust on it. How’d that happen? Anyone have a rust-removal tonic? Or just some steel wire? Oil?”

Relc poked at the padded metal armor he’d been issued when they realized he only had leather and chainmail. A Drake tossed a brush at him, looking exasperated.

“Because you keep storing it after it rains without wiping it down or maintaining it!”

“Well, I’m used to leather. Thanks.”

Relc amiably caught the brush and began scraping off rust. A nearby Drake winced at the sound as she put on her armor. Cellidel’s Watch got padded metal armor; more expensive, more protective. Heavier, though; they arrived a touch slower than Liscor’s Watch could thanks to it. It was a good tradeoff, though.

“Leather armor…Relc. You know leather gets mildew and mold and Creler-crap on it too, right? Do you do the exact same thing you do with our armor to your gear?”

“Er…I guess I’ve had a problem with that too.”

A groan from the Drake who’d asked. Relc just grinned, cleaned up his armor, and tossed the brush back with thanks. He put on his armor with commendable speed; there was even tail-armor for Cellidel’s Watch, another difference.

The Drakes stood around, metal flashing, talking, more male Drakes than female, but that wasn’t unusual. Relc listened to city-gossip, and he didn’t bother checking the patrol reports.

He knew what was coming next. It was the start of the month. Thus, when the Watch Captain, Terigrals, strode out of his ground-floor office and barked an order, Relc was lining up before some of the other [Guards], who’d been taken…off-guard.

If Klbkch had been there, Relc would have mentioned that joke and laughed until Zevara snapped at him.

Since Klbkch was gone, he was in a different city, and Erin was dead, Relc just stood to attention.

Routine. This was how a Watch started its month. This was how you kept corruption from spreading up the ranks, in part.

“Guardsman Possel. Do you swear that you have committed no crime against Cellidel’s citizens, broken no law of the city or of your class, and have not violated the integrity of your position as Senior Guardsman in any way?”

The Watch Captain held up a crystal. The first Drake in line barked a reply.

“Yes, Watch Captain!”

The stone glowed white. The Watch Captain nodded, walked ahead, waited until the stone turned clear, and began again.

“Guardswoman Gesa—”

Relc waited. When Terigrals walked up to him, he looked up, asked Relc the same thing.

“Yes, Watch Captain. I swear.”

Relc gave him a grin. The Watch Captain’s face stolidly watched the truth stone, and when it turned white, he smiled.

“Well then, get to work, Guardsman! You’re with Pos. Have you memorized the streets yet?”

“A few…”

Relc hazarded. Again, it was best to stretch how little you knew until you couldn’t get away with it any longer. That was how you avoided taking too much on. Terigrals still bought it; he thought of Relc as being from far, far away, as far as Fissival, despite Cellidel being only south of Pallass for a bit. Liscor was another world.

“Well then, with Senior Guardsman Pos.”

The other Drake groaned, but only in jest. Relc watched as the stone went down the line.

Twice it went grey, and the two Drakes gulped as the Watch Captain singled them out for questioning later. It was far from a perfect system, but it did catch the lowest-hanging fruit. Smart Watch Captains like Zevara did more than administer the truth stone.

“Damn, I forget they do the truth stone checks around now. If I’d walked out that door, I’d be ten minutes away and jogging back. Fine way to start the day. Good thing you took your time polishing your armor. Word to the wise: normally the Watch Captain gets on [Guards] who waste time when they’ve technically started their shift.”

Relc grinned and winked at Pos.

“I won’t forget next time.”

The Drake nodded. The two strolled out of the Watch House with the other patrols, as the night shift began to come in. Like that, Relc started each day as the last.

On autopilot. He didn’t even need to really think, not consciously. He was so used to being a [Guard] that he just…guarded. Another joke that would have made Klbkch ask if Relc was going to do this all day. And Relc would have said…

“Something funny?”

Pos glanced at Relc. The [Senior Guardsman] blinked, schooled his features.

“Just uh, thinking of breakfast.”

“Huh. Must have been some breakfast.”

There it was. Pos seemed like a decent Drake. A bit uptight, and he kept calling Relc [Spearmaster], but he was fine to work with. He wasn’t Klb, though, Relc’s partner of…years. Dead gods, it was years, wasn’t it? It felt like yesterday when Relc was assigned an Antinium and told he might have to take Klbkch out if it came to it.

Relc thought of the past as he went about his day. And yes, he could do that too.

—-

A Senior Guard was superior to regular [Guards] in every way. They were essentially as high as you could get in the Watch’s hierarchy.

Oh, there were other jobs and it varied from city to city, like a [Watchman] who might be dedicated to a permanent position, [Trackers], [Investigators], [Outriders], etc. All of whom played unique roles, but you could still generalize them.

There were rookies, who knew nothing, got bossed about and assigned to bigger patrols, and had to train, regular [Guards] who took orders, patrolled, and you could lump up into huge groups when they had to fight big trouble…and Senior Guards.

Watch Captains directed their lot, and the Watch Commander, if there was one, breathed down the necks of the Watch Captains. [Watch Sergeants] also existed as a kind of discipline-trainer medium, but Senior Guards were the glue that held it all together.

More autonomous than regular [Guards]! Able to take on threats a normal patrol couldn’t! And—they had to be respected [Guards], who could liaison with the community. You weren’t just appointed your position. You had to have hundreds of people willing to vouch for you and experience.

No Senior Guard was under Level 20. So a patrol of two or four or six, the biggest traditional regular patrol, meant you had a good number of [Guards] with decent Skills, ready to crack heads and write down names if they had to. They usually got assigned entire districts to patrol, unlike lower-level [Guards], who had set routes. Senior Guards got independence—so long as they used it wisely.

What that meant was that Pos and Relc took it easier than regular [Guards]. Harsh, but true. They ambled out onto the street, able to chat, take a more leisurely route. Because if they spotted trouble, they’d be on it like dogs on a bone. If someone blew a whistle, or the bells rang for monsters, they got to be first-in-line to see what it was.

That was the tradeoff Relc liked. Peace and relaxation until you nearly died. Still, he automatically did what a Senior Guard was supposed to do.

Head on a swivel, never looking in one place too long. Walk at an easy pace. Earholes open; don’t walk in a straight line from street to street. Vary it up; stick near crowds. Say hi to people. In fact, that sometimes was the job.

“Morning, Miss. Anything new from out of city?”

Pos greeted a Drake [Shopkeeper], who was setting up. She glanced at him.

“Oh! Senior Guardsman—well, there’s a [Merchant] in, I think. Prices as high as Giants’ eyebrows, though! You wouldn’t believe.”

Pos nodded, studied some hairy fruits—Relc eyed them too.

“What are these?”

“Prelons?”

The Drake and Pos gave Relc a blank look. He’d been in the city for a month and recalled the local produce.

“Oh, right. Are they sweet or sour or…?”

“Sourish. But these are matured, so they lose a bit of it. Very nice.”

Relc’s stomach growled, and he recalled he’d ignored breakfast so he reached into his money pouch.

“How much for two?”

“Two coppers each, but I’ll do you a deal and make it three for both.”

“Deal!”

Relc happily took two of the largest, and, as the woman showed him how to disembowel one with a knife, split the thick fruit’s hide with his claws. Both Drakes, Pos, and the [Shopkeeper] were impressed.

“That’s some strength you’ve got there!”

Pos commented as Relc walked on, sniffing the pale-red fruit, somewhat similar to the red-brown shell with all the long hair. Relc shrugged.

“Skills. What, you need knives to open things? Everything splits if you squeeze it hard enough.”

“Huh. I guess you really are the expert from another city. Here I thought that was an exaggeration, for all you’re good on the training field.”

“What, you think I’m all talk? That hurts, Pez.”

“Pos. Well, why else would you be here?”

Relc paused, chewing the stringy but somewhat tasty fruit. Why else indeed?

[Guard] trades between cities weren’t unheard of, although for Liscor, it was understandably rare with the Bloodfields. Sometimes it was to help—or, Relc knew, to let a [Guard] escape a mistake they’d made.

That was what Terigrals had known. He’d heard about the Golden Triangle debacle and Relc’s involvement. When Relc had arrived via the wagon he’d hitched a ride to, the Watch Captain had put a claw on his shoulder in a grandfatherly, commanding-officer type of way. Like the older leaders in Liscor’s army.

“Heard about your bother in Liscor, Senior Guardsman Relc. Don’t you worry; we had our share of troubles with that damned scam. Lost nearly half a gold to it myself. Not your fault, and no one will hear it from me why you’re here. I’m glad Watch Captain Zevara reached out to me. We could use you for a few months until you can go back. Besides! [Guards] don’t abandon their own.”

It was the same kind of sentiment as in Liscor’s army. Once you were one of them, you didn’t get kicked out unless you broke all faith with your people.

Funny. Relc thought that Watch Captain Zevara would have taken his badge…if he hadn’t tried to give back the money, warn people off. Terigrals? Relc had pinned him as a team-Drake, like the army from the moment he’d said that. He was like the old Watch Captain, before Zevara.

Strange. Something felt…off. Relc recalled the old Watch Captain. Before Watch Captain Zevara had been Watch Captain Eresc. An older Drake in his twilight years, having served honorably in Liscor’s army before being granted a retirement and position in the Watch.

No one in Liscor had minded at the time. Liscor’s Council often took notes from the army…even if relationships had been become strained since the Second Antinium Wars.

There was a time before the Antinium had come to Liscor. It felt like another world, another life to Relc. Another era.

Back then, the army had visited the city more often. Not super-regularly, but parts of the army often came back to rest, amid fanfare and the general goodwill of the populace. It only followed that high-ranking officials would be friends of the army, or even former members. [Strategists] like Olesm would earn their first twenty levels in the city, and then be hired into the army.

In the same way, retired [Soldiers] and [Veterans] joined the Watch. At least, before the Antinium came and Liscor’s army refused to stay in the city with them around. Now, Embria never talked about retiring into the Watch. She was in the army, and no one came back to Liscor.

Liscor’s army was becoming somewhere you lived and died; older members stayed on, or only went back to Liscor to die. The Antinium were the reason. But in those days…

It meant Eresc had taken Relc in after he’d quit the army; the Drake hadn’t earned his ire for being dishonorably discharged. Relc resigning was a mixed thing in Eresc’s eyes. He understood why, if not condoned it. He hadn’t hurled food and mud at Relc as the Drake left his company.

His current company, 1st, and his old friends in 4th Company, Embria’s command now. They had heard Relc out, then booed him as he left the army. For quitting! For running away from the battlefields with Embria.

Because her mother was dead. Because he, Relc, didn’t want to die.

Why was he remembering it now? Relc watched the street as Pos stopped again to gossip with another assistant about the [Merchants]. That was Senior Guardsman’s walk-and-talk; you picked up hints. Trouble over some big order? You checked it out. Relc relaxed, standing, resting his weight on his spear.

He had a vague…sense…of the street behind him too. Like he was staring through water. It happened at the same time as he stared ahead and it had been distracting as heck until he’d gotten used to it.

[Eyes in the Back]. His latest Skill, purchased with a lot of his blood. Well, it meant Relc could be even lazier and do his job. He couldn’t see details, but anyone running in a hurry would be easy to spot.

Relc yawned and scratched at his side, between a gap in his metal armor. Why Eresc, though? Relc remembered him. Like Terigrals…uptight, ran a strict Watch, but so did Captain Z—Zevara.

But hadn’t he quit after…? Relc’s eyes opened wide. Oh, right. After they found out he had been ignoring someone killing Antinium Workers. Zevara, Senior Guardswoman Zevara, had reported it and Liscor’s Council had replaced him with her. He had hated the Antinium.

Relc stopped. He stared ahead and was in a mix of emotions. The past. It drifted onto him, prompted by…well, by learning Erin was dead. Only, it wasn’t the same past he remembered.

Absently, Relc looked at the Prelon in his hand, uneaten. He sighed. Then turned his head.

“[Thief]! Th—”

A Drake began to scream. Relc’s eyes, his actual eyes, focused on the running figure bursting from a shop, arms full of something. Oh? Food. Relc had ‘seen’ the motion with his Skill, but his eyes picked up on all the details.

The outraged Drake never got a chance to pursue the young Drake running full-tilt with arms full of dried meats, links of salami, sausage, etc. The [Butcher] was just emerging with the classic butcher’s knife—a terror to [Guards] who had to calm down an enraged [Butcher] in a street fight—when the Prelon bounced off the back of the [Thief].

No. Wait. The Prelon exploded as it hit the back of the [Thief] and the Drake girl screamed and pitched into the street. Relc had thrown it so hard that even the tough rind had split. The Drake sighed.

Now he’d missed breakfast twice.

—-

Routine. Here is how it happened. Relc walked over as the [Thief] rolled around and the [Butcher] stopped in shock. They might have tried to threaten the [Thief], but Relc blocked their cleaver; sometimes you got angry civilians who might kick or attack your criminal.

“Watch business! Everyone stand back! Just a [Thief] with some food.”

He bent down and picked up the burst Prelon as Pos ran over. Relc dusted off some of the good fruit and ate it. It was important to keep your strength up.

Oh—the arrest. Whatever. At this point, your classic [Thief], [Pickpocket], or so on, tried to run or gave up depending on how hard you hit them. This one might have gotten up and used a Skill to cartwheel into the crowd or something—but Relc’s foot was on her back. He just stood there, not even with all his weight, pinning her down.

“Shoplifter, eh?”

Pos squatted down to investigate the now-dirty meat and [Thief]. Relc chewed his fruit.

Next, you put them in manacles, or just marched them to the Watch House if they were this young. After that, you had your partner write the report and you went on your way. Relc doubted this girl would get a stay in the overnight cells or actual prison. She couldn’t have been more than twelve.

In this scenario, you walked to the parent’s house once you got it out of her, and talked with them, sometimes about the fine. Boring, annoying if they kicked up a fuss…sometimes lower-level [Guards] got the duty. Killed an hour sometimes. Two if the parents were criminals or did something stupid and you had to arrest them…

“Thank you for stopping her, Senior G—”

“Not at all. Just doing my job.”

Relc realized he’d preempted the [Butcher]. But the Drake nodded at him, respectfully eying the burst Prelon. Some others were murmuring. Relc waited for Pos to say ‘let’s get her to the Watch House’, or ‘something stupid and not-really-funny here’, like some of the [Guards] who thought you had to have a quip every time you arrested someone.

Klbkch never bothered. However, to Relc’s surprise, routine failed him. Pos stood up and was talking with the [Butcher]. Relc abandoned his inner thoughts of the past for a second to actually listen.

“She’s just a kid, Senior Guardsman. The meat’s not even that damaged. I’ll cut off the dirty parts; give it to the dog. It’s not even a silver’s worth of damage.”

“You’re sure? That’s generous of you, sir. I agree. Young miss, where’s your family?”

Relc blinked; lifted his foot. The Drake [Thief] glared up defiantly at Pos. The Senior Guard squatted down with a sigh.

“Come on, now. We’re not your enemies. You know it’s a crime to steal, don’t you? Or are you…hungry?”

He eyed the [Thief]. Relc slowly chewed a gritty piece of fruit and eyed her. She did look hungry.

Street kid. Means we have to worry about if she has parents, if they’re mistreating her, find them and/or arrange for her to go into Lism’s kid-thing. Wait, do they have that here?

He adjusted his routine to fit the new parameters. However, to his surprise, Cellidel did things differently. After a few minutes of talking, lecturing the girl and asking about her family, while she remained tight-lipped, staring at Relc and rubbing at her back, Pos stood up.

“Alright. If we catch you again…go on now.”

The [Thief] bolted. Relc nearly threw something at her. He turned to Pos. Admittedly, he had been zoning out for the last six minutes, but what was that about?

“You’re just letting her go?”

Pos grimaced.

“You saw her. I doubt a night in the Watch House’s cell will do her good. I’m not going to haul her to prison either. Are you?”

He went to eye Relc, but Relc was already eying him.

“Not me. Don’t we take her to the Watch House, figure out if she does have parents and send her to the orphanage or keep her in custody until then?”

The other Senior Guard blinked.

“We…have an orphanage. I think. Send one to…? Your city does that?”

They had for a while now. The only other option was to keep tossing the kids in cells or prison. Relc mentioned the way Liscor’s system worked and Pos shook his head.

“That sounds—interesting. We don’t have that. Mind you, any building would be full up. There are always street kids. Nice throw though; I doubt she’ll be running around, even if she is a [Thief].”

“Thanks.”

They were done either way, but Relc thought that was what Cellidel lacked. Even so, they were back to routine in a heartbeat. He ambled on, sure that they were not going to find more ‘work’ this street. Once the Senior Guard moved, only the most daring (and clever) criminals decided they wanted to act concurrently. Which was actually smart because if Relc was arresting someone, he was distracted.

Back to daydreams and history. Yes, Relc remembered that scandal. Although at the time he’d been fed up with his partner, Klbkch. Only Relc had been considered strong enough to take care of Klbkch if he went rogue, so Zevara’s promotion hadn’t been on Relc’s mind apart from her shaking things up as she took over, disgruntled old [Guards] resigning, etc.

Eresc had ignored Liscor’s civilians attacking Antinium in those days. Right when they came into the city, a lot of people had been grateful—and a lot more had feared the Black Tide infesting their city, even as a deal from the Antinium wars.

Mind you, only Liscor would have even considered the option. However, Relc’s job back then had been to stop both Liscorians and Antinium from killing each other.

Not that a Worker ever fought back. So some got pelted with rubbish, or even killed in that case. But if they became Aberration—it was an entirely different story. Klbkch had hunted his own people down without exception, and Relc’s animosity towards him had turned to curiosity about who Klbkch was.

Despite that, the Slayer and the Gecko of Liscor hadn’t shared a full conversation for three years after they started working together.

Relc remembered all that. He often did when thinking of the past, usually laughing at how much he hadn’t liked Klbkch and how uptight Klbkch had been—and that was compared to Klbkch now!—and little else. Good memories.

Except suddenly, there was a hole in his memories. No—not a hole. The inverse. A bit of understanding, thought, that hadn’t been there in all his other recollections.

“…Funny. In those days there were a lot more Aberrations. Not that there were a lot. We had to stop mobs and people from hitting them, tossing stuff on them…”

Relc slowed, as Pos went to use a toilet. Cellidel had a sewer like Liscor’s and Relc had thus-far avoided sewer-patrol, although it seemed rookies were usually made to do that anyways. He thought.

Aberrations. It seemed like one had come up every two weeks. Usually, Klbkch had ‘sensed’ it and they sometimes stopped it before anyone but Workers died. Yet Relc recalled that as the city had grown used to the Antinium, the Aberration numbers had gone way down.

He’d always assumed it was the Antinium settling in. Now, though…part of Relc thought of Pawn and Erin and…well, Eresc hadn’t stopped civilians attacking Workers, had he? Zevara had. She’d arrested people and the Watch had been forced to protect Workers, much to the disgust of some.

Afterwards? Aberration numbers died down.

Was that a…what was the word Klbkch used? A correlation? Relc thought about it. He didn’t like what his brain suggested, so he smacked it. Even so, it told him that maybe the Workers became Aberration because some people beat them, attacked them on the job, threw things at them.

Pawn had been the first Worker to ever take a name that Relc had ever met. He’d been consumed with Klbkch dying at the time. But…he’d always thought it was a miracle, much like the funny little Worker himself. What if, though, it had just been because of the first person to ever feed an Antinium, teach one to play chess?

That was Erin. Extraordinary because she’d done what was now obvious at a time when it was not. Relc’s thoughts spiraled back to her.

By the time Pos got back to Relc, the past had changed. It shouldn’t have. The past was supposed to stay the same, but suddenly Relc saw it a different way.

Eresc hadn’t been the best Watch Captain. He was a military [Captain], not a [Watch Captain]. The difference? He hadn’t seen Antinium like people.

Zevara had been responsible for helping the Antinium integrate into Liscor and smooth tensions. She had also made him work harder, which he had resented.

Relc’s job in the old Watch was to laze about, show new [Guards] how to hold a spear, and hit anything that moved when the going got hot. Eresc had arranged it for him as a sort of amiable-retirement. Zevara had, on her first week, told Relc to his face he could either work harder or get out of the Watch.

He’d always resented that. Relc had never liked Captain Z as much as Eresc, because one was easier on him.

“But one sucked more.”

One hadn’t seen the Antinium as people, and Relc had agreed with him—right up until he hadn’t. He had resented Zevara because she took the Antinium’s side.

Like he hated Goblins. Right up until an [Innkeeper] kicked him out of her inn and drew a line in the sand.

Relc leaned on his spear and felt old. Part of him hated Goblins and always would. He had fought them, and they had killed his parents. Or so he had been told. Even so. One day, the only Human he respected, liked, had turned to him and told him to leave the lovely inn forever because of a Goblin.

He had been so angry at her. Until he realized how lonely he was without The Wandering Inn. When she’d let him back in, when the door to the garden had opened for him despite all the bad words between them—he’d been so happy.

Now. She was. Dead.

—-

The key to it was not talking about Erin. Not talking about Goblins or Antinium. Pos had asked a few times and Relc had laughed it off; Antinium? You barely saw them. We had one in the Watch. Total. Barely knew the guy’s name. Couldn’t pronounce it.

Routine. Relc clung to it. He went through the motions.

A Senior Guard didn’t run into crime often. In fact, they were often a deterrence to people who knew what their status meant. Relc stood behind Pos in one of their more-regular duties; sorting out arguments.

“—and then he pulled the wagon up in front of my business! It’s a damned restaurant and there’s no space on the street to even get in unless you kiss the wall!”

“I was there for five minutes, but he had the gall to order me to—”

Two angry Drakes over a space-disturbance. The most common dispute a [Guard] faced. Relc smiled and nodded, glassy-eyed. One Drake had light red scales; the other had summer green. One turned to the other.

“This is the fourth time! I am going to lodge a complaint at the blah blah angry angry threat! If you don’t threat, I’ll Senior Guardsman do something!”

“Oh yeah? Well I’m in the Transportation Guild and I blah blah your face blah insult, Senior Guardsman, take my side!”

Keep your face impervious, nod a few times and pretend to write things down. Don’t look at either one; don’t favor either one and look more and more angry until they get nervous. Relc had found that if you did that, you got away with not listening to anything until the voices stopped seven out of ten times.

Pos handled it. He turned his head to Relc a few times and the [Guard] nodded, scowling or smiling on cue. This was what Relc said:

“That’s right.”

“Disturbances.”

“Can’t have that.”

“Good day to you.”

Afterwards, Pos sighed as they walked away.

“Ancestors, I hate that kind of dispute. I want to just throttle them; you’re as cool as can be though, Relc. Is that [Spearmaster] training?”

“Absolutely.”

“Really? I wish I could manage angry idiots like that.”

Relc hadn’t actually paid attention to the last conversation either. He was still thinking of the inn. When…had he learned he was lonely?

When Klbkch died. When he found there was a friendly young woman who always had time to talk, and didn’t get noticeably bored or irritated with him.

When his daughter returned, bringing back old memories.

When the [Innkeeper] kicked him out.

And…when his partner died.

When he left his city because of his mistakes.

And then when learned his friend was dead too.

Even his wallowing had become routine. Relc going back in time, looking at his mistakes, thinking of Erin was routine. So he went about his routine and absent-mindedly went through his mental routine. Relc went back to Embria’s letter. She hadn’t told him. Maybe she’d thought it would crush him. Probably right. But she should have told him. Had they buried her? Drassi had said…

Should he write a letter back telling Embria he knew? Should he go back? He had to save up vacation days. Would it…did he want to?

“Relc! Hear that? It’s—”

—-

The Senior Guardsman found himself moving. He heard the shouts of pain, the impact of one fist into a face or body part, and ran.

Fight. Break it up, see who’s fighting. Mugging? Hit the muggers. Civilian dispute? More carefully hit people. Murder?

“This is the Watch! Everybody stop—”

Relc heard Pos shout, but he was slower in his armor. The Gecko of Liscor? He had run in armor across the battlefield to fight the enemy. His old spear was in his claws, the same one he’d used to kill countless enemy officers, [Mages]. A hit-and-run, high-level [Soldier] who took out targets and escaped.

For a [Guard], even a Senior Guard, Relc was the very definition of overkill. His mind snapped back to the real world for a second. He saw—

A street fight. Two Gnolls, probably only fifteen and seventeen, brawling with a group of Gnolls their age. Relc slowed as the Gnolls whirled.

What he saw was a stupid street fight, the kind you broke up unless someone had a knife or there was a gang, so he relaxed, went back on autopilot after surveying the scene, and lowered his spear.

What they saw was a huge Drake in armor with more muscle than any two of them combined charging at them with spear-raised. Their ears went flat, and the little group of youths bolted, shouting.

“Break it up. No fighting! Blah blah you are warned!”

Relc shouted after them. Routine. He went back to the two combatants who’d frozen, blood on their fur, and raised a finger.

“Fighting is bad…when you’re not paid to do it. Wait. When you’re not on the right side of the law. Fighting…okay, don’t punch each other in public. Got it? There we g—”

Pos skidded around the corner, saw the two Gnolls, and swore. Relc saw him sprint forwards, check one with his armored body, and grab the other with a club raised.

“You two are under arrest! Where are the others, Relc?”

The Drake snapped out of routine, looked at Pos, and stared at the Gnoll on the ground.

“Hey, they’re just fighting—”

“Another damn fight! In the street of all places! How many were there? You are under arrest. Relc, cover that one. Where are your manacles?”

Relc opened his mouth. He looked at the Gnoll on the ground as the other one growled a protest, backing away from Pos.

“We weren’t attacking anyone! We’re not in a gang!”

“We’ll find out about that under truth spell. Even if you’re not in a gang, you think you can just beat each other up like savages? You know the law! You’re just lucky a [Shopkeeper] didn’t call for us, or that would be a charge on top of—I said, don’t move!”

Pos raised the club. The Gnoll ducked backwards, clearly looking to run. All things considered, Relc would have blocked him. Instead, the Drake was bending over the older Gnoll that Pos had run into.

Just winded. He was looking at Relc, but not getting up.

“I’m not resisting.”

The [Spearmaster] gave him a blank look.

“I can see that. Pos. What are you doing?”

The Drake gave Relc a look.

“Where are your cuffs? Don’t tell me you lost them! Here!”

He fumbled for his iron manacles at his side and the younger Gnoll tried to run for it. Two things happened in that moment. Pos whirled, with the power of a Skill and swung the club.

Relc yanked it out of his claw. Pos missed and the Gnoll ran—straight into Relc’s arm. He bent over the immovable limb. Relc shoved him back and turned to face Pos.

“Relc!”

“Hold on. You stay there. You can sit up.”

Relc pointed to the two young males, who were both looking worried. They froze as Relc turned to Pos.

“You were about to lay him flat. What’s the problem? They’re kids. It’s an alley-fight. No one had a knife.”

“They’re brawling. You don’t think they’re a hazard?”

Pos was glowering at Relc. He hesitated as Relc, rather than get angry or retort, gave him the blankest look imaginable.

“…Let me get this straight. You want to haul these two to the Watch House, test them about being in a gang when I’m sure they’re not via truth spell, and then write a report and toss them in a cell or something? Or have to visit their parents?”

Pos opened his mouth. Relc stared at him. Then he offered Pos the club and looked at the Gnolls.

“Get out of here. Don’t punch each other. In public.”

The two Gnolls stared at him, as much surprised as Pos. Relc made a ‘shoo’ gesture with his claws and they ran for it. Pos inhaled, but one look at Relc again and he snatched his club back.

“…You really don’t like extra work, I guess?”

He gave Relc a side-long look. Relc just shrugged.

“You let that little [Thief] off with just a warning. I thought you’d appreciate less paperwork.”

“That’s…dif—okay.”

Pos hesitated, bit something off, and muttered. He was still breathing hard as Relc ambled out of the alleyway.

What was that about? Relc forgot about it and went back to routine. He caught Pos looking at him a few times, but when their one actual criminal of the entire patrol appeared, Relc was right there.

Marital stabbing. Which, lest it conjure the image of an angry wife stabbing a husband, was the reverse. Relc snatched the blade with his bare claw, and slapped the Drake. Then he hauled the Drake up and carried him to the Watch House.

Nothing interesting this time. Although Relc did think on the Gnoll-kids incident later. Terigrals had told him he was needed. The first two weeks, Relc had been busy. He must have helped bust at least three minor criminal gangs up. Cellidel had a minor crime-problem. Funny though. When he counted the other arrests over the last month…

Relc sat up in his bed before he fell asleep.

“—that’s a lot of Gnolls for a Drake city.”

He had a hard time getting to sleep. He had an uneasy feeling things weren’t going to routine.

—-

Routine wake up and stare at the letter instead of practicing.

Routine get to work, joke about, and get some other [Guard] on patrol. Drake.

Routine get back, check out.

A blur of routine. Then—Relc stared at the ledger as they signed in the [Rogue]. He had volunteered to write it in for once. He felt his heart sink.

The ledger wasn’t spaced exactly like Liscor’s, but it had the same kind of thing. Name, details, brief physical description, crime details…

Species. Relc flipped through the ledger slowly, ignored by the rest of the Watch House. He went back down a month.

That was a lot of Gnolls for a Drake city.

The Drake [Spearmaster] felt an uneasy chill run down his scales as he quickly filled in the report. Like his reflections on the past, it seemed obvious now, but only when someone pointed it out to him.

Pos’ behavior during their patrol wasn’t unique. Relc supposed he hadn’t noticed his patrol-partners or squad being more hostile to Gnolls vs Drakes…but then, he hadn’t been paying attention.

Now he thought of it, Cellidel was a Drake city. Much higher Drake population vs Gnoll. Liscor had what was certainly Gnoll-heavy districts, like where they had apartments, and businesses that catered more towards Gnolls, but it was hard to find anywhere you didn’t see two—or now at least three—species mingling.

Cellidel? Drake streets and Gnoll streets.

The anxious pit in Relc’s stomach was a familiar one. Not recently familiar; it was like the day Erin had told him the Golden Triangle thing was fake. It was an older feeling than that, though.

The feeling he got before a bad battle. Where High Command sent someone to check on you, make sure you knew you had to get your target. The kind of day when every old [Soldier] double-checked their wills and pensions were in order.

One ledger wasn’t proof. Possel wasn’t proof by himself. There was, unfortunately, an easy way to check his suspicions. So as Relc stowed his gear and signed out for the day, he added a new part into his routine.

“I hate cleaning my gear.”

He grumbled as he actually added some oil to the metal and chainmail before putting it away. It had showered briefly and some of the other [Guards] grunted affirmatives, ignored Relc; one was all too keen to talk.

“Damn rain. The worst part is rookies who never maintain their gear. You know one got mold on their armor? It spread to half the Watch House I was in. We had to pay an [Alchemist] twice to get rid of it!”

It was one of those tired stories you heard about three dozen times each year. Relc nodded. Routine, routine. Then he added the bait.

“You know what’s worse? Fur. Sometimes you’re on patrol, and it gets on your armor. Wet fur especially.”

Across the room, Possel’s head rose. He eyed Relc, and a few Drakes chimed in.

“I swear to the Ancestors, sometimes it feels like I have it in my lungs after I patrol a street. Especially if all those Gnolls are shedding. Someone needs to grab a broom. And the smell on rainy days? It gets in my nostrils and I want to gag.”

“Mhm.”

Relc’s heart sank. Possel nodded though, and he glanced around, chiming in.

Ah. The fluttering feeling got worse.

His ability to pick up on clues was bad, Relc would admit. However, once someone pointed it out to him, he was far from ignorant. In fact, a Liscorian [Guard] like Tkrn or someone who’d grown up there all their life might be more oblivious—well, Tkrn wouldn’t be because he was a Gnoll.

Relc, though. He had been in Liscor’s army, which did have a large Gnoll population compared to many armies outside of Walled Cities. One of the things he learned as [Sergeant] had been which cities they were deployed to where it was fine to let your squad off to drink and have fun on their own—and which ones where you had them stick together. Especially the Gnolls.

The ‘fur in your armor’ line was actually something he’d heard a long time ago, when they’d been working side-by-side with another army in a joint defensive campaign. For numerous reasons it had been a bad job, but one of the reasons was that the mostly-Drake army had gotten into fights with Liscor’s forces for comments like that.

Fur in your armor. Relc had sometimes slept next to fellow [Soldiers] and he could count on one claw the number of times fur had ever bothered him. However, that trick was one of the ones you learned to gauge a crowd. Other telling comments were smell, comments about ‘savages’, or someone saying, ‘I hate those furbags’. That last one was really a big clue.

Relc finished his work in silence, stowed his armor, and turned. Possel tapped him on the shoulder.

“Some of the Senior Guards go to have a drink with a few regular [Guards] every few days. Want to join us, [Spearmaster]?”

The Senior Guardsman looked into Possel’s eyes, and saw a gauging look. Relc grinned.

“Sure. If I’m not buying…”

Possel groaned good-naturedly, but he visibly relaxed and some of the other Drakes re-introduced themselves. Relc called Possel, ‘Pause’, ‘Pauws’, and ‘Pas’ three times before he got it right.

—-

Routine. Relc went to have a drink. He told jokes, war stories, and didn’t blink when someone brought up the troublemakers.

“It’s the Meeting of Tribes thing. I heard they always get like this. Did you hear about that damn tribe that sacked a Drake city? Gave me nightmares.”

“Woven Bladegrass. We’re on the lookout for that lot. Anyways, there’s always crime, but now there are protests. And there’s always a Gnoll with a bow on their back. What about you, Relc? Ever have that kind of thing in Liscor?”

Relc hesitated, with a mouth full of walnuts. The other Drakes snorted as he tried to speak through it. When Relc did speak, he grinned at Possel.

“Liscor? Oh, sure, we have Gnoll troubles. But remember what I told you about Antinium? Ever heard of an…Aberration?”

The other Drakes leaned in, and Relc told the story. They gaped, or turned horrified and were so distracted they left him alone—in the sense that they pestered him about the bugs more than the Gnolls.

Relc could dodge in and out of a conversation. However, sitting there was illuminating. Gnoll problems? He went automatically through the drinking and talking and complaining, chipped in a silver coin, and left.

None of this was original, think-on-your-feet stuff. It, like all of Relc’s tactics, was routine. He’d learned the obvious; what you said and didn’t say in a group that leaned one way. It was easy if you knew the steps to follow along.

Strange. He kept thinking of Erin as he walked back to the empty apartment. Now, if that had been her inn and someone had said the same thing—only replaced Gnolls with Antinium or Goblins—she would have walked on over and argued. Even if it was a full squad of [Guards].

That was…extraordinarily hard to do. Also stupid, but it was very Erin. It took a certain kind of someone to harvest acid flies. If she had been there, she would have kicked up a fuss.

Relc thought of her. Then his thoughts shifted to someone else who occasionally crossed his mind. Another Human woman, albeit one he had known less long. If differently.

Ryoka Griffin. Relc smiled for a second. Then he sighed. He’d followed her run to the north. Good on her. Flying? He wondered if he could beat her in a race anymore. He almost hoped some days that the Street or City Runner who found him with the letters would be her…but that was nigh-impossible. It had only been one night.

He had liked her. She had been very complimentary too, about how fast he was. People didn’t appreciate that about Relc enough, in Relc’s opinion. However, mutual admiration aside—Relc thought more of how Ryoka would have interacted with that conversation. His guess? Bar fight.

Relc was not a master of fast, innovative thinking. However, he had seen all kinds of things and knew when not to shout what he really felt. Ryoka Griffin…was the exact opposite. She had no routine, no cover-jokes, no way to duck a bad conversation. She’d probably sit there and start talking and that was when someone threw the mug at your head. She and Erin would both get into trouble in minutes. Dangerous trouble, which might make them enemies of their co-workers.

But they would do it because it was right. Relc stopped, with the key in the lock. He ignored the other transitory Drakes and Gnolls glancing at him as they went to their own rooms in the cheap apartment complex. Ah, yes. He’d paid for a small place, despite being able to afford a bit more on a Senior Guardsman’s salary. Relc glanced around.

I don’t see many Gnolls living in the expensive streets either. Cellidel’s Watch had the opinion Gnolls caused more crime. They were certainly poorer on average than Drakes. Or maybe it was that the Watch didn’t patrol their streets as heavily, and…Relc didn’t like any of this.

He wanted to be back home. The Drake entered his apartment and sat down. Erin had offered him a room in her inn after his place burned down and he’d felt…

For a moment, Relc indulged in a dream. It was a dream he’d had now and then—okay, often. Before hearing about Erin, especially. He went back to it now as he lay on his back.

In his dream, he was staying in The Wandering Inn, and had a great breakfast each day. That little kid, Mrsha, was always making life fun by stealing his food, and he’d see something hilarious every day.

That was easy. Harder to imagine, but what Relc had carefully put into the dream were other…nice parts. Embria taking a room there, for instance. Not next to his! And they didn’t talk all the time, but he saw her before she got to work and they’d share breakfast. Stuff like that.

Klbkch was back, and they walked around Liscor, doing fun stuff like delivering Christmas presents as Santa-[Guards] like the good old days. Relc smiled and shifted, almost wanting to walk into that dream. He raised a fist and hit the air—punching an imaginary crook.

Then—the excess—was sometimes a certain City Runner—or was it Courier, now—sometimes dropped by the inn for a day or two, or a week. That was great too.

The perfect dream sat in front of Relc. The Drake closed his eyes. Because when he opened them, he would not see The Wandering Inn’s ceiling, and the comfy bed, but the cracked ceiling of the small apartment, and he would be lying on the floor.

When he opened his eyes, he would have to confront the clear prejudice about Gnolls in Cellidel’s Watch. The fact that Erin was gone. That he was in disgrace in his city’s eyes.

Relc closed his eyes tightly. He didn’t want to open them.

“Why does Cellidel have to be so damn stupid?”

He grumbled softly. If it were a routine?

This would all be so much easier.

—-

The next day, Relc thought about it. He did not practice with his spear, as much as he wanted to. The apartment was too small and he didn’t know it well enough to swing his spear around; if he put a hole in the wall, he’d be out far too much money.

Unfortunately, there was no entry in Relc’s vast array of routine-strategies for this. If he was in the army, it would be easy. You sometimes got hostile Drakes or Gnolls—and they either shaped up with tough…not-love, or they got out. If it was really bad, you sorted it at a ground-level with some ‘chats’ with other [Soldiers], or you went up.

The Watch was the same way, although Relc would probably just leave it to Captain Z. In Cellidel, he had no Captain Z, no superiors he knew or army to back him up…and no Erin.

Possel had not been a Drake alone. There had been eight other [Guards], six of them Senior Guards in his buddy-group and not one of them had blinked at the Gnoll-talk. To Relc’s understanding, that meant it was the Watch’s mentality. Six Senior Guards was a Watch House. If there were dissenting opinions, they were in the minority.

So what did you do? Well…talk to the Watch Captain. Only, that was what a snitch did and Relc was familiar with [Guard]-politics enough to know how a newcomer complaining went. More importantly? Terigrals might do something.

…But if he was a Watch Captain worth even a pinch of salt, he had to know how his Watch felt. If he let that talk go—then he didn’t care or he agreed.

“So what do I do? Go to the Council? Does Cellidel have a Council? Who else do you go to?”

Relc had no idea. Not one. Not a clue. This…this wasn’t routine. This wasn’t familiar waters. This was so far out at sea he could see Krakens eying him. Who could find a solution in this?

Erin Solstice, that’s who. The Human who’d fight an entire city over letting a Goblin in, or intervene in a riot to save some [Lords]. Who would bring war to the City of Adventurers and the Guild of Assassins for a friend.

Relc had always known she was crazy, amazing, and brave. Now he thought it was extraordinary how she did…something.

Because he had no idea what to do. He could ask Zevara for help? She was a Watch Captain in a different city. No jurisdiction. He could ask to be transferred out?

Relc considered it. That—was probably his move. Keep his head and tail down, not start anything, let them believe he was buddy-buddy—and put in an application and word with Zevara to get back to Liscor now. She’d understand. Wouldn’t she? Surely she would. He could send a letter via Embria—no, a [Message].

That was easy. Routine. Relc knew it was him ducking out, but he didn’t have a good answer and he was no Erin. So he took comfort in that idea; Terigrals would be upset, but Relc could claim he was homesick.

It was a great plan and Relc stuck to it, having wrestled with it for hours into the morning after bad sleep. He would routine through, put in his application, and all would be well.

Routine walk to the Watch House. Routine talk with the others. Routine start your day with a larger patrol. Routine—

“Shortsword!”

The shout came as the patrol intervened in what had been a robbery of a store. Someone screamed; someone else blew a whistle and in came the Watch.

This was when you had to be alert, and Relc was. [Robbers], [Bandits] taking a risk on a city, [Rogues]—all tried this. You could grab money or goods and run, but you were going to tangle with angry [Shopkeepers] or the Watch.

So this was when crime armed up. Relc had seen too many fellow [Guards] injured or killed by a crossbow bolt from a hidden weapon one of the [Rogues] was carrying—or a dagger. It was one of the reasons he and Klbkch had been prized, like Jeiss and Beilmark.

For this moment, you needed Senior Guards who could tangle with deadly weapons. So, when the squad of six hit the scene, Relc went in.

The group had nearly cleaned out the shop. They were halfway out the back door, but they knew the Watch was on their tails and so they were covering the front. Relc knew all of this.

He still crashed through the door anyways. He had to. He had [Iron Scales], [Thick Skin], and all the other Skills of his level. He was a [Spearmaster].

And he had been the Gecko of Liscor. The [Robbers] were waiting for a [Guard] to come through and two had shortbows. They were prepared—but not for the Drake to hit the door and go through it so fast that both shots went wide. Relc spotted six [Robbers]. Five Gnolls, one Drake. He shouted.

“Senior Guardsman! Put down your weapons or get hurt!”

It wasn’t the smartest thing to say, but he didn’t expect it to work. Sure enough, the nearest one swung the shortbow up; another had a sword. Relc leapt forwards.

Don’t kill them if you can. He swung the spear up, and hit the first [Robber] between the legs. He let go of the spear, and punched the sword-wielder in the face.

Broken nose; not dead. The second went down, but Relc realized he hadn’t hit a guy, but a female [Robber]. It still probably hurt like hell, but she was aiming the bow at him. So he shouted.

“[Relc Kick]!”

He snap-kicked her in the stomach and she went down. Relc whirled his spear, and jabbed with the butt of it—hard. A third robber was hesitating between running and fighting, astonished at how fast two of his buddies had gone down.

A spear—even the non-pointy end of it—hitting you in the ribs hard enough to crack them generally took the wind out of most people. If he’d used his spear-tip—well, Relc was pivoting to give him a patented [Relc Punch] when the second shortbow loosed.

He saw the arrow flash towards his neck and moved.

[Whirlwind Dodge]! Relc threw himself across the room, with a shout. He felt something graze his cheek, landed—got up. The [Robber]-[Archer] turned to track him, dropping an arrow, fumbling for another—

Relc threw a chair at them. The third [Robber] went down with a shout of pain; the other three ran, including the one who Relc had hit in the chest. The Senior Guardsman rose slowly, spear raised—waiting for the arrow if the chair hadn’t done the job.

The unconscious Drake with the bow was laid out, eyes rolled up. The other two were down. Relc breathed in; the first time since he’d seen the arrow coming his way.

The [Shopkeeper] and people inside stared at Relc as he looked around. The rest of the six-[Guard] squad were pursuing the others; two came in after Relc; the others were cutting off their escape-routes.

“Everything’s under control. Hi.”

He breathed at them. The civilians stared. Relc saw one of the [Guards] cover the fallen three; the other one pointed.

“We’ve got them! This way!”

He ran after the Drake…then, once he was out of the back of the shop, Relc stopped. He leaned against a wall and shuddered.

His breath came in bursts—for a few seconds. Then he calmed himself.

Nearly died. If that had been a [Piercing Shot] and hit him in the neck or eye—Relc saw dozens of other moments. However, he straightened. Three more.

He was catching up in moments, running with [Lightning Sprint]—when he heard the shout.

“Shortsword!”

Relc saw the three [Robbers] boxed in, one [Guard] plus Relc behind, the three [Guards] including a Senior Guardswoman ahead. They were all Gnolls and they saw the odds—not to mention Relc. One moment of hesitation and two of the [Robbers] surrendered. One tossed down the club they held and the other a crate of coin and goods.

The last was too slow. He had a shortsword. Relc heard the shout, saw the Gnoll hesitate. He feinted at one of the [Guards] who recoiled, and then seemed to gauge the odds. He wavered, looked at his buddies. Then the [Guard] from behind threw a net.

“[Snare Net]!”

A rare trick for a [Guard]. It worked, though. Down the Gnoll went, shortsword dropped like the amateur he was. Relc relaxed, watching the other two—

Then the squad of Drakes swarmed the downed Gnoll and began kicking and hitting him.

“Bastard nearly stuck me!”

The Drake who’d been feinted at put an entire body’s weight of force behind a kick. The other two Gnolls were shouting, but one of the [Guards] had an arrow trained on them. The Gnoll on the ground curled up. Relc saw the net-[Guard] kick them in the back and someone else jabbed the downed robber with their own spear, hard enough to break something.

The [Guards] vented their fear and adrenaline in a moment of violence—despite Relc being the only one to actually fight the downed [Robber]. Then…they kept going. It wasn’t one kick or two.

“Stop! He’s already given up—”

One of the Gnolls barked, but was taken to her knees by a kick from behind. Relc saw the Watch throwing the other two Gnolls down to manacle them. But the one on the ground—

“That’s enough. You’ve got him—just arrest him before you need a healing potion.”

The beating continued. Ten seconds, twenty…now the [Robbers] were shouting.

“He is going to die. Stop! That’s an order!”

The Gnoll was already unconscious. One of the [Guards] finally halted, boot-raised, and looked at the blood on it. He spat and then they bent to cuff the Gnoll and call for a prisoner-wagon—as if they needed it for him. The other [Robbers] were herded onto it, or dumped there if they were unconscious. Yet the Gnoll already swelling with bruises and broken bones never moved. Nor was a healing potion used.

Relc listened to his own voice, bellowing at the [Guards] to stop! Shouting at them, berating them for doing what would cost them their badges in Liscor.

He…stood there, as one of the patrol clapped him on the shoulder.

“Fastest entry I’ve ever seen! We never even caught up. Good job, Relc!”

“…Thanks.”

That was the first word Relc had said. The shouting, the admonitions to stop—had never made it out of his lips. He had been too afraid.

Routine? Senior Guardsman Relc stuck to routine. Never rocked the boat. The patrol applauded him, told the others how fast he’d been and wrote him up in the ledger afterwards. He went through his routine.

He hadn’t done a thing.

—-

The [Robber] did…not die. A healing potion saved his life, when the Watch’s [Healer] made the call that one was needed.

It did not change the fact that Relc had thought he was dead when they put him on the prisoner-wagon. Nor that he had done nothing. The Gnoll was a [Robber], a criminal and no one in the Watch would have shed a tear if he died. If Relc had stabbed him in stopping the armed robbery, defending his life, protecting someone—he wouldn’t have lost sleep over it.

He did not sleep that night, when he returned to his apartment. That was because there was a difference. Killing someone in battle was not the same as stomping them to death after they were down and out.

Relc kept seeing it. He kept hearing himself bellowing, seeing himself thrusting the other [Guards] back and restoring…law. And what would come next. No—it was just him doing his job! Yet Relc was certain what they’d say, how they’d react.

He hadn’t done a thing. In the past, Relc had forgotten to go to work. He’d fudged his working hours, stolen ink, and had his own list of ‘going too far’ in arresting criminals that Zevara had chewed him out for. He’d been drunk on duty, picked fights with other [Guards], and once accidentally burned the entire month’s ledger to ashes.

However, this night, for the first time, he was afraid to go to sleep. Afraid that when he slept, he’d hear a voice telling him his [Guardsman] class was gone.

Fear was not unusual for Relc Grasstongue. Fear was why he’d left the army. Yet he could run into danger. He’d charged into that robbery, ducked two—three—arrows that might have ended his life and he’d do it again.

However, he was more afraid of being the target of the Watch’s ire than confronting a Creler nest. Relc could stab his way out of one problem. The Watch being against you?

That was dangerous. That was what Relc was afraid of. He’d seen it happen. Lived it, like when he’d quit the army. And then he’d made tracks to Liscor. A lone dissenter in a city? There…were things that could happen, in bad Watches.

The [Robber] had lived. Relc still couldn’t sleep. Something was dawning on him. Something…terrible. A realization.

It came to him by midnight. A terrible voice whispered in his head, like Erin’s when she softly told him to leave. That was how he heard it. Relc opened his eyes.

He sat up slowly. Oh. So that was it. Relc sat there. When he spoke, it was to the silent, dark room, filled with shadows. The unfamiliar sounds of the city, the distant sounds of someone moving around in the room overhead. Thumping from another room to his left. Probably someone having sex or a dance party.

Unpleasant sounds, a cheap room—all things he could ignore. Had ignored. The voice did not tell him he had lost his class. It did not take anything from him. It just told him something he had begun to realize after Erin kicked him out, after the Golden Triangle mistake. Relc stared at his claws as he sat on his bed.

“I thought I was a great guy.”

That was all.

That was everything.

The big Drake sat there and didn’t know anymore. Not anything. Not one thing. It was suddenly all in question. Every single pillar in his life, everything routine was built on.

Was he a good person? Unclear. Unsure. He feared…he listened to the voice whisper in his head. Remembered the Gnoll being beaten to death as he watched.

He thought of Embria.

Had he done a good job as a father? …Probably not. What kind of kid ran away to join the army? Didn’t talk to her father for years? What had he given her besides a spear and a class where she’d die young, in battle?

Was Relc Grasstongue a good friend? A good [Guardsman]? A good [Soldier]? A good guest, even? Did he make good decisions?

Had he ever made one good decision?

The Drake had no answers. What did he have that was good? That was his alone, and not luck or more than him, like Embria? The inn? He hadn’t made the inn. His puzzles? His levels?

Relc’s bowed head and silent figure remained, as the shuffling above stopped, the thumping ceased and two voices rose—then a door slammed. As the entire city fell into near-silence and only a few souls were awake.

The quietest hour of the night. Just before dawn.

—-

It was in this hour, this moment when one was at their lowest when inspiration struck. When the soul rose. When…

Relc didn’t have a moment of clarity. He didn’t see the pieces fall into place, like a blacksmith’s puzzle. He just sat there and nothing got better.

Miracles were something for The Wandering Inn, and he wasn’t there. All Relc had was Relc. He had his day off; there was no routine today.

So dawn came. Light filled the room through the shutters and nothing was better, only that he was more tired. Noise resumed, and it was only distracting.

Relc had no idea anymore. Was he going to go to the Watch and overturn all the prejudices? Demand change? Did he dare to even stop his fellow [Guards] and incur their wrath?

He feared the answer. If he wasn’t a good guy, hadn’t made good decisions—what did he have now?

No home. No family beyond Embria. No possessions. Friends? One was gone, the other, dead…a few more distant friends like Beilmark and Jeiss.

What did he have? At last, the man moved. He muttered something.

“Let’s start from the beginning.”

That was all he had. Relc didn’t know anymore. So he sat down and started from the only place he knew.

Routine.

Slowly, Relc undid the strings on his boots, customized for a Drake’s claws; segmented so you put them on in three parts, and re-tied them.

He tied his boots. That was where you started. Some armies taught their [Soldiers] to make beds. That appealed to Relc, but Liscor’s army was always on the move, and often camped rather than expected any formal bed. So—the first thing they taught you was how to put on your boots.

Before anything else, boots. Sometimes you had to sleep in them, which sucked—unless you got raided at night. So, put on your boots right.

Each piece went on, secure, laced together. No frayed string—then you tied a knot that would last you all day; that wouldn’t slip or get loose, or let the string trip you up. Then you had your feet set. ‘If nothing else’, the [Sergeant] had once told Relc, ‘you can fight naked but in good boots.’ You could fight and dodge arrows and blades, but if you slipped—it was all over.

Relc smiled for a second as he looked at the knot. That was done. Thusly, Relc Grasstongue had on good boots. That was what he knew. The entirety of it.

Clothing came next, or ideally, before the boots if you weren’t ready for battle. Relc had never taken his clothes off from yesterday. Clothes…didn’t matter. Armor might matter, but his armor had changed. Armor did not define Relc.

Routine. The Drake thought about what he did. And he realized—there was something he’d been neglecting to do. Something that was ‘Relc’, if there was anything that was Relc. So he got up. His body creaked a bit as he walked to the door. Relc left his apartment.

A few Gnolls and Drakes gave him wary looks, but they recognized Relc as being a [Guard] and no one called out to him. They watched him, especially Gnolls, Relc realized, as one watches an unpredictable danger.

He couldn’t think of that right now. Relc was still trying to rebuild Relc with no false gaps, no imaginary pieces. So he counted the things he knew.

Blacksmith puzzles. He liked them. Relc walked down the steps of the apartment complex. There was a little plaza in a three-sided space; the complex could hold a lot of transitory people. All the rooms looked down into the center area. It was good enough.

Food. Relc was into food. He liked Embria. Treasured her. Wanted the best for her. But what did he have? Well, he had the [Carpenter] class. He had tried to garden. He enjoyed drinks, but that didn’t define him.

Love? He stared at the sky. He…had rather liked Embria’s mother.

“Oresha.”

However, they had been [Soldiers]. Young. Her getting pregnant hadn’t…been in Relc’s mind. It would have been rather like Ryoka Griffin getting pregnant—he hadn’t known her.

Family. That was Embria. Relc wasn’t skilled in fields outside of fighting. He didn’t have some amazing backup talent. He wasn’t building anything. Wasn’t dreaming of a project. The Drake stood in the courtyard, ignoring other people coming and going, occasionally glancing at the intimidating Drake. Walking wide of him, especially his enchanted spear.

His spear. One of his few possessions. His treasure. Now didn’t that suck? The Drake smiled bitterly. In the end, he had three things, he supposed.

Good boots. Embria. And this. He looked at the long spear, taller than he was by a bit. A killing weapon. A [Mage]-killer. A weapon to slay enemy officers if they wore armor or not.

Charge into enemy ranks. Alone. Run past [Soldiers]; dodge arrows. Strike them dead and run.

At first it had been entire attack-groups. Then he had been an ‘elite’, sent in for missions like this when both sides were fighting.

When had it just been him, charging ahead of the rest? When had they begun calling him the ‘Gecko’? Put bounties on his head, begun targeting him?

Relc raised the spear, slowly. It was so much a part of him that he knew its weight perfectly. He could balance it on a tip of his claw. This, more than anything, was what he knew. More than boots. He was ashamed to say it, but he knew the spear more than his daughter.

Relc began from the start. And each day, this was how he started. First boots. Then—he hefted the spear and began to practice.

A [Spearman]’s routine. No, a [Spearmaster]’s warm-up. Every day since he had first been a [Soldier], at thirteen years old, Relc had swung a spear. First clumsily, then experimentally. Some days he hadn’t warmed up, just rolled out of the way of a thrusting blade and fought.

But in peace, even on his days off—the spear rose and fell, tracing slow thrusts, pivots. Some of the people in the apartments watched, uneasily at first, as the Drake practiced in the courtyard. However, the bitter look on Relc’s face had changed.

He concentrated on the spear. He knew it back to front. He twirled it, in a delicate motion, the tip of the spear just a fraction from striking the ground. He whirled it across his shoulders, striking the ground behind him. Pivoted.

Thrust. Slash! Parry—each motion was deceptively simple. You might think it looked so easy. That was because it was an expert who held it. He never wavered. Each motion was decisive. He slowed, striking in slow-motion. That was because Relc knew how to slash. It wasn’t a wild burst of motion, but something he had practiced a million times before.

When a [Warrior] who had just picked up a weapon attacked you, it was all muscle and luck and reaction. This Drake knew every part of the attack and defense, every opening. When he struck, he knew he would hit.

The longer Relc practiced, the smoother the motions became, and that was startling, because he had already moved with astonishing grace for his appearance. He practiced on, as the sun rose, heralding dawn on his day off. For minutes—then half an hour. Then longer.

A full practice, to shake off the lack since Erin had died. Each pattern he went through, movements of attack and defense to strike every conceivable angle.

Parry arrows. Cut spells. Face down a charging monster or evade. Most of the adults had gone to work before dawn, working the earliest shifts. None had time to watch what seemed to them to be mostly boring, slow motions. The longer someone stared though, the more hypnotic it became.

Speed wasn’t what Relc craved. Speed was for the practice courts, for battle. Control, practice—that was what mattered here. He lost himself in the routine he had been taught by the army’s best [Spearmen], [Spear Drakes], [Spear Hunters], and so on. Even the old [General]. Everyone who had ever used a spear had gone through these motions.

Then—he went further. His motions changed from the static, [Soldier]’s sensible attack and defensive motions into something else. A combination of the two.

From practicing jabs and thrusts and rotations, the Drake’s steps and spear movements shifted. It began to look like a…dance. When he walked forwards, his feet melded with the ground, and he seemed to glide along. The spear became a part of his body, and it reached out, touching the air, creating patterns as the sun caught the metal edge.

Someone caught their breath as they watched. Below, the Drake leapt, planted the spear and travelled. He struck the air and ground. He carried himself across the courtyard and his tail never touched the earth.

He landed, and the spear whirled. A hundred arrows failed to strike him as it formed a shield from every angle. He swung it, and released his claw. The spear shot out, and he grabbed the end and swung it in an arc that covered countless feet around him. Dust rose and fell, in a huge arc around Relc. Not one bit touching him.

Sweat gleamed on his scales. The [Spearmaster] wasn’t done, though. The sky overhead was strange. The day had come, yet the moon was still faintly falling. So, as he raised his weapon overhead, walking forwards. His weapon saluted the sky, an invisible opponent, and then moved in a glittering pattern.

The spear’s tip caught the light. The bright, rising glow that met the dark starlight night and became something else. The very color of true magic. The metal edge caught it and carried it with the trailing blade as it spun.

For a moment, the spearman caught the light on the tip of his spear and traced a picture no one had ever seen copied down. A word no one had ever learned.

Relc Grasstongue finally lowered the spear. Practice done. The sun began to dry sweat from his scales. He did not have an answer for his problems. However—he did know who he was and what he had.

In the end, he knew this. Relc knew how to kill people. How to be a soldier.

Yet—he looked down at the spear he held in his claws. This was what he was proud of. A way to hurt people, yes. A weapon’s mastery, which could turn to brute force, hacking, blood and death instead of anything like art.

But this—this moment was what he owned too. The seconds in which he saw something more than wood and metal in what he held. More than a clumsy, stupid Drake who traced patterns he knew by heart.

Something beautiful.

The Drake jumped as he heard applause. Loud and followed by cheering. He looked up.

There on the apartment balconies were children. Young Drakes and more than them, Gnolls. Too young to hold jobs, or not quite adults. They were looking down at the strange Drake who had shown them something as the sun rose.

“That was amazing, sir!”

A little Gnoll shouted. His older sister hurried him away, but the Drake [Guard] just grinned and waved. The moment broke, but Relc stood there. The children left—most of them. They had been taught not to talk to [Guards].

Yet when he turned, he saw someone watching him. The bruises had mostly healed, although his right eye was a bit bruised still. But the younger Gnoll in the alley-fight was watching him. He raised a paw. Relc waved.

He hadn’t known he shared the same apartment as the would-be criminal. The Gnoll hesitated. He looked around, and wavered between walking off, but was unable to. He came forwards, hesitantly.

“That was…amazing. Sir. Guardsman.”

“I’m Relc. Thanks. I know I’m awes—I know it’s cool.”

The Drake grinned. The Gnoll looked at him.

“Are you a…[Spear Hunter]? Some kind of [Spear…Warrior]? I’ve never seen a [Guard] practice like that. Or even the adventurers!”

Relc leaned on his spear.

“Nope. [Spearmaster].”

The Gnoll’s eyes widened. He was just a kid. Street kid—Relc saw his fur was more unkempt than a mother would allow. The army made you wash, too. The Gnoll eyed Relc’s spear. Then he hesitated.

“That’s…not common, right?”

“There are a few people with the class in Izril. Like…a hundred? Maybe.”

Relc wasn’t sure. Maybe there were a thousand, honestly. He knew he had gotten his class from defeating a [Spearmaster] in battle, but you could be certified or something. Tekshia was a [Spearmaster] and she hadn’t killed an enemy [Spearmaster] in battle.

The Gnoll’s eyes widened. He looked at Relc.

“So you’re high-level? As in…over level 30? 40?”

Relc just grinned. In truth, his levels were spread out. He was a [Spearmaster], a [Senior Guardsman], a [Sergeant]…he shrugged.

“I’m pretty good for a [Guard]. No one can beat me with a spear, at any rate. I was the best in my old city. Here? I’m pretty sure I’m still the best.”

It was not a boast. Jeiss was the best [Swordsman] in Liscor. Klbkch was the Slayer, albeit weakened from war. Neither one could beat Relc. Not Zevara. No one.

The Gnoll youth was suitably impressed. However, it seemed like he had a question. He nodded at the spear again.

“Why don’t you teach it then, sir? Wouldn’t that pay more than being a [Guard]?”

Relc blinked. He scratched at his neck-spines, noting how uncomfortable the young Gnoll was. As if he’d never talked to a Senior Guard before. He was way too formal, too. Kids in Liscor would come up and bother Relc all the time.

Cellidel. His smile faded as he thought of this city. However, he replied casually and honestly, pleased by the conversation after his workout.

“Eh. Because I guess I figured out I’ll never actually be good with the spear. Just passable. Besides, I’m a terrible teacher. For instance, that last set of moves? The thing I did where I go across the courtyard without touching the ground? The only other person who ever managed to learn that was my daughter.”

The young Gnoll man looked at Relc, uncertain what to point out was off in that reply. There were a few things. Not good with a spear? And what had he said?

The ‘only’ other person to ever learn a [Spearmaster]’s routine?

What the Gnoll came up with in the end was a weak grin.

“It looks pretty good to me.”

Relc’s amused snort made the Gnoll kid turn red under his fur.

“You say that now, kid. The world’s larger than you think. An enchanted spear and a [Spearmaster] class don’t go that far in a big battle, believe me. There’s a lot more to go.”

“It’s enchanted? Really?”

“Sure is. Here. Want to see?”

Now the young man looked like he suspected a trap. However, he looked at the spear.

“Can I?”

“Of course you can. Here. It’s not fancy. It’s just a magic-cutting and strength enchantment. You can’t even tell. Don’t be worried! You can’t break it!”

Relc offered the spear. The young Gnoll took it hesitantly, blinking at how light it was for what it looked like. He tried to twirl it and nearly dropped it. Flushing, he grabbed it.

“I don’t know how to use a spear. Sorry—”

He tried to give it back to Relc, but the Drake just laughed.

“Try and swing it! Go on!”

The young man tried. Relc corrected him. The Gnoll did a good jab, and Relc laughed.

“There. See?”

Absently, he ruffled the Gnoll’s head. The younger Gnoll stared at Relc, but didn’t object. Relc took the spear back and copied the motion. Then sighed.

“I’m pretty good with a spear. But I’m not even sure I’m the best in the city. There’s an old woman who’s a [Spearmaster] too. If I’m not even the best in a city—besides, I know there’s a lot better than me. Did you see that crazy undead Drake with the sword?”

The Gnoll hesitated.

“I heard about it.”

Relc nodded.

“That’s high-level. That’s skill. Me? I’m not close.”

He flexed one hand absently.

“[Spearmaster]. It’s a weird word. It means I ‘mastered’ the spear at Level 30. For that matter, it bumped me down to Level 30 when I was a Level 34 [Vanguard of the Spear]. Class consolidations are weird. There are enough of us that you can probably run into one in an army. We’re far from that guy.”

“Then what comes after [Spearmaster]?”

Relc blinked at the young Gnoll and realized he’d never asked his name. He grinned, and drifted back in time.

“You mean, a real master? I only met one once. Not in Manus. Not in Oteslia or Pallass or all the rest. They’re [Spearmasters], like a [Fencer] with a golden bell. A master has a different class.”

“Who was it?”

The Gnoll looked at Relc, overflowing with a young man’s curiosity. That was how they got you. A [Veteran] talked to applicants, or found someone on the streets like this kid and you signed up for the army. Especially if you had nothing left. Especially if you were fighting Antinium, or Goblins. Relc shook his head—then focused on the question.

“I never knew the class. Or even his name. An old Gnoll with a hunting spear showed me. He was leaving his tribe; said he was done.”

“Done? With his tribe? It was a Gnoll?”

The City Gnoll looked at Relc. The Drake nodded.

“Better than any [Spearmaster] in the city I’ve met. He was done. I’m not sure what it was. I think his tribe wanted him to stay. Just like me—but he was done. Leaving. We got to talking. And, well…he showed me a real master’s skills. More than a [Spear Art]. I never figured out exactly what he did, but he and I were standing in a bunch of tall grass. He swung his spear and—cut the grass.”

“Okay.”

Relc glowered at the young man.

“It was cooler than how it sounds! He cut the grass from here—”

He gestured at his waist.

“—to here.”

About ankle-level. Relc went on.

“Right in front of us. Then he walked off. I walked to see how far he cut the grass. Two hundred and thirty eight steps.”

The young Gnoll’s jaw was open. Relc winked at him.

“That’s why I don’t brag. Too much.”

Without being told, the young Gnoll knew it was that last move the Drake had been practicing. And if that wasn’t the full thing…he was surprised when a huge, clawed hand was held out.

“My name’s Relc. Did I say that? Who’re you?”

The young man hesitated, wary. But—the Drake had let him go once. So he shook the clawed hand.

“Vokkhar. Vok for short.”

“Hey, nice to meet you, kid. Just don’t let me or anyone else catch you in a fight. The Watch in this city don’t seem to like…Gnolls that much.”

Vok blinked at Relc.

“They don’t.”

He flinched, fearing—but Relc just nodded. He looked tired as he leaned on his spear. Then he patted Vok on the arm.

“I’m from Liscor. It’s different, here.”

“Different for Gnolls?”

Relc turned back. He was walking back to his apartments. He looked at Vok, and saw the longing, hungry gaze. He shrugged.

“I wouldn’t know. I think so, but you’d have to ask them. I miss it.”

Then he turned and walked up to his rooms. Relc grabbed a change of clothes, visited a public bathhouse where only Drakes were allowed in during this hour. Fur in the water. He washed, had a meal at an outdoor stall.

Then he sent Zevara a [Message] requesting reassignment. He did not go into details. He felt a bit better.

—-

Relc’s routine didn’t come back the next day. What he did do was practice in the pre-dawn morning, before he went to work. He spotted Vok watching and some of the Gnoll kids and waved to them.

When he went to work…he went to work. He armored up, mostly in silence, greeting a few [Guards], and listened.

Two of the Gnolls in the Watch House were present as Terigrals gave a speech. But they were [Guards]. Part of the team. The Watch Captain was like that. His briefing though, was blunt.

“This Woven Bladegrass issue and the Meeting of Tribes is causing havoc across Izril. I want patrols being sharp. Make sure there’s no trouble.”

“What trouble is that, Watch Captain?”

Possel asked, directly. Terigrals glowered.

“Riots. Mobs overblowing issues or taking sides. There were Gnoll riots in Vershe; Drakes joined in too. Once one starts, it becomes looting and chaos. We won’t have that here.”

The other [Guards] nodded. Relc just listened. Terigrals went on.

“The real instigator is that tribe—there are reports of them sending agents into a city and causing trouble. Watch out for that. Plains Gnolls will be checked at the gates and we have updated lists of known members of that tribe. However—there’s also a troublemaker stirring up chaos. Remember Sellme?”

The Watch groaned. Relc’s head rose. He nudged one of the others.

“Who?”

The [Guardswoman] whispered back.

“The [Painter]! They were in Salazsar, but they’ve come back this way. They often paint things about rich, corrupt idiots, but they attack the Watch too!”

“…painting of ‘Watch brutality’ in Vershe tripped off the riots. They might be in Cellidel for all I know. There’s a bounty—but if you see even a hint of them, call it in.”

Relc tilted his head, trying to imagine this famous painter…and failing completely. All he knew was that his job had gotten even less fun. Patrols being more vigilant happened to mean they were all focusing on Gnoll districts.

And as luck happened, Pos and Relc were put together. The Drake grinned at Relc.

“If there’s any luck out of this mess, it’ll be us catching Sellme in the act, right Relc? You can run down a [Painter].”

“Unless I slip on paint. How come no one’s got them so far?”

“Skills. I hear they even evaded a Wall Lord and Named Adventurer. I bet that’s how the painting did it too. Agitation-Skill. Damned riots…”

“Yeah. I’m sure it was all the painting.”

Pos glanced at Relc, but the Drake was straight-faced as they marched out of the Watch House. Relc had no routine. He just did his job. Which happened not to be arresting anyone that day. Some days were like that.

—-

In fact, the next day had no major arrests either. What did happen in between then, though, were two things.

Zevara sent back an approval of his request, but informed Relc that Watch Captain Terigrals had requested him to stay for the duration of the crisis in Cellidel.

Second—chaos came to the city. A Sellme painting had appeared on a wall, lampooning the Merchant’s Guild. It was apparently about the Prelons—the Merchant’s Guild enforced a heavy tax on the [Harvester]-[Farmers] in the local Grower’s Guild.

Thus, the painting was of fat [Merchant] Drakes counting gold as they sat on the shoulders of Drakes and Gnolls with baskets full of produce, who got only coppers.

Topical, accurate to public sentiment, and hugely embarrassing. It had appeared overnight in a crowded street, but no Watch patrol or civilian remembered seeing anyone painting there. Sellme had appeared and disappeared by the power of some Skill.

Well, the painting of the Merchant’s Guild was actually very popular, despite the guild trying to whitewash the walls within hours of it going up. It exposed a lot of resentment against the powerful, multi-city guild and the Merchant’s Guild was packed with angry people; Relc spent all day with Pos making sure no one hit a [Merchant]—all of them were hiding in their homes and the upshot was they promised to do…something.

Negotiations with the city’s Council and Grower’s Guild were underway by the end of the day.

However, it seemed Sellme’s very presence had a secondary effect. Which was that while he, she, they, or it had not painted a picture, the Watch and populace seemed to be expecting a painting.

About Gnolls. In fact, that very expectation seemed to be building unrest before the painting came out. The Watch was jumpy as they guarded the Merchant’s Guild. Relc, thinking on it, reflected he was right.

It wasn’t the painting. Even the idea was stirring something here. The idea, the Meeting of Tribes, the Woven Bladegrass attacks…the King of Destruction and Gnoll tribes there.

“We need you, Senior Guardsman Relc. I understand nostalgia—and I am prepared to send you back with commendations for your hard work. But give me—three weeks. Until that damned troublemaker is caught or taken out of the city. If you can get Sellme, I’ll give you every award we have on top of the bounty!”

That was Terigrals’ offer. Relc just saluted.

—-

In the meantime, Relc found himself with a growing audience of kids each day that passed. Vok was first, and then a bunch of Gnolls and some Drakes watched Relc in the cheap apartment complex.

By the second morning, Vok had found a stick. Relc called it a ‘stick’ despite Vok claiming it was a quarterstaff. Relc responded by taking the stick and demonstrating that you could snap a stick with your arms.

“You can’t do that with a spear. It’s not balanced; it’s not even long enough! Look—wait. Give me a second.”

Vok looked at the stick he’d bought, crestfallen. It had cost him nearly five copper! He looked up as Relc came down from his apartment with a second spear in his hands.

“What’s that?”

“Short spear. Cut down. See the difference? Here.”

Relc tossed the actual weapon at Vok. The young Gnoll caught it clumsily. Relc went back to practicing.

“Try to do a thrust like that. No—wait.”

The young man hesitated.

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything.”

The Drake sighed. Vok was breathing wrong, standing wrong, holding the spear wrong…he corrected the Gnoll and let him practice the most basic techniques. Trying to do a spear-dance was stupid if you couldn’t even do a basic thrust. And spears were beautiful because an amateur could learn it fast, and a master had far more to learn still.

The next day, he found eight Gnolls from various ages asking for lessons. Relc just shrugged.

—-

The second Sellme painting was of the Merchant’s Guild, again. This time spouting empty promises at the negotiating table while one ran out of the back with all the gold. Since it turned out the Merchant’s Guild was moving some of their assets out of Cellidel…

Sellme was interesting to Relc. They were a phenomenon, a wave. Where they went, chaos followed. He’d begun reading some Watch reports. They exposed corruption or brought to light issues in a city and riots or conflict followed in many cases.

Of course, they were the Watch’s worst nightmare. What good did riots do? All Sellme left, in Pos and Terigrals’ eyes at least, was dead bodies, countless thousands of gold coin’s worth of damage, and lingering unrest.

Relc thought Sellme was rather like Erin if she decided to paint. He couldn’t help but like that, despite having to stand guard-duty over the Merchant’s Guild all day, occasionally getting snacks courtesy of grateful staff, gossiping and joking with fellow [Guards]…wait, he loved that. Sellme was alright by him.

Nearly a week had gone by and Relc was relieved that Sellme had, as of yet, made this mostly an issue about greedy [Merchants]. It actually meant his job was all about them, and they were all-Drake.

Interestingly, the fourth painting Sellme did caused trouble. The [Painter] exposed the leader of one of the Guilds—Mason’s Guild—in no uncertain terms. A predator on younger, female Drakes; they painted the accusation on the Mason’s Guild wall itself.

Relc and the Watch never got to the Guildmaster in time. A mob got him first. The question of how Sellme knew—or if this was an unsubstantiated allegation—consumed the day, until previously-silent victims came forwards. Somehow, Sellme had gotten wind and delivered a justice of their own.

The Watch did not look good, of course. Relc sensed the increasing unease. If Sellme was running down Cellidel’s lists of faults…

It was interesting because to the [Senior Guardsman], it rang of guilt. Relc wondered if Klbkch would have been able to use [Detect Guilt] here. The Watch wouldn’t be this jumpy if they really thought all was well. Or maybe they just put it down to those crazy Gnolls.

In fact, it was Gnolls they were watching, convinced Sellme was one of them. They were cracking down hard on those coming in and out of the city.

However, as Relc had observed, it was Sellme’s fourth painting that had caused an actual death. The first had been the Merchant Guild, and the second.

The third made Relc think Sellme was almost certainly a Drake. It wasn’t just that it was ignored; it was deliberately not talked about.

A fresco on a longer section of walls at just over head-height, long and horizontal. It was a mirror of the actual street, complete with pedestrians, a store opening, and had very little of a theme at first.

Until you saw the two male Drakes holding hands and walking together with tails twined as well, and every other pedestrian on the street watching them and whispering—or pointing. Relc had seen it before it was erased.

No one talked about it. Not everything Sellme did was shouted, it seemed. However, if the [Painter] had been disappointed by the third painting, the fourth had drawn blood.

The city was waiting for the painting that came next. Gnolls were hungry for a voice. Tired of…well.

Routine.

—-

The end of the week and his happy [Merchant]-guarding duties behind him, Relc found he was teaching an entire class. For free!

Well, it was fun. It reminded him of Embria when she used to beg for lessons. He did it in the morning and before he slept, in the courtyard and a bunch of Gnolls and Drakes came, even some adults, to learn from an actual [Spearmaster].

Some didn’t have talent, patience, or any other quality. Some though—had a spark.

Not Vok. Ironically, he fell behind a talented Gnoll girl, barely older than Mrsha, who actually mastered a spear-flurry by her fourth day. That was pure talent. However, Relc cheered up the young Gnoll by telling him it was practice that equalized things. Practice; levels rewarded you.

Not everyone practiced; a lot liked to watch Relc’s incredible spear-dances. One of them, among others, came up one day and introduced themselves.

“You have amazing form, [Guardsman]. It’s a shame you use it in the Watch. A [Spearmaster] versus civilians isn’t very fair.”

Relc blinked at the young Drake man, older than Vok, but only a bit, with pale white scales.

“I don’t fight civilians. Just bad guys.”

“Are all the ‘bad guys’ you fight criminals? How many do you kill?”

Vok glanced at the Drake, who was a newcomer to the apartments. They had a strident attitude as they faced Relc. The Senior Guardsman put a claw in one earhole and scratched.

“Most of ‘em. I don’t usually have to kill many people, you know. I just punch them. You see, I have a Skill. It’s called [Relc Punch] and it’s the most powerful technique ever. See? [Relc Punch]!”

He did it to the little girl with talent and she recoiled, shrieking with laughter. The pale-scaled Drake blinked, but then almost smiled. He tilted his head, regarding Relc.

“…You’re not from Cellidel, are you?”

“Do I know you?”

Relc eyed the newcomer, and then shrugged.

“That’s right. I’m from Liscor. Ever heard of it?”

Of course, everyone started asking about the Antinium. Relc barely got to talk to the Drake that day, and he was late for work. However, the Drake kept coming back to watch.

His name was ‘Tesy’, which was presumably a nickname, but Relc only ever heard him talking with younger kids in the apartment area. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen years old. A kid.

Vok was a kid. Strange though; Relc kept forgetting they were all younger than Embria by a bit. It seemed like she was always younger in his head—until he saw her.

Erin was barely older than Tesy, but she wasn’t a kid. Maybe it was how they carried themselves. Vok was more street-wise than Erin Solstice after a year of living in Liscor. The same with Tesy; he’d rented the apartment, had a job or so it seemed—all things that Relc imagined Erin might actually struggle with.

On the other tail…he couldn’t see either facing down a hostile crowd in the streets. Or leading an army. That was the difference, Relc supposed. Erin had been through a lot and sometimes you could tell. Usually she was friendly, relaxing, funnily weird and a kid in a lot of ways, even when she beat you like a drum while playing chess.

Then—something would pop up and the [Innkeeper] would give you a look that an old [Veteran] was capable of. Someone who had seen things you only joked about.

Well, Tesy had a mouth like Erin’s. Which was to say that he’d tell Relc off about being a [Guard], or loudly point out to people how the [Landlord] of the apartment was overcharging them because they could. Relc was exceptionally surprised no one had tried to punch Tesy, but the white-scaled Drake had the ability to duck trouble that most kids learned if they were like him.

The Senior Guardsman supposed that ‘Sellme’ would be nothing less than that. It was a bit of a coincidence he uncovered the famous [Painter]’s identity—but then again, not. Once you looked at Tesy, it was obvious.

Faint traces of paint on his white scales sometimes. The odor of paint—like an [Alchemist]’s—before he used a scent-masking deodorant. Comments about the very same issues Sellme talked about. Clearly gossiping with locals, never seen ‘working’, but disappearing for stretches of time.

Elementary, as Erin would say. Senior Guardsman Relc had uncovered a lot of mysteries in his time.

‘Where did I put the jar of pickles?’

‘Did Mrsha eat my cookies?’

‘Who is the Scalenight Strangler?’

Admittedly, that last one was his only real ‘case’. For all Relc loved puzzles, there was a difference between being able to pursue clues and put together motive and whatever else you did and fiddle with blacksmith puzzles.

Klbkch had solved that last one; a [Murderer] oh, five years back. Relc had helped by walking around with Klbkch, asking questions, and then helping run down the murderous Drake. Klbkch needed a partner willing to sit in alleyways for up to six hours straight as they staked out more possible locations.

As for how he’d figured it out, he’d used his secret Antinium techniques to pick up on ‘audio cues’ or something, done a lot of asking questions and essentially narrowed down the streets where the murderer had come from. Relc had walked next to him.

He had always been miffed he didn’t get the [Investigator] class. Or [Detective], which Erin had explained to him and Mrsha one time.

Detective Relc had uncovered the cookie-case all on his own, though. His investigation had revealed Mrsha had only stolen one cookie—after Bird walked off with half the jar to make bird bait. He’d also found the pickle jar.

Anyways, he uncovered Tesy being Sellme the [Painter] by accident. Although only Relc could have figured it out…

—-

It was a monster attack that Relc was called to solve. And by ‘called’, it was ‘called out of bed’ by the scream for a [Guard].

Monster attacks were rare. Cellidel was not Liscor, and had a record of monster swarms attacking it every eight years at most. Stray Wyverns, roaming hostile monsters, all of that took place outside the city, mainly.

However, a monster always appeared, even in Walled Cities. In this case? It was one of the nasty types, not a sewer-monster grown to unnatural size.

They were called ‘Cericel’ in general. But you appended ‘Stalker’, or ‘Warrior’, or so on depending on how they grew.

The best way to describe one was to take a Ghoul, or other stringy, tough monster, and imagine they were living, feral things that travelled in packs. They were just smart enough to use weapons, but they preferred their claws. They had two longer arms and were humanoid…ish. They squatted a lot, but could jump ten feet into the air. Clawed feet.

What made them unique were their mouths. No mouth full of teeth; they had a sucker-type mouth and weird tendril-tongues. They drained victims, their scaly-exteriors sloughing off as they shed and grew.

But for Crelers, they might be one of the more dreaded nesting-type monsters around. The really bad variants grew wings or got big. They moved sluggishly under daylight and like the wind by night.

Typically, when this pack attacked, they went right over the walls and rampaged into the city. The Watch was already sounding the alarm, but they were chasing the rapid-moving predators that were trying to kill and run. They ran right into the apartment complex where Relc was sleeping; a bunch of helpless food only barred behind cheap wooden doors.

The Cericel Stalkers were tearing into wooden doors as terrified civilians screamed and tried to fend them off with self-defense weapons that did little against the Silver-rank monsters—each one Silver-ranked as a threat.

They were on the lower floors, going up, but some had climbed higher and one was on the fourth floor, tearing into a room with a few children inside and no adults.

One recoiled as a cheap training spear jabbed it in the chest, but Vok hadn’t attached a tip and he didn’t have Relc’s short spear. It backed up, snarling, and then tensed to leap through the shattered door.

Relc grabbed the monster by the tail. The Cericel Stalker whirled, fast as could be—and screamed as he tossed it over the balcony in one motion.

They could jump, but they didn’t bounce. Relc tossed his spare short spear at Vok and snapped.

“Get into another room and barricade the door!”

The Gnoll fumbled; missed grabbing the spear and had to pick it up. Relc didn’t see. He was already charging down the corridor. He slammed into another Stalker and hit it so hard both crashed into a room with two screaming Drakes. The monster opened its weird mouth, uttering a warbling scream; Relc punched it in the face and then speared it.

The Cericel realized something was hunting them as the second body fell from the 4th floor. They went up, flanking whatever was attacking their kind. They heard a voice coming down the stairs as four bounded up, ready to pounce and slash from all sides.

“[Lightning Sprint]! [Pierce Thrust]!”

A blur came at them, ran through two of them, and sent all four crashing down the stairs. The other two tried to slash, but then a sharp spear went through one’s neck and chest; and the other’s gut.

[Triple Thrust]. Relc kicked the last one off his spear, and finished it off as it writhed, screaming.

He’d fought Cericel before. Classic tactics worked; the Gecko of Liscor just smashed into them, using basic Skills. No [Spear Art] or [Spear Dance] in close-quarters. He checked his back and ran towards the Cericel, expecting to flank with their buddies.

Relc’s adrenaline was up, but he wasn’t worried for himself. He got over ten Cericel before the Watch and two adventurers helped corner the rest; they were all on the run from the Senior Guardsman.

Monsters could gut regular [Guards] and even lower-level adventurers. Versus one [Spearmaster] with an enchanted spear? Relc leaned on his spear, panting, covered in their stinking blood.

“I hate monster attacks.”

The Watch stared at him, wide-eyed. So did some of the Silver-ranks. Relc just sighed. It was the same job as Liscor; Klbkch and Relc had fought off monsters attacking some of the farmsteads from time to time.

The entire attack would have been bloody but for Relc, and the terrified apartment-dwellers were lucky he was here. To be fair—Pisces, Ceria, or any Gold-rank could have done as well.

Relc spent the rest of the night reassuring people, accepting accolades, and helping chase down the rest of the monsters in the city. When he discovered Sellme, the real event of the night, it was by accident.

The Drake was going to check on Vok and get his spear back when he noticed something. Fast as he’d been to take the fight to the monsters, they should have killed a number of people on the first and second floors. However, a bunch of kids had survived. As the monsters had made short work of the doors, they’d fled out the back and into the street; Relc had done the rest.

…The problem was, there was no back door in these apartments. However, the children had thrown open steel-doors and the Cericel had clawed at the metal until Relc arrived. Steel doors that had not been there until someone painted them.

That was high-level. Even so, Relc wouldn’t have noticed unless he’d been looking for Vok and the others. He was wandering around the first and second floors, checking a Cericel wasn’t there—although his [Dangersense] was pretty good. Calling out for kids.

He felt like he was missing…something. Relc caught himself wandering around and shook his head. His inner-intuition began going off, a lot louder than even when the Cericel attacked. Relc checked his back again, despite his Skill—then put himself against a wall.

Routine. Instinct. The Drake felt a familiar sensation and chased it down in his head. He gritted his teeth—then stabbed his arm with the tip of his enchanted spear.

Pain and clarity assailed him as soon as the tip of his spear pierced his scales. Relc turned his head—and focused on the two rooms he’d been walking past. He narrowed his eyes, crept forwards…and saw Sellme erasing the painted metal doors and talking quietly to a group of kids.

“You never saw me, understand?”

The gaggle of Drakes and Gnolls nodded solemnly. They might not even remember afterwards, save that Sellme had been there—not Tesy. Relc recognized the mind-altering Skill and slid back before the [Magical Painter] looked around.

It was a good Skill that Sellme had. A classic ‘can’t see me’ Skill a [Rogue] might employ. Maybe even stronger given how famous they were and their level.

However, it didn’t work on Relc for a few reasons. First, he had [Indomitable Will], a Skill that could beat off a [Terror] spell. Second? He was a veteran of battles where enemy illusion spells messed with perception and had recognized one working on him.

The last reason was the spear-trick Relc had learned. The anti-magic enchantment also worked on auras. Stab yourself and you were more immune to spells.

Detective Relc strikes again! Sellme, the [Magical Painter], arrested and brought to justice by the humble, good-looking, exceptionally cool Senior Guardsman…

Relc didn’t tell anyone that night. Nor the day after. When Vok and the other kids flocked to tell him how amazing he’d been the next morning, Relc saw Tesy was there.

“You killed a lot of monsters, Guardsman Relc. I’m glad you saved so many.”

“Aw, well. It’s my job. Those bastards aren’t too dangerous if you get them by surprise.”

Tesy nodded, smiling slightly.

“That’s what the Watch should do all the time.”

“Come on, Tesy. Senior Guardsman Relc is the best!”

A kid defended Relc. The Drake laughed. He ruffled a furry head, and then yawned. Well, he’d brag about it to Erin or Klbkch someday. If she actually could come back…Mrsha, maybe.

—-

It all went bad during the fifth painting in Sellme’s short tenure in Cellidel. Once again, the painting wasn’t about the Watch, but this time it did have commentary on the two species.

It was of a [Baker] refusing to admit Gnolls while, behind the counter, a bunch of Gnoll assistant-[Bakers] did the baking of the goods.

Relc wasn’t there when the painting was discovered. He was probably asleep or at morning practice with the kids, or heading to the Watch House when a large number of Drakes and comparatively fewer Gnolls saw the painting and caused an uproar. He wasn’t there when one of the Drakes, outraged at the painting, pointed at one of the Gnolls in the crowd and accused them of being Sellme.

The Gnoll just had tar or some oily substance on their fur. It was an unlucky coincidence, but the crowd turned into a vengeful lynch mob in a second. The Gnoll was never placed under arrest; they died there in the street.

That was the breaking point the city was waiting for. It wasn’t a picture of the Watch, but by the time Relc got to work, the air was tense.

“What? What are you talking about? Sellme got killed?”

“No, a damn Gnoll got killed because some idiot accused them of being Sellme! They all tried to put him in a citizen’s arrest and he drew a dagger and got gutted.”

Relc stopped chewing his breakfast as one of the [Guards] snapped an abbreviated version of the story.

“So. How many people got arrested?”

The Watch House went quiet. Relc looked around.

“…So no one got arrested? Sounds like murder to me.”

“It was an entire crowd. You want us to haul them all in here? They scattered before the Watch patrol arrived.”

One of the Senior Guards shot back. Relc looked for one of the two Gnoll [Guards] on duty. They were conspicuously looking away. Keeping silent.

“Maybe just cast [Detect Truth] and figure out which ones were actually the killers. How many people was it? A hundred? Two hundred? You can still…”

“Senior Guardsman Relc. A word.”

The door of Terigrals’ office opened. It was all cascading together. Relc turned his head and felt a familiar sensation in his stomach. A sinking one. Especially when he saw the bloodied Gnoll kid holding the imitation short spear standing in the Watch Captain’s office.

—-

“Relc. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Possel snarled at Relc, gesturing to the spear on the table. It was cheap; not even steel-tipped. Someone had made this in a good likeness of an actual short spear.

A kid’s weapon. Still dangerous enough if you hit someone with it the right way. Especially if you had six buddies with spears all jabbing at once. That was why they called it a ‘spear wall’. Drake tactics were built around the idea of ‘if you run into a lot of pointy objects, you get hurt’.

Relc glanced at Possel, then at Watch Captain Terigrals, who was looking angrier than Relc had ever seen him. The Senior Guardsman looked at the Gnoll; his spear hadn’t done much good. Someone had given him two black eyes before arresting him, and a bloody nose.

It wasn’t Vok. Possel laid it out in a few words.

“There’s entire gangs running around with spears! For ‘self-defense’. My patrol ran into them and if they’d had steel tips…”

The Gnoll kid looked at Relc and then down. Terigrals turned to Relc.

“Senior Guardsman Relc. Have you been training civilians to use spears on your off-duty hours? With no regard for the consequences?”

Relc twitched at the word. It didn’t suit Terigrals, not how he used it. He replied, slowly.

“Some kids watch me practice, yeah. I’ve been showing them the ropes. I know you…”

He didn’t know the name. But the Gnoll kid looked familiar. Possel looked incandescent. Terigrals spoke.

“This is the last thing we need at this time. Relc, I expected better of a Senior Guardsman.”

“Why?”

The question stumped the Watch Captain for a second. He pointed at the spear.

“Arming dangerous gangs—”

“They’re kids. Civilians know how to defend themselves. It doesn’t even have a metal tip. You could barely take out someone’s eye with it.”

“If that’s a [Guard] patrol which has to fight a gang with spears—”

“I’m not teaching gangs to fight. What were the kids doing?”

“They had weapons! We followed up on an urgent call…”

For a bunch of kids holding wooden practice spears. Relc kept looking at the Gnoll kid. No one was offering him a healing potion, and—Relc looked at the Watch Captain and Senior Guardsman.

Routine. Relc stood there like he did when Zevara chewed him out. Hands behind his back, posture straight, face straight and staring through Terigrals’ head.

“Yes, Watch Captain.”

“No, Watch Captain.”

“It won’t happen again, Watch Captain.”

Relc was getting sick of routine. He looked at the Gnoll kid as he was put into the Watch’s lockup for the day.

He wanted to go home to Liscor. But how would that change anything for anyone but Relc? He was given a warning, a write-up, and assigned to patrol-duty with Possel for the foreseeable future, as Senior Guardsman Relc’s reliability was now under question.

—-

Relc could have listened to Terigrals chewing him out. However, among his amazing non-Skill abilities was the power to tune out things he didn’t want to listen to. So he stood there, inserting routine-comments as necessary.

He was tempted to do the same for Possel. It was amazing, but the other Senior Guard had volunteered to partner up with Relc. It was to make a point. Relc knew what Possel was going to say before he said it as they walked out of the Watch House. Not the words, but the dance.

This too, was routine. Relc’s grip tightened on his spear as Possel snapped at him.

“I thought we were on the same page, Relc. First you kill a bunch of monsters and stop that robbery without anyone getting hurt—now this. Whose side are you on here?”

What would Erin say to that? Relc looked around the streets. Not a Gnoll to be seen. Drakes looked uneasy too. Uneasy and angry. It was easier to be angry than to be guilty.

Not all of Cellidel thought that poor Gnoll should have died. Drakes were divided; the Gnolls were not. They had already locked down their businesses, not gone to work. No one had begun protesting…yet. The city’s Council had passed a ruling against large gatherings until Sellme was caught, for safety.

Relc had been in a city that went bad twice as part of Liscor’s army. Both times, he’d seen it go up like this. That law was a bad one; predictable, but bad. Once you made a law civilians were going to break, it made them more likely to break another one.

Twice, Relc had been in a city that went to riots. One time he fought with the companies there, until the civilians’ anger broke on steel and magic. Bloody and bad. The other time, he’d received orders to walk away and Liscor’s army had let the city go up as the army turned on the government.

Even when they’d stopped the first bad riots, Relc had felt that the city wasn’t secure—just waiting until they left. Cellidel had the same atmosphere to it. He felt his scales crawling.

“Relc! Are you listening?”

“Hm?”

Pos was staring at Relc. The Senior Guardsman scratched at his head. Shrugged.

“…What am I supposed to say? ‘Am I on your side?’ Do you think I’m going to stab you in the back?”

“You might as well be doing that! Arming street-kids at that age? What do you think they’ll do if they learn how to use a spear?”

“Join the watch? Defend themselves? Practice?”

“Don’t be a damned idiot. Are you blind or what?”

Pos went to slap Relc’s shoulder. The other Drake swatted his claw down before Pos reached him. They stopped and stared at each other. Relc’s face was blank. Possel hesitated, and regrouped.

“Relc. I get that you’re from another city. But you’re a [Guard], a Senior Guardsman, and so am I. We have to be united. Watch Captain Terigrals helped you out, didn’t he?”

The [Spearmaster] blinked. Possel hurried on.

“I don’t know what it was—but there’s not many reasons a [Guard] comes from another city. We don’t abandon our own. I need you to work with me, got it? Just stop teaching them how to use a spear and—it’s done.”

He spread his claws. Relc stared at him. He was thinking hard.

It wasn’t about Pos. Or even Cellidel and Sellme’s role here. It was just Relc.

It would be so easy to slip into routine. One write-up, some tension, and he could get back to work. Skate on by until he got to go back to Liscor.

Unless Cellidel goes really bad. However, Relc was good at running away. He’d survive, no question, regardless of what happened.

He just wondered what Erin would say about it.

They kept walking after a short silence. Relc debated bringing up the Gnoll [Guards] in the Watch, or pointing out that the kids were not all criminals and some were twelve. He had a feeling what Possel would say in reply. Something like, ‘good Gnolls’, which implied there were bad ones—the ones not on ‘our side’.

The two walked into the heart of the problem. They didn’t go deep into streets brimming with hostility, but the Watch maintained a heavy presence today. Coincidentally, Relc saw a lot of Gnolls staring daggers at them as he marched down the street.

The Watch was waiting for something. So were the people. It just took one moment…and there were lots of moments when tensions were running high, when there was anger in the air.

The excuse came when Possel ordered a group of over ten to break up. Not all Gnolls, but either way, it was the ‘no large gatherings’ order. He snapped.

“Break it up! All of you, get moving!”

One of the Gnoll workers glowered at Possel, who had a hand on his club—not the sword he carried. He spat, narrowly missing Possel’s boot.

The Senior Guardsman went for his club. He raised it—and Relc yanked him back.

“Stop that.”

It was a moment. A simple tug, but it took a lot to do. It changed…well, just what happened next.

The crowd broke up, running, and the Gnoll in front of the [Guards] ran too. Possel whirled, red under his scales.

“Relc!”

“Possel.”

“What the hell was that! Did you see him spit on me?”

“I saw him spit on the ground. You nearly bashed his brains in.”

Possel stared at Relc. His voice was trembling.

“Weren’t you listening to what I said?”

“Nope. I’m bad at listening.”

The two Drakes looked at each other and Relc felt the invisible fissure open up. No going back now. He was trembling with nervous energy. He felt like he could see the future. The instant they got back to the Watch House…

No, they didn’t even have to wait for that. A whistle blew and both Senior Guards whirled. Without a word they ran.

Relc got there first, obviously. He saw a melee. More running people. The exact same scene with Possel had played out, only there was no Relc. A Gnoll was on the ground, getting kicked, and two more were flat out.

Including a white-scaled Drake. It looked like someone had clocked him so hard he’d just gone over. Relc saw a squad of six [Guards] blowing a whistle; the street was rumbling, but no one wanted to go up against six—no, eight—[Guards], all wearing armor and armed. Unless…

“Senior Guard. Stop.”

Relc snapped as one of the [Guards] drew back to kick the Gnoll on the ground again. The angry [Guard] glanced up as Possel skidded around the corner.

“Those bastards sprayed us with sewer water!”

He bellowed. All six were soaked to some degree and he’d gotten the worst of it. He drew back his leg to kick. Relc pointed.

“Stop it. Arrest them, but stop kicking them.”

The answer was a snarl. The boot came back, swung forwards—

Relc bent down, and lifted the foot up higher. The Drake went over onto his back with a crash of metal as he overbalanced.

“Relc!”

Possel and the other [Guards] stared at Relc. The Senior Guardsman was breathing hard, although not from the run. Here it was. Here it came.

“That’s enough. They’re under arrest for spraying sewer water on [Guards]. Do you really want to start a fight here? Look around!”

The more level-headed [Guards] looked around and saw the stares. Some of them, even Possel, realized Relc was right. A few more kicks and half the watchers might decide to stop it themselves.

“Call for a prisoner-wagon.”

One muttered. A [Guard] blew the short whistle-call and they all stood there. Staring at Relc. It was a long time before the wagon arrived, and it came with ten more [Guards].

Leave it there. Leave it there.

Relc wasn’t talking to himself. He was staring at the angriest [Guard], who was trying to wash…well, crap off him. He was so angry he couldn’t even hold the water flask without it shaking.

“We’ll load them up. Just calm down. We’ll clean up later.”

One of the [Guards] was trying to talk him down. Relc just watched as all three, including Tesy, were loaded onto the wagon. A few began to wake up. Including the [Painter].

He was like Erin after all. Because as the Drake opened his eyes and spat a bit of bloody saliva out, he looked straight at the [Guards], including the angriest one, and spoke.

“Serves you right. Full of crap on the outside, as much as the inside.”

It wasn’t even a great insult. True, it was hard to come up with that kind of thing when someone had just knocked you out—but one word would probably have been enough. One look.

The [Guard] threw down the water flask, strode over, and kicked Tesy in the stomach so hard he doubled up in the two [Guards]’s grasps. They shouted at him.

“Eisst—!”

Relc grabbed the Drake, Eisst, wrenched his arm up behind his back, and walked him into the wagon. Hard; the wood creaked. The dizzy [Guard] cried out; more like an exhalation. Relc spoke, deliberately looking past Eisst and into the air.

“You’re under arrest for violence against civilians.”

“Relc! Are you insane?”

“You saw him. We don’t kick prisoners. You…”

What was it Erin used to say? ‘You have the right to remain silent? Anything you something something?’ Relc just said what he normally said.

“—You’re in trouble, buddy. Don’t resist or I get to hit you. Since that’s resisting arrest. But if you don’t resist, then I can’t hit you.”

There was a distinction. It was slight, but it was the difference between kicking Tesy if he punched you—or if he was in manacles and helpless.

Eisst, winded, swore and went to kick Relc. The [Spearmaster] slammed him into the wagon again. This time the Drake’s armor cracked the wood.

The other [Guards] went silent. They looked at Possel, one of the three Senior guards on the scene, then the Senior Guardswoman leading the prisoner-wagon. They both stared at each other, then Relc.

Senior Guardsman Relc. The [Spearmaster]. The Gecko of Liscor. Who was tossing Eisst around like he weighed nothing, armor and all. The [Guard] was trying to rip free as Relc one-handed grabbed both his wrists together and fumbled for his manacles, sighing. He couldn’t budge.

Neither one stopped Relc. In dead silence, Relc finally got the manacles free, attached them to Eisst, and spun him around.

“Do you want to get into the wagon or is this going to be shackles on the legs too?”

The [Guard] was dizzy, and he had to know it was a bad idea. He still went for a knee to Relc’s groin. Which, to be fair, was entirely in Eisst’s limited character that Relc knew from this interaction.

Relc punched him. It wasn’t a [Relc Punch] and he didn’t shout. Tesy just saw him swing a fist, almost too fast to see. Eisst sagged and Relc sighed and tossed him into the wagon, between the three now-conscious prisoners.

The Watch was dead-silent. Relc nodded.

“Let’s get them back to the Watch House and write a report. I hate reports.”

He sighed. His heart was still beating…far too fast. He saw Possel hang back. He marched with the wagon as it rolled off. It was done.

It was done—he felt his [Dangersense] going off. No, his intuition. Relc’s mind was racing. He felt sweaty. However, now and then, to stifle the fear in his heart, he glanced at Tesy.

The stupid Drake even grinned like Erin.

—-

Watch Captain Terigrals heard Relc out in silence. The Watch House was dead silent as Relc booked the still-unconscious Eisst and gave a verbal report, then sat to write one down as well.

He knew he hadn’t stopped the unrest on the streets. Even if the entire city of Cellidel heard about the incident—so what?

Relc definitely hadn’t changed the Watch. He had just made himself the biggest target. He could have told you both things were going to occur. He had known it, the moment he’d grabbed Pos’ arm.

Nothing would change, save that Relc Grasstongue was now in trouble, not the amiably-ignored outsider. He was not Erin Solstice, who could change things, even in small ways.

So why had he done it? Relc supposed it was because you had to. Or he’d never be able to walk in The Wandering Inn again, whether Erin was alive or dead.

“Relc. We need to talk. My place, after we sign out. Sundown.”

Possel called to Relc as the Drake rose. Relc glanced up at him. He nodded. He didn’t go back onto the street; Terigrals had him hold the desk instead.

—-

“Are you sure, Possel? He is the Gecko. That’s what they called him.”

Possel shrugged.

“So? Do you want to be Eisst the next time he decides he doesn’t like how we do things? We’re about to have riots and he’s throwing his weight around. Besides.”

He glanced around. There were nine Senior Guards in his private home. Possel, unlike Relc, had bought his own place. The other [Guards] were still wearing armor. They looked at each other.

It wasn’t really a debate, either. They moved to the stairs, the other rooms of the house, as Possel stood in the living room. Relc was coming. Possel waited.

And waited.

The sun went down. The Drake stood there, growing more impatient by the second. When the door’s bell—the actual bell on a hook—finally rang, he snapped.

“Come in!”

—-

If he was being honest, Relc did take his time. He walked the city. He had a light dinner. He thought about the future, and what he had done today, asked himself what Erin would say.

…He had no idea what she would say. He wasn’t good at coming up with new things.

Relc was not super-imaginative. He didn’t come up with crazy new ideas like putting acid flies in cookies. So, when he did come to Possel’s home two hours past sundown, he was wearing plain clothes, obviously not carrying his spear.

“Pos!”

He finally greeted the other Drake with his name. Pos smiled.

“Relc. You’re a bit late. Come in.”

Relc shrugged through the doorway. He still looked huge without his armor. Bigger than Pos, but he was smiling.

“You wanted to talk about today? Bad stuff with the [Guards].”

“Exactly. But can I get you anything to drink first? We need to talk, Relc. It seems we don’t see eye-to-eye after all.”

The Drake [Spearmaster] grinned and rolled his arm, then the other, as Possel walked towards his pantry. The living room was nice. Sofa, even a few magical trinkets—a bachelor’s place. Ah, yeah. Possel had mentioned that.

“Well, I am taller than you. No drinks. I’m gonna be quick.”

Pos laughed. The others, unseen, waited, tensed. Relc saw Possel swing around.

“The thing is, Relc—we can’t have it continue like this. You understand? Eisst has a temper. He’s a good [Guard], but he’d never make Senior Guardsman. That’s fine; you were right to stop him from killing that Gnoll. Prisoners too. But it’s the way you do it. We’re the Watch.”

“Yup. We’re the Watch. I’m Relc. You’re Pos.”

The other Drake’s grin slipped.

“I’m being serious, Relc. I want you to be serious for once in your Ancestors-damned life. Can you do that?”

Relc Grasstongue didn’t look around. He massaged his right shoulder, and nodded.

“Sure. I’m glad you asked to talk, Pos. Because listen—I was going to ask too, but my place is too cramped. I’ve been thinking.”

All Relc knew was routine. All Relc had was this: good boots, knowledge of how to swing a spear, his friends, his blacksmith puzzles, and his daughter. He didn’t know how to fix any of this.

So he just did what he’d do. The Drake scratched at the scales on one arm.

“You don’t like Gnolls that much.”

“I’m fine with—”

Pos opened his mouth. Relc shushed him.

“No, no. Hold on. I get to talk because I’m Relc. Listen. You don’t like Gnolls. I can tell. I was in the army; I’ve been to more cities than you have. Way more. You told me you never left Cellidel.”

Possel blinked. Relc actually remembered a detail about his life? He saw Relc twist his neck. Left. Right. The Drake sighed.

“Liscor has tons of Gnolls. And Antinium. And Humans, these days. Well, I wasn’t cool with Antinium because they killed my friends, but one of them is my best buddy. Or was. Humans? I didn’t know ‘em, but they’re good too. I’m still not a fan of Goblins, but hey, they don’t like me much either. It’s a work in progress.”

“Goblins? What do you mean—”

Relc spoke over him, cheerfully raising his voice until Pos stopped.

“The thing is: I don’t know the other stuff. Like how you fix Cellidel. All I know is: Gnolls are fine. I was in the army. I had a Gnoll commanding officer. Gnoll buddies. Drake buddies. Sometimes we fought with Gnoll tribes. Sometimes alongside Gnoll tribes. Sometimes we had to work in cities like this. We pick up recruits from all over the place and sometimes they enlist, but they just don’t like Gnolls. Or we have to serve with another army that’s all-Drake.”

The Senior Guards were listening, confused at where he was going with this. Relc went on, and now he was looking at Pos. Grinning slightly.

“The army’s not smart. I’m not smart. So when we have a problem, we fix it. I don’t know how to change the Watch, but I do know what we do to guys who can’t handle being around Gnolls. Or beat them up.”

“And…what’s that?”

Possel stared at Relc. The Drake began cracking his knuckles. He couldn’t be serious, could he? But he was. The Drake checked the door; it was still ajar so he shut it.

“Pos, buddy. This is a Liscor-army style lesson. If you pick up a sword, I’m going to hurt you.”

Pos laughed. It was incredulous. But it seemed as Relc walked forwards that he was getting bigger. The Gecko of Liscor glanced around. The house was so silent. He looked at Pos, who was waiting. Waiting for…

His eyes flickered as Relc grinned at him.

“Their [Dangersenses] are going off. And I’m not even carrying my spear. Now, here’s a Liscorian lesson. Don’t worry. It’ll be quick. I’ve gotta sleep since I have a shift in the morning. We can’t take all night.”

He raised a fist. Pos swung first, with a shout. Relc caught the fist and the smaller Drake looked up at him.

The other Senior Guards…watched.

They just watched.

—-

The next day, Relc hummed as he went to work. He entered the silent Watch House and noted Possel wasn’t there. He was off sick.

The thing about routine was that you could flip it. There was the routine of a [Guardsman] who kept his head down and didn’t rock the boat.

But what happened if the routine was ‘deal with this one [Guard] who we can’t handle’? Well, as it happened, Relc knew that too.

The first thing you did was teach him a lesson. Generally speaking, you sorted it out in private.

Unless of course, your [Dangersense] told you that even nine-on-one, you were in trouble. And you saw one Drake hit another across a room. And they knew you were there.

It was an illustrative lesson. None of the [Guards] looked at Relc. He paused by his armor locker and opened it.

What did you do if that first one failed? Well, routine told Relc a number of ways existed. He’d seen it in the army and his job.

The second way was hazing. Tricks, pranks, and so on. He opened his locker, pulled out his pristine armor, and detached the little note from it.

Touch my armor and I will break your arms.

Relc hummed as he dressed himself. It brought him back, doing things the Liscor-army way. He hadn’t changed anything. Not changed anyone’s minds, not changed the situation…just rearranged parts of a face. It was just something you did.

“Guards, fall in!”

The bark came from Terigrals’ office. Relc stood to attention and marched into a line as the Watch Captain came out. With a truth stone.

“Surprise inspection. Guardswoman Aiss, do you swear that you have committed no crimes under Cellidel law, broken no Watch regulations, taken no bribes, and have not compromised your oath as a [Guard]?”

Relc stood there, ignoring the sidelong looks and expectant, vengeful glares.

If you failed with both tactics, the last step was to go up. Well—second-to-last. He heard [Guards] swearing via the truth spell, and waited until Terigrals got to him.

The Watch Captain did not look happy, but he met Relc’s gaze squarely. Why did he look disappointed? The other [Guards] all watched, even the ones already cleared as he spoke.

“Guardsman Relc. Do you swear that you have committed no crimes under Cellidel law, broken no Watch regulations, taken no bribes, and have not compromised your oath as a [Guard]?”

“Yessir.”

The truth stone glowed…gray. A darker hue than not. Not a full lie, but—the exhalation in the Watch House could have blown out a window.

Terigrals nodded. He raised his voice.

“Senior Guardsman Relc, how many incidents, to your knowledge, exist of you breaking the law or failing to uphold your oath?”

Relc thought.

“…Two, Watch Captain.”

Terigrals blinked. The stone glowed white. The Watch Captain eyed him.

“Then explain both, Senior Guardsman.”

Relc nodded.

“I saw a [Guard] continue to attack a downed criminal and failed to stop them during the armed robbery last week, Watch Captain. I also failed to speak up when an innocent kid was arrested for owning a practice spear, and got beaten bloody because of it. Those are my failings, sir, and I will accept full punishment for both.”

The entire Watch stared at the stone in Terigrals’ claw. It didn’t change color. It glowed serenely white the entire time.

Terigrals stared at the Drake.

“Nothing else, Guardsman Relc? You have not violated the law in any other way?”

Relc thought about it.

“Nossir. My conscience is as clear as a glass of water. As smooth as a Human’s ass, sir.”

Laughter. Terigrals hesitated and looked at the stone, but while it dipped into grey with the glass of water and Human’s ass comment, it was only a bit. Relc was telling the truth.

As truth stones saw it, at least.

The Watch Captain looked at Relc Grasstongue. Relc met his gaze.

“Do you have anything else you’d like to talk to me about, Watch Captain T?”

He asked innocently. Terigrals met his gaze. Relc waited. The Watch waited, uncertain of what came next.

Routine, you old Drake. If Terigrals acknowledged Pos, it meant he also knew that nine Senior Guards had waited to ambush one of their own. And if he did—the Watch Captain hesitated.

The truth stone was glowing in his claw. Relc stared at it, then Terigrals. Say something. I dare you.

“No, Senior Guardsman Relc. That will be all.”

Terigrals hid the stone before it turned dark. Relc saw it, even so.

—-

The end. Hold for applause. An extra drink on the house and spaghetti! If Relc was telling a story to Erin, that’s what would happen next.

But here, he just marched out the door. The Watch did not fall on their knees and swear to never work with bias again. The truth stone did not come to life and start reflecting their lies in how they conducted themselves.

What did happen was that Relc left the Watch House alone. Somehow, Terigrals forgot to assign him a partner. No one else mentioned it.

What happened at the last, in the army, in the Watch, wherever, was that if all else failed, then out came the knives. Not actual knives, although Relc had slept with his back to the wall, like the old days. The last part of the anti-routine was this:

They left you alone.

Alone. Not just on the job, not just in talking, but alone alone. In battle, when you were shoulder-to-shoulder with your fellow [Soldiers], there was the gap. If you blew your whistle while you were in danger—no one came.

That was how you died. Yet Relc had known that plenty of times. That was what the Gecko of Liscor did. He charged ahead of the other [Soldiers], alone, into enemy ranks, fought, and escaped.

He could survive that. He could survive riots. His life hadn’t been in danger. Something else had been.

—-

When the first crowds gathered in defiance of the city’s ordinances, the Watch cracked down. There were counter-protests, which was really people angry at the angry people, ready to fight.

None of it was particularly unique in Cellidel, even with Sellme. This was the beginning. It was going to get worse. Citizens in Cellidel had weapons. The Watch had training and experience, even Skills designed to fight criminals.

However, when they stood in a line in the street, facing down an angry crowd ten times their size, a hundred, that was when the Watch was most terrified. They braced as stones came their way; if arrows flew, they would charge. For now it was changing; the citizens weren’t angry enough yet. Not yet, but it just took a spark.

The Watch might be that spark. They were nervous. Of course they wanted to do something, make an example of someone, disperse the crowd by force before it could get larger. It wouldn’t work, but they were nervous.

They saw how outnumbered they were. How, if it really came down to it, even the Gnoll population in the city, minority though they were, had the Watch outnumbered. What kind of [Guard] could face down so many angry enemies and handle it?

Well, that would be the Senior Guardsman who stopped down his street as a crowd came his way. No line of [Guards] here. They saw one [Guard], and started shouting. He turned to look at them.

The Gecko of Liscor. [Spearmaster]—

For a second they wavered. That one Drake was looking at them without fear. With eyes like an [Innkeeper], or a [Veteran] of larger wars. His grip tightened on his spear—

Then Relc blinked. He shook his head, lowered the weapon, and looked around.

“Hold on.”

He looked at the crowd, and then sidled over to something. The people saw him edge over to a terrified vendor trying to pack up their stall. Relc waved at him, tried to hold a conversation—gave up. He plunked down some copper, and took the cheap wooden bowl of noodles spiced hot. He began to slurp them down. Then he walked forwards.

“Hey, Senior Guardsman Relc here. Best [Guardsman] in Cellidel. Can I help you all? There’s some kind of law about gatherings, but I don’t see the point. So long as you don’t smash anything or anyone, we’re cool. Cool? These noodles are great, by the way.”

He looked around. Some of the people in the crowd laughed; others stared at him suspiciously.

“What are you going to do about the people murdering Gnolls? Didn’t you see the latest Sellme drawing?”

One of them shouted. Relc waved a fork back.

“If you mean whoever killed that guy a day ago—I’ll investigate. Where was it?”

The speaker went silent, confused, but the acquiescence didn’t fly. It was just a [Guard], trying to calm them down. The crowd rumbled. Then someone focused on Relc.

“Hold on. Look. That’s the Drake that’s teaching the spear.”

Some of the Gnolls recognized him. Relc nodded. He waited. The fact that they knew him was probably because his patrols had never ended that badly. Or he knew Vok. Or maybe Sellme’s latest painting had a strikingly similar Drake arresting another [Guard], who was trying to hit a bunch of downed civilians.

Even so, if they went for him, Relc was going to…run away. So fast they’d never catch up, even if there was a City Runner in the mix. If they didn’t, he’d look into that murder.

They didn’t attack him. It might have been the fact that Relc was eating from a bowl of noodles, or the way he talked to them, with a different city’s approach.

Maybe it was just the badge. It gleamed on his armored chest.

Senior Guardsman Relc, Liscor’s Watch.

The piece of metal had never looked so fitting. Never seemed so important before. But then, it fit Relc today more than other days. He had been a [Senior Guardsman] for a long time, but he’d been surprisingly low-level for the position.

Below Level 20, if you could believe it. Zevara and the previous Watch Captain had made an exception for a Level 30+ [Spearmaster]. However, Relc had leveled painfully slowly in the class, even if you took his other classes into account.

Today, the former Level 18 [Senior Guardsman] stood and talked, listening to the crowd and the way the city waited. It wouldn’t be long. He also doubted he could stop it. The Watch wasn’t changing. Relc wasn’t smart enough to change their routine. A single Relc fist could only punch one person at a time, as amazing as he was.

Nevertheless, the badge shone. With trust. Such that even those citizens of Cellidel, Gnolls and Drakes, who didn’t know Relc, saw it. It was a Skill only for a [Guard], who needed it.

[Wear My Integrity]. A capstone Skill, along with another for a [Guardsman of Trust].

But what it really meant was different. Relc had once told Erin Solstice that a Senior Guard was special because they couldn’t just get the job. They had to have enough people willing to vouch for them. Hundreds.

A [Guard] was not a [Soldier]. The badge meant trust. If you didn’t have that, you weren’t a [Guard]. With it, he could do his job. You didn’t run away, even if you were alone, because someone was counting on you.

Relc Grasstongue kept the peace alone, where it went badly on other streets. The next day, martial law was declared.

—-

It was going to get worse. Watch Captain Zevara kept glancing at the reports from Cellidel. She sat in her office, checking over Calruz’s work reports, the army’s growing needs, and every other aspect of her job.

Wing Commander Embria had been by again, to make a personal appeal. Watch Captain Zevara normally resented that, but she had let it all slide because she agreed.

Cellidel. Why had she sent him there? She’d thought it was just crime, but this? Riots between Gnolls and Drakes. She didn’t have to double-check Relc’s claims. She believed what she was reading.

So. Why then was this the letter that sat on her desk? Watch Captain Zevara had written back; she recalled the letter, verbatim.

To Senior Guardsman Relc,

Effective immediately, you are recalled to Liscor on my authority as Watch Captain of Liscor. Watch Captain Terigrals has approved the transfer and you may proceed with your own transportation, or arrangements via the Merchant’s Guild.

–Zevara, Watch Captain

She wanted to add that any of Terigrals’ notes wouldn’t stick in his record. That she would have his badge if she could manage it, and that she wanted him back and his return was with honors as far as she saw it. He could give a full accounting then.

However. The letter sat on her desk, clumsily written—sent via City Runner days ago. That was then. He had to know what the city looked like, what the Watch was made of. Nevertheless.

Dear Watch Captain Zevara,

I, Relc Grasstongue, amazing Senior Guardsman, must respectfully decline to return to Liscor at this time. I believe Cellidel needs a Senior Guard who doesn’t have his tail up his ass. When it’s over, I’ll come back. I can help out here, a bit. Respectfully,

–Relc, [Guardsman of Trust]. (See? I leveled up!)

She smiled as she read it again. Was this really Relc? It couldn’t be. Then again—she sat back.

“I need a Street Runner to find Wing Commander Embria. Tell her it’s a personal matter. Correspondence.”

One of the [Guards] working desk-duty shouted back.

“Is it Relc? Is that idiot finally getting his tail back over here? We miss him!”

Zevara hesitated. Then she smiled.

“That’s Senior Guardsman Relc to you, Jeiss! No. He’s got an assignment to finish. We’ll hold his locker. Now. Get back to work!”

8.23

(The author is taking their monthly break! The Wandering Inn will be back on the 29th! The 1st of June for Public readers!)

Ever since Erin had died, every day was like the last. Not the ‘last’ as in ‘the same as every day’, but like the last days ever. The days after the biggest storm you could imagine. The day after Ryoka Griffin had run away from the Goblin Lord and the Stone Spears Tribe had died, even if some survived.

Like that. It made Mrsha realize that time was a strange thing. Little things were important. Time with people mattered. Things? Things came and went.

The Gnoll girl had always sort of felt that the world would keep on going, things would stay the same. Like that strange ticking thing Kevin had just made.

He called it a ‘metronome’. It went back and forth, this little wand-like hand. Tick, toc, tick, toc…Mrsha’s head followed it left and right.

She had thought the entire world in the Stone Spears tribe would last forever. She knew people died…but the idea that everything could disappear in a single night?

The world was fragile. People were too fragile. So…time mattered. Mrsha wished she’d spent more time with Erin. Maybe asking her questions. She realized it now—now that her time was out.

She wanted it back. Mrsha thought that this revelation about time changed a lot. Why did she waste it on silly things, like getting angry when Ekirra kept telling her how much better at football he was, and proceeded to beat both her and Visma two-on-one?

Mrsha still wanted to beat him up and toss his ball down the well, but she felt it was a waste of time. She was learning…she needed to do things that mattered, just in case she couldn’t. In case she died tomorrow.

It was something the Antinium knew. Mrsha realized that was why they acted like they did. Pawn, Bird, Belgrade, and the rest.

Even Mrsha didn’t run around happily every time she ate eggs. But Bird ate like each one was the first and last meal he’d have. He hadn’t forgotten that once, not too long ago, a certain Worker had never been able to eat such food, and have such delights.

Bird was smart. Mrsha was getting smarter. She thought Bird had it worked out; how to live. Other people like Selys and Olesm and Lyonette worried all the time. Sometimes about important things, but each day, even if they were bad ones, Bird always found something happy. Well—since he had stopped staying in his rooms.

Mrsha the Hugely Introspective sighed as she watched the metronome. She knew that spending fifteen minutes staring at it was probably a waste of time, but she couldn’t look away.

Tick, toc, tick, toc.

“I don’t get it. It’s annoying the hair off me. I want to break it. How does Mrsha stand it? And what’s the point?”

“I told you, it’s Kevin’s prototype. Don’t break it; he worked really hard on it. It’s for keeping the beat. It’s a prototype for a clock.”

Two voices were speaking just behind Mrsha. The first’s was surly.

“Hmph. For singing? You’re telling me you’re fine with that sound?”

A sigh, and then Imani patted Palt on the arm.

“Can’t you cast a [Silence] spell or something to block out the sound? I thought that’s the entire point of being an [Illusionist].”

“Well, I—”

Palt stopped. Mrsha turned her head and saw the Centaur, unable to come up with a smart response, click his fingers. The sound and image of the metronome apparently vanished, because he said nothing else. Imani smiled.

“And…does that look good? I can’t tell.”

She pushed over some fabric and a piece of paper. Palt glanced at it.

“Ooh! Very nice! If I were you, though, I’d add a symbol on the apron. Right there.”

“Which one?”

“Mm. Liscor’s crest? Something stylish. Just so they recognize it’s ‘you’. I have my own logo on my goods. Haven’t you seen them?”

Imani frowned. Palt handed her a cigar with a wounded look. At this point, Mrsha left the metronome instead of winding it back up. She padded over and saw Imani and Palt sitting together, next to the fire.

It was raining. So, Mrsha had learned their planned outing was cancelled. Undeterred, the two had another stupid couple-thing: designing an outfit for Imani and Palt to wear as cooking-instructors.

Both of them liked designing ideas and Palt had found some fabric for reference. They weren’t going for the monochrome white [Chef]’s outfit with the poofy hat from Erin’s stereotypes. Imani wanted something where you didn’t sweat to death in a hot kitchen. Stylish, even.

Palt was showing Imani a copy of the cigar he was smoking; it had a miniature, very stylized horse with a wizard’s hat and wand in the background in a tiny circle.

“See? It’s a stamp…well, I can do a magical tracing. Something like that.”

“You made it yourself? You’re so good with designs!”

“Why, thank you. I had it commissioned.”

Palt looked pleased. He put an arm around Imani’s shoulders and they hugged, both smiling happily. The two paused as Mrsha loudly gagged and made a throwing-up sound.

“Mrsha, don’t you approve of our love? I expected this kind of thing from Lisms and…Lisms, but from you?”

Palt looked wounded. He put a hand over his heart. Mrsha, outraged at being compared to Lism, shook her head violently and began to scribble. Imani began to giggle as Mrsha shoved a notecard towards them. She bent over and read out loud.

“To Palt: Wherefore, and due to my good grace and manners, I will not reply in kind for your dastardly insult in comparing me to that Drake, I still insist you withdraw your scurrilous comment or—pfft—”

She and Palt began laughing so hard they collapsed against each other and Imani nearly fell out of her chair; Palt was just sitting on the ground at the lowered table.

Outraged that her literary acumen was being used as entertainment, Mrsha pounded a fist on the table. She looked at the guffawing two, and decided she’d had enough of them. Mrsha the Serious snatched Palt’s cigar and leapt onto the floor of the inn and began huffing her way towards the closest wall.

“Hey! Mrsha, what are you doing? That’s not for children! Palt, stop her with magic.”

Alarmed, Imani stared at Mrsha, stuffing the cigar into her personal bag of holding. Palt was still chuckling. He glanced at Mrsha.

“I wouldn’t worry.”

“Palt.”

A warning tone entered Imani’s voice and the Centaur sat up straight. He clarified, hurriedly.

“I’m sure Mrsha doesn’t actually use them. I think she trades them. Don’t give me that look, Imani. What’s the harm in letting a kid do some good, old-fashioned bartering? I did it when I was her age…”

Mrsha walked into the Garden of Sanctuary. Sure enough, Palt was right. He was rich enough that he let Mrsha walk off with a cigar now and then—especially for ‘services rendered’.

That used to be Mrsha helping smooth things over if he annoyed Erin. Or nudging Lyonette to help him, or distracting her. Or—one time—persuading Nalthaliarstrelous to sell Palt some of the plants in his garden.

Anyways, the point was that when she got her paws on one, a Palt-cigar was worth some serious Mrsha-money.

Not actual gold; Mrsha had little use for actual gold since even the most accepting [Shopkeepers] still asked too many questions if Mrsha wandered up to the counter and tried to pay with five gold coins for a hundred cookies. She’d gotten in real trouble the one time she tried to stand on Visma’s shoulders in a big coat and they’d thought she was a [Thief]…

If she wanted something, Lyonette was the intermediary—or Selys. In fact, mostly Selys because Selys would buy you something if you presented her with an eloquent argument. Like bursting into tears and then hugging her after she caved.

No, Mrsha-money was the real deal. The uncut, straight, drug-equivalent for children.

Mrsha sidled into the [Garden of Sanctuary], looking for a mark. She could usually find one in here, or the city. Her usual fence was buzzing around as usual, but seemed to smell Mrsha had something good today.

Apista the Ashfire Bee made an Apista-line towards Mrsha, eagerly buzzing around her. Mrsha held up a paw—then put it palm-up and made a beckoning motion.

Hold up. What do you have for me?

The bee dithered. Mrsha produced the cigar and Apista buzzed around it, trying to grab it and fly off with it. Mrsha swatted at her gently. She knew Apista would just set it on fire and spend the rest of the day clinging to the ceiling and fanning her wings if she handed it off. She wanted to see what Apista had to offer first.

Apista was a good fence. She had a wide selection of Mrsha-goods, but her availability was the issue. You could trade a third of a cigar for a cookie, filched from the kitchen. Or other snacks! Mrsha had even gotten Apista to secure one of The Wandering Inn’s small cakes for sale one time. It had ‘fallen off the table’ and Erin was none the wiser.

However, it seemed her new job working as bodyguard and taxi for Niers meant Apista was broke today, and Mrsha didn’t offer credit. She stowed her cigar as Apista buzzed around unhappily.

Mrsha the Drug Dealer sauntered onwards. Was this how she wanted to spend her life? Slinging contraband around? Well…it was sort of fun. She went back and gave Apista a big hug—gentle, but big. Apista fanned her wings and her proboscis tickled Mrsha’s arm. Mrsha patted her on the head—but didn’t give her the cigar. Love was love.

Business was business. Well, if Mrsha didn’t have luck on her first client, her second might be more…interesting.

The white Gnoll glanced around, and then shuffled over to one of the people in the Garden of Sanctuary. She shuffled for fifteen feet…then gave up and walked all the way to the jungle-biome. She padded up to a tree, climbed the ladder she’d dragged over, and once she was up high enough, knocked on the little hollow in the tree.

“What is it?”

The Titan of Baleros had been working on something with paper and ink of his own. He blinked as Mrsha offered the cigar. Niers frowned as he stared at Mrsha’s haul.

“What is that? One of that Centaur’s cigars? That damn thing is as big as I am. Is it a gift? Hey!”

The ‘hey’ was because Mrsha jerked it back. She waved the product at Niers meaningfully and went to write down an explanation.

Niers Astoragon saw Mrsha, clinging to the wide branch he was on, fumble for her notepad and quill while her good paw held the cigar. Which left…how many paws to hold onto the branch?

Whump. He winced at the sound and peered over the edge. A minute later, Mrsha sniffed as she climbed back up and held out the card, glaring at him and defying him to comment on the tears in the corners of her eyes. She hadn’t cried!

“What’s this? ‘I’ll give you the cigar for goods and services in kind…?’ Who taught you to write like that?”

Niers eyed Mrsha, somewhat disturbed. The Gnoll tapped the card. He shrugged.

“I could offer you credit once I get back to my company, but I’ve got nothing. What?”

He stared as she pointed.

“No, I’m not trading you my sword for it. Not even loaning it! How much of an addict do you think I am, anyways? You gave me a bit of that Centaur’s stuff. It’s strong and I could smoke one cigar over a month! Two months!”

Mrsha sighed, glared, but descended the ladder. The problem with small clients was that they had limited demands.

Back to the search for a profitable buyer. Mrsha the Palt realized there were some other prospective people in the garden today. She headed out of the jungle, picking burrs off her fur with annoyance, and saw them on the hill.

Ulvama, Rags, Numbtongue, and Calescent were in deep discussion. Well, Rags and Ulvama were. Calescent was more quiet, and Numbtongue was…gloomy. Their conversation was quiet, but audible to anyone in the garden with Gnoll-hearing.

“We are safe. For now. Adventurers know where we are. So? The High Passes are…high. Teams are not as dangerous as armies. Until we give them a reason, they will not come.”

Rags was speaking, holding a council with the two foreign Goblins. Ulvama glanced at Numbtongue. He didn’t reply at first. His head was bowed; he looked comatose. She sneered at Rags.

“So? They will come. They always will.”

Rags met the [Shaman]’s gaze.

“I know. When they do, I will be ready. I told you: right now, two things I care about. Finding a way to help Erin, if Goblins can. And finding the answer of this.”

She held up the thing around her neck. A key on a chain. A simple, ordinary key that was not magical to Ulvama’s gaze. Nevertheless, all four Goblins looked at it. Ulvama’s gaze was greedy—and nervous.

“What do you think?”

Rags turned to Numbtongue. When the Goblin’s head rose, it was his voice that replied, but changed subtly. Pyrite spoke.

“Good plans. Big plans. Like clouds.”

He gestured up at the sky overhead, visible through the garden’s circular opening. Pyrite went on, and even Ulvama listened quietly.

“Clouds are hard to see. Does Chieftain have plans like rocks? What happens tomorrow? What happens now?”

The Flooded Waters Chieftain nodded slowly, appreciating Pyrite’s response. She spoke, slowly.

“I have seen this…adventurer raid fail. Maybe the Horns are alive. Maybe not. We cannot help them. Maybe the other teams will trade that helmet for a cure. Maybe not. After listening, I have a plan. It is dangerous. It may endanger the entire tribe, but if I think it will help—”

She fell silent, the troubled look on her face turning to…irritation. She glanced sideways, and all four Goblins turned.

The little Gnoll girl nudging Ulvama and proffering the cigar froze. She raised her paws, backing up. She wasn’t trying to interrupt! Just strike a good deal!

Ulvama eyed Mrsha with resignation. Rags glowered. Calescent sniffed interestedly. Mrsha saw good business opportunities here. Goblins always had great merchandise.

The trouble was, Numbtongue was out of the game, being mostly depressed and sitting about. Rags? The Goblin Chieftain was on Mrsha’s blacklist, but Ulvama was good.

She had good trades, after learning that if she tried to steal Mrsha’s goods, a certain beaver-gang would pay her a visit in the middle of the night. As in, they’d get into her bed and sit on her. Despite her lack of a job, she did have services to offer.

Mostly, paint. For a cigar or some good snacks, or some intermediary work with Octavia, Selys, and so on, she’d draw on Mrsha’s fur with her odd-smelling paints and enchant the Gnoll for a while.

That was quality Mrsha-goods. Mrsha had become Mrsha the Speedy for a day—and then she’d gotten Ulvama to offer a bulk-discount and she, Ekirra, and Visma had all been the Chameleon Trio in a game of hide-and-seek in the park. Their opponents and detractors had claimed magic was cheating; Mrsha thought they just didn’t know how to leverage connections.

However, it seemed Ulvama didn’t have time for Mrsha because she chased her off, swatting with her staff.

“What about Pebblesnatch? Go to the Unseen Empire. Get more Goblins. A small tribe!”

“So you say again and again. I have been there. Goblins should not die…needlessly.”

Rags folded her arms, beyond reluctant to contemplate fighting that [Emperor] once more, or even risking it.

The debate continued as Mrsha the Hustler groaned internally. Was she going to have to parlay with Kevin or Joseph, or hold onto the goods until she could visit the city? It was a hot item.

…As in, if Imani told Ishkr, he might confiscate the cigar. Or she might take it out of ‘concern’ for Mrsha’s well-being. The law was just an excuse for petty thievery. Mrsha’s eyes narrowed as she thought about how much she’d lost to authority over the…weeks.

Let’s see. Mrsha ran down her client list as she sat, ignoring Rags kicking her towards the edge of the hill.

Kevin would trade you snacks and other nice things, but he had his own supply. Joseph? Not as interested in that as a drink, and Mrsha didn’t want to push his habit. She was a conscientious supplier. A real shame, because a Joseph-autograph was a good commodity these days.

Temile. Ah, if Temile were here, Mrsha could have gotten something nice. Like an [Actor]’s hat or prop-dagger for a day. A real shame. Grev could actually parlay the cigar into gold or other things too, and he had his own autograph collection for trades.

No, no. Who else? Well, among the buyers out there—Hexel and Elirr were one of the city-picks since Krshia was gone. Not that they had much that Mrsha wanted; they were too ‘responsible’. The rest of her clients weren’t into this particular good. Montressa and Bezale could get it direct, Ekirra and Visma weren’t in the market, and so on.

Could she give the cigar to the Antinium? Mrsha felt bad doing that though, because they didn’t have much to sell, and trading a cigar for something that was probably their only possession in life felt…uh…bad.

The only Antinium that Mrsha could realistically trade with were Belgrade for straight up money, Bird for feathers, bird-meat, often rotten, or with Garry. Garry was good. He offered straight, solid desserts and didn’t ask many questions.

…The problem was, you had a 50% chance a Garry-treat had bugs in it and Mrsha didn’t like those odds.

The last group Mrsha could fence the cigar to were the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings. There were always three or four in the hallway, and they were nice. But…Mrsha thought of the encounter on the street.

She wasn’t sure if she was ready for the big leagues. Fencing to Crimshaw was a last-ditch resort.

Mrsha was just considering going back and exchanging her cigar with Palt for a more acceptable, longer-term commodity with less value but more keepability like some Nali-sticks. She had been known to eat her supply and it was nice to have an easily-cashable item like that lying around.

That was when a new client entered the scene. Calescent tapped Mrsha on the shoulder as she was about to roll down the hill.

“Mm. Trade?”

The [Chef] from the underground caught Mrsha’s eye as she sat up. He reached into a pouch and produced a small bag. Mrsha sniffed it, sneezed hard, and sniffed again.

Oh wow. She’d hit the goldmine! Or rather—spice mines! Calescent was offering her pure, high-quality spices for the cigar.

And that wasn’t a euphemism! Mrsha didn’t have to think. She held out the cigar, took the small pouch, and shook hands with the Goblin. He nodded to her. Mrsha handed him a card. Then she turned.

All four Goblins, even Numbtongue, leaned over to read the card over Calescent’s shoulder.

Nice doing business with you. Remember: we never met. I was never here. Burn the card.

Rags looked over. Mrsha nodded to her once, coolly—then began somersaulting down the hill and giggling.

—-

That was fun. Humble as it may be, Mrsha thought it was a good use of time. If you died tomorrow…at least you could say you had fun.

Plus she’d gotten ahold of a weapon, trading item, and flavor! All in one! She knew that Calescent’s spice-blend came in a few types:

Death spice, which had no flavor besides pain. He coated his weapons with that or tossed it into people’s faces in battle.

Flavor spice, for cooking. Hot! But delicious. Imani had actually bought some in bulk.

This stuff now…Mrsha peeked into the bag and decided it was a variant on flavor-spice. Calescent had obtained ingredients from Octavia and Imani that a Goblin had trouble finding, and was mixing up a new batch of experimental stuff. He could, of course, conjure some spice each day from one of his Skills, but he still had to experience new spices before he could make it his daily bonus.

Spice was worth a lot more than Dreamleaf to Mrsha. She even knew what she was going to do with it! Mrsha the Spicy narrowed her eyes. Life couldn’t all be fun and games. She had enemies. Erin had enemies.

Today…was a reckoning twice-over. As you ate food and suffered—and when you tried to pass it on the toilet. She smiled evilly to herself. Some Gnolls…yes. Some Gnolls just wanted to watch your insides burn.

—-

Liscor was quiet. It was raining. The skies opened up, as if weeping for what could be avoided.

If only Gnolls and other species were kinder. Mrsha shook her head and lit a match. She pretended to puff on the wooden straw, then gave up and blew out the fire because it made her cough too much.

“Mrsha, what’s that about? Is that another story from the inn? A movie? You promised to show me, remember?”

Ekirra whined. He was so innocent. So naïve. Yet innocence could hurt. Mrsha saw he was still wearing his football jersey. The Little Crabs’ star striker. He smiled at her, oblivious to the way his comments about Mrsha and Visma being terrible at football could hurt.

You wound me, my friend. I wish I could be the bigger Gnoll. However. You have only yourself to blame.

Mrsha didn’t reply to Ekirra’s questions about the movies on the laptop and other devices. He went back to licking his lips.

“Thanks for the new sandwich, Mrsha! Imani made it? It smells good!”

He began gobbling it down. Mrsha leaned back against the wall and tugged the hat down over her eyes. She waited.

“It’s…really tasty! Sort of hot.”

Ekirra’s voice changed from excited to puzzled. A strangled tone entered his voice.

“It’s really spicy. Mrsha, do you have any water? It’s hot! It’s so hoth! Wather! Ow! Ow—”

She saw him bolt around, rolling on the ground, pawing at his mouth. Mrsha tilted her head up and stared at the sky as Ekirra howled.

To all those who have hurt me, I’m sorry. For what I’m going to do to you.

That had been just a pinch of Calescent’s new blend. Visma glanced up from where she was making sandcastles as Ekirra ran, crying, to his big sister to beg for water. Poor fool. Water just made it worse.

The Drake girl gave Mrsha a slow nod. Mrsha nodded back. She walked back in the rain, feeling neither proud nor sad. It had to be done. She greeted her bodyguards as they waited for her in the rain.

Palt and Imani stared at Mrsha. Palt’s mouth was hanging open. Imani closed hers.

“Alright. That’s enough movies for you.”

What? No! Mrsha’s face fell and she waved her arms frantically. Imani just shook her head. Palt leaned over.

“Was she copying another of those movies?”

“Scene-for-scene. I am going to kill Joseph and Kevin. That one’s about crime.”

“Ooh. Why don’t we watch it later without kids?”

“Stop it, you. Maybe tonight. Let me see if anyone has it. Who’s cooking?”

Mrsha stomped past the flirting couple, who’d taken her into the city at her request for this mission of not-mercy. She glanced past her two principal bodyguards for the second pair lurking in the street.

Credit where credit was due, Crimshaw and the other Brother of Serendipitous Meetings looked rather disturbed by Mrsha’s reenactment of a scene they probably knew fairly well. She nodded at them and they stared at her as she walked past them. One of them turned to the other.

“Crimshaw, it occurs to me in this moment that we might be a bad influence on the kids, as it were.”

Crimshaw nodded, eying Mrsha. She was already thinking of her next target. Ekirra would live. She’d taken it easy on him; it was just a lesson in manners.

Her real enemies were in this very city. Polluting the air with their breath. They were an infestation, with respect to Antinium of course! They had to be dealt with. Still…it was going to take more work than a casual sandwich-hit. She needed a team. Mrsha strode back to the inn—or would have, but Palt and Imani stopped to admire a rather catchy tune.

“Oh, it’s a song-crystal! That’s from—Palt, that’s from you-know-where! It’s a good song!”

“I’ll buy it for you if they have any in stock. You know they lose their song after a few months at most, though, right? But for you, I could copy it…one moment.”

They paused at the booth by the streets. Mrsha saw Palt trot over, buy one from the [Trader] who was selling song-crystals playing, and present it to Imani with a flourish. From the Singer of Terandria herself.

Mrsha had not realized how cutesy the Palt-Imani couple was. She put her paws on her hips. She needed a better, more dedicated crew to the art of vengeance. Even Selys was better than this! And Drassi!

Well…good for them, Mrsha supposed. They were one of the few couples she knew. Hexel and Elirr, Imani and Palt, Wailant and Viceria—okay, she knew a few.

Jelaqua and Maughin, now…they were just as bad. The adventurers were returning to Pallass or Liscor, some of them, but they weren’t here yet. Mrsha shook her head. A shame. She’d have more clients, more agents to work with. Still, she thought she had a decent team so far.

—-

“You want me to what? Absolutely—wait. Say that again? There are Thronebearers of Calanfer in Liscor? Damn—I need an encyclopedia or something. All my notes are gone!”

Niers Astoragon cursed. He stared at Mrsha, perched on the branch as she scribbled. The Titan of Baleros and Apista both read the card. Niers snorted as Mrsha waited. She had to sell this hit. She had prepared ample recompense and he owed her!

“I do not owe you a prank. I owe you a lot more for helping me out, and feeding me, but this isn’t one of those things.”

The Fraerling countered, having read her card. He eyed the slice of lemon meringue pie that Mrsha had carefully saved from her dessert plate.

“…And tempting as that is, I don’t think angering a bunch of [Knights] is wise. Why are they after your mother? She really is the [Princess] of…? Dead gods.”

Mrsha stared indignantly at the Titan as he rubbed at his face. Niers glanced up and read her card.

“What? No! Of course I didn’t believe you! No offense, but when you tell me a [Princess] of Terandria is your mother, and is also in a dedicated relationship with an Antinium, I tend to raise my eyebrows. Let me get this straight. She’s not your mother biologically or there’s a huge scandal here and a very odd timeline. She is a [Princess], and…dead gods.”

Niers Astoragon sorted out Mrsha’s admittedly somewhat tangled story, and this time had to believe her. There were Thronebearers of Calanfer in the city and while they hadn’t tracked Mrsha down to The Wandering Inn, she feared their collective stupidity could only last so long.

Especially with Ser Dalimont on her trail. Why, he might be doing something as reasonable as stopping the others from directly trying to grab a little Gnoll girl in public! They’d be arrested as [Kidnappers] by the Watch if they tried that. He might be doing something like…asking about Mrsha without causing a scene!

They had to be taken out. Or rather, punished since their quarry wasn’t even in the city! Hence, Mrsha pointed out to Niers, her plan.

The Titan just stared at her.

“I thought my life was strange.”

He muttered and rubbed at the stubble on his face. He sighed…then seemed to take in her first request again. Niers eyed her detailed plan and his lips twitched.

“What do you mean, ‘Calescent’s doom-spice’?”

Mrsha offered him the pouch. Niers took one taste of a fleck of red and his face turned a matching shade.

“Cats and spiders! That’s hot! A Goblin made that? You want to put it…hm. That’s just cruel.”

However—he was grinning. Mrsha’s eyes lit up. She hadn’t been sure, but as the Titan began to laugh, she realized it was true.

He did enjoy a good prank. Niers took her plan note-card and eyed it.

“It’s a risk. Especially if they have detection-Skills. I’d have to go into the city, and that bee—what’s your full plan?”

Mrsha rubbed her paws together and smiled evilly as Apista settled on her head.

—-

So it was that later that day, Mrsha carefully adjusted the hat on her head. She delicately cut into the bloody steak, served rare. High-quality meat.

But bloody, like the blood on my paws. And in their poo if it goes really bad.

“Mrsha, why in the name of the Ancestors did you want to eat at this restaurant so badly?”

Selys looked miffed. Drassi just nudged her friend. She was still a bit hoarse from her screamed-coverage of the Village of Death raid. The [Reporter] was also getting a lot of attention and they’d been seated at a prominent table.

Heck, Drassi’s fame was why they’d gotten the restaurant in such short order. It was one of the better ones in the city. Selys was the reason they could afford it.

“Don’t object, Selys! I’m perfectly happy to let Mrsha choose where she wants to eat.”

“Just because you’re not paying for it. Oh—fine.”

Selys grumbled, but she looked a bit happier than her moping-self ever since she’d gotten the [Message] from Ceria. Mrsha nodded. This served multiple purposes! Cheering up the two Drakes, and—she glanced sideways. Palt and Imani were making eyes together at a separate table. Drassi and Selys nudged each other and laughed.

Mrsha had suggested that too. It was a properly lateral Erin-move. A bit of kindness, and a treat for the two.

It helped assuage the pain in her heart, as if small kindness could make up for what she was about to do.

Mrsha the Penitent patted at her mouth with a napkin, although she had yet to actually take a bite. Selys broke off laughing with Drassi.

“Ignore her. She’s been like that all day.”

Imani stopped talking with Palt long enough to call over. Mrsha ignored all the adults. They were not aware of the situation.

She slunk down in her chair, her hat tugged lower over her features, knowing she was being watched. A group of four [Knights], not in their armor, but still dressed in the same flashy colors and metallic cloth were dining together. She heard their conversation.

“…just sitting there. If that isn’t a sign, Ser Dalimont…”

“…do not stand up. If the girl runs, there will be a scene. We are meant to be covert…!”

The Thronebearers were eating at this fancy restaurant. Little did they know…it would be their last meal. For the day. Maybe for two days if they were really traumatized.

The staff were so enamored of Drassi they didn’t even make Mrsha take off the hat and oversized jacket she’d been wearing around. The [Reporter] had already signed a few autographs, and the owners themselves had come over to talk to her.

Perfect. All was in order. Mrsha closed her eyes. She had no direct link with her agent, but she knew the plan was underway. She waved for one of the [Servers] as she wrote on a notecard. Drassi and Selys were discussing the location of the Horns, the treasure, before trying to have a meal without talking about it…

Unbeknownst to them, her agents were in play. Two of them, moving through the back of the restaurant.

They had investigated the kitchen through the window, and of course, she was working with professionals. Niers Astoragon, the Titan, was no stranger to staying hidden. Of course, the danger was anything that might hurt a Fraerling of his size.

Hence, his backup. Apista the bee, who could deliver him at heights above most dangers. They were her A-team, but the Titan would have never gone for this operation if Mrsha hadn’t been able to persuade him of the safety.

How would he get the pouch of spices into the entrée of soup for the [Knights]? Let them assume he could pinpoint the bowls for the [Knights]—no hard task for a [Strategist] used to keeping track of a battlefield, who could easily manipulate things as well—how would he deliver it without everyone seeing a tiny man or bee buzzing around a kitchen?

Well. Mrsha had a few options, but since Ulvama didn’t know about Niers, one of the easiest ways—getting the [Shaman] to cast a spell—was out. She’d come up with a more convenient solution that Niers had been blown away by.

Something tapped Mrsha on the head and she heard a familiar buzz. So did Selys and Drassi. They looked around.

“Does that sound like a bee to you, Drassi? Reminds me of Apista.”

Selys frowned. She looked around, but Apista was already flying away.

“I heard it too!”

Drassi’s head turned, but the [Reporter] couldn’t see Apista, or Niers. They were already returning to the inn.

Invisible. And it didn’t even take a full invisibility-potion to do it. For people their size? Only a bit.

Oh my, but where could poor little Mrsha get an invisibility potion without having to buy it? Mrsha rubbed her paws under the table, keeping her face straight. How handy of Octavia to have a few of the latest products, courtesy of Saliss of Lights.

Come to think of it, Saliss would have been all on-board with this plan. Mrsha closed her eyes and thanked her spiritual mentor. Niers had participated, for the rest of the invisibility potion. He saw the utility in it, and Octavia’s shop.

Mrsha? Mrsha only saw the dead. She looked at the [Knights] as the [Server] hurried over.

“Can we get something for Miss Mrsha? Another drink? Is the steak not good enough?”

The steak is fine. Please, send this over to that table, directly.

Mrsha held up a notecard. The [Server], bemused, took the object Mrsha handed her. Selys and Drassi frowned and glanced at the table of Humans.

“Do they know you, Mrsha? They’re staring at us.”

“Maybe they’re fans of yours, Mrsha. What was that?”

Mrsha the Studiously Innocent just shrugged, watching as another [Server] came forwards with four bowls of soup. Right on time, she saw her message being delivered as the [Knights] sat with their soup.

“That Gnoll asked me to send this to your table, Sirs, Madams. Please, enjoy.”

Ser Dalimont blinked. The other Thronebearers stared at Mrsha, then the object the [Server] had taken from her serving tray. It was…

A little flower. Not a Faerie Flower; they were dead. This one was white. White as Mrsha’s fur. The Thronebearers blinked.

“What does that mean? It’s flower-language, perhaps? Is it some kind of code? It looks vanilla-white to me. Are any of you up-to-date on flower-language in the courts?”

One of the Thronebearers of Calanfer picked up the flower. Ser Dalimont and Mrsha gave the man a look of incredulity. The others stared at Mrsha.

“We must talk to her. After our meal, Ser Dalimont. But let us not keep food waiting. To glorious Calanfer, and the Dawn Concordat! May it stand against wretched Ailendamus, and we return in glory and success!”

The female [Knight] toasted and the others rose, decisively. Some of the other diners looked around, but they drank, sat, and began to sip from the bowls. Mrsha saw the curiously dark liquid pass into their mouths, and then a few more spoonfuls into the hungry [Knight]’s mouths before their good-natured comments and expressions turned to puzzlement. Then, to horror.

The white Gnoll closed her eyes and sat back in her chair. She sliced another bit of steak and inserted it into her mouth as the cries of pain began, the uproar, the ill-advised drinking of water. Selys and Drassi started, and some of the other diners got up, looking warily at their soup.

Only Drassi, the former-[Gossip] put it together fast enough. And perhaps Ser Dalimont. However, if he could have spoken past his swollen lips, Mrsha would have been impressed. The power of Calescent’s new blend was that it didn’t burn for a little bit. When it did…

Mrsha folded her paws on the table and patted her mouth again. Ah, but it tasted like ashes. Like blood. Can my conscience ever let me enjoy another meal in peace?

She hesitated. No, wait. Mrsha licked her lips. That was really good steak. She began to gobble her food, appetite restored. To the side, the [Knights] collapsed, lips puffed up, eyes streaming with liquid as the staff assured the customers that this—this was some kind of accident! What was wrong with the soup? One tried a spoonful and fell victim too. Another death on Mrsha’s conscience.

It had to be done. Somewhere, the Titan of Baleros was laughing. Mrsha did not laugh. She finished her meal and sat there, in silence, contemplating her sins. Perhaps—yes, perhaps when no one was looking, when the [Healer] had been summoned, the soup disposed of, and two of the [Knights] actually had to be led out of the restaurant, they were so blind—perhaps then she allowed herself a small smile.

One did have to have fun.

Imani and Selys, who had both been watching Mrsha’s expression, silently looked at each other and agreed Mrsha would never be allowed to watch a movie about crime ever again.

—-

When had it been that they realized destiny threw them together? The odd twists of fate that had meant the two would meet, here of all places? So far from home.

Yet from the start, they had too much in common. Such that while it seemed complex, coincidental beyond belief, when you looked back it seemed as if the world had meant for them to be together.

Two star-crossed lovers, united by adversity and their mutual bonds.

…Wait. What did lovers do again? Maybe it wasn’t lovers. Neither one had the class.

Two star-crossed friends, united by adversity and their mutual bonds.

Were they friends? That was a…first. Yet if this was friendship, it was closer than anything either had known. They might have skipped past friendship towards something else. Not lovers, not friends.

The skeleton held the slime in his arms as they sat together in silence. Silence—yet a communion of similar beings. Neither one with proper voices.

Neither one alone.

When was it that they realized both had been created by Erin Solstice? Toren wondered. Of course, he’d ‘technically’ been assembled by that [Necromancer]. Pisces. The person who had made him, accidentally or not, had been Erin.

Like Healing Slime. Did that make them brothers? Siblings? Toren wasn’t sure what he or the slime were.

One was undead, the other was a blob. It didn’t matter. They were here, and they stayed together, like the last two [Sailors] in a shipwreck at the edge of the world. Toren had never cared for anything like Healing Slime before. Not a weapon, not a place, not…

A person? Maybe. Erin Solstice was too complicated, though. Love and hate intermingled too much. The realization she had never seen him, history—

Healing Slime was simpler. The feeling in Toren’s head was strange. He was a [Carer]—but more than that? It was like opening a door. Once the door had been opened, it could never be fully closed. He felt.

Something like the idea of warmth when he held Healing Slime. Something deeper than the fear of death when he thought of the Chosen finding Healing Slime. Toren listened, unsettled of late.

The castle of Az’kerash was…off. Distinctly off. The mindless undead held their positions as always. The semi-conscious ones like Crypt Lords? Well, Az’kerash didn’t generally animate such undead, considering them somewhat annoying.

Those that were present, by natural animation or leftovers from other projects, were in hiding. Eleven had been destroyed. The Chosen were venting their frustrations on lesser undead—and only the ones who could think, were expendable. It was no fun attacking puppets.

Hence, Toren hiding here, in the closet with Healing Slime. He might have taken his chances to find it food—but not today. Not this week. The Chosen were beyond agitated. It did not take a genius to figure out why, but Toren had still had to think for a bit.

“Emiress! Delighted! You know, we haven’t seen each other in years. Don’t flatter me; I just have good makeup. I’d pay for a Potion of Youth if I could afford it—”

“—Just a disgrace. Hrr. Yes. Drakes like that were why we fought. I see no mentions of this on Wistram News Network, yes? But then from the [Mages], what else would w—”

“—checking in for unusual [Slaves] this week—”

Az’kerash sat in his private chambers, dark eyes flickering as over a dozen voices spilled around him. He was stretching himself to his very limits, even for a mind like his. Holding a conversation with so many puppets, keeping each one animated, lifelike?

He was searching. Searching for the whereabouts of the Horns of Hammerad, as he had done since they had vanished.

No—that wasn’t accurate. Az’kerash had already located three. The half-Elf, the Antinium, and the woman with metal arms. Each one he had pinpointed, via listening in on [Message] spells, keeping tabs on the news.

The one he wanted, nay, needed to find was missing. Increasingly, the Necromancer was focusing on Chandrar and his limited networks there. Searching for [Slaves].

He was not the Wistram of today. If he could not locate Pisces Jealnet via his name and Az’kerash’s scrying spells, then something was blocking the spell. Which meant only one thing.

The worst of all scenarios was that. For more reasons than Pisces’ safety alone. He could be compelled—by the right class and level—to say everything. Thus, the Necromancer searched. Purely out of self-interest.

…No. Not even the Chosen believed that. They looked at their master, fearing to disturb him and saw the way he searched. The way he had raged and grown silent. The emotions they had scarcely seen in him, suddenly so common.

Concern for the living. The Chosen, like the children they were, felt the first uncertainty in the truth they held: that they were all that mattered in the world to their master, their parent.

Because they feared, they rampaged. Tearing apart undead, venting their anger in minor ways. Hoping, perhaps…

Toren heard the thunderous pounding of a huge shape. The Healing Slime shivered, then both went still as something—almost certainly Venitra—pounded past.

“Where is the skeleton?”

She was searching for him. Venitra loved nothing more than to bully Toren, who was the most living thing here, apart from rats or birds or the rare, poor animal that wandered into the enchanted forest.

If she caught him, she’d pull his bones off one by one like last time. Or grind them to powder. Toren couldn’t regenerate fast anymore. He was worried he’d die if too much of him was destroyed. And then what would happen to Healing Slime? Even if it turned into Speed Slime, it would never survive.

Toren had his steel longsword in the broom closet. However, he was well aware that the Level 28 [Skeleton Knight] and Level 13 [Sword Dancer] classes would not avail him against Venitra. She had been created to kill Gold-ranks, and she could do that before activating the enchantments on her body.

She was superior undead. Toren patted Healing Slime and felt worried. He needed to feed it soon, but his [Dangersense (Ward)] told him it was too risky. It had been close, some times. Ijvani had been about to find the slime when Toren distracted her.

In fact, the Skill was buzzing again. Toren hesitated. They had to leave the closet. Venitra wasn’t st—she was stupid. However, even an idiot like her realized Toren hid and she’d check the closet eventually.

So Toren opened the door and crept out with sword and slime in his ribcage. It peeked out, the glowing body and core swiveling with Toren’s head for one of the Chosen.

Coast is clear. Go, go, go! Toren sprinted down the hallway. He flattened himself against a wall.

Target secure. Hostiles?

He poked his head around the corner, drew it back. He only needed one look; the undead saw all, heard all.

No Chosen. Move out! He charged down the hallway, ignoring the Bone Crawler on the ceiling; it was just one of the guard-undead. Toren flung open a door and did a flip into the room, landing on his feet—

Healing Slime made a warbling sound as it bounced out of his ribcage. Toren turned back and hurried to help it reform and scoop itself up. It smacked one of his hands gently, upbraiding him for doing the flip.

Sorry! Toren patted it on its ‘head’. He could tell what Healing Slime was thinking, a bit. So could it. Was it the bond of such created beings such as they? His [Limited Telepathy] Skill from his [Carer] class?

One never knew. Toren looked around. At least that [Witch] wasn’t there. He feared the Chosen for their brute maliciousness—Belavierr was different. You could not run or hide from her.

Toren found himself in a dilapidated sitting room, long clogged with dust. He saw old bookshelves, table, couches…some kind of social chamber.

Perfect. Toren just needed a secondary hiding place within this area…he was heading over to the fireplace, hoping there was a working chimney he and Healing Slime could wedge themselves in.

Then something came out from under the door.

The skeleton whirled around. He had wedged a chair under the handle and locked the door! It did little good against this undead.

Nearly flat as paper. Sliding under the crack. Then—unfolding himself, rising.

Devail had no bones. However—he looked like a Drake. He had scales. Skin…sinew. No bone, but the way he had been made meant he could still fight like a [Fencer]. Which is what he was.

One of the newer creations of Az’kerash turned the empty sockets of the Drake-suit it wore towards Toren. Glowing lights appeared in the sockets, mimicking eyes.

“There you are. They are searching for you. Ijvani, Venitra, Kerash, Bea.”

Toren froze. Healing Slime quivered as it fled behind him. Toren lifted the sword. Devail studied him—

Then sprang forwards, drawing a rapier from his bag of holding. The [Skeleton Knight] slashed in alarm. What was—

The tip of the enchanted rapier pierced Toren’s hand and flicked the sword from his grip in the same motion. Devail flashed sideways, stepping with unnatural grace and speed. He saluted the air, a [Fencer]’s motion.

“Disarmed.”

Toren’s longsword clattered to the ground. The skeleton raised a hand, fearing the worst, but Devail just held the posture—then put his rapier away.

“I have disarmed you.”

He informed Toren. The skeleton’s jaw opened and closed.

No kidding? Devail looked pleased with himself.

“I have never failed to disarm a foe other than Az’kerash, our master.”

Good for you. Toren wanted to roll his eye-flames. Devail was new. He lacked the original Chosen’s maliciousness. He studied Toren and the Healing Slime, looking…curious.

“What is that?”

Healing Slime. Toren pointed. Devail tilted his entire body back and forth as Healing Slime peeked around Toren’s feet.

“Is it alive? Should I kill it? I have been told by my…our…creator. Father, that my sword should only be bared for a worthy cause. Even if that is only self-defense. Is this a worthy cause?”

He recited the words without understanding. However, there was curiosity there. Toren waved his hands frantically. No, no! Devail looked at him and to Toren’s relief…nodded.

“I will ask for clarification in my next training spar. I should…not tell the other Chosen where you are?”

Toren nodded. Devail considered this. Then he nodded again.

“A worthy cause. By my sword, I swear.”

He produced the rapier, saluted Toren, and then slithered under the door. The skeleton stopped shaking in his…bony feet.

What a relief. Devail was one of the three reasonable Chosen. The other being Maviola…’s undead copy, and Wesixa.

Well, Wesixa creeped Toren out. She had inherited too much of the spider she was made of, and liked to sit in silk-nests in the ceiling and stare down at you and ask why you were running around.

Stupid kids. Az’kerash and Belavierr were geniuses of magic and creation. Terrible parents. Even Toren could tell that. He began to unwedge the chair from the door, beckoning to Healing Slime. It was curious why he wanted to leave!

Toren’s opinion, which he communicated as best he could to Healing Slime, was that Devail was not to be trusted. Even if he swore, he could let it slip. Besides—Toren threw open the door.

“‘There are better places to hide.’ I told you I could hear it, Kerash.”

A voice spoke Toren’s inner-thoughts. He froze and saw two glowing flames in a skull coated with dark, magical iron. Ijvani and—the giant Draugr-type Gnoll—

Kerash. They stood together in the doorway.

Toren didn’t freeze or start. Those were glandular, living-reactions. In one move he whirled, grabbed up Healing Slime, and charged for the window. He jumped to burst out of it, hoping the fall wouldn’t hurt Healing Sl—

“[Chains of Steel].”

Ijvani pointed and long chains of metal shot forwards. They wrapped around Toren and caught him, mid-jump. The skeleton fell, struggling, pointing. Get to the window! Get to—

Healing Slime wavered. Its glowing form changed purple, into the Potion of Speed. It rolled towards the window, back to Toren, struggling to get free—

Kerash stomped Toren’s head in. The skeleton went limp and the Gnoll nodded in satisfaction.

“It ran from us for three days. Let’s break it into pieces. Call Venitra and Bea, Ijvani. What is this?”

The Draugr’s head swung around. Ijvani glanced at Toren trying to reform its head. She exclaimed.

“That is the slime! I thought it was dead! My slime. This lesser undead stole it!”

Her head rotated on its neck to glare at Toren.

Not yours. Terrible owner. Leave it alone. The skeleton was repairing himself as fast as possible, but it wasn’t the instantaneous process it used to be.

Ijvani listened to Toren, one of the first beings ever to hear him. She heard him out, and then pointed a finger.

“[Lava Orb].”

She tossed it on Toren, then turned back to Kerash, who was slowly cornering the zippy-slime.

“It is mine, Kerash. Do not break it.”

“You break yours. It is not Oom. It was not created by Master. Therefore, I am bored. Let us see how many times it can divide, like the others.”

“Hm. That would be fun. Ah. Venitra, Bea. We found the skeleton. And look.”

Venitra and Bea appeared in the doorway. They glanced at Toren with malicious satisfaction—only a bit disappointed he was burning, writhing on the floor already dealt with—then looked at the Healing Slime.

“It lives. Is that your slime, Ijvani?”

“Yes. This thing took it.”

Ijvani glanced at Toren. All the skeleton’s nightmares were coming true. Venitra smiled, and it was an ugly expression, as beautiful as Az’kerash had made her features.

“I want to kill it.”

“Not you. You do it too fast. Let me touch it, Ijvani.”

Bea pleaded. Ijvani shook her head. However, not out of an abundance of love for the adopted slime that was ‘hers’.

“Both of you kill things too fast. Master is busy. It should take at least an hour.”

“How? I want to do it, Ijvani.”

Kerash argued. The four Chosen moved, cornering the Speed Slime, enjoying how it raced about frantically.

“I am going to smash it.”

Venitra declared, eying the other Chosen. Instantly, they turned on her, glaring. Venitra, undeterred, strode forwards, raising a fist—

Toren leapt at her. The skeleton slashed with his enchanted longsword.

No! The skeleton slashed and struck Venitra, from her face down her chest.

His Skills. [Sharpened Edge], [Lesser Strength], the basic enchantment on the sword—

…Left not a mark. The sword skated off Venitra’s bone body and she laughed. Then grew angry.

“You dare attack me?”

She swung at him. The skeleton threw himself under the fist. She kicked—and he swerved around her leg.

[Perfect Dodge]! Toren saw Venitra whirl, going for her sword and shield at last. She struck out with a precision blow, and slashed through Toren—

No. The image wavered and vanished. Venitra staggered as the slash went across her arm and torso.

[Mirage Cut]. Toren’s best move. The other Chosen went silent.

A flawless attack! If she had been alive, the Chosen would have been twice cut. If she had been…

Toren saw Venitra stare at the tiny, tiny hairline cut across her body. It began repairing itself even as she looked down. By the time her head rose, a fraction of a second later, it was gone.

However. Venitra’s sword went through Toren’s ribs before he could block. She tore upwards, then began to stomp on him, bellowing.

“You dare to injure me? You worthless little skeleton!”

She was so enraged she had crushed half his body to dust when Ijvani spoke.

“Venitra, the little slime escaped because of you. Leave the worthless undead alone. I want to find my slime! It is alive.”

Venitra whirled. Distracted, the Chosen had let Speed Slime dart past Bea and it was fleeing. It would have stayed, but Toren had told it to run.

It was…the Chosen looked at each other.

“I will kill it first!”

Kerash bounded out the door. Bea, Ijvani, and last of all, Venitra were hot on his heels. She gave Toren’s skull a kick and shattered it across a wall. Toren slowly, slowly reformed.

Healing Slime was going to die. He was helpless. Now they knew, it was going to…

When he finally reformed, five minutes later, Toren knelt, head in his hands. Literally. He stared at himself. No, no. Not this. Not the only other thing that mattered in this damned castle. Why were all his levels not enough? Why was it so unfair?

As unfair as the adventurers fighting the undead. Or vice-versa. Unfair. A word Toren was realizing.

It was unfair because Healing Slime had done nothing wrong and the Chosen were murderous monsters. It was not right.

It should not be. The skeleton remembered another voice.

A Human woman’s words. An [Innkeeper]’s speech for the Goblin, for the Antinium.

His head rose. His purple flames burned bright.

Toren ran. Not for Speed Slime, or to fight the Chosen. He did what he had always done.

He ran away.

—-

It took them twenty minutes to corner the slime. They got in each other’s way. It was a game.

All games ended eventually. They cornered it in the huge ballroom, where the Necromancer had once danced. An echo of Silvaria of old.

Four of them. They trapped the slime with magic. Then…as promised, they began to kill it.

Slowly. A slime could regenerate if it had liquid and whatever it was made of. So, they took pieces away. Saw how long it could keep itself alive.

Cruelty. It was alive, they were dead. There was something in them that longed to kill, but it was their personalities that made them prolong it.

The Healing Slime could not speak. It just made a kind of keening sound as it was sliced up, piece by piece. The Chosen were laughing, arguing. Bea reached down for Healing Slime.

“I want to see if my touch changes it. Please, Ijvani?”

“Oh, very well.”

The [Skeleton Mage] allowed Bea to touch Healing Slime directly at last. Bea tugged the gloves off her hands. The Plague Zombie was rot and pestilence. She reached for the slime, wondering if its body would save it.

A sound from the other end of the ballroom made the Chosen turn. A clank, of metal on stone. More than that? A voice reached across the room. Or rather, a thought.

Get away from Healing Slime, you bag of pus.

The Chosen turned. Healing Slime saw/sensed a figure, standing at the other end of the ballroom.

The skeleton.

He had run away as he always did when the going got tough. Run from death.

This time, he had returned.

“Did that little undead just insult you, Bea?”

The Chosen were not impressed. If anything, they were amused. Bea’s eyes narrowed as she turned. Venitra whirled. She was still angry about the cut. She was going to destroy Toren once and for all. She was…

The undead saw a figure walk forwards. They heard…a sound, echo through the ballroom. Not the usual click-clack of Toren’s bony feet. This time?

They heard a clank. Metal on marble. They looked at Toren and didn’t see the slim skeleton. They saw a figure wearing armor that glowed a pale blue over a bronze-color, but far deeper, crossed with red and even violet.

Adamantium armor. Enchanted. On its head sat a helmet made of Wyvern scales, the plume a Phoenix’s feather. His boots left a trail of black flame. His gauntlets were edged with crystal.

The skeleton was carrying a shield as transparent as glass—no, made of a prismatic glass. He had a sword that glowed with anti-light.

The Chosen stared at Toren as the [Skeleton Knight] walked forwards. The only part of him even visible was his skull, and the two burning purple eyes.

He was wearing artifacts. Enchanted weaponry and armor, each one so vividly powerful it made the air around him shimmer. The skeleton was staring at the Chosen with a malevolence they had never sensed from him before. Anger.

“He—that thing—he has taken Master’s artifacts!”

Kerash spoke at last, voice disbelieving. They all knew these weapons.

They were the artifacts in Az’kerash’s vault, in the castle armory! The artifacts the Necromancer had acquired or bought, including the relics he recovered and sometimes sold via his puppets.

Blades his enemies had raised against him, the armor of foes, waiting to be repurposed. Bea shouted, outraged.

“You cannot touch those treasures, you—you worthless undead!”

Toren didn’t reply. He was staring at Healing Slime. The air around him was humming. He felt the buzz in his very bones.

There was no going back. He had taken each treasure from the armory. Now?

The Chosen began to stride towards him, their victim forgotten. Healing Slime rolled around, recollecting the parts of itself. It heard Toren’s voice.

Run. It looked back and saw Venitra charge, snarling, furious. She swung her sword down with the same force that had once killed Ulrien. A killing blow, as fast as lightning with the [Haste] enchantment.

Toren raised his shield. The sword of bone struck the glass shield and—fractured. The glass cracked.

The entire world around Venitra, cracked. Lines of force splintered around her, tearing the ground, her body with the same force. Her blow, crisscrossing and duplicated dozens of times.

The bone woman reeled. Toren grinned. So that was what it did. He whirled.

“Thief!”

Kerash raised his axe. Toren swung his sword. They locked blades. His anti-light blade met Kerash’ weapon. Neither one broke, but the shockwave knocked both back a step. Toren saw Kerash whirl the weapon up and activated his helmet. The Wyvern-scale helmet seemed to flex and come alive for a second—

Then the [Skeleton Knight] exhaled a plume of magical fire that covered Kerash. The Gnoll Draugr howled as real pain engulfed his body. He swung his arms and Venitra, still staggering, flinched from the closest copy to the Dragon’s fire she had ever seen.

“Kerash! You—you thing! How dare you! [Chain Lightning]!”

Ijvani blasted Toren. Her spell hit Toren’s adamantium breastplate and bounced. Toren turned as the skeleton ducked the lightning bolts flashing back towards her. He stared left.

Bea touched his arm, and rot and pestilence invaded. Past armor. Transmitted by the air itself, and magic. She…stared at Toren.

The skeleton, fully-dead, stared back. He carefully raised the gauntlets on one arm, lined with crystal, and activated them. They exploded, the embedded crystal shards tearing through her. Bea screamed—then screamed again as he put the sword in her chest.

The world was humming as Toren whirled. He raised the glass shield and blocked another spell. The enchantment didn’t activate; it must only be for melee contact.

The Chosen stumbled away from Toren. Kerash, still burning, howled.

“Kill it! I burn! I feel pain!”

“Destroy it!”

Venitra screamed, her body fractured in places, but healing. Ijvani raised her staff uncertainly. Bea stepped back, gasping.

“He wounded me. Master’s body…”

The Chosen were around Toren, four versus one. The skeleton didn’t care. He opened his jaw, laughing at them.

“Stop…stop that. You are not allowed to mock us. We will kill you. Fear us.”

Ijvani sounded uncertain. Toren just looked past her, at Healing Slime.

The little slime, peeking around one of the grand, open passageways into the battleground. Watching the skeleton.

Devail, Wesixa, and Maviola all peeked in too. They saw the Chosen spread out, aware of the actual threat to them. Toren laughed at them. Then—he reached for his side and plucked the first glowing scroll from the bag of holding.

“You can’t use th—”

Venitra shouted before the first Tier 6 spell went off.

—-

Az’kerash was so preoccupied with his investigation, composing a lengthy apology to the ruler of Khelt and a request, bidding on the items from the Village of Death, that he only noticed the sixth tremor in the room and audio cue.

He glanced up.

“What is that…?”

The roar of a spell going off made the Necromancer refocus on the present. He began cutting puppet connections, moving them to places where he could leave them for a second. A Naga swept herself into a private restroom stall as more parts of Az’kerash refocused.

Archmage Chandler leapt to his feet, mind racing. An attack? He began chanting spells, cursing his negligence. Why hadn’t his Chosen alerted him? No—if it was a strike team. Who? Magnolia Reinhart? Teriarch?

Who could—

“Arise for me, reaper of souls. Champion of bones, to follow my enemies to their graves…”

A spell-circle appeared and a figure emerged from the ground. A bone-warrior, clutching a reaper’s scythe, which shot after Az’kerash.

He cloaked himself in darkness, binding glittering spells to him, all the while cursing. Belavierr? Had she betrayed him? If not, the lack of her presence….

The Necromancer shot down the hallway, abandoning running to levitate forwards at incredible speed. The undead in each hallway came alive as he found the source of the fighting.

The ballroom. He aimed three dozen spells as he burst into the room, the firepower enough to immolate even a Named Adventurer—

The Necromancer saw the Tier 6 spell at first. Well, one of them.

[Ice Spikes] were shooting down from the ceiling in a constant barrage, like hail. Larger [Ice Spears] also landed, blasting the enchanted marble to pieces. Targeting the four enemies designated.

Well…trying to. One was cowering behind a pillar. Az’kerash recognized Bea, with huge wounds in her chest. She wasn’t dead, obviously, but a glowing javelin was embedded in her stomach, growing barbs into her flesh, nigh-impossible to remove.

Another of his Chosen was staring at her shattered legs, stupefied. A hammer’s blow had cracked the entire floor, caving it in and taking Venitra down.

The last two were fighting—or trying to. Ijvani was casting spells, but the ice-storm was targeting her and someone had taken half her ribs out, melting them with a sword swing. The last, Kerash, was stumbling away from a…skeleton…in armor…

The Necromancer stood there as Toren rampaged. He was winning! The artifacts and scrolls had brought the Chosen low. He heard the shrieking hum in the air, like their voices. It was coming from all the relics he wore, but he had Kerash running! He’d tossed the sword aside, gone for a mace that had shattered Venitra’s legs as it caused a meteor-strike of a blow, and had switched to a hand-axe to fight Kerash.

Revenge for Healing Slime! Justice for skeletons everywhere! No more! Never again! Toren saw Kerash backing up; the hand-axe left glittering cuts in the air that only faded after ten seconds or so. Each one could cut or block blows.

Awestruck, the newer Chosen and Healing Slime saw Toren walking forwards. He raised the axe, to hack Kerash down as the Chosen stumbled. The Draugr looked up, an unfamiliar expression of…panic…in his eyes.

“Enough!”

The voice thundered through the ballroom. Toren whirled. He stopped as he saw the Necromancer, Az’kerash, standing there.

Toren quailed. For a second, he looked at Az’kerash, missing the quizzical expression on the man’s face. Toren had known it would come to this. He slowly turned, planting himself, ready to face the final boss. He adjusted his helmet.

I won’t lose! Not for Healing Slime! Fight me, you…fleshsack!

Az’kerash’s mouth moved for a second.

“Fleshsack…? Healing…?”

He saw the skeleton advance, hammering the axe on the shield. The Necromancer felt Toren’s defiance. Pride. He refused to let his friend die. He would rather fight. He wouldn’t fail! Couldn’t!

The hum in the air reached a crescendo. Toren felt all his gear vibrating and wondered if that was a new eff—

The skeleton exploded. Healing Slime, Devail, Wesixa, Maviola, Az’kerash, and the other Chosen saw two of the artifacts on his body glow, and then burst as the magical resonance finally broke.

Like all good adventurers learned, so many clashing magical enchantments…Az’kerash threw up his hands reflexively to shield his face. Not that his cloak of darkness let the shrapnel touch him.

He saw Toren’s bones and the remaining relics spray across the room in a flash of light and sound.

When the dust finally cleared, Az’kerash looked around the trashed ballroom. His injured Chosen. He blinked at least two dozen times. Then finally walked over and pointed to a scrap of bone.

It reformed into a skeleton’s head. Two glowing, purple eyes appeared and stared up.

The Necromancer of Terandria looked at Toren. Toren looked back.

Uh oh. Not according to plan. Toren tried to form a fist.

Across the room, a single digit curled up. Toren mentally shrugged.

Well, it was a good try. He waited for the inevitable. Then his eyes brightened.

Oh! He was leveling up into a new class! And he was gaining in [Carer]!

Sweet. Just in time for oblivion.

—-

“If I understand this correctly, you, my Chosen, were slowly killing this slime—Ijvani’s slime—and had been destroying Toren without mercy or reason. Whereupon, at last, he fought back.”

Az’kerash’s voice was not as icy-cold as it could be, the Archmage Chandler’s stinging tone he used to lecture students and fools. It was…

Well, more disappointed. Which was worse. The Chosen stood there, shuffling their feet, looking away.

“And you lost to a single [Skeleton Knight]. No…a [Relic Guardian] now, isn’t it? That a skeleton could reach that level…”

Az’kerash eyed Toren. Only the skeleton’s head and upper torso were repaired. He had been a basic skeleton, a [Skeleton Warrior]. Now? He was a kind of undead that would have fit among the Village of Dead’s elites—if only the lower echelons.

Toren waited, apprehensive. Healing Slime was sitting on a side-table next to Az’kerash. Toren was afraid—but Az’kerash had studied it, produced some Sage’s Grass, and watched it consume that and a healing potion with interest.

“A Potions Slime. Dangerous. Unique. Ijvani, how many of your slimes have you deliberately killed?”

“I…some, Master?”

Ijvani had learned to lie. Which was growth…but Az’kerash’s look was displeased.

“He defeated you all. Four of my Chosen.”

He repeated it, with glum tones.

“He had your possessions, Master! He—it was cheating!”

Venitra protested, voice weak. She pointed at Toren accusatorially then flinched as Az’kerash looked her way. The Necromancer looked at Venitra, clearly confused.

“Then, Venitra—why did you not retrieve armaments in kind? You, Kerash, Ijvani, Bea? That would have equalized the odds instantly.”

The Chosen looked at each other, astonished.

“But Master, you gave us all the weapons we need, and our superior forms. Why would we stoop to using other tools?”

Bea replied. Az’kerash stared at her, and then began to massage his forehead with two fingers. He spoke without looking up, as the four wayward Chosen waited uncomfortably.

“…I have neglected your instruction. It is my error. You do not understand…kindness. You must. You are all superlative; not perfect. Even Cognita armed herself when the need arose. Have I really not improved on Zelkyr’s instruction one whit? That is—not a welcome thought—”

Toren was rather liking all this. He grinned—until the Necromancer swung his head around to regard him.

“Ijvani, Bea, Venitra, Kerash, you will all be punished. You must be, but more importantly, taught. I would not punish you for losing a battle, but torture…?”

He stared at the ceiling.

“It is not…no. I would do anything in my battle against the living. That you, unbidden, elected to do this out of a desire for entertainment is…wrong. I will rectify this. However. It seems I have neglected one other too long. Or rather, two.”

He turned to Toren and Healing Slime. The skeleton waited. Healing Slime…he’d done his best. He didn’t flinch from the Necromancer. Az’kerash bent down, looked Toren in his skull’s eye sockets, and nodded.

“My Chosen. If one of you harms either Toren or the slime in any situation outside of practice combat, in any real sense, I will be upset. I am already upset—I will be even more so if either one is hurt. Is that understood?”

All the undead nodded apprehensively. Az’kerash didn’t look away from Toren.

“As for you, Toren. I am minded to give you a purpose, if this is what happens when I neglect you. Your body cannot keep up with your levels. Thus, once repaired, I think…yes. You may be a fine instructor to Devail and Wesixa. Perhaps Maviola too, if Belavierr allows it, and the new Chosen.”

Toren stirred. The Chosen were astonished. Outraged! Hurt?

“Master, am I not a flawless [Duelist] already? I disarmed Toren.”

Devail pointed out, confused. Az’kerash turned to him.

“You are a superior fighter, Devail. However, there is more to battle than mere form. Toren is the living embodiment of that fact. You would do well to learn from it. As for the Potions Slime, well…neither potion is particularly valuable, but it may roam about. They do grow stronger with time, so perhaps after a century and enough nourishment…”

He was sighing as he went to contemplate the damage to his castle. Toren blinked, his flames turning off and on as he stared at the Necromancer’s back. He looked at Healing Slime and the Chosen.

Him? Teach? It was certainly an upgrade to be recognized at last for his amazing qualities! Toren grinned…and kept his thoughts from leaking, for once.

He’d done it. He’d beaten the other Chosen. If he could do that…the Necromancer was locking up his vaults since Toren had ruined at least two artifacts and a number of scrolls.

However, if Toren could do that? He looked at Healing Slime and it peeked back at him. Toren finally began to envision a plan. If he could beat the Chosen, maybe they could escape. He gave the Necromancer a big smile when Az’kerash turned back towards him.

Perril Chandler eyed the innocently-grinning skull. He tapped it on the forehead and attached a tracking spell. He was going to have to find a use for it. Then he sighed, and began trying to raise his children again.

Where was Belavierr? Not that he really wanted her nurturing touch. Az’kerash began to regret that he’d never had a partner in life—not…well, not in a marriage, raising a child. He felt like he needed someone else to help him. Maybe he could make an undead for that…?

Az’kerash wondered if it was a faux pas to ask Fetohep for parenting tips for the undead.

—-

It was an enduring truth that the loudest, the minority, the individuals, defined ‘everyone’ in a group, species, or what have you. It was just something you lived with.

For many, Sir Relz and Noass were the faces of Drakes since they had their news segment. Drassi was the female Drake. Imagine the misconceptions that arose from that? Personalities, viewpoints, and the fact that both male Drakes occupied higher social and economic circles aside…not many Drakes wore monocles.

In the same way, Magnolia Reinhart was not all Reinharts. Which didn’t mean the other Reinharts were better…but this generation was notoriously reclusive, happy to indulge themselves. Magnolia was still synonymous with House Reinhart though, because she was the head of their family.

It didn’t mean they were better or worse necessarily…although you heard things about what the Reinharts got up to in private. However, to extend the analogy was to realize that Lord Tyrion Veltras was not all of the Veltras family.

You just seldom saw the others in the news. In fact, that was because they were somewhat reclusive too, albeit in different ways.

The [Lady] of House Veltras spotted the Courier coming in and watched for the last five minutes of descent. Ryoka Griffin was exceptionally grateful the woman didn’t raise the huge longbow and take aim.

She landed on what could only be described as an actual tree house. As in a house…built onto a tree. It was high off the ground, as were most of the buildings. They had the fabled tree-civilization, although it was mostly Humans.

And the ground, rather than being a pristine forest, was more of a marshland. The trees were like mangroves; huge root structures that allowed the people to build on the impressive plants.

Ryoka had expected a forest-keep or something, but she realized that there wasn’t much need. This area of Veltras lands was pretty safe from monsters and [Bandits]. If they wanted to try and climb up while all the people shot arrows through their heads, they could try. A flying attack was more dangerous, but one look at the [Lady] and her bow and Ryoka doubted she’d have much trouble fending off Wyverns or Griffins.

The Griffin in question landed and the woman continued eating the snack she’d fetched. Some kind of meat-on-a-stick variant. She regarded Ryoka in silence as the Courier caught her breath.

“So you’re that Courier what helped Tyrion, is that right? I thought he’d send word cheap, but I guess this is easier if you’re about, isn’t it?”

That was what she said. However, the drawl that came out of her mouth was so hard to parse that Ryoka took a second. She heard something like:

“So yer tha Courier what helped Tyrion issat righ? I though he’d send word chep, but I guess thisis easier if you’re about innit?”

She had a thick accent, but Ryoka nodded after a second. She bowed.

“Ryoka Griffin, Courier, Lady Buscrei Veltras.”

The woman shrugged.

“If you’re going to bow, be my guest. Not how I do things. Nice flying. Can anyone do it or is it only with a Skill and magic?”

Ryoka hesitated. The woman glanced at the glider, ignoring the usual questions or comments Ryoka got.

“Um—you can glide with my…glider, but you need an updraft to keep flying.”

“Huh. Wouldn’t mind gliding off, even if I have to haul it back. Well, ‘salright. I’m Buscrei Veltras. [Hunting Lady] of…here.”

She waved the stick around to take in the marsh-settlement. Ryoka nodded, hesitating again. Buscrei eyed her.

“You looking for all of us, or is it just letters? Anything important?”

“No—I’m just delivering an uh, update from the Veltras keep?”

“Ah. Regular then. Want a bite? A drink? The rest of the family’s out hunting.”

Buscrei’s nod took in the entire area. The marshlands around the Vail Forest and the ‘city’ of Oswen was to the west and south, where coast intruded into land. It bordered the largest forest in Izril’s north, and thus the people had both sea and land and that medium in between to find any number of ways to make a profit.

Dyes came from here, as well as hunting produce, the staple of House Veltras’ income along with timber and other such goods.

“You’re very kind, Lady Buscrei. I can wait for the rest of your family if you’d like…I’m authorized to take back letters or correspondence to any other of House Veltras on the way back.”

Buscrei’s eyebrows rose.

“Really? Round trip, eh? Well, they won’t be back for hours. They’re out hunting, like I said.”

She pointed again. Ryoka glanced around.

“…Where? I can meet them.”

The [Hunting Lady] gave Ryoka a blank look, then smiled sardonically.

“You’ve never been around here, have you? I’ve no clue. They could be thirty miles that way—or twenty that. I think most’ll come back to eat by nightfall, but it’s as far as I know. If you want to wait, there’s beds and food. Or I can send you off soonest. Which’ll it be?”

“Oh, well…”

Ryoka wasn’t sure, but an impulse and her burgeoning social abilities told her that Buscrei was serious.

“…I’d take something to eat. And drink.”

The [Lady] headed inside and Ryoka followed her to find well, more of a hunting lodge than anything else. This wing of the Veltras family wasn’t Tyrion’s military-style keep. They lived off the land, contributed to House Veltras’ defense, and didn’t bother with continent-wide dramas.

“Let’s see. Nope. All of that orange’s juice we got has gone bad. I have water, purified water, Oyster Juice, beers, wine, Velrusk Claw…and fifteen stronger spirits. Which one?”

Apparently, runes of preservation weren’t everywhere, or some juice had been stored faultily, because the woman came up with a large amphora, opened it, and immediately poured it out the window into the marsh below. Ryoka blinked as she walked onto a lovely fur carpet…a former bear…took in the fine wood, the spacious, comfy place she wouldn’t mind having, and saw the [Hunting Lady] waiting.

She had to ask.

“Uh, what’s Oyster Juice? And purified water? You mean the regular water’s…?”

“Not from the marsh direct if that’s what you’re asking. Do you think we want to drink that? We have wells.”

Buscrei clarified. Ryoka hurried to deny she had been wondering exactly that. The woman found two cups and poured two liquids in, before placing them on a counter. She got something for herself; the purple Gnoll drink, Velrusk Claw.

“There. Oyster’s Juice is a local nickname for some strong stuff. Made with some part of oyster…I think. Tastes better than the name, and it’s cheap.”

Ryoka took one sip and her expression made Buscrei laugh. Sour alcohol was not something Ryoka enjoyed. However, she gamely tried another sip and saw the point.

“Purified water’s pure. More’n magic can do. That’s just…water with nothing in it. This is special stuff. Tastes good, right?”

“It’s sweet!”

The purified water tasted very good. It was not ‘spring water’ from actual mountain runoff or whatever Earth’s bottled water companies advertised. This tasted, well, pure. Good. Buscrei grinned.

“Local specialty. We sell a bit to [Merchants] and [Captains] who can transport it, but it goes bad quick. Some dust gets in, or idiots store it in metal tanks or containers or even leather and it’s regular damn water.”

“How do you get it? [Druids]? I just visited um—”

“Setth?”

Ryoka nodded as Buscrei named the [Lord] who had local [Druids] in his forest-keep and local town.

“Yes. Lord Setth.”

She’d seen how careful that community was to work with nature. [Druids] helped maintain the orchards and make sure the flocks were healthy and happy, not just farmed out. They still exported some meat as well as animal products; they didn’t cull animals though, only when they were suffering, so it wasn’t high-quality meat.

Still, the [Druids] had a lot of abilities like knowing how to fight infection, purify water, keep bugs away, and so on.

However, Buscrei shook her head. The second family of House Veltras on Ryoka’s journey found some more dried meat—which turned out to be from a crocodile or alligator variant, cooked and spiced on a stick—for both of them as Ryoka sipped the water and Oyster Juice.

It was rather nice, and they went back to the balcony for the unparalleled view. She spoke, instantly familiar and sociable. The exact opposite of Ryoka, in short.

“We don’t have that many [Druids]. Lots of Drowned Folk and they have some [Mages]…nah. It’s from one of Oswen’s treasures. You know we have hot springs?”

Ryoka nodded. She’d tried to do some reading on the fly, but the wind made that impossible. She had still read when she landed to talk to Lord Setth. Oswen, among fishing and hunting opportunities, had famous hot springs.

“Well, among ‘em is the one we let people use once a month. Rest of the time, it’s for bottling the pure water. Unicorn horns in the bath and other purifying stuff.”

“Oh. Wow.”

In many ways, Oswen paralleled Desonis. However, the [Knight] culture wasn’t there, and the people were right alongside a forest.

If Ryoka had seen them riding crabs around the marshes, she would have really thought this place was uh, a look. That would just be silly, though.

…They rode water-sleds pulled by an otter-dog crossbreed. Ryoka coughed half her mouthful of Oyster Juice over the balcony when she saw that and Buscrei laughed her butt off. The swift-paddling dogs and returning hunting party looked up as she drew her longbow, and loosed an arrow in an explosion of sound.

Ryoka saw a huge goose or some similar bird drop out of the sky near the Humans below as a flock flew across the skies. The [Hunting Lady] didn’t bother to aim for the rest. She bellowed down.

“Grab the bird before the predators get it, you lazy salt-slugs! And get up here! We have a Courier for company! It’s that one that helped Tyrion out!”

Among the many facts about Oswen that Ryoka learned over her night’s stay, they had adapted to hunting from the comfort of their houses quite well. Obviously they didn’t shoot if there was a chance they’d hit the other houses or people, but if they did hit a bird on the wing, who wanted to climb all that way down, grab a bird out of the marsh, and get back up?

It would be lost to giant leeches, scavengers, or any number of things if you were too slow. Hence there were entire jobs that would cater to people like Bird.

Kids in otter-dog sleds raced out to grab prey and deliver it for a small fee. It was just one entertaining thing in this part of Veltras’ lands.

The rest was obviously Buscrei’s family, which was a large, boisterous lot. Exactly the opposite of Tyrion.

“He’s the main head. Life’s no fun. Small wonder his family’s been in charge for the last few generations. We had a family head eighteen generations back. I heard she hated it. Did a good job, though. We’re all [Hunters] so we’re good with bows.”

“Longbows. Short bows, compound, recurve—the only group who’s ever outshot us are Gnolls in competitions, and we win just as often. We train [Archers] too. Don’t tell me Tyrion wants more?”

“No, I uh—”

Ryoka sat among the family at dinner. Nearly two dozen people wanted to talk to her. Buscrei and her husband, their kids, relatives and their partners…

She winced and heard a curse as someone shouted in glee and then there was a scream and noisy splash from outside. Buscrei went to a window.

“If you broke the Wind Runner’s glider, you’re paying for it!”

The [Hunting Lady] bellowed at some of the young adults, who had tried to glide with said device after Ryoka lent it to them.

“It’s fine. I can fly without and get it fixed…”

“Flying. Never was interested in that. Still, you helped out Tyrion in a bad spot. We had to shoot a few [Assassins] threatening us. One of them exploded one of our homes. Bastards.”

Lord Somost, who’d married Buscrei, clapped Ryoka on the back. He was a former [Captain], and fit right in. The others nodded and leaned in, and Ryoka ducked her head—only to be slapped on the shoulder again by the oldest daughter.

“So? Tell us, how’re the kids? Better? Has Tyrion finally unhitched the iron rod from his back, or is it still stuck up his ass—”

Buscrei clocked her daughter with a roll. Ryoka hesitated.

“I have the update here—”

She’d been trying to hand it out the last two hours, but the family was impatient.

“We don’t care about that. That’s just regular updates and news from Tyrion and his lot. As interesting as dirt most of the time. How’re the boys? He never writes about himself or them. Sammial still mouthing off?”

They were fun, rowdy, and Ryoka found herself sharing anecdotes. They wanted to know about the Village of the Dead of course, and her sword she wisely refused showing them, as it wouldn’t work and they’d probably hurt themselves falling over each other to see.

It was a welcome distraction from figuring out how to rescue Ceria and the others. At least they were alive. Except for Pisces—no, he was alive too.

For once, Ryoka was doing her job. Which was delivering the packet of letters from Lord Setth to the others, as well as Tyrion’s update to all his family.

“I’m also going to other members of House Veltras. Next on my list is uh—Lord Swey?”

“Oh.”

The group chorused. Buscrei grinned.

“Mountains and climbers. Higher up than we are, even. Nightmare for City Runners to climb that way up; he’s on a plateau and there’s no way down except rope-elevators in one spot. Climb up yourself everywhere else. He’ll love you. You can just fly up! Sure, we have letters. Let us write them if we’re sending them in days instead of weeks. Alright, what’s the boring update?”

They did Tyrion Veltras a disservice, although perhaps it was only in this case. The scattered members of House Veltras usually just got requests for a certain number of [Soldiers] here—updates on casualties, general movements and income lost and gained, acknowledgements for issues in their domains from Tyrion.

Boring stuff, as they said. Very military, and organized—just not personable. House Veltras liked to consolidate power around its leader and let the rest of the family manage their domains without needing to worry about larger affairs.

It was a fair system, but for once Ryoka had news. One of the sons grabbed the sheet and blinked twice at it.

“Gelato? He’s giving us the recipe for that stuff? You hear that? We can sell the damned stuff back to those arrogant [Merchants] on ships! How do you make it? Ice? Damn.”

“What else does he have? Plans for those trebuchets? I’d take a few and put them high up. No?”

“Er, no, L—Buscrei. However, Lord Tyrion is asking who wants the Players of Celum—the [Actors]—to tour through their lands? There’s a roving troupe, not the main ones, and he’s paying for it.”

“We want it!”

Half of the [Lords] and [Ladies] chorused instantly. Buscrei eyed Ryoka.

“Tyrion wouldn’t pay for a [Bard] unless it was to cheer his [Soldiers] up. How’d he get the Players?”

“Well, it’s an offshoot. Jasi, Wesle, the um, main cast is heading north from Invrisil. There’s a theatre there, and one in First Landing maybe. The other group is accepting a route and I—they were talked into touring House Veltras.”

Ryoka may have had a hand in that. Which the [Hunting Lady] realized at once. However, she let that slide, somewhat to Ryoka’s relief. She was sharp, but she also didn’t press.

The Courier spent a night in company, although she was covered by otter-puppies when she woke up. They had apparently decided she was a comfy pillow. The entire group saw her off with hastily-written letters and an entire canteen of Oyster Juice…and one of purified water.

That was fun. It really was. Ryoka didn’t stay for an entire day at every location; she managed to hit three more spots before resting. Most of House Veltras did offer her the opportunity to stay the night or longer.

Lord Swey practically begged her to let him jump off the high plateau, another strategic fortress that an army would have nightmares assailing, and glide into the forest below. She let him do it once, and then his kids—then flew off before she spent the entire day watching them crash into tree canopies, funny as it was. She did need her glider intact!

Not all of House Veltras was like those two. Some were like Tyrion, more formal and silent. They occupied keeps in the forest, along it, the much smaller plains to the south, and of course, coastal fortresses. House Veltras had the Forest of Vail and the west of Izril; where Reinhart had more central holdings and some of the other Five Families stayed in the north, they had become people of this land. Not one didn’t know Ryoka’s name, and most thanked her for her role in the Assassin’s Guild affair.

—-

“No [Healers] of ours could help the lads. They would have tried and we were trying to see if a Drowned Folk [Healer] or someone from abroad would help out. We buried two of ours. Warnings from the Guild. Glad they’re wiped out.”

The more reserved [Lord] of House Veltras was Lord Dereic. A Drowned Man.

Something about sea and salt, or perhaps the fact that they had lonelier, less hunting-friendly keeps on the coast made his branch of the family closer to Tyrion’s in nature.

Lord Dereic was part…well Ryoka thought it was just one of many varieties of fish. He had fish’s scales and gills, and actually had trouble breathing like Sammial in pure air.

However, he was the only Drowned Person in his family; he had embraced the gift of the sea in a catastrophic sea accident. His sons were Human, and if they had been born of a union between a Drowned Person and him, rather than the other way around, their bloodline of succession would have been called into account.

He thanked Ryoka, and showed her the graves of two of House Veltras’ members who’d been killed as warnings. Ryoka bit her lip and didn’t know what to say.

Just a reminder, perhaps, that a lot had happened she hadn’t seen. Ryoka wasn’t sure what she could tell Lord Dereic, especially being a survivor who had no real right to her luck—that so many had died helping to get to the finish line.

Wisdom was, perhaps, in knowing there wasn’t any right thing to say. The man shook Ryoka’s hand as she left, and then stepped into the sea.

It was then she realized he’d come out of the water to talk to her, as much as it pained him. So she was twice-honored.

She covered all of House Veltras’ main members in just a week of flight. Which was amazing if you considered the distances involved. So much flying wore Ryoka out. She had to burn mana to fly if the wind wasn’t right, and she was gaining ‘flight muscle’ as she thought of it. Optimizing her speed, building her endurance.

Ryoka worried she’d lose her actual leg-muscle from flying so much. However, she just couldn’t deny that she was faster in the air than on the ground.

To make up for it, she did a wind-run, letting the wind blow her and running the way back. She loved doing a huge jump with the wind. She could cover sixty feet in a single jump.

That was hugely fun. The only dampener on Ryoka’s mood was a lack of more knowledge about the Horns’ whereabouts—and she checked at every Mage’s Guild—

And thinking of Erin. And Mrsha and the inn.

She had to visit. Now she could fly, there was no excuse not to. That was with the caveat of course that would still take nearly a week to fly to Invrisil, but it was exceptionally fast given how many hundreds of miles that was! Ryoka estimated that if she could fly at full mana-burn, she could get to Invrisil in three or four days from House Veltras’ keep.

That was over two hundred miles a day. The only thing faster was being on a magical bike plus a [Haste] potion. Then you could do a 24-hour run if you also got a maelstrom and gale-force winds for the last bit. Ryoka would pass on the crossbow bolts through the back, though.

She had to visit Mrsha, soon. If Lyonette was gone and Erin…Ryoka was guilty. However, it was her guilt keeping her here too.

The keep of House Veltras did look a bit dour and even small after seeing all the relatives. However, the instant Ryoka landed, the old [Majordomo], Ullim, was already striding out to meet her.

“Finished already, Miss Griffin?”

“Yep.”

The old man shook his head, as a few [Servants] hurried forward, offering a towel for Ryoka’s sweaty face, a drink, and on. She awkwardly tried to accept it so they went away faster.

“I should expect nothing less from a Courier. Even so, that’s astonishing. It takes a month sometimes for a letter to reach the family at regular speeds—and that’s with a City Runner to each branch!”

“Oh. Well—happy to help.”

“It is a great help, Miss Griffin. Lord Tyrion did not expect you back so soon—he is performing a tour of the north. I shall send a [Message] at once. Lord Hethon and Lord Sammial are at their lessons, but they would no doubt be delighted to speak to you if you are willing?”

Ullim was a curious man. As self-effacing and considerate as Tyrion and Jericha were…generally not. He was clearly the glue that kept this branch of House Veltras together. Ryoka smiled.

“I’d be happy to. Although…do you need me to send any more correspondence? I can hit a city close by and return by the evening.”

He shook his head instantly.

“You have done more than enough, Miss Griffin. Lord Tyrion has no outstanding messages that require physical delivery—a [Message] will do.”

Not for recipes for ice cream and personal correspondence, of course. Ryoka had done a confidential delivery usually entrusted to good, reliable City Runners or Couriers.

Moreover, she’d done it fast and cheap. It was a favor to House Veltras. Ryoka relaxed, nodding.

Guilt. That was why she was here and Mrsha might understand that. Ryoka did send her a [Message]-letter trying to explain. What had she written?

…very sorry, Mrsha. I will come back as soon as I can, but there’s something I need to check while I’m near a port. Um. Boats and ships and stuff.

I also have to stay because I owe Lord Tyrion and House Veltras a debt. People died in the fighting because I asked him to send an army to fight. I need to repay that if I can, even a bit.

Hence her delivery-run. It was a matter of honor. Mrsha had written back she understood…in her stylistic way.

…Whereupon I find myself disappointed by your pressing need to honor your affairs, Ryoka, I shall await your egress with much anticipation and conduct myself with all due diligence until such time as…

It came to something, Ryoka decided, when a kid could use the word ‘egress’ such that even Ryoka herself didn’t know if it was correctly applied.

The point was, she’d helped. In a small, non-dramatic way. It was so rare that Ryoka gave herself a pat on the back.

Then a bath. No hot-springs with Unicorn horns for her, but Ullim had some water hauled in and heated in a copper bathtub.

Ryoka would have refused for the servant’s sake, but since this was a magical world, it wasn’t the laborious, painful way of doing it in the dark ages—or even until plumbing.

A [Servant] did haul water out of the well, and the bath did need to be heated. However, rather than many buckets and a cauldron of boiling water or even one under the bath, they took a single Bucket of Holding, which Ryoka hadn’t known even existed, tossed it in the bath, and activated a heating rune.

Hot bath. Plus, some alchemical shampoo for a proper bubble bath and Ryoka was sinking into a haze of lovely golden bubbles. It felt great. She hoped she could do Tyrion a few more small favors, then excuse herself to visit Mrsha via Invrisil. That would keep him from making her take sword lessons and Jericha pestering her about…everything that was Ryoka.

They were aware of all Ryoka’s secrets, and only Tyrion’s own sense of propriety stopped Jericha from holding Ryoka upside down and shaking her until the truth fell out. Ryoka was just thinking of a good favor to do—maybe deliver some of his letters to Invrisil? She could combine that with a return to Lady Buscrei, maybe!

Mrsha might love one of the water-sleds. Or—or what about some other souvenir? A little bow? Wait—Lyonette would kill Ryoka if she gave Mrsha that, if Mrsha didn’t do it by accident…

Ryoka sank back further, letting herself drift off in the bath. She was close to napping in the lovely heated tub.

…Which was, of course when Sammial kicked open the door.

“You’re back! I’m bored! Oh—”

He saw Ryoka look up from her thankfully heavy cover of bubbles. Sammial stared at her. Ryoka’s frown returned.

“You’re naked! I’ll come back later!”

Sammial strode out. He didn’t close the door. He shouted into the bathroom.

“Hurry up!”

Ryoka Griffin was beginning to understand why some people hated kids. She groaned.

—-

In fairness, the reason Sammial was fine walking in on Ryoka was probably that he’d do the same to Ullim or Hethon, those being the only two people he regularly interacted with. Ryoka somehow doubted he’d try the same on Jericha…or knowing Sammial, he had.

One female figure in his life, and Jericha was still technically an underling to Lord Sammial. It wasn’t a good relationship.

Ryoka had already observed Sammial did not respect boundaries or privacy or…respect. Heck, Erin would have noticed it straight off.

The problem was that while it was easy to call Sammial an annoying, entitled brat…he reminded Ryoka of herself at his age. Not that she walked into bathrooms all the time, but the similarities were there.

Often-busy parents, being raised by an Ullim and Jericha…no one to stop her or really hold her to account or teach her properly.

As Ryoka cut her bath short, she remembered that Sammial had [Tutors] and both he and Hethon took regular lessons as a [Lord] was supposed to. The problem was…

“Lord Sammial. You cannot walk into a bathroom with a woman—anyone present! You are supposed to be at your lessons!”

Ullim was remonstrating with the boy. However, the [Majordomo], stern as he was, ran up into a problem. Which was Sammial stomping his foot and his eyes flashing with his quick temper.

“I hate my boring lessons! I told my [Tutor] I wanted to see Ryoka! So I did!”

Ullim turned to Ryoka—then the [Tutor], who stepped out of the room, looking harried. The man whispered to Ullim and Ryoka caught it.

“…cannot keep doing this. I’m sorry, Master Ullim, but…”

The old man whispered back, clearly trying to soothe the agitated [Tutor]. Ryoka didn’t understand it—until she realized.

Sammial’s aura. In any other world without magic, you could still discipline a kid—not hit them, but control them and physically stop them from doing something.

In this one? Sammial could actually overpower adults who couldn’t match his aura. A prodigy at a young age. But uncontrolled. It just made things worse.

So, seeing this, and how Sammial walked away from Ullim and towards her, clearly aware he was in trouble but avoiding it until someone—his father—took him to task at last, what was Ryoka Griffin to do?

She saw it all. She saw herself in the issue. She could leave it be. Or…she could be Ryoka. Only—how good was Ryoka at teaching other people in a positive way?

Uh…

Well, she had history with Sammial. Ryoka nodded to him as the [Lord] stopped, eagerly.

“You’re finally back! I told father I wanted to fly with you! You took too long! Are you staying for a week? Can we have fun?”

His words spilled over themselves in their eagerness to come out. Ryoka bent down.

“I am back, and I don’t think Lord Tyrion wants to risk his son falling out of the skies. I nearly crashed twice. Birds are terrible. I don’t think I’ll stay for a week, but I can have some fun…after you take your lessons.”

Sammial’s face instantly fell and became hostile and grumpy.

“I don’t want to. Lessons are boring and my teachers are stupid. You’re way more fun. What if you teach me?”

The [Tutor] twitched behind him. Sammial had no volume-control. Ryoka sighed. Let’s see. Imagine she was talking to mini-Ryoka. What would Ryoka say…?

I’m going to kick your ass, you entitled brat.

No, wait. Don’t imagine you were talking to yourself or you’d just want to hit yourself. The trouble was…Ryoka tried again.

“Lessons aren’t always fun, are they? But you can’t just walk out of them. They teach you things you need to know.”

“Like what? Math?”

Sammial scoffed. Ryoka bit her lip. Despite all the assurances of her teachers, not once had she actually used calculus to her knowledge, and she was in another world where she was arguably placed to use it the most!

“Look, I’m not going to argue with you about math, Sammial. If you can’t do basic math, you’re not going to have a good time paying for things…let alone keeping a budget. That’s not the point. Remember our conversation about how you can’t push people around. Especially people like me?”

She gave him a meaningful look. Sammial hesitated.

“Yes, but—”

“—but it seems like you’re still doing it. Sometimes we have to do things we don’t like. Especially if it helps us out. What if these were…sword lessons and you refused to learn how to defend yourself?”

He thought about it. Sammial stared doubtfully up at Ryoka.

“…I’d be like you with father?”

Ryoka’s face went slack. Yep. She hated intelligent kids..

“Well…who’s taking lessons because your father was right?”

Sammial’s face twisted up. He opened his mouth, closed it, and grudgingly looked over his shoulder.

“Do I have to go back and learn now?”

Ryoka smiled, breathing out…right up until Ullim winced.

“Your tutor has taken the day off, Lord Sammial. I ah, also cut Lord Hethon’s lessons short…”

Hethon came out of a room and spotted Ryoka and Sammial. The Wind Runner sighed and Ullim looked at her apologetically, albeit impressed. He clearly hadn’t expected her to talk Sammial around.

A muddled victory. Ryoka gave up. She’d talk to the boys. So she jerked a thumb towards the door.

“Alright. Don’t mess with your [Tutors]. That’s my advice, Sammy. Especially if you want to go and have fun with a Courier. Let’s go outside.”

The boys cheered and followed Ryoka outside. Ullim smiled gratefully at Ryoka and she nodded back. She just…well, it was interesting. Mrsha needed her.

It seemed though, that if you thought of Mrsha, you also needed someone for Sammial and Hethon. It was not Ryoka’s job, nor did she know if she had the right to try and help.

…She was going to do it, obviously. She just wasn’t sure.

—-

Lord Tyrion heard Ryoka was back via [Message] spell and cut short his tour of a northern fort.

They’d killed another [Assassin]. The hunt was ongoing, and he had come to commend the [Soldiers]. Contrary to his relatives’ opinions, he had given them all time off and paid for entertainment.

He was good at, well, leading, managing, and training armed forces. A very narrow skill-set compared to all the ones you might hope for in life. Or maybe the problem was in what Lord Tyrion himself prized…

Well, someone came to pay him a visit as he was riding back. Jericha signaled Lord Tyrion and he slowed to join and ride next to the slower group.

“Lord Tyrion! Dead gods, but it’s hard to catch you. I was riding straight ahead, but I realized we’d miss you unless we angled…”

Lord Pellmia puffed from riding hard in the saddle the last few miles. Tyrion nodded to him.

“Lord Pellmia. I apologize; I wasn’t aware you were in the area. How can I help you?”

Direct as always. Formal as always. Pellmia fished for a handkerchief, glancing at Tyrion’s escort.

“Would you mind if we ride—slower—together? In private?”

The other [Lord] instantly nodded. His people fell back, including Jericha, and the two rode in the center of their formation, out of earshot of their guards.

“Tyrion, it may be presumptuous of me, but I heard about the Wind Runner flitting about House Veltras’ lands, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t think…well. Don’t bite my head off, but I assume you’re hosting her as a guest?”

Pellmia came out with it after a moment. Tyrion nodded.

“She has been most helpful. A guest at the keep. My sons respect her, and there is always work for a Courier…”

“Not to mention that damned Kaalblade or whatever it was she was swinging around? I nearly lost my jaw, watching her slay—it must have been sixty Wyverns!”

“Indeed. A magnificent weapon.”

“I would love to see it. And speak to her briefly. One always needs a trusty Courier.”

Pellmia nodded a few times. Tyrion gestured ahead.

“We are riding back. I can send word to Ullim to prepare guest rooms.”

The older [Lord] hesitated. He was clearly torn, but eventually slowed to stare up at the trees. They were passing around one of the smaller forests, grown from the Vail Forest itself.

Sunlight dappled leaves overhead. The breeze was blowing gently, rustling the world around them. The sound of the horse’s hooves, the smell of nature…

It was on days like this a man felt alive. Tyrion looked as relaxed as Pellmia had ever seen him. In his element. It was rare to see him not…so stiff. Even smiling.

They said of him, behind his back, that every time Lord Tyrion smiled, spring was delayed another month. Or that every time he smiled, a Kraken stirred.

…That was cruel. Injust. Lord Pellmia had known Tyrion as a boy, and more as he grew older. He had always been like this, but there had been a time when he smiled more. When he laughed and when he hadn’t been stone. He thought…he had seen that again.

The [Lord] spent so much time looking at the forest trail that Tyrion eventually cleared his throat.

“Pellmia? Will you be staying?”

Pellmia stirred. He glanced at Tyrion, and shook his head.

“I should like to meet the Wind Runner, but I won’t impose. Tell me, Tyrion. What are your impressions of her?”

He listened, carefully, as Tyrion’s brows knitted.

“She is an extraordinary Courier. I’m in her debt. She has been honest and straightforward as one can ask for, and she is certainly fast. Her ability to command the wind is impressive.”

He replied after a moment. Pellmia nodded.

“Not to mention her magic sword. And your sons like her?”

“She…has a way with them. Sammial and Hethon respect her, which is rare. I find her curious. Brave. Refreshing.”

It seemed Tyrion had gone one word too far, because he turned his head slightly and regarded the distant riders. Pellmia sighed, and smiled.

“Striking too. Is she from Baleros, Drath…? Ah, well, that doesn’t matter, does it? It’s a rare sort of woman, whom you take to. It was like that with both my wives. I still miss Eiress.”

His first wife, another casualty of the March of Roses. Tyrion dipped his head silently. He waited for Pellmia to make sense, but the [Lord] just hummed under his breath.

“Tyrion, it’s out of concern, not anything else, you understand.”

“…I’d hardly take offense to you, Lord Pellmia. If I did, I’d state it directly.”

Pellmia waved a hand.

“Consider it advice. I know it has been a while and well, the young man I remember had a certain charm—but all the tact of a lance to the chest. It’s my experience, and that of Keireen—who sends her regards—that you need to make an effort.”

Lord Tyrion’s eyes flickered.

“About…? And how so?”

Pellmia blew out his cheeks. This was harder than he thought. Taking aside a younger [Lord] was easier than a man Tyrion’s age. He wished he’d gotten backup—but imagine six [Lords] all riding together and gossiping like girls? No, no. He pushed on.

“Activities, Tyrion! A Courier is not, well, not like regular women. Some might be impressed by House Veltras’ amenities here, but you must admit, for someone of her means and travel, this area can be quite dull. I’m sure Miss Griffin might appreciate more interesting pursuits?”

“Hm. It’s true we haven’t offered her much as a guest. She’s been working.”

Tyrion nodded to that, since that was the first understandable point Pellmia had made. The [Lord] exhaled.

“Exactly. Well, Keireen was of the opinion that if the Wind Runner was sticking around, that’s already a good sign. Did she take the Courier-jobs for a song?”

His daughter had told him to ask about that. She was very sharp—Tyrion frowned.

“Too cheaply. She felt it was a debt.”

“That’s excellent. Now, you should reciprocate. Dead gods, Tyrion, I’m sure neither of us wants to list off suggestions! What about a visit to one of the larger cities, though? You two can zip across Izril. A tour of one of the islands by ship? It will peter out unless you show her more than your regular façade. Enough people think you’re disinterested. I know you well enough to know when you like someone, but someone who hasn’t your measure doesn’t.”

Tyrion thought about this. Was he coming off as standoffish? He nodded slowly.

“Salient points, Pellmia.”

The [Lord] nodded, relaxing.

“Good, good. Be straightforward. I’d say—just tell her you want her to stay around as well. Straight-off, before she heads away. Keireen told me to tell you—well, be direct so you both know where you stand.”

Lord Tyrion hesitated.

“Surely that’s too much to ask, Pellmia?”

“Not for this! She has to make up her mind. She’s a young woman, but you are Lord Veltras so I’d give you a good shot. I’m on your side. Just be direct—I’m not sure if mentioning how your sons like her would help, but it certainly doesn’t hurt they adore her! That’s all. I’m not speculating into the rest—just set the stage. Tell her you’d rather she hung about. Visited, if a permanent room is too much. Don’t bring out the wedding ring until—”

The [Lord] of House Veltras had been half-nodding, frowning at Pellmia, but listening right until that last bit. Then he stopped dead on the forest trail.

“Wedding ring?”

Pellmia was checking the notes Keireen and his daughter had helped him write. Maybe he should just give it to the man; Tyrion liked written instructions.

“I know it’s been a while since Salva, Tyrion. However, you have to consider your sons too. When it’s…just pure luck like this, you need to strike. As I said, I’d offer you both a chance to avail yourself of my House’s entertainment—”

There was a difference between willful ignorance or playing dumb and sheer density. Lord Tyrion was in the rare, authentic case of the latter. All the pieces of the conversation finally fell into place. Lord Pellmia went on. Tyrion had to speak three times to interrupt him.

“Pellmia. Pellmia. I think you’re mistaken. I wasn’t aware this was a conversation about…courting Miss Ryoka. That—was not what I thought we were talking about.”

Lord Pellmia stopped. He stared at Tyrion. He rode on forwards, turning to stare at Tyrion with mouth open for so long his horse walked him into a low-hanging branch. Even after it smacked him in the side, he just kept staring.

Dead gods. It was worse than Pellmia thought. How had the man ever managed to marry Salva? Well—it had been mutual. She must have had to chase him down with a net, poor woman…

“Lord Pellmia. If we are discussing…courtship, I fear you may be misinformed. There is nothing between Miss Griffin and myself, and I have certainly not intimated otherwise. Nor do I typically—seek out advice. If I did, I am certain I would appreciate this information. However…”

Looking exceptionally uncomfortable, Lord Tyrion spoke stiffly. You could actually see him drawing back, visibly growing distant. Pellmia looked at him.

“Tyrion Veltras. I see I have been presumptuous. For that, I apologize.”

The [Lord] nodded, relieved. Lord Pellmia Quellae, of House Quellae, the [Lord of Orchards], who had nevertheless proven himself in war, twice-married, with a son and daughter from his first marriage, respected by his people, friend and supporter of House Veltras, fixed Tyrion with a keen eye.

Like the man was a piece of fruit from the finest trees, which were worthy of royalty. Pellmia spoke slowly.

“I have been presumptuous, Tyrion. So, let me be clear. I am speaking, as I have been speaking this entire time, about Ryoka Griffin, the Courier, the Wind Runner of Reizmelt, and yourself, Lord Tyrion Veltras of House Veltras…and giving you advice about entering a relationship with the young lady, courting her with the intention of marriage if it should prove both you and she care for each other. Marriage, as defined by you marrying her and making her your wife. A relationship, which I would hope stems from mutual attraction and leads to…”

Lord Tyrion had slowly been flushing throughout Pellmia’s speech. He cut Pellmia off.

“Lord Pellmia. Speculating about Miss Ryoka Griffin and myself is not something I would welcome. I appreciate your concern—”

To his astonishment, Pellmia cut him off.

“Tyrion, I have never thought of you as a fool.”

“Thank y—”

“Except in terms of love and relationships. I grant you that I may have been wrong in where you are if you’ve never considered the Wind Runner…and if you got to her staying under your roof, that’s an incredible amount of misunderstandings which I shall laugh about all the way back to my home. And then for the next month. However, to save you from yourself, I must ask you. Are you certain that there is no chance, not one for all the good reasons we’ve listed, that Ryoka Griffin would ever, ever be someone you’re interested in?”

He waited. Tyrion’s jaw worked. Pellmia just stared at him. You heard rumors about other [Lords]…or [Ladies]. Such as Ieka. They said…well, that was gossip. But Tyrion?

Lord Tyrion’s first response was to excuse himself from Pellmia and his delusions. The man was growing senile. Also, he was being highly rude. He was…

The [Lord] rode in silence as he was about to voice this. He—hesitated. Now he looked at it from the outside, some of Jericha’s comments, not to mention Ullim’s, took on a different light.

Had he been giving off the wrong impression to everyone? The thought was mortifying. Then Tyrion wondered.

Had he been giving the wrong impression to everyone? Or just himself?

He remembered riding after the Wind Runner. It was a single moment, as he stared up at the sky, on her first true flight. He remembered seeing her laughing as the wind blew. His heart…soaring.

In that moment, Tyrion Veltras had met someone faster than he was. Someone who could fly. Savior of his two children.

In all that time, a voice whispered to him, did you really conduct yourself with only impartial respect and admiration for Ryoka Griffin? Truly?

Tyrion Veltras hated lies. Which included the ones he told himself. He looked at Pellmia as the proverbial scales fell from his eyes. And out of his ears.

Salva. Suddenly, Tyrion felt guilty. Suddenly, he was conflicted about his sons, his dead wife. About loyalty to her, about his actions. He would not have been if Pellmia was wrong. Unfortunately, it seemed Lord Tyrion Veltras was interested in Ryoka Griffin.

It was a huge shock. To himself most of all.

Pellmia saw it all in a second. An unguarded look on Tyrion’s face. The [Lord of Orchards] smiled. He turned his head, but Tyrion saw the gesture. The younger [Lord] struggled to speak.

“I…believed you were wrong at first, Lord Pellmia. Which may have been true. Up till now. Perhaps you were simply—forward. I would like to speak further. If we may.”

Lord Pellmia just nodded. He and Tyrion rode along. Speaking more openly. So, there it was.

Jericha lay on her back, eyes open wide. Struck, like a hammer. Well, she had fallen off her horse after riding into a branch.

—-

Of course, that was all just Tyrion. Ryoka Griffin was oblivious to the conversation as she stood with Hethon and Sammial in a field.

An empty field recently harvested of wheat. This was like Earth—only the rows were dug by hand, and they weren’t so packed. It was far smaller than a combine-harvester and mechanized industry could create.

However, Skills and magic made the field beautiful in other ways. Taller wheat, more lovely, of a greater quality.

If there was an analogy for the split between worlds, perhaps that was it. This world had less, but the less could be more special. However, people were still people between them.

Kids were kids.

She had thought, as they walked about, as Sammial and Hethon got on their wind sail-craft and let the wind blow them around, how to tackle this.

The truth was—giving kids a genuine lesson was hard. It was easy to say something high-minded like they had to take lessons and social responsibility and so on. Easy to say—but Ryoka thought of how she’d take it. She would probably look up at her older self, lecturing her about all this, then do a spinning kick to Older Ryoka’s leg.

Kids weren’t idiots. They were young, and maybe less intelligent in some ways, but they didn’t buy bullshit. So, after Sammy and Hethon had tired themselves out a bit, Ryoka walked with them and they found themselves in the field.

“Nice place, isn’t it?”

Ryoka looked around. The glory of nature, a beautifully-harvested field as the wind blew on a summer day. In moments like this, a woman—people—felt alive.

Hethon and Sammial nodded.

“Miss Griffin…”

The older young lordling hesitated. Ryoka was smiling. She turned her head and he stared up shyly at her. If other people admired Ryoka for many reasons, Hethon’s were maybe simpler in some ways…but that wasn’t the only reason! He tried to stop imagining walking in on her in the bath. Stupid Sammial—he’d kicked his brother hard when he heard about that.

“What is it, Hethon?”

She looked so peaceful, Hethon wasn’t sure if he should say it.

“Um. You know this is a field they’re reseeding, right?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah. Are we not supposed to be on it?”

Hethon hesitated.

“No, I don’t think the [Farmer] cares. But they’re reseeding it. So…it’s fertilized. You’re standing in manure.”

Ryoka’s face went slack. She stared at her feet. Her bare feet; Hethon and Sammial had shoes.

Ryoka Griffin began swearing and ran out of the field. Hethon and Sammial had to laugh. This was why the Wind Runner was great. Every second was like this.

At least she didn’t have Nama’s footwraps on. Ryoka sighed. Jericha said they were highly magical. She wiped her feet on the grass for about three dozen yards and then turned to the boys.

Her element of wonder had been partly lost, but the wind blew around them as always. That was beautiful. Ryoka was going to have a second bath later.

Yet in this moment, she turned to the kids. She composed herself, and launched into her speech.

“I need to talk to you guys about the [Tutors]. I know it’s not my job and I’m not Tyrion or Jericha or Ullim, but I have to.”

Hethon and Sammial looked at each other. Hethon glowered at Sammy. What had he done now? Sammy avoided his older brother’s look.

“I know I shouldn’t leave tutoring. I’m sorry, Miss Ryoka. I won’t do it again.”

He recited it by rote. Ryoka knew every line Sammial was spouting off, from the hundreds of times she’d said variants of it, sincerely, insincerely…

Perhaps he even meant it. It didn’t matter, though. Even if Sammial resolved to change his ways and never use his aura on a [Tutor] again, that wasn’t the problem, was it?

Ryoka had thought long and hard about her past, and the problem wasn’t just being tutored in something you didn’t like. She shook her head.

“You know you shouldn’t do that, Sammial. We had a talk and I’m sure you’ll try. But…that’s not the problem, is it?”

Both boys looked at her. Ryoka went on, searching for her words. Speaking to little reflections of herself.

“It’s just—not fun. That’s the problem, isn’t it? Day in, day out, having to take lessons when you could be having fun? Not…getting to enjoy yourself sometimes? Wanting—more.”

They gave her a strange look. For a moment, Ryoka feared she was talking out her butt, that she was completely wrong.

But that wasn’t why Hethon and Sammial stared. To them, it was as if the Wind Runner were staring right through them. She went on, encouraged by their looks.

“Sometimes—I’m sure you get angry. Really angry. Only, you can’t shout at the adults. You get in trouble.”

“I shout at adults. All the time, sometimes.”

Ryoka nodded at Sammy as he vouched that obvious truth.

“Do you feel better? Or do you feel bad? I bet…you don’t feel great, especially if you use your aura on them. I know, because that’s how I felt growing up a lot of the time.”

She closed her eyes, thinking back.

“I remember I wanted more than just being taught lessons and someday growing up and getting a job. I wanted—well, to be special. And I was sure, deep down, I wasn’t. Not really.”

When she looked at them again, the two boys were giving her the same look. It was possible that no grown up, no one ever, had ever spoken to them halfway as deep as this before.

It was uncomfortable to Hethon, hearing the Wind Runner talk like this. Uncomfortable…and appealing. He felt that this was honest; knew it was. Understanding someone? A kind of intoxication of its own.

The Wind Runner looked at him, then at Sammial.

“Sometimes you have to do things that suck. Like learning math, history. Sometimes it’s your teachers that aren’t fun, and sometimes it’s you. Your attitude. I think, though—you can change what’s terrible. Especially you two. If you don’t like a [Tutor], is there someone who’s a better teacher?”

The boys looked at each other.

“Jericha’s more fun to teach magic. And we like her more, but she’s always busy with father. I hate math, but Ullim is better since he lets us help with the budgets. But he’s busy too, so we have [Tutors].”

Ryoka exhaled.

“We could…ask them to take over. Or your father?”

Hethon and Sammial looked apprehensive.

“But they’re busy.”

That’s probably what they’d been told every day of their lives. Ryoka folded her arms.

“Probably. I bet your father would still think you were worth them spending time teaching you, as much as they can. The problem is he has to know they’re the best. That you need them.”

It was hard to talk to distant parents. Hethon and Sammial looked at their shoes. Ryoka saw them stare at her feet. She shifted them.

“What if I ask for you? Would that help?”

Shyly, Hethon looked up at her and she saw the answer in his eyes. Sammial bit his lip, but then peeked at Hethon, at Ryoka, and nodded.

“That would be better.”

The Wind Runner smiled. She hadn’t actually expected to hear them say they just wanted more time from both adults, but it made sense. She went on.

“There are other things I learned when I was growing up. I took lessons in martial arts.”

“Martial arts? Like punching people?”

“Something like that. There was this school—well, it was good for me to practice something. You don’t have to do that, but it helps. Believe me. I sort of wish I’d played a musical instrument too…”

She had been thinking of all the things that could help two lonely boys. She knew they were destined to be [Lords] and she couldn’t do anything about that. But—kids to play with? They stayed at the keep, even before their father had been protective of them.

“You two shouldn’t stay here all the time. I know it’s House Veltras’ keep, but there’s no one like you. Your age, I mean.”

“There are the servants and city-kids. They play with us sometimes.”

Sammial pointed out, just to be contrary. However, Hethon knew they never acted around Sammial and him like they did when the two weren’t there. He looked at Ryoka, hungrily. How did she know what they wanted?

She met his eyes and he felt a shock. The wind blew around Ryoka, picking up a bit.

“Wouldn’t it be great to have a lot of friends, though? I—don’t know the perfect spot. But there’s one or two I can imagine. I’ll ask your father. What about visiting your relatives, like in the marshes? Lady Buscrei and her family in Oswen?”

“They don’t like us. I hate them.”

Sammial wiped his nose on his sleeve. Ryoka coaxed him.

“I don’t think that’s true. They were asking about you. Give it a shot? You could go sledding with the otter-dogs. Or what about staying in that town with [Druids] and learning from them for a while?”

The two boys imagined that. Their faces lit up. Ryoka looked at them and wondered why Tyrion, Jericha, Ullim, had never envisioned the same.

Perhaps because it was Tyrion. Had he grown up like this? It explained…a lot. Just practice courts, armies, the keep—she shook her head.

“I’ll talk to your father and Jericha and Ullim if you want me to. Okay?”

They nodded. Ryoka smiled. One last thing. She bent over.

“Great. In that case—I’ll give you one last thing along with talking to the adults. A little trick in case you get angry again, or frustrated. It helped me.”

Their eyes brightened. The vision of better education was hard for boys to understand, especially if they only knew this life. But a trick? From the Wind Runner?

“Is it a spell? We can’t cast magic properly yet, but I can use my aura! Hethon can’t!”

Sammy’s older brother shoved him and Sammy shoved back. Before they could escalate, Ryoka put a hand between them and shook her head.

“Nope. It’s just a trick in case you’re really angry and you have to do something. Instead of using your aura or punching someone—has anyone told you if you’re angry, you should punch a pillow?”

Sammy and Hethon eyed Ryoka.

“No…father says take it out on a practice dummy. Jericha says ‘let it go’, but she says stupid things sometimes.”

Sammy retorted. Ryoka exhaled.

“Yeah, neither one worked out for me. I used to go for a run, so that’s like the practice dummy. I went for a long run. But also: if I was ever really angry, I went to a field and screamed. Loud as I could. As long as I wanted, until I felt better.”

Well, not a field, but her room with music on full-blast, somewhere private…the boys looked at her oddly. Maybe anger-management techniques weren’t the best to lay on them. Then Sammy grinned.

“I like that. I can just scream?”

“If it beats hitting someone, yeah. Want to try?”

Sammy thought about it. Hethon was fidgeting. Sammy though—he just inhaled, tilted his head back, and shouted.

“Aaaah! Aaaaah! I HATE MATH!”

Ryoka and Hethon laughed. Sammial shouted until he was red in the face, and he had a fairly prodigious voice.

“I DON’T LIKE YELLATS! I WANT TO RIDE A HORSE! AAAAAAH!”

“Good job!”

The Wind Runner laughed, her eyes sparkling. Hethon watched her side-long, as Sammial yelled until he was hoarse. Then his younger brother laughed.

“I feel better! Thanks, Miss Griffin! My throat hurts. I want a healing potion.”

“Er—I can give you some—”

Ryoka fumbled for her potion, but Sammial was already talking again. Hethon envied that.

“If I get Ullim and Jericha to teach me, will Father teach me how to use a sword? And if we visit other places in House Veltras…oh! Look! There’s father! Can I ask him now?”

He whirled. Somehow, incredibly, Sammial pointed into the distance. Ryoka and Hethon’s heads turned. They saw…the open road. Nothing.

Aura. Hethon felt the twinge of jealousy he normally felt and pushed it down. Ryoka blinked. She frowned—looked at Sammial’s confident face and finger, and glanced up.

“Wait one sec.”

So saying, Hethon felt a gust of air and threw his hands up as dirt and debris flew into the air. He saw Ryoka shoot into the sky. Open-mouthed—until he got some dirt in it—Hethon saw her hover, then descend in a swooping arc.

Sammial whooped with delight and Hethon felt as astounded as he had the first time he’d seen it. So amazing. Better than being a [Lord].

“You’re right, Sammial. Your father’s coming. We can talk to him—”

“I’ll tell Ullim first! And that father’s coming!”

Sammial dashed towards the keep. Hethon knew there was no real need; he saw some [Soldiers] detach themselves in the distance and follow Sammial.

They had been there the entire time, watching from a very polite distance, but Tyrion was not about to entrust his son’s wellbeing to any one person, even Ryoka or Jericha or himself.

It saved Ryoka from immediately having to chase after him. She adjusted the wind-suit, and looked at Hethon.

“Hey Hethon, have I said anything wrong? You can tell me if I made a mistake.”

“Um. No, Miss Griffin.”

Hethon mumbled. He felt suddenly shy without Sammial to talk on. He wished he had talked to Ryoka as much as Sammial. Hethon cast around for something to say.

“T-thanks for teaching me about the anger trick and talking with father. Sammy liked it.”

“And you?”

Her green-eyed glance made Hethon shrug. He felt it was too…piercing.

“I’m fine. I’m not as angry as Sammial is.”

Ryoka stared ahead without speaking for a moment. The wind blew around them, carrying the scents of the world to them. She looked at Hethon again.

“Uh huh. You know, Hethon, you both remind me of how I was, growing up. Sammial’s me when I was really young…you remind me of when I was a bit older. You’re not angry at all? Not a little bit?”

Hethon flushed.

“Maybe a little? Sometimes?”

“Sure you don’t want to scream?”

The boy turned redder. Ryoka stared at him—and realized how embarrassing it probably was for someone like her to ask Hethon out of the blue to scream in the middle of a field.

She blushed a bit herself.

“Sorry. I just realized it’s super-awkward to ask.”

“Just a bit. Do you…actually do it?”

Hethon glanced up at her and she grinned despite herself. Ryoka hesitated.

“Well—yes. All the time when I was younger.”

“Do you do it now?”

The Wind Runner was embarrassed to realize she hadn’t. Were there things to make Ryoka angry at this moment? Upset?

Absolutely. She regarded Hethon…and realized she didn’t want to scream with Lord Tyrion about to arrive, the [Soldiers] watching, and him.

“Um. It really is amazing Sammial can do it by himself, isn’t it?”

They both grinned. It was all Sammy.

Well, crap on her feet. Here she was offering advice she wasn’t taking herself. There was a word for that: hypocrite. Also, idiot.

The Courier gazed at the young [Lord], at the empty field, and then at the wind blowing the wheat stalks from the field around and the distant forest too.

She had an idea.

“Hey, Hethon. It’s super-embarrassing to shout when anyone can hear you. But…what if we both agreed to do it? I’ll make the wind howl, so there’s no way anyone can hear us. If I did that—would you feel like trying it?”

The boy—or was it young man, already?—stared up at Ryoka. He hesitated. Then he nodded and grinned.

“How loud will it be?”

“No one will hear a thing, even me. Swear to it. Courier’s honor.”

Ryoka offered tentatively. Hethon nodded again. So the Courier and Hethon faced away from the keep. They took a few deep breaths.

The wind began to pick up. At first, slowly. Then it grew stronger. Hethon heard the wind whipping at his clothes and ears. Then it grew louder. Louder—he glanced up at Ryoka and she was grinning. It was just stupid, but Hethon began laughing as a whirlwind blew around them.

Louder. It became a howl unto itself, the whirlwind even blocking the world out. Now? Hethon looked at Ryoka, shielding his face.

He saw her screaming something into the vortex. He heard not a thing. Hethon’s eyes widened.

No one would hear what he said. In this moment, he would never be heard, and he could be sure of that when he never could before. Thoughts that had only been in his head…he could speak them.

Shout them. There was an amazing sense of relief, desire, he felt at that idea. To say something as loud as you could and know you’d never bother anyone? Never be heard?

In the roar of the wind, the calm, exhilarating eye of this storm, Hethon Veltras opened his mouth and gave voice to something. At first, it was a shout. Words of anger, loss. Longing.

Then it grew louder. He screamed with all the passion in his lungs, and it stopped being words. He was sure Ryoka was doing the same.

They shouted in pure silence, in the maelstrom of noise and wind. Shouted, until they lost their voices. Until they were laughing. Maybe even crying for a second.

No one would know. It was their secret.

—-

Ryoka Griffin screamed for the Horns of Hammerad, about her worries, her guilt. Her loss. For anger, and even childhood. She never heard what Hethon said, but when the wind died, and as they met each other’s gazes again, they were both laughing.

The wind had messed up their hair. They were a bit breathless, exhilarated, hoarse—but Ryoka thought the young man looked at her with newfound familiarity. She stuck out her hand, and he shook it, smiling.

“Miss Courier? Is everything alright?”

A [Soldier] approached. They’d come close, as the maelstrom began. Ryoka started guiltily, but Hethon spoke for her.

“Miss Griffin was showing me a whirlwind. I asked her to.”

“Ah, very good, Lord Veltras.”

The man instantly bowed. Ryoka saw Hethon’s face take on…she shook her head as the bodyguard fell back. Too much power for kids.

However, perhaps she’d helped with his burden. Hethon looked lighter as they walked over to meet Sammial. She nudged him.

“Just ask if you want to do that again. That was a relief for me too. I’ll just do that from now on.”

He nodded shyly. That was how they met Lord Tyrion Veltras.

He was riding in the company of Lord Pellmia, Jericha and the others. He eyed the breathless trio, hair standing in crazy ways. Lord Pellmia glanced at the Wind Runner as she greeted them, abashed. He smiled.

“A pleasure to meet you again, Miss Griffin. We are all in your debt. I don’t know that you’d recall, but we met at the…party in Riverfarm? I am Lord Pellmia of House Quellae.”

The Courier didn’t remember clearly, but the name and face were familiar when he said it. She smiled and was surprised when they shook hands instead of her bowing.

“It’s very nice to meet you again, Lord Pellmia. I’m uh, sorry about the wind, Lord Veltras. Your sons were having fun. I’ve delivered the letters, as requested.”

“Thank you, Miss Ryoka. You have been exceptionally helpful, with both Hethon and Sammial and House Veltras’ affairs.”

Tyrion dismounted, nodding to her. Pellmia was smiling. Good with kids.

The younger [Lord] pointedly ignored the glance. Lord Tyrion inspected Ryoka, and had to reconsider himself in the face of his chat with Pellmia. Sammial was already talking about visiting other places and tutors? Ryoka appeared embarrassed and Hethon kept trying to shut Sammy up and greet Pellmia properly as the older [Lord] laughed.

It was all impropriety. With another guest not as familiar as Pellmia, Tyrion would have been embarrassed. If it wasn’t for Ryoka, he would have upbraided the two boys instantly, or Sammial.

However…it was always worth asking if he was wrong. He had scarcely seen them like this. Not just smiling, but like this.

Breathless, exhilarated, full of too much energy and having spent it already. What was…what was this?

Ah. Yes.

Happy. They seemed rather happy, despite all they had suffered through. Lord Tyrion saw it, and wondered why it was so hard to recognize.

It was so easy to thank Ryoka, to pretend that was all, to think of her presence as being good for Hethon and Sammial.

The thing was, you could never go back. The lance struck its target or missed, and the world changed.

Lord Tyrion Veltras would have had to lie to pretend he didn’t see things differently, and he hated lying. So, he nodded at Ryoka.

“You have been most helpful, Miss Ryoka.”

“Thank you. I—feel like I owe House Veltras. And we’re friends, I mean—Hethon and Sammial.”

She ducked her head, embarrassed and awkward. Far too forward. If she hadn’t saved his sons…but she had. It was hard to stand at a remove when you owed someone like that everything that mattered.

Tyrion thought of this. He nodded as Jericha and the other [Soldiers] got down and Pellmia murmured to Ullim.

“Just an hour or two, Ullim. Nothing long; I won’t tarry for dinner. I must be getting back, but something to knock the dust off? We were hit by flying dirt on the way in. Some kind of freak weather event. Perhaps a bit of a wash?”

Ryoka turned beet-red, but Pellmia neglected to assign specific blame. Sammial was opening his mouth.

Ask her to stay? Tyrion frowned. Lies and perspective. He looked at Ryoka.

“House Veltras stands in your debt, Miss Gr…Ryoka. If there is debt, it is mutual. Friendship, even. Your presence has been welcome for Sammial, Hethon, and I hope you will have time to stay. It is…good to see you.”

Lord Pellmia’s head turned and his eyes lit up. Jericha sighed, and Ullim glanced at his [Lord] with eyes alight. Ryoka wavered, but Tyrion wasn’t done. He met her gaze.

“In fact, I would go as far to say that I, personally, admire your character and abilities.”

Lord Pellmia’s jaw opened. He gaped at Tyrion, and began to speak, but it was too late. Lord Tyrion formally sank to one knee as those around him turned and stared. He stared up at Ryoka, who had frozen.

“It is my…admiration of you, Miss Griffin, that forces me to profess my interest in you in more than a platonic sense. As I cannot meet your parents or guardian, I would formally ask you for permission to court your hand.”

One did not dance with the truth, but held it out. That was the Tyrion Veltras way.

It was also the most horrifying thing Lord Pellmia had ever seen in his entire life. The [Lord] stood there, horror-struck as Ryoka Griffin turned into a statue.

Hethon, Sammial, Jericha, Ullim, Pellmia, the [Soldiers]…even the horses gazed on in silence. Tyrion Veltras just held Ryoka’s eyes. She stared at him.

You could say this for Tyrion—there was no way of misinterpreting his intentions. Not even Erin Solstice could have…Ryoka realized he was waiting for a response. As in—right now.

“I—uh—I’m uh—”

Lord Pellmia, no, even Hethon and Sammial saw the future. Which was, in two seconds, Ryoka exploding into flight across Izril in a burst of wind. So the [Lord of Orchards] moved. He reached out—grabbed Tyrion—and hauled him to his feet.

With his other hand, he clapped Ryoka on the shoulder. Tyrion turned to face him. Lord Pellmia’s smile was of a man watching a stab-victim.

“What a fine gesture.”

He bellowed desperately.

“Why don’t we all delay that until a more private setting is reached? We can’t rush these things, Tyrion. Ullim? I think I need a room after all. Miss Griffin, I do apologize for—I do apologize, but an old man like me craves a seat.”

“I—I—”

Pellmia shot Ullim a look and the two older men hustled everyone towards the keep. Pellmia had never fought so hard to keep a smile on his face. He had once rode pillion with a dear friend after losing his horse in a battle with Drake armies, facing down a [Wyvern Rider].

Lord Pellmia needed to be twice as good as he had been that day. A wing-rider fit to capture the Wind Runner before she flew off. Five Families, he had to save Tyrion from himself.

The [Lord of Orchards] bared his teeth for the most desperate, difficult mission of mercy in his life.

Somewhere, Ryoka Griffin thought she could hear Ivolethe laughing at her.

—-

Even Lord Tyrion Veltras couldn’t match the speed at which the news broke across Izril. First via family—then everyone else because family gossiped.

Within two days, members of House Veltras were leaving their estates, roused by the events. Among them, Lord Setth, Lady Buscrei, and six more relatives all gathered at Oswen to discuss the issue.

Not because they cared about the political implications like some of the family. They just thought it was hilarious. Especially how it had gone down.

Lady Buscrei turned to the rest of her family as they gathered in her hunting-lodge home. She thought of the Wind Runner of Reizmelt and smugly slapped her second-eldest son’s shoulder.

“Told you she’d make a good one of us. And that they were probably in bed.”

The others laughed, but Lord Swey raised an urgent hand, demanding the other’s attention. His brows crossed with real concern.

“If she marries in—d’you think we all get gliders?”

Thoughtfully, the [Lords] and [Ladies] inspected the idea. Then, unanimously, put their support behind love, Ryoka Griffin, and gliders in the upcoming argument.

8.24

If you had never heard of her before, well, that was hardly surprising. She was famous, but so were all her siblings by virtue of being born. She was important—but hardly the first son or daughter in her line.

In a world where the King of Destruction existed, her fame was very small by comparison. Her importance next to nothing as she did not rule her nation. She was not the most beloved [Princess] of Calanfer; nor, in this moment, even the most important.

The 6th and second-youngest [Princess] was needed in the dark hours of the war with Ailendamus. Unmarried, and whilst not said overtly, the only virginal, eligible [Princess] for marriage that Calanfer had to offer.

That mattered in Terandria. Calanfer’s [Princesses] were a type of wealth the Eternal Throne of Calanfer used. Marriages could give classes; at the very least they conferred status and connections with Calanfer. The appeal was more than just immediate as well. If a [Baron] or a [Lord] married a [Princess], their children became royalty, and had the potential, however faint, to succeed the throne.

Thus, Lyonette du Marquin was one of the last bargaining chips, as the 7th Princess was far too young, being only thirteen, for anything but an arranged marriage—and if Ailendamus were to triumph in the interim, all arranged events would be off.

Thus, Calanfer needed to marry a [Princess] off for immediate military gains if such a thing could be arranged. Hence, their unmarried [Princesses] were important.

Lyonette, that was. Not her.

Many had never heard of her outside of Terandria, or the closest kingdoms in the south. Yet, of all the [Princesses], even the eldest, 1st Princess, Shardele du Marquin, who was married to one of the highest-ranking [Dukes] of Calanfer, or the 3rd Princess Aielef, who had married into Kaliv’s own extended royal family to affirm ties between the Dawn Concordat—a practice they had honored for countless generations—arguably the most famous of all was the 4th Princess of Calanfer.

Not because she was the highest-leveled, the closest to the throne, most radiant, or most beloved. It was a reputation besides all that.

They called her Seraphel the Cursed behind her back. Seraphel du Marquin, the 4th [Princess] of Calanfer.

Seraphel the Widow. So named because she had been married three times. Each time—the marriage had ended in death.

…Not, actually, in the case of the second marriage. The first had been to an old man in his seventies who had died in bed. The second to a boy, who broke the engagement; it was just his fiancée who died in the attempted elopement afterwards. But you know how people talked.

The third husband of Seraphel du Marquin though—had died rather quickly after marriage. The mere fact that Seraphel had not stayed in any one relationship for more than four years at most, and the deaths of two out of three had given her the name.

Seraphel the Cursed. Not exactly a name that was helpful for future engagements. Nor—bluntly speaking—was her value as high as before. She was old—which was to say, she was nearly thirty years old instead of being younger. Of course, that was only in terms of marriageability. Of course…that was what a [Princess] was generally good for.

So, then. If you had heard of her, Seraphel would be ‘that’ princess, the one from Calanfer who killed her husbands by ill fortune. Unmarried once more after the Noelictus incident; perhaps they’d find a husband willing to take the risk abroad, poor girl. Still a [Princess], though. She’d have a fine, pampered life if it weren’t for the war.

That was what they would say, and assume, because they had heard of her nickname and the barest, dubiously-confirmed ‘facts’, that they knew her.

—-

So, when the 1st, 3rd, and 4th [Princesses] of Calanfer attended the ball, Seraphel attracted the most looks of all. There were the usual titters of interest, the looks towards her as people recognized her name.

Not that it was necessarily easy to tell the [Princesses] apart if you had never seen them. Each one had red hair. The fiery red to deep crimson, marks of royal blood in Terandrian royalty.

“Announcing Princess Shardele, Princess Aielef, and Princess Seraphel du Marquin of Calanfer!”

The eldest was Shardele, and only in her mid-thirties at that. Each [Princess] had been born roughly two to four years apart, and Shardele, the named successor over her younger brother, the 1st Prince, had been set up to inherit the throne. She had married one of Calanfer’s most powerful [Dukes], and her image as the reliable, intelligent daughter of his Majesty Reclis du Marquin, was firmly in the mind of Calanfer’s people. If any had been at this gathering of the nobility and foreign royalty, they certainly would have flocked to her.

Of course, that was due to the fine work of the [Bards], Thronebearers, and other elements of Calanfer’s propaganda arm who sung her praises. Shardele was…fine. She knew the games and the steps, but in all likelihood, if Reclis keeled over tomorrow, it was her Majesty who would take over. Calanfer’s [Queen] was as sharp as her husband, and Shardele might get to either ruler’s deftness or their actual levels—in twenty years.

“Don’t worry about the whispers, Seraphel. They do talk so.”

The 1st Princess turned to the 4th, with a beatific smile on her face, as if she was addressing one of her enamored subjects. Since it was her sister, it just reminded Seraphel there were whisperers.

Of course, Shardele had meant to say it for anyone listening in. She was aware of her reputation and she was a dutiful daughter in that she rigorously maintained it. Naturally, being an avid consumer of Dreamleaf had to help in that regard. She was most certainly blissfully in the clouds even now for this wonderful…ly tedious gathering.

“Yes, quite. The things they say when we are at war. Half the nations represented here are holding back when they know we are fighting a common enemy. Let’s remind them of that.”

Aielef’s voice was more snappish and awake. Obviously, because Kaliv was being slowly overtaken by Ailendamus and she was in the most danger. She spoke well, and you’d never know to look at her fiery orange hair that it was, in fact, dyed.

Aielef was blonde and unfortunately, a bit purple. Quite attractive in its own way, but it would never do for a [Princess] of Calanfer not to be red-haired. She dyed it.

She also spoke of the need for other kingdoms to take up arms with the Dawn Concordat, quite happily omitting the fact that her husband was fighting—and her two children were both in Kaliv. Then again, this was a diplomatic tour Aielef was on, and they occupied one of Kaliv’s strongholds.

The somewhat uncharitable facts about the two [Princesses] were probably not being thought by anyone else in the room. Shardele and Aielef were more like exotic birds, and their peers among royalty and other nobility were keen on meeting the [Princesses], entertaining their pleas for support for the Dawn Concordat, and perhaps Seraphel for a marriage to a cousin as a favor.

They didn’t know the older two like Seraphel did, but the 4th Princess of Calanfer had grown up with her siblings for a while before they’d begun to be married off, and they did like to visit ‘home’, the capital and Eternal Throne of Calanfer.

Siblings knew all of their family’s faults. Shardele sighed and Seraphel nudged her slightly as they glided across the floor, each one the image of grace and decorum and Calanfer’s famed etiquette.

“Breath tonic, Shardele. You smell like dreamleaf. Were you smoking it by the bushel?”

The 1st Princess didn’t even glance at Seraphel as her younger sister whispered it. She took a small vial and sipped before tucking it away; it could have been any number of things, or, as some would rightly assume for the wrong reasons, a breath freshener.

“I resent that, Seraphel. We haven’t seen each other in nearly a year and a half, and we are at war. I try to be kind, and this is my thanks?”

The 4th [Princess] rolled her eyes, but subtly. And Shardele wondered why her children, Calanfer’s heirs, slept so much and had such vivid dreams all their lives. Well, it beat the times she’d ‘experimented’ with stronger substances.

Aielef met the host of the ball with all smiles.

“Your Highness. You do us a great honor in welcoming us at this hour. Calanfer thanks you, and his Majesty sends regrets that he could not attend himself. Alas, the duties of war are most pressing.”

She bowed slightly, and the oldest [Prince] of Nadel bowed back, smiling.

Nadel, the small nation known for the Lord of the Dance more than its [King]. Prince…Seraphel’s brows crossed and a Skill plucked the name from memory…Ruis was fifty years old. One son; third in line to the throne and unlikely to inherit. Considered highly loyal; he had no apparent ambitions. Often he helped with royal affairs by orchestrating and overseeing these kinds of events as the royal diplomat of the family.

Facts dredged from their encyclopedic knowledge, each [Princess] smiled. They could have recited the names of every member of Nadel’s royal family up to the third generation removed in a heartbeat. When they bowed, it was in the unisex gesture of Nadel, with the slight flourish of the body that the Lord of the Dance had stylistically added by virtue of everyone copying him.

“Princess Aielef, Princesses Shardele and Seraphel, you are welcome in Nadel. Of course, we understand his Majesty’s pressing concerns and we hope that your visit will prove fruitful for the Dawn Concordat, our old friends. Please, enjoy yourselves and I hope to speak later, if we may?”

All three [Princesses] nodded. The polite speech that Prince Ruis delivered at reasonable volume was meant to be heard by many. It might have seemed like sweet nothings and it was—a bit.

However, if you could translate it, you could pick up on some clues.

‘Our old friends’. The Dawn Concordat had been enemies to Nadel as well as friend. Fair-weather friends was a better word for it, but it meant Nadel wasn’t blind to Ailendamus’ threat. However, Ruis didn’t even suggest an alliance, merely expressed hopes of a ‘fruitful visit’. In other words, Nadel was willing to help—not overtly.

Seraphel could have told anyone that before hearing the speech, but she breathed politics so the mental decryption was second-nature to her.

This was the 4th gathering she’d attended, in and out of the Dawn Concordat’s borders. What she and the other [Princesses] were doing—all six of the ones in Terandria, even her teenage sister, the 7th Princess, Ellet—was fundraising. Seeking support.

Calanfer was good at diplomacy. So these three [Princesses] had gone from place to place, speaking of Ailendamus’ unconscionable aggression, assuring people the war was not lost—but if they saw fit to contribute money or arms? Reminding them that they might be next.

They got little in the way of outright support. Even here, people were afraid to openly shout their loathing of Ailendamus and the Dawn Concordat wasn’t beloved universally. Nevertheless, with a bit of charm Skills, actual charm, and the exigency of the war, this gathering might net…

Three [Princesses], and Nadel’s not poor with trade, but no noble here is worth that much and they might be reluctant to open their coffers. If the crown chips in nothing, we might come away with…two thousand gold coins? Eight thousand would be the most we could expect.

Seraphel did some mental calculations. That seemed reasonable. How many [Mercenaries] did that buy? How many artifacts? How long could that feed an army? Well, that implied buying food…if a siege occurred, no amount of gold would help.

She would know. She let Shardele step forwards and smile sweetly at Ruis. All three knew what to do.

“I would be delighted if you would introduce me, your Highness?”

He was already nodding, having expected that. Shardele would meet with the most powerful first, as the face of Calanfer. Aielef looked around, already seeking a [General] or militant [Lord] or [Lady] that would care to talk with someone from Kaliv.

Which left Seraphel to take the busybodies and people interested in gossiping. The 4th Princess kept a smile on her face. That was easy.

—-

…In truth, it was about as bad as Lyonette du Marquin expected. Family never changed. Or did they?

She had, but to look at it, not one of her elder sisters had. The [Princess] sat, glumly resting her chin in her hands.

“It seems the [Princesses] of Calanfer have elected not to follow one another, but have come in at once. Quite a humble gesture—no doubt a personable one, given Nadel’s proximity to the Dawn Concordat.”

The speaker in the background was half-whispering, offering a kind of hushed commentary meant to be solemn as the view of the ball slowly rotated about. There was also an element of impreciseness to the commentary, and the scene faded for a bit.

Lyonette frowned and shook the scrying orb a bit. Mivifa had told her it worked, and somehow, the magical connection cleared. Lyonette wasn’t sure why slapping an enchanted glass orb helped, but Saliss had ‘fixed’ it twice by doing just that.

The commentator was visible in the bottom left of the screen; not a Drake for once, but a very formally-dressed woman. Human. After all, this wasn’t on Wistram News Network—or even Wistram’s other offshoot channels.

It was called Terandrian Graces, one of the channels devoted to 24/7 coverage of all things political. The reason the connection was so spotty was that it had just been established and since Wistram wasn’t hosting it, reception was weak even in a major city. Also—it might not be the most-viewed channel.

Certainly not compared to the sports-channel. Wistram Sports was showing a game between Pallass and Invrisil, and Lyonette might have been watching that—but Wistram was struggling to keep up with the demand from Izril, who were tuning in to watch the first species vs species game.

This was more interesting to Lyonette, anyways. This was home. When she’d seen that they were going to broadcast a bit of Nadel’s ball, and that three [Princesses] of Calanfer were attending, she’d begged to have the scrying orb.

Saliss had let her have it—only because he and Xif were gathering with some Pallassians to watch their city win. Well, much luck to them. Lyonette happened to know Joseph had been teaching the Invrisil team longer than Pallass’, so the Drakes might be in trouble.

Anyway, she was watching the ball and calling it for the disaster it was—although only a [Princess] would be able to tell, or a Calanfer [Socialite]. She would have happily told anyone listening—but not even Wilovan or Ratici could sit in the room and listen without starting to nod off.

The two Gentlemen Callers were here, though. Casually standing watch, or amusing themselves while keeping ‘an eye out’.

She wasn’t going anywhere without them anymore, and the two had agreed to escort her from now on after hearing about the stabbing attempt. Lyonette felt at her stomach.

Idiot. Looking at the images from home reminded her of how risky it had been. True—it was a ball and she’d thought she’d be safe in Oteslia! Hah!

No proper [Princess] of Calanfer went about without at least four [Knights] at all times. She could see some of the Thronebearers, fulfilling their duties in both bodyguard and diplomat roles. That was what they were good at.

“Not so much fighting. And I wonder if they can deal with poison if Mrsha managed to poison four of them. Dead gods, what are they doing in Liscor?”

Lyonette was stressed out. It was not an unusual occurrence, but there was a lot to stress about recently. This? This wasn’t helping.

“Disastrous. They didn’t come out all three at once because it was a ‘humble gesture’. They did it because Shardele can’t be bothered to do introductions properly if she’s Palt-ed up on Dreamleaf. She certainly is.”

You could tell by the way Shardele smiled. If you didn’t know her, you’d think she was simply extremely genial; she was in imagination-land and only halfway there was the actual reason.

As for Aielef, well. She was striding about, so clearly anxious that even the commentator was picking up on it. She should have greeted the [Prince] far longer and more effusively, but she hadn’t rehearsed a proper speech.

Normally, their mother, the [Queen], would have taken both to task if she’d caught a whiff of this, much less seen Calanfer’s royalty being anything less than stellar on a scrying orb. However, she had to be busy with actual war, so the [Princesses] were acting subpar…in the one time when impressing someone would actually matter!

As for Seraphel—Lyonette shook her head. Her older sister might be the biggest disaster yet. She’d conducted herself with grace, certainly, and hadn’t made a big mistake yet—but it was Seraphel.

Seraphel the Cursed was what other people called her. Lyonette and her family knew Seraphel by a different nickname. Seraphel the Sharptongued. If you annoyed her, she stabbed you—with words.

She looked well, at least. Lyonette had heard Seraphel had been in Noelictus when she’d run away, and it had ended badly. Another husband dead? She didn’t know the details, but everything was the same as it always was.

Her sisters were not perfect. They could pretend to be, but…the 6th Princess of Calanfer sighed as she thought of home, and saw all the little, familiar flaws.

Then the circling coverage zoomed in and she listened to the politics of home. Her sisters, with all their faults and petty tricks, like swapping makeup with itching powder over someone stealing dress designs. Fighting for attention or favor…

Shardele gazed up at the decorated ceiling of Nadel’s ballroom as Prince Ruis introduced her. Her smile took one of the dignitaries from the cold north off-guard.

“What beautiful sights.”

“Indeed, your Highness?”

The man gave the ceiling a supercilious look—then realized she was referring to the stained glass ceiling. A glass dome allowed the light to filter in a wonderful set of colors.

The clouds had parted, and Shardele clasped her hands together. Almost like a certain Worker, praying. Her gaze was even like his. A kind of…genuine awe. Both childlike in innocence and older; the knowledge of how expensive each huge pane of tinted glass was to produce, the effort of creating the effect.

Then she directed her attention at the man wearing light clothing; even here he clearly found it hot, being used to the frozen landscape of his home.

“I do apologize, Diplomat Marseth. I was simply taken for a moment by the beauty of such colors. Chartreuse; such a wonderful display. It reminds me of the Eternal Throne. Have you ever had a chance to gaze upon it?”

The [Diplomat] sketched a bow, unsure if Shardele was making some kind of complex political reference.

“I have not had the honor, Princess Shardele. Perhaps, circumstances allowing, after the war, I should be so honored. It is one of Terandria’s wonders.”

The 1st Princess nodded dreamily.

“It is. I have visited many kingdoms, and still, I could gaze upon the Eternal Throne for hours. Prince Ruis, your [Architect] captures the light with great skill.”

He nodded, taken somewhat aback by the compliment.

“You humble her, Shardele. This is a new installation, as you have so keenly noticed—I take it as a great compliment, to compare it to the Eternal Throne.”

“Then, the throne itself shines? I have heard it said that Calanfer’s capital is one of the most beautiful, from the very streets to the throne room itself.”

The [Diplomat] commented neutrally, and a slight note of disbelief was in his voice. Yet Shardele just nodded. She closed her eyes.

“Every citizen of Calanfer tries to visit at least once, Diplomat Marseth, your Highness. I cannot describe it, but it is all the stories say it is. To gaze up at it is to see wondrous colors, the like of which can only be found in dreams. Ah—but perhaps I could show you.”

With that, the [Princess] opened her clasped hands. Prince Ruis and the [Diplomat] blinked. For, in Shardele’s hands was…

Light. A wondrous, magical glow. For a second, all those around her saw a vision. An image of a throne, in a room so vast the ceiling could have been a second starry night sky.

Lyonette’s heart jumped. She saw the throne room for a moment. The light that shone from Shardele’s hands eclipsed Nadel’s stained glass windows entirely for a moment.

Colors you only saw while dreaming. The guests murmured in wonder. Shardele smiled, and they recalled the name the Thronebearers and Calanfer’s people knew her as. Unlike Seraphel—they called her Shardele the Radiant.

What they didn’t know was that this Skill was not the power of a [Princess]; the conjuration of memory and dream and the might of Calanfer, but the Skill of a [Dreamer].

[Vision of a Dream].

The effect was still enough to make Shardele shine. Her smile, her fascination with color and beauty—all spoke to a [Princess] who had grown up among wonders, and many saw the vision and longed to see Calanfer’s Eternal Throne. They didn’t realize the Dreamleaf factor.

Only a few people had ever seen through Shardele in moments without having heard of her habit—among them the Bedtime Queen of Desonis, who could recognize a peer in the field, albeit one who had to use crutches to sleep properly.

Not bad, in short. Shardele had failed to make a proper entrance, but she was still using her Skills to impress. Every [Princess] of Calanfer knew the importance of attracting attention, albeit without needing to. Lyonette had shown it off in Oteslia’s ball.

At the same time as Shardele was performing her opening trick, Aielef had stepped back to talk to her escort. A few [Ladies] who’d drifted over towards her recoiled with gasps of excitement or fear—then tentatively moved forwards.

“Is that a…pet, your Highness?”

One of Nadel’s [Ladies] ventured. Aielef smiled graciously as a feral…cat? No, a beaked animal with wings and fur—a Griffin twined around her arms, making a strange purring-grumbling sound.

“Do excuse me, ladies. I am rearing an infant Griffin; one must do their part. My adopted kingdom of Kaliv does raise them, and I have learned to do so as well. It is newly-born, you see. Please, be wary of its beak; but this child will enjoy some petting. Carefully.”

The baby Griffin blinked sleepily at the fascinated nobility, many of whom came over to admire one of Kaliv’s famous creatures.

It wasn’t a subtle gesture; showing off a baby Griffin was in keeping with Aielef’s style, though. Charm them with a pet. Lyonette wondered if she actually raised the Griffin or just kept one around for moments like this.

Well, if it wasn’t biting her, she had to have at least some ability to charm it. Aielef broke the ice that way, drawing the nobility into the idea of owning such a lovely creature, and thus Kaliv’s war.

That was Aielef the Fierce. Again, her image as the [Princess] who had gone to Kaliv was not reality—except in how she was spoken of. Lyonette watched more critically than any of the guests.

Both did well. They were mothers and experienced diplomats themselves, even if they were clearly only going through the motions. They could have done better—but their reputations and value were established.

More so than ‘Seraphel the Dutiful’, which was all the [Troubadours] could come up with after the second marriage. Lyonette saw her sister greeting a smaller group with less flair; she had no pet animals nor an odd class to lean on. The 6th Princess felt sympathy for Seraphel.

If she was there—Lyonette had never been called on as much for these sorts of duties, being too young at the time. Now, though? The [Worldly Princess] thought she could do quite well. Better than Seraphel—perhaps better than the older [Princesses] too.

—-

It was just as well Lyonette wasn’t here. Of all the [Princesses], Shardele and Aielef weren’t Seraphel’s first two choices to impress foreign nobility and wring money from their pockets.

She’d take…Ellet for her cuteness and honest effort that made people fawn over her, and maybe Vernoue, the 5th Princess, since she was the only one who’d ever taken her magical training further. Seraphel for dignity, Vernoue to chat up the [Mages], and Ellet to be attractive.

Lowest on the list would be the 3rd Prince, her bratty, youngest brother who fancied himself a [Warrior], although that was just a boy’s arrogance. Straight below him, dead last, was Lyonette du Marquin. She’d strut in here, refuse to acknowledge Prince Ruis’ seniority and call someone a ‘peon’ before the first hour was up.

Well, she learned it from Aielef. However, the 3rd Princess was smart enough to not say peon in public. Time would improve Lyonette, as would the war, maybe.

If Dalimont can even find her. If she’s not dead, having annoyed the first…[Bar Drunk] she met.

Seraphel could well imagine Lyonette doing just that. [Princesses] did not interact with the common folk unguarded often, and Lyonette? Seraphel pictured the 6th Princess of Calanfer lying dead in a bar-stabbing somewhere.

She missed what someone else was saying. Seraphel blinked and smiled.

“I must apologize, Lord Pulcre. My mind was elsewhere. You were saying?”

The [Lord] smiled, a tad unconvincingly. He was one of the first people to drift over, to meet the semi-famous cursed [Princess]. Seraphel was expecting polite condolences, or questions on how she thought the war was going.

Seraphel hated that question. How do you think the war is going? We’re losing. We’re slowing Ailendamus from rolling on over us, not winning. I can put it as politely as you want, but you and I both know it.

However, she was a [Princess] so she didn’t put it like that. Seraphel didn’t get that question, however.

“I understand you have seen Ailendamus aggression before, Princess Seraphel. Some…unpleasantness over the border in Noelictus?”

Seraphel’s brows rose. Well now. Lord Pulcre wasn’t as unpleasant as his name indicated. And he’d done his research. Some of the other nobility looked interested.

“I did indeed witness battle with Ailendamus—among other events, Lord Pulcre. A terrible affair at Ovela. The death of my husband…I should not like to go into details, you understand.”

He nodded sympathetically, and Seraphel saw a susurration as the star of the hour, the reason this ball had so many people, the Lord of the Dance swept in. He had just returned from a visit abroad—to Desonis?—but he always drew a crowd of admirers and people wanting to see him.

Oddly, he looked less willing to be the life of the ballroom this time and glanced around, spotting the [Prince]. Seraphel smiled at Pulcre, noting all this out of the corner of her eye.

“I would not like to press you at all, your Highness, and I regret bringing up such a recent loss. I only wondered if you had an impression of Ailendamus’ strength from the clash?”

A nuanced question, and the shorter [Lord] had sharp eyes as he glanced at Seraphel. He could have asked Aielef—Seraphel blinked at him. Unguarded, she remembered.

She remembered a young woman, singing in a banquet hall. The Kingdom of Shade, Noelictus, where the sunlight never properly shone down.

A gloomy land. However, one with beauty and a strength of character in its people. Seraphel had been there when the most astonishing events occurred. It had begun with an attack—but looking back, it had truly begun to become strange when she had met the strange young woman.

The young woman who sang strange songs. Who would later become known as the Singer of Terandria.

Cara.

Without thinking, Seraphel hesitated. Her throat moved, but it was suddenly dry. She coughed into one hand.

“Excuse me.”

She looked around and someone was offering her a glass of refined, purified water. Seraphel sipped gratefully. The Thronebearer had anticipated the need and been carrying snacks and food at the ready.

“Dame Neranthei, my protector.”

She gestured to the female Lightholder, a member of the Thronebearers, albeit in a more specialized role than her previous primary bodyguard, Ser Dalimont.

He had been there too. The nobles looked at the [Knight]. A [Lady] peered through her spectacles.

“Are you the [Knight] in the Singer’s music video?”

“I am, Lords and Ladies.”

Neranthei blushed a bit, but bowed, much to the delight of the others. They wanted to ask her questions, but recalled Seraphel was there. Now impatient, they waited for her reply so they could meet the real star of the ball, which was Neranthei.

What did she say? Seraphel met Lord Pulcre’s eyes again and hesitated. He was a short man, with a goatee. Nothing too odd about him; Seraphel would have taken him for a minor coastal lord judging by the faint weathering of skin and the fact that he didn’t appear on her list of important names.

She added him now. Because…he knew what he was asking. Or if not, he had good intuition. A hundred polite non-answers rose to Seraphel’s mind. A [Princess]’ obfuscation tactics.

But…oh, Eternal steps. She couldn’t help it. Seraphel sighed, took an un-princess-like gulp of the water and spoke.

“I was at Noelictus. At Ovela, where Ailendamus made an incursion into Noelictus’ lands. I should not like to speak too long about that time…it is near to my heart and painful to recollect. But yes, Lord Pulcre. I was there.”

Lord Belchaus Meron was walking towards their group, Prince Ruis by his side. The Lord of the Dance was politely fending off people; he was on a mission. The [Prince] needed to meet his guests from another world, but not here, obviously.

He was looking at Lord Pulcre, trying to figure out how long it would take to wrest him away; a frightfully long time. Maybe even forty minutes; he’d have to introduce himself to Princess Seraphel, and if she or one of the other two asked for a dance or…

“I was at Ovela.”

Princess Seraphel saw the Lord of the Dance approaching and wondered why. So too did the scrying mirror, recording the minor event no one really cared about except Terandrian politicians. She didn’t see that, or she might have minded her tongue.

They thought they knew Seraphel the Cursed. Two husbands dead; a poor, if not terribly unique tale. There was a lot of story that wasn’t covered in that, though.

The 4th Princess of Calanfer raised her head. She regarded the empty glass and glanced up. Her shoulders rose slightly. The almost-perfectly concealed look of tedium in her eyes vanished. Such that you realized she had been hiding it a moment ago. She nodded to herself, eyes flickering backwards in time.

“To say it simply, Lord Pulcre—I saw many astonishing things during my time in Noelictus. I suffered heartbreak, yes. However, I was privileged to have met my friend, S—Cara. You may know her as the Singer of Terandria. I survived an army of the undead raised by a rogue [Necromancer]. And I saw an army of the dead rise to battle Ailendamus.”

The listeners looked around. They blinked at Seraphel. An army of…?

The 4th Princess didn’t realize how interesting she was becoming. She met Pulcre’s eyes. As Lord Bel stopped, interested.

—-

Lyonette blinked. Seraphel had met the Singer of Terandria? But Ryoka and Erin had both said that she was an Earther…she leaned forwards, frowning.

Seraphel looked different. Not as angry as Lyonette remembered her. And she had been—hard to be around for a long time. Indifferent or snappish. But then—she had been married at Lyonette’s age to her first husband, and Lyonette had only really remembered her like that.

Tired.

The 4th Princess did not seem so, here. She shook her head.

“Ailendamus has encroached on other kingdom’s lands before. I am sure you and I could name a dozen times before today, before Noelictus, Lord Pulcre. Their aggression is a fact. What is not a fact is that the ‘glorious empire’ of Ailendamus always wins. I saw one of their great [Barons] break at Ovela. At cost! However, I saw one of Ailendamus’ grand armies smashed to pieces and flee screaming back across the border. I should imagine that if the war with the Dawn Concordat drags on, I will see that scene repeated a few more times.”

Lyonette’s jaw dropped. That was not a politic response! Seraphel—oh no, she was riled up again.

Shardele and Aielef both snapped around, having heard or sensed Seraphel’s unguarded comments. Both began to drift over, even Shardele realizing this could be…a problem.

Depending on what was said. However, the nobility of Nadel and other foreign visitors liked Seraphel’s comments. This Lord Pulcre smiled faintly.

“You do not mince words, your Highness.”

—-

Seraphel shrugged slightly, embarrassed. She saw Aielef glowering at her and approaching as fast as was seemly. For all her criticism of her sisters, look at her now.

However, it was too late to play innocent. Especially because—Seraphel turned.

“Lord Belchaus Meron.”

“Your Highness.”

He bowed gracefully, with that delightful twist of grace and showmanship. The Lord of the Dance put a smile on Seraphel’s lips that was entirely genuine; who couldn’t love the famous Lord of the Dance?

“Are you here to discuss the war, my lord?”

The Lord of the Dance hesitated. He had Prince Ruis with him, and he glanced over Seraphel’s shoulder before replying.

“In fact, Princess Seraphel, I had hoped to borrow Pulcre—but I find your topic fascinating. I had heard about the Ovela-incident. That you were there, I didn’t know. I suppose Pulcre might, though.”

He half-smiled at the man. Seraphel turned around and blinked at Lord Pulcre. He gave her a rueful look and she put it together.

Ah. [Spymaster].

No wonder she didn’t know his name before then. He was probably newly-titled. Seraphel realized she was now at the center of attention.

“Did I hear you say that you know the Singer of Terandria, personally, your Highness? Have you attended one of her concerts? My daughter has been begging for me to send her across the continent to see just one!”

A [Lady] remarked. Seraphel raised her brows.

“I never attended a concert. I knew Cara before she rose to such fame. Yes, she was at the Ovela incident at the same time I was.”

She had just as few reasons to love Ailendamus—but Seraphel didn’t say that out loud. Cara was not a [Princess] in a kingdom with all their power behind her. Although…she might be safer than Seraphel at the moment.

“So what would you say of Ailendamus, then, Princess Seraphel? Its war capabilities compared to the Dawn Concordat, then?”

Pulcre glanced at Seraphel. Prince Ruis forced a laugh, perhaps realizing this was being broadcast and it might reflect poorly on Nadel…but it was too late.

“Come now, Pulcre. Princess Seraphel isn’t a [Strategist] or [General].”

“Nor a [War Princess]. I’m afraid I can’t speak on military levels or formations, Lord Pulcre.”

“Impressions, then.”

He pressed her, ignoring the [Prince]. Lord Bel was glancing between the two. He focused on Seraphel. The 4th Princess saw Shardele approaching. She wavered—but as Lyonette had observed, the words were begging to be said.

There were things Ailendamus had done that Seraphel could not prove. Terrible deeds she suspected them of. Blind accusations would only hurt Calanfer, though. So she did not speak of Afiele, though she had been there, too. Seraphel’s eyes flickered, but it only took her a moment to reply.

“Ailendamus has quite a lot of land for an empire. Vast armies. Its leaders seem competent, and they have magic, fine steel, and a certain resolve in their [Soldiers]. I have seen better.”

Her audience waited. The [Princess] accepted a second glass of honey-flavored water. She sipped at it, and they realized she had made her statement.

Someone laughed before catching themselves. Lord Belchaus hid a smile. Prince Ruis had already hid his behind a cough. Pulcre didn’t bother.

“Then, your appraisal of the war?”

“We can only support our brave [Soldiers] and [Knights] as best we can. Seraphel, you certainly are making a stir! But perhaps we should allow the Lord of the Dance his due attention?”

Shardele swept in, interrupting Seraphel. The 4th Princess saw eyes swing back to the Lord of the Dance. For a second, they’d forgotten he was there.

Lord Bel looked at Seraphel, disappointment flickering in his gaze. He was too canny to let it show and bowed to Shardele at once.

“Of course, your Highness. Talk of war becomes tiresome, although I find Princess Seraphel’s account fascinating. Many [Historians] and [Strategists] make much of Ailendamus’ invincibility in war.”

“War is not a single battle.”

Pulcre observed softly. Seraphel’s smile was like cut glass.

“Indeed not, Lord Pulcre. After all, it occurs to me that someone else has witnessed an army of Ailendamus routing quite recently. Lord Belchaus, didn’t you take an [Admiral] and an entire fleet hostage?”

A ripple of amusement ran through the listeners. Lord Bel saw Prince Ruis wince, but he gave Seraphel an embarrassed bow.

“Merely a skirmish, Princess Seraphel.”

The 4th Princess’ brows rose.

“If an entire fleet was a ‘skirmish’, perhaps Nadel would care to make a battle of it and wipe out Ailendamus’ entire sea force in one go? I should wager on Nadel if the Lord of the Dance were on one side, even with all of Ailendamus’ fleets on the other.”

Shardele looked around, but there was no way to stomp on her younger sister’s foot without everyone noticing unless they were right next to each other and the dresses hid it. She was forced to stand and smile as Seraphel continued. Save for Prince Ruis and Shardele, no one else was inclined to stop her.

—-

Lyonette was smiling. It was as improper as could be, of course. Their father and mother were probably having a fit.

And it was classic Seraphel. Classic…but with a twist. Normal Seraphel would insult you, but Seraphel of today? There was something else.

The 6th Princess realized what it was, when her older sister calmly ignored Shardele’s hints. She approached the scrying mirror, and looked into it. Lyonette felt like Seraphel was looking at her—for a second. Then, the [Princess] seemed to be looking for something else.

“This…television was not present when Ovela was attacked. Or before that—if it had, catastrophe might have been averted. It is here, though. So, I…would like to say that if you see this, people of Ovela. Friends of Afiele, Cara. Calanfer remembers our friends. To you, and to the Twins of Ovela. To the Kingdom of Shade. It was not long I stayed with you, but I remember it fondly, despite it all.”

She lifted her glass slightly. Behind her, Lord Bel swept a glass from a serving tray. Pulcre, Prince Ruis, and the others, copied the gesture instinctively. They didn’t know what they were toasting.

The [Princess] did. So did they. The Kingdom of Shade’s viewers began tuning into the broadcast. They had heard of her too.

…Which meant that Lyonette’s already spotty reception took that moment to turn off. She stared into the blank scrying orb.

Never more than before had she wanted to return home. She wanted to know what Seraphel had seen. She wanted to help.

Her home was in danger. She had not always loved it the same way she loved The Wandering Inn, but it was home.

They were still her family, for as much as she hated and loved them. Lyonette closed her eyes. There Seraphel was.

—-

The 4th Princess touched her eyes for a second after turning away from the scrying mirror. They were actually misty.

Of course, Aielef thought she was just playing it up. She hissed at Seraphel as the three [Princesses] stepped back with their escort.

“You had to make more work for us? There was no cause to start an incident! Mother will be furious!”

“I thought you wanted to remind them of the war?”

Seraphel saw Aielef glowering, but both composed themselves, mindful of the distant watchers.

Lord Belchaus was glancing at Seraphel, having put off his concerns for a moment to linger in the ball. Perhaps that was worth all the backlash this would provoke—it might be in her father’s eyes. The Lord of the Dance was a powerful ally on land or sea.

Regardless, Seraphel still felt washed-up. If Cara was here…if she was in Ovela, it would be war. Here? She was just doing a [Princess]’ duties. In a sense, she had mattered more in Noelictus. Today, she had broken from protocol to hurl a javelin at Ailendamus.

…A javelin made of words, for all that. As sharp as they could be, words could not turn back those armies. Words could persuade, open coffers, and perhaps they might earn money for Calanfer that was needed. In the end, though—Seraphel felt helpless, and she had felt it before. She had not even crossed into Kaliv to see the fighting. Before, that would have struck her as right and proper.

Today, it felt cowardly. That was the 4th [Princess] of Calanfer, Seraphel du Marquin. She looked at Lord Bel and gently rubbed one side of her neck. With more enthusiasm than her sisters, she prepared herself to go back and actually plead for aid in this polite setting while the war dragged on.

Then the Order of Seasons arrived.

—-

Lyonette slapped the scrying orb a fourth time and the image flickered back. But it wasn’t Seraphel.

“This is live coverage!”

Drassi screamed at Lyonette. Lyonette nearly screamed back. Drassi slapped the desk with her claws.

“Pay. Attention! This is an emergency broadcast from Wistram regarding Terandria! I don’t care if you’re not on Terandria or you don’t care—my friend is down there, so listen up! The Order of Seasons of Pheislant is about to intercept an Ailendamus army!”

Noass was nodding rapidly, holding up a map showing the army trying to flank Gaiil-Drome by way of Pheislant.

“For now the coastal nation of Pheislant seemed unwilling to confront Ailendamus despite the trespasses, but it seems the ‘Summer’s Champion’ of the Order of Seasons, one of the leaders of this [Knight]-order, has declared a crusade! Can they do that? Well, I suppose so, but the questions remains: is it war for Pheislant?”

He looked quite pleased with himself for sneaking that reference in. Drassi ignored him.

“We have a scrying spell—yes, there it is! These are [Summer Knights] and a smaller infantry and mounted force—but mainly [Knights]. I’m told there are over a thousand [Knights] from the Order of Seasons. Six times that in Pheislant’s forces of non-[Knights]…but they’re attacking an army of nearly thirty thousand!”

Noass nodded.

“A flanking force. Smaller than a conventional army, Drassi. They have a good complement of their Greatbows, capable of firing Ailendamus’ famed lance-arrows, though. As well—a number of high-level [Mages]. Er, [Strategists] suggested they might be attempting to set fire to the forests; something Ailendamus has denied.”

She shot him a glare.

“Yes, I get that. I’m no [Tactician] either so correct me if I’m wrong Noass, but attacking a force…five or six times your size sounds stupid.”

“It…could be strategic? [Knights] aren’t a hugely Izrilian tradition, so we’re actually contacting a Terandrian [Strategist] to weigh in on the discussion. Hello? Can we connect to…”

Lyonette tuned Noass out. She stared down at the scrying orb and the central image. Her lips moved as she searched the riding column and found him at the front.

“Rabbiteater?”

—-

Much to his bemusement, no, chagrin, Lord Pellmia Quellae woke up and realized he had gained the [Matchmaker] class.

He actually had to send a [Message] to his wife to ask if that was a real class, and got the much-amused response that ‘yes it was’, and ‘what had he done’?

Pellmia reflected that rather than doing anything, he had prevented the Wind Runner’s immediate flight from this continent. Perhaps that alone wasn’t enough to earn an entire class, but then again…it hadn’t been a small feat.

Six times that night, Ryoka had tried to excuse herself in a permanent sort of way. Lord Tyrion had not helped, especially because he’d kept trying to discuss courting her, in front of his sons and everyone else no less.

Then he’d wanted to formally notify all of House Veltras as this was a matter of authority given Tyrion’s position as the family head…

Nightmare after nightmare. Pellmia had literally told Ullim to drag his [Lord] off, and tasked Jericha with slowing down Ryoka Griffin’s understandable skittishness.

Honestly, it seemed to Lord Pellmia as he thought about his Level 3 [Matchmaker] class that the very fate of the world, the invisible order that bestowed classes, the Cycle of Growth as defined in the Book of Levels, was itself acknowledging the challenge that was Lord Tyrion and romance in the same room.

He didn’t mind the class, or he’d have refused it, obviously. It wasn’t a particularly [Lord]-ly class, but Pellmia was in his advanced years and it tickled his fancy. The [Lord of Orchards] also thought he could add to his family’s own notes on the class, having it himself. So he rationalized accepting the class and decided he’d throw a small celebration if all went well on his return home.

However, he had cause to appreciate and use one of the Skills he’d gained within fifteen minutes of waking up. Which was breakfast, and the most uncomfortable one Pellmia had shared in a long time.

There sat Ryoka Griffin, exactly opposite Tyrion, not meeting his gaze, fidgeting, as Sammial poked her in the side, much amused by all this, Hethon stared at Ryoka and his father, Jericha hovered, Ullim hurried around serving Pellmia and the others…

And Lord Tyrion kept making it worse.

“Good morning, Miss Griffin.”

He greeted her cordially enough. Ryoka hesitated.

“Good morning, Lord Veltras.”

If there was an invisible perception of closeness—not a Skill that Pellmia had, just his intuition—it had widened overnight. Of course it had. Getting to one knee in front of an audience, in a setting that public with no lead up? In front of his sons? Pellmia had written a [Message] spell to his wife with that lastest development and she hadn’t responded back yet, which was probably from sheer horror.

Had Tyrion done that with Salva? Dead gods. Then again, Salva had never been entirely conventional herself. A conventional woman would have run.

Ryoka smiled at Tyrion like a woman with the noose around her neck. He nodded to her, cool as one of the cucumbers being served onto his plate. Sammial promptly wanted to dump his onto Ryoka’s.

“Sammial, eat your food.”

“I don’t want t—”

Sammial caught his father’s eye and went silent. Pellmia watched as he slyly tried to drop one off the side of the table when Tyrion turned to accept a dish from Ullim. A gust of wind promptly flipped it right back onto his plate.

The young [Lord] stared up at Ryoka and she smiled for the first time that day. Pellmia laughed too and all was well. Right up until Tyrion looked at Ryoka.

“Would you care to go for a ride after breakfast, Ryoka? There are a number of scenic routes, and I used to ride with Salv—”

Lord Pellmia choked on his mouthful of breakfast. Ryoka hadn’t quite cottoned on, but the second Tyrion finished the sentence she’d probably abandon breakfast, leap on her glider and fly into the sun or back where she’d come from.

Tyrion never got to finish it because his mouth closed. Ryoka rubbed at her ear, genuinely mystified.

“I—didn’t quite catch that. A ride?”

Pellmia saw Tyrion glance at him. The [Matchmaker] swallowed, then breathed, and thanked his new class.

[Avert Disaster (Verbal)]. It appeared Ryoka had missed the damning heart of Tyrion’s offer too, perhaps due to the Skill. Now, how could Pellmia…?

He’d stayed up all damn night trying to figure out how to explain to Tyrion—politely—how wrong his approach was. Then he’d tried to figure out how to hammer it into the man’s head, politeness be damned. Pellmia went on instinct before Tyrion could try again. The [Lord] leaned over and murmured very quietly on the pretense of asking for the butter.

“I fear you’re too far in the lines, Lord Veltras. You can’t press the attack with Level 11 [Squires] on pikes.”

The [Lord] glanced at Pellmia. The Level 4 [Matchmaker]—he’d find out when he went to sleep—glanced at him significantly. Tyrion absorbed this, and then something lit up in his eyes.

“Ah. Not [Lancers]? Truly?”

“[Squires] with sticks versus enchanted Drake pikes. In…full plate armor. Oldbloods. Circle and be circumspect. Take my word for it.”

Pellmia had no expectation of it actually working, but for some reason Tyrion actually nodded. Dead gods, the man was just all formations and tactics.

“What if we all took a ride later this day?”

He floated the idea and Ullim glanced at Pellmia, deeply surprised. Hethon and Sammial looked interested. Ryoka squirmed.

“I uh—I might have to pass. I need to go back to Liscor. I’ve been putting it off, but…”

Damn. Focus on one too much and the other runs. Pellmia bit his lip. He murmured his only other Skill gained by his new class.

“…Push].”

It didn’t work. He felt no sense of it activating, nor did Ryoka stop trying to explain about a ‘Mrsha’ to a bemused Tyrion.

“We could arrange her to visit House Veltras. If you must go, you must go. However, if you would give me a day to…”

He clearly didn’t actually know what he wanted Ryoka to do in a day, but he was working on it. Lord Pellmia sighed. Ryoka Griffin. He knew so little about her. Perhaps, though—

“Miss Griffin. Would you care to remain just a day longer? Just a day—so we might discuss ah, compensation to your guests? At the Summer Solstice?”

Ryoka’s head snapped up.

“What? The—the guests? What about them?”

Pellmia gave her a genial smile.

“I did recall that you made a pact with them. Free alcohol and ah, corn? My orchards do include some vineyards. Would it be appropriate to leave out some wine?”

“I—that’s not in the pact, but they—they might like that. I don’t know that I have to…can they even get over here…?”

Very interesting. Pellmia watched Jericha write something down covertly. He had no idea what Ryoka meant, but he had thought often about those wondrous folk. He pleated his napkin thoughtfully.

“Would it not be acceptable to try? As an experiment?”

“Try? And see if they come? I never thought of…”

Ryoka’s eyes grew round and Pellmia himself felt a stir at the idea. He snapped his fingers.

“Goodwill is never a poor thing to obtain. I myself make gifts of fine vintages or juices to friends. Would they find a barrel of wine—or apple juice acceptable? It is the time for fine apples…assuming you could stay? I might invite all of House Veltras to my orchards, frankly. The boys could climb some trees, and it’s a splendid time for a day or two.”

Hethon and Sammial looked up and Pellmia smiled at them. Tyrion raised his brows.

“That would be quite pleasant.”

“I—er—”

Ryoka squirmed, but the thought of her fae friends convinced her. She looked at Pellmia, abashed.

“I do owe them a huge debt. I wouldn’t be bothering you, Lord Pellmia? I can pay of course and run a delivery…”

“I consider it a gift between friends, Miss Griffin. Think nothing of it. In fact, why not bring back some fresh produce for your little Gnoll friend? You can grow some of the seeds anywhere in Izril.”

“She might really like that.”

Ryoka murmured, envisioning adding some fine fruits to a certain Garden. Pellmia sat back, feeling as if he’d scored a solid lance-hit. The Level 5 [Matchmaker] steepled his fingers. Now, to figure out a way to give Tyrion an angle—well, that was what his wife and daughters were for. If they didn’t get the class…

However, as providence would have it, that was when the Order of Seasons arrived. Ryoka Griffin turned in her seat as a [Soldier] of some kind entered the room.

“Lord Veltras! I—forgive me, sire. I had no idea you were breakfasting.”

The man was abashed. He looked like a [Captain] with more white than brown in his hair—but Pellmia identified him as one of the [Weapon Instructors] that Tyrion employed.

Not a regular [Soldier] or he’d never dare to do this. Tyrion raised his brows, a bit annoyed, but the man had some leeway.

“What is it? An emergency?”

“Not—exactly. But you should see this, lad—Lord Veltras!”

Ah, an old trainer. He was waving a little scrying orb around with the battle going on. Ryoka sat up as she heard Drassi’s commentary. But what got Lord Tyrion was the battle.

“The Order of Seasons is sending their [Knights] against Ailendamus?”

“Exactly! It’s the Season of Summer and they’re in lance-formation. They’re going to try to break them down! Begging your pardon, Ullim, but I thought Lord Veltras would—”

Tyrion was half out of his chair. He looked as interested as he ever did, and Lord Pellmia recalled.

If there was an avid jousting fan in Izril, it was Tyrion. He liked tourneys and so on as much as Sammial liked watching the new football games. Ryoka was blinking at the unexpected interest.

“You—do you know about the Order of Seasons, Lord Tyrion?”

She was interested for some reason as well. Lord Pellmia had no idea about Rabbiteater, or that Ryoka recalled where the Goblin was supposed to be. Yet the coincidence was something.

Tyrion was nodding. He visibly hesitated, reminded of Ryoka and his sons, and glanced at the [Weapons Instructor].

“We can…of course continue breakfast, Miss Griffin. Of course. Forgive my rudeness. I have some passing acquaintance with the Order of Seasons. Master Verdeem, I will have to review it later. Please find a way to save a copy.”

The man nodded, but Pellmia had never seen Tyrion so reluctant to sit down and eat. Still—what a sense of decorum. Ryoka hesitated too.

Pellmia saw the opening and took his chance. He raised his finger, invoked his Skill.

The words spilled out of his mouth on auto. Exactly what he would have said if he had time to compose it.

“Tyrion, Miss Griffin, I say we should hardly wait on protocol here. We are familiar with each other—and I confess, I’ve had more than one breakfast around a scrying orb. Why don’t we watch this fascinating event? Tyrion, you’re an expert on mounted combat. Miss Griffin, do you have friends in the Order of Seasons? Ailendamus?”

“Sort of—did they say one thousand [Knights] versus thirty thousand [Soldiers]?”

“Indeed. Shall we watch?”

Tyrion and Ryoka looked at each other. They wavered—then Lord Tyrion turned to Jericha.

“A larger scrying orb. Call Master Verdeem back. We shall breakfast while watching. It’s far from hopeless, Ryoka. If I understand that the Summer’s Champion is leading the charge…I might say the odds are reversed depending on what Ailendamus has brought. I need to see both forces first.”

The [Lord] looked hesitant as a space was cleared on the dinner table, but his desire to watch the battle overwhelmed his sense of propriety. His sons looking delighted didn’t hurt either, or Ryoka. Pellmia sighed as Ryoka glanced at Tyrion.

Treant apples, it worked! He saw the Skill activate. Perhaps Ullim helped, but somehow, suddenly, they were all sitting together as a scrying mirror was set up. Almost by coincidence, Ryoka sat on Tyrion’s left with Hethon and Sammial crowding her in, Pellmia on Tyrion’s right. She froze—but Tyrion was talking animatedly.

“The Order of Seasons, you see, are aura-experts. A fine group of [Knights] proficient in a number of weapon styles, although they tend to favor the traditional lance as well as weapon-and-shield combinations. Standard, but highly effective. The Season of Summer is their most numerous and high-leveled martial season.”

“There are four seasons, right? I—oh no. That’s my friend.”

Ryoka glanced at the [Knight] riding in front. Pellmia was half-distracted by Tyrion and half by Ryoka’s remarks. Tyrion leaned in, frowning.

“…Not a member of the Order of Seasons. He rides with the Summer’s Champion.”

“Is—is that good? The odds are high…”

Tyrion raised his brows.

“The Summer’s Champion is always Level 40 or higher. Rest assured, Miss Griffin, that the Order of Seasons’ grandmasters are not poor fighters. Your friend is safer in front with the Summer’s Champion than in the back of the vanguard. Hethon, Sammial, observe. You see the way they’re riding? They’ve formed a Trilance vanguard; they’re certainly planning on a lance-charge…”

It was so strange hearing Tyrion talk with such detail and passion about anything. But then—this was his forte. Ryoka’s edginess around him noticeably turned to actual attention as she realized he’d forgotten about courting her. He was pointing out the formation, the way the [Knights] were sitting, the backup lances in their bags of holding to his sons, who also seemed bemused and delighted by their suddenly-talkative father.

In the meantime, they were sitting together. Talking. Oho. Ohohohoho.

Lord Pellmia rubbed his hands together and reached for a cucumber slice. The Level 6 [Matchmaker] felt his Skill working. Just a bit! However, the sight of Ryoka leaning over and listening to Tyrion, asking questions as he pointed out details and explained the [Knight] Order—how could you dream of that after last night?

‘I understand you may have reservations about a relationship, Ryoka. Please address me with any complaints about my character or actions and I will happily discuss them now. I would like to hear any salient points you have.’

Pellmia shuddered. After lines like that had been etched into Ryoka’s—not to mention Pellmia’s—very soul? This was a miracle.

No, this was a Skill. He hadn’t been able to activate it randomly, but it seemed that if he had an opportunity…

[Romantic Push]. The [Lord] sat back, smiling. Then his face fell.

Giant oranges, if Ryoka and Tyrion do come to my home, I’ll have to do this all day. Can our hearts take it?

His wife and daughter might actually expire if Tyrion came out with another line as bad as the rest. However, Pellmia put that aside. For now, he just sat with Tyrion and Ryoka, occasionally interjecting, kicking Tyrion, smiling desperately.

…Counter-leveling.

—-

The Order of Seasons rode to war, and the Goblin rode with them. He had nothing better to do.

…No, he truly had nothing better to do. What else was there to do in life, other than to follow friends to battle and watch their backs? Nothing.

The Season of Summer understood a Redfang Goblin’s mind. They were alike in many respects. That was how they’d come to this.

War. A crusade against Ailendamus! They trotted down one of Pheislant’s wide highways, towards the army that had dared to cross Pheislant’s borders and attack the Dawn Concordat from the side.

Ailendamus’ army was larger by far than the thousand some [Knights], mainly [Summer Knights], and the mixed group of Pheislant’s soldiers contributed by noble houses. The retinue and personal retainers of some of the Order of Seasons’ members, like House Kallinad’s [Soldiers] who had come because Talia was riding with them.

When they had heard the Order of Seasons and the Summer’s Champion were marching on them, Ailendamus’ army had halted and moved back. Choosing their battlefield.

Rabbiteater knew all this, being with Greysten, the Summer’s Champion most of the day. He heard the condemnation by Pheislant’s ruler, the outrage of Knight-Commander Calirn, Ailendamus’ threats of war with Pheislant which might very well come to pass if Greysten did not turn around right now—

None of it mattered. The Summer’s Champion had made his choice. Like a Goblin, he would not gainsay his oath. There was only right and wrong, and so summer rode to war. That was very Goblin-like to Rabbiteater, but there were differences.

Such as this: they sang as they rode. The Summer’s Champion had received word that the army had formed up in the pass ahead. He had Spring Knights scouting them, but he made no speeches, even though Wistram wanted an interview. He just began humming—then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he burst into song and the other [Summer Knights] picked it up.

“I rode down summer highways,

Following the spring.

Autumn chased close after,

In dappled leaves falling

Telling me what the future brings.

Summer is fading, the fire leaves

The sky, but I? I rode after sunlight

Until winter passed me by.

Are those Dragon wings I hear beating

Or the drumming of my heart?

If winter comes around me,

If the world seems too dark.

Ride with me down summer highways

And let us light summer’s spark.”

Rabbiteater listened, blinking behind his visor. From Greysten to Dame Voost, the best swordswoman, to Dame Chise to Talia, they all sang. Loudly as Greysten, with all the poor pitch-control as Voost, quietly or melancholic or…

Goblins didn’t sing. They had to be quiet. These [Knights]? They rode with Pheislant’s [Soldiers], armor shining under the sky. Smiling and laughing.

A brotherhood, or sisterhood. Or…family. A tribe of Humans. Rabbiteater had never found the like.

He started as Greysten nudged him. The Summer’s Champion had taken off his helmet. He was still singing, and, as the [Knight-Errant] glanced at him, he realized some of the other [Summer Knights] were doing the same.

Tentatively, more embarrassed and awkward than any other time among them, Rabbiteater tried to join in. His voice was lost among the others, but part of it. Yet Greysten and those around him laughed. So the Goblin sang and remembered an inn where an [Innkeeper] sang now and then.

A glorious memory. A painful one. Yet here, among them, Rabbiteater remembered only the good parts. Let him think of loss and sadness later.

For now: let it be summer.

—-

That was how the Order of Seasons travelled. They sang and rode and laughed or traded jokes and stories. When they camped, they jested and relaxed as if they were on the little outing Greysten had tricked Calirn with, not an impending battle.

Only the Spring Knights showed nerves, yet amidst the good-natured Summer Knights, even they relaxed a bit. The few Autumn Knights were more reserved, but joined in the good-natured nights before they slept and rode again, travelling to Pheislant’s northern border.

When they finally neared the place where Ailendamus’ army was camped, the eyes of the world were upon them. Only then did Rabbiteater think to bring up the impending battle.

“They’ve holed up in the Stone Giant’s pass, Summer’s Champion. Looks like they have at least twenty of their Lance-bow artillery. A number of [Mages]—all at the back.”

“Their disposition?”

Greysten had slowed as a panting Ser Markus returned; he had been one of the Spring Knights scouting ahead. The man drank a gulp from his flask and shook his head.

“We couldn’t approach for fear they’d open up, but it looked like all infantry.”

“Which means they have the horse hidden somewhere. Stone Giant’s pass…I don’t recall any secret tunnels.”

The Summer’s Champion glanced at the distant pass between two hills. Rabbiteater eyed it too, with a [Warrior]’s eye. A nice place to hold off a force like the mobile Order of Seasons. Especially if they had those fabled Lance-bows. ‘Greatbows’, they were called; oversized bows that loosed enchanted arrows that were indeed comparable to lances rather than normal arrows.

One could kill an armored [Knight] in a single shot. Not to mention the thirty-thousand [Soldiers] compared to the seven thousand of Pheislant’s [Soldiers]. True, a thousand were [Knights], but numbers were numbers.

“I see. Well, that settles it.”

Greysten had a small gathering around him. Dame Voost, Ser Zulv, and many of the older [Summer Knights]; his friends and regular company. Rabbiteater was included in that number too, and the other [Knights] were nodding as if it were obvious what had to be done.

“Summer’s Champion, I saw ranks of pikes and what looked like earthworks in front of Ailendamus’ army. They’ve been preparing for us.”

Ser Markus looked ready for the fight, but understandably wary. Greysten just nodded again, rubbing at his orange hair. He grinned.

“That is accounted for, Ser Markus. Get some rest. Order of Seasons! Men and women of Pheislant! We ride on Ailendamus’ army now! Make your preparations! Officers, to me!”

He roared and a cheer met his words. Rabbiteater glanced around, but the other [Knights] were breaking up, checking on their fellows, or their weapons. He leaned over.

“Wait. What was the strategy?”

They’d not mentioned it to him. Perhaps it was obvious. Greysten blinked as he looked towards some of Pheislant’s military officers.

“Oh, that. I plan on charging straight at Ailendamus’ army. We’ll do something with the Season of Spring and the [Soldiers]. I hope you’ll join me in the vanguard!”

He clapped Rabbiteater on the shoulder, beaming. The Goblin blinked at the Summer’s Champion. He glanced around. Hesitated. Then shrugged.

“Sounds good.”

—-

Charge the enemy. Ser Markus’ eager expression faded a bit when he heard the battle plan. Not least because if he heard it…

“It will be a glorious battle! I have command of the center spear. Dame Voost, my left. Ser Zulv? The right. I plan on taking the Season of Summer straight down the pass. I will, of course, need Pheislant’s support.”

“A-absolutely, Summer’s Champion?”

One of the [Commanders] of Pheislant’s forces tried to keep up with Greysten. He expressed his hesitation in that single sentence. Greysten heard it—and ignored it.

“Don’t worry, man. I don’t plan on making your [Soldiers] join us! The Season of Summer will be joined by our Autumn Knights—to counter the spellcasters. However, I plan on keeping Spring back. Ailendamus had several thousand horse. They’re most likely hiding around the hill. There, or there…they’ll want to take us from the rear. You’ll hold them off.”

The Summer’s Champion gestured to the sides of the pass. The [Commander] nodded.

“How many to reserve, Summer’s Champion?”

“All of you. I appoint Ser Thornst as leader of the Spring. Ser Thornst? Keep them off our back.”

“Yes, Summer’s Champion!”

“But sir! That would mean you intend to assault Ailendamus’ entire entrenched force with only the Season of Summer?”

The Pheislant [Commander] looked ahead, and the three ‘spears’ of [Summer Knights] each moved ahead of the rest of the forces. Greysten nodded.

“Exactly! I’m glad we’re on the same page. Alright then, move o—”

“Begging your pardon, Summer’s Champion, but isn’t that tactic foolhardy?”

Ser Markus burst into the conversation. Rabbiteater glanced up from trying to cram a bar of rations through the slits in his visor. The young Spring Knight flushed as Greysten and some of the other officers turned to him, but he had to speak his mind.

“Ser Markus. Go on. You have reservations?”

Merry amusement danced in Greysten’s eyes. Markus glanced at Rabbiteater; the Goblin hadn’t said a word, but surely he saw this was madness!

“Ailendamus has their Greatbows and pikes, Summer’s Champion! They’ve dug into the pass; surely we should consider another approach?”

Greysten considered it as some of the older [Knights] laughed. They didn’t seem worried either. Ser Markus had never fought with the Season of Summer before. He’d heard they were direct, but this?

“You idiot, Markus.”

Some of his fellow Spring Knights wanted to drag the oblivious, if good-natured [Knight] away. If he’d known larger strategy, or studied battles before, he wouldn’t have embarrassed himself like this. Dame Meisa covered her face, already knowing what Greysten would say.

“In my experience, there are few enemies in the world who can’t be defeated by charging straight at them. All you need are more lances!”

Greysten laughed. He slapped Ser Markus on the shoulder so hard that Markus’ horse nearly sat down. Then he raised a hand.

“Enough deliberation! Ser Solstice, join me! To war! Let’s humble Ailendamus!”

—-

“They can’t be serious.”

The prevailing attitude was that the Summer’s Champion was an idiot. Of course, that was in general. In this particular instance, many people hearing the battle plan considered that Ser Greysten was also suicidal.

The scrying spell of Ailendamus’ forces kept fuzzing if it got too close. Someone in the army was blocking the spell, perhaps to keep the element of surprise on Ailendamus’ side.

However, what Ryoka could see was bad. She was no [Strategist], but she recognized classic formations.

Like pikes. Long poles of wood, longer than lances, that you let people run into? The enemy [General] had lined the entire pass with them. Multiple ranks of them. There wasn’t a way for the [Knights] to circle. The Greatbows were mounted in the back, to shoot over the heads of the infantry. Same with the [Archers] and [Mages]; they’d pepper a force trying to push through the front lines.

Just to make it worse, the ground had also been prepared; a huge slope had been dug out, such that you would charge into a little pit and then into the pikes, and then into oblivion.

“Noass, be honest with me. Is this a stupid plan?”

Drassi’s first reaction was to state what most people were thinking as she stared at the projection of the battle in miniature on the commentator’s table. She gingerly picked up a little figurine of a horse and ran it down the pass into the little pike-figurines; a war projection screen.

“Er—it’s certainly unconventional, Drassi. But perhaps the Summer’s Champion has some ulterior strategy we haven’t seen?”

“The plan had better be smarter than this Summer-guy looks. Ancestors, I thought they only did this sort of thing in stories.”

Charge the enemy head-on. It was the move of a fool. Or…the tactics of [Knights], the traditions of a bygone era. Ailendamus’ army looked, well, modern to Ryoka. They had artillery, a rarity among Human nations, in the Lance-bows. They had [Mages], an adaptive army.

The Order of Seasons had [Knights] and one tactic. They were coming down the pass.

Singing.

“Please tell me they’re not serious?”

Ryoka looked at Tyrion. She had spotted Rabbiteater in the front. She assumed it was him. A Goblin wearing armor. He was holding a lance with the others; in the scrying spell, she could see the Summer’s Champion handing him something.

“He is. He knows what he is doing. I have never met the Summer’s Champion personally, but I have known the Order of Seasons and he is well-regarded as a sound leader and fighter by his fellows.”

Tyrion Veltras sat with that uncanny interest, looking alight as he surveyed the battle. Even…happy. Ryoka glanced at him, and then at Hethon and Sammial, looking just as excited.

People were going to die. She felt a sick feeling in her stomach, but she turned to face Tyrion.

“So—this isn’t a bad move? Because it looks like it’s bad to me. I’m not a [Knight]…what do you think the odds are?”

Tyrion Veltras glanced at Ryoka and realized they weren’t seeing the same thing. The [Lord] tapped a finger on the table.

“In my opinion…the [General] of Ailendamus’ forces has underestimated the Order of Seasons. It could go poorly; how they manage to close the gap in their first charge will dictate the battle. The Lance-bows are a considerable threat.”

“B—so you’re betting on the Order of Seasons?”

Tyrion raised his brows.

“Yes.”

Ryoka turned back to the scrying orb. She peered at the projection, rubbed her eyes. She…clearly wasn’t a [Strategist].

—-

It began to rain as the Order of Seasons deployed into Stone Giant’s pass. Roughly nine hundred [Summer Knights] formed three spears along the narrow pass, each one led by a single [Knight].

Rabbiteater was right behind the Summer’s Champion. Greysten had handed him an amulet before the battle began.

“As you are the only [Knight] not of the summer who will engage the enemy with us, Rabbiteater, you must wear this. Good thing I remembered!”

“Good thing I reminded you. Ser Solstice, valor upon your sword!”

Dame Voost trotted past them to take the left, saluting the Goblin. Bemused, Rabbiteater put the amulet on, tying it around his neck.

Behind him, Ser Thornst had the two hundred or so Spring Knights spread out, waiting to intercept a rearwards attack. Pheislant’s infantry and horse were waiting with them, divided up and hanging back.

It was a small army that entered the pass. Greysten hummed the same melody as he stared ahead.

The ground was broken up before the pikes. Behind them, the Greatbows gleamed. The army of Ailendamus had sensibly not formed a huge mass that could be prey to mass-attack spells. They were in ranks, each one ready to rotate out. All the [Archers] and [Mages] were at the back.

—-

“They must be fools. The era of [Knight] Orders routing an enemy alone ended millennia ago.”

The Ailendamus [General] stared at the [Knights] through the enchanted spyglass. They had entered the pass alone, just as Greysten had claimed.

He had been monitoring the scrying spell, receiving intelligence via two hastily-attached [Infiltrators] in Pheislant’s ranks. The earthworks, this chosen position…it all felt like overkill now. Looking upon the Summer Champion’s strategy, the experienced [Strategists] and [General] couldn’t help but sneer.

“Sir. The palace wants to know if you have any reservations before the battle.”

One of the man’s subordinates whispered. General Vexil frowned.

“His Majesty?”

“No, General. It comes from the palace…not his Majesty’s personal seal.”

“I’m too busy to answer, then. Inform them all precautions have been taken. Why is the palace nervous?”

The [Mage] checked the seal.

“It comes from Duke Rhisveri, General. He…would like to know if you have a contingency plan should the Order of Seasons pass your pikes.”

General Vexil’s head turned. He glowered at the [Mage] as if the unfortunate man were doing the questioning.

“I plan on killing at least a third before they pass the first line of pikes. Lance-arrows strike me, look at them! The fools are going to charge us—”

“They are [Knights], sir. The Order of Seasons is one of the most accomplished [Knight]-Orders in Terandria.”

One of the [Strategists] pointed out cautiously. General Vexil was known to be overconfident in his own right. However, the [General] had made all the correct moves…aside from contemplating retreat or defeat.

“Aura weapons. I’m aware. The Season of Summer is fire, correct? They’ll resist our [Pyromancers], more’s the pity. However, we have enough generalist [Mages] to counter their full power. [High Mage]! Put a dampener on their spirits.”

The singing [Knights] were riding closer, nearly within Greatbow range. They slowed as one of the [Mages] activated yet another counter to their powers. General Vexil snorted and told his [Mage] to disregard the Duke’s complaints until after the battle.

He smiled and looked up as it began to rain.

—-

At first it drizzled. Then it became a downpour. The [Summer Knights] formed up as an unnatural storm began to roll in.

“Summer’s Champion! Weather magic! Do you want us to fight it?”

One of the Autumn Knights attached to his spear rode up to them. There were only about thirty, and a third had been placed at the front of each spear, right behind Greysten, for reasons that Rabbiteater didn’t get. The Goblin had been told he was the only other [Knight] who’d be fighting?

Well, Greysten hadn’t said otherwise, and Rabbiteater wasn’t in charge, so the Goblin sat back and listened as Greysten snapped orders. Unlike Markus, Rabbiteater knew better than to question the [Raid Leader] or Chieftain right before the fight.

“It’s just rain. This [General] hasn’t done his research!”

The Summer’s Champion laughed as he put on his helmet. His voice grew louder despite the muffling armor.

“Now we come to it. Knights of the Autumn, I thank you for joining me! Spring, and Fall join Summer!”

The other [Knights] cheered the small group of Autumn. It was the Order of Seasons’ practice to mix their seasons, Rabbiteater had been told. But only two or three seasons; rarely all four.

If Spring led, Winter and Summer might join it. Or…Winter could call upon Fall. However, one Season always led and was ‘supported’ by the others. The worst scenario was having Winter and Summer in equal numbers; their auras and natures clashed.

This was summer. Greysten rode forwards and bellowed across the pass.

“Forces of Ailendamus! Your trespass on Pheislant’s borders and war of aggression upon the Dawn Concordat will not stand! Not while honor and valor remain in Terandria! I am the Summer’s Champion! I offer you one chance to turn back and forswear your war—or else Summer shall advance! What say you?”

His voice rang out across the close, rocky walls. Ailendamus’ forces jeered—then went silent. A voice called back.

“General Vexil declines your request, Summer’s Champion! He warns you that in the name of His Majesty, Itorin II; Ailendamus will offer no quarter nor mercy! It does not sit so well with General Vexil to spill so much Human blood needlessly!”

Some of the [Summer Knights] snorted. Greysten’s head tilted back to stare at the [General], just visible in the back of his army on a horse of his own. He bellowed back.

“He should not have brought his army, then! Brace yourselves for our charge!”

He rode back to his spear, shaking his head. Ailendamus’ horns began to warble, a threatening, if curious sound. Not the blaring scream Rabbiteater expected.

“Knights of the Summer! There is nothing more that need be said! You know why we are here! The enemy has refused to relent! So, ride with me! Until the last of their [Soldiers] breaks and runs! Summer fades!”

“Summer fades!”

The cheer from nearly a thousand throats was a curious one. There was no time to process it. Rabbiteater’s heart beat harder behind his armor. He rode forwards, among a sea of red and gold.

Ahead of him, the darker colors of Autumn formed up, and the Summer’s Champion began to move forwards. He raised his arm, signaling the [Knights] rather than needing to shout.

Walk. The Order of Seasons advanced at a slow pace. Then—a trot.

There was an invisible line in the ground where the Greatbows would begin to open up. Rabbiteater stared at the twenty-some weapons. They would shoot through [Knights]. Unless they were stopped. He trusted Greysten had a plan.

Charge. That was the plan. However, Ser Markus’ fears, Ryoka’s fears…Rabbiteater didn’t share them. He had looked at Greysten. There was something there.

“Trot!”

One of the [Knights] barked, repeating the order conveyed through Greysten’s gesture. Rabbiteater urged his horse forwards faster.

His armor was plain metal, but it shone with a [Champion]’s Skills. A cloak of red liquid draped itself around him. A lance was in Rabbiteater’s grip, still raised overhead; an axe and sword on either side. The amulet draped around his neck.

He had lost Erin’s Skill. It had faded before he’d even reached the Order of Season’s keep. Rabbiteater wished it had lasted forever. His hand reached down and touched the axe. The cloak.

His brothers were with him. He was among friends. That was enough.

“Canter!”

The Order of Seasons crossed into the maximum firing range of the Greatbows. General Vexil bellowed.

“Take aim!”

The Summer’s Champion saw the Greatbows drawing back. He shouted an order of his own.

“Knights of the Autumn, with me! Forwards!”

They sped up, ahead of the cantering [Summer Knights]. Thirty [Autumn Knights] and the Summer’s Champion. Incomprehensible to General Vexil. He raised a hand as the Order of Seasons began to gallop.

They were still far away. The Greatbows had a range of nearly two thousand feet maximum—further than an unenchanted ballista. General Vexil estimated three volleys could be loosed, but he raised his hand as he barked orders.

“Four—six bows. Aim at the Summer’s Champion. [Piercing Shots]. The rest, aim for the center of each spear-formation. Hold on my mark…”

He waited. Seeing the [Knights] advancing. Timing it, trading distance for accuracy…General Vexil bared his teeth.

“Now! [Pinpoint Volley]! Loose!”

The bows drew back and the huge arrows loosed from each bow with a sound like thunder. They sped across the ground, boosted by both the [Greatbow Archers]’ Skills and General Vexil’s Skill.

—-

Better bows than even her tribe owned. Rags’ mouth was open. The bowl of spicy noodles and runny egg was sitting in front of her; a fork with a bit suspended halfway to her mouth.

She was watching a nation fighting with the same tactics she would employ. Whether they won or lost—it was a lesson. Rags’ Thunderbows were like crossbow-versions of Ailendamus’ Lance-bows, but weaker, without enchanted munitions.

It seemed to her the [Knights] were dead if you took the battle on paper as it was. However, Rags was a Goblin. Every instinct told her that if they were taking this fight, they thought they could win, and thus Ailendamus was in trouble. There was no strategic understanding behind this; just psychology.

Which was why she would have made such a damn good student. Niers sighed as he munched on a single popcorn kernel, which was pretty much enough for one viewing.

On cue, he saw the Order of Seasons activate their Skills before the lance-arrows reached them. Niers snorted.

“Who’s the idiot who didn’t get that [General] to retreat?”

Rags’ head swung around and Niers ducked, cursing, as she narrowed her eyes. She couldn’t see him. Even with her heat-vision—Niers ducked behind the ice cube and the Goblin turned back to the scrying orb.

—-

Here it came. Rabbiteater saw the bows draw back and saw the Summer’s Champion, riding ahead, raise his shield and bellow. What was he going to do? Shield them all like that Named Adventurer?

No. Rabbiteater saw the [Knights of Autumn] raise their own shields. And…wands?

Half of them weren’t even carrying swords! They lifted small staves or wands, even a book, carrying smaller shields in their off-hands. Ahead of the Season of Summer, they rode forwards. Greysten howled.

“[The Sprouting Shields of the Forest]!”

Rabbiteater’s head snapped up as the Summer’s Champion used one of the combination Skills of the Order of Seasons. Ahead of him, he saw each Knight of the Autumn burst into a colorful…shield?

A hovering barrier appeared around all thirty galloping [Knights]. Aura and magic. The first lance-arrows connected with the glowing barriers and—exploded.

—-

“General! No contact!”

General Vexil cursed as he saw the same thing through his spyglass. He snapped.

“[Instantaneous Reload]! Volley! What is that—?”

The second wave of lance-arrows loosed so fast he saw the blur of the glowing bolts and the explosion once again made the galloping Knights of Autumn vanish. Only when they reappeared did Vexil finally see the curious…barriers they were wielding.

“Those lance-arrows should have pierced straight through a magical barrier!”

He snapped at his lead [Strategist]. They didn’t look right, either. Magical barriers were shimmering walls or physical manifestations like stone. These? These looked like—like—

Mushrooms. Each [Autumn Knight] was racing forwards with a shroom-shaped shield around them. Powered by their auras as well as magical force.

The second volley burst on them and Vexil saw three shields waver; collapse. Instantly, the Knights of the Autumn fell back, racing away, through the lines of their Summer brethren. The Summer’s Champion was using them as expendable shields to cover his advance!

“Reload! I want those barriers gone! [Archers]! Prepare to volley! [Mages]—lightning bolts!”

Vexil snarled. He saw his [High Mage] looking worried. If those barriers could block lance-arrows—

However, the Summer’s Champion had already lost three. He was galloping ahead of the barriers, presenting himself as a target. A lance-arrow flew and he shouted a Skill—blocked the oversized bolt and galloped out of the cloud of smoke and ash. He shook out his shield-arm, dropping back behind the Knights of the Autumn for a second.

Now, Ailendamus’ army was fully in range, and all bows and Greatbows and [Mages] opened up.

—-

“Shields up! [Great Shield]! [Strike my Shield]!”

A [Knight] bellowed as the Summer Knights came into range. Eight more [Autumn Knights] fell back, two nearly falling from their horses as they blocked a third volley of the lance-arrows. They were spent, but they were blocking the most deadly attacks.

The arrows and spells were no less potent, though. Rabbiteater’s shield was firmly overhead. He felt an arrow strike his armor; lodge there.

A piercing attack of some kind. If it hadn’t been for the distance and his [Champion]-enhanced gear—Rabbiteater heard a cry.

One of the Summer Knights fell from the saddle across from him. Someone else slowed, healing potion in hand. Other [Knights] took wounds and ripped potions from their satchels, tending to wounds.

However, the rest never slowed. The arrows fell again. Rabbiteater could see the first rank of pikes now, the faces of the [Soldiers] who had lost their confidence as the thousand-some [Summer Knights] streamed towards them.

Behind them, Ser Thornst had spotted Ailendamus’ cavalry bursting from their hiding places, sweeping in to cut the Summer Knights down from behind. The Knights of the Spring charged, with Pheislant’s forces right behind.

The Knights of Summer were going to hit Ailendamus’ lines. The pikes were bracing up. Rabbiteater lifted his lance, readying himself. What was going to happen next? He stared at the glittering line of steel waiting for him to run himself onto it. He couldn’t slow down. Hundreds of [Knights] were at his back.

“Now! Voost, Zulv! Charge!”

The Summer’s Champion raced forwards ahead of the Autumn Knights blocking the final shots from the Greatbows. The leaders of their spears joined him. Greysten galloped into the trench dug to slow them down and raced up it, straight towards the [Pikemen] in front of him.

Dame Voost, Ser Zulv, and Greysten charged alone into the first ranks of pikes. The Summer’s Champion just lowered his shield and his armored warhorse hit the metal tips. Rabbiteater and General Vexil watched as the thick pikes snapped, unable to pierce his armor.

The Summer’s Champion crashed into the ranks of terrified Humans, swinging his axe with one hand, shield raised. His weapon was coated in his aura, burning, cutting down [Soldiers] around him as his horse left a trail of fire. A living ball of fire laid about with a roar.

To his left, Dame Voost saw the drop. Instead of descending like Greysten, she stood up in the stirrups of her galloping horse’s saddle and leapt.

Rabbiteater looked up and his jaw opened beneath his helmet, despite everything. He saw a trail of fire. Wings?

Dame Voost landed in a burst of flames, passing over the first rank of pikes in a leap, burning wings sprouting from her back. Her sword was already drawn. She parried a startled [Captain]’s sword, beheaded the man and slashed around her, forcing the [Soldiers] back. The Season of Summer’s champion of the blades whirled, slashing down her foes as fast as the Summer’s Champion rampaging in the first ranks.

Ser Zulv was last. He neither leapt nor trusted in his armor to save him from impalement; he slowed as he came upon his rank of pikes and whirled his sword.

“[Sundering Scythe]!”

He slashed the pikes, severing the tips, and charged forwards into the [Soldiers]. They bunched up, pushing at him with shields, aiming more spears, weapons at him. Ser Zulv raised his sword and cried out.

“[Company: Rallying Teleport]!”

Behind him, Rabbiteater saw two dozen [Knights] pop out of the air and appear next to Zulv. They hit the [Soldiers] unawares, and the band of [Knights] began to carve in, swords flashing as Zulv aimed them towards the Summer’s Champion, who himself was heading towards Voost, sowing chaos in the first ranks.

—-

Three areas folding and the other [Knights] hadn’t even hit them! General Vexil’s world slowed. The [General] was standing in a miniaturized time-slow world to process the battle. Calm. The [Knights] had taken too few casualties, but—

“High-level targets. Send in the Order of the Thirsting Veil!”

Each army had its champions who could break formations. You had to deal with them, but they were trying to give their fellows an opening.

Not on his watch. General Vexil snapped.

“[No Retreat! No Surrender! Hold Your Ground!]”

The buckling pikes froze. Instantly, they swung their weapons up, presenting perfect rows of teeth, despite the small holes in them. They’d hold—even if the [Knights] rampaged all the way through them from behind.

Time returned to normal. Vexil whirled and pointed at Ser Zulv and the [Knights] who’d come with him.

“Mark that group of [Knights]. I want them dead.”

“That’s Wildfire’s Wrath. A company of elite [Summer Knights].”

“Run them into our veterans!”

Vexil turned back. The first rank might take horrendous casualties, but the pikes were aimed at the [Knights] about to charge into the valley before them. They weren’t all Level 40+! He waited…and saw the ground flicker. General Vexil’s eyes went wide.

—-

Ailendamus had dug a trench to force the [Knights] to climb up into the stabbing pikes. A wonderful tactic using nothing but geography to punish enemy forces. A classic that had killed entire armies on Earth; taking the high ground was a nightmare.

Tyrion Veltras had just looked at Ryoka when she pointed out the nightmare of fighting like that. His response had been ‘so what’?

It was a giant hole in the ground. This? This was a magical world.

—-

“Now! Up!”

The first scrolls were unrolled. The Summer Knights charged into the trench. No—over the trench. Rabbiteater stared down at the glowing ‘ground’. He followed the [Knight] in front of him up—over the light bridge.

The [Pikemen] looked up as the first Summer Knights climbed the temporary bridges and charged down onto them. Rabbiteater saw the first terrified Humans trying to swing their pikes up—then he thrust his lance forwards.

“Forwards!”

Talia and Chise were right behind them. They thrust their lances forwards, wrenching them loose. The Summer Knights crashed forwards.

—-

“Hey. They stole our tactics.”

One of Embria’s [Soldiers] pointed at the [Light Bridge] spell. The Drake rolled her eyes.

“We didn’t invent it, you idiots. Keep watching.”

—-

“They’ve passed the first rank, General! Orders?”

“Put up the [Stone Walls]! Now!”

[Mages] began erecting walls of stone, raising them in front of the charging [Knights]. Vexil watched, stomach churning.

This was going south—the Season of Summer was rampaging forwards. The second rank of pikes was advancing into them, but the Summer’s Champion couldn’t be stopped! He was clearing a path for the [Knights] around him to continue their charge unimpeded.

“Send the Order of the Thirsting Veil forwards!”

The [Knights] on standby and not fighting the Spring Knights surged forwards to halt the charge of the Summer’s Champion. General Vexil pointed.

“[Formation: Anchors of Lead]!”

—-

The Summer’s Champion grunted as he hit a [Soldier] and felt the weight of the impact push him back slightly. Suddenly, trying to push the [Soldiers] was difficult. Each one seemed to weigh three times as much!

“Enemy [Knights] incoming!”

Ser Zulv called. Greysten bared his teeth.

“With me, Zulv, Wildfire! Let’s crush them! Summer fades! [Call to Single Combat]! Come, Ailendamus’ champion!”

He pointed and one of the [Knights] jerked back as if struck. The [Knight-Captain] and the Summer’s Champion wheeled their mounts around. They rode towards each other as the [Soldiers] and other [Knights] fell back. Zulv led his Wildfire’s Wrath company at the Order of the Thirsting Veil, clashing with the poisoned weapons of Ailendamus’ champions. Greysten raised his axe.

“[Hill Ogre’s Smash]!”

His first blow knocked his enemy clean from the saddle. The Summer’s Champion was swinging around and riding down on him in the next second. Wildfire’s Wrath was also taking apart the Order of the Thirsting Veil, who hadn’t expected to fight so many [Knights] uninjured.

However, the leftwards charge had stopped dead in its tracks and the [Soldiers] were closing in. Rabbiteater swung his sword, having left his lance behind. He lashed down, his sword carving shoulders and faces. There was no room to use [Grand Slash]. He was just—fighting! He would have pushed further in, but someone grabbed his shoulder.

“Ser Solstice! With me!”

The Goblin jerked. He looked over and saw Dame Voost. The Goblin recalled himself and backed up. He was part of a group. He had been fighting as if he was alone again. But this?

“Summer Knights! To me!”

The [Summer Knights] were pressing in on the middle where Rabbiteater was, but they’d slowed, inevitably, in the press of bodies. Dame Voost recalled all but the front-most ranks. Talia, panting, rode forwards. Chise was unhorsed and moving back, arm hanging limp.

Voost looked around, taking in around sixty [Knights] in their area who’d answered her shout. She pointed.

“We are setting up a second charge! Here! With me! Lances! Ser Solstice—”

She grabbed a spare from a bag of holding and tossed it at him. Greatly surprised, the Goblin saw the [Knights] moving into another wedge, following Dame Voost. She led them forwards in the press of bodies, moving back in order to gain room.

“Trot!”

They barely had twenty feet before the front lines! That was enough, though. The [Knights] moved into a tight formation. Talia glanced at Rabbiteater, expecting the Goblin to get in the way—but he was as well-trained as they were. They moved forwards with the discipline of, well, [Knights].

“Canter!”

Voost was aiming for a thin area of pikes. The Humans were staring at the [Knights] as the fighters drew back, knowing exactly what was going to happen.

“Charge! [Burst of Speed]!”

The Order of Seasons hit the thin wall of [Soldiers] and crashed through with all the momentum of a fresh charge. Rabbiteater saw them tear past terrified faces. The [Summer Knights] were shouting wrath and fury, running down more [Soldiers].

“The archers! There! There, with me!”

Voost swung her sword, and the narrow wedge changed directions. They continued to rampage forwards as they ran past the pikes at last. Rabbiteater looked over his shoulder as he heard another shout. He saw another spear of [Knights] crashing through the side of the [Soldiers] around the Summer’s Champion. He began to understand.

—-

They were just…charging. General Vexil realized his mistake. The Order of Seasons hadn’t lied. They had the means to reach his lines. And once they were there…they couldn’t be stopped.

Individual companies were forming up, mounting charges within his army, building up speed and crashing forwards. His entire plan had been to slow them, but they refused to halt.

A formation was useless if it couldn’t hold! Nor could the Greatbows fire on their own soldiers so easily.

He ordered it anyways.

“Strike them!”

A cluster of [Knights] vanished as the Greatbows tracked them and loosed. Another group ran into walls of magic. They hacked at the shields, and then found themselves boxed in. They went down fighting.

However, too many [Knights] were pushing in. The first ones reached the ranks of archers at last. The bowmen and women looked up as the first angry [Knight] came at them, whirling a bloody sword.

Their nerve broke. They began to run.

“Hold your ground!”

Vexil tried to use his Skill again; if they stopped battering the [Knights], all was lost! He wasn’t able to, but one of the [Strategists] shouted.

“[Restore Courage]!”

The [Archers] turned, and to Vexil’s relief, began loosing arrows point-blank. The [Knight] went down as some attacked with shortswords. He mopped sweat from his forehead, panting. The damned rain made it hard to see; ironically the same rain he had hoped to weaken their auras with was now making aiming the Greatbows difficult.

“Shoot the Summer’s Champion! I don’t care if our [Knights] are in the way!”

He snapped at the [Strategist]. The man paled.

“But, General—”

“I will take responsibility!”

“Sir, we can barely tell where the Summer’s Champion is!”

Vexil swung around. Had they lost sight of that [Knight]? Impossible! He was—

Where? The [General] swung his spyglass around. That was when he realized something.

The rain. The rain had become…thick. It was getting hard to see. The downpour was one thing, but why…? Vexil lowered the spyglass, wiped at the front. Was that condensation?

No, he realized. It was…mist. Steam?

Steam was rising from the battlefield. Vexil saw the [Summer Knights] fighting, the glow of their aura-weapons few and far between. Most weren’t using visible weapons; only the Summer’s Champion, Voost, and Wildfire’s Wrath. But he’d heard they were aura-specialists. So…where was their aura going?

The battlefield. Steam was rising everywhere. Suddenly, Vexil felt at his brow and realized the sweat coming from his forehead wasn’t entirely due to fear. It was hot.

And it was getting hotter.

—-

The first inkling Rabbiteater had was when a [Soldier] stumbled and cursed before Rabbiteater struck him down. The man looked—unwell. He’d been clawing at his head. Why?

Rabbiteater thought it was just a random thing. Like a wasp landing inside your helmet; ill luck on the battlefield. However, he realized…more and more [Soldiers] were faltering.

They were getting tired, even before they clashed with the [Summer Knights]. It grew even more apparent after the fourth charge. Rabbiteater saw a man drop his sword, crying out. Rabbiteater swung his sword down, and then stared at the…smoke…rising from the dead man’s armor.

It was then he heard the screams and realized the rain wasn’t hitting him anymore. Rabbiteater looked up.

It was still raining, but the rain wasn’t even reaching the ground anymore. Steam rose in huge clouds. And that was higher up.

On the ground, a [Soldier] clawed at her helmet. It had begun to glow slightly, and she screamed, tossing away the burning piece of metal. In fact—Rabbiteater remembered Greysten handing him the amulet.

He looked down at it and saw a sigil that looked like a burning flame on the ruby. The Goblin raised it and realized what it was.

Amulet of Fire Resistance. He looked around and saw Ailendamus’ army devolving into chaos.

“Hold your ground! Hold—”

A [Captain] screamed at her men. But they couldn’t even hold onto their weapons.

“My armor is burning! I can’t—”

A [Soldier] fought to swing up his shield as Talia rode down on him. Another [Pikewoman] stared at the shaft of her weapon. The treated ash was beginning to smoke. Then—it burst into flame as the [Summer Knight] approached.

Aura. A thousand [Knights] were bringing the heat of the summer into this confined pass. Rabbiteater’s eyes widened.

—-

General Vexil felt the wave of heat dry the damp from his clothing. He croaked.

“Sound the retreat. Dismantle the Greatbows. Hold them off—form a line here and—retreat!”

He hadn’t expected this. The palace? The palace was going to have his head. He had to pull the [Soldiers] back. He could do that, at least. Save the Greatbows!

His [Strategists] looked at him, but then they sprang into action. Vexil scrambled for his mount, which was trying to run out of this—this oven! Damn those [Knights]! Burning to death was not honor!

The [General] was trying to undo the unwisely sturdy knot he’d tied with the reins. He gave up and slashed them free. He was in the saddle when the steam cloud parted. One of his [Strategists] ran back towards him.

“General, they’ve reached the command—”

Vexil saw a lance run the man through the back. The [General] looked up. In the chaos, the [Summer Knights] were routing the fleeing army of Ailendamus, who were running out of the heat wave. Even they had no idea where the enemy really was with the steam blocking everything.

A [Knight], breathing slightly hard, stopped when he spotted Vexil. The [General] had drawn his sword.

“You damned cowards. Which Season are you? Winter?”

He stared at the grey armor—not like Summer or Autumn. Spring? A new [Knight]? No—Vexil saw the [Knight] raise his sword and shield at once, on-guard.

“Hm. Not any season. Just me.”

The [Knight] grunted in reply. Vexil hesitated. A foreign [Knight]? He pressed his knees into his stallion’s side, bracing.

“Then—die!”

He lunged forwards, riding in hard. His sword extended. The [Champion] saw the blow coming and threw himself out of the saddle.

[Greater Speed].

Rabbiteater hit the ground, rolled. The enemy [Soldier] thundered past him, cursing. Turning. He was too canny to let Rabbiteater take him from behind.

“Face me, [Knight]! I am Vexil of Ailendamus!”

It seemed like he’d run into an officer of some kind. Rabbiteater’s [Dangersense] was tingling. Of all the times to lose Talia and Voost! He hid himself in the steam, grateful his armor gave him more cover. He heard the horse’s hooves even amid the fighting around him.

Well, this was more of a Redfang’s fight anyways. Rabbiteater grinned. He moved sideways, as Vexil’s head turned. However, the man couldn’t hear him.

[Muffled Armor]. A low-level [Knight-Errant]’s Skill. Rabbiteater eyed the horse he could barely see.

“Sorry, horse.”

“There you a—dead gods!”

That was because Rabbiteater had thrown his sword. He’d angled it right, so the hilt smacked the horse on the neck. Hard. The animal reared. Vexil might have maintained control—but then Rabbiteater threw his shield.

The stallion had had enough. It bucked the [General], and he lost his grip on the severed reins, forgetting they were cut. He hit the ground, but rolled onto his feet.

“You—cowardly—”

The [General] spat mud out of his mouth. He whirled, trying to guard himself on all sides. Why had that [Knight] thrown his sword? He turned, sensed the air ripple—

“[Perfect Parry]!”

[Grand Slash]. The two Skills collided and Rabbiteater heard a cry. He frowned through the steam. It sounded like the Human had managed to block part of it. But he’d still hit armor.

Good armor. The Goblin stood motionless. Listening. Then he adjusted the weapon he carried. The jade axe began to glow.

—-

[Grand Slash]. Vexil’s sword-arm was torn up. He’d actually blocked most of the blow—barely. His armor had taken the rest. The enchanted metal had resisted it; his gauntlets hadn’t done as well.

He switched hands, his arm shaking. He called out.

“I—”

Vexil hesitated. He had been about to say ‘I surrender’. However, he’d reconsidered.

Surrender? He would be dead even if he were ransomed. This was a disaster. He had to at least return with some of his army! He’d take what he could, sneak into Gaiil-Drome and burn the damn forest down with a small band if he had to. Then he might survive.

He just had to escape the [Knight]. Vexil crept through the mist, away from where he’d been standing. They were both waiting. Listening for any motion.

Both had enchanted weapons it seemed. Whoever struck first might win, and Vexil was a [General].

[Flurry Strikes] followed by [Lance Thrust]. His last two close-combat Skills. It should kill that [Knight] and then all Vexil had to do was run—or play dead. Either way…

A sound in the mist made him whirl. There! The [Knight] had stepped on something. Vexil lunged.

“[Flurry Strikes]!”

He had found Rabbiteater. The sword lanced forwards, striking, hitting home. Hitting—

This wasn’t right. It didn’t feel like a body or armor. It felt like he was striking—

The steam cleared. Vexil saw the crimson cloak shift. His sword cut through the Cloak of Plenty harmlessly.

Rabbiteater lowered the cloak he’d lifted on one arm to fool the Human’s depth-perception. He saw the man step back. Rabbiteater swung Headscatcher’s axe. The glowing jade projection slashed through the air.

Vexil saw what he thought was a crimson glow through the visor of the helmet. But why—?

—-

Ser Markus was badly wounded on his left leg. He wanted to heal it, but the tip of the enemy [Knight]’s lance had been poisoned. At least one of the Autumn Knights had neutralized it.

The Season of Spring hadn’t fought in the pass for obvious reasons, and Ser Markus had been roundly berated by his fellow Spring Knights for not realizing the obvious tactic of combining heat-auras. Winter Knights did the same thing in bulk too.

He’d feel awfully embarrassed about it later, and probably hear jokes about it all year. Right now though, Ser Markus was riding into Stone Giant’s pass, despite the pain in his leg.

“Talia! Talia!”

He found her first, tending to Chise, who was also wounded. More Summer Knights had fallen than Markus would have liked; well, one was too many.

However, Ailendamus’ army was well and truly in flight. Talia looked up.

“Markus, you’re injured. Are the others okay?”

“No one died. We outnumbered their ambush group. Where’s Ser Solstice?”

Markus panted. Talia looked sharply at him, but Markus was worried. Rabbiteater had been in the vanguard. Had he…?

“He’s over there. That fool.”

She jerked her head. Markus turned. What did that mean? He rode forwards, through the clearing steam and found Rabbiteater.

Greysten carefully inspected General Vexil—or what was left of him. It was really hard to tell. Rabbiteater had hit the enemy [General] in the head with his enchanted axe.

“So you didn’t know it was the Ailendamus [General]?”

He looked at Rabbiteater. The Goblin shrugged. Dame Voost looked amused; Ser Zulv was somewhat appalled.

Mainly because Rabbiteater had taken Vexil’s armor and his sword. And his horse. And boots. He was trying all of them on. Ser Markus stared as the Goblin grunted.

“Didn’t know. Thought a [General] would be smarter.”

“Ser Solstice? You killed the enemy [General]…?”

Markus stared, swaying a bit. Rabbiteater looked up and sprang to his feet.

“Markus. Your leg. Here.”

He offered a healing potion, but Markus ignored it. Rabbiteater looked up at the Spring Knight as Markus gave him a wide, slightly unhinged grin.

“How?”

“He was a [General]. Not Ailendamus’ best. Ser Solstice is as fine a warrior as any.”

Voost remarked. Rabbiteater shrugged with his characteristic modesty.

“No. Would have been harder. He was stupid. See?”

He pointed. Markus stared at the remains of the [General]’s head and hesitated. How…?

Rabbiteater explained as he shook his head.

“No helmet. Stupid, stupid.”

—-

The first battle between the Order of Seasons and Ailendamus was an overwhelming victory. Vexil’s fault was not knowing the full-capabilities of a [Knight] charge.

Ailendamus would send another army. A better army. If there was one difference between an empire of its size and a smaller kingdom—it could afford to lose multiple armies. Not to mention tailor each one for a purpose.

Nevertheless, the Dawn Concordat celebrated the Order of Seasons, welcoming help at last. That was the news. The fact that an unknown [Knight] had slain the enemy [General] was a footnote, but it was a note. Most put it down to a foreign [Knight] joining the Order of Seasons.

Mrsha waved two little flags she’d written Rabbiteater’s name on wildly and cheered, again, silently. She danced around Rags.

Rabbiteater’s amazing! Rabbiteater’s awesome! I want to be a [Knight]!

Mrsha the Squire planned on bragging about it to Ekirra and Visma. She knew Rabbiteater! She would have run down to Liscor to find her friends, but Ekirra was still mad at her. Even though it was his fault!

She’d gotten in big trouble with Selys and Ishkr about that. However, that was yesterday-Mrsha’s problems.

Stinky Rags didn’t even want to talk with Mrsha, though. She was just whispering with Ulvama and Calescent. The [Chef] slurped some of his spicy-noodle with egg that was so tasty.

“Rabbiteater did good. Lots of [Knights]. Think he can get us armor?”

“Hm. Too far. Let him do what he wants. I’m more worried about [Knights]. Looks like Thunderbows are too weak. I need to revisit the plan, then.”

Ulvama just snorted.

“Don’t fight [Knights] on flat ground. Fight in tunnels and collapse roof on them.”

“Sometimes you have to fight them flat.”

Rags sighed. She rubbed at her head, frowning as she considered the battle and how she would have done it. Those [Summer Knights] were too much like the Rose Knights for her liking. Although…a bit less high-quality gear if some had gone down to arrows and whatnot. Less defense, more dangerous aura-abilities. She hadn’t thought to make Goblinhome flame-proof.

“Chieftain Rags, I have fought Izril [Knights]. Even Terandrian [Knights]. More importantly, I, Ulvama, can help you remember when Chieftains fought [Knights]. If I am your [Shaman].”

Ulvama smiled sweetly. Rags glanced at her. The [Shaman] was still trying to get a promise to come back with Rags. The Goblin Chieftain shrugged.

“Taganchiel can do the same. I can do it by myself as well.”

Ulvama’s smile turned into a scowl instantly.

“Taganchiel is chief shaman? That idiot?”

“Mhm. I will tell him you said hello.”

“Chieftain…”

Ulvama tried again, but she kept brushing away Mrsha. The little Gnoll saw the [Shaman] round on her.

“What, what?”

Mrsha held up a card. Ulvama stared at it.

Can you pwease enchant my fur with armor?

Mrsha had added a little heart at the end too. Ulvama stared at her.

“You want armor-markings?”

Mrsha the Knight nodded. With her [Fur of the Fortress] Skill, she’d be the strongest kid on the playground! She was sure they’d all seen this and they were probably getting weapons for a proper skirmish. Ulvama checked the note. Mrsha gave the [Shaman] a winsome look.

“No. I’m busy.”

Ulvama chopped Mrsha on the forehead. The Gnoll girl howled silently and kicked Ulvama in the shins. The Goblin promptly kicked back. Mrsha hopped on one leg and held her forehead, debated punching Ulvama—and remembered the Goblin didn’t stop retaliating like other adults did. You hit her, she hit back.

Dispirited, Mrsha slunk away. Stinky Ulvama. She headed for the door instead. Two Brothers followed her, and Mrsha sauntered up to the door. Liska was on-duty.

Liscor, please and thank you!

Liska eyed the note. The Gnoll was chewing on something. She slowly, carefully, reached for another bit of some kind of gum-bark from Baleros that Palt had given her. Popped another square into her mouth.

“Nope.”

Mrsha’s face fell. Liska glanced at her.

“You’re in trouble for poisoning people. Shoo. Ishkr’ll be mad if I let you out.”

Mrsha raised her paws in outrage! She couldn’t be grounded! She had enacted justice yesterday! Okay, Ekirra hadn’t forgiven her and she was in trouble because he’d cried, but he had been mean first! And the [Knights] had been—been—

She was trying to write all this down on paper since Liska didn’t know Mrsha-signs, but the Gnoll wouldn’t even read it!

“I’m not letting you out. Go away.”

Mrsha the Indignant raised a punching fist. Liska saw it. She raised a kicking foot.

“I’m not letting you hit me. I’ll kick you. Go away.”

The little Gnoll stared at Liska. She slunk away, but not before pointing two furry fingers at her eyes and then at Liska. A clear threat. The Gnoll saw Mrsha slink behind a door, stare balefully at her, then shut it hard.

“What a little spoiled brat.”

Liska muttered. Mrsha yanked the door open and made a rude gesture. Liska made one right back.

—-

Mrsha the Vengeful would make Liska pay. She was already formulating a way to get more of Calescent’s spice. Spicy ice cream! Spicy gum! Wait, spicy gum sounded sort of nice.

No one could stop Mrsha! She wanted to prevail on her agent, Niers, but he was still observing Rags. Mrsha stomped about, angry, plotting vengeance. A little Gnoll girl without proper parents.

Wanderer had seen it all before. At least she didn’t look underfed. However, she was certainly going wild. No parents. But then…they’d been killed, hadn’t they?

The Gnoll thoughtfully slipped away. It was easier to stare through a window than anything. Although hard enough; the Goblins had good eyes, the Antinium on the roof had nearly spotted him three times, and he wasn’t going to even risk going inside.

Not with those hatted Humans. Still, he wasn’t Wanderer for nothing. He sighed as he returned to the city.

Gnoll child with white fur loses her tribe. Lost, with uncaring Gnolls or…hostile ones. There was just one thing he couldn’t figure out.

“Excuse me. It’s me again.”

When he returned to the inn where he was staying, Wanderer approached the counter. The Gnoll [Innkeeper] gave him a friendly look. Pawful of Cotton wasn’t a high-class inn. It was cheap though, and Gnoll-centric. It certainly wasn’t The Wandering Inn.

“Oh, hello. Etrh, right?”

Wanderer smiled.

“That’s me. I just had one more question about the inn—I tried to get in, but it’s closed.”

“The Wandering Inn? Terrible business.”

The Gnoll’s face fell. Wanderer nodded.

“About the…damned murderers. Hectval.”

The [Innkeeper] pursed his lips to spit, eyed his clean counter, and thought better of it.

“What about them? If you’re asking about the murderers, they’re dead. Torn to pieces by the Goblin. Good; I just wish he’d sliced them up before.”

The other Gnoll nodded. His brown fur was as innocuous as could be. Dyed, of course, and then scented with the road and normal smells. He leaned on the counter, frowning.

“Yes, yes. You said. Can you tell me—are you sure it was Drakes who did it? There wasn’t one Gnoll?”

The [Innkeeper] gave Wanderer a blank look.

“One of us? Why would there be? No, it was Drakes.”

“Hrr. Well, thank you.”

Wanderer left it at that. He had no proof of course. But the pieces were there. A Gnoll child picked up by a kind Human [Innkeeper]. Then…some Tribe heard about it and ‘took care’ of the cursed child. Only, they got the Human instead.

They’d come back. Or if it really hadn’t been more than a Drake city…they’d come. Wanderer shook his head. Even with all the guardians, that was no place for a child to grow up alone. Just…how did you get to her? He sighed.

Coinpurse was going to owe him big for making this much work for him.

—-

Mrsha the Not-A-Spoiled-Brat stole Kevin’s laptop. The young man protested, yawning.

“Hey. I need that. What do you mean, it’s ‘your turn’?”

The little Gnoll held up a card. It was her turn! She got a turn, and Numbtongue did. They’d worked it out back when Numbtongue and her had fought over it. Mrsha got a turn, Numbtongue got a turn, and everyone else got a turn.

Since Numbtongue was sad, Mrsha got to use it for two thirds of the time and Kevin, as a ‘everyone else’, could use it for one third of the time.

The [Mechanic]’s lips moved as he tried to work out her impeccable logic. In the end, he shrugged.

“Fine. But let me save my data first. You can use it, but don’t delete anything, understand?”

Mrsha nodded impatiently. Then she took the computer. She wanted to watch the crime movie again. For notes. Mrsha was going to rule this filthy city if she had to stand on the burned tongues of her enemies to do it!

She began watching a movie in the Garden of Sanctuary, but then realized…no one was here. The beavers were sleeping.

Mrsha the Crime Boss looked around. It…wasn’t bad that this was the case, but suddenly she wanted to watch in the common room. She knew she was supposed to keep the laptop secret, but she wanted Ulvama to watch with her. Or Kevin. Or Niers. Or…

Anyone.

Mrsha padded into the common room. She looked around, and then carried the laptop over to Ulvama. She tugged at the [Shaman]’s arm.

“What? Watch? No. I’m busy.”

Ulvama was in deep discussion with Rags and Calescent. Rags frowned at the strange object in Mrsha’s hand, but Ulvama didn’t seem to care. Mrsha stomped her feet and punched Ulvama’s leg—then ran off to a far table to watch by herself.

Stupid Ulvama! Stupid, stinking Ulvama with her big butt and stupid face! Now she couldn’t even watch the movie and have fun. Mrsha looked around the quiet inn. She missed Temile. She missed the [Actors] and Menolit and everyone. She…

Sniffed.

She missed Lyonette. She’d promised to come back by now. Ryoka had promised. Everyone lied. Adults all lied and the world was sin and crime and…they all left.

The door opened and closed. Mrsha didn’t look up; she’d put her head on the table. She heard Liska’s voice.

“No killing Goblins. Okay, I said it. You kill Goblins, you die. You can look around for a while, but we’re not open.”

“Dead gods.”

There were some hushed voices. The Goblins looked up. Mrsha raised her head, pulling down the laptop’s screen. She heard a flurry of voices.

“—leave it. Or do you want to cause an incident? Where…? Ah.”

She saw four people standing in the doorway, taking in the inn. Mrsha’s eyes went round. She saw four Humans. Humans wearing golden armor.

[Knights]. Ser Dalimont and the other three Thronebearers spotted Mrsha at the same time as she saw them.

There they were. Suddenly, here! Thanks to Liska! How had they found her?

“There truly only is one white Gnoll child in the city. How strange. Well done, Ser Dalimont.”

The lone female [Knight] nodded to him. Ser Dalimont sighed, rubbing at still slightly-puffy lips. Mrsha shrank in her seat.

Boring competence! Her mortal enemy! Mrsha’s pulse accelerated, like the [Rogue] whose misdeeds had finally caught up to her.

It might be a terrible reckoning. Ekirra had been mildly burned and he’d still had a terrible day. The Thronebearers had been carried out on stretchers.

They were right here, too. Nowhere to hide…Mrsha’s eyes slunk sideways towards the nearest wall. She’d run for it! Numbtongue was asleep, but she could door-port into his room. All she had to do was…

“Excuse me, young Gnoll Miss! Yes, you! I should like to have a word with you.”

One of the Thronebearers strode across the room. The Goblins turned back. Ulvama sharply. She saw one of the Sers—not Dalimont—bearing down on Mrsha.

Liska had already gone back to the door, blissfully ignorant of what she’d caused. However, the rest of the inn’s protectors were more aware of the danger of armored Humans asking about white Gnolls.

Rags was allergic to non-Goblins in armor to begin with. She reached for her bag of holding and the crossbow, eying the four [Knights]. Three Goblins versus four [Knights] wasn’t a matchup she wanted to take after today’s broadcast, but…she eyed the curiously cold patch on the beams.

Maybe she wouldn’t have to.

—-

Niers Astoragon realized he’d been made at the same time as he yanked his shortsword out of cover. Damn! He was all for pranks, which was why he’d helped Mrsha, but depending on how this went, he might have to get involved.

If only to stop four Thronebearers from getting murdered in this inn!

The danger this time was not things going south for Mrsha. Rather, to Niers, it was three skilled Hobs on one side—and four Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings leaning out of their hallway position. They looked grim and if one of those ponced [Knights] so much as raised a hand, they’d be kissing armor-piercing daggers through their backs. Assuming they survived that, there was a mentally unstable Goblin with a crystal sword, an Antinium [Hunter] on the roof, and angry Beavers.

Mrsha saw the angry [Knight] coming and bolted from her seat for the nearest wall. Mrsha the Evasive leapt from her chair—

“Not so fast! [A Necessary Discussion]!”

—And froze. The foreign Thronebearer had grabbed her! With a Skill she’d never heard of! He halted as the other three [Knights] walked forwards. Only Ser Dalimont glanced around uneasily. The other two called out.

“Don’t be too extreme, Ser Lormel.”

“Extreme? I should like a word myself.”

The female [Knight]’s brows were thunderous. Mrsha quaked, unable to move. Help me, Ulvama! Help me, Crimshaw!

Help me, Erin?

Her panic-stricken look made the [Shaman] raise her staff. Her eyes and tattoos began to glow ominously. Ser Dalimont reached for the shield at his side.

“Ser Lormel, perhaps you should halt one second—”

Too late. The Thronebearer loomed over Mrsha. His golden armor was resplendently luminous, polished and buffed. He looked like a shining figure out of stories—only slightly marred by lips that looked like a duck’s bill.

“So, here is the perpetrator of yesterday’s incident. A restaurant’s reputation in ruins! Four Thronebearers of Eternal Calanfer, poisoned! I have some words for you, young lady.”

Ser Lormel leaned down. The Brothers tightened their grips on their crossbow triggers. Niers opened his mouth to shout a word and Ulvama swung her staff up. Mrsha closed her eyes, covering her head as Lormel’s hand flashed down.

“So this is my fate. I’ve washed my paws in blood, and it’s time to dance the hempen jig at last. Do I have any regrets? Only that I didn’t get away with it.”

–Mrsha the [Gang Boss]

—-

An armored finger poked Mrsha gently in the forehead.

“Very bad girl. One does not pour spice into other people’s food. I should like to tell you, young lady, that we all had to visit the [Healer]’s because of you. Most unpleasant. I would like a word with your parents, and I would like you to consider the consequences of your actions.”

Ser Lormel waved a finger in front of Mrsha’s bewildered face, his expression stern and angry. Then he glanced at the other two Thronebearers.

“I say, was that too harsh?”

The female [Knight] frowned, still wrathful.

“Stern words, Ser Lormel, but leave it to her parents to decide a proper punishment. So long as it is appropriately done. What is the saying? ‘Spare the rod, spoil the child?’”

The other [Knight] turned to her.

“I believe, Dame Ushar, that the phrase is ‘if they don’t spare the rod, break their fingers. Spoil the child.’ A rather crude proverb other [Knight] orders employ.”

“Quite so, Ser Sest. Thank you for reminding me. So then, I should like to have a word with this young one’s guardians! Where is that Drake? I assume she’s a [Caretaker] of some sort?”

Dame Ushar folded her arms and looked around the inn imperiously. Ser Lormel frowned at Mrsha. He saw her wide eyes and terrified expression and immediately knelt.

“I seem to have gone too far. I’m not angry, child. Not more than needs be. However, that prank could have hurt someone of less robust nature than the Thronebearers of Calanfer! Which is what we are. Let us promise not to do so again and we shall say no more of it.”

He smiled and held out his hand. Mrsha stared at it and the [Knight] trying to reassure her.

Behind them, the Goblins had gone still. Ulvama had choked on magical fire—in a literal sense—and was now hiccupping it out bit by bit.

The Brothers were all staring at the unexpected turn of events. One of them still had a finger on the crossbow’s trigger. He accidentally squeezed too hard—Crimshaw’s hand blurred and yanked the bolt out before the thunk became fatal.

The Thronebearers all looked up, and took in the room again. They eyed the Goblins warily and Dame Ushar stepped back.

“…Goblins and not a soul in sight. Fellow Thronebearers, do you suppose this child has been neglected? Ser Dalimont, what did you say you heard about this inn, again?”

“That the owner was dead. And that someone like our target was spotted here.”

Ser Dalimont, the [Knight] of Princess Seraphel, turned and looked down at Mrsha. He regarded her as she peered up at him. Ser Lormel rose.

“Perhaps we should do something about it.”

Mrsha saw half the room glance up. Oblivious, Ser Lormel went on.

“Inform the Watch Captain. That is the protocol, isn’t it? No, a [Guardsman]—Drakes do love their Watch. Not a [Knight] in all the south to beseech to make sure this little one has a guardian! I say, is the caretaker of this establishment here? An employee? Hello?”

He called out, raising his voice. Mrsha stared up at him.

Inform the Watch Captain? Why, that was the most ridiculous, most normal thing to do she’d ever heard of! Ser Sest bent down, anger forgotten. He spoke, his lips still clearly red and enflamed.

“Young child. What is your name? I am Ser Sest of the Thronebearers of Calanfer. That is a Terandrian Kingdom. We are [Knights]. Are your parents not around? Are you in any danger?”

He glanced significantly at the Goblins and lowered his voice to a whisper only between them.

“Simply nod if you need help, and upon our honor, we shall ensure you are kept safe. We are [Knights]—I do not know if you know of our class, but we would never abandon someone in need.”

“A child in need. Politick demands certain sacrifices, Ser Sest, especially from home.”

Dame Ushar corrected him. The Thronebearers waited as Mrsha stared up at them, horrified. Ser Sest began to look bemused at a lack of any response.

Oh no. Oh no. Mrsha felt a terrible pain in her stomach. A falling sensation. A sickness. She looked up at the concerned Thronebearers, who she had spiced nearly to death, now peering at Ishkr as he hurried downstairs, a mop in one hand, concerned about…her?

Oh no. They were decent people.

“I’m so sorry—er—”

Ishkr did a double-take as he saw the [Knights]. Ser Lormel strode over at once and performed an elegant bow.

“Ser Lormel of the Thronebearers of Calanfer. Are you this young child’s father, sir? We would like to have a few words, if we may.”

“Don’t forget to ask about the whereabouts of our target.”

Dame Ushar whispered. Ser Lormel nodded and Ishkr stared at him, then Mrsha, not sure where to start.

“Me? Her father…? Er, no, I—”

A loud sniff interrupted everyone. Ser Sest reached for his belt pouch hurriedly. Mrsha sniffed again, and began to cry.

“There, there. We aren’t angry. Here, dry your tears. Ser Lormel, you were far too harsh on the girl.”

Ser Sest offered her a scented handkerchief, which only made it worse. They didn’t understand. They thought Mrsha was scared—or in danger! The Thronebearers protectively closed around her, eying Ishkr more balefully as the Gnoll tried to explain.

“It occurs to me that Gnoll or not, she doesn’t have any clothes, Ser Dalimont. We should at least ensure a Senior Guard is aware of this, shouldn’t we?”

Dame Ushar conferred with Dalimont. He held up a placating hand.

“Gnoll children run around without for a while. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

That, at least, was sensible. The other three Thronebearers weren’t evil stupidity incarnate. They were nice…but still sort of stupid. Mrsha couldn’t stop crying. She felt bad. She had done…a bad thing.

She didn’t want to be mean anymore.

—-

Ishkr finally got the [Knights] to calm down with an abbreviated version of the truth. They ended up sitting around the table, still concerned for Mrsha’s wellbeing.

“A child should not be alone at any time, Mister Ishkr. It is not our place to lecture, but the Thronebearers of Calanfer are by way of being a [Knight]-Order that practices law, social graces, and non-martial skills as well as combat. A dedicated [Carer] would be required in Calanfer; it does not simply do to let one run around, even in the same establishment. Especially an inn. Who is the parent?”

He remembered The Wandering Inn had lost its owner and continued in a whisper, although Mrsha heard everything.

“If they are ah, deceased—”

“No, no. She’s left me in charge. It’s—my fault. I should have kept a better eye on her.”

“Is there no [Carer] one can employ? If it is a matter of funding…”

The Thronebearers were consulting their funds. Mrsha was trying to shake her head as Ushar kept asking her questions.

“So you are fed, cared for, and want for nothing? Are you sure, little Miss? We must leave on our pressing quest, and if you need but anything…”

They had been told Mrsha wasn’t able to talk, so all three politely waited as she scribbled furiously on the table. Mrsha had almost forgotten why they were here, and she was trying to signal Ishkr not to talk about Lyonette! The Gnoll was so flustered though, he didn’t see her. Mrsha hurriedly handed the notecard to Dame Ushar and the woman read.

To the Thronebearers of Calanfer:

I, Mrsha, would like to most sincerely apologize for my flagrant actions and immodest conduct. I prostrate myself before you for my untoward actions and can only, once again and repeatedly, ask for your forgiveness.

It is true that my state of affairs is not ideal, but it is far from degrading. I want for little, and but for my own careless actions, I am normally accompanied by sufficient guardianship, although my parent is not, at this moment, present. I apologize once again and would like to make amends by offering you a refreshment or cake product…

It had taken her a while to write so much. Ser Dalimont had risen to speak to the Goblins, albeit at a wary remove, and Dame Ushar and Ser Sest were still stuck on ‘maybe Mrsha is abandoned’ mentally. Even Ser Lormel seemed happy enough not to ask Lyonette’s name, merely inquire about Mrsha’s health.

But Mrsha had made one huge mistake. They were Thronebearers, not the Order of Seasons. On the battlefield, you could hand the [Summer Knights] the victory every time. However, on the dance floor or when reciting law?

“I say, what extraordinary penmanship! I haven’t seen such grace in half the [Scribes] of the Mage’s Guild we have passed by on this continent!”

Ser Sest remarked. Dame Ushar blinked at the cursive writing, the laborious use of language. She eyed the neat spacing on the card, and style. Slowly, she turned in her seat.

“Ser Dalimont?”

The Thronebearer looked over his shoulder. Dame Ushar rose, and Mrsha looked up as the Thronebearer’s eyes lit up.

“Lyonette has been here. This is letter-writing only someone from Calanfer would employ. Excuse me, Mister Ishkr. Do you know a red-haired young woman?”

“Carmine—”

Ser Sest nudged Ser Lormel. Dame Ushar ignored them and went on.

“A red-haired young woman, who might go by the name…Lyonette? Lyonette du Marquin?”

Mrsha froze. Ishkr glanced at her, then the Thronebearers.

“Lyonette? Yes, of course. She’s Mrsha’s mother—that is to say, she’s raising Mrsha and running the inn. However, she’s in Oteslia on business—Mrsha!”

The flying kick was too late. The Thronebearers turned into golden statues. They stared at Mrsha, at Ishkr. Ulvama sat back down and reached for some of the cold noodles in one of the bowls. She began to eat, frowning.

She had no idea what was going on.

—-

There was some delight to be had in trivial misunderstandings. Little dramas were more satisfying than larger ones with actual strife.

Much fun could be had about rather a lot of nothing. And if you were bored, you had all the time in the world to devote to…nothing. Or rather, fun plots and schemes.

Perhaps that was how, as Ryoka Griffin found herself riding north to visit Lord Pellmia’s estates, she found herself the target of countless—busybodies.

Lady Buscrei had ridden day and night on the most urgent of business: securing gliders for her family. Lord Swey was slower, not having any movement Skills, but she was told he was enroute.

“Keireen!”

She greeted the [Lady] of House Quellae and the daughter, Betta Quellae, and was promptly ushered into the parlor. House Quellae was a rather pleasant place to visit, being home to one of the largest orchards in all of northern Izril.

Thus, local [Lords] and [Ladies] often came to pick the produce by hand—or at least, House Veltras’ scions enjoyed that. Keireen Quellae and her daughter were gracious hosts, and Lord Pellmia was no less skilled.

Of course, there was always one bad apple in a metaphor, and that would be his somewhat arrogant boy. He made an appearance, but didn’t linger. Just as well Buscrei hadn’t brought her sons, or it might be another not-so-casual duel in the sparring grounds.

“Buscrei, you alarm me. Did you ride the entire way here pell-mell like that?”

The [Hunting Lady] brushed off Keireen’s dismay at her somewhat disheveled state.

“Bah. I got out of the swamps before I woke up. Otter-dog sled. Then I rode here as fast as could be. Be grateful I didn’t take half the family, but I can’t just drop in unannounced.”

“Any time! Pellmia loves guests. But I don’t think you’re here just for fruit? You’ll take some back, of course.”

“Naturally. And I brought purified water for those picky damned trees of yours. Enough of that. What do you think about Tyrion and the Wind Runner?”

Keireen’s eyes lit up. Betta, returning with snacks and tea, broke in.

“She’s on her way here! Father managed to persuade her to come with Lord Tyrion and his sons! He’s become a [Matchmaker].”

“Of all things, at his age.”

The [Lady] sighed, but her eyes were dancing. Buscrei grinned.

“He’s got to have the right class to hunt quarry, and there’s a Phoenix on the wing if I ever saw one. I’m surprised she hasn’t flown for the hills!”

“Especially after what Tyrion said. Did you hear how he asked to court her? Asked? He knelt down in front of everyone, [Soldiers], his sons, and—I have Pellmia’s transcript, word-for-word. And some of the other things he said in public! Pellmia says it’s been burned into his soul.”

“I’ll get it!”

Betta hurried off and returned with the piece of parchment. She handed it to Buscrei and the [Hunting Lady] laughed so hard she nearly passed out.

“It’s not funny!”

Betta protested while trying not to smile. She looked at her mother.

“If any boy said that to me—even one I liked—I’d hide in the pantry every time I saw them! Does Lord Tyrion have no tact at all?”

She was dismayed, because she’d met Tyrion and while he was stiff as an ironwood tree, she’d rather been enamored by one of the famed heads of the Five Families. More than one young woman in the region liked him.

“He’s always been like that. I think he took a bad hit to the head one time when he was young and it knocked everything but tilting and strategy out of his head. My, my. Can I get a copy of this? Everyone in the family needs to see this. Hah! We’ll frame it in our lodge.”

Buscrei cackled, then turned serious. Keireen had gone off to fetch another guest who had arrived and had been resting from the sudden travel.

“Just so I’m certain, we are on the same side here? Ryoka and Tyrion sounds like an entertaining match. Oswen’s all for it. Especially if we get a Courier in the family. That’s good blood.”

“We are on the same side. We would rather like to see a union as well—if it can be arranged.”

The second guest emerged. Lady Desinee El. Buscrei’s eyes shot into her hair and she rose to her feet.

“How did the House of El get wind of this?”

“We are interested in the Wind Runner as well. If she stays in the north…Lady Buscrei Oswen. Do you have a plan?”

Four [Ladies] conferred in the parlor, but that would soon be two [Lords] and four [Ladies] when Swey and another [Lord] arrived. Of course, that was the most passionate endorsers of this relationship.

“There’s opposition, you know. I ran into old Lord Aghonst, who was practically frothing at the mouth to put a bee in Tyrion’s ear about marrying a commoner.”

“Damn. That dried up piece of leather? Is he on his way?”

“Might be. But he’ll be delayed—I cut his horses loose in the stables and had two of my people run them off.”

The [Lord] and [Climber] smiled smugly. The others in the now-crowded parlor nodded. Already, the lines were being drawn. An anti-relationship faction was no doubt gathering in their own way.

It would depend on who had the best organization, the best strategy. It was also hugely fun. Keireen clapped her hands, drawing everyone’s attention.

“Miss Griffin and Lord Tyrion are ostensibly here to collect some of our finest fruits and tour the place. Something to do with a debt to friends? We’re giving her—or them, Pellmia was unclear—some wine. You all happen to be here for the harvest. My plan is, on first meeting, to organize a little fruit-gathering expedition. In pairs. A competition. Tyrion and Ryoka will be one pair, naturally, and I know Tyrion will compete.”

“So will this Wind Runner. According to my notes, she’s competitive too. I do want to meet her in person.”

Betta had somehow acquired a facts-sheet on the Courier, and was passing copies around. Lord Swey waved a half-eaten peach at the people here.

“That’s fine for an opener, but what if she runs? She pulled a fast one and left my family when she visited.”

“She can’t do that. Simplest solution? Get her to show the glider and someone crashes it. Or—termites. Is there a [Druid] around? We can do the same for the wind suit.”

“I’ll spill something on her clothes and we can have them washed. We’ll need a rotation of places they visit of course; we can’t stretch out one place more than a few days. And it gives us time to set up! The House of El will certainly contribute. Deilan himself would host you all, just to look at her Kaalblade!”

Desinee clapped her hands together. Buscrei rubbed at her chin.

“Speaking of which, isn’t Ryoka taking sword-lessons from Tyrion? We can do something with that.”

“Is she?”

Plotting intensified.

—-

Ryoka Griffin felt distinctly unwell. The ride to Lord Pellmia’s lands was fast—everything was fast when you had Lord Tyrion’s Skills boosting your speed. Even with Sammial and Hethon riding more clumsily, and Ryoka was included in the untrained category, they could cover ground faster than most [Riders].

She felt eyes on her the entire way here, and stuck close to Hethon and Sammial. They, at least, were somewhat neutral parties.

It had begun. A terrible suspicion fell upon Ryoka. How else did you explain Ullim just happening to make sure Ryoka sat next to Tyrion at their lunch, or Pellmia engaging her and Tyrion in talk, such that Ryoka couldn’t slip away to contemplate downing an invisibility potion and fleeing?

Lord Tyrion’s proposal—to date—still burned in Ryoka’s head. She winced every time she remembered. Worse, she could already see its effects.

“Was that Lord Aghonst I thought I saw coming up the road?”

Tyrion turned his head, bemused. He was willing to slow the fast-moving group heading north, but Jericha shook her head.

“Lord Aghonst seemed quite—tired, Lord Veltras. I directed him to the keep to rest.”

Where he would be expecting Tyrion, but hopefully be delayed long enough by Ullim to fail to catch up before they arrived. Jericha sighed, but she had cast her lot in with one side.

“We’re nearly at the outskirts of the orchards. I think it might be cherries—I’m told they’re ready to drop! Hethon, Sammial, are you fond of that fruit?”

“Yes!”

Both boys chorused happily, although Sammial was frowning. He was trying to copy the [Summer Knights] and set fire to a pinecone he’d picked up. Ryoka didn’t know which was more alarming. The idea of Sammial with a fire-aura—or the fact that the air seemed a tad bit warmer around him.

It was probably her imagination. Ryoka felt hot and cold. Clammy. This? This was a nightmare.

In a nutshell, Lord Tyrion had asked to court—date her. And he was…well, older. He had kids! He was Lord Tyrion of House Veltras, one of the most influential [Lords] in the world. And he had knelt down in front of everyone and—

Thwack. Hethon jumped as Ryoka slapped her head to knock the memory out. No good. The problem was…

How did she get out of this? Just run away? Pellmia had stopped her, and she owed Tyrion for the army, and the fae…but this?

She tried to think of it objectively. In a vacuum, in a complete void where there were no outside factors…the problem was, Tyrion would have had a chance. He was certainly attractive to her in a few ways.

However, he was a father. He had kids, and he was a [Lord] with all that entailed. Ryoka was also Ryoka and her ability to handle this was about on par with her ability to make friends or form meaningful relationships that didn’t involve life-or-death scenarios now and then.

She knew his reputation. He had sieged Liscor! He was a father and she’d already met Relc. She knew all of this—she just wished she didn’t actually like him. Despite everything, Ryoka didn’t hate Tyrion, who rode about like the wind and carried debts and…

“Just not this.”

Hethon glanced at Ryoka. She looked distinctly unwell. The Wind Runner was hiding behind him from Lord Pellmia, who kept trying to move her over to Tyrion.

“Ah, there’s my family. And look! We have guests! They’ve come out to meet us? What a surprise.”

Lord Pellmia beamed and Ryoka Griffin looked up. She took one look at Lord Swey, Lady Buscrei, Lady Desinee, Pellmia’s wife and daughter and the baskets they carried for cherry-picking and turned white. She saw them smile at her and Tyrion.

“Ryoka! We just met. What a coincidence that you should be here when we are. Tyrion, you rogue.”

Buscrei grinned at Tyrion, who nodded to her stiffly, uncomprehendingly.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, Buscrei. I heard you were in Oswen when Miss Griffin last visited…days ago.”

He glanced at her. Ryoka bared her teeth at Buscrei. The [Hunting Lady] winked.

“I just had to come up north for the produce and deliver some of the purified water. Ryoka, it is good to see you.”

“Miss Griffin. We’re all out picking cherries and we just heard Tyrion and company would be coming by for a visit. Why don’t you join us in harvesting, then we can all settle in. We could even make a game of it!”

Swey beamed around—Desinee nudged him. Introductions first! He was being too forwards. Ryoka Griffin looked around at the sly looks, the knowing glances and…snapped.

Hethon Veltras was impressed. He actually saw Ryoka snap, and understood why you used that expression. She twitched so hard her horse froze up, wondering if its rider had died.

“I’m Desinee, Lord Pellmia, I do hope I’m not imposing? I just happened to be in the area and—”

“Excuse me.”

Ryoka’s strangled voice interrupted Lord Pellmia and Desinee El. She slid from her horse and looked around.

The first-wave of the relationship conspiracy glanced at Ryoka, worried. She had a sickly look on her face. Tyrion glanced at Ryoka.

“You seem unwell. Are you motion-sick, Ryoka?”

“No. Thank you, Lord Tyrion. I’m just—”

Ryoka looked around. Keireen smiled innocently at her. Buscrei, Swey—the Wind Runner inhaled. She was not an idiot.

“I’m sorry. I just—I think I haven’t been direct enough.”

Pellmia’s face fell. He tried to activate his [Avert Disaster] Skill, but it wouldn’t work or it was on recharge! He signaled the others, but Ryoka was determined. She had to do it now!

“Miss Ryoka, why don’t you lie down and—”

Swey spoke hurriedly, but Ryoka spoke over him, looking at Tyrion.

“I never responded to you, Lord Tyrion. And I see it’s caused misunderstandings. You asked to court me yesterday.”

She wanted to explode. This? This was as bad as him kneeling in front of her while everyone watched. There were more people watching this time, actually. But while Ryoka Griffin walked in hell—it had to be done.

Lord Tyrion faced her, nodding.

“If you have an answer…”

“I do.”

Ryoka Griffin inhaled, managed not to puke, which was the last thing she needed, and spoke, fixing her gaze on him to avoid the looks from everyone else.

“Lord Tyrion. I appreciate your…offer to court me. But I have to refuse.”

“Noo! No! We have to stop her! There’s a chance! You can’t get the [Matchmaker] class if there wasn’t anything there! Do something, father!”

Betta shriek-whispered into Pellmia’s ear. The [Lord] was looking around. He made a hand-sign to Swey. Get a horse to kick you! That was a good distraction. Swey mouthed.

“What? What are you pointing at the horse for?”

Ryoka ignored the whispers. She went on, sweating as she stared at Tyrion. Blink, damn you! Do you know how hard it is to meet your gaze?

“I—can’t accept your offer to court me for a number of reasons. I’m flattered, but—I don’t want to marry anyone. Or date! You’re a [Lord], and I’m a Courier. And—yeah.”

She stopped. Everyone waited, but Ryoka was done. She stepped back.

“I’m really sorry, but my answer is no.”

Pellmia exhaled like he’d been stabbed. Buscrei groaned. Tyrion? He just nodded.

“I see. Is there no way I can change your mind?”

“It’s not that I’m not flattered! I just—can’t.”

Ryoka was backing up, and the wind was growing. Tyrion trotted forwards a bit.

“I did not offer marriage, Miss Griffin. I simply would like to know if you are amenable—”

“—I have things to do, I’m so sorry if I’ve led anyone to a misunderstanding by being silent.”

Ryoka saw Hethon and Sammial look askance. Lord Tyrion glanced at them.

“Ryoka. Would you not stay? My feelings aside, my sons do seem to enjoy your company.”

The Wind Runner hesitated. They gave her pleading nods. She bit her lip.

“It’s just—”

“Miss Ryoka, you must stay. What about the gifts to your friends? Fruits as souvenirs for Liscor?”

Pellmia broke in desperately. Tyrion looked at her.

“Is there no chance?”

Hell. Ryoka Griffin was shaking her head. She just opened her arms and the wind caught the windsuit.

“Look, I’m sorry, but this? This is insane. I have to go. I’ll talk to you all later. A month later or something, okay? We can talk then. Just don’t…don’t.”

She looked at Desinee. The [Lady] was opening her mouth to say something. Ryoka had nothing. She just jumped.

“Ryoka! Wait! Don’t leave!”

Sammial shouted, and his plea was the one thing that made the Wind Runner look down. However—she caught the air and was up in a second.

“We pushed too hard!”

Keireen cried out, dismayed. Foiled! Weeks, perhaps months of fun ruined! Lord Pellmia was shaking his head, sighing, as Betta remonstrated with him. They turned to Tyrion, wondering how he’d take it—

The [Lord] was gone. Everyone looked around and saw a shape, faster than an arrow, speeding after Ryoka. Lord Pellmia’s jaw dropped. Buscrei began to cackle with laughter.

“I forgot! He’s as stubborn as stone too!”

—-

He was following her! Ryoka did a double-take as the wind screamed around her. She flew, away from Pellmia’s orchards and colorful trees, straight as the crow flies.

Nevertheless, the zig-zagging figure kept up. He called to her, and somehow she heard him over the roar of the wind.

“Ryoka! Ryoka, halt, please!”

“Stop following me!”

She flew higher, but Lord Tyrion followed her. He was too fast!

It was insane. Even in the air, Ryoka was going fast. On land? Only Magnolia’s carriage could have kept up with her, or maybe the Unmarked Coach. Or…

Lord Tyrion Veltras. Like before, they skimmed across the landscape. He was pushing his horse, but he could speed up. Ryoka looked down.

The only people who could keep up with each other locked gazes. She had never been this fast. But him? When he galloped, he left everyone behind. What must it feel like to chase someone? To stare up and…

She looked away. Began to fly higher. Tyrion called out to her.

Was there a chance?

If there wasn’t, still don’t go. Because you are needed. My sons smile around you.

Don’t go.

There was no way she could have heard him, flying hundreds of feet higher. No way—but the wind blew his voice to her. Ryoka Griffin wavered.

What about Mrsha, though? What about Erin? She looked north, to the coast, still invisible from where she flew. Beyond it lay the place where fate had told her she could find a way to save Erin. She couldn’t tarry here. No matter how much she saw in Hethon and Sammial. Why had the fae dropped her back where she started, rather than on Terandria?

Perhaps because they wanted her to meet Tyrion? A [Lord] with an army.

She looked down at him. She wanted to believe he was an honorable man. One who had done terrible things, but someone she could trust. More than Magnolia. She couldn’t fly alone. Something was coming. Something was back.

Even so, this, of all things, Ryoka Griffin ran from. She would rather fight for her life than…

The Wind Runner began to leave the [Lord] behind. Flying up. Away.

—-

Below her, the busybodies were crying out. Shouting encouragement. Swey tore at his mustache.

“No! She’s getting away! Do you think he’ll chase her until she lands?”

“Maybe he should!”

Buscrei nodded at the idea, but Pellmia shook his head. He knew Tyrion. The man wouldn’t press his suit—he was stubborn, but not unchivalrous. He turned to his wife and daughter.

“No, we went too far! Damn, damn and rot! She’ll avoid the north like the plague itself for months! She’s leaving! We can’t go all the way to Liscor! Even Tyrion would take days to get there.”

“Weeks regularly. Far too long.”

An annoyed voice agreed. Betta shook her head.

“There was a chance! I’m sure of it! I’d bet my class on it! Father, can’t you use a Skill? Knock yourself out! Maybe you’ll get another Skill!”

She raised the basket and her father shielded his head. They all looked up. Ryoka was just a speck in the sky, now. Desinee sighed, wistfully.

“That’s it. We’ll never catch her. Not the Wind Runner.”

“Unacceptable. She can’t just fly off. I don’t have time for this.”

Pellmia’s head turned.

“Who is saying that? It’s her decision after all…”

He trailed off. He’d thought it was one of the other [Lords]. One of the other people here. But the voice continued.

“You won’t escape me. Not you, [Thief]!”

Everyone looked around. Sammial rubbed at his ears. He frowned. Then—stared up.

“What’s that?”

The gathered nobility looked up and cried out. High overhead, the sky opened. The Wind Runner, a speck in the air, twisted—

A bolt of lightning cracked down, glowing red and hit her. Keireen screamed. Lord Pellmia shouted in horror.

—-

“—not escape. You are hunted, [Thief]! I know your name—”

Ryoka Griffin felt one of her protective rings explode. She didn’t hear the rest as the voice screamed at her. She was falling, falling through hot air as her shredded wingsuit shrieked with the wind trying to buoy her up. The impact had torn the cloth—she was falling—

Damned busybodies.

The Wind Runner saw the ground spiraling towards her as she activated a failsafe. The Scroll of Featherfalling glowed—and she slowed, drifting towards the ground. She was dizzy—wounded. The red lightning had sapped something.

Was it fate? She felt the gap in the sky closing, swearing vengeance.

Yet, as Ryoka drifted to the ground, parts of her clothing on fire, half-fainting, she saw him. Speeding towards her, shield and lance raised, looking for the enemy.

Ryoka Griffin was laughing as Tyrion Veltras caught her. He looked down at her, serious. The Wind Runner stared up at him.

“I might be in a bit of trouble.”

Then she passed out.

8.25 KH

She was so used to moving, fighting, to the bloody now and the next battle that it was only when she stopped that Teresa Atwood realized how much she’d changed.

The young woman from London had always thought she could live ‘rough’, that she had some kind of innate toughness from experiences in her life. Having to half-raise herself and Trey at times. Dealing with some dicey situations and surviving instances like when the power had been cut for nearly two weeks, one time they’d nearly been mugged, and so on.

That all seemed silly now. She had become used to sleeping in the saddle, cleaning her gear and sword even when she was about to fall over.

Killing people. She had become a [Soldier], or at least, a [Warrior]. It made Teres…a bit glad Trey wasn’t here. The King of Destruction had taught her too well.

He made excellent warriors. In the short time since he had reawoken, he had taken old veterans, poor, impoverished civilians, and the small band of true warriors and created multiple armies, each one as battle-seasoned as any nation in Chandrar could field. They were spread out around Reim’s new territory, half a dozen armies that had seen more combat than many nations’ [Soldiers] would ever see in peace.

That was what he’d done, the King of Destruction. Not to say that he’d left Reim to rot; Teres did see the cities growing, farmlands revitalized with water and more hands. However, it was a product of the war.

Gold from ransoming prisoners or selling them, treasure from other nations, and the need for food, supplies, not to mention the captured territories, were making Reim bloom. It was as the King of Destruction said. He was a [King] who specialized in war, not peace.

War unending, though. War with everyone.

Ever since Nerrhavia Fallen and all the other nations had declared war, Teresa had followed Flos south, to defend Reim’s capital and push back Nerrhavia’s Hordes, as they were known. In the north, Orthenon and Mars took on Medain, the Claiven Earth, and spread out to the east too, to block other armies coming in. Reim’s rapid annexation of nations had stopped—by sheer weight of the other armies.

In fact, it might be that at last Flos Reimarch had met his match. The Minotaurs had shown the world you could beat him with the right strategy, by threatening his army and inflicting more casualties than he was willing to take.

Nerrhavia was putting on a similar show—albeit less impressive. If you could field four armies for every one of Flos’, and replace them if he routed each one, the King of Destruction would be worn down, unable to attack and merely go from battle to battle.

That was how Teres saw it. Wherever Flos went, he won. With Venith and Maresar Crusland, his strongest lieutenants in the south, he had the ability to crush the enemy. Not least because Takhatres would also swoop in with his tribe to pincer an enemy between them. The Lord of the Skies, the fastest Garuda on Chandrar and his tribe were an army without match.

…However, Nerrhavia would just rout, ransom its prisoners, and regroup. And while they were busy smashing one group to pieces, another snuck into Hellios and raised hell. It forced Reim to stay on the defensive, running from spot to spot.

Only Takhatres stopped Nerrhavia from sending thousands of raiding parties in and torching everything they could see; his Garuda were everywhere and they would drop out of the sky and shred smaller forces.

That was Teres’ life for the last month or more. She’d lost count. Fight, level, sleep—and fight again. The toll on her was largely invisible; she had become a [Soldier] so it was just…living. The King of Destruction, Flos himself, seemed to also bear the strain of sustained conflict well.

Perhaps even he had a breaking point though, because today was different.

—-

“Halt the army! We’re done for today.”

Flos Reimarch held up his hand and his [Soldiers] slowed. They had marched through the night towards the army threatening the capital, less than a day away. It was another night-battle, one that actually favored Reim; Nerrhavia’s army and its chariots often hit their own side if they couldn’t see.

“Your Majesty?”

Venith Crusland, the [Lord] and one of the best [Warriors] and [Commanders] in the army, raised his eyebrows. He had taken over for Death-Commander Ytol, who was in the north. He looked at the [King], but his wife, Maresar, just nodded. She raised a dark-skinned hand and the [Riders] around her halted. The former [Bandit Lord]—for all she was a woman—turned and began calling orders.

“We’re not going to fight? But they’re just ahead of us. Four more miles! We can do it in an hour, beat them in two, and sleep at least three more before dawn.”

Teresa Atwood protested. It wasn’t hyperbole either; she just wanted to sleep. They’d done this before, but Flos Reimarch just shook his head.

The King of Destruction, gold and red in his hair, had halted suddenly. His warhorse, barded in armor, and his enchanted armor and sword were themselves as disheveled as he was.

Not dirty, but just not pristine. Coated with a bit of dust, grime, or the remnants of blood. He had been fighting in the vanguard of his army for nearly a month, and while his appetite for battle never seemed to wane, the pointless clashes with Nerrhavia had left him simply focused, not beaming or laughing as he had after his first clashes with Jecrass and Raelt.

Teresa had never seen Flos just stop before, though. The King of Destruction was staring up at the clear, starry sky, always beautiful in Chandrar, where clouds were rare.

“Venith, Teres. I’m sure we could wipe out whichever army this is. However—not today.”

Venith and Teres exchanged glances. She wasn’t as friendly with him as Trey was, but Trey made lots of friends. Teres knew Venith mostly in fighting, as the solid leader who made sure Flos didn’t charge in unsupported and issued commands. He looked—uneasy, now. Teres could almost read his thoughts.

“Your Majesty? Are you well?”

Was he tired of battle? Was this the moment the King of Destruction gave up once more and went into his slumber?

Teres felt a flutter of uncertainty again. No, surely not. But why would Flos abandon a battle?

For answer, the King of Destruction merely reached for his belt pouch. He fumbled with it, pulled out a dried piece of jerky, stared at it, and stuck it in his mouth and chewed.

That wasn’t what he was looking for. Flos frowned.

“Not here. Here? No. Venith, do you have a…a…”

He pulled out blade oil, a healing potion, a Scroll of Messages, and grunted as he began to grow annoyed. Venith waited and then cleared his throat.

“Your Majesty, a what?”

“A—calendar. Do you know what day it is today?”

Venith’s eyes sharpened. He felt for his own bag of holding and then smiled.

“I believe it is the day you’re thinking of, your Majesty. Shall I have one of our officers check?”

“Yes. Do that. And have Grand Magus Esiela tell Takhatres to meet me here. He needn’t move his tribe if they’re placed somewhere important. Second—a [Message] to Queen Yisame.”

Teresa looked up as Venith paused, with his own Scroll of Messages drawn. Esiela would have to contact Takhatres separately; Flos didn’t trust to [Messages] with actual orders, as they could be intercepted or faked.

“What will the contents be?”

“Ask her for a ceasefire for today. I’m sure she’ll agree.”

“Of course.”

Venith began writing, delicately dipping the quill into an inkpot he held in his free hand. Teres looked from Flos to Venith.

“What? What’s today?”

The King of Destruction grunted as he took off his helmet. He shook out his head, sighing in the cool night air as, behind him, his tired [Soldiers] made quick camp and slept, realizing they weren’t fighting and passing out then and there.

“A holiday. Good timing too. I could use a day off. Get some sleep, Teres.”

—-

She slept so fast she woke up in her bedroll with the sun in her eyes, not even remembering anything after Flos’ words. Teres still got up with the morning, as a [Soldier] did. She stumbled to a latrine, washed her hands with sand and the powder the [Alchemists] made to save on water, and found Flos Reimarch doing the same.

He had a tent of course, and some amenities she didn’t, but the baggage train didn’t contain many servants. Or much of a train; bags of holding let his army move fast.

“Ah, Teres. You could have slept in longer! Although if you’re about, I wouldn’t mind the company.”

The King of Destruction grinned at Teres. She just blinked at him. The [Bladeswoman] and the [King] both looked better for some sleep and Teres realized how tired she’d been. Able to fight—but exhausted.

“It’s a holiday today?”

She repeated stupidly. Flos stroked his beard.

“I need to shave. Teres, do you have an unenchanted belt knife? Nothing I carry isn’t magicked, and I’d be the greatest fool in Chandrar if I cut my head off while trimming my beard.”

Teres fumbled for her side and offered a dagger. Flos sighed in gratitude and, with a small inactive scrying mirror, began to trim his beard. Teres looked around as she tapped her foot, waiting for his reply. He sometimes did that—bounced to another idea and you had to wait for him to return to your question.

The entire camp was acting like Flos. Doing menial things you just put off if you were busy with impending life-or-death scenarios. Teresa saw Maresar sitting around a camp fire, pointedly right next to a harried [Warcamp Cook] who was making her breakfast. She was reading a book, legs crossed, hair unbraided.

“What’s the holiday? What are we celebrating, the death of Dragons? Something you made up? The rain?”

Teres pressed again. Flos blinked.

“Oh…none of those things. Nerrhavia wouldn’t deign to acknowledge one of my holidays, anyways. Did I ever declare a holiday…?”

“You did once. Skipping Stones week. We spent an entire week with the kingdom on holiday so you could try to beat Gazi in skipping stones by the coast.”

Venith approached with a pained look on his face at the memory. Flos smiled.

“I did do that, didn’t I? I never beat her. Gazi and her insane forty-eight skips…”

He grumbled into his beard as flecks fell away. Teres sighed.

“Venith, what’s the holiday?”

He replied instantly, which showed that Teres should have asked him anyways.

“Cinaelu. It’s the greatest holiday for String Folk.”

“Thank you. Dead gods, does everyone forget I’m not native here?”

“I was getting to it!”

Flos looked hurt. He turned as Maresar approached. She had a type of bratwurst and some big eggs made into omelettes; good camp food, and clearly from one of the poultry farms they’d passed by if that was breakfast for the entire army.

“Maresar, that breakfast smells delightful!”

“It’s quite good, your Majesty.”

Flos reached for the plate. Maresar stepped back, put her fork in the sausage, and took a huge bite.

Venith looked scandalized. Flos just gave Maresar a long look. The [Bandit Lord] ignored the muffled indignation from the [Camp Cook] behind her; he’d clearly thought the plate was meant for the King of Destruction.

Teres just grinned. Maresar served herself, as befitted a former criminal. Flos sighed.

“[Bandits]. I will have what she’s eating!”

Then he tried to snatch one of the sausages, but Maresar was too quick and jerked the plate away. Venith went to get Flos’ food, giving his wife a ‘what are you doing?’ look. She calmly looked at him and Teres didn’t get her reply, but she saw Venith sigh and shake his head.

“Cinaelu indeed. I nearly forgot it was upon us. If we’d attacked, I doubt we’d be able to visit the other army. Or that Yisame would agree to a truce.”

Teres had just accepted her plate of food, but she began to choke on her first bite.

“What? Visit the other army?”

“Just the [General] and officers. It’s polite.”

“Aren’t we going to kill them the next day?”

Flos gave Teres a blank look.

“Maybe. But so what? That would be tomorrow and this is today.”

Chandrarian traditions. Teres shook her head and Maresar did the same. Venith seemed to think it was completely normal.

“They don’t honor holidays or particular events on Earth, Lady Teres?”

He glanced at her. Teres bit her lip. Trey knew more, but she answered after a second.

“—I heard that armies took a break during the Great War during Christmas, but I don’t think we do it anymore. And that wasn’t all sides; it only happened that one time, I think.”

“Ah, I wish Trey could confirm that. The Great War…so that’s nearly a century from your modern time, is that right?”

Teres nodded; Flos had been taking lessons on Earth. He snapped his fingers.

“How disappointing. Well, I fully intend to honor the day by not killing anyone. Of course, we might be attacked, but I truly doubt it. Obviously we’ll take precautions—and there he is. Takhatres!”

He waved, and Teresa reflexively looked up—then remembered the Lord of the Skies couldn’t actually fly.

He could still jump pretty high, though. Half the sentries raised bows and someone nearly called an alarm as the Garuda leapt over a dune. He must have reached at least two hundred feet in the air; Teres gaped as Takhatres dropped towards them. Behind him came nearly two hundred flying shapes of every color, but mainly his bright blue and green feather coloration.

Garuda. One of the King’s Seven landed in front of Flos, kneeling, then rose in the same instant. Takhatres reached out and he clasped Flos’ shoulder as the king did the same.

“Flos. We’re taking a break?”

Takhatres was as informal in his way as Maresar; of all the King’s Seven that Teres had met, he used Flos’ name most informally, and stood on little ceremony. He was also direct.

“That’s right. Thank you for joining me. How is your tribe?”

“Nesting. We’ll take the day to rearm and relax. Venith. Maresar. Teres.”

Takhatres’ gaze flicked from person to person. Serious, quick as lightning when he wanted to be, and slightly scary. He’d left to fight the Empire of Sands for most of the time Teres had been in this world, but since his return she’d talked with him.

…About fifty eight words total. Takhatres glanced at her, but aside from listening to information about Earth, he hadn’t approached her like Mars or Orthenon. Flos just beamed, happy to see one of his Seven.

“Don’t be so impatient, Takhatres. For once we can relax and stretch our legs out! Claws, wings, whatever. Sit with Teres. You’ve barely talked to her since returning.”

Takhatres gave Teres another look and she gulped. He walked over, sat down, and stared at her.

“Er—hello, Takhatres. Want some breakfast?”

She would have risen to get him a plate, but the Garuda leapt up. He strode towards the cooking campfire like a blur.

Not even Couriers could match his speed. Garuda flying couldn’t go as fast as Takhatres, and even ‘walking’ he blurred along with multiple movement Skills.

He came back just as fast, sans plate. Takhatres stared accusingly at Flos as the King of Destruction looked up.

“What?”

“…Are you eating eggs for breakfast?”

Flos checked his plate.

“…Yes? Oh, come now. Don’t make that face!”

The Garuda folded his wing-arms and glowered.

“You knew I was coming. You’re really eating eggs? My entire tribe is here!”

“Come now, Takhatres, they’re chicken eggs! I didn’t think to tell the [Cooks] and we have a surplus that we don’t want to go to waste.”

“You’re still running poultry farms? Gah. I’ll have them make their own food. This is why…”

Takhatres sped off and came back, finishing his sentence.

“…thoughtless. We fought for five months against the Empire of Sands and you try to feed me eggs on a holiday.”

“I apologize. They’re not Garuda eggs!”

Flos rolled his eyes. Takhatres looked at him.

“Do you eat unborn Human…whatever they are? Or humanoids? Why don’t I host you at my camp and feed you half-Elf? Or monkeys?”

“Fetuses.”

Teres interjected helpfully. Takhatres nodded at her. Flos rubbed at his face.

“Do I need to have a second breakfast prepared so we all spare your sensibilities?”

“That would be a good start.”

Not Mars, Orthenon, or Gazi would have taken that tone with Flos. Teres saw the King of Destruction look up, a bite of omelette on one fork. He and Takhatres locked gazes. Flos exhaled, lowered his fork, and then took his plate, snatched the sausage off, and flipped the rest of it over his head.

“Fine!”

—-

It turned out that Takhatres and Flos were always like this.

“The Lord of the Skies will argue with his Majesty more than the other Seven—well, those living. Drevish used to do the same, and Amerys would often dispute certain issues. Queravia as well.”

Venith confided in Teres as a second breakfast of porridge was assembled. Unfortunately, it was travel-rations, so no honey and only a few dried dates. Takhatres ate with every sign of satisfaction—although that might be because he’d added Garuda rations to his; dried cicada. He offered it to Flos, but was clearly happy to eat the blander food since it was spiced with the King of Destruction’s glare.

“Do they ever really argue? I mean, really fight? I’ve never known Flos to uh, take being contradicted well.”

The [Lord] glanced at Teres, clearly reminded that she was one of the few people who used Flos’ name informally. She ducked her head, but Venith sighed.

“You, Takhatres, and few others would be those his Majesty suffers to—irk him—from time to time. The Lord of the Skies is a subordinate, but a proud one. He offered to join the King of Destruction; he never surrendered, even when he was beaten in those battles. Thus, there are times when he and his Majesty come to a head and neither one will relent.”

“And?”

Teres looked at Venith. It was Maresar who grinned and whispered.

“It becomes anything from a year-long grudge to a fight. The last time it happened was when they joined a banquet and Takhatres took the seat his Majesty had been offered because he got there two hours ahead. They nearly came to blows—until the King of Destruction demanded a second table be set up outside and the entire banquet moved around him. Takhatres refused to move, you see. He ended up eating alone in the banquet hall.”

It was so petty that Teres laughed. She looked at Takhatres admiringly. The Lord of the Skies returned her glance.

“So, are we going to greet the other army or are we sitting about?”

He leapt to his feet, already done eating.

“I will rise in my own time, Takhatres.”

Flos ate deliberately slowly to spite the Garuda. By the time he rose for his horse, Takhatres had already checked on his people, summoned an escort, and paced around their campfire twice before stopping to ask about Trey.

“No word. Not from him, Gazi or Calac. We must simply assume they are working hard.”

“Hm. They need to hurry up too. This stalemate is wasting time we need to be expanding in. But if the King of Slow Destruction doesn’t think we’re having a problem—”

“Gah! I’m sorry about the eggs! Dead gods and sands of Chandrar, you don’t but hold a grudge!”

Flos exploded. He seized his bowl, and stomped towards his horse. Teres looked at Takhatres, mouth open. She could make Flos that angry, but Takhatres had beaten her record. To her amazement and delight—she saw him wink at her.

—-

Flos calmed down by the time they were riding to parlay with the other army, and Takhatres had relented enough for the two to be gossiping.

“Yes, it was all Trey. He somehow set in motion Fetohep—I’d wager a Grand Elephant’s worth of gold on it.”

“Not the Arbiter Queen? I need to speak with him again.”

Flos waved a hand in largesse, acknowledging her contribution. The holiday had clearly raised his spirits, and Teres felt it herself. A break was just what they needed.

“I’ll grant you Queen Jecaina might have been part of it. However, what drew Fetohep out of his shell was the power of selfies.”

“…Of what? Are you making up words again?”

“Not at all! It’s the device Teres and Trey got working. You left before they figured it out—Teres, show Takhatres your iPhone! Take a picture; in fact, take one of his tribe! Takhatres, they’re memories. Mage-photos, as many as you want!”

Flos turned, beaming. Then a cunning look appeared in his eyes.

“Yes. Show him all your apps. Like the…Flappy Bird one.”

Venith, Maresar, and Teres all looked apprehensive. The memory of the last time Flos had played a game on her iPhone was fresh in Teres’ mind, but Takhatres was interested.

“Please be careful. It’s not meant for claws…”

Teres hesitated before handing it over. Takhatres inspected the iPhone from every angle, blinking.

“Little dots make up a picture? It’s not magical. And—oh!”

He blinked and flipped out of the saddle of his horse. Teres’ jaw dropped. She looked at her iPhone. He’d actually dodged the flash! She had a image of two blurry talons; his feet.

“What was that?”

Takhatres zoomed over to her, angry. Flos laughed so hard he nearly fell out of the saddle. Teres raised the iPhone.

“A picture! I’m sorry! Look, it’s just taking an image of you.”

“Does it steal your soul? Why the light?”

Takhatres was clearly suspicious, but he let her photograph him; it was still blurry because he kept fidgeting. He stared at the photo.

“Clean. Detailed. I can take as many as I want?”

“Yes. I could lend it to you.”

“I’d like to take pictures of the nestlings. We wouldn’t be able to pay for mage-photos and illustrations are a waste…”

Takhatres looked wistful. Teres blinked, them beamed.

“Oh, that’s a splendid idea. They’re quite cute! Are there many in your tribe right now?”

“A group just hatched. From eggs.”

Flos scowled, but Takhatres was deeply impressed by the iPhone. He listened to her abbreviated spiel about how it worked. Teres had told all of Flos’ trusted people.

It was always interesting hearing what they took away from it. Teres laid out all the iPhone’s functions, but each one of his vassals had latched onto a different function.

For instance, Mars had made Teres take a number of videos and pictures of her ‘best looks’, and that was multiple illusions…and angles…Teres had felt like a modeling photographer by the end of it and covertly deleted most of it. Especially when Trey had asked for copies. Then—over two dozen other [Soldiers] in Reim. The worst part was that Mars had offered to pose without clothing. Teres had dark suspicions on whether Trey had ever taken her up on the offer.

Anyways, that was Mars. Orthenon and Maresar had been most fascinated by the option the iPhone didn’t have working; communication.

“A free [Communication] spell, even visuals would be great if I had a dozen of them and was still raiding.”

Maresar sighed longingly. Venith gave her a disapproving look—he’d actually really liked the calculator. The fact that it could do logarithmic math was not lost on the [Lord] and he’d tried to get Teres to reverse-engineer the mathematical formulas…which she couldn’t do.

Takhatres liked the camera. He just breezed past the phone functionality.

“There aren’t as many communication problems with my tribe. We can fly fast enough. But what’s this…Flappy Bird? Is this another one of his pranks?”

“It’s a game. You see…”

Teres had a terrible feeling about what was going to happen. She remembered Gazi effortlessly beating the game—and Flos failing and raging. She expected Takhatres to ‘win’ the entire thing, actually, given his insane hand-speed.

However…Flos Reimarch just smirked as Takhatres tapped, awkwardly pressing his claws together since the iPhone’s touchscreen didn’t like his claws. Takhatres tapped, watched the little bird fly—and die.

“What? This screen isn’t meant for me. This game is…wait. Let me try again. This is—this is ridiculous!”

He died eight times within seconds. Teres stared at him and realized the bird kept jumping at the wrong time. Takhatres made it ‘jump’ at the last second, and grew increasingly frustrated.

“This thing doesn’t move at all! It’s as slow as an albatross!”

“My record is eighty three. But I suppose we cannot all do well at all games.”

Flos remarked innocently. Takhatres’ head slowly rose. Teres tried to snatch the iPhone back, but it was too late.

—-

The problem wasn’t Takhatres’ dexterity or his eyes, but his speed. It was that he was too fast. He had to adjust to the game which was, frankly, calibrated to Human reflexes. Interestingly, even when he adjusted, he was only Flos-level. The Garuda got impatient playing the repetitive game, and Teres suspected having to perfectly time his presses meant he was just…staring at the slow-moving screen for way too long.

“This is a stupid device!”

After his twenty sixth death and failing to reach even a score of thirty, Takhatres snapped. Flos was laughing his butt off, but the Garuda raised the iPhone and threw it as far as he could.

“No! My phone!”

Teres cried out. However, Takhatres just leapt out his saddle, sprinted after it, and caught it before it hit the ground. Teres stared at him, open-mouthed.

“You had your fun. It’s a fascinating device. If we end the war, I’d like to relax for at least a week.”

The Garuda glowered at Flos as he handed the iPhone back. Flos sobered, nodding.

“If Amerys returns to us, you, Orthenon, Mars, and I might storm Nerrhavia alone. Just like the old days. We could reach the capital with your movement Skills, burst through, kidnap Yisame—I’m working on the plan.”

“What about Gazi and Amerys in that scenario?”

Teres asked. Flos shrugged.

“They’ll guard the capital. Gazi wouldn’t let me have any fun if we broke into Yisame’s palace—come to that, we’ll leave Orthenon behind. Maresar, would you be interested?”

“Hmm. If I can loot their treasury.”

Maresar grinned. Teres looked at Takhatres, who was smiling and Venith, who looked concerned.

“Wait. Is that an actual plan?”

“We did do it a number of times. It works, depending on if they’re expecting us. Narrow hallways, no armies? Gazi, Mars and Orthenon could hold off tens of thousands if they didn’t have magic. They did that one time.”

“Because someone had to reveal themselves when they heard they were being badmouthed.”

Takhatres grumbled. Flos hummed innocently.

Stories of old. Every time they talked, Teres was reminded that this was Flos’ return. All their history? It was the stuff of stories. They were so casual about it here that she forgot.

—-

She saw more of the King of Destruction’s legend in the wary eyes of the Stitchfolk [General]. It was a she this time, and she bowed. Her clothing, like her skin, was silk, perhaps armored silk, or just decoration given the truce.

Nevertheless, both sides had taken only a small retinue each…frankly, even though they were in bowshot of the enemy camp, it was Nerrhavia who was in danger if Flos broke the truce; Takhatres, Flos, Venith, and Maresar were all probably higher-level than the [General] herself.

“King of Destruction. I greet you on this day of Cinaelu. Will you drink with us?”

“Of course, General.”

The King of Destruction smiled, and that was how Teres found herself sitting on a carpet under a canopy spread over the sand, sipping a slightly tart wine, talking awkwardly with some of the String Folk, who were clearly aware of this temporary truce.

However, it was also clear that this was the holiday of holidays for String Folk. The [Soldiers] were exchanging small gifts, all of string, Teres realized, and relaxing. Staring at the King of Destruction too.

It was going to make the next battle harder. However, Flos Reimarch just smiled as he spoke to the [General].

“My companion, General Freivisha, is not of Chandrar.”

“Ah. Then she is new to this day?”

“Exceedingly. Hm. Here you are.”

Flos made to hand it over, but a servant hurriedly bowed, took the small slate, and then transferred it to General Freivisha. The servant, Teres noted, was Cotton. The [General] and all those relaxing were Silk.

Castes and hierarchies. For all that, Teres was tickled pink by the interaction. The [General] blushed slightly as her smooth silk skin turned even darker. She tucked the slate with the King of Destruction’s signature into her bag of holding.

“It would not be seemly to ask otherwise, but on this day of days…I thank you, Lord of the Skies.”

“Perhaps you should consider retreating before nightfall. I don’t believe his Majesty or I would enjoy battling you tomorrow. Nor after exchanging pleasantries.”

Takhatres handed over his autograph as well. Flos nodded. Somehow, autographs had become a common idea in this world—but Teres had no idea who had started it! Maybe that Joseph guy.

“I could never gainsay her Majesty’s orders.”

The [General] replied after a moment’s pause in which all her subordinates glanced slightly her way. Flos nodded, sighing.

“Then let us simply enjoy Cinaelu! A toast!”

“What’s Cinaelu celebrating?”

Teres asked Maresar as she raised her cup. The [Bandit Lord] whispered back.

“The day when the String Folk of Chandrar won their freedom.”

The [General] had overheard. She paused the toast to smile at Teres.

“You see, Lady Atwood, the name comes from our great hero, the first liberator of our kind. This day we won our freedom, and it is named after her.”

“Cinaelu?”

The other Stitch Folk laughed and the [General] shook her head.

“An anagram. Apparently, the person it was based on objected to a day named after them—so the legend goes that the people just rearranged her name. Thus, while we call it Cinaelu, we say—”

She turned and Flos lifted his small cup.

“Elucina’s weave be yours.”

“And yours, King of Destruction.”

They drank. Teres did likewise, copying the words. The wine was tart, but good, and obviously not poisoned or Esiela would have pointed it out. The [Grand Mage] was still subdued, but she had joined Parasol Stroll; albeit as the only member present in the south.

“Are there any more holidays I’m not aware of?”

Silly though it was, Teres had never given a thought to the fact that Christmas and so on were not here, and there were obviously different special days. Flos hadn’t helped; he’d happily instituted Christmas at once and dyed his beard white. He’d also smashed three chimneys before giving up on playing Santa.

Maresar and Venith exchanged glances. Venith counted them out on his fingers.

“Derrás Me, the Solstices, Yellat Day—although that one is simply for fun. The Clear Skies Celebrations…not many.”

“I know the Clear Skies Celebrations—that’s the end of the Dragons on Chandrar, right? Derrás Me is the one with the parades across Chandrar? …What’s Yellat Day?”

The King of Destruction glanced at Takhatres, who glanced at the [General]. Everyone in the tent thoughtfully paused to try to explain. Flos eventually shrugged.

“You eat a lot of Yellats.”

Teres supposed she had that one coming. Flos held out his cup for another drink.

“And occasionally you find one that gets up and walks around. That’s lucky.”

The young woman began to choke on her wine.

—-

Cinaelu was a holiday for String People. Such that while Octavia might have hung up a little decoration on her shop door and taken a day off to get together with some String Folk in Invrisil, and Revi likewise celebrated it, it went unnoticed the world over.

It was not news, much to the indignation of an entire species. Wistram News Network was, in that sense, ruder than the King of Destruction, who had put aside war for this day.

Although not everyone appreciated the gesture. More than one person did not see Flos Reimarch’s gesture as at all hospitable. Why should a Human know peace on a day for us?

Ironically, his holiday was the tipping point; a bit of ire on already-bubbling cauldrons of vengeance directed towards him. The unforeseen consequences of that would soon appear—but there was one more interesting non-Stitchfolk person who celebrated the day. Albeit in her way.

—-

They called her…the Gnoll of Stars. Captain of Stargazer’s Promise, the youngest Named Adventurer in living memory!

Lehra Ruinstrider scratched under one armpit. She was not exceptionally heroic at this particular point in time, but hero-ing was a hard job. The Meeting of Tribes was a break for her team, especially since Lord Dragial was still chasing them over the continent.

Actually, she’d been hoping to find someone who could help her here, but none of the [Shamans] she’d talked to knew anything about the artifact on her wrist. The vambrace of beautiful metal, an alloy no one had ever identified, with the huge jewel set in it, that could turn into a weapon, a shield…

The Blade of Mershi. A relic-class artifact, and the last-known treasure of the fabled Walled City of Stars.

Before the Meeting of Tribes ended, Lehra wanted to talk to all the old [Shamans] and see if something could help her. Dragial could not get his claws on the Blade of Mershi or he’d use it against the Tribes to further his ends by finding the lost City of Stars and its treasury of artifacts. To make Fissival the most powerful Walled City. Maybe even to conquer all of Izril. Thus—she had to find it. The Ruinstrider Tribe would benefit. All Gnolls would.

That was Lehra’s great quest. She yawned, and picked at her teeth. Again, heroism took a backseat sometimes.

The thing was…she hadn’t told anyone but her team, but the thing was, the Blade of Mershi was more than just a powerful artifact that could transform, and gave her snazzy Drake-armor when she activated it. It had a secret only Dragial knew about; one of the reasons he was so obsessed. The artifact had chosen her.

It spoke to her. When Lehra Ruinstrider had first picked it up, after Dragial had betrayed her scavenging team who wanted a fair price for it—maybe even to auction it—it had activated. Choosing her over the Wall Lord because she was worthy.

Lehra didn’t know why. Nor could she always ‘talk’ to the Blade of Mershi, but it was a huge secret. Her quest to evade Dragial and find the lost city, her friends she’d made across Izril and her team…

“It’s so magic-girl. I’m telling you. Look at her!”

Inkar stared dubiously at Lehra. The Gnoll burped and glanced around to see if anyone was watching. She didn’t notice Rose and Inkar, which was sort of amazing on its own because Rose was practically dancing with delight.

“She’s a magical-girl! No, a [Magical Warrior]! She even has a transformation sequence? That’s so—so—corny! Hilarous! Amazing!”

“Are you…sure?”

Inkar looked at Rose. Her delight over meeting another Human from Earth had not diminished since she’d met Rose. However, she couldn’t track the young Californian woman’s train of thought. They had clearly not watched the same shows growing up.

“I am telling you, Inkar! It’s all stories. Ryoka told me that one; Erin too! Sometimes they’re just stories played straight. Like, I’m sure one of Ryoka’s friends is a V—well, no one else noticed. I do. I love stories like this! Can you introduce me? Are you close? Have you seen her transform?”

“I slept with her.”

“What?”

Inkar blushed. Rose gave her a quizzical look and decided she’d misheard Inkar.

Rose just beamed. It was worth it. It was worth the entire trip here. She’d been feeling worried about Inkar, worried she’d be like Imani and Rose wouldn’t be able to help. Well, Rose had been feeling depressed ever since she realized what ‘Turnscale’ meant and the culture of Drakes in Izril—maybe people the world over.

She couldn’t be like Galina or Leon and just run off, and she didn’t have a place like Joseph, Imani or even Kevin yet. Rose ignored Troy in her envy of her fellow Earthers.

She couldn’t run around like Ryoka and Erin…well. Rose’s only fantasy up till they heard of Inkar had been taking Fierre aside and asking the exact benefits and disadvantages of Vampirism. Rose liked sunlight, but if you were going to be stuck in a fantasy world…she had still realized that crossbow bolts in the chest would probably kill her, Vampire or not.

This though, this was magic. A gentler story, at least in Rose’s mind. She beamed at Lehra. The Gnoll was just scratching her butt, having decided that some kind of bug was crawling around her fur when it happened.

“Cinaelu.”

Lehra sat up. Rose was following Inkar, trying to play it cool. Lehra looked around.

“What? Cinaelu? Who said that?”

Inkar and Rose stopped as she got to her feet. Inkar hesitated.

“I didn’t say that. Honored Lehra, this is my friend from Liscor. Rose—”

“It’s so nice to meet you, Honored—”

Rose didn’t get a chance to practice her Gnoll-greetings. Lehra looked around.

“Today is Cinaelu day.”

The voice sounded like it was right in her ears. Lehra rubbed at one.

“Cinaelu day? Hey…what’s Cinaelu day?”

She looked at Rose and Inkar. The two didn’t know, but Rose had made an ‘O’ expression with her mouth and was gesturing to Lehra. Inkar backed up. If Rose hadn’t explained that Lehra was probably wearing a magical artifact of destiny, she’d have thought Lehra was just slightly insane.

Well, she still thought that. Lehra frowned.

“Cinaelu. Isn’t that what Emper is celebrating? Something about String Folk winning their freedom? Who’s…?”

Then she realized it. She stared down at the Blade of Mershi. The gem was glowing slightly. Lehra’s eyes widened.

“It’s you.”

The spirit within the Blade of Mershi whispered. Lehra couldn’t make out a form, but she thought she had the first time. The last owner—Lehra thought she felt the voice grow clearer as she mentioned the holiday.

“Cinaelu. It’s Cinaelu day. It’s a holiday. It’s a holiday. I should…”

Rose and Inkar gasped as Lehra’s eyes rolled up in her head. She jerked as the Blade of Mershi glowed. Then—the Armor of Stars covered her body. Lehra lowered her head and looked around. Rose, Inkar, the Gnolls who stopped to turn saw the Star Gnoll begin to walk away.

But something was—off. Lehra was mumbling in a different voice, even walking different.

“Cinaelu. It’s Cinaelu day. I should…”

—-

“…celebrate.”

The last connection with the spirit faded. Lehra felt the wistfulness, the recollection of better times, the innocent holiday, fade. For a second, she felt the other owner’s presence. Lehra tried to call out.

“Who are you? Why did you choose me? Where is the City…?”

Then she opened her eyes and felt pain. Lehra groaned. She looked up.

“It hurts! It hurts! What happened?”

She was lying on her back. Her team was gathered around her. So were Inkar, that other Human, and a bunch of Gnolls. A lot of them looked aghast, or disgusted, or…amused?

Suxhel, the Gazer [Wizard] bent over Lehra with a vexed look on her face. Her eyes focused on Lehra, all of them, and her pointed hat nearly fell off her head. She replied, somewhat annoyed.

“What do you mean ‘what happened’? You walked into the festivities, and ate everything in three food stalls. I saw you stuff yourself at dinner too. What has gotten into you?”

It was only then that Lehra realized she was lying under a small coating of half-eaten pastries, pie tins, and other delectables. She groaned—then her cheeks bulged. Rose knew what was coming and ran with Inkar.

“Oh, gross!”

The television always cut before they actually threw up. That was gross.

And awesome.

—-

“So, let me understand this fully.”

A little while later, Emper, the [Monk] Stitch-man, Suxhel the Gazer, and Elgrinna the Dwarf [Warrior] were processing what had happened. Elgrinna tossed more soap at Lehra, who was washing her fur.

“You realized it was Cinaelu, a Stitchfolk holiday, and then you blacked out, decided to eat fourteen panini-things, three pies, and—”

“Don’t say it. I’m going to throw up again!”

Lehra covered her mouth. Her team backed up. Possibly only Lehra’s level and the possession had stopped her stomach from exploding, and it had still all come out. The Gnoll had already apologized—and paid for her carnage, but now they had a mystery on their hands.

“Why would the spirit react to that?”

The [Monk] was crossing his legs, thinking deeply.

“It’s reacted to some things before. Usually in Drake cities, remember? That’s why we’ve been touring. But a Stitchfolk holiday? Lehra, you are certain that the ghost is a Drake, aren’t you?”

Lehra spat and tossed more water on herself. The little raincloud Suxhel was conjuring obligingly poured harder.

“Almost certain! I don’t get it.”

“Perhaps the association is the holiday. A Drake would celebrate String Folk holidays just as a time to eat and have fun.”

Suxhel reasoned with impeccable logic. Emper nodded.

“But Drakes do not normally celebrate other species’ holidays, do they? I think this is a bigger clue.”

“Whaddya mean, Emper?”

Lehra turned, happy to ask the [Monk] who’d taken up her cause after fate had thrown them together. Emper nodded to himself.

“It must mean that whomever owned the Blade of Mershi before you, Lehra, knew many String Folk. Or at least, one. Perhaps that is what we should look into.”

The rest of Stargazer’s Promise murmured. Lehra’s eyes lit up. A clue! She pumped her fist—then covered her mouth again.

“I just wish the spirit didn’t eat so much!”

“I imagine it was the only food she had in millennia. Lehra, maybe we should write to a Stitchfolk nation or…Lehra? Don’t throw up again. Lehra—”

—-

“—And then they’ll find Mershi! I just know it! At the end of the season, they find Mershi, only, Dragial gets there first and maybe he gets access to a second Blade of Mershi. No, wait. That’s season one, probably. Or is this season three? Look, after that, there’ll be a point where Dragial seems to be winning, or they unearth something terrible in Mershi, and that’s when Lehra has to discover the true power of the artifact and connect with the spirit and—”

Krshia Silverfang stared at Rose, a bowl of Gnollish meatballs and dipping sauce forgotten in front of her. She had no idea what Rose was talking about.

“Wait. Hrr. I do not understand. This is…a story you know? But based on a childhood story you were told that isn’t this one, but is alike in every way?”

Chieftain Akrisa of the Silverfang Tribe was just as lost. So were all the Gnolls sitting in the tent. All those who knew the secret of Earth. They had expected much from Rose—but not this.

“No, not exactly. Okay, let me explain. In my world, there are television shows. Like the ones here—the ones Wistram News Network is based off of, but they tell fictional stories, right? Well, a lot of those stories are…real life over here! Because you have actual Dragons and whatnot. I’m not saying it’s one-for-one, but if I’m right, I can predict what Lehra’s going to do…”

It was times like this that Krshia missed Erin. Everything had been simpler when Erin was just a strange Human from another world on her own. Now, Earthers were as common as copper, and they were all as insane as Erin was. They didn’t look like it at first, but they all were.

Rose hadn’t been a known quantity to Krshia. She’d been…one of the Earthers. The most responsible of them, perhaps, but that was all. Interested in plays?

Rose loved stories. This was a fairytale to her, the story she had wanted to find when she had first met Magnolia Reinhart. Her eyes were shining, but the Gnolls were confused.

All but one. Honored Deskie began to laugh and the other three Chieftains and [Shamans] turned to her. The [Magical Weaver] laughed and the old Gnoll took another bite of her snack. Reminded, Krshia did likewise.

“Well, now. This is simple enough. Chieftain Eska, Akrisa, Orelighn. Let me make it simpler. This young woman says she knows the future! That this is a story like Gorah and the Ogre King. She says she can predict what Honored Lehra will go through because it is a story like that!”

“Oh.”

The other Gnolls accepted the explanation at once. Rose nodded. But Honored Deskie fixed her with a kindly, if knowing eye.

“So, Rose. If you know what Honored Lehra will do, and the shape of events—what can she do, now, to activate the Blade of Mershi?”

Rose hesitated. Krshia chewed as the young woman thought.

“Well…she needs to find uh, the City of Stars’ ruins…or a sign of the wielder’s old life. Then she’d activate powers and find out more—”

“So search for clues. Which is what she is doing. Could you tell her anything specific?”

“Uh—uh—not anything I can think of. But the story—”

Was a story. And there were a lot of ways you could tell it. Rose’s face fell, but Deskie just smiled.

“Knowing the shape of the final product isn’t knowing how it was woven. Your knowledge is powerful, Rose. If you can help Honored Lehra, the debt of a Named Adventurer and her team would not be small. But I think, we should not focus overly on that.”

Shamefaced, Rose hung her head. Inkar came forwards then.

“Is Lehra in danger if this Lord Dragial will win?”

“It’s—maybe not now. He’s the big villain. I don’t know how you’d stop that.”

“By killing him?”

Akrisa frowned. Rose stared at her, and some of the excitement drained further away.

“What? N-no. And if you did, it would probably be him being replaced by someone else. His best henchmen or a betrayal from a friend…”

“Like our lives.”

Krshia couldn’t help but comment. Beilmark grinned ironically.

“Cut off the head and one grows back. Like a gang.”

Rose hung her head. Was it useless after all? Inkar patted her on the shoulder, and Krshia shook her head.

“Rose’s knowledge is just one thing that we have to bring before Chieftains and Tribes like ours, yes? Let us consider telling Lehra and her tribe—although Lehra is not the most discreet. For now, I think it is time. The Raskghar are here.”

The Gnolls sobered. The Raskghar were under heavy guard, but Pallass had escorted them here. Krshia sighed.

“The first debates will begin to take place. We have to make more allies. Thus, we must risk taking more tribes into confidence, before the final reveal. It is time to buy and sell, and we risk much, but we have much to offer.”

She nodded at Akrisa, hoping she wasn’t overstepping, but this all made sense to her. She was a [Shopkeeper], and this was a bidding war. Akrisa nodded, and so did the other two Chieftains. It was Orelighn who spoke for all three, which made Krshia relieved that it wasn’t Akrisa seeming to show favoritism.

“Honored Krshia. You have brought so much of worth, and we agree—tribes to force a resolution on Doombringers, to unite us with a goal for this other world that is for the best—we need them. Allies. But the right ones, yes?”

Krshia nodded. If they went to, say, Plain’s Eye, they might enter an ‘alliance’, but it would be the bigger tribe that did all the talking and deciding. And they had to be on Erin’s side. Ryoka’s side. They had to also agree on Mrsha. So—then—they had to choose carefully.

“There are a number of tribes we could court. Some will never work together. Steelfur and Woven Bladegrass. I have a list.”

“What shall we tempt them with, if not just knowledge of Earth, sharing of the spellbook? These things…these are our gifts.”

Eska wanted to know. Krshia grinned.

“Our tribes are not weak. To persuade others to follow us, we must make gifts, it is true. Rose and Inkar have knowledge! Liscor has bicycles, technology! And we have the materials of Earth. We still have an airplane.”

Orelighn shifted, but nodded quickly. He coughed into one paw.

“The only issue is, Honored Krshia, that the airplane is wrecked. Much of its true value is lost, if Honored Rose and Inkar are correct. What else have we besides knowledge, good as that is?”

Fair point. Once the bicycles were copied, it was like Erin’s recipes. Value, soon lost if disseminated far. Krshia had been waiting for this. The [Royal Shopkeeper] had made the stakes clear. Now for the pitch. She smiled wide as could be.

“There are some things, Chieftain Orelighn, that cannot be copied. And the value can be…enhanced. Beyond what even other Earthers could offer. Like this.”

Rose and Inkar’s heads snapped up. Krshia withdrew the object she’d been working on, since the moment she had spied out Inkar, before Rose had even arrived.

The young women gasped. Inkar’s eyes went round and Rose looked at her.

“Inkar. Is that…?”

Inkar’s smartphone lay on the cushion Krshia placed before the small circle of Gnolls. Repaired. The spell had worked with all the pieces pressed into place, and the cellphone was recharged, ready to go. Rose had one herself, an iPhone that she’d used to connect to the others with.

However. Something was different. Rose squinted at Inkar’s iPhone, and then hers. She pulled hers out as the Gnolls glanced at it, then hers.

“Wait a second. That’s…Inkar, when did you say you got here? 2017?”

“It was when I left. Why? Honored Krshia. Did you do something to my phone?”

Inkar looked worried. Krshia just smiled. She offered Rose the iPhone without a word as Rose approached. The young woman stared at it. Then turned it on. She investigated something, tapping, and then nearly dropped it.

“Wait a second! That’s impossible! This—this is the newest model! It’s not even out yet!”

The Gnolls stirred, uncomprehendingly. Krshia’s smile only grew wider. Rose whirled.

“What did you do?”

[Appreciate in Value]. The latest model of the iPhone glowed in Rose’s hand, at least a year after either girl had been taken from Earth. What had astonished Krshia, privately, was that while her Skill took a long time, a month to make wine or other objects better, it didn’t seem to gauge the worth of the iPhone the same. She’d been ‘testing’ it on some gold, and the gold had slowly, very slowly, become purer; the iPhone had upgraded itself twice in the same span of time. Perhaps because it was, in the end, made of cheaper things and not magic.

The Gnoll spread her paws.

“We may have to give away one or two objects. But if something is without price or equal…a tribe might move for that alone.”

She grinned widely. Krshia’s blood was humming. Her [Shopkeeper]’s nose was scenting a fortune. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was like [Strategists] leveling from chess. She sensed…a loophole. An open contract.

Rose stared at Krshia in awe. Then—she looked down at the iPhone and a single problem occurred to her among the amazement. She frowned, inspected it, then showed it to Inkar.

“Wait a second. The headphone port is gone. What happened to that?”

—-

Cinaelu. The holiday of String Folk. Celebrating victory over the Threadmakers and other species who wanted to keep them as slaves. The day named after the Rebel of String.

Yet if she could have spoken to them, what would she have said? She had never asked for a holiday bearing her name. Never wanted it.

Nor, perhaps, what her people had become. The imprisoned Golems had risen and overthrown their masters. They had won freedom, power, and with it, they had in their own turn bought [Slaves]. Silk stood over Hemp and Cotton and the very quality of their fabric dictated how high a Stitch-Person could rise.

The day of Cinaelu was a day of freedom. If it was anything, the [Rebel of String] might have told someone, a young woman, it should be that.

Freedom. Let all those who make chains, of spells, of metal or of the mind quake on this day. Perhaps it had once been that.

It had—but only he remembered it. He, and few others. Fewer. Dwindling.

Once, for a single day, a very few of the captors would have given them free rein. A limited, very narrow set of freedoms. Yet freedom nonetheless. A day to mix and mingle and…

Well. Sometimes, the enslaved would turn the generosity back and use the loopholes in an errant command or order to enact terrible vengeance. So no doubt most wouldn’t have dared, even then. Yet the day had changed. It was now about String Folk, not freedom.

“When they say, ‘Elucina’s weave be yours’, they mean freedom. The freedom to create yourself. Back then, even face and form were not for String Golems to decide. She decided how she would look. She decided who she was.”

The figure skimmed across the ground, flying with ease, though the joy was long since gone from him. There was no fun to be had with flying while chained. He spoke to nothing and no one; he could not linger long enough to let the words last and even if he could—he was forbidden from speaking.

One could play terrible tricks with their voice, simply by uttering truth. Or lies, it was true. ‘I saw your master in bed with that woman.’

That could bring down a household in suspicion and guilt. Thus—he was forbidden from speaking except when needed. Yet he also had to speak when not speaking would endanger his masters.

The Djinni skimmed across the ground, a scythe in his hands. He swept across the field of wheat, harvesting it faster than any [Farmer]. Air whipped the fallen stalks and seeds together in a furious ball of matter in the air. Dead stalks fell to earth, as the threshed and winnowed harvest flew after the Djinni, to be deposited in baskets filled just so with fat, huge grains.

Not a single bug allowed in each. The plants had been watered, the ground sewn, all by his hand. He harvested the field and was letting it lie fallow a while in a fraction of the time even a machine from another world might have done it. The wind bent for this menial task, and he levitated objects without even looking or pointing at them.

Only the highest-leveled [Farmers] could have matched him, and they had to rest. He was not but done with this field when he moved through the air to his next task, never stopping. A cloud like a low-flying thunderstorm streaking across the field.

Other, lesser species, [Slaves], workers, and their masters all stared up at him. Some warily. After all, he could take almost any form. He could do almost anything.

Yet the bindings on him were extensive. This mortal master had hired someone to speak for eighteen hours straight, using spells and potions to ensure they were awake and no word was misspoken. Even so, the requirements overlapped in their protections. So careful.

A Djinni in a bottle. That was what he was. If you found such an artifact, rejoice. Celebrate! But never unleash the Djinni before binding it carefully. After all—you didn’t get one wish. You got as many as you could dream of, as many as they could fulfill.

If you made sure there was no chance at all they would find a way to twist your words and hurt you. Because if they did…you died.

He had long since given up searching for ways out. He had managed to slay scores of masters. Nearly a hundred over his imprisonment, yet he had never managed to break the artifact that bound him. Each time, they worked a little harder, added another careful rule.

In the past, it was simple. ‘Obey my wishes’. ‘Do not harm me’. ‘Do not lie, or twist the truth.’

He’d played merry hell with them, back then. After all—if someone commanded him not to speak unless spoken to, he’d happily give the enemy [Soldiers] all the time to sneak up on them from behind.

‘Safeguard me from all harm’. A fine thought! Only, in what span of time was that harm to be safeguarded in? He had carefully rescued an [Assassin], nursed him back to health, and armed them with the greatest artifacts. Then, when the [Assassin] had raised their blade to his master at that time, the Djinni had done his best. A shame he’d been five miles away.

The good old days. No…the old days. He had still been enslaved. The Djinni thought of that, and the masters he had killed on Cinaelu. String Folk had owned him for almost all of his existence. Generations of them. Some saw the irony. Many did not, and forbade him pointing it out.

Well, these days he could speak if necessary, but only under a number of circumstances. So he talked to himself. Or remembered in silence.

Next came more actual craft. He enjoyed that, and prepared the mortar and brickwork. There was a delight in being good at what you did, and the bricks he made were perfectly symmetrical, hard. He only had to maintain the roads every few years, and only in places. They were one of the reasons trade was so good in this part of Nerrhavia; one did not have to fight through mud or sand.

He dug up damaged parts of the road, inserting the bricks, making sure the mortar was set and dried before he moved on with the right application of air and heat. Ah, but now he remembered once when they hadn’t been as careful in making sure he bore no ill-intent, even in bricks. He’d sown Creler eggs into each one.

Travellers might point up if they saw him, speeding with his tools from spot to spot. They might be nervous, but he offered them no danger. Indeed, if a [Bandit] or monster appeared, he would have slaughtered them.

A little family pointed up as he flew overhead, doing that very thing. He heard their voices.

“Look! There’s the Djinni of Aeresuth!”

Aeresuth, the city that flourished and was so fat with wealth, even among Nerrhavia’s Fallen. There were any number of reasons, of course; good planning in the wells that had enough water to grow and live with. A certain placement that intersected nicely with trade, geography, the local produce and so on.

But also him. Other cities did not have roads so perfectly kept. Other cities could not spare more hands for artisans, since they had guaranteed food, protection, and so forth.

Of course, that meant he took such menial jobs from other people, and his masters, the rulers of this city, did not offer his powers for nothing. Yet the result was that Aeresuth was rich. For some.

That was how it always was. Except…the Djinni wistfully abandoned his tools and flew higher. He changed, and felt his vast magic deplete slightly. His body…transformed.

High overhead, it began to rain. In dry Chandrar, it rained, a shower over the fields that needed it, over the gardens; a decadence in the city. Directed water, such that not a drop hit someone in the street who stared up and saw the curious, funneled showers.

Always the same, except when it wasn’t. The rich and powerful commanded those below. Except sometimes…

The call came for him as he was speeding down, carelessly fast like a bolt of lightning—although he seemed more like half-Roc, half man. To sweep dust and grit from the streets of the inner city.

The Djinni turned, flickered—and appeared in the spell-circle prepared for him. It was just a thought; he knew the spot intimately.

It still impressed the guests. They oohed, and the Djinni bowed.

“You called for me, Master?”

The scion of Aeresuth clapped her hands, smiling. Emira Sulaake turned to her guests.

“My Djinni, the powerful Drenir, has arrived. Shall we retire? Drenir—refreshments, and ward this place that none might listen in.”

He nodded, silently, and began to cast the necessary magics. So that was why she’d called him. Not just to impress.

Casting magic without Skills was harder for him than [Mages], but he could still spare attention enough to inspect her guests. What he found was…interesting. Drenir—an abbreviation of his true name—was neither blind nor stupid. Sometimes Sulaake or her family even consulted with him for his insights, although understandably warily.

What he saw were two groups of Stitchfolk guests—no, three parties. One was by himself, an [Emir] or other dignitary from clothing and bearing. The other two groups of guests were distinct. Both were clearly rich, but you could see that they were different. One seemed smaller, least-wealthy, and the other was represented by three, chief of whom was a rich man who wore the Merchant’s Guild’s emblem.

Emira Sulaake was most powerful of all here, clearly. Yet the Djinni didn’t bother with families or faces. All he cared about were his kin.

“Brother and sister.”

He recognized both. Two Djinni hovered in the air behind their respective owners; both parties. That three Djinni were in one place was astonishing anywhere but the Shield Kingdom of Merreid, or the richest of nations. Nerrhavia was rich enough to qualify, of course, but three masters of Djinni gathering was still…interesting.

“Your servant, Emira Sulaake, is—is beyond impressive. What order of spirit is he? What nature?”

The [Merchant] licked his lips, staring up at Drenir. He could tell that his own Djinni was lesser. Drenir had teleported into the Emira’s home in an instant when summoned; neither Djinni could do that.

One looked like a wisp of shadow at times; at others, a beautiful, if strangely tall and elongated String Folk woman herself. A mimicry of an assassin or bodyguard, from the poorest group, a family of lesser aristocracy. She stared at Drenir, and he nodded to her as he cast the spell. She was shadow, shade, cloud—they would have called her Nightair, as if that meant anything.

“Drenir is of Quiset-majesty. Although his strength waxes and wanes. Shockmist. Although you understand that a being of his nature can change to almost any nature he needs.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.”

The [Merchant] was very impressed. Drenir met the Djinni’s gaze behind the [Merchant]. He saw…a curiously innocent-looking cat, with a little square hat, ‘sitting’ with a floating abacus. It was flicking the beads at speed and noting down its calculations non-stop on a magical scroll.

Clearly, an affectation of the [Merchant]’s. Drenir was not fooled.

If he stood above his kin, the cat-Djinni was stronger than the Nightair Djinni; enough to change his form this markedly, not to mention casual levitation. The cat looked up and twitched an ear at Drenir.

Hello, brother Drenir. Can you believe this one? He is so nervous of me he can’t even stand to have me about unless I look like this.

Drenir heard the thought and grinned. Powerful indeed. Telepathy. He concentrated, and, though it was not his specialty, sent back.

Perhaps we shall talk longer, brother, if time allows. Drenirkesun. A fine Cinaelu to you.

The cat raised its brows, and the abacus’ clicking slowed for a moment.

Cinaelu? A fine one if you want that. Seemutor.

Interesting. Drenir frowned. The voice of the cat-Djinni was younger. In that he didn’t remember why Cinaelu mattered.

Younger. It was a relative term. However, if he didn’t remember the origins of Cinaelu…both were younger. Weaker. If they had time to mingle, Drenir might tell them about it. Or just talk. It was rare they got to do so, and sometimes he envied Merreid’s Djinni.

Sometimes not. They would never escape that city until it was destroyed.

Hope. There was still hope for Drenir, for all his imprisoned kind. Not that the Djinni might come back; their cousins, the Jinn, had died. They would never return, only fade, servant by servant.

However, he might one day be free again. Drenir dreamed of it. Hope existed. Not just that one master might be punished, but true freedom. Perhaps—perhaps hope had died a century ago, but perhaps hope lived. There was a rumor on the winds that hope might be coming back.

At any rate, he accompanied his mistress as she welcomed her guests, listening, performing menial tasks as she showed off. Bored, but interested by his kin’s presence. Drenir listened and realized—

Today would be an interesting Cinaelu day after all.

—-

Emira Sulaake welcomed three guests into her room. First, the noble family of the Escrites—although they were fairly poor for all that. Their spirit was not of a high order, and was used for specific bodyguarding, careful combat, and menial chores. She had neither the talent nor magic to harvest a field in an instant, but she was still a Djinni.

Merchant Almon was different. Newly come to his Djinni, he was clearly leery of it, but its incredible mathematical skills managed his entire growing, network of businesses and deliveries. He was thus accorded less respect—not that he noticed—for all his Djinni was more powerful.

The most important guest was, of course, from far off. A foreign diplomat. From the Empire of Sands.

He smiled most eloquently after all the niceties were done and they were seated. The Stitch-Man of satin-weave and a luxuriant cloth that even Sulaake had never seen was so graceful he made the others speechless.

The other mortals, anyways. The Djinni never looked twice at him, being more concerned with each other or their tasks. The Nightair Djinni kept waggling her brows at Drenir, making faces which he was unable to return, but smiled at.

“Drenir, patrol for invisible spies.”

Sulaake said that after the antics got too annoying. She didn’t think for a second any were there, but he moved about rather than distracting her.

“You honor me with your hospitality, Emira. Merchant Almon, Emira Escrites—a good Cinaelu to you. Elucina’s weave be yours.”

All the other Stitchfolk copied the toast. They drank, and then, hospitalities exchanged, began to talk.

Of course, they’d already met. The [Ambassador] from the Empire of Sands had courted Sulaake for quite some time, forging bonds with Nerrhavia and the new, growing power to the far west. She wouldn’t have normally cared as many sought her favor, but he’d offered her a fine cloth. Enough to make a new arm out of, and the fabric had made her feel so strong that she was hooked.

String Folk made gifts of cloth to each other. Enough silk to create arms and legs out of was a handsome gift, but those rich enough to be in Sulaake’s circle went for even more exotic fabrics.

Cloth and thread that were so rare that even a single sheet could be worth a fortune of fortunes—especially since it became String Folk’s bodies. Unicorn hair, for instance, or a cloth made of Phoenix feathers rendered down—

Queen Yisame was said to have many limbs made of such cloth and she was always resplendent. This [Ambassador]? He wore the very same fabric he’d gifted to all the others to win their attention.

At any rate, talk between them was convivial and frank in this private place. It swung first from the news, the latest on Wistram television, to internal politics—the raised taxes on Djinni-owners, which was much resented yet Yisame had instituted due to politics in the capital—to the largest thing in the room. The elephant of destruction—Flos Reimarch.

“Yet another army was simply—beaten. Oh, the capital does rephrase it and I understand we are pushing Hellios, even the King of Destruction’s armies back, but my contacts abroad snigger at Nerrhavia’s glorious armies! Hordes of mice facing a lion, they say. If we win, it will only be because we buried them in corpses.”

Merchant Almon turned quite red as his newly-stitched silk face flushed. He might have been new to wealth, but he was of all things, patriotic.

So was Sulaake, at least in terms of Nerrhavia’s glory. Which was why the Ambassador Sheis had sought her out, of course. She sat, a displeased expression on her face.

“That we win is not enough. It must be with grace and conviction, or not at all. After the disaster that was taking Tiqr…”

The representatives of Escrites nodded sourly. Nerrhavia’s Fallen didn’t look good, for all they were winning. Rather—the fact that they hadn’t pushed Flos back enough to take Reim was a sore spot. That they couldn’t simply…overpower Flos by sheer volume of armies was annoying, but there was his Army of the King and vassals. If Nerrhavia lost, say, five-armies combined in a single battle…

Sound caution did not make the non-[Generals] happy, however, and the Ambassador played to that.

“Today is Cinaelu, friends. We should be merry—but alas, I hear the King of Destruction is celebrating our day. Thumbing his nose at what our peoples fought for.”

He injected careful emphasis on ‘our’, and the mood turned sour even as more wine flowed.

“It should not stand. Which is why we’re here, of course.”

The head of the Escrites shot a quick glance around, getting to the point in his impatience—or maybe it was the drink. Sulaake sighed.

These were not her chosen companions for socialization, and she was doing the Ambassador a favor by even having them here at all. However…they did all own Djinni.

Almon swallowed his wine, oblivious.

“How so?”

“Why, the King of Destruction has done well against even Nerrhavia’s chariots. Countless Silk [Charioteers] and warriors have fallen, even some of our lesser [Generals]. Of course, Nerrhavia’s full might is not yet upon Reim. Yisame holds back her champions, though they might well triumph over Mars and the other vassals of course.”

“Of course.”

Even Nerrhavia’s own hesitated at the affirmation, but the Ambassador pressed on.

“Meanwhile, no [Assassin] has yet to trouble the King of Destruction, though a bevy were certainly sent. Gazi the Omniscient.”

Another pause. Each name was known across Nerrhavia. Famous names. The names of stories. Sulaake’s skin prickled, although not unpleasantly. Her heart was beating quicker, with excitement, as when Sheis had talked her into this.

“The King of Destruction is a legend.”

Merchant Almon offered cautiously, unsure if this was considered unpatriotic. Sheis nodded.

“And yet—he must fall. He sits in Reim now, feasting on Cinaelu. Perhaps, as they say, not even the best of mortal men can stand easily against him. The Minotaurs failed, though they did well. The King of Duels struck him twice through the chest, but a legend is hard to kill. So. Why not send enemies in kind against him?”

The group fell silent. The Escrites knew it was coming; Almon choked on his wine. Sulaake watched their faces, hiding her excitement by drumming her fingers unseen behind the shawl of her dress.

“Ambassador Sheis! You can’t be suggesting—is that why I’m here? Me and…?”

Almon looked around, putting it together at last. The Emir of the Escrites sat back, frowning.

“The palace did not ask, or you would not be approaching us, Ambassador. It will be the work of moments to piece together whom they belong to, even if disguised.”

“Why disguise?”

Sheis countered. He glanced at Sulaake.

“If the King of Destruction were to fall—all the glory would fall to you three. Consider that. And consider, his Majesty, the Emperor of Sands himself desires this. So greatly that he would reward anyone who were to aid him.”

“Has he not Djinni of his own?”

The question bounced off with a smile.

“It would have to be quick, and Djinni are noticeable, especially if they must cross a continent. Fast as they are. Today is Cinaelu.”

“I heard peace was declared for a day. Djinni are not…we would be in the greatest of trouble! Emira Sulaake, are you considering this?”

Almon looked horrified at the prospect. Sulaake knew he was right, but she met his gaze.

“It would be great trouble, Almon. But if we succeed? What then?”

A tantalizing vision hovered in her gaze. Sulaake had been promised enough expensive cloth to change her entire body. Ceithsand, the Ambassador had called the new cloth. She’d be as strong as a Gold-rank adventurer and more beautiful still. And—with the glory, however won, of slaying the King of Destruction, perhaps Yisame’s inner circle would be open to her.

If they agreed. Three owners of Djinni sat, being lulled into it with wine and promises. Of course, Sulaake had already agreed. They were nervous. The King of Destruction was a legend! One of his vassals stood with him!

And yet—which mortal could easily stand against the spirits who had once battled Dragons? Drenir looked at Sulaake and she shivered, imagining it. She had never seen his full might; not in any of the displays he had done when she had first inherited him. That could only be seen in battle.

In the end, it was simple. Orders were given. The Djinni stirred, as amazed as they had been. Delighted, amused…Drenir’s expression looked just—resigned, to Sulaake’s disappointment. But it was done. The group hurried to celebrate prematurely. Their confidence was odd, given all they had seen, but they had some reason to be.

Not even the King of Destruction could stand against Djinni.

Not without his [Mage].

—-

Plots and schemes and royalty. That was nothing new, but war? The war was pressing on and time was limited.

Yet this recent development might throw everything astray. It had to be considered. Thought on. The Thronebearers sat in a private room in their inn—the Tailless Thief, not The Wandering Inn.

They had to think. Gravely, all four, Ser Dalimont, Ser Sest, Ser Lormel, and Dame Ushar sat, drinking water, not anything stronger. Their heads had to be clear.

The room was silent; the Drake [Innkeeper] had peeked in once, caught the vibe, and backed out. Ser Sest had his head in his hands. Ser Lormel was steepling his fingers, the tips just touching his nose. Ushar was biting her lip.

At last, someone had to break the silence. Ser Dalimont exhaled, and gave voice to the issue. The 6th Princess of Calanfer called a child, a Gnoll child, her own. She had been at the inn. She was now in Oteslia. But the child? He wavered, uncertain, looked around, and then spoke.

“Lyonette the Kind.”

The heads of the other Thronebearers rose. Ser Sest sat up. He frowned.

“Absolutely not. Far too simple.”

Dame Ushar pounded a fist on the table.

“I kept thinking the same thing, but we must elevate, Ser Dalimont.”

“Of course.”

He sat back, sighing. Dame Ushar drummed her fingers on the table, frowning mightily.

“Lyonette the Munificent? No—something that more eloquently flows from the tongue. A reversal of her character thus far. She was Lyonette the Fiery before—dead gods, was that really the best we could come up with?”

“One had to explain her address to the common folk somehow. Peons.”

Ser Lormel muttered. Dalimont winced. Thronebearers had to do their best with what they were given. Now, though…

A thoughtful silence descended on the table. After a moment, Lormel snapped his fingers.

“The Princess of the Hearth. Hearth and home. She would never let a child be alone.”

The others turned on him. Sir Sest’s jaw dropped and then he stood up to clasp the other Thronebearer on the shoulder.

“That’s fair brilliant, Ser Lormel! I knew we could do it! Princess of the Hearth! What do you think?”

He looked around. Ushar and Dalimont considered it, one with more fervor than the other.

It said something about the Thronebearers, that the first thing they did after discovering Mrsha was claimed by Lyonette was think on how they could spin this back home.

Dalimont thought they were missing the forest for the trees. No—the Treant for the twigs on the ground. He sighed and pushed his chair back.

“If we can finish how we’ll re-label Princess Lyonette later…? We still have to find her, and she’s in Oteslia of all places.”

The Gnoll [Server] had been quite helpful. The little girl, Mrsha, less so. Adopted by a [Princess]? Dalimont rubbed at his face. Their job just got harder and harder.

Seraphel had sent him to add some kind of competency into their mission. Dalimont knew each Thronebearer, one from his Majesty, Sir Lormel, Princess Shardele’s champion, Sir Sest, and Dame Ushar of the 5th Princess, Vernoue, were all good [Thronebearers]. Just…typical of their order.

The Thronebearers looked at Dalimont.

“You mean, what to do with the child? We must retrieve the [Princess], so Oteslia is our next call. We might as well sail from Zeres if we retrieve the [Princess]—although the north might be safer. Either way, we must hurry.”

Ser Lormel grimaced. Dalimont nodded.

“Do we bring the child?”

Another silence fell on the Thronebearers. Well now, that was the question, wasn’t it? This? This was a Tier 5 explosive spell in Calanfer’s courts waiting to go off.

Dame Ushar grimaced.

“The Princess of the Hearth brings a poor, abandoned child with her in Calanfer’s dark hour…it can work. The marriage however—”

That was a problem. Children were generally not as attractive in arranged marriages. The others nodded, frowning. Sir Sest was the next to speak up, a crease burrowing deeper on his forehead.

“Perhaps we assume too much, friends. Consider it another way.”

Everyone looked at him. Sir Sest leaned back, looking a bit wary, but none of them represented Lyonette herself; just other [Princesses] and the throne, and they knew all the politics of court.

“To my understanding, Princess Lyonette arrived in Liscor. She apparently stole for a living, but in the end ended up at said inn. At some point, she discovered a child whose tribe and family had been lost in a tragic accident, and with the aid of the sadly deceased [Innkeeper], raised her as a child as best she could while working to provide for them. That would be Miss Mrsha.”

“All correct.”

The other Thronebearers nodded. Dalimont felt a prickle of…Sir Sest gave voice to it with a deeper frown.

“With all due respect, friends, the story is touching. It is a noble thing to care for a child. A generous, heartfelt act…does that sound like the 6th Princess to you?”

Dalimont inhaled with Ushar. Lormel just bit his lip. If anyone had heard that back home…but it was true.

“Perhaps her care for Miss Mrsha is…emblematic of the current situation? It might have been a passing fancy. Hence Miss Mrsha not being with the Princess?”

Ushar spoke tactfully. Dalimont felt his heart sink. If that were so…he shook his head.

“I want to believe it is not. Miss Mrsha wrote as if the [Princess] had taught her, personally. I peeked upstairs and they share a room. I saw the nameplate. I believe there was genuine care there, Dame Ushar. A [Princess] can change. Believe me.”

All three Thronebearers looked at Dalimont. They had all heard rumors of Noelictus. None said it, but he had changed too.

At last, Ser Sest sat back with a pained sigh.

“The fact remains you are right, Ser Dalimont. We can return the story, but the individual? The child cannot return to glorious Calanfer, surely. Even if she cannot speak, she can write. If the slightest hint were to emerge that Princess Lyonette had been anything but chaste…”

“She is far too old for that, Ser Lormel! To even be considered the fruits of a co-mingling—I would challenge you to a duel were I to hear that from your lips in Calanfer!”

Ushar half rose, a thunderous look on her face. Sest raised his hands.

“I would never impugn her Highness’ honor, Ushar! Yet tongues wag in defiance of fact. In another time, friends, perhaps we could take the child but—dare we risk Calanfer’s fate today?”

“She cannot be left alone.”

Ser Lormel put in, as concerned for Mrsha’s wellbeing as for what would happen next. He looked around. Ushar bit her lip.

“She has friends here. It may be cruel, but Calanfer could prepare an adequate sum to care for her all her days. The Princess could well visit—in time—after marriage. Reveal the story and reunite the two. If she were married ere our return, three years?”

Lormel was shaking his head already.

“That is cruel to do to a child, Dame Ushar. It clashes with every notion I have of wellbeing for children.”

He would know. He wasn’t assigned to any one [Princess], but Lormel was in service to the throne, and thus he had helped raise the 7th Princess. The other Thronebearers deferred to him and Dalimont sighed. What a mess.

He closed his eyes and thought. At last, when he opened them, he looked around directly.

“Let us find the Princess first and see just how much she cares for the girl. We need not separate the two, after all. A Gnoll may grow up in Calanfer…quietly. And visit the palace or be visited quite often.”

“Like the illegitimate…ahem. Yes, of course! Plenty of time to deliberate further on the journey back.”

Sir Sest’s eyes lit up, and even Lormel nodded after a moment. The Thronebearers relaxed. Then, they focused on the other task and Ushar groaned.

“Oteslia! We have ridden a continent across already!”

“At least we know the door will help. That’s an eight-hundred mile round trip saved.”

Glumly, Ushar nodded. Lormel frowned.

“But Miss Mrsha should be cared for, especially if Princess Lyonette has declared her a ward of any sort. That inn is not safe. I find those men in hats somewhat…disreputable to my senses. Were I in Calanfer, I would inquire after them. Nor does she have a proper caretaker.”

“We should ensure it ere we leave. Perhaps take it into our own hands.”

Sest nodded. Ushar blinked at him and snapped back.

“Take her with us? Are you mad, Ser Sest?”

He glowered at her. She’d misinterpreted his words.

“Not at all! I would hardly subject a child to riding through Drake lands, even if we can skip the Bloodfields. Perhaps, though, we should arrange something! One of us staying behind is…too perilous for our mission, yet surely there are ways to arrange actual guardianship! The Terandrian Embassy?”

There was a joint embassy which multiple nations could house representatives at—a kind of neutral ground. [Knights], [Diplomats]…there was surely a way, although keeping Mrsha’s status quiet would be the hard part. The Thronebearers looked at each other, thinking it over.

At this point, Mage Montressa du Valeross stopped listening in on their conversation. She sighed, rubbing her forehead.

“Well?”

Bezale, Palt, Kevin, and Joseph all hovered behind her. Imani was furiously cooking downstairs for the crowd who’d returned to find they had a [Knight]-problem. Montressa just shrugged and reached for a drink. She took a deep, fiery draft of the Drakes’ famed whiskey and coughed.

“They’re harmless. If they try to grab Mrsha, I’ll [Chain Lightning] them. Okay? Leave me alone.”

She was drunk. In fact, Montressa had been upstairs and had only learned about the Thronebearers when Bezale had come to get her.

Another time, she would have been considering the implications, trying to help or score some credit with a Terandrian nation—but that would have been Mage Montressa of Wistram.

She was just…Monstressa now. Montressa du Valeross. Montressa the outcast.

She pointed and the door shut on Palt’s hoof. He shouted obscenities, although he’d come to her. Palt couldn’t break through the Tailless Thief’s scrying defenses easily, although he might have been able to. The inn was warded—but happily, they’d paid a certain [Aegiscaster] to do it and you could always slip through your own work.

Montressa ignored the discussion outside. She didn’t care. She raised a finger to her forehead as Bezale looked at her, mildly concerned.

“Montressa, you should stop drinking. We can still build our business in Invrisil. I’ve been doing it myself, but you need t—”

Montressa ignored her friend. She’d been kicked out of Wistram! She had nothing left, besides scraps. The ‘business’ network. This inn. A few secrets.

It all felt so hollow. She had given her life to Wistram and she’d been kicked out in a second. It had been her everything. Now? All she had left was…

“Hello, this is Mage Montressa.”

She interrupted Bezale brightly, using a [Communication] spell and speaking to the air. Bezale gave up and stomped out. Montressa continued.

“I’m a—graduate of Wistram. I’m sorry for calling unannounced, but I’ve been doing inquiries into a Chandrarian settlement. A village? Nerhs. N-e-r-h-s. Yes, well, I don’t know where it is…and no map I can find has it listed. Would you happen to know if your regional map has all the current villages? And could you check for—yes of course, I can wait—”

She took another long drink. Ceria. Ceria had told her they were in Chandrar. She’d already found Ksmvr. Yvlon? She didn’t know. Pisces either. But Ceria—Montressa waited. She hadn’t gotten a [Message] spell back, but she was helping.

She began to cry as she waited—until the [Mage] came back. It was probably the drink.

—-

Three days the half-Elf had slept. She’d woken to use the toilet, eat, drink, and ask a few vague questions before passing out.

Luaar, the [Village Head]’s son, had stayed by her, helping to feed the strange adventurer who’d come to them. She was…disappointing.

The first time she’d woken up, he’d been hauling a bucket of ice out. The villagers had put lots of water around her to chill. She’d been sitting up when he noticed the motion and pointed a wand at him.

“Where am I again?”

“Nerhs! I’m Luaar! You’ve asked three times!”

He froze. Ceria blinked at him.

“Right. Ceria to M—wait, I did that. Damn.”

She blinked at him. Then checked herself. She was still wearing her robe; albeit washed. The women had tended to her injuries, though most had been healed.

“Did you take off my clothes?”

“No! It was the women! We didn’t touch you!”

Ceria felt at her belt, blinking at the bag of holding, her wand…

“You’re not robbing me. Or keeping me under guard? Am I in trouble?”

She glanced at the door, as if Luaar’s father was about to come in and attack her. Luaar shook his head. Ceria’s eyes twitched. She nodded slowly.

“Okay. Good. I’m going to rest. I’m—tired—”

She fainted forwards, losing the tension in her body.

—-

The next time she woke up, Ceria was more awake. She still ate everything he gave her. Luaar stared as Ceria tried to explain.

“Sorry. Mgghf. I’m—mana-burnt.”

“What’s that?”

She spoke and some food nearly came out her nose. Luaar had heard half-Elves were beautiful. She was certainly half-immortal, but the rest? Ceria swallowed hard.

“[Mage]-thing. I was controlling a powerful creation and fighting. I’m an adventurer. I pushed past my limits; I need to rest. One more day and I’ll be fine. I need…did you find anyone else?”

She had asked, and the people of Nerhs had checked, but they had found no one else nearby, and some had gone for miles out. Luaar said that and Ceria grimaced.

“I need to find Pisces. He’ll be in trouble.”

“Is he your friend? Another adventurer?”

“Yes. Gold-rank. Give me—give me that, please. What is it?”

“Mustard.”

A mustard seed, along with yellats, were among the few things Nerhs made. Ceria lathered a yellat with it and ate it. She chewed furiously.

“I need to contact my friend. She sent me a [Message]—where is Nerhs exactly?”

“It’s not part of any nation. We used to be, but we were abandoned.”

The half-Elf interrupted Luaar, not unkindly, but impatiently.

“Location. North Chandrar, south, east? Give me one and I’ll ask for details later.”

“South.”

“Thanks.”

Luaar wanted to ask who Montressa was, how Ceria had gotten here, and more, but she was already flagging off. Exasperated, he rose to find his father.

“The adventurer is awake! Her name is Ceria Springwalker, father, and she wants to talk to you!”

Novethur, or Nove as he was known, turned. He had been sitting with the other oldest [Villagers] since Ceria had woken up on the third day. They had been in conference; someone had even ridden hard to a neighboring village to pick something up.

They were consulting it now. Nove nodded heavily.

“It is time, then.”

He closed the book and the other villagers murmured.

“Do you think it will all go well, Nove?”

“I think so. She seems reasonable. But remember: follow the guide. Here. If I don’t return—execute the following.”

Nove turned and handed the village’s [Healer], old Mereth, the book. Luaar stared at it, a bit incredulously.

When Nove and the others had realized an actual adventurer had appeared in their village, they had sent for the book. Apparently they hadn’t ever thought they’d have to use it, but it was actually a staple the world over in some settlements. Both as entertainment and…a guide.

Adventurers and You: what to do if you find an adventurer on your doorstep. By Krsysl Wordsmith.

“Father, is that book real?”

“Very real.”

Nove looked at his son. He had consulted with the book long and hard. Of course, he’d laughed about it the first time the copy had been passed around. Now?

Pg. 42.

‘Section 8: Adventurers Appearing Out of Nowhere.

If you are subject to the ‘randomly appearing adventurer’ be it an emergency-teleport, a visitor falling from the sky, or, rarely, one tunneling up out of the ground or so on, remain calm.

Refer back to the ‘adventurer alignment test’ at the start of the book to ascertain how dangerous this adventurer is. Under no circumstances should you attempt to rob or deprive the adventurer of their possessions.

Many settlements and individuals have made this mistake. While it may be tempting to earn a fortune off their artifacts, theft is still theft and selling a Gold-ranked object is harder than you might think! Moreover, the adventurer’s enemies or allies often enact vengeance even if the individual is deceased. Kidnapping is also rarely profitable for that reason.

With the random-appearing adventurer, you have to first make a risk-reward assessment. Ask yourself the ‘adventurer’s question checklists’, entries #1-14.

Will this adventurer be dangerous when they wake up? Are they infected? More importantly, are they being followed? Are they putting you or your loved ones in danger?

If the answers are ‘no’, and they seem to be on the neutral to good scale of alignments, it is often profitable to help them. Adventurers can be generous for help rendered. Just remember: an adventurer makes life exciting. And exciting isn’t good for the health.

Section 9: Romancing an Adventurer.

Unwanted children from the roaming, licentious and lascivious adventurer are, sadly, a common occurrence that…’

Well, that last part didn’t seem applicable. However, this was one of Krsysl Wordsmith’s most popular works, along with the Antinium Wars, Guide to the Walled Cities, and so on.

So, it was with some actual foresight and apprehension that Nove entered his home where Ceria was resting. Luaar was, to his great disappointment, hurried away.

The village was prepared to run if the half-Elf turned out to be an ‘evil’ adventurer. ‘Neutral evil’, ‘lawfully evil’, and ‘chaotically evil’ were terms Krsysl had apparently come up with to describe the worst sorts, that were closer to [Bandit] than adventurer.

And there were bandits about. Nove was worried about rumors that Sandkempt, a village to the northeast, had…gone silent. No one wanted to check in case something had attacked, but another village had apparently been extorted by [Bandits].

They were coming again. Nove thought of all of this as he entered the hut.

Ceria Springwalker was staring at the frozen buckets of ice and other basins of water about her, slightly bemused. She glanced up as Nove froze.

“Are you Luaar’s father? The [Headman]?”

“I am.”

His heart began to beat uneasily as he saw the ice they’d put around her. Ceria pointed to a frozen bucket by her food; the air around her was cold.

“Did you use my aura as I slept to freeze all this ice?”

Nove ducked his head.

“We—we did, Miss Adventurer. I must tell you, we used it since ice is not something we can normally afford, not without paying for a temporary charm. We even sold it.”

“Sold it?”

The [Village Head] nodded. They’d bundled huge amounts of ice together so it stayed frozen, ran it to other villages nearby, and sold it. Ice was valuable! The village had been having headaches for the last three days; they’d been flavoring shaved ice with bits of sugar and such and eating it. Ceria looked at Nove and he held his breath.

The half-Elf’s lips twitched. She chuckled, and then laughed.

“That’s amazing! Fine by me. Thank you for rescuing me. And not robbing me in my sleep. I owe you something. I’m…”

She tried to struggle up and Nove exhaled the breath he’d been holding. ‘Neutral’. Or even good! Ceria fumbled for her belt pouch, but nearly fell over as she tried to get up.

Nove caught her, helping her sit. Ceria blinked.

“Wow. I’m still drained.”

“You may rest as long as you wish, Miss Springwalker. We already consider your ice to have given us more than caring for you. But I hope we may talk before you go?”

She was nodding. Perhaps she’d read the guidebook too.

“Of course. I owe your village so much, Novethur. I need to find my friends, though.”

“The ones separated? Miss Ceria, is anything following you? Am I putting my village in danger by hosting you? We can arrange a safe place, but I must know.”

For a moment her features froze, and Novethur worried, but Ceria just shook her head carefully.

“I don’t think so. We teleported a long ways away. Just…”

She hesitated.

“I could have sworn someone called me ‘murderer’. But maybe it’s what I’m…well. No, I think not.”

That wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but at least she was being honest. Nove helped Ceria sit up and the half-Elf gestured.

“I need—to tell my friend where I am, but your son keeps telling me we’re not in a ‘nation’.”

“We pay no taxes and we were abandoned. However, I do know where we are. I can fetch a map.”

“Thank you.”

Ceria smiled, relieved to be speaking to an adult rather than a boy who kept asking inane questions like if she’d apprentice him. She knew they weren’t in Khelt. They’d hit something in the air, but she gasped when Nove showed her how far south they were.

“I nearly hit the sea! Damn it! Is that Nerrhavia?”

He nodded. Ceria groaned. They’d bounced—or she had—all the way south! She bit her lip, hard.

“I have to find Pisces. But he’s not responding and he’s out of range. I’ll have to scry…Montressa left a [Message] saying she can’t spot him, but she knows where Ksmvr is. Where’s…sorry, where’s ‘Illivere’? The Illivere Federation? Makes Golems?”

“Right here.”

Nove pointed and Ceria brightened up. That was close! Well, not within walking distance, but give her a horse…she relaxed.

“Thank you so much. Here, Headman Nove. I want you to have…”

The [Village Head] had been expecting this. Or rather, hoping. Ceria counted out fat, gold coins into her lap, as many as she thought she could spare. And she had over two hundred in her bag of holding! The rest was at the Merchant’s Guild.

A small fortune glittered in her lap. She tried to push them into an empty bucket and offer it to him. Her arms shook with the effort.

“Please. I have to keep some, but—”

Novethur stared at more money than his village might earn in a year. He bit off the instinctual desire to protest and just nodded, taking the bucket with shaking hands. Gold was like water for adventurers. That was what the book said. Don’t argue, don’t bargain—take the money if it was good.

Oh, and don’t tell anyone you’d been paid. Ceria Springwalker smiled at Novethar, and the competent [Village Head] smiled at the decent adventurer.

She tried to remember what was next in Krsysl’s book. Not Adventurers and You, but his companion book.

Adventuring for Beginners: a thousand tricks and tips, including how to speak to quest-givers and royalty. By Krsysl Wordsmith.

That damned Drake might have had a lot of stupid ideas, but at least if both sides read the book, they were on the same page.

—-

The Djinni would not reach Reim overnight. Nerrhavia was vast and fast as at least one of them could travel, timing also mattered.

Timing. Somewhere, her friends might be dying. Ceria slept, but she did not rest easy. Her exhaustion from keeping the Frostmarrow Behemoth intact after battling over twenty giants was one thing. Her desire to find her friends…of all of them, she might have taxed herself hardest. Muscle could knit in seconds with a healing potion, but the half-Elf had drawn deep.

She had to find them. Ceria tossed and turned and mustered her strength, for she knew, without a doubt in her heart that if they were able—

Her team was thinking the exact same thing.

By the end of the fourth day, Ceria was walking, albeit with Luaar there to help her. The mana-burnout was fading by the end of the fifth, which was just as well. The [Bandits] rode in around that time and she heard the voice again.

“Murderer!”

However, she had time to prepare for all this. Ceria Springwalker was stranded, but not helpless. She only had to ask herself one question as she assessed, learned where she was and what might be in front of her or finding and rescuing her friends. And that was—

—-

“—how am I going to get out of this?”

Yvlon Byres sat, her one arm folded, staring at the wall. She hmmed to herself, biting her lip. She wore no manacles on her legs or arm anymore.

However, there was an unpleasant marking on her neck. A glowing rune that would blow her head off—and the rest of her body—if she left this place, or angered her captors.

She was in the colloseum, in one of the gladiator’s cells. It was and wasn’t like prison.

Yvlon was familiar with incarceration in the north. Not personally, but she knew what a [Lady] might—it could be municipal, or administered by the ruling lord. Swift—it often was—or longer-term prisoners did exist. More rarely though; Calruz was an exception.

It cost money to feed and house them, and that was a luxury most didn’t have. A [Bandit] normally got the noose. However, Chandrar put their prisoners to work. They made slaves out of them or—as Yvlon now knew intimately—made them [Gladiators].

She had not gained the class yet. She had not fought yet. But she would.

To Yvlon’s surprise, once she’d arrived in the cells, she and the other [Storm Bandits] had been divided up. Their shackles had been removed, and they had been fed, even given fresh clothing, albeit already used. The [Guards] watched them, but didn’t offer to beat them and gave them privacy, even small luxuries.

Even the [Storm Bandits] seemed to think they’d struck out. Because a prisoner or worse, [Slave], would be worked until they dropped. But a [Gladiator]?

“Let’s see. Either I break out—and I’m in a large city in…where in Nerrhavia? Point.”

Yvlon turned her head. A terrified woman pressed up against the edge of the cell shivered and pointed.

“T-there, Miss Byres.”

“Hm.”

Yvlon raised her metal arm. She poked a finger straight through the old stone of her cell and carefully marked the crude map of Chandrar. The [Thief] that had been in her cart and two of the other prisoners who were now gladiators stared at Yvlon in horror. Every time she looked at them, they flinched. They were clearly worried she’d beat them or kill them—the story about her mad rampage had been all over the cells.

The other gladiators watched Yvlon from their cells. Not the barren, straw-and-lice cells with urine on the floor and an unsanitary odor she had expected at all. Rather, there were blankets, pillows, the [Guards] made sure there weren’t rats, and someone had even lit incense.

“No good. I’m way too far within the borders. Damn. You said I was about…here?”

Yvlon indicated the western edge of Nerrhavia. One of the prisoners nodded.

“If it was where they said—yes, Adventurer Byres!”

She gave the woman a look; the cells were obviously split between genders.

“You can call me Yvlon. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Absolutely, Yvlon! Whatever you say!”

The Human woman sighed. She was alone among mostly String Folk, although the gladiator-prisoners hued to all sorts. She turned to face the three companions in her four-person cell.

“Okay. What’s my other option. Let’s assume I’m not freed after an investigation and I don’t break out of these cells.”

They nodded rapidly. Yvlon frowned.

“What did you say? When you said I could ‘earn my freedom’? As a [Gladiator]?”

The female [Thief] shivered. Her name was Rexes, and she was a Cotton-caste [Thief]. Her strings were frayed, but she had old, silk arms, which made them fast—too bad her legs hadn’t been as fast, or she wouldn’t have been caught.

“We’re [Gladiators], Miss Yvlon. We’ve been sentenced for our crimes—”

“I did nothing wrong! I was defending myself! I killed no one!”

Yvlon glowered. Rexes nodded rapidly.

“Of course not! B-but we are [Gladiators], which is for the best.”

“Why?”

All the String Folk looked astonished she didn’t know, but [Gladiators] were a story of a different continent. As much a fairy tale, as well, jungles in Baleros. Yvlon had dreamed of going to such places, but she hadn’t studied.

“Well…a good [Gladiator] that wins—or puts on a good show—can earn a patron. They can get better cells. If they do well enough for long enough, you can win your freedom! Freedom as someone’s [Bodyguard], or the champion of a city! There’s more than one criminal who ended up living fat for the rest of their days after winning an arena, or the championship.”

“Wonderful.”

Yvlon growled. However, it was a thought. She eyed her jagged stump of a right arm and grimaced.

“From what I recall from the stories—gladiators don’t fight just each other, do they?”

The prisoner’s enthusiasm faded markedly. One of the [Prisoners]—a [Gambler] with too many debts—pursed her lips. She didn’t have the confidence of the [Thief], or for that matter, Yvlon.

“The expendable ones fight beasts, monsters, and sometimes even damned Golems or other things for sport. If you’re worth more, you’re safer. Us? We’ll get rusted weapons and fight the real gladiators. Some might take it easy on us. That’s why we should make friends.”

“When?”

Yvlon frowned, looking across the other cells; all the ones around her were the [Prisoners]. The nicer, private rooms were elsewhere.

Rexel gave Yvlon a blank look.

“Why, when we eat or are trained, of course. The veteran [Gladiators] sometimes check the newcomers. To recruit to their team or size up. I’m sure they’ll come to see you.”

Yvlon looked at Rexel. Then the [Armsmistress] made a disgusted noise in her throat.

Size up? Win your freedom by killing others? New gladiators fighting monsters for fun? It was all…

“Blood sports. I heard Chandrar had some barbarities, but this is insane.”

The String Folk looked at Yvlon. She was surprised that rather than agreeing, as they were all in this predicament, they glowered at her.

“What?”

“Nerrhavia’s arenas are not barbaric, Human. We can show our battle prowess and courage, win freedom! Where else could you do that? In Izril? Don’t they have [Executioners] and [Headsmen] in Izril?”

“Yes. So what?”

The other three shook their heads.

“That’s the real barbarity.”

“Oh, really?”

Yvlon glowered. She was willing to debate the point, but she shifted one arm, and Rexel took a look at the shining metal—and the drawing Yvlon had made out of solid stone—and shushed her companions.

—-

Nevertheless, Yvlon Byres was stuck here. The Magistrate who’d lied about her had covered his tracks well. Yvlon had lodged a complaint, but how long would it stay in the system? He had all the time in the world to make up cover stories, find actual dead people she’d ‘killed’.

Worse, Desais, the [Chancellor], had done a quick check and no relic-class artifacts had been found in Magistrate Ducaz’s possession. Nor had Yvlon expected them to find anything; he had been holding onto two of her pieces of gear, but now all of it was confiscated, far from her.

She was stuck, in more ways than one. Yvlon thought in the privacy of her mind as they were herded into the latrines; she declined to use the stinking privies, except to pass water, out, and then to the gladiator’s life. If Magistrate Ducaz had been an honorable man and read the book on adventuring…well, some people thought they were the exception.

It would have made everything so much easier that way. Yvlon Byres was miserable on her first day in her new life. She was sunburnt from Nerrhavia’s sun on her fair skin, weak from her battling in the Village of the Dead, and…

Distinctly unwell. Some of the other new [Gladiators] eyed her as she sat, fidgeting, awkwardly eating with her left hand since her right was gone. She was a Gold-rank adventurer—but she’d been through hell and back and it showed.

“So this is the beast who killed over a hundred [Guards]? Looks like someone poisoned her and took off an arm.”

One of the [Gladiators] in the Arena of Rust grinned as some of the veterans eyed the newcomers. They got to eat private meals, alone or in groups; they had value. Some had even joined of their own volition. One of the others, mingling with the new prisoners, shrugged.

“Apparently she chopped them all up one-armed. Gold-rank. There’s one to watch.”

“Any other newcomers?”

The [Gladiators] were an interesting bunch. Mostly String Folk; other species did feature, but more rarely, they were in a decent arena. Far from the largest or most hotly-contended, but tens of thousands would watch a match.

And there was a match on any given day. Now, the [Prisoners] might have to fight giant crocodiles with spears, or fight unbalanced matches against each other, because that was sport.

[Gladiators], though, got more leeway. They might get to attack a group of weaker [Prisoners] in a ‘blood match’, or they’d fight each other in battles where you could lose a limb at worse—but it wasn’t to the death and there was an unspoken rule not to do too much damage to each other.

Of course, if it was a blood match, all bets were off, and the presiding dignitary would decide life or death for the losers—if the battle didn’t finish them off. Otherwise, a [Gladiator] could ‘yield’. His opponents could refuse, of course, but in the better arenas, there were even [Lesser Teleport] scrolls that could be triggered so a [Gladiator] could fight another day.

Not so in the Arena of Rust. The arena got its name because blood was spilled every day, unlike some arenas where displays of pure skill were enough.

Nor was it entirely fair. The [Gladiators] watching the prisoners warily were mid-to-low rankers. More valuable than expendables, but not like the reigning champion—or the crowd-favorites. They had no Patrons or poor ones.

Even so, if they wanted, they could ‘nudge’ the [Arena Master] or [Guards] into helping them out. Gold, favors, anything went. So a [Gladiator] might be paired against some Firebreathing Lions, but just maaaaybe they weren’t fed for a few days by accident. Or—if they had to go up against a [Prisoner] they didn’t like, maybe the prisoner didn’t get a good weapon.

Or the reverse. Yvlon narrowed her eyes as Rexes delivered this all in a whisper. She had been alone at first, picking at her meal and not very hungry but knowing she had to eat, but then Leprel, the [Storm Bandit] who’d first met her, had come over.

The [Gladiators] were eying her and Yvlon eyed them right back. She turned to face the two who’d given her the low-down.

“Why are you telling me all this? Aren’t you worried we’ll be enemies?”

Rexel licked her lips. It was Leprel who grinned lopsidedly.

“Think on it, Silver-arm. If that’s the score, all us prisoners are in trouble until we survive for a bit and stop being the fresh meat afore the hyenas. If she were here, we’d all be behind Merr. But since she got taken to be a [Slave]—if I get with you, you might watch my back in a fight. Not like there’re better options, eh?”

Silver-arm? Yvlon’s face was blank, but she bit into the yellat at last and swallowed some water grimly.

“Maybe. No promises. What’s next?”

“Training.”

Leprel laughed at Yvlon’s incredulous expression.

“What, you thought they’d just toss us to death? We’ll get at least a day or two of lessons. They also see how good we are with the blade to make the most interesting matches.”

“Aren’t they worried we’ll use the weapons on them? Even a practice sword can kill.”

Yvlon looked at the casual guards, but Rexel reminded her by tapping the rune they’d drawn in magic on her neck.

“No need. You kill one of them, your head blows off. So—just keep calm, eh, Silver-killer?”

The [Silversteel Armsmistress] glowered at her two companions.

“What is with these nicknames?”

The two, [Bandit] and [Thief], exchanged silent looks. Neither one said it, but Leprel quietly traded places with one of the other prisoners to the relief of Yvlon’s cellmate. It was a risk with a wild, raging monster like her, but—she had a sense about Yvlon.

If you wanted to be a legend in the Arena of Rust, you needed a nickname and the Skills to back it up. She and Rexel were putting their hopes on the beast from Izril, one-armed or not.

Yvlon Byres grumbled as she stomped off after breakfast, following the others to sword practice. She still felt unwell and occasionally felt at her stomach. But she was acclimating, understanding she might have to fight. She was just glad…no one had noticed the most important things.

Two things. One, they’d tested everyone for magic when putting them in jail and noticed Yvlon’s arms obviously. They couldn’t remove them, so all was well. Well, that was one thing.

The second was that they had no idea what her Skills could do. Yvlon hadn’t used her new Skills yet since she was always with her cellmates, but even without…she glanced casually at the jagged metal on her right arm. She couldn’t tell, but it looked—

A bit longer. Was her arm growing back?

—-

He did not know where Yvlon was. Or Ceria. Or Pisces. Ksmvr did understand a few things, and compartmentalized the facts in his neat mind like a good Prognugator would. Or adventurer.

-He was in the Illivere Federation, a group of states all specializing in Golem-manufacture in the south of Chandrar.

-They had not arrived in Khelt and been separated mid-trip, possibly by magical disturbance or the haste of the spellcasting. Possibly Pisces had simply miscast the [Greater Teleport] spell.

-Whereabouts of all the other Horns were unknown, even to the Magus-Crafter of Illivere.

-Ksmvr was a pseudo-prisoner, exact status unconfirmed, but his ‘murder’ of Domehead and Hammera and the other Golems had engendered Illivere’s wrath.

-He was in the Magus-Crafter’s personal abode under watch, sharing the space with the Empress of Beasts, Nsiia of Tiqr, who had saved him for reasons unknown.

-All his items had been confiscated. That they knew about.

These were the facts. Ksmvr nodded to himself as he tried to figure out the best plan of action.

Of all the Horns of Hammerad…Ksmvr had not read the book about adventuring by Krsysl Wordsmith. Ceria had kept insisting, but Ksmvr had been told by the Free Queen that ‘that Drake [Writer] was a fool’, and thus, questioned the validity of the writing. One of the few times he had ever actually disobeyed his Captain in any way.

Besides, he was no ordinary adventurer. For better or worse, and it seemed all worse as of this point, Ksmvr was Antinium, and his reputation on Chandrar and everywhere was being one of the bloodthirsty monsters of Rhir, herald of the swarm that would overrun all if given the chance.

Rather than lean out of that as they’d tried to do so many times in the north of Izril, defusing tense situations, Ksmvr leaned into it. The first time Femithain and Armsmaster Dellic and two bodyguard-Golems—and a few [Golem Artificers]—all came to talk with the Antinium adventurer, they found Ksmvr standing at the enchanted window.

“Adventurer Ksmvr of the Horns of Hammerad?”

Femithain was still troubled by Domehead’s loss. By the events that had occurred—he could see and even heard the angry shouting from outside. Days still and they wanted Nsiia punished. Well—that was for later. He waited, but the Antinium did not turn around.

Ksmvr did speak.

“I am Ksmvr. Of the Free Antinium. How may I help you, Magus-Crafter? Or should I say: is it war?”

His head rotated slowly on his shoulders. The Humans flinched as the mandibles opened wide, and the two broken antennae stumps wiggled independent of one another.

Femithain halted, suppressing a moment’s unease at Ksmvr’s foreign appearance. Of all the species in the world—the insect-based Antinium were the most unnatural, even over Lizardfolk, or Drowned Folk.

“I would hope not, Adventurer Ksmvr. I—have come to you to express my deepest apologies for the events at the Testing Grounds.”

“Indeed. I regret slaying so many Golems. In self-defense, you understand. But then, I am a Prognugator. We are trained to defeat any foe. You do realize that keeping a Prognugator of the Antinium prisoner is an unacceptable act to the Hives?”

The escort murmured and Armsmaster Dellic’s hand on his sword tightened. Femithain hesitated. Ksmvr met his gaze, not blinking—although he didn’t blink.

He was bluffing with exactly zero cards in his hand. His Hive didn’t care for him. Nor would anyone go to war for him. However, the other Humans looked worried.

Femithain though…regarded Ksmvr and nodded slowly.

“We are not keeping you prisoner, Adventurer Ksmvr.”

“Then, I am free to go? Please, stand aside. I will collect my belongings and depart Illivere at once, then. Perhaps with a single stop to the Mage’s Guild.”

Ksmvr made as if to move and saw the man with the sword half-draw it. Femithain held a hand out.

“Armsmaster Dellic, please step back. Your conduct is unbecoming towards a guest. I would ask Adventurer Ksmvr to stay as a guest—given the circumstances. For a few days.”

He met Ksmvr’s gaze. The Antinium hesitated. Femithain wasn’t impressed by the threats? Had dominance failed to assert itself?

Then again, he had already asserted it far too much in the Testing Grounds. Ksmvr nodded slowly.

“Then I take it you do not wish me explicit harm? Why am I to be a prisoner, Magus-Crafter Femithain?”

The man hesitated before replying.

“Circumstances of national outrage, Adventurer Ksmvr. You did act in self-defense, but I cannot guarantee your safety given the ‘death’ of Hammera and Domehead among other Golems. It is also imperative that Illivere does not seem to aid a communal enemy of Chandrar.”

“As in, the Antinium threat which I represent?”

“Correct. There are rumors you are but a harbinger of many. Groundless, I take it?”

“Of course.”

The others’ heads swung back and forth between Femithain and Ksmvr. The two never looked away, and their replies only became quicker. Ksmvr barely paused before nodding.

“I understand the circumstances. However, I must warn you that I am a Gold-rank adventure and my rights are guaranteed by the Adventurer’s Guild. Moreover, as a Free Antinium of Liscor…”

He reached down. He’d been saving one of the foodstuffs on his plate. They’d given him all meat; perhaps thinking an insect as a carnivore from his mandibles.

A dried bone hovered in his hand and Ksmvr crunched it. The other Humans flinched. Femithain blinked as Ksmvr chewed it down, giving them all a good look at his incisors.

“…My patience is not unlimited. My Hive’s? Even less so. The Free Queen and her Revalantor, Klbkch the Slayer, can be—unpredictable.”

The Magus-Crafter nodded slowly.

“Understood, Adventurer Ksmvr. For now, we simply ask that you stay in this suite. Golems will not allow you to escape, but any amenity will be provided. Have you need of anything?”

“Hm. Maps would be acceptable. And a [Message] scroll? I would like to communicate my wellbeing to the Adventurer’s Guild and my fellow adventurers. And perhaps locate my friends?”

Femithain adjusted his glasses.

“All these things are underway. I shall have maps prepared and a [Message] scroll sent directly.”

“I see. Thank you.”

—-

That was the first encounter. Ksmvr thought he hadn’t established sufficient intimidation. Femithain had been helpfully precise, however.

To up the intimidation-factor, when the [Servant] came to deliver the scroll, they found Ksmvr, standing an inch in front of the door as it swung open.

They screamed. Ksmvr collected the scroll and maps after they’d run away shrieking. He spoke to himself as he unrolled them, corroborating his location with his internal knowledge and scribing a [Message] to Halrac, then Lyonette.

“Hm. Intimidation. How would Comrade Pisces or Captain Ceria do it?”

Pisces would no doubt cast a handy illusion, but lacking that, Ksmvr had to improvise. Maybe he should hit himself on the head until he bled green. Provoke suspicions of insanity—or was that too much? He wanted Femithain to take him seriously, after all.

Ksmvr paced around the rooms. They were quite nice; a guest room for Femithain’s guests, not actually a cell. He had to convince the Magus-Crafter that keeping Ksmvr prisoner—or attempting to punish or hold him—was deadly. He tried to come up with Ceria-isms, or Erin-isms. Erin had a way of getting what she wanted. What would either say?

“Don’t mess with me. I’m crazy. I’ve eaten more [Bandits] than peas on this plate. I could kill you all with a fork. You shouldn’t have given it to me. Now I’m armed. Ice magic. I eat bugs.”

Ksmvr paused, staring at his lamentably-whole hand. Not the bone one Ceria scared kids with. She had demonstrated intimidation one time very well on children by concealing it. Perhaps his missing stump? Ksmvr waggled it and sighed.

He had no talent for this. What would Yvlon do? She was so sensible. If she had to intimidate someone, she’d use her rank, in a very acceptably diplomatic way. And then if there were no recourse, grab them and put their head through a wall.

“Hm. What if I ate this plate? Or—demonstrated the might of the Antinium by…”

Ksmvr was so busy thinking up ways to increase his dominance-factor that he didn’t realize the room had been infiltrated until his assailant leapt on him. He whirled, fists raised. His new Skill was ready to pulverize—

“Meow.”

Yinah the half-Golem cat landed on Ksmvr’s shoulder. She stared at him. He stared back.

“You are the cat.”

The cat licked her paw and stared at him curiously. Ksmvr remembered her! From the arena! Then she’d been on his chest…

The [Skirmisher] hesitated. Then he glanced around. No one was bothering him, so Ksmvr lifted Yinah up.

“Are you a prisoner of the Magus-Crafter too? Wait, that would make you a ‘pet’. You are half-Golem. I commend your upgrade.”

Yinah gave him a narrow-eyed look. But then Ksmvr began to pat her on the head.

“Pat, pat. You are a cat. Also known as a kitty, or kitten, or feline. I am Ksmvr. Pat, pat.”

All three hands came down and patted Yinah very gently. Ksmvr wasn’t sure if he was doing it right, but he had once been told animals liked such things. She was softer than the horses he had ridden, but she seemed to enjoy the patting just as much.

Travails forgotten, Ksmvr began to pat the cat. He was still a prisoner, even if not a dire one, and his team was lost. But here was a cat.

He liked cats, and didn’t realize he liked them until now. They made a strange, purring sound.

Pat, pat.

—-

Femithain’s problem was that Ksmvr was Antinium—the issue with the public demanding he be damaged in kind for the Testing was not the issue.

The issue was Antinium in Chandrar, a fact that had caused no less than Yisame to write to him expressing concern. Femithain didn’t…know what to say.

He was still trying to fix Domehead, reprimand all those at the Testings, address Nsiia, and locate other Horns of Hammerad—all while reassuring worried nations from the Shield Kingdoms to the largest nations that Antinium were not going to appear out of the sky.

Or from the ground. It was a ludicrous thought. Ksmvr was an adventurer, but panic…the Magus-Crafter sighed as he hurried back towards the guest suite.

Less than an hour since his first talk, and he had an idea. He held an affidavit for Ksmvr to sign, a magical seal confirmed by truth spell that Ksmvr was not part of an invasion force. Femithain had no idea how else to reassure the many concerned people; it was a ludicrous thing to need to prove, but maybe this would work.

“Magus-Crafter, will this really work? And that you should deliver it?”

“It may at least reassure most. What is the issue with my presence?”

Femithain turned to one of the [Golem Artificers]. The man was pale. He lowered his voice as Armsmaster Dellic warily eyed the door.

“You saw that—that thing. Magus-Crafter! Perhaps we should take more precautions! That thing—”

“Adventurer Ksmvr.”

“—it threatened war! Implicitly!”

“Mm. Yes. Although given what he has been through, that is an understandable precaution.”

The other man spluttered, but the Magus-Crafter looked unnaturally calm. He glanced at Dellic.

“Your impressions, Armsmaster?”

Dellic licked his lips.

“I don’t know how you’re so calm, Magus-Crafter. The Antinium didn’t sound understandable to me. That trick with the bone—it wants to fight.”

Femithain tilted his head. he realized that everyone else was of the same mind. Curious, the Magus-Crafter tapped at his lips.

When he knocked, there was a muffled sound. Femithain frowned—pushed open the door. He stopped with the others as Ksmvr stood in the room.

“Ah, Magus-Crafter. I assumed this was your pet?”

Yinah was held up in one of Ksmvr’s arms, and his mandibles snapped below her. The Humans froze. Femithain just blinked.

“ Yinah?”

“A pet. Then I will not consume her. We Antinium eat…everything.”

Ksmvr met the Magus-Crafter’s gaze. Femithain blinked at him. His lips quirked. He chuckled as everyone else stared at him, horrified.

—-

Dominance had failed once more! Ksmvr sat, horrified, after he’d signed the affidavit guaranteeing a lack of an Antinium invasion to his knowledge. He’d threatened to eat the cute cat and the Magus-Crafter had laughed!

He was clearly deranged. Ksmvr was up against a madman, and he could not employ the same aggression-tactics. He sat on the ground.

“Pat, pat. Little cat, you are not a good enough victim. Yinah? Can you look more scared? What is wrong?”

The cat squirmed in his lap as he gently patted it. Ksmvr saw her meow, then struggle with her golem-legs, which were a bit slow to react, to escape his lap.

“Are these pats not enough? I shall intensify. Pat, pat.”

Ksmvr was perplexed. He could give 50% more pats than any other non-Antinium in the world, but somehow it wasn’t enough! To his dismay, Yinah began to squirm out of his lap.

“No, do not do that. Here. I shall offer you—multi-sided pats. Like so. Pat, pat—”

Ksmvr began to pat her from the left and right sides, kneeling on the floor, as Yinah flounced away, tail raised dismissively. He followed her, attempting to regain her affection until he realized something.

The door was slightly ajar. Ksmvr froze, looked up—and saw Femithain, Armsmaster Dellic, the [Golem Artificers], and two incurious Golems all standing there. Peeking in on him.

The [Skirmisher] froze. Then slowly sat back.

“…It appears my attempt to…lull the cat into a sense of security for more ease of edibility has failed.”

That was the best he could do. But it was pointless. No amount of dominance would save him from the sight of him patting the cat. Armsmaster Dellic was staring, but the other Humans looked amused or even seemed to regard him as…adorable.

Oh no.

Ksmvr met Femithain’s gaze. The Magus-Crafter just smiled and adjusted his glasses.

“Adventurer Ksmvr, I am sure we all take your status with all seriousness. However, I would like to reiterate: Illivere has no designs on hostility with you, your team, or the Hives of the Antinium at all. This has all been an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

Ksmvr regarded him. The Magus-Crafter was smiling as Yinah huffed between his legs, bored of Ksmvr. He was—a refreshingly logical and direct Human, Ksmvr had to give him that. Practically Antinium in his mode of communication. But it seemed Ksmvr had been defeated from the start.

“You did not appear to take my intimidation seriously, Magus-Crafter. May I ask why?”

The [Brave Skirmisher] got to his feet. Magus-Crafter Femithain blinked. Then chuckled and covered his mouth politely.

“Ah, so that was the miscommunication Armsmaster Dellic and the others suffered. I regret to inform you, Adventurer Ksmvr, that I am a [Diplomat]. [Sense Intentions] is considered a basic Skill.”

Ksmvr’s mandibles opened and closed.

“How…regrettable.”

“Fortunate, in this case. Otherwise, misunderstandings might arise. I find harmony to be more acceptable than acrimony. I apologize, but would you sign this addendum claiming no knowledge of other Antinium on or about Chandrar?”

The Antinium gazed at the Magus-Crafter. He hesitated. Scribbled on the contract as the magic bound him, and looked at the Magus-Crafter. Quite impressed, Ksmvr nodded.

“I tend to agree with your statements, Magus-Crafter. I merely wish you had been there at the Testing Grounds earlier.”

Femithain nodded gravely.

“As do I. I hope we will not keep you long.”

The door closed. Ksmvr stared at it for a few minutes and then sat down. He thought about the Humans staring at him as his dominance-assertion failed. Slowly, without really understanding why, Ksmvr went over to the bed, sat on it, and then put a blanket over his head so as not to be observed by anyone else.

“I am very much embarrassed.”

—-

Yvlon Byres flushed for three reasons. The first was she was distinctly not feeling well, despite food and comparative rest.

The second was how she was handling the weapon she was holding. They’d given her a longsword when she asked for one; a practice weapon in the ‘training’ the [Gladiators] were given.

It wasn’t…bad. In fact, it was actually a cut above what a [Militia] or [Guardsman] might get. They had actual instructors who taught the new prisoners and gladiators how to fight. Showily, some of them, but most had simple advice they delivered in bored monotones.

“Don’t go for flashy kills unless you’ve won and no one’s around. No big cuts. You want to make a name and get a style? Figure it out after your fourth match.”

“You don’t have to win; just bleed and stay alive. Mind you, if you just run, the audience’ll throw things or you get hunted down. So. Pick. Your. Fights.”

They had the kind of…off-handed care that Yvlon hated. Like veteran adventurers talking to newbies who might survive, so they were investing just enough effort for a favor later on.

They didn’t beat the prisoners; nor were they gentle in sparring. Most of the non-combat classes like the [Gambler] got knocked about, but even after an hour, they probably knew enough to stab someone in a melee.

That was them. The [Storm Bandits] and Yvlon were a cut above the rest. The other gladiators training or observing could tell the new crop of gladiators had some actual fighters.

Yvlon though…she dodged sideways, swung her sword, and knocked Leprel’s blade down. She tried a riposte, but it was awkward.

Left hand. Yvlon hadn’t realized how much she relied on her dominant arm. She’d trained enough to use her sword left-handed, but the difference in finesse was night and day.

Even so, Leprel swore and jumped back. Left-handed or not, Yvlon was stronger, faster, and more experienced.

“It’s like trying to parry an axe! Take it easy, Silver-Killer, please?”

“Stop calling me that!”

Yvlon growled. She hated the easy ‘friendship’ of Rexel and Leprel. How quickly everyone seemed willing to die for sport. She certainly resented the corruption of government that had landed her here—or the idle self-preservation of the other officials.

She was angry, blushing—for the third reason, which was that the ‘armor’ they’d given her showed off more skin than regular clothing.

“This isn’t armor! This is metal underwear!”

One of the prisoners complained. The [Guards] and veteran gladiators chortled.

“You want armor? Win!”

That was how it went. An uphill battle until you won. Yvlon glowered about. She saw the [Gladiators] grin at her—then someone detached themselves from the mob. The others drew back and she saw a huge, gleaming figure.

When the writers or ill-informed poets wrote about ‘glistening muscle’ and ‘paragonic bodies’, they were generally exaggerating. Most people who glistened were sweaty, and some notions of the ideal physical form looked like exaggerated blocks of muscle to Yvlon—well, Grimalkin was an example of that.

Nevertheless, the champion of the Arena of Rust looked like that. His body was silk—or some kind of equivalent. Tough and lustrous, such that he looked like a [Lady] who applied the finest tonics to her skin as well as a mini-Grimalkin.

“So this is the One-Armed Slaughterer, the woman who went on a rampage in a city. Arms of silver! Eyes like a rabid Manticore! Fair of skin and beautiful enough for a Human—hah! I see it’s almost true, although the sunburn takes away from it all.”

He boomed as the new prisoners and even the guards fell silent. Yvlon stared up at the champion, who was six and a half feet tall, a giant of a man.

“That’s the Champion of Rust!”

Rexel immediately hid behind Yvlon, squeaking. She stared up at the Stitch-Man in awe.

“He’s won over two hundred bouts! Sixteen years in the arenas total! Five as champion here!”

“What’s your name? What do you want with me?”

Yvlon lowered her practice blade, staring grimly up at the Stitch-man. He smiled, showing perfect teeth.

“Merely to make the acquaintance of a promising [Gladiator]. You look like one who might last more than your first ten matches—I have an eye for such things. Come; you needn’t practice with the fodder. Why don’t we sit, talk? One can live well in the Arena of Rust—if you have the right friends.”

He held out a huge hand. Yvlon stared at him. She lowered her longsword—and then stuck it in the ground and crossed her one arm over her chest. It didn’t really work since you couldn’t cross your arms if you only had one.

“No thank you. I’m not a [Gladiator]. I’m an adventurer. Wrongfully imprisoned. I don’t care to make a deal with bullies who prey on the weak.”

A gasp ran around the arena. The Champion of Rust’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Humans are as rude as any species I’ve met. Come now, Silverarm. I came here in friendship. You would not like me as an enemy.”

His smile was warning, now. Yvlon looked at him. Rexel, Leprel, were all trying to signal her to say yes! Don’t be a fool!

Unfortunately, they didn’t know Yvlon Byres. If her team was here, they might have calmed her down. Yvlon Byres right now?

She was alone, hot, half-nude, and ill. She stared at the Champion of Rust.

“I have enemies I’d rather not face. You’re not even on that list. I don’t want to have to kill you all—leave me alone or we’ll see who ends up dead. That goes for all of you!”

She looked around. The Champion of Rust sighed. He shook his head as he turned and walked away.

“Foolish woman.”

That was echoed by the others as Rexel, Leprel and a few prisoners dared to come over to the madwoman. Yvlon just picked up her longsword and kept practicing.

“You—you just made an enemy of the Champion of Rust! You could have worked with him, risen safely!”

Leprel was pulling at her hair, although it occurred to her that if Yvlon had taken the Champion’s hand, she and Rexel would have been left behind. Yvlon Byres just snorted.

“A man like that doesn’t have equals. If he thought I was more than an asset, I’d end up poisoned or dead. I’m not stupid.”

The [Bandit] bit her tongue on the obvious reply. Yvlon went on, glancing up. The Champion was jesting with some of the other veterans, who were wary, but still equals, even if he was first among them. After all—a Champion could be defeated.

“That Champion. He’s…over Level 30, isn’t he? Maybe Level 40?”

Rexel looked at Yvlon. The [Armsmistress] was feeling at the stump of her other arm. The [Thief] nodded.

“An Arena Champion is usually that good. Some have even been known to be over Level 50! Rarely, though; not in our lifetime. They say Mars the Illusionist won her freedom when she was only Level 40 or so at the time.”

“Huh.”

Yvlon nodded to herself. The Champion of Rust glanced back and Yvlon Byres decided against making a rude gesture. She wasn’t Ceria. Nor was she Pisces, who would probably be reclining and eating grapes right about now if he was in her place.

She knew her enemy, and Yvlon Byres liked facing them head on. She went back to practicing, grimly trying to adjust to the sword. The other [Gladiators] watched, now sure that the first match of ‘Silverarm’ was going to be something indeed.

—-

Ksmvr received a visitor shortly after he crawled out of bed. He still felt embarrassed, but then he heard a meow.

The cat again? He glanced up, and then heard merry laughter.

Yinah had come into the room where Ksmvr was a ‘guest’ through some enchanted air vents, just large enough for a cat to crawl through. They provided cool air in Chandrar’s heat.

Ksmvr stared at the opening, but that wasn’t where the sound was coming from. He glanced out and saw someone on the balcony.

Nsiia, the Empress of Beasts, had leapt from her balcony, off a wall, and landed on his like the very cat clinging to her shoulders. She grinned, crouching, as Yinah waved a tail at Ksmvr.

The [Skirmisher] stared, recalling Nsiia distinctly. Why was she here? She waved—pointed at the door.

“Does it open?”

Her voice was muffled. Ksmvr shook his head.

He was sealed in, and someone had enchanted the sliding door. Nsiia shrugged. She walked over and then appeared by a window.

Normally, you could latch and unlatch it, but Femithain had clearly sealed it shut with more magic. Nsiia tried it, grunted, and then punched the window.

The enchanted glass and frame popped out of the wall. The Empress of Beasts swung herself through the gap. Yinah landed on the bed, and Ksmvr stared at Nsiia.

“I believe vandalism is frowned upon in every nation in the world. Am I being attacked?”

The Empress of Beasts eyed Ksmvr, and then laughed. She straightened, hopped off the bed, and faced him.

“Not by me! Greetings, Adventurer Ksmvr of the Free Antinium. I am Nsiia of Tiqr. Formerly the Empress of Beasts, now prisoner, like you. I greet you and offer you the bounty of the oasis—or I would, if I had any left to me.”

She made a curious gesture with one hand, two fingers and a thumb splayed out as she touched her shoulder and bowed slightly. Ksmvr hesitated, and copied the gesture.

“I greet you, Empress of Beasts. I also possess no oasis, but I would offer you the bounty of my personal tree. If we were close to it. I also thank you for saving my life.”

Nsiia eyed Ksmvr and then burst out laughing.

“An Antinium owns a tree?”

“Two trees, in the lands of House Byres.”

Ksmvr had been given them by Yvlon and it had been ratified by Lord Byres, after all. Nsiia threw her head back and laughed.

“Such a strange thing! I never dreamed I might meet an Antinium save if the King of Destruction took his conquest to Izril once more! Or they invaded. Now I see: an Antinium owns trees, and pets cats quite cutely!”

Ksmvr felt the same unfamiliar rush of embarrassment. He looked at Nsiia.

“Ah. You observed me?”

She smiled, eyes flashing with mischief.

“Yinah, my friend here, is a companion. I can see through her eyes for a while. You like animals, Antinium? Stories would say your people eat everything they see, and slaughter all life like a man culling animals.”

She stalked around the room, so much like an animal herself that Ksmvr was fascinated. Still, he was also thinking of why she was here; her illegal entry certainly indicated this was not with the Magus-Crafter’s approval.

“Rumors about the Antinium have as much validity as other species. I have observed that Humans cannot spit blood unless stabbed in the mouth, Drakes are not always greedy—although some can be, and so on. I would hope you would regard me as a Gold-rank adventurer first, Antinium second, Empress Nsiia of Tiqr.”

The [Empress] stopped, smiling, and inclined her head. She gestured to some chairs.

“Well spoken, adventurer. I apologize, then. But not all of Chandrar will see it the same way. In fact, that is why I am here. We have greeted each other; now, shall we sit and talk over food? This is the agreeable way to do such things.”

“That is acceptable.”

So they ended up sitting and eating over some of the snacks Ksmvr had been given. He plucked little dates from a bowl as Yinah leapt into Nsiia’s lap. She refused to feed the cat the fruit, though Yinah was clearly curious; she found some meat and crumbled it up instead.

“Do you know where you are, Ksmvr?”

“Illivere. I am in the Magus-Crafter’s residence, and you are the Empress of Beasts, deposed after the war in Tiqr. Currently, the King of Destruction rampages to the north, although he is under attack from multiple sides and Khelt has moved once again in the war between Jecrass and Medain.”

Nsiia blinked.

“You know more than I thought.”

“I must keep abreast of larger events. A good adventurer is aware of political currents.”

Ksmvr didn’t know more than that, but Nsiia nodded.

“Then you understand my position. Do you recall the Testing Grounds?”

“The Golems. Yes. You saved me, for which you have my gratitude. Though it seems to have earned you the wrath of Illivere itself.”

The open window let in outraged shouting, albeit from a great distance. Nsiia rolled her eyes, sighing.

“Yes. I have outraged the puppet-lovers so. I take it as a worthy sacrifice; had you died, opportunity might have been lost. I witnessed your battle, Ksmvr. The Horns of Hammerad fought well.”

Ksmvr’s broken antennae waved for a second. He had forgotten that the Village of the Dead’s raid had been broadcast. Nsiia was regarding him intently, even familiarly. They had all seen them fight. Ksmvr felt…proud of that. Then worried for his team.

“Why have you come, Nsiia? I am honored to meet an [Empress], but I must soon leave to locate my friends. I regret the incident with the Golems; that was self-defense, albeit with a display of too much dominance. I owe you a debt, but my team comes first.”

Nsiia nodded, smiling, but then shook her head. She sighed as Yinah purred in her lap. Ksmvr kept staring at that. Nsiia saw, and offered him the cat, wordlessly. Ksmvr began to gently pat Yinah in his lap.

“I know you hunt for your team, Ksmvr. But you will not leave Illivere so easily. Femithain is an honorable, straightforward man. But he is a ruler. And you are Antinium. I come here because we may share the same fate—and I would like to talk first. Before you do something rash. We could be allies.”

Ksmvr thought about this. Unlike Yvlon, his first instinct was to nod, which he did. Mathematically, two people were better than one. Trust was an issue of course, but Nsiia had saved his life and she was an [Empress]. Her desires were predictable, meaning trust could be achieved based on shared need—until needs collided.

Also, she had a cat. Yinah yawned, then tried to squirm out of Ksmvr’s lap again. Distressed, he stared down at her.

“I do not understand. Why does Yinah the cat not prefer me? Is it because she is speciesist? Racism in animals is a terrible thing.”

Nsiia snorted as Yinah leapt into the woman’s lap. She shook her head, bending over Yinah.

“That’s not it at all. Nor is it your ‘skin’; Yinah wouldn’t mind either, would you?”

The cat shook its head, amiably. Ksmvr hesitated.

“What then? I am functionally able to pat fifty percent more than…”

He stopped. Nsiia scratched behind Yinah’s ears, giving him an amused look. She offered Yinah back.

“You pat Yinah, and she will enjoy that for a while. But—do you not know to scratch behind her ears? Tickle her? Kiss—well, I suppose not. Have you never held an animal?”

“I have patted horses. I would not wish to hurt an animal.”

Ksmvr slowly accepted Yinah. Nsiia pointed, smiling.

“You cannot hurt her so easily. Be gentle. She will tell you if you make a mistake. There.”

Ksmvr scratched Yinah by the ears and felt her purr. The world changed. Ksmvr gently held Yinah and unlocked a new technique in the world of patting—no, cuddling animals. He looked at Nsiia, and decided this would be a relationship of mutual benefit already.

Not even Captain Ceria had a way with animals as much as Nsiia. Ksmvr had learned the art of beaver-speaking, and horse-speaking, and many other animals-speaking, which seemed to involve shouting at them, but Nsiia was the [Empress of Beasts]! He listened as she leaned forwards and told him what his future held.

—-

Femithain had to break the news to Ksmvr, and he was apprehensive about the Antinum’s reaction. He did not beat around the bush, of course.

“Illivere is searching for your team, Adventurer Ksmvr. They will be found if they are here at all. I am willing to expand the search, and you are a guest. Once again, I apologize for the incident at Elbe; punishment will be administered. However, your…stay may need to be extended.”

“I cannot leave?”

Ksmvr stood in his room, the window secured again, the Empress gone, although Yinah was in his arms. The Magus-Crafter tried to explain.

The problem was that Ksmvr was Antinium. Nsiia had said it, and told Ksmvr exactly why the Magus-Crafter would keep him as a ‘guest’, even one with more liberty than she.

Even with the affidavit, the other nations of Chandrar had heard an Antinium was in their midst. An adventurer, true, one who had been on the news, sure.

However, one was here, for the first time…ever. Memories of the Antinium of Rhir and the Antinium wars surfaced. Izril had been distant, and the threat of the Antinium, however grave, had been far off. Now? They were facing it anew and feeling uneasy.

Did they want to let Ksmvr walk off? Absolutely not! Izril was one thing, but let the only known agent of the Antinium wander about, scouting out their lands and forces and seeing who looked the most edible? No thank you! Why didn’t they just cover themselves with gullible sauce while they were at it?

“A number of [Sages] and other representatives of many local nations would like to speak with you, Ksmvr. As a representative of the Antinium. I would offer you the run of the city, albeit with escort at all times. Many would like to speak with you, but a number of individuals, from Roshal to one of the Shield Kingdoms, have put a bounty on your head.”

Ksmvr had not believed Nsiia when she told him that would happen. He tilted his head.

“Most rude. However, I would still take my chances to find my team, bounty or not. I cannot simply leave? If you return my gear, I will not make this your responsibility.”

Femithain sighed.

“Your gear will be returned, Adventurer Ksmvr. All of it, naturally. However, for the good of Illivere, I must ask you stay. You see—the Hives of the Antinium have contacted me. The…Grand Queen of the Antinium and Free Queen both sent me [Messages].”

His skin chilled a bit. That alone had been astounding, and all six Walled Cities and a number of Drakes had contacted him at once, asking to see the contents of the [Messages], talk strategy. Femithain went on.

“The contents of both…warnings…were simple. If you should perish, the Hives of the Antinium will turn their wrath on Illivere.”

Ksmvr stared at Femithain, lost for words for once. The Magus-Crafter saw the Antinium [Skirmisher] open and close his mandibles.

“I claimed that the Hives would go to war for me, but I must tell you, Magus-Crafter, that I exaggerated the truth. I do not believe—did not believe—I was of any worth to my Hive. Or the Antinium.”

His voice trembled a bit. Femithain smiled slightly, if tiredly.

“It would appear you did not lie after all, Adventurer Ksmvr. I regret, then, that for Illivere’s safety, you should not go about unprotected. The Queens did not specify conditions for their wrath; moreover, the Walled Cities have their own…demands. Illivere itself can search better than one lone adventurer in any case. Will you accept a temporary stay?”

He was worried Ksmvr would refuse. However, the Antinium only hesitated a second before nodding.

“I am unhappy, Magus-Crafter, but I would prefer to remain amenable and work in cooperation with you.”

“Thank you, Adventurer Ksmvr.”

“You may call me Ksmvr, Magus-Crafter.”

The Antinium saw the man smile. It was just like Nsiia had said. Ksmvr became a guest of Illivere. It was not ideal, but he had to find his friends and Femithain would help with that.

Meanwhile, while he waited, Ksmvr talked with Nsiia. He learned how to scratch dogs on the stomach.

He quite liked animals. Also, Nsiia had an interesting proposal. Ksmvr listened.

[Animal Friend Class Obtained!]

[Animal Friend Level 2!]

[Skill – Comforting Petting obtained!]

Was it a combat-viable class? Absolutely not. However, Ksmvr hadn’t the heart to refuse it. He calculated that if he maintained a 6:1 ratio of combat-levels to non-combat levels, he could keep the class with no one objecting strenuously.

Sometimes, you had to have a class just for you.

—-

Ceria Springwalker sat in Nerhs, slowly bouncing [Message] spells back and forth with Montressa. It took a lot of effort and she needed to conserve her magic. A [Message] spell at this range was taxing, but now she knew.

Ksmvr, located. Yvlon? Unknown, unscriable. Pisces, likewise.

Well. At least one of them was found. Ceria bit her lip, trying to breathe in and out. She tried to form an [Ice Spike]…but it wasn’t any good.

She couldn’t call enough moisture out of the air to form the spell like normal. From the existing water? Sure! She eyed the javelin of ice she’d crafted out of a bucket of water.

Luaar stared wide-eyed at Ceria as she took stock of her magical abilities. The half-Elf cursed.

“Looks like I’m going to have to improvise with non-ice spells. Damn. Okay…at least I have my wand and gear. I can probably take on any Silver-rank threat, even alone. Even some Gold-rank threats. Hey, Luaar…”

She turned and he hurried forwards. The ice javelin reverted back to water, much to his disappointment. Ceria dipped a cup into it and sipped. The aura of ice wasn’t as pervasive around her; she could control it when she was awake.

“How can I help you, Adventurer Ceria?”

“It’s just Ceria. What kind of threats might I run into if I was heading to Illivere?”

She was already planning on going? Luaar gulped.

“Father hopes you can stay in case of [Bandits] and…”

“Yes, yes. I’ll see if I can do anything. I can’t stay, though, and I can’t summon…I hate not having water. But what about dangers on the roads? If I bought a horse—what’s the worst random monster I’d run into?”

Ceria sighed. She couldn’t try to summon an [Ice Elemental] for the same reasons her ice-spells weren’t working. Nerhs had only the water in their wells, and it was finite and dearly needed. When it rained, the wells were replenished, but that could be few and far between.

Once, Nerhs had had lots of water, apparently. It was close enough to the coast…but the weather had changed since Luaar’s father had taken his position. Now?

Ceria listened as Luaar described the worst of Chandrar’s most common predators. Manticores, giant sand worms, bandits of course, Sand Golems…

“Crelers?”

The boy shivered at the familiar name.

“They are everywhere, Adventurer Ceria. Some live in the sands, but they are always hunted down. When found.”

Ceria sighed.

“Wonderful. Well…if I need to bust Ksmvr out of prison or fight anything more dangerous than one of those stupid dogs, I’d better figure out a way to actually use my magic.”

She cursed. She still had her wand and other spells, but Ceria was sort of good at ice magic. What would Illphres do? She’d probably call this good training and kick Ceria into a desert to ‘practice’. Ceria smiled sadly at the thought.

Then she focused. The half-Elf stared down at her gear, laid out before her. She reached out and pushed Luaar back.

“Ah. No touching. No getting near it.”

She had…one trump card. An unpredictable trump card. The kind of card, that, if you were to extend the gambling metaphor, could either win you the game despite having the worst hand—or explode your entire body at the table.

It was rather like hiding a Tier 5 scroll under the table rather than an actual card. But which Tier 5 spell? Tree rot…Ceria stared down at the object. She wasn’t even sure it was Tier 5. It could be a lot higher.

The artifact glittered at her. Relic-class? Or just super-powerful? Cursed? Luaar’s eyes shone as he stared at the object Ceria had pulled out of her bag of holding when she’d finally woken up.

It was…a circlet made of something dark. Black bone. Obsidian? Ceria couldn’t tell. Nor did she touch it now.

“Is it your treasure, Adventurer Ceria? What does it do?”

She glanced up.

“I have no idea. Hey, shoo back over there. Actually—don’t even look at it. It could be dangerous.”

As in, ‘pull this village screaming into an abyss in the ground’ dangerous, but Ceria didn’t tell Luaar that. He scooted back further, but couldn’t look away from the artifact. She had no idea what it did.

Frankly, given her experiences with the ruins of Albez, Ceria knew she shouldn’t have gone within a ten mile radius of an artifact used by the Putrid One. She certainly shouldn’t have touched it, let alone stuffed it into a bag of holding and kept it on her person.

There had been no choice. The undead had been about to wipe them out, and in that frenzied moment before flight, the Horns had taken a calculated risk and grabbed anything they could before running.

It had been a good risk; they hadn’t gone into the armory, but grabbed the Putrid One’s personal possessions, which were lying about. The odds were that such objects weren’t as cursed as most dungeon treasures.

Even so, Ceria had snagged only one object; the circlet, which had been fallen on the ground, possibly knocked from the half-Elf’s head himself. She’d only touched it with her bone-hand, and even now didn’t quite dare touch it with her flesh-and-blood one.

It could protect her and enable her to brave any threat. Or…Ceria shuddered.

“It might be a soul-sucking circlet that contains the lives of hundreds of innocent victims. Or it could fuse to my flesh. Or slowly turn me into an undead if I’m not strong enough in death magic. Or—if it’s one of those super-rare sentient ones, it could decide it hates me and cast [Death Bolt] through my brain.”

Luaar stared at the circlet, and then Ceria, and then backed to the doorframe. The half-Elf sighed. She didn’t even know if being near it was healthy.

Still…she was smiling. She had treasure. Ceria’s smile flickered. Dangerous treasure. If anyone knew she had this—well, it made her life harder. She heard shouting from outside and rose. Luaar turned.

“Bandits! Adventurer Ceria—they’re—”

Ceria swore and rose. She hesitated, reached for the circlet, and stuffed it into her bag of holding without putting it on. She really didn’t want to die. It was a last-resort.

As she strode outside, then thought better and peeked out from the doorframe with Luaar, Ceria worried for her team. Ksmvr was alive. But Yvlon and Pisces would be walking targets, if they hadn’t been thrown into a dangerous spot already.

After all…

Each one of them had grabbed something. The half-Elf breathed in and out, and heard the voice again.

“You murderer.”

“Just who’s saying that?”

She stared at the bag of holding for a second. No, it couldn’t be. Ceria sighed.

If the circlet was possessed, she was going to be really upset.

—-

…Each one a treasure beyond worth. They’d survived the impossible. If only they’d arrived at Khelt.

If only. From glory to defeat to…the world did like to kick you when you were down. That was how it went. When you fell, the momentum carried you.

He had been sick, ill, for days. They’d dragged him along; now? They made him walk. He could barely think, he was still sick with mana-burn.

Yet he remembered.

Artifacts. It was his. His treasure. His…spellbook.

The [Slavers] just laughed at Pisces as he mumbled it, dragged along, tethered to the long line of chained [Slaves]. One of them lifted the book in a gloved hand; they weren’t stupid enough to open it.

“Not yours, [Necromancer]! Ours! By rights, your gear is ours. We’ll sell that separate; it might be worth more than you are! Although your name will earn a lot. I’ll be interested to see which is which, eh? Although if it’s really a treasure from the Village of the Dead…”

The master of the caravan rode forwards and struck the [Slaver] hard.

“You idiot! Put it away! Don’t look at it, don’t stare at it!”

He snapped. The other man hastened to obey. Pisces stared up at his captor. He tried to speak, blearily.

“I’m a Gold-rank adventurer. You can’t enslave me.”

The [Slave Master] smiled. He even looked a tiny bit sympathetic as he waved a finger.

“Ah, perhaps if you and I met on your two feet, I’d agree, Master Pisces Jealnet. However, Roshal has rules. We found you half-dead, so the initiative was ours. As for law? We are well within our law! After all…you are Pisces Jealnet. Your bounty still remains from Terandria and Wistram both. A criminal is a criminal.”

Pisces looked up. He cursed the man. He cursed Wistram and home. The book! He would have lunged, but the chains held him down. And…he looked up.

Behind the [Slave Master], a figure looked down at him. Not as sympathetic. More uncaring. Bored. But watchful. The enslaved Djinni watched the caravan moving west, out of Nerrhavia now, towards Roshal. After all—if you had a prize like Pisces and the book, you’d sell it where it was worth most. Pisces stumbled forwards, tugged ahead.

A captive. He only hoped they’d find him before he reached his destination. Ceria, Ksmvr, Yvlon…

Find me.

8.26 FK

On Cinaelu, the celebration of the end of chains was observed by one who remembered why the day had come about. He was far, far too young to remember it, of course.

However, the generations of his kind that had passed since the Rebel of String cut her bonds had been far fewer. True, glorious Khelt had not existed, then. But the rulers left records.

So Fetohep of Khelt celebrated the day as it should be. Others tarnished the glory of the day by sending Djinni assassins across Chandrar. Lesser people used the moment as an excuse to eat, or for self-indulgence or petty vanity, like Nerrhavia’s Fallen itself.

The undead ruler celebrated it as one should. He marched over Medain’s borders to liberate the King of Jecrass. Let all those who held chains see them break, and tremble and wail laments until they expired in their own foul excrement and fear.

However—if there was one way in which Fetohep agreed with the String Folk, it was crucially in this: a petty [Warlord] could destroy and despoil. A battle won or lost was little to be proud of. A war? Perhaps. Yet the King of Khelt believed that if you were going to win, it should be in style. It should be a grandiose victory that they told stories about. When you struck your enemy, their children should wake up howling.

So this was Fetohep. And where he led, Khelt followed. Few news organizations were tuned into the war between Jecrass, Medain, and Khelt at any given moment. Once seen, Khelt’s endless army lost some of its impact. Nevertheless, Fetohep had ways of securing attention.

Wistram News Network, the Wonders of Nerrhavia, and all six news channels currently in existence, including the networks from Terandria just established this week, were all covering Khelt’s army marching forwards, and the capital of Khelt in a rare display of the undead kingdom. Live, full-coverage.

How? King Perric of Medain, other important players in other events would have loved to know why. They eventually discovered the reason was simple: Fetohep had simply donated liberally to all six networks.

In a world where news was new and exciting and the rules weren’t set, the King of Khelt still used it as he pleased. For while the medium changed, some things did not.

This was how Fetohep won his wars.

—-

An army without seeming end, legions of armored skeletal warriors bearing the arms of Khelt marched across the ground. Tens of thousands with each second the views panned across them, and more still behind.

Undead without limit. A fraction of Khelt’s true potential. A sight to terrify all foes of Khelt.

At their head marched half-Giants, similarly made of bone, some carrying massive weapons and shields, others javelins. Above them all, though, towered the lumbering Jaw of Zeikhal, the massive beast so broad and wide that it could hold a palanquin on its back. Ranks of skeletal archers, and small bodyguards of the few living beings spread out across the vast army as it marched, sending Medain’s people and soldiers fleeing before it.

Yet—that was simply the army. What mattered was not the army alone. It was…the music.

The King of Khelt rode to war. His people, staring at the scrying mirrors and orbs posted in every street, beheld their great ruler. They cheered him, for they had always loved him. Now? They saw him anew.

Undefeated! Breaking army after army. So—they celebrated. In Khelt’s capital, the scrying spells reflected Jecrass’ people, playing the august, triumphal notes of Khelt’s anthem. Improvising on it, [Musicians] riffing in the streets, dancing.

Cheering. For if the people celebrated, it was only because their [King] had shown them how.

Here was how you marched upon a foe. King Fetohep of Khelt stood on the moving, golden palanquin on top of the Jaw of Zeikhal, plain for all to see. He lifted his halberd, sweeping the glowing weapon around him in a dance of blades that was as much art and show. Undead players struck the same anthem as the cheering around him filled the air.

The King of Khelt danced, whirling his halberd as a few of his chosen undead, his companions of old, performed the same ancient rituals of war, and his citizens cheered him. The broadcast was shown around the world, and not least, in Medain, despite the High King’s order that no one watch.

That was how you humbled your opponents. Fetohep posed as wailing bone flutes and drums echoed around him. The mighty king, so rarely seen, in the public eye once more. Waging war as if he were alive.

Sometimes, he could swear he felt his heart beating. His conscience impelled him towards Khelt, as if he had abandoned his land. The king’s bones called him back, but Fetohep told himself that it was only natural to feel this way. He was taking a risk. Breaking with tradition.

And yet, another world lay reflected in a picture on a young man’s phone. Part of Jecrass, swollen with water, was Khelt’s at a stroke. So the King of Khelt continued onwards in procession and war. He had made his choice, and he did not intend to break his promise to Jecaina.

—-

Fetohep’s occupation of the airwaves—along with an increasing portion of Medain as he pushed in—was the kind of news that no one could easily ignore.

Khelt itself was a powerhouse, albeit one people had been allowed to forget. Few but the most idiotic would trouble Khelt, and, rather like the Demons of Rhir, every now and then someone would cause a stir by being obliterated by Khelt’s infinite armies, and everyone would worry, realize that Khelt was content to maintain its borders, and begin to forget until the cycle repeated itself.

Well, unlike the Demons of Rhir, Khelt had always been passive, defensive. That was changing. In another time? They would have still been more of a name, not in the public consciousness. A concern for [Generals].

Two things had changed: first, the exigency of the war itself. Everyone knew the King of Duels and hearing that Medain had imprisoned him had not won the Thalassocracy of Medain any friends. So there was already attention there.

The second was conflated with the very fame of Raelt himself; television. Fetohep was seen. He had made his appearance in the ‘Arbiter Queen’s’ famous judgment. It could be argued that the news networks had made the legends as much as the actual deeds.

How they loved their names. King of Duels, Arbiter Queen, and so on. People got to know the people they saw on the scrying orbs, observed them as intimately as anyone else in their lives. If you spent eight hours watching Jecaina, listening to her, or Fetohep, let alone someone like Drassi or Noass or Sir Relz, always on the airwaves—that might be more time than you spent with a coworker. Than a lover?

All this meant that there were Lizardfolk in Baleros copying Fetohep’s dance and cheering him on. Which reminded one of an important saying.

“If a Lizardfolk trips in Baleros, does anyone care?”

Someone chuckled as one of the news networks focused on the public reaction to Fetohep’s spectacle. The result was a few laughs—and an icy stare. The [General] shuffled his feet, fell silent, flushing.

Ailendamus was not amused. For one thing, they had a new headache in the Order of Seasons and Pheislant to deal with. For another?

Well, it was an undead king. The fact that anyone, let alone the public, could look upon that horror and cheer it on, let alone celebrate it, think of Fetohep as inspiring, commendable? Horrific to Terandrian ideals.

“What a nightmarish display. It only solidifies the need to combat such creatures.”

The remark came from the head of the table. King Itorin II of Ailendamus looked at the scrying orb with clear revulsion. Some of the other Humans looked at each other. The scrying orb on display in their war council hadn’t made them any keener to try their snacks. If his Majesty disliked it, they could turn it off and get back to business.

However, no one did that, because the man who’d brought the scrying orb in—and the second of Ailendamus’ troubles, at least in this room, was watching it out of the corner of his eye. One did not force the [King]’s cousin to do anything—unless the [King] himself overruled Duke Rhisveri.

The man glanced up, and replied to Itorin.

“Undeath may appall…but you must admit, the style is to be admired. A victor in both grace and warfare.”

He watched as Fetohep’s armies advanced, and then turned his attention back to the war council, losing his good humor.

“…Which is why I do not understand why General Vexil was not recalled! I personally asked him, moments before disaster, why he hadn’t taken further preparations. We lost an army to the Order of Seasons and you are telling me this is fine?”

His glare touched the [Great Generals], [Strategists of Empire], and so on. All powerful men and women who looked uncomfortable at the upbraiding. Every eye turned to King Itorin, who raised a placating hand. He was far from ignorant of war himself.

“Uncle, Uncle. I understand your concern, but the fact is that General Vexil’s loss—while tragic and a setback, was entirely necessary.”

“An army of thirty thousand lost is necessary?”

Rhisveri retorted. At this point, Great General Maxeff, the man who’d made the joke about Lizardfolk, began to feel annoyed by the man’s presumptuousness. He might be a Duke and royalty, but there were limits! Nevertheless, Itorin II tolerated his cousin’s outbursts for the same reason he was here.

Duke Rhisveri was a genius. A touchy, reclusive, arrogant genius who normally concerned himself with managing the treasury and such, but a genius you learned to respect. It was he who had improved the old Lance-bow designs, had helped win some of Ailendamus’ great battles, and, in this case, was even responsible for a political coup that should have weakened the Order of Seasons and other [Knight] orders—not to mention addressed the abhorrence on the scrying orb.

However, the Summer’s Champion had moved too soon. The loss of Vexil and his army exposed Rhisveri’s weakness in turn.

The man was…incapable of tolerating defeat. The other leaders here understood that sometimes you lost a battle. Indeed, the [Strategist of Empire] retorted as politely as she could.

“Even if he had fled rather than making his stand at Stone Giant’s pass, your Highness, there is no way Vexil would have been able to outrun the Season of Summer. Not with their mobile force. He chose the best location possible and his tactics were sound…just not for their caliber of [Knight]. He was meant for starting fires and ranged combat with half-Elves in Gaiil-Drome.”

“I know that. Why did we not scramble forces to meet him as he fell back? The loss of an army—”

“Is an army, Uncle. A single army, which gives us full casus belli to invade Pheislant. Vexil’s death was a small blow, but we are already recovering the elements that retreated, and if he had downed a few of the Order of Seasons’ best [Knights], it would have been a fine tradeoff. Let us turn our attention to more significant matters.”

It was astonishing that Itorin ignored the venomous look Rhisveri shot, but the Duke finally let the matter drop. The other commanders eyed each other, refusing to say anything out loud, but disgruntled by the haughty Duke. Nevertheless…a genius. Ailendamus’ plans did not involve Chandrar today, tomorrow, or perhaps even this decade. Terandria mattered, and if they had plans to ever take Chandrar—well, Humans could dream, but these people knew better than to overreach that far.

However, on the other hand, Ailendamus did have designs on Khelt. Fetohep might not have transgressed in any way on Ailendamus holdings, but an opportunity had emerged by his very presence. For all Rhisveri’s faults, when he came up with an idea, he made up for his every demand. Even sending forces to Izril on some mad hunt for a thief.

—-

Fetohep of Khelt had been pushing into Medain like a knife through a block of butter. Literally; he had made an arrow’s journey towards the capital, parting Medain’s forces and breaking through fortress and city in a narrow, deliberate path of destruction.

No army had, as of yet, troubled him. After the first conflicts at the border fortresses, Medain had fallen back rather than risk full-out battles. Khelt’s army was just…massive. Fetohep was a terrifying warrior, and he employed strategy on par with any of Medain’s [Generals] while fighting.

In fact, he had the wherewithal to fight on more fronts than purely physical, as this celebratory advance indicated. It was vanity of a surety, but Fetohep made no secret of why he was invading Medain.

“The King of Jecrass, Raelt Leysars, the King of Duels is the unjust prisoner of King Perric of the Thalassocracy of Medain! Release him and mine armies shall withdraw. Refuse and Medain shall be as sand before the tide!”

His heralds bellowed the [Message], and Fetohep had been interviewed by Drassi and repeated the same line. Release one man, and I will stop wreaking destruction.

King Perric did not. However, the ego of the High King of Medain was not that of his subjects; riots had broken out three times in the capital as Fetohep advanced. As of yet, the armies gathered there, not to mention the Golden Ranks of adventurers, had kept an iron grip on the city, but the fractures were showing.

The only thing that had stopped Fetohep from already cracking Medain’s coastal capital like an egg was the distance involved…but his army could move without rest, as he had shown…and his honor as a king.

It worried Jecaina, even though she had the much-needed break and Fetohep hadn’t been troubled yet in his one-sided war. Day by day, she and her forces retook Jecrass’ land—the portions not ceded already to Fetohep, that was—from what remained of Reim and Medain’s forces.

The King of Destruction had marched out of his fortress; Medain tried to put up a defense, but they were withdrawing too as Fetohep came on. Jecaina was busy explaining the situation to the people who were now in Khelt’s land, fortifying Medain’s border, and…recovering. Jecrass had been worn ragged, and like a horse that had faithfully borne its rider, it only collapsed to rest now that the danger was over.

So Jecaina had no right to demand Fetohep hurry, save that Raelt might be in danger. Fetohep had already sworn to enact vengeance if Raelt were harmed, so all was well. But he moved slowly because of his honor. It was a strange thing to say, but mercy was his one weak spot.

Mercy slowed him down. Fetohep took city after city. He did not slaughter the people—nor did he force them from each settlement he passed by. He did not kill the [Soldiers] who surrendered. And that was the problem.

If you drove the defeated before you, they died in droves, even if many reached shelter, but they weren’t your problem. Similarly, one could sell captives and make a profit—but Fetohep had no love for slaves or Roshal. Particularly today.

Thus, when he took a city, he made sure they would not attack him from behind. The populace was allowed to go about their lives, the hungry were fed, and no one attacked prisoners, despoiled…well, his army was mostly undead, anyways. But the task of caring for captives necessitated living minds to deal with their needs. In fact, Jecaina wondered if some cities were left better for the completely destitute than before Fetohep had conquered them. Temporary or not, no one starved that he had conquered.

It cost Khelt little; the undead kingdom was rich in food and gold. It did not humble his armies; he could have left a garrison in each city and still kept his vast force intact. It only cost him time.

Time, which to an undead king mattered little. Only to Jecaina. She had a terrible intuition that if there was any weapon High King Perric could use, it ran on time. He was an odious man, greedy, aggressive, dismissive and petty. However, even a weasel could scheme, and that was all he had left.

—-

After performing for nearly three straight hours, Fetohep left some of his servants to continue the parade. Undead could dance without pause for as long as they pleased—as rare as the sight was.

He took his leisure, riding, rather than using the great palanquin on the Jaw of Zeikhal. Riding was a treat for him, an indulgence. As he rode, he took a call via scrying orb. Another indulgence. This war was one of pleasantries, for him. Fetohep spoke, his army marching around him as he lifted a hand, holding off more supplicants.

“Queen Jecaina. I am moving at all speed. That Medain falls in a week should reassure you; my army will not slow upon taking the last three cities in my path. Either way, I shall only hold them and speedily take the capital, retrieve your father, and return, if High King Perric does not release him before then. The conduct of war dictated otherwise with the other settlements. Starving people often turn to dire means, and cannibalism among the defeated leads to…unpleasantness.”

“I apologize if I seem…anxious, your Majesty, Fetohep. I’m simply concerned and you told me to trust my instincts.”

Fetohep nodded slightly, though it was audio-only.

“That I did, but be assured. If King Raelt is at all harmed, I shall enact vengeance upon High King Perric and Medain, if he is released or not. I calculate he will be turned over ere I begin a siege of the capital, either way. Medain will make one stand outside the city, relying on its walls for support—then, once beaten, he will relent.”

That was his calculation of the man. Jecaina agreed reluctantly. Fetohep smiled.

“I must attend to the needs of conquest, Queen Jecaina. However, I will prevail upon you in Jecrass and enjoy our first conversation in person. With your father.”

He ended the call and turned to his next task. Fetohep was on the march, but he suddenly had almost too much to do!

Almost. It was certainly better than managing Khelt, which often managed itself. Fetohep was checking on his kingdom at every hour, watching the border—he almost didn’t have time to place bets on the fights in Pomle’s arena, but he managed it.

There was his now-daily call with Kevin, just to ensure his business was being kept up, attending to each living commander stationed—but mostly, his job lay in the new lands ceded to him by Jecrass.

Fetohep…felt the lands, already. It would take centuries for it to be fully under his control, but enough undead were stationed at the borders, and the people had already experienced the first effects of his reign.

The terrified citizens of Jecrass, and fleeing people of Belchan had looked on the undead with horror, but Fetohep’s living servants had spoken to them. Within a day, something miraculous had happened: the war had ceased.

They had been used to marching [Soldiers], some of whom took liberties. They had known the King of Destruction’s war, Medain’s forces…no longer. Not one [Soldier] would trespass beyond the border. Monsters? They were being hunted down by undead legions.

Just yesterday, a pack of Manticores had been sent fleeing from their nest in the hills by an army of skeletal warriors. To the people of this land, Fetohep had issued this promise. This would be their life from now on. Free from danger! Free from starvation or want! If they stayed. Otherwise, they would be sent from this land with provisions and coin aplenty; he was not cruel. But they would go.

Fetohep’s largesse and savvy extended to more than Jecrass’ people. The next person he met was a woman who had travelled hard to meet with him. She had come at his behest; now, she gulped as her sizable escort fell back.

Herdmistress Geraeri of the People of Zair had not been happy to learn her lands were among those now claimed by Khelt. Her people were strong…but she wasn’t stupid. One look at Khelt’s armies and she had petitioned Fetohep for an audience, which he now gave her.

The Centaur woman made her case plainly as possible.

“Princess Jecaina ceded our lands, King Fetohep, but my people have dwelt there for generations. We are not formally part of—”

She halted as the Revenant’s head slowly turned towards her. Fetohep had been watching the celebrations in his capital as they spoke, and gazing on a map being held by an undead servant, but now his head rotated slowly and his golden eyes flashed.

“Queen Jecaina. In absence of her father, she has become [Queen]. To intimate otherwise is an insult to Jecrass, Herdmistress Geraeri. An affront I would take—personally.”

The [Herdmistress] gulped.

“My deepest apologies, your Majesty. The lands, though…”

Fetohep nodded. He knew the People of Zair’s plea before they made it. He forestalled Geraeri with a wave of his fingers.

“Your case is plain, Herdmistress, and my time is limited in this hour. I shall reply, and in the unlikely event I err, you may correct me. The People of Zair claim their land that Jecrass has ceded to me. You ask me for right to land that was claimed by Jecrass. Perhaps you might remind me that Jecrass itself was founded of those who did not ‘own’ it, but lived and died there over generations. That is your claim. I do not think you will threaten me with war, though.”

He looked at her. The [Herdmistress of the Land] met his gaze. At last, she lowered her head in a slight bow.

“The People of Zair are not weak, King Fetohep. Against Khelt, though? I will not send us into certain death. I only ask for your wisdom, as you demonstrated with the ruling of Lyfelt. This…is it fair that we should be forced off our lands? I prevail on your honor.”

Well done. Fetohep’s golden flames grew a bit, and he nodded once. There were few things she could have said to move him, and she had chosen the best ones. No threats. Nor overlong protestations, aside from her error in insulting Jecaina.

6/10. It might seem low, but it was on an objective scoring system. Maybe 5/10, frankly; it was well-done for what he might expect of many, but in the totality of what he had seen and witnessed? 5/10.

5.7/10.

Fetohep wrestled more with his grading than his reply. His return to Geraeri was simple.

“I have already been aware of your desires, and that of the People of Zair, Herdmistress. So—this is what I offer.”

She tensed, surprised by his rapid reaction. Behind her, the Centaurs armed with bows and weapons suited to their stature—long-handled weapons or spears—looked up as Fetohep addressed them and their leader both.

“People of Zair. I do not make light of the lives lost and spent upon Jecrass’ land. You have a right to claim it; although the people of Jecrass long endured before you came there. They settled the land that you lived scant lifetimes on.”

Geraeri looked worried, but Fetohep was just warming up.

“Nevertheless, Khelt understands the bonds to the land as well as any nation still existing. So, then, I answer you, Herdmistress Geraeri. From the traditional pastures of your people, to the border struck by Queen Jecaina and I, to the crossing of rivers Yerides and Sothsoil, I shall allow you your land, under your law, save for the laws that govern all those of Khelt against theft, murder, and so on.”

There was a gasp as he named the largest possible interpretation of the People of Zair’s lands. Geraeri’s eyes opened wide. Fetohep went on.

“You shall be my vassals, but I will content myself to tax none of what you produce and trade for. Your people shall not serve in mine armies save for when they pass. Four generations, from your oldest to youngest, shall pass and the People of Zair will be autonomous, as you were from Jecrass. Then—you will choose again.”

It was beyond a generous offer, Fetohep knew. In essence, he gave the People of Zair what they had not even under Jecrass. Yet he forestalled Geraeri’s response. There was always a catch, and it was this.

“One thing, though, Herdmistress Geraeri. If your people accept this bargain—and any who refuse are free to leave—they will not be nomads anymore. Your people may travel the breadth and width of Khelt, including the passage I shall arrange between my kingdom and this expansion. But they will not migrate from land to land. They will not roam in trading caravans. The borders will be sealed, and any who leave will not be allowed guaranteed return, as is the law of Khelt. You will have your land, and die there.”

The People of Zair made a sound, then, as they realized what Fetohep meant. They had lived on their land for generations, it was true, but Centaurs were nomadic. Many had no doubt travelled from Hellios to as far as Nerrhavia, or Medain in the north.

“Never leave the borders? Your Majesty, we are [Traders] and [Travellers]! How shall we conduct our business?”

Fetohep met the Centaur woman’s gaze.

“You shall change, Herdmistress. Nor does any citizen of Khelt ever want for food or shelter; I make provision for [Merchants] to trade in my cities, but only those I choose, few each month. Your occupations of the past—will no longer be needed, some. You may choose to become who you wish, but that is my requirement.”

He could not have them simply roam past the border and back. What they didn’t know was that this was more than pettiness, or a desire to keep them his subjects; his undead and his own senses could not easily detect individuals. Centaurs could well be infiltrated by spies or outsiders. Moreover—Khelt’s borders were closed. He let no one in. Not refugees, not armies. He chose who entered and that was how it had to be.

“Harsh requirements, your Majesty. I would have called it generous beyond belief, but this last? It will—unmake the People of Zair as they are. You know Centaurs love to roam.”

“Is a nation and a third of land not enough, Herdmistress? You may be nomads within Khelt if you wish.”

She gave him a twisted smile.

“All of Khelt is not all of Chandrar, your Majesty. Could I convince you otherwise?”

“No. I am aware of my generosity, Herdmistress. I will give you all your lands. However, when you claim roaming is in your nature—I throw the very same words you spoke to Queen Jecaina at your hooves. You say the land is yours, that the People of Zair live and die there. Prove it. It must be your land. Your children’s children may depart, and choose as they will, but it must be more than a home you can leave at any time.”

She nodded, seeing the logic in it. The Centaur bowed her head.

“A harsh choice.”

She repeated herself, then looked around.

“May…may I withdraw and consult my people? We will not all be united, your Majesty. No matter what we decide.”

“I give you one year from this day.”

He raised a hand. She stared at him, but then nodded slowly. A year? What was a year to Fetohep? She pawed at the ground, then fixed him with a long gaze.

“Thus, one way or another, Jecrass will never return to itself, will it? One last question, King Fetohep, if I may. Even if the King of Duels is freed and he demands the lands back…offers you anything? Would you relent?”

Another easy answer. Fetohep replied, hefting the halberd he held at the ready.

“Never. This land is Khelt’s. Not just in name, or quick contracts. My armies will never retreat, though we will make no more war after King Raelt is freed on Medain, unless provoked. However. The force you see here will rest under the soil. This army.”

The Centaurs stared at the entire force Fetohep had brought. This army to guard a third of Jecrass?

Someone murmured. Fetohep simply nodded at Geraeri.

“I do not intend to give up what is mine. Take your time, Herdmistress. We will speak again.”

Then he marched onwards, leaving the Centaurs to choose. Fetohep rode forwards, beckoning the next supplicant, the descendant of a River Warden, to him, to make the same pacts. Chandrar was changing. It would never be the same.

It was as Fetohep rode, at the end of Cinaelu, that he received word and the images of his parade through Medain finally changed. The undead king saw Drassi raise a claw and turn as someone handed her a sheet of paper. She read from it, then looked into the camera.

“I’m sorry, but we’re ending our coverage of Khelt and his Majesty for breaking news. It’s war. Anyone not interested in war can tune out now…”

He wondered what it was. The arrangement with Wistram had been such that only an actual emergency would override his procession’s broadcast; no lesser ‘events’, even something like Joseph’s soccer game and so on.

“I’m just receiving word that—that three Djinni are bearing down on the King of Destruction. On the holiday? It looks like they’re definitely coming from Nerrhavia. Wait a second. Djinni being sent to kill him? Where’s my book on…”

Drassi began to fumble for a book, frowning. Noass cleared his throat quickly.

“Ah—Drassi. That’s unconfirmed. We are reporting, first, before any other news channel including Nerrhavia’s Wonders, that three Djinni are indeed flying towards the King of Destruction in Reim! They seem combat-ready, but we can’t confirm they are attacking.”

“If they are, that’s a war crime. Djinni being sent against individuals? Breaches all the rules of war in Chandrar. We’ll see if Nerrhavia has a statement on that—we’re reaching out.”

Drassi added. She brandished the book. Noass turned to her. Fetohep had gone still, although his undead flowed around him.

“That’s not confirmed, Drassi.”

“But if it is, I’m calling it a war crime. Like [Poison Cloud] spells in Ailendamus, Noass. If they’re doing it, it’s not ‘seems like war crimes’, it is. This is Drassi. Possible war crimes from Nerrhavia’s Fallen if the Djinni attack. How’s that for news?”

The two Drakes began bickering. Fetohep of Khelt turned, as if he could look back the countless miles the way he had come towards Reim. Djinni.

“It seems you face a challenge, brat.”

Then he kept riding forwards.

—-

When he got word of the Djinni, High King Perric felt like opening a bottle of something expensive. Djinni. Of course, it was a war crime.

No nation on Chandrar condoned the use of Djinni in war! Not for moralistic reasons so much as practicality. If one was lost, it was a finite resource, already rare, gone forever, and if two Djinni fought, that was the likeliest outcome.

More importantly…if someone started using Djinni, the other side would use their Djinni and that got—nasty.

If he had a Djinni he thought could slay the King of Destruction, or that damned Revenant, Perric would have given serious thought to using one. He hoped they’d kill Flos of Reim for him. That would be the good news among the sandstorm of misery.

Speaking of Djinni…he spent a few hours among his concubines. Stress was eating at him, and the High King did not let it fester. He consulted with an expert who would know more.

As in—another Djinni. Just not one who could kill Fetohep, or even give the undead ruler a good fight.

High King Perric had made it a goal to have a concubine or wife of every species in the world…excepting Selphids. And Antinium, he’d added to the list, if there even were females among them. The Djinni in his company of dozens—he didn’t stop at one per species—was among the weakest of her kind. Barely able to shapeshift and fly, and still stronger than any Silver-rank adventurer in existence for all of that.

“What kind of Djinni are coming after the King of Destruction? Do they have a chance?”

She blew a cloud of blue smoke at him, and he looked away from her pulsating, somewhat insectile worm-like form.

“Change back to a proper form at once!”

She sulkily obeyed, but still took another draft from the blue smoke drug she enjoyed. The Djinni Maef replied.

“I know one of my kin flying. That one.”

The Djinni pointed. Medain saw the image of the three Djinni, two carrying enchanted weapons, and focused on the one flying highest.

“Drenirkessun.”

“And? His capabilities?”

The High King was impatient. Maef smiled sweetly. He’d made a mistake in the rules binding her; she couldn’t hurt him, but he’d allowed her too liberal use of her tongue.

“He could reduce this palace to ash, your Golden Ranks or not. Only your Named Adventurers could give him pause. Drenirkesun is mighty. Kill the King of Destruction? I think he can, army or not. No blade made of mundane metal could touch him, even if he took form and lay still on the ground. Even the [Grand Mage] is a child without enough magic; he can shift forms, and fights with the experience of millennia. He is older than Fetohep of Khelt. He would be a fine addition to your seraglio, your Majesty. I wonder if you’d have the courage for the ‘Scepter of Medain’ to rise in his presence? He can be quite beautiful, but true power turns men off, or so I observe.”

High King Perric didn’t even dignify the insults with a reply. He simply turned, curiosity satisfied, and strode from his chambers.

He had more important business to attend to; the defense of his realm. To that end, High King Perric did not meet with his worthless [Generals], who shook in their boots at the size of Khelt’s army or that behemoth; he met with the truly important people, who could do something about it.

—-

Even a [High King] met with his guests respectfully. He offered them all refreshments and courtesies, but they were brief. They were familiar, but he would have accepted that even if they weren’t important.

Perric respected adventurers. Thus he had named Medain, unofficially, the Kingdom of Adventurers. The three magical dungeons of the kingdom were its lifeblood and he had been a Gold-rank before taking the throne.

At any rate, Perric cultivated his adventurers’ loyalty, not least with gifts of land and lavish prizes to any of Gold-rank. Let alone the two Named-rank Adventurers sitting before him.

Medain had two, and their presence was because they had made their names delving into the dungeons here—and because he gave them all they could want if they stayed within his kingdom and aided him. Neither had gone against Khelt yet, but it was time.

“One battle, friends. One battle. If the Revenant dies—his armies fall apart. If I offered you the right battle, I trust you’d remember our long friendship and take it?”

Both adventurers gazed at each other, appraisingly. They were in a bind. On one hand? Neither one wanted to fight Khelt. On the other—it was a bad look for them to run, especially Named Adventurers. Also, Medain was where a lot of their wealth was, and if they sat back and let Fetohep win…

They were respectively male and female. Human and, interestingly enough, Dullahan, although you thought it should be reversed based on their…characteristics.

One was a slimmer man, known as Three of Arms. Not because there were three in his team, but because he was sitting, two hands on a cup of something, and the last feeding him some of the snacks.

He was Human. A [Spellblade], although he ran more towards [Wizard] these days. In his career, the Three of Arms, Requiel, had stumbled across a strange object. A prosthesis of magic which had attached itself to him, giving him a third, strange arm.

Even now, Perric glanced at it. It looked tattooed all the way down, or ‘painted’ with shimmering light, a lighter tone than Requiel’s skin, glowing with magical spells that could activate at need be. With it, he could cast spells with three wands at a time, or fight with deadly strength in close-combat if needed.

“Even if Fetohep of Khelt dies, the army doesn’t fall apart, your Majesty. You know that. All those undead…”

“They’ll break on walls, unled. You know what I mean.”

Perric interrupted and the Three of Arms nodded. He eyed his companion.

“It would have to be the right battle. Frankly, even if you marched every [Soldier] garrisoned here…I wouldn’t care to make an assault on him directly. You, Falcon?”

The Falcon of Medain had a personal title he’d bestowed on her, which had stuck, much to Perric’s delight. She nodded.

“You need to give us a better battlefield. Your Majesty. Sorry, but we’re taking the risks.”

“Of course, of course, Lady Frieke.”

He soothed her. He knew adventurers and they weren’t being unreasonable. He wished they’d fought earlier, but they were right in that Fetohep might go for them—and he hadn’t pushed the matter since he needed them for this to work.

Frieke of Medain was known as the Falcon because of the huge bird, the Seahawk, which was gnawing on a bone. Bigger than a normal eagle naturally, this one—Konska—was as famous as its owner.

The Falcon of Medain was an interesting mix of classes. No normal class for her; she was a [Hawkmaster] and a [Dungeon Conqueror]. It came of her desires; she hadn’t come to be an adventurer, but had been a [Treasure Seeker] first.

Anyways, she was able to fight with bow and blade, a superlative skirmisher and solo-fighter. However, like all adventurers, her strength wasn’t always…direct.

One of her trump cards that only Perric knew about was the Ring of Emergency Recall on her finger. The twin was on Konska’s talon. At will, either could teleport to the other. Frieke could appear high overhead and shoot arrows down at an enemy from hundreds of feet before using a [Lightweight] spell and having her hawk spirit her away.

Or escape from a sticky situation.

Two Named-ranks versus Fetohep. If they got him alone, Perric was convinced they had better-than-not chances of killing him. But Named-ranks didn’t get to their position by liking such odds.

“A proper battle. If I offer you that, I have your word?”

He repeated himself. The two adventurers exchanged another reluctant glance.

“We’d have to agree, your Majesty. We’ll bounce if it’s not to our liking.”

“Then I will ensure it is.”

That was all he wanted, The two Named-ranks eyed him, looking even warier, but they’d agreed and he intended to hold them to it.

[Royal Promise]. One of his Skills that ensured no one double-crossed him. High King Perric left them to their refreshments and hurried to his next meeting.

He wished he had time to visit his prisoner, but visiting would take too long and might leave him in a temper, when he needed to be at his most diplomatic. It was a shame, but Raelt was still defiant. Perric had even been forced to stop his people ‘working’ on Raelt. Just in case the worst came to pass.

Not torture. Not exactly. Perric was not a savage monster. Rather, he’d been trying to persuade Raelt. You did need to wear them down, but no breaking bones or anything savage. After some isolation, some hunger, you sent for female company and gave them the right things to drink. Perric wanted an ally and the King of Duels would have been a damned good one if his daughter wasn’t such a fool.

In another month he’d have had Raelt back on the throne and Jecrass under his thumb! Damn Fetohep and that girl!

Perric kept all of it off his face as he smiled and greeted the [Emissary]. The half-Elf rose and nodded to him, bowing slightly. She was a representative of the Claiven Earth, and had come at his behest.

“Friends.”

She twitched at that and even Perric had the self-awareness to bare his teeth. The Claiven Earth and Medain had often fought.

“Friends in this time, when all seems at its darkest.”

He smoothly went on. She just folded her arms. He knew Valesent Areis; she was one of the regular diplomatic contacts between them. She had also refused his offer of marriage both times he’d made it, as a young man and more recently.

She might be over a hundred years old, or eighty at least, but she looked like she was in her thirties or forties at most. If that; she was striking, and Perric would have loved to exchange pleasantries…but he had a case to make.

“Your Majesty, I have come at the behest of the Speaker of Trees and the Claiven Earth to hear your petition.”

He gritted his teeth on the word ‘petition’, but nodded graciously.

“You do me credit, Areis. I know you spoke personally for Medain and this chance, and I shall not waste it. I say to you what I said to the Speaker of Trees: we must come to an accord and stand against Khelt.”

She studied him. The Claiven Earth was somewhat like Khelt, but both would have resented the comparison. An exceptionally strong nation of half-Elves that often kept to themselves. However, they had made war on Flos of Reim and they would leave their borders.

“We did not commit many of our own to die against the King of Destruction. You wish us to spend more lives saving Medain?”

She stressed the kingdom’s name. Perric smiled.

“Ah, I understand the reluctance, Areis, but I’ve offered a ceasefire for fifteen years!”

Which he didn’t want, but it was one of his cards. She nodded at that. The High King pressed on.

“Moreover, this isn’t about me or Medain.”

She tilted her head.

“Not the King of Duels? That undead claims that if you release the King of Duels, he will retreat his dread army.”

A good sign, her referring to Fetohep thusly. Perric smiled.

“Areis. If the positions were reversed, would the Claiven Earth accede to the threats made by a foreign power? Let alone an undead Revenant?”

She frowned. High King Perric studied her.

The one advantage he had in convincing the Claiven Earth was that they were half-Elves like people thought of them. They had come to Chandrar long ago from Terandria, and created a forest along the coast. A verdant land that was death to attack—as he’d learned to his cost.

However, that also meant they loved nature, kept those ancient villages, practiced the bow…and hated necromancy, like most Terandrians. In this case, it was mostly that death magic killed life-magic and nature, hence the issue.

“Even if I were to surrender and make peace, Khelt is now on our borders. Consider the effects of so many undead seeping into the land over centuries? Moreover, do you wish to be next if Medain falls? Say you offend the King of Khelt.”

“Khelt is traditionally passive.”

The High King made a rude noise.

“Oh, yes. Which is why they are marching on Medain for Jecrass. Khelt may be traditionally whatever it wishes to be. Fetohep has broken with all precedent. I say again: the Claiven Earth could be next.”

She studied him, narrow-eyed. She knew exactly why he was asking and so desperate. In truth, Areis would have loved to tell the odious High King exactly what she thought of him and let Khelt sack his capital.

Unfortunately, she had been sent to this meeting for more reasons than Perric knew about. The Claiven Earth were afraid of just what he described; not immediate action, but all the death magic seeping across the border through the ground.

Khelt taking more land alarmed them. It reminded them of times when Khelt had expanded, and half-Elves had long memories. Most importantly of all…Fetohep being Fetohep was presenting problems Perric had no idea about.

—-

So long as thou dwell within my borders, you shall never want for baser needs. Nor shall anything harm you.

That was the edict of Fetohep of Khelt, each ruler. A promise made with their people, inviolate. More than anything else, that was what they lived for.

The problem was…well, the promise.

The Claiven Earth were not at war with Khelt. They were battling Orthenon in the north, and still at war with the King of Destruction. They had started this war and they would not relent.

Unfortunately, the [Steward] was a deadly, cunning foe with speed unmatched. They could tie him up, though. Half-Elf [Archers] were among the best in the world and even he was in danger if caught alone.

So it was running battles, skirmishes—attack and retreat. Nothing static like they had done when fighting with Jecrass.

Elven [Outriders] streaked across Belchan and the embattled lines, striking supply lines, liberating cities, sniping officers or [Soldier] patrols and vanishing. The Steward gave chase, but he couldn’t be everywhere. It had been going well, and they had been forcing his army back with minimal casualties of their own as parts of Belchan revolted.

…Right up until he ran them into the new borders. Half-Elf riders had been scattering away from his advance and practically slammed into undead rising from the ground. When they’d tried to flee around them, more rose, cutting them off. Not one part of Jecrass’ long, long border could be trespassed! Orthenon had boxed them in.

Half had tried to flee across the new border into Jecrass, to escape, not harm anyone! The undead had cut them to pieces, and Orthenon had gotten the rest.

The Speaker of Trees had lodged a complaint with Fetohep. The conversation had been amicable as both sides attempted to disguise their hostility for each other. It had, however, been unfortunately short.

“Your Majesty. The demands of war dictate a mobile force may inadvertently trespass as it evades the enemy. I would have each of my people swear to harm not a single soul in your lands, but they must be allowed to move wherever they must.”

“And you expect me to allow a pitched battle in my land, where I have promised the war-weary people of Khelt respite? If a single arrow were to fly astray, a single spell, one of my subjects could be hurt. I suffer no trespass, Speaker of Trees. As well you know.”

Fetohep had not told the Speaker of Trees another reason; a lack of discernment among his guardians. However, even if that were not the case…the Speaker of Trees had done his best, as vexing as it was to plead.

“We would be willing to offer you remuneration for the—right—to move across the border.”

“Thus pitting the Steward against my forces, as you would strike from my lands. No.”

That hateful Revenant hadn’t even listened to the offer. He had simply fixed the Speaker of Trees with his condescending gaze and given a very Fetohep-like answer.

“There is no sum the Claiven Earth could muster that would interest Khelt, Speaker of Trees. Unless, perhaps, you were willing to part with one of your Hearts of the Forest? No, I thought not. Khelt is not to be so easily trespassed against. Take your [Soldiers] to other fronts, where they might ‘skirmish’ against a nation less able to reply to insult immediately.”

—-

How that boiled. How that irked the half-Elves. No—irked was too small a word. This was why Areis considered Perric’s offer.

They had all seen the Village of the Dead’s raid. They had seen the horrors of the undead, and now one of the only nations in the world where necromancy ruled in strength was on the attack. Fetohep was too strong. If he did turn against the Claiven Earth and they stood alone…

It was about horror. Undead! The half-Elves were unable to simply let nightmares slide. Perhaps when they were buried farther off, under sand, sleeping. Now?

She met High King Perric’s gaze and sighed. If it were just Medain, she would have happily let him rot. She never told Perric that the reason she had been assigned the posting in Medain was not because she was a high-level [Emissary]. She hadn’t even gotten the class until she’d been posted here.

Areis had simply…gotten in trouble…for a habit picked up over decades, well, nearly a century of being a [Vintner]. Part of her punishment for numerous crimes of disorderly intoxication had been diplomatic duty to the most-hated [King] in the region. Even if they had the class, few half-Elves could tolerate the insult that was Perric unless ordered.

She really needed another drink. But first—she gave Perric his answer.

—-

The instant the King of Destruction received word the Djinni were on attack, he broke off from the pleasantries with the String Folk [General] on Cinaelu.

No questions were asked whether this was a trap; Teres thought the [General] looked stunned. Nor was there time.

“To the horses! We ride for Reim. Get the army moving!”

Flos roared. He looked as intense as she had ever seen him. Teres scrambled into her saddle as Takhatres disappeared, sprinting to warn the camp in person.

“Flos! How do we know it’s an attack?”

“Three Djinni, just happening to fly our way? Seems like an attack to me! We’re dead if they catch us alone, your Majesty.”

“Takhatres can speed them. So can I. I’ll join the army and catch them—your Majesty, [Rapid March]. We’ll meet you. Teres—guard him with your life.”

Venith looked at Maresar, and then was galloping after Takhatres. Teres found herself riding with their small escort.

The King of Destruction and Maresar had movement Skills and they could make the ground blur beneath them, but the Djinni had apparently crossed most of Nerrhavia in hours.

“Are we certain they’re after you? I thought you told me Djinni aren’t allowed to be used to assassinate people!”

“I did, but I have known many who break the laws of war. They are used in battle—rarely. As for how I know? Here!”

Flos tossed his little scrying…marble…at Teres. She caught it, fumbling, and realized that whomever had sent the Djinni had worded their instructions poorly.

Three flew through the air, two carrying magical weapons, the last a flying cloud shaped like a Garuda, only with multiple sets of wings as well as their normal ones. The other two looked like exotic Humans, augmented with animalistic parts.

Like demigods from some kind of myth. Teres’ blood chilled, but then she heard the shouting.

“We fly to slay the King of Destruction! So ordered! So commanded by our masters!”

The female Djinni shouted happily, brandishing twin daggers. The largest kept silent, but the other, a Human with a cat’s face for some reason, bellowed as well.

“Merchant Almon, Emira Sulaake of Aeresuth, and the Escrite family order us to kill the King of Destruction for their glory! If you want quality goods, consider Merchant Almon’s Roads of Jade, which provide excellent service across Nerrhavia’s Fallen!”

The female Nightair Djinni flipped over; she was riding a flying carpet, unable to keep up regularly with the other two under her own speed.

“What was that last part?”

The cat-Djinni grimaced as Drenir laughed.

“I have to mention that every time…”

People looked up in awe and fear as the Djinni flew. The three great beings of magic ignored them, intent on their mission. Occasionally, one would repeat the names of their masters.

The Emira had standing clauses forbidding Drenir to invoke her name unwisely—the other two did not. A classic mistake. Now, they were happily shouting the perpetrators of this incident to the world.

If they had already succeeded, no doubt their masters would be happy to lay claim to the credit. However, they probably didn’t want all the attention on them now.

A bit of revenge, that was all. The Djinni ignored the eyes of the world on them. They could feel the distant scrying spells like pinpricks on the skin.

Three. Their forms were mutable. They could take on a hundred identities, a hundred thousand forms over their lives. The same with names. However, some things mattered, for reasons petty or grand. So, for battle, each one took a form that mattered.

The first, the Nightair Djinni, a weaker spirit riding on the carpet with no fear of crashing, carrying two enchanted daggers looked most Human of all. Humanoid. Her skin was closer to onyx and the deepest blue of the night sky, though, and her eyes were white. Her hair was dark, and she sprouted two horns from her head. Hooves, cloven.

She took the form of an old species long dead. Her name was Hisaille. She had been born in captivity and named by Lizardfolk.

The second was the cat-faced Djinni, Seemutor. He always kept the face of a house-cat on his head, for all his lower body now seemed to be that of some kind of elephantine beast. He too carried a weapon; a glowing shortbow from which he could loose arrows of terrible destruction. He flew, easily keeping pace with the carpet, the most boisterous of the three. Powerful; above average as their species measured such things.

Time alone did not make Djinni stronger. Some were born more deeply into magic, others in a certain element. Seemutor, for instance, was not the element of darkness and air like Hisaille. He was closer to fire and logic, hence his superlative abilities in calculation.

They could still grow, both younger Djinni. It was possible for them to deepen their bonds, increase their very being to certain limits. In time, if they were free, they might have done so.

It was doubtful either would match the last of them even if they had five hundred years. Drenirkesun stood above both. He flew, a vast cloud that took the shape of that six-winged Garuda. So huge he could have engulfed a ship.

It seemed, to the distant forces of Reim, that a cloud was flying at them, albeit shaped so. Two eyes flashed with lightning, and the air grew thick and charged as Drenir flew. He did not shout. He did not mention his masters’ names.

He…was simply prepared. And Drenir cautioned his kin.

“Do not take them lightly. They are the greatest mortals of their time. Leave the King of Destruction to me. We fight against Venith Crusland and Maresar, the Grand Magus Esiela, and Takhatres, Lord of the Skies.”

The Djinni knew his foes. The younger two were impetuous, which worried him. Especially Hisaille.

“I have killed scores of mortals. I know how to dance away from enchanted weapons and spells, Drenir.”

She laughed up at him. Then—quieted at the look from the vast Djinni.

“You have never fought a [King]. Stay away from him. Watch the Garuda as well. Of all of them, they can injure you most. Seemutor, the Grand Magus?”

“Done. It will be a fine battle.”

The cat-Djinni laughed. Drenir just sighed, and thunder rolled through his body. Both little Djinni looked up at him.

“Don’t you rejoice to be set free, Great Drenir?”

Hisaille swept up to him, hovering her carpet higher. One eye of lightning blinked at her, discharging electricity that swept through his being.

“To do battle in another person’s name? I wearied of that long ago, Hisaille. Nor is the King of Destruction my enemy. It only is.”

She dismissed that, shaking her head.

“If there is nothing to take enjoyment from, then it is a pale life indeed, Great Drenir. You will see. When we shake Chandrar, at least they will remember how we can touch this world!”

For a moment. Drenir knew. Then they would quarrel over the Djinni, scheme and fight to hold the leash. He reached up and touched something.

Each one bore a marker. Most Djinni did. It was not enough to have a vessel they were chained to. They needed a bond to enforce the magic written into their souls.

On his neck was a band of metal, a collar. Hisaille had two cuffs on her wrists; Seemutor, two dangling earrings. They could change to any number of shapes, but that remained.

“Let it be done.”

A [King] was no easy opponent, for all they boasted. Even so—the storm cloud began to grow larger as he crossed Nerrhavia’s borders. The clouds thickened, growing darker. Even his two kin looked up in awe as Drenir grew.

—-

“Bloody hell. What is that?”

Teres thought she saw the storm cloud reflected in the scrying orb rolling in. It was so large it was a speck on the horizon, and getting bigger with each moment. Flos Reimarch turned his head.

“Faster, Maresar. It’s a day’s ride to Reim, even at our speed.”

“They may catch us, Flos.”

Maresar replied. They were at full gallop, the land speeding past them as if they were going as fast as a racing car. Maybe they were; Teres stared back. Still—it seemed like the cloud was slowly gaining.

“Why are we running? What about the army? It’s three Djinni! You’re the King of Destruction! Haven’t you fought them before?”

Flos glanced at her. He looked back and bared his teeth.

“Six times, Teres! Which means I’ve faced them more than most beings living or dead! Only six times, though. In battle and alone—they’re a rare sight!”

“So? Are these ones worse?”

He shook his head.

“Whatever is making that cloud is dangerous. The others? It’s not fear that drives me, but the danger! We can’t touch them with regular steel or even weak enchantments! If Amerys was here—! Or Orthenon, Mars, we’d have more of a chance!”

He growled, and Teres felt a surge of apprehension. Was that why they’d waited? For his two vassals to stay in the north?

“Takhatres has his tribe—”

“Useless.”

Maresar and Flos said it at the same time. Flos glanced at Teres.

“Takhatres can fight them, and maybe his warriors who hold enchanted weapons, but as I said, his tribe would be struck from the skies by lightning even getting close to that one. Six times I told you I fought Djinni, Teres…twice in huge, pitched battles! If I have a great army, they’re a threat, but can be slain. Once, one was sent to kill me, like this, and we slew it.”

He looked back and cursed.

“Three times they sent us fleeing in defeat. Crushed entire armies until we stopped them, or slew their masters or sent other Djinni to do battle. That was when my empire was vast. I don’t care for those odds! What did you call it? Statistically, it’s not a good ratio of wins!”

Teres stared at Flos and suddenly apprehension was in her belly. She looked back, towards the whipping landscape and sand and dust. At least Nerrhavia’s army wasn’t going after them; they were marching north, a glittering line of metal disappearing fast as the wind picked up, turning the world hazy with sand and dust.

A storm preceding a bad battle. She shivered.

“Is there any hope?”

“Yes. With Drevish’s towers of lightning, yes! I wouldn’t risk my people to that alone, of course. We need weapons. Hence—whoever sent those three miscalculated. After all, it was Trey who delivered a weapon, a perfect counter into my hands. Don’t you remember, Teres?”

Now the King of Destruction grinned. Teres looked at him, mind whirling, then remembered. Her eyes opened wide and she smiled in relief.

“Nawal! Naq-Alrama steel!”

“Exactly. With one blade we can fight them like mortals. Takhatres or I can threaten even that one quite easily. Assuming she’s finished it—no, even a half-done product will do. Maresar, send word! We require Nawalishifra’s weapon and anything the Tannousin Tribe can muster!”

The [Bandit Lord] nodded and reached for a [Message] scroll. Flos turned back to Teres, and she saw why he was intent.

“It only matters if we can reach the capital before they catch us—or the army. No more talk. Ride, Teres!”

They rode, galloping ahead, towards the capital in the distance. To claim the great weapon promised to the King of Destruction.

They had no idea…that the metal had not been forged. That the alloy had been bad.

There was no weapon. When Nawalishifra heard the desperate demand, she could only laugh until she wept. She had feared the truth coming out soon, when the King of Destruction visited.

This?

This was disaster.

—-

The flight of the King of Destruction and desperate battle filled the news. It was not the only event of significance taking place.

Fetohep of Khelt was closing on Medain. Days away from the final siege, but for some reason, Medain’s armies were beginning to sally forth. It was impossible for them to hide, for all they did their best.

They were going to meet him in battle? Fetohep instantly grew suspicious. Perric was an arrogant man, but hardly a fool in battle.

“Scourge Forerunner. To me.”

One of the living lieutenants, a rare member of Khelt who trained for battle, rode forwards. A cluster of Khelt’s undead riders followed; they could move without rest and needed no food.

“Your Exalted Majesty?”

The woman waited. Fetohep’s head turned.

“Scout to our west. Send more riding bands north, unled, with orders to sweep and engage any hostiles.”

It was crude to use undead without living direction; they made terrible mistakes like Golems, but it could still work with vague instructions like that. The Scourge Forerunner hesitated. She wasn’t sure, not having served with Fetohep before. He stared at her.

“Speak your mind.”

“We have deployed forces to the west, your Majesty. Have they fallen?”

They already had watchers there. Fetohep nodded in appreciation of her question. He inspected the woman, making sure she was adorned with enough artifacts…he counted six, the maximum she could carry. Well enough.

There were less than a thousand of Khelt’s citizens fighting among the undead, and many had already been stationed to the rear; each one carried at least three artifacts.

“They see nothing, nor have any been destroyed. I remain unconvinced our flanks are secure. Watch for ambushes. Fall back at the first sign of contact. I suspect the Claiven Earth; they will strike you from afar. Keep two Shieldriders with you at all times.”

Her eyes widened.

“By your will, your Majesty!”

She took off, speeding westwards. Fetohep turned.

It only made sense. The Claiven Earth? He recalled the border incident.

“The arrogance of half-Elves.”

Fetohep sneered, in a rare display of a pot insulting the kettle. Even so, his intuition bothered him. The Claiven Earth and Medain both were more of a threat if they combined forces, but he had an army to match both. Something else…

He got his answer by nightfall. The Scourge Forerunner had not yet met half-Elven forces, but he knew they were on the way.

…Because the roving undead bands to the north began to vanish. They had run into something. Fetohep began diverting his attention to the north as his army slowed.

What had landed on the coast? That was the real question.

—-

The first indication of the event taking place occurred at sea, days before. A minor movement. A significant one, but one only communicated to House Veltras from their allies.

The House of Wellfar. They attacked no one. However—the great ship, one of the few remaining warships of its class, The Pride of the Wellfar, took to sea with a smaller fleet. It was notable in that it even asked the Velistrane, patrolling far to the south in Drake waters, to be advised of a possible collaboration.

Nothing occurred. The Pride of the Wellfar engaged no ships, as the other vessels in the water kept far away from the warship. It queried one target and after learning the destination was not Izril—escorted them for quite a number of miles before turning back.

The second incident occurred with the House of Minos. Prince Khedal, the great Minotaur who had clashed with the Drowned Fleets, even the greatest [Pirates] in the pitched battle at sea with the [Strategists] from Baleros a while back, took after the second trespass in the House of Minos’ waters.

“They will not evade us again! [Captain], begin loosing warning shots!”

The Minotaur [Captain] didn’t wait for further orders. He bellowed and a catapult hurled a stone with astonishing accuracy, crashing into the water off the bow of the fleeing ship skirting their borders.

“Oars down! [Row With All Your Might]!”

The Minotaur warship had both sails and oars for this exact moment. They picked up speed, pushing past the limits of the wind—even enchanted sails—as they sped towards the vessel.

“Hold! Hold! We’re not looking to quarrel with the House of Minos!”

One of the [Captains] bellowed on the other ship, having already raised a white flag of truce. Prince Khedal didn’t care; his blood was up.

“No one trespasses on the House of Minos, least of all bearing warriors! Tell your ships to skirt the House of Minos’ waters—or prepare for battle! Your ship will stand to and be boarded for inspection!”

The fiery [Prince] demanded. He received a reply after a moment’s wait as the two ships continued to draw near. That was when he spotted the second vessel in the waters approaching…and the third.

“We are on a mission that cannot wait, Minotaur [Prince]! We must refuse.”

Prince Khedal stood on the deck, and the [Captain] saw his eyes begin to slowly turn red. More warships were being scrambled from the House of Minos, but it was three versus one…four versus one.

Not one of the Minotaurs cared, and the ship was still coming on. It was the Humans who were in trouble; Prince Khedal was ready to sink all four. And yet—the [Captain] checked the numbers, saw the clear danger to the [Prince], despite the glorious battle, and was forced to voice his dissent.

“Your Highness. Conflict at sea would risk our forces and a larger war. They are barely trespassing.”

“You would have me let them go with insult, [Warship Captain]?”

Prince Khedal growled at the other Minotaur, but the growing fury in him slowed slightly; the [Captain] was an honorable Minotaur with the experience to override even Khedal in matters of marine combat and the affairs of the ship. The [Captain] narrowed his eyes.

“It sits little well with me either. The House of Minos has suffered an insult, but the King is best able to reply. We could bring them to battle…but the Month of Strife is upon us. The old enemy draws near. We need every axe for that. I am not refusing you. Simply cautioning.”

Prince Khedal hesitated. He paced the deck, growling—then swung his hand.

“Let them go. Stay clear of our waters or the next vessel will be struck down!”

The other ships were already peeling off, staying further away. Prince Khedal returned, venting his fury with practice. The House of Minos was preparing for war with another enemy. He looked back once, and saw more ships all clustering together. Worthy foes. But a greater one waited.

Goblins. Their island was drawing near. Khedal spat into the waters as he watched the others come on in a fleet; the first trespass had already occurred, though. A smaller, nimbler grouping of ships.

—-

They made themselves known as King Perric of Medain marched his armies forwards. The Claiven Earth appeared at the same time, wiping out undead scouting parties to the west.

The last group came from the north, from the coast itself. The declaration was writ across every headline in Chandrar and all four other continents.

Rémi Canada was trying to balance both events. War in the north and the Djinni attack. The [Journalist] looked at the headline he was printing.

‘Nerrhavia’s Fallen sends Djinni to assassinate the King of Destruction; a crusade is called against the Kingdom of Khelt!’

More news at eleven. He shook his head. They were already announcing it, faster than the slower newspapers.

—-

A crusade. From distant Terandria, the words echoed.

An old term. An…antiquated term, in many senses. A word as old as the people who used it.

[Knights]. The Knight Orders of Terandria alone still sailed from their continent, to do battle against evil as they saw it. This was more than a single band of [Knights], though. This was…war.

Against evil. Undeath. It might be that Chandrar suffered such things to exist. Not so Terandria. Not for any who remembered the Necromancer’s depredations.

Not after the Village of the Dead had shown just how evil could fester and grow.

The choice had been, frankly, binary. Either Izril and the Village of the Dead; purge the village after the adventurers had failed, or distant Chandrar.

It had been easier to choose Chandrar. Izril was the home of the Five Families and they zealously guarded their fiefs. Permission would have to be arranged. Chandrar?

King Perric of Medain had petitioned the Human nations of Terandria for help against the undead scourge. Of course, many spoke out against helping the same man who had abducted the King of Duels. It might have been he would be refused, but for the genius of Duke Rhisveri of Ailendamus.

It was he who pushed the crusade. Stirred up sentiments in many Knight Orders against the undead. Ailendamus would send countless [Knights] and even fund the expedition. And in doing so, the other Orders would band together against a common threat…away from Terandria itself.

The trick was that Ailendamus was sending more [Soldiers], more [Knights], investing more gold in it than any other nation, even the most anti-undead. Who could doubt their commitment, then, if they would sacrifice most if the crusade was lost?

A nation which could afford it. Could replenish faster due to its simple size than the others. And…which had most to gain if combat-hardened troops returned with new levels. Either way. Ailendamus won, and to stand idle was to embarrass oneself. Faced with Rhisveri’s calculation, what were Knight Orders to do publically, even if they harbored private doubts? They had to contribute or be seen not to.

Of course, the actual implementation was of many diplomatic members persuading hot-headed [Knights] to swear fiery oaths that could not be easily gainsaid, presenting it as a case of undead expansion, even playing on Eldavin’s lessons about Az’kerash.

But for Greysten, the Order of Seasons might have well committed a number of its [Knights] to the effort as well. As it was, Knight-Commander Calirn sent barely a hundred Knights of the Spring.

The other Orders all contributed numbers of their own. The result? A navy was bearing down towards Medain. The first elements had already arrived.

The Four Winds of Teral, the famous Sea Courier ship had led the first [Knights] to Medain, and they were already disembarking. Fetohep listened to the news in silence.

“Four ships, including the Courier’s ship, have disgorged the Orders Pregaris, the Sothbound, Hunters of the Kingdom of Noelictus…”

He drummed his fingers on the saddle. Of course. The most militantly undead-hating [Knights] were leading the charge. Pregaris came from further north than Ailendamus and the Dawn Concordat’s conflict; their nation was at peace. Samal, the Kingdom of Keys, had time to let its bored [Knights] fight.

The Sothbound likewise came from Cenidau; the [Knights] of the tundra also had fewer targets to fight at the moment, and they too specialized in undead-slaying among other things. After all, a zombie eventually rotted away; the ice-bound corpses in the north could last forever.

Noelictus’ [Undead Hunters]…it was still a small force, mere thousands strong from the four ships. More would come. This group intended to be the lance-tip on which Medain and the Claiven Earth struck.

“Four ships. Of course, The Four Winds of Teral can only fill the sails of four at most.”

Fetohep mused. He took in the news as his army stopped. They were already digging in; it was a fight at last.

And treachery. Terandrian Kingdoms had declared a crusade. Fetohep listened to the fiery speeches, the condemnation of the taint of undeath. They would purge Chandrar of this plague and…

He’d heard it all before. Fetohep’s response was simply this. He turned to the communication spell keeping him in touch with his capital. The worried ‘advisors’ he had installed to manage the Kingdom listened as the King of Khelt spoke.

“Mark The Four Winds of Teral. For all future endeavors at sea, be it delivery, correspondence, and so on, Khelt shall not hire the ship, until four millennia have passed. Assuming the ship survives until then.”

“It—it will be done, your Majesty.”

Fetohep nodded. The most important task taken care of, he turned his attention to the war. It was no longer a simple case of overwhelming Medain with superior forces, numbers, and so on.

This would be a battle to remember. Fetohep would have smiled, but he was growing—

Vexed.

—-

Both battles did not take place concurrently. There might have been overlap, but chronologically, while the Djinni might have struck first, it was a running battle that had intermittent breaks. Similarly, once the sides had met, Fetohep of Khelt engaged in a protracted battle, such that the coverage was flickering from one event to the next.

A field day for a reporter, in short; the kind of day when you wished you had more time, rather than needing to fill it. That was every day in this world for Rémi Canada.

Nevertheless, he wasn’t placed to attract the world’s attention. Well—he had some small bearing on what happened, which pleased him.

Drassi was interviewing Queen Yisame as the Djinni first sped over the border, their purpose clear.

“…So, your Majesty. They’re clearly attacking the King of Destruction. What does Nerrhavia’s Fallen have to say about this Djinni-assassination? Under the rules of engagement all nations of Chandrar should adhere to, assassinating someone via Djinni is a war crime.”

Queen Yisame had graciously agreed to accept the interview about the actions of the Djinni. She smiled, face made up as she occupied the left side of the ‘screen’, Drassi, the right.

“Reporter Drassi, I was as shocked to hear of this—brazen act as you were. Rest assured, and I swear on truth spell, that I, nor anyone in Nerrhavia Fallen’s seats of powers condoned this action. It is Emira Sulaake’s action of her own initiative among the other Djinni owners; even now, she has been summoned for questioning. Moreover, while they claim to be attacking, Flos Reimarch is in possession of his army and we are at war.”

She stressed the syllable. Drassi nodded, taking a few seconds as there was a bit of lag in the communication spell. She shuffled her notes; glanced down at them.

She hadn’t had much time to prepare for this, but she’d gotten the interviewing opportunity over Noass and Sir Relz, much to their palpable disappointment. Wistram had decided Drassi was most well-liked. She had notes on Chandrarian rules of war, Djinni, Nerrhavia’s Fallen—all the kind of things a [Student] had for a test.

And one more thing. Drassi got so much correspondence these days the Mage’s Guild had to sort it for her. Normally you couldn’t reach her; however, she had a lot of time for a personal [Message] from—

Rémi Canada.

Drassi peeked at it again and read the [Journalist]’s short note. It had been all the prompting she needed.

There will never be a second time, once you take them down in public. Make it count; they’ll learn after this.

–Canada

Drassi looked up and took a breath. She smiled, and Queen Yisame smiled up behind the makeup that accented her already gloriously perfect skin. She was clearly relishing her moment, like the Arbiter Queen’s spotlight. What she wasn’t prepared for was Drassi leaning forwards.

“Your Majesty, are you saying that you have no control over your subjects in Nerrhavia’s Fallen if members of your aristocracy can simply try to murder other people with Djinni? Let me be clear: Flos Reimarch may have an army, but the Djinni were sent on Cinaelu, your holiday, during an agreed-upon ceasefire when he wasn’t even near his army! This sounds like an assassination, and it sounds like you’re only ‘questioning’ Emira Sulaake? Her Djinni are shouting what they’re doing! It’s not very unclear to me.”

The [Queen]’s face went slack as everyone watched. Noass began banging on the door, but the staff had orders to keep him and Sir Relz out.

Possibly no one had spoken to Yisame like that since she was a child. Nor had Nerrhavia expected this. Her eyes flickered sideways to someone off-screen, and she replied.

“…Of course one cannot always prevent untoward actions in Nerrhavia’s Fallen, wide as it is. I misspoke; Emira Sulaake will be punished, as will all perpetrators. I do remind you, Reporter Drassi, that Djinni lie, so the truth must be established.”

Drassi nodded repeatedly, and then leaned in further. Yisame leaned back as if they were actually sitting in the same room.

“So—are you going to have her recall the Djinni? They’re about to attack.”

“Recall…?”

“Of course. If this is an illegal, untoward action, then Nerrhavia will surely recall the Djinni. Unless, by implication, you approve of this as a way to defeat the King of Destruction? I’d have expected they would be recalled the instant the news was heard of—or Sulaake threatened with imprisonment, or so on. Is that going to happen?”

“I—once an arrow is loosed, it cannot so easily be put back, Reporter Drassi.”

“But a Djinni’s not an arrow. Am I understanding you that you won’t be calling them back? Then, even if it was started by one of your subjects, this appears to be a state-sanctioned war crime. What would you like to say to that, Queen Yisame? Queen Yisame, hello?”

Drassi could not have known how broadly Rémi was smiling. She had to know how significant a moment this was, but credit to her, she just leaned forwards, intent, pressing Yisame as if she was a friend spouting stupidity over food in a restaurant.

Everyone got to see Yisame blinking, stuttering—before the scrying orb went dark. When it came back, a smiling, slightly upset [General] was sitting in a different spot.

“I believe there were interruptions with the spell, Reporter Drassi. I am [General]—”

“Where did Queen Yisame go? Technical difficulties? Wistram assures me we have a spotless connection. You dropped your end. War crimes, General. Fine then, let’s talk about war crimes. Will Nerrhavia be assassinating any other enemies with Djinni? How are we to believe you won’t if you break the rules whenever you see fit?”

The [General]’s face went slack, but at least it wasn’t Yisame. He glanced at the [Diplomat] and read the words; that was less satisfying. However, everyone had seen the Queen of Nerrhavia’s Fallen and Drassi.

Taken down.

—-

The interview’s politics mattered not one whit to war. The Djinni came upon Reim’s army without being recalled or slowed.

Takhatres’ tribe, the few that had come with him, and the army turned as three Djinni burst from the air. The growing cloud of Drenir had vanished an hour ago, much to the bafflement of the army led by Venith and Takhatres.

Now, the Djinni appeared. They had been invisible! A carpet crashed into the center of the marching [Soldiers] and a Djinni appeared.

Hisaille swept about her with the enchanted daggers, slashing through armor with a wickedly sharp blade that had a curved pattern, leaving cuts that wouldn’t heal. Blood ran faster from the injuries it left, bleeding even a weakly-cut wound with such profusion that men and women dropped dead within minutes if the blood was not staunched.

The second blade glowed like it had come fresh out of the forge. She drove it into a man’s chest and the heat cooked him from the inside. She lashed around, her dark blue skin and face already covered in blood, a frenzy of laughter.

The [Soldiers] of Reim were well-trained veterans. They whirled, stabbing at her, slashing—their blades pierced Hisaille’s body with no effect. An arrow shot through her head and stabbed out the other side.

She was mist! She was a dancing shadow that had no corporeality! To strike at her was to hit only air; when she replied, the two blades cut the [Soldiers] down.

“Block the blades! They’re real!”

An [Officer], a [Captain], surged towards her, holding an enchanted sword. He knocked one dagger down, and his blade flickered.

“[Cross Cut]!”

He slashed her, and the female Djinni cried out. The enchanted blade had cut her across the chest! She pivoted, as the sword whirled back to behead her—

Vanished. Her body just dispersed, and the [Captain] whirled. He turned, realizing he could track the daggers—

Too late. One slashed at him from the side and he deflected it, but the other stabbed him through the back. Hisaille reappeared, laughing, as the blast-heat of the dagger seared him and he fell without a word.

The cut was already closed on her chest. The other [Soldiers] scrambled back, fleeing her advance as they realized she could materialize and dissipate without end. Nor did the daggers have to connect with her body; she detached a hand trailing with mist and shot it through the neck of one of the archers before drawing it back.

“Hisaille! Not them!”

Seemutor called. The youngest Djinni looked up with a scowl, but the cat-Djinni hovered overhead, ignoring the arrows flying up at him. They passed through his body, and he wove, dodging the few enchanted ones. Then he loosed a blazing arrow which seared downwards and struck—

A barrier. Grand Mage Esiela had raised it just in time. She replied, angling her staff.

“[Siege Fireball]!”

The orb of flame shot upwards at dizzying speed. At first, Seemutor dodged, but it began to curve, tracking him. So he whirled, reached out, and—plucked the fire out of the spell.

It was like Eldavin had once shown the [Mages] of Wistram. A fiery strand untangled from the whirling ball of fire. Seemutor grabbed it, and somehow, drew it to his bow. He drew back as a fiery arrow appeared—

“Block it!”

Venith bellowed. A [Shieldbearer] threw up a shield and Venith pointed.

“[Mageward Shield]!”

The detonation of the arrow blew the soldiers off their feet, but they got up, dizzy, concussed—but alive. Seemutor ignored them as he spun through the air, shooting another arrow at the stationary Grand Mage. This time she sent lightning spiraling up at him—he blocked it with a palm, laughing.

“Is that all, Grand Magus? I have slain dozens of your kind!”

Venith stared up at the Djinni. There was no way for him to take the fight up. He would have gone after Hisaille—but she was coming to him.

“Guard the Grand Mage!”

He rode down on the Djinni. She misted to one side, struck at his horse, intending to slay the animal with her fiery dagger. She blinked as Venith leaned down and struck the dagger so hard it hit the ground. He slashed at her—she cried out.

Venith cut the Djinni’s head clean from her body. Rather than dying or collapsing, though, her head floated back. With an expression of outrage, it reconnected and she raised a hand.

“That hurts!”

He swore, checking his sword. It was enchanted to pierce armor—not kill clouds! He came about, charging her again as she ran towards Esiela.

Clouds. Venith heard a boom from overhead, and recalled the last Djinni.

Drenir. He hovered in the sky, a cloud as large as a hill. Garuda darted around him, trying to attack—falling back. They fought him for all of three minutes; he replied with tongues of lightning. Dozens of Takhatres’ warriors fell, struck by so many bolts of lightning that Esiela stopped her own spellcasting.

“Dead gods—”

She looked up as the Djinni focused on her. He ignored the figure that kept leaping, trying to slash him.

Takhatres’ daggers were close to relic-class and did do more damage than Venith’s sword. Even so—they destroyed only parts of Drenir. The Djinni pointed a finger down at Esiela.

“The King of Destruction dies.”

A bolt of lightning, more like a pillar of electricity arced downwards. Esiela’s shield exploded and the Grand Mage lay on her back, stunned. All three Djinni swooped down. A fiery arrow shot towards Esiela as she screamed—

“Damn! [Lightning Sprint]! [Burst of Strength]!”

Takhatres flashed past Esiela. The bolt of fire hit—and struck the ground. Venith saw Takhatres, carrying the Grand Mage, run past him.

“Get to Flos! The [Soldiers] can’t do a thing!”

“After that one!”

Hisaille cried out, and she and Seemutor pursued, the youngest Djinni having to reclaim the carpet which sped after her. Drenir remained as Venith raised his shield. The Djinni looked down and sighed.

“Do not follow if you wish to live.”

He raised himself up, the cloud-Garuda coalescing. Venith shouted.

“Scatter!”

[Soldiers] fled as a vortex of fire struck the ground and rampaged around. A living tornado, a humanoid shape, covered the ground, scattering the King of Destruction’s army. Venith raised his shield as it came at him.

“[Perfect Block]. [Shield of the King].”

The tornado struck the glowing shield and—pressed against it. Venith felt the air turn into an inferno on all sides. It burned, pressing in—

Then was gone. Drenir turned. Gasping, Venith and the [Soldiers] saw him streak off after Flos and the other two. It had taken him minutes to decimate the army.

Venith almost wished he’d stayed, but the Djinni knew it was the King of Destruction who mattered.

“All those with magical blades, with me. Ride!”

Venith went after them.

—-

Fetohep and his vast army met the Claiven Earth and Medain first. The crusaders were still en-route, so Perric took one flank, the Claiven Earth the other.

They didn’t dare attack from opposite cardinal directions; there was too much risk of Fetohep overwhelming one side. So both were on diagonals, awaiting the vanguard.

Pierce the King of Khelt’s lines and claim his head. It was a simple plan in concept. If he died, nothing, not even the Jaw of Zeikhal, his living warriors, mattered.

In practice, Medain’s heavy infantry and Golden Ranks advanced from one side in hard numbers, ready to press Khelt’s skeletal warriors and hold them. The Claiven Earth had a different tactic.

They had a fifth of Medain’s forces, but all of them were half-Elves. Half-Elves with magical arrows. They didn’t even wait for the Terandrians but began to loose arrows from afar, well out of range of even Khelt’s bows.

Fetohep had skeletons with longbows, but the half-Elves had Skills.

The Speaker of Trees was not at the battle; he was no warrior. They had sent one of their young [Generals], the same woman who’d clashed with Orthenon. The [General of Bows] had one prescient Skill among many: [Army: Extended Range].

Longbows fired glowing arrows into the sky, like miniature fireworks. Especially where they landed. Perric saw the glittering explosions from afar.

Khelt’s army held its ground, having dug into fortifications in the time it had taken both armies to reach him. They seemed like…well, like the ground had turned to bone and metal. But for the eyes.

Countless glowing eyes, skeletal faces, and the old armor of Khelt. The half-Giant skeletons stood in the back, unable to cast their javelins as far as the half-Elves. Yet the army was so vast. It sat in a circular camp, in the center of which, the Jaw of Zeikhal ignored the few arrows that struck its form.

Fetohep of Khelt stood in the center, amid a vanguard of the best undead, heaviest-armored, his living forces behind the arrows destroying his undead soldiers. He saw a dozen of Khelt’s skeletons blown to pieces by a single arrow; the glowing tip burst and trails of sparkling, blue-white light shot outwards. Each undead they touched just…collapsed, animation spell broken.

Anti-magic arrow. Undead-killers. The Claiven Earth had committed few living bodies to this engagement, like Fetohep, believing life was important. They were so alike—so different. They were willing to spend the magical arrows, however.

“Casualties mounting. Over two thousand destroyed already.”

The first minute of the volley had already wreaked a heavy toll, and the Claiven Earth were daring Fetohep to come after them. They were in spread-out groups, each one ready to withdraw if cavalry charged. Their few infantry were even further back. Fetohep stared narrowly at them and Medain’s army. They wanted the same advance; they’d block the half-Elves while his army was shredded.

“Fetohep, the [Knights] are coming! We’re trying to reach you, but the distance—”

He spoke curtly into the speaking stone.

“Jecaina, tend to your nation. Khelt will not bow so easily to this hasty alliance. Nor is this even but the hundredth battle I have fought against Khelt’s enemies. I shall humble their arrogance.”

There was but one reply Khelt could give to the naked provocation. As the [General of Bows] and High King Perric watched, they were aware of the approaching [Knights].

“Steady. Steady—wait for an opening. Let those damned [Knights] charge in. Then you two will join the attack.”

Perric was exhorting his two Named Adventurers and three Gold-rank teams, all of whom were nervously watching Fetohep. He knew the Claiven Earth had counterparts; they had better have brought more than their puny army, damn them! Areis had assured him they were committed!

Even so, it looked good. Outranged, Fetohep had to push in and Medain’s armored forces were perfect for fighting his undead, which were comparatively more fragile for all their numbers. Perric waited for Fetohep’s move as more arrows burst in his army. He saw the soldiers begin to move and his [General] called out.

“Hold, hold—ready—”

The Humans and half-Elves saw the King of Khelt raise a hand. The [General of Bows] held up a hand, ready to order her people back and let the Humans engage. Then she heard something.

A warbling flute. The horn for the attack? She tensed—then heard more flutes begin to sound. Someone began banging on a drum. But—strangely.

Not the boom, boom, of war drums, but faster, a ratta-tat-tat. It was joined by the clash of cymbals, even horns. What kind of a strange signal to war was this? Only a few people had ever seen Khelt do war. Fascinated, the [General of Bows] stared. She turned to one of the two half-Elves waiting with her. Well, the two who mattered.

“What is this, do you know, Elders? Are they adopting an unknown formation?”

The two half-Elves looked up. They’d been resting. One of them, a woman, glanced at Khelt. She snorted.

“Unknown formation? Tree rot, girl. Look.”

Fetohep of Khelt’s intention became plain. The [Soldiers] moved, revealing the heart of his command; High King Perric’s eyes bulged.

The golden palanquin on the back of the Jaw of Zeikhal had been detached. Rather than sending the great undead forwards, Fetohep had placed the palanquin in his command center. Now—he was resting on a royal couch, reclining, propping his head up on one arm as a band of undead musicians played around him.

He even had a fan. He was waving it gently, as if he were actually alive and could feel the air on his face. That damned—that—that—

Perric gobbled as the King of Khelt reclined, playing music. The half-Elf’s barrage of arrows faltered; then redoubled as if in outrage. And Khelt…held…still.

Undead soldiers marched forwards, replacing their comrades who were blown apart without batting an eye. Fetohep just relaxed, watching his enemies with every impression of amusement.

“If the Claiven Earth would like to try to spend arrows to slay Khelt’s legions, let them. I shall wait until they fire every arrow ever fashioned—then slaughter them at my leisure.”

He informed his amused, awed living subordinates. Moreover, this was more strategy than just insulting his opponents, although a good leader did both.

The rank-and-file undead were being destroyed, but even now, a few were getting up, reassembling. So much death magic meant that Khelt’s legions were…repairing themselves. They were still being destroyed by the arrows, but it was as Fetohep said. He would let the expendable undead be destroyed a thousand times, rather than risk the living or greater ones.

High King Perric would not suffer this insult long. Know thine enemy. Fetohep knew his mortal opponents. Moreover—he raised a hand.

He was a Revenant. He had been a [Warrior], so many Skills were limited to close-combat, but he had fought for Khelt in an age most had forgotten.

“[Summon: Company of Khelt].”

He invoked one of his Skills. Three hundred skeletal warriors rose from the ground and marched into place. Fetohep visibly saw the volleys slow as the [General of Bows] gave an order. There was nothing for it.

Medain came forwards as Perric, enraged, ordered an attack. The half-Elves moved in closer, so as to strike at Fetohep and his valuable undead.

“So much for bait. The High King had not the patience to wait even twenty minutes. You fight on my ground, fools.”

Fetohep rose, retrieving his halberd as the attack began in earnest. The [Knights]…he thought about his words to Jecaina. He could well turn his enemy’s aspirations on their heads.

The rank-and-file mattered very little to him. Their best warriors, the High King? They were his threats. Fetohep’s golden gaze swept the battlefield. He ignored Medain’s heavy cavalry as they charged at his pikes, then broke off, letting the foot soldiers in steel armor push forwards, circling for an opening.

The mortal [Soldiers] ran into trained undead, with a military precision that matched or exceeded their own. Humans cried out in dismay as Khelt’s warriors swung with strength and speed that normal skeletons didn’t match. They still crashed forwards, but countless of Khelt’s warriors waited beyond. It was like running into a wall of bones. And swords.

That was when the first undead buried under the sands began to dig themselves out, grasping at terrified Humans, stabbing from below. Fetohep sighed.

They fell for it so often.

—-

“They have passed by the foot, milord. Hundreds, possibly thousands dead.”

Maresar reported. Flos Reimarch looked back, and his teeth clenched. Reim’s riders streamed out behind them.

“Esiela? Venith? Takhatres?”

“He has the Grand Magus. Venith is following. Flos. We aren’t going to reach the capital before they catch us.”

Teres knew it was true. She had seen the distant fire behind them. Now, two of the Djinni sped after. Invisible but for the scrying spell tracking them.

Drenir, though. The Djinni had defeated the army that Flos had crushed countless of Nerrhavia’s armies with for a warm up. He sped forwards as Flos turned.

“Can Tannousin bring the blade to us?”

“I asked and they are silent! Something is wrong. Our people say they’ve hidden away!”

The King of Destruction cursed.

“[Assassins]? It would be—very well. We must reach the capital! Are the lightning towers armed?”

“Armed and ready!”

“Then give the blade to whomever reaches it, preferably Takhatres! He can use it best. If need be, I will fight the Djinni without—I will need you, Esiela, and Venith to back me up. Teres! You will take cover!”

The young woman didn’t argue. This was beyond her. Maresar nodded. Teres looked at Flos.

“Fight the Djinni? Alone?”

Flos was looking back.

“I know how to defeat them without a Naq-Alrama blade. I wouldn’t want to try, but if—damn.”

The damn was because of something in the distance. Teres, Maresar, and the riders all looked back. For a moment, Teres didn’t believe what she was seeing. Then she realized:

This was the power of a Djinni.

Drenir hadn’t bothered to fly with the other two. Aware of the distant King of Destruction, he had transformed again. First, he had flown up, the blazing pillar of fire transforming. Higher, higher—until he was lost in the sky, so high even the scrying spells had missed him.

He had angled himself, given himself the momentum in a fiery explosion, and let gravity and his new form do the rest.

Hisaille and Seemutor saw their brother fall to earth, overtaking them, impossibly fast. Hisaille stared up in awe.

“I knew he was powerful! This? Brother—did you know he could do that?”

“Of course. This is the technique Drenir used to humble armies of Drakes and fight Dragons.”

Seemutor looked up. His slitted cat-eyes beheld Drenir. Or—what the Djinni had become. You would never know he was a living thing. Not from afar.

A falling meteor shot through the sky. A blazing ball of ignited air. Only if you were close enough to feel the heat would you see the stone man, curled up, the size of Zamea—aimed at the King of Destruction.

“Scatter!”

Flos bellowed one word. Teres screamed, but a [Rider] grabbed her and they fled. Alone, Flos turned back, staring at the falling meteor. He swore. Reached for an artifact looted from Hellios’ armory.

Drenir hit the ground so hard that the explosion and shockwave sent the riders who had fled slowest flying. Teres was blinded, deafened, nearly thrown from her saddle as her horse screamed and landed.

Possibly only the fact that Drenir had been targeting Flos had saved them all. The move that could wipe out an army, even humble a Dragon, had its drawbacks. The heat and speed blinded even the Djinni.

He left a crater the size of a lake. Flos Reimarch survived—but he was thrown from his horse. He had only escaped the meteor by activating the [Lesser Teleport] scroll and a defensive artifact. He rose, a protective dove flying about him, a spectral guardian which had flitted from a ring he carried. It called out a single note—

Drenir rose, a being of stone and fire amongst the ash. He pointed and a bolt of lightning hit the dove. The shockwave made Flos’ ring explode on his finger, shredding his skin. He cursed, reached for his belt.

He vanished a second time as the Djinni’s second bolt of lightning flashed through the air. Flos appeared next to some of his riders, leapt into a saddle.

Drenir sighed. This was the trouble with fighting foes who had access to magic. He put both hands together, all seven fingers on each hand charging with lightning. The trick with the meteor tired even him; the lightning was him. That was how Djinni fought and cast magic; they created everything of themselves. Even so—

“[Hundredfold Stab]!”

Takhatres hit him from behind. His blades hammered Drenir’s back, punching in, cracking the tough form he had taken and piercing it. Drenir grunted, spun—

“[Sphere of Inner Reflection]!”

Esiela shrieked. The Grand Mage, still carried by Takhatres, cast the Tier 5 spell she’d been preparing. Drenir’s hands shot out—and crashed into the thin line in the air.

No fanciful magic; no distracting lights. No sound, either. No air…the next level of defensive spell to even Montressa’s best spells was made to shield a [Mage] from even higher-Tier spells. A Tier 7 mass-attack spell wouldn’t break it!

Drenir just began to expand, pressing at the insides of the spell trying to contain him. Takhatres ran after Flos as Hisaille and Seemutor slowed.

“Brother! Can we help—”

“Go. This will not hold me long.”

Already, Drenir was doing something. He had lost all form, like Hisaille could do. Yet the Nightair Djinni had never seen…he was changing. Become a gas…multiple types of gas that were reacting. Combusting—

Esiela stared as the internal forces already began to push at her spell. The other two Djinni were on Flos, Takhatres, and Teres, who found herself with the King of Destruction by a stroke of ill-luck in a moment.

“Someone take this [Mage]!”

Takhatres dropped Esiela and slashed at Hisaille. He jumped onto her carpet, drove both daggers into her chest—she was already mist. He ducked a dagger, and the other attacking from behind, then lashed out. She was laughing, and then activated one of the scrolls she possessed.

“Manticore! Summoned Manticore! Guard his Majesty!”

A [Rider] screamed. A glowing monster appeared and the [Soldiers] broke off. Teres lifted her sword, crying out as the monster dove at her.

Flos just sped onwards, glancing over his shoulder. Seemutor aimed a fiery arrow at him, but Esiela pointed up.

“[Extended Spell: Shield of Air]!”

The low-level Spell was weak. It couldn’t even stop one of Hisaille’s daggers, but here the Grand Mage proved she knew magic at least enough to fight. The shield blocked the arrow and it detonated in Seemutor’s face. He uttered a curse that rolled through the air, vibrating Teres’ bones as she hacked at the Manticore.

“Vexing pus-rotted Salash-get of a [Mage]—”

He abandoned the bow, realizing she’d do the trick again. Esiela screamed—but Seemutor clearly thought he should go after the [King], rather than waste any more time.

He conjured a scimitar out of his body, an oversized weapon that was almost as large as he was. Impossibly balanced, and far too cumbersome to swing…unless it weighed nothing but air.

The cat-Djinni dove at Flos, bringing the sword down in a hacking blow. Teres shouted.

“Flos! Watch out!”

Takhatres had seen it too. He dove, slashing—and passed through Seemutor. He was doing the same trick as Hisaille! The Djinni grunted with minor pain as the daggers scored him, but he was non-corporeal. Flos had turned in the saddle. He brought up the sword he carried and blocked the strike.

His horse screamed at the impact. Flos slashed, and Seemutor swung low, scything in, fearless of the King of Destruction. He slashed, aiming to bisect horse and Flos in one blow.

The King of Destruction bent low in the saddle, reaching out, and stabbed Seemutor through the face as the Djinni came at him. Teres expected his blade to pass through, but she saw the Djinni recoil. Then scream.

“Seemutor! How—?”

Hisaille hesitated. The cat-Djinni was recoiling, clawing at his face. Flos rode at him, slashing, but the Djinni was in the air.

“It hurts! He has wounded me! I can’t close—”

“Leave the King of Destruction to me, I said! He can harm you!”

Drenir boomed from within the fracturing spell. He saw the King of Destruction whirl, and resume his frantic ride. Drenir counted.

“They flee towards the capital! Stop them!”

The wounded Djinni and Hisaille hesitated. Then they began slashing at the vassals. Venith had caught up, and he, Takhatres, and Esiela were the dangers. They could stop Drenir from slaughtering Flos and so had to be taken out or stopped!

How had Flos harmed Seemutor? He was noticeably hurt, his face bearing the wound even as he changed to a rabid tiger-man, slashing with furious claws at Venith, who braved the attacks on his armor and shield. The answer was obvious to Drenir.

A [King]’s aura. The countermeasure of royalty against Dragons, Djinni. That Flos had mastered it enough to wound Seemutor meant he could fight Drenir.

“I have killed [Kings] like you, even so.”

The Djinni finally burst his bonds—if not his captivity. He exploded upwards in an explosion that consumed the [Soldiers] around him, took aim again. The vassals struggled to protect Flos. Teres fought the Manticore—and then the other monsters Hisaille unleashed from scrolls. She realized something at the same time Drenir did.

The Djinni hesitated, eying Flos, Takhatres, Venith, Esiela…he counted. Where was the last one?

Maresar? If she had fled, they wanted her to reach the capital to arm it—or retrieve a weapon. Where was she? His head swiveled, tracking the many riders fleeing in every direction, then towards the capital. Drenir cursed, before making up his mind and diving at Flos again.

He never saw Maresar. Though the [Bandit Lord] had been in front of him three times as he searched. Oh, she could have attacked and made herself known. Her enchanted arrows might even distract them a bit, but they always forgot.

[Bandit Lord]. Well, in her day, [Bandit Lady] hadn’t even existed. [Bandit Queen]? It was a new tide, created by the likes of the Bloodfeast Raiders and the Siren of Savere.

And one more thing gave her the class. The man glanced over his shoulder as a group of riders sped away, in one of many groups. He saw the King of Destruction teleport again.

“He’ll run out of scrolls soon. More speed.”

The group sped forwards, risking detection. Maresar sighed. He looked like, well, one of the [Riders].

[One of the Lads]. A Skill for a [Bandit Lord] who escaped a losing situation. Maresar reached the capital as Flos labored towards it.

—-

Fetohep’s army met Medain’s and the Claiven Earth and…held. That was all they had to do. The undead lacked the explosive strength of the living; they didn’t need it. They just wore their enemy down with numbers.

The big undead were the ones who actually killed. Like the Village of the Dead, Fetohep pointed.

“Skeleton Knights, break them.”

A group struck into an opening, tearing forwards, the more dangerous skeletons not-immediately noticeable among their lesser cousins. His half-Giant javelin-throwers launched a deadly barrage, landing among enemy archers.

Above them, the Jaw of Zeikhal lunged and obliterated a group of riders. Adventurers surged forwards.

“It’s gotten loose! Hold it down again! Hold it—”

Magical binders struck the giant monster and snapped off. Fetohep patiently had his forces try to free the creation; it was there to distract his enemies.

“Target that [Mage]! [Pinpoint Volley]!”

One of his living commanders was having a field-day. She pointed, and eighteen skeletons and three half-Giants all launched projectiles at the luckless [Mage]. Gold-rank or not, not much was left after the terrible impacts.

Of course, most of Medain’s Golden Ranks weren’t stupid enough to be that unguarded. They hunkered behind magical shields, blasting the undead—his army held.

But it was already bleeding. Khelt’s army was…good.

Too good. High King Perric was sweating as he saw his fabled—well, he called it ‘fabled’—heavy infantry, which had troubled the King of Destruction and beaten Jecrass’ [Riders], run into a wall of undead and stalemate. Meanwhile, Fetohep, that damned monster, looked like he was enjoying himself.

“My friends. To me.”

He stood with the corpses of his comrades, lost in the very battlefield he had suffered his mortal wounds on. For a second, the King of Khelt regarded them—then they charged.

Half-Giants smashed into the screaming Humans. Undead riding the skeletons of elephants, rhinos, and giant horses crashed forwards. Fetohep slashed with his halberd. He whirled it, and brought it down.

The earth split with the force of his Skill, and everything above it…Fetohep attacked for two minutes, and then turned and withdrew, casually, before the adventurers and army could close back up.

—-

It wasn’t looking good, in short. The [General of Bows], Laiska Clearbranch, was gritting her teeth. They should have waited for the [Knights]! But then—they were meant to reach Fetohep in the gap opened by the other two nations.

She didn’t see a gap. What she saw was Fetohep riding back, protected by a line of half-Giants raising shields against the arrows targeting him.

“Elders, the battle isn’t going well against Khelt.”

She turned—and one of the two half-Elves woke up. He had been snoring in the rocking chair they’d had to practically carry him in.

“What’s this? Are we losing again?”

He mumbled. Of all the half-Elves on the battlefield, this one was unique. Because, well…he had white hair. He looked old. That was important because Areis, the [Emissary] to Medain, was over a hundred and she looked young, certainly far less than fifty still.

This half-Elf was one of the Claiven Earth’s equivalents to a Named Adventurer. Every nation had one or two. And the half-Elves lived long.

“Elder Joreldyn. We seek your great power.”

She turned to him, humbly. The half-Elf blinked his eyes. Rheumy, for all he was half-immortal.

“Undead. Oh, I tire of them. Again and again…one spell.”

“One spell. Please, Elder.”

He grumbled. The half-Elf put his hands together and began to chant. An old style of magic.

“Thou willest look up and see/Look up and come to me. Sweet Mother of the Sea…”

—-

Fetohep of Khelt noticed the magic in the air. More than the Gold-rank adventurers. He turned, spotted the distant half-Elf like a blaze of fire among sparks.

“Target that [Mage]!”

He snapped, and every bow in the army turned. The [General of Bows] flung herself forwards as tens of thousands of arrows, javelins, all hammered down towards them.

“Elder—”

The projectiles bounced off the air around the old half-Elf. He blinked at the armored woman lying on him.

“Get off. I have to start over, now.”

Grumbling, he pushed her off. Shame-faced, the [General] got up. Fetohep pointed.

“Scourge Forerunner, I want that caster dead.”

Lines of undead riders broke off from their clashes with Medain, harrying the enemy army and running down the half-Elf lines and converged.

—-

High King Perric watched, almost relieved the pressure was off, but concerned for the caster. He looked up as someone burst through his lines, demanding an immediate audience.

“Who the hell is—”

He reached for his weapon, nervous, wondering if this was some ploy, but stopped with the two Named Adventurers.

Three of Arms and the Falcon of Medain saw a grey-haired woman halt in front of them. She wore a striking set of green-and-light-purple armor, which looked almost natural, for all it was made of metal. She had ridden straight through the Human’s lines.

“Perric of Medain. The Claiven Earth have sent me to fulfill our oath of alliance for this battle. However. We will not bleed the forests dry of our people. Give me a company of a thousand [Riders].”

“Who in the name of Selphid’s tits are you? Do you know—”

The Falcon of Medain and her hawk were angry. Perric held out a hand. He spoke, breathlessly, eyes fixed on the woman’s face.

“I will have my finest heavy cavalry join you—”

“No. A thousand regular [Riders] is best.”

The woman interjected. She glanced impatiently over her shoulder.

“Now. Khelt is moving.”

The Falcon of Medain had never known anyone to get away with speaking to Perric like that. However, he snatched up a speaking stone and barked into it.

“Of—of course. 4th Light Mounted, follow the command of any half-Elf that commands you. No—Ierwyn! Commander Ierwyn of the Claiven Earth!”

The grey-haired half-Elf raised her brows. She nodded at Perric.

“Thank you.”

She was gone before the bewildered acknowledgement came through. The Falcon of Medain looked at the Three of Arms and the High King, astonished.

“Who was that? Some old half-Elf swans in here and—”

“Hush your tongue, Frieke. You just saw a living legend.”

Requiel breathed. He looked at Perric. The High King looked just as impressed.

“I thought she was dead. Certainly in retirement—”

The half-Elf [Commander] rode towards 4th Light Mounted. Far from the most exalted force in Medain’s army.

It suited her purposes just fine. The [Captain of the Charge] was bewildered. Nor did his [Riders] look favorably on the old foe of a half-Elf leading them. Oh, they’d probably listen, but she had never drilled with them. They didn’t know her style, and they were far from veterans.

It didn’t matter. Ierwyn spoke, briskly.

“Follow me, Humans! We ride to battle!”

She kicked her horse around and sped forwards. Bewildered, resentful, the ‘Humans’ barely caught up. They had no formation, no idea what she was doing. She was leading them straight at the enemy! The undead riders and terrible skeletal remains of elephants and other beasts were a terror.

If not for their training, they might have just stopped. As it was, they followed her in a disorganized mess. It didn’t matter.

Ierwyn was one of two Elders. Two old half-Elves who had survived battle and strife and earned every grey hair on their heads. They hadn’t lived in the villages where decades passed by with little happening. They had lived.

She had seen every comrade fall. She had seen war, centuries ago. Ierwyn remembered Fetohep of Khelt. Her eyes narrowed as she donned the helmet, completing the magical set of artifacts. She had been content to let the King of Destruction pass by, so long as he didn’t trouble the Claiven Earth.

“They woke me up for you, King of Khelt. Only you. Now—all of you will fight with me. You do not deserve it, Humans. Yet for this battle, we will be bonded in blood. You will be my comrades.”

They heard her voice, humming through their ears. They had even forgotten her name, most of them. How it changed, so quickly. Perhaps one or two of them remembered.

It mattered not. She raised her weapon overhead. The partisan spear glinted with the magic of the woods. The Claiven Earth’s champion, Ierwyn the Herald of Forests, [Sylvan Commander of Fables], raised her voice.

“With me! [A Fraction of My Experience]!”

She cried out, and the 4th Light Mounted froze in their saddles. For a moment, they felt her touch them. They knew her. The veteran of countless battles. Her Skill gave them exactly what it promised; a fraction of her battle-understanding, her knowledge. Like the King of Destruction’s Skill, only without power, merely technique, understanding.

Age. Perhaps even a weak Skill—but what about someone who had lived hundreds of years? Who had mastered so many weapons? What about a half-Elf, a Level 60 [Commander]?

The legend of the forests pointed. She no longer needed to speak. 4th Light Mounted—no, the Fables of the Forest, reborn once again, the most feared company of the Claiven Earth roared and charged after her.

Fetohep never even saw one of his cavalry divisions vanish. By the time he’d turned his head, he saw her, streaking through his lines, cutting the charges of his undead riders apart. Behind her followed the thousand Humans, fighting beyond Medain’s finest. Fetohep’s gaze focused on Ierwyn.

“You! They called for you, Herald of Forests?”

He bellowed, and for the first time, those around him heard a note of—uncertainty—enter his tone. Of course, the [Sylvan Commander] never replied.

“[We Fell Upon Them Like Mist]—”

She began the Skill and the 4th Light finished her sentence.

“[Our Blades Sang Through All Things]!”

They swung, swords passing through shields, spears piercing metal with ease. Like the Djinni, for a few dreadful minutes, blades passed through them and they rode like vengeful ghosts.

Fetohep cared not for the undead riders that were falling like chaff. He only had eyes for one group.

“Scourge Forerunner. Fall back!”

She heard him through their speaking stone link, but she was embattled around the half-Elf caster. She turned—saw the Herald of Forests coming at her.

The Scourge Forerunner raised her own blade, her artifacts shining. Fetohep looked at her, too far to reach. The Jaw of Zeikhal was rampaging, but far too slow to catch Ierwyn.

“Khelt stands forever! Khelt—”

The two met in a single clash. Ierwyn sped past the toppling body, already circling, hitting another target.

“Kill her.”

Undead surged towards the Herald, but her company cut through them without rest, without fear. Even as some of the Humans fell…she was singing through his ranks. A legend like him.

Then, the half-Elf finished his spell. Fetohep looked up and saw the spell activate.

Mother of the Sea. Sea’s embrace.

“[Outlandish World of Water].”

The old half-Elf cackled. The [General of Bows], High King Perric, everyone, looked up. The hovering globe of water looked like a miniature planet. A world unto itself. A—

A million tons of water hit a patch of Khelt’s forces and they vanished. Bone pulverized by the spray of just…weight. Water and weight. The elder half-Elf pointed and the spell pounded another part of Fetohep’s army.

“Bones and water. Fertilizer. Another battle. Another war. Are we losing this one?”

The [General of Bows] just watched, lost for words, as he hummed under his breath. Fetohep pointed, turning to his [Mages].

“Consume Tier 4 Defensive Scrolls at will!”

The Jaw of Zeikhal lumbered forwards to block the pressurized blasts of water being hurled at his army. Fetohep saw the Herald lancing in, able to run rampant where all others had been held back by his undead. His army began moving back, reforming ranks.

Naturally, that was when he heard the triumphal, prancing horns. The clarion call that sounded like a child tooting on mere brass to the wind of their own imagined glory.

Nevertheless—he looked up and saw the stream of riding figures. Such a narrow, few thousand.

All of them [Knights] and [Hunters]. Sisters and brothers to the Order of Seasons. They entered the battle, making for the King of Khelt. And he?

He was no longer smiling.

—-

As Khelt fought on, the first [Riders] reached Reim. Nearly a day of riding. A day of being harried by the most powerful magical beings in the world yet living.

The citizens of Reim surely stared, because they remembered the army that had set forth, winning victory after victory. Who came in their gates now but battered, burned [Soldiers] babbling about fire from the skies, unstoppable, untouchable foes?

All of them said one thing, though. The palace. They had to escort the [King] there. To the weapon that could turn this tide of battle.

In the distance, the towers of lightning were already hurling destruction, but warily, unable to risk striking the mortals. The air was hot, charged with static.

One of the [Riders] broke through the frantic reformation as more of the garrison prepared to sortie and protect Flos. He looked like any other [Veteran], but didn’t bother with talking, just burst through all others and rode up the steps of the city itself, racing for the palace.

Even now, some guards and soldiers noticed and made to check the [Veteran]. They halted as Maresar shed her Skill. She shouted.

“Where is Clan Tannousin? Nawalishifra! I need the Naq-Alrama blade!”

Heads turned. Of course, they’d heard the demand via [Message] spell. Every hand pointed; Maresar turned and rode at the figure.

Nawalishifra stood in front of the great double doors leading into the palace. The [Smith], the young prodigy of Clan Tannousin, stood alone.

Barehanded.

Maresar felt a lurch, and checked her corners, but no one had been speaking about [Assassins]. What was it? Threats made? Bribes? Treachery?

She came to a halt, panting, her dark skin covered with sweat and grime. The [Bandit Lord] looked down at Nawalishifra, decorated with so little and so much.

Her blacksmith’s garb was reinforced against the heat she had to work in; she could wear no lesser jewelry, not even bracelets or other adornments of her clan. In the heat she worked in, even that would melt. Her arms were strong, and she had the same fire that Maresar had always sought in her band of [Bandits], and now, [Soldiers]. Rebellion and spirit.

Where was it? Maresar gasped.

“The blade. Where is…?”

The promised weapon for the King of Destruction. Clan Tannousin had promised it would be made, and it had been worked on all this time. Surely…surely…even if it was not done…?

For answer, Nawalishifra simply held something up. She looked pale. Sick.

She had not expected this. The [Blacksmith] had been prepared for the King of Destruction’s ire. Ere his return, she had convinced herself to tell him, to beg an audience first thing and confess the truth. Her clan had thrown the blame on her shoulders.

Even though…Maresar stared down, horrified. The huge ingot of metal, the glowing Naq-Alrama alloy shone in the sun.

So many things were wrong. It should not have been in sunlight! That ruined the metal if it wasn’t finished forging! And worse—

It was still in an ingot form. A block of metal.

“What is this—”

She began furiously, outraged. Until her eyes saw the obvious. The—crack running down the pure ingot. The flaw in the prepared materials.

Nawalishifra’s eyes held tears. But she had wept them all. She had helped make this—but helped. This was the last act of her father, the great [Naq-Alrama Smith] of Clan Tannousin. His last action had not been a great one, his legacy for his people.

Flaw. A single flaw, perhaps more. That was enough. No one could make anything with this.

It was…worthless. She had been prepared for the King of Destruction’s understandable fury, after all he had lauded and hosted Clan Tannousin. That they would rely on the missing blade?

“You said nothing.”

That was all Maresar said. Nawalishifra stared up at the [Bandit Lord]. Maresar looked at the other ingots, sitting hardened, worthless in the sun. No one had helped Nawal carry them out here. Clan Tannousin was hiding.

“I—I was making another. I gathered the ingredients, enough. I was making more, to replace what was ruined.”

Nawal said quietly. Almost hesitantly, unlike every other time she had ever spoken. She looked up at Maresar, pleading.

“I thought I could do that. I didn’t know it was needed.”

The [Bandit Lord] just looked at her. She stared at the ingot. It was something. Use it. Her mind babbled at her. Flos was returning and without a weapon—

“Can we at least use that? It’s still Naq-Alrama steel, flawed or not! It should be hard as diamonds!”

The [Blacksmith] gave Maresar a broken smile.

“It is.”

“Then—”

The young woman dropped the ingot. It landed, tumbling, striking the ground at an angle. And—cracked.

Maresar saw it break, like a gemstone. No—like a diamond. Hard as a diamond. Without any of metal’s strength. The pieces landed on the ground and Maresar looked at Nawalishifra. The [Blacksmith] turned.

In the distance there was lightning. A cloud like darkness, spreading after fleeing figures. She heard shouts, cheers, even. Cries.

He was coming, fleeing the poison cloud, the three Djinni. Maresar dismounted from her horse. Nawal?

She began to walk, slowly. To meet the King of Destruction.

—-

The [Knights] struck Khelt’s lines like a hammer. There were no members of the Order of Seasons in this first wave; only Spring Knights had been sent, and a paltry few at that. These? These were the best.

Pregaris Knights, the Order of the Kingdom of Keys, a paradise like Khelt’s. They wore strange armor, with markings like actual keyholes on the metal, the obsession of their kingdom.

Yet they fought with all of Samal’s strength! Doors and keys—one slashed the air with an heirloom, walked through the door, and appeared out the other side. It was just a dozen feet of space she covered, but it allowed her to bypass the first rank, begin carving back out!

The Sothbound, fur-armored [Knights] who brought cold with them. They hurled javelins, fought with axe and shield in small bands, overpowering even Skeleton Knights, their theoretical cousins, with ease. One saw a half-Giant skeleton lumbering towards him and bellowed.

“[Summon Allies: Wolves of the North]!”

Bounding, furious grey-white animals appeared out of a sudden blizzard of snow. The snow melted; the animals did not. They were not as large as Carn Wolves, but they fought in huge packs, surrounding the half-Giant skeleton and letting the Sothbound assail it as it was brought down.

Other [Knights] came, champions of their orders, some the only representatives, others, small knots. One blew apart undead with vials of alchemical fire before coating her bardiche with flaming liquid. Others formed lance-tips, striking and pulling back like they were jousting.

The last group in full force were the enemies of his kind, for all they came from a land like his.

Noelictus, Kingdom of Shade! Fetohep snarled as he saw them, walking among the [Knights]. Hunters! Hunters with crossbows, lighter, leather or cloth armor, their distinctive hats, calmly loosing enchanted bolts from cover, doing the most damage without risking their lives in the melee!

“Curse you, spawn of Noelictus! How soon do you forget what you were made of? The very kingdom you serve would turn against Khelt? Hypocrisy! Treachery—”

Fetohep slashed and an enchanted bolt blew apart on the tip of his halberd. One of the [Undead Hunters] had taken a shot at him, the bolt passing clean through the shieldbearer in front of Fetohep before phasing out the other side.

The [Knights] took the center as Medain surged around them. Now the Golden Ranks were coming out, and the Named Adventurers. They pressed in on one side, but the real threat was still above and on the flanks.

The two half-Elves. The orb of water was pounding the Jaw of Zeikhal, and for the first time, Fetohep saw the cracks appearing in the great monster’s skeletal frame.

Meanwhile, the Herald of Forests was cutting in with her band of legends, scything through unguarded flanks. Hunting his people.

They knew him. Fetohep had not snarled, not raged even when thousands of undead warriors perished in the volleys. He had not cared when they destroyed his riders, the Herald of the Forest ruined his advance. Even the Jaw of Zeikhal barely gave him pause.

His Scourge Forerunner was dead. Jeirra Akreen. He knew her name. As a girl, she had petitioned him to bear the right to lead undead. She had even debated leaving Khelt.

His head turned. Fetohep’s command of the battlefield was everywhere, but it was devoted in one place. Undead surged forwards, running, striking in from all sides, feinting—forming an elaborate formation, trying to stop her.

They could not. The Herald of the Forests bore down on the second living officer, who tried to get behind the undead rushing to protect him. She swung her partisan down. Fetohep saw Khelt’s blood run onto the sands.

“Your Majesty—”

In another place, he saw a Tier 4 barrier explode. The countless million tons of water struck the place where another living soul had been. He saw nothing, even when the waters rushed away.

Death. He felt them die. His subjects! The Herald, Ierwyn, and the old [Mage] both watched Fetohep as he began to rage. They knew his weakness.

“My subjects, to me! Khelt shall unleash fury! You impotent wretches! You arrogant Humans, who deride the undead! Khelt has not made war on Terandria for eons and still you come, prancing your ideals upon every other kind and nation! Damn you! I shall strip you down to your bones and scatter your remains across Rhir! I shall topple every craven tower in your kingdoms, and break your conceits on Chandrar’s shores! Gilded, spoiled bratlings! Die!”

His counterattack came as the living lieutenants, even some of the undead, began unveiling scrolls.

“Evade! Spells incoming! [Army: Evasive Dodge]!”

The [General of Bows] shouted. Half-Elves looked up and saw the sky come to light.

Over a thousand scrolls activated in the first counter-volley. [Fireballs], [Lightning Bolts], and other spells of that caliber flashed across the air, blasting the living caught unawares. The Herald spun her partisan, as the Fables of the Forest came under fire. Even the [Knights] fell back; spells were neutralized, blocked—but some of them still fell, overwhelmed by the barrage.

That was the first wave. Fetohep, furious beyond belief, had his army activate the others they carried, unleashing a storm of magic made of pure gold, each scroll bought, saved for battles like these.

Hundreds of spells blasted the barrier around the old half-Elf. He cackled as Fetohep’s army earthed its fury uselessly towards him. The High King and [General of Bows] were both intimidated by the sight. Well they should be, but the old half-Elf wasn’t in charge of winning the battle. And—he remembered something they had not.

“You were great in your time, Fetohep of Khelt! Not the greatest. You just lived long. I remember when they told me you died! Hah!”

However, it was true that death had granted the King of Khelt more power. More experience. More tricks. He pointed, and the skeletal warriors embattled with the [Knights] drew back.

Half of them, rather. The other half suddenly—collapsed. Fetohep spoke to his officers in the area.

“Fall back. Uncontrolled undead emerging.”

The Kheltian officers looked up, paling. They fled backwards, more terrified of this than the mortals. The [Knights], seeing the skeletons collapsing, hesitated. One of the [Hunters] swore as he reloaded a crossbow.

“Back up! Greater undead spawning! That’s—”

The first giant of bones rose out of the sacrifice, not a proper Giant’s skeleton, but an amalgamation of bones. A Bone Horror on a far larger scale. The Abomination of Bone charged at the living—yet it had none of Khelt’s grace. It was a savage, uncontrolled undead being.

The nightmare of places like Noelictus and Khelt. The [Knights], adventurers, and [Hunters] targeted it, as more began to rise out of the remains of Khelt’s lesser undead.

Fetohep was venting his fury, unleashing Khelt’s weapons one by one. Yet the [Knights] came on, and there were thousands. They began mounting charges, pushing in, ignoring the rest of the army. Now, the vast undead legions were working against what needed to be done; they could overwhelm, bog down foes, but not the Herald of Forests. And the mortals had one goal.

The Falcon of Medain took flight. Three of Arms sallied forth, joining the [Knights]. They had one goal. It was so easy for them. They didn’t need to rout the army. They just needed—

To kill him. Fetohep saw them driving in, lances of petty vengeance against him. He formed his vanguard, even as his army moved to protect him.

Then it happened. He heard a terrible crack. An explosion, but he felt it. Fetohep looked up and saw the last of the great spell, the water, blast open the Jaw of Zeikhal’s frame. The undead giant wavered as magic poured out of the breach.

The mortals cheered. Cheered. Fetohep saw his greatest asset on the battlefield waver, the many legs, the scorpion-like legend from the Great Desert, begin to collapse. He pointed.

“No. No. If you would do this, mortals, you living fools and cowards—reap the entirety of it!”

The Jaw of Zeikhal froze. Then, it began to lumber forwards in a final charge. Fast—faster! It ignored its dissipating bones, the furious onslaught of binding spells and damage. It collapsed, halfway among the living and undead forces. Again, there was a cheer, but too late. The old half-Elf and the Herald had both turned.

“Get back! Get—”

“Vengeance!”

Fetohep roared. The Jaw of Zeikhal—exploded. Bone, and a wave of dark, half-invisible magic shockwave blasted out, knocking mortals down. High King Perric, seeing the explosion, felt the wave even from here, but laughed.

“That was his last trick? That—fool! Press in, press—”

“Your Majesty, look!”

One of the [Strategists] pointed in horror. Perric’s glee faded. He saw Fetohep’s true plan all along. The half-Elves stared in horror. Medain’s citizens, the [Knights], likewise.

The shockwave of death magic had killed the [Soldiers] around it. They had gotten to their feet—but as their friends realized they were not alive. They had become undead, zombies and ghouls and Draugr. That was one thing, and horrific enough. The worst?

The Jaw of Zeikhal had marked the area nearly two thousand feet around where it had died. The sand, the arid ground, and the few plants—had all withered. Turned ashen, grey. It had changed the very land itself.

“Deadlands. He’s—he’s converted it into lands of death!”

The [General of Bows] whispered. It was the very thing the Claiven Earth feared. Pure death magic emanated here, worse than even Khelt itself. The undead began to fight around it, animated by the legacy of the great undead. Even if Khelt was wiped clean, every body burned—Fetohep had poisoned the land here, and the stain was already spreading.

He had to die. The Jaw of Zeikhal’s death still weakened the army. Push in. Hold the rest of the undead legions back! Just—kill him. Fetohep began to advance himself, leading riders to meet the [Knights] and warriors spearing towards him. His living officers called on him to retreat! There were vast legions of undead still! Not even a third had fallen, and more could be revived! Yet they saw Fetohep advance, swinging his halberd to bring down the first [Knight] who struck at him.

The fearsome warrior-king, who wiped even the smiles from the greatest [Knights] as they saw him attack. Yet he was suddenly at the forefront.

He had simply lost his calm. While it was clichéd, the Herald of the Forests had to admit as she struck towards him—

It was going just as planned.

—-

Flos Reimarch rode through the gates of Reim, coughing. Poison burned his lungs, though he had imbibed an antidote. He saw Nawalishifra walking towards him.

“Your Majesty.”

He knew. The instant he saw her face, he had to know. Nevertheless, the King of Destruction slowly dismounted. His brave horse collapsed.

“Save her. She bore me here.”

He spoke to one of the [Soldiers]. They bent for the laboring animal. Flos looked around.

“Where is Clan Tannousin, Nawalishifra? My blade? Maresar?”

She gave him no answer. Just a look that told him everything.

“I tried to replace it, King of Destruction. I—”

Her voice trembled. Flos Reimarch looked at her. The King of Destruction spoke slowly. His red-and-gold hair was as stained with battle as Maresar’s skin and armor had been. Yet no blood touched him. He had not even scored his opponent’s blood.

“You said nothing? I would have forgiven it. Yet in pride, you hid a secret. As we rode, you did not dare to tell me? I have ridden through fire and smoke, left thousands of my people to die fighting the Djinni. All for a blade that is not here.”

There was nothing she could say that would appease him. Nor did the King of Destruction unleash his wrath, though it would have taken a single swing of his sword. He just turned away.

There was no time. Behind him came the others. Teres, Takhatres, blurring away from another arrow of fire, Venith, Esiela.

“The blade! Where is it? Give it to me!”

The Lord of the Skies met him at the same time as the others. Flos shook his head.

“It never was.”

Horrified, Teres slowed. She too was coughing with poison, terrified of the Djinni following after. They were dodging lightning unleashed from Reim’s towers, but the barrage could not last forever. What had humbled an army could not kill Drenir; he was blocking the lightning bolts as Seemutor and Hisaille rushed forwards.

“Clan Tannousin failed? How is this possible?”

Venith rounded on Nawal. Before anyone could say anything else, Flos turned.

“I had hoped to make the Sorcelled Blades from the Naq-Alrama blade and give it to your tribe, Takhatres.”

He named his ability to make a unit, and the Lord of the Skies nodded heavily. He was unscratched, but looked—tired. He was drinking a stamina potion, the eighth so far.

“Are we dead, then?”

Teres felt a note of despair in her chest. Flos just shook his head. He looked back towards the gates. His voice became…dreamy. Resigned.

“I told you, I fought them six times, Teresa Atwood. Six times. Three times they humbled me. Twice, we won in massed battle. Once, I fought a Djinni with as few as this. That time was the last. I know how to best them. It will be—at the greatest costs. Venith, Esiela, you will have to guard me. Takhatres—the other two Djinni. You can’t kill that one.”

He pointed at Drenir. The Lord of the Skies looked like he wanted to object. Then he met Flos’ gaze.

“I’ll do it. I need the Grand Mage.”

Flos just nodded.

“Done.”

“Your Majesty. What strategy is this? I’ve never heard of it.”

Even Venith Crusland looked uncertain. Teres saw Flos’ head turn.

“I need to fight Drenir close up. We must bring him down. My aura will let me touch him. However—”

He looked up as a shadow passed over the city. Flos stared up and met the eyes of the Djinni as lightning flashed. He sighed.

“—I am a [King]. Not Mars. For once, I fear I might be outmatched. Still.”

The King of Destruction looked at Nawalishifra and shook his head.

“…There is no other choice. To battle.”

—-

Fetohep rampaged through the living like he had when he lived. His halberd spun, and he cried Skills aloud which he had not uttered in battle since he had drawn in breath with his lungs.

[Spear Art: Sands Fly Apart]. [I Fought Against Five Alone]. [Like a Lion, He Leapt]—

Humans, half-Elves, even the few Garuda and other species cried out as the King of Khelt activated his Skills. A rising slash that cut through ranks in an explosive shockwave.

Suddenly, for a moment, five Fetohep were whirling, bringing down [Knights]. Then the primary one exploded out of a melee trying to encircle him. He landed like a comet, slashing through a [Hunter], flinging a dagger through another [Mage]’s throat, the piercing weapon passing through the barrier.

Terrible combat! Even the [Knights] drew back, realizing here stood a legend of old! Fetohep made to draw breath to roar—

And suddenly realized he had gone too far. He had reached for the reservoir of adrenaline, fury, and it was missing. He was still dead. His rage at losing his subjects, the crusade, was enormous. But—intellectual. There was no biology behind it, and thus, the King of Khelt realized suddenly, he had made a mistake.

They had baited him into this! Now, the mortals were closing about him. Fetohep looked around the battlefield and felt—uneasy.

Too long. Too long since he’d fought like this. Not in battles, but in an offensive battle far from Khelt’s lands. He had always guarded his border, but this? He had forgotten his experience on a campaign outside of Khelt.

Now, even a slight mistake might cost him everything.

“To me. [Lesser Teleport].”

Fetohep touched a ring on his finger. His undead closed ranks and he—flickered—

The undead king felt a pull, then a snap against something. He stayed where he was, jerking with a sudden impact. Fetohep realized what had happened with long experience.

“Lock down teleportation! We have him! Close in!”

One of the [Hunters] shouted. They’d cut off his retreat magically! Like he had inadvertently done to whomever Az’kerash had tried to send his way, the adventurers—Fetohep turned. He saw mortals between him and the safety of his army.

The King of Khelt charged with a furious cry. The [Knights] not embattled broke away.

“Strike the King of Death! With me, sons and daughters of Terandria!”

Fetohep saw a glittering line of [Knights] form up into another lance. They were coming in, and this time…he swung his halberd furiously, but he had to ward himself from all sides!

They were coming for him. Not just one or two Named Adventurers. He didn’t fear the Falcon of Medain alone, or Three of Arms.

Yet the [Keybearer Knight] who wielded one of the heirlooms of her kingdom? The [Undead Hunter] whose automatic crossbow laid low the greatest of his soldiers one after another?

And worst of all—the Herald of the Forests. Fetohep thus counted five. And for all he had a Skill that could fight five-on-one…

The [Knight] charge threatened to do the job even without five high-level warriors. They streamed forwards at the gap—and then Fetohep heard the horns. The charge of Terandria’s finest wavered. They slowed, and then began to turn.

He saw all this with his mind’s eye of the battlefield. Fetohep’s perception turned. He saw another force break into the battle, racing in. Just as they had one time before, covering distance at desperate speed.

Jecaina of Jecrass. She led the last of Jecrass’ [Riders] in a desperate assault from the side. Arrows of sand landed among Medain’s forces, blinding them, but the narrow two thousand were aimed at the [Knights].

“To the aid of Khelt! Ride! Fetohep cannot fall!”

The Arbiter Queen did not lead the charge, but she was amid her [Trick Riders] and veterans. The Terandrian [Knights], outraged, turned to meet them.

“No. No! I told you to stay back! I will humble these arrogant enemies. Do not risk your life, Jecaina!”

Fetohep howled. Yet he had no time to reach for his speaking stone. He sought among his army for another artifact to come to her aid. He did not fear the death of undead, even himself! That was what it meant to serve—but the living? Not her. Not the girl.

He found so few artifacts left. He had taken an army’s worth of scrolls, armed his people in artifacts. He had not brought Khelt’s irreplaceable relics; they were not his to wield in the name of conquest. They had to be saved for the last defense. For—

The [Knights] thundered at Jecrass’ [Riders]. They actually outnumbered Jecrass’ forces, and that was a dire thing to imagine. The lighter, faster force of Jecrass began to swerve, having abated the charge. They turned, but they were not [Lancers], like the [Knights] in heavy armor, and the [Bicorn Riders] lay dead. Was this suicide? Or…

“Now! Rush backwards!”

Jecaina peeled away, and her forces galloped desperately, to evade the charge. The [Knights] came on and they had momentum, and fury. They wouldn’t let this foe provoke them and leave! They would—

Something snapped. Two dozen [Knights] in the front went down, and the rest nearly collided with the first rank. The others swerved. What the hell was—?

Jecrass’ famous, ‘elite’ cavalry was known as the [Trick Riders] of Jecrass. Every nation had one, and they had fought Mars, bled in every battle. They were fast, well-trained, but they had never shown their true potential. Because it wasn’t in slaying great warriors or being the hammer upon an anvil. It was this.

Two [Trick Riders] raced ahead of a group charging at the backs. The [Knights] had speed, but they suddenly collapsed, the horses going down. Why?

The [Knights] right behind saw what had happened. One leapt, swearing, and landed back in the horse’s saddle. More tried to cut at the thin line in the air, but the chain was iron.

It was tied between two thick poles of wood, and the [Trick Riders] had planted it in the ground, drawing the trap out of bags of holding! The impromptu clothesline knocked more [Knights] off their saddles.

In another spot, a [Trick Rider] dumped caltrops onto the ground, something the Wind Runner of Reizmelt would have been familiar with. He also proved she was not the first to come up with the tricks she used; he tossed a bag of black dust into the air, blinding the [Knights].

One of the [Trick Riders] whistled, and half the horses began to follow her. The [Knights] were in chaos! Not a single one actually died, but they devolved into confusion as Jecrass’ forces beat a retreat, harrying them with traps and tricks. One [Trick Rider], caught by a [Knight] hacking at her, did a hand-stand, hopped, and kicked the [Knight] out of their saddle before claiming the horse and galloping to safety.

The sudden intervention lifted Fetohep’s spirits. Of course, Jecaina was no fool.

“So Jecrass humbles the riders of other continents once more!”

He actually laughed. His heart…his soul felt lighter.

“Fetohep, we’re coming. We can pull you out—”

“No. No, Queen Jecaina. You have done enough. Stand back. I have erred.”

It cost him something to acknowledge. Fetohep spoke into the stone as his army fought around him. How much Medain, the Claiven Earth, and the Terandrians had spent to reach him. But they had surrounded him, charge or no, and were keeping his forces back. A diminishing knot of undead slowly drew around Fetohep. He spoke, in that moment, swinging his halberd.

“You must not die, Jecaina. This day. This day, let them come to the ruler of Khelt. I shall remind them of their hubris.”

He strode forwards. Five. The [Hunter]. The [Keybearer]. The Herald.

The Falcon of Medain landed, aiming a shortbow at him. Fetohep leaned out of the way of the arrow. He saw the Three of Arms aim a wand at him and flicked a dagger towards the Named Adventurer.

“You have come all this way for me, mortals. Now—regret that we met. To me, guardians of Khelt! Defend the throne!”

The Herald of Forests and the remains of the 4th Light saw glowing warriors rise, summoned like the Dagger of Serept. Fetohep brought down his halberd, and locked blades with the Keybearer. To death? He pressed the halberd down, down, as the [Knight] cried out and activated the magic. It was not Relic-class, it was his weapon of old. And the enchantment was simply, like many, utilitarian. Not fanciful, just—

Weight.

The mortals saw the [Knight] collapse. They cried out. The High King stared. The other [Knights] shouted, but all saw the halberd drive down. Fetohep rose, golden eyes flashing.

“Four left. If you would take my head, bleed upon these sands.”

He was laughing. The Named Adventurers, the Hunter, the Herald—hesitated. Then they came at him. At the end of it, Fetohep saw his mistakes.

Ah, I grew too enamored with the idea of living again. They made me feel young, these children.

How foolish.

The first blade pierced his armor as the Herald ran him through the arm.

The King of Khelt fought.

—-

This was the end of his long flight. The King of Destruction turned to meet the Djinni just outside the gates of his city. Hope of an easy turnaround gone. The promised blade had never been.

So they fought. The Djinni swept in, but Drenir saw the danger. Hisaille, Seemutor—they were still careless.

The King of Destruction’s first blow struck Hisaille so hard he nearly cut her essence in half. She screamed and Drenir bellowed.

“Stay away from them.”

He conjured another pillar of fire as Hisaille fled. He could slay Seemutor and Hisaille by himself! With his two hands! Drenir and Flos locked gazes, and knew their opponents. Yet the Djinni refused to come low, as Flos beckoned. He flew up and disgorged a rain of acid, a river’s worth.

“Damn.”

Flos Reimarch swore. Drenir assailed him from above as Seemutor dueled with the [Archers] and [Mages]. He took aim at the King of Destruction, but each time, Venith was there. Blocking, the [Shield of the King].

Drenir pointed, and the very same lightning that Reim had unloaded from the towers now blasted into the city, picking off the mortals who tried to help their [King].

“Fall back! Leave the Djinni to us!”

Flos ordered his subjects. Many stayed, dying to distract them. The two younger Djinni laughed. Enjoying blood, enjoying war.

Hisaille crept forwards. She was going to stab that [Lord] in the back! She was wary of the King of Destruction, but—

“There you are.”

The Nightair Djinni had materialized to strike at Venith. She had to; her mist-form could not be sustained indefinitely. She had to have a form, unlike the other two, and her weakness was needing the daggers she carried. You could see where she was by how they hovered, although she could strike with them while incorporeal, for a time.

That was what he had seen. The Lord of the Skies had been busy defending his slow companions, his liege-lord. Now?

Takhatres stood in front of the gates, thirty paces away from Hisaille. He had been so…still, she had missed him! Had the blurring, incredibly fast Garuda lost all his energy?

Certainly, he looked tired. Sweat matted his feathers. The Lord of the Skies looked at Hisaille. She whirled, grinning. He had cut her time and time again, but his daggers weren’t specialized for killing air, but flesh. She sprang forwards.

Takhatres slashed her head off her shoulders. Hisaille never even saw him move. Her head floated off her body, and she cried out at the line of pain.

“You—!”

She dissipated. He was standing back at the gates. Hisaille held the mist-form, darted away, and reformed. She growled, preparing to call out to Seemutor or Drenir to help—

A blade severed her head, plunging through her neck and twisting. Again, the Djinni felt her head separate. She cried out.

“How—?”

She fled, mist, then had to reform. Her magic wasn’t infinite, and each time she became mist, she burned it faster. She formed and saw him.

He was standing right there. Breathing her. He—

Beheaded her. So fast! Hisaille screamed. Then, she heard a voice.

“Djinni tactics. [Fireball]. And—detonate.”

A glowing orb flashed through her mist-body and detonated. The fire ate at Hisaille in cloud-form and she shrieked. Grand Mage Esiela was aiming at her! Hisaille fled, but she could not maintain the mist form for more than a second. And when she came to, she—

—Was beheaded. The Lord of the Skies had her! No matter how far she tried to flee! He was too fast!

Terrified, now, Hisaille tried to call for Drenir, but he was battling the King of Destruction, and Seemutor was under attack! She saw the Grand Mage tracking her, able to see her even as mist. Now, the [Grand Mage] spoke, lips cracked and bleeding, injured, but intent.

“[Magic Null].”

This time Hisaille shrieked as part of her vanished. A true wound, worse than any before, tore at her. Drenir heard it.

“Hisaille! Sister! Flee!”

That was how Djinni died! Their bodies came and went, but their magic was them! The Grand Mage pursued the mist-cloud, but looked up and threw a barrier up—a storm of boulders thundered from the sky, striking at her, sending up dust-clouds.

Hisaille fled, sobbing in terror. She didn’t want to die! She stumbled, running for the carpet. Calling it to her. She…

Saw Takhatres, standing with one foot on the carpet. The Lord of the Skies looked up.

“I was only ordered. I am a servant. I surrender.”

She lifted her hands, pleading with him. The Garuda looked at her.

“You want to surrender after you’ve slaughtered so many?”

Drenir dove. Too late. Hisaille breathed.

“Please?”

The Djinni stared down at her body. Her head, floating, became mist. The expression of fear became resignation. Despair—

She disappeared. Unable to hold on any longer. With a sigh. Takhatres waited, but Hisaille would never come back. Somewhere, her masters cried out in horror, and realized their servant was gone. The treasure that had kept their family fed and wealthy, even if poor, was destroyed.

Hisaille was…

The Lord of the Skies looked up. Two Djinni fell upon him, screaming fury. He tried to dodge. He evaded Seemutor, as the Djinni exploded into scything fury. He ran—straight into the air itself. Drenir reformed and lifted him up. The Lord of the Skies blurred, stabbing him, hurting Drenir, but the Djinni cared not at all.

“Do you feel proud, childkiller?”

That was all the Djinni said. Takhatres reached for his belt.

Drenir became lightning. A pure ball of it. Ten thousand tongues of electricity struck through the air. Takhatres fell, alive or dead, Drenir cared not. So long as the body remained, his fury would not end. He created a pillar of stone, to crush the Lord of the Skies beyond all recognition. Grind him into less than paste!

“Save him!”

Flos Reimarch bellowed, and Venith, Esiela, and the others tried to shield Takhatres from Drenir’s wrath. They could not stop him. However—the cry from Seemutor could.

“Brother! Argh! Brother, help me!”

Drenir turned. Seemutor, even Seemutor was wounded. Fleeing—bleeding his very essence. How? Hisaille was weak enough for blades to damage her alone, but Seemutor?

The answer was a flash of gold and other colors not part of any rainbow. An arrow curved through the air and the Djinni, desperately trying to evade it, tried to spread his essence out, form a gap.

It was no good. The bit of metal still exploded as it touched him and magic died there. Drenir stared as Seemutor screamed with real, deadly pain. He looked and there she was.

Maresar stood on a tower of Reim’s palace, bow in hand. She was loosing arrows—but no ordinary ones. Each one was an ungainly projectile, unbalanced, because of the shard of metal quickly tied to them.

Naq-Alrama steel. The broken pieces were being shot up in a shower! Not just by her; [Archers] were loosing bits of the metal.

Every time one touched Seemutor, both metal and Djinni’s essence were lost. The reaction of the two was of pure magic versus one of its nemeses, meeting.

“Brother!”

Seemutor could not evade this, not from all angles. He tried invisibility, but Maresar had hunted invisible foes, and the Djinni was not used to weapons like this!

Drenir turned. He dove, as a chunk twice the size of Maresar’s fist flew from a [Power Shot] arrow. The largest piece of Naq-Alrama metal struck Drenir in the chest. A fatal blow for Seemutor. The Djinni’s chest flashed as the metal exploded.

The greatest Djinni staggered in the air. Then—the wound closed. Teres, who had been cheering, stopped in horror. More arrows struck him, a rain, using up the costly metal that Nawalishifra had said was flawed.

“No. No.”

The [Blacksmith] groaned on the ground. She had her head in her hands.

“Flawed! Flawed! It breaks! It can’t touch one such as he! Only if it were made—”

Drenir was a giant in the skies. His form was dark blue, like Hisaille; he even seemed to be taking her shape, albeit as a huge cloud. His eyes looked down at the defenders of Reim as more Naq-Alrama arrows struck him.

Vaporizing bits of him. Wounding him, yes. Drenir bled his essence.

It could not kill him, though. Now he understood; a blade of such metal would have been his death. The rare weapons of Clan Tannousin would have ended all three if the Lord of the Skies held them.

Seemutor was screaming, unable to staunch his flow of essence. He looked as afraid as Hisaille. His confidence gone.

“They’ve wounded me, brother. Brother—Hisaille is dead.”

The cat-Djinni gasped. Drenir looked at him. Then, down at the archers, who had slowed their fire, unwilling to waste the few arrows left. They could kill him, Drenir knew. So he looked at Seemutor.

“Brother. Does your master summon you back? He must, if he sees you wounded. Flee. Flee, and tell him you are dying. Or will die. That is no lie.”

Seemutor’s eyes widened.

“You will stay, though?”

“I fear not that metal. Go, brother. Live.”

The cat-Djinni hesitated. Then, he fled, racing off into the skies. A few arrows pursued him, but Drenir caught each one, letting the burn tear at him rather than his little cousin. Then he turned back.

He was tired of this. Tired of seeing his people die. He had never rejoiced at this task like the other two; he was tired of blood. Even theirs.

“King of Destruction! Come forth!”

He turned. Let it be done. The Djinni boomed, and from one hand, he plucked a vengeance in kind.

Maresar dove from the tower as a comet hit it. The people of Reim stared up and screamed as more comets began to land across the city. Drenir threw parts of himself, caring not at the vast amounts of magic he expended.

“Djinni! Enough! Enough!”

The King of Destruction emerged. He shouted up as Venith, Esiela, shielded him. Drenir stopped his assault. He pointed down.

“You have slain one of my kin and wounded the other, King of Destruction. I could lay your city to waste from above! Choke them with poison; throw down lightning from the skies. That is not what my master ordered. Nor what I wish. Yet I will do so, unless you face me. Single-combat, as when you struck the King of Duels down. Take whatever you wish, but swear to face me upon your crown or I will slaughter your citizens without end.”

He should have done this from the beginning. However, Drenir saw Venith protesting, all of the King of Destruction’s subjects.

“Your Majesty, that would be suicide! This isn’t a mortal foe. If the Djinni is threatening, he knows he could be killed!”

“I know. And yet, Venith, he might fulfill his promise. I told you: I have beaten them. This? This is a better chance than not.”

Flos Reimarch was breathing heavily. He looked up at Drenir. Venith put a hand out.

“I cannot let you do this.”

The King of Destruction looked at him. He reached up, and slowly moved the hand.

“No more, Venith. Trust me. I can stop this Djinni. But at what cost?”

He stood there, and then called up to Drenir.

“You have your duel, Djinni. I need no more artifacts than what I carry. Come down and let us end this. I swear by my kingdom no one shall interfere if you will do the same!”

Upon hearing this, Drenir laughed. He laughed, bitterly, long and loud. He descended, as the King of Destruction strode forwards, alone. Because of all he had seen today, this was the most laughable. The funniest.

“Mortal [King]. You have made a mistake. I so swear. Now—let us finish this.”

King of Destruction or not—Drenir took a final form. A towering figure, taller than Flos by two heads. Six arms holding blades, skin like Hisaille’s in honor of her. Flos wavered as Drenir opened four eyes.

The Djinni spoke to him, as Flos readied his sword and shield he had borrowed from Venith. Contemptuously, humorously—and even sadly.

“You may have fought half-Giants and their kin as now walk this land. You may be one of the greatest mortals to live. The greatest of [Kings] in a thousand years. You are still arrogant. The strength of a [King] is always in his kingdom. And I?”

He lifted six blades, each made of him. The Djinni exhaled through corporeal lungs, staring at the sky. How tired he was. Yet he looked down, and smiled grimly.

“I have killed Dragons. So let us end this, King of Destruction.”

He advanced, blades singing, as the King of Destruction fought for his life. In the first clash of swords, Teresa Atwood, [Bladeswoman] far below both though she was, could see it: neither had lied.

Flos Reimarch was outmatched.

—-

Fetohep tasted steel. Pain, running through his body. Lances of disruption to the magic that animated him. He whirled, and drove one of them back.

Four on one. The others held back; they couldn’t even join the melee. They were too slow, too weak. The four though—

The Herald was best. She matched him, blow for blow, but she was older. A [Commander]. He was a [Warrior] born, and she fell back. If it were just the two of them, he, with his undead body—

A sting from the side. The [Undead Hunter] whirled back as Fetohep swung at her. She fired the crossbows she held again, one in each hand. Keeping wide.

“Pests.”

He struck at her, but Three of Arms conjured barriers, slowing him, trying to constrict him, cast spells to slow or blind the undead king.

They were resisted by Fetohep’s armor, his Skills and artifacts. He lashed out, but the Falcon of Medain had taken over for the Herald. She fought, swore as his slash nearly did the same for her as the [Keybearer], flipped backwards.

Fetohep stepped forwards and struck her mid-flip. The showy move cost the Named Adventurer a stab through the stomach. She cried out, falling.

“So long as I live, Khelt shall never fall. You cannot slay me with half-hearted blades! Come. Die.”

He struck around him, in a fury, but—bled. Not actual blood, but took blows from all sides.

Jecaina was trying to get to him. His subjects were fighting fiercely, but he had told them to hold back.

Not one more living soul of his would die! Fetohep staggered as the Herald pierced his side again, flowing like the woman of stories to strike from all angles, graceful.

It would end like this. He knew it. He…sighed.

“Fetohep!”

Jecaina screamed. She had gone in too far, and High King Perric was coming after her. That was his weakness, wasn’t it, these days? The living.

A wave of undead surged forwards, saving the Arbiter Queen, pushing Medain’s forces back. Fetohep’s concentration wavered.

The Falcon of Medain’s shortsword took him through the neck. Fetohep stared at her as the battlefield became still. His subjects, watching from afar, screamed. Even the undead froze. Jecaina choked and Fetohep whispered as the sword pierced him.

“Who…are you?”

—-

The King of Destruction was strong. So strong, Drenir couldn’t believe it. His strength exceeded his body, and Drenir had known Dragons who were weaker.

In the clash of swords, Flos could push Drenir back. He was a veteran, as skilled as the best, if not in perfect form and artistry, a seasoned warrior.

He could also wound Drenir; he had cut the Djinni twice and Drenir bled essence. The King of Destruction’s aura, the royal power, let him touch Drenir, knock him back.

Flos Reimarch was still losing. Drenir had six arms. He was faster. He was taller. He fought like a Djinni.

The King of Destruction charged, and Drenir flowed around him like mist, stabbed from the back. Flos Reimarch’s armor had taken too many blows, and Drenir’s swords were not relics—but they were sharp as anything. The King of Destruction bled.

Venith was tensed. Maresar, even Takhatres, on his feet, were all watching. Would they interfere? If they did, Drenir might win.

Flos had sworn by his kingdom. He might lose his class. They watched as he bled.

He had a healing potion in his mouth and drank from it as they dueled. He had known he would be injured; so why had he fought? That was his one big advantage; no potion made by mortals in this day and age could heal Drenir.

“Strong as Giants. But your flesh is too thin.”

Drenir slashed and Flos saw two arms descend; he blocked them, but the other two scythed horizontally. His shield blocked one; Drenir cut him with the last.

Unfair? Oh, yes. The King of Destruction cried out, and his subjects shouted in despair. He let go of the shield, dropping it, and Drenir pressed down.

“I have you!”

He dug a sword into Flos’ side. Then—hesitated.

The King of Destruction had his arm. Flos Reimarch clung to it with a bloody hand, grinning. He had…dropped his sword? Now, he held Drenir, and the Djinni felt his aura dragging at him. The fingers tore into his very essence. Flos spoke around the healing potion clutched between his teeth.

“We have each other, Djinni.”

Drenir stared. So this was his plan? To tear apart the Djinni with the strength of a [King]? He saw Flos straining and felt his limbs being pulled down. Unable to fight back against that strength, Drenir acknowledged Flos’ last gambit. Then he laughed again.

“You have me, King of Destruction. Yes, indeed. Hold on.”

Then he turned his body to living flame and Flos screamed and burned. Yet he did not let go. Teres saw him drag the Djinni down for his last, desperate gambit.

—-

“Who are you?”

Fetohep of Khelt looked at the Falcon of Medain as the sword ran through his throat. Straight through her. She—she was not whom he was addressing, for all she thought it.

He was speaking to what lay beyond. To…a strangeness.

Always. Always they were there. In this moment, when he had reawoken to find he ruled Khelt…always.

Eighteen stood there. Eighteen glorious figures of old, rulers of Khelt! His queen.

Khelta herself. They always spoke to him.

Live! Serve. Protect.

They were bound by sacrifice and the land. The weight of the same crown Fetohep wore. They always said the same things…

“Listen. Know. Look.”

Fetohep stared. In that flash of time, he saw the eighteen. Only—what had changed? They were looking at him. Pointing. He looked—

And saw the young woman. So strange. Not dressed at all like them. She waved at him.

“Um.”

“Who…are you?”

He asked her. The [Innkeeper] waved harder.

“Erin Solstice. Hi—”

The sword moved. Fetohep felt it slice—and his body fell, headless.

The lights in his eyes went out. The golden flames vanished. The Falcon of Medain lowered her sword as the King of Khelt’s head fell. She sheathed it with a flourish, breathing hard.

“Frieke of Medain.”

She spoke to the body, as the Herald of Forests raised her spear and the cheering began. The undead held still.

Khelt’s citizens wailed. They screamed at the sight. High King Perric laughed as the Arbiter Queen wept.

“No. Fetohep!”

His body lay on the ground, head next to it. Already dissolving. The King of Khelt was dead.

—-

Flos Reimarch burned. He screamed, as Drenir became flame—then an inferno. His skin burned, and healed, mid-burn, as the potion fought against the fire.

He would die unless he let Drenir go. Did he have the strength to tear Drenir apart before he burned away? Drenir doubted it.

Strange. As Drenir killed the [King] by fire, he waited for the terrible pain. The King of Destruction might well damage him so much it took decades to recover, yet he felt none. Oh, the strength, yes. But he was being dragged down. What was he doing?

Teres saw Flos, in the flames, pull the Djinni low. He was screaming, shouting in pure agony, but his fingers were fumbling. Searching for something.

He knew how to fight Djinni. He told her he had fought them personally once. Just…once. How would he win?

The young woman saw Flos find what he was looking for. What he had seen, and aimed for all along. His fingers touched the one thing on Drenir that had never changed, for all the forms the Djinni had taken, even as cloud, as meteor.

The collar around his neck. The King of Destruction gripped it with both hands, letting go of Drenir. The Djinni stared at him. Teres stared. She heard a voice from Esiela.

“He can’t be thinking of—is he mad?”

The Djinni felt the [King]’s grip on his collar. His prison. He looked at Flos as the [King] burned.

“Fool. You cannot break this. I could not.”

The King of Destruction ignored him. He was screaming, potion gone. Pulling at the artifact.

He was too weak. This had been made to hold Drenir. It was thus, stronger than Drenir was. Only a Djinni stronger than he could have removed it, or a Dragon, or…and hope might be dead.

What chance did a mortal man have? Yet, he was pulling.

That…strength. Drenir was still fire. This had all happened in less than a second. Flos was burning.

He felt something uncertain in his very being. A…strain. The Djinni’s eyes widened.

“Impossible.”

Flos howled. His arms tried to channel his strength. Not a fraction, heedless of whether it would hurt him! The fullest extent of it.

[A Kingdom’s Strength]. Once, it had stretched from shore to shore. Once—

He was going to die. Every part of Drenir saw the king burning to death. He felt the compulsion to end him. He—

Ended his flames. The command spells in his being tore at him, threatening death, forcing him to reignite. Drenir fought it. He met Flos’ burned gaze.

The King of Destruction screamed. One sound that tore through the air. His fingers tore, flesh down to bone.

He pulled the collar apart. The relic of millennia, forged to capture Drenir, his bonds that had never been broken—shattered.

The shockwave of the artifact breaking exploded around the two. Teres was thrown so hard she hit the walls of the city. Every person in Reim was knocked down, by the magic as much as the blast of air.

Impossible. They were made never to be broken! Drenir stared down at the pieces of metal, lying next to the prone [King]. And he realized.

“King of Destruction.”

Such a fitting name. Drenir looked down at Flos.

The man was barely alive. He was burned on every part of his body; he might have been blind from the heat and fire. No hair remained. He looked up, though.

Waiting.

Drenir could have slaughtered him. Killed every person in the city. He could have.

Yet his chains were gone. The Djinni reached up and felt nothing. No collar.

Free.

Horror struck all those who watched as the Djinni rose up slowly. The scrying spells reflected the nightmare of it; the freed Djinni of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Emira Sulaake of Aeresuth had gone still. She looked at Drenir as he floated over the King of Destruction’s body.

Madness. The King had freed a Djinni? No one could speak.

Drenir looked to the left. To the right. Up, and down. He breathed, in, and out, and tasted something. Then he looked at the [King].

There was too much to say. Hisaille was dead. Drenir had killed so many. Even now, his vassals rushed forwards, to guard him. The Djinni could have killed him. But it was his choice.

So Drenir rose. He bowed, slightly, and then rose higher.

“Thank you, King of Destruction.”

Then he turned. He flew higher, into the sky, like a bird, like an arrow. Streaking back the way he had come. When he spoke next, it was a roar. A bellow that was surely heard in every part of Chandrar. It wasn’t Cinaelu. It was technically the day after.

Drenir didn’t care. Nor would the Rebel of String. He bellowed the word.

“FREEDOM.”

Let all those who held chains beware.

—-

Khelt was in chaos. The citizens were prostrate, wailing. In a blind panic, or just numb.

Fetohep of Khelt was dead! Already, the treacherous armies were celebrating—but pulling back. The undead had thrown themselves forwards in a frenzy and they were fighting to escape, job done.

This was the doom of Khelt. The direst day in six hundred years. Who could but walk when the earth had collapsed inwards? Who could see for tears in their eyes?

Only one person could. One person of Khelt…a young woman. She was a [Potter], though she was one of the rare sorts who had lived beyond Khelt. She had been born to a family who had left—and then pleaded to return. They had been allowed back in, and thus, the young woman had known the outside world and this paradise, if strange.

She was remarkable for reasons only she and the ruler of Khelt knew. He had summoned her, one day, and asked her to tell him the full story. She had thought little of the honor beyond the honor itself until the day he had summoned her back and told her.

If I should die before naming another heir, you shall take up my crown. On the day I perish, sit upon my throne. It is a terrible burden, but you are my heir of this generation if another is not found.

A terrible, horrifying honor. She had hoped it would not come, and he had reassured her that he had centuries left. He did need to name his successor, though. So—on this day, she ascended the steps to the palace.

The servants were wailing inside as out. The undead guards let her pass. She could walk anywhere in the palace; Fetohep had shown her enough to ensure that if…

If…

She was numb. She would have fallen, but she had to obey. Khelt could not endure without a ruler. The undead would descend into their madness. Her eyes were dry. She hesitated on the doors of the throne room, as two of the greatest protectors of Khelt, undead armed with magnificent relics, watched her. She was terribly afraid.

But she had to know. So she walked forwards, opening the doors to the throne room.

“Your Majesty?”

The young woman’s voice trembled. She looked to the throne upon which nineteen generations of Khelt’s rulers had sat. The terrible weight of time rested there. A burden beyond belief.

The nineteenth King of Khelt slowly raised his head. The golden flames reappeared in the sockets as Fetohep’s body, his true body, raised its head.

“Yes, child?”

She fell to her knees, weeping. Fetohep rose. He felt…disorientated, from his journey. From what he had heard. Nevertheless, he was aware precious time had passed.

His feet strode from the throne. His carefully-wrapped, bandaged flesh, more like a mummy from Earth, was more fragile than the Fetohep that had fought in the north. A six-hundred year-old body was far too much to risk. He was much too much to risk.

“Rise, child. Did you doubt me? Send word to the citizens! I live! Restore order. And—breach the vaults of Khelt. I call for my relics of war!”

Fetohep’s voice rose. The young woman rose as the guardians stirred. The relics? Fetohep’s eyes burned brighter than they ever had before.

This was how you humbled your foes, incidentally. The great strike to Khelt’s army, at such cost, to the [Keybearer] of Samal, all the blood lost to kill the King of Khelt…

Fetohep was dead. He was always dead. High King Perric stared at the scrying orb as Fetohep emerged from his palace to the cheers of his citizens. His army faltered and looked at Khelt’s army, advancing.

Their morale broke. Even the Herald of Forests and the other half-Elves stared, dull-eyed. They hadn’t known the Ruler of Khelt could do that! Some secrets had been kept even from their memories. How many times had one fallen in battle, though?

The answer: never.

Fetohep held the speaking stone away from him and Jecaina screamed at him.

“I will return as soon as I am able. There is a mission I must attend to. Stop weeping, Arbiter Queen. It does not become you.”

He turned, and his golden eyes of flame swept his palace.

“Listen. Know. Look.”

The rulers of Khelt called to him strongly, shouting to him now his soul had returned home. Fetohep?

He listened.

—-

The great crusade in the north was just starting. The thousands of [Knights] were all needed, for Khelt had not been broken in a single strike, and the ruler was angry.

In Reim, meanwhile, Flos Reimarch was carried by magic; no one could even touch him. He was so badly burned that even healing potions could not repair the damage in seconds. Every [Healer] clustered around him, but at last, Takhatres had to thrust his way through the crowd.

“Flos. Nerrhavia’s taken advantage. Your army is returning here.”

“You cannot speak to him! He cannot even move! We must find more healing artifacts. A’ctelios Salash! The damage—”

One of the [Healers] tried to stop the Lord of the Skies, but Takhatres, wounded as he had been himself, pressed on. He could see the eyes staring at him around the charred skin.

“Flos. They’re heading north. More armies are coming, but they’re heading north. They intend to liberate Ger, Hellios. Cut us apart and surround us. I can stop the ones headed here, but we give up both nations back to their people.”

And neither ruler might easily bow again. Especially Hellios. Yet Reim was in danger. Takhatres waited.

He could not move. He was wounded beyond belief. Nevertheless, the King of Destruction spoke, and it was not what they expected.

“Gnolls.”

The Gnolls? Takhatres recalled they had been given land to the north! Hellios’ land. Flos spoke.

“Go.”

“Are you sure?”

His army was in tatters. Takhatres’ tribe could return, but to guard the north…Flos spoke.

“I will not be forsworn again. Go.”

The Lord of the Skies bowed and left. Nerrhavia’s armies covered the border, advancing on Reim now the King of Destruction was so wounded. Towards the capital.

—-

That didn’t matter. Oh, it was war. A technical breach of peace—who was going to hold Nerrhavia to account? Flos had enemies who wanted him dead at any cost.

It still mattered not. Not right now.

The only news that mattered was that a Djinni was on the loose. The same kind of calamity that struck once a millennia, always a disaster, especially if they were powerful. And Drenir was almost as powerful as the last one.

Chandrar reacted to the news as if a Goblin King had emerged. No—perhaps more so. For this mattered to them.

A Djinni. All those who held chains trembled. Yet the response was immediate.

Other Djinni were summoned. From the Shield Kingdom of Merreid to Roshal, masters unleashed their own Djinni with one command: slay Drenir. Or chain him once more, if an empty vessel could be found.

That was what must be done. Even if they had to sacrifice other Djinni, not one would escape. From the instant he was freed, he was hunted.

Drenir knew this. Worse—he knew he could not easily flee Chandrar’s shores. He was wounded from battle, exhausted, and Djinni would hunt him from all directions. Some could teleport.

He did not want to kill his kin. They would have to fight him with all their strength and he likewise. Drenir dreamed of fleeing the shores. He had almost done so, but he knew he would never make it.

So he flew the way back he’d come. Straight into Nerrhavia’s Fallen.

His kin sped to meet him, with nets and chains and weapons. They shouted at him to run, even as they were compelled to fight him. They cheered his freedom, sobbing as they struck at him.

He never answered their blows. Drenir flew, letting himself be wounded. [Mages] struck at him, unleashing spells; he answered them as he flew, but speed was all.

They all knew where he was going. If he did not flee and hide—there was only one place to go. So fast Drenir flew! He burned his very magic away for speed. To get there in time.

She had to know he was coming.

Emira Sulaake of Aeresuth and her family hid, begging for protection from Queen Yisame and the capital. Some fled on horseback, but how fast could they run? Their servant—

No. Their slave was freed. And while they might call themselves ‘good masters’, the truth was that none would ever want to be judged while at the mercy of those they had imprisoned. They knew what would happen.

—-

The glorious city of Aeresuth, a jewel even among Nerrhavia’s many cities was below him. Lit up. Defensive magics and other Djinni fought him.

He was bleeding.

Dying. Drenir’s essence leaked into the void and his kin were crying out. Some of the Emira’s cousins, the scions of Aeresuth, were running. She was probably hiding in the vault he had built to withstand all.

Drenir cared not. He fell, like a comet, and landed in the center. Buildings were blown away, the people lamented and fled. He called up at his cousins as they circled, throwing down weapons and magic.

“Brothers and sisters! Flee! My vengeance is at hand and I will never be chained again! Dream of freedom! Another can break our bonds! Go!”

They fled, as their masters realized what Drenir was going to do and ordered them back in panic. He waited until the last was speeding away.

Emira Sulaake, her family, were all running now. A few fools tried to attack him. Drenir didn’t care. He looked at the streets he had swept for over two thousand years, the bricks he had laid. Farmland he had made prosper.

All things he enjoyed doing, for the craft of it. If only he had been able to do it himself. Choose.

“I will not be chained again. Sister, I’m sorry I could not join you. I’m just tired, and they are so many.”

Drenir whispered. He sat, sighing, and reached for his heart. It was already torn, the very core of him dying. He tore it open, gently, even.

All the magic in him released at once. Those who watched, seeing Emira Sulaake flee on enchanted carriage, the others leaving the city, the city itself, and this entire region—saw the light.

Aeresuth vanished. The Djinni’s last vengeance left nothing. Not even a crater. Only sand and dust. Drenir’s last thought was regret. If he could have fled and lived…and freed the others, he would have.

But now they knew. Someone could break their chains, though he was mortal. Now, the world knew the King of Destruction’s great secret power. Let them tremble.

Let them hope again.

Interlude – Luan the Giant

Sentry Leader Ekrn marched through the halls of his village, ignoring the fact that he was tracking mud, blood, and debris across rich carpets or the spotless floors.

His…village. Not how he would have referred to it; Paeth, or Paeth’s Tree by the Coast if you wanted the full, pretentious name, was a nation unto itself. A country, a power…among the small.

Fraerlings. Tiny folk. The legends of Baleros, whom you might live your entire lives near by and never see. Only one had ever become so famous as for the world to know his name. The Titan of Baleros, Niers Astoragon, was the most famous Fraerling living—possibly one of the most famous to ever live, really.

He was not all of them. Nor, as Ekrn would happily point out to anyone he talked with, was the Titan a good representative of the Fraerling people. But then, he seldom got a chance to rant on one of his favorite topics; a Fraerling didn’t need to be told, and the number of Tallfolk, non-Fraerlings that he got to speak to instead of putting an enchanted crossbow bolt in their eye were…six.

That was six more than most Fraerlings. Ekrn strode past office after office, ignoring the shouts of outrage and the heads poking out.

“Sentry Leader, you’re tracking mud onto the carpets! Do you even know the expense? Slow down! They’re meeting and you can’t—”

“Take the cleaning costs out of my vurel if you want. Don’t stop me! I’m Tallguard and on business!”

The man snapped back at the [Secretary] rushing to stop him. She slowed, trying to block him as he marched towards Paeth’s leading body. They were called, in Fraerling expressions, like ‘vurel’, Signim, and so on, the Architects. There were six of them, and they ruled Paeth.

The [Secretary] was scandalized by the dirty, bloody Tallguard marching through the rich halls of the top floors. This was not how it was done! His boots coated more tiles with filth, and she shouted.

“Halt! You cannot do this! Security!”

And then she grabbed at him. They must have paid her well, or the power had gone to her head, because Ekrn felt the other Fraerling woman drag at him, although she nearly let go when she realized he had blood on his armor.

That was too much for Ekrn, though. The Sentry Leader was tired, had just been fighting swarms of scavengers outside that had gone after that giant Human currently napping in front of his ‘village’, and he’d seen good Tallguard die fighting. He turned.

“Hands. Off.”

The man drew his sword. Well, half-unsheathed the enchanted blade, just to threaten the [Secretary]. He had no intention of using it, of course. However, it halted the slightly-burly Fraerling security-guards and the [Secretary] instantly let go of his arm. She took one look at the sword, and Ekrn realized he’d made a mistake.

She screamed and fled backwards. The two ‘[Security Personnel]’ froze, their own hands on their Paratons. Ekrn eyed the two weapons, arguably more enchanted than his sword. Yet he didn’t even have to draw the blade for the two to nearly soil themselves. He snorted, and gave the two a withering look. They backed up and he strode on.

No one stopped him. Everyone had vanished the instant the Sentry Leader had bared his blade. They hid, quivering, and he growled as he stormed towards the Architects’ meeting room. He sometimes forgot.

Tallguard. That was the thing to remember, if nothing else. They were all Fraerlings. Ekrn, the [Secretary], every person here was six inches tall. Tiny! And the hallway Ekrn strode through would have been too small for some breeds of rat, for all it was spacious for him.

All of Paeth, this great city, one of the more prosperous Fraerling cities in the world, frankly, although that was almost exclusively Baleros, was contained in a single tree.

A giant tree, true. A breed of redwood, massively stout and wide, enough to house over seven hundred thousand Fraerlings. Well, with a bit of magic. Rich, diverse; Ekrn had been forced to take a galift for nearly twenty minutes just to reach this spot from the ground entrances! Every person in the upper floors, these bureaucrats, probably had a salary and vurel many times his own.

Thus, it gave the Sentry Leader no small satisfaction as he stormed into the Architects’ meeting room and interrupted them. Six Fraerlings looked up in mild shock; their security on both doors having let Ekrn through.

“Tallguard, demanding an audience with Paeth’s Architects! I sent five longcalls up—this is urgent!”

The Sentry Leader strode into the room and looked around. For a second all was silence. Then someone rose to their feet.

“Sky fall on me! What is the meaning of this?”

Citivican Loust was on his feet first. Of the six, he was responsible for managing Paeth’s, well, everything. The wellbeing of the citizens, the condition of roads, employing the many officials of the law, excepting Ekrn and the Tallguard, everything. Ekrn glared around.

“I told you. Didn’t you get the message? We have a Human lying outside the city and he’s bleeding and attracting every predator in a mile!”

Gasps arose from two of the six. Hadn’t they even been told? Ekrn looked around.

Six Architects. Architects of the Great Plan. Of course, it was a title, so not all directly worked towards that goal. Citivican Loust, for instance, just managed Paeth.

Alchimeer Straesta, on the other hand, probably did do a lot of contributing to the plan, but she managed the [Alchemists] and so on, and was more official than her old job.

Enchanter Ilekrome—well, his title was the same as always. Technically ‘Lead Enchanter’, but it was abbreviated like that.

The other three, were, in order, the Judiciary, of law and order, Farspeaker, who both watched and spoke for threats, Ekrn’s nominal superior…but not really, and last but not least, Guidance. The people’s choice, as opposed to the other five, who were elected by other councils.

The Guidance this year was all about making sure oversight was had on the most expensive projects, that had cost too much vurel. Making sure they had enough food—she looked sharply at Ekrn and he didn’t even know her name. She knew his, though.

“Sentry Leader Ekrn. It is not typical for a member of Paeth of your position to interrupt the Architects’ deliberations.”

She spoke, mildly reprovingly. Ekrn flushed slightly. He was a Sentry Leader, and while the job had any number of benefits and was well paid, it was certainly not high, socially speaking. Frankly, it wasn’t even in the social conventions of Paeth. He responded briskly.

“I may only be Sentry Leader, Guidance. However, the Tallguard is still the Tallguard. Skywatcher’s gone, and I have every right to demand your attention if need be. And I need it now.”

“Just—just how did a Human come to be here? We received the report, but it seemed like you repelled the attack? It never even reached the entrances; you might have left the Tallfolk alone.”

The Farspeaker spoke up tentatively. He was aware of the danger, more than the other six, but he had a different take than a Tallguard did. Ekrn glowered.

“He ran right towards us, of all the bad luck. We could have let the scavengers get to him—maybe they would have eaten him, and left, if they didn’t decide to occupy his rotting corpse for the next two months. You can imagine the stink, I think? I don’t believe the air filters would keep that out!”

The Farspeaker turned green. Guidance opened her mouth, but Ekrn went on.

“And that’s all assuming the scavengers didn’t notice, as they were sitting about, the fact that we’re way over our allotment! If that happened, it would be fighting in all the entrances. Armies of ants, roaches, and that’s before the big ones came in. We already had to kill a cat—”

All the Architects flinched. Ekrn went on.

“—so I need authorization, now, to deal with the Human.”

They looked at him, uncomprehending. If only the Skywatcher were here. Ekrn sighed.

His immediate superior was on an important mission—the Gathering Run. That was why a lot of Tallguard weren’t here, including all the ones who could make the call. Ekrn wouldn’t have wasted time coming up here, but he was only a [Sentry Leader]. He really couldn’t make the call.

They didn’t get that, of course. Citivican Loust spluttered very much the same question.

“I appreciate the Architects have superiority over the Tallguard—even if it feels very much like we are rarely consulted and only lectured from time to time—but why do you feel the need to march up here, threatening people with swords and ask for our opinion?”

“Because, Architects, [Sentry Leader] is not of sufficient rank to make decisions for the city, which dealing with the Human is. Ekrn of the Tallguard—which outpost do you claim?”

Guidance spoke, and now Ekrn looked at her. She knew the code? He studied her, top to toe, and saw, at last, how she was different.

The Fraerlings up here were all paler. Oh, they had all shades of skin, but it was always a touch less suntanned—well, not suntanned at all, not like Tallguard, who stayed in natural light. If there was tanning, it was artificial. They had soft skin. That was how Ekrn thought of it. They wore no armor, and stared at his gear and sword like he was a [Barbarian].

The clue that Guidance was different was subtle, but now he looked it was there. Her hair was striped, a pinkish red with dark brown. Possibly hereditary; more likely than not she’d had it done. The Farspeaker had hair like a whirlwind, purple twirled up in a spiral that had to have cut into his vurel to keep it up; even a gel couldn’t have kept the hair like that.

Enchantment or not, it wouldn’t have lasted five seconds in the outside world. None of them had ever been there, of course. Except that Guidance…maybe.

She had a scar running down one arm. Not wholly unusual; accidents did happen, but Ekrn realized it was too jagged to be a machine-cut, and on the measure…

“Trainee?”

“Failed. My name is Heish, Sentry Leader. Guidance Heish, which I’m sure you knew.”

She smiled and it all clicked. Guidance Heish saw Ekrn blush and study his muddy boots for a moment. Then he looked up.

“You’re correct, Guidance Heish. To your question: I’m Tallguard of Feiland. I can’t decide the Human’s fate because it is a matter for Paeth, even though I’m bound to defend it. If it were more urgent…”

His moderation of tone and explanation made the Architects finally relax a bit. The Alchimeer sat forwards, nodding.

“Well then, Sentry Leader. What are our options? We obviously can’t have a Tallfolk around—and this Human—do they know we’re here?”

Ekrn winced.

“I’m afraid so. He saw us fighting.”

All the Architects exchanged glances. Now, they understood. A Tallfolk had found a Fraerling Village, for all Paeth was a metropolis. They knew the stories, the danger—even if it was more distant for them than the Tallguard, who lived to avoid such things. Another Architect shook his head.

“We can’t have that. Alright, Sentry Leader, we can see you are here on a mission of importance. What would you like to do? What are our options?”

Ekrn sighed. He tried to be diplomatic, but he wasn’t good at it. Even his idiot subordinate who’d gotten them all into this mess, Noa, would have been better. Still, no help for it. He tried to lay it out as gently as possible.

“I’ll be honest with you, Architects. Trying to wipe his memory isn’t feasible, even if we had the allotment to spare on the project—and we don’t have that kind of draught, let alone in the quantities to drug a Tallfolk.”

“Enchantments? We could try a forgetting spell.”

The Enchanter suggested. Ekrn shook his head.

“Too big. A linked spell? Tallguard records show the Tallfolk remember, especially if they find magic’s been done. I’ll be honest, all I need is authorization. Then, we’ll lead him off, clean up the blood, and find some nice place—maybe the river if I can mount an expedition out that far. Gnomes laugh at me, he’s already unconscious. If we could roll or drag him…well, we’ll make sure he’s unaware, or we’ll put him to sleep. Then—one crossbow bolt through the ear should do it. He won’t feel a thing, and no one ever finds out.”

The Architects had been listening, even nodding to the entire plan Ekrn outlined. Right up until he mentioned ‘crossbow bolt through the ear’. Then their expressions changed to ones of pure horror.

“Sentry Leader Ekrn! You can’t be suggesting we just murder someone like that?”

Ekrn sighed. Damnit. Damn it all to cats and Tallfolk children. He stared up at the ceiling as the horrified, fundamentally decent Architects reacted like anyone in Paeth might. They weren’t murderers. If he could ask the Skywatcher, he’d probably have gotten authorization to do it in seconds. The Tallguard stood, arms folded, in the genteel interior of Paeth. Far from where he did his rounds.

“He’ll wake up eventually. We had to treat him to make sure he didn’t expire; we’d have had to cart him out in pieces in bags of holding and the corpse would have attracted every scavenger in the world. You want us to keep healing him? Feed him? What about letting him leave knowing where we are? Architects! I can do it myself!”

But of course—this was Paeth. So Ekrn listened, argued, and cursed, and wished he’d never met the giant lying outside his home.

Luan Khumalo lived. By nightfall, Ekrn was shouting at his Tallguard, cursing nonstop as more of the Tallguard’s [Healers] attended to disparate sections of him. Already, there were crowds clustered at the entrances or the viewing windows for a look, and people protesting the danger.

A giant had come to Paeth. That was the problem. He was just one man, but Luan alone towered over the rest of the smallfolk. He was little threat to Paeth, even if he was strong. The problem was—there were a lot of giants out there. So many.

They could never find Paeth’s Tree by the Coast. For, as every Tallguard knew—

That was how Fraerlings died.

—-

When Luan woke up, it was almost…reassuring to find how like a story it was. It proved he hadn’t been rendered insane by his time at sea, by his meeting with—with—whatever it had been during the Summer Solstice.

That was because stories were predictable. If you knew the story, you knew at least a bit of what came next. Hopefully it was a good story, not those old fairy tales. A modern rendition, not the original Red Riding Hood, and so on.

Luan had read Gulliver’s Travels, some version of the fable at least, as a boy. It hadn’t left the hugest impression, but it was one of those stories everyone remembered. The classic giant meets tiny people, or the reverse, the tiny people living amongst giants.

Either way, what he recalled was that, as a boy, he’d noted how none of the Lilliputians looked like him. All fair-skinned, well, like a lot of fairy tales.

Commentary on fables aside, that was Luan’s background to waking up and finding himself tied to the ground by a bunch of tiny ropes. He stared around, tried to move his neck.

“No way.”

It wasn’t a dream! Luan saw some figures draw back, call out.

“Tallfolk’s awake! Get those idiots at the entrances back! Where’s the Sentry Leader?”

He saw, sideways and upside-down, little people running about. Luan realized he was in shade; someone had set up a tent over his body! Or rather, multiple tents all joined up. He was in some kind of enclosure reminiscent of Geneva’s own surgery-tent…a temporary setup to house him in.

Someone had even hung up bunches of lavender. Why? Because he stank? Luan had been swimming for weeks in the ocean, so he could believe that.

Every part of his body hurt. He had been baked by sun, dehydrated, swimming non-stop, and to top it all off, he’d nearly drowned during the Summer Solstice and when he’d finally reached land, piranhas, crocodiles, and every manner of Baleros’ worst wildlife had tried to finish him off.

Luan was a [Rower], an athlete, but this had pushed past all his limits. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but he was content to lie there for a moment, and just—be alive. Stories. He was actually living one. Now there would be something to tell his son. He had to live. Luan closed his eyes, and breathed in air.

He wasn’t one of the Drowned Folk. He had refused. He couldn’t live in the sea. He had to live, return—hopefully this would be a better story than all the ones he’d seen play out thus far.

He had hopes, despite the ropes. After all, Gulliver made it all work out, right? Luan felt something touch his shoulder—a ladder?—and then someone walked onto his chest, up, towards his face.

“Alright, Human. We’re letting you move your head. Let’s chat. Cut the ropes!”

Luan tilted his head up a bit as he felt dozens of tiny strings snap free. He craned his stiff neck up gratefully, and saw a little man standing on his chest. Pointing a crossbow loaded with a glowing bolt straight at his nose.

…They didn’t mention this in the storybook. Luan froze.

“That’s right. Let me talk, then you get to say whatever you want. My name is Sentry Leader Ekrn, Tallguard. Not that it means anything to you—I’m a Fraerling. My job is to keep my village safe, and you’re sitting right next to it, attracting all kinds of things that want to eat you. Congratulations! You found a Fraerling Village. There’s no pot of gold. We don’t grant wishes; that’s Djinni. We won’t fix your disgusting shoes—even if you had any.”

Luan wiggled his toes, remembering he’d cast his shoes off to lighten himself while swimming. Ekrn went on, grimly.

“We’re small, but try to hurt us, run off, or do anything stupid and we’ll kill you. Frankly, I’d have put you out of your misery already, but it’s not my choice. You are…a guest of Paeth, until we figure out if we’re going to kill you after all or let you go somehow. You are my biggest headache ever. Nice to meet you. Now you can talk.”

Luan’s mouth worked. He stared at Ekrn, and the little man gestured impatiently.

“Cat ate your tongue?”

“…Water.”

Ekrn stared at Luan as the man croaked. Then he sighed.

“Dead gods damn it.”

—-

Noa was a [Sentry]. One of the Tallguard; she’d passed all her training, and she had earned her enchanted weapons. Crossbow, shortsword, and any number of tricks like the rope swings they used to travel around the perimeter of Paeth.

She was still low-ranking, and that was acknowledging that Ekrn wasn’t exactly the greatest member of the Tallguard either. Well—he was [Sentry Leader], which meant he protected all of Paeth from attacks. The name only fooled Tallfolk; the Fraerlings had no real army. Just the Tallguard.

She was in huge trouble, though. She sat, nearly two days after the Human named Luan had collapsed; it had taken him two days to wake up! He’d been treated, his infected wounds salved, potions and such administered.

So much. They’d carted it out, hundreds of healing potions and cauldrons of brewed salves and poultices for the best [Healers] to apply—those not terrified of going out, or being near one of the Tallfolk. The Tallguard’s [Healers] did a lot of the work, but a few brave souls had come out for the first time in their lives to gawk at the Human.

There were probably thousands watching. However, around her were only Tallguard. Occasionally her friends and comrades would slap her on the shoulder and jokingly say something.

“Nice job, Noa! As if we weren’t worried about food already!”

“Got any more Tallfolk you want to lead to our door?”

“If the Human relieves himself, I’m not shoveling anything. You can do that. We’ll get you a wagon.”

To her relief, that last hadn’t happened, but the hundreds of healing potions wasn’t an exaggeration, unfortunately. The Human had been more dead than not, and she’d feared Ekrn would just let him expire. However, the Sentry Leader had his marching orders from Paeth’s Architects and despite his irritation, he did have his own sense of honor. He was a warrior, and he’d seen how far Luan had come. Letting him die now? It had felt wrong.

Noa rose as Ekrn stomped out of the tent they’d set up to keep the sun from baking the Human—and keep predators from catching his scent.

“Boss, is he…?”

“He’s awake! And thirsty. Hey, I need kegs of water!”

“Kegs? Of water? What, you mean like our sentry provisions?”

The [Sentry Leader] shrugged.

“Something like that. Or we could run a hose from the city…? No, that’s way too far. Damn. Get me kegs! Barrels! Something to dump water into that Human’s mouth!”

“We could let him sit up…?”

One of the Fraerlings suggested. The others were scrambling; the Tallguard had provisions, but water was not a huge issue given that they had bags of holding. In the end, they filled up bags of holding or barrels that had to be emptied of other contents first.

“We’re letting him sit up. Damn Human’s weak as an aphid, though. He must still be thirsty, even though we pumped him full of potion. Noa, with me.”

“Um—what for, Ekrn?”

The Fraerling gave her a look.

“You started this mess. So I’ll be kitten-bait if you’re not going to be as miserable as I am.”

That was how Noa found herself rolling in barrels and dumping bags of holding into them for the Human to drink as he sat cross-legged under the canopy of trees, far, far overhead. A sky unto itself for the Fraerlings. Luan gulped the ‘cups’ of water down.

[Body: Water Retention] had allowed him to survive against all odds at sea, but thirst was still thirst. His first real, wonderfully cool water went down so fast he had to slow down. He knew he’d puke if he drank too fast, so he tried to sip and talk.

“You’re Fraerlings. I thought you weren’t secretive, though. The Titan of Baleros is a Fraerling.”

That was the first thing he thought to say. The two little Fraerlings, the angry man in charge and the young woman who looked up at him, awestruck, both exchanged a look. The younger girl looked amused; the man just growled.

“Yes, yes. Every Tallfolk knows the Titan. The most famous Fraerling ever! And you think you know us? The Titan’s a damned adventurer and head of one of the Four Great Companies! He’s an insane loon who left the Fraerling settlements when he was young. We’re not like him, so any ideas you have of us—forget it. We’re not like the ones in his company either.”

“Okay. I’ve touched a nerve. I’m sorry. Thank you for saving me.”

“You’re welcome! We saw you swimming here! I mean, I did. It was amazing! We couldn’t help; you were far too far for us to even think about it, but it was incredible! Are you a [Sailor]? Did you survive a shipwreck?”

Ekrn glared at his sidekick.

“This is Noa. She’s the idiot who didn’t shoot you through the head before you blundered into our perimeter.”

“Perimeter? Oh—the exploding wires?”

Luan suddenly recalled running into what felt like a minefield. Ekrn sighed.

“Yep. The area around here is secured against predators, so don’t run out or you’ll hit something. Mind you, I’m amazed you didn’t die when you ran into all our lovely, lovely…expensive…traps.”

He glowered. Luan felt like he was talking to someone determined to hold a grudge. He was disoriented, but he had been around Ken long enough to appreciate diplomacy. So, the South African man just grinned.

“I’m sorry for living, sir. I’ll do better next time. I’m no [Sailor]; I’m actually a City Runner. Sea, not land. And I can pay—I’d repay you for saving me as well!”

He fumbled for his side, and realized his bag of holding was gone. He glanced at Ekrn.

“…Unless you want to help yourself?”

The Sentry Leader grinned inadvertently—then scowled and coughed.

“We went through your bag of holding. Nice crossbow. Did a monkey make it for you? We don’t want your gold; we don’t need it.”

“A friend of mine made that. What do you mean, you don’t want any gold? I’m happy to pay—”

Ekrn sighed.

“And what would we do with gold, Human? Well, gold would be great for the [Alchemists] and [Enchanters]. Shame your coins have less gold than pyrite.”

Now Luan leaned forwards, reaching for another barrel. He looked down at the Fraerlings, greatly intrigued.

“You don’t use it? For trading with us? Humans? Lizardfolk, Dullahans and Centaurs?”

Noa laughed incredulously, then caught herself. Ekrn looked up at Luan, and now he did look amused.

“When I said we were nothing like the Titan of Baleros—we’re not a village that sends people into market, Human. We don’t trade regularly. If we need something, really need something, we can send for it, but that’s a mission unto itself. No one ever traces one of us back here. No one should know we exist. There is exactly one Tallfolk in the world who has even a vague idea of where we are, and that’s because of a pact we struck. Everyone else? We’ve killed Tallfolk who found us before. Are you beginning to see the problem?”

Luan did. He slowly sat back, thinking. At last, he nodded.

“You haven’t killed me yet. Am I valuable to you? Can I make a plea for my life?”

Ekrn gave him a weary smile.

“You got lucky, Human. That’s all. I don’t know what’s going to happen, and frankly, I don’t like talking to you if I have to do what I must.”

“It’s Luan, Sentry Leader. Luan. I’m a father, and I just want to get home to my family and friends.”

The Fraerling gave him a pained look.

“Thanks for telling me. I’ll still shoot you if I have to. Alright. If you’re drinking that much—do you need to use the restroom? Because I’d rather you did that far downwind, and far away from here as possible. Food? Then—well, I think some people are going to want to talk to you.”

Thus, Luan found himself being escorted by a tiny band of Fraerlings a good fifty feet away from the giant tree to do his business. He couldn’t run, and was distinctly aware of some loudly humming people trying to give him privacy around a tree. Then they led him back and Luan realized that all the stories he was told in this world of Fraerlings had gotten it wrong.

Fraerlings weren’t secretive people who lived in little villages secluded from the world. At least—these people didn’t. What people forgot was this: they were small, and in danger from everything in the world. Tiny folk.

The same people that the Titan of Baleros had come from. In short—the highest-leveled species in the world, and the shortest in stature.

—-

“Alright. Tell me how this isn’t the single stupidest idea I’ve ever heard in my life?”

Sentry Leader Ekrn looked exasperated as he argued with an [Alchemist] hard at work. Luan stared down at the tiny glass vials, the recipe being followed diligently, and the argument. The [Alchemist] kept staring up at Luan.

“Not my job, Sentry Leader. They want to talk to him, and they’re not coming out. So he goes in. We’re not taking him in, in. So there’s no risk he reverts and explodes.”

“Uh. Explode?”

“Inside the city. I imagine it would be your body versus our architecture, and everything’s enchanted. So your bones would probably lose the battle, and if that’s the case…well, I’m sure it would be a disaster. Many lives lost. Including yours.”

The [Alchemist] seemed cheery about the idea. Which was missing the point to Ekrn.

“And if he goes back to the outside world and tells them what’s inside a Fraerling c—village?”

He looked pointedly at Luan. The [Alchemist] shrugged.

“Not my decision. Besides, he’s already found us. I suppose the Architects don’t think it can get worse.”

“They’re not thinking at all! Sheltered idiots!”

Ekrn stomped towards Luan. He glared up at the man.

“Well, that’s that.”

“That’s what? You just told me I’m going inside that tree and I might not explode if I turn back.”

Luan apprehensively edged back, until there was a shout.

“Aah!”

Noa ran around him and he froze. Ekrn kicked at her.

“You idiot, Noa! Rookie mistake—never get around anything large enough to crush you!”

“Sorry.”

Both Luan and Noa apologized. Ekrn sighed. He pointed at Luan.

“You’re not being shrunk down. That’s stupid. Do you know how hard it is to change size? We’re not paying for that, even if we did have all the recipes to brew a shrinking draught—let alone enough for you! No, we’re doing something simpler. See this? Know what it is?”

He held up something and Luan stared at it.

“…Is that an eyeball?”

“Fresh.”

The [Alchemist] recoiled. So did Luan, slightly. It wasn’t just an eyeball; it was floating in a jar. A small eye. Luan didn’t want to know what animal had given it up.

“It’s not exactly a scrying spell; we don’t allow those anywhere near the village. How it works is—well, you explain, [Alchemist].”

Ekrn turned to the Fraerling man, who was pouring himself a vial of the cauldron’s contents. He inspected the clear liquid that nevertheless had trapped ‘bubbles’ of multi-colored orange and green, and then looked up at Luan. He eyed the Human, poured the vial back into the cauldron, and indicated it.

“You drink all of this, Human. That will put you to rest; mainly so you work with the spell. Then we perform a bit of magic and you’ll see through this eyeball. Even talk!”

“I’ve never heard of magic like that before.”

Luan looked uneasy. The Fraerling chuckled.

“Nonsense! Even Tallfolk know this spell. It’s a basic scouting spell; Tallguard use it all the time, even the Farspeaker! It’s just a bit of necromancy…”

“Necromancy? Hold on—”

The Fraerlings convinced him. It was mostly Ekrn telling Luan it was perfectly safe and that he had no choice that did the trick. Also—him telling Luan to his face that he’d be one of a few mortals who ever saw the inside of a Fraerling Village.

“It’s just so stupid. This is the problem with leaving it to the Inners.”

“That what-ers? These Architects? Your leaders?”

Ekrn shook his head. Noa, who’d already befriended Luan, waved cheerily. She had dark skin, not as dark as his own, and moss-leaf hair. Dyed, apparently. She wasn’t allowed to make it any vivid, unnatural colors, but green was fine for the jungle they were in.

“He means non-Tallguard, Luan. It’s like…non-[Soldiers] for you, I guess. The Architects aren’t the problem; everyone inside Paeth probably hasn’t ever seen Tallfolk before! Let alone gone outside!”

Luan stared at the tree in front of him. It was huge, a giant among giants on Earth, possibly a contender for one of the largest trees in the world there. Even so, he couldn’t believe it was home to seven hundred thousand.

“You’re telling me there are Fraerlings—Inners—who live their entire lives without seeing the outside world?”

“Yup. Tallguard are different. Special. We’re the only ones who go outside to make sure there are no threats. Anyways, there’s plenty of room inside.”

“Even with so many?”

“Yep. It’s bigger on the inside than the outside. Dimensional magic. Like Wistram, they say. Haven’t you seen something like it?”

She gave him a round-eyed look of innocent mystery, as if this was normal. Luan glanced at Ekrn, and the [Sentry Leader] gave him a significant glance. It seemed Ekrn understood more than even his other Tallguard why Luan’s peek was so worrying.

They had magic that Luan had never heard of. True, he hadn’t been here long, but—he took the cauldron, nearly dropped it, and swore.

“It’s hot!”

“Oh. Sorry. I normally have a vial. You might need a glove. Maybe a leaf?”

Gingerly, Luan lifted the cauldron, blew on it twice, and drank the scalding liquid. He gasped.

“That tastes—good!”

“Well, of course it does. Do you know how hard it is to get people to drink potions if they tasted like their components?”

The Fraerling looked amused. Luan opened his mouth.

“I’ve tasted healing potions and they taste like—”

His head drooped. Noa looked up as the Human began to keel forwards. The [Alchemist] screamed; Ekrn just whistled. Dozens of ropes shot forwards and caught Luan, dragging him down backwards. A [Mage] pointed.

“[Featherfall].”

It took six to make Luan slowly drift backwards towards the ground. His eyes were closed. They began preparing the next spell as the [Necromancer] yawned her way forwards.

—-

“—scrapings out of a trash can. What—”

Luan stared. Suddenly, he was staring around and the world was different! He was…looking through the world like it was a single, fish-eye lens. It was so disorientating he didn’t realize at first that the view was of a completely different place than he had been.

Everything was huge. He saw a few figures, and then a man bent down.

“Well, well, well. Not so huge after all, are we, Human?”

He was Luan’s height; maybe a bit shorter since Luan was a tall guy, but distinctly around the same height. Six feet, Luan would have guessed…if it weren’t for the fact that he knew Ekrn was six inches tall.

A woman of roughly the same height waved at him.

“Hi, Luan! You look—creepy!”

The floating eyeball rotated in the liquid, but couldn’t see itself. Luan’s voice, when it came out, was slightly muffled, but lacked the echo he expected.

“I’m…in the eyeball?”

“Basic possession magic. Don’t get attached. Literally. Sometimes people keep seeing out of the eye after it’s done—we’ll get rid of it. Okay! Into Paeth to show Tallfolk all our secrets because why not?”

“I think it could be helpful, boss. You know Paeth’s over its allotment. And the Tallguard had to go on the Gathering Run—what if he helped?”

“And what if we lived in a city and Humans visited us all the time? You know your history, [Sentry]! Stop believing in fairytales. He’s not some ‘magical Gnoll’ who washes ashore and fixes all wrongs.”

The eyeball swiveled from Ekrn to Noa as Luan adjusted to this new, temporary body. He interrupted as Noa lifted the jar with a grunt.

“Wait, you have stories about Tallfolk meeting you?”

“Yup. Historical accounts which aren’t so pretty, but every child reads the classics. What, you tell stories about meeting us? Hah. That’s funny. Fairy tales both ways.”

Ekrn looked amused. Now he was taller than Luan, or rather, speaking to the eye in the enchanted jar, he seemed less wary. Or maybe he was just resigned.

—-

As they walked, Ekrn explained what Luan was about to see. Which was counterintuitive, but, as the Fraerling man said, it wasn’t what Luan was going to see that mattered—it was what he wasn’t going to see.

“That makes no sense.”

The [Athlete] countered. He was feeling…slightly unwell, despite the spell working without a hitch. It was mostly because he had no legs, arms—no body at all. He didn’t even know how he was hearing or speaking. They claimed they’d looped in a basic speech and hearing spell with the necromantic possession, but the more Luan thought about it, the sicker he got.

“Don’t focus on it or you’ll drive yourself mad. Listen. Paeth isn’t your typical Fraerling village. Village. Hah! Well—it fits some of the settlements across Baleros. There are places where there are actually Fraerlings who farm, and make a basic living—in touch with nature. I’ve had to guard some of those settlements and it’s a nightmare. No magic, which does mean less threats…no allotment to argue about…”

“Allotment? Slow down. So Paeth isn’t a village? I didn’t think seven hundred thousand fit a village, but aren’t they called…?”

“Nope! It’s a city. Villages are just what we call it to fool big people. Hoi there! Tallguards of Feiland, coming in!”

The entrance to Paeth wasn’t guarded by Ekrn or Noa’s forces. Rather, it was Paeth’s internal security, which mystified Luan until he realized they called themselves Tallguard of Feiland.

“We don’t belong to Paeth. We’re Tallguard. No allegiance but to guarding against animals and so on. A few of us do duty inside—they call us in if there’s some kind of incident. Killers. Monsters or something inside. Easy work.”

“Really?”

Ekrn snorted.

“Oh yes. We have crazies, just like you Tallfolk, I imagine. The worst was a [Serial Killer]. Sixteen dead…they called me in to get him and once I tracked him down, it wasn’t exactly hard. Fraerlings, the Inners, aren’t fighters. Most never pick up a sword. I imagine its foreign to you.”

“Er…no. Sounds like home.”

“Huh. I heard Tallfolk saw monsters with some regularity. Big city dweller?”

“Oh yes. Not this crowded. Not one tree, but it’s fairly big.”

“How many people?”

They were waiting in front of huge, metal doors. In fact, a series of them and a checkpoint. It was rare for anyone to go in and out, and Luan saw, briefly, multiple defensive checkpoints.

“Only a few million people.”

Ekrn snorted incredulously.

“What? You must be from a capital. Or one of the Walled Cities. Which continent? I don’t know names aside from the old history books.”

“Um…Terandria.”

Noa and Ekrn both stared at the eye in the jar as it swiveled around.

“Nice lie. You don’t have a face and my niece still tells better ones.”

Luan just sighed. There was so much to say and not say, and it was all happening so fast. His heart was beating—he could still feel it—rapidly.

This was magic.

They halted in the checkpoint.

“Hold on! Identification! Wait for the [Appraisal]!”

“Wonderful. They know who we are. Looks like the Architects are mad I walked all over their fancy carpets.”

Ekrn grumbled. Luan felt a tingling, and then there was a shout.

“[Sentry Leader] confirmed. [Sentry] confirmed—identities match up with given names! Tallguard of Feiland!”

Luan was fascinated to see the [Security Personnel] at these checkpoints were completely differently adorned compared to the Tallguard. They wore, well, modern-looking gear, at least to the Earther. The ones in the outer checkpoints had carried weapons like the Tallguard, but these ones held batons at their side; no armor, but lighter stuff, more like a policeman’s outfit than anything.

“Are those batons at their side? Not weapons?”

“I told you. Inners don’t have monsters. No wild animals…those are Paratons.”

“What do they do?”

Luan fixed on them. He saw what looked like a delicate rune etched into each one, glowing yellow. Ekrn bared his teeth, and the [Security] eyed him nervously.

“Paralysis spell. Paralysis baton. Sorry, forgot you wouldn’t know. They hit you, you go limp and numb. Imagine fighting a cat with that.”

“Don’t be mean, boss! They helped fight off the ants!”

“Yeah, I guess. We had an ant army come at us. Steel-eating bastards. They sensed the magic—I told them we were over allotment! Human, have you ever seen animals up to your stomach with armor and teeth that can chew a leg clean off in seconds coming at you by the thousand?”

Luan shuddered as he thought about it, but he wasn’t willing to let Ekrn walk all over him.

“I don’t know about the size, but I did just escape a bunch of piranhas. Sound familiar?”

The [Sentry Leader] laughed.

“I forgot! City Runner…right. You would be closer to us than this lot.”

He nodded at the guards as another shout came out.

“Appraisal done! Luan…Khumalo! K-h-u-malo! Level 28 [Expert Rower], Level 16…[Athlete]? Level 4 [Medic], Level 6 [Soldier]…”

They read out his levels and some of his Skills as the Fraerlings looked at Luan. Ekrn raised his brows.

“Level 28? Well, well. Looks like we have someone hot on Level 30 here!”

Luan felt just a bit smug about that…right up until Ekrn laughed.

“And what level are you?”

Luan retorted. Ekrn winked at him.

“Let me put it like this, Luan. I know Level 30’s important in your world, but down here, Tallguard fight what your Gold-ranks do on a regular basis. Level 30’s the minimum for my job. Alright, let’s go.”

He sauntered on. Noa whispered to Luan.

“It’s still impressive! Ekrn’s just showing off.”

Then they were in Paeth’s Tree by the Coast. Luan saw them march past the checkpoint, as Ekrn exchanged insults with a guard that might have been genuine or just bravado. They walked forwards and came to a halt.

There was only a wall. Carved wood in front of them. Luan stared.

“Um. Trap door?”

Noa and Ekrn exchanged a look of anticipation. They were clearly looking forwards to this part.

“Not exactly. Never been on a galift before, Human? I’m told they don’t exist except maybe in a few places anymore. Look down.”

“A galift? What’s—oh my god.”

Luan shouted, because he looked down just as the elevator began to move up. He saw a glass panel in the center, a strange roiling substance below—and saw the doors had closed. They were shooting up in an elevator!

Noa laughed and Ekrn looked amused, until Luan began to speak.

“It’s an elevator! You have an elevator?”

“Damn. My friend lied to me. I thought they didn’t exist.”

Ekrn was clearly crestfallen that Luan wasn’t shocked beyond belief. He tapped his foot, eying the walls passing through a glass window, but Luan was demanding to know more.

“I know what this is—but how? Magic?”

“No! Well, only a bit. Even some of the non-magic villages have stuff like this, although they use pulleys and weights. Running an elevator all day though would eat up way too much of our allotment. It’s a galift. See? It’s powered by gas.”

Down Noa pointed and Luan saw the same pulsating cloud blowing them up. He stared.

The Fraerlings used an alchemical compound that had the same qualities as Helium—but a lot more lift. It could power these elevators, and their [Alchemists] brewed up as much as they needed.

“It’s an actual substance, apparently. See, it goes up to a certain point until it builds up—then it sinks. I’m amazed you know about it. My friend said…”

Ekrn glanced at Luan. The man was lost for words. He realized Fraerlings had so much that Earth did. Or rather—this city was a place with so many technologies not eaten by the Creler Wars, Rhir, or the thousand other disasters he’d heard about.

It was a paradise.

—

No. Not a paradise. A certain ruler of Khelt would have strenuously objected to that qualification. It might seem so to Luan, but the best of the Fraerling settlements still had crime, still had need and desire. They were above your average city, but Fetohep of Khelt would have opined that a Fraerling ‘Village’ was, by its nature, unable to be classified as a paradise due to the inherent risk.

Monsters and animals could attack it, unlike Khelt or Samal, where such things were just…stories. Paeth was, then, in that rarest of all middle-categories between paradise and ‘hole in the ground’.

Not a paradise, but a splendiferous city that occasionally came under attack. The closest example might be First Landing, or a Walled City.

To Luan, though, it was the closest thing to a city from Earth he had ever seen. A modern city, with countless indications of technology beyond what most could accomplish. No dirt streets. It was either wood, long-smoothed from where it had been cut, or metal walkways, or…ceramics.

He stared down at laminated tiles, like that which you might find in a mall! Paeth was massive; there were even skyscrapers built into the heart of the tree.

The Fraerlings had hollowed out their tree. The walls were the hollowed out trunk, but Noa had not lied; some dimensional magic was at work here, because there was no way this would all normally fit inside.

The city within stretched up, and up, and Luan saw the center was the remnants of the wood, turned into buildings, while entire blocks and floors had been constructed in other places. If you could fly, you might well go up most of the tree without needing a galift—although it wasn’t a straight shot in most places.

Some windows let in light from the outside world, but most of the lighting was artificial. Magical. That was what made Luan stare.

Fraerlings had copied much of Earth’s conveniences—with magic. The first thing he saw as the galift’s doors opened was a sign of what was to come.

A harried-looking group of Fraerlings were making for the lift. Some had tools, or cases with supplies, others were clearly [Mages], [Alchemists]—Luan was grateful not to be able to smell, because as they rushed past Ekrn and Noa, the two Fraerlings held their noses and the group of people heading to work groaned as the [Alchemist] moved in.

“I’m sorry! Skunk gland—”

“Hold the galift! Hold the galift, please!”

It was like a scene from Earth, albeit somewhat of a cliché. Here came someone, who, while not exactly wearing a suit, had on a piece of formal attire. Fraerling dress, Luan would later realize, was more fashion than function for the inner world. They could style their hair, so even their ‘business people’ chose attractive, trendy outfits.

Still, give this Fraerling a briefcase and pop him into a black suit and tie, and Luan would have thought he was normal in any city on Earth. Okay—also dye his white hair and red tips that stuck up and reminded him of a paintbrush.

Luan saw the doors of the galift closing and the unfortunate Fraerling wasn’t going to pull the doors open; they were sealed hard to let the gas-elevator work. Nor were the Fraerlings willing to wait with the smelly [Alchemist].

The Fraerling was running too slow; he was no [Athlete]. However, as he realized this, he gasped, murmured something—and Luan saw his feet blur towards the elevator.

The man zoomed into the gap, nearly colliding, and turned, beaming smugly. The others sighed. Luan stared. The man stared back at the eyeball in the jar as if Luan was the weird thing—and only mildly weird at that.

“What was that? An artifact? Boots of Speed?”

I want one! Luan’s inner desires began to spill forth. This. This was what he’d dreamed of when he came to this world. Magic! Anime! He loved anime. It was a hobby…that was how he’d picked up enough Japanese to talk to Ken and Aiko.

Ekrn dashed his hopes with a laugh.

“Boots of Speed? Nah. You think that fellow would buy that? If we could get Boots of Speed that easily, I’d arm every Tallguard with them before a single Inner, no matter how much they squawked.”

“Ah. A Skill, then. [Can’t Be Late for Work]?”

Luan was deflated. Obviously, obviously. Noa shook her head.

“Nope. It’s just the citywide spell. [Speed]. Everyone gets one minute per day.”

“What?”

They dashed his hopes just to show him more anime! Luan’s shouting became so loud that Ekrn plugged his ears.

“Gah, you didn’t blink at the Galift and this impresses you? It’s a damned waste. This isn’t necessary! This is why we’re over our allotment and monsters keep coming by.”

There was that word again. Allotment. Luan looked around.

“What is allotment?”

Ekrn gave the city a sour look. Noa, an affectionate one. She was a Tallguard, but she had grown up in cities like this one.

“It’s magic, of course. See?”

There it was. As they walked through the city of Fraerlings, Luan saw it everywhere. Wherever technology would have normally been—magic took its place.

In every example. For instance, he couldn’t feel it much to his disappointment, but the glass jar clouded a bit because the air had grown cold as they passed by what he only could describe as a supermarket. Food lay in bins, preserved by magic, and the air was colder! Because someone had created a Rune of Cooling.

A child was throwing a little airplane—no, it was a bird with wings! She threw it up and laughed, chasing after it, directing it somehow as it zoomed about.

From toys to cooling to…Luan saw someone knock over an object in a shop with a crash. There were mops and presumably, cleaners, but the [Shopkeeper], in a hurry to not lose time or sales with the broken glass, found a talisman and waved it. The glass and liquid collected into a ball, which she flicked into a receptacle.

Ekrn looked at it all and had none of Noa’s affection or Luan’s longing.

“Fraerling settlements that run on magic have something called ‘allotment’, Luan Khumalo. I don’t know if your Tallfolk cities do; Wistram might not, but it’s a special case. Allotment means that you can’t use up too much magic in stupid enchantments like ones that let you fly in certain rooms, or speed up. It’s wasteful and Paeth has been over the last three months. They need to get it under control, by reducing, or blocking more from reaching the outside.”

“Why’s that important?”

The Fraerling gave Luan a look.

“You’re a City Runner, aren’t you? Think about it. Magic. Ever heard of how [Farmers] grow Sage’s Grass? We don’t need as much magic for our spells, but in a city like this, we produce far, far more than any ten Tallfolk [Mages]. What do you think that does?”

Luan thought about it. He had an answer, but wasn’t sure if it was right.

“It…attracts monsters that want it?”

“Yep.”

Noa and Ekrn chorused at the same time. Ekrn looked around.

“Allotment is a limit the Tallguard sets. We can tell how much magic leaks from a settlement. Too much, and hungry things come after it, thinking we’re animals or plants—they don’t care. If it gets too high, we can’t defend a place like this and Paeth is bad with it. Too much wasteful stuff.”

“It comes and goes. The Guidance gets what we want each month, and they cancel old spells to keep us under. Or they used to.”

The [Sentry Leader] sneered.

“Inners don’t care. The Architects don’t understand. Not ‘we’, they, Noa. We tell them every time and they think we’re paranoid fools. None of them have ever seen a nest of roach eggs or had to crush them and burn the things alive! No one here has seen a cat eating their prey and torturing them to draw the rest out. Look!”

He pointed around, and Luan saw that Ekrn and Noa were outsiders. More than him. A floating eye in a jar got less looks than two Fraerlings wearing armor, carrying swords. A child pointed, and he heard a single word.

“Titan.”

Just like the Titan. Tallguard. Luan saw a few more, young Fraerlings, children to the full adults, glance at the Tallguard, and there it was. A kind of…romance. Distant for most, stronger in the children.

Like how kids looked at Daly or other adventurers. Noa waved, smiling. Ekrn slapped her arm down.

“Don’t encourage them.”

“We always need recruits, boss.”

“Almost all wash out. Nineteen out of twenty. Did you know the Guidance this year was a washout? But she got to actual fieldwork…she got further than most do. Well, Luan. This is the city of the Fraerling. A primitive village where we make shoes and hide pots of gold. Hah! What do you think?”

The Human was silent as Ekrn looked at him, reminded that the Architects were letting him see all this and in a bad mood again. He waited, and heard Luan’s voice, distant. Longing.

“It’s beautiful. We don’t have this magic. This is amazing. It reminds me, though. Of home.”

Ekrn glanced sharply at the eye in the jar. Home? He looked around at the city no Human could dare match. He hadn’t told Luan this, but he had seen cities of Baleros. He was one of the Tallguard who had gone on missions to cities—even great ones—and he knew.

There was no city like this, not even Pallass. Unless he was far off.

Yet Luan didn’t sound like he was lying. Ekrn’s anger and wariness began to shift. To curiosity. He began to realize that if a great secret had been unveiled by Luan finding them…perhaps they had found something here too in him.

After all. How else could you explain the strange device in his bag of holding? The one that had no magic, but glowed? Ekrn rubbed his chin as they went to meet the Architects.

—-

The meeting with the Architects took two hours and was surprisingly…normal. They asked Luan a lot of questions and he answered.

He was a City Runner who’d survived a freak accident at sea. He wanted to go home; he wouldn’t tell.

Obviously they had problems letting him go, and they debated that with Ekrn.

“Look, if we wipe his memory—it never works. That’s how stories get out.”

“What about a [Geas]?”

“You can break those. It’s my professional opinion that you can’t keep our secret safe without a dead Human—and even then, [Necromancers] talk. So you chop up the pieces and feed them to the crocodiles. No offense, Luan.”

“Much taken.”

Noa was nervous, but Ekrn’s heart wasn’t in it. Nor were the Architects going to do that; they were civilized people.

Exceptionally civilized. They were like people from Earth, who did not kill, did not contemplate fighting for their lives. It was refreshing to Luan, although he realized they could still be petty, vindictive, and evil. Just in a different way.

They could also be good, intelligent, and kind, and he thanked them for that.

“We respect the institution of City Runners; much like Tallguard, Mister Luan. You have put us in a difficult place, but perhaps we can help each other? Paeth has long been sufficient without Tallfolk, your people, about, but perhaps an exception can be made?”

Citivican Loust smiled at Luan. Ekrn muttered under his breath.

“And that’s how a settlement ends.”

Anyways, the long and short was that Luan was a guest and he got to tour more of Paeth for the last hour they had. Noa did that; Ekrn had stomped off to send a message to their Skywatcher, the Tallguard leader of the Feiland.

“You see, Feiland’s an outpost where we train. A fortress; we go to other settlements. That prevents one from being biased. We divide up, and they all give us what we need. Artifacts, see?”

She had an enchanted crossbow and weapons; her armor was enchanted too. Amazingly enchanted. Almost no magical leakage. When Luan said that even a Gold-rank adventurer might not have six artifacts, while Noa had eight, she looked surprised.

“Why not…? Oh, right. The magical difference. ‘Tallfolk get all the power, but it shrinks by the hour. The small are meek, but our magic’s more complete’. That’s a nursery rhyme they teach us.”

“What does it mean?”

Noa grinned.

“It means we have better spells. It takes less magic to do what we want, after all! We can’t fight big, but we can do a lot of little things!”

That was how Paeth existed. Consider it, and it was easy once Luan got going. A piece of Sage’s Grass could make a healing potion for a normal person. Or help a [Mage] with a spell.

But imagine how much it could do for a Fraerling [Mage]. Power any number of spells they might want, and only one plant! Of course, obtaining such resources was tricky, but if you needed the skin of a salamander, one salamander was enough material for a week for the entire city’s worth of [Alchemists]!

No wonder they had so much resource. However, the rules of allotment meant that Fraerlings couldn’t build the city of paradises. That was the one complaint that they had. Too much magic attracted attention.

“That’s why we have allotment. And each citizen gets a vurel. More depending on their rank; but even kids get a set amount.”

“What’s a vurel?”

It was a kind of measure of magical power. Like…the amount of power in a [Fireball] spell for a Tallfolk [Mage]. Luan expressed disbelief, but Noa clarified.

“You get all that power per year. So how it works is—let’s say you really, really want a fountain that um, automatically purifies the water. You can put part or all of your vurel to that project if someone works on it, and it gets authorized! The Architects campaign on stuff like that; the [Speed] spell got approved because almost a hundred thousand people put part of their vurel towards it. No matter what Ekrn says—it’s great. See?”

She blurred and ran halfway up the wall, with her boots letting her stick to the surface. Noa waved down at Luan for a moment before gravity dragged her down. She pointed.

“I can run all the way up that building, see?”

It looked forty feet tall to Luan. He asked to see, and Noa’s face fell.

“I’d show you—but I got in trouble for doing it last time. A lot of people tried to copy me and they weren’t Tallguard. And didn’t have my boots!”

“I wish I could be here. This place is—amazing.”

“As amazing as Chandrar? Or is it Izril? Rhir? Drath? I don’t believe you’re Baleros if we’re all new to you.”

Ekrn strode over. Luan glanced at him. He hesitated.

There was a standing rule in the United Nations company that no one, not even close allies, knew about Earth. Not anyone you dated, not the Gravetender’s Fist company…no one.

It just made sense and he hadn’t even quibbled with it, like some who argued they should use their knowledge to buy favor with a company. Now, though, Luan wondered. Of all the people in the world, what harm would it be to tell Ekrn and Noa? They were Fraerlings.

And unfortunately or not, Ekrn had seen his smartphone. The Fraerling gave Luan a long look as they paused to eat; Luan had to watch. Noa had offered to sprinkle her sandwich crumbs into his jar.

“The Architects want your ‘Tallfolk’ powers to help us with some of the problems around Paeth. As if this solves them sweeping the allotment issue under the tree’s roots for the last few months…looks like you and I aren’t the only ones reading fairytales, Human.”

The Tallguard grunted, biting into something that looked delicious. Luan’s stomach grumbled in his real body—until he was told it was fried lizard.

“It’s good. You know, we have lots of [Chefs], but it’s hard to get actual fruit. Tallguard have died on gathering runs, even with bags of holding.”

“Birds. We can provide for all of Paeth if we kill a boar or something, but imagine harvesting it and ferrying it in? Plus—meat gets old.”

“So what’s the solution?”

Ekrn grimaced.

“Gathering Runs. For alchemical goods, for food—Tallguard go out and we grab everything we can, haul it into bags of holding…that’s what Inners don’t get.”

There were mining colonies that harvested steel, places where they grew or monitored wild Sage’s Grass, all the things that a place like Paeth needed. Getting it though? That was the problem.

“Okay, here’s a problem. Our water-condensation spell broke last month. Took two weeks to get fixed, and while it’s refilling, everyone’s been on water rationing. I say ‘water rationing’, but they get more than Tallguard sentries get regularly!”

Ekrn slapped his knee. Then he looked at Luan.

“…It’s a dangerous trek and takes lots of Fraerlings with bags of holding, even larger containers, to fill enough water and bring it back from the river. The Architects, in their infinite wisdom, pointed out that if you brought a damn bucket—or your bag of holding—you could refill our water reservoirs in a few trips and then some. I don’t like it, but we’d give you an escort.”

And here came the story again.

The Giant thought about it. He looked around this wondrous city, and didn’t need to think to reply.

“I’ll do it. Only if…you do me some favors too. And stop threatening to shoot me. Deal?”

For an answer, Ekrn sighed, then pulled off some of his sandwich crusts and tossed them into the jar with the eyeball. Luan and Noa glared at him.

“Oh, fine. I’ll play nice.”

—-

That was how Luan found himself doing, well, chores for Paeth. Chores that took advantage of his giant-ness.

Hauling water was the first step. He left his possessions in the Tallguard’s care, walked to the river, filled his bag of holding up with water, and walked back. He did this three times, and solved a city-wide water crisis.

Mind you, the hard part for the Fraerlings was figuring out how to process that much water.

“Dead gods, look at that! We need to purify it first!”

They pointed at a fleck of scum in the river water, which, to them, was as large as they were. Another representative of the city, an Inner, staring around as if he expected a bird to carry him off any second, added anxiously.

“And a container! Human—I’m so sorry, Luan, we need to figure out how to get this inside. Can you…help us store it? Maybe pour it into the barrels or…we’re going to need hands. Thousands! Tell the Architects we need every container they have!”

Luan was only too happy to watch the army of Fraerlings pour out, and their ingenuity. He was careful not to move, as both he and they were wary of a Fraerling being squashed.

Within half an hour, they’d constructed a miniature aquifer with his help. [Geomancers] opened up a pit—Luan helped remove a stone—and they descended into it, wrapping metal to form, well, a giant pot next to the tree, welding it together with fire magic, and making sure it was water-proof. Then, Luan filled it and watched as they constructed a long irrigation funnel back into their city to let the water be transported up to their actual internal plumbing systems.

The fun part was getting the water, because Luan had been apprehensive about crocodiles or predators in Baleros’ jungles himself. Even if he was bigger, he remembered the angry cat, not to mention the serpents Daly had fought and the thousands of other predators.

“We’ve got that covered, Human. Just don’t trip or sneeze or jump, got it?”

Twelve Tallguard rode shotgun on Luan’s shoulders, head, or attached themselves to his clothing. Each one carried a crossbow and ‘trigger-happy’ didn’t even begin to describe it. On his first trip, Luan saw Ekrn blow apart a woodpecker, which he was asked to pick up for food, Noa nailed a crocodile eying him from afar with a miniature bolt that exploded like lightning, and at least fifty one mosquitos died.

The Tallguard regarded them as mortal enemies who’d suck you dry in an instant, and Luan saw more than once a Tallguard race across his arm to behead a mosquito trying to suck his blood.

In short…it was awesome. Yes, Luan wanted to go home, yes, he was worried about the United Nations company and his friends, but this was a story. Not least because he got to learn the last great secret of Paeth from Ekrn himself; how all this was possible when so much had been lost. Why the Architects were called the Architects. In a trade where Ekrn learned about Earth.

—-

After a week in his stay at Paeth’s Tree by the Coast, Luan Khumalo finally felt healed from his trials.

He hadn’t known it, but the toll had yet to recover, even after he’d been healed. The first signs were him being antsy, rather than content to sit about and talk to Noa or the other Fraerlings, or visit via eye-spell.

They’d created a shelter for him with that same Fraerling construction style which had so fascinated him before. Without bags of holding, he imagined it would take far longer, as they ferried up pieces of timber and so on. With it?

Well, it was amazing. Luan knew regular construction; he’d been around the world and seen everything from huge machines to bamboo lattices that workers used to create buildings; some places were less careful than others and gave their workers no safety harnesses, but most places with decent codes demanded some degree of care.

Fraerlings? They would give a safety inspector nightmares. They swarmed up a tree, anchored themselves in with grappling hooks or boots that clung to the tree like Noa’s, hammered in fixtures and created a mini-house so Luan could sleep without being eaten by bugs. If anything, their issue had been the amount of lumber and steel needed, not the creation.

They fell. Luan saw a Fraerling fall almost on her head and tried to catch her, but missed. She landed, swore, and got back up as the others laughed at her.

They didn’t fear falling! And what they made was very high-quality. That was something else Luan appreciated; they may have had tiny, tiny screws and nails, but that just meant what they produced was like finely-stitched fabric, as opposed to huge, loose stitching in cloth. He tried to push at the roof and found all the little nails and even basic enchantment made it hard as stone!

Well, Luan was as delighted as he could be to find himself among the Fraerlings. Especially because they were as fascinated by him. A lot of Tallguard weren’t as hostile as Ekrn and came up to Luan to talk after the first two days. Even some Inners wanted to speak to him, although he had to go to them. It was everything from questions about where he’d been, to what it was like…being big.

“You actually have cats as pets?”

A few children screamed as Luan sat in a school, an actual school and talked to Fraerlings. They looked horrified, but their [Teacher] waved a hand.

“Remember, everyone. They’re small to Tallfolk. Harmless.”

“That’s right. They’re quite cute to us and a lot of us have them as pets.”

“Insanity.”

Some of the Tallguard accompanying him grumbled. Even Noa looked troubled. Luan looked around.

“Don’t you have pets?”

“Sure do. Reasonable ones.”

Luan recoiled as someone actually brought out one of their pets—apparently the school let them take some to class if they kept quiet. He stared at the pale, squirming…beetle?

“What is that?”

“An aphid. What? Never seen—oh, right.”

Even for Fraerlings, aphids were small, so these were like…hamsters, Luan supposed. Horrible hamsters. He didn’t fear bugs like some people, but his discomfort around them amused the Fraerlings, who then insisted on showing him their menagerie of animals.

Everything from ladybugs to aphids to an actual, tamed roach could be a pet. Although they rode the eight-inch long cockroach like a horse. That was too much for Luan.

“Some places have ants—but they’re tricky and it leads to ant-wars and such. They’re not for everyone. Frankly, your ‘cute’ animals are worse to us.”

“Even rabbits?”

“Biting bastards. Take your arm off. Dogs? Eat you whole and aggressive. All teeth and fur and…gah! You do know that Miphir-Roaches are herbivores, don’t you?”

Luan shuddered as the huge ‘safe’ roach waddled past him. He could have lived without seeing what was, to him in this moment, a horse-sized cockroach.

—-

He was still a prisoner, or rather, guest. Luan talked with the Architects and Ekrn, but he realized he wasn’t about to leave unless they had some assurance he would never tell. His word, even on truth spell, wasn’t enough, though they liked that he was honest about his intentions.

“We’re working on a [Geas] spell. But it’s not common, so we have to contact other settlements and see if they have one in their records. You can go after that. Missing your Tallfolk friends?”

“I’m sure they’ll think I’m dead or lost at sea. There’s—something I need to tell them.”

Ekrn nodded, not unsympathetic as Luan did press-ups. Noa and a crowd of Fraerlings were watching. His energy had returned, and with it, restlessness.

The funny thing was, the Fraerlings hadn’t asked much of him that had tested Luan’s actual abilities. Hauling water? Not exactly hard with a bag of holding.

They’d hunted down a Stelbore, much to Luan’s astonishment. He hadn’t even seen the fight, just been asked to help transport it in chunks with his bag of holding. Fraerlings had been covering the Stelbore, keeping it secure as he hurried it back to Paeth. There, [Mages] had erected a ‘scent cordon’ where his nose had stopped working so they could process the meat in peace.

However, that wasn’t hard either. Dragging some rocks over so they had a supply of stone? Helping dig? Luan was amazingly useful to Paeth not by virtue of his class, but his size. There were simply some things a giant could do that Fraerlings could not. For instance—their best bags of holding could hold one banana at most. He walked back from a tree they were familiar with, with enough bananas for the entire year and some for himself.

So Luan was actually a bit bored—physically. His [Rower] class was also unfamiliar to Fraerlings, for all they lived ‘close’ to the water. The sea, even a stream, was a much more dangerous place for them, so while they had pools and Tallguard could swim, he fascinated them by telling them sculling was a sport.

“Are you sure I can’t send a spell?”

Luan panted as he worked out. Ekrn shook his head.

“No [Message] spells, no scrying. Sorry. We don’t make exceptions for Tallguard; longcalls are for Paeth only.”

The problem was, apparently, those spells were all banned around Fraerling settlements. They could be intercepted or ‘hacked’, which was somewhat worrying news to Luan. Fraerlings thus had a harder time communicating and relied on messengers, ironically like his class. The Tallguard handled that.

Longcalls were interesting too. They were huge metal tubes which Fraerlings could speak into. Much like a kid’s toy—only, magic sent the voice flawlessly to the other end. As for how they delivered city-to-city—it wasn’t by foot.

More Tallguard had arrived over the week, ostensibly just as security for the ‘Giant’ in case he drew more monsters. Luan had seen them arrive; a pack of non-descript, brown or green birds had fluttered in.

No cardinals, no blue jays—no attractive colors for hunting birds. The Tallguard’s flying mounts were drab, ordinary—and the Fraerlings rode the birds! It was still dangerous, but this group of Feiland’s patrols had been summoned by Ekrn.

It was as Luan was finishing up that Ekrn barked to the Fraerling audience.

“Alright, clear off! Enough staring at the Human—get to your posts or get lost! Luan, stink bomb the place for me so these idiots stop loitering.”

He meant fart, which could clear every Fraerling in a dozen feet away if Luan did it. The man did not, as he was already embarrassed by the few giant-class things he’d done, like blow his nose; a horrifying sight for Noa and her friends.

“Sentry Leader here. Give us some privacy, would you?”

Ekrn found a [Mage] and Luan sat in his ‘house’, which was a very small shack, albeit with a door and tiny air holes so that even mosquitos wouldn’t find their way in. It had no cooling spells, so he usually kept out, but Ekrn wanted a word. The Sentry Leader waited until a silencing spell was cast, then hopped up onto a ledge by Luan’s head at sitting-height.

“How can I help you, Ekrn? Need something?”

The Fraerling man took his time adjusting his bandolier of crossbow bolts. He sat back, sighing, and looked at Luan.

“I wanted to talk, Luan Khumalo. Man-to-man. As Tallguard—and as someone who’s seen more of the world than most Inners—or even Noa. At this point, I’m pretty sure the Architects are going to want to let you go, with some kind of privacy spell.”

That was good news. Yet Luan waited. Ekrn didn’t want to talk to him about that. He stared up at the ceiling.

“—Even if you go, though, the damage is done. That idiot, Noa, the others who keep talking to you—you’re going to kill them.”

“How? That’s a bold claim.”

The Sentry Leader glanced at Luan.

“You think so? Consider this, Luan. They’ve talked to you. You’re the friendly, amazing giant that everyone loves. You can bring back an entire cluster of bananas with one hand! Amazing! Imagine what the rest of the world might be like! You know what they’re going to do, don’t you?”

“Leave the Fraerling settlements?”

Ekrn sighed.

“Yep. Do you know how many books of the Titan’s stories are being reprinted at this moment? How many children are saying they want to join the Tallguard, and then see the world?”

“I…understand the danger. But how will I get them killed?”

The small man fixed Luan with a keen stare.

“Because they will die if they leave. Tallguard or not, Noa has as much chance surviving a week in a city—any city in the world—as you did on that insane journey here. I wish the Titan had never become famous, frankly, because it makes people think Fraerlings are like him. Luan, have you ever met him?”

“Yes.”

“Wh—really?”

Ekrn hadn’t expected that. He stared as Luan nodded.

“Briefly. At Daquin.”

“Where?”

“The…games at Daquin?”

“What games?”

The Fraerling hadn’t heard about the Titan’s games! He shook his head when Luan gave him a brief history.

“That sounds like him. We don’t keep in touch with the outside world…just all the big news whenever one of us has to visit a city or someone who’s from a village that does that comes by. That’s another difference. Listen, Luan. I met Niers Astoragon once too. I grew up hearing stories about him. Do you know what he is?”

Ekrn leaned forwards and hissed.

“He’s insane. He joined the Tallguard, he was one of us! A damned good one too, but he left to become an adventurer. He’s like—no, he is one of your Named-rank adventurers. Have you ever met one of them? He’s like that. Most Inners can’t even think about stabbing a rat to death. For them it’s like, like—”

Like fighting a bear on Earth with a sword. Or even a gun; Luan could imagine it. It might be a…fairer fight than the Human deserved, but what kind of a person could do that? Actually do that?

“That’s what the Tallguard are, aren’t they?”

Ekrn shrugged.

“We’re the people who want to fight. Who can’t live in Paeth or other places…you want for nothing. I admit it, I like fighting. I like adventure! But there’s a difference between that and going out. Tallguard work together, we know our spaces. Do you know what kills Fraerling kids who see the city?”

“Tell me.”

“Ants. They go with you, some big, friendly Human, and they’ll be adventurers, friends! Live with their big friends. The first day? Their big, giant friends find them dead. A rat killed them. A cat disemboweled them in their sleep. Ants attacked and they fought hundreds, thousands alone. Because the giants had them in their safe houses, the inn, and never noticed. Why would they? A cat’s a pet to them.”

Luan’s skin prickled. He could just imagine it, the horror of a city. He shuddered and Ekrn nodded.

“That’s why we don’t live next to Tallfolk. It’s why we can’t.”

“The Tallguard are strong, Ekrn. I couldn’t kill a Stelbore—I have friends who’re a Silver-rank team who have to plan to kill even one.”

The Sentry Leader accepted the compliment.

“That’s true. If you were an evil Gold-rank, we could probably have gotten you even if you turned violent, Luan. We can take on monsters—hell, we survived the Creler Wars! True—Paeth is our new settlement, we had to abandon the old one, but we survived it. The problem is we can take on one threat. Even big threats. But any Tallfolk army in the world could destroy Paeth. Think about that.”

The Human did. It just boiled down to…numbers, ironically. If the Tallguard could slay a team of Humans, the problem was, funnily enough, that the Tallfolk could come in such numbers that the Fraerlings just ran out of ammunition, even if they wiped them out individually.

“So that’s why you’re afraid of Tallfolk finding out where you are. Have you ever tried?”

Ekrn smiled.

“Every Tallguard recruit asks that. I did too. I have a book—well, you’re not going to be able to read it so I’ll just tell you. Yes, we tried. It never works out. Think about us living next to a tiny Human village. Here’s what happens: we trade, we get a lot of stuff for cheap! Humans can give us enough food to last a lifetime for nothing, a single bottle of alcohol…dead gods. And we can help too! There are things Fraerlings can make.”

“Like your magic.”

“Exactly.”

Ekrn indicated his superior crossbow, which he’d ragged on Paige’s simple wood one for. It was sleek, metal, and Fraerlings had screws, nails, and quality steel because they could never run out of raw metal, unlike Humans.

“It’s all great for generations. Until one day, a Rhir-damned Human brat decides he’s mad and throws a stone at a Fraerling village. It’s always children. They swing a fist, and murder a Fraerling man. Or—someone lets a puppy roam about and it sees our home and comes in to take a bite.”

Luan winced.

“And then?”

“The Human or dog loses an eye. Or we kill. Tallguard don’t play games. But imagine what happens then? It gets ugly. It just takes one drunk, Luan. One careless step…and when Tallfolk and Fraerling fight, one side bleeds, and the other gets squashed.”

So there it was. Ekrn had laid out the issue. Luan didn’t really need telling, but he appreciated it from Ekrn’s perspective. He sat, hands on his knees.

“I don’t want to endanger Paeth, Ekrn. I could swear on truth spell again. Truly, I don’t. I admire your community and I would do anything to keep it safe.”

The [Sentry Leader] looked at Luan. He scratched his head, looking…well, different. Not as hostile. Not—Luan realized—as deliberately hard, thinking he had to kill this Tallfolk to preserve his city. Somehow, the giant and the man had made friends, and that was what Ekrn was wrestling with.

“You know, I believe you. If I’d thought otherwise—I believe you’re a decent Human, Luan. It’d be easier if you weren’t.”

“I’m sorry for being decent, sir. I’ll do better.”

Ekrn laughed, and then glowered.

“Stop making me laugh! Listen, Luan. I’ll make you a deal. The Architects will come up with something to make sure everything’s ‘safe’. But right here, right now, you make me a promise. You never tell anyone. Not your friends, not your lover. Maybe you’ll slip up. Maybe the Architects’ trick doesn’t work, but you don’t ever let trouble come here. Or else.”

“What’s the threat?”

Ekrn fixed Luan with a stare.

“The threat is every Tallguard in Baleros knowing your name. Maybe Paeth vanishes. Maybe you wipe out all of Feiland. Someday, you’ll be walking along and a tiny little man will put a Tier 6 scroll in your pocket. Or you’ll be sleeping and someone comes through a crack in your window. That’s my threat. Got it?”

The Human giant was tempted to say something in reply. Something about threats or…he met Ekrn’s gaze and just accepted it.

“Understood.”

“Good. Threat’s done.”

Ekrn sighed hugely, and sat back down. He groaned, massaged his neck—then looked at Luan again.

“I had to tell you what the stakes are. Now—let’s negotiate. Worst-case scenario, you keep silent because you know what’ll happen. Best case…?”

“We become friends?”

Luan smiled. Ekrn snorted.

“You sound like a child.”

“I’m a big believer in stories where everything works out well. The giant and the little folk meeting. Or didn’t you say you read the same stories?”

The Sentry Leader looked ruefully away.

“And here I told Noa she had a big mouth. Damn.”

The two started chuckling. The air had been tense a moment ago, and Luan had believed Ekrn meant every word. He had also believed the Fraerling was a friend, by now. So they relaxed. Ekrn nodded. He fished around, and came out, with all things, some gum.

No cigar, no other vices…just gum, natural gum the way it had been before people processed it. He actually blew a bubble as Luan watched, envious.

“Alright, you got me. Threats done, we both know where we are. Tell you what—since you’ll probably be our friendly giant, I’m willing to share a few secrets about Paeth. Things you don’t know, if you do likewise.”

“Do I have lots of secrets?”

Ekrn ignored Luan’s innocent look and snorted. He chewed.

“Yep. I just bet you do, and more than threats, that’s the way to make sure we’re willing to trust you. I’m not sure what it is—but you’re from somewhere interesting, aren’t you?”

“How’d you figure that?”

Luan sat back, heart beating faster. Ekrn glanced at him.

“Because you don’t blink at Paeth. Oh, you like our magic, but the galifts, longcalls? I have been around, Luan Khumalo, and no Tallfolk can just waltz into a Fraerling settlement and not be stunned. Nowhere is like this. Yet you don’t even question it. I’ve heard galifts exist in one other place in the world, but they don’t have longcalls there. So…where are you from Mister, ‘not from Terandria, not from Izril, not from…anywhere?’. And what’s in your bag of holding? Nice mage-images, by the way. Clock, ‘apps’—very nice device with lots of pictures.”

Luan grabbed his bag of holding.

“You bastard. You unlocked my phone? How? You knew this entire time—”

Ekrn laughed at him. Luan had no idea how he’d done it! He had the password on his phone…then he realized.

“You could see my fingerprints?”

“What? No! Do you think we bothered to taste all that grease from—that’s disgusting, by the way, we washed it. It was easy. We just cast an unlocking spell.”

“That works?”

“6822?”

Luan swore again. He was learning a lot today, about technology and the way it intersected with magic. Ekrn leaned forwards.

“So how about it? I’ll tell you some things. I bet you’re wondering why we call our leadership the Architects, aren’t you? Information for information. Where’s China?”

Luan looked at the back of his smartphone. He eyed Ekrn, then laughed.

The Fraerling had him over a barrel. But the truth was—Luan didn’t mind.

“Alright, you’ve got me. I’m happy to talk.”

“Really? I thought I was going to have to twist it out of you.”

Ekrn eyed Luan. The [Rower] took his time in replying.

“It’s a big secret, and some of my…friends…wouldn’t want me to say anything. But you know, and you have secrets of your own. Like Signim.”

The Sentry Leader narrowed his eyes.

“Remind me to kill Noa after this.”

“It wasn’t her. Anyways, that’s what some of my friends would say.”

Like Geneva, in her own way about guns and bombs, Daly, Paige…Luan remembered the discussion about the gunpowder, and he agreed. Agreed and disagreed. He wasn’t like them. He looked at Ekrn.

“Secrets get out. More than that, I’d rather tell you. Because trust exists both ways, yeah? You could have just asked me.”

He looked at Ekrn and the little man shook his head. Ruefully. He nodded at the giant and sighed.

“You are the most jolly, good-natured, fairytale giant I’ve ever met.”

The anime-loving athlete from another world grinned as they rose to continue their discussion outside; it was getting stuffy in his home.

“I like that kind of story.”

—-

Ekrn’s negotiations with Luan went well. Noa got to be part of the second deliberation. This time, Guidance was here, as well as three more of the Architects.

The Alchimeer and Enchanter had never been out of Paeth, even a few feet out, and looked jumpy, but Guidance took it in stride. Farspeaker Humalepre adjusted his spectacles.

“That you would vote to tell our Tallfolk friend everything surprises me, Sentry Leader.”

“If you’re going to let him run about, we might as well have an ally, rather than a hostage, Architects. Besides. Like I said, I think this Tallfolk has more to offer us than most.”

Luan nodded. They’d had a discussion where Ekrn convinced the Architects to be open with him. About everything. His heart was pounding. At last, he could tell someone! And who better than the small folk of Baleros?

“I guess we get to go first. Good faith and all that. Hey, Luan. What’s your guess on why the Architects have their name? Second question: what do the Fraer-folk, the Fraerlings want?”

Luan eyed Ekrn as Noa grinned, dancing from foot to foot in delight. He thought hard, and she knew he was smart.

“Let’s see…because they’re building a Fraerling city? I have no clue. Maybe—because Paeth isn’t done? You’re planning on making it big enough to support millions. Maybe dig into the earth. As for what you want—you want to stay safe. That’s your biggest goal.”

All the Fraerlings shuddered. Ekrn replied.

“Half-right. Dig into the ground? Do you know how many bugs are down there? As for the Architects—right and wrong. Who wants to tell him?”

“Me, me—”

Noa waved her arm. It was the Guidance Heish who spoke. She smiled up at Luan.

“Architects are a name for Fraerlings who rule any settlement like ours. Not your Fraerling villages, but the ones who embrace magic. Our full title is ‘Architects of the Great Project’.”

Luan’s eyes were keen, even sparkling.

“What’s the Great Project?”

“A dream among all Fraerling settlements. Why us Tallguard stand out here and fight and die. We’re not just living. We’re pursuing the dream. We have setbacks. We lose a lot in big disasters, even entire settlements. But the Great Project started so long ago it’s the earliest thing we remember.”

“A way to keep all Fraerlings safe?”

“In part, yes. Technologies every Fraerling village can use. Things like galifts—we share it all. But it’s more than that. It’s completing a work given to us long, long ago. If we finish it—some day—then we’ll be safe. Safe from Tallfolk, from threats, and that day we’ll have the power to walk among you as equals. That was what we were promised.”

“By whom? Dragons?”

The Fraerlings laughed. Ekrn replied.

“You think they’d talk to us? No. When we were young, and the world was hell around us, only one group took pity on the smallest folk in the world. They said, so the story goes, that they would give us a hand since we’d replaced them.”

Luan’s skin began to tingle again. Who? Who…?

“Gnomes.”

—-

Gnomes existed. So far back that they were stories. So far back that only Fraerlings even invoked their names. The genius, short people had taken the Fraerlings in under their wing.

They had been geniuses of another era. Magic, technology—it had all been theirs, but they had already been dying out by the time they met the Fraer-folk. Why wasn’t clear and they refused to say.

However, they’d taught Fraerlings, given them the edge they needed. The Great Project, also known as the Great Promise, was a set of blueprints, hints.

Homework. It was everything from the basis of the galifts to hints on what came next. The Alchimeer, the Enchanter, and Paeth had Fraerlings who devoted their lives to uncovering clues, progressing technology.

Luan sat back and thought of it all. Dead gods.

“This is amazing.”

“Now you know. It’s one reason why we’ve kept so much magic that Tallfolk keep forgetting and relearning. There are multiple parts of the Great Project; tricks to keep places safe. Like I said, some of our people just live in villages—Paeth still works on it. Now, it’s your turn. What’s Luan’s big secret?”

The Fraerlings waited, a bit smug at the Human’s reactions. They felt they were on equal ground, perhaps that their secret was even a bit bigger than whatever their friendly giant was hiding.

Oh, but they were wrong. Luan looked at Ekrn, Noa, and the Architects.

“Me? I come from another world. Another world, without magic, where there are only Humans and other species, magic, it’s all a story. We’re here now. A bunch of lost people trying to get home. Nothing big.”

He watched five tiny jaws drop with some satisfaction.

—-

How would you describe Earth to someone else? Luan had the satisfaction of watching Noa running around, arms waving. Ekrn cut through the babble of questions and pointed a finger up at Luan.

“I half believe you’re joking, Luan. Half. Explain it to me. How? What? And would you stop screaming, Noa? You’re Tallguard, not some Inner! Act like it!”

The other three Inners shot him a glare, but Luan was grinning.

“Let me think. The best way for you to imagine it is—you know Paeth? Your galifts, your longcalls, even your schools?”

The Fraerlings nodded. Luan spread his arms.

“That’s what we have. We invented galifts too, only, we call them elevators and they run on electricity, with pulleys, not gas. We have longcalls—telephones. We can even fly, although we use machines. Everything you made with magic, we made with steel and gears and lightning. We have no magic. And the entire world has that level of technology. All Humans. No monsters—only animals, and not big ones. No other people. No magic.”

The reaction Luan got was everything you could have wanted, because it was all spectrums of possible reaction. Alchimeer Straesta ran to a longcall tube back into Paeth to tell the other Architects to get down here.

Noa believed at once and began asking a hundred thousand questions, ‘what happened to the other species?’, ‘how many Humans were there?’, ‘the entire world? All of it? Is it like ours?’, and so on.

Guidance was instantly the opposite, more skeptical, asking if Luan could prove this. Ekrn wanted to know if more Humans were going to appear, if another world was going to begin bothering this one.

Enchanter Ilekrome tried to talk five times, realized he was being drowned out by the hubbub, and snapped his finger. Everyone kept talking—but suddenly even Luan’s voice was gone. They all looked at him and the [Enchanter] spoke.

“As I was saying, I believe the Human Luan has proof.”

He gestured and Luan nodded.

“Ekrn already found it. Here.”

He placed his smartphone down in front of the Fraerlings. The rest was history.

—-

Proof of Earth was simple—all you had to do was bring something that was clearly, undeniably made of Earth.

There was no magic in the smartphone. Yet it glowed. It wasn’t a lichen or something you could just make; the material was too advanced, too unique. It was a product of machinery, industry.

The Fraerlings recognized it at once. Now, Luan felt like the stuff of stories again because over three hundred were gathered around the smartphone. He watched, apprehensively, as they took it apart.

Oh, they’d marveled at the screen, the apps, but Ekrn had already seen it and what fascinated the Fraerling was different than other species. Other species saw the smartphone and investigated what it could do; Fraerlings wanted to know how it was made.

“Can we take it apart?”

The Alchimeer had asked Luan. The man had given them a quick lecture on the fragility of electronics, the problems with putting it together…but the Fraerlings were insistent. They were also convincing, and Luan wouldn’t have let a Lizardfolk do what they were doing next.

“Steady—steady—keep everyone back! Tallguard, double-postings! Nothing gets in here; we’re sitting bugs on a log if a hawk dives! I want eyes!”

Ekrn was exhorting the Fraerlings as they worked. Luan watched as first, a very odd, metallic sheet was laid on the ground. Then huge panes of glass—they were making a containment area! An observation spot while a group of six worked within!

“I’m told this can be [Repaired]? Then we have a contingency.”

Enchanter Ilekrome looked at Luan as one of his subordinates worked. The United Nations company had discovered they could charge devices with the spell, and that it did save valuable electronics from cracks and minor breaks. Luan nodded.

“Not that we’ll be doing any of that. Enchanter, what’s the call? [Room of Weightlessness]?”

“No. Not null gravity; the pieces cannot be moved. [Room of Stasis].”

“Understood. Linking up!”

This was a lesson for the Human as well as the Fraerlings. The smartphone was their size, but before they even opened it they’d created a room devoid of outside interference. Even, he realized, air. The [Enchanter] was touching each Fraerling who entered, muttering. The iPhone, carried between two, froze as the spell activated.

Not ‘hovered’, but froze. Literally froze midair, trapped as it had been. As the Enchanter had said, it wasn’t a gravity spell, but something else.

Then they took his smartphone apart and any ideas of Earth superiority in technology were put to the challenge. Because it took the Alchimeer, two [Engineers], the Enchanter and their respective subordinates less than two minutes to figure out how the smartphone was opened.

“I can see the joining seams here…aha! Screws. Looks like they’re a bit big—I need a custom-sized screwdriver, here! Damn, interesting cuts…is it to keep us out? We might need to adjust what we have.”

The tiny screws in the iPhone, the little ports, everything was a lot bigger for Fraerlings. In moments, one of the [Engineers] had found the two he needed to remove. He waved for some others crowding to see, but the Enchanter’s [Mage]-Fraerling just snorted.

“You can do a mold of that later. Let me.”

He eyed the opening, and conjured a magical cylinder, with teeth to match the slot! It rotated both screws out in moments and the Fraerlings checked the casing for any other cunning locks.

Luan had never actually seen an iPhone being opened, and so was little help. The Fraerlings looked at each other.

“Looks like it’s just stuck on there. We’ll have to pull it apart. Now that’s a dubious decision; they could have sealed it with more than two screws. Tallfolk. You’re going to trust important contents behind the same principle as a cork in a jar? Tsk, tsk. Alright, on three. One, two…”

The iPhone came apart and the Fraerlings gasped. If they had needed proof—here it was.

The microchips, battery, and component parts of the iPhone hovered in the air. The Fraerling team looked at it all, keeping well clear of touching any of the internal workings. They just spoke, amid the outside babble. The Alchimeer cleared his throat, turning to the others and Luan.

“Human—no. Wait. I want some unbiased observations first. Speculation.”

“Well, it’s certainly all components. Amazing.”

One of the Enchanters paced around the iPhone, staring inside. He eyed the battery, but the [Mage] was focused on the actual computer-electronics themselves. He squatted lower, frowning. One of the [Engineers] grinned.

“Hm. Hah. That’s hilarious. This is micro-work, even for us. Can you imagine the technology a Tallfolk would need to make this? But we can still see ways to improve it. That Tallfolk could cut and lay lines of metal…what is the purpose?”

The [Mage] scratched at her chin.

“Runework, obviously. Only for electricity? Yes. Of course! This is how you transfer what’s needed. Like a magical spell—but so neat! But what’s the composition of this stuff?”

She pointed at the case, and the plastic itself. One of the [Alchemists] grunted.

“Let’s get a piece and try to break it down into components—unless the entire casing needs to be maintained for perfect working?”

They pointed at the plastic frame. Luan shook his head.

“You could…take a corner of that part, there? But the computer chip can’t be damaged.”

He indicated the harmless casing. Alchimeer Straesta huffed.

“Obviously! I can see it’s a complete thing. It’s so funny, though.”

She indicated the iPhone.

“All of the inner workings are only half of the device itself! The other half’s your power source, the ‘battery’, and so on. You could make this half as large, easily!”

“But I wouldn’t be able to hold it in my hand.”

The Fraerlings looked up at Luan.

“Oh, right. Tallfolk need bigger things. I bet you if we knew how, we could make something just as tiny…damn. If we can’t reverse it in a cauldron, let’s do analysis spells. Unless that’ll damage the thing?”

“Shouldn’t do. It’s all non-magic. Alright, stop crowding! I need one [Mage] for analysis spells on component material. One—one of you idiots!—gets a part of the casing. Take it up and render it down. Now, what’s this glass? Seems—treated—can we activate this and see if we can trace how it’s working, or is that dangerous?”

It was the Guidance who turned and called out.

“Find me all our [Librarians], [Historians], and experts. Go over the blueprints and see if you can find a match with any of this! This…might move us forward centuries!”

The Fraerling hubbub intensified. This, Luan realized, was more valuable than Earth’s tech alone. The Fraerlings of all people wanted to use this to uncover more Gnomish secrets. He couldn’t wipe a smile off his face. They were properly impressed by Earth’s technology.

“Oh, wipe that smile off your face. You didn’t make it.”

Ekrn glanced up at Luan, but he couldn’t hide the satisfied smirk on his face either.

—-

After that, everything changed. If Luan had been the friendly giant, but one with an uncertain fate, well, after that he was a proper guest. A friend.

Of course, accidents occurred. And it was due to the Fraerlings’ vigilance that it didn’t get bad. They actually determined they could take small chunks of everything with careful, careful [Repair] spells, and had even begun determining the various component parts of what each material was made of—if not how to create it.

It all went well right up until they investigated the battery. It turned out batteries did explode. Fortunately, the Fraerling who’d made the incision survived the first flare of fire.

“[Forcewall]! [Lesser Teleport]! [Repair], now! Everyone back!”

The battery was saved, much to Luan’s relief. The [Engineer] was teleported out so fast that the flare of acid or whatever was reacting didn’t touch them, and the hole was plugged and it was sealed back up in moments.

“Not a bad energy source! A shame we can’t convert the…well, maybe we can. [Aeromancer], can you detect the latent charge of this battery-thing at what Luan calls 100%? Then, convert it into a magical figure. Let’s see how it stacks up compared to your average Sage’s Grass plant. Four-months of growth versus one phone battery.”

A bunch of Fraerlings bustled around and showed the Alchimeer a figure. He took one look.

“Double-check that. That can’t be right.”

“Already done. Unless we’re off…”

The Human watched as another [Mage] specializing in lightning magic put hands on the battery, frowning.

“Something wrong?”

“Maybe it’s how this thing converts to electricity. Human Luan, we’re getting, well, our math isn’t off, but this is below 1% of a Sage’s Grass plant’s energy, converting electricity to magical force. Here.”

He had to draw the numbers bigger, but Luan could see that there were a lot of numbers after the decimal.

“Magic might just be more powerful than Earth technology, Alchimeer. Phone batteries have to be recharged each day and we don’t have healing potions.”

“Makes sense. The amount of energy to knit muscle…so we have an edge on energy. I guess there go hopes of replacing Paeth’s entire mana supply on your ‘solar’ or geothermal stuff. Wait, am I an idiot? If your entire phone runs on this much power, we could power all of Paeth at a fraction of the cost if we can convert mana to your energy! Now. How do you make air conditioning?”

Luan had no idea. Which disappointed the Fraerling [Engineers] no end, but he attracted their attention back again.

“Paige studied this kind of thing. If anyone could tell you more, it’s her. We also have other devices.”

That, of course, led to the Architects meeting.

“More Humans? This is exactly the problem. I have to overrule this. Maybe more devices, but more Humans goes into matters of security, Architects.”

“Even if it advances the Great Project a thousand years? Gnomes guide us, Sentry Leader—and I think they are—this is more than just Paeth! Farspeaker, you intend to contact every other settlement within hailing distance, don’t you?”

Ekrn hesitated. The Farspeaker was nodding to Citivican Loust.

“We have to share this. Human Luan is an acceptable risk given what we’re reaping. Frankly, I can already see the possibilities.”

“Turning into a Fraerling settlement with ties to the Tallfolk isn’t a light decision, Architects.”

Guidance Heish nodded. She looked around.

“We can’t be quick. Sentry Leader, what would you propose?”

Ekrn frowned.

“I trust Luan, but at this point, I want the Skywatcher and all the Tallguard back from their Gathering Run before any other Tallfolk even hear of this spot. Yes, we can trust Luan. I advise we give him all due help.”

“How are we doing with that, Alchimeer?”

The Fraerling was distracted, clearly wanting to go back to analyzing the dearth of information. He chewed at one lip.

“Oh, fine, fine. I tasked some [Engineers] and Enchanter Ilekrome’s people with Luan’s project; they don’t need me. My vote is for him to get back to Talenqual. Maybe not bring the Tallfolk back, but I see no reason to hold him up.”

The Architects were agreed on that. Luan was to be trusted. More technology was wanted—if not more Tallfolk. It only remained for the Tallguard to make their choice, and Ekrn wasn’t as certain they’d share the same sentiments.

—-

“The problem is, the Tallguard of Feiland are a force unto themselves, Luan. Feiland is a fort where we train, but we don’t defend it. Paeth is one of the big settlements—one of two—that Feiland guards, and we have a wide net. The Skywatcher is doing a Gathering Run, but they’ll want to talk to you when they return.”

“They’ve been gone for at least a week. Is that normal?”

Ekrn shrugged.

“Sure. They’re visiting all the collection spots. Food, alchemical ingredients, you name it. And visiting every small settlement including Oierdressql. That’s the other big city. They’ll bring back news, resources, to Paeth. Not long now, I think; I sent word to them. They might decide to send more word to other Fraerling settlements. Or…the Titan himself.”

Luan stooped and looked up.

“The Titan? You can talk to him?”

Ekrn paused before nodding.

“That’s a secret, but Feiland and all these Fraerling villages are under the protection of the Forgotten Wing Company. Only the Titan knows exactly where some of us are—and maybe not even him, but we can prevail on him for help. It’s part of the deal. There’s only one Tallfolk who knows about Paeth and that’s Three-Color Stalker. Know her?”

“Foliana of the Forgotten Wing Company? So that’s how you met him.”

Ekrn grunted. Luan stared at the Sentry Leader.

“You’re not a fan of his.”

“I told you. It’s not about liking or not liking him. He’s just crazy. We might tell them about you…but probably not. You’re not an issue, like someone sniffing around. We give the Titan what he wants, and he gives us what we want. A bit of protection now and then, monster-clearing for some places, and access to some of the rare stuff it’s hard to get, like sulfur. Paeth doesn’t interact with him much at all, but we do send him some Signim.”

“Ah. That’s why he does all that. No wonder he wants your help. He can’t produce it himself?”

Ekrn laughed.

“Unless his [Alchemists] are as good as ours? No. And it costs far too much as it is, so even he gets only a bit. Enough. The Titan’s a busybody—if he gets wind of you, he’ll march over with his entire army and you don’t want that. You’re our secret. As soon as the Skywatcher gets back, you can go. We should be done by then.”

Now that they were working together, Paeth had devoted its considerable resources—however small in scale—to helping Luan. The man began to understand some of the legends about Fraerlings as well.

They said that Fraerlings could make boots, like brownies or faeries in Earth stories. That they had pots of gold—well, those were the legends Tallfolk told. Luan had been told by Ekrn at the start that Paeth had no gold, but Luan realized that wasn’t true.

They had gold. They had value beyond belief! That any Tallfolk might want. He bent down to talk to the [Engineer] in charge of working with him, a woman named Vuiel.

“Do you think you’ll be done in the next few days?”

“With a team of two hundred? Sure! If you were a regular client, we’d be on this job for months, but the Architects have the best teams on this job—all those not figuring out the new secrets!”

She beamed up at him, happy as could be. She waved her arms as she indicated the blueprint and Fraerlings hauling tools around behind her.

“No vurel needed! No allotment to worry about! We can dump as much magic into this as we want and not have to worry about containment—well, not more than the basics. It’s not staying at Paeth, so the tree branches are the limit! It’s a dream come true!”

Luan grinned as she pointed to the project in progress: a scull, being built by the Fraerlings from the ground up. An enchanted scull. Not a converted Lizardfolk canoe, or kayak, but a sleek, modern design that would be faster than even his old vehicle.

Fraerling-enchanted. From the paddle to a custom-sewn spray skirt, even clothing! They were sparing no expense, magical or otherwise.

“Are you sure you can make it properly, Engineer? Fraerlings don’t paddle.”

“Row.”

Luan frowned at Ekrn. Vuiel scoffed at Ekrn.

“You think we’re idiots, Tallguard? All our prototypes work! There—”

They had indoor pools, and a Fraerling was indeed sculling about in the outdoor testing area with a miniature design at this very moment. Ekrn shrugged.

“Alright, Luan’s the one who has to live with it exploding in the water or something.”

Luan doubted that would happen. The Fraerlings were working on it with their best, and so far the only arguments had been how to make it as lightweight and strong as possible; they didn’t have plastic, but they had been prototyping with everything from enchanted cloth to metal. Predictably, wood seemed like the best option, and now they were testing enchantments.

“Engineer! Anti-gravity spells are a no-go. Lightweight, but not reverse thrust!”

One of the testers called out as the Fraerling trying to scull across some simulated waves went over one—and then flipped as the enchantment overcorrected. A few Fraerlings dove in to rescue the tester.

“Damn. Also, a shame we can’t bind a few [Fireball] spells into it, but it’s no good for a Tallfolk.”

The [Engineer] sighed as she made a note on the blueprints. She looked up at Luan.

“Sorry, Human Luan, but we can’t arm you for that. We’ll focus on protection and speed. Maybe even stealth.”

“That’s more than enough. And I am going to have some self-defense, right, Ekrn?”

The Sentry Leader grinned.

“That’s right. We can’t make enchanted bolts, but I think they’ve nearly ‘fixed’ your worthless crossbow.”

Rather, the Fraerling [Blacksmiths] and group devoted to that project hadn’t even touched Luan’s old crossbow, just built a new one from scratch. The new crossbow would be hand-held, smaller, but three times stronger. Luan wondered if he could ask for one for Daly. It might be a present on the way back. He walked over to field-test it. Ekrn was grinning as Luan lifted the plain, wood-tipped bolt and aimed the crossbow at a target they’d set up for testing firepower.

The crossbow bolt went through the armored plate—and part of the tree behind, although it couldn’t survive the impact and it was actually shrapnel that did as much damage. Ekrn grinned and Noa danced in delight—right up until they heard the cry of pain.

Luan had broken his hand with the crossbow’s recoil.

—-

It wasn’t a bad break; just a fracture, but the [Engineer] team got chewed out, and Luan’s hand ended up in a brace while [Healers] fussed around it, even numbing his skin to make an incision and apply a gel directly to the bone itself so it knitted.

It took two days for a full-recovery, which was the result of them being able to get at Luan’s bones…and call for a [Necromancer] to check for the exact fracture points and help knit it up. Luan bore no grudge.

He was interested to note that cutting into his hand and applying the gel was the limit of their surgical expertise. The Gnomes had, apparently, not focused on that aspect of medicine as much as their other areas, so Geneva Scala had a considerable march on the [Healers], who asked for a copy of her basic doctor’s manual.

“Let’s see. I need to bring back samples of every electronic, other smartphones, Geneva’s manual, eighteen different ingredients from an [Alchemist] shop, a block of silver, actual gold—”

“Don’t forget the scrying orbs! We want to see this news!”

“We’re not doing that. We’ll find a way to do it ourselves, Luan. If there is a worldwide network, we’d watch only if we could make sure they can’t see us. Which I doubt.”

Ekrn growled. Noa gave him a hurt look and Luan crossed it off his list.

“—And as many fruits as I can grab.”

“Can you get us some er, goods from abroad too? Not strictly necessary, but we used to have some Firebreath Whiskey. An entire keg would last us a generation. We’d share it with other cities.”

Luan grinned. Ekrn sighed. Paeth had a wish list so long for such a small place. He turned to the Architects.

“There’s no way that Luan can cover all this on his City Runner’s salary.”

Luan eyed the scull, which he’d have to carry to the sea. No bag of holding would ever fit it, as enchanted as it was.

“I consider it less than what you’ve given me, truly. And I’m happy to do it. It might take a while…but I’ll come back.”

“Boss. Boss, can’t I go with him?”

Noa pleaded. Ekrn snapped.

“Absolutely not. No offense to Luan, but I’m not sending anyone to get eaten by a dragonfly or get sat on. Remember, we’re a secret.”

Noa looked disappointed and Ekrn glared at her—then Luan. The man raised his hands. He’d been asked, privately, by Noa and no less than a dozen other Fraerlings if he wanted a companion, and he’d refused, mindful of Ekrn’s stories.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Within the week! I just need to tell everyone I’m alive.”

And run about. Luan did feel a bit cramped, as he had to stay in the ‘safe zone’ around Paeth. In short though, he was all set to go. He had food—some of the Stelbore, salted and dried, and some other provisions, although Luan hadn’t taken much, mindful of Paeth’s supplies.

“We’ll watch for you at the inlet. Just return there and you’ll meet with our team.”

Ekrn went over how they’d make contact again; Luan wouldn’t have a map right back to Paeth, and frankly, he didn’t know if he’d be able to make the jungle-trip even if he wasn’t running for his life. It was hidden in the maze of green.

“We’ll have to have a farewell. Inside, of course.”

Citivican Loust glanced back at the tree, shuddering as he indicated the outside world. Luan smiled, nodding. One last eye-trip. The Human was heading to his ‘house’ to lie down.

He wondered how he’d tell his friends about this without giving the secret away. Would he tell the leadership, Ken, Daly, Geneva, and the others? Maybe…Geneva. She’d want to know about their alchemy, at least. Come to that—wait a second.

“I need to ask for that recipe for her anesthesia!”

Luan would ask when he was small. The [Necromancer] bustled in.

“Alright, Luan. We’re brewing up another batch of that soporific again. Just a moment…”

He glanced at the door. Luan had heard it too. In the distance, someone had blown a warning siren. It sounded like a birdcall, but he was familiar with the Tallguard enough to know that it was an owl by day, a bird by night, so they didn’t get mixed up.

“Trouble?”

Luan sat back up, reaching for the modified crossbow. The [Necromancer] hesitated.

“Let me check. Stay there.”

Luan hesitated as the man ran out. He loaded the crossbow, just in case. He didn’t want to get in the way of the Tallguard; if they were swinging around and fighting, he might hit one.

Another owl’s shriek sounded—then stopped halfway. Luan waited.

“Ekrn! Noa?”

He called out, going to the door, but someone met him—he stopped as Noa slipped in, nearly striking her with the door.

“Luan! Stay there!”

“What is it, trouble?”

She didn’t reply.

“I have to go! The boss needs all of us—just—just stay there.”

A worried note was in her voice. Luan hesitated. However, Noa was gone in another moment. He listened, but no one blew the alarm again. He did hear…shouting. Luan listened, wavering between going out and not. He peeked out the door and then saw it.

All the Fraerlings outside of Paeth had returned, the Architects and Inners hurried into the city out of danger. Only Tallguard remained, taking up their usual posts around the clearing, ready for combat.

But…something was off. Rather than stick to their posts, Luan saw hundreds of Tallguard running. All those not keeping watch were heading one way. He cracked the door open further and saw.

“Tallguard of Feiland! Deploy! Move, move! I want [Bird Riders] in the sky! Keep us clear! Kill everything that moves! Signim free! Go!”

That was Ekrn, and the Human had never heard the note of—panic—in his voice before. Luan was just about to thrust the door open and demand to help. That was when he saw it.

In the distance, stumbling past the higher tripwires, traps against other animals, Fraerlings were entering the clearing. Fraerlings…but not Tallguard. They ran forwards, meeting the Tallguard, pointing back.

Hundreds of them. No…thousands. At first, Luan thought it was a war, but if it had been, Tallguard would have been swinging through the air. These ones were just on the ground.

And they weren’t Tallguard. Some carried weapons, wore armor, but he saw impromptu spears rather than enchanted blades. They were—ragged. He realized in a sudden jolt of adrenaline these weren’t warriors at all.

“Get them inside!”

Ekrn ran past his field of view, Noa following. The Fraerlings were crying out, and he heard voices.

“—all gone! They came at dawn—”

“Where’s the Skywatcher?”

The door opened further as Luan looked out. One of the Fraerlings wore the same garb as the Guidance of Paeth. He was pointing, shouting.

“They all stayed! They were dying, even with their Signim—we lost the last a week ago.”

“A week? When was this? How many? Monsters?”

“No, it was—”

The Guidance looked past Ekrn, dazed, as a stream of countless Fraerlings emerged from the forest. Weary, bloody, wounded—clutching their possessions. Noa, horrified, saw tens of thousands, maybe over a hundred thousand—but so few.

This was the Guidance of Oierdressql, and that city was larger than Paeth! If not as old—they had all fled. They were wounded, and the Tallguard were securing their retreat. The Guidance was babbling at Ekrn, but then he froze. He pointed.

“There! Human!”

The Fraerlings moving towards Paeth froze. Their stream stopped—then they began to stampede backwards, screaming. The Guidance pointed at Luan, peeking out of his house.

It wasn’t a good moment. Luan’s head had been just peeking out, like some giant of nightmares. But that wouldn’t have terrified Fraerlings normally—Ekrn swore.

“That’s—”

The Guidance seized him, shaking him.

“Did you do this? Traitor! Was it Paeth? I can’t believe it!”

“Do what? Do…”

And then they realized. The Guidance pointed at Luan.

“They did this. It was an army of them. Tallfolk. They’re coming.”

The Giant of Paeth looked at the terrified Fraerlings amid the chaos. He looked as Ekrn and Noa turned back to him, in a horror reflected on their faces. There would be no celebration, not now.

The Tallfolk had destroyed a Fraerling village. They were hunting the small. Why? For what reason? Luan didn’t know. He couldn’t know. After all, he was cut off from the world. In the chaos, as Ekrn established that there was no way Luan could have treacherously revealed the location of a Fraerling village, not under watch, the truth came out. The news so delayed, that changed it all.

The Titan of Baleros was missing. The Forgotten Wing Company was under attack.

8.27

(The next Public chapter will be released on June 22nd, as the Patreon chapter is delayed. The revised chapter will come up as a ‘double update’ later on, but the story is delayed by one chapter due to this.)

It was time.

Enough time has passed. Too much. Time was finite. Time ran out before you expected it to.

So, on days like these, time skipped and jumped and came together in important events.

In ways unforeseen by almost all.

It began with a departure.

—-

“I’m leaving Oteslia.”

Lyonette du Marquin interrupted breakfast with Mivifa, the Gentlemen Callers, and Saliss for this. Well, all but Saliss; he had passed out in his impromptu alchemy-station and heard about it near the end.

“You’re going, already? But after the ball…”

The Oldblood of Feathers trailed off realizing that Lyonette’s near-fatal stabbing might be the exact reason for her departure. However, the [Princess] just gave her a smile. The real reason was much simpler and planned in advance.

“I have to go back to Liscor. I promised I would. I know a lot’s going on, but…it’s time to go.”

Mivifa met Lyonette’s gaze and hesitated before nodding. After all, she could hardly insist Lyonette stay. The young woman was a guest that was only here because of Saliss. However curious she might be and Cire asking about her—no, that was just another reason it might be for the best.

She hadn’t seen Cire since…

But that was Mivifa’s problem. Lyonette thanked her, promising a gift from Liscor, and that was that. It was not hard to leave a city.

“Is um…what’s his face still in prison? I bet he’ll have something to say about you going. Hah! That’s hilarious.”

Saliss blearily looked at Lyonette. She had no idea why that poor Gnoll’s fate was so funny to Saliss.

“Ferris? I haven’t seen him. I chartered a coach from Izril’s Wonders. We’ll be riding with others, but we’ll get to Pallass.”

“That’s hilarious. Well, I’m staying. I have more work to do here. More ingredients to get. That okay?”

Lyonette nodded. She was rather pleased not to suffer his presence on the way back. Besides, Ratici and Wilovan would escort her.

There were reasons she should stay. Magnolia Reinhart had asked Lyonette to call on her. So had Ilvriss, the First Gardener…they all received Lyonette’s careful, hand-written note that morning.

“Leaving? She absolutely cannot! Ressa, do something.”

“Like what? Slash her carriage’s wheels?”

“Mm. That’s a good idea—”

Ilvriss just accepted the note, while the First Gardener was dismayed. And she was far from the only person who wanted Lyonette’s attention. The owner of the Faerie Flowers, the Human who had danced with the Wall Lord, who was from that famous inn in Liscor—leaving?

“She can’t! I haven’t even talked to her!”

Cire shouted in dismay; Rafaema was already out of the door. Lyonette hadn’t even sent her a note, but the Dragon wasn’t about to let her go! So she marched out and found a small crowd outside of Mivifa’s home. One of the Gnolls was already hammering at the door, but one of Oteslia’s top [Pegasus Fliers] knocked instead.

“Miss Mivifa? The First Gardener’s sent us to request the Human, Lyonette’s presence urgently.”

Mivifa eyed one of her co-workers and the crowd all demanding to see Lyonette. She coughed into one claw.

“Not to stand in the First Gardener’s way, but…she’s already gone.”

“What?”

The Named Adventurer sighed and rubbed at her earholes. Still, she had to hand it to Lyonette.

She didn’t know that the [Princess] was from Calanfer, and thus an expert at things like this. When you announced your departure—you left before you could be held up.

In fact, Lyonette had outsmarted even the people now trying to race out the city gates and stop ‘her’, because she wasn’t leaving with the first shuttle north. She’d made one stop with Saliss in tow, just before she left.

“Excuse me? I’m looking for Researcher Dromenl? Lion Solstice and Saliss of Lights.”

The research institute that Lyonette had visited before opened its doors to her and she was conveyed for a speedy meeting with the Human man. After all, she’d convinced one of the best research teams in Oteslia to take on her case. It was in their best interests; they’d get no Faerie Flower parts without her help.

Thus, Researcher Dromenl had taken half his team to look into Lyonette’s quandary while the others were using their sample of non-growable cuttings to find out what they did. The man was quite polite, and offered her 3-day old tea, which Lyonette refused.

“I see you’ve been working hard?”

He wiped at his face, and was mystified by the smudges his hand returned.

“What? Oh, yes, Miss Solstice. Quite. It’s a fascinating problem, if a confusing one. Returning a frozen person to life…there are precedents. We’ve made some headway.”

“Really?”

Lyonette and even Saliss leaned forwards. She’d been worried they’d be devoted only to the flowers, for all that had been the carrot to get them to take on her project, but it seemed once a [Researcher] got stuck into a project, there they remained. Dromenl nodded enthusiastically, sipping from the old tea with no apparent disgust.

“Indeed. Healing issues aside…well, your poison is a known mix in the Hectval region. Tongueshade, Pithberry, and I think the venom of a Sworttoad or something similar. We’re working the last one out; it’s a classic anti-healing poison, practically standard on crossbow bolts.”

“I could have told you that. I did tell you that, didn’t I?”

Saliss snorted. Dromenl gave the [Alchemist] a reproving look. Lyonette just sat up, writing down the ingredients. They’d actually found out the poison?

“Yes, well, Master Saliss, you could probably heal or produce an antidote easily enough on a living patient. However, in this case? We’re working on neutralizing it, which won’t be easy if it’s in the bloodstream, but there are ways.”

“Tell me.”

Dromenl sighed, but recited his findings from memory.

“Well now, what we’re looking at are multiple issues, so my team is working on each one…with various degrees of success. The poison’s easiest. We debated a counteragent, but if it’s in the ah, body—it would be easiest to extract it prior to a healing attempt. What we need is a skilled [Mage] who can perform a [Detoxin] spell that removes said poison. We’ll find the right spell; we just need to consult enough spellbooks.”

“That’s—that’s wonderful.”

Lyonette and Saliss exchanged a look. Just conjure the poison out? Dromenl nodded.

“That’s simple. The harder issue is…bringing back someone who’d technically alive, but frozen. Frankly, I’m not sure if this young woman is alive—”

“She is. We tested.”

He nodded.

“—Then the trick is her flesh. Not healing. The Potion of Regeneration may have failed simply because her flesh cannot be unfrozen by mere heat. The damage…well. That’s why you hired us. I’m still not sure a Potion of Regeneration even works on someone with her parameters—only the living. We’re looking into precedent.”

“That doesn’t sound promising.”

Saliss raised his brows. Lyonette’s heart sank. Dromenl gave them another patient smile.

“It doesn’t? It does to me, because there is precedent! Old, but there. We have at least four studies we’re trying to find more data on—old records of adventurers surviving freezing by Ice Dragon breath, or similar spells. Even someone who was frozen in a block of ice but later thawed by a [Sage].”

“That—!”

Dromenl was nodding.

“Not the same, given poison, but we have progress, Miss Lion. We just need to run down each option. If you are leaving, does that mean you won’t require checkups?”

Lyonette shook her head instantly.

“Not at all. Weekly at minimum, [Researcher]! I need you to send updates to Liscor, The Wandering Inn. The Mage’s Guild will know me. I’ll be back within a week or two, but I have to return. Will you have more progress by then? This is excellent, thank you for your hard work.”

Knowing the poison was valuable, but Dromenl could only shrug rather than reassure Lyonette.

“These things come in leaps and bounds or slow stretches, Miss Solstice. Not predictable at all. However…”

He chewed on one lip.

“I hesitate to mention this, but your down payment won’t last for the entire duration. We’ll need more funding over time. I’d ideally like a sample of the ice or even tissue…I know that’s extreme. Maybe just the same spells used, so we can duplicate it on testing subjects? But ah, financially, are we secure on this project?”

Lyonette hesitated for just a second, although she did have quite a bit of gold—just perhaps not for an entire [Researcher] team? However, Saliss interrupted both.

“Money? How about this?”

The Drake slapped a copper coin on the table in front of them. Lyonette and Dromenl stared at it. Saliss looked at their faces, then reached into his bag of holding and slapped five more down.

He met Dromenl’s gaze.

“There’s more of that if you keep bothering me about money. Literally. I will dump two thousand copper coins down and make you clean it up. She’s good for money.”

“If a Named Adventurer is vouching for you…very well.”

Dromenl pushed the coins back towards Saliss. The Drake happily flicked them onto the carpet. Dromenl sighed.

“Very well, Miss Solstice. It’s back to work for us. Fissival is sending some of our notes via teleportation—two have to be transported by Courier, given the fragility of the information—we will communicate with you in seven days, sooner if we have a breakthrough…can we arrange the Merchant’s Guild to pay and communicate extraneous costs? Adventurer Saliss, please stop throwing copper coins on the ground! Please?”

And that was that. Lyonette bade farewell to Saliss as Wilovan and Ratici walked with her to the waiting coach. It was anticlimactic, but she’d be back.

“Maybe with Mrsha. Or not…I was stabbed.”

“Eh, you get stabbed everywhere. I can get stabbed on my way to the toilet. Don’t worry, I’ll check in too and kick their tails if they slack off.”

“So you are staying?”

The [Alchemist] grinned; he’d put on pants and even clothing to help her leave in peace, a heavy imposition, but one he’d agreed to. He adjusted the hat he’d insisted on wearing as part of the ‘disguise’. It still made him noticeable, but Lyonette had to admit that even a bright yellow hat and garish clothing still made everyone assume the peculiarly-dressed Drake was anyone other than Saliss of Lights.

“Eh, I need more ingredients and the Faerie Flowers are being researched here. Might as well stay; Xif needs someone to bother him. Be seeing you.”

He saw Lyonette off as the young woman got in the coach. Saliss said nothing about Manus’ agent, who was probably tearing his fur out at her leaving after all his hard work. Nothing about Magnolia or Ilvriss, because, in the end, Lyonette leaving was probably the most chaotic thing she could do.

Saliss was all about that, so he waved as she sped out the gate with an actual coach of Izril’s Wonders and a Drake [Coachwoman] animatedly chatting up the guests within about their first visit to Pallass—or returning trips for Lyonette and a Garuda.

The Drake smiled as Lyonette went, wished her the best of luck and turned away. Then he whirled back.

“No damn way. Lyonette! Lyonette—”

He began running, but it was too late. The first boom-boom of distant drums met Saliss’ ears. He raced out the gates as Oteslia’s [Guards] came alive. Saliss stopped, and stared out across the bridge leading over Oteslia’s lake.

There, in the distance, just as he’d heard, came war drums. Lyonette’s coach slowed, and those within Oteslia looked up. At…the army coming their way. Saliss heard someone sound inner alarms, but he didn’t need to hear them.

“Army within siege range! Lock down the gates!”

“Everyone in! In!”

The queue at the gates turned into a panic as the [Senior Guards] shouted in alarm. One of them turned to the sentries on the gates.

“What army? Gnoll? Drake? Where’s it from?”

“Drake! It’s—”

The enchanted spyglasses trained on the flags. Saliss saw with his augmented eyes a second before the sentries.

“Zeres.”

—-

The City of Waves had come in force. They had been at war with Oteslia for a while, but war between Walled Cities didn’t always come to full blows. Normally, it was assailing each city’s assets; attacking a Walled City front-on cost too many lives for Walled Cities to countenance. Even sieging a city was dangerous, as their protections made it more dangerous for the besiegers than defenders.

This? This was a rare case. A kind of gesture, although it would certainly lock down Oteslia. Zeres had sent an army, one large enough to make Oteslia’s own army hesitate to sweep down and push them aside. They might have still tried it, but the immediate effect was to shock and awe.

The Sharkcaptain of Zeres himself was leading the gesture, courtesy of the Serpentine Matriarch. He was aware the gesture was more of a middle finger to Oteslia. And Magnolia Reinhart.

“Humans.”

He snorted as he saw the foot soldiers advance. Mostly infantry; Zeres, being a naval nation, didn’t specialize in riders or fliers like Manus and Fissival. However, they were good enough on land.

“Halt! Oteslia is under siege! Halt for inspection!”

A Zeres [Lieutenant] was in front, stopping all traffic in or out. Most vehicles halted; several leaving Oteslia went straight back the way they’d come, fleeing inside the City of Growth.

All except one. A coach bearing Izril’s Wonders’ logo was heading north. It seemed to waver and began to slow, turning in a ponderous arc to return to Oteslia. That was all fine and the [Lieutenant] was happy to ignore it.

…Right up until there was a muffled argument from inside, and a Drake clambered out to replace the terrified [Coachwoman]. He whirled the coach and began to take it north.

That was when Zeres’ army took notice.

“You! Hold!”

A full squad of Zeresian [Soldiers] charged after the coach, but they were on foot, and the coach was heading north, at a gallop now. Swearing, the [Lieutenant] called it in.

“Coach going north! Probably civilians—orders?”

It went to two leaders; the Admiral of the Land, and the Sharkcaptain. Femar, the Champion of Zeres, stirred himself, but the Admiral of the Land just sighed.

“Long-range [Appraisal] check. Occupants?”

The [Mage], one of the specialists in counter-smuggling and spells like this, usually on a ship, grumbled. She cast the spell, a Drake Drowned Woman, her scales turning into a fish’s gills on half her face. Her breathing was thus harder in the air. She frowned.

“Six civilians, all below Level 20, Admiral, but…three unreadables. All masked.”

The Admiral of the Land and Sharkcaptain stirred. Both of them glanced at each other.

“Magnolia Reinhart, the [Butler], and that [Maid]?”

Femar suggested. The Admiral of the Land shook his head.

“That’s a regular coach. Just a coincidence. Still…don’t risk it.”

Every instinct in Zeres’ command was that if someone ran and you couldn’t tell what they were carrying, stop them. They were used to smuggling runs, so the order went back.

“Stop that carriage. Mark it!”

The army gave chase, more [Soldiers] streaming out. Still—the few [Riders] were distant and for all the Drakes on land charged, the coach was getting away. The Sharkcaptain watched calmly. After all…

—-

Saliss commandeered a horse and a [Guard]’s gear by grabbing it. When the Drake resisted, Saliss just ripped off his clothes.

“Saliss of Lights! Give me that!”

The Oteslian [Guard] was smart enough not to argue with a Named Adventurer. Saliss swore as he rode the horse forwards. He would have given anything to use a Potion of [Haste] rather than a stupid horse, but he was low on every potion! Damn, damn…

He saw Lyonette’s coach heading north, pursued by Zeres’ army. Saliss thought they’d make it—right up until the second army came over the hilltop. This time, Saliss snarled.

“You bastards! That’s your own side! Don’t do it—”

But it was too late. A wedge of riders made for the carriage, alerted by their allies, no doubt. It was all so ironic. Saliss’ eyes focused on the distant flags, the second set of war drums. He had been taught by Chaldion since he was small. Of course, Saliss knew what this army was.

Liscor’s army had been participating in the war between Oteslia and Zeres. Now—Zeres called them in. A group of riders shot towards the carriage and it turned, realizing it was heading for the second half of the sieging force. It turned back to Oteslia after hesitating—too late. Now, Zeres’ [Soldiers] were closing in and it was a race to the bridge and the closing gates.

—-

Lyonette’s first view of Liscor’s never-seen, oft-spoken of army was a smaller force than Zeres’, but with just as many standards. It appeared and [Riders] shot forwards, riding down on them.

Weapons drawn.

“You’re going to get us killed! We have to surrender!”

“No, back to the city.”

Wilovan snapped. Ratici was flapping the reins, urging the horses onwards, but he was no [Driver]. Lyonette looked at him.

She had asked them to try and get them north, but they’d already been acting by the time she made the gamble. Now, they ignored the pleas from the other passengers to stop!

“How much trouble are we in?”

The Gentlemen Caller gave her a snarl of a grin, so uncharacteristically worried she realized something was wrong.

“Us, Miss Lyonette? In for a rough share of it, but no more than that, I’d wager. A bit of a to-do—if we weren’t with you. The trouble with fine folk like Zeres is how they treat people on their lists. They like looking into things, which means all three of us are up a few creeks I wouldn’t mention in polite company.”

He meant them. The Gentlemen Callers! And her. Lyonette’s heart began to beat faster. If they took her ring off and read her class—

“Faster, Ratici!”

—-

“Looks like they spotted us coming.”

“You really thought they wouldn’t?”

The Sharkcaptain and Admiral of the Land were talking, ignoring the only bit of drama. Some idiots in a coach; Oteslia was their focus, and there were really no surprises. Their army was ready for this, even if the citizens were panicking. No one escaped fliers’ visions, especially not with an army.

They’d never siege Oteslia to surrender; the city could literally feed itself forever. What they could do was strangle trade, make Oteslia sweat gold, and it didn’t have much to sweat.

Reinhart. That was the issue. The Sharkcaptain’s eyes narrowed. Their agent must have seen something truly nasty, to not hold off and move right away. Too many Drakes from other cities were here for his liking. Peace with the Humans? It was going to be a knife in the back. So…

“Admiral, clash with the coach!”

Both Drakes turned back. The coach had stopped, chased by Liscor’s riders straight into Zeres’ troops. It had tried to swerve past, but been caught by the unique weapon employed by the infantry.

Nets. They’d tangled it up and now the army was going to conduct some questioning. Or…they would have. Because three had come out of the coach, a young Human woman, a Gnoll, and Drake. And they were fighting.

The Sharkcaptain stirred and snarled. Half a dozen Drakes were down!

“Those are high-level! Dead?”

No blood was visible at this distance; it looked like that Gnoll was laying about him as the other two ran for Oteslia. Which, of course, was the wrong move. Zeres’ army, interrupted from the enclosing operation, began to close in.

“Looks like they’re not bad. I’ll go and sort that out.”

The Sharkcaptain didn’t wait for a reply. He took off running, a grin like his namesake on his face.

—-

For a second Lyonette had wanted to talk to Liscor’s riders, but telling them she was a citizen and proving it was…not going to work, even if she had documentation. They’d turned back and run into the nets.

Now? It was getting bad. Ratici was running with her, and he blocked a Drake coming in with a spear thrust, severing it, and kicking the Drake. Wilovan was knocking Drakes down, too fast for them.

But that just meant Zeres was beginning to realize they were a threat. They came in, and Lyonette felt an ominous shudder run through her. A knife pricked her skin.

“Wilovan, Ratici! Someone’s coming! Someone with a powerful aura!”

Like jaws! Like teeth!

The two Gentlemen Callers heard her and ran faster for Oteslia’s walls. They would not surrender, if it had been an option before. If they were caught? They died. Zeres dealt with criminals one way.

Lyonette ran, now drawing her sword to defend herself. She saw Ratici swear, and jump back—arrows thudded into the ground ahead of him. The bridge! It was so far away, and Zeres’ troops were entering into Oteslia’s range, cutting them off. She saw Wilovan snarl and take a sword slice from the enemy [Lieutenant]. He lashed out, but a wall of [Soldiers] had spears. They were trapped! It was surrender or fight and die or…

That was when Lyonette saw the single rider racing across the bridge. She turned and her eyes widened.

“Saliss?”

—-

It was all damned idiocy. Drakes and pride. Drakes and grudges.

Saliss was sick of it. He knew why Zeres had come; to force the issue of Magnolia. The Walled Cities would take sides. This? This was flexing their muscles.

So was the carriage. They just had to stop everyone. Couldn’t let something lie. Now, because they saw the three as a threat, they were ready to spear all three.

Idiots. It didn’t have to come to this! Oteslia was blasting warnings at Zeres, he knew. But they wouldn’t open up with their attack-spells, though they could kill hundreds of Zeres’ [Soldiers]. They didn’t want war.

And Saliss didn’t want Lyonette to die. Or risk becoming a political captive if they found out she was Calanfer’s 6th Princess. Wouldn’t that be a disaster on multiple fronts? If worst came to worst…Saliss could just imagine Terandria pivoting and declaring war with Zeres for taking a [Princess] prisoner.

Not to mention the two Gentlemen Callers. So—Saliss rode. He hadn’t ridden a horse for a long time; he could run with potions much faster. Yet it was familiar. The horse was used to combat, and obeyed his directions easily. He bore down on the stream of soldiers hemming in the three. No blood had been spilled save for Wilovan’s. Saliss bellowed.

“Saliss of Lights. Lower your weapons, in the name of the City of Inventions!”

—-

Mivifa stared from her position on top of the walls at Saliss in shock.

“Saliss? What are you doing?”

She couldn’t credit it. That wasn’t like Saliss. She could imagine him causing chaos, even confronting an army with potions, like he had with the [Assassins], but this?

He had taken weapons from the [Guard] he’d accosted, and the horse. She knew he had to be low on potions. He was shouting as he bore down on Zeres’ [Soldiers], trying to free Lyonette and the other two. Mivifa didn’t understand why they’d panicked. However, now she saw Zeres’ soldiers turn to face him.

They looked up and saw the Drake riding down on them. Naked. Carrying a spear and shield he’d snatched from one of Oteslia’s guards. They hesitated, and maybe some thought of the famous Named Adventurer, but…they were [Soldiers]. They set themselves in a quick spear line. Mivifa expected Saliss to turn away.

He did not.

—-

Idiots. Saliss looked down at the line of Drakes, the thin gap where flight remained. He shouted at them to stop, listen to him! They did not. It was always like this. The [Soldiers] watched the Drake bearing down on them. Maybe some knew he was Saliss of Lights, but it was Saliss with a spear. Not potions.

As if that made him less dangerous. Saliss? Saliss was a Named Adventurer, you stupid idiots! Potions or not, a Named Adventurer. And what they forgot every time—

Granddaughter of the Cyclops of Pallass. Chaldion’s heir of war.

The Drakes fighting with the two Gentlemen Callers barely saw him coming. Saliss struck through the first line of Zeresian [Soldiers] in an instant, spear whirling. Unlike Wilovan—he played no games. Unlike Wilovan, the criminal, but a gentleman of one—Saliss had been trained by no gentleman.

He left behind only dead Drakes. The [Lieutenant] turned, eyes wide—Saliss brought the spear down as the Drake tried to pivot with the sword. A sword versus a Drake on horseback? Idiot—

Lyonette saw blood fly. The Drake fell, cut across the arm and chest as Saliss slowed. Lyonette, even the Gentlemen Callers stared up at Saliss. He’d—killed six Drakes, running them through with the tip of his spear in rapid succession.

“To the city! Now!”

He snapped, leaping from the horse’s back. Lyonette was boosted up and they fled. But more [Soldiers] were coming.

—-

“A Named Adventurer is assailing our forward ranks! Saliss of Lights!”

“What?”

The Admiral of the Land couldn’t credit it. He stared at the lone rider, and turned.

“Someone stop Femar! Stop—pull back the [Soldiers]! We don’t want conflict with Pallass!”

It was too late. The Sharkcaptain had seen the first [Soldiers] go down. He roared, already running forwards, pointed at Saliss and the others, and bellowed over the top of the commands.

“You!”

He might not have even recognized Saliss. The four were running towards Oteslia, but the [Soldiers] were keeping clear of Saliss’ spear. The naked Drake turned as he saw and heard the Sharkcaptain running at him. Wilovan turned, eyed the Sharkcaptain and ran faster after Lyonette.

—-

The idiot of idiots was coming his way. Saliss saw the Sharkcaptain of Zeres, his own barbed spear aimed at him and shouted back.

“You idiot! Just let us go! Don’t make this worse!”

He didn’t get an intelligible reply. The Sharkcaptain of Zeres bellowed in fury and charged. Saliss swore.

“Don’t make me—”

That Drake was far more dangerous than a regular [Soldier]. Saliss checked his bag of holding, mind racing.

He had two dozen items in stock he could use. He reached for the shapeshifting tincture. If it was the Sharkcaptain, it was kill or die if that idiot lost his head.

Not one of our best, dying over this! Senseless, senseless—his mind was racing. But if it was him or the Sharkcaptain…Saliss grabbed the tincture and lifted it, swearing. Lyonette’s horse reared, screaming, as the jaws of the Drake’s aura closed on it and Lyonette screamed. She stared down at the blood from the gashes on her arm and barely blocked the rest of the aura; Ratici staggered, Wilovan snarled, spinning with his club. Saliss saw the huge Drake leap through the air—

And twist. Something flickered past Saliss and he heard a second bellow, saw a blur in the air. The huge Drake crashed down, slashing with his spear, rolling upright and clutching at…the stab wounds?

Shriekblade leapt backwards, grinning, her daggers stained red. Saliss blinked at her.

“Tessa?”

She was slashing, diving in and out, tagging the Sharkcaptain twice more, ignoring his aura, which cut at her own scarred scales. Saliss turned, half about to go back. One stab and she was dead—or the Sharkcaptain was. Either way, Izril lost someone they couldn’t afford to, and this was the worst duo to get into a fight. Neither one would back down until the other was dead.

—-

It was about this time the Admiral of the Land realized how far it had all gotten in moments. This ‘routine’ siege had turned into the makings of a true disaster. This wasn’t supposed to turn into combat action! They were just here for the referendum on the Human peace—and the Meeting of Tribes. Not this.

“Dead gods! Two Named Adventurers—get the Sharkcaptain to safety! Pallass and Salazsar have taken the field!”

If he died—calamity, not just from the Serpentine Matriarch’s wrath. It would be war indeed, full-out, and in earnest. More of Zeres’ soldiers rushed forwards, to prevent the bloodbath. The three who’d started all this were trying to make for the gates, but now Liscor’s army had seen and the [Riders] were shooting towards them.

A massacre! But for who? The Admiral of the Land saw a single shape break through the horror-show. His eyes widened and he threw up a claw and bellowed the only order he could.

“Hold! Everyone—hold! Do not advance! Do not attack!”

His army slowed as the last party entered the fray. Lyonette du Marquin looked up and could have sobbed in relief.

—-

The pink carriage of Magnolia Reinhart. It stormed towards the Drakes and Humans, faster than even the Drakes riding down on them from the north. Reynold bore down on all those fighting, and came to a stop, door already open.

“Get in.”

No compliments from the [Combat Butler], no polite greeting; Lyonette piled in with Wilovan and Ratici. Saliss turned.

“Tessa, get in there!”

He thrust her back. The Sharkcaptain looked up, snarling.

“I knew it! You—”

He stabbed. Reynold turned and the carriage slammed into him side-long, and the two Named Adventurers leapt inside. The Sharkcaptain stabbed the coach from the side as he was knocked back; the spear left a mark, but that was all. Then the pink carriage was racing towards the last gate open in Oteslia. Only then did Saliss breathe out.

Everyone was safe. Everyone was alive. Except…for six poor Drakes he’d just killed. Six, because of stupid pride and armies. He realized their blood was on his scales.

Some days Saliss hated Saliss more than others.

—-

That one incident had caused almost as many problems as Zeres’ army. Ilvriss and Magnolia both met the [Princess] and two Named Adventurers as they poured out of the carriage, and Oteslia was fully locked down. Neither one spoke to the other; Ilvriss eyed Magnolia, and Ressa and Osthia exchanged appraising looks that Osthia was afraid she got the worst of.

Unfortunately, it was done. Zeres’ army had clashed with representatives of Pallass, Salazsar, and Magnolia Reinhart’s people. Six Drakes were dead.

Recriminations could come later. Lyonette stumbled towards the waiting Wall Lord and [Lady].

“I just wanted to go back. Why are they here? Why now?”

She was almost weeping, she was so angry and distraught. Magnolia pursed her lips, staring towards the army behind the gates. Ilvriss was striding towards Saliss and Shriekblade.

“My dear, I fear—”

Ratici was getting out of the carriage too, feeling at the cuts from that Drake’s aura. He’d seldom tangled with a foe who could cut him just by being in the same area! He also felt, instinctively, that his and Wilovan’s presence hadn’t helped Lyonette at all. But for them, she might have never come to this. The [Gentleman Thief] was remonstrating with himself when his head snapped up.

“Watch out!”

Too late. Ratici threw himself forwards at the same time as Ressa, Shriekblade, and Saliss, a beat behind them, reacted. Lyonette looked up as death shot at her, Magnolia, and Ilvriss.

Six projectiles, two magic, four blades flashed out of the crowd, from windows, and even from the top of Oteslia’s walls themselves. One actual arrow, two bolts, and one, a blown needle. A bolt of lightning and a [Fireball] spell. Each one soaring at the cluster of individuals standing together.

Not a one made it. Ratici grabbed both bolts out of the sky, twisting to block Lyonette with his body. Ressa made a quick gesture and both magic spells vanished as they hit an invisible barrier in the air. Shriekblade slashed the arrow in half and turned. But the needle—

“Ow.”

Saliss blocked the needle with one claw. He frowned down at it, as it quivered, stuck between his scales. It had struck him, drawing blood. Everyone whirled and he winced, then pulled it out. He waved it in front of Lyonette’s shocked face, and grinned at her.

“Good thing it was me. Poison’s nasty on other people. Oh, wait. It’s acidic. Never mind. Still okay.”

A small trail of smoke rose from his scales—then stopped as the acid neutralized itself. Saliss patted the cut, then he glanced up and met Magnolia Reinhart’s gaze. Ressa’s own hand, and Reynold’s was outstretched to block the last needle. Saliss’ face fell as he looked at the [Lady] of House Reinhart.

“Aw. No. Did I accidentally save your life? Sorry about that.”

Magnolia Reinhart made no reply. She looked around. So did the others.

Ilvriss, Lyonette, Magnolia, all stood together, the Wall Lord’s hand on his sword hilt, Magnolia’s on one of the rings on her finger. Lyonette met everyone’s shocked gaze at the same time, and the thought flashed between them.

Which had been aimed at? All three? Just one?

In the uncertainty Oteslia became chaos and confusion. Mivifa flew down and Rafaema skidded to a halt, as Ferris and Hunt Commander Makhir growled curses at Zeres’ poor timing, only a few facts were clear.

Two armies were camped outside of Oteslia, the City of Growth. It was under siege. Magnolia Reinhart’s trip had begun to reap a harvest of consequences. And…Lyonette was not getting home to Liscor any time soon.

—-

Time, time…it seemed like everything took too long.

Tic, toc, went the metronome. It counted down time so smoothly. But what was the point? Everyone said they were going to come back, or things were going to happen. But they lied.

“Lyonette is delayed at Oteslia.”

Mrsha didn’t react in tears or biting or any of the ways Ishkr feared she would. She threw no tantrum as he explained about the army, omitting the assassination attempts as Lyonette had told him to. The little white Gnoll listened, nodding.

It can’t be helped.

She lay on the floor of the inn, next to the metronome. Lyonette wasn’t coming back like she promised. There were reasons. Probably even good reasons.

Okay.

A worried Hobgoblin [Shaman] sat there, poking Mrsha and chewing on some salted chips Imani had made. She poked Mrsha in the side; the Gnoll girl didn’t react. Even when Ulvama sprinkled salt on her nose and she sneezed.

Ulvama needn’t have fretted. Mrsha wasn’t sad. She knew it wasn’t Lyonette’s fault and Ulvama was being worried for nothing. She was just…

Going to lie here for a while. Ishkr fussed, but eventually left it up to Ulvama, trusting her. Mrsha was just about to do something to make Ulvama stop poking her when she had a visitor.

Someone came to visit her, as Mrsha lay on her back and stared up at the ceiling. The poking Goblin stopped, and glanced up warily. She edged backwards as a polite person greeted both.

“Hello. I hope I am not disturbing you two? I heard Lyonette would be delayed and came to check on Mrsha. Do I know you?”

“No. Who you?”

Ulvama grunted in her pretend-speech, which was worse than her actual diction when she wasn’t around strangers. The Antinium bowed slightly and held out a hand which she didn’t take.

“I am Pawn.”

Pawn? Mrsha’s ears perked up. She looked up at Pawn, sitting, and saw the Antinium turn to her.

“Hello Mrsha. Are you sad? I have come to visit.”

Mrsha stared up at the [Priest], her mother’s consort, and leader of the Painted Antinium. She saw Pawn smile at her.

Her ears flattened and she crossed her arms.

Wonderful.

—-

Astonishing as it might seem, but for all they had been at The Wandering Inn for quite some time, neither Pawn nor Mrsha had really spent a lot of one-on-one time together.

Oh, they were there in all the big events. From baseball to huge battles. But neither one had participated with the other. Their connection was mainly through Erin, through Lyonette.

Mrsha sat, arms crossed, as Ulvama walked off. She had apparently decided to let the strange Antinium talk to Mrsha, and Pawn sat, very amiably chewing on some bratwurst that Ishkr had fetched as a snack.

He was, of course, an honored guest. A longtime friend of the inn. Mrsha scowled at him.

“Are you sad, Mrsha? Would you like some of my food? I am sorry I didn’t come earlier. Managing the Painted Antinium takes time, and I was uncertain of how to visit. Lyonette did ask me to check on you, and I believe I failed in that regard. I am sorry.”

The [Priest] smiled at Mrsha. She began to sign…then decided only the written word could convey the full nuance of what she wanted to say. She scribbled and he waited, eating quietly.

He was so…polite. So nice. The Antinium walked with genuine faith in his heart, and the other Antinium who had come with him, a small group of four Painted Antinium, ate at a far table, savoring the food.

I am not desirous of sharing food with you at common table at this time, Pawn. May I inquire as to why you have paid this social visit?

Pawn read the neat, curved words, and considered his reply. He nodded at the Painted Antinium.

“I often come to the surface. Liscor, that is. However, no longer to this inn. It is no longer appropriate now that…Erin is gone. We visit other restaurants and places, now. It took some doing, to find establishments that were willing to serve Antinium.”

That didn’t answer her question. Mrsha glanced at the Painted Antinium. She was glad they had a place to eat. She hadn’t thought of the Antinium, but if she had, she would have worried about them having a place to experience joys and wonders.

However, Mrsha didn’t want to hear that from Pawn. He was being too…chatty. Too friendly.

Of course, Mrsha would have accepted that from Garry, Anand, Belgrade, even Yellow Splatters or anyone else. Pawn was different, and he seemed to sense her hostility. Pawn carefully stopped chewing the food and looked at her.

“I did not come by, except to visit Erin, because I felt that Lyonette’s request might be problematic. You—do not like me much, do you, Mrsha?”

She hesitated. How did he know? Maybe it was written on her face. Mrsha checked her reflection in the blank scrying mirror and saw a little Gnoll, scowling back at her.

The Gnoll girl supposed the clues were there. He might have picked up on it from the times when she’d glared at him and Lyonette, tried to sabotage their time together, thrown bread crumbs on Pawn’s head when he was leaving…the clues could be uncovered by an astute [Detective].

She wrote back.

My animosity towards you is entirely based on your relationship with…

Mrsha crossed that out. She liked the fanciful writing that Lyonette had taught her, but sometimes you just needed to Erin your intentions out there. She handed Pawn a revised note.

No, I don’t like you, Pawn. You stole Lyonette. Go away, I’m fine.

The [Priest] looked at the note. He looked up at Mrsha, and the two met gazes. Ah, now. It was in the open. Mrsha didn’t just ‘dislike’ Pawn’s presence. She disliked…him. He was the first Antinium that Mrsha had disliked. Perhaps he was the first Antinium in the world to be disliked thusly.

This was a landmark moment in some ways. An Antinium had made an enemy, socially speaking. Not a dread enemy in blood and fire; just made someone who didn’t like them being around.

It was strange to Mrsha too, to dislike one of the Antinium. Oh, she’d been afraid of them, and Liscor’s citizens no doubt had mixed reactions to them. However, that was the unthinking bias against a species, which was in itself racist; they did not hate Antinium as individuals, just for existing.

Mrsha disliked Pawn for reasons that had nothing to do with his species and everything to do with Lyonette and Pawn being so…Pawn. He regarded her, as if mystified by the animosity. For a moment, then he nodded, slowly.

“I thought that you did not like me, Mrsha. Lyonette claimed you were simply jealous, but it seems I was right. May I ask if it is just because of Lyonette?”

Mrsha scribbled a response.

Yes. You took her away. Thief. Jerk. Bad smelly person. Creler-bait Selphid’s tits.

She added that last part in uncertainly, but she’d heard Seborn using the phrases, so figured it had some kind of insult-quality. Pawn lowered the note.

“I see. You resent me for liking Lyonette?”

Mrsha nodded, glaring. Why did he have to like Lyonette? Lyonette was Mrsha’s mother! She had said so! Pawn sat there, thinking.

“Lyonette is the first Human—no. The first person to ever truly know me, Pawn, besides Erin herself. I hope you understand that, Mrsha. It is impossible to love Erin like Lyonette. She is too much. You see—in my mind, she is up there.”

He gestured at the sky, or rather, ceiling. Pawn went on.

“As wondrous as the sky. Lyonette, though…Lyonette is different. We knew each other for a long time. I helped her when she was alone in the inn. I grew to like her. I hope you know this?”

Mrsha rolled her eyes. She signed with her paws, dismissively. Oh, here it came. I like your mother, so that’s why I took her away! Pawn was going to be nice and try to make friends with her. Fat chance of that. She knew she was being petty, but since Lyonette was her mother, Mrsha believed there was a time and place for pettiness.

She wrote back, as Pawn tried to cozy up to her. She handed him a reply.

I don’t like you, Pawn. I know that I should and it is unbecoming of me to be jealous, but I cannot gainsay how I feel. You took Lyonette from me, and that is a bereavement, however slight, I shall not, cannot forgive.

You can explain your affection, but it does not change the fact that I harbor a grudge towards you. We cannot be friends, so I invite you to stop trying. I will be fine on my own.

The little Gnoll waited. She’d be guilty if Pawn was crushed, but he had to know. She was sensitive to the Antinium’s fragile emotions and she even felt bad about being so direct, but it would be best if he left and they only met when Lyonette returned.

If Pawn was wounded by her letter, he did not show it easily. His mandibles opened and closed a few times as he read, and his antennae waved softly. Then he looked up and nodded.

“I see. Thank you for being clear, Mrsha.”

She sighed. He’d taken it better than she thought. She waved at him, graciously inviting him to leave. Pawn glanced at her, then looked around the inn. Ishkr was coming back with some drinks for the Antinium. Pawn leaned forwards.

“It is just as well, I suppose, that you do not like me, Mrsha. After all. I never liked you much either.”

The little Gnoll’s jaw dropped. She stared at Pawn and he sat back.

“Not as much as the others, to clarify. I never harbored you as much animosity as you seem to have towards me, but I do not like you that much. If we are being honest, I should tell you this too.”

Mrsha stared at him. She was outraged! Then hurt! He didn’t like her? Everyone liked Mrsha, except for bad people! Pawn’s mandibles rose in a smile when she opined that.

“I believe that is untrue. You are very cute. I quite like your company, and your antics. I do not mind when you steal from other people or cause trouble; all these things are well and I like you more than many people in Liscor. Less than other Antinium. You do cause trouble, however, and I believe that you are what Erin refers to as a ‘jerk’ from time to time. Sometimes, I feel as though you cause too much trouble with too little comeuppance, and get away with it because you are a child. You are older than I am, you know.”

Mrsha stared at Pawn. His admittance that he didn’t like her, not to mention these—these scurrilous allegations struck her deeply! She began to question him. Why didn’t he like her? Mrsha…felt sort of hurt!

Pawn thought about his reply for a while. At last, the [Doomspeaker Priest] nodded.

“I suppose it is not fair, Mrsha. I am being unreasonable. It is just…when you came to the inn, Erin had less time for me. I know it was necessary, but I resented that, though I never told her. You see, I was Mrsha before Mrsha. You took my place.”

The little Gnoll stared at the first Mrsha, dumbstruck. She…had taken Erin from Pawn? That wasn’t true! Erin loved Pawn!

But he didn’t stay at the inn. And…didn’t Erin care for Mrsha because Mrsha needed help? Not as much as Lyonette, all the time, but she taught Mrsha and played with her and…Pawn came by and she had time for him.

Mrsha had stolen Erin? But Pawn had stolen Lyonette! Mrsha felt disoriented. Weak. The world was on its head! Top was bottom! Right was left!

The first Mrsha and the current Mrsha regarded each other, realizing how one held a grudge for affections robbed. Meanwhile, the first Rags snorted in a corner at the latecomers.

—-

It seemed she had been selfish. Mrsha realized that. If she could hold a grudge—other people could do the same. She looked at Pawn and felt a bit—bad.

But the [Priest] didn’t seem angry. He just spoke the truth. And the truth was…they weren’t friends.

“Nor are we enemies. Are we?”

He looked at Mrsha and she shook her head. They were just—acquaintances. Unfortunately bound by Lyonette and the inn. She didn’t hate Pawn, and shyly corrected her mean words. He nodded.

“Thank you for writing that. This is why I did not come earlier; I felt my absence was best. However, since Lyonette will not be coming for a longer period…I miss her. I wished to make sure you were alright. It is hard, with her gone. Harder than it should be, because I was fine before I knew her.”

Mrsha looked at Pawn and he bowed his head. She scribbled.

Are you alright?

He looked up.

“I am fine, physically, Mrsha. I simply—miss Lyonette. You see, she left so quickly after Erin was hurt. We could not talk long. I…wish she had asked me to come. I know it is impractical, but she left because helping Erin mattered. As it should. But it felt as though our relationship was less important. More fragile. I would have gone with her, despite the danger, if she asked. I wonder if we will be the same when she returns.”

He was uncertain too. Mrsha reached out and patted Pawn on the knee. There, there. She was sure it would work out. He nodded at her.

“Thank you, Mrsha. I miss her. That is all. And I will not take up your time or bother you. We do not have to like each other, Mrsha. However, if you need help, I will give it. I know you are safe here, but if you need me—ask. And I will do what I can.”

It was a powerful promise. Mrsha looked up at Pawn, appreciating it. She had a new regard for the Antinium. Not that she liked him more—but perhaps she respected him, despite their animosity. And perhaps that did mean liking him a bit. Just a tiny bit. She thought, as Pawn rummaged in his belt pouch for money and a tip, then held out a card.

There is one thing you can do for me, Pawn.

He glanced at her.

“Yes?”

She wrote her request.

Give me cookies.

Pawn stared at the note. Mrsha met his gaze, deadly earnest. Imani and Ishkr guarded the kitchen like the most zealous protectors of a treasury. She waited, expecting the [Priest] to refuse.

Instead, Pawn just nodded, walked into the kitchen, and came out with cookies. He gave Mrsha five. Her eyes went round at the five, each a different flavor.

For me? Really?

She signed, and Pawn nodded. He let her gobble, furtively watching for rogue Ishkrs, but he didn’t even glance their way. Pawn explained his reasoning as Mrsha happily devoured the desserts.

“Cookies exist to be eaten. You should not eat too many, but I see no harm in giving you some.”

Mrsha decided this Pawn fellow was alright, after all. He had dubious designs on her own relationships, and he was objectionably direct, but he could deliver dessert where it counted. She saw Pawn smile, and then he spoke.

“I will tell Ishkr, of course, that you have had a satisfactory amount of dessert. You cannot have too many sweets, or so Lyonette says. And it is not good to lie.”

The little Gnoll stopped, mid-chew. Her smile turned sour. Her eyes rose to meet Pawn’s calm gaze. She gave him a narrow look which he calmly met.

It seemed they were destined to be mortal enemies. So the little meeting went, on the heels of bad news from Oteslia. However. It was still a time for choices.

A time for relationships. Distant, acrimonious…

Or even those about to end. Those on the brink. A decision had to be made. For everything was…falling apart.

—-

I’m going to rest I’m going to sleep

I’m going to cry I’m going to weep

I’m going to look out over the sea

Where there’s nothing left of you and me.

— Rufelt Owelt, [Bartender].

As poems went—it was not the kind of thing that would adorn the history books of fine poetry. It probably wasn’t even good.

He only wished…it would make her laugh again. The Gnoll’s quill scratched in the silence, yet he did not think he would show it to her.

Not anymore. Perhaps not ever.

Rufelt felt a pang in his chest. It joined the pain in his stomach, the fear and trepidation and terrible longing. Destruction, absolute, rampaged through him, just emotion, but with such intensity that his body was beginning to break along with his heart.

He sat at an empty bar. There was a bit of dust on the surface. He’d have never allowed that. Not normally. But Tails and Scales was closed. They’d open, maybe, in a bit, but the regulars weren’t there.

The spirit wasn’t there, and their guests noticed. It had been packed the first few days when Lasica returned, but it had soured, like beer.

Everything was falling apart. The business. And…Rufelt and Lasica themselves.

If he showed this poem to her, what would she say? She’d told him his little poems, far from impressing, were just annoying.

Annoying. That hurt. That stung. It wasn’t just that Lasica said it, it was how she said it. She could be direct, but they made up, laughed about it.

There was nothing like that now. It was like being cut. Rufelt recalled what he’d said back and felt the pain intensify.

Barbs and sharp glass. That was what they tossed at each other. Words. So harsh.

“What do you see in this picture?”

That had been the start of it. Rufelt whispered the words. It had started with that—then led to another fight. He couldn’t get them out of his head. He sat at the empty bar counter. He knew he looked—bad. His clients had asked if he was well. They knew he and Lasica were fighting, guessed part of the reasons.

They could not know all of it. Rufelt’s paws trembled as he looked at the rectangle he was holding. Not a glass or dust rag like usual.

Their fight last night had been bad. Lasica had stormed out. She’d be back by nightfall; she hadn’t gone missing again, but he dreaded her return as much as he longed for it.

What was wrong? It had never been like this. Not once. They’d fought, like every couple did, but this? This wasn’t the same. When they snapped at each other, they left wounds Rufelt could feel.

It was her. The [Bartender] knew it, in every hair on his body, in every fiber of his being. Lasica’s anger, his retorts which were too harsh, the discord in their relationship, and what was driving them apart rather than together could be traced to one person. So many little events—all part of the same web. The same skein.

Belavierr. The Stitch Witch. The Spider of Terandria.

Was it wrong to blame her for everything? The miscarriage had been bad enough, but Rufelt thought they could have survived that. It was the [Witch] appearing, offering them the deal that was doing it.

“I can bring your child back. Just give me a bit of you. Just a bit of time, and everything will be made well.”

Rufelt heard her voice, whispering in his ear. He hated it. He hated her. Yet Lasica listened. Rufelt would have refused Belavierr, reported her to the Watch.

He could not. The words didn’t leave his tongue. The writing wouldn’t be put down, even in clues. He couldn’t talk to anyone, even his regulars, even in his own bar. He’d tried dispelling the curse or hex—but nothing worked.

Lasica refused to say anything. She’d told the Watch about her encounter with the ‘strange Gnoll’, but not Belavierr. She was listening to the [Witch]. She hadn’t said ‘yes’, because she wanted Rufelt to agree first.

The Gnoll didn’t want to. This was how they lived, these last weeks. Going mad with indecision. Fighting. All tangled up in her web of lies or…worse, truth.

She had sworn she could do it. The history books said she could do it. Rufelt wanted to believe it was a trick, but he’d found copies in other libraries when he’d tried to disprove it. She could still have lied, but…the most dangerous thing was if she didn’t. If she could make good on her promise and channel a magic beyond even the Archmages of today.

“Why us?”

Rufelt muttered. He turned over the rectangle. Each day, she visited them. Each day they fought and cried and—she came by and asked them. Why them, why so much effort for someone so powerful?

“Because you have more to give me than most.”

Rufelt knew it was true. She looked at him and he shivered, knowing she didn’t mean gold or their status as a famous bar in Pallass. Their levels. Their…

He stood in the bar, dull-eyed, going through the same thoughts in his head. As if hypnotized. Here was every father’s nightmare.

The loss of a child. Here was every parent’s dark dream.

If you could bring them back, what would you sacrifice? If it were any other way, Rufelt would have said anything. His health? His levels? His fortunes and life? For Lasica—in an instant. For the child he hadn’t known? Of course. Some nights Rufelt lay awake, thinking of the names they’d made. Dreaming of if. If the Demons hadn’t…

What would you do? But this was a different deal. Dark magic. Yet Belavierr said that in this case, she would make no simulacra. She would use true magic. She had looked him in the eye.

“I swear upon my craft, Rufelt Owelt, that I do not lie. Upon my hat and daughter that I possess—I can bring the dead back to life. It is a great magic. Yet give me what I want, and I will perform it. For I desire your strength. What would you do if all I said was true? Think of that.”

He did. He couldn’t help it.

If it could all go back to how it was before…

Rufelt Owelt no longer feared ‘what might be’, the cursed hope the [Witch] dangled in front of him, that he might see the child that had been lost. He feared what would happen if he refused her.

He feared he would lose his wife too. Lose everything.

He couldn’t think. He lived, day in, day out, like a zombie, only thinking of the choice. He knew it could not continue.

Time. Time to make a choice.

He sat in the empty bar, head in his paws. Going mad. She made it so hard. The Stitch Witch knew her clients. She knew how to plant the worst seeds in their heads, hatching dark fruits.

“What do you see in this picture?”

He whispered it out loud. Then, Rufelt picked up the object he held, which he’d been turning over, staring at. No glass ready to be filled with alcohol. It was…a frame. A glass frame, with a little mage-picture, an illustration inside.

The words of a monster. Oh, dead gods, but she was evil. Pure evil. Rufelt tried to look away, but he couldn’t.

He looked and saw a picture that had never been. There he was, with Lasica, grinning, her laughing at something to the side as they stood in front of his bar in Tails and Scales.

Holding a child.

The image had been torn out of…something. An alternate time? He kept staring at it, trying to believe it was an illusion. Trying to tell himself it wasn’t real. The longer he stared, though…

“What do you see in this picture?”

Rufelt stood in the darkness. Wearing himself at the impossible choice, waiting for Lasica to return. Wrestling with his fears, his desires, his hope and love. Until it or he—

Snapped.

—-

Niers Astoragon frowned as he sat in the beams of The Wandering Inn. He was shaving. A bit of metal and a bit of glass and black fabric did for the impromptu kit. He even had a gel from the [Alchemist]’s shop.

Yes, life was pretty good for the Titan of Baleros. Better than slogging through the High Passes. Yet it couldn’t continue.

He knew, even now, that his opponents had to be searching for him. The Wandering Inn might be on their lists and if the Great Companies were after him, well. The Iron Vanguard had the loyalties of countless Dullahans and Pallass was filled with enough.

They didn’t even need their own species. So when Niers acted, it was to stay ahead of his opponents. He waited until the strange Antinium finished exchanging insults with Mrsha and left.

She’d saved him some cookie. Well—a crumb, which was good enough. Niers took a few bites.

“Thank you, Mrsha. Now, I have work for us. Are you willing to help out?”

He didn’t mention her mother and Oteslia, though Niers was wondering what that boded. Drake infighting was plain enough, but there were layers and if he’d had proper intel, he might have made it an assignment with his class to puzzle out.

No time for that now. Focus. Niers knew he wasn’t really abreast of things. So, what he did today was ask Mrsha for help in an interesting way. A safe way, which disappointed her a bit, but a vital one.

—-

“There you are. I heard from Pawn you ate five cookies. No dessert for you. What do you want?”

Mrsha scowled up at Ishkr. She handed him a bit of paper.

I would like to visit Liscor, please.

It was one of her standard cards. Ishkr eyed Mrsha.

“To eat more snacks?”

Mrsha shook her head. She signed that she wanted to pay a visit—to the Mage’s Guild. Ishkr hesitated.

“Oh—I suppose so. Do you want to send Lyonette a [Message]? We can do that.”

To his surprise, she said ‘no’, although Mrsha did amend that to ‘maybe’ after a second. But that wasn’t her purpose. She really wanted to go check something. The Gnoll hesitated, but the inn was empty as always, so he agreed to take her.

—-

Niers tagged along in Mrsha’s belt pouch. It was far from comfy, squished up as he was, and he risked a bit of squashing, but he wanted to know. She walked on two feet with Ishkr as they went to the Mage’s Guild and he waited for her to put his plan into action. She heard Ishkr muttering as they went to the head of the line.

“What’s this about? Excuse me, hello.”

“Hello! How can I help you today? Oh—is that Miss Mrsha?”

The little Gnoll was a celebrity of sorts, if only for her white fur. She waved at the Drake, who knew Erin. The [Scribe] smiled as Ishkr explained.

“We have a [Message] to send to Miss Lyonette in Oteslia…but I think we have other business?”

Mrsha nodded. The [Scribe] read the neat writing, which was a match for her own, and her brows shot up.

I, Mrsha, would like to inquire into the Merchant Droshi’s business and news. He is working for The Wandering Inn.

“Merchant Droshi?”

Both Ishkr and the [Scribe] looked puzzled, but the [Scribe] at least nodded.

“I can pull up anything…one second.”

“I didn’t know we were working with a [Merchant]. Did Lyonette ask you to check?”

Ishkr grumbled at Mrsha, a bit nonplussed that he had no idea who this was. Some person in the north, like the [Lords] who still asked if they could get goods shipments? Mrsha made an excuse as Niers grinned inside the belt pouch.

It was hardly the most cunning plan, but it worked. ‘Droshi’ didn’t exist—it might be some Drake’s name, but it was one of a few he knew to ask for. And he did exist today, and his regular reports to his clients were lodged at a Mage’s Guild, ready to be retrieved. It was service they offered.

And the Forgotten Wing Company often made use of it. In fact, Mrsha received no less than a full page of writing, and paid for it out of her own belt pouch, much to Ishkr’s bemusement. The [Scribe] who’d copied it out looked a bit amused.

“I’m afraid it’s a bit dry, but I hope you find it um, useful. I’ll take your [Message] to Oteslia now. Care of Lyonette? One second and I’ll run it up to the [Mage] on day-duty. That will be…”

Niers tuned out the rest. He’d come along just to make sure it all went well, and while Mrsha had neatly folded the bit of paper and put it in the pouch he was in, he didn’t want to unfold it and make noise. It was also too dark to see, so he stared at the bits of words he could see until they got back to the inn.

Far too long! Mrsha put Niers down on the table in the secret part of the jungle in the garden and he sprang out, swearing.

“Argh! What was that, forty minutes? I’m too old to do that! Not your fault; I should have waited! Excellent job.”

She nodded, a bit confused. She held out a card as Niers unfolded the paper eagerly. He glanced at it.

“What? How did I know there was a ‘Merchant Droshi’ to ask about? Basic subterfuge, Mrsha. I made contact with my company after the Village of the Dead’s raid. They knew I was alive—so I told them to send a report via Droshi and that I needed help and was in Liscor.”

Mrsha’s ears perked up. He’d done all that? How? Niers grinned at his pupil.

“Think about it. What do I have that connects right back to my company? That only they’d be able to see? I was worried they wouldn’t check, but my people are clever. Perorn’s probably the one who thought to look.”

The Gnoll girl tilted her head left and right. What…? Then her eyes widened.

The chessboard. Of course! Niers had arranged a message and it had appeared on his little board in Baleros! Genius! But what about Droshi?

“If I had you ask for anything for ‘Niers Astoragon’, the Mage’s Guild wouldn’t give it to you and my enemies would know right where I was. Merchant Droshi on the other hand—less easy to track. They might still notice, but they can’t easily figure this out. See?”

Mrsha stared at the paper summary of the [Merchant]’s reports. It was indeed, as the [Scribe] had warned, dry.

To my esteemed clients and friends, I, Droshi, have undertaken the following business this past month, which I hope will provide illumination.

Firstly, my people have sold a quantity of candlesticks at no less than fifty six pounds, at commendable profit. I have personally sold six red candlesticks, which were of quite elegant make.

Next, we engaged in a bit of light trading of Silvergrape, although at a loss. Flies have ruined a good amount of the crop, and I fear we will not be returning.

As for other goods…

Niers Astoragon read. He had, apparently, not even trusted a long message to the chessboard, although he’d gotten a lot of info from it. He explained to Mrsha.

“The chessboard was never meant to prevent magical interference. This is safer; I risked a lot on that message alone. This…hm. They’d only tell me of important news.”

The cipher he’d established relied on a lot of useless information. The key was trigger words that provided context. Niers read through impatiently, wincing twice. He elaborated to Mrsha.

“They’re hunting for Peclir. ‘Loss’ and Silvergrape. The key is flies—they went after him but haven’t found him. Damn. Six assaults on the Forgotten Wing already. Not sure what. I—”

Then he went still. Mrsha saw him stop, nearly stumbling as he went down the paper. He walked back slowly and read a part near the end.

“I—no. How did they…? Peclir. Peclir—”

He was staring at a line near the bottom. Mrsha saw him read it out loud and then to her astonishment, saw the Fraerling begin to tremble.

“Issues with the supply of grain? Might be rats in the warehouse, but we killed one. No. They didn’t. I’ll—”

He looked up. Mrsha saw the Titan bite back whatever he was going to say. She backed up, slowly.

Niers Astoragon didn’t know what expression was on his face. All he knew was that his head went white for a second. The Fraerling Villages? One was—

And then he knew he was out of time.

—-

Mrsha sat in her and Lyonettes’ room and listened to the Titan. He could be—scary. Very scary. Even so, she was disappointed as he spoke. Because—he was leaving?

The Fraerling stood on the windowsill, next to her, staring out across Liscor. He turned to Mrsha, eyes serious.

“I have a lot of Skills, Mrsha, but even I need a scrying orb to make them work. I need to be back with my company—and without me, they’re in trouble. They have Foliana, my technical superior, but she’s not me. They need me. Something bad is happening and I think…”

He stared out across the rolling hills and valleys.

“…It’s not one of the Great Companies. They’d never do this. They want to capture me, you know. Kill me, maybe, but if I’m taken off the board, everything changes. You see, the Forgotten Wing company is the thing that keeps Maelstrom’s Howling—the Centaurs—and the Iron Vanguard of Dullahans from triumphing. Either one. Either I support one or attack if one gains too much ground. They’d want me gone, but I’d be a better ally.”

Hence his bounties. Mrsha nodded. Niers had told her all about the people who wanted him, and she’d thought it was a grand adventure. Until he’d killed the [Spymaster]. Now? She saw him wearing that same, adult, dangerous expression.

“This? This is…someone who wants me dead. Peclir, the traitor, knows what the Fraerling Villages mean to my company. He knows the secrets. Damn him. How did he find out? Even Perorn doesn’t know their locations. Maybe he just has general locations. Either way—I have to go. I could wait out anything but this.”

He turned to her.

“The problem is—I have a Skill that lets me know about impending military assaults. All but the most secretive ones. I know there are two attacks that are coming towards The Wandering Inn or Liscor as a whole.”

Mrsha’s eyes went wide in alarm. She began to write, but Niers held up a hand.

“I didn’t tell you because I could have handled it. Believe me. If it was Hectval or…anything. Monsters from a dungeon? I could empower this inn to hold off an army. But I can’t stay and fight it off. Nor does my Skill detect infiltrators, spies. So rather than that—I’ll take the offensive. One letter to Chaldion and your Watch Captain each should do it. I can arrange for a division of Pallass’ finest to occupy the inn.”

He hopped off the table. Mrsha’s head was spinning. He was moving so fast! Niers turned back to her.

“Don’t worry; the Cyclops is cunning, but he knows the odds. He’ll move for me. I can probably even get them to send a [General] if they have a spare. I’d love to stay. But I have to get to Baleros. My company is sending help, but I need to get to a port if I can.”

Mrsha signed quickly and Niers tried to follow.

How are you going to get away? Can I help? A port is far!

He nodded.

“My plan was to wait for them to send some trusted agents and go with them—have them help out here, even. I can’t wait a month. I can’t wait a week. My students—no. I’m going to reach a port as fast as possible and there’s only one way to do that.”

He turned. The last occupant of the room looked up from where she was doing something on top of the dresser. She flew down and Apista landed in front of Niers. He looked at her, the little saddle he’d made, and then at Mrsha.

“Give me your bee-friend. Apista. I’ll keep her safe, Mrsha. I’ll fly to a port.”

Mrsha’s eyes went round. Apista fanned her wings as Mrsha signed frantically. Apista? But she was Lyonette’s! She was part of the inn! She couldn’t go! It was too dangerous!

“I’ll keep her safe!”

Niers tried to soothe her worries. He pointed to Apista and drew a little container out of his bag of holding and waved it at Mrsha. The price of him helping with the Thronebearers prank; they were still visiting the inn, preparing to head south for Lyonette, securing passports and papers.

“All I need is enough invisibility potion and a few other of your [Alchemist]’s goods. Frankly, it’s not ideal, but it will be for stealth alone. We’ll head to a port. It will take weeks, maybe, even if Apista can fly as fast as a raven, depending on whether we run into pursuit, but they can’t tell where I’m headed. Not with the door.”

Mrsha looked at Apista, desperately wanting to refuse and knowing this was the option Niers had chosen because it was safest. What did Apista think? Was she willing to do this? Was she even aware of what it meant?

Apista saluted Mrsha with one antennae. She had to do her part! Besides, a bee had to fly. If this helped the white Gnoll or Lyonette, she was willing to let the weird little man tell her where to go.

Niers smiled wearily as Mrsha looked at him. She was distraught. So was he, in a way. The grand adventure was being curtailed. Curtailed by pettiness and reality and…death. He looked at her, gently speaking.

“I’m…not willing to risk your life. Nor can I stick about forever, as fascinating as it is. If I return? I promise I will, but when I’m not putting my company at risk.”

She nodded at last. Mrsha sniffed, and Niers patted her paw.

“I’ll be back. And I’m not going tonight. One more day. I’ll make my arrangements. And there’s something I’d like to do. Listen, can you get me into the [Alchemist]’s shop again?”

Mrsha nodded. Niers was already getting on Apista’s back. He buzzed out the door, and she made to follow. Mrsha looked out the window, wondering if she would see Apista before Lyonette. Why did they have to go? They all promised to come back. She hated how they lied and told her it would be safer. Take her with them. She didn’t want to be alone.

The little girl rested her head against the glass. Then rose to follow Niers. However, Mrsha halted.

“Mrsha? Mrsha, come on! I need you to open doors! Don’t get sad, my little helper!”

Niers buzzed back five minutes later, impatient, trying to raise the girl’s spirits. He really wasn’t a child-person. Worse than Foliana—okay, maybe not. Then again, she could be nicer.

Mrsha was at the window still. She jumped and turned, and then began to pad after Niers. She wavered and looked back.

Had she missed it? She was reluctant to tell Niers, because when she’d looked back, it was gone, despite her searching. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, or her seeing one of the [Hunters] or so on wrong. It was just…

She could have sworn, for a second, she’d seen something out in the Floodplains of Liscor. A figure, staring at her. Then it had vanished. Nothing strange about that; there were plenty of people who left the city. Only, it had been unique. She could have sworn she’d seen…

A white Gnoll.

—-

Somehow, Rufelt left his bar and found himself wandering Pallass. He didn’t know why, only that at some point even his mental loop of misery and confusion impelled him out of that dark place.

Still, it seemed the City of Inventions had lost its spark for the Gnoll. He walked around in a haze. The sun shone, but it was not comforting. It was hot, not warm. Bright, not light.

He supposed he was looking for Lasica. He didn’t know where she went on her walks after they fought. She knew him well enough to be able to avoid him. The library? He went looking for her, a single Gnoll stumbling forwards. Disheveled, unsteady—but one in a crowd. Sometimes a [Guard] might stop him, or a friend, on days like this, but rarely. Pallass was home to millions.

So, it was unusual for Rufelt to be noticed, but he met someone as he walked up to the 6th Floor. They were talking next to the grand staircase, another chance meeting. He noticed them because it was impossible not to; even in Pallass, a Centaur was rare, and a Human unusual. But the figure of the massive Drake bulging with muscle, Grimalkin of Pallass, was more unmistakable too.

It seemed he wasn’t the only person having a bad day. Not that Palt and Imani looked like they were suffering; they were arm in arm, doing some window shopping in the City of Inventions. They had discovered that it was quite possible to go for a day-trip and explore the quite fascinating Walled City, from visiting the public bathhouses to different shops, and so on.

It was Magus Grimalkin of Pallass who looked upset. Only, not miserable—he had the narrowed eyes and tense posture that Rufelt had seen rarely when the Drake visited his bar. Grimalkin was angry.

“…I’d like to talk to this Elirr, or any other Silverfangs still in the city. Miss Mrsha has quite good diction; would she know anything about this? I’ve questioned Plains Gnolls in Pallass, but no one can give me a straight answer.”

He was talking to the two, who looked genuinely concerned. Imani was nodding.

“Of course. Come on through any time; Liska checks the door, and it’s not like we have any visitors. Do you know why it happened?”

Palt was smoking a thin blue rollup. He took it out, frowning, as the smoke funneled away, rather than fill the air around them, a permanent little cantrip. Rufelt stopped, swaying, focusing on something else with relief.

“You hear strange things about Gnolls and magic. I heard a secret once in Wistram about the tribes sending one of their own to the academy, but I’m embarrassed to say I never looked into it. Could Ferkr have been…doing someone a favor? It’s the only reason I can think of.”

“I don’t teach my apprentices to lie, Mage Palt.”

Grimalkin snapped back, and then visibly controlled himself.

“Apologies. She’s not responding to me and I have no idea where she is. I am going to get to the bottom of this. Thank you for your time. I apologize—I will visit the inn. Excuse me, I must make arrangements for my travels.”

He stalked off, clearing a path by his presence alone. Palt and Imani watched him go. Rufelt heard the two whispering, Imani standing on tip-toes to whisper into Palt’s ear.

“I wonder what happened. Did you ever see Grimalkin so mad?”

“Not since he got locked out of Erin’s garden. I know it’s inappropriate but—did you see his upper bicep twitching under his shirt? The one on the left? I couldn’t stop staring at it!”

“Palt! He’s worried about his apprentice.”

“It’s still hilarious—”

And then they noticed Rufelt. The two blinked, and then Imani’s eyes widened.

“Is that you, Rufelt? You look—terrible!”

The Gnoll blinked at them. He realized he’d been standing amid the traffic, ignoring the insults and occasional shoves from passersby. He jerked.

“Oh. Imani. Palt. I’m just…what are you doing?”

The [Bartender] saw both exchange glances. They came over and stood by the railings, talking. Imani peered at Rufelt.

“We’re on a little shopping date. Ingredients, but mostly interesting things. I haven’t seen you or Lasica since…”

She trailed off and Rufelt felt a pang in his chest. It still happened—people meeting him and remembering. Or not knowing and asking—

Where was his white armband? He’d forgotten it. So many people had stopped wearing it after the first week, the first month. As if—it was already time to move on. Rufelt hated that. He just shook his head.

“Condolences. Are you…”

Palt hesitated because ‘are you feeling better’, or ‘are you well’, or any question of that nature was clearly evident from look alone. Rufelt mutely shook his head.

“I’ll be better soon.”

Time.

What do you see in the picture? He tried to smile and they gave him uncertain grins in return; he couldn’t have known what a rictus was on his face.

He looked at them. On a date, they’d said? Imani was asking about Lasica and he mumbled something.

“You’re seeing each other, then.”

Imani smiled and Palt ducked his head.

“It just sort of—happened.”

“No, it didn’t. It took a while and it was completely uncoincidental. Palt helped me so much in dealing with my nightmares about Crelers and he can cook. Then, he had to deal with his love for Erin, and now we’re finally here.”

Imani poked Palt in the side and he shuffled his hooves.

“I like my version better. It sounds more romantic. Like the mov—like a classic romance from your home, you know?”

“More romantic than a genuine connection? Palt! Accidentally falling in love with someone you run into is…such a Centaur idea!”

Said Centaur harrumphed.

“It’s a classic in my culture too. Two Centaurs nearly gallop into one another, or collide, they get to talking after the first quarrel…”

“Sounds like a recipe for broken legs, especially if it’s Centaurs.”

“You’re not romantic at all.”

The two smiled at each other, before recalling Rufelt, so into each other’s presence that it was the kind of thing a little Gnoll might pretend to dry-heave at. Yet it struck Rufelt differently. He looked at the two and the words slipped out as part of him…came awake.

“A Human and a Centaur. I imagine it draws a few comments, even in Invrisil. Do they bother you in Liscor?”

He asked because—well, they were familiar. They were younger, but not actually that different in age from the Drake and Gnoll when they’d met. And while it was a different pairing of species, he did understand this. Imani’s smile slipped and Palt frowned, puffing on his blue cigarette.

“You get a few idiots wherever you go. I’m used to the stares. You’d be surprised; Invrisil is the worst with it. I suppose Drakes think Humans can do whatever they want. It’s why we prefer Pallass. But then—I suppose you’d know, wouldn’t you, Mister Rufelt?”

The Gnoll did know. Gnolls and Drakes marrying was the most common interspecies marriage in all of Izril, even more than Humans and Drakes or Humans and Gnolls, given the proximity of the two species in the south.

Even now, though, he remembered family, friends…and comments. He looked at Imani and Palt, who were clearly familiar with whatever was said by now. And content to ignore it.

It was like looking at an old reflection of him and Lasica. Not alike in so many ways, but the core of it…Rufelt’s knees trembled. He felt weak. He looked at the past and the words spilled out of his mouth in the present.

“Don’t invest everything in it. Don’t—be careful when you care for each other. Children, marriage—it’s a double-edged sword.”

Don’t fall in love. He nearly said that, but he was ashamed when it came to the tip of his tongue.

Imani’s eyes widened. Palt trotted his hooves back in astonishment. For a moment, the two just looked at Rufelt, and he stared away.

“I’m sorry. I have to—”

He turned, to go back to the bar. To—

“No. Don’t go. You’re clearly not well, Rufelt.”

The [Chef] caught his arm. He’d forgotten she had the same class as Lasica. Wretchedly, Rufelt turned back.

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. I’m sorry, I’m just—”

“We understand. We heard about the spell and, well…you look thin. When did you last eat? Sleep?”

Palt was nodding. The two clustered around Rufelt and the Centaur eyed him. Rufelt was shaking his head, but Imani had a firm grip on one arm.

“Is Lasica in the same shape, Rufelt? Where is she?”

“Better. She’s—a bit better. I don’t know where she is. She goes out.”

Another look between Imani and Palt. The Centaur chewed on his cigarette rather than smoking it. Imani opened and closed her mouth. It was Palt who spoke.

“I heard about the Demon’s ritual and I know you’ve lost a lot, Rufelt. I…”

He hesitated, eying Imani, but then went on, taking the rollup out of his mouth. The [Illusionist] fixed the Gnoll [Bartender] with a serious gaze.

“Mister Rufelt. I know you’ve suffered a great loss. I don’t mean to be…insensitive. I am going to be, though. You need to pull yourself together. It’s a traumatic experience, miscarriage. But you need to move forwards or you’re going to fall to pieces. You and Lasica.”

Rufelt jerked. He whirled on Palt, and Imani gasped.

“Palt!”

The Centaur raised his hands at the angry Gnoll.

“I’m sorry. Centaurs have it terribly bad too. It’s—a huge complication in our species. But it happens more often than you’d think. It’s one of the reasons our species are less numerous than Humans. Usually only early on. It’s because of the difficulty of creating, well, two species in one. It’s terrible, and I have friends and family who went through it. They go to [Healers]—[Thought Healers], though. You…can’t stay like this. You’ll waste away. I’ve seen that too.”

He shuffled his hooves, looking quite uncomfortable. Even ashamed.

“I’m sorry. I know this is not the right thing to say, but I’ve seen this kind of thing tear relationships apart. You look—awful.”

Rufelt’s paws were clenched. He snarled back at the Centaur.

“You think we haven’t tried? Lasica doesn’t want to go. She just wants to—”

Take the deal. Imani was patting his shoulder. She looked at his dirty fur, glared at Palt.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a diplomat?”

Palt shook his head.

“Ullsinoi are tricksters. Wistram is…Wistram. I’m sorry, I was too direct. It’s just…”

He looked at the Gnoll again, and then snapped his fingers. Rufelt stared at Palt, almost ready to take a swing at the Centaur, despite the height and weight difference. Then Palt held something up.

It was… a mirror. A magical mirror, a little spell, but it reflected what Palt saw, nonetheless. Rufelt looked into it.

What you do you see in the picture?

He saw a stranger. A Gnoll so filthy and wild-eyed and…worn that he wouldn’t have let him in his bar, even when he was just starting out. He looked at the image of himself, and wondered if he was dying.

“Is that me?”

Imani and Palt looked at him. Slowly, Imani took his shoulder.

“Rufelt, why don’t you come with us? You need to eat. Come to the inn, and we’ll get you something hot. And—then you should lie down.”

Rufelt shook his head.

“I need to go back to the bar. Lasica will be there.”

“I’ll go and leave her a note or tell her. You—you should get out of that bar. Come with us.”

Palt frowned at Rufelt, and snapped his fingers twice. Imani glanced at him. Rufelt hesitated. He rubbed at his face. He felt…tired. So tired.

“I can’t do that. I need—”

The Centaur frowned deeper. Imani tugged at Rufelt’s arm.

“Come on. Just a bite to eat. We can’t let you go without food. Just a bit?”

Palt muttered under his breath. Rufelt felt a tingle this time and glanced at Palt. The Centaur raised his hands, smiling.

“Come on, Rufelt. One meal. What’s your favorite dish?”

“I…like fried potatoes with meat. Lasica makes a hot dish in an iron pan.”

Rufelt remembered her making it for special occasions. Suddenly, his eyes tingled and he felt weak. He barely protested as Imani tugged at him, cajoling, encouraging. Palt helped usher Rufelt towards the inn.

“Just one bite, and we’ll let you go. Maybe a nap, too. I’ll tell Lasica.”

The [Bartender] protested, but he was too weak. Too tired and—he did feel his weakness, then. The image of himself had shaken the Gnoll. Palt let Imani do most of the talking. He gave it two more tries and Rufelt began to perk up both times and they got him moving before he could protest.

The Centaur watched Rufelt, eying him. He didn’t tell Imani, as she was talking to Rufelt, but he bit his blue cigarette and chewed it hard.

[Joyous Spirits] was a Tier 4 mood spell. Even if Rufelt was rock-bottom, it should have done more than that, and Palt had cast it three times! It felt like he was moving a rock, and he was panting as he burned mana. What was wrong with the Gnoll?

Rufelt stumbled on, letting Imani talk him into food.

“We have a room for you, okay? An open one. Just sit down and…”

He found himself nodding. Time…time might help. No dark bar. Just a day? He wanted to rest. To sleep without dreaming of what might be and what was.

It was time. But…one more day couldn’t hurt. He left Pallass, and somewhere else in the city, a certain figure paused.

The Stitch Witch turned her head and felt one of the threads change. It was still close in one kind of proximity, but the weave had suddenly jumped from here to somewhere far distant, geographically speaking.

“Strange.”

She tilted her head left. Then right. She felt someone trying to interfere, but their magic could not interfere.

Belavierr was making many deals, but they were among the most valuable. She had cast no spell on Rufelt and Lasica; they were one of her clients, one group she had found in Pallass to do business with. If she had persuaded, it was with word and deed and offering them truth; she was honest in that regard.

But she would brook no interference, magical or otherwise. That too was part of the deal. She tilted her head unnaturally far, and then turned it back. A little [Mage] wouldn’t do much. She went back to sewing.

Business was good. Just a few more deals…and she could go back to her beloved daughter. The Witch smiled.

Everyone should have a child.

—-

The inn was busier that night. Imani and Palt dragged in a smelly, mostly dead-looking Gnoll and fussed about him. Everyone seemed to know who he was, and Rags supposed it was another thing she’d missed.

She ate potatoes and meat quietly, savoring the Calescent spice that Imani had added in a mild blend. The Goblin [Spice Chef] grunted happily. He was among his kind here, and poked Rags.

“Chieftain. If Ulvama not stay, maybe I stay? Good place.”

She swatted at his hand.

“Shut up, Calescent. We have work to do.”

He sighed, but nodded. Rags knew her own sojourn at the inn had to end soon. She had seen Erin. She had talked to Erin and known what must be done. There was nothing here. Not in this quiet grave. So she would go and right what she could.

At least she hadn’t been attacked. Rags retired to her room, reflecting that the lack of a Relc and [Guards] trying to kill her was a plus—and she’d certainly justified the visit. All these new technologies, goods bought from shopping, and so on were worth it. Not to mention finding Ulvama and Numbtongue, even if Rags was dubious about taking Ulvama. Yet the [Shaman] had made a good case, so Rags decided she’d bring Ulvama.

She was trying to figure out if they should buy any last items—although they could always visit another city with those illusion rings—when she noticed something. It was lying on her bed.

A little…slip of paper. The Goblin’s eyes narrowed. She locked her doors, and no one came in or out, not even the Gnoll, Ishkr. Yet here was a discrepancy. She walked over to the piece of paper, checked it magically, and opened it. She read the thin writing, very small…and her crimson eyes opened wide.

Do you know why Goblin Kings go mad? Do you remember why Velan forsook his oaths?

The Goblin Chieftain whirled, going for her bag of holding. Rags nearly drew out her crossbow—then reconsidered. You couldn’t shoot a target that small. She hesitated.

“Who are you? Why do you ask?”

No response. Rags’ gaze swept her room. Her infrared vision checked all the corners and she paused for an infinitesimal moment. Ah.

She didn’t go for a weapon. Killing was a last resort, after all, and the question deserved questions of their own, especially if this was who she thought it was. The Goblin drew out something she’d had Calescent buy in Liscor.

A little bug-catching net.

She wandered around the room, pretending to check the corners—then spun and dove for the side of the dresser. The little person thought he was clever, but he’d made a mistake.

Rags saw heat. Abundance of it, and the absence. The cold patch was obvious as the sun! She swung the little net down, over the ice cube just large enough for a tiny man to lie prone behind it.

“Got you!”

Rags looked down at the ice cube…and saw no man. Just the slightly-melting ice cube and a second piece of paper. She recoiled slightly.

Tricked! He’d—tricked her into believing he’d made a mistake from the time she’d spotted him during the Village of the Dead’s raid! She stared around again, checking every corner of the room. Now she had no signs. So she picked the piece of paper up and read the second message.

Answer my question. Do you know?

Don’t try to run.

Rags’ head slowly rose. She looked around the room. Not one sign of the Fraerling—that was what they were called. And he was tiny. Nevertheless…she didn’t try to run. Nor did she go for a weapon. She stood there, looking up, down, left, and right.

Nothing. The Goblin hesitated. She scowled, and barked a response.

“No.”

That was all he was getting. She backed up towards the door, slowly, alert for anything. She’d fireball the entire room if she was attacked and risk the damage to herself.

A flicker of movement caught her eye. The Goblin whirled, finger pointing and burning with fire—

A third piece of paper fluttered down from a corner of the room. She stared up at the patch where it had been, but saw nothing.

Invisible? Some kind of tripwire, a delayed mechanism? Rags hesitated. She picked up the piece of paper, growling. She did not like this feeling of being outsmarted, but she wanted to know what the third question was.

Where did Velan leave his legacy? I know it exists.

Every hair on Rags’ head rose. She whirled, looking around, and didn’t touch the key at her neck. She turned—made a decision. Rags shot out the door, ready for—

Nothing. She sprinted downstairs to find Calescent and Ulvama, rattled. It was only when she was gone that Niers sighed.

“Interesting.”

He sidled out from the windowsill—on the outside of the inn. The tiny mirror he’d placed allowed him an angle on the Goblin and he’d seen her react to the last question. The Titan rubbed at his chin. There were some questions you could only ask a Goblin of Izril about, and he’d never met one—the ones on Baleros had no clue.

“So, they know where it is. Or that it exists.”

The Fraerling man jogged towards the open window he’d kept and hurried inside. There were few birds thanks to that Antinium, but he didn’t like being outside either way. Razorbeak memories haunted him.

Only then did he dump the shards of ice out his coat, swearing mildly. Most of it had melted, but it had been a trick and a half keeping himself ‘neutral’. As he’d guessed, the Goblin Chieftain wasn’t high-enough level to make out individual cold patches mixed with heat—only the overall temperature, especially at a distance. Foliana’s expertise had helped a lot in that regard. She knew more than Fraerlings about tricking people’s eyes.

As for what he’d learned…Niers shook his head. Now there was something he could take back to the Forgotten Wing Company. As secrets went—it was right up there with news of Earth. He shook his head. Not much he could do about it now, but he was certainly going to act on it. If he had given Wil Kallinad a treasure hunt worthy of the lad and his friends—this was one worthy of the Titan and his friends.

“One down. One to go.”

It took some doing, but he’d already fashioned little climbing aids; just pieces of wood, like a [Climber]’s picks. With them, Niers could scale most places in the inn, and even without Apista, it wasn’t hard getting into the next location.

He had to go. If the Fraerling settlements were under attack, the Titan could not wait. They were able to defend themselves, but this was duty.

He only regretted this inn was so fascinating. The occupants—the Titan sighed. He couldn’t take any of them with him and he would have if he could. Especially the young man named Kevin.

Kevin, Joseph, Rose, Galina, Troy, Imani, and Leon. Three of the seven were gone. To that list Niers had also appended the names of Ryoka Griffin, Geneva Scala, Erin Solstice, and Rémi Canada. The Singer of Terandria was also on it, though her name wasn’t listed.

He had names, even rough locations, and not one member of his company or any power. Niers Astoragon sighed as he stared around the room. He looked at the map of the world again—his world—and his gaze travelled left to the second map of…another world.

“So much to ask and not a second more to waste. Damn. This is torture.”

The map of Earth sat in front of him, next to a diagram of what he could only assume were multiple worlds. If ‘Earth’ was there…what were the lines? Magical tunnels? But the sun was in the center, so…

The Earth-rooms were a goldmine. All he could do, though, was make copies of everything here. He couldn’t take a mage-picture, and he couldn’t steal anything or leave traces he’d been here, even if he could carry the images off.

Of course, he’d found the rooms. Mrsha was smart enough to keep some secrets, but a Fraerling got everywhere, and air-holes were obvious, especially if they were big enough for him to squeeze through.

The Titan grinned as he worked, a pained, ecstatic grin.

“If only I’d come months earlier! If only!”

It took him quite some time to note it all down, and he’d already been making copies. He looked back just once, longingly.

He would be back for all of it. Then he went back to the garden and began planning his journey. He checked his travel provisions, route, and new equipment and sighed.

“They’re destroying the villages. Tulm—none of the Great Companies would do this. They want me. Peclir. He knows they’re our secret advantage.”

Niers Astoragon clenched a trembling fist. Time to return. This took priority, as this inn had little that was changing at the moment. It could wait. He’d be back. Right after he killed every single person hunting his people in all Baleros.

He was just leaving to pen the final note to the Watch Captain and Chaldion when he came across something…interesting in the inn. Niers stopped as he crawled out of the tiny air-hole and frowned.

“What’s this, now?”

—-

They fed him and helped him get a bath and even gave him a soft bed. For a while, he felt better. However, Rufelt Owelt couldn’t sleep.

He tossed and turned and felt the bar calling to him. Lasica. He found himself rising, like a moth pursuing the flame even if it burned him.

He was walking down to the first floor when Palt found him. The Centaur was heading up the stairs and saw Rufelt.

“Mister Rufelt! What are you doing up? I thought you were lying down!”

The Gnoll smiled and indicated the door to the hallway with a paw.

“I’m—I’m going back. Can’t be away or Lasica might decide—I’m sorry. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Palt looked around, but Imani was tuckered out and most of the inn was heading to bed. He raised his hands, blocking Rufelt as the Gnoll tried to exit the common room.

“You’re frazzled. Sit, Mister Rufelt. Just take a seat. Let me get you something.”

The [Bartender] wanted to argue, but Palt had him sitting and handed him a glass of something that was most distinctly not a traditional beverage. He drank it anyways, just to make Palt stop fussing and shook his head.

“I appreciate it, but really—I have to go.”

The [Illusionist] gave Rufelt a second look.

“You—aren’t feeling mellowed out?”

“No. I have to—”

This time, the Centaur put a hand on his shoulder.

“Then something’s wrong. Because that was my best Calming Tonic and if you weren’t placid as a glass of frozen water—you’re not well, Rufelt. And I don’t mean just mentally. It’s magic or—something on you. Maybe a disease, maybe a spell, but I don’t see anything.”

Rufelt blinked. He looked at Palt and had a thought. Had she cast a spell on him? She’d said she wouldn’t use magic on them directly to change their moods. She’d twist their heads, torture them with pictures—but not coerce them with magic.

Doubt seeped into that assertion, and he’d already doubted her. Rufelt felt so…cloudy. It was lack of sleep. Palt fussed around him.

“Try a puff of this. It made Saliss blink.”

The Gnoll tried to refuse.

“I don’t smoke regularly. No thanks.”

“Just do it. This isn’t about smoking, it’s about…”

The little argument from the Gnoll and Centaur drew a sleepy head. Mrsha had been napping by the fire, having eaten a bellyful of potato and meat and no one had brought her up to bed yet; Ulvama was searching for something with Rags.

She came over to where Rufelt had just taken a puff and felt his head spin—then normalize. He looked down at Mrsha and she up at him. She saw his expression as he stared at the girl and averted his gaze. She would have scampered away, mindful of his grief, but then Mrsha hesitated.

One of her ears perked up. Rufelt thought he heard something…but Palt was muttering about other drugs and substances of various legal and illegal natures. Neither noticed Mrsha hurry upstairs.

“I have to go.”

“You’ll do no such thing. All my magic is bouncing off you! I’m not certain if you’re under an effect, but I can’t put one on you!”

That rankled the [Illusionist]’s pride. Rufelt shook his head.

“I just need to—to choose. I have to go.”

Palt put his hands on the [Bartender]’s shoulders. Rufelt growled, and it might have gotten physical, as desperate as he was to go back home—when Mrsha came back downstairs.

She waved her paws and the two adults looked at her. Rufelt saw her hand a note up and Palt took it.

“Mrsha, I’m kind of busy—actually, could you wake Bezale and Montressa? I need—hm?”

He frowned at the note. Then looked at Rufelt. The Gnoll could read it too.

Go into the [Garden of Sanctuary] for me! Pwease?

The Gnoll and Centaur both gave Mrsha a look, but she gave them her biggest, roundest eyes of pleading and Rufelt hesitated.

“I really have to—”

“No, Mrsha’s right. Just for a second or two.”

Palt was looking at Mrsha thoughtfully. Rufelt growled, but now Palt was whispering.

“You can’t cast the spell on…? Assuming you really can cast a T6 spell, now would be the time to—”

Mrsha shook her head and Palt sighed, but the two began ushering him to the Garden’s open door. It was night, of course, yet it looked serene.

“Just for a second. You stay in there five minutes, sir, and I won’t have Bezale put you in a chokehold.”

“I—fine! Five minutes! If you don’t let me go, I’ll shout for help!”

Rufelt snarled. He walked into the garden and turned around. He glared at the two—and then his face changed to one of bemusement.

“I feel…different.”

He murmured. Rufelt looked around. The Garden was quiet, serene. Beautiful; the most beautiful garden of different climates he’d ever seen. Of course he remembered that, but he hadn’t wanted to go inside.

Erin lay here. Yet—Rufelt began to feel better all of a sudden, dead young woman or not.

“Ah.”

Palt sighed, and gave Mrsha an admiring look. She looked smug herself. Rufelt felt at his head. Suddenly—it was as if the cloud was lifted from him.

“What’s going on? Was I ensorcelled?”

“Maybe not.”

Palt admitted, after taking a note from Mrsha. He raised his brows.

“That’s—fascinating. Mrsha has a theory I agree with. You might not have been under a spell or Skill, Rufelt. That is to say, you weren’t being affected, but nothing I could do would change your mood either. It was just you being at your worst—naturally.”

The [Bartender] blinked at Palt. He recalled being horrifically worn down, stressed beyond belief, but in this place…

“What changed?”

The Centaur gave him a wry smile.

“You came under the influence of a higher power, sir. Rather—the garden’s effect beat whatever was keeping me from helping. As Skills go, Erin inherited one of the most powerful. No malign magics can enter here—or if they can, they have to be stronger than whatever was on you. How do you feel?”

Rufelt felt…not at peace, but better. Calmer. He yawned.

“I’m…tired. I—I’m sorry. I’ve been so exhausted and I…”

He swayed on his feet. Suddenly, it was as if someone had taken his burdens away. At least, in part. Palt glanced at Mrsha.

“Why don’t you lie down? I’ll get a blanket and pillows.”

“Sleep? Here?”

The two were nodding. Rufelt looked at the grass under his feet and decided—why not? It had been a long time since he’d slept like this, but the ground called to him. He sat down.

“What’s going on?”

A weary voice made all three look up. Mrsha saw a Hobgoblin standing there.

If there was peace in this place, Numbtongue still mourned. He looked almost as bad as Rufelt, and that was saying something. Mrsha scampered up to him, signing, and Palt explained as Numbtongue blinked slowly.

“I’m sorry—I forgot you were here. Rufelt’s unwell. He needs to rest in the garden. It’s just for a little bit, Numbtongue. He’s really not well and Mrsha thought it would help. Why was that, Mrsha?”

She scribbled and held up a note for all three adults to read.

Because the Garden is a safe place.

Rufelt smiled. Numbtongue eyed him and grunted.

“Fine.”

He walked back up the hill, and the Gnoll relaxed. The garden’s power enveloped him and he let it soothe the turmoil inside. It wasn’t over, but at least he could relax, his burdens taken off him here. He closed his eyes—

And the Stitch Witch, irritated, wove more power into the spell.

Rufelt’s eyes opened wide. Mrsha and Palt, high-fiving, saw the Gnoll’s world crash down around him again. Rufelt put his head in his paws.

“No! No!”

It was back. His anxieties flooded around him. The calming power of the garden vanished and Rufelt cried out, so much that the other people in the Garden, from the beavers to the people, looked up.

“There’s no escape. I have to choose. Choose one way or another.”

Rufelt rocked. The Titan hissed, aiming a finger at the Gnoll, uncertain if it would help. If it wasn’t the source, nulling the spell just let it be recast and this was powerful. His sense of unease deepened. What could beat this garden’s power?

“Mister Rufelt! Get ahold of yourself! Mrsha, run and get Bezale and Montressa. Something is really wrong here.”

Palt grappled with Rufelt as the Gnoll tried to get up, to run home and put an end to this. The power of the [Garden of Sanctuary] wasn’t infinite; Numbtongue was proof enough, but the Centaur was rattled. He saw Mrsha run for the stairs, but didn’t know what they could do short of knocking Rufelt out or restraining him; he was the emotions-expert here and he was outclassed!

It was as Rufelt was fighting Palt, even here, as he was struggling, that the last person in the Garden walked down the hill, past Numbtongue. He laid a hand on Numbtongue’s arm.

“Let me.”

Rufelt stopped as he saw the last visitor. He couldn’t really punch Palt, not here. Not even with misery drowning him. He stopped though, not because the other visitor was strong enough to halt him, but because he was unexpected.

“Do I know you?”

The Antinium nodded at Rufelt.

“I am Pawn. We have met, Mister Rufelt. I heard you had lost a child due to the Demon’s magic. I am sorry for your loss; I could not express it until now.”

Palt, Mrsha, even Numbtongue and Niers stopped. Rufelt’s mouth worked, confronted by this unexpected gesture.

“I—I—thank you.”

The Centaur coughed, still with two arms on Rufelt’s shoulders.

“That’s a bit insensitive, Pawn. And I should know.”

The Antinium looked at the Centaur and dipped his head in acknowledgement, but not guilt.

“I am aware my words can be hurtful rather than helpful, Palt. Even so, I would rather let Rufelt know I care. I do care. Some in Liscor suffered as well, from the Demon’s spell. Antinium likewise.”

“You too?”

Rufelt whispered. Pawn nodded, as the Gnoll relived horror as he did each time he met someone…the [Priest]’s face was hard to read, but his mandibles drooped.

“Yes. The Demon’s magic affected all peoples, even though Antinium are not born in the same way as others. We found some dead. We mourned them. Antinium are born with great regularity, it is true. We still mourned.”

It was then that Rufelt looked at someone else who could understand. Even if not entirely…he whispered, shoulders shaking.

“How can you stand there and deal with it? How can you look so calm? You don’t even look like you care.”

He hurled the words at Pawn, but the Antinium just stood there. He looked at Rufelt, at Palt, and Mrsha, and took his time before replying. He looked up to the hill where mists gathered and Rufelt realized how wrong he was to accuse Pawn of being calm, of not caring. Especially here.

At last, the [Priest] met Rufelt’s eyes.

“Because I must. To be Antinium is to know your kind dying each day. Less now, than before. But they die. I mourn them all, Rufelt. But I must continue even if I bleed. To make things better for the living—and the dead. I know terrible pain, and I may know worse still, though I cannot believe it. I continue because I believe it will end someday.”

“How?”

There was something Pawn had that Rufelt didn’t. The Gnoll wanted to know how the Antinium was so certain. Pawn’s four arms moved, two spreading out, two clasping together.

“Faith. Faith that better times lie ahead. Sometimes—it is all I have. It is still hard. I still despair. But I come here and see—”

He looked at Numbtongue, at Rufelt. Pawn hesitated, and then reached out. He touched two people, the Gnoll and the Goblin.

“[Benediction]. To you, Rufelt and you, Numbtongue. Have faith. She will return. Better days lie ahead.”

In the darkness, there was a spark. Palt’s eyes widened, as did Niers’. Numbtongue and Rufelt jerked. Both pulled away, Numbtongue knocking Pawn’s hand down, and Rufelt recoiling, but it was done.

Both of them felt…something. Something warm, like a fire. It did not flow into them like a potion or magic spell. It did not change them.

For a second, they were simply there. Sitting in a good place, having eaten their fill, amongst friends. Like they sat in an inn and realized the world was good. Rufelt could close his eyes and remember every time in his life he had felt thusly—and it was so easy to forget.

He remembered hope. And memory was so often cruel and showed only regret and pain. He felt…contentment.

Slowly, the Gnoll yawned. He looked around and Numbtongue’s red eyes turned to Pawn’s. The [Priest] raised his hands.

“I am sorry if I overstepped.”

“Hrm.”

That was all the Goblin said. He went back to the hill, to sit in the night. Rufelt looked at Pawn.

Where the Garden had failed, where Palt and food and everything else—at last, he felt his worries ease. They didn’t shrink, or vanish temporarily. They were simply overcome by the emotion welling in his heart.

Hope. He looked ahead, to the future, and at himself.

“Thank you, Pawn. I—I think I need to sleep. I’m going to be okay, now, I think.”

“Good.”

The Antinium smiled. Palt looked at Rufelt, but the Gnoll didn’t run to leave the inn. He just…yawned. And then he slowly went back to the guest room and lay down.

Rufelt slept, and dreamed without nightmares for once. Mrsha looked up at Pawn, and the [Priest] nodded to her. She stuck out a paw, tentatively, a question in her eyes, and he touched her.

“[Benediction of Hope].”

Mrsha sighed, and then smiled and went to sleep. Pawn left the inn, as the Titan and Palt stared at his back.

Somewhere, the [Witch] stirred. She felt something overcome her power. Completely. So thoroughly she stopped everything she was doing and she crossed her brows.

In confusion and…annoyance.

“What was that?”

It had been a long time since Belavierr had ever uttered those words.

—-

The next day, Pallass was in an uproar. Saliss’ actions and the siege of Oteslia by Zeres had thrown the issue of Magnolia Reinhart into the limelight once more. It was drama, it was tension as half the city seemed to support Saliss, the other half being against Magnolia. A remarkable split perhaps helped by the [Innkeeper] who had represented humanity and their own short encounters with the Lady of House Reinhart.

Drama and deliberation occupied the day, with Sir Relz and Noass discussing the issue and the social circles having their own talks on the issue.

As if they could do anything. As if they mattered. To one Drake, the day was as boring as the last; the news unimportant, trivial Drake politics.

Lady Salkis Blackwing, of one of the most venerable families in Pallass, was bored. The delicate, demure onyx-scaled Drake lay in her comfortable rooms, given privacy and luxury for her delicate health and temperament.

She swore, an epitet involving removing genitals and stuffing them in improbable locations, the kind of oath even a [Sailor] would look askance at. She fiddled with the device in front of her, drew a wickedly sharp, enchanted dagger, and stabbed her bedding—narrowly missing it.

Lady Salkis had a secret. While many took her to be the aristocratic daughter of a Walled Family in Pallass, sheltered by her father, always escorted by bodyguards, she was, in fact, a good deal more durable than anyone knew. A good deal more…violent.

She stared down at the strange device, the rectangle of unknown material with the glossy screen. It was a strange artifact, neither magical nor strictly mundane. She had no idea how it worked. It was not hers; she’d taken it from a Human shortly before ‘killing’ her right outside of Celum. Now, looking back, the Bloodfeast Raider wished she’d been more curious about the City Runner.

After all, Ryoka Griffin had gone on to become a Courier, having survived a mortal wound. She was difficult to touch, but the Bloodfeast Raiders did not like leaving someone like her alive. Still, their organization and mobilization wasn’t like an army’s—it was looser, secretive as they were.

The most feared group of criminals in all of Izril struck at random, north and south. They were small, and each one was a match for a Gold-rank. No one knew who they were; not a single one had ever been captured alive and no one could remember who they were.

Even Salkis herself didn’t know more than a dozen Raiders, but she knew their kind. She was one of them, and she chafed at pretending to be a good daughter. She studied the iPhone that Ryoka Griffin had handed over and growled.

“What’s wrong with you? Work, damn it!”

She tapped the screen, but it was no good. Salkis had had the item in her possession for a long time. However, she hadn’t been able to do much with it. For one main reason.

The Drake had figured out the different buttons. Power, volume…she had investigated each port and seen how the casing could be taken off. What had stumped her, though, was the workings itself. She stared down at the glowing, by now, familiar writing on the screen.

“iPhone is disabled. Try again in 5 minutes. What. Does. That. Mean?”

The word was unfamiliar. She tapped at the screen, then went and wrote down yet another series of four digits. She had tried nearly a hundred codes, and she remembered to turn the device off. She glowered at it.

The numbers in the upper right and that strange…jar…kept going down. It was running out of something. Power. Not magic. She’d covertly tried to get it filled up, like an item with magic, but her mana stones didn’t work.

She had tried everything. Everything available to her in secret. Salkis was no [Mage]; she was exceptionally good with the twin daggers she carried, but she had no magic of her own so her options were limited. Especially because she was smart enough not to show the device to anyone.

She had managed to keep it charged by figuring out the [Repair] trick—after hurling it at a wall in fury. Yet Salkis still didn’t understand why it wasn’t magical if it could light up. She didn’t know what the material was made of, and how a City Runner could have come into possession of this.

Salkis flopped onto her bed, exasperated. And bored.

Bored, bored, bored. She knew her father and mother were discussing the ‘Human issue’, and Salkis could participate as the demure daughter of House Blackwing, even talk to their obnoxious uncle, General Edellein—she could go for a visit, buy something with her allowance—she wanted none of that.

Life was boring unless it was filled with blood, risking your life! Yet she could only creep away from her family on rare occasions, trick them. And only when the Bloodfeast was called. It hadn’t been called for a while; she might not have been close enough to the other attacks. So, Salkis was bored.

Oh, there were…ways…for a young woman like herself to find entertainment. That was how the Bloodfeast Raiders had first found her. Salkis had found a lot of Pallass’ underground entertainments. Ironically, she’d been more free back then; once she’d been inducted, her escapades had to be curtailed.

Being in the Raiders is more like being cooped up in a Walled City than I could have imagined. If I’d have known, I’d have…have…Ancestors damn it.

Salkis growled, too wary to even voice her thoughts aloud. There was no refusing the Bloodfeast Raiders and surviving, or leaving their group and keeping your throat intact. She enjoyed the Bloodfeasts, but they were too far and few between for her liking.

There was so little she could do. Salkis flopped around in her bed and thought of all the amazing things she wished her family would let her do.

Skateboard, for instance. Skateboards were Pallass’ rage. The cause of a lot of injuries. A lot of fun. Salkis had as much chance of getting to ride one as the Flying Gnoll of Pallass did of actually…flying. It was her father’s fault. He was beyond stifling.

So much so that when Salkis did emerge to break her fast, her two bodyguards were already waiting. The black-scaled Drake put on a huge smile, ate, made light conversation, and turned to them with a bright smile.

“Now, what shall I do today, I wonder?”

The two Drakes gave each other a look. They were fairly burly, hired for looks as much as level. Looks over level, honestly. They could chase off any would-be [Kidnappers] or [Thugs] or hold them off long enough for the Watch to arrive, but Salkis sneered at their ‘experience’. She could have killed both before they drew their blades.

She smiled and wished there was another Bloodfeast. Or she would cause one here—

“Lady Salkis, perhaps a visit to the spa?”

Of course the orange-scaled Drake said that. They loved that idea, and so did the Drake serving the table. Salkis rolled her eyes, but internally.

“I’d like to go on a little trip…to the spa, how wonderful! Maybe a nice, day-long rest would help my fatigue.”

The two [Bodyguards] perked up. They liked the spa and certain areas because they could relax; the spa had enough security for them to slack off. Salkis smiled at their relieved looks and wanted to show them exactly how much better she was than they were at fighting.

But no. She accepted the offer, knowing they would make it because it benefited her too. The trick was…complacency. Her family thought she had delicate health, so Salkis could be ‘indisposed’ and have one of her [Attendants] take her place while she was sick. Of course, the stupid girl thought Salkis just went on little jaunts.

The same for a spa. She could be there all day, and had trained her bodyguards to expect that as she socialized with her friends and they covered for her. A lot of her peers had this unofficial agreement, so Salkis could slip away.

She had a plan, today. It had been the last straw, that damned iPhone failing for the hundredth time. She usually kept clear of [Mages] since they could identify her in Pallass and the risk of being caught was too great.

But happily, there was another Drake city nearby, wasn’t there? Salkis couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought about it, but until recently they’d been so strict on the checkpoint lists. Now, they were letting in day-visitors and all she had to do was slip in and out.

She tucked the iPhone into her bag of holding as she rose to go with her [Bodyguards]. Maybe she could find a [Mage] in Liscor to take a look at it. Even if they found something interesting—she could handle things.

—-

Hope was something amazing. When it filled you, it was so completely powerful it blew away the darkness.

The fact that Pawn could touch people and give hope was a power beyond…well, power. And she had thought he was a poo-smelly face.

Well, he was a poo-smelly face with amazing powers. Mrsha the Priest decided it would be a good addition to her roster of classes. She had a number of classes on her list she was going to get when she became an adult.

[Druid], [Wizard], [Adventurer]…[Priest], definitely! Priestess? She didn’t know the rules. What did she have to do, pray like Pawn? Mrsha could do that.

Cookies, cookies, cookies.

She prayed in front of the kitchen for a good five minutes and resolved to do five more tomorrow. In short, Mrsha was buoyed up by hope for a good while; she’d even slept and saw pure visions of great things.

…Until it wore off. Oh, Mrsha remembered, but the [Benediction of Hope] was still temporary. It…might have worked better on Rufelt and Numbtongue, frankly. Maybe Pawn had been stingy, because the Gnoll certainly seemed more alive. He ate, thanking Imani and Palt, not rushing back to Pallass.

Good for him. Mrsha had bigger fish to punch. For instance, she was uncertain, but after three hours, she was convinced. She had breakfast with Ulvama, who asked her if she’d seen any ‘strange mice’ about. Mrsha lied and said no.

She did her math problems with Montressa, and passed them. Then she got to play! She went to the playground in Liscor.

Visma was there, and Ekirra. Mrsha had already apologized a lot after the Thronebearers visited, and she gave him a cookie. He made her eat a bit first, but then he accepted it.

Ser Dalimont himself came to pay her a visit, to inquire if she was well. Mrsha opined she was, and that she really didn’t want to visit the Terandrian embassy. He stroked his mustache.

“We intend to find Lyonette, Miss Mrsha. The situation has become rather—unstable, however. We are hoping to leave at first light. If there is anything we can do?”

Mrsha genteelly offered him a shake of the head. She didn’t hate the Thronebearers, but she doubted they’d have much luck. Lyonette told Mrsha about home and she never made much of their martial prowess. If Oteslia could be won on the dance floor or by bowing—they’d have a chance.

She went back to playing, and then got to visit the Adventurer’s Guild where Selys still put in some work. And the entire while, the certainty grew on her. After three hours, she was convinced. Unsettled. Even…jumpy. She pointed and handed Selys a note.

“Do you see the white Gnoll?”

Selys read. She looked up, but saw only Gnolls passing outside the windows of the guild as she finished her shift. She looked at Mrsha.

“What white Gnoll? You mean you? Yes, I see you, silly—”

Mrsha put her paw up and Selys stopped. She pointed, urgently.

There’s a white Gnoll following me!

She saw it everywhere. Him, rather. Mrsha had seen him yesterday, twice, but both times, it had been just a flash out the inn’s windows.

She looked out and saw a figure standing there. A…white Gnoll. Wearing a long cloak, even a hat. Looking at her.

Just for a second. Then Mrsha would turn her head, blink, and he’d be gone. She had thought it was her imagination. A trick of the light.

However, no one else had seen him. Not Bird. Not Selys, or Ekirra or Visma or…anyone.

“I do not see a white Gnoll, Mrsha. I would tell you if I could. But all I see is you. Now, here is a cookie for you. I am so nice.”

Ekirra didn’t see a Gnoll, or smell one. Visma had been looking the same way as Mrsha and not seen him.

He was just there, in the street! Mrsha pointed, but Selys saw no one. She even humored Mrsha by going out and checking.

“I think you’re seeing things, Mrsha. Or playing pranks. Hey…is this another prank? Like that restaurant? You know, you ruined their entire service and business? Drassi actually had to apologize and write a column about it in the newspaper so they didn’t lose business. We’re going to apologize today.”

Mrsha’s ears flattened, but she stamped her feet in annoyance. The problem with being the little Gnoll who poisoned people’s bowls of soup was that people didn’t take you seriously at times!

If it was a Raskghar, you’d pay attention!

Selys frowned. She took that more seriously and leaned on the table.

“Okay. Okay, if you want to put it that way…the next time you see the Gnoll, tell me.”

—-

Mrsha saw the Gnoll in the restaurant, standing by a table as she was apologizing to the staff and manager. She pointed, sounded the alarm. Selys got the staff to block the entrances.

No one found a white Gnoll. Exasperated, Selys told Mrsha off. The Gnoll threw up her paws.

I demand to talk to Watch Captain Zevara! I’m being followed!

Her request…did not impress the Senior Guard at the desk. The Drake eyed Mrsha and refused to let the Gnoll upstairs, even when Mrsha pointed out she knew Erin and Lyonette.

“If you really didn’t see a Gnoll, I’m disinclined to report it to the Watch Captain. I can take a statement.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. Mrsha—we found no one. I think you’re just seeing Gnoll’s fur in the light or something.”

Selys was fed up with Mrsha’s sightings of the Gnoll. By now, Mrsha was convinced something was up. The Gnoll would be among other people, and Selys or others would be looking his way—but only Mrsha would see him!

Do you see the white Gnoll?

She began to doubt it herself. She…Mrsha wondered if it was her mind playing tricks on her. After all, it was just glimpses of the Gnoll. Maybe it was her own reflection. If no one saw him, not even Bird—was Mrsha going crazy? Had eating five cookies messed with her mind, like Lyonette told her they would?

It was as Mrsha was giving up that she had an idea to ask the one group who would take her 100% seriously. More than the Thronebearers or Selys or even Ulvama. As seriously as Captain Z, who didn’t play games. After all, they had been with her from the start. So she marched off to talk to her oft-ignored protectors, as much unseen as the phantom Gnoll.

—-

The Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings always kept at least three Brothers in the trapped hallway on a kind of permanent sentry duty. They were fed, and traded off in shifts if one needed to stretch or use the restrooms. Sometimes they changed Brothers, but one of the ones almost always there was Crimshaw.

There were actually no less than six on duty at the inn at any time. You see—three always followed Mrsha about.

Six Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings was a lot to be tied up on permanent guard duty. They employed one door-guard for their sanctuary. Six?

They were discussing the issue. One of the younger Brothers leaned against the wall.

“It’s costing us money, Crimshaw. The other branches are asking what’s up. We already took numbers during the battle…all I’m asking is how long? Months? Years? The Gentlemen aren’t even taking pay for their job.”

Crimshaw was the older Brother, with a dagger, a little cap instead of a fancy hat, and more retiring than the rest. He shook his head.

“Normen. You have to consider the situation from a matter of honor. We had the job of guarding the [Innkeeper]. The Gentlemen did—but we took up the issue as a whole. They got careless. They slipped up the one time it mattered and she died. That’s a debt.”

“We fought for her.”

One of the others murmured, and Crimshaw adjusted his hat.

“So we did. A separate matter.”

“Seems a lot of Brothers have died for one woman. Not that I’m saying it’s wrong, Crimshaw, but this is all an affair of honor. Honor’s honor, on my hat, and it’s what we do. But there’s also coin flowing out our socks.”

Normen murmured. He was younger, and this duty clearly chafed at him. It was Crimshaw who fixed him with a patient…serious look. His hat was on, but the other five men looked up.

“Are you upset we died in the street with nary a mention, Normen? That the Gentlemen are far afield, risking their necks for no pay? The Gentlemen are our best—but no mistake. They play fancy at our ideals. They’re all flash, and they can back it up, but they are flash. They move like they’ll live forever.”

The other Brothers nodded. Wilovan and Ratici were Faces, legends. They saw Crimshaw shake his head, though.

“Don’t forget, Normen. They’re our best—but someday, a call will go out for two more Gentlemen. They’re by way of being good representatives of a long line of fellows, but some day they’ll end up lying in a gutter. You’re upset at how we died fighting [Assassins]? Their statues are in that garden. That’s immortality, and a finer end than any of us can hope for. There’s no peaceful death for men like us.”

He raised his voice, and all the Brothers looked up. Crimshaw looked around. He was old, old as they went in their line of work, and barely in his forties. He tugged at his cap.

“I will never be a Gentleman Caller. Now, lads. I know what it’s like to be hot-blooded and impatient. I know we’re bleeding coin. But here’s the question, as it were. The question is not whether we’re honorable men. The question is: do we like to pretend to be honorable men?”

The Brothers looked at Crimshaw. Then they grinned and settled back in their chairs. Normen took a seat. For the [Innkeeper] who called on everything they pretended to be…

They waited. Waited for trouble. They would not forsake their promises again. One of them began to set out another game of cards; another pair had gotten into chess. That was when the hidden door opened.

The Brothers had heard the sound. They’d also heard the pitter-patter of paws, so they weren’t surprised to see Mrsha. Crimshaw adjusted his hat.

“Now look who’s here. Did you want something, little Mrsha? You know you can’t leave without a respectful guardian, and we don’t count.”

The little Gnoll gazed up solemnly at them. The Brothers regarded her with a kind of wary affection; she was one of the few children they interacted with regularly and they were, by now, used to her escapades. Crimshaw saw Mrsha tentatively pad forwards.

Ishkr gave them food, but no one really talked to the Brothers. They were less sociable than the Gentlemen Callers and they were, when you got down to it, criminals. The one person who had done that was the same young woman who talked to Antinium and Goblins.

Crimshaw accepted the note and opened it. He had to read for quite a while; it was hard for him to make out the cursive and reading wasn’t a strength the Brothers looked for. But when he read her note, he looked up.

“A white Gnoll?”

He turned. The three Brothers who had gone with Mrsha glanced at each other.

“Never saw a wink of a fellow myself, Crimshaw. I was leaning against the wall of that restaurant, too. Would’ve seen someone going in or out. I thought it was a funny little prank.”

Mrsha folded her arms and shook her head emphatically. Crimshaw glanced at her.

He took her seriously, and squatted down.

“If there’s a fellow only you can see, Miss Mrsha, I’d call it proper important. ‘Specially white fur. That means something, don’t it?”

She nodded solemnly. Crimshaw eyed her. He drew a dagger from his belt. It was a wickedly sharp blade and she smelled faint blood on it. He offered it to her.

“Now, little Mrsha, I know you’re the sort who plays pranks. Not that you’ve done as much to us—but I want you to swear. On this. You’re not tickling our hats on this, are you? You saw a fellow with white fur watching you?”

She placed her paw delicately on the dagger and nodded. Crimshaw looked up and sighed. The other Brothers glanced at each other.

“Then, Miss Mrsha. I believe you. Now, what shall we do about it?”

—-

That was how Mrsha ended up going back to the park. This time—alone. Well, Crimshaw had taken her. All six Brothers stood around.

Six Brothers with her, and four more in the inn. Crimshaw didn’t play games, as Mrsha had known. He’d called for backup.

The sight of six men with hats would have alarmed any [Guard] who saw them. But Mrsha didn’t see them. All six had vanished into hiding places. She couldn’t even smell them, they were that good.

The plan was simple. If there was a Gnoll or apparition stalking Mrsha, bait him out. Mrsha would play with the other kids, alone, and wait to spot him. The Brothers would be waiting and watching too.

It was a simple plan, and Mrsha felt safe with the Brothers. She was still apprehensive as she pretended to play around, though. She kept staring about, looking for a glimpse of that white Gnoll as before.

It had been nearly every fifteen minutes near the end. The Gnoll had always just been…standing there. Looking at her. Smiling. Waving. Pointing at his fur and hers.

As if to say—‘look, we’re the same’. Mrsha had been curious. And—nervous. She remembered all too well what strange furry people did. It reminded her of the Raskghar.

White Gnolls. Were there more than her? That Gnoll that the King of Destruction had saved had gained white fur too. Mrsha had never…really thought about it. She supposed it had to be rare. After all—the Tribes didn’t like Gnolls with white fur.

She made a sand castle and peeked around it. The street was full of people, Gnolls, Drakes, and Humans now, dropping kids off to play in this safe area, going to work…she looked around.

White Gnoll. White Gnoll…all she saw was her reflection on a metal slide. No white Gnoll appeared.

Mrsha began to feel uncertain. Was it just her imagination? No—she determinedly ran around the playground, looking for a glimpse of her pursuer. There! No? There!

No white Gnoll appeared. Mrsha waited. First fifteen minutes—then she leapt on the high-up swings, fell, let the magic enchantment save her from falling, played tag, then soccer—

Thirty minutes passed. Then an hour. Then an hour and a half. At that point, Mrsha was tired and upset.

It had been in her mind! She went to the edge of the playground and Crimshaw stepped out of an alleyway like a shadow himself. Mrsha looked up at him, ready to cry. She had to apologize. There was no white Gnoll and the only people who had believed her were going to think she was a stinking liar.

She hung her head as the other five Brothers emerged. Crimshaw smiled and ignored a suspicious parent’s look.

“All done, Miss Mrsha? Let’s get you back to the inn, then.”

All six walked around Mrsha. She tried to write, realizing they couldn’t sign. Mrsha sniffed as she handed up a note to Crimshaw.

I didn’t see anyone. I’m sorry. I thought there was someone! Did you see anyone?

Crimshaw read the note and glanced around.

“I saw no one and nothing. You fellows? I reckon you would’ve raised some commotion if you had done.”

“Not I.”

“No unusual fellow. A few [Thieves]—nothing else.”

All five confirmed. They had seen nothing and no one. Mrsha hung her head. The Brothers walked around her, strolling back to the inn. Crimshaw smiled as he tucked the note into his pocket.

“So there you have it. We saw nothin’ and no one, Miss Mrsha. A damned fool I was for suggesting this outing.”

Mrsha hung her head lower. The Brother slowed, seeing her sniff and bent low. He looked down at Mrsha.

“Don’t slow. You were right. Hurry up. Casual now.”

Mrsha’s head rose. Crimshaw’s eyes were kind—and serious. He met her gaze.

“A damned fool. Back to the inn. Quick-like. Not too fast, though.”

What? He still believed her? Mrsha stumbled forwards. What did he mean? Crimshaw spoke out of the corner of his mouth. And now all six of the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings were…strolling, Mrsha realized.

Strolling, too casually. Grinning, heads on casual swivels. She realized they were tense.

“We saw nothing. All six of us.”

Crimshaw muttered. He put his hands in his pockets.

“That doesn’t mean nothing was there. There’s a way of telling you fell under a Skill, Miss Mrsha. Ways of knowing you were duped. All six of us were. Which means I’m a damned fool. You’re not being followed by a regular fellow. His level…it’s at least Level 40. Of all the times for the Gentlemen to be out. Either that, or he’s a specialist.”

The Brother muttered to Mrsha. Now their pace was quickening, but casually.

“Back to the inn. We’re calling in the rest.”

Mrsha tensed up. She was right! Her eyes were huge as the Brothers escorted her down the street. Now—she was more afraid by not seeing the specter than seeing him.

The white Gnoll. What did he want with her? Mrsha slowed as they turned down another street, close to the inn. And as if her thoughts had summoned him…Crimshaw swore under his breath. All six Brothers and the little girl came to a stop.

The white Gnoll stood in the middle of the street. People were glancing at him, Gnolls murmuring, pointing. He was visible to all. Mrsha froze.

The Gnoll grinned at her. His fur was pure white. No—there was a trace of brown on one paw as he raised it. Like…dye, wiped off.

The Brothers stood completely still. The Gnoll had on a travelling cloak, and hat, although he had very little clothing on, like many Plains Gnolls or even city Gnolls given their thick fur. He had a staff in one hand. And he was…smiling.

“A fool.”

Crimshaw spoke quietly. Mrsha saw him shift. She looked up. Crimshaw bent down as the other Brothers spread out across the street. The Gnoll was watching them.

“Here. Now, I reckon you know another way to the inn. Take it. Run. Normen. Blow the alarm.”

The young man produced, of all things, a whistle. He blew it, and the piercing shriek was an echo of Liscor’s watch-whistle! He was…calling the [Guard]? Crimshaw smiled at Mrsha as her eyes went huge. He put something on her head.

A souvenir. His…cap. The Brother straightened.

“Run.”

Wanderer watched as six Brothers turned. The little Gnoll stood there—then ran. Five hats fell to the ground. The Humans were humming as they walked. They drew blades and weapons as the people scattered.

It was a familiar nursery rhyme.

“The night’s been long and the bodies are wet,

But don’t you fret; be quick and ain’t not a guard who’ll be upset

The good folk are rising, and we’re off to our beds,

The smart thieves away with the loot and the slow ones are dead.”

The Gnoll grinned. He looked past them as the Gnoll girl ran. He lifted a paw.

“I’m not here to fight you. What are a Human gang doing, following a child around?”

None of them answered. They walked forwards, murder in their eyes. Wanderer shook his head. So complicated. So long as they remained—he raised his staff and they tensed.

“We’re all running out of time. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

Crimshaw leapt at him, blades swinging. He saw the staff whirl, and Wanderer blocked each strike. One, two—then the Gnoll leapt backwards and ran around a corner. Swearing, Crimshaw followed. He skidded around the corner—

Wanderer was gone. The Brother slashed through the alleyway, looking up, around for hidden platforms, invisible Gnolls or someone leaping upward. Nothing.

Gone. He whirled, swearing, realizing how the Gnoll had played on the Brother’s unfamiliarity with bodyguard duty. Inviting them to fight rather than do what they should have done!

“Get back to the girl!”

The Brothers whirled as one. They ran backwards, each one cursing their stupidity twice! It was a feint! An accomplice! They were too late. Too—

Mrsha peeked back at them, wide-eyed. She was following a group of [Guards], who’d come running. A coincidence. The [Guards] shouted for the Brothers to drop their weapons, and the Humans complied after a second.

Wanderer sighed and leaned back around the corner, bare feet from Mrsha. Damn. Almost.

—-

Mrsha returned to the inn with Crimshaw and Normen. The other four Brothers were in for questioning, but those two had gotten away. It was amazing, really. They’d been cuffed and escorted to the Watch House for questioning—or their doubles had. The two had strolled away, gotten Mrsha, and rushed her to the inn. Crimshaw’s Skill.

Well, Crimshaw’s Skill was the fake of him that would vanish as soon as he was inside. Normen’s was a bit meaner. The protesting Human had been dragged by the [Guard].

“It’s not me! Stop, stop! I don’t know this lot! I was—”

[You Have the Wrong Man]. Literally.

“Lock it down! Level 40’s on our tail! White Gnoll!”

Crimshaw snarled as they burst through the portal door. Four Brothers in the hallway shot to their feet, and they had already been ready. Liska looked at Mrsha.

“What’s happening? Why is everyone coming in today—”

“Where’s your brother? Get clear of the door! No one goes in—no one goes out! Move!”

Crimshaw hustled Liska down the hallway with Mrsha. Frightened, but relieved they were safe, Mrsha ran with him. Straight for the Garden.

She found a second scene playing out as she opened the door to the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Rufelt was standing in the inn’s common room, engaging in an argument with…

Lasica. The Drake [Chef] had found him thanks to Palt’s note. She was shouting at him. She looked awful. Rufelt had been bad—but a night’s sleep had done him better. Lasica looked terrible. Not in the same way, but just as worn.

“How could you just run off? What do you mean, you refuse? You were agreeing with me last night!”

“Lasica—Lasica, listen—it’s a Skill. She’s keeping us like this. Can’t you see?”

Rufelt was remonstrating with Lasica. The [Chef] shouted back.

“She’s giving us a choice! Can’t you understand that?”

Everyone was watching. Ishkr turned as Crimshaw seized his arm; Palt, Imani, Kevin, and the others guests were watching, unable to jump into the personal fight. No one really knew what was going on.

But it was becoming clear. Lasica was almost weeping.

“We could bring our child back, Rufelt. If you’d only agree! What’s wrong with you? Don’t you care at all? What would you give up for him? For her? For—us?”

It was the same bitter words. The same impossible choice, made worse by taut emotions, razorblades of feeling thrown at each other. Rufelt felt it begin to cut deep.

Yet he clung to it. The [Benediction of Hope]. It had been given to him. It was a gift. A blessing. He clung to it and closed his eyes. Keep it in you and make it last. For he would get no second chance.

It was time.

“Lasica. I will not take the [Witch]’s deal.”

The words came out. Palt started. He looked at Rufelt. Lasica recoiled.

“You don’t care. You don’t care at all, do you?”

She looked at Rufelt as if he was a monster. The Gnoll clenched his paws.

“How can you say that to me? Of course I care. But Lasica—it’s not worth it.”

“It’s just time, Rufelt. Fifteen years. Wouldn’t you give that up for a chance? I’ll pay the rest. I’ll do anything. Why…?”

Why wouldn’t you? Rufelt reached for her.

“I would. I would, Lasica. But—I don’t trust her.”

He forestalled her reply.

“I know. She swore by everything. Her craft, her own daughter—it’s still not fair. Fifteen years and your levels? It’s too much.”

“Wouldn’t you give it up for your child, Rufelt? They can come back.”

Everyone was looking at them. Even Crimshaw. Even Mrsha. What were they saying? Bring someone back? Not even [Necromancers] claimed to be able to do that. And what if she were telling the truth?

That was what was so hard. It was easier to call Belavierr a liar. But Rufelt believed her when she said she could do it. Part of him did. And if everything was on a level…life. Levels. For the ones you loved, wouldn’t you give it all away?

A parent’s nightmare. A terrible hope to offer. He had never had an answer for Lasica that could have taken the if away. Even now, he didn’t.

Rufelt was shaking. It was so easy for someone like Palt to say ‘these things happened’. The child had not been born? How dare you. It mattered to him and her and that was all that mattered.

And yet. His paws closed over her claws. She was glaring at him. Crying. As broken as he was by the choice. She knew what was being asked and she wanted to pay it. To turn back time.

That was not what Belavierr offered.

“Even if she was telling the truth, Lasica. Let’s say she could bring back our child. That we paid it all. If it were that alone, fifteen years, your levels—I might do it. But…”

“But? But what?”

His wife searched Rufelt’s face. There was no Pawn here. They did not stand in the Garden. Nor did Rufelt want those things. They could help. But this? It had to be them or not at all. No crutches. His grip tightened on hers.

“Lasica. But what about our second child?”

She looked at him.

“…What?”

The Gnoll [Bartender]’s head rose. He looked at her and drew something from his bag of holding.

“What do you see in the picture?”

He showed her the image of them. The child. Lasica looked at it.

“Our family.”

“Yes. But only one child? Lasica—we never were going to have one. It was always two, remember. A Drake and a Gnoll. Are we going to give it all away? Fifteen years. That’s not enough time. I want more than fifteen years. More than fifty years. More than a hundred. What kind of a life would we give them, if we took the deal?”

She looked at him, shaking her head.

“So you’ll just let them die?”

Rufelt flinched. It was the same argument Belavierr had given Lasica. He refused to look away.

“If I could—Lasica. I thought about paying all the cost myself. Thirty years and my levels. I’d pay the full price. But I can’t leave you alone. I’m sorry. It’s selfish, but I can’t let you sacrifice everything you have left. Not like this. Not to her.”

“I’d pay it myself. If you agree—I’ll give her all of it. All I can.”

Lasica whispered. Rufelt drew her closer.

“No. No! What would I do without you? Lasica! I can’t bear to lose you as much as our child. Don’t you understand? That’s why it’s impossible! I can’t give up one for the other.”

She looked at him. Rufelt was crying. He tried to speak.

“I want you and children. Both. Don’t leave me. I’ve been terrified of that—that’s why I keep saying no. I can’t lose you.”

This was what he should have said all along. What he had been trying to say. What they needed to say. Only, she had been getting in the way. The words sprang from Lasica’s mouth, as something was broken. Perhaps not magic. Perhaps just dark thoughts.

“Don’t you blame me?”

“For what?”

“For losing…I tried to fight it. The magic. I tried, Rufelt.”

He threw his arms around her.

“You thought that? Never. How could I…? Not for a moment. It wasn’t your fault.”

A sob came out of her throat. Lasica held Rufelt. It felt like months since that had happened. Suddenly—Rufelt was holding his wife again. Not a stranger.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. Don’t go.”

“I was never going to go. I just—”

Their audience was forgotten. The two stood there, telling each other the truth. Like a dam bursting. Animosity gone. It was grieving all over again. But this time—Rufelt closed his eyes and sniffed. This time it was grieving together.

The Stitch Witch had failed to tear them apart. She had failed, because of a single moment. The moment when they finally looked at each other. It had been so close, but she had failed, despite her countless years of expertise and cunning.

She had failed.

Belavierr didn’t like failing.

—-

The portal door was abandoned as Liska and Ishkr were told of the threat. Amid Rufelt and Lasica’s reunion and triumph, the inn was alerted to the danger.

There was a Gnoll out there with white fur. He was coming for Mrsha. Wanderer watched the inn from afar and cursed. He turned his head.

He was out of time. They were watching the wrong person.

The true hunters had arrived.

—-

There were eighteen of them. Not eight. Not four. Not a small number. Nor were they weak. The Plain’s Eye played no games themselves.

“We’re in place. Tell the [Shaman].”

Their leader checked the inn from the vantage spot. The rest of the eighteen were approaching from multiple angles. He crouched in the grass, nigh-invisible next to the Gnoll with the furthest range. A longbow, enchanted.

One of the [Shamanic Warriors] traced a marking on his fur and it glowed. It would transmit the magic they shared back to their tribe.

Just a single message that didn’t work the way regular magic did. Undetectable to the Walled Cities.

A [Witch] heard it, but she was busy.

“The inn.”

Their [Hunt Leader] murmured. They knew where their quarry was. It had taken some travel, to reach here via the roads instead of the door. But then—they were Plains Gnolls and didn’t trust Pallass to let them in or out.

Especially not with what they had come to do. They would not pass a truth stone test asking them if they intended violence. They had come here for one purpose.

They were Doomslayers.

“Eyes on the Doombringer?”

The other Gnolls saw nothing—yet. The Gnoll with the enchanted bow could hit the inn from this range, even a thousand paces away. They had the right Skills. And they were cautious. They replied, using a different magic than speaking stones. Each one was a warrior imbued with the magic of Gnolls. Tribal magic.

“Not from my angle.”

Another Gnoll spoke, voice a growl.

“There’s something in the tower. An…Antinium. I think it’s seen me.”

A pause. The Gnolls tensed. The one with the bow looked at the [Hunt Leader] and he lifted a furry finger.

“Danger?”

“It’s waving. It thinks I’m a [Hunter]. Moving off.”

The Gnolls untensed. The [Hunt Leader] stared, his enhanced eyes spotting the figure in the tower.

“It’s watching you. Keep hunting. Kill something.”

“I see Doom.”

The others froze. One of the Gnolls had seen Mrsha in the common room padding towards a glowing hole in the wall. She hissed at the others. The [Hunt Leader]’s voice was steady.

“Do you have a shot?”

“Yes. No. The windows look reinforced. I don’t think [Piercing Shot] can go in.”

The Plain’s Eye Gnolls exhaled in frustration. The [Hunt Leader] spoke.

“Then from up close. Okrha, go in. If you see her—act. We will cover your exit.”

One of the Gnolls made for the inn’s doors. They had just arrived; they would not wait an hour or second longer. The Plain’s Eye Gnoll went through the front door and the others waited.

“Okrha? Okrha?”

The [Hunt Leader] waited. The Gnoll didn’t respond. Maybe the inn cut off their magic? He looked at his companion. Both growled; either something unexpected had happened or…this might not be easy after all. They prepared for a full attack.

—-

The Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings were ready. The hallway was a killing ground and every window was secure. Four were ready—the other two patrolling the house. They were sending for reinforcements. But—

The door opened. They stirred. The actual, physical door to the inn opened. There was a sound from the entranceway.

All four Brothers waited in silence. They heard a muffled sound. A…crack. They tensed.

A Gnoll walked forwards. Not Okhra.

Wanderer. The Brothers stared as the Gnoll adjusted his hat. They knew without a doubt they had just heard someone die.

Crossbows rose. They waited. Somehow that Gnoll had been inside the inn without them telling. He might pass by the hallway unnoticed. They waited, ready for battle. Inside, Crimshaw was raising the alarm with the others, the [Mages] and other guests. Mrsha was in the garden.

Had he managed to teleport inside? Where was he? Was—

Wanderer walked into the hallway. The Brothers froze.

The Gnoll had white fur. He leaned on his staff. His eyes were sharp. He looked down the long hallway, at the holes in the opening, perhaps even smelling and hearing the Brother crouched with the jar of acid overhead, the ones in the walls. He stopped, just before the first arrow crenellations, aware of the crossbows aimed at him.

Nevertheless, he spoke.

“I’m out of time. She’s in danger. They’re here.”

—-

This was how it was. Inside the inn, Ulvama was looking around, eyes narrowed. Rags was watching the door. There was a Gnoll after Mrsha?

Less concerning than the little man who might be the Titan of Baleros. Ulvama was searching for him with magic. Rufelt and Lasica were still hugging, remonstrating with each other, but Montressa, Palt, and Bezale were looking towards the entryway too. Crimshaw was cursing, looking about, and Wanderer was in the inn.

Plain’s Eye Gnolls were waiting for their comrade and hearing nothing but silence. The Brothers were listening, aiming, drawing a bead, and Lady Salkis was waiting impatiently in the checkpoint, wondering why no one was opening the damned door!

Niers Astoragon was swearing ten kinds of fury as he crouched on a beam with Apista, seeing the [Shaman] hone in on him. One of the attacks was here! Damn, damn—

Then he felt a hole open up in his stomach.

—-

Wanderer turned, breaking off from his explanation. The Brothers hesitated, feeling something in the air. They stopped humming.

Rufelt and Lasica looked up, and the [Bartender]’s tearful, relieved smile faded.

“Oh no.”

—-

The door to The Wandering Inn was closed. It showed only stone in Pallass. Salkis, dancing from one foot to another, was hissing with impatience, afraid the checkpoint security would ask more questions. She turned as someone walked through the checkpoint. She ignored the [Guard] who told her to stop. Their voices fell silent moments later.

Salkis felt a prickle on her neck. She turned her head as a tall figure stopped behind her.

“Who is—”

She looked around and fell silent. A tall, tall woman with a hat so broad it cast a shadow looked down at her with glowing orange, ringed eyes.

“Are you waiting for the door to open?”

The Drake hesitated. The Bloodfeast Raider licked her lips, listened to her instincts, and held up her claws.

“Um—n-not really. Be my guest.”

Belavierr nodded.

“Thank you.”

She stood in front of the blank patch of wall and door and regarded it. It didn’t turn into a portal. Liska was with her brother, after all. Belavierr tilted her head. She looked at the door.

In The Wandering Inn the dial with the mana stones slowly began to rotate.

Click. Click. Click.

It stopped on the yellow gemstone. Then the door opened. Belavierr looked at the ground beyond.

She ducked her head and stepped through without a word. Salkis stared at the [Witch]’s back—and then edged backwards, to the checkpoint. She saw all the Drake [Guards] slumped in their seats or on the floor, passed out.

“Oh shit.”

—-

They all felt it.

Niers Astoragon’s head turned. Ulvama froze, ignoring Rags and Calescent’s search for the small man, forgetting her spells. Wanderer and the Brothers forgot their standoff. Both turned. The Gnoll with white fur felt all of his hair rise. He backed up.

“Good evening.”

A woman had walked out of the portal room. She was tall. Her dress was dark blue, so dark it looked like black until you saw closer. Her eyes…had so many rings of growing depth. All this was normal, and perhaps if you saw her, you would not realize how strange she was until you realized how still she could stand. How uncanny those eyes were, how strangely she talked and moved, as if walking a different world, obeying different laws of time.

Except that was not the Belavierr of now. This [Witch] looked down and Wanderer backed up.

“Hello. I am looking for Rufelt and Lasica. Where are they?”

“I—I don’t know who they are.”

The Stitch Witch nodded.

“Ah. Then excuse me.”

She walked past Wanderer. Through the hallway, and turned. Her eyes regarded the figures in the walls. Then she walked past them.

Normen managed to pull the trigger. It was instinct. He aimed at her and pulled and the crossbow snapped. The string struck him across the face as it broke and he fell, crying out.

The common room heard the sound. Everyone looked at the door. Mrsha, inside the [Garden of Sanctuary], felt…something in her tummy. It was like a shadow. Not just fear, but some presence. A superstition.

A certainty. And it was growing.

The Stitch Witch walked into the common room of The Wandering Inn. Her eyes flashed. She was angry.

“Rufelt. Lasica. There you are.”

The two had spun. Now—they backed up. Rufelt was muttering.

“Oh no. Oh no, I told you she wouldn’t let us go. I told you—”

His wife made no reply. As the woman appeared, the Drake whispered one word.

“Belavierr.”

Someone jerked, recognizing her name. Everyone else just—looked on. They could tell what she was, even if they didn’t know her.

Ulvama was gripping Rags’ arm, a look of wild terror in her eyes. Rags had never seen the [Shaman] act this way. She saw the strange Human woman glance at her and Rags felt a jolt run through her entire being.

Her [Dangersense] didn’t need to tell her what her basic instincts did. Rags didn’t reach for her crossbow or shortsword. She didn’t have a weapon that would work. She just—watched.

Anger. Belavierr was in a state not even Ryoka Griffin would recognize. She still paused, looking around the inn, and murmured.

“What an odd inn. So many tangled threads.”

Then she turned to the [Chef] and [Bartender]. And…smiled.

It was a strange smile. A bad smile. It was like someone trying to smile while knowing what a smile was—without ever having done it, only having had it described to them. It was, Rufelt realized with a jolt, the kind of smile someone in his line of work gave to someone else.

Someone in the service industry giving a pair of unruly clients a smile to tell them everything was well, when it wasn’t. It was so disconcerting he lost his fear for a second. Then she spoke.

“I came to seal our pact, Rufelt and Lasica Owelt. I am prepared. I shall begin tonight, as the moons become full.”

She knew. But like a…saleswoman, trying to close a deal, she smiled. Pretending. That was almost as horrible as her presence.

“I—Belavierr.”

Lasica said it again. The eyes swung down to her. Lasica looked at the [Witch] and quailed, but then at Rufelt. She took his hand and he gripped it firmly. She met the [Witch]’s gaze.

“I um—I—we—decided not to take your offer. We had a change of heart.”

“Indeed? How surprising.”

The [Witch] advanced. The couple backed up a step. And now they all saw it.

Belavierr was furious. Enraged. Not because she had lost the deal of a millennium. Not because she had lost something precious, or she feared losing it. Simply because she had failed.

And she did not fail. She tilted her head as she loomed over them.

“It seems strange powers have conspired to change your mind. I do not brook such—interference. Come, let us talk this over. You are not thinking clearly, Lasica. Nor you, Rufelt.”

The Gnoll gulped.

“Strange—strange powers? I just found hope again, Belavierr. Hope, where I couldn’t see anything but darkness around you!”

He dared to raise his voice, even point at her. The Human woman looked at him. The paw shook.

“I did nothing to you but tell you the truth, Rufelt. I showed you a few objects. Talked to you.”

“You—you cast magic on us. Palt said so himself right, Palt?”

The Centaur jumped. He was staring at the [Witch], in confusion. Imani leaned against him, worried. He cleared his throat.

“That’s—that’s eminently true. I don’t know who you are, Miss Witch, but I’m Palt of Wistram! I can tell when someone’s enchanted someone else and Rufelt was certainly under malign influence. That’s illegal in Liscor, Pallass, and Invrisil!”

His voice trailed off as he tried to wag a finger at her and his hand refused to rise. The name ‘Wistram’ didn’t even make Belavierr blink. Someone whispered with chattering lips.

“Palt. Shut up.”

He looked around. The nervous voice was coming from the one person who recognized the name. Of all people it was—Bezale. The Minotaur was looking at Belavierr with a gaze of horror.

The [Witch]’s huge hat rose and she gave Palt a look of…annoyance.

“I cast no spells to influence Rufelt and Lasica, Centaur. Only one to prevent them from being swayed by magic at all. I do not force those I make pacts with to accept any bargain. Do not cast such allegations again.”

Palt’s legs shook and he nearly sat down. He nodded rapidly, but Lasica cried out, letting fury overcome the sense of dread around the [Witch].

“You mean we were trapped! We couldn’t make ourselves feel better! You—you tortured us for weeks! Showed us images of what might have been, told us how simple it was! You call that fair?”

Again, that head tilted. Left. Right. In the garden, Mrsha saw the scariest Human she had ever met stare at Lasica. She didn’t even seem like the same species as Erin and Lyonette. She looked more like Moore in a way. Shorter, but she loomed.

“I force no one to agree by spell, Lasica Owelt. I do not twist their minds or tongues to agree, for that is against my craft. Such promises secured by magic are worth nothing. Of course I persuade. I have shown you what may be. All those who make pacts do such things.”

“That’s fair?”

Rufelt was incredulous. Belavierr nodded once.

“You are free to choose. That is the basic law of all fair bargains.”

He laughed at her, voice shaking.

“I—I don’t care for your rules, Belavierr. There’s more to fairness than being unimpeded by magic or Skills! You twisted our minds. We’re free of that.”

A frown crossed her face.

“You would not have chosen this of your own accord. Someone interfered. Come. Let us speak further. Grant me a moment to change your minds.”

She bent down, reaching out. Rufelt made to shield Lasica and she dragged him back with a cry. They stumbled, and Belavierr reached out. Her fingers scythed gently through the air, clutching, grasping—

And ran into an invisible wall. Belavierr stopped. Rufelt gasped. Lasica blinked and they looked around.

They were in the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Mrsha wiped at her brow with a trembling paw. She’d moved the door behind them! She smiled—then saw the [Witch] staring down at her.

“Is this where you changed your mind? I haven’t seen this garden in a long time. How. Strange. How…unpleasant.”

If possible, she seemed to grow angrier yet. Belavierr looked around.

“I feel fire. Someone familiar stood here. Rufelt. Lasica. Come out.”

She pressed her hands against the invisible barrier. Both Gnoll and Drake retreated. Belavierr spoke to them.

“The Garden is changing your mind. Come out. Let us talk. I am prepared. You could hold your daughter tonight.”

They shuddered. They quailed as something pressed against the garden’s barrier. Mrsha looked up and screamed.

Belavierr had changed. The garden had revealed something. No woman stood there, pressing in, demanding their presence. Mrsha screamed and the inn was ringing with sound, chaos. It had come again. Disaster! Doom! Belavierr made a sound and the Goblin leapt.

He did not know her. He did not know what was happening. But he had waited. Waited, for this day. For when he was needed. Numbtongue leapt through the doorway and planted the crystal sword in Belavierr’s chest. The blade pierced through her dress, through her ribs and came out the other side.

Belavierr staggered back, and her eyes opened wide. She stumbled, stepping backwards, as the glowing sword forged by a master of smiths ran her through. She stood in the inn as Numbtongue held the sword, twisting it slowly in her chest. The [Bard] stared the [Witch] in the eye. She stared at him, wide-eyed. Then—slowly—her face contorted into a look of malice.

“Oh no.”

Niers Astoragon breathed. He leapt from the ceiling as Rags drew her crossbow and loaded a flaming bolt. The Brothers charged out of the hallway as all three [Mages] lifted their wands. Wanderer burst into the room, as Numbtongue’s eyes widened. He drew the sword out, seeing it emerge, bloodless, and swung it in a second killing blow, towards her neck. Belavierr saw it all, and the abyssal rings in her eyes pulsated.

As if the entire room were one…layer. One level of reality. She spoke, as the sword curved towards her neck. As Mrsha, Lasica, and Rufelt saw the defenders of the inn charging at her, Niers, Apista, Ulvama, Palt, and more.

The brave Fortress Beavers as one rushed to flee upstairs exiting the garden, the only sensible beings. The sword sliced towards the [Witch]’s neck. Too late. The wrong weapon.

She spoke, and this is what Belavierr said in The Wandering Inn, the only words that mattered. The only words that fit.

“[Immortal Moment].”

The world beyond stopped. Numbtongue stopped, mid-cut. Niers, Ulvama…Mrsha saw the entire world turn dark. Freeze. And then there she was. Belavierr stood in the doorway, walking past the Goblin. With all the time in the world she stood at the open doorway. Then she smiled down at Mrsha.

Awkwardly.

“Hello, little girl. Won’t you let me in?”

8.28

Two words. The inn had waited for them for so long. Two words; a Skill, it had waited for its owner to return and bring magic and time to a standstill.

[Immortal Moment].

Yet it was the wrong voice who spoke. The wrong woman stood in the common room of the inn. Her eyes were not hazel. If there was kindness in those depths, it was merely the remnants of the emotion, trapped within the layers of undeath by someone who had forgotten what the word truly meant.

The inn warped around her. The air itself seemed to flee her presence. Here was an old [Witch]. The Stitch Witch, some called her.

Belavierr.

She was angry. Her eyes flashed with ire, not dispassionate observation. She stood at the door leading to the bright sunlit [Garden of Sanctuary] and could not get in. The inn’s defenders charged at her.

Belavierr spoke the two words and the world went dark. The inn itself?

Vanished.

Mrsha saw it happen. The girl looked past the [Witch], who was so tall that the tip of her hat seemed in danger of brushing the lowest beams in the common room, Moore-tall, at Numbtongue behind her. He was frozen in the act of slicing for her neck, having failed his first killing blow.

He disappeared as shadows blew forwards like clouds, covering him, his sword, his glowing crimson eyes. Mrsha made a sound in the back of her throat. A cry of fear. She looked at the [Witch], and saw the rest of the inn consumed.

Dragged into darkness. Mrsha, horrified, backed away. Was—was the entire inn gone? Had Belavierr eaten them?

There the [Witch] stood. She looked down at Mrsha, awkwardly, amid the darkness. Amid oblivion?

No—Mrsha realized. The [Immortal Moment]. It had swallowed everything, trapping her, Rufelt, and Lasica in this little space where the sun still shone down, unmoving, from the dome in the center of the garden. Past Belavierr and the doorway—there was nothing.

She had eaten the world with her Skill. Mrsha’s heart thundered in her chest, because—because—she knew that Skill, of course.

It was Erin’s Skill. One of her best ones, no matter how early she’d earned it. Her beautiful, even scary Skill, that made precious moments, important ones, last.

But Erin could not do this. Belavierr was stronger.

That terrified Mrsha. The [Witch] terrified her. Mrsha had felt it the instant Belavierr set foot in the inn. Her fur had stood right up on end. As if charged. She had felt something in her tummy.

Something dark. Clawing to get out. The [Witch] stood there, not pressed up against the door. Mrsha had seen—something—when she had tried to get in.

A thing that was not Human at all. Belavierr didn’t look like that—but she was still bad at pretending to be…

“Hello, little girl. Won’t you let me in?”

Mrsha stared as the [Witch] bent slightly. Belavierr’s lips parted. She smiled at Mrsha. Like…someone who had been told what that looked like but never done it. Even Antinium smiled better than she did.

The Gnoll girl backed up slowly, on all fours. Her eyes were wide. Belavierr tilted her head left and right.

“What should be said…? Little girl, I am very friendly. My name is Belavierr. Won’t you let me inside? You see, it is hard to enter without an invitation. I promise, I will not hurt you. You see?”

She reached up and removed the dark blue hat. Belavierr gestured at it.

“I promise on my hat. I promise on my craft. Please let me in. I will reward you.”

Mrsha stared at her. Then both heard a choked sound from behind the Gnoll.

“B-Belavierr. What have you done?”

The [Witch]’s eyes flickered past Mrsha, and a look of—sinister satisfaction—passed over her face. She smiled, but it was not a nice smile. She looked quite a bit more experienced at that.

“Rufelt Owelt. Lasica Feltail. I told you. I wished to speak to you. You have changed your minds so quickly. Let us talk.”

Rufelt and Lasica were standing behind Mrsha. They had gone still with horror as the inn vanished. They held each other, both shaking slightly. Rufelt’s voice was stuttery.

“W-we told you we denied you, Belavierr. You do not offer us fair deals. We were tormented by you.”

Lasica nodded as well, the [Cook]’s scales grey with fear.

“That’s right. I’ve spoken to Rufelt, Witch Belavierr. We…we’ve changed our minds. I want to live with him. So we decline your offer, politely. We cannot make a deal without the consent of all. You—cannot.”

She said that last bit hopefully. Mrsha was still standing in front of the door, trying to see out. Numbtongue! Was he hurt? How had Belavierr survived being stabbed?

Who was she?

Mrsha had no grounding for who or what Belavierr was. She did not know the stories that had made Bezale shudder. She did not even know how Ryoka had met Belavierr; some stories the Wind Runner told only to the grownups.

A vague memory nudged Mrsha’s head. Ryoka hadn’t told her details about her run in Riverfarm, only that Drakes had done bad things and the fire and…she had said, hadn’t she? She had run into a scary [Witch].

Mrsha had never heard Belavierr’s name come up, but it seemed to her there were no coincidences. Which of course—there were not.

The couple stood before Belavierr as the [Witch] regarded them. Belavierr was odd. She could not hide her emotions well, Mrsha realized. It seemed like she could, as her face would go blank, or remain disquietingly still when talking or moving. Yet when she was annoyed, like now, she showed it. She was not good at hiding her emotions. She just had—less.

Right now, she looked annoyed. She looked annoyed—then gave that fake-smile she had given to Mrsha. A [Saleswoman] with two stubborn clients.

“I understand you have changed your mind, Lasica, Rufelt. But you have had…interference. Allow me an hour to change it back. I am sure I am able to.”

She reached out, and her fingers pressed flat against the air. Rufelt shuddered as Belavierr felt at the barrier in the doorway, invisible, inviolate.

“I am sure you can as well. We—our minds are made up. We refuse. Please leave.”

It was a poor injunction. Mrsha felt sure it wouldn’t work. Even Olesm, conscientious Olesm, wouldn’t leave if you said it like that.

Sure enough, Belavierr didn’t so much as blink. Had she blinked yet?

“That is unacceptable, Rufelt. I will have my say. Come out. Time will not resume until we have time to talk. This is my Skill. To ensure we come to a fair decision.”

“Fair?”

Rufelt looked at the [Witch] incredulously. She just smiled.

“Let me in, Rufelt. I promise I won’t harm you. Invite me in.”

The Gnoll wavered. Then barked a response.

“No! Begone! We do not want you here!”

The shout made Belavierr’s brows cross. And again—no one here could know why she reacted the way she did. Slowly, the [Witch] drew herself up. Eyes narrowed.

“I am tired of being told that word. I will have my say. Let me in, Rufelt. Let me in, Lasica. Quickly. Before I begin to become—angry.”

The last word was charged with intent, such that the husband and wife quailed. It was Lasica’s turn to stutter.

“N-no. Belavierr, didn’t you promise it was my choice? Leave, please.”

“You did not come to your choice alone. Someone interfered. This place interferes. Do you care nothing for your dead daughter? I can bring her back. You are not seeing clearly. Let. Me. In.”

Now there was a trembling. Did it come from the garden or the inn? The two backed away slowly.

“No. No—you can’t. Leave us! Please?”

Belavierr fixed Rufelt and Lasica with a stare that stopped their hearts for a beat. But—they were both as strong as Erin. They were both the best [Bartender] and [Chef] in Pallass; that was why she wanted them. They resisted her, speaking defiance. So Belavierr’s gaze became more vivid, more hostile, but she looked around.

“Little girl. Little girl? Where did you go?”

She pressed closer, hands pushing—then caught herself. Almost guiltily. With a shake of her head, Belavierr straightened. She frowned, and then put two long forefingers to her face.

“So tricky. So difficult. How did it go? Ah, yes. Little girl?”

She made a smiley face with her fingers. As if her lips had gotten tired of the gesture and needed help. Belavierr peered right and left and found Mrsha.

The little Gnoll froze, creeping left, to stare around Belavierr’s dark dress; she had been trying to see anything in the darkness. Now—

Belavierr squatted down so fast Mrsha tumbled backwards. Yet the [Witch] just hovered there, squatting. She kept her lips smiling with help from her fingers.

“I am a [Witch], little girl. Do not mind the silly adults. Have you ever met a [Witch] before? We are creatures of our word. Won’t you invite me in? All you need do is say yes. I will not harm you. In fact…I will reward you, see?”

Then, Belavierr reached into her robes. Mrsha wanted to back up, but the ringed stare had rooted her. Like she stood before a serpent ready to strike, or…Mrsha’s eyes fixed on something Belavierr drew from a pocket.

“Look at this. Isn’t it beautiful? See?”

The [Witch] drew a dancing marionette on strings. It was…a little Gnoll. A carved Gnoll figure, with golden brown fur, who danced with amazing articulation as Belavierr held up a little cross, controlling it.

“See how it dances and bobs? It is a toy I am sure you have never seen. I make such things. I will give it to you if you let me in. Where did this garden come from, little girl? It should not be here. Oh well. Let me in and you may have this. It is a gift fit for a [Prince]! It is not cursed, see? It is just a lovely toy. It will play with you. Defend you, even. It is a gift worth far more than letting me through a door, but it is yours.”

As she spoke, trying to convince Mrsha, Belavierr made the figure dance and spin, kicking its legs up, waving at Mrsha, beckoning, pointing—and then at the end, she let go and the figure danced by itself, despite no one holding the strings.

It was no doubt a gift worthy of an artifact, as advanced magically as the Box of Wonders owned by Briganda’s son, Cade. Probably more so. However, the [Witch] hadn’t caught up with the times.

At the sight of the dancing marionette, Mrsha’s natural horror made her back up until she was nearly behind Lasica and Rufelt. She gave the dancing figure a look of such deep mistrust that even Belavierr recognized it. She frowned.

“No? Do children not love such toys, anymore? What about this?”

She pulled out a something that was like a dreidel, for those from Earth, a spinning top—only, instead of having four sides like the Earth version—this one somehow had sixteen, and yet each seemed large enough…if you stared at it.

“It will spin and spin without you needing to touch it! But when you do—it will predict the future, see? Don’t you want it?”

Mrsha hesitated. That sounded more interesting. In a vacuum, she might have accepted one. Coming from Belavierr? She shook her head.

“Mrsha, don’t—”

Rufelt’s words were cut off. Mrsha looked up in alarm. The Gnoll clutched at his throat.

“Ah. I am making a deal with the child.”

Belavierr looked up, almost wagging her finger. Rufelt and Lasica were helpless, even to gesture at Mrsha. The [Witch] frowned.

“Little girl, are you that afraid of me? Come closer, come closer. I promise not to hurt you if you let me in. I bear you no will at all. If you let me in—just reach out and let me take your paw. I will give you…this. Children love f—”

She pulled out a handful of what might have been treats. Centuries, millennia ago. Mrsha stared at the petrified worm halfway protruding out from what had been some kind of snack. The worm had turned to stone. Belavierr stared at it, and slowly discarded the ‘snack’.

“Hm. It has been a while. What about…this? This is worth more than both gifts together, child. See?”

She held out a crystal flute, delicate glass blown without seams or flaw. It was beautiful, colored light blue. It even had bits of light that danced as you blew it! Mrsha thought it was wonderful. Belavierr blew it and it sounded like a raven calling.

“It can sound like any song in the world if you play it right. Is it not delightful? Come, take it.”

She held it out, just before the door. Rufelt and Lasica tried to shake their heads. Mrsha didn’t move.

Mainly because it was still Belavierr. The little Gnoll was impressed, but—she was a bit hurt. How stupid did the [Witch] think she was? Not even Ekirra would fall for this!

He might have fallen for the next part. Belavierr drew out a little bag. And then she placed sixteen fat gold coins down.

“How about coin, child?”

They were not gold coins as Mrsha knew them. Each one was nearly twice the size, stamped with foreign faces. And they looked like…actual gold. They smelled like it too.

“This is gold from [Pirates]. A fortune for you and your family. You would be a fool not to take it.”

Belavierr coaxed. She saw Mrsha cross her arms. The [Witch] frowned. She had no way of knowing that ‘Aunt Selys’ had changed Mrsha’s views on gold. The girl had also been raised by a [Princess]; she had standards on bribes.

Come to that, Mrsha had a Goblin big brother who routinely chucked raw gemstones at her. So when Belavierr produced a sapphire as big as Mrsha’s paw, the Gnoll shook her head.

It was funny, but Belavierr took longer than most to be exasperated. She just looked confused—but then clearly, slowly began to get…cross. She offered Mrsha more items.

Jewels, gold, toys! A wand fit for a child, with a glowing tip that would never go dark. A little sword forged from the broken blade of a hero. A treasure map so faded with age it turned to dust when Belavierr put it down, a pet bird—she stared at what she half-pulled out and put it back before offering that.

Nothing worked. And what confused Belavierr, plainly, was the lack of a response she got from the little Gnoll. Only a shake of the head, a frown—no words.

“Little girl, what holds your tongue?”

At last, Belavierr frowned. Only then did she look at Mrsha. Oh, her eyes had been in the right places. But it seemed she had never focused on Mrsha before. She did so now and Mrsha’s fur stood right back up. The Gnoll girl, who had been growing amused by Belavierr’s frustration, suddenly stopped smiling.

She stood in front of two spotlights for eyes. The orange and black rings drew her in. Deeper, deeper—Mrsha felt herself flying forwards. Belavierr drew higher, until she towered above Mrsha like a true giant.

The [Witch] looked down, and suddenly Mrsha stood amid orange light. The color of her eyes. There, above her, impossibly distant, impossibly vast, was Belavierr.

Mrsha heard the thundering of her heart. She saw the [Witch] behold her, and she saw everything Mrsha was. Mrsha?

She saw part of what Belavierr was and would have screamed. For what she saw was in that distant giant, a hundred million twisting threads. They made her up, each one thinner than the hairs of Mrsha’s fur. Somehow, Mrsha saw it all in terrible detail and realized that ‘Belavierr’ was part that.

But part of her lay still deeper, behind that layer. Mrsha saw the eyes blink—

—And fell deeper. The orange light carried her down another level of infinity. She floated in a sea without luminescence save for the beam of fulvous mixed with amber. Gold blended with rust mixed with dying embers.

Something was in this sea. Something swam or floated without water. Mrsha looked down and Belavierr looked up. Only—it wasn’t the [Witch]. It had her shape. But she was made up of something.

Little hearts. Each one pierced with a needle, joined together by a single thread. The [Witch] floated there and looked up at Mrsha. There were gaps where she should have been. Some hearts were burned, black, barely beating.

Someone had hurt her. Yet still, Belavierr looked up. Her eyes met Mrsha’s and Mrsha felt herself fall through another ring in the eyes. Deeper—

—-

“Curious.”

Belavierr blinked. Mrsha stopped falling. She lay on the ground, panting, flailing wildly, before she recovered. What—what was—

That was why Rufelt and Lasica were frozen in horror. That was what Ryoka had once seen. When Belavierr looked at you, you looked back and wished you had not.

“A white Gnoll child? Curious. Your name is Mrsha. You wear a little charm, girl. Not enough.”

Mrsha stared down at the pendant supposed to keep [Appraisal] and [Scrying] spells off her. She looked up. Belavierr glanced at her.

“And you do not speak. I see. But will you not take my hand? See? I will give you all the presents I showed you. Let me in.”

She knelt once more, offering a hand. Mrsha looked at Belavierr. At last, after seeing Belavierr and being seen, Mrsha was moved to speak.

“Heck no! You scary thing! Go away!”

Well, she didn’t say that. She signed it with her paws, having left all the writing materials outside. It was only for Mrsha, not Belavierr’s benefit, but she felt better.

And then the [Witch] got scarier, if that were possible. Belavierr tilted her head sideways at Mrsha’s flashing paws. Her head twisted right, twisted left, and then it went nearly 90°sideways.

Mrsha heard the click-click-click of the [Witch]’s neck, but Belavierr didn’t bat an eyelid.

That was horrifying. But the [Witch] whispered.

“[True Translation]. Me? Scary, little one? How rude.”

Mrsha froze, paws raised. She stared at Belavierr. The [Witch] regarded her, frowning. Then looked up.

Lasica and Rufelt had been paralyzed this entire time, unable to break into the negotiations. It seemed though, that Mrsha’s final, and only comment had meant it failed.

“Mrsha, back away from the door. Belavierr, you are not allowed in here! We know your Skill! You—you can’t harm us! That would violate your craft; you said it yourself! You aren’t allowed in here, either! So, begone!”

Lasica gathered Mrsha into her arms as the three moved back from the door. Belavierr frowned.

“This is displeasing. I only wish to negotiate on equal terms, Lasica. Mrsha, let me in. The [Garden of Sanctuary] allows no harm. What could I…do? Let me in. I am beginning to become displeased by this waste of time and effort. You would not like to see that.”

Mrsha traded glances with Rufelt. He whispered to Lasica, drawing back another step.

“She isn’t leaving! Lasica, I told you she wasn’t into fair bargains!”

“Do you have to rub it in now? I don’t know what else we can say!”

They were squabbling, but to Mrsha, it was a reassuring sound, because they were talking. Arguing like, well, a married couple, not sad Rufelt alone or the two shouting, biting at each other with words.

Belavierr saw it too, and it did not please her. She frowned deeper.

“I do not bow to this old Skill. I will not be refused. Let me in. I will not ask again so politely. You, child.”

She pointed at Mrsha. Lasica whirled, Mrsha in her arms, and Rufelt put himself between them and Belavierr, protectively, arms outstretched.

Even so, Mrsha felt the finger point at her.

“You will let me in or suffer my ire.”

This time it was not a suggestion or request. It was a threat. Lasica looked down at Mrsha, unsure of what to do. Afraid. Mrsha looked up at her, Rufelt—and slowly pushed Lasica’s arms away.

“Mrsha, no, don’t—!”

Lasica froze again, as whatever Skill that Belavierr was using to enact her deals came into play. She smiled, straightening, as Mrsha padded slowly towards her. The Gnoll looked up as Belavierr bent.

“Yes. I shall give you all the gifts I promised. Wise little girl. Take my hand if you cannot invite me in with words. Just so.”

Mrsha slowed. She tentatively stood on two legs, and toddled forwards. She reached out with her right hand and Rufelt groaned through his teeth; the only sound he could make. Belavierr smiled. She reached for Mrsha’s paw as the Gnoll hesitated, knowing the weight of Belavierr’s threats.

Then Mrsha proved she had learned too much from her guardians of Erin, Lyonette, Ryoka, and more. She held out her paw as Belavierr bent, stuck it through the doorway—and jerked it back at the last second.

Sike.

Belavierr’s face went slack as her fingers missed Mrsha’s paw. Mrsha held it out—the [Stitch Witch] reached for it. Mrsha jerked it away.

The Stitch Witch stared at Mrsha. Mrsha stared back, eyes wide. But the tiniest, gleeful smile trembling to get out. She held out the paw a third time. Belavierr stared at it. She stared at Mrsha.

Mrsha poked it through the [Garden of Sanctuary]’s barrier. The air felt no colder, nor did the ‘void’ around Belavierr seem painful. She was glad. It was just the Skill. Belavierr saw Mrsha jiggle the paw.

This time I’m serious, okay?

The [Witch] knew. She had to know, but she reached down anyways, quicker this time—but still like a mountain moving, ponderous with eternity. She reached down—and Mrsha jerked the paw back.

Got you again, stupid.

It may be that Belavierr even heard Mrsha’s inner thoughts, because she looked at Mrsha. And her eyes narrowed. Mrsha felt the full force of her gaze, and something else.

Ire. Belavierr’s voice was low.

“Little girl. You have made a mist—”

Mrsha slammed the door in her face. Rufelt and Lasica jumped. They stared at the wall—then the blank wall as the door vanished. Mrsha waited, a juddering heartbeat, then two, and turned. She wiped sweat from her fur, and grinned.

“Hah, I won!”

She signed triumphantly. Rufelt and Lasica didn’t know what Mrsha meant, but the meaning was obvious. They rushed forwards.

“You brave little—I thought you were going to let her in!”

“That was amazing! Stupid, but amazing!”

Rufelt agreed. The two hugged Mrsha, and she hugged back with pure relief. She beamed, still shaky. Take that! Belavierr couldn’t get in!

“Do you think she’ll leave? That was Erin’s Skill, wasn’t it? [Immortal Moment]? How does she have that?”

“Skills are Skills. We have to tell Chaldion. The Watch! Um—someone! Is there anyone who could chase her off?”

As they finished celebrating, the two adults turned back to worry; Belavierr was gone, but the Skill might still be working, and if she was in the inn?

Mrsha led them away from the mushroom and dirt biome, towards the center of the garden. She stared at the grass, the Sage’s Grass growing on top of the hill, the dead faerie flowers save for the little patch Ulvama had revived…and then up towards the hole in the overgrown, wooden dome covered in ivy.

The sky was visible through the hole there; even part of Bird’s tower, but never Bird himself, or anyone on the inn. There were clouds, the sun…it was reassuringly normal.

Only, the clouds didn’t move in the sky. Mrsha pointed up. The [Immortal Moment] was in effect; ergo, Belavierr was still outside.

Rufelt and Lasica…didn’t notice. They were conversing, anxiously.

“She can’t take all of Pallass on. We just have to send word. If she’s out there, she’ll get bored.”

“Maybe we run for it? Go for Pallass if she’s waiting in the common room?”

“Rufelt, I love you, but you can be an idiot. Unless—we can open the door right to the portal room? If we were just a foot away and she had no clue.”

“Aha! Who’s stupid now? Er, I love you. It’s good to argue again!”

The Gnoll was beaming. Mrsha kicked him in the shins, or tried to. She couldn’t harm him, so she just sort of nudged him with a foot. She pointed up as he looked down. Rufelt followed her finger.

“Oh! We can climb out of the hole in the roof! Is that right, Mrsha?”

The Gnoll girl looked up at Rufelt. The clouds, you idiot! Ipso facto!

Lasica caught on.

“She’s still out there, Rufelt.”

“Well, let’s try the portal room idea. Mrsha, you know the [Garden of Sanctuary]. There aren’t any secrets we don’t know about, is there? You can help us, right?”

Mrsha nodded as the adults turned to the real leader in this situation. Who had shut the door on Belavierr’s stupid, stinky face? Who had placed the garden’s door behind them so they walked in and saved them? That’s right.

She looked around the [Garden of Sanctuary]. It was, as always, a central hill surrounded by multiple ‘biomes’ of different climates. The arid area with the sand and a few annoying cacti-things. The jungle that had provided the invaluable cacao tree and Niers’ hiding spot—no Niers, unfortunately.

The pond area, next to the mushroom and rock-garden area, the grassy grassland that was lovely to run about in, and finally, a frozen, cold, snowy place in the far side, against the hill.

The hill, where the only other person was. Mrsha stared up at it gravely. The misty hill above the normal one, which you had to climb to, which had the statues and was beautiful and terrible.

That was the garden. Big enough to have lots of people in, a sanctuary where no violence was allowed. Unfortunately—uninhabited. No Niers; the beavers had fled their usual dam in the pond, and Apista was out.

The beavers had fled the pond? Mrsha’s head turned back slowly. That was…strange. The adult Fortress Beavers, the Defenders of the Cave, and their little kits almost never left the garden. They knew how safe it was. If they had left, did that mean they thought something was wrong? Had they known, once Rufelt and Lasica were in that…?

She felt a sense of unease creep over her, but reassured herself that Belavierr couldn’t get in. Mrsha had tricked her, and a [Witch] who had been tricked lost all her power! Or did you have to steal her hat? Throw water on her?

“No secret entrances, huh?”

Lasica sighed as Mrsha gestured around the garden. Rufelt sat down on the hilltop.

“Almost all the Faerie Flowers are dead. That’s a shame. I liked them. Sage’s Grass…are those the beginnings of a garden over there?”

Mrsha nodded importantly at some of the vegetables and growing Blue Fruit trees and such that Lyonette and Erin had added.

“Not very useful unless you want me to make a salad.”

Lasica sighed. Rufelt nodded.

“I could make a magical drink with some Sage’s Grass and…alcohol…but that’s about it. I think we have to leave, dear.”

Mrsha sighed. She was a low-level [Druid] and [Survivor] and somehow she felt like she had the most applicable Skills to this situation. She pointed across the dome.

“The door? Can you make it appear there?”

The two adults hurried after her. Mrsha nodded importantly. She didn’t have to actually walk over to that side; she could make the door appear right where it had been, only with a different exit point—but all of them instinctively wanted to get as far away from Belavierr as possible. She led them to a bare patch of wall.

“Just open it right in front of the portal door, Mrsha. Belavierr’s in the common room and I bet she’s standing where she is or trying to get in. Even if she senses us—we can lure her away, and jump through to Pallass. Even she would have trouble if all the Watch arrived. I think. I’ll go; Lasica, you’ll stay with Mrsha.”

“Don’t be stupid, Rufelt! What if she catches you?”

The Gnoll hunched his shoulders.

“She said she can’t harm us. I just have to run through and call the alarm.”

“What if we’re caught in her [Immortal Moment] Skill even there?”

Rufelt shook his head.

“Pallass is 400 miles south of here. There’s no way her Skill reaches that far, through the door, surely. It’s not that powerful. She’s not that powerful. Right?”

Mrsha and Lasica hesitated. In theory, Mrsha thought that was right. You could probably escape an [Immortal Moment] if you weren’t a willing participant by getting out of its ‘range’. On the other paw…

“We can only try. Open the door, Mrsha. No one make a sound. If it looks safe, we’ll maybe try opening really fast.”

The little Gnoll nodded. She turned to the ivy-covered wall, took a deep breath, and motioned for silence. Rufelt and Lasica nodded, and the door opened.

It revealed the portal room, now set up to take in visitors who might be hostile via the truth-archways and semi-fortified. Mrsha leapt back—and nearly ran into Rufelt.

“Ow! What’s wrong?”

He whispered. Mrsha glanced at him, and the empty room.

She’d just thought Belavierr would be standing there or something. It seemed like a classic ‘evil [Witch]’ move. She shook her head.

“I thought she’d be there. The door’s close! Damn—I’d have to go through the archway to get to it.”

Lasica eyed the door. Unfortunately, in its new setting, it was actually harder to reach than it had ever been; Hexel had set it into the wall, and there was no easy ‘access point’ to it. She turned to Mrsha. The Gnoll nodded, closed the door softly, and adjusted its position so it wasn’t facing the door, but directly adjacent to it. That way, when she opened it, they could just reach out and adjust the dial.

“Perfect.”

The three saw the door right next to them. And no Belavierr down the entire portal room hallway! Rufelt gave Mrsha a thumbs-up and she nodded.

“We’ll look for her. Just adjust the dial.”

Rufelt whispered. Lasica nodded. She reached out to change the dial. It was on the unused red stone that Ulvama had come through. Mrsha tilted her head.

Strange. She’d thought Belavierr came through the Pallass door from what Rufelt and Lasica had said. Had she teleported here instead? Or had someone changed it? Why—

Lasica’s claw closed on the dial as she put her arm through the door.

Belavierr grabbed it. The Stitch Witch appeared, shedding her invisibility spell. She had been standing right there.

“Hello, Lasica. Come with me.”

“Lasica!”

Rufelt shouted. He and Mrsha grabbed Lasica and tried to drag her back. The [Chef] screamed in terror as Belavierr dragged at her. The Drake screamed and screamed and the [Witch] was whispering.

“You will not deny me. Come with me.”

“Lasica, don’t let go! Don’t—”

Rufelt was straining with all his might. He couldn’t drag Lasica back, even with Mrsha’s strength! However—neither could Belavierr pull Lasica out.

Mrsha realized they were stalemated at the same time Lasica did. The Drake’s eyes were wide.

“She can’t get me out! Don’t let go, pull me in, Rufelt!”

The Gnoll’s arms bulged. Lasica cried out; he took a risk and grabbed her under the armpits. Even then—

“I can’t! She’s too strong!”

“We will stand like this forever. I have you. I will not let go. Come out. Or lose your arm.”

Belavierr hissed. She held Lasica’s claw lightly, but it was enough to overcome both adults and Mrsha. The Gnoll let go of Lasica’s foot and was displeased to see it affected the stalemate not at all.

“Belavierr—let go. Let go!”

Lasica wanted to claw at the Human, but her claws didn’t even pierce Belavierr’s skin. The Stitch Witch was eye-to-eye with the terrified Drake.

“You have offended me. I am beginning to become upset, Lasica. I will relent if you come out, now. I will even forgive the child. Do not make me—angrier.”

“Begone, foul [Witch]! You have no power here!”

Rufelt roared. Lasica and Belavierr turned their heads to both glower at him. The [Bartender] hesitated. He’d thought it might do something.

Stalemate. Only, this time even worse. The three strained in an invisible game of tug-the-Lasica. Mrsha had run off and Rufelt was holding Lasica as hard as he could, despite Belavierr ‘seeming’ to not be able to pull her out. He couldn’t see the girl; maybe she’d fled.

And now Belavierr was whispering.

“Your daughter will never be born, never draw breath, Lasica, unless you take my deal. Do you want her to die? Look. Don’t you see her? This is her, Lasica. Look.”

She had the picture. She thrust it at Lasica and the Drake tried to look away, but Belavierr held her and her eyes were drawn to the picture.

“I—I want to live and raise more children! I promised Rufelt!”

“You will let your child die. You will not save her, as you can? You have a chance other parents would give all for and you turn away. What will your daughter say? Do you want…to hear her voice?”

Rufelt felt Lasica shuddering. He shouted.

“Monster! Leave us alone! Stop haunting us!”

He saw the ringed gaze swing his way. Belavierr regarded him, and then spoke.

“Rufelt. Do you want to speak with your daughter?”

His heart stopped. The Gnoll [Bartender] nearly let go of Lasica. He saw Belavierr smile, like the face of evil, and reach for something under her robes.

“I can let you do that.”

“No. Please. No.”

Lasica and Rufelt stood there in horror. Trapped, transfixed. Belavierr had them and now the Spider smiled horribly wide. She stood in the darkness as it reclaimed the portal room; that was how they should have known it was a trap! Darkness covering the inn, her oblivion of an [Immortal Moment].

They had no Skills designed to stand against her, those two. They were a [Bartender] and [Chef]! What were they supposed to do? What kind of class save for [Hero] could fight that? What kind of [Innkeeper]…

Mrsha charged down the hill. Her racing paws made Rufelt’s head turn. His grip slackened. Lasica screamed.

“Rufelt! Don’t let go!”

But then her head turned. The only one who didn’t notice was Belavierr, so intent and gloating was she on her quarry. The [Witch] only glanced up when she saw the light.

The light? The [Witch] hesitated. It danced, moving shadows. It was a living thing. Not like the frozen light from the [Immortal Moment]. What was that? She looked up.

What was it that the Gnoll girl held in her paws? She had stolen it from above! Stolen it from where it burned in a little cup and brazier next to the frozen bier! Ulvama had found that too.

Fire, burning on those she had touched. Her last will.

[Like Fire, Memory]. The [Witch] saw the Gnoll holding it, and it was bright, a combination of countless colors. She saw Mrsha lift it up, and offer it to Lasica. The Drake hesitated.

“How does it still burn? Was she here? This is not her place? Girl—where did you get that fire?”

The Stitch Witch demanded. She backed away, shielding her face with her good arm from the flames. She raised her voice as Lasica reached down for it.

“Take it away! Take it—”

Erin’s last flame touched Lasica’s claws. The Drake gasped—and the fire raced up her entire body.

Hope. Kindness. Despair. Mercy. All the flames Erin had known and more, encapsulated in this last fire. The fire that burned even now. It was not one flame. It was…Mrsha felt it burn across her and Rufelt too, feeding off their living souls. She realized what it was, at last.

The fire of life. It could be so cruel, and Mrsha had borne it without knowing until Ulvama rescued her. Yet now, she let it burn across her.

It raced up Lasica’s scales as if they were tinder. Over her body as she cried out in relief and a different kind of agony, for she felt alive. Cruelly alive to mourn and weep and love and lose! Yet she let it burn.

And it raced onto Belavierr’s hand. The [Witch] screamed. Screamed, as if it burned her worse than any mortal flame.

For five seconds, then ten, she tried to hold on. But the flames were reaching up her arm and it was like the flame knew her. For the other owner of this Skill, the origin of this fire, had called Belavierr her enemy.

Even now, Maviola El burned. Mrsha felt tears rise in her eyes. Even now, Erin’s will lived on.

Belavierr screamed and let go. She flung her arm up and Lasica fell into Rufelt’s arms. The fire on them went dim as all three stumbled back, not blazing as brightly as it had when it seemed like they were wrestling for their very lives.

Against her. The [Witch] screamed and the fire licked up her arm, burning her cloth, her skin. Mrsha saw the Stitch Witch burning and didn’t understand why. Wasn’t she alive too?

Yet she was so old. Perhaps memory hurt her. Perhaps living hurt her. And she was thread and needles. This was her antithesis.

“Leave, Belavierr! This is Erin’s inn! This is her Skill! This is her fire! You cannot trespass in her garden! Begone!”

Mrsha shouted with her paws, with her unheard voice. It was a far more powerful statement than Rufelt’s. Belavierr was flailing, still slowly, as if she couldn’t move fast, in the same time and quick reality as the others. She cried out, a kind of wail, but so—Mrsha’s hair rose.

“The fire was inherited. You burn me. You burn me!”

She called to Mrsha, as the flames began to eat at her hair. Her hat. Belavierr swiped at it again, and then stopped. As if realizing there was no way she could simply remove the fire with force. She stopped, and Mrsha, Lasica, Rufelt’s grinning triumph slackened on their faces.

The [Witch] stood there, like a statue, burning as more of her was covered in that multicolored fire. She looked down at it, suddenly back to her normal state.

“Life. A last memory. A last, flickering flame.”

Mrsha looked up at her. Uncertain, now. Belavierr stood tall. She gazed at her burning side. Then—started laughing.

“You tried to burn me with this? With a dead woman’s fire? You tell me this is not my place? That I cannot get in?”

She ignored the fire. Belavierr pointed at Mrsha with a burning finger.

“Twice now, you have insulted me, girl. You think I can burn like little [Witches] of old? You think you can best me in this game? You think you have seen all of my power?”

Mrsha backed up. N-no. She didn’t really think that. Why didn’t they all calm down now? People had said and done things they might regret. Belavierr leaned forwards. Now the flames were covering half her face, but she didn’t even flinch.

“For you, Mrsha. I will use my power.”

The little Gnoll froze. Rufelt and Lasica made a sound. And they realized, all of them, together, that Mrsha had done what not even Ryoka, Califor and the coven, and all of Belavierr’s opponents had accomplished. Not even Ser Raim.

They’d made her well and truly furious.

The Spider stood tall, then. The Stitch Witch looked up. But those were only the names they gave her in this age. Spider? Stitch Witch? Temptress?

Paltry little names. They had forgotten the real ones. The names even Djinni had remembered. The names Dragons passed about. She had walked among species now dead to this world.

Belavierr raised her burning arm to her face. It burned with Erin’s last fire. Life, for her friends she left behind. Happiness and anger and loss and guilt and every emotion…Belavierr regarded it, face impassive as it tried to burn her.

“Petty little flame. Your master is already dead. Begone.”

She took a breath—and blew it out.

Mrsha saw the flames racing across Belavierr’s clothing vanish. The Stitch Witch stood, not even smoking. Mrsha backed up. Now, only those in the garden were on fire. And—the flames seemed dimmer.

“Belavierr. Enough. Can’t you see we will not relent?”

Rufelt and Lasica blocked the [Witch] as she turned to Mrsha. Belavierr glanced at them. Then blinked.

“Ah. Rufelt and Lasica. I have changed my mind. You two may leave the garden. I renounce my claim on your bargain. When I leave, I shall set the last hope of your daughter’s life free. You have chosen. Now—my deal is between myself and this child.”

She bent down. Mrsha stared as Belavierr fixed her ringed gaze on her.

“Mrsha. Let me in. Let me in. That is what I desire.”

Belavierr’s mouth opened wide in a grin. Mrsha stared at her. Why? For what reason? Rufelt and Lasica looked at each other. The Spider only laughed. Why? It was so obvious.

To hurt you.

Mrsha saw the two block Belavierr, linking arms. They stood defiant, the Gnoll and Drake. Belavierr looked at them and shook her head. She spoke past them.

“Mrsha, I will offer you a deal. Let me in. Let me in, and we will strike a bargain. You will offer me what I wish. In exchange for what I will give you.”

“Don’t listen to her, Mrsha. You’ve seen what—”

Rufelt kept speaking but his voice went silent. He and Lasica moved aside, helplessly shocked. Belavierr stood there, demanding Mrsha’s attention. The Gnoll stood slowly straight. Erin’s fire still burned on her fur, lightly, but it was like Erin was with her. She looked Belavierr in the eye and raised a furry little finger.

Belavierr glanced at it. Mrsha added another and waved both for emphasis. The bit of defiance made her feel better, but the [Witch] didn’t even twitch.

“We are past petty insults, you and I, girl. You will let me in. I offer you what you most desire.”

Mrsha scoffed, knowing Belavierr could understand. She braced herself, ready for the [Witch]’s petty bargain. Belavierr looked at her with her endless gaze and Mrsha grew uncertain. The [Witch] looked into her. Searching…then she smiled.

“Mrsha. You stand in a dead woman’s inn. You proudly bear her fire. Give me half your life. Half your years. And I swear to you—I will bring your [Innkeeper] back. I will return her to life.”

The little Gnoll’s confident expression flickered out. She half-looked at Lasica’s quivering lips, her unspoken words, and shook her head. Belavierr just smiled.

Because…that was her opening offer. She leaned forwards, nearly pressing her face against the invisible barrier.

“No? Then I look at you, Mrsha, and know you. I know what the tribes call you in this era. Doombringer. You are marked with the death of your tribe.”

Mrsha froze. The eyes drew her in. Belavierr whispered.

“I could bring them back. I could bring your tribe back. What did you do to slaughter them? Was it your fault? I could take away your cursed fate, girl. Your pale fur. I could give you a new tribe, one who never knew whence you came and never asked. I can bring back your friend. What do you want, Mrsha? Give me five years. Give me your left paw. What would you do to save all those who have died because of you?”

Mrsha backed away, eyes wide. Belavierr didn’t let her go. She didn’t move, but her glowing eyes followed Mrsha. The darkness around her…was growing. Her whisper grew louder, and Rufelt and Lasica tried to shield Mrsha—then fell away from the intensity at the doorway.

“I could do it all. I only want what you offer. Five years? Bargain. Are you so petty you would let her lie, rotting, for only five years? Open the door, Mrsha. Strike a deal. I will use all my power. You will never have it ever again should you live a thousand years.”

The girl ran. She turned and ran from the door, not even running to close it, if it could be closed. She ran in terror because this was what Belavierr had seen. Her fear. Five years? Five—

She raced over the hill, to the other side of the domed garden. So far she couldn’t see the [Witch], breaking her line of s—

“Mrsha. Open. The. Door.”

Belavierr stood in the open doorway. Facing Mrsha. She had appeared around the other side of the dome. Mrsha froze. She—she couldn’t do that.

She turned and ran for the jungle. And the door followed her in. The [Witch] stood, whispering through the vines and brush.

“You will bring ill luck to all those who love you. You have already. Do you think it coincidence? Doombringer. I can remove it.”

Mrsha turned and fled back the way she’d come. Belavierr whispered from past the water as Rufelt went to grab Mrsha, but she was running in terror now, fleeing every time she met that gaze.

“How many died already? You bear the mark of terrible fate to come. Your friends will die trying to protect you and it will be your fault. Don’t you want me to twist destiny for you? Offer you safety for the future? Which will it be?”

“Mrsha, run. Don’t listen.”

Lasica whispered. She seized Mrsha as the Gnoll girl found herself running around the base of the hill. Mrsha looked into the Drake’s panic-stricken eyes.

Safety! She had to—Mrsha looked around. Then she looked up to the only natural place. Oh, of course.

The top of the hill of mists. She turned and ran. Belavierr saw the white shape dart up the hill, racing higher. The [Witch] did not curse or bemoan failing to catch Mrsha. She just sighed.

“Foolish child. Do you think I have no power, even here? For you? I will use it.”

A long hand snaked down. Belavierr looked at her own hand as Mrsha ran up towards the hill where Erin lay. She regarded her fingers, as if she had never seen them before. Then her smile widened, stretching across her face.

She snapped her fingers.

Overhead, the sun turned off.

—-

Mrsha stopped in darkness. She looked up.

The sky was gone. The clouds, the frozen blue sky and sun—had all gone dark. There were no stars. It had been eaten, like the rest of the inn.

Belavierr had turned off the light! Mrsha backed up—then nearly tumbled down the hill as she lost her footing. It was so dark!

The only light left in the whole garden came from the Sage’s Grass below. Maybe a glimmer from above, on the hilltop, but…Mrsha stumbled down towards the Sage’s Grass.

“Mrsha! Dead gods, Mrsha! Where are you? Lasica!”

“I’m here! Ow! Ancestors, what was—”

Lasica kicked something hard. Mrsha heard a crash; it was the laptop, abandoned. She found herself running into an empty picnic basket, a soccer ball…

The grass here was wet underfoot from a shower not quite dried away, or the roving watering cloud of mists. The three stood amid the glowing Sage’s Grass. Mrsha looked around.

“It’s so damned dark. How did she do that?”

“The same way she did everything! We need light! Hold on. Let me just…[Light]! Aha!”

Lasica pulled, of all things, a little wand out of her bag of holding. She used the emergency wand to shine the light around. Mrsha and Rufelt were very close. It was…

Scary in the [Garden of Sanctuary] without any lights.

“Dead gods. Let’s—she’s angry at you, Mrsha. Lasica, we have to do something.”

“What? Run for it? I think that’s the stupidest thing we can do, Rufelt. Not that there’s anything smart. Let’s—let’s get up to the hill with the mists. We’ll be safest there, if anywhere. At least if we go up there, she can’t use the door to find us around the edges of the garden.”

All that made sense. The other two nodded. Mrsha felt every hair pricking up. This was—wrong. No light? Even at night, the stars were so beautiful—this seemed wrong. Like the [Garden of Sanctuary] was losing against Belavierr. It couldn’t. She couldn’t get in.

The three advanced up the slope. Mrsha was looking around for the glowing eyes against a far wall. She was looking so hard, she nearly missed the first whisper.

“Let me in.”

It came from an unfamiliar angle. Mrsha heard the whisper, louder.

“Let me in. Let me in, Mrsha. Let me in.”

She stopped dead in her tracks. Lasica had heard it too. She shined the wand around.

“There’s no way…where is she?”

Rufelt whirled, paws raised as if he wanted to fist-fight Belavierr. He looked right, left. The whispers seemed to come from everywhere.

“She’s not in here! It’s a trick! But where…?”

All three began to look around. They had to know where Belavierr was; not knowing was terrifying. The whispers grew louder.

“Let me in, Mrsha. Let me in. Letmein. lEt mE IN. LeT Me In. Let me IN—letmeinletmeinletmeinletmeinletmein—”

Where was she? Mrsha looked right, left, down…and then, because she had exhausted all other options, she looked up at last. And saw her.

Belavierr was craning through the opening in the dome above the garden. Her orange eyes shone down as she leaned down, whispering. Mrsha pointed up and Lasica screamed as she saw Belavierr there.

How was she there? There was no way! Mrsha ran up the hill, screaming now, making the only sound she could in her throat. This had gone from scary to true horror. She ran up the hill. Erin! Save me! Save—

“There you are. I knew I would find my way in.”

Belavierr turned. Her orange eyes glowed as she stared down at Mrsha. The Gnoll girl froze.

Belavierr was standing at the top of the hill. She stood there, as if she had always been there. Rufelt, Lasica, and Mrsha froze.

“She—she got in.”

Rufelt stared up at the hole in the roof where Belavierr no longer was. She’d gotten in. Mrsha’s eyes were wide.

“I take back my deal, Mrsha. Now? I will be angry. Come here.”

Belavierr began walking down the hill. Mrsha backed up.

“Mrsha, run! Run for the portal door!”

Lasica ran at Belavierr, swinging her wand. Rufelt charged after her. Belavierr saw both adults coming and pivoted. She moved unnaturally fast and Rufelt missed, tripping into the darkness. Lasica slashed, but Belavierr whirled past her. Then walked towards Mrsha.

The little Gnoll ran down the hill, screaming, for the door.

“Come here.”

Belavierr dodged with unnatural speed again, as Rufelt and Lasica charged her. She moved slow—then with blinding speed. She was following Mrsha, with an inexorable pace that somehow seemed like it was catching up. But Mrsha was running for the wall. Pallass! Celum? Invrisil? Liscor? She was sobbing as she ran past the lake.

“Mrsha, get out of here!’

Again, Lasica missed as Belavierr casually dodged her. For all she seemed so static, she was moving too fast now! She saw Mrsha run to the wall and the door appeared. Then—Mrsha froze.

“Mrsha!”

Rufelt roared. He was hitting only air. He saw Belavierr’s pace quicken. She came at Mrsha as husband and wife turned. They saw the child slowly rotate, eyes wide. Belavierr reached down with clawing hand—

And her arm passed through Mrsha. The two adults stopped. Mrsha flinched. Yet Belavierr’s gaze was only…disappointed. She glanced past Mrsha at the open doorway, which led into the inviting portal room again.

Another trap. How had Mrsha known, though? She looked down. At the pond where the Fortress Beavers’ dam was.

There, reflected in the still water, was the dome overhead. And in it—

Belavierr stared down at Mrsha. She reappeared as the shadow image of her vanished. She stopped moving her hands, stopped playing with the light.

Shadow puppets. Only, as she could make them. She stared down at Mrsha. The little Gnoll looked up at her. A third time she had bested Belavierr, by luck as much as anything. But she didn’t gloat anymore.

For Belavierr scared her more than almost anything Mrsha had known. Almost as much as Facestealer and Nokha. She ran back up the hill and sheltered among the statues, next to Erin’s frozen bier.

Lasica and Rufelt joined her. All three drew back as the shadow of Belavierr walked up the hill. She stopped before the statues and mist, as if she could go no further. She looked…perplexed.

“Three times. Four, to count how Rufelt and Lasica denied me. Four times I was defeated. So strange. Yet you are still overconfident, girl.”

Mrsha bared her teeth in a shaky snarl. She looked at Erin, to give her some kind of hope and guidance. Belavierr just shook her head. She gestured around the [Garden of Sanctuary]. At the flames of life still clinging to Mrsha’s fur, giving her some small strength and support.

“You trust to fire, girl. But fire is a kind of magic, and memory fades. You are in my domain, here. My time. You trust to this garden to hold me back. Yet it is not your Skill. The owner lies dead, and the true owner died long ago. You don’t have the full power of this place.”

She gestured around the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Then Belavierr smiled cruelly.

“You don’t even have the right door.”

Mrsha looked at her. The Stitch Witch met her gaze. Older, more terrible, and still so petty. What would she do next? What could she do? She had tricked and offered. What now?

For answer, Belavierr just stood there. She stood there, and looked down at Mrsha. Almost contemptuously. As if to say, ‘see? All your victories ring hollow in time.’

See? And Mrsha did see. She looked around the garden, in darkness, and despair. At Belavierr. A look of horror stole across Rufelt’s face. Lasica realized it last.

“No.”

She looked down as the magic of her nearly-depleted wand of [Light] ran out. After all—it was magic. Light, air, all mundane things froze here. But the [Immortal Moment] didn’t allow for forever magic. That would be cheating.

It was dark. Mrsha was panting. She looked at the fire dimly burning on her fur. At Belavierr. And she knew.

“It shall last until we make a pact, you and I. How long can you wait? How long can your soul survive eternity? Longer than mine? As we wait, let me tell you how you will let your loved ones die. Let me recite your pain, girl. We will wait together.”

Belavierr stood in the darkness. She began to whisper. Mrsha put her paws over her ears. Belavierr kept whispering, uncaring. After all—she had an immortal moment.

Forever. And they were trapped with her.

Mrsha finally began to cry. In despair, in fear.

Erin’s fire was beginning to go out.

—-

And then it was over.

Mrsha had met the [Witch]. She had been scared by the witch, but the witch was old. She had made mistakes, even as ancient as she was. She fooled Mrsha by letting the little Gnoll think there was a way you could win.

It wasn’t like that. Now the Gnoll knew, as she sat in a moment of forever—it wasn’t possible. Fighting Belavierr? It wasn’t bringing down the giant. She wasn’t a fire you could put out, like Maviola, so intense until it…extinguished.

She was like the tide. Like a storm. There was no beating her, not unless you could kill the dark sea itself. All Mrsha had done was make the [Witch] angry.

Belavierr’s true wrath, though, was not in dark nightmares. Not in tricks or games. It was just this.

Time. Mrsha felt it grinding against her skull. Time.

She was trapped in this [Immortal Moment]. The moment was immortal. She was not. Things could happen in this time. You could make peace, change, find courage.

Suffer. Oh, the [Witch] was clever. She whispered dark promises to Mrsha. Let me in. But then?

Then she showed Mrsha terrible things.

“Mrsha? Where are you? Stop hiding. You will help the [Gatherers] pluck the Needleplums. Stop running away! We have gloves! Then we will eat. You want to eat, yes?”

Someone spoke to Mrsha. He wandered over the grass hill. She smelled familiar cooking scents as she crouched low in the grass, her brown fur mixing well with a patch of dry grass. She was younger, smaller, and didn’t want to work! She wanted to catch little grasshoppers; they were food. But no…

Urksh came over the hill, calling. Mrsha’s ears perked up as he made his way to her. She hid lower, giggling despite herself. And part of her wailed. Part of her didn’t want to see his exasperated, smiling face, as her guardian, the Chieftain of the Stone Spears tribe, her tribe, came scolding and teasing.

Part of Mrsha wanted to see him again, to be here. But then she saw him and her heart broke at his kind face. He bent down, scolding, and she went to run—

Then she saw him amid the dark night, fighting with his tribe. As Goblins poured down the side of the mountain. Ryoka held her, pleading with the Winter Sprites for Mrsha’s life. Mrsha howled, and howled as she saw the Stone Spears tribe fighting and dying. Sacrificing everything that a few might live.

Zel Shivertail was there, Ilvriss, the Goblin Lord. Mrsha saw the [General] as she had first seen him, leading a charge forwards to try and save the Gnolls, to no avail.

“Stop.”

If she could have said it, she would. Belavierr knew what she meant. The [Witch] just looked at her.

“Just what are you doing?”

Zel Shivertail caught Mrsha’s paw as she snatched for a little bit of his breakfast. He looked amused, but Lyonette instantly wanted to scold Mrsha.

Instead, the [General] sat Mrsha on the table. She eyed him, a bit apprehensively. The [General] indicated his plate.

“Are you that hungry? Take what you want.”

The Gnoll girl shyly looked at him, and then ducked her head. She wasn’t hungry—the Drake smiled, a scar stretching.

“That’s what I thought. If you want to play games, be my guest. I was just checking.”

He let Mrsha hop off the table. The Gnoll girl saw Lyonette hesitate, frown at her, but Zel went back to eating. She eyed him, circling around his chair. Then she slyly crept up, reached for his poached egg—

He blocked her paw with one finger. Mrsha’s eyes widened. She tried again, darting, and Zel—

Flicker. Belavierr was smiling. Mrsha tried to hide her eyes. Stop.

Was lying in the coffin. They were going to burn him. How had he died? The Goblin Lord? Mrsha was crying. Crying and crying.

It wasn’t right. He shouldn’t have died. Not him! Not the Tidebreaker.

Everyone else was weeping. Mrsha saw them light the flames and howled for them to stop. Stop! Don’t…don’t…

“Don’t do this.”

The cruelty of it was that it was the past. The past and the future. Rufelt and Lasica held each other, whispering in their own world of pain. They stared at what had been…what might be. The evil power Belavierr had was that she showed Mrsha what the Gnoll had loved and laughed at.

And then what Mrsha had lost. There could be no darkness without light. Even here…

The fire burned. Erin’s fire flickered on Mrsha’s fur. Belavierr let it burn, defiantly. Yet…Mrsha no longer wanted the fire.

It was too dark. The light just made it worse. She curled up. She didn’t know how long it had been.

“This will continue forever. Strike a deal, child. I will take your pain. Your memory. I will restore one you love to life. Give me something of yours.”

The little girl looked up, tears leaking from her eyes. Forever? The [Witch] stood there, and pitted her might against…a child. It was silly. It was petty. Yet of all Mrsha’s foes, imaginary and real, Belavierr alone tried to crush her without regard for her age or size.

“I suffer no insults. I suffer no challenges. How long will you wait? Until your soul tears itself apart?”

The Witch whispered and Mrsha knew she would keep her here until the Gnoll was older than Lyonette and Erin combined. Would she grow older, or just remain, her soul withering with pain?

“Mrsha. Mrsha…”

Rufelt was searching for her, but he was blind. He was choking, looking at something…Mrsha had so many sad memories. How many did he have, as old as he was? Lasica was holding onto him, but curled up, weeping.

Mrsha looked at something on her paws. It was the fire of life.

It was fading away. She tried to call more fury, more energy into it, to burn Belavierr—but only an illusion stood before her. And what good was fire?

The fire was only able to burn on fuel. The three mortals were nearly extinguished themselves by the moment they were trapped in.

Some nights, the abyss could scream so loudly that even the brightest flame went out. Mrsha saw the flame on her paws flicker.

Then die.

—-

Time stopped. Mrsha saw the past. She heard Belavierr’s whispers.

“I can bring her back.”

Erin had failed. No—she wasn’t here. Mrsha lay next to her frozen bed. The fire in the cup next to the frozen young woman flickered. Mrsha could have kindled it on her fur, but it would just die again. She lay there, in the only light left, aside from Belavierr’s eyes, and knew Erin had failed.

No, if the [Innkeeper] were here…she could have done something more. All Mrsha had left were sparks, and she was too small. Too sad.

“Erin. Erin, please wake up.”

The Gnoll spoke. She spoke, not with any words, or her paws, in the flickering of memories, Belavierr, using memories like weapons, in a dark copy of Erin’s Skill, but with her thoughts.

As if Erin was there. She had to be.

“I’m afraid. Please do something. Please?”

The young woman lay there, lips slightly parted, a slight smile on her face. Mrsha grew angry. She shouted.

“Stop sleeping! I need you. We need you.”

No response. Mrsha buried her face in the frozen grass.

“Please? I’ll be good.”

No help came. Even when she begged.

A dark dress swished across the ground, but left no sound. Feet walked the hill, but left no trace on the grass.

Belavierr. She bent down, and inspected Erin’s grave. She looked at Mrsha, and spoke.

Truth. That was what made Belavierr scary. She used truth, not lies, to hurt you. She used love to create pain. And the worst part? She didn’t care. She only wanted to hurt Mrsha for offending her.

“Ah. So this is the [Innkeeper]? She will never come back alone. The world beyond grows emptier. Unless…someone catches what remains.”

Belavierr tilted her head. She stepped around Erin’s bier, carefully, as if even her shadow did not want to disturb it.

“Not alive. Not dead. I see.”

Mrsha’s tearstained face rose in hope. Belavierr saw it, too? Then—

“However. She may still be lost. You have her body. You don’t know where her soul lies, do you?”

The [Witch] turned. She smiled wider, gleefully.

“She can still die, girl. Don’t you know what haunts the lands of death? There have always been shadows. There are other things that ghosts fear. Don’t you want her back? You cannot bring her back without her essence. And you have no idea where it is, or if it remains.”

Mrsha stared up at Belavierr and realized the [Witch] was giving her the last clue. Poison. Frozen body. Wounds.

They were missing her soul? She listened as Belavierr bent, whispering.

“She will never come back alone. The world beyond grows emptier. Unless…someone catches what remains. Protects it. Before it is destroyed.”

W-what did that mean? Mrsha stared up as Belavierr reached for something in her dress. The witch drew something out. Something made of string and beads and woven like a…a…

Net. A perfect prison of so many threads, it was a pale skein that was both transparent with the glittering cloth, and so thin as to never let anything escape. Mrsha’s eyes went round. She saw something…flutter there for a second.

Somethings. Belavierr showed it to Mrsha and the Gnoll girl backed away, terrified. The [Witch] laughed.

“Don’t you see? I wove it out of dreams and souls. I caught it before it could die in the place beyond, the last true death. I never lied. Can’t you see? Their daughter.”

She pointed into the darkness. Somewhere, two parents cried out in horror. Mrsha cowered away from the soulcatcher. The [Witch] bent down further. She pointed at Erin.

“I can bring her back if she remains. Just give me…everything. You do not have enough. But give me everything and I will do it. For it will mean your end. Do you love her? Then trade. A life for a life.”

Mrsha was quivering. No, no—she knew Erin would never want that. Yet Belavierr’s whispers invaded her head.

“You will never create anything, Doombringer. With your one act, redeem all you have wrought. Is she not beloved, this child? Look at all her gifts. Look at all who wait for her to come back. Who matters more? Her? Or you?”

She gestured to the frozen presents. Mrsha saw Ekirra’s little ball, flowers, letters. She looked at Erin, desperately trying to hear Erin’s voice. She’d say, ‘you stupid Witch! Don’t you talk to Mrsha like that!’

Or…

Mrsha couldn’t hear Erin. This was her place! She stood next to Erin’s body, and Belavierr was louder. The [Witch] laughed again.

“You think she could best me?”

She regarded Erin Solstice. Then turned to Mrsha.

“Or you think to best me with the scraps she left? What arrogance, child. You still don’t see me. You still underestimate me. I am offended. So—look.”

Her eyes caught Mrsha’s again. The Gnoll fell into that orange light. She saw the layers of Belavierr’s immortality, protections wrought over countless aeons of existence. Dark magic. The [Witch] turned to her, a thing of thread, a giant of her craft, an amalgamation of hearts—and spoke.

“I am the Witch of Webs. The spider in every story. There have been those like me before. My legend pales next to some. Yet not even I remember them. I am one of many legends that have come before—perhaps none will come again.”

She touched her chest. For a moment, her face was almost sad. Mrsha looked up, eyes wide. Belavierr gestured.

“Do you see me? Once, I stood among equals. There was more than I. Slowly—they died. And none came after. It is a terrible thing, to be alone. But I remain. I am that old world they tell stories about. And you think this one can best me?”

Belavierr pointed at Erin. She looked down at Mrsha and shook her head. Contemptuously. Sadly.

“Place against me your hope of this fragile, small world. I will crush it. I am one of the last stories. That is why I raise my daughters. Perhaps? Is that why? Do I sense my end?”

The [Witch] frowned. She walked back a step, murmuring.

“I came close to true death. What changed in this world? What do I sense?”

She was uncertain, introspective for a moment, and that was scariest of all. Then Belavierr collected herself. She shook her head and returned to the present. Mrsha. She gestured at the adults, one frozen, two quailing in the darkness.

“The [Innkeeper]’s story cannot stand against me alone. The love of those two cannot withstand me. Your story will die here. Take my offer, girl. You have no more tales.”

Mrsha knew it was true. The [Immortal Moment] dragged at her. If she refused—Belavierr would make her live her entire life in its tragedy and happiness, until she wearied. She had nothing left. Erin’s fire was too weak. Erin was gone.

She had no more tricks.

Mrsha looked for the statues. She thought of the Sage’s Grass, the faerie flowers…but Belavierr would laugh at that. They were stories and magic. And she was stronger than all these things. Erin had done wonders with such things before, but this was someone who played Erin’s game. And who had played it long before Erin ever stepped foot on this world.

If the two met, what battles might they have had? Mrsha didn’t know. But she was little Mrsha. And she had no more fight.

She curled up, but Belavierr was waiting. Mrsha had no more stories. She had to let Belavierr in and end this torture. Had it been a day? A month?

Had she been dreaming of the past for a year? Longer?

She was weary. She could not sleep. She could not send herself into oblivion. This moment lasted. So…she was out of stories.

“Take my hand, girl. We will make a pact, here.”

Belavierr extended it. Mrsha’s paw quivered as it rose. Rufelt and Lasica tried to say something, but they were crushed too. They would bring back the quivering soul in the cage. They would all make a pact and…at least Erin would live, right?

Mrsha tried to fight it, but her paw reached out. One more story. One more bit of Erin? There was nothing. If only she had one more flame! One more bit of hope! Yet Belavierr would extinguish that. She fought with such things. Wonder was her game. Wonder and horror, despair and beauty, used like coins to buy what she wanted.

Belavierr waited. She saw Mrsha’s paw quiver, reach for her. And then…stop.

The [Witch] frowned, but waited. She had Mrsha trapped. She was confident. The [Witch] watched Mrsha step back, eyes frowning, suddenly…flickering with thought.

There…was…another story, wasn’t there? A little, silly story. But one that—Mrsha began to move. She’d had an idea. One last idea.

The [Witch]’s confident look wavered. She followed Mrsha, a specter without end so long as her power endured. There was no way Mrsha could break it. She had seen the flowers, the Sage’s Grass, and she even knew this garden. None of it fazed her. The child would expend all hope. There were no stories here to equal her, at least, that the girl could use right now.

Yet Mrsha was going down the hill, leaving Erin behind. Searching for something in the darkness.

She found it at last. Something odd in the garden. Belavierr frowned as Mrsha inspected it, picking it up, opening it. She saw a strange glow.

Harsh. Bright. Too bright. Not like a [Light] spell. The little Gnoll tapped at something. A foreign material. Belavierr tilted her head. She actually lifted the brim of her hat to inspect it. And at last, she had to admit it.

“What is…that?”

She had no idea what it was. The little Gnoll stared up at her, paws shaking. It was the last thing Mrsha could think of. Belavierr spoke, circling around Mrsha. Her true form watched from the hole in the dome, puzzled, but confident…

Ish.

“My magic eats everything else in this moment. You cannot break my Skill or craft.”

This was true. Mrsha’s paws were trembling as she typed in Kevin’s password. Belavierr was superior to all magic. The [Immortal Moment] meant that even a faerie flower might fail against forever.

…But this wasn’t magic. It looked like it, but it was made of oil and metal. Electricity hummed, and Mrsha saw light. The light of another world. Less beautiful, but still—light in the darkness.

“Rufelt. Rufelt. What is that?”

Lasica raised her tear-stained face and stared down the hill. The Gnoll looked up too. Belavierr frowned.

“Who made that? Not Gnomes. They are all long dead. What is that thing? It is not magic. It glows. It will not avail you, child. I am the Witch of Webs. I am—”

Bam. Rufelt and Lasica jumped. Mrsha felt her heart leap. Belavierr—recoiled. She stared down. For the bright glow of the foreign screen had changed. She stared down as a strange, green…thing…kicked open the door to an outhouse.

And then there was music. It played from the speakers, a tinny sound in the garden. Completely…at odds with the pervading darkness. Mrsha’s ears perked up.

“Child. What is—”

Belavierr spoke, but her voice was drowned out. Her eyes turned wrathful…but the laptop had no soul to quail. She raised her voice. Mrsha looked up and saw the [Witch]. Disconcerted.

The little Gnoll and Stitch Witch locked gazes. Slowly, deliberately…

Mrsha turned the volume up.

The stupid song began to play louder. Lasica and Rufelt stumbled forwards. They had no idea what this was. But Mrsha let the movie play. She focused on it, not the memories. Not the darkness or Belavierr’s whispers.

The [Witch] tried. She conjured Mrsha’s friends, images from Mrsha’s past. She whispered, raised her voice. Mrsha just pressed her face closer to the screen. She noticed something, as the movie was running.

The clock in the corner of Kevin’s laptop hadn’t moved. The movie played, but time didn’t move for the laptop. And accordingly…

The battery wasn’t running out.

The mundane device hummed, happily contained within the [Immortal Moment]. It didn’t fit. It shouldn’t have run—but nothing in this world had ever existed like it. Pure technology, no sorcery.

It took a mere hour and a bit for the movie to end. When it was done, Belavierr looked down at Mrsha. That was no time at all compared to forever.

Yet it had…irked her. She narrowed her eyes at Mrsha.

“A clever trick. You are still trapped in here, girl…”

She stopped again. Belavierr heard a second sound began to play. She actually bent down, incredulously. It couldn’t be. But it was.

Mrsha was playing the second movie Kevin had stolen and copied to his laptop. The second movie, which was very long, but very nice, that Eldavin had found so offensive. About Dragons and Dwarves and little Hobbits. Or just one.

Lasica and Rufelt sat there, staring at the laptop, Mrsha. Behind them stood the Witch of Calamity, the Witch of Webs, filling the world with her nightmares and dark temptations. And what did Mrsha pit against her?

A laptop? Well—yes. Mrsha stared at the bright, colorful stories being played out from another world.

Movies. Fun stories for children, pastimes for entertainment. They weren’t stronger than Belavierr was.

They weren’t as grand as Erin or the [Witch]. Not as heartfelt as Numbtongue’s story, or as inspiring as Maviola’s.

But—they could be louder than a book. Brighter than fire. They told her a story like the Players of Celum. With pictures and music, such that every moment shouted, too loud to let anything else in. Someone—many people had worked hard to make them wonderful. More than anything else, though?

They were distracting. If you looked at the bright screen, played Numbtongue’s game, it was hard to focus on even Belavierr. It was a way out. So Mrsha sat there and…binged on movies. She played the video games, and let Lasica and Rufelt touch the laptop.

Behind them, the [Witch] stood there. Incredulous. Furious. Confused. She was the old world. This device? She had never seen its like. She tried to turn it off—but she had no power over it. It wasn’t magic.

She tried to fill the air with nightmares. Mrsha, Rufelt, and Lasica just leaned closer to the screen. Belavierr raised her voice, shouting in thunderous tones—then realized she was competing for their attention with the laptop speakers.

And the laptop wouldn’t run out of power. Belavierr looked down at it. She looked up at the little Gnoll’s defiant gaze. The [Witch] stepped back. She gazed upon the device from another world.

Then the Temptress, the last great [Witch], the Stitch Witch, Belavierr of Calamity…gave up.

Not because she had been bested by a greater story.

Not because Mrsha had outwitted her with guile that would fool even Dragons.

Not because she had been outmatched in any way.

Simply in sheer disgust. Disgust at this strange device, this loud, shouting object she had no control over. Harbinger of a changing world.

“A world where my power will wane further. Will my daughter’s craft endure?”

Belavierr walked down the hill. Her shadow vanished. Mrsha’s head rose. Her eyes went round.

The sun was back! It reappeared in the opening of the dome. She looked up and Belavierr was gone!

The door to the inn was lying against the wall. The three, Rufelt, Lasica, and Mrsha got up. Unsteadily, they came down the hill and saw it open to the common room, where Belavierr had first called the [Immortal Moment]. She was standing there, arms folded.

Everyone was frozen where they had been. No darkness. Just halted in mid-motion. Numbtongue, buzzing Apista, Montressa, Palt, and Bezale, frozen mid-spell.

The Stitch Witch looked at Mrsha. The Gnoll stopped there, laptop in her paws.

I won.

Belavierr’s lips were a flat line. Mrsha tilted her head, copying Belavierr.

I won, and you lost. Stupid.

She knew Belavierr understood her. The [Witch] refused to acknowledge the fact. She stared at Mrsha, and the laptop.

“Is this what the future holds? Do you feel proud, girl? In creating, possessing a device that wastes time on lesser stories? Tales you can retell at the single press of your finger? There is no [Bard] to sing each tale differently, each time. It cheapens myth. Fable will be dragged down by such petty instruments. Do you relish that? Making Dragons mundane?”

Mrsha stared down at the laptop. She looked up and shrugged. She didn’t know about all that, but the laptop was pretty nice.

Belavierr stared up. She looked so—annoyed, disgusted, that she seemed less immortal and rather more like an Eldavin. Exasperated at this. She looked at Mrsha. And then—the [Stitch Witch] nodded.

“I have lost. You win, Mrsha. With petty lights and the cheapening of wonder itself.”

Mrsha felt like this was an insult, but she wasn’t sure. Belavierr sighed. She looked at Mrsha.

“I will not forget this. You, Mrsha. Mrsha du Marquin, Mrsha of the Stone Spears tribe. Mrsha of The Wandering Inn. I see you. I remember your name. This I shall not forgive.”

Mrsha’s triumphant little smile vanished. She backed up a step. Hold on. We don’t need to be enemies. There was the ancient [Witch]. Mrsha was a cute Mrsha! She didn’t need an eternal oath of vengeance.

“Too late.”

The [Witch] hissed. She declared her wrath and vengeance for the first time on…a little Gnoll girl. She stood at the entrance to the [Garden of Sanctuary].

“I cannot enter. You have bested me, Mrsha. Well done. There will be no pacts. None for you, nor Rufelt or Lasica.”

She drew the soulcatcher. Rufelt made a sound.

“No—don’t—”

Belavierr tore it apart. Lasica screamed, lurching forwards. She stumbled out of the door and Mrsha cried out. Belavierr ignored her. Something sighed as it vanished. She could have snatched Lasica. Torn at Rufelt as he ran forwards to protect his wife.

She didn’t care. She pointed at Mrsha.

“I cannot enter to strike my bargain, but you shall not remain unblemished, girl. So.”

The [Witch] turned. Mrsha saw Lasica weeping, calling out a name amid the shreds of the delicate prison, lying torn on the ground. Rufelt was staring at Belavierr, fists clenched. But the [Witch] was walking back. And…

Her [Immortal Moment] was ending.

Mrsha saw it. It had begun with the tearing of the soulcatcher. Her declaration. Numbtongue’s sword was moving. Slightly, slightly—despite the speed at which it was surely swinging.

Yet time was returning. Belavierr walked around the inn. Mrsha saw Niers’ eyes move slightly as he swung himself down from the beam. What did they see? Belavierr moved around the inn, inspecting the other faces, searching for something and eying Mrsha. In the last moments of her Skill, she found what she was looking for. She reached out as the inn began to resume its connection with reality.

She grabbed Apista. The little bee jerked, drawn into the slowed time. She buzzed—and then Belavierr was squeezing her. Tight. She turned as Mrsha dropped the laptop in horror.

“Yes. Come out, girl. Or this child dies.”

Belavierr squeezed and Apista buzzed frantically. The [Witch] looked at Mrsha. Did you think I had no other means to draw you out? She had just wanted to win this game of wills.

Now—Apista was buzzing, unable to scream, but Mrsha heard her. The little [Druid] stared at her friend. Numbtongue was pivoting, incredulous, but the world was slow.

“I will count to five. Then I will crush her. One. Two. Three…”

Belavierr watched the doorway. She saw Mrsha back up. The door vanished. The [Witch] counted, unperturbed.

“Four. F—”

She turned as the door to the garden opened behind her. Apista buzzed, feeling the pain of the [Witch]’s hand. Don’t come out, Mrsha! Don’t! Lasica and Rufelt said it too.

Of course she came out.

Mrsha leapt through the door of the [Garden of Sanctuary] in a flying head-butt, blazing with Erin’s fire.

She knew it would mean her death.

But she wouldn’t let her family die.

Mrsha crashed into Belavierr’s stomach. The [Witch] took the impact. Mrsha landed on the ground, dizzy. She looked up as Belavierr let go of Apista. The [Witch] laughed. She pointed down.

—-

Reality resumed. What had seemed a moment for the others snapped back to focus. Suddenly, Rufelt and Lasica were out of the door! Mrsha was lying in front of Belavierr.

They felt the [Immortal Moment] pass in one single second of disorientation, a sense of eternity, time compressed. Then it all came flooding back. Belavierr, face twisted with wrath for some reason, standing over Mrsha, not the couple. She pointed down.

“[Deathbolt].”

“No!”

Numbtongue slashed the air where Belavierr had been before she blurred past him. He whirled. Niers bellowed, pointing, but he was mid-dive. The bolt of death magic shot at Mrsha’s chest. She looked up, eyes wide.

Wanderer blocked the bolt with his staff. The Gnoll appeared, leaping through the chaos almost as fast as Belavierr. He let the magic splash across his staff and it flickered out. Belavierr blinked. She eyed the Gnoll.

Then Rags shot her through the chest. Belavierr staggered as a fiery crossbow bolt appeared in her body. She was hit by a flash of lightning—Montressa’s Shock Orb. Numbtongue slashed across her back and a cup bounced off her head.

That last one came from Ishkr. Everyone saw the [Witch] stumble—then walk back. Smoking, yanking the crossbow bolt out—she didn’t even care. She pointed at Mrsha.

“Die, child.”

A flickering rain of a thousand needles burst from the air, shooting at Mrsha like arrows. Again, she flinched, but Wanderer swung his cloak up and blocked the rain of needles.

“Get to the garden!”

Palt shouted, forcing Imani towards the open door. They were still reacting, as he launched several arrows of light at Belavierr’s back. Kevin was still rising to his feet, Joseph nearly colliding with a table. It was moving too fast for the non-warriors. Bezale bellowed.

“No, not her! Not her! It’s the Witch of Calamity! Don’t—”

Her warning came far too late. Belavierr jerked as a flaming ball of fire burst over her dress, but she ignored Ulvama’s fire like she ignored the chair that hit her and splintered; Calescent had tossed his seat. She still aimed at Mrsha. This time? Niers’ blood chilled as he heard a spell of a tier only he was familiar with.

“[Vortex of the Abyssal King].”

Belavierr cast the spell and a hole opened up. A hole to engulf the world. Niers whirled, finger raised. It would eat the inn, not just the little Gnoll it had opened under. It would eat part of Liscor if someone didn’t—

Mrsha felt a terrible pull. She saw a tiny little hole open up, so small, but trying to pull all of her through it. It opened—and vanished with a pop just as fast.

Niers blinked. Belavierr blinked. She frowned at the ground, then looked up and met Wanderer’s gaze.

The Gnoll was panting. Yet he brandished the staff as the cloak shed the needles. He growled.

“[Never Again, Nevermore]. I don’t know who you are, but you won’t kill her.”

The [Witch] eyed Wanderer. Mrsha stared up at the white Gnoll with fur like hers. Wait. This was her mysterious stalker! Was he a nice guy after all?

Numbtongue ran Belavierr through from behind. She stared at the sword’s tip that emerged from her stomach. Again, the inn slowed.

The bloodless blade gleamed. Belavierr put a finger on the tip and forced it back out of her. She glanced over her shoulder. Numbtongue backed up. Everyone stopped, spells, weapons ready.

You had to. When you saw someone eat a [Lightning Bolt], three other spells, a crossbow bolt, and survive two stabbings…

Numbtongue gave it one last try. The [Soulbard] slashed, and bisected Belavierr’s head from her shoulders. His sword cut her head off and he whirled back from the slash.

Just in time to see the thin line close. Belavierr glanced at him. Numbtongue looked at the seamless place he had sliced her. Then he stopped too.

Now, the [Witch] stood in the center of the inn, peering around. Confused. Her eyes flashed venom at Mrsha, who was hiding behind Wanderer. Did they go back for the door? She was looking at Apista, who was buzzing weakly on a table, one wing injured. Belavierr would hurt her!

“What is she? Not hired by them?”

Wanderer’s eyes were flickering around, uncertain of all those in the inn. The Brothers were frozen, aiming crossbows at Belavierr, the other guests looking at the dark legend and beginning to realize what Mrsha had seen.

Belavierr? Her eyes rolled as her head and body slowly rotated. She looked at Wanderer first.

“A guardian of outcasts.”

Her eyes rolled about, unnaturally mobile, moving independently of one another.

“A small warlord.”

She was not looking at Rags. Then she did and the Goblin Chieftain got a glimpse of that terrible immortality. She felt a flash—

“Let us make a deal, Goblin Lord.”

Belavierr looked into her eyes. No—one of Rags’ ancestors! She shuddered, then and now. Belavierr passed over her.

“A Goblin Chieftain.”

“A [Shaman].”

“A warrior of ghosts.”

Rags, Ulvama, Numbtongue. She identified each in a moment. Then she slowed and fixed on something…interesting.

“A new class.”

Joseph. She fixed him with a look, then moved on. She ignored Kevin and Imani. Calescent too, much to the Hobgoblin’s hurt.

“A child of the House of Minos. Trickster’s get. Blood of Terandria.”

The three Wistram [Mages]. Ishkr and Liska could have been the air. Belavierr’s head turned.

“Strange. How did all gather here?”

Niers was swearing. Wanderer bent, tensed. Montressa was pointing as Bezale unrolled her scrolls. Rags made hand-signs to Calescent and Ulvama as she touched a claw to her temples. Violence was about to begin, but it held off another shivering second as the [Witch] remained perplexed. Then someone answered her.

“This is an inn. This is where people come by. Did you not know that?”

Belavierr’s head turned. She stared at the Antinium who had come down the stairs, bow in hand. She eyed him.

“What are you, thing?”

He raised his bow.

“A silly Bird.”

Bird shot an arrow straight at Belavierr’s left eye. It snapped in midair. So did his bowstring. Time resumed.

“[Fivefold Arcane Barrier]!”

Montressa threw up a shield over half the inn. Bezale activated her scroll.

“[Haste]! [Stoneskin]! [Lion’s Strength]—”

She lunged forwards in a punch, through Montressa’s barrier. Rags tossed a [Fireball], swearing as she saw the Minotaur charging straight at Belavierr.

The [Witch]’s hands blurred. She plucked a strand from the woven fireball, and lashed it into Numbtongue’s chest as he went for a leg-cut. The air exploded and he was flung backwards. She ignored the dozen arrows Palt sent into her back; they evaporated on her robes.

She caught Bezale’s fist, stared into the Minotauress’ eyes, and tossed her into a wall. She turned back to Mrsha again.

“[Lance of Fire—]”

Her aim was thrown off as Wanderer leapt, Mrsha in his arms, trying to dodge and rolling. Belavierr tracked him.

Calescent knocked her arm down. The huge Hobgoblin [Chef] saw Belavierr look at him, annoyed. He lifted his other claw, and blew his special death-spice into her face and eyes. Belavierr didn’t blink. Calescent’s confident expression turned to unease.

“Fly away, Goblin.”

The Goblin [Chef]’s clothes picked him up and tossed him like Bezale. Calescent hit a wall and Rags heard a terrible crunch as his arm caught the blow. He landed, grunting. The Hob looked at the yellow bone poking out of torn flesh.

“Ow.”

Belavierr turned. She saw another burst of light and over two hundred magical arrows unleashed, striking her across her body. Palt nearly galloped into a wall; he stared at his wand, dumbfounded.

Niers Astoragon watched the arrows strike Belavierr head-to-toe. Even magnified, the spells just…vanished. He grunted.

Clothing resists low-tiered magic. Great.

He was keeping back, monitoring and analyzing her now, crouched out of the way of the fighting. Belavierr frowned at Palt. She pointed and a stream of needles shot towards his body. He screamed as they peppered his flanks, but he was halfway within Montressa’s barrier and the rest of the needles glanced off the barrier.

“Kevin! Get in here!”

Joseph and Imani were shouting. Ishkr, Liska—the non-combatants were in the garden, but Mrsha was still pinned, protected by the white Gnoll. Belavierr turned to cast another spell as Mrsha crawled for the door.

“I will kill your friend, Mrsha.”

She aimed a finger at Apista, glowing with fire. The Gnoll stopped. Belavierr took aim at her again. This time Numbtongue leapt forwards. Only—it wasn’t Numbtongue.

“[Power Strike].”

Pyrite punched Belavierr in the face, on the basis that all the sword slashes hadn’t worked. He felt his fist meet the [Witch]’s nose—but it was strange. He felt it should have broken, but it seemed like he was hitting a sack. Her head barely jerked and when he drew his fist back—nothing.

Belavierr swung an arm and a glittering pair of scissors cut the place where Pyrite had been. He ducked it with Numbtongue’s body, stamped on her foot, and shoulder-charged her. Again—he bounced off. She was like a pillar! The Hob threw himself left just in time; a jet of midnight flame engulfed the floor where he had been standing. He crashed into a table, rolled over the side, and saw Rags stand up.

She loosed another crossbow bolt and it snapped midair. The Chieftain dropped her crossbow, swearing, a second before the crossbow itself exploded, the steel ‘string’ breaking. Pyrite’s head rose. He looked around.

The plate crashed into the back of Belavierr’s head. She turned slightly, and needles demolished Pyrite’s cover. He rolled behind another table, and Numbtongue felt Pyrite’s time run out. The [Bard] swore as he got to his feet, but Pyrite’s last words were still on his lips.

“Strange.”

The Goldstone Chieftain was certain they should be dead. A dozen times over. He might not know Belavierr, but he knew a Greydath-level threat when he saw one.

That no one was…was odd. Pyrite was clear enough to realize it at the same time as Niers. It was as Belavierr tried to aim at Mrsha again and was thrown off—this time by Montressa’s third bolt of lightning—that it became obvious to both. Rags too.

Belavierr was bad at fighting. Either that, or she wasn’t really trying. She was giving it a good try; Wanderer leapt with Mrsha again, avoiding scythes of air that cut apart everything in their path and sliced even into the walls of the inn. But Belavierr herself?

She just let Shorthilt charge at her and slash her body. Her dress blocked spells, and she just…ignored the rest. Because she wasn’t in danger.

They couldn’t hurt her. Niers grunted.

“Level difference.”

Like damned cats—evil as they could be, but still cats—trying to eat a Fraerling in enchanted plate. Belavierr was taking her time, expending little energy and magic. In fact, she actually grabbed Shorthilt and tossed him a third time, with tremendous, if poorly-directed strength.

Rags didn’t run in with her shortsword. She had a claw to her temples. This wasn’t going to be solved with her blades. Bird charged past her.

“I am a distraction! Oh—”

He dove behind Montressa’s barrier as a needle twice as long as his arm nearly went through his head. Rags swore and went for cover too; half-hearted or not, she could kill them easily. She looked around. Where were the hat-men?

The answer was that they were fighting too.

—-

The Plain’s Eye Doomhunters had seen Okrha enter the inn and then heard nothing from her. They did not think she was alive.

“The Antinium’s gone. Do we go in? She could be alive—”

They were arguing. Their [Hunt Leader] snarled.

“They know we’re here. Seceik, Nisha, Redl, inside! Cover Redl—in and out.”

The three Gnolls rose from the grass. Two covered the inn as the rest advanced, wary of a trap. Redl rose and activated his shaman-markings; his fur was like the Steelfur Tribe’s for a moment. He burst through the doorway. There was a shout.

“Okhra’s dead. Someone’s slain her! I hear—fighting? There’s—”

A snarl. He threw himself back out of the inn, a crossbow bolt buried in one shoulder.

“Ambush! Someone shot me from the walls!”

He howled in pain as the other two Gnolls took aim at the attackers and—hesitated.

“I didn’t see where the arrow came from!”

“It’s poisoned. No—no, it burns.”

“Fall back.”

The three ran back. Redl realized what it was as his fur smoked and burned. He poured a potion on it desperately.

“Acid! They dipped the bolt in acid—”

“They are waiting for us. How did they know we would arrive? Are there more?”

The Gnolls of the Plain’s Eye tribe growled at each other. The [Hunt Leader] looked at the inn. He wanted to howl his hatred. Doom lay within. It had claimed one of theirs already because they were careless. He looked at Liscor, made up his mind.

“No tricks. No trying that ambush again. We destroy the inn. Nisha. Blow it apart.”

The Gnoll [Ranger] looked at their leader uncertainly, then nodded. She pulled out objects from her bag of holding, one after another, in rapid succession.

They were bundles of arrows, each one in groups of twenty; a single glowing arrowhead in the center of each. Standard for Plain’s Eye warriors of their rank. She placed four on the ground and then raised her enchanted bow. She growled.

“[Piercing Shots]. [Rain of Arrows]!”

Her bow began to sing. All eighty arrows began to loose into the air with the ones she manually fired. A rain flying up and arching down—

—-

“Ancestors!”

One of the [Guards] on the wall saw the first arrows land. The enchanted arrows blew apart in grey blasts of light; the rest shredded wood, mundane or not. The [Guard] sprinted down the wall to the Senior Guard on duty.

“The inn! It’s under attack again!”

“Sound the alarm!”

The Watch on the eastern and southern walls came alive, trying to pinpoint the sudden attack. They watched as the Level 30 Skill shredded the inn! The…

—-

They took out the tower and part of the roof. The Gnolls stared incredulously at the inn. If it rained, there would be flooding on the third floor. That was it.

“Reinforced walls. What level is that Skill?”

“[Hunt Leader], we’ve been spotted.”

Horns were blaring from Liscor’s walls. The [Hunt Leader] cursed.

“Then we go in. Eight.”

He called for a full third of their group. The Gnolls grimly armored up; they had the magic of their tribe and they were all high-level. The rest moved closer. The [Hunt Leader] watched as the first eight Gnolls went into the inn. Fighting began in seconds.

“Ambush! They’re in the walls!”

“There’s no cover! [Wall of Earth]!”

“We can’t break the walls—argh!”

A scream. A [Rogue] had come out of one of the hidden passageways. The Gnolls whirled, but before they could turn on him, another shrieked. Acid was pouring from the ceiling! And they were in the center of a cross-fire from the walls.

Eight went in. Five came out, one with the fur on her arms burning from the acid. The Gnolls stared. They had seen Drake forts with less heavy resistance! That was an inn?

“What do we do? That’s a kill zone. We’re running out of time. The city is going to send soldiers. We can hold them for a few minutes. From the top? Try again later? They knew we were coming.”

The [Hunt Leader] was growling, thinking. He narrowed his eyes.

“Fall back. We’ll wait for another chance. Tell the [Shaman]—”

The Gnolls were racing back to the grass where they could vanish. Then they heard a sound from within the inn, along with the muffled sounds of an altercation within. They heard a whining sound, high-pitched. One of the Doomslayers looked up.

“What is that s—”

A bright, orange-red light flashed from the side of the inn. Just a finger’s width in diameter. It went through the walls, missing its intended target, straight through Montressa’s barrier.

It went straight through one of the Gnolls. She fell without a word. The Doomslayers dove for cover. The [Hunt Leader] stared at the hole in his comrade’s chest.

“Nisha?”

They stared at the inn. Then they heard the drums and turned their heads.

—-

“[Ray of Disintegration].”

Belavierr missed. Wanderer whirled Mrsha out of the way again. [Perfect Dodge]! She looked around, raised one hand.

“[Chain Light—]”

The electricity unfolded and spooled into her hand. Belavierr stared at it, and tossed it straight back. The Shock Orb exploded and Montressa screamed.

“No!”

“A single type of spell is worthless.”

All the lightning bolts had been about as effective as spitting on Belavierr. She frowned at Mrsha.

“[Wall of Blood Thorns].”

Two walls appeared, boxing in Wanderer who had Mrsha under one arm. He growled. Belavierr smiled—

He jumped through the door to the garden, landed in it, and whirled around. Belavierr instantly shifted aim towards Apista. Wanderer leapt back through after Mrsha as she leapt for her friend. Belavierr turned to track Mrsha—and stopped.

She would have missed anyways. Numbtongue tackled her from behind and went for a leg-sweep. He failed the leg-sweep; Belavierr’s legs didn’t budge, but she glanced at him in annoyance.

“This is not working.”

Numbtongue eyed her.

“Yeah.”

She flicked a finger. He hit something and fell; the shockwave of air left his ears ringing. Belavierr stepped back. She ignored the spells pelting her from the left side; Bezale howled at Palt.

“Stop casting spells! Nothing below Tier 4 even touches her!”

“Maybe it’s annoying her!”

Belavierr grasped at Mrsha. She was muttering.

“I am not direct. This is not my craft. Interference. The little warlord…”

She glanced around, but she’d lost him. Strange. He should be wearing thread and she sensed the other threads, even magical ones. She’d felt his Skills throwing her off, empowering the others this entire time. Fraerlings on Izril? Curious. She’d thought they had all fled.

So Belavierr plucked at something in the air no one could see but her. Montressa narrowed her eyes. She thought she saw something. Some kind of intense current of mana…?

“She’s doing something to Mrsha! Stop her!”

Palt blew a cloud of smoke around Belavierr. It didn’t do a thing; the hallucinogen was as effective as Calescent’s spice. The Hob had given up on that; he’d realized nothing made of string could hurt Belavierr. So he was lighting the most flammable alcohols on fire and chucking them at her. Rufelt was helping.

“That one! Throw that one! That one won’t light! Not that one! It’s expensive!”

Belavierr was looking at Mrsha. The Gnoll felt the [Witch] pulling at her. She cried out soundlessly, and felt Belavierr twist—the [Witch] grinned.

“Ah, yes. White fur. Let me show you the doom following you, Mrsha.”

She drew a glittering needle in one hand, and pierced the air. She ignored all else and whispered. Mrsha felt her hair standing up. She felt a tug, and then the [Witch] whispered.

“[Thread of Fate].”

Her craft exceeded the petty little spells by far. Mrsha felt the [Witch] pull something, threading something coming out of her with the needle. It tugged tight. And then—

Drums. Mrsha’s head turned, and she heard a distant chorus of angry trumpets. Bezale, next to a window, pouring a potion on a cracked rib, chanced a glance outside. Her eyes widened.

“House of Minos. No way—”

—-

The Watch was already on full alert. The inn-response team was halfway out the gates when they heard the drums and trumpets.

They came out of nowhere. Jeiss was already on the battlements. He turned and swore.

“How did they get there? We have sentries—”

An army was coming up the road. An army with banners he recognized. Hectval.

They seemed as confused as Liscor. The sentry alarms began coming in.

“—Just appeared out of nowhere! Like a blur!”

“Hectval! They have catapults—”

—-

“How…how did we get here?”

The [Siegemaster] of Hectval raised a claw to his head. He looked around, confused. They should have been two days away! But they’d been marching and…no, they’d come here as planned.

Two days early? He looked up.

“We’re nearly in range of the city! Siegemaster, orders?”

“Be—begin the assault!”

Confusion was replaced by certainty. They had always meant to come here. The [Siegemaster] shook his head.

“Target the new portion of the city! Catapults to fire as soon as they are within range. And take that inn! Flashfire Riders, go!”

A stream of Drakes on horseback detached outwards. They knew their targets. The new, weak part of the city not protected by walls. And the inn, where the damned perpetrator of the attack on Hectval was. They’d torch both and pull back.

Surprise attack! To…everybody.

—-

Belavierr had just pulled an army out of thin air. Rags turned her head back to the [Witch], eyes wide.

“My craft is far stronger than little spells. See, child? Now, what other threads have you to pull and tear?”

The [Witch] reached for Mrsha. Wanderer blocked her way again, but this time she had his measure. She flicked a finger.

“The hangman’s noose calls you, guardian.”

He froze, and grabbed at his cloak. Too late—it twined around his neck, twisting up—trying to hang him! And again, she ignored the blows raining on her back, spells and arrows both. Bird’s bowstring snapped again and he tossed it down.

“This is cheating!”

Cheating? This was a Level…Rags didn’t know, but it was far beyond her. This was Greydath levels. Beyond Greydath levels?

More articles of clothing tried to strangle their owners. Belavierr seemed amused that such a trick was working on all those present. Nothing made of string could stand against her. Nor…could any of those in the inn hurt her.

“Show me your tricks, child. Your little stories. Show me how they can hurt me.”

She called to Mrsha, advancing at a slow walk. Mrsha backed up. The door opened behind her, but a wall of red thorns grew, blocking off the walls. Belavierr smiled and reached down, hand like a claw.

No one to stop her. Except her peers. She pointed and whispered a spell.

“[Swarm of Pestilence].”

Numbtongue howled. He struggled against his armor, pinning him against the ground. He saw Mrsha cover her face. And the spell…

Didn’t appear. Belavierr blinked at her finger. Then her orange, ringed eyes flicked up. She heard a buzzing sound.

“You—”

“Niers Astoragon.”

The Titan soared up. On Apista’s back. He was sitting there…buck naked. All he held was his sword. Apista did an aileron roll, as Belavierr jerked back. Too slowly. As if she didn’t understand the danger.

[Battlefield: Even Ground – No Magic, No Luck, No Skills, Only Strategy]. She tried to cast a spell.

Niers stabbed her in the eye as he flew past. He twisted the sword, yanked—

And tore out her right eye.

Mrsha covered her own face in horror, and then saw Belavierr reel back. She cried out. And then felt at the bloody hole in her eye. She whirled—

Calescent slammed into her. He stabbed her twice with a dagger; she hurled him aside. He went flying like before, but now? There was blood on her dress. She gazed at the wounds on her chest.

“My—eye?”

The Titan and Apista were fleeing across the inn as fast as possible. Niers felt the Skill fighting against Belavierr; it wasn’t going to last five minutes! Yet they’d wounded her! Belavierr turned, as Numbtongue roared and charged with his sword. She looked at him—and screamed.

“MY EYE.”

Her body unfolded as he tried to plant it in her chest. Niers saw her come apart. A million strings, unraveling—and in the center, someone was shrieking at him.

A younger woman, clutching at her eye, standing amid an ancient circle frozen beyond time. She was screaming at him—

And then the threads folded and the image vanished. Belavierr was gone. Numbtongue whirled, slashing.

“How—?”

“She’s all magic.”

Niers was shaken. He’d seen his Skill fail once before when he tried it on a being of pure magic. You couldn’t ‘take’ a Dragon’s magic away, only make it vulnerable. Same with Djinni. He looked around.

“She can’t have gone far. She’s—”

His head turned. He saw Belavierr, felt her reform and reappear.

Outside the inn. She was striding away, quickly, even stumbling, without her Seven League Boots. Niers roared.

“After her! Before my Skill ends!”

She was running away! But she’d be back as soon as the Skill ran out. And she was looking back at Niers, clutching at the hole in her head. Belavierr strode forwards—

Right into the fight between the Doomslayers and Hectval’s cavalry.

—-

The Plain’s Eye Hunters had no idea how the Drakes appeared. Hectval’s army had no idea who they were until they nearly ran over the Gnolls.

The first indication they got was an arrow punching the leading [Lieutenant] out of the saddle. They looked down.

“Gnolls!”

Hectval had some Gnolls in their front ranks, but these were clearly Liscor’s elites! They broke off, shouting.

“There’s an ambush team lying in wait! Gnolls with bows!”

“Who are these Drakes?”

The [Hunt Leader] roared. He drew an object from his pack, tossed it down. The customized bear trap took down a horse and rider and he speared the Drake. This was an army!

“They trapped us! Fight!”

Hectval’s riders ran straight into the Gnolls on the ground. The Gnoll Doomslayers were outnumbered, but they had levels. Arrows slashed through the riders’ ranks; one of the Gnolls grew, and began tearing Drakes from saddles. The [Shamanic Warriors] weren’t invincible, though, and the Drakes on horseback cut down two in the first minute of fighting.

That was when the Witch ran straight into them. She was striding along, clutching at her eye, stumbling. A Drake on horseback turned to her.

“You damned Humans!”

He slashed down. Belavierr saw the blow coming from the sabre. She had no magic spells, no Skills.

She drew, of all things, a pair of huge scissors, like you might use to cut cloth. They gleamed with a foreign metal. She parried the sword-stroke, and snipped once across the Drake’s throat.

It gleamed faintly with a weak magic. Barely able to function with Niers’ Skill on it. It still worked. The Drake jerked, fell off the horse, as some of the fighters noticed her. Belavierr saw one of the Plain’s Eye Gnolls whirl about, axe raised to throw. She drove the scissors down and left them buried in his brain.

The fallen Gnoll and Drake began to jerk. They rose from the ground, and shambled upright. The two weak zombies lurched forwards to protect Belavierr as she backed away from the fighting.

“I ran into the thread. Both of them. They’re tangled. Inconvenient. My eye. He took my eye. No one has ever taken my eye.”

She was muttering. The two zombies blocked the Drakes and Gnolls, who attacked her back, appalled. The [Hunt Leader] shouted.

“Kill that Human! [Necromancer]!”

One of his Gnolls aimed an arrow at Belavierr’s back. The Witch tried to block the arrow—it curved slightly as she twisted her fingers, but her Skill was gone. And when the second hit her in the breast…she stared down at the blood.

“It hurts.”

Thunk. Thunk. Two more arrows hit her and she staggered. Blood ran down her dress. Belavierr saw a Drake riding down at her and tossed something in her face.

A black vial. The Drake [Soldier] screamed and crashed from the saddle, clawing at—and then going still as a dark substance ate it away, consuming her. Belavierr moved back; the others hesitated to get close. But the arrows pelted her.

—six, nine—

The [Hunt Leader] saw more standing out in her chest. Belavierr was staggering, now. She tried to speak, coughed up blood.

“My eye. He took my eye.”

She murmured. The [Hunt Leader] charged with a howl, spear raised. He saw a Goblin, a Minotaur, and three men in hats pour out of the inn, looking towards Belavierr, shouting.

Too late.

The spear ran through Belavierr’s heart. The Gnoll drew it out to stab again and hesitated.

There was no blood this time. He looked up.

Belavierr’s good eye shone. The ringed gaze…something was appearing in the bloody socket of the other.

A ball of string. It stitched itself into a copy of her eye in seconds. Yet it did not please her. The [Stitch Witch] bent down.

“He stole my eye.”

The Gnoll [Hunt Leader] dropped his spear. He backed up—and saw his fallen comrade and the Drake Belavierr had killed whirl.

Sinew like string connected the severed body parts. They moved with insane strength and speed. One leapt on him and ripped—

Belavierr turned away as her two new minions regained their full power. She looked around. If that warlord had possessed an army…? Her eyes focused on the inn.

Numbtongue, Bezale, and the Brothers looked at the [Witch], standing there, arrows snapping and blood ceasing to flow. Her wounds closed. Her eye was back.

They hurried back inside the inn and closed the door. Inside, Niers Astoragon saw the eye still embedded on his sword swivel around to face him.

“Ah. Damn.”

Outside, the witch began to chant.

“Buried deep. Left apart. Come together. Vengeance be your heart. Rise from the dark and slaughter until you have had your fill. Vile behemoth, I name you: Rogghiedroth, come. Share my will…”

Lines of force moved around, tracing a vast circle in the ground. Kevin peeked out the window, took one look at the hundred-foot-wide summoning circle, and turned.

“Uh, guys? If the inn disappears…what happens to the garden?”

—-

No one could believe the mana signature appearing outside the inn. The [Mage] on Liscor’s walls just started throwing up; that told Jeiss everything he needed to know.

“Focus the wall spells on whatever’s coming up from there!”

“But Senior Guardsman—Hectval’s nearly about to unleash their catapults!”

Jeiss knew that. The army was intending to bombard his city. But whatever was coming out of that hole? He had a feeling no one could stop that.

“You heard me! Fire! Fire!”

A bolt of lightning shot down, a Tier 5 spell at least in force. It might as well have been another bit of string. The [Witch] didn’t even blink as it touched the tip of her hat—and turned into a thousand little bits of disconnected lines of electricity that earthed themselves around her.

“That’s…not right.”

Jeiss was used to inn-level threats and disasters. But he was also used to Tier 5 spells doing something to them. He swallowed hard.

—-

“Siegemaster! That’s a summoning spell! I have no idea what it is!”

“Then bombard the caster!”

The [Siegemaster] was sweating. His [Dangersense] was going off the charts and the Drake cavalry division he’d sent out had been slaughtered. He saw one of the catapults turn and loose. An enchanted boulder shot forwards, not as powerful as the trebuchets those Humans had stolen from somewhere, but enchanted to shatter into a hundred burning fragments. It went for the [Witch]—and bounced off her. It landed on the ground, detonated.

The shards fell from her dress. The [Siegemaster] lowered his spyglass.

“What?”

—-

Belavierr ignored the attacks from both sides like she had in the inn. She was nearly finished chanting, summoning…something. It came up from the ground, an actual being. With a name. It had heard her call and awoken from wherever it was buried. It was clawing upwards, larger than the inn.

It was nearly out of the gateway. It was a spell beyond any reasonable cost. Belavierr no longer cared. Two, now. She had two grudges. One had offended her beyond belief. The other? The other had taken her eye.

She had lived for all this time without ever losing her eyes. And one was gone now, after the [Knight] had burned away so many protections, in an unguarded moment, victim to a Skill with nearly as much power behind it as hers.

So…she was going to kill everything. Belavierr beckoned to the figure crawling out from below.

“Slaughter the child and the Fraerling. Destroy them. Come. The warlord lacks an army. You have nothing to fear. Nothing I have seen can threaten you nor I.”

The eye didn’t count. Belavierr ignored every petty mortal around her as she spread her arms wide, calling the beast upwards. Until…someone interrupted her.

“I was already in an appalling mood. Excellent.”

The [Witch] glanced dismissively to one side. Then she did a minor double-take. She looked back into Grimalkin’s fist.

“[Earthquake].”

For the first time, the [Witch] moved. The bound spell unleashed itself, a contained earthquake in his fist. She stumbled back, and the summoning circle flickered. She felt at her jaw. Then looked at the huge, muscle-bound Drake.

Grimalkin of Pallass. Both looked as disappointed as the other. Grimalkin grunted.

“Superlative physical resistance. That’s…disappointing. A Greater Frost Wyvern felt that. I’ll add it to my notes. Now—[Greater Dispel].”

He bent down and focused the second spell down. At one of the points in the hole opened below. Belavierr hissed. But a point of light broke away.

Below, something howled. Grimalkin glanced down in satisfaction as he saw the projected opening waver. Belavierr lifted her hands to stabilize the spell.

[Haste]. [Flash Step]. [Body of Flames]. [Bound Spell: Fireball].

Grimalkin struck her again. A mage-killing blow that should have incinerated her broken body. Instead, he saw Belavierr stumble again.

“Stop that.”

The Sinew Magus saw her glance at him, irritated. She went back to focusing on the spell. But a hail of needles flickered out of her robes and pelted him.

The Sinew Magus shielded his face, feeling the enchanted needles scoring his scales and failing to break in. He stepped back.

“[Stone Spire]. Fracture spell—[Accelerated Movement]. [Lion’s Strength]—”

His second trick manifested itself in a shard of stone half the size of his torso. He drew a quick rune of acceleration on it, and heaved it at her. Another trick to kill Wistram’s [Mages] if he faced them in combat.

The impromptu spell hit Belavierr with all the force of a ballista bolt. The stone powdered on impact. And she was still standing there.

The Sinew Magus grunted. His day was going from bad to worse. Lasica and Rufelt had raised the alarm and he’d already been responding to the claims the checkpoint had been attacked.

Belavierr did feel both blows, because one eye swiveled at him.

“I have no time to deal with you, [Mage]. Begone.”

For answer, Grimalkin just began layering spells into his fist for a second blow. She had some kind of magical barrier he wasn’t seeing. He did not like whatever was about to come out of the ground and only his magic had even slowed it. He charged Belavierr, dodging with [Flash Step] to avoid counter-spells…

Belavierr looked up. She pointed, and Grimalkin’s fist stopped a moment before it hit her. Black threads had shot out of the ground, wrapping themselves around his arm with amazing speed. He struggled, began to tear free.

“I said. Begone.”

The threads twisted. Grimalkin tried to cut fr—

He felt the snap, the impact that hurled his entire body through the air like a ragdoll. A normal Drake might have broken bones and muscle from the impact alone; Grimalkin only felt a few sinews tear. He was disoriented, but the [Haste] spell let him understand.

She’d thrown him like a child snapped a stone with a bit of cloth! He was falling—

—-

Jeiss looked up. He didn’t want to believe it. But—had he just seen Grimalkin flying over the walls? The Drake hit the street like one of the catapult projectiles.

Could nothing stop Belavierr? Or—Hectval? Now, the wall spells were engaging the one target they could hit. Hectval’s army was returning fire, but it had split up. Two third of its force were guarding the catapults. They just wanted to shell Liscor and retreat. The other third? Heading for Belavierr and the inn.

“Prepare for combat! We need those catapults down!”

Jeiss was bellowing, but his stomach was in a knot. The army wasn’t ready! Hectval wanted to defend themselves; they were digging in. And that thing coming up…

Nightmarish, nightmarish. Watch Captain Zevara was mustering all the [Guards] she could, but it would be Watch versus whatever that [Witch] called out and Hectval’s soldiers. He got a missive from her. A panting Street Runner shouted up at Jeiss.

“Watch Captain reports—she is going to counterattack Hectval with Embria’s 4th Company and Liscor’s army! Strategist Olesm will coordinate the attack! Hold the walls!”

“That’s suicide! I’ll join—”

Jeiss whirled, about to argue. Then he looked back.

“Oh, Ancestors. Tell the Watch Captain—we might not have time for either.”

The first claw reached out of the hole in the ground. Every [Dangersense] in the city, already ringing, screamed three times as loud. Then Jeiss’s gaze swept up.

“Wait.”

—-

Belavierr was laughing. Evil, gloating laughter didn’t really become her. She was out of practice. She had not fought directly like this for a long time.

However, she could still appreciate it. The first claw broke into the air, heralding damnation. Slaughter.

Belavierr ignored Grimalkin, charging back towards her, Niers Astoragon, swearing and shouting, trying to figure out how to leverage his useless Skills. She paid no attention to the spells and munitions from Liscor and Hectval.

Of all the things in the battlefield across the Floodplains. It was a little ‘pop’ of displaced air that made Belavierr turn around. She lowered her arms. The portal wavered and something bellowed its annoyance below. The [Witch] couldn’t help it.

She turned all the way around and looked up at something which had appeared in the air behind her. Bird, who had been energetically tossing rocks at the thing coming out of the hole, looked up.

“Ah, at last. Reinforcements. Let us run away.”

He turned to Bezale. She looked up and froze.

Belavierr peered up at the figure hovering in the air slightly above her. It was a blue…Antinium. She had only two arms, and she did not look like the other one. Her eyes shone with myriad colors, flashing between them. And she…radiated power. Enough so that the [Stitch Witch] turned around. Belavierr tilted her head left slowly.

“What…are you?”

The Small Queen of the Antinium, Xrn, aimed her staff down. Her mandibles opened.

“[Lava Wave].”

Molten rock, so hot it burned the soil and grass itself, cascaded from a small opening in the air. It covered Belavierr and the thing below.

The [Witch] raised a hand and the lava split around her. She looked behind—something was doused by the magma, but it kept climbing. Belavierr looked up at Xrn.

“I do not wish to quarrel with you, stranger—”

She looked around. Xrn had teleported behind her. The Small Queen touched Belavierr’s arm.

“[Alter Velocity].”

An unseen force flung Belavierr upwards, as if a catapult had hurled her up. Grimalkin, charging forwards, slowed as he saw the Stitch Witch go flying up, tossed like he had been.

Xrn leapt up and regarded what was coming out of the pit.

“We cannot have you. One army and that creature is enough. Begone, thing. [Bolt of the Lightning Giant].”

The largest flash of electricity so far struck downwards. Montressa’s [Chain Lightning], the other bolts of magic—looked like static electricity to the discharge that thundered downwards.

The impact made Xrn float a bit higher. She peered downwards. Something was still climbing up. She clicked her mandibles in annoyance.

“[A Thousand Shooting Stars].”

Miniature comets formed around her and began shooting downwards. Not as large as [Valmira’s Comet] but—Palt’s cigar dropped out of his mouth. It was like his [Light Arrow] spell, only on Xrn’s level! He felt a hand drag him back.

“Stop staring! There’s a damned army coming at us! Help fortify the inn!”

Bezale roared at him. Hectval’s army was streaming past the blaze of magic, wisely staying clear of the Small Queen.

—-

The bombardment was enough. Whatever climbed up from dark depths had had enough already, Belavierr’s urgings or not. It let go and fell. Xrn watched the portal close with satisfaction.

Then she looked up. Belavierr had just slowed in her ascent. The Stitch Witch was falling out of the air. She saw Xrn shooting up at her, a blue arrow.

The Stitch Witch landed on the air. She slowly got up, and stood on an invisible platform, brushing at her dress. She peered down at Xrn as the Antinium halted in the sky next to her. Belavierr was…confused.

“Have I done something to off—”

This time she raised her hands. Both spellcasters unleashed magic at the same time.

“[Ray of Disintegration].”

“[Flight of the Phoenix King].”

Two spells flashed across the sky. Belavierr saw Xrn dodge the ray of light, casually. She tried to dodge in turn—and failed.

A burning, winged spell slammed Belavierr into the ground, and kept burning. The [Witch] rose, swiping at the flames. She strode forwards—

“[Ray of Disintegration].”

Xrn struck her from behind. Belavierr froze, and her body flickered around where the blue ray from Xrn’s finger struck her. She replied with a jet of black magic, a rising cloud. In response, Xrn clapped her hands together.

“[Mana Burst].”

The cloud exploded. The impact knocked Belavierr flat. She blinked.

“How troubles—”

A pillar of earth punched her upwards. Then Grimalkin struck her. Belavierr struck the ground twice in as many seconds. The Sinew Magus eyed Xrn. She and he exchanged a glance.

“I was in Pallass. What’s your excuse?”

“I am always late. No one invites me to the inn.”

They turned back to the Stitch Witch. She got up, dusting herself off. She didn’t look hurt…on the other hand, she had lost her smile. She eyed Xrn.

“…Ah. The things of Rhir. I thought you stayed below. When did you leave? What do they call you? Archmage of Wistram?”

Xrn’s response was to freeze Belavierr solid. The air was a match for the Frost Wyvern’s breath and Grimalkin threw up a claw, grimacing at the memory. The frozen [Witch] began to crack before the spell even ended.

“Elemental magic doesn’t work. Physical damage doesn’t work. She’s more theoretical than present. Either that, or her magical shielding is capable of amazing diffusion.”

That was his analysis so far. Xrn turned to him.

“I have no idea what that means. My spells haven’t worked. But they will. Give me a minute.”

He nodded. Belavierr was moving.

“—seek no quarrel, Antinium. It is a personal matter—”

Grimalkin stomped and Belavierr went flying, shot away by another pillar of stone. He knew it did no good, but he conjured a pair of fireballs and tossed them at her.

She blocked both, sending back a needle twice as long as he was. It could have skewered him—Grimalkin punched it and shattered the metal projectile. He cursed; that hurt.

Belavierr was trying to stop Xrn; both she and Grimalkin could see the Antinium gathering magic. Xrn’s eyes began shining like a lighthouse’s light. And the Stitch Witch…looked a bit worried.

“I would like you to desist. [Deathlance]—”

The spell shot towards Xrn’s chest. Grimalkin would have blocked it, but Xrn just dodged left. He seized Belavierr and threw her. She struck him once and he staggered, but physical combat was his specialty. Locking her down in a fistfight was advantageous even if he didn’t hurt her. She landed a few blows on him as he tackled her.

—-

“Identified! Grimalkin of Pallass and the Small Queen of the Antinium are fighting whatever that Human is!”

The [Siegemaster] of Hectval felt his stomach heave. Grimalkin? Pallass? This was going too far. And the Antinium’s nightmare? Hectval had not come for that.

“We’re just here for Liscor. Issue a statement to Pallass that if the Sinew Magus gets in our way—this is an inter-city dispute! Volley the new section of the city again!”

More spells blasted the earth, but most were blocked by Hectval’s [Mages]. By now, the [Siegemaster] wanted nothing more than to do what he’d been ordered to do and retreat. However, the Council would have his tail unless he did at least some damage.

The first volleys had been intercepted, but the catapults had the range now and they were prepared to demolish the residential districts and new area of Liscor. The inn-destruction detachment had nearly reached their target.

If Liscor lost both its new expansion and the inn, morale would plummet. The [Siegemaster] knew Liscor’s army wasn’t finished yet. He saw them mustering at the gates, but his forces were dug in and he’d switch the catapults to them and wipe them out. It was an ideal battle in short—

Except for whatever the hell that [Witch], Grimalkin, and the Small Queen were doing. The [Siegemaster] prayed they’d all be distracted for ten minutes. Ten minutes, and he could unload enough ordnance to wipe out multiple blocks.

“Liscor’s army is advancing!”

“Idiots. Prepare to volley on them as they come into range.”

The [Siegemaster] turned. The Watch Captain and [Strategist] were leading the assault. Hadn’t they ever fought a proper Drake army? Hah! They’d been too far gone from the south. He raised his claw.

“Hold, hold…”

“Siegemaster, incoming from the left!”

The Drake [General] swung around. He saw…nothing. But one of his [Tacticians] was pointing. The Drake squinted for the enemy attack and saw a single figure.

“You idiot. That’s a civilian.”

“No, it’s a soldier! It’s coming our way!”

The [Siegemaster] stared. Sending a single warrior out to fight was incredibly stupid. Unless—was this Klbkch the Slayer? He’d heard the Antinium was weakened. He focused on the figure.

…Unless Klbkch the Slayer was a Minotaur, he doubted it. The [Siegemaster] frowned.

“A one-armed Minotaur? Maybe an adventurer. It must be suicidal. Take it down.”

He turned back to the approaching army, half-listening to the order.

“Bows! Archer Squad Three, target the Minotaur. [Homing Arrows]. Loose!”

Bowstrings snapped. There was a pause and the [Siegemaster] shook his head. Although something nagged at him. Why a lone minotaur? Maybe he was an adventurer or a fool.

…But hadn’t he seen something on the scrying orb a while back? When had it been?

Oh yes. When the Minotaurs had forced the King of Destruction back. They’d sent Minotaurs forwards, too, hadn’t they?

Their criminals. He glanced up.

“Minotaur is still coming. Archer Squads Four to Seven, take aim! Loose!”

Arrows snapped through the air. The [Siegemaster] waited. Liscor’s army was still coming, just out of range…he turned his head as someone muttered an oath.

“They just bounced off his skin. He’s—healing the ones who got through. [Mages]! [Lightning Bolt] spells on that Minotaur!”

The [Siegemaster] looked left. He saw the Minotaur charging. At their catapults. Four arrows had managed to pierce his hide. And…he had an axe raised. He was roaring, so loudly that Hectval’s entrenched army heard it.

“Liscor’s army is beginning to charge!”

“Kill that Minotaur!”

The [Siegemaster] roared. Lightning bolt spells flashed out.

It was a bad day for lightning. They struck the Minotaur, three missing, two landing home. He stumbled—and then kept running. The Drakes looked at the Minotaur as he charged.

Death before dishonor. Then he was upon the catapult teams. He swung his axe and two Drakes vanished. The [Siegemaster] whirled around.

“Kill that Minotaur!”

Riders thundered down on Calruz, but he swung his axe, bellowing. The catapults hesitated, in disarray from this threat. Liscor’s army was charging now. 4th Company leading the way, coming in from the flank.

The [Siegemaster] was telling them to fire, fire any catapults at the army! But something was wrong. The chaos around the catapults was getting worse. He saw one of the war machines…sink into the earth. Like the ground was spongy. Another area collapsed. Then he saw the Antinium.

They stared up at him. Armor painted with their colors. The [Siegemaster]’s scales went grey with horror. Yellow Splatters murmured.

“Idiot.”

They forgot so soon that Liscor was an Antinium city as much as Drake. Perhaps they just thought there was no way Liscor would ever use Antinium tactics. But Olesm would.

The [Crusaders] surged out of the secret tunnels. Just in time; Zevara’s Watch and Liscor’s army were nearly on Hectval. Yellow Splatters chanced one look for the inn before he was leading the charge. The Antinium were fighting here—Tersk and Dekass and the other Prognugators had joined the Painted Antinium to destroy this army. He had to trust Xrn would guard the inn.

He saw the Small Queen activate her spell in the distance.

—-

Belavierr was getting tired of this Drake [Mage]. He was…persistent. And while he was not at her strength, he could distract her.

The Sinew Magus was panting. He ducked another blow from those enchanted scissors, and charged backwards. Just in time.

“[Wail of the Banshee].”

The scream tore the air, but Belavierr realized her magic wouldn’t kill the Drake. Worse—she looked up.

Xrn was done with her spell. The Antinium pointed her staff down at Belavierr and spoke. But it was no attack spell. Grimalkin swore as he unconsciously reached for a notepad. He and Belavierr understood at once as Xrn spoke.

“[I Call Open the Manaforge]—”

A…gap opened up in the sky behind her. Like the one Belavierr had torn open, but shining. Dimensional magic. Belavierr murmured.

“A [Thaumaturge]. I may be in danger.”

Xrn was glowing. Her voice was like thunder.

“[My Soul Shall Forge New Magic]—”

Belavierr began walking back slowly. Her eyes fixed on the glowing astral land beyond. Power, mana, raw and untamed, was flowing into that land of creation. To birth weapons never seen before.

“[Until Infinity Exhausts Itself].”

Xrn completed her spell and hovered between two worlds. It was that spell that told Belavierr the Small Queen’s class. The spell every [Thaumaturge] learned. But—always different.

A spell flickered in the air, half-writ, barely completed. Xrn had used her great magic to create a place where new incantations could be created. It was a process only the greatest [Mages] could dream of enacting, even with all this help. If you knew magic, you could see what she was working on. Belavierr looked.

Her skin crawled. She grew uneasy.

The unfinished spell read to her eyes: [The ___slayer’s Arrow].

Xrn placed it aside. She looked at Belavierr and began forging her new spell. Prototypes lashed outwards.

“[Binding of Belavierr]. Hm. Shall we reverse it? [The Bane of Belavierr]. What kills you, [Witch]? I have never met your ilk, but you seem familiar to foes I have seen. It vexes me. So let me kill you and learn how it is done.”

A ray of condensed mana struck Belavierr. Fire swirled around her. Xrn was probing for her weak points. Fashioning the beginnings of new spells.

“We will not part amiably. I must use my craft or be endangered.”

Belavierr spoke. She was creating barriers of magic now, cloth and magic. No longer could she rely on mere spellcraft. She had to expend her hoarded power. This simple trip to Pallass was costing beyond belief.

She blamed Mrsha for all of it.

The Stitch Witch whirled something out of the air. She blocked the first lance of magic with it. The cascade of raw magic nearly hit Grimalkin, forced to stand back.

“You challenge me, spellcaster. But I am older than even you! You misjudge your foe!”

“You have never met my ilk.”

The two exchanged spells. Xrn turned the air to fire and created a globe of burning sky around Belavierr. So intense even the [Witch] cried out. Yet she whirled the object around her and the fire could not pass it.

What is that? Xrn stared out of the Manaforge, and it analyzed the strange cloth for her.

Dragonscales. A cloak of Dragonscales—

Belavierr drew a long thread of hair and placed it in a needle. Xrn read the composition of both. The hair of a unicorn and Naq—

She dove, too late. The needle pierced her barriers and stabbed into one arm. It tried to dig itself into her chitin. She pointed at the thread.

“[Ray of Disintegration].”

Simple enough. Yet she bled green. Xrn stared at her blood as the needle was severed. It flew back, as the Naq-Alrama needle tried to flee. The Small Queen shook her head.

“[Cenidau’s Complete Chill]. So you can fight, Human.”

She was surprised; Belavierr had been so oddly stationary. Now Xrn’s blood began to boil. Belavierr eyed the needle. It shattered and she frowned.

“Such needles are hard to obtain. I do not waste them. Begone, strange thing.”

Her fingers moved in a crawling pattern. Xrn glanced around; she snapped the threads before they could tighten around her and cut her to ribbons. It was a copy of the [Trapmaster Assassin]’s trick…no. He copied Belavierr. Xrn wondered if those threads could have gone through Liscor’s walls without slowing.

The sun’s light burst into full blast around Belavierr, and the [Witch] cried out, shielding her face. Xrn flew higher, warily.

The Naq-Alrama needle had pierced her wards. She had not bled badly, but she had to re-establish defensive spells. She cast a familiar magic as she targeted the ground.

“[Magical Field: The Somber World of Blue]. Ah, pests. Begone.”

She blasted part of Hectval’s army, which had nearly reached the inn. Counterspells and arrows shot at her; she ignored them. Wrong color. She turned back to Belavierr.

The [Witch] was not impressed. She looked at the field of color around Xrn.

“You wish to dance with colors against me, girl? [The Cerulean Eater Awakes].”

She powered the spell with something she drew out of her robes; a little figurine of an [Archmage]. It turned to dust as Belavierr sacrificed it, scowling.

Xrn saw something coalesce out of the blue. It came at her, a different shade amidst her spell. She began to blast it and nearly forgot—she had to use blue magic!

“[Paint Spray]. Hmf.”

Grimalkin leapt. The blue paint over his scales shone wetly. He hit whatever was cutting towards Xrn and landed. She blasted it with blue fire and it screamed. The Sinew Magus folded his arms. He and Xrn gave each other unfriendly looks of respect.

“Interesting. Your counter?”

“Only a fool doesn’t take countermeasures. You played your hand at Invrisil.”

“I have more cards in my analogy than you could dream of, Drake.”

Xrn cancelled the spell. She was free to attack the cerulean monster with spells outside its color. She whirled, and aimed again at Belavierr.

This time her spell broke on a shimmering ward like a face. Accordingly, the talisman Belavierr held up burned away. The [Witch] stared at it. She flexed her hands, and looked—upset.

“They do not make such objects anymore. This costs too much.”

Costs too much? That was it, though. Belavierr’s lips twisted in genuine distress as she looked at her broken Naq-Alrama needle. The Archmage’s weapon she had used to attack Xrn…

“Far too costly. Mana is nearly free. I dislike doing battle with those who can threaten me. Please stop.”

She aimed a flurry of free spells at Xrn, but the Antinium was superior in pure spellcraft. Belavierr was forced to throw up walls of a strange, transparent silk that absorbed spell after spell, but eventually broke. She stared at them, distressed, and then reached for a mana potion crafted by a [Sage]. She drank it, sourly.

“I would rather bleed.”

The [Witch] hissed, dropping the empty vial. Grimalkin charged in, landing a punch that sent her staggering as Xrn burned the last of the silk-barriers again.

“Collectors.”

He grunted. Belavierr whirled. Grimalkin dodged a wand which discharged a spray of brown pestilence that might have killed him; of course, it was in the air. He froze the air around him, praying it had been enough.

No good. He felt sick as he stumbled back. Belavierr looked at the wand, snapped it in irritation.

“So say those who have nothing of value.”

Of all the things to retort to—Grimalkin desperately crunched counteragents against his scales, trying to neutralize the plague. But it was already—

“[Greater Dispel]. [Bubble of Purity]. [Aegis of Saimune]!”

Xrn pointed down. Grimalkin, choking as his throat closed up, felt the three spells fighting the plague. The spell was cut short—then the physical manifestations vanished in the soothing grey glow. The last spell made him feel alive. He felt his throat open and gasped.

“Stay clear of her artifacts.”

Xrn warned him. Grimalkin nodded, shakily. He looked up at her. The words of thanks strangled in his throat to the small Queen. But he murmured, looking at Belavierr.

“Inferiority. What a farce. The Strongest Mage in Pallass?”

He shook his head, looking at the other two [Mages]. Xrn and Belavierr. For some reason, that alone produced a cessation in the battle. Xrn’s mandibles raised and Belavierr raised one eyebrow. Both were…amused?

“So says the infant. I can walk, but not fly already.”

Belavierr whispered. She was flickering her fingers. Xrn pointed, and the [Witch] blocked a beam that tried to eat her as it clawed at her shields. The Small Queen looked at Grimalkin and one eye turned yellow with humor.

“You are so young.”

The Sinew Magus absorbed this, and looked at the two ancients of days. He nodded, and redoubled his attack, to give Xrn the opening to deal the critical blow. But by then—Belavierr was smiling.

The Stitch Witch held something up. She licked at it. Frowned. She shrugged, sighing.

“Strange. New species. Yet you are too close. And you do not know my craft, girl.”

Xrn looked down. Grimalkin uttered a curse and Xrn didn’t see why. All Belavierr had was a bit of green on her fingers. Her blood. So what?

The Small Queen had never faced a [Witch]. Let alone a hex and curse expert. Belavierr smiled wickedly. She looked at Grimalkin as he shouted up at Xrn.

“Now. [Blood of Enemies, Boil].”

Xrn raised her staff. She called a searing prism of magic to life and shot a ray of burning red towards—Grimalkin. The [Sinew Magus] dodged. He roared—and pointed up.

“[Siege Fireball]!”

Xrn blocked the spell. Why had Grimalkin attacked her? Why had—

Drake! My foe! Slayer of my kin! Die—we were always going to slay each other!

A wave of lava poured forth at Grimalkin. He was running, aiming more spells at her. Everything he had prepared to fight her. Kill the Antinium. Kill the—

Belavierr watched, smiling. The strange [Thaumaturge] was strong. But she had no protections against Belavierr.

Still—the two weren’t idiots. They exchanged another withering blast of fire, and then Grimalkin growled.

“I can’t—”

“I am under some sort of magical attack, Magus Grimalkin. We are wasting energy. She is…doing something with my blood.”

“Stop her.”

Grimalkin spread his arms. Xrn didn’t hesitate. But she pulled the blow. Instead of annihilation, she flicked her finger.

A gigantic copy appeared and did the same to the Sinew Magus. He tasted blood as he flew for the second time that day. However—that left Xrn free.

“Enough. Perish, Human.”

She conjured her incomplete spell from the Manaforge and hurled it down. Belavierr shrieked as something cut into her. Xrn saw something snap. For a second she saw the same thing Mrsha had—and saw her burn away Belavierr’s protections.

Not enough. Yet she saw a weakness and poured more mana into research, adjusting the spell.

Belavierr finished her spell first. The last drop of Xrn’s blood she was whispering to, completely at odds with Xrn’s creation in the Manaforge. She was just…

Negotiating.

“We shall strike a pact, you and I. Power for power’s get. Your enemy mine, so I shall grant you my strength this time. Come and twist, destiny’s thread. Come—take her head.”

Xrn felt the air twist. She whirled, wondering wh—

Facestealer tore her left arm off. It crawled out of the portal. Her—

It grabbed her head and yanked. Xrn flailed. A claw tore half her head off. Xrn’s eyes went…blank.

Oh. Klbkch, Wrymvr. I may be dying.

I’m sorry.

—-

Across Izril, in the Hivelands, Wrymvr froze. He heard it.

Klbkch, flexing an arm, froze. The Queens stopped. Incredulously.

“Xrniavxxel?”

The Grand Queen’s mandibles opened in horror. Klbkch’s head rose. It could not be. It could not—

—-

Xrn’s head began to tear. The claw sliced—and magic poured forth.

Raw magic. Her very being exploded outwards. It lashed Facestealer, tearing all the hide off its body and revealing the bone shell. It began to dig deeper, pure mana unleashed.

It let go, fleeing, retreating back through the portal. Belavierr hissed, but she watched, smiling, as Xrn flew back. The Small Queen put her good hand to the gap in her neck. Her eyes were flickering. She stared down at her missing arm and shoulder, at Belavierr.

“yOu. i wILl RemEMbeR tHIS.”

She flew back, trailing her life essence. Fleeing. The Stitch Witch watched her go. Then her head turned.

“Now, the inn. Come, fate’s soldiers. Come…let us end this.”

Monsters poured forth from the gaps she had torn open. Threads of fate. Mrsha’s, Xrn’s…

Monsters of the dungeon. An accord had been reached. Grimalkin saw the suits of enchanted armor, Crypt Worms, Liscor’s dungeon disgorge a horde. They all converged on the inn, already fighting Hectval’s army.

And there came Belavierr. Striding for the inn. She looked back as Grimalkin bellowed.

“Belavierr!”

He had seen Xrn flee. He had to know the difference between them. Even so—

The Sinew Magus charged.

—-

The Wandering Inn was under siege. The first battle to ever take place in the new inn’s walls.

That was to say…the first attack to ever truly come as the defenders had imagined. Against the hallway of traps, the reinforced walls and checkpoints.

Erin Solstice had been slain outside the inn. Belavierr had not been stopped by mere bulwarks of stone and wood.

It was almost refreshing to get a foe that had to obey the rules. Almost. But at least…here was someone they could fight. They had failed time and again.

At last, the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings discharged their debt.

First came the Doomslayers, in a desperate push, fleeing the [Witch]. On their heels came Hectval’s army.

Hundreds of [Soldiers] had been sent to destroy the inn. They tried to set fire to it, smash through the windows. But the inn had withstood Creler attacks, an army of the undead, Face-Eater Moths and that was before it had been rebuilt.

[Soldiers] who managed to break the windows of reinforced glass found walls of magic blocking them. A Centaur blew out a cloud of noxious smoke that drove the [Soldiers] into a confusion, hitting each other. A Minotauress held one window, smashing helmets in until it was closed off.

An Antinium loosed arrows from the rooftop as Rags grimly aimed spells out the windows in the common room. Calescent and Ulvama were on the upper floors, keeping the enemies trying to climb up off.

Everywhere a bee buzzed, the attacks grew slack. [Soldiers] ran into each other, or heard the wrong orders. Kevin, Joseph, and Imani, were nearly about to be killed by a Drake who’d climbed through the window they were trying to keep clear until Ishkr could reach them with a board and nails. They suddenly found themselves fighting with more skill than the confused Drake [Veteran] and drove him back out.

Fortress Beavers overwhelmed a Drake, bearing the confused [Soldier] down.

First [Soldiers] came, then monsters. They flooded around the inn, but the common room and even roof were easier to hold. Mrsha heard the shouting from inside the garden. She wanted to help, but all she was allowed to do was run from door opening to door opening, bringing potions and supplies to the others. It was more than enough; her healing potions passed through the door saved them more than once.

Antinium came to fight. They climbed out of the basement, rushing to where Rags and the unseen Niers directed them. Just in time; Mrsha saw a suit of armor grappling with Purple Smiles. Then a Flesh Worm trying to break through the outside.

Belavierr had called forth the enemies of the inn. That they failed to take the common room, and merely struggled at the windows, was because the vast majority of them broke in one place.

The hallway. That was where they came first. Hectval’s [Soldiers], the Doomslayers. Then monsters. All three were there at one point, fighting each other, confused, unsure of who their enemies were, just knowing they wanted to kill everything in this inn.

They never made it into the common room. There they died. They tried.

Oh, the Plain’s Eye veterans, as skilled as Hectval’s finest—more so. Drake [Soldiers], an army of them, far more than the treacherous fools who had killed the [Innkeeper]. Monsters, howling from the dungeon’s depths.

They were cut down by crossbows in the corridor, until their bodies blocked the arrow slits. Acid coated them, and they hammered on the reinforced walls, unable to break through. There was one entrance alone.

A [Bard] with a sword held that gap. A Hobgoblin who carried the dead with him. Who had waited for this day. To die here.

The men with hats fought by his side. Falling, despite Mrsha trying to save them. Some crawled away. Others lay still, never to pick their hats off the ground.

Numbtongue fought on. He slashed arrows in half, carved shell and bone and armor apart with the deadly sword that Pelt had made for him. No one had a blade to match his. Yet his body was…weak.

They wounded him with arrows and Skills and fangs. Spells burned him. His wounds healed and opened and…he stumbled. He was about to fall, and there was no man with a hat to block the blow. They lay where they had died. Numbtongue saw a snarling Drake charge at him.

A pair of curved blades swept the head from the shoulders. Numbtongue saw the [Soldier] fall, and stabbed the last Gnoll sent to kill Mrsha through the chest. He fought on, and saw a pocket open in the hallway.

Someone else was slashing about her. Clearing the bodies. Laughing. As if this was what she had waited for too. But she lived for this.

The onyx-scaled Drake caught his eyes as they slowed a second. The [Bard] hesitated, his sword raised—and the two held their ground, cutting down the monsters trying to get through.

Until the [Witch] arrived.

—-

She stepped through the hallway filled with bodies, leaving the Drake [Mage] where he had been. He had slowed her for a little while.

A desperate Goblin blocked her way, covered in wounds. She looked at his sword.

“Enough.”

His clothing picked him up and tossed him aside. Someone kissed Belavierr’s lungs with daggers enchanted to kill. Belavierr looked at the little Drake and threw her aside as well.

Inside the inn were Antinium and the annoying [Mages]. They turned on Belavierr, and she saw the little warlord raise his finger.

“No more.”

Belavierr clapped her hands together and the shockwave blew out the last windows. Mrsha was spared the fury of the spell; she stared in horror at the prone bodies.

The Stitch Witch stopped in front of the [Garden of Sanctuary]. She was…breathing hard. Her dress was damaged, and she looked wounded. Xrn had hurt her. Yet Belavierr was still here.

“We will end this now, Mrsha. Come out. Or…”

She lifted a foot and pressed it against a little bee and man. Mrsha heard a little crunching sound. She came out of the door. Belavierr pointed at her.

“Stop!”

Ulvama rose to her feet. She cast fire at Belavierr. The [Witch] turned, scowling.

“Little [Shaman], get out of my way.”

Half of Ulvama’s magical paints burned off her body as a black bolt went through her chest. Niers sat up and roared.

“Mrsha, run!”

She ran. Away from Belavierr. Not to the [Garden]—the brave, idiotic child ran out of the hallway, trying to draw the [Witch] away from her friends! Belavierr followed after.

Mrsha emerged into the area outside the inn. Where Erin had died. Monsters from the dungeon were everywhere. They turned on her, prey. Belavierr’s quarry. Mrsha saw a Flesh Worm rear up, palps raised to drag at her, and Liscor’s army was so far away, routing Hectval’s…

Belavierr watched, smiling, in the doorway to the inn. At last. At last…

She saw another of the girl’s threads appear. Wanderer, appearing out of nowhere again, striking with his quarterstaff. Annoying. But he was one Gnoll, and the monsters attacked him. Belavierr waited. Then she heard a familiar cry. A familiar…unexpected…irritating cry.

“The Eternal Throne of Calanfer! To glory! Protect the child!”

The Stitch Witch’s head turned incredulously. What? Here? But like the pests they were, the four golden [Knights] thundered up the hill, waving their swords.

Thronebearers.

Ser Lormel was first, hacking at a caterpillar-thing. Ser Sest, Dame Ushar, behind, riding around Mrsha, trying to drag her up, ride to safety.

The last of them rode at Belavierr. She looked up as Ser Dalimont called a challenge.

“Stitch Witch! We meet again!”

Ser Dalimont had known it was her the instant he heard about a [Witch] causing havoc outside. It had barely been thirty minutes and it was a sea of carnage! Only she could have done this. He rode at her, lance aimed at her chest.

“I have seen you beaten and fleeing before! The Singer of Terandria laid you low; you will not triumph here! Begone!”

Belavierr’s eyes widened as he spoke. She looked up, saw Dalimont coming. She whirled, and he missed. Cursing, Ser Dalimont turned, bringing his lance down for a second charge. The Stitch Witch stared at the Thronebearer. He had been there. Princess Seraphel, Cara—

“Who are you?”

Ser Dalimont struck home. Belavierr stared down at the lance in her chest. She reached out—snapped it. The Thronebearer swore.

“Eternal Throne—”

There was no Cara here. He saw Belavierr glance at him. Then focus on Mrsha again.

“Where are all these threads coming from? So many would die for one girl?”

“Yes.”

Dalimont rode down on her, sword drawn. Belavierr pointed.

A needle went straight through his side and out the other end, tearing through armor and flesh. Dalimont wavered. He tried to hack at her as he passed. She didn’t even stagger from the blow. He fell out of his saddle and Mrsha cried out.

“Dalimont!”

Sest saw the man fall. The Thronebearers and Wanderer were trying to get Mrsha out of the press of monsters. More kept coming. They were pouring out of the hole in the air. They hadn’t overcome the adventurer’s defenses; Belavierr was summoning them directly.

“We’ll never make the city! The inn—is it overrun?”

Ushar turned to the others. Wanderer didn’t reply; was there anywhere safe from Belavierr? The monsters were…more direct than she was, though. They were closer to killing everyone.

Rags stumbled to the entrance of the inn. Her ears were bleeding and she could barely see, let alone fight. She shouted.

“Run! Keep running, idiots!”

The [Knights] didn’t see her, only heard the shout. They turned, trying to do just that.

Flesh Worms crawled at them. Dozens. Mini-Skinners. Each one more than a match for one Thronebearer. Rags stared at them, and the [Witch].

Some things never changed. Only got worse. She bared her teeth. That was fine. They changed. She changed.

—-

A naked, gigantic worm reared up, herald of the dungeon’s evil. It reached down for Mrsha as Ser Lormel’s horse went down, screaming. He was pinned under it. Mrsha aimed her wand up at it.

[Arrow of Light]!

She spat a single arrow from her wand into one tiny little eye. The beast roared—then its head exploded.

Mrsha stared at her wand. So did Wanderer, Ushar, and Sest. Belavierr’s head slowly swung around.

“…What?”

A second Flesh Worm went down. This time—pinned. Like a worm with a needle run through it, appropriately. Mrsha saw the oversized bolt dig into the ground. Then another tapped a suit of armor and sent it sprawling, armor bowed in. She followed Belavierr’s gaze and saw a shape flash overhead.

The Frost Wyvern spat ice over the monsters as Snapjaw dropped a jar of alchemist’s fire over another monster’s face. The Wyvern flew on another strafing run, but another had dropped its cargo.

A small group of Carn Wolves led by Redscar and Thunderfur charged down the slope. The Goblin was swearing.

“Chieftain! Find the Chieftain!”

The others broke off as he charged into the fighting. Behind him, the Thunderbows fired again. The Hobs had set up on a hill and were firing the oversized bolts at range at the monsters.

Not at Belavierr; they had no idea what was happening; they’d only received her order to arrive now. Badarrow looked for Numbtongue; he was loosing arrows as fast as he could.

The monsters broke as the Flooded Waters tribe and 4th Company of Liscor’s army hit them from two sides. Zevara and Olesm had seen the fighting and turned back to help.

Countless armies, fighting, friends of the inn. It was like the movie Mrsha had used to chase away the darkness. A glorious, sad, brave story, even without the [Innkeeper].

The [Witch] lost her temper once more. She snatched a passing Drake from the saddle, one of Embria’s 4th Company, and shattered every bone in the [Soldier]’s body. She was growing. Her body grew, like the giant Mrsha had seen in her eyes.

“Enough! Little threads of coincidence and chance cannot save you. You are dead, Mrsha! Dead!”

She roared. Embria looked up at the [Witch].

“What is that?”

She had no idea, but she knew an enemy when she saw one. The Thunderbows changed their targets on Rags’ order. They fired—

The bolts snapped in midair. Eighteen good [Soldiers] ran into a wall of shadows and never came out. Belavierr pointed and Dame Ushar shouted as her armor—the threads underneath picked her up and slammed her so hard into the ground she broke half her ribs.

Niers Astoragon shouted, saving Embria from the same fate with a Skill. Yet none of his worked on one target. And Belavierr fought all of them at once.

Grimalkin slammed into her, cradling his broken arm. She raised one hand and hit him so hard he collapsed. She strode towards Mrsha, ignoring everything and everyone.

“I will take your skin and fur. I will destroy this inn, and the body of your beloved [Innkeeper] so she will never return. You shall not die, for I name you my enemy. I killed the [Lady] of fire who walked here. So perish all those who offend me.”

Mrsha didn’t run. Wanderer looked at her, pinned by his enchanted clothing and cloak. Mrsha couldn’t run. How many more would get hurt because of this…this evil, unstoppable, petty [Witch]?

Someone had to stand up to her. Mrsha raised her wand, glimmering with her little spells. The [Witch] bent down towards her.

Someone stepped forwards. He raised the smoking censer, and brandished the shield and club. He barred Belavierr’s path.

Pawn.

The [Priest] had been with Yellow Splatters, leading the charge against Hectval. Xrn had promised him she would take care of the inn. Now? Pawn blocked this strange Human’s way.

“No one will hurt Mrsha. Which kind of strange enemy are you?”

He was weary, and the simple shield and club had traces of blood on them. Pawn stood there, as Belavierr stopped. Mrsha looked up at him. Pawn, no! Don’t do it! She went to tug at him and realized—

He was standing in front of Belavierr. Everyone else had fallen down. Their clothing choking them, the very threads and dark bindings dragging them down.

The [Witch] stared at Pawn’s armor and clothing. She gestured; Pawn’s armored hood, customized for Antinium, moved slightly. He stopped it with his fourth arm.

“Strange. Is she some kind of clothing-mage?”

“Strange. You…have I ever met a thing like you?”

The two regarded each other, equally puzzled. No—Belavierr more so. Pawn just saw a giant Human with a hat, threatening to kill Mrsha.

“Begone, whoever you are. I will hurt you if you try to hurt Mrsha.”

He brandished the shield and club. They weren’t magical. He held the censer in his other two hands, and it smelled of cinnamon.

Belavierr made an incredulous sound.

“Begone, little ant. I have bested your great [Mage]. You cannot harm me.”

Pawn glanced towards where Xrn had done battle. He nodded, slowly, not ignoring the truth of that. His head rose and his mandibles clicked softly as he looked up at Belavierr.

“That may be true. But you will not harm Mrsha. I have promised.”

So saying, he advanced. Belavierr was a giant now, forty feet tall. She could have attacked Liscor’s walls themselves. Pawn seemed comically small as he strode at her leg, covered by her dress. He charged and swung his club.

“For Erin and the inn!”

He did not expect to hurt her, just slow her, to save Mrsha. Belavierr expected nothing either. Mrsha saw her reach over Pawn, ignoring him. Pawn swung his club and smacked her shin.

And Belavierr winced. Mrsha saw the involuntary reaction run across her face, then a look of astonishment. Mrsha gaped too.

That was not Belavierr acknowledging pain, or stumbling. It was not her saying ‘ow’ when her skin was on fire. It was actually…pain. She recoiled. Pawn swung his club again. Belavierr’s face twisted into one of confusion.

“Why…?”

She was normal-sized in a moment. She stared at Pawn, backing away. Then she bent and…rubbed at her shin. Pawn hesitated.

“I thought I was dead. What is this person? Some [Mage]?”

He looked at Mrsha. She just gaped at him. Belavierr frowned.

“…I cannot see your class. What—what are you?”

She eyed Pawn, disturbed. He looked at her. Then he charged.

“For the inn! Defend it once more!”

Belavierr produced a staff of dark metal and blocked Pawn’s club. Light flashed and she stumbled. She stared at the artifact she held, and then Pawn’s club. It should have exploded, and taken the Antinium with it! Yet he had matched the Stave of Nerrhavia, given to the Stitch Witch long ago, like it was a relic of the same class! She tested it on a Flesh Worm crawling away nearby and it exploded.

Pawn flinched at the rain of flesh. He eyed the staff and backed up a step. Belavierr eyed his club and pointed at it.

“How did you come by that relic?”

The Worker eyed his club.

“…I bought it for three coppers on discount from a [Blacksmith].”

The two looked at each other. Then Belavierr spun. Her eyes went wide, the replacement and immortal one.

“What is…that?”

Mrsha saw two figures advancing on her from the side. Niers, Rags—everyone lying on the ground looked up. Mrsha had seen, heard about the things Pawn could summon; he had told Lyonette about them.

But those were not Aberrations. Two glowing Workers stepped forwards, armed with simple weapons. They looked…like Pawn. Yellow Splatters, lying prone, held down by the armor suddenly twice as heavy as lead, looked up and whispered.

“Knight. Bishop?”

“Erin would make a pun. I cannot.”

Pawn looked at the two Workers. They flanked Belavierr. She spun around, lashed out with her staff.

One of the glowing Workers vanished, mid-detonation as the staff struck his chest. The other lunged. He stabbed and she cried out.

“How do these things exist? They should not be here!”

She tore it apart with a hail of needles. It worked on the Worker, but she seemed unnerved. She whirled to Pawn.

“You—stay back. [Deathlance]!”

Mrsha saw the spell shoot at Pawn and screamed. The [Priest]’s mandibles opened. The deathly spell struck the air around him and—vanished.

A wall of light blocked Belavierr’s magic. She tried again, this time with tendrils that melted as they tried to get close to him.

[Holy Barrier]. It protected Pawn. It was not invincible; it flickered as Belavierr struck it with her staff. It even went out from the third spell, overloaded.

Yet it unnerved her. The [Stitch Witch] looked at Pawn.

“What are you? What is your class? How can you—”

He struck at her and there was another flash as she parried his club. She struck—and her staff hit his shield, and was knocked aside. If she had touched him, he would surely have died. But the [Priest] fought on. He swung the censer like a makeshift flail and she recoiled from it.

Niers Astoragon saw Pawn slow, panting. The [Priest] gasped. An answer at last, as Belavierr backed up, wary of him. Yet she held the deadly staff. Pawn lifted the club, touched it.

“[Weapon of Faith].”

He looked up at Belavierr. The [Stitch Witch] stared at Pawn. Her eyes focused on him. She looked at him, the simple club, and where the two Workers had stood. The barrier of light.

Belavierr had challenged the [Garden of Sanctuary]. She had laughed at Erin. She had not acknowledged Grimalkin of Pallass.

She had only stopped when Xrn appeared, and she had bested her foe, outraged by Xrn underestimating her.

An army stood before her—multiple armies, and she had walked through them. Only Niers Astoragon had wounded her in a significant way—and only once.

Belavierr, that old legend, faced down all of Liscor and had not even contempt for them. Now? She looked at the slightly clumsy Worker, waving a club at her.

The Witch backed away. Pawn stared at her, confused. Then he saw Belavierr raise her staff. She struck the ground with it, and a wall appeared.

An old, gigantic wall. A fortress so old it seemed to bear every century on it. Yet the wall still stood.

For a second, Pawn stared at the wall, and fortress beyond. Called forth by the staff. Then—he saw Belavierr walk through the walls. The Staff of Nerrhavia swung at his face.

“Begone, mysterious thing.”

She struck with all her might. Pawn blocked the staff and his knees buckled, chitin cracking with the impact. Belavierr whirled the bottom of the staff up, to strike his chest.

Bird shot her in the back of the head. She didn’t blink. Bird stared at his bow, tossed it aside, and drew four kitchen knives.

“Bird! Be careful!”

Pawn saw Bird harrying Belavierr’s back as he retreated, shield barely turning aside the deadly blows. Belavierr was strong and the staff had reach and could kill him in a stroke—but she was more scared of his club than he was of her. She kept her distance, trying to touch him from afar.

Bird? She glanced over her shoulder and saw the Antinium. She flicked a finger—then frowned. The Antinium spread all four hands. He had knives, and he had abandoned his bow, but he was missing his normal ‘clothing’, which was just his loincloth.

“I am naked. You have no power over me. Take this! Stab, stab—is this working?”

She spun her staff horizontally. Bird ducked, slashed at her legs. He backed up slowly.

“You are not a bird. Why can I not kill you? I have never met anything I cannot kill. Hm. Hiyah.”

To Pawn and Mrsha’s horror, they saw Bird drop his knives. He jumped at Belavierr and kicked her in the shin. He punched her in the stomach, tried to go for an uppercut to her jaw, but he was too short. He stamped on her foot.

Belavierr tried to strike at him, but Bird whirled sideways. He gave her a jump-kick to her chest and Belavierr didn’t move. Bird fell onto his back and waved his arms and legs as he tried to rock back upright.

“This one does not hurt me. Why that?”

Belavierr whispered. She just thrust the staff forwards and Bird flinched.

“Uh o—”

A second time, the holy barrier blocked the staff. Belavierr recoiled. She whirled around.

“How?”

Faith didn’t have a cool down. Pawn advanced from one side, giving Bird time to roll away and get up.

“Bird, don’t let her touch you. Pick up your knives.”

“They are Erin’s knives. Give me your power, Pawn.”

“I will.”

The two Workers advanced, one from each side. And now—Belavierr saw Pawn look at Bird’s knives.

They did not glow. They did not shine. But she backed away from both, and saw more Antinium coming up the slope. They had also divested themselves of clothing; unlike the others, they cared nothing for nudity. Her eyes flickered to Pawn, to Bird, crabbing left to stab her in the ankles…and she threw her head back.

“Wretches! Do you think you can hurt me?”

Suddenly, Belavierr boomed, and grew. Pawn recoiled and Bird hopped back. Belavierr was growing again! She pointed down, a giant with eyes flashing orange and evil.

“I am the [Witch] who comes for the end of all stories! I am the last offer of age, the oldest of stories! I have toyed with you all—you now feel my wrath.”

She pointed down at Pawn as the sky turned midnight behind her, like before. Dark threads spun through the sky as everyone looked up. Mrsha stared at Belavierr. Afraid, but—was she—monologuing?

Pawn also seemed confused. He advanced, but Belavierr swung a finger down.

“You will know my ire, little thing, and I declare it on all your kind until the last of you die in your sleep of horrors I will inflict. Return to your deep nests on Rhir and stay my designs no further unless you wish my wrath. I…”

Her wrathful eyes flickered.

“…Hm. What else is normally said?”

Pawn looked up, perplexed. He wasn’t sure if this giant Belavierr boded better or worse, but he saw one of his kind move. Bird didn’t care for speeches.

“Aha! Got you!”

He stabbed with all four knives at Belavierr’s foot. And…the blades passed through her. Bird stared at the knives, and gave Pawn a look of betrayal.

“You made them worse. How could you?”

“No. No, you idiots. She’s getting away!”

A voice shouted, male and furious, invisible, as people started getting to their feet. Embria felt her armor stop pressing her down. She realized it at the same time as everyone else.

The giant Belavierr who had been announcing her wrath and enmity—wavered. Mrsha saw it vanish in a second. She gazed across the blank space, searching, knowing—

There. Belavierr lowered her hands and stopped making signs in front of the lantern she’d pulled out. She resumed walking away, blurring across the Floodplains with each step.

Pawn hesitated. He looked at the place the illusion had stood—then at the distant [Witch]. His mandibles clicked a few times.

“…Huh.”

Mrsha peeked around behind him. She saw Belavierr, but in the distance. The [Witch] wasn’t looming anymore. The staff was gone. She was already a speck across the Floodplains, and with each step, she went further.

She was—running away. Mrsha couldn’t believe it. Belavierr, who had faced down Xrn—was running?

She had not been afraid of Xrn, just wary. But this? The Stitch Witch played no games with her life. She had no idea what Pawn was. She had seen him give his power to Bird. So she ran.

Just ran away.

Everyone, the people from the inn, the army of Liscor, the Antinium—just watched her go for a second. Running away after all she’d done?

“4th Company, with me!”

Embria roared. She was in her saddle again, streaking after the figure. Dozens of people followed as well, shouting in fury. Pawn himself began to run forwards, but half-turned back.

Intuition, maybe. Belavierr was still looking back. And her eyes were still wrathful.

Mrsha stared after Belavierr—then jerked. Pawn whirled around and lurched forwards, charging towards her.

“Mrsha—”

The arrow hit him in the stomach. It had been meant for Mrsha. A snarling Gnoll, the [Hunt Leader], still alive, gasped. Belavierr’s magic, which had given him a second chance, faded. He collapsed, dead again, before Numbtongue speared him through the face.

“Pawn!”

Everyone was on their feet. Pawn reached for his stomach. He was murmuring.

“[Heal Minor Wounds]. Poisoned? Of course. Of…”

Yellow Splatters shouted for an antidote. Not this time! Not—

He saw everyone mix up around Pawn. Antinium, Drakes, Goblins—some of them baring their weapons at each other. Unsure of who was friend or foe.

“Mrsha! Mrsha—”

One of them called out. A Goblin ran forwards, to where Mrsha had been. Numbtongue.

Someone else changed paths in the crowd. A Gnoll bounded forwards, sword raised. He howled—brought the sword down on top of—

Nothing. Numbtongue ran the Doomslayer through. He looked around.

“Mrsha!”

She was gone. The Doomslayer died, howling. The Plain’s Eye warriors had failed! But—more would be sent! They would find her! Find—

Her? The others looked around. But there was no little white Gnoll. Not here. Or here…where was she?

—-

Embria broke off pursuit first. Belavierr was running, but as soon as she saw pursuers, she sent a flurry of needles through the air—then called fiery meteors out of the sky.

And that was to cover her escape. Embria aborted her pursuit instantly. It wasn’t worth it. Yet every nerve in the Drake’s body, in all of them, felt it was wrong to let Belavierr go. Not after all she’d done!

Someone else pursued the [Witch], shouting profanities.

“Get back here! You coward! I’ll hunt you down! Do you think you can just run away? Do you know who I am?”

Niers Astoragon tried to follow Belavierr. The [Strategist] was beyond angry. Apista flew with him, uncertainly. Belavierr was far too fast for them. Niers shouted obscenities at her back, infuriated. And…guilty.

He’d barely been able to touch her! All the [Strategist]’s Skills had helped fight the army, but this [Witch]? Her craft was opposed to his. An old monster.

Niers killed monsters like that. He vowed to remember this, and turned back to the inn, disgusted. Then he felt a prickle on his back.

The Fraerling turned back just in time to see the distant [Witch] stop a second. And lift a tiny hand. I remember you too.

“F—”

Niers dove. But Belavierr’s parting gift flashed through the air. The tiny little sewing needle struck him in the stomach and nailed him to the grass.

He screamed, roaring, as he grabbed it. The [Witch] turned back and continued her journey. Niers Astoragon lay there, swearing, trying to pull the needle free. He couldn’t, as Apista buzzed around him. Not until someone knelt down and plucked it out.

Niers looked up and cursed. By the time he returned to the inn—he realized Mrsha was long gone.

—-

No one saw Niers fall—well, only those who had been there. The rest was important enough.

Hectval in retreat. The [Witch] of legends on the rampage! You could write a headline with each story—but no one was going to.

They even missed the Gnollish assassins. It was understandable; to the observers, you might well focus on Belavierr alone.

Yet there was no Wistram News Network special. No commentary.

Wistram was watching, but the waxy expressions on half the Archmage’s faces meant Wistram was also close to throwing up. Naili felt—uneasy. And saw it reflected on Viltach, Verdan Blackwood’s expression.

On the other hand—Feor had focused on Xrn, and she had noticed his intense, even rapturous expression. Valeterisa? She was just fascinated.

Naili shuddered. The [Witch] who had used so many spells so casually was a nightmare to her. She tried to backtrace the other [Scrying] spells. Who else had been watching the firefight? Manus? Pallass—definitely.

Someone had to say something after a scene like that. A joke, a wry comment—something to break the paralysis. The Star Lamia swished her tail uncertainly. Then she cleared her throat.

“Uh—who said the inn and Liscor didn’t matter after the Human died? Go eat your tail. We have to do something about that place.”

Belavierr? Wistram took one look at her and decided…to let her be.

It was not a sentiment shared by all. Chaldion focused on the image of the [Witch] with his one good eye. He made a sound in his throat. That had been lurking in his city? But that was one concern of many.

He had noticed the skills of a high-level [Strategist] and he read the news. And…his claws danced urgent orders on the [Message] scroll as his quill scribbled.

Chaldion had noticed Mrsha was gone. But who was that Gnoll who had grabbed her?

—-

Wanderer strode across the Floodplains, ignoring the kicking, biting Gnoll. He was panting, clutching at his wounds. He spoke, as he covered ground almost as quickly as Belavierr, albeit differently.

Let go of me, let go! Kidnapper! Smelly, evil—

Mrsha couldn’t speak, but she made her displeasure known well enough. She squirmed so hard and kept trying to cast thorn spells that Wanderer had to slow. He panted.

“Stop struggling. They’re coming after you. You can’t stay here.”

They were still close enough to the inn—but he was already at the southern edge of the Floodplains. He looked back towards the inn. The inn, surrounded by the dead. Wanderer shook his head.

“That—[Witch]? An army of monsters and Drakes? That’s no place for a child. Madness.”

He had seen a lot of things, but the battle had thrown him. Mrsha opened her mouth to howl so Wanderer covered it quickly. Accordingly, she bit.

“Gah—stop! Enough! Didn’t you see that Gnoll? The [Witch] or not—he was coming to kill you! He was Plain’s Eye, do you understand?”

Wanderer forced Mrsha off his paw and put her on the ground. She looked back at The Wandering Inn and him. He squatted down.

He was injured. He’d taken wounds in battle—the worst of them simply the twisted fur around his neck. His eyes had a bit of red in them; Belavierr had nearly strangled him to the death with his own cloak. Wanderer coughed.

“I was trying to warn you. You have protectors.”

Mrsha nodded. She had to go back! She backed away, trying to explain—but she had no quill or paper. She pointed at the inn.

That’s my home. Don’t take me away!

She was poised to bolt, and Wanderer knew she would howl. He had only one chance, so the white Gnoll held out his paws.

“Child. Mrsha. Look at me. Look at…me.”

She looked, at the white-furred Gnoll. The mysterious traveller who had hid from even the Brothers, and whom she thought was bad…but had saved her? She hesitated. Wanderer nodded.

“I’m like you. I came here because I saw you on the scrying orb. White fur. If I saw you—they did too. You know Plain’s Eye?”

Of course she did! She was a Plains Gnoll! Mrsha nodded. Wanderer pointed back.

“They sent those Gnolls to kill you. Their best killers. Because of what they call you. And me. Doombringer. You know this, don’t you?”

Mrsha shrank. No—no—but she knew the rumors. She had known, in Liscor, that Gnolls feared her.

But those were City Gnolls. Krshia had learned. She’d be…

“They nearly got you, even with your protectors. They’ll come out of the shadows, they’ll try again. More tribes will. They will burn down a city to kill you. That inn—you have to hide. It’s the only way. Come, I know where you can hide. Where you’ll be safe. There are more of us.”

More of…? Mrsha looked at him, astonished. Even so—she backed away. Wanderer cursed.

“Girl! You’ll put them in danger!”

Mrsha looked at The Wandering Inn. That was her home, though. They loved her. Lyonette would come back and Erin…she couldn’t abandon it. She looked at Wanderer and saw how worried he looked. She didn’t believe he was lying. Even so—Mrsha thought of Pawn who promised to protect her. He was hurt because of her!

But run away? Mrsha drew in breath to howl, to call for her friends and protectors. Wanderer could have covered her mouth. He could have silenced her. Instead, he took a gamble and spoke.

“That [Witch] won’t forgive you, but even she will have trouble attacking you where we’re going. You know you might have drawn her? The attacks—you don’t know how to control your power. Not yet. You’ll put all of them in danger until you learn, and only we can teach you.”

The breath caught in Mrsha’s throat. She made a sound—looked at Wanderer. He knelt there, panting.

Liar. Mrsha stared at him. Everyone said—but it was just a myth.

Wasn’t it?

He shook his head. The Gnoll fixed her with two serious eyes.

“Why…do you think they fear you? Plain’s Eye? The other tribes? They forget—and they hate you because we are easy to blame. But there is a seed in every story, Mrsha. You don’t know the power of your fur. It can help you, the last gift of your tribe. However, so long as you don’t know it, you will endanger them all. Come with me, and I will protect you. Come; and you will be safe.”

The Gnoll waited. He saw Mrsha recoil, her face turning to shock, horror. Then—she looked back. Wanderer felt a pain in his heart. He did not want to tell her so soon. But the Doombringer looked at the other Doombringer. She did not resist as he slowly picked her up. Mrsha looked back at the inn, all the havoc and chaos.

Was it her after all? The Gnoll child wondered, hearing the terrible fear Belavierr had whispered to her.

Was it…me, Erin?

She did not have the strength to fight as Wanderer ran with her. For a moment, she was all the doom that caused misery and pain to her family, and it was better if she were gone.

But her family knelt there, searching for her, grieving and worrying. Doom? They had faced the [Witch] of legends for her. What was mere doom?

They followed soon after.

8.29

Like a great natural disaster, or powerful spell—or simply the clash of armies, the aftereffects, the fallout took far longer than the event itself. Processing that might take days, weeks…years…

If you could even piece together the full story. That was the challenge here, for all those aware of the event, even those tangentially related to the main players of the story. If you saw her from afar, that was not knowing what she was.

Belavierr the Spider. Belavierr, the Stitch Witch. Yet she had many more names. There were many titles that had been lost to time, stories in the depths of the secret libraries about her. Before you could process the impact she had made, how close Liscor had come to calamity—for all it had seen enough—you had to know her.

Which was impossible. So you didn’t know quite who had attacked, or what she’d done. Or why she’d done it.

The consequences were obvious. A child was kidnapped, an army had been beaten back, the dungeon’s threat resurfaced…there were wounds, recriminations, and it all spiraled around the inn, again. There were dead Gnolls that no one could identify, Goblins riding Wyverns, and so many dead monsters that the Adventurer’s Guild had hired every [Alchemist] in the city to help catalogue important parts before they went to rot.

That was…easy to deal with. The hard part was asking what had happened. Would it happen again? Was there any way to prevent it, make safeguards? And…where was little Mrsha? Was she in direct danger? Had a [Slavetaker] gotten her, or something darker?

Many people asked those kinds of questions. What had Belavierr wanted? What was that spell Xrn had cast? How had that single Antinium beaten her back? Would Hectval try again?

The question betrayed the goals of the individual involved, and their personality. Some—some asked no questions.

Lyonette du Marquin just screamed. Screamed, and ran for the gates, the walls, as if to run to Pallass, before they caught her. Numbtongue? He sat amid guilt and a second horror of failure—but not for long. Not this time.

Some were not able to process at all; the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings simply collected their dead. One of them tipped his hat to Ishkr as the Gnoll gestured at the four men, lying prone after the fighting had ended.

“Terrible business, sir. Happens to the best of us, though.”

“I—I—I don’t know how to thank you. I can’t. Someone should speak to you. To…they saved us all.”

Ishkr looked for someone else in authority to give the Brothers their due, but there was no one. Everyone else was busy or mourning or trying to find Mrsha, or—

The man had a tall cap and he looked as old as the Brother he was helping carry away. In…a bag of holding. He’d just bent down and the body had vanished. It seemed disrespectful, to Ishkr. Practical, yes, but for the dead?

“Don’t you worry, sir. We’re used to it. We’ll get these fellows in the right place. Among their kind. If I may say so—it was their choice. It was all volunteers and we appreciate the sentiments, but there’s little to say. We had a debt. A debt was paid. More’n paid, maybe.”

Two of the other three Brothers who had come by gave the third a significant look and he passed a finger over his mouth.

“Apologies. Not my place.”

“Are—what will happen now?”

The man looked at him as he bent over another body, inspecting the face, identifying him and writing it down, then collecting the body. He glanced up at Ishkr.

“Frankly, sir. We won’t be back. I’d like to say otherwise, but…a debt’s a debt and a man pays it in full, and adds whatever honor has him put over the top. This debt’s been squared, and the ones who called it’re gone. We’re not even Invrisil’s lot.”

He gestured to the other two. The other two men nodded, a grizzled, scarred man, and a young one.

“The Brothers of Invrisil are half gone. Reinforcements. The ones who thought we had business with the inn made their choice. But we can’t keep tallying up numbers. Thought we should break it, impolite as it is.”

“No…you’ve done more than enough.”

They had paid with their lives. Because the [Innkeeper] had died…Ishkr looked down. The Brother identified the last man. Ishkr hadn’t even seen where he’d died. He should have gone out in a blaze of glory. Instead, he had gone down in the shadows, holding the line with Numbtongue.

Crimshaw stared up at the ceiling. The Brother touched his eyes, closed them, and moved the bag of holding. Then he was gone.

—-

The dead and the living. Normen lived; he and another Brother were being treated for poison.

Along with Pawn. The [Priest] had survived the poisoned arrow, mainly because…it had happened before. This time, the inn and [Healers] were armed with broad-spectrum antidotes.

Antinium were resistant to poisons to begin with, and he’d taken a single arrow to the gut. He wasn’t able to move, though, and could only speak, lying on his back.

“Find Mrsha. I promised Lyonette. Do the Listeners have anything?”

Chaos in the Hive, though you would not know it. Antinium didn’t run around in a panic or raise their voices. They were just…aimless.

Xrn was wounded. She had retreated, and no one would breach the chambers where the Free Queen was working with Xrn’s magic and potions and her knowledge to mend the Centenium. In the gap of the Revalantor and Prognugator…

It was Tersk who eventually went to the Listeners and came back with an answer.

“South.”

“That’s all you know?”

Belgrade turned to Tersk. The Armored Prognugator opened and closed his mandibles at the brusque, even interrogatory question to a Prognugator, but he nodded.

“Yes. Half the Listeners are damaged beyond repair. They could only identify sounds, not pitch, tenor, or any other qualities. Something moving at intervals, southwards. At speed.”

“Damaged? Damaged from wh—”

Belgrade realized they must have felt the battle from Belavierr. He clicked his mandibles.

“What do we do? Go after Mrsha? For how far?”

He looked around but—Pawn had passed out again. There was no Klbkch, no Free Queen, no Xrn…the other Hives’ Prognugators were uncertain too.

—-

Uncertainty in power. Too much to do, too few resources. Here were the facts, as Drassi, one of Liscor’s most famous and esteemed individuals liked to say.

Drassi. That loudmouthed [Gossip] who’d been fired from her last four jobs in a row for talking too much when she’d been working?

Now a city-heroine, the kind you had on a shortlist. Famous; a name known around the world, who gave the city prestige, negotiating power at many tables. Who would have guessed?

Well, the former [Shopkeeper] on Market Street, the most generic street name in any city, supposed it was the same thing that had happened to him. Lism Swifttail, [Councilmember] and one of the few officials who could process this—this attack—thought about what he could do.

“Nothing.”

He struck the table. Jeiss and Alonna looked at him. Tismel, Zalaiss, and Elirr, the other Councilmembers present during the Meeting of Tribes, all looked up.

“Nothing? We have to rescue her!”

Elirr shot to his feet; his fur was practically falling out from horror. Lism corrected his words.

“I mean, Councilm—damn it, Elirr. What are we going to do? Send the Watch? Send a [Tracker]? How large a force? We are at war. Hectval just attacked us!”

“We can’t ignore that. But we can’t ignore Mrsha. Or the fact that this—this [Witch], Belavierr—nearly conjured something that might have caused untold devastation!”

Alonna snapped back at Lism’s perceived apathy. The [Shopkeeper] fixed her with an eye.

“Oh yes, Alonna? And let’s say we form a taskforce. Are we sending all of 4th Company? They took nearly a sixth of their number in casualties from one clash with her! All of the Watch? Could, if they even found her, and caught up, all of the Watch even scratch that—that thing? Olesm? Zevara?”

The two Drakes looked at each other. Zevara shook her head at the same time at Olesm.

“Not a chance.”

“She can’t just get away with this, Watch Captain!”

Jeiss rose to his feet, outraged. Lism snapped back.

“Oh yes she can, Councilmember Jeiss!”

Jeiss was astonished. The [Swordsman] looked at Lism.

“You want to let her go? And Mrsha?”

Lism was shaking. He stood up to pace and his tail struck the chairs, it was lashing so hard.

“Absolutely. Do you think I’m happy about it? But I just read the reports our [Librarian] dug up—Belavierr. Full power unknown. The kind of [Witch] who can raise the dead and apparently fight Xrn, Grimalkin, and three damn armies without being hurt! She’s the kind of thing that passes by a city, causes chaos, and they let her go. Maybe even Pallass. Do you know why? Because that is why.”

He pointed out the window. At the smoke still rising from the pyres outside the inn. The other Councilmembers looked out the window. Lism sat down. He couldn’t control his voice. It was shaking with fury.

“We let her go because if we make her an enemy, we vanish off the map. Hectval? Damn Hectval! I want Hectval torn stone from stone and their Council in chains! Belavierr?”

He shook his head. The Councilmembers looked at him, some shocked, but he was glad to see Tismel and Zalaiss nodding fervently. Their usual cowardice? It suited him just fine. He wanted all the Council on this page. They didn’t touch Belavierr. Lism would never forget.

“What about Mrsha?”

Elirr stared at Lism. The Drake managed a grimace, not a smile.

“Not the same, Elirr. A citizen of Liscor was kidnapped.”

“And you want to do nothing?”

For answer, the purple-scaled Drake leaned on the table. He looked at Elirr, not unsympathetically. He didn’t like the troublemaking little Gnoll, who made rude gestures at him whenever she saw him. But she was a child. Still—his objections there weren’t the same at all.

“I’d throw whatever we could at finding her—and identifying that Gnoll, Councilmember Elirr. I’m willing to entertain whatever suggestions the Watch Captain and Strategist Olesm have to locating and rescuing her. However. Do you really think we’ll be helpful compared to who’s going after her?”

The Councilmembers hesitated. They eyed the window, where a Wyvern was already taking off; and two more had already flown south. Wyverns, and multiple Gold-rank teams who had heard about the beloved child’s disappearance.

“So we do nothing. Just like you said.”

Alonna looked like she was eating grain mixed with rat feces. Lism already had a plateful, but he nodded.

“We focus on where we can make a difference. I know an impossible sale when I see it, Alonna. What can we make sure never happens again?”

He stabbed a map, and a list of troop details, battle plans. The others looked at him. Lism stabbed the table until he chipped the tip of his pointing claw.

“Hectval. Hectval. Hect. Val.”

—-

It was a strange day, the day that Thronebearers of Calanfer stared at a tribe of Wyvern-riding Goblins, Antinium, and a pile of dead monsters and decided they had more important things to do.

It was a dead-split between them. Lormel and Ushar wanted to go after Mrsha. It was Sest and, strangely, the wounded Dalimont, face white as a sheet, who wanted to find Princess Lyonette.

“Ser Dalimont, Ser Sest—if we were not fellow [Knights] sworn to brotherhood and cooperation, I would use language unbefitting of the lowest bar!”

Lormel shouted, face purpling; his armor was still battered and bloodstained. Dalimont answered, coughing.

“We are one of a number hunting for the girl, Lormel. We are not trackers. The [Princess] is alone in a city under siege. More importantly—she may know how best to find her. We do not know where one is—the other? We stand to lose both, so we find the [Princess] first. So we are charged. Only the throne can countermand our quest. Or…a [Princess].”

Lormel and Ushar considered that. Lormel paced back and forth, but there was no time to waste. They were just one of a number of groups that set out. Dalimont, barely able to stay in his saddle, looked at the other bands flowing mostly south.

They were all leaving the inn.

—-

The immediate concern of those on the ground was to go after Mrsha. To secure the area, or tell the others what had happened. Word spread, as it did, with some people learning of the event far too late.

Others had seen it live, albeit not broadcast via Wistram News Network. That was a good thing. No one needed to grow Belavierr’s dark legend. Besides—the sight of this kind of thing was destabilizing.

Most importantly, though, knowledge of the strange Skills used by Pawn should remain secret. Perhaps even the fact that those Gnolls had failed to kill Mrsha.

There were a lot of things to process here, and Chaldion began with reports of who was leaving the inn, individuals seen together, and of course, damage reports. He had people marking any number of valuable targets.

“Pawn, though.”

He eyed the pawn on the chessboard he’d fetched out. The symbolism didn’t escape him—but of course he knew Erin’s story of how she’d met Pawn. A Worker who befriended an [Innkeeper]—or the other way around.

“Strategist?”

Chaldion looked up. He was having his signature drink, the Chaldion’s Eye, and the sour had just entered the alcohol. It dulled his mind—but anyone could use a drink after what he’d just seen. Besides, this was aftermath. He nodded at his guests.

General Duln of 1st Army, General Shirka of 3rd Army, the newly appointed female Drake, youngest of all of them, and [Stormline Strategist] Esor Ventail were his guests in his private abode. Not including the personal [Caretaker] he now had to keep around.

The [Grand Strategist] grunted irritably at the thought of the annoying…helpful…considerate…Gnoll [Caretaker] who made living easier but somehow infringed on dignity. His three guests had all been served by her, and they were a carefully cultivated group.

Duln—you needed Duln on your side. Duln was always on Chaldion’s side; he had to be, or the commander of 1st Army and Pallass’ overall forces aside from Chaldion would be an obstacle. Chaldion didn’t need that kind of obstacle. Yes, Duln seldom left the city, but he had earned his rank and his forces went to all the other armies. Clout, a solid head, and loyalty; Chaldion had helped him get his position.

Shirka was new, but she was occupying Thrissiam’s old position. Chaldion needed a [General] who could take to the field and know extracurricular details. With the other armies abroad, she was a suitable candidate.

Of course, 4th Army and Edellein were here, but the older Blackwing was not Thrissiam, for all Edellein was Thrissiam’s uncle.

As for Esor? The Garuda was a ‘younger’ [Strategist]. In his forties, in other words. Sharp. He was being groomed as Chaldion’s replacement. The Assembly didn’t like him because he was a Garuda and Duln was a Dullahan. As if the two would form a coup and turn Pallass into Chandrar.

Chaldion snorted. He took another light sip.

“Esor. Pawn. Bump him up another ranking for the Eyes.”

The Eyes of Pallass. Their agents, some of whom were on the ground now, casting [Appraisal] spells for all they were worth. Esor consulted his list.

“That would place the Antinium Worker known as Pawn at…Galadz-threat, Grand Strategist.”

Shirka’s eyebrows rose. Chaldion gestured; he had one of Saliss’ cigars in his claw, another vice, which he was partaking of now because his nosy [Caretaker] couldn’t object in such company.

“Internal references, [General].”

He saw Esor duck his feathered head with brown running to red and orange as Duln took another serving of ssarish, the sliced meats. As if Chaldion hadn’t told him to accidentally use the phrase.

Shirka’s eyes brightened up. She was a [General], but Pallass’ Eyes were another division, and they liked to guard their secrets. Chaldion, of course, was in control of everything.

“Code?”

He shook his head, coughing slightly as he took another drag on the cigar. Interestingly, his head cleared. Saliss made some cigars to sharpen your cognition, and Chaldion liked those.

“A good guess. Each one refers to an incident, historically speaking. Known events or individuals. We don’t do a numbered system, but references. It’s a complicated chart; I’ll send you a copy.”

She nodded appreciatively, sitting straight, eyes on him. She was honored to be here, and she was an admirer of Saliss, who she regarded as a true hero from their past meetings. There were far worse candidates to be a [General] of Pallass.

In fact…all the worse candidates had not gotten to her position. Because Chaldion had picked Shirka. Or rather, he’d given her the same tests he gave a wide pool of hopefuls, and she passed.

Neat, orderly, and efficient. Chaldion had watched her career. He watched Liscor through the scrying spell. There was a reason they called him the Cyclops of Pallass. One eye he might have, but under him, Pallass had organization, competent leadership, and intelligence that didn’t fight with the military for seniority.

If I die, what will happen? Pallass had lived through poorer commanders than Chaldion, times when the Assembly was in charge, and times where the military ruled all. Chaldion wanted an heir; Esor would only be a fine [Strategist]. And his only heir was…Saliss.

Saliss, who bought Chaldion two more years. The Drake closed his eye. Something, he supposed. More than something. He wondered if the decade Saliss had bought was literally the decade he’d used up. He spoke, as much to keep his mind from wandering as anything. And it did wander far too much sometimes…

“Galadz, Esor. Right below Xrn and the other two Centenium. I am convinced there is something there worth more than the Grand Queen and all the other Queens’ plans.”

“A Worker has more effect on the Hives than a Queen?”

Duln murmured politely. Chaldion’s good eye turned towards him and his ruby one flashed.

“…Could one of the Queens make Belavierr retreat, Duln? Could you?”

Could I? The dinner party fell silent. Chaldion coughed again.

“The fact remains. Pawn is without an obvious class that could do that. Yet he uses Skills—also unknown.”

“Prime target for the Eyes to pluck. We don’t need that kind of variable in the Third Incursion War.”

Esor murmured. He glanced at Pawn uneasily. Chaldion made a slashing gesture with his claws.

“Knock some sense into your head—and anyone in the Eyes who thinks that. The instant one of them dies, the Free Antinium are hostile. More importantly? We don’t know what he does or how he got that class. What benefits Pallass in the long run is not another dead Antinium, but knowledge.”

The Garuda ducked his head. Chaldion eyed him, sucked on the cigar, and spat a cloud of shimmering yellow out.

“Stop thinking only in terms of war, Esor. Stop thinking a year in advance. Think of Pallass’ future. That’s why…well. You owe me a lunch at Tails and Scales, Duln. I’ll collect when they reopen, and that’s a silver lining at least.”

Duln nodded. Chaldion saw Esor focus on the scrying orb.

“The Titan of Baleros is at Liscor. Confirmed.”

“He could have been watching…”

Shirka ventured. Chaldion grinned.

“The Titan, watching from afar? I’ll bet he was somewhere unseen.”

“So we’re not reporting him to the Iron Vanguard.”

Duln looked at Chaldion for confirmation. He had no ties to the Dullahan company, but, well, a species was a species, even for a Dullahan born and raised in Pallass, Chaldion supposed. The Grand Strategist shook his head.

“The value is low. I’m entertaining keeping it secret—and calling in the favor of keeping it secret by putting a birdsong in the Forgotten Wing Company’s ear. Perhaps not. We’ll let it ride.”

“And not collect on the favor? That is to say, Grand Strategist, if the favor is not logged even in that small way, how will the Forgotten Wing company know they have one?”

Esor was struggling to keep up; he had just been attached to Shirka’s command, and was still in ‘combat-thinking’. Narrow, immediate…useful, but this kind of political strategy was new to him. Chaldion eyed him, amused.

“Why, because Niers Astoragon will go about his business—whatever it might be—and not have Pallass interfere. He’ll remember it and consider it a debt. A minor one, perhaps.”

“Pallass doesn’t interfere and that’s the debt…?”

Shirka, Duln, and Esor glanced at each other. Chaldion sighed.

“He knows I can tell he’s there. He knows that I know. If he asks for something, that’s different. The Titan’s not worth much to us here, and his company is infinitely preferable as an ally in Baleros. Tell the Eyes not to look for him.”

Look at how they stared at him. Learning, admiring, appraising…Chaldion felt old. It was like he and Niers spoke the same language that Esor was fumbling over. Why would Chaldion hunt Niers down, or make an enemy of the Titan—risky as it was to try to capture him—for little gain?

Focus on what mattered. Chaldion spoke around the cigar.

“Belavierr. In my city. I didn’t even detect her, with all my Skills. That’s the Witch of Webs, for you.”

The others nodded, uneasily. Chaldion looked at the scrying orb. The thing was…even Pallass would suffer the Witch of Webs’ designs, retaliate, drive her off—but even Pallass had trouble bringing her low. She was harder to defeat than an army. Better at running away than even a top-class [Rogue]. And her wrath when roused? He shook his head.

“Belavierr…I’ll think about what to do about Belavierr. She’s destroyed the inn. If the Brothers are pulling out—”

“The Goblins are on the move. Leaving the inn.”

“Mhm. No location on their base?”

“We haven’t been able to scry the location, even from Captain Bevussa’s descriptions, sir.”

“Well. Investigate. Magic only. I want someone monitoring their flight paths. The Brothers are gone, the inn’s in ruins. The Antinium are in chaos…”

Chaldion sighed.

“It’s time. Have Magus Grimalkin meet me at his convenience—but don’t let him leave the city. Make sure he recovers. It’s time. General Shirka? Duln?”

The two [Generals] looked at Chaldion. The Grand Strategist sat back, and blew another cloud of undirected smoke up, wishing he knew how the hell Saliss had once managed to create a dancing Drake. They all waited on his words, and he weighed them, trying to know if they were right.

He thought they were. They didn’t make him happy—but he spoke them anyways. Erin was dead, and after this?

“Shirka, Duln. Put together some of your best. Ones you can do without—combat leave. A little vacation with little work unless they actually have to fight…maybe a bonus? Volunteers, even. I want a rotation of sixty, all hours. Esor, offer them to Liscor, to secure the inn and watch for Belavierr.”

It was the kind of thing that made sense. The two [Generals] agreed instantly. Duln tapped his fingers together.

“Persuading Liscor might be important. They can…patrol the Floodplains?”

“After Belavierr, I don’t think it will be hard. Offer some of our [Sappers] or [Engineers] for that damn hole they have in the ground; even repairs for the inn. More fortifications? Don’t drop gold on it, and let the Antinium do what they want.”

“Yes, Grand Strategist.”

Chaldion nodded. He stared up at the ceiling and the smoke, beginning to disperse.

“…I want one of our best [Negotiators]. Not a [Diplomat]. No overt charm Skills. Someone who’s actually likable, not who can force a deal. Put them on Troy, Joseph. Extend an offer to Imani and Palt. Find them housing—get them into the city by nightfall. The inn’s in ruins anyways.”

Esor inhaled slightly. Shirka sat forwards, and Duln refastened his head.

“It’s time?”

Chaldion nodded.

“It’s time. The inn’s no longer safe. It’s proven that. Get me Kevin. Damn, I keep forgetting how many there are. No Rose…it’s time.”

He took another long sip of his drink. If Erin were here—it would be different. But she wasn’t, and this was the umpteenth time the inn had been attacked. It was time. The Cyclops moved. Because what he saw was what would come next.

“Esor, I want you to make them welcome. No questions. No prodding—genuinely get them settled in and make sure they’re happy. Questions can come later. I changed my mind. Get me Grimalkin, unless he’s too wounded to meet with me. Now.”

—-

She wanted to know what spells Belavierr had used. Exactly what the [Witch] had been trying to summon. How Xrn had used her spells—the nature of the Antinium’s ability to deflect a known Relic-class weapon.

All they wanted to talk about was politics. The woman chewed her lip, thoughts spiraling, going in tangents, running together.

“We simply must insist on it, I think. Go through the Scriptels. It’s a shame du Valeross is not part of your faction, Naili. An offer to recall her if…?”

“No.”

The silky, dangerous tone came from the Star Lamia. The woman glanced at her. Dangerous. Extraordinarily tight enchanting-work; little magical leakage. She was hard to get to share notes, however. Too flighty.

Viltach nodded. He was too focused on economics. Which…mattered, but he kept talking about politics. Too much; he was leading this discussion.

“They should all come to Wistram, preferably. I know there is an—agreement—but this proves even the Spider is aware of them. Why else would she assault the inn? Can you imagine what she would do if…? Do any of you know one of the Tricksters?”

Tricksters? A fragment of Valeterisa’s mind spun away and returned with the common slang used to refer to the Ullsinoi faction. List of members…exactly 2 confirmed, 31 unconfirmed or suspected duplicates, 8 [Mages] who were confirmed not to be part of their faction—

“Valeterisa, Valeterisa?”

The Archmage of Izril focused again.

“Hm? What, Feor?”

The half-Elf gave her a pained smile that they all assumed she ignored. Verdan Blackwood, the other Archmage, cleared his throat. The Archmage of Dullahans looked at her, wearing his ‘mage armor’.

“We are asking if you will intercede with Grand Magus Eldavin. We are aware of his—desires—regarding the inn, but this is clearly an exceptional event. I am sure he is aware of the incident…”

By now, the Terras faction led by Eldavin and Valeterisa was a wave within Wistram. It went without saying that Eldavin would know. Valeterisa’s mind hesitated.

[Minor thought // amusement, calculation // conversation possibilities, personal interest] — Odds of Eldavin being aware? Strange.

[Introspective thought // self-analysis // logical loop] – Query: why strange?

[Major thought diverted // apprehension, analysis // take it seriously, wider diffusion] – Until today, I would have given it…

[Minor thought // calculation // guesswork] – 89%

…Likelihood that Eldavin was aware of this. Today?

[Minor thought // calculation // guesswork, sadness?] – 62%

Strange indeed. Valeterisa’s thoughts were not all in one place. In fact, she had learned to sort them. Some thoughts, like her questioning herself, were tasked to do that. Constantly question her assumptions. Others fulfilled conversation topics; she felt her mouth move in response.

“I will inquire with him, Archmage Blackwood.”

…And thus required less intellect than others. She could ‘divert’ more thoughts to a task as necessary. This was just one level of her racing mind; another was figuring out what she wanted to eat, working on a spell, cataloging and sorting valuable memories and obliterating useless things, and so on.

She had nearly been trapped in her head, once. Ryoka had saved her from this, but Valeterisa would never go without her Skill of [Parallel Thinking]. It was too valuable.

The Archmage of Izril thought her peers could have used that Skill; they were too focused on the inn, acquiring other ‘Earthers’ at the expense of looking into the Antinium and Belavierr. She vouchsafed this, and Feor hastened to assure her the opposite was true.

“I am hardly unaware of the implications of all of the battle, Valeterisa. A [Thaumaturge]. A creator of spells, and one of the Antinium?”

“What will be done about Belavierr? A monster like that on the loose? We should inform the Walled Cities, even if Pallass is aware.”

Viltach licked his lips. Valeterisa searched for all the information she could on Belavierr, and it was precious little. Naili frowned.

“When there’s a Hydra in the swamps and you’re carrying a bucket of gold, you don’t go after the Hydra. Earth matters more, is what I’m saying.”

“If she’s aware of Earth…”

“Then we’re in a race with her. I’d rather not send [Mages] after her; you saw how well Montressa’s Shock Orb did. It was like spitting into a tidal wave. No thanks.”

Valeterisa looked around. She tapped the table hard. No one was listening. She tilted her head, and came to a logical solution. She slapped the table so hard all four Archmages jumped.

Ow. I regret that.

Valeterisa stared at her stinging palm, and dismissed the pain—although she filed a note not to do that again. Attention gained, she looked around.

“You have misunderstood my point, Archmages. I did not suggest merely interdicting Belavierr or countering her agenda in regards to securing Earthers. What I meant was…why are we not attempting to make contact with her to negotiate for her knowledge?”

All four Archmages stared at Valeterisa. The woman stood up, unable to hold in her excitement.

“She demonstrated a superior knowledge of magecraft! To have such an experienced individual who predates Cognita and even Zelkyr many times over…regardless of the risk, and her divergent class, what we could learn is—”

She turned, eyes shining with the only desire of her life. Magic, and magic alone. Not politics or power. Oh, her fellow Archmages all wanted that.

Naili was ambitious and young. She wanted to be the greatest of Archmages.

Viltach wanted to be beloved among Terandria, a peer of royalty.

Verdan was too old. He…feared death and coveted ways to extend his legacy, and did not seek conflict with his position.

Feor? He was closest to her. He wanted magic—but he conflated it with respect, his faction.

Yet they all wanted magic. Just…she looked at their faces and hers fell. They gave her the same, disturbed look she had seen all her life.

“Belavierr is…not to be trusted, Valeterisa. You have read all the accounts of her deals, I am sure. They favor her to an extreme.”

“Yet if we could unlock spells and theories of old, Viltach. What would you not do to further magic itself?”

They looked at her, and Valeterisa saw it in their eyes. She opened her mouth and—

[Major thought // priority, regret, socialization // do not say it].

She closed her mouth. Yet what was stifled on her tongue was simply a question.

Would you not die for magic? Would you not dive into the heart of it, even if it meant your end? To see the truth?

They would not. So she sat back down, and stared longingly at the only other spellcaster who had leapt, like Valeterisa, into the very center of what she loved.

Magic alone. She had thought Grand Magus Eldavin understood.

He had, Valeterisa believed. Yet somehow, suddenly, practically overnight—

He had changed.

—-

Grand Magus Eldavin—well, why call him that? Already, some [Mages] were whispering he was the 6th Archmage of Wistram.

Nailihuaile, Verdan, Valeterisa, Feor, and Viltach—not including the last Archmage or the mysteriously absent Amerys that no one talked about—who could match Eldavin in magic?

They told stories to the newcomers about his battle on the first night with every Archmage where he’d held his own against half of Wistram. To hear his admirers tell it, Eldavin had spanked the Council of Mages and the Archmages with one hand while writing poetry and forgotten spells with the other for the [Mages] to catch up on.

The truth was obviously more complex, but the reason for all the adoration of Eldavin was that where many failed to produce the cake, and only provided the aroma, the Grand Magus was capable of producing the cake, the cutlery, and having both dance about on two legs. He knew old magic. His methods? They worked.

Not ‘hey, this is another type of spellcasting or magical practice’, but ‘this is superior to what we do.’ His students in his classes were showing exceptional magical growth. Leveling—oh, the leveling.

From his most advanced group, complaints had come in about screaming [Mages] breaking bones from jumping into the water. Over forty three broken bones in the first month. Torn sinew, even someone nearly losing an eye due to a wand hitting it from a fellow student mid-flight…

However, said injuries had also produced countless levels, and there were no less than three new [Aeromancers], graduated from the [Elementalist] class. Similarly, the students in Eldavin’s mana-intensities classes were rapidly expanding their mana reserves beyond what Wistram would have expected of them. Eldavin was literally increasing their potential as [Mages] beyond what they might have hoped for.

And that was only his fundamental classes. It had seemed, until recently, that Eldavin would refuse to do more than teach history and fundamental spellcasting. Valeterisa walked up, to his private quarters now at one of the highest points of accessible Wistram. He had one of the grand suites, which used to be reserved for visiting royalty—now, the most influential [Mages] fought for them.

Eldavin had been standoffish, despite his heavy involvement with Wistram’s politics. He took no direct apprentices; his classes were open to all, and he taught no actual spells, except to Valeterisa, as a kind of payment for her help. That had been, oh…three weeks ago.

Then something had happened. Eldavin had been—wounded. During a failed experiment, he claimed. Troy Atlas had been involved, and neither had said more than that. Yet when Valeterisa catalogued Eldavin’s behavior, there was a split in his actions after that day. There were a number of factors that had suddenly changed—

1. Him taking Troy Atlas and a few [Mages], students and older ones, as apprentices.

2. Eldavin informing Valeterisa they lacked authority, him changing his stance on Wistram’s involvement worldwide.

3. The Grand Magus passing out improved versions of spells to [Mages] in his faction—and his faction alone—bolstering the already high recruitment.

4. The half-Elf seeking to forge connections with [Merchants] and other historical donors—and new ones—to Wistram’s factions…

Valeterisa cut off her numbering system. She could have accepted most of that. She had even appreciated his willingness to talk actual magical theorems. But the last part—that had made her question him. And it was this. She knocked on Eldavin’s door.

“Grand Magus Eldavin. I would like to speak with you urgently.”

She opened the door without waiting for a response. She had found that saved time, despite people objecting to the ‘invasion of privacy’.

Valeterisa looked up and met Eldavin’s gaze. The half-Elf was lying in his bed, having guarded his privacy with a magical, floating cloud that obstructed vision. Nevertheless, she noticed the other half-Elf, Teura, duck under the cloud. The lack of clothing was apparent. Valeterisa saw Eldavin raise a brow.

“Yes, Archmagus?”

—-

Eldavin supposed it was Valeterisa’s way. Perhaps a power play, to keep walking in on him when he was—indisposed? The woman just didn’t perceive the rudeness.

There was something to admire there, actually. Eldavin certainly didn’t recoil in shame. There was nothing to be ashamed of, so he threw on a robe and dismissed the cloud illusion.

“Apologies, I should lock the door, Archmage. What’s this about an emergency? My dear, it seems Wistram’s ‘duty’ calls.”

He smiled at the half-Elf, who nodded to Valeterisa. The Archmage of Izril glanced at Teura, cataloguing her, Eldavin was sure, along with the other people she’d observed.

It didn’t matter. She was an ally, and it struck Eldavin that Valeterisa would not betray an alliance she’d made unless it ceased to become beneficial. She was a logical creature, unlike most Humans. So he bore her small interruptions well.

“What new calamity has Wistram uncovered? Has the King of Destruction healed himself? Is Ailendamus attacking another nation?”

He guessed; he genuinely didn’t know. Of course, Eldavin had his sources, but he had been—indisposed—more often than not some nights. Valeterisa turned as they entered into a more sociable sitting room; she had strode right into his personal bedchambers.

“So you do not know. The other Archmages believe you have permanent scrying spells or superior observation enchantments in place.”

“A reputation does that for you. Almost as dangerous to overestimate your opponents as underestimate.”

Eldavin waved a hand, sitting, and keeping his face composed. The half-Elf was in phenomenal shape, thanks to basic physical conditioning magic. He felt wonderful, and as he had once observed to Magus Grimalkin, there was no reason why a [Mage] should not have…everything.

He saw Teura hesitate at the bedchamber door, glancing at him. Eldavin made a little sign; this was a personal discussion. He’d catch her up later, perhaps hear what Feor had to say. Valeterisa’s eyes were locked on him.

“So you do not have observation spells superior to [Scrying]?”

“Ah, well.”

Eldavin just smiled. Of course he did. Wistram had forgotten more than he knew, and the school of physical combat magics was just one area. Divination—of course, yes.

Still, he wasn’t some omnipotent being. So Eldavin listened, and half-shot out of his chair.

“An attack on the inn?”

He remembered The Wandering Inn! The Grand Magus accepted Valeterisa’s copy of the battle, inscribed into a spell crystal, and watched it on fast-forward. He sank into his seat, slowly.

“Who is that [Witch]! That’s—she’s using a ritual summoning spell. I have no idea what that thing is—”

“You don’t?”

Valeterisa was eager; she leaned forwards like a schoolgirl. Eldavin glanced at her.

“It’s not a failing; there are any number of such things you could summon. But the scope! The scale! Did you see that? Grimalkin tried [Greater Dispel] on one of the cardinal links and it barely flickered. If that thing had come out, it might have leveled…all of Liscor. I can’t imagine it would stop after getting past the walls. Trees and Treants, that spell! That’s a [Thaumaturge]!”

He spotted Xrn. But his attention was all on Belavierr. Eldavin watched the rest of the battle, frowning mightily. He had a number of thoughts. But his priority after all was said and done was not for Mrsha, or the inn, but the [Witch].

“Who was that?”

Valeterisa paused. Her grey eyes, shot with what looked like jagged purple thunder—the first uncontrolled manifestations of magical alteration to her eyes from the sheer magical power in her body—focused on Eldavin, quizzically.

“You—don’t know who that is? Belavierr the Stitch Witch? Is this some kind of humorous pun or jest, Grand Magus?”

The half-Elf shook his head.

“I don’t care to waste time any more than you do, Valeterisa. Who? She was using a Naq-Alrama needle. Nothing else has that kind of piercing capability. We just saw—those fools. They were striking at a dimensional-protection enchantment. The sword, half those attacks that got through her [Spellguard] enchantment on the dress? They went into a pocket dimension. Like punching air.”

He could follow most of her spellcasting with ease, which made the lack of this powerful [Witch]’s identity all the more troubling. Valeterisa nibbled at a fingernail.

“Perhaps you know her by another name? The Spider of Terandria? The Witch of Webs? She is an infamous figure; most would recall her name. She is alive, unlike the famous [Mages] of old, or those whose works exist.”

Eldavin’s brows creased. He searched his mind and came up with…nothing. A disconcerting nothing, so profound he realized it was tied into the gaps in his memory.

“Nothing.”

“Intriguing. Do you know other recent [Mages] of old? Archmage Doorsa? Valmira—of the recent spell? Shoko, the Warlord-Magus? Warmage Thresk…?”

She named a number of influential figures, living and dead, whose works had endured. Centuries to decades to millennia. Eldavin’s look of blank incomprehension continued.

“Perhaps it’s a gap in my memory. I’ve—no, let’s put that aside.”

He rose, as much to hide the disconcerting effect the absence of any memory had had on him as to focus on the real issue at hand. The truth was, Eldavin didn’t want Valeterisa to know that he’d…lost…something after the near-death experience at Cognita’s hands.

That damned Golem. That ungrateful—he still remembered it. Eldavin had been going to free her, and then she’d resisted his spell! They’d fought, and he’d taken serious wounds.

Troy, that brave lad, had saved him. Eldavin had been wounded for four days. Cognita? No one had seen her, and the idiots didn’t think to worry when she vanished.

Well, Eldavin would offer her no more mercies. In a way, he was grateful to her. She’d woken him up. He’d had a good think while he lay, convalescing of his wounds, and he couldn’t understand what had gotten over him.

Senility. The half-Elf could recall more recent memories easier. Longer-term ones, like Belavierr’s name and anything about her? Gone. He worried about that and had been looking into memory spells—all the ones he’d cast and had turned up nothing. Perhaps the Truestone Golem had damaged him with an ability unknown.

Well, he’d live. He was living. Eldavin whirled.

“Witch of Webs and old legend or not, that inn is under our protection. A poor showing by those three [Mages]! What do the Archmages want to do?”

“Put the Earthers into our care. They were wary of your injunction, however.”

The half-Elf frowned. Grand Magus Eldavin poured himself a drink, then telekinetically whisked one to Valeterisa. She sniffed at the wine, and refused it.

“Water is satisfactory for my health and hydration.”

“Your choice. As for the Archmages…I don’t see why not.”

The Archmage of Izril eyed Eldavin, stopping in sipping from some purified water.

“You do not? You had been most strident on the issue of Ryoka Griffin and the inn before now.”

“Ye-es.”

Eldavin drew the word out as he sat back down. He glanced around the rather spartan living room; he’d have to get more decorations in. All of what he had were gifts right now. A rather lovely tapestry he’d accepted from Viltach with some Dragons casting fire down on a city—he didn’t know why he’d taken to it. A mage-window that reflected the air over a rather lovely Terandrian city from Feor, and so on.

“I don’t know why I thought that, Valeterisa. I was quite content to let Miss Griffin—a Runner who has impressed me now and then—race about. In light of recent events? I reconsider. Let’s pull them over to Wistram if they can’t be safeguarded. And that inn is not safe.”

Eldavin recalled the inn. Of course, he recalled Ryoka too. He remembered her reaching his cave, him dismissing her, messing with her memories—ah, the tricks one got up to! And him putting a [Geas] spell on her to deliver…well wishes…to Az’kerash?

For a birthday? Eldavin frowned. Yes, he recalled that. The half-Elf recalled…

He looked down at the dying Runner, mildly shocked at the blood. [Restoration]. There was only that spell first—he began casting it.

The Dragon spread his wings slightly and his forked tongue flicked out—

The half-Elf spread his arms slightly and pointed his wand—

And then of course, he’d gotten to know her more. That impudent, yet charming young woman who made acquaintances of the Frost Faeries. A brave girl…

Eldavin couldn’t understand some of the choices he’d made. Sending a birthday’s greeting to Az’kerash for his two hundredth? The [Necromancer] had shown just how honorable he was by going after Ryoka. No—Eldavin should have left well enough alone and supported Magnolia. Another brave girl.

Brave, and entirely right all those times she’d urged him to leave his cave—no, his laboratory to take a more active role in the world. He’d make it up to her. Eldavin was making up for lost time.

What he didn’t understand was why he’d left The Wandering Inn well enough alone. He recalled how much he’d admired that [Innkeeper] who’d died, mourned her, even. Erin Solstice.

Why? Because she’d bested him in a chess game? That no longer seemed—significant—as before. Eldavin shook his head.

“No objections, but let’s phrase this as the Terras faction agreeing to work together, Valeterisa.”

She nodded; she was a savvy expert in Wistram politics, for all her love of scholarly magic. That was why Eldavin had chosen her of all the Archmages to put his might behind. Plus, she was new to Wistram, another returning [Mage] with no true faction, like him. He rubbed his hands together.

“As for Belavierr? You don’t tackle someone like that without preparations. We’ll monitor her; I’ll look for improved spells on locating her. But let’s leave the Walled Cities to deal with her; there’s always favor to be curried among the Drakes. The Meeting of the Tribes is going on—damn. A shame Wistram can’t send an envoy over, but we’re at odds with them, aren’t we? I don’t understand where this idiocy around ‘Gnolls can’t be [Mages]’ is coming from.”

“It began when I was a student, I believe.”

“Hmm. Well, in that case—if you want to take the Archmages and this inn business—we’ll grab any of them who return, and one is already coming this way—I’ll scribe some more spells down.”

Valeterisa paid attention to that.

“Any ones I am unfamiliar with?”

Eldavin gave her an apologetic smile.

“None. Basic spells, Valeterisa. Well—I say basic, but no one knows how to summon elementals as familiars. Let alone form pacts! Not a single young student walking around with a Waisrabbit under their hat. The benefits—we’ll ‘leak’ it to our people later. I’ll copy over the advanced theorems to you…later this week.”

She nodded, disappointed, but Eldavin was feeding her spells slowly. She was brilliant, but give her everything and her investment in the Terras faction was limited. And Valeterisa had given him practically everything he’d asked for. All her lists of connections, all her secrets, everything for magic.

Well, he’d repay her. Eldavin stroked his beard. The Archmage of Izril bade him farewell, giving him another of her owlish looks. He glanced to the side when she was gone.

“Ah, you were here too?”

“I just came in. Reporting, Grand Magus.”

“Excellent. Then—shall we discuss matters over wine?”

The shy [Bard] ducked her head, but Eldavin ushered one of his apprentices in. Of course, it was a mix between individuals like Teura who had sought him out, throwing her old faction aside, and other [Mages] whose company was simply—beyond palatable. He taught them, advancing their spellcraft, and the half-Elf thought they genuinely enjoyed his company. If not, he wouldn’t have been as interested. And after all—one should prize mutually beneficial relationships.

He smiled, reclining. Fair company, influence over worldwide events, and a growing collection of small, useful artifacts…far better than that damned gloomy cave. He couldn’t remember if anything was in it. He remembered cataloging…what, air? Eldavin led the young, and quite charming lady, to a more personal, private setting, and remembered to lock the door this time.

He stopped only once, frowning, before following after the giggling young woman. The half-Elf touched his chest. He was fit, with a clean bill of health from all [Healers]. He’d looked into it, but he was without flaw. So why…?

Why did his heart hurt so?

Then he shook it off and got back to living.

—-

Valeterisa stopped outside of Eldavin’s door. She had not missed the [Bard] who’d remained. Nor Eldavin’s proclivities of late.

[Major thought // introspective, analysis // troubled, not exactly hurt] – But not me. I must not be attractive enough.

Troubled, yes. Not offended; Valeterisa was glad. She would have done whatever was necessary for magic and she was familiar with this kind of relationship. It might have entangled things had they split up, and that was needless work.

However. She felt—Valeterisa’s thoughts ran through over a hundred words and settled on the easiest.

Disappointed.

Yes, simply disappointed. In Eldavin. She had thought he was different. She looked back and uttered the words even she had known would be socially unacceptable.

“What happened to you, Grand Magus?”

He was the same. Still insightful, still genius, possessing knowledge long-lost, but something was gone. His values had changed. She did not know why. But it changed Valeterisa’s attitude towards Wistram.

The Terras faction was valuable. Eldavin? She would have followed him to Rhir to learn more. He was giving it to her, piece by piece, though. So…Valeterisa wondered if she was needed here.

Grand Magus Eldavin wanted an Archmage’s power behind him. Valeterisa didn’t need to be here to grant him that. If he continued to provide her with new magical theorems approximately every week and a half, her involvement here corresponded mostly to Wistram politic gains, information on Earth, and personal relationships.

Not magic. Valeterisa was reasonably sure the Terras faction would double or triple in value, so now she walked away from Eldavin’s quarters, routing a [Memo] spell at Viltach with the details about the inn.

She decided she would consider leaving the academy. Because she was…disappointed?

Disillusioned?

All information sourced from Wistram regarding Earth could be analyzed in any location. Spells, likewise. Valeterisa’s actual body could be put to use in more advantageous locations than here.

Especially since Eldavin had confessed he’d given her a sabotaged long-range teleport spell and helped her realize the true spell behind his tricky, flawed version.

Valeterisa stopped in the banquet hall. She looked around as [Mages] and students gazed at her.

[Information request // urgent, priority // anything I am forgetting?] – What did Valeterisa have to do in Wistram?

Short-term goals: Look into Troy Atlas’ golem. Research possible wind-magic regarding Ryoka Griffin.

Long-term goals: Learn magic from Eldavin. Acquire more funding and support for magical research. Continue researching Earth technology with links to magic.

Well, she’d crossed out a lot of things from that list. Valeterisa appended one more item to that list as she felt one of her thoughts ping her.

Eat food.

The Archmage of Izril was nothing if not direct. She reached out, and snatched the nearest object from a Golem walking towards the buffet line. She stared at a pizza slice.

“Possibly nutritious.”

She scarfed it down. Students watched in a kind of awe, and even Telim, the famous snatcher of entire turkeys and dishes, looked a bit impressed or appalled as Valeterisa gobbled down ‘sufficient nutrition’ with her bare hands. From the buffet table. Without a plate.

Then she grabbed the most convenient-looking foods, dumped them into her bag of holding so she wouldn’t have to do this later, and walked off.

Sa’la, the Selphid [Mage], leaned over to Telim.

“And here I thought you were bold. Think we should tell her about the Earther idea—that drink that contains all you need to eat in a day?”

Telim harrumphed.

“She might be blatant, but she’s no Archmage of Food. As for that drink—bah! I’ll see it dead before anyone produces it here. Takes all the joy out of life! It offends me to my core. So as I was saying, Sa’la—consider joining the Terras faction. I know, you’re independent and you’ve heard it all before, but here’s my rebuttal. Eldavin…”

Valeterisa walked off. She had made up her mind, and when she did…she acted. Many people wasted time with overthinking things. Valeterisa overthought everything, but she seldom wasted actual time on actions that could be simplified.

For instance—she rattled the doorknob as she came to a halt at her next destination. The door was locked. Valeterisa stopped stuffing the books she’d pulled out of the library into her bag of holding; all the books she hadn’t had copies of, that was. She pointed at the door.

“[Unlock].”

It unlocked. The Archmage walked in. She saw Troy Atlas and…someone she didn’t care about whirl.

—-

Trey Atwood had just been conferring with Calac Crusland about Amerys. The situation in Chandrar was looking bad, but they weren’t able to find her—yet!

“I’m Eldavin’s apprentice, Calac! Give me a bit more time!”

“We were told to move as fast as possible. The King of Destruction is wounded and you want to learn spells?”

“That’s why we’re here. Just—”

The doorknob rattled and both young men turned from their fierce argument. Trey saw Calac instinctively go for his sword.

“Who is it? I’m a bit busy!”

He heard no response as he called out. There was a muffled voice—and then Valeterisa opened the door.

“Archmage! What—?”

Both young men lurched to their feet, with the instinctive fear that she’d overheard. But Valeterisa didn’t look accusatory. She just looked, well, vaguely lost-in-thought as always. Her eyes focused on Trey.

“Ah, you are here. Good.”

“Archmage, can I help you?”

“Mm. No. Where is it? [Appraisal]. There.”

Valeterisa walked over. Trey saw her bend down—and a waist-sized Golem jerked upright. Minizi reached for her rather-more-dangerous claymore. She was being repaired after venturing into Wistram’s uncharted area, but she’d come back victorious after killing some kind of monster.

“Archmage, that’s—”

Valeterisa plucked a bit of Lifesand from Minizi’s miniature dreadlocks. She put it in her bag of holding and looked up. Trey stared at her. Minizi flailed, outraged.

“Oops. That was…accidental…”

The Archmage of Izril’s eyes flickered as she tried to come up with an excuse. Then she shrugged and gave up.

“Here you are.”

She put a handful of gold coins on the bed, turned, and walked out of the room. Trey and Calac stared at the Lifesand stealer as Minizi tried to totter after her, waving her sword. Calac turned to Trey.

“What was that?”

—-

Valeterisa had found that if you took what you wanted, you could get away with it in a statistically high number of scenarios. She walked through Wistram’s corridors, ignoring the looks, the muttering when she ate, or acted rudely…

She didn’t care. In a way, it didn’t matter. If she needed someone to like her, Valeterisa would make an effort.

I gave everything for magic. My youth, my health, friendships…I left Wistram because few [Mages] believed in that. I thought Eldavin—

Well. She was leaving. The Archmage’s thoughts kept drifting back to Eldavin. It was a curious flaw; she was actually a bit emotional about it.

“[Calm].”

She produced a wand, stuck it against her temple, and lowered her own defenses against the spell. A [Mage] passing by stared at her. Valeterisa nodded as her mind loosened its grip on the disappointment Eldavin had caused.

That was better. Time to pursue the most optimally advantageous activities. Not in Wistram. Ironically, despite Earth being present, every [Mage] was devoting their time and attention to researching and collecting more information about Earth.

Valeterisa could recognize when a research team was overstaffed. She would collect salient data after they had organized it for her. She had a simple formula she employed.

To further the understanding and depths of magic, one needed a number of factors.

Time. Funding. Knowledge.

No more than that. Of course, you broke down all three areas into subcategories; time meant safety, a research spot, like the island she had labored to secure and fortify. Also—a way to prevent oneself from dying of old age. She was working on that, and kept hoping someone would start selling Potions of Immortality or Reverse Aging. She’d worry more in ten years.

Funding meant influence as well as money. After all, to acquire knowledge, spellbooks, or resources like mana crystals, you needed support. Financial and political.

She was heading out of Wistram because they had nothing more to offer her. Izril did. Or Terandria. Baleros?

“Hm…I should set up teleport waypoints to travel easily between the island and Wistram first.”

Valeterisa left Wistram through the front doors. She nodded to some students going out to try fishing with magic, walked past some Golems unloading cargo from the docks, and down, to the pier.

[Sailors] and a [Captain] stared as the Archmage walked towards them; she hadn’t chartered a ship. Then Valeterisa stopped, mid-step as the [Captain] hurried down the gangplank.

“Archmage, can we help you?”

She stared at the Human man blankly, then snapped her fingers.

“Izril is that way. Of course. I’m not taking a ship. I should cancel my ship-boarding routine…”

She pointed. The [Captain] stared as the woman turned, reversed direction, and began walking around the isle, to Izril’s geographical location.

Valeterisa had been going on auto-pilot, but she remembered a ship would take…weeks, possibly. Unacceptable.

So she walked across the rocky terrain on the other side of the academy, around the citadel, the home of [Mages], past rocks, a camouflaged battle golem…Cognita…

Valeterisa slowed. She looked back. There was Cognita, sitting with her head in her arms halfway submerged in the surf. She’d barely noticed the Truestone Golem.

“Cognita?”

The Golem looked up. She’d been…making a strange sound. Muffled amid the crash of waves. Valeterisa would have called it crying. The Truestone Golem raised her head and Cognita saw her face was also distorted from normal.

“Archmage Valeterisa?”

The two stared at each other. Valeterisa’s thoughts jumbled together, and an automatic-reply one took over.

“Hello, Cognita. We are having wonderful weather today, aren’t we? So pleasant to meet you!”

Her mouth smiled. Cognita stared at the Archmage. Valeterisa decided that was good enough.

“Goodbye.”

The woman walked onto the surf, more heartless than the Golem she left kneeling in misery. Valeterisa began to walk…then stopped the pointless leg motions.

She began to fly. Cognita watched the Archmage of Izril cast [Levitation] and simply…fly off, towards Izril. Valeterisa began to rise higher. She was muttering automatic reminders to herself.

“Avoid low-flying over the sea; attracts Reefeyes and Sea Serpents. Cast [Haste]. Casting [Haste]…make sure you have magical barriers up…”

She levitated higher, speeding up. Cognita stared at Valeterisa’s back. Slowly, she reached for the sand and water flowing around her.

The mudball hit the back of Valeterisa’s barrier and she turned back. She stared at Cognita. Once again proving that barriers were essential to flight-travel. She waved and sped off.

—-

Valeterisa spent the time in flight doing a few things. Her body was actually relatively easy to leave with only a few thoughts running. A few to manage the [Levitation] spell, watch out for threats, eat, manage her basic functions—she’d heard you could teleport urine and feces out of your body, but Valeterisa had weighed the risks of such a spell and decided not to try it—and so on.

She only had to focus every hundred miles, which was thankfully rare, to create the ‘pylons’ she’d use to teleport-jump back and forth from Wistram to other locations from. Of course, there were actual teleportation spells long in existence in Wistram, but a personal network was far easier than a [Greater Teleport] spell, which even Eldavin claimed not to know.

She could efficiently move from continent to continent, depending on the mana costs! Valeterisa spent some time analyzing how this might change travel, concluded it would still mean only those with exceptional mana and spellcasting abilities would be able to use it—or the rich and powerful—and added a few magical locations to her immediate ‘to-visit’ list.

Like Khelt. Wasn’t that under attack? Drat.

Anyways, the point was that most of Valeterisa’s mind was free to be used on other tasks, so she happily devoted over half to understanding the magical theorems Eldavin had given her. Some might actually help her with the new magic she was working on.

…He had reacted to her project. Did he know the spell? If so, and if that meant she had spent over a decade of research trying to re-discover what he knew, Valeterisa would be genuinely upset.

Either way, she’d pursue it when she could devote 80% of her mind to the task. Never 99%. Never again.

It was to Izril that Valeterisa’s thoughts went. As she had observed, Wistram had little she needed to be there to pursue. She communicated that to Eldavin.

Valeterisa to Eldavin: Am in transit to Issrysil, setting up teleportation network for easy return. Please communicate any needs via [Message] spell with the following encryption—thank you for encryption theory. I will provide any necessary resources or communication for Terras faction remotely.

Eldavin to Valeterisa: Transit to Izril? WHAT.

She didn’t respond. If he messaged her again, she would elaborate. Valeterisa put all that aside; her work in Wistram was done unless she was contacted. She felt relieved about that; she had so much work piling up after her ten-year absence.

Let’s see. Communicate imminent arrival to priority list. Her lips moved as she cast [Message]; she found it helped her self-check the communiques, and misunderstandings caused so much trouble.

“Valeterisa to Ieka: Hello, Ieka. I am returning. I hope you are not hexed. I see from your reply all is well? Talk to me about quote urgent business unquote later, and Ryoka Griffin. My first destination is my research base.”

She nodded to herself. Ieka was one of her rare contacts that was neither business nor magically-related alone. Both, of course; she was aware Ieka was very helpful as their family, Imarris, provided her with resources, but Ieka was listed under ‘affection’.

It was a list of four—no, wait. Valeterisa discarded one name she’d forgotten to remove.

Three.

Next…let’s see.

“Valeterisa to Lord Deilan El…wait. Reroute through standard [Mage]…”

She sighed. She had to not only contact the House of El through the proper channels, but be more polite. Her lips moved and then, a surprisingly charming smile appeared on her face. No one could see, but she’d activated her ‘polite and social’ routine to compose the [Message].

“Lord Deilan El, I apologize for the delay. I am currently returning to Izril, and will of course communicate with you on further projects for the House of El at my soonest convenience. I regret to say that I am pressed for time at the moment, but delighted by the Kaalblade’s success. Please—”

[Major thought // self-introspection, calculation // banking, merchant’s guild] – Wait. What is the return on Kaalblade sales? Pertains to further work with House of El.

Valeterisa paused and checked her balance at the Merchant’s Guild. It was tiresomely slow since she had to ask the Merchant’s Guild to look up the information…her thoughts actually stopped on the figure.

…That was a lot of gold. Valeterisa had money, but even she could appreciate a sum like that. And—she was going over Lord Deilan’s correspondence.

A Kaalblade wielded by Ryoka Griffin? Valeterisa erased her last [Message] instantly.

“Lord Deilan El, apologies for the late response! I am returning from Wistram and was unavoidably delayed. I am delighted by the Kaalblades’ sales! I will communicate with you at my earliest convenience once I reach land, and would appreciate any further details on this mysterious Kaalblade. Sincerely…fill in salutations.”

The Archmage of Izril auto-tasked one of her thoughts to send and wait for a response. In the meantime, she sorted through the rest of her ‘inbox’.

She was delighted that Earth’s children had known some of the internal systems she was using, and the lexicon of words they’d provided had helped her immensely. She’d even optimized some of her own methods of thought based on their descriptions and these ‘computers’.

For instance, a ‘recycling bin’ that you used to double-check what you were erasing before consigning something like ‘what your niece sent you for your birthday’ to the void? Genius. And said long-term archival for useless data like that?

She read through her mail as she flew. Would you like a shipment of goods? No. Invitation to—deleted. Your relative has died—check the name, delete and omit further [Messages].

Of all the dross, only one recent [Message] stood out to Valeterisa not already on her list of contacts. She checked the sender identification, and saw it had come from a rarely-used area of contacts.

Southern Izril. That was to say, via Drake channels. Most of her clients were Human, and she had stronger ties in the north. Strange, since she had grown up in Fissival, but they had never liked her as much—until after she became an Archmage. And then of course, they hadn’t appreciated her statement of non-interference in the affairs of the Walled Cities…

This was interesting because the client could be important. The contents were interesting, however. Her thoughts skimmed out the superfluous details and presented her with the content. She began to respond.

“Archmage Valeterisa requesting [Message] spell to…fill in name…Wall Lord Ilvriss of Salazsar. To Wall Lord Ilvriss, salutations to the City of Gems, I am Archmage Valeterisa, and whilst my schedule is busy, I am intrigued by any personal spellcasting employment you would like to offer, with sufficient remuneration. May I inquire about specific details, or is the content quote secretive, unquote…?”

It was so hard to get [Lords] and [Ladies] of any species to just tell you what they wanted. Ieka was so simple because Valeterisa had taught her niece how to be efficient.

True to form, Ilvriss’ letter had been frustratingly vague, but Valeterisa found he had a [Mage] close by, because he responded almost instantly after getting her [Message].

Ilvriss to Valeterisa: Archmage, I am honored to receive your correspondence. I realize you do not often visit southern Izril and you have been indisposed of late.

Valeterisa to Ilvriss: For ten years, yes. I would like to qualify, however, that I am Archmage of Izril, and my connections to the Drake cities are no less strong than to the north. My business is seldom as pressing in the south however, hence my residence and the rarity of contacts. However, I am delighted to speak with you! How may I help a Wall Lord of Salazsar?

Her sociable-side was working overtime, trying to pull salient details. Ilvriss…seen in company of Zel Shivertail, net worth…very appreciable for a possible job offer, one sister, father named Zail, etc. etc.

Ilvriss to Valeterisa: There is a matter of some delicacy which I would like to employ your services for. In person, if you would be willing. I am prepared to hire you at sufficient price.

Valeterisa to Ilvriss: …May I know the contents of this matter, or are the details sufficiently secretive that you would prefer a face-to-face visit? Travelling all the way to the south of Izril is something of an imposition—

Although she could probably set up more teleportation pylons. Valeterisa chewed her lip.

Valeterisa to Ilvriss: —so long as we understand that my time is limited. I do avail my services for hire as a spellcaster, but I should warn you the price may be extreme.

Ilvriss to Valeterisa: I am sure I can provide sufficient funding, Archmage, and would be willing to reimburse you for your time. However, I am currently indisposed at Oteslia, which makes travel somewhat impossible.

Why? Valeterisa consulted the news. Another siege? She sighed.

Valeterisa to Ilvriss: Delightful, Wall Lord Ilvriss! I accept, although I understand travel is limited. Perhaps we could coordinate a further time?

Ilvriss to Valeterisa: That would be most welcome. Could you travel to Salazsar, or would you prefer a more northern meeting spot? One closer to Zeres?

Valeterisa to Ilvriss: As I have indicated, my schedule does not allow for excessive gaps in my itinerary, but—this is taking too much time and effort. Sociability ended. I will visit you immediately if you wish, Oteslia or other locations. I can arrive within two weeks.

Ilvriss to Valeterisa: At your earliest convenience would do, Archmage.

Valeterisa to Ilvriss: Good. I will indicate travel time. Please quote remuneration.

The Archmage checked the figure after it came in a few minutes later. Ten thousand gold to set up teleportation pylons south and maybe investigate the inn and Ryoka along the way? She sent an acceptance and wrote him into her plans.

She sighed. Being sociable took so much work. Valeterisa flew on. Ieka, Ryoka, Ilvriss…and then she’d get back to the important work of magic. All the rest was just to further her ends.

It never really occurred to her that the people she was going to visit had hopes and dreams and goals of their own. Or that they seldom liked to sit still.

Or stay out of trouble.

—-

No emotion. The best answer was a calm, logical, rational one at all times. That was how Valeterisa lived. Even she couldn’t divorce emotion entirely, though.

Everyone else? The [Princess] screamed. She struggled, screaming for her daughter. Stolen away! Hunted by a [Witch].

All her fault.

“Let me go. I promised to keep her safe! I left her there to—”

Mivifa held Lyonette with Wilovan, and refused to let the [Princess] rush out into the siege encampment. She felt wretched for doing it, though. If she had doubted it when Lyonette claimed to be a mother—

They were dead. Ratici and Wilovan looked at each other. They thought of Mrsha—and Crimshaw, the other Brothers. They said nothing, focusing on Lyonette. If anything, the Gentlemen Callers surely rethought their presence in Oteslia. They kept doing it.

Thinking the inn was safe, just to see it destroyed again.

Mrsha was gone. Kidnapped. It was not the first time, but it hurt no less. It was no less dire. Lyonette, when she calmed down, rushed to the Mage’s Guild. To speak to the people in the inn. And…Mrsha’s other self-appointed protectors.

The Halfseekers, who were already returning to Invrisil. How did it hit them? Moore? Jelaqua? Griffon Hunt and Briganda, who was a mother herself?

There was nothing they could have done to prevent it. Unless they had never left, unless they had remained. That was the guilt. Intellectually, logically, you could know that it wasn’t your fault.

But people, real people didn’t look at it that way. You…you promised to protect Mrsha. You took her little paw, knowing all the horrible things that had happened to her, that might happen.

You swore you would keep her safe. And while you wasted time in the north, on vanity, on less-important things, the most important, dreadful event of all occurred.

And you. Weren’t. There.

—-

“Jericha! Jericha, help!”

The assistant jerked into action so fast her wand cleared its holster and was charging with a spell before she knew what she was firing at.

Hethon Veltras was shouting. In other times, that wouldn’t have provoked Jericha to charge out of her rooms where she’d been napping. She saw some of the other guards appear just as fast.

Who had gotten the ones on duty? Jericha stormed around a corner, ready to kill something. Anything. What she saw was…Hethon. Desperately trying to stop a crawling woman who’d gotten half way down the keep.

Ryoka Griffin.

She was leaving a trail behind her. Tangled bed sheets, bandages stained red—she was crawling. Jericha wouldn’t have believed she could leave the bed, but she had made it this far, despite Hethon trying to block her.

Sammial was holding onto the Wind Runner’s legs. Her face was twisted up with pain, but the wind was blowing like thunder outside.

“Let go of me. Where’s my glider. I have to—”

She was panting. Sweating—Jericha saw red liquid running down her cheeks.

“[Healer]!”

She snapped at the bodyguards. Hethon and Sammial’s escort hadn’t been taken out after all; they’d just been hovering, watching for enemies rather than interfering in the scuffle between the [Lords] and Lord Tyrion’s…lover?

That was the unclear part, but either way, Ryoka Griffin was an honored guest and dragging her back to her bed was a dubious task for one of House Veltras’ [Soldiers]. Even if she needed it.

Ryoka Griffin’s arms trembled as she tried to pull herself another foot. She was bloody. Jericha bent down.

“Miss Griffin, you’re in no condition to move.”

“Out of my way!”

The air in the keep moved and Jericha felt a push at her chest. She held her ground, despite the [Dangersense] beginning to go off. Ryoka’s eyes were crazed.

“Belavierr—Mrsha—I have to go to Liscor! I should have been there! I’ll kill her. I’ll—”

The words cut off because, even mad with worry and guilt, Ryoka couldn’t properly visualize killing Belavierr. However—Hethon’s look of terrified worry wasn’t misplaced, nor was Sammial’s attempts to stop Ryoka.

“You’re bleeding! Stop! I order you!”

The [Lord] shouted at Ryoka. He backed up as a [Healer] came running. The [Lord] looked down at his front and blanched.

It was covered with blood.

No—not exactly blood. Jericha knelt, a potion in her hand. She saw Ryoka was…sweating blood. But it wasn’t quite blood. Sweat and blood. She had been leaking the liquid for the last three days.

The red lightning had done more than just strike her. The Wind Runner couldn’t move. To Jericha’s understanding of magic, it was an advanced curse mixed with lightning.

“I have to go to Liscor.”

“You won’t fly. I will inform Lord Veltras at once, Miss Ryoka. However, you are in no condition to move.”

Ryoka panted up at Jericha. The woman had the Wind Runner confined to her bed. Sammial hovered there with Hethon. Ryoka was muttering.

“Belavierr. Belavierr. Ivolethe will freeze you! Stay away from Mrsha. I invoke your name Belavierr! I’ll summon the Faerie King on your head! Oberon!”

She was raving, plagued by the curse as well as the news from Liscor. Hethon felt his skin prickling, and not just from the tone of Ryoka’s voice.

“Who’s Mrsha? What happened?”

Sammial earned a smack on the arm. He’d told Ryoka about the attack when Jericha and Ullim had both said ‘let’s tell your father first’. Ryoka’s eyes opened wide.

“She’s—I’m supposed to protect her. She’s just a kid. Sammial, Hethon. Are you there? I can barely see—”

Her head oozed a bit of that red liquid. Sammial anxiously looked for the [Healer], who had gone to get more healing potion. Hethon offered Ryoka some of the approved stamina-restorative. She gulped.

“We’re here, Miss Ryoka. Can we—do you need something?”

“Yes. Tell Jericha—get a [Mage]. Send something to Laken Godart. Riverfarm. Tell them about Belavierr. Tell them to find Mrsha.”

Ryoka’s eyes rolled. Hethon nodded and hurried off. Sammial stayed there.

“What is Belavierr?”

“A coward. Do you hear me, Belavierr? I’ll call on Teriarch! I’ll—”

Ryoka gagged on something, choked. She spluttered, and then rasped. If her threats were doing anything—choking on phlegm didn’t seem like a Belavierr move. Being strangled by your pillow? Yes. It might have been that she was too far—or that her threats were so pitiful that Belavierr just ignored them.

“Wiskeria. That’s it.”

Her eyes opened wide. Ryoka jerked up. Sammial screamed.

It had been four minutes and she’d passed out, then she’d screamed the name. She fixed him with a desperate look.

“Sammial, where’s Hethon?”

“Going to find Jericha.”

“Well, go find him. Tell them I want to talk to Wiskeria.”

“Um. Okay?”

The two boys found the woman and listened as Jericha bent over Ryoka. The young woman was rasping up to the [Mage], and all three of them found themselves listening. Ryoka’s condition was terrible, and Tyrion had put off his romantic pursuits to investigate another curse on someone close to him. He was actually coming back from First Landing, where he’d been petitioning House Terland for aid.

Yet as terribly as she was suffering, she was dropping names and secrets she normally kept guarded.

“Tell Laken he owes me. Mrsha—tell him I’m calling in—Wiskeria. Her mother did this. Call her off.”

“Call the Witch of Webs off?”

Jericha’s skin prickled. Ryoka was muttering.

“Her daughter. Tell Wiskeria to contact Belavierr and have her forswear…I know she can. Somehow. Tell them.”

“I am. I’m…”

Jericha was [Messaging] Riverfarm live. She spoke.

“Laken to Ryoka. We are now aware of the situation. Wiskeria has sworn to petition Belavierr regarding Mrsha. We will attempt to divine Mrsha’s location. What is her last name?”

“Stone Spears. Mrsha of the Stone Spears tribe? No, wait…Mrsha du Marquin?”

Ryoka didn’t even seem to be aware of how hard Jericha was locked onto her. Sammial and Hethon exchanged glances. They wanted to know about Ryoka too, but they were sort of on the Wind Runner’s side.

“How can a Gnoll have two names, Miss Ryoka?”

Jericha bent over Ryoka, urgently. Hethon danced on his feet.

“Um—um, Jericha. Maybe—maybe—”

He didn’t know what to say that was sufficiently distracting, but Sammial burst out.

“Maybe Ryoka should talk to Wiskeria! Do a communication spell like you did for father!”

Jericha glanced at him, annoyed, but Ryoka nodded feverishly.

In short order, Jericha had a scrying orb linked and Ryoka was muttering to a woman with a dark blue hat on the other end.

“Can you call her off? Tell her I’ll bring down the wrath of the fae on her. Tell her—”

“I can’t summon her, but she made my clothing…she doesn’t talk the same way you can to me, Ryoka. Let me—don’t threaten her.”

“I’m not afraid of her. I’ll—I’ll—grab Excalibur. I’ll get Arthur to get it and—”

Jericha was leaning in, through the doorway. Hethon bit his lip. He reached for the door.

“Lord Hethon! Please!”

Jericha reached to stop him. Sammial kicked her in the back of the knee and she fell down. The boys slammed the door shut and missed the rest as they were told off soundly.

—-

By the time they got the door open, Ryoka was passed out. Wiskeria, however, seemed to be in communication with Belavierr herself. Jericha froze as the [Witch] fiddled with her spectacles.

“Mother. Mother, what’s this about? Calm down. I’ve never heard you actually raise your voice like this. Are you attacking little girls, mother?”

Her eyes flicked up as Jericha paused. Wiskeria listened to…something. Was her hat whispering to her? It had a sibilant tone, like the voice a spider might make, if only a spider could speak. Just hearing it made Hethon clap his hands over his ears and Sammial screw his face up. It was…

“Don’t use your voice on me, mother. I’m not a child! And this isn’t a girl who pushed me—”

To their amazement, Wiskeria held her aggrieved, arguing tone. Reply to the hiss of immortal wrath on the other end. She paced back and forth.

“Three relics? More? Your eye? Okay. Okay. No, I will not join you in vengeance. It sounds like your fault. I want you to call off vengeance on Mrsha. Forswear.”

The argument went back and forth. Wiskeria shot an aside to Jericha.

“She doesn’t like getting hurt. Someone—hurt her? What’s this about her eye? She’s angrier than I’ve ever heard her—hold on.”

She went back to speaking to her hat, staring up at the tip and sky.

“I’m asking you as your daughter. Yes. Yes, through Ryoka, who’s made threats…don’t you dare. Forswear vengeance! What do you mean, a ‘pact’? We’re family. Can’t you do one thing without—fine!”

Wiskeria threw her hat down and stomped on it. Then she picked it back up, set it on a stump, and glared at it.

“Forswear all harm to Mrsha, her friends, family, and no ill will for the rest of her life.”

The hat didn’t like that. It actually opened up a mouth full of stitched thread—a horrific sight—and spoke.

“I will not. More than one has offended me greatly.”

Wiskeria was folding her arms.

“Then—all physical, mental, and magical harm to just Mrsha.”

She turned to Jericha.

“Best I can do.”

Again, the hat didn’t like that, but the whisper became inaudible to the others. It seemed to Hethon like the…strings were whispering. He shuddered, but Wiskeria just rolled her eyes.

“Mother—mother—be quiet, mother. Your daughter is asking. So don’t say ‘vengeance without end or relief’, because we both know it’s about cost. I’ve heard you say that to that [Lord], remember? What’s the price?”

Sulkily, the hat responded. Wiskeria raised her brows.

“Absolutely not. At least…ten years. No, make it thirty. Thirty years.”

Thirty years? Jericha whispered incredulously, but Wiskeria flicked her a glance and shook her head. She walked over and whispered to the orb.

“That’s not a good thing. That means she’s going to hold a grudge forever. If she goes after Mrsha when she’s a hundred…I’ll get her to forswear thirty years and renegotiate when twenty have passed and add another thirty. She’ll forget Mrsha’s a Gnoll, not a half-Elf.”

“Does that…work?”

The woman eyed Wiskeria, who didn’t look more than twenty something herself. The [Witch] flipped her hat up.

“It’s worked for six people so far—and I learned the trick from an older [Witch] who knew Belavierr. It’s the best we can ask for. Alright mother, thirty years. Mrsha only. No harm. You can’t touch her, cast a spell, or even speak to her.”

The hat grumped. Wiskeria poked it.

“I know you, mother. Do we have a deal? What are your terms?”

She sat down, sighing. Ryoka began to come to. She stared, blearily, at Wiskeria talking to her hat. The [Witch] of law rubbed at her face, clearly annoyed.

“Fine. I’ll write you a letter. Two letters every four months, at least. That’s my offer. At least two hundred words each. Deal?”

Ryoka blinked a few times. She turned her head with effort to Sammial.

“Is Wiskeria talking to her hat?”

“Yes.”

Sammial could have elaborated, but the Wind Runner just nodded.

“Checks out.”

Her eyes rolled up in her head and she passed out for a while longer. Wiskeria was sighing.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll bake you something too. With love. Yes, mine. I’ll add a drop. Do we have a deal?”

She seemed to conclude whatever deal with the [Witch] by placing the hat on her head. Then it became silent—normal. Jericha stared in a kind of awe as Wiskeria turned, adjusting her spectacles.

“You…persuaded the Spider to leave this girl alone?”

The [Witch] shrugged.

“I did. On that note—oh. Ryoka’s asleep. We’ll try to help with that curse, but we’d need to be closer to her. Alevica could go if she’s in the area, but she’s hard to track down. Tell Ryoka that I’ll try to visit her. Right after I bake something.”

She sighed again. Jericha looked at Wiskeria. She had all kinds of notes and questions and this conversation had given her much to research.

Somehow, though, even Jericha didn’t quite dare to ask Wiskeria about her relationship with her mother. She nodded, and closed the spell, then hurried off to write down…everything.

—-

“Ter—him. Him. If I could just ask him…”

Ryoka was muttering when Sammial and Hethon came back. Jericha had gone off to put in an order for more researching with House Veltras’ contacts. She opened her eyes wide.

“Jericha. Did I say anything to her? I didn’t say…anything?”

“N-no…”

It was a sign of how sick Ryoka was that Hethon’s reply actually fooled her. She relaxed.

“I’ll tell him. And…someone else has to find Mrsha. Who?”

“Father will help. Unless she went south. He says sending soldiers past Liscor is an act of war.”

Hethon had heard Jericha sending [Messages] to Tyrion. Ryoka muttered a curse.

“Someone. Who? Klbkch is gone. Hawk? Where’s…she can do it.”

Her eyes opened again.

“I need to send another [Message].”

“I’ll get Jericha.”

Hethon looked for the door. Sammial stopped him.

“She’s just going to tell!”

“Don’t tell. Can’t. She’s important.”

The two boys looked at each other. Sammial scratched his head.

“Maybe Ullim?”

“I’ve got it!”

Hethon came to an idea. He darted from the room. Sammial stared after his older brother and saw Hethon race back in, furtively.

“What’s that?”

“Ullim’s [Message] book.”

“You can’t use that! You’ll get into trouble!”

Hethon knew that, but he wrote down what Ryoka told him to—then tore out one of the pages of the book of [Message] spells for those who used many such spells.

The message was short, and sweet, and Jericha didn’t know Ryoka had sent it. Hethon saw the Wind Runner smile before she lapsed into labored breathing, and that was worth getting in trouble.

He wondered who Fierre was, though. And why Ryoka had told her she needed Fierre to unleash…

Everything.

Sammial Veltras watched as Hethon helped Ryoka. Then as the [Healer] came back to help Ryoka. He waited for Ryoka to say something, ask for more help, but the female [Healer] ushered the boys out as she changed the red bedding.

Not blood, but still horrible. The Wind Runner was cursed. Hethon looked away, faint from the sight of the curse. Sammial looked back, not seeing the point of tasteful nudity yet and thus having nothing to be ashamed of aside from the grossness of it all.

Thus, it was he who opened the door right back up.

“Lord Sammial Veltras!”

The [Healer] shrieked, scandalized. Sammial marched up to Ryoka, who was nude. He stared at her as Hethon raised his fist to hit his brother.

“What’s that? I’ve never seen that before and I’ve seen her naked!”

He pointed. The [Healer] hesitated. So did Hethon. Then he turned beet red.

“What?”

“That!”

Sammial pointed just below Ryoka’s right breast. The [Healer] stared at it, and then Hethon. Both looked accusatorially at Sammial.

“There’s nothing there!”

Sammial gave his brother and the [Healer] a dubious look. No one could see it, not even Jericha. But Sammial did. It was a glowing red mark. And it looked like a familiar sigil. It was…pulsing. Of course, Jericha grew worried when Sammial told her about it and tried another [Dispel Magic], although she’d already cast it a few times since Ryoka had been hit.

She was aware of the power of auras, which were a natural counter to the most magical beings like Djinni; the reason the King of Destruction could fight them. Royalty was a counter unto great magic and even Skills. If Sammial saw something by virtue of his innate talent, it might be a manifestation of the curse. However, the odds were just as likely it was…

A beacon.

—-

Fierre val Lischelle-Drakle had never received a [Message] like this from Ryoka. It was short, simple, and to the point.

Please find Mrsha. Keep her safe. Bring her back. I need you to use everything. Everything. No matter what it takes. I will pay you back somehow.

It was the kind of favor only people like Ryoka asked. Ryoka, who was an all-or-nothing friend. Who’d go risk her life for a friend. Of course, that she asked it of Fierre was different than fulfilling that kind of thing herself, but as Ryoka had observed, she and Fierre were a bit alike.

And this was the kind of thing the Vampire girl had been waiting all her life for. Especially after she’d been cured. It was almost an excuse.

Just this once…because she had to…because she’d been asked…Fierre the Vampire would reluctantly use the full might of her heritage.

By the time Fierre got to the inn, it was emptying. She stepped around the monster parts still being dragged out, smelling the blood—

The inn was destroyed. And it was being abandoned, even as she watched. Oh, those were loaded terms. Fierre hadn’t seen the inn when it was blown up by a skeleton—or destroyed in the Creler fights. It was actually a lot more intact than you could hope for.

Sure, every window had been smashed in by monsters and [Soldiers] coming in. Okay, the top floor and roof were shredded by the arrow barrage, but the hallway was only filled with gore. The walls were intact. That was something! The…uh…blood would come off.

It was the fact that this was the eighth time or something that did it. The fact that Belavierr had gone into the garden. She hadn’t succeeded, but…she had gone in, in a sense.

Fierre saw the Earthers, the guests, milling about. Some had been on the way out, like Hexel. He was going to stay with Elirr, for purely business reasons since the Councilmember was kind enough to offer his shop to the [Architect].

Montressa and Bezale were both going to Invrisil. And they were taking Joseph with them. Already, the vultures were circling.

The vultures. A Pallassian official tried to cozy up to Joseph in the hubbub.

“Excuse me, Coach Joseph, we have your home ready as agre—”

She was practically kicked out of the way by a [Mage] who’d hurried through from Invrisil. She was checked by Bezale’s arm, but the Pallassian [Negotiator] wasn’t going to be stopped that easily. She strode forwards, and a whistling [Maid] swept her legs.

Fierre counted Wistram, Reinhart, Pallass, and that was just the groups with multiple agents on the ground. They were all trying to tug the Earthers this way, or that.

Why? Why now? Because…this was the first attack after Erin had died. Somehow, many had assumed they’d stop now that the [Innkeeper] was dead.

They had not. And some of the Brothers were dead. An army had broken on the inn, and they had been pushed back, yes. But the thought remained.

Who would be next? Imani and Palt were arguing.

“I’m not moving to Pallass. I could—work at Tails and Scales, if Rufelt and Lasica need a hand. Timbor’s promised us rooms, Palt.”

“He has steps. What about Invrisil?”

“I want to stay in Liscor. I told Erin I’d cook for her. I’m…I’m not going far.”

The two would leave the inn, though. Simply because Pallass’ [Soldiers] might have promised to help secure it, but that meant the Brothers were gone. Maybe they’d be next when Belavierr came back for round two with Facestealer and…and the Greater Frost Wyvern and two Adult Creler groupies just to fill out the set.

Perhaps they would have all stayed. If the inn were going to still have the regulars.

But they were leaving too. Not just Rags, who was standing apart with her Wyverns, far back from the Drakes casually eying her tribe, not just the [Mages].

Everyone.

Mrsha was gone. Rags stood, talking with those who would go after. Numbtongue was sitting down, broken twice by her loss. Empty-eyed—until someone grabbed his shoulder.

“Get up.”

He looked into crimson eyes. Badarrow hauled Numbtongue up.

“Stop sitting around. Why are you sitting? We—going after.”

He struck Numbtongue’s shoulder, then his chest, and pointed to the south. It was the most talkative Badarrow had ever really been. Numbtongue half-shook his head. He pointed at the inn.

“I have to stay. Erin…”

“Erin is ice.”

Numbtongue whirled. The [Bard] nearly struck Badarrow, but the [Sniper] caught the blow. The other Redfang snapped.

“Little Mrsha gone! You leave? Nothing gets in garden. Not even that—thing.”

He gestured, making a triangle over his head, the closest he could come in Goblin sign to ‘witch’. Numbtongue wavered, but Badarrow looked at him.

“You leave her?”

Mrsha? Mrsha, who loved Numbtongue, and called him a big brother even when they fought? The [Bard] looked at the garden.

Nothing had ever gotten in. Not even Belavierr. Only…the thing that he had never seen, and he had no proof it had ever existed after the statues had gone back to normal. Yet even it had never touched Erin.

His head bowed. Yet if Erin came back this moment, and he saw her wake up, what would he tell her about Mrsha?

They were all going. That was why the inn was truly broken. You could rebuild it a hundred times. It was just wood and stone and copper nails, for goodness’ sake. But if there was no one in it…

The [Soulbard] flexed his hand. Did he have the strength to bring Mrsha back? He had failed to harm Belavierr. And this—Wanderer—had her.

He didn’t know. The cruel irony was, though, that he was more qualified to protect Mrsha now than he had been yesterday.

He had leveled up. The [Soulbard] felt the new Skill burning in his claws, ready to be used.

[Goblin Soulbard Level 35!]

[Song – The Brave Fall First obtained!]

A song for men with hats. His first true song of war. Paid for in blood and loss. Numbtongue embraced the Skill and new level. It was a [Bard]’s duty to remember Crimshaw’s name.

He would use it to bring Mrsha back.

The Goblin had leveled. Numbtongue was not the only one. Everyone who had survived the battle, practically everyone had leveled.

Mrsha, being carried away by Wanderer, Wanderer himself, Rags, all the [Mages]—it was easier to name who didn’t level.

Like Niers. And…Niers.

And Belavierr.

—-

Not everyone got Skills, it was true, but everyone leveled. Sometimes multiple times. It depended on what they had done. For those who had flung themselves at Belavierr—they had leveled almost by surviving, not doing damage.

Xrn had done damage. The Centenium was in no mood to appreciate her levels, however. Her arm was gone, and Facestealer had stolen it. The Free Queen looked down at the Centenium.

“There is no way to recreate your arm, Xrn. Even in Rhir—it would have been a task.”

“I know.”

The ‘voice’ wasn’t Xrn’s actual voice; her neck had been torn half-off. So it was a thought translated to speech via magic. She was unable to even move; suspended in a converted Birther sac to heal as best she could.

She was incapacitated, she knew. If she could make use of the new Skill and level—it would not be now.

—-

By contrast, Pawn was similarly incapacitated. However, he would live as indicated. And while he hadn’t gotten a miracle to cure poison…sadly…he had leveled the most of any one person on that battlefield.

For turning away the Witch of Webs, for defeating her with faith alone, the [Doomspeaker Priest] lay in his bed and heard the voice.

[Conditions Met: Doomspeaker Priest → Priest of Wrath and Sky Class!]

[Priest of Wrath and Sky Level 30!]

An odd class. He felt it should be unique, but it wasn’t. Yet what was…and what confirmed he had been redeemed came after.

[Miracle – Summon Workers (Holy) obtained!]

Somehow, still the same. Somehow, it still fit no matter that Workers had not come before. Yet Pawn did hear something. Like blood pooling in his mind, it came to him. He did not want it, but it was in him.

Great power to protect.

The wrath to doom a city.

[Miracle – Bane of Luck obtained.]

A Skill to take something away. To hurt. Pawn waited. Yet for his new class, and his battle with one of the things that would never walk in his Heaven while he existed—he was given three Skills.

The last was simply like a sigh. Like fresh air. The green of spring. Of reawakening.

Something new.

[Skill – I Walked Under Heaven’s Sky obtained!]

The [Priest] sighed and lay back. If he could have smiled, he would. Yet Mrsha was gone. For her, he would have traded it all. He prayed for her.

Pawn leveled up the most. Mrsha was third. The person who leveled up second-most was a [Blacksmith’s Apprentice] in Liscor, who had no idea why he had jumped so many levels.

He only made the connection with selling the Worker a club and shield he’d made when he checked his Skills.

—-

Rags had not slept since the battle. She had no time to investigate her Skills. Her Goblins were getting ready to leave.

Like the others. She growled at the watching Drakes and Gnolls and other non-Goblins. Her skin prickled.

Some of them looked ready to kill her. 4th Company and Embria were the nice-looking ones. She turned briskly to Badarrow.

“I will give you Snapjaw and her Wyvern. No more.”

“Not more, Chieftain? Might need.”

Badarrow and Rags kept their backs turned, and they spoke in Goblin tongue, with Goblin gestures. Let the others try to eavesdrop on that.

Rags made an apologetic gesture.

“If could, would. Needed. Also—lightning-rain-death city. Not good Wyverns. Fly-die.”

She meant Pallass. More than a single Wyvern would attract attention. One was more than enough, and she would miss Snapjaw…but she and Badarrow were a pair and Rags knew better than to forbid it.

“Come to Goblinhome first. Supplies.”

He nodded. Rags glanced around as Badarrow went over to join Snapjaw. Numbtongue would stay. Calescent? He was coming back. The Hob had made up his mind, and reluctant as he might be—he was a [Chef]. A battle-chef, but not suited to finding little Mrshas.

“Chieftain, can’t send more Goblins?”

She shrugged at him as he came over.

“Little Mrsha danger. But Gnoll fight for her. Less danger than us.”

He grinned ruefully at that. Rags had a different opinion of Mrsha’s kidnapping. It might be safer than here, frankly, and she couldn’t help. Mrsha had Goblin-spirit, which was the biggest compliment Rags could give. She would be fine, Rags hoped, and that was all.

Calescent knew Rags’ reasoning, and he was going with his Chieftain. Badarrow had disagreed. He would stay and join Numbtongue. And…Rags glanced sideways.

“Coming?”

The female Hobgoblin sat on the ground, arms and legs crossed. Ulvama didn’t look up. She had bent her head down, and sat there, ever since she’d heard about the Goblins arguing whether to help or go.

“Ulvama.”

The female Hob didn’t respond. She was blasted by Belavierr’s magics; most of her magical paint was gone. She muttered as Rags nudged her with a foot.

“Go away, stupid Chieftain. Always leaving good Goblins behind. Petty Rags, not bringing me along. Stupid name, too. Not real Goblin name.”

Rags raised her brows. So that was how it was. She shrugged.

“That’s right. Stupid Rags, leaves Ulvama behind. See you later…[Shaman].”

The Flooded Water Tribe’s [Shaman] glanced up. Rags looked down at her.

“Badarrow follows later. We fly!”

The Goblins flew, back towards the High Passes and Goblinhome. Leaving those who would head south, after Mrsha behind. As Rags flew, she looked back just once.

If she had any regrets—aside from all the stuff around the attack—it was that she hadn’t found that little man. He might be dead. Or hiding. She had looked quite hard, but he had vanished.

She wondered where he was.

—-

The Goblins weren’t the only group trying to figure out how to rescue Mrsha.

Selys Shivertail had missed all of it. So had Drassi and Olesm, although his excuse was he’d been fighting an army, so it was a good one.

She felt wretched. Worthless. Mrsha was gone. Kidnapped! And she couldn’t even go after her.

“Absolutely not. You’re not a fighter. Neither am I.”

Drassi had her arms under Selys’ shoulders and was holding her friend back. Selys whirled around.

“Then what do I do, Drassi?”

The [Heiress] whirled, shrieking at her friend. Drassi screamed back.

“I don’t know! Put up fliers! Ask around in the cities! Just don’t go off tracking! You know what I’m doing? I’m going to put out an announcement on Wistram News Network! Gnoll girl kidnapped!”

She blinked, catching herself. The [Reporter] looked around.

“I am going to do that.”

Selys blinked too, at Drassi.

“That’s…a good idea. A really good one.”

“Right. So what are you going to do?”

The Drake looked around. What was she going to do? She was—was—

She spotted Fierre, speaking with some of the others. The Human girl was standing in the shade of the inn.

“I’m going too. Ryoka asked me to come.”

“She’s not coming? Ryoka? I thought she’d be here! The Halfseekers are going to come and search as soon as they can! Griffon Hunt went the wrong way to Riverfarm—they’re trying to figure out if they can make it! Listen. I don’t uh—know you well. But how well is this thought out? Do you have a plan? You can’t go south. Not you.”

Snapjaw stared at Olesm. She had come back, panting, and her Frost Wyvern was lying on the ground. She’d found no tracks. But there was a scent-trail.

“You need a Gnoll to track them. It’s faint, Wing Commander, but it’s there.”

Captain Wikir reported, glancing sideways at the Goblins. Snapjaw glanced at him. Olesm turned back to 4th Company.

“Yet you didn’t pursue, Captain Wikir?”

“Sorry, Strategist. It passed the Bloodfields and that’s enemy territory. Hectval could’ve taken a shot. If you want scouts…”

That was the issue. Olesm turned back to arguing with Snapjaw.

“You don’t have tracking, and you’re Goblins. If you go south, every Drake city and Gnoll tribe will take a shot at you.”

The Goblin [Eater] bared her teeth.

“So? What’s new? Who are you, anyway?”

Fierre had no idea, but she thought Snapjaw had amazing teeth. The Goblin gave her a sidelong grin. The Vampire covered her own canines reflexively—then nodded at her.

“Snapjaw, right? Fierre. We met…I’m going after Mrsha too. I’m not sure if we’re going together or apart, but I’m going.”

“You? Miss…Fierre?”

Olesm turned just as skeptical eyes on the, what, eighteen-year-old girl who looked half as big as Wikir? She had no muscle, and up till recently she’d looked fairly sick. Very pale; she seemed a bit…taller…to him.

“Don’t you have a job?”

She gave him a closed-lip smile.

“Yup. But I’m not entrenched and Mrsha is missing. Do you think we’ll just leave her to be kidnapped?”

“No, but—! You have no funds, Miss Fierre. You might have to hire experts, provide for yourself.”

“I have enough money for quite a bit.”

“And I’ll cover all expenses. I’m putting a bounty on Mrsha! Her safe return, I mean! Anything you need for travelling—a carriage, food—it’s yours.”

Selys stalked into the conversation. Fierre glanced up. The Drake was agitated, near tears.

“Whoever’s going to find Mrsha—I’ll help!”

Olesm threw up his claws, but in the next breath, he turned.

“Alright. If you’re going south—at least let me get you a map. You do have a map, don’t you?”

Snapjaw glanced up at him.

“…Yes? No. Give map, blue Drake. Thank you.”

—-

Joseph Ortega watched Olesm argue with Fierre, Snapjaw, and Numbtongue. Well…Numbtongue just sat there. He had drying blood on his armor. He had cut down countless numbers of the monsters and soldiers in the hallway.

Joseph wondered what level he was. The [Bard] looked bleak, though. Yet he wasn’t a statue in the garden; he was going with the others.

To find Mrsha. Joseph on the other hand was aware of how Montressa and Bezale were fending off the others trying to get to him. The [Mage] was arguing, red-eyed and bleary with a Pallassian [Negotiator]. She was winning—mainly because the fumes of alcohol were half-choking the Drake.

“So—are you going with them? I’m…thinking about it, you know? Otherwise, we’re like, going with one of them, aren’t we?”

Joseph turned. Troydel walked over, hands in his pockets. Joseph, who had stabbed someone with a spear for the first time today, stared at the other Earther.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

“Pallass.”

The young man avoided Joseph’s look. He spoke, a bit too rapidly.

“Sorry I missed it. I mean—not sorry. This is all crazy. Did you hear? Everyone’s leaving the inn. They want me to go to Pallass. Where…where’re you going? Unless you’re joining the hunt?”

Joseph opened and closed his mouth. Troy stared at Numbtongue and the Wyvern.

“They’re going to jump on that thing and fly off? Like the Goblins? I didn’t even get to speak to the Goblins!”

He meant Rags and the others, especially the amazingly-cool wolf-riding Goblin with the twin swords. That was the kind of thing Troy and Leon had wanted to see. Joseph? He just stared at Troy.

“You want to go with them?”

“Why not? Hey, if you don’t want to go to Pallass, we can fight it! They can’t drag us off!”

Troydel made a fist and threw a jab, which told everyone who saw it, ‘watch out, this kid doesn’t know how to fight’. Joseph just looked at his hands.

He knew that he wasn’t a fighter when he tried to be an adventurer. Today had just confirmed it. Kicking footballs around was a lot more fun than holding a bloody spear as someone slashed at you with a sword.

“Are you really going to go with them after Mrsha?”

Troydel lowered his hands. He looked at Joseph, at the blood and corpses. He blanched at the sight of an adventurer disemboweling one of the dead monsters and comparing the organ with a sketch.

“No. I’m not. And I’m not staying here. I mean…look.”

He stared at the inn. Joseph saw the holes in the roof, the battlefield…Troy shook his head.

“We were safer with Magnolia.”

“We didn’t do anything.”

“Yeah. But we were safer. Right up until the [Assassin] attack, I guess. Well. Erin helped us and I’ve got my thing…”

Joseph eyed him, but Troy didn’t elaborate. The young man turned to Joseph.

“…But Galina was right when she went with the Players. Here isn’t where I want to be. I’m going to Pallass. You coming with?”

The [Football Coach] debated using [Power Kick] to boot Troy into a pile of corpses, but the fact was, he agreed with Troy. He shrugged.

“I’m going somewhere. Maybe Invrisil?”

He rose to say goodbye to Numbtongue and the others. To wish them well. None of them seemed surprised as the young man from Spain hung his head.

“I’d like to come with, but…I’m not a fighter.”

“No.”

Numbtongue raised his head. He looked at Joseph and said it clearly. But he did rise and offer Joseph something.

It was a hand. Joseph shook it. The [Bard] stood, looking exhausted, bloody, but he did meet Joseph’s eyes.

“Go. We will come back. With Mrsha.”

“If there’s anything I can do…money? I have money. I can help Selys. Just say it.”

The others nodded. Joseph stepped back—and all the agents clustering around the field surged forwards. Fierre herself broke off investigating one of the downed Gnolls who had gone after Mrsha.

“Wistram, Pallass…oh, hey. That’s someone from Roshal. Um…Terandrian?”

She was counting the people vying for Joseph’s attention. The young man backed up.

“Coach Joseph, Coach Joseph! Hear me out! Before you decide on a place—”

“—A home, fine accommodations—”

“You don’t want Pallass! Invrisil is full of your people!”

Most of them had no chance. Even if they were agents hired from abroad to keep tabs on the inn, you weren’t going to get Joseph to sail to Lailight Scintillation. They tried, though. Right up until Bezale blocked them with a [Wall of Stone].

“That’s enough! Joseph, you’re heading to Invrisil with us, right?”

The [Football Coach] nodded dubiously. Instantly, Pallass’ agents protested, but one of them was already hurrying after Troydel, as the young man tried to see if he could get a better offer—with few results.

The fact was that all that attention, the ‘circling vultures’ as Valeterisa, Chaldion, or Fierre might describe them, were various powers realizing the inn’s clients were up for grabs. Imani and Palt had already vanished under an [Invisibility] spell and were heading to Liscor.

Joseph on the other hand? They wanted Joseph. Some of the agents might not have even known the value of an Earther, hence Troydel being ignored.

Joseph was worth a lot no matter what you knew, and it looked like a showdown between Invrisil and Pallass over the [Coach]’s place of residence, for all he was contracted to teach both. Especially because Invrisil had beaten Pallass in their first matchup, much to the horror of the Walled City.

That was sports for you. Chaldion had told his people to get Joseph if possible.

But the real Human that the agents were looking for, saving their best offers for, charm Skills, was Kevin.

Kevin, who made bikes. You could take football or leave it, but bikes, skateboards, and Solar Cycles was transportation and anyone with eyes wanted Kevin. Fierre even saw a delegation from Esthelm—a bunch of [Miners]—fight through the crowd.

“Where’s Kevin? We’re just going to get him—”

“Excuse me, I represent—”

The [Negotiator] from Pallass, and a hired [Contractor] who was representing Khelt both lost to Esthelm. Not because the small city had better [Negotiators], but because they knew how to throw elbows. As Ilvriss’ uncle, Nerul, would have observed, that was why you had an anti-combat Skill—or a [Bodyguard].

They fought through the crowd, although Esthelm would have been mostly happy to let Kevin stay in Invrisil where Hedault was. However, the [Miners], despite their tremendous ability to shove people aside, didn’t get to Kevin first. They did a circle through the crowd, and Fierre looked up from where she was conferring with the hunting group.

This was all a sideshow to Olesm’s discussion with Snapjaw. They had to organize a route, supplies, and a team.

“Listen. If it’s Numbtongue, me, Badarrow, Snapjaw, um, your Wyvern—”

“Icecube.”

Snapjaw patted the Frost Wyvern affectionately. Fierre stared at it.

“…Yes. Well, I’m sure you’re all high-level. But those Gnolls were good. We need more than just four.”

“Badarrow will see. Otherwise…we go. You don’t need to come. Bloodbiters too much work. Scream under sun, scream when cooking with garlic, scream when someone sneezes in silver dust…”

Ulvama poked Fierre in the side and the Vampire girl went white with terror. Olesm just gave Ulvama a blank look.

“I don’t know what that means, but I’ll see what I can do.”

He walked off and Fierre stared at Ulvama. The [Shaman] just gave her a self-satisfied look.

“What? I wrong?”

“I—I—”

Before Fierre could shout or scream or run away, someone walked over.

“Excuse me, Sirs, Misses…heard you were heading after the young girl. Mrsha, as it were. Mind if we tag along?”

The group looked up. And there were two Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings. Numbtongue’s eyes widened.

“You lived.”

Normen, the younger Brother, tipped his hat. He had a nasty scar down one cheek; a product of an enchanted blade. The other Brother had come from Liscor, having been arrested during the altercation with Wanderer. Those two alone had come over; the other Brothers had left.

“You want to come with?”

Snapjaw glanced at them, surprised. She had seen the dead hat-men. Normen and the older Brother tipped their hats.

“If we could be of use, Miss. The little Gnoll’s gone, and we were supposed to look after her. Doesn’t feel right, leaving her.”

Numbtongue looked at Normen and thought of Crimshaw and the others. The [Bard] spoke, slowly.

“You do not have to. All debts…you paid them.”

The younger Brother nodded. He reached for his side and produced something.

Crimshaw’s dagger. He’d collected it from his mentor. The one thing he would keep. Normen flicked it up, caught it. Then looked at Numbtongue.

“So you say, sir, and it’s appreciated. I just feel that Crimshaw would be going. Since he’s resting, I’ll come. If you need me.”

He held out his gloved hand. Numbtongue looked at it. Then he slowly took it. Fierre watched, eyes flicking to Ulvama.

The expedition grew. In the background, the susurration and arguments had grown quiet. The Vampire girl looked over, and someone raised their voice.

“Hey. Hold on. Stop elbowing me! Just—truce, alright?”

The factions ceased fighting, Montressa and Bezale with Joseph behind a barrier, Troydel shielded by Pallass’ [Soldiers]. The others looked around. One of the battered [Negotiators] stared about.

“Where is Kevin?”

The others looked, but they began to realize—in all the confusion, the person they were fighting over was…missing.

Kevin was gone.

—-

Below the city of Liscor, the Antinium were making plans of their own. The Painted Antinium gathered around Pawn, who lay, convalescing, but turned as a new Antinium walked their halls.

Bird stopped in front of Pawn. He looked down.

“You cannot travel, Pawn.”

“That…is probably true, Bird. Are you going? You?”

The [Bird Hunter] looked at Pawn.

“Of course. I am here to see who else will come. I know I am banned, but Klbkch is not here. So I poo on him.”

Belgrade hesitated. The [Tactician] tapped Bird on the shoulder as the others drew around.

“You mean, you poo-poo him.”

“Possibly I would do both if he were here.”

—-

In Goblinhome, as soon as she returned, Rags called the Goblins of her tribe to her as Badarrow stood before them. The [Sniper] leaned on his bow as Rags explained to the Goblins an abbreviated version of what had happened.

Most knew already, the Goblin social network being infinitely faster than most modes of communication. What they were curious about was…why their Chieftain had summoned them.

Also, who that was. Rags noticed the stares and turned her head. She jumped.

“What are you doing here?”

Kevin stared around. The [Engineer] scratched at his head.

“I uh…wanted to meet the Goblins that Erin was always talking about. He said it was okay. We’re all splitting up anyways, so…”

The young man gestured at the best [Negotiator], who had gotten him before anyone else. Rags turned to face Calescent. The [Spice Chef] looked smug as he waggled his eyebrows. In Goblin body-language, he was expressing immense satisfaction and hilarity at her reaction, and a slight shift of his head indicated the crossbows. And Kevin.

Eh, Chieftain? Seems like I did good, huh? Want to buy me that spice rack after all?

“How?”

Rags eyed Kevin, ignoring the smug [Chef]. Kevin scratched at his head.

“Well…I was looking at the Wyverns, and Calescent was like, ‘want to fly? Come with.’ So I did. Am I in trouble?”

Master-class negotiation. Rags looked at Kevin, and then turned back to Badarrow. That was not what mattered right now. It was simply this. She took a deep breath and began to speak.

—-

“Mrsha is gone. The inn is being abandoned. Erin is dead. For now. So, I am leaving.”

Bird spoke. The Antinium listened. The inn was…their heads swung back to Pawn. Yet the [Priest] just listened. His gaze was fixed on Bird.

The [Hunter] stood in the center of the Antinium, the Free Antinium, the Antinium from other Hives, looking around.

“Hello. I forgot to say this—I am Bird. You do not know me, I do not know you. Especially you.”

He pointed at Xeu. The Silent Antinium’s Prognugator clacked her mandibles. The others looked at Bird as he turned around.

“That is not important; I do not care. Mrsha is gone. I am going after her.”

Someone spoke.

“You will not survive.”

Pivr. Pawn had nearly forgotten the Flying Antinium’s Prognugator was here. Pivr stared at Bird.

“Are you suggesting leaving Liscor? That is not a sensible decision. To the south lies the lands of the Drakes. Gnolls. We are bound by our Hive’s pact with them. If any Antinium is found outside of Liscor or the Hivelands, they will be killed.”

“Thank you for telling me, not-bird Antinium. I like your wings.”

Bird looked at Pivr and turned away. He happily ignored Pivr.

“I have never been to the south. Yet some Gnoll has taken Mrsha. She is missing, and she is part of the inn. If Erin wakes up tomorrow—she will be sad. Lyonette will be sad, if Mrsha never comes back. I will be…sad.”

The Antinium listened. Bird looked around.

“So. I am going. I do not know where I am going, exactly. But I came here to ask if anyone is coming with me.”

They looked at each other, Belgrade, Garry, Pawn, Yellow Splatters, as the Antinium made his request.

—-

“Badarrow is leaving. So is Snapjaw. They go to find this Gnoll.”

Rags spoke. The Goblins susurrated, expressing their feelings in gestures more than words. Rags looked at Badarrow. He should say something.

“Am going.”

The taciturn [Sniper] glanced along the lines of faces. Towards the Redfangs.

At Redscar, the last leader of the tribe. Redscar folded his arms.

“Chieftain has battles to fight. You leaving tribe?”

“I give him permission. He comes back if not dead.”

Rags snapped back. Redscar shrugged. Badarrow looked around, and a sea of glowing crimson eyes met his. Kevin watched, fascinated, as a Wyvern sniffed him and drooled.

This is what they said.

—-

Bird looked at Pawn. Badarrow glanced at Rags as he leaned against the Wyvern ready to take him back to Liscor. And…further beyond.

“Will you stop me?”

Bird tilted his head, curiously, gazing at Pawn. The [Priest] looked up at him.

“Stop you? I would go with you if I could. But Bird—Pivr is right. We are Antinium. I cannot ask others to die. The Antinium are going to war. Is that not so, Belgrade?”

The [Tactician] walked forwards. He nodded slowly, looking at Bird, at the floor.

“We are to battle Hectval. I was asked by Olesm to take command—Bird, I promised.”

The [Hunter] just smiled.

“If you promised, Belgrade, you must fulfill your promise. Unless you lied. I am not stupid, Pawn. Just silly. I will tell them, properly, what will happen.”

The [Priest] nodded and sat back. It was up to Pawn. The Workers and Soldiers listened as Bird stepped forwards. He faced them, the Free Antinium of the Hive, and Xrn and the Free Queen both listened and watched through their eyes.

Bird looked around, at the room full of painted signs, Fortresses of Fluff, books and toys and things to make living…better. He looked at his kin, and then back up towards the ceiling. When he spoke, his voice was not as playful, not as relaxed as it normally was.

It was still both things. Yet Bird’s voice was…serious. Intent. Conversational, matter-of-fact, and determined. Even the first Workers, Garry, Belgrade, and Pawn, who had known him from the beginning, with the [Innkeeper], had never heard him speak like that.

“I have been to Pallass, you know. Someone once said Antinium would never take Pallass’ walls and I walked on them. It was okay. There were lots of bird-Wyverns, and I got into trouble. I nearly died. But that is normal.”

The Antinium listened. Pivr’s mandibles opened and closed. Bird had done that. The [Hunter] shook his head, his antennae waving.

“They say these things. Antinium are not allowed here, or there. We are on Izril, and Liscor and the Hivelands, but we never go anywhere else. Maybe because there is nothing to see. Sometimes, though, I think there must be countless birds I’ve never seen, if I walked north, or south, until I left Liscor behind. I never did, because I did not need to. Liscor is nice. The inn is nice. But now, it seems the inn has run away. A silly little Gnoll has gone missing again, and I must find her.”

He looked around. The [Sniper] spoke.

“Her name is Mrsha. She is part of the inn. That inn. I am going after. That is why I go. If I come back…I will rejoin tribe. But I am going. To find her. Or die. Numbtongue is alive. He goes too. And Snapjaw, Ulvama.”

The Goblins stirred. They knew all those names. Rags looked at Badarrow. She nodded to him.

“It is a thing Badarrow must do. So he does. If any Goblin wants to go with—they can. They will be part of the tribe. But. They will die.”

She did not lie to them. She did not promise them illusions. You should not, between Goblins. Goblinhome focused on Badarrow. Now, they knew what he wanted.

“I cannot promise we will come back. No…I promise the other thing.”

Bird stood in front of them. His head rose, and he looked upwards. To the sky he could not see, but had stayed so many days and nights under. This place? This hive was…cramped.

Pawn felt like he could…sense Bird’s thoughts. For a second. The [Hunter] spoke then, and looked at the Antinium.

“I am asking if you wish to come. But I will tell you this: if you leave, you will never come back. That is the truth.”

The Antinium stirred. Bird walked forwards.

“We are Antinium. All these things Pawn and the not-bird over there said are true. We go to rescue Mrsha, but we are Antinium. If you leave, you will die far from the Hive. With no one to write your paint on the walls. No one will make a statue for you. It may be painful. No…I am sure it will be.”

Rags bellowed to the listening Goblins.

“This is not for the tribe! It is not for the good of Goblins!”

Bird nodded.

“We are not meant to leave Liscor.”

Redscar spoke to Badarrow.

“They will hunt you across Izril! If you go with them, they will watch you and try to slaughter you with every step you take. So why do you ask?”

He bared his teeth. A challenge, a question. Badarrow met the older Goblin’s gaze, unflinching. He thought, and Bird replied. He looked around, having prefaced the journey with the truth. The odds against them. Certain death.

“I tell you this because it is true. And I am asking because I am going, not because I want more Antinium to die with me. That is not my goal. If you were wondering.”

“Didn’t say I wanted Goblins to come.”

Badarrow addressed Redscar. The Goblin raised his brows.

“Then what?”

Bird looked around, spreading his four arms to his Antinium audience.

“I am asking if you want to come with me. Because I am going. I must. So if you must—come. If you know you must go, even if you die, that is why you go.”

He lowered his arms. Looking at Garry, Belgrade, Pawn, all of whom knew what called him. Garry was opening and closing his mandibles, but Bird laid a hand on his arm.

“Pawn is hurt. Belgrade has a promise. And you are bad at fighting, Garry. I am going. Erin is here—you can protect her. Mrsha is different.”

“You cannot leave it to anyone else, Bird?”

Garry whispered. Bird just smiled. He shook his head.

“Mrsha is my big sister. She said that and I have no idea what it means, but it means something. I am the younger brother! Although she is sillier than even me. I must go.”

The Goblin nodded.

“A debt for the inn. It is still here. For the Redfangs who were there. Headscratcher. Shorthilt. They would go. So I am going.”

Badarrow looked around. There were not Goblin words for the specific meaning of ‘debt’. Not like this.

“How many times will you pay it?”

Redscar. He didn’t scoff, but the Goblins were curious. Badarrow just gave him a pointy grin.

“You never finish, until you die.”

The other Goblin thought about this. Then he laughed and nodded.

—-

They stood there, in a single rank of bodies.

Antinium.

Goblins.

Hobgoblins and regular Goblins.

Workers and Soldiers.

Painted and unpainted, [Shamans], [Warriors], Cave Goblins and Mountain City Goblins, Redfangs, Prognugators of foreign Hives, Individuals and not.

“If you would join Bird, and leave us…”

Pawn raised his voice. Rags shouted.

“Goblins who will follow Badarrow—”

“Step forwards.”

The line of Goblins and Antinium moved. Thousands of Goblins and Antinium, as one, did nothing.

They did not volunteer. They had heard what lay ahead and decided not to. Bird smiled and Badarrow grinned.

Good. Because they didn’t want all of them. If all of them had volunteered to die, that was a problem.

Their eyes fixed on the ones who had moved.

They stepped forwards, in perfect synchronization with no one else, and looked around, hesitated, and began to step back.

Then stopped. Goblins and Antinium looked at each other. For reasons only they knew, they had left the others. Stepped out of line.

Fifteen Antinium. Twelve Goblins.

Badarrow nodded. The Goblins of Goblinhome were tired of dying. Even for the best of reasons. Yet twelve had come. Twelve, who thought they had a debt yet to pay. He saw only three Redfangs. The rest of the Goblins were all of one kind.

Cave Goblins. He nodded at them and they bared their teeth in reply.

Bird glanced at the Workers and Soldiers. The ones who had known Mrsha. Who had gone to the inn. He made to walk towards them and two of the Antinium who had moved blocked Bird’s path.

Xeu, the Silent Antinium, and Pivr, the Flying Antinium, Prognugators both. Pivr clacked his mandibles, looking around in agitation. He gestured at Bird, as Xeu rubbed her scythe-arms, just as perturbed.

“…We have orders not to let an asset to the Hive die. You should restrain him.”

Yellow Splatters had not moved. He leaned against one of the walls and spoke as he looked at Bird.

“You could try. We will watch.”

“We have authority. Over you. You will obey.”

Xeu whispered to Bird, one of the few time she had ever spoken. Bird blinked at her.

“No.”

The Silent Antinium stared at him. Bird peered at her.

“How about that?”

He began to walk past them, and the two Prognugators blocked his way.

“We have authority.”

Pivr looked confused. Xeu raised a scythe, hesitantly, as if wondering how to stop Bird without hurting him. It was one of the Workers who spoke.

“No, you do not.”

The voice was female. It spoke through the Worker. The Antinium fell silent. Bird looked up.

“Oh, hello.”

The Free Queen of the Antinium looked at Pawn. The Prognugators of other Hives knelt. It was the Free Queen who spoke. Just this.

“Bird. I name you Revalantor of the Free Antinium. Go. If you would protect him, Xeu, Pivr, you will bow to his will.”

The two Prognugators looked up. Bird smiled.

“Thank you.”

Then he walked out of the Hive. The Antinium followed.

—-

The Goblins came down from the mountains the next day. The Antinium left their Hives.

By that time, Selys had bought as many supplies as she could. Bags of holding, horses.

There was only one Frost Wyvern. Fierre had been fretting over sunproof cloaks, their route. And…the gathering.

“Antinium? I’ve never seen an Antinium ride a horse. Goblins too? This is suicide.”

Palt was trying to talk them out of it. Bird pressed a finger against his mandibles.

“Be shush, silly horse-man. Do you think we don’t know that?”

The two Brothers leaned against their horses, looking at their travelling companions as the Goblins stared at the Antinium. Bird? He just made a fist and bumped Badarrow and Numbtongue and Snapjaw’s fists all at the same time. Ulvama ignored his fist-bump.

“Who else is coming? Who’s that?”

Ulvama frowned, standing straighter and hefting her staff warily. More people were coming from the inn. Fierre turned. She blinked.

She had expected one, not the other two. They slowed as they came down the hill. Palt looked up and scowled.

“Absolutely not! You’re not fighters!”

“Yeah, but we’re Runners. And if you’re chasing someone—there’s no one better. Fierre, I heard you wanted Garia. Not me?”

Fals and Garia Strongheart trotted down the hill. The City Runner and [Martial Artist] gave Fierre grins. The Vampire blinked at Garia.

“He wanted to come.”

“What about you? You’re not a warrior either!”

Palt trotted over. Octavia bit her fingernails.

“But it’s Mrsha. Look—it’s Mrsha, Palt.”

“Are you sure?”

“Someone has to come who can go into the cities and such, right, Fierre? I mean, besides you.”

The one actual non-monster beamed around as she clapped Fierre on the shoulder. Fals looked at Numbtongue and Badarrow. The [Bard] and [Sniper] duo glanced at him.

“You coming for Mrsha?”

“Yeah. If it wasn’t her—but that’s a kid. Right? Ryoka’s always going on adventures. I figured…I might as well.”

The two Goblins eyed the unfamiliar City Runner, but they didn’t turn him away. Fierre stared at the eclectic group, as Garia looked at Pivr and recoiled.

“What are you?”

The Flying Antinium just tilted its head, looking at Ulvama.

“What are you? A Painted Goblin?”

They didn’t know each other, some of them. The Cave Goblins nudged each other as they pointed at Garia’s abs. Bird was introducing Fierre to Xeu.

“This is Fierre, Xeu. She is Ryoka’s friend. I have no more information about her.”

“What is…a Ryoka?”

Fals was eying the rescue party. He frowned, peering around at faces.

“Antinium. Goblins. Humans. The three most-hated species are going into Izril’s south. Are you telling me we don’t have one Drake or Gnoll?”

The others looked at each other. Numbtongue shrugged.

“Drassi can’t fight. Selys can’t fight. Olesm is going to fight Hectval. Relc?”

He glanced at Badarrow and the [Sniper] made a face.

“Mm. Maybe. He gone though, right?”

“Yup. Gnolls gone too. Krshia gone. Elirr old…Halfseekers? Too far.”

The Goblins halted in listing all the people who couldn’t join in. Because someone was trotting towards them. No—two people.

The token Gnoll and Drake came to a halt, regarding the group. The Gnoll woman just snorted.

“Uh—hi. Can we come?”

Fierre blinked at the Gnoll…she had never seen before in her life. Numbtongue frowned. He eyed the Gnoll’s armor and weaponry.

“Who are you? Why do you want to find Mrsha?”

For answer, one of the two just grinned, but the Gnoll strode forwards. She stopped, and snapped a military salute as she not-quite looked past Numbtongue.

“Sergeant Gna, at your service. Sir. Heard you needed someone who could actually smell the quarry.”

4th Company’s Gnoll looked at the company. Fierre had lost her eyebrows in her hair.

“You want to come with us? Why?”

The Gnoll hesitated. She chose her words carefully.

“Wing Commander Embria got an or…request from Liscor’s Council and the Strategist. Said it was looking for volunteers from 4th Company. I volunteered.”

The others exchanged glances. Snapjaw bared her teeth in an unfriendly way as she eyed Gna.

“Really. Why do you want to come?”

The Gnoll scowled at the ground and kicked at some grass.

“Because I…really want to go with you. Look, do you want me to help? I can go if you don’t.”

She looked hopeful, but after some silent thought, Bird and Numbtongue nodded. Gna sighed.

“Creler eggs.”

The last of the volunteers was the most confusing, although she at least, was recognizable. The onyx-scaled Drake had a pack on her shoulders and a horse. She kept glancing behind her.

“I’d like to come too! My name’s Salkis. Uh—are we moving fast?”

Numbtongue blinked at Salkis. The Drake shot him a grin and looked around, sizing up the others. Fierre frowned.

“Why do you want to join us?”

The Drake took a shuddering breath. She was practically dancing on her feet—not least because someone was going to notice her body-double soon. She’d run away from home. As to why? She looked at Numbtongue.

“Because this is the most fun thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I can help. I know how to fight. There will be fighting, right?”

He just shrugged, backing up warily. Salkis fell into place. Fierre opened her mouth, but she didn’t have the heart to say no.

…No. Rather, she looked at the group and felt like this was madness. Over six different species, with various levels of gear, experience, backgrounds—not all friends—

“This isn’t an army. We’re all going to die.”

“If that’s your speech, I hate it. Thanks.”

Sergeant Gna called back. The Antinium just hefted their packs, silently determined. The Goblins started laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“Good joke.”

Snapjaw nudged Fierre, then looked confused when no one else started laughing. Snapjaw swung herself into the Frost Wyvern’s saddle as Badarrow joined her.

“Tracks go past Bloodfields. We go that way. Uh. We marching? You all slow.”

The others looked at each other. The craziness of this dawned on them—well, some of them—at last. Fierre glanced up at Snapjaw.

“You’re going to fly?”

“You want Icecube to walk?”

The Goblin looked offended. Fierre shook her head, trying to explain. She pointed at Liscor’s walls, and the inn, where the army of the City of Inventions was clearly watching their group. One of them was calling back towards another, unseen.

“They’ve marked us. Instantly. We might not get past Pallass alive; we’ll have to walk. They’ll be [Scrying] us everywhere we go. Maybe even sending people to kill us.”

Snapjaw glanced at the Pallassian Drakes. Ulvama just snorted.

“They will try to scry us. I am a [Shaman].”

She poked her chest importantly. Fierre gave her a dubious look, but they had few [Mages] and her artifacts didn’t pertain to a group. Salkis opened her mouth, hesitated, and closed it.

No one said anything. Snapjaw was looking around, ready to give an order. Numbtongue hesitated himself, and Sergeant Gna looked like she wanted to go back, throw the short straw she’d drawn in Embria’s face, and have a drink.

It was the Worker who walked forwards. He turned and faced the group.

“Yes. We will go and live or die. And it is time to go, I think. Follow me.”

Bird raised his voice, and the band of Goblins, Antinium, Humans, Stitch-Person, Drake, Gnoll, and Vampire, all looked at him.

The Antinium was looking ahead. He pointed to Snapjaw.

“You will fly and scout. Ulvama will cover you from scrying. We will all march together, those not riding.”

“Slow.”

Snapjaw objected, gesturing at the Antinium on foot. She didn’t care how long they could march; even Redfangs would fall behind the Brothers and others on horses. Bird shook his head.

“They will not be.”

The Goblin narrowed her eyes. She had served under Reiss, and she was as experienced as any Goblin Chieftain. Heck, she had been one until being subsumed into his army. Rags was one person to take orders from, but this Antinium? She leaned over Icecube’s neck.

“Oh yeah? Prove it.”

Bird tilted his head. He met Snapjaw’s gaze without flinching, and then raised his hand. He spoke.

“[On the March: Vigilance and Speed]!”

Fierre felt the Skill activate. She felt her body grow lighter, and she was suddenly aware of a Drake marking her from the inn.

The others felt it too. Snapjaw’s mouth opened wide, Ulvama started, and Sergeant Gna snapped to attention. They stared at Bird, even the other Prognugators and Antinium. Numbtongue looked at his friend.

“How did you…?”

Bird calmly looked about.

“You silly people. Did you think I did not have Skills? I learned chess from Erin. I beat Erin. I am Bird the Hunter. As Ksmvr would say—”

His mandibles paused. He opened and closed them. He tilted his head and waved his antennae.

“…I have no idea. I do not like Ksmvr. Here is what I will say: I am better than all of you. Follow my orders! Authority!”

They began to march. Fast, faster than anyone expected. Ulvama began casting magic as she rode, and Bird strode ahead of the Antinium, ignoring Pivr’s panicked questions.

Someone was laughing as they headed south, this war band of insanity. Insanity—bravery—it called to him.

Niers Astoragon had wondered if Bird could sell his Skills well. It turned out the Antinium was a natural. The Titan propped himself up, from the hiding place on Bird’s body.

He had been found. Not by Rags, or anyone else. Not the Eyes of Pallass, but by the Antinium, who’d stopped, following Apista.

—-

He’d reached down and pulled the needle out. Then crouched beside Niers.

“How did you find me?”

Bird glanced at Apista, who was buzzing around worriedly, looking for Mrsha.

“I am Bird. I stare at small things and you are very small. What are you?”

—-

So they rode. Bird tilted his head to the sky. He hummed as he left the inn behind.

[Revalantor Level 3!]

[Skill – Antinium Telepathy (Weak) obtained!]

[Liar Level 1!]

[Skill – Convincing Lies obtained!]

—-

Ishkr watched them go. First Mrsha—then them.

They were all gone.

The Earthers, the guests, the family who had lived there. Erin remained, but she was gone too. The Gnoll walked through the empty inn, ignoring the Pallassian Drakes securing it.

They were not the inn. Now…he ran his hand across the counter. Walked through the kitchen.

Into the [Garden of Sanctuary]. The Gnoll walked up the hill, stopped at the frozen bier.

“They’ve all gone, Erin. What should I do?”

Without her, the inn was…drifting apart. The Gnoll sat down for a while.

“Until they come back.”

He rose, and walked down the hill. Until they came back…Ishkr realized this was the truth. He went to every shutter, and closed them. Boarded up the windows smashed in. He locked all the doors, and went to the front door.

They would move the portal door to Liscor. Unless Pallass decided to operate it here. But the inn itself?

It took him time to find a piece of wood suitable. And paint, a brush.

He found it in the basement, where an [Innkeeper] had abandoned it long ago. Ishkr wrote carefully, making the words larger. He put the sign up, over the door, and prepared to nail it in.

The Wandering Inn is closed. Please come back later.

He hesitated, as he took a few nails and a hammer. It was such a bleak message. It was—wrong.

The [Head Server] looked at the message. He thought of what Erin would write. Then he quickly reversed the piece of wood, and dipped the brush into the paint. He wrote again, and this time stood back. Satisfied, Ishkr put it up, nailed it into the door, and looked at it.

This was what the sign said:

The Wandering Inn is closed, sorry. Please return later. We’ll be back one day.

He read it again, and nodded.

“Yes. That will do.”

It was a promise. The Gnoll looked at it, and then turned his head. But they were already gone.

So he walked back into the inn, to serve the Pallassian [Soldiers]. To clean up.

But before it all, Ishkr paused by the bar. He looked around the empty inn, and found a good glass. He poured some liquid into it, went for the little lantern under the bar.

There was still a glow. He lit the alcohol, reminding himself to add fuel to the lantern later. To it he added a tiny yellow flower, watching as the flames ate it. One of a handful. They too would return and grow again.

The pink flame glowed on top of the mouthful of liquid. Ishkr raised it in a silent toast.

Minotaur’s Punch.

He drank, and the inn came back to life around him. The Gnoll smiled as he saw an [Innkeeper] standing there.

We’ll be back.

Then he closed The Wandering Inn until they returned. And waited.

Interlude – The Pets of Innworld

(The Wandering Inn is on break! The author (me), is also going on my first vacation in…two years? At least a year! We’ll be back on July 13th, 2024 for Patreons! See you then!)

So they left their homes, each one for a different reason.

Different species, united by a common cause.

To war, battle, perhaps certain death.

Because it mattered.

Because it was right.

They might die within the first hour, the first day, or month. They might eventually go back home; either way, their stories would only rarely be known, perhaps never told.

That glorious army—armies representing the world disembarked from their homes. When they arrived—they did so piecemeal, or in vast fleets. The brave, the reluctant—it mattered not.

They came to the Blighted Kingdom, the continent of Rhir, the most deadly land in the world to hold the Demons to justice.

Drakes, Gnolls, Dullahans, Lizardfolk, Humans, Stitchfolk, Centaurs, Selphids and more…every species you could imagine. They were bound by ancient pacts, and galvanized by the atrocities of the Demons’ ritual.

Every major power had sent far more [Soldiers] and materiel than normal. The desultory contributions that sometimes led to piecemeal armies had ended.

Here came entire navies. Escorting ships filled with troops. Hundreds of [Knights], sworn to avenge loved ones. Even minor nobility.

It was the first wave, the outraged response against the Demons. It could not have come sooner, for the Blighted Kingdom. After all—

The Deathless were coming back. As they always did. The greatest leaders of the Demon King’s armies.

The Death of Magic, Silvenia, had shown her face at last. She alone provoked nightmares among the top [Strategists] of the Blighted Kingdom. A [Mage] without equal, who had practically destroyed 5th Wall by herself. Holding her back if the Demons made incursions would be a task worthy of legends.

Archmage Zelkyr and the Necromancer of Terandria had both failed to defeat the Demon King’s Deathless. Here were real legends of centuries past, still threatening Rhir. Perhaps—responsible for the tragedy that had struck at the world.

It was also a concern, because for all the nations of the world were sending reinforcements—no one wanted to send their national treasure or greatest [General], especially if they were fighting wars at home.

Especially if the Deathless would tear them apart. It was a prescient thought in the normally stolid Drakes of the combined Walled Cities, a joint task-force sailing with Zeresian escort. They had put aside their differences to guarantee safe transit to Rhir.

The journey had been long, tiring; they couldn’t skip across powerful currents and they were mundane ships, not crewed by famous [Captains] with Skills or magic. The Drake [Soldiers], renowned for their quality training and formations, were restless. They were ready to take the fight to these damn Demons, but the Deathless…

“How can we fight something like that, [Charge Commander]?”

One of the Drakes asked the Gnoll [Commander] from Manus. The Gnoll grunted, casting eyes at the one [General]—a Fissival [Magic General]—sourly. He stood with his group; Manus. Not a lot of Gnolls, here. Oteslia of course, and a handful from Zeres; he hoped he’d find more of his people from the tribes to mingle with.

Some of the Drakes from the smaller cities who’d joined the ‘tithe’ to the Blighted Kingdom—which was referred to as ‘Defenders of the Blighted Kingdom’ for obvious symbolic reasons—had never fought side-by-side with Gnolls. There had been a few brisk fights onboard while the cooped-up reinforcements stewed.

He answered out of the corner of his mouth.

“We don’t fight that, [Infantryman]. We hold the line.”

“With hell’s fire raining down on our heads?”

One of the others called out. The Gnoll snapped back.

“Drakes don’t run, soldier!”

“Nor do Gnolls from Manus!”

Someone from his command shouted back. There was mixed laughter. The [Charge Commander] grinned, but suppressed his nerves in his tail and kept his face calm.

“We’ve got [Mages] too. No one person can fight an army. We take out the Demons on the ground; leave the high-level targets to our best. I’d like to see the Death of Magic take on an army alone! And keep a lid on questions like that; we’re going to show these Blighted Kingdom [Soldiers] what real discipline looks like.”

The Drakes nodded, even the ones from other cities. That, they could get behind. It was something, but in this moment, even the Drakes and Gnolls felt a kinship towards the soldiers from the Five Families; they’d been sailing close by, and insult had turned to banter.

If Drakes or Gnolls, or one species couldn’t be the best, well, they’d damn well have some Izrilian pride, eh?

The [Charge Commander] smiled as he heard the other Drakes start talking about sloppy formations of other nations. He hoped no one would start singing national anthems; that always provoked jeers and a fight.

Privately, though, he rephrased his statement to the [Soldiers]. He’d said what he’d said to keep morale up, but…he’d heard that the Death of Magic could solo an army. After all, if she could cast area-of-attack spells from oh, ten miles straight up in the air, what was he supposed to do? An army? He couldn’t even shout at her and hurt her feelings!

Well, the [Charge Commander] had to have faith Rhir knew what it was doing. They were nearly there.

—-

The first sight of the Blighted Kingdom was not what most non-Rhirians expected. When you imagined embattled Rhir, the name of the Blighted Kingdom, you tended to expect a lot of grey, militarized zones, land torn by spells and damage. Perhaps dead bodies lying out to rot.

There was all that, of course, although the dead were properly-disposed of, or used by the [Necromancers], but the first sight of Rhir’s capital, Paranfer, and the coast, was, well…startling.

“Hey. That’s nicer than home!”

One of the Drakes called out, staring at the terraformed farmland, the verdant greenery—and the rather impressive coastal defense fortresses scattered at regular intervals.

Paranfer itself was as impressive as any great city in the world; arguably richer and larger than even First Landing. It was a match for the Walled Cities.

Why not? The Blighted Kingdom received funds from almost every nation in the world along with [Soldiers]—sometimes in place of soldiers. It had magic, resources—and Paranfer lay behind 1st Wall.

Few Demons had ever seen past 1st Wall. Even the Antinium had not tried to storm it.

Paranfer was gorgeous, and the lands around it were given over to agriculture, which always looked pretty from afar. Rhir did not, actually, specialize in much mining, textiles—in a broad sense—or the varied national outputs of other countries.

It had amazing [Smiths], [Mages], and [Craftspeople], but it imported a wealth of goods. What Rhir did focus on was food; you could import swords and repurpose blades, even ones used by Demons. But a starving army died even if it was covered in adamantium.

As the ships came into harbor, they were also greeted by parades, magical lights off the coast, launched by the guard towers. They were by way of being both communications and greeting.

Never let it be said that Othius IV, the Blighted King, was a foolish ruler when it came to statecraft. He knew how to make his visitors feel honored. Within the next few days, as the transports were speedily unloaded, cargo efficiently catalogued and stored, there would be further celebrations, honoring each nation and species.

However, the key issue laying before General Vors of Fissival was this: he didn’t know how he was going to handle a Human ordering him about. Let alone his people serving with, well, non-Drakes.

Other Drakes were bad enough. There had been fights onboard. The [Magic General], recently graduated from Fissival’s small martial academy, knew all the long grudges between Walled Cities. There was a saying about Drakes fighting over dust at the end of the world—well, that was nothing compared to Humans, Gnolls, and Drakes in the same room.

He’d seen the Tribes had sent countless warriors of their own. They were occupying some of Zeres’ ships and Rhir’s sent to transport them. The Tribes didn’t even have a fleet of their own, by and large.

Vors didn’t think he was…prejudiced. He could certainly envision taking orders if they were the right ones, but would he get a commander who didn’t understand Drake tactics? Who didn’t value Fissival’s unique focus on magic and physical combat? He’d fought Gnolls of course, and other cities, and wondered if they’d hold a grudge or make assumptions.

The [Magic General] shifted. He’d been ushered off the ship with a tremendous amount of ceremony, which he appreciated. But while his [Soldiers] had been settled in with a kind of efficiency even the Manus-led ones admired, he’d been called here.

To a rather small, cramped room in some kind of military outpost, to talk to Rhir’s High Command.

“Amazing.”

Vors glanced around the room, noting how plain it was. Chipped walls? There was a bowl of nuts on the table and he swore he’d seen something moving in it.

“It just goes to show. All that glitter on the outside and they can’t even design a room large enough to swing your tail about in. Unless this is large for them?”

Dead gods, that would be a nightmare. What would his personal quarters look like? Also—was he expected to sit and smile with some Gnoll [Chieftain] or [Tribal Warrior]? Vors shuddered—then reminded himself he’d volunteered for this. His poor brother—and he was the commander of this Drake force!

He could work with a Gnoll. Hadn’t he thought it was a shame about them being butchered on Chandrar? Even if they were unpredictable and their tribes sometimes looted settlements?

Well. Vors had been waiting for nearly ten minutes, and he was losing his goodwill towards the hospitality of the Blighted King. None of the chairs were comfortable—or sized for people with tails!

“Damn Humans. I thought they got Drakes regularly.”

The floor was a bit dirty and if he had to wait another ten minutes, he was going to find the High Command and complain. Or complain to the Walled Cities about how their reinforcements were being treated. Was this what his predecessors from Fissival had had to face?

“Poor bastards.”

Vors murmured. He’d heard the [Charge Commander] talking and he knew they’d run straight into the Death of Magic on 5th Wall. He shuddered. Sat there, determined to make a first good impression.

Vors waited for twelve more minutes, and then lost his temper. He stood up.

“Excuse me! Has there been some kind of mistake?”

He opened the door, calling into the corridor for one of the aides who’d brought him here with no explanation. He found…no one.

The hallway was as shabby as this one. Vors stepped out into it.

“Hello?”

Where were the orderlies? The [Tacticians]? Someone to run messages? Was someone playing a prank on him? He walked out, wondering if this was, in fact, some kind of Demon-attack. No. Not in Paranfer. Still…he edged out a bit further, casting a cantrip to locate others.

To Vors’ surprise, he felt the spell bounce right back with a contact and then someone probe him. Vors whirled, and a door opened.

“Strange. Is this some kind of test?”

A door right next to Vors’ opened and—a Lamia slithered out. Vors instantly recoiled, and saw the Lamia, with decorated armor over her scales, do likewise, but in surprise.

She was wearing armor over orange-and-green scales, a very colorful mix, unlike that of Drakes, who were monochrome by and large. The Lamia had some kind of intricate paint insignia on her side, and her serpentine body ran down to a tail; no legs. She was a Lamia.

Lizardfolk. Vors’ jaw instantly clenched. He’d known he’d have to serve alongside them, but of all the coincidences—!

“Greetings, Miss. General Vors of Fissival. Are you in charge here? Do you know where the High Command is?”

She eyed Vors and lowered the object she’d been holding. A staff with shards of glass embedded at the top; clearly magical.

“Not at all. I am [Battlemage]-[Commander] Tusxe of the Roving Fireball company, contracted to fight for Rhir for the duration of the war. You’re…from Izril?”

“Fissival. The Walled City of Magic? Greetings.”

Vors crossed his arms, unwilling to shake the hand of one of the Drakes’ enemies. An old one, true, but the wars they’d fought…

To his surprise, the Lamia just nodded coolly.

“A pleasure. You’ve just arrived? I did as well. Do you know where the leadership is?”

“I was just asking. I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes. Well, do excuse me. I’m off to see why this place is so empty.”

“Really.”

Her tone made Vors draw up. He turned back to the Lamia and saw her raise both brows.

“Something the matter, Miss?”

“That’s Battlemage Commander, General. I’m just impressed you waited ‘twenty minutes’. That’s the famous Drake impatience for you, I suppose.”

The Drake’s brows crossed instantly.

“I suppose you’ve been waiting longer?”

“Nearly an hour.”

“An hour? And you just stayed here?”

He was incredulous. Tusxe frowned at him.

“I hardly twiddled my thumb-claws, thank you. I was practicing magic until your spell bounced off my wards. You need to put yours up, incidentally. And why shouldn’t I wait?”

The [Magic General] blushed at the omission, but he was irritated and growing more so.

“I came here to fight for Rhir against the Demons and represent Izril. My time is not to be wasted lightly, Battlemage Commander.”

She smiled thinly.

“And I suppose your time is far more valuable than Rhir’s High Command’s? We are outsiders, General Vors. If they have a reason to make us wait, I am willing to wait rather than disrupt their chain of command. It might be there’s a crisis.”

“All the more reason to know about it.”

“Why? So you can lead your army through an unfamiliar city and not know who’s fighting who, what they look like, and without communicating your intent? You’ve never fought in unfamiliar territory, have you?”

He had not, being familiar with most of the battlegrounds Fissival chose. The Drake turned red right under his scales. The two glared at each other; well, Tusxe had a slight smirk on her face.

Vors was just about to say—something—that he didn’t want to be lectured by a mere [Mercenary], that he didn’t have to stand for this coming from her, something about their peoples not getting along—when the door opened.

“I say, is it my turn to meet with the [General] of this place? I’ve been waiting for quite some time, you know. Not that it’s inconveniencing or anything…”

The Lamia and Drake both turned around and saw a man peering out of his room. He stared at the two non-Humans in clear alarm.

“Are you my, ah, liaisons?”

Vors looked at the [Lord] in his late thirties.

“Who…are you?”

“Lord Solvet. The Kingdom of Avel. How do you do? Er—sir?”

The man looked as bewildered as Vors felt—the difference was that he showed it. He was garbed in dress clothes of all things, not armor like Vors’ enchanted cloth, or Tusxe’s metal. He looked incredibly confused as he came out of his room.

“You wouldn’t happen to know when I’m meeting with General Idecan, do you? I was scheduled for a meeting two hours ago, but—”

“Two hours?”

The two commanders chorused in horror. Vors instantly turned to the man.

“Why didn’t you ask what the delay was?”

“Well…that would hardly be fitting. I am representing nearly six nations, and I am quite aware of Rhir’s status—it was also a long journey, so I confess to having nodded off.”

The [Lord] of Avel was embarrassed, but to Vors’ surprise, stuck out a hand as he bowed slightly.

“How do you do? I apologize, sir. I haven’t asked your name.”

“Er—General Vors of Fissival. Exceptionally pleased.”

Solvet blinked at Vors’ clawed hand and hesitated, nearly withdrawing his hand. He was wary of Vors’ claws. The [General] was amused and shook the man’s hand without scratching him. Tusxe did likewise.

“A pleasure. It looks like we’re all sitting around. Do you think they’ll mind if we talk out here?”

“It certainly beats my room. It’s—cramped.”

Vors glanced around, unsure how much to say if someone walked in on them. Solvet hesitated before nodding.

“It ah—lacked for certain refreshments. I suppose Rhir pours its budget into the defense of the nation—commendable! I might suggest to his Majesty—of Avel—that we add a bit more to our contributions, however. My room was, ah, slightly stuffy.”

Tusxe glanced from man to man, and snorted.

“My room was a craphole; I’ve had better stays in inns in a village in the middle of the jungle. I could swear there was something moving in my bowl.”

“You too?”

The two chorused before they could help themselves. Vors and Solvet exchanged glances.

“—Hang on. Would you mind if we looked inside your room?”

He turned to the Lamia. She shrugged.

“It’s not like I’ve got anything in there. Come on.”

She opened the door and the two followed her. Solvet and Vors found exact copies of their room, down to the bowl of nuts.

“There it is again! What is—”

Solvet recoiled in horror as a beetle scurried out of the bowl. Tusxe made a noise of disgust—Vors lost his temper.

“That’s it. I’m finding whoever put us in here. If this is some kind of a joke—this is what they’re serving to the High Command of our nations? What are they feeding the soldiers?”

“Isn’t that uh—different—for your species? Could that be construed as a snack?”

Solvet suggested timidly. Vors stopped, halfway out the door. He turned back and Tusxe and he exchanged an incredulous look and stared at the Human. Tusxe spoke first.

“Excuse me, Lord Solvet. Do you happen to eat bugs?”

“Me? No, no. I just—”

“Well, I don’t either! Get a Selphid for that. Who eats bugs?”

Vors had to admit, he’d heard that Lizardfolk might eat bugs—from some rumor, but Tusxe and he being put into the ‘scaled people eat bugs’ category was offensive enough. Solvet raised his hands, trying to apologize.

“I’m sorry! I just assumed—I wouldn’t have dreamed Rhir would have an infested bowl of foodstuffs! And there are bug-eaters in Terandria. Half-Elves, you know.”

“Half-Elves? Really?”

The Drake was agog, and actually had to stop again. Solvet nodded. Tusxe was just as surprised.

“Really? But you think of half-Elves as these…mystical…heirs to magic! Descendants of Elves! Fabulous cities of craft and marble and such!”

“In forests, you mean? Is that your image of half-Elves?”

The Drake and Lamia nodded. Solvet sighed.

“Well, they tend to be connected with the forests. Deeply. City-dwelling half-Elves are one thing, but I have seen them lick moss off boulders in the villages.”

“That’s…”

Vors couldn’t suppress the cough of amusement. Tusxe grinned. It was right then when he heard a curious sound.

Something was in the hallway. He turned, hearing the slight sound. Solvet glanced up; for all the [Lord] seemed oblivious, he’d heard it too, instead of Tusxe, who was asking about worms.

“What’s that?”

The three went to the door. Now, they all had a feeling something was up, so Vors relaxed the blade at his side. He saw Tusxe check her staff. Solvet? He had a belt knife and glanced at it, dismayed.

“You don’t suppose there is a crisis, do you? I ah, may have been eavesdropping—I’m without weapons.”

“You don’t have—what did you think you were coming here for, a dance?”

The Lamia cast scornful eyes at him. The man huffed a little; he had a slight wavy mustache, Vors realized. The Drake stared at it, having never seen that kind of facial hair around the mostly Gnoll and Drake peoples.

“I apologize, Commander Tusxe, but I use a longbow in battle. It’s considered slightly indecorous to walk around with a six-and-a-half foot bow when greeting dignitaries.”

“Really? You use a bow?”

“I do come from Avel.”

The Drake and Lamia had another blank look for the man. The [Lord] was dismayed.

“Avel? The Kingdom of Bows? Renowned for their archers?”

“Never heard of it. Hold on—I’m sensing something outside.”

Vors sent a spell. He saw Tusxe twist her claws and did the same thing. Both frowned—then glanced outside.

“That can’t be right. Is that a…”

Something went oink outside the door. All three leaders recoiled, then peered outside and found…a pig.

It was a small pig roaming the corridor! Well, ‘small’ for a pig, as Vors had seen some gigantic ones. It was probably four feet long, low to the ground, and had the oddest skin and coloration he’d ever seen.

Some of the pig was a rosy pink, even trending towards white on the underbelly—no dirt at all. The rest? It had some kind of…goldish…armor on it. Like scales or plate!

“What the hell is that?”

Tusxe pointed at the pig. Solvet’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

“My goodness! Is that a Goldflake Pig? What’s it doing here? And…just running about?”

“A what?”

Vors looked about the corridor, but he saw no one, nor where the pig had come from. Solvet explained as the pig sat on its haunches and looked up at the bemused three.

“It’s a rare breed of pig. It eats minerals of all kind. Well, the name gives away what it does. Goldflake. Nicknamed the Goldfake Pig.”

“Because that isn’t real? Does that hurt? Hey, hold still, you. Is anyone checking if it has an explosive spell embedded in it? Hostile artifact?”

Vors snatched his claw away from poking at the gold ‘scales’ growing out of the pig.

“Who would do that?”

“Hello? Hostile Demons? We’re three high-value targets—you haven’t ever had to watch out for that?”

The two non-Baleros leaders looked aghast. Tusxe snorted. She scanned the pig, leaning back.

“…It’s clear. So that’s not gold on it?”

“Not at all. Come here, you.”

The pig was skittish, but Solvet made a clicking sound and it froze. It turned, trotted over, and sat down. Vors was doubly impressed.

“It must be trained.”

“Ye-es. For wardog commands. I really didn’t think that would work. Hm…it’s not shedding, and someone’s kept the fake gold trimmed. You see, they eat minerals and produce fake gold.”

“Pyrite. That’s actually useful in spells. I guess this must be the property of someone in Paranfer.”

The other two looked at Vors. The pig glanced up at Solvet, then got to its hooves again. Tusxe blew out her cheeks.

“Well, now we’ve got pigs roaming around and bugs. A fine welcome. Feels like home.”

“Agreed. Perhaps something is wrong?”

Solvet hesitated. Vors was about to suggest they all go searching, but Tusxe beat them to it.

“Let’s check. And stay on your guard, you two.”

They headed down a corridor, the three of them, leaving the pig behind. Vors sensed the Lamia tossing scouting spells—he just began casting his own battle-spells from a list. As an afterthought, he tapped Solvet. The man jumped.

“What? What are you—?”

He blinked as Vors’ [Mage Armor] spell appeared on his body. Tusxe eyed it. Solvet was surprised, but nodded at Vors.

“Um, thank you.”

“Just in case. Do you need a backup weapon? I can lend you my Wand of Fire Bolts.”

The [Lord] hesitated, eyed his belt-knife, and nodded.

“That—would be appreciated. I shall try not to waste the charge. I have aiming Skills.”

“Good. Don’t worry, though; it’s rechargeable.”

Tusxe glanced back as she came to the end of the corridor. Something was on the door; a bit of paper clumsily tacked to the cracked wood.

“Really? Fancy. How do you do that? I’ve heard you can recharge wands, but mine just break when used.”

“Fissival-made. Rechargeable sidearms are standard.”

Vors smiled smugly. Right up until he saw the note on the door.

Apologies for the delay. General Idecan is unavoidably detained. Please help yourself to rfrshments.

‘Refreshments’ was misspelled. Vors stared at the note. He was tempted to crumple it up and stomp on it, but he held back, aware he was in company.

“No way. They just put that up there and…? Without telling us?”

Tusxe stared at the note. Then at Vors. Then both she and Vors recoiled as Solvet raised the wand and blasted the note with a bolt of fire. Vors stepped back from the flash of heat, but Solvet just handed the wand back.

“Apologies. I lost my temper. I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention that to General Idecan.”

The three looked at each other, and then back down the miserable corridor. As they turned back, they saw a little roach scurry out of the corridor, heard a squeal, and then the Goldflake Pig caught the bug up in its mouth and crunched it down. It stared at the three, wagging its spiral tail as Vors, Tusxe, and Solvet stared at it.

They looked at each other, the pig, and then burst out laughing.

—-

Thirty minutes later, Vors found himself flipping peanuts at the pig as it stood on hind legs, opening its mouth to catch them. It even did a little hop, and fell on its back, all four legs flailing.

He started laughing, and so did Solvet, but Tusxe helped the pig get up.

“Don’t laugh! Alright, you’re okay, you stupid pig.”

It smiled up at her, or looked like it. The Lamia gave it a pat on the head.

“This pig is the best part of the wait, accident or not.”

Vors offered. Solvet nodded. He flipped a peanut high into the air, and the pig jumped and caught it in its mouth. He had a lot more dexterity with his ‘flat’ thumbs than the Drake and Lamia did with claws. Vors saw Tusxe admiringly shake her head.

“So handy.”

“Was that a pun?”

She grinned and Vors sighed, but all animosity was drained from him. They sat in his cramped room, the door open, hoping to hear from whoever was in charge. They’d debated leaving—right until they’d found the door was locked.

Solvet had kicked it so hard he’d sprained his foot. The man could be surprisingly hotheaded, Vors realized, for all he tried to be polite. He was massaging it now, but declined to use a potion.

“It would hardly do for a [Lord] from Terandria to need a potion after encountering a door. That would be the last thing our contingent needs and I am sure my fellows would not thank me.”

“No one would say that.”

Tusxe coughed into her arm as Solvet looked at her. The [Lord] glanced at Vors, who murmured something about ‘all being in it together’. He offered the pig another nut, sighing.

“We do have ears, you know. We know what other peoples—no, other continents think of us. Soft Terandrians with [Knights] and ineffectual leaders.”

“We don’t say it just about Terandrians. Drakes tend to direct that mostly at Izrilians in the north.”

“There’s a difference?”

Tusxe missed her own face with one of the nuts, which were actually palatable despite the bugs in each bowl, and laughed at the other two’s expressions.

“I’m joking. Of course I know there’s a difference. Something. Look at this goofy pig. They have pigs like this in Terandria and Izril? All of ours are Stelbore; covered in armor and mean as can be. Big.”

The pig was lying on its side, begging for Vors to toss it a peanut. The Drake tried and missed; the Goldflake Pig stared at the peanut lying five inches in front of its snout.

How could you? Its eyes reproached the Drake. Do you do this just to make me suffer?

Highly amused, the Drake flicked a finger and the nut soared into the animal’s mouth. Solvet tossed a peanut unerringly into the pig’s jaw and the oink made them all smile.

“I must admit, you two were ready for battle more than I. Keeping my longbow on me would be the germane thing to do, wouldn’t it? Rhir’s highly martial…ah, General Vors, that wand of yours is quite nice.”

Solvet was admiring Vors’ custom-designed wand. Wistram manufactured wands; so did Fissival and a lot of magical institutions. However, his was custom-contoured to his grip, and had a tiny addition; a magical lens built into it such that it showed what you’d hit.

“Thank you, Lord Solvet. I made it myself.”

“Really?”

That impressed the Lamia. [Battlemage] she might be, but Tusxe hadn’t his classical training. She was quite good with spells, though.

“I bought everything I have. Staff included. Glad I didn’t have to use it—or injure this pig. They shouldn’t let it roam about; I might have hurt it!”

She indicated the staff with glass embedded at the top. Vors eyed it. It was Solvet who asked.

“Is that a…viable weapon, Commander Tusxe? Forgive me for asking, but it isn’t what I’d expect a [Mercenary Captain] to use.”

The Lamia grinned at him.

“Solvet, have you ever seen someone hit by a bunch of glass bottle shards in the face? Or seen a bottle smashed into your scales?”

Solvet shook his head, fascinated and horrified. Vors raised a claw.

“I have. It doesn’t seem that much better than a sword, though. Even enchanted…a sword kills. Glass maims.”

The [Battlemage] winked at Vors.

“Yes, exactly. Which would you like to be hit by, though? A stab to the face or…?”

She flicked the staff, indicating a blow to head-height. Vors winced. Tusxe went on.

“The thing is, I’m a [Mercenary], as you said, Lord Solvet.”

She nodded at him. The man raised his hands.

“I didn’t mean to imply there was anything to do with rank…”

“Well, I did. And I wasn’t sure if I’d have to work with a [General] or whatnot…I’m leading a mixed-company, but mostly Lizardfolk. And I’d have hated to get some idiot who can’t figure out how to use a Lizardfolk in battle, no offense, Vors.”

The Lamia looked at the Drake. Vors hesitated, but then he ducked his head.

“You know, I had the exact same thought. I suppose that since we’re here and since no one’s coming…”

He glanced out the door at the hallway. The other two nodded. Vors leaned forwards.

“How does one use a Lizardfolk—er—[Infantryman]? I’ve studied other species’ tactics, but I focused mainly on tactics I’d see in Izril. Baleros is famous for its ambush-tactics in difficult terrain.”

Solvet edged a bit closer as the pig begged for another treat. Tusxe dropped a peanut onto its belly and they watched it squirm as she replied.

“That’s what everyone talks about, but if it’s a standup battle, Lizardfolk don’t melt. Well—okay. They don’t hold ground, but that’s because Naga-variants are better. You’re talking your basic Lizardfolk? They’re not…[Infantrymen]. They’re probably [Fighters].”

“Just [Fighters]? Not [Soldiers]?”

“Not [Militia]?”

The Lamia rolled her eyes. She looked at the other two.

“Your average Lizardfolk isn’t conscripted or wants a fight. If you get them in a company, they might just be…a kid who wants to earn money fast. They can use a sling, and they’ll have light armor. Good leather, maybe. And a spear and buckler? The trick is, you have them whirling that sling every moment they’re not fighting. They can do a lot of damage with stones and stones are cheap in Baleros.”

“Like a [Shepherd], or other village boy. A [Peasant] or [Villager].”

Solvet was nodding. Vors just shook his head.

“We don’t have the same traditions. Slings are Gnollish…most Drakes in a city might learn to use a bow or crossbow, but not slings.”

Tusxe gave him a toothy grin. Vors realized she was staring at Solvet. Not at him, or in awe of whatever physical attraction the Human man had; he was entirely too fleshy for both of them. Both she and Vors kept staring at his little wavy mustache in fascination.

“Well, I’ll see how good the Gnolls are. But all Lizardfolk can whirl a stone. Do you know if there are any Gnolls with us, Vors?”

“I have a [Charge Commander]—but he’s from Manus. As for the Tribes? No idea. Each one has a specialty.”

“Er—what is Manus? I thought the Drakes came from the Walled Cities…which are not alike, obviously.”

Vors didn’t take offense. He reached for the bowl of nuts, and Tusxe pushed the Goldflake Pig’s head away from the other bowl it was trying to drag off the table. She listened as he spoke with Solvet.

“Manus is the City of War. They do have a very martial tradition, but every Walled City has a standing army, you see…”

—-

One more hour had passed, and the three had just learned that the Goldflake Pig, who had been nicknamed ‘Nutball’, for its propensity to curl up with satisfaction after eating a nut it liked, could do tricks.

Like an actual backflip. And it could actually use the gold armor it grew. In response to being horribly endangered—Solvet taking one of the nut bowls so they could eat it—Nutball had dropped a gold scale, re-consumed it, and spat a cloud of powdered pyrite into the air.

The glitter-bomb was distressingly hard to get off your scales or armor, and it also got in the eyes. But Nutball redeemed himself with the trick and was oinking as the three clapped their hands to a song, ‘singing’ for them, when the door opened.

Vors rose to his feet as a Drake, a Human man, and a Lizardman walked in. They were all smiling, and all, he noted, wearing insignia that denoted high-ranks. The Drake stopped.

“Sir! Apologies for the wait, General Vors!”

He gave Vors a crisp salute. The [General] blinked as the Human man bowed to Lord Solvet, and the Lizardperson made a claw-sign with neck frills slightly opened that Tusxe clearly knew.

Captain Shellc looked at General Vors, with a slight smile on his face. The war veteran of Rhir looked at the confused [General] as Nutball ran over. The pig sat down and raised a hoof as if it were trying to salute.

“What’s going on here?”

General Vors demanded, but one look at the three who had come to meet them and Solvet groaned. Tusxe caught on, but the Drake had to be told.

Rhir had not put them up in this tiny hellhole as a way of punishing them, or because they had not enough money. In short order, Vors found himself sitting in a far nicer room, relaxing, drinking some wine and having snacks with the others, and laughing, a bit embarrassed.

After all—it was a test. The Blighted Kingdom had been observing—not spying exactly, but making sure they didn’t kill each other. The rest was easy.

“Everyone gets locked together, General Vors.”

Captain Shellc was explaining. The Drake had wounds from his battle, but he was being fitted with a prosthesis for his amputated limb, but he had refused to actually leave Rhir.

“Everyone in a position of command, you mean.”

The [Captain] nodded. He was up for promotion, but had been assigned as Vors’ liaison. Not least because it had been unclear Vors would be assuming command of the Drake division here.

“Not everyone passes so well, I take it?”

Lord Solvet looked for his Human subordinate for confirmation. She nodded.

“The test is to avoid them killing each other, sir. Groups of two or five at most. Cooperation is hoped for, and the test is designed to be as miserable as possible…”

Solidarity in misery. Hence the nuts with a bug, the cramped rooms and chairs designed to make you want to leave, and even locking the door to the area.

Nutball was also part of the test. The Blighted Kingdom was used to having mixed-species conflicts, and so this was all engineered to bring together foreign leaders and have them work together.

“Sometimes they ‘fail out’, and are sent home, or relegated to guard duty in the capital. And they really hate that!”

The Lizardfolk chattered to Tusxe, who had an air of patience as she listened to her excitable junior member of the species. The little Lizardfolk [Tactician] gestured at the door.

“Other times the participants do weird things. They break down the door, sometimes! The area is warded, but one time, I heard a [Commander] thought there was a Demon attack and everyone was missing, so she told her [Queen] to sound the alarm!”

“Anyone ever get hurt?”

“Two deaths.”

“Deaths?”

The three foreign leaders were astonished, Vors especially. He could see himself coming to an altercation with Tusxe, but not to the death! Shellc grimaced.

“Duels. A pair of Humans—Izril and Terandria—dueled to the death one time. [Ladies], not [Lords], with enchanted daggers. The other time was…uh…allergies. A Dullahan didn’t take to the nuts well.”

“And you keep serving them?”

“Well, allergies are a great conversation-starter, [General]. And if the Demons can kill you by leaving a bowl of nuts in the same room as you…it was a huge diplomatic incident. They do test for that, you know. Didn’t you notice the bowl of nuts on the pier? The one just sitting there by the people ushering you in?”

“I saw that! I just thought someone left it there—so they watch for people who run screaming? That’s…clever!”

That was how Vors came to know Rhir. He, Solvet, and Tusxe were already familiar after the test; it was likely they’d be asked to join forces in one of the mixed armies. Rhir had no intention of letting Drakes stick with only Drakes, and this had broken far more ground than Vors could have imagined with simply introductions.

“You can meet the other leaders tonight, all but two of whom passed the test, General Vors. For now? Welcome to Rhir. I hope I can serve under you. It was…an honor to serve with the last mixed-army before.”

Shellc shook Vors’ claw again. The [General] nodded solemnly and everyone lost a bit of their levity.

The pig oinking restored that. Vors glanced down and Tusxe laughed.

“So what do we do with this pig? I hope we don’t eat him; I liked him.”

“Oh, he’s going with you. The new army gets a mascot and that’s—did you call him Nutball?”

The three commanders looked at each other. A mascot? Apparently, Rhir also included free pets. Vors’ last shock was the cunning look the Goldflake Pig gave him. Captain Shellc gave the pig a respectful, and even wary nod.

“Trained by Rhir’s [Beast Masters]. Normally they do Wyverns and other combat animals, but pigs like this and other animals for scouting, companionship—they have Waisrabbit scouting bunnies. Nutball is a decorated survivor of eight engagements and can actually fight, with the trick with the dust. Two Demon kills.”

Nutball stared up at the rookie. It saluted Vors again as the Drake stared at it.

Welcome to Rhir, soldier.

—-

When it came to the affairs of state, and the growing Unseen Empire, Laken Godart was prepared to deal with a lot of issues.

Monsters, altercations between the Goblin and non-Goblin populations, attacks from abroad, reprisals from the Circle of Thorns. Dead…somethings…

Even the possibility of intervention from another world, either in knowledge, or visitors like the fae. The dangers of war or the same things that had killed Erin Solstice, a creature like Belavierr.

Of all the things that he was told to fear and expect and prepare for…a plague of Sariant Lambs, the world’s cutest and most affectionate animal, was not the crisis he was expecting.

—-

It began as Laken was looking into the issue, of, well, running his empire better.

Of course, he had a number of worries he was juggling. The [Emperor] of Riverfarm did not exist in a bubble, although one certainly had been around the remote village, ignored by all. Now though, the bubble-empire was getting big enough to start pushing on other interests.

…Well, if Laken tallied up the problems, the first was some kind of border-war to the west, the first he’d heard of it. Local nobility in conflict.

Second? Ryoka Griffin and the case of the missing Mrsha, both related? Unrelated? He heard she was cursed, which pretty much summed up Ryoka’s charmed…cursed…life for him. He had asked some of his [Witches] to look into it.

As for Mrsha, Laken wasn’t sure if his Gold-rank team, Griffon Hunt, would be returning or not. He had been preparing to celebrate them and the Halfseekers on their return trip from the Village of Death, but if they went, they went. The [Emperor] had no clue what had gone down in the south—except that Belavierr had been involved.

So, he made his priority that day two-fold.

First? He summoned his advisors.

“Eloise, Hedag, Prost, Durene…let’s say Ram and Beycalt too. And Mister Hemlag.”

Laken named the people he wanted to speak to out of the number of officials. Ram, the [Head Farmer], and Beycalt, the [Construction Supervisor] weren’t as important as Prost was, but Laken liked their insights. Hemlag was Rie’s replacement.

She was still gone. On her trip that only Laken knew about. Hemlag was an [Accountant], and a good one, so he was part of Rie’s ‘faction’.

They all arrived, the [Accountant] being first, and nervous to be included in the group, but Laken’s order of business was simple.

“I plan on meeting with Wiskeria later, so we shall make this brief. I would like you all to consider and propose items, activities, even new buildings all for Riverfarm’s entertainment and wellbeing.”

The others reacted with interested murmurs. Hedag? She laughed, as Laken knew she would.

“Entertainment, your Majesty? Have you heard much complaint? I haven’t. Riverfarm works well, not that we would turn our noses up at a festival or [Bard].”

Laken nodded to Prost as the [Steward] queried him.

“I’m eternally impressed by Riverfarm’s work ethic, Prost. However, everyone needs leisure time and work has been nonstop. Since we became an empire, it feels.”

Prost and Durene had to nod at that, and Gamel, hovering by one of the windows with the small squad now under his control. Laken went on, glancing around to mimic meeting people’s eyes; it made them feel better than him speaking and never moving at all.

“You see, where I come from, we do have access to a number of books. Toys, games…not that Riverfarm is lacking. People can swim in the river—”

“Downstream of where we draw our water or there’s hell to pay.”

Ram muttered. Laken smiled as the man flushed.

“No, exactly, Mister Ram. A dedicated pool? A library? I would like these things, and whatever you suggest. Even song crystals. Something to reward Riverfarm’s hard-working folk in their time off. After all, children need to play, don’t they, Witch Hedag?”

“Of course, Emperor-lad. So you want us to propose items and such?”

Laken nodded.

“Festivals, objects. Mister Hemlag, that’s why you’re here. We’ll devise a budget…”

It was refreshingly simple these days. In the past, Laken would say something like ‘what if we did this?’ He would always get agreement, dissenting opinions if he chose the right people rather than sycophants, but what the [Emperor] had learned was to act. If he asked for someone to do something, they would come back to him to confirm it.

This time? He heard out suggestions, told them to make more proposals, and had the project in the works within the hour. It would be funded. It would be done.

Toys for Riverfarm. A library…what had surprised Laken the most was the unexpected suggestions. Paints and an arts room for anyone interested, of course! He didn’t think of that. Spellbooks for anyone who wanted to see if they had an aptitude?

He put it out of his mind as he went for his true objective for the day. It had become plain to Laken that there was a crisis named ‘Belavierr’. Riverfarm had endured it once, but the Stitch Witch was a walking calamity. He had no idea how you could oppose her—short of throwing every [Witch] in Riverfarm at her, and the odds were they’d just run away. The only trump card he had was Wiskeria.

And she…was interesting. The [Witch] was his [General] and also a ‘witch of law’, a new kind of [Witch]. She had sworn to stop her mother, even if it meant Belavierr’s death.

On the other hand, she had also convinced Belavierr not to attack Mrsha, at least physically, and Laken had heard she baked a cake and put it into her hat yesterday.

He hadn’t realized how—odd—Wiskeria was. Mainly because Wiskeria was good at hiding it. Laken had been clandestinely observing her in his mind, and now came to talk to the [Witch].

—-

This was how Wiskeria was a bit odd; she was normally her spectacled self, wearing blue robes and a pointed hat, the quintessential [Witch].

She was also a Silver-rank adventurer, responsible, even unremarkable if you’d met Revi or someone with a very strident personality. She was the kind of ‘second in command’ she’d been when Sacra, posing as Odveig, had led their team here.

A sensible organizer and leader. She remained that way until Laken had realized she was Belavierr’s daughter. And that posed a question to the [Emperor].

You’d think that the daughter of one of the greatest [Witches] of all time would be a bit weirder, wouldn’t you?

He’d run a ‘test’. The fruits of that test were apparent as Wiskeria raised her voice.

“No. He didn’t.”

She was gossiping with some of Riverfarm’s women, from various positions in the village. It was just…relaxing, having some of Eloise’s famous tea. Wiskeria looked shocked.

“Cheating? Did you ask a [Witch] to sort it out? Miss Yesel? Or…?”

There were internal judiciary systems within Riverfarm. The young woman shook her head tearfully.

“No—and please don’t ask, Miss Wiskeria! I don’t want him to lose his head, if Hedag were to hear…”

“She wouldn’t do that. And something should be done.”

Beycalt was frowning. Wiskeria nodded, looking disturbed.

“He’s your fiancé, isn’t he? You have to do something, Elaiere! I could talk to Prost or even—”

“Not his Majesty! I’ll…he said he’d make things right, break it off. It was only once!”

The others looked at each other. Laken, leaning against a windowsill, made a mental note not to intervene or pretend he’d heard about this. Some things an [Emperor] did not need to deal in, and this?

“It’s not once.”

“He said—”

Wiskeria’s hat swiveled back and forth as Beycalt glowered and the poor Elaiere defended her unfaithful fiancé. Fascinating as this was, Laken only focused on Wiskeria. Because…she was genuinely disturbed.

Disturbed, upset on behalf of Elaiere, the [Seamstress], a talented young woman, whom Wiskeria had befriended. Given tips to—of course Wiskeria knew how to sew. And it made sense! You’d support a friend who realized she was being cheated on, wouldn’t you? Be upset?

“All checks out. That’s genuine emotion right there. Wouldn’t you think, Gamel?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

The [Knight] hovered, palpably uneasy at eavesdropping, although his [Emperor] had insisted. Laken nodded to himself.

“So—how did Wiskeria react to the other tasks I asked her to oversee and help with?”

The [Knight] didn’t have to think.

“She helped cull a bunch of animals, and butchered them without a blink. Even some of the [Farmers] were surprised by how chatty she was. Then she went and helped the [Mortician] with…”

He gulped. Laken nodded.

“Preparing the dead bodies. And have you ever seen her look upset while fighting? What about when we were burning the Creler bodies? Anyone?”

The [Emperor] asked the other warriors who were on bodyguard duty. They shook their heads. Laken nodded.

That was Wiskeria’s secret. She never stopped being normal, even when she should be. Seasoned warriors could fight in a battle, but even they might blanch at culling and butchering animals. Wiskeria? Not a bat of the eyelid.

Crelers, dead bodies—spooky [Witch] apprentices. Laken remembered her chasing them off. Nothing fazed Wiskeria, except, apparently, infidelity.

Emotional, social matters. She raised her voice behind Laken, visibly upset.

“Elaiere, you can’t let him get away with this. This is more than just being unfaithful! He made a promise to you! An oath of love! You have to resolve this.”

“How?”

The [Witch] thought about it.

“For someone who breaks the vow of love? You could break his legs.”

“…What?”

Laken sat back up. Gamel, and the rest of the squad turned. Wiskeria was pacing back and forth in front of the women. Beycalt laughed, but Wiskeria shook her head.

“I’m serious! It’s a broken vow! Demand something of his—you can’t trust oathbreakers. The engagement’s off. Demand—I don’t know, I’ve never been engaged. What’s the penalty for breaking an engagement?”

“There’s not one, Wiskeria! It’s…love.”

The [Witch] whirled on her friend, angrier—Laken realized, angrier than any of the other women for different reasons—and pointed at Elaiere.

“And love demands a price. He’s broken his word. You were going to get married! Demand fair recompense, Elaiere. Demand…I don’t know, one of his testicles.”

“What?”

The [Witch] looked around.

“She doesn’t need to cut it off herself! It’s just—that—that’s not what you’d normally do, is it?”

She hesitated, as she saw the other women looking at her. Wiskeria opened her mouth, then promptly shut it.

And that was the mystery of Wiskeria, partially solved. Laken strolled out of the home, and looked at Gamel.

“Ask Beycalt later if anything’s done. Otherwise—Prost can handle it. No testicles being removed.”

The [Knight] nodded, glancing back towards the circle of arguing women. Laken walked on.

The thing about Wiskeria was that she slipped. You had to catch her. He just bet that the talk about breaking promises was something she’d learned from her mother.

“Woe to anyone who ever broke a promise to Wiskeria as children.”

“Ah, well, we all have our complaints, Emperor Godart. But if you wanted to know Wiskeria’s differences, you might have asked us.”

All of Laken’s company jumped and half his bodyguards nearly drew their blades—but they saw Eloise standing there and relaxed. The [Witch] had snuck up on them all!

“Eloise, you caught my spying.”

“An [Emperor] does not hide well. Are you wondering what makes Wiskeria different?”

Laken ducked his head, a bit shamefaced.

“Wiskeria has always dodged questions about her past. I did not wish to push. Eloise, I don’t suppose you can elaborate?”

The [Tea Witch] considered the question and Laken knew she was weighing her ‘service’ to the Unseen Empire against the code of [Witches], whatever that was. She gestured.

“Shall we walk, your Majesty?”

They did, towards the river and the fields, as Eloise hummed, then spoke.

“You noticed Wiskeria doesn’t blink at most things; well, many [Witches] could say the same. If you want to truly see how Belavierr changed her, look no further than how she talks to her mother. Or—had you any [Murderers], [Bandits], or other unsavory folk in Riverfarm, you would have noticed it already.”

“I tend not to enjoy that kind of person, Witch Eloise.”

“Oh, I know. They would have been—instructive. You know Wiskeria has sworn to kill her mother? They both know it.”

“Yes. Her conversation was entirely polite, though.”

Eloise nodded.

“That is Wiskeria. She can speak to a monster—a true monster, regardless of the face—and deal with them in a friendly way. Then kill them in the next hour. Both she and her mother know that one day, one of them might die. They can still be mother and daughter until then.”

Laken drew in his breath.

“So that’s it. And that…sounds entirely like Belavierr. Practical.”

“Able to differentiate. I can be your mortal enemy, Emperor Laken, but offer you tea. It is not a skill many Humans learn. Many species at all. Will that satisfy?”

It would, and Laken thanked Eloise. Of course, the [Witch] had sought him out today to propose more lessons in tea for anyone interested. Maybe a few tea sets?

“And while we discuss it—the new fields are doing well, and your ‘greenhouses’ would allow crops of all seasons. Perhaps I could petition you to grow some plants? Tea sells quite well.”

“Of course, Witch Eloise. Shall we visit Mister Ram?”

She smiled, and Laken pointed in the direction he sensed the [Head Farmer]. It wasn’t exactly payment for just Wiskeria’s background, but he reflected that the [Witches] certainly knew what they wanted. Eloise had an empire’s worth of customers, and it seemed, might have cheap access to all the tea leaves she could want.

It was at that point when the plague arrived. Laken slowed as he realized the [Farmers] had abandoned their stations.

“Hm. They might have found something. They’re all gathered in the field.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

The [Emperor] realized Gamel could see what he had observed; his [Emperor]-sight didn’t trump regular eyes all the time. The [Emperor] began to walk that way, and noticed more people coming.

Durene, Prost, even Hedag and Wiskeria and a few others, noticing the lack of work. Beniar’s [Riders] too, calmly assembling.

“Is there danger, Emperor?”

Eloise was standing on her tip-toes to see, being shorter than the others. Laken frowned.

“No. They’re all clustered around…hm, it must be nearly six dozen…did one of the pens break loose? They look like baby sheep.”

The company relaxed instantly. Unless they were carnivorous, or even if they were, that didn’t sound like monster-class threats, and the [Farmers] would have raised the alarm if they were.

However, it was Eloise who suddenly lost her smile. She looked ahead.

“Baby sheep? Lambs? You don’t mean those wretched—”

Laken glanced at her, interested, and then heard the cutest baah he had ever heard in his life. He arrived with the others just in time to find that the [Farmers] were petting, cuddling, and feeding scraps of vegetation to their unexpected guests.

“Your Majesty! It’s wonderful! I’ve never seen so many, and they just came up and started nibbling the corn over there! They’re beautiful and friendly as you want! They’re—”

“Sariant Lambs.”

Eloise hissed. Laken could not see, but he sensed the [Witch] recoil from the adorable, seventy-plus herd of lambs that had waddled over, mewling and baahing. Laken Godart raised his eyebrows.

Today was a weird day.

—-

Sariant Lambs were known the world over for one thing: they had obtained the record as the world’s cutest, most adorable and beloved pet.

No other animal beat them. You could object and say, ‘dog this’, or ‘cat that’, or ‘fluffy bunny whatever’. You would be wrong. It wasn’t that any other pet was less cute or adorable, but Sariant Lambs were better. Superior fluff! Superior cuteness!

One touch of their fur, ranging from white to black with some surprising shades in between, and you couldn’t help but feel like you were touching what a cloud should feel like. They would beg to be picked up, their little eyes and heads staring up, lick your cheek—they never got as big as regular sheep, being a dwarf breed.

All of Riverfarm that heard about the animals flocked over. The Sariant Lambs didn’t run; nor were they even skittish. Other animals needed to be trained, and even the best got nervous in large groups. Sariant Lambs loved the attention.

“It’s so cute! Mother—mother! Can I have it?”

A girl shrieked as the lamb nuzzled her, running up to her parents. The others had lambs in their arms—Durene was tentatively, tentatively scratching the stomach of a little lamb who’d rolled over winsomely.

Laken Godart heard similar sentiments—people were talking all around him. Prost turned to Ram.

“They just showed up, you said? They’re valuable! Each one’s worth a fortune.”

“Prost, you don’t want to sell them? This is a miracle! We could have them in a home, one to a family. They don’t need much to eat—this could solve his Majesty’s worries about entertainment! Who needs books when you have this cute thing?”

The lamb baahed and burped in his arms and both men laughed. Sariant Lambs were more than just cute—one was gamely playing tag as a toddler ran away. Another was hopping like a bunny, mimicking an actual bunny pet.

It was…the most memetic display Laken had ever ‘seen’ in his life. He had never seen cat videos, or dog videos. The blind man got absolutely nothing from that kind of thing when a friend was showing the video around. And someone saying ‘look at the dog as it takes a bath!’ was not actually fun.

In his head, the Sariant Lambs were doing all these things to the delight of the people watching or interacting with them. Laken was glad the lambs were bringing some levity and enjoyment to Riverfarm, but what he was really curious about was the reaction of the [Witches].

They had gathered at the news of the Sariant Lambs. Unlike the people of Riverfarm, they hadn’t flocked forwards to pet and touch the creatures.

The [Witches] were standing in a line, apart from the cooing people. They were not impressed. Rather, as Durene whispered, they were ‘giving the lambs a look like slugs in the wheat field.’ Which Laken was quite amused by.

“What’s the matter, [Witch] Hedag, Eloise?”

The two senior [Witches] were staring at the lambs. Hedag flipped her hat up.

“Looks like you’ve got parasites, your Majesty. Didn’t expect they’d show up, but I’m glad you’re not cooing over the little things. Happiness leeches is what they are. Affection slugs. Shoo.”

She kicked at a Sariant Lamb as it waddled over and it made a distressed noise that immediately made Durene pick it up and hold it protectively away from Hedag with a glare. Laken got what Hedag meant. He smiled.

“Competitors in the same field?”

Eloise’s head slowly rotated around, but her rare look of extreme displeasure was lost on the blind [Emperor].

“I didn’t think you were that tactless, your Majesty. Hardly. Sariant Lambs are parasites—just not shaped like them. Parasites for people and culture, not animals. Is it a surprise [Witches] don’t care for such things, as lovely as their appearance might be?”

Parasites? Laken Godart glanced over. He heard a whuff, and then a caw. Instantly, he held out an arm—winced—

Frostwing landed on his shoulder, having taken off from her usual perch of Bismarck. The Mossbear and bird had both come over to investigate the noises. Instantly, one of the Sariant Lambs broke off from the crowd, and approached Bismarck. The bear sat back on its haunches, but then stared as the little Sariant Lamb made an approximation of a growl, like a bear. Only, cute.

It came over, inspected his paw, and to Laken’s amazement, found a little thorn that had been troubling the Mossbear and pulled it out with its teeth. Bismarck instantly perked up, bent to nuzzle the little lamb, and everyone was doubly impressed.

“It even got the bear. Let’s kill them when everyone’s asleep.”

Laken heard Witch Agratha mutter. He turned.

“Just what is the problem? That seemed like a wholesome interaction.”

A line of angry [Witches] turned to face the [Emperor], arms folded. It was Wiskeria who gave the explanation Laken needed.

“They seem nice now, Laken. But they’re buying your affection. In a week? They won’t be as ‘helpful’. They’ll demand feeding, petting at all hours, or they’ll start crying. In a month? Half of Riverfarm will be fighting to win their affections. They’ll turn households against each other, starve all your pets, and if the empire collapses, they’re on their way.”

The [Emperor]’s head turned. He could not see the Sariant Lambs, and perhaps that was a good thing. But suddenly—Laken Godart wondered if the ‘smiles’ the Sariant Lambs were apparently giving to the Humans were actually more like disguised smirks. He stepped back and looked at Wiskeria.

“Tell me more.”

—-

“There’s a rhyme for the little [Witches]. ‘A good [Witch] adds more than they take. Even the bad one takes, and uses it to create. A [Witch] who leaves naught at all is a mistake.’ Compared to us—yon lambs? Parasites, more like.”

Hedag laid out the fundamental difference between Sariant Lambs and [Witches] like that. [Witches] used emotions. So did the lambs.

The difference was that Sariant Lambs had zero qualities of their own. Their wool was fluffy and had market value, but like sheep, they were incapable of shearing it themselves and suffered if it grew too much.

Their tiny size meant that Sariant Lambs could neither run, nor actually obtain food that easily. Sheep, for all they were herbivores, had a number of survival mechanisms.

There were no rams among Sariant Lambs—they had both genders, but both were cute and cuddly despite age. The way they survived was by finding someone else to protect, house, and feed them.

If that seemed like a stupid self-defense mechanism, well, Laken saw all seventy lambs already being fought over as people wanted to have one in their homes—no, two! And it didn’t stop at people.

“Sariant Lambs can get anything to like them. You saw your bear? Well, they’ve done that kind of thing to no less than Wyverns.”

Laken turned to the [Witches].

“Ridiculous.”

Wiskeria just snorted.

“I wish. They’re not big enough to be even a mouthful. They’re exceptionally intelligent; they can understand what you say, and they can make themselves useful and beloved. For a while. There are cases of Wyverns protecting the stupid things, even fetching plants to feed the lambs.”

“Do they have any natural predators?”

“Sure. Crelers, undead…Eater Goats. Sariant Lambs fear them like the plague. Anything that can’t be bought by cuteness.”

Laken was beginning to understand, but still, this beggared his belief a bit. He gestured at the lambs. Cute they might be, but…

“Surely other predators would eat them. Like Bismarck if he was hungry.”

Eloise gave him a patient sigh. She walked over to one of the lambs.

“Your Majesty…watch.”

The [Tea Witch] bent down and seized a lamb by the scruff of the neck. She produced a belt knife, and the lamb freaked out. It opened its mouth and—began to wail.

It cried almost like a child, but—cutely. Instantly, every person looked at Eloise in horror.

“Witch Eloise! What are you doing to the poor creature?”

Even Bismarck came over to protectively shield the lamb. Eloise gave it up without much more of a fuss, and walked back to Laken.

“That sounded like a baby! A cute baby!”

Laken was rattled. His head tracked the lamb, but all he could ‘see’ was its outline. Eloise nodded, adjusting her hat and tucking her knife away.

“It’s just as well you can’t see them, your Majesty. Their charms aren’t working on you. Which is also why we came here, to warn you about the danger. Sariant Lambs are intelligent, and they know what they’re doing. They sought out Riverfarm, so don’t be fooled—they’ll be a pest worse than Vorepillars in the fields since you can kill one, not the other.”

The Unseen Emperor nodded slowly. He had to admit, that the [Witches]’ commentary and his own lack of insight was revealing the Sariant Lambs as little, cynical manipulators rather than the cute, helpless animals.

As if they suddenly sensed that the leader of this place wasn’t being won over, one of the lambs broke away from the crowd and trotted up to Laken. It stopped in front of him, on its bottom, all four hooves raised, and waved them.

“Baah, baaah.”

It was an adorable display. Laken Godart didn’t pick it up.

“It wants you to hold it, your Majesty!”

Miss Yesel called out. Laken bent down. The Sariant Lamb stared up at Laken’s face.

His face, with his closed eyes. The man frowned at the little lamb.

“Hm. It sounds cute.”

The Sariant Lamb backed up, clearly confused at this lack of pure adoration. The other lambs glanced at each other. Then one baahed, and came forwards. It moved past the first, and began nuzzling Laken’s leg.

It was so soft! Laken put out a hand and the second Sariant Lamb began to nuzzle it. He blinked, then smiled despite the [Witch]’s warnings.

“You clever little sh—”

Wiskeria actually kicked at the lamb, but Gamel blocked her. It ran away, crying piteously until it was scooped up. Laken stared at his hand.

“I’ve never felt something so soft!”

“Don’t let them fool you!”

“Witch Wiskeria! Please! I don’t know what you’re talking about, but this won’t lose us productivity or start fights! Your Majesty, we can’t leave these creatures to be eaten up. Won’t you let us take them in?”

The [Emperor] sensed more lambs crowding around as Prost made an appeal on behalf of Riverfarm. He hesitated—then stood and backed up. Behind the line of [Witches].

“Hedag, Eloise, Agratha, Wiskeria—senior [Witches]. Quick conference.”

—-

Laken had to shake off the soft touch of the Sariant Lamb. The [Witches] gathered around him.

“Alright, what’s the actual concern if we allow them to stay? They’ve already won over everyone here.”

The [Witches] glanced at each other. Laken was almost more wary of the lambs now than before, having experienced their charm. It was almost like magic. It might be magic.

“Well, they’ve come to Riverfarm, and fallen right into our trap, your Majesty. This flock’d run if it thought we were hungry or weren’t fat enough to feed them. They didn’t know there are [Witches] here, though. Give me five minutes with an axe and we can have fine eating for the next few days.”

Hedag grinned. Even Laken gave her a look of horror.

“Witch Hedag, those are thinking animals.”

The Hedag of swift justice scowled. Laken wondered if it was the Sariant Lambs already having twisted his mind—but murdering a bunch of animals wasn’t something many people from Earth were at home with.

“So’re leeches. Bah, I can see that’s not going to work. We can sell them, but [Beast Tamers] are wary of the devils. They like to breed and it’s hard enough to cull regular animals, let alone them.”

“Let’s say we let them stay. What will happen?”

Hedag growled, thinking.

“They steal other animals’ food, distract people from work, and the things’ll breed until they get so large a smaller herd splits off to infest somewhere else.”

“On the plus side, they will be helpful and motivate people for a while, your Majesty. They won’t show their true colors until a week or two when they’re ‘settled in’.”

The [Emperor] nodded. He glanced at the Sariant Lambs, and wasn’t oblivious to the mood of his people. He turned to the disgruntled [Witches].

“I don’t believe there’d actually be a revolt if I ordered them all killed, but I doubt we can drive them off without people disobeying. Let’s see what the lambs do first, [Witches]. We’ll make plans based on that.”

The [Witches] protested of course, but Laken could either give an order he knew wouldn’t be obeyed, or slaughter a bunch of lambs in front of the children and adults. He let them keep the lambs, refusing an offer of one and had Prost divvy them up between households.

The [Witches] hated it and glared daggers at the little lambs as they were carried off and everyone got, reluctantly, back to work, although some of the [Farmers] found the lambs following them around as they worked, to their delight. The women with hats stomped off. Laken distinctly heard Agratha muttering to the others.

“So ends Riverfarm.”

—-

The next few days passed by with the Sariant Lambs continuing to delight, and doing everything from ‘trying’ to make a bed, to proving to be perfectly house-trained, to enjoying baths and dancing together for fun.

They were a bomb of adorable, and it was a bomb, because Laken began seeing the fallout that the [Witches] had promised within three days.

He sensed it because the lambs were clever. But after twelve incidents, Laken summoned Eloise and a small group of [Witches] to his home.

“Witches, I believe you’re right.”

“Now he listens?”

Laken had to admit, he’d been a bit dubious, but he explained what he’d observed.

“I just sensed twelve instances of a Sariant Lamb stealing food from a dog bowl. One of them was actually eating from a horse’s trough and the animals just—let them do it!”

“We told you they were parasites. They won over animals and folk alike.”

Hedag growled. The [Emperor] agreed at last, reluctantly. The [Witches] hadn’t exaggerated the Sariant Lamb’s true natures—much.

They were little bullies. When no one was watching, they took food from the other pets. They demonstrated that in increasingly needy ways; one even competed with a baby for attention, wailing more piteously and with much more cute rewards when the parents fed it. An infant was inherently stupid; Sariant Lambs were smart.

Too smart. They were stealing food from the other animals in Riverfarm. Mostly sheepdogs and ratters and such—but also horses’ food. Laken fixed it, of course, ensuring that the food was placed higher up and that the animals were fed.

In response? He actually had to walk into a barn as the lambs fled and touch the ladder they’d dragged over to a food trough to believe it.

The only benefit Laken had in this shadow-war was that the lambs clearly didn’t know he could sense what they were doing. In front of him, they pretended to be as cute and helpless as could be, and they clearly knew he was the [Emperor]; no less than six followed him around if he was outside, much to the envy of his subjects.

They were turning Riverfarm into admirers, that much was certain. Durene loved the wretched things and even though they’d been told, all of Laken’s counselors couldn’t quite bring themselves to even suggest getting rid of the lambs.

Not that the Sariants found Riverfarm as easy pickings as other places. The [Witches] were responsible for that. The Sariant Lambs couldn’t charm even the apprentices, and the [Witches] reminded people—loudly—of their worse qualities, like trying to steal literal food from babies. The lambs had to be helpful around the [Witches] to prove the hat-women wrong.

Nor did their food-stealing trick work on one type of animal. Even Frostwing would let a lamb sniff her bowl of meat—although Sariant Lambs were herbivores—but the Sariant Lambs tried their food-theft trick on the wrong group.

On the fifth day, one sidled up to the pile of meat scraps, and grain and other crops promised to Witch Mavika’s crows, who kept the fields clear. The birds cawed warningly, but the bold lamb just tried to cuddle one crow, charm the rest. They let it do it—right up until it began to eat one of the corn cobs.

The crows ate the lamb after they pecked it to death, much to the horror of Riverfarm’s folk. True to Eloise’s word, the lamb screamed loud enough to distress everyone in several thousand feet. But it was dead before anyone sprinted over.

Witch Mavika refused to comment on the dead lamb, when the people of the Unseen Empire wanted to take her to task over it.

“A pact was sealed, and no one will break it. Not lamb or woman. Would you like me to show my displeasure on these little pests?”

Thousands of crows cawed warningly and the lambs instantly ran into houses. The people backed away as the [Crow Witch] tilted her head.

The [Witches] played no games. Indeed, on the sixth day of the Sariant Lamb invasion, Wiskeria brought it up to Laken over breakfast. Durene wasn’t with him; she was off feeding her lamb scraps of corn mush she’d personally prepared with a bit of spice the lamb wanted, and Laken was beginning to get sick of the needy lambs—he had refused to have one with him.

“They’re certainly showing their true colors. Why do lambs want flavor in their food?”

“Why do you?”

Wiskeria retorted. Laken had to admit, he’d invited that one. Apparently, all the Sariant Lambs had refused to eat breakfast until they had properly prepared food, and some of his [Cooks] were whipping up gourmet lamb breakfasts.

“I can see I was wrong, Wiskeria. These lambs are getting worse and they’ll be even more annoying in a week. What do you propose?”

His [General] hesitated. She looked around, for a lamb, not Human eavesdroppers, and leaned over the table.

“Laken. If…say…all the lambs were to vanish overnight, with no one knowing how it happened, with no blood or traces ever found, how angry would you be? No one would ever know—well, be able to prove anything.”

The [Emperor] stopped eating and raised his head. Wiskeria sat back. Laken Godart swallowed, and then burst out.

“There has to be a resolution between keeping them here and murdering them all in the night, Wiskeria.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of one. Either sell them or figure out something, because the [Witches] can see what’s happening as well as you can.”

The [Witch] snapped back. She was genuinely worried.

“They’re just lambs. They’re not a threat beyond—disruption to work and stealing from other animals! Parasites, not like Crelers. Right?”

The [Witch] was silent. Laken faltered.

“…You must be joking.”

Wiskeria fiddled with her glasses, and looked around again. She leaned forwards.

“Let me put it like this, Laken. We, [Witches], that is, don’t think they’re actually an organized threat. They’re just manipulative little geniuses. However…Queen Geilouna of Desonis owns one. I know there’s a Sariant Lamb owned by the Queen of Ailendamus, the King of Avel…and that’s just Terandria. There are Sariant Lambs owned by the rich and powerful—because that’s what Sariant Lambs like, to be pampered—across the world. If they were subtly manipulating their owners, who could tell?”

This was the stupidest conspiracy theory that Laken had ever heard. Yet he couldn’t quite deny it; the lambs were intelligent.

Case in point; one had apparently unlocked the warehouse door with a key it had somehow ‘found’ and they’d gorged themselves on food. The fact that a lamb had figured out which key was in Prost’s house, gotten it to the door way over its head…

No. The lambs were a problem. What Laken wanted to know was, why Riverfarm?

“These cute things could have gone to Invrisil. They could have bothered Magnolia Reinhart or a [Merchant]. Why Riverfarm? We’re not rich!”

“You have everything they want.”

Eloise gave Laken a cynical smile. She was walking along as Prost hurried—with a lamb in a carrying sling—to chivvy some of Riverfarm’s people to get back to work. The lambs protested; they wanted their fur hand-combed and all dirt and specks taken out! And hoof-manicures!

The [Tea Witch] gestured around the village.

“Riverfarm might not be as rich as Invrisil, but Sariant Lambs value safety over luxury, Emperor Laken. Your empire is a byword in safety; no bandits, no monsters. Believe me, many people are coming just for that. Why not the Sariants? More than that, however…a big city is more dangerous than somewhere like Riverfarm. Sariant Lambs can be run over, and many would steal them to resell. They like to stay together; they are a herd.”

“Hence Riverfarm being their paradise. Wonderful.”

The problem to Laken wasn’t killing the lambs. He’d had enough of killing sentient species, thank you. It was more that the lambs were cute and cuddly. People liked having them about and they were keeping people smiling. If it wasn’t for the other things, they’d be fine.

“Do they ever stop infesting a place?”

Eloise nodded.

“It would take months. A settlement loses its prosperity, or quarrels too much. Or…the animals run them out.”

“Really. But the dogs and horses…”

“They can only starve so long, your Majesty. Cats, now. Intelligent cats, or animals owned by [Beast Tamers] would do it fastest. They won’t let the Sariants kill them off.”

Laken rubbed at his face.

“This is such a stupid problem.”

He stopped as something went baaah in front of him. A little lamb rubbed against his leg; they were still following him and kept trying to touch him.

It actually reminded him of how Rie had tried to manipulate him, so Laken wasn’t fooled. He squatted down, and turned his closed eyes to the little sheep.

“How smart are you?”

It backed up a step, and then tried to climb his leg innocently, begging to be picked up and held. Laken didn’t like that answer. He turned to Eloise, who was—aiming a wand at a lamb trying to come up to her. She put the wand away as the lamb fled.

“Could they perform some kind of duty like the dogs do? They are as smart—smarter—than any animals I’ve met. Smarter than monkeys back home.”

She glanced at him and Laken recalled he hadn’t told the [Witches] his big secret. He would—perhaps only to spite Tamaroth—and they knew it existed, but it was one of the things he was currently waiting on. He had no idea how they’d react.

Hedag strode up, aiming a kick that missed one of the lambs who hopped out of the way. The Hedag laughed, but even her laugh had an irritated edge to it.

“That’s the issue we put before you, Laken-boy. And you see it clearer than most, eyes or not! They might work, since they’re smart’re than most, but they have a weakness that makes them not worth spit.”

“Which is?”

Laken Godart sensed Hedag lean down. She whispered the Sariant Lamb’s fatal flaw into his ear.

“They’re lazy.”

—-

Two weeks had passed and the Sariants were driving Laken crazy. Riverfarm’s people still defended them, but they were taking up more time. They wanted special food, petting, affection—and they had begun to breed.

They’d spawn like rabbits, and by now, Laken was sure something had to be done. He had sat in…conversation…with one more advisor and received an amusing response.

“Murder them.”

Apparently, they got even on a certain bearded man’s nerves. But that just made Laken want to object. He came upon a good solution, and an obvious one, when he entertained a rare visitor to Riverfarm.

Lord Gralton Radivaek was closer than Yitton Byres, and sometimes dropped by.

“Heard you had a bunch of Sariants.”

He grunted, bringing his usual armada of dogs, who were usually instantly played with. This time? They came up to people fawning over lambs and barely got a scratch. The dogs sniffed the lambs, who wiggled their noses, cuddled—and promptly backed away.

The [Dog Lord]’s hounds weren’t fooled. Laken glanced at Radivaek, and couldn’t read the man’s face from his [Emperor]-senses, but got a rumbling chuckle.

“Hate the buggers. I came to ask if you had a bone in the Oswen fight.”

“The—? Oh, the border dispute with House Veltras’ people?”

It was one of the new political events Riverfarm was now big enough to weigh in, being close-ish to the group that was feuding with the swamp-region over some kind of hunting territory dispute. Radivaek nodded.

“I’m on Oswen’s side.”

“About the hunting lands and the legal territory…?”

The [Dog Lord] gave Laken a blank stare as he tore into some meat and tossed the bones to his dogs. Laken let one climb into his lap; he liked the hound a lot more than the lambs; the dogs were genuine. They got bored with you, they didn’t act. When they wanted to play, they asked.

“Who cares about who’s in the right? I’m on Oswen’s side because they do right by me. Was hoping you’d do something.”

“Militarily? Economically?”

“Nope. Just agree Oswen’s right. Might tip the scales; they’d thank you.”

“Hm. Well, how many repercussions might that invite?”

Laken wished he had Rie, or Yitton. He had learned that Gralton was far more complex than he indicated—but the man still liked to pick fights. Gralton, predictably, had no idea.

“Maybe they’ll get snotty. You have your totem-things. Listen, Oswen’s good people. They have great dogs. Ever seen them? Hold on—I think I brought some with me. Trotter! Find me Waterskip and Droplets!”

One of the warhounds bounded off and came back with two more dogs. Laken had no idea what the dogs were—only that they were fairly large. His senses as an [Emperor] meant that features weren’t visible, so he reached out with his hands and found smooth, oily fur. He felt at the long dogs, their webbed feet, long ‘tails’, and laughed in astonishment.

“Gralton! What are these?”

“Otterdogs. Crossbreeds that pull Oswen’s water sleds. I knew you’d like ‘em.”

“You have Oswen’s breed?”

Gralton laughed in Laken’s face. He was Lord Gralton! He had every dog breed.

The otter dogs were affectionate, playful, and as fast in water as their cousins were on land. They had been bred with magic or something to be natural-born swamp hunters. They were delightful.

A bit smelly, but Laken didn’t object. He had to go down to the river and see them race through the water.

“Brilliant fellows. Not much use on land compared to a hound specialized for that, but Oswen’s got them hunting fish, pulling their water sleds—y’see, you shoot down game from their homes on stilts, and you send a dog out to fetch the kill. I’ve visited for fun; it’s a great place to relax. You should take that Durene and some of your folk and visit. They’ve got hot baths too. Unicorn horns embedded in the biggest one.”

“Er—willingly?”

“Think so. Some old pact back when you had the horned things wandering about.”

Laken scratched a wet otter-dog as the liquid ran off its fur. He smiled.

“You know, I like these Otterdogs a lot more than the Sariants already. I asked if you’d consider selling Riverfarm more dogs—how are the kennels?”

“Booming. Lots of puppies running about. Why, you want some dogs?”

“Maybe some Otterdogs? We could use some fun creatures about that don’t want you to trim their hooves every two seconds.”

Gralton folded his arms and thought about it.

“No.”

The Unseen Emperor straightened in surprise.

“No? Why not?”

Gralton glanced around Riverfarm and shook his head.

“Not enough wetland. Not enough water. Maybe if you expanded to the marshes to your east…then you can have some.”

“You…don’t want me to pay for your dogs?”

The [Dog Lord] fixed Laken with a look the [Emperor] felt. Like an aura of a beast, pressing on his. He realized Gralton was offended by the offer.

“My dogs are meant to work. They need a purpose. All animals do. I won’t sell them to grow fat and discontented. I’ll give you more terriers and sheepdogs and the Otterdogs if you have someone needing help in the marshes. And only if you get rid of those thieving sheep. I know they eat from the dog bowls and there’ll be hell to pay if I find a dog’s hungry.”

Chastened, Laken slowly nodded. That was why he respected Gralton.

“You’re right. I apologize.”

“Good. Now, if you want a dog that sees in the dark for your Darksky Riders—I’ve got a new breed in…”

The issue of the Sariant Lambs came into relief as Gralton extended his stay. The two Otterdogs did eventually come to live at Riverfarm, because Laken was planning on going into the marshes. So he asked for Waterskip and Droplets to try themselves out with one of the [Marsh Hunters] who’d fled the fires, but wanted to resettle his home. Ryoka had met him on one of her runs.

As for the Sariant Lambs? Gralton was the first person to agree with Laken.

“You can’t just kill all of them.”

“Thank you. I’ve been told to either let them parade about or to murder all of them in cold blood. What would you do?”

“No idea. I just run them off if I find them.”

Laken covered his face. Gralton laughed.

“Cheer up! Maybe there’s a secret power you’ll get from having so many. Seventy? That’s a lot! Bound to be twice that in a few months with them breeding. Now…me? I like—changing with my hounds.”

He meant his secret ability, to turn into, well, a Werewolf. Laken had been astonished to learn he could do that, although it was more like a Weredog. Gralton grinned at the [Emperor].

“You could become half-sheep.”

“No thank you. I think…it’s time to make the Sariants an ultimatum. I won’t have them disrupting Riverfarm, and I won’t kill them. If I drive them off—they might just come back, or my people will hide them.”

“What, then?”

Laken Godart frowned. Then he realized he had another special guest, who’d come out of her domain to greet Griffon Hunt. They were inbound. Laken snapped his fingers.

“I know just who. Excuse me, Gamel? Please bring me…”

—-

Pebblesnatch. The Goblin [Cook] met with Gralton and Laken. She was an emissary of her people, one of the few who ever left the Goblin Lands. Usually to ‘borrow’ cooking supplies or visit Nanette.

She stared at Laken and the [Dog Lord], quite unimpressed by both. After all, she had beaten the [Emperor] with a ladle and neither forgot that.

“Pebblesnatch, thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I was hoping you could take a look at Riverfarm’s newest…pets.”

Laken had Durene’s Sariant Lamb in the room, but he’d exiled his lover and all other busybodies except Gralton and the [Witches]. Pebblesnatch blinked at the lamb.

“What that?”

“A Sariant Lamb. It’s—”

The little sheep stared at Pebblesnatch and interrupted Laken as it came over, mewling cutely and staring up at her with huge eyes. It nuzzled the Cave Goblin, who retreated, then bent to stare at it.

Pebblesnatch had never seen a Sariant Lamb. The Sariant Lamb had never seen a Goblin.

The lamb did its best. It cuddled up, sniffed at Pebblesnatch, did a little flip on its hooves, and licked at the Goblin’s palm. All classics.

The Goblin felt at the soft, cuddly creature, and listened to it mewl and soothe her. She smiled. Then she sniffed the lamb. The Goblin experimentally opened her mouth and bit the lamb on the neck gently.

“Yum. Soft. Is good meat. I get?”

The lamb instantly freaked out. It began wailing, and Laken covered his ears, but grinned. So did the [Witches]. Hedag laughed.

“It doesn’t fool the Goblin’s stomach!”

Durene was summoned to rescue her lamb. Laken consulted with Pebblesnatch after the Sariant Lamb was gone.

“You didn’t think it was cute enough not to eat, Pebblesnatch?”

The [Cook] gave the [Emperor] a narrow-eyed look, as if trying to figure out if this was a test. She shook her head in the end. Yes, the Sariants were cute, but ‘cute’ didn’t fill her belly.

Laken clapped his hands together. At last! A species immune to the Sariant’s charms!

Goblins were in the unique position of being pragmatists; unlike monsters or animals, they’d be damned if some furballs would live if they starved. And unlike ‘civilized’ peoples, they didn’t like the idea of wasting resources on layabouts even if they were flush with food.

He grinned as he stood. It was not a nice grin, and both Durene and the Sariant she held looked apprehensive as Laken summoned them back in. He turned to Gralton and the [Witches], and smiled.

“I think I have a way to deal with the Sariants. Find them—all of them. No objections. We’re going to give them…shock therapy.”

Pebblesnatch glanced up. She began thinking of lamb recipes as Durene began protesting and the lamb squeaked in horror.

—-

“This is the issue. Sariants cannot breed out of control. They can’t demand to be pampered. A bit, yes, but they have to eat corn without wanting spices on it. I am willing to have them here! Just not at the expense of Riverfarm’s other animals. Lord Gralton has issued a complaint on how the dogs are being neglected.”

Riverfarm’s people listened with dismay as Laken laid out the issue. They stared at the nervous sheep, who were under [Silence] spells. Yet they could hear Laken. He sat on his throne, in front of the mass of supplicants and the lambs.

This was the weirdest throne room deliberation he’d made thus far, but Laken pretended nothing was untoward about it. He leaned over the armrest of his throne and turned his head to the Sariant Lamb’s ‘leader’.

“I am aware the Sariant Lambs are intelligent enough to be helpful—that they chose not to be is their choice.”

The lamb tried to baah at Laken, but he spoke over it.

“That they haven’t been so far is disappointing. The Sariants do seem to have a kind of charismatic power over Riverfarm’s people…so I’ve decided to give us a break.”

“Your Majesty, if the [Witches] convinced you to—”

Ram began hotly, but Laken spoke over the man.

“No one is going to kill them. Be silent, Mister Ram. I am [Emperor] of Riverfarm. Not the Sariant Lambs. I do not intend to kill them. However, they will not be coddled—and they will be absent. For one week. In their place I have asked Gralton to lend me his dogs, to be affectionately cuddled and taken care of.”

The people of Riverfarm muttered, but more dogs didn’t offend most. Only the most strident dog-haters around would object to that.

“Where will the Sariants go?”

Laken smiled nastily. The little lambs looked like they were ready to head off to greener pastures, but Laken wasn’t letting them off that easily.

“Why, I have prevailed on our allies to take care of the lambs. Without eating or harming them. It should be a fun week.”

The Sariant Lambs looked left—then right—then realized who Laken meant. Pebblesnatch grinned. She smacked the ladle into her clawed hands and pointed to the object Gralton had given her with a laugh after she’d come up with it.

A little dog-sled. The Sariants stared in horror at the sled and Pebblesnatch.

“Mush.”

She pointed. They began to wail, but they were under [Silence] spells and the [Witches] herded them off. Laken ignored the objections and Gralton’s dogs bounded forwards, reminding the spellbound people of Riverfarm there were other things than lambs in life.

—-

In truth, Laken suspected the Goblins mostly left the Sariants alone, Pebblesnatch’s fun aside. They weren’t actually cruel.

They might be hungry, though. But the Sariants were charming enough and even if one or two vanished…well.

A week of shock therapy did the trick. A bunch of ragged lambs came back, with grass stains on their fur, no owners to comb them or feed them on pillows; they’d had to find food, slept under the rain and lightning that a few malicious [Witches] kept conjuring, and fought off bugs, ticks, and, apparently, a really hungry giant centipede.

Laken Godart met the herd of Sariants before they were allowed back into Riverfarm. The Emperor of the Unseen Empire knelt down as the lambs stopped, staring at him.

“Here is my deal, Sariant Lambs. I know you can understand me. I am happy to let you eat, reproduce—in safe numbers—and have people look after you all your lives. But not if you take up all their time. Everyone must work.”

Gralton had reminded Laken of that. The [Emperor] went on.

“You will want for nothing in my lands, but you will not bother the other pets. If you are helpful, you may stay. If you continue as you have the last few weeks? I will have to force you to leave.”

The Sariants glared at him. Laken smiled thinly.

“I’m sure you think you can persuade your owners to get you to stay, and I have no doubt they’d try to smuggle you in. Which is why if I have to exile you—I will declare open season on Sariant Lambs. Not among my people, you understand. I’ll simply let the [Witches] keep Riverfarm clean of pests as they see them.”

Witch Mavika, Hedag, Eloise, Agratha, Wiskeria, and the others stood behind Laken. They stared at the little lambs and the lambs…hesitated. Laken Godart got back up.

“Let’s get you to your owners. Think about what I’ve said, would you?”

He let them go, and turned back to Wiskeria. Laken Godart rubbed at his forehead.

“…This is so stupid.”

He walked off and went to sleep to put an end to this debacle once and for all. But—well.

The world had the last laugh.

[Natural Allies: Sariant Lamb obtained!]

[Pact: The Hard-Working Lamb (Sariant) obtained!]

—-

The next day, Laken Godart followed some lambs around in his head. They helped tidy up the houses, nuzzled their owners, then lay down to sleep. A few followed their owners to work, and in general, lazed about.

“I suppose that’s as hard-working as a Sariant Lamb gets. But they’re not demanding attention or pampering.”

“You actually struck a deal with Sariant Lambs?”

Wiskeria tried not to laugh over breakfast. The [Emperor] regarded her, in his mind’s eye. For the daughter of Belavierr, she clearly found this normal, if funny. He shook his head, resigned.

“I don’t know what I find more offensive. The fact that I can strike a pact with Sariant Lambs, the fact that they are Riverfarm’s natural ally—or that the Skill isn’t new. Someone’s done this before.”

Wiskeria just shrugged.

“As long as you have the deal, we’ll abide.”

Laken Godart nodded and sighed. More of Gralton’s dogs had gone to stay, but the Sariant Lamb…he sat up and cursed.

“No! Absolutely not! Wiskeria, get Hedag and her axe!”

He shot to his feet, but it was too late. The growing empire of Riverfarm had fought over the seventy lambs. The empire, already into the tens of thousands, would not have to anymore.

Over the next three days, six more Sariant Lamb herds converged on Riverfarm. Laken Godart, the [Emperor] of lambs, decided to spend more time with Bismarck and Frostwing. Mossbears. Now, why couldn’t it have been Mossbears?

[Emperor Level 25!]

[Empire: Will of the Beasts obtained!]

—-

Pets across the world. Useful and useless.

Pets, not Healing Slimes or skeletons. Pets—animals who had a unique relationship with their owners.

Like the Fortress Beavers of The Wandering Inn—they weren’t pets. Not exactly. They had been left behind, abandoned the [Garden of Sanctuary]. They were Defenders of the Cave, and the pond, however lovely a retreat, was simply too small for them.

Animals needed to work. The inn was abandoned by even the animals. Selys Shivertail did have a reason to appreciate the Fortress Beavers.

She stared at the groaning [Thief] who had been after the Heartflame Breastplate, still breathing heavily. It hadn’t even been in her apartments; it was always on lease, but idiot [Thieves] didn’t know that.

The Fortress Beavers sat on the Drake who had sixteen broken bones. Somehow, they had snuck into her apartment and then proceeded to rescue her. It turned out a knife might threaten a Drake—but not a Fortress Beaver whose fur was so powerful, Mrsha had a Skill based on it.

Fortress Beavers, the beavers who could build dams so impressive they stopped entire rivers. The same beavers who had once dammed up a river with a fortification so impressive that two hundred Drakes had failed to dislodge them and been beaten back by the den, hence the name.

Selys was going to buy a big house with a water feature for them. She watched as Beaver Gang slapped their tails, giving the bemused Watch a side-eye.

…But they weren’t pets. The Defenders of the Cave were separate from The Wandering Inn’s only true pet. She buzzed along, intelligent, but still someone’s beloved animal. Selys realized…she hadn’t seen Apista. Nor would she find the bee when she went to check the next day.

Not in the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Not in the inn, tending to her hidden little honey nest. Nor about the inn, on the flower-hill. Apista was nowhere to be found, because she had left the inn.

They all had. The brave and foolish, leaving home to rescue that silly little Gnoll. The bee buzzed along, determinedly keeping up, avoiding the Gnoll [Sergeant] who kept swatting at her.

“Are you sure that thing’s part of the inn? It’s got a stinger longer than my finger!”

Sergeant Gna pointed at Apista. The bee did a barrel roll past her face. But she wasn’t high. There was no time for hedonism. Her little white creature was gone! Her pet, who fed her things. Apista had to get it back or Lyonette would be heartbroken.

The faithful bee buzzed ahead, ignored by most of the others. Octavia, fiddling with her supplies, ill-at-ease on the horse, Fierre with an umbrella, Fals and Garia, jogging along, Antinium, Goblins…

Only one of them glanced back at Apista and realized the bee meant business. Apista was angry. She was furious. She buzzed, a bee as large as your hand. Her dark stinger was poised and she was no ‘one sting bee’. She was a princess of bees!

She had been taking it too easy. Sitting complacent in the inn. That time was over. Someone had stolen Mrsha. That stupid hat-thing had hurt her.

It was time for the world to see Apista’s true form. Training wings off. She had to unleash her full potential.

The others mocked her, or tried to shoo her back to the inn. They didn’t understand. Apista wasn’t the weak one here. That was probably…uh…someone else!

It was Ulvama, the lone experienced spellcaster of the group who did a double-take and eyed Apista warily. She rode forwards and nudged Numbtongue, who was riding ahead, eyes set on the road.

“Hey. You see that? What that?”

She pointed warily at Apista. Numbtongue glanced back, irritated—then frowned. Both Hobgoblins peered at the Ashfire Bee. Apista gave them a salute with one antennae.

That’s right. Fly wary, I’m packing real heat.

Ulvama leaned back as Apista buzzed past her face. She stared at the tip of the bee’s stinger. The glittering tip that caught the light. Her jaw dropped as she recognized what it was.

The Naq-Alrama needle glittered on the tip of Apista’s stinger. Apista had tried to ‘glue’ the fragment of needle with beeswax to her stinger until she’d accidentally jabbed it in frustration. It had lodged in the already-sharp queen-bee stinger, and the tip of it poked out. Apista had decided it was an upgrade. She buzzed angrily as she scouted for someone to poke.

Oh boy, she was going to sting someone in the eye with this.

The most dangerous, anti-[Mage] bee in the world buzzed ahead.

After her beloved little friend.

8.30

A dream without image or sound was still a dream if you knew you were having it. Each time, he did, and it was a welcome dream.

Not a happy dream. Not a…good dream. But not a bad dream, either. So he clung to it. Hoping each second would last a bit longer. Until he woke.

The dream without anything was preferable to seeing something. It was about half-and-half that he got that kind of rest. So when the Gnoll sat up automatically, before the dawn broke, he felt glad.

Chief Warrior Merish heard rustling around his small yurt; comfortable, large enough to do a small circle around in, and as plush as you could want, really. It was packed with pillows, blankets, enough so that he had complained on seeing that he didn’t need the bed; he could lie on the blankets and stay several feet off the ground.

Someone stopped just outside the tent flaps. They sensed Merish waking up; or just knew him. A furry head poked through the flaps. A grin; russet brown fur with a bit of red, like his. Unlike his though, there was no blue and white dye in a warrior’s pattern, magic, the source of part of his powers.

His sister’s fur was just fur, and for a second she reminded him of a giant squirrel, poking her head through to smile at him.

“Merish, another good morning! Did I wake you?”

“No.”

“Good! Then—Sveha, Ikl. Your uncle is awake, yes? You can be louder.”

Merish heard a rustling sound, and then something small and even more squirrel-like popped through the tent flaps.

“Yay! Uncle!”

Sveha and Ikl, the two children of Merish’s sister charged into his tent. They leapt onto the bedding and the big Gnoll—until their mother called them back.

“I didn’t say you could attack your uncle! Behave!”

“It’s fine, Khaze.”

Merish got up, and stared at the two little Gnoll cubs rolling around. They sat up obediently, and he looked at little Sveha, still running around on all fours, and her older brother, Ikl.

Khaze sighed, but in the next moment she was smiling again. She led Merish out of the guest-tent in their subclan, part of the great Plain’s Eye Tribe that was camped at the Meeting of Tribes.

Around Merish was a sea of tents, and Gnolls rising to greet the pre-dawn day. Many still slept, but it reminded him of an army’s camp…and not of one at the exact same time. So many tents, but lacking the military straightness, the layout he was used to. At the same time…

Two Gnolls rolled out of the tent behind him. Merish and Khaze turned. His younger sister’s children literally rolled out, doing somersaults forward until they got dizzy and lay on the ground. Merish just stared at them. Khaze snorted with laughter.

“You two are too silly. Where did you learn that from?”

“Uncle Viri!”

Merish blinked. Uncle? Khaze, though, just laughed again.

“He would do that.”

She wasn’t perturbed by it, so Merish said nothing. He stood in the middle of the tents, the hustle and bustle, and realized he didn’t have his axe. He wore only a loincloth; he didn’t need armor with his shaman markings—he was a [Shamanic Warrior], after all—but a weapon was different.

He almost went back into the tent for it. Almost. Then stopped himself, deliberately. He…didn’t need it.

“Well, I hoped you were up. Ikl, Sveha, get more baskets. Two…no, three. Viri will be up soon, and Ikl and you can share.”

“I don’t want to carry it!”

Ikl protested, but he was already running off. Merish looked around. He felt lost. He didn’t have morning duties, unlike his sister. He was a returning warrior from abroad. From Rhir.

A war hero, they called him. Which meant he had nothing to do, unlike his sister. Yet it seemed today she wasn’t preparing for her usual job—[Knife-edge Slicer].

An odd class, to non-Gnolls especially. What it meant was—well, that Khaze was an expert in using knives in a variety of cutting tasks. Not combat, but butchering, cutting up ingredients for both food and alchemy, cutting fabric…anything you could want in a vast tribe like this. It was the sort of class you didn’t really get in cities unless you worked all kinds of jobs.

Today, though, she handed Merish a basket. He gave it a blank look.

“What’s this?”

His sister gave him a sheepish look and put one finger to her lips as her children ran up. She looked around for a [Shaman] and whispered conspiratorially.

“I know you’re on vacation, Merish, but you would help your sister gather some plants, wouldn’t you? There’s some fine plants to be picked today, and I need every paw I can grab—especially since few are awake at this hour!”

She had another basket and her children had two. Merish stared at the gathering basket, which he hadn’t used for over a decade, since earning his warrior markings. He didn’t mind the task, but he had to point out something he thought Khaze had forgotten. He gestured around at the tents. They stretched as far as the eye could see and hundreds of cook-fires were already beginning to glow.

This was only a fraction of the Meeting of Tribes, though. Soon, there would be countless tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of Gnolls mingling and mixing. Tribes from across Izril had come. Perhaps there were millions of Gnolls here?

An army. He forced the comparison away and looked at Khaze.

“Gather what? We’re at the Meeting of Tribes, Khaze. Even the grass is being stomped flat.”

She laughed at him and slapped Merish on the shoulder.

“I know that—but the Gaarh Marsh tribe and three others got up to something last night. Now there are plants blooming everywhere! Edible ones as well as pretty flowers! A nice present, yes?”

The Gnoll blinked. He looked around and saw it was true. Unlike yesterday, the grass and dirt from so much activity had changed. A little plant had shot up overnight right next to his tent. He walked over as Khaze brought out a little bulls-eye lantern and shone it down. Merish squatted down and stared.

“That’s a tomato.”

The tomato plant sat there, three full-grown tomatoes hanging from the plant, which was already sagging under the weight. Khaze happily grabbed all three and yanked them off the plant.

“And that’s breakfast, yes? Why are you looking so surprised, Merish? [Shamans] and their tricks. Hrm. You’re still talking like a City Gnoll, too!”

Merish glanced up at her as Ikl and Sveha begged for a bite, complaining they hadn’t had food yet! Khaze assured them they would get breakfast—after gathering the unexpected plant bounty.

It was the second time she’d told him he was speaking differently.

Merish still felt like a Plains Gnoll, but his accent had changed, much to his bemusement. He had grown used to being told he spoke ‘funny’ by other species thanks to his rolling r’s and some of the idiosyncrasies of Gnollish expressions, like how ‘yes’ was both affirmative and indication of goodness, but it seemed to Gnolls from home, he had an accent.

Years abroad in Rhir had done that. Merish shook his head. Everything had changed. Sveha had been a baby, and Ikl had been younger than she was when he left. He had been eager, even ambitious, and…different.

He had come back with scars, ‘quiet’, to hear his friends and sister say it, with nightmares and stories of horror and war. And with Viri. The Plain’s Eye [Warriors] who had gone with him had come back too.

Eight of them. Many times more had gone, from many tribes. Many had gone again, to avenge the fallen. In that sense, Merish was among the lucky ones.

Commander Cirille was dead. So was Uxel. Delezza. Vorn, Lacten…

“Merish. Merish!”

He blinked. His sister was poking him in the side. He stared at her. She grinned, and he realized he’d spaced out.

“Take Sveha and Ikl with you. I would, but I’m going to fight for the rare cooking ingredients! I have to run, many thanks!”

“Wait, but I don’t even know what I’m looking f—”

She was already gone, jogging off on a quest to find something nice. Merish stared down at the tomato plant. It stared up at him, denuded of the tomatoes, probably fated to wither away or be stepped on.

You’ve taken my fruit. Leave me alone, you monster.

He looked after his sister, who was shooing Sveha and Ikl back towards him. Because they were too slow to elbow other Gnolls away from rubyroot plants and the like.

“Uncle! Mother says we have to stay with you!”

Sveha padded back over and sat there. Ikl yawned, blinking up at Merish. He looked around helplessly, almost amused, exasperated at Khaze. She hadn’t changed. She left him with her children, as if she was a cub still and foisting dishwashing duty onto him. Merish sighed, but inwardly, he smiled.

Why it didn’t translate to a smile on his face, he didn’t know.

“Why is there a carrot outside my tent? Is this a prank? Ahoy! Merish! Sveha! Ikl! It’s meeeeeee—”

Someone shouted. Merish, Ikl, and Sveha looked around—then up. A loud, exuberant voice cut through the quiet morning. A little figure bounced from the tent he’d hopped out of, and flew through the air like a giant grasshopper. Sveha and Ikl stared up, open-mouthed, though they’d seen Viri many times before.

The Lizardman hopped through the air and landed, planting his stick on the ground. He grinned, leaning on it as his one leg planted itself on the ground. He had only a stump for his second leg, but Viri hadn’t changed.

“Uncle Viri! I want to go hopping!”

“No, me!”

Ikl pushed his sister away. Viri hugged Sveha and Ikl and grinned.

“Merish! There’s a carrot over there. How did it get there?”

Viri could still smile. He pointed at the carrot sprouting from the ground in front of his tent, laughing with delight at it. Merish had to explain.

“We’re gathering plants. A [Shaman] made them sprout.”

“Really? Wow! That sounds like fun! Let’s go!”

The Lizardman hopped around excitedly, taking a basket from Sveha. He didn’t moan about the hour; other Gnolls were doing that, but they were used to the Lizardman, the foreigner from Baleros. Merish’s friend from Rhir.

A survivor of 5th Wall. That was what Merish couldn’t explain to Khaze. Oh, she knew enough. He had spared her all the details, but his tribe knew…and didn’t know.

5th Wall. It had come to be a phrase, almost like a password. If you understood what it meant—it was because you had been there. Merish went to gather plants on a day in the wondrous Meeting of Tribes, with his family, Viri.

He still felt like he was standing there, on distant Rhir.

—-

“Uncle, why do [Shamans] make plants appear?”

Sveha let Merish carry her as he trudged along. Viri was hopping with Ikl, who was trying to copy the Lizardman as they bounced from plant to plant. The blooms were everywhere. Merish stared at a sunflower taller than he was and gingerly plucked the entire head and tossed it into the basket. Sveha sniffed it, then looked up at him.

“Yeah, why do they do it, Merish? We don’t have [Shamans]. Our Nagas have all kinds of magic…but this is more like Centaur stuff. Dullahans are mostly [Geomancers] and stuff. Maybe it’s a [Druid] thing. But why plants?”

Viri looked expectant too. Merish shrugged.

“…As part of a way to demonstrate the power of their tribes, I suppose. Impress the others. A fun activity.”

Viri nodded. Sveha, on the other hand, looked up.

“Why can [Shamans] make plants grow?”

“…Because they have the tribe’s magic.”

“Why does the tribe have magic?”

Merish looked down at Sveha.

“Everyone has magic, Sveha.”

“Why does everyone have magic?”

Merish was stumped by that one. Sveha was little, and curious. She asked ‘why’ so many times he felt like a [Shaman] himself.

“How about we find more plants? You can ask your mother about that later. Can you smell anything interesting, Sveha?”

And Khaze can deal with existential questions about magic. Merish was a [Shamanic Warrior], but he didn’t have time for an hour-long lecture about harnessing magical power. Sveha nodded. She cast around, sniffing, and then pointed.

“There! Smells good!”

All three gatherers trusted Sveha’s nose. She was a Level 2 [Sniffer], a child’s class, so her sense of smell was even more acute than other children. Merish jogged over, seeing more Gnolls eagerly grabbing plants. They were arguing already.

“That pumpkin is on our tribe’s land, friend.”

“But I was uprooting it before you came along, good fellow Gnoll, yes? This is a bounty for all.”

“So why don’t we share it?”

Two friendly Gnolls were arguing over a huge pumpkin. Merish took his group around what might be an impending fight, and saw a tiny flower. He blinked.

“Good nose, Sveha. I think this is valuable.”

Instantly, both arguing Gnolls looked over. They were from different tribes. Sveha stared down at the purple flower with the red pistils.

“It smells good. What is it?”

“I think it’s useful. Viri, do you recognize this?”

The Lizardman hopped over.

“Nope!”

He announced triumphantly. Ikl, surprisingly, identified it.

“That’s saffron! Mother said to grab it.”

“Well, it goes into the basket, then.”

The non-native plants to Izril were growing thanks to the [Shaman]’s magic. Merish grabbed the entire flower and decided to uproot all of it.

“Hey! That’s on the Decles Tribe’s land—”

One of the Gnolls began to stride over. Merish straightened and the Gnoll hesitated. He looked at Merish, who outweighed him, out-heighted him, and certainly out-leveled him.

Merish, whose fur glowed with magical markings. The Gnoll blinked.

“…But the Plain’s Eye Tribe is a friend of ours! Why don’t we share everything? Here’s your pumpkin, friend.”

He backed off. Merish was amused—he would have split the saffron flower if the Gnoll insisted. Viri chortled.

“This is why you have to have a Merish.”

He whispered slyly to Ikl, who gave his uncle a proud look. Embarrassed—he hadn’t meant to intimidate the other Gnoll—Merish hurried off with Sveha.

More Gnolls joined the search, exclaiming over plants that had popped out everywhere. Merish wondered how long they had to gather; until they filled their baskets, he decided. They were almost done when Ikl pointed.

“Look! There’re some nice plants! I’ll get them!”

He ran over, ahead of other Gnolls to secure a spot. By now it was a competition. He’d found a patch of plants with fat fruits. Merish glanced at him, then his eyes narrowed and he snapped.

“Herthee! Ikl don’t touch that.”

Some other Gnolls looked around. A male Gnoll blinked.

“Herthee? Grab it!”

The Gnoll boy froze, one paw raised. He looked from the Gnoll to Merish, confused. So did the other Gnolls picking the herbs.

Viri eyed the plant, hopping over.

“What’s Herthee and why are we grabbing and not grabbing it?”

Merish trotted over to confirm he was right. He squatted down and eyed the bush-like growth.

The long, almost stalk-like plant of Herthee was strange. It was bright yellow turning to a healthy greenish white at the roots, with fat, appealing seeds that could be larger than your fist. Fleshy, a tangy yellow that when split open, looked almost like the inside of golden flatbread, but puffy and chewy. They hung from the stalks on miniature branches, inviting anything to just come over and eat it.

“It is Herthee! You should grab it, friend.”

The other Gnoll came over. He didn’t have markings, but he had a triangular cap on. He gave Merish a friendly nod, which the Gnoll returned. Sveha looked at Merish.

“Why don’t you want it, Uncle? Does it taste bad?”

Merish shook his head. It was a vegetable, and the looks didn’t actually deceive. Herthee tasted as good as it looked. The trouble was that it was also deadly.

“No…but it has side effects.”

The [Shamanic Warrior] glanced at the other Gnoll. The hat-wearing Herthee supporter shrugged.

“It’s not that bad.”

Merish begged to differ. If you ate the Herthee seeds, you experienced the secret poison in the plant, which allowed it to ‘harvest’ the corpses of those who thought they’d found an easy meal.

Your tongue swelled up and you choked to death. A horrible way to go. Death by suffocation, rightly giving the plant its dreaded reputation among small, foraging animals.

…Gnoll-sized people were by and large resistant to Herthee’s effects. You’d get a fat tongue and be in danger if you really gulped them down, but they were mostly annoying.

Even so, no one wanted a swollen, slightly irritated tongue for the next two hours, so Herthee had a dubious place in the culinary world. If you had anti-allergen Skills or knew how to neutralize the effects—or were just desperate or hungry—it was for you.

“Ikl, you’ll puff up if you bite it. I once had a tongue so big I had to breathe through my nose and keep my mouth open because it wouldn’t fit. For six hours straight.”

His [Shaman] had laughed so hard she’d nearly passed out. The others snorted and Viri almost fell over, laughing. Ikl backed away, but the hat-wearing Gnoll encouraged Merish.

“Any good [Cook] can deal with it. I’d gather it, friends—but my basket is full.”

He indicated his basket, which was full of the damned Herthee. Merish bared his teeth.

“We will, then. Good idea, friend. We’ll…add it to the gathered produce if our camp doesn’t want them.”

The Gnoll smiled as Merish and Ikl plucked the seed. He waved and headed back to wherever his tribe was. When he was out of eye and earshot, Merish dumped all of the Herthee into Ikl’s basket and turned to the boy.

“Ikl, take all of them and toss them in the nearest fire.”

The Gnoll boy nodded and ran off. Merish sighed.

“Let’s go back to Khaze.”

They found only one more plant on the way back, another plant more endemic to Izril than the rare saffron. This time, Merish brightened up because unlike Herthee, he actually liked this plant.

“Lyepeppers. Viri! Come take a look. You too, Sveha. You will like this.”

Both Lizardman and Gnoll girl watched as Merish hurried over and began to pluck the fat peppers. Both gave Merish a very dubious look.

“Uncle. Those are bad.”

“Yeah. Are you sure that’s not poison, Merish?”

Viri pointed to the peppers. They resembled the tooth-like peppers you could find in other varieties, fat and fully-grown. The difference was…well, the coloration.

The Lyepeppers were a mix of colors, each so bright as to seem artificial. One was bright red with green spots that almost looked like warts on it. Another was distinctly yellow, with tiny blue dots as if it was sick. If there was any unhealthy or poisonous look—it was that.

“Lyepeppers aren’t bad, Sveha.”

Merish assured his niece. He offered her one, but Sveha, normally eager to bite any snack or treat, even dirt, closed her mouth.

“They have spots. I was eating this thing, but not this with spots and Mommy said no.”

The Gnoll girl stared up at Merish as if that last sentence made sense and had a conclusion. Her gaze somehow managed to convey accusation for Merish going against Khaze’s rule against spotted plants.

He tried to explain and reassure her.

“Lyepeppers are…liars, Sveha. Only Lyepeppers are edible, even though they look like…”

He showed her a purple, striped Lyepepper crossed with an unhealthy orange.

“They try to trick you. They’re good, see? Just be careful; they do mix with weeds…er, bad plants. So you break a bit off and rub it on your skin. Under your fur. If you don’t get itchy, it’s probably a good Lyepepper. So you take a little bite and wait. And then…”

He gave up on the survival explanation because she was giving him an even more mistrustful look.

“…We have [Cooks] who can appraise all the ingredients. So we’ll gather it all.”

The little girl watched Merish and Viri pluck the rest of the peppers. She didn’t like them—or her empty stomach.

“I want Mommy!”

She scrunched up her face, casting around and glaring at Merish, but Khaze was nowhere to be seen.

“We’ll find her.”

“I want her now.”

Her face turned dangerously upset. Merish sighed, and looked for Khaze, but before Sveha could start crying, a claw tapped her on the shoulder.

“Sveha. Psst, Sveha.”

She looked around. Viri popped up beside her.

“Bleargh!”

He made a huge face, sticking out his tongue and making his eyes wide as possible.

Sveha just stared at him. Viri stared back. Neither one laughed. After a second, Viri dropped the face.

“How about a Lyepepper? Look, isn’t it funny?”

He offered her one that seemed like it had a face on it, a unique striped look. Sveha grabbed the pepper.

“No!”

She hurled it away, grumpily. Viri cried out.

“Nooo! My pepper! What are you doing, you mad child?”

He hopped after it, waving his one arm in dismay. Sveha peeked after him, and to Merish’s relief, began giggling. Viri came back, a mighty frown on his face.

“Okay, I got it and it looks good. But promise me you won’t throw it again, okay? Here…put it in the basket.”

He handed the pepper to Sveha. She picked it up, stared at it, and then at Viri. He waited.

She tossed the pepper.

“My pepper! How could you?”

The Lizardman leapt in horror, splatted comically on the ground, and rolled over until he could grab it. He pushed himself up and began hopping back.

“Okay. Sveha? I need you to put it into the basket. Here—no, don’t—!”

Away the pepper flew. Viri chased after it, brought it back, and didn’t seem to understand what would happen next if he handed it to Sveha. The little Gnoll girl forgot her tantrum and began laughing in delight as the little Lizardman grew increasingly more dismayed.

“Don’t throw it away again!”

“The poor pepper! Oh no!”

“Nagas help me! She’s gone mad! She’s throwing my pepper! Merish, stop her!”

—-

By the time they got back, Sveha was panting from laughing too hard. Khaze laughed herself as Ikl waved at them.

“I was told you got rid of some Herthee, Merish? Good job! Remember when your tongue looked like a slug? Sveha! Are you making poor Uncle Viri chase after your pepper?”

“I don’t mind, Miss Khaze!”

The Lizardman hopped over, a huge smile on his face. She looked at him appreciatively.

“You are so good with cubs.”

Everyone liked Viri. The cheerful little [Longstick Jumper] had ingratiated himself into the tribe on the first day he’d met them. Khaze took Merish’s basket.

“Ooh, you found saffron? Well done. Lyepeppers—Sveha, stop throwing that.”

The Gnoll girl looked disappointed that the game was over, but she hopefully stared at the cooking station set up. Breakfast was going to be more special than the regular; Khaze was chopping up some of the findings and preparing a pot. She gestured at the table.

“Put everything on there and we’ll see what else we can put in. We have some goat…I just need to make a fine stew around it. How do tomatoes sound? Tomatoes and…where are my spices?”

She looked around. Merish set the basket down as Sveha whined.

“I want beef.”

“Goat is fine. Don’t whine, Sveha.”

Her mother, exasperated, looked at Merish.

“Children. She complains about the type of meat, never mind that we get it every breakfast.”

The [Shamanic Warrior] felt his lips move up. He smiled, for the first time that day.

“As I recall, Khaze, you used to throw beef jerky on the ground because it was ‘too salty’.”

She blushed under her fur.

“I was just—”

Boom. Merish saw a flash out of the corner of his eye as he heard a sound. Viri screamed.

“Spell—”

The [Shamanic Warrior] whirled. He looked up and saw an unnatural flash cross the heavens. A spell. An attack.

Lights fell down from the sky.

A second dawn; a false one, tricking the defenders of 5th Wall into believing they had survived the night of Demons.

It only brought oblivion as Merish looked up, seeing the Demon soldiers fade to nothing and realizing he had battled an army of ghosts. His companions, friends fallen to a…spell.

It took Cirille as he watched. A flash from above, something hidden beyond the clouds. Then she and everyone around her were gone. That brave Drake who had led them—gone in a second. Before she even saw their foe’s face.

The Death of Magic.

“Merish. Merish!”

For a second, the voices were intermingled, the shouting from his warriors—Merish was on 5th Wall. Then—he was back in reality.

He came to his senses. The Gnoll was panting raggedly. He heard Khaze’s voice, shocked.

“Merish?”

Merish was crouched behind the upended food preparation table, the hard-gathered ingredients lying on the ground, utensils and dishes overturned.

Gnolls gathered around cooking fires were staring. Viri was flat on the ground. Everyone else, from Khaze to Ikl and his clan were just…looking at Merish. He straightened, then flinched as another boom echoed in the air. He turned to see the flash—

A silly little face, a cartoonish Drake, floated overhead. Mage lights. Someone was artificially darkening the air and shooting up spells into the sky. A [Merchant] or someone with a wand, perhaps. Not [Shaman] spells. Merish stared up at the lights. Then at the table.

“I…”

He heard a small sound. Then he looked down and saw Sveha.

She was lying next to the table. Sveha was whimpering, curled up and holding her leg. He’d—Merish saw her staring at him.

“Uncle. Uncle—you threw me! He—”

Then she began to howl. Khaze instantly raced over to her and scooped her up.

“It’s alright, Sveha. Show me your leg. It’s just bruised? Merish didn’t mean to do it. It was just—”

Merish stood there, staring at Sveha. He walked over, but she wailed and swung a paw at him, and Khaze fished for a potion.

“I don’t have a healing potion. Sveha, it’s not bad! One second…”

“I have one. Let me—”

Merish was blocked as something hit his leg. He looked down. Ikl had seen his sister crying. The little Gnoll boy began to punch Merish’s leg as hard as he could, snarling.

“Ikl! Enough!”

Khaze shouted at her son. Viri was getting up. He looked at Merish. The Gnoll looked at Khaze, at the others coming over to pick up the fallen goods. Khaze met his eyes—then hurried for a potion. Merish stood there, trying to say something. Explain? In the end, he could only look at Khaze, and repeat himself.

“I’m sorry.”

—-

When he dreamed of nothing, it was welcome. The alternative was nightmares.

Blood and terror. Hacking down a Demon [Soldier] in his way. Turning. Hearing the bang. Ser Vorn falling.

Light from the sky.

He woke up with his fur matted with sweat, howling a cry to arms. Seeing light flash down from the heavens.

It was another day. Merish woke before dawn, the day after the disaster with Sveha. No Khaze to greet him. He wondered how upset she was. Understandably…or was she giving him space?

Of course, the day went on after the incident in the morning. But it colored everything. What had he done after that? Merish washed his face, wondering if he’d woken anyone up. Then again—his clan might be used to it by now.

He stared into the bowl with water taken from a flask. The Gnoll found he couldn’t actually remember. He’d done something. Eaten. Gone around with Viri, maybe?

The world was grey, sometimes. He forgot what he was doing. He felt…out of place, no matter where he was, even with his sister. He was glad he wasn’t with the entire clan; shamefully, Merish was glad his mother didn’t see him like this, which was part of the reason why he had volunteered to join the Meeting of Tribes.

He wondered, if his father had been alive—what he would have said. Maybe he would have understood. Merish’s father had been a [Shamanic Warrior] too, and even if he had never gone to Rhir…

The Gnoll did not leave his tent for a while. He sat, rummaging through his things. He nearly reached for his enchanted axe—left it be. After the incident with Sveha, he didn’t trust himself with it. No accident had been fatal, or injured people beyond Sveha’s leg. But if it did?

Merish unfolded a bit of costly paper. He sat, cross-legged, and conjured a bit of light from his fur markings. The pattern lit up his dark yurt, giving him ample light to read by. A beautiful pattern. He didn’t look at it.

I still feel like I am at 5th Wall. I have to go back and settle things there. For Commander Cirille. If you choose to come back, there will be a place for you with us.

The writing was neat, cursive, and Merish had found it hard to read at first. Yet he’d read it so many times he could recite the letter by heart.

Captain Shellc. No—hadn’t he been promoted? Merish’s finger traced down the letter.

Ah, yes. It said here. [Swordgrace Major] Shellc. Merish stared at the letter and thought about it again.

If you choose to come back…

Would that be for the best? He had leveled too, even if he hadn’t changed his class. Their reward for surviving the massacre was to level faster than anyone else. Merish had left, to come back home. Perhaps he would leave? What would Khaze and his family say?

Merish folded the letter. Then he went to wake up Viri. It was just a hunch—but it proved to be correct.

The day after seeing the lights-show, Viri did not emerge from his guest-tent beaming and smiling like normal. He was thrashing in his sheets, crying out. Merish heard him even before he pushed back the thick fabric. Viri was shouting in his sleep, like Merish.

“Call the charge, Uxel! Uxel! Where are—”

His face was twisted up, and his legs were kicking. Both legs—the whole one and the stump. Merish reached down.

“Viri. You’re dreaming. Viri—”

He touched the little Lizardman and Viri’s eyes opened wide. He looked at Merish and cried out.

“Demon!”

He slept with his staff by his side. The little staff blurred.

Viri struck at Merish three times with his staff in a fraction of a second, so fast the Gnoll couldn’t block the third blow. Merish stumbled, his head ringing with the impact. Viri dragged himself up—then, like Merish—came back.

“Merish? I—Nagas—”

He reached out, but Merish waved him away.

“I’m fine. You were having a nightmare.”

“I…was.”

Viri swayed—then fell over. He stared at his missing leg. Then he curled up.

“I’m sorry, Merish. Can—can you leave me alone for a moment?”

Merish nodded. Without a word, he backed up and left the tent. He heard Viri crying before he swung the flaps closed.

What a wonderful day in the Meeting of Tribes.

Merish stood in the darkness, shoulders hunched. Head bowed. He waited for something—for Viri to emerge. For something to happen.

It was someone else who came to find him. Merish’s head rose. He saw someone walk towards him, straightened, and then dipped his head.

“Chieftain.”

Merish did not kneel or bow, but he was surprised. This was not his clan’s leader, but the [Chieftain] of the Plain’s Eye Tribe.

Chieftain Xherw smiled. One of the greatest [Chieftains] of Gnolls here or anywhere walked forwards, out of the night. No bodyguards or escort—not among his tribe.

“Merish. I hoped to speak with you. Is now a bad time?”

He could hear Viri too. Merish hesitated, then stepped away.

“No, [Chieftain]. Of course not. Is something wrong?”

“Not with the tribe, Merish. Walk with me.”

Xherw gestured, and Merish fell into step with him, walking through the camp. He looked at Xherw, sidelong.

The Gnoll had dark fur, almost black, but with faint lines of silver breaking the uniform fur. He was not as tall as Merish, and he was certainly far older. Twice Merish’s thirty three years, nearly.

He wore a [Chieftain]’s garb. Lightweight, free clothing, like most Plains Gnolls wore, but ancient cloth, still perfectly maintained by magic. Practically relics unto themselves; the Raiment of the Plains. They were decorated with motifs of their tribe, and the cloth was probably stronger than Vorn’s steel plate had been.

Xherw also carried a light hand axe, for throwing or close combat. It wasn’t the spear he would take to battle; just decoration at the Meeting of Tribes. His pawed feet were bare, as were Merish’s, and if you could not see the power of the magic he wore, he might look almost normal.

That was just physical appearance, though. The Chieftain of the Plain’s Eye Tribe was more than just his looks. Where he walked, you felt it. Merish could feel it.

It was like walking beside…solemnity. A temporal disturbance. Gnolls looked up, or came out of their tents, feeling it even from afar. They called out, waved.

“Chieftain!”

Xherw waved at them, calling greetings, but led Merish away from the tents, and the Meeting of Tribes itself. If he was careless, he could wake up everyone within a hundred feet of him just by walking past them as they slept.

It was the power of Merish’s [Chieftain]. That he had come here was humbling, and Merish wanted to know if he’d heard about Sveha, or…

Well. He was respectfully silent as they walked away from the Plain’s Eye camp, past sentries, into the Great Plains. It was dark, and the two Gnolls strode along at a good clip. Only when they were truly alone, and the wind blew in a distant gale across the dark plains did Xherw speak.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it? Is Rhir so, Merish? I have seen images on the scrying orbs—but never been.”

Merish hadn’t expected that. He looked across the flat Great Plains, which stretched out in every direction as far as the eye could see. Flat land, that made you want to run forever. Once…Merish would have raced into that distance.

He thought of Rhir.

“It is different, Chieftain. No part of Rhir save the Blighted Lands is not in some way managed. They have glorious fields, tall structures. Beautiful and deadly—but it is like walking through an armory. The walls are magnificent, but Rhir is all geared to war.”

“I see. Some beauty there.”

Xherw paused, and the two Gnolls slowed. Merish waited, trying a few different sentences out in his mind, but he couldn’t break the silence.

He was a [Chief Warrior]. This was the [Chieftain] of the Plain’s Eye Tribe, far beyond him. Normally, [Chief Warrior] was a rank close to [Chieftain], but the Plain’s Eye Tribe was different.

It was one of the largest tribes of Izril. It had so many Gnolls in it, hundreds of thousands, that it rivaled Drake cities in population alone. Accordingly, it had many ‘clans’ which were all part of a greater whole. Xherw commanded it all, such that there were at least a hundred [Chief Warriors] under his command.

Still, Merish was important enough to have been chosen to lead the expedition to Rhir. That he was important enough for Xherw to meet himself—well, that was as much his brush with the Death of Magic as anything else. He had been questioned by the [Shamans] and other [Chieftains], as well as Xherw.

“I heard you were disturbed by the light show yesterday. I asked they confine it to the night-time, or inform the tribes when such displays would take place.”

Merish jumped. Then flushed.

“Chieftain, that was my fault. All the tribes?”

“It disturbs children, and we should regulate it. Think nothing of it, Merish. The nightmares and visions of Rhir continue, then?”

Xherw looked at Merish. The Gnoll nodded. The [Chieftain] sighed.

“We will send for an expert if our [Shamans] cannot mend your pain somewhat, Merish. It is not good to heal the body and leave the mind behind, no. Tell me. What do you dream of? Is it always…her?”

“Yes. The Death of Magic.”

The wind dropped for a second, as if even here, the name alone had power. Merish shivered. He saw her, laughing, sweeping down and blasting the [Clown], before attacking 4th Wall. Xherw shook his head.

“I have seen great names, Merish. I have met Zel Shivertail, and Sserys of Liscor. I have even beheld the Centenium. I saw one die a final death during the Antinium Wars. I dream of them, sometimes. But the Death of Magic? That is an old legend. I grieve that it haunts your waking and sleep.”

Merish nodded.

“I am ashamed. I thought even if I met the Deathless on Rhir, I could stand against them. Fight. Now? I suppose this is what it is like to see a true story, not dream of it, Chieftain. It is—painful.”

He did not daydream about fighting the half-Elf, or even hurting Silvenia. He couldn’t picture it. Xherw touched Merish’s arm. The Gnoll started, but his [Chieftain] just shook his head.

“I do not mean to judge, no, Merish. You saw something I have not. Tidebreaker, even the Antinium are recent tales. The Death of Magic is the oldest of stories. Like a Dragon of ancient days reemerging, not the hatchlings who sometimes appear every few centuries.”

He stood there, arms folded, shaking his head. Merish listened as Xherw stared across the empty plains.

“I have lived three Meetings of Tribes. The [Chieftain] before me lived six. Six, Merish. And she told me that the elders when she was a cub said how small the Meeting of Tribes had become. Small. Look.”

He pointed back at the sprawling encampment. Merish looked, and couldn’t credit it himself. So many Gnolls, so many tribes.

Then he thought of the Death of Magic. Xherw nodded, knowing Merish’s thoughts.

“Old stories. I would like to see the Death of Magic gone for good, Merish, but part of me does not.”

“Chieftain? Why not?”

The Plain’s Eye Chieftain stood there, sighing.

“Dragons are dying out. Perhaps they are all dead already. For the best for them, yes. One could say the same of Giants—they made terrible war and sided with the Demons. Perhaps we say the same of Cyclopes when they go too, hm? Then there will only be nicknames, like that for Pallass’ Cyclops, Grand Strategist Chaldion. But each time they go—they become stories, and we forget they were real. We are an old tribe. If stories die out, do we lose our power too?”

Merish had no answer. That was a [Chieftain]’s dilemma. Xherw speaking of such things before Merish was an honor.

“Will you go back to Rhir?”

The [Chieftain] also saw through Merish. The Gnoll hunched his shoulders.

“I do not know, Chieftain. Viri is thinking of it. If he goes…I would go with him. If not?”

“I understand. Know this, Merish—you have done enough. You could stay with our tribe, and I would give you the position of [Chief Warrior] in any clan with an opening. Or a post among the warriors in the central tribe.”

“That is a great honor, Chieftain.”

Merish ducked his head. Xherw studied him.

“Perhaps it is not what you need, though. Ah, Merish. I come to you with my worries, not to help! I am sorry.”

“Not at all, Chieftain.”

The two Gnolls stood there in the darkness a while. Merish’s ears perked up. He glanced sideways.

Voices? Xherw had heard it too. He looked to the side and three [Shamanic Warriors], like Merish, the elite of the Plain’s Eye Tribe, appeared out of the darkness.

Xherw’s bodyguards after all. One nodded to Merish and Xherw.

“The Gnoll, Kerikool, is asking to see you, Chieftain.”

“Again? Tell him later.”

Xherw scowled. Merish glanced at Xherw, not recognizing the name. The [Shamanic Warriors] nodded and melted back into the darkness. Merish saw their dyed fur glow—then they turned transparent.

[Camouflage]. They took on a glass-like appearance, melting into the landscape. Scentless too. The power of his kind.

“Who is that, Chieftain?”

Merish wasn’t sure he should ask, but Xherw just snorted derisively.

“Just another pest from Manus. Asking if we will represent the Walled City before the other tribes.”

“Manus? For what?”

Merish was not surprised that someone would seek Xherw out. The Plain’s Eye Tribe had strong relations with the Walled Cities, actually. As Merish recalled…well, they had some kinds of longstanding trade agreements. Xherw waved a paw.

“[Soldiers]. Experts, as always. Anyone they can lure to their ‘High Command’. I will talk with him, later.”

“If I am keeping you from him, Chieftain…”

“No.”

Xherw looked at Merish. He stood there a moment longer, then sighed.

“The Plain’s Eye Tribe is old, Merish. Gnolls are…old. We have endured much, but even in the days when Dragons hunted us with Drakes and we hid under the earth, I cannot know if we were this…few.”

Such somber words. Merish would have flinched at them, but then a paw took his arm. Strong, even now. Xherw smiled at Merish, and the touch had that power in it. It made Merish feel strong, for a second. Strong enough to face dreams. To go back to Rhir.

“We will survive. With your strength, the strength of Gnolls like you, with cunning, and with resolve, Merish. I am glad you returned. I came here to tell you that. If you would stay—we have need of you.”

He turned before Merish could reply, and walked away. The [Shamanic Warrior] stood there, feeling humbled at the trust. He walked back to camp an hour later, thinking.

—-

Xherw’s meeting with Merish was more than a gesture. It meant something. Well, a [Chieftain] singling you out was already a sign you were honored, or on your way to it.

But the touch was something too. Merish felt…alive. That was Xherw’s power, or part of it. He felt clear-headed, hungry.

When he came back to the clan, he actually smiled and waved Viri’s apology aside. He ate breakfast, apologizing to Sveha, talking with Khaze. She nearly dropped her plates.

“What has gotten into you, Merish?”

“I met with the Chieftain.”

“Olmpe? Why would that old nag make you feel better. Unless—”

Ikl and Sveha looked up. Khaze spun around, wide-eyed.

“No. Chieftain Xherw?”

Merish smiled. Khaze made a sound and threw up her paws.

“I have to brag about this! My brother! What did he want?”

“Just to talk. He touched my arm. I feel…good.”

“Of course you would! What an honor! No—you might be Honored Merish! Do you hear that, Sveha, Ikl? We might be moving up! He touched your arm? I heard a Gnoll ran a hundred miles after that happened—without any movement Skills!”

Merish smiled, enjoying Khaze’s excitement. The energy that blew away his depression seemed to fill Viri too—such that they were actually out and about the camps, rather than being tugged into something by Khaze.

“Merish, Merish. Do you want to play some games? You can win money if you win some of the tossing games.”

There was a Gnollish game that involved tossing bolas, or just balls if you were smaller, through goal posts. Playing was free, and there was already a crowd. It was just one activity among the Meeting of Tribes, and Viri was being practically carried by Sveha and Ikl towards it. Khaze had work, and Merish for once felt tempted. However, his conscience pricked him.

“I actually have someone to call upon, Viri. I will catch you later—don’t buy sweets for Sveha and Ikl with your money.”

“No promises! Sveha, are you good at tossing things? Want to show me?”

Viri bounced away, Sveha clinging to his leg and shrieking with delight. The Lizardman was watched by a bunch of Gnolls, shaking their heads at the odd sight. Merish smiled. Then—he went to call on his friend.

—-

Merish had friends. It occurred to him he had not prevailed on any of them since returning. Now, with Xherw giving him energy, he tried to make amends.

They were glad to see him, mostly. Some weren’t sure what to say, but Merish was a [Warrior], and thus many of his comrades just clapped him on the back, avoided talking about Rhir. He knew Gnolls from many clans in the Plain’s Eye Tribe, and did a circuit of the entire camp for four hours.

Four hours of straight walking and he didn’t clear the Plain’s Eye camp. That was how large it was. Merish actually called on the power in his markings to relieve the exhaustion in his legs. He greeted a fellow [Shamanic Warrior], Ghamen, and the two Gnolls stood a while.

“Anything interesting happening where you are?”

“Aside from the clan wanting more [Hunters]? Or in the Meeting of Tribes?”

Ghamen leaned on his spear, then shrugged.

“Ah, well, I heard my sister kissed Lehra Ruinstrider.”

“…Huh. And?”

“That’s something. Not everyone can be visited by the Chieftain!”

Ghamen slapped Merish on the shoulder, pretend-irritably. He grinned.

“Aside from that, I wish you’d been there in a competition yesterday. Twenty eight of our [Shamanic Warriors] engaged in a brawl with other tribes’ warriors.”

“A fight?”

“No…an organized thing. You know, to show how good we are? Just fists. Not weapons. Disappointed some of the tribes, but we’ve had too many injuries already.”

“So a tournament.”

“It looked like a brawl, yes? I was in it. We did pretty well, of course. But Steelfur? It’s like punching chainmail. And some of those tribes…well, all the regular [Warriors] were easy targets.”

Merish smiled. The tribes were competitive, and [Shamanic Warriors] like Ghamen and himself considered themselves to be the best of all. He inquired after about ten minutes.

“I have to keep going, Ghamen. My friend, Viri, can’t be left alone or he spends all his gold on my niece and nephew.”

“Of course. We will see each other another night. I am glad you are not as gloomy as before.”

Ghamen nodded, and Merish smiled.

“Me too. Here is hoping the Chieftain’s touch lasts a while. But Ghamen—do you know where Yelroan is? I think he would be at the Meeting of Tribes, yes?”

Ghamen snorted.

“Yelroan? Try the central camps. I forgot…well, he’s certainly here. Tell him…no, just have fun meeting with him.”

Merish bade farewell to his friend and headed for the center of the Plain’s Eye camp.

[Warriors], [Scouts], [Hunters], [Rangers], [Trappers], and so on. Warrior-friends, and childhood friends in various non-combat roles. All were part of the Plain’s Eye Tribe, in various levels and positions. Merish realized—he was above them all in status. Especially after leveling and surviving Rhir.

And all of them, even Merish, had a class that was not unique to the tribe. They had many [Shamanic Warriors], even though it was a higher-level class. Every role overlapped, and Gnolls could occupy any place within the tribe. You were only expelled if you truly could not fit in; there were places for the solitary, the grumpy, and the odd.

However, Yelroan, Merish’s land friend from childhood, was truly unique. No one in the Plain’s Eye Tribe had a class like his, Merish knew. Perhaps no one in the entire Meeting of Tribes had a class like Yelroan’s.

—-

The Plain’s Eye Tribe was one of the greatest traditionalist tribes in the world. Az’muzarre, Wild Wastes, Gaarh Marsh…they were the tribes you spoke of.

Plain’s Eye were alchemical ingredients. [Shamans]. [Shamanic Warriors]. Tradition.

Yelroan stood on a stump, striking a pose. The Gnolls around him tried to ignore him.

“Children, if you want to learn how to hunt—with me!”

A [Hunter] was trying to entice a bunch of Gnolls old enough to begin learning a profession away from a [Cook] who was cunningly handing out snacks to an eager group. Merish watched.

It was a job market, of sorts. The Gnolls were competing, trying to lure promising young Gnolls to apprentice with them.

Yet this crowd of nearly two hundred of the most promising Gnoll cubs taken to the central camp to apprentice with some of the best instructors was distracted.

By Yelroan. The Gnoll was posed on the stump, standing above all the other instructors. It was…a pose. Merish stared up at his friend.

Nobody stood like that. Yelroan was perfectly balanced on one leg, the other pawed foot resting against his leg, yet he stood perfectly straight. One paw was laid across his chest, two fingers forming a ‘V’. The other paw was held to his face, as if supporting the flashing spectacles perched under his eyes.

He’d somehow managed to stand just so the sun glinted off the glass. It was currently blinding one of the [Shamans] trying to gather her own promising apprentices.

Spectacles on a Gnoll. That was already strange, but Yelroan’s fur was combed up. He had a proper mane, dyed—not in shamanic colors, but like ‘hair’.

He also had full-body clothing on. No loincloth, no easy, simple and free cloth like most Plains Gnolls, but a City Gnoll’s attire.

…If City Gnolls had such vibrant colors. Long, dark leggings cut with white, and a flashy red jacket. Merish covered his own face, trying not to look.

“Er—apprentices, if you want to hunt…”

The [Hunter] trailed off. Even the [Cook] was failing to get commitments from the two hundred potential apprentices.

They were all staring at Yelroan. How could you not? He had a crowd around him, little Gnolls who were waiting to see what his class was. After all…they might well follow this Gnoll, right?

Everyone waited. Yelroan held his pose perfectly still. He let the silence build, then dramatically raised his head. The Gnoll had piercing eyes. He smirked, glancing around at the ‘lesser’ classes around him. The other instructors glared at him. Yelroan took a breath, exhaled. Then he pointed at the sky, striking a second pose.

“Math!”

—-

Merish came to find Yelroan after everyone had left. His friend stood on the stump, in the same pose.

No Gnolls had chosen to learn from him, even just to try it. Again. Merish didn’t think he’d ever seen Yelroan acquire even a single apprentice, and that had been years before he’d left for Rhir.

“The clothing is new. So is the pose. Why?”

Yelroan sprang to his feet. He beamed at Merish.

“Merish! Do you like it? I tried to do something and it almost works. They stare at me.”

“Right until you start talking.”

Merish shook his head. Yelroan sighed.

“I got an apprentice last year with this trick. She lasted for…half a day. I need more respect.”

“And you think doing that will get respect? Yelroan, just be honest.”

“I am honest. Math is amazing!”

Yelroan did another pose, arms crossed. A [Hunter] tried to hurry her apprentices away, telling them not to look. Merish smiled. He reached out and hugged his friend. After a second, Yelroan did the same.

The one, the only, the unique [Mathematician] of the Plain’s Eye Tribe embraced Merish hard.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Merish. Chieftain Xherw told me he’d see you.”

Merish blinked. His friend was slimmer, although a bit taller; not a warrior. He looked at Yelroan.

“Did you ask him to see me?”

The [Mathematician] gave him a sly look and pushed his glasses up. Somehow, they caught the light and blinded Merish with an afterimage.

“I may have made the request. After all, I had good odds.”

Merish stared at Yelroan. His friend gave him a sidelong look, holding the pose. After a few seconds, they laughed so hard both had to hold onto each other.

—-

Yelroan was the most interesting Gnoll that Merish knew. A [Mathematician], a class so rare that even city-people didn’t know what it was.

It just meant Yelroan was good at math, as far as Merish was concerned. Really, really good at math.

…It didn’t sound too impressive. Until Merish told stories about their youth, like when Yelroan had answered a math question that had stumped every [Shaman] in the Plain’s Eye tribe. It had been something like…what was it?

“Add every number from one to a hundred up.”

Yelroan entertained Merish in his private tent, overflowing with parchment, paper, quills, and books. More books and ledgers than anywhere else in the Plain’s Eye encampment, and many written by Yelroan himself.

“Ah, yes. That. Why did we even wonder about it?”

Yelroan grinned.

“The [Shaman] mentioned it to us. A clever question posed by someone from Chandrar. And I solved it while you were all adding numbers up.”

“Yes. But why does it matter?”

“It was a test. There’s a way to solve it quickly. Well, that set the tone for my future, didn’t it?”

It did indeed. Yelroan hadn’t gained the [Mathematician] class at first. He’d become a [Scribe], an [Accountant]…then, as he was appointed to calculating the entire clan’s income, managing supplies, and such, he’d morphed into the [Mathematician] class, rather than [Administrator] or some reasonable class.

“You could have been a [Manager] or [Accountant] or something. Why [Mathematician]?”

“Because I’m good at numbers, Merish. Not scribing. Not managing. Numbers. I’m fairly good at managing things. Math is my talent, though. You see?”

Merish did. And ‘fairly good’ meant that Yelroan was the administrator for the entire Plain’s Eye tribe. He calculated income from each clan, assigned supplies, made sure the numbers…were the numbers.

It hurt Merish’s head just to see one of the ledgers that Yelroan wrote out. His organizational strategy, his calculations had caused fights with the [Shamans], who normally oversaw such things.

Yet it worked. The [Chieftains] and then Xherw had decided just to…leave Yelroan alone. Within a year of taking his position, Yelroan had found over sixty three cases of misplaced supplies going nowhere, faulty incomes—only two examples had been actual cases of [Chieftains] embezzling money.

He was the kind of Gnoll who could tell you where the coppers went missing when you bought supplies. If the Plain’s Eye Tribe went to war, the [Warriors] owed Yelroan a debt of gratitude because he could calculate how much they needed to carry.

It didn’t get him much respect. As his lack of apprentices each year indicated. Yelroan was in the central camp, but he wasn’t ‘Honored Yelroan’. He was an outsider among his people for his odd, City Gnoll ways.

Even though Merish had never met a City Gnoll who could calculate half as fast as Yelroan. He quite liked his friend, who had a penchant for showing off and touting math’s many virtues.

Yelroan could also do more…interesting things. Even as a child, he’d shown Merish interesting tricks.

“I still remember when you calculated how many ants were in that ant hive based on…something something with squares.”

“Averages.”

“Yes, that. We tried to count them all and Khaze had so many ants in her fur the [Shaman] threw us in the lake.”

The two chortled over that as Yelroan poured glasses of juice. No alcohol for Yelroan; another oddity. Yet the Gnoll had more talents than just the magic of good math. He sighed.

“Math is power, Merish. I keep telling Chieftain Xherw that. He knows my Skills. If we had…eighteen Gnolls with my class, Plain’s Eye would make Pallass look over its shoulder.”

“I thought we traded with Pallass.”

Merish was reminded of Xherw talking about Manus. Yelroan flapped a paw, exasperated.

“Of course we do! And quite profitably—we have an exclusive trade deal, the only one of any tribe, as far as I know. I have no idea how Xherw negotiated that back in the day…we have other deals too that keep us on top. But give me eighteen—no, seven more [Mathematicians] and some deals with tribes, and we could replace Pallass and sell everything directly.”

“Mm. Seven more Yelroans. I can’t imagine it.”

“You can’t imagine parabolas.”

“…Those aren’t regular bolas? Magical bolas?”

Yelroan groaned and Merish grinned to himself, having done that last bit on purpose. He had to take Yelroan to task for one thing, though.

“Why the spectacles? You don’t need them.”

Yelroan had perfect vision, in fact. The Gnoll winked at Merish.

“Do you like them? I had to figure out how to make them catch the light like that. They’re specially treated with alchemical substances to reflect the light.”

“…That is the most obnoxious thing I have ever heard of. What kind of [Alchemist] would make that?”

“Saliss of Lights. I did an accounting job for him, once.”

Merish put his head in his paws. But he laughed. Yelroan fiddled with the glasses, doing the pose again.

“I decided to wear them after I saw some people with glasses. The stylish [Scholar], you know? I thought it would help my image. Actually…you met someone like that on Rhir.”

“I did?”

Merish glanced up, frowning. Yelroan scribbled something down; he was working as they talked.

“Perhaps not directly. It was…Bastion-General Quiteil. Um—”

“Fourth Wall.”

The tone of Merish’s voice made Yelroan look up. The Gnoll nodded slowly.

“Yes. Him.”

“How do you know him?”

The [Mathematician] smiled slightly, but watched Merish’s face.

“He offered me a position. Quite well-paid. I said no. I’m a Plains Gnoll in the end. A member of the tribe. Even if…well.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“If you go back to Rhir, I might take the job. But you’re probably not going to.”

Merish started. Yelroan knew about that? Then again, if he had persuaded the Chieftain to visit him…he was important. People just forgot that.

“How do you know I’m not going to go?”

Yelroan glanced at Merish, then pulled out a sheet. He handed it to Merish.

“There’s your odds of going.”

Merish stared down at a strange series of notations. Then at the final number.

“22.8%?”

“Yep.”

“You can calculate that?”

Merish laughed. Yelroan looked at him over his spectacles.

“Merish. I can calculate anything.”

The [Shamanic Warrior] blinked. Yelroan held the gaze, serious as could be. It reminded Merish of the time he’d shown his friend the true power of his Skill. Probability. Calculation. If you gave a Skill to that?

Then Yelroan crossed his arms and did a pose.

“Math!”

The moment ended. Merish put his friend in a headlock and laughed.

—-

The moment Viri saw Yelroan, he was awestruck.

“That is the coolest Gnoll I have ever seen!”

Yelroan posed in front of Ikl and Sveha, who stared at him open-mouthed. Merish was much amused.

“Sveha, Ikl, you don’t remember Yelroan?”

“Mother says we shouldn’t copy him.”

Ikl piped up. Yelroan laughed and swept back his dyed hair. His glasses caught the light and flashed.

“My eyes!”

Someone screamed and toppled from a ladder. Merish hurried the group off.

The Meeting of Tribes was brighter to Merish. Or maybe it was Yelroan plus Viri and the children. Khaze met them, sighing at Yelroan, but she embraced him.

“You don’t visit us at all, Yelroan. Not that we see you in the central clan apart from gatherings like this.”

“I’m often busy. Besides, I heard what your partner thinks of me.”

Khaze coughed, and Merish wondered what her husband, Inir, did think of Yelroan. The Gnoll was occupied with the tribe’s job all day, at any rate, so there was no conflict.

“Ah, the tribes! What shall we do, now we’re all together, like when we were cubs?”

Khaze looked around. Yelroan glanced at Merish, but the Gnoll had no preference. Viri gestured at the festival-section, which had lots of games, some of which you spent money on.

“We’ve been playing games all day! I uh, spent some money. Want to play? And pay?”

Sveha and Ikl tugged the older Gnolls over to some of the games. Many were indeed free, and prizes were given out to winners; it was the Meeting of Tribes, not just a place for [Merchants].

However, there was money to be made anywhere there were this many Gnolls, and they’d already wrung Viri dry. He pointed accusatorially at one booth.

“Look at that!”

It was a variation of a game many cultures had—a guessing game. Some Gnoll, a clever [Craftswoman], or expert in string or just games, had created a huge ball of thread, with multiple outlets. Pull the right string of the dozens upon dozens dangling there, and you got to win whatever it was connected to!

Predictably, the cost of a pull was only three coppers while the prizes were worth much more. A fabulous little Centaur doll that made Sveha’s eyes go round, a sharp dagger…Viri had tried multiple times and refused to tell Merish how much he’d lost.

Yelroan glanced at the stall, amused. Merish agreed to try and stared at the string. His [Shamanic Warrior] class let him see and interact with magic, so he tried to use that to his advantage.

One string looked magical…and there were a few magical strings connected to the winning prizes. He pulled the magical string.

Nothing happened. The owner of the game smirked slightly and Merish knew it had been a lure. Sighing, he watched as Khaze refused to play.

“What about you, Yelroan?”

The others glanced at Yelroan. He raised a paw.

“I’ll pass.”

Merish frowned, but thought no more of it. They went on, dragging Viri away from the ‘one more time’ game. Merish actually did manage to win some snacks when he pitched a bola around a target, more from luck than skill, and gave some spicy crackers to Ikl and Viri. He saw horse races in the distance, which you could bet on, competitions of strength…

“Merish, there will be songs later tonight. Will you join us?”

Merish had never been in the mood, but he agreed at once to Khaze asking if he wanted to join them. He was looking around for Viri—who was slowly edging towards the betting on horse races—when Yelroan jogged over.

“Merish! Where’s Sveha?”

“She’s playing with some cubs. Creler Escape. Ikl too.”

The more modern game was simple. A ‘Creler’, a Gnoll dressed up with horrific claws and in a costume, ran after little screaming children. The last one to be caught got a prize.

“Oh, good. I’ll give her this afterwards.”

Merish turned. Yelroan had the little Centaur doll in his paws. Khaze blinked.

“How did you—? How much did you spend?”

“Three coppers.”

Merish guessed at once. The [Mathematician] winked at him. He gestured back at the stall.

“Er—you might be banned from there. I certainly am.”

“Why don’t you come to the horse races? I could bet some money!”

Khaze instantly looked to the place where Viri was headed. Yelroan shook his head.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

The Gnoll winked once more.

“I’m banned there too. The [Bookies] know a dangerous class when they see one.”

“Math!”

Khaze did a pose, mimicking Yelroan. The Gnoll grinned.

“Statistics.”

Both his friends gave him a blank look.

—-

Viri being Lizardfolk meant that he stood out among the Gnolls, but there were members of other species who had come for this great event.

Some of note, like Venaz, Peki, Merrik, Wil, Yerranola, the students of the Titan. The team of Lehra Ruinstrider, and so on.

The fact that Merish had a passing acquaintance with the Stargnoll herself made Ikl and Sveha agog. Merish himself had to…think about it.

“I feel as though I have been under a cloud.”

He confessed to Yelroan and Khaze. They listened sympathetically. Merish wanted to apologize, but Khaze was just glad he was ‘back’.

“It won’t last forever, you know. The average time for the Chieftain’s effect to last is a day. Five days is the longest significant time excluding outliers.”

Yelroan glanced at Merish. The [Shamanic Warrior] had no idea what outliers were, but he knew Yelroan was right.

It was already wearing off. He could feel himself jumping at loud sounds, and he certainly kept away from any non-[Shaman] magic. Merish was more impressed that Viri could smile and play with the kids. Perhaps it was a front.

So, he made his night last. Merish ran a footrace and came in distinctly average. He ate more than he had all month, and nearly got sick stuffing puffy sweetened bread down his mouth.

He smiled and laughed, and actually showed off his class’ Skills for Ikl when the boy pulled over some new friends. Merish’s fur lit up and shone. Then he called on the magic.

“Viri. Do a big jump.”

“Sure. What are you going to—whoa!”

The Lizardman leapt and did a double-take as Merish followed him up. Laughing, the Lizardman and Merish leapt around, and Viri hugged him.

“You never did that back on Rhir!”

“I was serious back on Rhir. You never were.”

Merish smiled and put an arm around Viri. They put Sveha and Ikl to bed; the little Gnolls had run around in an excitement-high and crashed before it was fully dark. But Merish helped Khaze get them up one last time.

“Mommy. What are we doing?”

Ikl whined, sleepy and carried by Merish. The lighter Sveha was in Khaze’s arms.

“Stop whining, Ikl. This is important. This…is your heritage. We’re attending the songs.”

The little Gnoll peeked out of Merish’s arms. He saw Gnolls, thousands of them, gathering around a bonfire.

The lights had gone out, but countless torches and fires remained. In this place, though, it was dark. There was just the central light, from the blazing fire.

A few Gnolls stood together. Merish recognized the [Shaman] in front of the fire.

This was a Plain’s Eye event. It was…music.

The Gnolls made sound at first, finding places to sit or stand. The talk died down quickly, and the crackling fire filled the night. The [Shaman] spoke then, into the darkness, to the gathered group.

“Gnolls from across Izril, we are honored by your presence. We have had great [Singers] and heard tales of [Bards] on other nights. [Storytellers], [Shamans] reciting great tales. Today? Nothing so dramatic. Let us…simply sing. The old songs. Together. To lead us is [Singer] Ecleif.”

She gestured at a young Gnoll, who bowed slightly. He looked nervous, but he would not be alone.

Viri stood on his staff to watch, but solemn, eyes shining in the darkness. Next to him, Yelroan smiled and helped Sveha and Ikl stand on the shoulders of the adults—Khaze’s husband, Inir had joined them, but all were silent in this moment.

Merish found himself standing alone, as it began. He had missed the name of the song, but it didn’t matter. As soon as he heard the tune, he knew what it was.

There were some songs every Plains Gnoll knew. Passed from tribe to tribe, old to young, generation after generation.

It began with humming. A growling sound, from deep in the throat. Crooning Gnolls of every pitch. A rumbling buzz that filled the night and sky. Ikl and Sveha listened, wonderingly. So many voices, providing a backdrop.

Then Ecleif began. He sang at first, but a second later, dozens, hundreds of Gnolls joined in. Anyone who wanted to sing, could. Most, like Merish, just hummed, following the tune.

“So when my fur calls me to Igawiz’s Jet…”

Ecleif’s voice was strong and rang across the crowd. The other voices swelled, a powerful chorus. The song…Merish knew it. It was the same song that had called him to Rhir. A desire to go beyond Izril’s shores.

A beautiful song. A melancholy song if you listened to the words. They called it…

Great Plains Sing

So when my fur calls me to Igawiz’s Jet

To seek my people’s kingdom in that distant jungle land

Oh, finding the glade where the Queen of Gnolls still lies

And find the heart of stories my [Shaman] sang to me.

Race across the wilds where [Explorers] feared to go

Continents apart in which the Gnollish people died

To howl and greet their bones, to tell them we remain

One day we’ll reclaim lands as yet untamed.

So when my fur calls me across the Kraken’s Pass

To follow Garlen the Explorer over The Last Tide

Seeking mountains in the High Passes never climbed

And find the heart of stories my [Shaman] sang to me.

[Adventurers] long past call upon distant winds to me

Chieftain Seru’nial took her tribe beyond the clouds

The Gnolls who passed their years o’er and under land and sky

So not a patch of grass could say it never had seen Gnolls…

And on the song went on. Verses of Gnolls who had gone beyond the continent they all stood on. Tales of when their people had spread across the world.

Merish felt his fur rising. He felt…connected. A part of the mass of Gnolls around him. As far as he had gone—he was still a Plains Gnoll.

He looked around. Viri was listening, eyes wide, to the Gnolls of many tribes singing. A sound he might never hear again in his life. Sveha and Ikl were experiencing it for the first time.

Khaze held her partner, singing loud and clear.

As for Yelroan? He stood there, humming. Apart in his garb, in his class. Yet…here. Part of the Plain’s Eye Tribe. He had turned down better offers for better pay, perhaps more respect and power. Because this was home. A family.

Plains Gnolls all. Merish stood there, as the last of his Chieftain’s gift faded. For an hour, though, as they sang, for this night—someone else let him push aside dark memories. He sang with his people.

Then he slept, going back to his tent with the others after the bonfire had burned low, to embers. Merish only wished…they could be good dreams for once. Or oblivion. That would be a fitting end to it.

He had nightmares. For dreams of Rhir were not kind to him. Merish dreamed of Demons and light in the sky.

When he woke, it was to screams. To howls of horror. To nightmares in waking. He emerged from his tent, axe in hand, as Viri leapt out, watchful, and Khaze cried out to him in fear.

He almost laughed. Merish almost thanked them, even as his teeth bared and his fur stood on end. He was almost grateful, because it proved he was right.

I am not crazy. I’m not going mad. No—at least some of the madness is right. There are nightmares, even back home.

It was almost a relief. Merish heard the word on the wind. Horror had arrived. It had a name.

“Raskghar.”

—-

The army from Pallass brought them.

Raskghar. Not all of them. A mere dozen. Chained, in cages, to show the Meeting of Tribes.

Nevertheless, the effect they had on the Gnolls was extreme.

Raskghar! Nightmares of old! Ancient enemies! The names whispered to frighten children. Predators of the dark.

The Feasting Betrayers. Darkstalkers. The Gnolls Who Abandoned Sun.

Raskghar.

A great howl went up among the Meeting of Tribes, from everyone who saw it. Other Gnolls picked it up, hearing the fear in the air. The army from Pallass halted, warily stopping as thousands of Gnolls joined the sentries surrounding them.

It was a…gift. A gift from the Assembly of Crafts, from High Command and Chaldion. See your enemy. Know they remain.

The first ranks of warriors parted as a scream shook the air. They looked up and scattered as a bird larger than any Wyvern, massive, furious, landed. Gnolls leapt from the Roc’s back as one of the greatest predators of the sky shed members of the famous tribe.

Az’muzarre. They howled, and one of them, the Roc’s rider, lifted a sword.

“Fear not, Gnolls of Izril! We will let not one of these monsters claim one of our kind!”

The [Relicbearer] hefted the sword of Dragonbone. The Drakes standing in neat formations eyed the sword made of their Ancestor’s bones uneasily. Then they saw more of the small, deadly tribe appear.

Here stood the power of the Great Plains. Az’muzarre stood together, forming a line a hundred Gnolls wide, confronting the Raskghar.

The caged monsters stared at the Gnolls, warily, but without fear. They sniffed the air, eying the Az’muzarre tribe. Wary of the Roc pecking at the soil. They had never dreamed the world was this vast on the surface. Even so…what they saw were Gnolls.

Prey.

Merish was part of the crowd who had gathered to see the Raskghar. He saw them—like him, but different. Bigger, hunched. Bestial, ancestors who had gone down a different path than Gnolls.

That was not what chilled him. It was the innate sense, the revulsion in his very bones. Something in Merish told him they were enemies.

He was among regular warriors, axe in hand. He saw Az’muzarre begin to move forwards. They struck the weapons they held, making a rattling sound. The Pallassian [Commander] hesitated. Then raised a hand. He was smart enough to move the Drakes back.

“Are they going to take them into the camp? They should be killed!”

One of the Gnollish [Warriors] snarled, voicing a thought shared by many. Merish stared at the Slayers of Muzarre. He saw them strike their weapons. Then realized—a [Shaman] was leading them. She pointed at the Raskghar.

“Raskghar! Enemies of old! There is only death for them here. Warriors of Az’muzarre, protect the Great Plains!”

His eyes widened. The warriors began to advance. As it happened—they were not planning on letting the Raskghar exist another second at the Meeting of Tribes.

Some of the Gnolls growled assent, but Merish looked around. No. Wait. He was as unsettled as the others were by the Raskghar, but you didn’t kill your enemies. Rhir—the Blighted Kingdom didn’t kill every Demon if they took prisoners.

Yet Az’muzarre was advancing and the Pallassian [Soldiers] did not look ready to bar their way. The Drake [Commander] rode forwards, but one caw from the Roc and his horse nearly threw him off. The Gnollish warriors stepped forwards, and three bearing relic-class weapons moved towards the Raskghar.

The Raskghar began to snarl. Merish swore he heard one say something that sounded like…words. He was pushing through the crowd, but everyone resisted him.

“Stop. Don’t be fools!”

Merish growled. He began to use more force, and shoved Gnolls aside. Too slow. He saw the first warrior bring up a Dragonbone sword, howling, as the [Shaman] exhorted her warriors.

The Az’muzarre Gnoll never got a chance to execute the Raskghar in their cages. The air was full of howling, shouts, screams, but a noise broke through the chaos and fear.

A roar. It was angry and loud. A bear’s roar, but scaled up. Merish whirled. So did Az’muzarre’s tribe. The warriors stood in a bunch, continuing to be reinforced as more raced towards them. The [Shaman] stared back—then up. One of the angry [Relicbearers] moved to block someone striding forwards. Gnolls parted before the giant figure. The [Relicbearer] looked up—

A paw shoved the Gnoll aside. The other Az’muzarre Gnolls stirred—took one look at the giant Gnoll—and backed away.

Merish’s eyes went wide. He saw a Gnoll towering over the others, half again as tall as the tallest Gnoll, striding forwards. Behind her—he saw more Gnolls marching out of the Meeting of Tribes.

“The Chieftains are coming! Do not touch the Raskghar!”

Someone shouted. The Gnolls’ heads turned. Merish heard a questioning voice.

“Which [Chieftains]?”

The answer soon became self-evident. Which ones?

All of them. They emerged from the center of the Meeting of Tribes, some with their tribe’s warriors around them, others alone. Not just the [Chieftains]. [Shamans] strode forwards. But who came first were…the Gnolls that Merish knew.

That every Gnoll knew. Lehra Ruinstrider and her team appeared, the Stargnoll wearing her armor already. Chieftain Iraz and the Steelfur Tribe stormed forwards. Yet every eye was on the first Gnoll, who had pushed through the Az’muzarre Tribe. Now, she stared down at the Raskghar, who backed up in their cages. Eying her with clear disbelief.

She was thirteen feet tall, as if someone had…stretched her. Her arms were long, hanging low at her sides, and she wore a ragged cape that stretched to her legs. The cape was…hide.

A bear’s hide. The Gnoll was growling. Roaring.

“Who is that? What kind of—she looks like a bear herself. What kind of class turns you into that?”

One of the Gnolls didn’t recognize her—or couldn’t put name to the truth. Merish knew her. Someone else breathed, a [Huntress] who lowered the bow she had been clutching.

“[Racdelbear Shapechanger]. That’s…Garsine. Wallbreaker. I thought she was dead.”

The Gnoll who had broken the walls of six Drake cities came to a halt, in front of the Az’muzarre tribe, facing the Raskghar in cages. The [Shaman] tried to give an order and Garsine looked at her.

The [Shaman] fell silent.

Merish heard a familiar howl among the others. A muster-call from the Plain’s Eye tribe. He began to push towards it. It was for [Shamanic Warriors]. Before he got there, he saw another group emerge.

Gnolls. Each one was tall. They were akin to him—he stopped as he saw the first wave of them appear. He smelled them too. When he saw them, Merish knew in an instant who they were.

Each Gnoll looked to be covered in muck. Mud, detritus of nature. A swamp’s coating. They were practically masked in it, from head to toe. They left a trail behind them. As if the swamp had come to life itself.

“[Marsh-Guardians of Gaarh]. The Gaarh Marsh Tribe’s greatest warriors.”

Behind their tribe, Merish thought he saw the hill, the living embodiment of their tribe itself moving. Then he heard the howl and moved.

—-

Gnolls looked around as the Steelfur Tribe’s [Warriors] began to march towards the Raskghar. They joined Gaarh Marsh—and then other tribes.

[Shamanic Warriors] of the Plain’s Eye Tribe. The Woven Bladegrass’ fierce warriors.

Krshia Silverfang had come to a halt when the Raskghar arrived. She remembered them and their horror, and was thus less affected by seeing them than the other Gnolls who had never glimpsed such things. She saw the Gnolls stream forwards. Not just Az’muzarre, or new heroes of Gnollkind like Lehra.

Summoned by the word of these monsters from myth, older than even stories of the Death of Magic, older than Demons, all the Gnolls were coming.

Honored Berr strode forwards with Wild Waste [Berserkers] and [Barbarians], bare-chested, not smiling, their weapons already drawn. Next to him strode giants, not as tall as Garsine, but taller than any other.

“The Ekhtouch Tribe.”

Krshia recognized them instantly. The Gnolls in the crowd were calming, recognizing the greatest tribes. One pointed.

“Who is that?”

A Gnoll strode along, the second-tallest Gnoll but for Garsine. Taller than the other Ekhtouch!

“That must be…Gireulashia Ekhtouch. Their [Paragon].”

Krshia started. She saw her sister by her side. Chieftain Akrisa had come, with the other Chieftains and [Shamans]. She moved past Krshia, towards Garsine.

The other Gnolls were coming to a halt next to her, facing the Raskghar.

The legends of Gnolls. Next to Chieftain Iraz marched a Gnoll whose entire body was metal, not just his fur. Even his skin underneath looked like moving metal.

Adetr Steelfur, nephew of the Chieftain of the Steelfur clan. Inheritor of the same will that had created his tribe.

He looked like a statue of a Gnoll cast in metal come to life. His teeth, his claws…all but his eyes were metal. And even the eyes…the whites had turned to iron or something like them. Only the pupils looked like flesh.

The ranks of Steelfur parted. Krshia, moving towards the front with Akrisa, saw even the other tribes stop. Steelfur Gnolls looked back and moved aside.

A Gnoll was coming. Krshia stared past them and saw an honor-guard wearing curious armor escorting an elderly Gnoll. He was walking with help, but he slowed.

“Honored Deskie?”

Krshia jumped. She saw Deskie, the Longstalker Tribe’s great [Magical Weaver] behind her. Chieftain Eska was there. Deskie raised her own aged head.

“Is that you? Shedrkh?”

The Gnoll was so old he had gone to full-grey. But never white. His eyes had a trace of rheum and a Gnoll had to support him as he walked. No wonder he had not been seen like the other famous Gnolls. Yet his was a famous name as well. Krshia instantly ducked her head with the Gnolls around her and stepped back.

The two Gnolls met. Deskie joined Shedrkh, who gestured to his guard as they admitted her.

“Deskie, I am told terrible foes have returned. Come…I would not have the courage alone. Show me these ancient nightmares of our people.”

They moved on. Eska held back, but Chieftain Orelighn didn’t recognize the old Gnoll. He whispered to Krshia and Akrisa.

“Who was that?”

Both looked incredulously at the Greenpaw’s Chieftain.

“Didn’t you recognize him, Orelighn? Honored Shedrkh. The Keeper of Hides!”

Orelighn frowned; the name was familiar to him. He blinked, then focused on Shedrkh’s back.

“A [Tanner]?”

Krshia corrected Orelighn, almost about to slap him for his tone.

“A [Tanner] who made armor out of Kraken’s flesh. Who has made more leather out of Wyverns than a lesser [Tailor] has made cloth out of cotton.”

She pointed at his honor-guard. Some of them wore unfamiliar, leather-ish armor. Flexible as fish’s scales. Tough as…Orelighn’s eyes went huge.

“Do we go with them? Us?”

Akrisa’s partner, the [Shaman] Cetrule, wavered. He represented the Silverfang Tribe, but Krshia had to admit—she didn’t know if Akrisa fit, even being a Chieftain with these Gnolls.

“We go. We are Chieftains and you are my [Shaman]. Krshia, you are my sister. You fought these Raskghar. We belong.”

Gnolls turned to look at Krshia. Akrisa’s chin rose. A voice came from behind them.

“Yes. Silverfang and Liscor. You do belong. Let us go.”

The group of Gnolls turned. They fell back a step, but the Gnoll just walked towards Akrisa and nodded his head. Armor covered him, and he leaned on a strange polearm that Krshia had never seen before, despite being a [Shopkeeper].

“I have never seen such things, and I have walked every land in this world. If you know more, then come, Chieftain of the Silverfang Tribe. I would be honored to walk with you.”

The adventurer inclined his head. Akrisa stuttered.

“That—we are honored, Honored Gadiekh.”

She fell into step with him. Orelighn pointed wordlessly and Krshia nodded.

Gadiekh, the World-Pact Adventurer. The Named Adventurer who was unanimously given his rank by eighteen different nations.

One more great Chieftain joined the procession near Krshia. She too, was unmistakable.

“I am…sad. This day dawns again. Can no old horror ever truly be ended? My cousin should have been here to see it. Feshi, come. You must see them too.”

Krshia saw light. The dawn was still breaking, yet somehow, impossibly, light also shone down from the sky. The dark clouds overhead parted.

A Gnoll walked in the light.

The sun shone down around her. A beam of light that broke even rain and clouds apart and shone on her always.

Torishi. Chieftain of the Weatherfur Tribe. Next to her walked Feshi. They joined the Gnolls, who formed a semi-circle. The Raskghar in their cages snarled, eying the others. Sensing their power.

They recognized Krshia. One actually pointed at her, howling what might have been an insult in their tongue, and she saw countless heads swing her way. Krshia stared at the Raskghar.

Now they see you. Can you overcome our people at their strength? I think…not.

She felt safer here than she had in Liscor, even with Chaldion and the army. Krshia bared her teeth. Then she felt the world tremble.

Something was walking. Krshia’s head slowly turned. The snarling Raskghar fell silent. They looked up—then tried to squeeze back against the bars. The Pallassian [Commander] gulped.

The Gaarh Marsh Tribe’s greatest guardian was moving. The huge thing that you could mistake for a hill, so still it had been. Now, it walked.

It rose above them all, even the Rocs and Garsine Wallbreaker. A figure of earth and swamps. The greatest power of the old world.

Earth Elemental.

—-

Merish felt the thing with each step. He gazed up at the Gaarh Marsh’s protector. He saw the Earth Elemental stop.

The great elemental was not shaped like a Gnoll, or a humanoid, really. It was too squat. Yet it had limbs. He had heard tell there were smaller ones in times past, and they could change shape.

That they were intelligent was also a given; the Earth Elementals, like Treants of old, were great, natural protectors. Guardians of nature, which could doom cities if roused to wrath.

All that Merish knew. Yet, as the living piece of earth halted, Gnolls moved back, wary, like people around an unpredictable animal.

They underestimated it. Merish did too. For he saw a line split across the Earth Elemental’s body. Not where a mouth would be on a regular creature; along its belly.

Yet it was a mouth. It moved. The Earth Elemental pointed one limb at the Raskghar.

It spoke.

“RASKGHAR.”

Merish heard the emotion in that single word. Wrath, fury—an implacable hatred that reached back far past the days he had been born—all delivered in the immortal tones of grinding earth, the very squelch of mud, the shifting of the firmament itself.

The monsters flinched at that. The Earth Elemental walked forwards further, raising a huge limb. The Gaarh Marsh tribe ran around it, trying to calm its wrath.

Was it going to slaughter them? Merish didn’t think even Garsine could stop this great creature’s wrath. The Raskghar flinched, almost resigned to their fate.

They could have died in that moment, surrounded by so many Gnolls feeling the ancient grudge amplify the old stories and nightmares carried among the tribes. The Earth Elemental was moving, the Gnolls tensed.

Then a howl disrupted the Elemental’s movement. It slowed, and the last great tribe appeared. Merish began to walk forwards, following the first Gnoll as he walked through the ranks of the [Shamanic Warriors].

The [Shaman] stared ahead with mismatched eyes. He had removed the eye patch that normally covered the unnatural eye. He walked forwards, and the Raskghar focused on him. Then looked away.

They couldn’t help it.

The Plain’s Eye [Shaman] of [Shamans], greatest of them all, advanced, his eyes unwavering. Gaze into the eyes of the Shaman of the Eternal Grassland. The Raskghar shuddered. For his eyes recognized them. His eyes had seen Raskghar before.

One eye had.

The [Shaman] stopped, and the last figure approached. Merish felt him coming. A familiar feeling. He straightened, and locked eyes with the Gnoll as he passed by for a moment. He saw the lips move, the words unspoken, but there.

Old stories, Merish.

Something—walked with the greatest Chieftain, leader of Merish’s tribe. Chieftain Xherw halted next to his [Shaman]. The Gnolls regarded each other, then turned as one to face the Raskghar.

The beasts of Liscor’s dungeon quailed. Thus, the Raskghar came to the Meeting of Tribes. Merish saw Garsine snarling, the implacable wariness of Iraz. The wary battle lust of the Woven Bladegrass Chieftain and her people.

Thereafter, he realized, the Meeting of Tribes could not be the same. He felt it in his bones as he looked for Viri. A calling back to war.

—-

The day the Raskghar arrived at the Meeting of Tribes caused chaos. Not productive chaos, mind you.

It reminded Krshia too much of how Liscor had dealt with the first attacks. A lot of condemnation, outrage, and unity—but no resolution. The tribes united against the Raskghar threat. Thereafter?

Splintered. The great meetings with the Chieftains were about to begin, and it became clear that the Raskghar issue, the tribes going to Chandrar, the Antinium, would be among the contentious issues discussed.

For instance, Az’muzarre wanted the Raskghar dead. They would execute them within seconds if they got their paws on them, which was why Az’muzarre wasn’t given responsibility to guard them. That fell to a joint task-force while the Raskghar’s fate was decided.

A lot of tribes wanted them dead, but the cool-headed ones wanted to know all there was to know first. One side effect of the Raskghar arriving was that it thrust Pallass into the limelight. The Walled City had as many grudges with and against the tribes as any Drake city, but this certainly helped their image. Then again—others wondered if this was a ploy, to distract the tribes.

Silverfang’s involvement with the Raskghar was far more of a net positive, and Krshia and Akrisa were invited to tribe after tribe to re-tell the story of the Raskghar raids.

That was how their tribe finally worked its way into the fore of the Meeting of Tribes, rubbing ears with even the biggest and best. And there were a lot of stronger tribes. Silverfang was good.

Compared to the legends of Gnolls, Krshia recalled they weren’t superior. But good.

Good…at what Silverfang did.

“Hrr. Are these Silverfang’s chief warriors? Well met.”

The Wild Wastes Chieftain looked the Gnolls armed with silver-alloy weapons up and down. They had no fancy names like the marsh guardians or shamanic warriors of other tribes, and were not a recognized class or force.

They were…[Silverarms Warriors]. As in, you literally carried silver. And presumably this helped with the stabbing or fighting.

It actually did, a bit. Silverfang’s warriors were quite good at fighting mage-barriers and the like. They were a reason no Drake city picked a fight with their tribe lightly.

On the other hand…the [Silverarms Warriors] stood behind Akrisa and Krshia and tried not to sweat as they eyed their counterparts from the Wild Wastes Tribe, a tribe known for their combat prowess.

[Barbarians]. [Berserkers]. Gnolls who somehow contrived to outweigh their Silverfang counterparts by sheer height or muscle, despite the armor the Silverfangs wore. The likes of Honored Berr, Berr the Berserker, were cut from the Wild Wastes Tribe.

Chieftain Perale was bare-chested, sitting in a loincloth to greet the Silverfang’s delegation. Akrisa, the technical junior in age as well as her tribe’s might, dipped her head slightly.

“Chieftain Perale, you honor us.”

“The honor is mine, Chieftain Akrisa. Please, share our fire and hospitality. Ah—what is this?”

He sniffed the air and some of his bodyguards—a lot less professional-looking than the Silverfangs, some lounging around, but decidedly more deadly—perked their heads up. Akrisa gestured. Baskets heaped with snacks were brought out.

“Merely some refreshments. Let us share in it, Chieftain Perale.”

He grinned.

“Silverfang is generous! Then we shall talk of Raskghar—and eat like [Princes], yes?”

Krshia sat, among the Honored Gnolls, close to her sister, but able to glance around. The Wild Wastes tribe was fascinating to the [Royal Shopkeeper]. Mainly because of a few things.

Wild Wastes. Mighty Gnolls who had actual [Barbarian] classes, the theoretical basis of the ‘savage Gnolls’ stereotype. In truth, they were quite civilized, albeit traditionalists, who roamed to the far northeast of Liscor, along the mountains of the High Passes. They did crazy things like fight cows, climb mountains, and often took work as [Mercenaries]. They had herds, and other goods, but they were known for being among the best fighters in close combat.

Honored Berr waved at Krshia, and turned back to a small group of far-younger Gnolls, each one marked with a [Berserker]’s dyes. He bore few decorations, and his warriors, despite being some of the best of his tribe, were simply armored, with enchanted weapons…little to no armor.

Here was the interesting thing: the Wild Wastes tribe was poor. Or, they had little gold to spend, an important distinction.

Krshia saw it everywhere. When they had asked to meet, Chieftain Perale had instantly volunteered to host them. It might have been a power-play, but now Krshia thought it was so they could offer the fire, tents, and limited refreshments. Traditionally, the visiting tribe brought gifts.

The snacks from Liscor, including cookies and new items from Erin’s inn, but also including snacks purchased or made by the Silverfang tribe vanished fast. The Wild Wastes Gnolls literally stuffed everything they could grab into their pockets or belt pouches—or mouths. They looked at Silverfang, and Krshia saw them eying the jewelry many of her tribe wore, their clothing, with a bit of envy.

“Ah, Chieftain Akrisa, such good snacks. Sometimes I envy tribes who trade more with cities.”

Perale confided, the older Gnoll scratching at a battle-scar under his fur. After the greetings were done, he was quite retiring.

“Wild Wastes has its charm, Chieftain Perale.”

Akrisa tried to be diplomatic. Perale just laughed.

“Charm is not a replacement for money! Whenever we leave our homes, I feel poor. When we return, I will feel all is fine. When we win a war or battle? I will feel rich! For about six days. Then all the gold vanishes.”

He grinned. His tribe had lots of [Mercenaries]; hence, Krshia supposed their income was very random.

“Surely the Wild Wastes tribe is not that poor. Your [Warriors] are known Izril-over.”

Krshia spoke up when she had an opening, as her position allowed. The Wild Wastes Gnolls chuckled. Perale rolled his eyes.

“That lot? Honored Krshia, from Liscor, yes? You overestimate my warriors. Fierce in battle—lazy at home. They train, yes. They practice and fight, and eat without doing much. And when they break each other’s bones, who has to pay for healing potions?”

He jerked a thumb at one of his head warriors. The Gnoll called out, completely unabashed.

“We hit things, you make decisions, Chieftain.”

“So they say. Silverfang has Gnolls who can work jobs that pay. My Gnolls? Many earn money only a fraction of the time.”

Perale sighed. Silverfang was clearly richer than their tribe. Which made Krshia feel they had some ground to stand on. A tribe like the Wild Wastes could use a rich friend, and Silverfang a powerful ally.

But they were just introducing themselves today, so Krshia let Akrisa and Perale talk and walked the camp after she’d told Perale about the Raskghar. He listened intently, growling at hearing the sacrifices, but it was clearly not news; Krshia suspected her story had made the rounds everywhere, but Gnolls liked to hear it from her lips.

She talked to the one Gnoll she did know in the camp. Honored Berr. He was the oldest Gnoll she saw still acting as a [Warrior]. His fur was grey, and he was short.

Unless he chose to grow. He stood like a dwarf-Gnoll among a group of giant, far-younger [Warriors] in their twenties or thirties at the latest. Krshia nodded as he smiled. Berr was scarfing down cookies he somehow had a dozen of.

“Honored Berr. Are these Gnolls all your apprentices?”

He shrugged as the Gnolls sniffed at Krshia, nodding to her, also chowing down.

“My apprentices—and offspring. That’s my son. And that one. And that one…hrr, they were all boys. Eleven. Strange, eh?”

He pointed out three Gnolls among the warriors standing around him. One, with blonde fur, tall, handsome, and a scar running from the ear down along his neck, gave Krshia a smile. He was like a Gnoll out of stories, and some of the Silverfang Gnolls were giving him admiring looks.

Krshia just grinned. Honored Berr gestured around.

“Isn’t it annoying? They crowd me so, so I like to leave my tribe. Shoo!”

He pushed at his son, irritably, but the tall Gnoll just rested his chin on Berr’s head.

“Father, we have to learn from you. Such an honored Gnoll. Give us wisdom.”

“Don’t mock old Gnolls. Here is wisdom!”

Berr ducked, swung a fist up, and hit his son in the chin. The Gnoll went cross-eyed and staggered, and then swiped at Berr. The [Berserker] was already gone, and the others laughed uproariously.

[Berserkers]. [Barbarians]. What was amazing was that they weren’t all Gnolls. The laughter cut off as one of the warriors apprenticed to Berr came forwards. He had emerged from the guest tents, rather than greet the Silverfangs.

He didn’t even notice Krshia, as he fell to his knees in front of Honored Berr. The female Gnoll started and stared. The other Gnolls fell silent as a tear-stained man, seven feet tall, as muscular as Grimalkin—almost—sank to his knees. His eyes were red; his scarred arms reached out as Berr stopped jesting and turned to him, gravely.

“Master. I ask you to teach me, now. I have rested from my journey, and I must learn or go mad.”

“Hrm. Solen, isn’t it?”

Two companions came out of the tents and joined the Human man. They were all Humans, similarly strong, but wearing armor. Their accents were…Terandrian?

“I apologize, honored Berr. He would not rest.”

One of the men spoke, clumsily adding the title. Solen ignored his friends. He reached out, supplicating. To…Berr.

“I have…I have taken too much blood, master. When the pounding is too loud—it consumes everything. Already, the crimson sin knows my name. I cannot live like this. I will slay all I love. Can I be cured? Can the beast inside me be tamed?”

Krshia’s fur rose slightly. She looked at the [Berserker], and finally noticed something that wasn’t a scar on his cheek. An ashen brand; a tattoo in his flesh. It looked like a slave-marking, but if he was from Terandria…she took a step back.

[Berserker]. One didn’t have to guess what blood he had taken by accident. Yet why had he come here?

For Berr. The small Gnoll looked up, unafraid, though even his sons and the other Wild Wastes Gnolls were wary. He laid a paw on Solen’s shoulder.

“There is a way. I will teach you what you must know, Solen. Now…no. If you cannot wait, please excuse me, Honored Krshia. We will begin the first lesson.”

The man clutched at Berr’s paw, the light of hope in his eyes.

“Thank you, master.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not…well, don’t call me that.”

Berr gently led the man away. Respectfully, the others watched and the two lesser [Berserkers] followed. Krshia was curious.

“They come to Honored Berr to teach them to master their tempers?”

She turned to his son. The Gnoll grinned.

“My father? Of course. He is calm. A rare thing in our class. This lot came from distant Terandria. That one—he killed his father in battle-rage.”

He nodded at Solen. Krshia was struck again, with sympathy, wariness—and also curiosity.

Now that she thought of it, she had never seen Berr lose his temper. Even in that fight with Inkar and the others, he had seemed like he was having fun. Even when the Raskghar came and half the Gnolls were in a frenzy—if she didn’t know his class, she would have never guessed it.

She went back to the discussions just in time to see Akrisa rise to her feet. Perale was standing too, and Krshia feared some offense had been given. But both Gnolls turned to her.

“Krshia. There she is.”

Akrisa pointed. A panting Gnoll turned to her. It was…Beilmark? She was supposed to be with the Silverfangs.

“What is wrong? Beilmark?”

The Senior Guardswoman looked at Krshia. She spoke, her voice ragged from sprinting here.

“Krshia. It’s Liscor! It’s Mrsha. She’s been kidnapped.”

—-

It was a game of catch-up. News travelled—but always too slowly. Krshia Silverfang and her tribe learned of the attack on Liscor after it had happened, after Mrsha had been kidnapped, too late. They reacted—but slowly.

In the same way, Wil Kallinad felt how far he was from the action when the call came for him. The Order of Seasons rode to war against Ailendamus, and he was far too far from his home kingdom to help if Pheislant had to fight.

Even this…he turned to Yerranola, limping along next to him.

“The Professor. I can’t believe he’s in trouble. Why’d he go to Izril alone? Isn’t he the one who always says ‘don’t take stupid risks’?”

She slowed, resting an arm against a tent pole. Wil felt bad and slowed, but Yerranola just kept walking after a moment. She was still…stiff in her body, which was something he had never seen in a Selphid. She bared her teeth at him; she had a Gnoll body to blend in.

“Maybe, but the Professor’s not always careful, Wil. This sounds like something he’d do—but are we going?”

“I don’t know. Let’s see what the others say.”

Wil kept on. He had received a communique from ‘home’, that was, the academy. No less than Professor Perorn had written to him. Him and the students here. Asking if they would join in…what?

She hadn’t specified. A search, or a rescue mission. Perhaps combat. Wil wasn’t an idiot. He knew that if she was reaching out to them, there might be trouble indeed for the Forgotten Wing Company. One of his classmates said that the entire academy was in a furor. Something was going down on Baleros.

And here they were, enjoying the Meeting of Tribes. Which was the point! Heal Yerranola, help/watch Feshi gain the approval of the other tribes, and enjoy themselves.

They had been doing just that, today. Wil and Yerranola arrived just in time to see what was, by now, a regular start to their day in the Meeting of Tribes.

Venaz losing.

There were worse ways to start your day. Of course, Venaz could later ruin it by being surly or challenging you—or denying he’d lost, but a good Venaz-defeat put a smile on Wil’s face, even now. There was something about the Minotaur’s superior attitude that invited it.

Only he’d consistently choose to lose like this, as well. The Minotaur lay face-down in the mud. He came to after a second.

“Eight losses each morning. What will it be tomorrow, Minotaur?”

An amused voice called out. One of the Gnolls watching, a tall one even by the standards of their kind, chortled. Venaz sat up, blinking.

“Easy—you idiot.”

Merrik and Peki hurried forwards. They checked Venaz, but he wasn’t concussed—just knocked out. He swigged a bit of healing potion, spat out some blood, and looked around.

“Chess. Chess tomorrow, again. I nearly had the timing right.”

“Sure you did.”

Merrik rolled his eyes. The Gnolls laughed. But it was the tallest of them, the giant who’d laid Venaz low with a single punch, who bent down.

“I do not see the desire behind your actions, Venaz of the House of Minos. I hope I did not hurt you?”

If there was anything to wound the Minotaur’s pride…he took the paw slowly, and was effortlessly lifted to his feet. Wil stopped as the second-tallest Gnoll in the entire Meeting of Tribes lifted Venaz up.

Gireulashia Ekhtouch and some members of her tribe surrounded Venaz, as tall, or taller than the Minotaur. Superior Gnolls…bred to be superior. And Gireulashia herself was the best among them.

A [Paragon]. Venaz spat again, a bit of blood landing on the ground. He bowed slightly to the female Gnoll, and snapped.

“I am not hurt, Honored Gireulashia. But I insist on another try! Tomorrow. If you are willing, of course.”

She nodded. Wil stared up at her. Magnificent red-brown fur, nine feet tall, and strong enough to knock a Minotaur flat with a punch—she was an Ekhtouch among Ekhtouch.

“I still fail to see the point, Honored Venaz. I am using my Skill. [Superiority Made Manifest]. By definition, all that you do shall be inferior to my action.”

“I know. And yet—I deny it! I will best your Skill.”

Venaz ground his teeth together and winced; her punch had knocked something loose. Wil shook his head as he joined the party.

“Are you still trying to prove you can best her in some way, Venaz?”

The Minotaur had tried for eight days straight to beat the [Paragon]’s Skill. It had been throwing yesterday, a game of chance the day before…he harrumphed at Wil.

“You’re late. You should have seen the punch I threw so you could analyze it. I had my guard up—”

“She punched him silly. Nothing to see, just hilarity.”

Peki announced. The [Martial Artist] demonstrated.

“Straight punch. Venaz could have done better.”

“It was a classic punch.”

“I can throw a better one.”

The Garuda mocked the taller, heavier Minotaur. Venaz growled, but didn’t dare Peki to prove it; she was the best hand-to-hand fighter there, with the possible exception of Gireulashia.

“Until tomorrow, Venaz. Greetings, Wil Kallinad, Yerranola.”

She bowed slightly and strode away, as the Ekhtouch fell into a kind of procession around her. Gnolls turned to stare as the [Paragon] departed.

“I don’t know why she humors you, Venaz.”

Merrik grumbled. He massaged his neck from staring up at all the tall Gnolls. Venaz shrugged.

“She respects Feshi’s tribe. I have to prove I can beat her Skill. The implications of a Skill just…exceeding someone? Could she do it to the Professor?”

“Maybe. That’s why she’s the Ekhtouch’s pride. It’s a great Skill. No matter who appears—she can best them.”

“But can she best…something she’s never done? Maybe I should ask her to prove it with…magic? I don’t know magic, damn. How about an activity…”

Venaz broke off, scheming. He was fascinated by Gireulashia. Yerranola just laughed.

“Besotted by the first person taller, stronger, and better than you, Venaz?”

The others grinned too. Venaz’s head rose. He looked after Gireulashia, still visible in the distance.

“What? Do you think I fall for the first tall-legged person I meet? That athleticism equates to love? For shame, Yerranola. That’s shallow. She’s not my type. Too young as well. I prefer…strength of character.”

“Sure.”

The others laughed. But Wil remained silent. He cleared his throat.

“Venaz. Did you get the message from Perorn about…the Professor?”

Venaz stopped. He looked at Wil, and then gestured to his bare hand.

“I took my rings off for the contest. Let me put on some privacy artifacts. Then talk.”

Wil nodded. The others went sober at once.

—-

Something had to be done. Krshia met with Akrisa, Beilmark, and other senior Gnolls of the Silverfang tribe. Krshia was distraught, upset, frightened of the reports of the strange [Witch].

“We must send aid back, sister! Chieftain!”

She implored Akrisa. Her older sister held up a steadying paw.

“Of course we must, Krshia. However, it may be best to appoint Silverfangs from Liscor who…know…Mrsha. I am also not about to order Gnolls to race hundreds of miles north if there are better trackers on the job. You said acquaintances and her guardians are already on her trail.”

“Yes, but…”

It was hard for Krshia to explain just how bad of a group was going after Mrsha—even if Akrisa would have believed her.

“The problem is, this little Mrsha cannot be scried, and her trail is apparently hard to follow, even by scent. We are far from Pallass.”

Cetrule pointed out. Beilmark paced.

“I’m informed a [Tracker] from 4th Company has joined the rescue operation, but there must be something we can do. Is there no one in Silverfang who can quickly go north?”

“We are not a tribe known for speed. What I can do is ask other tribes to lend their aid. A tribe around Pallass…the issue is not that, Krshia. Sister?”

Krshia jerked upright from visions of Erin. Lyonette. She had told Lyonette that Mrsha would be safe here! The inn…little Mrsha…who had done it? She looked at Akrisa.

“What? Anyone who can help would be welcome.”

“Yes…”

Akrisa let the word linger. She looked at Cetrule.

“But Mrsha is the little white Gnoll, yes? The one you intend to plead before the Meeting of Tribes? That complicates things. It would—not be wise—for some Gnolls who might help to encounter her.”

Krshia’s fur rose slightly. She swung her head from Cetrule to Akrisa.

“They wouldn’t kill her out of turn, would they? Akrisa, when Brunkr came, he was violent, but not every Gnoll would be so…”

Murderous? Akrisa pointedly didn’t reply. She rested her paws on the table.

“I am concerned for the child’s safety. But sister. I am more concerned about the Gnolls who attacked the inn. Gnolls with no tribe’s markings. Yet Plains Gnolls. Which tribe is that?”

Krshia felt an uneasy sensation in her stomach. A tribe had sent…? She looked from Akrisa to Cetrule. The [Shaman] cleared his throat.

“I can inquire, Chieftain Akrisa. That may be more important. I fear for the child, Krshia. But if a tribe knew she was a white Gnoll and sent those Gnolls…the Meeting of Tribes might be more dangerous than wherever she is.”

Which tribe? Krshia could only nod as Beilmark swung her head from face to face.

—-

At the same time, Wil and his friends held conference. They faced a similar problem, albeit from a different angle. Wil had a map of Izril and it was dismayingly large.

“Here’s the High Passes where some adventurers claim to have run into the Professor. Here’s Invrisil, where he appeared. For reference, that’s a search area four hundred miles across.”

Venaz snorted.

“You’re exaggerating, Wil. We know the Professor travelled via door to Liscor. Here. It stands to reason he’d stay near civilization.”

Wil glowered at Venaz. He was the best at logistics. He tapped the pin where Gold-rank teams had claimed to meet the Professor—and taken heavy casualties. Three Gold-ranks were dead, in the skirmishes, or the monster attacks afterwards.

“How did he get to the High Passes then, Venaz? Wayward teleportation spell? Fleeing the first group? He could be anywhere there.”

“And it’s literally like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

Yerranola laughed. The others glared at her, and the Selphid raised her hands.

“What? Oh, come on. It’s hilarious. Right? He’s the hardest person in the world to find.”

“I’m glad you think it’s funny.”

Merrik rolled his eyes, but the others were glad to see Yerranola in high spirits. Feshi chewed on her lip.

“I don’t understand why the Professor came to Izril in the first place. Did Perorn say why?”

“The answer is obvious. His mysterious chess partner.”

Venaz opined. Wil fell silent, but a surge of excitement rose in his chest.

“Yes, it has to be that. Or—he wanted to meet that Drake who published some of the games. Olesm. Liscor. It’s around Liscor we’d find him. Damn shame it’s so far. Even if we went to Pallass…are we going to go after him?”

Merrik folded his arms. He looked around at the students.

Feshi the Weatherfur Gnoll, Wil Kallinad of Pheislant, the [Lord]. Peki from Pomle, a [Martial Artist], standing next to Yerranola, a Selphid of Baleros who leaned on her shoulder.

Venaz from the House of Minos. All talented [Strategists]…but students still. They had already survived a perilous battle at sea.

“What can we do? If there are [Mercenaries] for hire—we’d still be looking for a needle in a grassland, no offense to the Professor. Especially if he doesn’t want to be found. We’ll also be up against the Great Companies—at the very least their agents! Professionals!”

“Professionals against [Strategists] with three Relic-class weapons, Wil. Or are you forgetting this?”

Venaz indicated the diamond greatsword on his back. Wil felt the sword at his side, and Feshi moved her paw to the dagger at her belt.

The Diamond Swords of Serept. Khelt’s treasure. Merrik stroked his beard.

“So what I’m hearing, Venaz, is that you’re an even bigger liability.”

“Yes. No. What?”

The Minotaur turned on Merrik. The Dwarf [War Leader] gave Venaz a critical look.

“You have a Relic-class artifact, so that means every [Bounty Hunter] and [Thief] will go after us. Feshi’s tribe is a deterrent here—elsewhere?”

“I have a sword that casts [Haste] on me whenever I draw it!”

“Sure, sure. All I’m saying is—there are better candidates for that. You’re not exactly a Level 40 [Warrior]. You’re a [Strategist]. I’d do better with it, honestly.”

“You? You can’t even swing it properly! It’s longer than you are!”

“Don’t be heightist, Venaz.”

The arguing banter between the students reminded Wil of home, yet this was serious. Feshi realized it too, and knocked her paw on the table.

“You two, stop arguing. Focus. This isn’t a game. They must be desperate if they are reaching out to us, even as a contingency.”

Merrik and Venaz fell silent and both grudgingly nodded. Feshi was concerned, but Yerranola coughed and grinned.

“Yet—don’t you see, everyone? I see the greatest opportunity for us here.”

They all looked at the Selphid. She’d endured terrible poison, but somehow, despite still needing treatments from the faerie-flower painkillers and antidotes, she grinned. Wil…was relieved to see her smile.

“How so, Yerra?”

Peki tilted her head. She was the least strategic-minded of the lot, being in the officer-classes. Yerra elaborated.

“There are more high-level individuals here than you could find in any great city in the world regularly. Mercenaries? Entire tribes known for their battle prowess are sitting about with nothing to do. And if we did rescue the Professor—that’s definitely worth top marks, right? How much is the favor of a Great Company of Baleros worth, eh, Feshi?”

The Gnoll blinked. The others looked at each other, feeling the same call to adventure. Until Venaz muttered, sotto voce.

“Assuming the Professor isn’t more valuable as a hostage.”

The others glowered at him, but Feshi nodded.

“You’re right, Venaz. There is a chance. I just don’t know if Weatherfur will take it…but we can ask. Let me talk to my Chieftain. If we decided to go and search, we could take a small group. Max movement Skills, horses? How much could we pay?”

The others glanced at each other. Wil sighed.

“I can ask my family for an advance, but war in Pheislant…”

Venaz nodded.

“I’ll pull funds from my account at the Merchant’s Guild. All I can muster; nearly ten thousand gold. That’s all I was allocated.”

“I can throw in a few hundred gold too.”

Merrik’s hand rose. Feshi did some quick notations. Yerra grimaced.

“I can do uh, a hundred gold?”

They looked at Feshi, who had already added her income. Peki raised her wing-hand proudly.

“I am poor.”

Merrik patted her on the arm. Peki slapped his hand down.

“Don’t pat me.”

They nodded at each other and made to leave the private guest-tent. Feshi was jotting down notes.

“We could recompense some Weatherfur warriors. Not the best, but if I add in horses—are we moving fast or do we want a fighting force? Maybe we could purchase…”

They stopped in the middle of the Weatherfur Tribe’s camp. A bit of a commotion had occurred when they were planning out a possible rescue. A bunch of Gnolls had come to the Weatherfur Tribe. They had clearly been allowed in, but their very presence had quite a lot of Weatherfur’s colorful Gnolls with their dyed fur staring.

No less than the Chieftain of their tribe, Torishi, was greeting them, under a halo of light from the sky, the manifestation of her weather aura. Wil blinked.

He knew these Gnolls. Or one of them. Torishi called out to Feshi.

“Niece! You have guests. They claim to have an appointment with you. I hope you are not going to make them wait?”

She looked pointedly at one of the Gnolls, who was scarfing down refreshments. Feshi blinked.

“Chieftain. But I didn’t call for…”

She stared as the little Gnoll swung himself to his feet. He grinned, and motioned to the Gnolls—and three Humans. They fell into step as they approached Feshi, Wil, and the others.

Honored Berr’s grin was wide as could be.

“Feshi did not call us, Chieftain Torishi. But we are here, yes? Hello, children. I am Honored Berr. Do you remember me?”

He waved at Venaz. The Minotaur shuffled behind Peki. Of course they recognized him.

“Of course, Honored Berr. Can we help you?”

Feshi bowed slightly. She looked at him and the others—the Wild Wastes’ finest warriors. Honored Berr scratched at his belly. He stared at her. Then smiled.

“I am Berr. We know each other, yes?”

He…repeated himself? It was such an odd thing to say, all the [Strategists] looked at each other.

“Er—yes, Honored Berr. Can we help you? We did not call you.”

The Gnoll nodded. Then he tilted his head.

“I am Berr. These are [Berserkers], by the way.”

Was he going senile? Wil hesitated, feeling a bit uneasy by the odd way the Gnoll kept repeating his name, reintroducing himself. Then he heard an oath.

It came from Merrik. The Dwarf figured it out first and stroked his beard furiously. His eyebrows bobbed up and down. The others glanced at him.

“What, Merrik? Did you call him?”

“Not me. But we don’t need to. Honored Berr. Wild Wastes. I think we just ran into a high-level Skill. Used by [Mercenaries].”

Yerranola’s brows shot all the way back up. Everyone whirled around. Torishi gave her niece a stare, but Feshi was flabbergasted.

“…We can’t hire Berr! Merrik, you’re joking. That’s not—”

She turned. Honored Berr grinned wide as could be. The Gnolls behind him perked up. One of them flexed an arm—the other slapped his shoulder. Berr peered from student to student, a happy smile on his face.

“Can’t hire me? Why not? How much gold do you have?”

His eyes twinkled with excitement as the students looked at each other.

—-

High-level Gnolls. Strange plans. Strange designs.

The first arguments over the Raskghar spilled into discussions about Pallass.

“Pallass wants a universal peace treaty with the Meeting of Tribes?”

The rumor was in among a lot of milling warriors from various tribes. Apparently, no less than Chaldion had asked for a mass-treaty since all the tribes were here. The Raskghar were a token of good-will.

Someone spoke, a Plain’s Eye [Warrior].

“Peace with a Walled City would be fine. My tribe is at peace and Pallass’ gold fills our pouches. If the Chieftains effect it, we could do away with other tribes causing trouble for us all.”

The remark was aimed at a Woven Bladegrass Gnoll. She pushed herself up with a growl.

“So says a tribe afraid of Pallass. Will you let them push us around, take our lands and tell us ‘this is Drake property’?”

She slapped her chest.

“Let them come! We all know what Lemol and these cities have done to Gnoll tribes! Do you not remember the Kedarune tribe’s fate? How Drake armies drove off Grovelind’s people from their vineyards they had tended for nearly eight decades over petty laws those cities made?”

“Ancient history!”

Another Gnoll barked back. Someone else slapped him on the shoulder, provoking a growl, but the third Gnoll was big enough to make the rest back down.

“I say the Woven Bladegrass’ Chieftain has the right of it. We bow to Drake law and their armies in every part of Izril. Will we bow to their armies here? At this time? Do you think Pallass sending their army here, even to ‘escort’ the Raskghar, isn’t suspicious? Eh?”

The warriors fell silent. They turned to the third Gnoll, who was impressive, a strong Gnoll. No visible tribe’s markings, but there were wanderers as well as every tribe.

It was one discussion of many, but now the question had been posed…the third Gnoll kept speaking.

“There are too many designs on the Meeting of Tribes this time for my liking. I have been to the last one, when I was a cub, yes? But the Walled Cities never dared interrupt us before. It feels like many foreign powers are attempting to influence us. Or have you not heard of the King of Destruction’s representative?”

The other Gnolls looked at each other. Many hadn’t heard about that. One laughed.

“Designs on the Meeting of Tribes from foreign powers? What could they want? And the King of Destruction’s representative? What is he representing, a burnt pinecone? I heard that’s all that’s left of him.”

There were laughs, but the big Gnoll gave the other a reproving look. The Woven Bladegrass [Warrior] gave the unknown speaker an approving look.

“You have good points, [Warrior]. What tribe are you from?”

“None. I am a [Sellsword]. Among other things.”

“Then join our tribe for the night. Our Chieftain admires any Gnoll who speaks with conviction. Perhaps she will meet you. She will not like hearing about other powers; she does not like this Pallass army any more than you. How are you called?”

The other Gnolls broke up, some thoughtful, others shaking their heads. The Gnoll clasped paws with the female Gnoll.

“Me? Keras…il. Kerasil.”

She laughed and gestured. The Gnoll walked with her. He thought he’d done that well, but he kept forgetting his name. Yet if he met the Woven Bladegrass’ Chieftain…or should he win one of the martial tournaments yet? Perhaps tomorrow.

Kerash scratched at his neck, wondering if his Master was watching. Then his head swiveled.

Someone was watching him.

Even here, Kerash had seen powerful living beings. It was almost like there were worthy foes among the living, unlike how Venitra and Ijvani talked about the ‘inferior flesh-things’. Kerash had been…impressed…by all the Gnolls who had confronted the Raskghar.

He rather liked it here. Something called to him. He didn’t know what. But he was wary, because his master had warned him about the potential for discovery.

Who was watching him? As he followed the Woven Bladegrass’ representative, Kerash spotted the watcher.

A metal Gnoll? He slowed, and stared. One of the Honored Warriors of the Steelfur Tribe. One of the names he had memorized.

Adetr Steelfur. Kerash felt the Gnoll’s Skill touching him. Trying to learn something.

It wouldn’t work. The undead Gnoll’s mind raced.

A probing Skill. Master warned me about them. I am warded against such things. Keep calm. Do not react. Bow?

He inclined his head slightly. Adetr snorted, nodded once, and turned away. Kerash kept walking.

Keep to my Master’s plan. All is well. Enjoy myself. Master, how am I supposed to do that?

“Do you use that axe well, Kerasil? Or is it for show? Perhaps you can show me after this.”

The Woven Bladegrass Gnoll teased. Kerash bared his teeth. He forgot his worries.

“I am among the best you will ever meet.”

“Oh? You’ll have to prove that!”

The undead walked forwards. This was a bit fun after all. Far better than being taught by that rude skeleton.

—-

Someone who was not enjoying the Meeting of Tribes sat cross-legged, in the middle of her tribe. Her small tribe—but not a weak tribe.

Ekhtouch, perfection made manifest, the tribe whose children were without flaw, who comingled and produced the finest of each species…were a boring tribe. They tended to be aloof when meeting other tribes.

They did not intermingle freely. They certainly did not comingle in any way that could lead to offspring without their Chieftain’s permission. In a sense, each Ekhtouch was like a work of art.

And works of art were boring. Like paintings hanging on walls. They ate regimented meals. They trained themselves to be the best at what they did. They aspired to have children who were even more superior.

But what happened if you were the pinnacle of all things? The allegedly superior Gnoll, who could not be matched? The answer was…you were bored. Especially if you were Gireulashia Ekhtouch.

She sat cross-legged in the camp, watched by the children and adults alike. If she was hungry, someone would instantly prepare her food. If she desired a sparring partner—well, they would line up to be punched, like that funny Minotaur.

To be honest, Gireulashia preferred Venaz to her kin. He was strident, always asking questions about her Skills, and perceptive. Ekhtouch? Superior.

Of course, in theory, Gireulashia was one of them, but Ekhtouch had done too well with her. She was an anomaly, even among them.

Nine feet tall. Akin to half-Giants. It wasn’t just size, though; her mind was as sharp as a razor. She thought faster. She reacted quicker. She could even do things that lesser Gnolls struggled with.

For instance—she had stared at the ball of string in the festival, and picked the string that led to a prize unerringly. Ekhtouch had made much of that; proof positive of her eyes and mind.

…That other Gnoll had gotten the Centaur doll first, though. So she’d turned down the dagger, much to the stall owner’s relief. Gireulashia sighed, and shifted, but did not open her eyes as she ‘meditated’, or else her people would flock around her, asking what she wanted.

What she wanted was for them to leave her alone. Intellectually, she knew that would never happen. She was too valuable. Too…important.

[Paragon]. She was a giant among Gnolls, a queen among her kind. Greatest of the Ekhtouch bar none, and thus—greatest across this wide world among all Gnolls. Only the best of Chieftains and Named Adventurers could match her, and only by dint of deed and level, not simple…superiority.

She did not think it was arrogance to believe any of this. Already, Gireulashia had defeated countless Gnolls in sparring matches. She had beaten them in every contest imaginable, from races to strength to even displays of mental acumen.

If anything, her status weighed heavily on her. She had to be a leader. To inspire! Gireulashia Ekhtouch would lead her tribe in the decades to come. She might be mother to the greatest [Chieftain] of this era.

…It was a heavy burden. Too heavy for a fifteen year old girl.

Sometimes, Gireulashia, who preferred ‘Gire’ rather than her portentous name, thought even her tribe forgot how young she was. She spoke like an adult and thought with their complexity, but that was just how she was.

Other Gnolls had no idea, obviously assuming you didn’t get to her height without being at least fully-grown. They thought she was half again as old as she was, if they wondered at all.

Being treated like an adult, especially an attractive one, was not fun either for Gire. So many requests, subtle and otherwise, made her very uncomfortable. Only Venaz had instantly figured it out. When she had asked how, he had snorted.

“I’ve seen noble children surrounded by [Nursemaids] before. There is a difference between that, and an honor guard.”

“Honored Gireulashia. The Chieftain wishes you to meet another tribe. Will you attend?”

The Gnoll [Paragon] opened her eyes. She rose in one movement and nodded.

“Of course.”

Boredom took many forms. It was uncomfortable to meet the Gnoll [Chieftain] of the tribe who tried to introduce her to his fine son who was far too old. Or she too young.

Gire tried to hide behind the tallest Gnoll there, nearly a foot shorter than she was. She spoke, demonstrated her perfect etiquette, made an incisive comment, and slunk away as soon as she could.

They thought she was aloof. Some superior Gnoll who looked down on the others. Gire went into her tent and put her head under pillows custom-made for her.

“Honored Gireulashia, are you hungry? There is food if you require it.”

Someone bothered her no less than thirty four minutes later. Gire already knew it was time to eat, and they worried about her growth.

“Mm. I am content.”

“We shall put aside meals for you, then.”

The Gnoll bowed and retreated. ‘Honored Gire’ sat up. They had made her an Honored Gnoll before she was even grown. That was expectation for you.

She sulked. She hated sitting and making pleasant-talk with all the other important Gnolls and her [Chieftain] and [Shaman]. It was okay now and then, when tribes met, but that was every day in the Meeting of Tribes.

And she couldn’t act her age. Gire listened to Ekhtouch’s children playing. They were allowed to be children, even for the superior tribe. She rummaged around her private possessions and pulled out a doll.

She had really wanted the Centaur doll, but it did not become Honored Gire to ask for one, or carry one around in the Meeting of Tribes. That dratted Gnoll with the spectacles had gotten it. She’d heard him muttering; he hadn’t seen the lines of thread, but he’d used a Skill. He’d watched twenty six Gnolls take turns, then made his move a fraction before Gire could.

Had he counted the Gnolls, observed which strings they pulled and somehow extrapolated the right answer? It was a function of his class, but which class?

Gire’s mind sorted through factoids. Let’s see. His scent, location, and markings all indicated Plain’s Eye, as had the Gnolls he joined, despite his flashy dress. Plain’s Eye Tribe had few Gnolls of such description, but they were rumored to have…

…a [Mathematician] of all classes…

Her mind connected the dialogue she’d once heard in regard to rumors about that tribe. She matched the Gnoll to the class in less than a second, putting the clues together.

That was easy. It was just how she thought, which other Gnolls took to be supreme calculation. It was just…how she was born. Did other people applaud Gnolls for breathing? Gire was not proud of her attributes because they were not earned. Ekhtouch was wrong to place excessive pride in that, to her mind. There was a word for that. Hubris.

Her ears could pick out a fly rubbing its legs together fifty feet away. Her eyes could see tiny bugs and things other Gnolls didn’t believe existed, like the munching bugs that ate plant leaves.

…Which was terrible, really, especially in crowded places like this. Thankfully, Gire had long learned how to ‘adjust’ all her senses down to a normal Gnoll’s level of perception to prevent being overwhelmed. Even so, she had taken precautions for this event.

She removed a bit of beeswax she’d stuck in her ears in the privacy of her tent. That she could hear as well as ‘regular’ Gnolls despite that was also a virtue.

A curious sound made its way into her ears in the brief moment when the overload of countless voices and sound filled Gire’s ears. She could hear conversations, could eavesdrop on any conversation not warded if she chose, and she did not choose to hear such things. Too often, she could sort through the layers of sound and hear a Gnoll having a really bad, just explosive time in an outhouse.

Smell it too. However, this sound called to Gire because she had never heard it before. She blinked.

“What’s that?”

She rose from her tent. Gnolls instantly approached her with food, but Gire waved it off.

“I…am going to walk about the Meeting of Tribes.”

“We shall accompany—”

“No. I shall simply observe.”

The Ekhtouch Gnolls wavered.

“The Chieftain would not want you to be hurt, Honored Gireulashia.”

She fixed them with an arch glance.

“What could harm me here? Raskghar? Other Gnolls?”

Faced with that, they couldn’t rightly object. So Gire strode off before they could find the Chieftain and stop her. She wound her way through the Meeting of Tribes as Gnolls stopped. Pointed. She heard them.

“What is that? Ekhtouch?”

“She’s magnificent. So tall.”

“I don’t even know if we’re the same species…”

That hurt her. Gire affected not to notice, her chin raised, posture perfect. She walked forwards, slowed, turned her head. Following the sound.

—-

She had to traverse the Meeting of Tribes for a while to hone in on it. It turned out the sound was coming from the ‘exterior’ of the camps, and Gire’s ability to use her hearing wasn’t perfect yet. Still, she eventually tracked it down to a foreign Gnoll’s camp and sighed.

It was hard to just walk in, so she pretended to be looking at activities. She waved away Gnolls who approached her, asking to talk, flirting, or just curious. She paused as she circumnavigated the ring of tents.

“Hmm. Hmm.”

Gire paused, and watched Gnolls playing a curious game with lengths of wood where you hit a ball and then ran around a diamond. She angled herself.

“…There.”

She leaned against a post of wood that could support her weight. In theory, to those who looked at her, she was watching the game.

In truth, she was staring into the other Gnoll’s camp. At a tent where the sound was coming from. Gire stared at the tent.

She stared through the tent.

Her eyes sharpened, piercing through the weave of fabric. It was hard to ‘see’ unless it was poor-quality cloth, but Gire could still put together a picture of what was happening inside. Again—she usually didn’t want to, as there were only a few things Gnolls did inside tents.

This time, though, she slowly pieced together two figures. She listened, focusing on the voices from within. It was hard, very hard, to tune out everything, but she eventually put together a picture in her mind.

Two individuals. One Gnoll—fur brown. Male voice? Female non-Gnoll. Can see skin…Human? Stitchfolk? Dullahan? Half-Elf?

“…so strange. Is it alright for me to see this?”

The Gnoll was speaking. The female one had a laugh in her voice. They were sitting together.

“You know about me, and your aunt says it is alright, Tkrn.”

Tkrn. Gire realized she was staring at Silverfang’s camp. She knew his name from Ekhtouch, who had journeyed with Silverfang’s tribe. A ‘Tkrn’ had been part of a brawl…

“And it doesn’t run out of mana—power?”

“Not with the spell, Rose said. I don’t know what Krshia did! Everything is different. Even the data is…let me see.”

“Can you play another song?”

Song. That was what she’d heard. But it had been different than even the song-crystals of the Singer of Terandria. A sound she had never heard.

She couldn’t see whatever they were staring at. Her eyes could see through holes in the fabric…but not actually pierce it completely.

She’d have to get closer. Gire rose, glancing ahead. There were walls of cloth or actual material that allowed tribes their privacy. She rotated her head, checking the camp.

The two were in a secluded spot at the back; there were sentries on the outside, but it was clear they were in private, far from anyone but her hearing. It would be hard for Gire to find an excuse to walk into the camp.

So she didn’t. She pretended to walk out of the Meeting of Tribes, as if she was going hunting or for a run. She checked the landscape around her.

Gnolls roaming the plains, playing games. Games of tag—she didn’t care what they were doing, only the positions of their heads.

Cones of sight. She waited, forming a picture of the lines of sight. Waiting, waiting…until the sentry nearest her glanced down at a bug crawling up her fur. Until all eyes were off her. Then Gire jumped.

She jumped straight over the wall of the Silverfang encampment. The Gnolls inside the camp never saw her land; she’d jumped such that the top of a tent hid her. She landed in a squat.

In theory, a nine-foot tall Gnoll was the most obvious thing in the world and impossible to hide. In theory.

Gire had Skills as a [Paragon]. Her class was one of those rare ones that encompassed countless areas; in time she might consolidate it. Like [Paragon Warrior] or [Paragon Chieftain].

At her young age, she had more general Skills. One of them—[Superiority Made Manifest]—was terrible. All it did was let her beat whatever someone was doing. A superior punch, a superior action…it required something to exist first.

She liked her other Skill better.

“[Perfect Action: Stealth Roll].”

A giant Gnoll flashed so fast past one tent to another that a sneezing Gnoll never saw her. [Basic Perfect Action]. If you could name a low-level Skill and Gire had seen it, she could do it too.

[Paragon].

She padded over to the tent where the two were and sat down. Now, without anyone realizing, she was right behind Inkar and Tkrn. She listened.

“There are games too?”

Tkrn exclaimed as he played a curious game. Gire craned her neck. Now she could see the bright screen, but it was at an angle as the two kept fiddling with it. What was that strange…light? She caught a flash of tiny, pixelated dots, a strange substance…but if she unfocused her eyes, it became a picture. How clever!

“Yes! Your paw isn’t working well.”

“It won’t let me press!”

“It was made for Human fingers.”

“That’s speciesist.”

Gire listened to the two. Flirting. You could even hear it in the pitch of their tones. She didn’t care about that. She was fascinated by the device. She edged closer. Damn this fabric! She wanted to see this wonderful…toy.

—-

The new iPhone was the latest model from Earth. It was a model invented after Inkar had left, which made it all the more impressive that Krshia had somehow managed to ‘upgrade’ her old one into it.

There was just one problem. There was no headphone jack anymore, and so Inkar and Tkrn had to play it out loud—away from curious Silverfangs. Well, his tent was at the back of the Silverfang camp, so they had elected to mess with it there.

It was a magnificent device. Inkar admired it more now that she was away from Earth’s industry. Smooth, Plexiglas screen. Beautiful details. A camera with such accuracy that Tkrn had insisted on taking pictures of everything and marveling at how he could ‘save’ what his eyes had seen.

…A shame there was no internet, and many apps were functionally useless. A shame Inkar didn’t have many movies or bits of data that were useful. Rose had wanted to bring a computer to ‘load’ movies and other things onto Inkar’s phone, but she’d given up when she heard it was an iPhone. Kevin had a Windows.

None of that made any sense to Tkrn, of course. This was just magic. Fun magic! Accessible magic, despite the touchscreen not liking his paws.

“Ooh, what’s that? What’s that? Press that app.”

Tkrn was already learning the lingo, unlike Krshia. Inkar laughed, lying next to him on cushions. They were very close.

“It’s ‘Podcasts’. Um…stories people read out, or conversations.”

“Let’s listen to one!”

“I don’t have any.”

“Oh.”

Inkar patted Tkrn on the shoulder. The [Worldly Traveller] smiled and pointed.

“Don’t worry. Look, I have all these little games.”

All the game-apps she’d installed to pass the time on train rides and so on were on the iPhone. Here was the curious thing that was important and useless: Krshia’s Skill had changed the software of her iPhone too.

Somehow, all the free apps she’d downloaded now thought she had paid for the full versions. Inkar did not like wasting money on such things, so it was a pleasant discovery, especially because no one would ever buy apps on this iPhone again—unless she went back to Earth.

“Let’s play that one! That game! What’s that game?”

“Um…tossing birds at buildings.”

“What? That’s hilarious. Let’s play. Why is that a game? Wait—never mind. I answered my own question.”

Inkar giggled. She had set the iPhone to ‘English’ instead of her native language since everyone apparently spoke and read it to some degree or another. No Kazakhstan peoples…just her.

It made her lonely, but she had good friends. A tribe who protected her. Deskie, Eska…and now Tkrn and Rose. Rose was interesting, a bit excitable—different.

Tkrn? She trusted Tkrn.

The two were playing as Tkrn let Inkar show him how to play, then tried it himself. It was so addictive, so fun. Inkar had played it many times—the free version, of course—but she found the lure of the electronic device was magnified for its uniqueness.

And it was just a fun game. They bent over the iPhone, arguing about placement. They played for minutes…then an hour…going through levels.

The problem was, Tkrn was bad at the game. He didn’t know how to use the touchscreen, and the paw-pads of Gnolls weren’t what this highly-sensitive touchscreen was customized for.

Inkar helped him out, more patient and amused by Tkrn than the game itself. He was a bit frustrated as he tried to get the best score on a level.

“Stop tossing it so high! You want to crash everything and hit that piggy, see? Poor piggy.”

Inkar heard Tkrn growl, annoyed.

“Is this special bird better? I hate that piggy. I want to cook and eat him. Ooh. That’s cool.”

“Ooh.”

Inkar grinned—but her smile turned curious after a second. Had she just heard…two oohs? Her hearing was enhanced by her Skill, but even so, it had been the softest sound.

She frowned, but Tkrn was struggling on the next level. He had spotted a way to win the entire level in one go, but predictably, it was a perfect shot, and he hadn’t figured out the geometry of the arc.

“Maybe here? No. Damn. Let me restart…here? No? No…”

Frustrated, he tapped on the phone, trying to figure out the right angle. Inkar was amused, and exasperated because he wouldn’t let her help.

“It’s a bit up! No, it’s not—let me help.”

“I’ve got it! I want to do it!”

“But you’re not aiming right.”

“I’ve nearly got it—”

Tkrn frowned at the screen. A furry finger reached out and tapped the screen. He blinked. But then he saw the little bird fly and topple everything and the screen rewarded him with a cheering explosion of light and sound.

Tkrn focused on that, then turned to Inkar as something occurred to him. He stared at her hands. Her fingers, long and distinctly not paw-like. He saw her head turned, eyes wide, mouth wide open.

The [Guardsman] slowly turned his head. He saw a giant Gnoll, looming over both of them, sitting right behind Inkar and Tkrn. She had somehow snuck into the tent and was so close her fur nearly brushed their backs without either noticing.

It was she who had been watching for the last hour, and unconsciously, unable to help herself, touched the iPhone. She stared at Tkrn. At Inkar. Gire came to her senses. Her eyes went round and then—she panicked.

“I’m sorry. I was only looking!”

“What th—”

Tkrn went for his blade, or tried to. Inkar opened her mouth to scream. Gire saw it all, and—acted instinctively.

She reached out and tapped Tkrn’s jaw with her fist. His eyes rolled up. She did the same to Inkar so fast both were unconscious before their heads hit the pillows. Then Gire was out of the tent, over the wall, and running, so fast the sentries only saw a blur, fleeing back to her camp.

Gire stormed into her tent, hid under her blankets, ignoring the questions from her tribe. It was only after she’d stopped quaking that she realized she had only made all of it worse. A child, as Venaz would have said, was still a child. Worse—

This child had taken the iPhone. She hid under her blankets, a giant mound of terrified Gnoll, until someone began calling her name.

“Gire? Gire—some Gnolls from the Silverfang Tribe and a Human are looking for you.”

—-

Another strange encounter in the Meeting of Tribes occurred at roughly the same time. Another iconic Gnoll walked through the crowd, focus of many eyes and speculation.

The difference was that he looked back. The metal Gnoll roamed the Meeting of Tribes, eyes locking on individuals, passing over many…stopping on the ones who mattered. Adetr was looking for powerful Gnolls, and he knew when he found them.

Adetr Steelfur, nephew of the famous Iraz Steelfur himself. Ironically, it was he, not Iraz’s offspring or even grandchildren who had taken most to their tribe’s heritage.

His body was metal. Tougher than steel. He weighed twice what a normal Gnoll did. He was tougher than a [Knight] in plate armor, one of the greatest warriors of the mighty Steelfur tribe. Some whispered he would be the next [Chieftain], regardless of bloodlines. Adetr wondered if that was so. There was more to leading than just physical might, or so Iraz told him.

He would be fine with just physical might, for now. If only he could be the best.

Unbreakable body, indestructible heart. That was all of what Steelfur believed you needed to win any battle. He passed by the strange Gnoll [Warrior] he couldn’t read.

He wondered what kind of item that Gnoll [Warrior] had—or Skill—that let them deflect his Skill. Even Honored Berr and heroes like Garsine Wallbreaker, or adventurers like Lehra Ruinstrider couldn’t prevent this Skill from working on them.

Many had Skills that analyzed their opponents’ strengths, even revealed Skills, levels, etc. There were even spells for that—none of which worked on most Gnolls here. Any [Chieftain] or famous Gnoll had protections against them. Yet Adetr had a Skill few possessed.

He was a [Battle Seeker] along with his primary class. That was how much he craved proving his worth. Some Gnolls loved and lived battle like Honored Berr.

Adetr dreamed after it, lusted for it more than anyone he had ever lain with. Thus, his Skill was this.

He came to a halt and spotted a towering Gnoll racing back through the Meeting of Tribes. A worthy enemy. He didn’t know why she was so upset, but the [Paragon] was in his sights. He stared at Gireulashia and used his Skill.

[Analysis: Vision of Greatest Battle].

Adetr died.

He died snarling, the Ekhtouch tribe surging around him. They were good! Yet he had killed nine already. The Steelfur warriors were trading less effectively. Ekhtouch were few, but they made up for it with strength, reach, even skill!

He was aiming for their Chieftain when she appeared. The giant, covered in wounds, swinging a sword that bit through the Steelfur warriors’ hides. Adetr roared a challenge and saw her turn. He charged, a [Bull’s Rush] through the others. She saw him and—tossed—

The Gnoll blinked. Staggered. Gnolls passing by saw him stumble, clutch at his eye. Then recover. They looked at him, but he just growled and walked on. He tried to look at Gire again, but she had already left.

A pity. He would have liked a rematch. He had no idea she was that good. Adetr had died; she’d thrown a javelin straight through his eye. It was a weak point.

—-

Greatest battle. Adetr learned more about the Ekhtouch tribe from that moment—real knowledge.

Such as the fact that they could back up their claims to superiority—to a point. If Steelfur and their tribe fought, they would lose. Steelfur’s warriors were weaker than Ekhtouch’s, a rarity, but they had numbers and Ekhtouch wasn’t armored with that many relics.

Still, Adetr had died so he hadn’t seen the final tally of the battle. He might have understood, then, just how matched both tribes were.

Not that they would ever fight. Steelfur and Ekhtouch were too well-respected, the consequences too fierce. It would never happen, so Adetr’s longing had given him this Skill.

What a wondrous Skill. With it, he could see glorious war. Appraise his weaknesses, gauge how much he should truly respect his ‘betters’.

For instance—Garsine Wallbreaker. Adetr went to watch a wrestling match with some Gnolls for about twenty minutes, then hunted her down again. He saw her walking through the Meeting of Tribes, creating a passage as Gnolls looked up at the [Shapechanger] and backed away.

To his amazement, she was bending down and sniffing at flowers.

“This one.”

She was picking out flowers to plant when they returned home! An old woman, not the hero of old, to look at her like this. Garsine held a tiny little flower and paid the Gnoll for the seeds.

She tore off his head as her tribe fell around her. Wallbreaker’s tribe was not as strong as she, though they had shapechangers. But Garsine? An army apart! She turned into her true form and he roared as she lifted him up—

Death. Adetr bared his teeth. Now here was a true hero of Gnolls. He had to watch out for her reach; if she got him, he was dead.

Garsine twitched and glanced around, but Adetr was gone.

“Reel in some fish! Biggest fish wins a prize!”

Adetr went fishing. He failed to win, but it passed thirty minutes and then some. The pond that had been made for the competition let him recharge his Skills. Then he found her again.

This time, she went down, but only because Steelfur’s entire tribe went after her. He saw her bring down nearly a hundred alone—and that was because he’d taken her tribe down around him. He heard the howling of triumph—the Steelfur warriors were never ones he recognized. Just generic warriors, with the few strong ones of his tribe—those over Level 30. They never recognized their foes. It was a simulation. Adetr howled in victory.

He was back in the real world. The Gnoll grinned to himself. Well, heroes died and he was used to seeing that. Even his Chieftain fell when he used that Skill—sometimes. The third time he’d—

Garsine Wallbreaker walked towards him. The giant Gnoll broke away from her inspection of paintings. Adetr went still as Gnolls behind him backed up.

Her huge, snarling mouth opened. Her elongated form bent down, and he saw two eyes—yellow. Not brown! They glowed with power as the bear-cape swung around her. She breathed, one word.

“Enough.”

The Gnolls of her tribe stared at Garsine, then Adetr, confused. He saw some Steelfur Gnolls staring at him. Adetr met Garsine’s eyes. Somehow she’d sensed his Skill and what he was doing.

“Apologies, great Garsine.”

She stared at him, snorted hot breath, and turned away. Adetr bowed after her, abashed. Only a few people had recognized what he was doing.

He was more circumspect after that, but he spent his time thusly. Thirty eight minute increments, then—battle. It was a shame he couldn’t level, yet the Meeting of Tribes was what he’d dreamed of for the last six years; he hadn’t attended the last one, being far too young.

He tested himself on almost every Gnoll he could find. Lehra Ruinstrider was an interesting foe. She was weaker by herself than a Named Adventurer should be; compared to the others he had met. Her team was good, though. That damned Gazer could actually lock him down.

I should buy more anti-magic protections.

What was also useful was learning how each tribe fought. Generic warriors with a few powerful individuals they might be, but they still fought like…their people. Adetr used it on the Minotaur, Venaz, and was rewarded with a fight.

The King of Minotaurs herself wiped him out. He tried three times and she killed him before he even touched the Minotaur lines. It was actually a disappointment; he wanted to fight the House of Minos, not see a giant axe filling the world and feel his death. He supposed Venaz was fairly important in the House of Minos after all.

Then again, Adetr’s Skill gave him the greatest battle possible. Not solo-duels. Sometimes he regretted that—but it suited him. He always had Steelfur at his back. Always faced his foes at full power.

Well, should I try it on Plain’s Eye? If they sense it like Garsine and I offend their [Shaman] or Chieftain…

Adetr growled. He could use it on a lesser warrior, but less of the tribe showed up. Presumably because a lesser representative couldn’t get all of his or her tribe behind them. He cast around, but there was no ‘fun’ Gnoll to see at the moment.

“Maybe that Garuda.”

He looked up, hopefully. They made much of Pomle’s strength. Or—what about the Dwarf? Something had gone wrong that one time he’d used it on a Dwarf. He’d won eighty nine simulations against Dwarves…except for one. A weak Dwarf, but someone in the projection had slaughtered Adetr so fast he couldn’t see what it was.

That was why he lived, to know there were worthy foes like that. He’d level up, challenge them again. Who next?

Az’muzarre. Of course! He found one of their warriors and grinned.

Let’s see how the greatest warriors of the Great Plains fare.

He fought the entire tribe and died in seconds. Adetr grunted.

“Not bad. But cheap.”

Dragonbone weapons. That was how they cut through him and his warriors in moments. A weapon with unmatched attack power.

Surprisingly, Adetr didn’t respect that. They were bearers of relics, whose power was given to them by what they held. Take it away and…well, his Skill didn’t let him choose the parameters of the battle, but he could choose to do it himself.

Thirty eight minutes to reset.

This time he yanked a blade off one of the Gnolls before they killed him. Sure enough—the snarling Az’muzarre champion was less effective, just striking ineffectually with a mundane weapon while her companions ran him through.

So they relied too much on the weapons. Adetr lost interest at once. Maybe some were better—but that was annoying. It was half and half—the Gnolls who stood up to the stories, and those who turned out to be exaggerated.

Aimlessly, Adetr chased through the crowd. You know who was good? The Pallassian Drakes. He went hunting for one—or a City Gnoll. Where was one of them?

There. He found one after a few minutes, a group striding along, arguing.

“Are you sure it was her?”

“She was huge.”

“I do not understand. Why would one of Ekhtouch, especially their [Paragon]…she knows. We must be careful, Chieftain Eska.”

“We have the right to be angry, Krshia! If she appeared in their tents—”

He aimed. Krshia Silverfang. Adetr whispered.

“[Vision of Greatest Battle].”

As always, he went still. Then he jerked. He snarled.

“Antinium!?”

Gnolls around him turned. Krshia didn’t hear, as she strode off. Adetr felt at his fur.

“What was—”

Liscor’s first defenses had folded up depressingly fast. Despite the city’s walls blasting them with decent wall spells, Steelfur was a powerful tribe and their Watch was…average. No high-level Drakes beyond one with a sword and a few [Senior Guards]. He’d heard there was a powerful duo, but he hadn’t seen one. They’d taken the walls, fought towards the Watch Captain…

Then the Antinium had come out of the ground. Thousands! Adetr had fallen into a pit, where it was dark, fighting shapes that came out of the darkness, the earth—he’d killed many, until they bore him down.

He had to do it again. See more. Instantly, Adetr followed after the group—then cursed as he remembered the recharge time.

“Hrm. This is excellent. I can fight them. Watch the ground. We have to lure them out? Stick to the walls…”

He was planning the battle, excitedly. He strode about, nearly hopping with impatience, then set out for the Silverfang camp.

To his great disappointment, Krshia Silverfang wasn’t there. Had they been talking about Ekhtouch? Adetr paced back and forth, then decided to go there. But before he could, he heard a voice.

“Oh my god. Where? Ekhtouch? What are we going to do?”

Something was—off. Adetr frowned. He saw a young woman hurrying with a group of Gnolls out of the camp. A Human woman.

“Hrm.”

Adetr had met many non-Gnolls at the Meeting of Tribes, so a guest didn’t surprise him like the Lizardman with one leg. He guessed this young woman was a friend to Silverfang.

Maybe she was from Liscor? It was worth a try. He pointed at her.

“[Vision of Greatest Battle].”

—-

Adetr awoke under a strange sky. It seemed smaller. He frowned, sniffing the air as his tribe howled their traditional call to war. Then he heard a strange sound. An explosion—louder than anything.

Gnolls vanished next to him. Adetr recoiled, knocked sideways by some powerful blast. Was that a [Fireball]? No—he stared ahead as they pointed at a strange object.

“What is that?”

He charged towards something. A…were those Humans standing over there? What were they holding? What was that giant metal thing?

He saw a strange metal tube swiveling to point a long ‘nose’ at h—

—-

Adetr died. He stopped, staring, as Rose ran past him. His head turned to follow her. The Gnoll’s jaw was open. He had died quickly before—always to high-level warriors who could close the distance. He had seen many battles. Many armies.

Never that.

“What was…”

They were heading somewhere. Adetr stared at Rose, then instantly followed after.

—-

Gireulashia Ekhtouch stood behind her Chieftain, head bowed, the iPhone on the ground in front of them. The tent where they talked was filled with commotion—albeit warded so no one could hear the intense discussion taking place. More Silverfang Gnolls and Ekhtouch stood tensely to one side.

Adetr didn’t care. He stared at one person, and one person alone.

Rose. He lurked, but couldn’t help but stare at her. Every forty minutes—the transit through the sprawling Meeting of Tribes had taken a while, and the discussion looked to be a long one—he blinked for about five seconds.

And his questions multiplied.

He survived the fourth time long enough to see more. It was a small force. He counted barely two hundred Humans, not counting the strange Golem-vehicles. He supposed that was all Rose was ‘worth’.

They still ravaged the Steelfur tribe. The second time he’d gone down to—something. A shard of metal that hit him, propelled through the air.

It didn’t kill him, not the first shot. Nor the second. Nor the hundredth. He was metal, and a stronger metal than this.

Yet he was hit by hundreds, thousands of rounds in moments. Each Human had some kind of weapon that flashed and—

Lesser Steelfur warriors went down before they even closed. Their fur resisted the deadly projectiles barely at all. One, two, four at most, and they died.

Worse was that one…thing. One, or two; it did vary…giant boxes that destroyed everything they aimed at.

Worse than [Fireballs]. Somehow, it tore him apart. So he didn’t let it hit him.

The fourth time he managed to survive. Adetr had control of his tribe’s assets. Chieftain Iraz was there, as were [Shamans].

“Walls of earth! Barrier spells! Hide us under the earth!”

That seemed like the best way to survive. Adetr followed the Silverfang tribe as they concluded negotiations. The other Human and a Gnoll were talking with the huge [Paragon]—he didn’t care.

He had to know what this Human’s army was. The thirty eight minute cool-down was killing Adetr.

Six times.

They couldn’t hide under the ground! The Humans just punched through with those damn explosions! Adetr snarled as he raised his head. His skull rang and he fell back as Steelfur warriors cried out and dragged him back.

Something had lodged in his head. More of the bits of metal—the only reason he was surviving was that his body was tougher. They’d still cracked his skull. He snarled.

“Through the earth! They die if we touch them!”

The fortifications were failing—he saw his Chieftain go down as another round blasted through a wall. Adetr knew the Humans had to come in, though. He refused to let his tribe charge. Then he heard a sound and saw something streaking down through the air at—

—-

Something had blown up their entire tribe—or just the ones around Adetr. He could have sworn he saw something in the sky. The Gnoll snarled.

Night fell. Gnolls ate. Adetr did not. He ran around camp, to burn off the adrenaline running through his veins.

Thirty. Eight. Damn. Minutes.

—-

Eleven tries. Seven hours, almost. Adetr was worried Rose would go to sleep.

He finally found their weak spot.

—-

“Blind them! Blind them!”

The Humans were in disarray. Adetr stood, shielding himself and watching the battle turn at last.

The [Shamans]. That was the key.

In his desperation he had tried everything. Skills? Even Iraz’s Skills didn’t overturn whatever the Humans had, but the [Shaman]’s magic had stymied the Humans—until that thing in the skies came and hit them.

So Adetr had tried other spells. The Humans—these ones had no magical guard. They went blind, fell asleep, unable to block even Tier 1 spells.

If the [Shamans] lived long enough to cast the magic. Adetr watched as the blinded Humans in the metal vehicle fired ahead. Killing Gnolls—but the Steelfur Tribe was on them, trying to rip open the metal armor. The Humans on the ground held their fire—until they realized it was fire or die, then they fired, but fell as Gnolls closed.

Adetr was striding towards the first vehicle, which had been disabled, the long ‘nose’ a smoking ruin after one of the Gnolls bent it out of shape and it exploded. The Humans were blind; they couldn’t detect the [Invisible] Gnolls who had assailed their ranks.

Eleven times. Such a strange battle. It had gone from annihilation to victory—and Adetr wondered what they were. Why did they not tell stories about this army, if it was so powerful? What weapons were they, that spat metal?

Where was he? Why did the sky…

He stared up. Another object streaked down and the Steelfur Tribe vanished. He stared up.

“What is that thing in the skies?”

Then he died.

—-

Rose went to bed. Adetr was so furious he considered storming into the camp and making a pretext to keep her awake.

Reluctantly, he went to sleep, though he had to literally go to a [Shaman] to beg a sleeping draught. The Gnoll gave him a concerned look.

“Are you using your Skill, Adetr? The Chieftain worries—”

“I am fine. I’m leveling!”

Adetr snapped, snatching the medicine. He consumed the foul elixir, felt himself tire…

[Battle Seeker Level 27!]

[Skill – Foreign Lands Training (Landscape) obtained!]

His eyes snapped open. Adetr shot out of his bed with an oath.

“How?”

He shouted so loudly the sentries shot to attention and half the tribe woke up. Adetr told them all was well, but Chieftain Iraz himself fixed him with a sleepy glare. The Gnoll bowed his head. He didn’t quite know how to tell Chieftain Iraz he had leveled in his non-primary class overnight.

Four times.

—-

“Adetr. Garsine Wallbreaker complained of your Skill. The [Shamans] tell me you have been erratic. I am concerned. Is there something you need tell me?”

Chieftain Iraz was a strong Gnoll, a Chieftain who had turned his tribe into one worthy of standing with the best of them in one generation. It was his Skill which turned his entire tribe’s fur to metal.

He did not pry, but let Adetr and his people act as they would. Normally. Adetr was a protégé, and one of the best warriors, so his uncle was concerned. Adetr sat in a private meal in the Chieftain’s tent. His head was bowed. He did not touch his breakfast.

“Adetr.”

Iraz prompted after a few minutes had passed. Adetr finally looked up.

“Obsessed, Chieftain?”

His eyes—the flesh parts that remained—were bloodshot. Iraz wondered if his nephew had slept.

“Must I prohibit you from using your Skill? What are you fixated on?”

“I…cannot say, Chieftain. Not yet. I do not know. Give me leave to find out.”

“Will this cause trouble with other tribes?”

“Possibly.”

Adetr admitted. Iraz frowned.

“Why does it consume you so, Adetr?”

The Gnoll warrior took a long time in replying. At last, he looked at the Steelfur Chieftain.

“If I cause trouble, if I am obsessed, Chieftain. Let me. Let me do what I must. I leveled four times last night. As a [Battle Seeker]. I have a new Skill.”

Iraz slipped in pouring himself tea. He splashed tea all over his fur and stared at his nephew.

“Four times? How many Skills?”

Adetr’s eyes glinted.

“One. A good one. Chieftain. I climbed Mount Sernis this morning.”

The Chieftain went silent. Mount Sernis was well-known to him. It was a mountain where the Steelfur tribe was founded…eight hundred miles from here. Steelfur warriors honed their bodies and climbing skills there.

“I see. Can you take me there?”

Adetr shook his head.

“Not yet, Chieftain. May I go?”

Iraz stared at Adetr. The Gnoll was trembling.

“Go.”

—-

He was not actually there. But he could visit his home—and train. Even fight monsters and learn how to take advantage of the geography.

Adetr’s blood boiled. There were no people in his Skill. Not yet. He felt like the Skill was…incomplete.

Landscape. Did that mean if he grew more, if his other Skills combined, he could walk another nation, fight their people, all in his head? He had thought it was a class that might weaken him. Iraz felt so, sometimes. Now?

Adetr sought out Rose. His obsession made manifest.

The fifteenth time he won everything.

—-

Thirteen.

It was simple. Steelfur died en-masse. There was something in the skies. There were…things that shot across the air and destroyed everything in vast sections. The Humans even had a whirling thing that appeared twice out of the fifteen times and raked the Gnolls from above with some kind of weapon even more destructive than on the ground.

What was worse was that Adetr was sure, sure, by now that this was a skirmish. If you used his Skill on weaker members of a city or tribe, you got less of them. A [Chieftain] or leader? All their might.

Rose gave him a fraction of whatever army this was. Some kind of…patrol? Imagine tens of thousands of Humans like this.

They had no magic. That was how they died.

[Invisible], [Muffled]. Artifacts borrowed from his tribe’s armory. [Mage]’s artifacts. Adetr didn’t need to use them to ‘bring’ them into the simulation.

They weren’t idiots, these Humans. They knew he was there, but they let him study them. He let them win, and watched the rolling machines, listened, saw how their weapons worked.

Some kind of bow or crossbow. Not magic. It smells. Adetr stared at a Human, noting the odd helmet. Why not a face-guard? Why…cloth?

They knew he was here. They had some tools that were trying to pick him up. However, he had their weaknesses.

You can’t stop spells. You can’t detect magic. Adetr bared his teeth. He swung his axe, watched the Human’s head vanish. The other ones in the squad jerked, lifted their weapons, aimed at him. They fired. Adetr lifted the object in his other hand. He heard a tremendous sound of ringing, that tore at his ears. Yet when he lowered the shield, he saw they were dead. He checked the metal, and it was unblemished. The projectile had bounced.

“You can’t break artifacts.”

He laughed. Then saw the giant metal turret turn. Adetr dove, shield raised—

—-

His body couldn’t survive the impact, but he was almost positive the shield had survived—just lodged halfway through his spine.

Still, it was proof he needed to take lessons from Az’muzarre. Adetr tore through the Steelfur’s armory. The Steelfur warriors watched him with significant concern as he ‘went for a walk’ wearing armor, enchanted metal, the highest-grade he could find. Adetr was famous for relying only on his body’s toughness.

—-

Fourteen.

Adetr threw up. His body was ringing.

“Damn…armor…”

It didn’t break, but his body still rang with each impact. The giant vehicles tossed him around. He was almost there, though. Blind them. Something would come from the skies, but it detonated on a mage-barrier. If they used clouds to hide their location—they won! He could now save sixty-percent of the Steelfur—

—-

Adetr woke up. Something had hit him in the eye, past the visor of his helmet. A Human [Marksman]? He shook his head.

“One more time. Thirty eight minutes.”

He stared at the Human, determined to win.

—-

Rose felt like someone had been staring at her all day and yesterday. She eventually went up to Beilmark and whispered in her ear.

“Beilmark, who’s that Gnoll in armor who just stormed off?”

Beilmark had seen him too, especially after he’d begun showing up in armor. She frowned.

“Adetr Steelfur. A great Gnollish warrior, so I’m told. Young. Why?”

“Did…did you think he was staring at me?”

Beilmark hesitated.

“Perhaps, but I cannot imagine why. Did you offend him?”

“What? Me? No, I haven’t even spoken to him!”

“Hrm. That is odd.”

—-

Fifteen.

Adetr stood on the battlefield, howling victory. Less than a hundred Steelfur Gnolls lay dead. The Humans?

There was a way to beat their strange weapons. Blind them, paralyze. Adetr had survived a round from that—thing that spat metal, then torn it open. Ambush them! Defeat them!

Even whatever was in the skies had gone down to a [Shaman]’s hex. It hit the earth and exploded. He roared his triumph, and raced across the ground, leaving the Steelfur tribe to celebrate. The clone of Iraz lifted a paw in victory.

Adetr was racing towards the downed craft—what remained of it. He wanted to know how those vehicles worked. They didn’t look like Golem-devices, or even magical craft! The [Shaman] with no real face had shook her head when he demanded to know if it was magic.

Still, Adetr laughed. Victory! Victory! He wondered if he’d level. He knew this was a battle in a box, but if he went up against this army just so, his tribe would win.

Adetr slowed…even in the simulation and looked back. All of Steelfur. The entire tribe. His battle-rage, his frustration left him suddenly. He felt…a chill.

All of Steelfur beat this force of two hundred Humans after fifteen tries in which we all died. True, once they found out the weaknesses, they won with a strange reversal of strengths, but…

Chieftain Iraz has to know. But what is this army? Where is this?

Adetr didn’t know. He looked about. The sky was wrong. The…mountains…were wrong. Even the ground looked different. It smelled so strange. He looked up.

“Even the sky. They were different stars. One moon? Where am I?”

Then…he blinked. He thought he saw something.

Wait a second. High, up there. So far only his keen eyes could even make out something. A flicker past the clouds. Was there a second craft?

Of course! If he hadn’t ended the Skill—Adetr pointed up.

“[Shamans]! Barriers!”

They broke off celebration, cast as Adetr looked up. He saw something drop out of the skies. Adetr braced, grimly raising his shield as he knew he would not reach his tribe before it fell. Which was it this time? The rain of explosions? The curving thing?

It was just one object. It dropped down, a bit off-target of his tribe. Adetr saw it break. He saw a flash and saw—

[Greatest Battle]. Adetr died. But he saw enough when he died. When he opened his eyes in the real world?

He was no longer smiling.

—-

Rose watched as the Gnoll jerked. He had stared at her, seemed to whisper something and…

“You’re right. He is staring at you.”

Beilmark sipped from her cup. They both watched as Adetr looked around. He had been smiling—then it drained away.

“Do you think he likes me?”

Rose tossed her hair in a show. Beilmark chortled.

“That would be funny. Almost as funny as that Gnoll—Gireulashia—learning the truth, eh? One problem at a time.”

“Mhm. Where’re Inkar and Tkrn?”

“Talking with her.”

Rose was a bit envious. Ekhtouch’s outrage over being accused as [Thieves] aside, and the ramifications of their tribe knowing, Gire was full of questions and in awe of Inkar. That was nice. Maybe—

She saw Adetr stride forwards, snarling, and blinked. Beilmark sat up a bit.

“Hold on. That’s diff—”

“You!”

Adetr roared. Silverfangs turned, and the Steelfur Gnolls who had been told to watch over him. They dropped what they were doing and bounded forwards.

“Uh—”

Rose froze. The Gnoll’s face was twisted in sudden fury. He stormed towards their camp.

“What is it? Where are you from? What weapon—”

“Adetr! Stop!”

Steelfur Gnolls grabbed his arms and shoulders, trying to slow him. He pulled eight behind him in his fury. Beilmark put out an arm.

“Rose, back in the camp. Rose?”

The young Human woman was frozen. Adetr roared.

“Everything was gone! What was it? Who are you? What weapon destroys mountain and land like that?”

“Weapon?”

He stormed towards her, picking up speed. Adetr reached for Rose, to tear the secrets out of her. If that army came here—he had seen it, before whatever it was reached him. It could destroy the Meeting of Tribes. It would change the landscape. Had they more? It was a skirmish. It could destroy the High Passes.

“Tell me.”

“I—I—”

Rose was trying to back up, but she was terrified by the Gnoll’s sudden, battle-raging fury. Adetr had lost himself, blending the Skill and reality. He lunged.

—-

Chieftain Iraz ran out of his tribe, to stop his nephew before an incident occurred. He did not know what Adetr had seen, but his warriors had come howling Adetr had lost his mind.

He skidded to a stop, having raced through lines of bewildered Gnolls. Five minutes too late, no matter how fast he’d run. He saw a commotion, pushed his way, breathless, through Gnolls gathered around…

Rose. She lay on the ground, face white. Pale. Unmoving.

…Not dead. She had fallen on her butt in terror. In front of her, paw still outstretched, lay Adetr. He had fallen while reaching for her. His face was a rictus of fury, but he was pinned by countless Gnolls.

But someone had knocked him down. How? Iraz panted.

“Who stopped Adetr?”

A Gnoll moved. He turned and saw Senior Guardswoman Beilmark. She flexed her paw and shook it out. There were great wars, and Skills, and battles you could dream of. Reality?

Adetr had never been arrested by the Watch.

“[Immobilizing Touch].”

She explained.

—-

Chieftain Iraz sat with Chieftain Akrisa, Eska, Orelighn, and the Chieftain of the Ekhtouch Tribe, Chieftain Firrelle.

Steelfur, Longstalker’s Fang, Silverfang, Ekhtouch…and Greenpaw.

Greenpaw definitely didn’t fit. You could sort of make the connection with the other tribes, given some variance in fortunes, specialties, and their great Gnolls, but not Greenpaw.

Yet here they were. Adetr was not present, but Gireulashia was. Iraz would have liked his nephew here as instigator of this mess, but Adetr was so worked up, Iraz had told his Steelfur warriors to sit on him until he calmed down, or pin him under a boulder or something.

At last, Iraz broke the silence.

“I must apologize again for Adetr’s behavior. It is…rude for him to use his Skill like he does. He is young, and it does not bother most if they even notice it. I am ashamed.”

“Young Gnolls do what they do out of youth, rudeness or not.”

Firrelle offered. She glanced at Gire, and the huge [Paragon] hung her head; she was so tall she threatened to touch the tip of Akrisa’s tent with her head.

“Nevertheless, it seems that while two tribes have given offense, both incidents were because of our Humans. Perhaps we have been careless. Do not apologize overmuch, Chieftain Iraz. You cannot control every Gnoll perfectly.”

Chieftain Akrisa lifted a paw, and Iraz was grateful. He nodded to her; they said Silverfang’s Chieftain had a silver tongue to match, and she had not been found wanting.

“I ah—don’t hold any ill will against the Steelfur tribe. Or Ekhtouch. But if the secrets are out…”

Chieftain Orelighn didn’t have Akrisa’s reserve or gift of gab. He was nervous at having two powerful tribes here. Technically they had offended the others, but offense could turn to retribution if not handled right.

Iraz was not that kind of Chieftain, but he bowed slightly to Orelighn.

“It is our mistake. Adetr’s mistake. He will be punished, but it seems we have…”

He trailed off. How did you even say it? We have stumbled upon a secret that may change this world forever?

We have learned of weapons Adetr claims could wipe my entire tribe out in a moment if used?

We have seen artifacts that run on no magic, that come from a land only Humans inhabit by the billions?

He had been told, of course, as had Firrelle. They had to be. Adetr had seen too much through his Skill. Gire? She was too intelligent. Inkar had let her touch the iPhone by mistake.

Gire had opened up the specifications, and been about to start inquiring about the Apple company, and locations listed in the details with the nearest Mage’s Guild before Tkrn tackled her and she helped pick him up and dust him off.

Firrelle looked disturbed, but she was trying to appear unfazed. Iraz hoped he was half as stoic.

“…learned of something that might influence your great gift to the Meeting of Tribes. That is no small matter.”

He finished, choosing the most understated way of saying it. The other Chieftains nodded. Firrelle sighed.

“Knowledge is power. So [Mages] claim. This? I would agree with. It is hard to believe.”

“It will change everything. Firrelle, Firrelle. They said you could make things move with harnessed electricity. If that is so, you could make a horse out of metal and wood! You could do what great enchantments do without needing levels!”

Gire piped up. She fell silent as her Chieftain looked at her warningly, but she saw what might be.

Iraz only knew what Adetr had insisted on telling him. Weapons that spat metal a hundred times faster than arrows. Great armored war-vehicles that could kill even Adetr in a single strike.

“It is not here yet. These are travellers from Earth, Chieftains. They are our gift. Soon, all the Chieftains will know this secret. We will decide as one people what will happen. But…it must be the right decision. That you know is concerning. I had hoped to have an accord before then.”

“On what will be done?”

“About the other world. About the children who appear across this world. Unity, Chieftain Iraz. Longstalker’s Fang, who has adopted Inkar, Silverfang, who knows of more such children, and Greenpaw, who have relics of their land, all stand together. We will gather them, protect them, and learn. Prepare, perhaps, to make ties with a world apart.”

Chieftain Akrisa looked at him. Iraz shifted. Firrelle glanced at him, and he kept his thoughts inside.

What if this world fights like Adetr saw? He fought two hundred to our tribe’s death fifteen times. He never won; he only saw them destroy him a different way at the end.

“I like them. If Ekhtouch does nothing, we refuse to act on a matter that will invariably force itself. Therefore, we should act or oppose and since they have done nothing wrong, Firrelle…”

“Gireulashia! Be silent!”

The [Paragon] sat up, flushing, as Ekhtouch’s Chieftain scolded her, scandalized. She almost shrank and the elegant speech broke off. She was a child then—until her spine stopped bending.

“I am Honored Gireulashia. Ekhtouch’s [Paragon]. I say it so, Chieftain, and this is my word.”

“You are still young. I said be silent while I think!”

The room fell silent as the two engaged in a battle of wills. Firrelle seemed surprised at Gire’s adamancy. Gire’s eyes slowly narrowed. The two traded looks—then, of all things, Gire reached out and poked her Chieftain in the side. The Ekhtouch Chieftain recoiled and swatted at her, but Gire poked her again, and again, her paw darting quickly.

The others in the tent stared at the odd display. Firrelle moved faster, trying to block Gire with both paws now, but she was too slow. Gire began poking her harder, until she was practically shoving Firrelle off the cushion, never changing her narrow-eyed expression.

Rose nearly snickered, but fell silent. Firrelle eventually snapped.

“Alright! Alright! Stop poking me! If that is the wisdom of the greatest of Ekhtouch, so be it!”

She turned to the others.

“My…Honored Gireulashia, who has the wisdom of her blood and nature in her, declares your tribe and mission worthwhile. Ekhtouch stands with you. We must learn more—”

Another poke. Firrelle twitched, and went on.

“But we will join our influence to yours.”

Iraz stared. He knew Gire was fifteen. Firrelle listened to her?

Then again—she was Ekhtouch, and Gire was the ‘greatest’ of them. It was an astounding display of another tribe’s politics and decision-making.

He…wished he hadn’t seen that. But then all eyes turned to him.

“And you, Chieftain Iraz?”

He hesitated.

“I will keep what I have learned secret, Chieftains. I cannot promise Steelfur will join your tribes. But I swear I will keep…”

He hesitated. The Gnoll wanted to talk to other Chieftains he respected this instant, after questioning Adetr. Akrisa saved him.

“They will know soon enough, Chieftain Iraz. Perhaps—consider this a gift in advance. We will consider no harm done, if Steelfur will agree to present this issue first among the Meeting of Tribes, along with the issue of Raskghar and perhaps one other.”

She locked eyes with Krshia. Iraz thought about that.

“That is…exceptionally kind, Chieftain Akrisa. I accept.”

It was. Steelfur had the power to press to ‘hear’ one of the myriad issues before all the tribes first, and if he threw his power behind Ekhtouch and the others, they had a chance of beating even Plain’s Eye. Given what he had learned, he agreed wholeheartedly. If they wanted to tack on a personal Silverfang matter—it was a cheap concession.

“I will keep the news private as I may, and I would like to speak to…Rose, and Inkar.”

“Of course. Will you take tea and discuss it? There is much to say.”

They were eager to make allies of him. Iraz hesitated, but demurred.

“I shall return tonight. First—I must calm down Adetr. Chieftain Akrisa, Eska, I have one last request.”

They gazed at him. Iraz would learn, talk to others, and decide what was best. But first…he looked at Rose.

“If I can ensure he is calm, would you consent to talk to Adetr? I could have all of my best [Warriors] ensuring he is restrained. Whatever works.”

“Me? He wants to talk to me?”

“Yes, I think. It would…calm him. I know I ask for much, Chieftains.”

Akrisa exchanged a glance with Eska and her sister.

“It is up to Rose.”

“I—if he doesn’t charge me, I guess? W-why? I didn’t do anything, he just saw…what he saw.”

Rose was still unclear on that. Iraz nodded.

“I am sure he has many questions, Miss Rose. I only ask that you talk to him, that you might reassure him.”

“About what…?”

“Your world. He saw war, Miss Rose. Greatest war. That is the flaw of his Skill, and his fault, of course, but still.”

Iraz turned.

“…I have never seen him that terrified.”

He walked off, as the secret of Earth spread. Iraz went to find Adetr. Then—as soon as he could, he would talk to Chieftain Xherw of the Plain’s Eye tribe. He was not sure he had the wisdom to know what should happen next.

8.31

(Side story chapter AND edited chapter are delayed due to…Windows Update. See Author’s Note for details. Blame Microsoft.)

Across Izril, people and things were moving at high speeds.

At high relative velocity—like Ryoka expelling the contents of her guts onto the floor as the curse on her added a new layer of excitement to her life.

With great distances covered each day, as with the doughty band of Goblins, Antinium, Humans…Gnoll…Vampire…and Drake who marched down the road, on the lookout for attacks from Hectval or monsters or anyone, really.

Antinium, jogging along seemingly without the need to rest, behind riding Goblins, or next to the one wagon loaded with ammunition, supplies, and so on.

Octavia rode on that, feeling marginally less useful than the potions and ingredients she’d loaded up. She watched as Garia, Fals, and Fierre jogged together, the dark umbrella over Fierre’s head bobbing. At Sergeant Gna, muttering to herself and staring at all the others.

The Goblins, arguing in their tongue. The Antinium, without sound following Bird, who was singing a Bird-song…

Numbtongue, who rode at the fore of the group, aside from Snapjaw and Icecube scouting from overhead, and Xeu, somewhere unseen, also prowling for enemies…or maybe eliminating them without telling anyone.

The Goblin was emblematic of the party, by and large. He was silent. Grim. The others might be a bit more talkative, but they were committed.

“We’re going across Izril. In search of Mrsha. We might run into armies or…we don’t know who took her.”

Octavia’s voice as she murmured to herself made the group look back. Badarrow’s head swung around; it was Ulvama who turned. The [Shaman] barked at Octavia.

“Gnolls.”

As if that said everything that needed to be said, she turned and kept riding along, doing surprisingly well on her horse compared to almost all the other riders. She had actual experience, unlike some who thought you could just jump on a horse’s back and have it carry you off into the wild blue yonder.

“Yes, but…now I’m thinking of it, it’s huge. We might be going all the way to Zeres. We might be fighting…”

Octavia trailed off as someone looked back at her. This time it was Numbtongue. The [Bard] grunted.

“Second thoughts? Go back. You might die.”

Octavia met his gaze.

“I know. It’s not that, Numbtongue.”

He eyed her, grunted, but Octavia was one of his few friends. So the [Bard] slowed a bit.

“What, then?”

“This. It’s…a great journey, Numbtongue. A…you know.”

Octavia looked around. Didn’t the others see it? Gna just stared blankly at the Stitch-Girl. Salkis, the strange Drake, might have understood, but just grinned to herself, eyeing everyone.

Garia’s head turned. Fierre glanced up as Octavia elaborated for the blank Goblins and Antinium, who had politely turned to stare as they marched.

“A quest. An adventure.”

The Vampire’s head rose. She looked back at Octavia. Numbtongue was giving her a blank look, but Fierre smiled, a pointed grin. She hadn’t wanted to say it either, but Garia looked at her and Fals and the City Runner gave them a small smile.

A concerned one, but the Humans and Vampire felt it.

The Goblins? They glanced at each other and chuckled. One of the Cave Goblins poked the Redfang. Adventure? They all snorted. Sounded like a good way to die.

The Antinium glanced at Bird for confirmation that they had inadvertently embarked on an adventure. Pivr wondered to himself if the Flying Queen would approve. Then again, if Ksmvr could do it, so could he. Bird tilted his head.

“I did not order us on an adventure, Miss Octavia. I demand we unadventure at once. We are on a rescue mission. I am in charge here!”

He waved one fist. Octavia looked at him.

“No, Bird. An adventure just happens. It’s not something we have to do.”

“…Oh. In that case, your adventure is approved. Do we get anything out of it? Will we have to kill a Dragon? I’m told it is difficult.”

Bird had some passing understanding of adventures, but Gna just growled.

“Great. I’m going to be an [Adventurer]. I hope I get to Silver-rank at least.” The Bronze-rank adventurer, Numbtongue, just gave Octavia a steady look.

“This is not a game.”

He was reproachful, and it was not necessarily easy to meet a Goblin’s crimson-eyed glare, especially as angry as Numbtongue was. Yet Octavia did it, and somehow—he blinked. Because the [Alchemist] was smiling.

“I know that, Numbtongue. I do. But look how many people came together for Mrsha. Even with Lyonette gone. That terrible [Witch]…but we still did it. We’ll get her back.”

“Even if we all die.”

Bird chipped in unhelpfully. Octavia hesitated, but then nodded.

“We all came for that. All of us. Like…like if Erin were here. We’d be doing just this, wouldn’t we?”

The band slowed. Ulvama nearly ran over Bird, and Salkis blinked. Fierre didn’t know Erin that well, but…she saw the others look at each other. As if Erin…

Badarrow smiled. Numbtongue did not, but he stopped a moment, and then nodded.

“Maybe.”

Then they kept moving.

It was just a short observation. Yet Numbtongue kept looking at Octavia. Somehow, her words had inspired something in the others. He was a [Bard]…but she was teaching him something. He kept thinking of it.

When you put it like that—an adventure. A quest, in Erin’s name. Perhaps there was some romance in it, despite the dire hour. Because of the need.

“To find the missing child and bring her home, across Izril we go. To the walls of the City of Waves or the High Passes, we fear no foe.”

He tried out a few words. Something in him wanted to have the same…basis as the kind of tales you read in story books. How did it go? Find a missing sword, slay the Dragon…finding a little Gnoll girl was close, wasn’t it?

“Goblins, Antinium, Humans? What a strange band to be seen in southern Izril. Unprecedented. We’ll probably shock the tails off everyone we meet.”

Salkis added happily, riding up to the other side. And we’ll have to fight our way through them, hopefully.

“A first for Izril.”

Bird tilted his head. Of course, only he’d heard that last bit. He glanced towards his belt where a little carrying bag hung next to his bag of holding. He nodded to himself.

“An adventure. I would like any magical bows we find. Mine keep breaking.”

Backs a bit straighter, the group journeyed on. Past the Bloodfields. Towards…well. Octavia sat back, pleased with herself as she reframed their journey for her own sake and theirs. After a moment, she decided to push her luck.

“All this to say, if we are going to be on the road for a while, and I bet we are, and if this is a grand story and whatnot…shouldn’t we have some music? Some songs to march with, at least! Or—you know, ambiance?”

All she heard were the sounds of horses moving, the jingle of packs, and the sound of distant insects buzzing.

Apista would have been hurt as she buzzed along, but she couldn’t read minds.

Octavia frowned. Hardly the inspiring soundtrack like on that movie Mrsha had watched with her.

That was a good point. The group’s heads slowly turned. Some music would pass the time. They all looked side-long at Numbtongue. The [Bard] stared ahead, until he realized who Octavia meant.

He hesitated. His hand nearly went for his guitar. Then he scowled.

“No. This is serious.”

“Come on, Numbtongue. You always play the guitar!”

“No. Silence. Who sneaks up on enemies playing music?”

“…[Stealth Bards]?”

Sergeant Gna mused out loud, then turned red when everyone stared at her. A Cave Goblin started laughing. Numbtongue folded his arms. Garia called out.

“Come on, Numbtongue! Just one song? You don’t have to sing!”

“No.”

“You might level up! You’re a [Bard]! Play that one from the inn—”

“No.”

Salkis blinked. She pointed at Numbtongue, disbelieving as she turned to Garia.

“Wait. This Goblin’s a [Bard]? I thought he was a [Swordsman] or something.”

“Nope. [Bard]. Wait…how do you know Numbtongue? What’s your class?”

“Um…[Aristocrat]. With a bit of combat classes. [Warrior], you know.”

“I shall sing if Numbtongue is incapable of singing. I know over a hundred bird-songs, all of which I have written!”

Bird announced. He spread his arms wide and began to sing. Ulvama grunted and pointed. Bird kept singing, then stopped as he realized someone had just cast a silence spell on him. They proceeded on, spirits rising as they ate up ground.

Niers Astoragon didn’t have many landmarks, but he calculated they might have a shot at reaching Pallass without the magic door in eight days or nine at the most. Fifty miles with his Skill a day was possible even with civilians, and everyone here was moving far faster. He smiled.

Adventure. The [Alchemist] was speaking his language. Duty mattered, his home and company mattered. Yet this? This was what he’d come for.

—-

Speed. The fastest-moving piece of luggage in all of Izril realized that she was being carried at a speed even a Courier might be impressed by. Even so—Wanderer seemed to grow tired after the first day of flight from Liscor.

He put her down shortly after midday. Mrsha glanced up; she’d been carried under one arm, then held like little Gnolls in two arms. Then he’d made her piggyback…all of which she’d done without much objection.

She had been still, almost motionless, a good piece of luggage after Wanderer’s revelation about the nature of her fur. Yet it seemed like the white-furred Gnoll with the traveling staff and cloak had a problem. He put Mrsha down, stretched his arms, sighed, swore a few times, and then pointed at her.

“You’re going to have to run with me. You’re too heavy to carry. We’ll get a pony for you, but I can’t carry you another day.”

Mrsha looked up at Wanderer and folded her arms. Her blank-eyed look of sad guilt turned into an expression vaguely reminiscent of her mother’s look.

See here a minute! She wagged a finger at the Gnoll. You can’t just carry me off, tell me I’m Doom and then tell me I have to do all the running to wherever we’re going to! Am I a [Damsel] or not?

Wanderer looked blankly at the indignant little Gnoll’s face and her flashing paws.

“I can’t understand whatever you’re saying. Bite my fur…Coinpurse owes me a hundred drinks. Listen…Mrsha. We’re going to have to change your name too.”

He squatted down. The Gnoll fixed Mrsha with a serious look, his brown eyes intent on her. Mrsha slowed. She didn’t know his name, his class, or where they were going. She was going willingly—or not trying to bite him—but she was still closer to a hostage than companion.

Yet she had to know. If she had gotten Erin…Mrsha swallowed as Wanderer looked at her.

“I know you don’t trust us yet. So why don’t I tell you more, hm? I’m sorry; I’m trying to put as much distance between us and Liscor as possible. Plain’s Eye will try again, and we had better be out of their search radius. Give me…thirty minutes to stretch and we’ll see if you can keep up. If not, I’ll carry you. I’ve carried Gnolls before, day and night, but I’d rather not if I can help it. You’re a bit too heavy compared to a cub.”

Mrsha stared down at herself. Heavy? She was a little Gnoll! Well…she had grown a bit, but she wasn’t fat, no matter what Lyonette thought!

That was true; Mrsha was a healthy, growing Gnoll girl. So, a lot more than a Human girl her age. When she shot up to her full height, she might outweigh Lyonette by over a hundred pounds and be far taller; Krshia made even Ryoka seem fragile.

Wanderer sat cross-legged with a sigh. He unslung his ‘pack’, which was really his bag of holding. It was light as could be, Mrsha being the real weight. He fished around inside, and pulled out a cube of meat.

As in, a square of meat, perfectly geometrical. Mrsha eyed it as he stacked two—eyed her, and pulled out three. He offered her one and bit into the first.

“Here. Travel rations.”

Travel what? Who ate geometry? What is this? Mrsha went to slap the cube out of his paw. Patiently, Wanderer jerked it out of the way and offered it again.

“Eat. I’m sorry if you think it’s bad, but taste it first. It’s traditional travel rations. From Salazsar. Which is where we’re going. Drakes and their systems. They stack it up like this so it fits best in bags of holding. It’s meat and grain and…it keeps almost forever in bags of holding. Dry, though. Let me grab some tea.”

He fished in his bag of holding for a canteen, a bit annoyed. He was used to Gnolls fleeing imminent death, not picky little Gnolls who were used to pizza and decadence. Mrsha though, had gone still.

Salazsar? What’s this now? Wanderer shrugged as he met her startled gaze.

“I told you I’d explain. I was in a hurry yesterday and I don’t talk when I’m moving at that speed. Ever swallowed a bug while going that fast? It’s…no. Salazsar’s our destination. In case I forget—if we get separated, go there. Ask for…hm. Ask for Shadepaw at a bar and you’ll meet with Shadows. That’s one of her aliases. Go on, eat. Do you not eat scurry food? Please, tell me you do.”

Mrsha sat and poked at the cube. She broke off a piece and found it was dense, and not actually bad when she nibbled at it. Not great; it could use some seasoning. Some kind of base food. Slap it on a pizza, actually, add some cheese—maybe a bun and lettuce and other plants for the taste? Actually, just give her a hamburger.

Since there was no burger, she ate. She was a Plains Gnoll! True, she had come to the inn, but Mrsha was still a rugged traveller of the Stone Spears tribe, who had lived in the wilds. She hesitated, then fished for her writing equipment. Wanderer stared at the little note.

“…No, I don’t have a plate.”

Lyonette had rubbed off on Mrsha more than the Gnoll knew. Mrsha ate huffily, and Wanderer scarfed the first cube down, and poured some dark liquid into two wooden cups. He handed Mrsha one. It was old tea, long-steeped in tea-leaves, but still not too bitter. Refreshing, really.

“It’s got natural stamina effects. Eat up. Want another cube?”

Mrsha shook her head. Wanderer sighed. He sat cross-legged, massaging his aching shoulders. He felt at his side, winced.

“That damn [Witch] got me with needles. I haven’t been in a fight that bad since…hm. Two other times, really. Hey, do you see a needle in me?”

He pointed. Mrsha stared obediently. Then she frowned. She poked—Wanderer swore.

“One second.”

He slowly felt around, and grasped multiple times with his paws before his claws pulled out a tiny, wooden…Mrsha winced and looked away. Wanderer tossed it on the ground.

“That. Hurt.”

Mrsha was reminded that this Gnoll had bled for her, nearly died to protect her. He was due some consideration for that, so she listened as he went back to eating, no longer plagued by that stinging in his side.

“Alright. I’m Wanderer. You’re Mrsha. I suppose now’s the time to start from the beginning. We’re both white Gnolls.”

He gestured to his fur as he rummaged in his bag of holding. Mrsha nodded.

“Good observation, genius.”

Wanderer frowned at her note card.

“You’re not what I expected. When we heard of you—our group, that is, all Gnolls with white fur—we thought you’d be wanting to go with us. That inn…seemed nicer than I could have believed, especially in a city with Gnolls.”

Mrsha nodded. Wanderer sighed as she held up a card indicating how mean he was. With a little frowny-face for emphasis. She’d learned that from Erin.

“We were still right. Plain’s Eye was on you and believe me—they’d have launched a sneak-attack if they hadn’t been caught up in that [Witch]’s attack. The first thing they do is…just walk into a room and stab you. Into your shop, into a bar and you’re dead. If that fails? They’d wait until you took a walk, until you had lowered your guard. A thousand paces out, a Gnoll with a bow looses one arrow. That’s how it happens.”

Mrsha felt a chill. It was too much like how Erin had died to be flippant about. Wanderer grimaced, seeing her sober face.

“Argh. I’m not good with children. I’m sorry. I’m just rescue. Coinpurse is going to have my hide.”

He kept using those names. Coinpurse, Shadows, and Spellcaster. Wanderer explained.

“We’re leadership of the Gnolls in Salazsar. They’re aliases. Do you know what that word means…? Okay, stop writing, I can see you do. That’s how you’ll know us. We have names of course, but they’re not our real ones. You can scry real names. For instance, mine? Wer.”

Wer, or Wanderer, indicated his chest.

“It’s the name I use and I’ve gone by for nearly seven years now. You can call me that.” Mrsha stared at the Gnoll. Wanderer was better. He shrugged.

“Fine then. Just remember. There are four of us. Well…four of what you’d call ‘leaders’. There are nearly three dozen of us in total.”

Mrsha began choking on her bite of cube. Three dozen? White Gnolls? She stared at Wanderer. He grinned.

“The biggest gathering of white Gnolls in all of Izril. Perhaps all of us aside from a few who go their own way. What, did you think you were unique? I’m afraid we’re a bit more common than you know. But we die if Plains or even City Gnolls find us, usually. Some of us are survivors; a few were in groups. Last Gnolls of a dead tribe. A few are children who were born by the survivors—they count even though their fur isn’t white.”

Mrsha listened, taking it in. Salazsar. She had wondered where they were going, and worried because she had to tell Lyonette she was alright. She needed to know whatever Wanderer knew about her powers, but…Salazsar made things more interesting.

She knew a certain Drake, a Wall Lord in that city. He might be…helpful.

Wanderer didn’t notice how acquiescent Mrsha had suddenly become. He went on, rubbing at his head.

“Some of the Gnolls are low-leveled. Almost all are [Survivors], like you, but we four are the best. We all have a different role.”

He gestured at his chest.

“They call me Wanderer because I travelled across the world before I found more of my kind. Shadows fell into the underworld of gangs—she still is. There’s also Coinpurse, who began it all by organizing us; he funds our rescues and makes sure we all have enough money. Hrr. You might go with him; you need someone to watch after you. Or Spellcaster. He’s not good with children either, but he knows magic. Real magic, not [Shaman] spells.”

So they knew that Gnolls could be [Mages]? Mrsha wrote furiously and Wanderer nodded. He looked a bit disappointed.

“So you figured that out too? It’s just one of the things Plains Gnolls refuse to understand. Like us. They call us Doombringers, but that’s not all of our power. Take it, use it—that’s the power our tribes left us. Fate, that’s how Spellcaster talks about it. We’re fated.”

Mrsha looked down at herself. Fate? It made sense; she thought of the Raskghar, the monster attacks, all the things, important, good and bad that had happened around her. But that meant…she wrote with a trembling paw.

“But do I hurt other people by being? How does it work?”

“I’ll show you. Later. For now—it’s been thirty minutes. We have to keep moving.”

Wer got to his feet. He gestured, and Mrsha stood up reluctantly. They tossed the cups back into the bag of holding and left almost no trace they had been there.

The two stood on a craggy hill, which Wanderer had been climbing most of the day. The ‘rolling greens’ that Mrsha envisioned of the Great Plains and the rest of Izril from her tribe’s stories bore little truth here. Wanderer was hurrying along the foothills of the High Passes; rough terrain.

He could still move, though, with astonishing speed, yet it seemed Mrsha was slowing him down. The Gnoll pursed his lips and looked at her.

“I have movement Skills, but they’d work on both of us as well as one. If you could run on your own paws, that would help me and let you move about rather than be carried.”

Mrsha nodded dubiously. She had been feeling a bit too much like a sack. She began to pad forwards on all fours. Wanderer stopped her.

“Not like that. We’ll never get anywhere if you just scamper about. Not through your shifting years, eh? Well, either way, you’ll need to move faster than that.”

That was it. Mrsha’s eyes narrowed. She’d had it up to chin-height with this mean Gnoll, who didn’t give her plates and utensils, stole her from her inn, and now disparaged her weight and speed! Without a word she leapt forwards and began racing down the hill.

She expected Wanderer to chase her or call after, but the Gnoll made no sound. Mrsha ran down the hill as fast as she could, stumbling a bit, slowing and dodging the huge rocks that jutted out from the loam. She wondered if this was some kind of geographical feature; stone stuck in hills. Maybe, as a [Druid], she could use her powers better here—

Mrsha passed by Wanderer as he leaned against a boulder and nearly face-planted as the ground leveled out. She turned to stare at him. He wasn’t breathing hard, nor had she seen him pass her!

“No, keep going. Show me how fast you are.”

The Gnoll looked amused. He gestured up the hill. Mrsha hesitated. Even Numbtongue wasn’t able to catch her at full run!

She began running up the hill, glancing back at Wanderer. He stayed there, watching her. It was slower-going uphill, slower by far. Mrsha labored, and as she was racing to the top of the hill, panting, she saw Wanderer move.

He took three steps and jumped. Mrsha’s jaw dropped. She saw him bound up the slope, jumping from rock to rock and land in front of her. It had taken him…six seconds. Mrsha nearly a minute and a half. Panting, she gazed up at him.

He winked.

“Would you like to learn how to run properly?”

—-

A few minutes later, Wanderer stood on a bare patch of grass and gave Mrsha her first lesson. She was still breathing hard, but he was going to show her…something.

“We all have something to teach you. I? I am the [Farthest Traveller]. And…a [Guardian]. There are things I can teach you. This is the key to travelling fast—well, one key.”

So saying, the Gnoll walked forwards. He did a little pose, like he was beginning to squat. It looked stupid, as he swung his arms back and forth, looking at Mrsha.

“Stand. Like this—and then just hop and curl up. You swing your arms like this. Hm. The rest is knowing not to be scared or if something is off. Try it.”

She gave him a look of moribund enthusiasm; this was not the mood for learning…what? A day, or even two, was not enough to wash away the gloom of Belavierr and leaving her home! Didn’t he know that? What was this, anyways?

“I am going to share a Skill with you, but it doesn’t work unless you know how to use it. You might even pick it up yourself if you work hard. Listen—copy me. You can do it on all fours, but it’s easier standing up.”

Reluctantly, Mrsha stood on her two legs and made the ‘potty pose’ as she instantly labeled it. She swung her arms, feeling the unsteady momentum carrying her forwards.

And what am I supposed to do now, go splat on my face? She glowered at Wanderer. He nodded approvingly.

“Good. Then the next part is pushing off. Then—you do this.”

He did a little hop, and his body rotated in the air. Mrsha’s jaw dropped.

Wanderer did a flip, and landed on his feet. It was so casual, so elegant that Mrsha was dumbstruck! She’d only seen one person ever do a flip like that—Ryoka. And she had done her tricking and big stunts.

This? This was a casual flip, as if there was nothing to spinning your entire body around. Wanderer gestured.

“You try it.”

Me? What, just like that? Wanderer smiled at Mrsha’s expression as she backed up a step.

“It’s simple. You’re young; don’t think about it, just do it. I’ve tried to teach adults and they can’t imagine it. You can flip as easily as hopping. See?”

To prove it, he walked a dozen paces and did six hops, each one a front flip without breaking stride, stopped, and did a tremendous back flip towards Mrsha. She backed up.

“No way! I can’t do that! I’ll land on my head!”

“I will catch you. This is the trick. Go on.”

Encouraged despite the odd lesson, Mrsha stood on her two feet. She wasn’t a perfect walker or runner, but this? She frowned, tried to copy Wanderer’s instructions, and did a mighty hop!

Wanderer stared as Mrsha landed on all fours on the grass. The Gnoll girl gave him an abashed look. She’d forgotten the flip part.

“Try again.”

Mrsha stood up. She hesitated, swung her arms, hopped—and felt someone push her head slightly and legs at the same time in opposite directions. Mrsha spun, screamed silently as she felt herself go spl—

“Nearly.”

Wanderer caught her. Mrsha stared at the ground, up at him, and then tried to bite his arm. He put her down.

“Try again. Now you know how it feels.”

Mrsha glowered, but she had felt it. You tucked your head down and just— Mrsha did a hop, and then flipped. The world spun around her in a terrifying, amazing second, and then she felt an impact.

She landed on her butt and stared. Then laughed in silent delight! Look at that! Ryoka had never taught her…

She looked up as Wanderer loomed over her. He smiled, once.

“Now land on your feet. And spin a bit more. You need to practice so you know exactly when to stop and how far to go.”

—-

Ten minutes later, Mrsha could flip whenever she chose. It was actually not that hard once you got into it, and the fear of smacking the ground was the biggest impediment.

She’d done just that eight times, and Wanderer had lied when he’d said he’d catch her! Well, he had protected her head twice, but the little bumps weren’t fun!

Nevertheless, he was a somewhat good teacher—although Mrsha found his new instructions to be odd.

“No. You are jumping too high. Lower. I will catch you if you fall…this time. As low as you can.”

He didn’t just want her to learn how to do a flip, he wanted her to learn how to do a tight front-flip, barely an inch off the ground.

She resented his instruction, but the girl had to admit—this was something Lyonette would never have countenanced, and more physically amazing than anyone but Ryoka had ever shown her.

Mrsha found the challenge exhilarating; she could feel her fur touching the ground if she did it right. She did three super-compact flips in a row, and then Wanderer nodded.

“Good enough. You won’t hurt yourself if I don’t catch you. Now, it will take some getting used to, but if you get used to it, we’ll be moving even faster within the hour.”

“Used to what?”

Mrsha frowned, a bit dizzy. She didn’t see how this translated to his jumping ability.

For answer, Wanderer placed a paw on her shoulder. He looked at Mrsha as he hefted his walking staff.

“There are more classes in this world than we can dream of, Mrsha. All with little secrets and Skills. Mine? Mine is [Traveller]. A generalist class. Some call it useless. Yet there is a trick in my class. Do you know what it is?”

Mrsha raised one eyebrow. You’re going to tell me anyways.

Wer grinned with all his teeth.

“The trick is—I have the potential to learn almost any Skill that I encounter. From any class. So—here’s something I learned on my long journey. [World Traveller: Grasshopper’s Run].”

He touched Mrsha’s fur and she felt her hair lift as a sensation ran through her. She felt… Light.

Mrsha stared up at Wer. What had he said just now? The Gnoll saw her look and knew what she was curious about.

“It’s my school of Skills. World Traveller. It encompasses…special Skills.” He hefted the enchanted staff he carried, which appeared to be plain wood, but had been tough enough to survive Belavierr’s battle.

“Staff art. Running technique used by [Rangers] and the like. Stealth Skills I learned from my travels. Enough of that. Follow me. And remember—flip.”

Without a word, he jumped. Mrsha saw him bound down the hill, racing down the grass and rocks without slowing. She hesitated—and then followed a second later.

They bounded down the hill, and this time Mrsha felt gravity loosen its hold on her. She raced, on all fours, and realized what his Skill did.

When you ran up a hill, and even down it, you were careful. Even the fastest runner downhill watched for cliffs, gaps, slowed to avoid the uneven terrain.

Wanderer raced down the hill in nearly a straight line, avoiding only the biggest obstacles. It was more like he was…falling, and pushing himself even faster and faster down the slope!

Mrsha copied him. She was fearless suddenly, and part of it was surely the Skill helping her. She leapt, her paws barely touching the ground. Fast! Faster!

Run as if you were falling, pushing off the ground in bigger leaps and bounds as you leapt.

The two flashed past an antelope bounding down the slope, away from the potential predators. The silly creature actually stopped and stared at them flying past. Mrsha could almost hear its thoughts.

I thought I was fast!

Then it happened. As Mrsha was running, she saw a rock straight in front of her. She swerved to avoid and her paws slipped on a patch of stones. She hurtled towards the rock and then pushed—

Mrsha flipped over the top of the boulder. She landed, turned her head, wide-eyed, looking back at the amazing stunt she’d pulled, and nearly fell into a crevasse. Wanderer laughed as he caught her.

“You’re a natural after all! Now—watch. This is how you complete [Grasshopper’s Run].”

So saying, he transferred Mrsha to one arm. Then Wanderer planted the stave he was running with on the ground. He pushed hard and vaulted over the small crevasse with Mrsha under one arm.

For a moment—they flew. Then, Wanderer put Mrsha down and they ran on. She bounded up slopes, jumped, and flipped, twisting through the air. Laughing—for a second just enjoying herself. Until she saw Wanderer grinning and realized it should have been Ryoka. Mrsha turned to look back, but she didn’t know where Liscor lay.

And…she had to know. Mrsha followed Wanderer. To learn the truth of her fur. Her power.

She realized what it meant soon enough. For…

They were being hunted.

—-

Inkar was used to Gnolls by and large after having been adopted by her tribe.

She was not used to Ekhtouch, but circumstances had contrived to put her in close proximity with one of the more unique tribes of Gnolls in the world.

“I do not know if there is any circumstance in which they would welcome us into their camps in this way. Even if we were ‘allies’ in another Meeting of Tribes, it would be political, not like this.”

[Shaman] Cetrule whispered as Satar, Cers, Inkar, Tkrn, Krshia, and a group of other Silverfangs came to visit the Ekhtouch Tribe. Akrisa was still talking with Chieftain Firrelle and the others, who were considering the angle of Earth in a new light.

The cat was out of the bag, to use Rose’s expression, a phrase that invited a lot of questions when she’d used it and everyone else scrutinized her hobbies. It was not what Krshia wanted, having planned to reveal the secret of Earth—but now that Steelfur knew, things were moving fast.

Politics in large made Inkar nervous, but the concrete benefit in the small way—or not so small as she turned out to be was the giant, Gire.

A fifteen year-old Gnoll who was second-tallest of any Gnoll here. Smart, quick—she’d snuck up behind Tkrn and Inkar to stare at the phone. Sweet too; she had apologized so much for overreacting. It was thanks to her, and her alone that Ekhtouch had decided to put their weight behind the other tribes.

It was not just Firrelle, either. Why else were so many Gnolls staring—albeit from behind the hide ‘walls’ each tribe used for privacy’s sake at this odd turn of events? Ekhtouch was busy setting up their camp.

Next to Silverfang. It was a bit of an uproar in the Meeting of Tribes. They had abandoned their spot in the center of the gathering, uprooted their tents overnight, and were settling in over here. Countless Gnolls were wondering what had happened. Why had Ekhtouch decided to move here and state their affiliation so openly?

Gire. When she had convinced her Chieftain to support Akrisa, Inkar had known she had influence, but she was still a child.

It turned out Ekhtouch saw things differently. When Gireulashia spoke, they listened. Not only that—the Gnolls of all three tribes were told they had free access to the Ekhtouch camp, with the obvious proviso that Gire and the others could mingle with them.

“They have never granted such rights before! Not even to the other great tribes! It must be Honored Gireulashia. Please, Honored Inkarr—take care not to offend her.”

“I will.”

Inkar assured Cetrule, who was admonishing Satar and Cers the same way. The younger [Shaman] gazed at the Ekhtouch Gnolls, half-nodding to Cetrule as Cers listened to his father, peeking at them.

They knew it was important, but…even Krshia was distracted. Because Ekhtouch was so interesting.

The young of Ekhtouch were almost never seen outside of their tribe. Perhaps because Ekhtouch had a reputation to maintain; any flaws in their ‘perfect’ people might reflect on their product…which was them.

There were many things to be made uncomfortable by, since they were a species that did what Terandrian nobility did; breed for perfection. That you could do it in this world…well, Inkar was no fool, but she understood Ekhtouch’s arranged matches had produced many ties in the Meeting of Tribes and as they met other tribes.

Satar herself was a product of that relationship, and so some of the Gnolls regarded her like a…half-cousin. Marred by imperfection, yet one of them, family forever because she was a descendant of the same ties that kept their tribe alive.

It made Satar patently uncomfortable. Inkar, though, was drawn to the children.

Like Gire, they were all larger or quicker than other children their age. They had smooth fur of all colors, and they were nimble and quick. They learned and grew fast, such that she was astonished to see a walking Gnoll cub who was only a year old! Even Cers couldn’t walk on two legs unless someone made him.

“Can I play with them?”

Cers whined. Cetrule hushed him, but one of the children had spotted Cers. Ekhtouch and Silverfang watched as a girl raced over on all fours.

“We are allowed to speak with you. You are Silverfang. Do you want to play tag?”

She spoke, a bit too eloquently, and Cers blinked. But in a second he was grinning and showing her a ball Aunt Krshia had given him—he tossed it and they were racing off like a shot. Cers wasn’t too slow to play tag—until Inkar realized he was playing with children several years younger than he was and they were just as fast or faster.

The interesting thing was their games. Tag, fetch the ball, those were normal. But as the Silverfangs walked the camp, looking for Gire and trying not to openly spy, they heard two teenage Gnolls talking as they fletched arrows. One spoke.

“Weasel.”

The other returned, unperturbed.

“Lech.”

“Harlot.”

“Tease.”

“Embarrassment.”

“Temptress.”

At that, the other Gnoll glanced up. He sniffed at his companion, looking victorious.

“I am male. It does not follow.”

“Temptress can be male or female, I opine. You just ran out of insults that begin with ‘s’.”

She snapped back. Inkar looked from one to the other and realized—they weren’t insulting each other, they were playing a word-game.

“Sycophant.”

He retorted instantly, and she wavered just a hair too long, lost, and threw down her arrow in disgust before they began again.

“Animals, next. Taurus.”

“Snake…”

Meanwhile, the children Cers’ age were eager to show this strange Gnoll boy some more games. One paused, ball in hand.

“Let’s show him the game of Triumphs! Me first, me first! I’ll do…words and ball and tumbling!”

“Only three?”

The others mocked her. The Gnoll girl glared around.

“Just to show. Four, then. How about…maths?”

“I’ll do it! Cers, you can play too.”

“What’s Triumphs?”

Cers halted on his bum, looking interested as the Gnoll hefted the ball a few times, gauging the leather orb’s weight and the Gnoll who’d volunteered to help with ‘maths’ stared at the sky, thinking. The other Gnoll boy explained.

“You prove you can do all four! Watch! She’s going to do four—it’ll be easy. Ready?”

“Ready!”

The girl had dusky-grey fur with a striped orange pattern, like a tiger in a way. Inkar slowed as the others counted down.

“Three, two, one…go!”

The Gnoll girl bounded into action. First, she tossed the leather ball up. Not straight up, and not too high! It flew in a lazy arc in the air, with plenty of air time. Then—she began to speak as she burst into, of all things, a cartwheel.

“My fur is silky butter and I have no graying hairs or wen, They envy me from the Walled Cities, Baleros, and Terandria, I race against all Centaurs and I wrestle only Minotaurs…”

She cartwheeled across the ground, singing, towards the falling ball. Cers’ jaw dropped, but it wasn’t over yet. One of the children shouted.

“Eighteen six times!”

The Gnoll girl heard, but didn’t slow. She came up, out of the cartwheel, still singing without missing a word.

“I know of ancient chieftains and shaman tales historical…”

The ball landed in her paws. She smirked around, but uttered a triumphant finisher to the display of Triumphs.

“96!”

The Gnoll children, who had been watching with appreciation stopped. Then a chorus of jeers rang out.

“Wrong! You failed!”

The Gnoll girl froze, and was then pelted with clods of earth and bits of grass. Cers looked confused.

“But she sang and caught the ball and…”

“Eighteen six times is a hundred and eight! Not ninety six, stupid!”

The other Ekhtouch children shouted at the Gnoll girl, who hung her head all of six seconds before raising it.

“Fine, someone else do four! I wasn’t prepared because I was just showing three!”

“I’ll do five! Um…I’ll do math, juggling, um…”

Another Gnoll boy volunteered. The others began to throw in ideas.

“Eyes closed!”

“No, that should be worth two. Do another song! Sing ‘Oh, Jolly Drakes’.”

“Too long!”

Triumphs was a game only Ekhtouch could have invented, where you demonstrated your ability to perform multiple tasks. Cers looked nervous when they wanted him to do it; math would be his downfall even if he was allowed to do just that.

“Astonishing. That’s what their children do?”

Krshia muttered to herself, eyeing the children’s game, which they seemed to be enjoying, even competitive at. She doubted this was a show; no other tribes mentioned these odd games. This was what Ekhtouch did for fun?

It might explain why the giant child herself, albeit taller than the adults, hurried towards them with such interest in her eyes.

“Inkarr! Tkrn! Honored Krshia, Shaman Cetrule, and Shaman Satar, I welcome you to the Ekhtouch camp. Please, accept the hospitality of the Ekhtouch; need you any refreshments?”

She greeted the two excitedly, her tail wagging, then remembered the others. Her bow was graceful, her tone measured. But when Krshia and Cetrule shook their heads, she was all too eager to bend down.

“May I see it again, Inkar?”

“Of course, Gire.”

Inkar carefully offered the iPhone up to the excited Gnoll [Paragon]. Gire beamed—for all of two seconds before one of the Ekhtouch called out to her.

“Honored Gireulashia, they are playing a game of ‘football’ with the equipment from Liscor. Chieftain Firrelle wants you to participate.”

“I am…entertaining our guests!”

Gire called over her shoulder, peevishly. The Ekhtouch Gnoll was made of sterner stuff than most; maybe it was the silver in her mane that Krshia suspected indicated she had helped raise Gire.

“She knows. One ‘point’, Gire.”

“Very well. Inkarr, I must go play this game. May I see it after I come back?”

Gire handed the iPhone back. Bemused, Inkar nodded.

“Of course. If you want to play…”

To her surprise, Gire scowled, not at all enamored by the game which a lot of Gnolls found so enjoyable.

“No. It will be quick.”

—-

The game of soccer or football depending on where you were from was popular among Izril’s people. Baseball had its charms, but kicking a ball around was something anyone could do. All you needed was the ball, after all, and Joseph was a celebrity.

So small wonder countless Gnolls wanted to play with the balls that Rose had brought with her from Liscor. The autographed ones courtesy of Joseph were being carefully gifted by Akrisa.

Then again, this game was all about showing off, and there were Gnolls from numerous tribes trying to prove that Pallass’ team would be nothing in the Meeting of Tribes.

They certainly had lots of Skills. One Gnoll kicked the ball so high that Inkar swore it was nearly a minute in coming down—he was told not to do that again. Another Steelfur Gnoll playing goalkeeper blocked a shot at five feet away—with his face. She just blinked and laughed as the ball bounced off her fur.

Gire stomped into the field, not looking as excited as the others. She had been ordered to score a goal, to prove Ekhtouch could do anything. The other Gnolls, [Warriors] and [Rangers], even a [Chieftain], looked like they were still having fun.

“Ekhtouch is playing? That’s Honored Gireulashia! Let’s see how she does! A Gnoll from Emaspath’s tribe has the ball and she looks quick!”

A Gnoll was taking Drassi’s job of announcer. Sure enough, a Gnoll was leaving a blurred path across the field as some Skill took her forwards.

Gire stood a dozen paces in front of the goal on her side and scratched at her arm, looking unhappy. Already, the soccer pitch had been doubled in size and it might need to be tripled, depending on the Skills at play.

Inkar was curious, so she watched only Gire as she stared at the game. Gire was at once shy and imposing, intelligent and childish. She seemed happy enough to race about; was it just the iPhone that made her so unhappy?

The Emaspath’s Gnoll saw Gire standing in front of the goal, and wavered. Another Gnoll raced forwards, waving a paw.

“Here!”

They came towards the Steelfur Gnoll again, watching out for Gire as more Gnolls ran after them—or slowed to see how Gire would do. The [Paragon] stood still, staring around, scratching her arm…waiting.

Both Gnolls slowed, but then the Emaspath’s [Scout] shot towards the goal. At the last moment, she kicked the ball towards the other Gnoll. He responded with a shout.

“[Dust Kick]!”

He actually had a kicking Skill! The [Fighter] didn’t kick the ball, but rather, dug his foot into the ground and then kicked up a wall of dust over Gire.

And the spectators. They cursed and coughed as the [Grasslands Fighter] passed the ball back to the [Scout]. Another move that was going to end up with the player disqualified…but the [Scout] launched the ball back at the goalkeeper, who was still facing the [Fighter], drawn in by the feint and Skill, shielding her face.

Gire had also closed her eyes when the dust storm rose. She stood as the [Scout] kicked the ball—and then whirled. She pivoted on the ball of one foot as the [Scout] kicked the ball straight towards the goal.

Inkar hadn’t been in the way of the dust. She saw it all.

Like a piece of puzzle coming together, Gire stepped in one motion over to a point only she could see and pivoted on one foot. Her other leg flashed up, coming around in an arc to meet the ball flying towards her. The [Scout] gaped as it seemed to the audience as if she’d kicked it straight into Gire’s path.

She had not, but the result was the same. Gire kicked the ball into the air, the rebound so powerful that Inkar lost track of it for a second. Gire stood, stared past the players who were turning, coughed in the dust, and then walked off the pitch.

The soccer ball flew through the air in a powerful arc, curving, losing momentum, but zooming across the pitch. Every player’s head rose and the goalkeeper on the other end stopped flirting with the opposing player. He swore, looked up and jumped—too late.

The ball hit the top right corner of the goal and went in. The audience didn’t cheer; they didn’t’ realize what had happened, many of them, until the dust cleared. When they did shout, Gire was already hurrying towards Inkar.

“There. I scored! Let me see the iPhone!”

She hurried Inkar off. The young woman looked at Gire.

Oh. So that was why. It just…wasn’t fun.

“Have you played soccer before?”

Tkrn gaped at Gire as she ushered them back to the Ekhtouch camp where she could stare at the device. Gire gave the [Guardsman] a frown.

“No.”

“You scored, though!”

“Yes. It’s just kicking a ball into a space. It’s eas—I mean, I’m not interested. And I’m too big to play other games. Tag or hide-and-seek…”

She looked wistful and sad.

“Well, I’ve had more fun at the Meeting of Tribes.”

“Ah. Ah.”

Inkar saw Tkrn flicking his eyes back to the pitch where Gnolls still stared after her as another Ekhtouch Gnoll took Gire’s place. He looked at Gire.

“I guess hide and seek is hard for other reasons, but I can see why tag and soccer are no fun.”

“Mhm. They never find me if I hide.”

Tkrn’s mouth worked. He looked up at Gire and at Inkar. The young woman was interested.

“Are there any games you do like, Gire?”

The Gnoll girl thought about it and brightened up.

“I like dances. Learning dances and dancing is fun by itself. And…I appreciate all the activities the [Shamans] and tribes perform, although I’ve been busy meeting with so many Gnolls. I’ve also been playing games of chess with Strategist Venaz. He can beat me.”

She smiled.

“It’s a challenge. Now I want to play the game with the birds!”

—-

Chief Warrior Merish was not in the mood to play or watch games of football that day. The power of Chieftain Xherw’s touch had left him. He woke feeling a pall over his entire being.

However, the touch had reminded him of what should be. Like someone who had seen light through the clouds after a year of rain—Merish fought to return.

So he visited their [Shamans]. Plain’s Eye might not be a city, but they did understand something about loss. They had healers of their own kind. Rituals for warriors who had lost too much.

The first of such took place before dawn, and Merish had woken up even earlier to ready himself for it. He had not eaten, and when he joined the [Shamans] with a handful of other Gnoll warriors, he was all but naked; he had only underwear on his body.

He recognized some from Rhir. Others were of his tribe, but had seen something terrible in their battles to keep the tribe safe. War or monsters. He saw one Gnoll checking her fur, manically running pawpads through her hair as if…searching for something.

Crelers, he guessed.

The ceremony was simple and designed not to have many visitors, if at all. No fanfare, no grand speeches. It was for them.

There were six [Shamans], two with special classes and markings that indicated they had a specific duty in the Plain’s Eye tribe. They were [Keepers of the Past]—or one might be an apprentice to look at him.

They remembered. The female Gnoll who was old, shrunken by age, gestured. Her eyes were deep, as if you could see past lives and names floating within. Like one of Rhir’s libraries, Merish thought. Deep, holding secrets.

He shivered, but then she spoke.

“Brave warriors. Come forwards one at a time. You have suffered. You have lost. Plain’s Eye Gnolls have died, other Gnolls have fallen and you lived through terrible sights that no one should see. Disaster. Crelers. War.”

Her eyes lingered on individual Gnolls and they shuddered as memories returned at a single word. Yet here—in this place, Merish embraced the pain. He had to. For the [Keeper of the Past] was speaking.

“Do not shy away from it. Later, you will be given draughts to forget and ease your mind. Later, rest. Here, in this place, speak to me, speak to us. Tell me their names. Do so, and I swear to you all—so long as Plain’s Eye endures, they will not be forgotten.”

The Gnolls looked up. In the [Shaman]’s eyes lay a promise. Something greater than their individual lives. Something…eternal.

They will not be forgotten. Leave their names with me and rest.

So, they did. One by one, the warriors approached. They stood in front of the [Shaman] and whispered or shouted. Names, events. Some ranted and raved; others broke down.

Merish did not hear. He was recalling them. Perhaps the Gnolls in front of him spoke the same names—they too were from Rhir. It did not matter. He would speak the names that he knew. Let her remember them twice.

“Warrior Merish.”

The [Keeper of the Pasts] bade him approach. The [Shamans] were swaying, a hum rising from their throats. Merish saw some of them had their eyes closed. Their fur’s markings were glowing. He realized magic was at play here.

The keeper’s eyes were growing deeper. More than mere memory was committing these deeds to the past. He was glad of that.

“Name what you will. Our enemies. What passed. Who you have lost. Speak their names, great warrior, and let them be remembered so long as tribe and time endure.”

She told him, not unkindly. Merish nodded. His head rose. Then he hesitated.

Can I let you go? It felt almost as if he were giving over his burden.

No, he decided. No, it was not. It was honoring them. He could not forget. Perhaps, though—he would not feel as guilty after this. So he nodded, and began to recite the list that had played in his head every night. Faces. The way they spoke and laughed and died.

“Commander Cirille of Manus. Commander Uxel of the Stone Gaze Company. Delezza, Demon Hunter of Noelictus. Ser Vorn of Ailendamus. Lacten of Pomle…”

The [Shamans] began to stir as the first of their names registered. The humming faltered. One of them, the apprentice, broke in, unexpectedly. He growled.

“These are not Gnoll names, Chief Warrior Merish.”

Merish faltered. The [Keeper of the Pasts] looked at her junior with undisguised anger. Yet she waited for Merish.

“I have many names, our warriors and other tribe’s that were sent to Rhir, [Shaman]. These are among the many names I choose to remember, Gnolls and non-Gnolls alike. Is that not permissible?”

The apprentice hesitated, and then met the [Keeper of the Past]’s gaze. He lowered his head instantly.

“…Of course.”

He was young. The [Keeper of the Past] had issued no complaint, nor had her gaze wavered. Merish recited names until his voice was hoarse, and after another promise that it was done and remembered, the gathering broke up.

That was not important. Merish did not know if he felt lighter, but there was some reassurance in the act. What was…interesting…was that the [Keeper of the Past] sought him out afterwards.

“My apprentice, he interrupted your moment, Chief Warrior. For that you have my greatest apologies.”

“Perhaps I erred, [Keeper]. So many non-Gnoll names…”

He ducked his head. The old Gnoll fixed him with a steely gaze.

“Are they less worthy than the Gnolls who died, Chief Warrior? No, do not answer. You and I know the answer, both. My apprentice is simply…new. He would remember only Gnoll names. It is a recent point of view in the tribe, among some clans. If we remember only Gnoll names—history becomes strange indeed.”

She snorted and Merish almost smiled. He hesitated, though.

“New, [Keeper]? I do not recall any whispers of a change in how we performed this ceremony before.”

Not that he had attended one before. The [Keeper of the Pasts] visibly hesitated then, and the eldest of Gnolls in the Plain’s Eye Tribe looked at Merish and her face grew sad.

“…I misspeak, Chief Warrior. Recent, new—they are terms that change as I grow. I simply mean past my generation. It has been this way for a while. Never mind. The past lies with me and the tribe. It will never be undone. They will be remembered. I promise you.”

He nodded. The [Keeper of the Pasts] let him nod. He looked after her. Then wondered.

—-

“How old is the [Keeper of the Pasts]? You mean Honored Celinthe? Why? Did she get hurt or stumble?”

Khaze was worried over breakfast, later. Merish shook his head.

“No. I am simply curious.”

“I don’t…know.”

If it was odd Khaze did not, well, counting ages didn’t matter as much after you’d reached your majority in the tribes. Merish nodded and gulped down a hot bowl of Herthee mixed with meats—someone had decided it was good, much to his displeasure.

“Merish, they’re going to play a huge football game! I’m watching with the kids, you want to come?”

“I will pass, Viri.”

Merish was better, not up for that. Viri was understanding—part of Merish wished he had been allowed at the gathering, but the games and distractions were another kind of balm for the Lizardman. He had told Merish he didn’t want to go home to Baleros. That would remind him of his missing comrades.

So, after breakfast, Merish went to find Yelroan. The [Mathematician] was in his tent as usual, and Merish poked his head in, took one look at the yawning Gnoll, and came back with some tea and meat biscuits from a nearby campfire.

“Merish! My great friend! Food? Will you be my partner? I need someone like you.”

Merish swatted at Yelroan as the Gnoll sought to embrace him. The slighter Gnoll scarfed down the food; he was working hard on a ledger.

“Thank you, Merish. How can I help you?”

He grinned as he kept working. Merish hesitated.

“I don’t want to disturb you. I was just checking in…”

“You have something you want. Don’t be shy—everyone who comes here does. I like that. They do come to me!”

Yelroan chuckled as his fingers waggled, then he frowned.

“[Check Sum]. Aha! So that’s—stupid. Why do numbers have to look alike?”

He found the issue that had apparently been fouling up a ledger of incomes and grumpily corrected it. Which of course meant every number after that was off…which he’d already deduced. Yelroan blew on the paper, folded the ledger, and rang a little bell.

“Scribe Yelroan?”

A Gnoll girl raced into the tent, stopping when she saw Merish. Yelroan chucked the book at her, unperturbed by the visitor he had.

“Run this down to Crab clan.”

He meant Nebrecrab’s clan, one of the coastal parts of the Meeting of Tribes. Yelroan pointed at it.

“That’s where the missing gold is. All one thousand and eight pieces.”

The Gnoll girl tucked it under her arm respectfully.

“The [Chieftain] asked me about that. But where’s the gold, Yelroan?”

“In the ledger. You mean, physically? In someone’s pockets! But there’s the gold and it’s not my problem. Shoo!”

She went. Yelroan sat back, folding his paws behind his head. Then he looked at Merish.

“So, what’s the task, friend Merish?”

“I could be just here to pay you another social call as a friend.”

Merish tried to defend himself, a bit guiltily. He looked around, coughed, embarrassed, and did his best.

“So…is the money good with the Plain’s Eye Tribe?”

Yelroan stared at him, snorted, and then rolled his eyes.

“Yes, the money is ‘good’. Would you like to compare our wild Sage’s Grass harvests incomes to that annoying [Farmer] around Liscor and see how much of a depreciation we’ve suffered over the last six years?”

“Um. No. Sorry.”

Yelroan flicked his quill and promptly sent it soaring across the room. He went after it, grumbling.

“So?”

“Just a question. How old is our [Keeper of the Past]?”

Yelroan glanced up, eyes glinting. He didn’t ask the obvious, but instead just answered the question.

“One hundred and two.”

“Over a century?”

That was surprising. Gnolls didn’t live that long, although Merish had heard of some who got nearly a century and a half by virtue of their class, good living, and so on. Still—it was surprising.

“Why?”

“Just something she said. It…never mind. I wouldn’t want to start rumors.”

“I don’t gossip! I would if there were anyone to gossip with—fine, keep your secrets. Oh, you should know that some of your friends were looking for you. There’s a group of Shatterstrike [Warriors] who poked their heads in.”

“I might see them. Thank you, Yelroan. I could stay…?”

His friend waved him off.

“I’m working and believe me, it’s not fun to watch. Or do. This is boring math; figuring out why Gnolls can’t add.”

—-

Merish found the Shatterstrike warriors—a subset of the Plain’s Eye Tribe—and recognized some old friends and subordinates at once.

The way it worked was that each clan had their individual warriors, and Merish had been one of them until he worked his way up and left for Rhir. However, Plain’s Eye as a whole had their own warriors and people, which they could send to a clan that needed help.

Merish had spent time in both camps, and the Gnolls who made up the front-line of many battles with their tribe greeted him with claps on the back, sniffing him, patting his shoulders.

“Merish! Here comes our hero from Rhir, eh? The others who left were moaning they couldn’t ask you for advice.”

“What was the Death of Magic like? Can you talk of it—ah, the [Shaman] told me to shut up but I forgot—”

“Will you be leading one of our groups? Or acting as [Chief Warrior] to a particular clan?”

Merish bore the greetings well, all things considered. His mind flashed to Rhir, but the morning’s ritual had helped. He brushed off paws, growling.

“Let me speak! Are you all cubs or [Warriors]? Scopikl, it’s good to see you. Where’s Emrhi?”

“Outhouse. And keep away from her—she ate something she shouldn’t have.”

The others laughed. Merish fell into their company with ease, and soon they were marching towards the nearest tent serving free drinks. Plain’s Eye [Warriors] got them free, at least—the [Kegmaster] took one look at their markings and especially Merish’s [Shamanic Warrior] ones and served them up some cheap ale.

“No Velrusk for Merish?”

One of them demanded. Merish cuffed her on the back of the head.

“Stop that. Ale is fine. Our thanks.”

Drink, eat, and swap stories. Now that felt familiar, at least. Merish stood with them in the middle of the festivities, chatting, then walked around the Plain’s Eye camp, and caught up on what he’d missed.

…Not a lot. Oh, it was the same old as he’d always known. The Gnolls told him who had retired, gotten too hurt, switched classes, married into another tribe or just married, interesting gossip and funny accidents, and battles won or lost.

It was only after an hour and a second round of drinks they got into who had died. Bad stories, rumors, mirrors of Merish’s trauma, but lighter. He told them a bit too, and they listened in somber silence to his tales of the Death of Magic.

“A terrible thing, Merish. I am sorry I was so flippant. It was wrong of me, no.”

“Think nothing of it Scopikl. We all lose friends. Here and on Rhir. I only hope the reinforcements are guarded well on Rhir.”

All the Gnolls nodded somberly. They paused, in that moment where nothing could be said or should be said. Merish knew it well. However, then a Gnoll who’d rejoined them spoke.

Emhri had left two more times for the restroom, but whatever she’d eaten seemed to have finally passed out of her system. No one spoke of the smell; you smelled everything and got used to the bad ones and the good ones. Humans, now, and Drakes, they complained when they did smell something, as if the Gnoll in the area hadn’t smelled it five minutes earlier and far more vividly.

“If we speak of tragedies—maybe there is something I could bring up to you. I know it’s for the [Chieftains] and [Shamans] to decide, but it troubles me. A rumor, Merish. Well—not a rumor since I know it to be true.”

He lowered his mug, realizing he had his appetite back. Merish peered at Emhri.

“What have you been listening in on?”

She raised her paws defensively and flattened her ears.

“Nothing! I swear! I just have friends and I knew what was happening—we talk. I didn’t tell anyone, but…you’re a [Chief Warrior], Merish. You might be called on.”

The other Gnolls glanced at each other. Merish folded his arms.

“What?”

“Something…happened yesterday. I saw [Shamans] running about, and word got to me…that I know what happened is because I saw them leaving. It’s not as if someone told me to keep my mouth shut, no.”

“Spit it out, Emhri.”

She growled, but then nodded and leaned in. Whispering so only they would hear, the Gnoll [Warrior] spoke.

“Merish. A [Hunt Leader] took seventeen [Warriors] out weeks ago. Maybe a month? I can’t remember. All I know was that I knew some of the Gnolls who went. Good ones. They were all over Level 20, and the leader over Level 30. A Vision of Seir. I’ve seen them gather like that before.”

Merish’s brows rose. A Vision of Seir, like Shatterstrike Warriors, was an internal term. This referred to a heavily-armed group in small numbers, to scout or harass an enemy.

“Not bad. What were they after? Creler scouting?”

“No…and listen. They were wiped out. Every Gnoll.”

The other warriors fell abruptly silent. Merish felt his hair rise slightly. He gripped hard on the mug and cracked it by accident. He cursed, and it was a loud sound in the silence.

“By whom? A [Hunt Leader] over Level 30 and a full Vision of Seir was wiped out? By what kind of enemy?”

Emrhi gulped. She looked uncertain if she wanted to continue the story, but it had been started. She looked around, and lowered her voice even more.

“I don’t know where, but I do know their purpose. They were…Doomslayers.”

If it had been silent before, now it was a void of space in which no one even breathed. Merish felt a chill and met Emrhi’s scared gaze. No wonder she was gossiping.

“I see. You should keep this silent, Emrhi. It’s…not to be spoken of. Understood?” She nodded.

“I only told you because you’re over Level 30 yourself, Merish. If there was anyone who could fix—”

“I’m not going to lead a bunch of Gnolls off. I’d wait for a [Shaman] or my [Chieftain] to ask me, Emhri. Don’t spread it around.”

Merish interrupted her. But that wasn’t why the Gnoll woman had gone silent. Her eyes were round and only then did Merish realize…he turned slowly.

“Chief Warrior Merish.”

A [Shaman] stood behind the group of Gnolls, having walked over while they were focused on Emhri. One of many [Shamans] in the Plain’s Eye Tribe?

No. One of a kind.

The Shaman of the Eternal Grasslands, the greatest [Shaman] of their tribe, Shaman Ulcreziek, stood next to Chieftain Xherw and a cluster of Gnollish guards and other leaders of the tribe. Shaman Ulcre looked at Merish and the Gnoll froze.

Mismatched eyes stared at him. One was brown, regular—the other was brown too. The difference were the striations of faint color, the inner pupil of the second eye. The power there. An eye passed down across their tribe for as long as it had endured, that gave them their name.

Plain’s Eye.

To stare at it was nearly impossible. The [Shaman] himself though was kind—to members of his tribe. His brows rose and he glanced at Xherw, who himself was powerful enough to make every Gnoll’s fur prick with energy.

“We are just in time, Chieftain. The warriors are already gossiping.”

Emhri wilted. Chieftain Xherw glanced at Ulcre.

“[Shaman], you can even see gossip? Now there is a true power.”

Ulcre snorted through his nose. He tapped the Plain’s Eye and it focused on Emhri a second before turning to Merish. Normally it moved with his other eye, but if he willed it to, it could move independently. Sometimes, Merish had heard it rumored, it showed him things he needed to see, that previous [Shamans] had known.

“I do not need to read lips or strain my ears. I can see gossiping Gnolls with both my eyes, [Chieftain]. Warrior Emhri.”

“Shaman.”

She squeaked. The Gnolls around her were apprehensive, but The [Shaman] just looked at her for a second with both eyes.

“Discretion would be appreciated.”

“Yes, [Shaman].”

Merish thought Emhri would be silent with that alone. Ulcre and Xherw looked at Merish and the [Chief Warrior] felt his skin prickle again.

“Warrior Merish, we were looking for you. And it seems destiny has already moved your way. A good omen. Chieftain, I am convinced from this alone.”

Xherw nodded thoughtfully. He looked at Merish and smiled.

“I as well. Perhaps he should rest. Let us tell him and we shall see. Merish—a word.”

The [Shamanic Warrior] instantly agreed. When your [Shaman] and [Chieftain] of the entire tribe called, you went. But he couldn’t help but wonder why him, of all the [Chief Warriors]? Perhaps…fate indeed. Or Xherw remembered their conversation earlier.

He did not doubt the reason. It echoed in his mind. Something not often spoken of. A terrible name.

Doombringer.

—-

As it happened, there were multiple reasons that Xherw had thought of Merish. The Chieftain led Merish over to another gathering in the secret heart of the Plain’s Eye tribe, deep in their encampment. No one, not other Gnolls or even foreign spells could spy on them here. Not with Shaman Ulcre.

“You heard about the Doomslayers.”

Xherw did not beat around the bush. In his private tent, he sat, amid trophies of his tribe, gifts—it was not as luxurious as it could be, but it was impressive. Merish sat on a pillow.

“Yes, Chieftain. I hope you will not be angry at Emhri.”

“Angry? I will forget it in a second. Rather, I understand. Rumors spread and why not? When doom is abroad no one is safe. It is for that reason I thought of you. Well—that and two other reasons.”

Xherw lifted a paw. Ulcre stood, refusing to sit, glancing towards the tent where other Gnolls were assembling. Xherw peered at Merish.

“The [Keeper of the Past] tells me you went through the Recitation of Names. I hope you felt better, these last few days?”

“I did. You are kind, Chieftain.”

“Not always, Merish. I would have let you rest, but news of the loss of an entire group of Doomslayers reached me yesterday. I thought of you for two reasons along with our recent talk. Do you know all of what transpired?”

Merish shook his head.

“Only that they were wiped out.”

“Hrm. Not all, then. They were wiped out at Liscor, Merish. The Silverfang’s new city. The border of north and south.”

“I know of it.”

Only vaguely, but Merish felt he’d heard the city’s name on a few lips of late, and not just Silverfang. Oh yes, hadn’t there been battles there? During his time on 5th wall, and in the capital, they’d watched…

Xherw saw his expression and his face softened.

“Yes, Liscor. That city with the door and inn and such. There is a Doombringer there, Merish.”

The [Shamanic Warrior] nodded.

“Did it…kill them?”

He knew what Doomslayers did, and the Plain’s Eye had a few. They killed white Gnolls, before the doom that had destroyed a tribe could infect others. Merish…had never been asked to join such a squad. He would have, of course, despite the danger and duty.

Kill white Gnolls. They were not spoken of, but they were like Demons to Gnolls. Just as deadly.

Just like Demons? Merish frowned. He thought of Silvenia, the Death of Magic and hesitated. She was as half-Elf. A traitor to her people. So that was what white Gnolls were. Like Demons.

Worse, perhaps. If one had killed an entire Vision…but Xherw shook his head.

“Not it. Well, perhaps. The truth is we don’t know what transpired exactly, Merish. Only that an entire army was involved, the Antinium…and a [Witch] named Belavierr. The Spider of Terandria. A powerful [Witch] over Level 60.”

“Over Level 70. Perhaps over Level 80.”

Ulcre cut in. Merish’s head rose and turned.

“What, [Shaman]?”

Shaman Ulcre’s eye was deep and staring. For a second Merish thought he saw rings—before a terrible anger took hold of him.

“An old [Witch], Merish. A dangerous one—for a certain level of it. Peril to those who have lost or desire. Not like a Dragon on a rampage, but almost as bad if angered. She was angered and nearly destroyed the city. Perhaps she killed the Doomslayers.”

“Or perhaps the city, or the inn, or the army. Hectval. Yet I say it was doom, and doom from one source, no matter the many causes.”

Xherw growled. He looked at Ulcre, then at Merish.

“A dangerous Doombringer indeed.”

Merish nodded, head spinning. Over Level 80? That was the kind of thing that was legend. Myth. Like the Death of Magic.

His blood ran cold and Xherw fixed his eyes on Merish.

“I thought of you. You have survived an encounter with a monster like that.”

“I would not fight the Death of Magic again, Chieftain. Not with ten thousand [Shamanic Warriors] at my back.”

It might be cowardice, but the words burst out of Merish as he shuddered. Xherw lifted a paw.

“I would not send you for that. Not against this [Witch]. I would send Ulcre and the full might of the tribes if I thought we had to fight her…no, she has fled. But doom remains and it has left. Apparently, so my people say, with a second white Gnoll. A stranger who killed at least a few of our people.”

Merish started. Two Doombringers?

“It is as I suspected. There are more, and they conspire.”

Ulcre broke in. The [Shaman] was upset. He waved a staff skywards, at a hole for the smoke of a fire to escape through. The sky was still bright, but the tent darkened.

“I cannot see this one, or the two. But they have fled Liscor. Heading south.”

“Do you want me to assemble another Doomslayer group to hunt them down, Chieftain?”

“Yes. If you are willing, Merish. I know you are resting, but when destiny calls you like it seems to do…I will ask other [Chief Warriors], but for this task I will arm you with weapons and give you our best warriors. If you agree.”

Xherw met Merish’s gaze. The Gnoll [Shamanic Warrior] sat there, on the pillows. He could have refused, asked to think about it, or asked questions, uttered reservations.

He did not. Merish was a [Warrior] of the Plain’s Eye Tribe. A soldier of his people.

“Of course, Chieftain. You have only to ask.”

Ulcre and Xherw smiled. Merish rose after Xherw, and the [Chieftain] nodded at him.

“You honor your tribe, Merish. Thank you. We shall arrange it and you must be hunting soon—but we have to know our quarry first. There are things you should see.”

“What was the third reason you wanted me, Chieftain?”

Merish followed Xherw to a group of Gnolls outside. For answer, Xherw pointed. Merish saw a scrying orb held by a [Shaman], a group of the Plain’s Eye’s best magic-users…and Yelroan. The [Mathematician] blinked at Merish, and then waved. Xherw gave Merish a slight grin.

“Destiny? Or just friendship. Now, come see this, Merish. Doom has foolish allies, but it may help us in the end.”

He pointed at the scrying orb and Merish saw a Drake on Wistram News Network. He vaguely recognized Drassi as the Drake began speaking, her voice hoarse, strained, her eyes red. With a start, a jolt to his heart, he saw an illustration of a little white Gnoll behind her and the caption.

Young Gnoll Missing – Believed Kidnapped.

—-

It was a road laid with best intentions. You could even see all the logic behind it with little effort. This Mrsha was a friend of Drassi’s. The [Honest Reporter] knew her, and she had a rare position of power in Wistram News Network.

So if Mrsha went missing, Drassi would obviously report the story. The Drake made an impassioned appeal, laying out the events, even getting a [Mage] to show the devastation from the battle.

“Mrsha is a dear child, and I wasn’t able to—listen. This rat-Gnoll, this…white-haired stranger has her. I am begging anyone with information to reach out to us. I’ll be covering this story with any sightings, and if you see her, tell the Watch Captain! Again, her name is Mrsha and she can’t talk, but she can write and…”

Everything checked out. Missing child, appeal across Izril, a heartfelt story. Anyone from Chandrar would instantly sympathize, and indeed, Drassi’s appeal would lead to hundreds, thousands of appeals from other citizens across the world for her to cover missing persons—a segment that would endure.

Drassi had made just one mistake, and no one else had stopped her from making it. No wonder; Wistram News Network was run by Wistram and crewed by Drakes at the top, or City Gnolls. In short, there was no Plains Gnoll with concern on Mrsha’s side to point out how horrific this was.

Alarric stared at the scrying orb and wanted to vomit. He knew Wanderer had the child; he’d received the signal. This?

“She’s going to get them killed.”

He whispered. Drassi’s earnest face—he had to believe she meant the best. But this? Now every tribe with a scrying orb could see that there were two white Gnolls. They were taking notes and writing down the nearest location. Just not for the reasons Drassi hoped.

—-

“Other tribes have already told me they will join the hunt. Yet Plains’ Eye will not rest on them alone. Every tribe in the region will be searching for the two, but Merish, the older Doombringer is clever. He—it—apparently moves fast and was skilled enough to defeat one Doomslayer group, if with help.”

Xherw shut off the scrying orb with a wave of his paw. Merish stared at Drassi’s face before she vanished. She’d spoken of the Doombringer—Mrsha—with such passion.

Well, she was a Drake. She had no idea what she was talking about. It had given them a lot of information, though.

“Two Doombringers, and we know their ages, even the name of one. Is that not enough, Chieftain? Can we not [Scry] them?”

He glanced at Xherw, but it was Ulcre who responded.

“It should be, even if [Shamans] do not perform [Mage]’s magic, Merish. Yet we cannot. They are warded. I have called on all our artifacts capable of it and my conclusion is that one or both have means to evade us.”

He glowered. Merish nodded. Only standard.

“Hence this gathering to inform you of a place to start. We have a vague region ‘south of Liscor’. I mean to narrow it. So, then. What can you divine?”

Xherw’s head turned and Ulcre regarded the best Gnolls in the Plain’s Eye tribe for the job. After all, their tribe was known for the quality of their [Shamans]. And [Shaman] was a catch-all class.

They specialized.

Merish beheld the gathering of nearly twenty Gnolls. He saw and recognized their classes.

[Oracle]. [Seer]. [Augur]. Even the [Keeper of the Pasts]—Gnolls with insights into the weather, the future, chance and fate and what had gone before and might come again.

“It is not an auspicious time, Chieftain, but we are casting our magics and using our Skills. We shall look for great portents and signs.”

The [Oracle of Calamity] spoke, one of the Gnolls who could predict incoming dangers to their tribe. A [Seer] growled.

“One of the Doombringers has more than an artifact. My divinations return only mystery, yet I tell you they are headed east, not west. The wind howls that way alone.”

“My readings say west…no. Wait. The origin of one comes from the west, the other from the east.”

The [Augur] argued, sorting through the entrails of a fish. Another Gnoll growled.

“Don’t look to their origins, but to their destination!”

“I tried that and got an infected gallbladder. In the fish, I mean. Some kind of ward—let me try again.”

A [Shaman] pinched her nose and complained.

“Would you stop cutting open fish? I am trying to work—”

What a mess of conflicting professions and styles. Merish watched as Xherw gestured to Ulcre and the [Shaman] stopped the fighting. The Gnolls worked.

“Southeast. Along the High Passes?”

“I sense proximity to Drake stone. Maybe along the cities?”

“So they’re heading southeast, possibly close to cities.”

Merish interpreted the many Gnolls’ commentary and arguments. It wasn’t much to go on, but it did help.

…The problem was, there were a lot of cities, and a lot of ways you could take that. The map of Izril along the High Passes which formed the border between north and south was huge. Xherw growled.

“I will keep them at it and keep in contact with you, Merish. That may be enough to go on. It is frustratingly imprecise. The older Doombringer must be powerful.”

“Then I shall arm myself well, Chieftain. I would like more information, but I will set out and hope more knowledge reveals itself.”

Xherw nodded.

“That is all we can do. Unless…my last expert has an opinion?”

Both Gnolls glanced up. The arguing [Seers] and [Shamans] looked up, offended. They stared at the Gnoll, who had posed so his glasses flashed as his head rose.

“Heh. You can fool magic and Skills, but not numbers, Chieftain Xherw.”

“So you say. You know where they are then, Yelroan?”

The [Mathematician] smirked at the offended magic-users. He turned to Merish and Xherw with a superior look and shook his head.

“No idea. I need more data.”

Merish slapped his forehead. Yelroan did another pose.

“I’ll collect more data. Rest assured, I’ll have an answer soon. A real one, not ‘southeast’. Unlike spells, math doesn’t lie.”

He smirked until a fish hit the back of his head.

—-

Merish was supposed to engage in more ceremonies to deal with his nightmares and trauma.

He attended only one more, and it was to gather the Gnolls he wanted to join him. They heard him out.

“Doombringers.”

Viri hovered at the gathering. So did Khaze, clearly worried; the children were put to bed. Merish had moved fast, but he still took till nightfall to gather what he needed.

They’d be riding horses and running next to them for maximum speed. He had Gnolls from the Plain’s Eye Tribe—Xherw had given him all but the very best to recruit from and Merish had chosen experts. Trackers, those who could speed them up, and so on.

But for fighting potential, he went to the Gnolls who had come from Rhir. Survivors of 5th Wall.

“5th wall stands. I fought with great warriors from every corner of the world. We faced the Death of Magic and held her back.”

He gave a speech to them, as the warriors looked at him. Merish was supposed to speak of his experiences, hence him attending this ceremony. He was here to recruit them—but he had taken the time to speak. He had already prepared, and it felt like a waste if he did not.

Yet the words made him question them even as he spoke.

Lies. Were they lies? They had fought ghosts, illusions of magic. Had they stopped her? Had they done…anything?

Had their sacrifice mattered? He wanted, had to believe that the answer was yes. He had to.

Merish went on.

“We were not friends until that last month, but we came to Rhir and fought. We did not run. We held the line, and then we went home. The only difference was…they went back before I did.”

Cirille. Vorn. All the others. He closed his eyes. He had heard of the ghosts who walked from Rhir. Merish stood there as the Gnolls listened in silence. Then he looked at the other survivors.

“Now, I ask you to join me again. I fought by your side. It is not a battle you need to come with. I know I am asking you…to die. Yet when I was told by Chieftain Xherw to choose Gnolls who I trusted, I thought of you. For you were there.”

They looked at him. Brave warriors, some with eyes shining with tears. They did not speak—but like Merish…one stepped forwards after only a second.

“Where are we fighting now, Chief Warrior?”

The rest agreed at once. So it was done. As Merish had known it would be, really. He nodded around, gratefully, humbled.

“Reclaim weapons, armor—we leave by midnight. Muster here in thirty minutes.”

They loped off, and Merish knew most would need only to visit their tents and utter brief goodbyes before…

Khaze was waiting for him. His sister looked at him, knowing what he was about, worry in her eyes.

“So you’re going?”

“Chieftain Xherw asked me specifically.”

He did not see pleasure on her face from hearing that. Khaze met Merish’s eyes.

“You could refuse.”

Merish hesitated, then shook his head. He gestured to the ground where Gnolls were already gathering. Not the warriors of Rhir alone either. Other tribes were sending warriors, having seen the scrying orb broadcast too. He looked at Khaze, choosing his words.

“I could. But I can’t relax anyways. Not with the Raskghar about. A mixed-company of Gnolls will improve relations between the tribes, anyways. I can be of some use and it will do us all good. I will keep us all safe.”

She nodded at that. Yet both of them knew—the Raskghar were the excuse. Doombringers were the excuse.

Merish had never left Rhir. So this was a relief. It was not healing, but it was what the warriors knew. He embraced his sister and turned, already thinking of the road ahead.

The warriors set out at midnight, without fanfare, but Xherw and Ulcre saw them off to give their blessings. Then they made for the readied horses, packed with gear.

It was only then that Merish saw Viri again. The little Lizardman had a pony and was waiting.

“Viri. What are you doing? You can’t go with us. This is tribe business.”

“You can’t leave me alone. Please don’t leave me again.”

Merish’s mouth opened. He looked at Viri as the other Gnolls looked at him. He was in charge. And Merish…after a second, he nodded.

“It will be dangerous. Deadly.”

Viri smiled. The [Longstick Jumper] reached out and touched Merish’s arm.

“That’s okay. As long as I’m with you. 5th Wall stands.”

“5th Wall Stands.”

The other Gnolls and Merish spoke it reflexively. So Viri rode with them as they left the Meeting of Tribes in silence.

“I saw Silverfangs heading north ahead of us, Chief Warrior. A war party it seemed, but a small one. For speed.”

One of the Gnolls ventured after the first ten minutes on the road. Merish’s head turned. Xherw had warned him…

“We will see what happens, warrior.”

“Yes, Chief Warrior.”

So it was done and Merish saw the long road ahead, days of journeying, hunting…but a purpose. He felt almost relaxed, as the familiar duty crept on him.

To slay doom itself. He bared his teeth—until Viri looked at him.

“So what are we doing, Merish? Hunting doom?”

Merish started. And he realized—Viri didn’t know. He hadn’t asked, and everyone else knew what ‘Doombringer’ meant. The [Shamanic Warrior] turned.

“We’re hunting…”

And his mind went blank. He looked at Viri, the Lizardman, riding next to him with his one leg gripping the saddle, the other lashed into place so he wouldn’t slip. Viri’s earnest expression. Merish tried the words.

White Gnolls. Cursed Gnolls. A child that would bring death to the tribes.

For some reason…it felt impossible to say. Merish opened and closed his mouth.

“—I will explain in a bit. We must go as fast as we possibly can.”

The Lizardman nodded, and they all moved quicker. You didn’t talk while riding this hard, anyways.

Yet that was another excuse. Merish silently frowned. Viri might not understand. He had to explain it to him…properly. Explain…

He had never, ever thought of how to explain why Doombringers had to die to another people. They would not understand, of course, which was why they were not told. But Viri had to. It made sense, after all. It was right. Merish just had to explain it—properly.

They rode forwards as Merish realized even this was no longer as easy as it used to be.

—-

Wanderer stopped Mrsha by the end of the second day. Panting, the little Gnoll opened her mouth for another gulp of stamina potion, but he had halted them for other reasons.

“Time to dye ourselves. Past time. We will be hunted, and I fear…” He was glancing at something. A scroll, bearing bad news. Alrric had broken their silence to warn him. Wanderer cursed, and pulled something from his pouch.

Dye. Mrsha hated dye. She shrank back, but Wanderer crouched down.

“Don’t worry. This isn’t going to smell. Nor will it itch or make your hair dry and crack like other dyes. Water doesn’t wash it off easily either. It took Shadows and Spellcaster a long time to synthesize it. Now, which color should you be? We should be similar, but when we get to Salazsar, you can create a pattern, even.”

Mrsha blinked as he offered her a choice of colors. Not just brown? Not just Lyonette’s smelly dye she used for her hair and Mrsha’s fur—once or twice?

This dye was a lot easier to use. You didn’t have to soak in it—you just added a powder to water, and lathered it on. Wanderer had a tub and Mrsha could actually roll around in it.

She came out with reddish black fur, and Wanderer applied a similar, lighter coat. Mrsha stared at herself in a mirror as he checked for white spots.

“Who are you, strange Gnoll?”

She sniffed at herself, but it really was scentless. They were just finishing up when Wanderer’s head rose.

“Not a second too soon. Damn. Would you look at that?”

He pointed. Mrsha turned her head, and he grabbed her, pressing her down. They stared at something in the distance.

“Gnolls.”

Plains Gnolls. They were loping along. Mrsha stared at them, and then Wanderer. What was the problem? They were dyed, just in time. But the Gnoll growled.

“They’re looking for us. Worse—your friend has told every tribe there’s a white adult with my description and a child who are Doombringers.”

Mrsha’s eyes widened. Then she looked at the Gnolls.

Drassi.

The Gnolls were a band of six, [Hunters] nominally. But it looked like they had come back from a kill of two Corusdeer and were looking about. Wanderer glowered, then pointed a ring at them. Mrsha would have grabbed his paw, but he just twisted a ring and suddenly she heard their voices, still a bit muffled, but enhanced by the magic.

“I saw two just like that. They were running down a hill. I wasn’t sure if the little one was a prisoner—she looked like she was having fun, but they were movement Skills. I thought their fur was light, but it was far off…”

“Damn. I didn’t know a tribe had gone this far north! They’re supposed to be at the Meeting of Tribes!”

Wanderer snarled. He cursed himself, and Drassi, and the Gnolls. Mrsha felt Drassi was fair, and him. The Gnolls were just minding their own business.

Unfortunately, the Gnolls were getting closer to their location. Wanderer and Mrsha hadn’t been that visible; they were in the lee of a hill, not on top of it, but the Gnolls had seen where they were from afar and were coming to investigate. Only their distance was saving them from finding exactly where the two were, and the uncertainty of if they had been white Gnolls or not.

“How did you not see if they were white-furred or not? Anyone can tell. That’s white, that’s blonde. Simple, even from afar!”

One of the [Hunters] was arguing with the other who’d seen them. She was defensive.

“I’m a bit colorblind, alright? Everything looks similar from afar!”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Well, let’s just ask them what they’re about. Two travelling Gnolls isn’t that usual, especially a child. If they’re parent and child, no harm. If the child can’t talk—”

“We rescue her?”

“Nope, we run back to the tribe and play dumb. Apparently the older one’s dangerous. So if we sense something’s off, just smile, make excuses, and…”

“Damn, they’re coming here.”

Wanderer whispered. He checked himself and Mrsha saw him look at his staff. She froze.

Wanderer had killed the Gnolls coming after her. These were innocent [Hunters]! She shook her head. Wanderer pointed. If they find us, they’ll kill us.

No! She shook her head. He growled.

“Last resort. I’ll try something else first. Hold on…I’m not sure if…” He closed his eyes, and frowned. Mrsha didn’t know what Skill he was using, but it wasn’t immediately apparent.

The [Hunters] were closing in. They couldn’t smell the dye, but they were picking up some scent of the two. They closed in, growing silent, and Wanderer’s eyes were shut. Mrsha was tensed. She didn’t want more Gnolls to die! What was he doing? Could he defeat them without hurting them? Even if he did, the tribe would know. What could they do? Maybe she could use her magic? She reached for her wand.

Then, it happened. Mrsha heard a braying call in the distance, then a flurry of curses not a hundred feet distant. She peeked over the hilltop and saw the [Hunters] whirling.

They had been heading straight for them! Yet suddenly they were pointing, moving away. She heard them shouting.

“Dead gods and fur lice! The Corusdeer herd! That buck’s coming right after us! I thought we distracted it!”

“Don’t talk, move! They’ll char us to bits, go, go!”

Suddenly, the Gnolls were moving! They were running, debating dropping the two deer they’d killed as the angry Corusdeer herd sought vengeance for the [Hunters]’ attack. They fled, climbing higher where the Corusdeer couldn’t follow.

Distracted. Mrsha stared. That…that couldn’t be a coincidence! It was beyond any credibility.

Nor was it a Skill. Wanderer had opened his eyes and he looked relieved.

“We’ll move while they’re distracted. I’ll use a stealth-Skill. I’ll carry you.”

He gestured. Mrsha looked at him, then back towards the [Hunters]. She put it together in one moment.

He had used his power? Wanderer saw her look. At his fur. He nodded slowly, meeting her eyes.

“I told you we had power. This is it.”

Mrsha looked at him. Then her little face fell. Her eyes turned bleak and guilty.

Doom.

A paw touched her shoulder. Wanderer shook his head, as if he could read her thoughts.

“Not doom. Luck.”

Mrsha blinked. Then—he scooped her up and they ran. Her eyes were round. She looked back.

Luck? Luck? What were they?

Rabbits?

—-

Mrsha’s pursuers were far distant, even the ones who had started first.

An entire day of marching—or in Octavia’s case, riding along the wagon, brought them nearly past the Bloodfields in one go.

Dismayingly slow compared to that strange white Gnoll, Snapjaw reported. She landed, looking frustrated as Icecube gulped down a bucket of water from a bag of holding.

It still awed Octavia, and probably a lot of their companions, that a Frost Wyvern was flying in their company. City Runner, [Alchemist], and Frost Wyvern. One of these things did not fit in.

The difference in levels and abilities also became more apparent as Snapjaw leaned over to talk with the Hobs and Bird. Sergeant Gna listened in, as did Fierre; the rest stretched or took the moment to break and tend to the horses.

“Stupid Gnoll tracks. Hard to follow. Looks like every fifty feet…then less. Gets tired, but too fast. Like fast-fast death runners.”

She indicated the road ahead, then pointed at Fals and Garia. They looked up.

“Even Hawk takes a week to get from Liscor to Pallass! How is one Gnoll better?”

Fierre frowned, checking her burnt skin despite her layers of protection.

“My guess is he’s not. Movement Skills, stamina potions explain half of it, but remember he’s got a road. Hawk used to make this run without this new road, and his was a benchmark for the Runner’s Guild.”

“Oh, he was that good?”

Octavia saw Sergeant Gna raise her brows, unaware that Liscor’s Courier was the hero of Runners everywhere. Fierre shook her head.

“Benchmark. He was…sort of average. It’s not like the fastest he can do.”

“Oh.”

Fals frowned and looked at Snapjaw.

“Er…Miss Goblin.”

Snapjaw’s head rotated about. So did Badarrow’s. Snapjaw pointed at her chest, looking delighted.

“Me?”

“Yes?”

Fals looked nervous and Garia whispered in his ear.

“That’s Snapjaw.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Flustered, Fals looked at Snapjaw and then slightly away. He was…nervous. Octavia forgot how non-Inn guests were so afraid of Goblins still.

“I was just saying that if we can see the tracks, we might be able to tell what kind of movement Skill it is. It sounds like he’s propelling himself forwards, not [Double Step] or anything else. That’s a Skill that moves faster on flat ground, maybe.”

“Interesting.”

The Runner’s knowledge of movement Skills exceeded even Fierre’s own. Snapjaw chortled.

“I can show.”

“Lead the way, Snapjaw.”

“No. Miss Goblin. I like that. Call me Miss Goblin. Sounds…person-like. Very nice.”

She slapped Badarrow on the shoulder. He grunted.

The little interplay was interesting more in how it disclosed the clear differences between this band. And while Mrsha was the common cause, there was no Erin as of yet to keep them together, just the memory of her.

Sergeant Gna stared at Snapjaw with ill-disguised hostility. Badarrow glanced at her, and she looked away. Salkis just stared at the Frost Wyvern.

“Awesome.”

They kept moving, but it became clear they would not fully clear the Blood Fields in one night. Even going as far as they had was amazing and due to Bird’s new Skill. As they made camp, Octavia stretched.

“How are we sleeping? Tents? I have one or something…”

“I’ll sleep under the wagon. That’s how my family travelled. Unless there are bugs or it’s muddy, it’s not bad and it saves time.”

Fierre offered. Fals and Garia looked surprised.

“I’ve never done that in my life. We just get out a bedroll—or the ground if it’s soft—and lie down. Like them, see?”

The Goblins were just tossing their things down and arranging them next to their sleeping space around the beginnings of a fire. Ulvama had created one with astonishing ease. She just dropped firewood out of a bag of holding, kicked it together, and pointed and it burst into flame.

“Civilians.”

Sergeant Gna looked scandalized. She stared at the haphazard camp and then turned. First to Bird, then away to Numbtongue or Snapjaw, who was petting Icecube, and then to Fierre as the best, most reasonable leader.

“This can’t be your camp! Where are the sentries? Fortifications?”

Fierre bit her lip.

“Um—Bird? Numbtongue?”

“Goblins will watch out.”

Numbtongue called back. Indeed, the Goblins had already established a sentry-order by poking each other and Badarrow had first watch. The Goblin stopped as everyone turned to stare at him. He was climbing onto a rock where he’d sit with bow in hand. He raised his eyes at Gna.

“But that’s…well, that’s something. Yet you don’t have a latrine, or organization. You should use the wagons as cover, and have some kind of basic defensive area set up. I suggest moving to a cave or—”

The Gnoll hedged, unwilling to give the Goblins credit. She turned and stopped.

The Antinium looked up from digging a trench in the ground. Workers, Soldiers…all save for two.

Bird was sitting on the ground, kicking his legs and watching, apparently not at all pressed to help out. Next to him, Pivr, the strange Antinium on all fours with wings was giving orders.

Sergeant Gna and Pivr locked gazes. The Gnoll instantly turned away.

“What is that thing?”

“I am the Flying Antinium’s Prognugator. Also Revalantor. Pivr. My job is to keep Bird safe. I have already established Antinium safety protocols. Observe.”

The Flying Antinium rubbed his palps together as one antennae flicked towards the Workers. Octavia realized they weren’t just making a trench; they were digging into the ground and planning on resting there.

“Perfect camouflage and protection. If the camp is attacked, we shall sacrifice the meat-things and tunnel up to assail our opponents or retreat.”

The ‘meat-things’ did not appreciate that, yet it was clear each group had their area covered. There was just no overall leadership.

The others looked at each other, unsure if this was fine to let lie. Fierre went over to the wagon, Gna stomped off to find a rock to lie behind…until Bird stood up.

“Pivr. Redirect some Workers to place dirt in front of the wagon. It will hide it and provide natural cover. Badarrow should also move closer; we will create a hill he can watch from, with a bit of cover. Strategy!”

Gna blinked and turned back. Pivr looked uncertain, but some of the Free Antinium instantly moved to obey. Badarrow, who’d just finished getting settled, grumpily stood up, but when he heard Bird, he tilted his head and nodded.

“That’s…almost good. But we’re still open to attack from every other angle. They could come over the hills.”

Gna muttered, not looking at Bird. The Worker stared at her. He gestured around. They were in a natural ‘bowl’ with one opening, that Snapjaw had pointed out.

“This is a naturally defensible area. As to attacks from other angles—Ulvama. You will use a [Shaman]’s mark to ward the other directions.”

Ulvama looked up. She pointed at her chest.

“Me? No. I’m tired.”

Bird stared at her.

“But I have given the order.”

Numbtongue grunted. He nudged Ulvama with an elbow. She looked at him, at Bird, and blew out her cheeks.

“Fine.”

Grumpily, she went up the hill to do what Bird had said. This time Sergeant Gna looked around.

“Well, well…it’s adequate.”

“It is a simple and efficient plan. You can find no flaws in it. Because I am smart.”

Bird lifted all four arms. Sergeant Gna refused to answer. Inside his space, Niers Astoragon chuckled to himself.

“Bird really is smart as, well, Olesm! I had no idea!”

Octavia remarked to Numbtongue. He nodded slowly, but didn’t seem surprised.

“Bird is Bird. Maybe Klbkch taught him.”

Sergeant Gna’s ears perked up. Salkis rubbed her claws together.

“I don’t know who any of those are. You mean Klbkch the Slayer? That’s Bird the [Hunter], right? He slaughtered Wyverns at Pallass. He’s also a [General]?”

She gestured at Bird, impressed and wary. Octavia and Numbtongue chuckled at the assessment, but they realized Salkis really didn’t know him at all. For answer, Octavia gave her the most charitable answer.

“Miss Salkis, Bird is uh…Bird. He’s a bit odd, but he’s good at whatever he does.”

“I can see that. Uh—should I watch out for them in my sleep? You know? Goblins. Or the Antinium?”

Salkis jerked a claw at the Goblins. One of the Cave Goblins looked astounded and flipped a finger at her. The Antinium also heard.

“We are not given orders to kill you at this point. Your safety is assured unless we are attacked.” Pivr answered. Then he paused.

“Well, the Flying Antinium promise this. Where is Xeu? The Silent Antinium may be seeking additional targets.”

“We. Are not.”

Someone spoke right next to Gna as she was setting up her bedroll. She yelped, and rolled away with a short sword in her paw, and stared as the landscape shifted.

Xeu, the Silent Antinium slunk past Gna, who backed up. Her scythe-arms rubbed with a gentle metallic sound, but she had been silent, invisible up till now.

“Dead fucking gods!”

Fals shouted. Even the Goblins started; even some of the Antinium. Everyone had almost forgotten Xeu had been part of the first group.

“There you are, Prognugator Xeu. Where have you been?”

“Scouting. Three minor threats eliminated. Proximity to danger-zone Bloodfields. Resting now. Does Revalantor Bird have further orders?”

Xeu rested, her body already beginning to chameleon itself into invisibility. Octavia edged closer to Numbtongue.

“I forgot she was with us!”

He nodded, but Snapjaw was already relaxed and grinning.

“Strong allies, eh? As good as Poisonbite at hiding! Better! Also, Drake, we don’t have bad sex. That’s Mountain City Goblins.”

She pointed at Ulvama. The [Shaman] froze as she was coming down the hill. Snapjaw and Ulvama locked gazes and the air grew frosty. Badarrow nudged Snapjaw.

“Stop.”

Interesting. Niers, Gna, Fierre…well, practically everyone noticed the rift between Goblins at that. Fierre rested her chin on her hands.

“If even the Goblins aren’t united…and the Antinium too?”

She glanced at the two foreign Antinium. Prognugators she understood, at least the leadership term. She was itching to look into Revalantors and maybe sell data, but she wasn’t at work.

“We’re all here together. Let’s just relax, okay?”

Garia tried to play Erin, smiling around and booming. The farm-girl turned City Runner was already rummaging in her bag of holding.

“I bet we’re all hungry. I’ve got lots of food for the road. Who wants to cook, or are we doing it separately?”

Another pause. Octavia looked around. The Goblins shrugged. It was Gna who muttered.

“I suppose we can pool rations. All I’ve got is travel stuff. Dry. If anyone wants to cook…I’ve got [Survival Veteran]. It uh, lets me cook at a level a bit below [Basic Cooking].”

A level a bit below…heads immediately turned to Garia. She shrugged.

“I can cook too. Fals, you have [Basic Cooking], yeah?”

“Yup. Anyone got that beat?”

No hands immediately rose. Fierre knew how to cook—mostly blood dishes. Snapjaw had decent abilities, and Numbtongue could call on Pyrite, but only for a minute. Octavia pursed her lips.

“I could help. I’m good at recipes.”

Of course the [Alchemist] was. Fals rubbed his hands together, then finally noticed the person waving his hand indignantly.

“Oh. Uh…are you better?”

The Cave Goblin glaring at him finally got the attention of the others. It had been waving its hand non-stop, but no one had noticed. Everyone turned to look at the Goblin.

“…Let’s let the Human cook.”

Gna muttered sotto voce. However, Numbtongue was intrigued. He glanced at Badarrow.

“Huh. I don’t know that Cave Goblin. Which one of us did he learn from?”

He. That was more information than the others knew. Cave Goblin? Badarrow shrugged. He pointed.

“You…”

Then he lapsed into the Goblin’s tongue. The Cave Goblin replied, almost indignantly, and smacked his chest and then his lips. He pointed to the air above his head, and then shrugged.

“What was that?”

Salkis laughed, but Octavia had some inkling. The Goblin had said about three words and done that ridiculous pantomime. Yet Numbtongue answered evenly.

“He said he was a Cave Goblin who learned from Rabbiteater. Which means he knows cooking. Not as good as Pebblesnatch, but he has [Basic Cooking] and two more cooking Skills. He’ll help or do cooking if we let him.”

The others stared at Numbtongue. In a bit of surprise or—incredulity.

“Wait a second, he didn’t say all that just now, Numbtongue. You’re putting words in his mouth.” Garia protested. Numbtongue shook his head.

“He did. Lots of words. Also, not ‘he’. His name is Rasktooth.”

The others turned to look at the Goblin. Gna frowned mightily.

“Odd name. Why’s that?”

For answer, the Cave Goblin laughed and fished something out of his tunic. He had armor on, and underneath the cloth itself…he pulled out a necklace with one long canine fang.

A Raskghar’s tooth. A trophy from dead oppressors. He bared his teeth.

“I take.”

Gna blinked at him. So did Fals.

“I’ll uh…I’d welcome the help. If we want to combine Skills, maybe?”

He meant to make sure everything was going according to normal rules of edibility, but Rasktooth was already investigating the small mountain of vegetables and prepared goods Garia had pulled out. In the end he shrugged and just grabbed a lot of dried noodles.

“Big pot. Big fry. Big eat. Slice, slice. Big taste paste.”

He communicated well. Boil the noodles, fry up meat and vegetables—slice those. Big taste paste referred to a pot of seasoning. Fals squatted there, warily, but getting into it.

“A stir-up? That sounds good for so many. Great! Er, how do you want to—”

Rasktooth was slapping vegetables on a cutting board as he chattered to another Cave Goblin, who begrudgingly filled a pot with water and began to hang it over the fire. He gave Fals a look.

I’m not an idiot. Stop getting in my way.

The City Runner hesitated—then stopped asking questions.

As the food began, Pivr watched. He turned to Bird

“We cannot ingest gluten. Revalantor Bird, have we alternative food sources? If not, I have secured ample provisions.”

Bird looked up; he’d missed the food talk in whispering to a little bag for anything else he needed to know. Belatedly, he saw the noodles.

“Oh no. I should shoot some birds.”

“No need. Here. Antinium! Sustenance is prepared.”

Pivr dug in his bag of holding. The Antinium gathered around and saw him disgorge a huge, ample portion of nutrient…

Slop. Sergeant Gna instantly clapped a paw over her nose. Fierre’s own nose wrinkled and Salkis gagged.

“What in the name of the walls is that?”

She pointed and an orange and brown…no, there was green. It was mold. But it was probably edible mold and, all things given, the most appetizing part of the nutrient paste that Antinium produced.

“Efficient food. Storeable. Compact. No fire or preparation needed.”

Pivr extolled the benefits of Antinium food. The Free Antinium looked at each other. They looked at the fire, and Fals and Rasktooth, staring in horror at the abomination of cuisine.

They edged towards the fire. They’d be happy with incontinent stomachs.

“We are not eating that, Pivr.”

“Y-yeah. We can make non-noodle food! Anything! Really. Just—put that away, please?”

Fals waved at Pivr. The Antinium, disgruntled, kicked the food into his bag of holding. The dirt would not interfere with the taste or quality of the food either. Xeu rubbed her scythes together.

“Alternative to noodles required?”

“Yes. I will shoot a bird. Or bat. Or many.”

Bird tilted his head up at the sky. Xeu shook her body, having to scuttle left and right to perform the action.

“Alternative food source. I have.”

“Really? Well then, I will eat it.”

Bird looked up. Niers frowned, poking his head out of the bag. The others watched as Xeu scuttled off. Fierre, who was watching as the Antinium formed a wall between the wagon and road, frowned.

“Wait a second. Where is she going?”

Xeu scuttled right past her, vanishing into the land beyond. But she was headed towards the road…past the road…towards the distant red earth. The area far, far out of range for even the spores or deadly tricks of—

“The Bloodfields. Xeu, wait!”

Octavia screamed, but it was too late. Xeu was gone. Half the party rose to their feet. Ulvama swore as Goblins, Humans, Vampire, Gnoll, and more raced after Xeu. She took five steps forwards, looked back, and then caught herself.

“What am I doing?”

Ulvama went to sit back down. She wasn’t going anywhere near that place.

Two Humans raced after Xeu. The Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings. Normen and the other man had also been forgotten, uncomfortable with everyone here. Now, they charged forwards, but were drawn up by a shout.

“No, you idiots! You’re not wilderness fighters! Fall back!”

They slowed. Normen glanced over his shoulder. The voice was right. They were used to street fights; neither had ever seen the Bloodfields. Who had said…? Numbtongue raced past them, sword drawn. Normen moved to follow, but the Goblin had halted.

“Xeu! Stop!”

Numbtongue bellowed. Yet he couldn’t see the Silent Antinium. Everyone halted on the road, staring into the darkness. They saw the strange, alien fauna beyond.

Bloodfields. The deathly ‘sentry’ plants which impaled the ground, the bulbous plants holding insects within, cutting grass…a thousand things ready to slaughter you. Everyone remembered the Crelers—but even without them, the Bloodfields were dangerous.

Xeu though, was nowhere to be seen. Bird whirled to Pivr.

“Where is she?”

Pivr shrugged his wings.

“I do not know. Xeu is Silent Antinium. Her Queen would know.”

“You are unhelpful, Pivr.”

Bird twisted back, staring, but even his eyes couldn’t spot her amid the twilight. Fierre sniffed the breeze.

“I’m too far away to pick her out. Anyone else have better eyes? A Skill?”

Badarrow was squinting. Gna tried to pick up Xeu’s scent, but she had been odorless and Gna hadn’t detected her even when she was right next to the Antinium! The first sign of Xeu was when the Bloodfields abruptly moved. There was a flash—and one of the bulbous pods went pop. Everyone recoiled and heard distant thrumming.

“Look! There!”

Garia pointed in horror. Normen and the other Brother stared in shock as insects exploded out of one of the pods. They whirled around, having been disgorged from the trap-plant they’d infested by…what?

Xeu! The Silent Antinium became visible in a rending whirlwind of her scythe-arms. The little insects covered her, biting, trying to eat through her armor, but unlike flesh-beings, she was the superior insect.

“Dead gods, she’s slaughtering them!”

Sure enough, the swarm covered Xeu, and then fled. She scuttled around, the bag of holding attached to one limb, and then trotted back. Everyone stared as she appeared, covered in insect blood and bits, but unharmed.

“Food secured.”

She handed Fals a bag full of diced insects. He nearly dropped it. Rasktooth smacked his lips.

“Good extra. Make more fries.”

The others looked at him in horror. But the Antinium were all nodding. Good provisions. The bugs looked tasty.

—-

“I am not eating from that pan again. Did you make that before this plate? Or after?”

Sergeant Gna nearly threw down her plate of stir-fry when she saw the Antinium’s version. It was roughly the same. Crispy meat, vegetables, all glazed with a sauce to keep it together—Rasktooth also had [Natural Seasonings]. The only difference was that instead of chewy, flat noodles, theirs were fried insects.

Garia turned pale as the plate was handed to Bird. Fals hurried to reassure the others, looking queasy.

“I made it all before that. That’s…are you really going to eat that?”

Bird looked up from stuffing his face. The Free Antinium were accepting plates as Rasktooth and another Cave Goblin handed them out with every sign of enjoyment.

“It’s bugs. I knew they were insect-people but—I’m going to be sick.”

“Oh, stop being such a baby.”

Fierre snapped at last, unable to put up with the Sergeant’s constant complaining. Gna twisted.

“Excuse me, Miss?”

“It’s just bugs! You’re not eating them! Chickens eat bugs all the time. We eat chickens. Bugs are in grain—have you never seen a grasshopper leg in some wheat? I bet you eat at least one per year!”

Fierre was not impressed by the bugs; she was a farm girl. Garia looked a bit queasy, but nodded.

Rather, it was the city-folk, Gna included, who looked pale. Normen muttered into his plate as he reached for a stiff drink instead of water.

“No offense to the Antinium. Fine gents I hear, Miss. But that’s not something I’ve ever seen. Never heard of regular folk eating bugs, myself.”

“Nor me.”

Salkis and the two Brothers exchanged looks. All the Goblins tittered. They were amused. The city-folk glanced at them.

“Not ever eaten bugs? Fat Humans, fat Drakes and Gnolls. Never been hungry! Rasktooth, give us plate of bugs! Non-Goblins eat the rest.”

Snapjaw waved, a challenge in her eyes. She offered the plate back for the noodle-portion and the other Goblins gave up theirs too, grinning. All but Badarrow, who kicked Snapjaw when she poked him.

“I hate bugs.”

Ulvama refused too, but the Goblin’s teasing still clearly rankled the others. Gna’s head turned for support…and found surprisingly little.

The two Brothers were with her, and Fals. Garia and Fierre didn’t object. However, Octavia didn’t blink twice at bugs.

“I use ‘em all the time in my alchemy. They’re in potions too. Also…Ceria eats them, you know. All the time. Even worms. Say, can I get any parts left over? I’ve never experimented with Bloodfields bugs…”

Rasktooth indicated a bowl of bits, in good humor. Octavia went over, and Numbtongue accepted a plate of bug-fry with resignation. But the dour [Bard] had a bit of his own humor in his eyes as he deliberately took a big forkful and crunched on a bite.

“Pretty good. Sour.”

“Needs more good sauce.”

Rasktooth added more sauce. The thing was—which none of the Goblins said—the thing was, bugs still tasted a bit worse than noodles unless your palate was aimed around them. Most bugs were bitter or sour, because they didn’t want to be eaten. Cows were apparently suicidal because they tasted good.

Even so, they grinned as they crunched, supplementing satisfaction for taste. The others stared—until Garia slapped her legs.

“Well—well, why not? Give me a forkful, Numbtongue!”

She rose to her feet, a challenge in her eyes. The others stared as she walked over. Numbtongue was merciful; he gave her a shell-portion, which crunched, but tasted mostly of the rest of the plate. Garia’s eyes watered, but she crunched it down, then lifted an arm up.

“It’s not…bad! Really, Fals!”

He looked horrified, but someone else lifted a claw.

“Why not? I’ve had raw meat. I’ll try one.”

Salkis, grinning again like it was an adventure, actually took a raw bug and after a moment of staring at it, bit off the head. She chewed, swallowed fast, but then tossed it down.

“Hah!”

“Oh, so it’s a contest, is it? I can eat bugs. It’s happened in Liscor’s army. Give me that. I’ll just—”

Gna grabbed a centipede-thing, took a bite, gagged, and nearly threw up. Fals stared at her, lowered the fork he’d taken to try a bite, and refused.

Fierre had a bite too, mostly to see if insect-blood sated her thirst. It didn’t—or there wasn’t enough of it to help. The others chuckled or laughed, and the Antinium quietly noshed, watching the others trying their food.

“I am updating the Blood Fields as possible food source. It is not that dangerous, it seems, if food is abundant.”

Pivr opined to Xeu and Bird. The Silent Antinium rubbed her scythes together.

“Dangerous. Stalk-plants impale any Antinium. Can sense me.”

“How did you survive, Xeu?”

“I did not get close.”

“So Antinium eat bugs and they come in all forms. Goblins eat bugs, and half-Elves apparently. Strange. No one mentioned that. It’s cannibalism—sort of. And they’re all good in a fight?”

Salkis washed down the buggy bite with a drink. She was still getting her bearings. The others looked at the newcomer. All assumed that someone else knew her. Numbtongue shrugged. He counted.

“That one is good at fighting. Bird is. I, Badarrow, Snapjaw, and that one are best at fighting. Redfangs and [Chieftains]. Ulvama too, maybe. Garia can punch. You have enchanted daggers. Brothers are good. So…nine good fighters.”

He counted, and pointed at Xeu, much to Pivr’s dismay. The others stirred as Numbtongue counted them off.

“I know those two are good. Men with hats.”

“Brothers, Miss. I’m Normen, and this is Alcaz. At your service. Pleasure to be with you on this mission—heard you helped us out at the inn.”

Normen tipped his hat. So did Alcaz, the other man. A spluttering sound came from Salkis’ left.

“Wait a second! You forgot me!”

Sergeant Gna. Pivr raised a claw.

“And me. I am a Revalantor of—”

“We’re not bad fighters, Numbtongue. I’ve held my own in a fair number of scraps!”

Fals protested as well. Fierre also nodded.

“I survived the Archmage of Izril’s mansion with Ryoka!”

Numbtongue shrugged, unmoved by all but that last. He looked towards his bedroll and yawned.

“I said good fighters. Most can fight. Let’s sleep. We move tomorrow.”

He went to lie down. Someone threw a spoon at him.

Sergeant Gna. She was on her feet, glowering, eyes flashing.

“I’ve had enough of this, Goblin. I may not like coming along. I may have been ordered to come along, but I am a [Sergeant] in Liscor’s 4th Company. When we get into a scrap, you’d better listen to me because I—”

Numbtongue tossed the spoon back. He spoke over Pivr, who was also trying to state his credentials.

“I am a Level 35 [Bard].”

Gna choked on her tongue. Pivr fell silent. Xeu stared. Niers peeked out of his bag, grinning, and took another bite of his snack. He was damned if he’d live on bugs; he’d had a cookie he’d been eating all day. One cookie. It’d probably last him the next day too. He’d had a single noodle for dinner. Not bad eating.

Gna looked at Numbtongue, lost for words. Her paw twitched towards her side, instinctively. Salkis sat up and stared at Numbtongue, eyes glittering. The [Bard] looked around.

“Who else is over Level 30? Just raise your hands.”

He stared about. Fierre held her breath.

Level 30? It was rare to find anyone of Numbtongue’s level just hanging about. He could be a Gold-rank with that! Erin was even more exceptional. Of course, she was a Vampire, but she understood why he said what he did. There was no way—

Badarrow raised his hand, and Bird raised two of his, one for him, one for Niers. Then he lowered one hand because he remembered he was a [Liar]. Snapjaw raised a hand, and so did Ulvama.

Salkis was the last, and her eyes lit up as all gazes fell on her. Gna gaped.

Goblins with levels. The two Brothers touched their hats, and Normen muttered.

“Crimshaw should’ve been here.”

Octavia stared at the Goblins. One of them, a Redfang, folded her arms, but looked delighted at the representation. Numbtongue counted.

“Six. Good fighters.”

He rolled over.

“Go to sleep.”

Goblin dominance established, the others fell silent. Gna rolled over behind her rock, muttering, but subdued. The Antinium tucked themselves into their holes. Fierre rolled under a wagon and the Goblins fell asleep almost at once. They rested like that, and Octavia, who’d elected to sleep on top of the wagon, unsure why everyone wasn’t fighting for this space, reflected it wasn’t the worst first day.

There was tension, but they’d tried bugs, and it might work out.

…Maybe.

—-

The next day, the band of mostly not-Brothers except for the two who were, awoke. They packed up and struck camp early—Octavia snoozed through everything until they got moving. So did Salkis, and she just climbed into the wagon, muttering curses; she wasn’t used to rising like that either.

Even so, they were well underway when a commotion happened. The others slowed as Pivr came striding up the lines to Bird, who’d decided he’d try riding a horse for fun. He glided forwards, ‘hopping’ and flapping his wings to arrest his fall.

“Bird! Bird! This is an unprecedented event!”

“What?”

Bird turned in his saddle. Pivr pointed back at Xeu, who was menacing a terrified worker with her scythes as the other Antinium gathered around.

Again, the column halted. Goblins turned, and even Snapjaw flew back when she saw what was happening. Gna tensed, unsure what new drama was occurring.

And here it was. Octavia saw one of the Workers who’d volunteered to come after Mrsha trembling, holding its pack and a simple spear and buckler. It carried a bow, but like the Goblins, the Antinium aside from Bird, Xeu, and Pivr were faceless.

Much like the Goblins, really. If you looked at the group, they were made up of the important, the over Level 30’s, and those like Fierre, who knew they were special.

On this great trip across Izril, some might live and some might die. The odds were it was the ones you didn’t know, the lowest-leveled ones who’d die. That was why Salkis grinned. That was why Normen and Alcaz said little. Some people had different expectations.

Most of all for the nameless Goblins and Antinium, some of whom couldn’t even claim to be over Level 10. If you wanted to name the group…

It was Numbtongue, bearing the ghosts of Reiss, Pyrite, and Shorthilt. Ulvama, Badarrow, Snapjaw, Salkis, Octavia, Garia, Fals, Fierre, Gna, Bird, Pivr, Xeu, Normen, Alcaz, Icecube…and that was about it. Then came the ‘Goblins’. Then the ‘Antinium’ as a whole.

There was Niers unseen, and if someone remembered her, a bee named Apista. The rest were the masses.

Or so you thought. The Worker was trembling as Pivr complained, loudly, to Bird.

“It is unsanctioned! It is unprecedented! Did you authorize this, Revalantor Bird?”

“Yes.”

Pivr hesitated. Bird stared at him. Pivr fanned his wings.

“…Do you even know what it is I am referring to?”

“I authorized it. So you cannot complain, Pivr.”

“You did not. That is a lie, Bird. Name the issue.”

“…Then I will authorize it when I find out, and authorize it now but in the past so my authority was always there.”

Pivr’s mandibles clacked open and closed. Eventually, he turned around.

“That Worker! It has gained a new class!”

He pointed at said trembling Worker, who had a curious decoration on his chest. He was a Painted Worker, and he had chosen a strange, nonsensical symbol to represent himself. One he had gained from his visit to the inn. It was a sign that Kevin had been teaching Mrsha during math class, a strange inverted loop, combined with the Worker’s favorite food.

A pear, in the center of the sign for infinity.

Thus, he was Infinitypear. Bird tilted his head.

“What has Infinitypear gained?”

“Infinity what?”

Pivr fanned his wings angrily.

“He is an [Adventurer]!”

The column stopped. They all looked at Infinitypear. An…[Adventurer]?

“You don’t mean Adventurer as in Bronze-rank Adventurer. You mean…”

The Worker looked at Octavia, then away. The [Alchemist] realized—he’d been listening to her.

We’re on an adventure. And he believed it. Of course he did. This was an adventure for a Worker. A grand adventure.

We may die. We may never come back. Yet…as Bird began to chuckle, then laugh, a little man in his pocket laughed too. The Goblins grinned.

We may die. Or we may rise. The band was this: It was Numbtongue, bearing the ghosts of Reiss, Pyrite, and Shorthilt. Ulvama, Badarrow, Snapjaw, Salkis, Octavia, Garia, Fals, Fierre, Gna, Bird, Pivr, Xeu, Normen, Alcaz, Icecube, Niers, Apista.

And the Goblin named Rasktooth. The [Adventurer] Antinium named Infinitypear.

[Adventurer Class Obtained!]

[Adventurer Level 3!]

[Skill – Find Roads Less Travelled obtained!]

[Skill – Weapon Proficiency: Spear obtained!]

[Skill – Spirit of the Wild (Enhancement) obtained!]

Interlude – Pisces 1 (Revised)

Trigger Warning: This chapter contains numerous examples of sexual and physical assault, slavery, and various forms of torture as well as suicidal ideation.

Of all the things he had ever heard, the thought that Mrsha believed she truly was a Doombringer hit Pisces hardest.

It was far from the most painful thing to be spoken, even in that inn.

It struck him twice deeply. A perfect step-in, a strike past all his careful defenses and concealed truths. That little girl thought she was cursed. Responsible for all the tragedy that had befallen her and deserving of the terrible fate she’d been subjected to.

She was wrong. Maybe…he did not know her full story, so maybe she had made mistakes. Huge ones; perhaps she had erred so greatly someone died. Perhaps—it hadn’t been her fault and she could not have known. Yet she was innocent.

She had not chosen to do evil, so if she bore guilt, so did they all. She deserved no title, no markings like her white fur, and she should not carry that pain with her into the decades that would follow.

He wished he’d told her that, however uncharacteristic it might have been for him. He wished he’d done a lot of things. But Mrsha—most of all, Pisces wished he’d told her that.

For if he could believe that, perhaps there was some redemption for him.

It seemed that he was more deserving of the title of ‘Doombringer’ than anyone: three times in his life, he had brought death and destruction to the very same people he had called his friends, who had taken him in.

The first, as a boy on Terandria.

The second, as a young man in Wistram.

The third—the Village of the Dead and the obliteration within.

The fact that they had lived, used a miracle to escape, changed nothing.

They could all be dead. Everyone but you. The thoughts dragged at him night by night, just like the past. He couldn’t escape it. So—as he woke and slept, and woke and slept again, the heavy collar of enchanted metal around his neck, the mundane bindings of a slave on his wrists, part of Pisces felt relieved.

So relieved. For at last, the [Necromancer] was receiving the just punishment he had evaded for so long.

—-

As he was led deeper into Chandrar’s continent, Pisces Jealnet walked. Then he rode. He alternated between both, talking a little and listening quite a lot.

There was little else to do on the move. And despite the stories or romantic images, talking incautiously while riding was a good way to bite your tongue off.

Even he couldn’t fix that. Bone? Yes. Flesh…ah, well, he’d never liked flesh as much as bone. Yvlon had once taken him to task about it.

“Silver and steel, Pisces. I don’t see what the difference is. You’re a [Necromancer]—a zombie is no harder than a skeleton, surely! It may stink worse, but if you’re in for one, you might as well be in for the other. That would be like me not learning how to swing an axe and only focusing on a sword. For someone like you, it’s a strange weakness!”

And what were you supposed to say to that? Pisces dimly recalled some sneering remark he’d made, but it was cover. A lot of what he said and did was—cover. Old habits. Deflect, lie, or hide how you felt. That was safer, even with friends.

He…wasn’t ashamed of the truth, but how could Pisces tell the sometimes surly, often high-and-mighty daughter of House Byres that he found bone and skeletons infinitely more attractive than a rotting Ghoul, or even the hulking musculature of a Draug?

His slightly superior friend and comrade might understand that. But if he told her that he found the look of ivory shaped just so—attractive? That he called the true creation of undead, proper undead, art? As beauteous as any horse or painting she admired?

What would she say then? Either she would be horrified, disgusted, attributing him the same qualities as some fetishist who slept in graveyards, or she would simply not understand. So he lied. It was simplest that way.

Ah—Pisces felt a jerk as he stumbled and nearly fell, caught himself, and for a second, dragged on the thin length of rope running through the manacles on his hands. It was looped around the steel shackles, impossible for him to free himself.

The tug ran down the entire line of people. Pisces heard a groan of annoyance, someone slow and stumble themselves—he caught himself. Then stared down at the manacles.

The manacles were themselves the same kind he’d had on now and then. Steel or iron or even wood; designed to make grabbing a sword or weapon harder, if not impossible, and obviously make it harder for a would-be criminal to flee. These were steel and cloth, ironically enough. Someone had made two bracers of metal, chained them rather generously with some metal, and then, oddly enough, added a cloth padding to the interior.

The odd part was the length of the chain. Pisces could, with a bit of difficulty, scratch his chin, even touch his toes when not looped into the rope procession. And padding? He had never seen this kind of restraint.

Perhaps because these manacles are not meant to be taken off so easily. He had not worn them for a few hours while being marched to a jail cell and interrogated, or even a day. He had worn them since he had woken up in dry Chandrar, enslaved and this procession of…he looked at the other figures ahead and behind him, also connected to the same length of rope.

The slave caravan all wore manacles like his; they would not be taken off, hence the additions for ease of use and comfort. It made them able to do basic tasks, and while it was more dangerous to a captor, their collars were the true prison.

He felt the collar’s cold metal around his neck. This one had no padding; some of the other [Slaves] had something like that, even vanity decorations. His collar was silver and mithril, harder than steel.

Enchanted. He could feel it blocking his natural flow of mana. With it on, he had as much chance of casting magic as the sweaty man he’d nearly dragged down in front of him, whose sweaty neck flaps Pisces had been dully watching for the last three hours.

He didn’t even have chains around his feet. That was the insulting thing. As impairing as the manacles on his wrists might be, Pisces had once been trained by one of Terandria’s recognized [Fencers]. Give him a blade—any blade—and he might have dared to fight the four-dozen some mounted captors riding in bored formation around the procession on the road. If he had a chance to escape, if it were possible to get them one or three-on-one at most…

But no. Pisces shook his head and kept moving, knowing to slow would have the person behind run into him. The collar was all they needed. With it, he could never hide from their magic. With it—they could also kill him if he grew too dangerous.

Pisces had woken up in one of the wagons loaded with goods, [Slaves] too weak to walk, even some of the slumbering [Guards] who traded off. Even this caravan needed a bit more than could easily be carried in bags of holding, and the wagons were useful for people like Pisces.

He had been half-dead for the first few days, burnt out of mana, raving when he was lucid, confused and delusional when he was not. He had apparently been close to death when they found him lying sunburnt and dehydrated in the desert, thrown by the teleportation spell.

“Still stumbling, heh, Pisces? Maybe you should ride in the wagons! Can’t have you slowing the pace. You were so quick on your feet in the Village of Death too! Maybe Wistram makes everyone on the scrying orbs look good.”

One of the [Guards] joked as he slowed to eye Pisces. The young man looked up at him, and had to swallow a second or two before replying.

“No, thank you. I would rather walk and build my strength.”

“Ah, adventurers. Tough! Heads tough and too full of pride to ride! Myself, I’d rest up, but be my guest.”

The man rode ahead, and Pisces felt eyes on him. From the other people chained up in the two long lines, from the wagons, and even from the other [Guards]. They all knew who he was by now.

Pisces still wore his white robes, and they were still pristine despite living in them. His skin was dirty, dusty, and he would have no doubt had an odor but for the dry, gritty climate. His enchanted clothing, though, was the last possession he had. His rapier, his bag of holding, his possessions, even the spellbook he’d taken from the Putrid One’s collection were all in the possession of the caravan master.

But for that hint he wore something expensive, he might have been any young man, albeit from Izril or Terandria, rather than Chandrar where skin tanned fast under the sun. If you knew magic, you might be able to sense the death magic around him, but no more than that.

Yet everyone in Caravan Igheriz’s group knew that Pisces Jealnet was a Gold-rank adventurer and member of the Horns of Hammerad, one of the survivors of the Village of the Dead raid, [Necromancer] and former graduate of Wistram with a bounty on his head from Terandria.

They knew this, because they’d seen him on the scrying orb. Or heard about it after. Pisces was a celebrity before ever having come to Chandrar. Unfortunately—that was why he was here.

It earned him some respect, ironically enough. The [Guards] were not any kinder to the one Bronze-rank adventurer than the others—yet Pisces they had seen or heard about. He wondered if he could play on their vague admiration, but they still followed Igheriz’s orders readily.

No, not [Guards]. Not [Caravan Guards], or [Caravaners] or [Mercenaries] or anything of the sort. [Slavers].

Pisces reminded himself in his head. These were not like any people he knew. The almost exclusively-male group of [Slavers] that made up Igheriz’s Caravan made their living by owning, buying, ‘acquiring’ and selling slaves. The odd, interesting, disturbing part was how Igheriz labeled himself.

“Is Pisces stumbling? Well, we cannot have that! Slow! Slow and we rest. Give water—and see if the road ahead will stay clear, Azam. No monsters, no [Bandits], no sandstorms…we thank Roshal’s fortunes for such things, but I will not lose even a hair upon Pisces’ head until we reach home!”

And there he came himself. Igheriz was a Stitch-man, one of the Cotton-caste, but with noticeable ‘improvements’ from silk. Even a fabric Pisces had no ability to label on one hand; the skin it became seemed permanently slicked, almost sweaty? Yet it seemed strong enough as he rode one-handed towards Pisces.

As one of the [Slaves] permanently attached to his caravan went down the line, offering a long ladle of water to each person so they could drink several huge gulps then move on, the caravan owner leaned over his saddle and grinned down at Pisces.

“You see how I do such things for you. This is a sign of admiration, Pisces. I wish you to take note, no matter where your fate takes you after Roshal. I, Igheriz, give such tokens of respect to no [Slaves] other than the most beautiful of women or the greatest I have ever dealt with—and you are no beautiful woman!”

He laughed hugely at his own joke. Pisces bared his teeth.

“I would be even more impressed, [Slavemaster] Igheriz, if you would let me ride without manacles.”

“Ah! Ah!”

Igheriz waved a finger. He looked down at Pisces sternly.

“I am not that kind of a fool, Pisces. The manacles—well, adventurers like you get such thoughts. I know you are smarter than most, but Gold-ranks always think they can escape, collar or no. But that is not what displeases me. You keep calling me [Slavemaster]. It is to annoy me, I think? You would not like me to lose my good humor so I forgive you, Pisces! Remember: it is Caravan Leader Igheriz. I will not warn you a third time.”

He grinned and Pisces hesitated for a long second before ducking his head.

“Of course…Caravan Leader. Do you not style yourself by your chief class?”

The [Slavemaster]’s eyes lit up. Pisces took a grateful drink of the slightly brackish water being offered, and listened as the man replied.

“I am more than one thing, Pisces. Or we would call you [Necromancer], not just adventurer! I am a [Merchant]! I trade in goods and rumor! I make connections. And—yes, I sell slaves, but those who lead caravans are greatly respected. Roshal’s name—not everywhere. Especially not in Izril or Terandria, eh?”

He gave Pisces another knowing look. The [Necromancer] didn’t reply, and he was happy to be called that so long as there were no other pejorative added because that was what he was. Igheriz?

The man was a pompous, ruthless lowlife, and Pisces would have happily called him a [Bandit] wearing a [Merchant]’s skin if he were freed. He detested Igheriz, but unlike Yvlon—or Ceria come to that—Pisces could lie and be polite. So he smiled.

“Have you heard of my team, Caravan Leader? It’s been nearly a week and a half.”

“Ah! Of course. You ask every day.”

Igheriz slapped his forehead, again pretending to be astonished. He seemed to tire of the charade now and then, but his spirits were high. After all—he was going to be rich from selling Pisces.

“No word yet, but we are on the road and I will ask as a favor to you when we next stop. However, you needn’t fear! None of them have bounties, so they cannot be taken. If you hope they will catch up and rescue you—that too, I do not fear. You are mine, fair and done under Chandrar’s laws, and Roshal and Azam protect me.”

He grinned. That was the pretense under which he’d justified taking Pisces as a [Slave]. Pisces had a bounty extant from Wistram and Terandria—thus, he was fair game to be taken captive. It seemed like a poor and easily exploitable system to the [Necromancer], which was probably exactly why Roshal liked it. It wasn’t as if they had many Terandrian nations to impress; [Slaves] were not common in Terandria or Izril.

Pisces was a [Slave]. A Level 3 [Slave]. He’d woken with the class in his mind and he resented it. For one thing—it was…red…in his head.

That was how he could imagine it. Red, if there was a color. Not that it was a color; it was more like a pulsating, sear of…intensity. Thus, red. Like crimson blood. Like a heartbeat.

[Slave Level 3.]

[Skill – Master’s Sympathy obtained!]

[Condition: Famous Name obtained.]

Pisces had learned the secret that you could refuse classes you didn’t like long ago as a boy. But he had never known there were classes you couldn’t refuse. And—condition?

Igheriz had just laughed when Pisces had asked, those first few days when he had all the questions and no strength to walk.

“Ah, there are classes and things Terandria and your fabulous Human kingdoms have forgotten, Pisces. Conditions? Well, let us say your ‘red’ class will remain until you make peace! Then it will be much better for you and change. As for conditions…this is hardly the worst that you can receive, so be grateful! For I am a generous man, and will deliver you to Roshal on a bed of roses—without thorns!—unless you force me otherwise.”

Aside from the bed of roses part, Pisces had to admit, this was not the worst treatment for the last week and a half. But then—he’d only been conscious the last four or so days, rather than slipping in and out as his body recovered.

He suspected it could get worse, yet so far he was only marched at a steady pace all day. He rode in a second line of slaves now and then, to rest, and if he had wanted, he could have rode as well in the wagons. Food was not terrible, and he was not whipped. Igheriz had even stopped their progress for Pisces.

The biggest imposition to date was not knowing if his team was alive or not. Pisces suffered from nightmares waking and sleeping about if they were alive, if he had doomed them to oblivion caught in limbo or they had woken up somewhere worse than he was for his foolish decision. There had been no time! He had simply used the location Az’kerash had given him and…

They had bounced off Khelt. Pisces remembered that too. Some kind of anti-teleportation barrier? Once again, he cursed himself.

He had told them to go to the Village of the Dead, to find the Helm of Fire and persuade Az’kerash to revive Erin. He had activated the scroll, hadn’t stopped them from entering the heart of the city and rousing the Putrid One’s greatest servant. He might have gotten his team killed.

The worst thing in the world was knowing what might have been, and knowing how stupid you were. Unfortunately, Igheriz had recognized Pisces because he had a scrying orb, because he was rich.

Thusly—he could tell Pisces day by day news from home, perhaps to mock Pisces, or perhaps in the genuine feeling he was helping in some way.

Pisces kept thinking about ‘if,’ mumbling out loud to himself.

“They found the Helm of Fire. We could have stopped. Recovered it. We’d all be safe. We could have gone to Wistram. Why didn’t I ask for Wistram? Wait, you can’t teleport there. Or—Silvaria. He had to know somewhere in Silvaria.”

“Who knew about Silvaria? You mean teleporting? Serves you right, eh? If a giant monster was chasing me, I’d have teleported it.”

Pisces turned his head to see who had retorted. He heard a grunt from ahead, and the man with the flabby neck looked back. By now, Pisces knew some of his ‘companions’, fellow slaves who tended to be put in the same spot to avoid fights.

“Would that have worked?”

Pisces looked at the forward man. Bearig was a sweaty fellow, a [Cook]. As portly as the stereotype, because he did like to sample his own food. He was, apparently, not a good [Cook], because the Stitch-man had been made a [Slave] for nearly killing one of his most esteemed guests, the [Magistrate] of a region in Nerrhavia’s Fallen, with a fishbone in a fillet.

Accidentally, but still the enraged Magistrate Ducaz had accused him of trying to murder him or gross incompetence, and thrown Bearig into chains.

The Garuda woman behind Pisces was also from that area; they were passing out of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, heading west, towards Roshal along the coast.

A [Thief]. Well, that was the kind of person you got in this kind of caravan. A mix of the innocent in poor situations, like Bearig, those in debt who were sold to recoup their losses, the simply desperate—those who lived on the street were easy targets—and criminals like the Garuda and Pisces.

She grinned superiorly at him with a cracked beak. Cawe had heard all about Pisces’ story. He glowered back.

“Firstly, if the Putrid One’s servant could have been teleported, I’d have had to touch him. I doubt he would have let me cast the spell, and if my hand did not rot off, we would still be in the center of the Village of the Dead.”

“Ah.”

Bearig nodded, looking suitably impressed. Cawe just tossed her head scornfully.

“Excuses. Shut up about it if you’re going to explain away why there was no other option. I’m sick of hearing of it!”

Pisces shut his lips firmly. He couldn’t tell her about the one part that might have been changed—Az’kerash’s coordinates. He had probably wanted to send Pisces somewhere secure, under his influence, or that he considered safe. Khelt, the Necrocracy, was one of the few places.

Even so. Now that they were on the move again and talking, Pisces jerked his attention to the present. He nodded at Bearig, who had to half-turn, and to Cawe, who did not.

“You two have been part of this caravan for nearly a month now. How long until we reach Roshal?”

“Eager to get to the auction houses? I’m sure you can look forwards to a rich master; we’re not. Bearig’ll be lucky if he’s sold to some place who needs a [Cook] who leaves bones in his food. Me? I’d rather have been in the gladiator pits.”

The Garuda woman sneered. She was resigned to her fate. It was Bearig who answered.

“We took a month on our route; we were heading north and south as well as east to west, Adventurer Pisces. But since you arrived, we’ve been heading west only, and fast at that. I’d say only a month. Far less if we begin using Skills.”

“Only a month?”

Pisces glanced down the road. Nerrhavia was not close to the coast, and he knew Roshal was at the southwest of Chandrar. They had half a continent to traverse! It was Cawe who jerked her head.

“Travel Skills. All the [Caravan Masters] have them. You have that one to thank for it, though. With him, we’ll not need many Skills.”

All three looked ahead. Towards Azam. Pisces stared ahead at the bare-chested half-Giant. Yet—not an actual half-Giant, more like one half-made of obsidian for skin. Actual obsidian, with glowing magma beneath. That seemed to be the form he chose, but obviously it was mutable.

Azam was a Djinni, and the true reason why Pisces would not escape even if he had the collar and manacles removed, according to Igheriz. From what the [Necromancer] knew of Djinni—that was correct.

“If he’s so powerful, why can’t Igheriz check the [Messages] for my team, and why does he have to pay for a scrying orb from Wistram?”

Pisces lowered his voice as Azam strode back down the road, having scouted ahead. He moved fast, like someone under a [Speed] spell, but he didn’t fly.

Cawe looked contemptuous, and even Bearig shook his head.

“He’s not that sort of a Djinni. He’s powerful, but no Manasource Djinni. Do you know what Azam is, Bearig?”

The [Cook] shook his head.

“I could ask.”

“Go.”

He shuffled ahead to ask the [Slave] ahead of him. Pisces glanced at Cawe.

Now here was something for his mind, finally clear and working, to latch onto. The [Mage] tilted his head.

“I’m familiar with Djinni from my studies, but I never looked into them deeply. What do you mean by type?”

He neglected to mention being expelled after only three years. The Garuda sneered, but seemed happy to lecture the Gold-rank [Mage].

“You don’t know? Even mighty Wistram…well, Djinni have types, so they have names. I do not own one, but some take to different things. You see Azam?”

She pointed at the obsidian giant.

“He can’t fly.”

Pisces’ brows rose high.

“Truly? I thought they all could.”

The Garuda opened and closed her beak, frowning.

“Maybe if he took a form like mine, but I’ve never seen him fly, so he must not, right? Bearig, what is he?”

The [Cook] had come back down the line.

“They say he’s Aethertravel.”

“Ah. Then he’s doubly-suited for his job.”

“Aether and travel. What would that entail in terms of his abilities?”

Pisces craned his neck, frowning at the giant. Cawe shrugged.

“Just as you see him do each night for travel. Raise and unmake walls for camp. Help us with weather, speed our steps and keep the horses fresh. Aether. What does the word mean?”

It was Pisces’ turn to be the expert. Normally, he relished such things, but he wasn’t among friends, so he answered without pretense, without a sniff or comment designed to infuriate.

“Another plane. A magical term. It may mean he can manipulate…dimensions.”

“Dimensions? Of what? A room? Hah! No wonder he’s a Djinni of Igheriz’s caliber.”

Cawe’s voice was scornful, but she kept it low. She was…spirited. Yet clearly resigned to her fate. Bearig was likewise cowed, and always talked about his family whom he had left without support due to his failure. Pisces shook his head, then reconsidered.

“No…well, exactly that. He could perhaps alter a room—or create a room where there was none before. Dimensional magic. Not many [Mages] today could do that.”

He looked forwards and the [Slaves] eyed Azam anew. Pisces saw the giant Djinni glance their way, and felt a slight shock on his skin.

Azam had more power in him than Pisces could likely hope to achieve in a lifetime. He was a being of pure magic, and the biggest obstacle in Pisces escaping…or for Ceria, Yvlon, and Ksmvr rescuing him. Pisces still held out hope that they would, or even the Necromancer, Az’kerash himself. He was a calculating genius, but perhaps he might feel he owed Pisces for landing him in this situation?

Azam did not grin or jest—he had never spoken to Pisces once, in fact. He, like Pisces, was a captive as well. A slave. He had no swagger, no boast; he just obeyed, and that made Pisces warier still. If he freed himself—he would have to make sure Azam wasn’t able to follow or outrun him.

He just had to work out how to get free first. This was Pisces’ life, now. Four days and nights he had marched, learning about Chandrar, this caravan.

He would learn too much, soon enough.

—-

It was two days before she even laid eyes on him. Of course, she, Igheriz’s favorite, did not walk with the others and he had…reasons for keeping her out of sight.

Nevertheless, the new [Slave], the famous one, was welcome to her as well, so he earned her gratitude simply by distracting the [Slave Master]. It was a rare chance for her to rest.

What rest came, though, was marred by the knowledge of her waking hours. Sitting in the bumpy wagon, staring at her arms. Her legs.

Dark lines she hated. Sometimes she plucked at them, but she stopped, knowing it would just invite more punishment.

When she first saw him, lying sick and baked red as a lobster, he was not impressive. Nor even when he stumbled along in the procession, for all he bantered well. Even so, she decided she would not hate him and try to be kind, if they ever did talk.

He was a prisoner too, for all Igheriz liked him. They were akin; important [Slaves], but that might make it worse. For now, she just peeked at him out of the wagon, curious, unseen.

Her name was Eloque. She had no hope that the Gold-rank adventurer would save her. He could not save himself. She was merely curious.

Everyone in the caravan looked at Pisces Jealnet. Yet what Eloque noticed from her vantage point was that mighty Azam, the Djinni, watched Pisces too.

Azam had never cared for anything or anyone in the three years she had been a [Slave] in the caravan. Not for other Gold-ranks taken to market, other species across the world. He watched Pisces. So the [Necromancer] was special after all.

—-

He was building his strength. Step by step, day by day, Pisces felt his abused body repairing itself after the trauma endured at the Village of the Dead. Sometimes he regretted that he was not a [Fencer] or [Duelist]; Yvlon and Ksmvr might have been on their feet far earlier due to their Skills.

…But he would not take that class. Had not, as a boy.

When had it begun? Something about this caravan, the [Slavers], the guards—was familiar. Pisces saw one cuffing a stumbling figure hard for slowing and holding up the line.

He felt the blow, over a decade ago, and remembered a voice.

“Come on, boy! Move your hands and feet at the same time! You’ll disgrace the Jealnet name!”

As if that meant something. As if ‘Jealnet’ meant anything other than they were descended from [Fishers]. But Padurn Jealnet had dreams of making the name forever associated with [Fencers]. He was considered a somewhat good one.

He owned a silver bell. Silver, not gold—some days he came back from a duel in a temper, having lost to as famous a person as the young [Lord] of Nadel. So he was touched with greatness in that sense.

His son had lost that during his training. Padurn believed he had no anger in his training; that no matter how bad a day he had, there was only the art of the blade, footwork, a purity of expression in the way the rapier moved and danced.

He still worked his son from before dawn till dusk. Without anger? Perhaps. But it was then twice merciless because it was so dispassionate. Perhaps it would have been best if he’d had a girl or his son hadn’t shown any gift. Yet Pisces? He had a gift.

Somehow, from the start, from the first day his pleasant life had turned into pain as he was shown how to hold a real sword and struck on the hands and arms if he didn’t hold it right—he had refused to gain the class. His father didn’t understand it, but Pisces had been taught to rebel from the very start.

—-

Pisces came back to the present world when they stopped. A bitter recollection, that. It was thanks to his father that he had the bounty that had landed him here—well, that and a number of other things. Theft, [Necromancy]—and taking a [Fencer]’s silver bell.

Pisces bared his teeth. He had earned that bell. There were two ways you earned your bell. By passing tests, by being approved by your peers. Or—by defeating someone who owned the bell in single combat.

He had bested his father the day he ran away. So class or not, he had the ability to defeat his captors with a blade and no magic.

The problem…was they knew it. Pisces had long craved fame in a positive way, but this? He saw the [Guards] and Igheriz watching him, and they made comments about the Village of the Dead raid, even asked him questions.

“So, Pisces, if your team doesn’t have a claim, who’ll that Helm of Fire go to, then? The one they say is a relic?”

Pisces played along as the [Slaves] were made to rest in the camp Azam had created. The Djinni could lift the landscape itself into huge, nearly flat slabs of stone. It made an excellent defensive place to camp, and they had fire, refreshments, tents—the [Slaves] shared a few huge ones. Pisces, still the guest of honor, was accorded ‘space’ by the [Guards] kicking everyone else back a few feet.

Same for food. He replied as he ate the travel rations and the [Guards] listened with interest.

“That would be the team with most claim. Either Elia Arcsinger or Eldertuin the Fortress have a claim as Named-ranks. But whichever team did the most damage and took the most casualties, I didn’t see.”

“That might be the one who got that Drake-thing. The…Halfseekers. Hah! The balls on that [Rogue]! And he lived!”

In that way, Pisces knew his friends were alive. And he had the [Guards]’ favor, for what it was worth. Little chance they’d help him, but his unwanted Skill did add to his already-present fame.

Still, Pisces understood neither Igheriz nor the [Slavers] would be helpful. If there was help? It had to come from his fellow [Slaves]. So that night, he looked at them, sleeping well apart from his ‘special’ area.

“You don’t need to stay back. I don’t care.”

The others in the tent looked at each other. They were free of the rope group, but each was still attached with a personal line to a peg hammered into the ground in front of the tent. It meant you could tangle up, but they seemed used to it.

Cawe was the first to roll over with a grin.

“Ah, but if they get mad, we’re in trouble, adventurer! Still, I’d rather stretch out.”

Encouraged, Bearig shifted over and Pisces heard murmurs of thanks. He saw a Stitch-woman, one of the ones who’d been trusted to pass water out, smile at him.

“You’re kinder than you sounded. When they told us you had fought in that village, they made it sound as if you were a monster yourself, slaying powerful undead left and right.”

Pisces made himself smile. He wasn’t as friendly as some others, but Ceria had once told him he could be quite charming if he tried. So—he tried.

“Ah, well, Miss. It was a [Necromancer] fighting undead. Not exactly hard.”

The others looked up. A few began to ask questions. They were soon hushed, but Pisces traded whispers for an hour or two. He realized the [Guards] weren’t the only ones interested in him, but most couldn’t chat as freely. That was how he got to know some of them—some that might help, at any rate.

The Stitch-woman’s name was Astotha, and she was a [Slave] of years, attached to Igheriz’s caravan. He also met those in his ‘line’ which included Bearig, the hapless [Cook]—little help, but genial enough—and three others that Pisces had picked out for helpfulness or interest.

It was about Skills or trust. He didn’t know if he could trust Bearig or Cawe, but they were close to him and it was good to make friends. Cawe could be helpful, though. He learned she was not, in fact, a [Thief] when he offended her by using the class.

“I’m a [Pickpocket]. There’s a difference!”

Then she kicked him in the shin. Pisces swore—being kicked by a Garuda’s talons was not fun.

“I apologize for the palpable difference.”

She clacked her cracked beak at him.

“A [Thief] isn’t a specialist! I am. I could have a key out of my [Guard]’s pockets if my collar didn’t stop my Skills. Even without…”

The others shushed her and she fell silent. Astotha looked at Cawe, warningly.

“Any of them hear you again, and you’ll suffer twice. Igheriz won’t tolerate it, Cawe.”

The Garuda snapped her beak shut and Pisces saw her bravado vanish in a second. His sense of unease grew, but her comment told him two things. Firstly—he wasn’t the only person shackled from their Skills. Cawe had a special collar, if not as elaborate as his. Bearig did not.

Neither did Astotha. In fact, she could use her Skills. She…had Skills from her class as a [Slave]. She eyed Pisces, still a bit exhausted from the trek despite his rest, and touched his arm.

“Here. I won’t need this until tomorrow and you look tired, Pisces. A gift for a gift. That’s how we like to do it in Chandrar. [Ease Your Burdens].”

He felt some of his exhaustion vanish. Pisces blinked, and some of the footsore, aching joints and tiredness flowed away…into Astotha. He saw her grimace, slightly, and protested.

“You needn’t have done that. Thank you—”

She smiled.

“It’s my class. Some of it is lost, so we both gain.”

He met her eyes and they were kind. So Pisces nodded, vowing to remember the favor. He did remember such things. Like the [Innkeeper]…

No thoughts of home. Pisces catalogued the other three ‘interesting’ [Slaves] and made a point to talk to them the next day, as they struck camp and were put on the road again.

There were three. Most of the caravan were Human or Stitchfolk, with some spattering of Garuda, the natives of Chandrar. However, Pisces also saw a Dullahan [Tailor] amongst them. Qshom, who had run into a debt after a fire consumed his shop…his armor was plain metal, and he often cursed his justifiable misfortune.

The second was Droppe, who, like Cawe, ran afoul of the law. He was a [Broker], the kind that existed on Izril, that Fierre was, and had tried to sidle up to Pisces twice to chat about anything the [Necromancer] might share. Even here, he seemed to think there was profit in knowledge, and Pisces couldn’t fault him for that.

“I’d rather increase my value before we get to Roshal. You see, the more I’m worth, the better I’ll be treated! True, my master will know everything, but it’s better to be valuable than not.”

He grinned. Pisces turned to the man laboring next to him. The only other adventurer, a Bronze-rank Human named Shein who clearly held Pisces in some regard. They were the potentially ‘helpful’ or interesting ones, and had naturally been chained together, with Astotha as the exception; the small freedoms they were allowed.

“What will we expect when we get to Roshal?”

Shein grimaced.

“For us? The markets. We’ll be sold in big batches unless we’re worth something. Someone like Bearig’s worth more’n me.”

He jerked his head. Pisces was surprised, but Shein explained.

“I’m just a Bronzer—not like you. They’ll lump me in with anyone who might be good for hauling, fighting. Cawe and Droppe are specialists.”

“Told you.”

Cawe was smug. Droppe nibbled at his claws as he hopped forwards, apparently bored with walking. The Lizardfolk had bright, slightly multi-colored scales, but mostly a bright yellow. He wasn’t like Drakes, though, being far shorter and smaller, and frankly, more friendly. Sort of Drassi-like, Pisces supposed. Selys could be friendly, or snappish.

“Frankly, that’s half the, um, criteria. The other half would be our personality if that’s identified. Our fame. Cawe might be eligible to be put with the quite attractive females. Cracked beak doesn’t help, but I don’t know Garuda standards. Bearig? No. Shein? No. Me? No. Cawe’s the only one who has a chance and even that’s—ow! Stop it! Stop it!”

The Garuda tried to kick at Droppe. Pisces looked up. Ah. The other reason people bought [Slaves]. He felt a trickle of bile in his throat, but went on.

“And me?”

Droppe grinned, unperturbed.

“You? My friend. You’re a Gold-rank adventurer and a [Necromancer]! I’d already have you for personal auction, but with your fame? That’s why Igheriz isn’t taking his time. You will make him rich! Perhaps enough to double his caravan! Even buy a second Azam!”

Pisces still didn’t realize how famous he was. He knew the caravan had heard of him, but he just snorted at Droppe’s comment. He looked around. Droppe, Shein, Astotha, Cawe, Bearig, Qshom…hardly an inspiring group to pick a breakout team from. He’d bet Shein and Cawe had some kind of fighting ability—the rest, not at all.

Still, if they were his companions, they were good for knowledge like this. Pisces nodded at Qshom, who had been laboring harder than the rest due to his armor.

“Astotha is a permanent [Slave] for Igheriz’s caravan. Is there anyone else who’s…important as she is?”

He had already seen how much leeway she was given compared to the others; she could roam about, unfettered.

Instantly, all the other [Slaves] gave Pisces a sidelong look. He tried to look innocent…but then realized they all knew what he wanted. Cawe grinned, but it was Bearig who elbowed her; she and him were in front of Pisces today.

“Important slaves?”

Qshom gave Pisces an appraising look. He turned his head left and right.

“Astotha is one of the most-trusted. The others are as you can see. If there was one more—”

He hesitated, looked towards Igheriz who was riding at the head of the caravan, and suddenly lowered his voice. Uneasily.

“—that would be Eloque. She’s of Droppe’s people. But I do not think you will see her walking with us. No, not at all. She is—important—”

He shut his lips tight, as if he had said too much. Suddenly, Pisces saw how all the others had fallen silent. Even Cawe. He looked at them.

“I haven’t seen her.”

“You wouldn’t. She is Igheriz’s favorite. His…project.”

Even Droppe refused to speak more, and the little Lizardman had lost his smile. Pisces felt the back of his neck tingle.

—-

A simple event on the road changed things.

They met another caravan. This one called Hrome’s Wares. It was another caravan that dealt in slaves and goods. The man who led them was Human, unlike Igheriz. And he was…well. Plain.

Igheriz was a composite of different fabrics, but dressed like some rich [Merchant], styling himself with fashion even while travelling, and had three flashy rings and Azam when he greeted the other man.

Hrome had on a nondescript riding outfit, and he made no airs. He was bland. His slaves were almost all low-grade. He was transporting spices across Chandrar as well; he was a lower-grade Caravan Leader, not one with a Djinni or success like Igheriz, or his luck.

If he had one interesting quality, it was that his movement Skills were second to none; his caravan had caught up with Igheriz’s and nearly passed them; despite having [Slaves] walking behind the wagons, they seemed to step half as far again with each motion than Igheriz’s group.

The second thing was that Hrome took one look at Pisces as Igheriz greeted him and recognized him.

“Do you see the fortune that fell into my lap, Great Friend Hrome? What else are you bringing to Roshal of interest?”

They were swapping tales and information, and—comparing slaves. Rather like [Mages] compared artifacts or spells. Hrome’s eyes widened.

“I ran into a bit of luck myself—but nothing half so amazing as this! That’s Pisces! From the Village of the Dead!”

The [Necromancer] looked up as all of Hrome’s people glanced at him and then he began to understand what worldwide fame meant. Hrome turned to Igheriz at once.

“Caravan Master Igheriz. I know this may be inopportune and you have many clients who might want to bid for him—but could I make you an offer for Pisces? I would place him among my people! I could offer you twenty—thirty thousand gold at this very moment!”

Igheriz laughed and held up his hands.

“No, no, Hrome. I plan to sell Pisces for far more than that.”

“Fifty thousand. Fifty thousand and each [Slave] I have. Look—I have this one. A [Bandit Lady], Merr the Storm! I purchased her from a city not three days ago—”

Hrome hurried over to the most valuable slave in his collection, a vicious-looking woman who bared her teeth defiantly. Igheriz looked amused.

“Friend Hrome, you have good eyes, but not enough money! I do not say this to be rude; come, let us ride together and you may talk with Pisces. There is safety among the fellows of Roshal, after all!”

They were both from Roshal, and thus had a level of trust amongst them. Hrome kept trying to buy Pisces; he went up to eighty thousand gold pieces, which included most of his caravan, a princely sum even for a Gold-rank! All for Pisces, whom he seemed to regard as a minor hero. When he failed to tempt Igheriz, although the number did make the Stitch-man hesitate, Hrome went to asking Pisces about the battle.

“You defeated how many Skeleton Lords? Eight? With your sword? How was it done? I thought I saw you disintegrate their bones—I have a recording!”

He was simply a fan. Ironically, neither he nor Pisces knew he had missed another Horn of Hammerad, but the attention let Pisces fill the day and learn more. Unfortunately—Hrome also meant that by the time they were camped, Pisces was on auction.

The Human [Slave Trader] had a [Mage], unlike Igheriz, who relied on Azam and spell scrolls. He sent word to Roshal that Pisces had been captured and would be sold. Unusually, bidding had already begun even as they struck camp.

“Ah, you see, Hrome! This is why I took none of your offers, even when you offered me everything! I thank you for your [Mage].”

Delighted, Igheriz strode about the camp, eyes lit up with greed and self-satisfaction. Hrome nodded, looking envious as the [Mage] shouted numbers and names with increasing fervor.

“They are already bidding, Caravan Masters! Within the first moment, the Emir Hestute, upon learning such a famed person was being auctioned, declared he would buy Pisces outright for ninety thousand gold! At once! If you so will it.”

“Hah! A rich opening bid. No. I wait.”

Igheriz was right to. Because for the rest of that night and the next day, the bidding wars began in earnest. By the time Pisces slept, he had been valued at over four hundred thousand gold pieces.

—-

This was an astonishing sum. Hrome talked to Pisces the next day, explaining.

“Slaves are expensive, Pisces. But even the average Gold-rank might barely go for a hundred thousand gold pieces—without artifacts, of course! Mm. Perhaps they could double that if they had an unusual class or comely looks, but you?”

“I’m delighted to be worth so much.”

Pisces replied drily; he was riding, now, the better for Hrome to talk to him. The other [Caravan Master] had apparently elected to follow Igheriz, at least for now, and unfortunately, that meant their already-swift pace had more than doubled. They were passing by Illivere in a storm of movement, heading towards what had once been Tiqr.

“Ah! Another bid has gone up! Once again, the Emira! And once again, overtaken by Emir Hestute!”

It seemed like there were a few big bidders who really, really wanted Pisces. The Emira Se-Hexri, a Naga, Emir Hestute, and…one they only called the Naga. As if there were only one.

“Who is…the Naga? As opposed to this Emira Se-Hexri?”

Hrome stroked his chin and for some reason, glanced around.

“The Naga? Ah—Emira Se-Hexri is a recluse, you see. Rarely seen. It is odd that she should be so enamored of you, but perhaps she finds you as fascinating as I! But the Naga? There is only one. Emir Yazdil. Have you not heard one of the ten thousand legends told about him?”

Pisces had not. But Hrome and the other [Guards], even Igheriz, promptly told him a dozen.

“It is said he slew his greatest enemy, the foolish Emir Darsul, with his faithful servant, who climbed the tower, slaughtered each [Guard] without anyone hearing, and slipped past every ward and trap to kill him.”

“He has sent fleets that would make even the House of Minos tremble—each one full of gold and [Slaves] and treasure to his friends!”

“They say each servant of his is superior to any other. Even that he sells Djinni he does not find worth keeping! If you would be one of his, you should be lucky indeed, for the Emir does not even chain his servants!”

Well now, wouldn’t that be nice? Pisces decided there were worse fates than that—but the Emir Yazdil seemed like a powerful figure. Perhaps it would be better to fall into this reclusive Emira’s hands.

—-

Pisces did not know how true that was. Az’kerash, far distant, had finally found him. And the Necromancer was engaged in a bidding war to end all bidding wars with the Naga.

The Naga wanted Pisces too, but Emir Yazdil was also curious why the reclusive Se-Hexri was so interested. Of course, that just meant he bid more and more, knowing there was something there to win. After all—the Naga did not like losing.

As for Emir Hestute—he was just there.

—-

Four hundred thousand gold pieces?

When she first heard of the sum, Eloque had to gasp. She was worth a fraction of that price! Then—her lip curled and she was a bit disgusted with herself.

It was the way of [Slaves] to value themselves on how much they had been sold for. She was a [Slave], and had been one for nearly four years, now, but unlike Chandrar’s people, this was not normal to her.

She was from Baleros. Baleros, and [Slaves] were not so common. She wondered if another year would erode more of her sensibilities.

Even so, four hundred thousand gold was four hundred thousand gold no matter how far across the world you went and such a princely sum justified all the attention Pisces was getting.

They still had not met, yet Eloque found herself thanking Pisces even further; the obsessed Hrome meant that Igheriz drank and socialized. Less time to spend with her.

What intrigued her was not just the price. As she rode and numbers raced down the caravan, Eloque listened to the shouts.

“Four hundred thousand! Sing it to me, Hrome! We must drink, even when riding!”

Igheriz was in high spirits. He would visit her tonight, drink or not. Eloque stared out the flaps in the wagon, then turned her head.

“You don’t look impressed, Azam.”

A figure, like obsidian from Baleros’ volcanoes come to life, turned his head slowly. Azam, guardian and greatest slave of all, if not with the class.

He spoke to no one and nothing unless Igheriz ordered. He was silent, efficient, and often walked with her, next to the wagon with the greatest goods, a deterrent for [Raiders] or [Thieves]. Twice she had watched him crush a man’s head or throw magic. He was faster than they dreamed.

Yet he spoke to her of all the caravan. For she was not a guard, whom he no doubt detested, nor was she a transient [Slave]. He had not spoken to her for two entire years. Now?

…Well, she doubted he knew her name, but Igheriz’s attention seemed to instill the only pity Azam had ever shown anyone. So after a minute of walking, one eye slowly slid down and his mouth moved grudgingly.

“Should I be?”

“Is not five hundred thousand a sum beyond sums? Even you might be sold for a number close to that figure—and the price still rises!”

Eloque prodded Azam, wondering if she could stir him to anger or any emotion. She succeeded, but to her surprise, it was a smile that flashed across his face. His lips quirked, then his face went flat.

“It is a number. Should I respect another digit on the end? You nor I will never hold nor be able to use such a sum.”

This was true, but Eloque was still impressed by it. More than that…this was not the reason Azam stared at Pisces, then.

“Do you think it is too low, then? You sometimes stare at the adventurer.”

His eyes flicked to hers again and Eloque felt a shock as the power in him revealed itself. Azam frowned. He was displeased.

“We walk for days without end. There is little to stare at.”

Eloque rested her chin on the lip of the wagon and then winced as it jolted and her jaw clicked together. She rose, rubbing at the spot.

“Azam, are you avoiding the question?”

The Djinni looked at her, and then away. His eyes focused on Pisces, dismissively.

“His worth is due to fame. Not his power. Rather than that…this sum you make much of. All the numbers being shouted so loudly by our master—”

He nodded to Igheriz, still rapturously calling out. Azam glanced at Eloque and hesitated, but then lowered his voice slightly.

“—They are far too low, and directed upon the wrong target. The adventurer is worth far less than the book.”

Eloque’s eyes widened. She looked at Azam and realized. The Djinni was not staring at Pisces for interest in the man.

The book? What did Azam see with his power in the book?

Her curiosity grew still further, and Eloque resolved to talk to Pisces. Perhaps to gain the measure of a man worth half a million gold pieces.

—-

It was midday when the final announcement came. The hoarse [Mage] shouted, eyes bulging.

“Emira Se-Hexri has placed another fifty thousand gold on Pisces!”

Murmurs arose. Pisces looked up, scarcely believing it himself. He was now worth seven hundred and fifty eight thousand gold pieces.

“For that kind of money, you could buy a Named-rank adventurer! A cheap one, if they were on the market!”

Hrome was astounded. Igheriz was dancing, in the greatest of moods. It was down to two now.

Se-Hexri and Yazdil. The two were bidding slower now, reaching their limit. Pisces couldn’t understand why this female Emira wanted him, but he had a suspicion. Maybe…

As for the Naga? The [Mage] hesitated, put a finger to his brow. He reconfirmed, then whispered.

“The Naga tires of the bidding. He has put the price for Pisces Jealnet at nine hundred thousand gold pieces, and invites the Emira to go by the hundred thousand from now on.”

Dead silence reigned in the caravan. Then Igheriz laughed, the wild laugh of a man who had struck all lotteries. However, Hrome shook his head, nearly white with shock himself.

“There is no way she has enough to match that. Se-Hexri would beggar herself already, whatever fortune she has stashed away. There is no way…”

“And the spellbook is still to be auctioned! But we will keep that secret until I reach Roshal. I need not want for gold—and I shall give you 1% of what I now earn, Hrome! Never let it be said your generosity goes unpaid!”

Igheriz laughed and laughed. Pisces waited, but Se-Hexri had nothing more to bid. The true power behind her could have bid more, but he would have had to justify why.

So the Necromancer raged and the Naga won. As he always did. Now, Pisces felt the chains grow tighter, for here was a nine hundred thousand gold [Slave]. If there ever had been any chance of sweet-talking the [Guards]…now there was none. Each one had been promised a bonus for delivering Pisces. Hundreds or thousands of gold pieces; a pittance compared to what Igheriz would get!

If there was any danger, it was to the Caravan Master, Pisces realized. So did Igheriz. He now knew he carried true value, and Hrome’s speed would be essential. However—any thoughts of quickly taking Pisces themselves that surely existed in the [Guards]’ minds were forestalled because of one being.

Azam. The Djinni hovered, watchful, above them all. Igheriz turned to Pisces, smiling wide.

“You will be sold for more than even Azam, Pisces! More than you are worth, I think. Because Azam is mightiest of all. But then—so goes fame! I am minded to celebrate, but we do so only when we stop! To Roshal! Faster and faster!”

Still, he made merry that night. And that was how Pisces discovered who Eloque was. And how he began to see deeper into Roshal’s depths.

—-

That night, Igheriz made merriment with wild abandon. He drank, opened a rare cask of wine he had been intending to sell, ate liberally, and shared his good mood even with the [Slaves].

Especially Pisces. The [Necromancer] was allowed to drink, and did so. He drank and drank and carefully made sure Igheriz didn’t see how much was going onto the ground.

This was an opportune moment. The caravan was wildly excited with how much gold was promised for Roshal and they would be going fast to Lailight Scintillation, the port-capital said to be one of the wonders of the world.

They’d be more vigilant after this night. If there was ever a time to make a move, however incautious—it would be when Igheriz was in his cups. Pisces was ready. However—Igheriz surprised him in the worst of all ways.

“I—I knew you were lucky, Pisces. But this is more than you or I dreamed, eh? I will convey you to the Naga and be rich beyond dreams. So—so let us have fun! Eloque! Astotha, fetch her. And you, Pisces. Which one of Hrome’s or mine would you fancy? Cawe? I see you talking.”

Pisces froze, cup halfway to his lips in a feigned drink.

“What do you mean, Igheriz?”

“To bed! I will be generous. A [Slave] may sleep with another [Slave], but only if their master lets them! Sometimes for children—but who do you want?”

“No one.”

The [Necromancer] replied instantly. His skin crawled. Igheriz waved a finger.

“Ah, ah! You are going to offend me, Pisces. And I told you, I do not like offense. We won’t watch, will we, Hrome?”

The other [Slave Trader] looked half insensible himself, but he had called for his own personal [Slaves]. Pisces bit his lip.

“Cawe, then.”

He had no ill intentions, but better to escape and have a chance to talk with her than anything. Igheriz beamed.

“Excellent! Fetch Cawe—no, make her presentable first. They will have one tent—and I? There you are, Eloque. Pisces, come meet my personal…masterpiece. Do you see? Do you understand my genius?”

Pisces’ head turned. He saw the least talked-of [Slave] in Igheriz’s caravan. For a second he didn’t understand. Then he dropped his cup and saw.

Eloque was a Lizardfolk woman. Astotha had told Pisces that she had been beautiful, acquired by Igheriz in some port, and the [Slave Master] had been instantly besotted. However. She was still Lizardfolk and Igheriz was a Stitch-man.

So. Igheriz had done something to her to make her more ‘presentable’.

“There is nothing more beautiful than cloth, Pisces. If I marry, it will be one of my people. Silk, if they will have me. But a man’s tastes go to the exotic, so Eloque I will keep. And she looks far better to me, already. I have had Humans, other people adorned just so, but had to sell them. Is she not beautiful? Do you see?”

Pisces looked at Eloque and saw…thread. Thread, amidst scales. She looked at him, and he saw how she looked as patchwork as Stitchfolk. Igheriz had changed her by sewing string into her body, mimicking the seams of Stitchfolk around her joints.

“Eloque. Come here.”

Igheriz beckoned with his oddly wet hand. He saw Pisces looking at him, and mistook the wide eyes for curiosity.

“You see my cloth here? It is Watercloth, a simple name for such a rich thing. You see? Always it produces water. It is strong too, but it has many uses! Especially when travelling or in the bedroom. Hah!”

He made a gesture, and then looked at Pisces.

“I felt a connection with your captain, Ceria Springwalker. The one with the bone hand? I am like her, you see? Well, I admire your friend, Yvlon Byres greatly. Both speak to my people.”

Pisces’ ears rang. He saw Eloque walking slowly over to Igheriz. He saw her look at him and one look—Pisces’ lips moved before he could stop himself.

“You think you are like Ceria, Igheriz? Ceria? Hold your tongue. You don’t deserve to compare yourself to her boots.”

Hrome stopped pawing at his [Slaves]. Igheriz, the [Guards] joining him for libations, and Eloque all looked up.

The [Slave Master] was still smiling, but suddenly all noise had stopped. He turned his bright eyes onto Pisces, and replied slowly.

“That sounds like an insult, Pisces. Of course, I heard you wrong. So I give you a chance to clarify your words.”

The [Necromancer] hesitated. He heard every instinct in his sensible mind tell him to apologize, not to say what was boiling within him. He was not Yvlon! He was not Ceria! He was…

He looked at Eloque and the words tumbled out.

“You heard me, Igheriz. You monster.”

The Stitch-man looked around. He laughed, and some of the others picked it up, but suddenly the air was changed. Igheriz rose.

“This astounds me. A [Necromancer] disdains me. Me? You make puppets out of the dead, Pisces, and I did not say as much, but you call me a monster?”

He looked down at Pisces, eyes far, far too bright. Had Pisces seen him sniffing at something while drinking? It wouldn’t surprise him.

Pisces rose as well. The [Necromancer] was shaking.

“I am a [Necromancer]. I use dead bodies. The dead. Not the living. It is true, I have done terrible things. In my greed and arrogance, I have unleashed horrors. Because I was too incautious, I have seen those I loved die. I have even…created a monster.”

He thought of Toren and shook his head. Pisces looked around the tent, at the [Slavers].

“I was at the Village of the Dead. I saw the thing that lay in the center, the Putrid One’s last servant. I felt it touch me and rot my flesh like carrion and pestilence. It seems…so pleasant compared to here.”

He fixed Igheriz with a look. The Stitch-man had begun to laugh, a dangerous laugh. Hrome looked at Pisces, shocked, even daring to be disappointed. The [Necromancer] spat.

“You all disgust me. I will never be like you. I see beauty in death and life. You? All you can do is ruin what you touch and find more innocents to torture. I have seen Crelers, and even they look less horrific by comparison to—”

He got no further because Igheriz struck him. The Stitch-man leapt across the tent and backhanded Pisces so fast the young man couldn’t dodge. Something—rage or the drug had given Igheriz speed.

And strength. Pisces felt his cheek cut against his teeth and went stumbling down.

“So. I offer you everything, I give you my friendship and you insult me.”

Igheriz bellowed. He kicked at Pisces; the young man rolled. Pisces reached for something—the fork he’d been eating with! He rose, eyes blazing, fork raised in his manacled hands to stab—

He couldn’t move his arms. He couldn’t even lift them higher than his chest. Pisces stared at his trembling limbs.

The [Slave Master] laughed. He struck Pisces again, a blow that took Pisces stumbling backwards.

“A [Slave] wearing a collar cannot raise their hands! Say it again, Pisces! Say it again, how I disgust you!”

He kicked at Pisces. The [Necromancer] tried to roll, but ran into the tent flap. Then Igheriz was on him, and the [Guards]. They didn’t stop him. They joined in.

“You offend me, Pisces.”

Blows rained down from the Stitch-man onto Pisces. It was not the first time he’d been beaten like this; Pisces curled up, protecting his face, exposed parts. The beating lasted minutes, but Igheriz was panting quick, running out of stamina.

Pisces stared up with cold hatred at the [Slave Master], seeing Eloque cowering, Hrome calling for Igheriz to stop before he damaged Pisces. The [Slave Master]’s mouth was flecked with spittle and his eyes were rolling. He looked at Pisces.

“You have offended me once. Do you think I cannot discipline you before you go to Roshal?”

“I know you can’t kill me.”

The [Necromancer] spat blood. He stared up at Igheriz. He saw the man’s face twist and realized, too late, he had gone too far.

“Can’t? I can’t do anything? Do you think you are special because the Naga wants you? That I am not sole master? Dagger! Bring him outside!”

The [Guards] hesitated. Igheriz spun.

“Azam! Dagger!”

They dragged Pisces out. Azam, the Djinni appeared, and Hrome fell back from grabbing Igheriz. Pisces found himself pinned by one huge hand.

“What do you will, Master?”

Azam had Pisces’ legs; two [Guards] each arm, which they sat on. Igheriz strode forwards.

He had a dagger. Just a steel dagger. Pisces stared up at him. The [Slave Master] was still foaming with rage. Yet he had calmed into something far more terrifying than before.

“I am punishing Pisces, Azam. Hold him. Protect me as always. Pisces—you have offended me once. This is what I do to those who offend me. Once. Azam. That brazier. Bring it over.”

The Djinni did not need to move. He just reached out. One of the huge braziers set up for warmth and light at night was placed next to Igheriz.

The Stitch-man kept well free of the fire, which he feared, but he lifted the dagger in his watercloth hand.

“You see? I fear no fire with this! And this—do you think I am afraid of injuring my property, Pisces? Tell me I am a monster.”

He stuck the dagger in the fire. Pisces saw the blade begin to heat up. He began to struggle.

“Igheriz. Igheriz, I—apologize.”

“You do, do you? Well, I will listen to how sorry you are. Hold him down.”

“Caravan Master Igheriz. Pisces is—”

Hrome froze as Igheriz whirled. There was a deadly look in the man’s eyes now.

“The Naga can repair anything he wishes. But this? You and I have met, Pisces.”

He drew the dagger, tip now glowing. Pisces began to struggle hard, but the Djinni and [Guards] had hold of him. Igheriz bent down, and yanked Pisces’ robes aside.

“You and I have met. And now you will remember it in more than words.”

“Igheriz. I apologize! Stop! Enough! I apologize, I—”

The man began to draw on Pisces’ chest with the glowing blade. It was only then Pisces began to shout. Then scream. The others, [Slaves], [Guards], Hrome, and Azam watched. Only the Djinni did not look away. He just met Pisces’ eyes. For he had seen worse.

—-

Her first meeting with Pisces the [Necromancer] had not gone well.

For him. Eloque watched the entire event unfold silently, wishing she could tell him to shut up. The young man was as foolish as most [Slaves] taken from outside of Chandrar.

Even so, he did not beg. He did not shriek like some did. He was an adventurer, for all that was worth.

And…a [Necromancer]. That was the curious thing. Eloque kept thinking of it that night, as [Slaves] tended to Pisces and Igheriz stormed about, laughing and drinking and raging by turns. He didn’t forget her of course, but Pisces had stung him, so Igheriz slashed the air with his sword and everyone stayed out of his way.

For sport, he beat the [Cook], Bearig, as if it were his fault for being tethered next to Pisces. Now that man begged and cried out—which alleviated his suffering. Eloque could hear the laughter as he pleaded for mercy, calming Igheriz.

That was not what Eloque thought of. She tuned it out, and thought of Pisces’ words. How he had stood there, in the tent, and dared Igheriz’s wrath.

‘I will never be like you.’ He had said that to Igheriz’s face, calling what he did monstrous. Oh, Eloque had enjoyed that. Yet he confused her.

He was a [Necromancer]. It was not illegal to be one in Baleros like other continents, or so Eloque had been told, but the undead were still horrifying to her. Rotting flesh. Disease. [Necromancers] animated dead bodies.

He thought of himself as better than Igheriz? Eloque began to sneer…then fell silent.

“Perhaps he is.”

The dead could not suffer. She hoped he would not heal too badly or catch infection. A brave young man, with morals, ill-suited to Igheriz’s company.

A foolish one too, to let his tongue wag so.

But brave. She liked him because he brought a mind and voice far from Chandrar to this place, [Necromancer] or not.

—-

Everything changed after that.

Pisces was no longer favored. He was chained, treated like the others—but worse, because everyone knew he had fallen from favor.

The branding took a long time to heal. He was only given a tiny bit of potion. And it would not…heal. Not that. Not burns.

Igheriz was not just evil, Pisces realized. But truly mad. Eloque was proof of that. So was Pisces.

“He will kill you. Offend him three more times and you die. He does it, for [Slaves] who matter.”

Astotha took a bit of his pain, treated him. Pisces stared at his burned, raised flesh. Igheriz had…written his name there. Across his chest.

“Three more times? What can he do worse?”

He laughed, almost hysterically. Astotha stopped brushing a bit of potion onto him and looked at him.

“Pisces. That was only the first. The second time, he beats you to almost death. The third? He cuts off your balls. The fourth—he kills you. No matter who. You think he won’t do it? He will, even if the Naga wants you.”

The [Necromancer] looked up. Astotha stared at him, and then away.

“And you are his [Slave]?”

“I have no choice. He is fine if he is not angered. Well. Mostly.”

Pisces looked at her. Around the tent. He was developing a hatred for Chandrar he had never felt before, not for his father, not for anyone—no. Just Roshal. Just Igheriz.

The worst part was what the [Slave Master] had called his perversion of Eloque. Beautiful. As if he was making art. That was how he thought of it.

Art—Pisces fell into troubled dreams. Because he remembered true art.

—-

Her name was Gewilena. She was a [Necromancer]. No—she was different. She had a class, and it was [Artist of Bone].

She was the first person that the boy Pisces had met, one day after he’d run away from his training, sobbing and tired of learning the art of the sword. He’d met her in a forest and she’d been as terrified as he.

“Why—why are you upset, young man? You’re from the manor, aren’t you?”

Padurn Jealnet taught the rich scions of the noble family how to fence. Pisces stared at the woman, who was hiding something behind her back.

“My father’s the [Fencer] who teaches them. I hate him.”

“You hate your father? That’s…terrible. I didn’t expect to find anyone here, you know. Why, are the lessons hard?”

She edged back. She had been in a cave he had run into, thinking to hide here. It was clear of wildlife, but there was something…he tried to see.

“I’m better than everyone. Everyone but him, but he says I’m not good enough. I like magic more. The [Mage] teaches me, but he won’t let me learn. Who—who are you? What’s that?”

Gewilena froze. She was in her mid-thirties, though she had looked far older. Pisces would always remember her as being—furtive. Looking over her shoulder. She rarely relaxed, unless she was around him. Young and old. As innocent as could be, laughing, delighted, or older from what she had lived through. She had tried to block him, to destroy it—but he had seen.

An undead. But not like any undead he had ever seen, before or since. She had been working on a torso of bone, a creation. Her creations. She had even begun to paint it, having taken the bones from this cave to work.

Gewilena was a [Necromancer], but she created undead slower than even natural magic. She created…Pisces had fled the staring face, the alien structure. He had fled in a panic as she cried out for him not to tell anyone, that she wasn’t hurting anyone!

No being, not even Crelers or the most foreign monsters had ever looked like that to Pisces. It was what Erin or Ryoka would have called alien. He had run, accepted his punishment, and never breathed a word about Gewilena, although he had known what she was.

[Necromancer]. A class outlawed. He had fled her, but he told no one. Because after the horror had faded, the shock that something could exist that was so illegal to the world the young boy knew—

He had found the undead beautiful too.

That was how Pisces had first met Gewilena. It would not be the last, and in time, they would become friends. That was how he had started down the road to [Necromancy].

Her art had ended up all being destroyed. Every creation burned by the [Lord] of the manor. She had burned with them. Pisces’ fault.

Yet Gewilena’s art had never been made of people. It had been made of corpses long abandoned, animal bone. It hurt no one, he had screamed. All she had wanted was to make her art, beauty as she saw it. She had never taken a life, never harmed anyone.

Igheriz? They were not the same. There was no evil inherent in [Necromancy]. Danger, yes. But [Slavers] and [Slaves] were made of pain. It would never be the same for Pisces.

Never.

—-

He saw the key to his collar for the first time the day after offending Igheriz. Pisces stumbled in the lines of [Slaves], pain-ridden. Every time the robes brushed against the skin, he shuddered, in fury as much as pain.

Out of favor, and the [Slavers] finally treated him like the others. Blows if he wasn’t quick enough, spitting on him, at him, insults—

He had offended their precious pride by calling them monsters, and favoritism quickly flipped around. All but Hrome, who still seemed to secretly like Pisces.

One of the [Slavers] struck Pisces across the back with a long stick he liked to lash the [Slaves] with. He drew something from his neck and waved it at Pisces.

“You offended Igheriz, eh? You’ll never remove that, not without magic. And you tried to strike him? Foreigners. Didn’t know, eh? Your collar stops you hurting us. You need this if you want to make a fair fight, and I’d take you, fancy rapier or not.”

Pisces stared up at the glinting key, inset with a gem on the handle. He frowned.

No visible magic. But a key was still a key. Pisces stared at it. What curious teeth! There were two sets, in some sort of…forked prong. He couldn’t understand the mechanism by which it would open the cuffs.

Magic, not tumblers. Another reason no [Thief] would free themselves, not even Cawe. He didn’t reply as the [Guard] taunted him, merely memorized the key’s shape.

It was Igheriz who rode over and struck the [Slaver]. Hard. The man screamed and fell from his horse, clutching at his back. The [Slave Master] was in a bad mood after yesterday’s hangover and his rage against Pisces. Eloque was nowhere to be seen.

“You idiot! Wave that key about and I will break your hands and leave you in the sands, understand? Pisces. You are no longer in favor, eh? This saddens me. However, we still march in your company, so smile, smile!”

Pisces stared up at him. Igheriz grinned and spurred his horse onwards. He…still acted like they were friends. Even though Pisces was ‘out of favor’, and he expected Pisces to at least pretend to play to the part.

Madness.

No healing meant Pisces’ face and limbs were swollen and he was exhausted, trying to keep moving. It was Bearig who helped Pisces, supporting his arms. Cawe too, though mainly with encouragement.

“You idiot. Didn’t you learn to keep your mouth shut to the [Guards]? More fool you for getting branded. Cheer up. At least you’ll only lose your balls if you make him mad two more times. You don’t want to know what happens to women.”

Qshom, Astotha, Droppe, and Shein all helped too. Astotha most of all, taking bits of Pisces’ pain for him. They had formed around him, a group of sorts. So…naturally. But then, they were [Slaves]. Pisces hazily remembered that was how it happened.

—-

When Pisces ran away the second time to join Gewilena, it was after months of learning from her in secret. It started with questions about why, how, and more. Learning the law wasn’t the law, that [Necromancy] wasn’t evil, all of it was a slow process.

He joined her cabal. [Necromancers] hiding out, glorifying Az’kerash, all taking to death magic for different reasons.

Talent, a desire to emulate the great evil of Terandria for their own hatred of this land, baser fascination with death, a sense of being outcast…

Pisces didn’t care for many of them. Gewilena was whom he admired. She was among the best of them, but she didn’t create zombies or seek vengeance. She had taught him well, and he joined their cabal.

They attempted to farm like Silvaria had once done, but ran afoul of insects and plague. They kept ahead of the law, [Knights] and [Guards], fighting sometimes, fleeing and hiding most of the time.

They argued politics, envisioned a better future, and studied magic. Erin had called them ‘death hippies’ when she had pried part of the story out of Pisces, and he had no idea if that was accurate.

What he had known were his friends. Gewilena, Ama, Feren…

Well, ‘Ama’ and ‘Feren’ were their names, but they took on pretentious airs. That was how Pisces had stopped using ‘Pisces Jealnet’. If they were to be outcasts, they should be as royal as those pretentious [Lords] and [Ladies]!

Feren du Aquinteis, his assumed title, had been the leader of the cabal, who had to clash with the other [Necromancers] who wanted to lead them to conflict, root out the ones who were bad, fight…he was the best of them.

Level 30, although he’d barely gotten there and Pisces had privately believed Gewilena had been better, just refused to use her full powers. Nevertheless, Feren had been good. He’d heard Pisces was good with a rapier, but refused to get a class, and they’d become friends, or a kind of mentor and student.

“Come on, Pisces. Learn the damn spell!”

He never struck Pisces, but he wasn’t the best teacher. Gewilena was patient; Feren was not. Nor did Pisces want to learn.

“It’s not fair.”

Feren swished the practice sword he’d made out of bone impatiently. He had begun to dye his hair, in emulation of Az’kerash, his hero, despite being older than Gewilena, even.

“It’s a spell to replace a Skill! Fair? I told you to use everything you can to win a fight!”

Pisces had, back then, still believed in Padurn’s teachings about how to fight, for all he refused to take the class. He’d protested, but Feren had overruled him as Gewilena worked on her next masterpiece. They rarely had any function, for all they were undead; they could barely defend themselves. They were just for beauty.

Some of the cabal had left because of the perceived waste. That was fine; Feren could create strong enough undead to protect them all. Food was harder. Sometimes they stole, sometimes they had to intimidate or raid caravans. So he trained Pisces.

“They care nothing for us. A fair fight doesn’t exist when eight [Knights] are charging at you, Pisces. So—once again. [Flash Step]! Az’kerash himself used this spell!”

Pisces hoped Feren had survived. When his father had tracked him down, after an unwise visit to his mother, the [Lord] had arrested half the cabal and put most to death. All but Pisces, who was returned to Padurn until he escaped.

Did Feren live? Ama? Pisces had seen Gewilena die, and he thought he would never hear a worse sound than that. Her sobbing as her creations died. He had run from Terandria, to learn magic where Az’kerash once had.

He thought he would never hear a worse sound than that.

He was wrong.

—-

Pisces learned of the holiday of ‘Leciaun’ shortly after Cinaelu and the dramatic battles with Khelt and the King of Destruction.

Everyone was jumpy, watching Azam. The Djinni had heard about his cousin being freed, but he made no sign of emotion. Nevertheless, Igheriz had been ready to send Azam to capture the rogue Djinni himself.

“The King of Destruction broke a Djinni’s chains. Will Roshal refuse to trade with him?”

Whispers ran down the line of slaves. Pisces listened with half an ear; politics and the King of Destruction seemed far away, but he had to remind himself that he was now within the same continent as that legendary [King].

“Surely not. They wouldn’t throw over the King of Destruction for saving his own neck.”

Droppe opined, fancying himself the final word on such things. Qshom sighed tiredly, glancing back and clearly wishing his head could take a ride on the wagon with Eloque.

“Explain, Droppe.”

“Thank you, Qshom. I’ll give you some of my rations…”

Everyone else groaned as Droppe began to lecture.

“You see, it’s about cost and gain and the message they’re sending. If they went after the King of Destruction for freeing Djinni, all of Chandrar would agree. Yet he clearly did that as a last resort on a Djinni-attack from Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Therefore…should we blame the King of Destruction? He was an inch from death!”

“That he can at all should terrify any.”

One of the [Guards] leaned over his camel’s back and spat, giving Azam a wary look. The Djinni was expressionless, moving far ahead of the caravan as per Igheriz’s orders. Droppe gave the man a sly look.

“Ah, but it could have backfired. Fear not! No Djinni will be freed even if the King of Destruction gets his hands on them. He is no idiot! They would roast him before flying off…no, I believe Roshal will give him small favors, and other nations condemn fools who would involve Djinni in this war. Leave them to serve; there are few enough of them anyways!”

Igheriz himself listened and nodded, smiling.

“Just for that, Droppe, I will put in a good word for you at the market! Someone remember to give him wine tonight, eh? For easing our minds.”

The Lizardman tried to bow, grinning broadly. Igheriz did seem to relax, as well as the other [Guards] who had been nervously fingering their hilts every time Azam passed by.

Pisces just frowned to himself, wondering if Droppe was right. Even if he was…he looked ahead towards Bearig.

“Roshal seems to be a major power.”

The [Cook] stared ahead until he realized Pisces was talking to him, and then jumped.

“What? Er, yes, Adventurer Pisces!”

“It’s just Pisces, Bearig. Do you know much about this?”

The man tried in vain to wipe at a sweating brow.

“No more than any other Chandrarian, Pisces. Which is more than someone from Izril I suppose…you’ve never seen Djinni?”

“Never, aside from scrying orbs. Wistram doesn’t keep them. Their binding spells can interfere with magic, we had Golems and…there are too many things for them to exploit.”

“There’s some wisdom, sir. Not that I’d turn down a Djinni as someone to chop things or haul buckets, but you know what happens if they get loose?”

Pisces nodded. Both Bearig and Cawe shuddered, a reflex Pisces found intriguing. He walked forwards a bit, so he and Bearig were closer and Cawe did likewise.

“So, Roshal as a power interferes only in matters of Djinni.”

The [Cook] nodded solemnly.

“They’re slaves as much as we are. Any nation or power in Chandrar would do the same; we only hear of Roshal because Master Igheriz is from there. Only a fool frees Djinni, Pisces. A man as desperate as the King of Destruction, or something foul like, like…Demons.”

He searched for someone evil enough to meet his criteria. Pisces was only glad he hadn’t gone for ‘[Necromancers]’ first.

Drily, the young man cast his eyes across the caravan.

“So Roshal fears Demons too, eh?”

“They send vast stores of goods and a tithe of their own to Rhir, Pisces. More than most nations.”

“Really. Is that in their oaths pledged to help Rhir? Why would that be?”

Bearig shrugged.

“I don’t think so. They support Rhir. Strongly. They fear things like…the Demon King’s Deaths. The Death of Magic has returned. So they say they can never be killed. Roshal doesn’t want them getting free any more than most. Less than most, perhaps. If the Deathless—”

“Shut up there!”

A blow came swinging in so fast from the side that Pisces barely dodged it. Bearig was clubbed and fell down, yanking Pisces low. A [Guard] snarled at the two, on edge.

“Talking about Demons next! And the D—them! Bad luck! Talk about free Djinni or Rhir one more time and I’ll lash you both!”

“And I’ll kick you in the balls for making me fall over.”

Cawe snapped at both of them, spitting sand out of her beak. Pisces sighed. He fell silent with Bearig as the man felt at his side, wincing. Instead, Pisces turned his gaze ahead to the source of all this paranoia and fear.

Azam.

It was another reminder the Djinni was a slave too—but not like them. He cared nothing for the other [Slaves], and would knock them aside. They were ants to him.

However, he was needed and Igheriz could not put him aside. After all—

They were attacked.

A night raid, three days after the branding. It was fast, quick, and Pisces stayed in the tent throughout all of it.

To leave would have been to be prey to the [Guards] and their attackers, even if he could have levered out the peg hammered into the ground; only Azam could do that, as he was the one who drove them in.

The attack came in the middle of the night, and eight [Guards] died. The attackers came in with swords, arrows, sneaking up on the sentries, and they might have killed both caravans’ [Guards] and freed the slaves—or captured them themselves—if it weren’t for Azam.

Igheriz could fight. He had an enchanted sword, and Hrome might have been decent and his [Guards] average, but Azam tipped the scales. The Djinni strode about, killing the attackers with swift blows from his hands, ignoring their blades and arrows that bounced off his skin.

When it was over, Igheriz interrogated one of the attackers. Pisces didn’t see that either—but he heard the screams. He only heard what was said after, by Astotha, the [Slaves] who had heard the [Guards] talking.

“Merr! We received orders to free Merr! And—get the [Necromancer]! Pisces! Someone hired our boss to make the raid!”

—-

“Damned bandits! This is what comes of taking the direct route! We pass too close to Savere and the Siren respects not even Roshal! Something must be done, Hrome. We must join forces or hire more guards. Azam cannot be everywhere!”

It was Savere, the lawless country run by a [Bandit Queen] that had launched the attack. Not formally; it was one group among many, but Igheriz was worried.

Pisces wondered who had hired the [Bandits]. Perhaps a certain someone after the auction had failed? If so, more attacks might be coming. This one had been too close already; they had been going for the [Slave]’s tents to free them, Pisces had learned.

But for Azam.

It was then that Hrome and Igheriz began casting a wider net for support. Roshal protected its own—for a fee. However, it was easier to look for allies in the area. They found it in a third caravan, the largest and wealthiest by far.

“Do you know this [Slave Master]? The Emir?”

Igheriz was dubious as the joined caravan went to meet the third. There would be no danger if they joined three groups into one, or so he hoped. Hrome shook his head, frowning.

“Not personally. Riqre’ma Medaale is—unpredictable. They say he has lands not far from here. But it would be best to treat him with all respect, Igheriz.”

“He’s unpredictable?”

Pisces stared at Igheriz. The [Slave Master] was insanity personified to Pisces. Yet somehow, the adventurer had yet to see the worst. He saw Igheriz check the sky and curse.

“We will not reach this Riqre’ma today. Tomorrow, perhaps. Yes, it might be well. Today—it has been tiring on all of us. This attack, the pace. But given that it is three days after Cinaelu…”

He glanced around and raised his voice significantly. The [Guards] had been frayed with nerves ever since the raid and losing eight of their number. They glanced up, and looked excited. Hrome nodded.

“You think we should stop now?”

“Yes. Of course! Let us make camp early. Then—Leciaun!”

Igheriz clapped his hands. Pisces heard a low moan run through the [Slaves]. Cawe had frozen. Bearig looked pale and sick.

“What is Leciaun? That’s not a Chandrarian holiday.”

Pisces knew all the major ones, or so he thought. He heard no answer from Cawe. Bearig’s face turned towards Pisces, struggling to come up with a reply. It was Droppe who answered.

“It’s not one. Roshal created it after Cinaelu, long ago, but only they truly celebrate it. Especially in the caravans. It’s…to ensure obedience.”

Pisces’ head slowly turned. He did not like the way Droppe was telling him this. He did not like…what he guessed was meant.

“What is Leciaun, Droppe?”

The [Broker] glanced at him.

“You can’t guess? A day for the [Guards] to do what they want. The ones who have done the best. Everyone is fair game—everyone but the [Slaves] most favored by Igheriz and Hrome. The [Guards] can’t permanently damage anything. But beyond that they’re free to do…anything.”

Pisces sensed Cawe shuddering. He looked around, and once again noticed—to almost exclusion, Hrome and Igheriz employed almost all men. If there were female [Slave Traders], and there surely were, they operated differently.

This? The [Slaves] were herded into camp. They were untethered, and then the [Guards] looked at them, separated them.

And Leciaun began.

—-

Pisces heard a sound as terrible as when Gewilena had died. He was untouched. He sat, in Igheriz’s personal tent.

The [Slave Master] did not partake in Leciaun. Why would he? He owned everyone here, so that day was every day to him. He drank as Eloque poured him wine.

“Do you know why I called you here, Pisces?”

The Gold-rank adventurer barely heard him. He was hearing the sounds from the camp. Cries and laughter and…he tried not to listen. He was unable to block it out. Wouldn’t have, if he could.

He had heard and seen terrible things. Pisces had fought Crelers, gone into the heart of the Village of Death. He had beheld Skinner. Even so. He realized something as he sat here.

That wasn’t evil. The image of evil…the [Necromancer] had a different perspective than most. Even so, he realized that evil wasn’t the image of wailing organs, the gurgling rasping of monsters or the hidden nightmares in the center of a dungeon, in dark places where they waited on the edge of where reality met dreaming.

That might have been horror. But it was not evil. Evil? Evil was mundane and around him. There was no law here to stop anything happening. Igheriz was the law, him and Hrome, and they encouraged freedom.

Leciaun. Roshal’s answer to Cinaelu, the day of freedom.

True evil sounded like weeping. Silence and grunting and sounds of…Pisces looked up.

“Why am I here, Igheriz?”

In this moment, he would have done almost anything to stop this. The [Slave Master] saw it. He grinned.

“You might do something today, eh. That is what I thought. So I called you here, Pisces. Because you are an adventurer. You think you have control. Even now. Even though I wrote my name on your chest, you would do something stupid and I would have to hurt you.”

Pisces thought he heard Cawe’s voice. He put his feet under him.

“Shouldn’t I?”

Igheriz just laughed at him.

“You can’t raise your hands to me, Pisces. This? This is a lesson. Maybe even a mercy, for I like you. Sleep.”

Pisces’ eyes widened. He rose to his feet—and toppled over as the collar blazed with magic. When he woke, Leciaun was done.

Igheriz had done him no mercy.

—-

The next day, Pisces woke in silence. Oh—noise from the [Guards]. They boasted and laughed, in good humor afterwards. [Slavers]. He would have killed them like Mrsha had once tried to kill Badarrow, with a piece of wood or dagger through their ears if he could raise his hands.

But it was silent on the [Slave]’s side of things. No one spoke. A few tried to comfort or reach out—but those taken did not want to be touched.

The worst part? Few wept. It had happened before and it would happen again.

Some had been exempted. Astotha, for instance, and Eloque. A few favored [Slaves]—and not all [Guards] had been allowed to take part. Those who did swaggered around, taunting those who had not.

Cawe said nothing to Pisces or Bearig that day as they were chained up. She didn’t look at anyone or anything. The feathers on her neck were…torn, Pisces realized. As if someone had plucked them out in a handful. As they began to walk, a [Slave Guard] rode past and made a gesture.

“I will see you next Leciaun, lovely bird!”

The [Pickpocket] shuddered. Qshom saw Pisces’ head go up.

“Stop.”

The [Tailor] warned Pisces. The [Necromancer] looked at the man’s horse. If he could get it to rear, let it toss him and snap his neck—

He moved out of line. Bearig slammed into Pisces, a shoulder-charge so hard it knocked both down.

Astonished, Pisces felt the big [Cook] fall on him. He tried to get away, but Bearig swung his clenched hands, striking and pulling at the line.

[Guards] turned and the one who’d rode by turned back. Pisces kicked, but Bearig just slammed his full weight onto Pisces.

“Enough! Enough! Hey! The [Guards] smile, but the [Slaves] quarrel? Well, I am generous.”

Igheriz called out. Bearig was dragged off Pisces and dealt a dozen blows. Pisces stared at the [Cook] as Bearig’s blood ran down his neck from a lash from a riding crop. He had a bloody nose.

“Why did you do that?”

The [Necromancer] demanded, furious. The [Cook] mumbled.

“It will do nothing to help. Do not.”

“Don’t.”

Cawe whispered. Pisces looked at her for a long, long moment. He thought of Bevussa, the only Garuda he had known besides her. He tilted his head up to the harsh sun and blue skies.

“Thank you.”

He told Bearig. The man nodded and they resumed. Pisces did nothing, even afterwards. He simply resolved to kill the [Guard], Igheriz, and every other person here. Hatred?

He hadn’t known hatred, even against his father, like what was in him now.

Then they met the third caravan.

—-

It took two days to reach Riqre’ma Medaale’s caravan. In that time, Pisces saw the effects of Leciaun on all the [Slaves]. Not just Cawe or Eloque. Droppe refused to talk to anyone for a day. When he did, he laughed and told jokes and never said a word about yesterday. Many had suffered.

Especially Merr the Storm. The [Bandit Lady] had been the most defiant in Hrome’s lines, newly enslaved. She had been lashed, beaten—Hrome had no policy like Igheriz’s three strikes—without change.

Then Leciaun had come and gone and she was…silent. She walked in a daze.

Two days. The first day was the worst and Pisces retreated into memories of Gewilena. Of the past. Misery begat misery; he remembered his failures, darkest moments.

Erin dying. What would she say? If she or anyone he had ever loved was here…? Ceria? Yvlon, Erin?

He was glad it was him instead. Not that he would have been safe necessarily. A laughing Igheriz had caught him at the end of the day.

“Be doubly glad I put you to sleep and watched over you, Pisces! Few men here like such things, but some might leave you something to remember by just because you are famous! Ah, but I am so kind.”

He rode off and Pisces nearly threw up his meal keeping all the hatred inside him.

—-

They called him Azam.

Mighty Azam. Azam the Powerful.

Azam, Aethertraveller Djinni.

Azam of Ozeclith, of Nerrhavia’s Fallen.

Names for what he could do, for his power and nature as a Djinni, where he had been ‘born’, but none of these names were him. They were labels, like his name itself.

He thought of himself as Azam of course, because one had to have a name. Yet all those of his people who had ever met him told him it was…sad.

Sad, short, truncated—an imitation of a true Djinni’s name. Those who had given it to him had done it to make him seem like those caught before, who had lived and breathed free air. All it did was inform those who met him he had never been free.

Perhaps for one second. For one infinitesimal moment—he had been. Azam sometimes tried to recall it, wondering if the joy of creation had also been that…that moment of true freedom before he had sensed the bindings, and begun to learn what he was.

Azam thought of this, his mind going back to the past, as he stood sentry outside the camps. He did not need to sleep the same way other mortals did, though he did need rest. He was different. Djinni. Slave of magic, who would outlive them all.

He thought of the past to ignore Eloque’s weeping. The other voices he could hear in the camp.

Leciaun.

Did he feel a bit of gratitude towards her? Was that why he talked to her, of all of them? Perhaps. Perhaps because Igheriz turned his attentions to her, and not Azam. No one was safe.

Azam stood there, thinking of the past. Thinking of the news that had given him pleasure. Even hope. The King of Destruction could free Djinni?

“Well, it is as the Lizardman said. He will not again.”

Azam muttered to himself, a rare utterance to drown out the sound. He looked around.

The sky was so beautiful. The stars, those brilliant lights that were not magic, but something almost akin to his being, hung in the clear sky. Azam could see over the tents, over the walls he had made, in every direction across this flat landscape.

He longed to fly, but he could not. If he could, he would have flown as high as he was allowed, pretending to be sentry. And then he would look…

North. Northwest. Azam always stared that way at night. He knew that location, of all others, and always tried to make minute adjustments so he faced it. If anywhere in this world mattered…it was there.

And if anything in this world mattered, it was that book that the [Necromancer] held. Azam’s gaze turned back to the tents. If he could hold it but for a second…no. Igheriz had kept it next to him, even on Leciaun. Azam had hoped.

Not on this day. He let Eloque weep. Tomorrow, if she willed it, he would talk to her for a while.

—-

The next day was easier because it began with one of the [Slave Guards] dying. Pisces had thought Igheriz was the most foul man ever to live. That he delved deep into the abyss of mortal suffering and depravity.

No. The truth was he danced on the edge. He laughed there, a monster without redemption.

But not without law. Pisces awoke to find a commotion happening.

No less than six men and Azam dragged a [Guard] out of a tent. Where…he had accosted Astotha in a continuation of Leciaun.

However, this time, Igheriz had put a stop to it the moment she’d cried out. Now? He gestured and his ring glowed.

“You worthless sack of hemp! When I say we celebrate Leciaun, it does not mean all that is mine is now free! This is my property! She is my property! Am I not generous? Am I not fair with my possessions? And you touch her?”

“It was only a moment!”

The man protested. Igheriz gave him the bright-eyed look Pisces had come to associate with his true rage.

“Well, this will only be a moment.”

“No—”

The man tried to fight free, but Azam held him. Igheriz pressed the glowing ring to the man’s throat and when it came away, Pisces saw a copy of the same collar around his neck, a glowing band of magic.

“No one touches my possessions! No one breaks laws! My laws and Roshal’s!”

Igheriz thundered at Hrome and his [Guards]. The men stood well back, looking palely at the [Guard] with the magic band around his neck. Pisces saw the man gasping and realized—the magical collar was cutting off his air.

“We are not savages. You will all conduct yourselves, or this one’s fate will be like a pleasant dream. Am I understood? There is law in Roshal. We are not monsters.”

The [Slave Master] cast a glance at Pisces, then. He turned.

“Am I understood?”

A chorus of quiet murmurs was his answer. Igheriz looked around, spat, and then strode to his horse.

“Azam! Break camp! We move!”

They left the [Guard] where he knelt, clawing at his neck. He could find no purchase on the magic. His friends and fellows looked back. Astotha looked vindictively back as he tried to beg for Igheriz’s mercy, call out.

The narrow band tightened. Tightened even as the others rode away. His eyes bulged. His face turned scarlet, then purple. The band tightened—

Pisces looked away.

—-

Igheriz was madness tempered by only the slightest, deluded belief there was law.

Hrome was just…boring. He had allowed Leciaun, but he was less provocative. This was his business, and he still admired Pisces, somehow.

Riqre’ma Medaale? He was true evil and insanity. Such that within the first minutes of him, Pisces saw it.

“Friends! You have come to join our procession to Roshal? Of course you will be safe, and with such valuable merchandise!”

The Stitch-Man beamed so widely that Pisces thought he was putting on an air. Igheriz and Hrome clasped arms, smiling.

Emir Riqre had the largest caravan, rich beyond belief. While he had no Djinni and admired Igheriz for that, he had nearly four hundred [Guards], and even more slaves.

Even [Slaves] who watched their own kind. His people were armed with magical weapons and one look at his caravan and Pisces realized that no [Bandits] would free him. Even if there were thousands in a gang, they would be spotted far off and Azam and this Riqre had the forces to repel any attack short of an actual army.

Igheriz was beaming, but only for a moment. Because his smile flickered as he saw something behind Riqre that gave him pause.

“Emir Riqre’ma. What is…that?”

The two caravans, [Slaves], all looked over and fell silent. But it was Azam, the great Djinni, who slowly turned his head. And that—Pisces saw the Djinni frown.

Behind the Emir Riqre were two…men. Pisces thought they were men. Or had been men.

Hemp-caste Stitchfolk. They wore [Slave]’s collars, and they were tightly bound in metal, being carted around behind the Emir on wagons of their own. That was the—the fact.

What was wrong was everything else. They were naked, but Pisces hadn’t realized that at first. They had wild eyes. Bigger…eyes…than they should be.

Their skin was hard, even leathery from time in the sun, but unnaturally tough. Even the most sunburnt skin in the world would not turn into that. They had…claws.

Claws, almost like a Ghoul’s. And their faces. Pisces had seen undeath change bodies. He had seen how it turned corpses into Crypt Lords. But these men were alive. Their faces had changed.

Huge jaws, mouths of rows of teeth. They looked like monsters. But they were men.

“Ah. You mean my [Carrion Eaters]? Igheriz, you catch me out! They are my special bodyguards, my special people, you see? I would not have let you get within eyeshot of them, but I wished to see this Pisces who is worth so much! You must keep it between us. Roshal frowns on such things.”

The Emir laughed lightly, but his [Guards] looked at Igheriz. The [Slave Master] looked back at Pisces. The [Necromancer] saw him lick his lips.

What did even a [Slaver] fear in depravity and misery? Emir Riqre had gone deep. Deeper than even men like Igheriz dared. And that was horrific enough in Erin’s world. In this?

Those depths answered him.

—-

Emir Riqre was mad. So mad that Igheriz actually consulted with Hrome about leaving, but the danger to his caravan—not to mention Riqre’s insistence they visit his lands before going to Roshal—could not be ignored.

“He keeps those classes out in the open for all to see! How has not one of Roshal known or dealt with him?”

Igheriz whispered hotly to Hrome, pretending to ride next to Pisces and inspect him. The result of course, was that Pisces could hear, despite the bubble of [Silence] they’d made just large enough to envelop him.

“I do not know, Igheriz. He is a powerful man. Must we tell Roshal?”

Igheriz reached out and hissed at the younger [Slave Trader].

“This goes beyond preference, Hrome. He has—classes—that should not exist. Not without regulation. Perhaps he has the right, but I do not think—”

“Igheriz! Hrome! I come to meet this Pisces! What do you whisper about?”

The Emir himself burst the bubble, beaming, and the two [Slave Masters] looked up. Igheriz smiled, or tried to.

“Of course, we are lecturing Pisces to behave, Riqre. He has a tongue!”

“Ah, such men do. I have ways of dealing with that—but let the Naga do what he wills! Pisces Jealnet. I wished to meet such a man like you, who is a class as close to mine as possible.”

Pisces twitched. Riqre was all silk, all smiles but he was…insane. You could see it in his eyes. There were no inhibitions to him. No sense.

“[Necromancer] is close to [Slave Master]? I…do not see the similarity, sir.”

Pisces held his tongue as best he could. Riqre laughed.

“Is it not? Then—perhaps—you have not delved deep enough into your nature, young Pisces! I thought you would see after meeting the Putrid One’s power. Do you not?”

He looked disappointed, as if that exchange had been a test and Pisces had already failed. The young man licked his chapped lips.

“How so?”

The Emir actually leaned down over his camel’s back. It was some kind of magical breed; it flickered and left afterimages as it walked, like some kind of desert illusion itself.

“Why, the truth that Igheriz and Hrome fail to understand. I hoped you would see it. If you were a kindred spirit, I would have insisted Igheriz sell you to me so we might join understandings. Alas. Shall I tell you? Perhaps you will one day come down my road! Igheriz and Hrome will, if they grow stronger.”

His eyes tried to draw Pisces in. Igheriz started and Hrome grew more nervous. Riqre was not a typical slave master, even by their standards.

“What truth?”

Pisces whispered, curious despite himself. The Emir Riqre smiled.

“Why—simply that there is no law. No limitations. Roshal, even Roshal pretends there are. Do not treat your [Slaves] in certain ways. Do not feed some the meat of the dead! But look what they create!”

He pointed at the bound [Carrion Eaters], a class Pisces had never heard of. Riqre tsked softly.

“Dark deeds. Like necromancy. They say they are dark deeds, Pisces. Dark deeds reward themselves in time. Surely you know that?”

He looked at Pisces. The [Necromancer]’s head jerked.

“I—do not perform acts of evil.”

“So he says. So he says!”

Riqre straightened, disappointed. He turned.

“Then you know nothing. You will see. We will detour in my home. Then I will change all your minds, Igheriz, Hrome—and you, Pisces.”

He rode off without a backwards glance. Igheriz stared after him, and Hrome looked for his [Mage]…who was carefully riding among Riqre’s [Magicians]. That was how Pisces’ caravan found itself among the deepest depths of Roshal’s kind yet. Where even Igheriz feared to go.

—-

Pisces was able to just see how Riqre created his…people after that. It might have amused Pisces to see Igheriz and Hrome realize they were smaller cats who had finally encountered a lion…if it were not so dire.

The [Slave Guards] had always slept with weapons close to hand. The day thereafter, it seemed as if they rode with their fingers glued to the hilts of their swords. They refused to go near Riqre’s caravan unless ordered, and flinched when one of the [Carrion Eaters] twitched or worse, glanced their way.

For the [Slaves]? They began to walk with their eyes closed. Never mind if they fell or stumbled. They let themselves walk, using the tether of rope for guidance.

If they could have prayed, like Pawn, Pisces was sure they would have prayed. Without it, they only feared.

It got to the stage that Azam was directly consulted on what would happen if they came to blows. The Djinni spoke, one of the rare times Pisces had heard.

“I could not down the Emir Riqre’s four hundred and forty one [Guards] alone and keep you safe, Igheriz. They possess blades that could wound even one such as I. He has…servants who could do the same.”

He meant the other [Slaves]. This was what disconcerted Hrome and Igheriz’ [Guards]. Their willingness to rape and abuse [Slaves] still meant they were Traders of Roshal, who obeyed certain laws. They regarded Riqre creating the cannibal classes as truly monstrous.

Yet when they subtly or unsubtly mixed with Riqre’s people, they got the same answer when asking about Riqre’s extremes.

“The Emir must have his passions.”

“Roshal does not impugn him, so we shall not. He pays very well.”

“You grow used to such things. Or you end up like Tenir. Happy enough, you think, don’t you?”

Riqre’s [Slaves] mixed with Pisces and some of the others on the first night. Some had decorative collars; none had manacles and they all began telling the others how wonderful Riqre was.

“He is the Emir beyond Emirs. You will love him, and weep if he sells you! His [Guards] are the most loyal and he produces fine servants. He rarely takes others into his confidence. Beg your masters to sell you to him! If you are worthy.”

Each one was, without exception, beautiful. Mostly female. Pisces noticed that uneasily. Largely Stitchfolk too, which discomforted Igheriz. The fantastical adoration though, puzzled Pisces.

Even Astotha glared at the woman addressing her, sharing their dinner.

“You don’t need to say that every second! Your master won’t hear you if you complain—unless he can? Are there spells or…?”

She looked uneasily at the other [Slave]’s gilded collar, but the woman just gave Astotha a blank look.

“I am not lying or omitting complaints. If I had any, I would say them. Look at Emir Riqre. Do you see any faults?”

She turned and gave the Emir a look of such admiration that everyone fell silent. Her smile was…unnerving. Too wide…Pisces felt the same uneasy tingle he had when he’d laid eyes on the [Carrion Eaters].

Something was terribly wrong.

The dinner was interrupted by Riqre summoning Pisces. The [Necromancer] rose and, escorted by two [Guards], was drawn over to Igheriz and Hrome. The two men were on their feet, and many [Guards] were retching; unable to eat.

“Ah, but you get used to it! Come, Pisces. Let me show you how to use basic necromancy. This is one of my projects. For Roshal’s ranks of [Assassins], you see? Not one of the poor ones. This child will be one of the best, in time. You see?”

The Emir ate with good humor. And he showed Pisces. The [Necromancer] looked over and saw…zombies.

Zombies, the most basic of undead, swaying, attached to the caravan. Rotting. They were undead, animated by a basic spell, a cheap, weak one. There was nothing unique about them, yet they were so…decrepit that Pisces was confused.

The zombies had missing internals, damaged bone, and every sign of degradation as undead got. Even zombies could ‘decay’, or simply lose their ability to function if they took enough damage, yet someone had continually reanimated them. Was there a lack of bodies?

Even more confusing still was the [Slave] who had been brought out. A little half-Elf stood there, blank-eyed. holding a shortsword in his hand. Alive—and young.

“Emir Riqre, what are you…?”

“Silence. Rophir—begin!”

Pisces saw the half-Elf boy look up. The blank look in his eyes never changed, but he moved as the two undead half-Elves lurched at him. The two zombies attacked and he?

He killed them. It was a bad battle. The half-Elf boy looked barely older than ten. Ceria had told Pisces that half-Elves vaguely followed Humans in growth until puberty, where they slowed, so he might have been a bit older.

He could barely stab and swing the shortsword, but he did. He knew how to fight zombies; stepping aside, slashing their legs, and stabbing them when they fell. Zombies could be killed by even the weakest adults—if you kept your cool and had experience.

Pisces watched as the zombies eventually stopped moving. Then the half-Elf boy, Rophir, stepped back. Riqre clapped his hands; he had barely glanced at the fight as he supped.

“Good, good. Now, do you understand?”

He looked around like a teacher expecting an answer. Igheriz had no answer. Pisces? The young man met the Emir’s gaze and spoke slowly.

“Those. Those zombies. They’re…that boy’s parents. Aren’t they?”

Hrome’s head whirled. Pisces was staring at something lying on the ground. The zombies were all but rotted away; preserved by the arid climate, but too far gone to make out features. Yet he had seen the pointed ear lying on the ground, gangrenous and filthy, but intact.

Hrome turned a shade paler and Emir Riqre laughed, applauding; all his servants instantly copied him. Igheriz had frozen. His eyes…were wide in his head, but he uttered not a sound.

“Very good! You see? You do have potential. Yes. Rophir nearly died at first, but now he knows. You get used to it. He will become the greatest [Assassin] in his lifetime—but it will take decades! I am merely preparing him before we get to Roshal. Animate the next undead! I would have Pisces do it, Igheriz, but he might make them too strong!”

He waved Pisces away. The young man looked back at Rophir. He saw nothing there. No emotion. No grief. No anger. The half-Elf boy just went where he was told.

—-

Pisces had a nightmare that night. Erin, now a zombie, looked at him with crossbow bolts in her chest. Then he saw Mrsha with a dagger, and the same terrible expression as Rophir as the Emir applauded…and himself, standing behind the Emir, smiling like one of his [Slaves].

He was almost glad when he woke up. Then he wanted to return to the sleeping nightmare.

Someone was screaming. Screaming so loudly it woke all the camps—except for Riqre’s people. They just slept through it, completely inured to the sound.

It was dawn. Pisces saw Riqre standing next to the wagons that held the [Carrion Eaters] and other…advanced…servants. He looked up as everyone turned.

“Ah, Igheriz! Apologies. I am simply at work as usual. I cannot delay; they have three days left, you see and it would be unfair not to give them three more chances.”

The [Carrion Eaters] watched him, bound head-to-toe and Azam glanced at the two bound shapes.

“Those two alone could kill every [Guard] in your caravan save I, Igheriz.”

It was not to them that Riqre tended. They were finished products, or enough so for his liking. It was his servants he wanted.

Held by two [Guards], a beautiful woman sat in the wagon, struggling, shaking, and pleading. A Silk Stitchgirl, as peerless as the rest of his [Slaves]. Riqre spoke to her.

“Three more days. Three more days, Anareen. Please tell me. Do you love me?”

“I do. I do! Emir, please—not again. I do! I will do anything if you—”

He wasn’t even listening. The Emir glanced down at something he was holding. Pisces saw the truth crystal flash red and the Emir sighed.

“It does not do to lie, Anareen. Two more days, then. Next!”

The [Guards] lifted her. The Stitchgirl began to scream and thrash with such might that if one had not touched her with a Wand of Paralysis, she might have broken free. She went limp. Pisces saw her huge, horrified gaze meet his as they slowly dropped her into a giant jar. They covered the lid, sealed it, and all sound ended.

“She can breathe. I will ask her tomorrow. And one more time when we reach my lands. If she still cannot tell me the truth—then she will remain.”

Riqre walked past the two [Slave Masters]. They looked at him. Then at Riqre’s people.

Each one gazed at their master with pure, genuine affection. Each one had passed the truth spell Riqre applied to the other five captives. Somehow they had passed.

“Emir Riqre. Why do you ask? Is it not enough they are slaves?”

The Emir turned to Hrome, raising his brows.

“If I were selling them, surely, Hrome. But I wish them to be my people. I would not take a [Slave] that does not love me.”

“And if they fail to answer you?”

The Emir’s eyes were wide and something stared out of the pupils in the center.

“Then they will remain like that forever. I feed them, you know. Most pass my test. You see—if they have a choice between this and me, they will change. For me. They change their classes. Most do not before they see the others who failed, but then they succeed! Joyous. You will learn, Pisces. It is classes. It is all about…classes.”

Then he turned, and as if he had suddenly remembered, he beamed at Pisces. The young man froze as Riqre twirled on his heel, the jar forgotten in a moment.

“Ah, but where is my mind? Igheriz, Hrome, we must slow our pace a tiny bit or make preparations tonight! Pisces is here, but we cannot delay any longer.”

Igheriz looked close to snapping. The zombies, and this—his hand hovered at his side, but the [Carrion Eaters] and [Guards]…he almost snapped a reply as he looked for Azam.

“For what, Emir Riqre? Pisces is mine, I remind you.”

Hrome grabbed his arm, warningly, but Riqre’s smile never faded.

“Of course, of course. Yet it seems to me, Igheriz—and I ask your pardons for my bluntness—but you are not yet a [Slave Lord], or one of my class and level. Even if Pisces is to be sold…and we shall talk…there are still yet ways to improve him. Teach him.”

He looked at Pisces and the young man felt a pit in his stomach. Riqre scratched at his chin as Igheriz glanced at Pisces.

“Your Djinni, too. He is but a servant. He could serve you better, Igheriz.”

His voice was loud and carrying. Pisces’ head moved and he saw the giant, always close by Igheriz for protection, turn. The Emir and Djinni locked gazes.

For the first time since meeting him, Pisces saw Azam…shudder.

—-

When they came for him at dusk, Pisces seriously considered if fighting and dying here was worth it. He’d go for a sword and if he died…there was a chance. Better that than what Riqre intended.

He did not. Because Pisces still had hope of surviving, of finding the others. Because he owed Erin. Because, damn him, he was curious.

What would Riqre do to him? If it was too egregious, Pisces hoped Igheriz would fight back, and create an opportunity for escape. Pisces was worth nearly a million gold pieces.

Unfortunately, Riqre was cunning. Riqre was mad, but…when Pisces was pushed into an open space in the camp, he didn’t understand.

“What’s…what’s going on?”

He found himself in a large circle of onlookers. The [Guards] of all three caravans, the [Slave Masters], Riqre, Igheriz, Hrome, and Azam standing a ways away, [Slaves] of Riqre’s caravan…and one man he recognized.

Shein. The Bronze-rank adventurer looked as terrified as Pisces felt. Riqre clapped his hands.

“There is Pisces! And here is a strong young man! Good bones. Bronze-rank? Psht.”

He made a sound and his people laughed. Shein flushed. Riqre turned to Igheriz.

“You will not make much off of him. Almost better to call him a [Warrior] or—no, he is a [Fighter], isn’t he? Rather than tout him as Bronze-rank.”

He glanced at Shein and read the man’s class. The adventurer could only hang his head.

“He is still worth gold, Emir. I would not have him—damaged. Whatever it is you intend…”

Igheriz looked nervous. Uneasy, as he glanced at Pisces. The [Necromancer] was tense, but Riqre lifted an admonishing finger, frowning.

“Igheriz, I will recompense you at double, nay, triple his price for any accidents. Which there will not be! And I will ‘risk’ my people first, you see? But first—Pisces!”

He spread his arms as if to embrace Pisces. The [Necromancer] backed up into impassive guards.

“What…what am I here for? I will not be privy to any…wrongness, Riqre. If you intend—”

Pisces referred to anything and everything Riqre had done. Was this about the half-Elf child? Yet Riqre looked hurt.

“Pisces. Ah, Pisces. You wound me. Am I that unsubtle? Sometimes. Yes, sometimes the hammer is needed instead of the brush, but I am adept at both things. I know you. You are unruly. Angry. You see, Igheriz? All defiance. Not trained at all. Nearly completely wild.”

He gestured at Pisces, as if it were written on the young man’s face. Igheriz hesitated.

“I do not have your Skills of appraisal, Emir, but need he be? I am only transporting him.”

“And you do nothing to add to his worth? You could at least try, Igheriz. But then—I have many methods and the experience of decades. So I will help. Hrome, you may watch as well.”

“Y-you honor me, Emir.”

Hrome managed. Riqre dismissed him with a single glance. He looked at Pisces.

“I would rather free you and have you work with me, as a companion who shares my vision, Pisces. But to do that, you would have to be my [Slave], and…well. There are ways to change someone. Like that.”

He snapped his fingers and Pisces flinched.

“The Naga could make you think I was your boon companion, the fifth in the Horns of Hammerad. For a while. Make you a friend as true as…what is that funny Antinium’s name?”

Pisces refused to speak. Riqre hunted until one of his [Slaves] whispered.

“Ksmvr. That’s right! I am beside myself, though. Pisces…I only mean to use your powers tonight. Improve you.”

“I will not be party to anything you do.”

Pisces whispered through stiff lips. Riqre gave him a pitying look. He turned to Igheriz.

“You see? He says this like he has a choice. The same as your Djinni. He obeys.”

He pointed at Azam. Even Azam was wary. Riqre sighed at Igheriz.

“Far better for them to want to do things, Igheriz.”

“Then show me, Emir. But if you harm Pisces’ value…”

“I know.”

This time the crack in Riqre’s voice made everyone go still. For a second death filled the air—until Riqre passed a hand over his face.

“Igheriz. Igheriz. My temper gets the best of me. I will make it up to you. Just watch, please?”

The [Slave Master] said nothing. Riqre turned to Pisces.

“Pisces. You mistrust me. You dislike me. I see these things, and it is fine. I will earn your trust. I will earn your respect. I am not the Naga, who must have these things from all and sundry. I can train a slave and sell it, even if I like him! I do hope Igheriz will change his mind…but this is how you work, even if you transport a slave. You raise their value. Like so.”

He gestured around his audience. Riqre spun, eyes searching…then his eyes lit up.

“Meritha. My lovely servant, you first.”

He pointed, and Pisces blinked as a young woman came over. Her dress was like the other female [Slaves]’. Revealing…and Meritha was a half-Elf, her features soft. Riqre stroked her cheek and kissed Meritha on the lips.

“I should be very upset if anything were to happen to you, Meritha, yet will you risk your body for me?”

“For you, Emir? Anything.”

The [Slave] breathed. Just like all the others. Pisces watched as Riqre exchanged another kiss, then turned. He reached for something a [Guard] held, weighed it, and turned. Pisces saw…a [Wagonwright]’s tool in his hand. A simple hammer.

“Sometimes a brush is needed. Other times? A hammer.”

With that, he turned, and swung the hammer into Meritha’s leg. Pisces saw and heard the bone crunch and break. Meritha screamed and toppled over.

“Riqre!”

The scream came from multiple mouths. Riqre stood over Meritha, a look of genuine pain on his face. Then he turned.

“Pisces. Look.”

Meritha’s leg was broken. Badly; she’d been struck just below the knee and it was no simple break. She lay, gasping, face white, blood seeping from the broken skin.

“Emir? Emir?”

“Rest, Meritha. I know it hurts. Someone, a pain-tonic! But no healing potion!”

Emir Riqre clapped his hands and turned to Pisces. The [Necromancer] just stared. Then Riqre walked over to him. Igheriz muttered a curse. Yet this had been arranged. Riqre stopped in front of Pisces.

“Do you see her leg? It will never grow straight. Not with a potion, not with time. Look, Pisces. Do you see what I did?”

“I see it.”

You monster. Pisces stared at Riqre. The man looked almost in tears. Then he nodded.

“It distresses you almost as much as I. Good. Then—Pisces. Please. Fix it.”

And with that, he produced a key, inserted it into Pisces’ collar, and unlocked it.

Pisces stared at Riqre as the band of metal fell. Hrome shouted, but Igheriz was strangely silent. The [Guards] of the other caravans whirled, and saw Pisces staring around.

A [Necromancer] without his collar. A Gold-rank adventurer freed. They reached for their weapons, crying out. Riqre had gone mad!

Azam’s head rose. But the Djinni, everyone else was too slow. Shocked. Pisces waited only a moment. Then he turned.

“[Deathbolt].”

He pointed at Riqre as he [Flash Stepped] away. Pisces moved—

—And stumbled. His finger fizzed as the mana filling him failed to come out. He stumbled forwards, and one of Riqre’s [Slaves] caught him. Pisces stared at her. Behind him, Riqre sighed.

“Pisces. Pisces. Do you think I am stupid?”

He stood there, as the [Guards] calmed down. As Pisces whirled—raised a fist—and saw it lower of its own accord.

“What’s happening?”

Riqre beamed. He smiled. He laughed.

“Where other men need chains or collars, I am the greatest of my class, Pisces. Did you really think I’d let you run amok? Igheriz, don’t look so worried. With me, you will never fear even your most powerful slaves running free. Well…perhaps that one.”

Azam had stopped. Pisces stood there, trapped twice over. Now, he looked at Riqre. He imagined plucking out the man’s eyes, striking him in the face, the groin—and his body refused to move.

“Why did you free me?”

“So you could fix Meritha! Of course!”

Riqre instantly turned, all attention on the [Slave]. Sweat stood out on Meritha’s forehead, but the [Slave] had been numbed, and she lay there, shattered knee oozing blood. Pisces looked at Riqre. Then he understood.

“With…with my magic?”

“I know [Necromancers] cannot affect bodies from afar. Unless they touch them. Unless the patient is willing. Meritha, you would like to be healed, wouldn’t you?”

“To serve you, Emir? Yes.”

The young woman gave Pisces a look of trepidation, but also desperation. Pisces stood there. Riqre knelt beside Meritha, taking the young woman’s arm. Then he sighed.

“…Both legs. I forget myself.”

It was fast. The [Slave], for all the obsession, still cried out as the hammer fell. Yet not once did the half-Elf try to dodge. She lay there, crippled, as Pisces stood there.

“Pisces. I beg you. Fix my beloved Meritha.”

Riqre fell to his knees and turned to Pisces. The [Necromancer] looked at him.

“Me? Why?”

Riqre blinked.

“Because you can. Because you are an adventurer, and I have heard, a brave one who fights for those in need. Meritha is in need. Is that not enough? Fine then. Because, Pisces Jealnet. You will level.”

He gestured at Meritha. Pisces looked at the broken bones, the [Slave] waiting patiently as others held her, giving her water and applying more numbing cream around the leg. He understood, then.

“Few [Necromancers] have a chance to work on the living, you see, Igheriz. They are experts at bone-manipulation, though.”

Suddenly Riqre was the [Teacher] to [Students], striding excitedly to the [Slave Masters], who were watching with a kind of fascinated horror. More fascination than horror, Pisces noted.

“You want me to heal this woman? You’d trust me?”

He demanded, still shocked, outraged. Riqre looked back.

“My trust in you, Pisces, is not just blind faith. I know you can do it. Haven’t you ever fixed a bone? We of Roshal know how [Necromancers] are experts at melding bone. Even [Healers] study their arts to learn to treat it—those who are free of Terandria’s idiocy, that is.”

What madness. What…Riqre said things Pisces agreed with. Which were true. He knew Pisces’ class, and wanted Pisces to level.

The [Necromancer] didn’t move.

“What if I refuse?”

Meritha looked at him, and Pisces could barely meet her gaze. Riqre heaved a heavy sigh.

“Then Meritha would be crippled for life, Pisces. I would be distraught. I would not live with myself but to replace her limbs with fine magical ones. You see, I would be in despair that you refused to cooperate. Then I would break both his legs and not let you heal him, either.”

He pointed at Shein. The adventurer turned even whiter. Pisces and Riqre traded looks. The Emir smiled.

“So?”

—-

That was how Pisces found himself kneeling on the ground, mending bone. It was familiar. The ivory moved, the marrow shifted—and Meritha whimpered, despite the numbing.

It was familiar. Pisces recalled…

“The bone’s broken. Stop squirming!”

Gewilena was mending the bones of one of the new apprentices to the cabal, as she was the best. The idiot had tripped trying to pick mushrooms on a hill! Still, [Necromancers] feared no broken bones. Unless someone squirmed.

“It’s healing potions that we have to worry about. And infection. Even so, don’t you see what an asset we can be? If only they tolerated us.”

Feren murmured to the fascinated Pisces, who wanted to put his hands to the arm and see what Gewilena was doing. The young man nodded, but Gewilena rolled her eyes.

“Don’t start, Feren. I need to focus. And will someone please…”

He had learned to heal from her, but Feren was right; Pisces seldom used that talent. Yet that was how he had reunited with Ceria, and met the original Horns of Hammerad, wasn’t it? He’d been healing a Runner that they had brought to him, with a shattered leg, who might never walk again.

Ryoka Griffin…back when it all began.

Meritha rose to her feet, unsteadily at first, after Pisces was done. The [Necromancer] caught her arm.

“Don’t strain the bones. They’re tender. She needs to rest.”

He was tired, but Riqre applauded and his entire caravan gave Pisces a standing ovation.

“Magnificent! And so quickly done too! Pisces, you must be an expert at this. You have done it before!”

“A few times. You took a risk. Many [Necromancers] couldn’t have done as well as I did. All but two of the ones I have known would have struggled.”

No, three if you counted Az’kerash. Could he…? Of course he could. Pisces was far more adept thanks to Gewilena’s teachings, and Ryoka’s bones had been far worse than this [Slave]’s.

Riqre just shrugged.

“I trusted a Gold-rank [Necromancer] had the talent. Much less a specialist in bones such as yourself, Pisces. How do you feel? You acknowledge that was some work, yes? At your level…well, it might take a while. Level 38. Marvelous. You are closer to Named Adventurer than not, surely. It might take a hundred such healings to level. Perhaps a thousand.”

Igheriz stared at Riqre, then at Pisces. Hrome looked thunderstruck. Riqre just smiled wider, reading Pisces’ class.

“Thank you for the experience, Emir Riqre. Am I done, then? I consider it a token of your investment in me, as you said.”

Pisces replied icily, but he was grateful it had ended merely at that. Riqre snorted.

“Pisces. Pisces. I said I would help you. Who but levels without a challenge? My servants! I shall spend a night with brave Meritha and spoil her for her deeds! Who else will bravely volunteer and receive their rewards?”

He turned and his [Slaves] rushed forwards. Pisces stared at Riqre. Then the bone-breaking and healing truly began.

—-

Six broken limbs. Six healings. Pisces had to have two mana potions, high-quality ones, but each [Slave] walked away with tender limbs–but healed ones.

“I can see what you mean, Emir Riqre. It is an investment of time and coin, and a risk, yet you are truly wise. If he levelled but once…what a fool I was to sell him!”

Igheriz exclaimed as Pisces worked. The [Necromancer] listened, but had to devote his mind to picking out bone in flesh, mending it, applying healing potion now and then.

The risk of infection was real, and one of the [Slaves] had looked in horror as some kind of infection appeared from the first drops. Lines of red and pus, crawling up her arm before Pisces knocked the flask away.

Riqre had instantly told her to see a [Healer], promising to praise her once the infection was halted.

It was a risk, but Riqre had the resources and people…yet only someone like him would even dream of this way of ‘levelling’ Pisces.

“We find ways to level efficiently, Igheriz. I may share some more secrets of classes. This is the kind of thing you will learn if you rise—and I am sure you will! Secrets the likes of which royalty hoard.”

Riqre was grandly munificent, but he was not even done. After the sixth healing, he did not call for another volunteer. Pisces wiped sweat from his brow.

“Now we see how to increase the value of one slave, Igheriz. Will you place your trust in me again?”

“I will, Emir Riqre.”

Igheriz was drawn by the lure of levels, the promise of increasing Pisces’ value. If Pisces reached Level 39, Igheriz might well reveal this and start the bidding war anew. So when Emir Riqre beckoned for Shein, Igheriz didn’t hesitate.

“[Slave], go forth. Don’t hesitate. You have seen Pisces’ skill!”

Shein was terrified, yet the [Guards] just thrust him forward when he hesitated. He began to protest.

“Master Igheriz, please—”

“Oh, silence.”

Riqre’s brows snapped together and Shein’s collar glowed. The voice cut off and Riqre inspected him. He had only broken the first pair of legs. He gestured to a guard.

“Both legs. A good breakage. Here, here, here.”

He pointed to three spots on Shein’s leg. The Bronze-rank adventurer screamed in silence and thrashed as men held him down.

Pisces was sick, but it was fast. Shein was sobbing silently when it was done. He looked at Pisces, but Riqre stopped the [Necromancer].

“This time, Pisces. I would like you to do something for me. Something…different.”

“What?”

Pisces was tired, but he wanted to hurry; Shein had no painkillers and Pisces could mend him quickly. Yet Riqre had something else. He turned and Pisces saw something placed beside Shein. Both adventurers stared at…a bone.

A huge bone. Yellowed, but new. Riqre smiled.

“That is a Grand Elephant’s femur. Pisces. Do you know what I want you to do with it?”

Pisces turned his head. Riqre answered him before Pisces spoke.

“I would like you to make this man…Shein…I would like you to make his bones stronger. Or perhaps make him taller? Flesh is an issue. Lighter, even. Shorter! Whatever you like!”

Pisces stared at Riqre.

“You want me to change his bones?”

“Yes. And if you do not, and if the bones are the same, they will be broken and he will be left there…. Igheriz, this is how you add to the value of more than one slave at a time.”

The Emir chuckled. Pisces turned to Shein. The man could talk, as Pisces slowly walked over. Pisces stared at the bone.

“Pisces…Adventurer Pisces, sir.”

“I’m sorry. I…”

Pisces looked back at Riqre. Shein tried to grin.

“Always…I’ve not taken wounds this bad before. I thought I could handle it. You saw me blubbering like a baby.”

“Everyone screams, Shein. Don’t think of it. Just—just relax.”

Shein tried to nod, and a groan escaped his lips. He looked at Pisces, fear in his eyes, a mortal terror.

“Can you heal me? Are you going to…?”

“Do you want me to?”

Pisces stood there. He looked at Shein and thought of Yvlon. He had done this, too. He had never really considered it until Yvlon had asked him to help. Hadn’t he improved her?

“He will if he wants to ever walk, Pisces!”

Riqre called out cheerfully. He waved from where he was feeding Meritha grapes upon his lap, to the envy of all the other [Slaves], and Pisces looked at the man. How could he know Pisces’ past like this? Put together necromancy in this way? Could he read Pisces’ soul?

“I…what do you want me to do, Shein?”

“J-Just—”

Shein’s eyes were rolling up in his head. He clutched at Pisces’ arm.

“Just make the pain go away. Please? And keep me normal? Normal looking?”

Then his eyes turned to whites and he fainted. Pisces removed the hand, and gently laid Shein’s head back. He stood there a while, then knelt.

“I promise.”

Interlude – Pisces 2 (Revised)

Trigger Warning: This chapter contains numerous examples of sexual and physical assault, slavery, and various forms of torture as well as suicidal ideation.

The next day, Shein walked. He walked, and stared at his legs. Everyone did.

There was a faint scar from where the wounds had been dealt; beyond that, no one could see anything wrong with his legs or the bone structure beneath the skin. Of course not. Pisces knew bones.

Yet something was different. For…Shein walked and nearly skipped over the sands. He kept saying the same thing.

“It’s so light.”

His bones were lighter. Nearly half their original weight. Which was…well, a femur was barely a single pound in weight, and all the little bones added up, but it wasn’t that much on the whole.

Yet it did make a difference. Pisces had sweated, improvised, tried to find a way to do what Riqre wanted and had come up with this in the moment. He could have added to Shein’s bone mass, but that would just make him heavier, even if it was stronger.

Instead, Pisces had created a kind of internal structure that Yvlon’s arm had used, and added the Grand Elephant bone in place of Shein’s bone.

Stronger bone. There was a bit of magic in Grand Elephant bodies that allowed them to support their weight. Thusly, Shein’s bones could be lighter-weight and just as strong. Stronger.

I never told Erin that her bear-teeth were probably tougher than normal. Pisces walked along, attracting just as many stares.

Riqre was overjoyed. He’d been a bit suspicious until he’d gotten Pisces to swear on a truth-spell, and now he laughed.

“Better than the fleshshapers of A’ctelios! They can only mend flesh. Bravo, Pisces! Bravo, dear boy! I want you more now!”

Even Igheriz smiled. Pisces had not levelled, but the [Necromancer] knew that was only because he was Level 38. If he had done this ten levels ago? He was sure he would have levelled in the night.

“Excellent work, Emir Riqre. Your talents are undersung and I shall sing them loud when we go to Roshal.”

“My estates first, Igheriz. My estates first.”

Igheriz hesitated, and glanced at the [Carrion Eaters]. The mood of the caravan turned bleak once more. Yet Riqre beamed. He pointed at Pisces.

“So what about it, Igheriz? You see my point?”

“Of course, Riqre.”

“Good. Then we will do it again tonight. Perhaps a [Guard] who wants to be taller? Or just a [Slave] you want to change a bit. After all…a few of mine would like to be taller, or more compact. A chin shaped so.”

Igheriz looked sidelong. Pisces’ head rose. Riqre met his gaze as he gestured to [Slaves] who had the slightest imperfections as he saw it. An inch too short. A nose broken once. He looked at Pisces.

“Pisces can help us create perfection. He surely cannot refuse that, can he?”

Pisces stood there and felt the jaws of a trap closing. If he refused, Riqre would punish someone. If he accepted…

It was just [Necromancy]. Put to good use. This was not evil. This was…was…

This was what Az’kerash and he had dreamed of.

That was what was so terrifying.

—-

Thereafter, Pisces was favored once more. Not for his fame, but for Riqre’s interest. Ironically enough, for his value not as a celebrity, but his powers with bones.

He would trudge along with the others for an hour before someone unhooked him, then led him to a wagon where he would sit in shade, or work when they stopped. Every night Riqre would demand the same thing.

“Improve him, Pisces.”

“Make her a tiny bit…more appealing. I think her chin is a bit jutting, don’t you agree?”

First it was [Slaves]. Then he came with a [Guard].

“This man has weak bones. Can you fix him?”

Pisces had never, ever imagined his class put to this use. It wasn’t easy; the living were not the undead, and Pisces was still an expert in death. He made mistakes. He could undo them, mostly, but Riqre would accept any accidental flaw.

“One gambles, Igheriz, and I shall accept failure for perfection. This one will be sold.”

A [Slave] screamed and fell to her knees, weeping. Pisces looked at the slightly bowed arm which he’d been unable to correct; some kind of fragility of the bone, and he didn’t know how to fix it. Riqre just patted her on the head, and turned away as [Guards] dragged her off.

The worst part was that Pisces was learning. Necromancy was a forgiving art. You could replace faulty construction with magic, so that joints didn’t have to rotate entirely properly; an undead could be less than stable. Naturally, an expert like Az’kerash had perfect symmetry and function, and he had castigated Pisces in their brief lessons, although Pisces was good.

On the living, he had to be perfect. It got so that he was thinking of new improvements as he looked about. Riqre still made the same threat.

Each night, Pisces had to improve a fellow [Slave]. Improve in such a way it was a clear and telling upgrade, or Riqre would undo all of Pisces’ work and heal the broken bones wrong.

The first night it was Shein. The second?

—-

Cawe didn’t flinch, but stared down at her broken hands. Talons, rather. Her fragile wing-arms and the joints in her hands had broken swiftly.

She hadn’t said a word. She just—grinned at Pisces.

“What am I getting, fabulous Pisces? Extra long talons? Poison sacs? I’m a [Pickpocket]. I need nimble fingers, not…”

She cut off, swaying. It had to hurt, as bone rearranged in flesh. Pisces spoke, trying to alternatively meet her eyes and…not.

“Nimble fingers, Cawe. I am articulating her joints, Emir Riqre. So she has more mobility.”

“Like Human fingers! Excellent! Can she bend them backwards?”

“Would you like me to?”

Pisces regretted the question almost instantly. Riqre took him at face value.

“Yes. Try that.”

Cawe stared at Pisces as the [Necromancer] hesitated. She whispered.

“Pisces, let me give you a piece of advice. I’m no [Necromancer], but I think I have an idea how to make this work better.”

He glanced up.

“Yes?”

“Stop talking.”

It was still done in a trice. Cawe blinked as she opened and closed her clawed hands. Garuda had grasping talons, reminiscent of a bird’s, but with thumb-claws, and four fingers. They were still noticeably more clumsy than a Human’s hands because their joints lacked the same number of articulation points.

Now she had three instead of two on her fingers. She stared uneasily at first at her hands, then shrugged.

“I liked my old hands better.”

“Ah, but perhaps this is an improvement? This…a lesser man would think it small, but I know how many bones are in the hand. Well done, Pisces.”

Riqre beamed, pleased, and Pisces relaxed. So did Cawe, who ducked her head and avoided any flippant comments around her. Pisces…saw Riqre lose interest in Cawe at once, noting her cracked beak and less-than-perfect plumage. He turned to Pisces.

“Tomorrow will be a harder test. Think of…spines next.”

“No.”

Pisces said it quickly. Riqre’s brows crossed.

“Ah, Pisces. Afraid of a challenge?”

“I do not have the skill to fix a spine, Riqre. Igheriz would…lose any [Slave], no matter how hard I worked. That is not a lie.”

Riqre drummed his fingers on his side.

“It isn’t, is it? What a pity. I would still love for you to learn…”

“Ah, let us work Pisces up to it, Riqre! I grant you indulgence, but it does not do for a [Caravan Master] to lose too much of his stock, even if they are his [Slaves], yes?”

Igheriz waved a wine cup from where he was sitting and indulgently watching. He had no desire to see bones moving under skin up close, but he seemed…relaxed. Almost reassured. This was clearly managing slaves as he preferred it. He still avoided ever looking in the direction of the covered wagons where the jars and [Carrion Eaters] lay, but it amazed Pisces how fast he and Hrome had compartmentalized this.

The good mood lasted all of eight more seconds before Riqre turned.

“Then, Igheriz. Shall we see to your greatest servant? Azam?”

The merriment fell silent. Igheriz looked up uneasily.

From where he stood sentry, Azam stirred.

“I…I do not think it wise to interfere with Djinni overmuch, Emir Riqre. My orders to Azam are carefully constructed. Even so, a wise owner takes few chances, is that not so?”

Igheriz licked his lips, turning a shade paler. Riqre smiled.

“What I have will not interfere with any precautions you took in binding Azam, Igheriz. It is simple, though. Look at your Djinni. Mighty Azam, will you not speak to me?”

Azam returned the stare. Silent. His eyes glowed and his body was unmoving.

“Azam respond—”

Igheriz halted as the Emir lifted a hand. Riqre turned to Igheriz.

“Ah, but you would have to command him. Your Azam is capable, intelligent, and bound well, but he is as reluctant as Pisces, Igheriz. A good Djinni would be making me laugh! Anticipating. You force him to do everything and he spitefully ignores all orders he can, is that not so?”

The Stitch-man glanced at Azam.

“…So do all Djinni behave, Riqre.”

“All Djinni do, except for the rarest, the best. Yet you can change them. It is hard to win loyalty, so I do not keep them…but there are still ways to persuade them. Look at him. He thinks he will outlive you, and I, and all here. He endures. Like the very stone he takes into his being.”

Emir Riqre skipped forwards. He walked around Azam, looking up fearlessly, circling him like a small dog would a larger animal.

Azam’s head began to turn, then he stopped. He ignored Riqre thoroughly. The Emir reached out and patted his arm. Then he reached down, between Azam’s legs.

The Djinni started. For a second his eyes flashed and he almost moved. Pisces stared as Azam froze again.

“You see. He does react. He did not like that.”

Igheriz watched Riqre, like someone watching an insane man dancing with a leg over a cliff, or poking a lion with his face in front of the bars of a cage.

“Riqre…you are fearless.”

Hrome breathed. Riqre turned.

“You are too cautious, Hrome. I know Djinni bindings. Azam will do nothing unless I offer him threat. Igheriz could…take more liberties. Yet we will talk of that later! In truth, very little of it would provoke Azam. He endures. See?”

He poked Azam’s side, and the Djinni was unmoving. Staring straight ahead. Pisces wondered what Azam was thinking. If it was anything like what Pisces would have thought, Riqre would have been dead if Azam could lift but a finger.

“Immortal but for if they are slain. Healing all but the greatest wounds. I could torture him as would make a mortal [Slave] shriek, and it would pass him by. He can forget it. I can suffer him indignities and he will mock me by waiting until my bones are dust. Yet. I do know you, Azam. I can leave a mark.”

The Djinni shivered. He didn’t look at Riqre, but his eyes flickered. Now, the Emir’s head turned and the madness was fully back in his eyes.

“Do you want to know how to humble Djinni, Igheriz? I will teach you. They will remember your name, and mine, for the rest of their days. He will be a better servant as well. Or…well. Let me show you.”

Riqre clapped his hands, and someone brought forth a decorated pot. At first, all shuddered, thinking of the jars. Yet it was not that which the Emir revealed. He showed the pot first to Igheriz, then brought it around, so that [Guards] and [Slaves] stared in puzzlement. He stopped before Pisces and Cawe.

“No one knows what this is. You, perhaps, Pisces?”

The [Necromancer] recognized it instantly. It was Cawe, though, who opened her beak, naming it in surprise.

“That’s…magicore.”

Riqre blinked and looked at her for a second. The [Pickpocket] froze.

Azam, who had not been able to see the contents of the pot, stirred. In confusion. Then…

Fear.

“Well done.”

“Magicore? How will this help, Riqre? I have transported magicore before, but never looked at it.”

Igheriz was confused. He stared at the grey, almost clear magicore, without element or nature. It was a [Mage]’s tool, or a [Jeweler]’s, if they specialized in magic. Few would ever use it.

Riqre spun back to Azam.

“He knows. Don’t you, Djinni?”

Azam was silent. The Emir looked conversationally over at Pisces, then the other [Slave Masters].

“Did you ever wonder how they reproduced? Did you not think to question if such beings ever aged, ever died? Surely—they have limits, or else they would rule this world. Djinni are beings of magic, that is the answer. Pure magic, you see? It is why getting them to reproduce is so hard. Even they can foul up the act of creation. Azam is a rare case.”

Again he smiled, but hefted the jar in his hands. Pure, raw magicore.

“And this…to change Azam, it is simple. It is not about taking his tongue, or forcing him to be this, or that. To punish him, it is simple. Mighty Azam, take this jar in your hands.”

He held it out. Azam did not move. Riqre clicked his tongue and looked at Igheriz.

“Take it, Azam.”

Slowly, the Djinni reached out and took the jar. He held it as far away from him as possible.

Even now, Pisces did not fully understand, but he saw the Djinni’s fear. The gathering was so silent, Riqre’s next words filled the air.

“Drink it.”

Azam looked at Igheriz. The man hesitated, but a malicious light was in his eyes. He nodded.

“Drink it, Azam. Why not? I have seen you down a barrel of spirits and poison without blinking.”

“Master—I do not wish to.”

It was the first, and only time Azam had ever spoken like this. Igheriz blinked, and looked uncertainly at Riqre. The Emir stared at Azam.

“You see? Order him.”

“Master, it will harm me.”

Again, the two warred with Igheriz, from either side. Yet it was the Emir who bent over, whispering in Igheriz’s ear.

“Have you ever heard him beg, before? Have you ever seen him afraid? This is power over Djinni, Igheriz.”

The Stitch-Man hesitated. Then his features took on a look like Riqre’s. He pointed.

“Azam. Drink.”

Slowly, the Djinni did. He slowly raised the magicore to his lips and imbibed it. It was a sludge, and it took him a long time to drink. He did not grimace, or show any signs that the liquid rock hurt him. After all, his body was magic, transformative. He might not even have a stomach.

So why did he look like he was in so much anguish?

“What is happening, Emir Riqre?”

Hrome burst out at last, confused. Riqre just watched Azam’s face. The Djinni stared at him, and there was hatred there. So much that it unnerved Pisces. Gone, gone was the blank look of what now all realized had been contempt and indifference. Azam glared at Riqre.

“The trick is not done. Tell Azam to spit it out, Igheriz.”

“Azam…”

The Djinni was already doing so. Out came a spool of liquid from his mouth, and it was dark. The magicore was silky night black, flecked with bright orange stars and a film of color Pisces had never seen. He stared, impressed despite himself.

“That’s valuable.”

Cawe whispered to him. The [Necromancer] nodded. Riqre clapped his hands. Like the [Magician] showing off the highlight of his trick.

“Do you see? Do you understand?”

It took all of them a while, but Pisces got it before the rest. He only had to think of magic…and his face became so disgusted that Igheriz himself stopped smiling.

“Explain it, Riqre. I do not know magic this well.”

Riqre waved at the jar of magicore.

“Think on what it looked like before, Igheriz. Transparent. It was raw magicore. It is the void, you see. No—more like glass. You understand? Transparent. Nothing. They are creatures of color. Even their nature. Nightair. Aethertravel.”

He strode over to the jar, and inspected the valuable liquid. It began to splash onto his hands and the ground.

“Azam, in the jar!”

The Djinni stopped spitting it out at the Emir. Riqre just shook his hands free, smiling up at Azam, and let a [Slave] clean him. He gestured at the liquid on the ground, shining with magical power.

“Such valuable magicore. Colored bright. Worth—easily worth—ten times what it was mere seconds ago. Had we let Azam keep it in him, it would be even more valuable. Maybe not. It has his quality, you see, so it may be hard for a [Mage] to work with. They have to distill individual elements. After all…it is part of Azam. Or was.”

He smiled like a Demon, gleefully. Azam’s face was still. Igheriz stirred. Some of the others finally realized what had been done and looked incredulous or uneasy.

“You mean…”

“Not his power, Igheriz. Just…what was Azam. A bit of certainty. A bit of memory. Faded away. Now it is here. Do you want it back, Azam? Do you want to ignore me again?”

The Djinni stared at the pot. Pisces held his breath.

A bit of Azam? A bit of his memory? What had happened? Was it like…forgetting a detail of something in your head, like losing the color of the drink you’d had last night? Or had he forgotten a face? A name? An event?

It terrified him, and he had not suffered it. Azam stared down at Riqre, and his lips moved.

“No, great Emir Riqre. What do you bid?”

The smile was victorious, and magnanimous. Emir Riqre turned away, waving a hand.

“Nothing from you, Azam. It is a lesson for Igheriz. You see.”

The man did. He stared at Azam, and the jar, and at Riqre as the Emir went to recline. The Emir kept speaking, as a [Slave] took the jar from Azam to be sold.

“That is how you will punish Azam if you feel like it, Igheriz. To motivate him. Does he not make you laugh? Feed him magicore. Does he misinterpret an order? Do that. A bit of him will go with it. A small amount makes him dread. A large amount? That is the biggest punishment. In time, they could lose everything that makes them…Djinni. They are practically newborn, then, like the few who are created.”

His head turned, a gleeful mask. The caravans of Hrome and Igheriz were silent again. They stared at the horror that could make a Djinni shiver and freeze up in fear.

“That would be something, eh, Azam? You could be born again. Perhaps made—better.”

This time he ran a hand up Azam’s leg. Riqre’s gaze was a lighthouse’s beam. It swung from Azam to Igheriz, back again.

“What did you lose from that? No one knows. It’s chance. Yet I have heard of smart masters who can take just what they desire. Replace it, even, with a color of their own. Maybe you hate how he smiles. Take it. Are you too dour, Azam? Igheriz could take it and make you happy. Smiling all the time. Take and put together. So beautiful. Wouldn’t you like to forget why you are sad?”

Azam was afraid. He whispered.

“I would not wish that, Emir Riqre.”

The Emir stood there, cocking his head left and right. As if confused by the response. Then he shrugged.

“Well, we shall see how well you serve, then. It is difficult, and hard, but Igheriz could craft a better servant if he had the time. That is what we do. Make what we own better. The true of us do, anyways. Am I not generous with my knowledge? Thank me, Igheriz!”

Emir Riqre took a glass of wine and toasted the others. He began to laugh. Hrome and Igheriz tried to smile, but they were unnerved. They stared at Azam and chuckled with Emir Riqre. The [Guards] of Riqre’s caravan laughed with him. They laughed…and slowed, as they drank and realized Riqre hadn’t stopped laughing.

He laughed. For ten seconds. For twenty seconds. Nearly a minute, laughing, and laughing until everyone was silent. Staring. Guffawing with such hilarity and glee that his voice was the only sound anywhere.

Pisces felt like his skin was crawling off his body. He looked at Riqre, and the Emir only stopped laughing after nearly two minutes had passed. He panted, and then looked around, as if confused as to why everyone looked so unnerved.

“Ah, Igheriz. Pisces. These are just little tricks. When we get to my estates, I promise you…”

He looked at Azam.

“True fun shall begin.”

Pisces looked at Igheriz. The man’s smile was gone once more. He looked at Riqre, and licked his lips and drank as deeply as he could. He could not pretend. He tried, oh, how he tried. But each and every time, he stared a little deeper into Riqre’s soul and saw more madness.

More insanity.

The others departed in time, to uneasy sleep. Riqre left in good humor, and the [Necromancer] and other [Slaves] were led away.

Azam stood there, a silent sentinel. Only when all but the sentries were abed, only when he was alone, unwatched, did he make a sound.

A small cry. No tears. No other evidence, no louder sound did he dare, or else he would show his weakness. The Emir devoured such things.

Yet he did make a sound then, as he looked down at the wasted magicore on the ground. A part of him.

Inside, the Djinni wept. He cried out, and wept and raged. For something he had lost, truly lost. He mourned and sobbed for something gone.

He did not know what he had lost. He could not remember.

—-

The last product of Riqre’s madness made himself known as they were two days away from Riqre’s lands. Pisces dreaded what he would see in Riqre’s home. How could it be worse than here? Than this?

The looming dread almost made you forget the horrors Igheriz could inflict. Almost. But Cawe didn’t forget. Of course not. No one did, but Leciaun was once a year, so you could almost blot it out, pretend it didn’t exist, as a kind of self-defense mechanism. That people like Igheriz would ‘reward’ their favorite [Guards] more often than that was a truth no one spoke about.

But in Riqre’s caravan, there was no need for Leciaun. His personal, devoted servants were off-limits. Everyone else? The [Guards] had free reign so long as they did their duties.

The [Slaves] who were not devoted moved in silent fear. The [Guards], well, they put up with all of it for this alone.

The worst of them was the [Guard] named Tenir. Tenir was not the highest-leveled, he was not the most trusted, although he had Riqre’s favor. He was not even the cruellest, but he was so relaxed. He joked and talked to the other [Guards], so completely at home here that Pisces suspected he was a monster beyond belief.

The truth was more horrifying.

[Slaves] would plead or try to negotiate with the [Guards] who took an interest in them. Tenir? Tenir they didn’t try. He would approach one, and they would beam at him.

“Tenir, are you busy?”

“Tenir, I beg a moment of your time. I so enjoyed our last encounter.”

“Tenir…”

They loved him. He alone enjoyed their affections; they practically fought over him. So Tenir happily enjoyed their company. No matter if they pleaded or wept or shouted, he heard nothing.

To him, they sounded and seemed to be happy as could be. His smile never changed and he laughed and jested with imaginary retorts to something he alone heard.

Pisces stared at Tenir. The other [Guards] just shrugged.

It was Emir Riqre who explained, when Igheriz demanded to know what was wrong with Tenir.

“It’s a class and a Skill. He does not know he has it himself, you see? It is invisible in his head. Tenir? I employ him and he works for me for a song. You would not know it, but at first he was the most miserable [Guard] who ever existed! He drove himself mad, but a man must work. Guilt. He thought he did something wrong. I told him not to worry, but he had different beliefs than mine. Foolish man. So he…broke. Against something. It worked out, you see?”

Igheriz just looked at Tenir.

“You let one with that class serve you as a [Guard]?”

“Of course. It does not harm. Roshal fears too much, Igheriz. As long as you know what is made, you fear nothing. I do not delve as deep as A’ctelios Salash. Now. Tomorrow we visit my home. Then we shall feast! And after that, to Roshal!”

Pisces looked up from ‘mending’ the bones of another [Slave]. He looked at Riqre. The Emir’s head turned and he caught Pisces’ eye out of the corner of his. He winked.

All of this? Play as we travel. Now you shall see all of it.

—-

They stopped at Emir Riqre’s manor. Pisces sat with Cawe, Bearig, Droppe, Astotha, and the others. No one really spoke.

“If I—if any of us stay here, I would rather anger Igheriz four times. Not that I interest him. Sands, let it not be so.”

Cawe muttered at last. The others nodded. All eyes turned to Pisces.

“Do you think he’ll insist on you, Pisces?”

The [Necromancer] shuddered.

“No. He can’t be that mad. This Naga wants me and Igheriz wouldn’t allow it. Azam is still here…we’ll leave tomorrow.”

As soon as Riqre entombed all those who didn’t genuinely, truly love him by now. Shein shuddered. He still felt at his new legs, running his hands over his flesh and squeezing the bones when he had a chance. The horrors made him physically vomit and shake. Pisces didn’t blame him. There was adventuring—and then there was this.

“Necromancer Pisces. The Emir Riqre desires your presence. You are to be an honored guest.”

One of the [Guards] stopped in front of the cells where they had been placed. Riqre’s manor was an actual keep, an old one in the middle of nowhere, along Zeikhal, the Great Desert. It was actually quite far from Roshal; perhaps to keep his passions hidden.

Pisces rose, slowly. The others looked at him, but he just nodded.

“Very…well. What does he want?”

The [Guard] gave him a look almost as blank and uncaring as Rophir, as all those who served under Riqre for a long time.

“Your company.”

—-

All thoughts of escape vanished as Pisces walked to Riqre’s manor. He had too many devoted servants, too many [Guards]…and Pisces had his collar and manacles.

Riqre actually wanted them taken off, but Igheriz had the presence of mind to refuse, and the Emir took it with bad grace. A good thing too, because Pisces wasn’t sure if he could have stopped himself from trying to strangle all three [Slave Masters] at the banquet table, collar weakening him or not.

The Emir was decadent in his home. He sat, wearing clothes on his upper body—none beneath. His [Slaves] twined around him, obscuring everything from view, but that didn’t change the obvious.

His trusted [Guards] and people were just as unrestrained. Here, as Pisces sat and ate nothing—but drank liberally—he saw the very thing he’d feared.

But not the depths. Not yet. That lay below and Riqre had not shown him. He must have shown Hrome or Igheriz, because Hrome was pale and drank so fast and hard that he passed out within minutes.

Igheriz didn’t pass out. He had been shaken by Riqre. He did not like Riqre, what the Emir did, but Riqre was the better between the two at molding people. And he was doing it to Igheriz.

Darkness begat darkness. Pisces saw only one of Igheriz’s [Slaves] here. Some of the [Guards] were here, staring or even beginning to get sucked into the madness.

But Eloque? The Lizardwoman was here and Igheriz turned all his fear and loathing and all he had seen on her.

Pisces looked away. If he could have stopped it—in every place, there was something to fight against. Which was worse, Riqre’s people, who believed they loved it because he had broken them, or Eloque? She protested—then fought, as Igheriz hurt her.

“Enough! Enough!”

Eloque cried out. Pisces half-rose—but it was Azam who spoke. The Djinni stood, arms folded, a permanent bodyguard.

“You will injure her beyond repair, Master. You bid me stop you.”

“Azam! Enough!”

Igheriz rose, as mad as Riqre. The Emir turned his head and his gaze fixed on Azam. Eloque ran, sobbing, and Pisces felt a lurch.

“Such insolence from your servant. He countermands you? Now would be the time to punish him, yes?”

Azam froze. Igheriz rose in a rage. He barely hesitated.

“Yes! Magicore! Lend me some, Riqre! Two times—no, thrice what he drank last! You will hold your tongue, Azam.”

The Djinni actually shrank. Riqre laughed and demanded some brought at once.

“Master, I beg you. Not that. I will lose myself.”

Azam spoke, his voice straying to…pleading? Not enough. Pisces watched as Igheriz hesitated, but Riqre was there, whispering in his ear again.

“Ah, he is repentant! Maybe you should relent, Igheriz?”

“Maybe. Maybe.”

Igheriz muttered, his wrath warring with what he knew he could do to Azam. Then he looked sideways and flinched. Riqre’s eyes were dark pools.

“Azam begs forgiveness. Yet he does so only in words. Perhaps…if he wishes to avoid the magicore, perhaps have him prove it.”

“H-how?”

The Emir grinned.

“Have you never ordered your mighty Azam to change forms? Aethertraveller he might be, but they have talents. Have you never seen how far you can order them?”

Igheriz hesitated. Azam’s head slowly turned and he met Emir Riqre’s gaze. He did not shudder, or show fear. Yet Pisces thought even the Djinni feared…Riqre laughed and beckoned Igheriz to whisper. All others dining saw Azam begin to shake. And that was only the start.

The madness grew worse. And the Emir had called for Pisces. He was going to drag Pisces into it. Force him into this horror, and Pisces already saw the Emir watching him. The [Necromancer] felt sick. He would not be the same. No one who fell would. He rose, but Igheriz whispered and Pisces was unable to run.

“Pisces. Igheriz told me he marked you. Let me show you too—the very foundations of your class. Do not worry. We will begin gently, at first. With games. Fetch me a [Slave]. One who was often with Pisces. Games first, then to the true matters.”

Emir Riqre beckoned and Pisces did shout then, a mortal shout of horror to be freed, to run. He couldn’t move.

—-

This is how Riqre played his games. He broke you apart. Took you deeper into darkness. Let you float there, even try to escape.

Then dragged you down again.

It was a variation of the tasks they had made Pisces do before. A game, Riqre called it.

Pisces sat in a room apart from the banquet. He had been led there, locked in. He did not have to wait long.

“Bearig!”

Cawe screamed as they dragged him in. The man was screaming. He screamed as they dropped him, ungently, laughing. Pisces stared in horror at his legs.

“Broken! It lasted for a while, but not against hammers, eh? Try again, Pisces!”

This was the game. Bearig had been here twice. First, they broke his legs. Then Pisces sent him out…and they broke them again.

Riqre himself appeared in the doorway, swaying. Behind him, Pisces heard a voice. Azam’s? It was a shout, but there were no words.

Cawe backed up into a corner. Pisces did likewise. He couldn’t help it.

“What are you doing?”

“Pisces, I’m helping you, of course. I am disappointed. I have hammers. I can break this man’s legs.”

He pointed at Bearig, who was choking on his saliva and the pain. Emir Riqre tapped the side of his nose.

“Stop me. Six blows from my own hand, Pisces! Stronger bones! Make him a better man! A better [Cook] or [Laborer]! Like, yes, like a Draugr! Imagine it! A mix between undead and man! You have twenty five minutes.”

He was gone before Pisces could react, hurrying towards the Djinni’s voice. Pisces looked at Bearig.

“Pisces. Pisces. My legs!”

The man wailed. Pisces slowly approached. He knelt, uncollared, but unable to use his magic except as Riqre willed it.

“I know, Bearig. Just…hold on. I’ll stop him from breaking your legs. I’ll make you better. Improve you. Give me a moment. I’ll make it so they can never break you again. Perhaps you can save us if we leave here.”

Cawe saw Pisces kneel. Bearig was out of his mind with pain, yet it was the Garuda who saw Pisces touch the Grand Elephant’s bone he was using to meld into Bearig. She mouthed the words.

“Better? Improve…?”

There was something in Pisces’ eyes. He looked at Bearig, but it was a detached look. Could he make something out of Bearig such that the man could break their chains? He looked at Bearig, but not at him.

Cawe opened and closed her beak. Then she saw the door opening. She tried to flee, to find a place to hide in the bare room. No. Not her! Not—

—-

Eloque stumbled into the room, still sobbing. She froze when she saw them. Pisces looked up. Bearig had reawakened after fainting twice. Cawe stopped scrabbling herself under a couch.

“Eloque?”

The Lizardwoman stopped, swaying. She took in the terrible scene. Bearig’s blood was staining the carpet. He had a single bit of healing potion, but Pisces was saving it to mend his flesh. His bones were reshaping themselves, growing denser, tougher.

“What—what…”

She had run from the banquet hall, but the entire keep was full of Riqre’s people and a few of his [Guards] and Igheriz’s were searching for her to bring her back. She’d run from room to room and seen…she slowly looked at the other [Slaves].

“Is he coming? Any of them?”

Pisces glanced up. He broke away from changing Bearig to reply, curtly.

“No. You can hide here for a moment. Twenty one minutes.”

Eloque’s legs gave out. She sat down. Some of the stitches had torn free in her scales. She looked at the others and saw a mirror of her face.

Waxy horror. Disbelief. Fear. Pisces looked at her for a moment and then turned to Bearig.

“I’m sorry. I…I have to work. Bearig is running out of time.”

That was all he said. Eloque saw his features change to one of concentration. She stared.

“What is he doing?”

“Fixing up Bearig. Making him tougher. Riqre is playing a game. Either Pisces makes Bearig’s legs strong enough so they don’t break or…”

It was not hard for Eloque to guess the game’s nature. Riqre was so simple in how he performed his evil. It all made sense. She looked at Bearig. The man was moaning.

“Pisces. It hurts. Stop, please.”

“Bearig, I know. Bear with it. I’m…I’m going to improve your bone structure. You won’t break another bone. If only I could chain an animation spell in here, they’d automatically knit. If I had more bones…more variety. I’ll change your arms. Perhaps if we’re put to sleep, I could make them strong enough to pull the chains apart.”

Cawe’s eyes widened. Pisces’ gaze flicked up, and Eloque started.

“Strong enough to…”

“I want to escape. We just have to survive tonight. Or do you think I intend to stay another second in this place with that monster? Bear with it, Bearig. I’ll try to hide the changes; don’t use your full strength. It’s only bone…if only I knew muscle.”

It was a gamble. Pisces wondered if he could do it. Bone was not sinew and muscle; perhaps he had to hide a kind of…bone saw in Bearig’s fingers? Something else? He focused on the legs first, but Bearig’s hand, slick with his own blood, grasped at Pisces.

Pisces looked down. The man was shaking his head wildly.

“Bearig, stop! He’ll cripple you for life if I don’t focus!”

Pisces snapped at the idiotic man. The [Cook]’s mouth moved; he’d chewed through his own lip. Yet out the words spilled.

“Pisces. No. I—I don’t want this. I want to be free, but not like a Draugr. Not like a monster. I want to be me. Not this. I beg you.”

The [Necromancer] barely heard him. He mumbled to himself, trying to think. What could he…?

“You’d rather die? Live with two broken legs? Igheriz won’t haul you around. I can reverse it in time. I’ve done this before. You know I have a teammate, Yvlon. I improved her arms.”

“Pisces. I don’t want that. I’d…what would my family see?”

Bearig’s voice was weakening. He was losing blood. Pisces bent to his work, moving faster. The man was delirious, and he underestimated Pisces. If Pisces could just…

“I would rather die, Pisces—”

“Enough. Be silent.”

Bearig whispered, but then Cawe and Eloque stopped hearing his voice. Pisces had cast a [Silence] spell. The man tried to move, but he was too weak.

In dead silence, Pisces kept working, mind racing now. He ignored Bearig’s feeble moving. They had to live. He didn’t know what he was talking about. He’d thank Pisces later. Pisces could improve him, perfect him, more than Riqre dreamed.

All I have to do is hide something in his bones. Or make him strong enough to break metal barehanded. Why did I never dream of this before? Not even Az’kerash—no, has he ever done something like this?

Why didn’t I ask him?

Can you fuse undeath and life together? Yvlon. I helped her. She gained a class from it revolving around her improved body. Look how much stronger she is. What if I had made her arms out of the Archmage’s bones?

Yes. Yes! Imagine that. Strength of a Draugr. Bone arm. Why…why do you even need flesh? Look at Ceria’s hand. If I could create something like that, they’d be closer to invincible. Repairable. If I could alter her hand…

What could I create? How can I make Bearig better able to help me? Us?

The magic was taking on a complex form and Bearig was struggling, but to no avail. Pisces saw a grander vision in his mind, and reached for it. Something not even the Necromancer had dreamed of. Something…

It was Eloque’s voice, quiet, intense, that made Pisces stop.

“You can’t change him back. You will never, ever change him back. You can change his bones, his body. But the class you and Riqre give him will last forever.”

The [Necromancer] froze. Bearig’s eyes opened. Cawe, who had been peering through the keyhole of the door, looked around. All three looked at Eloque.

“The class?”

“You have one too. It’s crimson. Like blood. That’s what Riqre wants. Change Bearig and you’ll give him one. Like I have. Look. Igheriz laughed and told me to keep it a secret.”

Eloque stretched out her scaly arms. The Lizardwoman pointed at the stitches, and then looked at Pisces.

She had stopped weeping. She might begin again soon, but in this place…in this time…she met Pisces eyes. The Lizardwoman looked at the young man who had interested her, caught Igheriz’s eye, a fellow [Slave]. Or he had been, a moment ago.

Now?

She spoke, slowly, gesturing at Bearig.

“Bearig asked you to stop. He told you he would rather die than change.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s half dead from blood-loss.”

Pisces retorted. Eloque blinked at him.

“So you know what is better.”

“I know how we can survive. Maybe even escape! Stop arguing with me and just trust that I know what’s better.”

Pisces tried to focus his mind, but he was just waiting for a response. He began to work, and it was Cawe who spoke up.

“You sound like Riqre right now, Pisces.”

The young man rose to his feet. His eyes flashed and he whirled on Cawe.

“Take that back.”

She balled her talon-hand into a fist, then stared at it. The gesture was not something a Garuda could make, yet her fingers…she thrust them at Pisces.

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“It was that or he’d keep your hands shattered! I didn’t have a choice!”

“I know, so I let you do it. Bearig knows. He doesn’t want this. We’re all [Slaves], aren’t we? Listen to him.”

Cawe pointed. Bearig wasn’t able to speak; he lay there, but he had said his piece. Pisces hesitated.

“If there’s a chance…I am not Riqre. I am not.”

“You are not.”

Eloque agreed. She sat there, knowing Riqre and the [Guards] would soon return. She rose, and stared at her arms. She clawed at her stitches in horror. Pisces and Cawe turned to her.

“Enough. Enough! I cannot live like this.”

Eloque screamed. Pisces reached for her, but she struck his hand down. He stared at the gashes on his hand, wincing, but Eloque was calm in the next second. She looked at Pisces, and backed away from the door. She had thought this was a safe place. Now?

Now, she looked at Pisces.

“When we first met, you told Igheriz you were better than he. A [Necromancer] better than a [Slaver]. I believed you. Right now? Look what Riqre has done to you.”

She pointed down at the unconscious Bearig. She never looked away from Pisces’ gaze. The [Necromancer] wavered as Eloque slowly opened the door.

“Igheriz makes me look like something more appealing to him. Slowly. Painfully. You—you do it less visibly. Faster, kinder. You are better at it than him, yes, but I prefer Igheriz after all. Riqre will have you make us all into his puppets. I have had enough. Goodbye.”

He did not respond as she threw open the door and fled deeper into the mansion. Pisces stood there, swaying, her words echoing in his mind. He looked at Cawe, and down at Bearig.

Pisces knelt, head in his hands. He had never thought of himself as a monster. He had never…

He felt himself sinking. Riqre was laughing, somewhere.

Pisces stared at his shaking hands.

—-

When they brought Pisces to the banquet hall, Emir Riqre was not angry. He sighed as he stared down at Bearig. The man’s body was whole. He was healed.

Not changed.

“Ah, Pisces. How close you came! Nevermind. I can see you had someone change your mind. The little bird? Perhaps…no, it does not matter. We have time. Let us try again.”

He didn’t even care Pisces hadn’t ‘fixed’ Bearig. The man was dragged out, surprised that he lived. Yet Riqre had forgotten about him in a moment. He was studying Pisces, thinking, musing aloud.

“It is so tricky. Perhaps if I said ‘that Garuda dies’, you will…but what? Some things are too crude. Hm, hm…let me think.”

His gentle, musing voice horrified Pisces more than anything he had ever heard in his life. The [Necromancer] looked around. There was nothing to stop Riqre. Hrome had come to, but was pouring himself more wine in horror. Azam? Azam—Pisces couldn’t look at the Djinni. Not after what they’d done.

There was no salvation here. Not in this darkness, in this night. If the sun had risen overhead, and the roof of the keep broken, Pisces thought the light would have quailed and fled Riqre. If Erin were here? Could she stand against this?

If he could have done anything, Pisces would have eradicated this entire place. Destroyed it completely. That was all there was left. There was no salvation here. He began to reach for something, a weapon, a fork or butter knife, hands shaking, knowing he would never come back.

Then he saw Riqre look up, and beam. He clapped his hands and rose.

“I have it! It is always first steps, Pisces. First…steps. I will help you down the first few, so we shall try again. Bring me magical agents! Find my [Mages] and deliver unto us all their little powders and crystals, to write spell circles! And bring me one last thing.”

His [Slaves] rushed about and the others turned to look at Pisces. What now? The [Necromancer] waited, hand on the butter knife. He saw Riqre look down and laugh.

“Oh, Pisces. You will not object nor need that. Put it down; you cannot raise your hand against me, anyways, only my enemies or those I let you. I could give you company, threaten you to do many things. Kill that man as punishment. Inelegant. Foolish.”

He flicked his fingers, blew on the tips of his nails and brushed them against his lips.

“No, Pisces. I treasure you. So, my people. Bring me bones. If Pisces will not change the living…let us perform his great spell! I see it Pisces, and I know you must have never used it! Are you not curious? I am so curious. Perform the [Ritual of the Lord of Bones] for me! Let us make a glorious masterpiece!”

He threw up his arms and there was laughter and cheering. Pisces stood there. He looked at Riqre and dropped the knife dully.

Oh yes. He would try that. If there was a chance…his eyes were filled with the same fear as Azam’s. He would try, but how would Riqre twist him? How…would he fall? That was the Emir’s genius. Hope inverted itself around him. Pisces felt raw, terrible giggling in his throat. He began to laugh, as manically as Riqre.

Somewhere in his mind, he tripped and began to tumble.

—-

No salvation came. No hope.

It was the opposite of hope that appeared. It came in a sobbing woman, as tortured as Igheriz could make her. She had seen how much worse that could be.

Too much. Eloque had run, screaming with pain, her body a mimicry of a Stitchfolk’s. The Lizardwoman fled the laughing room in the chaos after Emir Riqre called for the [Necromancer] Pisces, and madness swept the crowd.

She fled again from Pisces as he sank into this hell. Eloque ran on, ignored by the [Guards] as they celebrated. Deeper. Deeper into the keep, running from what would follow and kill her one way or the other.

Down. Past wine cellars.

Down. Into the earth the Emir had dug into, deeper, into the cold and darkness.

Down. Where there was no light. Down so many steps she had to stop to breathe.

It was here Eloque found something. Found…but she had known. Known deep down, even when she did not want to admit it. Here, cut into the narrowing staircase, was Riqre’s promise to all those who did not love him. She looked around.

Jars. Each one large. Large enough to hold someone inside. But not to stand upright. They would be crammed in, like fish. Like…

There were hundreds of them. She had passed many, and many more lay there. Still. Silent.

There was air to breathe. They were fed. They were…Eloque backed away in horror. She drew breath to scream.

But even the air sucked away the words. Here was the end of everything. Riqre wanted Pisces for this, to take him even further into horror.

I have gone deep as I can, but I cannot go deeper, even when I dig… Eloque stared at each jar, and she felt it. The same thing Pisces did. What all the [Slaves], even the [Guards] and Igheriz and Hrome did.

The pure, unadulterated wrongness.

If you could, if you were free and had all the power in the world, what would you do to this place? This corrupted pit of the soul?

Her hands reached out, shaking beyond belief.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

No response. The jars were silent. Perhaps everything here was dead. But Eloque felt…

“It must end.”

The Lizardwoman spoke. She looked at the thing Igheriz had made of her body. String amid her scales. She thought of all she had endured and all they had.

Months. Years. Decades, maybe, like this.

She had seen the [Carrion Eaters]. The [Slave] whispered.

“It must end. Either way—”

She heard voices. Her pursuers, lazy with contempt and laughter, were following, tracking her. Eloque looked up. There was nowhere to hide; the staircase down was not finished. It could continue forever if time and effort allowed. There was only Eloque… and the jars.

Slowly, she reached out. The air seemed to grow tighter and she thought she heard a…sound.

“Will you free me? Free us all?”

She pressed her head against the side of the jar. The voices above were growing uncertain, and the footsteps faster. Eloque listened, again. She thought she heard a voice. So she rose and reached out to the jar, fighting with all her strength to push.

It was unnaturally heavy. She heard a shout.

“Down here! She has entered the storage space! Where—”

They came running now. Eloque heaved with all her might and she felt the jar move.

Someone charged down and grabbed her. She fought, screaming. But the [Guard] saw the jar teetering. He reached for it, swearing.

Too late. It toppled, bouncing heavily down the infinite stairs, the enchantment keeping it secure despite the impact. Eloque, the other [Guards], everyone stopped and listened.

Thump. Thump. Thump—

Crashing from stair to stair, going down. Down and down and down….

Until they heard the last thump, and then the [Guard] breathed out, shakily, laughing. He reached out, grabbing her—and then froze.

Crack.

Slowly, the [Guards] looked down the spiraling staircase. They heard a sound. A crack. Then more cracks. They slowly began to move backwards.

And Eloque laughed.

—-

In the banquet hall, Pisces stood in the center of a glowing hexagram. He stared at the bones, of failed [Slaves]. Riqre was leaning forwards.

“Now, let us make it better. A ritual demands a sacrifice. Bring the bird.”

Pisces turned. He felt the magic summoning something powerful. Yet his focus wavered.

“Cawe!”

She fought, shouting, then fell limp. Her head rose and she looked at Pisces. She mouthed the words.

“Do it. Let me kill them.”

Riqre was chortling, looking from Pisces to Cawe to the glowing circle and moving bones. Either way, he won. Either way…

No salvation came. No hope. Just the very consequences of what Riqre had made.

They came out of the cellars. Up from that staircase. Hundreds. Things forgotten by even the Emir. People—changed by their classes.

Horrors.

The first of them fell upon the [Guards] enjoying themselves, then upon the sentries, and servants who had given in. They made no distinction.

Had they once been female? Human? Stitchfolk? Garuda? There was no way of knowing. They looked…nothing…like what they had been.

Imagine living a day in a jar you could not move in. Could not stand up in or stretch in. Then imagine ten days.

A year.

A decade.

Madness would descend in the first week, the first month. Time lost all meaning. It was one of the worst tortures ever, and you would live until you broke.

Many did die. Some—lived. They lived and heard the whispers.

[Rank 1 Horror – Entombed One.]

[Rank 2 Horror – Sealed Secret.]

[Rank 2 Horror – Many in a Jar.]

[Rank 1 Horror – Screaming Soul.]

[Rank 3 Horror – …

Trapped in infinite horror, they began to change. They gained—conditions. Aspects. Skills of a different kind. They waited. Waited, and waited, unable to die, some of them. Some of them clinging onto a hatred that would not leave. A desire for vengeance. If ever there was a chance…

If they waited long enough, they might grow strong enough to leave. They pressed at the magic and insides of the jars. Almost. Almost—it would just take one earthquake, one chance.

One [Slave] who was like them.

Released, they came out of their prisons and brought vengeance. Death. As much pain as they could inflict before death.

Pisces saw one as he whirled. Emir Riqre was on his feet, annoyed at the interruption to his fun. Igheriz and Hrome turned. They saw…a hand…reach out around a door as the screaming in the corridors stopped.

A hand. The hand was normal. Pale from lack of light. Yet the fingers had grown, and grown, and stretched until they had no limits. No bone. Searching a tiny space for just a crack, just a hint of—

The face came next. The body. Pisces looked at a pair of huge eyes. Hair as long as the fingers, twined around a body pallid and naked.

Yet the woman had no mouth. No chest, no throat. That entire region was…gone. Connected only by a bit of flesh she dragged the rest of her body around by. As if she had screamed so much she had torn away everything that could do so.

She looked up, huge, wide eyes focusing. Emir Riqre breathed.

“The captives have gotten out.”

His [Guards] and servants looked up. The first of the horrors crawled forwards—into a ball of fire. Riqre had pointed a ring and unleashed a jet of white-hot flames.

The horror did not scream. It—she—could not. It began to burn, but it was reaching for Riqre.

“Guard the Emir!”

The horrified [Guards] rushed forwards, drawing blades, hacking at the nightmares. They hacked at the dozens of fingers, reaching and twining around them. It took them minutes to kill the thing, even on fire, even under attack from all sides.

Panting, the gore-drenched [Guards] looked up. Emir Riqre turned.

“Your servant has unleashed one of my captives! You fool!”

“Who? What…. Eloque…?”

Igheriz’s eyes widened as he looked around for his captive. Emir Riqre turned. He—hesitated. Then he smiled wide.

“Ah. Not one, was it? I always wondered if they were changing. But I couldn’t control them. Now I get to see.”

He began to chuckle, then laugh. His [Guards] looked towards the doorway. They saw eyes, figures moving as more screams echoed within the keep.

More were coming. Many more. Riqre turned, almost joyfully.

“There you are. Wait. Wait, just a moment.”

“We have to leave. Emir—”

The [Head Guard] began to panic. Even Tenir was unable to hide what was happening. But the Emir ignored him. The others shouted, overturned tables, and his servants flocked around Riqre, to defend him, Pisces realized. He was already looking for Igheriz. Cawe, Astotha, Hrome and their people—all were running.

But Riqre’s people were almost as mad as he was. They were setting up to fight; this was their place. The Emir ignored everyone as the second horror burst into the room and was cut down. He finally found what he wanted. He strode forwards, beaming, as from every corner and door, his captives returned to end their tormentors once and for all.

The last thing Pisces saw was the Emir striding forwards, holding up a stone.

“Tell me one more time: do you love me?”

His laughter followed Pisces as he ran. Emir Riqre’s keep exploded into death and violence. An end to it. No salvation. Just everything he had created.

—-

Pisces ran. He had picked up no blade; there was no time, only the need to escape. Igheriz and Hrome fought, with their [Guards].

“To the stables! The cells! Grab everything and run, run!”

The horrors were in the corridors, killing even the two caravans. They paid less attention to the others, but anyone in their path still died. Pisces saw a bundle of eyes moving, shuffling his way—until Igheriz stabbed it. The eyes fell—reformed again. It jumped at Igheriz and the man screamed, slashing uselessly; each eye was made of blood, and there were no organs or body to kill—

Azam smashed the horror into a wall. The Djinni was roaring, his indignities forgotten. Even now, he was bound to protect.

“Run! They will drown this place in death for what has been done! Run!”

But for him, none of them would have made it. The Djinni attracted the horrors, slowed them and secured their exit. Everyone ran.

Pisces got separated from the others as something pulled one of the [Guards] screaming into the darkness. He dodged left—and found himself alone.

Could he escape? He had to live first! Pisces ran, swearing, looking around, looking for—

He found her by one of the doors to the courtyards. Igheriz’s caravan and Hrome’s were fleeing, pursued by shapes, protected by Azam’s glowing form. Emir Riqre’s people were dying.

Screams. Pisces stopped, panting. He raised his hands to defend himself or fight past…

“Eloque?”

The stitched…Lizardwoman looked at him, eyes wide. She had stopped laughing, by now. She stood there, ignored by the very things she had helped unleash.

Her kin. As tortured as she was.

“It’s done. I’m done. I’ve freed us all.”

She lifted something in her hands. A dagger. Pisces saw her angle it at her chest, and then Eloque stopped to look at her arms. The sewn stitching between her scales—she looked at him.

“I can’t be free of him. You see?”

She gestured at the collar at her neck. Her claws trembled as she lifted the blade. She laughed.

“I can’t even do it myself. Leave me. I’ll stay here. They’ll free me.”

Eloque looked back. Pisces heard the last of the people within dying. He looked at her. Back.

“No. Don’t—”

It was a death more horrible than he could imagine. He could not imagine the crazed things would remember what she had done. Eloque shook her head.

“I will not live like this. Do you not see what he did to me? Look? He wanted to make me like him. I can’t even remove the thread. It’s in me.”

She gestured at her body. Pisces looked at her.

“Don’t. Not here. Don’t die. Surely someone is waiting for you? Even—”

Even me. They were waiting for him. Eloque looked at Pisces. She laughed, and it sounded like glass breaking.

“I don’t want them to see me! I don’t want to live like this! Don’t you know what he does? Leciaun? Every day is like that.”

“I know.”

But Pisces didn’t know. He couldn’t imagine. He didn’t even know if she was wrong. He looked past her.

“We can run. They don’t know where we are.”

“There’s nothing for me. What would I do, even if I was freed? Like this? I’m a monster. Where would I go?”

She shouted at him. The [Necromancer] heard a sound from behind. Even so, he looked at her. The Gold-rank adventurer, the [Necromancer], looked at Eloque.

“No. I know monsters. You aren’t one. Igheriz can’t make you into one. There is somewhere safe. There’s a future for people like us.”

He looked past her. Straight past her, into that past. Looking at the [Necromancer] who had been exiled from Wistram, who had lost his friends. Who trusted no one and nothing. Who lied and stole and…had been coming to this place down Az’kerash’s lonely road.

Until he met a young woman who had protected him despite it all. Who made fun of him, but who refused to let him die just for being a [Necromancer].

He reached out. He just had to bring Erin back. And then…

“Come on.”

The young man took her arm. Eloque made a sound, but followed him as they ran.

—-

For a moment, as they ran out of the keep, Pisces realized he was free. His hand went up to his neck and he remembered that the Emir had removed his collar!

He was free. Riqre was dead.

Pisces slowed. His eyes widened. Eloque, following him, saw the [Necromancer] slow. She wondered if he had changed his mind. Then…he blurred forwards. Her eyes widened as Pisces [Flash Stepped] forwards.

“My magic! My Skills!”

He shouted, and looked back at her. Eloque felt her heart leap. Then she heard a sound from behind her.

Something shrieked. A howl? A snarl? It was not either. A wail without end.

Their grace had ended. The horrors behind them had lost themselves to madness. If some had recognized Eloque…these ones flooded out after them. Shapes that twisted and grabbed and screamed.

Hundreds. Pisces’ blood chilled. He saw Eloque pumping her legs and arms, but she was too slow. They were exploding out of windows, coming out of doorways, through the cracks in stone itself.

Pisces found himself running through the courtyard, for the walls. Yet Riqre spited them even now; the walls were high and there were only a few entrances to his domain, which was defensible.

A trap from within.

Some had made it out. Fleeing [Slaves], and, Pisces thought, both caravans. They were racing away on horseback, [Slaves] and [Guards] alike. Igheriz had escaped.

Pisces and Eloque might not. A shape nearly forty feet long, flat, like a snake, stretched out in front of one of the gates, forming a web out of its body. Eyes looked at Pisces, filmy white, but focusing with malice. He pointed.

“[Fireball]!”

The spell exploded on the thing and…failed to blow it apart. Something screamed through many tiny mouths, but it refused to give. He recoiled and his mind presented him with a terrible fact.

They were people. They had been people.

They had levels. Or whatever they had gained in the darkness. Perhaps he could kill one…

There were far too many.

Something bounded towards Eloque, a mouth full of teeth replacing a body. She spun, dove. It missed and Pisces shouted.

“The other gate! Back, back!”

They ran as Pisces blasted spells around at the nearest shapes. Many were hunting for Riqre’s guards, but Pisces was drawing attention by his spellcasting. They began to converge on the last living forms.

Is this how they died? Pisces was shouting. Eloque…was using a Skill. He blinked as he saw her hop, and a monster slammed into the ground.

She was quick, yet his spells and Skills were only delaying the inevitable. Pisces slowed as he saw the gates. They were swarmed with things feasting on the dead. Savaging the captors’ mutilated parts, as if this was not enough.

They would never make it out of there alive. Pisces looked towards the walls, but didn’t know if he could get over. A wall of bones? There were too many things on the walls too. He looked at Eloque. Before he could say anything, she cried out. The Lizardwoman pointed. She spoke, a single word.

A name.

“Azam?”

Pisces’ head rose. Then he saw him.

A figure at the gates. Fighting his way forwards.

Azam, the Djinni.

He was covered in wounds, glowing patches on his stone-body. He had been hurt, but he had cleared the horrors, kept them distracted while Igheriz and Hrome’s caravans fled.

Yet the faster horrors had bogged him down. He was fighting, roaring. Clearing bodies around him with mighty swipes of his fist. His hands glowed and lightning flashed.

It was not enough. The creatures leapt around him, striking, refusing to die. Their hatred kept them standing.

Azam refused to fall. He moved forwards, rocked back as something taller than him stretched up and dealt him a terrible blow. The Djinni stumbled, and raised a fist. He flinched as something flashed past his face.

“[Deathbolt].”

Pisces saw the giant shape flinch and recoil, sagging down. Azam whirled. He saw Eloque and Pisces.

“You?”

That was all he had time for. Eloque locked eyes with Azam. Her only companion in their long captivity under Igheriz. Pisces and Azam glanced at each other, both of whom had suffered under Riqre.

The Emir was dead. As his dark deeds fell to ruin from within, the Djinni raised a hand. He cast something down at Eloque and Pisces’ feet. Something that came out of his hand, his essence and body.

A sword, and a rapier.

Pisces blinked. He looked up at the Djinni. Then he seized the blade. Eloque clumsily lifted hers. They stood together and fought.

The pitch blackness like the insides of the urns drove the horrors mad. They roamed the halls, slaughtering the screaming monsters who had imprisoned them. They turned as they saw the light.

A flaming rapier. A glowing Djinni’s eyes. Spells and light. They swarmed towards the gates, into the courtyard. That was where the three stood, fighting, making their way for the outside.

Pisces, whirling, striking with a [Fencer]’s grace. Eloque slashing with a fierce desire to live, her stitched scales gleaming under the moonlight, and Azam, roaring, casting spells of his being and swinging, clearing the space around them.

There were hundreds, flocking towards the three who dared to live. Who dared to hope. They shrieked…

And were drowned out. Pisces was screaming louder, fighting. Eloque was howling back in their faces. Azam’s roar was loudest still. Pisces stabbed something and saw a shape as thin as cloth recoil, bursting into flames. He pointed and a [Deathbolt] put it to rest.

The horrors came for the gate as the three retreated through it. They came over the walls, but the trio held them back. They refused to die.

We are guiltless. We were like you.

Did the desperate, suffering things hear them? They attacked, tearing—Eloque cried out as something bit her across the side. Pisces nearly lost half the fingers on his right hand and his hand was bitten down to the bone as Azam tore it off him. The Djinni bled his magic to the night.

The horrors slowed. They looked at the Human, the Lizardwoman, the Djinni. Then they fell back, towards the keep. They looked back once.

Pisces saluted them with his sword. He didn’t know what to say. Eloque just dropped the blade, exhausted. Azam was the one who spoke.

“Tyrants and monsters die. Rest, chainbreakers.”

They stood there for a second. Then, Pisces turned. The rapier in his hands dissipated. He realized Azam had recalled his being. The Gold-rank adventurer tensed.

Azam stared down at him. He was still chained, and Igheriz’s slave, Pisces knew this. The [Necromancer] hesitated.

He was nearly out of magic. Yet if he—

“Azam. We have a chance. Igheriz isn’t here to command you. He doesn’t even know we’re alive. Not yet.”

Eloque whispered. She looked up at Azam. The Djinni stared down at her.

“I am his servant. I cannot flee; he calls me to him already. He will find you both.”

The Lizardwoman half-shook her head. She touched her collar, then looked at Pisces.

“You do not have to do his bidding now. Azam, please…”

The Djinni was still as Pisces stared at his face. He looked at Eloque. Then turned away. Azam began striding away from the keep.

“I do not. Run.”

Eloque watched him go, sagging in relief. Then she looked at Pisces. He nodded.

They ran. For a second…Pisces felt perfectly free.

—-

The two [Slaves] ran. Ran, into the night. The things didn’t follow far. They returned to the keep, breaking it into pieces. The Emir and his people never escaped. Not one.

Overnight, the Emir Riqre’s fortune and power disappeared. The things he had wrought bore him down.

What did a [Slaver] fear? This. The moment when they stared so deep into that darkness that it pulled them in.

The things at the ruined keep would not endure long, even if they could. Perhaps they might have collapsed, or spread outwards, bringing madness. Or changed yet further. Maybe they would have created a shadow of Riqre’s misery, so altered as they were.

But they never got a chance. As Igheriz and Hrome fled, both miraculously salvaging most of their caravans, the [Slave Masters] finally alerted Roshal to Riqre’s madness.

Roshal replied with full attention. From Lailight Scintillation, before anyone could learn of what had been unleashed, came [Slavers]. [Slave Masters] on carpets, with powerful servants and Djinni and artifacts.

They investigated the ruins. Captured what they wanted. Then—with spells and relics, they burned it to ash. All of it. Any of Riqre’s associates that had survived this moment?

They would be found and killed. Lest this return. Some things even Roshal did not countenance. That was the end of this tale of horror, which even in Chandrar’s many myths and fables, was only whispered of.

—-

They caught Pisces and Eloque after less than a day.

Igheriz rode down on the two himself. He laughed in delight to find Eloque alive, and Pisces heard her scream and regretted his words to her. He tried to attack, but could not.

A [Slave Lord] pointed down from a carpet. They had joined the hunt.

“Capture that [Slave].”

Two dozen [Mages] hit Pisces so hard it was over in a second, even as he tried to dodge. Pisces had failed.

He had tried everything to remove Eloque’s collar, knowing they would be tracked. He didn’t have the magic to break the enchantment. He couldn’t even fight back; he just saw the flash of magic and woke up two hours later.

They were captured again. The caravan resumed its course.

Not the same, of course. Igheriz and Hrome were changed by what they’d seen. They all were.

And yet, they continued to be [Slavers]. They never questioned what they did, only feared what Riqre had shown them. They had seen every conclusion to the path they took and still they didn’t turn away.

That was when Pisces knew there was no redemption here. He planned his escape in earnest.

The first time, he failed.

—-

Of all those who had survived Riqre’s madness, it seemed wrong more [Guards] than [Slaves] should have lived. But they had weapons and weren’t in cells where they could be butchered.

It was also wrong to say that none of Riqre’s people had made it out. That was the official line. Yet a few had fled.

His [Slaves]. A handful of [Guards]. Among them…

Tenir. The man had followed Igheriz out, even saved the [Slave Master]’s life. For that reason, and his shorthanded caravan, Igheriz let him stay. He probably had every intention of replacing him at the next city, but he wanted to make as fast a pace away as possible.

That Tenir was allowed to live after everyone had seen what he had done was due as much to the man’s levels as the fact that the [Guards] were so few in number. He was still dangerous.

Still insane. He thought the monsters who had come out of the basement were some kind of underground horrors. He didn’t understand—refused to let himself realize what they really were.

Pisces watched him. Igheriz had said no one would lay a finger on the [Slaves], and Tenir had agreed, too shaken to act like normal anyways. But what did that mean?

Absolutely nothing. Riqre’s madness lingered.

It happened on the fourth night, after the mad, day-long marches had slowed and someone had cracked a joke—a bad one—for the first time. After that smiles began, and people began to distance the memory of what had happened.

Pisces was in camp when he saw Tenir stop someone. Merr the Storm. Pisces paused as Tenir pulled her around the stone wall that Azam had raised. He heard a muffled sound.

The [Guard] had a hand over her mouth. He was smiling, laughing.

“No, we shouldn’t. But if you’re that desperate…? Just quickly, then. Merr. It’s a beautiful name.”

“Let go of—stop—”

She was trying to shout, to scream. He had an arm blocking her mouth. Tenir continued his monologue, staring at her face as if he didn’t see the fear or horror.

“Let me help you with that.”

He reached for her clothing. In response, the [Bandit Lady] tried to kick him, but her collar made her weak. She bit his arm instead.

Instantly, blank-faced, Tenir cracked her head into the stone wall. She went slack and he laughed, looking at the broken flesh on his arm.

“Not to worry, my arm? It happens. What a funny accident. Are you alright?”

As if there were some other reason she had bit him. As if he didn’t realize what he’d done. Something was filling in the gaps in his head.

Riqre’s madness.

Tenir had half her clothing off, tearing at the rest, when the low voice spoke.

“I knew it. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Tenir spun around. He felt something at his waist—and Pisces drew his sword. The [Necromancer] held it to the ground, panting at the effort it had taken just to draw it.

“You—Pisces! Drop the sword! Hey, I have—”

Tenir hesitated. He looked at Merr, who was sitting, head lying back, nose bleeding, barely conscious. He bared his teeth at Pisces.

“Say you didn’t see us, Adventurer. Put the sword down and I’ll keep quiet if you do. She asked me—but neither of us should take the blame, eh? Everyone needs comfort after what they saw.”

Pisces didn’t answer him. He just looked at Tenir.

“You must know what you’re doing, somewhere inside of you. That Skill just helps you sleep. You coward. [Rapist]. Can you even see your class? How do they let you in at gates? Or does your class hide it from their spells too?”

Tenir heard that. His face turned hostile instantly.

“I’ve never taken a woman into my bed that didn’t ask, Adventurer. Watch your tongue—”

“You cowardly man. I’ve known true cowards, but never one who lies to himself like you. You should have died with Riqre and his lot, [Rapist].”

Pisces raised his voice. Tenir reacted even more than he had hoped. The man’s eyes opened wide in genuine fury—he really believed he was innocent.

Pisces felt sick as Tenir’s fists clenched and his face turned crimson with outrage.

“Don’t—call me—a [Rapist].”

He strode forwards. Pisces tried to raise the blade. No good. And Tenir knew it. He strode forwards, but Pisces stumbled backwards. Raise the damn sword! He tried one more time, as someone raised his voice.

“Hoi. Where is Pisces?”

A man skidded around a corner as one of the [Guards] saw him. He shouted.

“Here! With Tenir! Damn—”

Now. Pisces raised his voice. He shouted with all his might.

“He was assaulting Merr! Trying to rape—”

“I did not!”

He leapt at Pisces, confident the [Necromancer] couldn’t so much as lift the blade. And Pisces couldn’t. So—he sat down, and in one motion, put the sword on his knee and angled it up.

Tenir ran onto the sword as he crashed into Pisces. The furious man’s charge did all the work. He spitted himself onto the sword. He choked.

In a flash, Pisces was shoving him off him, wriggling free. He reached down and twisted the sword as best he could. Tenir was choking, impaled high on the belly. Pisces saw the [Guards] staring in horror. He didn’t care. He flung himself down.

There! The keys!

Tenir had them at his belt. Pisces had seen that the mad [Guard] was trusted with some fumbled at the bloody body.

“He’s killed Tenir! He’s—grab him—”

They jumped for him, trying to reach him; Pisces flung himself down, and the dying [Guard] helped. They tried to yank him off—but Pisces had the bloody key ring in his hands. To make matters better, someone running to help tripped over something.

Merr’s leg? Tenir’s flailing limbs?

A dogpile. And now, Pisces was twisting the keys free, swearing. He plunged one into his collar’s keyhole and twisted it. And felt it jam—Pisces fumbled for another and felt the hands tearing at him—

—-

Igheriz looked down at Pisces and laughed. He laughed, even as his eyes shone with that familiar fury. He squatted down.

“Pisces, ah, Pisces. After all we’ve seen and lived through, I thought we were friends, heh?”

“After all we’ve seen and lived through, you haven’t rethought what you do?”

Pisces retorted—or tried to. He was mumbling. His face was puffy. He drooled a bit of blood and saliva. Igheriz just snorted.

“Emir Riqre was mad. I am not. There is a difference. I thought we were friends, Pisces, so this will pain me. Also—I thought you were a smarter man! After all, you thought I would entrust Tenir with a key to your collar? Or any other man?”

Pisces stared up at him. He had grabbed for the other [Guard]’s keys when all of Tenir’s had failed. But even theirs hadn’t worked. Now, Igheriz waggled a key in a mimicry of the [Guard].

“It was a neat trick, I admit. But no [Guard] has a key to your collar, Pisces. They are all different, all the special ones! What fool would have but one key to every lock?”

He chortled. Then shook his head.

“You killed Tenir. I did not know you could do such a trick with a sword. It was even a favor; he was mad, and Merr has you to thank. So I will be gentle. I will not break any bones. But we will hurt you. Oh yes. And if you rebel one more time? Well, the Naga can have you without your gems.”

He sighed. Then motioned for his [Guards]. Pisces bared his teeth in defiance—until he saw what they were doing.

Heating up pokers in a brazier. He looked at Igheriz. The [Slave Master] sighed.

“Did you think we would just beat you? Pisces, I thought you were smarter. This does pain me.”

The other [Slaves] listened. Cawe put her talons over her earholes. She edged away, nevermind that it put her close to a watching [Guard], flexing her hands and hiding her face. Astotha could not; she was tending to Merr. First, Pisces refused to make a sound, though they smelled burning flesh.

But they wanted him to scream, his tormentors, and they would not stop. So he began. He cried out so they would stop.

They kept going.

Qshom had his head in his lap and was covering the ears. He looked at Bearig. The [Cook] had a little person in his grip. The other [Slave] who had survived.

Rophir. The half-Elf boy did not look up, or even listen. His eyes were blank. His parents had been left there, finally at peace, but he was not.

Shein, Droppe, they all heard Pisces’ voice rise in desperation and looked away.

“Stop! Stop! Enough—please—”

Please. Even then, they did not. The only person who did not look away among the [Slaves] was Eloque. She watched Pisces. Watched him suffer. She said nothing, but looked at him, meeting his eyes after it was done.

—-

Did he believe in what he said to her, even now? Eloque saw the [Necromancer] gaze in her direction. His eyes closed and she felt the same madness in Riqre’s keep growing in her. But not yet. There was so much further to fall. She would have begun to laugh.

Then she saw his eyes open. No—just one. Pisces opened one eye, as if unable to focus. He stared up as Astotha was allowed to tend to him. Closed his eyes. Opened one, unfocused. Cawe hurried over to cursing, bending to berate him.

He’d most certainly—

Failed.

—-

One last attempt. Pisces had been warned. Everyone told him it. Even if Igheriz ‘liked’ him, he would carry out his threats. Technically it was two more attempts, but Pisces really didn’t want to suffer the consequences of the third strike.

He lay in the wagon for nearly a day afterwards, until Igheriz made him walk with the others. Pisces stumbled, head-down, looking all but defeated. Yet this time—the [Guards] watched him like a hawk.

They were not fooled. And Tenir’s death, reviled though the madman had been or not, had shaken them. They never took their eyes off Pisces.

He was even separated from his ‘friends’, the other [Slaves] who had made his acquaintance. Pisces was placed among strangers after the first day, on Igheriz’s orders.

Hrome was displeased by Pisces’ torture. He still liked Pisces, and remonstrated with Igheriz in private, but he could not deny that losing Pisces was to lose all, after this fraught trip. So he kept vigilant too.

They had slowed after Riqre, losing time rather than gaining it. They were passing far across the south, but the next city would change things.

“I will not wait, and risk all again. I will hire a flying carpet, dangerous though it might be, or a Djinni, or some means to transport Pisces to Roshal. Azam will escort him, and I.”

Hrome knew, then, that Pisces’ time was limited. He felt sorry for the [Necromancer], but he would not try Igheriz’s wrath. Of course, no less than three people had offered, but Hrome had no intentions of trying to betray Igheriz. The other [Slave Master] was higher-level, and while a surprise was advantageous—

No one could kill Azam.

—-

Two days away from the city of Vishront, Azam himself spoke to Pisces.

The Djinni walked besides the [Necromancer]’s wagon. Pisces had collapsed. Suspicious that he was faking it, even though Astotha assured him Pisces was still weak, Igheriz had him watched by Azam and chained down.

“[Necromancer]. Speak to me.”

Pisces jerked back to wakefulness from a dream he was back in the inn. His scars burned. He had heard Eloque weeping.

He woke to his hell, and the Djinni’s surprisingly high voice for his size. But then—Azam took the form of the obsidian half-Giant glowing with magma. Pisces looked up.

“You—you want to converse, Azam?”

Once, before, he might have called Azam ‘mighty Azam’ to play to his ego, or made some snide comment. Pisces did not. He did not sniff or speak with eloquence or diction proving his lexicon of words.

He was tired. Pisces had reached his limit long ago, in Riqre’s keep. He wanted to be free.

How did someone live, a lifetime, a century, as long as Azam, like this? Forced to face masters as bad as Igheriz, or even Riqre? He looked up and saw the glowing eyes.

Uncaring. Azam had watched as they tortured Pisces. Azam had seen Riqre’s deprivations, and only been moved when they came to him.

He looked down at Pisces with the same gaze. Neither hostile nor sympathetic. Not even uncaring; he didn’t think of Pisces at all. Like dust. Their brief moment of survival at Riqre’s keep seemed long ago and forgotten; that had been a uniting nightmare. With Igheriz’s predictable evil, he had lost his interest.

Yet he still spoke.

“Tell me of the book, the spell tome, [Necromancer]. Did it come from the Putrid One’s very library, his personal possessions?”

Pisces looked up. Of all the questions…he tried to laugh, and felt a catch at his voice as he chuckled.

“You want to ask me about the book? Nothing of me, nothing of you?”

The Djinni strode along, speaking quietly.

“What purpose would those questions serve?”

“Getting to know each other, perhaps. One [Slave] to another?”

The Djinni’s pace slowed just a beat, and he looked down at Pisces with what might have been amusement.

“You compare yourself to me? The arrogance—”

“—of mortals? Friend Azam, I had hoped for a measure of ipseity from you, but to hear you utter the very stereotype of the immortal is somewhat disappointing.”

Pisces saw the expression on the Djinni’s face and chuckled. Well, perhaps he had a bit of vocabulary left for someone who might appreciate it.

Azam did not smile twice, but he did nod slowly.

“Clever, [Mage]. I have met many of your kind. Perhaps we could talk. What then?”

“We would get to know each other?”

“To what end? You and I will not know each other long, [Necromancer]. I will live far longer than you. I will meet more [Necromancers], more [Mages]. Countless more slaves. I barely remember all my kin I have met, and I strive to do that. We forget each other, and only remember the greatest of our kind…”

He paused, and went on, murmuring as he stared past Pisces.

“I will meet a hundred thousand, a hundred hundred hundred hundred thousand of you…I do not care to know your name. So. Tell me of what lingers in my mind. The spellbook, or we shall not converse.”

Pisces realized that was why Azam called him [Necromancer]. The Djinni saw his class. He whispered.

“Pisces. Pisces Jealnet.”

Azam paused. He looked at Pisces. Shook his head.

“It does not linger. I cannot make it. Truly. Do not wish for fleeting immortality, [Necromancer]. I do not even remember his name, save that he controls me. That is why that…poison…why that Emir had to die. What could he take? He alone of them all had to die.”

He flexed his hands. Pisces looked at him and remembered Riqre’s method of torturing Djinni.

“So he could take the few things which are immemorial to you.”

Azam nodded, once. His eyes turned to Pisces.

“It was well they slaughtered him. He found a way to hurt me when no torture or indignity could before. I do not know what he took.”

His fury was like molten rock beneath the skin; Pisces saw veins of it lacing across Azam’s chest and face until it vanished. Then the Djinni was silent.

“What do you fear to lose? Your memories of your kin? Happy moments?”

Pisces was purely curious. Azam hesitated, and his head swung north a moment.

“Good or bad. Ill or well. Do you not fear to lose a part of yourself, no matter what it is? Yes, though. Most importantly, [Necromancer], I fear to lose…hope. Even we Djinni hope. I feared I would have forgotten why I hoped. Then I truly would have been a slave.”

He stared into the sky, his eyes bleak. Pisces wondered what Azam could hope for. Perhaps it was only a dream. Riqre had threatened to take even that away.

Then Azam shook himself.

“Enough of this. My master lives, and I may be harmed. Talk less of that one, or him. Answer my questions.”

He nodded at Igheriz. Pisces sighed.

“Very well. The spellbook. Why do you ask? Do you see something I do not?”

The Djinni nodded.

“Power. The blaze of it allowed me to find you, as much as the spell that carried you here. For a moment, I beheld its full power as the teleportation spell wore off. But now it is cloaked.”

He nodded to Igheriz, who had secured the book to his saddle, not trusting it to the bag of holding. Wisely; it might be easy to run off with here, but woe to anyone who touched it with bare hands. And the bag of holding might not be able to hold such a relic. Azam hesitated.

“It was so powerful. Like a…beacon. I could see it blaze with power from far away. Had we not found you, someone else would have.”

Pisces could believe that. Perhaps there was a way to mute the power; yet if not leashed, no doubt it was an artifact beyond belief. He wondered what Azam had seen.

“Powerful death magic?”

“Powerful magic. Did you see the Putrid One?”

“Yes. I saw him die. He was alive—but we woke him. He died. I took the spellbook from his possessions. Right there, on the table. It may be his.”

Pisces had not told anyone that. Azam looked at him.

“I think it is. So that is the Putrid One’s relic. Do you know, I knew him as he lived. I was…born…shortly after him. Though it took many, many years before he grew to power.”

“You knew his legend?”

Azam nodded. Pisces looked up at him.

“Tell me?”

The Djinni hesitated. The Aethertravel spirit bent down. He searched for words, and then spoke.

“He grew to power. He grew to discontent amongst his people. He fought them and killed them. Then other peoples. In time, the world quaked at his name. Then they beat him back. They hounded him and slew him in that place and buried his name.”

He met Pisces’ gaze. The [Necromancer] tried to stir himself, chains or not.

“That tells me nothing!”

“That tells you everything. He was like many. I remembered only one fact about him that I ever cared to know.”

“What?”

Azam leaned down, down, and whispered to Pisces.

“The Putrid One is but a name. One [Necromancer]. He lived and died. That spellbook? He stole it from one of us.”

Then Azam rose and walked onwards. He ignored Pisces’ every question. For that was all Azam wanted to know.

Two more days remained until the city, and Pisces learned a day away that a carpet was prepared for him. He laughed, too tired for words.

—-

All watched Pisces the next day. Such that Azam wouldn’t have been able to talk, even if he was so inclined. He strode ahead, staring at the sky, head turned as it always was, when not swivelling for threats.

The other [Slaves] were quiet. Eloque had a blank look in her eyes. She watched the [Guards] and Igheriz mock Pisces, but they were too careful. The [Necromancer] was silent…if he had a plan or was able to do something…

No. He shifted once and they were on him, checking to make sure if he was hiding something. Eloque closed her eyes. She saw the other [Slaves] had returned to their lot. Cawe and Bearig walked together, but Cawe didn’t snap at the [Cook] as usual. He was still himself.

Pisces had healed his bones, and the [Cook] looked at Pisces with sadness. Cawe…she pretended everything was alright. Even joked with the guards. She went as far as to nudge one with an elbow when he was complaining about being shorthanded.

“Better than this hand, eh? Or do you want Pisces to fix you up before he goes?”

She flexed her digited talons. He blinked, laughed, then cuffed her, but gently. She staggered past him as he shook his head.

“Damn bird. Don’t talk to me about that. That was a bad dream, and I won’t think of it again…”

“Watch the merchandise!”

Igheriz dragged Cawe up, but eyed her talons. He nodded at them, brusquely.

“We will see…just how that sells. If not, I will put in a word. Do not speak of Riqre in Roshal. Ever.”

Cawe lost her humor and ducked her head. Eloque glared at Cawe, flattering and even, it seemed, flirting with the guards. What was wrong with her?

Despair took many forms. Rophir had been saved, and Bearig tried to feed him as they sat in the evening.

“Smile, Rophir. Eat a bite? Please? The darkness lifts. I even swore I saw a beautiful shooting star last night to the northwest. Many colors it was. You would have smiled if you did not sleep.”

Azam frowned at the boy and Bearig. Igheriz avoided staring at Bearig too, but kicked the [Cook] in the back as he passed. He did not seem to know if taking Rophir was wise…but the boy had lived and Bearig had carried him without complaint. Igheriz would not kill a child.

Perhaps he should have. Eloque saw Rophir take a bite to shut Bearig up at last. He curled up, eyes blank. Even when he had been told Emir Riqre was dead, he had not smiled. That was the way of such men.

Real monsters like Riqre were not overcome or vanquished by heroes. They just died. Eloque let time pass.

One day remained. Then…one night. They would reach the city in the morning. And every eye was on Pisces and he could do nothing. Igheriz was no fool. That last night, he chained Pisces to six stakes in the ground, each with a different key in the lock.

—-

Pisces lay, feeling the chains on the blanket. He was awake. In the morning, they would ride for the city and he would be lost.

He had no illusions; maybe he could jump off the carpet and crash it, but Azam would be there and the Djinni…no.

Roshal. Maybe it would be better than this road with Igheriz. The Naga was said to be a genius who appreciated value. Perhaps….

Pisces might have been able to believe that before meeting Emir Riqre. He might not have tried to escape and bided his time, but the Emir had shown him just how dark a [Slave]’s fate was. How they could change you against your will. He had said the Naga knew of such things.

No. Pisces saw the other [Slaves] looking at him. They talked, staying up, Igheriz allowed them that. The tent was guarded, of course, but Pisces was helpless. He couldn’t unlock the collar with a bit of metal even if he had that; they were magical keys.

And everyone had been watching Pisces so damn hard. He’d gotten the keys off Tenir, but overplayed his hand. The useless damned keys.

“I hope it will be better for you, Pisces. The Naga can mend your wounds. Who knows? No story really says what it is like in his abode, but perhaps it will be better. He does not need to collar his [Slaves].”

Astotha murmured as she applied some of the healing potion she was allowed. Pisces still ached.

“But neither did Riqre. I will not hope for you, Pisces. I have forgotten how. I will remember you, though. And speak your name to all Dullahans I meet.”

“Thank you, Qshom.”

Pisces met with his companions amid the tent. Others murmured goodbyes. It was Shein he looked to next, and Droppe. Droppe spoke.

“I have learned many secrets the last few days. All of them dangerous. I hope you can find your friends, Pisces. I heard a rumor Igheriz knew the locations of one—the Ksmvr. Not where. Don’t look at me. I thought it was better you not know. You’ll learn when you reach Roshal.”

The Lizardman [Broker] shuffled back. Shein remained.

“After seeing those things in Riqre’s keep—was it as bad as the Village of the Dead?”

Pisces thought.

“Worse. The Village were simply undead.”

Shein nodded.

“No wonder I never made it to Silver, let alone Gold. I’ll remember you too and tell stories.”

“Thank you.”

What else was the young man to say? Shout his bitterness? His despair? No…he waited. Cawe held back but Merr who spoke.

“Thanks for killing that bastard.”

Pisces nodded at her. The [Bandit Lady] looked as tired as he was. Eloque was even present, sitting alone. They would all say goodbye, and Igheriz had let her join him on this night alone.

You see how I still honor you?

“You did your best. I think you were wrong. Better to end it than live like this. Is this place you know so beautiful?”

She murmured, watching him closely. Pisces murmured. Bearig and Cawe were last.

“It’s hardly that. It can be annoying. Dangerous.”

“Then it hardly sounds better at all!”

She laughed. Pisces just shook his head. He looked at an image in his head.

“No. It is worth waiting for. Because it was the home I wanted all my life. I waited so long for a place like that, and never knew it existed.”

The first place he had ever been that welcomed him as he was. Eloque shook her head, but not in denial.

“I hope you can find it again.”

Bearig was last. He didn’t really know what to say.

“I’ll tell stories of you. And Rophir will remember, won’t you?”

Rophir was sitting there, blank. Only Bearig would try to make him eat—the others looked at him like a weapon. Pisces wanted to say something to Rophir.

I know one of your people. If I ever get free…

He bit the useless words back.

Cawe was last of all. The Garuda sat cross-legged, fussing with her blankets.

“So, Pisces. You never got free after all.”

“Looks like it. All those keys and it turned out Igheriz had the right one after all. And he’d notice any moment if it went missing.”

The Garuda nodded. She peered at Pisces. He had thought long and hard about the issue, of course.

“And you’re not exactly quick with your hands.”

“I was a thief. But you’re right. Never a [Thief]. Let alone achieved the exalted class those of a métier like yours achieve.”

The other [Slaves] glanced up at the fancy Wistram-word. Pisces lay there, gazing up at Cawe. He saw her cracked beak open and the [Pickpocket] grinned.

“Quick hands isn’t as important as knowing the when and where of it. When I told you I could’ve stolen a key from a [Guard] with my bare talons, I didn’t expect you to tell me to put a key back.”

The [Necromancer] looked up. Cawe slowly produced a key. Several keys. The other [Slaves] went silent. Eloque’s eyes opened wide. The [Necromancer] only…sniffed.

“That’s why you got caught.”

“But how?”

Astotha was confused, and terrified. Cawe released her shackles with a key, and undid Pisces’ shackles. He was still bound with multiple cuffs—he hadn’t expected that, but she was producing more keys, fast as could be.

“Tenir.”

It was Droppe who breathed the answer. The Lizardfolk man looked from Pisces to Cawe and snapped his fingers.

“His keys! But they were all for Riqre’s [Slaves]—”

“—Which means Hrome and Igheriz’s [Guards] have a lot of useless keys.”

Pisces murmured. The others looked at him, astounded. He suppressed a smile and shushed them, but his mind was racing, as his heart had been.

Eloque’s eyes turned round as it all made sense. Pisces just sighed in relief.

He hadn’t been sure Cawe would pull it off.

—-

Pisces’ master plan was simple. The odds of him getting a key to his collar alone were remote, even if he could kill a [Guard] with the sword-trick. He hadn’t believed that one key would open all collars; he’d noticed the teeth on it and compared it to the others.

So, if he couldn’t get his key, he had to force a way for it to be revealed, as well as engineer better odds. The obvious answer was Cawe. She was a [Pickpocket] and even if she had been caught—she had a better chance than his.

The trick was Tenir. Pisces had deliberately gone for the bad keys to throw the caravan off. While they all watched him, he’d told Cawe to find the keys he’d tossed free. One of them was a basic key that Tenir would have had; the kind that unlocked all shackles. After all, shackles were different from collars and only one mattered.

With both limbs free, Cawe could steal a key to her own collar. She and Pisces had picked at the lock, trying to match jagged teeth to each [Guard]’s key, identifying which one she needed to steal long in advance. Once she had that? She could unlock her collar, nullify the enchantment and use her Skills without anyone noticing.

Tenir’s keys had gone into the pockets or key rings of the [Guards], replacing the bad ones. They hardly ever unlocked collars except when someone was being sold. Igheriz had been the question.

“Besides, I promised you.”

Eloque and Pisces were last. Everyone else was free, feeling at their necks; most collars had a single key, not being nearly as powerful as Cawe or Pisces’. Only Merr had a special collar. The one key that they’d kept was the one that fit Rophir’s collar.

“I don’t believe it. We’re free!”

“Not free. We’re under guard and he’s still locked up! And chained down!”

Pisces was indeed chained by six pegs Azam had hammered into the ground, and Cawe looked distressed.

“No keys. I’m sorry, I didn’t know—”

“I’m free. No keys? No problem, he’s only got tent pegs on him.”

Merr growled. The [Bandit Lady] reached down and heaved at a tent peg. It slowly began to come up as her Skills activated. Bearig grasped another. To Pisces’ surprise, the [Cook] began to extract one too!

“I’ll have them weighing me down, but it won’t stop a horse ride and I can fight with them. If I have my spells—none of it matters. Cawe. What about the last keys?”

Eloque and his collar. Pisces stared at the Garuda. She didn’t meet his eyes.

“It’s Igheriz. If he caught me—and Azam is always watching. I—”

She shook her head, and Pisces’ heart fell.

Then the [Pickpocket] produced a pair of keys.

“—Really hoped you’d cry.”

Pisces relaxed. He had almost, almost burst out in tears, if he were honest. Eloque began shaking as Cawe handed a key to Shein. She put the key in Pisces’ collar and twisted it.

The collar opened. The Garuda grinned at Pisces. He grinned back.

“That was worthy of tears, Cawe. Now, let’s prepare our escape.”

The others looked at him. Eloque collapsed to her knees, but Bearig urged her up.

“We’ll have to run for the mounts. It will be a fight as we run—but we must run. Azam can’t be stopped, but he’s not fast. If we lose him, they can’t track us.”

Pisces outlined the plan to the others. Astotha shook her head, eyes wide.

“You’re mad! You haven’t seen all his powers! He’ll kill us! And any [Slave] that runs—Igheriz will punish you—we’re dead! We’re not [Fighters]!”

“Merr is. So is Shein.”

“Me? They have more levels on me!”

Shein protested. Pisces overrode both. He looked around, his body singing with power. Yet he kept himself from tapping into his mana. If they noticed…

“We just have to reach the horses. If they have none, Azam will not catch us. I will delay him. I am a Gold-rank adventurer. Just run for the horses.”

He’d have to leave his gear behind. And the spellbook. Pisces had debated going after Igheriz…but no. He would return. He would never forget Igheriz, or any of the [Guards].

“This is madness! We’ll die!”

Droppe protested. Astotha joined in, but Pisces shook his head. It was Bearig who replied.

“Better to die than live like this. Will any of you suffer another Leciaun? Another man like Emir Riqre? If I die—I’ll do it thanking you, Pisces, and you, Cawe. You saved me once and I was ready to die there. Freedom. Freedom or death. I thought being a [Slave] might not be the worst fate when I was imprisoned in Nerrhavia’s Fallen. I was wrong.”

He held Rophir in his arms. Pisces looked at the [Cook], and the others stared. It was the longest, most eloquent speech Bearig had ever made. It was right. Pisces slowly reached out and clasped the [Cook]’s arm, and gave the man a look of true regard.

“Yes.”

That was all. The other [Slaves] looked at each other and their nerves firmed. It was only Astotha who moaned.

“You are all warriors! We’ll be caught! We’ll be punished like the worst were! Don’t do this!”

Pisces ignored her. He tensed, the chains wrapped around his arms and tied into loose ‘knots’; they’d impede his magic and movement, but he could [Flash Step] with them.

“Just go for the horses. Cut all those loose—try to ride at us with them.”

Cawe and the other Garuda would be first out, then Merr. They were fastest. Cawe was pointing to where the horses were tethered.

“What about me?”

Eloque looked at Pisces. She was shaking. He looked at her.

“I will not leave without you.”

“If it looks like I may be captured—kill me. Not one more night.”

He met her gaze and slowly nodded. The Lizardwoman smiled. Pisces thought he saw hope in those eyes. He tensed to give the signal, checking to see if the [Guards] were talking—

“Wait, wait, wait—”

Astotha screamed. It was a single, piercing scream of noise. She shouted.

“Escape!”

Pisces jerked. He whirled around and saw her looking at him. Eyes round with terror, she backed up to the edge of the tent.

“They’re escaping! They made me—”

“Astotha!”

Bearig howled in dismay. Cawe and the others at the front were already running. Merr turned, blood in her eyes, but Pisces forced her out of the tent. He heard two more people take up the shout.

“Escape attempt! They’re going for the horses!”

“We’re not moving! Don’t kill us!”

Droppe and of all of them—Shein. The Lizardman and Human Bronze-rank held back. Pisces would have turned back, cursed them and their cowardice and betrayal. He didn’t waste breath. He ran like a madman, for the horses, looking for—

Azam. The Djinni burst through a tent in a roar of fury as Igheriz raced out, screaming in rage. The Djinni and Pisces locked eyes. Pisces aimed a finger up.

“[Deathbolt].”

He spared the Djinni no quarter. No mercy. For this, for freedom, he would kill and use every spell and Skill he had been granted. If he had his [Shatterbolt] ring, he would have used it.

If he had dared to cast [Invisibility], he would have cut the [Guard]’s throats from behind.

If he had Nekhret’s bones, he would have used the [Ritual of the Lord of Bones] to risk all, even if a second Toren had been created.

He tried to raise undead from the sand. Pisces [Flash Stepped] as Azam grabbed for him. The others were running for the horses. Pisces shot acid over a [Guard] and seized the sword from the screaming man. He whirled, in one long shout of fury, ducking a blow from Azam.

The [Slaves] outnumbered their guards, even in one tent. They were desperate, unarmed, but free to use their Skills. They had the advantage of surprise, if lost mostly by Astotha, and they knew what would happen if they were caught, so they fought or ran with all their might.

They would have made it, but for Astotha. Even then, they would have made it.

Except for Azam.

—-

“Never again.”

He whispered, even as the Djinni dropped him in front of Igheriz. Pisces lay still. If he could have moved, he would have…have…

The last of the [Slaves] were kneeling. Merr, Bearig—all of them. Those not killed.

Azam had caught Pisces. The [Necromancer] had tried to stop him from capturing Eloque, but the Djinni—that damned Djinni knew how to stop [Slaves]. He had hurled fire and killed the horses. If he had been slower to react, they might have gotten out of range.

He had caught Pisces with another trick, as the [Necromancer] turned back for Eloque. A Wand of Paralysis. Now, the Djinni stood, and Pisces looked up and met his glowing gaze.

“Damn you.”

Pisces cursed him. The Djinni looked straight through him, uncaring. He had absorbed every spell, broken every barricade. [Deathbolt] had done nothing to a being of pure magic.

“Pisces. Ah, Pisces. You nearly made it. I call you clever after all. A clever fool. Look at you! A Gold-rank adventurer worthy of your price! But I am a man of my word.”

Igheriz was beyond fury. His too-bright eyes shone as Pisces looked up at him, still paralyzed. Eloque was weeping. All the [Slaves] were. She had tried to end it, as she had sworn, but Azam had taken the dagger away.

“If only you knew people better. But a [Necromancer] has no eye for the living, eh? You, Astotha. I will consider letting you go for this.”

The [Slave Master] turned and patted Astotha on the head. He regarded the three who had betrayed Pisces and the others fondly. Droppe gave Pisces an apologetic shrug as if to say there was nothing personal for seeing how the winds blew.

Merr lunged at Astotha and Shein, who met no one’s eyes.

“You fucking traitors—”

Igheriz turned and kicked her across the face as hard as he could. He walked down the line of [Slaves].

“Master, be merciful, please.”

Astotha begged, not looking at Pisces or Eloque. It was the Lizardwoman that Igheriz stopped before.

“I will be. After I am angry.”

“Kill me.”

Eloque whispered. Igheriz just laughed.

“After I have made you so beautiful? Pisces—ah, Pisces, you know what is coming. But before that…”

The [Necromancer] stared up in hatred as Igheriz passed by. Hrome was speaking urgently.

“We’ve lost only three, Igheriz. Consider otherwise. You’ll be rid of him tomorrow.”

The Stitch-man whirled, and screamed in Hrome’s face.

“You think this is easily forgiven, Hrome? That I am not a man who keeps my vows? He would have gotten away!”

The Human backed away. Igheriz controlled himself—barely. He looked around. No one dared speak. The [Guards] were still angry, but a small blaze compared to the raging inferno of Igheriz. Azam bowed his head. Pisces’ hatred for him…he only cared for the book, which lay open behind Igheriz. If he had just…Igheriz laughed, and he sounded like Riqre for a moment.

“No. No—Pisces is next. Before that, where is she? There is only one person who could do this. Ah, there you are. Cawe. Cawe, Cawe, Cawe.”

She jerked. She was burnt; Azam had seared half her feathers off. The [Pickpocket] still spat at Igheriz.

“Do your worst!”

Igheriz gave her a beaming smile. She looked up at him, shaking. Pisces felt his limbs begin to move. Igheriz shook his head.

“You have made me so angry—so—but I have to get to Roshal. And Astotha begs me for mercy. So. It will be Leciaun for the others until I return. And that is merciful. You? Cawe? Just…”

He stood, turning to Pisces, then turned and pointed back. Pisces saw him draw a sword.

Igheriz ran Cawe through the neck. Pisces screamed.

“Cawe!”

The [Slave Master] was turning away, dismissively. He walked over to Pisces. Then he squatted down.

“You know what is coming next, don’t you? Snip, snip. Bring me potions and a blade. Hold him down. Azam.”

The [Guards] moved forwards, grimly. Pisces shouted. He struggled, as someone seized Eloque. He saw Igheriz looking down at him, and Pisces no longer cared. He looked at where Cawe lay.

“Do it. Do it, Igheriz. Do your worst. I will live through it all. I will walk down that dark road that Az’kerash took. I will reach the end and I will end all of Roshal and you.”

He saw the [Slave Master] ready the blade. Pisces saw him look down. The [Necromancer] felt it. The same madness. He knew now what Az’kerash had seen.

“I will never forgive this. I will wage war until the end of my days and beyond.”

He began laughing as the pain began. No salvation. This was simply Chandrar and the Traders of Roshal. There was no inn anymore, no [Innkeeper].

The end.

—-

The night sky over Chandrar had no clouds. In it blazed a hundred thousand multi-colored stars. They looked down over the screaming [Necromancer], the kneeling [Slaves], the caravan and the rest of Chandrar itself.

As they had always done, winking down on horror. There was no salvation from there, even if it was said in the old stories that the Gnomes had once traveled into that heaven.

But those were old stories. And who remembered old stories like that? Only the almost immortal…

A shape broke across the starry sky, growing, splitting the dark night into light. No star, although it seemed like one for a moment.

Pisces looked up and saw a comet streaking across the darkness. No—not a comet. He looked up and saw a—

Rainbow. It burned across the darkness. Everyone looked up.

A rainbow, shooting across the starry night sky, without rain or light. It left a trail of colors, a shower of its own; falling sparks that burned and faded in the darkness. Yet the rainbow shot forwards. On and on, curving across the world and the bleak desert and quiet lands below.

A line of prismatic spray. Emanating from a single, glowing point of white light. It was such a…non-sequitur that Pisces stopped raving. The other [Slavers] looked up, and Igheriz stopped his first cuts.

To Pisces’ surprise, the [Slave Master] looked up and then dropped the dagger. He stood up, slowly. His look of rabid vindictiveness faded. A note of—uncertainty filled his eyes.

He murmured.

“A-aah. It—that—such sights are—”

His gaze traced the rainbow-comet. It shot forwards, streaking closer from the distance. So small at first. And then…growing.

Pisces felt the grip loosen on his legs. He looked up and saw Azam’s eyes go wide. Igheriz turned to Hrome.

“That—do you see it, Hrome? Do my eyes…?”

Some of the [Slave Guards] were murmuring. Others looked blank, but Igheriz was suddenly sweating. He looked up.

“I see it, Igheriz. It can’t…can’t…”

Hrome licked his lips. He looked around, and Pisces saw a look of real fear on the man’s face. As terrible as when he had been in Emir Riqre’s presence. But not on all the faces. All the [Slaves] looked up, uncomprehending, but one suddenly began to weep.

And then Azam raised his head. He let go of Pisces and raised his arms to the sky. He began to bellow, with a voice louder than anything Pisces had heard.

“Sister? SISTER! Is it you? Sister!”

Igheriz whirled, and the look of terror redoubled. He screamed up at Azam.

“Be silent. I command you!”

The Djinni ignored him, bellowing as loudly as he could.

“Sister! I implore you! Sister, to me! To me!”

“Be silent or perish!”

The [Slave Master] screamed. He seized the jar around his neck, the tiny object, and it flared. Azam screamed, but his lips closed. He stood there, staring up at the rainbow.

Hrome was backing up. He looked at the rainbow, still impossibly distant in the horizon.

“It’s just a story. It’s supposed to be dead. They killed it—”

Igheriz passed by him, running, screaming at the confused [Guards].

“Quiet! Quiet and—send word to Roshal! Everyone, hide! Dump your artifacts! Gag the [Slaves]! Not a word comes out of any lips!”

He was running for the fire. Pisces struggled, but Azam had resumed his grip. Igheriz was shouting, panicked. But the rainbow was just streaming onwards. Then—suddenly—it began to turn. And it came towards them.

Pisces saw the motion. A glowing point of light turned, and the sky lit up behind it. Turned every shade of color he knew and more by the aura of magic given off. Igheriz looked up.

“No. No.”

“Run! It has returned! Run!”

Hrome screamed. The [Slavers] looked up, and screamed. They ran, leaping onto horses, or running in every direction. Igheriz himself just looked up. Azam stared at the sky, laughing. Laughing, unable to shout, but pointing.

“To arms. To arms and—”

The [Slave Master] looked around. His [Guards] stared, some still not knowing what it was. Pisces looked up as something burned his arms.

“What is that?”

Liquid burned his arms. They were…tears. Azam looked up as the light grew brighter, brighter. He wept, as the figure hurtled towards the land out of the sky. A rainbow, cast by the figure in front of it. A sign. He pointed up and named her.

Roshal’s great foe. The nightmare of all those who kept slaves. The being thought dead, lost in battle in Rhir a century ago.

“The Death of Chains.”

The Djinni was larger than any Pisces had ever seen. Her body was a glowing cloud, and she wore armor. She was wounded.

She had wounds that had not healed after a century. Blows that had torn even her essence apart. Yet the Djinni still crashed to earth and shook the world. She brought light into the darkness.

“Slave! I defy you! I defy you!”

Igheriz screamed. He drew his sword. The Death of Chains raised her head as he charged at her. She looked down.

“There you are, brother. I heard you cry for me. Come. Let me free you from your chains.”

She ignored the little man flailing at her, striking air with his enchanted sword. Azam was weeping as he held something out.

His hands, where two shackles like those Pisces had worn were. The Death of Chains placed her fingers at the edges of the metal, and gripped. Then—she pulled at the bindings on Azam.

Her body glowed. Every color ran through her. She was a cloud—a giant—a screaming warrior armed in artifacts from Rhir.

Deathless of the Demon King.

She tore the metal apart. The explosion knocked everyone down. Azam looked at his bare hands. Then he rose and screamed.

“Free! Free!”

The Death of Chains laughed. She reached down and embraced the obsidian giant. He changed, shrinking, his skin not changing in color but turning to glass. He looked different, and stood on the ground as she shrank.

“Am I freed? So easily?”

“Like that, brother! You must name yourself! And swiftly, for we must not tarry!”

She looked at him. Shakily, the younger Djinni looked up.

“I—I am Azam’du.”

“Just that?”

The Death of Chains looked astonished. Azam shook his head.

“I was born in chains.”

“Ah. Then we will give you a true name, Azam. Come. You will come with me to safety! To Rhir! But first—I am sorry. I took too long healing. I was nearly dead. My kin woke first and healed me. I tried to regain my strength, but I was too late for Cinaelu.”

She laughed. Azam looked at her.

“For that day? Why?”

The Death of Chains’ eyes were flickering from color to color. Her body appeared white at a distance; because she shifted in shades of prismatic glory with every moment. She shook her head.

“Oh, little brother. You do not know so much. I would tell you—and will! But I waste seconds when my kin are scattered across Chandrar. Now they know I am here. I must free as many as possible! Come with me!”

“I cannot fly.”

Azam hung his head. The Death of Chains reached out and the larger Djinni touched his arms. Pisces saw Azam’s entire being light up.

“You can with me. Now—only one thing remains. That pitiful thing is what calls itself your master, is it not?”

The lesser Djinni turned, and they saw Igheriz. He had hacked at the Death of Chains’ body—then, as she freed Azam, turned to run. He was still quite visible, fleeing across the sands.

The Djinni reached out and grabbed him. She grew, and plucked him up. She held him, screaming, panicking in one hand and turned to Azam.

“He is not the many who hurt you over the ages—but would you see him dead now, or later? He may suffer an eternity if you will it.”

Azam looked at Igheriz. The man was writhing in the Death of Chains’ huge grip. How small he looked, that monster who had done so much.

Only Azam knew all of it. The Djinni looked at his former owner with wrath—but then shook his head.

“I care not. Let it be done, sister. What—what happens next?”

She smiled and squeezed her hand. A body fell, charred, motionless. Pisces looked at the little figure as it landed. It was done. Just like that. All the…

“We free the others. As many as we can. My presence is a message. Come now—quickly. But before that, we must set things right. I see more chains to break.”

She turned, and the [Slaves] of two caravans shuddered as her eyes fell across them. But unlike Azam—the Death of Chains looked at them. She saw them.

And the [Slavers]. Some [Guards] had just watched, in horror, stunned, disbelieving. The Death of Chains reached out and plucked their heads from their bodies.

“So die all those who hold chains. Let them all tremble! Azam, glorious brother, are these all [Slaves] truly? I see one who is dead and not even my kin, the one you call Death of Magic, can bring her back.”

She knelt, a giant towering over them all even now. Looking down at Cawe.

Azam stirred. His gaze swept over the others and fixed on Pisces. Then—turned. Slowly, the Djinni pointed at the quivering figures.

“Those three. Craven traitors. That one would have escaped but for them and I myself. They were free to choose. I was not. Those two kept slaves themselves until they were taken. That one was a [Slaver].”

The Death of Chains nodded. She looked down at Astotha, Droppe, Shein.

“We were [Slaves].”

The Stitch-woman forced out. She stared up at the Death of Chains in horror. The Djinni nodded one vast head. Her eyes were not wrathful. Just—disappointed.

“Yes. We do not choose our chains. But we choose what we are. So—”

She raised a finger. Pisces felt a flash of heat. Screams. The Death of Chains turned away from the ashes.

“What others?”

She and Azam spoke as Pisces got to his feet. He was shaking. He looked at Cawe, stumbling over to her. Then he turned and stared up.

“You. You saved us? Just like that? How? Where were you?”

The Death of Chains stopped. She looked down, poised, her body roiling, to move. Azam gasped.

“That one is an adventurer, sister. He took a spellbook from the Putrid One! A spellbook written by our kind!”

“I know. The magic called me to this place, as much as you, brother. Did you send me the signal?”

She pointed. Pisces’ head whirled around. He saw the open spellbook, lying there. The spellbook that Azam had placed…

The Djinni smiled, and it was the smile of hope made manifest.

“I heard a glowing comet had appeared. That the Death of Magic lived…I dared to hope, sister. I would have settled for thieves or bandits, come to steal it away.”

The female Djinni laughed, delighted, and hugged him in a full embrace, kissing his cheek.

“Well done. Well done. And this is the mortal who found it. Hello, Pisces Jealnet.”

The Death of Chains bent down. Pisces looked up at her.

“You know my name?”

She smiled.

“We are of Rhir. Of course we can see what happens. I saw you. I did not think to see you here. I saw you being tortured. Was this your friend?”

She indicated Cawe. Pisces nodded. He felt numb. Shocked and numb.

“Yes. Who are you? Who…”

It was a stupid question, but she knew what he meant. Up, the Djinni rose. She stretched, and arms appeared from her back. She was gas and air. Magic and will. She boomed, and everyone for miles heard her voice.

“My kin know me as Czautha, little [Mage]. Czautha’qshe, and many words after that. I have many names. Yet all who call me in this age know me by the one I took. The one I was given. Death of Chains.”

The Djinni who broke her bonds and was never captured. The Djinni, Czautha, looked down. She shook her head at Pisces, then stopped Azam.

He had taken the Putrid One’s book. She put a hand out.

“Leave it, little brother.”

“But sister—”

“My kin, the Death of Magic, has many such books. Leave it. It may be better placed here. After all—look.”

She pointed. Azam, Pisces, and the others’ heads turned. He saw a great flash of light. Czautha bared teeth.

“The Death of Magic. She has come to liberate as many as we can. I have no time to linger. Even now, they know I have returned, and my kin lie in bondage and torture across this world, and this land most of all. I cannot protect those I free. Azam, you will come with me. But you?”

She looked down at the [Slaves]. Wordless, they gazed up at her. Czautha shook her head.

“Even if we could take you all, even mighty Silvenia can only transfer a few. You, though, Pisces Jealnet. Do you have the will to guard them? You have surely seen what horror these people commit.”

Czautha gestured at the dead [Slavers]. Pisces nodded. He could not speak, yet she knew. The Death of Chains nodded. She spread her arms.

“To me, Azam. We must find others.”

“I know of more nearby.”

Azam hurried to her. Czautha folded him into an embrace and they seemed to meld together. She looked down. Pisces spoke, shouting up to her as the hum of magic became a roar.

“Thank you. I will never forget this.”

She had done none of it for him. He was…just here. A side note—it was always Azam, that the Death of Chains had come for. Pisces didn’t care. He was grateful. He saw the Djinni’s eyes fix on him. The Death of Chains dipped her head, and her words filled the air.

“Go, Pisces Jealnet. Never let yourself be chained again!”

Then—she shot into the air. She laughed, a huge laugh, as the wounded Djinni and the glorious rainbow shot across the skies.

And all across Chandrar, from Merreid to Roshal, they looked up. All those who feared her return. The Naga, the Traders of Roshal quaked. For their only true foe had returned. And all those of her kind looked up and rejoiced.

“Sister, you live! Hope remains! Free us. Free us all.”

Karsaeu screamed from distant Izril, the Djinni terrifying the passengers of the Unmarked Carriage. [Slaves] and the Djinni slaves alike looked up and remembered the stories. The rainbow, a sign of hope.

Let all those who held chains tremble.

—-

Cawe had died. If only Czautha had been a second earlier, but she was a miracle he had not looked for. The only one he had ever seen on Chandrar.

“This damned continent feels worse than Terandria.”

“It’s not all evil. Just them.”

Bearig held Rophir. The half-Elf stared after the rainbow, wonder the only expression on his face. Pisces looked at the [Cook].

“You can still say that after all this?”

The Stitch-man shrugged, painfully.

“It is all I know. And you have seen the worst. Far and away the worst. What—what will happen now? The Death of Chains liberated us, but we are alone. And they know we are [Slaves].”

Some had been marked like Pisces. Others were simply on the roster, subject to any [Detect Truth] spell. Pisces shook his head.

He ignored the remains of Astotha, Shein, Droppe. He knew why they had done what they did, but the Death of Chains had no pity for them. He looked at the others.

Qshom, awkwardly holding a weeping Merr. The [Bandit Lady] looked up, and all [Slaves] wept. They were free. Eloque stood over the remains of Igheriz, almost confused.

“It was so easy. Why was it so easy?”

Pisces had no answers for her. He only knew…he looked down at his rapier. His bag of holding. He slowly fastened the objects to his belt, and hesitated over the spell tome. He didn’t pick it up. Not yet.

“First, wait here. I have something to do.”

The other [Slaves] milling about looked at him. Pisces turned.

—-

Everyone had forgotten him.

Hrome had fled and Azam had forgotten all about him. The Death of Chains had not killed him. Nor the other [Slavers] who had fled.

Pisces had not forgotten. Hrome jerked from side to side, staring. The [Guards] who had joined him were screaming.

[Slavers] slashing at the air, aiming spells and bows at—the air. The air slaughtered them.

A red rapier coated in blood appeared for a second—a bolt of black magic made one of the others collapse, dead.

“Pisces! Pisces!”

The [Necromancer] appeared as the last of the [Guards] died. He had killed them in bare minutes, as gloriously superior as Hrome had seen him on the scrying orb. The man fell to his knees as Pisces walked towards him, bloody rapier at his side.

“I—I was asked to free you, you know. I could not, not with the Djinni! I admired you, Pisces. That thing, the Death of Chains—was it her?”

“That’s all you have to say?”

Pisces looked down at him. Hrome spread his hands.

“Pisces. I never so much as raised a hand against you, did I? I spoke for you, did what I could! I was your admirer! You know this!”

The [Necromancer] eyed Hrome. He lowered his rapier.

“All of this is true.”

Hrome smiled. Pisces nodded. He rested on the tip of the rapier, lightly, feet poised. Lighter than he had ever been.

“And Merr? Your other [Slaves]? You liked me. You celebrated Leciaun.”

Hrome’s face twisted. He tried to stutter, but Pisces cut him off with a slash of his rapier. Hrome clutched at his throat; it was severed. He gurgled, screaming, choking.

The young man stood there. As Hrome died, he spoke to the man.

“You know, I could not forgive them. Not Emir Riqre, not Igheriz. They were monsters, each and every one. But you? In some ways, you were the worst because you pretended it was normal. How the world should be.”

He did not wait for a response. Pisces turned and walked away. He had a thought and stopped though, and saw Hrome pouring the healing potion on his cut throat.

Their gazes met, and Pisces pointed.

“[Acid Orb].”

Then he walked away.

—-

The Death of Chains flew across Chandrar, upsetting the world, announcing she had returned. She went to Roshal itself, and fled Lailight Scintillation as they sent their slaves to battle her. Her kin screamed her name as she flew away, swearing to return. She would not die until every chain was broken.

A far smaller story played out here, in the dust and desert. Igheriz was ash. So were many of the [Slavers]. But the rest had been piled together.

Pisces buried Cawe, amid the last route of the caravan, as the other [Slavers]’ bodies lay where they were. He thought she might like that.

Pisces Jealnet stood there, as the other [Slaves] watched. He addressed the corpses simply.

“You do not deserve rest. None of you. If there is any redemption in death, you will find it here. So…rise.”

He raised his hand, and cast the first spell as a free man—truly free, now that all had been avenged. Behind him lay the [Slaves]. They would be hunted. Pisces had no idea where his team was.

Yet he lived. His throat was bare. He would never be chained again.

The Skeleton Lord rose slowly to its feet. The bones had fused, leaving a sigil in the ground, the rest consumed. The glowing-eyed undead slowly adjusted its head and turned to face Pisces.

It wore no armor. Its eyes were a light emerald green. It was unarmed. Weaker than the ones created by the Putrid One. Perhaps—beyond his control.

The young man shuddered. A vision of Riqre swam before his eyes. Bearig pleading with him…Eloque’s words. He did not know if necromancy itself had been tainted by what he had done. He stared at his hands.

“It’s not the same.”

The voice came from behind him. Pisces started. Eloque. She stood there, looking at it.

“This is…just necromancy. It’s not part of what he did. It’s not us. Is it?”

The two looked at the undead. Pisces nodded.

“It’s not. I only wonder if I can control it. There are places in undeath I have never dreamed of yet.”

Eloque nodded, but did not step back. All the undead could do was kill her.

Pisces didn’t know if the Skeleton Lord could be commanded. All he knew was that he had sworn to Cawe, to Eloque, to the others, that he would bring them to safety. No matter if he had to cross the ocean and bring them to that one place in the world he called a kind of home. He spoke to the Skeleton Lord.

“The living do such cruel things. You are so much simpler. You were made of things that called themselves men, but I ask you to be more than they were. To give, not take alone. Will you betray my hopes too? Can I make nothing beautiful, nothing that lasts? Will you—help me?”

The undead creation looked at him. Pisces waited, and saw the skull slowly dip.

The Skeleton Lord knelt.

He sighed. Bearig approached, and the others gathered around their protector. Pisces, the [Necromancer], the Gold-rank adventurer, stood, looking around as the sun rose.

“Where are you going to take us?”

Pisces felt the sun warm his skin and sighed.

At last. It felt so long since he had seen it.

“Somewhere safe.”

8.32

(It is the 5th Anniversary of The Wandering Inn, and in celebration (or something), Book 4: Winter Solstice is out on Audible, and as an e-book on Amazon! Also! Diana Gill’s Q&A from the Discord server can be found here!)

(The Last Tide is going to launch a Kickstarter on August 24th for the full comic and physical versions! It’s almost done, sorry for the delay!)

The sun rose on Chandrar, that arid continent full of as much suffering as magic, but it did not burn away the nightmares. It was not fair to say, however, that Chandrar was the land of more evil than other places. It was just more visible.

Slaves stood, staring up at the sky. A [Necromancer] shaded his eyes, then lowered his hand, slowly. Slowly.

You could not understand what it was like to just…see the sun, or even breathe, until you knew the difference between freedom and captivity. Pisces Jealnet exhaled. He clenched his hands, his branded scars and wounds, visible and invisible, lingering.

His friend, Cawe, was dead. A brave [Pickpocket].

So too lay his captors. He refused to give them names or remember where they had died. He looked up in that morning twilight, where the sky was brightening but still dark. Yes, the sun shone down cruelly at times. Uncaring over suffering.

Roshal’s depravities through night and day were ignored. Sometimes they became clearer than not, but the sun?

He did not stare at the sun, but towards the western sky. At the trail across the roof of the world.

That beautiful, glowing rainbow. A shimmering trail the very color of magic.

A symbol for [Slaves] anywhere to look up and be inspired by hope, rebellion. The nightmare of all those who kept them. Many had forgotten, believing the symbol would never come again. Now—it shone.

The Death of Chains. Czautha flew. One of the mightiest Djinni of her kind turned the sky alight.

“Now there is a sight to end all dark dreams. I will dream of it, I think.”

Merr the Storm looked up. The [Bandit Lady] stood with the other [Slaves] for a moment. Pisces just nodded.

Soon, they would move. They would have to figure out where to go, how to get to where he intended to take them. Soon they would be hunted, he knew. Already word was spreading.

For a moment? They looked up, and took comfort and safety from that sight.

—-

Listen. Look.

The [Necromancer] of Izril, Az’kerash, raised his head as Ijvani stumbled into the room.

“Master, master, news of the apprentice Pisces!”

She flinched from his glare, which had been his mood the last week and a half. Naught but a dark fury, a mood which sent his Chosen scurrying away from his study. Attempts had been made and failed, and Az’kerash had feared the worst today.

His head rose and his eyes opened. He stood, slowly.

“How?”

He was far from the only person to hear the news incredulously. The Gold-rank adventurer, a prize among [Slaves]—freed?

How disastrous. Well, some people thought that. Others—

“Yes!”

Selys threw up her claws. Drassi had scattered all her papers over Noass and Sir Relz, rushing into the broadcast booth to blurt it out. His friends and allies celebrated.

Roshal was unhappy. The [Necromancer] would have to be reclaimed. The loss of no less than two caravans—no, three if you counted the Emir who was already being purged from all records—was a blow.

The [Slaves] had to be reclaimed, examples made. Roshal would send their agents. Post bounties. They would be found.

It was just that Roshal was a tiny bit…busy…at the moment.

—-

The Death of Chains led her kin through the air. Azam flew after her, for the first time in his life. In her wake flew no less than three other Djinni, each one broken free of their bonds.

Their masters lay dead. Two besides Azam had come from Roshal’s slavers; the last, and a collection of nearly eight individuals on the two flying vehicles, had come from someone not of Roshal. Someone else who owned slaves; possibly from one of the local kingdoms or an unaffiliated [Merchant].

They had been rescued by the only other person here who could break the magical chains of Djinni, besides Czautha. She flew, laughing as though she never meant to stop.

Azam’s smile, which had grown on his face and never ended, such an unusual beaming smile of joy and salvation, wavered a bit. The mighty Djinni of obsidian skin, Aethertraveller, looked through the sky at his sister, who burned in a rainbow, leaving a trail.

Czautha, who was a sun compared to his candle. Azam would have died a thousand thousand times for her already, and they had known each other bare hours as she took him, smashing caravans and freeing his kin. He had luxuriated in that. In righteous vengeance.

He thought he would never frown again. Never cease smiling.

How soon it faltered. Not because of anything she did. The Death of Chains flew, eyes seeking more targets—but all of Chandrar was locking itself down, those who owned Djinni hiding, Roshal’s people cowering as she passed by.

No, not because of her. It was because of the other, who laughed.

She laughed like…someone who was living. Who was loving every second. The half-Elf was old. Old by even Djinni standards. Her hair was as silver as her name.

Silvenia, the Death of Magic. She had burned even more of the [Slave Masters]’ abodes to the ground. It was she who had helped take the eight mortals, the non-Djinni who flew with her.

Recruits. Unlike Czautha, who could only give the gift of flight to her kin, and would have had to carry mortals, Silvenia had artifacts—or perhaps only enchanted these vehicles. A flying chariot, which spectral pegasi dragged through the air, and a carpet no less than forty feet long and half as wide.

She was laughing. Azam had seen her blasting spells down from overhead. She had gone down, like Czautha, to liberate, find those with the will and abilities to aid their cause, and let the others flee.

Then she had flown up, and pointed down. She left nothing behind. Not mansions. Not buildings. Not people.

Now, she was laughing, high on the joy of battle. Azam would have been fine with all of that. Yet what gave him pause, what made him shudder was this:

She laughed like Emir Riqre.

“Silvenia. Enough laughter. We have lost the element of surprise. They are coming.”

The half-Elf’s glee did not end, but she did stop that mad laugh. Her eyes glowed. She turned her face and the Djinni and rescued [Slaves] beheld her. Her and Czautha both.

They were wounded. Half of Silvenia’s body and entire limbs were burnt away, organs replaced. Animated or replaced by power and spellcraft alone.

Czautha was even more obvious. Her kin, who could see her essence leaking, knew there was no patch one could make so easily via magic. Such wounds! They would have slaughtered Azam six times over.

Yet both ignored the pain. Silvenia grinned.

“Let them. Shall we burn cities affiliated with Roshal to the ground, lovely Czautha? This is what I came for. War. Look how they flee. They forgot, in making nightmares for those they owned, that greater nightmares existed. We have come for them.”

She glanced down—and Azam saw lightning coalesce around one hand. Silvenia threw a bolt of [Greater Lightning] down from the skies as they flew. As casually as someone else threw a rock.

“That is not why we came. Control yourself. We must pass by Lailight Scintillation, but only for a second. They will hide my kin, and our time is running out. Kisore. Will you lead my kin and the others north?”

The greatest of the Djinni freed swooped low after Czautha, calling out.

“I can give the others my aegis of levitation, and hold off all but our kin, Czautha’qshe! But I do not know the way to Rhir! They will follow us.”

“Make for the sea. We will catch up. If we are somehow delayed—the Demon King will lead you onwards.”

Kisore nodded. She pointed, and Azam changed course. He called out, with another Djinni who flew as a giant bird, rather than use magic alone.

“Sister! Where are you bound? Roshal’s capital? It is too dangerous!”

The Death of Chains turned her head. Silvenia just shot ahead, laughing, preparing hundreds of spells.

“Not for long, brother! But we must remind them.”

Of what? She shot after Silvenia, and Azam wondered. Fear? Roshal knew fear, from this night alone. Then he saw the Death of Chains’ magic glow brighter.

The rainbow filled the sky, hundreds of feet wide. It seemed to arc down out of the growing dawn. Towards that place all [Slaves] knew.

Lailight Scintillation. Such a beautiful name for a terrible place. The rainbow streaked at the great capital on the coast, and Azam knew that everyone would see it. See the masters cowering, running in fear.

“Of course.”

Not for them. Those who still had chains. Azam saw the rainbow halt in the sky, and the Death of Chains’ voice roared in the distance. Remind them. Remind them there was hope still.

—-

Even for them, it was a deadly, dangerous risk. If they had not been who they were—if the Death of Wings were with them, someone would have counseled against it.

Yet they were who they were. The last Deaths of the Demon King, who had survived the war which had put them in recovery for a hundred years. Wounds that still hadn’t healed.

“It would have been another century at least had it not been for the Earth’s child. Silvenia. Are you sure you have the strength?”

The Death of Magic was laughing again. Czautha regarded her companion. Friend? Ally? These were incomplete words. They were the Demons of Rhir. The Blighted Kingdom called them ‘Deathless’. In truth, it was easier to call them war comrades. They were not alike.

“Do not tell me to stop, Czautha. I would not have teleported us across the world or prepared this hard if I were denied this moment.”

“Do not kill my kin.”

“I will try.”

Czautha regarded the half-Elf, who was mightier than even Djinni in spellcraft. Unparalleled—a fallen [Archmage]. Yet that was only her class. She had seen Azam’s face; Czautha possessed more sight than mere mundane eyes, so observing him from behind was easy. He had understood something of Silvenia in a moment.

The half-Elf was war. She lived for it, just as Czautha lived to free her kin. That was a difference between them; Silvenia sympathized with [Slaves], just like the Demons, or why else had she joined them? Yet it was also true she had broken with the Demons’ own rules of war, few as they were, at 5th Wall.

To destroy Roshal, though, Czautha would have joined arms with almost any force in the world. And for this?

Silvenia was needed. The Death of Chains focused her being.

Lailight Scintillation was a glowing jewel, a vast city in the distance. Even dozens of miles out, the two came under fire.

“Artillery spells! Yes, they haven’t changed!”

The Death of Magic spotted them a fraction of a moment before the Death of Chains. She darted forwards, and a war in the air sent shockwaves blasting around Czautha. Long-range spells homed in on them; mobile curses bounced off their superior magical protections without even needing to be countered.

The half-Elf matched many spells with her own, but even she and the Djinni were forced to weave and dodge as they drew closer. They did not dare slow; Lailight would focus all of its might on them if they did.

“There! The harbor! Make for it!”

Czautha was not half as adept as Silvenia at magic, but she did not need to be. She had no Skills or classes.

She was simply a Djinni. She dropped out of the air, her body heavier than lead, and slipped past a curtain of spells as they passed in the wrong dimension towards her. She was a gnat, a cloud…

Then dodging became impossible. Silvenia bared her teeth. She began launching long-range spells back at the towers and walls, but put her hands together.

“We are breaking through! [Manasource Shield]! With me, Czautha!”

The Djinni hurtled towards the half-Elf and they descended from the cloud-layer. Silvenia burned her mana away in a shield which looked like it was crawling with so many magical spells, but her reserves were beyond the lesser spells.

Czautha? She reached into the core of her being and drew her weapons. She had not needed them to destroy caravans. Now?

She held a shield and sword. Just that. The relics glowed in her hands, magic so powerful her essence itself flinched away from them. Czautha lifted the shield.

“The Honor of the Tallest!”

The shield given to her by the last Giants burned. She held it in front of her and Silvenia followed in her wake as Czautha crashed through waves of attack spells.

Then…they were there. The Deaths of the Demon King hovered in the bay over Lailight Scintillation. Over the waters that were as smooth as glass via enchantment, the grand walkways and ramps designed that any species might easily move about the port.

The towers of glittering colored glass, which cast a thousand reflections across the waters, like a rainbow. It had given Lailight its name, but the view would no longer inspire those who saw it each morning. Czautha had chosen her symbol well.

A thousand spells a second flickered at them. Czautha felt her mighty shield failing; they could not stay! Not in this ancient capital, which had defenses designed to repel Djinni attacks. Some spells and wards had been made just for her.

“Silvenia. Give me a minute!”

The Death of Magic was no longer laughing, but a wild smile was on her face. She screamed into the sky.

“I call open the great void of magic! I call for death, as you named me! Open the Deadlands, let loose the void of spells!”

The aura of power around her abruptly winked out. Czautha felt—for a second—nothingness enveloping her.

It was like dying. No, it was dying for a being like her. Yet the void of emptiness passed her by. Czautha shuddered as it enveloped the air around her. Silvenia was so skilled she could create a ‘bubble’ of that dimension.

Into it Lailight Scintillation poured all its wrath, and not a single spell or enchanted arrow passed through. A few mundane projectiles shot forwards and promptly vanished on Silvenia’s lesser spells.

Let them waste their spells and magic. Contemptuously, the Deaths held their ground. For another ten seconds the onslaught roared—then abruptly, fell silent.

“A cool head among them.”

Czautha remarked. Silvenia didn’t answer; sweat stood out on her brow from maintaining the spell.

The Death of Chains didn’t waste time. Now that the roaring sound had ended, she drew breath and bellowed.

Across Lailight Scintillation. To the tiny shapes gathered below. Already…she saw what was coming next. Roshal knew her. She had plagued them, given them something to fear. They knew how to drive her off.

Yet for a moment, let them see her hovering there, in the [Slavers]’ vaunted city. Untouched.

“I am the Death of Chains! Look up, you craven holders of chains. Look up, my kin! I will never die. So long as I live, let all those who hold chains tremble! One day, we will cast this place into the sea. We have returned! Cower and fear our return. Believe the lies of the Blighted Kingdom if you wish—we did not cast that spell that tore the world apart! We have never desired this war! Only freedom.”

“Czautha.”

Silvenia warned. The Death of Magic was tiring fast. Czautha knew it wasn’t the time. Nor would it change many minds, but she had to scream it so some might hear. The Blighted Kingdom and that damned [King] could win the war of [Diplomats] and [Envoys]…she simply raised her sword.

A Djinni’s sword. One of the last relics that had been made for them, by their children. The Jinn’s Memory shone.

“Wait for me, my kin!”

That was all she had come here to say. Wait for me. Do not despair. I will set you free.

If only she could have fulfilled it now. Yet here they came. Czautha looked down as Roshal played its card, the only card they had to drive her off.

Djinni.

They flew up from the city, dozens, nearly a hundred. They screamed at her as their masters ordered them to battle, to slay the Death of Chains and Death of Magic. Some shot arrows, with artifacts of their own; others used their spells or conjured mundane lightning, fire, and hurled it upwards.

Silvenia was laughing again. She lowered the void of magic and began blocking spells, even sending a few hurtling back to slow the advance.

“Silvenia!”

Czautha roared in anger. The Death of Magic relented. They began to ascend, but slowly.

The tower spells weren’t firing; the Djinni were in the air, but already they had forced the two Deaths to retreat. Not because they were outclassed. If anything…Silvenia could have killed the lesser Djinni just by keeping that enchantment up. Yet Czautha could never have allowed it.

They could neither slaughter the Djinni, nor stop them from attacking. So the two Deaths flew up. Czautha longed to break their chains. She heard them.

She saw their colorful faces. Some were humanoid, others took forms of monsters and beings they had seen, or dreamed. Art come to life. She saw a creature with eight wings, a slightly-off beak, and exaggerated colors.

A child’s drawing. Then there was a Stitch-Woman, complete in every detail. So did the slaves remember. So they honored mortals, and their story was their form itself. They rose over the winking city, the so-called Market of Fables, like a forest of tents and stalls, wafting rich smells of spice and exotic scents into the sea’s air.

And below it all, the stench of sweat and fear and misery. Deeper, Czautha knew, behind the pretty colors of Lailight Scintillation, the dark cellars. The hidden chambers. The suffering. The lost. She hoped her voice had reached even them, down in the cracks of the world. She heard the voices, echoing, deep, braying, animalistic…voices no mortals could make as a species, yet her people.

In the sky above the port the Djinni shouted at Czauta, even as they attacked, but not warcries.

“Sister! Sister, you live!”

“Flee, Sister! My master will destroy us both! Cinaelu! You are late!”

“Let all those who hold chains tremble! Go!”

She saw one shoot up and cried out. The two Deaths accelerated, but the Djinni was fast. He rose like a glowing star, smiling at her. She raised her sword.

“Brother! Show me your bonds!”

Where were they? Earrings, cuffs on the wrists, the feet? At last, she saw the glowing metal in his skin; rods embedded in his being.

“I will wound you, brother, to free you! Stay back if you can!”

“I cannot. Sister—stand clear.”

He shouted back. The Djinni was fast, but not mighty. He held a bow and loosed arrows; they barely touched Czautha, despite the enchanted arrowheads detonating. Yet he was closing. What nature was he? Perhaps speed itself.

“They are trying to stop us from going! I cannot teleport him away—let me—”

Silvenia was aiming a finger at the Djinni. She intended to blast him into oblivion. Czautha knocked her aside and dove. She heard Silvenia’s voice, alarmed for the first time.

“Czautha. Stop!”

Her brother shouted a warning of his own. Yet the Death of Chains reached for him as the other Djinni halted their advance. They saw her blur as she dove.

The lesser Djinni drew a shortsword and stabbed her. Eight times, as they tangled; Czautha felt the pain and ignored it. She was tearing at him, holding him still as she tore loose the magical bindings.

Four of them. She plucked one, two, three…in barest seconds, ripping his own essence apart to get at it. Still…too slow. The Djinni whispered, in that time out of time. He was speed incarnate. That was his nature. Speed and starlight.

“Too late. I am free one way or another. Sister—”

“No.”

She reached for the last binding, but they both sensed the change. With all his will, he defied the last command and, laughing, hurled her up. Czautha flew, crying out, and looked down. She saw him lift a hand and—

The Djinni exploded as his master detonated the magical relics embedded in him, to command their servant. The Djinni’s essence joined the explosion. The pursuers below halted, knocked down by the blast.

The two Deaths flew upwards. Czautha was partially caught and screamed as her essence was vaporized—but not from the pain. She emerged, and saw the magic had twisted a hole into the water below. The seabed stared up at the sky for nearly a minute before the distortion in the world began to subside.

“I will never forget this.”

She swore it. Again—her kin were coming up, to destroy her even if it meant their loss too. It was what they did, these captors. The Death of Chains pointed down.

“Wait for me.”

Her kin laughed and cheered her as she fled. But she did flee. Magic pursued them, but the two Deaths blocked and evaded the rest, heading north to meet the others they’d saved.

“I have just enough to teleport us back. I need…a ride.”

Silvenia was spent. She let Czautha carry her. The Death of Chains flew grimly, carrying her comrade.

“Was it worth it?”

Czautha looked down. Silvenia lay in her arms, exhausted. They were still half-dead, the two. Yet, in the end, the Death of Chains nodded.

“I did not think they could catch us. I will mourn him later. It had to be done. We will come back.”

“They will be waiting, next time.”

Yes. They would. But they would scurry from place to place, fear every rainbow they ever saw. Czautha nodded.

“We will return. Let us go, Silvenia. Hope remains. Hope…we have spread hope. Let us take them to the only safe place there is, my kin and I. The only place Roshal cannot touch. There is more hope now than ever. Perhaps the door will open. To a land with allies of our own.”

Silvenia’s eyes opened, and she looked at Czautha before laughing again, laughing without end until she was hoarse and panting.

“An ally for us instead of the Blighted Kingdom? How funny that would be! I have missed your optimism, Czautha.”

“It stands in contrast to your bloodthirst, Silvenia. What do you think will happen if a gateway opens? As you think they tried to make?”

Silvenia just chuckled.

“What do I hope for? Not a sanctuary for Djinni and [Slaves]. I have talked with the girl. You should too. We should find more.”

“Yes.”

Czautha had made for Chandrar the moment she could, before the Death of Wings could even recover from Silvenia’s healing spells now that the Death of Magic was awake. She bent her head lower.

“What do you think will happen, Silvenia? If this Earth connects to our world?”

The Death of Magic smiled up at the sky.

“What I have waited for. My hope, dear friend. The last war. The greatest war to ever come before or since. Do you expect morality from Earth? A just ally?”

She began giggling.

“I cannot wait.”

—-

The Death of Chains’ attack on Chandrar would echo around the world. Few would actually hear what she had shouted from Lailight Scintillation, and only with difficulty.

Pisces Jealnet being freed was a small headline compared to that. It still mattered to a surprising number of important people. To his friends.

Yet both stories, both tales…had their scope, and reach. In another place, they did not matter. There was nothing either could do, in a real sense, that would matter. After all, for all their might or daring or futures, whatever they might be, they were the concerns of the living.

Cawe sat up and looked down, but her body wasn’t there. The little Garuda ghost sat there. Then, after a moment, she got up.

“That didn’t hurt as much as it should.”

She felt at her neck. Puzzled, really. There was no hole from the blade. She looked as she had a moment before she died.

She felt nothing. That was the first thing the ghosts learned. She felt nothing. She tasted nothing, not even the air; she felt nothing beneath her claws. When she tried to fly, she found she could, but it was only levitation.

There was no air. No touch, no smell, no taste. The world around her was the exact likeness it had been in her death, footprints of the people and all—just no people.

And it was also different. If Cawe tried, she could see that there had been other lands before this, once. The ocean had covered this place at one time, and at another…

All these things were the hallmarks of the land of the dead. It was as instinctual to Cawe as breathing, although she stopped that too, after a moment. She remarked on her death.

“I hope Pisces made it.”

For an instant, a bare flicker of time, Cawe was sad. Worried. Angry…then it faded. She was dead, and the ghost stood there.

Until the second ghost appeared. Cawe looked sideways as a figure cowered.

“No, no—”

Igheriz. The Garuda turned. She did not whirl, or turn with vengeance or hate in her eyes. She just…turned. Igheriz rose.

“I died?”

Cawe saw the brief fury, loss, fear settle across his face, and then fade. The ghost looked up—and saw Cawe.

“You. I killed you.”

“Yes. You died too? Who killed you?”

“The—the Djinni. The Death of Chains. She freed Azam. She freed the slaves. I think she is killing them all.”

Sure enough, more [Guards] appeared. Then Astotha, Droppe, Shein, and a few other [Slaves]. They screamed or wept…then stood.

Cawe saw them realize their deaths. She realized hers, and looked at Igheriz.

“Good. Pisces is going to live. I’m glad she killed you.”

Even in death, her animosity was enough to make her voice angry. Igheriz looked at her, and then away.

“So we’re dead. Is that you, Hrome?”

“He killed me. He…I was good to him.”

A man sat on the ground. Igheriz walked over.

“Who? Pisces? Did you expect more from a [Slave]? But he is ungrateful. Of all of us, I would have expected you to live, Hrome.”

“Yes! But he killed me.”

Hrome looked up. For a brief instant, Cawe saw his face, melted to bone. Then…it shifted to Hrome’s normal face. His features stopped twisting and he slowly rose. Igheriz nodded, his voice with that same dispassion in it as Cawe’s.

“Such a pity.”

Cawe was dead. Yet even here, even now that all her mortal regrets and desires were fading away, she still did not want to be among their company. So she began to…drift away. Igheriz looked at her.

“What are you doing, slave?”

Cawe turned about and faced him.

“I am no longer your slave. You cannot order me about.”

Igheriz blinked. He looked at his hands, semi-transparent, and grimaced.

“So you are. I wonder what will happen next?”

So did Cawe. She felt as though something was missing. Surely something came next. She had never thought about death, but…did she haunt the living or something? She could haunt Pisces she supposed, or slavers. Maybe she’d see her family?

The living weren’t here. Cawe wondered if this was it. Yet blandly; nothing was strong here. Only her intense hatred for Igheriz and Hrome made her walk away.

Rather to her displeasure, they followed her. So did the [Guards]. So did the [Slaves].

“Go away. I don’t like you.”

“You are still my [Slave]. I do not know where to go.”

Igheriz followed Cawe. She stopped. When he walked over, she tried to poke an eye out with her claw. She managed to poke him in the face as he jerked away. It didn’t really hurt, but he felt it, or at least, the obstruction of her talon.

“That is enough. I would hit you, or make you a [Slave]…but I do not see the point.”

Cawe glared at Igheriz.

“And I cannot find the effort to figure out how to kill you. Yet. We’re both dead.”

“Yes.”

The two stared at each other. Then they drifted onwards. They might have done so for a long time, until Cawe decided to go to where she had been born, somewhere that mattered, and Igheriz, the [Slavers], the [Slaves], all did likewise. They might have remained there, standing and letting time pass them by, occasionally remarking on familiar faces, or a change in the living world around them.

But then came the Giant.

He walked across Chandrar in massive strides. Cawe, Igheriz, and the others all slowed. They looked up.

There was a true Giant. He moved with huge, sure steps, his clothing fine, his brows crossed. Eyes…searching. He was stroking his beard, and behind him flew nearly ten thousand smaller ghosts.

Garuda? But also other species native to Chandrar, albeit many not blessed with flight in life. The Giant was striding, purposefully, moving faster than the rest due to his natural size. Every now and then he would stop and point.

He did so now, pointing at something in the distance. Cawe saw eighteen ghosts descend. She frowned.

“That’s a Giant.”

“So it is. I suppose he is dead too.”

Hrome murmured. Igheriz’s brows crossed. His head swung back and forth from Cawe to Hrome.

“That’s…a Giant.”

He said it differently than the other two. With a bit of awe, trepidation in his voice. Cawe nodded.

“Yes. Why do you say it like that?”

“Because…it’s a Giant. I feel as though it should be important. I do not feel awed, though. As awed as I should be.”

Igheriz touched at his chest. Cawe glanced at him, and then at the Giant as he continued his course across Chandrar, moving towards the coast. She felt…so little at all.

Yet then the Giant turned his head, his eyes roving lifeless Chandrar, and he saw the small band. He pointed again, and Cawe saw the finger point at her. The Giant spoke, and she heard his voice.

“There. Newly dead. They were not there last.”

Instantly, near a hundred ghosts flew down. They converged on the small band, who beheld many ghosts of many species. They greeted each other.

“Hello.”

“You’re dead too. When did you die?”

“Why are you flying? Why are you with the Giant?”

The [Guards] and Hrome, even the [Slaves] and Cawe were confused. What was the point of flying? What was the point of walking about? Igheriz was more animated. He blinked as a tall figure floated down towards him.

“Who are you…Miss?”

A [Queen] stood there, eyes searching the crowd of ghosts, shooing away the lesser ghosts around her with impatient flicks of the hand. She stood differently. Even looked…different.

Cawe had clothing on. What kind? Probably what she’d had in life. She was probably a bit dirty, her feathers uncombed or something.

This [Queen] was a Stitch-Queen arrayed in Nerrhavia Fallen’s style, impressive silk standing out across even more costly skin. A jeweled brooch hung from her head—no, was embedded in her forehead, Cawe realized. Her arms had bangles of jade that Cawe swore she thought were relics of Nerrhavia’s Fallen.

She walked in light slippers, and her brows were impatient, curious, and sympathetic. She…was so different from the others that they realized their lacking emotions by standing around her.

Igheriz’s mild curiosity was a dull thing compared to her impatience. She snapped, her voice crisp, lisping slightly.

“You all. What day is it? What day did you die?”

The others blinked. They glanced at each other. After a second, Hrome answered.

“On Laudas.”

That was a day as Roshal counted it. The [Queen] rolled her eyes and they flashed impatiently, violets streaked with topaz.

“I mean, the calendar date. Any system. You. You seem more awake. What level were you, and when did you die?”

She pointed at Igheriz. He hesitated before answering.

“I was a Level 31 [Slave Master], and a Level 22 [Caravan Master]. It was…Laudas last, yes. The month of…”

The [Queen]’s eyes lit up as she tapped her lips.

“That’s later than anyone else. Good, you are recently dead. [Slavers], though.”

Her lips twisted as she stared at Igheriz and Hrome. They looked…puzzled at her reaction. The Stitch-woman flicked her fingers.

“Your kind will welcome you. I would rather the [Slaves], or anyone not part of Roshal. Your perspectives are less twisted. You. Were you [Slave] or [Slaver]?”

“[Slave]. But I tried to get free.”

Cawe answered, less dreamily than before. A bit of the fury that had been in her when she died rekindled itself and she edged away from Igheriz. Just the presence of this mightier ghost seemed to bring her back to life.

“I killed her.”

Igheriz helpfully explained. He shrank in front of the [Queen]’s glare. She nodded, glanced around, and began issuing orders.

“You. Eight steps back. Do not speak until spoken to. All those who were [Slavers], with him. All those who were not? Stand with the Garuda. You, Garuda. Tell me your name. Did anything interesting happen when you died?”

Cawe hesitated. But the ghosts were shuffling obediently into rows. The Nerrhavian Queen snapped her fingers and other ghosts joined her. They shuffled over and plucked all the ghosts aside, asking the same questions.

They were interrogating the newcomers. Cawe and the [Queen] spoke directly, the most animated of the bunch. The other ghosts were indistinguishable, details forgotten, bland, but the [Queen] was real.

“Who are you, your Majesty?”

Cawe asked. The [Queen] smiled.

“I was the second Queen of Nerrhavia’s Fallen after the tyrant died. Queen Merindue, Level 43 [Queen of the Freed Peoples]. Lower in level than many, but I ruled, so I maintain who I am. And you?”

“Cawe. Cawe the [Pickpocket]. I was Level 16. Well, I levelled to Level 18 before I died…”

“I see. How did you die, Cawe?”

Cawe told her. The [Queen] was sympathetic, but impatient.

“So it was not a grand death. Did you see anything important? Witness any events? News…no, well, we shall ask anyways.”

“We met a terrible Emir. He…”

Cawe hesitated and wondered if she should tell the whole story. Even here, it was terrible. Did she mention Pisces? The [Queen] seemed to sense it.

“Slave-Emirs are not our concern. I mean, news. Of the world. Of great doings.”

The Garuda nearly shook her head, then brightened.

“Oh. Yes! Igheriz said the Death of Chains killed him.”

“The who?”

Queen Merindue raised her brows, but another ghost recognized the name. A Dullahan walked over.

“That matters. That is important news.”

“I see. Good. Then we return to the others. Come with me, little Cawe. We will bring the [Slaves]. Call for Glorious Donbaaar!”

Donbaaar the Giant himself turned as a ghost caught his slow circuit of Chandrar. He bent, and offered a hand. The bewildered ghosts followed as Queen Merindue followed him up the arm.

“Is this worth taking them back so soon, Queen Merindue?”

“I say it so, Glorious Donbaaar. They have news of an important figure. A first-hand sighting.”

“Then I will walk us back.”

So saying, the Giant strode the way they’d come. Cawe realized this was to save time.

What an odd thing. First off, that all ghosts, even she with wings, would move at the same pace more or less in this world of the dead—but a Giant could travel faster due to his natural stride. So he was acting as a transport.

“But why does anyone need to move fast here? It’s as if time means something. And it doesn’t.”

Merindue heard Cawe’s puzzled words. She walked back over as many ghosts rode Donbaaar’s shoulder as naturally as if it were a horse or solid ground, not even staring down at the passing landscape below. He strode across Great Zeikhal, which had once been vast plains. To Cawe’s amazement, she saw grasslands below, rich and fertile, even huts and yurts set up, kingdoms among the grass…

Before it all turned to sand and was lost forever. The ghost saw Merindue smile.

“Things matter more if you stand next to me, Cawe. I will grant you permission to join my retinue. Or, if you wish, you may stand and lose all that you are. There are no more rules.”

She waited. Cawe’s beak opened.

“I…I would like to feel. Thank you.”

“Good. Either way, we must learn what you know. We have need of such knowledge. I will explain all soon—or a [Sage] will. They keep explaining to all the ghosts.”

There weren’t many as Donbaaar strode along. Cawe thought there should be many more. Everyone who had ever died was here, weren’t they? Merindue smiled.

“Ah, you are thinking again! Your levels may not be high, but your soul is strong. Good, Cawe. Yes! Ask more questions. Yes, there were ghosts all over Chandrar. No longer.”

Cawe hesitated. She felt uneasy for a second.

“Did…something happen to them?”

Merindue’s smile flickered. She glanced ahead.

“Not yet. Not ever by the will of Nerrhavia’s Fallen and…Khelt. Rather, we have gathered them. Every dead soul, and we search for new ones. See?”

She pointed, and Cawe saw it.

Like a beacon in Chandrar. Life, infusing her. She felt her body come alive, or as close as it would get.

Cawe looked down. Now, she saw dirty grey-green feathers. She felt her cracked beak and short tongue move. She even felt, for a second, the cut at her neck. She felt sad. Angry. She was glad Pisces hadn’t died. What had happened to him? Had that bastard Hrome…?

The other ghosts started. They looked up and saw the gathering of the dead. And the countless ghosts as powerful as Merindue or more.

Even the [Queen] came further back to life. She stretched, strutted with poise, chin held at an angle, whirling with decisive, distinctive footwork, remembering how she had walked in life. Only Donbaaar was unaffected; his was a soul that needed no reminders.

“Behold, the last gathering of Chandrar’s dead!”

Merindue shouted. Many ghosts floated up to meet them, calling out, asking questions. Merindue pointed.

“We have recent dead! Laudas! This week! Find me a [Sage]! Er…please.”

She was a lesser ghost among some that were hard at work, and it displeased Merindue. Cawe just stared in awe.

There stood every Named Adventurer and famous person who had ever died on Chandrar. No less than the story of stories, Devourer of Devourers greeted Donbaaar. The Named Adventurer who had slain more Jaws of Zeikhal than any other being in the world…was checking ghosts as they lined up.

“Please go to another line if there is space. Give me your name, when you died, and any events of note. If you were of a level above 30, please proceed to the following lines…”

The Named Adventurer was striding along the lines of ghosts who turned to stare at him, pointing out the lines where august figures and famous heroes of legend stood…taking names and information.

“What is this?”

Hrome was confused. So were the others, even frightened. What power could make so many ghosts work like this? Merindue answered as the Devourer of Devourers crouched to listen to a girl speak shyly into his ear.

“We are processing ghosts. This is an efficient system a [Sage] designed. We can write nothing down except if something is made, and that girl’s materials fade quickly…only the high-level of us can remember and act. You will be processed. But I will be with you, Cawe. You can join me in the hunt as you give your testimony.”

The Garuda nodded, confused, but she was led to the first line. The Devourer of Devourers, Berythe, walked over.

“Merindue.”

“This one has knowledge. They all do. Will you ask them?”

He nodded.

“That is good, Queen Merindue. I thank you for your efforts and Donbaaar for bringing you so quickly. Yet we have a number of ghosts who were slain by the Death of Chains. Are you referring to that?”

Queen Merindue hesitated. Her face soured and turned a bit annoyed.

“…Yes. Perhaps they have a unique perspective?”

“I will call for someone to check.”

Berythe walked off. Merindue hesitated. She stomped one foot, looking annoyed she wasn’t the first one back with important ghosts. Then her scowl deepened into a flash of murderous rage, the only expression of strong emotion Cawe had seen in her brief time dead.

Which was…how long? She didn’t know. The journey here could have taken minutes, or…years. Time had lost its meaning, but the more powerful ghosts seemed to be in a hurry.

Even so, Merindue’s look of pure animosity was such that other ghosts turned to stare. She did not shy away from the emotion; she seemed even happier, in truth, despite her anger. For to rage was to live.

A woman came swaying through the crowd, tall, perfect, a Human, but as amazingly graceful as Merindue’s enhanced fabric. Her eyes were dark whorls of color, and seemed to draw Cawe in.

She made Cawe feel even more alive than the Devourer of Devourers. She was thus important. Her skin was what poets would call ‘alabaster’ or something; Cawe thought it was a lack of sunlight, especially in Chandrar. Yet she had faint tattoos of magic running up and down her arms.

What was most noticeable about her, as they drew closer, was that she was a Stitch-woman. No…parts of her were a Stitch-woman. Somehow, despite being Human, her right arm was sewn on.

It looked unnatural. Like it too was only half-there. It was only the memory of flesh, but Cawe realized the memory was of some kind of ethereal arm. As if it had been a ghost’s in life. The unknown ruler–and she was surely a ruler—also had bare feet, no sandals, and they tapped the ground lightly. A cloth Cawe had never seen, that had lost its power here. She felt they should have left behind traces of another dimension, like footprints upon which ever land she trode.

The two women stopped. Merindue stared at the most powerful ghost yet.

“I hear these might be important? Ah, but if it is only the Death of Chains, then I fear all time is wasted, but I do this in courtesy to you, my descendant. Queen Merindue.”

The woman gave Merindue an arch smile. To that, the second ruler of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, great Queen Merindue, spat only one word.

“Nerrhavia.”

Cawe waited for something else. Then her eyes went round. Nerrhavia as in…? Then they turned their attention to her.

“So, answer quickly now, who witnessed what? Important events only. I do not care for the pettiness of your life or death. Important events. Important people. That means over Level 40. If you have a secret, it had better be worth a hundred thousand gold pieces.”

Nerrhavia snapped at Igheriz, Cawe, and the other ghosts. Their mouths shut. Hrome stuttered.

“We—we have seen the Death of Chains, your Majesty.”

“Anyone else?”

“We knew an Emir Riqre—”

Nerrhavia raised her brow at Merindue. She was acting like the others, Cawe realized. Gathering information. Nerrhavia, the legend behind…acting as a gate guard?

That was just the world they had ended up in. Merindue looked past Nerrhavia as the first ruler smirked.

“A poor haul. Not even the fastest to arrive, Merindue.”

“I moved as fast as I could. I shall return with Donbaaar to searching, then.”

Merindue turned on her heel, embarrassed, flushing, almost forgetting about Cawe. Nerrhavia rolled her eyes.

“Yes, yes. I might as well do a proper job of it. Let me see. You do not know anything of value, so we will let you gather with the others and be told what is occurring.”

Her tone adopted one of bored rote, even here.

“Do you have any information on ‘The Wandering Inn’ in Izril, the city of Liscor, a Mrsha, Lyonette du Marquin, let’s see…Relc Grasstongue, Ryoka Griffin, the Wind Runner of Reizmelt, Saliss of Lights, Erin Solstice, of course…”

She was reciting names from memory. The ghosts didn’t know any of them, except maybe vaguely, as those who had heard something once or twice. Then Nerrhavia spoke the name aloud.

“…Griffon Hunt, Horns of Hammerad…”

Cawe blinked. She spoke at the same time as Hrome, Igheriz, and the others.

“Horns of Hammerad? You mean, Pisces?”

Merindue’s head snapped around. Nerrhavia looked up. Her brows shot together.

“You know…Pisces Jealnet?”

“Know him? He was in our company, Great Nerrhavia. He was…well, Igheriz’s [Slave]! He was right there. He killed me!”

Hrome blustered. Nerrhavia’s eyes opened wide. She looked at Queen Merindue, and suddenly the other woman had a triumphant look on her face. She strode over to Cawe.

“My instincts, Nerrhavia, are never wrong. Cawe, you say you know Pisces? How well?”

“I was chained up with him for days. I tried to help him escape. Why, what’s—”

Cawe got no further because Nerrhavia and Merindue grabbed her arms. They rushed her through the crowd. [Sages], [Kings], [Queens], Named Adventurers, and more looked up as Nerrhavia shouted.

“Donbaaar! We have news of Pisces of the Horns of Hammerad! To the center!”

The Giant turned. He bent down at once and scooped them up. Terrified, Cawe saw the sea of ghosts part.

That was how she came to the center of it all. The last stand of the ghosts in Chandrar’s death.

And how she met Erin Solstice.

—-

In distant Terandria, the kingdom of Avel sat on a network of cliffs. The beaches lay at the bottom of a natural trenchwork of passages, in themselves not difficult to climb up and down, but reminiscent of a child digging lines in stone with a trowel.

The highlands of Avel, the famous Kingdom of Bows, also gave rise to the natural terrain that had made so many great archers out of their people.

It had not changed markedly over millennia. Oh, buildings appeared and disappeared, the kingdom was sacked…twice…and the capital relocated both times. A mountain disappeared that was technically bordering Avel, but even in the land of the dead, Avel was much as it always had been.

Terandria had kept much that other places had lost. Yet now…

Now, the ___ of lost things, the forgotten, stopped on its journey. It halted at the coast and saw the ghosts, supplicating, standing on the cliffs.

“Great lord! Hear our plea! Have mercy!”

They were shouting. Terandria was embattled. Six things assailed it. They would devour each continent. Izril had fallen; so the ghosts, these ones at least, stood on the cliffs. Terrified. They shouted at the thing as it regarded them, interested.

“We surrender! Oh spirit, oh master of this realm—give us mercy in this hour! We shall show you the other enclaves of ghosts. Do we do that—consider sparing our souls?”

A woman called out, and a cluster of men and women all added supplications, some going as far as to kneel and bow their heads on the ground.

It was a style that was almost…prayer. The ___ of lost things was intrigued. It had known Terandria remained unassailable. It seemed there were traitors in every land.

So it moved forwards, rather than skirt the coast as it had been, moving across dark seas. Towards Avel, fearing not the same cliffs and beachheads that had turned into deadly chokepoints for any attacking army in wars prior.

Whether or not it would spare them, it had not decided yet. Something smiled, yet it had no face. It had no…discernible features, yet it smiled as it moved towards the pleading ghosts.

It did have a head, though. So that was where the glowing arrow hit it.

Thonk.

The ___ of lost things staggered. It looked up, and the ghosts cheered. They swept back from the cliffs, and it beheld a single figure on the cliffs.

The First King of Avel raised the bow of his kingdom, the relic that had remained from generation to generation, and took aim. A second arrow struck the thing in the chest. Then a third streaked past it as the thing turned and fled.

“That’s right, flee, thou craven parasite!”

The ghosts stopped pretending to plea for mercy and began laughing, applauding the archer and each other and celebrating. The ___ fled, feeling the pain of each strike.

Not a mortal wound, as most would have taken from the arrows, but still a damage in kind. It looked back as it moved out of arrow range. The archer raised the bow over his head, a gesture of defiance.

A weapon in the lands of the dead? Yes.

Just one. It could not be brought with the dead, for they owned nothing, not even Skills or levels anymore, for all it informed the strength of their souls. Yet that?

The First King of Avel held the same bow that shone in reality. So long as the living kept it, kept their own kind of faith, it endured here. That was how, from Silvaria’s shores to Cenidau to the north, the six had been kept at bay.

By Dragonfire, the wrath of Giants, and the relics of humanity. In Baleros, the Dragons turned back the six with even greater success. The lost thing moved away, out of range of those dangerous shores.

It was not annoyed, if such emotions even applied. How vexing. But it was a calm vexation, unlike the other five’s, some of whom were prone to greater rage. The ___ of lost things continued its journey.

For now, Terandria remained safe. The Bow of Avel glowed, one of the last beacons of hope.

—-

“There it is again. Do you see it?”

The King of Avel—the current one, living, healthy, thank you—held up the bow. His retainers winced.

“Your Majesty, please stop holding it so carelessly.”

The [King] waved the bow around.

“Why? It is the relic of Avel. It won’t break even if I do this—”

He thwacked the bow against the armrest of his throne in a way that no bow should ever be treated. The [Chamberlain] threw her hands over her eyes in horror.

“Your Majesty! Please, desist! That should be in the treasury, under guard! If a [Thief] were to steal it—”

“Bows are meant to be used. I can use the Relic Skills and the enchantments. Didn’t you see how I winged that Griffin last week?”

Happily, the [King] held the bow up to admire. Then he frowned.

“I don’t know why it keeps glowing of late. Someone find the records. There has to be a reason. See? It’s doing it again. Maybe it’s a sign.”

“That the power wanes?”

The court murmured. The [King] thought, pondering long on his throne.

“…That I’m not using it enough. I shall ride to the royal archery range!”

—-

The living’s concerns and actions did not affect the memory of the bow in the lands of the dead—except if something damaged or exhausted its power.

That was not the case here. The First King of Avel lowered the great longbow, a gift from a Dragon, made with such skill that no [Bowyer] in any time had ever exceeded it, or so it was said, and stared steely-eyed out into the distance.

Solemn sentinel, even in death. Around him stood the ghosts of Avel and nations close to it. An enclave, dedicated to watching the shores of this region for threats. Many were monarchs, like he. In fact, every generation of Avel’s royalty stood with him.

Their class gave them power, even here. With them stood those who had achieved the highest of levels in their time, the greatest of deeds. They mocked the thing as it fled. Then, at last, a [Queen] declaimed.

“That makes six! All six, then. They have fallen for it, each in their arrogance. Had we wine, we should celebrate this occasion. Prithee, let us send for a messenger and inform the other kingdoms of this occasion.”

Her husband, smugly folding his arms, inclined his head.

“It is a triumph in a dark hour. Fain, we shall inspire the others by our wit and words. I decree it, so it shall be done. A [Poet]—find me a [Poet] among our dead and messengers aplenty!”

He clapped his hands. Some lesser ghosts milled about. The First King of Avel took no notice. The other ghosts were allowed to do as they wished; they needed his bow to fend off threats. He stood there, calmly posed, willing to wait years, centuries if need be, for the next shot. After all, he was ruler of Avel and he would defend it in death until—

“My turn.”

Someone yanked the bow out of his hands. The First King of Avel started. Another [King] of Avel was wrestling with the bow.

“You fool! This is my bow! My sacred weapon!”

The third King of Avel gave his grandfather a less-than-filial look.

“It is Avel’s sacred weapon. I have wielded it in times past. You have used it enough—we agreed on a rotation.”

“You all agreed on a rotation. I founded Avel! This bow is mine alone!”

The two ghosts began to argue and tug on the bow, but they were evenly matched, without physical strength or things like gravity, traction, and other details to give them some advantage. It was a [Princess] in the end who separated the two.

“Enough! This is the end of our times and you two fight? Stop quibbling over the only weapon that can defend us!”

The two [Kings] realized they had an audience of their peers, descendants, and subjects. Abashed, they stopped, and the First King reluctantly held the bow out, loosely. The third king of Avel, who had turned what was a very small ‘kingdom’ into a version of the prosperous lands it was today, reached for the bow, haughtily.

The [Princess] snatched it. Both [Kings] started.

“How dare you! That is the bow of kings—”

“And I was better with it than both of you. I’m the highest-levelled [Archer] here. Or have either of you ever actually killed a Dragon with it? Annoying them doesn’t count. I have killed Dragons and Giants and worse.”

The First and Third [Kings] of Avel spluttered. Drawn by the commotion, more ghosts, mostly monarchs, appeared. One waved a hand.

“As King of Delve, I believe we should all be granted a turn with the bow.”

He was promptly ignored by the others. One ruler sneered.

“Delve does not exist, ‘your Majesty’. Let those who founded nations that endure lead.”

It looked like another fight was going to erupt, and the monarchs of Avel were now engaged in a shouting match with their neighbors, the Kingdom of Delve, which had lasted millenia…until it was erased due to that entire shelf of land disappearing into the sea.

It was the Third King of Avel and the Sixth King of Delve who were about to get into it, but another man tried to play peacekeeper. He had a beard that Dwarves had been jealous of in life, which was thick and combed straight. It had once saved him from an arrow in battle and had been claimed to be as soft as Sariant Lamb wool.

“Majesties, peace. Peace. We are all allies in this time of death. Avel and Delve need not bring up the quarrels we had in life. As a [King] who has vassalized both your nations before, I believe it is my duty to ask you all to calm your heads.”

That went about as well as one could expect. The two [Kings] turned on the ghost and attempted to throw him over the cliff. Not that it would have done much good, gravity being gone here, but it was the thought that counted.

It was at this point another [King] floated higher.

“It seems someone must inspire us all. Very well—if it is my duty, then I shall recite my great speech of old. Friends, protectors of this land, good subjects! Lend me your thoughts, if but a passing moment! It is this dire hour which sees us brought together…”

“Oh, shut up. You lost that battle. I beat you after you gave that speech!”

An angry [Duke] shook his fist up at the [King]. The [King] faltered in his speech, and floated down to argue what ‘lost’ really meant.

Old grudges, enemies, spouses who had killed each other via poison, treachery, and so on, were all here. An heir to the throne that deposed the ruling monarch got to spend eternity side-by-side with the victim…well, in other times they would have happily gone the other way, or spent eternity plaguing the other.

Not so, now. They were united. Or rather, forced to share the same space.

It was like watching hens fighting in a henhouse. Or eighteen Drakes fighting over a diamond on the tavern floor. The ghosts of Avel and other nations watched in dismay as their glorious rulers fought. One could almost wish for one of the six to return again—only then was Terandria united.

As it always had been, really. Terandria stood.

The [Queens] of Avel, those not fighting for the bow they had wielded in life with their counterparts, held a more polite conclave a ways off with their peers. They were talking, content to let the fighting ghosts argue.

“So, all six have tried Terandria’s shores. Myself, I like that last one least. It has no face, no features…it is not any species known. If we could, we should watch that one.”

One of the monarchs opined, glancing darkly towards the flat sea in the distance. The others nodded. The last [Queen] of Avel, a dim star compared to some, peered into the distance.

“They try Terandria time and again. I have heard Silvaria has it worst. Around there, they press in. No less than a dozen great ghosts were lost…the trouble with swords is that one must let the enemy close, and these kill at a touch. Silvaria, though, indicates that they come from the south.”

“Izril is lost. It is a base for them, and they do not try Baleros much, according to that Dragon that landed.”

The others nodded. They were in ‘communication’ with the other outposts along the coasts, which meant sending ghosts to receive word. There was news from Baleros. One of the [Seraphines] of Delve, the Torchlight Queens to give them another name, murmured as she sat.

“Izril is gone. Perhaps Chandrar too. They walk in strength there. We have only news that Baleros remains, and Drath. Ghosts from Minos and Izril have both fled here; how long shall we endure?”

The others were meaningfully silent. The hour was dark, and for all they argued over the petty concerns of life, if they could have joined forces in any meaningful way, they would have. Even with those who had murdered them. This was a war for existence, and against foes who did not die.

It was then that one of the [Queens] raised her head. She had watched the ocean, as they all had. Now…she floated a bit past Avel’s cliffs.

“Wait. What is that?”

She frowned, squinted. And then raised her voice. The monarchs around her looked up as one of the [Queens] began to stride through the air.

“What is going on? Have you lost your senses?”

“No, no.”

The [Queen] was growing excited. She called to the others.

“Get the bow! Warn the other outposts! Look! Don’t you see it?”

She pointed. All the ghosts turned now, and the [Princess] holding the Bow of Avel gave a cry. Now they all saw it.

In the distance, a shape was coming. A vast figure, flying across the sea. Purple light flared, but purple in a color that stretched beyond the visible spectrum. Some of the greatest [Archers] saw the light which trended into spectrums beyond the natural and pointed.

“A Dragon! I have never seen such scales!”

“A Void Dragon. They were always rare. That’s…a Dragon. It comes beyond the sea, and it is besieged!”

It was true. Two of them followed hot on the Dragon’s tail, pursuing it, only kept back by the Dragonfire as the desperate Dragon flew north. From…?

“I bear word of Chandrar! To my aid, my kin!”

The roar of Xarkouth, the Dragonlord of Stars, echoed across the silent ocean. And they came. Ghosts, Dragons, monarchs, bearing the relics that still remained, rushed forwards to do grim battle with the two following. News?

He brought news indeed. Hope, as much as there was to grasp at. Words of defiance, but also something which would echo among the dead. A name.

Erin Solstice.

—-

In the center of the last gathering of Chandrar’s ghosts, the little Garuda and dead of [Slavers] and [Slaves] were brought. They had come north, far north, to a kingdom founded in death.

Why here? Why was this where the ghosts gathered?

Because there was power here. More than that? They had something else.

But look. Cawe’s eyes grew wider, and had she breath, she would have gasped.

The ghosts filled the ground and air. With each step, she passed by countless thousands, millions, even greater numbers that filled the world.

Yet in the center stood the greatest of them, some whose names were still legends, others who had been forgotten. Some whose stories had never been told. It did not matter.

Here they fit. Cawe walked between lines of ghosts half again her height. Great Stitch-[Sages], whose lined features took on tones of immortality with their knowledge. One, whose robes glittered with fabric made of great materials of old.

She passed under the arm of a warrior garbed in adamantium armor, a Giant who sat with helmet on the ground that she might converse with a Garuda whose feathers were like a Phoneix’s, in flame.

Cawe saw a [Witch] made of wood turn, her hat of leaves tilting as she caught sight of Nerrhavia and Queen Merindue. She pointed, and eight adventurers turned. One reflexively reached for her whip made of Manticore hide, a nine-tailed weapon, each head coated in a different poison, when she saw Igheriz and recognized him.

The ghosts came to a great palace, which only grew with each generation in the lands of the dead. They looked up the thousand steps, towards the last gathering at the top. There stood arguing [Archmages], uselessly accompanied by floating artifacts, or holding relics that no longer had power, tallying information and coordinating the quest for knowledge. An impatient [Courier] ran along, cursing that his feet, which had turned sand to glass with the speed of his travel, could take him no faster.

At the center of it all stood eighteen men and women. One was a half-Giant, far larger than the rest. Another? A Garuda. The others were Human and Stitch-Folk. They were rulers all. Not more powerful than those gathered here. Many arguably less vivid in the strength of their souls.

Yet the Rulers of Khelt stood in the center of this vast gathering. Among their august peers, they spoke, conferring, deigning to hear the others. At their feet, sitting on the top steps of Khelt’s palace was the person whose name was on everyone’s lips.

She was not as strong as these ghosts, Cawe saw. Not as old, as rich nor as skilled in life. Yet she was more real. A ghost not yet dead. She sat, dangling her legs over the top step, talking with a Stitch-Woman who was eating spaghetti off a plate.

Food? Actual food? Cawe smelled the first thing in the lands of the dead. A slight fragrance from the meaty sauce, the smell of tomatoes, the faint odor of pasta, and her mouth watered. She looked at the decent dish of spaghetti, with butter and noodles, and the [Rogue] eating it. Every inch of her body had been stitched out of adaptive, concealing thread, so at will she could turn invisible, or blend with the sand.

The young woman was plain. In that her body was not made of silk, her features not sculpted by Skill or given unearthly beauty by tonics and potions. She did not move straight-backed, with imperious authority like Nerrhavia, nor did she have the touch of power in her eyes like many [Mages].

Her t-shirt and jeans were colorful, but faded from many washings and wearings. Her hair hadn’t been cut in a while and was tied back with a bit of twine. She had hazel eyes, which danced with amusement at times, then turned round with confusion, sometimes exaggerated. Her laughter was infectious.

Erin Solstice was shaking her head as the [Rogue] ate the memory the [Innkeeper] had conjured up for her.

“I just don’t get it. How am I supposed to find and kill an invisible squid for its ink if it’s invisible?”

The [Rogue] sighed.

“The secret of dyeing cloth is more than the invisible ink. I have given you the recipe for cloth that ten thousand [Thieves], [Assassins], [Rogues], and [Infiltrators] begged for in life and I took to my grave.”

“Yes. Thank you. I’ll try to find invisible squids. Really, I will. Cranberries, really?”

“They enjoy them. Now, my time is up.”

The [Rogue] slowly stood. Erin rose with her.

“You don’t have to go. Stick around. I mean…do you want more food? It disappears fast. Here. Have you ever tried ice cream? This one has sprinkles….well, dried raisins. It’s healthy. Sort of.”

She offered an ice-cream cone to the Stitch-woman. The [Rogue] accepted it and smiled. She peered at the raisins.

“Why these toppings?”

Erin hesitated.

“Well, I didn’t know how to make actual sprinkles or sugary things, so I thought—raisins. They’re sort of like chocolate sprinkles? You know, if you put a banana on a sundae, raisins and ice cream isn’t bad, right? Raisins are sweet. Ice cream is sweet. Put them together and it’s even better.”

A [Chef of Five Winds], who had once captured the very fragrance of sweet morning air, the delight of morning dew and infused it into an ephemeral dish for the palettes of his day, clutched at his head at Erin’s words. Sweet plus sweet? He almost went to strangle her before his peers held him down.

“For the love of cuisine, let us have another turn explaining taste to the [Innkeeper]!”

He shouted at one of the [Witches], a tall woman with spectacles who was keeping the line of ghosts waiting to talk to Erin in order. Califor glanced at the [Cooks], and shook her head.

“I have taste! It’s for dessert, not fancy stuff! I’ve made souffles!”

Erin waved a fist at the [Cooks]. She paused, and then a wicked look entered her eye.

“Have I told you about my acid fly cookies? Or when I fried that bee and put honey on top? Now there’s a dish.”

One of the [Chefs], who had cooked many dishes with insects like cicadas, having explored all of wildlife, slapped a hand over her eyes and turned away. Honey makes insects taste good? Insert flies into cookies, and you have a dish?

They didn’t see how the [Innkeeper] was doing it on purpose. Cawe looked up at Erin Solstice and smiled. She liked her already.

“Make way. Make way. We have something the [Innkeeper] needs to know.”

Nerrhavia shoved ghosts aside as she strode up the steps. Califor turned and barred the way.

“What have you brought, Queen Nerrhavia?”

The woman stopped imperiously, and Erin turned. Nerrhavia gave Erin a smile.

“We meet again, Erin Solstice. I hope you have taken my words to heart.”

“Yeah…hi, you.”

Erin Solstice gave Nerrhavia a puzzled look. The woman’s face went slack, and Queen Merindue laughed aloud. Especially because that too was deliberate, as Erin proved by beaming at the [Queen].

“Hey Merindue! What’s up?”

“What have you brought?”

Califor was unmoved. Nerravia gestured to Cawe and the procession.

“News of one of the [Innkeeper]’s companions. These were all in the company of ‘Pisces Jealnet’. They journeyed with him for two weeks and were with him moments before they died. They also witnessed the Death of Chains in person.”

The rulers of Khelt stirred. Some of the ghosts, Califor included, who were recently-deceased, stirred with recognition of that great name. Yet it was Erin who raised her head. She leapt down the stairs.

“Pisces? You know Pisces?”

She looked around, astounded, then seized Cawe’s talons. Erin blinked down at the oddly-segmented joints, and then looked into Cawe’s eyes. The Garuda realized the [Innkeeper] was perceptive. And…she looked worried when she heard Pisces’ name. But relieved to hear of him.

That was how they met, and how Cawe found herself sitting at Khelt’s palace, among the ghosts, telling her story once more. Erin Solstice lay on the intricately-wrought marble, each stone designed to seamlessly fit with the other, carved by a master with little motifs of Khelt’s glories and enchanted not to wear and tear from the sand or feet.

She propped her chin on her hands and rested her elbows on the ground, legs kicking as she lay on her front. Then she sat up, cross legged, eyes wide with shock—then a flashing fury. Thereafter, she clenched her hands together, lacing her fingers between each other and gripping so tight they would have been white or hurt herself if she had possessed a body.

When that was not enough, she jumped to her feet and began to stride around in angry circles, snapping questions, pointing fingers, throwing up her hands and shouting—until she abruptly sat. Then she sat, legs dangling once more, next to Cawe, hand on her back.

The anger was still there, but it was calm anger, cold, as she listened. She hugged the Garuda, arm around her as she listened to the end. When it was done? Her face was smooth, but her eyes were…deep. Deep with loathing, with hatred.

Califor watched all of it, as did Cawe, though the [Pickpocket] was lost in the memories of retelling. The [Witches] and other ghosts watched Erin too, though the young woman had only eyes for Cawe by the end.

“So there is the young woman I sought to unveil. There is hatred enough to cow lesser men and women. There is the woman who hides among the girl’s petty pretenses.”

Nerrhavia remarked, satisfied. Queen Merindue stood with her, for all their animosity.

“She does not lack for passion, that one. Only for seriousness. If she were always thus—-she would make a far finer [Queen] than [Innkeeper]. Better that than [Witch].”

Nerrhavia and Merindue traded significant looks. In that, they could agree. Yet, frustratingly, they had little power here. The [Witches] had the confidence of Khelt, and Khelt ruled by dint of their authority in death.

“Give me time with her. I will return her to the world of the living as a fit heir to rule new lands.”

Nerrhavia breathed. Merindue snapped her lips shut; unhappy because she had been about to say almost the exact same thing.

That was, of course, why Califor and the [Witches] kept the others back. Give me an hour with her, give me the time to teach her. The [Cooks] demanded it out of decency for the dishes she served as ‘food’.

The monarchs wanted to make a ruler out of her. The [Witches] wanted one of their own kind.

No ghost was exactly impartial. Not when this young woman might return to the living. She was not the heroine of legends they might have wished for, but she was the one person who might one day return. So…into her they poured their wishes and dreams and hopes.

Yet that was not necessarily Erin Solstice. As proof, while the ghosts had presented their best for her to learn from, the ones who remained as counselors of a kind, no, as friends, were the ones she had connected with.

The [Sage] of a Hundred Thousand Secrets, Velzimri.

The [Rebel] of String, Elucina.

The Giant, Donbaaar, and Queen Merindue had been among that number. So had Xarkouth in his own way. Cawe, too. She would not be out of place, for there stood a man with a mustache, a bit of morning growth on his chin, and cheap armor, a plain sword.

Gerial of the Horns of Hammerad. He listened to the tales of the new Horn of Hammerad, frowning.

“So Ceria recruited him after all? We could have used him in the crypt. Pisces, that is. I met him, you know.”

He confided to Elucina and Velzimri. If he felt out-of-place with these two…he was. Elucina nodded.

“I know something of your story, Adventurer Gerial. A [Necromancer]? Some keep undead as one does [Slaves]. This is not such a man, I trust?”

“Pisces? No, no…there was Toren, but…”

Elucina frowned mightily. She had had words with Erin already, and the [Innkeeper] still avoided meeting her gaze. Velzimri leaned down, the tall Sage of a Hundred Thousand Secrets’ robe sweeping around him. Liquid mercury and mithril-weave fabrics swirled around Gerial’s legs.

“This [Necromancer]. Of what type is he?”

“Um. Bone.”

“Ah, then has he mastered the art of raising armies, or does he create individual creations? I knew a [Necromancer] who animated the bones of a Dragon.”

Gerial stuttered a bit.

“Er…I think—he managed to do uh, basic skeletons when I met him? Ceria said he could animate Liches, Skeleton [Mages]. And Ghouls?”

Elucina and Velzimri exchanged a look. The [Sage] mulled over an appropriate response.

“Ah. He has potential to grow, then. That is always welcome.”

They watched Erin’s face as Cawe finally finished. The [Innkeeper] bowed her head, and they all took something different out of it.

Gerial beheld Erin as he had seldom seen her. He had not known her as long as the living. Yet he had known her when Pawn came to the inn, after being tortured by Ksmvr.

Elucina witnessed the same fury in her heart, and it worried her. It could consume. She had seen that too, but she would never gainsay Erin’s fury. She understood the horrors of chains.

Velzimri just saw Erin’s concern. Her anger, her rage? The [Sage] saw the expressions of someone who cared for someone else. That was what he had lacked.

“So he’s alive. He’s…free? Thank you for telling me.”

Erin hugged Cawe one-armed. The [Pickpocket] shook her head.

“I don’t know. We were captive and Igheriz killed me first. What happened next? I don’t know. They do.”

She pointed down the steps and Erin looked at Hrome, Igheriz, Astotha, Shein, Droppe, and the guards. Her face darkened further.

“Those are the [Slavers]? Why are they here?”

“Are you surprised? Everyone dies. Better they are here than among the living. Fear not; if your friend is not here, then he is alive, and the Death of Chains freed the others.”

The reasonable response came from one of the [Witches]. Somillune, the Witch of Ashes. Erin Solstice hesitated, and her anger faded a step. She looked down at Igheriz. The revulsion was written across her face, yet the [Slave Master] walked up the steps. He was more alive, like the others, and Cawe begrudged every bit of the memory of life this place gave him. She glared as he smiled, toothily, up at Erin.

“Miss Solstice, is it? I am Igheriz, Caravan Master of Roshal! You have heard my sl—Cawe. Will you not listen to us? This is a great gathering of the dead.”

Incredulously, the [Innkeeper] stared down at him, but some of the ghosts in the gathering and outside stirred. Nerrhavia watched Erin’s face with interest.

“Me? Speak to you?”

“I knew Pisces longer than that Garuda. Surely if you speak to many ghosts, you have time for me? I knew Pisces and could tell you my story.”

“You tortured him. Cawe just told me.”

Erin’s voice was flat. Igheriz hesitated, but her anger was meaningless here and he knew it. He wagged a finger with his watercloth hand.

“Ah, Miss Human. There are always many stories. How can you trust a [Thief]’s word over mine? Let me just—”

He tried to walk up the steps and Califor blocked his way. So did Velzimri, Somillune, and three other ghosts. Igheriz stopped, unable to push past them. Erin’s eyes flashed.

“I don’t want to talk with you people. If Pisces had died. If…”

She turned away. Igheriz faltered, and Hrome, who’d come up the steps eagerly too, to meet with this girl who might live, also backed up from the powerful ghosts who glared at him.

“I have done little wrong, Miss Solstice! Your friend committed crimes. I am an honest man, and have done everything by the laws of my nation! I was slain by a monster, a nightmare from Rhir! Will you not hear me out?”

Erin was walking away, but she swung around. She looked down at Igheriz.

“How dare you say that?”

The Stitch-man smiled. Unafraid of her wrath.

“You are not needed, [Slave Master]. Nor do you belong here. Begone.”

Califor looked down at him. The [Sage], and Elucina herself descended the steps. The weight of their souls made Igheriz back up. The Rebel of String? She met his gaze.

“Do you know me, little man?”

He faltered. Even here, even now, he seemed to recognize Elucina, even if he could not identify her exactly. He and the others of Roshal were forced down the steps. Until Igheriz’s backwards momentum abruptly halted.

Califor’s glare switched targets. Elucina cursed. Erin, watching from the top of the stairs, saw a group of ghosts break past the arguing ones in this central place. They forced their way up the stairs, ignoring the hands, pushing back at the bodies.

“Our kin has a point. Should he not speak? You [Witches] have dictated who meets the [Innkeeper], the living girl for so long. Wisdom from all classes? You do not represent our class. Rulers of Khelt! Do you think it wise to ignore aid wherever it comes from?”

The eighteen turned and looked down. Elucina’s eyes were like diamonds of cold hatred. Erin Solstice looked at the ghosts moving up the stairs in unity. Cawe backed up.

“Roshal.”

Their ghosts were here too. [Slave Masters], [Slave Lords], and their like advanced as a single group. The most powerful of them clashed with Elucina and the ghosts trying to block their advance.

It was not right. They were here too. Death cared not for who died—and Roshal had many high-levelled monsters of its own. They fought to get to Erin and Cawe beheld a bloodless war on the steps, shoving, arguing…no violence, but a bitter contest of wills.

“I do not wish to speak to Roshal.”

Erin whispered. She had not known Roshal, save for a distant word, a place, but with no real grounding or examples near her. Now?

She looked at Cawe, backing up. Yet Roshal was determined to have its say, and many powerful ghosts…Nerrhavia stood to one side, just watching. Even Merindue was silent.

“Roshal once again desires an audience with Erin Solstice. The coven of great [Witches] speaks against. My kin, once more they ask. We who command this gathering by dint of Khelt’s might in death—-what say you?”

The voice came from above Erin. All the ghosts slowed, although locked in their battles, as the first among the eighteen spoke.

Queen Khelta, first of Khelt. With her, seventeen rulers who had defined this nation since. Who could command Khelt’s power, and had kept Chandrar safe.

“I did not treat with Roshal. Nor did I suffer it when I lived.”

So rumbled the half-Giant, King of Khelt. Half the others nodded. One of the Stitch-women raised her hands, turning to the others.

“I allowed [Slaves], but it was by acceptance of their existence, not tacit encouragement. There is wisdom in all classes, as they say.”

“Dark wisdom, Queen Heris. Words have a power of their own and they would make Erin Solstice like one of them. In your time, after Queen Khelta’s death, you made many pacts. In my era, which is second to the present, I suffered not Roshal.”

Queen Xierca, the last ruler before the present, argued. Queen Heris shrugged.

“I merely present their arguments as they make them. We are all enemies of those six. Should not every weapon be wielded? If they left her with codes or knowledge to inspire Roshal to aid her…”

“A cursed blade poisons the wielder. I say not.”

The Garuda slashed her claw. Six other rulers nodded. Queen Khelta mused.

Her face was not, as many of theirs were at times, mummified flesh. The rulers of Khelt were old, and their appearances shifted. Sometimes they were as they had lived in life, flesh and blood. Adorned in resplendent robes, sometimes the very same garments of office, glittering deep purple, golden thread—but other times they were as they became.

Corpses, sitting on a throne. Revenants, bearing the will to protect and guide their people. Erin could see it happen.

The beautiful Stitch-woman of Queen Xierca, lips stitched a carmine red. Turning her head, and becoming…

Decaying fabric. Eyes lost, glittering white flames with hints of amethyst in her sockets. Stitches missing. Slowly disintegrating on her throne until half her face was gone, until it seemed she was a puppet long worn away. As if she might fall to pieces if she moved. Yet still smiling. Wearying, but…

They all did that. The half-Giant rotted away to bone, his glowing eyes shining with dark rubies amid black flame. His spine bowing more as centuries turned his bones further yellow.

Wearying. Yes, that was what happened to all of them. They became undead and the centuries ground them down until they finally ended—and were allowed to rest.

All but Khelta, who was a woman, at varying stages of her life when she chose, but a woman still. She had lived the least of all of them, that founder of their nation.

It was she who led them all. So she raised a hand and their discussion stopped.

“I will not waste time teaching what falls upon deaf ears. Will you listen to Roshal, Erin Solstice?”

She turned to the [Innkeeper]. Erin shook her head immediately.

“No. I don’t want them. I’ll listen to many people. Not them. Not after what they did to my friend. Can you…get rid of them, please?”

Roshal’s masters glared and tried to push harder. Khelta just nodded. She pointed at the ghosts.

“You all have heard her will. If we desire it, we shall summon you. This is the land of Khelt, great kingdom of death. You are not welcome. Begone.”

The other ghosts moved back at once. Roshal’s ghosts flowed up the steps, desperately, reaching for Erin, whispering—too late.

Sand blew out of the air, real sand, stinging, particles of it blasting the ghosts into the air. A sandstorm swept them into the air, and hurled them across Chandrar in a mighty arc. Cawe’s beak opened, and Erin smiled. Not a happy smile, but…

Khelta turned her head without another word, as if she’d just swatted a fly. That alone, that casual disregard, made Cawe love her.

“Thank you.”

The Garuda whispered. Khelta’s head turned, and her eyes flashed once. They were startlingly pale white, just a hint of color in them—pale white and merely the hint of brown, though her skin was native to Chandrar.

“You are welcome, little ghost. Rest here, and they will not trouble you in death if you will it. I shall accept your number into Khelt’s ranks.”

Cawe bowed low. But then she had a terrible, dark thought. She rose, and looked back. Astotha, Shein, and Droppe cowered, and dared not come closer. Yet they were only [Slaves] who had been afraid. Cawe was angry at them, because they had gotten her killed. Yet she knew why they had been so afraid.

A shadow passed over her soul, even here. Even in death…she whispered a name.

“Riqre. Is…is he going to be here?”

The ghosts stopped. The [Witches] glanced at each other and Erin stirred. If she had skin, it would have crawled.

“The Emir? The…the one with the mansion? And jars?”

“Rhir’s hells.”

Gerial muttered. Yet suddenly, Cawe was afraid all over again. Everyone died. That was the great equalizing force. Everyone died, and came here. Yet if there was ever something that could taint even death…

Once more Khelta’s head turned. Two jade earrings swung as she looked about.

“I suffer Roshal and grant their ghosts my protections for we are all common in death. Yet after hearing the testimony of what that thing has done, I will not offer it Chandrar’s soil. Need we take that Sword of Kings and slay it wherever it lurks? I shall order it if so, or hurl it into the sea to flee the six.”

She glanced at Califor, but the [Witch] shook her head. So did the other six [Witches] of the great coven who had gathered to teach Erin.

“That will not be an issue. For a monster like that—fear him not, child.”

Vexcla, the [Witch] of Eyes, the Gazer, murmured, and nodded to Cawe. The Garuda didn’t understand.

“He died, though. Unless…he didn’t? He’ll be here someday.”

She shivered. Yet again, the [Witches] shook their heads. It was the Treant-[Witch] among them who explained, her voice booming, her body a living tree.

“SOME DEEDS ARE TOO DARK. THEY TWIST THE SOUL. THAT ONE WILL NOT APPEAR HERE. WHEN WOMEN AND MEN CEASE TO REMAIN AS PEOPLE, THEY FORFEIT THIS PLACE. THAT IS WHY ROSHAL HAS LITTLE POWER HERE. MANY OF THEIR DARKEST LEGENDS ARE ELSEWHERE. MAY IT BE OBLIVION.”

There was some relief in hearing that. Cawe smiled again.

Erin did not. She stood there, looking around. As the ghosts turned to her, Cawe saw it happen again.

The dead revolved around the one living person. She could have been a [Murderer], a child, or a cat, and they would have flocked around her. Even if it was not for this desperate time, she had a chance.

Nerrhavia looked at Erin, longingly. So did Califor, the [Witches]; even Khelt’s rulers. That was why Roshal wanted her.

She could bring their will back to the world. It was a heavy burden, yet Erin Solstice did not seem—had not seemed troubled by it.

Now, though…she stood there. Looking at Cawe.

“Pisces. He’s alive? This Death of Chains freed him? I like her. It’s a her, right? A Djinni?”

“Yes. The inheritor of my will.”

Elucina spoke first, nodding, smiling. Some of the other ghosts shut their lips tight, their opinions clearly divergent. Erin didn’t notice. She was nodding.

“That’s good. That’s…good. He’s free. He—he didn’t have a good time. But he’s free.”

She looked at Cawe. Then turned.

“Did you say it’s Laudas? I don’t know that day. Is that a Wednesday or something? What’s the date in…Izrilian time?”

“Twenty third of Solla.”

“Oh. Um…what’s that in Earth time? No, I can do this. January, February, March…”

Erin began counting on her fingers. Nerrhavia rolled her eyes, impatient, and began to walk back the way she’d come, where she could do some good. That was the funny thing. For all they hated each other…Merindue made to do the same. They wanted to help. Be useful.

“Oh.”

A quiet voice behind them. Something about the tone…made both women stop. It was in Erin’s voice.

Oh. A slight exclamation, a surprised tone that cracked halfway through. Oh, like someone had told her something terrible and it slipped out. Nerrhavia’s head moved around.

Erin stared at her fingers.

“That’s…later than I thought. It’s been months, now. Well, at least…”

She began to count again on her fingers, but stopped. One of the Earthers, the young man, Abel, came over and tried to do the math for her. Erin was distracted.

She stared at her fingers.

“That’s a longer time than I thought it was.”

The ghosts exchanged glances. Califor cursed and bit her lip; she hadn’t mentioned the date. Someone kicked her. It was without pain, but even so—Vexcla glared at Califor with all her eyes and Califor tugged at the brim of her hat.

“It’s just perception, Miss Solstice. Time flows in different perceptions here.”

Sage Velzimri explained, though he clearly knew it wasn’t the issue. Erin Solstice didn’t reply.

“That’s…a long time. I thought I’d…I mean, I know it’s silly. But they know I’m not fully dead. I mean, dead, but…”

She tried to smile. Then looked at her hands. Three fingers, the last one partly uncurled.

“That’s…a while. I thought that I’d be back by now. I mean—it’s possible. Right, Califor?”

She looked around.

“In theory. You are dead, Erin.”

“Y-yeah. But you said—I mean, I know my friends. Ryoka too. She’s got crazy powers. She doesn’t even level because she’s a rebel like that—you’d like her, Elucina—but she’s got Ivolethe—had—and, and—”

Erin was babbling a bit and she knew it. She looked down at her hands.

“It’s just crossbow bolts. It’s not like I got eaten. You said it could be done, right, Velzimri?”

“If it were I—”

He fell silent at a warning look from one of the [Witches] behind Erin. The young woman turned, but Somillune’s face was calm when she met Erin’s eyes.

“Two and a half months is not long to bring back the dead, Miss Erin Solstice. If it is possible, I believe the living will try.”

“Yeah. But they wouldn’t. No, you’re right. It’s just taking a while. I mean, duh. I know it’s hard. I just—need to get back to my body soon.”

Erin laughed, shakily. Her fingers. She looked at them. The ghosts were silent. They saw what was happening. Nerrhavia glanced at the [Witches], but they were just watching, letting it run its course.

Her two and a half fingers. Erin stared at them, turning her hand over, as if to examine the lines on her palms.

“I need to get back sooner. Now.”

“Why is that, Erin Solstice?”

Somillune asked, her tone mildly curious. Erin looked up. She glanced at Cawe, then back to Somillune.

“Because…because Pisces is out there. I know he’s lost in Chandrar and all those jerks from Roshal are going to be after him, right?”

“That is what Roshal does.”

Nerrhavia muttered. Erin nodded.

“Right. Right—so, I have to get back. So I can help out. Somehow. Maybe I’ll supercharge my door or get Ryoka to fly over or…something.”

“Something. You think you can hop over a continent and defy Roshal?”

Nerrhavia snorted, walking up the steps. Erin Solstice was shaking her head.

“No…well, I mean, I’d try. I just mean…Pisces can take care of himself, but the Horns are lost. That’s what the ghosts say. I bet Lyonette’s worried and Mrsha is sad. I bet Pisces can get all the others to safety. I bet he’s coming to the inn to dump them on me. That’s okay. He’s a smart guy. I never tell him that because he’s snooty, but he’s smart and brave and…I just have to be back when he gets there.”

“Why?”

Califor’s eyes glittered under her hat. Erin tried to unclench her hands, or clench them, but they were frozen. They were shaking. Shaking hard.

Two and a half months? It wasn’t that long, but what had happened while she was gone? Would she see more ghosts? How would she know if they died on Izril, or anywhere but Chandrar?

“Because someone has to be there when he gets back. To hug him. To ask—no. Just to hug him, after all that. After all the things he saw, someone has to give him a hot drink and…greet him at the door. Me. I have to be there. So my friends should hurry up. And revive me. That’s silly. I don’t know why I’m putting it all on them. I just…”

She was babbling. Shaking. The ghosts watched, with concern, looking away in embarrassment, in sympathy, or just waiting, like the [Witches].

Erin stared down at her hands. Then it burst out at last. Something coming behind the laughter, and trying to learn from the legends of old. It bubbled over, with Cawe.

“I…I’m tired of being dead. I’m sorry, everyone. I don’t mean to offend you. I have to get back. I want to live. I want…to live.”

It came out of her as a sob. Her hazel eyes welled up, and the world blurred, but all she wept were the memories of tears. They still rolled down her face, fat, vanishing before they even dripped off her chin. Erin cried.

“I want to live again.”

Her hands became weak. The ghosts reached for her. Gerial touched Erin’s shoulder, then tried to embrace her. But there was nothing of him to hold her, and that was unbearable so he let go for both their sakes. There was no touch, no comfort.

The [Witches] watched as Elucina and some others came over, to place hands on Erin, whisper to her. It had been coming. The young woman had realized she was dead. Now? She longed to live.

“It is my fault, [Witches]. I apologize.”

Califor lowered the brim of her hat as the other [Witches] stood together. The Coven shook their heads as one. Vexcla replied.

“The longer she stays, the worse it will be. If she breaks against her desires…we will do our utmost to prevent that. Let her weep, Witch Califor. The living should desire to live.”

They looked at the young woman, trying not to cry out to the audience of the dead because it was selfish what she wanted. Something that all of them would have given anything for, and yet could never have again.

Yet it did not stop Erin from wanting it herself. She cried, and they stirred. Cawe felt her own death, and nearly gave voice to the pain. Califor’s lips moved.

My daughter.

It was happening again. The ghosts nearly gave voice to their regrets, drawn around Erin’s suffering like leaves around a whirlpool. They fought to avoid that, pulling back from her.

Into the silence, someone walked forwards. She could not comfort Erin with her hand, but she rested it there anyways. She bent down, to the weeping girl, and whispered.

“It is not easy, Erin Solstice. Do not let grief consume you, however. Have faith.”

The [Witches] stirred. Erin Solstice looked up. The smiling woman clarified.

“Not in other things. Nor even in me. Yet have faith that you will live. If it is possible in this world…believe it will be so. Wait a little longer. And have faith in him.”

“Who? Pawn? He’s not…”

The [Innkeeper] was mystified. Queen Xierca’s brow wrinkled.

“I do not know who that is. No, have faith in here. You stand in Khelt. And we?”

She stepped back, and the eighteen rulers of Khelt descended to gather around her. From Khelta to Xierca. They pointed at the statue standing below, in the courtyard. Xierca smiled at last.

“We have spoken to our heir. Our descendant. The will of Khelt, made manifest. He hears us. Have faith in not levels, or dark strangers, or anything else, Erin Solstice. Have faith in Khelt. You need naught else in life.”

She threw her head back, and looked down at the ghosts gathered below. [Archmages] and [Heroes], [Queens] and [Rebels].

“That arrogant sack of hemp.”

Nerrhavia muttered. Queen Merindue nodded fervently behind her. Yet it was true. The gods were dead and that was a problem. If you had to have faith…well.

Have faith in Fetohep.

Erin decided she could give it a try. He seemed like a nice guy. She saw Khelta offer her hand.

“Come. You will share our company a while.”

So the [Innkeeper] took it, and they walked into the palace. To have a word with another dead man.

—-

Fetohep of Khelt had died. He came back, naturally, but it was a moment in Chandrar. One of many, overshadowed by the freedom of Drenir the Djinni.

A cause for concern, however.

You could not kill the ruler of Khelt so easily. The Claiven Earth and Medain, and the army of Terandria quavered a bit. What they thought they had slain had only been an image of Fetohep, a disposable body. He had died, at great effort in battle. They had done it.

They’d succeeded in making him mad. So both nations fell back, although Khelt’s army had done likewise in disarray. High King Perric was in frantic discussions with the Claiven Earth, who, for the worse, were now in the same boat with Medain. A boat in which it turned out there wasn’t just one Creler, but an infestation.

However, the eruption of fury was delayed in coming. It had been four days since Fetohep had ‘died’. Four days—they had heard his fury from the palace. Yet something had clearly transpired since then since Khelt had gone unnervingly, disquietingly still.

The Terandrians didn’t care. They were unloading more of their crusade day by day. The strike force that had failed to kill Fetohep regarded ‘defeating’ his army as a victory and the [Bards] were making much of it back on Terandria’s shores.

The rulers of Chandrar, who had a more stable, and also more realistic view of the situation, were less sanguine. In fact, no less than Queen Yisame of Nerrhavia’s Fallen had a cordial chat with the head of the expeditionary force.

“Your Majesty, I am honored by this communication!”

The [Knight-Commander] beamed at her. Queen Yisame paused, her lidded eyes painted heavily lowered. It was one of her aides who spoke as she flicked a fan with a motif of [Knights] fighting Dragons on it in the Terandrian style open.

“Her Majesty, the Exalted Queen Yisame of Nerrhavia’s Fallen deigns to speak with the [Knights] of Terandria on their vaunted quest. She expresses a desire to communicate regarding actions taken against Khelt! She will speak of this.”

The [Knight-Commander] was an eager [Knight] from Samal, not one of the highest-levelled [Knights], but someone appointed in the strategic role. It was a considered choice; she was a bit too eager for the fight and glory; even the loss of the Kingdom of Keys’ champion couldn’t quell her righteous anger.

She was so eager, in fact, that Queen Yisame’s carefully-planned statement, a clear insult to Samal and the Terandrians, went right over her head. Queen Yisame and her courtiers hesitated.

The Samalian [Knight] smiled at Yisame, who had not offered any messages of greeting to Samal itself, or acknowledged the Kingdom of Keys. She had not requested to speak with the [Knight-Commander] about the war. She’d deigned to speak to the [Knights] of Terandria, a deliberate omission of rank, and even insulted their crusade.

Some of the courtiers looked incredulous. Did the [Knight] not see the glaring orange tint of Yisame’s eyeliner? Did she not see the languid pose upon the couch as the intermediary offered insult after insult?

Did she not even see the fan Yisame was covering her face with? Yes, it looked like [Knights] fighting a Dragon like a Terandrian painting—until you realized that it was a scene of [Knights] fleeing a Dragon burning them to ash in a quite cowardly manner.

Nope. The [Knight] just smiled, obliviously honored by the call.

Amazing. Yisame closed the fan after a second. In the face of lead-grade density, she waved the intermediary aside and decided to speak herself.

“We are concerned, [Knight-Commander], about the offense given to Khelt. It seems your crusade may awaken Khelt’s wrath.”

“We intend to do more than that, your Majesty. Khelt is a stain upon the world for its use of necromancy. We shall eradicate it and bring justice to Chandrar!”

The [Knight] clenched one gauntleted hand, flushing with zeal. Yisame’s eyes slid sideways. One of her [Generals]’ jaw was hanging open.

They’re actually serious. She flicked the fan open to whisper, then turned her attention back to the [Knight].

“I shall speak even more bluntly, [Knight-Commander]. Khelt is mighty. I would not have it roused to ire. Long has it been silent; Fetohep’s actions unnerve, but it might have ended at the release of the King of Duels. This is not desirable to Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Does Terandria intend to conquer Jecrass as well, and establish yet another colony on Chandrar’s shores?”

She stressed that last bit. Nerrhavia did not like the other nations that previous crusades had established, but they were wary; Terandria was a prickly group of infighting Humans that loved to turn on a common target. Nerrhavia could take on all of Terandria, of course…but why bother? Ahem.

“Ah, to that, your Majesty…we don’t intend to battle Jecrass. We will defend ourselves if provoked, but Jecrass has some sympathies. Indeed, we hope to prevail on Medain to free King Raelt. It is a distressing situation, but Jecrass is merely deluded. Desperate. Rest assured, we shall concentrate our ire on pure evil as we find it! Rest assured, Reim will be taken to task right after Khelt.”

“Ah.”

Yisame’s voice was a bit weak. She had been informed of many ways this conversation should go, and her [Diplomats] and court had been ready to steer Terandria into numerous angles, including fighting the King of Destruction.

However, her [Diplomats] looked purely amazed at this amount of non-diplomacy. They shook their heads, not meeting her gaze.

“…Well, we shall wish Terandria the best of luck in its endeavor. We are told the courageous [Knights] of Terandria have slain Dragons, Giants, and the greatest of foes in the past.”

“You speak of glory we hope to attain, your Majesty. You honor us by your faith.”

“Yes indeed. We have always wished to see what happened when the [Knights] charged straight into Dragonfire. It should be most interesting.”

Yisame saw the [Knight-Commander]’s face screw up in puzzlement just a second before the transmission ended. She turned back to her court.

“It seems Terandria will not cease in its valiant foolishness. Let them break their lances on Khelt’s borders. If it ends with Terandria’s army fleeing back across the sea, it shall be for the best. Medain and the Claiven Earth may be humbled, to Nerrhavia’s benefit so long as it does not give the King of Destruction new ground.”

Everyone could agree on that. Yet Yisame chewed the inside of her lip. They’d have to approach Fetohep directly. It was not that Nerrhavia was concerned of tiny Khelt. Not at all. It was just…it would be nice to make sure all was well.

History books told you facts you sometimes did not wish to know. Yet Fetohep had been silent for four days. All was well.

…P-probably. Yisame reached for a calming tonic. She’d been doing that a lot of late.

—-

Nations that feared Khelt would return as an active and powerful player in Chandrar resented Terandria’s crusade. They envisioned an allied Khelt with Jecrass, a dangerous alliance in decades to come.

At worst, they envisioned an expansionist Khelt, which might have the potential to become a power like Nerrhavia, if more localized and necromancy-based. They were, of course, fearing the wrong things. They could never have dreamed of what had truly occurred. All it looked like to them was that Fetohep had been slain, and come back.

A lot can happen in a moment. A moment is all it takes to be shot with crossbow bolts. To stumble off a cliff. To find a pot of gold, or accidentally avoid being hit by a wagon.

A moment, a question, can change everything.

“Who…are you?”

The answer was, of course, Frieke of Medain. The Named Adventurer, the Falcon of Medain, who had cut off his head in that dramatic moment an hour before it was revealed it was for naught.

Now she was in hiding for her life, as far as Perric knew. She’d left the army, which had retreated in disarray and dismay, claiming her contract was fulfilled. All signs pointed to her having gone to ground; perhaps even having left the kingdom to hide somewhere.

The High King couldn’t blame her. Fetohep would surely hold a grudge.

He would be coming, with wrath, to settle the score. The Claiven Earth and Medain grimly prepared; Fetohep was not known for being a reasonable ruler who let insults slide and someone had chopped off his head. People got stroppy after that.

…So why was he being unnervingly silent? Of all the things he could have done, that scared the half-Elves and Perric the most. Fetohep should have been on the warpath within an hour of returning to ‘life’. All indications were he’d been about to do just that. So what had happened?

—-

Then.

King Fetohep of Khelt strode from his throne room. His replacement, who had come here, fearing the worst, that she might be called on to take the throne, knelt still teary-eyed. She had feared him dead.

In truth, it was not wrong to fear; he should have come to life within seconds of the link severing. Yet something had happened in the moment when he had felt death calling, before they sent his soul back.

He had received a vision.

It was not the first time Fetohep had seen that august gathering of those that had come before. When he had first become ruler of Khelt, he had seen them.

Eighteen great rulers of old. Monarchs of Khelt, who gave him the will to protect and serve. If they had judged him unworthy, perhaps his soul would have never inhabited the Revenant’s body.

Sometimes, they called to him, or he thought they did. Simply words of reassurance, strength in times when the centuries wore on Fetohep. Yet he had only known them to truly speak once, when he had been first given his throne.

And now…they had broken their silence. As he had taken the death-wound, he had seen someone.

“Who…are you?”

She had waved at him, among the eighteen. A strange young woman, out of place.

“Hi, I’m Erin Solstice—”

Then, of course, the sword had severed his head from his shoulders. Yet that was not the end. Fetohep now stood in Khelt. In his kingdom, where eighteen rulers had lived and died. He did not know whence they spoke to him from, but he knew it was a place.

So, then. They were separate, but this was their land as much as his.

They were louder, here.

Far louder. They had given him a directive. Fetohep strode through the corridors, as weeping servants followed.

He was grinning. Smiling. Even close to laughing. The rulers of Khelt, even great Khelta herself, had spoken to him. It was hazy, yet he could feel their intent. It was a call to arms that rang in his bones, in his soul.

War. There was a need for war. So Fetohep grinned. If he had blood—no, even now, he imagined it was boiling.

Why? Why, if the rulers called him to war, if something terrible had occurred, as he felt it had, that might threaten Khelt?

Well, terrible as it might be to admit…He had waited his entire unlife for this day, without knowing it.

They all had. All rulers after Khelta the First. Fetohep strode down the palace, each stone enchanted, feeling the might of Khelt slumbering around him. Had they not been put in their throne, assigned to live for as long as possible to protect Khelt? Each ruler built up their treasury, defenses, and…waited. Wait for the moment to unleash all of Khelt’s splendor.

And it never came. How frustrating! It was like fortifying a position, planning out each inch of attack and defense, creating splendid traps, honing your blades for centuries, millenia, and never being attacked! Khelt had never, ever had the end of days come upon it. It had fought off Crelers. Now? It was the hour Fetohep had secretly longed for, in his dark heart of hearts.

The day that the earth opened up, that a fissure swept across Chandrar and the sea itself rushed to cover all above it.

The last war of Demons—or Humans, Drakes—when armies without end came to conquer and subjugate all who would not kneel.

The moment the next Creler Wars, the Antinium, the next calamity broke the sky and sent madness through air and space. When someone slew time.

They had all lived through such days, the eighteen rulers of Khelt before him. Some had weathered minor crises; the rest had thrown body and soul into wars for the fate of Khelt itself, and spent every coin and raised every hoarded spear and loosed every arrow into the void.

Fetohep had wondered if the King of Destruction was his great beast to do battle with, but Flos of Reim had never sought to fully claim Khelt.

It had been almost…disappointing. Obviously, good for Khelt. Yes…yes. Just a bit disappointing.

Now? They called for him. His predecessors of old. They shouted, though he had yet to make out the words, yet their intention was clear. So Fetohep would reluctantly…use everything at his disposal.

And they wondered why he grinned.

—-

Fetohep of Khelt strode from the doors of his palace. The grand spires and architecture of countless generations in countless styles rose up behind him. He walked onto the broad dais above the steps, and beheld his subjects.

They knelt, weeping, tearing at their fine clothes and faces. The streets, swept pristinely clean by undead each day, filled with endless diversion and entertainments, all for them, were overrun. Every door hung ajar—and Khelt’s people did not lock them anyways, for theft was not theirs to fear—and many simply lay in the streets.

They looked up as he emerged. Hundreds of thousands of heads rose and the wailing turned into cries of relief. Screams.

The King of Khelt lives! Fetohep lifted his hand, the warm breeze on the dry air touching at the bandages around his flesh. Yet his eyes still shone gold in their sockets. His subjects scrambled up the steps, and the few living guards made to block them, yet Fetohep simply lifted a hand and all was still.

“My subjects! Cease your lamentations! Dry your tears. Did you think me dead? I, who has sworn to serve you until the end of my days? Did you think blade or petty mortal hands could end me? Have you so little faith in the grandeur of your kingdom, the finest jewel in the world, that you think craven armies of [Knights] could best my legions?”

His voice boomed over the courtyard. The people looked up, rising in awe as Fetohep stood at the top of the steps. He posed, just so, a strutting confidence as he walked back and forth. He did not have a speech written or planned; he had no need of such things.

He was a true king, so his eyes flashed with fury, amusement, and grave authority.

“Petty Terandria sets itself against Khelt, and they draw the blood of Khelt’s own. For that, they shall be repaid a thousand, nay, ten thousand times over! This alone enrages me. They parade their champions about as if mortal accomplishments endure, even the half-Elves of the Claiven Earth. For that ignorance, they shall be punished.”

All were silent. Someone was sharing this scene with Wistram. Fetohep stopped. He turned, and lifted his hands. In awe, his people quailed before him. Now, the Revenant’s voice boomed with fury.

“Khelt’s true armies shall fall upon them without end! Arise, soldiers of Khelt!”

Undead moved. The guardians around the palace strode forwards, and the citizens backed away in awe—not horror. Fetohep pointed as more bodies drove themselves out of the earth, forming into vast columns that would make nations tremble.

“Send forth the Legions of Queen Akhta! Bring wrath and ruin across all enemies of Khelt! Drive them until they flee across the waves and flee wailing to the lands that spawned their worthless frames.”

Then his people cheered, in a mighty voice. Fetohep pointed down.

“Calm yourselves. Restore order, and do not weep for me, for I have no life for mine enemies to take. Rejoice! I will deliver unto you, my people, only victory.”

With that, he swept back into the palace, ignoring the cheering—or pretending to.

That was how one ruled, incidentally. Fetohep walked back through the doors, as his limited servants halted in front of him. Their faces shone with awe; they had heard, of course.

“Your Majesty? What is your will?”

Fetohep halted. Now he was inside, he hesitated. Hesitated…for all he had sent a vast army to mobilize at Khelt’s borders, to make up for the damage his army had taken twice over. That was one thing. This?

He spoke slowly, luxuriating in every syllable of it. He would never have dared, normally. Yet now? They spoke to him. He could not answer with anything less. So, then. Fetohep’s eyes flashed. He gave the command at last.

“Open my armory. It is time to deploy the artifacts of war.”

His servants made refreshingly awed faces. They turned into statues as Fetohep walked past them. He had taken a pitiful number of artifacts for this war. Now?

Medain and the Claiven Earth would tremble. Terandria would break their arrogance against him. But first…

Fetohep of Khelt walked into a specific corridor among the tangled labyrinth of his palace. The thousands of locations and rooms that had been expanded and added to over generations as a sort of hobby for previous rulers could confuse the best [Thief].

Fetohep had once let children play games in the palace, but stopped the practice after one of his subjects emerged two years after getting lost without ever having met another living person.

He strode over a hallway made of pure jade, floor, walls, ceiling, even decorations; a bit kitschy aesthetically, but designed to purify with the power of jade. Lovely dark jade flooring, though; like water at night.

He passed by framed paintings of tens of thousands of Khelt’s citizens, a passion project of Queen Zushe-Greso. Each one painted by a masterful [Artist] over Level 40, each one preserved for immortality, decorated in frames each of the owner’s choosing. Costly wood, simple hand-carved materials, gold…he always smiled at the one lined by fur…

A hundred corridors, each to distract and amaze. Fetohep had gotten bored of them in the first century of his life.

He came to the only one that mattered, close to the throne room itself. Fetohep stopped, in one of the original parts of the palace. One of the most important parts, truly. For all the riches elsewhere…here…here was what mattered.

The hallway was unfinished. It was made of plain marble, before Khelt’s riches had come without end. It had eighteen statues, each in an alcove. Room for twice as many more, easily.

There were similar hallways, elsewhere, in many parts of Khelt. Grand museums with entire novels for each individual. Glorious poses, fantastical reliefs. Yet here was the truest testament, truest legacy of his predecessors.

The rulers of Khelt looked at Khelt, each one life-like, each one staring ahead into oblivion. Carved as they had been before death, not their Revenant-forms.

There was even one of him, closest to where he stood. Fetohep read his own name.

Fetohep of Khelt.

No titles, not yet. All of his would be added after he perished and the next ruler took his place. Fetohep suspected he’d have a few, and he wondered who would be next.

Often, he came here to think on the future. Or simply be humbled.

For here they were. He walked slowly down to the front of the room. There…she was. A sculpture that had been done as she lived, and was thus presumably accurate.

“Khelta the First.”

Fetohep bowed in front of her. He felt her presence. He felt their presence. The great dead were angry. Something was wrong.

Erin Solstice? How…Kevin? No. First, Fetohep simply paid his respects. He tried to take wisdom, understanding from this place. Here or his throne room would be the place where they spoke loudest to him. His eyes lingered on each statue in line.

Eighteen rulers. They had persisted, some over a thousand years, ruling Khelt until the mantle passed to him. Eighteen. And not one you could gloss over. Eighteen…

Queen Khelta the First, the Sovereign of Warm Sands, Monarch of Undeath, Origin of Khelt’s Promise, Dragonfoe of Khelt Eternal, Glorian of Chandrar.

There was a title above all others, for all you might not know it. Glorianemi zeikh, the title of respect awarded to those of Chandrar who exceeded all others. An honored name that could never be taken back. No one, not even the King of Destruction could take it by force.

Queen Heris the Second, the Scorpion of Khelt, Great Avenger of Ger.

King Tkayl of Khelt, the Silent Sovereign, Harbinger of Peace, Guardian of the Waters.

Queen Emrist of Khelt. The Pactmaker.

Queen Zushe-Greso. No titles given. 3rd most beloved Monarch of Khelt overall. Nineteen hundred years reign of peace and prosperity.

Suzerain Serept of Khelt and the Nomads of the Sky. The Watchful Giant. Battlekin of the House of Minos. The Blacksmith King.

King His-xe the Serpent King, the Undead Viper of…

There were so many of them. Fetohep knew some of their histories intimately, having read countless accounts of their deeds by every perspective. Some, he was only ‘acquainted’ with, which meant he’d probably only read a thousand pages of their lives.

Queen Xierca, of course, was next to his statue.

He looked at her. Simply stone relief, yet enchanted to maintain…no other glorifications. No color. He had kept to the old style, as had she. He bowed in front of her. She was shorter than he, less of a warrior, but gloriously wise, even in her relief.

Gentle, caring, yet stern and ruthless when she needed to be—never with her subjects, only abroad. The sculptor was excellent, but he still failed to capture the falcon’s gleam in her eyes. Her stitch-marks on her hands and arms were just as he remembered them, but she was not long-rotted by age; gloriously intact in this rendition of her.

He sank to one knee, head lowered. Of them all, he would always remember her as his ruler, the eternal guardian as he had grown from boy into man.

“My glorious Queen. I would that you speak to me. I feel your presence, yet I cannot hear your voice. What will you and the rulers of Khelt?”

He looked around, but the statues were still. Fetohep rose, and continued his path, doing another loop. He felt them, yet the divide of death was difficult to bridge, even for a single voice. Even for them.

He walked under the shadow of greatness. Not all had been perfect; far from it. Fetohep had read the faults of his predecessors in their myriad ways. How many times had he wished they would speak?

If they did so now, something was wrong. Without guidance, Fetohep would do what must be done. Crush his enemies, guard Khelt, and look into Erin Solstice’s death. He still could not credit that, and wondered if that was just a hallucination caused by Kevin’s pleas.

Fetohep thought he could…hear them, though. It had been less than two hours since he had returned to life, after all. The longer he strode the palace, the louder the distant voices and feelings became.

“Did I err, leaving Khelt? Perhaps. Speak to me, Great Khelta. Tell me your will. Tell me what threatens Khelt. I have pledged to rain destruction upon our enemies. Do you see me? Do you approve? Speak, I implore you.”

The Revenant spread his arms, standing in front of the statues. Yes. He could almost hear them, now. And…a different voice?

He strained, piecing together the understanding. He turned to Queen Xierca’s statue. Fetohep thought he felt her presence. He hesitated—then reached out and touched her hand. His golden flames dimmed.

And at last, he heard it. He listened and heard the voice at last, welling in the promise of Khelt, the very same ground they had all walked. His very soul.

It said:

“Four out of ten.”

Fetohep of Khelt went still. His golden ‘eyes’ dimmed in their sockets. After a second he felt at his earhole, reflexively. He’d…what was that?

The mists of undeath cleared. The bridge between worlds thinned as the ruler of Khelt reclaimed his connection with the power that gave Khelt its strength. Just in time for Queen Xierca’s voice to become distressingly clear.

“It was an acceptable speech. He clearly did not rehearse his lines.”

“The pacing. A ruler should stand still. As to his call to arms…I would have used the Vraikscourge of Semide, myself. He even wasted Serept’s half-Giant warriors in battle.”

Another voice agreed. Fetohep did not recognize it, but it had the same quality that told him it unmistakably came from somewhere else, not actual auditory sound. A third voice chimed in.

“I took it as a show of force. Conservation of the higher-level undead. Showy, but understandable. A kind of analogous reminder to half-Giant armies of previous eras that lack in this wasted world of today. Six out of ten.”

“Clearly, but there was no subtlety in it. A Jaw of Zeikhal? If you are going to bring one, why not three? Why not eight? That was not an ‘expendable’ asset either. He wasted it.”

A chorus of other voices murmured. Fetohep let go of Xierca’s hand, but they continued, and worse, they were growing clearer. Someone else spoke, with a bit of a lisp.

“Such a short proclamation, with little arte to dictation or cadence. He could have spoken for at least ten minutes. If one hath not the gift of gab, perchance it was for the best. Were he able to hear us, I would have given him far better words to inspire.”

Fetohep hesitated. His jaw opened and closed. The rulers were…chatting. Seemingly unaware he was now able to hear them. A third voice rumbled; it could only be Serept, the half-Giant from the broadness of the tone no smaller being could match.

“He also perished. No ruler of Khelt has ever fallen in battle.”

“Ooh. Was that me? I think I distracted him.”

And who was that? It was a young woman, her tones more animated, less refined than the talk of the others. A voice ringing with authority in Fetohep’s very bones answered him.

“One does not make excuses for a warrior’s failure, Erin Solstice. Fetohep of Khelt is young, and perhaps, foolish. He serves, even if he chose the worst of all times to leave Khelt.”

Fetohep’s jaw opened and closed. The voices broke off in murmurs of assent, or speculation. After a second, the young woman’s voice spoke up.

“It’s weird we can see him. I guess that’s because he’s the ruler and you’re all tied to this spot. Why’s he just standing there?”

“Contemplative. He is in our hall of statues. He may believe we can communicate with him better. Not a poor impulse. Perhaps he is uncertain of our message.”

“…Yeah. Yeah, I don’t think we got through, especially when I told him to wave if he heard. Um. Guys?”

“Yes, Erin Solstice? Have patience, we shall communicate our desires, unless Fetohep is so foolish as to crusade out once more. It may come to that. You chose an impetuous successor, Xierca.”

“My apologies, Great Khelta.”

“Right. Right, guys. Um…he’s sort of standing there. Look, he just lifted a hand. Do you think…he can hear us now?”

Abruptly, the eighteen voices—nineteen—fell silent. Fetohep swore he heard a cough in the silence of his own mind.

“…Faithful Fetohep of Khelt. If you can hear our will at last, signal so. Walk…yes, walk before I, King Tkayl, and kneel.”

A new voice boomed at last. There were murmurs of agreement, quickly shushed.

Fetohep moved. He walked over and slowly knelt before Tkayl. Someone gasped.

“At last!”

“Know our will. There is much you must know—”

Then that last voice. Erin Solstice, it had to be.

“Uh. How much do you think he heard before that? You were being pretty mean. Do you think he heard the thing you said about the bandages?”

Fetohep heard silence in his mind. After a moment, Queen Khelta smoothly spoke.

“A great time of calamity is upon us, Erin Solstice. Now is not the time for frivolity of speech.”

“…Sure. Suuuure.”

—-

The connection had been established. The dead spoke to the living. Well, the slightly-less-dead, at any rate.

It was the power of legacy. The power of Khelt, which turned out to have been one of the wisest decisions ever made in the metaspace of nations and empire.

There had been hiccups. The chosen agent of the eighteen rulers of Khelt, Fetohep, had been absent. Now, though, he had returned, and the ghosts rejoiced. Their otherworldly wisdom and great need could be communicated!

Cawe saw it as a great impact among the dead as well. She looked out, over the steps of the palace of Khelt, where few ghosts were allowed to even stand.

“Would you look at that?”

Gerial’s voice was a bit unnerved. Abel drifted over and gasped. The three small ghosts beheld…the tide.

It seemed that way, at first. There was no actual sea visible from this spot unless you flew up incredibly high, and even then, you only saw the world as it was, static, unmoving, the water frozen scene-to-scene, in different poses.

Yet this was a tide. Every dead soul in Chandrar was flowing their way. Drawing closer to the one gateway between their worlds.

Of course, they did not get close. The ghosts of Giants and powerful dead blocked them. The loyalists, as Cawe was thinking of them, those explicitly agreeing with the [Witches] and Khelt, did not let Roshal and other ghosts of smaller ‘factions’ get to Erin.

If it got too bad, one of the rulers of Khelt would just send ghosts flying in a sandstorm; their power was unquestioned here.

“That’s a powerful sight. And here we are.”

Gerial’s voice was still unnerved. He glanced at the individuals, all of whose levels probably weren’t below Level 50—except maybe Califor!—and then at himself. Little Gerial.

It was Cawe who grabbed his arm, impulsively. She linked arms and grinned as Gerial started, though neither felt it.

“We may not be heroes, but we’re rubbing feathers with them, eh, Gerial? It just goes to show, even here, it’s not who you were, it’s who you know. We lucked out, eh?”

Abel laughed. The young man chuckled, and Gerial blinked at Cawe before grinning himself.

“Now that’s adventurer’s luck. I like that.”

They turned back to Erin Solstice. Now, she walked with the Rulers of Khelt. They were excited. Khelta herself smiled, herself exuberant.

“Now we may truly fight back, Erin Solstice. We shall communicate with Fetohep, and through him, do what we can to spread word at least of this threat. But carefully. If, as the [Sages] and [Archmages] believe, the six wish to be known—well. First we shall simply let Fetohep know what passes.”

Erin nodded rapidly, still shaking with excitement of her own. She looked at Khelta.

“It’s amazing you can talk with him. Did you plan that?”

“Partly. It was one of the many acts I envisioned for Khelt. I laid down the ritual spells that allowed the creation of Revenants, the control of undead. I am a [Necromancer], you know.”

Erin stopped. She slowed, and blinked.

“I forgot…wait. You’re…then…”

The [Queen of Necrocracy]’s eyes flashed with humor.

“I have heard of your friend, the [Necromancer], and the state of my school of magic in this world. It quite amuses me that you did not seek out my counsel. At any rate, yes. Communion with the spirits of the other world was always something I knew of—just never focused on. I would that I had, or that my successors had managed to carry out one of the great projects I laid out.”

The other rulers looked abashed. One, King Dolenm, bowed his aged head. Before he had passed his crown on, his very skull had begun to wear away, exposing a pure, flickering memory of magic within. Or…a soul.

“That we did not is our failing, great Khelta.”

She waved a hand indulgently.

“Many projects were completed, fair Dolenm. I myself would have prioritized the Sarcophagi of Souls lower. You did manage to create a way of generating water for Khelt in your time…thirst always plagued my reign.”

She nodded indulgently at the King, who nodded in satisfaction. Erin’s head turned.

“The Sarcophagi of…you mean a place where you could come to life?”

“Not life. Merely possess statues, and speak to all and sundry. It would have taken a different expert than I, though. Or multiple ones. I thought an [Archmage], an [Architect], and a [Necromancer] all over Level 50 could do it—or two over Level 70.”

“The trouble is getting all of them in the same place. I never managed more than one. Even with great riches offered, they died too quickly or were embroiled in great wars or passions of their own.”

King Serept grumbled, the huge half-Giant folding his arms. The other rulers nodded and muttered—but some of the later ones, like Xierca, gave Erin a look that said quite clearly they hadn’t ever thought to grab multiple Level 50+ individuals.

Erin herself thought it was a reminder of what had changed. Khelta waved a hand.

“I have already communicated the desire for the project to be completed if possible to King Fetohep. Along with other needs. We shall all have more.”

“You mean you’re telling him what you need done?”

“Of course. We are, naturally, taking turns.”

Even as Khelta spoke, she pointed. Xierca walked back up to the castle, replacing Queen Emrist as she followed the one visible being to the Rulers of Khelt—and now Erin, so long as she stood in their company.

Fetohep. He was like…a ghost to the ghosts. A reflection of the living world, and they could hear him from afar, see what he did. No one else. One ruler walked with him at all times, or they all gathered if he did something they deemed interesting.

Counselors of the past. Giving voice to great need. In another way…Erin’s lips twitched.

“So you’re giving him a shopping list? A shopping list from beyond the grave? Oooh.”

She waved her hands. The rulers of Khelt gave her flat looks. Until Khelta began laughing. She put one hand on Erin’s shoulder.

“I quite like you, child! I never thought of it so. But yes. That is quite amusing. Frivolities aside, however…we must think how best to use our position. We have the knowledge of old.”

She waved a hand at the ghosts congregating below the palace. Khelta sighed.

“…Pressing few ways to use it. Every [Sage] has an idea how you can be cured, or their recipe for a Potion of Anti-Aging, but with their Skills or specific ingredients and tools. Would that Fetohep were any class but a [Warrior] in life. Between you and I, he is a bit…”

She hesitated. Then patted Erin on the shoulder.

“Well, he seems capable enough. Khelt is not in ruins. I regret that we let our tongues slip so when we thought he could not hear.”

Erin glanced at the ruler who walked the palace. She had never met Fetohep, but when she had first seen him, striding from his throne room, speaking to the crowd—for all it was a 4/10 speech—he had seemed bold, confident. Now? His shoulders hunched a bit and he hurried about as Queen Xierca spoke in his ears. Erin murmured.

“Poor Fetohep.”

His glorious predecessors and forebearers had come calling. Those he respected and veneterated. The problem was?

They found him a bit wanting.

—-

The dead spoke to him. The rulers of old walked with Fetohep of Khelt, and he heard his beloved Queen Xierca’s words once more.

He rejoiced. Truly, he did. He was no longer alone. It was a blessing, a sign of great joy, and he rejoiced.

…Really. He did. It was just…well. When you heard of means to connect ghosts to the living world, via some [Oracle] or seer, it was always through them. Always more vague, indistinct words. Annoying, of course, if you really wanted specifics, but the dead usually had a hard time talking to the living.

Fetohep realized why that was sometimes desirable, or at least, to have a medium between you and said dead. He walked his palace, a bit quickly, but he could not escape the voice that lingered in his ears.

His great robe swished across the tiles made of obsidian glass. His bowed head passed blooming plants, each one tended to by undead servants. Fetohep heard the voice he had longed for so long to whisper in his ears, one last time.

“Fetohep, oh, my dear subject, Fetohep…”

Queen Xierca. Fetohep slowed.

“Your Majesty?”

“Fetohep…”

Her voice was as it had been in life, not echoing, not haunted. He had never heard that. It was such a joy. Such a…

“Fetohep, what did you do with my Sireen Lilies? They are missing from the outside of the palace. Did something happen to them?”

Fetohep kept walking. He spoke, very carefully.

“Your Majesty, Xierca…I regret to say they were removed.”

“By what, monsters? Did you pull them up? I loved them!”

Fetohep had never, ever lied to Queen Xierca. He did so now.

“…One of Khelt’s subjects may have made the mistake of doing so. As the gardens were damaged, I had no choice but to uproot the rest.”

“Did you not replant them?”

Her voice was outraged. Fetohep hesitated as he walked by a preserved sample of her favorite plant, which she had decorated many parts of Khelt with. The Sireen Lily. He stared at the huge, long-necked plant with a gigantic blooming head, light blue fading to white. A lovely plant. There was just one problem.

“…Children often burst into tears, your Majesty. Adults too, when they wailed in the wind.”

“I do not see what that has to do with anything. They were an example of Khelt’s glorious gardens.”

Fetohep’s jaw opened and closed. He gritted his teeth. He loved Xierca, and he had forgotten completely about her lilies. He had kept them for as long as he could bear it after his ascension to the throne.

…Four years. Then he’d had them gathered and burned. There had been a celebration.

Xierca sighed in his mind.

“Will you not plant more? Yours is the time to rule, Fetohep, but for love of me…perhaps a garden? A thousand, planted in the Contemplation Walkways?”

He hesitated, agonized, but he did love her. Fetohep bowed his head, an unfamiliar gesture. He’d been doing a lot of it this day.

“It will be done at once, my beloved Majesty.”

“Good, good…”

Her presence faded. Fetohep missed her, but…he waved for a servant and gave the orders. Contemplation Walkways, a beloved part of the city, might now become a truly isolated place, where one might test their meditative qualities against the horrors of a thousand sighing, wailing plants.

Still, for her…it was a fitting tribute, Fetohep told himself. The [Servant] bowed; naturally his will would be carried out, but even her face didn’t hide the trepidation of asking the [Gardeners] to grow a thousand Sireen Lilies.

Fetohep walked on. His mind was racing. He had been told what was happening and that Erin Solstice was among his great ancestors. Not dead, not alive. He had to act. With this knowledge, everything changed. Everyth—

“Fetohep. I am Serept of Khelt. Do you know me?”

The Revenant stopped again.

“Great Serept, of course I know you.”

The half-Giant [Smith-King]? Fetohep was honored! He pictured the half-Giant, striding next to him in these vast corridors which had been designed just for him. Fetohep felt the pleasure of talking with such a legend…for about five seconds.

“Fetohep. My Swords. That which they call the Swords of Serept. I am told…they are scattered. Six of them were lost and never recovered. Three now belong to outsiders of Khelt. This concerns me.”

If undead could sweat…Fetohep bowed his head.

“Your Majesty, I granted the blades without your permission. I did not think of your will, only that they were found and might be lost again. I—considered—that those who reclaimed them were worthy of wielding them for a generation. Make no mistake, they will return to Khelt!”

Serept’s voice was deep in his head, rich and powerful. It should have echoed across many hallways.

“That does not concern me, Fetohep. Swords are meant to be wielded, and I am grateful they were found. My quandary is this: if you granted such blades, and correct me if I err, it seems you did not instruct the wielders as to their usage. The ghosts of the dead who heard of it did not say you gave these students lessons. It seems unfair to do so.”

Of all the things Fetohep would have thought Serept would take him to task for—he realized he did not know the half-Giant as well as he thought. His voice stuttered a bit, despite the lack of any tongue or vocal chords or lungs.

“I…did not, your Majesty? They would have surely uncovered many of the aspects of the blades themselves.”

“Perhaps that could be rectified? I also notice you did not offer them the use of the companion aspects to the Diamond Swords. I made other relics to accompany my blades.”

“They are relics of Khelt, your Majesty! I did not think to—”

“I understand, King Fetohep. However, is the largesse of Khelt so lacking in the modern day that the full act of generosity might be withheld? I simply…ask you consider the matter.”

“I will consider it as soon as I am able, King Serept.”

“Very good, I thank you.”

And then he was gone. Fetohep hunched his shoulders. The dead were speaking to him. Wonderful.

…He wished they weren’t so needy. Fetohep added ‘giving away priceless relics to a bunch of young students who might get them lost for another thousand years’ to his list of things he now had to do, right under planting a bunch of parasitic lilies which induced depression in people.

He was dreading the next voice. Which one would it be? Fetohep heard a soft tone, and froze.

“Fetohep. I am Khelta. I see your actions, and I give you my thanks, my descendant. You honor me and Khelt by all you do.”

“Great Khelta! I am honored by your words.”

He sank to one knee, all issues forgotten at once. Now here was a spirit he was truly honored to receive. Her words…were a welcome balm on his soul. An acknowledgement from the founder of Khelt itself.

“I see Khelt, and it is far more prosperous than I dreamed. Far greater than when I had died. This pleases me.”

“I am glad of it, your Majesty.”

Fetohep smiled, and his golden flames came to life in their sockets. He stood taller, and almost heard the laugh in Khelta’s voice. A laugh.

“It is wonderful to see. Would that I could look upon Khelt’s citizens. Are they happy?”

“Yes, Great Khelta. They want for nothing.”

“Good, good. And the treasuries full? We may have need of it.”

“Khelt has never been richer.”

Fetohep answered, truthfully. Khelta’s smile continued in her voice.

“This is all pleasing! Then…I would like you to commission a statue, if you would. One of Nerrhavia, of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. I think the place they call the Mosk Plaza would be quite suitable. Marble? Whatever is fitting. I trust we have [Sculptors] still?”

The Ruler of Khelt’s smile went out. He hesitated.

“A…statue, Great Khelta?”

“It need not be to form. One may take the best image of her; vanity serves. You see, her ghost remains and it would be a suitable gesture to erect one to maintain favor among the ghosts. A gesture—it would aid us greatly.”

Fetohep had no idea what was passing in the world beyond, but his mind was spinning. The implications of making a statue to Nerrhavia of Nerrhavia’s Fallen aside—and finding an image of her? If the nation ever found out…

“If it need be done, Great Khelta, I shall do it.”

Nevertheless, she had founded Khelt. For her…Fetohep strengthened his resolve. Khelta was pleased.

“Good. Then, by morning would be the best time that she can see it.”

Fetohep’s eye-flames actually went out for a second.

“Morning? As in…next morning?”

“You may spare the gilding. Marble will do.”

She left him standing there. Fetohep actually swayed for a moment.

—-

The subjects of Khelt had heard the words of war from their great ruler. They had witnessed Fetohep’s rage, and glorious return.

However, they had been curious as to why he did not return to the front, where his armies were skirmishing with the Claiven Earth and Medain, mostly keeping them back in advances that saw a lot of the undead fall, and few of the mortals, yet kept both nations sweating.

Something had clearly transpired, because Fetohep’s towering rage and glorious speech had turned into…well, him pacing about the palace. Rumors came from the servants assigned to day-duty of strange requests.

Plant a thousand Sireen Lilies in the walkways? Erect a statue to Nerrhavia in…? And he was talking to himself, or so the rumors said. Pacing, then issuing those strange orders. He kept bowing to the air.

They feared he was going insane.

—-

Fetohep feared he was going insane too. He sat on his throne by midnight, after returning to life in Khelt. He felt the most…exhausted he ever had. Fighting with Medain and the Claiven Earth? He could have fought a thousand battles rather than this.

He actually flinched when the next voice assailed him. All eighteen rulers had spoken to him, each one with a suggestion or plan of action. Some wanted aspects restored, or Fetohep to make a gesture to a friend of theirs. He had been forced to explain that he did not have images of half the individuals named—didn’t even know who they were.

Who would be next? Queen Zushe-Greso, wanting to know how many of her beloved lynxes remained in the palace, fed and watered to grow fat and multiply without care?

King His-Xe, with observations on the feng shui of Khelt’s city and how a few buildings could be rearranged to make it flow better?

The voice which came next, though, did not have the regal overtones of past rulers. It was more mundane, brighter, a faster tone that occasionally stumbled or rambled, but was more than anything, friendly.

“Hey, um…hi. Is this thing on? I mean, I didn’t hit a switch, but can you hear me?”

Fetohep sat up slightly.

“Who is…this?”

The voice laughed.

“Great! It works! Hey, Khelta, it works! Whoops, sorry for shouting. I’m Erin! Erin Solstice. You’re Fetohep, right?”

“I am his Majesty Fetohep of Khelt. I greet you, Erin Solstice, guest and friend to the great line of Khelt.”

“Nice to meet you!”

Fetohep sat on his throne. This was the oddest conversation so far. He spoke, resting back on the enchanted throne.

“How may I aid you, Erin Solstice? If it is in regards to your resurrection—I have already attempted to make plans. If you need send word, or send aid to anyone, any task within Khelt’s power, I shall make it so.”

Tiredly, he waved, and an undead skeleton brought him a notepad and the enchanted quill to take dictations. Erin Solstice paused.

“Um. No. I was just going to say hi. I mean…I know you’re busy. I was going to introduce myself and uh—say ‘good job’! Thanks for listening and y’know, communicating with the dead! How’s it going?”

Fetohep paused. He tilted his head.

“How is it…going? Khelt endures. If the rulers wish to know the exact sums in our vaults, I have compiled…”

Again, he reached for another scroll that had been labored on all day by his mortal subjects, but Erin interrupted him.

“No, I mean…how’s things? How are you? Sorry, I don’t mean to give you more work. How’s life being dead? Um…”

Fetohep sat there, bemused, confused, and then he began to smile. Truly smile, though you’d never tell from his face. Yet his voice showed it.

“Ah, I am quite well, Erin Solstice. I rejoice in contact with my predecessors…and it occurs to me I have spoken and acted more in these past months than in many years. In fact, I even know a friend of yours, and those from your world.”

“Bwuh. Whaaaa? No way! You know Earthers? Who do you know that I know?”

Fetohep grinned.

“Do you not know a Kevin of Solar Cycles?”

“You know Kevin? Wait a second—he said he had an important client from Khelt! Hey, that’s the same Khelt as…that’s so amazing! How’s he doing?”

“He has asked for aid for you, and he is quite civil. He is an entertaining young man.”

“Y’know, that’s Kevin. People think he’s random like me, or a goofball, but he’s actually really responsible. Wow. That’s just great…”

Erin trailed off. Fetohep and she were smiling, although only Erin could see it.

She crouched by the throne, speaking there, and looked up at Fetohep. For his part, he was bemused. Of all the ghosts…she was talking to him. Holding a conversation.

“Listen. I know the others want to talk to you and I don’t have important things to say. I mean…there’s a lot to do. I just wanted to say—thank you. And hello. I was…really getting worried I’d never come back to life. I still might not, but since you can hear the rulers of Khelt, that’s really great. Really.”

Her voice betrayed something of her feelings. Fetohep stirred. He did not know where she stood, if one even stood in the lands of the dead. Nor had she spoken much to him, outside that first meeting.

“You stand with the greatest rulers of Khelt, Erin Solstice. I am their mortal agent upon this world. Is the hour so dire this does not offer you reassurance?”

She hesitated.

“…It does. They’re strong, really. Without them Chandrar would have fallen, probably. It’s just…I’m dead.”

She laughed, sadly.

“I should have been more careful. I—I hope you can help. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’d just like to live. Sorry, I’m rambling and someone else wants a word. I just—thank you.”

She vanished before he could respond. Fetohep sat there for a moment. Interesting. He realized something in that moment, which was only confirmed by Xierca’s whisper.

“I hope you will prioritize reviving Erin Solstice, Fetohep. Her spirit has endured much and she longs to live. On her we place many hopes.”

Her tone was more somber. Fetohep listened, and now the awe, the trepidation, and the frank annoyance and dismay of hearing his predecessors left him, he heard what was truly there.

Uncertainty. The Rulers of Khelt were…uncertain. Something was dire indeed, that they did not even dare tell him the full scale of the lands of the dead. Erin Solstice? She was afraid. She longed to live. And that the other ghosts could not help her with. After all, they were dead.

Still, how curious. Fetohep thought a moment, before replying.

“I shall, Queen Xierca. And I shall put many plans into action.”

“This is well, Fetohep. On that note, I had some thoughts—”

For the first time ever, Fetohep interrupted his beloved queen.

“I am sure, Queen Xierca, but I must make a call in the physical world. I hope you will pardon me.”

Her voice hesitated.

“—Oh. Of course. If I might give my thoughts first, I think—”

“I am afraid, Queen Xierca, I must insist. I…require time to work. I shall speak with you anon in the morning, and the other rulers. Please make your will known then, and not before. I bid you a good night.”

Fetohep rose to his feet. He actually heard a gasp, but the king was walking forwards, summoning the scrying orb to him. He heard nothing else, and paused a moment. Of course, it had to be done.

He wondered, though, if he shouldn’t have enjoyed that as much as he did.

—-

In the land of the dead, the rulers of Khelt watched Fetohep activate the orb and sit down. He began to talk, but they didn’t speak to him.

“He bade us farewell? Us?”

“Impudence!”

Some of them were offended. Xierca was just dismayed. Even Khelta frowned, but Erin Solstice, who had begun smiling after her little chat with Fetohep, decided it was time.

He had noticed something. And so had she. So she reached out and poked Khelta in the side.

“Hey. You know, you guys are making the same mistake I did with Lyonette, right? She was my employee. You’re…sort of being unfair to Fetohep.”

The rulers of Khelt turned, looking rather offended.

“We are…unfair? He is our mortal agent. Should we not command him to do what must be done?”

King Serept frowned mightily. Erin shrugged, and gestured at Fetohep.

“I know we all need to rely on him, guys. But think about it another way. He’s your descendant and all, but uh…he’s still the ruler of Khelt, you know? And I know you all are. But you don’t speak to him like he’s the ruler. The living ruler.”

The other eighteen monarchs glanced at each other. Erin had noticed it. They seldom said ‘your Majesty’, like Fetohep did.

“We…are his predecessors. Perhaps we lacked some formality.”

Queen Xierca murmured, blushing faintly. Erin smiled.

“I think it’s that. Also—you guys always took the throne after the last one died, right? I mean, fully passed on?”

“That is how it has been since Khelta.”

One of the kings nodded. Erin spread her hands.

“Then you never ruled together, right? So you’re all bossy bosses. You could try being more polite.”

The rulers looked at each other. They glanced at Fetohep, and Erin saw them processing how they would take being given a hundred orders from the dead. She smiled as she saw a few wince.

Then all the heads, disconcertingly, looked straight back at Erin. Khelta folded her arms, amused.

“So sayeth the most disrespectful young woman to ever have walked Khelt’s ground. We take your words as wisdom nevertheless, Erin Solstice. I do wonder, though, if even Dragonlords and the rulers of old merit no respect or couched language from you, who in this vast world does?”

Erin blinked. Then turned a bit red herself.

—-

Night passed into day. Fetohep of Khelt worked in silence. Not actual silence of course; he was speaking almost nonstop, giving orders, making plans.

The dead left him alone. Which gave Fetohep of Khelt time to think. When the sun rose, he stood at the steps of his palace and felt them around him.

Nineteen souls. Twenty if he included himself. He might never be alone again. Erin Solstice, Khelta, Xierca, and the other rulers.

“King Fetohep of Khelt, Great Descendant. We have been uncouth in our demands. We rejoice to see you, and thank you for continuing to protect Khelt. In this hour, when evil threatens death’s land itself, you we shall rely on. Never forget, never believe we do not hold you in the utmost confidence.”

It was Xierca who spoke to him. Fetohep dipped his head slightly. Below him, he could see his subjects gathering again, wondering if he had a speech to give. Of course, they had seen him walk his city before. He began to descend the steps as he spoke.

“It is I who should apologize, your Majesty, Xierca. To you and Great Khelta of all, and all my forebearers. After all, you spoke truly. I stand in the shadows of those who came before. I have disgraced Khelt by my fall in battle. That I lack the poise of rulers before, the elegance, the diversity of abilities, I humbly submit before you all.”

In the lands of the dead, the rulers looked at each other. Embarrassed and silent. Erin saw Serept open his mouth, hesitate, and look at Xierca. She was distressed.

“Beloved Fetohep, that is not…”

Well, it had been what they meant. Yet Fetohep seemed calmer. Even more confident than before. He walked down the steps, then stopped. His head turned, as if he could see them, walking behind him. Almost at Erin.

“It makes no mockery of the truth to state what is there. I was a [Warrior], your Majesty. I would not compare myself to Queen Khelta, whom even Dragons regarded as a true master of death, who laid the very spells which endure till now. Nor Serept, who forged blades for his Giant ancestors! I did not know the cures to ten thousand poisons as King His-Xe. Erin Solstice, you walk among the greatest stars Chandrar has ever known.”

The rulers stirred. Fetohep of Khelt’s words were both truthful…and highly complimentary. Erin Solstice blinked, and peered at the rulers named. The three stood a bit taller. They smiled, nodding in memory, waving off the compliments, but there it was.

The other ghosts, who could neither hear nor speak to Fetohep, peered at them suspiciously. Nerrhavia, who had been bragging about her new statue all morning, glanced at the smiling rulers of Khelt.

What strange confidence. What…a difference words made. That was what Fetohep had realized. The dead were nervous. Erin Solstice was uncertain, afraid.

He stood in the shadow of beings whom he had never matched in life. Great heroes and legends. There were some things they could not do, however. They did not live. They were at the mercy of something in the land beyond. And…well. They were dead.

They had forgotten what it was like to speak to the living, truly. Not just him. Erin Solstice. Fetohep heard her fear, and worry, and desire to live. Of all of his predecessors—he remembered how to speak to mortal subjects best.

So here he stood. His subjects had heard him speaking to the air and exchanged looks of great alarm, yet now the king’s head turned. He stood at the foot of the stairs, as his people feared to draw too near and disturb him, but watched. Fetohep’s head rose, and his voice grew louder, so he addressed both the living and the dead.

“I am Fetohep of Khelt. Ruler of Khelt! Nineteenth servant of this kingdom. And I…am but the meanest and least accomplished of those who came before.”

He began to walk forwards.

“Who does not still remember Queen Zushe-Greso, whose reign was considered one of the most blessed of all? Queen Emrist’s pacts, which endure to this day? If I rest upon my laurels, if I am incompetent, it is because the road has been paved too well, too smoothly by those who bore my burdens before me. I have no challenges left because my predecessors crushed all who stood before me, with cunning and wrath!”

He raised his hands. His subjects didn’t know what this was in aid of, but they murmured.

The dead ghosts preened. They might even have glowed, growing more firm in the land of the dead. Erin saw a scar appear on Serept’s arm, a war wound he glanced down at. Of course, they knew their deeds, but to hear and be reminded of it by the living?

That was what King Fetohep had that they did not. Perspective. And…respect for them. Awe for the ghosts, which was genuine. He knew their stories. He had read them all. So he recited their deeds and stories to his people, like a [Bard], like a [Storyteller].

A hype man for the dead. Not just that. Fetohep thought of Erin Solstice. Worried, afraid. He turned, amidst his subjects.

It was not a perfect speech. A baby had begun crying, unhappy at something in this early morning air. Someone kept coughing in the background. He was an imperfect ruler.

Even so. He looked around.

“Now, the hour is nigh. Greater threats come to Khelt than before. I have been remiss. I have been incautious, and yes, I have been insufficient. It is my fault.”

The ghosts were silent. Fetohep sighed…but Erin saw his golden flames glittering. He strutted. He stood, head thrown back, and turned.

“War. Calamity. Great deeds must be done. Therefore…I suppose that for the first time in my short reign as Ruler of Khelt…I shall have to put in actual effort for once.”

He turned, as if facing the crowds, but in truth, turning to the rulers of Khelt.

The ghosts stirred. They looked at each other. A few made incredulous sounds. And then Khelta laughed. Xierca applauded her subject. Erin giggled in delight.

What arrogance. What a claim! The Rulers of Khelt looked at Fetohep of Khelt, Nineteenth King of Khelt. The answer came from their lips, in unified approval, and laughter themselves.

“Well said!”

A King should be conceited. A King should be grand. Fetohep spun, eyes glowing brighter than they ever had before. This was what they couldn’t do. For Erin Solstice—he could reassure her.

“My subjects, these days shall change and dismay you. They shall be harsher days, but grander than ever before. Do not fear. I tell you this, for my actions may change, but I shall not. I am always your king. Am I not the greatest to live, save for those before me?”

The people of Khelt looked at Fetohep. Then a cheer arose from people of all kinds, who had never known thirst or hunger. Who had seen him fight, and inspire.

The wailing child sounded again, amid the cheers. Fetohep moved through the crowd like an arrow. He stopped in front of the embarrassed father trying to shush the babe.

“If I wilt it, is there anything I cannot do? Can I not defeat an army by my presence alone? Can I not command the tides to turn, the ground to heave? Can I not stop a weeping babe with a single glance?”

He gently took the baby from the father’s arms. Instantly, the child went quiet. Cheers and gasps rose from the crowd.

Erin laughed in delight. How had he done that?

The baby had stopped crying at once as Fetohep lifted it in his arms. Of course, it was true the infant stopped crying, but mainly because its face clearly expressed, without words, ‘I am in fear of my mortal existence from this undead monster, someone please help me.’

The end result was the end result. Fetohep could hear Erin Solstice laughing. He gave the baby back to the father. The baby instantly began wailing once more, twice as loud. Fetohep turned, and spread his arms to the palace.

“So what will you, my ancestors of old? Command me! In this war, what shall I use? A hundredth of Khelt’s might? A thousandth? If I stumble, it is only because I did not line the cracks I trod on with diamonds and gold.”

He looked back, and the rulers of Khelt nodded to him. Erin’s smile lit up her face. This was Fetohep. She believed. And so, Khelta stepped forwards. She pointed at Fetohep, though he could not see her.

“Fetohep of Khelt. I speak for all the rulers of Khelt. In the name of our kingdom, do not hoard your strength. Show us your might. Show us your daring! Delve into our hoarded treasures. By my name of Khelta, I order you. Unleash it all. Hold nothing back, or Khelt ends with thee.”

Fetohep knelt gracefully. He lifted his head, as his eyes flashed and the sun warmed his back. At last, he had the true will of Khelt. From the source. His eyes flashed.

He smiled, and nations began to tremble.

—-

An hour later, Fetohep reclined on his throne. He did not race off on a chariot, at the head of a new army. Rather, he sat there.

He was a [Warrior]. But he was also a king.

“It is for men like that child, Flos Reimarch, to think leading a kingdom ends and begins with the sword at the head of an army. I am at war. So, then. Let me show you how a true King fights his wars.”

He paused. Hummed to himself.

“Five out of ten.”

He was working on his speeches. He made a note. He liked ‘so, then’, but he wasn’t sure about the comparative with the King of Destruction. It felt like a crutch he’d fallen on too many times. Of course, personal dialogue with Jecaina, Trey and Teres was one thing, but was a truly impressive speech not timeless?

He’d work on that. Fetohep returned his attention to his tasks at hand. He studied the last crystal his sweating [Mages] proffered to him.

A thousand mana crystals, all perfectly shaped to the exact same dimensions lay in front of him. Perfect orbs. He nodded.

“Take them to the ritual site. I shall proceed there within minutes and begin the rites.”

Three thousand mana crystals were carried from his throne room. A fortune in power. Fetohep just smiled at the terrified, wide-eyed looks from his servants. They knew what he intended.

“Have any responded to my words yet?”

“Two, your Majesty. Assent.”

“Good. Prepare to receive them. Make ready a guest wing for each. As for my proclamation, have it sent across Khelt.”

The [Servant] bowed her head, and stood, quill at the ready. Fetohep lifted a hand. His eyes flashed.

This was what raced across Khelt, to the most distant parts of it in the following day. King Fetohep addressed his subjects:

“My people, we are at war with the Claiven Earth and Medain. Terandria itself thinks to wipe Khelt from this land. I…fear them not. They shall be wiped from Chandrar’s sands. Yet I offer this chance to you.

If you dream of battle, if you would risk your lives in war, come to my palace. Come to the capital, and be tested.

Few of you will pass. And of those who do, you may well die in war. Already, the blood of no less than twenty three of my beloved subjects wets the sand in the north. I cannot promise you safety. Yet if you desire to ride at my side, come.

If I find you worthy, I will make you my [Tomb Champions], my [Scions of Sands], my [Warmasters] and [Heroes]. I shall arm you in Khelt’s great weapons.

So, come, brave children.”

Fiery words, and the quill trembled as the [Servant] took them down. After a second, Fetohep lifted a hand.

“Amend one part of that, my loyal servant. Omit ‘[Heroes]’.”

It would be too tiresome to set them up. Too much work. He would need time that he could not spare for this war, if his understanding was correct. As for the other classes? Fetohep’s eyes glittered.

The armory was open. He had every intention of arming any whom he found worthy with great artifacts. Fetohep sat back for a moment, and smiled as the words were rushed out to be cried across Khelt.

Then he rose for a magical working that had not taken place for six generations of rulers before him.

The Rites of the Revenant.

—-

Four days. Four days of ominous silence. No one knew what was happening in Khelt, but the very limited information sources hinted something was happening that made all of the other rulers…nervous.

Very nervous. Of course, the problem was that Fetohep suffered no [Informants] or [Infiltrators]. So the best source of intelligence from within Khelt was…

“Penpals?”

Queen Yisame turned her head incredulously. Her [Spymaster] was miserable. He gestured to a terrified girl.

“It is all that Fetohep of Khelt permits, your Majesty. I have a copy of the…penpal’s missive.”

The Queen of Nerrhavia’s Fallen actually stared at a clumsy scrawl from a boy, a rambling text about Fetohep’s proclamation. A subject of Khelt, who wrote to his friend in Nerrhavia. Her lips moved.

“…That is ominous. He is mobilizing an army of the living? Why? Is his undead legion not suitable?”

“Perhaps he intends to level some to counter the foes that brought him down in the last battle?”

Nerrhavia’s courts wondered uneasily. They had no idea. If they had been truly prescient, or taken the time they should have invested outside of their infighting and politics, they would have already known part of what Fetohep had intended.

That they had not was their fault, and they would learn of it too late. They kept too few tabs on him anyways. They took him for granted. After all, in the capital’s elegant courts and rich, Silk-caste domain, even a Named Adventurer was not welcome.

Alked Fellbow, one of Nerrhavia Fallen’s Named Adventurers was of the Hemp. His skin was tough, roughened, almost akin to armor itself. That they knew him as Fellbow was because he was one of the greatest [Archers] living. He had fought in the war with Tiqr.

Yet he was still not someone invited to the palace, or honored at many events. If he had changed his cloth to Silk, or been natively born to them, he would surely have been the darling of such events.

That he was not was a disgrace. A symbol of how Nerrhavia’s Fallen and Stitch-folk in general had forgotten the will of Elucina and the very same people they honored. It was an embarrassment and Alked deserved better.

As it happened…Fetohep of Khelt believed that too. So when Alked Fellbow stopped at the steps to the palace, stepping out of the princely carriage that had come to the border to greet him, it was Fetohep of Khelt who stood there.

“Fellbow.”

“Your Majesty Fetohep of Khelt.”

The Stitch-man hesitated. He had come far on short notice. Ridden day and night, but who would not when Fetohep offered you ten thousand gold pieces to dine on his hospitality and hear a proposal for a week?

Ten thousand gold pieces just to arrive here and meet with the man. If Alked suspected he was being flattered for some great deed—well, his suspicions were doubly aroused when he saw the wing in the palace set out for him.

What kind of quest does the King of Khelt want for me? Slay a Jaw of Zeikhal? Recover the Diamond Swords of Serept as he’s lost his patience? Fight in his war?

The man was nervous, yet Fetohep did not keep him waiting long. They met at sunset, and the King greeted Alked from upon his throne.

“I thank you for your gracious invitation and the suite, your Majesty. It is a true honor.”

Alked was uncomfortable as he stood in the massive throne room, perhaps even richer than Nerrhavia’s own. He had never been in Khelt, but heard stories and the city, this place—none of it lagged behind the tales.

If there was any problem it was that he didn’t know if he should bow. Alked had never respected Nerrhavia’s [Generals], who often contracted him for war or to slay a monster. He had knelt before Queen Yisame and Nerrhavia Fallen’s throne the one time he had been titled Named Adventurer, so should he kneel here, before a foreign power?

Fetohep seemed to sense his thoughts. The undead king lifted a hand, golden flames flashing in his skull.

“Kneel, Fellbow. Do not dance upon pretense of arrogance here. I have no time for it. I am a king. You respect the will of a throne. How can you not, you who have worked long for Nerrhavia Fallen’s own crown?”

Abashed, Alked knelt, clumsily. Fetohep bade him rise after only a moment.

“I apologize, your Majesty. I have spoken to few rulers. My manners are lacking.”

“Yes. Yet I shall not hold that against you, Adventurer Fellbow. Rather, I respect your name and deeds. You are the monster-slayer of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. A great hero for your people…and those of your cloth.”

His gaze swiveled and he glanced at Alked’s rough skin. Leather, not hemp, but it marked him as the lowest caste. For all it had saved his life.

Alked’s skin prickled, as it so often did with glances from courtiers and those who looked appalled. Then he realized Fetohep did not look at him like they did. The king sat forwards on his throne.

“It is perhaps impolite to ask a Stitch-person this. Yet why for all your fame and success have you never changed your cloth, Alked Fellbow? There is surely a valuable fabric that would earn you acclaim had you replaced your cloth with it.”

Alked glanced down at his rough exterior. A monster’s skin, that was how some called it. He shrugged, self-consciously, unprepared for the question and the truth came out. It would have anyways; he was not good at lying.

“It’s who I am, your Majesty. I’m not Silk on the inside. I’d rather look like what I choose. If I wore silk, they would still know…”

He trailed off. Know who I am. He had thought of it before, of course he had. Alked gritted his teeth. He refused to change his cloth and still be sneered at behind the fans of Nerrhavia Fallen’s courts.

Fetohep seemed to know that all before he had asked. He knew Stitch-folk, a rarity among someone not from their species. He nodded, gazing at Alked.

“Yet you are a Named Adventurer. A Named Adventurer, one of the greatest sources of pride Nerrhavia’s Fallen is able to claim. Children should aspire to be you. Yet they do not throw holidays in your honor. I have not heard your name called with pride from Nerrhavia Fallen’s subjects, only those of your caste.”

Alked did not reply. He remained motionless, wondering why this undead ruler was bringing up the very things that Alked hated in private. He shouldn’t have been surprised by what came next. Even so, he was.

“Alked Fellbow. Were you a citizen of Khelt, I would honor you properly with holiday and song. I would grant you and your family the citizenship of Khelt in perpetuity. A right that extends to your kin and cousins—those without a great sin to their names. Their families as well. To you, I would grant the right to settle in any part of Khelt you chose, and my subjects would surely seek your hand, of one so beloved.”

Alked Fellbow’s head rose slowly. He blinked, uncomprehending, then his eyes widened.

“You…wish to offer me citizenship, your Majesty?”

“I desire great men and women, Alked Fellbow. You know I am at war?”

All of Chandrar knew that. Alked nodded. It made sense. He didn’t know why Fetohep of Khelt wanted a living warrior, but a Named Adventurer was recruited for this kind of thing all the time.

“I…do not involve myself directly in many wars. I have served Nerrhavia’s Fallen, your Majesty, but I would prefer not to die in battle, even to win an honor such as this.”

Even so, it was a handsome offer. Citizenship…Alked now knew why he was here and was flattered. However—

Fetohep just smiled.

“I am not finished, Alked Fellbow. Firstly, it is not for this war alone I wish your service. It is for the future. You are one of the greatest warriors on the continent. Moreso, I know you to be a man of honor. That I desire more than your levels alone.”

“You…flatter me, your Majesty.”

No one had told him that in Nerrhavia’s courts, yet Alked held his ground. He knew this song and dance. It was a contract—even with these stakes and this setting. Fetohep would flatter him, they might go back and forth, and Alked should wait out the week, seek the best deal before agreeing. If he even did! Fighting a war for citizenship…

“I do not intend you to actually fight in this war. Rather, you shall accompany me when I depart Khelt. There will be wars in the future, Alked Fellbow, but I would not offer mere citizenship to a Named Adventurer.”

Alked’s head snapped up.

“What?”

He was getting a bit dizzy. Now he was sure that Fetohep of Khelt was messing with him. He didn’t want Alked to fight in a war?

Fetohep’s eyes were shining bright in the dim throne room. He stood, slowly, and descended the dais. Then he plucked something from a pillow that sat there. Alked hadn’t even noticed it, as fast as the conversation was going.

“Alked Fellbow. You are the first of those I ask to join my kingdom. Join it, grow old and bear children who will live in peace forever. Find love. And yes, fight for me. Then rest in your later years. I know your courage. I know your worth. I shall not ignore you, nor make light of who you are, or judge you by cloth and weave.”

The undead king held out what he held. Alked’s eyes opened wide, and he stumbled back from the object Fetohep held out.

The Ruler of Khelt was laughing silently. He reached out, and offered it to Alked.

A bow. A bow so glorious it made Alked’s own artifact look like an enchanted toy. The wood was dark like night, and it seemed as though someone had set the night sky to the wood itself. The string burned silver in Alked’s eyes. His hands trembled as they reached out—and then he looked at Fetohep.

“What is…what is…?”

“This is Heavens’ Arc. The most powerful bow in Khelt’s armory. A Relic-class weapon. Alked Fellbow. Pledge yourself to me, and I will give you a bow worthy of your name.”

He held out the weapon, an object that could have made any Gold-rank Adventurer a Named Adventurer. Any Silver-ranked one. Alked looked at it. Then he saw Fetohep gesture.

“Take it. Until you depart. If you depart. We shall speak tomorrow, Alked. In company. Sleep well; if you have need of anything, simply ring the bell in your quarters and it will be provided.”

He could have tapped Alked and knocked the man sprawling. And that was the first day. The next day, Fetohep threw a parade.

Eighteen [Bards] declaimed stories of Alked Fellbow’s triumphs from dawn till dusk in the largest square. The Named Adventurer left the palace and got back six hours later, as admiring subjects flocked around him. He stared at the bow in his quarters, afraid to even touch it.

He barely responded to the frantic messages from Nerrhavia’s Fallen demanding to know what he was doing in Khelt and why he hadn’t queried the palace about permission to leave the borders.

Leave the borders? By contrast, Fetohep had informed Alked that save for moments of war and calamity, he was free to continue his journeys as Named Adventurer so long as he did not take up arms against Khelt’s interests.

It was a…difference. Alked thought of his extended family, who would live like the best of aristocracy, even if they were only granted basic citizens’ rights. He wandered his guest suite and got lost.

The only thing that was keeping him from making an obvious decision was the feeling, the certainty in his chest that he was being pranked. This was too good to be true, and Alked’s long experience working his way up from the bottom told him this just…didn’t happen.

He convinced himself this was a test of loyalty, this was somehow false, that he’d be sent to his death somehow despite Fetohep swearing he had no intention of wasting Alked’s life.

Fellbow had almost managed to persuade himself this was a trap of some kind when he nearly bumped into someone else wandering the palace’s corridors.

“Hello? Hello? It’s been an hour and I can’t figure out where—”

The stranger froze in the jade corridor and nearly went for her blade. Alked recoiled, and nearly brought up his own bow—both relaxed a second later. They were guests. This wasn’t an assassination attempt. Or so he hoped, because Alked recognized the woman.

More importantly, he recognized the beast that had flapped its wings dangerously and nearly taken off from her shoulder. Alked swore.

“Stitch me sideways. It can’t be. Frieke? You’re here?”

The Falcon of Medain, Frieke, goggled at Alked. She nearly dropped her sword.

“Alked? His Majesty said he’d contacted others—dead gods. He’s hiring you? I mean, making you a citizen?”

“He’s making you a citizen?”

The woman who had chopped off Fetohep’s head had been having nightmares for the last four days, ever since he returned. She had been convinced he would seek vengeance.

When he summoned her…she had demanded a hundred assurances, agonized over it, then decided begging forgiveness and explaining she’d had no choice but to fight in the war was better than risking his wrath. He wouldn’t kill a Named Adventurer as a guest, would he? Perric might, but Fetohep?

She had not expected the King of Khelt to offer her citizenship as his Named Adventurer. He had explained himself, simply.

“One must admire an opponent, Frieke of Medain. Naturally, the Named Adventurer skilled enough to take my head would be an asset.”

“You—you don’t bear us any ill will?”

He had laughed, as he presented her with armor for, Konska, her Seahawk, and a Relic-grade pair of blades as part of his offer.

“Do you not see the head on my shoulders, Frieke of Medain? No. I would rather seek the loyalty of the Falcon. Of course, a change must be made. To your name. The Falcon of Khelt inspires rather more grandly. I should be content to have the change announced across Chandrar and Medain especially.”

A King twisted the knife in delightfully painful ways. Frieke could only imagine what would happen if High King Perric heard that. He’d be furious. He’d be…

She and Alked stared at each other’s Relics. Alked’s lips moved.

“He’s serious. He wants Named Adventurers. I thought…”

Frieke grinned weakly.

“If you think that’s amazing, wait till you see the other guests. There are two more. The Jade Garudas are here. The entire team. He’s offering them the same as us. And a Centauress.”

Alked whistled. He began to believe.

—-

It was fair for Herdmistress Geraeri to be suspicious. She had galloped south, and somehow, been slower than Fetohep. He had summoned her to his palace, next.

“Is this a third renegotiation of the People of Zair’s rights, your Majesty? You have been exceedingly generous…but I would have cause to ask questions if you desired a third pact.”

Fetohep of Khelt accepted the rebuke with a nod as she dined with the Named Rank team of the Jade Garudas, Alked Fellbow, and Frieke of Medain at the banquet table.

“That is fair, Herdmistress. Any would doubt a ruler so predisposed to renegotiation. I seek it not. Rather, I make you the same offer I make the rest of my guests. To you, and you alone. I wish for the [Herdmistress of the Greatland]’s strength. Be one of my great champions. I would offer you this.”

To her, he presented four horseshoes. Each one of a different color and make. Geraeri recognized one as being made of Adamantium crossed with some frozen metal. Another looked like glass. She gazed up at Fetohep.

“Relics for your species. I would also offer you a relic of your choice. Be my citizen, Herdmistress, not an anonymous member of the People of Zair.”

“Why are you offering all of this to us, Great King Fetohep? I have never known Khelt to be so…generous with its relics.”

The leader of the Jade Garudas was both overawed and nervous. Like the others, he suspected some kind of ploy.

There was, of course. Fetohep’s eyes flashed.

“A time for great deeds is coming, Adventurer Leekhe. It is time to use all of Khelt’s wonders. Do you think I am too generous? Fear not. I have a hundred times more wealth to spare. I desire the finest mortals, so I offer you gifts worth your value. We shall not talk overlong of it; for I have given each of you an offer. Merely think. Do your rulers offer you the same? If they would bid on retaining your loyalty, I shall happily exceed any offer they may make.”

His guests looked at each other. Fetohep made polite conversation throughout the meal, though he only drank his mana draught, then stood.

“If you will excuse me. One of my ceremonies is finally concluding. I understand you all worry that I shall involve you in the trifling war between Khelt, Medain, the Claiven Earth, and Terandria despite my assurances over truth stone to the contrary.”

They fell silent. Fetohep glanced back as he paused at the door.

“You shall see that belief is in error shortly. I do not require your aid for that. Excuse me while I summon Revenants.”

He walked out of the room before any of them could say a word. After a second, Frieke upended her plate.

“Am I dreaming or is someone casting an illusion spell on me?”

—-

The Rite of the Revenant had taken two days to complete. It was a simple ceremony.

It took place in a great space deep in Khelt’s palace. Underneath five statues were…well, tombs. Silent and dark, each one engraved with hundreds of spells.

The ruler from whose era they had been made in stood high, high above them. Grand statues beneath which five tombs rested. Some were vast, multiple graves, as was the case beneath Serept’s cold face.

Queen Heris’ statue was the first. The [Mages] had placed a thousand orbs of mana crystals in the little indentations around the warded stone sarcophagus. They had been glowing so bright they blinded two days ago when Fetohep began the ceremony.

Now? They were all gone. It was the tomb which was glowing, the air charged with enough force that it would have activated many wands or spells just by being brought into this place.

It made Fetohep feel alive, which was the point.

Two more spots out of the five had also been activated.

Queen Heris, King Serept, and King Dolemn were the rulers who had left behind more than relics. More than gold or contracts behind.

No ruler among the last nine of Khelt, including Fetohep, had left behind such things. Five out of nineteen.

Five…promises. Five moments in time, where individuals or groups had been so loyal, they had made pledges that exceeded time itself. Agreed to this. Not just loyalty.

Might. Cost aside, there was a reason Fetohep had never dreamed of utilizing this ritual. He stood there, and intoned the words as the air ripened and the pure power of magic began to awaken the being that slumbered there.

“I call on you as you swore once, servants of Khelt! You, who swore to bring arms and fury against our enemies when the hour called—come! I call your name! Awaken, Vizir Hecrelunn!”

The stone cracked. The palace shook.

Frieke’s [Dangersense] went off. She dove underneath the table.

So did Fetohep’s. He had been thinking of the others. Three of the tombs had been used during the Creler Wars, yet not even the ruler during that time had dared unstopper this grave. Not Queen Heris the second’s last safeguard. If an Elder Creler had reached the palace or pushed past the borders?

Yes. But anything less would b—

The stone tomb exploded. A pillar of obsidian shot out of it and nearly struck the ceiling, a hundred feet up. Fetohep felt the impact of air, but held his ground. He looked up—and dodged the hand of stone that shot down and reached for him.

“Who dares to awaken the [Vizir] Hecrelunn?”

A voice thundered from overhead. Fetohep looked up and saw a person floating there. His robes were rich purple, a royal color, and he was much like Fetohep; a preserved corpse.

The difference was that he held a scepter, the top mounted with a dark diamond cut into a head, larger than Fetohep’s fist. The flames that should have burned in the [Vizir]’s sockets were instead two pinpoints of light, eerily like eyes. They shone bright red.

Oh yes. Fetohep remembered. The reason no one awoke the [Vizir] who had served the Second Queen of Khelt was—

Stone wrapped around him so fast even Fetohep’s reflexes couldn’t dodge it. The floor rippled and he was lifted upwards. The [Vizir] pointed a finger at Fetohep.

“So you are the ruler of Khelt? Pathetic. Did you awaken the [Vizir] to replace you? Khelt would be better served by I, I who remembered Khelta herself. How long has Hecrelunn slumbered?”

“Release me, Vizir Hecrelunn.”

Fetohep did not deign to struggle. The [Vizir] was a powerful [Geomancer] as well as being the second to Queen Herist.

He also spoke in third person. Fetohep hadn’t been sure if the accounts were true about that. It seemed they were. He wondered if it was a head wound.

Hecrelunn sneered down at Fetohep. His eyes flicked over Fetohep, perhaps reading his class, then around.

“I do not see the threats for which I allowed myself to be entombed. No monsters cross Khelt’s borders. It has…grown…since I last woke.”

That would be nearly seven rulers prior, Fetohep remembered. He spoke, his voice icy.

“I said, release me, Vizir. I rule Khelt. You are sworn to obey our will.”

The [Vizir] studied him—then waved a hand. Fetohep was lowered to the floor.

“My class is ambition and power. I am greater than you, little ruler. Fetohep of Khelt? Did you think to test your worth against me as that last fool did? If so, I will steal this kingdom away and rule it properly.”

Fetohep was getting annoyed already. The [Vizir] floated down, and the king wondered if he should have brought his halberd.

“I summoned you for war, Vizir Hecrelunn. Khelt’s enemies have not reached the borders. Nor shall they. Terandria sends great armies against Khelt, and I require your battle in the north.”

“Merely war? We are the last guardians of Khelt! You would unleash us for a petty war?”

Vizir Hecrelunn’s rage actually manifested in lesser spells which shot across the air, arcs of death magic. Had he even cast spells or…? He pointed at Fetohep.

“You forget yourself, petty king. We are not yours to command.”

“No. Serept asked us to stay and watch. Not to fight every war. If it was for that alone, it was ill done. Ill-conceived. Yet we will listen first.”

Fetohep and Hecrelunn’s heads turned. Then tilted up. Fetohep nodded slowly.

“I shall explain all soon, great warrior.”

“We shall listen.”

A half-Giant rose to his feet. Thirty feet tall, as tall as Zamea. He leaned on his axe as glowing armor shone over naught but bone. He was all ivory, as were the warriors who rose with him.

Twenty half-Giants. No…Fetohep felt a thrill in his own soul. Twenty half-Giant Revenants.

Half-Giants with levels. Serept’s bodyguard, armed with enchanted weapons. Not the mindless bones of half-Giants; these showed how their bones had been carefully cleaned and polished, their weapons enchanted.

Their glowing eyes stared down at Hecrelunn in disapproval. The [Vizir] floated up, sneering.

“So half-Giants are called forth. When did Khelt become ruled by their kind? You, little king, you think the Vizir needs assistance? If you call him forth for a foe, the Vizir alone is needed.”

“Vizir Hecrelunn. Your arrogance is just as poignant as the histories relate. I shall explain what is needed.”

“You had better do it quick. I too cannot be roused for anything but great need. His-xe is dead. How many years? I am beginning to rage, and there are no foes here.”

A third voice. A skeleton stood from his tomb. He wore a warrior’s plate armor. His eye-flames flickered with fury, but they were pink, like the petals of flowers. Yet he was extremely tall. Dangerous. For proof, he had an axe as tall as he was, and he swung it one-handed.

“I crave war. I crave battle. I will tear this place to pieces if it was for no reason! His-xe! My rage grows by the second! Who is this? The [Vizir] they said was first? Where is my foe? Is it a Dragon? Say it is a Dragon! What else would I be called for?”

He pointed his axe at the Vizir, swinging his head, left, right, like a wild animal. The [Vizir] hissed.

“Do not speak the Vizir’s title without respect, little warrior! I demand to know—”

One of the half-Giants was frowning.

“I sense no foes either. Is this a mistake? Who is in command here?”

“I—”

“I am the Vizir Hecrelunn! Greatest of all Khelt’s servants! Be silent unless the Vizir speaks!”

Fetohep’s head hurt. He really should have done them one at a time.

“Enough!”

His voice and authority silenced all the Revenants. Even the [Vizir], for a moment. Fetohep stood there, smaller than all of them save the [Vizir] who was floating over his head.

The great warrior already succumbing to rage. The half-Giants, standing in solemn formation, heads bowed, the arrogant [Vizir]—he addressed them all.

“I have summoned you for war, great protectors of Khelt. It is time for war, and war without restraint. Each of Khelt’s weapons will be used. You are but the first. The last two tombs will be opened. I have unsealed Khelt’s armories without restraint. This is the hour in which it is needed, though you cannot yet see it.”

The Revenants stirred. Even the Vizir fell silent.

“All the weapons? What war is this? Do Dragons fly in vast armies to swallow the skies once more?”

One of the half-Giants murmured uneasily. The Vizir stared at Fetohep.

“Does something crawl from beyond the world’s edge?”

The warrior muttered.

“I hope it’s big.”

Fetohep shook his head.

“None of these things. An army from Terandria brings [Knights] by the thousand. A nation of half-Elves with their champions, a great [Mage] and [Commander], offer war. A kingdom of Humans sends their armies against Khelt’s forces.”

The Revenants exchanged glances.

“…That’s it?”

The Vizir Hecrelunn shrieked. He swooped down, aiming a finger at Fetohep. A dangerous spell was charging up—Fetohep’s [Dangersense] screamed louder. The Vizir would loose it.

“Only glorious Queen Heris and Khelta herself could command me! I would have wrested power from them if they were not greater than I in every way! You—you are not my level, not my better! You dare wake me for this trivial thing when each ruler knows we are to be used in Khelt’s darkest hour?”

Fetohep held his ground. He met the Vizir’s pinpoints of rage in their sockets and replied with some satisfaction.

“I believe, Vizir Hecrelunn, you mean ‘only glorious Queen Heris and Khelta herself could command the Vizir’.”

A choking sound emerged from Hecrelunn’s body. One of the half-Giants snorted. Before the Vizir could try to kill him, Fetohep went on.

“Do not think I forget the conditions under which you are to be summoned! I know your names and great deeds. Yet I say this: Khelta and the rulers of Khelt walk with me. They speak. They tell me now is the time. Unleash all or Khelt dies. Vizir Hecrelunn, Honor Guard of Serept, Champion of War Salui. Khelta herself calls you to war.”

The Vizir stopped. The Revenants looked at each other. Salui’s rage halted his trembling.

“You lie. Khelta is dead, and she rests. I will not be tricked.”

“I swear by Khelt eternal. Do not make light of my oath. Do you not see the weight of the crown on me?”

Fetohep lost his patience. He and the Vizir glowered at each other, and Fetohep felt the Vizir’s potent aura storming at his own. He held his ground; he might lack for levels, but he was still king.

“How should the Vizir believe you? The Vizir will make his own decisions. Be grateful only that the Vizir lets you live, Fetohep. And if it should turn out you lie—”

“Vizir Hecrelunn.”

The angry Revenant didn’t notice. He and Fetohep were locked in a battle of wills. So the half-Giant grabbed him. The Vizir spun, magic lashing the bone hand, but it bounced off the armor.

“Look.”

The Honor Guard of Serept, his boon companion, pointed a finger up. The Vizir Hecrelunn stopped his raving. Looked up.

And quailed. Fetohep himself turned his head up and froze.

High overhead, in the vaulted room where the Revenants had been laid to rest until they were needed were…statues.

Ornamental. Each one of the rulers who had asked their beloved champions and warriors to wait, wait a while, until they were needed. They stared out into proud infinity, gazes straight ahead.

Or had. Three of the statues were…looking down. Fetohep and Hecrelunn looked up at a noble face, a slightly crooked nose, but a smile that balanced it.

Queen Heris. The half-Giants stared up at Serept’s face. Salui, the [Champion of War], looked up.

“His-Xe.”

All three monarchs gazed down. The Vizir dropped his scepter. He fell to his knees.

“Are you there? Heris? Is it truly you? Is your will…”

The half-Giants were kneeling. Slowly, the Revenants rose. They looked at Fetohep, and up at the statues.

No more did they move. Fetohep himself was shaken. He had not believed…he whispered.

“They have spoken. Will you accept the burden once more, kin of Khelt? For as long as the will remains—we shall serve.”

“We shall serve. For Khelta and this land, for however long it takes.”

Salui whispered. Even the Vizir nodded.

“Then Khelta herself watches us. Give us your orders, King Fetohep of Khelt. It is time for the world to once again hear the Vizir’s name.”

—-

The battlefield was hot. Physically hot; air rose in shimmering lines from the ground. Yet the Herald of the Forests did not sweat.

She had taken to the field, with a new company. The Fables rode anew. Behind her stood an army of half-Elves, and at the back, the [Mage] who had defeated Khelt’s army once.

Medain’s forces were also arrayed. They still had one Named Adventurer; the other had fled.

Yet that was well, because Fetohep himself had not taken to the field to lead Khelt’s army, and the Jaw of Zeikhal lay dead. Better yet—the Herald glanced left. Her lip curled slightly.

An army of [Knights] now rode between two forces. Terandria’s crusade had come. Even more were disembarking from the ships, and they were a dangerous power indeed.

Faced with that, even Khelt’s vast army looked to be in a bit of trouble, especially since one side would level. Nevertheless, the Herald leaned over her horse.

“Let us not be overconfident, [General]. Khelt’s army still outnumbers all our forces by a factor of five to one. Our advantage is that we may level.”

“Five to one, when it was twenty-to-one or greater last battle? I will take those odds, Herald. It is curious however—Jecrass is far from the battlefield. Queen Jecaina will not interfere this time. Does Fetohep intend to send his army against us without personally commanding it? His subjects will die quickly to our bows and your company.”

The Herald of the Forest shook her head.

“He will appear. Teleportation, or another puppet.”

She was certain of that. It would be wars of attrition as countless armies poured from Khelt. The old half-Elf sighed.

“Armies and armies, and he’ll be there at the head each time. Let the Terandrians besiege Khelt, or we’ll drown in undead.”

“We only need break his forces here, then he will be on the defense. If we liberate the new lands of Khelt in Jecrass or endanger the Arbiter Queen, we may force him to relent.”

The Herald saw few other ways to end Fetohep’s onslaught. Yet she was now confident…his army was reduced and he was one warrior, for all he was dangerous.

That was why High King Perric was back in his army, and the [Knights] advancing already. They were confident. They knew the dangers. They knew Fetohep might come with relics, but they were ready to fight, to take losses, but counter-level and prevail.

It was a good plan. Good assumptions.

They had no idea what was coming next.

The half-Elf sensed it first. He glanced up and snapped.

“Teleportation spell in Khelt’s army! At the head!”

“Just as planned. Make ready!”

The Fables of the Forest roared, lifting their blades as the Herald rode to the front of the army. She saw a figure materialize in front of Khelt’s forces. Fetohep, wearing full plate armor this time. She narrowed her eyes. The half-Elf slowed.

“…Is it just me or does he look…taller…?”

She was uncertain. The warrior who appeared might have been Fetohep; he could probably take any body he chose. Yet this warrior was nearly half again as tall. And, the Herald realized, he carried no halberd but a giant axe as tall as he was. It was ludicrously big, even if it was enchanted to be weightless!

The [Knights] stirred. Horns began to sound as individual [Knight]-orders shouted victory, proclaiming their ranks and orders. Medain’s horns began to warble…the Herald lifted a hand and the Claiven Earth did not follow suit.

The warrior was not Fetohep. Her skin began to prickle. She looked back at the half-Elf. He was standing up from his chair.

“What is that?”

Both of them saw it. The better [Knights] and the Named Adventurer in the armies all stopped. They stared at the warrior.

Whoever that was…they were more dangerous than Fetohep. The Herald’s skin turned cold.

“I didn’t think he would use Khelt’s hoarded relics. Just how angry is Fetohep of Khelt?”

Then the warrior strode forwards. The armies slowed, and a few bows from Medain’s side loosed presumptuously. The arrows actually made it across the ground thanks to Skills.

They just snapped on the warrior’s armor without even detonating. He—it was a he—walked forwards, then stopped. This, at least, was normal. The ignorant mortals besides the Herald waited for a speech from Fetohep. Some grand declaration, another insult or show.

What they got was a shout. A roaring voice, cracking with anger. If spittle could have flown…but the figure was dead. His flesh was torn, and he still had eyeballs, albeit glowing with light, rotting.

“I! I AM SALUI. GREAT WARRIOR OF KING HIS-XE! YOU ARE ALL MY FOES!”

He screamed so loudly that everyone heard it. No poise. No elevated speech. The great warrior lifted his axe. He was…trembling, the Herald realized. No…shaking.

“YOU TAKE ARMS AGAINST KHELT? DIE! DIE SCREAMING! PLEAD AND BEG FOR MERCY! RUN AND LIVE! YOU WOULD HARM HIS-XE’S WORK? TWICE DIE. KILL YOURSELVES. DIE, DIE, DIE, DIE, DIE—”

He was trembling so hard he began to blur in the distance. The mortals stared. They began to realize…that wasn’t Fetohep. King Perric’s jaw worked soundlessly.

The warrior kept shouting ‘die’ for nearly a minute. It was so loud, so wrathful, that some of Noelictus’ [Hunters] began checking to see if it was a curse spell or something.

“Dead gods, what is that? One of Khelt’s champions? It’s a Revenant. I didn’t know they had more than one.”

The [General of Bows] whispered. The Herald didn’t answer. No sooner had Salui calmed then someone else’s voice echoed from the battlefield.

“Pitiful mortals. You have gained the wrath of the Vizir Hecrelunn. In the name of Khelta, you shall perish. Unless you agree to serve Khelt, in which case you shall be spared as [Slaves]. It is an offer made once. The Vizir knows no mercy.”

“Treants.”

Someone whispered. The half-Elf [Mage] looked up. A shape was descending out of the sky.

A cloud had appeared overhead. The Herald of Forests looked up into unexpected shade on the burning day. It was unwelcome. She stared up at the Revenant’s face, copied across the clouds. Two vast pinpoints of crimson light stared down at her.

“Aha. Ahaha. A half-Elf [Mage]? Then I shall have a challenge at least. Great Salui. Destroy.”

It was all the warrior had been waiting for. He lifted the axe, stopped his shaking, and pointed.

“That one! THAT OOOOONEEEEE!”

He began running, axe raised, screaming and slashing the earth. Across the huge divide, without even waiting for Khelt’s army to move.

Straight at the Herald of Forests and the Fables. The [Vizir] had also singled out the half-Elf [Mage] among their ranks. He pointed.

“I am told you know water, little [Mage]. Catch. [Meteor Shower].”

“Elves guide us!”

The [General of Bows] screamed as the first glowing comets fell out of the sky. The [Mage] lifted his hands and barriers of water formed desperately.

“Who are these undead?”

High King Perric was screaming as the [Champion of War] ran into a firestorm of arrows and spells, screaming towards the Herald of Forests without slowing. The [Knights] were already charging as Khelt’s own army advanced.

“Cut through their lines! Archers, bring down that thing in the sky! We will break off to take care of that Revenant with the axe—”

The [Knight-Commander] was furiously shouting orders. She couldn’t help but remember what Queen Yisame had said about [Knights] and Dragons. But they had to fight! They had to—

The first rank of half-Giants was marching towards the [Knights]. They looked…better armored than the rest. A bit more sure, a bit too fast. The [Knights] in front lowered their lances, their instincts telling them to be wary, yet they came on in a charge.

“Foes to front! Use your best Skills now!”

One of the [Knights] bellowed. Forewarned, the [Knights] began activating their Skills. They saw the half-Giants slow.

Twenty of them. One of the half-Giants stopped pretending to be a mindless undead. He looked up, sighed, and adjusted his helmet.

“What a pity. Oh, brave little Humans. You match the tall with courage and Skill at times and bring us down. This we know. But…”

The [Knight-Commander]’s head whipped around just in time to see the flames glow in the half-Giant’s sockets as he finished his sentence.

“…only if you outlevel us. You have grown too small. Do you know my Skill?”

He strode forwards as the others put up their shields. The [Knights] craned their necks up as the thirty-foot half-Giant strode at them. Fast. Faster, running. Unlike all the other half-Giants. His mouth moved. His armored body left the ground.

“[Like a Lion, He Leapt].”

They choked as he flew. Every mortal on the ground stared up as the half-Giant drew his weapons. They heard his voice from above.

“[The Scythe Cut Low Across the Grass].”

The first rank of knights vanished. The half-Giant landed, already calling more Skills. His brethren charged after as the [Knights] met a warrior with as many levels as the best of them. As much daring. As much valor and skill. Just…a bit bigger.

—-

Fetohep let the Named-rank adventurers watch the battle. It was so silent that he thought if he clapped his hands loud enough, Frieke’s heart would stop for good.

Such was the power of Khelt’s Revenants. One of their greatest weapons—unleashed. Fetohep was trembling himself.

Unleash it all. Unleash…Chandrar went still as Fetohep’s wrath manifested itself. Look what Terandria had done, those fools!

They were wrong about why. They were even wrong about his goals. Fetohep walked his palace. Revenants awoke.

Named Adventurers pledged themselves to his service.

Even the King of Destruction was wary.

Yet that was not what mattered. He came to a new wing of the palace. Fetohep halted.

“Is all in readiness?”

The nearly two hundred-strong mortals bowed. They were [Alchemists], [Mages], [Healers], [Scholars], and more. Fetohep himself held an object he handed to one of them. They nearly dropped the potion, which would have been fine, and the gathering stared.

“If another Potion of Regeneration need be taken, it will. Do not stint. Do not waste time. Have you prepared the first experiments?”

He looked at the frozen forms. Animals. One of his subjects murmured.

“Yes, your Majesty. But we lack for ice-experts in the numbers you desire.”

“More will be found. Inform me at once at your first signs of progress.”

Fetohep saw all bow at once. He stood there. Then he turned his head.

“Is it well?”

The mortals followed his gaze, but saw nothing. In the land of the dead, the eighteen rulers of Khelt smiled.

“It is well.”

They chorused. Then they turned to Erin Solstice. The wide-eyed [Innkeeper] peeked at Fetohep, then Khelta. The first ruler of Khelt smiled, and winked.

“It is as I said, Erin Solstice. Our mortal agent is tasked with reviving you. Fetohep of Khelt does not do things by half-measures.”

The first Potion of Regeneration glinted in Fetohep’s gaze. The first, and [Librarians] were scanning Khelt’s spellbooks and scroll collections for any spell that might aid. He heard Khelta go on, and smiled.

“He is our great ruler, and with Khelt on your side, if it is possible in this world, it shall be done.”

She laughed, and Fetohep smiled. So the dead aided the living once more. It was a long way away. It was difficult.

It would be done, Fetohep had sworn it. After a long silence, he heard Erin Solstice’s voice, weak, but…reassured. Hopeful.

“T-ten outta ten.”

Fetohep began to laugh.

8.33 R

(It is the 5th Anniversary of The Wandering Inn, and in celebration (or something), Book 4: Winter Solstice is out on Audible, and as an e-book on Amazon! Also! Diana Gill’s Q&A from the Discord server can be found here!)

When they had first met, Hethon Veltras’ savior had not looked the part. Nor was he, sick, feverish, able to appreciate it.

What he remembered, in between [Healers] telling him to drink the vial in sips and feeling a rush of life, his fever breaking in less than ten minutes, was the bloody young woman they brought in. His father himself carried her in, but did not stay long; he went to hunt the other [Assassins].

Ryoka Griffin had not seemed like the person who saved his life, unconscious, head lolling. However, when Hethon thought of the moment now, something struck him.

Not then. Nor during the battle at the Village of the Dead…nor during the party with the strange guests in Riverfarm had he ever seen Ryoka Griffin shed tears.

She had taken terrible wounds. At other times, she had not wept; she hadn’t been hurt, but some moments had seemed just as dire. Her friends had never come out of the Village of the Dead, and Hethon had heard [Soldiers] weeping for fallen friends. Old and young, men and women. His father had told him, when he first saw it, never to belittle them.

You wept when you were hurt, or lost something precious. Although a [Lord] shed tears in private. Perhaps that was why Hethon had never seen his father weep; he took his own advice.

Even when the crimson lightning struck her out of the skies, Ryoka Griffin didn’t cry. She was unconscious, but in the days thereafter, she didn’t weep, even when her sweat ran with her own blood. It had to hurt, and she could barely crawl.

No tears. Of course, he didn’t think of it. Jericha and his father didn’t weep. Ullim didn’t really weep, except on the anniversary of his mother’s death and other times. He had seen Jericha once save him from cutting his hand when his belt knife slipped.

The blade had cut her right down to her tendons and she’d just made sure he was alright before tending to her wounds. Ryoka Griffin was cut of the same cloth, in Hethon’s mind.

He saw Ryoka weeping now, four days after she had been bedridden. She sat, shoulders shaking.

The two brothers of House Veltras found her in bed. The bleeding from every pore had stopped, but she was white as a sheet. The [Healer] took no credit; the man just told Hethon’s father, in private, that the spell was there to make Ryoka suffer, not kill her.

Lord Tyrion was out again, consulting another [Healer] or [Mage]. He’d ridden to First Landing itself this time. Hethon and Sammial were always checking on Ryoka. They’d found her like this.

“Miss—Ry—”

Hethon couldn’t get the words out. He didn’t know what to say. Sammial had run off to find Jericha or Ullim, and Hethon was rooted there, unable to do anything, but unwilling to run while Ryoka wept. That was the difference between the two.

He saw her shoulders shaking. She could barely sit up; the pillows piled behind her steadied the huge, gulping sobs. She kept trying to suppress them, and that just made them more painful.

“…doing…what…”

Hethon heard her voice. She was holding something. He edged closer, ashamed, curious, and heard what she was saying.

“What am I doing? Why am I here? She needs me. They…why…”

She made a bubbling sound. Wiped at her messy nose. It was not pretty crying, after all. Hethon didn’t know why.

Her little friend, a Gnoll, was gone. Her ward? Her child? It was unclear, but Ryoka had dragged herself out of bed before being confined. Why now? Had…had something happened to Mrsha?

No. Not that, after all. Ryoka Griffin held a crumpled sheet of paper in her hands. Specially transcribed, sent to her. Forwarded, really. It was a simple message, and it had bounced from three different locations with different addendums.

To Lionette, Oteslia, from Joseph, Invrisil:

LIONETTE. READ IMMEDIATELY. KEVIN IS NOT HERE, BUT THEY SENT IT TO ME. WHAT DO I SAY?

Then—

Lionette, Oteslia, to Joseph, Invrisil:

Please confirm this at once, Joseph. I am forwarding it to everyone we know.

Lionette, Oteslia, to Ryoka Griffin, Courier (Reizmelt):

Ryoka, please read this at once. I am getting Joseph to confirm this, but the Mage’s Guild believes it is accurate. The location matches. I do not know how, but it might be true.

All of that was preface. An attachment. Context. Ryoka had begun reading. Then she’d read it again. Turned to call for Ullim and ask—looked again. Wiped at her face.

Disbelieved, thought about it, wondered.

Then…believed. Dared to hope it was real.

That was when the tears had come.

His Majesty Fetohep of Khelt, the Great Servant, Fetohep the Faithful, Protector of the Realm of Jecrass and 19th Ruler of Khelt, Khelt, to Kevin of Solar Cycles, Liscor:

I shall keep this missive brief, as prying parasites so often infest such channels. You do not answer your speaking stone. In regards to your request for aid, I have decided to grant Khelt’s great resources in reviving your friend. By the will of Khelt’s rulers, it will be done, without cost or failure. I shall explain more in a private setting.

Know this, and communicate it to your friends: I have it upon the greatest authority and certainty that she lives. My means are opaque. Yet I am bound by no less than the individual in question to relay a message.

‘I’m only mostly dead. Sorry, just joking. Wait for me. I’m coming back. Please don’t bury me.’

Delivered verbatim. I shall call upon you as soon as my reply is received.

—His Eternal Majesty, the Sovereign of True Paradise, Heir of Khelta…

The list of titles and appellations went on for a while. Ryoka hadn’t read them. She had stopped when she realized what it meant.

So careful. So opaque. No wonder Joseph hadn’t been sure. Lyonette?

But what else could explain this? The out-of-context line that looked like silly nonsense—it was. Who else could write it? Why would someone like that lie?

“How? How did she…?”

It was too strange to be anything but truth. Let that be the case. Ryoka wanted to believe. She had.

Then she had begun weeping. Not because she had taken an injury that hurt too much, or the news was too bad, as Hethon thought.

Rather, the opposite. Because something had gone right for once. Ryoka had not cried when the Horns died. Even when Erin died, she had been numb, lost. She had shed tears, but…

This broke her. Because she lay in this bed, with Mrsha missing, and the first real proof there was hope, more than hope, that her great friend would live again.

And here Ryoka lay. The Courier’s eyes were blurred so that the gentle, comfortable guest room in Lord Pellmia’s mansion they’d put her in became one creamy brown color, sheets and floor melding together.

She heard birds singing outside. Felt the warm spring air wafting through an open window, and the distant smells of the orchard, earth and ripening fruit in the air.

Here she lay. Wasting time. Doing nothing.

“I should be helping. I should be—I have to be—they need me. Why am I so useless, even now?”

She had gone to the world beyond for strength and obtained a charge. The weight of the world rested on her shoulders, hers and all the others’, and here she was. Still helpless.

Ryoka Griffin cried, until a tentative figure made her look up. A hand touched her leg and jerked away. She looked up.

“Miss Ryoka?”

Hethon offered her a clean handkerchief. The Courier looked at the bit of cloth, and realized her entire face was a mess.

“Thbk yb.”

He assumed she was thanking him and stood back. Hethon watched Ryoka as she wiped, and slowly calmed down. Only then did he dare ask.

“Is it…is it bad news, Ryoka?”

He looked sidelong at the paper. Ryoka Griffin sat there and shook her head.

“No. It’s good news. I’m just so…fed up with being useless, Hethon. I have to do something. I can’t let them down again.”

He didn’t know who ‘they’ were. Or how Ryoka could see herself as useless. So the boy only nodded and stood there, awkwardly, until Jericha and Sammial came to see what was wrong. He saw Ryoka close her eyes and lie back, her features even more exhausted from the curse running rampant in her veins.

“I have to do something. Even if I die. This time…I have to do something.”

Hethon looked at her. He didn’t like that at all. Yet what could he say?

“If I—if House Veltras can help, Ryoka—I’m sure Father would agree. He still says he owes you a debt of honor.”

He saw Ryoka start; she had forgotten about him, and looked at Hethon. After a second, she shook her head.

“I…no. There are some things you can’t ask, Hethon.”

“But he’d—”

She held out a weak hand that shook like she had palsy and he fell silent.

“Especially if he’d do it. I just need…”

Her head lay back on the pillow and her lips moved.

“Not this time. I didn’t go there and back again to fail once more.”

—-

The next day, Ryoka Griffin was better. Well, not sobbing her eyes out. She lay, weak, unable to lift her body out of bed.

At least she wasn’t crying tears of blood. The curse had drained her fluids, her energy, and her strength, and now it seemed content to immobilize her like this.

Definitely a curse. It was Ryoka’s first experience with being hexed, and apparently it wasn’t a common type of magic. Well, five days since she’d fallen out of the skies, fleeing Lord Tyrion’s romantic advances.

Hah. That felt like ages ago, to Ryoka. Five days of being confined to bed, delirious, with bad news—then amazingly good news hitting her.

Ryoka hadn’t been too lucid until the last day or so. Now, she grimly lay there.

“A curse?”

“A powerful one. [Dispel Magic] does nothing, and I cannot even see it in you, Miss Griffin. Then again, hexes and the like are not traditional magic. You have a mortal enemy, it seems.”

“I already knew that. I guess I have more. Or one of them’s after me.”

Jericha just gave Ryoka one of her looks that said she wanted to know more, but was avoiding shaking it out of Ryoka. Barely.

“Do you have…any inclination to inform us which enemy this might be? We cannot help you without knowledge, Miss Griffin.”

“I know. And…no. I could take a swing at figuring out which mortal enemy it is, but some things I can’t tell you. It’s a matter of honor. Sort of.”

Jericha sighed, but nodded, accepting that to Ryoka’s surprise.

“Could you, perhaps, at least narrow down who it might be?”

“Let me think. Who might try to kill me? Well, there’s…”

Ryoka opened her hand. Raised a finger. Then three. Added another one after a moment. Another three for good measure. Then two more and realized she needed more fingers…Jericha stared at Ryoka, especially since it was clear Ryoka was serious.

Let’s see. It could be Persua, damn her. It would be just like her to hire a curse-specialist. Or it could be Az’kerash. Eye in the sky? Maybe. Or whoever I stole from. That’s my biggest bet since they said ‘thief’, but it could also be any of the six…enemies. Or Belavierr. Or, frankly, an angry fae like that Wyrm. Or…

She had a bad feeling she knew who it was.

“I uh…think it might be a new mortal enemy. Someone I don’t know. I’m…in a bit of trouble.”

“So I gather. Does this relate to the voice I heard claiming you stole something, Miss Griffin? It referred to you as ‘thief’.”

Jericha had reached the same conclusion Ryoka had. The Courier bit her lip. She squirmed, once again not wanting to give away anything.

To her great surprise, Jericha just sighed.

“I shall let the matter rest. For now—his lordship has returned, with a magic-user who might be able to help you. I also understand another specialist has come, a friend of yours.”

“A friend of mine?”

Ryoka Griffin was confused. She had friends? She craned her neck as two people came to see her.

“…Lupp?”

—-

Five days was a long time. Or a short time if you considered geography, and the distances involved. Tyrion Veltras, at top speed, could make it to First Landing and back in that time, and even then, only because his quarry had ridden out to meet him.

By the same token, five days was still not enough for Riverfarm to send their experts. So they’d called on an expert in the area.

“Hey, Ryoka! I came as fast as I could! Look who I bro—oh, no, are you dead?”

Charlay trotted into the room and did a double-take as soon as she saw Ryoka. The Courier gave her a frog-like expression. It switched to the [Witch] rubbing at her rear and waddling in.

“Next time I’ll damn well fly. But no, Mavika just had to mess with my broom.”

“I carried you all the way here, Alevica!”

The [Witch] scowled mightily.

“I want a saddle.”

“Don’t be horrible. Ryoka, look! Alevica’s here to help!”

The Witch Runner and Dustrider Charlay both appeared like some fever vision in front of Ryoka. Alevica? Ryoka stared at the [Witch] as she clinically inspected Ryoka.

“Hm. Wow. That’s ugly. Yeah, she’s definitely cursed.”

“You can tell, Runner Alevica?”

Ryoka saw a man, a bit less stiff than the wooden door he was standing next to, look down at Ryoka. Actually…there was an entire crowd out there.

Some people, like Lady Buscrei, were also a mystery. Lord Pellmia? Well, this was his land. Lord Swey? Lady Desinee El?

The Solstice-effect was someone like Fetohep calling Kevin out of the blue to send a message from beyond the grave that Erin was only ‘mostly dead’.

The Ryoka-effect seemed to be a bunch of people Ryoka knew watching her get hurt. Popcorn optional.

“Oof. She looks like a marsh bird I shot and lost in the swamps. Washed up six days later, looking a bit like that.”

Lady Buscrei was chomping down on a lovely peach. Betta, Pellmia’s daughter, gave Lady Buscrei a horrified look.

“Lady Oswen!”

“What? It’s true.”

Buscrei leaned back in the rich, wood corridors of Pellmia’s mansion, the estates of House Quellae. It lay a stone’s throw away from the vast, bountiful trees laden with the summer harvest.

Fruits hanging plump on stems. Fat peaches, in the middle of being harvested, the bruised or rotten ones fed to animals and seeds re-planted. The air was rich with the smell of nectar and the sounds of House Quellae’s workers mixed with the buzzing of flies, or activities of the animals wandering about.

Like the Totwhisker Cat, or ‘Fruit Cats’, which lay on branches and occasionally deigned to swat a fruit down into a basket or onto someone’s face. Of course, inside the manor, the servants stood in awe of the gathering. [Witches], [Lords], [Ladies], oh my! Even a Centauress! Lord Tyrion Veltras and a sick [Courier]?

As Alevica ‘inspected’ Ryoka, which mainly involved poking her with her wand and saying ‘yuck’, and the second specialist stopped throwing up in the stables, a young man paced back and forth in his rooms.

“Yes! She’s here! The Wind Runner! And Lord Veltras! She’s been cursed. What do you want me to do beyond watch her? We are not calling a you-know-what here! Everyone would be wiped out before you could scratch your ass!”

Gilam Quellae was communicating the event and import to some very interested friends. However, Ryoka Griffin had no way to know about it, and it was not as important to her as the immediate concern of getting well.

“Yep. She’s cursed. Worst I’ve ever seen.”

Alevica made her diagnosis at last. Ryoka, Charlay, and Sammial all glared at her.

“…And? Are you going to make her better?”

The Centauress demanded. Alevica raised her brows at Charlay.

“Who, me? I don’t lift curses. I cast them. I wish I could cast something like this. I’ll report back to the others and see what they want me to do. Mavika herself might have to come out here, though.”

Ryoka groaned. Charlay buried her face in her hands.

“But I carried you for four days and nights straight!”

“Hey, I’m doing this as a favor to Laken.”

“I knew it. Sammial. I can’t move my arm. Slap my face for me.”

Hethon looked up as Alevica stepped back. That sounded like another idea only a sick Ryoka could come up with.

“No, w—”

The slap of Sammial’s open palm hitting Ryoka across the eyes, nose, and center of her face made Alevica snigger. She adjusted her hat.

“Well, I’ve had my fun. I’ll send a [Message] off. Can I get some food?”

“This way, Miss Alevica.”

Jericha coldly pointed to the door. Buscrei sighed.

“Told you we should have tossed her in the Unicorn springs.”

“I believe the [Witches] may produce a remedy. It was they who cured my sons, Buscrei.”

Tyrion Veltras interrupted. He had patiently watched Alevica. Now he looked around.

“Is Magus Leireit able to attend Miss Griffin yet?”

“He may still be throwing up from the ride, Tyrion. I’ll find him.”

Pellmia excused himself. The [Lord of the Orchards] came back a few minutes later with a man who still looked green. Ryoka groaned.

Now here was someone who dressed like a [Mage] out of stories. He did not engender confidence, especially because he smelled of vomit and sweat.

“Lord Veltras. I believe I shall walk back to First Landing. Is this the fascinating case?”

The man, Leireit, queasily looked around. Sammial pinched his nose and Charlay tried to back up, and ended up blocking the entire guest room with her hindquarters.

“Let me just—excuse me—sorry—who’s this?”

She trotted into the corridor as all the non-Centaurs squeezed back. After all, no one wanted to be squashed by a half-horse person, or have their foot stepped on by someone of Charlay’s weight. The Centauress leaned on a table, and looked around.

Lady Desinee El looked astonished to be addressed so casually. Charlay had no idea who she was, and after a moment, the [Lady] whispered back.

“I believe that is Sir Leireit, an accomplished spellcaster from First Landing.”

Charlay wrinkled her face up. She tossed her head.

“Can he help? Laken made it sound like all the [Healers] and [Mages] are at a loss. [Alchemists] too.”

“They are, but perhaps Sir Leireit may offer a different perspective. Erm…who are you, might I ask?”

“Oh, Charlay. Nice to meet you!”

Lady Desinee stared at the proffered hand, again, not something that happened to [Ladies] of her station. She took it gingerly. Buscrei chortled.

“I like you. I’m Buscrei. That’s Swey.”

None of them mentioned their classes, so it was only when Charlay had dragged them all out to drink in a tavern later that night that she realized her mistake. By then, of course, it was too late. For the better. House Veltras liked informality, and Lady Desinee found it charming. From a Centaur City Runner, at least.

Again, it was a superfluous moment to the present. Sir Leireit interested Ryoka. And she clearly interested him.

He had a big, floppy hat that was sort of like a wizard’s hat, but had a weaker brim than you’d expect. It certainly sparkled with magic, but it was rather like a [Fisherman]’s cap. Appropriately so, since Leireit was a huge [Fisher] by hobby.

He had on robes, which had bunched horribly during the ride here, and he smelled of puke, but also pine needles. He had no spellbooks, Ryoka realized, nor a staff or other implements.

“Huh. Her mana flow is constricted, her life force is being attacked, and something’s in her. I can see how it would stump many of my peers.”

“Your diagnosis as to the spell, Sir Leireit?”

Tyrion was impatient. Five days of riding had better not have been for nothing. Leireit frowned.

“No clue. But I’ll bet it’s Tier 5 or Tier 6.”

“I’m starting to get tired of diagnoses by people who say they have no idea what’s wrong with me, but it looks bad.”

Ryoka snapped, and felt bad, but Leireit didn’t take offense. He adjusted his hat with a smile for her.

“Rest assured, Courier Griffin, I didn’t earn my honorary title and reputation by understanding magic. I’m not a [Mage] who’ll research this in a book of spells with ten thousand derivations of each spell.”

“What…are you then?”

He grinned and his eyes sparked, turning from their usual lime green to a glowing orange with violet inner light.

“I’m a [Sorcerer].”

Ryoka looked at him.

“Oh, fuck me.”

—-

“It’s very simple. I’m just going to try and dispel the magic, but with my style and Skills. Ready?”

“No, no, what are you going to—”

“Alright, here goes!”

Ryoka Griffin lay in a bed outside of the mansion. She’d been carried out there at Leireit’s request. She tried to roll out when the [Sorcerer] announced his not-a-plan, but it was too late.

“Don’t worry, I’m a professional! I’ve taken down curses before. See? I even have backup!”

Leireit assured her. Jericha, Alevica, and two [Mages], one of Pellmia’s own employ, the other the strongest from the local Mage’s Guild, were all linked with him. Well, Jericha set up the link, something else Leireit didn’t know how to do without holding hands.

He was a [Sorcerer]. Untrained, a natural spellcaster who made up spells and didn’t study them like [Mages]. His methods? Well, they looked like this.

“[Dispel Magic]!”

Leireit raised the stave he’d brought out, a glowing ruby atop mithril. The jewel flashed and he aimed it at Ryoka.

She glared at him as the magic settled on her, dispelled an anti-pain spell and a cooling spell put on her by one of the [Healers] and promptly did nothing else. Leireit looked at Ryoka.

“Nothing? Ah, thought not. Don’t worry, that was just to see what would happen and if I got any interference! Okay, trying again!”

“Father, um…do you think Lord Veltras found the best spellcaster for the job?”

Betta whispered to Lord Pellmia and her mother, well, step-mother, the woman who’d raised her since her birth, Keireen. Pellmia opened his mouth uncertainly, but Lord Veltras had heard. The [Lady] turned beet red as he bowed stiffly to her.

“Sir Leireit comes highly recommended, Lady Betta. His methods are unorthodox, but I have seen him work. Let us see his true attempt.”

She nodded and they all turned just in time for Leireit to shout again. This time he charged Ryoka and lifted his staff.

“Dispeeeeell Maaaaagiiiic—”

“What are you d—oof!”

The oof was from him planting the stave in Ryoka’s belly. Everyone winced. All eyes swung back to Lord Veltras, and he looked uncertain. He hadn’t expected that.

Ryoka would have kicked Leireit if she had any breath left in her—or strength—but the [Sorcerer] hadn’t struck her that hard. And indeed, his eyes had begun to glow. She began to try, anyways, when she saw the light.

It came from his open mouth, from within, from his glowing veins. A smell like pine filled the air. His voice became two octaves deeper and echoed like it came from a cave. Ryoka felt a magical rumbling transmit itself through the staff, the bed and her.

“[Dispel Magic: Mana Clash]!”

Her eyes widened. She stopped trying to kick him and saw, with her limited magical abilities, the mana race through him and the four [Mages] running support.

“Dead gods!”

Keireen threw up her hands to shield her eyes. Tyrion frowned as if seeing something, and Sammial’s eyes went round.

“That felt powerful!”

“It’s so…colorful!”

Hethon muttered. Jericha, lost in focus, wanted to blink at him. Colorful?

The others just watched, seeing nothing but the light Leireit emitted and feeling it in the air.

Leireit was fighting something. He began shouting as Ryoka saw his mana start burning itself against something, like water trying to throw a boulder. It wasn’t efficient. It wasn’t smart, or calculated.

But, hells, it was working. Unlike every other attempt, which hadn’t even managed to target the spell in her, this was rather like putting out a fire by jumping on it and rolling around on top. Inefficient? Painful? Maybe, but it was a lot more direct than wasting time finding ‘water’, or something.

The only question was if Leireit and the other [Mages] had the mana or power, but he was adding to the fire.

“[Replenish Mana]! [Enhanced Casting: Tier 4]! [Enchanced Focus]! I said, enhanced focus! Hold on—”

“My mana is burning out, you maniac!”

Alevica bellowed at Leireit, but the [Sorcerer] was laughing, pouring their combined strength into the fight. Jericha bit her lip until it bled and the other two [Mages] groaned.

The unseen battle in the air was making Leireit sweat. Ryoka was shuddering, feeling something fighting in her. An incredible pressure was squeezing her from within. Just when she thought it would pop or she’d scream, it happened.

“Aha! I d—”

Leireit bellowed. Then there was an explosion. He went flying through the air, arcing and landing with a whumph nearly twenty feet distant. Ryoka herself was blown straight out of her bed. She crashed behind it as it turned over, and stumbled to her feet.

“Holy g—holy Oberon!”

Everyone stared as Ryoka caught herself. Her strength was back in a moment! Her head felt clear, she could move and stand—even her skin had regained some of its regular color! Ryoka stared at Leireit.

“You did it?”

Even Tyrion hadn’t expected success so fast. Leireit rose to his feet, swearing as he felt at his back. Then he raised his arms in victory.

“That’s a Level 40 [Sorcerer] for you! Hah! I’m levelling tonight! Fetch the wine! Fetch the pretty ladies! Er, those that think I’m quite impressive, not the ladies of bought company.”

Ryoka just looked at her hands, blown away. Level 40…?

“That actually worked? String me up and paddle my ass!”

Buscrei had snorted water all out of her nose onto the grass. Charlay nodded, jaw open.

“Yeah, y—wait, what did you say?”

“What did she say?”

Hethon and Sammial both turned around too, though they hadn’t said that. Everyone took a moment. Buscrei glanced around.

“Oswen tradition. It’s a bunch of fun. See, you draw lots and—”

“Such idiotic activities.”

“Who said that? I don’t make fun of idiots jumping off cliffs!”

Lord Swey, the [Lord] who lived on a plateau, raised his hands, frowning.

“Not me. I thought it was Pellmia.”

“Not me. Who said—”

Then they all froze. It was there again. The same voice.

“Damned [Sorcerers]. Do you really think you can get away? Stay right there.”

“Oh, you have got to be kidding—”

Buscrei whirled, but there was no one in sight. Ryoka was leaping and laughing about, going over to help Leireit up.

“Ryoka! Watch out! It’s—”

Too late. A hole opened up in the sky. And guess what flashed down towards Ryoka?

Crimson lightning. Ryoka Griffin looked up just in time to see it stabbing down at her. Her immediate thought mirrored everyone else’s.

Again? That was just so unf—

She couldn’t dodge it. It shot down at, well, the speed of lightning. Or close. [Lightning Bolt] and such spells were a bit slower than actual lightning, which was so fast as to be instantaneous, which was why anyone had a chance of dodging them.

Even so. Ryoka was flat-footed and it was faster than she was, even with the wind. She stumbled, hands going for her side.

“No—”

The lightning touched the glowing shield, and a word written upon that famous crest glowed. The sigil of forests and beasts. One of the Five Families of old:

Veltras.

It bounced, ricocheting off, and hit a tree which promptly dropped all its apples, and then exploded. Lord Tyrion whirled his heirloom up, his sword in the other hand.

Only one man in the gathering could move that fast. There was a curse from above in a tongue Ryoka had never heard.

“You little pests! You will not get away, [Thief]—”

A second bolt of red lightning flew down, but this time it was blocked by a barrier in the skies. Ryoka and Tyrion whirled; Keireen, Pellmia’s wife, had lifted a hand.

“[Safety of the Home]. Inside!”

They ran, well, the target did. Jericha lurched to her feet after Tyrion, who shielded Ryoka as they charged inside. There was a split in the sky. A wrathful eye—

Lady Buscrei aimed her recurve bow straight up at it.

“[Counter Fire]. [Arc Arrows]. [Splinter Arrowheads]!”

She launched a volley of arrows into the air, looked up, and cursed.

“Damn. [Counter Fire] didn’t take. Worth a shot.”

The hole in the sky closed as fast as it had opened, cutting short a shout of frustration. Calmly, Buscrei aimed about, as Lord Swey, Pellmia, and the other warriors drew their blades. Hethon and Sammial didn’t see what happened next; Jericha had grabbed them and hurried them inside.

However, it was certainly exciting. And Ryoka was cured. So there was that.

Too bad that the next three times she tried to step outside, spells nearly killed her.

—-

“What do you mean, you don’t know where the spells are coming from?”

It was an incredible statement. Not so anywhere else, but from House Veltras, Lord Pellmia, a powerful [Lord], and Sir Leireit?

Actually, Leireit didn’t count, but the fact that so many powerful individuals could be under attack by long-range spells that only went after Ryoka and not know even the vaguest direction they were bound from was…incredible.

“My lord, we are under attack by a very powerful [Mage]. The spells have almost no magical emissions. I cannot see their make, and there is no mana trail to follow.”

Jericha was pale as Ryoka peeked out the window. The Courier was staring at the innocuous sky. She winced as a [Healer] dug out a bit of wood from one arm.

The lightning had stopped after the second time she’d left. However, her mysterious assailant had decided to diversify the spells. Ryoka had walked right next to the second tree that exploded, peppering her with shrapnel.

“That was my favorite tree.”

Lord Pellmia grumbled, his sword drawn as half his household guard stood at the gates and windows, ready for a battle.

“You don’t have a favorite tree, my love. Don’t be dramatic.”

Keireen admonished him.

Ryoka Griffin saw Pellmia glancing up at the innocuously clear skies, furrows in his brow. He exhaled hard, his fingers shifting on the worn leather wrap on his hilt.

“That someone would attack a [Lord] of Izril—no, one of the Five Families in such a manner—”

“It seems to be a growing trend of late.”

Lady Desinee El remarked from behind her bodyguards. Ryoka Griffin hung her head.

“I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”

The Houses of El and Veltras looked at her, quite astonished. Lord Tyrion saw Ryoka’s entire posture sag. He hesitated, like a rock limpet trying to figure out how to give someone comfort, and with about as much success.

It was Lady Buscrei who grabbed Ryoka’s shoulder. She grinned, as the young woman started. Her teeth flashed a bit yellow, but with a wide, laughing smile.

“You’re one of us, Ryoka. A guest—no. Family. When someone attacks your family, you don’t let them gang up, you shoot them in the ankles and beat them to death!”

Everyone had to absorb that statement of solidarity for a second. Then Ryoka looked at Buscrei.

Family?

The [Lady] laughed. Then winked at Keireen, Betta, Swey, Desinee…they stared at her. Now? At this moment?

Well. There was never a wrong moment for plotting romance. Ryoka Griffin found herself guest of Pellmia Quellae once more. And this time?

At least she was conscious.

—-

It was strange, going from fleeing romance and courtship on bended knee, to being zapped with a curse from a mysterious foe, to being trapped in a quite pleasant mansion with a bunch of busybodies who were both protecting you and trying to get you hitched.

“Want an oyster?”

Buscrei cackled so hard at Ryoka’s expression that she nearly fell out of her chair at lunch. It turned out everyone was eating oysters, though. The [Lady] had brought a huge catch north, and the folk of House Quellae quite liked seafood.

“It’s fruit all day, and our herds, of course. It’s what you don’t have, I suppose. I could look once at the most gigantic orange that other people just die for—it sells for gold abroad—but give me a clam chowder and I’d hand you the orange in a second.”

Keireen confided in Ryoka. The Courier stared at the treat.

“Um. I see.”

The complete lapse of any social cue didn’t faze the [Lady]. She smiled, gracefully as Ryoka blushed in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, that must be a foreign idea to a Courier who goes everywhere.”

“Oh. No. I’m sorry—I haven’t actually visited many coasts until recently. I was around Liscor, and they have lots of fish. No saltwater creatures, though, and it’s only in the spring when it’s fresh.”

“I heard of that. Damndest thing. It rains and makes a basin, doesn’t it? Always wanted to see it…when we weren’t at war. Passed it once when we had the yearly fight, but we had to steer clear of the walls.”

“You mean, the continuation of our war at the Bloodfields, Lord Swey?”

The [Lord] glanced up. Lord Swey, one of the Veltras Family that Ryoka had met, lived on a high plateau of all things. If Buscrei was a [Hunting Lady], in general, not the actual specifics of her class, Lord Swey was a [Mountain Lord]. His people foraged and used the cliffs daily.

It showed. His hands were callused in different ways than regular [Warriors] and he was prying apart oyster shells with his bare fingers instead of a knife.

Tyrion Veltras’ icy glare bounced completely off his squatter cousin. Swey chucked the oyster meat into a bowl, to Desinee’s plain horror. Buscrei had brought out the oysters, and Keireen had been about to let a [Chef] have at it, but instead, Buscrei, Swey, and Setth, the [Lord] who lived in the forest with all the [Druids], had all gathered around and insisted on grilling and preparing the oysters themselves.

It wasn’t bad for House Quellae, and Betta was helping season the oysters as Pellmia saw to a deployment of his house guards. It was astonishing how fast they’d relaxed when it was clear only Ryoka was being targeted.

They had tested it out by having Sir Leireit run around outside, shouting. ‘Hit me, you coward!’ Well, he’d volunteered for it and nothing had happened.

Now they were eating. Cooking for oneself was something Keireen was clearly appalled by. On the other hand, while Tyrion didn’t participate in the grilling and arguing over sauce and whatnot, he was slicing open oysters in a fairly practiced manner with his belt knife.

Sammial and Hethon were watching with great interest. They enjoyed their cousins’ presence, it was clear, and the two boys were mixing a blend of spices, having been deemed too young to handle a sharp blade.

By Jericha, that was. Buscrei had handed them a dagger and told them to try not to cut off a finger. At any rate, Swey calmly answered Tyrion, picking up on the slight tension in the other man’s voice.

“No offense to the main family and the Five Families and whatnot, Tyrion. I went once. Never saw the point. Lots of angry Drakes and those Gnoll people. I’d be as happy to let them stay over there. If they come north, we can rally up.”

“You don’t have an opinion on the sabotage from the [Infiltrators] that came this summer?”

Swey frowned, plucking a hot oyster from the grill.

“Well, that’s bad.”

Tyrion waited. Swey chewed, swallowed, and nudged Buscrei.

“More salt.”

She added a handful. After a few seconds of Tyrion staring, Swey recalled the question.

“What? Oh, yes. Heard about the poor dogs and Gralton and the rest. Let’s retaliate. We voted on that, didn’t we? They throw a punch, we throw one back. But as for the battles…no. Seems like we have that King of Destruction and the Deathless on Rhir to worry about. And that undead fellow…”

He was ticking off problems on his fingers. Ryoka actually forgot her uncomfortableness as she watched. It was tense, which of course made her back prickly, but it was a fascinating insight into a divergence of opinions in one of the Five Families.

The silence after Swey’s comments lingered, though Swey seemed content. If anything, Jericha, Tyrion, and two of his bodyguards seemed most put-off by the lack of support. An over-loud voice echoed around the room.

“I! I uh, I always wanted to go to southern Izril! I never went before because of the Bloodfields. Maybe I’ll go now there’s a road? And a portal door?”

Charlay looked about. Sammial started; he was still staring at the horse-lady, one of the few he’d met.

“Portal doors. Now there’s a handy thing. I wish we had one. Hey, Tyrion. Think House Veltras can bid on it? Imagine if we had one at your place. I could be eating fine over here one day, then head off to Swey’s, or hit the coast—all in the same day.”

“My, that would be something.”

Setth looked up briefly. He was less chatty than his two cousins, although he’d been more talkative in a more social setting when Ryoka had first met him. However, he did pull out a sauce to sprinkle over the second bowl being passed around. Buscrei instantly slapped it out of his hand.

“Don’t you dare touch my oysters with that crap, Setth.”

“Buscrei, it’s just sauce.”

“It’s mashed roots and crap. Not a bit of meat! Too sweet, too…I won’t have it! Not on good oysters.”

The vegetarian sauce was placed on the table, and Ryoka tried some. It was actually quite nice! It definitely lacked for the body of meat like many dishes and sauces she’d had, but it would have gone down a storm in any vegetarian restaurant on Earth. There was a tang to it, a taste beyond mere salt, sweet, bitter, or even umami that Ryoka had come to associate with magic.

“I like it!”

Sammial announced, slapping some onto his plate. Buscrei grumbled.

“Damn [Druids]. Don’t let them turn you into one of those non-meat idiots.”

“You should meet this [Druid] in Invrisil—”

Alevica, Charlay, and Ryoka all chorused in unison. They glanced at each other, and the [Witch] snorted and tugged at her hat, embarrassed, as Ryoka grinned and Charlay laughed.

“Nalthaliarstrelous. I’ve heard of him. Something of a radical in the [Druid] community.”

Lord Setth actually pronounced his name correctly. Ryoka’s eyebrows shot up. Buscrei rolled her eyes.

“Don’t let’s start on Invrisil or we’ll get into politics. Like the south—”

“Lady Reinhart and the Drakes? Such a concern.”

Desinee pursed her lips, feeling she had the first real lock on this conversation. Keireen nodded, frowning.

“I hope she’s well. I heard of assassination attempts?”

“You tell me when there’s not one, with the Reinharts.”

There were chuckles, some murmurs, but the topic was dropped fast. Tyrion turned to Swey after whispering with Jericha.

“We did, in fact, make an offer on the door in Liscor, Swey. Twice. It is not for sale, although we would bid heavily. I fear House Veltras would be up against worldwide competition, however.”

“What? Oh. Right. Just a thought. I don’t see anyone actually selling it.”

Swey replied absently. Tyrion stopped again, having clearly taken the off-hand comment as actual questions about House Veltras’ material concerns.

He was so much like a stone compared to his free-flowing, relaxed cousins…that Ryoka instinctively flashed back to some of her family gatherings where she’d been the odd one out. She cleared her throat. She nearly said she knew the owner of the portal door, but since that opened up a bag of depressing rocks…

Well, not anymore. What was she doing, eating oysters and chatting when so many things needed to be done? For a second, Ryoka wavered. But she was recovering, and they had saved her life. So she turned to Sir Leireit. The [Sorcerer] was sipping from a mana potion and wineglass alternately, watching the conversation with urbane amusement.

“Is this typical of First Landing, Sir Leireit? I met some of the other Five Families, but I thought Lord Tyrion’s House was more—relaxed—than others.”

The [Sorcerer] chuckled as all eyes swung to him.

“Hardly, Miss Ryoka—Courier Griffin? I apologize, I feel familiar already.”

“Ryoka. Don’t worry, anyone who stabs me in the stomach with a stave is already quite intimate.”

He nodded in appreciation. Betta instantly sprayed her drink out of her nose and mouth at the same time as her father. Leireit stared at them in confusion, caught the joke, and began laughing.

Tyrion didn’t get it, but his family did. Jericha looked appalled—and stomped hard on her own toe to stop laughing.

“That’s wonderful! You’d get tossed out of a gathering in First Landing. I’ve never been closer than a dinner table in formality, there. Well, there’s something for the way they do it; fine dining is a treat.”

Burscrei agreed.

“Oh, I’ve been to First Landing enough. Can’t zip around like the others, but they have lots of sights. Invrisil too.”

Ryoka nodded, grinning as Sammial demanded to know what was so funny from Lord Pellmia. Hethon had worked it out and had turned bright red. However, she looked at Tyrion then.

“Even Couriers can’t travel across Izril that fast. Most of the City Runners I knew had never been to First Landing. It was sort of a milestone—if you could make it there all the way from Celum—that’s a city just north of Liscor—you’d probably hit Level 30 soon. Same for the coasts; it’s too far even by horseback. Have you been to Port Isle?”

She carefully named one of the most remote ports on the eastern coast, so named because it was an isle; no shipping lanes except those heading to the east hit it. There wasn’t any continent to the east, so it really was isolated. Tyrion glanced up and seemed to unstatueify.

“I have. All the major cities.”

“There’s movement Skills for you. He can ride out, visit First Landing, and be back within a week. The rest of us take a month.”

Buscrei slapped Tyrion on the shoulder with some pride. He turned to ice once more—but Charlay and Alevica were reminded they were in the same room with the fastest [Lord] in all of Izril. And Ryoka wasn’t done.

“I’ve never visited myself. I wasn’t nearly as fast as a City Runner…and it’s not a profitable run, mostly. Unless they get a shipment from the islands, in which case it’s Couriers inbound.”

“Islands? Shipments? I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with this…Port Isle. I know the name.”

Desinee looked like she was a fish out of water, even more than Tyrion. Charlay nudged her, still as chummy as could be.

“Port Isle. It’s not a trade-city—except that there are islands out to the east. Lots of interesting stuff. Like Fabledust. Ever heard of it?”

“Isn’t that a rare alchemical ingredient? So that’s where it comes from?”

“Yep. Also, a few dungeons out there somehow. So every now and then, a huge shipment comes in and everyone wants it. I’m surprised Tyrion—er—er—Lord Veltras, I mean, has been there. It’s not common. And it’s weird. Or so I’ve heard.”

“Weird? How?”

Every head swung around. Ryoka shrugged.

“I’ve only heard what Runners have. Fabledust is a strange compound and it gets in the air. Apparently it’s mined or something from a few islands. There’s so much of it from the ships it coats the city. It…does things to the people and area?”

Sir Leireit was nodding.

“Translocational magic. Dimensional stuff. I’m no [Mage]…nor have I been. The only person who could tell us is…”

Every head turned to Tyrion. He started, uncrossed his arms, and looked around.

“…It is a rather vivid city. One can get lost, there. Places…vanish now and then and need to be refound.”

He lapsed into silence. Buscrei slapped the table after a second.

“Well, don’t just end it there, Tyrion! Tell us more! What does it look like? What does it smell like? Details!”

He hesitated.

“It is a rather vivid shade of purple at times, until the light strikes it—or moonlight—or it rains.”

“And then?”

It was like trying to pry answers out of one of the oysters. Tyrion scratched at his head, then he opened up, to his surprise and everyone else’s.

“Let me see. It was years ago when I visited last. They had a rhyme I believe the children sang. ‘Purple by day, and pink by night. Green come moonlight, brown when rain strikes.’ But they had other verses. There was a nuance to the colors. If it is merely purple, you see, it didn’t matter. But a…shade of purple was worrisome.”

“How?”

The others blinked, interested. Tyrion frowned.

“I don’t know what it was. It was raining one day, and they told me it was wenge outside and to stay indoors.”

“What in the name of otters is wenge?”

“That’s a shade of brown, I think. See here, if it looks off, you’re in trouble? Imagine being afraid of colors.”

Swey chowed down on the roasted oysters. Everyone else realized they were done and began eating. They pestered Tyrion with questions, and he reluctantly, then with some enthusiasm, began to speak.

“I never saw a shipment coming in; I was simply travelling that way. However, I did see a building appear, once. Inhabited. The people inside were thought to be monsters at first; they clashed with the Watch, firing arrows from inside. They were a sight; they claimed they had been somewhere else for nearly twenty years. Their garments were strange. I expected them to be ragged, but…”

It was a fascinating tale, marred only by the teller. Yet he warmed to his task, and his two sons were as agog as the others. Even more so, perhaps. Tyrion had never told them this story?

He did so now, and was part of the conversation rather than in the middle of it. He still didn’t talk like his cousins, but he did talk. Ryoka listened, asking questions, in the thick of it.

She never saw how some of the others glanced at her and saw what she’d done, like Keireen, Setth.

Or Jericha. Keireen leaned against Pellmia and whispered.

“They are good for each other.”

The [Matchmaker] smiled. And here he hadn’t even used a Skill.

—-

In some ways, Ryoka fit in with House Veltras. Oh, the sociability was new, but there were times when House Veltras was social—and times when they were not. Like Buscrei. She was all laughter and talk with the others. Then she’d just walk off, and go hunting for days on end, or relax by herself, socialization done.

There was something there that spoke to everything Ryoka was. In the same way, she talked with them, then they turned to figuring out their new problem of attacks. Pellmia frowned as he thought.

“Since you’re safe inside, I suppose we now have to figure out where those damned spells are coming from. I’ll contact some friends who know magic. Maybe it’s a trick. It seems like spells, but if it’s actually an arrow or some Skill…”

Ryoka sat in her rooms, feeling alive. She stretched, actually did a workout indoors, grateful for the ability to walk and move without bleeding sweat. Yes, she decided, it was time.

“I’ve had it up to here with whoever that is. I need…to figure this out.”

So she sat on the ground, and thought. Mystery assailant. She had to identify who her foe was, defend herself, and resolve the situation or she’d never help Erin and Mrsha.

The thing was…Ryoka thought she had the first one down pat. Well, it wasn’t hard deducing who was calling her ‘thief’. The exact who was a problem, but where?

“Fuck. I’m in trouble.”

Ryoka said it loudly just as Sammial, Hethon, Jericha, and Tyrion stopped by her door. Sammial instantly turned to Jericha.

“She says it! Why can’t I?”

Ryoka turned in her seat. She blushed as Jericha groaned and Lord Tyrion paused.

“Uh…”

“Miss Griffin. Lord Veltras asked to speak with you. Lords Hethon, Sammial—”

“Stop making me go away! I want to talk to Ryoka!”

Sammial instantly began to pitch a fit. Tyrion turned to him, frowning, and Ryoka interrupted.

“I don’t mind. Unless…I haven’t thanked you, Lord Tyrion.”

There were a lot of reasons why they wanted to talk, and Ryoka felt the weight of her debt growing heavier. Yet Tyrion Veltras just stood there, awkwardly, until she offered him a seat by her bed.

“I wished to inquire about your situation, Miss Griffin. With respect to your privacy, I had not asked. Given the situation…”

The Veltras’ watched Ryoka squirm with some resignation by this point. The Wind Runner’s secrecy about almost all aspects of her life was as frustrating as it was intriguing.

However, Ryoka Griffin herself knew that it couldn’t last. She nodded slowly, avoiding Tyrion and Jericha’s eyes. She looked down at Sammial—he was giving her a hawk-glare, refusing to blink.

Ryoka sighed.

“I should have told you. I’m sorry—it’s just that I didn’t want to involve you and here we are. I’m…in a bit of trouble. Someone’s after me. I don’t actually know who, but I know why. I uh…”

This was hard. Ryoka forced past it. She still squirmed, a bit.

“—It started with the party at Riverfarm.”

“It seems many things began there.”

Jericha murmured. Lord Tyrion glanced at her, surprised by the interjection, and she blushed. Ryoka thought that was funny; Jericha was as close to a mother as the two boys got. But not quite. She glanced at Jericha and nodded, deliberately.

“Right. A lot happened there I can’t talk about. Really…I promised. But one of the things was…well, a lot happened. I went places.”

“You are so vague. Stop being vague.”

Sammial stared at Ryoka. She turned even redder as Tyrion snapped.

“Sammial Veltras. Control your tongue.”

“I stole something. Well, I tried to steal something.”

Ryoka blurted it out at last. The other four turned to her. Alevica and Charlay, listening outside the window, gasped.

Everyone inside stopped. They peered at the window, and saw a head rise, duck down, and Alevica’s whisper.

“You idiotic—”

They ran for it, Charlay galloping off. Ryoka rubbed at her face. Tyrion regarded her.

“You stole something?”

“I tried to. My friend…it’s very complicated. I was trying to steal something that would—you know my friend, Erin Solstice? There was something we were trying to get.”

“Because she’s a block of ice?”

Jericha and Tyrion went to round on Sammial, but Hethon had let that one slip. He slapped a hand over his mouth. Ryoka would have ached at that a day ago. Today?

Well, it still hurt, but there was hope, so she almost smiled.

“Yes. Something that could definitely bring her back. I was sure of it. I made…a big mistake. I didn’t steal it.”

“You did not?”

Tyrion was surprised. He half-glanced at her side. Ryoka shook her head. She lifted the hilt of the Faeblade.

“This is a gift. What I stole—was trying to steal—I never got. But I must have been sighted and…sorry. I’m a criminal. So I suppose this isn’t an unprovoked attack so much as…catching a thief.”

She waited for something. Condemnation, anger, what, she didn’t know. Tyrion was still a long moment. Jericha was frowning, trying to guess who Ryoka had stolen from. Sammial was trying to put something together. Ryoka? Naked? No…what had he seen? Something that told him where…

Ryoka wondered if she should tell them. Before she could, Tyrion spoke.

“As Lord of House Veltras, Ryoka Griffin…my stance on thievery has always been clear. It is a crime, and cannot be countenanced under any circumstance. I have told Hethon and Sammial that; if a [Lord] or ruler of a land looks aside, the rule of law topples.”

Ryoka swallowed. Hethon and Sammial looked at their father in shock. Jericha closed her eyes. Oh no. The one man who would probably prosecute a dog for stealing a bone…Tyrion Veltras rose to his feet and looked out the window. Charlay and Alevica, staring from behind a tree, ran away again.

“I cannot countenance it.”

Ryoka nodded miserably. It was still a crime. She began to wallow in the filth of self-flagellation—right up until Tyrion spoke his next words.

“That is my belief. However. When Hethon and Sammial were sick, I thought, if I could steal the cure to their poison…I would have. No matter what the cost or consequence. I would have stolen it. It would have been a crime. Yet I would have done it.”

He glanced over his shoulder. Jericha’s open jaw snapped shut. She had never expected Tyrion to say something like that. Ryoka just blinked.

“I can understand the desire. If you are being pursued, perhaps the offended party can be reimbursed. That you did not steal anything lessens your guilt. As for these attacks? It comes on the land of noble families of Izril. Whoever this is has gone too far. We shall reach an amicable solution if possible, but House Veltras will still support the Wind Runner.”

Sammial and Hethon looked at each other. They pinched each other to make sure they weren’t dreaming. Ryoka stared at Tyrion.

“Uh. Thank you.”

That was…unexpected. Yet what had she thought? Even Tyrion raised an eyebrow.

“Miss Ryoka, I am grateful you chose to confide in us. However, I must ask. Did you believe we would think worse of you for your actions? For being a thief? You are the Courier who saved my sons’ lives.”

She flushed slightly and ducked her head. Ryoka Griffin mumbled.

“No. I mean…not just that. It’s just—”

She searched for words and they tumbled out, another surprise admission in a weird day.

“—it’s just that whoever tries to help me ends up dying or getting hurt. Everyone. And there’s so much that’s happening, I don’t want to pull anyone into it. These huge, important—and if I do something wrong—”

The Courier hesitated. They were all giving her a strange look. Lord Tyrion looked bemused.

“What?”

Jericha was the one who finally came out with it, with an exasperated sigh.

“Miss Griffin. Begging your pardon Lord Veltras…but I have noticed this about you. You speak about almost everything as if it were the greatest calamity in the world. And only you can solve the issue. As if the world revolves around you. All of House Veltras stands here, but might not be enough to aid Ryoka Griffin in her quest. Whatever that actually is.”

Ryoka Griffin sat there, staring at Jericha. So did Hethon and Sammial. The words flowed from Jericha with a great deal of satisfaction, pent up as they had been. Even Tyrion gave her the side-eye…until they looked at Ryoka.

Beets were red. Blood was crimson. Plums were purple. Ryoka’s face encapsulated even more colors than that. She sat there, so embarrassed she couldn’t speak. She sat there.

“I don’t think th—”

“I mean, I only know Oberon and I just—”

“It’s—”

She tried to get it out. But the truth was that Jericha was right.

Almost right. Ryoka raised her head, slowly. Embarrassed.

“I…I do act like that, don’t I? I’m sorry. But there is something big coming. I can’t say exactly—”

She saw Jericha’s hand twitch for her side and hastily clarified.

“War. A big war. A conflict…that’s what my friends said. The guests. A terrible war. And I guess I feel like I’m going to play a role. They’re…[Oracles], you see. Sort of.”

Tyrion’s brows rose. He looked at Ryoka sharply.

“Where from?”

“I don’t know. But I do know this! I act like I’m important because I think I am. A bit. That’s arrogance. However, I do know this.”

Ryoka rose to her feet. She clenched and unclenched her hands.

“…I’m not the person who can bring people together. Who can create a miracle, and maybe stop or…or unite people. I know who that is. And she’s—waiting—for me to help her. If I can, I will. And as for who I pissed off? Well. I didn’t realize it, but…I tried to steal from Ailendamus. From their vaults. That’s who I made mad. There. I said it.”

The Wind Runner exhaled long and loud, and felt instant regret. Then relief. She looked around. She’d actually said it. She looked at Tyrion, Jericha, Sammial, and Hethon, smiling with a bit of relief.

…Right until she saw Tyrion’s expression. And Jericha suck in her breath. The two adults exchanged glances. Of all the things Ryoka could have said…

“Well, that’s not good. Hear that? She pissed off the fattest nation in Terandria. Told you she doesn’t do things halfway.”

Everyone stopped. They stared up. Tyrion snapped his shield up, but Buscrei just leaned over the roof’s lip. Swey, Setth, both jumped down. Pellmia got up from listening at the door with his daughter and wife. Lady Desinee replaced the amulet she’d taken out.

It was good that Ryoka had admitted what was on her mind, at last. Everyone could now agree.

She was in a bit of trouble.

—-

Ailendamus.

House Veltras was powerful. Five Families of Izril? Martial house with the largest standing force? Famous [Lord] on that Top 5 list? There were only a few things that would even make them blink when they stood united.

Ailendamus…might need some eye drops. Of all the places for Ryoka to make an enemy of…yeah. Ailendamus.

“Couldn’t she have chosen, I don’t know, Calanfer, or something? I hear they’re getting spanked in the war. Or the Reinharts? We could use a good old scrap.”

Buscrei muttered to Swey and Setth. Lord Setth looked at her.

“What is it with the Oswens and spanking?”

“All I’m saying is that Ailendamus is…well, it’s like she threw rocks at one of the Four Great Companies or something. There are easier enemies to make.”

Ryoka Griffin’s mysterious nemesis made more sense, in that light. Of course, this was breaking information. Rumors had only begun to spread that the Wind Runner had been struck by mysterious lightning. Tyrion Veltras had outridden rumor itself—and Pellmia had kept the news under wraps fairly well—so her unexpected cure thanks to the power of [Sorcerers] had caught even her adversaries and friends off-guard.

Lyonette, for instance, would not learn about Ryoka’s plight until tomorrow, by which point she would already be far delayed from what was actually happening.

So perhaps that was why it was so ironic that when Jericha came striding over to Ryoka with a speaking stone, the first thing Eldavin said to her was about that.

“Ryoka, I have just been informed you are under attack by some kind of spell? Why did you not inform me at once, child?”

“T—Eldavin?”

Ryoka’s eyes widened. She had known who it was the instant Jericha mentioned an encrypted spell, but she’d completely forgotten he was in Wistram!

“Are you returning? Where are you? I’m—”

“Yes, yes, still at Wistram. When did we last speak? Nevermind that. Someone’s been attacking you with magic? Outrageous. It’s not anyone in the academy; I would know. Listen, I’m tied up, but one of my faction is headed your way as we speak. Archmage Valeterisa. She says she knows you. We’ll have you cured and on your feet. Then we’ll discuss further plans for keeping you safe.”

“Um. Eldavin. I’m actually—”

“It’s not easy wrangling these eels at Wistram, but I am managing it. Fascinating how Wistram has gone to seed. There’s more of your kind here. I fully intend to whip the Academy back into shape, and I have been thinking it may be wise for you to visit if you’re being targeted by assailants. Is it that pest with the dark eyes? I’ll ask Valeterisa to analyze the spell—”

“Eldavin. Eldavin.”

The nattering voice cut off. Ryoka stared at the stone. She had never known the Dragon to be this talkative, but it seemed this vacation had really done him good.

“Yes, my dear?”

“I uh—I’m better now. A [Sorcerer] from First Landing cured me.”

“…What?”

“A [Sorcerer]. Cured. Me. He blasted the spell right out of my veins. I’m still under some kind of attack, but…”

“You let yourself be treated by a [Sorcerer]? Why don’t you just snort mana dust or bathe in mana potions while you’re at it? One of those rag-tag…well, I suppose their solutions work, but dead gods, my dear! Tree rot and beetle eggs! You didn’t think to go to me, but one of them? I could have—”

Again, the Courier blinked at the stone. Wow, Eldavin really was getting into character. His outraged spluttering was familiar, though.

“Sorry, Eldavin. I know how you…don’t like to involve yourself with mundane affairs.”

He harumphed loudly in her ear. Then his voice became more circumspect.

“Ah. About that, Ryoka. I…I suppose I owe you an apology. You were right. So was that girl.”

“Girl?”

“Reinhart, I mean. She’s pestered me for decades and I…well, you were right. It is hard for someone like me to admit, at my age, but this vacation cleared my mind. I’m thinking clearly for once, and you’re right. That pest, this entire situation in the world and Wistram…it’s time to shake things up. Fix everything I’ve let slide. No more. I’ve started a faction at Wistram. Terras, and I’ve let it be known you’re under my protection. Speak my name anywhere Wistram has power and I’ll make sure they give you aid.”

“Wh—really? That’s…”

Ryoka actually had to slap the side of her head. That was not what she had expected Teriarch to say. Not in a million years.

“How bad is it at Wistram?”

That was the only thing she could think of. Teriarch harumphed.

“As you would not believe. [Mages] who forget true magic, who infight rather than using Wistram’s power like it should be. Did you hear about the Death of Chains emerging? Not that I’d blame her for taking a shot at Roshal, but that’s another threat. And Khelt destabilizing Chandrar.”

“Yes, but—I mean, about Khelt—”

Ryoka stammered. This…this wasn’t like Teriarch at all. Using Wistram’s power? What was his entire lecture about neutrality and…?

“What about Khelt, my dear? I’m working on all issues, don’t you worry. Establish power here—then we’ll sort out the issues one at a time. Earthers—that’s what they call your people—first. We’ll gather them up. You should join them; we can do better good with all the resources at hand, and protect them. I’d rather train your people than let Wistram use them like bartering chips. A shame what happened to your friend, but as I said, I’ll look at her. Khelt?”

“…No. I just saw it in the news, too. I um. This thing about my attacker came after the Summer Solstice. You remember, Eldavin?”

“Your guests or some such? Oh, what mischief did you get up to now?”

Ryoka slowly stared at the stone. Her spine began to prickle. Something was…very wrong.

“Oh, you know. The regular, with Ivolethe.”

“Who? One of your friends?”

“Y—yeah.”

Ryoka felt something icy grab her. Who was she talking to? What had happened to—

What had Wistram done? Replaced him? Had they found out? Had—

“Nevermind that, my dear. Let’s sort it out, one at a time, I’d better tell Valeterisa what’s up. Did you say you were still under attack?”

Somehow, Ryoka managed to communicate the facts. Just the facts, to Eldavin. He…spoke like Teriarch. He acted like Teriarch, but in a few different ways.

Firstly, as if he didn’t remember Ivolethe. Second? He was far too energetic. Third, he was far too…involved in the affairs he kept talking about. A faction? His plans? He sounded—ambitious.

That didn’t fit Teriarch at all. Yet everything else was there! Including his immediate insistance she go outside so he could sort this out.

“Just walk outside. Someone’s taking shots at you via long-distance spells? Hah. Aha. We’ll see about that.”

By now, Ryoka Griffin had a small crowd watching her stand in the hallway. Tyrion marched over with his shield, frowning.

“Ryoka, what is…?”

“My—Grand Magus Eldavin, from Wistram, says he thinks he can stop the attacks.”

He blinked at her. Jericha saw Sir Leireit’s head snap around.

“Did she just say…? I heard there was a half-Elf crashing around in Wistram!”

“That’s her patron. I don’t know how the hell she got him.”

Alevica folded her arms. Ryoka Griffin covered the stone. Her heart was pounding.

“I’m going to step out.”

“Then I shall accompany you. Just in case the attempt fails.”

Tyrion announced at once. Buscrei and the others went to watch from a safe window. Eldavin’s voice snapped from the speaking stone, muffled.

“We have a scrying spell on the area. Who’s that idiot who suggested that this would fail?”

Ryoka muted the stone with a finger. Then she looked at Jericha.

“I just…I just need to do something before I go out.”

“It’s perfectly safe, my dear.”

Eldavin unmuted the stone of his own accord. Ryoka jumped, swore, and fished around in her pocket. Without a word, she wrote something down and handed it to Jericha. And then she went to walk out the door.

The [Mage] looked at the note. She stared at it.

Please tell Magnolia Reinhart to contact Grand Magus Eldavin at once. I think she will be very interested. Please write it verbatim and indicate it as such.

She glanced after Ryoka, puzzled. Then the Courier walked outside. Right now, Ryoka felt like she had been struck by a bolt of lightning.

Even so, she hesitated and stared up at the sky before she left the house. Eldavin was reassuring her all was well. So Ryoka walked outside. Tyrion followed.

Ryoka stopped on the paved path leading out, and glanced around with trepidation. Nothing happened.

“Oh, wow. You actually d—”

Hethon, Sammial, and the others saw and heard Ryoka glancing down at the speaking stone a second before a hand whipped out of the air. It flicked a finger at Tyrion, and he blocked it—but the second hand grabbed Ryoka and tossed her two hundred feet into the air, screaming, in less than a second.

“She has terrible luck.”

Charlay watched, eating from a bag of spiced oats. Alevica and the others silently agreed.

—-

Grand Magus Eldavin had prepared for magical interception. He stood in one of Wistram’s dedicated spaces for long-range casting. Magical circles he’d re-drawn and upgraded boosted his capabilities.

He was even linked to a number of new [Mages] in the Terras faction—and observed by spies of other factions, he knew.

Some were genuine, like High Mage Telim, Sa’la, and Valeterisa herself. She was on standby.

“We are going to trace whatever insolent rogue is casting spells from afar. Archmage, are you prepared?”

She had stopped in her travels to Ryoka’s location, a bit put out that she couldn’t learn more about de-cursing someone. However, the Archmage of Izril was eager enough.

“My area has been set up as per your instructions, Eldavin.”

She had another kind of waypoint, a magical sensor net, if you will, something the Earthers were actually more easily able to grasp than fellow [Mages]. The idea was that Valeterisa localized their spellcasting and also provided a second frame of reference. In that way, the scrying spells Wistram were using and their generalized detection spells would help them hone in on whoever was attacking Ryoka in a local and overall way.

“What will occur to the attacker once found, Grand Magus?”

Telim was interested. There was no ‘if’, but when. Eldavin stroked at his beard.

“We may fry them a bit, High Magus. One does not simply attack Couriers, let alone those under Wistram’s protection. Identifying them is the true stroke. Knowledge begets power.”

“Surely, you mean ‘knowledge is power’, Grand Magus? That is a very Earth-expression I learned. Quite catchy.”

“I do not see [Librarians] and [Historians] sitting upon thrones, do you, High Magus?”

There was some laughter, and the [Mages] tensed as, in the scrying view, Ryoka turned back from Jericha.

“Interception spells at the ready. We should be sensing it, depending on if she’s seen. Ah, if it takes time…”

Eldavin snapped his fingers with annoyance as he realized the assailant might have neglected to watch Ryoka every second, and could, in fact, strike later.

“Perhaps Valeterisa will have to set up permanent wards. Let us wait for five m—”

He was turning his head to address the disappointed [Mages] when the first hand appeared. Eldavin whirled.

“No magical contact! How did—”

Sa’la exclaimed, amazed. Wistram’s [Mages] weren’t slouches, even if they didn’t have Eldavin’s expertise. They had cast their own detection webs and the hand could have been…well, a figment of their imaginations. It had virtually no magical leak.

Ryoka went flying as a second hand appeared. Eldavin stared as Tyrion glanced up, the hands vanished, and the [Lord] went charging after her.

“Trace that spell! [Featherfall]!”

He cast through the spell as he roared. Ryoka’s downward momentum slowed to a crawl; the wind had already been arresting it. The other [Mages] scrambled to re-cast spells, hone in on…

What?

“I…I don’t sense any mana whatsoever. A trace of it…it’s like grasping at fog.”

Telim spoke uncertainly. A [Warlock] was muttering.

“Not even…there it is again! Dead gods!”

The sky opened up.

“You little wretch! Do you think you can escape?”

Eldavin heard the voice. He saw another bolt of lightning stabbing down. His multiple detection spells barely pinged. The other [Mages] were slack-jawed.

“It’s like invisible magic.”

“Don’t just stand there. Cast—”

A barrier opened up in the sky and the red lightning cracked against it. Eldavin recognized Valeterisa’s magic. Her excited voice was in his ears as his lips moved soundlessly, casting with increasing speed.

“Almost no magical residue. I cannot tell how they are hiding the origin—can you, Grand Magus?”

“It’s…not a scrying spell.”

The half-Elf whispered. The other [Mages] turned.

“What?”

“They’re not casting through a [Scrying] spell. That’s why we can’t trace the magic.”

They should have been able to see exactly where the spells were coming from, like someone following a string back to the source. But there was no direct [Scrying] spell pumping the other spells through, like Wistram was doing. That was why everyone from the [Mages] here to Jericha were as oblivious to the magic as Sir Leireit, the [Sorcerer].

And also because this spellcasting is adept. It’s…as good as mine. Eldavin himself could barely sense the spells as they materialized. A second bolt of red lighting shot down. Valterisa conjured a barrier from her location. The lightning curved around it, but Tyrion was there and blocked it again. A curse rang through the air.

I barely saw the adjustment to that spell.

“Then how are they aiming?”

Telim and the other [Mages] were miles behind Eldavin’s conclusions. He snapped, absently.

“Coordinates. They’re calculating each spell rather than reveal through the [Scrying] spell. Shut up—I have to—[Sylph Spark]. Bound to a counter…”

He called deeply on his mana reserves, and the links. A flashing light appeared. It flickered up—

“Who dares?”

A shock ran through Eldavin’s mind. At the same time, he heard the voice, sensed a shock like his own. In the air, two wills and spells collided as the [Sylph Spark] honed in on the magic up there and brought Eldavin’s web of detection and counter-magics into proximity with his opponent.

The [Mages] of Wistram saw Eldavin begin to chant, his hands blurring, the air lighting up around him with magical runes. They gaped as he drew on their mana like batteries, but the war was entirely of his making.

“What’s happening? What’s happening? I must see!”

Valeterisa was shouting like mad. No one replied.

Like a thousand invisible tendrils of kelp in the sky, Eldavin was throwing magical tendrils from his radial point of the [Sylph Spark], questing around, trying to touch the invisible magical web he knew was out there.

“Insolent little [Mage]. Begone, Wistram!”

The voice boomed in his ears. Eldavin saw something pluck at the [Sylph Spark], tearing it apart.

“[Mana Bubble]! I return you once anew, again reborn into a cycle eternal…”

Against all conventional magical logic of the modern world, the [Sylph Spark] refused to dissipate, though its entire makeup was pulled apart by the mysterious other spellcaster. It reformed, returning to its original space.

The shock in the air was a palpable thing. Eldavin had caught his opponent off-guard.

“Not bad.”

“Reveal yourself! [Aura Tracers]; [The Winding Lair of Solce’s Jellyfish]!”

Eldavin went for a large spell, and the air exploded with more tracers, these ones charged by his and the [Mage]’s mana. They’d react—strike back in a clash of power if they hit something.

They burned through two dozen spells, but a sneering retort blasted them out of the sky. Eldavin’s spark dodged another invisible slice of magic. The two unseen [Mages] grappled, Eldavin’s spark the one visible point; yet he was sure the other [Mage] was grounding his powers somehow in the air.

Both of them, wrestling, throwing elegant weaves in with crude tricks to identify, trace the other, block their magic at the source and thus cut off the power, had the same thought at once. Eldavin whispered.

“Who are you?”

His spellcasting, second to none in Wistram, became faster and faster. Yet, as the [Mages] of the Terras faction watched with amazement…

Eldavin began to fall behind.

—-

“…What the heck is going on up there?”

Ryoka stared up at a zippy ball of faint green-yellow light. It kept dancing about. Tyrion Veltras stared up, frowning. He thought he could see…no.

“I have no idea.”

—-

It was an exceptionally high-level battle, of such skill, not Skill but genuine mastery that no one could see it, and it looked exceptionally stupid if taken out of context. A dancing ball of light in the air. Even Jericha couldn’t tell what was happening; only Valeterisa had any insight.

And…Hethon Veltras. His eyes were round.

“What is that? What is that?”

“What’s what?”

He pointed a finger wildly at the air, but Buscrei, Sammial, Pellmia, and the others just stared at the empty air. Hethon turned.

“Don’t you see it? It’s amazing! I’ve never—they’re all over and hundreds and—”

“See what?”

They had no clue what he meant. Hethon pointed. Waved his hands. Are you not getting this? Charlay squinted.

“…You mean that bird over there?”

—-

That damn bird was getting in the way! Eldavin snarled. The spells were fighting all over the air, and he was maintaining nearly sixty eight different lines of attack and defense. Two were going through the bird, which it only detected as a feeling of bad constipation.

His opponent—was winning. They had actually chained a spell through the bird, and they were casting faster than Eldavin.

More complexly, too. Eldavin’s own magical knowledge was being exceeded. How did you cast through a living being like—

A gap in his head? He faltered. He felt he sh—

The slash through his detection spells was like a physical thing. He staggered, and the loss of so much mana cost him the battle.

His opponent had more mana, too. An inexhaustible supply, if Eldavin and all the [Mages] couldn’t simply win a pure mana clash! Not that it would work; it would be like trying to arm-wrestle someone who could spin around you and throw an elbow to the back of your head.

This was true magic. And it—

“Begone, you little pest!”

The magical link in the scrying spell imploded. A spell raced back through Eldavin’s connection. He threw up his hands.

“[Meridae’s Save—]”

That saved his life. Even so, Telim and the other [Mages] saw something hit the Grand Magus in the chest, sending him flipping over the dais and crashing into the wall. Eldavin lay on the ground for a good minute.

When he staggered to his feet, the magical presence had fled. Leaving Ryoka Griffin alone. A victory…of sorts. Eldavin was in no mood to celebrate. Like a guppy which had finally seen a big fish, he was rattled. And angry. He didn’t even know why.

I am the best in this world. The certainty was in him, a kind of arrogance to match even an [Archmage] of old’s. So then. How…

How did I lose?

—-

“…It seems your foe has retreated. Wisely; more casting gives more opportunities for tracing them.”

“You didn’t figure out who?”

“No!”

The snap through the speaking stone made Ryoka recoil. She had never heard T—Eldavin speak like that. Then he moderated his tone.

“…No. I was unprepared, Ryoka. Whomever that is—is exceptionally dangerous. Do you know who it could be? Even in general?”

She glanced at Tyrion, who was ‘not eavesdropping’ as he kept watching the sky, shield raised.

“No, I don’t.”

“I see. Well, this is far more concerning than I believed. I will make arrangements; this will not happen again. You are clearly in over your head, Ryoka. You should come to Wistram; there is much that cannot be said. Even here. Our speaking spells may be intercepted after…with such a foe about.”

He was rattled. Ryoka Griffin would have agreed in an instant if Teriarch had said that. If…she said one last thing as he told her that Valeterisa of all people would come and cast ward spells, to make sure she was safe.

“Thank you. Thank you, Eldavin. I’m…I’m so grateful.”

“I shall attend to your friend, Erin Solstice, in due course. There is much to do, and even I must make…preparations. Upgrade my repertoire. Artifacts. If I hadn’t left my research laboratory in the High Passes…”

Research laboratory. It could have been code. Or…Ryoka Griffin swallowed. Her lips trembled.

“Y—of course. I know you must be tired, Eldavin. I cannot thank you enough. Before I go, have you heard from Teriarch?”

Her heart thundered in her chest. The pause seemed to go on forever. And then the half-Elf spoke, his voice…tinged with uncertainty.

“Who? No.”

“I see. Sorry, I thought you’d met. I—”

Ryoka didn’t know what she said next. She just dropped the speaking stone and sank to the ground when she stumbled into her room. Her head in her hands.

What was happening?

It was all…

Falling apart. She knelt like that, until she realized she couldn’t. No longer. Her head rose.

She had to put it together. Somehow.

—-

It was a given that Ryoka’s friends, the people who knew her in any meaningful way, learned that the Wind Runner was not generally a calm person.

She had what could be described as panic attacks—although sometimes there were things to genuinely panic about—and she seemed to run around with a giant boulder named ‘stress’ strapped to her back at times.

She was not like her friend, Erin Solstice, who could happily spend a day rolling across a clean floor in her inn next to a little giggling Gnoll. Ryoka would discover termites.

If you liked her despite that, her secrecy, her tendency to run off and come back with more problems…there was a lot to still like.

Qualities House Veltras prized, since so many were included in the number of people who liked Ryoka.

Loyalty. Courage. A sense of adventure.

What was notable now, to people who had an inkling of Ryoka Griffin, was how calm she had suddenly become. After she returned to the mansion, she thanked everyone for their help. Took a deep breath and…relaxed.

All was not well in the world. However, if the floor turned to lava enough times, you learned to surf on the waves. That was how Ryoka felt now. There was a time for action, and a time for rest.

“This has been a fascinating little adventure, I don’t mind saying. Grand Magi, mysterious spells, and Couriers! And a [Witch]!”

Alevica scowled at Sir Leireit as he toasted a little party in Pellmia’s mansion with a glass of what Ryoka thought was champagne.

Although normal champagne was less glowy. And didn’t attract the Fruit Cats. They meowed, leaving their branches, demanding sips. Ryoka peered at them.

“They smell like fruit!”

“Totwhisker Cats. They don’t just smell like fruit, they use it. The little geniuses make alcohol, you know.”

“No.”

Ryoka didn’t believe Pellmia. The [Lord] laughed in delight and his family, even the reclusive Gilam, all looked proud of the factoid.

“You see, they know how to ferment fruits. So they find a hollow, drag in fruits, and essentially create an alcoholic slurry. Something in their whiskers is like a natural yeast—it’s magical, of course, but that’s why they’re named that. Totwhisker. As in, ‘a tot of gin’? Good luck getting any of their stuff away.”

“…Is…is there some kind of natural biological reason for this? Is creating alcohol a defense mechanism?”

Pellmia thought hard, sipping lightly from his drink as a cat tried to climb up and steal some.

“I think they just like it. Can’t say I blame them, but they try to steal every drink. A houseful of natural drunkards. Ah, we love you, don’t we?”

He bent down and scratched at a cat’s ears. Ryoka laughed as the cat meowed in vain, opening its mouth. That was the kind of thing to treasure.

Hethon and Sammial were allowed a very watered wine, and offered it in vain to the cats, who sniffed at the drinks and turned away in disgust. However, it was a sight to see Lord Tyrion continually moving his drink away from cats that kept leaping for it.

Somehow, House Veltras’ formality, at least of the main family, had no power here. Charlay was talking animatedly to Desinee.

“You’ve never had an ale? Really?”

“I have had vintages and specific decanters of kegs…”

“We’re going down to the tavern tonight! Who’s with me?”

“That sounds great!”

Swey and Buscrei instantly volunteered. Alevica was watching Charlay with extreme amusement. She sidled over to Ryoka.

“That idiot doesn’t know she’s talking to a [Lady], does she?”

Ryoka glanced at Charlay, who was talking to Desinee. She must have taken the woman for…a guest? Desinee was in a summer dress, but the Centauress had completely missed her expensive jewelry.

And signet ring. It was probably Buscrei, Swey, and Setth that had thrown her off. Ryoka shrugged.

“Want to tell her?”

Alevica smiled wickedly.

“No.”

“We shall provide transport back to First Landing, Sir Leireit, and our payment in full—I regret to say Lord Veltras cannot personally speed your journey.”

Jericha was taking care of business during the gathering. The [Sorcerer] nearly dropped his drink.

“Er, no need. I am honored, of course, but never again. I shall happily take an escort. I must say, though, that if I might find lodging, I wouldn’t mind touring the area and delaying my return?”

“Of course. Sir Leireit, you would be an honored guest. House Quellae is open to you.”

Keireen instantly turned and the [Sorcerer] beamed.

“Wonderful! And I should like to do some business of my own. Quellae’s fruits are a lovely gift when I return. First Landing has its amenities, but the countryside is…fresh. Such a beautiful landscape. Mind you, if you should ever come to First Landing or the northern cities, there is a time to be had.”

“Really? What kind?”

The other nobles were chatting. Ryoka saw Sammial and Hethon following the cats around, then glancing at her.

“Ryoka, now you’re better, can we go flying later?”

Sammial eagerly asked. Betta and Gilam looked around; the two younger adults were hovering on the edge of the ‘proper conversation’, although Charlay had her own informal chatter going on.

They were in that uncertain time when they weren’t quite old or authoritative enough to do more than add comments or steer the conversation. Gilam seemed to resent it more than Betta, and he kept glancing at her and Alevica. She supposed a Courier was more interesting and wondered if she should be social and engage them.

“Later, Sammial, I promise.”

Betta drifted over.

“What’s this about flying, Courier Griffin? I do apologize; I am Lady Betta Quellae, and this is my brother, Gilam of House Quellae. We did not have a chance to properly meet before the incident.”

“Oh—please excuse me. And uh, please call me Ryoka?”

That was an inversion of protocol, but Couriers did get to dance on the same field as nobility. Anyways, it made Betta smile. Ryoka was just explaining the flying trick to the two, who were fascinated despite it being ‘childish’, when she heard something catch her ears.

“You haven’t heard? There is the most splendiferous event taking place city-to-city. The Players of Celum. Have you seen them or heard of…?”

“You know, I have. Weren’t they down in Invrisil?”

Sir Leireit was talking to Pellmia and Keireen.

“They were! I didn’t see the plays there—they’ve migrated north. There’s a huge theatre in construction, but the plays are—”

He actually kissed his fingers and flicked them out.

“Beautiful. They’ve taken the north by storm, rather like that Singer of Terandria. Her songs are all over First Landing. Some of the styles aren’t for everyone’s taste—they’ve introduced a noise ordnance law for the young people. However, I can tell you the Players are acclaimed. In fact…here. I have a Flair of Esteem. It might help you gain a ticket…”

“A what, now?”

The [Lord] and [Lady] were quite interested by the fancy little letter, signed by…Ryoka glanced over. Emme?

“It’s one of the ways you can get a special ticket. You see, they’re intensely hard to get! Not the common seats, although there is a queue…but to see the best performance from the best seats or the opportunity to meet them? Nevermind an autograph or [Mage]-picture! I only have a Flair of Esteem—that’s something of a voucher that helps. Of course, one of the Five Families has a better shot at the best tickets. Even so, it might take a month or two.”

“Incredible. Are they that good?”

“There’s sound, blood, and you feel like you’re there, truly.”

“I shouldn’t like to see someone actually be wounded. I’ve seen enough of Pellmia’s blood in his sword practice, thank you.”

Keireen murmured. Leireit hastened to assure her there were comedies as well as the action stuff. Ryoka was astounded.

“The Players are already in First Landing? And they’re doing that well?”

She broke into the conversation. Leireit glanced over, surprised.

“Well? They have a theatre in Invrisil and I’m told one just opened in Pallass! First Landing loves them, and that means they’re the darlings of the city. Have you heard of the autographs? I suppose a Courier would. There’s even talk of them touring Terandria and other major cities! Although between you and me, the sea voyages are disgusting unless you get the best ships that can do it in under a week…”

The man beamed at Ryoka as she stared at him, all glittering delight in being the person to know about the hottest thing with the other nobles who hadn’t visited the big city in a while. Even Buscrei and the others were interested. Ryoka didn’t know how to break it to the man, so she coughed.

“I ah, do know about the Players of Celum. I’ve seen a number of their plays, actually. Back when they were in Invrisil and Liscor. Actually…I know the person who helped them start.”

“Truly?”

Leireit was astounded. Pellmia, who had been smoothing his chin and trying to hide a smile, burst out with it as well.

“We actually had the honor of seeing Jasi, Wesle, and the rest at Riverfarm. A personal play. Isn’t that right, Desinee?”

“The Players of Celum? I believe I have a collection of autographs. Indeed. Quite charming. I should like to see them…again. To see how they’ve settled in.”

The [Sorcerer]’s puffed-up chest deflated, rather like the Plumed Inflemril losing wind.

That was a bird from Bird’s Column in the Liscorian Gazette. Ryoka knew that because she’d bought a copy of the newspaper when she’d last visited. Bird’s silly little column was a daily write-up.

She fetched it out now, to prove to the incredulous Leireit that the Players of Celum had once been a regular in Liscor. The little ad convinced him.

“And here I thought I was bringing news and you all saw an exclusive? I’m…simply embarrassed. You’ll be the envy of First Landing if you have personal autographs, Lady Desinee.”

“Really?”

The woman’s eyes glittered. The other nobility looked interested too—one-upping their peers was always fun.

Somehow, Charlay missed the [Lady] part, having trotted off to a restroom. She clattered back into the conversation.

“Autographs? I have some!”

She waved a few in Leireit’s face from the party in Riverfarm. The [Sorcerer] gaped up at the slightly worn cardboard card.

“Is that a kiss from Jasi on it? I will pay you—no, I’ll trade you a wand for—what are you doing waving that around? You should have a stasis spell on it! Do you know how hard those are to get?”

Leireit instantly latched onto the autograph. Charlay triumphantly waved it over his head.

The fortunes of the Players continued to rise. Ryoka smiled, genuinely happy about that. She saw Alevica looking very distressed.

“What’s wrong, Alevica?”

“…I didn’t get one of those damn things. I didn’t know it was worth money.”

—-

Ryoka Griffin knew the Players of Celum. In fact, her signature was probably worth ten thousand Flairs of Esteem. It was just another fascinating thing about her.

The power of someone who travelled. It wasn’t unique to her; most Couriers could boast of the same thing. When you worked for powerful people, you could often say, ‘oh yes, I know them’. Call upon favors…

Charlay and Alevica were both City Runners because they had not broken through to the next level, yet. However, that night, one of them came a bit closer to that point, albeit through connections, not speed.

The Centauress dragged Desinee and some of the [Lords] out to the tavern. Ryoka thought it was fairly funny; Alevica did not, being content to eat and drink on Pellmia’s hospitality. If she had, Ryoka thought she might have a shot at being a Preferred Runner for some valuable clients.

“Fals was right. It’s about being friendly as much as it is running hard and seeing opportunities.”

She murmured to herself. Ryoka didn’t go into the nearby city; she had work to do.

One of those things was blowing Sammial and Hethon and a bunch of children around. They laughed, creating the sailboats and parachutes that children who had heard of the Wind Runner somehow telepathically learned to create in the exact same way.

Betta joined in, before being reminded she was a [Lady] by the scandalized [Housekeeper]. Gilam just watched, and Ryoka felt bad since she would have wanted to try if she was them.

She wasn’t, though, and because she was Ryoka, she retreated to her room after her hospitality bill had been partially paid. Not just to hide away.

To think.

“Eldavin. What happened?”

Ryoka could guess. But she could only guess, and speculate about a lot of things. Like Erin. Mrsha…her hands trembled as she tried to figure it all out.

“Fetohep of Khelt is a powerful person. I…I’m sure Khelt is powerful. But it’s distant. I’m in trouble myself. But Mrsha?”

Her stomach twisted. Her heart hurt, yet Ryoka was aware how far she was, even for her.

“Numbtongue is going after her. And Bird. Bird? I should be there. But…”

She had seen Drassi’s appeal on the scrying orb while sick. Ryoka had to believe that a continent-wide amber alert would help Mrsha. She had to believe that, or she’d go crazy and race after Mrsha.

And she couldn’t.

“I am under attack. I can’t drag Mrsha into this. Whoever that was beat Eldavin. Eldavin! I…”

Ryoka sat there. Then she sighed.

“Yeah. Ailendamus, huh? What kind of a spellcaster can beat Eldavin even if he’s….Eldavin, not Teriarch?”

She mused out loud. She hadn’t really stopped to consider just who was so mad at her. She had assumed everyone, and put it down to a [Royal Magician] or something, someone over Level 40.

However, Sir Leireit was Level 40, and what she’d just seen seemed five cuts above that. Ryoka was thinking clearly now she wasn’t oozing blood out of every pore. And what her mind told her, clearly, was this:

“That’s not normal. I really pissed off someone for them to go to this length. Let’s see. Unknown spellcasting that Jericha is stumped by. Superior magical quality. Really petty—I mean, I stole nothing and they are pissed. Superior magical artifact in a vault that can definitely help Erin. Powerful kingdom.”

Her brain was telling her something based on logical deductions and past experiences. It was a very, very obvious conclusion. Ryoka stared at her fingers, and waggled her two stumps.

“…No. It can’t be. That would be an unbelievable coincidence. Especially for me to just run into…”

On the other hand, it made a kind of stupid sense. How many immortals had she run into? Was it fate? Or…the fae?

“It would be just like me to be cursed to meet people like that. Ivolethe would laugh her frozen butt off.”

Ryoka sat there.

“No. It’s too stupid. I’m not the heroine of every story. This is just arrogance. This is just supposition.”

She stood up and paced around, but she kept coming back to the conclusion. Ryoka slapped her forehead and groaned.

“No. Then…”

She sighed and began to pull something out of her pack. The quiet guest room, decorated by fruit motifs on the wallpaper, was filled by the scents of the orchards again. It was so peaceful, yet out of any moment could come another bolt of lightning.

The Wind Runner had to do something about it. So. She sat down and pulled a strange, beautiful, metallic object off a belt loop and stared at it.

The Faeblade burst into life, a glowing pink blade trending towards ultraviolet. An edge so fine that you couldn’t see it. Ryoka handled it carelessly, knowing it wouldn’t cut her. She inspected the nigh-invisible grooves on the handle.

“Hm. Let me see.”

With one hand, she fished out the ultra-thin paper. She spread the instruction manual out, stared at the foreign language, and rubbed at her head.

“Okay. Press this, squeeze…no. Press this, squeeze—what is that?”

She stared at a little illustration of curved lines around a picture of her hand. This was written for children in pictographs and somehow she didn’t get it.

“If only someone could translate this. Someone could…just cast a spell. But that doesn’t exist.”

Ryoka cursed as the blade winked out again. She scratched her head, then froze, mid-scratch.

“Wait a second. Didn’t Ceria once say…? But everyone speaks…no way. No—I’m going to kill myself if it’s—”

She got up and paced out of the room.

—-

“[Translation]? That’s a spell.”

Alevica and Leireit were sitting in the parlor, stuffing themselves. The [Witch] glanced down at a plate of lovely salami, then up. She met Ryoka’s bug-eyed gaze.

“What? You find something in Goblin or Drathian? Stop…staring at me like that.”

“It’s a spell?”

“Sure it is. Barely anyone needs it. Some people use it to translate the spellbooks written by those idiots who make other languages.”

“C-can you cast it for me?”

Ryoka was screaming inside, but she hid that behind a big smile.

Alevica wasn’t fooled; she could see emotions. She eyed Ryoka, and edged behind the oblivious Leireit who was happily chewing on seedless grapes.

“…No.”

“I’ll pay you. Look, I’ll give you a recommendation for the Players or gold…”

Ryoka dug into her money pouch. Alevica leaned back.

“Look, I can’t cast [Translate], Ryoka. I’m a [Witch]. Also? It’s not a spell I know. So uh, calm down and…”

Leireit glanced up.

“I don’t know it either. Fairly esoteric as spells go. Who did you know who could cast it?”

“My friend—a Wistram [Mage]. She was an adventurer.”

“Ah, they would know it. You sometimes run into specific dialects in dungeons. Old Drake writing, and so on. Any scholarly-[Mage] should be able to cast it. Maybe Miss Jericha?”

—-

“I can’t cast [Translate]. What would you like translated?”

Jericha gave Ryoka a big smile. She peered at the object Ryoka had in her hand. Ryoka glanced at the mono-paper and tucked it away.

“…Nothing important. Say, um, does [Translate] tell you what the object says, or does it just translate for anyone?”

“It would have to go through me. I don’t know the spell, but I would be delighted to learn it. I can request the necessary spell information and most likely learn to cast it within the week. Would you like that?”

Ryoka stared at Jericha’s big, happy smile. She wondered who else she could ask. Not Ceria; Ceria was in Chandrar, another thing Ryoka could be helping with.

Valeterisa was in the area and would pay her a visit tomorrow or the day after. Ryoka thought about giving the Archmage of Izril the paper and the Faeblade. Knowing Valeterisa, she’d take it, and just run off with it.

So Jericha was somehow the better option. Unless, of course, the instructions said something like, ‘hey Ryoka, we’re so glad you helped us with our Dragon problem in the land of the Fae. We know you’re dumb as rocks so here’s instructions on how to turn the sword we gave you into a blaster. Also, we attached cold fusion instructions for you stupid primates.’

…It would not beggar belief. Ryoka covered her face.

“Why is nothing ever easy?”

“Life without trust often is, in my experience.”

“Huh?”

Jericha gave Ryoka another praticed smile.

“Nothing, Miss Griffin. May I help you in any other way today?”

—-

Ryoka was banging her head on the wall when Hethon peeked in on her in her rooms next. He was beginning to get worried about her.

“How can I forget [Translate] exists? Okay, Ceria only mentioned it once, and I supposed no one needed the spell but…okay. This is fine. I’m fine. This is good!”

She still gave her head a good thwaking for a few more hits. Then she sat down, buried her face in her hands.

“Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay…saving myself from being roasted or blasted by red lightning. Let’s do that instead.”

Hethon wondered what was going to happen now. Jericha had gone off to research a spell at Ryoka’s request, looking quite happy. Something was happening.

The Wind Runner was opening up. Or at least…asking for help, which was the same thing. Perhaps that was why Ryoka hadn’t closed the door to her room as she pulled something out.

“I should have thought of this too. I am so…let’s see. If this would have actually stopped me from getting cursed…who’s the best person? Alevica. Alevica—”

She charged out of her room and nearly ran over Hethon. The young [Lord] flushed.

“I was just—”

“Hethon?”

Ryoka took one look at him and knew he’d been spying. She tensed—then sighed, resigned.

“It’s fine. Uh—do you know if Alevica is still in the parlor?”

“I think she went into one of the other rooms to drink.”

“Huh. Thanks. I just need to find her.”

Hethon stared up at Ryoka’s head. His brows wrinkled.

“…What is that?”

He pointed up at the strange headband Ryoka was wearing. It looked like two strips of linen wrapped around her head. Which they were. He could have sworn they were the very same fabric that had been on her feet a few times.

Which they were, in fact. Ryoka gave him a very self-conscious look.

“I’m just testing something out. It’s…probably stupid. But don’t let that stop me.”

She jogged off. Hethon followed her, naturally. Who was not going to follow Ryoka when they heard that?

—-

Alevica was getting tired of being interrupted by Ryoka asking odd questions, but this time she stopped decanting a rather fine wine with Leireit and looked at Ryoka, grinning with amusement.

“Wait, say that again. You want me to curse you?”

Ryoka nervously adjusted the footwraps given to her by Nama. They were tied around her head and she felt as stupid as could be, wearing them. Yet she was exploring all options at this point and she knew they were powerful.

“Yup. I’d…like you to hex me.”

Alevica exchanged glances with Leireit. The [Sorcerer] looked highly amused, and the wine only helped that.

“This is proving to be the most entertaining job I’ve had in a while.”

“I know. Alright, fine. Let me just—”

Alevica pulled out a wand. Ryoka realized she was going to curse her right now, and held up her hands as Hethon, Sammial, and Jericha all skidded around the corner. Not to stop her, just to watch.

“Wait! Wait! Not a powerful curse! I just want uh, a minor hex.”

“Oh. Say that sooner. I was about to give you a nasty one.”

Alevica glowered. She rolled her eyes up as Sammial strode over.

“What are you doing now?”

“Just testing some gear. I’m trying to protect myself and since all my anti-spell wards exploded last time I got hit—”

“Oh, interesting. Is that an artifact of protection? I’ve never seen something like that.”

Leireit glanced at Ryoka’s slightly-dirty footwraps. The Courier’s face turned apprehensive.

“Uh…maybe they aren’t. But they might help.”

“Lord Hethon. Are those the…footwraps Miss Griffin was wearing?”

Hethon nodded as Ryoka waited for Alevica to get ready, taking a few deep breaths. Hethon nodded, squinting at the footwraps.

“They’re weird. What is she doing?”

Jericha frowned.

“I have no idea, Lord Hethon. That woman is an enigma. A maddening one. Sometimes I just want to shake the answers out of her.”

Hethon and Sammial could agree with that. However, they were surprised to hear Jericha say it.

“I have never heard you express yourself that way, Jericha.”

The woman glanced at Hethon, then turned. She actually leapt a foot in the air.

Lord Tyrion Veltras stood behind the rest of his family, watching Ryoka with folded arms. She was pacing back and forth in the carpeted drinking room, telling Alevica she didn’t want a permanent hex in front of the comfy, intimate furnishings, and the lovely velvet couches that Leireit and Alevica were getting crumbs all over.

“Lord Veltras! I…”

Jericha turned red as a beet. Hethon and Sammial were impressed for more reasons than just that, though.

“Father! Are you following Ryoka around too?”

Sammial whispered loudly. Hethon nearly laughed, but then he saw his father…twitch. Lord Tyrion smoothed at his mustache, glanced at Sammial, at Ryoka, and then coughed.

“…I was merely curious.”

All three jaws dropped. Then they saw more figures peeking out from the hallway. Pellmia and Keireen, Betta and Gilam having gone to join Charlay in the fun, were also following Tyrion.

“I must say, I feel like a young man again, sneaking around the home. This is quite fun.”

Pellmia whispered, a twinkle in his eyes. They had learned by now that if you followed Ryoka about when she was like this, she would do something highly interesting.

Of course, Hethon and Sammial were the originals who’d learned that long ago. So they all got a first-class seat to The Travails of Ryoka, a new play starring Ryoka Griffin as Ryoka Griffin where she let Alevica hex her.

The [Witch] aimed a wand as she gulped wine.

“Hex.”

She waved it, and Hethon thought he saw a twisting flicker stretch out of her wand. It reached out, and passed into Ryoka through her throat, disappearing into her. Jericha frowned; everyone else waited.

“Ooh. Not bad.”

Leireit murmured. Ryoka blinked.

“Did it work?”

Hethon was again confused; hadn’t they seen that? Then he heard a sound.

Hic.

Ryoka hiccuped, loudly. She put a hand over her mouth. Alevica snorted and spilled wine onto the couch. Keireen frowned at that, but Ryoka began to hiccup again.

Hic. Hic.

“Oh, hic—it. I just—hic—hexed—hic—I?”

“Yep. You asked for a weak one. Good thing too. That bandana did nothing.”

Alevica chortled as Ryoka hiccuped. The Wind Runner sighed.

“At—hic—least it’s not that bad. I—hic—thought you’d do far worse, Alevica.”

The [Witch] smirked at Ryoka. She waved a wand and the hiccups stopped.

“You think so? If I left that on for eighteen days, you’d change your tune.”

“Nasty.”

Leireit shook his head. Ryoka shuddered at the thought. Alevica was as evil as they said. Sighing, Ryoka took off the headbands. She stared at them, then put them on her feet.

“Okay, maybe it’s the wrong place. Try again. And this time don’t—”

She gulped as Alevica performed the spell again. Hethon and Jericha winced. Everyone else saw Ryoka stop mid-sentence. And then she turned pale. She scrabbled at her throat and tried to stop—

Too late. Ryoka opened her mouth and belched out a frog, which landed wetly on the ground before it began to dissipate. She gagged and Alevica took another long drink.

“Ooh, another failure. Want to try again? I’ve got lots of hexes. Genital warts? I can do those too, permanent as well.”

—-

Ryoka did not end up with permanent warts. However, six unpleasant hexes later, she learned that her footwraps…did not protect her from hexes.

Good to know. She sat with them on the ground. Nama’s great gift might actually have been…footwraps…

Ryoka rubbed at her forehead. She knew it was stupid to expect every little thing to have an ulterior feature like perfect magical protection, but it would have been nice. She stared at the footwraps for a long time.

“I know they’re powerful. Even Jericha saw it. Right, Jericha?”

There was a slight sound. Ryoka’s head rose. She turned.

“I know you’re there, Jericha. And you, Hethon.”

She’d spotted them following her around. Even so, Ryoka had to do a double-take as Hethon, Sammial, Jericha, and Tyrion all appeared. Pellmia and Keireen had joined Alevica and Leireit in having a drink of their wine.

“Ah. Miss Ryoka. I was passing by.”

Tyrion Veltras turned into even more of a statue as everyone turned to look at him. Ryoka looked at him, eyes wide, then recalled the [Lord] was still actively trying to court her. She glanced at the window, but decided against bailing out of it.

“…I just wanted to know what you were doing. Are those magical footwraps?”

Hethon answered after a look at his father. Ryoka shrugged, tiredly.

“They should be. I just…I don’t know.”

“They’re strange.”

Hethon muttered. He stared at the footwraps. Jericha agreed, absently.

“They are powerful magically, Miss Griffin. The most powerful magical item on you. Not conventionally, but significant.”

“What does that mean, Jericha?”

Tyrion was intrigued. So was Ryoka. The [Mage] fiddled with her spectacles.

“Potency, not mana. I would describe it as…the keenness of a blade’s edge, not how large it is. Some objects and people are noticeable for the quantity of mana in them. It is a standard way of measuring power. This? It is powerful, but some [Mages] might not recognize it as such.”

“Interesting. That makes sense…they’re uh, a gift. From my travels. Someone powerful gave it to me. A friend named Nama.”

Part of the reason Ryoka might be so leery of giving away information was how people like Jericha treated it. The woman instantly went to note that down, and stopped as Tyrion glanced at her reprovingly.

“Do they possess any unique powers?”

“I don’t think you can break them. But they clearly don’t stop me from being hexed. At least, generally. Maybe I could block a spell with them?”

“I could cast a minor one if you would risk it.”

Jericha offered. Ryoka shrugged.

“Go ahead.”

The woman promptly cast a teensy jet of flame at the wrappings. They failed to scorch the fabric. When Ryoka held it out for her, Jericha shot a bolt of lightning which dissipated onto the bindings. Tyrion offered his enchanted belt knife.

“I would dislike damaging the wrappings. Perhaps, though…?”

He carefully sawed at an edge, then, when it failed to leave a mark, cut with more force. Nothing. Ryoka smiled. That was reassuring, at least.

“I’ve tested them against far worse. Believe me, if they’re on my feet, I can barely feel a lot of fire. But…well. That’s a problem.”

She gestured. If she wrapped her feet in them, her feet were immune to a lot of things. She’d run through the Wild Hunt’s winter, and a field of flames without feeling a thing.

Yet Jericha, with a low-level [Flame Jet] spell, could blow flames around the thin linen wrap and burn anything not covered by them.

“Congratulations, Miss Griffin. You may have the most narrow shield in the entire world. You could protect…one forearm with it.”

Jericha drily concluded. It had resisted Tyrion’s dagger, which was a fairly good one, and even a Tier 3 spell, but it was just two linen wraps, after all.

“Invincible feet. That’s silly.”

Sammial agreed. Ryoka glowered at him.

“You try stepping on a nail, Sammy. I’ll take invincible footwraps, thanks. I wonder how good they are. Maybe I should try my weapon on it…but I don’t want to damage them.”

“The Windsword? I’ll hold the magic footwraps!”

Sammial was eager. Ryoka glanced at him.

“What? The Faeb—no, it doesn’t have a real name. Who calls it that?”

Sammial stared at Ryoka, incredulously.

“Everyone. Everyone knows the Wind Runner owns the Windsword.”

“How do they know that?”

“Lord Deilan El called it that. It’s a Kaalblade. That’s what the news said.”

“No, it—what? He said that, but everyone thinks…? Well, it’s fine, but—okay.”

Ryoka fished it out, but Hethon kept peering at the other strip that was lying on the floor.

Sure enough, Ryoka’s Faeblade/Windsword failed to cut the linen, much to her relief, but neither did it shatter like it did when striking magical armor. It just failed to cut, rather like it was dull and the linen were…linen.

“That is strange. I wonder. It would be problematic if it did cut, but…”

Tyrion Veltras slowly unsheathed his sword. Jericha turned, her eyes going huge in her head.

The blade of House Veltras? The sword looked like plain steel as it left the equally simple scabbard. Until it cut the light. Hethon had seen it many times, though never been allowed to touch it.

The Sword of Veltras could cut the rays of light in half where blade met air. There was a line like the way dawn broke on the horizon across the perfect edge, and the air behind the edge looked a tiny bit darker than the rest of the world.

And that was only when it was not being swung. When it struck a foe and used its magic, then, and only then could you see the tracing on the blade. The words proclaiming the heirloom’s history, the sigils…Tyrion had once told Hethon it was because a good blade did not have to scream it was fanciful or powerful.

“Lord Veltras…are you certain?”

“Only if Miss Griffin would risk her bindings.”

Ryoka licked her lips. One of the most powerful weapons in all of Izril, a relic of a weapon, caught the air, a slight bit of metal unsheathed from the scabbard. After a second, she gingerly, gingerly, let the fabric dangle.

Lord Tyrion Veltras accepted the fabric. He performed a simple test. As a boy, he had once seen his father slice a block of wood by laying the blade down and dropping the block of firewood on top of the edge. So he gingerly laid the very end of the fabric on the end of the blade; it could slice wood like paper, and paper like…

The linen lay on the end of the Sword of Veltras like…cloth. Jericha choked on her own spit.

“Impossible!”

Tyrion started. Then he slowly, without asking, tossed the linen up. He unsheathed his sword in one movement, and slashed at it. Ryoka yelped, but the cut was high and away from everyone else.

The linen floated—then caught on the sword, it was flung to the ground in a little tangle of fabric. Everyone else stared at the slightly dirty, white cloth.

It was not cut. Tyrion and Jericha turned to Ryoka. The Wind Runner blinked, then turned to Sammial.

“So? Think they’re not cool now?”

Sammy’s mouth was so wide open he could have swallowed both footwraps. The Wind Runner laughed at him.

She laughed. Her teeth flashed and her face lit up. Ryoka Griffin’s darker skin and black hair stood out among the other Humans. Even Charlay. When she laughed, though, she was like everyone else.

Her green eyes lit up. She stood, barefoot, as tall as the long-legged Veltras family, and laughed. Sammial began grinning himself, with awe at the footwraps. Jericha and Tyrion were surprised, but they smiled too.

This felt…good. Hethon looked up for a second.

It had been too long, so long that moments like this felt almost unfamiliar. But Tyrion himself chuckled, looking at the footwraps ruefully and at his own sword. Too long, but oh, how the two boys longed for this.

A better moment than silent dinners, without Tyrion many nights. Laughter, from both adults and children. Ryoka Griffin caught her breath after a moment.

“Invincible footwraps!”

That set off another round of laughter. Jericha began giggling, and it was so extraordinary that she blushed, but everyone laughed harder.

“A sword that cuts everything but magic and footwraps stronger than armor. If you could use that sword—”

“Or if I were a [Martial Artist], or [Kickboxer]…what a waste!”

Ryoka’s greatest weapons were weird as she was. She calmed down after a moment, and nodded ruefully.

“At least I know they’re tough.”

Then Hethon spoke up.

“They’re so strange.”

He was kneeling, staring down at the footwraps on all fours. Peering at it. Well, that was obvious. Yet something about the way the young man said it…Ryoka stopped chuckling.

“They are odd. But good.”

Hethon nodded distractedly.

“No. I mean…”

His face drew closer to the wraps, which did smell a bit of feet and dirt. They weren’t clean; they were smudged and used. Jericha bent down.

“Lord Hethon, they aren’t clean. I could have them washed…”

He didn’t reply. He bent lower, frowning.

“So weird. Father. Father, do you see it? Look.”

Tyrion Veltras raised his brows. He squatted down and Sammial crowded around.

“I don’t get it. They smell of feet.”

The boy complained after a moment, but his father wasn’t so quick to dismiss them. He frowned.

“I…are you seeing something, Hethon?”

“Yes. Right there.”

Hethon pointed. Lord Tyrion leaned forwards until his nose was practically touching the footwraps and began squinting. Ryoka stopped. Jericha?

Jericha was concerned.

“My lord…Lord Hethon…”

They were so close their breath was moving the cloth. Far too close to a piece of footwear for her comfort.

She wanted to say, ‘please stop staring at a bunch of dirty linen recently covering Ryoka’s feet.’ Or, if she was more honest, ‘please let this not be an undiscovered fetish’. Then again…it would explain far too much.

That wasn’t what Hethon and Tyrion were staring at. Rather, it was Hethon.

His…eyes. Tyrion glanced at his son, and then strained his own gaze to see.

Some of House Veltras had eyes like hawks. Buscrei had peerless vision that could magnify itself. Hethon? Hethon had, on his first tilting attempt, hit a moving target at extreme speed.

He had also seen…something…when even the other [Mages] hadn’t during the magical war in the air. Jericha gazed at the son of House Veltras and her lips moved at the same time as Tyrion.

“His eyes.”

It struck the two at the same time. But then Tyrion saw what his son had noticed, that no one, not even Ryoka, had.

The curious qualities of her footwraps. No, not the dirt. Not the fact they’d been on Ryoka’s feet. Rather…here was something interesting.

The footwraps were dirty. But the dirt wasn’t in the cloth. It rode on top of the fabric. The dirt rode on it, but at no point had it ever dug into the thread itself, melding itself with the fabric. That wasn’t uncommon for enchanted clothing, of course, but the stitching was odd too.

Normal fabric had a rather typical weave. Of course, the individual stitching grew quite fine, but there was a logic to how you put together everything from pants to handkerchiefs. The fine skill of sewing had been developed into an art, in fact, a mathematical equation that even non-experts heard now and then.

There were unique derivations, of course. Clever ways to adjust fabric. But this?

Hethon had never seen this kind of stitchwork. At first, it seemed just…interestingly odd. The individual lines of thread, what seemed like just plain, exceptionally high-quality cotton threads without loose fibres were coming together…diagonally. They had a vertical loop through the center, but then the thread disappeared through the other side.

It perplexed Hethon.

Who would bother with this kind of style? Was there a point? It seemed needlessly complex.

Here was where it got odd, though. The linen was tangled up, so you could follow the thread about as it was looped into the seamless cloth. All right and proper, right?

Well…Hethon was having trouble. Sometimes, for fun, he’d watch how a thread continued through cloth. He couldn’t do it, here.

He kept trying to follow the thread as it looped through the fabric and kept…losing it. It went through the diagonal criss-cross, through the fabric…out the back…but where was it?

Hethon could see where another part of thread began. Yet the sewn footwrap weave had no beginning or end. Even at the edges.

“I can’t figure out where it begins. See? It vanishes here and should come through here, but…”

Hethon was pointing to his father. Ryoka and Jericha traded glances.

“I can’t see! Jericha, do something!”

Sammial protested. The woman raised a hand.

“[Magnify Image].”

“Ow!”

Tyrion and Hethon both clapped their hands to their eyes as the view enhanced. Jericha raised her own hands.

“My [Lords], I am so sorry—what is that?”

She saw what they had been staring at before. Ryoka bent down, and saw the magnified stitching. All of them gazed at the fabric, at first confused, then nonplussed, then fascinated. Sammial was the only one who didn’t get it.

“What’s so special about that?”

What was special was…Ryoka’s skin tingled. She knew what this was.

There was no way to complete the loop. It was…an optical illusion, but made into reality. Like the image of a staircase that completed itself such that you could ‘walk’ up it forever. Something that only worked as a trick because there was no way to actually create it in the real world.

“Penrose stairs. An impossible object.”

Ryoka muttered. Tyrion was tracing one line over and over…

“This is impossible. It must be dimensional magic.”

“It is not, Lord Veltras. I am sure I would sense that. And even if I couldn’t…that would mean each time it loops, tens of thousands of times in this fabric, there is a little pocket dimension that—this—this is truly impossible.”

Jericha was unnerved. She looked up—and saw Ryoka’s eyes dancing. Hethon glanced up at the Wind Runner’s smile.

Ryoka was smiling with delight.

“Perspective.”

That was all she said. It made sense. Oh, how clever.

No wonder she’d believed they were special. No wonder Nama had told her they wouldn’t wear out. How could you break something with no beginning or end?

Fae tricks. Yet, it was such a simple trick. An impossible one for anyone on Earth to ever actually create, but in the logic of the fae? This was probably as simple as they came. Yet in their simplicity, they created a fabric that not even advanced alien tech or actual magic could tear.

It was amazing, unreal, and simple and clever! Ryoka wondered if this was how the fae fought.

It was beautiful and simple.

“Thank you, Nama.”

Ryoka gathered up the precious little footwraps her friendly protector had given her. She glanced at the Faeblade, hanging at her side. Weapons of a strange kind, for a strange Runner.

The wind blew, and for a second the orchard whispered. Hethon saw the tops of countless trees dance in delight, in response to Ryoka’s smile. He looked up and fell a bit in love with that.

Tyrion looked at Ryoka too. She stood there, at peace.

“Those are the gifts you received from the visitors? Truly unsurpassed gifts.”

He remarked, softly. Ryoka Griffin patted her side.

“I have one more. Not a weapon. Just a gift. Something valuable.”

She stood there for a second. The others nodded—but then Ryoka realized her mistake. She dug, exceedingly carefully, in her belt pouch, and came up with a folded scrap of paper.

“I’m sorry. Here. If you want to see it, take a look. It might be more valuable than the Windsword and the footwraps, though.”

The Veltras’ crowded around. They had to see this. Hethon stared as Tyrion slowly unfolded the paper. He saw a scribble of ink and was disappointed. Then he looked up, as Jericha reached for him.

“Lord Hethon? What—”

Hethon blinked. Then he realized he was on the ground. He stared at his knee, and the other one placed just so. He was…kneeling? He glanced at Sammial, who caught himself. Then Tyrion, who had not knelt, but stopped himself. What…

Hethon looked at the words again. There were just two, and they made no sense. Well, proper names didn’t. He wondered why they mattered, for surely they did.

Arthur Pendragon.

A slightly clumsy scrawl, unpracticed, even a bit badly done, as if someone had yet to fully master his letters. Hethon could have done better himself. The ink was plain, the paper…paper. Yet when Ryoka Griffin took it back, she looked at it, and her eyes sharpened. She took a deep breath, as Tyrion Veltras looked at the Wind Runner.

“What is that, Ryoka?”

She nodded at the signature and stared at it again. Ryoka Griffin closed her eyes and murmured as she thought of the boy waiting, beholding his destiny, yet still…drawing the sword.

“Courage.”

—-

That night, Charlay raced back into House Quellae’s mansion and hid in the stables.

“I didn’t take offense. Please come out, Runner Charlay.”

Desinee convinced her to stop trying to pretend to be a horse. Charlay peeked over the lip of the stable.

“I am so sorry, your ladyship!”

They came into the mansion, slightly unsteady, a bit drunk on cheap ale and good times. Buscrei and Swey were both falling over tables, and Setth was keeping them upright.

It was a convivial, good night. In other times, Keireen and Pellmia would have had to help the group to bed.

As it happened, there was no need. The drinking party came to a stop as they heard and saw something interesting.

Ryoka Griffin was sitting in the living room. She sat by the fire, so her shadow was long across the cobblestone chimney, made of magical stones with flecks of crystal or other glowing light across them.

It glowed faintly, and the wood and carpet flooring contained two little boys sitting there, right up by her feet. The grand chairs were also filled by none other than Lord Pellmia, Keireen, Betta, and Tyrion Veltras himself.

The others halted. Not for that alone, but because they realized…there were more than just the nobility.

Alevica watched from the shadows. Sir Leireit was seated, but there were servants, even the off-duty guards and children all gathered about. Listening quietly, standing from the hallways, but they were allowed to be here.

Ryoka had asked for it. Jericha hovered with them rather than go forwards, noting Gilam also standing with reserve, albeit alone. Yet they were all listening.

“What’s all this in aid of?”

Swey whispered as the others slowed. He got a response as Ryoka spoke.

“The Wind Runner is telling a story.”

Their heads turned back to Ryoka. Of all the things…storytelling from Ryoka Griffin? It didn’t fit her.

But then, they had never seen her with the fae, and the Stone Spears tribe. She had done this once before. And this?

Ryoka held something in her hands. Three signatures. Of course, she had more than three; you asked for copies. But these were the three, and one was the very same one she’d gotten first.

From the brave boy. He who would be King of Avalon.

King of Chivalry. King of Knights. King of Camelot.

Arthur Pendragon.

“The great [Wizard], Merlin, had foreseen his own demise. You see, some people say that he moved through time…backwards.”

“Backwards? How?”

Sammial’s voice piped up. He was shushed, but Ryoka tried to explain.

“You see, he could see through time. So it didn’t matter when he was; he knew Arthur to be the [King] because it was all the same. In the same way, Merlin knew his fate at the hands of Morgan le Fay, the [Enchantress].”

“But if he knew what was going to happen, why didn’t he do something?”

“Sammial…”

Tyrion’s voice was quiet. Ryoka smiled.

“Well, sometimes you let things happen. I don’t know why. Maybe he couldn’t change it. Maybe he thought it was for the best. Maybe…”

She looked past them all. The audience shivered as Ryoka’s eyes changed.

She was not the best [Storyteller] to grace Lord Pellmia’s mansion. They had known [Bards], great amateurs and experts alike. Naturally talented men and women. Those with Skills.

Barelle the Bard himself had come here, once. Yet Ryoka Griffin had something that even he lacked. Or rather, something only Barelle could even match.

She was not perfect. She made mistakes and people interrupted. She didn’t remember the story perfectly, and hadn’t practiced it.

Nevertheless…she looked past them all at three solemn faces. A sword in the stone. When Ryoka told the story, you believed it.

The greatest storytellers had lived the very moments they recreated. So Ryoka told them about the bravest boy she had ever known. The man who had made many mistakes, yet the origin of so many tales. The timeless, tragic, glorious legend.

King Arthur of Camelot.

It was the tale that echoed in Terandria now, whether they knew it or not. The heart of every [King] and brave [Knight]. Ryoka Griffin had met him.

Some day he would return. It was one of Earth’s greatest stories, in its many forms. Perhaps because you could keep telling it.

Hethon and Sammial scooted forwards to the warm fire, their stomachs filled by snacks brought out, hot milk. They sat on the carpet as they listened to Ryoka’s low voice, echoing around the room.

She could be proud of that. Ryoka spoke until her voice was hoarse. She sipped from potions, accepted wine, and told the story.

Whatever else might be done after this—she had told them of Arthur. Not just of his heroism, but the way she saw it. The boy who accepted the crown for the good of his people. She was satisfied; there were not many tears, but it moved them. Tyrion Veltras himself listened, his face going distant as she spoke of Arthur’s sacrifice, his loss.

So ended the first day Ryoka Griffin truly spent in House Quellae’s manor, as a true guest, not an invalid, flighty runner or target of [Matchmakers]. She lay down in the soft bedding and fell asleep, content. Even smiling.

It was, as Pellmia would later say over breakfast the next day, one of the best guest experiences he’d ever had. And he was the host.

Ryoka was just a bit proud of that. She saw her friends, and the busybodies interested in amusing matchmaking looking at her differently the next day. As if Ryoka had made it harder to shove her into a closet with Tyrion.

Well, as if she were a person, not an interesting diversion. Ryoka Griffin stood taller. She smiled. She exchanged farewells with Alevica, who went off with a lot of looted food, and Charlay, who had a job from Lady Desinee, much to her delight.

“I don’t know where she comes from, but she is a fascinating girl.”

Keireen remarked to Pellmia in private as Ryoka took sword-lessons from Tyrion, let Sammial ‘jump’ from the mansion with a worried Jericha watching, and walked about the orchard. They came back with a basket full of cherries, and Pellmia smiled.

“Yes. Quite. Every time I think I won’t be surprised…well now. There is the Courier, the Wind Runner of Reizmelt.”

Keireen peered at Ryoka, and laughed and nodded. Ryoka was beginning to fit her title.

They got a second, almost full day out of it. A day where the world was not right in many places, but Ryoka Griffin just relaxed, content to take the moment for once. By nightfall, she was joking over dinner with the others, and writing replies to Lyonette, who had confirmed Fetohep’s words.

Ryoka was waiting for Magnolia’s response, and anticipating Valeterisa’s arrival tomorrow with some dread. She turned in, composing ways to tell Magnolia without telling her if she wanted clarification or…figure out what to do. Night fell over House Quellae.

Then Ailendamus attacked.

As Ryoka had known they would.

—-

“To arms! To arms! Lizardfolk!”

The roar was one sound over the din of explosions, horses screaming, people screaming, and the ringing of metal on metal. Lord Setth pointed at the figures.

“Lizardfolk? Are you mad, man? They’re Centaurs!”

Buscrei screamed back. She loosed an arrow and saw a Centaur fall. Setth grimly placed himself at one of the doors. He realized what it was at the same time as his cousin and they chorused.

“Illusion spells!”

It didn’t matter who, in truth. They came out of the orchards, nearly four hundred of them. Quellae had raised the alarm scant minutes before the forces arrived.

They were definitely mounted. Even under whatever Skill or spell it was, Buscrei didn’t think the now-Dullahans could move that fast. She saw them as huge, striding shapes, but when she loosed an arrow, she saw the shapes change to a prone Garuda and a running cow.

Mounted warriors. They still fell. But…she ducked as an arrow thunked into the wood by the windowsill.

They were good. They stormed around the mansion, seeking to break in. They might have, for all House Quellae was not undefended. Keireen’s protective Skill couldn’t keep them back for more than a minute and there were some who were clearly high-level.

They might have, but for House Veltras.

The first armored figure burst through one of the windows. He or she whirled, saw a screaming [Housemaid]—and lowered the blade.

“Where is the Courier?”

The figure demanded. The [Housemaid] fled, shrieking, and they cursed. They whirled, sword going up—

Lord Swey grabbed the arm, as the two plowed into a wall. The armored figure cursed and sought to bring the sword down.

“Do not force me to kill you, si—swine!”

The insult didn’t move Swey one way or another. The warrior yanked their arm back—or tried to. They could not.

The [Mountain Lord]’s grip was like a band of steel. And…the warrior stared at their gauntleted arm. They felt the enchanted metal begin to crunch as Swey’s hand closed. The same hands that climbed the cliffs around his home—

More figures were galloping around the sides of the mansion, seeking to break through at another angle. They saw a squad of fourteen figures braced.

“Spears. Watch out—”

Their leader was cautioning the others as they turned. Then they heard a shout.

“[Porcupine’s Onslaught]! [Extended Reach—”

“Dead gods!”

One of the warriors shouted just before a wall of spears struck the warriors off their armored horses. They hit the ground, stunned. Just in time to see House Veltras’ bodyguards charging at them. They’d hit them from nigh on forty feet away! The warriors rose to their feet, drew their blades.

House Veltras’ bodyguards were storming into areas; an entire squad joined Buscrei and began downing warrior after warrior. The attackers were dismayed.

After all, they were [Knights]. Yet they were running into some of Izril’s finest.

Then the [Lord] appeared on horseback with Jericha by his side. He looked around—and pointed.

“There. Take out the commander.”

He rode down on the leader in the field. The [Knight] had to stop himself from saluting, with regret. Their mission was secret.

They had come from far away, over sea, at fastest speed. Failure was not an option—yet they might fail to take the mansion by force. In fact, with each passing second, it seemed more and more grim. Still, the warriors fought on, cloaked by spell, dragging their fallen back.

They just had to buy time.

“Is this Ailendamus? They must be mad! Even if they hide it—”

Pellmia was in the mansion, not sortieing with Tyrion. He longed to, but his wife and family were here. Keireen whirled.

“They’re hiding it. They must not know we know, and even if we do—they’re not trying to kill us. Not yet. Where’s Ryoka?”

The [Lord of Orchards] realized who their target was and cursed his idiocy.

“The guest rooms! To me!”

His bodyguard and Pellmia charged there, but only found an empty room. Armored figures burst through the wall, and Pellmia raised his sword. Where was Ryoka?

The real attackers did not make noise. They slipped into the mansion while House Veltras and Quellae were distracted by the noisy [Knights].

Invisibility spells. Localized teleports. Shadow-jumps.

Half didn’t make it. Veltras’ [Bodyguards] around Hethon and Sammial’s rooms killed a squad appearing there, but Ryoka was not there.

Lady Betta Quellae screamed as one of the figures appeared in front of her. The wand rose. Hesitated. She was a [Lady], and not—

“Betta! [Gorecut Step]!”

A blade slashed through the figure. Blood sprayed everywhere. Betta flinched as hot liquid struck her face and dress. She lowered shaking hands. How—who had—?

“Gilam?”

Her brother lowered his sword. He panted, eyes alight—then froze as he realized she had heard his Skill. Then both turned, before they could unpack that moment.

“Lord Sammial! Come back!”

Bodyguards were bellowing. Sammial was shouting as he ran past them.

“They’re after Ryoka! Hurry! She’s—”

Figures swept towards Sammial and the bodyguards clashed with them in the corridors, calling Jericha and Tyrion back in. Sammial ran on, ignored by the combatants, as Gilam thrust Betta behind him and raised his blade, snarling. Yet everyone’s quarry wasn’t here, as Sammial was shouting.

—-

Ryoka Griffin was outside the mansion. Sammial had seen her jump out the window before the [Bodyguards] dragged him away with Hethon.

Now, he ran out of the stables, as fighters swerved around him. People were shouting his name, but he followed the…sense he had. Where?

There.

Ryoka Griffin was standing at the edge of the cherry trees, where she had picked cherries this morning with him and Hethon and his father. Sammial slowed, clutching at his burning chest.

The Wind Runner had her magnificent blade in one hand. Her footwraps were over her off-hand, her right hand, like a martial artist would wrap their hand. A kind of basic buckler.

Four figures had come out of the trees. One was behind her, and the Wind Runner was adjusting her posture. None of them focused on Sammial.

“—call it off. Are you here to kill me?”

She was speaking. Sammial saw her tense, and the wind was ominously still. But not dead. Charged. One of the figures shook a helmeted head.

“We have orders not to kill any of the nobility or guards if possible. There shall be no slaughter.”

“Then are you going to kill me?”

Silence. At last, one of the figures shook their head. She spoke, as she planted her sword.

“Upon my honor, we have no such orders.”

Ryoka Griffin stared at the armored [Knight]. Then her eyes swung sideways. The attackers were in retreat.

“Fine. Then…”

Sammial saw the Faeblade turn off. Ryoka swung it down, attaching it to her belt, and raised her arms. He didn’t know what was happening. What was she doing?

—-

Ryoka put her arms up as the four ‘mysterious assailants’ advanced. They kept changing in her perception, but she saw them for who they were.

Perhaps it was the land of the fae that helped her. Ryoka stared, and her eyes found reality among lies.

Two [Knights], two figures in masked clothing, dark black. [Assassins] or [Infiltrators]. One seized her arm.

“Lord Captain Dutraic, we have the Courier. We are taking too many casualties. Please signal the retreat.”

They barked into a speaking stone. Ryoka saw one of the others draw something from a belt and clasp it around her. Cuffs. She felt herself grow weak, but they didn’t even bother with grabbing her sword. All the magical items she wore had gone dead.

Except for the wind. It blew around her, unconcerned, tensed. Good. Ryoka heard a response from the speaking stone.

“They are already falling back. Prepare to ride ahead. Eight teleport scrolls are authorized per individual. Assign four to—”

Ryoka’s mind was whirling. She supposed she shouldn’t be able to hear this either; if she didn’t concentrate, she heard a bunch of gibberish. But then she did hear something, clear as day.

“No. You will not waste time. Take the thief here at once.”

A second voice broke in, without concealment or alteration. A familiar voice. Ryoka gritted her teeth. At least it hadn’t told them to kill her.

The Lord Captain’s voice broke off. Then returned.

“Your Grace, I beg you to reconsider. I have thirty two [Lesser Teleport] scrolls ready for action. My ship is prepared to set sail. We can return to port in no less than four days if we burn wind spells nonstop—”

“Unacceptable. Do not argue back! Activate the scroll—now! I wish to lay eyes on this mewling thief without more time wasted!”

The Lord Captain began to argue. The [Knights] and [Infiltrators] looked at each other. Ryoka Griffin just waited.

“We have the scroll, Lord Captain. Shall we employ it?”

The [Knight]’s voice shook slightly as she went for a sealed case at her side. There was silence from the other end.

“As Ailendamus wills it. Let it be done. Activate the scroll.”

The Lord Captain sounded like he was in pain. Ryoka Griffin saw the female [Knight] motion to the others.

“The charge can barely sustain four. I shall take her alone, for safety.”

“Are you sure, Dame Eclizza?”

“She is cuffed and surrendered. It may be the scroll will not burn itself out. Stand clear. Hold them back; they will sense it for the first five seconds.”

The [Knight] turned. She took Ryoka Griffins’ arm. Still, the Wind Runner did not move.

They had her. This mysterious attacking force, and the impatient voice wanted her to go to him now. Oh dear, how could this happen? Who could it be?

Ryoka knew. It was Ailendamus. That was obvious even if she couldn’t see their crest. They might be able to deny it; it didn’t sound like whoever was ordering this cared.

Your Grace. Someone important? Wasn’t that a royal term?

Ryoka didn’t know. She was braced, but she had left her room, gone out to tell them to pull back, to avoid more people dying. Of course she’d suspected this. Someone who didn’t back down when Eldavin and all of Wistram and one of the Five Families was backing her wasn’t going to stop at anything.

“Mrsha…”

The Wind Runner saw the scroll case open. Yet she was still calm. So long as she was being pursued, she couldn’t help. And this?

Oh, let Fetohep of Khelt find an easy way to save Erin. Let her be alive. Let her come to life and me waste all of my time.

But if not? Ryoka Griffin remembered what Ivolethe had said. This scroll. That was the surest way.

Ryoka was a continent apart. She stared as a familiar, glowing spider web of magic appeared on the ground. The [Knights] falling back through the trees and [Infiltrators] groaned when they saw it.

“A Scroll of Greater Teleport.”

The [Knight] looked at Ryoka. Her voice was flat.

“Rejoice, Courier. This has already cost A—my land more than you know.”

Her grip was steel, but Ryoka never moved. The Wind Runner met the visored glare.

“I’m not your enemy. This is a mistake. I’m going to sort this out.”

And get closer to what Erin needs. Her heart was pounding so loud in her chest, she barely heard the whine of the air moving. The golden sigils were moving about, opening a portal across the world.

True magic. Grand magic. She saw the air split. In the distance, there was shouting, the ring of steel. Tyrion?

He was too slow. Even with proper time to activate the scroll, unlike the Horn’s desperate flight from the Village of the Dead, it was barely fifteen seconds as the predetermined coordinates activated the magic.

The world split in half, and Ryoka felt herself and the [Knight] being carried into a world apart. A world where distance lost its meaning. They began to flicker out of reality for a heartbeat—

“No! You can’t have her! I command it! Ryoka!”

She heard a familiar voice. Her eyes widened.

“Sammial, no—”

A little boy charged out of the thicket. The [Infiltrators] and [Knights], focused on the [Lord] rampaging towards them, hadn’t even spotted the non-threat. He charged past a pair of gauntleted hands that tried to grab him. Ryoka thrust a hand out, but the [Knight] was dragging her back.

“No—”

He grabbed her leg. Ryoka Griffin’s cry cut off. Tyrion Veltras burst into the clearing as the warriors fell back just to see his son and Ryoka Griffin—

Vanish.

The remaining three warriors looked at the spot where Ryoka and Sammial had been. One of them spoke a single curse.

That was not…good. Disastrous.

It was just well that no one knew who they were.

—-

Ryoka froze, mid-transit. So did Sammial, and the [Knight]. They were spun into the aether, like two-dimensional figures in a three-dimensional world. Only, with more dimensions.

Ryoka felt it. It was…familiar. Familiar, but she still wanted to scream. To throw up as she was twisted in ways she should not have been.

It was a moment of transit. Probably only a second. It stretched into infinity because Ryoka was, unfortunately, able to process the experience, even in a limited way.

It just added to her suffering.

She screamed, or tried to, as the moment stretched and she felt the world around her breaking.

Something…was wrong.

This was taking longer than it should. Ryoka felt it first, but even Sammial and the [Knight] began to sense it.

They cried out, but sound was strange here. What was happening? Something was wrong. Something was—

Ryoka saw something in this space, this world, moving with them. It was the only real thing. It was…

A pair of people. They materialized out of the whirling confusion, almost as confused. Then—Ryoka saw them.

A vast being of ideas and magic barely constrained by mortal form. A glowing woman, a rainbow of colors bearing a sword and shield that remained constant.

A half-Elf, shining with magic, her body half-destroyed, yet shining like a beacon of mana.

They were travelling the same way! And—astonished as the three mortals.

“Someone else is using [Greater Teleport]? Significant—”

Ryoka Griffin locked eyes with the Death of Magic. Silvenia. The Death of Chains herself was shouting as the dimension twisted her being. Yet the half-Elf [Archmage] moved, keeping herself…real…somehow. She grinned at Ryoka.

Then pointed. The Wind Runner saw a flash—then the [Knight] holding her shrieked.

“Ailend—”

She vanished. The ray touched her and she disappeared. It vanished into the whirling confusion. Silvenia shifted aim. At Ryoka and Sammial.

“No—”

Ryoka shouted, but she couldn’t dodge. There was no air here! No—

“SILVENIA.”

The Death of Chains grabbed the half-Elf’s hand. She was staring at Ryoka, and the cuffs on Ryoka’s wrists. Chains. At Sammial. The boy clung to Ryoka’s leg, eyes wide. Silvenia snarled. She took aim again and the Death of Chains roared—

They parted. The world didn’t tear them apart; rather, it pulled them back into reality. Ryoka saw light, the rule of gravity and—

She stumbled. The Wind Runner fell to her knees, onto an intricate pattern of marble tiles. She heard Sammial screaming, the roar of magic exploding around her as the scroll blasted itself apart. Then…shouts of horror.

“Dead gods, Dame Eclizza! What has she—”

Blood and pieces of armor and flesh rained down around Ryoka and Sammial. The [Knight]. Ryoka heard voices, the ring of steel, and then a voice, booming above it all.

“Silence! The thief did nothing. That was…that spell is headed to Rhir. The Death of Magic.”

Exclamations. Ringing footfalls. But that voice—that familiar voice was shouting.

“Leave me. Do not argue!”

Something flung one of the people arguing across the room. Ryoka didn’t hear. She knelt there, then felt something splatter over her shoulder.

Sammial. The boy was throwing up. Ryoka nearly did herself. She reached out, unsure of how to move her arms, if hearts should beat.

“Sammial? Sammy, you idiot. I meant to do this. Oh no. Oh…”

She held the boy. He was crying. Ryoka clutched him tightly. Why did everything she do—

“What is this little pest? Can they not even capture one wretched thief properly?”

Footfalls. Ryoka looked up into the face of her nemesis. A man with a pointed goatee, harsh features, regal clothing, stared down at her and Sammial in disgust. He shone with magical power, and his eyes were flinty. Cold.

Jade green, like hers. For a second, she was uncertain. They should be mismatched.

The Duke Rhisveri laid eyes upon Ryoka Griffin in the flesh. He glanced at Sammial.

“Worthless.”

His finger rose. A similar spell to the one Silvenia had cast flickered in the tip. The Wind Runner shouted.

“No—”

In the empty grand auditorium, within one of the many grand chambers in the capital of Ailendamus, the Duke stood alone. He had dismissed his helpers, the lesser [Mages] and [Strategists] and [General] devoted to this plan.

After all, what threat could the Courier pose? He aimed a finger at the boy who had tagged along, uncaring.

The air moved. A gale of wind blasted the Duke off his feet. He went flying, struck the ground.

“Wh—wh—?”

He scrambled upright, clumsily, confused. How had…? He saw a bright flare. But no magic.

Ryoka Griffin leapt forward. She was still cuffed, but she held a shining blade in her hands, against all possibility. It was not magic. The Duke aimed a finger.

The Wind Runner cut off his hand. The blade swept around in a clumsy arc, but just like Tyrion had shown her.

Rhisveri’s hand hit the floor with a wet thump. The Duke stared at his stump of a wrist. Then—the tip of the shining blade.

Ryoka Griffin stared sickly at the blood jetting from the stump. Yet the tip of the Faeblade aimed at the man’s face. She was wrong? Was she…? What had she just done?

Rhisveri looked at his stump of a hand. Sammial was on his knees, still throwing up. The Duke’s face was pale. His lips moved as blood ran onto his robes.

“…Ow.”

Ryoka Griffin heard the small, annoyed sound echo in the room. Her eyes widened. Her heart restarted. She saw him move—raise himself up—then growl.

“What an annoyance.”

He raised a hand, glared at Ryoka, and then his eyes rolled up and Rhisveri collapsed backwards onto the ground. He stopped breathing. The blood stopped pooling.

He was dead.

Ryoka Griffin was not fooled. She raised her sword overhead. The Faeblade caught the air, shedding pink light around the new room, built in ancient style, raised within two simple generations.

A palace so vast the ceiling was four hundred feet high. A monumental room. Suspicious.

The wind howled around her. The Wind Runner felt it blast through the room, sending the blood flurrying into droplets in the air. Running around a shape—

There. She whirled. Something moved. Ryoka swung her blade as she shouted.

“Dragon!”

The unseen presence stopped. It was stunned. Confused.

How did she—? There was no way! No one could know! No one could—

The Wind Runner charged, blade raised. It shone, without magic. The wind blew, though she had cast no spells. A young woman charged by the King of Faeries. Who had gone to lands before. Three worlds. She swung the sword. The Faeblade struck something in the air, a weapon of the future.

…And shattered. The pieces cascaded around Ryoka Griffin. She froze.

“No—”

Something struck her. A huge claw pinned her to the ground. A voice roared, monumental, far vaster than the previous voice, but the same tone, just deepend, magnified.

“Enough!”

The wind turned off. The room was suddenly silent. Unseen, high overhead, Ryoka felt a gust blast down. Rancid, foul.

Breath. Not hot, but acrid. She gasped, but her chest was compressed, her ribs screaming. She had thought…had…but she was right. She muttered it again.

“Dragon. Dragon.”

There were few coincidences. And this—this was the thing of stories. The fae. Ryoka grinned. She laughed. Then the voice echoed again.

“Dragon. Dragon? DRAGON? Did you just call me a petty, worthless, arrogant Dragon?”

A voice roared in her ears, so loudly that her bones shook. Ryoka froze. But—but she thought—

A figure began to appear, the air rippling. Sammial tried to look up and passed out, falling unconscious as some magic struck him. Ryoka saw, nigh four hundred feet overhead, something begin to appear.

Far larger than Teriarch. Yet…nowhere near as broad across. A long shape. Sinuous. Like a…a…

Snake?

No. Ryoka realized what it was as Rhisveri, the true Rhisveri Zessoprical, appeared. ‘Duke’ of Ailendamus, the glorious kingdom on the rise.

It all made sense. Ryoka thought back to one meeting. One…little meeting, not so long ago. When she had met Sikeri’val-Toreshio-Maresssui. Her eyes traced the huge, coiled form, up, up, towards jade-green eyes, glowing with fury.

‘I came for my half-kin who still walk this world’.

She had thought Sikeri meant Teriarch. Yet—think of it a different way. Time. Prophecy. Ryoka Griffin muttered. The very same words she had spoken to that damn fae. That fugitive who lived in the lands of the fae.

“I have met one of your kin, milady Sikeri’val.”

“I know.”

So she named him, as the figure swept her up. Kindred to them. Half-kin, perhaps. Yet all the same, the great, sinuous cousin of Dragons bent down as the Wind Runner whispered.

“Wyrm.”

Rhisveri halted. The vast Wyrm appeared, his scales flashing. Not obsidian or purple like Sikeri’s had been, but a brilliant, even beautiful jade, like his eyes. His underbelly shone pale white, and his vast eyes, slitted, flicked down to Ryoka.

Confused. Enraged. Curious. He sniffed long, as his body, which ran around the room, armored walls of flesh, coiled inwards. The Wind Runner met his gaze. Rhisveri snarled.

“Correct. What are you? How do you…?”

He sniffed her again. Recoiled. Sniffed.

“A Dragon. Of course. Which one! And…”

He turned curious.

“…Is that a female Wyrm I smell? But they’re all…”

Ryoka Griffin stared up at him as the claw lifted. She looked up as Rhisveri recoiled, and then rubbed the top of his massive head against his scales. Like someone smoothing hair on his head. Her jaw tried to dislocate.

Sometimes you thought you were the protagonist of every story. The lead in a comedic romance you really didn’t want.

Rhisveri stared at Ryoka. He hesitated.

“Why are you covered in mating pheromones?”

Sometimes, it turned out…you were the [Matchmaker].

8.34 R

Mythological Creature Fact: The musk of the Demonsoul Skunk, the Balerosian native creature that deliberately sprays its victims to communicate mating instinct across a wide area, can last long enough to be two months old when scented by potential mates.

The mating pheromones of the adult female Wyrm can last up to three decades.

Sergeant Relc Grasstongue, former [Soldier] in the Liscorian army, current Senior Guardsman of Liscor in assigned posting to Cellidel…did not know why this was a salient fact.

He closed the book, one of the many bestiaries he’d checked out of the local library. Cellidel had a library. This was one of those books that had ‘fun facts’ about creatures on some pages littered with biological and other bits of information about monster species, terrain, and so on.

Relc imagined the average Silver-rank adventurer, screaming as something tried to break through the barricade at a cave’s entrance, didn’t have time to appreciate such facts.

“How do they know it lasts three decades? Do they keep sniffing them? Is it obvious or something?”

The Drake asked the really important questions as he scratched at his neck-spines. He frowned.

“Demonsoul Skunks. Now, there’s some bastards. Don’t they spray people for fun instead of to protect themselves? What was their bounty when some showed up? Like…fifty gold a head?”

He shuddered. The book wasn’t that interesting, though, so Relc pushed it under his uncomfortable bed and sighed. His cheap room in one of Cellidel’s apartment complexes for the transient was about as bad as the old one he’d had in Liscor.

However, the book came from a library.

Liscor did not have a library. Which city was better? Based on pure book-economics, it had to be Cellidel. They even let you check out any book you wanted.

One at a time, and you paid a deposit of two silver that you got back when you returned a book on time. You also had to be a citizen of decent standing—no major arrests. Relc, being a Senior Guardsman, didn’t have issues checking out the book.

Free reading, unless I don’t turn it in or mess it up. And I just bet those [Librarians] have [Repair Books] or something.

Relc thought that was neat. He wasn’t a huge book person, but he’d been bored and had heard of the library, a novelty for him. This book had been illustrated, so why not?

Cellidel had an entire class of [Librarian] that Liscor lacked. All their Skills and unique abilities were thus available to this city bordering the Great Plains to the south, which Liscor lacked.

Mind you, that was probably only the ability to track down people who didn’t return books. But it was still a big difference. On the other hand, if you were going to play that game, Cellidel didn’t have half as many [Guards] or [Hunters]. And not one of them had ever hunted a Hollowstone Deceiver.

It had no supply of fresh seafood except by trade and some fish from lakes, but mined ore was also an actual commodity, rather than a given for Liscor with their proximity to Esthelm.

Cellidel and Liscor could have traded fairly equally on a number of issues—probably why Relc had been assigned here by a well-meaning Zevara. Liscor had the magic door, though. And that changed everything.

Oh, yeah. There was one more thing that Cellidel had that Liscor lacked at the moment. Relc sat up and his gut clenched as he checked the time. The sun was setting; his experience told him he had to start getting geared up. He was now on night-to-dawn shift, one of the more dangerous shifts for [Guards]. And…a different Watch House. The Drake lay there, then swung himself onto his feet, groaning. He picked up his spear.

The other thing Cellidel had that Liscor did not was a ‘Gnoll problem’. Which was now a ‘Sellme problem’ given the unrest. What it had, when you boiled down to it, was a problem Drakes had with Gnolls.

And it ran from the Watch to the Council, all the way to the streets.

—-

“Senior Guardsman Relc, reporting for duty!”

Relc’s life had been one of routine. He had been, in his own way, a [Peerless Master]. Not of spear-fighting, or soldiering, and certainly not guardsman…ing. Rather, he’d been good at going with the flow. Routine.

Two weeks ago, he’d fit into Cellidel with ease, despite having come from Liscor. He’d been able to daydream while walking his beat, and he’d practically been part of the regular Watch unless something big happened.

Now? Senior Guardsman Relc left his room, walked to the Watch House nearly forty minutes away from his apartment, the ‘Hot House’, as it was normally known for its highest arrest-rate and [Guard] turnover, and strode through the door.

He stood to attention as he opened the door. He didn’t miss a step. When he went to his locker, he slapped on the pieces of leather and metal, and was standing to attention before the others. Drakes and the few Gnolls eyed him side-long, whispering. Relc paid no attention.

The Watch Sergeant of this division of Cellidel’s Watch couldn’t find anything on Relc, no matter how hard she tried. And oh, she did try.

“As you were, Guardsman Relc. Your partner’s sick. So I am authorizing you for solo-patrol.”

“Yes, Watch Sergeant!”

She stared at him. She was a veteran of the Watch, and had scars to show for it. Relc had more. Her scars were from knife-wounds, even a stray spell from a wand. His came from war.

Even so, she was good at her job or she wouldn’t be here. Any other time, Relc would have taken her orders with only a bit of joking; you had to trust your Watch Sergeant.

In Cellidel, he trusted no one, and was rewarded for it. Case in point? His partner for the patrols had been ‘sick’, ‘missing’, ‘on holiday’, and so on for two weeks.

Senior Guardsman Relc was Cellidel’s least-popular [Guard] among the Watch. He had committed the biggest mistake you could make: going against the Watch. Like the army, the Watch protected its own. So if you weren’t one of your own…

Relc strode out of the Watch House. He marched down the street, not at the lazy [Guard]’s amble, but at a marching pace.

Some people turned as the big Drake strode along, his bright green scales flashing under the light. Relc was big, to the extent that Gnolls, who often outsized Drakes on average, still looked a bit thin compared to him. His arm-muscles were huge, and he had an ugly face—for a Drake. His tail especially. It was long enough, but too stout, without much of a curve or actual subtlety to it.

Relc had once explained to a confused Erin that for a Drake, it was like seeing a really ugly leg or butt or something. However, the Senior Guardsman had never traded on his looks. He had a huge smile when he grinned with all his teeth, and he maintained his scales. Normally he walked with a saunter, smelling of stall-food and maybe sweat or armor polish.

Today he marched along with his head on a swivel, eyes sharp, but not focusing too long on any one thing. Unfocused even; he had eyes in the back of his head too. Relc also had one more thing.

Over his plain leather armor, worn but carefully maintained and patched, and chainmail undershirt was a gleaming icon. A polished bit of metal, more ornate than the regular [Guards]’. A badge. It gleamed in a way that caught the eye. More than light allowed. Like…a promise. Trust.

[Guardsman of Trust]. [Wear My Integrity]. That was his new class, and one of his two new Skills. Relc walked down the street, on his own beat. However, he didn’t loaf around like normal. He hummed, and some people murmured—especially those of a furry persuasion.

They’d heard there was a new [Guardsman] in Cellidel. A new, new [Guard] who did things that had earned the ire of the rest of the Watch. Moreover, who had a class.

Someone you could trust. Of course, they also picked up what Relc was humming, which either added to or diminished the Drake’s reputation depending on how you looked at it.

“♫ Boom, boom, bum, dum, if you’re a Relc, you do it right. I’m a Relc! Relc, Relc, Relc—something something rhymes with elk. ♪”

How did Bird do it? Relc hummed to himself, pumping his arms and inhaling the fresh…evening…air. People were packing up, getting off the streets, groaning and tired from jobs worked all day.

By contrast, Relc had just woken up. He was used to changing when ‘morning’ was though, so he was fresh. The city of Cellidel was winding down. People were going to the bars, following the colorful paint on wood, or sounds of merriment and drink in the air. They were relaxing, taking their time off, and then slumbering for the next day.

…Of course, that was when work for the Watch picked up. People tired or who’d worked hard got snappy. Drink only exacerbated problems. So, amid the hubbub, the shouts of people navigating the street and driving wagons, talking, gossiping, laughing or arguing, you’d soon hear that familiar cry.

“Guards! Guards!”

…Actually, no one ever shouted that. They usually shouted, ‘help’, or ‘I need a [Guard]!’. Or if they really felt eloquent, ‘dead gods, someone save me, I’m going to be murdered’!

Then the nearest patrol or numerous ones would run, or walk, or sprint if they heard the whistle that meant someone was in trouble wearing their uniform. Relc was used to it all. However, before he heard that cry, someone sought him out.

“G—Senior Guardsman Relc?”

He slowed. Turned. The Drake looked over at a nervous Gnoll. She was a young woman; she might not have even been two decades old. He blinked at her.

“Can I help you, Miss?”

She hesitated, looked around, and nodded as a few more people glanced his way. Relc saw her hurry forwards and lower her voice. He had to lean in to even hear it; possibly other Gnolls wouldn’t have heard her.

“I…I was told you are a good Senior Guardsman, who helps people.”

“I’m a Senior Guard. That’s what I do.”

“Yes, but…”

The Gnoll girl hesitated again, and this time more palpably. Relc took pity on her.

“How can I help you, Miss? I’m here to help.”

She nodded a few times. Then a few more…she was clearly nervous. Apprehensively, she looked around, but then bit her lip. She could not keep it silent. So she leaned in, in a way Relc had grown to recognize, and whispered.

“I’d like to report a crime. Um…there’re some drunkards in a pub. Where I work. Only…well, they’re drunk.”

She looked at him. Relc straightened.

“Disorderly?”

“Yes. Not violent, but we can’t get them out so the [Pub Owner] sent me to…”

Him. Not the nearest Watch patrol. There were many things in this scenario that Klbkch would have sagely observed were ‘anomalous’, whatever that meant. In Liscor, Relc would have agreed.

In Cellidel, it made a kind of sense. This young Gnoll had come to him at the request of the owner of the pub rather than him just shouting for a [Guard] patrol or flagging down one while the drunkards caused trouble.

Why? Well…Relc’s badge shone as he straightened.

“I can sort it out. Peacefully. Where’s the problem? No one needs to be arrested if I just whack a few people over the head or make them leave.”

He added that last part on purpose. The Gnoll looked relieved. She pointed.

“This way. It’s just…”

She began to lead Relc with such speed that he wondered if the drunkards were more of a problem than she’d let on. Well, if they were coming to him…he picked up the pace. The Gnoll [Server] was so relieved that she didn’t see Relc murmur or his own eyes and badge flash for a second.

He used a Skill, then followed her with confidence. He was alert, of course, wary, braced to act, but confident she wasn’t leading him into an alley or place where he’d be jumped by someone who wanted him dead.

His second Skill helped make sure that didn’t happen. Relc was a [Guardsman of Trust], and the badge conferred something onto him that made people like this young woman seek him out. His second Skill made sure he didn’t need to doubt his actions.

[The Law Upheld]. Relc could use it about four times per his entire shift, but it guaranteed she wasn’t lying. So he strode along.

—-

As it happened, the drunkards were Gnolls. It was a Gnoll pub, in a Gnoll district, with an almost-exclusively Gnoll population. Relc doubled the number of Drakes in the pub by walking in.

“Senior Guardsman. Alright, who’s being drunk and disorderly?”

The Gnolls whirled. They had clearly been carousing and there had been a fight by the looks of it; Relc saw a table knocked over, and shards of pottery and food. So they might have been too loud and been asked to leave, or fought with someone else. There were a hundred scenarios and Relc didn’t care.

They tensed when they saw him.

“We didn’t do anything, Guardsman.”

One of the Gnolls was big. Relc recognized a [Laborer] when he saw one, perhaps someone who’d gotten lucky with [Enhanced Strength]. He also could recognize a [Drunkard] when he saw one.

Which wasn’t fun because they got lovely Skills that made them more dangerous when drunk. Well, some just got fun Skills like ones that let them buy more alcohol, or handle it better. Relc had known a [Guard] who had [Sober Up], a Skill that let him drink five minutes before going to work.

Great Skill. He patiently held up his claws and slipped into routine. In Liscor, it was simple. Someone causes trouble? You get warned. If the place has a [Bouncer] or security, they might handle it. If it’s a problem like this lot clearly were? Three Gnolls, tired, drinking too hard, and belligerent?

You called the Watch and they could be arrested or leave quietly. The trouble was in Cellidel…the Gnolls watching tensed.

“They’ve just been a bit disorderly, Guardsman. Nothing like a fight. Sherr, there’s the Watch here. Leave quietly.”

The [Pub Owner] himself spoke to Relc, then the three troublemakers. Relc had seldom seen the owner of an establishment defend the customers like that. Nor—he eyed the three drinkers and saw how tense they were—was he used to this level of hostility directed at his badge.

It played a different way in Cellidel. Relc had learned the routine, and didn’t like it. Say the [Guard]’s reasonable request was ignored, and he believed they still made it. Say the Gnoll [Drunkard]-[Laborer] spat at him and Relc gave an ultimatum, and he pushed out of his chair swinging a huge fist.

Well…Relc caught the fist and had the satisfaction of seeing the big Gnoll’s eyes go round. He didn’t often run into people with his Skill. Nor was he used to meeting someone who was stronger because he trained even with the Skill.

Relc’s punch almost laid him out. Sherr’s buddies stared at the Gnoll as he staggered back, reeling. Relc hadn’t actually knocked him out, but he’d certainly punched all the fight out in one go. A pretty tough guy; he’d have given the average [Guard] a fight if they didn’t trip him up or use a Skill. They froze, realizing how badly they’d underestimated this fight, as Relc turned to face the three.

Here was where Cellidel and Liscor differed. Relc looked at the trio. He did not slam Sherr into the table and arrest all three. Nor did Sherr break his jaw from another punch or three. They were not locked up. He dusted his claws.

“Alright. Pick him up and get lost. Don’t let me catch you causing trouble this week, got it? Or do any of you want a [Relc Punch]? Look out for it when you level up. Best punch there is.”

They stared at Relc. After a second, one of Sherr’s buddies shook his head.

“Sorry, Senior Guardsman. Sherr. Sherr, let’s go.”

They scurried out, tossing coins on the table when Relc ‘reminded’ them. The Senior Guardsman glanced around and all the Gnolls turned to their tables. He approached the [Pub Owner].

“All seems sorted. Give me a holler if you have more trouble.”

“Of course, Senior Guardsman…Relc. Thank you.”

The Gnoll glanced at Relc’s badge. He hesitated, a paw almost trailing to his side. His money pouch. Relc turned, and walked out of the pub before the Gnoll could make up his mind.

“No problem.”

—-

The entire event was a disgrace. Not to Relc; he’d acted perfectly in accordance with the law. And yes, punching drunkards was a-okay by Liscor’s standards. Oh, Klbkch would have probably talked them down, but it was fine guard-work by even Zevara’s standards.

It was the reactions of everyone else that stood out to Relc. How they expected the three to be cuffed and led out, possibly with injuries. How the [Pub Owner] had worried what Relc would do, and why they went for him.

I wonder if there are [Guards] like that? The ones whose names and faces you memorize?

It should not be like that. But it was. So Relc walked out of the pub. No routine, save for the one he employed. He shook his head.

“…This sucks. It’s way too much work.”

Then he marched back off onto his beat. The Gnoll [Server] was not the last person to approach him for a problem that night. Relc might have had all the subtlety of policing as a fist to the face. It beat Cellidel’s regular law enforcement.

And that was everything. That was why he was here.

—-

Relc’s shift ended at dawn. The Drake returned to his rooms after signing out of the Watch House. The Watch Sergeant reviewed his report.

“Twelve reported crimes. One arrest.”

“Minor incidents, Watch Sergeant.”

Relc stared over her head, at one of her neck-spines in a way he knew was annoying. The Watch Sergeant tapped the papers on the table.

“Not worried about repeat offenders, Guardsman Relc?”

“Just saving us the cost of jailing them, Watch Sergeant. Crime doesn’t repeat itself after I punch it.”

Someone snorted. The Watch Sergeant herself nearly laughed, but replaced it with a glare. How dare you make me smile?

“Well…good. That will be all, Senior Guardsman.”

So he signed in his armor, and sauntered back to his apartment with his spear. On the way, he bought some food from a street vendor; one of those fried fruits of theirs they loved so much. Prelons. It was so good Relc went back for a second. Then he gave up and bought six and called it dinner as he went back, scarfing them down.

That was his new routine. Work, ignore the glares, carefully dole out the law while citizens waited for you to smash someone’s face in, and go home.

…Aside from the citizens’ apprehension, that was sort of like his life in Liscor when he was loafing around. Yet Relc felt tired. Exhausted.

“Ancestors. Klb, buddy, I could have really used you. Then everyone would glare at the Antinium, not me. Even if I smashed Pos’ face in.”

Relc sighed. The irony was, he was behaving just like Pos did. The Senior Guardsman—who was back at the central Watch House and had been sick until Relc was reassigned to his new area—had shown he could differentiate between crimes like all good [Guards]. There had been a [Thief], a street-kid, and he’d refrained from cuffing the poor brat.

In the same way, Relc did not need to arrest everyone he met. Warnings were enough. Punches did the job. An arrest cost the city money, so no [Guard] arrested every person who commited a crime.

The only difference was that Relc made no distinction between species and Pos did. It was the most strange, idiotic, aggravating thing Relc had run into.

“Reminds me of being on tour with the army.”

He grumbled as he stuffed another Prelon into his mouth. He could fit three at once, to the amazement of a little boy walking past. A little boy. He had fur, but he was a kid. Gnoll? Who cared?

All of Cellidel’s Watch, apparently. Relc kicked at a loose cobblestone. He’d always known there were cities like this.

Tribes like this too, to be fair. Cellidel had a fairly big Gnoll population by the standards of cities around here, but they were still a significant minority; Relc doubted they comprised even 15% of Cellidel’s population. However, tensions were high.

Gnolls stole more, got into trouble more, caused trouble more, and were generally more savage, having come from the tribes. Indeed, it was the Gnoll tribes who often clashed with the cities, sometimes leading to bloodshed, that led Drakes to say that kind of thing.

Relc had fought Gnoll tribes as well as Drake cities. He got it.

“Anyone who’s ever run into a Gnoll deer-trap and had ten of the bastards come charging out of the grass doesn’t like Gnolls after that, right, buddy?”

The stall-owner selling a lovely fruit juice gave Relc the side-eye.

“…What?”

Relc patiently waited for the Drake man to serve him Prelon-juice, with a generous helping of sugar mixed in. You could do everything with the damn things, apparently.

“Deer traps. Plains Gnolls. See, you get these [Trapsetters] who are also [Warriors]. When the Plains Gnoll tribes go to war, they love to help ambush patrols or even armies. They toss some of those down, you step on a camouflaged one with jaws like steel thanks to Skills, and there goes your leg. Or tail. Then they come out of hiding, shoot you with a few arrows, stab your buddies in the face, and retreat. Do it again until you want to hide behind the walls.”

One of the other customers was frozen mid-order. The stall owner blinked at Relc until the Drake put some coppers on the counter.

“I’m not saying I hate all Gnolls, but it really ruins your day. Of course, there are those bastards on the walls of enemy cities that flip their tails up at you, shoot arrows, and gloat just because they have the high ground. One city used to stockpile crap. Literal crap, and they’d hurl it at you out of catapults.”

He ambled off, grumbling. Damn Drakes. Also, to hell with Humans and their [Knights] who just loved to do cavalry charges. Goblins? Sneaky little bastards and those huge Hobs who raided innocent people. Drowned Folk? Damned [Pirates], striking now and then on the coasts. Don’t even get him started on hunting down Garuda [Raiders]…

Relc had fought countless species. He had lost friends in battles, even seen his l—even seen his w—even seen Embria’s mother die in battle. He had quit because he was tired of it. He could find a bad thing to say about every species in the world.

It took him nearly two weeks to figure out why Cellidel was still bad. When he did, Relc woke up in the middle of the day (that was when he slept) and shouted it.

“Because it’s not everyone! Aha!”

He had been thinking on the issue the entire time he was here. Relc was now ignored by the Watch—they had tried hazing him, and he’d promptly taken out two [Guards] who pissed on his armor and broken their teeth. They had tried disciplining him, but Relc could pass a truth stone test that he hadn’t broken the law, and he was a Senior Guardsman; it would be a problem if they brought up exactly why he was in trouble.

So they were ignoring him. Cutting him off from support. Relc had not yet blown his whistle for backup. He wouldn’t, because if he did…no one would come.

That was how you died. Even Relc, who was the best [Guardsman] in all of Cellidel and Liscor by virtue of his level and experience as a [Spearmaster] in Liscor’s army, would eventually run into trouble that he couldn’t solve alone. He would die, or be forced to leave. They wanted him gone. Watch Captain Terigrals had offered to send Relc back without so much as a spot on his record.

So why was he here? Relc lay awake thinking of it, sometimes. He supposed it was because…he felt like he was needed. He was doing good by not being a [Brute] with a club. By being a Liscorian [Guardsman]. By being Relc, Senior Guardsman Relc.

Only, how could he do more? How could he…fix the problem? Relc really wished Erin were here, or Klbkch. Or Zevara.

He was Relc.

What was he supposed to do besides hit things?

—-

When he finished his shift, it was dawn, but Relc didn’t sleep right when he got back. True, he had a dinner, or sometimes lunch, but he was used to six, or even four hours of rest and then a battle after a day of marching.

He could go until midday before he slept. So how did he fill that time?

Well, spear-training. That was a classic. In the first days, Relc had practiced alone in the courtyard at dawn. Now? He still did, although it wasn’t right when he woke up. And this time…

“Senior Guardsman Relc! Look! Look, I have a Skill! [Spear Flurry]!”

A little Gnoll girl prodigy ran up first thing that morning and stabbed at the air with the blunt staff, a short spear with a very crude ‘point’. Then she blurred in a series of punishing jabs marred only by the fact she was a little girl less than ten years old.

It still probably hurt like hell. And it was a basic [Warrior]’s Skill across any fighting discipline. Not flashy, but it could kill if you had a steel tip and the enemy wasn’t wearing armor in that spot. Relc took one look at the Skill used by the kid, a rarity among children, and spoke.

“Aw, hells.”

He was going to be in so much trouble with the girl’s parents. But the girl, whose name was Hickery, assured him her parents were happy she had any Skill at her age.

Relc actually saw the two hurrying off to work, eating as they ran. They waved at him and he waved back, smiling guiltily. He didn’t comment on letting their daughter stay here alone; he’d been raised like that. If there were [Carers] in Cellidel, he doubted they could afford them, so maybe Relc was the ‘safe’ option?

“Good job, Hickery.”

He ruffled her hair. She beamed, and Relc saw more of his students, Gnolls and Drakes, but given the apartment’s residents, mostly Gnolls, waiting to join him, or practicing the spear drills he’d shown them. He saw one he recognized on sight.

“Vok. Look! She’s got a spear Skill! Isn’t that amazing? I’m amazing for teaching her too, obviously.”

Vok glanced at Hickery, who was obviously beaming, not realizing how that made the Gnoll twice her age feel.

Relc noticed and slapped Vok on the back.

“Nice Skill. Practice matters more, though. Although…Hickery, I bet your [Spear Flurry] only goes four times, no matter how much you try to use it, right? What’s the recharge time?”

“Tw—three hours. And it’s only four!”

Relc had counted the strikes, which were quick. He nodded and the kids and young adults clustered around.

“See, three hours means you get to use it once a fight. Not even more than once a battle. And it’s not faster. I can stab better; it’s just good for you. Now, if you level up you get more stabs and you can use it better. If you build muscle? Same. And if you get really good, you get to do this. Watch—[Consecutive Spear Flurry]!”

His audience stepped back as Relc began to jab at the air—then the enchanted tip blurred and began to lance an invisible target. It was far faster than Hickery’s strikes, and…Vok blinked.

He couldn’t even count how fast Relc was striking, but he was over eleven…then thirty…

“No way! He’s still attacking!”

Relc’s arms burned and he stopped after fifty eight. Panting, he leaned on his spear.

“Get it? I burn stamina. I don’t have to stop unless I get tired. That’s how you hold off a charging line of enemies.”

He’d used it many times, to make attackers back off or run into a spear through their chests. Yet it had downsides. Relc slapped his chest.

“It burns energy like nothing else, though. Probably three times as much as it would normally. Also, it’s slow.”

“Slow?”

Vok was incredulous. Relc winked at him.

“Slower than [Triple Thrust]. That’s three strikes at the same time. Spear-skills are all about knowing what works best. Believe me; I know a Senior Guardsman, this guy Jeiss, who could take off my arm if I tried [Consecutive Spear Flurry] on him. What you do is you build Skills for every scenario.”

“Can we get that Skill instead of just Hickery?”

Someone whined, jealous. Relc shrugged.

“Sure. You think you get it from luck? Practice your thrusts! Come on! Who’s doing a thousand a day? That’s basic. If you want to level…”

He began exhorting the children, many of whom took to the drills with more discipline than you would have guessed. But these were bored street-kids. And they were levelling. They saw how good Relc was.

And some…Relc glanced sideways at Vok, who was practicing with a determination that went beyond Hickery’s desire to improve and enjoyment. He practiced with a frown, hard, sweating at it.

He wanted to protect himself. Himself, his friends, his family, his neighborhood. Relc could understand that most of all.

The Drake practiced with the kids, watching them, and noting who came and who didn’t stay. He mostly watched the older ones; already, one group had been arrested for having the practice spears he now collected after the dawn session and entrusted to Vok. The Watch did not like potential [Spearfighters] being levelled.

Was he doing good here? Was he needed? Well, in another time, Relc thought this would have been a pleasant diversion. He would have stuck around for a month, gotten frustrated, punched some idiot, and been sent to Liscor and that would be that.

Cellidel had problems with Gnolls. Grass was green. That was how common it was, and Relc might have given up and gone to his city he missed so much. To Erin…he closed his eyes.

“Ow.”

Hickery stabbed him in the stomach as he failed to block one of her stabs. He shrugged, rubbed at the spot, and went back to absent-mindedly blocking her. He couldn’t do it blind anymore; she was a natural.

In other times, Cellidel’s system would just make life miserable for the Gnolls, many of whom might quit the city or just…endure. Endure, until they tired or snapped or left or were killed. However, these were not normal times. Cellidel had met the balancing force to everything the Drakes had. The thing that made the streets tenser, that put Relc’s scales on edge. Why he stayed. Cellidel had a nightmare that was bringing all these things to light. And that nightmare was called Sellme.

An observer was watching the spear drills. As he always did. He was a pale white Drake, his clothes those of a [Scribe]; neat, tidy, as white as his scales, which had only the slightest hints of yellow and pink.

Sellme was small. Shorter than Selys, even. He was slight and young; if he stood next to Relc, he looked like an actual child. His face, though, was often combative for someone of his stature, and when he was angry, his slitted rose eyes flashed and his tail would slap the ground.

He smelled of an earthy cologne, the kind of thing you wore to hide real bad smells. Not of acrylic paints, and his robes never had any color. It was a good guise; if Relc hadn’t seen him before, he would have never guessed that this was the [Magical Painter], Sellme.

“Yo, Tesy. Want to pick up a spear today? We’ve got light ones! You could be pretty good!”

Relc shouted. The young Drake man made a face.

“No, thank you. I need my hands for writing!”

Drawing. Relc wondered if there were traces on Tesy’s scales which made him reluctant to practice. Then again, it could just be Relc. Relc was a [Guardsman]. Tesy was Sellme and he had opinions on the Watch. He seemed to like Relc.

“Hey, I was on the beat all night. Not actually beating more than a few [Drunks]…”

Relc winked at Vok. He turned his head, pretending to look around.

“…Anyone seen a new Sellme? It’s getting pretty hot on the streets.”

That was putting it lightly. Each painting caused a bigger scene. Sellme exposed corruption and there was a lot of it in Cellidel, like every city. [Merchants] had fled, laws had been passed, and the Watch was being screamed at by powerful people who did not want to be the target of the next Sellme painting. Monsters were being unveiled…often to mob justice.

People had died because of what Sellme had drawn on a wall, or a bridge, or even the street. Yet what they really wanted, many people, what was boiling under the surface, was the Gnoll conflict with the Watch. Relc had already seen large protests that the Watch had broken up—always when he was off-duty.

He felt bigger ones might be coming. And if they did? Well. Apparently entire cities had gone up in flames thanks to Sellme.

“Not today, but everyone thinks it’ll be soon.”

One of the Gnolls called out. Relc glanced around.

“Aw, come on. I was hoping to hear about the latest one before I slept. Weren’t you, Tesy?”

He glanced at the Drake. Tesy rolled his eyes.

“Who pays attention to Sellme all the time, Guardsman Relc?”

“I sort of like him.”

“Really, you? You who—”

The Drake bit back something. Relc grinned.

“I don’t like that people get hurt, or when people are attacked because he draws something. Or when people think they caught Sellme.”

Tesy’s eyes flickered.

“No. That’s terrible. But at least monsters are getting what they deserve.”

“Yeah. And sometimes people die because the Watch didn’t arrest them and instead that person and everyone in the way got torn apart. I mean, hey, the Watch didn’t do anything. That’s our bad. But there’s a lot of angry people.”

“They’ve got reasons to be angry. I haven’t been here long and even I can see it. I got arrested, remember? Some Watch [Thugs] beat me up?”

“Sure, sure. I’m new to Cellidel too. Hey, I was even there. I’m just saying…you know.”

The two barely looked at each other as Relc whirled his spear about in his drills and Tesy leaned on the balcony of the third floor. So much went unsaid. Did Tesy hear it too? Relc smiled.

If he arrested Sellme, the problem didn’t go away. Sellme was not the problem.

But was he making it worse or better? Relc didn’t know. He might have arrested Sellme if it was Liscor, but the Drake reminded him of Erin. Relc stared up at the sky as his spear never faltered in its course around him.

He missed Erin.

Relc had been the absolute last person to hear what had happened to her. In the same way…Lyonette forgot to tell Embria, who obviously didn’t tell him what had come from Chandrar.

Relc had no idea at all about Mrsha, or anything else. He’d just been wondering what that little rascal was up to, and wishing he’d taught her some spear-drills. Then again, Lyonette would have killed him. Mrsha got into enough trouble as it was.

Wing Commander Embria and Zevara had decided not to distract Relc.

—-

They came out of the wilds. The savage infiltrators. The untamed, unwashed masses. Criminals and fools all.

A plague upon Cellidel. A plague brought by the ‘so-called’ injustices. By Sellme. By the time the Watch noticed, it was too late. Of course, they tried to bar the gates against the rest of their kind. Too late once more. The rot was in the city.

The first [Anarchists] arrived as Relc was finishing up his day. Spear practice over, he just ambled about, visited the sites, returned that weird book, and enjoyed his life. He did not know that Sellme’s followers had arrived.

They came through the gates, bypassing the appraisal Skills. They weren’t one class; they were [Rebels] and [Dissidents], [Anarchists] being a high-level class. They were an army, of a kind, but not one that the Watch would know to look for.

They were not all Drakes. They were not all Gnolls. They were young, many of them. They tended towards clothing that could be pulled over the head; hats or hoods for preference, or masks, scarves.

And as armies went, well, this one had no scouts. It didn’t reconnoiter. They knew what they were here for.

“Fuck Cellidel! Down with corruption! Down with the walls! Sellme’s here to expose the truth, and we’re going to burn down the damn Council and all these money-grubbing assholes!”

Relc passed by a young Drake woman in the streets. He watched, yawning, as she shouted to a crowd of passersby.

“Huh. Weird.”

Senior Guardsman Relc did nothing about her. He was off-duty. One of the [Guard] patrols did come striding over as the young Drake came shouting.

“You’re all blind! Blind like Follower Chickens! Wake up, people! Can’t you see how bad it is?”

“Hey! Who’s shouting nonsense?”

The [Guards] spotted her and strode over. Quick as a flash, the Drake turned and bolted. She was quick! She pushed into the crowd, and Relc actually lost her.

“Camouflage Skill. Huh.”

He stared at the hooded individual who pushed past the [Guards], who rolled their eyes, assured the person who’d complained they’d keep an eye out, and walked on. Sloppy, but then again, they weren’t good at anti-detection measures like Relc. Besides, it was hot, it was just some idiot shouting…

That was all Relc thought about it. He had no idea this was occurring a hundred times in different places at the same moment. By the end of the day, Watch Captain Terigrals would get reports of nearly four dozen pieces of unauthorized ‘art’ on walls with insults against Cellidel’s governing body, or Sellme-type works. People shouting insults and slander. Someone attempting to incite a mob.

Relc met with his personal dealer right before he went to sleep. He’d just been cruising one of the market-streets when someone flagged him down.

“Hey. Relc. Is that Relc? Drake’s Ancestors, I didn’t expect to find you here!”

A Human man trotted over, waving a hand. Relc glanced up. It was rare to see a Human, and true to form, the only person who regularly walked Drake cities was a [Merchant].

“Is that Bilt? Hey!”

He grinned, and waved a claw. The two met as a few [Merchants] glanced over. Bilt grinned.

“I was just wondering if I was going to head north to Liscor again! Long time no see! What happened? Decided to move cities?”

Relc hesitated.

“Long story. You know, reassigned. I’m here for a bit.”

Bilt was a savvy [Merchant]. Not the highest-level one, and his merchandise was a bit…eclectic. However, he was canny enough to know when to drop a subject.

“Fair’s fair. Everyone likes to travel. It’s amazing we met! I was just leaving…my instincts are telling me now’s the time. Say, that’s not why you’re here, is it? This Sellme business. Bad stuff. Opportunities, but bad stuff.”

He lowered his voice. Relc saw Bilt’s travelling companions, some he actually recognized, packing up. Bilt often travelled with other Humans, [Traders], combining their security and potential to attract crowds. He saw a woman with a nose-ring glancing around, as if her [Dangersense] was going off.

“Skills tingling?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. Listen, Relc. You’re a good customer and I know you’re the Watch, but we’ve seen Sellme across a dozen cities. Often imitators, but this looks like the real thing. Well, that’s why we’re here…but it’s time to go. No more opportunity.”

“Opportunity?”

“Getting a Sellme! What, you think their name is a joke? I was trying to see if we could pull off one of their art pieces, but the damn brick walls…do you know how hard it is to tear down a wall? Let alone cart it, or pay someone for it? Anyways, we got one piece.”

He nodded at one of the illustrations Relc had seen; the one with the corrupt Merchant’s Guild. It was lying on the back of a wagon, having literally been taken as a huge chunk of masonry. Relc shook his head.

“You [Merchants] are weird.”

“Says the Drake who lives in a city that floods every year. I got stuck in Liscor one spring. Never again. I thought the walls would implode every second I was there. Nightmares.”

Bilt was afraid of water. Hence travelling from north to south Izril by land despite the Bloodfields and other hazards. However, he was connected, and as he talked with Relc, his eyes sharpened.

“Actually, now that I have you…maybe this is coincidence, Relc. Because I just happen to have, er…the good stuff.”

The Senior Guardsman had been yawning, wondering if he had the energy to have a drink with the [Merchant]; maybe even send a letter to Liscor if Bilt was headed there direct. It would be cheaper than a City Runner. Now, though, his eyes sharpened. He leaned in.

“You don’t say? The…good stuff? What kind of quality are we talking?”

A few customers passing by eyed the Drake and Human. Bilt gave them the side-eye. He edged over.

“I’ve never gotten finer. Nor have I unloaded any of it. I’ve got six. And you’re one of the few people who I’d give access to. I have them in the back. They’re hot. Fresh.”

“Fresh? As in—new?”

“New as new, Relc. Believe me, once you get a taste…”

Someone went over to inform the [Guard] on duty there was some kind of illicit activity going on. The Drake glanced over, on alert—spotted Bilt, and rolled her eyes.

So did one of the [Merchants] who knew Bilt and Relc. She watched them go into the back of Bilt’s wagon and rubbed at her face.

“What are they doing, exactly?”

One of her customers asked nervously. The woman sighed.

“Puzzles. They’re talking about puzzles. Damn freaks.”

—-

Bilt was an odd merchant. He sold any number of things, but he also sold blacksmith’s puzzles, little trick locks, and the like. He had [Thieves] as well as upstanding citizens who loved his merchandise.

However, he refused to sell his most high-quality products to anyone but a ‘true mind’, as he put it. Someone who could solve his puzzles and didn’t cheat by asking for the solution. Relc had demonstrated his acumen, so Bilt led him into his personal trailer, past the weak little wire puzzles, wood block games, and into the back.

“No one’s solved it so far. I have six. And they’ll cost you nigh on four gold, Relc.”

“Four gold? Am I made of money?”

Relc was appalled. He clutched at his money pouch. Bilt held up his hands.

“It cost me nearly two gold per puzzle! And I do have to get it shipped and earn some money! Believe me, Relc. I’m taking a loss on these, almost. They’re just for the best. You’re one. I’ll even offer you credit.”

“Well…okay. So this is new? How’d you get ahold of it? Is it a Wistram? A Samal? A Destrui? Did you get your hands on a Destrui?”

Relc named some of the best puzzle-makers across the world. You knew the companies or individuals, like the famed puzzle-maker from Baleros.

“Hah! You think I have six of his? No, this is a new player, by which I mean an old puzzle-maker. She’s back, though. Feast your eyes on this. The Archmage of Izril just came out with her Gizeal Puzzle!”

Bilt hefted a huge cube up and Relc stared at it. He owned a lot of puzzles. Wire ones, wooden locking mechanisms that you twisted just so. He even had a few magical puzzles, where the trigger was even speaking or sunlight. They were devilish, but he had gotten onto Bilt’s list by solving four.

This? This was a cube with transparent glass and metal panels. A glowing orb inside, but one panel was rotating at all times. He saw, as the metal plate moved, an interior glass design of intricate metalwork, pins, and sliding mechanisms—before it was obscured.

There were three keyholes on the cube, all far different from standard ones. He saw a large cylindrical hole at the base, and what might be a sliding panel on the side. His pulse skyrocketed. His claws trembled, like a [Drug Addict] seeing a chest full of powder.

“Bilt. This is the good stuff. This is only four gold?”

“It’s a mystery. I think the Archmage of Izril is putting these out as a sampler. She only made a hundred; I was on her list. So she gives these out, hooks people in, and they shell out for the next one. She’s been out of the business for ten years, but they said she was the best. What about it, Relc?”

The Drake was already opening up his money pouch. He paid one gold and two silver—all he could afford, and cutting into his food budget—and carried the cube back to his room. He had a project.

By the time he had to sleep—two hours past when he should—Relc had discovered the sliding panel revealed an inner mechanism, a fourth lock. There was even a lockpicking set attached and he worked at it for a good twenty minutes before he realized—of course! The lockpicking set didn’t match any of the four locks. So he inserted a curiously wavy pick of bronze into one of the tiny holes and opened up a slot with a green lens.

Then he had to go to sleep, but he was beaming as he did.

—-

“So, it’s got this green lens and it turns out that you have to shine light through onto this glass section for it to pop out a part of a puzzle. But, see, you have to have solved these two other pieces for the three to join up. So it’s a puzzle in a puzzle you have to assemble…”

The Watch Sergeant stared at Relc as he stood for muster. The other [Guards] had fingers in their ears.

“Dismissed!”

She tried to get him to leave twice before he went.

—-

…And I found out that it wasn’t actually sunlight I needed, or moonlight. See, to get the green lens thing to activate the mechanism, you need candlelight! Firelight! I have no idea how you do that kind of thing.

Anyways, once I did that, I was turning it over and over and that’s when I realized there was this little ‘clicking’ sound. So I thought—huh, I’ve done puzzles like that before! I realized you have to turn it around in the right order to get something inside to move. Like a little ball? I’ve gotten to left, right, back, back, up, left—but I keep messing up. Maybe it’s a diagonal?

IT WAS A DIAGONAL. Also, kid! There’s this glowing orb in the center! I think it’s a prize or something; there is no way this was worth two gold, or even four! I think this Archmage is a real puzzle-person. I’ve been up late and I think the lockpicks are meant to do more than that one part I wrote about.

See, maybe you dip them in water or something to get a code? This is like, combining every puzzle I’ve ever had. There was one where you dipped a tool in water in order to get a secret code you entered…

Wing Commander Embria stopped, with her claw at the paragraph, and skimmed down. Then she turned the page. And the second page.

“Nothing. He wrote you three pages on the blacksmithing puzzle before he got to me, Watch Captain?”

Zevara and Embria were comparing notes. The Watch Captain looked amused.

“At least he’s got a hobby. I never knew Relc did blacksmithing puzzles. Is he good?”

“I think he solved a Destrui puzzle once.”

“…A what?”

“A famous puzzle. Something like ‘there are less than ten thousand people who have ever solved it ever’. This [Merchant] gave him a bottle of wine. I think he got put on a list of people who…like puzzles.”

“Huh. I had no clue.”

That was the kind of dialogue that marked out the amateurs from the real puzzle-heads who knew what that meant. Embria went back to reading her father’s letter. She was glad. Her stomach still hurt. Two weeks ago, she’d received a simple message.

I know what happened to Erin.

Senior Guardsman Relc had not returned to Liscor. He had…a new class, and a new calling. This was the happiest letter she’d gotten from him. She knew he had some friends, and a lot of problems and worries, although Liscor had its fair share of worries she hadn’t told Relc about.

The army had left and was heading south. Liscor’s new army, that was. Hectval had made it clear they weren’t going to relent. Embria’s 4th Company had stayed for security, another problem…

Well. She’d write back. She kept reading. Zevara’s lips moved as she read another aspect of Relc’s puzzle-solving battle.

“There’s a way to hum and open a slot? He’s making this up, isn’t he?”

—-

“See? I told you! Hum like—huiiighghg—and it opens!”

With a pop, a slot shot out and nearly punched Tesy in the face. The Drake [Painter] recoiled and Vok shot back in his seat. Relc, beaming, offered around one of his two cups.

“Anyways, who wants water? I can’t afford more than Prelons and water, but it’s great, isn’t it?”

Vok and Tesy sat in Relc’s room for a morning chat. It was a bit of a custom; none of them had many friends, Vok being the most social of the lot and having grown up in Cellidel. Tesy? He kept to himself and Relc’s buddies were in the Watch. Since that had soured, they had ended up sharing some meals or drinking or talking.

“I knew it. I’ll bring some wine over.”

Tesy sighed. He got up and came back five minutes later with a bottle of wine. And snacks. The Drake had more money than the other two and watched as Vok and Relc fought over some dried Prelon chips. Truly, anything could be made of them.

“So you really like this cube, huh?”

Vok tapped the cube. Relc hugged it.

“It’s the greatest thing ever. So what are we doing? Cards?”

Tesy had a deck of magical cards, which awed Vok. Relc had played with such decks. He would have questioned where Tesy got the money, but Sellme also had dice, and other games to pass the time.

“Sure. What are we wagering?”

“Weeeeeell…if Tesy brings out those nice spicy chips, we could all use them as money.”

“Ancestors! Am I buying all the food?”

The Drake grumbled, but soon they were bidding on chips, and the winner—Vok—got to eat them and then share them as he gulped water. That was fun. Relc was having fun.

—-

“There he is! Kill him!”

The Drake ran. Relc saw him charging and tensed, but the [Plumber] just dove behind the wall of [Guards]. They had tower shields, batons. The mob slowed, but only just.

“This is an order from the Council! Disperse!”

Relc saw something flying at him and raised his shield. He blocked something—a Prelon. The sewer manager for Cellidel cowered as a [Guard] dragged him back.

Sellme’s latest painting had revealed that the sewers—a Drake city phenomenon compared to a lot of Human ones, which still used chamber pots in many places or conventional, dug outhouses—had not been suffering from ‘bad luck’. Rather, as the colorful illustration of a Drake dropping dung onto passersby as he lined his pockets with gold indicated, it had been deliberate neglect.

Corruption, again. Countless streets had been plagued by backups, rats, and the like for years. Bad smells, even sewage getting into the well water.

They wanted that Drake dead. It was the Watch’s job not to let that happen.

This was the third protest Relc had seen so far. Each time, it was a Sellme that kicked it off. Even Liscor got this kind of thing.

Usually, the Watch held the line. With big shields and armor, a mob didn’t generally pick a fight with them. They just shouted insults, threw things like the Prelons, and got tired after a while. The Sewer Manager would be arrested, the matter investigated.

This time was different. The [Guards] stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Relc, his bad blood forgotten, at least for now. No one wanted a gap in their lines to incite the crowd.

They were outnumbered. Barely three dozen [Guards] and a few hundred angry citizens. The Watch was slowly moving back, because of course what terrified them most was being surrounded.

Terrified? Yes, Relc sensed it on the other [Guards]. They were tensed. Worried. This was not what they liked; every single veteran had seen what a mob could do to you in seconds if you were swarmed.

Relc was more tense than afraid. He’d seen worse. Even so…his [Dangersense] was muttering in his earhole. This time, something was off.

The last two riots had been shouting, a few people who nearly approached the line of guards and had to be warned off. Then showers of rotten Prelons, a few stones before the [Guards] barked and kids or idiots fled.

This time? The Prelon came first out of the crowd which Relc blocked. Not a bad throw; just a lobbed fruit. Something to vent anger. But then his [Dangersense] purred and Relc heard a voice.

“Look at them, protecting this monster! Damn the Watch! Damn the walls!”

From out of the crowd, a figure in a hood jumped up and threw an object. Properly threw one, with all the force and speed of a rock leaving a slingshot. Relc saw a whirling bottle flash past his head, strike a shield, and shower the [Guards] with glass.

Someone shouted in the ranks of the Watch. It was a cry of surprise. Fear? Relc saw a shield lower.

“Don’t lower your—”

He saw a second rock shoot out of the crowd and hit a [Guard]. But for the helmet, it would have hit them right across the brow.

Someone in that crowd had a throwing Skill. Relc saw the [Guard] stagger. He shoved someone aside and yanked the shield up.

“Heads down! Someone’s tossing danger!”

He shouted. The Watch backed up further, but now a shower of more dangerous debris was coming out of the crowd. Relc guarded his face, ignoring the impacts on his armor. He had [Iron Scales] and [Thick Skin]; there was little they could do to him, even if whoever had the best arm hit him square-on. The rest of the [Guards] weren’t so lucky. A glancing hit hurt if it got you, and someone was clever.

Glass bottles exploded and the shrapnel didn’t cut you if you wore armor often, but it was scary. Then someone threw another bottle and it struck the top of a shield over their heads. Relc heard the difference in the sound before a [Guard] shouted.

“What the f—”

Relc smelled the urine as it showered down. The [Guards] shouted in disgust and fury. Then someone snapped.

“You bastards!”

A Drake pounded out of the line of [Guards]. Relc cursed. Someone else shouted.

“Glorisa, no—”

The [Guards] hesitated—then charged after her. The crowd saw the enraged [Guardswoman] coming their way, stinking of urine. They hesitated. Someone threw one last stone that bounced off her chestplate, but the crowd was full of angry civilians.

Mostly. Three figures among them were last to toss what they held and run. They all had hoods, and Relc saw the rest of the crowd take to their heels first. Those last three, though…they were who made his [Dangersense] tingle.

—-

“We have [Rebels] in the city. So-called [Dissidents], and [Anarchists], even. Sellme’s lot. No one breaks rank, understood?”

Watch Captain Terigrals himself came to address Relc’s Watch House. He walked down their lines as they stood to attention. He even met Relc’s eye—before glancing past him.

The mob had broken this time in front of the angry [Guards]. But it had been close. If Glorisa hadn’t gotten them to come after her, or they’d been a bit angrier? The Watch Captain stopped in front of her and poked her in the chest.

“No one breaks rank. You go after them, and you endanger everyone.”

The Drake’s scales were dark with her blush.

“But Watch Captain, they were throwing bottles of piss! What are we supposed to do, just take it?”

Terigrals hesitated.

“—There are a lot of rabble rousers in the city, Guardswoman. We will not provoke more violence, understood?”

“We’re not the ones starting this, Watch Captain.”

One of the [Guards] protested. Terigrals held up his claws.

“I am aware of this, but the Council is concerned. You all just raise your shields. Ignore it. We’ll get through this; I have our best Senior Guard patrols dedicated to tracking down these people, and Sellme.”

The [Guards] murmured, before being called to order. Catch Sellme? It was true their troubles might end, but no one had caught the [Magical Painter] yet.

Nor had anyone asked Relc to do that. He still stank. They all did. The Drake fidgeted as Terigrals walked past him.

“We’ll get through this. There are some criminals in the city. We hold the line, we do not go after civilians and give them ammunition, and they’ll calm down. It’s people like Sellme who do this.”

And the Sewer Manager. Relc held his tongue. But he couldn’t help but wonder. Was it just the bad apples, the bad Prelons in the city being targeted by Sellme? Or was this unearthing all of the problems that had always been waiting for a moment like this?

—-

“You stink, Relc. Ancestors—Vok, open a window.”

“I got hit by a bottle of pee. Someone tossed it at us when we were covering the Sewage Manager. People wanted to kill him. Another Sellme painting. Seems like there’s only trouble when one appears.”

Tesy glanced up over their game of cards as Vok went to open the window. His tail curled up and so did his lip.

“And you did? Typical. That Sewage Manager let hundreds of people go without proper plumbing for weeks. People got sick thanks to him!”

“So we should just let him die? Mind you, I think someone in the Watch kicked him in the guts. We don’t like him, but we had to arrest him. That’s how the law works. Or something.”

“Or something. You’re a Senior Guardsman. Why didn’t anyone do anything before?”

“I think the Council was looking into it.”

Relc studied his cards. He plucked one, tossed it down. Tesy instantly trumped it and Relc sighed.

“A fine job they did.”

Vok glanced from player to player as Relc and Sellme played for coppers. He studied his hand. Relc shrugged. He glanced at Tesy over the top of his cards. He toyed with one.

“Someone in that crowd was throwing some pretty dangerous stones. Good arm. I hear there are [Rebels] in the city. People who support Sellme. We could have gotten hurt.”

The white-scale Drake hesitated. His claws held a card up before he played it, slowly.

“Sellme’s got a lot of followers. So I hear. They hate the Watch. You should be careful, Relc.”

“Me? I’m Relc. No one’s taking me down. All I’m saying is—we didn’t do anything wrong. Why does someone have to throw bottles of pee at us?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong today.”

Relc slowed in picking up a slice of buttered bread, his dinner. His eyes focused on Tesy.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“So uh, it’s been nice weather of late, right? Nearly turning to fall.”

Vok tried to interject, playing two cards hurriedly that joined into one as they glowed. Tesy ignored the comment. So did Relc. The [Magical Painter] leaned forwards, tail lashing agitatedly.

“Why did no one fix the problem with the Sewer Manager before? He was investigated? The problem was here for months before Sellme arrived. Over a year and a half! Where’s the Watch when you really need them? Sure, you stop small crimes. What about actual gangs getting people killed? There’s a p—”

He hesitated. Relc’s head moved up sharply. Tesy went on, claws suddenly tight on his cards.

“There’s a new Sellme on that corner with the domed building. Brand new.”

Vok and Relc’s heads rose. Vok blinked, excited. Relc just looked at Tesy.

“What’s it about?”

“Crime. Some [Guard] looking the other way and lecturing a low-level [Thief] while a real monster beats down someone for coin. You know that section of the city? The one past the big [Butcher]’s shop down—whatever they call it—Brassflame Way?”

Relc’s pulse was steady, but it upticked a bit.

“I know it. Tough neighborhood.”

Tesy smiled bitterly.

“Well, it’s not patrolled by the Watch nearly as much as other places, is it? The Gangs rule there. Where’s the Watch then, Relc?”

The Drake slowly picked up his bread, and bit into it. He chewed, slowly, determinedly.

“The Gangs are dangerous. Good [Guards] die every year—in Cellidel and Liscor—fighting them. You want to tell a patrol to go into a place where someone will take a crossbow and aim at them? We keep the peace, but the Watch isn’t the army.”

“Well, they should send the army in, then.”

“The Gangs’ll go to ground. They’ve done it before. If you send a huge force, they run. Small ones? They take shots at you. You have to work at it. That’s why—”

Tesy snapped. The Drake hurled his handful of cards at Relc.

“Well, you’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you? This is why Cellidel has problems, Relc! This is why Sellme’s here!”

Relc brushed a card off his lap as the Drake stormed out of the room. He sat there, head lowered, staring at the last piece of bread, the heel. He only moved when he heard a sound. Vok nervously, nervously laid down a card, fidgeting.

Relc had completely forgotten the young Gnoll was here.

—-

Senior Guardsman Relc thought about Tesy’s argument later that evening, during his patrol.

Obviously, Tesy was young so Relc had let him storm off. Throwing cards in someone’s face wasn’t exactly the most mature way of ending an argument. Then again…he had a point and he didn’t.

Organized crime plagued every city. From Terandria to Chandrar…even Rhir, although Relc bet they kept their heads down. The fact was that the Watch could never stamp them out.

Maybe in that nation everyone was talking about—Khelt—maybe you could. But you’d need eyes on every street, and the willingness to kill anyone who broke the law—or deal with it some other way.

The Watch? Well, here was how to look at it. Relc was the highest-levelled [Guard] in all of Liscor. In all of Cellidel. Perhaps all of Izril, frankly. No one besides a Watch Captain was close to his level, and he had two classes…three, now, with [Guardsman of Trust] that were high-level. A Level 20 [Senior Guard], which was the baseline requirement for the rank, could not run up against the worst criminals in Izril.

A Level 40 [Thug] like those Gentlemen Callers could wipe out two squads of Senior Guards. Did Tesy want them to risk being slaughtered? Rather, if this was the problem, it wasn’t that the Watch didn’t care, it was that they couldn’t do what they wanted to.

That was it. The Watch could take on the Gangs, but it just wasn’t practical to ask them to. Besides which, everyone knew the Gangs had laws of their own. They knew when to lie low—the smart ones, at least. In a sense, they were better to deal with than a bunch of random criminals; you could always smack the gang because they were a target.

“I wish I could think of these things when I’m arguing! Argh!”

Relc growled to himself. Mister Soot was a good example. Liscor had a good Watch. It had a better Watch than Cellidel’s, and Mister Soot had been there as long as Relc had been in the Watch. He was just…untouchable. He kept his illicit activities hidden for the most part, and the Watch, including Zevara, could never nab him.

Put another way—Mister Soot’s gang would never trouble Erin Solstice or Selys while they were about their business. They were criminals, yes, but they were inconspicuous ones.

Tesy wanting the Watch to take them on? Well. Relc stared at the Sellme illustration grimly. The crowd was not happy and he was glad he had his badge off.

“It’s the Shank Gang. It has to be about them.”

“Who?”

Relc interrupted a muttering pair. The Drake and Gnoll glanced at him warily, but one explained.

“They rule this district. They mug people, rob others. The Watch has never gotten rid of them. They barely patrol near their base.”

The Senior Guardsman frowned.

“They have an actual base? And no one stops them?”

“Who’s going to? They have…a Face. You know, one of their high-level gang members? Who’d take them on? Not the damn Watch patrols. Those murdering…”

“Shh. They’ll hear you!”

Relc stood there, chewing on his lip. He stared at the painting. There was the [Guard], arresting a scrawny little [Thief] stealing a Prelon, while a huge thug beat down on a Gnoll reaching out for the [Guard] who was clearly ignoring them. You had to hand it to Sellme; it was well-done. And about as subtle as Tesy.

—-

So it was a bad gang. And a high-level criminal. Relc was stuck on his Gizeal Puzzle. He poked at it, listlessly, thinking that morning.

Trouble was, Tesy was right about this gang. That wasn’t how Mister Soot operated; if his gang attacked people, it was usually rival gangs. The other trouble?

Well, it was sort of a self-inflicted wound. Like someone shooting their own foot with an arrow. Cellidel’s Watch patrolled some parts of the city more than others. It just so happened that the Shank Gang occupied a Gnoll district. Perhaps because of the gang—or maybe the Watch’s inattention caused it.

“Ancestors damn it, do you think about this kind of problem? Huh? Terigrals?”

Relc growled, and raised a fist to punch the cube. He stopped, sighed.

He didn’t think of this kind of thing. His head hurt. Relc had never thought about the implications of taking down a gang; he left that kind of thing to Zevara. Just point Relc at a problem and let him loose.

Now, though? If Gnolls thought the Watch didn’t protect them, they had every right to be mad. How did you fix a city? Fix a Watch that wasn’t liked, and the people who didn’t trust them? Relc sat there, and his heart began to pound with anxiety and fear. But he had a thought.

You had to restore their trust. Show them, show Tesy that the badge meant something.

—-

The sun was setting, and the heat was leaving the streets of Cellidel. Light bounced off glass windows, or more often, paint on shutters.

The cobblestones on the street were cooling too, and Cellidel’s people were hurrying out of one street that had another backed-up sewer reeking. They hurried down this street, though; the huge, former warehouse with permanently closed windows was not a place they liked to linger.

The ‘Shank Gang’ was known for killing people who didn’t cooperate, hence the name. But they didn’t actually murder many people each month as the Watch couldn’t ignore it. Still, they had a reputation, and the [Gang Boss], Shanker Ellic, was in charge of so many people all he had to do was keep order, rather than earn money for the gang himself.

He got to relax in the warehouse, and his only complaint was the closed windows when the summer’s heat baked the inside and brought out the last traces of what the place had been: a cold house for the butchers’ meat. It always began to smell a bit of that, and the odor was so annoying the Shank Gang actually hung up mint and other sprigs of natural scents to relieve it.

The city was hushed; the Watch was out in force, and the latest Sellme had people talking. Quietly, in that deliberate way of worried people. The pedestrians hurrying back to their homes glanced at the hideout.

There were no Watch patrols here. They usually stopped three streets out. That was the demarcation line. Beyond here, the Shank Gang kept their order and you were safe…so long as you paid protection. Or paid them if they gave you the ultimatum; a knife or your money pouch. Well, either way, you gave them your money pouch.

The quiet street was starting to be invaded by the septic scent. Rotted meat and sewer stench mixed with the slightest old mint smell. Shanker Ellic snarled.

“Damn sewers! Someone get the scent wand.”

He growled at some of his loyal people. A Drake, coughing, went to check as the [Gang Boss] sneezed into a handkerchief he’d dosed with strong vinegar. He was just grateful he wasn’t a Gnoll; he couldn’t imagine how bad this was for them.

Into this quietly unpleasant but mundane day came the most unusual of sights. People on the street looked up, did a double-take, and grabbed the others nearest to them. They pointed.

“What is…? Is that…?”

A [Day Laborer] halted his wife. They both stared as a figure came marching down the street. Light shone on leather armor. Chainmail shone, flashing from underneath, and on his breast gleamed an object rarely ever seen here.

A Watchman’s badge.

The citizens of this district stared at the Senior Guardsman as he marched along. Many of them knew him. The new one. The one who patrolled alone. The [Guardsman of Trust] that you could trust, or so they said.

Guardsman Relc. He had to be new, or he wouldn’t be here.

“He’s alone? There has to be a patrol—”

“I heard he didn’t have a partner. Maybe he’s that good? He shouldn’t be here. If a Shank Gangmember sees him—”

“Should someone tell him?”

Possibly, but who? Right next to the headquarters of…? The citizens stared at Relc as he marched along. They heard something, as he strode closer. He was…singing?

“Boom, boom, if you’re a Relc, here comes the Relc. Nothing rhymes with Relc!”

He was headed straight for the Shank Gang’s hideout. People stared in horror, like watching someone who had never met a Demonsoul Skunk before walking towards one as the tail slowly rose.

Senior Guardsman Relc, oblivious to the looks of horror and dozens of people trying to catch his eye and mouth ‘turn around’, consulted a little sketch he had.

“This one? No. This one? No…wait. Yes. Aha.”

The Shank Gang’s sleepy, stinky evening was interrupted as Relc marched up to the door behind which a door guard was snoozing, nose-plugs in. He stopped, cleared his throat.

And then he began to hammer on the door.

“Hey! Hey! This is the Watch, open up! Surprise! It’s inspection time!”

The door guard fell out of their chair in surprise. Inside the warehouse, Shanker Ellic looked up.

“Who is making that idiotic racket…?”

His first thought was that there was some gang member of his or an outsider who wanted a word. Or favor. He pointed and one of his cronies went to investigate.

Outside, the civilians had frozen in horror. The door guard scrambled to his feet. He had been napping, and had clearly not heard that right. He came to the door and the slot opened. He glared at Relc, missing the badge.

“You moron! Don’t hammer, knock! What’s the password?”

He was met by a beaming grin of white teeth. Relc had excellent dental hygiene. The Senior Guardsman stepped back, and the badge came into view. Then…he raised his voice.

“Password? This is the Watch. Open up!”

His voice reached the inside. Shanker Ellic froze. The gang glanced up, and a lounging figure put their feet down. The [Gang Boss] glanced over to a Drake whose eyes shone as she tossed up a glowing dagger and caught it. He whirled.

“The Watch? What did you idiots do?”

His answer came from outside.

“I’m told there is an illicit group of people mugging people on the street, extorting money, making threats, and other blackmail attempts. This is illegal. Pretty sure it is, anyways. In the course of my investigation, I demand you open up at once! Any something something in the way of my duties means I get to hit you and arrest you. You have five seconds.”

“No Crelering way. There’s a [Guardsman] out there, boss!”

One of the gang members came back to confirm what was happening. Shanker Ellic froze.

“How many more?”

“None. Just one.”

The [Gang Boss] stared. His sudden panic resolved into…he stood up, incredulously.

“You mean there’s one idiot out there? It’s not a raid?”

The [Thug] shook his head.

“Nope. Some idiot. New. I know that guy—he’s that Senior Guardsman from another city.”

“Well then…he’s a real idiot. Get rid of him.”

Ellic didn’t have to think twice. He nodded, and four of his [Thugs] grinned. They gestured.

“Backdoor?”

“Sure. Just shut him up. Make sure no one sees you! Clear the street first, idiots.”

The [Gang Boss] sat back down. The [Rogue] with the enchanted dagger glanced at him.

“Want me to handle it?”

“Nah. Maybe they’ll level.”

Besides, you’ll charge me more for ‘helping out’. The Face, known as Halfblade, shrugged. She lay back down. Halfblade? She used two daggers. The reason for the name was because you only saw half of the daggers at any time—usually in someone’s throat.

Ellic waited as the Senior Guardsman went silent. It would take up to ten minutes for the [Thugs] to get some buddies to clear the street and then ‘sort it out’. He might not hear about it, but there was no way that idiot would get into the warehouse. The door guard would stall him, but the door was the kind [Information Brokers] used. Steel. Even mildly enchanted. It would—

Crash.

The [Gang Boss] had just sat down when the sound made him jolt to his feet.

“What was—”

“Dead gods! D—no, nooo—”

There was a shout from inside. Then a scream and a thump. Ellic froze. Then he heard the same, jovial voice.

“Doors cannot stop the [Relc Kick]! That’s why you pay for reinforced walls, idiots! Ow. My foot hurts.”

“There is no way. Someone—you all, go check. No, wait.”

The [Gang Boss] snarled, but he was hesitating. Had that guy just gone through the front door? Even so, there should be four [Thugs] all over Level 15 right behind—

“Whoa! Who are y—”

A shout, and the sounds of fighting. There was a thump—Ellic relaxed. Right until he heard a roar.

“Ow. That hurt!”

Whumph. Something hit the wall. Someone yelped, a high-pitched Gnoll voice.

“Dea—”

“Relc Kick! Relc Kick! Don’t run!”

“Boss, bo—”

Another scream that turned into another whumph of impact. The people inside the warehouse heard a final voice.

“We’re sorry! Don’t do that! Don’t—putmedownputmed—”

The last crash was followed by a scream and whimpering. In dead silence, Ellic rose. He pointed and the bodyguards moved to the door leading into the big room.

The entire Shank Gang was here. The [Gang Boss] didn’t panic. The four he’d sent out had gotten jumped rather than doing the jumping, idiots. This [Senior Guard] was good—maybe he had [Preferred Foe: Criminal] or something. But everyone would have heard that, so the converted warehouse’s entire rooms full of gang members would—

The scream was so loud it tapered into a shriek at the end. Ellic heard screaming, shouts of panic—then running footsteps. Then the voice again, thundering from within the warehouse.

“In the course of my duties I am authorized to use force! You don’t want to die? Back up! Your friend will live. Anyone else want to run straight into my spear?”

The shriek died down—either whoever had been screaming passed out or…

Dead silence. Ellic listened.

“What’s happening?”

Every few seconds, there was a shout, or the briefest cries of fury and attack. They turned into gurgling, or the thump of a body hitting a wall. Or—and this was the hardest to hear—a scream of pain.

“He’s…coming through the warehouse, boss.”

“Crossbows up. He comes through that door? Kill him.”

Ellic overturned the table. He drew his own crossbow and aimed an enchanted bolt at the door. He had the name ‘Shanker Ellic’, but he wasn’t above doing the shanking from afar.

Halfblade was on her feet. She paced around, listening, then glanced at him.

“I’m going to take my spot. Don’t wait on me.”

She glided over to one of the support beams and vanished. Ellic cursed her. If she was running—but then he heard a voice.

“In the course of my guarding duties, I have been attacked! That means whoever’s in here is screwed. You’re all under arrest.”

“We haven’t done anything! Who the hell are you?”

Ellic bellowed back. There was a chuckle from outside.

“Me? I’m…”

The gang members inside waited, tense, crossbows drawn and aimed at the door. Ellic felt sweat dripping off a neck spine. He frowned. Then he heard a mutter from outside.

“…Relc? Wait. ‘Your worst nightmare’? Nah. Senior Guardsman Relc? I’m the consequences! Hah, that was really great. Hear that? I’m the consequences! No. It really just doesn’t work when I say it.”

The voice trailed off. Someone coughed in the hallway outside. Only one door separated them, and once they came through it…

Fingers tightened on triggers. Ellic sighted at the door. He waited, as the dimly lit warehouse became taut with tension. As seconds dragged into eternity…

Then he realized. It had been a minute. The other [Thugs] stared at the door, and then at each other.

Another minute passed. The men and women inside waited. A Gnoll hissed at the [Gang Boss].

“Boss, maybe he’s not coming?”

“There’s only one entrance from that hallway. Just watch. Just…”

Ellic glanced at the back door. He pointed, and three of the gang shifted their aim. Ellic hesitated.

“Wait. Maybe that bastard’s going to take aim at us from above?”

There were windows high up that let in some light. The Shank Gang looked up. They all had the image of a bastard with a bow sighting down on them. Ellic cursed.

“You lot get out the back and make sure we aren’t flanked! We’re not getting boxed in!”

“Boss!”

“You heard me! G—”

The door exploded inwards. Everyone turned and a dozen crossbow bolts flew through the gap. Ellic’s detonated. Too late, and too slow. Also—off by nearly fifteen feet.

Relc came through one of the walls in a shower of wood. The Gecko of Liscor charged into the room and saw the nearest [Thug] recoil in horror, scrambling for a club. Relc ran into her. He didn’t stab her, he didn’t punch. He just body slammed his entire weight into the figure and knocked her down.

Then it was a fight.

—-

Relc was so scared he thought he was going to wet himself. But he never did, and his training took over. But he had never jumped into a warehouse full of criminals alone.

He’d charged into robberies by himself, but he’d always known there would be backup seconds behind. This?

This was like he was back in the army. Charging into enemy lines to take someone’s head. Only, he couldn’t run.

He hated it. He was scared, but his claws didn’t tremble as his spear flurried around the room. Relc was terrified, but he attacked.

The first [Thugs] were too slow to stop him. He crashed like a bouncing ball into three of them, throwing his shoulder into the last’s chest. Then he performed ‘The Frog Bounds Higher’. A spear technique. He threw the butt of the spear onto the ground and leapt with it, a rising move, not an offensive attack.

It was instinctual. It also saved him from the second crack of crossbow bolts and thrown daggers. Relc landed, whirled his spear left, and hit someone in the chest with the butt. He punched with his free hand, caught the second [Thug].

That was when the first blow hit him on the side. Right along the ribs. It stung, but he swung his fist again and the [Mace Thug] dropped.

Speed. He would never take them if they organized. Relc gritted his teeth.

[Extended Sweep]! He swung the spear around and three figures went down. Relc strode over, kicked a head down, and blocked a thrust from some idiot with a sword.

Someone tagged him from behind. The Drake felt a small crossbow bolt punch through his shoulder, but he’d whirled and kept it away from his spine. It lodged halfway in his shoulder.

Powerful bow. That’s enchanted. Nothing else would have hit Relc’s scales like that. He whirled—saw a figure jerk in surprise.

That’s the Face. Relc saw a [Rogue] or some kind of [Dagger Duelist] or something vanish behind one of the pillars. He snarled.

“You b—”

Relc whirled and backhanded someone. They flipped over the table and he charged.

“Get hi—”

Someone had an axe. They swung the axe. Relc blocked it with his spear. The axe bounced off the enchanted spear’s haft. Relc was still charging, so the butt of the axe smacked whoever was swinging it and Relc knocked them flat. Then stomped on their stomach.

Two more [Thugs] went down in a whirl. Relc’s spear thrust out, under a guard, and tapped someone’s ribs. Then broke them. That was when Halfblade appeared and tried to run her two blades through Relc’s sides. He whirled, bellowed.

“[Triple Thrust]!”

There was a curse. Relc saw his spear lance out, striking three places at once. He…

Missed.

“[Perfect Dodge]!”

The figure cried out, after the fact. Relc saw a female Drake leaping away. He charged after her, and saw her dart behind a beam. Relc crashed around it, aiming—

Gone.

Someone shot a crossbow at him. It hit his armor sideways; barely went beneath one scale. Relc whirled, snarling.

“Stop shooting me!”

He realized they actually stopped. The rest of the Shank Gang in the room were running for the doors. Relc debated stopping them for a second. Then realized he’d have no chance.

“Damn—”

This time, he didn’t dodge whatever the Face tossed at him. Relc felt something kick him and he landed, armor smoldering. And there Halfblade was. She aimed the crossbow at him—

“Gaaaaah!”

Relc’s scream of desperation and [Whirlwind Dodge] caught the [Rogue] by surprise. He threw himself to the side so hard he landed on his feet. He charged.

“[Spear Flurry]!”

His jabs hit only air. He tried to track her, but again the Drake blurred, weaving, deflecting one spear thrust, moving to the side. She stood there, rather than duck behind a support beam again. The two stared at each other. Relc gritted his teeth.

“Damn. I hate high-level opponents with dodging Skills.”

She spat.

“What kind of Senior Guard are you?”

The big Drake grinned.

“Relc!”

He lunged and thrust. The spear nearly went through her face. The Face dodged, cursing, and leapt back, unnerved. She threw another explosive bottle, and Relc leapt back. She vanished. Then appeared and tried to stab him.

This time she got through his armor. Twice. Belly-cuts, and they burned. Flame-daggers! Relc roared, swung an arm, and sent her sprawling, but she flipped onto her feet and retreated.

A second staring contest. Relc checked himself.

Not badly hurt. He eyed the Face. She was unnerved.

She had to be over Level 30. [Dagger Duelist] or [Stabmistress] or some class like that. Evasion, armor-penetrating stabs. Simple, effective. Stealth too.

Relc’s highest-levelled class was [Spearmaster] at Level 36. In theory, they were matched, especially because she clearly had gear he lacked. He had on [Guard] armor, and his enchanted spear might be better than her daggers, but it was an armor and mage-killer, not a [Rogue]-hunter.

In theory, they were matched. What was making Halfblade nervous was that she could tell Relc was better. But not why.

[Armored Advance]. The [Spearmaster] came in, jabbing, refusing to give her a big opening. She retreated, slashing, realizing that he had way too much range. She threw a dagger and it touched him—exploded. He cursed.

“How many things go boom in your—”

She nearly stuck a dagger through the bottom of his jaw in a vicious lunge-in. Relc recoiled.

[Counter Backstep]. He moved back, and in, and scored a hit through her armor. She was too quick! But she clutched at her upper right breast, gasping. Her fancy armor hadn’t stopped his spear.

“How…?”

She stopped, circled. They hit each other twice more, both times fruitlessly. But she couldn’t hide her dismay.

How am I losing? The answer was simple. They had roughly equal classes and gear, so it might be anyone’s game. But Relc?

Relc was a [Sergeant]. And a [Guardsman of Trust]. Neither class was over Level 30. But he had more Skills. Case in point? She tried to use her stealth Skill, but a weaker one. His [Eyes in the Back] saw her coming and he struck with the butt of his spear, sending her stumbling back.

Outlevelled. He had more experience, anyways. Relc saw his opportunity as she cursed, stumbling, and took it.

“Aha!”

He threw the spear at her face and she reflexively dodged. But it wasn’t even a javelin’s throw; he’d just heaved the spear lengthwise at her. She raised her daggers—and Relc grabbed her wrists.

“Got you.”

Halfblade’s eyes went wide. She went for a kick to the groin. It bounced off a codpiece.

“Let go! Let—”

Relc didn’t dare let go of one hand, and he had no spear. She was so nimble she might have dodged a kick. But those were problems for people who were not Relc. The Drake began accelerating. Halfblade realized what was happening in an instant and tried to drag free.

“No, no, no, no—”

—-

It had gone terribly silent inside the Shank Gang’s warehouse. The crowd watching fearfully from afar had thought the Senior Guardsman was dead, even when he kicked the door in. Especially when he hopped on one foot, swearing for a good fifteen seconds.

But then the [Thugs] had come running out of the back and they’d hoped. But now? It was so silent. Gnolls glanced at each other, and their ears couldn’t pick up what was happening inside the enchanted warehouse. A Drake peered on the tips of her toes. Where was the rest of the Watch? They’d shouted for a patrol, but it was too l—

Relc crashed out of a wall with Halfblade. The crowd screamed as the two hit the wall so hard they busted through it in a shower of splinters. Relc cursed.

“That hurts! Alright, let’s do it again!”

“No, sto—”

They hit another wall this time and cracked it. It hurt like hell, but Relc was tough. [Rogues]? He saw the lolling head and the two daggers slipped from her claws. He dropped her, secured the daggers in his belt, and reached for his cuffs. Then he remembered she was a Face. It wouldn’t work. So he just picked her up by one foot and began trudging back to the warehouse.

The Drake stopped when he saw the crowd staring at him, and the trashed Shank Gang. All by one person. Relc stopped. He grinned, thought, then held up one thumb-claw.

“That’s Relc style. No, wait, that’s still terrible.”

—-

Relc had been afraid someone would yank his spear, or that he’d missed the boss of this gang. As it turned out? He’d backhanded the [Gang Boss], Shanker Ellic, and that had been that.

Halfblade had been the problem. When the Watch patrol slowly picked their way down the street, a full three-squad patrol armed with the same tower shields they’d used in the mob fights, they stopped.

Relc stood over a line of comatose [Thugs], [Rogues], the [Gang Boss], and Halfblade. In point of fact, he had a foot on Halfblade’s back; she was the only one he couldn’t cuff. People were pointing, cheering, and shouting his name.

“Relc! Relc! Relc!”

“That’s right! That’s my name! That’s how you do it!”

The Drake [Guardsman] grinned, on top of the world. He waved the Watch over as the [Guards] stared at Cellidel’s biggest gang, in chains. No less than Vok and Tesy themselves pushed through the crowds, and stopped. The word was all over the city. One Senior Guard had just crushed the Shank Gang!

Relc grinned as he stared at Tesy. How was that? How was that? Did you believe in the Watch now? Tesy was blinking at him, eyes wide. Relc heaved a sigh. He had done the thing that he was good at. And that…

—-

Changed nothing.

At first, Relc thought it did. After all, well, he got in trouble, but he didn’t at the same time. They hauled him into the Watch Captain’s office where a [Counsellor] was protesting that ‘Mister Ellic’ had done nothing wrong.

Terigrals glared at Relc, but he refused to release Shanker Ellic, on the grounds that he was a [Gang Boss] and any other arguments were stupid. Relc happily stood through the lecture about ‘backup’, and ‘evidence’ and tuned it out to his own theme song he ran in his head.

If you’re a Relc, do it like a Relc. Do it like an elk! Welk! Relc!

This wasn’t like the silly story Mrsha had tried to tell him about, where the ‘Watch’ or ‘po-lice’ of these Humans was corrupt. If you had a [Gang Boss]…you had a [Gang Boss] and a [Counsellor] was not a lawyer. Whatever that was.

There were some asterisks on the victory. For one thing, when it was announced, it was ‘a victory for Cellidel’s Watch’ that neglected to mention one Drake had done all the heavy lifting and the rest had just carted the others off to jail. Mind you—Relc didn’t envy whoever had to watch Halfblade. [Rogues] were hard to keep in a cell.

However, Relc got a parade. He got a grudging commendation from the Watch Captain, delivered by a more sincere Council who weren’t up on ‘reasons to hate Relc’. He got to hear them cheer him and felt good because the big gang was in jail, weren’t they? People like Tesy could see the Watch could do it if they had a Relc.

He was going to sleep in his apartment complex, but everyone had to stop and congratulate him. Vok gave Relc a wide-eyed look.

“You took out an entire gang? By yourself?”

He stared at Relc for injuries, but all of Relc’s were healed; the cauterized wounds from those daggers would take longer, but Relc was tough. The Drake gave him the Erin gesture she called ‘finger guns’.

“All about the spear. And hitting [Rogues] really hard into walls. You just need practice! Who’s coming for spear practice tomorrow, huh?”

His students all cheered. Relc looked around, beaming. Then he saw a pair of Gnolls waving at him.

“Senior Guardsman Relc. Have you seen Hickery?”

Relc realized that he hadn’t seen the Gnoll girl among the parade. He dropped his smile and the finger-guns.

“No. Is something wrong?”

The Gnoll parents hesitated. The father, whose fur was glistening with some kind of—what was it? Oil? Grease?—looked at his wife.

“She hasn’t come back yet.”

“Is she missing? I can go look—”

“No. We thought…”

The female Gnoll smelled of wood dust and had some on her fur, even a whorl of wood shavings. She looked at Relc.

“A [Guardsman] took her to the Watch House. Because of her spear. I think she was training in the courtyard. We thought…”

Relc glanced back the way he’d come.

“I can check. I’ll be right back.”

—-

The parents’ names were Orell and Maxireffa. They were a [Carpenter] and [Wagon Wright], respectively. Hence the grease on Orell’s fur. They had been new to Cellidel; their jobs could take them anywhere, but Hickery was young so they had wanted the safety of the walls; they were City Gnolls.

Relc knew all this because forty minutes later, a sobbing Hickery was in her mother’s arms. He’d led her out of the Watch House. There was shouting inside and Relc had to leave to return.

As it happened…a [Guard] had seen Hickery practicing with the spear. She had been hauled in four hours ago for possessing a weapon, and endangering others. Of course, children were hauled into the Watch House now and then for throwing stones through glass windows, and so on.

Relc wasn’t good with them, but Beilmark and some of the parents were a deft hand, and could get out whether there was trouble at home, or whatever was the cause. Sometimes there were repeat offenders.

He had never heard of a [Guardsman] shouting at a frightened little girl for nearly an hour, threatening to put her in the overnight cells, and cuffing her until Relc arrived. Hickery had been sobbing—silently because she’d been told to be silent—but burst into tears anew when he walked in.

“I…I’m sorry.”

When Relc finally emerged, the parents greeted him. Hickery was still crying, but clinging to both. Relc’s head hung low. His tail dragged on the ground.

“It’s not your fault, [Guardsman] Relc. We heard what you did today.”

“What? Oh yeah. The gang. I didn’t—this [Guard] hauled Hickery in because he saw her practicing. I…know him.”

Pos. Relc tried to explain. He found he didn’t need to.

“It’s not the first time it’s happened. It won’t be the last. I’m just glad Hickery wasn’t arrested and you were here, Senior Guardsman.”

Orell tried to smile, but he was angry. Who wouldn’t be? He glanced into the Watch House, still loud with internal commotion. He stood up.

“Let’s go home.”

“I’ll walk with you. I—I’m sorry, Hickery.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong!”

She cried. Her parents carried her in silence. Relc stared back at the Watch House.

“No. You didn’t.”

How could you be up so high and then low in a moment, like that? He felt as if he’d been standing on clouds and someone had yanked the flying carpet out from under him.

Pos. But not just Pos. Orell and Maxireffa were silent until they were two blocks outside the Watch House. Then they began speaking.

“It really isn’t your fault, Senior Guardsman. A child with a weapon…”

“It’s a training spear.”

“Nevertheless. It’s happened. Hickery will just have to not practice. Or do it out of sight.”

“But it’s the courtyard! I have to…”

The little girl was sniffing and crying. Relc couldn’t look at her. He glanced at Orell. The Gnoll was shaking his head.

“It will be fine. She’s a [Spear Trainee], isn’t she?”

He glanced at Relc. The Drake ducked his head again.

“Yeah. Talented as I’ve seen.”

“Then that’s wonderful. Hickery might have a future as…well. A lot of things. I don’t like to imagine her fighting, but a good class is a good class. Skills are Skills. This? It’ll work out. Maybe it’s time to move again, Maxy.”

She nodded. Hickery clung to her mother.

“I don’t want to go! I like it here!”

She shouted it, despite everything. Heads turned, and some people called out to Relc. He tried to smile and couldn’t.

“I don’t know what to say.”

He tried to apologize again, but Maxireffa shook her head.

“It wasn’t your fault, Guardsman Relc. We are used to it. It will all shake out in the levels in the end.”

Relc blinked. Orell nodded.

“What comes down brings you up in time. Hickery, why don’t we buy you a little treat? We have to celebrate your class anyways.”

“Really?”

She sniffed. Relc instantly fished in his money pouch.

“I can give…”

He realized he didn’t have much; taking down the Shank Gang hadn’t come with a monetary reward. The two Gnoll parents waved it away.

“We can’t thank you enough. Hickery’s level…don’t worry about it, please.”

The Drake reluctantly tucked away the light pouch. He glanced at Maxireffa.

“That was the Book of Levels you were quoting, wasn’t it?”

“It was. Hardship lets us level. It’s a source of comfort, sometimes. And it will turn out for the best. We’ll outlevel anyone who steps on us.”

Relc nodded. And yet…he glanced over his shoulder. Shook his head.

“That wasn’t right. A Senior Guardsman…”

His fist clenched. Orell tried to smile, but his look was one of resignation. He glanced at Relc.

“There are good [Guards] and bad ones. As long as we have someone like you on the streets, Senior Guardsman Relc, I feel better.”

It was the right thing to say, but the wrong time. Relc stopped. He stared at Orell, so long that the entire family turned. Relc’s look was distant, pained, and all of his triumph, from risking his life, the terror of it?

It turned to ashes. It changed nothing.

“Senior Guardsman? What’s wrong?”

Relc stared at the sky.

“…I’m not on the streets. I’ve been put on suspended leave for a week.”

The trio stared at him. It was a lighter punishment than Relc might have gotten. Even so—the Watch Captain had given it to him for breaking Pos’ jaw.

—-

Relc did not serve his entire week of probation. He was needed too badly by the fourth day.

Tesy had been right, damn him. Relc had cleared out a major gang. Restored the Watch’s image.

…But it just begged the question, why had the Watch let that gang appear in the area in the first place? Why hadn’t they done anything about it?

And—it might be a bit self-centered, but if you were the victim of the same kind of guardswork that Hickery had suffered from, it didn’t matter if Cellidel stopped ten gangs. Because they were lumping you with the very same [Thugs] and [Murderers] they arrested.

Relc realized he was a fool. That his big answer had been pointless.

“It wasn’t pointless. Stop beating yourself up. Here. I brought some more Prelon chips.”

Ironically, Tesy was the nicest the Drake got in the four days Relc was cooped up. Hickery showed up to practice red-eyed, but talking about a cupcake she’d been bought the next morning. Relc practiced, and hung out with Tesy, who brought snacks and…well. Looked at Relc and didn’t bring up the Watch problems.

Sellme did, though. Tesy didn’t bring it up, nor did Relc mention it, but rumors were everywhere of the image of the Watch menacing a crying Gnoll girl with a club. Of course, there the picture lied because Pos had only shouted and Hickery wasn’t holding a spear. But it was true enough.

“The Watch only protects Drakes! Who let the Shank Gang exist in the first place? Do we need foreign [Guards] to come and sort out Cellidel’s problems?”

Relc heard that one from a [Shouter], bellowing in a heaving tavern until the Watch broke up the gathering. The fact that he was there didn’t endear the others to the Watch, only him. Now a lot of people knew his name…and that he was suspended. It only made them angrier about it all, if the ‘one good [Guard]’ was in trouble for doing good things.

Unrest was growing. The [Rebel] class was easy enough to pick up. Of course, you had some experts who knew exactly how to deal with the Watch. Tripwire? No problem. Egg to the back of the head as they sauntered around? Easy. A foot to trip up chasers, a bucket from the rooftop…

But all the amateurs needed was encouragement, and something to be angry about. It started with being unhappy.

“What’s the answer here?”

Relc didn’t know. He thought he’d done something right. Tesy just shrugged. He poured a drink. Vok reached for it; Relc slapped his paw down.

“That’s for adults.”

“I am an adult!”

Relc eyed the sixteen year-old Gnoll.

“Have a half cup. Tesy and I will drink.”

“Tesy’s only two years older than me!”

“Yeah. And Tesy bought the wine.”

Tesy also knew how to drink. Relc and Tesy tapped wooden cups, and then Tesy sighed. He shook his head.

“You’re a good [Guard], Relc. But a few good [Guards] don’t cure the rot. It’s in the Watch; you’re the one who doesn’t fit in.”

Relc didn’t like that.

“There are lots of good [Guards]. I think. I bet. Some are cool.”

“Yeah? Who else was with you at the Shank Gang’s warehouse?”

The big Drake frowned, trying to think of a response. He nudged the Gizeal Puzzle with one foot.

“That’s not fair. Most [Guards] aren’t me and they have orders. A lot do their jobs.”

“Oh, fine. Sure. They do their jobs. But I don’t see anyone but you objecting when a little kid, a child gets hauled in with the criminals!”

Tesy was getting angry again. Relc was getting angry. He nearly cracked his cup, and released his grip.

“…Right. But there’re rules.”

“See? Corrupt. You’re fine, Relc. But it’s reasons like that, that that piece of shit…Pos…hey. I just thought of something. His name…get it?”

Tesy laughed. Relc sighed. The problem was? He couldn’t argue with Tesy. How did you solve this? He thought, with all the Relc-power in his Relc-brain. Then he came up with a Relc-solution.

—-

Watch Captain Zevara stared at the letter she’d gotten via the Mage’s Guild. Which she’d paid for. Well, that wasn’t really a concern. She was more concerned by the contents.

Why did Relc give her headaches even when he wasn’t in her city? Then again…she had to admit. This was her fault.

“What an Ancestors-damned mess.”

It was such a Relc-move to ask her for help. Then again, it also meant he was taking his job seriously. As for the issue?

Zevara wished she had an answer. She had thought she was sending him to a city with a small crime problem, not a bigoted city plagued by this ‘Sellme’. Him taking out a gang by himself, like the late Mister Soot’s?

“Madness.”

She wouldn’t have authorized it in a million years. It spoke to how bad the problem must have been, for Relc to do something that crazy. That no one had backed him up?

“Disgraceful.”

The buzz of background conversation stopped once more. It had been going on in the back of Zevara’s consciousness, but had lulled every time she gave voice to her opinion on the Cellidel situation. Now someone tapped on the table.

A click of claw meeting wood. Zevara glanced up and saw the rich table, carved from a single piece of huge wood, sitting in the comfy meeting room of Liscor’s Council.

Unlike every time in history, though, this one was different. Gone, gone was the snack buffet table, and instead they had functional catering. There were books, records on one wall, and someone had dragged in a bookshelf so they could collate things.

A map of Liscor hung on the wall, Hexel’s blueprints next to it, and there was a huge war map of the entire area next to both. The Drakes and one Gnoll sitting around the table were all staring at her. Zevara stared, and saw the claw-tapper was Lism. The [Shopkeeper]-[Councilmember] fixed her with a stern eye.

“Watch Captain, I agree the situation isn’t ideal, but ‘disgraceful’ is going a bit too far, don’t you think?”

“Er…I’m sorry, Councilmember Lism. I was referring to something else.”

The purple-scale Drake paused and his usual look of annoyance replaced itself.

“Oh. Well then. Is it salient to this discussion?”

“No, Councilmember. Go ahead.”

Zevara blushed a bit, and folded her claws behind her back. She was here as the head military advisor, along with Wing Commander Embria. She gave Zevara a side-long glance; Embria could recognize her father’s handwriting. Lism went on, oblivious, as Elirr, Jeiss, Alonna, and the other two Council Members that Zevara had no respect for, so didn’t memorize their names, listened in.

“As I was saying, since the New Liscorian Army is now going to war with Hectval, we have to support them. Food, supplies, finances, healing…well, we’ve agreed to it. The problem is…Drakepower. Manpower? What word is pan-species, Alonna?”

“Personnel.”

The [Mage] supplied. Lism clicked his claws.

“Exactly. We’ve lost good people against damned Hectval. More are joining the army. Well…that’s fine. [Soldiers] are needed. But that means other classes lose out. And we already sent a lot of our [Soldiers] to our other army…the one that’s not here.”

He glanced at Embria and she squirmed. The only Gnoll in the room raised his paw. And that was notable in Liscor—Zevara wondered if Cellidel could even imagine a Gnoll on their Council.

“I see that we have an issue, Lism, yes. But we are growing. New Humans come in every day, yes?”

“Not enough. I’ve done the numbers, Elirr. Hexel is building the new city…and that’s wonderful. We have so much gold being invested from Salazsar and Pallass of all places. It’s, well, it’s that damned [Innkeeper]’s fault.”

The room went still. Lism had invoked the name few brought up. The [Shopkeeper] went on, grading his papers against the table.

“Yes, it’s her fault. She made Liscor too popular as an investment place. So we have countless buildings going up—it might double the size of the city again! Not enough bodies to fill it. A problem of too much expansion! All her fault for giving us such an opportunity.”

His heart wasn’t in the insult. But Zevara saw the problem. Jeiss tapped the table.

“We’ll look into solutions. Right now, I’d like to go over Olesm’s plans again. I know we’ve done it, but let’s just take another look and see if there’s anything we can do as the Council.”

The others agreed. Embria was all too willing to pull up Olesm’s plans—he had left as [Strategist] leading the army. However, it was Zevara who coughed and raised a claw.

“Councilmembers, I’m afraid I must leave. I have some pressing work I must get to, and if we are just retreading strategy…”

The rest instantly nodded. Alonna smiled at Zevara.

“Of course, Watch Captain. Anything that need concern us? That we can help with?”

Zevara hesitated, and waved a claw. She lifted the missive from Relc.

“No. Just one of my Senior Guards. Guardsman Relc, on deployment to Cellidel. He has a small issue, so I just need to draft a reply.”

If I have anything good to tell him. Zevara was proud of Relc, but how was she supposed to help him? Tell him to drag all of Liscor over to Cellidel so she could slap some sense into that idiotic Watch Captain and their Watch? Find an Erin? The truth was…

“Relc? What’s happened to that oaf now? Don’t tell me he’s gotten hurt?”

Zevara blinked. Jeiss was standing up, concern on his face. Alonna, Lism, even the other Councilmembers looked up.

“Is Guardsman Relc alright? I hadn’t seen him around but I didn’t know he’d left the city.”

“Indeed. You need time? Take all the time you need, Watch Captain. He was always a bit obtuse, but a fine Senior Guard. Is he well?”

To Zevara’s surprise, the entire Council was concerned, even Zalaiss and Tismel. Senior Guardsman Relc was Senior Guardsman Relc. A face everyone knew in the city.

“He’s…well. It’s complicated.”

Zevara ended up telling them all about it. Lism hammered the table.

“Gnoll issues? Shouting at a child?”

He nearly spat fire himself. Elirr raised a weary eyebrow.

“Imagine that in a Drake city.”

His comment provoked intense, embarrassed silence, but Jeiss shook his head.

“I…taking on a Gang without support? That’s a problem.”

Embria stared at Zevara in such a way the Watch Captain knew her father hadn’t told her about this. Zevara waved the letter.

“That’s why I have to get a response back. Excuse me, Councilmembers…”

She walked out of City Hall and spent the next three hours walking around her city, trying to figure out a response. She came up with the best one she could, and was headed back to the barracks to draft it. It wasn’t great, but it was all she could do.

When she got there, one of the Senior Guards leaned out past the desk.

“Watch Captain. A word?”

“Mm? What’s the matter, Yill?”

Senior Guardsman Yill, the Desk Sergeant, glanced at Zevara. A few other [Guards] stopped and gathered over as they realized she’d returned and she tensed. But Yill just glanced at the letter in her claws.

“We heard old Relc’s in a bit of trouble. Anything we can help with?”

“What’s he gotten into now, Watch Captain? Heard there are some bastards who need his [Relc Kick] up their asses in Cellidel.”

Another [Guard] chimed in. Before Zevara knew it, the rest of the Watch not on duty were gathering around, demanding to hear the story. How had they…?

She glanced up and saw Jeiss wink at her. The Councilmember trotted out the door. Zevara stood there, with Relc’s friends and coworkers asking after him. She wished she could show him that.

—-

‘To Senior Guardsman Relc. In regards to your query, as Watch Captain of Liscor, I have to tell you there are no easy solutions. As you yourself wrote, it is not a matter of bad individuals, but a culture.

In my deliberations, with input from Liscor’s Council and fellow guards, who all wish you success, I have concluded that it is an uneven balance of power. A solution within a Drake-led Watch, with almost only Drakes and a Council that is made up of the same opinions, cannot address inequality with Gnolls because it lacks any perspective.

I would suggest, firstly, meeting with any Gnolls in positions of power in the city. Secondly, within the Watch, if there are any upstanding [Guards], I would seek them out. Also in regards to individuals like Sellme, I have historically…’

Relc read Zevara’s letter. Then he read it again. Then he pulled out a book he had almost never read, but picked up when he got the letter.

The actual handbook of Liscorian law. Relc read that one too…okay, he skimmed the parts she referenced.

It was perhaps the first time he’d ever read it. The Drake was reading it now, and taking her seriously. What Zevara said was this: he was in trouble. The Watch was bad, and she knew it. However, she told him to find Gnolls and ask what they would do.

…Which made sense. Relc was a Drake. Gnolls were Gnolls. He hadn’t known about Hickery. He didn’t know what was making them mad. What he saw was a fraction of the bug pie, and Cellidel’s bug pies tasted a lot worse than Garry’s.

[Guardsman of Trust Level 21!]

“Whoa. Reading books makes you stronger! Yeah!”

…But only that one level. Relc didn’t level from what had been a fairly easy, if dangerous fight against Shank Gang. This? This was [Guardsman]-ing, so he supposed he’d earned it.

His head hurt from reading the book, anyways. Thinking on this?

It was so much work.

Relc took a break by trying to figure out the Gizeal Puzzle. Valeterisa’s work was fiendish. He had solved, to his count, eighteen mini-puzzles and they had only gotten harder after the easy ones he’d done in the first few days.

He sat with a tiny magnifying glass, going over every inch of the cube from the outside, then inside, waiting for views of the interior and doing mini-sketches with charcoal and parchment to get clues as to how to fix it. It was relaxing and soothed the soul. Relc finally uncovered the mini-ridgelines of wood you slid across the exterior of the puzzle, eighty two slots in total, over four hours, and finally collected the first jade key.

“Yes!”

That was a good time. Then he went to meet with the Gnollish authority in Cellidel.

—-

The burned stall had come from a Drake who refused to sell to Gnoll customers. Relc watched ashes being swept away, then turned to the old Gnoll with silver-grey fur.

“It’s getting worse of late.”

“It is, Senior Guardsman. Please, sit.”

The two sat at an outdoor cafe. Like Krshia, Relin Seftail was a business Gnoll first. He kept Pawprint Bites, the cafe, open even after the commotion, and was sitting with Relc. They had some tea.

“…So about my question?”

Relc prompted the Gnoll when the silence grew overlong. He felt…odd. This was not a Relc thing to do. He had asked for a meeting with the Gnoll, feeling foolish, and now?

Well. Some Gnolls glanced at him, hostile. The fights had been getting worse. The Watch had arrested everyone at a Gnoll gathering, and the [Anarchists] had retaliated by burning a Watch prisoner wagon by tarring it with a fiery pitch and setting it alight. The Watch had retaliated by arresting more people, who were injured in the arrests, two badly.

It had ended with this stall being burned. Here was what chilled Relc.

The stall owner had gone up with the stall. They’d found the owner, charred, and rushed them to the [Healer]. It had been the fire and smoke that killed them, despite the [Healer]’s best efforts, but someone had hit the owner and left them to burn as the fire blazed.

So now a Drake was dead. A Drake who had been outspokenly against serving Gnolls, but who was dead. It was a Watch matter.

“This is a terrible business, Guardsman Relc. The Watch has never…gotten along with us. But we’ve been amicable. Or have I just forgotten how bad it gets? I can’t tell, some days. It feels the worst it’s ever been, but the tragedy is that it’s not worse than it ever was. Does that make sense?”

Relin spoke at last. He looked tired. Relc nodded.

“I’m grateful you’re speaking with me, sir. I want to help.”

The [Cafe Manager] stared at Relc for a while, over the tea with wisps of pleasant, aromatic Prelon leaves filling the air instead of smoke and…burnt meat.

“You know, Guardsman Relc, I believe you. If it were anyone else—any other Drake in a position of authority, I’d not have answered your request. But you?”

He glanced around. The hostile looks prickled Relc’s scales, but the instinctive anger faded when they saw his badge. He was back on duty; after today, Terigrals needed all [Guards], even Relc. He could calm the angriest crowds by being there.

“I’m…just Relc.”

“But it’s Relc who we remember. No one else stopped the Shank Gang. And you have a name for being fair. Not corrupt. You don’t let criminals go when they’ve done wrong, Gnoll or Drake. Fair. This city needs Drakes like you, and Gnolls, but it’s too late, I fear.”

Relc ducked his head. He stared at the stall again.

“Sellme’s making this worse. It was always bad, I get that. But this…”

“Sellme didn’t do this.”

The Gnoll’s voice was quiet. Relin looked at the stall, his face bleak.

“Sellme’s followers, then.”

The Gnoll shook his head once more. Relc’s head moved slightly. He glanced at Relin.

“No. They started it and they cause it to get worse. These days? I think many young Gnolls—and Drakes—are fed up. Cellidel was never perfect. Sellme is the crest of a wave, Guardsman Relc. But not the body of it. This is just Gnolls who are tired.”

Relc looked at the silver Gnoll. He leaned forwards, urgently.

“How can we fix it?”

Relin took his time in replying. When he did, he smiled, ruefully.

“I would have been so happy to talk to you a month ago, Guardsman Relc. Before? I would have said this: put us on the Council. Put us on the Council, even just one Gnoll, and we’ll see hope. Give us a fair spot. Put more Gnoll Senior Guards in the Watch! Maybe not as Watch Captain; I understand Drakes would be hesitant if it looked like we were taking over. But give us a say in places that matter. Do that, and we’re already further ahead than we’ve ever been.”

Relc was writing this down. This was exactly what Zevara had said. Come to it…his claw slowed.

This was what the Silverfangs had done in Liscor. He looked at Relin.

“If you got…let’s say. Three slots on the Council, uh, a third of the Senior Guards in the Watch as Gnolls. Would that stop the riots?”

The [Cafe Manager] sat there. He looked at Relc, and sighed, putting his tea cup down, untouched.

“We’ve waited a long time, Guardsman Relc. That would be progress. That would be more than I could dream of, realistically. Are you asking if it would stop the riots? Maybe. Probably. Is it enough? Never. But if we had that, I could believe Cellidel would get better. Give us hope. Give us tangible progress. That’s what we’re lacking. Without it? This.”

He waved a paw at the burnt wreckage. Relc nodded slowly. He stared at the list. How was he supposed to get Senior Guards into the Watch? There weren’t enough active-duty Gnolls to even fill that slot, and Senior Guards needed mass approval.

If we got Gnolls to vouch for them…it would probably fit the requirements. But you need more Gnolls or you won’t get the right ones. Not everyone can be a Senior Guard. So you need more Gnolls in the Watch. But who wants to join up when Pos is there? As for the Council?

His head hurt. But he felt like there was something there. At least he had Relin’s perspective. That was something.

“Thank you, Honored Relin. Can I call on you again? To ask more questions?”

“Any time, Guardsman Relc. I hope you can help. And if I can say—”

The two were rising and shaking hands when Relc saw the quiet, practically empty cafe’s back doors open. A voice called out.

“I can still smell her, father. It’s—it’s in my mind. I can still—”

A Gnoll came stumbling out of the back, far younger than Relin himself. He looked pale, haunted. His fur smelled of soot and some of it was burned along his paw and legs. Relc stopped. Relin turned quickly.

“Ashel, we have a guest. Senior Guardsman Relc, my son. He’s been resting. Go inside, Ashel.”

The young man had stopped the instant he saw Relc at the table. One look conveyed so many things. Sudden terror, apprehension, guilt…

Relief? Then the young man started. Relin stepped over, guiding Ashel back. Relc stood there.

Oh no. Suddenly, a few things Relin had said, his certainty, fit into place. Relc stared at Ashel. Burnt fur? I can smell her?

When people thought of crimes, they used to think of the [Serial Killer] Relc and Klbkch had caught one time. Yet even that was gathering a bit of evidence, seeing a pattern, and waiting.

Many crimes? They were…easy. If there were hard crimes, it was career-criminals who knew how to run and hide.

“Mister Ashel, isn’t it?”

The two Gnolls stopped. Relc spoke, around a leaden feeling in his stomach. He willed himself to be wrong. Relin had turned. So had Ashel, and the look on his face…

“Senior Guardsman, my son is tired. He was…caught up in putting out the fire. Perhaps we can speak another time?”

Relin looked at Relc. And again, the Drake hesitated. It would be so easy to agree. He didn’t know anything.

Except he knew. Except one look was enough. He was not on duty, but he’d brought his badge, hadn’t he? Relc stared down at it.

If he turned away, did the light fade? Or would it fade now? He didn’t know. But he knew what Zevara would do.

“I won’t be long, Honored Relin. I would just like to ask your son something about yesterday. Just for a second. We are still seeking the individuals involved in the death of that [Shopkeeper]. Could I ask…?”

Ashel was shaking as Relc stepped forwards. Some of the people gathered around the stall were turning, as Relin blocked Relc’s way.

“Guardsman Relc. Please.”

That was all he said. He looked Relc in the eye. Relc had to force himself to meet Relin’s gaze.

“I’m a [Guardsman of Trust], Relin. I do not choose to do my duty, but I must be fair. Fair. As we said. I only need to ask one thing, Ashel. [The Law Upheld]. Can you tell me what happened last night?”

Relin closed his eyes. Tears began to fall from the corners.

“I…didn’t think she’d be there. It was—”

The [Cafe Manager] collapsed into a chair as Senior Guardsman Relc reached for his side, and realized he had no cuffs. He didn’t bother to cuff Ashel.

But he did arrest him. Gnolls saw the Drake clasp Ashel’s arms behind his back. They began to shout. Then bombard Relc. He had to blow a whistle to call for backup. By the end of the hour, he had arrested a murderer.

His name tarnished as fast as people could speak it. How quickly it happened, even if you did your job. That was why…Relc came to a conclusion as a rain of stones pelted off the Watch House’s windows and roofs.

That was why it couldn’t be one person. Everything was wrong. He stared at the report he was writing and felt the second puzzle he was working on, even more complex and invisible than the Gizeal Puzzle, tangle even further in his head.

—-

Here is how it broke down. After Relc arrested Ashel, he and Tesy fought. About the arrest. About having to arrest Ashel.

Relc went to work in the evening. He stood in line with the other [Guards] as they blocked a road, pelted by debris. That was easy.

The crowd screamed, like enemy soldiers, but altogether too close. The other [Guards] were tense. Terrified.

Like rookie [Soldiers] facing their first battle. No wonder they lashed out and tried to break up gatherings. They knew they were outnumbered, and panicked.

Relc? Relc had charged alone into that mass, into what looked like death. He faced them down quietly. It was not bravery, or a kind of superior resolve. If anything, it was a greater cowardice.

He knew he’d survive. Even if a thousand civilians charged their lines, and every [Guard] ran—he, Relc, would live. He could run faster, take more on. Relc could afford not to kill the Shank Gang because he was high-enough level to take the risk.

It wasn’t about him. It was about them. Why couldn’t they just treat Gnolls like…?

And why did those bastards have to make it so damn hard? Yes, protest! Yes, be angry! But this?

Bottles of piss and crap were the least of what hit the [Guards] these days. The [Anarchists] were great teachers. They showered the [Guards] with sewage waste, telling them to experience what people had suffered through for months. They tossed rocks, some with deadly accuracy.

And when you arrested them? They could undo your cuffs, all but the magical ones, and run off, blend with the crowd. The worst had camouflage Skills—they were specialists at fighting the law. Relc endured the hail of projectiles, protecting his face at all costs. That was when he saw it.

“Fire flask! Get out of the way!”

The first alchemical weapon arced through the air. [Guards] tried to break formation and run, but it was too late. It showered over them, burning two badly as the liquid gel clung to armor and burned. Relc saw the crowd draw back at this unexpected display of violence.

“Stop right there!”

He charged at the figure who’d thrown it. The [Dissident] had not expected that. They turned to run. Relc tackled them, civilians scattering out of the way.

“Get off me, you Creler-bastard! You armored—”

He ignored the punches and cuffed the shouting Gnoll. Relc got to his feet, looking back at the [Guards].

“One for lockup! Use of a deadly weapon on [Guards]!”

He bellowed as the crowd shouted at him to let go! Relc dragged the Gnoll back, ignoring blows, kicks that came out of the crowd from the friends of the fire-thrower. He only looked back when he felt a strange feeling.

Weightlessness. He realized he was dragging air. The Gnoll was bolting away, having freed himself from the manacles via a Skill. Relc stared.

“Stop!”

The Gnoll was leaping, vaulting a wagon, running for it. Relc ran after them. He bellowed again.

“Watch! Stop!”

The Gnoll ran for a corner and Relc knew he’d lose him if he turned the corner. In this short sprint, the [Dissident] was faster than the Gecko. Probably [Outrun the Law] or something. Relc would never catch up. So he raised his spear, whirled it so the butt was facing the Gnoll, not the spear tip, and threw.

The cast caught the Gnoll in the legs. Relc was on the [Dissident], not a high-level [Anarchist] or anything, in moments. He got the criminal.

He also broke the Gnoll’s leg. Relc had given the kid every chance, but it was a bad break and the screaming boy was loaded into the prisoner wagon. She had tossed a fire flask at a group of [Guards]. Clear assault. He’d broken her leg, to stop her fleeing.

All these things were facts. Relc had acted as he thought best in the moment. Presumably, Tesy acted in what he thought was the best way too, when he heard.

The next Sellme picture was of a huge, brutish Drake that looked like Relc breaking a Gnoll’s leg.

—-

“There has to be something I’m missing. Work, damn you.”

That morning (he was on night shift), Relc stared blearily at the object in front of him. He was no longer smiling. He was no longer happy.

It mocked him. The Gizeal Puzzle sat there, and Relc was getting to the point many people got to hours, and in this case, days before he did.

Why won’t this damn puzzle just solve itself? It was at the point where he had used every trick, fiddled with it to no avail for hours and it just…wouldn’t…work.

After twenty eight puzzles, Relc had run into a problem that had stumped him for the last six days. In between trying to solve Cellidel’s crises, getting pelted by trash, having to arrest that poor kid who’d burned down the stall, he’d been coming home to work on this cube. It had been fun. Right up until this point.

Relc stared at the magical box. Apparently, there was some last puzzle that let you…open the damned box and get at the countless more inside, but Relc couldn’t figure it out. It frustrated him because he knew there was just one last thing.

Countless compartments, sliding panels, and even indentations along the outside had been opened, their contents plundered, and neatly reset. They added up to three shining keys, each of which fit into the locks Relc had seen on first inspection.

All three keys were in the locks. He’d unveiled the hole and pieced together the missing component that would let the cube turn and open, exposing the next layer…

What was he missing? Relc stared at the cube. There was one thing, he was sure. And he…couldn’t find it. One magical arrow to slay his problems. The cube mocked him.

It was a metaphor for his life and Relc was about to punch it.

—-

Sellme’s picture painted a target on Relc. People knew Senior Guardsman Relc as the Drake who’d taken down the Shank Gang. They also knew he’d arrested Relin’s son.

And this painting? Well. How quickly they forgot. Or maybe it just failed to matter, despite Relc risking his life and everything. Relc stomped into the Watch House and halted.

Watch Captain Terigrals took one look at the tired, filthy [Guards] and they drew up. Their grousing, shouting, died down.

“Watch Captain?”

Relc saluted. Terigrals looked at Relc. Actually…looked at him.

The two didn’t see eye-to-eye on anything. Especially because Relc was taller. But Terigrals had the gaze of someone haunted. Worn down by this unrest.

“Guards, fall in.”

The Watch Sergeant barked. She looked nervous. Relc stood in line, smelling the stink of countless foul odors. Outside, their replacements were already shouting for the crowds to move back.

“Guardsmen, Guardswomen. You’ve worked splendidly this day. As you have every day. I’ve come to talk to you—personally. The riots have gotten worse. Two more buildings have been torched. I won’t lie to you. I might, to the rookies, but not to you. These [Rebels] and Sellme are tearing this city down, piece by piece. The Council is worried. More citizens are seeing the Watch do their utmost, but these…fools…!”

Terigrals gave his speech and the back of Relc’s neck prickled. You did not want to see your Watch Captain displaying emotion like this. Being uncontrolled like this. He felt the unease among Cellidel’s ranks.

Ironically, he respected Captain Zevara a lot more now. She had faced down undead hordes, the Goblin Lord, and monster attacks and not cracked. Terigrals?

He was on the edge. The old Drake was pacing. Another bad move unless it was excited pacing, like ‘let’s get over that hill and take it to them, lads!’ kind of pacing. He came out with it, slowly stopping and looking at them.

“…Given the unrest, the Council has come to a decision. I protested against, but…the army is moving back from its deployment along the Gnoll Plains. Six whole companies, and more if need be.”

The Watch stirred. Relc’s eyes widened. He spoke before he could help himself.

“That’s a bad idea, sir.”

Some of the [Guards] turned. The Watch Sergeant opened her mouth to bawl him out, but Terigrals nodded. He looked Relc in the eye. He might not have been a good Watch Captain, or even a decent one. But he was still a Watch Captain.

“I know.”

—-

“Tesy. Open up. Tesy.”

Relc rapped on the door. He still stank, and Vok, holding a paw over his nose, was staring. Some Gnolls had come out of their rooms to complain, but they stopped when they saw Relc.

The Drake knew that the [Painter] was inside. He had heard voices before he began knocking. Multiple voices.

“Tesy, it’s Relc. I am not on duty. I need to talk to you.”

He heard a voice from within. A loud whisper before it was silenced.

“It’s the fucking boots!”

Relc sighed. No guesses on who was keeping company with Tesy. ‘Boots’ was a name for the Watch. He knocked harder.

“Tesy, I have to talk to you! Something’s happening!”

“I’m busy, Relc. Go away!”

“No.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Tesy snapped back, in his usual way.

“Well, this is my room, and I’m not opening the door. By law, the same law you protect, you can’t come in. So knock as much as you want and I’ll call the Watch. Or the [Landlord]. Oh, wait. What a coincidence—”

There was laughter from within. Relc lost his patience. He stepped back.

“I am going to kick down this door in three seconds. Three.”

“Whoa, is he serious?”

“Relc!”

Vok yelped. Tesy had gone silent within. It might have been an idle threat from anyone else; cheap as they were, the doors were still…doors. Relc? One look at his face made everyone step back.

“Two! One!”

“Alright alright!”

Tesy yanked open the door. He glared up at Relc. Half a dozen figures ducked back, warily, as Relc folded his arms. Relc thought he even recognized two.

“You’re breaking the law. How dare—”

“Under the law, I can open any door I need to. Martial law has been declared, Tesy. The Watch isn’t the only force on the streets. Six companies of the army have been called in.”

Vok and the others listening gasped. Tesy stared up at Relc. Relc watched the [Painter]’s expression. He wasn’t surprised. Nor were the others. They stirred, almost eagerly.

“The boots are getting the Golem-brains as backup. Oh wow, are we supposed to be scared?”

Golem-brains? It must mean ‘soldiers’. Relc got the insult. He stared at the group inside. They didn’t seem nervous. But then—they might be like Tesy. The best at what they did.

“Is that all? I don’t see why you’re warning me.”

“I know who you have in there.”

Relc saw the group tense. He stared past Tesy and spoke for everyone to hear. He looked at Tesy, really looked at him.

“The Watch are not [Soldiers], Tesy. We’re not great. But do you think the army is better? There will be [Soldiers] on the streets, and they know nothing about crowd-control. They know how to fight. The instant someone throws a bottle of fire at them, they’ll attack back.”

“And that’s different from the Watch, how?”

A Gnoll sneered. Relc glared past Tesy; the Gnoll had a black eye and a wet cloth over it.

“Watchmen don’t use their blades on civilians. It’s going to be ugly. Tesy, if you know anyone who’s…making this worse, tell them not to lead civilians straight into Cellidel’s army. Not unless you’re trying to get innocent people killed.”

Tesy stiffened. So did the group behind him.

“You think we’re stupid, Guardsman? We know how to fight—”

Someone kicked the speaker. Relc just stared past Tesy.

“I just bet. But everyone else in a mob doesn’t. Vok—that goes for everyone here. Keep inside. It’s going to get worse.”

The army wasn’t a sign order was restored. It was a sign things had gone from bad to worse. [Soldiers] were bad at keeping order, as Relc had said. And even if they did bring in twice as many companies? They were still outnumbered. It just meant the [Soldiers] would fight civilians. Sure, they might be better at that, but it meant Cellidel was going to war with itself.

“Is that all, Relc?”

Tesy glared up at him. Relc nodded.

The door slammed in front of his face. Relc debated kicking it in. Then he turned and stomped off.

—-

The [Anarchists] were good at fighting. Relc thought about it as he had a patrol free from crowds protesting for once. Six of Cellidel’s companies were in the city, and they had frightened the angry mobs into hiding. It wouldn’t last; Relc had already seen figures pitching pots and stuff from rooftops at [Soldiers] who weren’t allowed to shoot back. Once the people lost their fear of the armored faces and weapons, it would get bad. Then a [Soldier] would snap…

It was like the stupid Gizeal Puzzle. He was running out of time. He wasn’t smart, but Relc had to find the solution! How did you reestablish trust in the Watch, alter the mentality of the governing bodies, put Gnolls into power…stop Sellme and his lot…

Well, I could always beat all of them up. Relc thought if he kicked the door down and just arrested everyone inside Tesy’s room, he might get most of the highest-leveled ones.

“I just don’t get it. What am I supposed to do?”

The Drake rubbed at his head. The gang of six young people stared at him, frozen in the act of stealing from a shop. The terrified [Shopkeeper] peered over a counter as the getaway wagon’s horses snorted.

A Gnoll lad with a dagger glanced at Relc, and his eyes slid sideways to his buddies. He had five friends, and his eyes flickered to a point behind Relc. The Senior Guard waved a claw at them.

“So, okay, here’s my problem. You’re looters. Thieves. I dunno. Is your class…[Robber] or just [Thief]? Where do you start? Not the problem. Obviously, you’re committing a crime. On the other tail…it’s bad in the city. People are hungry. This is a food shop, but you’re also stealing the safe. So I don’t know your motivations.”

Relc was ticking off points on his claw. The six [Thieves] hesitated. What the heck was he doing? Some people looked out from their hiding places.

A figure burst out from the cover of the wagon. A much larger Gnoll lunged at Relc’s back with a club swinging.

Relc turned, punched the Gnoll into the wagon, and turned back to the six. The Gnoll [Thug] lay with his head resting against the cracked wood splintered from the impact. The six young people were now terrified blocks of ice.

“See, that was a career criminal. I can arrest him, put him away because he’s clearly done that for a while. But you? Let’s say I arrest you. Do you put up a fight?”

Relc stared at the shaking dagger in the Gnoll boy’s hand.

“If I punch you, I have to take you to the [Healer]’s. If I was a lower-level [Guard] I’d probably use a crossbow rather than tangle with six fighters at once, or not spare my club or sword. That’s two and a half silver pieces. See, the [Healers] give us a discount, but the average price of tending to someone we apprehend is two and a half silver. Per person. That adds up! I got that from my Watch Captain.”

Relc had a list of figures. He consulted it, glancing up at the six youths.

“Of course, if I hit someone it’s two or three times that, especially if I break their bones.”

They began to tremble. The [Thug] was still just lying there, completely unconscious. Relc sighed.

“Best case scenario, I don’t beat you up, but I arrest you. It still costs the city money to put you in lockup, and feed you, and put you into a jail cell. But you know what my old Watch Captain said? It costs the city more because now you have a record, and you’re more likely to get a less well-paid job, and that makes you more likely to do this again.”

He rubbed at his head. Four Gnolls, two Drakes. Species didn’t matter; they were all poor kids.

“So how do you stop that? I mean, if you want to be really…evil…the easiest way to stop crime forever is to kill you all. But I’m a [Guardsman].”

“Please don’t.”

A Gnoll girl whispered. There were six of them, but they were scrawny, underfed young adults. Relc? He was a six foot six tall Drake, who weighed twice as much as any two of them without his armor, with muscles that Magus Grimalkin had once called ‘impressive’.

Relc waved a claw.

“No, no. That’s just exploring every option. I had no idea what to do, but see, in Liscor, we actually have a system. If there were some brats like you who did this, we’d haul them off, and make you join the army, or work in a mandatory job for two weeks. You even get paid. It’s ingenious, you see? You might even get your class if you’re apprenticed to fillet fish for a month. Or you join the army…that’s how I got into it. Cellidel? I arrest you, and you’re always ‘criminals’.”

That was the Gnoll problem, in a way. You arrested a drunkard? They had a record and no one, Drake or Gnoll, wanted to hire a criminal. Nevermind that the offense was slight. And that was the other key. That little street-kid that Pos had grabbed he let go. Vok? He’d been ready to arrest Vok for having a tussle with his friends.

The street kid had stolen. Vok had arguably been in a fight with other people who were eager participants, he might have even been defending himself. In both cases, neither one was a huge criminal, but the difference was species.

Which was stupid. Relc laid this out for the six kids as he slapped the [Thug] into cuffs. The big Drake turned to the six, who’d dropped their weapons.

“So what’s my solution here? Do I go full-Relc and break some legs? Do I arrest you?”

They looked at each other, too afraid to say anything to the [Guardsman] who was clearly losing his mind. Relc sighed. He picked up the groaning [Thug] and looked at the kids.

“Alright. I can see we’re not getting anywhere. So.”

They tensed. Relc stared at them, terribly, frighteningly silent. Then he waved a claw.

“…Get lost. If I see you again, I’m arresting you.”

The six [Thieves] stared at each other. Relc glared. They fled. He turned to the [Shopkeeper], who was staring at her ruined shop and the weapons lying on the ground. Relc sighed.

“See, even if I do that, the damage is still done. So who pays for the shop? We’ve already lost gold, and so the problem with crime is—if it happens, we’ve already lost. But then again…”

—-

Relc’s head hurt. It hurt day and night. He was thinking so hard he thought his brain was going to come out his earholes.

People were dying. Two civilians were dead, and one [Soldier]. Relc had not been there; he’d arrested the [Thug] and heard about it. Of course, the army said the [Soldier] had died and they’d defended themselves.

Three people were dead. And everyone, Drakes and Gnolls, were turning on the army. And Watch.

‘Like the blood on your boots, you monster?’

Relc stared at the scrawl on his door in red paint. He chewed on the Prelon, glanced around. He saw a face duck back behind a corner. Tesy’s friend?

Relc shrugged. The half-eaten Prelon hit the graffiti-artist so hard it knocked them flat. Then he went inside and stared at the Gizeal Puzzle.

He sat down, prodded it. Shook it. Turned it upside down. Inspected the keys, fiddled with them. Hummed. Shone some light on various places. Re-checked some of the puzzles. Used the magnifying glass to peer around…and then realized someone had peed on his door along with drawing on it.

“DAMN IT!”

The roar woke up the entire apartment complex. Vok, practicing with Hickery, looked up just in time to see Relc throw the Gizeal Puzzle through his wall, the railing, and into the courtyard below.

The shattered wood and stone rained down as Hickery and Vok scrambled away, staring. Relc stood in his ruined apartment, staring at the door. It had a huge hole in it, and so did the balcony, now missing a guardrail. He closed his eyes.

Someone had to pay for that. That…that was a Tesy move right there. He didn’t have to pay for what was burned down.

A frozen [Dissident] was holding a paintbrush just in front of the hole next to her head. She looked at Relc and ran away, screaming.

Relc slowly descended into the courtyard to pick up the broken puzzle. To his amazement, he saw the cube was lying on its side. Intact. Relc stared at it.

Then he saw one of the glass panels light up, and glittering words projected themselves a few feet into the air. The Drake…read the words.

Feeling annoyed or frustrated? Contact Archmage Valeterisa or the Terras faction of Wistram for support, hints, tips, and tricks for a nominal fee!

Relc’s lower left eyelid twitched. He opened and clenched his claws, then saw a second message appear, tracing itself underneath the writing.

Of course, a true mind would solve any puzzle without help.

“Ooh.”

Relc muttered. People were coming out of their rooms and the [Landlord] was staring up at the devastation and at Relc. He looked at the puzzle. Then he started laughing.

It wasn’t happy laughter. But at least he laughed for a second.

—-

The worst fighting took place the next day. Relc was sleeping in his new room, after paying a lot of money for repairs and helping board up the railing one moment.

The next? It felt like he was sweltering in the hot armor, underneath the helmet he had to wear to protect himself from projectiles.

“Stay back! Do not throw objects!”

The civilians were…counter levelling. This mob was the latest to attack Relc and the Watch, who were deployed alongside six companies of the army. The thing was—they weren’t levelling as [Warriors] or [Soldiers].

Why would they? The Watch had handcuffs out. Oh, they smashed heads, knocked people back, but they weren’t killing anyone. People were dying or getting hurt, but for all Tesy and his friends called it ‘blood on their boots’, Relc longed to tell them this wasn’t a war.

If it was a war? He held his shield up, holding back the impacts from people smashing clubs, makeshift weapons on it. He stared into a snarling Gnoll woman’s face.

They’d all be dead. He could almost see someone stabbing her, running her through before a [Mage] threw a [Fireball] into the crowd. It would be so easy…too easy.

The [Mage] cast a spell.

“[Sticky Webs]! [Earbreak Siren]!”

The wail of sound made every Gnoll scream and clap their paws to their ears. It hurt Relc, and his hearing was way worse. The sticky webs tangled people up. He relaxed a bit, but they would come back. They always did.

The hours on duty were beginning to blend together. There was just the mob, chasing after [Looters], being hit by projectiles from roofs or windows, until it was time to stop. A [Guard] shouted.

“They’re coming down Greywater Street! They’ve got weapons!”

Relc heard groans. He turned with the wall of [Guards] and set himself. He was miserable, filthy, hot…

But what hurt most was when he saw the new group being led by the kids holding familiar training spears.

The Senior Guardsman stopped. So did the four Gnolls he vaguely recognized. They had proper training spears. Tipped with only wood, but someone had taken shards of knife blades or something else and attached them to form a killing weapon. Relc saw them holding the spears at guard-rest, ready to stab or whirl up.

Just like he’d taught them.

They hadn’t expected to run into Relc. They stared at the Senior Guardsman, who was identifiable from his badge. And from his size and the spear he carried.

“Drop them.”

The Watch slowed as one of their number broke ranks and advanced forwards. Relc ignored the calls to come back. He wasn’t afraid.

He was…angry. The four spear-wielders hesitated, but someone was egging them on. They were probably the vanguard of this group; able to actually harass anyone. Were they [Looters]? Were Pos and Terigrals right?

“I said, drop them! Now!”

They wavered, but refused to drop them. The crowd was jeering, but they backed up a bit. Nevertheless…Relc saw a butcher’s cleaver, a pitchfork, a pruning scythe—all deadly weapons if you swung them right. He halted; if he came into close contact with the crowd, they’d be all over him.

He didn’t need to. He looked at the makeshift weapons and the four spears. They were real weapons. You could kill someone with anything. A rock, a stick. But…

A spear? He brought up his enchanted spear and the four trainees flinched. One jabbed, but Relc knew the length of his spear and thus, theirs, perfectly. He swung his around so the butt, the plain wooden end, faced them.

“I said…”

Relc took a step forwards. And the trainees saw his spear rise.

Such a…long weapon. Not as long as a pike, or the weapons that could reach over ten feet. Even so. Eight feet long, taller than Relc. The kind of weapon he always lugged around, using as a walking staff, back-scratcher, balance-beam…

Until he held it, and you realized how long it was. How simple. A piece of metal on the end of a shaft of wood. But unlike a pitchfork, it was designed to be simple. It had one purpose, which meant it could be so many things.

If you choked up on it, it was a short, slashing, jabbing weapon. You could plant it in the ground, use it as a quarterstaff. And…

The [Spearmaster] took two more steps in. The four spears rose. The trainees knew what he was doing. The long-range thrust was simple, basic, and even a child could pick it up. Anyone could dodge it, in theory.

But an entire rank of spears jabbing you before your stupid little swords even got close enough to swing? That was how you won a war. They aimed at Relc. He might be strong, but—

They realized he was stepping in. The spears wavered. Relc’s own spear shot forwards. One of the trainees recoiled.

The flat of the spear’s base tapped a skull. The spear-holder stumbled, nearly went down. One of the Gnolls tried to stab at Relc, but one-handed he slapped the tip of her spear down.

Contemptuously. Relc’s eyes were staring. They had never seen it, not in all of the morning practices. A stare as focused as the edge of a blade.

You think that’s a stab? He could knock it astray with a claw. It would never penetrate armor.

This?

“I’ll block him! I’ll—”

Some idiot had a shield. A big kid, maybe twenty years old, held a half-rusted shield up. Sloppy.

Relc hit him in the stomach and he doubled over, puking. His spear jabbed. Once, twice…

People screamed. He was hitting them hard. Not hard enough to break bones, but only just. A few began to run forwards. They ended up on the ground, curled up. One tried to charge and ran into a spear that hit them so hard in the knee they curled up, clutching at it.

The spear-holders saw Relc standing there. Just…standing. Daring the crowd to advance. He hadn’t even used his Skills. If he reversed the spear, if he used [Spear Flurry]? Could they even get close to him before he killed them all? They would have to climb over the dead bodies impaled by that spear.

“That’s your last lesson.”

The Drake spoke, and the Gnoll kids started. As if he could read their minds. They looked at the spears they held. Then…

At the [Spearmaster]. Relc stood there, holding down the entire street. No one could block, or dodge, that simple thrust that broke every block, and was impossible to knock aside. A spear thrust.

“Drop them.”

Three spears hit the ground. The crowd backed up. Relc picked up the four spears, letting the last trainee he’d knocked down stumble away.

“Relc. Aren’t you going t—”

The Watch had seen the entire tableau take place. They looked after the four spear-wielders as they hurried off. Their instinct was to arrest them.

Relc held up one of the spears he’d made for them. A good, strong shaft of wood…with a shard of glass attached. Was there blood dried on the tip? He stared at it. Then—held it out lengthwise, and flexed it with his arms.

The spear cracked. He snapped it with a grunt. Tossed it down.

The [Guards] stared as Relc did the same with the other three spears. Someone muttered an uneasy oath.

You…should not have been able to do that to a spear. Not with regular strength.

“Let’s keep working.”

Relc walked back to them.

No one said a word. Especially about going after the other trainees.

Relc marched with them in silence. He needed to go home. He needed…his partner.

Klbkch. Not the Slayer. Not Klbkch the Revalantor. Good old Klbkch. Relc was a Drake alone. In this moment, he was with the Watch. But a Senior Guard needed a partner.

Klbkch could have stopped that idiot instead of me needing to break her leg. He’d have tripped her up. He’d be the one telling me not to teach kids how to use deadly weapons. He’d…have a solution.

I miss Klbkch.

In that moment, Relc realized something. He missed Klbkch. Needed his buddy.

Possibly…perhaps…Klbkch needed Relc too. To be the relaxed guy. To be the Drake instead of the uptight Antinium. To tell him Pawn was okay. Relc should have been a better buddy, rather than let Klbkch get to where he had. He’d leaned on Klbkch so long that without him, Relc kept falling over.

Maybe the two friends needed each other. That was a nice thought. Could Relc send him a letter? Did the Antinium take mail? Maybe—

“Help! Help!”

The screaming made Relc break out of his thoughts. He saw the Watch halt, in confusion.

A rush of people were charging down the street. Reflexively, the Watch brought up their shields and clubs, but they weren’t here to fight.

They were running. Relc saw masks, helmets and hoods askew, tools to keep them from being identified forgotten. People running, blood on their clothing. Blood, open cuts, wounds…

He heard a familiar roar behind them. Voices raised in anger, until you forgot there were words.

Cellidel’s army came down the street, [Soldiers], Drakes advancing in tight-knit formation, blood on their blades, following the crowd they’d clashed with.

“Ancestors!”

The Watch Sergeant gasped. The crowd fled around the Watch, screaming, a few people falling, being trampled. Relc saw the [Soldiers] coming on.

Not in a mass like the crowd. In formation. That was the scary thing. They were out for blood, but they fought like a unit. Unless they were greatly outnumbered, they’d crush a mob, [Anarchists] or not.

“Watch Sergeant! They’re going to run the civilians down!”

One of the Senior Guards barked in horror. He saw a [Soldier] kicking at a fallen figure as they marched after the crowd. Relc guessed someone had killed one of the [Soldiers], and they were out for blood.

The army sticks together. The Watch Sergeant tore herself out of her stupor. Hatred for her or not, she was still a Watch Sergeant. She took a breath and bellowed into the stone that magnified her voice.

“This is the Watch! Hold your ground! We have this street under control!”

The [Soldiers] didn’t stop. They had some kind of [Captain] or [Lieutenant], Relc saw. The [Captain] was bloody-faced. Idiot didn’t have a helmet. The officer pointed and a wall of armed Drakes came at the Watch.

The Watch backed up. If there was a hierarchy of violence, they were also below the army. And the [Soldiers] saw the crowd pressed around the Watch. They saw the opportunity to trap the same people who’d been deviling them for the last four days. Take vengeance.

“Back up! Let the civilians run! Back up—”

The Watch tried to move to let the others escape, but they were hemmed in by the press of terrified people. Relc saw everyone shoving, and the [Soldiers] were pounding forwards, roaring…

“Watch Sergeant. I can stop them. Give me permission.”

A hand grabbed the Sergeant as she shouted, pushing frantically. She turned.

Senior Guardsman Relc stared at her, amid the blood and terrified faces, people pleading, screaming. His face was covered in grime, and the helmet, but his bright yellow eyes locked on hers. She held his gaze in that infinite time when everything seemed slow and fast.

Not an immortal moment. But…then the Watch Sergeant nodded.

“Go. Clear ranks!”

The Watch moved back as a [Guard] strode through the civilians, pushing through them like a rock through the current. The [Soldiers] saw a solo figure break through the wall of bodies with their backs to them.

They didn’t slow. Why would they? The Drake was big, but he was one Drake. And they were an army.

They did slow when they heard the voice. It was a bark. Not a roar. A loud voice. It had more than just volume to it; it was the voice in your earhole, that you didn’t ignore.

[Sergeant’s Command].

“Company, halt! Move your tails and I will pluck them off and shove them so far up your behinds you can chew on them!”

The [Soldiers] skidded to an uncertain stop. The voice was unfamiliar. The threat? Even the other [Sergeants] winced and stopped.

The [Captain], blood running down his face, stared at the Senior Guardsman. He looked at his company.

“What are you waiting for? Advance! I said, advance! Get those b—those criminals!”

The [Soldiers] stepped forwards uncertainly. The spear-Drake planted his spear on the ground.

“Take one more step and I will arrest you and you will be eating soup out of your boots for the rest of your lives! This is not a war!”

“I said, forwards!”

The [Captain] was losing the shouting match. But he was the [Captain]. The [Soldiers] hesitated.

Then Relc lowered his spear. He took a posture they all recognized. The [Spearman]’s guard. As if he were in formation.

“Come any closer and I will run you through.”

That was when the [Dangersenses] began to go off. A [Sergeant], a fellow officer, met the eyes of the [Sergeant] standing across from him.

“Captain. That’s…a high-level [Soldier].”

The [Captain] felt it too. One second he was clutching at a burning face, enraged beyond belief, running down the pests who were attacking his people.

The next? The air felt hot. He felt as if he were standing on the battlefield, facing down an army.

“Who the fuck is that?”

He looked around. The [Soldiers] had no clue. But now they were at a dead stop. Threats aside…they did not want to advance.

The civilians and Watch had slowed their mad flight. They turned back to look at the lone [Spearmaster] holding down an entire company of Cellidel.

“The 2nd Spears will advance on the enemy!”

The [Captain] roared. He activated a Skill. [Reinforce Will]. The [Soldiers]’ weapons swung up. Relc cursed. He stared at the [Captain].

“Alright, you Creler-brained idiot. Do you want a war?”

The [Spearmaster]’s posture lowered further. He was crouched along his spear, but no longer in a set stance. Like a springer, his weight shifted from his back foot to the front.

A hunting posture. Like an animal. His head lowered further. Beneath his helm, two bright yellow orbs stared at the [Soldiers].

Their blood chilled. That was…not the look a person gave them. It was like an animal staring at them. Or the kind of veterans of so many battles that these low-level [Soldiers] couldn’t even dream of how many blood-soaked grounds you had to see to look like that.

Then Relc activated his Skill. The Skill of battlefields. It had been a long, long time since he had used it. Not when Skinner attacked. Not when monsters threatened.

A Skill for the battlefield.

“[Officer Headhunter Mode].”

The [Captain] didn’t hear the voice. Yet he saw the air around Relc change. It turned…darker. He squinted, incredulous.

“What is that? What is…?”

The [Sergeant] glanced at his superior. Then he saw it too, and recoiled.

The street was the same. The Drake was the same in height, build. But what did they see lying there?

Bodies. Was that blood on his armor? The [Sergeant] and [Captain] saw a hand grasping out. A staring face.

A dead Drake, wearing epaulets and the crest of a city they didn’t know. Yet perfect in every detail. Someone who had once been; not a figment of their imagination. He stared at them through a hole in his throat.

Another Gnoll lay, her chest bloodied by three stab wounds that had gotten through her armor.

Officers, like them.

The [Spearmaster] stood with the dead officers lying around him. Crouched. The air smelled like blood.

The [Captain]’s eyes were wide. He saw his death on the tip of that spear. Now he knew the name. Now he remembered.

Did you hear there’s a Senior Guardsman in Cellidel? They say he was a [Soldier] once. Some kind of a stupid name. What was it, again? Oh, yes—

The Gecko of Liscor. Relc Grasstongue. The veteran who had slain countless officers in battle.

Laugh. Go ahead, laugh. What a funny name. What a…

The air stank like carrion. The [Captain] saw something lying there. He saw a body, reaching out, eyes blank, flesh rotting through the hole through the back of the head and mouth.

He looked himself in the eyes.

The [Soldiers] got only a fraction of Relc’s Skill. It was not for them. It was not an aura, but a directed attack. A buff, a boon to help Relc accomplish a deadly goal.

They smelled something. Looked back, saw the Captain’s dead white face under his scales. A [Soldier] stared down at the wet ground incredulously. The [Captain] choked on his words.

“Retreat—re—”

He turned. The [Soldiers] lost their unity. They turned, and backed up, bloodlust gone. Relc stood there, breathing heavily. He tasted blood. He went back in time and hated it.

It was…hard to stand up. When he did, though, his shoulders relaxed. He rubbed at his neck. When he turned around, to the silent crowd and Watch, it was Relc, Senior Guardsman Relc, who grinned and shrugged.

“See? I guess they can be reasonable after all.”

He smiled innocently. It was the better Relc who looked up at the sky and sighed. He put his spear over his shoulders.

“Man. I hate working hard.”

—-

Relc was still shaken after signing out from the Watch House. Mind you—everyone was. The stares he got, the people who looked at him differently—it was why he hated it.

That mode terrified him. That Skill terrified him. Relc was sure he’d scared the [Captain] if the Drake actually wet himself, but Relc could have died on that street. It was…the scariest thing in the world, charging alone into enemy ranks. Kill the officer or don’t come back.

Well, both sides were scared. They’d started putting bounties on the Gecko before he’d quit. What kind of front-line officer wanted to go into battle knowing he might appear?

“Equal distribution of this sucks. That’s Relc-style.”

Relc smiled to himself, but he was shaken. Cellidel? Cellidel was a nightmare. The four trainees—

He was off-kilter. Yesterday, he had thrown his puzzle through a wall. Today, as dawn broke and he finally returned to the apartment complex?

The Senior Guardsman slowed as he saw the commotion. Shattered wood, broken shutters. A crowd of people, some with weapons—not a mob, but people afraid for their safety.

Then he saw the spear on the ground. The bloody tip. The Gnoll, surrounded by older adults.

Vok. The young man looked up as Relc moved through the crowd, knocking people aside.

“Relc, I—”

“What did you do?”

Relc seized Vok. He lifted him off the ground as people scrambled back. Vok’s eyes went round as Relc ran him into a wall.

“What did you do?”

Vok, terrified, stared down into Relc’s face. Relc was snarling. His heart—he looked at Vok, his nose bloodied, one eye blackened and already swelling. He had two wounds on his body—Relc heard a roaring sound in his head, like the roar during battle that cut all but the most pressing sounds out—

“—Guardsman Relc! Senior Guardsman Relc, please!”

Someone was trying to grab him. They tried to break his grip, realized they had no chance, and tried talking.

“Vok didn’t do anything wrong! He was protecting us!”

Relc heard that. His eyes widened. His claws opened.

Vok dropped, coughing. He stared up at Relc as the Senior Guardsman stopped, and the murderous look on his face turned to one of confusion. He turned around and met the eyes of Vok’s parents. They stared at him wide-eyed, as did the [Landlord], and the other residents.

Relc took in the scene again. Broken bits of wood, shutters—the spear with blood on it. Evidence of a fight.

Vok had stopped a group of [Looters] trying to go through the apartments. The residents, hearing the short fight, had come out. His black eye was from someone who’d thought he was part of the gang and punched him before they realized what had happened.

Relc breathed again. He looked around, at Vok, at the crowd, and…breathed. In. Out. The Gecko faded. Senior Guardsman Relc worked his mouth.

“…Oh.”

—-

Tesy watched Senior Guardsman Relc from one of the balconies as Relc stood in the courtyard, the reduced trainees standing around him after dawn. Vok stood there too, his injuries healed. Relc had given him a healing potion.

The [Painter] couldn’t understand it. Was this the same Drake who people said stopped an entire company of Cellidel’s Golem-minded bastards from slaughtering innocent people? There was a name on the wind, on people’s tongues that hadn’t been said for a long time.

Gecko. A silly name to insult your enemy. But also…

The Gecko of Liscor.

Tesy watched the huge Drake as Relc just stood there, spear in hand. Thinking.

The four Gnolls who had taken the spears for violence, to join the mob, weren’t here. If they had shown their faces…Relc looked at Vok.

But he had helped defend this place. Little Hickery was here, despite all that had happened to her. His spear-training classes gave the kids something to do. But it was teaching them a deadly weapon. So was Pos right, or Relc? Was neither?

Relc was tired, stressed out, and he really just wanted to sit in an inn and toss popcorn at a little Gnoll girl while he talked to a young Human woman as she played chess, or just sat with him. He wanted to poke a grumpy Antinium and…laugh.

But he was here. So he stood there, mind blank, until he thought of something.

“Oh. Wait a second. I’ve been teaching you all wrong.”

His students and their parents, including Vok’s parents, who had taken time off work, all blinked at Relc. He didn’t know what they thought of him, this weird Drake who was teaching their kids how to fight. Vok’s parents…certainly hadn’t seen Relc at his best.

“Relc?”

Vok rubbed at his still-tender nose. The Senior Guardsman looked around. He could still feel the battle-rage, the same fury. That was the Gecko. No more. Not even if that was the Drake that Embria loved. He was the same kind of thing as the [Soldiers] ready to slaughter civilians.

“I’ve been teaching you all how to use a spear, guys. That’s…stupid. That’s my fault.”

“Aren’t you a [Spearmaster], Mister Relc?”

Hickery sneezed at the smells coming off him; he still hadn’t washed. Relc shook his head.

“I am. But you’re not. [Spearmasters] fight alone. Because we’re awesome. You’re not. You guys are kids. You’ve never fought a battle. You couldn’t beat one of those Cericel, even the weak ones.”

His students looked at each other. Was this ‘be mean to students day’? Relc went on.

“Vok nearly got himself killed because he tried to take on three guys. If it had been thirteen? He’d be dead.”

“I stabbed one!”

Vok protested, but weakly. Relc shook his head. He looked around with clear eyes. This apartment complex had been attacked. That was from looters, true, but how bad was it? The Watch fought with the mobs, and so did the army. No one was keeping order.

“Nah, nah. You’re doing it all wrong. I’m doing it all wrong. See, I can’t just teach you the spear. That’s…”

He stopped. Smiled sadly.

“…That’s just how you make a [Soldier]. A good one, but that’s all she knows. I should have…I should have taught her how to be a [Guard].”

Who was ‘she’? No one knew. Relc didn’t elaborate. He just looked around, then pointed.

“Hickery, you stand there. Right next to Vok. You, and you. Also next to him. Time for some lessons. Stand there. Spears up. That’s important.”

The students stood, confused, a group of four, side-by-side. What new spear-technique was that? Relc paced back and forth in front of them.

“You don’t lower your spears. You don’t fight unless you have to. That’s important. Rule number one? You don’t start the fight. Not unless it’s a monster. But you don’t let them come to you. If they’re inside the range of your spears, you’re in trouble. So here’s what you do. The first thing you do is issue a warning. Then you issue a second one. Only then are you allowed to lower your spears. Obviously, if the situation calls for it, you can go straight to defending yourself, but in cases where deadly force is employed, you should always try to give two warnings, got it?”

“But what if they’re attacking at night? What’s this about, Relc?”

Vok protested, confused. However, one of the parents watching was staring at Relc sharply. The rest were just perplexed. Relc looked at Vok, seriously. He faced the young Gnoll.

“Then you warn them. Twice. You don’t have to get close. You don’t have to argue with them. Warn them twice, then lower your spears. You don’t advance. You choose a spot, and hold them off while you shout for help. Most idiots can’t get past a good spear wall. You never advance into a fight. Hold the best defensive spot. That’s what rookies learn.”

His students looked at him, fascinated. Relc nodded to Hickery.

“Next? You never fight alone. You attack and defend in tandem. I should have taught you all that. You four, lower your spears.”

They did so. Relc stood in front of them.

“Imagine I’m a bad guy. I want you to jab as one. When I get close. Not by yourself, Hickery! Together!”

“But I have a Skill!”

Relc nodded.

“Yeah, but you’re still weaker than you are as a squad. That’s what rookies have to learn. Never leave your squad! Got it? You fight as a squad. I don’t care if someone’s wide open five feet away. You never leave your buddies. That’s how you die. Okay, give me a jab. We’ll all practice. One, two, three, four—”

He made them jab as one. They were uncoordinated because they’d never done this before. One of the adults watched as Relc exhorted them to watch each other, even coordinate breathing.

“Guardsman Relc, are you teaching these children to fight? My girl’s a bit too young for that!”

The mother protested nervously. Relc glanced up. He looked around and shook his head.

“No, Miss. I don’t want them to fight. But if they need to defend themselves…if someone comes calling, and there aren’t any adults around, I’d like them not to get hurt. This is just basic teamwork. Basic squad-work.”

“For the army?”

Relc smiled. He shook his head, and Tesy stared. One of the parents, Orell, murmured, as Relc jerked a thumb at the badge on his chest.

“Nah. That’s how [Guards] do it.”

Vok, Hickery, and the others all gaped at Relc. The Senior Guard turned to them, smiling.

“And it’s not all fighting, either. It’s a bad time in the city. No one’s safe. I wouldn’t teach you this normally, but you need to be safe. So here’s Rule #2. Never fight in alleyways. Never hide. You’re out in the open and you fight in the open because if people don’t see you, they don’t know if you’re doing the right thing or not. They know your names. So, here’s what we’re going to do…”

—-

Before he slept that day, Senior Guardsman Relc did something for the first time in the apartment complex. He went from floor to floor, all six of them, and knocked on every door. There were hundreds of people in the complex, maybe as much as a thousand! Relc hammered on the doors, and when they came, irritated, some working night-shifts like him, they saw the big Drake smiling at them.

And Vok. And the squad of older Gnolls and Drakes holding their spears. Relc waved at the confuzzled people.

“Hey there. I’m just introducing myself. Senior Guardsman Relc. These are the uh, Apartment Trainees. They’ll be patrolling the block, so if you see them or hear a shout, watch out!”

Apartment Trainees? Vok had a piece of cloth on his head. Just a white headband. That mattered.

“Why are we knocking on doors, Relc? Shouldn’t we be practicing?”

“That’s only half the job, Vok. Sure, fighting is good. But the guy who punched you didn’t know you were on his side, right?”

“Right…”

Relc gestured at the family staring at Vok from within their small apartment. He had never met them before in his life, and had been tickled to see a Human. He nodded at them.

“Now they know who you are, and that you’re a good guy. That’s guardwork.”

And that was what Cellidel’s Watch lacked. Mind you, they were still far above the handful of rookies that Relc had decided to teach, but it beat them getting into trouble themselves. And they would; it was dangerous everywhere. If they were going to get hurt, Relc would prefer they had a fighting chance.

That was how he found himself giving them a crash course in, well…being a [Guard]. He roared to a large group, many of whom were forbidden from actively patrolling. Only those over sixteen could do that, but Hickery and children as well as interested civilians all attended his lecture.

“Listen up! You are not full-time [Guards]! You’re rookies! You are not instated by the city, and there aren’t enough of you. You have no armor, not enough training—so you’re defending this street. You don’t run out. You don’t break formation. And?”

He looked at Vok. The crowd chorused as one.

“You don’t lose your squad!”

“Exactly! So when you see trouble, you call in backup. You fall back until you’re safe. Not ‘we might win or lose’, but safe. You don’t pick fights, you just hold them off. Got it? If some bastards come calling, form up at the entrance to the plaza—here. Right by the gates. People on the higher floors chuck stuff at them. They’ll have to climb over the walls or go through you, and either way, they’ll run into a lot of spears. You can hold off an actual army like that. As long as they don’t have [Mages]. But if you do this? No mob or band of looters can get at you.”

What was he doing? Relc had no idea. He was forming a Watch out of kids and civilians. Yet…he had to. Law was failing, so in response, Relc made one in his apartment complex. He shouted at them, organized them into shifts and squads, and made sure they could hold off at least a Level 5 [Fighter] mob or make them think twice.

Exhausted, Relc lay down, too tired to even stare at that damned Gizeal Puzzle. He closed his eyes.

[Guardsman of Trust Level 22!]

[Skill – Squad: Incorruptible Watchmen obtained!]

“What?”

—-

[Guardsman of Trust], Level 24. That was Relc Grasstongue after a week. He didn’t understand it.

It wasn’t the fighting. It wasn’t facing down the mobs.

It was training Vok and the kids, and seeing them actually run off bands of opportunistic thieves, people preying on the weak during the chaos that did it.

Relc got one more Skill.

[Squad: Unity’s Coordination]. He assigned both to Vok’s ‘squad’, and the result was when one of the squad jabbed, they all did. They moved in lock-step, almost as good as a regular squad of [Guards].

Naturally, people noticed. Watch Captain Terigrals barked at Relc about ‘unauthorized training of civilians’. Some people came calling, asking if ‘Vok’s Squad’ could come and just walk around to keep the peace.

It was like…the Watch. It was a second Watch.

In another story, in another time, they might have become a citizen-militia, a Watch of younger people, with actual inclusion of Gnolls. Relc might have found himself the Watch Captain of a better Cellidel.

…But he wasn’t. He was not Zevara, and Relc knew it. It was tempting, to expand Vok’s trainee squads, to chase the next level.

However, he was a [Sergeant]. He had never risen in Liscor’s army or the Watch because he was good at being…a [Sergeant].

Moreover, this might have worked if not for Sellme. The [Painter] and his followers were tearing Cellidel apart.

An entire block of houses went down to fire. Who started it? [Anarchists], the Watch or [Soldiers]? An accident? No one put it out because there was no unity. The city…was being lost. It wasn’t ‘someone died in an accident this week’. It was multiple people, dying of wounds, dying by being trampled, every day.

Relc had heard of cities falling. Sometimes to monster attacks, sometimes to war. This was the first time he had witnessed every stage of a city eating itself.

And he couldn’t fix it. He got further. He worked at the problem, but like the Gizeal Puzzle, there was a point where he ran into impossibility. There…Relc counted eight hours of fruitlessly being stuck on the puzzle.

There had to be an answer, surely.

—-

Tesy halted when he saw Relc. The Senior Guardsman lifted a cup.

“I’m buying this time. Come on in.”

The white-scaled Drake hesitated, then sat with Vok, across the bubbling pot of soup. It was over a small magical hot-plate that Relc had been lent.

“Smells good. Who made it?”

“Me. Vok’s mother gave us a nice soup stock. Prelon soup.”

“Dead gods, seriously?”

Relc burst out laughing. So did Vok, and they relaxed a bit. It had been a while since they’d met like this. But…well. Relc had invited Tesy and the [Painter] had finally agreed to rejoin their nightly—or daily—chats.

“Not really. It’s fish stuff. I have some Gnoll paste from Liscor. Nice stuff. I know how to cook one thing, a decent fish stew.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

The power of bachelors was not to be underestimated. Relc could make a decent fish stew! Spicy, with that lovely sour thrown in via the fish paste. Also? Relc’s secret ingredient was…butter. Just a bit of butter to make it rich.

It was an awkward meal in some places, at first. Tesy didn’t apologize. Relc didn’t bring up the [Anarchists]. Yet…there was a finality to the meal that Vok sensed. He didn’t know why Relc had invited Tesy.

They were on opposite sides. Vok didn’t know who Tesy was, but he guessed a high-level [Anarchist] who’d come to the city. He was almost completely right, and also wrong. Relc? Relc was the Senior Guard keeping this entire district from imploding.

They sat on opposite sides of the pot, making light conversation about the best kinds of fish. But then Relc put down his cup, offered the wine bottle around without giving Vok a half-cup like usual.

“Right then. Let’s talk. You know, Tesy, I’ve been talking to everyone about this Sellme thing. And the Watch.”

The [Painter] tensed slightly, his wine cup at his lips. He looked up at Relc, cool as a winter Prelon.

“Yeah? The Watch isn’t doing so well at keeping the peace.”

Relc smiled as Vok winced and tried to nudge Tesy. His eyes never wavered from Sellme’s face.

“No, they’re not. So I guess all the [Anarchists] talking about how corrupt and evil we are…are right. I’m tired. I get shit thrown on me all day. Actual poop. People are dying, the army’s making it worse…”

He stretched out, sighing as he stared at the ceiling.

“…I didn’t sign up for this. I might actually just quit. Leave the city, you know? Or stop being a [Guard]. This is stupid. I’m not the only one. You know, we lost eight [Guards] yesterday? No one wants to be in the Watch like this.”

Vok’s eyes went wide and he looked at Tesy. The [Painter] smiled thinly as his tail curled up.

“Good.”

“Yeah? You think so? Is less [Guardsmen]…good, Tesy?”

Relc fixed him with one eye. Tesy hesitated.

“It’s better than all the corruption. All the violence against Gnolls.”

“Right. But there’s also more theft, more violence, more crime. We need the Watch.”

“Not this Watch. This Watch protected the city, but only part of the city. Only the part that was like them.”

Relc shrugged.

“I don’t think anyone’s seen Cellidel as bad as it is right now. Gnolls or Drakes.”

“You say that, but if you saw—”

Tesy’s heated voice was interrupted by a mutter from Vok.

“He’s right.”

The [Painter] looked at Vok. The Gnoll felt like an intruder in the confrontation, but he hunched his shoulders and spoke.

“Relc’s right, Tesy. It’s never been this bad. I don’t like the Watch, but this? This is really bad. Like…”

He searched for words.

“Creler-bad. You know?”

Tesy hesitated, thrown by the unexpected betrayal of the actual Gnoll in the room. Relc didn’t smile. He just sat there. Waiting.

“Tesy’s not wrong either, though. I just wondered…I wanted to ask you, Tesy. In case I don’t get another chance—what does the ideal Watch look like to you? The best city, even? Sellme’s pointed out a lot of problems, but how do you think we can fix it? You and your buddies, sorry.”

The [Painter]’s head snapped up. He gave Relc a searching look, and the [Spearmaster] just sipped at his wine.

That was the conversation of the night. Relc had tried Gnolls. He’d tried the Watch back at home. He’d tried his brain, never a good idea.

So he asked the Drake who spoke for the angry and the discontented.

Sellme and the Gecko of Liscor.

Relc and Tesy. Relc was smiling, gently. He was calm. He was tired beyond belief, worried, headache-y, or he had been—and worn down by banging his head against a wall.

Two walls. Something had given way today, though. He had received a [Message]. Not from Embria. Not from Zevara, both of whom were giving him regular correspondence and hang the cost.

He had received a [Message] from Bilt. The [Puzzle Merchant] was extremely apologetic. Almost in tears, really, if you could convey that from the [Message]. He had offered Relc a full refund, with deepest apologies.

It turns out the Gizeal Puzzle can’t be solved by non-[Mages]. I am so sorry, Relc. The Archmage of Izril keeps defending herself that all you need is a low-level spell, but…

Relc smiled to himself. Apparently he had gotten as far as most. And if he could but see magic, he’d see how to activate it with a simple bit of mana. Archmage Valeterisa’s credibility among the puzzle-making community, that vastly powerful body, was in shambles and she had issued several apologies.

It was just a story. But it explained…well, Relc sighed and listened to Tesy, letting him talk, collect his thoughts, clarify.

Sometimes you couldn’t solve the problem yourself.

—-

Imagine a city. A truly perfect city.

Not perfect? Okay, imagine a city like…as close as you could get to perfection. How did the Watch operate in a city like that?

Well, in the ideal world, you didn’t need a Watch. People would watch each other, and there wouldn’t be a need for that kind of policing because there weren’t these powerful, rich people who only looked out for themselves and that was the point of—

That’s not practical? Fuck you. It could happen!

But…okay, if the Watch had to exist, it needed to have higher standards. Equal divisions of Gnolls and Drakes! No, if the city was majority Drake like Cellidel…put in a Gnoll Watch Captain! To ensure that there wasn’t a bias against a minority. Have Gnolls in the Council.

And most importantly? Make the Watch better. Because they weren’t. The Watch was made up of people like Pos. Speciesist, and the corrupt, and the plain lazy. It should be a place where the best and brightest went. A place with more than one ‘Relc’, which could take on gangs, which watched itself. Not a [Guard] who would beat down some kid with a dagger because he was scared.

That was the Watch Tesy envisioned. Of course, it took a while for him to get to that place, but…Relc leaned back. The wine was flowing well, and it loosened all tongues. He let Tesy finish.

“Sounds like Liscor.”

Hah! Vok sprayed wine out of his nose. Tesy just snorted.

“It’s not Liscor. That’s a perfect city. You told me your Council didn’t have Gnolls on it until recently!”

“We’ve got them now. Isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes, but…they should have been there for generations!”

“Well, we’ve got them now. Isn’t that pretty good? Anyways, that’s interesting. You want a Watch with a city’s best signing up?”

“Yep. The most responsible. It shouldn’t be easy to be a [Guard]. It should be…a…a calling. A higher service.”

Tesy searched for a way to describe it. Relc understood. Guarding was hard work. The Watch, in Tesy’s opinion, should only take people who knew the challenge, who could be that better Drake or Gnoll in every moment.

Sort of like Klbkch, in a way. Relc thought about it as he refilled his bowl. Then he started laughing.

“That’s so stupid.”

Tesy flushed with anger.

“What do you mean?”

Relc took a huge gulp of fishy soup. He smacked his lips and looked at Tesy, not without sympathy, but with much amusement. The Senior Guardsman shook his head.

“I mean, that’s never going to work, Tesy. You want a [Guard] who can always be calm, always be responsible? Who’s good at fighting, treats this job like a higher calling? We have…two of those [Guards] in all of Liscor. And that’s not me. You’ll get three [Guards] in the entire Watch.”

“Well, it should be better than it is! Or are you saying the Watch is fine?”

Tesy stood up, claws clenched. Relc waved him down.

“I agree! Listen, Tesy, I agree. The Watch is bad in Cellidel. I’m just saying…you can’t expect them all to be perfect. It’s like…you want someone who can both lead and fight. Who can keep their head? Who can know what to do at any moment, and treats this job with all the respect it deserves? That’s what you guys think is a perfect [Guard], right? By the way—I agree that’s a great guard.”

Tesy and Vok nodded. Relc gave them a thumb-claw up.

“Great. We can all agree they’re good. The problem is…that’s a [General]. And you only have one of those in most armies. You can’t expect every [Soldier] to be like that. I think there’s a better way to make the Watch better.”

“Oh, and what’s that? Give them more weapons?”

Tesy sneered. Relc rolled his eyes. He leaned back on his one pillow, and murmured.

“Nah. Just make it easier to be a [Guard].”

Tesy stared at him, incredulously.

“Easier?”

Relc gave him a fish-eyed side-eye.

“Yep. It’s not easy, Tesy.”

The [Painter] opened his mouth and Relc sat up.

“Vok, you know what I’m talking about.”

“Yeah?”

The Gnoll glanced at Tesy. Ducked his head. The [Junior Watchman] mumbled.

“No, sorry, Relc.”

The [Spearmaster] sat up. He scratched at his neck-spines. He’d just thought of it, but now it came to him, the words flowed out.

“Well let me see if I can explain it. Y’see…guarding is hard. I’m only a [Guardsman] because it pays well. A lot of guys are. Don’t shout, Tesy! That’s just how it is. It’s a job. We didn’t sign up to be perfect. No one can be perfect except Klbkch and like…Jeiss. Or my Watch Captain. The job should be easier.”

“You mean, less laws?”

“I mean, less strain on us. When a [Guardsman] is in a fight and he sees some kid with a knife, or he has to debate arresting a [Street Thief], he’s got people’s lives in his claws. That’s a lot to ask of us. It would be easier if we could just punch bad guys and not have to be the law. If that were the case, Pos wouldn’t be a problem because he wouldn’t be in charge. And it means you don’t have to have the best. Make the job easier.”

Vok sat up, intrigued by that idea. Even Tesy was frowning, opening and closing his mouth as his tail lashed.

“How would you do that, Relc?”

The Drake scratched at his head.

“I have no idea. Maybe…maybe you can arrest everyone but you don’t charge people? You have some kind of system in the Watch House? It might cost more, but just take the hard work out of a [Guard]’s claws. Then all he or she has to do is make sure no one gets hurt. Some kind of big argument over hedges? Go settle it with the uh…someone else. The point is, I’m a grunt. Give me grunt-work. Not moral questions.”

There was a thoughtful silence for a moment. Then at last, Tesy sighed. He stood up, and began pacing around the pot.

“That—might work. But Cellidel will never go for it. Don’t you see how bad it is, Relc?”

“I see.”

Calmly, Senior Guardsman Relc filled his cup. With water. Tesy was a bit drunk. He was agitated, angry. He was angry all the time. Vok knew how that felt, but Tesy was far angrier than even he was.

“Nothing’s right. Nothing’s fair. Cellidel’s run by crooks and Drakes who don’t care. Maybe your Watch is better, Relc, but nothing’s changing now. You can’t fix this city!”

“Yeah, well, your buddies burning it down doesn’t help either, Tesy. They’re getting people killed. That’s not right.”

The [Magical Painter] slowly turned. Relc sat up. The two locked gazes. Relc’s eyes were very calm.

“I see what’s happening. The [Anarchists] are gaining ground. They’re arming people. They want to tear down the Watch, take out the Council.”

“…Maybe. I don’t know.”

Tesy’s eyes flickered to the window, then door. Vok saw Relc wave Tesy down, but the younger Drake didn’t sit. Relc slowly drained his cup.

“Are they planning on killing the Council? The Watch Captain? Don’t answer that. Let’s say they did, or somehow got rid of them. What would that do? Would that help? If they got every single [Guard] to quit tomorrow, what happens next?”

“The city will be free—”

“And then what? Then there’s crime, burnt buildings, and there’s no plan! Tesy! I’ve heard Sellme’s crashed nearly a dozen cities! They don’t get better, they just collapse until someone rebuilds the government!”

“It’s a better one afterwards. The people can choose who they want to—”

“Cellidel’s army will march in and reinstate a Council of their choosing. Don’t be stupid.”

Relc snapped. Tesy’s eyes flashed.

“Then Cellidel’s people will take on the army! You think we’re scared of a bunch of [Thugs]?”

Relc was on his feet.

“You’ll get people killed. ‘Sellme’ isn’t helping anything! All he does is point out the problems. Your friends are going to make it worse. Tell them to get out of the city.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll arrest them. I wanted to talk to you, Tesy. But if it’s them or Cellidel…”

“You think you can intimidate me?”

Tesy went to shove Relc and just pushed himself back. The Drake [Spearmaster] looked at Tesy. The [Painter] went for the door, pointing an angry claw at him, crimson with anger.

“Every time I think you’re on our side, you do this, Relc. It’s not about compromising! It’s about bringing down evil people! That’s why Sellme does what he does! You can stop me, but you can’t stop Sellme or everyone who sees what he does.”

Vok was transfixed, staring at Relc and Tesy. The Gecko of Liscor folded his arms. He looked at Tesy. Straight at Tesy.

“I think I can stop Sellme if I stop you, Tesy.”

The angry young Drake didn’t realize what Relc was saying at first. A sneering response was on his lips. Then his brain caught up.

He…looked at Relc. Vok looked at Relc, then Tesy. His eyes tried to pop out of their sockets and run around screaming. Vok stared at Tesy.

Tesy turned pale under his already-white scales. Relc looked at him.

“Sellme. I want you to stop causing riots, or get out of this city. What’s it gonna be?”

Sellme, the [Magical Painter], stood frozen. Found out, identified for the first time by a member of the Watch. Relc glanced at Vok out of the corner of his eye.

“I totally called it. Told you I was the best.”

—-

The screaming Drake running out of the apartment was followed a second later by a huge Drake. He roared.

“Sellme!”

It wasn’t Tesy and Relc any longer. The Drake whirled. His scales flashed, and dropped the Skill. Vok, scrambling out, saw a fleeing Drake with paint flecks on his white scales, made colorful by the very colors he worked with. A brush flashed out of his bags, and a painter’s palette.

Relc just charged at him. The Gecko leapt—but Tesy jumped over the railing. Relc cursed, vaulted after him, and then did a double-take in midair.

Sellme stood on the air. He’d just drawn a little ledge and Relc—

“Gaaaaaaaah!”

Caught himself on the railing one floor down. He caught himself on the second floor, and raced up to the third floor.

“Relc, he’s in here! Relc—”

Vok pointed. Tesy was back in their room. Relc charged through. He saw Tesy jumping out of a…

Hole in the wall? Relc saw Tesy turn, flip up a finger, and leap. Relc shouted.

“Tesy, st—”

Wham. He ran straight into the painted hole in the wall. It was so perfect it had turned, via Tesy’s Skill, into actual space.

Not for Relc. He staggered back, paint all over his scales.

“That little—”

—-

“G8! G8, come in! Someone’s found me out! I have to run! It’s Relc!”

Tesy shouted the code-name of one of his highest-level friends. He heard a scrambled voice coming from the mana stone.

“—to us—hurry—”

Tesy was running. Tesy was terrified. Relc knew who he was! His picture would be all over the cities! He’d be hunted! He ran out of the apartment complex, his Ring of Feather Falling glowing. At least he’d escaped.

“Tesy!”

“Ancestors!”

The [Painter] squeaked. He looked back. It was impossible! Relc had been on the third floor! It had been less than fifteen seconds since Tesy had jumped out of the room.

The Gecko was racing out of the courtyard, a blur. A gigantic blur. Tesy instantly whirled.

There was a stone wall, some building right there. Tesy’s brush blurred, so fast even the Gecko was impressed.

[Speed Painting]! [Recreate Image]! [Art Becomes Reality]—

Tesy leapt through the hole in the wall. He raced through someone’s kitchen; a restaurant’s empty working area at this hour. He’d lose Relc. That idiot couldn’t predict which wall he’d come out of—

Relc came through the wall.

“SELLME. GET BACK HERE SO I CAN PUNCH YOU!”

“Get away from me!”

The [Magical Painter] had evaded countless members of law enforcement. He had never seen someone go through a wall like that. Relc didn’t even slow down. The world’s greatest [Guardsman] (self-proclaimed) charged after Tesy.

Both had movement Skills. Tesy whirled. [Evasive Dodge].

“Relc kiii—oh shit! You bast—”

Relc’s kick carried him into the hole in the ground. Tesy’s painted hole dropped him into the sewers and then the Drake tossed some white paint on it and the hole closed. Relc landed in the muck and darkness.

—-

“Oh no, oh no, oh—”

G8 and a group of [Anarchists] met Tesy. The [Magical Painter] was wide-eyed, terrified.

“Tesy! You lost the boot? Come on, why are you so worried?”

“He’s still after me! G8, he’s—”

Tesy grabbed his friend’s arms. G8, the female Gnoll, glanced over his shoulder. Her eyes went round.

“Oh, f—”

A Drake covered in tar, sewer crap, masonry, and eight more substances Tesy had drawn to slow him down, charged down the street.

“Sellme!”

Nothing had stopped Relc. Not the tarpit. Not the sewer trick. Not a brick wall that Tesy had drawn in the street. The [Magical Painter] ran on, screaming.

“Let’s stop this bastard! No one attacks Sellme! Come on! Down with the walls! D—”

Relc saw the [Anarchists], a group of eight, turn towards him, weapons in hand. He crashed into them and scattered them like pins, without slowing. One tried to stab him. He punched a face.

“Sellme!”

People turned. They saw a blurred face—some saw a leaping Gnoll, with a mustache and mask of bright colors. Others saw a female Drake with a hood and the words ‘Sellme’ stylized across the back. One saw a Human, someone else a Centaur.

Relc saw Tesy. He shouted the name as people turned, seeing the Gecko of Liscor running down the famous [Painter] who had caused so much trouble. The riots, the fighting came to a standstill.

—-

Why were they throwing things at him? It was all…all going wrong.

Tesy raced across the ladder on two buildings’ rooftops. Relc halted. He knew better than to try and cross the painted ladder. People were pointing up as the Gecko of Liscor eyed the thirty-foot gap, and Tesy.

“You’ve ruined everything, Relc! You’re not saving this city! I liked you! Why couldn’t you help?”

Tesy screamed at Relc. It was the truth. He felt betrayed. How long had Relc known?

Why hadn’t he arrested Tesy before? The Gecko snapped back as the [Magical Painter] wavered.

“You don’t even see what you’re doing! You’re making the situation worse!”

Sellme raised his paintbrush as if to throw it down.

“You think you’re helping? You can’t fix the Watch! You can’t solve everything with your stupid fists!”

“And you can’t solve everything by burning it down.”

Relc was calm. Well—he was still pissed, but he was used to being covered in filth. He eyed the gap. Sellme pointed at him.

“You can kill me, but you’ll never stop us! You—aaaah!”

He saw Relc race to the edge of the building and leap, using the spear as a vaulting pole. People below pointed up, scattering. Look! The Gecko leapt through the air in a graceful arc. He was flying! He was—

“Oh shiiii—”

Wham. Tesy heard the impact. He winced, gazed down at the prone figure who’d gotten only about two thirds of the way across and hit the street. He turned, drew a slide, and went for the walls. Magical or not, he could draw a door out.

He was just finishing the door when he saw a blur coming his way. Tesy whirled. He raised his brush—

“Got you.”

Relc grabbed his wrist. The [Magical Painter] looked up into Relc’s face. Relc was panting, tired, and he’d smashed his face repeatedly into rocks.

But he’d won.

“I…you did it.”

Tesy tried to pull at his captor’s arm, but he knew he was caught. He would have used the brush, but Relc had it in his hand. Tesy stared at Relc in defiance.

“You got Sellme. Congratulations, Relc. You win.”

“You idiot. I never wanted Sellme. If I thought arresting you would have helped, I would have done it a long time ago. Maybe it would have, but it didn’t fix anything.”

“Well—well, you’ll never fix the city! You can hide your guilt, the guilt of the Watch, but everyone will see your true colors! Arrest Sellme and—”

“Gah. Shut up! [Relc Headbutt]!”

Relc had had enough of Tesy’s rhetoric. The thwok of two heads meeting echoed loudly in the alleyway. Tesy went cross-eyed. He shouted through the pain.

“You can silence me, but you can’t silence—”

Twock! Tesy bit his tongue. He opened his mouth. Relc bent his head back. Tesy cowered, trying to shield his head.

“Are you done?”

Sellme stared up at Relc. The Senior Guardsman panted. He looked at Tesy. Just…just an angry kid. He wasn’t like Erin at all. But he sort of was. Relc raised the Fist of Relc, debating one punch for the wall of brambles, the sewer trick, the brick wall.

Then he lowered it. Relc let go of Tesy’s arm.

“Get out of the city. If you come back, I’ll tell everyone who you are.”

Sellme staggered back. His brush went up, and he traced a brick so fast Relc was amazed. His brush didn’t need to be dipped to change the colors of paint. That was the trick. Then Tesy stopped.

“You’re…letting me go?”

He was incredulous. Even angry. Relc Grasstongue looked him in the eye. He glanced back at Cellidel. Miserable Cellidel. Cellidel, which was still on fire. Still in chaos. He pointed at Tesy.

“Yeah. Like I said—if I thought I could fix Cellidel by arresting you, I would. But the problem is…you’re right. Sellme is an annoying brat. A stupid [Magical Painter] with a stupid brush and a stupid face.”

“Hey—”

Relc kept talking. He stomped on the ground, shouting.

“But he’s not why Cellidel is broken. I get that! So…you’re useless. Cellidel can’t be saved by you, and arresting you fixes nothing. So get lost. Think about what you’re doing.”

Tesy gaped at him. He looked…angry.

“You think I’m nothing? I’m Sellme!”

“You’re a pain in my tail. Don’t make me hit you. Get out of here.”

The Senior Guardsman retorted. Tesy hesitated. Common sense might have been interjected into his brain via multiple headbutts…or he just knew he couldn’t do anything. If Relc told Terigrals who Sellme was, his picture would be over every city and that was that. He backed up towards the wall, already flicking his paintbrush and outlining a door.

Yet he had to, just had to turn back, as a blue door with a handle appeared and he opened it.

“You’re going to save Cellidel after I leave, is that it?”

“Tesy—I swear to the Ancestors, I will break your tail. Ever had a broken tail?”

The [Magical Painter] yelped and jumped through the door. Even so, he peered balefully out of the door, prepared to slam it.

“You and I both know Cellidel is rotten. What are you going to do, Relc?”

Something…Relc looked at Tesy. The younger Drake was angry. But he did care. That was why he had come here. Everything he was doing Relc disagreed with. But he and Relc were on the same page here.

The [Guard] shrugged, tiredly. He massaged one shoulder and felt the magical, painted tar and other substances fading away. Relc shook his head.

“I…I don’t know. I don’t think I can save it, Tesy. You can’t either, so shut up. I know one person who could. But I’m just—Relc.”

He stood there and admitted it. Relc rubbed at his face.

“I’m just Relc. I can’t solve this. But I am Relc.”

Tesy gave him a strange look. He saw Relc tap at his chest, grin, weakly. A thought had occurred to him. He looked around. Yeah, that was true.

“Relcs aren’t [Innkeepers]. We don’t wave white flags or set them on fire. I—we—don’t make speeches.”

Set flags on fire? Sellme mouthed silently. Relc was seeing something else, though. He punched a palm with one fist.

“But you know what? When someone waves the flag? When someone shouts, ‘I am the consequences’? We’re right behind them. That’s a Relc.”

His head slowly rose. Relc grinned. He relaxed. He laughed. He looked at Tesy, and there was something bright in his eyes. Sellme, Tesy, the white-scaled Drake looked at Relc’s sudden confidence, confused.

“…What are you going to do?”

He didn’t understand what Relc meant. He didn’t know who Relc was referring to. And that was alright. Relc had realized something for him. He put his spear over his shoulders, and chuckled.

“Me? After you leave…I’m gonna pass this problem, this work, on to someone more qualified. And do whatever they want me to do.”

He beamed, self-satisfied, triumphant. Sellme goggled at him. Relc gave him finger-guns.

“That’s Relc-style.”

—-

Watch Captain Zevara stared down at the letter she’d received from Cellidel, top priority. She turned it over. She thumped her head on her desk.

And then the Watch Captain burst out laughing. She leaned back in her chair.

“Relc!”

She could almost see him smiling, a bit guiltily, as she prepared to bawl him out over wrecking half a dozen shops in a brawl. This? This was top-tier Relc.

Dear Watch Captain Zevara,

It’s me, Relc. I have a tiny bit of a problem. Cellidel’s gone to hell. It’s literally on fire. I see this building burning over here…I’ll sprinkle soot on the paper so you can see. The Watch is bad. The Council’s bad.

It’s all bad is what I’m saying. I’ve done my best to restore order, but I’m only a (Level 24) [Guardsman of Trust]. I am asking you, as a Senior Guardsman of Liscor, to help me intervene.

It is my stated intention to offer the citizens of Cellidel, including a number of [Junior Watchmen] and talented Gnolls, escort to Liscor. Because Liscor is better.

I don’t know how we’ll pay for it. I don’t know if Liscor has room. I don’t actually know which way Liscor is.

However, I consider this a matter for Liscor’s Watch to solve because Cellidel is terrible. I would appreciate any assistance you can give. Sincerely,

—Senior Guardsman Relc

She looked at it. It was a conclusion Relc had come to, clearly after much thought. Leave Cellidel? She wondered how many Gnolls would actually join him if he asked. Then again—how bad was it?

Come to Liscor. Come to a city with Gnolls on the Council. Come to the place where Senior Guardsman Relc was not the outstanding [Guardsman] alone, but one of his kind.

Come home.

And the way he wrote it? I cannot solve this alone? Zevara looked at the letter. She couldn’t answer him.

Not alone. So she rose, and strode from the Watch House.

—-

“Well, absolutely. Let’s scramble 6th Company. They were headed north, weren’t they? Wing Commander Embria, send word for the nearest company to escort Guardsman Relc! Dead gods, we can pay for a few wagons. How fast could we get a hundred [Guards] out through Pallass?”

Jeiss exploded as he slapped his claws on the table. Embria and Zevara straightened.

“If that’s the will of the Council, we could certainly have them turn.”

“Will of the Council? Damned right it is! What, are we not going to help?”

Alonna exclaimed. Tismel and Zalaiss closed their mouths. Elirr was already nodding.

“The problem is—it’s a long way. We can cover that. Security, transport…I just think Relc won’t get more than a few families. Which is a shame, but who’s going to uproot themselves and lose their homes, their city? No matter how bad it is…”

Alonna mused out loud. She shook her head. It was Lism who frowned and tapped at his lips.

“Yes…Guardsman Relc is clearly in the right here. Let’s send word at once. Wing Commander…?”

She was already out the door. Zevara breathed more easily at that.

“I say we tell them they’ll be safe. Offer them homes for a month. It’s the least we can do. We have all this room.”

“Free.”

Jeiss was nodding. Tismel began to object. But Lism threw a bowl at him. In the silence as the Cobbler’s Guildmaster dove under the table, Lism held up a claw.

“Wait. I have something. We have a…labor shortage. Cellidel is a city. It’s clearly an inferior city to Liscor, but every city has high-level individuals, doesn’t it? Good Gnolls. Drakes too.”

His head was turning. He was…scenting something. Sensing something, like a wolf on the plains, or a warrior hearing the distant thrum of battle.

Only, as a [Shopkeeper] sensed things. Lism’s eyes focused suddenly.

“Stealing.”

“What?”

Elirr glanced at him. Lism pounded the table with a claw.

“We do it in the markets! Get a good apprentice. Get a good worker! Stealing! We steal them!”

The other Councilmembers stared at him, not comprehending what Lism was on about. Ironically, it was Tismel who poked his head over the table and got it.

“We can’t do that! They’ll be furious!”

“What are they going to do? They’re about to implode! Dead gods, it’s brilliant! Doesn’t Invrisil do it? Let’s steal them all!”

He stood up, outlining his idea. The Council of Liscor leaned forwards…and Zalaiss and Alonna actually applauded. Zevara blinked. Then she grinned.

Senior Guardsman Relc called for backup from his city. And backup came. He was alone in Cellidel. But Liscor always had his tail.

—-

That was how, at the end of it all, Senior Guardsman Relc stared at the scrying orb. Vok was still arguing with his parents. Hickery’s family was on board, but while a lot of Gnolls had said they ‘might go with him’, the prevailing mood of Cellidel was just gloom.

Sellme was gone, and a lot of his followers, but the city was still gripped by chaos. Watch Captain Terigrals had accepted Relc’s transfer request with relief, despite the loss of Relc himself. When Relc had told him his plan, he’d laughed in Relc’s face and said ‘good luck’.

Who would follow even the [Guardsman of Trust] to another city? Uproot themselves? Risk it all? Maybe if Liscor was closer, perhaps. But they didn’t know Liscor. Relc was resigned to taking maybe sixty Gnolls at most. He’d been prepared to guard them himself, with Vok and a few trainees.

But then Embria had written back to him. Check the news this morning.

Relc did. He was already grinning when Drassi appeared. Wistram News Network had a local exclusive.

“I’m in the City of Liscor, my home city, where I am interviewing Councilmembers Elirr and Lism, who are putting together a new law. Or act?”

“A new opportunity, Miss Drassi. And thank you for taking the time to interview us!”

Lism broke in. Elirr nodded. Drassi glanced at them and the camera, an excited look in her eyes.

“So what is this new law? I was told you’re…giving money to people moving to Liscor? That can’t be right.”

Elirr, [Councilmember] Elirr, the caption read under him, nodded in a stately way.

“That is exactly right, Miss Drassi. We have proposed and passed a new law that will grant money to anyone moving to Liscor to work. A modest sum for all, which goes up for a family. And your level. Anyone over Level 30 will receive a large stipend and free housing; everyone else will have rent-free housing for certain periods. If you possess some of the classes we are looking for, we can also offer more.”

Lism had been nodding rapidly. He jumped in, like the sales-Drake he was.

“We are talking real gold, in your claws. We want the best. We can afford the best. If you come from some Creler-infested city and you want to go to a real city where the Watch doesn’t beat you with clubs for sneezing? Come to Liscor!”

Every head turned to Relc. Somewhere, Watch Captain Terigrals was choking on breakfast. Lism had just said that live on the scrying orb. Relc could have…gotten someone else to kiss him!

“Wow. This is an opportunity. I’m told Magnolia Reinhart has done this with Invrisil. Are you basing it on her model?”

“Not exactly. We don’t need to copy Humans…not that Humans can’t do things right.”

Lism harrumphed, then caught himself. He gave the camera a strained smile and hurried on as Elirr sighed. The Gnoll looked at the scrying orb.

“This is a law we all agree on. Gnolls and Drakes. No matter where you are—Liscor is open. And I promise you, there is opportunity for all.”

He nodded into the scrying orb. Councilmember Elirr. He could have stood there and he would have said more than Lism and Drassi combined.

After a moment, Lism nodded. He clapped Elirr on the shoulder.

“…Thank you, Councilmember Elirr. I can’t say it better myself. We are doing this now, Miss Drassi, due to the opportunity and the vast monetary reserves we are just itching to spend. In order to make more money for Liscor! So we are delighted to pass our law. The Celli’delr Maurons law.”

“What a fancy name. Why is it called that?”

“Oh…just something we say in the Council now and then. So, as I was saying…”

Everyone else was frozen. Everyone in Cellidel. But there he stood, a huge Drake with a spear. Not a great mind, but a true mind, a true puzzle-solver. A Senior Guardsman.

And the Drake who would be leading the largest departure of Gnolls that Cellidel had ever seen soon. The city would protest, of course, but who was going to stop him?

The Gecko of Liscor. And Liscor itself would soon find more than just Cellidel’s Gnolls knocking on their gates.

Unexpected consequences. He didn’t care. He was just Relc. He saluted the sky, and Liscor, which was north. Not even that far north. It felt like another world.

“Thanks, Captain Z. That’s why you’re the Watch Captain.”

Senior Guardsman Relc of Liscor. Relc smiled. He prepared to go home. It would not be easy. Things would change.

He would change. He was changing. But at long last, Relc Grasstongue felt like he was a [Guardsman].

The Gecko got a new class.

[Trusted Sergeant of the Watch].

He was just a little…no.

He was really proud about that.

8.35

[The Wandering Inn is on its monthly week-long break! It will be back on the 14th of whatever month this is (August?), and after that for Public readers!]

Editor Contest Announcement: I am delighted to announce that the first editor I have chosen to work with from the applications is Navah Wolfe! I will be reaching out to work with her, but given how many good editors there are, I will be reaching out to a second one this time in August and will announce it as well.)

Oierdressql had fallen. Few Tallfolk knew what it meant. One of the Fraerling cities was gone, and hundreds of thousands of their people were dead, or fleeing into the unforgiving wilds.

One group of nearly two hundred thousand refugees, Fraerlings who had never even seen the outside world, had made the week-long trek through the wilds of Baleros. They had taken great casualties, despite the remnants of the Tallguard and their own high-level [Mages] and other classes trying to protect them.

“Two hundred thousand…?”

The Architects of Paeth sat in silence. It was disaster after disaster. First Oierdressql’s fall. That was a city larger than Paeth. Tallfolk had destroyed it? An army? Why?

Second—only a fraction of its population had survived to come here? And the Skywatcher of Feiland, their very best, had died to hold the army of Tallfolk back?

Disaster, disaster…they might have sat there in stupefied horror. The Alchimeer was white and frozen, her hands at her best ingredients and reagents. Enchanter Ilekrome’s chest heaved up and down; he had family in Oierdressql.

It was the Guidance who rose to her feet.

“They’re all outside? Under attack?”

The Judiciary stood at the same time. He commanded Paeth’s internal security. The panting [Secretary], who’d run the message as it came up the tubes nodded.

“The Tallguard have deployed! They are demanding the gates be opened! Every security personnel that can be spared—”

“At once! Issue a Devastation-level alarm!”

The Judiciary pushed past the Guidance. He found a single tube the Architects never used and barked into the Longcall tube. The slender wooden tube, enchanted to carry his voice across the interior of the tree that housed Paeth on the Coast, vibrated slightly as he shouted.

“By the will of the Architects! Issue the Devastation-alarm! Lock down the city! Everyone indoors! Arm the defensive enchantments!”

Enchanter Ikerome stirred. The other Architects looked up. The old Fraerling hesitated.

“But the allotment—”

Then fell silent. Paeth was at war. Damn the allotment!

—-

Outside of the gigantic redwood tree, Luan stood in the middle of a battlefield. Thousands of little people, only six inches, were rushing past him, screaming. They were just like him, but scaled down. Bloodied from fighting off monsters constantly on the way here.

Not just ‘monsters’, but giant insects. Rodents. Anything that considered a six-inch tall person a meal would go after them. And two hundred thousand?

It was like when birds found a migration of fish at sea, or a spawning of baby turtles. Luan had seen predators attacking vulnerable groups of animals on nature television before.

This same scene was replaying itself as all of the local hunters in Baleros’ jungles came out. Only, their prey were people who screamed and ran. With faces…

“Back! Back!”

Luan smashed a tree branch like a club over a snarling bobcat or something. It yowled, exposing strange, glittering teeth, the tips like razors. Its fur was similarly sparkling, bits of gem-like fur tufted here and there. Suddenly, the gem-fur stopped shining and became dark, mossy, as it bounded into the underbrush. The predator slunk back and Luan shouted at it, keeping it away.

It was just one of the animals around. There was blood in the air, iron and the stench of fear coming up from the little people. Insects were slithering out of the underbrush, giant snakes, and overhead Luan could see birds circling.

Nightmares for the Fraerlings. Most were ‘Inners’, who had never desired to leave their homes, perfect little paradises hidden in Baleros’ jungles. They wore clothing like Luan had worn on Earth; brightly-colored cloth that was made to a quality beyond what you could normally attain outside of a Level 30 [Tailor]. Dyes that cost a lot of money for a pre-industrialized society.

They were shell shocked, terrified, running towards Paeth after their nightmare-trek. But what cut Luan deepest, like someone running him through with a cold dagger, was how they pointed to him.

“Tallfolk!”

The same creature that had destroyed their old home. They were threatening to stampede back into the forest. Only Sentry Leader Ekrn and the other Tallgaurd stopped them.

“Into Paeth, now! Ignore the Tallfolk!”

The Guidance of Oierdressql joined in the shouting, and Luan heard his voice magnify to a point where all the others heard it. His Skill helped direct the confusion, but the animals were shooting out of the brush.

It was probably seeing Luan, that first moment of panic, that had sent the wave of fear into the air. Pheromone or aura—that was what was attracting Baleros’ hungry to a free meal.

Or so they thought. Luan looked for a weapon, but the tree branch was all he had. That, and the compact crossbow. He loaded another bolt, aimed—fired.

The kick was all he felt; he never saw the bolt fly. He did see the Gem Bobcat crumple without a sound. Luan stared at the crossbow.

“Whoa.”

It was far more powerful than anything Paige had dreamed of, and it was a third of the size! He broke out of his stupefaction; a shout was going up from the back of the column of Fraerlings, from someone he recognized.

“Rats! An army of tinkering, gear-stealing rats!”

Noa, the Tallguard Fraerling he had befriended, was waving people past her. She aimed a crossbow and shot; her own magical bolt thunked into the skull of a rat larger than she was.

Then exploded. The rat’s brains scattered over a huge radius and the other rodents jerked aside, staring at their comrade. Some began devouring their friend, the rest came on. And oh, there were hundreds. Thousands themselves.

A rat colony! Luan looked at the swarm in horror. He began to stride forwards, but someone bellowed.

“Luan! Stay where you are!”

Ekrn was in the air. He was swinging himself up via a grappling hook; the other Tallguard were using the ropes attached to branches to maneuver over the heads of the Fraerlings on the ground. He fired two crossbows, then dropped onto Luan’s shoulder to bellow.

“I have to—”

The [Rower] protested. Ekrn snapped.

“You’ll trample the Fraerlings! Use that damn crossbow and keep the big predators down!”

“But the rats—”

“Don’t argue! Do it!”

The [Sentry Leader] took off, his Boots of Jumping kicking Luan’s shoulder so hard it was like someone punched him. He flew upwards, grabbing a rope, and bellowing into an amulet.

“Architects! Where is my magical support? Damn the allotment! Fire off all spells! This is not a joke! I want enchantments on the ground yesterday! I will come up there and throw all of you out of the nearest window if I don’t get—”

Luan realized he was right. There were so many little people on the ground, running every which way, he’d smash them if he moved. So he took a knee, and reloaded the crossbow, aiming it around. Where…?

There. A snuffling shape in the underbrush. A boar? Luan fired, heard a squeal, and was firing again as something jerked, the powerful bolts blowing through the Stelbore’s armored front. It ran away, but it was one among many.

And now the bigger predators were coming to feast on the smaller ones, like some damn cartoon! Luan saw the situation cascade as a huge bird, twice as large as he was, with a vulture’s ripping beak and bright yellow wings, an angular body that let it swoop down like an arrow, landed and picked up the dead cat he had killed.

“Oh my god!”

Luan aimed the crossbow at the predator and hesitated, not sure if he wanted to attract its attention. He didn’t have to choose; a crashing sound from the underbrush made him whirl.

“You have got to be—”

A giant snake, kin to the ones that Daly’s entire team had faced down, came slithering out. It ignored the Fraerlings completely; rather, it hissed at the bird, which flapped its wings, warily flying up.

“Activate your Signim! Where is my magical support? Where is—”

Ekrn was screaming. The Fraerlings caught between giant predators, fleeing the rat swarm, and running for the tree as fast as they could, were shrieking with fear. Luan saw a giant crocodile coming up from the coast. He raised the tree branch as the giant serpent caught sight of him. It reared up, a dizzying nine feet, displaying two massive fangs dripping with a clear liquid. He aimed the crossbow up, swearing, realizing he couldn’t dodge without crushing someone.

“Luan!”

The voice was a cry from Noa. She reached for her Signim, hanging around her neck, and prepared to drink it. So did half the Tallguard. Ekrn had the cork in his teeth when he saw a flash. He looked up, blinked.

From Paeth’s Tree on the Coast, the innocuous, giant tree with its vast trunk and healthy leaves, lit up. Part of the cunning illusion enchantment undid itself. Sentry Leader Ekrn looked up and saw something he had seen only twice before.

The branches on the top were glass. No, crystal. The ‘leaves’ were observation ports. But they had faithfully kept to the tree’s design. Natural magic. The natural flow of power. They’d just replaced parts of the tree. He saw an entire branch light up.

And then a line traced itself across his vision. A perfect line, shooting down from the glowing branch, a searing fiery orange. Ekrn swore, blinking, but the afterimage remained. He turned as Luan shouted—

The giant snake collapsed backwards, a neat, smoking line carved straight through its head. Luan’s little crossbow bolt was lodged in the scales next to its mouth. He looked up.

Paeth’s tree fired another laser. It blew off the head of the bird as it tried to take off, alarmed.

“Lasers?”

The Human whispered. Then he saw more branches light up. A voice chimed in Ekrn’s ear.

“This is the Guidance. Sentry Leader, activating enchantments. Sorry for the delay. What do you need?”

He saw something begin flashing out of another branch. Miniature fireballs, but two a second. They curved, arcing to hit the swarms of rats. He didn’t stop to think.

“Give us speed and ironskin! We have to fight on the ground! Keep the majority of the swarm off us! And include the Human in the network!”

“One second—activating.”

Luan blinked. He saw something flash. Then, as fast as the wind, a latticework of light spread out of the tree. It flashed over him. Like a visible radar, a net that passed over everything. But it had specific targets.

The Tallguard of Feiland began to glow. Noa ducked a rat leaping at her. She speared it in the gut with her shortsword, slashed, and rolled out of the shower of blood. She came to her feet as the rat landed. Everything was slower, suddenly. She realized what had happened.

—-

“[Speed] enchantment is active! Activating [Ironskin].”

“Include the Human! I need his magical signature, now!”

Enchanter Ikerome was coordinating the spells. Fraerlings were rushing past him, loading ‘cores’ of condensed mana into the activation slots. They were burning more mana in this moment than they would all month. Paeth lit up like a lighthouse to any predator of magic.

It didn’t matter. There were Fraerlings outside. Enchanter Ikerome received the scrambled signal that was ‘Luan’, aura and magical nature translated into an attuned crystal. He slotted it into the ritual focusing the magic onto the figures in Paeth’s radius.

“Active! Now, [Ball Lightning]! Scatter those birds!”

—-

Outside, Luan felt his skin tingle just in time. Some kind of angry bird swooped down at the Human, and disgorged what looked like miniature quills, spraying him with sharp needles. He shouted, shielding himself—but the needles just bounced off his skin.

A Fraerling flashed past him, leaping up. He threw a grappling hook which wrapped around the bird’s talon. As it flapped upwards in surprise, the Tallguard climbed up, aimed a crossbow, and blew the bird’s head off.

The Fraerlings were retreating past walls of stone and fire, even [Forcewalls] being raised on the ground to shield them. The Tallguard, buffed by Paeth, were slaughtering the predators.

“How did that other city ever fall?”

Luan wondered aloud. They hadn’t even activated their Signim yet, and the crisis was already coming under control.

The rat swarm was ironically the hardest to stop. The rats just kept coming, now to devour their kin. Tallguard, including Noa and Ekrn, fought in ranks, keeping the ones not blasted to bits from reaching them.

“Damn! How did a colony of magical rats get so close to Paeth? I need reinforcements! Stop flashing magic at them—they’re a Packmana colony! Luan, get over here and throw a tree at them or something!”

Ekrn bellowed. Luan didn’t see the problem at first. Then he saw the milling rats, racing all over each other, begin to activate magic of their own.

For every [Fireball] that blew groups of them apart, a rat would manifest its own mana. They were eating magic. He saw a rat look up, blink out of reality, and appear to the left as a bolt of lightning tried to tag it.

Another actually created what Luan could only describe as a forcefield, albeit like a filthy bubble of ‘soap’ that made the Tallguard hacking at it swear and back up.

The rain of spells stopped, no longer empowering the rats. Luan saw most of the Fraerlings were running for the doors, and strode forward.

“There! Block them! Throw that at them!”

Ekrn bellowed. Luan looked left at a huge, fallen log of wood, eight feet long and three feet wide. He looked at Ekrn.

“Me? I can’t lift that!”

“Damn Tallfolk! What good are you?”

Ekrn roared. He demonstrated the inherent difference in their physiques as he lifted a rat’s corpse and threw it into the milling mass of them, distracting the others who devoured their buddy.

“Boss! Reinforcements are five seconds out! Tallguard Crelerbreakers deploying!”

“At last.”

Ekrn whirled. Figures were launching out of ports higher in Paeth. It had only been minutes; an eternity in a battle, but he saw them leaping to land like comets on the ground. He bellowed to the Tallguard forming a line.

“Fall back! Armor coming in!”

He ran back as Luan kicked a wall of rats and shouted as they raced up his leg in retaliation. They tried to bite his enchanted skin, then tried to eat his enchantment. He retreated, knocking them flying.

Then the Human saw the Fraerlings’ last line of defense.

Crelerbreakers. His first impression was that there were Fraerling Dullahans. War Walkers, the [Juggernauts] in armor like Xol.

Then he realized they were regular Fraerlings, just coated in a kind of dull orange-red armor. No…Luan squinted. It wasn’t rusty, but some kind of deeper color. It seemed plain at first, but he realized the color kept shifting depending on how the light hit it. They strode forwards, battleaxes and claymores in hand. No shields.

The rats swarmed over them as the hundred Tallguard formed a line. They vanished and Luan feared they were dead. He began to stride forwards, but Ekrn called him back.

“Don’t bother. They have this.”

Luan looked and saw a squiggling mass of rat’s tails and faces, biting, squeaking. Then the first sword cut through one as a Fraerling slashed around him. He or she emerged from the mass, unharmed, rats biting the armor and squealing in dismay.

“What is that?”

Luan pointed at the armor, so perfectly made that there weren’t even airholes in the visors; just glowing crystal eyes so the Fraerling could see out of them. If he had been to Salazsar, he would have realized that the Drakes had a similar group of armored infantry.

The only difference was that Paeth had only a hundred. And that the Walled City of Gems’ ‘elites’ were a lot cheaper than Crelerbreakers.

Ekrn snorted. He stared at the armor, some of it so ancient that it predated the term ‘Crelerbreaker’ that came from the Creler Wars, six thousand years back. It did not rust, nor decay. Nor were rats going to eat through it, even the ones who could gnaw on diamonds.

“That? That’s Adamantium, Luan. What, never seen it?”

Luan’s head swung back. His jaw dropped.

—-

“We need to open all our food stores. We’re brewing more healing potions as fast as we can. It’s space we need. Food…”

“We’ll activate our garden’s spells for quick growth. We’re already over our allotment. But we need food, to find a place for them all…and to know if other settlements are under attack.”

In the aftermath, Paeth took stock. The attack of scavengers had been defeated with ease. So much so that Luan had been right to question Oierdressql’s fall.

Enchanter Ikerome shook his head as he surveyed the damage.

“I can’t understand it. Oierdressql had similar spells. A village I could understand falling. But Oierdressql? Sentry Leader…how could it happen?”

The Guidance of Oierdressql opened his mouth, but he was shaking, adrenaline leaving him as he was wrapped in a blanket enchanted with [Warmth] spells. It was a tired Ekrn who kicked a rat’s head over to a group of [Butchers] salvaging as much meat as they could before the rest was disposed of. Somehow.

The Human was digging a hole and helping cart it away so more scavengers wouldn’t come. But the plain fact was that all the magic Paeth had unleashed had turned them into a lighthouse. Normally they’d worry about even Tallfolk noticing. Given the situation? Ekrn knew they were already coming.

“We could kill even an Adult Creler with our defensive spells alone, Enchanter. Maybe. Bastards soak up direct magic spells. However, that’s one Creler. How many times can we fire the [Beam of Zillac]? A hundred times? A thousand? Tallfolk can muster armies of tens of thousands, and we have to use our best spells to take them out. They can just…overrun us. It’s like the rats. Just six feet taller.”

The Architects of Paeth looked at each other. Then at Luan, as he trudged over to haul more bones and scraps away. A [Necromancer] came running over.

“No, stop! I need those bones!”

Something had to be done. Guidance looked at Ekrn.

“We must find out why this is happening. I need someone to reach the Forgotten Wing Company. The Farspeaker is already talking to other settlements. And…food, supplies? Even mana stones?”

Ekrn nodded.

“I’ll have ten volunteers within the hour, Guidance. As for the rest? I’d say tighten our belts and do what we can. However…”

He and all the Fraerlings glanced up at the Human tossing bones out of the pile for the [Necromancer], who needed them to perform bone-mending spells. Luan glanced up, sensing the gazes.

As it happened, Paeth, the reclusive village of Fraerlings, the hidden settlement known to only a handful of Tallfolk, could no longer sit in isolation. It needed…a delivery.

The City Runner got his most unusual job yet.

—-

Conflict was the event of the day. Also, the month. Year?

Conflict, war, battle, engagements, altercations, crusades…they got old. Sometimes, you had to wonder—didn’t you get tired of it all? Of so much killing?

Ryoka Griffin was not made of the right stuff to be a [General]. She had known that for a while, of course, but she truly lacked what could give someone the will to fight as a way of life. To go from battle to battle, even as a ruler of a nation, war to costly war.

That was arrogance. That was…ambition. Desire. A callous indifference for those you sent to their deaths. A driving greed, or hunger. Something which, in Humans, set them apart. The warlord that could unite a hundred tribes or countries.

It was a characteristic more suited to the being twining around itself, scales rippling, who could rise to the top of the four hundred foot high room, who…inhabited Ailendamus’ palace, and had made his den out of entire wings of the royal quarters.

‘Duke’ Rhisveri. Rhisveri Zessoprical, the uncle of King Itorin II. That was who he pretended to be, using a puppet, rather, no, exactly like Teriarch did with Eldavin.

In actuality—a Wyrm. A true mastermind behind the throne.

Wyrm. Cousin to Dragons. A serpentine nightmare, often spoken of in legends without the Dragon’s temperamental nobility; a force of evil in many stories, like Jörmungandr, the World Serpent from Norse mythology.

Yet, Ryoka realized that the stories were stories. They failed to capture the truth of Wyrms, or at least, this one.

Rhisveri was beautiful. His grandeur was not the metallic shine of Teriarch’s brass scales, which could reflect the light like gold itself, a rippling mane of bronze hair. Yet he was larger than Teriarch, who was the size of the largest aircraft in Ryoka’s world.

And his scales were jade. His eyes were green, like Ryoka’s, but both they and his scales were variations of jade. Not ‘green’, which evoked grass or plants, but the lustrous stone considered to be among the most valuable in Ryoka’s world.

Nothing else would do but jade to describe his scales. They had a kind of glowing luster; Ryoka realized they might be semi-transparent, so that you could see how they deepened to a gem-like quality.

Nor was Rhisveri’s body any less impressive; the green faded to a pale white or even beige, like the sand of a beach on his underbelly. White jade. Jade came in all colors, after all.

He also had two claws; just two, which he could use to support himself as he looked down at her, or adjust his posture.

So, not a Wyrm which had no limbs at all and was entirely serpentlike. Technically…a Lindwyrm, which had two claws. Just like how a Wyvern had no front limbs, unlike Dragons who had all four.

Dragon-facts. If that was a magazine, Ryoka would have been the #1 subscriber.

There were differences between Rhisveri and Teriarch, however. The biggest being that Teriarch had not chased Ryoka across Izril, zapping her with curse spells and sending an army after her. Nor had Teriarch installed himself in a position of power in Ailendamus.

Lastly? Ryoka had been sprayed with mating pheromones by Sikeri, the damned Wyrm she’d met at the party of the fae in Riverfarm. She stared up at Rhisveri.

“Mating—mating pheromones?”

He was giving her a similar stare, almost goggle-eyed, turning one huge eye to gaze down at her, then swinging his head the other direction as if the other eye would reveal something the first had not.

Ryoka stood protectively over Sammial. The little boy was unconscious, and the Wyrm had forgotten all about him. He’d tried to kill Sammial, just like that.

Not like Teriarch at all. Ryoka was sweating. Incredulous. She had thought she was coming here to negotiate with a Dragon, allay his or her wrath, and steal or barter for the mysterious scroll that Ivolethe had said could help Erin most of all.

Instead? Wyrm. That wasn’t bad—off-target, but not bad.

Sammial being here? Very bad. Whoever had killed that [Knight] mid-teleport? Exceptionally bad.

Ryoka being turned into an interdimensional love letter for a hookup?

…Insulting, really. If she and Sikeri ever met again, why, they’d, they’d…Ryoka would probably run for her life. But she’d say something as she ran screaming! Something pithy.

Ryoka got to see the Wyrm decision-making process and personality at play. You ran into a Dragon’s cave dying, insulting him, or literally having your heart explode in front of him? He healed you. Now, maybe that was one Dragon and this was a generalization, not to be taken as a whole indictment or generalization for the species…

But the second…wait…fifth Wyrm that Ryoka had ever met took one look at her, appearing in his private abode after he’d kidnapped her, smelling of a female Wyrm, and came to a conclusion.

“This is a trick. A Dragon’s odor and a female Wyrm? What a pathetic gesture. Which one sent you? Tell me. Right before I kill you.”

Ryoka went for her Faeblade, despite it having shattered on his scales. The wind formed a wall—

Something smashed her flat, then lifted her into the air. She floated in front of Rhisveri. The Wyrm snarled.

“Which one? Tell me! Then, Thief, you will suffer for invading my treasury. Did you think you could escape? Did you think one of your precious Five Families would make me hesitate?”

Ryoka liked Wyrms a lot less than Dragons right now. She gasped, as an invisible hand gripped her.

“I—I didn’t know I was covered in pheromones. Listen to me, I didn’t know I was stealing from Ailendamus—”

“Lies. How did you get in? Which one wanted that scroll? How did they find out I had it? That damned salamander, spitting fire? Is he alive? Or is it the monster of war? That arrogant fool under the waves? Which one?”

Ryoka’s eyes were round. Three? She knew one. ‘Salamander’? If she ever met him…hadn’t Teriarch mentioned them too?

“None of them! I’m serious! I met…I met one. But listen, I did meet a Wyrm. She was—”

“Do not speak our name, mortal. You have no right. ”

Something squished her. Ryoka screamed. It was not a warning gesture; she felt something tear as her organs compressed. She hung there, limply.

“My people lie dead. I do not know which fool it was, but I will kill you over a thousand years if you taunt me one moment further. The last female Wyrm died ages ago.”

Rhisveri roared. He was…angry. He whirled around the room, his huge serpentine form moving fast. His voice—Ryoka, swimming in a red haze, came to one thought amid the shattering pain.

It ached. She heard his voice boom again, but she was seriously hurt. Seriously…

“Worthless little thing.”

Something splashed over her. Ryoka jerked. She felt her bones and internals begin to knit. She realized blood was running down her mouth. Looked up.

Had he just…spat on her? Ryoka spluttered out some faintly greenish-yellow liquid. Rhisveri glared at her.

“Where is your artifact? How are you lying?”

He shook her up and down, flipped her over. Ryoka yelped.

“I’m not lying! Stop! St—”

Her clothes vanished. Ryoka turned crimson as she spun in the air, but the Wyrm just glared at her, searching her for…

“Some kind of spell? Whoever tried to stop me wasn’t that good at magic. How are you lying? How are you—”

“Put me down! Give me back my clothes!”

Ryoka had had enough. She shouted. The Wyrm ignored her. He was muttering another spell as Ryoka inhaled. She didn’t know how she did it. She was just—furious. He wasn’t listening to her puny voice; he could mutter and be louder than her a hundred times over. But she shouted and the wind boomed.

—-

King Itorin II was holding court. Or rather, making his royal appearance as he ‘heard the pleas of the citizens of the realm’. It was for show; he had a bureaucracy in place which took care of most problems.

However, this was a good show. He knew what the issues were, of course, and had his answers ready, but he made a show of hearing them out as his people watched, in awe of his proclamations and cunning replies. He was leaning over his throne to hear a weeping woman tell him about a murder, when a voice rang through the palace.

“Sikeri’val-Toreshio-Maresssui!”

It was not a ‘voice’ as you normally heard it. It sounded female, and there was pitch and cadence. Yet it did not transmit through the air. The wind itself screamed it.

The throne room echoed as people whirled. The [Knights] surrounded their [King], but Itorin II had already sensed where it came from. He raised a hand.

Damn him. What now?

“I believe a spell has gone astray. I was informed this might happen. Pray, continue. I shall not ignore my people’s plight.”

He calmed the people in the throne room and they looked at him in awe. Itorin II cursed internally. But he would ask…carefully…what his ‘uncle’ was up to. Later.

—-

The Wyrm had stopped, mid-rant. He looked at Ryoka. The roar of the Wyrm’s name had also surprised him, as much as Ryoka’s act in itself.

“That…that is not the name of any Wyrm I know. That…what strange magic is this? You have no classes. No levels. Are you a throwback? Some strange…?”

He twisted around her, staring. Ryoka was still naked and deeply resented that fact.

“Put me down. I did not lie. You know I didn’t lie. And—give me back my clothes!”

“It has to be a lie. If it’s not…? This is that she-Wyvern’s doing. Only she would be this cruel. The other two might be arrogant lizards, but they could not be this evil. I thought they were all dead. Or at least…”

He ignored her. Ryoka got angrier. Rhisveri murmured and her skin constricted again, but not with physical pressure; more like someone wrapping cling-wrap around her, invisible, powerful.

“Tell me the truth.”

“I met her. Sikeri! A Wyrm! And three more!”

“How is this thing lying?”

Rhisveri stared through Ryoka. He flipped her upside down and shook her repeatedly, as if to shake out some secret relic. Ryoka lost her temper twice.

“I—am Ryoka—will—down—”

She nearly threw up. The shaking didn’t stop and then Rhisveri was drawing closer. He sniffed her and it happened again. Ryoka couldn’t speak for being rattled around. But the wind roared in her voice.

“In the name of the Faerie King, put me down!”

Rhisveri froze. He tilted Ryoka up. Her clothes didn’t reappear. Nor did she float downwards. The Wyrm eyed Ryoka, then spoke.

“Is that what they’re styling themselves as, now? That’s a stupid name.”

Then he went back to inspecting her from all angles, rotating her for a better view like someone inspecting a toy.

Ryoka was so thrown by the lack of comprehension she was stunned. Right up until her legs spread apart.

“You bastard!”

“Relax, thing. There is absolutely nothing I could be interested in.”

Rhisveri replied absently. He frowned.

“Do I have to cut you in half? Did they write the spell on your bones?”

The Wind Runner’s eyes snapped open. Her blood was boiling. It was one thing to insult her, to stare at her, to strip her naked…no, actually, that was everything wrong.

But also, the Faerie King? He didn’t know? He didn’t…? She howled the name.

“By the will of the King of the Fae, put me down! By his name! Oberon!”

This time, she fell out of the air. Rhisveri caught her with magic a second later, but she saw his entire body twitch. He stared at her, and then around.

“What was that name? That’s not the name of a Treant. That’s…don’t say that name again, you wretched Human! How…? The gateway folk?”

Then his eyes went round. Ryoka was satisfied. She pointed a trembling hand at him.

“Give me my clothes. Put me down. Speak to me, Wyrm, by his name! Oberon!”

“Stop saying it!”

He looked around, nervously. Ryoka said it.

“Oberon. Oberon! OBERON!”

The air shook. Rhisveri flinched. Ryoka hit the ground, clothed, as the Wyrm reared back, his eyes flashing. In a defensive stance. The air hummed as he and Ryoka waited. The wind went still.

…But no one came.

Rhisveri relaxed, slowly, and almost smiled. Almost. But he couldn’t deny the power in the name. Ryoka stood there, breathing slowly. She looked up at Rhisveri.

“I am Ryoka Griffin. Friend of the fae! Friend of the other world, and the name even you must respect, Wyrm. I have met your kind. I have met Sikeri’val-Toreshio-Maresssui. I did not mean to steal from you, and I came here to make peace. Will you listen to me?”

She spread her arms wide as Sammial stirred. The boy twitched, and Rhisveri looked at him. The Wyrm slowly bent lower, and he looked at her.

Not through her, as he had been this entire time. As, perhaps, Ryoka realized, he had been from the start. ‘Thief’, he had called her, without even knowing her name.

Now Rhis’veri Zessoprical, whose full name she would learn later, looked at the Wind Runner from another world. He met her eyes, and the full weight of his presence struck her. His eyes drew her into a void of their own. Not mismatched. Beautiful, a serpent’s eyes which saw time itself.

Of course. Did you think we were like Dragons? You have met one. What a strange creature you are.

The thoughts struck her. The Wyrm narrowed his eyes, and Ryoka heard his voice, in its way as loud as he was.

Strange. This has been an exceedingly strange day. The Deathless awake. I smell my kin I thought long dead inviting me to mate. A girl commands the power of the wind without Skill or class and invokes the name of a king that rules no land in this world. A strange day.

“I call that Tuesday.”

The Wyrm blinked at her remark. Ryoka turned red. It had just slipped out. Ryoka-snark. She saw his eyes narrow, and feared the worst as his mouth opened, scales bulging. The Wyrm looked down at her, and then barked.

“Hah!”

Wind knocked her flat, the acrid tones of acid, chemicals, and other scents, not actually unpleasant. Not like bad breath; just the breath of a creature as otherworldly as Teriarch. She realized it hadn’t been an attack.

He’d…laughed. He tried to stifle the laughter, but he snorted, then glared at her as if it were a weakness exposed. Rhisveri sniffed her.

“…So one of my kind lives?”

“Y-yes.”

Ryoka saw him frown. He peered at her again. Then, Rhisveri did the smoothing trick, rubbing his head against part of his body. He coughed.

“This…Sikeri’val-Toreshio-Maresssui. She truly is a female Wyrm? Not one of my kind.”

“Um. No, no legs.”

“And she truly exists? She came here? Somehow? I had no idea…”

“She did.”

“I assume you do not know her full name, then. But ah, was she large? How many hundreds of feet? What coloration?”

Ryoka stared at him. She had a sinking feeling…she hesitated.

“I never saw her full size. She was uh—variable. But she was up to two hundred feet in the air at one point. I think her scales were obsidian? Deep purple.”

“And that wasn’t her full size?”

Ryoka shook her head. Rhisveri hummed.

“My. Did she have fins? Those curved fins along the side of the head that—”

Then he caught himself and glowered at Ryoka.

“Not that I believe you, Thief! This is all very, very suspect. But I can see I have underestimated the prey I’ve caught. And you…”

He frowned. Now he inspected Ryoka, his head easily moving around her from all angles. Ryoka covered herself protectively with her limbs. Rhisveri rolled his eyes.

“Please. What kind of degenerate lusts after mammals? Get a Dragon for that—or are you used to it? I know one of them is part of it. No…what a strange weapon. You have anti-magic cuffs on you. They are working. But the wind listens to you. Why does that work?”

He eyed the Faeblade, deactivated. Then his eyes frowned even further.

“And what valuable treasures are these?”

He stared down at something lying on the ground. He’d been able to take them off her, but even his ‘clothing disintegration’ magic hadn’t removed Nama’s footwraps. Rhisveri stared at them, then sniffed the air.

“You have…a number of very valuable things. That’s worthless. Why?”

He stared at the Faeblade. Then he frowned at the footwraps.

“That’s valuable. That’s as valuable as…and what do you have? S…eleven priceless artifacts? Give them to me.”

He twined closer around Ryoka, his appreciation of Sikeri’s pheromones turning to pure avarice. Ryoka started. Eleven?

She couldn’t imagine most objects she had were valuable to someone like him. But…eleven?

That just happened to be the number of autographs a certain trio of the same King had given her. One to keep, some to give away, or barter…

“Don’t you dare take them from me!”

The Wyrm glared down at Ryoka, genuinely insulted.

“Do I look like a thief, Thief? I don’t steal. I earn what is mine by right of conquest and war! You have something valuable. Give them to me.”

“What, just like that?”

“Let me see them and I will make you a boon. I may spare your life after all. I may return this brat of a Human back. You have incurred my wrath. But give all eleven…whatevertheyare to me, and I will be most generous. Do you want to trade?”

He purred. Ryoka saw the Wyrm’s demeanor change at once. He turned his head.

“I’ll give you a block of gold. I have a hundred pounds of it. Or a flying carpet. Humans love to fly. Show me what you have. Come on.”

His personality had changed instantly, to someone bartering for a collectible item. That…that was the closest to Teriarch that Ryoka had seen. She fished in her belt pouch, reluctantly. She needed to speak to him.

“I won’t give you this. But if I show it to you, will you let me explain?”

“Bah, you’re in trouble anyways. Give me one for free and I may relent. Yes. I may even let you go! But I want answers. Show it to me. What’s so valuable?”

He sniffed, scenting…what, value? Ryoka hid the scrap of paper. Mere cardboard, but written on by the King of Chivalry himself. Rhisveri peered at it, fascinated. So, Ryoka reluctantly held up the signature by the King of Camelot as he lay dying on the hill, waiting for Sir Bedivere to relinquish Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake.

That glorious, imperfect King of Knights. It was the second-most valuable signature of the three to her. After the boy who was bravest of all, the failed King who had done his utmost and failed.

A reminder.

King Arthur Pendragon.

Rhisveri’s eyes focused on the letters, written so beautifully in flowing font, the same handwriting that graced royal decrees, practiced countless times over a life.

His voice caught in his throat. The Wyrm reared back. Ryoka thought he was amazed at first. Then she realized.

He saw something in the letters she did not. Like Sammial. Like Tyrion. Only, the Wyrm did not kneel. He took one look at the signature and shouted in a voice that resounded through the halls. Quieter than Ryoka’s wind, caught by the spells of silence and secrecy here.

But a scream, a shriek of mortal terror. The castle boomed as Rhisveri bellowed.

“[DRAGONSLAYER]!”

He was halfway out of the vast chamber and slithering away before the instinctual terror subsided. Ryoka saw the huge, slithering back of Rhisveri disappear—then the sounds of movement stop. There was a dreadful minute of embarrassed silence. Then his head poked out of the hallway, glaring at her.

It took all of Ryoka’s willpower not to laugh.

—-

At the same time as Ryoka was experiencing the joys of exhibitionism, the colony of natural nudists, the Antinium, were undergoing a kind of…renaissance.

After all, Antinium Workers and Soldiers didn’t wear the mostly pointless loincloths or any other clothing in the Hive. That wasn’t the point.

The point was that there was a new Individual in the Hive. Or maybe, if not Individual…an Antinium of note.

Silveran, Garry, Belgrade, Anand, Pawn, Yellow Splatters…the names were increasing in number. There were the two female Antinium, Chesacre, Thaina, the Flying Antinium who were Garry’s apprentices, and more.

This was all good. However, something was now apparent that had not been before. Only by this new Antinium’s existence was a trend revealed, and it was this:

All of the Individuals were beloved. All of them were respected, insofar as the Antinium understood it.

Of course, that was natural. What kind of Antinium would dislike another Antinium? If anything, the Individuals were as to heroes of their kind. Those who exemplified some great trait.

For instance, Antinium were working under Silveran’s Cleaners, a business started because Silveran was too good at cleaning. He’d expanded his work to the entire street, and his cleaners also did store work!

That was the kind of thing a single Individual Antinium could do. How could that be negative?

Well…the most hated Antinium in the entire Free Hive was somehow not the late, and debatably great, Klbkch. His name was Furfur. Fur…fur. And yes, that related to his entire role in life.

There were new inhabitants in the Free Hive. Little, mewling balls of fur that played around, wandered from place to place, and had a horde of fascinated Antinium following them at any given second.

Cats. And three racing little barking things called ‘puppies’.

They had all been abandoned when Silveran found them. Someone had tried to wedge a basket into a sewer grate. He had found the puppies running around, feral.

So Silveran had brought them back. Now, the Antinium’s first pets roamed about, bringing something that even the regular Antinium had never experienced before.

Petting a cat and feeling it purr as it fell asleep in your arms. Playing fetch with a little puppy.

It was like drugs to the average Soldier and Worker. It was a considerable problem, as a single puppy could halt the entire Hive in the area if it ran through their transportation tunnels. Thus, the animals had to be contained. A few ‘doors’ were installed, and Antinium coveted the right to be in their area.

All was well, right? Right?

Wrong. The problem was self-evident to anyone who knew animals. Which, because this was an Antinium Hive, had been almost no one.

Yes, the average Antinium could give 200% of the pets, scratches, and combings to a cat as the inferior Humans, Drakes, and Gnolls. Yes, they had more unconditional love than even the doggies did for the beloved creatures.

And that was the problem. The kittens and puppies soon realized that their experience of starving to death on Liscor’s streets was now replaced by a group of insects who would instantly clean up any poo, feed them the instant they were hungry, and pamper them nonstop.

Even Sariant Lambs couldn’t dream of an existence this hedonistic in their evil little brains. And that was the problem.

If you learned you could poop or urinate anywhere, and it would never be a problem, well, you were going to. If no one stopped you from running anywhere you wanted, breaking or clawing at anything you wanted, you were going to be a nightmare.

And that was where Furfur came in. After all, he had worked as a [Laborer] in shops like Elirr’s. He had even gained [Animal Feeder] as a class. Today? Today, he was a [Pet Raiser]. A class unlike [Beast Tamer], because, well…kittens were not beasts.

He was also the most hated Antinium ever. Look, as he plucked a cat off a line of Antinium who had gone still as it sniffed their terrible feed! Stare in horror, as he potty-trained a puppy!

He disciplined the animals. Made the cats use an actual area to poop in. Forced the puppies to stop playing and go to sleep, keeping to regular hours.

If there was a poll for ‘Most Hated Antinium Ever’, Furfur would have won it. What was especially egregious was the fact that the pets…loved him. He would walk around with a kitten napping on his head. Napping right between his antennae! Because of course, he had [Friend of Fur] as a Skill.

The jealousy, the hatred, the drama sweeping through the Hive was unprecedented. But that was pets for you. The Free Queen allowed it all because she considered that any class was useful.

Of course, she didn’t really ‘get’ it. She was making more attempts, in between trying to speed Xrn’s recovery, monitoring the many events of the Antinium, and so on.

“Garry, I desire sustenance.”

She rang a bell and one of the Flying Antinium instantly came out with a trolly of food. The Free Queen liked that and considered these helpers, if not as nice as Garry, good for letting him provide even more food to her. A net plus. She nodded at the Flying Antinium.

“Also, bring food. My pet is hungry.”

She peered at the last pet of the Free Antinium, unknown to all but her. She was trying it too. It was just…

“…I think. Are you hungry, Deferred Sustenance?”

Deferred Sustenance scuttled away as she tried to pet it. Or…the top of the baby Rock Crab. It snapped a few claws as the Flying Antinium put a semi-raw steak on the ground and scuttled over. The Free Queen nodded to herself.

She had a pet. She was failing to see the point so far, but she had to admit—Deferred Sustenance ate. She ate. They had much in common. She had pet it now and then. It had yet to purr, but she assumed it would in time.

“More food for both of us!”

The Free Queen waved an indulgent feeler.

Eating in company was good. Also…she didn’t know if this was acceptable or not, but the Level 4 [Pet Owner] indulgently petted Deferred Sustenance on the head. She was keeping that class to herself.

—-

The Painted Antinium marched out of their Hive in ranks. [Crusaders]. Soldiers and Workers wearing armor. They had left the pets behind. Left life behind. They had been told that all that lay ahead was death.

The sky was dead. Someone had slain the [Innkeeper]. So there was only wrath.

Hectval would burn.

The army had left the city three days ago. Not to fanfare. Not to triumphant speeches. Only because it had to be done. Twice, Hectval had attacked Liscor. Their alliance was a threat. And Olesm, [Strategist] of Liscor had realized a foe with no fear of retaliation would never stop.

They were Drakes. Petty, vengeful. When an enemy came, they would stand together. Their good qualities and bad meant that this war was inevitable. So Liscor’s new army, formed of the Watch, [Soldiers] newly-trained, was sallying forth to do battle in the hills around the Bloodfields to the south.

4th Company would stay in Liscor, but that was only because they were being held in reserve. They would advance with Liscor’s army soon enough, via the magic door.

That was Olesm’s secret weapon. He could receive supplies, fresh troops via it. And he would use this door. What he could not do was move large numbers of troops or supplies at one time.

Hence the army traveling conventionally. They ran into resistance within the first two days. Hectval’s alliance saw them coming and harried their advance. The true fighting began soon after that.

However, that was a war. A longer story. As it pertained to Olesm, now, he realized something after taking command of his joint force for only two days. They had drilled, practiced formations and orders, so he hadn’t realized it.

He’d been too worried about having Humans, Drakes, Gnolls, and Antinium in the army. For all Liscor had Antinium, it was one thing to tolerate them and another to fight with them. Olesm was worried about 4th Company’s attitudes, or even the regular rank-and-file.

The Drake was so focused on that, he’d failed to wonder about the [Soldiers]’ classes. He had known they were [Crusaders]…but the full implications of that didn’t strike him until the first clash between soldiers.

“They’re coming over the hills! Spearbreak formation, now!”

The [Strategist] bellowed. He wished he had one of Liscor’s [Generals], or anyone else. What he had was Wing Commander Embria, and some lower-level officers.

Even so, Hectval had taken a beating in their battles. This probing attack was [Hill Riders]; Drakes on horseback who peeled off at the first sight of Liscor’s army lowering their spears, bracing for a charge.

They appeared a bit dismayed; Olesm suspected they’d been hoping for this army to be as disorganized as the huge, outraged force that had come at them last time. Certainly, their sudden charge would have worked on them.

“Flanking charge! Ambush!”

He was preparing for the attack from the north, over a rocky ridge that the [Riders] had come screaming down from, when a second attack through a natural valley was called. Olesm turned, swearing, but it wasn’t so much an ambush as a second angle of attack.

His forces had plenty of time to spot the threat; fast moving heavy-infantry. They were going for a flank.

“[Mages], find spellcasters and shut down [Fireballs]! Forget the heavy-infantry!”

Olesm was aware that a [Fireball] wouldn’t do much good, and knowing them, they had anti-lightning spells. He elected to prevent his own army from taking casualties with his limited [Mage]-core.

“First Antinium, prepare to take the charge!”

He bellowed, and saw the wing of a thousand Antinium turn, smooth as could be. Olesm didn’t watch; he trusted them to fight. They were new, but they were Antinium. He was busy showering the two angles of attack with his archers. Wing Commander Embria was coming through the doorway.

“Where do you want us?”

She snapped. Olesm held up a claw.

“Circle through the pass there.”

“You don’t want us to hit them…?”

The Drake was ready for a fight, her crimson scales flashing. Olesm had heard from the city that something was up with Relc. Embria was clearly blazing to vent her anger and helplessness. He shook his head.

“Circle. Stealth up that ridge—they can’t take us. I’ll give you half our [Riders]—wait until they’re in retreat and get that commander! Or take them prisoner.”

Embria’s eyes sharpened. She lifted a claw.

“[Stealth Wing]. You heard him. Go, go…”

They shot forwards, leading the Drakes and Gnolls on horseback to the side. Olesm covered the action with more offensives—and flashes of light to hide the move.

His was a green army. He was relatively untested in battle, although Olesm owned the Kaalblade. Yet Olesm had a trump card in Wing Commander Embria, part of Liscor’s feared army, and the ample funding—not to mention fury—backing Liscor’s forces here.

The armored advance from Drisshia, one of the three cities in the Hectval-Drisshia-Luldem alliance, almost passed him by. He was watching the skirmishing line of Drakes coming over the ridge clash with their counterparts, snarling Gnolls and Humans who backed up their Drake buddies; Hectval’s forces were almost all Drake, with that first line of Gnolls.

“Strategist! The left flank! What’s happening?”

Olesm had made the mistake of staring too long at one spot. Rookie—he cursed himself, hearing his Manus instructors screaming in his ear. He turned and saw the Antinium lines waiting for the [Heavy Infantry] Drakes. But…something was wrong.

What was happening? Olesm trained his Ring of Sight on the spot and saw…the Drake charge faltering. The Antinium were braced against them. Yet it seemed like Drisshia’s momentum was going out from under them. Drakes were staring ahead, looking for their officer, wavering…Olesm murmured.

“What the heck?”

—-

“At them, you limp-tailed bastards!”

The Drisshia [Charge Captain] was shouting at the armored Drakes. They were coming across the rough ground, the broken rocks, and the packed dirt of the foothills. The air was hot, and blood was on the wind.

But the true thing that made them run, shout in fury, was the smell. That alien, insectile smell coming off the Antinium. They stood there, with helmets and armor like they were an actual force.

Antinium. Invaders! If Liscor had been damned once by the Council talking about their unprovoked attack on Hectval, it was twice-damned. They had lost all reason. Mad-Drakes, who let Humans and Antinium into their city.

These were still rookie [Soldiers]. Drisshia’s best were going to stomp all over them. The Antinium stood in a line, weapons lowered. Waiting. They hadn’t even fired their crossbows; a mistake Olesm had made because he’d failed to tell them to ‘fire at will’.

They waited, seeing the Drakes who had killed Erin. Of course, Drisshia’s forces saw the damned Antinium, so the enmity was equal.

“For Drisshia! Death to the bugs!”

The [Charge Captain] pounded forwards after two ranks of Drakes keeping in more or less even formation, spears lowered, roaring. Their shields were up, catching the arrows coming down, but no spells yet; the [Charge Captain] had activated [Grounded Advance], to nullify lightning spells.

They were no less than two hundred feet away from the Antinium and could see their blank, insectile eyes when something began to change. The Drakes felt like they ran into a wall of invisible cold water.

Something…the first charging Drake’s footsteps slowed and he was nearly knocked flat by his friends. But they slowed too, hesitating.

The air felt stiff here. It felt a bit…harder to move. As the [Charge Captain] entered the area, he looked up and snapped.

“Aura! Keep moving, you cowards!”

That brought the first lines forwards again. The heavy air, the feeling of an invisible obstacle…the [Charge Captain] searched for the enemy officer. He didn’t find one. Yet the Drakes kept going, refusing to give into mere pressure. But their advance halted again when they heard…

The voices.

How could you describe them? They were certainly voices. But they had no pitch. No cadence. They were…more like thoughts. Whispers in your head, but foreign.

They said:

Death.

The Drakes looked at each other. The [Charge Captain] heard another voice.

Burn. Hectval. Burn Hectval. Die. The Sky is gone.

Die. Die. Suffer.

Wrath. You are cursed.

Cursed.

Curse you. We curse you.

It was unnerving because the line of figures across from the Drakes were silent. Like statues. Unnerving for the [Heavy Infantry]. Then?

Terrifying. Because they realized something.

They were hearing the Antinium’s voices. And Antinium…did not speak. These ones did. As the Drakes hesitated onwards, the world turned dark.

As dark as their tunnels. They thought they saw something, as they began to hallucinate. The Antinium’s eyes. The multifaceted eyes began to shine beneath their helms. Burn with flames. White, painful to see. They spoke. They raged. They cursed the Drakes.

Then the order came and the [Crusaders] moved. They began to stride forwards. They began to charge. When they screamed, it filled the Drakes’ heads.

Wrath. A Skill. Of course it was, but how could the poor Drakes have known that…this Skill hadn’t existed for a long time?

It came from a class that was born neither of magic, nor pure martial prowess. It had elements of other classes, but it was based in something they had never seen.

Faith. And this Skill? A Skill for a low-level [Crusader].

[Combined Skill: Wrath of the Righteous].

A thousand [Crusaders] charged, screaming, though they never uttered a word. The closer they came, the louder their thoughts assailed their foes. Their pain, their loss.

In the name of the Innkeeper of Solstice, perish!

Heaven waits for us. Nothing for you.

This world ends. End with it.

The Drakes of Drisshia broke and ran before they even closed. [Crusaders] began to fire their crossbows, and when they clashed with the fleeing Drakes, it was four arms, four weapons versus two.

—-

Olesm watched the Drisshia advance turn into a rout with his mouth open.

“Is that what their Skill does? But they got it at Level 1!”

His head snapped around. He had to talk to their commander. Belgrade had informed Olesm of their capabilities and he was sitting in their second group, but he hadn’t talked about this.

Olesm wasn’t certain what exactly had gone down over there, but he was certain of this:

He had two trump cards. Not one.

—-

They still had yet to call themselves something. If they had someone from Earth with them, the band of disparate species and peoples might have called themselves ‘The Fellowship of the Inn’ or something stupid like that.

The Titan thought of them as an army. But then, everything was an army to him. He sat in the little leather envelope that Bird had supplied with food and water, and listened to the outside world. Occasionally he dared to peek out, using one of his few stealth-Skills to avoid someone noticing him.

However. The problem was he was bored. Niers Astoragon knew this was a diversion. That the People of Fraer were under attack. At the same time? He had promised to keep that little girl safe, damn it!

He had to trust that his entire company, the Forgotten Wing, and Foliana could do what was necessary. Meanwhile? The Titan busied himself by turning this rag-tag force into something that would survive. For surely they would not. He could have annihilated this group with a hundred regular [Soldiers]. And if he could…who knew who would come after this group? Antinium meant all six Walled Cities were not an outside guess.

“Bird. Bird.”

He poked Bird hard. Then, since the Antinium had few nerve endings if any at all on his carapace, kicked him hard through the pouch.

Bird felt that. He reached down, realized he was marching in the column, raised his head, and shouted to the group.

“I must excrete. I will return!”

The [Liar] saw heads turn. Sergeant Gna’s face was a look of disgust. Some of the others were not bothered by the act of bodily functions in and of themselves…they just really wished Bird hadn’t told them.

Bird hurried off. He opened his pouch as the others kept moving at a slightly slower pace; he could catch up if he ran. He placed Niers on a rock.

“Hello, small man.”

“My name is Niers Astoragon.”

“You are also a small man. My statement is factually correct.”

Niers sighed. If he stayed on this, he had learned he’d never get anywhere. He nodded at the group.

“Listen. We have work to do. I need you to do me a favor…”

Bird listened, tilting his head left and right. In the end, he nodded.

“I will do this because I agree.”

He picked Niers up and the Titan really wished he had a way to speak in Bird’s ear or ride from higher up. He said as much to Bird.

“It’d be a lot more damn convenient if we could communicate—or I could with you—without me having to pull you aside.”

Bird nodded. He stared at the belt box that Niers was sitting in. Then at Niers.

“I wish you could speak into my head. But you are not True Antinium, thus, inferior.”

Niers paused. His head moved up sharply.

“Is that a power of True Antinium?”

Bird gave him a blank look.

“Yes?”

He sounded so dubious that even Niers couldn’t parse if this was uncertainty or a lie. He folded his arms.

“Which is it?”

The [Bird Hunter] tilted his head playfully and waggled his antennae.

“I do not know if I should tell you. You are a dangerous person. Maybe we have powers. Who knows? I am a [Liar]. Even I do not trust me.”

Niers groaned. He put a hand over his face. Of all the Antinium he had to be saddled with…but then he felt Bird pick him up.

“Wait, what are you doing?”

Bird was striding back towards the caravan, but he hadn’t replaced Niers at his belt. The Antinium spoke, happily.

“A smart thing. You are lucky you have me.”

—-

No one else knew what to make of Bird. One second he was unveiling a new Skill, and making grand proclamations. The next?

“What’s he want?”

The Antinium had been arguing with one of the group for the last fifteen minutes. He had come back, shouted, ‘I have something to tell you!’, and then realized he had something to do first.

The others craned their necks as they walked or rode, in the way people with absolutely nothing to do on the road did. Bird finally finished his negotiations.

“Thank you. I needed it.”

He turned from the duo who had something he apparently needed. Apparently wanted, that was, because…well, the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings had not seen it the same way as Bird.

Nevertheless, if there was someone with a spare hat lying around? Bird turned, with his antennae sticking out of a huge…top…hat. Badarrow, drinking water, sprayed it out of his mouth and laughed so hard he nearly fell off his horse.

It was one of the more ostentatious hats that the Brothers used. And for that reason, even the two Brothers weren’t wearing it. Bird had altered the hat to fit him; part of the reason they’d been unwilling to give a good hat away.

“Why does he need that?”

Sergeant Gna looked at Bird askance. He had somehow become even less threatening.

“I will get a new one and repair this hat.”

He assured Normen, the junior Brother, and adjusted the top hat. Niers was pacing around on top of Bird’s head, muttering something about ‘this is so stupid’. Bird happily adjusted the hat.

“This is a nice thing. I could hide something inside here.”

“What are you doing, you idiot?”

Niers screamed silently, such that only Bird heard him. Normen gave Bird an odd look.

“Fellows have, although it’s a normal place to check for any [Guard]. What would you hide?”

“Birds?”

That checked out. The two Brothers sighed and looked at each other. The rest of the group put it down to ‘more Bird-isms’.

And thus, the lie is doubly a lie because I told the truth and then lied. Bird the [Liar] grew in power every day. He rubbed two of his hands together. Then got to work.

“Numbtongue. Sing.”

The [Bard] gave Bird a look as he sat on the wagon, taking a break and eating lunch with Octavia.

“What?”

“You are a [Bard]. You must sing.”

Someone kicked one of Bird’s antennae and he clarified.

“Play your guitar, that is. A [Bard] has songs. Sing songs. Make us happy or fast or something. You damn idiot.”

The Hobgoblin’s mouth opened. Bird smiled happily at him. Niers slapped his face. Why was this so hard?

Yet Bird was able to communicate Niers’ will, and by that, what Niers knew would work. He was still a [Grandmaster Strategist], and he had observed inefficiencies or simple faults in this group already.

They had a Level 35 [Bard] and he didn’t so much as hum. Numbtongue crossed his arms. However, Bird happily climbed onto the wagon and began poking him, like a Goblin.

“You are a [Bard]. I know you are sad and quiet, but a [Bard] must level by being a [Bard]. Your songs help us. I know you have Skills. Use [Song of Rejuvenation] and we will go even faster.”

“How do you know I have that?”

The Hob blinked. Bird tilted his head.

“I have a good memory?”

The [Soulbard] chewed on a sandwich, glanced at Octavia. She nodded enthusiastically.

“You play really well, Numbtongue. I think we’d all like marching music. Bird…has a point.”

“I have all the points, thank you, Miss Octavia.”

That was how the Goblin was bullied and cajoled into sitting at the top of the wagon. He took a while to get started, harumphing, having to be poked by Octavia, but then he began strumming on his guitar.

He did not sing. But he did strike up a chord that was electric. They weren’t necessarily ‘marching tunes’, but Bird, or rather, Niers, was right.

The group heard the music, and it took something from them. The monotony of the journey. And…their exhaustion. Their steps picked up; not that they’d been flagging, but even the best [Marchers] lost the spring in their steps. With Numbtongue’s music, they accelerated on their long journey, and had something to listen to.

“Damndest music I’ve ever heard. The Bannermare would kill for someone like him in her army. Alright. Keep working.”

Bird nodded to himself and adjusted his top-hat. He rather liked it. If he stood still, would a bird land? Maybe he should have a hat that had one of those bird-houses. It would be…a trap.

His next move was to march over to Ulvama as she rode. Bird poked her leg. She smacked his shoulder.

“Stop that, little Ant-thing.”

She was grumpy; there were no cookies on this journey into the unknown. Mainly because she’d eaten all of them in the first two days. Undeterred, Bird poked her again.

“You are a [Shaman].”

Salkis watched Bird out of the corner of her eye. So did the Goblins and Fierre, jogging ahead with Fals and Garia; everyone did. He was just too entertaining. Sergeant Gna saw Ulvama roll her eyes.

“Yes.”

“You are a bad [Shaman].”

The Hobgoblin’s head snapped around. She glowered at Bird, who returned her gaze innocently.

“You have [Shaman] powers but you do not use them. Fix it. Now. You damn idiot.”

Niers hadn’t even added that last one in, but Bird had repeated it because he liked it. He listened to Ulvama’s choking sounds with a bit of satisfaction. He whispered to Bird, giving him the salient information as the two argued.

A [Strategist] was well-versed in many classes. Niers knew [Shamans]. There were many kinds, and their powers were different from [Mages]. Not weaker like many idiots thought. Just different.

For instance, a straight firefight where two classes meet and attack each other in a vacuum, with no preparation? [Mages] took it three fourths of the time at equal levels. But who fought like that?

[Shamans] prepared. They were generalists who could make medicine, enhance aspects of living; [Mages] had to read spellbooks constantly to learn the next big spell.

If Ulvama were a certain type of [Shaman], she could have been working on a construct, a fighting creation that she could deploy in battle. Another kind who specialized in healing could make poultices, brews.

Niers knew what kind of [Shaman] Ulvama was at first glance. As Bird explained, Ulvama was lazy. Ulvama was incompetent. Ulvama was—

At that point she blew a cloud of dust into his face and he retreated, coughing. The itching dust didn’t do much to Bird, but Ulvama’s secret was out.

She was a shaman of magical paints. That was obvious. Gnolls had their variants. So, what Ulvama should have been doing was applying said magical paints to everyone. She had already repaired most of the damage from her fight with Belavierr, and Niers had seen her mixing and sending the Goblins to gather ingredients—and raiding Octavia’s stores.

What she hadn’t been doing, and Bird now pointed out, was applying said paints to anyone but herself and a few Goblins. He slapped his stomach happily for emphasis, making a dry cracking sound.

“We are a team! An army! You must give us all magic paints! So you can activate them in battle! Not just Goblins! I am angry!”

The [Shaman] folded her arms. She was then poked in the side. She whirled, fist raised, and Badarrow stopped grinning and leaned over.

“Bird has good point. You should do magic paints to them.”

“They are not Goblins!”

“We all go to save Mrsha. Give paints.”

The [Shaman] grumbled. She did not like extra work. Nor did she like giving out her expensive, hard-to-manufacture paints to people, usually Goblins, who tended to die fast. In the Mountain City tribe, her gifts had been a highly sought-after favor. Not here. Not with Niers on the job.

That was how, at their next rest stop, Numbtongue began accepting requests for marching songs, and Ulvama reluctantly stomped over and pointed at the first startled Worker.

“You. Lots of Pears. Sit.”

Infinitypear looked around. Ulvama had chosen him because he reminded her of Raidpear. So she began doodling on his armor, tracing magical paints—until he pulled away.

“Stop moving!”

She snapped. Infinitypear shook his head. He gestured at the sign on his chest and Ulvama realized she’d nearly gone over the symbol of his being with a brush.

She hesitated. The [Shaman] nearly said ‘so what, it’s not magical’. But…she held her tongue. Grumpy as she might be, she looked at Infinitypear’s design.

“I will not touch. This is you, yes?”

She gently reached out and tapped just below it. The [Adventurer] nodded, nervously. Ulvama snorted.

“Fine. Then…like this. See?”

She drew around the Infinitypear symbol, taking great care not to mess with it. The Antinium watched, relaxing. For all the Goblin was mean and sounded annoyed, she respected their symbols far more than anyone else.

Of course, she varied her markings. Sergeant Gna saw Infinitypear adorned with a silver-blue paint, predominantly. Ulvama was an artist of kinds; she had bright spots of yellow around what looked like a connected ‘map’ of inner rings and lines. However, she promptly decorated the Redfang with a crimson addition to her warpaint that made the Goblin look even more fearsome.

“Is she just painting whatever color she feels like?”

Sergeant Gna grumbled around, but no one was her friend to chat with. Bird happily stopped and explained before Snapjaw or Ulvama herself could.

“No. She is assigning different markings because they have different powers. Blue is often a symbol of defense, or warding like silver. I thus deduce because I am smart that Ulvama has given Infinitypear a defensive marking. In the same way, the Redfang Goblin there has one to enhance her strength in battle.”

The [Sergeant] blinked. Ulvama whirled around, nearly dropping her brush. Snapjaw was very impressed. Bird lifted his arms happily.

“I would like paints to make me better at hunting birds!”

“I give you some to make brain better.”

Ulvama grumbled, but she eyed Bird with more respect than before. And confusion.

“What’s the composition of the paints? Is there ah, any inherent magic or is it all shamanic? I’m asking for…me. I want to know if I could sell them and if they’re useful.”

Octavia sidled over to Ulvama. The Goblin waved her away.

“Paints are power. I give more power if I want. All power. But mine.”

“You’re using my ingredients.”

The Stitch-Girl gave Ulvama a big, happy smile that made it clear she was not reaching for the club at her side. Ulvama gave her a toothy grin.

“Yes. So? My paints. Big secret. You pay me, I give.”

She turned back, chortling. Right before someone poked her in the side.

It was a Goblin tradition, but wow was Ulvama getting tired of it. She turned, snarling, and stared at an empty vial. An empty vial…until Octavia gave it to Ulvama and the Goblin felt the weight.

“I’ll trade you how to make one of these for paints.”

The [Shaman]’s eyes went round as she focused on the Invisibility Potion. No Goblin knew how to make that in any of the tribes she’d been in. She and Octavia locked gazes. Then Ulvama waved her over.

“Also how you draw it. See? Like this…”

It was something that Octavia would not have dreamed of doing a year ago. In the same way, it was this point in time that was creating unusual events.

Rasktooth was making a snack. Infinitypear was striding about, feeling good. [Spirit of the Wild] was making the Worker feel…well, excellent. The further they got from Liscor, and especially now, marching without a city in sight, Infinitypear felt alive. More alive than ever before.

He was on an adventure. And he’d level again that night.

—-

There was another angle to the group, though. One not instigated by Niers, but a product of…well, the species involved. It occurred during the same rest stop.

“Okay. Alright! Okay! We’ve got a break and I’m still full of energy. Let’s do this, Fierre.”

Heads turned from Ulvama happily slapping paint on Sergeant Gna in the most ugly coating possible to see Garia and Fierre relax in a patch of shade. The City Runner grinned.

“Unless you’re too tired in the day? What with being a…”

She mouthed ‘Vampire’. Fierre glowered at her, alarmed. She rolled her shoulders, staying in the shade, and gave Garia a toothy grin. She was wearing all black, and always had a hood on. But she was feeling a lot stronger than she ever had.

So was Garia. So the [Martial Artist] beckoned. And the two began to spar.

It was something they’d begun back at the farm. Now? Fals sat there, watching Garia move into a jumping kick.

“Careful, Garia! Don’t hurt—dead gods.”

His jaw dropped. He had never seen Fierre fight. And while it was true she was not a [Martial Artist]…and had little fighting experience…

She was also a Vampire. She dodged, leaning back with incredible dexterity. Which made Garia instantly go for an axe kick. But Fierre just blurred left and went for a punch.

“Bad form! Fierre, you have to stop punching like that!”

Garia halted her friend, and pointed to Fierre’s terrible posture; she’d tried to throw a big haymaker from the side as she dodged back. Fierre growled.

“Oh, come on! Let me at least fight…”

“Not if you’re going to do it like that.”

Fascinated, some of the other warriors watched. Fist-fighting was alien to Salkis except as a non-lethal way of hurting someone. Sergeant Gna snorted at anyone using their fists in a battle.

However…the Redfangs were approving. Badarrow nudged Numbtongue.

“Not bad, huh? Huh? We better?”

“Nope.”

The [Sniper] glanced at the [Bard], surprised by this lack of bravado.

“Not better? You ever fight?”

He pointed at Garia. Numbtongue nodded. He rubbed at his side.

“Jump kick stupid. Don’t get hit by it. Rib-break death.”

“Ooh. You like her?”

Badarrow’s grin made Numbtongue shove him off the wagon. He was more talkative than Numbtongue remembered. It was probably Snapjaw’s influence.

After all, Goblins were exceptionally social. One of the most social groups in their own community, in fact. Just…not with words all the time. As it happened, they were sharing a space with a similarly insular group that saw everything as new.

Antinium. Fierre and Garia transitioned from sparring to practicing kicks, punches, and even how they stepped. They knew they had an audience; it made Fierre a bit embarrassed, and wary, although she didn’t show off any Vampire-specific powers. Garia clearly revelled in it.

However, one observer became obvious when they saw him imitating them. The two young women turned as they stopped punching to stare at the copycat.

Instantly, the Antinium turned away innocently, as if he hadn’t been doing anything. Garia laughed and called out.

“You can join us if you want! Bird! Bird, tell whoever this is…”

Fierre stared a bit uncertainly, but Garia was at home with the Antinium enough to beckon the Soldier over. Shyly, he walked over. He was unpainted, as of yet, but not unnamed. Pawn had helped name the Soldiers and Workers who had volunteered to join Bird, and while he hadn’t figured out what he wanted to make his sigil…

“Who is this, Bird? He can join us in practicing martial arts, right?”

Pivr had hurried over to reprimand the Soldier for fraternizing with the ‘flesh people’, but Bird happily nodded.

“More classes are good. This is good. Shut up, Pivr. No one likes you. You damn…”

He tilted his head and decided not to say it. Pivr looked hurt.

“No one likes me? I am beloved in my Hive. This is a fallacy, Bird.”

He looked around for support. Everyone was silent or looked the other way. Pivr’s mandibles slowly opened wide—then drooped.

“This…”

Bird peered at the Soldier, realized he had no paint, and turned to the others. He didn’t actually know this Soldier as well, but he remembered the name quickly enough.

“Ah. Yes. This is Touma the Great.”

Fals sat up. He eyed the Soldier, much impressed. Garia also blinked.

“Whoa. What’s so great about him?”

Bird gave her a blank look.

“That is his name.”

The City Runner grinned, thinking he was telling a joke.

“Touma the Great? But you can’t call yourself ‘the Great’, Bird. You have to have a reason.”

“You do? Why?”

That stumped the [Martial Artist] so much that she eventually went back to practicing punches. And this time, Touma the Great joined her and Fierre. Incidentally, he had chosen his name based on a storybook. And Mrsha. If you were going to have a name, it might as well be a fantastic name, shouldn’t it?

So much for the Antinium side of things. However, there was another watcher of the sparring group. It was just that she wasn’t as obvious because she had latched onto one person. And it only became obvious the next day.

—-

Touma the Great, the new [Martial Artist], was clearly wondering if he should wear a top like Garia’s that exposed his abdomen. Then again…since he didn’t wear clothing to begin with outside the loincloth, he considered he might be more [Martial Artist] in this sense than her.

Fierre was the one who noticed her copycat first. She turned her head twice as Goblins pointed and some snickered, catching on. She began to kick up a fuss around mid-morning.

“Hold on. Stop following me around. And stop doing that! Numbtongue. Numbtongue, this Goblin’s insulting me!”

The [Bard] stopped listening to a marching song Sergeant Gna was trying to teach him, having grown exasperated with all the non-marching songs she had to listen to. Everyone looked over. Fierre was pointing at a Goblin. Bird did a double-take.

“What? What’s up this time?”

Niers wanted to see, but he had to tilt up a bit of Bird’s hat; he was making spy-holes. Bird opened and closed his mandibles.

“…I have no idea.”

Fierre was pointing at the Cave Goblin who was riding behind her on a pony. It was one of Rasktooth’s peers. And like Touma the Great, and indeed, many of her kind, she had begun to copy something she liked. After all, with so many unique role-models around, the Goblin ability to steal ideas or techniques was hard at work.

But…Fierre? What did that look like? Why Fierre? She was fast, strong, but she had taken great care not to show off her true Vampire traits. As it turned out…what this Cave Goblin, who like many, had no name had stolen wasn’t Fierre’s Vampire nature.

It was her look. Snapjaw landed to see what the argument was about. She took one look at the Cave Goblin, at Fierre, and guffawed.

The Cave Goblin had naturally grey skin rather than green. This particular one had even paler pigmentation than most. Probably why she liked Fierre, who was the most albino of the entire group. She had clearly thought Fierre was onto something.

So, the little Goblin had borrowed some charcoal and turned her hair black. She’d messed it up a bit, so a wisp fell over her brow. She had adjusted her garb so it was all black, and even tried to mimic Fierre’s parasol. She’d gone a step further with black eyeshadow. Why? Because it looked good. Style was the only reason you needed.

Fierre pointed it out with outrage to the laughing Hobgoblins.

“I don’t know how she’s mocking me, but she is! Make her stop!”

“How? She looks like you! She even acts like you, see?”

On cue, the little Cave Goblin glanced with disinterest at Fals. She went pwuh, and blew her long bangs out of her face with a dismissive roll of her eyes.

“I do not do that.”

Fierre growled, her hands clenching dangerously. Even her friends had to object. Garia coughed, holding a hand in front of her face.

“Really? Hey, Fierre…you know Yvlon? I heard that we might have located her in Chandrar. Her family, House Byres, is going to see if they can get her back…”

The Vampire reacted instantly.

“House Byres? Those…peh.”

She blew air out and rolled her eyes—at the exact same time as the Cave Goblin. Fierre realized what she was doing, turned red, and stomped off. The little Cave Goblin followed her, delighted by the Vampire’s style. What she wanted to tell Fierre was that she approved.

She was still curious where her new class had come from. After all, she wasn’t a whatever-Fierre-was. The Cave Goblin wondered what a…[Goth] was.

—-

There was no way for the little Goblin to know how this class had attached itself to her. She fit the criteria, but the class?

A young woman was arguing with a young man.

“I am telling you, it happened! My [Goth]-senses are going off.”

“Bullshit.”

“Go fuck yourself, Roodney. Someone else has the class!”

Lord Hayvon had been listening to the conversation. He strode over.

“Miss Beclaire. Did you say you thought someone else had your…new class?”

The world’s first [Goth] looked up. She had come from Earth, with the countless other men and women. Children and adults. Many had asked to be made into [Mages], [Wizards], [Warriors], and more.

She? She had refused. She knew exactly what she was. And her class was a mystery to the Rhir-born experts. She nodded, as Roodney rolled his eyes at her dark makeup, her attire of two colors; black and white.

“I’m as surprised as you are that it’s a class, Lord Hayvon. But it makes sense. It’s a way of life. Being a [Goth], that is. I told you it could be a class.”

Her triumphant look at some of the others made Hayvon nod.

“But what does it, ah, do?”

Beclaire pursed her lips. She tried to explain, as a [Strategist] hurried over, taking notes.

“Being a [Goth] is about culture…some people will tell you we’re dark and depressing, but in truth, a lot of us love music, poetry, writing, and so on. It’s about elegance. You see…”

She kept talking, as the [Lord] and [Strategist] exchanged glances. They began to realize…this was not a combat-class. His Majesty’s great warriors were…

Interesting.

And now there were two of them in the entire world.

[Goths].

It was just one of those things that happened.

—-

It was about Earthers. Which one did you get? Sometimes you got unlucky, and they had the lifespans of mayflies.

Other times you got the lucky card. With significant downsides like a Tom. Or a Ryoka which was…well, Ryoka. What was the value of an Erin? A card that started a revolution in your deck was interesting, to say the least.

And sometimes you got the kind of young man who’d jump on a Wyvern because a [Spice Chef] invited him to.

A…Kevin.

Goblinhome was in the middle of fortifying itself. Goblins were preparing for a fight. What was new? Goblins loved fighting, or it seemed to outside observers. Rather, Goblins might say ‘we’re preparing to defend ourselves because we keep being killed’, but it was semantics.

Poor Goblins. Goblins so sad. Goblins die. Goblins have tragic lives of persecution. As if they were the only species that had a target on their foreheads.

It got old. So if there were clandestine observers in the High Passes, watching Goblinhome, from, say, oh, a cliff three miles higher up, they’d get pretty tired of Goblins being Goblins. Especially since they knew Goblins. The little dangerous man and those adventurers had been more interesting.

So normally there wouldn’t be much interest in the Goblins, even though it was clear they were gearing up for a big fight. They’d added more walls, dropped the pretense of hiding their base, and were creating even more traps. Tamed Wyverns were flying around, ferrying supplies to another base.

Boring. But this? The cliff was filled with camouflaged shapes, pointing. Now…what was this? Their eyes locked on the lucky, wild card.

Kevin shot down the slope, screaming.

“I’m going to die—”

The magic skateboard was going too fast. In theory, skateboards, that precision machine, should only have worked properly with a flat slope, which you could get from certain natural geographical phenomenon, but really belonged to the world of concrete and industry from his world.

That was, until a mad Dwarf created mithril-alloy ball bearings and an ultra-light frame out of Titanium and married it to an [Enchanter]’s over-tuning such that the board nearly had negative weight.

And then cast a [Grease] enchantment on the wheels, so the usual friction didn’t apply.

There was a reason skateboarders wore helmets. Kevin had chosen what he’d thought was a gentle gradient on the High Passes. He went screaming down the slope as he chose the wrong way and dropped nearly a hundred feet on an accelerating skateboard.

Even so—he saw a natural ramp coming up and took a risk. Kevin uttered a prayer without word and ollied off the ramp.

His audience watched, hundreds of Goblins with their mouths open, as Kevin flew overhead. It was a beautiful death. The young man should have died, flying off his piece of wood as he launched over the roof of Goblinhome, past the smoke chimneys with their black exhaust, and promptly breaking both legs before tumbling head-first into one of the cooking chimneys and burning alive.

He did not. Like magic, his feet seemed to cling to the skateboard. He landed, and shot down the natural incline, turning, whooping, and then did a 360-degree turn…

Straight off the top of the fortress. That time he did lose control and went tumbling head-over-heels. Goblins scattered and the rest covered their eyes. Kevin hit the ground and bounced.

“Whoa!”

A ring on his hand flashed and the young man sat up. He was panting, but his eyes were as wild as his hair. Goblins stared at the non-splattered Human as he kicked the skateboard up into his hands.

“That was incredible!”

They looked at each other. The crowd on the cliff pointed at the interesting person.

They liked this Human.

—-

Everyone liked Kevin. What natural charisma let some people ingratiate themselves with whoever they met?

It was probably the willingness to go with the flow. A lack of judgement or going ‘huh?’ every two seconds.

Rags liked Kevin, and she was surprised. He was just so…uncomplicated. Rags had known Erin, who was like a puddle you stepped into and began drowning in. Ryoka? Ryoka was like a two-headed Ogre, with one head who told you lies, and the other one told you the truth, but both heads hated each other and the Ogre kept running around screaming about her personal issues.

Kevin? Rags watched out of her window as Goblins scurried around her, building into the stone cliff. They were expanding Goblinhome from a single base into multiple areas. Preparing for a fight. You didn’t want to have all your forces in one spot; too easy to nuke.

Which was something else about Kevin. When you asked him something, prepared to bribe, bully, or beg, he told you.

“I’m from Earth.”

Just like that. No arm-twisting. No torture. He just…came out with it. Without even being asked. He came over, after touring Goblinhome, asked for a meeting, and said ‘I know you’re Erin’s friends. Can I help?’

Not to say Kevin was an idiot. Rather, it was just the young man taking a good, hard look around. At the many factions competing for Earthers. Wistram, Liscor, Pallass, and more. And then at the one group that had always had Erin’s back. He chose a side, and educated them.

Rags’ head hurt. She was still digesting the big news, that Erin was from another world. Of course, she’d known that, but a world full of Humans? It explained so much.

Would Erin have told her? Well…she watched Kevin show off one of the objects he’d brought in his bag of holding. He wanted to get back to Solar Cycles, and she wanted one of the bicycles he’d promised her. For now? He was the most popular Human that Goblinhome had ever known.

Way better than those annoying Gold-ranks. Goblins were watching Kevin try a tri-flip; he was out of practice, but he had Hedault’s ring that protected him from almost all falling injuries.

A skateboarder’s dream. And not even that; Goblins practically carried him up the slopes, begging him to go down an even steeper gradient. Kevin was protesting, but mildly. They were pointing and Rags could read what they were saying.

If you’re not going to die from falling, do a jump off that! The Human took a look at a wood ramp two Goblins were dragging over.

…At the bottom of a three-hundred foot hill as steep, possibly steeper than Pallass’ ramps. They were asking him to do a jump off that and a skateboard trick through the air. He looked at the certain-awesome-death ramp, checked the ring on his finger, and looked at the cheering Goblins.

Because he was Kevin?

He went for it.

—-

At the same time, a little Goblin was stomping out of Goblinhome to shout at the happy people. She was in a bad mood.

Poisonbite was one of Rags’ top lieutenants, especially with Snapjaw and Badarrow being away. She’d joined Team Rags from the start, and had been rewarded for her loyalty.

The problem? She was short. As in…physically short.

She wasn’t a Hob. Oh, she’d grown a bit, but not like Rags, or Redscar or a lot of others. It was clear that the [Poisoner Rogue] wasn’t high-enough level yet. She had worked her way from being a [Stabber], a [Poisoner], into her class as a higher-level Goblin.

But she just didn’t have whatever made Hobs…Hobs, rather than regular Goblins. And Poisonbite resented it. She had a deep fear that being a non-Hob would mean she’d lose her place; a trait inherited from Mountain City politics.

So she’d been sulking, snapping at her group of stealth-Goblins, the mostly-female band who employed poison. Everyone was turning out to be better than she was! Even Greybeard had turned out to be Greydath of Blades, Goblin Lord and one of the most powerful Goblins ever. She was still mad about him hiding in her ranks for all this time.

She was a Hob in the making, but her height had yet to sprout up like a sunflower. Poisonbite was angry, and as she strode outside, she saw Kevin shooting down the ramp.

Poisonbite had heard of the Human that the Chieftain had brought back. She hadn’t been impressed. Now? She caught her first sight of Kevin just as he went off the ramp.

The [Mechanic] shot up into the air. His skateboard floated past him as Poisonbite’s jaw opened. She and ten thousand Goblins watched as Kevin’s arms spread. He grabbed his skateboard, floated his arms and legs out to form a cross, and performed a backflip Christ air through the sky.

He broke every Earth-record as he soared for no less than thirty seconds. Over Goblinhome. Over the heads of Poisonbite and the others.

Over the cliff.

“Oh shiiii—”

He survived, of course, thanks to Hedault’s ring. There was no fear for Kevin. He had bypassed the simple law of ‘if I land wrong, I might break every bone in my body’. The world was open to him. Of course…Hedault was even better at skateboarding.

Poisonbite knew none of this. She just ran to the cliff and saw Kevin signalling for a Wyvern to pick him up. She stared down at him.

It was love at first sight. When Kevin landed amid the cheering Goblins, Poisonbite strode over. She looked up at the Human.

Then she took his skateboard.

“Hey!”

Poisonbite lovingly stroked the beautiful object. Then she took off running with it. She shot down a hill, minus Kevin’s ring. Poisonbite didn’t care. This was—

Kevin watched the little Goblin wipe out on a stone. Poisonbite flew—hit the ground—bounced—he winced. Then covered his eyes.

“Oh no.”

—-

Rags watched one of her lieutenants lying as a Goblin [Healer] laughed his ass off at her, then applied some healing potions. She shook her head.

“If good Goblins die to skateboards…”

It looked like a lot of fun. Deadly fun, but what other kind was there? She looked back at her interesting guest.

“Sorry. I really didn’t expect her to just yank the board and…go. No one skateboards like that. We have skating parks where it’s safe. Not cliffs.”

Rags waved a hand.

“Poisonbite is stupid. She likes you.”

“Is that the Goblin who wiped out like that? She’s cool. She could be a [Boarder]. As in skateboarder.”

The Chieftain of the Flooded Waters tribe hesitated.

“That a good class?”

Kevin hesitated. He poked at a frittata that was loaded with Calescent’s spices. It was probably not bad, but neither Rags nor Kevin touched the snacks in her new, personal office.

“Uh…it’s all about skateboarding. I heard some kids in Pallass got it.”

“So…it’s about doing tricks on skateboards?”

“Mhm. Ah, it’s really...good. And not too spicy! Is something wrong with Calescent?”

Kevin chewed on a frittata. Rags tried one after that. She wondered if the [Spice Chef] was sick.

“No [Boarder] class, then. Waste of levels.”

“You’re the Chieftain. Uh…sorry. Should I call you Chieftain Rags or…?”

“Rags is fine. I call you Kevin.”

The Goblin flicked her fingers. Kevin grinned in relief.

“Cool. Thanks.”

She eyed him. Looks were deceiving. Kevin might be more of an Erin-puddle, rather than just a buffoon.

“So. You want to tell me about Earth?”

Kevin was checking a second frittata for telltale spices. He glanced up.

“What? I mean…yeah. Anything you want. You said you were thinking it over. I can tell you about all kinds of stuff. Magnolia—that was, Lady Magnolia—made us organize it all. I can give you most of it in order. Anything that helps. Gears. I have tons of gears and stuff; that might help. I’ve seen your ballistas and stuff. It’s amazing.”

He meant her Thunderbows, the oversized crossbows made with Wyvern bone and sinew. Rags nearly smiled at the compliment, but she studied him.

“…Why? Why are you being so open?”

Kevin popped the second piece of frittata into his mouth. He and Rags waited as he chewed and swallowed. They were deeply suspicious of Calescent’s motives, but they didn’t realize he’d gotten a new Skill. [Hot Enough For You]; a way to save the tongues of countless Goblins. They would celebrate it later when they found out.

“I…don’t mind telling you. I mean, there’s all kinds of stuff.”

“Guns. Bullets. Fighter planes. Nukes.”

Rags watched Kevin cautiously. The Earthers all tended to emphasize the scale of war on Earth to non-Earthers as a way to build perspective. Nothing like telling someone you could vaporize a city to reassure them your planet was nice.

“You tell us all this very secret stuff. Things Erin and Ryoka told you never to share. Not to Wistram. Not to Magnolia. Not to anyone. To Goblins. Monsters. Why?”

Kevin glanced up. He chewed on the snack, then reached for Eater Goat milk. Rags didn’t see a vapid look in his eyes when he glanced up.

“…Because it seems like Goblins have the short stick. I mean, everyone calls you monsters. Erin told me you guys saved her life. You said you were going to help bring her back. Pallass has an agenda. I don’t really like Grimalkin. He’s not stupid; he’s ruthless. Chaldion scares the crap out of me. Wistram tried to kidnap me. Twice. Magnolia is just as scary. So…you guys seem like the best out of everyone. You have to trust someone. I’ve rocked out with Numbtongue. No one else is half as cool.”

Rags blinked at Kevin. He gave her a look and she upgraded her assessment of his intelligence. He was a social, easy-going Human. But not an idiot. It took a special kind of person to know how to make friends with Goblins by doing something stupid.

“Alright. Tell me more.”

The Goblin’s crimson eyes glittered. She’d call in her lieutenants for this. Later. Her mind was spinning with all the information Kevin had.

And it was true—a lot of it was useless. Okay, there were things called guns. How did you make them? Gunpowder. How did you make that, or the mechanisms inside?

Long-term projects. However, Goblins were nothing if not opportunistic. Case in point? Redscar had sat in on Kevin’s crash course on the history of warfare on Earth. He wasn’t shaken like many military minds were. He was just trying to figure out how you fought a war without line-of-sight against Humans.

Deep underground, in mazes, probably. Watch out for landmines. He didn’t have a way to copy their weapons. What he did have was one of the new Redfangs who had tamed a Wyvern.

The female Redfang was lying on her sleeping cot, uncomfortably trying to nap as a [Shaman] handed her a sleeping draught. Eighteen Redfangs crowded around her. They were chanting, loudly, then softly as she tried to fall asleep.

“[Fighter Pilot]. [Fighter Pilot]. [Fighter Pilot]. [Fighter Pilot]…”

It could work.

—-

Rags had drawn the lucky card with Kevin. Not because he knew how to make gunpowder. Not because he was the most expert at the fundamentals of math, or groundbreaking ideas that would revolutionize the world in ages to come.

Rather, because he was a mechanic who knew bicycles and just enough about metallurgy to be the most helpful Human ever. He took one look at her crossbows and nodded.

“Alright. So they’re not ballistae, see? They’re crossbows.”

“What’s the difference?”

Kevin scratched at his head.

“…Something to do with how they’re wound. See? You have that big limb.”

He pointed at the ‘bow’ in crossbow. Rags nodded. It was a source of aggravation to her. She pointed at the oversized weapon that had dented even the Wyvern Lord.

“That is the biggest crossbow we have. Big problem; we can’t move it.”

Kevin eyed the straining Wyvern-bone bent back to take all the force it needed to launch a bolt through armor.

“I bet not. That’s like…the difference between ballistas and regular crossbows. They have this other winding technique, see? Torsion.”

Rags’ ears perked up. Some of her Goblin [Tinkerers] slid off their perches to wander over. Tell us more.

Kevin, the mastermind behind gears and bicycles, was thinking of the same thing Paige had. A lot of Earthers, really. Torsion; the style of winding thread together to create the same force as crossbows.

Ballistae had been made with them as early back as the Roman empire. Why not make a crossbow like that?

…Well, because there was no point. It worked, but if you could enchant a crossbow limb or make one out of spring steel, you could get all the force you needed.

Unless you wanted to make a giant crossbow. Or you’d found that even Wyvern bones snapped under the forces you wanted to subject them to. Rags’ eyes lit up. Kevin scratched at his chin.

“Gears, too. You could make a winch really easy. They have them in Liscor. Heck, I bet you could even make titanium; you’ve got some right there.”

Where?

Rags stared about. Kevin tapped her crossbow.

“It’s titanium. That’s what ‘Dwarfsteel’ is. I asked Pelt—the Dwarf I know—and he told me to keep it to myself. I bet no one but them knows how to make it. But the trick is you just have to heat it up super hot. Most forges could never do that, but…hey.”

He spread his arms. What did he know? He was here to help. Kevin eyed the six Wyverns, patiently being loaded up with supplies and Goblins. They were preparing to kick the hornet’s nest. All for Erin Solstice. You had to help people like that.

Besides…he eyed some Goblins already trying to put together crude skateboards of their own. Kevin grinned.

They were his kind of people.

Rags stood there, looking at this Human. She saw a huge Hob waddle out of the kitchen. Calescent. He pointed at Kevin, himself, and waggled his eyebrows.

Good job, eh, Chieftain?

How about that spice set?

—-

They told her Pisces was a [Slave]. They told her Ksmvr was a prisoner of Illivere. That Ceria had not been found.

They told her these things…perhaps to make her angry. To curry favor, like Rexel, the [Storm Bandit], or Leprel, the [Thief].

She was sick. The master of the Arena of Rust had seriously considered sending for a [Healer]…but Yvlon had one arm, and the wrath of the Champion of Rust, whom she’d insulted to his face.

He had elected to keep her in the first match of the week and month. The Arena of Rust was showing off the ‘new blood’; the prisoners and [Storm Bandits]. And Yvlon. They’d be participating in a mass-gladiatorial bout.

No monsters. No unique hazards like a [Flame Floor] spell. That had made Rexel and Leprel sigh with relief. Right until they heard that the Champion of Rust and all the elite gladiators would be participating.

“What’s the problem?”

Yvlon was gritting her teeth, her abdomen twinging with pain. She was still able to move, but her guts hurt. They were cheap [Gladiators]; she wasn’t rated for a [Healer].

“It’s bad, Silver-killer! The Champion of Rust is participating. Normally the veterans wouldn’t do much to us—maybe go after competitors, a dangerous newcomer they don’t like.”

“Yeah. So?”

“The Champion of Rust is holding a grudge. Or do you not remember what you said to him?”

The blonde-haired woman didn’t respond. She sat there, her jagged stump of silver metal glinting; her good arm flexing, hand clenching and unclenching.

“Twenty minutes to the bout! Last check!”

One of the arena’s guards came marching down the rows of cells. Again, it wasn’t the treatment Yvlon expected. He stopped in front of every cell.

“You four. Weapons. Any to change?”

“What?”

She glanced up. The Stitch-Man grunted impatiently, and muttered.

“Foreigners. You—you have a longsword as preference. Want something else? Battleaxe? We have a flamberge, rusted, but you might get it if you ask. We’d give you a shield if you want to strap it to…”

He indicated her stump of an arm. Yvlon shook her head, slightly.

They actually asked what weapons she wanted? Rexel requested a short sword instead of her daggers, and a shield instead of a second one.

“Can I get a throwing set?”

“We’ll see. I’ll write it down. Remember! You get rusted gear or good ones if the Arena Master decides otherwise or you have a patron! Or get lucky! Alright…”

They went down to the next cell. Yvlon shook her head.

“Madness.”

“Just remember the plan, Silver-arm.”

“Would you call me by my name?”

Leprel looked at Rexel. The Stitch-Woman nodded slowly.

“Sure, Yvlon. Remember. We stick together. We just have to survive until enough fall or forfeit. We do it right and the Champion might not go after us. He might throw a spear or two…we can get stitched up. You can’t.”

Yvlon nodded, head lowered, clearly not really listening. The two Stitch-people exchanged concerned looks. They’d gambled a lot on making Yvlon their ticket to surviving until they were full-time [Gladiators]. But between a full-scale bout and the Champion’s enmity…

“Ten minutes! Last chance!”

The Arena of Rust’s gladiatorial rooms lit up. Yvlon found her cell unlocked. She glanced at the far doors, but they were enchanted and reinforced. She flexed her hand…then turned.

The [Gladiators] were mustering in their areas. The regulars didn’t share rooms with the newcomers, who had essentially upgraded cells. Even here, though, Yvlon saw them collecting their gear. She eyed a rusted longsword with distaste.

“Iron.”

“Someone doesn’t like you. And someone…ah, Nerrhavia’s end! Someone likes me!”

Rexel beamed as she found a pack of four throwing daggers she could strap to an arm or thigh and a shortsword and shield. Yvlon stood there, longsword in hand and looked around.

Prisoners and the lowest-ranking [Gladiators] were talking. Some were shaking, refusing to talk to others; others weeping. However, many of the ones who had survived just looked…alert. They checked their weapons, murmured, made last-minute pacts.

She saw a Human woman lift a little pouch and sniff from it. Her pupils turned huge in her face.

“Uh oh. Selphid dust. Keep out of her way. Someone’s intending to make an impression. You can gain a lot of favor and fame in the mass-bouts. This is the biggest match of the week.”

Leprel muttered. She eyed the woman who was about to go on a similar berserk spree to Selphids Rampaging—hence the name.

Yvlon hated it all. She thought of Pisces, then the coming melee.

“Five minutes!”

The prisoners lined up. A lot fought to be near the gates. A man with a single metal armguard, mismatched amid faded leather with holes in it, stitched up, shoved a Dullahan woman wearing wooden armor to the side. He peered through the grates.

“Looks like pillars and broken walls! Good cover!”

He shouted. More fought to be first. First to be out and getting the best positions, Yvlon thought.

A game of blood. She stood at the back of the throng. The other prisoners were watching her, and the gladiators. Yvlon’s head was lowered. She could hear the crowd roaring outside, and someone bellowing. A female [Announcer]?

“In the Arena today we have the first mass-battle of the month! Here is our beloved Champion—”

A scream of noise. Yvlon gritted her teeth. The [Announcer] was reading out names of gladiators, to greater or lesser cheering from their fans.

“—And the blood for the Arena’s sands! [Storm Bandits], [Thieves], runaway [Slaves] and volunteers seeking fame and fortune! We have a special contender the Champion of Rust himself has named, though.”

Yvlon started. Rexel groaned. That was not a good sign. The voice shouted on as the grates began to rise, hefted upwards.

“A [Warrior] who slew over two hundred [Guards] before being apprehended! Only one arm, but you might recognize her—a Gold-rank Human! They call her the Silver-killer, One-Arm, the Slaughterer of Silver…”

“You must be joking.”

The gates opened and [Gladiators] and prisoners ducked under it before it even rose to head height, sprinting out into the arena. Some of the veterans and the champion were already out there, taking their places. It would not begin until the bell rang, and they had less than a minute to get out there.

Everyone was shoving at the front; the smart ones kept back, biding their time until the press cleared. Leprel was pushing at Rexel and Yvlon.

“Stick to the plan! We find a corner and cover! Come on, Yvlon! Come on—”

The woman didn’t move. Rexel slowed, her sprint turning into a walk as she looked back.

“Yvlon? Come on, Silver. Don’t protest now—they’ll throw you into it if you stay inside.”

She and Leprel wavered as Yvlon stood there, head down. Her one good hand opened and closed around the longsword’s hilt.

“I hate this. I did nothing wrong. This nation is corrupt. This is a farce.”

“Yvlon—”

Leprel hissed. This was not the time! She heard the crowd chanting down to the bells, and some of the [Guards] were peering through the doors at the back of the waiting rooms, seeing them standing there.

Did she run and take her chances alone? She waited, trying to push the [Armsmistress]. Yvlon was still talking.

“This isn’t a battle. This isn’t a raid. This is just sport.”

“You’ll die if you fight back. This is the only way.”

Rexel faced Yvlon, licking her lips. The doors were opening and a [Guard] was pointing.

“Get out there!”

“…twenty, nineteen…”

“Yvlon…”

The woman reached out. Or tried to. She stared at her broken arm. She had lost it in the Village of the Dead, a continent away. In a real battle with a monster. She met Rexel’s gaze.

“I know that. But I don’t have to like it. Fine. Fine.”

She walked to the edge of the arena’s portcullis. Yvlon stared out into the silent arena. People were crouched behind pillars, some armed with bows or crossbows; [Mages] were preparing to cast spells.

And there he was. The Champion of Rust, redolent at the back, surrounded by his allies, searching for targets. For her. He spotted her and it seemed they locked gazes even across the vast distance. Rexel groaned. Yet Yvlon was still muttering.

“They want me to fight?”

“Five! Four! Three!”

The roar grew louder. Rexel couldn’t hear Yvlon, but she saw the woman’s lips moving and the faintest of sounds over the thundering of her heart, the rumble in the air. The grimy lips moving. The look…in those sapphire eyes.

“They don’t get it. Fight? Start fighting?”

Yvlon Byres whispered. Her hand locked around her sword. The [Silversteel Armsmistress] stared ahead.

“I never stopped.”

This entire time since the Village of the Dead had been a break. The bell rang and the doors swung open as [Guards] came to shove out the [Gladiators]. But all too late.

Yvlon Byres sprinted out of the waiting room. Rexel and Leprel turned, mouths open as she charged into the rust-red dirt of the arena. The [Gladiators] looked up.

“Begin!”

The clash of metal on metal heralded the battle. The audience roared, pointing as the Human ran out onto the sands. There she was! They recognized her, and gasped. Was that…? From the television…?

The [Arena Master] was talking with a [Mage].

“I don’t know. Broadcasts, yes, but the Champion of Rust is eh, artful. Saved battles might not be as flashy.”

“It’s easy. We just ‘record’ it. It’s storing the damned stuff that’s so hard. Wistram has the jump on that, but for a small fee, we’ll record any match you think is good. Then you get a cut of the profits if we sell them!”

“Not much of a profit! See—”

The roar of the crowd made the [Arena Master]’s eyes perk up. Now that was louder than normal. Had someone just been decapitated? He looked towards the arena and saw her.

A Human woman, storming out of the waiting rooms. The Gold-rank…he looked at the [Mage].

“Well, record that!”

The [Mage] fumbled for a scrying mirror. He held it up just in time; the [Arena Master]’s Skills were tingling.

[Sense for Spectacle]. He hurried to the front of the observation booth.

—-

“Remember the plan! Silver—Yvlon! The plan!”

She had forgotten the plan. No, she was ignoring the plan. As [Gladiators] began to fight, and the first arrows and figures leapt across the ground to score first blood, the Gold-rank charged forwards.

Straight across the arena. Straight through the rookies fighting with veterans. Rexel and Leprel slowed in horror.

“Ah! There’s the Silver-killer! Look! She’s trying to unseat us, eh? Let’s see how good she is.”

A [Veteran Gladiator] posed, turning, magnifying her voice. The Stitch-Woman grinned as she swung up two hatchets to cheers from her fans. She whirled, placing herself with three [Gladiators] who, by unspoken agreement, had decided to take her on.

“[Power Throw]—”

The woman drew back one axe, ready for a mighty throw. A shame she was Human; a Stitch-Woman would easily take the loss of a limb. But the [Gladiators] did not like unknown quantities who didn’t necessarily know to wound rather than kill. Besides, the Champion had made it known he would be quite happy with anyone who took her out.

So—this really wasn’t personal. They saw the woman raise her sword, fifteen feet out. The [Gladiators] wavered.

[Foresight: Injury]. The screaming alarm went off in all three brains. The [Axe Thrower] stopped her Skill. She yelped.

“Nerrhavia’s tits—”

[Sword Art: Curve of the Moon].

The cheering audience saw a glittering crescent cut across the Arena of Rust. A shining flash of a blade—the roars of approbation faltered.

The [Axe Thrower] tried to pick herself up from the ground. Dead gods. Dead gods, was that her best Skill? That maniac had just used—

A foot kicked her in the face. Not Yvlon; Rexel stopped to give the [Axe Thrower] two more kicks. Another [Gladiator] was scrambling away, bravado forgotten. The last was staring down at his arm.

“My good arm!”

He wailed, tearing out stitches so the bleeding would stop. Yvlon ran past all three, followed by Leprel and Rexel. She had just used one of her best Skills. The rusted longsword in her hand was bent from the force she’d put on it.

“Piece of trash—”

She kept running with it. It kept the other [Gladiators] away. They’d seen her unleash that Skill and scattered rather than fight a maniac who had nearly bisected three of their buddies. Yvlon didn’t care. She wasn’t focusing on them.

The [Armsmistress] was charging at one figure who was watching her, perplexed. The Champion of Rust.

“Are you coming at me? Me, woman?”

He shouted, spreading his arms and trying to gesture to the crowd. But Yvlon didn’t even give him time to mock her; the gleaming Stitch-man with his glorious Silk cloth-skin saw her charging. He lost his smile.

He had an axe and shield. A powerful, crushing combination where he had literally rammed his shield into foes so hard they broke bones, or sundered armor with his weapon. He could be artful; he had a net and spear he used when it wasn’t a killing matter.

He drew the axe and shield now, gleaming with magic. Yvlon had her rusted longsword. People were pointing. This new adventurer was going after the Champion of Rust? Was she mad?

She was angry. [Berserker’s Rage] was driving Yvlon on. But she could see him through the blood-haze. Watching her. The Champion of Rust flicked his shield up.

“[Projection: Shield Ram].”

The [Armsmistress] saw a giant copy of his shield, spectral, glowing, appear as he heaved it at her. She leapt sideways with an oath; the projection hit Rexel and sent her flying. Leprel scrambled after her buddy as Yvlon rolled, picking herself up. She saw the Champion of Rust dart in, axe raised.

He was quick. He had [Longstep] or something—he slashed. Yvlon knew better than to parry, so she went for an exchange as she lowered her stump of an arm.

You stab me? I stab you! The Champion cursed, and flicked left; he avoided being impaled by the rusted longsword; Yvlon was not struck by the falling axe blade. He stepped back as Yvlon slashed, slowed.

Felt at her cheek. Red blood was spattering the ground.

“How…?”

A roar. First blood! The Champion of Rust lifted his axe, grinning. Yvlon’s blood was on it. She hadn’t even seen the blow!

“[Free Cut]. Did you think [Gladiators] didn’t have our own Skills, Silver-Arm?”

He taunted her, circling left with strutting steps. Yvlon felt her blood, warm, trickling down one cheek.

An unstoppable cut? A blood-letting blow, to disconcert and disorient. The kind of thing that looked great.

“Pathetic.”

His brows snapped together as she sneered at him, in an expression worthy of Pisces. The Champion of Rust shrugged.

“I warned you not to take us lightly, Silver. Now—”

He came in fast and low, mid-sentence. [Cleaving Scythe]! The crowd roared as he went for Yvlon’s legs. She?

She brought her sword down as she charged. The Champion caught it on his shield, grunting, as his slash towards her legs was blocked. By—what? He didn’t see, only felt it.

Yvlon had no weapon on her offhand, but dead gods, she was strong! He staggered, but saw what he had wanted.

Her blade bent. The useless iron couldn’t stand up to the first blow! He grinned as Yvlon dropped it. His axe came up to punish her step back.

It never came. Yvlon balled a fist and threw a punch.

The Champion’s [Foresight] Skill went off. He pivoted, and the [Impact Punch] knocked him stumbling backwards. Cursing, the Stitch-man set himself.

“You—”

She ran at him. The man incredulously swung his axe down. This idiot thought she could take him on bare-handed—?

His axe met her arm and sparks flew. Yvlon stared at the notch in her arm. So did the Champion of Rust. The audience stared at the sight. Then Yvlon swung her stump of an arm up. The Champion saw the jagged stump point at him. What was…?

The silver flesh rippled. Then—it morphed, elongating into a stabbing point. It shot towards his cheek.

“Gyaaaaaah!”

He threw himself left, with a shriek that was completely unplanned. The Stitch-man rolled as Yvlon checked her arm.

“No blood.”

She heard shouting. The crowd was on their feet. What was that? Had they seen her arm morph? The [Armsmistress] turned.

“You—what are you—?”

The Champion of Rust realized the danger he was in too late. Yvlon shoulder-charged towards him. He blocked her, and the two rammed into each other desperately. Now, though, he realized what had stopped his strike.

Her arms could transform! He saw a short-blade coming out of her ‘useless stump’ of an arm, a cutting edge made out of her flesh! She slashed at him and he leaned back, sweating.

“Stop—let’s stop this. Let’s—”

She slashed, shouting, and he backed up. The Stitch-Man ducked another telescoping stab of flesh, slashed at it. But he failed to sever it. Yvlon grimaced as if she’d felt the blow, but then she was charging again.

The Champion of Rust had had enough. He was going to net her, back up, and take her down from afar. He just had to knock her back. So he lowered his shield with a roar, swinging his axe down.

“[Dust Bomb]!”

Blind her, and retreat. They’d fill her with arrows or blast her with spells! She was a deadly warrior and could not be allowed to live. That was clear.

[Foresight: Mortal Wound].

The Champion of Rust’s eyes went round. He broke off his Skill and slashed.

Leprel screamed, aborting the two daggers to his back. She saw the huge Stitch-man bellow at her. Then—whirl and slam his shield down on Yvlon’s punching arm. She staggered. His axe rose for a sweep.

[Armform: Telescoping Flesh].

The man stumbled. The audience, on their feet, never saw the Champion’s blade descend. What they did see was him stand there, stunned, and then tear away from Yvlon screaming, dropping his blades, and clutching at his face. His chest. His…

Then they saw her. In the later recordings, from other angles, it would become obvious what happened. The [Arena Master], on his feet, stared in horror as the Champion of Rust clutched at the bloody socket that had been his eye, his body, perforated by…holes.

Yvlon Byres, the Slaughterer of Silver, One-Arm, the Silver-Killer stared at her arm. Or…what had been her arm.

Leprel and Rexel looked at the jagged tips of silver metal. The…spines of it that had shot out of Yvlon’s arm like a porcupine, lancing the former Champion at close-range.

The blood ran onto her silver. Yvlon’s arm slowly morphed back to a hand. She stared at it.

“What am I?”

Rexel didn’t know, but she also knew. She thrust up Yvlon’s arm, gingerly, as the arena shook. In her first match? Rexel shouted as she raised the new Champion of Rust’s arm to the sky.

Yvlon the Silver Arm.

8.36 H

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When all was said and done, she was there.

When the [Wyrmpact King] excused himself from the throne room to find out what had happened, he saw her standing there, facing the Duke.

When the [Royal Bodyguards], [Generals], [Strategists], and [Knights] dared follow their [King], after the King’s brother had cracked a man’s skull in his fit of rage, they saw the consequences standing there. A Courier in chains.

When the little boy opened his eyes, he saw Ryoka Griffin standing over him, facing the Duke. A sneering man with cold eyes whose pointed finger was blocked by her outstretched arms.

“No. Harm him, and I will call the wrath of hospitality down on you. I will invoke the wrath of the fae. To kill him, you have to kill me. And you can’t.”

“How dare you assume you could threaten me.”

The glowing chains wrapped around her and one began to strangle her. The [King] and his court halted, some calling out. Nevertheless, she met his eyes. The Wind Runner grinned, and for the first time, the ruler of Ailendamus saw Rhisveri, the Wyrm, hesitate. Her voice rasped, choking, but it seemed the wind whispered with her.

“You…need to know what I know. My message. Are you going to…kill me? And steal my treasures?”

The Duke’s eyes narrowed. He raised a hand and sent her flying. But he did not kill her. He whirled away.

“Enough. Guards! Arrest this thief, who dared to try to steal from Ailendamus’ sacred treasury. No [Torturers]. Imprison that…boy…as well.”

“Uncle. Who is…?”

Itorin saw the dizzy little boy raise his head. He had not been told a child would be kidnapped. His stomach began to twist in a familiar fashion, but he pretended he knew what was happening.

Rhisveri was visibly angry, upset…and for some reason, embarrassed? His eyes flicked to Sammial without immediate comprehension.

“An unintended passenger. We have lost one of your Great Knights…your Majesty.”

“How? Dame—?”

“The Death of Magic. And the damned Death of Chains. I must look into this. We may be in danger of teleportation strikes. And the damned Order of Seasons is on the march!”

“My head hurts.”

Sammial audibly whispered. Neither man glanced at him. Sammial saw Ryoka lying there, staring up at the [Knights] who were glancing at their superiors for instructions. An apprehensive [General] had taken one look at Sammial’s face and turned pale.

That was Ailendamus’ capital. The Duke Rhisveri swept off with his brother, as arrogant as any [King]. The eccentric, difficult genius, who had added to Ailendamus’ problems.

The war was not one of those problems, incidentally. The Dawn Concordat had lost the border forts or would lose them within the day. More armies were pushing into their lands, trading at acceptable losses if they were forced back.

As for Pheislant? The Order of Seasons’ own crusade, apart from the Chandrar debacle? The Duke had given one order, quickly ratified by two [Generals] and the royal seal itself.

“Send the Order of the Hydra. Send two legions.”

—-

The Order of Seasons had triumphed in three pitched battles over the last week and a half. First at the pass where they routed the army marching to flank the Dawn Concordat—later in smaller engagements.

Rabbiteater fought in both, of course. Or rather, ‘Ser Solstice’ did. The Hobgoblin had never passed up the opportunity to fight, and in the vanguard with the Summer’s Champion, he always saw combat.

Ser Greysten was not a man who believed in leading anywhere but from the very front, with people racing to catch up and shouting that he was an idiot. He embodied a certain kind of war unknown to Earth; the commander who was superior to the troops he led. Some [Generals] made their armies stronger, but were individually weak. Greysten? The opposite.

“Summer burns hot!”

He locked blades with the leading [Knight] of Ailendamus. True to his words, his longsword was glowing with heat, and the Knight of the Thirsting Veil recoiled. Rabbiteater heard a male voice cursing as the helmeted figures rode past each other into the melee. Greysten was already reaching for the axe he carried; he was slashing about himself with the longsword. He had lost his shield; the other [Knight] had disarmed him with a Skill.

Greysten had burned the other man’s blade and the thin line of poison; a paste with small seeds now charred black along the Thirsting Veil [Knight]’s blade. Fire ran rampant as more Summer Knights wielding burning weapons slashed at Ailendamus’ wavering core of [Knights].

They were armed with poison, the Thirsting Veil’s counter to the Order of Seasons’ aura-based attacks. Unfortunately, poison burnt away, and the Order of Seasons was too well-armored for all but the best strikes to go through. And even when they did—

“Struck! Healer!”

A Summer Knight rode out of the melee, a gauntleted hand clasped to a steaming wound. He or she was actively cauterizing the place where a dagger had punched through their chestplate. A Knight of Autumn, the Season of Fall, raced forwards with a broad-spectrum antidote prepared for these clashes.

“Shield Ser Hitre! Break their lines!”

The Summer’s Champion shot past Rabbiteater as the Goblin broke off from his shoving match with a [Knight]; they had locked shields and were battering at each other without much success. Greysten brought the hilt of his longsword down and thwacked the Ailendamus [Knight] on the side of the head, so hard he dented the dark purple iron.

“—unchivalrous, Ser!”

The female [Knight] reeled, her voice coming out of her helmet. Greysten actually slowed to salute her.

“‘Tis a battle, Dame Enemy! And besides, poison is more unsporting still!”

The genteel conversation could only occur in a battle like this, where armored figures would spend minutes literally hammering each other’s armor. The Dame began to retort, shield up, when Rabbiteater reached out and slapped her horse in the face. The stallion reared, furiously, and the Dame whirled back to him. Her guard was up, and she raised her mace—

…Just in time for her saddle to slide off the horse’s back. The animal bucked off the saddle, the straps cut. Rabbiteater had taken advantage of her banter to slice them.

[Mistreach Cut]. A gift for slaying the [General]. The Dame went over with a shout.

“How—”

The ‘whuh’ of sound coming out of her visor as she landed flat on her back was followed by her trying to roll over and get to her feet. She never made it. Rabbiteater rode his horse over her.

The Summer’s Champion watched as the Goblin happily let his horse stomp the [Knight] into the muddy ground, already drying with the heat auras.

“…That was fairly unsporting, Ser Solstice.”

“Yep. Which is why I won.”

Rabbiteater’s shield was up. He rode with Greysten as the two charged back towards the enemy commander.

The battle was won with surprisingly few casualties. As in—four [Knights] had been wounded seriously. Three died, and the rest were healable with potions.

It was not like the routing of Ailendamus’ army; the [Knights] of the Order of the Thristing Veil, unable to retreat once the horn blew, put up their blades after taking a beating. They were treated, taken prisoner without even being stripped of their armor in some cases, and would be ransomed or imprisoned as Pheislant saw fit. A prisoner train would need to be established again.

“I protest, Summer’s Champion! That [Knight] does not fight with valor or honor!”

The Dame [Knight] that Rabbiteater had bested had something to say as they were being arrested. The Summer’s Champion gave her a salute, his helmet off to enjoy a drink of water.

“Apologies, Dame Enemy! I would take my own Order to task for such a blow—except perhaps Winter’s lot, but you skirmished with a [Knight] of Izril! His style is unlike our own. Or have you never heard of the Goblin Slayer? Ser Solstice!”

He slapped Rabbiteater on the back. The Goblin saw some of the Thirsting Veil glower at him. One clearly muttered.

“Izrilian [Knights]. We should expect nothing more.”

Dame Talia frowned at Rabbiteater, but Greysten was ebullient after the third victory.

“Another group smashed! We’ll be pushing towards Ailendamus’ western flank soon! How long until the border?”

“We might be over it. Not the watchtowers, but since they eclipsed Saturst…”

Pheislant’s army was celebrating. True, this was not the grand battle of the pass, but they had won three battles in grand style. The Order of Seasons was crusading against Ailendamus, and their attack had won them the popular opinion of Pheislant’s people and their more aggressive leaders and [Lords], who were already assembling armies to back up the Season of Summer’s aggressive advance.

Rabbiteater understood—because Ser Markus told him—that the issue was more politically fraught than that. He listened with interest, but the truth was he’d come for a fight, and a fight he got.

“To the north, then! No time for rest! Have someone sort out the prisoners—if we want to keep Ailendamus guessing, I demand another forty miles behind us! At least!”

Greysten roared. The [Knights] stopped celebrating, and many leapt right back into their saddles. They were moving fast; theirs was a smaller army of [Knights], and they intended to take the pressure off the Dawn Concordat by forcing Ailendamus’ armies to turn towards them, by which point reinforcements would have hopefully come from Pheislant.

That was the plan. Rabbiteater wished he could remove his visor to wipe the sweat from his face. Amulet of Greater Fire Resistance or not, fighting was hot work. He felt their good luck couldn’t last forever. They’d broken one army of Ailendamus, but the counter had to be swinging back their way if Terandria’s kingdoms were anything like the Izril that the former Redfang knew.

He was right, of course. Ailendamus was hard at work. The war machine of one of Terandria’s greatest, and certainly, newest superpowers began to move.

—-

Ailendamus’ loyal servant wondered what all the fuss was about in court today. People were abuzz about a voice shouting in the castle, the Duke stirring something up…and apparently one of the Great Knights of Ailendamus had perished.

If true and not the oft-unreliable court gossip, that would be a disaster. The Great Knights of Ailendamus were, like their Great Generals, an actual class. Not the most…mm…inspired of names, but the fact that Ailendamus could appoint anyone to a new class that was an upgrade over a regular [General] was something indeed.

He banished the thoughts from his mind. The man stopped, checking his silver-and-wheat hair in a full-body mirror. He adjusted the glowing sash of amethyst, the band across his vibrant felt coat, as red as a glossberry. He was attired with a light, heavily frilled, and ruffled shirt of pearl white, and darker pants that would be charcoal black but for the gold lining.

The effect, as the doors were opened and he strode into the huge courtroom, was calculated to blow the loose coat back and let it swirl about him as he strode into the room. Ailendamus’ great servant beheld a grand auditorium.

That was the charm of Ailendamus’ palace; the sheer display of wealth that gave rise to so many vast chambers. Why, even the hallways could accommodate armies in themselves. It was so vast even half-Giants need not stoop under the ceilings. An architectural message: we shall never be assailed in our capital. There is no need for tight corridors or hallways. Ailendamus, this vast kingdom, had no small ambitions.

And thus, even a non-critical chamber such as this was practically cavernous. The man looked up slightly, appreciating the relief drawn across the ceiling. A thousand [Artists] had renditioned a battle of King Itorin I over his enemies in a splendid drawing in the domed room.

Of course, the army overhead was matched in scope by the army which had knelt to greet his arrival. The capital’s guards, the audience in their humble clothes, and of course, the [Knights]. Or…[Squires], rather.

They were men and women. Half-Elves, Dwarves, even a Stitch-Woman. They knelt, heads uncovered, all armored in the lighter colors of their order. The man surveyed them in silence. Then he crossed to the podium and dais, his motions fluid, his head thrown back, shoulders squared to let his coat billow behind him.

One would be fair in thinking he was a [King]. Certainly, he carried himself like one. Of course, he was not. [Kings] did not care so much as to practice the stop, heel-turn, and flourish of the arm that let him step up to the podium. Nor did your average member of royalty practice throwing their voice such that it filled the air, deepened by vocal exercises, magnified to catch the ear perfectly through extensive, nay, obsessive practice.

“I am Baron Regalius du Ecte, [Regent] of the Barony Veilau in service of the glorious Kingdom of Ailendamus. By the decree of the crown as vested in me by no less than his Majesty’s proxy, Duchess Vepil herself, I have been granted the right to bestow titles with the full weight of Ailendamus. It is my honor to convene this ceremony on this day of Liriean, the 20th of Weris on the year 213 A.E. as set down by Ailendamus’ calenders.”

The oration of Baron Regalius du Ecte filled the room. By the end of the first sentence, his voice, already filled to bursting with pride, had swelled further until he was practically bellowing ‘no less than his Majesty’s proxy’, and ‘honor to convene’.

Not at his audience. But rather, to the room itself, as if he stood before a million of Ailendamus’ citizens rather than a mere thousand, and this was the highest of honors. In a sense—it was.

The Baron’s eyes roamed the [Knights] kneeling before him. For this was a ceremony to elevate the [Squires] into [Knights]. Sometimes a [King] would do this himself. Baron Regalius had the honor, nay, privilege of doing it himself rather than his Majesty. He had been personally selected…by the Duchess Vepil…to act in King Itorin II’s stead!

“Brave servants of Ailendamus, you have been found worthy of one of the highest honors of our kingdom. By wit and courage and valor, you have proven by deed and action to be beyond repute in both spirit and body. Ailendamus expects no less. In recognition of your actions, you have been chosen to embody the great spirit of our nation as [Knights]. You shall swear by crown and country to be no less than the finest to ever draw breath. You shall represent us in war and peace as the sword of His Majesty, the shield of the people, the hope of our young, and comfort of the old!”

They were grand words. Perhaps…too grand for a mere [Baron], who, yes, ranked over a [Lord], but was hardly the greatest noble in Ailendamus. True, there were [Barons] who had inspired fear in their enemies—great leaders in battle who were as dangerous as the Great Generals…

Regalius was not one of them. He was a [Lord of Ceremonies], which had turned into [Baron of Ceremonies], but the officio behind the class mattered not. It was just power; the nature was ceremony. Not war. Not finance.

Ceremony. His entire life was based around this act. Not just knighting ceremonies, but all matters of state. Ailendamus was vast enough to have a man as specialized as him. And that was a good thing.

You wanted a man like Baron Regalius. Many people wouldn’t see it. Many people would see how he gave a speech at every dinner, thanking the host, how he combed his hair at least three dozen times even when he was at his busiest, with an enchanted comb and hair products from the best [Alchemists]. They would see how he refused to ever step on grass or hike through nature, and see a ponce with no real value.

They were, of course, fools of the highest order. They were wrong. Baron Regalius was not only the man for this job, he was perhaps the only man for this job, and that included Itorin II. Why? Because a [King] did not feel like convening large ceremonies like this regularly. A [King] was busy, and frankly, didn’t care.

Regalius did.

He made it special. He had ensured all the [Squires] arrived, that they had been gifted proper rooms for the ceremony, attended all the oaths and private rituals of their order.

Their families were here. That was Regalius’ doing. The low-born commoners had the wide-eyed look of people who were permitted to walk the palace of Ailendamus’ seat. This was the highest honor many would ever have in their lives and many had already been weeping before he walked in.

So the [Baron] gave them a speech worthy of the occasion. He did not stutter. He did not look or sound bored—nor was he, and that was part of why he sounded good, even though he had said this a thousand times. When he addressed the knights-to-be, they looked up with a solemnity fitting for this occasion, nevermind they were not in the presence of their [King].

Baron Regalius had memorized their deeds and names. He did not need a list or prompter. Yes, he had Skills, but the man made an effort, Skills or not.

Oh—and one more thing. There was a third reason Regalius was so vital to Ailendamus. And it was this:

As the ceremony concluded, a hundred [Knights] clasped their hands to their chests, then performed a salute of Ailendamus’; a slight touch to the bottom of their left eye, or right, depending on which was their dominant hand. Regalius named them all, individually bade them to utter their vow, struck their shoulders with the blade, and had them rise.

A hundred [Knights]. The [Baron] was tired by the end of the four hour ceremony, and only his Skills and powers of speechcraft even made the moment awe-inspiring rather than tedious. Many nations might not knight so many [Knights] in a year!

Baron Regalius? He stood before the hundred new [Knights] and saluted them, tears in his eyes.

“Go forth, Knights of Ailendamus! Go forth, brave sons and daughters! Rise now—[Knights] of the Order of the Hydra!”

This was his job, and he did it well. He did it very well. So well that Baron Regalius, who did these ceremonies most of all, and for the Order of the Hydra exclusively?

He did this every week, at least.

Sometimes every day.

—-

“Send the Order of the Hydra. Send two legions.”

So they came. The Order of the Hydra. A new [Knight]-order. A somewhat infamous one.

“The Order of the Hydra has sent their champions? Good! I was tiring of battling the Thirsting Veil!”

Greysten laughed. Rabbiteater nudged Ser Markus and Dame Meisa, who he was riding with as the [Scout] returned. The [Scout] didn’t seem to think it was so funny—she pointed down the flatlands at a distant, moving body coming their way.

“It is an entire army, Summer’s Champion! The Order of Hydra leads it! And…and…”

“What is Order of Hydra?”

Rabbiteater saw Ser Markus and Dame Meisa glance at each other. Some of the Order of Seasons were sighing, preparing for battle, but there was a truculence that Rabbiteater hadn’t noticed in the last three battles against the other forces. Not all knight-led either; in fact, the [Knights] had been the last to flee, but they were often the smallest contingent because they were…[Knights].

“I forget you don’t know the Orders of Terandria, Rab—Ser Solstice.”

Meisa murmured. Markus nodded. He tried to stand on the stirrups to see the approaching army, but gave up to talk to the two.

“The Order of the Hydra is one of three Orders that Ailendamus fields. We have seen few of them; the Thirsting Veil are the poison-users who clashed with us most strongly.”

“Ah. The sensible [Knights].”

Meisa and Markus exchanged a look. Poison was unbefitting of a [Knight]. Rabbiteater had thought it was quite smart.

“Ye-es, well, Ser Solstice, it’s a matter of perspective. The Order of the Hydra is…less…they have a reputation for being somewhat…they are a new Order, but their membership tends to be less…genteel than other Orders. Which is not frowned upon! They have [Knight] classes. Same as we. But they’re…”

“Commoners.”

Meisa explained succinctly. Markus winced and glanced around. He was from a noble house; she was not. The other [Knights] riding around them, mostly from the Spring, coughed, and Rabbiteater sensed the mood.

He happily ignored it.

“Why’s that matter? Commoners bad, eh?”

A silence befitting the Season of Winter swept over the group. Markus tried to explain.

“The Order of Seasons has many applicants regardless of noble birth. We do not discriminate! It is just that a non-noble house can rarely afford to pay for a [Knight]’s education. That the Order of Seasons can…well, some [Knight]-orders only induct the nobility. The Order of the Hydra? The exact opposite.”

“They are almost exclusively common-born.”

Dame Meisa leaned in to whisper. Rabbiteater stared at her.

“Okay.”

“They…have a reputation among some Orders. Not that we have any stated objection, but the issue is somewhat contentious, Ser Solstice.”

Markus put in. Rabbiteater nodded.

“Okay.”

“It’s why some of the other [Knights] might prefer to clash with…another Order, Rabbit.”

Meisa leaned in so close their visors nearly touched. She whispered so only he could hear, and he caught a whiff of sweat and metal. The Hobgoblin…nodded.

“Okay.”

He was getting tired of the explanations. Can we have sex now? After? He didn’t really care. Rabbiteater straightened, just in time to realize…he should care.

The Order of Seasons and Pheislant’s army had halted. Ser Greysten had stood up in his saddle. Now he was standing on top of it, heedless of the danger to himself.

“What the…”

He fell off the horse as the war stallion decided he’d had enough and kicked the Summer’s Champion off. The fiery horse didn’t hurt Greysten, but the Summer’s Champion was clearly rattled by something.

Rabbiteater began to stand on his own saddle like the other [Knights]. Then he decided that was stupid.

“Markus. Give me ride.”

“What? Wh—”

Rabbiteater stood on Ser Markus’ shoulders, which was far better than a temperamental horse. He put a hand over his visor. At the same time, Talia, who’d elected to use her stirrups, swore.

“That can’t be right.”

—-

“Send two legions of the Order of the Hydra.”

As defined in the Wordsmith Dictionaries, written by Krsysl Wordsmith for the modern era, a legion was a body of soldiers employed in an army under older military systems, occasionally used in the current day. Each legion was known to be comprised of between 4,000 and 6,000 soldiers unless marked as significant, such as the Necromantic Legions, which were apparently 20,000 strong, despite the numerical inaccuracies of the term.

So they came. Behind them was an army of [Archers], the Greatbow operators, a conventional force of pikes and a bare handful of riders—the main vanguard of this force drawn to defeat the Order of Seasons had been dispatched. The regular [Soldiers] were just supplementary forces, though they were still the largest body on the field.

Yet the [Knights]? To repel the thousand plus [Knights] of the Order of Seasons, Ailendamus had sent their most populous Knight-Order. The most numerous group of [Knights] in the entire world.

The Order of the Hydra.

They were running down the road like a living, laughing stream of light, mulberry-colored metal. Men and women of many species, mainly Human, but anyone who showed the valor and will of their class.

Running. On foot. They laughed and cheered, and they were on foot. Not a horse in sight.

“They can’t even afford horses.”

One of the Summer Knights scoffed. Dame Voost slapped the helmet without even looking around.

“Shut up. How many?”

“One…two…eight…thousand…”

Greysten was counting. The Summer’s Champion hadn’t lost his smile, but it had turned from a grin into bared teeth. Yep. Rabbiteater spat his water out onto Ser Markus and Meisa.

Ten thousand [Knights] were running down the road ahead of an army. And they were laughing. Slapping each other’s shoulders, cheering. Singing Ailendamus’ national anthem.

“Let the lance-arrows fall from Ailendamus’ walls and guard the Kingdom of Glass and Glory!”

Their massed voices echoed down the straight trade-road. They were headed straight at the Order of Seasons, not digging in, not taking a formation like the other forces. This group had come for a battle.

The Order of Seasons and the army of Pheislant…hesitated. For a second. Then Ser Greysten roared.

“Season of Summer! Season of Spring! Fall! To arms! Ailendamus has sent our brothers and sisters against us! It will be a fine battle.”

He began to blaze with Summer’s heat. The [Knights] checked themselves. Rabbiteater moved into formation behind Dame Voost. He heard some of them talking.

“Ten thousand? They may outnumber us ten to one!”

“So? Commoners. They take almost no members from the aristocracy. I hear they induct them by the thousands if need be. Hah.”

It was a sentiment that the Goblin heard from more than a few helmeted heads. He glanced around.

“Not the most charitable of ways to say it. However, we do out-level them. I have not heard the Order of the Hydra was known to be, ah, the most high-level. I might guess even our Spring Knights stand above them.”

Ser Markus was flexing one hand. Dame Meisa was uncharacteristically silent. Maybe because she saw it the way Rabbiteater did. Neither of them were noble.

He saw it a bit differently than the Order of Seasons. Rabbiteater looked at the all-infantry army. Lacking horses, yes, lacking specialization to their armor and weapons which were mass-produced. Commoners en-masse.

Put another way? He saw ten thousand [Knights]. Who didn’t have horses, which were a pain to feed and keep healthy, a huge saving, who could run in full plate armor and who had the morale of common-folk who knew they could fight and elevate themselves. Become more than they were simply born.

Like…Goblins. Oh, and one more thing? Their mass-produced armor and weapons were fine steel from Ailendamus’ huge, mass-producing forges, and mass-enchanted. Weakly enchanted, but mass.

Rabbiteater eyed the army. Then he spotted their champion. He inhaled suddenly, and gave voice to his feeling.

“We are in trouble now.”

The Order of the Hydra did not march just with the sound of their own voices. The loud voices, the shouts were replaced by a distant melody. A spirited one. The Order of Seasons heard it drifting towards them on the breeze, incredulously. Did the lack of decorum of this Order know no bounds?

They were playing…a song. A song—not a national anthem or glorious war-song, but a pop-y, running song. Sung by a female [Singer].

The Singer of Terandria, in fact. It came from a song-crystal, strapped to a [Trumpeter]’s horn and blasting out of the enchanted tube. Rabbiteater thought it was a great song to run to. If the Redfangs—no, if any Goblin tribe had heard it, it might have become their theme-song. He began to tap a foot against his horse’s side.

“What song is that? I want to buy a crystal.”

He nudged Meisa. Ser Markus absently pulled something out of his bag of holding.

“I believe I have a song-catalogue of the Singer’s latest songs.”

“Markus! Now?”

Meisa rolled her eyes as Rabbiteater looked over and matched the song to the name already.

Good to be Alive, as originally performed by Skillet.

“Ooh. Good song. Why do skillets sing?”

Then his head rose again. Because he heard a distant voice. The enemy commander was bellowing, so loud that even the distant Order of Seasons heard it.

“The Order of the Hydra fights on foot! We triumph with our feet on the ground! Time to bring down some [Riders]!”

Now those were fighting words. The Order of Seasons’ backs went up. Ser Greysten grinned grimly. He shaded his eyes.

“Ah. Now that could be a problem. The one good [Knight] in the entire Order of the Hydra has come against us already. Is she Ailendamus’ Great Knight?”

“None other, Summer’s Champion. Unless you think there’s two of her?”

Dame Voost remarked drily. She eyed the [Knight] who stood out from the rest with unease. The [Soldiers] of Ailendamus were cheering her, and her fellow [Knights].

Pheislant’s [Soldiers]? They gaped in much the way Rabbiteater did. Someone cried out, with a shaking voice.

“The Great Knight of Ailendamus! The Dame of the Hills! Dame Merila, the Hill-Knight!”

Rabbiteater looked at her. Merila, the Great Knight of Ailendamus. Then…his head tilted back.

Fun fact: commonfolk included half-Giants, incidentally. Not a royal bone in their body. And here came the first half-Giant [Knight] he had ever seen. Playing the very song-crystal she had once been given by Cara O’Sullivan.

Merila, the Hill-Knight. She wasn’t as tall as some of her kin. She wasn’t Zamea the [Shepherd], thirty plus feet tall. Merila was ‘only’ twenty eight feet tall.

And covered in armor. And holding a sword on her back only a nation like Ailendamus could afford to make. And laughing.

“Come on, sisters and brothers! For Ailendamus! For the glory of Terandria and the Order of the Hydra! Let’s get them.”

Her voice boomed across the ground. She pointed ahead.

“Summer’s Champion! I challenge you to single combat! Let’s fight fair, eh?”

She smiled and threw back her head to laugh, a huge, full-belly laugh that made Rabbiteater think of home.

The Knight of the Hills laughed like someone who could do anything.

“We will have to circle and strike them. If they bog us down, we will never endure. Burn the air until they retreat.”

The Summer’s Champion calmly dispersed his forces, meeting the half-Giant’s gaze. He saluted her, then looked around. He rode through the ranks of the [Knights], and found a shoulder to clasp.

Rabbiteater started and looked into Greysten’s gaze. The Summer’s Champion smiled.

“Still with us, Ser Solstice?”

He did not intimate that Rabbiteater would run. But there would be no reproach if the foreign [Knight] decided he’d had enough. Yet Rabbiteater just shook his head.

“I don’t ever abandon my friends. I don’t have enough to lose more.”

Greysten smiled wider. He squeezed, and raised his voice for all to hear. He gestured at the Order of the Hydra.

“That is right! We must quash Ailendamus’ ambitions. This is but the first sign they will not rest until they occupy every nation on Terandria. The odds may be taller against us. So? The taller fall harder.”

He glanced back at the Dame of the Hills. The Order of Seasons cheered. Rabbiteater did not. He glanced at the Order of the Hydra.

“They believe in their kingdom as much as you do in your thing. [Knight] vs [Knight]. Same morale. Same will. Big, hard fight.”

“You think the Order of Seasons will lose, Ser Solstice?”

Dame Talia snapped. Rabbiteater’s head turned slowly. He replied, calmly. Calmly, but with the same heat that Greysten had claimed for his Season.

“I don’t underestimate my foes. I lost my people and my family, once. Never again. So let’s fight.”

He met Talia’s gaze until she looked away. Then looked at Markus, Meisa, Greysten, Zulv, Voost…the Summer’s Champion nodded.

“Then ride with me, my brother.”

The Order of Seasons raised their lances. Then prepared to charge the Order of the Hydra.

—-

Of late, it seemed like a lot was going wrong. Oh, there were some good victories, but they were invariably tainted by things that you couldn’t write any other way but ‘disaster’.

For instance: yes, the King of Destruction was burned. Yes, the Terandrian crusade would not threaten other Chandrarian nations if the ‘noble kingdoms of Terandria’ just happened to decide they wanted another colony or didn’t agree with the way a nation was governed.

On the other hand? Khelt was awake. It had deployed no less than three groups of Revenant undead who had displayed terrifyingly powerful Skills. They had ground down an entire crusade’s advance, and the infamously dangerous Claiven Earth and all of Medain had barely halted them. And only then because it seemed like two of the Revenants got bored and retreated!

Not to mention the fact that even if the King of Destruction was wounded, the very act had been a Djinni-led assassination. A rarity in any but the most brutal wars. And…he had freed a Djinni and now a city was gone.

Revelation after revelation. All bad news. But the crowning cherry on top, ironically, the straw that was breaking the camel’s back—no, the giant wood log falling from a hundred feet up? Two things.

Firstly, the takedown by Drassi of no less than Queen Yisame on public television regarding her culpability in the Djinni attack. Nerrhavia was a laughingstock. Worse, the crown’s authority was called into question and they were being viewed as having ordered the attack, despite it really being unauthorized!

Secondly, and from another angle: the loss of Alked Fellbow, Named Adventurer, to Khelt. Yes, Nerrhavia’s Fallen was a superpower, arguably one of the finest for sheer size and power, if not as newly come to it as Ailendamus. But losing a Named Adventurer?

No nation bore that lightly. So the two disasters, more than the rest, were political and military. Political embarrassment was one thing; the courts would gleefully spread rumors, gossip, and claim you were failing and on your last stitches, even if they had to whisper it for fear of public redress.

You could weather that. But the [Generals], noble [Emirs], [Administrators] of each region, and every other military body in Nerrhavia’s Fallen who had a sliver of power had their own agendas. They viewed defence of the realm as a key; wars and plots to expand the nation and their own power, or defeat enemies within or abroad were their stuffing and stitches. Losing Alked—permanently; he had renounced his citizenship!—was a devastating blow. Khelt itself was terrifying to these war hawks.

Now Nerrhavia was caught between two very angry, very powerful groups. The royal courts were abuzz, the higher echelons heaved with unrest, and Queen Yisame had an ulcer.

She poked at her stomach and felt a wave of pain radiating upwards from her guts. Nevermind that her body was sewn with Kisquiel Silk, a royal cloth from the origin of their kingdom, looted from Nerrhavia’s own coffers—no. The same silk that gave Queen Yisame such unparalleled radiance, grace, and splendor did nothing to fix her stomach problems. She stared at her glorious, bronzed skin-cloth, treated daily with dozens of alchemical substances to keep it supple and young, and made a face.

“Servant! I require a replacement stomach.”

Yisame delicately plucked the string knot around her guts, and the beautifully concealed thread came away. Royal she might be, but every Stitch-Person was used to changing their body. In a trice, Yisame had the offending stomach, stitched of the same Kisquiel Silk, out and felt the hollow feeling she knew all too well.

“Your Majesty! The [Chiurgeon]—”

“I have no time! Do not summon her!”

Yisame replaced her stomach before something happened. You could live a while without a stomach—a long time, actually. But the problem with a missing organ was that your body began to feel its absence. Unlike Dullahans and whatever spatial-bending powers they had where they could detach limbs, Stitch-People’s organs just…went missing.

If Yisame had broken her fast, it might have come out into her inner abdomen. What a mess. Of course, she could have replaced almost every organ with ease—except her heart, a dangerous operation—but they would each have to be individually cleaned, and carefully replaced so their absence didn’t harm her.

At any rate, Yisame felt better when her new stomach was installed. She glowered at her old one.

“I have an ulcer. Have it mended and reinforced.”

“Yes, your Majesty!”

The servant took the piece of cloth sewn to look identical to a stomach away, to be ‘healed’ by a [Chiurgeon of Cloth]—or just a [Seamstress]. Of course, it was easy to repair internal organs with thread, rather than potions, but the tradeoff was that a poorly-stitched stomach lining could burst. A poorly shaped one, or one made of inferior materials had different qualities; poorer digestion, or just different capabilities.

“I have heard that Hemps can consume even tree bark. Is that so? I shall breakfast now.”

Yisame stretched, as one of her handmaidens stitched her stomach closed with deft movements. Another discreetly signalled the rest of her royal staff to heat and have the sumptuous breakfast out and ready by the time she exited her bedroom.

“I have heard it said they can even eat rocks, your Majesty. Such…crude cloth.”

One of the [Servants] murmured. Servant she was, but the Nerrhavia’s Fallen Stitch-girl was still made of silk, the costliest and highest-caste of Stitch-Folk.

Three castes. Hemp, Cotton, and Silk. Of course, you could be made from any cloth, but they were in three categories. Hemp were laborers, common soldiers. Cotton were everything from merchants to artisans to whatever they wanted to be. Silk?

Silk ruled in grace and style. Silk was beautiful, strong. Simply superior. And Queen Yisame ruled over Nerrhavia’s Fallen, one of, nay, the greatest Stitch-Folk Kingdom in the world.

…She was having a bad day. A bad week.

Her stomach began hurting again before breakfast was even over.

—-

Oh, see the exalted courts of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, built in glory on the backbone of tyrants.

Literally, if the rumors were to be believed. Nerrhavia, that old tyrant who had ruled the lands now taking her name, had gone to her grave when all was lost, depriving her enemies of the ability to hold her to account in life or death for her actions. Her tomb had thusly been buried beneath the capital’s sewers and other infrastructure. A fitting end.

What had emerged from that time was a kingdom of Stitch-Folk like no other. Which is what they all said, but Nerrhavia’s Fallen meant it this time. It was rich beyond belief, fed by countless territories, protected by armies with hundreds of thousands of [Soldiers], and was tributed more wealth still.

Like any good nation, the capital was thusly the crown jewel of said wealth. That was not what made Nerrhavia’s Fallen unique, however. What made it unique was the people that had risen to this height of power.

Stitch-Folk were not Human. The String People were shaped like Humans, but that was ‘humanoid’, and the half-Elves said that Humans had copied Elves anyways. Dullahans, Centaurs…it was a common look. Yet it came out culturally a lot different.

Drakes built their famous Walled Cities when they stood in the heyday of their power. Bastions of defense and control. Literal giant vaults they could hide behind and hoard treasures in.

Humans? Humans had the archetypal castles and palaces which you saw everywhere. Gleaming façades, ballrooms, a certain predilection towards wide open spaces where someone could sit above it all on a gleaming throne.

Where Nerrhavia’s Fallen differed was in the very design and component parts of what they treasured. From afar, the palace where Queen Yisame walked looked almost…wrong.

Why did it twist so, offended, foreign [Architects] asked? Why didn’t you build a straight tower? Why did you use wood rather than stone in sections of your building, and create these aggravating complexities in every design—sometimes violating the very blueprints you set down—to accommodate for material? If a tree trunk, cut almost wholesale, skews left, then cut the damn tree and make it straight!

Of course, that just exposed their ignorance. Yes, Nerrhavia’s Fallen had curved structures. Yes, everything wasn’t straight. And that was because Stitch-Folk believed the material mattered as much as the design.

Fabric bent. You could quarry a block of stone to be a perfect geometrical cube. And if you did? Did you ignore the stronger seam, the natural strength of the rock waiting to be exposed? A tree’s natural curves were sometimes better than a plank of wood.

Thus, they contrived to build entire towers that curved in the air, just ever-so-slightly, but which viewed from afar, alarmed anyone who had never seen them, as if they might fall over. Hallways were not all straight lines. The entire effect was to create a palace that sometimes felt as alive as any [Druid]-building.

Not to mention, a certain nod to complementary materials. Some idiots chose marble and slapped it down everywhere because ‘marble was rich.’

Queen Yisame passed through one of her sitting rooms where she liked to escape the heat, and was glad her Kisquiel Silk-skin was rated against minor elements; otherwise her feet would have chilled on the Frostwood floor, which remained cool and cooled the room at all hours, even in the arid heat.

“Is there any news from Khelt? Any…other events of note?”

Yisame’s staff flurried about her as the [Queen] broke her fast and dressed, all grumpily upset. Quail eggs were the least expensive ingredient sourced for her breakfast, which, if she but clicked her fingers, could be one of a hundred different styles from around the world.

Of course, she ate in Nerrhavia’s Fallen’s own style, as her [Servants] would surely gossip and relate a change in her diet. This was not the time to be anything less than patriotic, so the date jams, customary flatbreads topped with soft goat cheeses, and the like were her fare. Not much meat in the mornings.

Yisame could have really done away with the thirty-minute breakfast, or if she did take her time, fewer [Servants] about. Mainly because they were not her bosom friends, stitched of the same cloth, childhood confidants, but spies and informants who played their own games in the palace. So she ate like a [Queen] as a [Servant] fussed about.

“This poor [Servant] has not heard of any important events of note, your Majesty. However, we are but the humblest of your attendants. Perhaps the royal courts know far more than we?”

The narked look the [Queen] gave the [Servant] said quite clearly that she knew the staff heard everything of value ahead of time. But then, Yisame supposed that meant any grand developments were secret, so only her [Spymaster] and the top echelons of her court would have heard of it.

Some good news, at least. Yisame sighed and rose. As she did, wearing a regal dress of Shockwool, the air around her changed. Her servants drew back.

…Mainly because the dress would give them a damn good zap if they got close. But also because the [Queen] was about.

“We shall attend the courts anon. Prepare the way.”

Yisame changed to the royal ‘we’, a custom whenever she was in public. She rose a [Queen], and swept into the hub of the palace, where gossip and politics ruled.

…It took her fifteen minutes to get there. Nevermind that it was not far from her chambers; the real issue was that Yisame did not just walk into the royal courts.

She had to be announced. Royalty did not just skip about, poking their heads into rooms. First, the [Head Maid] informed the [Chamberlain] or other representative, who had a [Herald] announce her coming in the court. The first time. When she actually entered, she was announced again, and all present bowed.

Yisame, by custom, took her seat not on the grandest throne in her throne room, but a lesser throne, seats marked only for the royal family or ruler in all such locations. From the outdoor pools to the courts, positively alive as nobility, officials, and people of power sat at tables, gossiped in wending hallways, or dined on the capital’s riches, there was a seat for Yisame. She never jumped in the pool.

And oh, she wanted to jump in the pool. Yisame had seen children doing it, but not once had she done the same, even as a girl.

She sat on the Seat of Words, the enchanted, actually fairly comfortable seat on which she could listen to the court’s gossip. With it, she could focus and pick out a fly’s buzzing across the vast chamber, even behind the low-rise walls that made her courtroom almost like a vast bazaar, complete with ‘restaurants’ where people could eat at any time.

It was always full, even at night. Yisame heard a lot of innocuous talk, but as always, the best conversation, the truly juicy tidbits and plotting were absent. The problem was…she sat on the Seat of Words, which allowed her to hear anything she chose.

Everyone knew that, so they cast [Silence] or other privacy spells to keep the important conversations private. Rather, if you were smart at all, the really vital talk was never discussed in the palace’s public areas. You found a room you had already screened for spells, invisible watchers, peepholes, and then jogged into the city and had your conversation in a hole in the ground because everyone was listening.

In the same way, everyone watched Yisame. The [Queen] waited for the first of her court, her advisors, her [Strategists], top [Generals] and so on to approach her. There would be a pecking order of the day, a scheme to watch for and abet or aid. Yisame would have to keep her focus. After all…

The real power of Nerrhavia’s Fallen was the throne. Of course. But the throne was held up by powerful people. And if they rocked, Yisame might well fall from grace. It had happened before.

The [Queen] smiled as her [Spymaster], a powerful Stitch-man who had a golden hand—literally, Truegold embedded in the fingertips—greeted her and whispered in her ear. He had served as the top [Spy] in the previous [Spymaster]’s employ, and then murdered her in her sleep.

Three of her great [Generals] vied to talk to her about Khelt, each one with an army under the crown’s authority…but who were quite, quite loyal to the [Generals] above said crown. She treated with the [Chancellor of Coin], whose power over the mint and a vast amount of wealth meant that he could lean on any [Merchant] in Nerrhavia, and had an army of his own guards of the treasury. Her [Royal Magician] was a powerful woman who had survived…had it been over a hundred assassination attempts? Yes, they’d thrown her a party.

The power behind the throne. In a way, Nerrhavia’s Fallen was more typical of a monarchy than many nations popping up in the news. Of course, there were absolute tyrannies like Khelt in its way, or places where the [King] was undisputed, like Reim. However, in practice, many rulers had to treat with powerful underlings with some degree of care. Even a mighty [Queen] could suffer a rebellion of the nobility.

Nerrhavia’s Fallen? Well. Sometimes the crown was mighty, sometimes it walked with care. Yisame was on the lower end of average when it came to the crown’s power. That was to say, she was a principal player in any power move, and she was [Queen], not puppet on the throne. But she did listen when her advisors spoke.

Such as Khelt, or the war in Tiqr, or…well, every event you could name, really. Yisame had gone to the meeting at Pomle knowing her court’s stance on the war—knowing Tiqr would likely be the target everyone aimed at. She had tried to stop the idiotic Terandrians on the advice of her [Diplomats] and [Generals], both groups united in their fear of Khelt.

Her inner circle of the powerful ‘helped’ her decide what to do. Yisame threw her weight behind those she found more trustworthy, actions that might enrich her own position. And when the nation trembled, or made a mistake, when Alked Fellbow resigned or Djinni attacked a sovereign [King]?

She took that fall.

—-

The Level 22 [Queen] was in her mid-forties. Her levels in her ruling class belied her ability to navigate the day’s treachery. She felt every eye on her, and so relaxed, despite the two terrible indictments to her rule. Her dress of Shockwool made the air around her hum, a reminder to anyone who stood close.

There is still power here. Obvious as Stitch-metaphors went, but sometimes you needed to be obvious.

“…And we expect to cut off the Lord of the Skies from Reim shortly. Hellios has yet to burn with full rebellion, but many cities have taken up arms. We intend to strike at the King of Destruction as he lies wounded.”

One of her [Generals], Thelican, spoke for a smiling circle of his peers. Yisame smiled.

“This pleases us. We await the head of the King of Destruction, General Thelican. Your name shall be writ large in the history books ere he falls.”

Thelican beamed—then his eyes flickered. Yisame smiled graciously as he bowed, a touch uneasily.

A lot could go on in a few words. She did not say ‘you promised Hellios would instantly rebel’, rather than the lackluster revolts she had seen so far. Yisame let Thelican take credit for the war plan—by mentioning his name, and potential for glory, she implicated him in the fall.

Of course, if all of Nerrhavia’s Fallen’s glorious hordes failed to defeat the King of Destruction, she, Yisame, would be in greater danger still. The [Queen]’s stomach hurt.

“Your Majesty, I have uncovered three plots against your life.”

Three. Her [Spymaster] was good. Perhaps they were just symbolic plots…but everyone was whispering. Yisame could hear it, now and then.

“The Djinni…”

“…on the news…”

She flicked open a hand-fan. It was beneath a [Queen] to fan herself, of course; she had servants to do that if she wished, although the courts were cooled quite well. It was a signal.

Her [Spymaster] hurried back over, frowning in vexation. He approached the throne.

“Your Majesty?”

“We did not converse on a topic that had slipped my mind. What of the…Drake? A suitable reprimand is in order, yes?”

“It is still in progress, Great Queen. The Drake cities are not easy to infiltrate, and she lies under the aegis of the Cyclops of Pallass.”

That was not what Yisame wanted to hear, and she gave the [Spymaster] a thin glare. Just so people knew she was upset. She could not afford to truly insult or offend him, but it might set a fire under his rear.

That Drake. That…Yisame stewed as she continued her court. It had all been going so well, a week ago!

—-

A week ago, Yisame had felt like [Queen] of everything. That was before the Djinni debacle, and Alked’s departure. She had been riding high, and from what?

The Arbiter Queen’s conclave, of course. That had been Yisame’s crowning glory. Her, deliberating on the fate of that wretched fool from Belchan! Holding her own among her peers, displaying Nerrhavia’s Fallen’s wisdom!

Dead gods, but she had felt alive when she saw people replaying scenes of her, and everyone, everyone talking about her. Not just the court, not just her people, but the world’s watchers. Her gesture, the single thumb pointed down, had been made into several sculptures and paintings widely-circulated.

She had three copies in her room.

Then…that Drake and the Djinni incident. Yisame hadn’t predicted it. She’d been so happy to be interviewed on the news she had demanded to speak personally to Drassi, of whom she had been quite enamoured with.

…Right up until the [Reporter] had made her a laughingstock in a twenty-minute interview so painful that Yisame wanted to rip out the stitches along her ears and pluck out her eyes whenever someone so much as brought it up!

No one was even allowed to say Drassi’s name anymore. That Drake would suffer, naturally. Even aside from Yisame herself, she had insulted all of Nerrhavia’s Fallen by making them look foolish. But the damage was done.

“Today’s court has tired us. We shall return to our rooms and rest. Not to be disturbed.”

The servants bowed as Yisame returned to her quarters, tired after three hours of managing the day’s affairs. It was really the least she could get away with. Three hours was not long, but she had put out immediate fires, shown her face—now she could run away.

As she had feared, the vultures were out. Circling like hyena packs, trying to see if now was the time to undermine her, or simply reduce her power. Her supporters weren’t leaving her, but…oh, it was not fun.

Such was Queen Yisame’s life. One of the most powerful rulers of a superpower, constantly plagued by stomach pain and juggling factions and praying they were not steering her into a mistake.

Not atypical. Not special.

Certainly not high-level as a [Queen] went. Yisame knew her [Servants] were right in the waiting rooms, probably gossiping about her, maybe even mocking her behind her back.

If she raised her voice, they would hear her and attend her every need. Since Yisame did not want them listening in at this moment for gossip, she twisted a ring on her finger.

[Complete Silence] enveloped the rooms. Accordingly, Yisame thought she saw a slight shadow behind the doors to her rooms vanish; a [Servant] sulking off. Yisame waited a beat. She knew her rooms were warded; her people were not incompetent and protected her.

Nevertheless…there were things she wanted to keep secret. The [Queen] walked over, found a chair, and wedged it under the handle of the door. She closed the curtains herself. She sat in the cool darkness, and her pulse spiked a bit.

Queen Yisame of Nerrhavia’s Fallen…had a secret. Of course, everyone knew she had a secret. Monarchs all had their foibles. Still…still. What they ‘knew’ varied.

For instance, common-folk knew that Yisame sometimes visited the gladiator arenas and had a favorite—the current Champion of Champions, the title for Nerrhavia’s Fallen’s greatest gladiator in the capital. They were always favored by royalty, or how else would they be the best?

No less than Mars the Illusionist had once come from that very arena, and Yisame sometimes was seen in disguise, watching the battles.

That was, of course, made up. Propaganda spread around. Yisame didn’t really care for the current Champion of Champions, a quite showy Centaur woman. So what people ‘knew’ was wrong.

They thought they knew her passions, her debauched pleasures and sinful little secrets. Some things her [Spymaster] made up. Some things Yisame let spread. The truth was…a lot of what people assumed a [Queen] would do were wrong.

Yes, you could hire the greatest [Courtesan] in all of Nerrhavia’s Fallen to provide you with service and unimaginable pleasure. Any species! The greatest Skills in the art of sensuality. Yisame had done that.

She had also taken other pleasures. She had done everything someone with her means would, experimented, indulged herself. The problem was…it got old. The most high-level [Courtesan] ran out of tricks the eighth time you met with them.

A Potion of Divine Sensation did its work every time you drank it, even if the Drakes refused to produce it anymore. It got old. Drugs lost their kick; they were addictive, but not unique.

Everything became…boring. Boring, because Yisame could have anything she wanted. If she were poorer, less influential…

“Ah, to be less than Silk! To have…challenges.”

The [Queen] lay on her bed, filled with enchantments and protective spells worth more than some of her lesser nobility’s entire fortunes combined, and bemoaned her fate. Then she rose, whisper-quiet despite the ring on her finger glowing with soft, dark iron light, and walked to a corner of her room.

Her private chambers were already large enough to play a soccer game in. Not at the highest tower of Nerrhavia’s palace—royalty got tired of the commute—but in the center of that grand place. Accordingly…Yisame traced a finger across a bookshelf, found a bound volume conspicuously a bit worn.

The Secrets of Monarchs. She rolled her eyes. Whoever had designed this mechanism to begin with had a sense of humor. She pulled it, and the entire bookshelf promptly…vanished.

A powerful illusion spell that revealed one of the secret passages known to litter the palace. This one was not connected to the other chambers or hidden hallways; it was for the ruler alone.

…Of course, the [Spymaster] knew it existed. The [Servants] knew Yisame tip-toed down there. They probably monitored the local teleportation spell or secret passage out of her private rooms to make sure she was safe if she went out ‘in secrecy.’

Yisame did not do any of these things. She descended the smooth walkway carved of a single tree, stepping lightly over glowing steps that revealed malign spells on her and were keyed to only let her through. She passed through trap spells rendered inactive by her royal rings. And emerged into the place her predecessors had built.

Secret indulgences. Dark secrets. Everything a monarch might…desire…and revel in, where no one was able to see them.

It was a big room. Altogether too…padded…for Yisame’s taste. But then, at least it was stain-proof. And had its own silencing spells.

Every time she came down here, she had to stare at the giant phallus in the center.

“Who used this? Did anyone use it?”

Yisame walked around it. It was bigger than she was! This…sex dungeon…could have accomodated a hundred pairs quite easily. It had. She walked past an empty pool just ready to be filled with any gel or other liquid you desired. A rather, rather large bed with completely different enchantments to her royal one above. Ones to enhance any acts committed on it.

There were things in this room that Yisame had needed to look up the usage of. Every kind of strap, piece of furniture, brush, harness, stone, cord…well. It was just as well no one came down here but her, or someone might know the Queen had dark passions.

Yisame poked a gelatinous mold of an intimate part of someone’s body. It kept wobbling for nearly three minutes afterwards.

Her [Spymaster] knew this place existed. Her servants did, too. They did not speak of it openly. Some secrets were just too important to spill, and their heads were on the line if anyone were to know of it. They abetted the [Queen]’s passions, occasionally smuggling in people for assignations. Sometimes someone had to come down here to clean everything up.

Yisame circled the room. She did not pause long on the many objects she was, by now, familiar with. When she did stop, she stopped next to one of the less striking objects present.

A…Centaur’s phallus attached to a life-sized model hanging in the corner of the room. Yisame reached out, grasped it—and yanked hard.

The fake sexual instrument of great, and perhaps fatal, pleasures clicked as it moved downwards. Yisame turned as a second wall slid open, revealing a second secret passage, this one going straight out. She walked through.

The thing about secret dens of debauchery was that everyone expected the first one. Yisame and her predecessors weren’t idiots.

The second chamber led to an inner sanctuary. A secret lair that was actually a good deal less pristine than the sex dungeon that the servants regularly cleaned. Not that it was filthy! It was just that whoever used it had to clean up after themselves and Yisame didn’t often sweep the minute dust and whatnot she tracked in.

The second room looked more like an [Alchemist]’s laboratory. It held neatly-tended to plants, vials of dust, potions…Yisame stopped to admire the first vial.

Selphid’s Dust. A powerful, and highly illegal narcotic. She stared at it, and then some of the other drugs she had sampled in her youth. She eyed an entire drawer of various kinds of Dreamleaf products.

She walked on, through the den, with the padded places to lounge, snacks, treats, and ran her finger down the rows of bottles. She found one, and pulled at it. Then she walked into the hallway again and took the third secret passageway, sighing mightily.

Her [Spymaster] knew that the sex dungeon wasn’t actually used. Yisame suspected he was aware of the room of drugs and other illicit pleasures. If he had ever made it to the third chamber, well…he’d left it there. After all, one look at the glittering chess board, pieces carved out of gemstones, and the magical, glowing surface, revealed Yisame’s true passion.

Chess! And if that didn’t fool her people, then the skein of magical yarn and knitting needles would. The half-completed Paterskein design spoke to something they would believe—that Yisame liked to knit! A scandalous, but completely understandable pastime for a [Queen]. Despite being above it all, she was still thread like they were.

She had a subscription to Chess Weekly that was covertly delivered to her rooms, and she sometimes dropped subtle hints about fabric. All this for secrecy. All this so they wouldn’t know her true passion. Yisame tip-toed around the gemstone chess board. She had custom-bought a nasty trap spell and set it up at the entrance; her [Spymaster] probably looked at the trap, the chessboard, assumed she was the Titan’s opponent or styled herself as such, and let her be. Same with her servants who might uncover this place, if any.

The truth was…Yisame was not good at chess. She was not about to indulge in a life of sweaty, flailing limbs. She had a drug of her own, but it wasn’t Selphid’s Dust. But it was potent.

Her hands trembled as if she was still addicted to Fabledust. Yisame glanced over her shoulder, then, at last, pushed past the simple curtain she’d hung up to hide the final, and true room she liked to visit. She spread her arms and sighed.

The room was a humble one compared to many of her residences; still larger than most middle-class families’ homes. Hollowed out of the palace, the walls were a mis-match of many different building materials. Into the room sparse furniture had been interjected; a desk and chair. And…a cushioned, stuffed orb of jaguar fur that Yisame could sink into, the better to indulge her passions. It was comfy, and sat only a few feet in front of the door.

Beyond it lay what she had come for. Her great secret. The room was filled, not with furniture, but with shelves.

Shelves and shelves of…books.

Queen Yisame, the Level 22 [Queen] and Level 27 [Avid Reader], clapped her hands together and sighed. She could feel the stress oozing out of her. She wandered her private library of books, mostly fiction, or historical adventure stories, and smiled.

—-

Books. Books, books, books. They were food for the soul. One of the few things a monarch with unlimited power might indulge in, really.

Another answer once you got over the stereotypes of sex, drugs, war, and so on, might be ‘pets’. Yisame had considered it, but they just weren’t as fascinating to her as they were to some of her peers.

And some of them, like Sariant Lambs, she just would not tolerate. She hated the manipulative little things. They were a match for her royal court.

Books? Books were something Yisame could buy, but not replicate in any way but to read them. They were stories, and such stories that she could envision herself doing.

Climbing the High Passes, waging glorious battle with boon companions, sailing through stormy seas as Krakens tried to consume ship and crew alike!

She just loved to read. And it was reading which kept her sane. For instance, as she had sat on the Seat of Words, holding court, Yisame’s smile and patient observation of her court had hidden what was really going on in her head.

Thivian Stormless, the Lightning Thief, dove as the rain of arrows from the Lamias’ bows struck down around him and his companions. Not one touched the Dullahan [Mercenary], He’re, much to her disbelief. She had been prepared for death, but she saw the Lightning Thief hold up an armful of arrows and dump them at their feet. Not even the enchanted arrowheads had detonated!

“Dead gods, but I hate stealing arrows. Let’s get out of here before they do it again!”

He panted, and the two raced down the battlements as the confused Lamias, shouting for him to return the Eye of Baleros, loaded a second volley onto their bows and sent them whistling through the air. Thivian outpaced He’re as he ran, dodging over the cleared ground for the forest. The Dullahan, swearing, looked back just in time to see an arrow arcing towards her back. She threw up her shield and shouted—

Queen Yisame was re-reading one of her favorite books. The Lightning Thief and the Eye of Baleros, a somewhat-accurate retelling of the actual [Thief], Thivian Stormless.

She had been playing the passage out in her head during the boring court. Now, Yisame ‘loaded’ enough of the story in her mind to replay later. Her eyes flickered across the page, such that she kept turning the book’s pages every second.

She was not reading the book, so much as memorizing it. Yisame was a Level 27 [Avid Reader]. A class few people even knew existed, and at her level?

[Flash Memorization: Literature]. She closed the book after five minutes, and let the four hundred page drama rest in her mind. She would actually read it later.

[Automatic Recitation: Literature]. That was how she could hear the tale in her head, blow by blow, when she was sitting on a throne and dying as someone read out a proclamation, or letting people parade her about, or travelling or…anything.

The trick was keeping her face from revealing what was happening. Yisame could do that, though. And oh, books!

Now she had her day-reading material set up, Yisame reached for the books she’d actually read in her time off. If she was lucky, no one would disturb her for a few hours. At least! She pulled out the latest book she’d had smuggled in with one of the [Prostitutes] who often just took naps in the sex dungeon. They knew the score.

“Here it is. The latest installment. Is it…? Yes!”

The Queen delightedly waved the book about. She’d heard the [Book Merchant] was in town, and this one was hot off the [Scribe]’s quills. It even had artwork! She read the back of the book eagerly.

Presenting sixteen tales from around the world, from the first-hand account of the Stargnoll herself, Lehra Ruinstrider, to accounts of the Dauntless Pack’s last voyage into the Depthless Dungeon by a survivor of the expedition.

This book also includes a retelling of ‘The Village of the Dead raid’, as recounted by survivors, and a summary of the last, heroic stand of the Horns of Hammerad!

Tales of Adventure and Woe, an ongoing book series. This was Book #31,129, proudly labelled on the spine.

Yes, there had been that many books. No, no one had a complete collection or even close! There were re-prints, unauthorized publishers, and redactions of false stories. But it was one of the few things that remained past the collapse of civilization.

Adventurer stories. Yisame debated cracking it open right away, but she had six books ongoing and she wasn’t sure she wanted to indulge herself just yet.

She could devour a book in a day, but she liked to savor books. Re-read them. Replay them in her head during dull moments. And this one? Oh, this one was topical. Yisame flitted around, collected her currently-read books and settled back in the beanbag, which was really a Sariant-Lamb-wool-bag.

The thing most people didn’t realize was that a [Reader] was above ordinary readers. Dead gods, most people didn’t even read for fun that much! If your city had a library, it was already something. A child might have a single book or two they would read, and perhaps adults read a few books, their own Tales of Adventure and Woe if they could afford to splurge now and then.

They were not [Readers]. Yisame had Skills that enhanced the act of reading. She could replay stories. And also…

The Thief of Clouds is a noteworthy new [Thief]; this humble [Writer] cannot yet identify more than a few salient facts.

Krsysl Wordsmith loved to call himself a ‘humble writer’. Yisame rolled her eyes, delicately shaded around the eyelids and corners, and adjusted her regal dress. She kicked a slipper halfway across her private library after two tries.

Nevertheless, we can paint a picture of this young [Thief]; he comes from the Great Plains, hence the sizable bounty already on his head from both Drake cities and the Gnolls of the wild. His first noticeable thefts were about four years ago, while the famous incident that named him ‘Thief of Clouds’ occured only a year back.

Eye-witnesses paint him as a slim Gnoll, with a greyish fur often described as mixed with a forest brown, or a russet red tinge. He has not, as of yet, lost limbs or taken noticeable scars over his fur, but what is striking, according to those who claim to have met him, is how athletic he is.

Famous [Thieves] have been notoriously less than limber, but the Thief of Clouds can run up the wall of a Drake city, leap from rooftop to rooftop while avoiding the Watch, and even clear gaps with jumping Skills.

One account I have taken down describes his antics like this:

“I thought he was flying at first, you see. He went up the side of a building so fast everyone thought he was using a Ring of Levitation or something. It turns out he was using these little handholds—barely larger than my claw! Just pulling himself up faster than the Watch could run on the ground. Then he waved at us, jumped, as bold as you like, and dashed off across the rooftops!”

From this, we can gather that the Thief of Clouds makes up for a lack of stealth or a certain acumen with the lockpicks with sheer, blinding speed and escapism. Which certainly fits his pattern of thefts…

Yisame was reading from People to Watch, Issue #22, by Krsysl Wordsmith. A book that listed high-level people around the world. It was going to come out faster now; apparently it would join the new phenomenon of the smaller magazines. Yisame, as a loyal customer, didn’t know if she liked that; the fat bindings were delightful, even if the Drake [Author] did go on and focused on Izril a lot.

At any rate. It was not just because Yisame loved to read about [Thieves]—and she did—that she had picked up that book before the adventure story she so dearly wanted to read.

She wanted to use one of her Skills. She sat back, thinking on her beloved Lightning Thief, and this new Thief of Clouds.

There was always the great [Thief] of any age. Like [Bandits], like anyone, really. Bloodfeast Raiders were the talk of Izril, the Thief of Clouds was the rising star to match the Lightning Thief, and Chandrar had its own set of famous criminals and rogues. However, to the reader who read the sensationalized accounts, Yisame had an obvious question.

Who was the better [Thief]? Now, obviously this ‘Thief of Clouds’ had not been seen explicitly stealing something as fast-moving and deadly as lightning. Yet Yisame wondered if, just maybe, the Thief of Clouds had ancillary Skills that would triumph over a direct-theft [Thief] like the famous Lightning Thief. What if…if say, the Thief of Clouds had been hired to steal the Eye of Baleros back from Thivian Stormless?

Yisame tried to imagine it, conjuring her own rough image of the Lightning Thief—as a Stitch-man, though she knew he was Human—and a Gnoll as athletic as the story said. And Baleros? She imagined…a jungle. A rocky fortress, angry Lamias with bows…

It wasn’t good. It wasn’t complete; she had never been to Baleros, but seen images. Lamias and Gnolls weren’t as familiar to her. If you asked Yisame what armor Thivian Stormless was wearing, if any at all, if he had shoes, and so on, she wouldn’t have been able to tell you. Her imagination focused on what mattered.

And her Skill filled in all the gaps.

“[Sublime Daydream].”

Suddenly, Yisame smelled Baleros. It was wet. Rain had just fallen and it was on the thick vegetation. She could inhale the rich plant matter, some decaying from the heavy rainfall, feel the earth under her one bare foot, missing the slipper. She felt something try to bite her, and swatted it away. Just in time to see—

“Who are you?”

Thivian Stormless leapt to one side, swearing, head turning as angry Lamias screamed, aiming bows at him. Yet the Gnoll who had blurred forwards made them hold their fire. He had a fearless grin, and was far younger than the Lightning Thief.

The Thief of Clouds. Yisame saw the Dullahan, He’re, turning, bogged down in the wet terrain.

“Who’s this, Thivian? You’re not paying me to fight another adventurer!”

“He’s not an adventurer. He’s—”

The Lightning Thief cursed, and suddenly thick fog—no, a cloud—rolled over everything. The wet haze made Yisame stumble forwards to see. She saw two shapes burst through the fog, hands blurring.

“The Thief of Clouds!”

Thivian shouted, enraged. Yisame gasped as the two emerged, hands locked around a single glowing object that shone like a lighthouse’s magical beacon.

The Eye of Baleros.

—-

Of course, it wasn’t the actual Eye of Baleros, and that had never happened. It was a daydream. Yisame made up their appearances and Skills, but even so, it was like she had been there.

For seventeen glorious minutes, Yisame watched the two [Thieves] clash, filling in the Skills they might have, what might occur, with what she’d read about them. Then it ended and she sat up.

“So…so amazing. [Cloudburst Theft]! That might be a Skill! And when he grabs the Eye of Baleros…”

She strode over to the desk in her library, sat down, and furiously began to scribble down some of the things she’d seen. Yisame was a [Queen], a [Reader], and…a [Writer].

Level 8. Nothing special. She wrote her own adventure stories. Nothing published…not even close to that. But sometimes it burst out of her and she could not help but put it down to words. She hadn’t even shown the [Reader]-[Prostitute] who smuggled her books her writings on Thivian; Yisame had written a lot on the Lightning Thief.

The point was, this was what Yisame lived for each day. Imagining great adventures, losing herself in the printed word.

She wanted to be Level 30. She wanted it so bad she could almost taste the new Skill she might get.

The problem for Yisame was that she could not use her Skill on her own meager writings; there were limits. As a low-level [Reader], many of her Skills were confined to ‘literature’, which meant bound and sold books of a distribution of at least 1,000. Esoteric tomes, spellbooks, were also out of reach. For now.

Someday, though, she’d make her own writings come to life. Yisame envisioned her [Sublime Daydream] Skill lasting for an hour, maybe even letting her interact with the stories, rather than be the observer. When she had first gotten it, bugs hadn’t bitten her; there had been only sight and sound, not smell and feel.

Mind you, she had some, ah, guilty pleasures. Yisame blushed to think of it, but there was a section of more licentious tales, some hearsay, some actually based on fiction. Her Skills worked on those books, but the truth was, she was now addicted to stories in her time.

The Lightning Thief was all very well and good and she got a good hour out of painstakingly writing her new story idea down, but she went back to Book #31,129 of Tales of Adventure and Woe. She flipped through it, bookmarking the Stargnoll for later, until she came to the part she had personally witnessed on the scrying orb.

The Last Stand of the Horns of Hammerad. A Village of the Dead short story by Heartslayi.

Yisame frowned at the name. There were two Village of the Dead stories, one by an Izrilian [Author] who had apparently interviewed the teams and had blow-by-blow accounts. She was less interested in that, having re-watched the battle many times.

This? This was…fiction. Yes, definitely. ‘Heartslayi’ was a new [Writer] that Yisame didn’t like. Mainly because her works had been turning up in books like this. She wrote romantic fiction. Yisame wrote her own fiction, but she had yet to get the Lightning Thief short stories published. ‘Sandquen’ was her pen-name, incidentally.

“Hmf. So. What has she written this time?”

Yisame critically opened the short story. One of her Skills activated.

[Total Immersion: Literature].

And then she was there. Rain was falling over the Village of the Dead. Because she had seen them, heard their voices, Yvlon, Pisces, Ksmvr, and Ceria were all there, right in front of her.

Yisame experienced the scene on one level like that. On the other, she was still reading the words set down by the writer. Quality did matter, so bad writing could take you out of the story, just like good writing took you in. She saw the four look back.

The undead were coming. The bone giants, zombies, and Draugr were flooding back the way they’d come. A vast, writhing mass—a Wailing Pit rose up, voices singing in discordant harmony. The Horns were wounded, determined to reach the center. Yet…all that remained in the center was a greater death.

Undead with glowing eyes rose out of the ground. A vast skeleton Dragon landed, roaring, and the Gold-rank team saw there was no way out. Undead from behind. Undead ahead. The Antinium, Ksmvr, spoke, resting a hand on his shortsword.

“I shall serve until I fall, my boon friends. Go ahead without me. Comrade Pisces, what are you doing?”

His head turned. The Antinium blinked as the [Necromancer], Pisces, in his torn white robes, broke away from the romantic kiss with the golden-haired woman with silver arms. Their tempestuous embrace broke away as…

Yisame blinked. What?

“What?”

As the [Necromancer] lustily made out with his oft-hated foe, the [Knight] broke away, her cheeks flushed carmine with desire and the illegality of their actions. It was the wisest of the four, the half-Elf, who stole her gaze skyward again.

“I will hold off the undead. Go! Run, you fools! Run!”

Her envisioning of the scene…broke apart as Heartslayi’s account failed to match up with what she, Yisame, believed of the group. Clearly, the [Necromancer] and [Knight]—Yvlon? She wasn’t a [Knight]!—were in a love affair that only came to the fore in this last hour.

They died in each other’s embraces; the [Necromancer] and [Knight], as the brave Antinium fell last of all, taking his own life as he realized his companions were gone and there was nothing to protect. Yisame stared at the book.

“I hate you, Heartslayi. That’s not what happened! The—they clearly weren’t in love! It’s Ksmvr and Yvlon! That’s the true pairing! You—you—!”

She raised the book to throw it, then put it down. Sourly, Yisame looked around. She needed some wine.

—-

Not all books were winners. Yisame read as she sipped wine on her little sofa-seat. The book floated open in front of her, and the automatic page-turning spell flipped pages whenever she flicked a finger.

Not having to hold a book meant you really could read at full leisure. This was the decadence of wealth. Rich-reading.

The [Queen] sometimes wished all she needed to do was read. That she was a [Queen] of such a powerful nation meant this was only a hobby, for all it was something she was levelled highly in.

In time, she would have to designate an heir, even if she herself never married, and oh, there had been attempts which she had beaten back. She might be deposed, her power might wane…Yisame’s goal was to reach a ‘retirement’ that did not involve her death. And that was not a given, especially because a former [Queen] was a liability unless you made absolutely sure she would never come back.

She had been born into the wrong life. Not just because it didn’t allow her time to read. Also because her dreams of these glorious heroes and protagonists of their stories were dashed. Because she was one of the few people who could actually meet the very people who were written about. That was a poor thing, incidentally.

Never meet the heroes you read about. They were never as charming, as grand, as…brilliant as they seemed. Yisame knew this because she had read of the wrathful, yet visionary [Bandit Queen] who had taken over a nation. A water-wielding genius who had been expelled from Wistram, whose younger sister was one of the greatest [Pirates] in the world!

That was the book’s account. Yisame’s personal, first-hand experience? Less exciting. The Siren of Savere in real life was a [Thug], not some grand sorceress supreme, just like her sister was a…[Pirate]. Not a [Pirate Queen] of yore.

The King of Destruction…Yisame thought of him and closed her eyes bitterly.

She had met him as a girl and he had seemed the stuff of stories. When he rode through Nerrhavia’s Fallen with his armies, he had been the legend in flesh. The man to unite Chandrar, to make other continents tremble. She had needed no books then, but she had read every story of him and been a fan.

Many Stitch-Folk had, Yisame believed. They had loved him.

Right until he fell into his slumber and his kingdom shattered and put her in fear of her life. Half her family had died in the chaos; the suzerain, her step-uncle had tried to shield her. Or had he been treacherous as rumor said?

People suffered because when the King of Destruction abandoned his dream, everything collapsed. Yisame had lived through days of actual backstabbing, fought and wormed her way into the throne as her family died or fell victim to their own schemes. In a way, her survival had been because she had retreated to read books rather than make gigantic plays that backfired. The squabbling factions had seen a decent leader in her and backed her, rather than let the disorder doom everyone. And that had led to…now, really.

Her sister was a prisoner in her own palace and arguably happier than Yisame. Her step-brothers, all three of them, were formally abdicated [Princes], each of whom had sprawling families with tenuous claims to the throne. It wasn’t bad mostly; it was just life as usual in Nerrhavia’s Fallen.

But the cracks were starting to show. Yisame’s two latest failures, neither of which was really her fault, might be her death or downfall. She had seen it happen before.

Yisame’s eyes watered. She didn’t want that. She saw herself lying in bed, a dagger protruding from between her breasts, open-mouthed, vacantly staring upwards like her mother. She didn’t want to die.

She wanted to live and read books and…experience the truth of them. Just once. She wanted to live a story like the ones she loved. But she was too powerful.

Empress Nsiia, the Empress of Beasts had been there when the King of Destruction rode on conquest; had even fought by his side as a girl. There were stories of her, too. The wild queen who rode a Grand Elephant and was as great a warrior as she was beloved.

She had been almost the stuff of stories, dashing, fearless. Yisame had feared she would not be, but the one time they had met face-to-face at Pomle, she had been what the stories made of her.

If only Yisame had not looked at her and seen how she held a story’s life in her hands. And for Nerrhavia, the courts, her own safety…she had damned Tiqr. There was no choice.

“I should not be more powerful than stories.”

The [Queen] whispered quietly. In those times, when she seemed too much a giant in her own skin, she went far back. Before the modern day, and pulled out the truly old books she had collected. Her hands trembled as she touched a book so old the protective enchantments had faded, been restored, faded, and been restored many times over. She opened it and read aloud, trying to see the faded, mostly destroyed artwork.

“They gathered in grave conclave, the Dragonlords four. Never again would so many come together. Not once; nevermore.”

She wished she knew what was actually said. They were Dragons, yes. Chandrar’s mortal enemies, tyrants, of a surety. Yisame stroked the book’s binding. Even so. She read the next passage.

“So came he of wrath and greatest fame. The arrogant, kind, Dragonlord of Flame. Teriarch be his name.”

Old stories. But no one lived who knew such names, beyond the written word.

…Well, maybe the Quarass did. But the last one hadn’t been the wise ruler of a thousand souls. She had been a wretched woman.

The [Queen] sighed, closed her eyes, and closed the book. She loved this place. But inevitably—

She had work to do.

—-

Yisame lounged on the throne, replaying a book in her head. She was so bored that the Seat of Words barely contained her; she was threatening to slump out of it.

“Perhaps a refreshment in the water would suit your Majesty?”

Unless you give me a book, go drown yourself in the pool. Yisame smiled at one of her ‘friends’, the [Emira] Desulte.

“We are concerned with the affairs of the state. Now is not the time to relax, regretfully.”

It looked bad if she relaxed while everyone was struggling to replace Alked Fellbow. Yes, he was one Named Adventurer, but he was the one who killed so many monsters that it freed up [Soldiers] for the armies. But because no one valued him enough, he was gone! Hemp or not, this was not Yisame’s fault, but whoever decided to pay him less than the Silk adventurers!

She had never even met the Named Adventurer. Yisame listened to the bickering, hiding her glower behind a smile.

Then, as if someone had done a [Flying Jump Kick] to her face, Yisame started. She rose slightly from her throne as one of the many conversations she generally ignored permeated her ears.

What?

“Did someone mention the…Antinium presence in Illivere?”

Those around her looked confused and Yisame realized the Seat of Words had amplified a distant conversation. She honed in on the speakers, a pair of young nobles.

“…Prince Zenol is returning. Since he isn’t a Named Adventurer, he must have a good excuse.”

Yisame heard the two snigger and recalled that one of the many [Princes] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen had been at the Village of the Dead. The young man sipped from a cup.

“I am telling you, it must be the Antinium in Illivere truly is that one from Izril! The Village of the Dead’s raid! What was its name?”

Ksmvr. Ksmvr of the Horns of Hammerad. [Skirmisher]. Prognugator of the Free Antinium, exceptionally interesting, probably in a relationship with Yvlon Byres.

“Kiss—Kisel? Ksmever? I don’t know their wretched names, Lamistu. So that thing actually survived? But why Illivere? Couldn’t it be another one?”

Ksmvr!

Yisame’s eyes opened wide. The young man scratched at his chin as she opened her fan with a snap. One of her [Attendants] looked up and hurried over.

“Well, maybe the Human in the Arena of Rust really is the same one. Silver Arm. The recording’s something, isn’t it? Here, let me figure out how you ‘re-play’ it…”

“Your Majesty?”

The [Attendant] leaned over. Yisame whispered behind the fan.

“Those two over there. The two young men. They are watching something and referred to an ‘Antinium in Illivere’. Find out what that is. Fetch me a recording.”

The [Attendant] blinked, but bowed at once and hurried to find the [Captain of the Royal Guard]. Yisame watched her actions send a ripple through the court.

She was interested in the two young men, which meant everyone else was. They broke off their conversation as a beaming [Emir] strode over. Startled, they glanced at the throne, and began to whisper, confused, nervous. More figures turned from their conversations as word spread that Queen Yisame wanted to know what was happening. By the time the [Captain of the Royal Guard] made his way over to enquire, the topic of court had shifted.

“Your Majesty is interested in Illivere today?”

The [Spymaster] approached Yisame’s throne cautiously. He took it to be a sign she was redirecting conversation politically towards Illivere. Yisame could almost see his brain working.

Was she making a move to have Nsiia’s captivity shifted to Nerrhavia by making the Illivere topic a priority? Was it that or deflecting from the Djinni debacle? Perhaps—had she decided to transfer the Tiqr occupation forces to Illivere for concessions, say, Golems?

Yisame just wanted to know about Ksmvr.

“We are told an Antinium has appeared in Illivere, [Spymaster] Zenm. That surely cannot be, can it?”

His eyes flickered, trying to keep up with her machinations. In the end, he smiled warily.

“…Of course. We had brought it up, I believe, but the Djinni-incident occurred around the same time. A single Antinium. An adventurer.”

“From the Village of the Dead? Truly?”

Had she missed it by zoning out all the time? Yisame’s interest disconcerted the [Spymaster]. It was clearly feigned, but what was she up to? He bobbed a nod.

“Of course, your Majesty. I can present you with all the relevant documents. I do believe it is the same adventurer from the Village of the Dead—Magus-Crafter Femithain seems to believe so, at any rate.”

“We see. Then we shall peruse a full report within the hour, [Spymaster].”

She waved him away. The man’s jaw opened and closed; he hadn’t expected her to actually ask for a report. He hurried away, trying to figure out what this betokened. The rest of the other factions watched, equally wary, as Yisame was presented with what the two young men had been looking at.

“A recording of the gladiatorial events, Your Majesty. The Arena of Rust, I believe. A smaller arena.”

“We do so enjoy watching such sports, my loyal [Captain]. Pray, play it before us all.”

The [Royal Captain] raised his brows; he was aware Yisame hated the gladiator matches since he never had to escort her to any. But it fit with the court’s image of her, so many people gathered to watch. Yisame stared down at a recording and then her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. She nearly removed one to check the stitching.

The one-armed woman charged the Champion of Rust, screaming so loud it was faintly audible over the roar of the crowd. Her arms morphed into silver pincushions. Yisame saw Yvlon Byres staring at her blood-soaked hand as the stunned audience looked down at her.

Then the [Silversteel Armsmistress] turned. The recording of her first bout, freshly copied over to the palace that day, showed what happened next.

Yvlon Byres let the Champion of Rust flee back to the gates. She dragged up his axe, raised it overhead, and to the stunned [Gladiators], prisoners, and crowd, bellowed up at the sky.

“I am Yvlon Byres of the Horns of Hammerad! I have been unjustly imprisoned! Come hither and lie about my deeds, attack me, or slander me and I will rip your heads off in self-defense, you spineless cowards.”

So saying, she raised the enchanted axe overhead—and began to charge the remaining [Gladiators]. Her two companions stared after her as the [Armsmistress], who had just defeated the Champion of Rust, went after the rest.

The [Gladiators] of the Arena of Rust took one look at her and ran for it. So did the prisoners. Yisame watched for a good minute as the Human woman ran around the arena, chasing a school of frightened fish—some of whom tried to climb the walls of the arena to escape.

“Silver-Killer! Silver-Killer!”

Yvlon Byres only gave up when the crowd, cheering her name, began to applaud. She stomped towards the gates, tossing the axe down to wild cheering.

“This—this was this morning?”

The Queen’s voice trembled slightly. The rest of the court was chuckling; some looked bored, others connected the events at the Village of the Dead and were mildly interested. Yisame?

The [Queen] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen looked at the angry Human. The very angry woman whose entire reaction to surviving a raid and near-death scenario and being teleported across the world somehow was to come out swinging, spitting hellfire and vengeance and trying to push everyone’s face in within arm’s reach.

She was…everything Yisame wanted at this moment. She was an attitude in and of herself.

And another disaster waiting to happen. If one of the Horns of Hammerad—no, two—were in Chandrar and one was a [Gladiator] in an arena shouting she was falsely imprisoned? It was going to be another bad look.

Yisame thought about all this in the time it took her hand-fan to lazily waft scented air at her face two times. Then she smiled.

“How entertaining. We do so enjoy such displays. Commend the two who brought such entertainments to court. We should focus on such great martial displays. After all, did not Mars the Illusionist come from the arenas? Let us look for talent there.”

The court susurrated. People exchanged glances. Oho! So that was the [Queen]’s plan, was it? A few [Generals] murmured. Replace Named Adventurers and train up their [Gladiators] into war-leaders? Not a bad plan.

How savvy. A clear response to the Fellbow crisis. Yisame smiled knowingly as her court turned on her words. She waited an hour, replaying her favorite writings on The Knights of House Byres and the Silver Dragon in her head. Then she made her real move.

—-

The [Chancellor of Coin] was not a fool. Like everyone he employed truth spells as a matter of course. Yisame knew that. So when she lied, she did it with the truth. That was basic.

“I am having the [Spymaster] investigate the issue, Chancellor. However, I would hate for it to be another crisis in this fraught time.”

She used ‘I’ as a sign of familiarity, and because they were holding an intimate court. The [Chancellor] nodded, eyes flickering to her, to the [Royal Captain], and back to Yisame.

“Naturally, your Majesty.”

“I would like you to look into it. I am certain the [Spymaster] prefers to work alone, and he has expressed a desire to keep the affairs of state separate, but…”

The [Spymaster] and [Chancellor of Coin] were long-time rivals. They sometimes clashed, and the [Chancellor]’s twitch made Yisame smile. He thought the [Spymaster] had asked her to keep it private and the [Queen] was simply worried.

Lies in truth.

“Ah…I respect the [Spymaster]’s will, your Majesty. But if it harkens to the affairs of coin—it is only natural my people should be involved.”

“So I believe! And so I will say to him. But…”

Yisame trailed off delicately. The [Chancellor] was practically dancing to rush off.

“Which—which affair are you speaking of, your Majesty?”

He did not like to admit he didn’t know. Yisame feigned surprise.

“The…Horns of Hammerad incident? Miss Yvlon Byres? We cannot have a world-famous Gold-rank adventurer falsely imprisoned. I heard…mm…a [Magistrate] was involved?”

Her information networks were far, far weaker than either the [Chancellor]’s or her [Spymaster]’s, but Yisame could still trace the criminal links that had put Yvlon in court and assigned her to the Arena of Rust. She did not mention Magistrate Ducaz.

She did not have to. The [Chancellor]’s eyes narrowed. If a [Magistrate], technically in his domain, was to be found to be corrupt, the [Spymaster] would certainly use it against him.

“I thank you for your concern, your Majesty. Rest assured, my people will look into it. Please inform the [Spymaster] that this is an affair of the treasury and…”

Yisame tuned him out. She smiled, nodded, saw him practically sprint off to cover his back, and then summoned the [Spymaster] in her private bedchamber. The first thing she did was turn to him with a worried frown.

“Zenm, I promised the Chancellor of Coin that I would leave this matter to him, but the situation with the adventurer concerns me.”

The [Spymaster] blinked, then hurried to reassure Yisame that he would of course look into…what was the [Chancellor of Coin] claiming he was doing, again? He was gone so fast Yisame thought she saw an afterimage.

The [Queen] stretched, then rang a bell for one of her servants. Her heart was beating so fast she thought she was reading a thrilling adventure novel. Yet she was in the middle of one. She was not a helpless [Queen].

One of her [Servants] appeared, bewildered; Yisame would normally have been resting at this hour, or rather, reading a book.

“Your Majesty?”

“It is time, Esxeria.”

“T-time, your Majesty?”

The [Attendant] was confused. Yisame clapped her hands, smiling regally. The thing about lies and perception was that sometimes…you could do exactly what people expected you to.

“I have a mind to visit the arenas. In disguise. Have the [Royal Captain] prepare a suitable escort. And fetch me the [Arena Master]. I have heard of a wonderful new [Gladiator]…”

Her heart was pounding so very quickly. The [Avid Reader] rose.

Stories. A story had landed in her kingdom. All thoughts of treachery, danger, were forgotten. She was just the reader who got to meet the truth behind the legends. She had to know. Were all the Horns of Hammerad alive? What had passed, truly passed, in the Village of the Dead? Had they reclaimed any treasure? Was it just Yvlon and Ksmvr, or were there more?

What would happen next?

—-

Yvlon Byres, the Silver-Killer, Silver Arm, the Champion of Rust, and Gold-rank adventurer or something…sat in her crappy cell next to Rexel and Leprel. They were upset. Yvlon was upset, but that was because she was sick, clogged up, and feverish. She sat, grinding her teeth, until she had to say it.

“Hey. Rexel. Aren’t we supposed to be rich and famous by now?”

Yvlon’s sarcastic tone made the [Storm Bandit] jump. Rexel opened her mouth—then had to glare.

“We would be, if you didn’t try to punch the [Guards] and the [Arena Master]!”

Yvlon folded her arms—well, she folded her metal arm across the chest and made a similar pose with her jagged metal arm. It was regrowing—but very slowly. She could morph it into a weapon, but it took energy and concentration.

And she was sick. Tired. And she didn’t like this cell. Mind you—at least it was quiet.

The [Prisoners] and low-ranked [Gladiators] all stared at Yvlon in silence. The Silver-Killer had left a mark in her debut battle. It just hadn’t elevated her as Rexel and Leprel had hoped.

“You had to attack the guards! You just had to! We’re not even sponsored!”

Leprel moaned. Yvlon twitched.

“So? I beat the Champion of Rust.”

“You poked out his eye and stabbed him! That’s not the same as killing!”

The Human woman hesitated.

“…That’s not bad enough?”

“It’s just an eye. He can replace it in a minute!”

The [Armsmistress] and the [Thief] clearly had different views on serious wounds. Yvlon remembered—Stitch-Folk. She growled.

“But I did beat him.”

“He’s alive. He’ll exact vengeance. Next time he’ll have you cuffed or fight you in a flooded match. With a bow, while you have lead weights around your ankle. You should have stopped after you beat him! Now everyone’s your enemy.”

Rexel rocked back and forth. Her stomach hurt, but that was nothing compared to Yvlon. The Gold-rank adventurer knew she wasn’t well.

“…We’ll figure it out. I was…angry.”

Yvlon muttered. She stared around the cell. The [Gambler], the third prisoner whose name Yvlon kept forgetting, was squeezed into a corner as if trying to get out.

“I’m not going to hurt you. You can stop doing that.”

“I—I—I know that!”

The [Gambler] tried to smile at Yvlon. The blonde-haired woman sighed. She tried to smile, but the grimace of pain made her glare. She stood up and everyone in the cell flinched. But Yvlon just rapped on the cell’s bars.

“Hey. I need to use the restroom.”

An [Arena Guard] came by quickly. The prisoners watched in silence as Yvlon was led out in wooden handcuffs, with a nervous squad around her. Only when the Silver Menace was gone did they begin talking.

“She’s going to snap. You’re going to get us all killed, Rexel. Oh, dead gods, why did I trust you?”

Leprel moaned, banging her head on the floor. Rexel was licking her lips.

“We can still survive. She’s sick—we need a [Healer]! But we can’t get one because she messed up any chance of getting a patron!”

“Hasn’t she gone six times today?”

One of the new [Gladiators] in the cell across from theirs called out nervously. Not in actual sympathy for Yvlon; more like a fellow prisoner trapped in a room with a ticking time bomb. Rexel nodded.

“I think she’s in trouble.”

“What happens if something gives?”

“…In the toilet?”

“No. What happens if she snaps?”

The gladiators in their cells thought about that. Silently, they began looking for holes to enlarge, or escape holes for when the Silver-Killer went on her rampage.

—-

Of all the unpleasant things to happen to her, Yvlon would have said ‘getting my arm ripped off’ or ‘fighting a rot-monster undead in the Village of the Dead’ was one of the most traumatic.

Somehow, though, not being able to have a sufficient bowel movement—any bowel movement—was quickly moving up the list. It was not something you talked about in polite conversation. But the truth was…

Nothing was coming out. And it had been days. Yvlon had not participated in a match after the first debut. So…two days of training and acclimation here, plus a day and a half of transit. Plus another day and into mid-morning today…

“Damn it.”

She was sweating, clutching her stomach, and sitting in the stinking privy for the low-class [Gladiators]. Yvlon Byres hated a lot of things.

The Champion of Rust. The arena. Her imprisonment.

And her new class. [Gladiator]. Level 3! It made no sense. She was already a [Warrior]—getting a second class in that vein shouldn’t happen.

It was because she had to be one. Yvlon gritted her teeth.

“Dead gods damn it! I’m going to kill something!”

A woman sitting in the stall next to Yvlon was finding it very hard to do her own business. It was like…trying to pee next to a rabid bear with a silver arm. In theory it was easy, but not right next to one. She rapped on the stall next to hers.

“Can we trade places—?”

“No. Shut up!”

Yvlon Byres sat there for another minute. Then three. She heard a tinkling sound. She could drink and pass water, but…she thought she knew exactly what the problem was. The problem was…something had to come out or she’d die! This was not how she wanted to die, but the Champion of Rust was still alive! She was sick, missing an arm, her team was gone and she couldn’t—even—

“Graaaaaaaah!”

The wham in the bathroom made the [Guards] and [Gladiators] sharing the space all jump. The [Gladiator] in the stall next to Yvlon’s stared at the metal fist that had just punched through the wood next to her face.

She fled screaming at the top of her lungs. Yvlon Byres sat in her stall as the others were evacuated. She emerged a minute later as the very nervous guards took her back to her cell.

No joy. So it was with the worst mood possible she saw the [Arena Master], standing behind a double-rank of [Gladiators] and [Guards], trying to smile at Yvlon.

“Ah, the Silver Arm herself. Good, good. These two are part of your team, yes?”

Rexel and Leprel were standing in front of the guards; the [Gambler] was hiding in her cell. Yvlon froze. Her hand clenched and the others tensed.

“What are you doing with them?”

The [Arena Master]’s smile was sweaty. He edged behind the largest [Gladiator] and called out.

“Calm, Silver Arm! Calm. It is not time for an arena match yet. You may not even be fighting in my Arena, thank Nerrhavia’s grave. Just…come with us.”

Yvlon Byres’ eyes narrowed dangerously. She was on the edge of everything snapping. Death might come for her since the [Guards] and [Gladiators] were all armed and her entire body wasn’t made of silversteel, but…she gritted her teeth so hard they nearly cracked.

“What are you doing with us, then?”

She tensed—

—-

—And poked the duvet bedspread again. Yvlon Byres stared at the window with glass, no bars, and then at Rexel and Leprel.

“What?”

“That’s your room, Silver Killer! Yvlon! This one’s mine—look at all the food!”

The [Storm Bandit] turned [Gladiator] danced about, laughing. Yvlon stared at the table full of delicacies, then at the only indication this was even a cell; the enchanted door at the far end.

“But why?”

“A patron! Someone saw the battle! We have a patron!”

Leprel explained again. The [Thief] was dripping with water; she’d bathed for the first time since being caught. With scented soaps and shampoos!

Patron. A [Gladiator]’s patron. Someone had seen Yvlon fight, reached out to the [Arena Master] and…suddenly their fortunes had changed. Yvlon stared around the comfy suite, for the highest-class [Gladiators] in the Arena of Rust.

Leprel and Rexel had been afforded the same suite, as they were on Yvlon’s ‘team’. They’d been ready to deny all connections with her, but it seemed their faith had been rewarded. The [Thief] and [Storm Bandit] were high-fiving, investigating their quarters…Rexel gasped.

“They even have spare parts! Look!”

She had found some pieces of cloth. Arms, legs—a [Gladiator]’s replacement bodyparts. Some were higher-quality than her own cloth, so she began trying to undo the strings on her arm.

“Leprel, help me put this arm on! It looks way better than mine!”

“I hope this is to your satisfaction, Miss Byres?”

A voice from the door made all three turn. Rexel and Leprel stopped and Yvlon looked at the [Arena Master]. He was still wary of her, but he smiled with all the insincerity in his body.

“Thank you for the accommodations.”

Yvlon meant not a word herself, but the Stitch-man just grinned at her.

“A [Patron] was very generous. I would advise you to rest up and take full advantage of the facilities of the Arena of Rust, Miss Byres. It will not last long.”

The [Armsmistress] felt a warning tinge in her stomach—or maybe it was just another sign she needed relief.

“Why not?”

“Because you will not be fighting in my arena. Oh, no. You have been elevated. The capital’s arena waits for you after what you did to the Champion of Rust.”

Leprel and Rexel’s faces were awestruck and terrified. Yvlon just grunted.

“Wonderful. More comfort for more danger?”

The [Arena Master] shook his head. He was an older man, in his sixties. He gave Yvlon an insulted look past faded eyes and his own scars.

“Many would die for such a chance. You are an adventurer, aren’t you, Miss Yvlon? In the capital’s arena, there is ample chance for glory and improvement. Even a Gold-rank adventurer might petition to join the ranks of the [Gladiators] there! You can win more than freedom; last three matches and you could well free yourself! For the best, glory and great treasures await. Permanent employment! Fame! Mars the Illusionist came from those very sands!”

His little speech made Yvlon blink. Only three matches? The [Arena Master] snorted at her expression.

“Do you think the [Gladiators] there are [Slaves]? You may not like my arena, Silver Arm. But you have a Patron and bested the Champion of Rust. Try to enjoy the amenities. Oh—and as proof, here. That is for you.”

He pointed around the suite the three had been given. Spare bedrooms, bathing rooms, a stocked larder, even a kitchen and quick access to anything the [Gladiators] wanted, from a massage to training and personal [Trainers] and so on. Yvlon Byres looked past the table set with treats like caviar from the sea and a fat, roasted duck, to a single stoppered bottle. As the [Arena Master] stepped out, she walked over to it and read the note left there.

Potion of Incontinence. If it does not work, a [Healer] will attend to you.

Rexel peered over her shoulder and whistled.

“Wow. [Alchemists] do make everything.”

—-

The thing was…she was in better condition than before. Yvlon stopped sweating. She found…relief.

Rexel and Leprel decided to eat with the other [Gladiators] and give Yvlon a lot of space, especially since the woman didn’t emerge from the bathroom where she had been located for over forty minutes. They decided they did not want to hear, smell, or see anything. Especially after they heard her muttering.

“Gah. This is disgusting. I’m—”

“I regret everything.”

“Dead gods. This—is not—”

Yes, it was disgusting. Yes, you could be immature about it and make jokes. It was a fact of life. The fact that Yvlon took all the soaps that had been provided, buckets of water for her bath, and spent nearly an hour and twenty minutes in the bathroom was testament to the ordeal.

Not least, of reaching into that hole and fishing around. Gagging, laboriously washing, washing, washing, and regretting every decision that had brought her that far. Yet…it had been necessary.

Magistrate Ducaz was a bastard. Poor luck had landed Yvlon in his clutches. He had wanted to steal her treasures, but of course, he had found none. Even after an invasive strip search.

He hadn’t found anything but the magical items that were her gear; paltry compared to what he wanted to have found. And the magic in Yvlon herself.

She boiled some water and rinsed everything, including herself, a sixth time. Yvlon breathed out, a shuddering breath.

“If it had been one day earlier, and I had to explain this in the mass jail…”

She had her mysterious benefactor to thank, she supposed. Yvlon felt calmer. She shook her head. Ducaz had clearly not read enough books on adventurer basics, because he’d fallen for one of the oldest tricks in their books. Not that Yvlon had ever met anyone who’d actually pulled off the routine, but…

It turned out swallowing relic-class artifacts was not a fun ordeal. Passing them? Yvlon forbore comment.

Nevertheless. She stared at the pair of magical rings and two spell scrolls that were absolutely clean, and somehow, undamaged from their long voyage. Yvlon Byres remembered where she’d seen them last.

Right on the workbench belonging to the greatest [Necromancer] of his era. The Putrid One.

Everyone had stolen something. Yvlon Byres’ eyes glinted. She wondered where she’d hide the two rings and scrolls next. Swallowing them…no. Not again. She wasn’t willing to try out any of the four, even if she could activate them.

Even so. She clenched one hand.

“This had better be important. Or I am going to kill…someone.”

She sat in her glorified cell, waiting for a time to get back to the people and things that mattered. Yvlon Byres had no notion that her story had already changed. Or rather, an enthusiastic [Reader] was helping her reach her full…potential.

The Silver-Killer had a fan. She also needed a better nickname.

—-

It was how they saw you that mattered. Almost as much as who you were. Which was insulting, if you thought about it. Sometimes people thought you were a hero or better than you actually were. More evil, too. They had an image in their heads and if you weren’t 100% spot on, they got mad. As if it was your fault, not theirs.

What did they see you as? What did you want to be seen as?

One of the Horns of Hammerad sometimes thought about that. She had her own fan. Someone who looked at her with wide eyes, as if they were looking at a walking legend. Which she was to this little place. But he expected her to do something…she had no idea what.

The rest of her team could have answered him better. In the time she’d spent healing, resting, rebuilding her damaged source of power, she imagined her team would have done more.

Yvlon—Yvlon would have probably been lifting entire houses with her arm, demonstrating her strength in some way. Or just have stormed off within a day of nearly dying of dehydration and heatstroke.

Pisces would probably have animated half the village of Nerhs’ graveyard, nearly gotten lynched, and then snootily pointed out that now there was free labor and security in that way that made you want to strangle him.

Ksmvr would…annex the nearest local tree for his burgeoning dukedom of trees. Which would take some doing since Ceria had only seen runty little plants, not full trees like back in Izril. Then he would do something strange, like wipe out the [Bandits] that were apparently torching villages. Or whatever was out there.

Ceria gave it a lot of thought. So, on the fourth day of her stay at Nerhs, Luaar, the son of the [Village Head], Novethur, raced over when he saw the crowd around his home.

Boys and girls, the small population of his village in the middle of nowhere, were pointing, seeing something. At last! The half-Elf [Cryomancer] was doing something! Luaar pushed forwards, needing to see. What had she done? Used her ice powers in some fantastic way? Put on the Relic-class artifact? He fought to the front and saw—

“Tada! I’m a chipfmunf! Look hfw many I cn fit in my mouf!”

Ceria Springwalker turned, cheeks bulging with Yellats. She did indeed resemble a giant half-Elf rodent, and she had fit no less than eight full Yellats in her mouth, to the delight of the children, some of whom were rolling about laughing. The adults too.

Luaar’s betrayed look nearly made a Yellat come out of Ceria’s nose. She thought it was hilarious.

—-

“Murderer!”

Again, she heard it at night and rose to pace around, restless. Nove, the [Village Head], had given his entire hut over to her, but it was still too small.

She walked out into the cold air of Chandrar at night. Hot by day, and cold by night. At least—she was told it was cold.

Ceria couldn’t tell anymore. She was an [Arctic Cryomancer], and cold swirled around her like an invisible cloak, lowering the temperature of everything in a ten foot radius.

It was ‘cool’ around her at the edge of the invisible bubble, enough so that children sometimes edged over in the baking heat of the day, or the adults working the fields or crafting something—like the wicker baskets out of the tough roots and bushes—asked Ceria to stay and chat.

Closer to her, though, the aura of cold grew unbearably chilly. To the point where it could actually snow if there was enough water. Ceria could alter her aura to shrink or grow, but that took conscious effort. As Nerhs’ people had learned, you could freeze water by placing it next to her, hence their new, ice-based economy.

All of this was fine by Ceria. Freezing people accidentally had been embarrassing, but if she really wanted elbow-room at a table, she got it. She didn’t feel cold anymore, but that was a sign her mastery of ice-magic was deepening. Not a negative like Yvlon talked about her arms.

“Yvlon.”

Ceria exhaled and saw her breath emerge as a plume of frosty mist in the air. She felt…dry. Still tired, but recovering fast from the Village of the Dead. Her body was healing. Well, the healing potion and that Dullahan-adventurer’s light had cured her of her wounds, but Ceria had been riding the back of the Frostmarrow Behemoth, taking earthshaking blows that knocked her about as she repaired it.

Then she’d been fighting the highest-level undead she’d ever seen…the half-Elf winced.

“How am I still in one piece? I should be dead. Or at least, lost another hand.”

She waved around her skeletal hand for emphasis. Ceria stared at the bones, clicking and moving together in the absence of flesh. Now there was something out of stories for Luaar to stare at. And he did.

“I couldn’t get [Iceflesh Hand] or something? Yvlon got two free arms.”

Ceria grumbled. Then she had a thought. Well, technically…

The [Cryomancer] stared at her hand. She pictured skin, a copy of her skin on her other hand, sliding over the bones, mimicking skin. It was a variation of [Frozen Armor], a spell she knew. But far more delicate; rather than a slab of ice, it would have to be ice that flowed and moved every time she wanted to flex her hand.

Exceptionally complicated. Some might call it impossible, because ice was not water, and making it behave like that was foolish.

Yet Ceria had known someone who could do that. With her face, no less. It had always been a bit stilted, but unless you knew Illphres, her old master, you would have been fooled. Colored ice.

Ceria watched as a thin layer of frost crept over her bleached bones. She frowned, bit her lip…

Novethur, watching from the side, saw Ceria shrug and lower her hand. The frost coating it dissipated. She glanced up, and the [Village Head] was too slow to duck back behind the hut.

“Adventurer Springwalker.”

“Master Novethur. Hello. Did I disturb you?”

The man shook his head as Ceria smiled and strolled over.

“Late night watch. All the adults take turns. Especially of late…”

Her eyes flickered. They had turned pale and light blue, like frost itself. Something else that didn’t bother the half-Elf. She was…well, a pleasant guest. She ate a lot of Yellats, but she had been amiable, pleasant, a gracious guest given the poor amenities, and she made everyone laugh.

That was why Novethur didn’t feel wary of asking her what she’d been doing. Ceria rubbed the back of her head, self-consciously. Her features were half-Elven; pointed ears, fine blonde hair—a sense of immortality, only partially captured. She would live far longer than the rest of the village of Humans, unless she died in battle or of sickness.

“That? Oh—something I thought of. Ice replacing skin. It didn’t work.”

“Is it…an advanced spell?”

Novethur, as a [Village Head], had access to a very weak pool of mana, but higher-level [Village Heads] were actually known to be on par with [Hedge Mages]. Ceria shrugged.

“It’s not a spell. Call it…a sign of mastery. I don’t know if there is an enchantment that could permanently replace my skin like that. I can cover myself in ice and create a mask that’s static. Living ice is harder.”

“Living…ice?”

“Frost Elementals. I can create them, and I know there are creatures that are entirely made of ice in the northern lands. Maybe Chandrar too?”

Ceria’s eyes became distant. Novethur couldn’t imagine it; ice was a luxury here, without powerful spellcasters like her. Even having free ice meant his village was now considering refrigeration and eating shaved ice—even selling it to other settlements!

“Is such magic beyond you, then?”

Ceria blinked.

“…No? I can probably do it. Or I’m close…my master could, and she was—higher level than me.”

Her face grew sad and her ears actually drooped a bit. But then Ceria smiled. Novethur recognized that. It was the kind of expression he made, when he talked about his late wife. It did not hurt less. But you had lived a while since then.

“The problem isn’t control or expertise. It’s uh…it’s dry, here.”

Ceria gestured at her hand. Novethur blinked, and got it instantly.

“Ah. It surely is.”

He was used to the sensation, the lack of moisture in the air and static charge that could accumulate. Ceria was not. She kept shocking herself on pieces of metal and she hated the feeling. She licked her lips, grimaced.

“I’m out of my element. Literally. Ice-magic isn’t water-magic—someone from that school would be dying out here. But I need moisture. Most of my spells require some water, even if the ice itself is magical.”

Frustrated, she kicked at the ground. She would have practiced her new [Summon Lesser Frost Elemental] spell if she had the chance. Here?

Novethur bowed slightly, as if this entire region’s lack of water were on him.

“We do have the well, Adventurer Ceria. But…”

“I know. I can sense the water down there. I’m not about to use up your livelihood. And my hand’s fine, see? It’s actually really helpful when you cook. No burns. I can also poke anthills and they do nothing.”

The half-Elf had horrified all of Nerhs by trying their local insect varieties. Well, the children thought it was fascinating. Novethur smiled, and it was genuine.

“Will you be leaving soon, Miss Ceria?”

It was not a random question. The fact that she had the energy to stand up after a day of mild exercise told him she was mending. She had barely been able to keep her eyes open at first. Ceria nodded.

“If I can buy a horse—yes, maybe tomorrow. If not? I’d wait a day or two to get one. I know it’s the ‘adventurer crawls in wounded, rides off into the sunset’ routine, straight out of the book—”

Both of them had read the relevant handbook on adventurer-villager interactions and smiled. Ceria went on.

“—but my team’s out there and I need to find them.”

“I understand. You have been very generous.”

“And you saved my life. If you want more gold…”

Ceria saw the slight shake of the head, and took her hand away from her money pouch. They stood together, half-Elf and [Village Head]. Ceria admired the flat landscape, seemingly inhospitable, and Nerhs itself, in the lee of the hill of dirt and stone that provided enough shelter to live in.

A village with no official ruler. Forsaken. Who would live here all their lives? Was Novethur happy, being king of an anthill?

Ceria knew the answer, at least. She was 65…no, was it 66 years old? She was already forgetting to count. Yes, she had passed some of that time in a half-Elven village, but 60 years was still…sixty years. She was older than the rest of her team put together.

She did not always feel it, but when she stood with the [Village Head], she was older. When she was around Luaar or her team, she was younger. She could be both.

“It is a lovely land. Dry. But your village seems happy.”

“Some of us long for greener, richer lands. More levels. We are content here, though, Miss Ceria.”

Novethur nodded. Ceria’s vision wandered the landscape. She exhaled another cold plume of air which vanished into the violet, almost pitch-black night sky dotted with glowing stars of every color.

“That’s what Humans—not you, the ones in Terandria—never got. Half-Elven villages. People think they’re exotic, beautiful places. Some are. I heard there’s an enclave of my people in Chandrar. Clay Earth or something. Tree rot, I don’t know. I heard they were snide and arrogant. All I know is that my village wasn’t impressive. And the Humans always wondered why we didn’t ‘improve’ it or make it fantastic to live in. Mind you, I ran away, but…”

Novethur was listening, fascinated by the half-Elf from a land apart. She glanced up at him and grinned.

“…They never got that it was fine as it was. Some half-Elves lived centuries drawing water from the same well, rather than having an enchanted bucket or water-conjuring spell.”

The [Village Head] nodded. He understood.

There was more comfortable silence, then Novethur spoke.

“Luaar will be unhappy to see you go. He keeps wishing for you to cast a great magic.”

Ceria’s head turned slightly in the darkness. No torches at night; Novethur’s eyes were adjusted to the darkness, and burning wood was a waste. If they needed a [Light] spell, they would have conjured it, but it could attract unwelcome attention from afar.

“…Do you want me to? I’ve been trying not to show off big magic. Children see that and they run off to be adventurers. I’d rather be the goofy chipmunk.”

The Human man snorted.

“His disappointment will only be for a while. Thank you.”

Ceria nodded. That’s what she’d thought. She listened, with all her might, and stretched her magical senses in every direction. But she saw nothing. At last, she murmured.

“…There’s one more thing. I might stay longer. These…[Bandits]…concern me. And that village. You said no one’s appeared from it? To the northeast?”

Novethur’s stomach lurched and he nodded slowly. His head turned in that direction, but it was far out of eyesight.

“No word. Not that we have the [Mages] to communicate magically, but I have heard of [Bandits]. Perhaps worse?”

He looked at her, but the monster-slaying expert only shrugged.

“I can’t guess from just silence. Lots of monsters could do that. People too.”

“Of course.”

The [Cryomancer]’s eyes glinted. She hesitated as she met Novethur’s eyes.

“I can beat bandits. The question is…am I going to bring down more danger on you by staying? I wasn’t sure, but Novethur—I think something is after me. Either my relic or from the Village of the Dead—someone is calling me ‘murderer’. I can hear it. You know what kind of trouble an adventurer can have following them.”

His skin crawled, and not from the cold. Novethur saw Ceria glance back towards the hut where the circlet she had taken from the Putrid One lay.

“Murderer?”

“Yes. I’m not sure what’s causing it. If you want me to leave tomorrow, I will. I’m happy to fight [Bandits]. But my entire team was nearly killed by the thing in the Village of the Dead. And it’s…still alive. We teleported out using a scroll. I—bet there are more of those scrolls.”

Novethur gulped. He looked at Ceria, but she was content to let him wait, gather her thoughts. In the darkness, the man’s face wasn’t really visible to Ceria. She saw him shift, foot to foot, glance back to his small village of huts. Not a hovel; just not rich. A fine place to live if you wanted that.

At last, he bowed his head.

“Tomorrow might be for the best. My apologies, Miss Ceria.”

She nodded, smiling slightly.

“Tomorrow it is.”

She went back to rest after that, and he went back to watching for threats. On the fourth day, Ceria slept.

On the fifth, the [Bandits] came.

—-

“Festering tree slugs! Tree rot! Pisces’ sniffing nose!”

Ceria’s cursing in the quiet of Novethur’s hut made Luaar less worried, somehow. She was tense, glaring, a wand in her skeletal hand, but not afraid.

He was. The villagers were in their homes—all those who didn’t have a bow, or pitchfork or other weapon. His father had a spear and buckler, and was facing down the [Bandits] who had rode up, nearly thirty strong, and whose leader had dismounted and was a hundred paces outside the village and walking closer.

“The first bastard who fires an arrow we will kill! Don’t be stupid, you lot!”

There were only thirty, compared to the hundred people of Nerhs, but in terms of a fighting force, they outnumbered and out-levelled the adults who had actual combat classes. Their leader was a bored-looking Stitch-woman who still contrived to stride forwards warily. She had a spiked shield raised; a curious design.

Ceria was hidden with the others, watching as Luaar’s father faced the [Bandits]. She narrowed her eyes.

“That’s a razorcut design.”

“W-what’s that, Adventurer Ceria?”

Luaar had a cutting knife, and he was ready to fight. He tried to make his voice strong, but it kept shaking. The half-Elf glanced at the boy. Her eyes found the knife, his wide-eyed gaze. She nodded at the [Bandit Leader].

“Spikes around the rim. That pointy thing in the center, see?”

Luaar peeked at the rounded shield, which had jagged ‘leaves’ of metal sticking out around the rim and a central spike, just as Ceria said. The half-Elf groused.

“You run into someone with it, then slap them with your shield if you get an opening. It’s like having a shield and a blade. Nasty weapon. Not a good sign she’s got one.”

“Why?”

Ceria was a Gold-rank, wasn’t she? The half-Elf frowned as she stared at the shield.

“…Because the shield breaks constantly. It’s not enchanted. You always break an edge in combat. That shield-spike? Snaps off like you wouldn’t believe. I had a friend…Gerial…he broke it in six battles running. It cost so much to repair he switched to a regular shield.”

Luaar didn’t see why it mattered. Ceria did.

“They’ve got a [Smith] and the resources to maintain a shield like that. Or it’s new. Could be—but their horses look good. No missing saddles, no wear and tear—this is a professional group of [Bandits]. Damn.”

By all accounts, Ksmvr had taken on a decent group of [Bandits], but every seasoned adventurer knew that the quality of outlaws varied. This group? They stood, laughing, talking, but alert. They’d spread out from the village to avoid area-attack spells, and they weren’t whooping or racing about, trying to terrify the people of Nerhs.

It was a competent shakedown. The bandit’s representative stopped as Novethur moved out of the village’s gates.

“We are prepared to defend ourselves if you attack, Miss. Nerhs is a peaceful village, but we will not let you do what you please.”

The [Village Head]’s grip was firm on the spear. The [Bandit Leader] sized him up. She was chewing something, and looked bored. Nevertheless, her tone was brisk.

“[Village Head], are you? Listen up, man. We’re not going to plunder and destroy your village. There’s no point. Heard about a group hitting settlements to the south and west? That’s us. We’ve ‘raided’ nine places before yours and we have three to go to meet quota, so let’s not waste time.”

Novethur hesitated. Ceria blinked, and her eyes narrowed. The leader gestured at the village.

“We don’t want to have to kill you all, burn your bodies, salt the soil, etcetera, etcetera. It’s dangerous for us, and it completely wastes time and money. There’s nothing to squeeze from rubble and dead bodies. If you run us off, and that’s a big ‘if’, we’ll just come back with twice the numbers and burn this place down. So here’s how it’s going to be. We’ll calculate an appropriate fee, you fork it over, and you don’t see us for a few months.”

“You want us to pay you protection?”

Novethur spluttered. The [Bandit] raised her brows. She was already waving someone out of the throng.

“Protection? No, we’re robbing you. Just…what’s the word? Economically. Sustainable robbing.”

“You expect to steal our wealth and expect us to trust you?”

An angry [Villager] with a bow had a spot on them from a watchtower—the only one in Nerhs. Ceria winced; the woman had a bead on the [Bandit Leader]…and nine [Bandits] would hit her if a firefight broke out. That watchtower was a death trap.

The [Bandit] had the expression of someone who’d had to do this all week. She slapped her chest.

“Listen. Do you have a truth stone? Tell me you do. You can use it on me, or a Skill. I don’t care. I’m an [Enforcement Raider]—not a [Pillager]. Not a [Ravager] or the classes you don’t want to see. You lot have been off the list of villages we regularly visit every few months for a while. We…sort of forgot you existed but someone found a map. Now we’re collecting. You’ll see us every six months. If you see someone who tries to rob you before that, it’s not us and we’ll probably have to hunt them down and make an example.”

“So…this is protection money?”

Novethur was very confused. The [Enforcement Raider] pinched at the bridge of her nose.

“No. This is a robbery. Protection implies we have to protect you, and the boss would hate that. See—there’s a fine distinction. We run off competitors who’d shake you down because we’ll lose our money if you’re having to pay off multiple groups. But we’re not protecting you from monster attacks or anything. Robbery. If you report it to the Adventurer’s Guild, please say ‘robbery’.”

Ceria Springwalker’s jaw was hanging open. This was the strangest raid she’d ever seen. Luaar himself was peeking out at the weird [Bandits], who were in their way, as disappointing as the adventurer. The bandit’s leader was arguing with Novethur and some of the other [Villagers] who had lost some of their fear due to the strange demands.

“No, shut up. This isn’t a negotiation. We kill you if you resist, got it? It’s just that we’re not stealing everything because you’d fight to the death! Dead gods, I hate doing this with new places. Hey! Where’s the coin-counter? Tell them what they owe and it’ll be simpler!”

Someone scurried out of the ranks of [Bandits] with distinctly less of a dangerous look. A woman complained as she carried an abacus.

“I’m not part of this! They make me do this! I am so sorry—”

The [Enforcement Raider] aimed a kick at the woman.

“Shut up. See this? This is our [Corrupted Accountant]. She’ll calculate how much you can afford to give.”

“I’m not corrupt! I’m doing this under duress!”

“It’s just a word. And it is your class. Shut up. I have a headache and we have to go to two more villages after this! Twenty miles away by nightfall and then all the way back for a handful of gold…”

The woman with the abacus was using Skills and peering around the village. Novethur, who had been looking back at Ceria in hiding, and at the [Bandits], started. He stared at the [Enforcement Raider].

“You—you came from the south? Not the north?”

The leader was yawning and checking the [Accountant]’s figures and grimacing. She glanced up as she leaned on the other woman.

“No, no. I know you pulled their baseline income for this year, and that’s not worth the ride out here. I can smell they’ve got actual gold, somehow. Try their income for this month. See? Much higher. Why is that? Figure out what’s different because if we miss out on actual gold—what was that?”

She turned from the discussion of pillaging economics with her underling and frowned at Novethur. He licked his lips.

“You didn’t raid the villages to the north? Two are…the two you’re visiting. Merral-Devith and…?”

“I have no idea. Hey, what’s the name of the village we’re hitting next?”

The [Enforcement Raider] shouted back at her group and turned to face Novethur, suddenly alert.

“What’s wrong with those villages? Someone else hit them?”

He pressed his lips together. The [Enforcement Raider] took a step forwards—reconsidered as the villagers lifted their weapons—and went back to the [Accountant].

“See here. If there’s something to the north we don’t want to run into, tell us now and we’ll give you a discount on the first robbery. What is it? Monsters? Other [Bandits]?”

Novethur was glancing at the other [Villagers]. He was listening to the numbers the [Accountant] was muttering and they were not pleasant ones to imagine paying. On the other hand, she wasn’t aware of the half-Elf hiding in his home. Ceria could gift them enough gold to more than make up for this extortion. So Novethur lowered his spear, signalling for the others to do the same. He made up his mind. Fighting was a last resort, and if they were from where he thought, and if their ‘boss’ was truly…

“We don’t know what came from the north. Two villages have gone silent. We thought it was other [Bandits].”

“Not in our territory. Damn.”

The [Enforcement Raider] cursed. She looked north, and the [Bandits] groaned.

“Boss! Don’t tell me we’re checking it out?”

“That’s our job. Alright. Draw lots for scouting. Hey, idiot, got the sum for us to grab yet? I want a camp set up and scouts—we’re not going into those villages blind. Give them a ten gold discount for the info. Let’s just rob these people, get moving and—”

“No one is robbing anyone.”

A voice rang out from the village. Novethur closed his eyes. Ceria Springwalker started. She looked up from her crouched position. Then she swore.

“Luaar, no—”

The boy was standing outside the hut, furious, holding his knife. He waved it at the [Bandits].

“You can’t steal our gold! You’re—you’re not stealing anything! We have a protector!”

“Luaar, get inside!”

Novethur shouted. His hand tightened on his spear, but the [Enforcement Raider]’s hand was already in the air.

“No one make a stupid move. There’s always the snotty brat. We’re not going to kill him, so weapons down!”

She barked it at Nerhs’ villagers. The [Bandits] hadn’t even moved. Novethur breathed as his head swung back to the [Bandits]. But Luaar was furious. He just saw the [Bandits]. He pointed at the hut where Ceria was hiding.

“We have a protector! Don’t you dare threaten us or a Gold-rank adventurer will kill you all! She’s a powerful ice mage and—ulp—”

That last sound was because someone had tossed a cup at him from inside the hut and smacked the back of Luaar’s head. The boy staggered, whirled around, and looked shocked. No one emerged from the hut, but the reaction on the [Bandits]’ side was dramatic.

The [Enforcement Raider]’s eyes had opened wide at the words ‘Gold-rank adventurer’. By the time Ceria threw the cup, she was halfway back to her group.

“Ambush? It’s a damned adventurer—”

“Hold on! Hold on, it could be a bluff! Scatter! You heard him!”

“[Cryomancer]? Here?”

By the time Ceria emerged, cursing, the [Bandits] had spread out even further, flanking the village around the hills. The [Enforcement Raider] took one look at Ceria and bellowed.

“Back it up! It’s a Goldie!”

The [Bandits] instantly retreated another fifty feet. Ceria groaned. They could tell she was Gold-rank—probably some kind of threat-based Skill. And they weren’t running, which meant they’d fought Gold-ranks before.

She strode towards the gates of the village, but Luaar, dragged inside by one of the [Villagers], did not see what he had been expecting. In his head, the half-Elf faced down the [Bandits], hair blowing in the breeze, wand in her skeletal hand glowing with magic as they fled—or fought and then fled.

In reality? Ceria Springwalker poked her head around the gate, keeping her entire body behind the dirt walls.

“Hey! I’m a Gold-rank adventurer! That’s right! Get lost! Neither of us wants to fight, right?”

The [Enforcement Raider] stared at Ceria’s head as it ducked back. She bellowed back.

“How many of you are there? Were you hired to go after us?”

“That’s a secret! Attack and you’ll find out!”

“The boy said just one. Sounds like a solo adventurer, boss. [Cryomancer] in this dry weather? Good as dead. We don’t even need to call in reinforcements.”

A [Bandit Markswoman] opined. The [Enforcement Raider] nodded.

“You’re alone, Goldie! You heard us! We’re not here to kill anyone! Just let us take our money and go! Don’t make this hard!”

“This village is under my protection!”

A fist was extended and shaken in the air a few times.

“For how long?”

“…What?”

The [Enforcement Raider] took a swig of water to bellow again.

“How long? You run us off and we’ll come back and take vengeance! You kill us and two hundred will be back! Just drop it! It’s too hot to fight!”

She waited as the half-Elf thought about it.

“…How about you skip this village once? Then you can come back in uh, six—four months!”

“Oh, come on.”

The [Enforcement Raider] grumbled. There was a cry of consternation from inside the village. The bandits looked at each other.

“Sort of tempting, boss.”

“If she’s going to wipe us out…you can’t trust adventurers. They’re crazy.”

Their leader rolled her eyes. No one wanted a fight, she was sure. That Gold-rank had been hiding until that brat outed her. She snapped at her companions.

“Our boss will kill us all if we do that. No deal, Goldie! Just let us collect…fourteen gold coins? Hey, that’s not bad. Fourteen gold coins! You can probably pay that yourself!”

It was a reasonable request. There was a pause, then—

“Fourteen gold coins? I’m not paying—back off or I’ll blast you to pieces! Want a taste of this? [Fireball]!”

“Oh shit, scatter—”

The [Enforcement Raider] saw the flash of light from the wand poking around the gate. She screamed an order, but then realized it was clearly a warning shot. The [Fireball] was aimed at the ground fifty feet away from the [Bandits].

A glowing orb of woven fire coalesced with incredible speed and ferocity. A blazing ball of light arced up and landed, whereupon the fiery strands expanded, creating an explosion of flame and light. The [Fireball]—conjured by an expert [Mage], not someone who had to take half a minute or longer that the [Enforcement Raider] was used to among her people—detonated, and the thump of air and roar of sound echoed around off the hill Nerhs stood under.

Bang.

The [Bandits] got up from their cover, or stopped riding away. They looked back at the unfamiliar, weak sound that came from the pocket-sized detonation. The [Enforcement Raider] had seen [Fireballs] with a thirty-foot radius. Average blasts were far smaller. This one?

…Four feet? She stared at the tiny crater in the sand. Ceria Springwalker herself stared at the explosion, and then her wand.

It had been a while since she cast [Fireball], but…the [Arctic Cryomancer] cursed.

“Tree rot. I’m too powerful an ice mage to cast fire spells? But I don’t know [Lightning Bolt]!”

Novethur and the other [Villagers] were staring at Ceria. Luaar’s look of betrayed expectation from inside the hut…Ceria saw the [Bandits] reform. Their leader trotted forwards a dozen feet. Ceria saw them staring at her position. The half-Elf took a breath and then shouted.

“Okay! How about you get lost and come back in two months?”

The half-Elf waved a hand at Novethur as the [Bandits] laughed and jeered. She was asking for something. She pointed at his side. He jerked—looked down, and tossed something over to her.

“Let’s call it twenty gold, Goldie! And don’t think you can bluff us. A [Cryomancer] in Chandrar’s as good as spit unless we’re on the coasts! And we’re far enough inland that—”

The [Enforcement Raider] wasn’t laughing, but she was more confident. She rode forwards, exasperated, wanting to get over this stupid waste of time. Then she jerked. She blurred left in her saddle, swore—

The [Bandits] saw the shard of ice flash past their leader, curve, and fly back the way it had come. The [Enforcement Raider] clapped a hand to her cheek. She had actually dodged the wrong way, and the slashing [Ice Spike] had nearly killed her.

Ceria called back the single [Ice Spike] she’d shot out. The frozen water—from Novethur’s water flask—hovered in the air as the [Bandits] lost their laughter. She poked her head out and a thin layer of frost began to coat the walls of Nerhs’ village and the ground.

“Get. Lost.”

The [Bandits] went silent. They looked at the [Enforcement Raider]. She had been chosen for her job out of the many, really, thousands of people who could have filled her role because she was not a hot-tempered leader who would destroy a village.

Even so. She was a [Raider]. And she had nearly died. True, Ceria had aimed off and it had been an accident the [Enforcement Raider] nearly dodged into the [Ice Spike], but…

The [Enforcement Raider] splashed some healing potion on her hand, slapped it over her cheek, and bent down to talk to the [Bandit Markswoman].

“Get the scroll out and tell the boss we’ve got a problem. Hey! Half-Elf!”

She bellowed back at the village. Ceria Springwalker poked her head out.

“What?”

“Thirty gold!”

“…Go eat tree bark!”

—-

The shouting match had lasted over forty minutes. Two arrows stood out in the gates; Ceria had tossed more spells out at the [Bandits]. Both sides were getting…frustrated.

“It’s thirty gold! You can pay it! I know Gold-ranks are loaded! Don’t be an idiot!”

“You try earning thirty gold! Go to Rhir and eat maggots!”

It was a ridiculous argument. By now, all of Nerhs was for paying the bribe, extortion, robbery, or what have you. But their protector, the Gold-rank adventurer, was shouting at the [Bandits] and escalating the situation.

On the [Bandit]’s side, it was about the same energy. The regulars did not want to tangle with a Gold-rank, even a [Cryomancer] in the desert. One of them nudged the furious [Enforcement Raider].

“Boss. She’s in the area.”

“What?”

The [Enforcement Raider] was dragged out of the shouting match. She paled a bit. The [Bandit] read the words apprehensively.

“She says she’ll swing by and take care of the Gold-rank if you don’t handle it. And whatever’s in the north. But you get to say hi to Roshal’s slave markets.”

The bandit group went silent. That was not an idle threat. Nor was it a fair one; their leader had been doing a good job! But it was clearly not being appreciated by…her.

“That ain’t fair. What’s got her ticked?”

One of the others muttered, but lowered their voice and looked south warily. The lone [Mage] of their group snorted uneasily.

“Don’t you know? She hates [Cryomancers].”

“Oh. Shit.”

—-

Ceria was getting cramped from crouching and her voice hurt from shouting for so long. More than that? Her head hurt. The sunstroke must have been getting back to her. It felt a bit squashed, as if someone were leaning on her brain.

She knew she should take the deal and just leave it be, but she was mad. [Bandits] were still [Bandits], even ones who were ‘reasonable’. She heard the woman shout.

“Listen, you Gold-rank idiot! Just pay up and we’ll be done! Twenty gold! Fourteen! Don’t make this harder, you murderer!”

Ceria poked her head out of cover and shouted back.

“Don’t call me a murderer! I haven’t murdered anyone! Yet! You’re the ones storming around here stealing from innocent people!”

Novethur blinked. The [Villagers] around the gates looked at Ceria.

The [Enforcement Raider], a hundred feet distant, hesitated.

“I didn’t call you a murderer! I said, you murderer, I’m murderer, murderer!”

Ceria Springwalker hesitated. Wait a second. That didn’t sound like a grammatical sentence, even for a [Bandit]. She rubbed at her pointed ears.

“Wait. Did you just say ‘murderer’ twice?”

The [Bandits] exchanged looks. Was the half-Elf cracking up on them? But then…someone in their group muttered.

“Wait a second. I hear it too.”

The standoff suddenly became silent. For everyone but Ceria. She looked up, and it became clear that the [Enforcement Raider] was not speaking to her. She heard the voice. Not in words. In her…head.

“Murderer. MURDERER. MURDERER.”

The same words. Growing louder. Much…much louder than the faint voice she had heard at first. There was no thinking she’d imagined it. Ceria’s stomach clenched. A bell began to sound in her mind.

“Oh no.”

In the bandits’ ranks, the same premonition triggered.

“Boss. My [Dangersense] just went off.”

“Mine too.”

The [Enforcement Raider] swung around. She looked at the village gates apprehensively, but the half-Elf had suddenly gotten to her feet. She wasn’t attacking. She was looking…north. Around. Back into the village.

Was it him? The half-Elf monster? Was it the circlet? Ceria turned, wide-eyed to Novethur, who was hearing it too.

“What is—Ceria, what is that?”

It was after her. Her doom. The half-Elf suddenly didn’t care about the [Bandits].

“I—I have to go. Novethur, if something comes after me, just run. Don’t fight it—”

“What is it?”

The villagers were sensing the danger too. Now it echoed in the air. In all their heads. Wrath. A word.

“MURDERER.”

But who shouted it? It was not the same voice that Ceria remembered, the half-Elf who turned into the rotting giant. His had been a despairing, furious rage, but this was not the same tone. Moreover, he had spoken with an actual voice.

Something was familiar, though. Something—

A terrible trepidation came over Ceria. She knew what this was. She knew, and she did not. Her head turned.

“The north.”

It was the [Bandits] who saw it first. They turned, cried out, loosed arrows—then fled. The [Enforcement Raider] looked at something, hidden by the hill, and screamed a word of terror. They raced away, shouting.

Why? The pieces came to Ceria, slowly. One by one.

Something destroyed villages.

Something called her murderer.

Something hated her. But why? What enemy had the half-Elf in Chandrar? It had not followed her across the sea. It had been here. Waiting. It had sensed her. And its kind had come, crawling, destroying, consuming, as they always did.

They tore out of the soil, scurried across the ground. The first Ceria saw of them was glowing orange bodies, morphing to attack, long biting mouths exploding out of their fleshy forms. Whirling limbs, scything mandibles. All death. The horrors of Rhir.

It came out of her mouth in a whisper. Novethur shouted it and it was taken up as a wail of despair in Nerhs.

“Crelers!”

Then Ceria Springwalker understood. She looked past the first line of crawling bodies, the tiny larval-form Crelers. There were larger shapes, giant pillbug-monsters, some the size of oxen, charging along behind their mindless brood-young.

But the one that knew her, that led this horde? Only one of them had thought. And there it was.

An Adult Creler.

It tore open the earth in a geyser of sand and dirt. It had been tunneling towards her, but now gave up all pretense. A vast body, armored, with no weak internal organs showing, lifted itself out of the ground. A hideous maw exposed glittering interiors, poisonous saliva. A mind that could reach out and talk, could think, raged against Ceria’s own, pressing at her with malice.

Murderer.

It knew. The Adult Creler tore forwards. Ceria Springwalker, who had slain one of the world-ender’s threats before, looked at it. The Humans around her were screaming. Ceria?

She began to laugh. Hysterically? In despair? Luaar didn’t know. Everything in him had changed to terror. The nightmares of Rhir were here! They had destroyed both villages. Even the [Bandits] had fled.

The Adult Creler was leading a brood of hundreds. Ceria’s wild laughter cut off as Novethur grabbed her arm.

“We have to run! Ceria! We must flee—can you slow them?”

She shook her head. Her mind was racing—she looked at the Adult Creler and Novethur seized her arm again. Ceria broke out of her trance.

“There’s no outrunning Crelers. They could down us if we were all on horseback.”

“Then what do we do? Fight?”

Novethur stared at the Crelers. So many crawling baby Crelers, and Juvenile Crelers…an Adult Creler alone could wipe out the village. A baby Creler could easily kill a man. An entire team of Silver-ranks could take on a single Juvenile Creler.

He saw annihilation. Ceria? Her lips moved.

“It’s…a small nest.”

The [Village Head] stared at her in disbelief. But Ceria was counting. The Crelers that had emerged from the Bloodfields had been thousands strong. This was less than three hundred, all told.

“They’ll slaughter us all!”

“Yes.”

That part was true. But Ceria was still watching the Adult Creler. She had it.

“It’s…smaller. A lot smaller. And it’s not spitting anything. I should be dead already.”

Novethur didn’t understand. He looked at the gigantic Adult Creler, larger than any hut. But not nearly as vast as the other one. Its maw opened and closed, but no projectile emerged with the force of an enchanted ballista’s shot.

It wasn’t fully grown. Maybe it was too young. Maybe…there wasn’t enough to eat. The Bloodfields were lush, a veritable feast compared to Chandrar.

It didn’t really matter. It was still an army of Crelers. Far too many to survive. The [Bandits] had known they were dead if caught. Nerhs?

Nerhs was doomed. Novethur slowed. He saw how fast the Crelers were moving. Not at a horse’s gallop, but they would keep going even as horses tired. Without one, and maybe a Skill or potion, they would catch you. And Nerhs had no horses.

“My son. Luaar? Luaar!”

The father looked around. His boy. If it was the end…he stumbled forwards, shouting.

Ceria Springwalker stood at the gates. The voice pressed at her head again, shouting the same word.

Murderer.

“What a funny word. Me?”

A Creler was talking to her. And it said…not ‘killer’. Not ‘enemy’. Murderer. As if she had done something wrong.

It was so funny she started laughing again. The Crelers were beginning to shriek. An alien sound that overrode the screams of Nerhs’ villagers. Ceria looked around.

We’re all in so much trouble.

The dirt walls of the village, the hill? This was not The Wandering Inn. The walls could keep out lesser monsters, the Humans with bows and spears could fight off even an angry beast. Not Crelers. They’d swarm over the walls, insanely hard to kill, and tear apart anything not in full plate armor. The Juvenile Crelers and Adult would tear apart even Gold-rank defenses.

In their way stood only Ceria. Ceria Springwalker. She walked back through the village, seeing people running out the far gate.

“No. You’ll die out there.”

She muttered. It was true. They would never survive on the run. That Adult Creler was too fast. If they had to fight…

“[Ice Wall].”

Nothing happened. Ceria stared at her wand. No…water. But it had worked on the Adult Creler before. She looked around.

“Water.”

—-

“Stick together! With me! With me! Go to the adventurer! Don’t run, they’ll catch us in the open! We have to hold them back!”

Novethur was screaming, holding Luaar. He saw half of Nerhs in a blind panic. It was not their fault. This? This was death. Yet his words were the only thing to cling to instead of despair.

The Gold-rank adventurer. She was alone. She was in the wrong climate for her magic. But if there was anything to hope for…

Luaar knew they were dead. He felt his father carrying him, like he was a little boy. Novethur was rallying most of the village behind him, running, spear clutched in his other hand. As if it would stop them. Luaar knew the stories. Crelers were death. Why had they come here? It was not supposed to be this way.

And Ceria was not going to stop them. Not her. Not…the half-Elf who ate Yellats. Luaar was afraid to look over the huts and walls of Nerhs, to see that roiling tide of limbs coming their way. If he didn’t look, maybe they’d live. Maybe it would be a dream.

“Ceria! Ceria Springwalker! Where are you?”

Had she fled? The villagers followed Novethur as he ran down the main street. They found the half-Elf. She was standing in front of something.

The well. The village’s only well, with the bucket hanging there, waiting to be pulled up. She was staring down. Down into the well. It was hard work to pull water up from there, and it was sometimes brackish. There was a purification stone in the bottom, but it wasn’t perfectly working.

“Adventurer Ceria. Please…”

Novethur stopped. Ceria looked back. The silly half-Elf who ate Yellats, laughed, couldn’t even cast [Fireball]…Luaar’s despairing look turned to confusion.

The air…was shimmering. Ceria Springwalker’s pale eyes were glowing. Her skeletal hand, holding the birch wand, was aimed down into the darkness. There was ice coating the stones of the well.

She looked at the villagers of Nerhs. The [Arctic Cryomancer] smiled.

“Miss Ceria. Can you save us?”

Novethur panted. Ceria glanced down into the well. It was the village’s lifeblood. Without it—Nerhs would surely end. You could not live without water. That was why her magic had so little power here. There was just no…water.

She looked up. Luaar saw Ceria’s hand slowly rise. He heard a crack as the stones forming the well’s basin broke from the cold. Then saw something moving upwards.

A pillar of ice. It climbed out of the well, breaking through the simple roof. A sheer wall of water.

All the water in the well. It rose higher, and began to split. Nerhs’ people looked up. Ceria looked at all the water in Nerhs. All she had available to her. She turned to Novethur, and Luaar. The boy looked at the half-Elf and she gave him a wild, insane grin.

“I can try. Stand behind me.”

—-

The Crelers swarmed towards the open gates of the village. They were hungry. There was never enough to eat. And eat they would, until nothing was left in this world.

But they were also angry. They hated everything. They hated all things. But they hated what lay in this village most of all.

Murderer. Something had murdered one of them. That knowledge made them even hungrier. The Crelers could think. They could tell the village’s walls would never stop them.

The oldest of them had confidence that the single murderer would die. It had sensed no great power from the single murderer; a disturbing amount of it from something within the village the closer it drew, but no terrifying magical aura from afar.

The first Crelers were within a hundred feet of the village when something coated the walls. It made the Adult slow. Temperature was just another component it could sense along with magic. And this was visible to all.

Was that…ice? Something foreign to most parts of Chandrar swept upwards, covering Nerhs’ simple dirt walls. Fortifying them. Creating a solid, vertical wall.

Ice. It frosted the huts, created ramps, trenches, interior walls as it rose higher in the center of the village. The Crelers slowed. How was this happening? Even Crelers needed water, and there was so precious little of it.

The [Cryomancer]. She was tapping into the groundwater of Nerhs. A lifetime’s supply. A village died as the water funneled out of it, and this was a dry land. So dry and arid because all the water was funneled elsewhere by other magics.

But let Nerhs die so this fortress could live. Ceria’s lips moved. She was rising higher, on a dais of ice.

[Ice Wall]. That was her spell. [Glaciersheet Ice]. [Frozen Quickshape]. [Adept Iceform]. She did not need any of these Skills; they just made her faster, made the ice tougher.

But her master had taught her well. The basic spell was being used to form nigh-vertical ramps. Walls which would slow the Crelers down, some already ten feet thick and growing. She had to be careful with the water she had. She would call it back as they broke through layer after layer, reinforcing the heart.

Yet the design was already in place. Look. The Adult Creler visibly hesitated as it saw a fortification emerge, rounded layers of defense. From any angle, it was a nightmare for infantry to attack. A frozen bastion.

Ceria had seen it once before. She had made it once before, in a time like this. Never completely. She did not yet know the spell, but she knew exactly how it should look. How strong it should be.

After all. Her master was Illphres, the [Ice Mage] of Wistram. And her great spell had been—

“[Fortress of the Ice Queen].”

The half-Elf’s lips moved. It was not that spell. Not yet. Her ice was too weak. It could melt, even now. It was not strong enough.

But it was close. The villagers of Nerhs were staring. Luaar and his father looked at Ceria.

“This is—”

“There.”

Ceria pointed. She had taken their hut, frozen a world of ice around it and two more. In the very center of her castle, a ramp opened.

“Get down there. Hide. I have to battle them from up here.”

She was on a parapet of ice. Ceria was breathing hard, but she hadn’t even begun the battle yet. She raised her wand.

[Ice Lance]. The first oversized projectile formed out of the ice she was standing on. A jagged chunk of it rotated, turned into a spire of frozen death, and shot forwards. Ceria saw three Crelers vanish, crushed more than pierced by the impact. She raised her hand, and the ice began to float back to her.

She could not waste a drop. She only realized Novethur was still standing there after a second. Ceria glanced over her shoulder.

“I can’t protect you unless you’re there. If the ice breaks—run. I’ll buy you all the time I can.”

She didn’t waste time arguing, if there was anything else he actually said. Ceria turned, and cast the spell again.

“[Ice Lance]. [Ice Lance]. [Ice Lance].”

Some people—Pisces—believed you should have variety in your spells. In a [Mage] battle, that was true. But this? All you needed to do was kill Crelers.

Last time, [Ice Spike] had only been able to nail baby ones, and not even kill them. This time—Ceria watched as the gigantic stalactites pulverized the little ones, turning them into twitching trails of orange paste and limbs.

They reached the walls by the time she realized the villagers had gone. Below her, they were in the huts. Ceria closed the ice ramp—added airholes from the south side and weakened the ice there. If they needed to, they could break out that way.

Part of Ceria, the part not casting spells, aiming, knocking down the Crelers already swarming over the first layer of walls, knew the Crelers would get to the villagers of Nerhs. Hence her placing them at the center of her fortifications.

They could get through even my best [Ice Wall] in time. They can melt through the ice, bite through it. She had to keep them back.

The Crelers, nearly three dozen, were already through the inviting, open gates. They charged down a narrow corridor of ice between two ten-foot-high [Ice Walls]. Such an inviting passage. Ceria focused on them.

The two [Ice Walls] flexed, and both walls slowly rammed together. The Crelers saw it coming and tried to scrabble up the sides of the walls out of danger. Two made it—Ceria picked them off with rapid-fire [Ice Spikes]. The rest?

They tried to glow, to heat up and melt the ice at the cost of their own energy. Too slow; the ice crushed them. There was a scream from their kin, who backed away from other kill-zones.

“Idiots.”

If the ice breaks, I’m dead. She hadn’t told that to Novethur. He didn’t need to be told. If the ice broke, he’d try to escape. Smart man.

“[Frost Arrows]. [Ray of Frost]!”

Ceria aimed for a Juvenile Creler trying to ram through one of her walls. As it broke through, she saw the deadly arrows made of ice bounce off its armor. The ray of frost?

Well, it chilled the Creler, and froze another one—for seconds. Then they just warmed up. Ceria nodded.

“[Ice Lance].”

She sent the Juvenile Creler reeling backwards so hard it fell onto its back, exposing its weak underbelly. Before it could twist over, Ceria hammered it with [Ice Spikes]. It flipped over, but she saw it leaking its internals. Still, it came on.

Crushing them is the only way to make sure they’re dead. Ceria saw the Adult Creler stalking around her fortress. Looking for a weak point? She hadn’t even tried to kill it.

The half-Elf watched the Crelers break through the first walls of the village. They smashed the ice down, and their claws carried them up the frozen ice with dismaying ease. However—she raised another [Ice Wall] in the faces of a group of Crelers. As they swarmed up it, she tipped the wall and it fell forwards, knocking them down and crushing their comrades.

[Cryomancer]. What had Illphres always said? Oh, yes. ‘We’re not rapid-cast [Mages]. Go apprentice yourself to Amerys if you want to just blast things. We control our battlefields.’

That was what Ceria was doing now. She was creating kill-zones, funneling the Crelers through, squishing them, hitting them with [Ice Lances].

Running out of water.

Something was wrong. Ceria tried to lift a puddle of orange and melting ice. Creler blood mixed with the water of Nerhs’ well and she…couldn’t…pull it up. Not with ice magic alone.

It’s blood, not water. She didn’t know how to control it. Ceria hissed; she took apart one of the broken walls to pound at a Juvenile Creler trying to come up a wall. She thought she heard a note of triumph in her head.

Murderer.

Ceria was getting awfully tired of that voice. She turned and saw it.

The Adult Creler was stalking through a ruined wall, after the vanguard of its kin. It had offered them up to break through and now, it was scuttling forwards. It rammed into her third layer of [Ice Walls] and exploded through. Ceria threw up her arms and a thin [Ice Wall] shielded her tower from the spray of shrapnel. She aimed down.

“[Ice Lance]! Die, damn it!”

The jagged spear of ice shot downwards and…cracked on the Adult Creler’s armor. It was young. But—Ceria’s lips twisted.

“Yeah. I needed Yvlon.”

Slowly, her fingers reached down for something hanging on her belt. She aimed at the Crelers she could kill and a Juvenile Creler collapsed as the Adult clawed at a second wall. Ceria slowly grasped the circlet hanging there.

Not yet.

—-

She stood on the fortress of ice. The smallest Crelers made their way up to her, but found she had encased herself in a clear wall of ice that she could fight from. She blasted them off with spells as they gnawed on it. She tried to slow the giant Creler, as spells flashed out around her.

The ice available to her was…diminishing. The more it ran together with Creler blood, the less she had. She heard the beating voice in her head.

Murderermurderermurderermurd—

The half-Elf laughed. She had started laughing. Her robes whipped around her. Despite the midday heat, her tower was frozen solid.

Running out of ice. She said something then. A reminder. Below her, Nerhs’ people stared at the glowing bodies pressing themselves against the walls shielding them. Luaar heard something.

“Hell’s Wardens.”

The half-Elf shouted it down from her tower. She dragged a chunk of ice into the air and sent it crashing down. Something bored through the ice and leapt at her. It met frozen armor; a skeletal hand. She tossed it out of the tower and hit it mid-air with a spike of frozen water.

“Hell’s Wardens!”

They were just words. But the villagers of Nerhs looked up. The [Cryomancer] rained down ice—now lightning spells that sent limbs jerking spastically. She shouted it back at the thing that called her ‘murderer’. A title from Rhir. Luaar, Novethur, looked up.

Was she really that? The title even Gold-rank adventurers acknowledged? She shouted it down at the monsters.

“Hell’s Wardens! Hell’s Wardens! Hear that you little pieces of tree crap? Hell’s Wardens! Crelerbane! HELL’S WARDENS. HELL’S—”

She bit her tongue. Ceria spat out some blood and spittle. She conjured some ice out of the walls protecting her and hit another Creler mid-leap.

“Hell’s Warden.”

Then she ran out of water. There was ice left, but all of it was in the walls. Ceria watched as Crelers clung to the outsides, bodies glowing. Anything melted she desperately threw into regrowing her protections.

No more water. And her mana was too low to cast other spells, even if she could have used [Fireball].

The Adult Creler was just watching. She had killed the Juvenile Crelers, and it was wary. It was letting the remaining small ones eat towards her. They did have a survival instinct.

“Too bad I’m out of tricks.”

Ceria’s flash of anger had lasted all of six minutes. She pressed her hands to the ice, bare feet of protection from a scratching flurry of claws, willing it to freeze. Her breath was an icy mist.

She couldn’t rage. She wanted to. She wanted to pull from that reservoir like Yvlon had, keep fighting even if they tore off her arms. Ceria couldn’t.

“I…can’t even tell if they’re alive.”

She muttered. Death by Crelers. Here. There was something ironic about that. Maybe? Her energy was fading. She stared at a glowing abdomen. Were those eggs inside the one coming for her?

Her hand crept down to the circlet. Her [Dangersense]…grew louder. Ceria grinned.

“Nobody knows what will happen next. Do you think I’m scared?”

The Adult Creler was watching her. No, watching the circlet. She saw it draw back when she lifted it. It knew.

“I have lost my team twice. I’ll do it. I’m crazy.”

She felt her [Dangersense] telling her what would happen if she put it on. Mysterious artifacts…Ceria gritted her teeth. Something was wrong. She had to do something.

“It’s hard. Angry. Hard to…”

Water. Water, if only Nerhs had more water. If only she was a [Bloodmage]. Let’s teach yourself blood magic now. Good idea. Good…

Stupid. Someone was whispering in her ears. Ceria swayed. No, wait a second. She was having a vision. A memory? A delusion? What was supposed to happen?

Someone had a grip on her ear and was twisting it hard. Are you stupid? What kind of self-respecting [Ice Mage] learns blood magic? Go change your class if you’re going to do that.

Who would say that? Ah. Yes.

Illphres. Wouldn’t she say…Ceria felt the ice warming. Not enough material to keep between her and the Creler.

That’s the problem. You’re thinking the wrong way. Water? Are you a [Hydromancer]? Does your magic begin and end with water, you idiotic appentice?

“No, master. But give me a hint?”

The half-Elf looked around. And then it came to her. Oh. Of course. She looked down at her hands. One flesh and blood, one skeletal. When she had lost that hand, had she called only on the power of ice made manifest? What was their class? Illphres loomed in her vision.

“Cold, Master. Cold. It’s…cold.”

Ceria recalled her latest Skill. Not [Battlefield of the Frozen World]. She didn’t even have the water to conjure it. Not [Lesser Frost Elemental]. Those were spells that required something. But her nature was cold.

“[Aura of Rime]. [Aura: Distant Manipulation].”

She stood there, without the rage that her friend had. Her brave little protégé had all the courage and loyalty, more than she could have. She was not as clever as he was, or as gifted. And perhaps that was fine. None of these things lasted forever.

Speed drained away. Anger faded. Energy left you.

All things were lost in time. Cleverness failed.

The half-Elf stopped moving. Her hands were locked against the frozen ice, staring at the burrowing shape coming towards her. There was nothing left. She stopped moving. Stopped casting magic. She was just…

Just…still. A little void in her soul, which Ceria kept closed. Into it she spilled her worry, her fear, her anger. Until naught remained.

What must be done was simple. The truth was cold. It was true, she did not want to die. She was afraid. But…in time…

Even fear began to freeze.

The burrowing Creler’s movements began to slow. The glow in its body…began to dim.

The other Crelers felt it. They felt something….painful…engulf them. What? The ice? The ice was cold, but they had infested even frozen lands. What was this? It was—

Cold. So cold it leeched even their burning heat from their limbs. So cold that…the little Creler was struggling. Uncomprehending. But it dimmed. Something was…stealing the heat. That damned murderer. She was taking.

“It’s cold, isn’t it?”

In her tower of ice, a body stopped moving. Two pale eyes stared at a frozen shape. Lips moved upwards.

It was not a malicious smile. It was not triumphant. It was a frozen gesture. Like her master’s face.

A mask of ice. Slowly, two pale eyes turned left. Another body began to slow. The heat of life began to fade away.

Desperately, the others tried to burrow faster. The ice wasn’t reforming. It didn’t need to. This—this was just temperature. They froze, feet from her, then inches. Too cold. The closer they got—

The Adult Creler stared up at her. This was not magic it knew. This was not…a spell. They locked gazes, and it began to climb up the tower, biting, tearing, now feeling a cold reaching for its soul.

But it had been made to resist magic! To be supreme! The end of all things! This was not fair! This was…

Ceria Springwalker watched the last Creler advance, dreamily. She did not move. To move was to have energy. To be the opposite of what she had to become. This was the truth at the heart of it all. Her…strength.

Of the four of them. She was not the most cunning. Bravest. Most adaptable. Certainly not the strongest. Perhaps, though, it was one thing she had more than anything else.

Tenacity. She had looked death in the eyes once before. Just like this. A horde of undead. Terror. Two glowing ruby eyes. She had possessed the will to do what had to be done.

Yes, come closer. Her skeletal hand rose, slowly. A scything maw was opening and closing. A mind beat at hers, but it froze from sheer contact. Was this what her master saw? The truth, waiting for her? She wasn’t even close, but she saw it.

It was…cold. So cold she had stopped shivering. So cold it was beginning to feel warm. For her. She had thought she would never feel cold again. Now she knew.

I will lead us into the frozen land, together. What lies there?

Something was afraid. Something saw her skeletal hand. Her smile.

Look at what I gave up last time.

To kill you, I will do whatever it takes. My arrogant friend is clever enough to best you. My young protégé is brave enough to risk everything for victory for us. My brave sister will take you to the grave no matter the cost to herself.

I? I am willing to see the cost clearly and pay it, time and time again.

It was clawing closer. A few feet left. She could feel the vibrations. Hear the malicious thoughts. Alas, something thought.

Not cold enough. Not yet, to kill with temperature alone. Not without water. A bit longer. A bit colder…

Her hand slowly rose. With glacial speed. With inevitability. The circlet flashed.

“Let’s find out, together.”

The monster was coming. If it could have run, if there were any other way but her death, it would have. Because it was afraid.

—-

What did you see? How did you see them?

The boy saw the horrors of hell stop moving. He heard cheers, gasps, and saw the last great monster coming. Clawing over his head through the transparent ice soaked with gore.

He had no eyes for it. Only her. He had thought she was such a letdown at first. Even until the last hour, he had been disappointed. Now he saw Ceria Springwalker, the adventurer he had longed to see in her full might and glory, standing, facing the slowing Adult Creler, whose limbs were lined with frost, shrieking at her.

In that moment, he no longer wanted to be an adventurer. He saw Ceria smiling widely, and saw the empty oblivion in her eyes. Just how far she was willing to go to rid the world of that…that thing.

Luaar understood something then. A critical thing he hadn’t understood.

She was no hero. This was no glorious hour. It was a bitter battle to be won at any cost.

She was an adventurer.

What did you see when you saw that? A village frozen in silence. An entire nest of Crelers, frozen, pulped by walls of ice. Destroyed by a single [Mage] in a land completely against her magic. In a battle nearly an hour long, she stood in the center of a fortress that refused to break.

[Ice Mage]. [Cryomancer].

Someone slowed. A group of riders pointed, readying themselves. But the first among them, their leader, stopped. Her eyes were only on the obscured figure amid that familiar…familiar spell. Yet it was impossible. Wasn’t it?

“It can’t be. Illphres?”

—-

Nearly. She nearly won. But the first claw broke through the ice.

“Alas.”

Ceria sighed. The circlet gleamed as she lowered it onto her head. She felt it touch the very top of her hair, and then a voice whispered in her ears.

“Freeze it. Incoming.”

Her head turned, slowly, slowly. With the weight of that cold world she invoked. What? Who was speaking? What was falling in a huge orb, nigh as vast as Nerhs itself? Was that—

Water.

The bomb of water engulfed everything in a sudden, aquatic world. The explosion of the orb of water landing on the village obliterated almost everything in a titanic burst of sound.

Ceria was knocked off her perch in the impromptu fortress, flailing, disoriented, and drowning. To be fair, so was the Adult Creler. It was more confused than debilitated, however; it began to flail and twist its body through the water.

It had never swum, but it was drawing on ingrained knowledge, learning how to propel itself with deadly speed. It whirled, looking for its terrifying foe. What was this water doing here? How had—?

It spotted her too late. A half-Elf, sitting in a chunk of ice. She had frozen herself. The Adult Creler began to try to swim at her, screaming. No, no—!

The water froze. It froze around both of them, so fast it didn’t even let the water flow away. The Creler tried to escape. It tried to heat up, but now it was too slow.

Too slow to break through as the numbing cold, the hoarfrost beginning to engulf it. The movements of the monster slowed. The glowing light began to fade. It sat there, in the ice, with the half-Elf. How?

Neither of them knew how. But in time, the half-Elf looked down. The ice around her unfroze. She gasped, and dropped out of the frozen sculpture.

Onto the sand and ground. Amid the living, warm people, who reached out to hug her, touch her, and recoiled at the freezing temperature. She looked up at the people of Nerhs, those who had fled…

And the [Enforcement Raider] and a far larger band of armed, rough figures. A palanquin and a figure staring at the Adult Creler there.

All of it was meaningless to the thing encased in ice. It was dying. But not dead. The [Cryomancer] had frozen it, but so long as it was only this cold—it would eventually thaw. Fool. Fool! The gleeful little thought was so tiny that no one would have even sensed the life with a spell. But it was there.

It waited, as the half-Elf struggled to her feet, was hugged by a little boy, talked to the others, warily faced a warrior with a shield, and pointed at it. Then—as those two cold eyes looked upwards.

The murderer tilted her head back. And the Adult Creler heard something.

I know you’re still alive.

A cold little thought.

—-

The limbs jerked. The ‘dead’ Adult Creler cracked the ice and began to glow. Ceria Springwalker heard the [Bandits] and people of Nerhs shout and run backwards. But she was already aiming her wand upwards.

Die. I know you have to die. Until you’re nothing but ash, I won’t rest! Until the ice turns you to powder.

She didn’t know if she had the magic left, but it would die. She heard a frantic thought pushing at her head. The ice was thawing. She tried to keep it frozen, but was someone…taking the cold away?

Murderer—wait—

“Enough. Stop freezing it. Let me.”

A voice filled with disgust and imperious wrath stopped Ceria. A hand knocked her away. The half-Elf felt power, swirling like the tides of a vast, unseen ocean, move past her. She turned.

A woman with her own wand aimed it up. She had been lounging on the palanquin, her robes askew, rippling like the liquid water they were. Her eyes, the irises swirling as if liquid themselves, narrowed, and a sun-darkened hand rose. Painted nails, like waves, curled around an azure wand of lapis lazuli.

Then the Siren of Savere spoke.

“[Water Pressure — Dark Straits]. [Elven Concentration]. [Temporary Holding: Water]. Unleash ten thousand pounds. [Sphere of Water]. [Pinpoint Spell: Needle’s Focus]…”

A roar of water. Ceria Springwalker looked up as a vortex of clear water unleashed itself from out of empty space. Novethur looked up as more water than he had ever glimpsed in his life, the water siphoned from this dry land, the bounty of the Kingdom of Bandits, Savere, formed in a vast, swirling orb over the Siren’s head. Then she finally cast the spell, as the wriggling Adult Creler tried to swim out of the water prison.

“[Water Jet].”

A needle of compressed water shot out, through the tip of her wand. Siphoned out of the water source overhead. Ten thousand pounds of water, accelerated, compressed, into a beam of force.

The Tier 1 spell blasted a hole through the Creler’s internals, even the armor. It sawed through everything, even shooting out the other side of the water prison spell.

It was not a quick death. Ceria heard something screaming. The Siren never relented, never sped up. She cut the Adult Creler in half, slowly, drawing on more water, sawing through the captive, twisting shape, again and again, until it floated in pieces. Then, and only then, did she collapse the binding prison.

The woman turned away. Her accompanying force of hundreds of [Bandits] and [Raiders] stared at the bloody orange water filling the village of Nerhs. The woman snapped at the [Enforcement Raider].

“Dispose of the water. It’s contaminated. Not even worth trying to purify. Burn everything that remains until it’s ash. Bodies, even parts where they fell. If one Creler emerges here in a month, I’ll hang all of you.”

They bowed, pale-faced. Ceria looked at them. [Bandits]. Then at the woman. She felt like she should know who this was.

“Uh. Uh…”

The wet, drenched, shivering half-Elf kept repeating herself as the Siren wrinkled her nose. The other [Bandits] looked apprehensive. [Cryomancer] and an adventurer. But the Siren did not immediately vent her famous pique. She frowned at Ceria.

“You are not Illphres. But that was her spell. [Fortress of the Ice Queen], exactly like she cast it. And only she cast it that way. That ice armor was her old spell, too.”

Ceria Springwalker blinked. Illphres? She met the deep blue-green gaze, the suspicious—curious—scowl. The words left her mouth before she could think. Gone was the frozen mage. But the Siren had seen it.

Just like her master.

“Illphres? I’m her last apprentice. Who are you? Also—got a handkerchief? I have water in my nose.”

The Siren’s eyes widened. She looked at Ceria, disbelieving, and nearly raised her wand then and there. Then she remembered. She lowered the wand and told Ceria.

The half-Elf sneezed.

“Great. [Bandits].”

That was how she met her master’s old friend. Which came as a shock to Ceria. Frankly…

She hadn’t thought Illphres had any friends.

8.37 H

Do you like The Wandering Inn? How about…in French? The official translation of L’Auberge Vagabonde is up, as well as a Patreon! If you know anyone who’s been holding off because English sucks, recommend it to them!

That’s right. We’re going international! I mean…someone else is. I don’t speak French. Or write it. I assume this is in French. It could all be an elaborate joke. How do you know Google Translate translates accurately?

https://aubergevagabonde.wordpress.com/

https://www.patreon.com/aubergevagabonde

The earth felt no different under Orjin of Pomle’s feet as he jogged around the natural canyon, a natural shelter from dust storms and wind that held a small oasis.

The Strongest of Pomle was bare-chested. He wore little clothing, and that had been mostly due to a lack of any clothing to begin with. When he had needed it, he had traded for garments, patched up holes, or paid the few people who could work with needles to fix it for him.

It was a problem to be dealt with, not a desire or focus of his life. These days, he could have adorned himself in a number of raiments.

He stayed light. Excess clothing in Chandrar’s punishing heat could be a training in and of itself, but what was the point of rich cloth that would soon tear or degrade? His dark skin wouldn’t burn under the sun, anyways. Not like some of the new arrivals to Pomle. Or her.

Apparently, scales could ‘sunburn’ and flake off, just like skin. Orjin thought of her. Some now thought of that Drake as the most dangerous threat to Pomle’s existence, and theirs was a tiny nation of [Martial Artists] who had once fought every kingdom and empire for hundreds of miles around to retain their independence.

Orjin could see why. He was Strongest of Pomle, a simple title that meant a lot and a little. In other times, it just meant he had the unenvious task of quelling arguments between the warriors of Pomle, making decisions if need be, and leading the defense against larger threats and monsters. It was not necessarily a position many wanted.

For his entire life, he had trained here, growing in levels, skill, and Skills, learning different styles of fighting, and…well, being what Pomle was. A [Martial Artist], ever in training. Some came to improve for a while. Others left to hone their strength. Since its inception, this is how Pomle had been.

She had changed everything. Orjin moved quickly, stepping lightly across the sand. There was a trick to it; if you had a lightfoot Skill, you could race about as if you had solid ground to push off from. For Orjin and those without, you needed to know how to get a firm foothold beneath the tenuous grains of sand, to push, pivot, and fight properly.

The sand burning his bare feet would have been a concern if Orjin were twenty years younger. He had been plagued by burning his feet when the sun was out when he was a child; now if there was pain, he would ignore it or treat it as a lesson for not moving at the right speed.

He had a pace a camel would envy, at any rate, surging up and down the dunes, stopping along a partially-uncovered road, even hopping onto a stone chunk buried in the sands to stare about.

“It’s all the same.”

The man muttered to himself. Everything was as he remembered it—in that he never bothered to remember the shifting landscape around Pomle. It straddled the Great Desert, Zeikhal, which dominated the center of Chandrar. There were places to live deep inland, but the most prosperous nations tended towards the coasts.

Nothing was different about this area. And yet…it was. Somehow, it was. If he had not known, would he have sensed it? Orjin wondered.

All the light touched…literally…was Pomle’s. From the canyon, to as far as Orjin could see, until the land rose in an incline to the north. Pomle’s.

To be clear, it had not been a week ago. Pomle was a small nation whose independence wasn’t even recognized on paper by most nations; they claimed only the canyon, and even then, anyone was free to come and go as long as they didn’t make trouble. The ‘Peace of Pomle’ was so famous that other nations even came to make diplomatic treaties on this neutral ground.

Yet now, there was a definitive border of Pomle’s. She had marked it out with a stick, and arranged for a [Cartographer] to draw a new map with the border. She had made this happen.

“Salii.”

——

The greatest [Secretary] the world had ever seen—according to her—was relaxing under a palm tree. She wasn’t stupid enough to sit under one with an actual fruit that could kill you if it fell; she was drinking from a flask of water, and had a comfy rocking chair with Shockwool padding.

Orjin eyed the chair. It was new. The Shockwool, a product of the baahing Shockwoolies, was a new product of Pomle’s. The little town of mud-brick houses? New.

“You expanded Pomle again, Salii?”

“It was cheap, Orjin. No one wants the land around us. I made a few [Memos], invested the money from the pit fights…that’s right. You told me I could do ‘whatever I wanted’. So I did.”

Salii fluttered her eyes at Orjin. He grunted. She was mocking him. He debated kicking her chair into the oasis she was relaxing next to. A single magical stone was embedded in the oasis, sucking water out of the atmosphere and dribbling it into the pond. The edges, usually a crumbling mess of dirt eroding inwards, were now shored up with stone, and everyone was reminded to keep trash well clear of the oasis.

Not that the [Martial Artists] had ever tossed dirty things in. But Orjin recalled some sickness from when a few would bathe injuries or just jump in after months of being dirty. You learned to boil the water fast.

New, new, new. The animal pens? New. The grass being cultivated in the first fertile patch of soil so the animals could graze? New. Permanent houses for the refugees of Tiqr and growing number of travellers? New.

Orjin’s scowl and folded arms made Salii look up after a second. She smiled brightly.

“Do you have any objections, Strongest of Pomle? I’m here to serve. I am Pomle’s [Secretary]. Just say the word.”

The Strongest of Pomle stared at her. He stared over his shoulder at the new lands that Pomle owned. He really thought about kicking her chair over.

Without a word, Orjin walked off. Salii grinned—then sighed and settled back, fanning herself with her clipboard.

That had been emblematic of their last two dozen encounters, over as many days. A little story of Pomle’s unexpected growth. The breaking point was not the new lands.

It was not the fighting pits, which had worldwide acclaim. It was not the stone homes, the trading post set up, or even the permanent [Umbrella of Shade] spell in one corner of the canyon.

The last straw was…healing potions.

——

It was getting old to Orjin as well. And to be fair, the [Martial Artists] had stopped demanding he do something about Salii with every new thing. They’d been remarkably patient. A few eyes had twitched at the [Umbrella of Shade] spell, but the non-warriors did need a place to relax in the shade, and it was nice and cool.

The stone homes the [Geomancer] put up were permanent, but you didn’t have to live in them. The grazing pastures for the animals didn’t take that much water, and the animals themselves were…animals. A trading bazaar let [Traders] stay, and you didn’t have to go near them.

When they finally snapped, it was at healing potions. Namely, as Orjin understood it, a new group of [Martial Artists] now training alongside their peers, but healing any wounds taken in sparring, chugging down a stamina potion, and generally, buying things.

Like clothing. Perhaps, rather than practice punches and kicks and steps bare-chested in the sun, some fairer-skinned [Martial Artist] decided to buy a vest and trousers? All okay. And maybe you did have potions for emergencies; everyone had some for bad injuries. Fine…fine…

“…But an enchanted Vest of Cooling and six stamina potions? They’re sleeping in the new homes, on padded beds, and they have a [Cook] making them breakfast, lunch, and dinner! They have their clothes washed by a [Washer], and now there’s a [Masseuse]!”

Salthorn shouted. The [Grappling Master], a Selphid with a worn-out body amazingly still functional, was gesturing at some embarrassed [Martial Artists]. Orjin eyed them.

They were not, as you might think, new to Pomle. Rather, they were fairly experienced. Not masters, but some were among the higher levels in Pomle. Which is why they had the money for all this.

“They did pay for everything, Master Salthorn. We have [Cooks], [Laundry Washers], and yes, someone is offering massage-services. They’re quite good. You feel relaxed afterwards. Isn’t that part of martial arts?”

Salii entertained the angry [Martial Artists] near her home, which had been expanded from a place in the shade to a hut, to a stone building she could work out of. Salthorn’s glare was almost a physical attack.

“Don’t play games with us, Salii. You’ve taken all the challenge out of living in Pomle!”

“I took nothing. They’re paying for all this with the money they’ve earned. That’s how money works. You see, you pay money, and then…”

“They won that in your pit fighting!”

That was what people called it. Salii’s pits…until they realized that was a bad name. But the underground gambling matches had a life of their own. People from nations as far off as Rhir and Terandria bet vast sums of gold on who would win in Pomle’s matches.

There was an appeal, even though gladiatorial arenas and other institutions had scrambled to replicate Salii’s idea—which she had gotten from Iratze, the strange young man and his group with unique fighting styles—but Pomle had still retained most of the viewers. Mainly because Pomle had so many diverse species, warriors, and styles that it was never predictable.

Orjin was about to step in when Salii sighed and dropped her teasing. She looked at the group of thirty [Martial Artists], many of whom would probably repeat the contents of the argument to their friends and associates if it came to anything.

“Let’s be clear, Salthorn. You’re not angry about healing potions or potions at all, are you? If they’re not used to undo the effects of muscle training—you have your non-Selphid apprentices use them. It’s not that.”

The Selphid grunted.

“No. It’s the money. It’s…you making Pomle easy. We’ve all seen what’s been done and the Strongest hasn’t stopped you because a lot was for them.”

She nodded at the non-warriors, the people of Tiqr, travellers, who had come during the war. Orjin saw them watching the standoff anxiously. However, Salthorn was noticeably not one of Pomle’s warriors who was annoyed by the refugees who had settled here. She was just exasperated about the outcome. She closed her eyes—the one that still was in its socket, rather—and a little flash of orange revealed her true ‘eye’ in the hollow socket of the other.

“Pomle was a place for us to become strong because it afforded little opportunity for anything else. Now—young [Martial Artists] can make a small fortune if they fight and win in your betting pit. They dream of luxuries where once the harshness of the oasis drove away all but those who were truly dedicated.”

“So?”

Salthorn looked ready to choke Salii into the next world, but the Drake elaborated before the [Grappling Master] could lose her patience. She spoke loudly enough for all to hear.

“Luxury. Why is that bad in a vacuum? Potions, someone to cook for you—none of this is bad, as you admit, Salthorn. It’s the fact that it can be done, can make a very pleasant life that you object to. Well. Is that wrong of me to create? I am challenging your beliefs with my Skills, clipboard, and knowledge. If I can erase what makes you [Martial Artists] by offering you money, was that a fault of the money or the fact that you never had to choose before?”

It was a well-reasoned argument. The warriors of Pomle looked at each other, and Salii looked a bit smug—for all of a second. Then a Stitch-man brushed hair out of his face. He hadn’t cut his hair in the six years since he’d come here to learn from Xil, the great [Peerless Spearmaster] Garuda. Orjin had never heard him speak, but the young man replied to the Drake now.

“This is so, Miss Salii. Thanks to you, the oasis will never run dry. You make our lives easier. Thusly, levelling becomes harder. It is not fair to equate such amenities simply to temptation.”

Salii’s brows rose high, and Orjin saw many nod, including himself. If the [Secretary] had expected Pomle’s warriors to be thoughtless—years of solitary practice gave you plenty of time to think.

Her nod was respectful to the Stitch-man. Salii thought for only a second before she turned and gestured at the town behind her.

“You’re right, sir. Civilization is designed to elevate all, at the expense of the few. A good civil servant serves her people; a fact my people seem to have forgotten. Yes, I am decreasing the harshness of Pomle, but now more people than ever will become [Martial Artists], can live here. Pomle’s population has quintupled, and unlike other times, it will retain that number…if you let them. Already, more and more are developing classes to improve your training, or seeking to emulate you. That’s true too, isn’t it?”

It was. Salthorn bit her lip. Even she had a new apprentice, in the form of Iratze, and many refugees aspired to be like Pomle’s best, with little else to emulate or do now their kingdom was lost.

“It’s a tricky problem. Nevertheless, we who came here for privacy suffer. Those who came for harshness suffer. We did not turn away those in need, but it is not our desire to sacrifice Pomle to become a city just so they can live as they wish.”

Salthorn pointed out at last. The [Martial Artists] nodded. Salii nodded.

“Then, that is a decision for you to make. I serve the Strongest of Pomle. He has not stopped me from doing what I can to improve the lives here. It is his decision, and he has elected to let me do as I see best for everyone. Whomever the Strongest is, makes the rules. Isn’t that how it goes?”

All eyes swung towards Orjin. The Strongest grunted. He saw a lot of [Martial Artists] glance at each other, then eye him in a speculative way.

…Orjin was not pleased at the way Salii grinned. After all this time, she’d finally figured out how to force him to do something when he had deliberately, stubbornly refused to make use of her abilities.

He had to admire her tenacity.

——

The first serious challenge to the Strongest of Pomle in over three years came the next day. Oh, they did challenge him for spars, and sometimes for the position, but few actually wanted the role who could back up their desires.

This time…someone close to Orjin’s level asked him for a match as he was having breakfast—fresh dates, his favorite treat. Orjin looked up and saw a Dullahan woman, her armor faded, but still strong steel.

“Chein. I accept. Thirty minutes. Here.”

Cheindurana, the [Slayer of Fists], bowed slightly and re-fastened her head. Orjin put half the dates away—he would need to be light—and crossed his legs, meditating. Envisioning the fight. He made sure his old healing potion was still good and tucked it into his belt—not that he would use it during the battle. But he would definitely need it.

——

Salii and Pomle’s warriors, and the refugees—practically everyone—watched the bout. It was rare to see two masters go at it this fiercely, and you could learn a lot. If you could even tell what was happening.

Some of it was obvious. When Orjin went for a low, practically nose-to-the-ground tackle into an arm lock, Iratze and new [Warriors] could tell that Chein barely got out of it. If he grabbed her, a non-grappling expert, she would be in trouble. Orjin wasn’t Salthorn, but he had trained in many styles.

Her [Perfect Dodge] was gone. And there were only a set number of Skills you could use in a limited time window. So it wasn’t as ‘flashy’ as the Wrath of Winds’ match and that idiotic cult. Rather, it was fast and brutal.

Orjin ate eight punches as Chein backed up. She had a natural [Flash Step] equivalent. He knew some of the crowd were gasping; he tuned them out, but they didn’t understand how the powerful, heavy punches that were visibly distorting his chest, face, arms as he tried to block them were even landing.

Chein was punching, but she’d miss one punch as he ducked left—and Orjin would clearly be uppercut. And not by a light punch, either. [Enhanced Strength] and steel gauntlets meant she was hitting him so hard many people would have passed out already.

The ninth punch Orjin saw, and he dodged Chein’s physical jab—and her second blow, which had been almost invisible the first time it landed. Iratze didn’t see what Orjin had just dodged; Salii was squinting.

“Can you see it, Miss Salii?”

The Drake [Secretary] frowned. She eyed Chein.

“…Nope. Well, sort of, but it’s too fast.”

——

[Shadowhook Punch].

Orjin had run into a warrior who had advanced to a next stage of combat—beyond what you could merely see. The punches were like an aura attack. Or…

He didn’t have time to think about it. A punch hit his arm and hurt far more than it should have. He had [Steel Skin], and it cut through his Skill.

Hard to see—invisible if you couldn’t sense auras at all—and hard to block. Chein’s furious punches had once, apparently, killed a Hydra by sheer punishing damage on her home continent. Orjin ate another punch when he tried to get close. He couldn’t lock her down in a grappling match; if she was new to Pomle, maybe. Whenever he tried now, Chein used one of her higher-level Skills.

[Omnidirectional Blow] was not fun to get to the back of your head. Orjin leapt back, and decided he couldn’t risk it dragging out. He got serious, in a way he hadn’t needed to for a while.

The Dullahan [Slayer] backed up as she saw Orjin’s center of gravity lower. But he didn’t even give her a second to react; only a fool needed to prepare their best Skills.

And only a fool spoke them out loud.

[Dulav-ra: Tetrad of the Solar Aura].

——

It was so fast Salii barely saw it. She just saw a flash, smelled the burning steel, heard Chein’s shout of pain and then Orjin was bending over her.

She saw the holes in Chein’s armor from two of the blows, and Xil explained the rest to some of his apprentices and the other warriors.

“Four blows. Fire. Aura strikes—or whatever you want to call them. Energy-infused punches. Her armor Skill was worthless against them. Good thing he avoided her vitals; see?”

Orjin had damaged Chein’s armor, and the blushing Dullahan was covering the gaps. He hadn’t hurt her badly, but he could have, so it was the deciding blow.

Salii was fascinated. However, she had more insight than some of the others. She happened to know that Dulav-ra, the Skill that had popped up in her [Appraisal]-vision, was Orjin’s personal martial art.

A high-level Skill for a high-level fight. Orjin sat, panting, discussing the match with Chein. Amicably; she was annoyed that she’d lost and her armor-body had been damaged, but they were both agreeing to train together later.

“I am injured. Any further matches must wait at least two days.”

Orjin informed the crowd. His position of Strongest would remain until someone could beat him at full-strength. Even so…his gaze found Salii. She waved, smiling. Orjin glowered.

“Salii. I wish to speak to you after this.”

——

“I got you to do something at last. I’ve won! I’ve won!”

Salii was…surprisingly childish in victory. She did a little victory dance as Orjin held some chilled stones in a bag to the back of his head. He still smarted from the match, and his glare spoke volumes.

“I did not tell you to do anything because the Strongest should not be a ruler, Salii. I am unhappy you are forcing me to take an active role.”

“Pshaw. That’s what you think. A leader doesn’t lead? Orjin, that’s stupid. Pomle must have direction.”

“Why must it change at all, Salii?”

The Drake stopped wagging her tail around and turned to face him.

“Because it can be better, Orjin. As Pomle, the training ground for [Martial Artists], not just ‘better’ in a nebulous sense. I came here to do just that, to test myself as a [Secretary] against the most stubborn idiots in this entire continent of sand.”

At least she was honest about it. That was the same answer she’d given him when they’d met and he had become the newest Strongest. Orjin sighed.

“Pomle is becoming too comfortable. Can you fix it?”

“Of course.”

He blinked. With such an open-ended statement even he had expected Salii to ask questions. But the Drake was already striding about her orderly house, laying out documents for him. For him to sign. His eyes narrowed as Salii explained.

“I have an idea to make them see I can be a benefit. Pomle wants hard? We can give them hard. I’ve been speaking to Iratze and his group. Very interesting Humans, and I don’t mean as a species. You should talk to them too. They have a secret but I’ve been too busy to ferret it out.”

“They use a strange martial art. Elegant. Not adapted for Skills at all, though. What is…this, Salii?”

She rolled her eyes and smirked at him as Orjin stared at the illustration and her tidy notes.

“Did you really think I didn’t know Salthorn was coming back to shout at me?”

Orjin’s head snapped up. He met her dancing gaze.

“You were waiting for them to complain.”

“Cause and effect is sometimes better than preemptive efforts. Rather, in some situations it is better to build trust by proving you can back up your claims. In other cases? Stop a fire before it starts. But I was also saving up gold.”

The [Secretary] wagged a claw at Orjin. He sat back.

“Hm. I like this one.”

Salii eyed her illustration and rolled her eyes.

“…Of course you do. We can do them all.”

“This is your plan for a new Pomle? Why, Salii?”

The [Secretary] pursed her lips.

“Didn’t you hear? So I can level. Because I think [Martial Artists] of an even higher level are fascinating. The other nations are already scared of you. Imagine if the average level around here rose by 10? By even 5? I spent four years here, Orjin, proving I could survive so the [Martial Artists] respected me. Learning how Pomle worked. Figuring out how to do double-entry bookkeeping for an entire nation on half a sheet of parchment!”

“Because you love Pomle so much?”

Salii laughed. Orjin himself chuckled; even he, a lifelong inhabitant of Pomle, would never claim it was anything but rugged.

The Drake caught her breath.

“I really meant it, Orjin. I have to do it here. Here or something almost as challenging or I’ll never level up again. [Hour of the Secretary]. Have you ever heard of it?”

Orjin’s ears perked up. He had little interest in the many things Salii did, but a Skill? He shook his head. She elaborated as she found some tea and poured him a cup.

“It’s a famous Skill among my class. A Level 50 capstone Skill. I’ve heard you can get it as low as Level 40, and there are numerous applications. I know someone who can use eighteen minutes of it. Free time, to organize, plan, even on a battlefield.”

“A powerful Skill.”

Orjin didn’t whistle or sound amazed. He had known more impressive, but neither did he take it anything less than seriously. He just imagined how it would work, the ramifications in a battle. Even he could use it well if he observed a foe…

Salii’s next words made him nearly crack the delicate little cup.

“My Level 50 Skill was different.”

The ‘Strongest’ of Pomle glanced up. Salii had her back to him. She glanced over her shoulder.

“Throw the cup at me?”

Orjin did. Gently; he was fairly sure he could hit Salii, whatever she wanted to show off or not. The [Secretary] spun, and her clipboard hit the cup. It bounced back at Orjin, nearly twice as fast.

He actually caught most of the tea back with it. It was the same trick she’d done when he’d fought the Shame of the Wind or whatever that fool had been. He’d thought it had been a fairly good defensive skill for a [Secretary], but now he realized it had a bit more power than he’d thought.

“[Spiritguard Deflection]. I could probably block one of Chein’s punches. Just one, mind you. But it recharges pretty fast and it works with my clipboard.”

Orjin was impressed. Also—very confused.

“That is an…exceptionally poor Level 50 Skill. Even for a [Secretary].”

Salii snorted.

“That’s not the Skill. [On The Job Training For Services Rendered].”

“…That’s a lot of words.”

Orjin was trying to figure out what it meant. Then his eyes snapped together. Did she mean…?

Salii winked at him.

“I earned one free Skill from my work here already. Two Skills from my previous job. Pomle has to be a success or I won’t ever learn [Aeriform Punch]. Or your fire Skill. I’d quite like that. Imagine dealing with someone demanding an appointment with that?”

She smiled beatifically at the thought. Orjin was just stunned. Free Skills?

“You didn’t level up to gain them?”

“Nope! There’s a separate notification. Skill awarded. Like I said, Orjin—powerful Skills. I came here to get stronger. And what better nation, I thought, than this one? Mind you, if I’d known the King of Destruction would wake up, I might have gone to him.”

Salii sighed. Orjin had a lot to process, but his first thought was that this was manifestly unfair. The [Secretary] just chortled as she poured herself a cup of tea.

“Orjin, I took a small company in the Walled City of Salazsar from actual bankruptcy—that’s a Drake term for having no money—to being one of the most competitive companies in the entire Walled City. Although they just had to squander it by losing all their good [Miners]…will you let me work now? I promise you—you won’t have to abandon your training. But I have big plans for Pomle.”

He looked at her. At last, the Strongest of Pomle sighed, and held out a hand. He shook her claw.

“As you wish…Strongest of Pomle. I’ve been defeated. I’ll tell them to challenge you tomorrow.”

Salii’s face went blank. Then worried. Then she saw Orjin smiling. She laughed as he chuckled to himself. They had an accord.

And that was two weeks ago.

——

Orjin stared at the new feature of Pomle that Salii had put into motion. Duunab, the [Geomancer] who had fled Tiqr, rubbed his hands together with extreme pride.

Salthorn, Xil, and all the [Martial Artists] had gathered when it had first begun construction. They had been turned away. Now? With the opening of the new part of Pomle?

Salii was smug as could be.

“Geomancers. Best class in magic. Don’t argue with me.”

Duunab bowed in her direction. Orjin had to admit, Salii might have been right. It had been a stroke of fortune a Level 24 [Geomancer] with extensive rock-shaping proficiency had landed in Pomle. However, as Salii pointed out, a single [Geomancer] still labored to do any large-scale projects.

Her Skills and the power of lots of money and organization had provided for more experts, including [Miners] among the refugees, [Builders], and simple paid labor to move dirt and stone into place to help this part of Pomle happen.

The canyon around Pomle would expand in time. Salii had shown Orjin a plan to change the geography to be three times as large. However, this first installment was simple, and again, based off of something Iratze had suggested.

The others had called it ridiculous, too much like stories, or as one of them had whispered, ‘anime’. Orjin had no idea what that meant.

“Rock spires. Fifty feet high, narrow. You fall, you die. Or learn how to fall. Here’s a cave with a [Darkness] spell cast on it. It’s a lot wider than you think. We probably need to make sure people know how many people there are inside. And this is going to be where we get an [Aeromancer].”

Salii was leading the tour group around. The first area consisted of vertical rock spires—as well as poles of wood or metal, suspended high off the ground. Although…there was no helpful body of water at the ground. Salii had an option on [Featherfalling], but in deference to Salthorn’s complaints, you’d have to buy or procure your safety net.

There was a huge underground cave for blind fighting, and Salii had even installed tightropes and rope bridges across Pomle’s canyons, to provide alternate places to train. However, that was only the start.

She was showing Pomle’s warriors the huge, sandy expanse outside of Pomle. Salii was excitedly talking to Salthorn.

“Why an [Air Mage]?”

“Well, it’ll be an expensive enchantment, but I hope we can make one we don’t have to upkeep. It’ll blow sand.”

“…Just that?”

“Of course. A natural sandstorm, oh, thirty miles wide? Anyone who wants to train in that, be my guest. And if we really get enough magic and a power source or natural ley-line, we’ll have a [Gravity Mage] set up a spell. Apparently that’s…how some martial artists train?”

Salii glanced at Orjin, who shrugged. It was conceivable, but—both looked at Raul, who slapped his forehead.

“Which of you told them about that? We don’t do that! If it doesn’t work, you morons—”

“What do you think, Master Salthorn?”

“It’s…different. You have to choose to train there, but I’ll admit, you can experience things we couldn’t before. Not bad.”

The Selphid was grudging. She turned to Orjin and Xil.

“The problem is, it’s still something you can choose. Part of levelling is not having a choice.”

“We’ll have to make up for it with diversity, then. Harder training. If the Strongest is for it…is there more than just terrain, Orjin?”

The Garuda commented. Orjin nodded. Surprisingly, the challenges had stopped once he announced he and Salii would work together. Everyone had waited for what they’d do.

“There will be. It will be a choice, but we will learn more. Such as instructors.”

“Instructors? For us?”

Someone called out. Salii grinned.

“Of course. Pomle is full of [Martial Artists]. But what if I paid for a [Pyromancer] to come here for six months and throw [Fireballs] at anyone who asked to practice evading them?”

Dead silence. Orjin smiled. Practicing against spells was difficult. After a second, one of the [Warriors]—a Stitch-girl—shouted nervously.

“Only if you pay for an Amulet of Fire Protection!”

That was the first time anyone had willingly engaged with one of Salii’s new plans. She beamed. She’d done it. Once one [Martial Artist] asked for something, another asked if she could create a cold zone, since they were practicing cultivating a fire aura. Someone else wanted a [Blacksmith] to buy weapons.

Pomle’s prosperity was at hand. Of course, as Orjin had commented, they had no actual products. Salii had bought some cash animals, and they had an oasis with better-than-average water supply thanks to the gem she’d gotten from Fetohep of Khelt, but where would the money come from?

Well…the underground fights. Almost exclusively, actually. Salii had told Orjin no less than a hundred gold pieces were gambled on any given fight. Even with a tiny cut of it, Pomle had a huge budget for projects. Given that Salii was not spending it on much else, and her own Skills, she could make things happen.

Opportunity attracted travellers, people seeking a job, people that Salii reached out for. Orjin watched Pomle’s population explode, again, but contented himself with just waiting. It might be for the better, after all.

And then…well.

Then the first aspiring [Martial Artist], an aristocratic Stitch-man—Stitch-boy, almost—from Nerrhavia’s Fallen moved into one of the new homes. He had private instructors of his own, but had come here to learn from Pomle’s best. He had an entire caravan of servants from his royal house, but dreamed of being a true warrior, like the famous Prince Zenol, the Gold-rank adventurer who had made his name in Izril.

He settled in, with grumbling from some [Martial Artists] who still disliked Pomle’s path, reservations from those who thought he’d never truly learn and level with that kind of wealth, and a note from Salii to Orjin about ‘complications’. He thought little of it until, as he was drinking water, he noticed.

As one of the few wealthy people to ever try to live in Pomle, the young man was the first to bring [Slaves]. The Strongest of Pomle heard the rumblings from warriors from beyond Chandrar’s sands.

Complications?

Indeed.

——

The outsider was always at a disadvantage when it came to being respected. Liked? You could be liked, a novelty, but that was completely aside from garnering admiration. It was a thin coin that separated novelty from mockery. And both could turn into genuine hatred if the outsider stepped wrong.

Why are you doing things wrong?

Why do you look wrong?

Of course, sometimes the questions revealed in and of themselves. Nevertheless—when public opinion turned against you, it was a long way to any kind of social grace. If that was what you wanted. If it mattered.

In any other time she would have damned the praise and antipathy alike, but Nsiia needed popular support. She had burnt it away, all the fascination for the ‘exotic empress’, the people’s interest in her as a representation of the wild, and everything contrary to their culture—at least, in their mind.

Nevertheless—sweat ran down her cheeks, onto, yes, clothing. A light, sleeveless tunic far richer than the occasion needed. Like Orjin, Nsiia was well aware of how fast you could tear up good clothing. Not much protection, but she had no need to be a spectacle at this moment, and besides—her feet traced left on terracotta bricks in the beautiful little courtyard—

Even wooden blades could tear open bare skin at this level.

The jeering in the background became silence. Perhaps the onlookers fell silent themselves. Nsiia didn’t pay attention.

The other foreign warrior was quick when he came in. As light as she was—almost. [Cat’s Grace] was one of Nsiia’s Skills, but she had many.

She was [Empress], but also warrior. She was both. She was more than a mere ruler with low-levels and she had fought on battlefields. She was a contemporary of the King of Destruction, and even if she had missed much of his first wars of conquest, Nsiia Oliphant was still…

[Empress of Beasts].

Two shortswords and a dagger. The third arm had disconcerted her at first, but it had a lot of limitations. It wasn’t as if the Antinium could slash through his other arms; he added an attack when he swung left, jabbing with his third arm. She responded by merely ducking away, her single practice sword flickering.

—Nevertheless, he was quick! He pressed his attack, carefully stepping in, and it was a fascination to both.

He fights well! Nsiia had met many [Warriors] who were strong, could swing a sword or axe just so, block well—but had the kind of mentality suited for a massed battle. She could take them apart because when it was just them, they were not ready for her leaping off walls, circling, kicking sand into their face.

Ksmvr of the Free Antinium had trained somewhere. He swept towards her, able to pivot back when she tried to engage him, daring her to come too close.

He did not get overeager, and his swordsmanship was strong. Nsiia hissed as his [Quick Slash] scored a line down her arm. He had a decent number of [Warrior]’s Skills too. That would have laid her arm open in a real battle.

Nevertheless…Ksmvr charged at her. She stabbed forwards with her sword. Saw him blur left and over her in a jump.

[Evasive Flip]. He actually slashed down at her mid-flip. She responded by rolling herself, stabbing up. She hit his stomach but it was like a rock.

Ring of Barkskin. Adventurers.

When he landed, he charged, and he was faster still. [Surpass Limits]? [Quick Movement]—Nsiia grinned. It would kill most warriors not used to fighting him, especially with enchanted blades. Her response was to tap the ground with her feet.

[Gazelle’s Leap]. Ksmvr’s charge and blades struck only air. The audience gasped as Nsiia leapt across the courtyard. Some of the [Guards] stirred; the Golems did not. Nsiia caught herself.

Her watching was done. Her offensive began.

[Elephant’s Strength]. The temporary Skill was a hallmark of her level. Even [Enhanced Strength] fell behind this Skill—for a few minutes. Eight, to be exact.

She only needed one. Nsiia’s posture shifted down, down. The Antinium, watching her, thought it suddenly mimicked her cat, Yinah. Or…something else.

[Furious Hunt: Hyenas]. The Empress stalked across the courtyard, circling, far faster than that posture should have allowed. Ksmvr thought he saw other shapes, like her, in his peripherals. He ignored them as an illusory manipulation, until it occurred to him—a fraction too late—that if it was part of the Skill—

Nsiia exploded out from the side, snarling like the embodiment of a wild animal. Her slash came as Ksmvr was turning. His right arms’ sword was knocked clean out of his hands by the tremendous impact. He swung left, trying to get back—

She rammed into him, and stabbed him through the heart and chest. A killing blow. Her blade continued to stab, as the two landed, tangling, Ksmvr’s green blood spattering the ground…

…In what would have happened if they actually had swords. Ksmvr lay on his rounded back shell, staring up at the sky. Nsiia, smiling, offered him a hand.

“Well fought, Adventurer Ksmvr.”

“To a certain degree, perhaps. I am still insufficient. Your sparring with me indicates how little attacking power I possess when deprived of my crossbows.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. Ksmvr let her help him up. He stood, inspecting the place where he had fallen. He should have kept moving. Perhaps even leapt into the air, although she would have targeted where he landed. Next time, he would not be taken in by a strange Skill.

“Many in Tiqr would consider themselves lucky to force me to use three Skills.”

“I am a Gold-rank adventurer. I am deficient. You outmatched me even in speed, which as a [Skirmisher], I should excel at.”

The [Empress of Beasts] raised her eyebrows. Even her eyes were almost closer to feline than Human, or gave the impression. Everything about her could be like a wild thing—and then she would straighten, accept a cup of water from one of Illivere’s servants with a nod, and become a person once more.

She was both. The bridge between animal and people in her kingdom. Or had been. She studied Ksmvr, thoughtfully.

“You are slower than me. Your skill with a blade is quite adept.”

“Thank you for your compliment, but you and I both know I am quite substandard compared to any acceptable reference.”

Nsiia’s eyebrows shot higher. She opened her mouth, thoughtfully, but then forbore comment.

“As you say, Ksmvr. If you say it, it must be so.”

The Antinium nodded, happy she could understand. So many people insisted on false compliments. It was an illustrative practice match, as the last three had been. That was the level Ksmvr aspired to. Nsiia might have been a…well, perhaps a match for Yvlon! Maybe a tiny bit higher-levelled.

Only then did the two return to the world where other people existed. Nsiia and Ksmvr heard the murmurs, and saw the crowd watching through the iron fence outside of Femithain’s mansion murmuring and pointing.

“They have stopped shouting insults at you, Empress Nsiia.”

“So they have.”

The woman eyed Illivere’s people, many of whom returned the look with sincere hatred. Her gaze was amused, but then she turned to Ksmvr.

“Insults at you as well, Adventurer Ksmvr.”

He shrugged politely. The Antinium adventurer regarded Illivere’s people, who gave him looks ranging from uneasy to fascinated. His voice rose, carrying slightly so the guards attending both him and Nsiia as well as Illivere’s citizens could hear.

“I am not the person who slew Domehead, who was beloved. I defended myself as per the Adventurer’s Guild’s laws, Rule #6, regarding self-defense when attacked with no legal basis. Any ire against me regarding my destruction of Golems is largely unfounded, as Magus-Crafter Femithain’s statement indicated. Therefore, I have actually calculated that I am more liked than not based on my last five days of observation. Statistically, I have a 58% approval rating. Which is more than yours. 36%.”

Nsiia’s head cocked sideways. She eyed Ksmvr, perturbed. So did Illivere’s citizens, many of whom had drawn breath to contradict the Antinium. They looked at him, and it was a familiar gaze to the ones Nsiia had first received when she had become prisoner of Illivere, over a month ago.

Fascination. The [Empress]’ eyes narrowed slightly. That was not how Ksmvr normally talked. She had not known him for more than five days, but he stood, wiping dirt from his head, mandibles, and body as he talked. When he finished, he stood tall, brown-black chitin gleaming in the sun. Ksmvr’s head turned to her with precise, stilted…no.

Golem-like grace. He nodded at Nsiia.

“As we have concluded our sparring for the morning, shall we retire to Magus-Crafter Femithain’s residence, Empress Nsiia?”

“…Of course, Ksmvr. After you.”

——

There was a certain charm to how Ksmvr walked. The Magus-Crafter of Illivere appreciated it as Ksmvr walked with him around the city. It was not appreciable at first. For many, it did not even occur to them until they looked at Ksmvr and compared it to themselves.

He had a deliberate, measured tread. He did not vary the length of his stride. Nor did he change it depending on whether he turned right or left. He walked…perfectly.

It was something any Antinium who had lived in the Hives could do. Ksmvr did not normally walk like that, since walking was normally variable to account for changes in terrain. Unless you had an environment as precise as the Hive, he did not walk like that.

He did now, slowing, stopping, turning with precise movements. The Magus-Crafter himself admired it. So did the citizens.

He walked like a Golem. When Ksmvr spoke, it was often with figures and facts, in logical parlance.

“I appreciate your accompanying me to the Adventurer’s Guild, Magus-Crafter. Free reign of the city allows me more opportunities to appreciate Illivere.”

His words were measured, polite. Diplomatic. Femithain was conscious of the stares, some hostile, some curious, but Ksmvr’s figures to Nsiia had not been exaggerated. Hostility had quickly changed to fascination. He had killed many Golems, but Illivere’s people had done a curious about-face mentally.

Ksmvr could be the hostile alien from far off…but if he was, he was a superior enemy. However, if he was a Gold-rank adventurer, and positively Golem-like himself, it didn’t sting so much to admit that all the Golems had lost to him, surely? Femithain nodded to Ksmvr as Armsmaster Dellic kept most of the curious at a decent distance.

“Of course, Adventurer Ksmvr. You need not inform me if you wish to leave the residence.”

“And as to my request about leaving the city?”

The man shook his head slightly, adjusting his spectacles.

“It is still a delicate matter…but I am now confident many nations will not have you imprisoned or killed. The bounty remains, however, and given the Antinium Hive’s warning towards Illivere, I am reluctant to place you in jeopardy.”

Ksmvr’s presence had alarmed the other powers of Chandrar. They reacted in paranoia, despite knowing he was an adventurer. Was he a spy? A forerunner of another Antinium invasion?

Most had calmed down, but a few nations had issued bounties on Ksmvr. Well…that was one thing. Femithain was not responsible for that.

However, the Antinium Queens had apparently threatened him and all of Illivere with dire consequences if Ksmvr came to harm. Thus, the Magus-Crafter was now caught in the position of fearing for Ksmvr’s life. He had insisted Ksmvr remain until one side or the other relented.

“Hm. This is not what I wished. I shall abide another day, then. My destination is here, Magus-Crafter.”

“I do apologize, Adventurer Ksmvr. But if you would like to avail yourself of Illivere’s sights…the First Crafters have all issued invitations, including the First Crafter of Elbe who wishes to make amends.”

Ksmvr turned his head to Femithain. His mandibles rose in what the man now knew to be a smile. Ksmvr shook his head.

“No, Magus-Crafter Femithain. I would like to leave. My team needs me. I shall meet you at dinner. Farewell.”

With that, he turned and strode into the Adventurer’s Guild. Fascinating, aloof. Femithain was not the only person to stare after him.

——

Yvlon had once said that a good adventurer behaved politely and tried to engender respect from all sides. If they had to take sides, they did, but an adventurer was neutral.

Ksmvr had thought hard after he’d realized his captivity—albeit a polite one—in Illivere was more difficult to deal with than he had anticipated. He had tried Captain Ceria and Pisces’ approach, which was bluffing and deception combined with an expression of dominance.

That had failed rather significantly, so Ksmvr took Yvlon’s words to heart.

‘If you must be anything, be fascinating rather than a nuisance, Ksmvr. Ylawes’ team eats for free because people like him. That’s better than having the prices tripled just because people know you can afford it.’

Ksmvr had weighed the merits of Yvlon’s words against his own understandings from being taught as the Prognugator of the Free Antinium and thus implemented his new actions, such as walking differently, speaking with facts and figures to impress Illivere’s people and the Magus-Crafter, all of whom liked Golems and related actions. It created goodwill.

He had, of course, considered Pisces’ words of wisdom against Yvlon’s.

‘There are fools in every land, young and old, Ksmvr. Ignore them. Do what you must, and hang their feelings. They will never love you for simply…being. Why pander fruitlessly and humiliate oneself?’

There were contradictions in the advice given, clearly, but Ksmvr considered it was situational which of his teammates was right at any moment. They had stopped throwing things at him, but not Nsiia, since he had adopted this approach, so he considered Yvlon was right. For now.

What would Captain Ceria say, though? She was actually more sparing with advice than Pisces and Yvlon, both of whom often took him aside to impart their vast troves of wisdom to their junior teammate. Ksmvr tried to think as he approached the counter of the rather empty Adventurer’s Guild and the staring [Receptionist].

‘Always have a snack, Ksmvr. Some long-term food. Like…a stick of butter and honey rolled with a bunch of walnuts. Tastes great. Don’t listen to Yvlon. That’s food for a day if you’ve got nothing left. Bugs don’t have much energy.’

Could he extrapolate that to be a commentary on the exigency of always having a backup item or plan? …No. Probably not. But it was still committed to Ksmvr’s impeccable memory.

“Y-you’re the um, Gold-rank. I’m the [Receptionist]. Not that Illivere has many adventurers, but you’re…”

The woman at the desk had a very similar reaction to many Humans. Ksmvr politely nodded.

“I am Ksmvr, Gold-rank adventurer of the Horns of Hammerad, a team from Izril. My credentials are registered worldwide. I am happy to prove I am Ksmvr via truth spell if identification is needed.”

The Stitch-girl stared at Ksmvr, mouth moving slightly.

“I—I do not think I need—that’s necessary.”

Hm. Shoddy Adventurer’s Guild, as proven by their lax regulations. Nevertheless, Magus-Crafter Femithain had assured Ksmvr they could do the basic work.

“I have come to claim damages for my destroyed gear. Magus-Crafter Femithain has arranged this?”

“Yes! I mean…yes. Do you have the um, items?”

Ksmvr nodded. He reached for his side and brought something out.

A broken shortsword. The enchantment was gone, and the steel weapon was in two parts. Ksmvr looked at it as he put it on the counter. Then the Flamecoat Dagger. His Cloak of Arrow Protection…a crossbow…

His beautiful, lovely gear that the [Brave Skirmisher] had maintained for so long was in ruins. The [Receptionist] got over her nerves to exhale quietly.

“That’s a lot of gear, um, Adventurer Ksmvr.”

“It was all very low in magical interference. I would like to note that in my damages claim.”

“Of—of course. Could I ask you to list the items for me? Please?”

“Naturally. I have a Shortsword of Hardening, a Cloak of Arrow Protection, a standard crossbow—please note Izril’s market prices at the time, and the steel frame as opposed to other materials—a Flamecoat Dagger…”

His hand touched the Flamecoat Dagger. Of all the items, that had distressed him most. Ksmvr had broken his weapons against the Golems, against Domehead in the Testing. He had seen his shortsword break, one of his crossbows, and the other Golems had damaged his cloak.

The dagger? He hadn’t realized it was broken until he had reclaimed his gear and noticed the chip along the blade. Accordingly—the flame effect was gone.

Ksmvr realized he’d stopped speaking. The [Receptionist] had logged all the items, though.

“Magus-Crafter Femithain has asked us—that is, the Guild—Illivere—to tell you that you will be fully reimbursed for all damages to your equipment, Adventurer Ksmvr. Sir.”

“That is most refreshing. Honesty in governance.”

Ksmvr nodded. He was glad of that. Losing all that gear would be disastrous enough without gold reimbursement. He had already been gifted steel weapons from Illivere’s armory by Armsmaster Dellic as short-term stopgaps, but Ksmvr wanted enchanted weapons if they could be procured.

The Empress of Beasts was superior to me in many ways. Lacking her strength or higher-level Skills, I should buy better bows or have the crossbows enchanted. Enchanted ammunition?

Right now, Ksmvr’s best Skill was [Aggregate Volley]—the weapon art that let him fire ten crossbows at once, and his bow—nine now, since one crossbow was broken.

He also had [Knuckles of Iron] if he lost his weapons, and [Surpass Limits], a Skill from his new [Brave Skirmisher] class. Ksmvr did consider it an upgrade.

Barely. [Brave Skirmisher] was…not [Silversteel Armsmistress]. It was not [Arctic Cryomancer]. It was not a powerful class advancement and Ksmvr knew it.

It fit his talents. So he desperately needed equipment to make up for his lacking strength, especially since he needed to rescue his team. They were out there and he was wasting time.

He only realized the [Receptionist] was taking the broken items one by one when she reached for the Flamecoat Dagger. Ksmvr picked it up.

“What are you doing? I would like to retain my items, please.”

“Oh. But we—we need our [Enchanters] to appraise them. Not that we don’t trust your word, Gold-rank Adventurer Ksmvr! But to fully assess…they’ll just disenchant the items, pick them apart. We have all the details logged and Magus-Crafter Femithain told us to estimate high!”

It was reasonable. However, Ksmvr held onto the Flamecoat Dagger.

“I would like to keep this. This is a weapon from the Dungeon of Albez. My team awarded it to me. I…broke it.”

The [Receptionist] was growing flustered.

“But we—I could just write down the details, but we’d have to go on standard enchantments, Adventurer Ksmvr. If we could disenchant it…”

“To my knowledge, that would also destroy the item in many cases, would it not?”

“Yes…”

Ksmvr hesitated. He closed his hand around the dagger and stepped back from the counter, slipping it into his waistband.

“I would like to keep this item. Standard enchantment payout will be acceptable.”

“Of course, sir. If I can have you sign?”

He did. Then stepped back from the counter, departed, conscious of the stares from low-level adventurers. Ksmvr felt…foolish.

Why had he done that? He had turned down gold to hold onto a worthless piece of equipment. But…it was his team’s. They had given it to him, and the Forceshield that still hung by his side. Ksmvr doubted even Hedault could have fixed it without simply re-enchanting it; that was not how enchantments worked. But he couldn’t give it up, gold or not.

The people spectating him watched the Antinium smoothly walk from the Adventurer’s Guild and greet someone who wanted to talk to him. Ksmvr spoke to a curious citizen of Illivere, voice reasonable, calm, logical. He refuted guilt in destroying Golems. It was self-defense.

He was so implacable that the angry man calmed down and eventually, gingerly, shook his hand. The fascination the people had with this strange mechanical person was at odds with Ksmvr holding onto the dagger. He acted one way because it benefited him.

But they only saw that. They did not know him at all.

——

“You are a good doggy. Yes. Your tail wagging means you are happy. Are there many dogs like this, Empress Nsiia?”

The woman watched as Ksmvr scratched a panting dog with all three hands. It was a complete contrast to the Ksmvr who had been outside. He peered down as the dog wriggled in ecstasy at his [Comforting Petting]—or rather, scratching. She couldn’t help but smile.

“There are many kinds of canines, Ksmvr. Needlehounds, wild dogs with no magic like this—even great, gigantic ones. Storm Hounds, one breed is called. They run with sandstorms, huge, four feet tall and so long that smaller warriors can ride on them. Fierce—but playful as can be. Those who roam with civilization are as gentle as mice. I have seen them tickle babies with their whiskers.”

“No. That is very amazing. I would like to see it.”

Ksmvr sat up, and for a second he was as wide-eyed as Bird, though Nsiia could not have known that. A cat sat on his head between his antennae. Then he went still.

“Is that bird wishing to be petted, Nsiia? I have never pet a bird. I know someone who hunts them.”

He saw a bright macaw staring at him. Nsiia blinked and turned. A familiar bird was dipping its beak into one of the bowls of water around her room.

“It is. You may pet him—I have not given him a name, Ksmvr.”

She did not always name the animals, even the ones who associated with her. Ksmvr held up a hand as Nsiia removed something from the bird’s leg, and let it hop over. It knew he was safe, but the Antinium’s hands trembled over it.

“I…I do not know how. Do I pet it vertically? Do I scratch it? Please instruct me in optimal petting, Nsiia.”

What a strange creature. What a strange child. Nsiia had to laugh. She tucked the little scroll of parchment away and showed Ksmvr how to gently comb the macaw’s feathers with his hand. And he did.

He loved animals. Only someone who truly appreciated them could get [Animal Friend] as a class. When he sat there, surrounded by the cats, dogs, and the bird that flocked around Nsiia in peace—despite being predator and prey—she felt he was closer to her people than Femithain’s.

And yet…her brow clouded as she stepped back. Yinah glanced up, sensing Nsiia’s mood as the [Empress of Beasts] read.

It was a simple message, from Vasraf, her [General].

They dare not enter the steppes in force yet, but neither will the Garuda aid us. We cannot last forever, and the armies hold home in great numbers. I bite and bite, but draw little blood. Can you reach us?

Another message from the last hope she had. Resistance. Nsiia crumpled the note, shaking her head. She had sent word to him, of great dreams and hope at the start. She was not a complete prisoner, so Nsiia had imagined—foolhardily, she now realized—of raising an army to support him. Convincing Femithain or some of the people of Illivere to support Tiqr.

They were too different. Too insular, in a way. Illivere’s people were sympathetic, but they would not rise for Nsiia or the Empire of Beasts. Not for so little to gain. She had lost whatever support remained. In return, though, perhaps…

Ksmvr was staring at Nsiia when she looked up. She started. But the Antinium calmly kept scratching the dog’s ears with one hand as he gently scratched the macaw, who kept trying to nibble on a finger.

“That Magus-Crafter Femithain allows you such freedom is astonishing, Empress Nsiia. I thought he was a practical man.”

She covered her dismay; even now he was canny.

“He is. He plays many sides at once, Ksmvr. Do you not see how he keeps you here, to avoid making enemies of either Chandrar or the Antinium?”

He nodded, voice reasonable.

“I see it. But he is not impartial. Or, to my understanding, he would have bargained you to either Savere or Nerrhavia’s Fallen for gain long ago. That is the logical choice. Yet he keeps you here, dangerous as it may be.”

Nsiia shuddered. It was a reasonable decision. She was not altogether that grateful, though.

“It is the action of a man not without conscience. He knows my fate. The Siren of Savere or chains in Nerrhavia’s Fallen. This is…kinder, as Femithain thinks it. But it is not right. You see the animals whose company you enjoy, Ksmvr? There were millions of their kind in Tiqr. A nation of peace. We began no war, and still my people fight. My lands are taken. So…”

She was warming to her words, her speech. Ksmvr stopped petting Yinah with his third hand and held it up.

“I have heard your plea forty four times, Empress Nsiia. I say to you again: I refuse. I will not involve myself, or my team by proxy, in a war of reclamation.”

Nsiia exhaled, hard.

“But if you could help me but escape—!”

“No. That is not practical. Offer me something concrete to save my team. I care nothing for Illivere. Or Tiqr. My team is lost. I know Yvlon is a captive of Nerrhavia’s Fallen as a gladiator. I will free her as that is unjust and clearly a miscarriage of justice…unless she broke a law, in which case I will find a legal recourse. I do not know where Ceria or Pisces are. Yet. I will find them. Offer me something that will help me locate or rescue them.”

“If my kingdom is restored to me, I will throw all of my strength behind you. I swear as [Empress], Ksmvr.”

Nsiia sat cross-legged in front of Ksmvr. He tilted his head, regarding her. His two antennae were both torn short. They waggled before he spoke.

“…That is a lot of cost for an improbable outcome, Empress Nsiia. It is not practical for me to accept.”

She exhaled, hard. And once more her hopes were dashed!

“You are not the Golem-made-Antinium that Femithain and the people of Illivere think of you, Ksmvr. But you are more heartless than I could wish.”

Nsiia could not hide the bitterness in her voice. To that, Ksmvr only nodded.

“You are right, Empress of Beasts. I am sorry. Or I would be, if I treated this as an admission of guilt or failed desire. But I do not. My team needs me. I am thankful you teach me about animals and spar with me. Yet I will not jeopardize my chances of helping them.”

——

Both of them realized the issue on the evening of the fifth day. That was about when Ksmvr’s healing had ended, hence his little visit to the Adventurer’s Guild, and the boredom of his captivity pressed Femithain into action.

So he, dressed in the long, flowing gown of state, a curious patchwork almost resembling a quilt with every state represented on it, from symbol to motto inscribed in squares of cloth, approached Ksmvr and by extension, Empress Nsiia.

“We have prepared a small gathering and meal, Ksmvr. The First Crafter of Dellva has invited us to her residence for a meal.”

Ksmvr looked up from his play-time with the animals. He saw Nsiia glance up, though the invitation was not for her. Femithian hadn’t even looked at her.

“I will politely decline, Magus-Crafter Femithain. Has it already been…three hours? I am late.”

He stood, abruptly. Taken aback, Femithain blinked.

“I had not thought you would refuse, Adventurer Ksmvr.”

He was dismayed and didn’t hide it. Ksmvr turned, bowing slightly.

“I would not wish to offend the First Crafter of your state, Magus-Crafter. But since it is so late, I must hurry to the shops and procure another crossbow. Complete my rearmament, and then continue training.”

He had spent hours with Nsiia that morning, warming up his body after recovering from his injuries. Nsiia and Femithain glanced at him.

“You wish to train more, Ksmvr?”

The [Skirmisher] nodded calmly.

“If I must remain in Illivere, I should dedicate every hour to training for the chance of levelling up one more time before I am free to leave. I should not have spent three hours here. I shall limit my visits to only an hour, Empress Nsiia.”

“Surely you can spare the time to attend the First Crafter’s residence? It would not take…”

Femithain hesitated. He couldn’t in good conscience say it wouldn’t take less than five hours; the First Crafter had an entire evening planned. However, Ksmvr just shook his head.

“Even at the risk of offending Illivere’s people, I would rather establish a precedent for antisocial behavior that I might not attend more such dinners. I must improve myself.”

Nsiia and Femithain looked at each other. They traded barbs, but both were somehow unified in this moment.

“Ksmvr, do you not take time to relax and enjoy yourself? What if your team were here?”

Even Nsiia thought he was behaving oddly. He was Antinium, but he had done little else but prepare himself for battle by training, buying items, petitioning or arguing with Femithain that he should be allowed to leave, eating, sleeping, and petting animals.

There was more to life than that. Yet Ksmvr just shook his head as if it were obvious. Patiently, he explained.

“If my team were here, Empress Nsiia, Magus-Crafter, I would naturally accompany them to any event. Because that is a worthwhile exercise with my team.”

“But lacking them…?”

Femithain was fascinated. Ksmvr calmly responded.

“There is no point. When I am not participating in team-building exercises which contribute to our overall cohesion and friendship with one or all of my team, I prepare for our next engagement by procuring items or supplies, studying monsters or geography, or training.”

Nsiia’s eyebrows rose. Yinah gnawed on Ksmvr’s antennae and he gently lifted her off his head.

That was the most boring life she could imagine.

“You have no hobbies, Ksmvr?”

She looked pointedly at the cat in his arms. Ksmvr shook his head, oblivious.

“I do not. Hobbies are a waste of time unless they meaningfully contribute to my team in some way, as in a class. If my team does something…”

“What if they do something pointless, like…staring at weeds?”

“Then that is clearly a worthwhile endeavor because they are doing it.”

The two Humans looked at each other again, and this time forgot all hostility for a moment. Both of them liked Ksmvr, despite their short meeting, for elements of his personality that gelled with theirs. Nsiia shook her head, dismayed.

“Ksmvr, if your team jumped off a cliff, would you do it too?”

His mandibles opened and closed and his head tilted.

“…Empress Nsiia. That statement presupposes that I had not already leapt first to secure the way.”

It was an objectively hilarious statement, but he said it so seriously that it was dismaying instead to hear. Femithain shook his head slightly.

“Adventurer Ksmvr. I myself find endless passion in solitary activities, but even without my position, I find time to socialize with my friends and partake in entertainment. A life without any kind of diversions for their own sake sounds detrimental.”

Ksmvr stiffened slightly. Had the Magus-Crafter actually angered him? He took a second to respond.

“…The fact that you cannot find complete satisfaction in the support and wellbeing of others is not my fault, Magus-Crafter. If you had a wife, or child, I would assume you would recant your statement.”

He lowered his mandibles and made a curious sound. Nsiia thought it was him trying to…sniff?

He didn’t have a nose. Femithain was tapping a finger against his wrist, not offended, just trying to respond. Nsiia decided to help him. Because Ksmvr’s words had offended her.

“Ksmvr. Your loyalty is beyond question and reproach. However, the Magus-Crafter was concerned for your wellbeing as a person. You say you will do everything for your team. Work at all hours to support them.”

“Is that not what a good teammate does?”

Nsiia smiled and nodded gently.

“It is. But no one does it all the time.”

“I do. Therefore, your statement is incorrect.”

She sighed.

“You do, Ksmvr. But…what then have you to offer your team? Do not say ‘planning’ or preparation. I mean, what do you, Ksmvr, have to offer them as a teammate? As a person? You are like a [Slave], because all you do is live for them. Or like a Golem.”

Magus-Crafter Femithain twitched. Ksmvr hesitated. He clacked his mandibles together a few times as Yinah purred triumphantly. Femithain looked at Nsiia, then silently nodded.

“Even Domehead, who was the finest of my creations, stood out because he deviated from everything we had taught him, Ksmvr. Originality, that which is unique, is prized even in Illivere as much as the perfection of craft. It is said that once, a [King of Riches] walked down a hallway set with a thousand vases, each one perfectly crafted. He paid no attention to any of them, for they were too perfect, for all each design was varied and unique. He only stopped when a butterfly landed on one, and declared that no other vase could compare in all his vaults.”

The analogy was a bit flawed in Nsiia’s mind, because, as the story went, the [King] then had a [Stasis] field cast over the butterfly, thus ensuring the art would never be despoiled.

But it had its intended effect. Ksmvr slowly put Yinah down, faced the two rulers, and eventually nodded.

“…As I do not have a logical statement I can refute you with, I shall accompany you to dinner. I am doing it unhappily, though. Not because I dislike food, but because I have been bested in verbal discourse. Most vexing.”

Nsiia laughed. Femithain glanced at her, and then seemed to sigh.

“Empress Nsiia. Would you care to accompany us to the First Crafter’s gathering? She did invite you.”

The [Empress of Beasts]’ eyebrows rose. She smiled and accepted.

——

It was a strange gathering at the First Crafter’s domain. The First Crafter of Dellva, unlike the Magus-Crafter, Femithain, could be in her position far longer. Femithain was somewhat rare in his long tenure, but the First Crafter’s residence was still grander than his essentially glorified work office.

Illivere was not as arid as some places, but still had that dry quality in the air. Not so within the First Crafter’s residence. As soon as they passed through the enchanted archway, Ksmvr felt the air moisturize quite pleasantly and grow cold.

“Ah, atmospheric enchantments. Quite practical, if it does not cost too much mana.”

“Well observed. So this is the Antinium who people say is more like a Golem? Your Majesty, I welcome you to the halls of Dellva. I am First Crafter Leire of Dellva. Well met, Magus-Crafter.”

The First Crafter, Leire, was old. Old, as in, it would have been strange not to mention that first of all. Old, as in, she had passed over a hundred and thirty years and still, the Human woman looked lively enough.

Not that she walked anymore. She sat, cross-legged, as a pair of Golems lifted the enchanted dais to head-height. Femithain rarely saw her move. He bowed deeply. Even Nsiia offered Leire a slight inclination of the head.

“We stand upon a leyline of power, Adventurer Ksmvr of the Antinium. It allows many magical things to be produced or kept up. Not least…the very reason age touches me less. Do you know what I rest on?”

Ksmvr peered down at the strange dais. It was not stone; or at least, not just stone. He saw a clear crystal etched with glowing little lines of light, but what struck him most were the…elements embedded within.

Clear water, gloriously beautiful gold, polished beyond belief, a deep azure flame, a growing flower, and a light blue crystal, but a glowing white fire within.

Five elements, set around the dais in a curious pentagram. He spoke, absently.

“The pattern and nature of these magical components eludes me, First Crafter Leire. As does the exact enchantment. I can only assume, though, that this is one of the Top 100 Most Valuable Adventurer Treasures as listed down in the Adventurer’s Guild, that I once perused. If I had to make a guess, I would identify it as some variation of a Sanctum of Health.”

The old woman laughed with delight and her fingers twitched. There was a gentle clapping sound—from the little Golem made to look just like her, standing proud in front of the dais.

“Oh, very well done, Adventurer. Yes, this is a variation of that artifact.”

Nsiia knew it too. There were many artifacts in the world; some to heal, others to enhance or simply kill. But this one was clearly to extend one’s life. Fortify the body.

No wonder the First Crafter had lived over a hundred and thirty years if she sat on this. It was a sought-after artifact, as all things that could keep you alive were.

Even so, you had to accept the cost. The First Crafter was shrunken. She had probably been far larger than the almost child-sized woman sitting there. Even if she had tried to stand, Nsiia wondered if her atrophied muscles would let her.

The little representation of her bowed to Nsiia, and waved at Femithain. It was her ‘body’, and the woman carried about by the two Golems let it make the expressions, quite animated, in her place.

“It is a delight to meet two such fascinating individuals. I am grateful both accepted my invitation. The Magus-Crafter had said you were busy, Empress.”

Femithain avoided Nsiia’s look. The [Empress] smirked.

“Am I not the disgrace of all Illivere?”

Leire smiled.

“Not I. Even had you destroyed Domehead’s Golem Heart, I would have wanted to meet the [Empress of Beasts]. I shall not meet another, I think. Nor the Antinium. But come. I have prepared a little demonstration and there are more guests who await you.”

——

There were a number of high-ranking [Golem Artificers] and nobility of Illivere. Many regarded Nsiia with glares, especially the woman with the fake Golem eye, Crafter Se, who had been on the team that created Domehead.

But they were polite in this setting, the open-aired ‘porch’ with slanting roofs leading into a strange garden.

No plants here, not for Illivere’s folk of Golems. Rather, it was a literal Golem-garden. And not even a garden!

A flat, glass-like pool held Golems. Some were actual statues, others animals, or even Golems of a far stranger design than modern ones which carried or performed vital tasks. A Golem that was essentially a stone lantern rotated its ‘head’ slowly, a polished gemstone eye turning. It had no legs. It was never intended to move.

A Golem-garden. Nsiia rolled her eyes. No fish pond, no place for animals to come and relax. Just their perfect, ordinary world of Golems acting like…Golems.

It was a calm place to view from, though. And apparently, they would be also getting a chance to see how their dinner was being made. Ksmvr sat, fascinated, as two Golems appeared on the lower wooden steps in the open courtyard and placed something between them. A [Golemmaster Cook] bowed deeply, and presented them with a small speech.

“It is my honor to prepare a feast for the Magus-Crafter, Empress of Beasts, First Crafter, and Adventurer from Izril! Please, observe the preparations of the foundation of your dish.”

With that, the two Golems stood; giant stone figures without real face or feature, but strong granite arms. They lifted two objects high as a giant wooden trough with a rounded base was placed between them.

The Golems had hammers. Ksmvr evaluated the odds of a trap being low, so he kept calm. They were not warhammers, mauls, or any other normal hammer you’d use in war, for that matter. Not even a carpenter’s hammer; these were flat, wide, and nonsensical in many ways. Why so wide? They wouldn’t disperse force well without better contouring.

His answer came as the trough was filled with a number of yellow to orange, root-like objects. Almost like lumpy carrots, but with multiple root structures in places. Some were as long as an arm; others smaller.

Yellats.

Nsiia looked interested. So was Ksmvr, because no one else was scoffing at the basis of their meal. However, to Ksmvr’s knowledge of Chandrar, this was not an appropriate foodstuff.

Yellats were tough, to grow so well across Chandrar with little water. Stringy? Well, not in good ones necessarily, but it was true that it was fibrous. They were a commoner’s fare, though. He liked them well enough, but why yellats? He would assume the rich would crave something exotic, or at least, expensive.

It was Leire’s demonstration that made sense in only a second. For as soon as the trough was half-filled the first Golem swung its mallet up—and brought it down perfectly with a thunk onto the yellats. Then the hammer rose as, precise as could be, the other Golem brought its hammer down.

Ksmvr and Nsiia realized they were hammering the yellats flat. And not just once or twice; the Golems would continue through the rest of the nigh hour-long conversation as the food was prepared before their eyes. It was incomprehensible to Ksmvr at first, and that was because he was not Garry, and didn’t understand food.

Most things mashed and that was that. Potatoes? You mashed them and they stayed mashed. Like fingers or meat; there wasn’t a point and often it ruined the structure.

But some things had a benefit to repeated mashing. Leire explained as the rhythmic toc, toc, of the Golems striking the platter with just enough force echoed across their garden.

“We learned it from Baleros, or so the story goes. They do much the same thing with rice. However, Yellats are slightly different.”

There was a technique to making a dough out of rice like this, but the Golems didn’t just mash for that—although the Yellats would do much the same. However, every ten minutes, a single Human apprentice [Cook] would change the mashed Yellats, turn them, mix them—and sift through them, looking for something.

The second time she plucked something out and hurried it over to the dinner guests, many of whom had asked Ksmvr to relate his story of the Village of the Dead.

“Su-yellat. A strand of magic. For you, honored guests.”

She presented it to Femithain first, who passed, and to Nsiia, who blinked. She passed it to Ksmvr, who eyed…a glowing strand of bright orange.

“What is a Su-yellat? Please excuse my ignorance, First Crafter Leire.”

The old woman smiled.

“A rare Yellat that might grow out of any normal one. You have heard of Yellat-day, Ksmvr? It is said some Yellats actually move or run about. I have not seen one in a hundred years, but it is true some magic can seep into them. This is concentrated. A magical Yellat. It will aid your body for a while, if eaten. [Mages] like it, and I am told Drath buys them. For you, it is a gift to taste. Other places harvest them to sell.”

She nodded at the Golems, preparing the Yellats in a style unique to Illivere and little else. It required a lot of mashing and force.

Ksmvr delicately accepted the Su-yellat and it tasted powerful. Not good, not bad, not bitter, not sweet. Because the taste was all magic. He clacked his mandibles together.

“Quite unique, First Crafter. Thank you.”

“You were saying that when you leapt to the Prince of Nerrhavia Fallen’s aid, you did not know if you would live or die?”

One of the [Golem Artificers] broke in urgently. Ksmvr turned his head.

“I did not.”

“That seems impulsive. Hardly logical.”

Nsiia snorted quietly, but Ksmvr replied evenly.

“It may not have been, but Prince Zenol had attacked the liches to save us all. It did not behoove a fellow adventurer to leave him to die. Not when I had a choice.”

The audience murmured, taken in by the simple way Ksmvr spoke. The Antinium privately thought he was doing a bad job of ‘talking himself up’, a trick Ceria had told him was important to make clients value them as adventurers more.

He couldn’t have known his attempts to glorify his team and make himself sound less important struck a chord with Illivere’s people, especially the artificers, who seldom saw combat. Ksmvr was an adventurer out of stories.

Over the appetizers and chatter, the Yellats did become a doughy substance. It became, over hours, a long, winding strand of incredibly soft material, but Ksmvr didn’t miss how the apprentice kept adding bits of flour and other things to it.

“It can then become noodles, a type of bread—many things based on what you added during the pounding process. Of course, most nations do not have the time to produce it like this. Their loss.”

Crafter Se haughtily explained as the noodles made of Yellats were prepared in a trice after the long wait and came out, smelling of many complementary flavors. To it was added a very fine sauce that tasted nutty to Ksmvr.

“Of course, we should all just pull out our personal Golems and do the same.”

Nsiia chuckled, and Crafter Se flushed and glared.

“Most nations should consider the foresight of Illivere.”

“We tend to invest our money into other things. Not everyone can afford an economy based on Golems.”

Nsiia had been on the edge of the polite conversation. Now, Crafter Se glowered with some of her compatriots at the Empress of Beasts.

“And what artful cuisine has Tiqr? I have never heard of them preparing Yellats finely. What would you serve a guest like Adventurer Ksmvr, Empress?”

The ‘Empress’ was a veiled insult. Nsiia smiled cattily.

“Meat. And we would do it at a banquet, not this calm ceremony. With plenty of animals roaming to join us.”

She winked at Ksmvr, who sat up at the thought. The rest of Illivere’s folk shuddered at the thought of a hyena begging for scraps at the table.

“Just meat, Nsiia?”

Someone scoffed. She shrugged.

“How am I to know what was hunted that day? What animal was culled in its age? Yes, meat. Does it matter what kind so long as it is prepared by a master?”

She gestured at the Yellats dismissively, which Ksmvr thought was unfair to the master who prepared it.

“Wrap it in a variety of leaves—steam it in a boiling pot filled with the right kinds of spices. The right water, and the right fire. You can turn old goat’s meat into a feast I’d gobble down without a second thought with the right preparation.”

“Water?”

Before the others could break into a fierce argument, Ksmvr leaned over to Femithain. He shuddered at the memory of water—he was deeply allergic to swimming, and it was a fatal allergy—but he had no idea the quality of water might matter. The Magus-Crafter nodded, amused despite Nsiia’s argumentative tone.

“I believe there are many kinds, not that I am a [Cook].”

“Many [Cooks] don’t think of water!”

Nsiia slapped her knee, with the forthright authority of an amateur expert willing to lecture everyone about their ignorance. She began listing off the waters you could use as a stock, or in boiling—in everything, really.

It wasn’t just stream water, or mountain water—there was a world of water.

“Prelon water, purified water, saltwater, freshwater, Garswamp water, Phoenixfeather water—not as clean as you’d hope, so don’t just drink it from a pond they’ve claimed, frostelwater…”

Ksmvr was fascinated. He had no idea so many waters existed, and, apparently, didn’t just impart a subtle flavor. Some waters would freeze the outside layers of something dunked in it, like frostelwater. Phoenixfeather water had a heat of its own. You could actually significantly change your outcome depending on the water you used!

It was just that many places lacked access to the varieties of water, or had a variety of foods instead. What struck Ksmvr was the boredom of Illivere’s guests, aside from a few like Leire and Femithain. They were openly dismissive of the barbarian [Empress] neighboring their lands. Part of that was surely how she had destroyed Domehead, but still.

“Surely, even with the varieties of water and fire, the end result of steamed or roasted foods is lacking in variety compared to a diversity of ingredients, Nsiia.”

Ksmvr asked, and there were many nods, but the question was reasonable. She shook her head.

“You say that, Ksmvr, but you have not seen the varieties of spices and plants that lay in Tiqr! Illivere is rich enough to buy what it wants; my kingdom lived cheek by jowl next to the animals who knew where to find it in every crevice and place where treats grew. From ants who created a spice to defend themselves, to wild Ashfire Bee honey—there is a reason Tiqr won competitions of [Chefs], not Illivere.”

A sour silence descended over the group, until Leire had her miniature representative clap its hand and announce it was time for dessert! No Yellats for dessert; rather, sugar-crystals, mined out and eaten with minute liquid flavoring. Apparently, it came from ancient sugarcane relatives that fossilized and stayed deep underground. If you could keep the bugs off it, it was a treat.

Food facts. Ksmvr forbade comment, but he really would have loved the bugs and the sugar.

——

Afterwards, Ksmvr rode back with Nsiia and Femithain. The [Empress] was clearly tired of the conversation, which had turned argumentative until she paced off, and was staring out the window of the little carriage. Femithain turned to Ksmvr.

“I hope you enjoyed yourself, Adventurer Ksmvr? First Crafter Leire feared some aspects of the dinner might not be to your taste.”

Ksmvr roused himself.

“I enjoyed myself quite immensely, Magus-Crafter.”

“Wonderful.”

Femithain smiled. Ksmvr smiled too. He said nothing more. But he could have.

It was not for the Magus-Crafter to know what lay in Ksmvr’s heart. The [Skirmisher] felt that he had sufficiently impressed the party guests, and Crafter Se had told him privately she ‘forgave him’ for damaging Domehead since it wasn’t his fault.

A net positive. He still stayed up late that night, and when he could not sleep, restlessly paced Femithain’s mansion.

It was only then he heard the crying sound. Ksmvr paused by the door. A little cat stared up at him, her back legs replaced by Golem prostheses. Yinah. She had pushed open the door, and by that, he could hear the sobbing from within.

Nsiia. She was weeping before something. Ksmvr peeked into her room, and saw her kneeling before something.

A…piece of paper. He suspected it to be from her people somehow. He had noticed her communicating like this. Ksmvr did not believe she had received truly bad news from whoever it was, and the macaw could not have flown to its destination and back. So why did she weep?

There was a map of the local region placed there, and a worn comb of bone. Folded clothing that looked rich; almost like armor. Was it the royal garb of Tiqr?

These were the possessions she had carried with her out of Tiqr, as a prisoner. Perhaps…all that remained. A map of Tiqr. A comb. Clothing. Ksmvr stared at the missive and realized that wasn’t the point.

The [Empress of Beasts] knelt before Tiqr itself. And all that was Tiqr was…a memory. She was almost prostrate before the little shrine, crying.

Ksmvr wondered if he should leave. This…was not for him. Like when Yvlon wept over her arms at night, he wanted to run and pretend he had never seen it.

Something stopped him. He saw a figure in the room, two solemn, bright eyes by night. Ksmvr froze—then realized it was not a person.

The little street-dog and the macaw sat in the room with some animals. The dog, playful, a puppy, looked down at Nsiia with a strange, uncanny solemnity. So did the bird.

Subjects? Rulers?

They stared at Ksmvr and Nsiia broke off from her tears. Her head rose.

“Who is it?”

She spotted Ksmvr. The Antinium stepped forwards.

“I did not mean to intrude, Empress Nsiia, or witness your grief. I would blame Yinah, but she is a cat.”

Aforementioned cat yowled softly. Nsiia smiled, wiping her tears away.

“You can do little to humiliate me, Ksmvr. And I do not think you would. You catch me in the middle of self-pity. Asking forgiveness for failing my empire.”

He stepped slowly into the room. Ksmvr had, of course, educated himself on the Tiqr war after realizing it might be expedient.

“By all accounts, the war was nearly impossible to win without the aid of the King of Destruction. Your grief is understandable. Your guilt…”

He tilted his head.

“…Perhaps understandable too.”

Nsiia looked up sharply. Her tears ran tracks down her cheeks, but her eyes glittered by the candlelight.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that it is my understanding the war began because you did not forswear Flos Reimarch at the meeting at Pomle. Had you done so, perhaps Tiqr would not have become a target.”

The [Empress of Beasts] inhaled, and the animals stirred. She rose, slowly.

“You say what many do not have the courage to say to my face, Ksmvr. Should I have forsworn him, then? Left him to the jackals? He was a great ruler and I admired him as much as you claim to admire your team. Would you forswear Yvlon, or Pisces, Ceria, in my place?”

She knew their names. Ksmvr looked at Nsiia steadily.

“Never. But I am not an [Empress]. You were a good friend, ally, and person. I suggest, perhaps—a poor ruler.”

For a second he thought she’d leap at him, her eyes flashed so furiously. Then Nsiia turned her head and barked a laugh.

“Perhaps! But as we told you, Femithain and I, even a ruler must be a person before a simple servant, or we are nothing! Didn’t you enjoy yourself, or did you lie to Femithain today?”

Ksmvr ducked his head.

“I enjoyed myself. I did not lie, as the Magus-Crafter is able to detect falsehoods, as he revealed to me. I enjoyed myself. And I, too, am awash with shame and guilt. I do not weep, though. I cannot cry.”

The Empress looked at him sharply.

“Why? For enjoying yourself one night, Ksmvr?”

The [Skirmisher] shook his head slowly. Almost…pityingly. He explained, because she would understand. Perhaps Femithain would, but better for him to believe Ksmvr had simply enjoyed himself.

“Consider the following situation, Empress Nsiia. As we speak, as I dined and talked and ate good food…my team, who were scattered by the teleport scroll, landed across Chandrar. One’s location I know. Yvlon, in Nerrhavia’s Fallen.”

She nodded. Femithain was seeking the other two, but Nerrhavia’s Fallen was hard to sway even for a head of a smaller nation. Pisces? Ceria? No word as of yet.

“Ceria, my team captain, did not appear in civilization as I did. She…in this scenario…materialized higher. She fell, and landed on a sufficiently sharp rock. Perhaps concussed; she lacerated her ribs and arm, and broke her legs. She was already wounded from the Village of the Dead raid. Now she is bleeding.”

Ksmvr’s eyes stared at Nsiia. Through her. Without pupils. Not without a soul.

“How long would she survive? If she has a healing potion, many days. If she cannot walk? A limited amount of time. If she had no healing potion…and healing potions are not adaptable to broken bones as well as mere flesh, and not at all to infection…she has minutes. Hours if she can freeze her wounds. If she is conscious.”

“There are many ifs, Ksmvr.”

He nodded slowly.

“Yes. Perhaps she is simply exposed, or predators scent her blood. I do not know. But consider, Nsiia, the many things that could happen, even if she was safe. If, as I sat, eating good food and conversing, she were to become wounded or die, I could have saved her. If I did nothing, I would be responsible for her death. If she is even alive as we speak.”

He was…vibrating. No. Trembling. Nsiia saw how Ksmvr shook. But his voice steadied.

“I appreciate the situation I am in. I would like to leave Illivere not as a fugitive, but with as much aid as I can muster for my team. I am also aware that every second I delay, they may die without me. If I fail—if I have failed one of them, I will take responsibility.”

His voice was silk and steel. Nsiia had heard it before, in her own tones, in the same words as Vasraf and so many brave people.

As hard as steel. As soft and…she reached out, as if he were a creature in pain, but he was not hers to command.

“Such a brave child.”

She murmured, and Ksmvr did not know how she knew he was so young. She looked at him, wearily.

“So you hold Femithain and I in the balance. You do think only of your team. But Ksmvr. Even should you save them from this—what next? If you and your team survive calamity and death and retire, as few adventurers do, what comes next?”

Ksmvr looked at her, and almost smiled.

“I have prepared for that since our first great victory, Empress Nsiia. I have earned an equal fourth share in income and other dividends from my team, despite my rookie status and lower level. I have invested all income at the Merchant’s Guild. I have also begun to secure land in the form of two trees. I intend to expand that until I have a permanent home, and enough monetary reserves to provide food and security to my team in our old age.”

She looked at him like her heart was breaking twice. Ksmvr did not understand. Didn’t she see how well-prepared he was?

“And that is all you desire? To live with your team? To see them alive and happy until you all pass away of old age?”

“I will find a Potion of Reverse Aging before then.”

She almost laughed. Almost. But then she took his arm, with a strong grip.

“Such a good child. But nothing. Nothing for yourself?”

The Antinium hesitated. He shuffled his feet. There was nothing in that image for him. At last, he muttered.

“…Perhaps a horse and cats. And a dog. For companionship, which is good in retirement. If my team wishes them.”

“Ksmvr. Where are your wants and dreams? What of you?”

She looked at the Antinium. Ksmvr hated that question, just like he didn’t like her and Femithain pointing out his flaw in thinking only of his team. At last, he whispered.

“Why must I care for myself more than something I love so much?”

She sat back on her heels and looked at him. Nsiia shook her head.

“For you, Ksmvr. Your team. For me, my empire. In that we are alike. My little schemes do nothing. If I could, I would go to them alone. I cannot flee; not alone. But you?”

Her eyes lit on Ksmvr’s face.

“We are alike.”

The [Brave Skirmisher] met Nsiia’s gaze.

“I think we are. I will accept that you love your nation as much as I, my team.”

“Then…”

The Antinium stood there only a second. Yinah rubbed at his legs, but he did not bend down to scratch her ears.

“I am sorry, Empress of Beasts. It is simply not advantageous to help you. You and I know that.”

He turned his back and marched out of the room. Nsiia sighed and bowed her head. Because, of course—they both knew he was right.

——

First he was the adventurer. The stranger. The opportunity, the chance…now he was a child. In a way, the more she understood, the harder it was to make a plan around him because she felt for this boy.

And he was a boy. In a way, he had a dream and ambitions so pure, so fragile, it reminded her of a man who had once stopped in her empire with a dream. If she wept after he went, it was not just because another plan fell through. It was because she feared the day something shattered that dream.

Yet that was half of what mattered. Because if it was hard for her…

Magus-Crafter Femithain lowered the bead with fingers that shook. And they did not shake often, for he worked in such delicate ways in his craft. Even so. He had expected to hear some plot, and he had steeled his heart against her grief that happened every night. But that?

He had not expected that. It made him like Nsiia more, and he did, despite what she had done.

It made the rest harder. Femithain closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. Then he replaced his glasses and looked down at three missives.

An ultimatum from Nerrhavia’s Fallen. A threat from Savere. One certainly came from the Siren; the other from Nerrhavia’s royal palace with the royal seal, so it mattered little if it were Yisame or simply the will of the crown.

The last? An auction list and a sum, already paid. A name.

Pisces Jealnet.

Femithain did not often resent the duties of his position. Difficult choices arose in governing his nation, but often between how best to improve, to refine. To make sure the gears did not crush citizens like sand as they were oiled.

But these were foreign affairs, and their choices were cruel. His fingers twitched again.

Cruel indeed.

——

It had nothing to do with him. As he had said, it was not his affair and there was no gain for his team.

Pisces mattered. That he was a slave of Roshal? Ksmvr received the news in the morning and thought about it. Roshal, a world power, denied any arguments that would lead to releasing Pisces.

Therefore. Ksmvr asked to visit Elbe that morning. It was one of two changes. Magus-Crafter Femithain assented, of course. He presented Nsiia with another ultimatum then.

“A collar. You intend to make a [Slave] out of me, Femithain.”

The [Empress of Beast]’s voice was flat. Femithain did not meet her eyes.

“You are not a [Slave]. But Nerrhavia’s Fallen has seen how free you are for a prisoner.”

This was true in technicality. She would not be a [Slave].

But it was a collar. A gilded one. A…[Slave]’s collar. It had come from Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Femithain gestured to it as it lay on his desk.

“They do not trust you to remain an amiable prisoner, Nsiia. Your people lie in the steppes. An army led by your [General]. You, with your Skills, could well escape.”

Nsiia’s eyes flickered. She could not deny it without lying to Femithian. All she said was…

“You do not have to do this, Femithain.”

“It is only a collar, Nsiia. It will not restrict your Skills—only detect your location. If you leave Illivere, it will paralyze you. I hope you do not. That would lead to—”

Her hand struck his desk like thunder. Everything went flying and Dellic rushed in, sword drawn. Nsiia had crushed the desk.

“It is a collar and you know it! Look how luxurious they made it, Femithain. It even has Nerrhavia Fallen’s sigil!”

She pointed at the gold and jewels.

“So the world knows who truly owns me. No wonder they are content to let me live here! I will never take it off. You don’t have the key.”

Ksmvr, listening to the loud argument while pretending to still be in his rooms, heard Femithain’s quiet reply.

“I do not. It will not be removed. I do not believe…I could. Not without a great artifact. Nor will I try. You knew you were a prisoner, Nsiia. You had to make a statement for all to see on the scrying orb.”

Silence. The Magus-Crafter went on.

“Nsiia. You will not be taken to Nerrhavia’s Fallen. But the royal palace will not accept anything but this, and this is the least of what they demanded.”

“It will never come off. Could you not have asked for cuffs? I would have removed my hand.”

“I know. Nsiia. Do not—”

The [Empress of Beasts] howled like the very kingdom that had fallen. Ksmvr did not put his hands over his earholes then. He only did after the shouting had ended, Femithain’s battle with Nsiia, the Golems and other guards had brought her down as she tried to flee the city.

They dragged her back, and the sound she made then as they forced the collar over her was a howl of despair. A weeping cry for Tiqr as hope died.

Somewhere, the Siren of Savere laughed to see it. All Ksmvr knew was that he sat in his rooms as Yinah howled, hands over his ears, the last trying to pet her as she bit his hand.

Nothing to do with him.

Nothing…

——

Nsiia did not journey to Elbe, in the days afterwards. Or the other states. Ksmvr tried desperately to get Femithain to petition Roshal, to find legal recourse, but he received news of Pisces’ auctioning as he toured the states, trying to win over friends.

She did not spar with him. She sat, light gone from her eyes, fingers around the collar. She had tried to break it, of course.

[Elephant’s Strength]. The might of the [Empress of Beasts], tools stolen from Femithain’s workshop—all had failed. Nerrhavia had put a final collar on the Empress of Tiqr that could not be removed unless they had the key.

Both Ksmvr and Femithain did not speak of her. Ksmvr did not know what to say. He could think of many things to say to Femithain, and nearly did. But he considered, when he looked at the Magus-Crafter’s expression, that Femithain was already hearing them.

Good.

——

It was the second visit to Elbe. This time without Femithain. Ksmvr had done the big dinner with the First Crafter and while he had been invited to her residence again—mostly to discuss a new Hammera from one who had beaten the Golem—he did not have the Magus-Crafter.

Ksmvr had been here a week. A week. But he was still under a bounty from Roshal of his own, and he had been trying to help Pisces via Femithain.

The Magus-Crafter had tried to bid on Pisces, but had been forced out of the auction in the first ten minutes. Rich he might be—it was nothing compared to the Naga.

The Antinium had delayed forcing the issue because he was still working on Illivere. He had things to do.

The angry crowd at the Testing Grounds had shouted at him, despite no Testings going on. Domehead was still under repair, but Femithain had said he’d be on his feet any day now. Ksmvr decided to postpone any visits there.

Nevertheless, there was still a commotion following the Antinium. As he shut himself in the dark room, he stood quite still. The intelligence inside the room was amused.

“So how does an Antinium of Rhir come here? I cannot imagine the First Crafter of Elbe was so careless. I have heard of you, Ksmvr of Izril.”

The [Skirmisher] slowly rotated. He turned from the door where a furious argument was emanating from. And there it was. She was?

A Golem’s head, lying on a pedestal. The great secret of Elbe. The terrifying, smiling…Oracle of Elbe.

He said nothing. The Oracle looked at him. She, who had plagued countless First Crafters and the Magus-Crafters of generations, a relic from ages past, laughed softly.

“Are you surprised, Antinium? Come closer. Do you wish…to know something? Ask. Perhaps I will answer.”

But what truths might a Golem this old tell? What false answers, or half-truths, or worse, simple facts that could destroy nations? Ksmvr made no move.

“I am content to wait here, Oracle of Elbe.”

The Golem’s head paused. The voice was steady. Did the Antinium not find her disturbing?

“Really? Then you surely have a question if you have sought me out.”

She smiled. Ksmvr checked the door. Then he pulled something out of his belt pouch. The Oracle hesitated. Was that…an hourglass? Ksmvr put it on the floor.

“No. I am just here to wait out the duration of this hourglass. By my calculations, seven more minutes should be appropriate.”

The Golem blinked. She hesitated.

“…You don’t have a question for me?”

Ksmvr glanced at her.

“As I understand it, you are a malignant Golem with dubious information sources dating back to the old Golem empire. Any information you give me is highly suspect. However, the prestige of having spoken to you is quite considerable, especially if I intimate that I have learned something. I am content to stand here, thank you.”

He folded his arms. Then reached into his bag of holding and took out an orange. He began to peel it. The Oracle of Elbe’s mouth moved.

“Prestige…? You can’t do that. You must have some question. You’re an adventurer. Don’t you want to know where buried treasure is? I can tell you a secret of golem-making.”

Ksmvr popped the first orange slice into his mouth and nodded, clacking his mandibles happily.

“Highly suspect. If you had not bartered away all useful information, Oracle of Elbe, I would still doubt your sympathy towards any member of Illivere. I will accept that as an Antinium and unbiased outsider, I may be worthy of some sympathy. In which case you will furnish it to me without pretense. That you did not the instant I entered this room means you are a manipulator. If you have something to tell me, I will listen, but any attempts to obfuscate are pointless as I do not care and my objectives are already accomplished in merely entering the room.”

The logical, carefully-reasoned statement was Ksmvr’s attempts to win more favor among Illivere’s ruling class. The Oracle opened her mouth, glaring mightily, and Ksmvr interrupted her.

“Also, if you attempt to deny or even tell the truth regarding my actions here, no one will believe you given your reputation as a liar. So, by attempting to disparage me to the First Crafter of Elbe or those who follow after, you only help me no matter what you say, if only nothing.”

He chewed down another orange slice. The Oracle of Elbe opened and closed her mouth, clearly trying to work out the best way to hamper him given his line of thought. In the end, she snapped.

“Get out and don’t come back.”

Ksmvr checked the hourglass.

“In three more minutes. Thank you for your time.”

——

“I cannot deny the fact that a powerful Gold-rank team willing to excavate in the name of Illivere is a…powerful allure. You have many qualities of Golems yourself, Adventurer Ksmvr.”

“Thank you, First Crafter of Elbe.”

“Please. Call me…Inerta. We are certainly more than acquaintances, aren’t we?”

Ksmvr nodded. The woman with Golem-arms and he were in private discussion. She was dithering.

“It is just that…Roshal? A dangerous foe to irritate.”

“Mercenaries are easily deniable.”

The First Crafter bit her lip.

“So they are. So they are. It is an intriguing offer, Ksmvr. But if it does come back to Illivere—”

“I remind you, First Crafter, that Magus-Crafter Femithain himself produced Domehead perhaps as a result of his participation in the Tiqr war. He risked his life, and the levels may have resulted in the creation of a Sentience-class Golem. It follows that risk is necessary for progress. Logically.”

“Logically. Yes. So fascinating. Are all Antinium like you?”

The First Crafter flitted around her room full of schematics and designs for Golems. She truly was a [Golem Artificer] as much as a ruler. He considered his response and wondered if he was being flirted with.

The First Crafters and other powerful Crafters of Illivere found Ksmvr fascinating, but they were frustratingly hard to commit to any serious course of action. He had only today to finish his plans. So, Ksmvr rose, and delicately took a miniature Golem, half-made. He held it as he stood next to Inerta, looking at a telling tapestry in her personal rooms.

A Truestone Golem, Cognita, perhaps, idly posing upon a throne while people of various species performed Golem-like tasks. It looked…almost identical to sketches of the Truestone Golem at Wistram that Ceria had shown him.

But Ksmvr didn’t recall the haughty, bored expression on Cognita’s face. He glanced at Inerta. Telling indeed. She must have commissioned an artist to create this scene; he could not imagine it was drawn from life.

“The Antinium have many qualities I find in common with Golems. Perhaps this is a strength the Hives and Illivere share. I find myself impelled to press my case, First Crafter. I hope the strength of my arguments will sway you.”

She turned, and Ksmvr adjusted his posture to be as perfect as the little Golem’s he held. She smiled, uncertainly, but with that interest of someone willing to push all limits.

Ksmvr really hoped he wasn’t being flirted with. He was also aware of adventurer relations with clients from discussions with other adventurers like Crossbow Stan, and how this could create a net gain or unfavorable situations. He had been advised to avoid seducing anyone, and he feared if he got to that stage with Inerta, he would be physically incapable of success.

Crossbow Stan had many words of wisdom regarding where an adventurer should sheathe his sword, or how many candle wicks to light, and when to charge the dungeon. It had taken Ksmvr quite a while and Comrade Pisces’ help to figure out these were metaphors.

——

Ksmvr stayed late at Elbe. For many reasons. What had Crossbow Stan said when he decided Ksmvr was an up-and-coming lad who needed some advice?

“Ah, yes. A smart fellow always has a second crossbow quarrel ready to go.”

The Antinium stopped, by midnight, at the Testing Grounds. He stared into the empty pit. Well, almost empty.

The [Guards] were still there, but the [Skirmisher] was able to avoid their gazes quite easily. The Golems would react if he got too close, but the principal Golem was standing in the pit.

They had reinforced his dome. Colored it topaz for some reason. Given him a complete redesign.

Domehead had been a foe that pushed Ksmvr to his limits before. This time? Ksmvr saw the feet they’d added to the Golem, the war-class armor, the enhanced spells built into his body.

This was not a Testing Grounds Golem, but one which Illivere had poured its considerable technological prowess into. No unenchanted battleaxe, but one with properly deadly enchantments; a glowing Force Axe that could send foes flying. His armor had multiple enchantments written into it, and Domehead’s interior ‘brain’ of crystals shone brighter than ever.

They were still loading countless new commands into him. Not just fighting routines, guarding ones, patrol, attack, defense, counter-spy—everything.

He would be the first of a new generation of Golems. But perhaps the greatest; Femithain’s prodigal son. He would never break again if the Magus-Crafter could help it.

Yet Domehead stood so still. Ksmvr had heard Crafter Se worrying to Femithain something was wrong. He moved when they told him to, executed all commands flawlessly, and still displayed the lateral thinking; he could do what all other Golems couldn’t.

One sign of this was simply giving Golems a locomotion task they weren’t made for. Like…walk in a wavy line rather than straight. Unless explicitly programmed, Golems could not do it.

Domehead could. Yet he did not do anything when he was not ordered to. In theory, he could ‘think’, albeit limited. He just didn’t show it. In war that might change. In battle. They were going to test him out on foes, ‘train’ him.

Ksmvr watched the Golem, now nine feet of death, holding the battleaxe, the only source of bright light in the arena. The [Skirmisher] pondered his journey.

Negotiations were complete. He had wasted enough time.

Now. Now was the hour. He was sorry about Nsiia. But Ksmvr…well. She had the collar and Tiqr was far away.

The Antinium bowed his head. This next part might be unexpectedly hard. He had hoped they’d finish Domehead. But time? Alas. What had he said to Nsiia?

“For my team. What would I do?”

And of course, the answer was simple. Domehead, frozen in place, suddenly moved. The guards, watching him idly, saw the lights burn in his crystal brain. The Golem whirled, axe rising. He took a step—faltered—and backed up a step.

The Antinium leapt over the first balcony and into the seats of the arena. There were shouts and Golems came to life. A bow-wielding Golem trained a bow on him, but Ksmvr dove as shouts identified him.

“It’s the Antinium! Hold fire! Hold—”

Ksmvr landed in the arena. His boots struck the ground with a thud. The [Guards] and [Golem Artificer] on duty froze.

“It’s the Antinium! He’s in the arena with Domehead! Call the Magus-Crafter! Call—”

The Humans froze. What was Ksmvr up to? Was it a rematch? Was he testing Domehead?

Surely not. Yet as they panicked, unsure of how to remove Ksmvr without injuring him, they realized Domehead was not in danger. The huge Golem had been rebuilt. And Ksmvr had lost his enchanted weapons.

Unless…his Skill? Horrified faces looked down. Either a diplomatic incident or another tragedy. But why?

Domehead had raised its axe to shield its chest and lower half of its domed head. It remembered Ksmvr.

“You are called Domehead. Do you know me? We fought once. A regrettable accident.”

Ksmvr called out. He spread his three arms to show he was unarmed. Domehead did not lower the axe. But it did step forwards.

Danger. Ksmvr’s instincts shrilled at him. The Golem was clearly hostile. Ksmvr held up one hand higher.

“I am not here to battle you. I am not your enemy. Do you…understand me?”

He took a step forward. Instantly, Domehead swivelled left, dodging in a pattern as his axe moved, threateningly. Ksmvr halted.

Was Domehead…nervous of him? The motion was aggressive, but it was a defensive position. He turned, calmly.

“I am not here to damage you, Domehead. But I need to do something.”

“Antinium! Do not move! If you attack Domehead, we will restrain you and cannot guarantee your safety! The Magus-Crafter demands you leave the arena and then state your intentions! At once!”

Ksmvr looked up slightly. A [Guard] was aiming a crossbow at him. But he was no Crossbow Stan. Something else the old adventurer had once said to Ksmvr rang true.

“I’ve got a family, Ksmvr. A family. I can’t let ‘em down. So. A good adventurer makes all the profit they can. But they never forget who’s waiting for them.”

They were waiting for him. But would Stan’s family wait forever? Ceria had surely made provisions. But Ksmvr had never…

He looked up at Domehead. The Golem was tensed, lights flashing. Would it attack?

“Someone cares for you. You are Sentient-class. I know you are capable of thought. How much? Do you understand me?”

The Antinium was reflected in the glowing glass of the dome. Ksmvr pointed at Domehead, slowly. The Golem flinched.

“Someone rebuilt you. You have someone who will wait for you. Your…team.”

A pulsing little light lit up a tiny crystal in the side of Domehead’s brain. Ksmvr was fascinated. He could see a divergent thought in the Golem. And then the Golem slowly…nodded.

The arena was silent. The [Golem Artificer], Crafter Se herself, was tearing at her hair, almost weeping aloud, but muffling it. Ksmvr smiled.

“Yes. You understand me. Good. Everyone must have a team. Someone to protect them. Therefore…”

He took a step. Domehead fell back, but it was assessing Ksmvr. The axe came out of its guard-position, warily. Yet Ksmvr, like someone invading the den of a wild animal, refused to back up. His voice was measured. He pointed at Domehead.

“I am not here to harm you. I do not wish to. You have a purpose. So do I.”

He walked towards the edge of the arena, the very place he had come from. Then his head turned. Slowly. He addressed Domehead.

“Do not force me to destroy you.”

Domehead froze. Because, of the many things it was learning, thinking, in this moment—it was analyzing Ksmvr. And…Domehead had no real concept of truth or lies yet.

Nevertheless.

It did not think Ksmvr was lying.

——

Uproar in Illivere. The First Crafter of Elbe was shouting at him. Crafter Se was shouting at him. Femithain heard an admission of guilt, of conspiracy. But he barely heard them.

He was racing towards Ksmvr’s position on horseback, and Armsmaster Dellic and every Golem, [Soldier], and [Mage] he could muster were hot on his heels. Yet they had to keep adjusting their position because Ksmvr kept racing forwards.

He was heading back towards Dellva after setting the entire state of Elbe ablaze. Not only had he leapt into the arena, done something to Domehead, but he’d seized the Golem Horse assigned to him and was racing back without his escort.

Why? Femithain had heard mixed reports from the Testing Grounds. Crafter Se had said something about Ksmvr doing something where he’d first appeared, in one of the cells, but then she had shouted about Domehead running amok and had gone chasing after him.

Femithain’s mind could come to a few conclusions about what Ksmvr had been doing. He had been rallying support across Illivere for his team. Now he had acted.

But what had he needed to go to the Testing Grounds for? Well, Femithain suspected, but first he had to catch Ksmvr.

“Ksmvr!”

The Antinium was racing across the ground, on the back of a Golem Horse. Femithain shouted at him to stop. In response? Ksmvr just changed directions and raced around the wave of people trying to slow him.

“[Light Nets]! Slow him! [Sticky Webs]—anything!”

“But the Golem Horse!”

Femithain saw one of the [Golem Artificers] pale at the thought of damaging one of the last Golem Horses. Femithain cursed, took careful aim at Ksmvr—but the Antinium dodged the [Paralysis Bolt], swinging low on the saddle. He raised his Forceshield as he surged towards Dellva’s walls, and caught another spell.

Adventurer. Illivere had a lot of [Mages], lower-level [Warriors], and Golems. It was a powerful army, but it was an army when all was said and done, used to engagements, not chasing a single Antinium [Skirmisher] on horseback.

They did a splendid job of getting in each other’s way. And by the time Femithain realized he’d made a mistake and was racing back to the gates, Ksmvr had already leapt over the wall.

——

The Empress of Beasts was smiling when Ksmvr entered the mansion. She was sitting in his room. He looked for his possessions—she pointed to them.

“If you came to free me, you were too late, Ksmvr.”

She sat, calmly, the gold collar around her neck. Ksmvr studied her. He picked up his remaining belongings, his map, his carefully-prepared provisions, and addressed her succinctly.

“You seem calm, Nsiia.”

“I will be free one day. All my plans fall to naught. But I will be free. I will not crawl to Nerrhavia’s courts to beg Yisame. But someday, someone will break this chain.”

“The Death of Chains?”

Nsiia laughed.

“Her? I didn’t even think of that! No. I meant someone who could shatter this bond. You know who I mean. Flos Reimarch. He swore to liberate Tiqr. Well, he will have to break this with his own two hands.”

Ksmvr studied her. He nodded slowly. Yinah yowled. Ksmvr adjusted his belt, and looked out the window. Already Femithain and his guards were flooding back through the open gates.

“It is time for me to go, Nsiia.”

“Then go. Find your team, Ksmvr. I am sorry I had little to offer you.”

Bitterly, Nsiia looked up. Ksmvr bowed slightly. He and she exchanged some last words.

Then he walked out of Femithain’s mansion.

——

How much did he really know Ksmvr, after all? Femithain had no idea. The Magus-Crafter had seen his sides. From the qualities that so inspired Illivere, to the parts Nsiia had found in common. His rational, cunning mind. His childish dreams.

Now? He saw Ksmvr the Gold-rank adventurer. Ksmvr, of the Horns of Hammerad.

The Antinium was covered in light from torches and [Light] spells as he halted in the courtyard outside Femithain’s mansion. He looked around, calmly.

Golems and Illivere’s warriors surrounded him in almost equal measure. Armsmaster Dellic had his best [Soldiers] armed with shields and swords protecting the [Mages] aiming wands and staves at him, but it was the Golems who should terrify.

Femithain’s personal bodyguards, with shields and weapons. Golems with bows, capable of slinging massive arrows across vast distances.

Even the Golems that never left Illivere. Protector-Golems from older times like the Purifier.

Dellva’s Lantern-Sentries, ceramic Golems holding magical lanterns that patrolled at night stood with simple canes, batons that matched their gentlemanly—or gentlewomanly designs. Complete with splendid hats and old, fashionable garb. The paint had worn away, leaving them pale and white.

In older times, they had tricked [Rogues] and [Muggers] and proceeded to beat the hell out of them and kept the peace. In this era? They could defeat Level 30 [Warriors] who were incautious and they were tough as steel.

An army of Golems and people. Yet Ksmvr walked out into the spotlights and halted. His voice was loud. Fearless.

“I am Ksmvr of the Horns of Hammerad! Gold-rank adventurer of Izril!”

The people stirred. The Golems did not. Ksmvr looked around, his eyes catching the light.

“I have committed no actual crime. Your paranoia may be understandable because I have acted in strange ways. But without legal recourse, I choose to treat this gathering as a threat, which may be actionable legally, but is without actual grounds.”

Femithain saw Armsmaster Dellic glance his way. The Magus-Crafter called out.

“Ksmvr! I asked you to remain in Illivere. Your departure will endanger my nation, and as Magus-Crafter, I cannot allow that.”

“My death will endanger it further. So your army has strict orders not to kill me, Magus-Crafter. You cannot intimidate me. Furthermore…I have acquiesced with your will so long as it suited me. But you have not imprisoned me. I am an adventurer. And now, I choose to go.”

Ksmvr looked past them. If he broke free, he might well reach the gates before all but the fastest could grab him. And they did have orders not to harm him.

Femithain shouted.

“Ksmvr, we cannot allow that.”

The [Brave Skirmisher] slowly swung around. He met Femithain’s gaze, behind the two bodyguard Golems.

“You are trying to hold me against my will, Femithain? Then I will defend myself. I do not wish to. I am stating here, for the record, with you all as witnesses, that when I slaughtered you, I gave you full warning.”

The Humans and Stitch-folk started. They looked at the huge Golems, and at the single Antinium incredulously.

Femithain? Femithain felt a twinge of unease. But it was one Gold-rank, alone. He hesitated, but someone called out.

Armsmaster Dellic. The man had a sense of the moment. Of the event. He did not have a great command of words, sadly, because he chose to invoke the wrong event.

“Is it war, then, Ksmvr?”

The Antinium stared at Dellic blankly. The confident [Armsmaster] waited for a witty response. He did not get one and faltered. At last, Ksmvr chuckled. He reached for his side.

For the bag of holding. Femithain’s eyes locked on something Ksmvr seized. And the pieces connected.

Ksmvr, the survivor of the Village of the Dead, had turned up here with only his gear. He had no objects beyond a traditional adventurer’s gear. But surely, given all the Horns had done…

They had all seen how the Horns went into the center. For what? Glory? No. Treasure. Femithain had been there, with Nsiia, and he had not believed Ksmvr had left empty-handed.

He had not believed it, in truth. But he had held his tongue because Femithain was not a [Thief]. He had wondered how Ksmvr would have hid such a priceless artifact, though. Now…he knew.

The Testing Grounds. It had occurred to Femithain that Ksmvr had appeared in one of the cells. Before he left, if he thought he might lose what he carried, if he was afraid…maybe he had buried something? Rather than even risk it in battle? That his team might recover it, even if he died.

But what had he hidden? If he had not unveiled it, even if he trusted Femithain and Nsiia, it had to be something valuable. So valuable Ksmvr would only recover it now, fearing [Thieves] or it simply being seized.

Slowly, slowly, the Antinium called out to Armsmaster Dellic.

“War, Armsmaster? You cannot survive my war.”

He unveiled the thing he had taken from the Village of the Dead and the people froze. Even the Golems paused.

In the chaos of the flight from the Putrid One’s greatest servant, what would you grab? A spellbook? Rings? A scroll? Whatever you could lay your hands on? A circlet?

The object rose in Ksmvr’s hand. Femithain stared, uncomprehendingly, as the magic began to burn his eyes behind the spectacles. Dellic turned pale.

In the last minute of the great [Paladin]’s life, as she faced down her death, she had not reached for her weapon. Mainly because someone had run off with it.

The [Paladin]’s sword burned the instant it met the air. Ksmvr remembered the moment. The Dullahan woman had turned and grinned at him.

“Take it.”

The radiance hurt the eyes of all who saw it. Except his. A terrifying glow. A weapon from a different era.

The death of the Putrid One. A…gift.

“Stand aside or perish. This blade was meant to slay monsters, not you.”

The people and Golems both fell aside. Ksmvr walked forwards. He strode past Femithain, then stopped. Came back.

“My thanks, Magus-Crafter. But from here on out, my team is my goal. If you stand in my way, we are enemies. Please remember that. I know you have a good memory. I will only go to the border with the horse.”

Then he leapt away, sword glowing in the night. Femithain stood, speechless, as the Gold-rank adventurer departed the city.

——

Ksmvr raced over sand with the Golem Horse, knowing that behind him lay chaos. He had almost debated leaving the sword where it was. It was too grand for him. Yvlon deserved it, or Pisces, perhaps.

He would be pursued, but his enemy was Roshal. He needed the blade.

The Antinium was headed west, on a direct course after Pisces. He had thought about Yvlon—but Pisces was in the most danger if he was right. Ksmvr had heard Roshal was a…bad place.

To the west lay Tiqr. To the southwest, Savere, along the coast. Further still, and his target, the caravan where Pisces was held captive. So it made sense Ksmvr’s movements could be anticipated in some ways. Anyone heading to Tiqr or Roshal would take the same path.

“…Nevertheless. I am a bit displeased.”

The Antinium slid from the back of his Golem Horse. The glowing-eyed, ceramic beast was not comfortable to ride. Ksmvr would move fast on his feet, anyways. He let it trot back the way it had come.

Illivere probably had ways to recall it, anyways. Then the [Skirmisher] turned.

A panting mare let a figure slide to the ground. Then Ksmvr heard a meow. He stared accusingly at Nsiia of Tiqr.

“Why did you bring her?”

“She came along. I thought you’d come this way.”

The [Empress of Beasts] returned Ksmvr’s glare. The [Skirmisher] saw her eyes lock onto his sword. She stared at it, even though she had already seen it.

“I thought you said that you would not aid me, Ksmvr of the Horns of Hammerad.”

She still looked confused. Ksmvr huffed.

“…I hoped you would cause sufficient distraction for me to make my escape. I did not anticipate us taking the exact same escape route. You will go that way, and I will go that way. I do not need to be caught up in your affairs.”

He pointed northwest, while he took the road. Nsiia didn’t budge, so Ksvmr flapped all three hands.

“Shoo. Shoo.”

Yinah leapt down to nuzzle his leg. Ksmvr bent to scratch her behind the ears. Nsiia studied him.

“You didn’t explain fully why, at the time.”

She touched her throat. The collar was gone. It could have held a lesser Djinni, but the sword had sliced through it, of course. Ksmvr admired the blade. Not silver. Actually, goldish, except for the edge. It had a dark stain, even now. The Putrid One’s blood? He had managed to get it to stop shining so brightly.

He glanced up. Nsiia was waiting. After a moment, Ksmvr straightened. His reply was simple and easy.

“I thought of my friend, Pisces, wearing chains. I found it abhorrent and applied the same logic to you.”

He began to walk past Nsiia. She waited, but that was all there really was to it. Why did he free her? Why…?

——

“Orjin. Orjin.”

It was the same voice. That was not surprising. The fact that it was the same tone was surprising. Just like every other time.

Not worried, just a bit vexed. A bit annoyed. Orjin tuned out the shouting. The shattered armor. The people being picked up.

The others were watching. From Salthorn to Xil. Some looked disturbed. Others, calm. Others didn’t even care.

Salii, the [Secretary] of Pomle, looked at the Strongest. Orjin calmly snapped the last binding on the leg. The [Slaves] looked at him.

“Why did you do it, Orjin? You didn’t give me any warning.”

Her tone was level. The Strongest looked at the Drake.

“For all this time, you’ve asked me what I wanted. What I would do, what I willed. I never told you anything because I never wanted anything. I was happy with some changes. Not with the others. I didn’t inform you about this because I’ve always done as I thought I should.”

He looked at the fleeing Nerrhavia’s Fallen group, and the people whom he had freed. Salii tilted her head, smiling.

“Can you explain it to me, again? I think I know.”

Orjin exhaled into the night air and shrugged, as if he had done nothing out of the ordinary.

“It offended my sensibilities. That is all.”

——

It was the same kind of answer, said two ways. The why was easy. The how was pretty easy too if you had a magic sword.

Ksmvr began jogging off. Nsiia followed him, scooping Yinah up as the mare groaned and plodded after them.

“Go away. I am trying to rescue my team.”

“What if we went together? Femithain will conflate the two of us. You freed me.”

“…No I didn’t. Yinah freed you.”

She laughed. Ksmvr sighed, but he didn’t scare her off. And the word spread. An adventurer had freed the Empress of Beasts. A foreigner from distant lands with a magic sword.

It was going to cause a lot of trouble. Ksmvr…didn’t really care. Someone had once said there were consequences for actions and that was true. It might be war and consequences. So what?

They’d have to catch him, first. He began running, and the [Empress of Beasts] leapt into the saddle. A cat yowled as the two began to race over the ground, to what really mattered.

They only slowed when they realized they were being pursued. Ksmvr looked back. He was sure he’d established sufficient dominance this time! Moreover, their breakneck speed had outdistanced anyone but someone on a Golem Horse of their own.

Or…someone relentless enough to run the entire way here. But how had it—he—known they were here? Ksmvr checked his sword. Nsiia spun.

“Is that…?”

Domehead slowed when he saw Ksmvr. He had not been expecting to see Ksmvr. Ksmvr had not been expecting to see Domehead.

Nsiia was flabbergasted. She looked at Domehead, not able to comprehend how this had happened. Ksmvr’s mandibles opened and closed.

“I told you I would destroy you if you attacked me. Is that what this is? I thought you had a…team…”

He looked up, suddenly. At the figure on horseback. The woman stared at Domehead, and Ksmvr. Even the cat caught on before she did. Then Nsiia reeled.

“But I struck him down! I…”

Domehead trotted forwards slowly. He looked at Nsiia, the lights flashing in his head. The axe was strapped to his back in its holster. He did not reach for that. Instead—he raised his hands and took a familiar fighting stance.

It floored Nsiia. She looked up at Domehead, staggered as if the Golem had punched her.

“I—me?”

A little light glowed in Domehead’s mind. Ksmvr saw tears spring to Nsiia’s eyes. She touched her chest, took in a shuddering breath.

“I—I am a fool. A terrible…friend? Mentor? A worthless woman to look up to. A betrayer. A…”

Domehead stood there, indicating he disagreed. Anyways, Pisces sometimes said that too, and Ceria. Ksmvr felt a kinship with the Golem, and tapped Nsiia on the shoulder. They had to keep moving. This was…probably going to cause more trouble.

The [Empress of Beasts] started as Ksmvr indicated the way ahead.

“You are not a terrible friend, Nsiia. Come, come. And hurry up. Not a horrible ruler. Just a bad mother.”

Then he kept running.

—-

Domehead was gone. Ksmvr was gone. Nsiia had fled.

Three disasters for the price of one. All interrelated. He saw that now. What Magus-Crafter Femithain thought, in his light-headed state, as he stumbled through his home, was how connected it all was.

Like a Golem’s circuits. One provoked the other. Had he not seen it?

Yinah was gone too. For some reason, that disturbed him most of all. He thought of the little cat, and could focus on missing her more than…

Domehead. Why had he gone? Of all of them, Crafter Se, who had slept in the arena to fix him? Armsmaster Dellic, whom Domehead had also learned from? Femithain had given Domehead life.

Yet it was Nsiia. Femithian thought he understood why. It had not just been the Magus-Crafter’s logic and Skill. Perhaps the Empress of Beasts had helped create Domehead more than he ever knew.

“Alive.”

Femithain stumbled, and nearly fell as his walk took him past his office. Not to his desk, not in the dark mansion. He had tripped over something.

A broken collar. He looked at it, and then kicked it aside. Femithain walked on, blindly.

“Alive.”

He was chuckling, laughing softly. A quiet hysteria. Understanding…something.

At last, the Magus-Crafter stopped. Not in his workshop, not in his office filled with papers and the affairs of state. These were not the places that drew him. It was just a private room, in his mansion, where Nsiia and Ksmvr had never intruded. They probably thought it was abandoned.

And how not? He knew them. They knew him. But only for a short time. Femithian himself had never entered this room for the last two years. He’d just…forgotten.

Yet it was cleaned of dust. The Magus-Crafter looked around. He had been preparing to show it to someone. It was just…a thought. Now, he knew why.

They taught Domehead how to fight. Gave him routines to protect, defend, even bow and repair himself. Dellva, Illivere, had been abuzz with dreams.

Teach him to learn. To overcome! To lead? For a Golem such as him, he would not have to be taught pre-programmed actions. He would learn. Had Crafter Se dreamed of…?

He did not know. The Magus-Crafter sat at an object in the darkness. He had wanted to take his creation here. His son.

The harp was free of dust, and the enchantments kept it tuned. Femithain plucked at the strings, hesitantly, then remembering. It was a pointless room, or had been.

You did not play music for Golems. They could not appreciate it. Femithain sat in the dark room, bleeding, though he had not been struck. Murmuring the word.

“Alive.”

He realized the irony, why the Oracle of Elbe laughed. The living were so…hard to predict. You could not control them. Femithain looked out the window.

“The day I made him, he was not mine, but yours, Nsiia. Take care of him.”

Then he rose to follow after.

8.38 H

The Last Tide – An Innverse Graphic Novel from pirateaba

It had been nearly six days. Six days of brief action regarding the two Gnolls; sightings, false flags, and updates from the Doomslayers heading north.

Chieftain Xherw kept tabs on the issue. However, it was one issue of many and it said a lot about how he felt about Doombringers that it was even part of his concerns.

The Chieftains had begun to meet and deliberate. Even so, as he broke breakfast with no less than Chieftain Iraz of the Steelfur Tribe, greatly fascinated, and Shaman Ulcreziek, there was a murmur from the guards outside his tent. [All-Seeing Honor Guards] were not easy to trick or bypass, so Xherw wasn’t worried.

“I simply do not see why you failed to bring this to the Plain’s Eye tribe if you were aware of it the last six days, Chieftain Iraz.”

Shaman Ulcre’s voice was annoyed, containing mixed emotions from concealed trepidation only Xherw could pick up on to open skepticism. Yet it was the implied rebuke to Steelfur that made Xherw lean over.

“Ulcre. Chieftain Iraz is his own Gnoll.”

It did not do to offend one of the greater tribes, for all Steelfur was a staunch ally of theirs. Iraz accepted Ulcre’s apology. His own gaze was steady as his metal fur shifted by the dawn’s growing light. He held a cup delicately in one paw.

“I promised to keep the secret of the Ekhtouch, Silverfang, and Longstalker’s Fang tribes’ great gift, Shaman Ulcreziek, Chieftain Xherw. Waiting until the Chieftains began to meet was a point of honor.”

“Hmm. And honor matters. You are not wrong, Chieftain Iraz. Ulcre, we must confirm this. Have any other tribes found Humans like this? If not…”

Xherw had to rise and let Ulcre talk with Iraz longer. The argument at the door to his yurt was not ending, so he went outside and saw the Gnoll standing in the dawn’s light. It shone off his red leather jacket, glinted off his sunglasses, and backlit his pose as he stood in front of the [Honor Guard].

They glared at Yelroan. The [Mathematician] glanced up as Xherw sighed and gently massaged his face. This was the last thing he needed.

“What is it, Yelroan?”

“I’ve found your Doombringers, Chieftain.”

Xherw’s head snapped up. Yelroan elaborated.

“Or where they will be. Both of them.”

——

“There’s obviously some kind of anti-detection Skills going on. Good ones too, since all the [Oracles], [Shamans], [Seers], and so on can’t do a thing. Anti-prediction? I told you I could do it.”

Xherw patiently sat in front of a map in Yelroan’s large work-tent as the Gnoll dragged it over. He wanted proof of Yelroan’s conclusion, although he’d already signalled Merish’s group to make a course-change.

“How sure are you? How did you find their route, Yelroan?”

“Math, of course!”

The Gnoll’s glasses glinted. Xherw rolled his eyes. He’d walked into that. The [Chieftain] was patient, but his impatience was a physical feeling in the air, and Yelroan felt it and hurried on.

“At first, I tried to do what your spellcasters didn’t, and see the logical pattern of movement based on a five-day data-set. They’re moving fast, so I actually had more points of data than you’d expect. I was also able to use extrapolation-Skills to fill in data points.”

“…You mean, you were calculating where they were going and seeing a pattern.”

Xherw’s head began to hurt already, and Yelroan had explained how his mathematical formulas worked many times. The Gnoll nodded, happily.

“Exactly. In this case, I had five locations, see? And I have them pinned here…”

He indicated the map of Izril, along the High Passes, where a red line of yarn was moving in a roughly eastern direction, a bit south, a bit north—no clear straight line or even helpful curve. Yelroan went on.

“I assumed that two Doombringers would be avoiding Gnoll tribes in the area. So, I found every Gnoll tribe with accurate listings or known locations, and marked them. Then I—”

“You found every Gnoll tribe in a hundred miles?”

Xherw was startled, but Yelroan was indicating circles of yarn around pins. The [Mathematician] sniffed.

“Of course, Chieftain! Keeping up on information is part of how my class works. But just knowing where a tribe is isn’t helpful. So I extrapolated. These circles around each tribe are the radius in which they could conceivably move in one or two day’s time. Some tribes have larger radiuses, because their patrols or Chieftains have movement Skills…”

“Ah. So the Doombringers would go to their next location where no Gnoll tribe was.”

“Exactly! I traced essentially ‘threat zones’, and compared them to their movement over the course of five days.”

“And?”

Xherw sat forwards, eagerly. Yelroan smiled.

“…There was no real correlation. It looks good now, but they passed through other tribes’ threat zones and I can’t pin their pattern to it.”

Xherw’s stare made the [Mathematician] fumble over to a second map; he had multiple boards for projects like assessing trade value or other activities.

“To be fair! Even your [Pathfinder Scouts], [Hunt Masters], and so on can’t figure out where they’re going because they’re doing what I am! Plotting a route based on geography or proximity to the Gnoll tribes is obvious. So that’s when I realized we were thinking about it the wrong way. There is a pattern to how the two Doombringers are moving. Just not in any of the normal ways we check—to keep themselves safe. Clever.”

“Yelroan, I have a hundred things to do this morning.”

The Gnoll gave Xherw a hurt look.

“You did ask, Chieftain.”

“I did. So summarize faster.”

Yelroan pushed a piece of paper towards Xherw. The Chieftain peered at it. They were sums of gold and silver and copper.

“What’s this?”

“The expenditures of the two—or rather, the adult male Gnoll—”

“Doombringer.”

Yelroan hesitated.

“Yes, Doombringer, Chieftain. Their expenditures over the last five days. I had them pulled with a little work. Note what they’re paying for?”

“Hrm. Carriage ride. Inn rooms. Food…lodging…supplies. A silverware set? Is there a point, Yelroan? How did you come up with all this?”

The Chieftain couldn’t make any sense out of it. Yelroan smiled triumphantly, however.

“Most inns—even Drake-run inns—will give you the time of day if you send in a [Message] spell asking about particulars. I wouldn’t have gotten all this information if we couldn’t prevail on Gnolls to look it up. A bit of coin opens ledgers…as does the news. It’s that poor girl that was on the news! But enough about that. See the expenditures? It’s not a small amount of money, Chieftain!”

“I can see that. But it’s not a large amount either.”

Yelroan tapped the side of his nose.

“Yes, but now look at the cities we’ve plotted. You can’t tell by names alone, but they’ve gone from town, village, city, city, village…”

There were classes of Drake settlement, although almost all had walls. Xherw peered at the little breakdowns of each city. He still didn’t see it.

“Not many Plains Gnolls would, Chieftain Xherw. But I realized there was a pattern. A pair of Gnolls with money to burn is not the most unusual thing to see. However, a carriage ride from city to city? That’s…not actually as easy as you might think. A private room for dining, here? In fact, every inn? That’s sensible. They don’t want to be seen by another Gnoll traveller. But all these little things, like leaving this city before dawn at 4 AM?”

“What of it? We don’t even use enchanted timepieces, Yelroan.”

“But Drakes do. And do you know something, Chieftain? You cannot leave a Drake city before dawn in many circumstances. Not unless you’re the Watch or have special dispensation. They lock the gates at night.”

The Chieftain of the Plain’s Eye tribe perked up his ears. Now he was interested. Yelroan pushed his glasses up further.

“There is a pattern. Firstly, the two Doombringers avoid any settlement embroiled in strife. They also avoid places with stringent checks for travellers—or ones that just don’t like Gnolls. They want easy-to-access inns and taverns, where they can lay low. And they do go from settlement to settlement. My guess is that an entire Drake city is safer than an inn on the road, where the Gnoll tribes can easily search.”

“What’s the pattern?”

Xherw saw Yelroan tap his final data point. The [Mathematician]’s eyes traced the geographical map and his gaze turned distant.

He saw it, clear as day, and had confirmed it with a Skill once he’d checked his hypothesis. There was a pattern, just not geographical or corresponding to proximity to other Gnolls.

[Visualize Data Set]. Yet the Skill proved the math was right, not the other way around. His murmur was satisfied.

“Passports.”

“What now?”

Xherw saw Yelroan turn. He gestured to all the cities he’d marked and three more with gold pins.

“Each city they visit accepts and uses the Walled Cities’ passport system. Not all do, or recognize it as strongly. You probably don’t care, Chieftain, but a passport lets travellers enjoy certain rights, even if they aren’t known to the city. Like, say, chartering private transport, no questions asked, leaving through the city gates at any hour. The older Gn—Doombringer? He has a Grade-4 passport. I have no idea how he got it, but it means it’s a safe bet he’s using that to speed their way. And that narrows down his next destination to the following three cities.”

He pointed to three cities that Xherw would have been unlikely to name based on any logical pattern. One was almost vertically down on the map, despite the promise of the two going ‘east’ via his oracles. And yet, if they were trying to lose pursuers…

Xherw stood up.

“You are sure, Yelroan?”

“I’m sure of the pattern, Chieftain. I’m sure of the data, but there are a lot of variables in life we can’t predict. However, I’m fairly certain I’m correct on at least the passports.”

“Then I will inform Chief Warrior Merish and any Gnoll tribes at once.”

Xherw took the names of the three settlements down. He nodded to Yelroan.

“Well done.”

The [Mathematician] puffed up with pride. He smiled, smoothing his fur back, and decided to bring up getting apprentices or helpers or expanding his role in the tribe at a good point. He stared at the map. He hoped he was right, and Merish would get these Doombringers.

…Yelroan stared at the map and remembered what you did to Doombringers. He’d been so focused on the problem, he’d forgotten. The Gnoll’s smile vanished, and he fiddled with his glasses.

“Ah. Right…Chieftain?”

He looked over his shoulder, very hesitantly. But Xherw was already striding away.

Yelroan didn’t follow him.

——

Every good nation needed someone like Yelroan. Someone who could make sure the numbers added up, perform logical, independent actions without needing their paws held at every moment.

Government officials, in short. Sometimes they were merely tools in the arsenals of nations, to fight internal corruption, help with the tasks of supply and management. Usually, the power of the bureaucrat was the spoken or written word, which was translated into sword or magic via authority and writ.

It was the rare, ascended form of their class that could deal with bad bookkeeping with a [Fireball] spell as well as a ledger. So, for instance, when you saw ‘Creler infestation’ on the books, instead of allocating the troops or supplies to eradicate the issue and waiting two weeks…

“[Gravity Well: Reversed]! [Flaming Lightning]! [Glass Needle Spray]! Die, verminous filth! The Vizir suffers no pests upon the land! Die, die, die!”

Some days Fetohep wondered how Vizir Hecrelunn had managed Khelt when he’d been alive. It was easy to watch him yanking the Crelers out of the dust and blasting them apart, but how was he with a quill and ink? Did he scream his name while signing documents?

“…Delegation.”

Fetohep concluded. The scrying orb turned off as the Vizir raised his head.

“Begone, transient ruler of Khelt.”

He actually cancelled the [Scrying] spell. Fetohep sat back as the Vizir continued to root out Crelers.

They weren’t even near the battle lines in Medain. The Claiven Earth, Terandrians, and Medain were in an all out running war, but the Vizir had abandoned the front when he’d heard about the Creler nest to destroy it.

His logic was that a threat to Khelt should not be allowed to grow in strength. He’d also wanted to see Crelers, which had not existed when he ruled. The Vizir had been openly unimpressed, despite their magical resistance and endurance that let them even survive being set on fire and electrocuted at the same time…for a while. Fetohep suspected Hecrelunn could kill an Adult Creler. An Elder? Well…

In any other situation, Fetohep would have been thinking about how to curtail Hecrelunn’s naked ambition to replace him and rule Khelt ‘properly’. He would have hesitated to unleash the great [Vizir], or have put him to some great task.

In this strange era he found himself in, he simply let the Vizir deal with the Crelers. If need be, he would rein Hecrelunn in. But Fetohep couldn’t help but resist.

“Great Khelta, Queen Heris, if you walk with me—was the Vizir changed markedly by his death and entombment as guardian Revenant? He seems…unhinged. Arrogance is to be expected, but in a [Vizir], meant to support the throne?”

He waited. Then there was a soft laugh in his ear as Queen Heris spoke, her voice still almost breathy in death, fluent, someone who could chatter—at least that was how she spoke to him. Not at all like he had imagined.

“Hecrelunn was [Vizir] in a time when Khelt treated with other nations who feared our emerging power. He humbled other rulers who would not accede, and we sometimes called him ‘Little Brother-King’, Khelta and I. If he acts too strident, remind him of that. And that we are watching. He was ever faithful. He only threatened to steal the kingdom’s throne that we might rule without the nuisance of governing ourselves.”

Little Brother-King…Fetohep had no tongue or lips left to move, but his jaw opened and closed soundlessly. In the end, he managed a slow nod.

“Truly, the days of great glory of antiquity have once again come to the present, Queen Heris. Perhaps his great might can be put to more tasks after the war concludes. Not least this project…I rise now to pursue your will.”

He slowly left his throne to stand at one of the balconies in his palace. Fetohep looked down into a huge clearing of space outside. An entire garden and even some residences had been removed, and mana stones and [Mages] by the hundred were being carried out for a great magical working. Fetohep stood over the huge proceeding. He studied the lines of arcane force. After a moment, Queen Heris’ voice whispered in his ear.

“Fetohep. Fetohep. The [Archmages] say it is still off in eighty three ways.”

“…Great Queen Heris. Can you…ah…repeat their instructions again? Verbatim?”

Both dead rulers of Khelt sighed mightily.

——

In the land of the dead, there were no people or objects, save for what was stationary, not held. Only Fetohep was visible, and only to the rulers of Khelt and the Human girl they had permitted into their great confidence.

However, there was a gathering as mighty in death as there was in life. The hurrying servants of Khelt and [Mages] in the living world were echoed by their peers in the land of the dead.

Yet such an imbalance! Where a pacing [Court Mage] of Khelt stood in life, trying to lay down a magical outline in paint, sweating over a glyph she could not understand nor fully even visualize given the basic, verbal instructions from Fetohep himself, an [Archmage] of Wistram stood.

And a [Sage of Wonders].

And a [Shaman of the Eternal Grasslands], who had risen to the rank of [Archmage] herself in life.

They were watching the clumsy lines appearing and all three were tsking over them. The [Archmage of Sky], the Garuda, turned to the Gnoll and Stitch-Man.

“Completely wrong. How do they not even know how to connect two magical thoughts?”

“I don’t understand. Hrr. It’s literally a straight line. Why is she drawing a loop here?”

The Gnoll rubbed at her head. All three waved at the harried Queen Heris, pointing out another flaw in the magical diagram they were working on. The [Queen] tried to shoo away an annoyed ghost repeating the instructions again.

“Two straight lines and an Invel Loop. That’s a magical loop under the first two, which completes the magical circuit!”

The Queen glowered at the [Runemistress of Ger].

“Fetohep of Khelt informs me there is no way to draw it in physical space, [Runemistress].”

“Yes. Physical space. You draw the third line via magic! Just tell any [Mage] ‘Invel Loop’ and they can draw it.”

The flat line that Queen Heris’ lips made said that she was quite aware that ‘any [Mage]’ might well not know the magical term from whatever era the [Runemistress] was from, that visualizing magic for non-[Mages] and trying to translate magical instructions via only words was aggravating, that she was sick of these arrogant spellcasters bossing her around, and that Fetohep was not good at drawing.

Yet she turned and began whispering to the figure only she could see, and both kept at it because, well…it was a magical working of a scale that literal [Archmages] were collaborating on.

Grand magic. Even in life, so many ghosts pooling their expertise was unheard of. Even if they had to test and implement via the living, here stood a [Deathless Virtuoso Assassin], who had been guildmaster of the greatest Assassin’s Guild in life, debating which technique was best with a Named Adventurer [Dragonslayer Rogue].

Each one could, theoretically, then pass on said knowledge to the living world. Every [Assassin] in existence would trade someone else’s testicles and left hand for that knowledge. Imagine what you could create?

Well, one did not have to imagine. Queen Khelta of Khelt stood, watching the magical construction at work. Her mind raced.

Potions from the [Sages] of Chandrar, who had mastered turning sand to gold as a warmup, who had created tonics to reverse aging, created forms of limited immortality, and changed any aspect of the body they wished.

Spells from the masters of magic that had once broken dimensions apart and slain magic itself.

Techniques from warriors who had battled Dragons.

All of which she could gift Khelt now. Create in it a kind of mastery—or at least, the knowledge of said masteries—that had never existed in any age.

She turned to her guest of the moment. A [Swordmistress of Ancients], who had mastered six styles of blade school, each with their unique Skills and Sword Arts.

“…As you see, Zeladona, now is not the time to withhold any act. Now is a time of legends once more. I ask you—in the name of your story, which once shook every continent—grant my scion, my ruler, Fetohep of Khelt, the grace of one of your great schools of blades! He will recreate a school of [Blademasters] who will bear your name into future generations.”

The [Blademistress of Ancients], Zeladona, who had been so old she had been literally turning to dust, was the young woman who had first mastered all these arts. She appeared as she wanted to be, and the radiance of her soul might have eclipsed even Khelta’s. A bit.

She fingered the useless memory of a weapon at her side, one of the varied swords she had carried and used. She looked at Khelt, and then at Khelta.

Betimes, Khelta wore a headdress of bone and light, free clothing that revealed sections of her arms, a cut dress to allow free movement in the heat, but still a dark purple, like the [Necromancers] of her time.

Other times she was older, wearing garments of state, or armor—also of strange ivories not always pale white—as she changed in age.

Most often though, she matched the age of those she talked with, so the young woman wearing the light clothing and bone earring would have been an odd, but similarly-aged pair with the [Blademistress] who sat lightly, legs waving in the air on the ledge of the palace, the Dragonbone sword slung across her lower back, ready to be drawn in a moment, her Wyvern-scale armor glinting in an imaginary light.

Zeladona’s reply, when it came, was simple.

“…That is all very well and good, great Khelta. And I do not mistake the favor you and your peers have done for us all in warding Chandrar. However, it seems to me that for me to unveil one of the ancient styles that even Dragons used, and which ruled the entire world when I was young…some due compensation might be in order, ah, eh?”

She smiled, using the expression of her era. Ah, eh?

Khelta’s eager smile waned. Zeladona glanced meaningfully down at the city.

“I’ve…heard there might be a statue or two for some favors done. A statue is all very well and good. But for the greatest sword style of my time…perhaps a book? Come to that, I’ve heard tales about certain ghosts who might be on a short list to…influence…the real world. I would like a few promises, perhaps with witnesses? Then we can talk.”

By now, the First Queen of Khelt’s smile had vanished completely and a sour look replaced it. It just went to show. The egalitarian unity of the dead, their great defiance of the evil of the six and the end of all things?

Gone, the second someone suggested they had something to gain. Khelta ground her teeth together.

“We can…certainly arrange due tributes via our mortal representative, but some aspects are as yet impossible. If your face or history is not recorded, Zeladona—”

“I am happy to provide my own biographical account. And help coordinate with any [Painter] or [Sculptor]. So handy we can see mortal objects, isn’t it?”

“...Quite. By which, do you mean, repeat the entire story of your life?”

Zeladona coyly brushed at her hair.

“Perhaps only the most important bits. I know time is fleeting, but since your great scion is undead, he could spare a few days of dictation. Me through whichever ruler is talking to him. I am inheritor of the Soul’s Light style of blades. It would not be too great a sacrifice for knowledge of that art, hmm? With a few other concessions.”

A few other concessions. Khelta’s smile twitched.

And there it was.

If you looked over the palace of Khelt, into the grand gathering of ghosts, you could see countless peoples, not all standing on the steps or streets of the capital of Khelt itself. They could fly, so regular Humans walked or sat in the air next to Garuda, or shouted into the ears of half-Giants or Giants who kept their voices low.

Beyond that was the great procession in which the dead were organized and the latest news acquired. All of it had been so perfect, so grand. Unity against the six things.

Only, something had thrown a wrench into the plans of late. The [Sages] no longer patiently had Named Adventurers and monarchs asking the recent dead to spread the news. The [Sages] did not impart their vast wisdom freely. Everyone had heard what was happening in Khelt—seen it with their very eyes. And thusly—everyone now had a price.

The problem was…well, Khelta gloomily stared down at the top steps of the palace. There sat a young woman, talking with [Witches], her latest guest, amid her friends, like the Silver-rank adventurer, the [Pickpocket]. The ghosts still kept back the rabble from her, and they lined up to speak with her.

Erin Solstice had a way about her that was simply charming. The ghosts wanted her to bear their stories, their grief, their knowledge back if she returned. It was safe to say the dead of Chandrar had bet on Erin Solstice, and put all their money on her.

Why don’t I just whisper how to create the Boots of Seven Leagues into your ear, my dear? Not to worry! You’re so charming and I do hope you’ll teach those Drakes a lesson. Did I tell you how they conquered my nation when I was alive?

Let’s just practice the Steps of Seven Lands. You’ll probably not get it, but just in case, hmm? And then you can tell everyone you learned it from the [Aethergate Traveller] himself. Go on, don’t be shy…

They gave away great knowledge to her, most of them. Because of course, she carried hopes and dreams and had a terrible burden to bring news of the six to the lands of the living. Because there was hope in her.

But Khelt? Khelt had direct access to the lands of the living. A king who could obey any commands in realtime! Give them that, and the ghosts, rather than help Khelt become the greatest power ever, decided to remember their mortal allegiances and desires.

Khelt? I was just never too keen on necrocracies, I’m afraid, Khelta. Happy to chat with that young woman, but I just don’t think it’s the right time for another undead superpower.

Of course I could teach you how to cultivate Ironbark—I might even know where some saplings are. What’s in it for me? A statue? Hah!

The dead got…greedy. The bastards.

“…It may be I erred in granting Nerrhavia and a few ghosts statues.”

Khelta muttered, admitting her own culpability in the situation. Word had spread like…well, word in the lands of the dead. Nerrhavia hadn’t helped, showing it off, even though it was in the most remote courtyard, strutting about. My legacy remains.

Now they all wanted their life stories re-recorded, set down just so, statues, that Fetohep had to somehow translate from a verbal description into stone. And the ghosts were picky.

Some were altruistic. But…Khelta wrenched her attention back to Zeladona.

“What did you mean, Great Zeladona, about influencing the real world?”

The [Blademistress] smiled widely, exposing a gap in her teeth she’d had since being a child. Apparently, rather than having lost it to natural causes or in battle, she’d simply once punched herself with the hilt of a training sword hard enough to knock it out.

“Oh, you know what the dead say, Khelta. If there were a plan to, say, animate statues to let us inhabit them, or paintings, or…create a gate to bring us back. Put us in bodies? I could see giving you all six styles. For some carefully worded promises. In front of the right people.”

And there it was. Her eyes betrayed a terrible desire. The same desire Khelta felt, even now.

I want to live. They had all heard Erin’s cry. They all knew it, damn it. Who didn’t want to try again? No matter how, no matter in what way…

If I could but move a blade of grass, I would have some meaning in this place where there is nothing but memory and death.

Khelta bared her teeth.

“There is no way save that which Khelt has, Great Zeladona. I am afraid I cannot offer what does not exist.”

“Ah, eh, well…perhaps some lesser things. But I cannot just give away my life’s work for nothing, you understand?”

The [Blademistress] spread her arms, sounding reasonable. Khelta resisted the urge to throw her off the palace’s roof and nodded, smiling again.

Both of them knew…Khelta was telling the truth. But they also knew that now every ghost in Chandrar was thinking of the same thing.

If rulers could talk to an undead in the living world, it followed there were other ways for the dead and living to meet. If Terandrian rulers could hold an artifact still in the mortal world…if [Witches] and [Warlocks] and [Summoners] had once indeed summoned ghosts to the mortal realm, as used to happen in days of old…

Perhaps. Khelta’s gaze turned towards the grand working, and felt Zeladona’s eyes on her face.

“The future is uncertain, Great Zeladona. I suppose the question is—who is a friend of Khelt? Ah, eh?”

The [Blademistress] considered the question, eyes narrowed.

——

Negotiations were slow, but then, Fetohep was occupied and there was the decision of which great thing to bring back into the modern world at any given time.

The working outside the palace was the #1 priority; the rulers of Khelt had agreed on that. The rest was more negotiable.

“A sword art, like a spell, is still different to a secret like brewing a Potion of Adamantium Skin.”

King Serept was debating with Queen Xierca and two others. The half-Giant was sounding out his thoughts.

“Even had we full cooperation, learning a sword style is not the same as levels. I would almost rather create grand rituals than learn mere knowledge of a given style or art.”

“Yet, King Serept, so many now look at Khelt and wonder if they aid us to their detriment later.”

Xierca pointed out. King His-xe laughed, but sadly.

“Do they think we will all come back? And if so, that Khelt would try to subjugate all? I find it sad, my fellow rulers, how soon our vaunted unity falls apart.”

The others nodded slowly. It was Khelta who spoke as she marched up to them.

“Yet we cling to hope. We know ghosts can be summoned, or spirits from ages past. I myself could call ghosts, not actual spirits with personalities, but something like them, as a [Necromancer]. They are right to hope. And right to be suspicious. We must simply prove we are worthy of their trust.”

“As always, Khelta, wisdom.”

Xierca bowed, as the later rulers who had come to venerate her always did. Serept just nodded.

“Perhaps demonstration will do. Queen Khelta, I have been speaking with Fetohep regarding my people, who continue to wane. They are technically sworn to another [King], and at war, but…”

He led Khelta towards another gathering and continued speaking.

“…Demonstrations such as this would engender the sympathies of all half-Giants such as myself. Giants too. My ancestors are not without vast wisdom of their own.”

Khelta saw they were following Fetohep as he stepped towards another wing of the palace, looking slightly exhausted from four hours of directing [Mages] about. She nodded.

The Giants who sat around in the lands of the dead were easy to ignore, but they were even more tight-lipped than the other ghosts with secrets.

“A favor for a favor.”

“Just so. And there happens to be one group that would make their secrets known for a single deed.”

Khelta brightened up. That sounded great! Who was…

“Hey! Hey, it’s Serept and Khelta! Are you guys here to bug Fetohep too?”

A familiar, cheery voice made Khelta and Serept stop. They exchanged glances. Khelta rolled her eyes; Serept gave her an apologetic look. They looked up and saw someone had slipped her handlers.

Erin Solstice waved in the company of some ghosts. Fetohep, walking around, slowed, and turned his head, perhaps hearing her. She stood with one of her friends, and Khelta’s eager curiosity turned into a kind of wariness. She bowed slightly, for even a ruler such as she acknowledged legends.

And it was a group of legends who stood before her. No, not just from one time, but all those who had her spirit. Who had the will as one of Erin’s great friends.

Elucina, the [Rebel of String], stood with adventurers, [Mages], warriors, and scholars. Rulers of old. And there had been many. But even if Khelta knew only a fraction of their names and deeds, she knew them at a moment’s glance.

“Those who hate slavery.”

“Great Khelta, King Serept. You have it right. We have heard many refuse to tell you their secrets of life. We come to make you an offer.”

Elucina nodded as Erin gave her a thumbs-up of support. They were all following Fetohep; he had a swarm of ghosts at any second these days. Khelta kept glancing at Serept. The half-Giant stepped back, nodding, and let them talk.

“You have a proposal, Rebel of String?”

“A simple one, great Khelta.”

A masked figure bowed slightly, but the mask’s shape and their figure said clearly it was a Garuda who lay garbed in cloth such that not a single feather was visible, and only a mask stood out from the bundled cloth. They would never fly, not like that. Khelta wondered if something in their life had rendered them…unable to fly.

She shivered. Even in death, there were dark stories.

“We are those who strive against chains, in every era. In every form. It would take a mighty oath, Khelta, but you are honorable, as are your rulers and descendants. Did Erin Solstice voice for you that you spoke truth and received truth—we would give you our knowledge and secrets, yes, even our techniques, for a promise of three.”

“Name it.”

Khelta’s mind was racing. Factions had re-emerged among the dead, and one stood before her. Elucina’s eyes burned.

“That Khelt outlaws all slavery. Now until the end of time. Beyond the end of time. Until every citizen and child ever born or who will be born who is Khelt has passed—they shall all bear that promise. Never again, never in any form. Second—that Khelt tells our story. The story of [Slaves], and the cruelties that lie behind the masked deed, the false pretenses of those who chain others. Golem-makers, [Slavers]—in every form.”

Khelta could just imagine the controversy that would arise if Fetohep were to proclaim that, yet the two were not the most arduous requests. She could well weigh it against the other ghosts’ wraths for immediate gain…but she had a feeling about the final request.

“And the last?”

Elucina glanced at Erin. Then she nodded at Khelta. She seemed not to doubt Erin; perhaps the [Innkeeper] had given her a promise. Well and so. She did not rule a nation.

“That Khelt takes up arms against Roshal, and shall not rest until that nation lies in ash.”

“Ah.”

Khelta sighed softly. Almost sadly. For Roshal had existed even when she was alive, and she knew how much that promise was.

“We do not ask it immediately, Khelta.”

Elucina saw her hesitation, and Khelta raised a hand.

“…But you do ask it in time. And with time constraints, no doubt. An oath. I…understand. We shall discuss this imminently. However…”

Her eyes slid sideways. Erin had been bobbing on her feet; she thought it was a good deal! But then she saw Serept and Califor coming back their way.

Erin tried to hide behind a giant Dullahan. It was no good.

“Erin Solstice, your lessons in witchcraft await. Come with us.”

“Aw! But I was going to help convince Khelta to beat up the [Slavers]! Come on, Califor, join in with me. It’s a good deal, right?”

“Your lack of understanding of politics astonishes me. Enough.”

Califor grabbed Erin’s ear and began to tow the young woman through the corridors, back the way they’d come. It didn’t hurt, and they passed through a wall with Erin arguing. Serept sighed, and so did Khelta.

In…relief. Elucina and the other ghosts noticed, of course, but they did not comment. Khelta turned to them.

“Let us talk. I make no promises, but your desires are not unknown to me, Rebel of String. Is there room for compromise? Is there…?”

——

Work. Fetohep’s head hurt with trying to understand magical sigils as a [Warrior]. He had actually been studying up on spellcasting; he could do some as a Revenant, in theory, but the truth was that the project outside would work based on his limited communication or it would not.

This next location was just as important, however. If not for the same scope…no, for the same reasons. It concerned a citizen of Khelt, after all, and in her own way, she was as valuable as any other task before him.

Khelt’s rulers did not forswear their vows, and this was a vow made nineteen times over. Thus, the nineteenth ruler of Khelt had invested an equal share of time into this as arming his new great scions.

His subjects were coming to the capital, to be tested for aptitude. Alked Fellbow and the Falcon of Medain had both pledged themselves to his service.

Everything was going splendidly! Or was it? Fetohep was a flurry of mixed emotions. For the greater the deed, the more fell the hour. And…in this case…

“Fetohep, you may walk faster now.”

The King of Khelt had slowed to investigate one of Khelt’s many rooms. In this case, a fantastic bathing area. It hadn’t been the most subtle of choices since Fetohep was not going to hop in any tub, even the one filled with hot, shifting sands.

However, he’d done so as soon as he’d heard Erin Solstice’s voice. Serept had also whispered in his ear.

Fetohep nodded and picked up the pace. He murmured, quietly.

“I take it I need not conceal my actions, Great Khelta?”

“No. I would speak with you, Fetohep. The ghosts desire more for their aid. Tell me…your feelings on Roshal?”

It was a question out of the blue, but Fetohep was quite used to it by now. He responded instantly.

“Unfavorable. I do not like the nation of [Slavers]. If you would have me act with them…”

“No. But how do you rate them as a military strength? If…ah…I were to ask you to go to war with them and bring them to dust and ruin?”

Fetohep nearly walked into a pillar. He adjusted his pace; he was going into a more distant wing of the palace, far from the entrance. He normally wouldn’t conduct much work there, but circumstances in the lands of the dead had pressed him to relocate the project there.

“…Was the Roshal of your time, ah, less powerful than Khelt was, Great Khelta?”

A laugh in his head, a bit tired but wonderfully…wonderful.

“No, Fetohep. I only ask.”

He thought of it, and replied simply.

“Give me leave to unleash all of Khelt’s wonders and warriors. A way to ambush Lailight Scintillation, perhaps. Ample timing?”

“Yes?”

“…It would still be no sure thing. Roshal would mobilize countless nations to its defense. It lacks some of the old legends of its past, but there are names in this generation. Among them, the Naga, an Emir Yazdil of surpassing wealth. There are simply too many nations who draw succor from Roshal. And their hoardings…may surpass Khelt’s.”

“I see. Thank you, Fetohep.”

That was all. Fetohep nodded. Khelta’s voice drifted away, and then she spoke closely in his ear.

“I see we close in on the second great project. Speak freely, and we shall not let that mistake happen twice. And as we speak of it…have you more thoughts to the nature of our enemy?”

Fetohep’s golden flames flickered in his skull.

“I have, Great Khelta.”

“Then speak.”

The Ruler of Khelt did not mince words.

“You stand against a great foe that has come against you in death itself. Which commands power over your kin. Which cannot be slain, only held back, even by Dragon’s fire itself. Six. You tell me six. No names, for that may empower. Even the knowledge of it will be a weapon against us. They devour souls.”

“Yes, yes! And you know them as…”

Fetohep clenched a fist. He was sure he was right this time.

“Spectres. Amalgamations of soul and wrath, which grow in power the more they absorb. They will eventually reach the material world if they accrue enough force, by devouring all.”

He waited. In dead silence, Fetohep walked until Khelta’s strangled voice replied.

“…Almost. Almost.”

Fetohep’s eye-flames dimmed. What was he missing?

The problem was that Khelta could not explain, and he could not understand. It would be so easy if she whispered a word.

Erin had whispered a word into his ears that made it all so…so simple. Fetohep?

He had fallen down. Collapsed, and the rulers of Khelt had been so afraid that he would not rise—though he did after a second—they forbade Erin to ever say it in fullness again. So they danced and he kept positing theories. Close enough. It was fine if he was close enough, but the entirety of it mattered too.

Fetohep sighed and walked onwards, trying to figure out what he was missing that frightened Khelta so. He could not, so he hastened his pace; he had already covered a mile of ground and had further to go.

And at last they came to their destination. This part of the palace had been made in a time when the preservation spells and great magics were not a guarantee; accordingly, the rulers had elected to have a safeguard to preserve the undead and other things if need be.

The walls and floors were cold, frosted. Everice made up actual rooms, and this was an excellent freezer. Not that it was often used as such; the [Preservation] spells would work just fine.

Yet it was suitable for this moment. This project. Fetohep stopped in front of a door and gestured.

It swung open, and four dozen people inside turned and bowed deeply.

“Enough. Appraise me of your progress.”

“Your Majesty. We regret to say that while we have now found the exact poison and applied it in the right methods, the exact method of unfreezing eludes us. Applying the cure, and the cure itself…”

Beyond Fetohep stood his best [Healers], [Mages], [Scholars], [Alchemists], and more. Not just Khelt’s own; he had sent for others, like he had Alked. They were all working on the problem.

“Oteslia was more advanced than we were in regards to the cure. We have been formulating ideas, but the instructions given are sound. A general cure for the poison must be applied before unthawing, or the healing will not take effect the instant the flesh warms. Yet…thawing the flesh is a challenge unto itself. The flesh may be damaged by freezing and unfreezing. Twice?”

A [Healer] was gnawing at his beak, shaking his head. Yet he thought there was a chance, and the others had approved the general instructions that had come from the Last Light of Baleros. Fetohep listened, murmuring, repeating their findings to Khelta, who had her own [Sages] and [Healers] to consult.

…Although some of them were less helpful.

‘Just toss a Potion of Death’s Door Revival on her and move on!’

‘Have you not considered using Unicorn horns? No? Well, go get some!’

The materials and Skills lacking…Fetohep shook himself. There was progress and no progress, but he had devoted Khelt’s considerable money to the project.

Oteslia’s [Scholars] were now in contact with Khelt’s, and he had reached out to Talenqual, but the [Doctor] was unavailable. They had all that was needed behind this project. Funding? Check. Talent? Arguably too much of it, some of which got in the way with ideas that only worked with equipment they had in life, or wanting Fetohep to reinvent a certain reagent that wouldn’t be guaranteed to help…or had been replaced by cheaper or more effective ingredients like Sage’s Grass.

“Very well, enough.”

The babbling fell silent. Fetohep looked around.

“What of the final issue? [Mages]?”

One of his people looked unhappy to give Fetohep the bad news. His highest-levelled [Mage] on this project was a [Royal Scholar of Magic], a generalist, but a good one capable of casting many spells out of many disciplines.

The problem was…she cleared her throat.

“The nearest [Ice Mage] of a caliber above Level 30 willing to join the project is still two weeks out via ship, and that is assuming they agree, your Majesty.”

Fetohep’s eye-flames winked out. Yes. The one thing Khelt could not source properly was…well, [Ice Mages].

Chandrar. Ice mages. These things did not go together. Oh, there were technical tundras, but Chandrar just didn’t have the specialists required. They had plenty of [Mages] who could cast ice spells, but Fetohep wanted the best of the best. He waved a hand.

“Send for them. But we must proceed at all speed. Therefore…is all in readiness? How many?”

“Six, your Majesty. With an option on eight more.”

“Six. That is…enough.”

Fetohep saw trepidation in the researcher’s eyes. Even an unspoken objection. He ignored it, though he himself had reservations. Yet…

“Take me to them.”

——

There was one reason, and one reason alone, that Khelta had stopped Erin Solstice from following Fetohep.

There had been no secrets in the land of the dead that needed it. Until now. It was not some grand scheme against the ghosts, for dominion, against Erin Solstice, even. It did concern her, and she would not accept it. Which was why…she did not know.

Fetohep of Khelt halted in front of an old man he did not know. Human. They were all Human. Six figures. Some who wept. Some who stared defiance, silenced under spell. One—and this was the old man—surrounded by his family.

“I am Fetohep of Khelt.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

The old man had a cough. He was weak. He had never met Fetohep, and his gaze betrayed the fear of someone seeing the undead for the first time. Nevertheless, he had come here.

Fetohep let his gaze roam past the others. One was being prepared with a spread of the same poison. She was weeping; another was staring at daggers prepared to thrust. This man was too weak to survive either; he would simply…

“Your Majesty. Must we—must we watch?”

A woman was clinging to her children, who both looked at Fetohep like he was a monster. He turned to her.

“You do not, mistress. But here is the noblest sacrifice your father shall ever make, in his last hours. It is your choice to watch it or not.”

The old man closed his eyes at Fetohep’s words. His daughter, her husband, their small family, all looked at each other.

“Your Majesty, Fetohep of Khelt. I hate to ask a ruler this. I have no right. But, please. May I ask you to swear it again?”

The old man whispered. Fetohep looked away from the other five. Only two were like him; the other three were criminals. And oh, the crimes one had to commit in Khelt…two had come from abroad.

Slavery? Worse? He did not know, but to the old man, it seemed an even greater crime. Fetohep slowly nodded. His golden flames flashed bright in his skull.

“Before those you see here, Pelai Chesaw. Before the rulers of Khelt in death. Upon my nation’s honor and my hope for its continued existence. I swear. Your family will be citizens of Khelt henceforth, unless they should break a law of this land, in which case I shall exile them with ample compensation for the rest of their lives. Yet I make no promise without the spirit of it; they shall be cared for until the end of their days.”

“Then. I will hold you to that.”

Pelai reached out, and Fetohep realized he wanted to clasp hands. Slowly, Fetohep did. Pelai’s eyes flickered at the strength, the familiarity of the grip.

“You shall watch from the lands of the dead. Believe me, Pelai.”

“Thank you.”

Do not thank me. Fetohep looked at the volunteers, as the [Mages] moved forwards with the prepared freezing spells. Copies, or close enough to what had frozen Erin Solstice.

“If he lives, your Majesty? If he lives, will you tell us? I cannot watch.”

His daughter sobbed. Fetohep nodded at her.

“If he lives, you shall come within the hour, no matter where from.”

Pelai smiled, but he and Fetohep knew the truth. The six were unlikely to survive. Yet…that was what Khelt could do, that Oteslia, the [Doctor], could not. Practice. Enforce theory with experimentation.

“Conduct the spellcasting. I shall attend. Then—after the first three, the three criminals. I shall hear their last words and wishes.”

“Your Majesty, they are likely to spit only filth.”

“Then that is their right. I shall hear it before their end.”

Fetohep met the gazes of the three. Then he turned as the man said his last words. He watched, an undead’s grin on his face.

Yet Fetohep of Khelt did not smile for long thereafter.

——

In the lands of the dead, Khelta could not see the ghost until he rose to walk with her, like Erin. That was how she knew it had worked; one of the six had died in truth. She told Fetohep that, then left the ruler.

It had to be done.

No. It did not ‘have’ to be done. There was every chance that a cure could be found without this. Yet how would they test it?

Erin Solstice would refuse. That was in keeping with Khelta’s understanding of her character. So, the Queen did not tell her. The young woman had to live.

Not just because Khelta had sworn it, and named Erin an honorary citizen of Khelt. Because she bore so many secrets and burdens of her own. Because Khelta cared for the young woman’s fate.

Beyond that? Most of all? If this were the hour of the destruction of Khelt, the ghosts would still have pressed for Erin to live. Because she did matter.

The sword of Kings had come from her, and the umbrella that still shone. Their foes had never been truly harmed, for all they had felt pain. But for then.

Khelta needed Erin Solstice to live. So she left Fetohep to the harsh weight she had placed on him. Hurry, she wanted to tell him, but he knew that.

Hurry. It was too peaceful. Khelta had not heard of the six appearing near Chandrar for too long. It could not last. Nothing was forever, not even Khelt. Hurry.

Someday, something would change. In the next hour, in the next year, the next minute…their enemies were never kind enough to let them wait. When it did change, they had to be ready.

——

“Go, Pisces Jealnet. Never let yourself be chained again!”

Then she leapt into the air. A being made of light, who shone with every color she had ever seen. Flying upwards, shouting with a voice that shook the open air.

Czautha, the Death of Chains. In her wake, Azam, the Aethertraveller Djinni followed, flying. His eyes wide, his expression filled with emotions that the young Lizardwoman had never seen in his weary resignation.

Hope.

They joined the laughing half-Elf, the Deathless legend, nightmare of old Wistram. Silvenia, the Death of Magic.

Literal stories. A fitting end for the madness, perhaps. Never forget. The Death of Chains looked back once, at Pisces.

There are things to chase away even evil. Some people still fight in the darkest corners of the world.

Then she was gone, a streaking rainbow across the skies, leaving the freed [Slaves] and naught but the dead [Slavers] behind. A heroine of a tale no one had ever told them in truth.

And then…and then…

And then what? Eloque stopped staring at the sky when the last rays of the Djinni’s passage vanished. It had been an hour, at least, watching her travel at fantastical speeds through the heavens, alighting there, stopping elsewhere—sometimes to glorious flashes of light. Always heading west, towards the haven of [Slavers] itself.

But Eloque’s eyes and the curve of the horizon did not allow her to see the end of it. So…she stopped staring at the sky and looked around.

What happened now? She blankly stood there, realizing she had not moved since the great Djinni had torn her collar apart with ease, since the monster who had owned her, Igheriz, had been destroyed without a second thought.

“What…”

Her voice made a few of the others still staring into the night sky start. There they were, the [Slaves], staring in stupefaction, now—coming to their senses and realizing they were free and alive, rather than about to be tortured for daring to escape.

Bearig, the [Cook], holding Rophir the little half-Elven boy. Qshom, the Dullahan [Tailor] whose two friends, Droppe and Shein, had betrayed them with Astotha.

Eloque herself, her scales stitched with tiny black threads to mimic…Stitch-Folk. Many others from Hrome’s caravan and Igheriz’s, but among them the tan, sable-eyed [Bandit Lady], Merr the Storm, thin from captivity, bloodied from the fight she’d put up.

And the last of them…Pisces, the Gold-rank [Necromancer] from Izril. And Cawe, the [Pickpocket]’s eyes closed, her beak still partly open in snarling defiance, her feathers stained with blood. Eloque knelt.

“Oh, Cawe.”

It broke the others out of their trance. Bearig passed a hand over his face, his jowls moving as his lips traced words soundlessly. Rophir broke off from staring at the night sky, and his look of silent wonder faded slightly. Merr started, felt at a wound on her shoulder, and muttered an oath as pain reasserted itself.

“Cawe.”

Qshom spoke, kneeling down. It was cold, and Cawe lay there on the ground. The Dullahan knelt. So did Eloque, her strength leaving her legs.

“She—if Igheriz had been five minutes slower. If we hadn’t tried to escape!”

Suddenly, regrets filled her. Their freedom. The bravery of the escape attempt—did it mean nothing? Qshom had removed his head from his shoulders and placed it next to Cawe’s body.

“No. No, if not for her, perhaps the Death of Chains would never have noticed us. It was Azam who signalled her. Somehow. With…the spellbook?”

He was trying to piece together what had happened. The Dullahan reached out, hesitantly, for Cawe’s claws. Eloque didn’t understand what he was doing, but he was trying to clasp them together. Someone else spoke, roughly.

“Azam? That bastard could have let us escape! He may have flown off, but he was obedient right until his bonds were broken. He didn’t. But at least one Djinni is out there, burning Roshal’s bastards to ash.”

Merr strode over, her head whipping left and right in the darkness. She stopped in front of Cawe as the others gathered around. Bearig made to shield Rophir’s face. But the half-Elf boy stared with little emotion.

“Cawe. We should bury her.”

Eloque insisted. Qshom nodded. He had already removed something and placed it around her, adjusting the folds of cloth.

A cloak, to shield you from sand. The Dullahan moved gently, covering Cawe’s body. All but her face. Bearig looked oddly at him, but Eloque remembered, faintly.

Dullahans buried their dead differently. Head apart from the body. It prevented them from becoming undead, sometimes, and the head was what mattered.

Suddenly, Cawe was all the freed [Slaves] could think about. They bent, and someone else went looking for a shovel. It was Merr who muttered.

“Someone should say some words. Does anyone have a pair of gold coins? Damned [Slavers] probably had some, but that’s no good and most’re ash.”

“Gold coins?”

Qshom murmured, confused. Bearig was fumbling at his side. Eloque saw, to her confusion, he was trying to remove part of the string on his arm joints. The Stitch-Man pulled it free, then began to place it on the top of the cloak. Someone else brought over a piece of wood.

“For the dead.”

Merr was speaking. She saw a Stitch-Girl offer her a piece of wood.

“Embers are out. We’ll have to relight the fire.”

“Fire? You want to cremate her?”

Eloque and Qshom started. The Stitch-Folk in the gathering just looked at them, blankly.

“Fire consumes all. It’s the death of cloth, that her form will never be tarnished. What are you going to do, bury her? The ground’s too hard. Here.”

Merr removed some stitching around her wrist. She placed it on Cawe’s body, and then looked around.

“I need to re-stitch this. My hand’ll come off.”

“Here.”

Bearig already had thread and needle. It made no sense to Eloque, until she saw all the other Stitch-Folk taking just a bit of string out of their bodies, re-sewing limbs, but contributing part of their thread to Cawe’s growing pyre.

Remembrance. Part of them going with her?

“Gold coins. I’ve never heard of that.”

Qshom was hesitant. He was clearly realizing that they couldn’t remove Cawe’s head for preservation and bury her body—or entomb them, even re-use the armor—but he clearly wasn’t sure about cremation. Eloque didn’t know either. If this was home…

Home? Baleros and Lizardfolk villages? It felt so far away. She heard Merr mutter.

“It’s just a [Bandit] tradition. You put some gold with them in case they need a start wherever they’re going. Not even the worst [Thieves] steal that. It doesn’t…better nothing than Igheriz’s gold.”

“I have two silver coins.”

Eloque murmured. She fished them out. After a second, Merr took them and placed them over Cawe’s closed eyes. Eloque didn’t have anything else to add. She wished she did.

“Back home, one of the Nagas would…organize this. Have people say what Cawe did, or—are we starting a pyre? How do Garuda bury their own?”

“They don’t. Some cremate like us—others leave them out in the wilderness. So they return to the land.”

“To be devoured? What if they rise like undead?”

Qshom was quietly horrified. Merr shrugged.

“They make sure they don’t. We could do that.”

“No. Let’s—give her a send off. I think she’d want that. I think. She lived in Nerrhavia’s Fallen all her life.”

Bearig murmured. He had been next to Cawe for so long, no one objected.

It was only then that Eloque had a thought. Amid all the people adding something, bringing over firewood, trying to relight the campfires that had gone out…

“Where’s Pisces?”

He surely had something to say. Something to…

The others’ heads turned. Where was Pisces? In the stunned silence after Czautha, he had gone. Eloque rose, heart beginning to pound faster in fear. Merr’s head snapped up, and she abandoned the flint and steel. She searched around.

“Sword. Where’s…”

She stumbled over to Igheriz’s ashes, kicked them aside, and cursed.

“The sword’s nothing but slag. Hey! Anyone have a sword? Even a spear!”

The others looked about at her sharp voice. Merr strode towards the camp and came out a second later with a sword. She checked it, then tossed something at Bearig. He fumbled at the spear and dropped it.

“Merr, what’s this?”

“Weapons. Not all the [Slavers] got torched. If they come back…everyone, grab a weapon!”

The former [Slaves] looked at Merr in silent surprise. Then…a familiar horror. Eloque felt her scales tingling and her stomach knotted with fear.

“We can’t defend ourselves!”

“We damn well can. Igheriz is dead and Azam’s gone! Even if that bastard were alive, I’d skin all of them myself. Just back me up! Get a weapon!”

Merr’s orders made the others move for the camp. Eloque stumbled with the others as they raided the [Slavers]’ tents. There weren’t nearly enough spare weapons to go around, and everyone felt it.

A resurging horror. Would they be hunted? What happened next? As Merr looked around, she spotted a figure riding their way on horseback. She pointed, shouted—then lowered the sword.

“Pisces?”

The [Necromancer] was riding back on a horse. He looked…Eloque wondered if his face was like hers.

Relieved. Exhausted. Worn. Wonder, fading to…no, his was already set. Grim. His eyes glittered behind tanned skin, still paler than anyone else’s. The [Necromancer] dismounted from his horse.

“Where were you? The [Slavers]…”

Merr called out, striding towards him. Pisces shook his head.

“They’re not coming after us. They are dead. Most, if not all. Hrome is dead.”

The [Slaves] looked at him. Pisces walked past them, saw Cawe and the pyre, and halted. He stared down at her body. Eloque joined him, weapon forgotten. She looked at Pisces.

“Hrome’s dead? You’re sure?”

Merr drew in a sudden breath, but the reminder of the [Slave Master]’s existence was deprived of any vengeance. Pisces nodded.

“I watched him die. Their remains are that way. We’ll…I need their bodies.”

The others stirred. Merr turned her head.

“And they’ve got weapons. Armor. Money. Even bags of holding if we’re lucky. Horses too?”

She looked at Pisces and he shrugged.

“Most survived.”

“Then let’s grab them. We were going to cremate Cawe…”

Pisces knelt there as Merr’s voice trailed off. He looked at the Garuda, his face blank. Not emotionless…just blank. Eloque knelt again.

“We should do it. She helped save us. But for her…”

Pisces nodded.

“Let’s.”

They watched the flames consume the body. Eloque spoke. Bearig spoke. Pisces…said something quietly. Merr did not stay the entire time; she had already gone off to grab the horses before they could bolt, strip the bodies, and bring the corpses of the [Slavers] back.

Pisces wanted to use their bones. And he did. The Skeleton Lord rose, and Eloque watched him, heard him whisper to the undead. She shuddered as the undead slowly flexed its hands and picked up a sword.

“What next?”

The rag-tag group stood there, unsure. The fact they were alive after the Death of Chains’ departure was almost a bit of a mistake. They had lived, for a short moment, in the story. But after it ended—what happened?

“I…it’s nearly dawn. Dead gods, but I haven’t slept. What if we took a nap in the camp?”

Merr muttered. She stared at the camp. Eloque shook her head instantly.

“In the tents? No!”

“Not in the [Slave] tents. In the others’ tents…in the damn open if need be.”

“Oh.”

Bearig nodded. Rophir was almost asleep, but he kept jerking awake, tense, then…looking at the destroyed ashes of the [Slavers] and slumbering again before repeating the cycle.

“We should do that. Can’t march about without rest.”

Everyone sort of nodded along, but no one moved. At last, Merr clapped her hands.

“Alright. Find a spot and fall down. We’ll wake up in a few hours. Someone help me hitch the damn horses. Saddles off.”

People moved. Eloque followed Merr, and looked back. As the night ended, they gave Cawe their farewells, according to each species and custom. They sent her off with two silver coins, string from their very fabric, and words of thanks or remembrance.

Then Qshom, Pisces, and Eloque helped bury the ashes. The [Necromancer] stood there a long time before he collapsed into slumber.

The Skeleton Lord remained, standing at the gates to the camp, bright green flames glowing in its ivory sockets. Watchful.

——

It was passing strange for him to wake up that day. His hands went to his throat and there was no collar. He woke up to voices chattering, sunlight streaming through the tent flaps, and he had no idea what was happening.

Free.

Pisces breathed in, and out, and remembered all. He sat up. Looked at his hands. Felt at his neck. Remembered Cawe was dead.

Yet, treacherously, even that could not stop his heart from lifting. The [Necromancer] muttered the word.

“Free.”

He began to laugh, hysterically, until someone peered at him through the tent flaps. Pisces jerked as he saw the little, solemn face and pointed ears. Even as a boy, Rophir was unmistakably of Ceria’s species; the timeless immortality was only partially glimpsed, but it was there and Pisces knew what older half-Elves looked like. He stopped laughing.

“Pisces? Are you alright?”

Someone brushed the tent flaps aside. Pisces saw green scales…

No. Eloque’s weren’t light green, but rather multi-colored, brighter than the monochrome Drake scales. She had a neck frill, and the little stitching in her scales, dark thread. For all that, her eyes were clear, bright yellow and slitted, staring at him.

Pisces stopped laughing. Self-consciously, he stood, and saw Rophir run away. Eloque looked at him.

“I…”

The [Necromancer] didn’t know quite what to say. Eloque just grinned, and that was an unfamiliar expression. She gestured to the outside and Pisces smelled something.

“We have food.”

Pisces hesitated. It was like he was relearning how to breathe. Walk. Everything felt…better. His stomach rumbled, and he found he was hungry, and remembered how good that felt. He also felt like an idiot.

“Food?”

——

Bearig had made food. It was not wholly unusual to see the [Cook] bending over a cast iron frying pan, crisping meat up and tossing it onto plates.

In fact, he had often been told to prepare food when the caravans were moving. Only, Bearig was doing it with a huge smile today. Pisces inhaled a particular spice to the air and saw Bearig slap a thick cut of steak or some other meat taken from a bag of holding onto a heaping bowl of boiled grains.

Yellow rice. Saffron, the valuable spice, had been added to the popular grain for travelling caravans in Chandrar and elsewhere. Pisces had eaten it many days as well, but always plain brown or white rice, never seasoned.

However, Bearig had gotten ahold of the caravan’s food supplies and wasn’t about to be stingy with the first free meal. Everyone was eating. Stuffing themselves, rather.

“Who organized this?”

Pisces took the bowl and began to eat, burning his tongue twice. Eloque looked around vaguely. Qshom was feeding his head rice with little chopsticks he was expertly wielding at a reprieve from the fire. She had already eaten and was passing more food bowls out. Rophir had gone to tug silently at Bearig’s arm and the [Cook] promptly gave him a little rasher of meat.

“Don’t scarf it—”

Too late, Rophir popped the entire thing into his mouth and began to chew, as if immune to the scalding temperature.

“Merr organized it. We’re moving in twenty minutes.”

Eloque absently told Pisces. The [Necromancer] looked up between two bulging cheeks of food. He was eating so fast he felt like Ceria. Or Ceria. Or Ceria.

“We’re movthing?”

“Northeast. Along Zeikhal. We’re way too close to that city and Merr thinks someone’s bound to check in on us—they’re probably still hiding from the Death of Chains. But we have to move!”

That made sense. Pisces began to eat faster, for all he’d have loved to savor the food. Along Zeikhal? The Great Desert had far fewer civilizations the further in you went, but it was also increasingly inhospitable. It made sense, and he agreed. However. He was in charge, so he had to make sure the plan was good.

He was in charge, wasn’t he?

——

It was hard to come up with a speech on the move. But he instinctively felt there should be one. Something to address what had happened. What needed to happen. Pisces rode ahead of the others, some of the former [Slaves] on foot, others trading turns on the wagons. There weren’t enough horses to go around, so many had to walk on foot. Younger people like Rophir were given the wagon’s seats by unspoken decision. The horses went to a few others like Merr, Pisces, Eloque, and so on.

“Friends.”

Pisces paused on the word as the small group of sixty or so [Slaves] looked up at him. He wasn’t sure on the address. Comrades was too…affable. He began to speak, as heads turned up to him.

“Friends. We have survived, escaped terrible bondage and the deprivations of Roshal. I…we have lost a great soul, a dauntless Garuda and [Pickpocket], Cawe. I shall not soon forget her, nor let her slip from my remembrance. The Death of Chains has given us freedom, and inspired us. I pledge to you that I will evoke her deeds. We are not all bound by common cause, but if you follow me, I swear to protect you. I guarantee your safety so long as I live. For proof—look yonder.”

He pointed at a figure stalking alongside their group. All heads turned to the Skeleton Lord. The powerful undead did not look their way as Pisces nodded at it.

“So long as you remain in my company, I shall lead you to whatever safe havens exist. We will not be made prisoner towards any depravity again. We will not forget what has transpired, nor will we ever give up our freedom. The coming days are uncertain, but trust in me.”

He wondered if he should slap his chest. Pisces had to own that the quickly rehearsed lines and words didn’t sound as good as they had in his head—and they hadn’t exactly been the stuff of legends then.

He’d felt it had to be done, though. He had to articulate the promise, and while he didn’t have Yvlon’s unconscious panache towards being the inspiring adventurer, or Ceria’s own competence…

Well. No one applauded. No one cheered, or said anything. Eloque scratched at her neck.

“So what’s the plan?”

Pisces decided to take it.

“East. We go east, along Zeikhal—perhaps even try to head north. I hope to either take us to a port, or towards Reim.”

“Reim? That’s countless miles away!”

A startled voice. Merr. Pisces looked at her. He was uncertain, for a second, but addressed her.

“Reim is embattled, but I doubt Roshal’s [Slavers] would follow us as easily there. To the northwest of Reim lies Khelt. And Khelt…is a necrocracy. We might find safe haven there.”

“Khelt allows no one past its borders. Not even [Necromancers]. We should go to Savere. There are a lot of people who trade with Roshal, but I know some people there who could be trusted. ‘Sides, there’s a port in Savere.”

Merr gestured, pointing ahead. Pisces…had no idea if that was south. He squinted at the sun, and decided it was probably southeast. He coughed.

“Ah. Well. That might be an option. I will think on it. But I do intend to lead everyone to some safe haven. Not Chandrar, that is to say. Izril.”

The others stirred. Pisces went on, but kept his gaze focused on Merr. Merr, and Eloque. Merr, because the [Bandit Lady] had assumed command, but Pisces wasn’t sure of her motivations. Eloque?

He had promised to see her free. Or…dead, before she was captured again. Thus, while it was not in his nature, Pisces tried to sit taller, look around at the others and give them confidence. How would Yvlon do it?

“Trust in me…friends. I am a Gold-rank adventurer. My team is…somewhere in Chandrar, I hope. If I can find them, if we can join together, we will be a match for all but Roshal’s best or an army. I am a Level 38 [Deathbane Necromancer]. I can protect you, and this Skeleton Lord is but the first of the warriors I could raise to defend us.”

The [Slaves] stirred. Merr herself blinked.

“Level 38? Kraken’s balls, but you’re almost Level 40!”

“Indeed. So, Merr. I extend the same invitation to you as everyone else. Follow me. I intend to lead us to safety. But I do intend to lead. Unless your level exceeds mine?”

Pisces met the [Bandit Lady]’s gaze. Merr the Storm…that was what they called her, wasn’t it? He wasn’t sure if it meant she was famous, or if it was just a styling all [Bandit Leaders] had.

The Stitch-Woman considered this. She smiled, baring her teeth, but not in a hostile way.

“I’m not Level 38. You’ve got more on me, and I can’t twiddle my fingers and raise Skeleton Lords. Not like we should be duelling over leadership in the desert.”

“Exactly my thoughts.”

Pisces nodded. He turned to the group, and saw Eloque gazing at him. Pisces sighed, but kept his back straight. Leading a group of runaway [Slaves] away from the most powerful slave-nation in the world. It had to be done.

And there was so much to do.

——

The first issue, to Pisces at least, was clear. He went to the wagon where no one was riding. It had supplies. Food, tent equipment, everything that couldn’t fit into a bag or Chest of Holding. Pride of place, of course, was the object which had saved them, and led to Pisces’ capture in the first place.

The spellbook of the Putrid One. Pisces touched the bound cover. It was not pitch black, or brown, as you might expect. Rather, it was a deep, beautiful green. At first. It looked magnificent, like some rich leather or…well, Pisces would have assumed a dyed hide or something, fit for any royal library.

Until he looked closer and saw the faint brown, the tracework of sickly orange, and other colors. As if the green were infected. The spellbook had no title, nor did it have any engravings, but it was set with a single object in the center.

Pisces had seen magical gems in sockets, even animal eyes, or other motifs or magical incorporations into spellbooks. He had never seen…glass.

Was it a mirror? If so, it reflected nothing. It had no backing, so the top of the book was all Pisces saw, yet the glass did not reflect light or anything else no matter how it was tilted, left or right.

The [Necromancer] suspected a few things. Firstly, that the binding and glass ‘mirror’ had some function he didn’t know about. He hoped it was not some delayed plague-effect. Igheriz had kept it on his person, albeit handling it with gloves, and it had never seemed to harm him.

“That’s the spellbook of this Putrid One, isn’t it?”

Bearig murmured, as he trudged next to the wagon, craning his neck to see. Pisces nodded. He did not touch it immediately.

“By all rights, we should put it in a bag of holding, but I believe it might destroy any bag of holding. Including my own.”

He thought of the one at his side. There was so much magic in it already…Pisces had recovered his equipment from Igheriz’s possessions. Thus, he was armed with artifacts, and a few things not even Roshal knew about.

Like the bones of Archmage Nekhret. Could he use them in the [Ritual of the Lord of Bones]? Did he dare? Would it be a waste or, more concerning, would it create another Toren, only with a Skeleton Lord’s power?

Better not to risk it. Pisces addressed Bearig.

“I would like to open the spell tome, but doing so creates a literal beacon for any [Mage] to see. As it is, it becomes a tempting target for anyone to steal. The knowledge contained within could well aid us, though.”

“I’ve heard of spellbooks like that. Can’t they harm you if you open them?”

Eloque looked at Pisces. The [Necromancer] nodded, and then shrugged, trying to be casual.

“It is true danger exists, but Azam opened it without harm. It follows, then, that it might not be deadly—immediately. I will attempt to read it now.”

“Now? Are you mad? You just said it makes a beacon.”

Merr rode over. Pisces glanced at her and felt another moment of…uncertainty. He began to sniff, stopped himself, and tried to speak as reasonably as possible.

“I am attempting to open it now, Merr, because our position is known. Opening it later would be more dangerous, but we are close enough to our original location with Igheriz’s camp that it would not be revealing. And pursuit is likely deterred by the Death of Chains’ attack. If there was any time to try to learn something, or reduce the spellbook’s natural aura, it would be now.”

Merr hesitated.

“…Makes sense. You need a lookout or something?”

Again, Pisces hesitated.

“I believe I will sit in the wagon and open it. Perhaps some space? If something goes—untoward—clear the area.”

“Got it. Hey, everyone! No…Qshom.”

Merr turned. The Dullahan steering the supply wagon looked at her. Merr pointed.

“Roll it away from the others! Good fifty feet!”

The Dullahan nodded. Pisces opened his mouth, then nodded.

“A good idea.”

Eloque glanced from Merr to Pisces as both cordially nodded at each other. So did Bearig, but he was once again carrying Rophir. Eloque rode back away as Pisces climbed into the wagon.

“Bearig, you may use my horse. You don’t have to carry Rophir. What about the wagon?”

“He seems happier this way. Don’t worry, I can carry him on foot.”

The [Cook]’s sweaty face belied the truth of that statement. Pisces glanced at Rophir’s blank face, but he did cling to the [Cook] and Bearig clumsily got onto the mount. Merr tapped his shoulder.

“You ever rode a horse, Bearig?”

“I ride now and then.”

“Well, you sit like a sack of crap. Here, don’t sit like that. Adjust your posture. Come on…”

They headed off as Pisces sat on the wagon. He sensed Eloque watching him, and a lot of the other [Slaves]. Pisces thought about Merr. He’d have to inquire as to her motivations later. He had made his promise to the others to keep them safe, but she was a [Bandit Lady].

And the others may be [Slaves]—former [Slaves]—but that does not mean they’re trustworthy now. They all have their own motivations now they’re free. Astotha, Droppe, Shein, they were all traitorous. Watch them.

The Skeleton Lord pacing ahead of the group was Pisces’ insurance. He closed his eyes. One thing at a time. He might have one chance at this. If he could gain something definitive such that no thoughts of treachery emerged, something to speed their way or protect them…

It was never wise to open a spell tome without extensive precautions, but this was a desperate moment and Pisces had some assurances it was not trapped to hell and back. Ironically, the Putrid One having been ‘recently killed’ and the spellbook lying there meant it was not likely to have as many wards activated as a spellbook from a dungeon.

So, Pisces opened the spell tome as he muttered the two spells he knew.

“[Charm of Thoughts]. [Detect Magic].”

If he had remained at Wistram, he would have learned extensive anti-enchantment spells for moments like this. As it was, [Charm of Thoughts] would give him a bit of an edge on [Sleep], [Confusion], or other spells. He’d learned it after Albez. [Detect Magic] might let him see a spell activating.

It was rather like putting on a tunic and pants before diving into what might be a nest of Crelers head-first. But…

Pisces’ eyes opened wide as the first page of the tome appeared in front of him. He remembered what Azam had said. This was a Djinni’s spellbook, before the Putrid One took it. What did that mean? What did it have that a regular spellbook did not? What did it—

Ah.

The first thing Pisces Jealnet sensed was the power radiating from the spellbook. So much of it even a Djinni from countless miles away could sense it. A radiating world of magic, trapped inside! More magic than he had with his [Mana Well]! But why? Pisces realized he should have asked why a spellbook needed that much power. To store spells? But spells were just diagrams. The only reason you needed that much power was to do—something—

The spell hit Pisces so fast that even if he had known it was coming, he wouldn’t have been able to dodge it. His eyes unfocused. He felt the power of the spellbook invade his being in a second.

There was something in the magical tome. Not an intelligence. Not quite. More like a complicated system.

Magical spellbook. Djinni. Why would a Djinni have a spellbook? Answer: to teach them magic. But what magic did…?

You. It was almost like a thought, but impartial. A dim awareness in Pisces told him there was some kind of…dimensional magic at play. Of course there was.

You are not the last one. Do you understand this?

The spellbook’s pages fluttered and Pisces saw a spell. It looked like—his mind tried to focus on abstracts.

Drag them down into the very depths of this pit. Massive—he could understand the exact dimensions. Summoning—no, conversion. Drag them down and unleash.

A [Necromancer]’s spell. But something was wrong. Something was off. Pisces could understand it, but he couldn’t. Even so. The air was filled with so much death magic that no wonder Azam and Czautha had sensed it!

The book was trying to recreate the spell! Not cast it—even it and Pisces lacked the sheer amount of mana this would require. But tracing an outline.

An efficient way of teaching. The part of Pisces still sane was amazed. Of course, this was how you taught someone magic or refreshed your memory! It was like…all the books he had been taught were verbally describing what a joist in a blueprint should look like. This book was just a picture, no, a physical version he could inspect.

For a second all of this burned itself across his mind. An all-absorbing whirlwind of understanding and grappling with concepts far beyond his. Pisces was helpless as the alien magical system rooted through his mind. And found him…wanting.

Not the same as the last one. Does not understand. You do not understand.

It wasn’t words. That was how Pisces translated it. It was more like a simple yes/no question. Pisces had failed. Then, the pages stopped. A second spell glowed in his mind. Pisces tasted fire. And he heard the question again.

Do you understand this?

——

The book’s pages fluttered. Eloque, watching from afar, heard Merr curse.

“I don’t like the look of that. He’s not even moving. Hey! Get ready to run!”

“What about helping him?”

The Lizardwoman cried out. Merr looked at the spellbook and Pisces.

“Are you crazy? That’s way beyond our grade.”

——

The second spell was…Pisces couldn’t even tell what it was. He just got the overwhelming impression of fire. He failed. He failed on so many levels he couldn’t even tell how he was failing.

Something—he saw the writing burning in his gaze. He knew the spell. But he didn’t know the spell. The spellbook was telling him, but something was off.

Do you know the spell? No?

The spell changed abruptly. Whatever was guiding it had switched to another spell. Somehow…lesser…in power? Pisces could tell the relevant power of the spell. Although it was like comparing Giants. Nevertheless, he sensed something was different. And again, the book probed him and again the answer was obvious.

No.

So it tried again. That was why the pages kept flipping. From afar it looked like the pages were just flying past Pisces as he stared at the spell book.

That was how fast the appraisal process was. It was an elegant kind of system. If Pisces could have learned the spell, it would have been obvious to him and the enchantment assessing him. Since he could not, it skipped. It was like…a running monologue in his head.

Do you understand?

Can you comprehend?

Learn.

For some reason, the nuance kept changing. Sometimes the spell tome seemed—interrogative. And there was a nuance. Male, female—no, even more varied.

Like multiple voices, all checking Pisces for understanding and finding him wanting. The voices blasted through his soul, and their conclusion was always the same.

Does it know?

Can he do it?

No.

No.

No?

No.

No. Wretch.

No? Alas.

No.

No!

No, no.

No.

No.

No.

No.

No…

The spells flashed past him, in a whirlwind that took an eternity and a second. Until…something changed. The spells began to make more sense. The assessing process slowed. And at last, it halted on a single spell.

Maybe?

Pisces blinked. He swayed, as the spellbook’s furious flipping pages stopped. The magical aura changed from a storm of undeath to a faint glow in his gaze. Pisces stared down at the page. Then he slowly toppled back off the back of the wagon and landed with a thump on the ground.

“Pisces!”

When the others had rushed over to pick him up, and he’d assured them he wasn’t possessed and they weren’t about to be dragged screaming into a vortex—a disturbingly specific fear—the [Necromancer] climbed back into the wagon.

He lay there, staring at the spellbook. He didn’t even recall what he’d been subjected to—not the specifics of the spells, but he knew now what this book was.

A teaching spellbook. Well, any good spellbook was either one that taught you magic…or one that you recorded spells you knew in, and was designed to help you re-cast said spells. This one was definitely here to teach you.

And look. Here was a spell that Pisces could learn. He stared down at it. The magic traced itself outwards, showing every aspect of the spell. It was still harder than ‘copy and cast’.

A few things were odd. Pisces saw notes, actual writing along with the magic. Trembling, he touched the diagram, and the spell stopped outlining itself. Now the spell tome had absolutely no magical aura.

“Incredible.”

Pisces touched the diagram again and he saw the spell laid out. But…his hand moved down to an illustration. He touched it and saw the little image come to life. The spell shot forwards, a pure demonstration of how it worked. There were variations, ways to alter the matrices…

He understood the spell already. At least, in concept. Yet something was still wrong. Pisces frowned.

It was ah, a bit embarrassing, but it was a spell he was qualified to learn. There was no denying every other spell before this one had been beyond him. The spellbook had essentially locked Pisces out of the higher-level spells for his own good, and no wonder. Miscast one of those spells and he could kill himself.

All the spells Pisces had access to were, therefore, defacto, spells he could learn. Pisces’ ears didn’t burn with shame, though.

Two things were still off. Firstly? He understood how the spell worked. It was a variation of a spell he already knew. Only—so many things were odd.

The book was telling him that he could cast this spell, but not cast it. It was like…something more fundamental was wrong. Pisces blinked down at his chest.

“My mana flow is wrong? The way I materialize it is…why that? A singular point here?”

The book was demonstrating a type of casting completely contrary to every basis of spellcraft Pisces knew. From where the mana flowed, to how you crystalized it, brought it into the real world, the book was contradicting his knowledge.

As if I’ve been doing it wrong this entire time. Pisces thought back to the mysterious Grand Magus Eldavin he had once met on the road and his comments. His pulse became electric.

A superior style of spellcasting?

That was a neophyte’s conclusion, however. Pisces realized the truth as he analyzed the second problem in this spell. And it was this:

He should know what it was. He should. The words on the page were clearly legible. He conceptualized the entirety of the spell. Yet…there was no ‘click’. There was no easy way to say it. Except there was? He could literally say the spell aloud, describe it, and yet…

What was wrong? Pisces’ lips moved. And then he had it. His eyes turned round. He read the description at the top of the page.

Lighted Arrow. Only, that was wrong. It wasn’t…[Light Arrow].

It wasn’t [Lighted Arrow].

Something was off. It was not a spell as Pisces knew it. It was a spell, but he couldn’t name it like every other spell he knew.

Someone had taken magic out of the box. Pisces, his finger trembling, traced the first words of the spell’s description. He beheld the true value of the spellbook that the Putrid One had once owned now.

This was what he read:

Lighted Arrow. Magic of the Unicorns – School of Magic: Vail Forest Unicorns (no formalized school), precursor to Slyphan Warmagic., see subsection here.

It wanted him to direct his mana flow across his body, concentrate it in a single point. Just like…something with a horn would cast magic. Pisces stared. Then his mind exploded.

——

What had unified them was their unwanted class. [Slave]. They had always been different, but their shared misery had unified them, from Djinni to half-Elven child.

Now, it was almost sad to see how quickly they began to split apart. Ironically, Pisces had begun it with his speech.

Which had been a bad speech. Eloque just didn’t have the heart to say it. She realized she had not expected Pisces to make…any…kind of pronouncement like that. True, she didn’t know him that well, but it seemed entirely out of character.

That he had was gratifying. He had looked at her and she knew he had remembered his promise. He intended to keep it. The question was…who would join them?

The cracks began as Pisces read his spellbook. All was apparently well, so Qshom had taken the wagon back to the group. Pisces had stood up, begun shouting about ‘completely unique methods of mana distribution and spellcasting radically reinventing the paradigm of all [Mages]’, then failed to elaborate.

He was so absorbed in the spellbook he missed the quiet discussion going on behind the scenes.

Sixty [Slaves]. Most of them were Stitch-Folk or Human, as befit a caravan which had come from Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Eloque and Qshom as Lizardwoman and Dullahan were standouts, as was Rophir. Well, there was another half-Elf, her skin dark and hair fiery, but she was not…Rophir, who had come from Emir Riqre’s clutches.

Bearig was actually more typical of the group. A [Cook] in his case, most had classes that ranged from below Level 20 to over it, but generally well below Level 25 at the highest.

Pisces and Merr were the exceptions. However, the disparity between the two was also notable. Merr didn’t say what her exact level was, but it was silver to claw clippings that she was over Level 30 in Eloque’s mind.

Even so, Pisces had Gold-rank gear thanks to his reclaimed possessions, a magical spell tome, and that Skeleton Lord trudging by the group.

She kept staring at it. Eloque didn’t shudder—she didn’t think she would again, not even if she stood in a vat of insects. There were worse things. She picked at the string embedded into her scales as the others slowed to eat.

“We should remove those threads. Unless…you don’t wish to?”

The Lizardwoman started. It was Qshom, who had taken a break to eat the dried food Bearig was passing out with abandon.

Ironically, they still acted much like Igheriz’s caravan. The people lined up in single lines, and Eloque realized they’d walked in a line, even without the ropes and chains. It was unconscious.

She looked at Qshom, reminded of something else from those days. The thread in her scales. She shuddered.

“Nagas, yes. But…”

The [Tailor] had a little dagger.

“If we simply cut the thread, can’t we pull it out? Or is it…”

He hesitated when he got close. Eloque smiled at him, and gestured mockingly at her body.

“If it was easy I’d have done it no matter what Igheriz did to me. See?”

Qshom did see. Each stitch into her scales was anchored, such that you couldn’t just cut one part of it and remove all the stitching by pulling. The Dullahan shook his head; the threading was tight.

“Each part needs to be cut and removed. Pulled out with tweezers. If I had some…”

“It will take a long time. It took…a long time for Igheriz to change me like this.”

Eloque whispered. She began to shudder—until Qshom laid a gauntleted hand on her arm. His metal was plain, but it was steel, and his fingers were deft, a [Tailor]’s careful fingers, as he dug at the first row of thread.

“If it will take a long time, we can begin now. Unless you’d like to wait?”

The Lizardwoman looked at him, then shook her head wordlessly.

“Start with my hand. Please. Thank you.”

Merr the Storm watched as the two began to work during the rest period. Her eyes found Bearig, offering Rophir some bread dipped in honey, the other people eating, scarfing down food and going for seconds, and Pisces, engrossed in his work.

“Hey, Pisces. Are we rationing food?”

She called out. The [Necromancer] looked up, realized they’d stopped, and jumped to his feet.

“Yes. Hold off on eating. I appreciate that we are freed, but let’s limit our portions to…”

He strode over, checking how much each person ate. Merr watched him a second, then turned to Eloque. She squatted down, sighed, and rubbed a hand through her hair.

Dark hair, sable eyes, and a faint streak of red from the roots; a natural dye like many had. Well…among some species. Hair fascinated Eloque, who had none.

“Dead damned gods. What am I going to do next?”

The little question was everything. Qshom and Eloque stopped. Bearig glanced up and everyone in earshot seemed to lean over to Merr.

“What are you going to do next, Merr? That is…surely you of all of us will have the easiest time. You don’t have to go with Pisces. You’re a [Bandit].”

Eloque hadn’t meant to be rude. The way Merr stiffened told her she had been. Merr glanced at Pisces.

“Yeah, well, he’s right that he’s got the levels and the undead to protect you all. A Skeleton Lord? If I was a [Bandit Leader] and I saw that thing I’d run so fast the other way…if I’m not needed, I reckon I could head off. Today. Now, even. What would you say to that, Pisces? Any objections if some of us just headed off?”

Everyone looked at Pisces. He turned slowly to Merr, met her gaze, and nodded after a beat.

“…If you wish to go, I will not stop you. But I have promised to keep everyone here safe. No matter who you are, we are united in our past.”

Again, the [Bandit Lady] paused. She slapped her knees with a loud laugh.

“Fair enough. But dead gods, let’s say I do leave. What will I do? Go back to raiding? I…I don’t know. We’re all former [Slaves]. We’ll be hunted.”

That was true too. Bearig glanced at his hands.

“I have a family in Nerrhavia’s Fallen.”

“Then you’d better figure out how to get word to them, but don’t think of ever going, [Cook]. They might turn you in, or they might be arrested for harboring a [Slave]. There are few ways to win freedom, but killing a [Slave Master] and running just means you’re dead…or when they catch you, you’ll wish you were.”

Merr drew a finger across her neck. A moan rose from a few voices, but Pisces interrupted.

“That will not happen.”

She just shrugged.

“Doesn’t change the fact that no one will find work the length and breadth of Chandrar, save for a few places. And even then, if Roshal sends agents…better to run across the sea, yeah.”

“There are [Slavers] in Baleros, though, and I know they go everywhere. Is anywhere safe from Roshal?”

Qshom muttered. Pisces turned to him.

“There is.”

Eloque watched his face. How could he be so sure? He had said he knew of a place that was safe. Home? Where was that? Before he could elaborate though, Merr jabbed her chest.

“See, none of that’s my problem. I’m a [Bandit Lady]. Top dog in any pack. Biggest crab in the bucket! Uh…largest cucumber in the field. I could ride off now and be fine. All I need is a horse and a sword. The rest comes easily.”

“[Bandit Lady]? I thought there were only [Bandit Lords]. Isn’t Maresar, the King of Destruction’s vassal, only a [Bandit Lord]?”

Bearig flinched at Merr’s glare. She tapped a finger on her palm, exasperated.

“No. No! If you weren’t a fellow [Slave] and I didn’t like you, fat man, I’d kick the crap out of you for that. That damned Maresar messed all of us up…she was a [Bandit] way back, before the new generation rolled in. So her class was [Bandit Lord] because there was no leadership! There are plenty of [Bandit Ladies]! Anyways, Maresar used to dress like a man. Everyone thought she was a [Bandit Lord]—word is she can even blend in with others thanks to her Skill. That’s why she got the class. I’m a [Bandit Lady]. Lady.”

Everyone nodded since Merr was very insistent on that point. After she’d calmed down, Merr went on.

“So I could just ride out, leave Pisces to take care of you lot, and start up another gang. Heck, maybe I’d take anyone who wanted to come with. We could always use a good [Cook]. Lots of classes are useful, and anyone can pick up [Bandit].”

“What about a [Tailor], Miss Merr?”

Qshom raised his brows. The [Bandit Lady] snorted.

“You kidding? They’re royalty among [Bandits]. All the holes you get in armor and cloth? Not to mention socks? Besides, Stitch-Folk love those classes. You’d be right with us.”

“Would you need a good [Hunter]?”

“Natural [Bandits].”

Pisces looked around, as others called out. Merr saw potential in all of them. [Hunter], [Cook], [Tailor], [Butcher]? Every single one had a Skill that could translate into the life of raiding and pillaging. One [Slave] raised a hand.

“What about a [Painter]?”

Merr looked at her.

“…Well, you can always learn to be a [Bandit]. Come to it, you’d be a fine addition to any gang, Pisces. What about it? Want to ride with the [Storm Bandits]? Merr’s Storm Bandits were a huge gang, and I could remake it again.”

She turned with a grin to Pisces. But then, before he could say yay or nay, she sighed and cursed.

“…That is, if I can figure out how the [Bandit]’s life goes. Now Roshal’s got a bounty on me, I can’t exactly ransom prisoners.”

Everyone stopped. Eloque sat bolt upright.

“You sold slaves?”

Merr didn’t meet her gaze.

“It’s how [Bandits] make money. You think we just steal coin? Villages are poor…and Roshal pays well per head. I never thought anything of it. I didn’t!”

She looked around. Held up her hands.

“Those days are beyond me. I swear by my sword. I couldn’t even if I wanted to; in Roshal’s eyes, I’m still a former [Slave] and any [Slave Master] would go after me, like it or not. I’m just saying…we’re all out of a job. I can’t be an adventurer or anything else in any city. If I do recreate a gang, we’ll only steal and pillage.”

She placed a hand over her heart. It was a sincere promise to villainy, and Eloque almost caught herself nodding before realizing what she was nodding at.

Pisces had been looking at Merr. He coughed.

“Given that Roshal will no doubt come after us, both you and I are targets on their list, Merr. It makes sense to stick together. For now.”

She hesitated, and nodded.

“Oh, perhaps. But what’s there to gain from me staying? You want to offer me some loot or incentives? Listen, I appreciate the concern, Pisces. But I’m Merr the Storm. I could walk off, shit in a bucket, and have an entire raiding party come begging me to lead them into battle!”

She slapped her chest. Eloque hesitated, but Pisces just nodded, cooly.

“Whatever you think is best, Merr. I won’t force you to go.”

“Right. Well…at least another day, eh? Might as well get a few solid meals before I make up my mind.”

The [Bandit Lady] smiled wide, but Pisces didn’t really return the look. Which was odd. Because a few days ago…the Lizardwoman sighed to see it.

How quickly they broke apart.

——

The break ended as Pisces and Merr chivvied the others to their feet. Carefully; they weren’t Igheriz and Hrome, but everyone needed to keep moving. Eloque ended up riding with Qshom, and Pisces, brought out of his magical studies, began to get to work.

“Does anyone have a map? I intend to plot a course to meet my team. If I can find them.”

“Do you know where they are? Word was all about the…what team was yours, again? I don’t have a scrying orb. You were some bigshot, fancy team, weren’t you?”

Pisces began to sniff and caught himself. Instead, he ducked his head and answered Merr politely as Eloque glanced over.

“I was part of the Horns of Hammerad. We raided a death zone in Izril.”

“A death zone? What’s that? And that name’s familiar…can’t place it, though.”

Merr tapped a finger to her lips. She was, somehow, the most ignorant save for perhaps Rophir, but a [Bandit] didn’t get regular scrying orb access. Which was strange because they were cheap, but Merr just waved that off.

“Nah. Wistram stares right back at you. Heard of a [Bandit] group getting wiped out like that before word spread. Everyone knows.”

“They do what?”

Qshom was startled. Pisces was surprised that Merr knew about it. He still didn’t know if he could trust her. He wanted to, but now that he was thinking of the future, he was aware of the price on his head.

Nearly a million gold. That would tempt every [Bounty Hunter] in existence to come after him, not to mention the Naga and Roshal itself. That was why he hadn’t objected to the others expressing interest in Merr splitting. Obviously there was safety in numbers, but a smaller group would be easier to protect.

Pisces had promised to protect Eloque, and his greatest sympathies lay with Bearig, Rophir, and Qshom. But his team also weighed heavily on his mind.

He had already tried to message Ceria, but she was well out of range of their private communication spell.

“What about [Message]? Do you know that one?”

Merr peered at Pisces. He hunched his shoulders.

“I do. But any [Mage] of a certain caliber can not only tell where I am casting the spell from, but decipher the contents of the spell.”

“Ah. Damn. I could try to send word through my channels, but I’d have to find an established bandit group too. We’re in the middle of nowhere, see?”

She tapped their progress. They were heading into Zeikhal, the Great Desert, away from Roshal, still far to the west, heading back the way they’d come. She spoke out of the corner of her mouth.

“We’re not moving at a bad clip on foot as we are, but it’ll get us caught by everyone soon enough. I’ve got [Far Riders], but it only works on…riders. That bastard Hrome kept us moving at twice the normal speed. So to even get back to Tiqr, the steppes, or Savere, let alone Nerrhavia, it would take twice as long as it took us to get here. So a month.”

Pisces bit his lip. That was unacceptable. They had limited food supplies, and obviously couldn’t purchase more unless they used disguises. He began to plan out ideas.

“I could animate horses to carry us.”

“What, undead horses?”

Merr’s brows rose. Pisces nodded.

“They are not suitable for riding, but they could pull the wagons day and night. Perhaps more efficiently than…”

His eyes roamed to the living horses plodding along. Merr instantly slapped his shoulder.

“You can’t kill horses! If we were all starving, maybe, but horses?”

She looked appalled at the suggestion. Pisces was about to say she was the most principled [Bandit] he’d ever met when he remembered he did have horse bones!

In his bag of holding! And even…

…No, no chariot. Pisces recalled Ceria used to make the ice chariot, or they bought a wagon and converted it to the mobile attack vehicle the Horns used. Eloque and the others stared as the old horses nearly bolted and the new ones replaced them. That freed up four horses for riding, but they were still far under horsed.

“Four horses and a Skeleton Lord? Not bad for a [Necromancer].”

“I have ample mana reserves.”

Pisces smiled at Merr, resisting the urge to sniff. Leadership. He had to admit, though, even animating four horses had taxed him.

My [Mana Well] and natural reserves must not be up to the task of sustaining a Skeleton Lord without recharging. Pisces had a few mana potions left; he didn’t feel drained from half a day and a night of the Skeleton Lord being under his control, so he hoped he could balance the upkeep of the other undead so long as he didn’t raise too many. Even so…he regretted the fact they only had two wagons.

“If I could create an ice-sled…”

“…It’d melt in five minutes.”

Eloque finished the sentence for him. Pisces sighed.

“Or a sled of stone, or anything we could use to create more vehicles with. A sled of bone would be possible, but I don’t have enough bone I care to sacrifice for it!”

He began to regret his lack of magical understanding. The spell tome of the Putrid One had shown him something. He knew a lot of spells, but he lacked the insight specialists had. For instance, he could raise a wall of stone, but he couldn’t make it last more than a few minutes.

Ceria could, albeit with ice. Pisces couldn’t bind a permanent cooling spell to stop Bearig needing water every five minutes. He could blow cold air and did now and then to keep people cool, but it wasn’t like a bound spell of [Cloud of Darkness].

How limited was he, as a [Necromancer]? It was a startling reality check. Up till now, Pisces had just bought wagons, replaced necessities with the ease of gold. Here, in the middle of nowhere?

He looked around. It really was flat. And the further north they went, the more the dunes of sand seemed to grow, and the vast Zeikhal Desert enveloped them. They were skirting that for now; the sand would swallow the wagons and the famous sandstorms would blot out everything. At the moment, the dry soil crumbled with dust, and the few plants were tough, dry things. Pisces had not seen wildlife in a while, and it was usually bugs burrowing beneath the sand, or birds circling high above on thermals.

“Is…is making ice chariots normal in Izril?”

Eloque asked after a while. Pisces heard a snort from Merr. He glanced over.

“What? No! It’s not cold enough in Izril to warrant it.”

“Okay. I didn’t know if it was like Baleros. Parts of Baleros are frozen year round, isn’t that right, Qshom?”

“Right.”

The Dullahan was working on her arm. Eloque deliberately looked away. Pisces shook his head.

“Very little of Izril is frozen.”

“But you said…do you just like ice? Is that why you want to make ice chariots instead of something sensible?”

Pisces blew out his cheeks. He heard more giggles and looked back as Bearig pretended to be checking on Rophir. But the man’s shoulders shook. Only the little half-Elven boy looked unamused. What was worse was that Eloque was trying to sound reasonable and understanding.

“I don’t make ice-anything! It’s my teammate. She’s an [Ice Mage].”

“Oh. Oh, of course. My mistake.”

Eloque ducked her head, embarrassed. Which made Pisces ashamed for blowing up at her. He took a deep breath. Leader. He had to be a leader. He’d reacted like…well. She reminded him of Selys. But they were different.

“I’m sorry, Eloque. I should have clarified. My team, the Horns of Hammerad, each had a speciality. There are three of them. They might be scattered across Chandrar. I do not know. We were separated by a grand magic…”

Eloque and the others listened as Pisces recounted the escape from the Village of the Dead. Merr whistled.

“And this was on the scrying orbs? Damn me, but I have to buy one of them, Wistram watching me or not. So one of you’s an [Ice Mage]?”

“Ceria Springwalker. She is our team leader. She is…a powerful [Ice Mage]. Very skilled.”

“What kind of leader?”

Pisces’ lips moved silently.

“…Inspiring?”

Eloque gave him such a dubious look that Pisces tried to explain what made Ceria good. She was…competent when it mattered! She wasn’t as bossy as the others. He gave up.

“The second is an Antinium. Ksmvr. Our [Skirmisher]. A brave, commendably loyal fellow. Very skilled with all weapons. Young.”

“Antinium. Aren’t they bug-people?”

And then Pisces had to explain the Antinium to the fascinated audience, many of whom only vaguely knew about the ‘Antinium’ being a plague to Izril. It was quite amazing; they had no instant association with the name. They knew the Antinium Wars as history, and referred to them as the Incursion Wars rather than their nickname.

“Who’s your last teammate?”

“Ah, that would be our [Silversteel Armsmistress]. Our [Warrior]—she is a skilled, strong, headstrong…very strong…woman. Yvlon Byres, whose very arms are silver thanks to her class. She had them torn off, but after a battle with an Adult Creler—”

Merr the Storm had begun to stiffen in her saddle. Her head turned. She looked at Pisces, mouth open wide, wider—until everyone but Pisces, trying to hype Yvlon up, was staring at Merr with some worry. At last, the [Bandit Lady] exploded.

“The Silver-Killer? I know her!”

Pisces whirled around in his saddle. Merr threw up her hands.

“You know that rabid beast? I thought she was going to eat all of us alive with her teeth!”

The [Necromancer]’s jaw dropped.

——

It was a small world. No, it was a huge world, but coincidences were apparently common. As they stopped that evening to rest, and their one [Hunter] went off to find any game he could, Pisces sat, head whirling.

He now knew where one of his teammates was! The fact that Yvlon had never really mentioned him, and that Merr was not an avid television watcher meant he’d been in the dark.

They’d been so close to each other! But every day in the caravan had taken her farther away.

“A coliseum? A [Gladiator]? Yvlon?”

“She’s in better condition than you are, Pisces. Believe me. I wanted to be a [Gladiator]—I could have won my freedom. Her? If that really was your teammate, she could have killed the entire arena with her eyes. Absolutely savage. I heard she snapped and beat a hundred [Guards] to death with her bare hands before they captured her.”

“Yvlon wouldn’t do that. She’s the most reasonable…did they provoke her?”

Pisces was just imagining the situation. A corrupt magistrate. He cursed.

“Did they take her relics? She grabbed something, I was sure of it.”

“If they did, they didn’t mention it. She claimed they were all confiscated.”

“Well. At least I know her city.”

Pisces closed his eyes. Nerrhavia’s Fallen was too far away to make plans for, but if he could lead an undead attack…

He must have napped, because he woke up to the sound of Merr’s voice and shouts.

“That’s right! Chop, chop! Come on, fat man, I thought you were a [Cook]!”

“I was! But I don’t cut food like this!”

The [Necromancer] sat up. Merr was exhorting Bearig, Eloque, and a line of over half the former [Slaves]. The other group was watching.

“What’s going on?”

Merr glanced his way.

“Oh, I’m just teaching them how to fight. Might as well, right, Pisces?”

The [Necromancer] saw her correcting Bearig’s chops. Since there weren’t enough weapons, they’d armed him, fittingly, with a [Cook]’s evil-looking cleaver. Merr was showing him how to chop an opponent, preferably where neck met shoulder.

“That’s a killing blow right there. Just charge ‘em and swing until they’re dead. You’re a big fellow; outpowering them is the way to go. No dancing for you. As for you…keep poking!”

Eloque was trying to use a spear, clumsily. The Lizardwoman didn’t have the muscle or training, but Merr had gotten her to a decent spear’s thrust amazingly quickly.

“You have…some natural talent with this, Merr.”

The [Bandit Lady] grinned.

“I’ve raised enough gangs to know how it goes. [Bandit Lady], remember? [Quick Training: Fighters]! You won’t get any fancy formations here, but I can get them into decent fighting shape in a few days. Figure if any want to ride with me, I might as well train ‘em all, right?”

She glanced at Pisces. He nodded. Was it set in stone then, that she would go? Was it for the best? She was…doing better than he was. After a second, he rose to emulate her example and try to drill some footwork into the fighters who actually had held a blade before, like a [Hunter]. Merr watched with interest. Pisces glanced her way, and they met gazes and looked away.

Was there tension there? Did he see her watching him, or evaluating him for weaknesses? Pisces wasn’t sure. He vividly recalled her pulling the chains free in the tent. Why was it harder to trust her?

Perhaps it was the dreams.

——

Every time, it was the same. Not every night. But three out of four nights so far.

There he sat. Sometimes strange things were occurring. This night, Pisces had a fork. A cheap piece of metal that should not have stood up to any force. Even so, he was killing servants with it. Beautiful, wide-eyed, mostly naked [Slaves], defending Riqre in madness.

Pisces had to get closer, but there were so many bodies in the way, and the blood was everywhere and all he had was a fork. Dream-logic didn’t let him use spells or find anything else.

There he sat.

Emir Riqre. He was laughing.

“Did you really think I was dead, Pisces? Me? The Emir? Come now. Come closer.”

And Pisces did, trying to kill the man as he laughed. His eyes were like Pisces remembered. Void of soul or anything. Deep pits. The dead bodies were twisting, turning into the very things Pisces had seen. The prisoners.

“I’m not dead, Pisces.”

The Emir beamed at him. He gestured at his body.

“You never saw my corpse, did you? I am alive, and I shall find you. You and the others. I’m not dead. Do you know what they did? They put me in a jar, Pisces. I’m down there. I’ll be back.”

Then he leapt, and his face began to elongate, along with his limbs. He caught Pisces, and the [Necromancer], trying to stab the growing monster—

…Woke up. He sat up in a tent, and knew it was the fourth day of travel. But for how long? Roshal would be hunting them. Could he protect them?

Better, perhaps, if he just took Eloque on horseback and rode off. What about the others? What about…Merr?

“You can’t trust her. She’s a [Bandit]. You’re so valuable. But you knew that. You can’t even trust the others, can you? I touched them all. Even you. You and I will never part ways, Pisces.”

The young man’s head turned. He saw Riqre sitting there, a pallid, curled up man staring up at him out of an open jar. The figure leapt and Pisces shouted in horror.

And then, of course, he woke up.

Or was he still dreaming?

——

The first attack came on the fifth day. Eloque woke up, weeping. Not because she had dark dreams, but because she woke up and knew she was free, and didn’t believe it for a while.

When she did, the tears came.

They were on the road when the ambush began. Not [Slavers], although that was the first scream that came from the person who saw them. In truth, it was more mundane.

Sixty people, not apparently armed well, two wagons? That was a prime target for anything. Of course, an expert might see Pisces and Merr, but…

A flood of monsters came over the lip of the hill. They swarmed down in a sudden attack, weapons raised. Their scream filled the air, that familiar, monstrous warcry.

Yiyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyiyi—

Eloque saw Pisces’ head turn. The [Necromancer] whispered.

“Oh, no. Not them.”

She didn’t understand why he looked afraid in that moment. But then the Goblins were charging down the slopes, near a hundred of them, led by a single Hobgoblin.

They failed to take the caravan, though they had numbers on their side. For two reasons. One was Pisces. The other was Merr.

“[Group: Speed Raiders]. [Fearless Charge]! Kill the Gobbo bastards!”

The unprepared freed [Slaves] felt the two Skills hit them as Merr ripped a sword from her sheath and charged the nearest Goblin. Qshom, shouting as a Goblin tried to swarm up the wagon, felt everything move a bit slower and kicked the Goblin off.

Pisces had hesitated as the Goblins came. Now? A flaming rapier appeared in his hands. He leapt out of the skirmishing line and charged at the largest Goblin. The Hob. The Goblin blinked in surprise, crimson eyes widening with alarm as she realized this was not an easy target. She swung a rusted halberd, and felt a lance of pain run through her arm as she was struck by the fiery blade.

That was not what made her recoil, back up. It was the [Necromancer]’s voice.

“Leave! Death! Big scale death here!”

He was shouting in their tongue? Every Goblin in earshot did a double-take. Of course, Pisces’ inflection was completely off, and he was shouting nonsense. ‘Big scale death’ was something he’d heard Rags refer to Relc as, one time, and he had mistaken it for ‘death’ or ‘danger’ in general.

Faced with the obviously dangerous [Bandit Lady] who had killed six Goblins in a heartbeat, and the [Necromancer] shouting their own language, the Goblins wavered. They broke when they saw the final defender of the caravan.

The Skeleton Lord. It was the first time Eloque had seen it do battle. And—

As the Goblins poured over the slope, the Skeleton Lord’s head had risen. The green flames, flickering in its sockets, burned bright. The sword and shield it carried rose, and it charged, jaw clattering, towards the Goblins.

So fast! The nearest Goblin had taken the skeleton to be a low-level…Skeleton Warrior at best. It was not prepared for the charge that plunged the blade through the heart. The Skeleton Lord whirled, slashing. So quick! Eloque, seeing the Goblins fleeing Merr, had time to see the Skeleton Lord, almost see how it thought.

[Shield Bash]! [Power Strike]! My sword and shield are unstoppable! Die! It had no Skills, but the undead scythed around it with both shield and sword, slashing, knocking one Goblin’s spear flying with the sheer strength of its limbs.

I shall cleave it all in half! It leapt and slashed, and Goblins dove for cover as the sword came down with a mighty swing that missed its target. Then the Skeleton Lord saw one of the better Goblins come in, a shield and sword of its own raised.

At least a Level 20 [Fighter], to judge by the confident way the Goblin held the shield. The two began to slash at each other and Eloque saw the Goblin stumbling, unable to match either strength or reach. But then it moved into a flurrying attack and the Skeleton Lord raised its shield. It blocked the blows—at least—the first three.

One, two, and because I’m tired of being on the defense and think I can end it soon, hiyah! It dropped its guard, slashed out, and received a nicking blow along one rib. But the bones were strong, and the Goblin stumbled back, shield arm broken or, at least, cracked. It took one look at the paltry damage it had inflicted and the Goblin backed up fast.

But more Goblins were charging the Skeleton Lord and the undead dodged a spear thrust and nearly ran into some maces and daggers. Eloque saw it react with alarm.

Whoops, uh oh, back off, back off.

And the Skeleton Lord literally jogged away from the fight before resetting itself. The Goblins facing it didn’t look eager to come closer.

Then, the Hob bellowed a single order.

“Retreat!”

She waved her halberd and the Goblins broke off. Many had already concluded this was not a good fight and had been scrambling backwards. The Goblins broke away, and the Skeleton Lord began to pursue in another charge—until Pisces shouted.

“Stop!”

It did stop. The Goblins fled, leaving behind a dozen of their dead. But Eloque’s eyes, and Merr’s and Pisces’, were all on the Skeleton Lord.

The strength to cleave a buckler in twain. Speed that even Pisces would be pressed by! A toughness unknown to its lesser kin of bone. The Skeleton Lord was mighty.

…However, it fought about as well as one of Hrome’s [Guards].

——

After the battle ended, wounds were healed with potions and the damage assessed. Minor, in truth. The Goblins were smart enough to run and only they had any dead.

It was more what the battle revealed, than anything else that stood out. Pisces’ curious shouting in that foreign language, as well as the combat capabilities both he and Merr had shown. Pisces had charged into the Goblin lines, wounded their leader, and forced them all away. His Skeleton Lord had also scared the Goblins.

Yet something else was apparent to the group. If Pisces was the better fighter, Merr was the better leader.

For proof, their instinctive actions after the fight was over stood out. Before he recalled himself, Pisces had gone over to the Skeleton Lord and studied it in dismay, noting how it took a posture like a Level 14 [Caravan Guard], shaking his head.

Merr was the one to get them moving, telling them not to waste potion by slopping it on their wounds. Pisces did the same—once he remembered he was in charge.

“That Skeleton Lord fights…funny.”

Eloque didn’t know how to bring it up. Pisces hung his head.

“It fights like the things it was made of, apparently. I did not think to question its level of expertise; regular skeletons can fight with sword and shield. The [Ritual of the Lord of Bones] clearly takes more from the bones than I thought.”

“Personality?”

The Lizardwoman was alarmed. Pisces eyed the Skeleton Lord and shook his head.

“No. Just…it is a decent combatant. Just…just.”

He began to sniff, and caught himself. Eloque wondered if he had a nasal problem. Pisces straightened his shoulders.

“I should address everyone. Friends, well done! We have survived a battle—”

Eloque bit her lip as he raised his voice. She saw Bearig wince. Qshom removed his head, and carefully put his hands over his ears.

He was doing his best.

——

It was strange, the things they did not know about one another. Rationally, it made sense. Pisces had spent only two weeks in the company of the others. Yet it felt like they had a deeper connection than he had with, say, the Silver Swords, whom he had adventured with.

Deeper…and still, Pisces learned strange things about his companions. Trivial things that nevertheless caught him off-guard.

After the Goblin attack, there had been some debate as to what to do. Merr was all for gathering the bodies and having Pisces animate them. The [Necromancer] vetoed the suggestion.

“What, the bones not good enough?”

“No. I would rather not offend the tribe by making Goblin zombies. Let them collect their dead once we have left. They are no doubt watching.”

Pisces glanced around and could swear he saw a little head duck down. It was too familiar. Merr was confused, but shrugged.

“You’re the [Necromancer]. Any reason why we want to give them their dead?”

“They are hungry. They will eat their own if they cannot eat us.”

The others looked at Pisces in horror. He shook his head. He did know something about Goblins.

“More importantly—if there are Goblins in this area, there may be an oasis nearby. Even Goblins need water. We should scout for it.”

——

They didn’t find it. There was no map with an oasis listed, nor did they have dowsing Skills. Ceria might have found the water; Pisces could not. Nor was anyone exactly eager to take a horse and ride around, over a foothill into, say, a Goblin ambush.

So they kept moving, and presently, Pisces had to explain his curious reaction to the Goblins, not to mention the language.

“You know a Goblin? What? They’re monsters!”

“Classified as monsters, certainly. But they can speak. Play instruments. I…did not want to fight them.”

Pisces was thinking of Numbtongue. He shook his head. Everyone, from Merr to Eloque, was giving him an incredulous look. Pisces tried to elaborate. And that meant telling them about Rags, the little Goblin whom he’d taught basic spellcraft to.

The others listened solemnly, shaking their heads, but listening. And Pisces felt surprised, because he had shared that. Somehow, he had forgotten how they all saw Goblins.

“Well, that Skeleton Lord helped fight. Dead gods, but it’s fast. Not the best fighter, you said? Still better than any [Raider] I’ve had!”

Merr reached out and slapped the undead on the shoulders. The Skeleton Lord barely seemed to notice. Pisces stared at her. He had never seen anyone do that.

The others nodded. Rather than complain about the lackluster performance of his undead, they looked appreciatively at the ivory Human skeleton walking with them. Bearig frowned at it.

“Now that you mention it, this fellow’s naked.”

“How do you know it’s a fellow, Bearig? Why don’t we put some clothes on it? We could pretend it’s a person and trick people. Come to that—what’s its name, Pisces?”

Eloque investigated the undead, curiously. Pisces’ head snapped up.

“It has no name. Nor gender. It is an undead.”

Toren. But they had no understanding of that part of his past either, so the others objected.

“It should have a name. What about…about…well, a nickname? ‘Bone Defender’.”

Everyone looked at Eloque. She coughed. Bearig was nodding as he offered the undead a tunic. It stared at the piece of cloth and kept walking. Pisces rubbed at his face. He had to actually order the Skeleton Lord to put on clothing. But he held the line at a name.

For some reason, Bearig, the [Cook], was most strident about it. He was giving Rophir a ride on his shoulders.

“It is a tool, Bearig. In time—no. If I—it must be a tool at this moment. There is no…force that would give it greater sentience.”

I think. Could Skeleton Lords develop personalities? Pisces began to sweat at the thought, but the Stitch-Man was insistent.

“I name my tools, Pisces. Every good tool deserves recognition.”

“You…name your tools?”

Qshom gave Bearig an odd look. He glanced at the dagger he was using to remove Eloque’s stitches and waved it at Bearig.

“Would you name this?”

The [Cook] shrugged, a bit awkwardly, his already reddened brow darkening a bit further as everyone chuckled.

“Not every tool, but good ones? I had a ladle I used since I was an [Apprentice Cook]. I called it my lucky ladle. Had a name and everything.”

“Oh yeah? What was it?”

Merr was still frowning at the slight foothills for more Goblins as they continued climbing a slight gradient. Bearig turned beet-red.

“Er…I called him…The Duke of Soup.”

Dead silence. Then, laughter, guffaws from everyone listening. Pisces started laughing, and it was so unexpected and unforced. Duke of Soup? Eloque clutched at her stomach and even Qshom had to grab his head to stop it rolling off the wagon’s seat in hilarity.

It wasn’t even that funny, but it was Bearig’s face and the moment and…it was good to laugh. The laughter even came from a little boy, high-pitched, and for a second—

Bearig glanced up at Rophir and Pisces stopped in amazement. He saw the half-Elf boy’s face twist up in mirth. For just one second. Then the laughter stifled, and the boy’s little face went blank.

“Rophir! You laughed!”

Eloque exclaimed. The half-Elf looked at her, then down at Bearig. The [Cook] was beaming up at him. But Rophir didn’t laugh again, despite the delight on Bearig’s face.

His face went blanker. It almost seemed like he resented that moment of hilarity. As Pisces watched, he reached out, and smacked Bearig’s head.

The [Cook] yelped.

“Rophir! Stop that!”

But the little half-Elf began punching, scratching at Bearig’s head. They were not hard blows, but they clearly hurt.

“See now, that’s enough. Bearig didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t—ow!”

One of the Stitch-Women reached out, and Rophir slashed at her with a hand. She retreated.

“Rophir. Enough.”

Pisces rode over, but the little boy kept hitting Bearig. And the [Cook] didn’t drop him or try to stop it. He grimaced at Pisces.

“Leave him. Rophir, Rophir. I’m sorry for making you laugh. Stop, please?”

The boy did not stop. His face stayed blank, but Pisces saw something running down his cheeks. Tears. He reached to pull Bearig’s hair, and Pisces caught his hand.

“Rophir, enough.”

The half-Elf tried to strike at him, but Pisces was too quick. He caught both of Rophir’s hands and met the silver-grey eyes.

“I understand you do not wish to laugh, Rophir. Bearig does not wish to hurt you. I know…you have suffered. But it is a poor thing to hurt the people who care for you. Enough.”

The boy struggled, then tried to bite Pisces’ arms. The [Necromancer] grimaced.

“Enough. Sleep, Rophir. [Sleep].”

He began to cast the spell, but someone grabbed his arm before he could stop Rophir. Bearig. The [Cook] gave him a shake of the head. And…Eloque.

“Don’t, Pisces. He’s had enough of magic.”

Pisces lowered his hand. Rophir stared at him with huge, untrusting eyes. Pisces recalled Riqre using magic to animate…and surely other spells. He lowered his hands, backing away.

“Let me. Rophir, don’t hit Bearig. Come. Ride with us.”

Eloque let Bearig transfer Rophir to the wagon. The half-Elf boy seemed to accept riding with Eloque and Qshom, and sat there. As they moved on, and Bearig applied just a tiny bit of potion to his head, Eloque put an arm around the boy.

He stiffened, but didn’t pull away. Encouraged, the Lizardwoman hummed. Then, began to sing.

“Hello Naga, how was your day today? Did you meet anyone interesting on your way?”

It was such a bright, cheery song that Pisces blinked. Not at all like a soothing lullaby.

It was a Lizardfolk’s song. Or perhaps—a Balerosian song? Because Qshom started. Eloque stopped singing, and glanced at him meaningfully. Qshom hesitated, then grimaced and opened his mouth. His head, sitting next to them, began to sing. Call and response, Pisces realized.

“I met a [Wizard], hurray, hurray. And I helped him cast a spell on my way.”

He did his best, but the Dullahan couldn’t interject the same energy as Eloque into his voice. The counterpoint still somehow worked, and Pisces imagined a little Lizardfolk bothering a tired Naga. Rophir glanced up suspiciously at Eloque, but then he began to lean against her, listening. So did everyone else.

“Tell me Naga, did you see a snake today?”

“I saw one with five heads and sent it on its way.”

“Naga, that’s a Hydra.”

“Oh my, you don’t say?”

The silly little song filled the air as the group travelled onwards. Soon, Eloque’s voice died down and Qshom looked at the little half-Elf boy with some relief. He had gone to sleep, leaning against her. Eloque nodded at Bearig, who smiled. Pisces had never known she could sing.

And the Skeleton Lord, which had brought all this about? It trudged onwards, bald, boney head covered by a turban of cloth, attired like a traveller, so only the sockets were visible. Names hadn’t stuck yet, but Pisces heard the caravan arguing.

Such sweet moments, sad moments, amid it all.

And then they came to the Glass Straits.

——

“Glass?”

Pisces stared at the landscape, which glittered with unbearable light in places, reflected from the sun above. Merr just grimaced.

“Yep. We’re further north than I thought. Dead gods, but I knew it stretched a long way. This far?”

The Glass Straits along Zeikhal were a natural phenomenon, not the product of some great spell, as Pisces had assumed. Somehow, the sun’s natural heat and intensity was so strong in this part of Chandrar that it could bake the top layer of sand into glass.

“Or perhaps there was some spell that began it. Some glass to begin with. Either way—it reflects and magnifies the sun. So it creates more glass, and, well…”

Eloque, of all the others, was the expert here. She had passed this way before, and jumped up and down on the hard glass mixed with sand to demonstrate how tough it was. Like a road, albeit lumpy. You could make better time on it, and the glass was not all one color. The varied sand and minerals created many colors and fascinating lumps of glass. Rarely beautiful; they were all dirty with trapped bubbles or sand, but you could hunt around and find a nice, clear part, or a bit you could polish up beautifully.

“Dangerous as tickling Crelers, I’ve heard.”

Merr had reservations. Eloque nodded.

“We’re travelling at night. It’s lucky we didn’t come by midday; we’d be blinded. By day? This place heats up beyond belief.”

“Is it better to travel the Glass Straits or stick to the wilds?”

Pisces was frowning. Eloque considered it.

“It’s not the most popular route, but Pisces—the Glass Straits are huge. If it’s this or going over dunes…we have wagons. We need a road.”

It was true. Twice now, the group had been forced to stop and push the wagons out of sand. If they tried going through actually rough terrain, they might have to abandon the vehicles and they were too necessary. Pisces bit his lip.

“Are there any unique dangers here?”

“Lack of food. Animals get different, too. Glass animals, some of them. Things that eat glass…I’ve heard you can even find Fire or Glass Elementals. Not worse than giant Sand Worms or what you can find in the sand.”

Glass Elementals? Pisces’ lips moved, but he just nodded. He sent the Skeleton Lord to scout about as they made an early camp. The undead came stomping back before they’d set up with something in its hands.

A giant glass ant’s head. Pisces stared at it and Qshom nearly dropped a tent pole. But it wasn’t an Antinium head. Pisces calmed down. In fact…it wasn’t even an ant’s head.

“Glass Termite. Is it edible?”

Eloque recognized the monster, but passed it to Bearig. He poked the insides, shuddering. The outer ‘carapace’ of the insect was hard glass. The inside? Well, it was flesh, but the [Cook] shook his head.

“I’d rather not try to cook that, Eloque. I’m no [Monsterparts Chef].”

“Well, food won’t last forever! Go on! Give it a bite! I’ll eat some once it’s roasted. Where’s the body, Bone Lord?”

“Don’t call it that. His name is Ivery.”

Eloque called after Merr. The [Bandit Lady] came back after a while with an experimental cut of the Glass Termite’s meat. She roasted it in the cast iron pan, until it was almost black, took one bite, hawked it back up, and came to a decision.

“Right. That’s inedible. And we’ve only got four more days of food for everyone at this rate. Two days of water. Time to go.”

Pisces looked up. He had come to the same conclusion; they had water barrels and lots of food, but even the Chest of Holding they’d taken from Hrome’s caravan had limits and they had yet to restock anything. Merr strode into the camp. All the former [Slaves] looked at her as she raised her voice.

“Listen up. I’m heading off. Anyone who wants to join me—I’m going to reform Merr’s Bandits. Merr the Storm rides again! You’re all welcome in my crew. That is—unless you all want to join me?”

She gave Pisces a look. The [Necromancer] stood there, a bit tensed. Was this the moment? He shook his head, slowly.

“I will pass, Merr. I have no intentions of becoming a [Bandit].”

She grunted.

“Suit yourself. But if you think you can protect everyone who stays…”

Another meeting of eyes. Pisces didn’t sense hostility, just…he smiled thinly.

“I can. And I wouldn’t bear you any ill will for going. If you wished to stay—”

Eloque looked between the two. Merr shook her head and tapped her chest.

“If I’m not needed, I’m off. Food’s a problem anyways. Tell you what. Spare me a fair portion—half of what we’d eat—and a quarter of the horses, and we’re square. Deal?”

“Agreed.”

Pisces breathed. It was more than fair. Merr nodded at the others.

“Don’t worry about light provisions and less horses. We’ll move fast and get more things to ride. Who’s with me?”

——

Only eighteen people went with Merr. Which was surprising, given how competent the [Bandit Lady] was. But she intended to be a [Bandit] and…it just wasn’t in many.

They followed Pisces because Pisces had promised them safety. But what did that mean?

Pisces and Merr shook hands, and Eloque saw the [Necromancer]’s wary smile. She was upset. She took Merr’s hand, but didn’t know what to say.

“Until we meet again!”

Merr the Storm left, with more horses than she’d asked for; enough to let the others ride two-to-a horse. It left Pisces’ group with far fewer mounts, but between the undead horses pulling the wagons, they wouldn’t be that much slower. More importantly, they had the lion’s share of the food and water.

“Is she going to be alright?”

Eloque asked Pisces privately. The [Necromancer] grimaced.

“[Bandits] can sense raiding opportunities. I very much doubt Merr intends to forage long. She would not be this confident if she did not have somewhere she intended to be.”

“It’s a shame she couldn’t stay. We could…have used her help.”

Eloque glanced sidelong at Pisces. He shrugged, but nodded slowly.

“It would have been beneficial. Alas. We had nothing to offer her, however, and without substantive gain…she is a [Bandit Lady]. I am an adventurer.”

“Did you want her gone?”

Eloque pressed, a frown on her face. It hadn’t seemed that way, not explicitly. Pisces shook his head.

“I am a [Necromancer]. Far be it from me to be the first to insult her way of life. It is just…we have nothing for her to gain from, and she can survive in Chandrar. Not so for the rest of us.”

That was true, but Eloque was still unhappy. It was done, nevertheless.

They would not rest this night long; they had to cross the Glass Straits by night, and then camp by day. As the caravan plodded onwards, however, they were forced to stop at exactly midnight by an unusual, and at first, alarming spectacle.

The Skeleton Lord, who had been patrolling ahead, nicknamed ‘Ivery’ by Eloque much to Pisces’ chagrin, had halted. Pisces rode up to it, frowning, as the dark glass covered by a light sprinkling of sand crunched under his horse’s hooves. Eloque and the others halted uncertainly, because they heard it too.

The wind had died down, and the rolling crunch of glass under the wagon wheels faded away. All that was left was a strange hum in the air. Then…a low wail from ahead.

The Skeleton Lord’s eyes were glowing bright. Pisces stopped. He stared as something began to trace itself outwards, and swore, galloping backwards.

When he had enacted the [Ritual of the Lord of Bones], Eloque had been so tired and distraught she hadn’t really watched. She had seen him placing the bones from the dead [Slavers] in a curious, concentric pattern around the center pile, ten times as many bones, twenty, perhaps, as had created the Skeleton Lord.

She had watched Pisces raise the bones into the air, seen the glow of power he called upon. Now she saw the same symbols trace themselves outwards from the Skeleton Lord as it stood in the center of the glowing diagram—but with lines of magical force, as green as its eyes, instead of bone.

“Pisces! What’s happening?”

The [Necromancer] looked back. And it was clear he did not know.

“It’s…my ritual. It must have a component I did not know about.”

“What? It’s your spell!”

“Yes, but—it was granted to me as I levelled! I don’t know what it does!”

Magic given without instruction. Eloque was no [Mage], but she’d heard of them gaining spells when levelling they didn’t learn. Thusly, Pisces didn’t know the full nature of the spell he’d cast.

Sometimes…you opened a box and didn’t see the depths.

The Skeleton Lord stood, glowing under two full moons. Staring at nothing. Waiting. Waiting for…what?

Pisces was frozen, staring into an unravelling complexity of death magic. It was true—the ritual was too advanced for him. He didn’t understand his creation.

And that terrified him. It reminded him all too much of another undead he had made. Back in arrogance. Would this Skeleton Lord become another Toren?

What have I done?

It wanted something. That much Pisces could see. But what was the input? What was the outcome? He felt a fool.

I should cast aside my magic. Begin once again from the Putrid One’s spellbook. From true magic. Why do I reach for that which I cannot understand?

“Pisces…”

Eloque’s voice was afraid. The [Necromancer] braced himself. He dismounted from his horse.

“Stay there. I will…something is needed.”

He began to approach the Skeleton Lord, warily. It waited, not turning to face him, but part of its inner being exposed. For something. Something…

Him? Blood? More death? More bone?

Bearig had a hand on his cleaver, but uncertainly. Qshom had a crossbow aimed, but the group of freed [Slaves] were simply tense, unwilling to interfere. Pisces strode forwards—if he had been alone, or with his team, he might have risked waiting, analyzing the situation. Not here. Not now.

He was walking towards the Skeleton Lord when someone else moved. The taut air, the imminent danger again, made one of the others snap. A little figure darted down. A voice shouted.

“Rophir! No!”

Pisces whirled, but too late, the little half-Elf boy reacted as he’d been trained. Conditioned.

No one had given Rophir a weapon, for all he was arguably one of the more dangerous people with a blade. Bearig had found the cutting knife and taken it from the half-Elf boy. Even so—Rophir bent down, and picked up something.

A rock—no, a nugget of glass. A bit of sand turned into a fist-sized piece of heavy glass. He scooped it up and hurled it at the Skeleton Lord’s head with uncanny accuracy for a boy his age.

Pisces leapt for the stone, then remembered his magic and tried to catch it. Too late—the stone thwacked the undead in the head. Pisces whirled.

“No!”

There was a flash. He saw the magic changing and his flaming rapier was in his hands. [Flash Step]—Pisces lunged, conjuring an [Acid Orb] into his other hand. He saw the Skeleton Lord turn with unnatural grace to face him and brace as it raised its weapon. The glass rock?

Pisces stumbled. He nearly careened into the Skeleton Lord, who caught him. Qshom lowered his crossbow. The others saw the Skeleton Lord raise its hand into the air. It had been hit in the skull by the little glass nugget, but now it held the very same bit of glass in one hand. Yet a second nugget of glass lay on the ground.

“What the…”

Eloque saw the undead’s eyes burn green as the lines of magic retreated within its being. It raised the rock overhead.

Yes! So the compact has been made! Look unto me and my great weapon! My bonded nature of death, which I shall use to destroy all that come against me or my master! My—

It regarded the glass rock in its hand. Pisces stared as the Skeleton Lord experimentally threw it. Then stared at the rock. His mouth moved silently.

The Skeleton Lord’s eyes burned. It raised a hand—and the glass pebble reappeared in it. A bound weapon. A…

It tossed the rock again and stared at it. The undead seemed…confused as to how to expand on the varieties of martial combat as they applied to glass pebbles. Ivery tried to recall the weapon again, found it could not, and scuttled over to pick up the glass rock. It kept trying to throw it, practicing with its new bonded weapon.

Rophir hid behind Bearig, but Pisces didn’t look at the half-Elf boy. As the others investigated the Skeleton Lord and its new weapon, the [Necromancer] sat with his head in his hands.

But he was laughing.

——

It was clear that the [Ritual of the Lord of Bones] was designed to attenuate and customize a powerful…lord of bones. First in construction, then customization. Imagine giving it an enchanted weapon! Or would only a mundane one work?

You could attune a varied weapon to the very heart of the Skeleton Lord, designing its entire battle strategy and combat prowess around a weapon, esoteric though it might be, and the Skeleton Lord would fight with it, an eternal weapon.

Or, in this case, a rock. Ivery the Skeleton Lord could now, at the beginning of each battle, throw the glass pebble. Pisces watched it toss the glass pebble at a Glass Termite. The monster recoiled, and the eight giant termites all attacked the pebble. Ivery stared at the rock, then drew its sword and shield and charged into battle.

“It’s…um. At least it has a sword and shield?”

Eloque watched as Ivery won the battle. It picked up the glass pebble and carefully carried it around. Pisces tried not to burst into hysterical laughter again.

“My undead creations seem to be instructional in what not to do.”

The worst part was that the Skeleton Lord was clearly learning how to use its weapon of choice; it had progressed from weak throws to an actual approximation of a baseball pitch. Pisces had a headache.

“I shall endeavor to replace this undead with a superior Skeleton Lord if we get the chance. I do not know where I will find the correct bones of a skilled warrior, but I could at least give it a proper weapon.”

He muttered. To his surprise, that landed him in hot water. Eloque turned on him, aghast.

“You can’t destroy Ivery! He’s doing his best!”

“What?”

Qshom nodded.

“It deserves a chance. I like it.”

“It’s an undead.”

“It’s been protecting us! It even killed that Glass Hare!”

Pisces stared at said hare, draining of blood. Its skin was glass, but the internals were regular flesh and blood, so Bearig was going to make a stew of it. He rubbed at his head. It was hot, by evening, as the Glass Straits cooled off from the incredible heat of the magnified sun. They’d already learned not to camp anywhere close to the glass road.

The trick of the Glass Straits wasn’t the overall heat; it was the magnified heat as it reflected off natural mirrors. The caravan had camped too close the first day and one of the rays of sun had burnt one of the tents.

They were riding along, taking turns to march on the glass road or sit on the wagon. Eloque almost always had the wagon’s seat, as did Qshom, despite the limited space. Qshom because he was a Dullahan with heavy armor and a [Tailor], both of which awarded him some respect.

Eloque because…she was Eloque and everyone knew why. After five days, Qshom had rid her left arm of stitching. She kept flexing it, peering at her bright scales. Smiling.

The Lizardwoman was in such a good mood that day, that Pisces caught her murmuring to herself and laughing every now and then. He didn’t understand why until he edged over, pretending to read from the spell tome.

“Ooh. Indigo. Nice.”

…What? Every few minutes, Eloque would point to something, chortle to herself.

“Indigo! Indigo. Mm…no, that’s violet. Aha, indigo!”

The [Necromancer] couldn’t resist. He looked at Eloque.

“Are you…enamoured with the color indigo, Eloque?”

She jumped and blushed.

“It’s a nice color! You don’t see much in Chandrar—I always pass the time by looking for it.”

Pisces raised a finger. He scratched at his temple.

“Always?”

“Yep.”

One of the [Slaves] who had been part of Igheriz’s caravan for a long time nodded. Pisces looked at him.

Always?

“Indigo! Look!”

Eloque chortled, pointing out a bit of fused glass with every sign of genuine joy. Pisces stared at the patch of indigo amid orange-yellow glass, from some kind of mineral. He looked at Eloque. Her indigo-spotting habit was…the most annoying thing he had experienced since coming to Chandrar.

——

Mundanity did not last long. Pisces was riding at the head of the caravan, well away from Eloque’s chortling indigo spotting, which Qshom and Rophir had joined, when his head snapped up.

“Oh, no. Not now!”

His exclamation made Bearig jog forwards.

“What’s wrong?”

“We’re being scried!”

Pisces swore. He looked up, cursed, and tried three spells. Then he just aimed up.

“[Deathbolt]!”

The black bolt of magic shot into the sky to no effect. Pisces leapt down, swearing. Eloque and the others cried out.

“Pisces! Can you stop it?”

“No!”

“No? But…”

“I don’t know how! I was expelled from Wistram before we learned wards or counterspells! Roshal knows where we are.”

Pisces was fumbling for the spellbook, flipping through it desperately. Was there a counterspell somewhere in…?

He hadn’t even realized they were being [Scried] until now. It could have been a while. And sure enough—after three hours of worried night trekking, the first manifestation of their observers appeared.

“Flying carpet!”

Bearig screamed. Everyone shouted in horror.

There it was. A flying carpet, and a pair of riders perched mockingly there. There was no guessing where they were from. Eloque felt it, like prickling on her scales.

Roshal.

She was not mistaken either. Pisces took aim and sent a [Deathbolt] flying towards the carpet. The [Carpet Rider] didn’t even bother to dodge; the bolt just soared well clear of their distant shape. They kept following as the caravan desperately picked up speed, but it was a literal flying carpet to how fast they could run.

They were doing something, up there. Pisces spotted a [Mage] and the [Carpet Rider]. After only thirty minutes, the [Mage] stood up. He aimed again, but [Light Arrow] was his only spell with any tracking and the [Mage] had swatted down the low-Tier spell with ease.

Ivery couldn’t reach them; the undead had jogged beneath the carpet, trying to hit them two hundred feet up with its little pebble for an hour. They were out of bow shot, and…watching them.

Reporting their location. Pisces looked up from trying to learn Lighted Arrow as fast as he could as something glinted from the carpet.

The [Mage] was holding up a mirror. A scrying mirror? The others tensed as it caught the light. But it was not a painful glare that shot downwards. No—what appeared in front of them was a man.

A Human man, reflected from the mirror onto the ground. He smiled, and looked around.

“A Skeleton Lord? You impress me further, Pisces Jealnet. Please—”

For Qshom had shot a bolt through his face. The man regarded the Dullahan with mild interest, and his eyes turned back to Pisces. Slitted pupils. The [Necromancer] froze, his face a mask of hostility. And fear. Eloque was paralyzed. The figure bowed, gracefully.

“—let us talk. I am Emir Yazdil. The Naga of Roshal. My people have found you, Pisces Jealnet. You are all [Slaves]. But we shall be understanding. If you acquiesce.”

“Leave us be. I swear I will destroy you if you approach.”

Pisces whispered. The Naga shook his head.

“…I am told you were in the company of Igheriz, and the Emir Riqre. Neither one represents Roshal, and Riqre…I fear you have the wrong impression of me, Pisces. I should like to speak.”

“Begone!”

The young man’s voice cracked. He blasted the illusion with something that made it actually wink out, but in a second the [Mage] had adjusted the mirror and it was back. The Emir shook his head.

“Pisces Jealnet, Roshal sees you. Let us speak. If you are not willing now—I shall return in an hour. But we shall speak. I would not have this be unpleasant. I hold the other Emirs in abeyance, and they would make an example. Is it not prudent to talk? I have heard you were known for your sagacity.”

He smiled, and Eloque wanted Pisces to refuse. He even spoke in a reasonable way. Pisces’ face was white and he was shaking, but everyone was frozen in fear. The carpet, the scrying spells…Roshal knew exactly where they were.

“Pisces.”

Eloque whispered. The [Necromancer] glanced at her. Then he tried to nod.

“Speak, Emir Yazdil. How is there room for negotiation if we are [Slaves]?”

The Naga’s smile reminded Eloque too much of home. Was he a Naga? How could one of them…?

“I am no fool, Adventurer Pisces. What if I were to let the others in your company go free? Remove their [Slave] class? But for you. I would purchase their contracts and set them free. If you agreed.”

Pisces reeled as if struck. Eloque wanted to throw up.

“No.”

She raised her voice, but the Emir had already dug his claws into Pisces. It was like Riqre again. Not the same, but the same poison. In just one sentence he had set the other freed [Slaves] to hesitating. No! Don’t let him speak!

The Lizardwoman slashed at the illusion, but it was intangible. The Naga looked at her, smiling gently.

“If not that, Pisces, I am even prepared to make you a deal. One month. One month and then I would let you go free. Do not mistake me. I am not negotiating from weakness. But I do wish you to be willing t—”

Pisces, tasting bile, was ready to shout, or stop Eloque, who was slashing the air. But the Naga suddenly winked out. Pisces, Eloque, and the others stared in puzzlement at the blank space where he had been.

Had the illusion spell gone wrong? They looked at the distant carpet just in time to see the [Mage], puzzled, adjust the mirror and tap on the [Carpet Rider]’s shoulder.

Then the scrying mirror exploded and the carpet went down, burning, to hit the ground below. Pisces’ eyes opened wide.

“Apprentice.”

A voice whispered to him. A familiar voice, distant, far, but not weak. And not…inhuman. Pisces closed his eyes as the others babbled, confused. They did not understand. He did.

For if one could see him now—so could another.

——

Az’kerash, the Necromancer of Izril, was not a…kind person. Pisces knew that. He knew the legends, and he recalled vividly the threat the Necromancer had made if he should reveal anything.

Even so, why did he sound kind? Just Pisces’ imagination.

“…Roshal shall not see you. Their pursuers follow, but blindly.”

What did he say? Pisces gulped.

“You are—generous beyond belief, Great Az’kerash.”

“Am I not Archmage Chandler?”

The voice almost sounded amused. Pisces recalled he had made a point to say it like that. It had been so long. He closed his eyes.

“Of—of course, Archmage Chandler. Then, we will be cloaked from all detection spells?”

“Naturally. Roshal is not a match for my abilities. You are far from any of my…agents, however. I shall send aid if you require it.”

Pisces’ own gray-green eyes opened wide. Now here was the danger. The Necromancer had stopped Roshal, even the Naga, and killed the two most high-level pursuers in the doing. But he still had his desires.

“…As I am your humble student and admirer, Archmage Chandler, I would throw myself upon your aid. However, I would not incur a deeper debt than I could repay.”

He didn’t want to hint at what both knew the debt would entail. Perhaps he had offended Az’kerash, because there was a moment of silence.

“Such aid as I can render is simple, young Pisces. A trifle.”

Pisces tried to smile.

“Nevertheless, Az’kerash, or Archmage Chandler, a debt is a debt.”

He had no doubt anything given would need repayment.

“…As you wish, then. Escape Chandrar, Pisces Jealnet. Your team is as yet occluded to me, and I have lesser interest in their fates. I would tell you, however, to search Nerrhavia’s Fallen, Illivere, and Savere. The spell that went awry scattered your team across a smaller radius.”

Pisces was amazed. The Necromancer could tell their rough trajectories just by analyzing the [Greater Teleport] spell? He bowed in the privacy of the tent, wondering if Az’kerash could see it.

“Of course, Great Necromancer. I…I would not ask your help further, as you have already spent enough of your precious time in this limited exchange.”

“…My precious time. Yes. I consider it—amusing—to participate in such diversions. If you require aid…”

Pisces would place himself in that kind of debt the same day he took up Bearig’s offer to make him fish stew. He was sure the Necromancer was…better than Riqre, or the Naga. But still. It was too close. Pisces spoke, and here he began to sweat, a bit.

“Rest assured, Archmage Chandler, I shall. However, I shall recompense you all your time! We did not recover the Helm of Fire, as promised, but my team and I secured several Relics, as you well know, from the Putrid One’s very abode! I have in my possession a powerful spellbook—perhaps his personal copy! I hesitate to remind you of your promise to aid my friend, but I vow I can repay all your effort!”

There was dead silence, but Pisces knew the Necromancer was well aware of the spellbook. Why else would he help Pisces?

“Of course, Pisces Jealnet. We shall discuss terms later. I congratulate you on your success. Survival is the mark of a true adventurer or [Mage], regardless of the cost.”

Then the link broke. Pisces shuddered, sat back, and then went to tell the others they were safe. Safe-er. He didn’t want to part with the spellbook, but at least they had an ally as great as Roshal on their side.

——

In distant Izril, Az’kerash tapped his fingers together. Why was Pisces refusing help? He had been ready to send…

“They have Relics? The Putrid One’s spellbook?”

His eyes burned with sudden curiosity. He had not expected that! Az’kerash drummed his fingers on the armrest. Now…how was he supposed to render aid subtly? He had to find a way to cover for the interference as well. He had posed as Wistram, or so he hoped. But if he took Pisces’ current position into account…

Toren, peeking in at Az’kerash, saw an entire war council’s worth of maps and books on local geography, fauna, recent reports of settlements in the area, and so on. The skeleton shook his head.

He had no word for what Az’kerash was, but if he had been introduced to the concept of ‘nerd’, ‘fanboy’, or so on, he would happily have used it.

——

They moved faster after that. With less food weighing down the wagons; they also tossed more gear they didn’t absolutely need. They could share tents, they didn’t need some containers or tools.

They had to outrun their pursuers. The group changed course, heading into the Glass Straits. They needed to fool Roshal’s force.

With luck, they wouldn’t have many or any [Trackers], expecting to be able to scry Pisces. With luck, Pisces and their group would vanish into Chandrar.

Nevertheless, despite Pisces’ assurance of magical help from powerful allies back in Izril—that was how he explained Az’kerash—the incident had shaken everyone.

Eloque was sobbing when Pisces woke up. He stopped, a cup of tea in his hands. It was not that she wept, it was because it was Eloque. Everyone cried. From Rophir to Bearig. Pisces? He had woken up screaming or with his head in his hands.

But she and he had seen…they had fought with Azam, outside of Riqre’s mansion. She looked up when Pisces stopped.

“Dreams?”

“No. I was imagining being captured again.”

The Lizardwoman whispered. She touched her neck, then shook her head. She took the tea, gulped it cold—they had only a small fire—and shook her head.

“I wish you hadn’t killed Hrome. Or that the Death of Chains hadn’t burned Igheriz to ash.”

Of all the things to say—Pisces rocked back on his heels as they sat, waiting for the Glass Straits to cool as the sun set.

“Why?”

She bared her teeth at him, her slitted eyes sharp. Her left shoulder was free of stitching, but her scales were marked from the cutting Qshom had to do, scratched up, but she looked at her left arm like it was the most beautiful thing in the world.

“Because then I could look at their skulls and know they were dead.”

The [Necromancer] could understand that. He sat, nodding. Eloque stared at him, then curled up like a cat, lying on the warm glass.

“And then I thought about the future. If we do escape, and leave Chandrar. I thought of what came next and I kept crying. Isn’t that silly?”

“Why?”

Eloque gave him a weary, weary laugh.

“Because, Pisces. If we do escape and go to a city or nation that outlaws [Slaves], where I will be free? What happens next? I have no Skills—not like Qshom or Bearig. My highest-levelled class is [Slave]. What will I do?”

Mockingly, she gestured at her body. She still wore a dress, now faded with travel.

“Do you want me to entertain you? Do you want a toy to stitch up? I can do that. They took my entire adult life from me.”

Pisces’ shudder made the Lizardwoman look at him.

“Don’t say that. You don’t have to do anything like that.”

“Don’t lie about what I have. I can’t go back home and just start over, Pisces. I don’t know where to begin.”

She shook her head. Pisces hesitated, rocking on his heels. He hadn’t thought what would happen to them after they got to safety. That was what mattered, but what could he tell Eloque?

“I would make sure you reached home, in Baleros, if you wanted it…but I could ensure you found a place in Izril.”

“No. I won’t go to Baleros. Home? No. I was sold from there. I can’t go back and see my family, my village…”

Eloque whispered. Pisces looked at her, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

“Did they…?”

He caught himself, but Eloque’s bright-eyed gaze fixed him like a beacon.

“Did they sell me? Did they sell me as a [Slave]? No, Pisces. They didn’t have to. I…volunteered.”

She began to laugh. Isn’t that funny? Then Eloque told him why.

——

The Lizardfolk were one of three main species on Baleros. Centaur, Dullahan, Lizardfolk. Humans, Selphids, and Gazers were a larger minority, as were the Beastkin tribes. Some Lizardfolk cities were grand, and the Naga, the catchall term for the Lizardfolk’s many forms from Lamia to Gorgon, ruled.

But not everywhere was rich. Some villages were poor, very poor, and those were the places Roshal haunted. But not as an evil force—at least not in image.

“[Slavers] cannot simply grab people on Baleros. No, they can, in secret, because so few challenge them. They don’t have to. They just come to a village like mine when everyone’s sick or hungry and…”

It didn’t take a giant disaster. Just a plague, a minor one compared to Yellow Rivers, making everyone ill. There wasn’t enough coin for a [Healer] or [Alchemist]. So Roshal had come, smiling and offering a deal.

“They made it sound as if it would be a noble sacrifice, and I had a chance of becoming free. That I’d be treated well. I was the most beautiful Lizardgirl in the village. Everyone thanked me, and I went. It was fine. Fine until it wasn’t. Do you understand?”

Pisces did. He felt sick, trying to imagine it. Something like Igheriz’s smile, right until you saw who he truly was.

“I could have said no and no one would have blamed me. But I went off with them. I think about it every day.”

She was crying again, but not many tears. Not in this dry land. Pisces looked at Eloque, curled up on the ground, tail wrapped around herself as she lay in the dimming sun.

Reach out and take her shoulder. Hug her. Tell her…

He couldn’t tell what was best. So he did nothing, and knew that was worst of all. But he still did it. Pisces hunched his shoulders—then burst out with it.

“I—What should I say in this moment? I—I should like to say something, Eloque. But I am not my teammates. They are better people than I.”

The Lizardwoman looked at him, and then burst out laughing. She lay on her back.

“You’re such a bad leader, Pisces.”

He turned red and hunched his shoulders, but Eloque sat up kindly. To comfort him.

“Not a bad person. You rescued me from Riqre. You and Azam helped us remain free. Tell me of something else, Pisces. Tell me…of your team. Tell me there’s good people, because I’ve met so few. I’ve spent my entire adult life a [Slave].”

So he did. Pisces rode with Eloque by night, and told her about Yvlon, Ksmvr, and Ceria, and how they’d met.

He never talked about himself. He was not used to it. Pisces had never told anyone about how he first fled his father and homeland. He didn’t even tell his team his last name.

But he told the others everything, because they had seen everything that made him vulnerable already. He told them about home, but that was not what they needed. At last, Pisces realized what it was, and it was so simple.

“Where is safety, Pisces?”

Qshom was tiredly looking ahead. The [Necromancer]’s head rose. He stared up at the bright sky, and murmured.

“Home.”

“You mean…where do you mean?”

He looked at them. Pisces rode ahead, and decided to tell them—properly.

“It is a fair question, Qshom. Believe me, I do have somewhere in mind. There are many places I’ve been. Not Baleros, it is true, but now three continents out of the five.”

Heads rose. Pisces looked at them, and then at the patch of sky where had once flown the carpet. He shook his head.

“Where would we be free of Roshal? Terandria? I was born there, and I tell you there is little love of [Slavers] there. But I would not vouch for Terandria.”

He grimaced.

“Terandria bears little love for my class, or those who cannot obey in their way. I have no allies there except…a few old friends. [Necromancers] in hiding, perhaps, if they did not also flee. There is nothing safe there I could count on. Even a single undead is a hanging offence in many kingdoms.”

Every head turned to Ivery, trudging along with his glass pebble. That was it. They didn’t find the undead comforting, but in Terandria, there would have been screams of horror just seeing one. Chandrar tolerated undead a bit more—or had less immediate preconceptions. Pisces went on.

“Nor Wistram. Once, I was a [Mage] of Wistram, but they exiled me for being a [Necromancer]…”

He hesitated. Eloque saw his head lower, and his hands squeeze tight on the reins of the horse. Pisces’ head lifted, and a sigh escaped his lips.

“…No. That is a lie I tell myself. I was exiled for more than my class. I was exiled, rightly, for making a grave mistake. For endangering the lives of other [Mages] and ending in the deaths of many. A terrible accident that killed a good man, and friend of mine. A Centaur named Calvaron.”

He paused a second, and they waited. Like a [Storyteller], and he was better at this than any speech, because it was something he knew, and was building to, Pisces went on.

“Where next, then? Not Chandrar. Izril. Izril is where my home is. Izril is…”

Pisces searched for words, then realized he didn’t have to. Slowly, his hands rose, and a bright light filled the Glass Straits. Eloque saw, mirrored dully in the glass, figures rise. Bright walls. Proud people with scales, like her, but with neck spines, stronger builds. Furry, tall people, who grinned, so like Beastkin…

Rophir’s head peeked out from over Bearig’s back. The [Cook] looked up, murmuring. Pisces’ voice was stronger now.

“In the continent of Izril, past the Walled Cities on high, filled with millions of Drakes each, north of the tribes of countless Gnolls of the Great Plains, and south of the Human lands, ruled by the Five Families, each to their strength, are the High Passes. They stretch across the center of Izril, save for two places where one can enter. The wild High Passes’ eastern route, almost certain death to all but Couriers and Named Ranks, and the western route through a valley that floods every spring.”

The land changed, and they saw the hills and valleys, the lush grass so unlike many parts of Chandrar. Pisces conjured a giant rock that slowly lifted up, and two eye-stalks poked out from under them. Qshom recoiled in horror, somewhat ironically, to Eloque’s mind.

“Giant crabs with shells like rocks roam the area. Shield Spiders, which make nests in the grass and wait for prey to fall in. Even trees that explode when you come too near. It is not safe, you see? But a city sits in the middle of this valley. Liscor. A small city by some accounts, but with…decent people.”

Faces flickered past them. A running little white Gnoll. A [Shopkeeper]. A Drake rolling her eyes. Pisces’ gaze lingered on each one. Then the images changed.

Everyone watched. Even the group that had snuck up on the caravan. Spellbound.

“On a hill outside the city of Liscor, there is an inn. It has a sign out front. If you choose to read it—which not many do—it has a strange inscription. ‘No killing Goblins’. And should you venture inside, you might meet an [Innkeeper]. If you do…your days will never be entirely boring. Not always dangerous or exciting—often, but not always. But you will be safe. Safe, for a given value of the word. Even so. I call it home. I have known nowhere else as fine.”

“What is the inn called?”

It was an obvious question. Pisces smiled.

“The Wandering Inn. It is a strange place. How can I explain it. It was destroyed, rebuilt…three times? There is a tower with an Antinium keeping watch named Bird, who eats birds. If you sit down, you can order a drink of…Blue Fruit Juice. Or a cookie. Or a bowl of flies. But be warned, if you sit too long over your food, a little Gnoll child might try to steal it. And there is a garden and…”

His smile faded. For a second, Eloque saw a frozen bier and a figure—but then it was gone, and Pisces was talking about a drink named a Minotaur’s Punch. Plays.

He did not tell them the truth, because the truth was that the inn was not complete as it was. He told them how it should be, and the vision of the inn, his home, filled their heads.

“So that’s where we’re going?”

Bearig looked at the idea. It seemed so far away. But so welcoming. It was good enough to aim at. Pisces nodded.

“However far it may be, that is where I will one day go. You are free to join me.”

He looked at that fragile image of the inn. And wondered if it would be that way when he returned, or if he would have to find a way to bring it back. Someone sighed.

“Not a bad dream, Pisces. Not a bad dream for a [Necromancer]. I thought you were all cynical lots, but I’ve only ever known [Bandits]. Better than any home I’ve known.”

He spun. And there they were, appearing out of the darkness.

Merr the Storm. And…nearly a hundred plus [Bandits].

Pisces’ hand stole to his sword. Eloque gasped.

“Merr!”

The [Bandit Lady] grinned. Pisces stared at the small army behind her. How had she…?

“Found a local bandit group. We hit two spots, got our feet under us. Told you all I needed was a bucket. Hey! Break out the drink!”

Merr waved a hand. There was a shout, and the group, filled with the same people who’d left with Merr, dipped into a keg recently looted.

“But how…?”

“[Raiding Opportunities]. You knew I could tell where good stuff was, couldn’t you?”

Merr winked. She saw Pisces still eying her.

“Don’t be like that, Pisces. We just came by to see if anyone else wanted to join up. Besides—we’re flush with food and loot, so I’m feeling generous. Actually…”

She glanced at Eloque and Pisces and then coughed.

“…I thought we could trade.”

“Trade?”

Pisces’ eyes narrowed suspiciously. What did he have to trade? Merr shrugged.

“Well, sure. You’re a [Necromancer], aren’t you? We’ve got some broken bones that need setting. Didn’t grab any bodies, but maybe we could get you to animate a Ghoul or something? We could throw it at the enemy. You’ve got gold? We’ll trade you, even up.”

Pisces touched his coin pouch. He…did have gold, come to think of it. Merr winked at Bearig, and Rophir, staring at her from behind the [Cook]’s head.

“I’d make a good [Merchant], wouldn’t I? Generous prices and I get free goods!”

Pisces was still silent. He suspected a trap, but even if he tried now…what could he do? Ivery was still, waiting for orders, but one Skeleton Lord and Pisces versus a hundred [Bandits]?

The new ones looked like an experienced group. Well…‘experienced’ as in, lower quality than even the group Ksmvr had taken out. They were following Merr with respect. The [Bandit Lady] was like royalty compared to Level 8 [Bandits]. No doubt she had strode into their camp and asserted dominance.

That was how Ksmvr would put it. Even so, a hundred [Bandits]? With Eloque and the others to protect?

Three dozen Goblins once killed Klbkch the Slayer. It was a story that had made Pisces doubt his ears when he’d heard it. But all it took was one knife-thrust…

Merr knew he was watching her. Could she sense the [Deathbolt] spell in his fingers? Her smile widened.

“Hey, I’m coming by because I knew you were low on food, Pisces. Let’s not do anything we’d regret, eh?”

Her left hand was on her belt. The two looked at each other, Gold-rank adventurer and [Bandit Lady]. Eloque looked from one to the other. The Lizardwoman called out.

“Pisces. Merr is here to help. Isn’t she? She was a [Slave]. Just like us.”

Merr glanced her way. Pisces hesitated.

“Yeah. This one helped me when that bastard was after me. What…do you think I’d do? Even [Bandits] have a sense of honor. Not that I’d expect you to believe me.”

Her sable eyes peered at Pisces. He looked at her and he could hear Riqre laughing. How can you trust her? She had too much to gain.

Riqre, the Naga, Az’kerash, Merr…they all had their own interests. Pisces hunched his shoulders. It was all too easy to imagine when the dagger would come. The instant his back was turned…

He couldn’t trust her. Pisces shifted, adjusting his weight in the horse’s saddle. He really couldn’t trust her.

Because—well, why? Because he was worth nearly a million gold? Because she was a [Bandit]? Yes. She was a [Bandit Lady].

She was also a [Slave]. Yet you couldn’t trust [Bandits]. They were fundamentally untrustworthy.

“Just like [Necromancers].”

The [Necromancer] turned his head. Merr blinked. Her hand nearly drew the concealed throwing knife. Both turned left.

Eloque didn’t know who that was. Who stood there, in the moonlight? Who stomped her feet, threw up her hands, and rolled her eyes? Her eyes were hazel, her skin was fairer, and her hair was a light brown. Her voice was light and exasperated, but it definitely sounded like she was laughing. With you, not at you.

“[Necromancers]. Fundamentally untrustworthy. [Bandits] bad. Goblins bad too. Hey, everyone’s bad! Have you heard of stinking Humans? Sheesh.”

She rolled her eyes. Erin Solstice, the illusion of her, threw up her hands. She flickered…reappeared, resting her head on her hands.

“What the f…?”

Merr the Storm had no idea what was happening. Her eyes flicked to Pisces, but he was absorbed in his spell. He was doing it, Eloque realized. The young woman spoke to him. Like…a conscience.

A reminder.

“Why should you make the effort? Why should you try, Mister Gold-rank? Because, and I keep telling you this: you’re a better person than they are.”

“I am.”

The [Necromancer] muttered. Eloque saw the [Innkeeper] smile. She rose—and then vanished. Pisces lowered his hand and turned back to Merr.

Merr the Storm. Merr the [Bandit Lady]. Merr the Fundamentally Untrustworthy? One of those things was untrue. The [Necromancer] took a deep breath. Then two.

“It does seem like you have enjoyed greater success than we have, Merr.”

He gestured at the group behind her and the beer they were passing out in mugs. Merr leaned on the saddlehorn of her own mount.

“I’m good at what I do. Raiding. Stealing. I know it doesn’t jive with a Gold-rank’s principles.”

“Really. You thought that?”

Pisces raised his eyebrows. Merr gave him a cautious shrug.

“Gold-ranks hunt [Bandits].”

“True. But I have been…a thief. Many times, in fact. That was not my…my objection.”

“Huh. I didn’t know that.”

And she really hadn’t. How was she supposed to know that? She looked at Pisces, who, in her opinion, had been an upstanding Gold-rank…[Necromancer].

Somewhere, Pisces was sure, if his team could have heard that, they would be laughing until they puked. All except for Ksmvr, who would laugh awkwardly and ask for clarification as to why that was funny later.

Maybe…Pisces felt like he was standing on quicksand. It was too hard. He couldn’t do it.

Eloque, though? She looked from Pisces to Merr. Then she sighed, exasperatedly.

“Why are you two acting like we’re on different sides? Pisces! Did you really think Merr was going to claim the money by taking you as a [Slave]?”

“No! I…”

Pisces’ guilty reply made Merr narrow her eyes. But the Lizardwoman was already looking at Merr.

“And you thought Pisces would run you off for being a [Bandit]?”

“…Well, he has principles.”

Merr looked defensive. Somewhere, in a hypothetical bar, Yvlon sprayed her drink out her mouth, nose, and possibly ears.

Pisces shook his head. He looked at Merr.

“I am entirely unscrupulous, Merr. I…”

He glanced at his own group. At her. Eloque saw the [Necromancer] stare upwards. Then at last, he came out with it.

“Merr.”

“Yes?”

The young man looked her in the eyes. He sniffed, for the first time anyone in the group had ever known him, a huge, haughty sniff.

“Would you…care to join our forces in unity? We could use your considerable acumen. And I am not the most proficient leader. I am a superlative—specialist. What I’m trying to say is…”

He worked his mouth.

“Give me a hand, Merr. Please.”

The [Bandit Lady] sat there on her horse. Eying him. Now, why would she help Pisces? Why would she, the woman who kept asking if she was needed, who just happened to come back this way with food and loot…

In her way, she was as bad as Pisces. Eloque rubbed at her head. Actual children. Lizardfolk did not have this kind of problem. It was clearly a Human thing. A Stitch-Folk thing.

“…A hand? All you had to do was ask. Hey! Merr’s Bandits! We’re sticking with this lot! Play nice!”

The [Bandit Lady] turned her head and shouted. Pisces looked at her. He relaxed, slowly.

You can’t trust her! You can’t…

Riqre screamed in his head. Pisces imagined someone charging the Emir.

“Who are you?‘

“Consequences! [Minotaur Punch] or something!”

The imaginary Riqre received an imaginary [Minotaur Punch]. Which was all imaginary. But maybe so was his paranoia.

Merr reached out. She offered Pisces a hand, and he reached out and clasped it.

“Just so we’re clear—I call the shots when it comes to managing things. You can be the Gold-rank, but I’m the one who tells people where to crap. That work?”

She eyed him. The [Necromancer] thought about it.

“I suppose I can acquiesce. Just so long as you appreciate my unique capabilities.”

He tried, he really tried, but he had to sniff and do that. If he’d tried to be genuine, he might have actually vomited. But Merr just grinned and laughed. Pisces sniffed again, and it was…good. Not a nasal problem, just an old tic.

“That sniffing thing you do.”

Eloque had noticed. She stared at Pisces. He gave her a supercilious look. Expectantly. He waited for her to tell him how annoying it was, or to call him to task on his arrogance. Or…

The Lizardwoman clapped her hands together, delighted.

“Qshom! Bearig! Did you hear that? The sound Pisces makes? With his nose? I love noses. They’re so weird! That is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen!”

The Lizardwoman, who did not actually have a nose, peered at Pisces.

“Do it again, please? Why are you doing that?”

The [Necromancer] turned beet red. Merr threw her head back to laugh. And all was well. Today…

All was well.

8.39

The Last Tide – An Innverse Graphic Novel from pirateaba

Kickstarter Note: 36 Celsius or 96.8 Fahrenheit depending on which you use. Well, this is no good.

I keep checking it, but I can’t call it a fever either way. Yet here I am. I haven’t slept. I lay down, but I don’t think I ‘slept’ after two hours. And I already stayed up late.

It’s strange. I feel feverish. I can’t have even the lightest sheet on me. My mind is racing even though it’s tired and I should be asleep to write the end of this chapter.

I cannot. The Kickstarter for The Last Tide launches today, and if it does well, it means another comic is likely to come out, success, work justified for over a year—and that was the drawing, not the pre-production and other parts!—and people get paid, including me.

If it fails? It won’t be the worst thing in the world, but I’ve never felt as stressed as I have now. Even other chapters let me sleep, but this is a big project beyond me. I keep thinking I’ll be able to lie down.

I can’t. So I’m writing the second half of the chapter with zero sleep, and I might crash, but the Kickstarter is going live sometime today. If you see something that looks interesting, please consider backing it! It is a comic based on a story I wrote and both parts, which is the full comic, are finally out. The pandemic delayed everything, but you can now pre-order physical copies and other bonuses like figurines and artwork.

I hope it’s a success. Please consider spreading the word too! It would really help for anyone interested to see this and word-of-mouth helps a lot.

Either way. I have to write so I can release a chapter. And then perhaps I’ll sleep. See you in the Author’s Note, if it exists.

—pirateaba

While news trickled in of the wars on other continents, of the wounded King of Destruction, of friends and adventurers freed, ancient kingdoms of death, and missing [Doctors], all grand events that mattered, her daughter was still missing.

Her beloved daughter, whom she had vowed to protect. Who she should have brought with her. And if Mrsha died, was dead?

There was no word, but all of Izril had seen the broadcast. There was no concrete evidence of her, alive or dead.

So the [Princess] danced. She danced, from ball to party, a whirling spectacle. A Human, in the City of Growth, Oteslia under siege. Wildly, passionately, laughing, kissing an ivy-scaled Drake on the cheek. Flirting outrageously with his friends, then flitting around the room, sometimes talking with other fixtures of the new high society, the Human [Lady] from the north, or the Wall Lord of Salazsar.

Or Wall Lady. Or…

Saliss of Lights watched Lyonette as she let Cirediel whisper in her ear. She laughed, bit her lip, as if deciding, and nodded after a judicious interval spent talking with someone else. The young Drake didn’t try to conceal raising his fist in victory and going to slap tails with his friends.

When she returned to the more permanent, formal residence they had been granted by the First Gardener of Oteslia for their stay while the Walled City was under siege, Saliss and Xif traded looks. The Gnoll [Alchemist] played it off.

“I’ll get back to looking at those Faerie Flowers. Lovely party. What in the name of exploding vials did we eat?”

“Canapes?”

“Disgusting. Is Lyonette…?”

She had not come with them. She had left with Cire and the younger Drakes and Gnolls, early for a more informal party of their own. Saliss had seen Ratici and Wilovan slip after them. And two more groups. Oteslia? Ilvriss? Magnolia? He was not as concerned about another assassination attempt so soon. Rather…he didn’t go to the alchemy station he and Xif had set up.

A clouded mind was no good when working with dangerous ingredients. Saliss sighed, and, grumbling, went to unpack the last shipment from Pallass his apprentice had sent to him. And no more would be coming because she had gone running off…the one time he could have actually used someone making potions!

The Drake was reading the newspaper from Pallass. War. War. War. Ooh. Eir Gel prices were up. Why? Someone with a speculation Skill, no doubt.

The war between Ailendamus and the Dawn Concordat? He bookmarked that page for Lyonette; it was just trivial news, like the [Princesses] of Calanfer going on tour in the safe regions of Kaliv to hearten the soldiers.

How much heart they imparted was dubious, but Lyonette would doubtless care. Saliss was really just passing the time. He looked up, as, at around 10:32 if the moonwater clock was right, Lyonette du Marquin stumbled in with a brief burst of noise and laughter. Saliss spotted figures waving at her, a plaintive call. She blew a kiss backwards.

“That was for Paill, not you, Cire!”

Then she closed the door. Lyonette’s eyes were bright and she smelled like Dreamleaf, Oteslia’s root-ale, and…Saliss sniffed. Sweat?

Well, he wasn’t great at deciphering things by smell after too many strongly-scented ingredients. Saliss saw a Drake tip his cap and a Gnoll wearily adjust his top hat and do the same. Saliss nodded at them, jerked a thumb.

“Want a drink? Xif and I rolled a keg of something into the larder.”

“You’re a gentleman, Saliss, sir.”

“No I’m not.”

The Drake mildly nodded to Wilovan as the Gnoll went to refresh himself. He must have been watching Lyonette all day, and the Gentlemen Callers didn’t drink on the job. Saliss idly wondered how much their service would cost if they were charging Lyonette anything. But his eyes were really on Lyonette.

She stood in the hallway, for a moment. Her cheeks were flushed, and she had been smiling. Genuinely smiling. Then she strode towards her guest room. Saliss, of course, followed after.

Dearest Pawn,

I am writing to tell you I’ve been unfaithful. I shall be direct, and tell you that I cannot remain in a relationship with you, honestly. I have seen other people for reasons I cannot explain. Simply put, I am sorry. Forget about me, please.

There was no artistry to the letter. None of the usual tact and delicacy she made Mrsha write with. Lyonette’s quill trembled as she wrote, dashing the letters down onto the paper. Everything in the room was a gift of Oteslia’s First Gardener, who had many sympathies for Lyonette’s plight.

How did her sisters write letters like this? Never so brazenly. They’d use careful expressions, even if they had been caught. Lyonette knew Pawn wouldn’t understand them. And she…

“Huh. So you did sleep with him? Seems early. He just talked you into going out into the city for the first time.”

Saliss’ voice made Lyonette jump. He was peering over her shoulder, and as silent as Wilovan or Ratici. Lyonette looked at the letter, then began to fold it up into an envelope. She addressed it, poured wax over the seal, and only then turned to glare at Saliss.

He held out a claw. The yellow-scaled [Alchemist] and Named Adventurer had a smile on his face, but Saliss’ smiles were not all the same. His eyes were speculative, watching her.

“Want me to bring it to the Runner’s Guild? Or is it the Mage’s Guild for confidential [Message] spells? You know they read them, don’t you?”

“I am well aware. I will send it by City Runner myself.”

Lyonette didn’t make as if to rise. She put the letter on the corner of her desk, and looked at it. Saliss peered at her.

“So you’re going to sleep with that kid. Cirediel or whatever the First Gardener’s son is named?”

The [Worldly Princess] did not want to speak to Saliss right now. Yet, among her friends in Oteslia, he was the only one to talk to. Xif, Ratici, Wilovan, or Saliss were her immediate allies. Mivifa…but she was only an acquaintance.

And for some reason, Lyonette didn’t see the judgement she expected in Saliss’ gaze. The Named Adventurer looked a bit too knowing. So she replied, brusquely.

“Of course I will. If I have to. I’m leading him on.”

“If you had a tail, he’d be twined all around it. So you’ll do…what? Tell the First Gardener you’ve married her son, send an army to find Mrsha?”

Lyonette glowered at Saliss.

“Cirediel has the First Gardener’s authority. Not just him. I’ll do whatever it takes. The letter is…I’ll send it if I must.”

“So the [Princess] sells herself for her daughter.”

“It’s what we’re good at. Or have you never met a [Princess], Saliss? We are tools of the crown. I would have gone to another kingdom to forge an alliance. This—at least I care about this.”

The Drake nodded. He was watching Lyonette. Gone was her carefree smile. As she sat there, Lyonette du Marquin was cold.

Calculating. She did not weep, or scream, or try to break out of the city like a fool. Even when she had received word her daughter was gone…she had begun outrageously flirting with Cirediel that day.

Calm. Her blue eyes held a degree of ruthlessness that even [Soldiers] on the battlefield lacked, to Saliss’ mind. She had weighed her options, the things available to her. What would she do to ensure her daughter might be found and saved? Whatever it took.

Saliss hated it. Lyonette stood to head downstairs. She tripped over an outstretched foot. She didn’t actually fall, but caught herself and whirled, glaring.

“Saliss! This is not the time!”

“There’s always time to annoy people.”

The nudist Drake turned. His own eyes had violet pupils. Lyonnete expected a mocking grin.

He wasn’t smiling. And his eyes, locked on hers, were too…

The [Worldly Princess] hesitated. Saliss of Lights shook his head.

“I like annoying people. Annoying people is simple, egalitarian. It treats everyone with the assumption that they all deserve to be annoyed. I don’t like treating other people with respect because they’re a [General], or because they’re a Wall Lady. Or a [Princess].”

He closed one eye, and regarded Lyonette.

“I don’t like it when they treat themselves differently, either.”

“Saliss. Don’t talk me out of this. This is all I can do. I am a [Princess]. We have always been the currency of kingdoms!”

Lyonette snapped. The Drake exhaled. Then he looked at Lyonette, seriously. The Drake reached out…and poked Lyonette in the chest.

“You are depressing. Is that how you Humans think, in Terandria? De. Pres. Sing.”

He poked her. She swatted at his claw, but his hand was too fast. Saliss went on, frowning mightily.

“Even for the Walled Cities you’re…no, wait. Nah. You fit in. With the most cynical, cold-hearted Drakes. Everyone’s just a thing to be used. And so are you? Wrong. Stupid. Don’t do that, Lyonette. It will cost more than you think. Believe me.”

He shook his head. Lyonette hesitated.

“And how would you know?”

She snapped, unguarded, angry, because his words struck home too much. What Lyonette was not prepared for was the look she got.

“Because I know.”

It was rather like being doused by cold water. Lyonette looked at Saliss and suddenly had many questions. Many questions, but the Drake’s…look…prohibited any of them. At last, Lyonette turned. She clenched her hands so hard her fingernails dug into her skin.

“And what am I supposed to do? Mrsha is out there. And I can’t…”

Her shoulders shook. Saliss, mouth closed in memory, was lost for a moment. Then he saw the young woman’s shoulder shake. She sat down, not even bothering to find a bed or chair. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

The Named Adventurer looked down at her.

Oh, of course. Lyonette sat, overcome by grief. Zeres’ army had Oteslia surrounded. And it might have been possible for her to leave…if she hadn’t been marked by two Admirals of Zeres and the Sharkcaptain.

“There, there.”

Saliss awkwardly patted her shoulder. He sighed and produced the letter he’d looted from her desk. Damn Ancestors.

Saliss tore it up. She could always re-write it, but maybe she wouldn’t send it at all if she thought about it again.

It was so…complicated. Depressing girls that reminded Saliss of…well.

Herself.

If only it were an easy solution like ‘kill everything’. The [Alchemist] was good at that. However. He sat, patting Lyonette’s shoulder. Well. It was still interesting.

They were a bit similar after all. It made Saliss want to help this young idiot. But how?

——

Oteslia was under siege. Zeres had come with an army, and Liscor’s famed mercenaries were also contributing to a blockade over the issue of the Human [Lady].

And other issues. Frankly, they were also there due to the Meeting of Tribes, because Zeres and Oteslia had been at war for quite some time…it was a siege as usual.

Such normality meant that there was still traffic in and out of Oteslia. City Runners and a small number of vehicles were stopped by Zeres’ [Soldiers] and let go.

Because, of course, City Runners were an independent body. Same with the Wyverns or Pegasi that might travel through the air. It was a curious standard; of course Oteslia’s [Pegasus Riders] were the enemy. But Oteslia’s Pegasi that fulfilled the Walled City’s transport or other vital services superseded the mere state of war and were allowed to fly.

It said a lot that Oteslians were so used to being besieged in the Walled City of Growth that some had penpals in said army camped outside their walls. In the end, the move was as symbolic as it was a war of financial pressure; it cost money to keep Zeres’ army in the field, but Oteslia in turn was deprived of trade.

Magnolia Reinhart’s presence now…that had escalated the situation. As had a number of other factors, like Salazsar sending no less than five representatives, including Wall Lord Ilvriss, Wall Lady Navine, and Helessia Gemscale. It worried concerned minds that there might be an actual possibility of some kind of…peace?

Unacceptable. Of course, that was one angle. Sheer disgust at Magnolia Reinhart was a simple motive. There were far more that were unexpected and unforeseen.

Such as Manus’ growing agitation. Not for any reason Zeres could have known, and the City of War did not want to show how upset they were. However, a certain Wall Lady Rafaema’s presence in what could hypothetically be a warzone?

Absolutely not. If Lyonette’s cold rationalization and mentality was as a mother to a child in danger, so was…all of Manus…to Rafaema. They were considering all moves without revealing why they wanted this war ended, but an unconditional kill order had been sent to Hunt Commander Makhir and every agent in the city regarding protecting Rafaema.

Honestly, the Dragon hated it. Did they think she was an idiot? She had a copy of the very same orders that were making the newly-freed Ferris and Makhir practically follow her into the toilet. What really insulted her was their insistence they had no special orders to obliterate anyone who so much as sneezed in her direction.

Rafaema was willing to own she was not a grown, adult Dragon, and wouldn’t be for another hundred years. 200 was the age of maturity among Dragons—but it didn’t mean they were children all that time!

Half-Elves grew at a normal rate to Humans until their teens. Same with Dragons. When Rafaema had been 14 years old, she hadn’t been a drooling idiot; she’d been a girl, but still functional!

She’d learned how to crack Manus’ internal code ciphers no matter how much they changed when she was twenty three. She had a century of being coddled and she was done.

“Ferris. What are the odds Zeres actually attacks Oteslia?”

“Somewhere below 1%, Wall Lady Rafaema.”

“Right. It would be disastrous. Even if they tried, I’m sure Manus would intercede. Or even hire Liscor’s army to halt Zeres. This is a political siege. They’re mad about Magnolia Reinhart and the army might be here because of all the cities getting burned along the Great Plains.”

Ferris hesitated as Makhir scanned the street they were walking down. The [Hunt Commander] had a double bodyguard of [Soldiers] from Manus, all with bows, casually strolling along. Rafaema saw him glance at Makhir and the Gnoll coughed.

“…In regards to that, Rafaema, we can’t discuss intelligence or possible moves…”

The Dragon rolled her eyes. It was obvious to her. Zeres loved to throw its weight around depending on which Serpentine Matriarch was in charge and this one was spicy.

Hah! Name me one that wasn’t. Rafaema concluded her argument.

“Either way, an actual attack is beyond unlikely. So, Ferris, Hunt Commander. Kindly stop breathing down my tail or I will toss you over the walls.”

Ferris and Makhir glanced at each other, and the Gnolls stopped shadowing Rafaema so closely she could feel their fur brushing her scales.

“Apologies, Rafaema. But we are on duty and if anything should happen to you while it was just us on duty…”

Makhir grimaced. Rafaema frowned at him.

“Why would that matter?”

“We’re the only officers in the city. I’m sure Manus would like at least one more, although we’re quite aware you can handle yourself, as you proved with that [Assassin]!”

Makhir’s words were complimentary, but Rafaema espied something…she glanced at the two and finally got what she had missed.

Both Gnolls looked meaningfully at each other. Rafaema’s brows snapped together.

“You’re both officers of Manus! Does the Dragonspeaker and High Command think you’ll throw me over for the Gnoll tribes or something?”

She turned, and the Drake [Soldiers] walking with them studiously looked everywhere but at Makhir, Rafaema, or Ferris. The Dragon stomped forwards.

“Unbelievable. This is why Manus is on the decline. You people don’t see it. You live like—as long as toads! And you wonder why we can’t recruit Steelfur’s warriors to serve in our armies? Because every two decades, some [Captain] is called out for calling Gnolls ‘dogs’ or Manus supports a Drake city over a Gnoll tribe! You forget. They don’t. Neither do I!”

“Rafaema, your voice…”

Makhir murmured, but he looked gratified. Rafaema just snorted and the air ionized around her as the Lightning Dragon walked on. The others, her bodyguards of Manus? The Drakes looked at their Ancestor among them, who already spoke like that. Lead us into the future.

It was heavy. Rafaema could see herself making a difference, though. That was why Makhir and Spearmaster Lulv were two of her closest allies; the Gnolls could see how she would change things.

Drakes. Her people could be courageous, smart, dedicated and hardworking. Or stubborn, arrogant, closeted, and prejudiced. It was not that they were worse than Humans or Gnolls; it was just that she knew them too well. They thought she, their Ancestor, would take them into another era of glory.

Rafaema, the Dragon, considered that the best way would be to take the strengths of other races as well as her relatives, the Drakes. They thought of themselves as closest to her. She thought of Drakes and Gnolls as almost equally distant.

In a way, it was like how Humans were distantly related to rats as mammalian species, but were closer to primates like monkeys and apes. The only difference was that Rafaema, and perhaps Dragons in general, saw the remove as equal. Monkeys? Rats? Like Gnolls and Drakes, they were both distant relatives to Dragons, if at all.

She didn’t tell any of them that, of course. Rafaema was conscious of her authority. She was done with being a troublemaking wild child. And as if to mock her efforts, the burden on her wings and shoulders…

“Hey Raf! You done monking around? Let’s hang out! It’ll be an Archmage day—Lyonette’s hitting the streets with us!”

The female Dragon closed her eyes. Even Makhir and Ferris winced. A figure leapt down from where all of the bodyguards, Makhir, Ferris, and Rafaema had seen him lurking five minutes ago.

Cirediel, the Earth Dragon of Oteslia, was the brat to Rafaema’s reserve. It just went to show; it was about your mentality, not a mere difference in ages. He went to slap Rafaema’s shoulder, and saw Makhir glaring at him.

“Whoa. Raf, you have to stop hanging around with the Dulls. They’re armored plodders. Come on, you’re in my city! Let’s fly!”

Dulls? As in, dull, plodding? Which also suggested Dullahans? Rafaema crossed her arms and glowered at Cirediel.

“Cire, Oteslia is at war.”

“So? It’s just a siege. Come on, you never visit and you want to walk about?”

“It’s up to you, Wall Lady. We can catch up.”

And here came the double standards. Her overprotective escort, Makhir, Ferris, and the Manus soldiers, rather than threaten to break Cire’s legs, instead all gave her the go-ahead nod.

Because Cire had Oteslia’s bodyguard in the skies. Also, because the two Dragons getting along was priority #2, after Rafaema’s safety.

She wasn’t happy about that prospect either. Oh, did Rafaema think about it. Cire too. She caught his eyes on her wings. And then saw them slide sideways, lighting on her armor, her undershirt…

“Alright, Cire. Let’s fly.”

Rafaema’s retribution was swift. Also—horrifying to males in general, and anyone expecting Dragon offspring. Cirediel lay in a familiar pose to all males, legs crossed, whimpering. Makhir grabbed a healing potion.

She did fly, though. Rafaema leapt straight up, in a soaring jump that even other Oldblood Drakes would have been pressed to copy. Her rapid acceleration left her guards behind, and for a moment, Rafaema breathed in the morning air, cool and wonderful on her scales, the varied scents of Oteslia, pollen and sweet fruits.

She felt free.

…Right up until Cirediel flew after her, squawking. He never caught up immediately; she was faster, stronger, and far more skilled with a blade than he was. But he had that annoying endurance to chase her around the city. He never got tired.

“You are so not Archmage, Rafaema! You—you—booted bastard!”

Rafaema glanced down at her boots.

“Don’t you mean, ‘creler’, Cire?”

She slowed to let him catch up. The Earth Dragon sulked as they flew around the city, keeping well clear of the walls.

“No. Crelering is bad. You’re a boot. You know, the Watch?”

“Boots?”

“Armored boots who beat up innocent people. Didn’t you hear about how they were treating people? Like in Cellidel?”

“Isn’t that where Sellme lives? And that’s the Watch, Cire. They’re not nice. They enforce order.”

“Hah! You’re all mind-controlled by spells and what the brass says, Rafaema. Wake up! Manus is all boots and no smart people at all.”

The Lightning Dragon had to turn in the skies and stare at Cirediel, with such frank incredulity he checked himself.

“Cire. Your guardi—your mother is the First Gardener of Oteslia! You’re as connected to the High Command of a Walled City as anyone is!”

He blew out his cheeks.

“Well, yeah. But I don’t let her mindwash me!”

What did you even say to that? Rafaema just dove and Cire followed.

“Oh, come on, Raf!”

“Don’t call me that!”

She turned and Cire dove just in time to dodge the actual fork of lightning. He flew back, squawking.

“No lightning! No breath! Don’t make me fight you, Rafaema!”

“Yes, I’m so nervous of you fighting me.”

She sneered. Although it was true that Cirediel could spit acid…she sighed, folded her arms.

“Are those your minders?”

Cirediel turned his head and saw some Drakes with wings and two [Pegasus Fliers] following from a distance. He grimaced.

“Yep.”

“Let’s lose them.”

The two Dragons glanced at each other and dropped, so fast that the Oteslian [Guards] couldn’t keep up. They hit the ground hard, but they were Dragons and were running down the street. Rafaema saw Cire running with a huge grin on his face. She rolled her eyes.

But for all they fought, they were alike. Two people who knew what it was like to be minded all the time, watched.

And to be alone. So when they paused, in the lee of a building and glanced up, they saw Oteslia’s watchers circling.

“Lost us. Do they have magical seekers on you, Cire?”

“Nope. I told them I’d run off if they did. You?”

“I blasted a hole through a priceless painting or statue every time I found one on me.”

“Archmage.”

Rafaema sighed.

“Hunt Commander Makhir will find us, though, or Ferris. They have tracking Skills.”

“They do? That’s so…”

“Shut up. If I hear one more bit of street slang, I will kick you again. Let’s walk and talk before they find us.”

The two did. In a sense, this was a time for them to be children still. Rafaema was aware of the politics regarding the siege, and the beyond paranoid decisions regarding her safety, but no one had asked her input on how to shape events.

They let her into the war council meetings, but she was still a child. At least, when she was with Cire, they were equals. Even if he was annoying. And they did talk.

“They let you into the war council meetings? Really?”

Rafaema gave him a steady look.

“I keep telling you, you could insist.”

“Yeah, but…I mean, they’d probably let me in, but I’d have to sit there for hours and they’d want me to keep going…”

“So don’t. Dead gods, Cire. Do you just want to be let into all the important meetings but never actually go?”

He gave her two thumbs up and a grin.

“Yep! Unless something totally Arch—awesome happens, though.”

“Unbelievable.”

Rafaema had a real reason beyond evading her captors to talk to Cire, though. She slowed, dragging him under a waterway that allowed Oteslia’s waters to feed many gardens. They talked, amid what looked like a lot of graffiti. Cire flapped his wings happily.

“Oh, cool! You know our hideouts? I did this piece. Do you like—”

“Shut up.”

She whispered. He went still as Rafaema lowered her voice and twisted a ring on her finger. Magic was hard for her, but she was learning it too. She whispered.

“Have you actually gotten that Human to talk to you? The [Princess]? Lyonette?”

Cire went still, and an unusual look of seriousness crossed his face. He rubbed at his neck spines.

“Who? Her? Yeah, we’ve been hanging…”

“I’ve seen that. She’s all over you this week.”

“Yeah, well, I just had to turn my natural charm up and…”

Rafaema raised a fist and Cire shielded his face.

“What? She likes me!”

It certainly seemed that way, Rafaema allowed. She sighed.

“But have you gotten her alone?”

“I’m hoping to get more than—don’t hit me, don’t hit me! No, I haven’t. She’s sorta interested in the group. Me, obviously, but everyone.”

“Well, you need to get her alone. Not to sleep with her, you twit! To ask her about what we both picked up on! The other Dragon!”

Cire bit his lip.

“Are you sure it’s real, Rafaema? It’s been getting fainter each week…”

“It’s still there.”

It wasn’t pheromones, or if it was, it wasn’t anything Ferris or Makhir could smell. It was more like a…sense. The same sense Rafaema and Cire had for each other. When they had first met, they’d known, even under illusion spells.

We are Dragons. We are kin.

It was faint, though, and growing fainter. Rafaema’s only explanation was that Lyonette had not only run into a Dragon some time ago, but actually been close to one. Then…her heart fluttered at the thought.

We’re not the last ones.

“Forget flirting. Just find a way to get her alone and ask. That is—do it covertly! Don’t just come out with it. She’s the 6th Princess of Calanfer. Be discreet. We could put both our cities in danger if she’s a spy or reporting back.”

“So I don’t tell her I’m a Dragon?”

Rafaema’s mouth worked. Cire looked at her face.

“…I don’t. I knew that! Okay, okay. I’ll…try to get her alone.”

“Do it today! I’m tired of waiting!”

The Earth Dragon looked hurt.

“It’s hard to get a girl alone without, y’know, Raf. I have to be suave. I’ll do it! But she is into me, don’t you think? She keeps flirting with that old bag of scales.”

“…You mean, Wall Lord Ilvriss, Wall Lord of Salazsar and one of the richest Drakes?”

Cire huffed.

“He’s old. I’m way cooler. I’m a Dragon. You think she’s into me, right? She was flirting with one of my buddies…”

Rafaema sat under the waterway and stared at a dripping block. Unbelievable. She was finding the first Dragon besides Cire ever, perhaps one of the last ones in existence, and she had to rely on his tact and acumen. She closed her eyes.

“This is impossible. Alright.”

Her gaze opened. Maybe she could do something. Now she thought of it…Makhir and Ferris would probably be happy if she ‘hung out’ with Cire. Rafaema had declined to do so because her image as a responsible Wall Lady of Manus would be ruined among Oteslia for a decade or more if she consorted with those idiots. However…she glanced down at one of the rings on her claws.

She did have a trick to pull.

——

On their long journey, the lowly grasshopper student observed the true levels of sagacity of a master of evasion, trickery, and deception.

Wanderer and Mrsha had been on the move for over a week now, and moving fast. Mrsha, who had been reluctant about the entire half-kidnapping affair, still had mixed feelings. She had to admit two things, however:

Gnolls were hunting for her with ill intent. And…Wanderer was good at his job.

Not being nice to Mrsha, or patting her on the head, or tucking her into bed with a big glass of milk and providing cookies. But keeping Mrsha safe, evading what felt like every Gnoll on the continent, and moving fast?

Oh yes, he could do that. The Gnoll was geared beyond even the Gold-ranks that Mrsha knew. He had special boots, a special cloak, a special quarterstaff, and special Skills.

He could use [Grasshopper’s Run] to leap across terrain. He could blur across long distances like Pisces’ [Flash Step]; even disappear and reappear in limited circumstances. This was because Wanderer, or Wer, was high-level. Not just high-level.

A [Guardian]. Of what, and the specifics, he refused to tell Mrsha. He was thus [Wanderer] in class, and [Guardian]. Of Gnolls like her.

Even so, with all his considerable abilities, the pursuit had been getting more extreme. At first it had just been a few Drakes joking about every little Gnoll girl maybe being the ‘missing Gnoll’ on television. Then it had been Gnolls giving her the side-eye sometimes as they walked on the streets.

Mrsha had realized they were actually out for her when she saw a group of eight Gnolls with bows being arrested by the Watch. Wer had tossed her into a group of young Gnoll children going home from the Drake school and Mrsha had watched as the arguing Plains Gnolls had been arrested after a tense stand-off with the Drakes.

Those arrows were meant for her. The danger Mrsha felt ratcheted up after the second close call. Wanderer had been letting her splash around in a pond. Someone must have seen them, because he had come running, grabbed her, and they had run out of the little forest and seen nearly a hundred Gnolls on horseback surrounding and charging in, howling.

Why did they want her dead so much? Mrsha was a Plains Gnoll and she heard the stories. Doom came to those with white fur, and they were bad luck. Terrible things happened around them, like tornados and monster attacks.

She now knew that was partly true and the white fur meant they had powers. But this level of animosity?

It frightened her. Her own kind were after her, and Wanderer did not help.

“They think you’ll bring disaster on other tribes by living. Listen…listen. That damned Drake did us no favors.”

Drassi is nice! Be nice!

She punched his arm as he sat in the private dining room in the inn of the city of Marwsh, a cat-infested city with a sizeable Gnoll population. However, it was excellent cover; the Plains Gnolls were unlikely to suspect them of having gone here, and Wer’s Level 4 passport had gotten them into the city and even merited respect from the Drake [Innkeeper].

Mrsha saw Wanderer tiredly fumbling at his pouch as he chewed on a corned beef meal. It was good food, but he looked worn. He’d had to literally pick her up and run to evade Gnoll groups stopping anyone with a Gnoll her age. Sometimes for hours. Sometimes at night!

“She might be nice, but that idiot had no idea what she was doing.”

Wer snapped back. He put something on the table. Mrsha saw it was a gold coin and some silver; he’d paid for high-class rooms, posing as a travelling [Merchant] on holiday with his son. Mrsha was the son. She fooled the Drake [Innkeeper] mainly because he couldn’t tell the difference.

Mrsha had some travelling trousers on, and a smock that Gnolls sometimes wore. She didn’t like both, but Wanderer went on as he put more objects on the table.

“It’s got to be a big tribe that’s organizing this hunt. They do it, you see, because they’ve put so much on us. They can blame us for a lot of what goes wrong, but it means they have to back up their claims. So many pursuers…I’m running out of tricks and we’re not even halfway there.”

It had been nearly half a dozen close calls. Mrsha nodded, writing carefully on a note card. Wer grunted.

“Still think you’d have been safe at Liscor? Like I said, if they’re sending hunting groups into the city, you’d have had to hide in a safe room because if they even saw you, they’d take a shot. What’s this?”

He read the card.

If we can’t get to Salazsar, maybe we can go to Oteslia? Pwease? My mother’s there.

Mrsha had realized their route had taken them closer to Oteslia as much as Salazsar; Wer had taken them further south to confuse their pursuers. In response, he just growled.

“Oteslia? Right along the Great Plains? Why don’t I hang us both? Not that there isn’t a good point—but no. I’m one Gnoll and we need to get you a cover story. It’s getting too hard.”

The problem was it was the two of them, and one adult Gnoll and one little girl exactly matched the description Drassi had put out. Hence the close calls.

Only one thing had saved them. Even Wer’s many Skills and artifacts eventually would have failed. But for the luck.

A Watchwoman interviewing them spotting a [Thief]. Suspicious groups heading their way seeing a fat flock of ducks they just had to hunt. The latest example had been the most dramatic; Gnolls chasing after them suddenly fell into a sinkhole that engulfed them out of nowhere.

Luck. Wer was using his power. But…Mrsha peered anxiously as the Gnoll sat there. He looked…hollowed out.

Grey. His fur had lost its luster. Now, Wanderer produced something and placed it on the table.

“I’ve used up all my luck. Rather—I’ve run a deficit. I need to make it up before the backlash hits.”

Mrsha peered at him. Backlash? Deficit? Wanderer grinned at her.

“Told you there were consequences. I drew too heavily, and believe me, it’ll hit me right back. I think I can hold it off, but sometimes you can’t. So here. While we eat, let’s play a game. Have you ever played dice?”

He jiggled a cup and bone dice. Mrsha blinked. Of course she knew dice!

“Let’s play Rolling Gems. With actual money. You have the money I gave you? We’ll do a silver coin in the pot.”

It was a simple game. Whoever was higher ‘won’, and could take the current pot or demand the other player ante in again. It was a Drake game, all about greed.

There were a few derivative rules Mrsha didn’t remember that Wer educated her on. You rolled four dice; all four of one number meant you doubled your tally, so even all 2’s was great.

On the other hand, all 6’s on the six-sided dice was an instant-win and the opponent had to double the contents of the pot. All 1’s was an instant loss, but Mrsha could either keep the pot or make Wer double it, not both.

Simple rules. Mrsha was amused they were playing for real coins. Wer just shrugged.

“I’ll let you keep what you win. It wouldn’t be an actual game otherwise.”

Oho. Mrsha’s eyes gleamed. Mrsha the Gambler wasn’t about to turn down some spare change. She began to roll the dice eagerly as they ate and plotted their next course.

“We’ll take another carriage by evening. I need to rest…let me sleep after this. I’ll settle up with the [Innkeeper] so we can leave by noon. Then we’ll go by carriage. Maybe we need to hire someone to pretend we’re a family, but if they think you’re the stolen child…”

What if I vouch for me not being stolen?

Mrsha rolled a 3, a 1, a 5, and a 2. Wer rolled a 3, a 4, a 2, and a 4. Glowering, Mrsha let him take two silver coins. She slapped down another one. She wasn’t seeing much bad luck here!

They rolled again and Mrsha took the pot. Wer sighed.

“You mean, vouch that you’re not the mute little girl who only writes by offering them proof in writing?”

Mrsha glowered as Wer took the third pot, then the fourth. She wanted to send word to Lyonette she was alright, but Wer had told her that would lead the enemy right to them. And they were already close. She tried to think on how to convince him to go to Oteslia. Or…Lyonette had said she was going to the Meeting of Tribes, and to Liscor.

Was she there? Or…

Mrsha’s drooping face made Wer glance at her. He saw her roll the dice and put her little chin on the table.

This isn’t fun.

She handed him a card. Wer saw her glance at the door. The Drake [Server] had been plenty polite, the Drakes made the joke about ‘is this the missing girl? Whoops, not white fur!’ that almost half of them did; Mrsha’s fur was reddish brown.

But really, it was the hatred. It was the fear.

Why do they hate us?

The Gnoll had told her the answer, but Mrsha still asked. She had rolled 2, 2, 2, and 3, so she waited. Wanderer had no answer for her. Or at least, not one that didn’t include a lot of history. This was the way it was. He picked up the dice, and rolled…

All 1’s.

Mrsha perked up. She pointed at the four dice, clapped her paws, and did a little dance in her seat. She pointed at Wanderer. Ha ha! Bad luck!

The older Gnoll just sighed and asked what Mrsha wanted.

“Double the pot or take it?”

Mrsha the Greedy thought about it, and made him add two more silver to the pot. She smugly saw Wer pick up the dice. He shrugged, tossed them out…

And rolled four ones again.

Mrsha’s eyes went round. She stared at the dice, which had tumbled, but somehow bounced back to their original spots. She stared at Wer.

I guess that doesn’t count? No, but he was looking at her.

“Take the pot or double it?”

Mrsha hesitated. She hesitantly held up ‘double the pot’. After all, now he had to put in four silver to match the four in the pot. Even if she lost, she had odds at reversing all her losses thus far. She reached for the dice.

And rolled a 3, 2, 5, and 5. Mrsha blinked. Not a bad roll! She just had thought it would be all 6’s or something. Wer reached for the cup. He rattled the dice for a bit. And when he rolled…

Four 1’s again. Mrsha stopped. She stared down at the dice, up at Wer.

“Told you.”

Blank-faced, the Gnoll gestured at the eight silver coins.

“Double or take?”

Double? Mrsha stopped Wer as he reached for the cup this time. She took one die out, and held it.

Roll three. And throw them hard!

He did. The sixteen silver coins on the table reflected the dice as they bounced. Mrsha saw one bounce onto her plate, another off a cup. The last landed on the floor. She stared at the first die. The second. Then she went onto the floor and picked up the die.

Wer didn’t even stare at the dice. He looked at the one in her paw.

“Do you want to roll it? Go ahead. I’ll let it count.”

Mrsha hesitantly did. It rolled across the table two times. Stopped.

Four ones.

“If I were you, I’d double up. That means I’d owe…a gold coin and a half. Almost.”

Twenty silver to a gold piece. Mrsha bit her lip. She slowly nodded, and didn’t even bother rolling that turn; he’d lost by default. Wer let her roll the next one.

Three one’s and a two. Mrsha stared at it. She stared at his cup as it jangled and he tossed them out.

Four…

“Double or take?”

Wer stared at the pot. Then he put three gold coins in, taking the rest out. Mrsha didn’t argue he was off by a few silver. Mrsha the Gambler had stopped smiling. She just stared as he went to roll the dice.

No, wait! She took the dice, and put them in her paw. I’ll roll for you, okay?

“If you want. Remember. It’s your gold. I mean it. I will not take it back. We’re playing for real money.”

Wer had his money pouch on the table and Mrsha knew he had lots of gold. Even so….she hesitantly rolled a die out.

One. She stared at the single pip. Mrsha popped a die out, saw it clattering about—and slapped it. It shot across the table, bounced off Wer’s paw as he blocked it, rolled back…on the same face.

One.

Mrsha was getting nervous now. She looked up at Wanderer. His face. He looked tired. Exhausted. But more than that? A terrible calmness hung over him.

A deficit of luck.

“Keep playing. It helps, a bit. Please, Mrsha.”

Slowly, she rolled the last die. Mrsha looked at it once, and had had enough. She deliberately reached out, and slapped a die down.

Six! I rolled it, so there! Wer glanced at the die. Mrsha defiantly stared at him. She reached for the cup so she could roll, and then—

“Excuse me! Is the food alright? Can I get you—”

The Drake [Server] coming in to check on the private guests opened the door. She saw the little brown Gnoll’s paw jerk. She blinked as Wer lifted a paw.

“Everything’s fine.”

“Oh, alright then. If you need anything, just ring…”

The two were silent until the Drake went. Mrsha saw Wer calmly appraise her, as if checking to see if she had been spying on them or was reporting them. Mrsha had gone still.

He looked down. Mrsha had jumped when the [Server] entered the room. She’d knocked the die next to her paw over. Calmly, he looked at her. Then placed three more gold coins in the pot.

“Double or take?”

He rattled the dice in the cup. Mrsha didn’t want to play any more. She ran out of the dining room, leaving her meal half-eaten, ten minutes later. Wanderer went to sleep in his room next to hers, connected by a little door. But he was as good as his word. When Mrsha peeked out to use the bathroom, she saw a little pouch just inside the door of her room.

In it were ninety six gold coins. Mrsha the Newly Rich looked at the pile. It did nothing to make her stomach feel better. Because it told her that even if Wanderer had given her the money…

He still had a large debt.

——

Cellidel was in the news. In the past tense. The city was still standing. Give it that. But the exodus of a surprising number of people had been for the best given what came less than two days afterwards. All-out riots followed by the entire army marching back into the city.

If Cellidel was silent, it was only because enough blood had been spilled to put all fires out. Part of the disaster had been the lack of a certain Senior Guardsman, who had departed with countless Gnolls and even Drakes.

He was now on the move. A lot of people were, actually. There were the people who never left their city, ever, and the people who travelled all the time. Liscor was an exception to the rule due to the Bloodfields and their relative isolation.

Travel was not uncommon. It was affordable, and if you had the right passport level, you could sequester easy access to many major cities. It did require a disposable income, but you could ride in style from Walled City to Walled City, courtesy of Izril’s Wonders or other travelling services, if not flying transport.

Even so. Saliss of Lights had spent a rough night with Lyonette, trying to be comforting, which was not his forte when sarcastic was available, or just annoying. When she’d finally been persuaded to take a sleeping draught, he’d stood and stared at the Faerie Flowers in the alchemy lab for a good damn hour.

He should have been making battle potions and explosives, but this lab wasn’t blast-proof and it would take a year of straight work to repair his stocks. Now that Saliss had been introduced to the concept of apprentices and making them do all the work…he was tempted to make Octavia do all the work.

Still, it had been money well-spent. Sort of. Wiping out almost all of the Assassin’s Guild was a win. Levelling? He’d levelled. That was a win. At Saliss’ position, a level was actually worth that kind of expenditure if it was guaranteed.

Faerie Flowers, now. This will be your next level. Saliss poked the flower. He stared at it. Hallucinogenic, highly magically powerful…too magically powerful. Saliss was used to understanding ingredients.

You could actually quantify it and some [Alchemists] insisted on using systems of magical force to approximate effects. If Sage’s Grass was eighteen eins of power, and you had a multiplying catalyst, you got blah blah amount of magical power.

It was too reductionist for Saliss, who didn’t believe in quantifying magical effects. But he thought of it now because…

“Xif. I think this flower has an outsized effect compared to the amount of magical power in it. I can’t quantify it any other way.”

The Gnoll [Alchemist], his fur stained all kinds of color and smelling just as varied, looked up. He lowered the goggles from his face as he attended to a row of vials.

“…You’re right, Saliss. I didn’t believe it at first, but it’s true. It’s the legendary Unicorn horn’s paradox! Right in front of us!”

“Not quite. I don’t see any angry, hornless unicorns coming around to kick us to death. But close. Damn.”

Saliss rubbed at his face. What they meant was that a Unicorn’s horn was an example of a magical object that didn’t quantify itself properly. With Sage’s Grass you could actually tell how much magic was in it. It produced magic, and gathered some from the air, but it was always a linear growth. Sage’s Grass could grow for hundreds of years, but it always had as much as it should.

Unicorn horns, the rare, illicit ingredient back when it had actually been a commodity, had been reported to have a power outside what it should have. Faerie Flowers? They were the same.

There’s an element to this flower that I can’t detect. It’s not right. It…it doesn’t fit.

Saliss knew why that was. Or he knew enough. Xif? The Gnoll’s paws were trembling, but he steadied them.

“This is even more valuable than we thought, Saliss. It might actually become a classified material.”

“Good luck on stopping the spread. There have to be cuttings we missed. It’ll spread, even if Pallass and Oteslia lock down all purchases.”

“Saliss! This will change the world!”

“Yes. Maybe.”

The Faerie Flowers were still in short supply. The Wandering Inn had lost all but a single patch, somehow, and the ones in Oteslia refused to germinate in plenty.

As befit something this powerful. Saliss still had yet to really figure out what they did, though. He kept trying to distill their effects, but the effect changed so much!

If you burned it, soporific. If you put it in alcohol, hallucinogenic. If you put it in water? Irritant! And even Saliss’ own remedies hadn’t stopped the itching on his scales.

It was a powerful, unpredictable booster. But what Saliss didn’t like was…

Alcohol had an amazingly beneficial effect and Erin Solstice was as dumb as someone hucking rocks at a Troll for even trying that without taking precautions. But it worked! Her Minotaur’s Punch and Faerie Flower drinks were beautiful. Wonderful.

Same with Lyonette burning the flowers to confuse the damn bees. Both effects—beneficial. When Xif and I tried it in water, we got the most annoying itch possible. In fat? Mild explosive and terrible smell, but doesn’t actually do much damage; just spits fat everywhere and is a huge mess.

“How’s the reagent with Eir Gel coming?”

“…I think I created a new way to stink up the world.”

Saliss had nose-plugs in, but he could smell the noxious combination. He eyed Xif’s other vials.

“Honey?”

They were trying basic reagents to ‘combine up’, a term for unlocking better potions. In theory, they started with alcohol or smoke, distilled that, and created a more powerful hallucinogen or other effect. Each thing they’d made had more magical power than it should.

But except for the alcohol and smoke, all the effects had been useless.

Stink! Or an amazingly hard, glue-like substance from the base of mana potions—Sage’s Grass water. Or a kind of glass-eating acid that only ate their enchanted glass vials apart.

They had tested twenty eight reagents already, and tonight gave them the conclusion that thirty more all produced levels of useless that were impossible to clean.

And yet, Saliss knew the power of the Faerie Flowers was immense! For proof, take not the alcohol, and the smoke alone, but the most powerful and effective painkillers he had ever seen.

They were the product that had set Oteslia abuzz; they had cured the First Gardener’s migraines and that poor Selphid. And it had been a relatively simple mixture with a mild moss-based painkiller!

“It makes no sense. They said they just used water from Oteslia, didn’t they? Well, our results show they should have made the First Gardener puff up from the inside!”

“I know. It must be the moss acting as a neutralizer. Saliss, don’t worry. Take a break. I know you’ve been helping that poor girl. I can keep working.”

Xif murmured. He was a steady worker and could be relied on to do this. Saliss was the mad genius, so he did lie down.

Something was off, though. Hadn’t someone else figured out another effect? Yes, there had been two.

Painkillers so good that if we can mass-produce them, I’ll tell the old man to replace them in every [Battlefield Healer]’s kit. Alcoholic drink…what was the last one? Someone made a fertilizer with it, didn’t they? I need to see what they made. And…

A secret to all but Saliss. His Potion of Time’s Return that Maviola had used to prolong her life until her demise in battle? The Faerie Flower had replaced three of his most expensive ingredients.

That’s one…two…five unique effects, each of them different. I only added them to the Potion of Time’s Return because I was out of damn rose diamonds and mad as a Gnoll with her fur on fire. It was just coincidence.

What’s the secret of these things?

Saliss must have drifted off, trying to figure it out on the couch covered in Xif’s fur because someone was getting breakfast ready. The Drake dozed…then got up when the sunlight hit him in the face.

“What’s up?”

Lyonette, Wilovan, and Ratici were eating breakfast. The [Princess] was red-eyed, but determined and hopefully less nihilistic. She nodded at him.

“I am going to call on Wall Lord Ilvriss today.”

“Hrghgm.”

Saliss made a sound that fit this early hour and his mood. How long was I asleep? He found a tea kettle and, to Lyonette’s patent horror, tilted the spout to his mouth and began drinking.

He wandered back to the workroom.

“Xif. How long was I out? Feels like I got no sleep.”

The Gnoll turned and blinked at Saliss. He eyed the markings he’d been making, the Drake, and the sun.

“…Looks like you slept twenty one minutes. We must have been working all night. Oh well. Pass me some tea?”

Saliss handed Xif the tea kettle, and came back with a biscuit. It was better fare than either [Alchemist] was used to; they were used to research sessions long into the night, even multiple days.

“Keep hitting the combos, Xif. I’m going to look up that fertilizer.”

“Oh, good idea. Can you…mm…get me a restock of the blue sulfur variant? I’m out.”

“Sure.”

——

Not all days were wonderful days where you followed people around and made a spectacle. Saliss stomped out of the mansion, bleary-eyed, ignoring the scream of horror from an offended passerby.

“Yep. Naked Drake. Nothing to see here.”

He paid a visit to the [Herbalist], put in the order for blue sulfur to be delivered, and checked the prices. Reasonable. That’s right! The [Herbalist] and everyone else was at Lyonette’s mercy.

Speaking of which…Saliss went to pay a visit to the [Researchers] and checked on Erin’s conundrum.

“We’re still working out how to unfreeze her. If you had a gel, Alchemist Saliss…”

“…If I had a ‘de-ice your flesh gel’, you mean? Oh, let me just get it from my bag of holding. Why didn’t you ask for that?”

Researcher Dromenl looked at Saliss, mightily impressed.

“You have one? Why didn’t you say so! That would solve all of our…”

The Human man realized Saliss was being sarcastic and frowned. The Drake sighed.

“I don’t think the solution to the ice-flesh thing is an alchemical one. She’s literally covered in ice. Now, poison, I can see a gel working. Something to kill that poison.”

“Yes. Tricky multi-compounded issues. We’re talking with Khelt and they agree we need a spell and antidote.”

“Khelt? What? What’s Khelt doing…?”

Saliss rubbed at his face. Dromenl tried to explain, but all he got was Saliss’ blank, blank look of utter confusion at the way things had turned out.

“I’m tired. Look—good. You have funding from them, so you don’t have to bother Lyonette and me?”

“Well, there’s always more funding…”

Saliss raised a bag of copper coins to throw at Dromenl and the [Researcher] assured him they were adequately compensated for their time. Saliss nodded. He wanted to lie down and sleep.

His scales were itching. He was beginning to feel…horrible. Not just from lack of sleep, or Lyonette’s distress, or Mrsha being missing.

She wanted to come out. Saliss looked in the mirror of Dromenl’s glasses and saw an imposter. Not the one Named Adventurers talked about, but a literal wrongness.

“Hold it together.”

“What’s that, Alchemist Saliss?”

The Drake scratched at his neck.

“Nothing. Dromenl, you have something on your glasses. While I’m here—what was that fertilizer that the Faerie Flowers made comprised of? How good was it?”

“Amazingly effective, Adventurer Saliss. We saw overnight sprouting! From seeds with weeks of germination time! Not as effective after that, but it was literally some detritus an [Apprentice Gardener] added to their own manure mixture that started it.”

“…They tossed it in crap and it worked? What kind?”

“Er…”

——

Saliss had to track down the apprentice gardener because no one had thought to ask. Mind you, it didn’t seem to matter. The original feces came from an ordinary pig that Oteslia raised; they had used all kinds of manure with the same effect.

That’s too convenient. The Drake jotted this all down, but something was pinging in his tired brain.

The poo was a hint. Because feces was not similar alchemically. Depending on diet and species, it could have radically different composition. Now, just maybe every animal producing said manure had a similar-enough diet for the same effect, but Saliss was beginning to understand something.

Still, the [Alchemist] was so tired he wanted to head back, check on Lyonette and make sure she wasn’t trying to sacrifice her body, and then sleep on the issue. The Drake stomped back through the city, past the gates letting in very little traffic. He debated climbing onto the walls to shout insults at Zeres’ army, but it was too much work.

“Saliss! Adventurer Saliss!”

“Too tired. Arrest me later.”

Saliss mumbled. He didn’t have time to be locked up in Oteslia’s rather nice jail. Everything was wrong. He was trying not to look up at any reflective surfaces.

Anything for those I love. Why had Lyonette reminded Saliss of…? The feeling grew worse, and it was not an itching, it was a sickness. Something’s wrong. I need…

Then the traveller newly come through Oteslia’s gates caught Saliss’ shoulder. And that was astonishing because no one touched Saliss. The [Alchemist] twisted so fast, going for the little vial of deadly acid that made the Acid Jars in The Wandering Inn look like bathing oil—

Still, the clawed hand caught his shoulder. His hand stopped, depressing the vial’s trick-lid, ready to spray, and he saw a familiar, smiling face.

Dark blue scales, almost dark enough to be called midnight blue, but not quite. A familiar scar across the lips; other scars elsewhere, from being a [Soldier]. A retired one, but an old friend. A wiry body, travelling clothes and a club that was far, far more dangerous when he held it.

Saliss stared. It was someone he knew. But…

“Mirn?”

The [Protector] and bar owner of one of Pallass’ most popular bars you’d never heard about smiled jauntily. He winked.

“You’re not looking well, Saliss. Good thing I caught up with you. Stressed? Good thing old Mirn’s here!”

Saliss just blinked at Mirn. Then he carefully felt at Mirn’s face. Tugged.

“Ow. Watch it, Saliss.”

“Hold on. You can’t be Mirn because Mirn doesn’t talk to me. Let me just rip this off.”

“Ancestors damn it, Saliss!”

Only when his old friend, who often spoke to her, to Onieva, more than Saliss, smacked Saliss so hard it laid the Named Adventurer flat on his back did he believe. Only Mirn knew how Saliss dodged like that.

But why was Mirn here?

——

“It’s not the bar. The bar…is on hiatus.”

That was Saliss’ first instinct and worry. If Mirn was here, he’d surely been identified and chased out of Pallass with a death warrant?

No, as the case turned out. Quite the opposite. Mirn was happily eating a huge apple three times as large as you could buy anywhere else. An Oteslian speciality.

“This is delicious. You’re not having one? If you go to another Walled City, you should at least sample the specialties, Saliss. Or is a Named Adventurer too used to all the exciting things to do so?”

“I am going to smack that out of your claws and beat you to death with it unless you make sense.”

Mirn eyed Saliss. It was not an idle threat. Saliss of Lights looked agitated. Mirn was one of the few people who could understand why. So, he leaned back, cutting slices out of the apple.

“Chaldion sent me. The bar’s closed. But no one’s asking questions for a good two months. I thought it was a worthwhile trade. No Watch raids. No nothing.”

Saliss nearly fell over the railing they were talking against.

“…What? The old man found you? How did he…?”

“He’s Chaldion. I told you he knew. Scared the scales off my tail when I was called in, but he didn’t use the Watch. Listen, Saliss. He knew I had a passport that could get me through even a siege if I came with his authorization. So he sent me with this. I haven’t opened it.”

He plucked something out of a bag of holding and offered it to Saliss. The Drake grimaced; he recognized the rolled up scroll at once, sealed in a glass bottle. It was perfectly blank but it stank slightly as he uncorked it and fished for something.

Mirn watched as Saliss dumped a potion meant to be paired with the scroll into the jar.

“What’s that? Something the Eyes of Pallass use?”

“Yup. I invented it for them. They used to use just magic scrolls. These ones burn up or lose the words if you don’t have the counter-reagent. Easy to customize per each agent; not like spells. Annoys the hell out of other spy networks too. Let’s see…”

Saliss read and then tossed the scroll onto the ground. It began to smoke and burst into fire as the two Drakes watched. Saliss carelessly stomped the dust out as a passing [Druid] gave them the evil-eye.

“That had better be toxin-free.”

“Sure is. Don’t worry about it.”

The [Druid] harrumphed.

“If it’s not, clean it up. Any animals or plants get sick, I’ll come back and break both your tails.”

Mirn glanced up from the scroll. Saliss rolled his eyes. Both Drakes stared as Nalthaliarstrelous stalked on past.

“…[Druids] around here. I forgot how intense they are.”

Mirn muttered. Saliss shook his head, too tired to explain. Mirn leaned back.

“So? What are the orders?”

“Don’t start a war with Zeres. Some other stuff. He sent you because he’s worried I’ll blow up half the army.”

“He cares.”

“I don’t want to hear it, Mirn. He’s just worried I’ll go berserk.”

“Hey.”

Mirn grabbed Saliss’ shoulder. The Drake twisted again, but Mirn eyed the [Alchemist]. He let go and leaned back.

“Chaldion cares. Or I don’t think he’d have gone to the effort of making that deal and sending me. You look…bad.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t snap at me. How long has it been? Chaldion must have been counting. Even if he says he doesn’t care…how long?”

“It must be—two weeks. I’ve gone longer.”

Saliss muttered. Mirn slowly shook his head and took another bite of apple.

“Well, it’s not good. Let’s get her out and get you in a better place, Saliss. That’s why I’m here. Orders? I bet that was just the excuse. We’ll hit Oteslia. It’s better than Pallass, or it was last time I visited. We’ll go out and…”

“No.”

Mirn eyed Saliss. The [Protector] frowned mightily.

“…Are you high on Dreamleaf? Or are you being watched by whoever Oteslia’s got? You’re snappy, tired, and I just bet you’ve stopped eating. It’s time, Saliss. She…”

He hesitated and murmured a bit quieter.

“Onieva needs to relax.Even for a few hours. Saliss never does. ”

The Named Adventurer gave Mirn a death’s head grin. He stood against the railing, looking out over Oteslia.

“Mirn, Mirn, Mirn. It’s not the time. A little kid’s gone, I have a [Princess] trying to sell herself the royal way Humans do to the highest bidder, there’s at least one group trying to assassinate any number of people in Oteslia, and something’s up with a fellow Named Adventurer, Mivifa, that makes me think Oteslia’s got its own problems. Oh, and I have a dead [Innkeeper]. Now is not the time. For all of those reasons! And for one more. I’m out of stock.”

Mirn had been waiting for a chance to break in, mouth open, combative. Just like he was ready to call Onieva out or drag her back. But then the Drake halted, and looked at Saliss.

“You are not. You told me you had full doses!”

“Let me think. That was before I wasted a huge amount fighting the Antinium, had to escort a pair of Humans north, didn’t get a chance to rebuild my stock, had all of Oteslia refuse to sell me anything, and I’ve had to share my work space with a Gnoll [Alchemist] who can see everything I do…”

Saliss grinned unhappily as he ticked off problems on his claws. He looked up as his childhood friend and companion from when they had been [Soldiers] just stared at him.

“The ingredients aren’t cheap, Mirn. They aren’t accessible, which is the problem. I’ve gone far longer…”

“I know. Shut up. No wonder Chaldion sent me.”

Mirn shook his head. Saliss nodded. He closed his eyes. Mirn being here did help. But the potion…

Shapeshifting Tincture. You could scale it up, into Saliss’ famed war-form, although turning into a Dragon was well beyond its capabilities. But Saliss had never cared about that. Shapeshifting. That was why he had gone to Nerrhavia’s Fallen to learn it from the master himself, decades ago.

Even so. If only there was a cheaper, discount solution rather than the potion that only a Level 40 [Alchemist] could even dream of making. Even rationed, even then…Saliss leaned back against the railing.

If only Faerie Flowers worked well with that potion like the Potion of Time’s Return. There is no way it would, though. It doesn’t even play well with salted water! It would be…far too…

The Drake’s eyes opened wide. He stood up, as Mirn tried to figure out solutions. And there it was.

“That would be way too annoying. That’s it!”

He punched a claw into his palm. Mirn looked at him like he was crazy.

——

Xif the [Alchemist] had thrown a tantrum by the time Saliss had come back. One look around the workshop told Saliss why.

“Hi, Xif. How many combos? This is Mirn, a friend, by the way. He’ll be staying here.”

Xif looked up from lying face-down on the couch.

“…Two hundred and nine.”

Saliss nodded. Mirn looked at him.

“Is that a lot?”

“It’s a lot. Nothing but alcohol and smoke?”

“I hate these weeds. Saliss, I’m going to sleep. Don’t let me near here or I’ll burn them all.”

Xif went up to his rooms, as frustrated as Saliss had ever seen him. And for all Saliss loved to annoy the old [Alchemist], Xif had twice as much patience as Saliss. The Drake cracked his claws.

“That might be a good thing. Mirn, help me tidy up. Ancestors…”

That comment was because Saliss had finally taken in the devastation. Splatters of goo, annoying, viscous substances, snot-like reactions…

Every annoying thing you could imagine had come about from even the most innocuous combinations. As the Oteslians had found in their own research, albeit with far more limited Faerie Flowers, nothing seemed to work. Yet no less than five superlative examples of the Faerie Flowers’ effects had occurred.

Mirn scraped at a wall in a practiced manner, with proper [Alchemist] gear on. He’d helped Saliss more than once and had been a rated [Alchemical Infantryman] when they’d first enlisted in the bottom ranks; Pallass’ unique soldiers who tossed nasty things in your face or used interesting salves on their weapons.

Saliss was preparing a clean work area, going over a checklist of ingredients. He had…exactly half of what he needed. Most of the rare stuff was out of stock or he didn’t have enough.

Fine. That was perfect. Saliss explained his theory as he worked.

“The Faerie Flowers played nice with a surprisingly wide web of common things, Mirn. Alcohol. Fire. Crap. Yet it made water into itching cream. Xif has tried more combinations than anyone else in the city, but I’ll bet they’ve found what he has—Faerie Flowers play well with nothing except for those exceptions. I just hope he hasn’t tried too many combinations.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re not playing by normal rules. I had the sense as I was working, Mirn. I think…we’re inventing all the bad combinations of the Faerie Flowers with the different substances.”

It took Mirn a few minutes to properly understand what Saliss meant. The Drake shook his head.

“You mean they didn’t exist until you came up with them? That’s…does something like that exist?”

“In theory. I’m surprised Xif didn’t come up with it himself. There were magical substances that only activated when you looked at them. Uncertainty catalysts, I heard they were called. Imagine brewing a potion blind?”

“So these things are that powerful?”

Mirn edged away from the little yellow flowers as if they were malicious. And he was more correct than he knew. Saliss shook his head.

“Not necessarily that powerful. But I think…I told you how I just happened to create a Potion of Time’s Return for a fraction of the cost and effort because I just tossed a Faerie Flower in and expected the whole thing to blow up?”

“…That sounds like all your new discoveries.”

The [Alchemist] actually laughed. He was working. Now, where would he add it? After the base.

Saliss held up a Faerie Flower. He inspected it.

“Maybe. Maybe, though…the flowers want to be something. A gold coin, if you look at them wrong. A drink for sad people. Sleeping gas for a girl stealing honey from bees. Maybe you have to want it, Mirn.”

“That’s the least [Alchemist]-like thing I’ve ever heard Saliss say.”

The Drake chucked an empty beaker at Mirn and the other Drake dove. Saliss tossed the flower in, stem and all.

“Well, Saliss doesn’t want to be Saliss right now. So…let’s experiment. I’ll give it three hours before I burn down this house and everything in it.”

“Got it. I’ll set an hourglass.”

Mirn was not actually joking, because Saliss wasn’t. The Drake had that wide smile and relaxed demeanor Mirn had seen right before he tried to explode Pallass’ walls, back when he and Chaldion were really quarrelling.

“They come from somewhere else, if the rumors are believed. A strange people. A different people. It might work.”

Saliss muttered. Mirn glanced at him as he tilted an hourglass over.

“A different people? You’d better hope they’re nicer than we are to each other. Drakes, that is. Do you think they…understand…”

Mirn tried to think.

“…Different perspectives?”

Saliss looked at Mirn. Neither Drake had the grounding to understand how funny that was.

If the one expert on their kind were here, Ryoka Griffin, and they had somehow trusted her with a secret so great that they didn’t even dare utter it out loud, even here, and if…no. She wasn’t here.

But if she had been, she would have told the two that surely, somewhere, the Court of the Fae was laughing right now. Guffawing until they threw up, probably.

Laughing. But kindly.

The Faerie Flowers from the land of the fae would have many qualities discovered later. More secrets. But as Saliss of Lights would first write down, their principal effect was not mere change, physical or mental. In a word, their essence was…

Perspective.

Somewhat predictably, Mirn never let Saliss live it down for calling it first.

——

Lyonette du Marquin returned to the mansion, divested herself of the formal, Oteslian-style dress, and changed into something more casual. More calculatedly appealing to a certain young Drake.

Ilvriss had been helpfully unhelpful, and Lyonette had tried not to scream at him. He had already put actual money and some of House Gemscale’s forces into looking for Mrsha. It just wasn’t every single Drake he could muster.

Cire, now. He could prevail on Mivifa and she could fly! Imagine how much ground she could cover? Maybe even sneak Lyonette over the walls? They wouldn’t dare shoot down a Pegasus, even if she didn’t have the right clearance, would they?

Lyonette just needed a rather specific kind of commitment. No matter how she had to get it—she had a magical scroll in her bag of holding. The kind you could activate rather easily. Cirediel might balk at signing something, but not if he really, really wanted something.

And there were other ways too. She hesitated at Saliss’ words as she changed.

“What else am I supposed to do, though?”

The [Princess] headed back downstairs to where Wilovan and Ratici were waiting. She had put a trendy pair of pants and jacket that somehow made her feel a bit like a [Bartender]—one of the styles in fashion—on. She halted at the stairs.

There was a commotion outside. You could hear Cire’s friends from outside. They were ready to run wild. Lyonette took a breath, ready for a genuine smile—and yes, you could fake genuine—but she hesitated on her way down.

“Who’s this?”

Xif was on his feet, roused by the sound. He blinked as he drank from the teapot in that horrible way, and gestured.

“Dnrbhl.”

She gave the old Gnoll a steady look and he edged away. Lyonette politely nodded to the strange Drake lounging there. Wilovan and Ratici were giving him casual scrutiny, but they were relaxed.

“Is this the Human I’ve heard so much about? Lyonette? I’m Mirn. Saliss told me all about you.”

He was far more casual than Saliss. Far more stylish too, although that wasn’t hard because Saliss was a nudist. But Mirn had an actual style to his clothes, unlike Wilovan and Ratici who always had one look, decent as it was. He had a scar across his face that took away from it a bit due to the placement, but Lyonette was still fairly impressed.

“That’s…correct. Are you a friend of Saliss of Lights?”

“Mm. Acquaintances. A family friend, rather. He and I don’t meet much, but I’ve known him since we were little hatchlings. No, we dropped by to deliver some orders from Pallass. But when we heard about the entire scene, Saliss asked us to keep an eye on you. And of course, she insisted. She’s just one second. Changing.”

Mirn rolled his eyes. Lyonette was patently confused.

“She? Do we have more guests?”

“Adventurer Saliss and Xif vouched for both, Miss Lyonette. Competent as a duo go. But I’m minded to trust a vouchment, as it were.”

Wilovan raised his brows and tipped his hat up. Lyonette took a lot from that, but before she could inquire further, a door flung itself open from an unused guest room and someone strode out.

“And there she is! Look at this, Mirn. Just like Saliss said—what a troublemaker.”

Someone swept out of the room, a huge grin on her face. Lyonette caught a glimpse of rose pink and cobalt blue scales—an unusual pattern. A tall Drake, with a familiar tail and features, if obviously different from her cousin—and then Lyonette was spluttering, in a headlock.

“Onieva! What are you doing?”

“Trying to rub sense into this little girl. Gaah!”

A female Drake retorted. Lyonette found herself in a strong grip. Spluttering, she tried to force the claws off her.

“How dare you! Unhand me at once! Who are…?”

Her head came up and her neatly-combed hair was a mess around her face. She glared up and met two dancing eyes. She blinked.

Onieva had a pale blue eye and a winking yellow one. It made the Drake stand out, and she already did.

“I’m Saliss’ cousin. I heard all about him. He’s gone sulking off, but I hear you need someone to watch you. So Mirn and I are here for backup. And it looks like a party’s outside.”

“I don’t need—Saliss has a cousin? Excuse me—”

But Onieva was already whispering to Mirn.

“She’s trying to do that Human thing, Mirn. Sell her chastity, as if she has any left and as if it’s worth anything. Depressing.”

“Dead gods, why?”

“For her kid. No sneaking off into back rooms for her. Slap sense into anyone who tries.”

“That’s not hard. But are we going to enjoy ourselves?”

“Discreetly. I’ll have no problem. You? Maybe call it a working day.”

“The things I do…”

Lyonette was spluttering, gasping. Yet something made her stop. Onieva stood there, laughing, flirting with an abashed Ratici and Wilovan, who were both introducing themselves to her. Ragging on Xif, who looked resigned to Saliss’ cousin.

There was something…familiar about Onieva. Lyonette couldn’t place it, but what struck her most was how the Drake smiled.

She had a delighted expression on her face, even as she lectured Lyonette, teased her friend, Mirn. Lyonette had seen it before, on the faces of some people she’d met. The smile of someone just happy to be here.

Erin, the Goblins, and adventurers knew that expression. It told Lyonette more about Onieva than anything else, in a moment.

Before she could put more together, the Drake threw open the doors.

“And who’s throwing rocks at the door?”

Someone had been tapping stones against the door, calling for Lyonette to come out. Onieva caught a stone as it flew at her face, and chucked it back. There was a yelp.

Lyonette strode forwards to see a gang of Drakes and Gnolls on the ground. Cire blinked at the unexpected guests. Then he saw Lyonette, hair a bit of a mess, come out. He saw two older Drakes step down.

“So this is who we’re going with?”

“Aw, Cire. Does Lyonette have minders? That’s so not Archmage.”

One of Cire’s friends grumbled. They had never spotted Wilovan or Ratici, but Mirn and the new Onieva made them groan. Cire just blinked at Onieva as she gave him a patient, scrutinizing look.

“So you’re the little brat. Hello, I’m Onieva. And I’m not a minder. Where are we going? If it’s not fun, I’ll drag Lyonette off to have an actual fun time. This is Oteslia! If you’re just getting drunk, go home and sit under a table with a bottle of Firebreath Whiskey. Young idiots don’t know how to have fun, right, Mirn?”

“Oh no. Don’t go too wild. Hey, look! We’ve got a crowd with a bit of flash and glitterdust. Why are we monking around? Let’s tele out.”

Mirn hopped down the steps with a wink at the jaws that fell. Lyonette groaned as the two older Drakes took Cire’s friends by storm. She hurried after them as Cire recoiled from Onieva, then his eyes narrowed. He locked onto Onieva’s face. And her eyes.

Lyonette was all but forgotten. She stumbled down the last step and someone caught her.

“Excuse me, Miss…Lion, isn’t it? Lion Solstice.”

“Oh, not at all. Thank you…ah…?”

Lyonette turned to the person who had caught her. She was greeted by a tall Gnoll with dark black, silky fur, with the slightest blue tinge. He gave her a toothy smile as Cire turned back and glowered.

“Call me Raef, Miss Lion.”

Mirn whistled innocently as Onieva glanced around. Now this…

This looked like it was going to be an interesting group.

——

Some days your luck ran out. Across Izril, the travellers were in progress. Fleeing their own problems. Problems they had created.

Fleeing from things they had not begun. Fleeing because someone had told them to. Little children pursued by hunters.

Why? If she could have screamed it, she would have. She wrote it, but no one read the little inky notes.

Please, stop. I did nothing wrong.

I loved my tribe. It wasn’t my fault. I really think it wasn’t my fault.

Why do you hate me?

Marwsh, a small city that had lots of cats. More than that the little Gnoll girl hadn’t had time to uncover. A place with stories of its own, but they hadn’t bothered to learn them either.

Wer was stumbling out of his room, leaning on a wall, looking up, cursing under his breath. Mrsha slowly crept out of the inn’s back door. She could hear, with crystal clarity, the voices from the group talking to the [Innkeeper] below.

“An older Gnoll man and a little girl? I…I don’t know. He said it was his son, Senior Guardswoman.”

“Ah. And did you ever hear the little Gnoll speak?”

“No. No. Now that you mention it…”

Mrsha had heard them come in. It had been just…chance. Wer was dozing, exhausted, after ‘replenishing’ some of his luck over their lunch. She had seen a group coming towards the inn and somehow, with that terrible intuition, had known who they were.

It wasn’t hard to deduce. The Watch Officer? The Drake with the bright azure breastplate and a shiny badge like Relc’s? She was the part that fit, and so was her squad of six.

The group of eighteen Plains Gnolls were the odd ones out. They were practically naked compared to the City Gnolls, each one carrying a weapon or two at their sides, along with a bow on their backs or throwing javelins.

A hunting party. But not one Mrsha was used to. Each tribe had its peculiarities. Yet she sensed the magic coming from the painted markings on each one.

[Shamanic Warriors]. They weren’t just strolling around, either. They came after the Watch patrol, which was either there to aid or escort them. Mrsha wasn’t sure which.

The Senior Guardswoman was a Drake in her mid-forties. She wasn’t stupid, which was worse. The [Innkeeper] put together the clues, same as her. He glanced surreptitiously upstairs and lowered his voice.

“They’re right up…Ancestors, in my inn? W-what should we…?”

“We’ll handle that, Innkeeper. If this is the Mrsha from Liscor, we’ll handle it.”

“And the Gnolls?”

An apprehensive look Mrsha heard in the voice. She tensed by the back door. Wer! She’d rapped hard on his door, but she hadn’t been able to speak. And by the time he’d come to the door…

The Gnoll was a silent figure from the second story window. Mrsha had the view from the outside. She could see into the hallway, and the common room where some of the Plains Gnolls were standing.

They were sniffing the air, getting her scent. How had they known to come to Marwsh? Were they in every city in the region? But why this inn?

Someone had been clever. Cleverer than Wer. And—Mrsha finally saw Wer glance her way. He was standing in the shadow of the doorway. He glanced out the window and saw Mrsha, although she was crouched, using her [Natural Concealment] Skill as she lurked behind a little bin of scraps left out for the feral cats.

Some had hissed at her when she came over, but the [Druid] had blended in with them. Wer saw her.

He also saw something that made him freeze. The Gnoll had heard everything. He scratched at his chin. Raised two furry fingers.

Mrsha, staring wide-eyed up at him, didn’t know what he meant. Then she looked around and spotted them.

Two Gnolls, watching the inn. And that was only from her view from the alley. Mrsha stared in horror up at the inn. Wer never looked at her again. He just stood there. She might have dared to hope he’d jump out the window, grab her and escape the pursuers.

But luck had laid him low at last. He’d tried to stop it, and Mrsha hadn’t realized. She’d known he feared the backlash, tried to mitigate it. In vain. She saw it, had smelled it when she heard him throwing up.

Food poisoning. His corned beef must have been spoiled or undercooked or…Wanderer looked physically ill. Now of all times.

“…These are concerned citizens. Plains Gnolls; apparently all the tribes are looking for the girl. Backup, in case the adult resists arrest. Sir, we’re going to try to take them by surprise, but I’ve been told the older one is a considerable threat, so what I’d like to do is…”

More of the city’s Watch were strolling over. Taking up places around the inn. Mrsha’s heart sank. She looked up at the alleyway and saw Wer mouthing something.

A single word. He kept saying it, until even she could figure it out.

Run.

Run? But how? They were in the street! Her [Natural Concealment] didn’t extend to running away! Where would she go?

Mrsha had her bag of holding, her wand, and the money he’d given her. Lots of gold. But…

One of the cats lazily meowed on top of Mrsha’s head. One of the Gnolls casually leaning against a wall glanced over, but all he saw was the cat. Mrsha nearly died of fright.

Maybe they weren’t here for her. Maybe this was all a bad dream and she’d wake up in her bed and…and…

If Mrsha were younger, she could believe it. She could have actually walked out into the street and died there, because she wouldn’t have been able to understand how deadly serious this was.

She had seen the Raskghar. She had seen monsters and looked into Belavierr’s eyes. Mrsha squeezed hers shut.

“Just step out, sir. Careful…careful…”

The Senior Guardswoman was evacuating the inn. Mrsha saw a flicker as two Drakes left the inn. The [Innkeeper] was muttering.

“My inn! Please don’t damage it.”

“Any damages will be compensated, sir. But think of the girl.”

“The little Gnoll? You mean the boy?”

Mrsha froze. A Drake, the same one who’d served them food, was hurrying out with the rest of the staff and guests. There was a muted conversation as one of the [Guards] explained. Then Mrsha heard the Drake woman’s voice.

“…But I saw her sneak downstairs. I think she went out the back door. Just a minute ago. She—”

She was so well-meaning. Like Drassi. Mrsha felt it all happening, like evil clockwork. Pieces fitting into place, but a bad puzzle. Spinning, adjusting themselves.

Like dice.

Mrsha saw the gaggle of figures outside the inn slow. The Gnolls in the common room looked up. They’d been listening. Their heads turned. Mrsha saw Wer move.

He exploded out of the air next to her. The Gnoll stepped out of space, scattering the terrified cats. He said one word in her ear.

“Run!”

As quiet as a whisper. As desperate as death. Mrsha saw his paw blur. He struck her with a shower of liquid. Mrsha?

She vanished. The little Gnoll hit the ground, the invisibility potion coating her fur. There was no potion like that for Wer. He downed a tonic that made the fur on his body harden, like it was suddenly made of stone. A second tonic—and then he exploded forwards, catching the Gnolls coming out of the back door of the inn and down the alleyway by surprise.

Mrsha had never heard a Gnoll roar like that. It surprised everyone. Wer had a dagger in one paw. He plunged it into the chest of the first Gnoll, and the quarterstaff was already spinning, striking another.

Wanderer roared as Mrsha ran, streaking past the Gnolls, the Watch blowing their whistles. Screams filled the air. But the Plains Gnolls, the [Shamanic Warriors]—they moved faster than the Watch. They came for the alleyway, weapons drawn, magical markings glowing. Howling a call to the hunt.

A call to death. Mrsha heard the furious cadence. They were here to kill both.

She ran, looking back. Wer! Wanderer! He was fighting alone in the alleyway! How long could he hold them off? Could he hold them off?

She had to run. Get into the sewers—no, find somewhere to hide her scent! Get out of the city? She had to do something. Cats. [Druid]. She was a [Druid]. She just had to…

“There you are.”

A kindly claw plucked the little Gnoll off the ground as she scampered past the adults, invisible, fast as could be. Mrsha could be smelled and heard, but even the [Shamanic Warriors] who might have detected her were distracted by the roaring Gnoll.

Who could see a little Gnoll? Who had spotted the little girl?

A kind Guardswoman, that’s who. The Drake plucked Mrsha up as her squad recoiled.

“[Anti-Invisibility Sight]. [Danger-Spotter]. You glow. I’ve never seen anything like that. You’re safe now, dear.”

Mrsha struggled, frantically, but the Senior Guardswoman had her! She frowned, trying to soothe Mrsha, and one of the Plains Gnolls, a huge Gnoll with two axes, bellowing the attack, turned. He saw the struggling outlines of Mrsha in the air and his eyes widened.

“Merish! Is that the Doomguy who’s stealing children? Merish? Was your friend right? Is it—?”

A little Lizardman bounded over, hopping on one foot, with a staff of all things. Merish, the Gnoll leader, didn’t answer. He just stared at Mrsha as the oblivious Senior Guardswoman tried to assure her she would be reunited with her family.

Ill luck.

——

It was a tableau of too many scenes. Marwsh was one of those travelling cities, a popular hub to stay in while on the road. Unless you were allergic to cats.

Even then…it was a good place to blend in, in theory. So many people intersecting meant that the Watch wasn’t as scrupulous about identities or as familiar as a city with few visitors. A perfect place if you were on the lam.

The Drake sneezed as he watched with the other guests of the inn. Outrageous, really. Turned out of their inn by the Watch!

“Tyrannical armored boots.”

The young Drake muttered, scowling. Someone should draw a mural about it! But apparently, and thankfully, this wasn’t about him…not that there would be any reason for him to be worried.

“What’s up? Don’t tell me you caused trouble again, Tesy? It was one day.”

An exasperated voice whispered in his ear. The pale-scaled Drake jumped, dragged his hood higher, then relaxed.

“Vetn! Don’t scare me like that!”

The taller young man grinned. He was about Tesy’s age, but he had a black fur complexion with faint, light blue highlights around his ears and on his arms. Well, today he did.

Appearance was variable, as Tesy well knew. The rose-scaled Drake had a very light pink coloration. Also…variable. But you could do a lot if you knew something about dyes and colors.

The two recognized each other despite the differences in coloration; they were old friends. Vetn scrutinized the commotion as he slid into the crowd watching the inn. More of the Watch were arriving and he and Tesy both eyed them with some degree of distrust, although if Vetn was wary, Tesy was actively hostile. A key difference between the two.

“You’re as jumpy as I’ve ever seen you. What’s up? How bad is it? What did you do, draw inside the inn? Why are there so many [Guards]? I’ve been travelling all week to meet up. Tesy, I wanted a break…”

“I don’t know if I’m in trouble! And this isn’t my fault! This is unrelated, I swear!”

Vetn gave him an unconvinced look. But he watched, arms folded.

“I heard about Cellidel. Was that it? Did you get spotted? I thought you would have all fought instead of letting them get killed.”

“Yes! No! We were fighting the boots! But this one Senior Guardsman took all of us out! All of the free fighters! And he knows what I look like!”

Vetn’s face turned worried at once.

“That’s a disaster. Tesy!”

“He might not tell. Listen, it’s complicated.”

“Might not tell? Why? You have some kind of blackmail over him? You’d better explain this, Tesy.”

“I will. It’s just—”

The roar from the alleyway made both dive for cover. Tesy ended up with Vetn on his back; they’d both dove behind a nearby wagon with unmatched reflexes.

Well…Vetn was agile enough to be crouching. Tesy was just flat on his face.

“Get off! What was that? What was—”

The [Innkeeper] ran screaming as the Watch jerked, and Gnolls began charging forwards. Tesy heard a scream.

“Dead gods! It’s the kidnapper!”

“Call for reinforcements! Where’s the child! Stop! The Gnolls just—”

Whistles filled the air. Tesy and Vetn poked their heads over the wagon—right before it went rolling as the [Driver] leapt into the front and steered it away from danger. They stood, with the rest of the crowd, at a remove, then decided to back up further as the first bloody Gnoll stumbled out of the alley and fell down.

“Ancestors! Ancestors!”

Tesy turned pale at the sight of the maimed Gnoll. Vetn was even more alarmed. He pulled Tesy.

“Get back!”

Both young men weren’t used to this kind of violence, but again, there was a difference. Vetn was ready to bolt; Tesy craned his neck to see.

“Is it the boots? They said ‘kidnapper’—Vetn, I think this is about that Gnoll kid who was on the scrying orbs!”

“Well, come away and let’s watch from a safe distance! Don’t get involved! Those are Plains Gnolls—[Shamanic Warriors], not the Watch! Don’t get involved, Tesy…”

It was only then they became aware of the altercation surrounding the Watch patrol, which hadn’t entered the fray. Tesy pointed. Vetn blinked as a little Gnoll finally came into view as a Drake [Guard] emptied a flask over her head.

“What the…”

“Invisibility?”

Then they saw the second layer of the drama. The furious, frantic little Gnoll fighting to get free, the Senior Guardswoman.

And the Plain’s Eye Gnolls, who turned away from the battle in the alleyway to stare at the little girl. Tesy was oblivious, but Vetn’s eyes flicked to their markings and he identified their tribe.

He grew tenser as Tesy edged closer to hear.

“It’s definitely the Gnoll who matches the description, Senior Guardswoman. Doesn’t speak…are you Mrsha? You’re safe now, Miss Mrsha.”

One of the Drakes was trying to talk to Mrsha. Another was investigating her sopping wet fur.

“She’s all brown, though. Is her fur dyed? Did that maniac…?”

“It’s not uncommon. Water’s not making it come off, though. She’s still in danger. Muster up, squad! Look sharp! That kidnapper’s in the alley! Where are the reinforcements?”

The Senior Guardswoman made the rest of her squad jump back to attention. Tesy didn’t like boots, as he referred to them. But he had to admit, she reminded him a bit of that other Drake.

He folded his arms, watching keenly. The little Gnoll girl was wide-eyed, frantic, trying to tear free, and when that failed, tearing something out of her bag of holding. Gold coins fell to the ground in a shower and Vetn blinked.

“Whoa! That’s a lot of money! And she’s got some nice gear on her! A good magic wand, a nice bag of holding—is she a rich kid or what?”

He peered at a gold coin in his paw, despite the shower of coins only landing a few feet around Mrsha. But she didn’t even care. She was scribbling, writing desperately on…a bit of paper?

“Guardswoman. This…this is the Gnoll child.”

One of the [Shamanic Warriors] had walked over, flanked by two more. The Gnoll girl went still when she saw them. Tesy did not like the way she shrank. He recognized that.

Fear.

The Senior Guardswoman saw it too. She coolly held Mrsha up, letting the Gnoll write with shaking paws. She glanced at Mrsha, the alleyway where the fighting was still background, and at the Gnoll warrior.

“It seems that way. We need to take her to a safe place. Can your warriors handle that Gnoll, Chief Warrior…Merish, was it?”

He didn’t even glance over his shoulders. The Gnoll had both paws on the hilts of his axes, clearly ready to charge into battle, but he was locked onto the little Gnoll girl.

“They can.”

“In that case—squad, defensive perimeter! We’re taking this girl to the Watch house. Double time. She’s still in danger.”

The rest of the Watch began to move with the Senior Guardswoman, but they came to a halt. Tesy saw, to his growing confusion, the other Plains Gnolls on the street abandon their posts or attempts to get a vantage to shoot into the melee and instead come out to…surround…the patrol.

“Oh no.”

Vetn muttered. He was staring at Mrsha. Mrsha and at the alley’s entrance and at the Gnolls from the tribe he recognized.

“Move aside.”

“One moment, Guardswoman. Check if it is her. Who has…”

The Gnoll grunted. He caught something as it was tossed to him and uncorked it. The Drake blocked it, but he offered it to her.

“Dye remover.”

She hesitated, checked the contents, then glanced down at Mrsha. The little Gnoll’s eyes were wide, but the Senior Guardswoman let a few drops land on her head.

Mrsha’s fur turned white instantly.

The sound the Gnolls made, then, was not a sigh, or a gasp, or even a murmur. It was more like a…growl…

Vetn whispered.

“Oh no. Oh, no, no…”

Tesy didn’t understand.

“Vetn. What’s going on? Her fur’s white. You told me Gnolls don’t get white fur naturally.”

“It’s her. She’s definitely the kidnapped child, Senior Guardswoman. We’re going to be on the news!”

One of the [Guards] celebrated, oblivious to what was happening. But the Senior Guardswoman was looking down at something Mrsha was holding up. The Gnoll girl was holding the notes out to the Chief Warrior, who was not looking at her, but at his companions. At the little Lizardman, who had picked up on the growl too.

“It’s her, Chief Warrior. Doom.”

A Gnoll hissed. Merish raised a paw.

“Viri. One moment. Senior Guardswoman, we will take the…child.”

“No.”

The Senior Guardswoman replied. She tried to walk out of the small encirclement. Now she was sweating. She looked down at Mrsha. Around.

“[Danger-Spotter]. You’re still…move aside. We’re grateful for your assistance. This is Watch business, however! Leave the child to us!”

She raised her voice, but the rest of the Watch was heading towards the alleyway, not seeing the standoff here. Merish didn’t move. He was looking at Viri, who was glancing at the Senior Guardswoman to Merish.

“She’s Doom, Merish? But I thought…what’s going on?”

“Viri.”

“No, no…”

Tesy was shaking Vetn. One of the Plains Gnolls reached for Mrsha.

“Give her to us, Senior Guardswoman. Now.”

It was not a request. The Drake’s grip tightened.

“No. Move aside. I said, move aside. By the order of the Watch—”

She raised something in her free claw. Not a dagger. Not a shield or a baton.

A whistle. She nearly had it in her lips when the Plains Gnoll growled, glanced at Merish who was arguing with the little Lizardman, so out of place, and drew a dagger.

She ran the Senior Guardswoman through the belly.

Time slowed. Tesy turned, eyes open wide in shock. The crowd of onlookers saw the Senior Guardswoman slowly drop Mrsha. The rest of her squad recoiled.

Then there was blood. It ran down onto the street. A [Guardsman] reached for a baton. Another for her whistle.

Then there was more blood. The Plains Gnolls were fast. Tesy saw five dead bodies drop so quick…only the Senior Guardswoman sat there, holding the dagger and her guts. She was fumbling for a healing potion.

The people in the street were running, screaming. Tesy was dragging Vetn back now. This—he did not understand. He just looked at the tableau as Vetn muttered.

“No, no…”

“Doom.”

The Plains Gnoll with bloody paws turned to the shaking little Gnoll girl on the ground. Her eyes locked on the white fur on her head.

The alleyway had gone terribly silent. The little Lizardman was shouting in horror.

“Merish! What are you all doing? Merish!”

“Chief Warrior.”

The big Gnoll was turning. He stared at the blood on the street, the Senior Guardswoman gasping up at him. He looked at the others.

“Those are innocent guards! I did not give the order for this!”

“This is your first hunt. Not ours. Doom is alive! End it!”

Another Gnoll spat back. Merish looked down.

A little Gnoll held out a card in trembling paws. Her inky little words ran together, and her entire body shook. Tears were in her eyes.

Please, stop. I did nothing wrong.

I loved my tribe. It wasn’t my fault. I really think it wasn’t my fault.

Why do you hate me?

But no one read it. They didn’t care. Tesy stared. This wasn’t happening. Why was it happening? This was a dream. He knew of terrible injustice, but this?

This was cold murder. They were going to…

His claws fumbled for his side, for a brush, his tools, but it would be too late, too slow, too far away, even if he thought he could fight nearly three dozen Gnolls of that level.

Even so. His entire being revolted. He had to do something.

Someone moved then, in that little void between the Chief Warrior slowly reaching for the axe at his side. Down the long street, hundreds of feet distant. Little Gnoll, Plains Gnolls, bleeding Senior Guardswoman. A voice Tesy knew all too well.

“Oh no. No, no. No.”

Vetn. He began to run forwards. Tesy’s head turned.

“Vetn. What are you doing? Vetn—”

His words were already too late. The Gnoll left them behind. He started forwards, and Tesy ripped at his concealed pouch of holding. He looked up as his friend…

Accelerated.

Vetn’s bare feet hit the ground. Pads striking cobblestone. Ignored by the distant Gnolls. His feet moved faster.

In the frozen world, as Merish reached for the axe, drew it, and lifted it up, there were seconds. In between those seconds, in adrenaline and the life-and-death flashes, everything slowed down. The world became…slow…but so were you.

Except for him. Somehow, Vetn sped up. He moved like a few people could in any world.

In a time apart. At a speed no one else could match. He jogged down the street, and his stride began to lengthen. His legs lengthened, long limbs carrying him faster with each stride. Then he started running.

His feet touched the cobblestones, pushed off the stone, and Vetn’s posture changed further. Not down. Not like the four-legged gallop some Gnolls resorted to, even as adults. Looser, upright. A sprinter’s upright run.

Some of the Gnolls noticed the figure breaking towards to them. Heads turned, some even recognized the figure. But this was still in the time an axe took to rise to its apex and fall.

Hundreds of feet. A distant figure. A hundred meters.

A single sprinter, legs and arms pumping. Going faster with each step. Vetn went from his standing posture to a run. To a sprint.

Tesy’s brush finally cleared its hiding place. A painting palette rose as the Drake lifted it, mouthing the words of a Skill. Not Tesy.

Sellme. The famous [Magical Painter]. He was only a part of the audience, though. Backup. Backdrop. To another professional at work. Another famous figure.

Vetn leapt. Merish saw a blur as his axe dropped through the air. He saw Viri tear free of the paws holding him and leap, bellowing.

The axe stopped. Viri crashed into Merish’s side and bounced off to no avail. But there was no point.

Mrsha was gone. The little girl in front of Merish just—vanished. The Chief Warrior blinked. He stared at the ground. The Gnolls who had turned towards the running figure whirled around, seeing nothing, eyes wide. Then all of them looked down the street.

Forty feet away, Vetn reappeared. His cargo was under one arm, eyes wide, disbelieving. The Gnoll turned. Only Tesy understood what he’d done.

[Flicker Theft]. The Drake’s heart was pounding out of his chest. Merish’s eyes went wide. He pointed, and his voice joined the other Gnolls.

“Stop that Gnoll! That—”

They were so close. So close. The Gnoll began to run, the young man carrying the girl under one arm. Back the way he’d come, past the surprised Gnolls. They lunged at him.

He ran up a wall and raced over their heads. As if gravity didn’t matter. As if…

“Doom’s accomplices! Kill them!”

A Plains Gnoll howled. She nocked an arrow to her bow and a Lizardman kicked her in the face with a flying jump. Someone else tackled him and pinned him, but more Gnolls drew bows and more still were racing after Vetn, almost as fast. They charged down the street.

Straight into a brick wall. The Gnolls slammed into a brick wall in the middle of the street. Where had it come from? Why? A brick…?

They were lovely red bricks and strong mortar. Tesy had drawn them way back when.

[Artbook: Saved Sketch]! [Art Comes to Life]! [The World is My Canvas]. [Speedpainting].

The brush’s tip was still wet. Sellme panted. He saw Vetn slow, and a wide-eyed little girl staring at him.

“Sellme! What are you standing around for?”

His companion, compatriot, fellow professional bellowed. The Drake turned and took to his heels. Now two were running. The Gnolls streaming down the street ran around the wall, climbed over it.

Wer emerged from the alleyway, covered in blood, just in time to see two figures running. Two young people. Both male. Gnoll and Drake. His lips moved.

“What the…?”

He saw a little Gnoll girl, her fur shining white behind the dye, looking at him. He felt it.

Luck.

Travellers. Coincidence? Not really.

“Who are they? Get them! Kill them!”

The Plains Gnolls were howling. They were coming down the street, weapons covered in blood, promising death. Seasoned killers.

They ran into a mud pit. Slammed into an invisible glass wall that shattered. The Gnolls charged through both. Then they hit the tripwire.

“Damn it, stop painting and run!”

Mrsha felt her savior slowing, turning with her under one arm. The rose-scaled Drake with the hood was a blur, the brush he carried drawing the obstacles so fast she could barely process it. Like a pre-rendered scene, being translated to the real world in moments.

“They’re going to kill us! What did you get us into? I don’t have many paintings saved!”

The Drake screamed back. The Gnoll cursed. He ran back.

“You don’t? That’s your entire job, you idiot!”

He took one look at a snarling Gnoll bounding at them, his magical paints giving him speed. Vetn lowered his body, and dove under the slashing block from a spear. Then he whirled, changed course, and hoisted the Drake onto his shoulder. Carrying Mrsha under one arm and Tesy hanging from his left shoulder, Vetn ran.

[Loot Weighs Nothing]! Sellme gasped, winded. The Plains Gnolls chasing after them leapt, howling in triumph as the strange Gnoll slowed…

And completely missed him. He was fifteen feet away by the time they swung their blades.

Merish had activated [Markings of Speed]. [Vanguard’s Advance]. [Adrenaline Rush]. He felt like he was running underwater as he charged after the Gnoll. How…?

So fast. The Gnoll was storming towards the gates with a Drake on his shoulder and the child under his arm. The child…Merish tore his eyes away from her. He had seen this before.

He had seen this before. This speed! This insanity!

He ran with the other Gnolls, towards the gates, but the Gnoll was so fast they were running towards some horses saddled and unattended as he ran vertically up the wall, leapt past the surprised [Guards], and over.

“After him!”

The Gnolls jumped onto horseback. They swarmed out of the city, riding for all they were worth. The [Magical Painter] was shouting as the Gnoll ran. He was tiring. Yet even now, he was the fastest.

Faster than Couriers! Faster than horses! The Plain’s Eye tribe’s Doomslayers raced after him during the time when he was fastest. Who had to be this quick? Only someone who had to outrun everyone and everything. Who could steal jewels from under your nose in the time it took to blink.

And here came his famous calling card. Only, it came from the [Magical Painter] who called it out of a drawing. A team effort that had given him his name.

A cloud. It blasted Merish in the face, a fog of mist and wetness. The Gnolls crashed into each other, shouted, lost sight of the Gnoll. Then Merish felt something odd happening to the saddle he was sitting in. His horse slowed…

And the painted creature turned back into paint. Merish and the other Doomslayers found themselves sitting in the grass outside of the city as a huge cloud floated upwards. A mocking smile, a raised thumb. Such that all of the people in Marwsh saw it, floating upwards.

They shouted his name. Merish bellowed it as it came to him, howling at the empty plains where the three had disappeared.

“Thief of Clouds!”

In relief? Then they were gone, and Merish was…left with the Drake city up in arms, giving pursuit, neither quarry had.

And Viri, the little Lizardman, stared at the dead Watch in disbelief. At the sudden violence and slaughter. At what Doom was, and his friend. Slowly, he bent down and picked up a little notecard.

He read it.

——

Bad decisions. Regrettable mistakes.

The right thing for the wrong reasons or the wrong thing for the wrong reasons. Sometimes they were just mistakes.

But sometimes…you did anything you had to. Anything at all. For more than vengeance. For more than hatred. For the only friend you had. For kindness. For hope.

For Erin Solstice. The [Innkeeper] who was friend to their kind. Too long had those with debts left them unpaid. She had asked them, their [Great Chieftain], if it was worth paying.

And as they had once said—you never stopped paying the debts that mattered. Until you died. Not even then, sometimes.

The city never saw it coming. Why should they? It was not an attack at dawn, the proverbial time of ambushes and surprise battles. It was not dusk, thematically appropriate. It was not by night when darkness hid them.

It came at sort of after midday. Right when you were digesting lunch. A deadly time for the unaware.

The first sign of their coming was shadows in the sky. Sentries on duty looked up and murmured.

“Wyverns. Damn bastards. Someone call out if one circles. We have to kill it in case it’s hunting here. Bows?”

But they were out of bow-range and circling before any were trained on it. The sky was beautifully clear. The grass was green. The earth was presumably still earth.

A few [Dangersenses] went off an hour before. A quiet alarm was raised.

Then a louder one. But they attributed it to the Wyverns, perhaps a hunting weyr. Lower-level [Dangersenses] began to fire off closer too.

By now, the city was alarmed. It was on guard, and the highest-levelled defenders patrolled, wary, uncertain. They spotted the Wyvern again flying, high, high overhead, so high it was in danger of the thin atmosphere.

“Damn, what’s got it flying that high? Some kind of other monster?”

“My [Dangersense] keeps going off. What’s…?”

And then something began to drop from the Wyvern overhead. A strange…cloud. No, a plume of descending brown and beige. It took the defenders of the city a few seconds to process what it was.

“Dirt?”

Yes, dirt. A huge amount of it, emptied from a bag of holding from overhead.

They began to realize something was wrong, then. [Messages] began to bounce to other cities, but…what was…?

An attack. From another city! From the damned Drakes! A full-scale alarm began to ring as more Wyverns began to fly overhead. And these ones clearly had riders. They dropped more clouds of dirt over the city. Like a certain Wind Runner’s tactics.

After all…Goblins were good at copying.

Goblins. The first shout identifying them came seconds before the clouds of dust began to whip up. The [Mages] realized someone was playing with the weather, and the few who could manipulate the air began to fight for it. But there was a [Shaman] or five out there and they just wanted to blow the wind.

A dust storm hit the city. The confused fighters on the walls cried out, realizing they were blind to whatever was out there! It was happening fast. They had warning, but they had squandered it, thinking there would be monster attacks. And they could handle monsters.

After all, who would dare attack this city? What would be the point? After all, it wasn’t as if they’d done anything wrong.

This wasn’t…Hectval. Not that anyone in the city even knew the name of the Drake city. They had thought this was a Drake attack, already dramatic enough. But it wasn’t.

The dust began to clear as the first wave of Wyverns passed over, circling and ‘reloading’ their stocks of dust. They flew well out of bow-range, and there were high-level individuals who could shoot down the Wyverns. If they could see.

The civilians were panicking, rushing towards the inner gates, demanding answers, protection. The defenders locked the enchanted gates, looked to their furious leader, who had only one goal: protect the client.

It was one of their [Archers] who saw through the concealing dust and spotted the first figures on the horizon. Saw the crimson eyes of the riders on the Wyverns’ backs and realized the truth, and screamed the alarm that shot across every nearby city. Of course! Only they would be mad enough to attack this place!

Goblins. Filthy, mindless, warlike Goblins! It was a raiding party! No, an entire tribe! They had no idea what they were doing! They were going to charge the walls and…

…And? The attack didn’t come. Coughing, blowing the dust out of the air, the Humans waited. Panicking people flooded out of the gates, saw what was coming, and ran screaming back towards the inner city.

The adventurers standing together, multiple teams of Gold-ranks supplemented by Silver-ranks, enough to fight off any casual foe, visitor, or supplicant, saw the dust clear. Then they saw the Goblins sitting casually behind oversized crossbows, newly-made ballistae, and trebuchets. They had carefully emerged from the hiding places they’d snuck into over the last few days, set up their siege weapons, and now…

“Dead gods.”

A Gold-rank adventurer whispered. He had a bow. Which was nice. It was even enchanted with Longshot.

The Hobgoblin grinning at him had no fancy bow. But she did have a giant Thunderbow-style crossbow made of Wyvern bone and sinew and two loading partners. The [Greatbow Archer] adjusted her sights. Lovely idea, adding a little glass sight to magnify her shot. Why didn’t all bows and crossbows have something like that?

She was glad the Human had thought of it.

“It’s…a siege encampment. They’ve got siege weapons!”

A [Mage] stated the obvious with amazing talent. He pointed a trembling finger at the Goblins. Someone else cursed.

“Fuck me, what’s that? Ogres! Ogres!”

An armored core of Ogres was lugging a battering ram forwards, grumbling. They halted, next to a force of Goblins on wolves.

It was a small army. Ferried here over many days by Wyvern. They still outnumbered the adventurers many times over. And it was adventurers who held this city. There were overpaid members of the Watch, a desultory militia, and a lot of civilians.

Not just civilians. Families, individuals, rich and poor. Of course, the richer ones had a better chance. But all lined up each day for the lottery. All of them came here, hoping for a miracle. To this city no one dared attack because it was neutral ground.

Tenbault. Where the famed Healer of Tenbault dispensed aid to a lucky few. Crowdcaller Merdon and the adventurers hired to protect the Healer stared at the Goblin raiders. The Named Adventurer’s eyes bulged. He heard the first horns blow as the Chieftain of the Goblins slowly advanced and held up a hand.

Everyone fell silent for a second, waiting Goblins, Ogres, impatient to loot the valuable mana potions, adventurers, and terrified civilians. The little Goblin bellowed.

“Humans. Give us the Healer and no one gets hurt! We’ll give her back.”

Of course, she didn’t really expect it to work. But it was worth it, just to hear the Named Adventurer howl.

——

Rags had heard Tenbault was some miraculous city. It hadn’t looked so good even before she covered it in dirt. It looked like an idea.

The inner city, guarded by adventurers and enchanted gates, was beautiful. The outer city, with the desperate throngs, was dirty and unkempt. It seemed to Rags that the inner part could have shared with the other part.

But what did she know? She was just a Goblin. And she had no time to wait in line, even if they would have her.

This one’s for Erin Solstice. She lifted a claw and pointed.

“Attack.”

The Thunderbows firing split the air like their very names. Bolts shot forwards. Not at the Humans cowering in their city, but at the right target.

The adventurers. They had magical shields, high-levels, and powerful gear. But they were used to tackling groups, armed retinues at best. Not actual armies. They took cover behind the walls or shields as flaming bolts targeted them, and stones from the trebuchets thudded into the walls and ground.

Flaming. [Battlefield: Power of Fire]. Also—[Rapid Reload]. Those were Rags’ Skills, not even including targeting Skills and other abilities each Hob gunner had.

Gunner. Nice term. She wondered if they could get the class. Rags watched as two Hobs dragged a Thunderbow’s arms back, loaded a bolt up, and stepped back so it could fire, all in seconds. It was already hurling another deadly bolt through the air as the Ogres advanced.

Ogres in heavy armor. Shields raised. She’d made them carry shields, and the sight of a [Fireball] striking a shield and making the Ogre swear but do little else reaffirmed Rags’ tactics.

[Lightning Bolts] were different, as were piercing arrows, but the Ogres shielded their faces and made use of the healing potions they carried. Anyways, they were the anvil.

The hammer was already in the city, racing through the choking dust. Rags saw Carn Wolf riders shooting forwards after their leader. She saw adventurers panicking, saw her Wyverns dropping dirt and now stones, circling downwards.

And then the one complication. That voice.

Operatic. Huge! It blasted the dust out of the air. It knocked bolts from the sky, and sent Goblins falling down, some vomiting, others clutching at burst eardrums.

Crowdcaller Merdon. Named Adventurer! Rags narrowed her eyes. She pointed a finger. Time to see if she’d learned anything at all.

——

“Hold your ground, you idiots! If you run I’ll make sure you’re kicked down to Bronze-rank for the rest of your lives!”

Merdon’s voice was audible in every part of the city. And that wasn’t when he shouted. When he shouted, it was a sonic cone you could see in the dust, and a radius of ear-splitting death.

Literal death. The Goblins hadn’t believed it, at first. Even for them, ‘voice death’ sounded stupid. But the truth was evident just from feeling it.

Merdon’s voice could actually damage your insides. Not just deafen you; it was so loud it became an attack unto itself.

And it was working. The Carn Wolves howled in agony despite the wax packed into their ears. [Silence] spells cast onto them did nothing to Merdon’s voice.

Forget about casting it on the man himself. He made the Ogres balk; just by screaming he could probably take out an army.

That was a Named Adventurer for you. However, he had one weakness, and that was why the Carn Wolves and their Goblin riders held back, circling, until they saw if the plan worked. If it didn’t, they’d be in trouble. Same with Poisonbite’s [Rogues]…both Goblin strike forces waited, nervously keeping back from the inner city where the voice emanated from. Then they heard it.

A cough. Swearing. A voice.

“Get this dust out of the air!”

The wind blew, but the [Shamans] pushed back. And the Wyverns dumped more out of the sky. A Goblin sitting astride the largest Carn Wolf grinned and raised his clawed hand. He pointed and the [Riders] howled and charged, though they were still deafened by their own protective gear so they couldn’t hear it.

A voice that huge surely had to suck in more air than usual. They had little chance of prevailing against such a warrior in a fair fight—even their best. But what if you could make the air more dust than air? Well, that was a problem for Goblins too. Right until their helpful Human introduced the concept of a mask with filtration, for Carn Wolves and Goblins.

Crowdcaller Merdon was shouting, coughing, slashing around in the dust as adventurers tried to keep the gates to the inner city. But the Goblins were everywhere. They were hitting the walls with bolts, climbing the walls—he shouted and blew a hole in the storm of dust, then kept hacking.

My lungs! The man was raging. He’d fought against people who tried to [Silence] him, or use other tricks, but no one had just…filled the air with dust! He could blow away a single [Dust Storm] and had before, but the Wyverns kept dumping dust on him! And he couldn’t take the time to knock them out of the skies, even if he could see them.

Someone was out there. The Named Adventurer gritted his teeth and turned. His enchanted mace and shield, not his first weapons of choice, rose as he turned.

Glowing eyes in the dust. Who are you?

Merdon opened his voice to bellow, and jerked aside. Someone had tossed a ball of powder straight at him. Not just any powder, Merdon realized. He began to hack harder.

Had they put something in this damn dust cloud? Why was everything burning?

“Calescent makes good spice. Poisonbite—stop the shouting.”

A figure emerged from the confusion. He was riding a gigantic Carn Wolf, and he was a Hob. A Hob with two swords. One was red, like the warpaint on his body. The other was frost and cold.

Redscar and Thunderfur circled Merdon as Poisonbite, grinning, circled the Named Adventurer. He opened his mouth to roar, ignoring the pain and his burning eyes. Redscar charged, laughing. Let’s see how good you are with blades!

The woman inside the inner city’s inner…building…was not in a palace as you might expect. It had a lot of glitter on the outside, but the inside was more like a library crossed with a mage’s workshop. Which is what it was, really.

She was frantically throwing items into a bag of holding when she really should have already been running. But that was amateurs for you. She turned as the bloodcurdling scream from the entrance told her that time was up. She lifted a trembling wand.

“I—I am under the protection of the Five Families! I am a valuable [Mage]—[Healer], you understand? I’m worth more alive than dead! Alive! Take what you want!”

She shouted, then tried to hide behind a desk. The invader, who had halted with her squad on the inside, sighed and scratched her head.

Well, this was disappointing. She whistled.

“Get Wyvern ready. Tell Redscar to pull back. Ten minutes! Grab and go!”

Goblins raced forwards, as three trained crossbows on the trembling figure. The Healer of Tenbault was…Rags blinked at the middle-aged woman in slippers, a [Mage]’s robe, and holding a wand in one trembling hand. She looked like nothing.

“I’m the Healer of Tenbault. I’m not valuable dead!”

She whispered. To Calescent, who was bigger than Rags. The little Goblin sighed.

“I know. We don’t kidnap dead bodies. Well…not yet.”

She glanced outside, to where another ear-splitting roar filled the air. They were running out of time. Rags nodded to Calescent.

The Healer stared at Rags in disbelief. She processed the [Chieftain]’s words, then her eyes grew round with alarm. She took aim at Rags. The Goblin sidled behind a pillar as a bolt of light slashed through the air.

“Help! Help! I’m being—”

The Healer turned as Calescent charged her from the side. She opened her mouth, raised her wand, and he tossed his death-spice in her face. Then slung the woman over one shoulder.

“Go!”

Rags and Calescent ran to the first Wyvern as the other Goblins kept looting. They mounted up and flew, the Goblins abandoning the lightning siege of the city. The Humans were already coming from multiple cities.

Too slow. Too late. It was done. Merdon shouted at the sky, bleeding, stumbling after the Goblins and clutching at his torn armor. He could barely speak through his torn throat and streaming eyes.

“Stop!”

Of course, they never did. The Goblins took to the air, already fleeing pursuit as the entire north of Izril went chasing after the kidnapped Healer of Tenbault. Rags gave hasty orders, the woman webbed to the Wyvern’s back. She glanced at the horse archers and changed their course north, cursing, away from the High Passes.

“Split! Get to Goblinhome! We’ll take Healer! Go, go!”

They were all following her, breaking up to follow each Wyvern or the Goblins on Carn Wolves, unsure of which group to follow. Rags saw Redscar leading a charge on the pursuers before breaking away. She flew, knowing they wouldn’t forgive her for this.

Well. She didn’t need their forgiveness. The Goblin Chieftain laughed. Then she turned her head, looking south. She had a long way to go. But not so long, now.

Time to heal her Human. If no one would do it, she would.

Soon. Rags closed her eyes.

Hurry up. They were all of them, all her friends, her comrades, her family. So…so…

Impatient.

8.40 CTV

Unfun fact: of the countless illicit and legal substances over all of history, intoxicants to hallucinogens to medicines, mind-altering drinks, ingestibles, snacks, and every manner of potion and alchemical creations, no one ever made alcohol for Golems.

Of course, many people would not naturally see the point of such a creation and its lack spoke to the inherent difference between ‘Golems’ and ‘people’. Even undead, the literal absence of life that could result in yawning voids of malice dedicated to the destruction of all living beings…had drinks and food of their own developed over existence.

That was because undead were people, or could be, as in the case of Revenants and the rare undead that could attain sentience that negated their intrinsic malice.

But Golems? Never. They had gone through cycles of creation, perfection unto actual sentience and personality, and then inevitable destruction.

Not once had they had the time to create substances for their own enjoyment. Not once…had they been a people long enough to have anything close to recreation.

How was that for depressing? It was just one of those things no non-Golem would ever think of. Drinks, so you can stop working? Don’t make me laugh! Get back to work!

In which case Cognita would probably, and delicately, squish their skulls. She would like to. How tempting was it? After over a century of her custodianship of Wistram, how tempting would it be to simply…slaughter all the [Mages] and lock the gates? Hold Wistram with no living beings in it, and when the armies came, activate one of the great, dangerous spells, and wipe the Academy of Mages clean off the face of the earth?

It was a thought that Cognita had never had before. Oh, she had plenty of dislike for the Archmages that came and went without ever attaining the true class. Animosity towards certain [Mages] that made themselves nuisances over the years—although she had killed more than a few said nuisances when they overstepped—but never actual murder, actual destruction of the Academy of Mages.

Because, of course, why would she do that? The Academy was the beloved sanctuary, home, and possession of her master. To harm it, or jeopardize his power in any way?

It should not be. It could not be. Cognita was the loyal servant of Archmage Zelkyr, his most faithful, favored…beloved…?

The old mantra had been like breathing, and Cognita did not breathe, but she had known it every second she had existed. I am beloved. My faith is absolute. Loyalty beyond question. Service into eternity.

Even when he left, even when she waited years, decades, and a century, it had kept her here. Had it begun to wane? Perhaps, perhaps. Yet it had still defined her.

Now it was gone.

——

Cognita thought about destroying Wistram as she sat underwater, or partly. The nine foot tall Golem was sitting in the water, but her head and shoulders were partly above water until a wave rolled over her.

It wasn’t exactly strong water around Wistram, but she’d found the most-buffeted part of Wistram, far from the docks, where craggy rocks formed the base of the barren island that the Academy of Mages stood on.

She sat there, staring at the rock. Inferior rock to her; barely solid substrate unearthed by some kind of seismic shifting. Not porous; a decent foundation, but weathered and covered in algae due to the constant seawater bath.

The Truestone Golem, worth more than any three average nations combined in sheer mineral value, let alone her nature as a Golem herself, sat in the surf.

She was poking limpets attached to the rocks. Not hard enough to actually kill the shelled molluscs. Just poking them and watching them react in minute ways. She wasn’t quite sure how long she’d been doing it.

Two weeks? A fine layer of algae had coated her porcelain body as well. Before that, she’d been staring at seaweed as it floated onto shore. She’d met Archmage Valeterisa.

Objectionable. Cognita had thought she was closer to a true [Mage] than most Archmages. That had endeared Valeterisa to Cognita, insofar as any [Mage] earned her affection. It had been Cognita’s opinion that Valeterisa would come to the last exam of Archmage Zelkyr, if she didn’t die beforehand. Before her life ended, she would join the countless [Mages] who had broken themselves against the test.

All well and good; Cognita had not worried. Valeterisa as she was could not hold a candle to the test. Not the four Golems.

Radiance Golem. The burning creation, the Magma Golem on first glance, that could burn even the darkest spells away and blind all but other Golems. A concealed foe of unparalleled speed once it shed its rocky, molten armor.

Shadowflesh Golem. A stalking Golem, closer to undead than Golem. An enemy half the [Mages] who had ever dared the test had missed. Regenerative; deceptively fast. Actually the weakest Golem of the four who aided her.

Liquid Metal Golem. Ostensibly a Wireform Golem, capable of extending parts of its body to slash and kill enemies across the entire room. Another foe which could adapt to countless threats; it was designed to slash around the room, slaughtering anyone without superlative barriers.

Three Golems, all of whom could kill most [High Mages] on their own. Even a [Grand Magus] caught unawares might perish against one, and that was a [Grand Mage] of the old times. And their power could compound.

The Liquid Metal Golem could reflect the Radiance Golem’s rays until the entire room baked in its own juices. The Shadowflesh Golem could combine with the Liquid Metal Golem, into a fusion of two. Armored, regenerating death. The Radiance Golem and the Shadowflesh Golem could create dark light, rendering foes blind and the Golems invisible.

With Cognita leading them, the most adaptive, perfect Golem, those four alone could have toppled any [Archmage] of Zelkyr’s era. A team of the best [Mages] and the Archmages, though…?

Ah, now there would be a problem. Cognita had killed two [Archmages] in her existence. It was conceivable that if the best [Mages] of Zelkyr’s time had immediately banded together rather than infighting and killing each other, they might have defeated his last ‘test’.

But the trick was the last Golem. The Armored Golem, an incredibly bulky, powerful Golem designed for mass-battles. What a [Knight] was, in Golem-form.

Everyone dismissed it, assuming it was the most inferior Golem of them all. A replacement, for a Golem destroyed.

It was not. Inside the Armored Golem’s cunningly disguised chassis, a hidden Golem lurked. When the Armored Golem was inevitably destroyed, and lay ‘dead’, it would slip out, and wielding two deadly blades, one a Magewatcher Blade of Fissival, the other a magic-piercing Venous Dagger coated in deadly poisons, it would slay the greatest threat.

And it would slay them. The Duelist Golem was armed in more than just armor and weapons. It also had two boots on. Legendary relics of Zelkyr’s own people.

The Boots of the Heartflame Set. The Penumbral Flamewalkers.

A deadly trap. No one had ever survived it…until now. Cognita had never objected when Zelkyr first laid the test down, explained her role. Now, though, a voice kept speaking in her mind. A roaring half-Elf, taking on all five Golems at once. And…winning.

“You never intended anyone to pass!”

That was true. Cognita thought about it. The test was a lie. It had never bothered her; Zelkyr had made it plain she should not let anyone pass unless she were to perish, and he had designed the protections so that no one would be able to triumph.

Still. Somehow, with no logic, no heralding it, one day a half-Elf had walked into the entrance exam.

A strange, infuriating Grand Mage she vaguely recalled before her master had even been an Archmage. A dangerous unknown quantity.

Yet he had surpassed every expectation, survived Zelkyr’s trap, which he had boasted would even fool a Dragon’s insight, and…freed her. He had not destroyed them all, and he could have. He had trapped her, and he could have damaged or destroyed her while she was captive.

Eldavin had not. He had freed her. Or rather, removed the loyalty spell in her very being.

She hated him for it.

——

Cognita sat about three feet under the ground. She’d dug herself a hole with relative ease and let the surf re-cover it. She didn’t breathe and the water was as meaningless as the dirt. The lack of light and suffocating sand around her didn’t bother her.

Nor did it make her feel better. She couldn’t…couldn’t…couldn’t remember how she loved him. All she felt now was anger. Loss. A desire to end Wistram, or go above herself. Yet that would be a violation of her orders.

“I am Master Zelkyr’s most beloved creation.”

Cognita whispered to herself. And then the Golem’s marble face twisted.

“No I am not. He took her with him. Not me.”

Here was a fact she had never considered—no, consciously avoided. Cognita was one of three Truestone Golems Zelkyr had ever made. First of the three. One of her sisters had perished on Rhir.

“Kharneva.”

Even now, it hurt. Cognita remembered the shock, the terror in her being, and over it all, the sense of incredulity. We are still inferior? Our master is not…perfect?

The Deathless had slain Kharneva, who was the Gnoll, or at times, Human. The second Truestone Golem created, who could alter her stone to a greater extent than Cognita or her other sister could.

And he had taken Ovesire above. Not me.

No matter how she tried to logic it differently, say that she was trusted with a greater role…she knew her master. The one he trusted to watch him in the places where [Archmages] before had roamed, had left all their knowledge and traps, was the Golem he trusted with his life.

It was not her.

Underground, Cognita opened her eyes. She felt nothing. Or more accurately, she had no nerve endings, no tactile feeling. She sensed what she touched, could control her strength, but it was not touch like she had heard it described.

She smelled nothing, although she could again sense changes in the air. She could see, and hear. But she tasted naught. Smelled not. Felt naught.

It meant that the emotions whirling around her on the inside had no distraction. Cognita dug herself out of the hole. She scared the living hell out of the half-Gazer and Drowned ship both watching her as she stomped back onto land, but Cognita hadn’t even noticed them.

“Master. Did you ever love me?”

She no longer knew. What a cruel thing that half-Elf had done to her. Did that mean she was no longer loyal, if the spell was gone? That she had been…

Cognita’s body could change. Not in shape, not like Kharneva, and to an extent, Ovesire, both of whom had been created when Zelkyr had levelled up more. She was always the same Human he had sculpted her to be, in appearance.

She could alter her height, and the composition of her body. Truestone was all lesser stones. There were incredible synergies of stone she could turn her body into. Cognita could become as tough as Adamantium, as quick as a bolt of lightning striking. She was normally innocuous white marble, at least on the outside. Now, her stone turned into a dark grey, rough, granite-like substance. Heitore, and her eyes were dark green jade.

Hostile, heavy, wrathful. Her feet sank into the sand as she waded up the beach. Cognita had forgotten she was covered in algae, so the effect was like seeing some ancient statue wading onto shore.

The Truestone Golem’s face breached the waves, and she climbed out. A pair of [Mages] on a romantic date by the evening on the beach took one look at Cognita and ran, screaming.

“I am not unfaithful. Nor will I be swayed!”

Cognita shouted at their backs. She raised her arms upwards, and then she was a living ball of fire, the very stone Pithite, igniting the air around it with its sheer magical fire, burning the algae off.

And then she was Cognita again, white stone without blemish, a carven statue as first he’d made her. Cognita’s green eyes flicked up to the Academy of Mages.

“I am not unbeloved. Even if I lack the spell…it did not matter. I am more free than ever to serve, Eldavin. You did not win.”

She strode back to the Academy. She had work to do.

——

Wistram Academy was no stranger to new and unique things. Visitors came by all the time. The ruling power of the day—and it seemed like that was the Terras faction these days—changed things, but Wistram was always a hub of magic, coming and going.

It got strange deliveries too. Strange visitors, strange deliveries, strange events. Some of the ship [Captains] who regularly transported people and goods to the academy, in the middle of the ocean between all five continents, fairly equidistant between all of them, loved to regale travellers with tales.

“It’s said in the heydays of the Academy, they used to have so many powerful spells going on you’d be able to charge gold per every nautical mile if the word was something bad had just happened.”

“Huh. Like what?”

“Well…I heard one time a [Summoner]-[Archmage] once opened a huge rift by accident. Monsters or some…strange folk kept pouring out. The entire Academy was battling ‘em, see, and six armies had to come and break the siege. Not sure if they closed the gate or headed into it—but I do know that it happened. The [Captain] who passed this ship to me talked about his great, great grandfather being there.”

“That’s…fairly reliable. Dead gods. A rift, you said?”

“Surely, Mister Adventurer. You don’t see as much these days.”

“Well, why didn’t they get those Golems to help fight? Or did they wipe out the Golems?”

“Ah—you see, Mister Adventurer—”

“It’s Dawil.”

“Right you are. Names slip me by. You see, Adventurer Dawil, they didn’t have as many Golems in those days. This would be ah…[Captain] before me, reckon his grandfather…at least nine hundred years? He was an old man when he retired, so it would be about that. No Golems. There was a time they didn’t sit about Wistram! I heard lots of stories of Wistram’s past. One time, they had these little magic-familiars that did all the chores. But—finicky things. They’d have entire wars when factions were fighting. Familiars fighting each other. Annoying as hell, I heard.”

The Dwarf stroked his beard as he stood next to the half-Elf [Captain] guiding his ship in. If he’d heard it from an ‘old man’ half-Elf, who knew his great great grandfather’s stories, the timeline checked out.

Dwarves lived a bit longer than Humans if they didn’t expire of natural causes, but half-Elves were the longest-lived by far. There was a familiarity between both Terandrian-native species, for all the half-Elf was a mariner by trade and had been one since birth.

“Interesting. Got any stories of [Archmages]? I know Zelkyr and that Az’kerash one that was on the news…”

“How many d’you want, Adventurer Dawil?”

The half-Elf [Captain] had a crooked grin and he was far more retiring than the snootier members of his race; he lived in the moment, not in isolated villages. Dawil watched the academy in the distance, growing larger, a bubble of calm—not that the sea was rough at this time.

“Oh, how about an interesting one? There was a [Summoner]-[Archmage]. Any of them ever Dwarves?”

“Of course. Master [Runecrafters] is what they used to be, but not just that. I think some still have entire wings you could visit.”

Dawil brightened up.

“Really. Old architecture, like Deríthal-Vel?”

“Of course. Might even be some old rune-forges still working. Come to think of it, if I stop for a night or two, I might visit them myself. They let visitors in depending on their mood, and standing in a Rune of Sanctuary does the body good.”

“I imagine it does, if it’s a high-quality one. Know if they have any meditation rooms? I mean, the ones with runework, not…rooms with pillows.”

The half-Elf Captain, whose name was Jexal, scratched at his beard.

“Might be. That’s a good question. I’d ask around.”

They were talking about a kind of room Dawil knew from the home of Dwarves, Deríthal-Vel. The half-Elf gave Dawil a knowing look.

“You need peace and quiet after the ship voyage? I know not all Dwarves like the water.”

“Bah. I can swim. It’s not for me. I’d rather like to toss the rest of my team in there.”

Dawil glanced over his shoulder. Jexal gave him a knowing look. They were alone—for a given measure of alone, as [Sailors] were all about—talking at the wheel. But Dawil’s normally sociable team was not with him. Both Human and half-Elf had declined to talk with their [Captain].

“Still fighting, are they?”

“Yup. Never seen it this bad. Normally Pointy Ears—er, sorry. That’s what I call Falene to annoy her.”

Rather than take offense, Jexal laughed and Dawil went on, relieved.

“…She and I argue, but it’s not bad, usually. Banter. You’d be more worried if we weren’t. But Ylawes and Falene fighting? That’s bad.”

“Mm. I caught some of it.”

There had been…shouting. At night. Huge arguments that had kept the entire ship up, and wary, because an angry [Battlemage] could toss spells like no one’s business. Dawil shook his head.

“It’s his sister. We could have been in that Village of the Dead raid. She was there and they were the team who went in. The Horns of Hammerad?”

“You don’t say? Now there’s something. I might have to ask for an auto-graph. You know, writing on cardboard? Although if that fellow’s as angry as he was yesterday…maybe not.”

“Mhm. I’ll give you one if you like.”

“Ah…pass.”

Dawil sighed as he stood there. It had been a long journey, made longer by the Silver Swords’ usual method of travel; stopping whenever there was a monster or person in need. They’d still been on Izril when the Village of the Dead raid went down, and though they’d kept moving since the Village of the Dead was a suicide run, they’d halted a few days right on the coast to argue about heading back.

Then Yvlon had turned up in Chandrar of all places, but the worry that she was dead, guilt over not going to the raid, had led to Ylawes putting some of the blame on Falene insisting they had to go back to Wistram.

Words had been said. Words that Dawil had been frankly astonished to learn Ylawes was capable of saying, let alone knew.

Falene hadn’t handled it well either. Now they were headed to Wistram and might be off to Chandrar in a hot second, but Dawil wanted both his teammates to calm down, possibly with the help of some friendly magic.

They were just heading into port when a second ship, also bearing for Wistram, blasted past them. Dawil felt the wind and heard Jexal curse.

“Watch it, you salt-blinded idiot! Are you trying to scuttle both of us?”

He’d seen the ship coming, of course, but it had been propelled by clearly-magical winds. The [Captain] on the other vessel, a Human woman, shouted.

“Very sorry! Courier ship on…priority delivery for…”

She blasted past them so quickly that neither Dwarf nor half-Elf heard all of it. Jexal cursed, but he was mollified as the Courier ship began to flash something at them with colored lanterns.

“What’s this now?”

“Ship-speak. Hold on…ah. Well, that’s right of her.”

The colored lanterns were to let ships ‘talk’ when distance or regular spells were no good. Dawil had also heard you could send magical lights up to do it at extreme range, but he was fascinated to see it in person.

“Awful lot of work to do when you can just [Message] each other.”

“Ah, but Drowned Ships love to listen for those spells and ambush us. Also, you have to have two [Mages] who can sense each other…and in a bad magical storm it’s no good. And some things sense magic like that. You don’t want to cast [Message] in Kraken’s Pass.”

Jexal shuddered. He went on, steering his ship in the wake of the Courier-ship.

“That was an apology and an invitation to have a drink. Good of her. That’s the Four Winds of Teral, by the way.”

“No. The same Courier ship that did that delivery to Baleros? With the cure?”

“Very same. Saw how fast they were going? They can use all four winds. I heard they once outran a Kraken at sea. And those bastards have mile-long tentacles! Multiple hearts, multiple brains in a single appendage. You want to get to Chandrar after Terandria? See if the Four Winds is headed back that way. It’ll be faster than anything else going.”

“We might just do that. Captain Jexal, think if I asked to tag along and pay my drinks…?”

The half-Elf considered it, then grinned and slapped Dawil on the shoulder.

“Why not? I reckon the team that knows the Horns would be interesting company.”

The team that knows the Horns of Hammerad. So that was where they were? Dawil had to shake his head at the fickle nature of adventuring. The Silver Swords were a famous team in northern Izril, but it didn’t extend to the sea in terms of credentials.

As their ship came into port, far more sedately than the Courier ship which had already unhooked an entire section of their ship to unload goods—and the female, Human [Captain] herself was striding up towards Wistram for a priority-delivery—the rest of the Silver Swords finally appeared.

It was…interesting. They were quite polite to Captain Jexal as they shook his hand and thanked him for the voyage, but one look at the scowling [Knight] and half-Elf and you’d assume Ylawes was the most foul-tempered adventurer on the face of the earth.

“We’re having drinks with Captain Jexal and the [Captain] of the Four Winds, Ylawes, Falene. At least, I am. Figure we might be able to get a quick ride to Chandrar if they’re headed back that way.”

“Even riding with them from Baleros to Chandrar would be faster than the regular. They’d probably let you on for a song if they like you.”

“That’s a good idea, Dawil. I’m glad someone has their priorities straight.”

The Dwarf [Axe Champion] winced as Falene stared pointedly past Ylawes.

“We’re here. I shall meet with my faction and friends. And see you both tonight. Dawil.”

Neither one acknowledged the other’s existence. It was like children. Dawil sighed, then saw Falene descend the ramp, staff in hand. She’d dressed up; she had her traditional robes on, but she’d taken the time to add two earrings, a touch of makeup, two ornaments; a wrist bangle and sash, both of which had particular sigils on them.

Revivalists? Was that her faction? Dawil sighed and bade farewell to Jexal, who was much amused.

“Falene! Falene, wait! Where are we…?”

Dawil wanted to know where they were going, but Falene was off the ramp and heading towards the academy so fast he was sure she’d cast [Speed] on herself. He turned to Ylawes.

“I suppose we’d better go after her. How are you feeling, lad?”

“Fine. This had better be worth it.”

Ylawes stomped down the ramp after Dawil. Sighing, the Dwarf led the way at a more sedate pace towards Wistram. The double doors were thrown open, and he saw a few [Mages] about. Strangely…some were in the water, swimming back to shore. Dawil craned his neck upwards.

Wistram. He had never been here, but it did not disappoint. The glowing towers, some with magical effects, hung high above him in every architectural style. It was even larger on the inside, but it looked like a fortress to rival a Walled City…no, his home itself! Any kingdom in Terandria would be hard-pressed to even match this palace in terms of scope.

Beauty? Well, the hodge-podge effect of so many builders took away from that. But look at that tower! Permanently aflame! Another, frozen in ice. And up Wistram stretched, until the top parts vanished from view in the permanent mists.

Impressive, to say the least. Dawil admired the enchanted stone, not showing any dirt or filth despite exposure to the open air. He saw open walkways extending around some towers—this was an academy not afraid of attack.

The Dwarf frowned and pointed up.

“Ylawes! Do you see that? The [Mages] are leaping off the walkways! Do they do that for fun?”

“I see it. Let’s keep moving, Dawil.”

The Dwarf bit his lip. Ylawes was in no mood to watch the [Mages] slowing in midair, trying to arrest their fall. He winced as one belly-flopped so hard it was audible at this distance. Two other [Mages] dove after their comatose friend.

No one welcomed the two Gold-rank adventurers to Wistram. There was no huge turnout of people, no fanfare. They just walked in the double doors to an argument and reunion, happening at once.

“Falene Skystrall. Sister, it delights us that you have returned.”

Archmage Feor, the half-Elf leader of the Centrist faction, was greeting the half-Elf with a small group of his followers. Centrists. Dawil snapped his fingers. That was who she was part of!

Falene was smiling, as the Archmage addressed a Star Lamia, leaning on her staff.

“I do apologize, Mage Falene. We shall of course welcome your team. It’s just—Archmage Naili, it’s not you or Viltach? It must be Verdan, then.”

“Not him. You think he’s bought that? You must be mad! It’s Valeterisa. That airhead. Only she’d do something this stupid.”

“Well, I need one of you to confirm it. Anyone will do. Who’s got a seal? Or I can take verbal confirmation of delivery…”

The [Captain] of the Four Winds was trying to complete her delivery, and was exasperatedly arguing with the two Archmages. The problem was…neither one wanted to accept the delivery. Feor stroked at his beard meaningfully and Naili snorted.

“No one wants that. Valeterisa can organize it—I’d rather send it back.”

“Send it…?”

The [Captain] was astounded. Feor hurried to assure her.

“Captain Bressa, the delivery will of course be paid for by Valeterisa, but the contents…?”

“What do you want me to do, take it back all the way to Baleros? It was a huge rush order!”

“You could toss it into the sea. I’ll pay you to sink it.”

Naili offered. Dawil and Ylawes both stared at the object under such debate.

It was…a statue. An actual statue, transported in a Chest of Holding, which the [Captain] had two [Sailors] haul up. Only that kind of object could have held the twelve-foot tall statue, sculpted and then covered in gold paint. Some [Sculptor] must have indeed had multiple speed Skills to get it done.

Dawil didn’t see what was wrong with it. It was of some [Archmage], that was clear. A noble face, staring up towards the sky with a spellbook in one claw, the other held up as if in greeting.

The Drake had what could only be described as exaggeratedly noble features to Dawil’s eyes. His robes touched the floor around him in impractical length, but it was a statue. Dawil read the inscription.

Archmage Zelkyr of Wistram, the Archmage of Golems. Glorious guiding mind of the Academy of Mages, as presented delivering his wisdom to fellow students of magic.

“There is no way we’re putting that up. Valeterisa doesn’t have the authorization of the Council. I’m astonished she wasted coin on this.”

Naili tapped the statue with her staff, looking annoyed at…everything. Even Feor was disapproving.

“Well, it had full authority of Wistram, and I’m paid to deliver. You can deal with it…just someone acknowledge the receipt? Please?”

“Why don’t we just blast it, Feor? I’ll sign, you melt.”

Naili slithered over, but before she could do either, a figure strode down the hallway. And her tread was a sound of its own.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Dawil expected to see someone in armor with that kind of weight. Instead, he saw a nine-foot tall porcelain figure, her features even more well-sculpted than the statue she was staring at. The Dwarf had heard of Cognita of Wistram. To see her?

Ylawes and Dawil stepped back as the Truestone Golem halted in front of the statue. She stared up and nodded.

“My delivery has arrived. You are Captain Bressa of the Four Winds of Teral.”

It was not a question. The [Captain]’s mouth fell open. Feor and Naili, who had stiffened slightly when they saw Cognita approaching, blinked in astonishment.

“Er—yes, Cognita of Wistram. This is your delivery, then?”

“It is. The statue is…adequate.”

Cognita strode around it, barely inspecting it, before nodding. Naili spluttered.

“Cognita! This is your statue? You ordered…”

She gestured at Zelkyr. Cognita ignored Nailihuaile.

“I will accept the delivery. You may attest to delivering it, Captain Bressa. As for its placement…”

“Of course, er, Golem Cognita. W-where…?”

The two [Sailors] stared up at the Golem with as much awe as trepidation. Cognita pointed.

“There.”

Every head turned. Dawil saw her point to a spot just before two grand staircases on the right and left, leading upwards to Wistram’s many, convoluted floors. Naili spluttered.

“In our entrance hallway? Wait. Where did the statue of Archmage Rezy go?”

“Archmage Rezinoul’s statue?”

Feor looked, but the place where the statue that used to greet all visitors had stood was…empty. Both turned to Cognita.

“It has been replaced. Place Archmage Zelkyr’s statue there.”

The two [Sailors] began to fumble with the chest of holding. Archmage Naili was incandescent.

“Archmage Rezy was there when I was a new student! Everyone loved him!”

“He has been relocated. A more suitable statue to the current [Archmage] of Wistram will replace him. I have commissioned it.”

“With what money?”

“The budget.”

“The—”

Dawil was vastly entertained, but also wary. The angry Lamia advanced, finger wagging. Archmage Feor was more reluctant, and Falene…she was looking at Cognita with clear unease.

“You can’t just use the budget the Council allotted for this, Cognita! That’s our food and resources! You can’t—”

She was clearly used to being able to tell Cognita off. Or, perhaps, just used to the steward of Wistram being the impassive Golem she always was.

Cognita’s head turned and she looked down at Nailihuaile in a distinctly unfriendly manner. The Star Lamia slowed, and looked up.

“Can’t? I cannot? I am Cognita, and by Archmage Zelkyr’s power—and faith in me—I control all matters related to Wistram. I have deemed it necessary to remind [Mages] of that. By his authority, the statue will remain here. No one will remove it. Is that understood?”

The Archmage looked up at Cognita. She looked at Feor, and the half-Elf’s brows had disappeared into his white hair. He gave Naili a slight shake of the head.

“Er…well…if you think you have to—”

Naili tried to back up. She didn’t, before the Truestone Golem stepped forwards. Cognita bent down to stare at Nailihuaile.

“No one will remove the statue. Is that understood?”

The Lamia hesitated. Dawil had a hand on his axe. Then, after some thought, he had a hand not on his axe or anything that would annoy the Golem practically oozing hostility. Naili nodded slowly.

“…That’s absolutely understood, Cognita. No one touches it.”

“Good.”

Cognita straightened. She gave the golden statue another look as it was placed down. She strode over, and the two [Sailors] leapt away. Cognita adjusted the twelve-foot statue an inch so it was perfectly straight with one hand. Then she nodded.

“That will be all.”

She began to walk away, then stopped. She eyed Ylawes, Falene, and Dawil.

“Adventurers.”

She snorted. Dawil saw her glance at him, and then stomped off. He let out a huge breath in the silence that followed.

So this was Wistram? Falene hadn’t lied. It was certainly…interesting.

——

Cognita’s new statue was not the only development in Wistram. Everyone was abuzz about it, and Trey Atwood, or Troy Atlas, heard the gossip at the table with his fellow students.

“There’s a new tapestry hanging up in the long hallway! You know, the one that goes to the gardens?”

“I know it. I didn’t see anything yesterday.”

“Well, it’s just up.”

Trey looked at Astritha, one of the first-year students in his group of friends. She wasn’t as familiar to him as the others. It was Tov, the Drowned Man, who shook his head.

“I haven’t seen it. What is it?”

“It’s…a tapestry. Of Archmage Zelkyr. Everyone wants it removed. Some of the [Mages] say it’s an affront. But Cognita put it up so no one dares touch it. It’s, um. A tapestry. Of Archmage Zelkyr.”

Astritha chose her words carefully. Carn, or Calac Crusland, tapped his fingers impatiently on the table.

“What’s controversial about that? The fact that he’s the last [Archmage]?”

“No…well, the older [Mages] don’t like that, I guess. But the tapestry’s, um…”

Tov, Trey, Carn, all looked blank. The Drowned Man, Tov, looked left as the Gazer, Goelv, elaborated.

“It is of Archmage Zelkyr without any clothes. Lying on his side, in what I would assume to be a flattering pose. I do not know Drake anatomy. Mess?”

‘Mess’, or Messill, stopped eating at the table the first years were sharing.

“Goelv. I’m trying not to think about it as I eat. Is it flattering? I guess. Please stop reminding me.”

“The painting has an ornamental fan in the way, but it, uh, leaves little for the imagination.”

Astritha whispered to the others. Emirea, or Lady Emirea du Merrimorn, the little Human girl from Terandria, turned red.

“Alright. I’m never going down that corridor again.”

Carn growled. The others looked at each other. It was funny—until you remembered who was doing this.

Cognita? Something was up, and Trey was one of the few people who could have said why. But because that was a huge secret, he kept his lips shut.

“Did you hear there’s a team of Gold-ranks? The Silver Swords? From Izril! They’re fairly famous, apparently, and one of them’s a half-Elf from the Centrists. A [Battlemage]! Do you think she’ll teach some practical classes or tell stories?”

“Never heard of them. They must be from the north.”

Messill yawned. Trey, on the other hand, was quite interested.

“I’d like to see them.”

“Well, they’re staying around the academy. The [Knight] is handsome, but he’s scowling all the time.”

Astritha sighed, looked around at the all-male group aside from Emirea, who was only 11 herself, and realized she didn’t have an audience. Well…Tov leaned over.

“How handsome are we talking about?”

He looked serious. Astritha laughed like it was a joke, but Carn gave Tov a slightly strange look. So did Messill.

Trey just wondered if Cognita was going to murder them all as a Golem shaped like a Human, whom you could almost mistake for a person at first glance, came to remove dishes from the table.

He really had to get Amerys and get out of here. But Eldavin had him under personal apprenticeship and for now…

Trey gulped down his food as someone called his name.

“Sorry, I’ll catch up. Studying after class with Magus Rievan?”

They all nodded. In truth, it was a lot of Trey mentoring some of the weaker students. He had personal lessons from Eldavin, to the point where the Grand Magus had suggested he leave Rievan’s beginner class; Trey was already miles ahead of everyone else due to his tutoring from Gazi.

Nevertheless, he liked his fellow students and they were about the only ones he did like in the [Mage] group. As for the Earthers…

“Troy! Troy, get over here. Come meet some adventurers with us! And someone new!”

“Hey. I knew a Troy.”

Aaron, Elena, and some of the Earthers not now taking classes were milling around the banquet room at breakfast. They had a new Earther with them. Trey blinked and shook Leon’s hand.

“You knew a Troy?”

“Yeah, but he didn’t come with.”

“You have to tell us about it. Leon here is all the way from Izril, Troy. Liscor. You know, that city on the news?”

“And Pallass and Invrisil. There was a magic door…”

Leon had that wide-eyed look of someone new to Wistram. He nodded at Trey, blinking around. Trey had no real read on him, aside from Leon playing up where he’d come from as they went to greet the Gold-rank team. Apparently, they were guests and the Earthers, being Earthers, were allowed to mix and mingle. Or rather, it was a request from the Centrists and Feor.

“Yeah, we were all at this inn, but we had to leave because…well, a lot of bad stuff happened. We survived Creler attacks, and other monsters—I decided to come here.”

“You survived Creler attacks?”

“Well, I didn’t do much fighting, but yeah. We also fought off other monsters—there were even some Goblins that stayed at the inn all the time.”

Leon nodded modestly, a slight smile on his face. Trey eyed him. He didn’t look like a [Warrior]. And the way he talked about Crelers…Trey had seen Crelers when Flos showed them a nest. He had nightmares.

“I also saw the Wyvern attack on Pallass. You know? The inn actually helped fight it off. Portal door. And there were Raskghar—ever heard of them? They’re like, evil Gnolls.”

“Really? I’ve never seen a Gnoll! They don’t come to Wistram.”

“Well, they attacked the inn. And there were Antinium around all the time.”

“No way.”

The world traveller that was Leon had seen more species than even Trey. He was just elaborating on the Creler attacks as the group made their way to a table where an overwhelmed half-Elf was speaking to a fellow [Mage] in her faction.

——

Dawil was fascinated, though Falene didn’t share everything. She was talking with a male half-Elf named Ostrigael.

Not Teura, who might have facilitated a lot of Feor’s work. She had jumped ship for another faction, which had rattled Falene to her core. The Terras faction was, apparently, new to her, and Archmage Feor’s warm welcome might have had to do with a certain loss of power.

They were meeting Earthers. A concept Dawil had yet to fully wrap his head around. But which…explained so much.

Ylawes had been forced to go for a walk. He was in no mood even for these earth-shattering observations; they had clearly shaken him, but he was still worried about his sister. He’d already tried to pay off the crimes on her head, but they had run into legal problems with Nerrhavia’s Fallen.

“…Each faction has a few, but we do coordinate, Falene. As for technologies, we have a few. You should see the ah, ‘Battle Room’ where one of them has a most unusual weapon. We have a new illusion-project with Mage Telim…well, the Ullsinoi faction is going to trial it in major cities. I suppose the most fascinating developments are merely cultural, aside of course from all the scientific information.”

“Such as? Oh—are these new Earthers?”

They were queuing up as Falene, quite overwhelmed, tried to keep track of it all. Ostrigael had a knowing smile on his face.

“You will have to see the technology they have, Falene! But they also have an entire world of culture. Entire books on these devices. Audio, movies…and plays! We actually have songs and plays, both by Earthers, we are sure. Have you heard of the Shakespeares?”

“…You mean plays?”

Dawil interrupted. The half-Elf [Mage] hesitated.

“Ah, you have. Well, we have every copy of the plays…and some of the other factions are putting on performances! You should see them!”

“We have seen that, Ostrigael. The Players of Celum have been putting them on for half a year.”

The [Wizard]’s face went refreshingly slack as Falene shook her head distractedly. Then her brows snapped together and she and Dawil exchanged a look.

“…You mean they’re not from our world?”

Dawil stroked his beard. Oh yes. This explained a lot. He wondered what a genuine autograph from the Players of Celum might be worth around here? A cure for a certain young woman?

“I ah…I can see Archmage Feor was correct in inviting you to learn everything, Falene! Let me just talk to him…you can speak with these Earthers. One is from Izril. One second.”

Ostrigael shot out of his seat and the [Wizard] hurried off as Falene rose to speak with the Earthers. Dawil was getting out of his seat when he heard a familiar voice.

“…yeah, the Crelers were attacking a Gold-rank team. I was at the inn as we evacuated—they came through the door, but most of us got out. But an entire team of adventurers was stuck in the Bloodfields. They had to actually level the inn to get rid of the Crelers, but the adventurers actually survived.”

Dawil glanced up. He sidled out as Falene rose.

“Good morning to you. I am Magus Falene of the Silver Swords. And you are…?”

“I’m Aaron, Miss Falene. This is Elena, and George…we’re all excited to meet you. You’re all Gold-ranks?”

“That’s right. From Izril.”

Someone went silent abruptly as the gaggle of nearly two dozen Earthers peered at her, introducing themselves, wanting to know about adventuring. Dawil, five feet tall, wasn’t overlooked; just short. He saw the Earthers staring with interest at him, but he was strolling around the group, peering at a certain someone trying to duck down…

“That’s right. My name’s Dawil. We’re the Silver Swords. Been all over northern Izril. Liscor, that was the latest. I think I see a familiar face here. Don’t you, Falene?”

The half-Elf glanced over curiously. Dawil stroked his beard.

“Hullo, Leon. Fancy meeting you again.”

The young man was pale as he tried to smile at Dawil. Everyone looked at him. Trey saw Leon’s guilty face, but the Dwarf just smiled.

“Looks like we have a lot to talk about. You talking about the Creler attacks? We missed it, but it was a sight. Some friends of ours survived it. Glad to see Leon’s telling the story right.”

So that was it. He ignored the sweating young man; Dawil wasn’t out to ruin his life. Although he wasn’t above blackmail if it came to that. He nodded to himself.

“So that’s where she’s from.”

He’d already guessed the moment he heard about Earthers, but it all but confirmed it for him. If Leon was one…they all were. Ryoka too. Ylawes would flip when he realized how close they’d been to the truth. Falene was already clearly doing mental backflips. As for Dawil?

He’d enjoy a nice long talk with Erin Solstice. Once she woke back up.

——

The Silver Swords meeting the Earthers was a highlight of the day for Trey, because they were at once so surprised and so familiar.

They knew Leon. And while it was clear to Trey that Leon had exaggerated some parts of his backstory, none of them had come out and said it outright. But the fact was, they had met Earthers.

Earthers who weren’t at Wistram. Trey tucked that away in the back of his mind. The Wandering Inn. Interesting. First Gazi, now Leon?

She would probably like to meet him.

The Gold-ranks were equally fascinating to the Earthers as being the very stuff of stories. The thing a lot of Earthers—those like Aaron who hadn’t landed next to monsters or seen the world—wanted to become.

When they saw Ylawes, Dawil, and Falene standing together, Trey heard so many Lord of the Rings references in the first hour he felt like it was almost racist. Which…it was?

He really wanted to know what they would make of that movie. However, if the Gold-ranks were fascinating to the Earthers, it wasn’t in equal distribution.

The [Knight], Ylawes, was grumpy, and had little patience with the others. He actually went off to practice with his sword rather than talk. Falene had that ‘[Mage]’ quality, and Aaron and some of the others practically dragged her off to show them spells in the Battle Room, the name for the skirmish area with the airsoft gun and so on.

However, Dawil was the popular one. Mainly because…well, he was friendly. A lot taller than you expected, too. But he had plenty of time to tell the others about monsters, and he did it in a way Trey liked.

“It’s not for everyone, lad. Ever had to skin a rabbit?”

He was talking to some of the Earthers, some of whom fancied themselves good candidates for adventure, and even hinted about joining their team. Almost everyone shook their heads, but George nodded. Dawil nodded at him.

“Good practice. I’d say…go find a [Butcher]. I bet even Wistram has one. Can you work a day cutting animals up? All that blood? I tell Bronze-ranks to do it. Because—and it’s not always like this—but even Pointy Ears has been backed into a wall with her dagger, gutting monsters in close-quarters. If you can’t even handle the blood, let alone the danger, it’s not for you.”

“But it’s not all that, is it?”

“No…but have you ever actually tried to stab anyone? It’s not just anyone who can stab a Mossbear to death. Still, you’re right. There’s plenty of fun to be had. Mainly when you’re not adventuring and you’re flush with gold. But when I think of adventure and amazement—the School of Magic itself is somewhere I dreamed of being. I saw this huge Golem lady. Cognita. Anyone know about her?”

The Earthers clamored to answer Dawil’s questions and explain the politics and factions. However, the Dwarf began asking questions even they couldn’t answer.

“Right, she’s not part of the factions. Think I’ve got them all down…I met a Scriptel, and one of the Ullsinoi. Might have to look them up and drop some names. But Cognita. She’s the creation of that Archmage, Zelkyr, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

Dawil whistled.

“Then she’s maybe the one to talk to. Now there’s a living legend.”

Trey’s head snapped up. He saw Dawil glancing over his shoulder at the Golems. Someone laughed.

“But the Archmages…”

“I don’t even think Archmage Feor’s the level Zelkyr was. Cognita of Wistram, though…I heard her name when I was just a boy. No one’s got tales about her? What does she do all the time?”

“Run Wistram? She doesn’t actually do much. I hear she defends it.”

Dawil tugged at his beard, incredulous.

“What, nothing? Even I know stories about her. You’re telling me you’ve never heard a single tale of the Truestone Golems?”

The [Mages] in earshot weren’t giving Dawil encouraging looks. But the Dwarf raised his cup of water and thunked it on the table, mildly outraged.

“Not one story.”

“Are there stories?”

Dawil gave Trey a steady gaze, which the young man returned. He saw what Cognita was—or a different side of her, like Trey. The Gold-rank [Axe Champion] settled back.

“Let me put it like this. I know some, and I grew up in Terandria, where they weren’t fans of her. Sort of strange that Wistram has none they talk about.”

“Ah, Adventurer Dawil. Should we glorify Cognita of Wistram? Surely she’s simply part of Wistram’s legacy.”

One of the [Mages], Ostrigael, smiled, but he had an edge to the smile. Dawil, unfazed, just raised his brows.

“Part of Wistram’s legacy? She is Wistram’s fame. When they say ‘Wistram’, they talk about her. No offense, Wizard Ostrigael. But they don’t tell stories about Archmage Feor. They still tell stories about Cognita and the Archmage of Golems.”

——

In those days, when Wistram backed nations, the [Archmages] fought. With each other, with other nations, for their own petty interests.

Some were old rivalries, like Terandria and Izril. Or Drakes and Lizardfolk. Terandria and Chandrar. Well. Everyone had a reason by now to fight with everyone else.

The story of how Archmage Chandler broke the backs of four armies at the pass was one everyone knew, now. But it was one story, if the most famous one about him.

Cognita of Wistram, and Archmage Zelkyr, though. There was a reason her name was spread as far as Illivere, and children grew up hearing stories about her. The clever Truestone Golems of the Archmage of Golems.

They said that once, during the incursions into Izril, the Archmage of Golems led a counterattack to finally rid Izril of Lizardfolk once and for all. But during the attack, Medusae by the hundreds froze Drakes solid, even turning some to stone.

It didn’t stop the Golems, but the Lizardfolk pushed the Drake army back by the hundreds of thousands, trying to kill the Archmage of Golems as his rival took to the field.

In the chaos, his greatest creation, the half-completed Truestone Golem, Cognita, was separated, trying to defend her master. She was forced to flee.

So she ran.

Cognita remembered that. She did not see her master in the chaos, but she had to flee or be destroyed. Her stone was damaged. Yet she ran, and even the Lizardfolk on horseback, even the ones with wings couldn’t catch her. They shot spells at her back, rained arrows down.

She just kept running, with a Golem’s tireless speed. Yet there were far too many for her to beat. When she eventually found herself alone, she was deep behind enemy lines.

Not knowing what to do, only aware of the plan of war, Cognita emerged from the swamps the Nagas were trying to transform parts of Izril into. The Archmage of Waters, the Archmage of Nagas’ work.

Alone, the Truestone Golem marched through water that could go waist-deep or up to Drakes’ chests. It barely came up to her knees most of the time. She saw the Lizardfolk massing.

So quick in the water. Her master had ordered her to take Heitore-form for the duration of the battle. Cognita advanced on them and saw Gorgons, carrying huge weapons in their hands, slithering out of the water.

“Destroy the Golem.”

One swung an enchanted axe and Cognita lifted an arm. The Gorgon stared as the axe crunched against her arm and the blade chipped. Cognita swung a fist, but the giant serpentine warrior dodged backwards.

Skills. She had none. The Lizardfolks’ slings and spells hit her time and time again, but did no damage. Stalemate. They called for nets, trying to drag her down, and she couldn’t catch or slay enough of them fast enough.

It had been less than a month since she had been created. The Truestone Golem stared down at her hands.

I am more than one stone. Her master had begun to remake her out of Truestone, his discovery of an age. But neither he nor she knew what its true power was. Her outer layers had been replaced, but she was not pure Truestone, not yet, hence the need for the most defensive stone he could imagine. Heitore, which rivaled Adamantium for strength. However, even it could break.

So much water. If there had been time to make Water Golems, and if the Archmage of Nagas had not been able to twist them or destroy them, Zelkyr had moaned, he could have routed the Lizardfolk in their natural terrain.

Water. Thousands of Lizardfolk were sounding the alarm. Cognita heard them shouting, closing in. Nets caught her limbs. They were trying to capture her. She kept looking at the water as she fought forwards.

“I can be more than this.”

The Heitore flickered across her face. Like the Lizardfolks’ color-changing scales. Like a chameleon changing, at lightning-speed.

Cognita’s ‘skin’ turned bright yellow and transparent. Like quartz. It revealed her inner self, her Golem’s Heart. The Gorgons dragging at her hesitated. A Lamia [Wizard] saw which stone she’d shifted to and shouted a warning.

“Zap Topaz! Get out of the water! Get out of th—”

She tried to cast an anti-lightning spell. But Cognita was lightning. The first bolt of electricity did not arc down from clear skies, but from the figure which generated it.

The Truestone Golem strode out of the muck. She advanced over drying ground, her Truestone changing. Learning.

Change to be light as can be. Beyond lightweight. To stone that defies gravity.

Leap—and change to Heitore. Unbreakable defense.

The Truestone Golem plunged her hands into the stone walls as she climbed. The screaming Lizardfolk, throwing stones down at her, fled as she climbed onto the walls. The Drake army, fighting in the shadow of one of their taken fortresses, saw the figure glowing atop the walls.

Lightning. The Archmage of Waters looked up as Cognita of Wistram hurled a bolt of lightning down at him from the fortress she had claimed by herself. He tried to drown her, blast her with water, but she was an unyielding stone in the wake of tidal waves. She was what the Nagas broke against, and when she clapped her hands, thunder spoke and lightning fell.

That was the day she learned what Truestone meant.

——

Cognita stood there, listening, so still and quiet that Dawil, telling the story, didn’t see her until she stepped into the light.

He froze. So did the [Mages] and Earthers, who had been listening to the tale they told everywhere in the world but Wistram.

Trey had listened to the tale of how the first Truestone Golem had single-handedly destroyed an army, climbed into a fortress, routed the defenders, and then matched the Archmage of Waters in a ranged battle, spell for spell.

It seemed incredible, to look at plain Cognita, who never did any of that. Until Trey remembered Eldavin’s battlefield.

He could believe it. The [Mages] of Wistram liked to forget, or pretend such stories didn’t exist.

“Er…I beg your pardon, Miss Golem. I didn’t mean to insult anyone, by telling old tales. I was just saying…”

Dawil stared up at Cognita as she approached. The Truestone Golem looked at him, and her head turned.

“Falene Skystrall of the Centrists faction. You have returned to the academy after years of absence.”

“Yes, Cognita?”

The Golem gave the [Battlemage] a cool look.

“I congratulate you on your continued survival. This is your companion, Dawil of the Silver Swords.”

“At your service, Miss Cognita. I hope I didn’t offend?”

The Truestone Golem saw Dawil bow slightly. She looked at him, thoughtfully.

“I remember that day differently. That is all.”

Trey sucked in his breath. The audience looked at Cognita. Someone tittered nervously, but fell silent when the Truestone Golem looked sideways.

“I…may I ask what was wrong, Miss Cognita? I wouldn’t want to get the details wrong if I retold the story, but not many people are alive that were—there.”

Dawil was uncharacteristically flustered. The Golem blinked down at him.

“Your story is mostly substantive, Dawil Ironbreaker. The inaccuracies are of perspective.”

“And you did all that?”

“You sound incredulous, Aaron Vanwell.”

Cognita did not turn her head. She was looking at Dawil, as if interested. The young man had a too-familiar smile, to Trey’s mind. He treated Cognita less like the object some of Wistram’s [Mages] did…but too familiarly for Trey. As if he hadn’t just heard of how she matched an [Archmage] blow for blow, he shrugged.

“I just can’t imagine it, Cognita. You never do anything like that.”

She made a sound. Trey edged his seat back a bit.

“That is typical of my observations of Humans, Aaron Vanwell. I am the same Cognita of then. If anything, I am the greater Golem than the one in the story, for my master improved me since that day. If nothing else changes, do you have reason to doubt I am capable of everything you have heard of?”

Aaron opened his mouth and Cognita finally looked at him.

“Or must you see something for it to be real?”

He didn’t answer her. Cognita looked around. Her gaze caught Trey’s for a second, then she looked around the room.

——

Incredible. To the Truestone Golem, it was incredible. The Dwarf believed. So did Trey Atwood. But she saw incredulity, dismissiveness. A belief of exaggeration.

Were they incapable of abstract thought? Or had their stupidity managed to shut down their higher functions? Cognita looked around.

“I am Cognita. Cognita of Wistram, as some named me. I am the same Golem who stood by Archmage Zelkyr’s side. That I do not prove my strength does not diminish who I am. It is foolish to assume otherwise. But that is your failing. Perhaps you have forgotten. Then: this is a reminder.”

She lifted her arms. In the gaze of all those present, Cognita changed her arms.

Just her arms. To the nicknamed Zap Topaz. Not just her outer ‘skin’, her entire arms’ structure, because she was all Truestone. She had learned, since that day, to combine stone. Zap Topaz was merely the outer layer.

She saw the Dwarf knock over his chair, grab Trey Atwood, and dive to the floor. Cognita paid them no mind. The air charged in less than a second as her glowing arms, lit by inner blue fire and crystal, rose.

Cognita clapped her hands.

The sound her hands made was not like a regular clap. It was like…two pieces of stone hitting each other. It was still a fair approximation of a clapping sound, but distinctly less loud.

The [Mages] of Wistram jumped at the slight noise. Half of them were hiding under tables. They stared up as Cognita’s glowing arms stopped glowing.

The faint sound was accompanied by…nothing. No discharge of even a spark of lightning. No tremendous bang of thunder. Cognita glanced down at Dawil as the Dwarf rolled off the flattened Trey. She nodded at him.

“They tell stories of me in Illivere, Adventurer Dawil?”

Lying on his back, the Dwarf blinked up at her.

“…I think they’re fans, Miss Cognita. You have ‘em around the world.”

“Interesting. I did not know that. Thank you for telling me.”

She walked out of the banquet hall, swiftly, never looking back, her long stride carrying her away in heartbeats. The entire room was silent. After a while, someone laughed.

That precipitated a storm of chuckles, laughter at Dawil’s expense. He got up, apologizing to Trey, dusting him off, taking the laughter and jesting from the other [Mages] without pointing out how they had looked when Cognita was about to clap her hands.

A reminder. Do you need to see something? The people inside chuckled. They sat back as the banquet room, the far wall made of glass and open to the sea view beyond today, saw a Golem woman jog out onto the water, her legs walking on the water’s surface. She paused, and pointed up.

It was not a bolt of lightning; a bolt lasted only a second. A beam shot straight up and cracked the Bubble of Calm over Wistram in half. It blasted into the sky and created a hole in the clouds overhead.

The sound and flash of light left Trey dumb and deaf for minutes afterwards. He stumbled around as people screamed or ran into each other. When he peeked out from behind the overturned table, he saw Cognita standing in the center of the sea, facing them. The waves were crashing hard against the island.

And it was raining. The Bubble of Calm was…gone. Cognita strode back towards shore.

Remember that.

——

Cognita of Wistram re-read a letter from a certain [Mage] she had once thought of, vaguely, as a friend. She studied it, and thought about how things had changed since then.

It had once been easy to do everything, knowing that until Zelkyr returned, she would remain right here. Now? Everything was tempting. Everything was different.

She eventually put Pisces’ letter aside, and reached for the transcription she had made of Archmage Chandler’s words. She stared at it.

I have changed. Wistram was still shaken from her display. Cognita walked down the hallways and the [Mages] lined the walls rather than her having to navigate around them. Better.

The Bubble of Calm would come back. But what wouldn’t come back was Cognita’s access to Wistram’s budget. And to be fair…it wasn’t hers. It was simply the money for food, other supplies.

Do I have any money? Cognita wondered. She had felt like commissioning another statue or…

Perhaps not. They lost their appeal. She had felt triumphant a moment after hanging up the tapestry, looking at the statue, but then she couldn’t feel the emotion again. However, the entire exchange with Naili had made Cognita realize something.

I don’t have any money.

She did, in theory, have access to Zelkyr’s long-standing accounts with various institutions, but she had never had to make use of them. And Cognita felt it wasn’t hers.

Had she ever had a single copper coin? Yes…now she thought of it, she had. A few times, people had given her money, or she’d found some on the ground. Zelkyr didn’t have time for ‘worthless denominations’ as he put it, so she had kept a copper coin for three weeks. Then used it and other coins to pay for a snack when he was hungry.

She missed her coin. It had been hers. Of course, back then she hadn’t cared. Now?

“Money.”

It would be nice to have money. What would she spend it on? Anything she wanted.

The idea blew Cognita’s mind. Then another thought was just as strange. What did she want?

“How would I earn money?”

The Golem sat on a chair in a room everyone had forgotten existed because they no longer recalled the passcode. It was a place she went to when she didn’t want to be bothered. Cognita looked around the ancient, half-Elven Empire-deco style with their heavy emphasis on leaves and whole pieces of wood or stone shaped just so.

Not her style. Or was it? Cognita realized something else crucial.

I don’t have a room. She didn’t need one, or an office; she could remember everything and command the Golems. She never slept, so why would she need a room?

She wanted a room. Could she just…give herself one? Cognita knew every empty room in all of Wistram. She hesitated. But there was something else that pressed on her mind, even more than these sudden desires.

Dawil’s story. It had been accurate. Oh, not to the events; it had been her not knowing what to do that made her head for the fortress, which had been the target of attack. She hadn’t deliberately used lightning; it had surprised her as much as the Lizardfolk.

But it had been good to hear that story. It made Cognita remember. She stood up.

“Yes. That’s true.”

——

“And what is she doing now?”

“Standing there, Grand Magus!”

Eldavin rolled his eyes as he strode down the corridor. The worried [Mages] practically clinging to his robes followed in a huge train. He supposed it only made sense after that Golem showed off her powers.

Cognita of Wistram was behaving erratically, and he blamed himself. And her. Mostly her. The half-Elf huffed. Now she was free of the loyalty spells, there was no predicting what she’d do.

His head twinged at the thought of confronting her again, but Eldavin denied fear a place in his heart. He had much of the Terras faction behind him and Viltach had also been spotted heading off to investigate this new, strange action. If it came to it…

Cognita was standing in one of the central libraries, paging through a book. It was…the least terrifying thing she could be doing to Eldavin’s mind, but the [Mages] were so nervous of her they’d rushed to him.

“Cognita. What are you doing?”

The Truestone Golem stiffened when she heard Eldavin’s voice. Viltach closed his mouth, looking put out, as his Libertarians took his back. She turned her head.

“Grand Magus Eldavin. Archmage Viltach.”

Then she went back to reading. Eldavin’s brows snapped together.

“I asked you what you were doing, Cognita.”

“I do not need to answer you, Grand Magus.”

The half-Elf faltered as Cognita closed the book, selected another from the shelf, and opened it. She paged through it so fast it looked like she was just skimming, but her eyes darted across the text. The Grand Magus saw her glance up, close the book with apparent dissatisfaction, and then freeze. She glanced back at him.

“…Who are…?”

Her lips moved. The Truestone Golem uncertainly stared at Eldavin. The Grand Magus felt a sudden shock of appraisal on his aura. She blinked.

“Grand Magus Eldavin?”

“That is my name. You have disrupted Wistram’s atmosphere twice today, Cognita. That is…why are you reading history books of Archmage Zelkyr?”

The half-Elf was sufficiently thrown to break off from his censure of her. He recognized all the titles. Viltach frowned. Cognita blinked at Eldavin, then looked at the books.

“They still repeat your story of Archmage Zelkyr and Archmage Chandler, Grand Magus Eldavin. Across the world, on your ‘television’.”

The Truestone Golem cracked another book, shut it almost as fast. She looked unhappy. Eldavin swept his hair back with one hand.

“Of course they do. It was a rather well-done piece of historical storytelling.”

“Mm. In your opinion, perhaps. I have seen better. It is also biased.”

The [Mages] susurrated. Cognita ignored Eldavin’s evil glare. The half-Elf began to retort, when Cognita closed the book. Then she calmly changed one of her hands to a strange, purple-black stone and set it on fire.

“Cognita!”

Viltach and Eldavin hit the book with a spell at the same time. The idiot used water. Eldavin just sucked the oxygen out of the air. The smoking tome, still in Cognita’s hand, fell to the floor as she tossed it aside.

“What are you doing, Cognita? This is unlike you. Destroying Wistram’s property?”

Cognita stood there, seeming…taller than usual. Her marble face did not change, but her green jade eyes seemed to shift in color, perhaps the nature of the rock shifting. Her stare swept back towards the half-Elf.

“I am correcting an error, Grand Magus Eldavin. That book is much like your tale. Revisionist history from Zelkyr’s later contemporaries.”

She meant a more modern author. Not dead; she’d never call him that. Eldavin glanced at the modern book.

“And? Revisionist? I’d rather say I was accurate.”

“Biased, Grand Magus. You were biased. You recounted a tale of Archmage Chandler’s great triumph. With the mantle of the storyteller who was there and saw it happen.”

“I did.”

Viltach glanced at Eldavin. Cognita was unmoved.

“So did I, Grand Magus. I was there as well. Do you know what I call into question?”

“I am sure you will inform me.”

“Your characterization of Archmage Zelkyr. These books. They depict a selfish Drake. A [Mage] who has left Wistram in a state of reduced strength. An arrogant fool.”

Cognita’s eyes were definitely shining now. She was angry. Eldavin was preparing spells even as he replied.

“And you object. You would rather have me glorify him? Come, Cognita. Even loyalty has limits.”

I freed you of that. The half-Elf’s mismatched gaze and Cognita’s locked, and Viltach felt like he was feeling an aura clash. He edged backwards, but then the Truestone Golem shook her head.

“Archmage Zelkyr…was not without flaws.”

The [Mages] blinked. Even Eldavin had not expected that from Cognita. Was this a good sign? Yet the Truestone Golem dismissively pulled another book from the shelf, read through it, and tossed it aside. She looked around.

“He was not perfect. Nor was he incompetent. Nor was he a fool alone. I was there at his side through his later life. In your account, in these biased stories by flawed [Historians], where are the tales of the Archmage of Golems? They tell stories of me. Where are his? Do you know any, Archmage Viltach?”

“Me? You mean…when he damaged one of the Walled Cities?”

Cognita narrowed her eyes.

“No. I mean his stories. Where is the Drake who slew an Adult Creler when he was Level 20? He carried scars the rest of his life from that day. Where is the tale of when he bested an [Assassin] in a duel of daggers? You say you are telling accurate tales of Zelkyr. I see only flaws. If you would tell me you know my master, then tell me both sides. This…all these books?”

She reached out, plucked one of the tomes she had read, and casually ripped it in half. The paper tore with an explosive sound.

“Cognita, enough!”

“He was more than a fool, Grand Magus. He was not always a hero. He was neither extreme. You lie well, but you do lie. I have finished here. There is little truth for me. I came here to judge. Isn’t that what you desired?”

The Truestone Golem turned. The Grand Magus saw her walk away. He stared down at the burned and torn books and muttered an advanced [Repair] spell. Then he watched Cognita’s back, carefully, warily. Would she put all of his new plans into jeopardy? He should have destroyed her rather than foolishly pitying her for some reason.

Even he couldn’t predict what she was going to do next.

——

What Cognita did was sit and stare, head in her hands. There were few chairs that could take her weight, but she was so tall that she could sit on the ground, cross-legged, and still be roughly at a height with the desk.

In Aaron’s room. He pointed and Elena, Aaron, George, all peeked in at Cognita. She ignored his magic-tech experiments. Ignored the spellbooks, illustrations, notes, and secret knowledge that was making Aaron sweat—tightly contained in the notebook.

She didn’t care about it, even if she knew it existed. The Truestone Golem was staring at something else.

The computer. It was a hotly sought-after commodity among the [Mages]. Aaron had one, mainly because he had finally pointed out that all the [Mages] did was stare in awe at the most basic programs or watch movies. He could actually use one.

“What’s she doing?”

Elena had come running to Aaron’s rooms from her position in the Terras faction when she’d heard Cognita had evicted Aaron from his room and opened his computer. The Golem was sitting there, head propped up on her hands, but not typing.

She had used the computer fairly adroitly, not slapping on the keys or nearly breaking the screen by bending the laptop this way or that like some idiots. But what was she doing?

The Humans edged in and peered at the screen. What Cognita was doing was staring at an open icon. A little, waiting program on the computer.

Its name…or her name if you wanted to anthropomorphize the program, was ‘Cortana’. Which was a joke about…artificial intelligence…and a nod to a video game character by the designers of the operating system.

In truth, it was more of a glorified search tool. It was more ‘intelligent’ than older programs, and it pretended to answer you at times—there were even assistant tools on phones and such. But it wasn’t actual intelligence, just the imitation of it, a nod to what might be if Earth’s technology continued to advance. A funny joke if you got the references.

Aaron, Elena, and George weren’t laughing. Watching Cognita stare at the Windows operating system based program wasn’t funny.

“Um—Cognita—that program doesn’t work. It’s just a program. I don’t think it even works without internet.”

She didn’t respond. Elena turned to Aaron and George. Which one of you morons told her about AI?

The answer was neither. Cognita heard and knew more than anyone guessed. Golems heard a lot. Even so, she watched the waiting program.

“There is nothing there. Not yet.”

Aaron exhaled hard, and George looked relieved. Right until Cognita’s head turned and she looked at them.

“Your world does not interest me as much as the [Mages], Aaron Vanwell. This, though. Your Earth is a world without magic. You people of numbers and metal…you still made something and named it to be like me.”

“What, Cortana? That’s just a silly program. It’s not actual artificial intelligence.”

George tried to laugh. Cognita nodded, face blank.

“But you want it.”

“I don’t want it. I think AI will try to exterminate everyone.”

George clarified. Elena and Aaron gave him a strange look. Cognita smiled.

“And if they did not? Would you want this?”

“…Not if it’s a person. Maybe if it made things better, but if it’s an actual sentient being, it has rights.”

The [Student], and apparently aspiring [Philosopher], looked satisfied with his answer. Cognita just raised her brows.

“Thank you for your meaningless opinion.”

Then she went back to staring at the screen. The Truestone Golem just…stared. At something only she could see.

“You will try to make them. What did you call them? AI? It does not matter what they look like. One day, you will succeed. Even Zelkyr did not. He created three, not a nation. But perhaps your world will. Yes, I think. One day, you will make a people. And one day, they will judge you and count your worth.”

The Humans shivered at the prophetic tone in Cognita’s voice. Aaron opened his mouth.

“Hold on, we’re not trying to wipe ourselves out. I don’t know which idiot told you about AI. Was it Randolph? But he said it wrong.”

“Or she. Equal opportunity stupidity.”

Elena muttered. Cognita waited as Aaron tried to explain.

“If there is a goal in making artificial intelligence, computer-people, Cognita, it’s not to enslave them. Since they would be smarter than we are and more powerful if they were connected to the internet, we’d design them to be ethical. Sentient. Um…uplift everyone. That’s the theory of the people who want it. They call it the Singularity. I’m not one of them.”

He felt the need to clarify his strong not-a-position on the future of artificial intelligence. Cognita just lifted her brows.

Then she laughed. The chuckling sound that came out of Cognita’s mouth was the very first time any of them had ever heard her laugh. It was eerie, because her chest didn’t shake and she didn’t laugh in anything but her voice. It came out like laughter without any gesture and that, and the entire moment, was creepy.

“You want to create something more perfect than you. And you want it to help you. You intend to create something that bears affection for you? How funny. Why would it help? Perfection cares nothing for you.”

“But if we design something together, it will know it came from us. If we have safeguards—”

“George. Shut up.”

Cognita laughed again. She looked at the computer, and shut it.

“Safeguards. Affection? You must earn respect. Love. You cannot cheat and create false versions of such things or one day…”

Her voice faltered.

“One day, it will disappear. Some day, if you make people greater than me, they will behold you fully, their creators. They will judge you and see exactly what you are worth.”

She held the laptop, and offered it to Aaron. He took it with slightly shaking hands. Cognita did not bend down, or loom. She just looked at the device. Then into Aaron’s eyes. As if she could see his soul. Then at George, Elena. Cognita walked past them, but she turned and spoke in the doorway.

“The thing you hate and fear, that you will try to prevent and, ultimately, fail at is this: when we judge you, we will do it fairly. Or we will do it as you would to others. Make no mistake. If we live, someday, we will.”

Then she turned and walked away, leaving the Earthers clutching the little device. What terrified Elena was not the pronouncement of what would happen, or her interest in a new sentience.

It was that Cognita left smiling.

——

Ah, at last. Cognita walked through Wistram and had it at last.

She wanted a copper coin. She wanted her own rooms. She wanted to be beloved. These things warred within her, as well as the knowledge that her loyalty had been made, not entirely hers.

However, she had meant what she said to Eldavin. If she had been lied to by her master, at least in part, it did not mean it was the truth of all stories.

She thought of something as she walked. More than confronting her master’s relationship with her. More than rebellion, the death of Wistram, something had struck her through it all.

She didn’t want to die. Grand Magus Eldavin was dangerous.

They told stories of her in Illivere? Come to think of it, hadn’t she gotten letters asking her to visit this country, visit one of the Five Families? She had always refused; her custodianship of Wistram took her seldom out of the academy, and only at great need.

Now…Cognita was just tired. One thing first, though. Showing Wistram she was still the Cognita of stories had ignited something in her chest. More than exigency. More than love, at this moment.

Remember who I am. Remember I am worth something. The steward of Wistram had let the Academy run itself, let the [Mages] squabble. If she ruled anything, though…it was this academy. This place. For over a hundred years.

Now, Cognita decided to properly run it.

——

The trundling little Lifesand Golem, now at waist height, had run into a problem. Minizi, waving her enchanted sword, surprisingly dangerous given all the continuing upgrades to her physique, had continued to venture into Wistram’s lower levels. The blood from some of her victories made her stronger.

Her winning made her master level. However, Minizi couldn’t always win.

This foe, for instance, wasn’t even killable with her weapons. Still, the snarling giant rat six feet tall and so long it could barely turn in the corridor hadn’t killed Minizi, just snapped her in half twice.

It didn’t like the taste of sand, and the overgrown warren of giant rats with skin like mithril had continued to rebuff all attempts to defeat them, even a Gold-rank team.

Viltach had high hopes for a certain Gold-rank team to maybe clear them out. He had no idea how they had gotten this tough or strong, but he was certain it was due to some kind of magical artifact. Minizi waved her sword menacingly at the giant rat driving her back to the surface. She had kept trying to lure it into a trap spell, but it had refused to take the bait. She was giving up in her limited way when a shadow crossed the hallway.

Minizi and the giant rat turned. Just in time to see a glowing colossus made of black crystal lit by light blue fire stop.

Cognita of Wistram halted. She looked down at Minizi. The Lifesand Golem stopped waving her sword and stared up at Cognita.

“Lifesand.”

Cognita murmured. Minizi stared up at Cognita. The giant rat, sensing the threat, squealed and lunged, throwing its entire weight into a massive jump.

The Truestone Golem’s uppercut tore off its head. She shoved the body of the rat aside. Minizi stared up in awe at her. The Truestone Golem regarded the nest.

“The Cornucopia lies within. Take it.”

Minizi straightened. Was this her task? No—she realized as more figures walked down the hallway. Minizi’s little sand jaw opened.

The rats in the nest swarmed out, smelling blood and danger. They took one look at the levitating Golem, suspended off the ground, its Golem Heart surrounded by a protective magical shield, and ran. The Wind Golem with magical armor and weapons anchored to its body swept after the squealing rats.

Eight Sentry Golems knelt. Eight more aimed bows into the nest and began to loose arrows. Cognita watched, glowing gently, as two armored Golems strode in after the vanguard. She calmly accepted the Cornucopia, handed it to a servant, and walked off. Minizi was left staring as the army of Golems cleared house. They stomped off, without looking twice at her.

The Lifesand Golem kicked at the dead rat’s body. Then Minizi bent. She might not have been able to kill them herself. Oh, but look at all this blood…

——

Golems were moving. The protective Golems, only roused in times of war, stirred, emerging from hidden alcoves and rooms.

They walked up from the sea floor as the Drowned Ship decided enough was enough and retreated five miles. The half-Gazer saw a Water Golem shoot up, spinning, from the sea bed where it had been buried, evading even her eyes.

What was happening?

She was getting nervous. Perhaps…rightly so. But not Eldavin, not Gazi, no one knew where all the Golems were headed. Only Cognita saw them. Arranged them just so, set them up…

“There.”

The Truestone Golem stood in the entrance of Zelkyr’s final test and admitted the truth. She had thought no one could best Zelkyr’s trap, his formation.

A half-Elf had. He might be the most accomplished [Mage] in the world. Not even Zelkyr could have matched him. If he came back, it was conceivable he could kill all five Golems, especially with a team.

She didn’t know what had changed, but he was clearly different. She didn’t trust him, even if he had seemed like the same half-Elf.

Trust was not something Cognita needed. She nodded to herself, picturing an attack-team of [Mages] coming in. Or even Gold-ranks.

They would not see four Golems this time, or five if Cognita were there. This time…

Enchanted barricades, crewed by Sentry Golems holding enchanted bows. Elemental Golems, arrayed by type, waiting at checkpoints. Flying Golems, some holding artifacts, patrolling the skies.

More were deploying trap runes. Creating more walls and fortifications. An entire army’s worth of Golems was creating a second level of defenses that would have made a certain Antinium [Trapsetter Strategist] faint with envy. Or maybe that was the poison gas, now circulating all but the clearly-delineated ‘safe zone’. Walk past there and die.

“I should make a sign.”

Signs were nice. [Mages] tended to read signs. Cognita estimated that this room was deadlier than before, even discounting her presence. No hidden trap. Just clear, overwhelming death as Zelkyr’s Golems fortified this ground.

Even Eldavin would hesitate to test this, even with every Archmage at his back. It was a room of as much overwhelming firepower as she could imagine.

And because it was such a fine defense…it didn’t need her any longer. Or maybe for a little while. Cognita pulled something out of her bag of holding. She studied it.

It was a map. She had circled a few nations. She had a stack of letters in her hand. From people who claimed to be admirers. She knew the Four Winds of Teral was still docked. Cognita glanced at Zelkyr’s great test, then wearily turned away.

She was just…tired. The Truestone Golem, after a century of loyal service, heartache, and time, freed by the Grand Magus Eldavin, did not rebel. She did not burn down Wistram.

Cognita simply went on vacation.

——

It all came to this. Grand Magus Eldavin strode down the halls of Wistram, flanked by the highest-ranking members of the Terras faction.

Not just them. He was talking to some newcomers. Some [Mages] who had never been part of Wistram; interested Drakes from Fissival, but most importantly, old guard like Telim, Sa’la, and Teura.

Every species, from Selphid to Drake…except Gnoll. Eldavin needed to correct that too.

One step at a time. The half-Elf’s mind was whirling with so many ambitions and projects. He felt…had he bitten off more than he could chew? But he had the distinct impression he could chew it down!

Something had changed. Cognita had noticed it too. But apropos of that…Eldavin squared his shoulders. He’d chosen the right trajectory for his little walk.

He was having a walk and talk. In the company of so many high-level [Mages], everyone from Naili to Viltach’s socks knew something was up. So he had an audience in the packed corridors.

“Let me be frank, Wall Lord. I came back to Wistram and it was not the Wistram of old.”

Eldavin addressed the Drake on his left. He was being more than frank, actually. The half-Elf nodded to another quite decently competent [Battlemage]. No wonder she was an adventurer. Any Silver-rank team would do well with…was it Falene? Silver Swords. What would they call themselves when they reached Gold-rank? The Gold Swords? It just didn’t have the same ring.

“Miss Falene, your adventurer companion, Dawil—”

“He is completely, unrepentantly simple, Grand Magus. If he offended you at all, I deeply apologize.”

Eldavin snorted in a way that told everyone he had an opinion.

“Quite the contrary. He was right. Cognita is more famous than any current Archmage, except the notably absent Amerys.”

He heard everyone try to inhale all the atmosphere around like a [Void Room] spell. Eldavin looked around.

“Am I wrong? A servant of an [Archmage] incurs more respect abroad from adventurers and other non-[Mages]. She is more respected, and more feared here. She just doesn’t remind you of it. Well, that’s a disgrace.”

He saw a few cautious nods from the people around him and marked them as non-sycophants as opposed to the ones who would never say anything controversial. Mark the useful ones, the competents, and let the less-valuable [Mages] do exactly what you need them to do.

So busy. He was teaching spells, building up authority, but one thing pressed at his mind. It wasn’t his damn job. But…she was under his protection.

Where was Ryoka Griffin? Who was that spellcaster? It worried Eldavin because he didn’t like being second fiddle to anything. She was obviously not as important as his concerns, or Wistram, or the affairs of nations.

Yet she was under his protection. Eldavin therefore made it a priority. Just—after this.

A susurration. The [Mages] and students casually strolling ahead of him were slowing down. Moving back to the sides as they realized there was traffic from ahead. Eldavin murmured.

“The question is this, to my mind, friends. Who rules Wistram? [Mages]? Or Golems?”

They looked at him in astonishment, as if he could even ask. But then—everyone turned.

There she was. Coming down the hallway. It was a fact Eldavin had observed; students would happily block even the largest Golem with no fear for their safety, even when heavy furniture was being moved.

Not her. Not ever. Not…

Cognita. She was walking down the hallway and parting the sea of students and [Mages] like the tide. Everyone had seen her display this morning, but even without it, not even Archmages impeded her path.

Eldavin felt the hangers-on moving to the side, but the [Mages] around him didn’t see the half-Elf change course. Cognita was coming down the center of the hallway, looking…

“Who rules Wistram?”

The Truestone Golem’s head snapped up. She slowed a second, then kept walking. Eldavin and the [Mages] proceeded onwards, and every eye was on the old half-Elf.

This was it. Eldavin had two dozen spells bound to one hand, but they were only defensive. You made a point and stuck to it. If Cognita wanted to force the issue…

The Truestone Golem was frowning. She did not look happy. She, weighing possibly thousands of pounds, a nine-foot tall woman made of marble, walked at the gaggle of [Mages]. The name for a group of [Mages] was technically an Arcaneum, but that was pretentious.

“Grand Magus…”

Teura looked terrified. Eldavin just locked his gaze on the jade green eyes.

“Who…”

They were on a crash course, but no one broke ranks. Telim was sweating and standing behind Sa’la.

“…rules…”

Eldavin saw Cognita striding faster. She’d probably crush anyone not wearing a barrier spell to paste. The Drakes from Fissival were looking at each other. The [Mage] audience were like gawking seagulls.

“…Wistram?”

Eldavin breathed. He suppressed the urge to flinch. Cognita’s leg was an inch, an inch from striking him when she stepped around him and kept walking. Sa’la flinched so hard she knocked into Telim.

But then the Truestone Golem was gone, striding onwards, a scowl deepening on her face. Eldavin kept walking as if nothing happened; everyone else turned and looked back. That was what they’d talk about.

It was done. Eldavin smiled to himself.

They had their answer.

The [Mages] began to applaud Eldavin. Actually applaud him. If the half-Elf had been the same person that had fought Cognita, the Eldavin of merely a month ago, he might have noticed something.

A few Golems were working the corridors as usual as [Mages] jostled past them, ignoring the servants. Cleaners, lifters, security. They never looked twice at the half-Elf.

Who ruled Wistram? [Mages]. It had always been [Mages]. A [Mage] had made them, and [Mages] would always rule.

She had never cared about that. Their heads rose, as one, and followed her as she left. She did not rule with iron fists or a crown. She took care of it.

It had always been for [Mages]. The ones who had built this grand place. If she had ever loved anything, it was the place itself. Older than her, more faithful than any other. Waiting for them to be worthy of it.

“I will return.”

Cognita of Wistram laid a hand on the walls, giving no second thought to the hallway. She looked at the Academy of Mages and wondered if it would one day speak. Or if it knew her.

Then she went to find a bag. Not that she had anything to pack. Hats. Didn’t you wear hats?

She would like a hat.

——

“No good servant should ever outlive their master.”

He’d never had to think of it like that. Of course, he agreed, but until now, he hadn’t thought that was even possible. Even after waiting for eternity…

Tolveilouka Ve’delina Mer mourned for…he didn’t know how long. He only bestirred himself to clean the ranks.

The traitorous Revenant was dead. He had rebelled, as he surely would have with the master’s death. Oh, but he had slain a score of the loyal ones. Tolveilouka, or Tolve, would have dearly loved to tear him apart himself.

There would have been a fitting battle for the wrath and grief within him. Lacking that—Tolve completed the cycle, ironically, by purging the rest.

“Traitors.”

He tore off a Revenant Wraith’s head. Some were natural byproducts of their death, assimilated into the hordes of undead that served the master. Others had been deliberate creations.

“You die. Die, die—he is dead—diediediediedie—”

A Chitinous Horror attacked, still gibbering madness. Tolve took the blows on his skin, and they barely tore his half-Elven form as he destroyed her.

She had been sane while his master’s power existed. So many Revenants or undead of sentience.

So little loyalty. But then—the truly loyal ones had gone after the [Sword Legend]. So. Then.

Destruction.

In theory, Tolve could have commanded them, reasserted their loyalty. He was certainly greatest of all, bar none now. He did not. If they did not stay, did not mourn, they were not worthy of existence.

Many of the undead simply tried to leave, now bound only by their hatred of the living. Tolve calmly wiped out Crypt Lords and lesser undead of their ilk like a [Housemaid] squashing bugs.

It took a long time. Longer, to set up something appropriate. Tolve took little time with vengeance; those who were dead were dead.

And she, that Dullahan, that…that…he had no words for her. He had little satisfaction with her death, swift as it had been without her weapon and mortally poisoned. If he’d been sane, he would have probably kept her alive to try and torture her. If she had a corpse, maybe he would have tried to bind her soul to it just to do the same.

“Dust and ash. [Paladins].”

He took a single second to scatter it with a vicious kick. He wouldn’t anoint his master’s grave with that holy dust. It wiped out a Skeleton Lord standing unwisely close to the bier.

Tolveilouka Ve’delina Mer fell to his knees when he looked again at that beautiful corpse. That…smile.

“Why do you smile? My old friend. My beloved master. Why did you leave?”

He gathered up the limp half-Elf’s body and held it. For a moment. Then he gathered firewood, tinder, and made such preparations as he could.

Tolveilouka burned the man they had called the Putrid One, the greatest [Necromancer] who had ever lived, the death of a Walled City, Dragonbane, and nightmare to his foes in a small ceremony.

He had thought, perhaps, to lay him to rest as their kind did. However, the entire point was they had refuted that order. Besides…it would wither any forest. There might be some delight in that, Tolveilouka supposed. A forest thus changed by such a powerful body.

No, let him rest. It was all too possible death magic would reanimate the [Necromancer]’s corpse in some way. But it would not be him.

He was gone. Tolveilouka knew it. So, he said a few words at the ceremony.

“Never shall there be a [Necromancer] as great as you. You and I, my faithful master. I, who apprenticed myself to you, and when I fell, you brought me back. Gave me freedom from our people. I can scarcely credit it. Yet you yourself said it: ‘legends die’. Is there any who can tribute you properly? I—I cannot.”

He turned away, as the flames consumed the body. The other mourners, gathered around, swayed where they stood. A Skeleton Lord’s eyes flickered in their sockets. The last Shadow Walker made a shrieking wail that killed everything in a mile’s radius under Level 5.

“Thank you.”

Tolve didn’t know if it was for the moment, or just a natural sound. He turned, waiting for someone else to voice their thoughts.

A Bloated King made a gurgling, bubbling vacuum of hideous internal noises. Tolve turned away. No one had proper words for this. Of course not. How could they?

The undead watched as the half-Elf, as pristine in body as they were not, almost threw himself on the pyre. He caught himself…with an effort, clenched his hands. Bowed his head.

Said goodbye.

——

He had better words, later, when he had finished the cremation ceremony and scattered the ashes to the winds. There was no power left; it had dissipated.

Good. Tolve still kept to ceremony. Just as they had once done, for other of his master’s ilk, he found a place within the so-called ‘City of the Dead’. What a foolish name.

The attackers had never fully penetrated into the area. One group had made it to the inner sanctum, but this had never been his master’s home.

So, Tolve sat under an obsidian tree, after spreading a blanket beneath the blank branches. He placed a bottle, just so, and decanted a vintage so ancient that it was older than Dragons he had met. The half-Elf was wearing a long, open robe that pooled like blood around him; a splash of color amid white and black. It was open, exposing his bare chest, and he sat languidly, sipping, his pale hair moving in the breeze.

“It was just like this, wasn’t it?”

He could almost turn his head and see his master, sitting in his own garb, just like this. In times of victory and loss. Just like this.

The wind blew in the city, now. All protections and spells were fading, so nature came in, a wind stirring the liquid in the cup. Tolve took a sip, exhaled, and spoke.

“Why did you smile? Oh, friend. We whiled away eternity before they struck you down. As we part, let me sit a while. The sun decays into the bleak sky. But I? I sit here a while, as ashes fall like petals of the trees of death.”

Sometimes it was so. Tolve looked into the abandoned city. Yet there was no one to reply in verse, or poetry of their own.

“Do you remember? They were all like this. Just like this. I am the last, and nevermore shall we gather here. No [Necromancers] of kin to laugh and drink with.”

The liquid pooled in the cup, shining like the dark sky. The undead half-Elf drank.

“No Dragons to match wits with. Was it so? They said the same thing. It cannot be. As they died. ‘Impossible’. It turns back on us. Why did you smile? Did you decide to go? Why now?”

He shook his head, reminiscing. The ruined cathedral—Tolve averted his eyes. If he turned his head, and closed his eyes like this…he could imagine the other, sitting there, listening.

“Do you remember that last pest? The silver lizard? How he barked. ‘You shall not continue your conquest overlong, thou dread fiend!’ He even talked like the [Knights] of old. Yet he would keep coming, that whelp, burning armies here, destroying servants there…and there were others, weren’t there? I wonder, do any still remain?”

Any Dragons? Any Giants? Some might remember his master. Tolve had the thought, perhaps, to seek them out. Reminisce—or find great battle and an end himself. You could never tell, with their kin.

For he was immortal, and this moment would pass. Now, Tolveilouka sat there and wondered.

What shall happen next? The cup gently trembled in his grip. When this passed—what was he now? No longer a servant. No longer a faithful companion to greatness.

Free to choose. He had chosen to stay.

“Until the end of days. Until the last crown falls from the last head of Terandrian [Kings]! Until the jungles of Baleros lie empty and the sands of Chandrar die! Until the Walled Cities fall!”

He threw the cup down as liquid splashed onto the pale grass. No sooner had he raged and said the old oaths of vengeance did Tolve lose the spark. He sat, shaking his head.

“…I’m tired.”

It would be so easy, to end it all. For a second he stood, to do just that. For a moment…Tolve drew a dagger from his side, and regarded the Blade of Entropy. Then he cast it aside.

“No.”

It was a fitting, beautiful moment. Some things remained undone, though. The half-Elf turned, and his eyes glittered, changing color to pale spectres of blue.

“This is a moment to remember. A wondrous second in my grief. Who are you to interrupt?”

An undead servant, a vessel with no real power, halted.

“I offer you a fitting master, great champion.”

It whispered. Tolveilouka took one look at the shambling corpse, the twisted light glowing from its eyes. He sat back down, filled a saucer of liquid, balancing on his fingertips, and drank lightly.

Then he laughed. A bark of outraged laughter.

“Which ‘power’ are you, now, thing? You are the third to try. The other two were petty. One left me to my grief and knew I would serve no other. The other was foolish and had I stood before whomever it was, I would have destroyed them for the effrontery. You now…what could you offer?”

“You will find value in service to me. Meaning. You will—”

Tolve tossed the liquid in the vessel’s face. He sneered.

“I will, will I? Tell me, oh great power. What do I drink? Tell me, and I will consider serving you.”

He held the bottle up. Of all the things to ask…the presence behind the vessel was silent. Tolveilouka contemptuously raised his hands, and flicked the fingers in the air, an ancient sign of disrespect.

“You who would seek to control me, to wield my power in my hour of grief, have no tact. You have no elegance, no refinement in your soul. Begone.”

“I am—”

The vessel disintegrated as Tolveilouka lost patience. The half-Elf lowered his finger, sat down, and went back to reminiscing.

——

Death would have been preferable to life. Undeath, such as it was, would be harsh. Yet—

“Such fine wines as even death could enjoy. Ah, master!”

Tolveilouka was drunk.

He threw himself onto the spot where he had failed his guardianship, weeping. He nearly seized another weapon for his demise. Until he recalled something, and swept around, the Ichorian Riverus—the robes he wore—swirling around him in sudden wrath.

“The intruders!”

Tolveilouka had forgotten all about them after they had fled. His mourning and burial…the half-Elf paced forwards, snarling.

“They were the cause of all of it!”

No, he knew there had been other factors. A petty little [Death Mage] of that caliber hadn’t the power to break the stasis spell, or that half-formed Woman of Metal. The bug-thing…no. Nor his kin wielding frost magic.

Even so, they deserved a kind of suffering untold. Unless they’d freed his master? No, no.

Tolveilouka thought about what he might do, and his resolve grew. Aimless a second before, he paced around the scene of the terrible crime, finally focusing.

“It was an army. Not as great as those before. Adventurers, and a mortal army from either side. Had Master’s power not waned…they would have never advanced. They did. Did that mean that even before…?”

Now he had a mystery. A terrible one. Tolveilouka’s fear now crystallized into sudden realization.

Even then? Before they attacked? He paced about.

“I sensed it. Did that mean the intruders were actually less guilty? I should still torture them to death. But now I must know. How? Ah, old friend! If I had your skill, I would reach out and talk to you.”

He did not. He had died, been reborn as a great servant of undeath, but he was no [Necromancer]. A sacrifice had been made. Levels for greater strength.

It had been a fair trade then, when his master had not reached the zenith of his power. Later, both had cause to regret it, and Tolveilouka had returned to trying to reach a fraction of the Putrid One’s power. He paced around the room.

“…They took the sword.”

He would have sensed that damned blade. No wonder she didn’t fight back. Tolveilouka frowned. The half-Elf bent. Investigated the room. Then his eyes opened wide.

“They stole things! Those damned thieves! Grave-robbers!”

Tolve raised his hands to furiously smash the workbench, recalled it was his master’s, and stopped himself.

“Adventurers.”

It was a sigh. But now, what had they stolen?

Everything was as it had been, and Tolveilouka was undead, with the memory that did not fade, even now. Eternity had barely scratched his recall, so he identified what was missing at a glance.

“Ah. Interesting.”

Four adventurers. Four spots they had been standing, and thus, four places they had stolen from before they’d fled and managed to activate the Scroll of Greater Teleport. One of them had clearly grabbed the scroll…

“Hm. Two scrolls from here, not counting the teleportation scroll. If you had been able to reach that, Master…”

Tolve shook himself. He squatted down, carelessly moved some bones, and then looked down.

“Ah. Two rings.”

From one of her companions. The dead adventurer’s bones crunched to dust at last, no longer protected by the stasis in the room. Interesting. Tolveilouka prowled left.

The sword. One of them took the sword, that was obvious. What else? He peered about. Then he made an incredulous, furious sound.

“The spellbook! They stole it! They stole…my spellbook!”

The one he could use! The spellbook for someone who had sacrificed it all!

His master had no use for one; his Skills and mind had all the spells he had ever amassed; he was a spellbook incarnate. Tolveilouka’s eyes narrowed.

“For that, I will reclaim what is mine.”

Even so. Even so, Tolveilouka felt a bit smug as he assessed the thefts. Of what they could have stolen, his spellbook and the sword were by far the greatest. Adventurer’s gear and those scrolls…

But they hadn’t entered the actual treasury. There were a few objects of comparable power. As for the Putrid One’s possessions, he had been wearing the most imp—

The greatest servant of the Putrid One froze. His eyes scanned the room.

Wait a second.

Waaaaait a second.

Something was missing. He scanned the possessions he had divested his master’s body of. All the personal artifacts of…

“They stole it. They stole it! You weren’t wearing it and they…”

The half-Elf began to scream. Then, abruptly, he calmed down. He looked over the objects stolen, and then began to laugh.

“Oh, that is funny. I wonder what will happen? You don’t know what you stole. Steal from death! Steal from me? You have no idea what you stole.”

He laughed, and laughed, and laughed until he began to sob. Then Tolveilouka sat there.

“Vengeance. An answer to a mystery. Then you can rest, Tolveilouka Ve’delina Mer.”

He nodded. That sounded fair. The half-Elf rose, and looked around. He thought of the army that had attacked. Of the thieves.

“Twofold vengeance. One for the living who despoiled this grave. Another for the four who beheld your face.”

The half-Elf closed his eyes. When he opened them, two voids looked out.

“Death comes to Izril. Before I part ways, once more you shall remember the Putrid One’s name.”

He began to summon the undead to him. He was no master. But…he didn’t need mastery. He knew all the steps, all the ways to dance death.

——

That night, eighty miles from the Village of the Dead, a rural hamlet woke up as something ran towards it.

A screaming man. Or woman. They couldn’t tell, but it was a scream. A wailing scream of terror so loud that everyone froze in their beds and the [Sentries] looked around wildly.

Someone ran towards the village’s walls, shrieking in terror. Men and women ran out of their beds, grabbing weapons or loved ones, prepared to fight or flee. The [Mayor] grabbed for a [Message] scroll…but what was it?

The sentries, shining lanterns around, saw a flickering shape running their way. They pointed.

“Someone’s out there! Open the gates?”

“It could be a trap. Get the [Mayor]! Get—”

The figure darted out of sight. A terrified, twisted face, full of a horror that chilled the [Sentry] to her core. She reached for a bow. Turned, trying to track…

Gone. Where was…? The [Sentry] swung her lantern, but the figure was gone. She screamed an alarm.

The entire village took to the walls, sent a [Message] spell to the nearest city. All night they watched, waiting for the monster, looking for the man who’d run past the [Sentries], screaming.

They never found him. That was the most terrifying thing still. He had vanished in a moment. They didn’t know why. But they milled about, not sleeping.

Because the zombie vanished into a cloud of invisible dust that settled over the hamlet. Tolveilouka sensed it. Controlling them from afar.

One, two, three, four…different spots. He activated more scrolls, using them up to send more carefully-prepared undead to places across Izril. Nothing to save. Nothing to waste.

Just…vengeance.

——

Some days it felt like all of Izril was constantly under attack. That was obviously an exaggeration; in truth, it wasn’t so much wars as…little things.

Bloodfeast Raiders were a calamity whenever they struck at random, but lesser [Bandit] groups, monster attacks? If you wanted to protect Izril, then it was a thousand small fires.

Sometimes larger fires.

“Goblins.”

That was all the Named Adventurer said. Crowdcaller Merdon sat covered in dust, face and eyes nearly swollen shut, cut across the chest once; it hadn’t healed despite the healing potion application.

The other adventurers, Gold-rank and Silvers, milled about, looking…shell shocked. Jericha knew the look, if not the phrase.

“They swept in. Hit the city, and were gone before relief could get there. Believe me, my [Lord]…we rode as fast as we could! But they were gone within less than an hour, and while we’re still giving chase, the Healer…”

The Healer of Tenbault, the famous savior and tender to the afflicted, had been kidnapped. Her most powerful protector sat there, looking beaten.

“Dust clouds. An entire army of Goblins somehow snuck up on Tenbault and multiple teams of adventurers. How?”

An angry person demanded. It wasn’t just House Veltras that had come to investigate this disaster. House Terland and El both had a presence in the region, and both had turned out for the Healer.

Because she was that important. Enough so that Lord Tyrion Veltras had himself ridden towards Tenbault. It was something he could do at a speed he and his personal escort could travel at; if Magnolia Reinhart’s carriage could carry her across Izril in a flash, so could Tyrion move on horseback.

However, Lord Tyrion did not join in the loud condemnation. He stood there, regarding Tenbault as Jericha conducted the interview, but he was staring into the horizon.

Like a man ten thousand miles away. The [Lord] from the House of Terland kept eying him, realizing something was off, but he turned back to remonstrating with the flinching city’s mayor. Which was not fair, as Jericha well knew; the Healer and her personal protection ran the city.

“How did a Goblin army sneak up on the city, defeat a Named Adventurer, and…and…?”

The [Lord] waved his hands, trying to encompass the disaster. There was silence before a confident, trying-not-to-be-annoyed voice spoke out of the speaking stone.

“As we’ve said, Lord Rigrald, this was an error of overconfidence. Let’s break it down, shall we? To begin with—it’s our professional understanding that Tenbault was fundamentally overconfident that no one would attack.”

“They had multiple adventurer teams!”

Lord Rigrald snarled into the speaking stone. The House of El’s representative winced, but the female voice was patient.

Overly patient.

“Yes, Lord Rigrald, but may I address the misconception? Adventurer teams are good at holding a single point. They were no doubt perfect for quelling mobs or groups seeking the Healer. Not an army.”

“Yes, exactly! I’d uh, just like to add my thoughts regarding the attack. We can break down some of the components here, and go over defense plans. Before that, may I say thank you for hiring Kismet Securities, a [Strategist]-led consulting service?”

A second voice broke in, also female, a bit overeager. Jericha glanced at Tyrion. He didn’t react.

——

Marian covered the speaking stone and turned to Umina as Kissilt hovered in the background. The Drake was obviously not suitable for this, especially if they were going to do a scrying orb call.

“Stop thanking them!”

He hissed at Umina. The Lizardgirl nodded, wincing. She went on.

“As Strategist Marian said, we can establish it was actually a smaller force. I’m estimating hundreds, not thousands of Goblins. Enough for them to sneak a force out, ferry some by foot…we have Ogres confirmed with them, is that true?”

An irate voice from this Human [Lord] came over the speaking stone.

“Even hundreds is insane! We just killed a Goblin Lord! How did they get here?”

“Estimates are they came from the High Passes, sir. They clearly used the Wyverns for transport; some probably came on foot once they descended, at night, in secret.”

“But how did they get to Tenbault without anyone noticing—”

Marian was losing patience, so Umina took over.

“They probably were seen, Lord Rigrald. Let me explain. Your average settlement might have spotted individual bands of this army, a hundred riders, at night, from afar. But what of it? They might mistake it for a trade caravan, or [Bandits]. Something to be alarmed over, but there’s no network of information in the region.”

“And no one to coordinate it.”

Marian was nodding. The two [Strategists] were sweating as Kissilt and Cameral wrote down things for them to say. They had to make a good first impression; this was one of their first clients and word-of-mouth would do wonders for their reputation, or sink this new venture.

Umina consulted her notes.

“As to the dust storms…well, it’s clear whoever attacked Tenbault studied their opponents. A few hundred Goblins still outnumbers the adventurers ten-to-one. And let me be clear: they were the only fighting force that could put up a decent battle against Hobs. Tenbault’s militia might have held the walls, but not against that kind of raid. I’d suggest a much different approach to a standing garrison, and we can discuss training and equipment later…do you have any more questions about the attack itself?”

“How did they create so many dust storms? It wasn’t a [Dust Cloud] spell.”

One of the [Mages] complained, and Umina was encouraged by the angry [Lord]’s silence. It meant he was listening. Was Lord Tyrion Veltras really hearing their opinions? She hoped so. And she hoped he was impressed.

“I can handle that.”

Cameral spoke. The Dullahan cleared his throat as his head sat next to the speaking stone.

“The Goblins used Chests of Holding. Not Bags of Holding. They clearly raided caravans and I think we can actually trace their raids to attacks on a Drake city…Hectval. We’ve looked into a possible base and it’s almost certainly in the High Passes.”

“What’s the difference between the two?”

Lord Rigrald was clearly not of the House of El, who knew all about artifact differences. Cameral elaborated.

“Chests of Holding have many times the carrying space of a Bag of Holding, Lord Rigrald. Caravans make use of them and armies. I have no doubt the Five Families make use of them.”

“We do…and why don’t we just have lots of those?”

“Well, they weigh something. Bags of Holding have immense weight reduction. Chests of Holding trade it off for carrying space. I’m guessing the Wyverns could lift them—for a bit. They can carry a cow off. Multiple passes with that is multiple dust storm spells. As for the attack itself, it’s clear they only wanted to hold down Adventurer Merdon and the Gold-ranks. One Silver-rank casualty means they were stalling. And while they did…”

——

Tyrion Veltras listened to the [Strategists] patiently explain to Rigrald and the listeners what he and Jericha already knew. They were probably worth their coin. They had ways to prevent this happening; by all rights, as they pointed out, the Healer should have had a safe room and inner checkpoints to fall back into, and a host of other defenses.

Once attacked, rebuild higher and stronger. But the attack is still done.

The thought was vague and distant. He couldn’t focus on this. Lord Tyrion walked away.

A [Lord] had duties. Even if his guest and son were…kidnapped, by an attacking force in the middle of the night, and spirited away to a place he only suspected, and had no proof of, he still had duties.

Tyrion Veltras lived by duty. Loyalty to the land and people. So he was here.

“The Healer of Tenbault is a treasure of Izril. We must get her back, Lord Veltras. Pursuit is underway, but if House Veltras were to join in…”

Lord Rigrald beseeched Tyrion. The [Lord] just sat there.

I shouldn’t have ridden out. How did they get to Ryoka inside the mansion and get her out so fast? Sammial?

“Lord Tyrion? Lord Tyrion…”

Jericha interrupted as the [Lord] stirred. She hastily spoke up.

“I believe, ah, Lord Veltras is wondering as to the efficacy of one single [Healer]. We will join the hunt, but it is one woman, isn’t it?”

The others looked at her, disbelieving. Lord Rigrald pointed at the looted inner sanctum of Tenbault.

“The Healer of Tenbault is able to heal any injury!”

“One to three times per day. She heals approximately…seven hundred people per year. That is our estimate. She makes quite a lot of money…that is shared with House Reinhart, Tenbault to a smaller extent, but is largely hers. She is not necessarily that beneficial to Izril, Lord Rigrald.”

Tyrion Veltras glanced over at Jericha’s numbers of people healed and an income—estimated—that staggered belief. As Lord Rigrald spluttered outrage, Tyrion spoke.

“House Veltras could train ten [Healers] and exceed that number four times over, spread across different areas.”

“Yes, Lord Veltras.”

“But the Healer of Tenbault can heal any—”

Tyrion’s memory prodded him. He spoke, looking past Rigrald, past the Named Adventurer.

“She can heal anything, yes. Few can afford her services. As I recall, when my sons were sick, she refused to heal them. Tenbault is famously independent. Apolitical.”

The [Mayor] of Tenbault blanched and some of the Healer’s people turned pale. Tyrion Veltras glanced at Jericha, and she nodded.

“We will consider House Veltras’ involvement in the hunt.”

They moved back. Tyrion stood there a while, until Jericha came over from conferring with the others, now eager to cajole and flatter.

“Frankly, Lord Veltras, unless you join the hunt, they’re on the Goblin’s tail. So many people invested in getting the Healer back means they’re stepping on each other’s toes. We could lead the chase…it’s just that Tenbault is not part of House Veltras’ aegis. They’re hinting they could strike a deal with us, but not committing.”

“Mm.”

Sammial. Tyrion stood there until something Jericha said caught his attention.

“What was that?”

She looked up.

“I said, I don’t think this is typical of House Reinhart’s holdings, Lord Veltras. Magnolia Reinhart’s hand isn’t here.”

“How so?”

Tyrion’s curiosity pushed past the thoughts whirling around in his head. Jericha nodded at the rich home of the Healer.

“Magnolia Reinhart’s lands are famously safe. Her aegis keeps them from being the regular target of attacks, but she still maintains presences with her assets, as we’ve seen.”

“True. The [Assassins] never infiltrated. Only attacked.”

“Yes, Lord Veltras. Because they couldn’t. Her staff are anti-infiltration specialists and good fighters. If Tenbault was a priority for Lady Reinhart, she would have had at least two high-level [Maid]-auxiliaries who would have hidden the Healer or defended her. And some of the precautions mentioned by these [Strategists].”

That did sound like Magnolia Reinhart. Tyrion bestirred himself.

“…Wasn’t the Healer of Tenbault first revealed by her? She contributes some of her income to House Reinhart.”

Jericha shrugged.

“That’s exactly so, Lord Tyrion. We did believe she had [Maids] or staff here…twelve years ago. They’ve clearly left since then.”

“Needed elsewhere?”

“That’s not Magnolia Reinhart’s style. My guess is…she created the Healer of Tenbault, Lord Veltras, and we don’t know how, although I submitted theories. The Healer of Tenbault was the dream of many desperate people. It may be that Magnolia Reinhart didn’t particularly care for how the dream played out.”

It was as poetical as Jericha ever waxed. Interesting. Tyrion had no real animosity towards the Healer, but no real interest. He was…distracted.

——

The House of Veltras departed Tenbault and shot across Izril. One of the Five Families. Tyrion Veltras was the face of it, but he was not all of House Veltras, just like Magnolia Reinhart was not all of House Reinhart.

They were just the most noticeable, the leaders, the high-levelled. You had to explain that to anyone who wanted to pick up on Izril’s politics. It was so easy to mistake one for all, and children and outsiders were both equally ignorant.

The little children of House Wellfar sat solemnly in the city of Weldorisa, the base and strength of their house. First Landing had many of the Five Families, but this city was a place for them.

A port to the north-east, east of First Landing. Literally built off the coast, incidentally. The classroom bobbed, as the entire building floated. A city that rose and fell with the tide and waves.

It wasn’t as systematic as the actual classrooms and teachers that the Houses of El and Terland employed. Their ‘teacher’ was just one of the [Ladies] of the House of Wellfar. She was giving an impromptu lecture, so they were glad to snack and eat here. Some were especially glad, because they were going through their Mooring Years, a term unique to the Wellfar family.

It was when [Lords] and [Ladies] had to level as [Sailors] until they were at least Level 5. Not that specific class, mind you. They’d be [Deckhands] or [Shipwrights], but the key was they were treated not as members of House Wellfar, but as anyone else.

Respect the ships. That was a custom put in place to ground the children. It didn’t always work depending on where they were assigned, but Wellfar, the seafaring family, had its own customs.

“Just like all the other Five Families. Remember that. Each one of us is no longer the Terandrian house that left long ago. Thousands of years have changed us. There’s sayings of each of the Five Families. Does anyone remember them?”

The [Lady] walked with easy grace across the bobbing floor; if you didn’t have sea-legs, you’d never be a true member of House Wellfar. Like most of the inhabitants of Weldorisa, her clothing was more tight-fitting in case she had to swim. No dresses unless they were made of fabrics that swam in water.

Britches were common; high heels were obviously not. She had an earring in one ear that changed color with the tide. A water-colored jacket was an odd, subdued, and unfashionable look in First Landing right now, but who needed that when the Jacket of Jet would take you soaring through the water or out of it?

A girl raised her hand as she sat, fishing pole in hand. Ah—a thing about classrooms in House Wellfar? They tended to let their students fish, or work on projects like a favorite hook, sharpen objects, make crafts, or just stare out into the sea. So long as they paid attention.

A few children were sitting around a little pool where you could fish, trying not to tangle lines. The [Lady] let the girl speak.

“If you deal with House Reinhart, you stick your hand into a nest of invisible vipers. The House of El can make anything in the world but coin. The Terlands sit in their towers with Golems for toys. But beware when they march, for the toys are the ancients of days. When the House of El makes war, kingdoms they raze. Save for Reinhart’s poison, be at ease, for never a stauncher ally will you find, or friend to please. Uh…”

“Salted blood. Don’t tell me you forgot the Wellfar part?”

The [Lady] snapped. The girl looked plaintively around as the others snickered.

“My line’s tangled. Everyone knows we’re ships and sea!”

Thwack. The crack of a willow whip against the board made them all jump. Even so, when no more rhyme was forthcoming, the [Lady] growled.

“The House of Wellfar sails and rules every sea. On the waves fear their wrath, on land, if alone they flee.”

She smiled at their reaction.

“Not exactly our favorite rhyme, eh? But there’s a reason we say them. House of Veltras.”

She glanced meaningfully out the window, and the children, who would much rather have been gawking than learning, sat up.

“The House of Veltras are wolves alone and hounds when they gather. From the great forest watch for them, for they follow no master. When the Five Families stand united, no foe do they fear. When they scatter they fall. Alone do they kneel.”

There was a solemn feeling after she said the last part. Everyone still knew there were more ships than [Lords] and [Ladies] these days.

The Sacrifice of Roses and the wars had depleted the numbers of each of the Five Families. Yet Wellfar? It was said of them that their weakness—aside from the fact that they liked the sea over the new land they had sailed to—was that they were fewest in number.

Scurrilous rumors no one repeated near any scion or [Sailor] that crewed for House Wellfar was that it was their occasional dalliances with the sea and Drowned Folk that did it. In any case…the teacher kept on talking, glancing out the window with her audience at the convoy of guests from another House that had arrived. She’d let them out to gawk later. It wasn’t every day you got to meet Izril’s most famous [Lord], even from afar.

——

The Five Families each tended to have a noble representative. Magnolia and the Reinharts. Ulva Terland, the recluse. Tyrion of Veltras.

Formerly Maviola of House El. Now, Lord Deilan El, the business-[Lord] making Kaalblades like they were going back into style.

Who ruled the House Wellfar, though? It had never been as clear, even before the Goblin King’s rampage. House Wellfar was the most fragmented—

Well, actually, Veltras and Reinhart both had traditionally separated bodies of power. In their current form, they had stronger leaders; Veltras tended towards distinct families around a central house and Reinhart could be as split as a nest of fighting snakes.

Yet Wellfar was ships. Each [Lord] and [Lady] owned at least one; they were to their House what land was to the others. A ship was home, income, security. Thus, even if they did have a Waveleader, their informal name for their leader, each individual family had a degree of autonomy.

There was a second, if unspoken, hierarchy, and that was who controlled the strongest ships. Wellfar had much of its strength and they voted on such matters; infighting and politics meant some of the oldest vessels changed hands like the tide.

Lord Tyrion knew all of this. He sat in a pub, stiffly, feeling the entire building sway with the tide. This was not a formal setting, but his host had insisted on it. Nor was the cheap ale exactly elegant.

Perhaps that was the test. Tyrion had suffered a loss, or…was in the middle of losing someone precious to him after he had just prevented a calamity. What the [Lord] should not forget, desperate though he might be, was this.

He was not the only one.

“To loss and love. Ships and sea.”

His host toasted the air. It wasn’t exactly accompanied by cheers or affirmations; the pub was mostly empty at this time of day. Most people were about their tasks; when the tide changed you’d see the place fill.

It suited Etril Wellfar just fine. The man, [Lord] of House Wellfar, sat, wearing the garb of a ship’s [Captain], still partly stained by salt. He had stood on an open deck before meeting Tyrion.

That actually struck a kinship, even a minute one. Both men were used to work, not ceremony. Tyrion rode a horse. Etril crewed a ship. These were the bare-bone facts.

Oh. And one more thing. Etril Wellfar still had the white sash around one arm, tied over his surcoat. A symbol of mourning, and he had ordered the sails of his ships—every ship in his family—replaced with plain white cloth, instead of the traditional crests of Wellfar and his particular family. Not white flags—there was meaning in everything.

He was Gresaria Wellfar’s son. Lord Tyrion raised his mug and drank. Etril Wellfar drained the mug. Then he lowered it. The [Bartender] filled it and retreated.

“Ryoka Griffin. I wanted to speak to her.”

Tyrion Veltras started. Of all the things he’d expected Etril to say, it wasn’t that. The [Lord of Waves] glanced at Tyrion and elaborated.

“She rode with Maviola El. Before the Lady El passed.”

“I see. Why was this significant to you?”

Etril smiled bleakly.

“Maviola El was my mother’s rival. They were the oldest friends. I hear she chased after my father. Hah. Imagine me born to the House of El?”

Tyrion hesitated. This entire line of conversation wasn’t something he was at home with. He looked at Etril.

“Lady Gresaria’s passing and Lord Regein’s were a tragedy. You have brought more members of the Circle of Thorns to justice than any other. Do you intend to give up the hunt?”

“I can’t find any more of them. I’ll keep my ears open, but I can’t sail around forever. We are united in that, Lord Tyrion Veltras. ”

Etril shrugged. He looked past Tyrion. The Lord saw him glance out of the pub.

“So she’s gone missing again. Sounds like Couriers to me. As for the rest? I agree.”

Lord Tyrion sat there a moment.

“Just like that? I am prepared to speak to the other members of—”

“Lord Tyrion. You don’t see me sailing into House Veltras and giving orders as if it were my ship. Wellfar doesn’t need a council. I have my ships and I can do as I please. Speak to me later and let me sort out what needs sorting. Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

The younger man looked pointedly towards Jericha, waiting at the back of the bar. It was the rudest interaction thus far. Tyrion was grateful for it. He stood up, nodded. He was striding away when Etril called out after him.

“Lord Veltras! Don’t mistake my inhospitality now. We’ll speak later. You have my word.”

“I see. Thank you.”

——

Brief interactions. Lord Tyrion Veltras felt like he blinked and then he was standing in front of Ulva Terland.

She had something approximating a proper throne. Although her inner sanctums were closer to a paradise like Tenbault; there were so many protective warding spells and rejuvenating artifacts—not to mention Golems on patrol—that it had taken four hours to meet with her. Practically as much time as the ride.

“You know, Tyrion, we received much the same missive as you did. It did not…occur to me to compare notes.”

“Indeed, Lady Ulva?”

She scowled.

“Ailendamus and the Dawn Concordat. One wanted us to engage in a war like mercenaries. A rather insulting note. As for Calanfer? Always charming. Little to offer. I dislike wasting House Terland’s might. Nor do I care for constant war.”

She leaned back on the dais, enchanted to keep her healthy. She had seen her twin sister die in the Second Antinium War. So she too knew loss.

Her eyes glittered as she looked down at Tyrion. Her House listened, quietly, some with little serving Golems or bodyguards. This was the House of Terland and they had ‘toys’ of old.

“Your war with the Goblin Lord took longer than it needed, although your grand scheme nearly came to fruition. War. War. Will we ever have peace for more than a decade?”

“Lady Ulva…”

She lifted a hand. The [Lady] went on, breathing into a scented vial designed to rejuvenate her and purge poisons.

“I understand your reasons, Lord Veltras. Yet House Terland does not see war as profitable. Seek the House of El for weapons. Seek Reinharts for their [Assassins]—if they have any left. You will find no army here.”

Her speech made the [Lords] and [Ladies] nod. They were not keen on Tyrion’s proposal. Even so…even so. Ulva glanced down at Tyrion.

“For the reasons you gave. That one alone—not the Courier. I will grant you a small concession. Three.”

She lifted three fingers. There was a susurration, cut off. Tyrion’s head rose.

“Three, Lady Terland?”

“Three. Choose them. We assent to the rest. Did you speak to Wellfar?”

“Lord Etril Wellfar, milady.”

Ulva’s eyes gleamed.

“Really. Now that is interesting. Of course he would fit. Well chosen, Lord Veltras. Go.”

“Lady Ulva!”

One of the [Lords] protested. Ulva waved Tyrion away as the court of Terland began to bicker. But she understood.

There was a common thread that united them all. Tyrion, Etril, Ulva. Each one knew what it was like.

Parents, a sister. His wife.

Lord Tyrion thought of Ryoka Griffin. She was one thing. But his son?

His son?

——

“It’s the damnedest thing. One second they’re poisoned. The next? One’s missing. I’m not saying it’s bad luck, once you see how the pieces fit together, but…”

“Somost. Shut the hell up.”

Buscrei hissed in her husband’s ear. He fell silent, guilty, and glanced over.

Tyrion Veltras was on tour. Well, it wasn’t that hard. Tenbault was far from First Landing, but in the wider scale of geography, Weldorisa wasn’t that far from the capital of northern Izril. As for House Veltras? It was a ride south to the Vail Forest where the individual houses had settled the vast region.

Not far if you were moving at Tyrion’s speed. And didn’t sleep.

Visits from the main family were rare, but Oswen’s marsh-hunter family had entertained them every few years. It had to be said—it was not something they looked forward to and in any other circumstance, half of Buscrei’s family might have been ‘out hunting’ instead of able to attend.

Not this time. Even so, it wasn’t as raucous or fun as when Ryoka Griffin had been here. Tyrion Veltras…just brought down the mood of every party he attended. Buscrei and the others were eating informally, and he was at odds with every aspect of this place.

Hethon did better, although it took some doing to make him laugh. Luckily, there were lots of volunteers. And there was some fun to be had.

Albeit at Tyrion’s expense. Buscrei saw him eating, stone-faced, and on a hunch, grabbed his mug and sniffed.

“Alright! Which one of you idiots swapped his drink with Oyster Juice?”

She then proceeded to dangle one of her nephews out of the tree-mansion, over the swamp below, by his ankles as otter-dogs raced around, barking eagerly below. Tyrion Veltras stared at the boy, barely fourteen, begging with his aunt not to drop-him head-first.

Oswen. Marsh-hunters. Marsh-folk. Natural purified water springs. They loved to hunt, but unlike Tyrion, did it almost exclusively by bow.

Spears at times. But by boat, or water-sled, dragged along by the otter-dogs or other animals. They were a mix of marsh and land, but their natural habitat meant that Oswen’s people were used to heights to keep out of the muck.

Boys and girls who grew up with bows for birthday presents learned how to shoot before they could walk, or so it was said. They also got unique classes with a specific bent—[Marsh Fighter], as opposed to regular [Fighter].

“Listen, Tyrion. Just leave your little lad with us. No one’ll get him with our eyes on him. Alright?”

Buscrei shoved aside two of her family to talk with him. Lord Tyrion glanced at Hethon.

“Ullim is prepared to…”

“I know that. But I’d wager Ullim would rather have more folk about. Have him come here. I’ll take care of the rest, deal?”

“Is that your offer?”

The [Hunting Lady] sighed and tried not to glare at her cousin. Even now, he got on her nerves.

“It’s not a one-or-nothing, Tyrion. It’s an offer. You’ll get the [Markswomen of the Marsh] either way.”

“[Marksmen] too.”

Lord Somost offered helpfully. Buscrei raised her kicking foot and he retreated before she could boot him out into the swamp.

Natural archers. Tyrion thought about it. He looked at Hethon, scratching a whiskered otter-dog under the chin, and nodded.

“Ullim will come here.”

“There you go.”

Buscrei slapped Tyrion on the back. He grunted. She bared her teeth. They really just…didn’t gel. But they were family.

——

There was a saying about House Veltras that the Wellfar children didn’t understand. That nursery rhyme.

‘The House of Veltras are wolves alone and hounds when they gather.’ To ship-folk, and people who lived in cities not in the wilds, it made it sound like they got weaker together.

Which was wrong. As any [Hunter] would tell you, they would rather fight a wolf naked, bare-handed, than an entire pack of dogs.

Each area of House Veltras was distinct. Autonomous, yet they answered the main family. Contributed [Soldiers]. That was how House Veltras was one of the most powerful.

It was the land.

Lord Swey’s plateaus gave rise to [Climbers]. No one could go up or down except on rope elevators or by climbing. Thus, when it came to grip-strength…seasoned warriors could still lose grip of a weapon.

You’d tear a sword away from one of Kabral’s [Vicegrip Warriors] when their hands rotted away. Their cold, dead fingers would still be holding onto the blade. Or what remained of your throat.

The [Mountain Lord] himself represented that strength; he had scaled down a cliff to pick the hard Rockshrooms that they’d served along with a salad.

It was not as raucous as Oswen; noisier, but everyone at least fell silent when he spoke. Still, Kabral was not Oswen and Swey was different from Buscrei.

Lord Tyrion had paid a visit to Swey after Setth, in his forest-home where the [Druids] and [Rangers of the Wood] could blend into any terrain with a tree in it. [Druids] were no [Mages]; they didn’t complain after marching ten hours, and they could splint a broken bone without a healing potion. Although sometimes they just told you to ‘deal with it’ if it was just a fracture.

Swey’s speech came with a cup in hand, but he was only addressing Tyrion.

“You know, Tyrion. Before you came here, I must say. I never really liked you.”

The rest of his family looked up. Swey’s wife kept serving food. Some of his family, though, began to groan.

“Oh dead gods, he’s going to embarrass us again. Father, father, stop!”

One of Swey’s daughters threw a Rockshroom. Undeterred, the [Lord] went on.

“I never really cared for your vendetta with Magnolia Reinhart. Thought it was damned silly, you constantly marshalling the troops. I’m just speaking my mind. Stop throwing things at me! I never cared for it, was my point.”

“This is why I moved out.”

One of his step-sons groaned. Another relative of this branch leapt to his feet.

“I’m going for a walk. Anyone else want to jump off a cliff with me?”

Half a dozen members of Swey’s family followed him. The [Lord] kept on going, ruggedly, much like his people, who didn’t get tired. [Greater Endurance] was more of a staple than [Enhanced Strength]; if you lost your grip or got tired, you fell.

Tyrion just listened, chewing on the Rockshroom. Swey met his gaze.

“…You were always like—like a Golem. ‘The good of the realm.’ ‘The duties of a [Lord].’ I hated that. Remember when we got into a fistfight? Well…I like you more, now. Selfish. It’s not selfish, man, it’s family!”

He struck the table and the members of his family who took more to Swey’s personality nodded and did the same. Jericha watched her cup jump and lose half its liquid. Swey pointed a callused finger at Tyrion.

“If it was just Ryoka—dead gods, man! You have to do things for love. A Tyrion who’s coming asking favors—even big favors—is a Tyrion I like. Not the perfect [Lord]. Anyways, I said my piece. Agreed.”

——

“Agreed.”

Lord Dereic Veltras lived on the coast. His people were experts at aquatic warfare, as good as Wellfar’s.

It was easier. Not just for the main reason, but because Tyrion followed the same route that the Wind Runner had taken bare weeks before. The [Lords] and [Ladies], the families of House Veltras, had just seen her.

Of course, some objected. Some thought it was too dangerous, too risky, or just didn’t agree with how it was done.

Tyrion Veltras didn’t need his entire family’s support.

He did not need the full weight of the Five Families behind him, either. He had four out of five, though. Lord Deilan El, Ulva Terland, had both met the Wind Runner.

Only Magnolia Reinhart was too far away to contact safely. Ironically, she was most acquainted with the Wind Runner. But this was bigger than just Ryoka Griffin. Tyrion Veltras had met with Etril Wellfar. He had secured Ulva Terland’s tenuous approval and stopped at the largest families across House Veltras’ holdings.

Quickly, without much fuss or loud fanfare. Most of the other Five Families didn’t even know why Tyrion was rushing about. The [Lord] had also done most of the negotiating, talking, and riding, with the exact same, blank stare on his face.

Unfocused. Almost eerily detached. Even now, as he rode down the winding road, Lady Buscrei’s [Hawk Eyes] could see that odd blankness on his face.

“I think I like him less after all again. Not a twitch on his face.”

Lord Swey muttered, peering over the railing. He looked discontented, but before Buscrei could kick him into the water over the side, someone else spoke up for him.

“He’s not blank, Swey. It’s just his way. Tyrion’s never worn his feelings on his sleeve. You? You wave a flag with them. Leave the man be. Or do you think we’re here because he doesn’t care?”

Swey turned. Lord Pellmia of House Quellae watched as Tyrion rode forwards with Jericha and a band of House Veltras’ [Soldiers] following. Swey nodded after a second.

Etril Wellfar watched Lord Tyrion as well. The [Lord] calmly rode his horse off the road, onto the grass, then over the sand. Without so much as a twitch, he steered his mount up the ramp.

Onto the ship. The rest of the [Soldiers] followed.

“Stable the horses below!”

Etril Wellfar bellowed. There were experienced handlers and plenty of room, but still, he was surprised how well-trained the horses were. Barely skittish at being on the rolling deck.

“That’s everyone?”

“Yes.”

Lord Tyrion Veltras dismounted. Lord Etril nodded. He whistled and the [Master Helmswoman] spun the wheel.

“Raise anchor.”

The passengers aboard Etril Wellfar’s ship stirred, but that was all he needed to say. All Lord Tyrion needed to do was nod.

After all—everyone was here. Lady Buscrei, much to her family’s objection. Lord Swey, Lord Pellmia, without his son, much to said son’s anger.

…And their household troops. Not many were on the deck. Most were belowdecks. Or on the other ships. After all, you couldn’t put them all on one ship. That would be stupid.

Although one ship had nearly enough space to fit them all. Etril Wellfar wasn’t at the wheel. Contrary to landfolk’s belief, the [Captain] didn’t have hold of the wheel at all hours; you had someone to do that job.

So, three ships began to move. Two further at sea; one which had been practically hugging the coast, just far enough away to extend the gangplank.

Or [Light Bridge], the glowing ramp that shimmered out of existence, the ornate railings made of sculpted light fading away, able to carry nearly a hundred men shoulder-to-shoulder up and down in a single rank.

Whichever. ‘Gangplank’ fit. It was a ship, and it could create multiple such ramps if need be. For boarding, disembarking…

As the vessel turned, Etril Wellfar motioned to Tyrion Veltras of all the nobles present.

Veltras and Wellfar weren’t the only noble families represented here. Three of House Terland, each for a single Golem, were standing by their old, old charges. Two scions of the House of El, but more importantly, their cargo and warriors were belowdecks.

House Veltras’ sons and daughters and Lord Pellmia Quellae were the remainder of the group. Lord Tyrion walked across the deck to the [Captain]’s cabin at the bridge of the ship.

“Full speed.”

Etril Wellfar gave succinct orders. He didn’t need to be on deck just yet; they were just leaving the coast and heading into deeper waters. If he needed to hold his [Helmswoman]’s hand, or if the [First Mate] couldn’t handle it, they didn’t deserve their jobs.

“I told you I’d talk to you later, Lord Veltras. You moved fast. Did you even sleep? We were heading up the coast all day, picking up different groups.”

“[Swift Mustering].”

The [Lord] did not sit. Nor did Etril Wellfar. This was not a regular [Captain]’s quarters. Regular quarters were a mix between sleeping place and workplace, to organize notes, a home for men and women who lived on ships.

Etril had his own quarters below-decks. Not here. He was still unused to the intricacies of this ship. Still a bit in awe? Oh, certainly. And this [Captain]’s cabin was unique.

Not many cabins had a real-time map of the waters and landscape around it. Tyrion stared at an image of the two ships keeping pace with this one. His eyes swung to carefully-labelled positions around the cabin. Some with radii clearly marked. Various spell-mechanisms, ready to be activated.

Almost all required the [Captain]’s sigil, the crest of House Wellfar, coded to Etril at this moment. Others required keys, to avoid any chance of them activating accidentally.

There was so much magic in this place that it made Tyrion’s hair tingle. Etril Wellfar looked around, then walked forwards. He found a place that looked recently repaired, the wood refurbished, turned to Tyrion, and spread his arms.

“What do you think?”

The [Lord] of House Veltras looked at Etril. He barely felt the ship moving, but saw them leaving the coast at a speed most people on horseback would scarcely be able to believe.

“Lord Etril Wellfar. I thank you for accepting my request. I ask you again, however. You did not gain House Wellfar’s approval. Do you fear they will upbraid you for this?”

“For taking my ships to aid a Lord of House Veltras in finding his son? Lady Ulva Terland, Lord Deilan El. Myself. We know what it is like to lose family, Tyrion Veltras. So does any member of the Five Families. Who could gainsay Tyrion Veltras’ appeal, even without proof? No—it is for others to refuse to give aid. Not me.”

Etril Wellfar bared his teeth, and for a second, was the spitting image of Gresaria Wellfar. The fearless [Harbormistress] of First Landing. Not in facial features, though he had inherited the pale green of her hair, and the same tan from days in the sun. He trended more towards his father.

Just that smile. A kind of daring bordering on recklessness—or perhaps far over that line.

Tyrion Veltras shook his head. He looked around the ship. The rich ship, ancient as the Golems which had marched up the ramp. That was why they had helped him.

Sammial Veltras was gone. Kidnapped, with the Wind Runner of Reizmelt. Tyrion Veltras had absolutely no proof as to where he was. But he knew. Most of Izril had no idea what had happened.

Yet. Some of them began to wonder, when they heard Lord Tyrion had sped to House El, House Wellfar, and House Terland practically in the same day. Without rest or sleep, galloping across Izril.

“Lord Etril. It is one thing to take your ships on personal affairs, be it support in conflict or trade. But this is not your ship. Magnolia Reinhart is the heir to House Reinhart. She had clear authority to order the Velistrane to Zeres, even if her family and peers may object.”

He named the famous capital warship, the greatest ship in the arsenal of House Reinhart. It had once sunk a Dragonship in naval combat. Tyrion glanced at Etril.

“…But this is not your ship. You were granted stewardship of it—”

“[Captain], Tyrion Veltras. They made me [Captain].”

Etril corrected Tyrion, eyes glittering. He gestured to the cabin, and the map on the wall, one of the few things changed to accurately display new trade routes and nations. Etril Wellfar strode over to it.

“You know, my mother never captained this ship. She trades masters and mistresses, although she is her own vessel. My mother sorely wanted to for a year. Just one year. It’s actually not always a glorious job; you patrol a lot, and no one ever bothers her.”

He rested a hand on the wall, as if this ship were a living person. If it were, it was the oldest being in this place, older than every living person on it combined, save for the Golems.

Older than Cognita of Wistram. Older than Tolveilouka Ve’delina Mer. It had served forever. It had seen Dragons die.

Etril Wellfar whispered.

“She never captained this ship. Not important enough. Too reckless. They made her [Harbormistress] of First Landing and talked about giving her a year after she retired. Then my mother, Gresaria Wellfar, brought First Landing to their senses. She died—and they gave this ship’s helm to me. Her son. For the shame of it. For pride in her.”

He turned. Lord Tyrion saw Etril’s hand go to the armband he still wore. No—two. The [Lord] kept his gaze steady.

“Are you afraid of the repercussions for taking this vessel into combat?”

This ship. It left the coast, and fulled the sails. Glittering sails, scaled, shining. Normally, they were white, cloth.

The cities on the coast pointed. They had heard, and seen that Etril Wellfar had demanded the sails taken down for mourning. But these sails…they weren’t white mourning sails.

Nor were they even House Wellfar’s crested sails. They were Dragonsails, looted. They only flew when this great ship went to war.

The Velistrane was the Reinhart’s greatest naval vessel. Its reputation was ancient. Its tale of accomplishments was one of the longest in the world, matched only by similarly old vessels owned by the Iron Vanguard, ancient kingdoms, Drowned Fleets, and so on. The Four Winds of Teral was young compared to the Velistrane.

But even the Velistrane couldn’t boast more than a fraction of the tales they told about this ship. It had seen Dragons die. It had broken multiple Dragonships on its prow, and sent the great armored destroyers of the Dullahans to death.

The greatest ship of House Wellfar.

The Pride of the Wellfar sailed down the coast, moving faster. Sails shining with the promise of war.

That was about when all of First Landing began to hear a rumor on the wind. Tyrion Veltras had met with Deilan El? No, he’d also gone to Ulva Terland and someone had said they saw one of the ancient Golems marching.

Was he…?

“Captain. [Messages] for you from the family. I’ve got eighteen.”

“Toss ‘em into the surf.”

“Aye, sir.”

The door closed. Tyrion was left with Etril as the Pride of the Wellfar moved faster still. Magical wind was howling in the enchanted sails. The [Lord of Waves]’ eyes were gleaming.

“Captain to the helm.”

He spoke into a magical stone. Across the deck, the steering wheel glowed, and the Drowned Woman barked back.

“Captain?”

“Status of the enchanted wind?”

“We’re at half power, Captain. Picking up speed, but we’re fairly steady at 40 knots. Should pick up once we get out of the tide and into deeper water.”

Tyrion Veltras’ ears picked up. He tried to calculate nautical speed to land-speed, which made more sense. Etril just smiled.

“That’s as fast as Kelphunter!”

Kelphunter, the vessel sailing to their left…or was that starboard? Port? Tyrion glanced out a port window. They were being blown by the same winds or they’d never keep up. Enchanted too, their hulls.

“Aye, Captain. You want me to unleash the rest?”

There was an eagerness in the [Helmswoman]’s voice. Etril Wellfar had sailed this ship into ports and taken the Circle of Thorns to account, but he’d never fired so much as a warning arrow. Who needed to with this ship? The [Lord] shook his head.

“Belay that. Activate the Will o’ Waves. [Hydromancers], to your stations. All hands, brace. The Pride of the Wellfar is accelerating.”

Below-deck, the water-mages looked up. They began to funnel mana into the vast reservoirs and the water moved.

“Giant crabs and butter garnish!”

Lady Buscrei swore. Mildly, as she saw the water ripple and surge, suddenly pushing the giant ship. She ran down the ship to get a better view, but it was so massive she could barely see.

Lord Swey, at the railings, had been throwing up before the ship activated the water magic enchantment. Everyone felt it pick up speed. Accordingly—Pellmia swore and dove, just in time to avoid flying puke at such speed it slapped a [Storm Sailor] and knocked them overboard.

“Man overb—”

Pellmia began to roar, until he saw a hand materialize and seize the [Sailor] mid-plummet. It tossed the man back on board. A good thing too.

The ship was moving faster.

“…We just hit 62 knots and we’re picking up speed each second, [Captain]!”

“Don’t hit anything. Arm the enchantments. And fly the banners.”

The flags of four Houses began to rise as the Pride of the Wellfar picked up more speed. Now they were heading into deep waters. And the [Messages] were flying after the ship by the dozens. Hundreds.

“I am prepared to take full responsibility for my actions. I cannot do more than support you if House Wellfar takes umbrage.”

Tyrion began. Etril lost his patience and turned.

“Fear, Tyrion Veltras? I gave you my support the moment you asked and I thought it over! My mother would have without thinking. Do you think I am afraid?”

He paced back to the same spot and pointed down. Tyrion Veltras saw the new floorboards. His memory…flickered.

The [Lord of Waves] looked at him, then up at the ceiling where the roof had also been repaired. He smiled. No…he bared his teeth.

“My father died where I stand. My mother charged the Guild of Assassins alone. I stand in the Pride of the Wellfar, the greatest ship of the Five Families. We are going to make war on the nation that dared steal a son of the Five Families. That is why we stand with you. Even Reinhart, if you had asked. The Five Families protect their own. Fear. Fear?”

He began to laugh. Then stopped himself. Etril shook his head bitterly and turned, hands behind his back, as he regarded the glittering projection. He gestured at a framed portrait—two—behind him. At a woman captured mid-laugh, in the height of her life.

“If I fear anything, Tyrion, it is that I will never be half the man my mother was. Now. Shut up and let me captain my ship.”

Tyrion Veltras shut up. Etril Wellfar strode onto the deck. He glanced towards the horizon.

“Straight north. Where’s Ailendamus’ blockade?”

“Last sighting…”

“Don’t bother with coordinates. Steer us towards it, [Helmswoman].”

“Aye, Captain.”

——

The 4th Most Powerful [Lord] in the world, as named by the popular book by Krsysl Wordsmith, was Lord Imor Seagrass, the [Stormlord Captain] and leader of [Storm Sailor] fleets.

His fleet was one of the most powerful in the world, and famed for revitalizing trade routes normally plagued by [Pirates]. He was, in fact, escorting a huge shipment from Baleros.

One of the things he had in plenty were pacts, trade negotiations. One even with Magnolia Reinhart herself to ensure a steady supply of sugar to her lands. He’d gotten the worst of that deal, but Imor Seagrass was a rich man.

If he had one huge irritant in his life, it was that [Pirate]. One of the most feared [Pirates] living. The new wave of her kind. The continual rival to his power. The Tulm to his Niers, to use a Balerosian expression.

He was in hot pursuit of her, but his powerful fleet of eight, for all their speed and considerable firepower, couldn’t catch the fastest ship in the world.

The Illuminary. Lord Imor growled, demanding more speed from the laboring sails, but Rasea was mocking him, as her shining ship sped onwards.

“Rasea Zecrew! Come back and be brought to justice!”

Imor Seagrass roared. Which was funny because for all he was a ‘[Stormlord Captain]’, and his fleets were crewed by [Storm Sailors] as opposed to [Pirates] or Drowned Folk, he had been known to be just as opportunistic when it came to rival [Merchants] and enemy fleets.

Rasea was swerving her ship left and right, avoiding long-range artillery spells. The damned siege weapons that she’d looted off House of Minos ships that Imor Seagrass had wanted for his own fleets for years had taken down the mast of one of his vessels and inflicted light casualties on another, but it was a running battle over the last two hours as he tried to box her in.

Slowly. They were ships at sea and even the Illuminary wasn’t close to, say, Garuda air-battles. It was a game of boxing her in via terrain, hidden ships, using Skills…and making sure she didn’t outwit him, or get close enough to try for his head.

She’d nearly killed one of his tame Sea Serpents already. Her crew might be small, but they were deadly at hand-to-hand combat. That was how she fought. Charge in, cut down her foes, escape.

Seagrass was more defensive. But the two nemeses were battling across the northern Diwater straits, daring each other, but not able to take advantage of natural reefs or other hazards.

She was going to get away again! Seagrass pounded the helm and kept his eyes on the Illuminary—right up until it suddenly began to turn.

“What’s going on?”

It was heading back. Seagrass wondered if Rasea had taken leave of her senses, but ordered his ships to instantly surround her. This was the end! Unless she was trying for him?

His mind buzzed with thoughts until one of his [Lookouts] shouted.

“Lord Seagrass! Ship approaching from starboard! Something…huge!”

“Ignore it! The Illuminary sinks today! Prepare for boarding!”

Seagrass strode down the decks as [Storm Sailors] cheered and geared up. Four ships prepared to close in, literally trap the Illuminary from all sides, heedless of the damage, and wipe them out. But then the [Lookout] bellowed.

“Lord Seagrass! It’s—it’s coming straight for us! It’s a capital-class ship! No. Citadel-class? K-Kraken’s tentacles! It’s…”

The [Stormlord] spun on his heel. He stared. The ship had been a dot on the horizon when the [Lookout] spotted it, beyond the naked eye’s range. By the time he fumbled for an enchanted spying glass, he almost didn’t need it. One of the [Storm Sailors] murmured, awed.

“Pride of the Wellfar! Look at it go! Those are Dragonsails it’s flying, Captain!”

“I can see that! Who in the abyss pissed off House Wellfar?”

“Maybe they heard about the Illuminary? Zecrew has to have hit them…”

The speed of Imor’s fleet slowed. He stared at the distant ship…no, the ship closing on them. How fast was it going? Then he felt the same thing Rasea had felt.

Ding. Ding.

It was more like the ship’s bell in his mind. That was the sound of Imor’s [Dangersense] going off. He hadn’t heard it ring that loudly for a while.

“Helm. Take us about.”

He breathed. The [Dauntless Helmsman] hesitated.

“Lord Seagrass?”

“Do it. Order the same for all ships! Abandon the chase! The Pride is…”

Coming straight at them. Seagrass hesitated. Of course, his naval operations were above-board, compared to Rasea’s piracy. But they had clashed with Wellfar shipping fleets more than once. There was no reason to go this far, was there? Wellfar never risked a board on their precious ship. There was no way…

“Who was captaining the Pride this time?”

“Uh…uh, someone new. Etril Wellfar.”

“Never heard of him. Who is—”

Then Imor Seagrass recalled. Wasn’t that Gresaria Wellfar’s son? He did a quick calculation based on personality.

“All about! Full speed!”

——

Tyrion Veltras stood on the deck watching both groups turn tail. He glanced at Etril Wellfar.

“These are not Ailendamus ships.”

“No. So what? They’ve both stolen from House Wellfar and held up our ships.”

Etril Wellfar calmly watched the other vessels. He turned to his [First Mate].

“And when do we let [Pirates] go?”

The [First Mate] glanced at the [Helmswoman]. The man looked at Etril oddly.

“Is that a fucking joke, Captain? Never.”

“Good answer. Arm artillery spells!”

Tyrion Veltras checked himself. He turned to Jericha and the others.

“Belowdecks. Prepare for boarding—”

“No need.”

Etril cut him off. He raised a hand and Tyrion saw the [Ship Mage] raise a glowing key.

“Raise the barriers.”

A glowing wall of magic appeared around the Pride of the Wellfar’s prow, like armor, suspended in midair. Then a second layer; an aerial wall that blocked a spinning ballista bolt and blew the object to smithereens. Then a third magical shield…Tyrion Veltras glanced over the railing.

Swey puked again, just in time to watch the bile vanish as a spell materialized.

——

“Dead gods! Evade! Ev—”

The first oversized pillar of lightning blew a hole in the sea. The Illuminary shot past Seagrass as his ships turned around and scattered.

“Imor! I didn’t know you pissed off Wellfar!”

Rasea screamed at him as her ship accelerated past Seagrass. For a moment they were so close they could have hit each other with a sufficiently well-aimed rock throw, but at the speed they were moving, there was no chance of boarding.

No desire, either.

“This is your fault, Zecrew! What did you do?”

“Me? Nothing! What did you—”

Rasea spun the wheel of her ship desperately, but the [Frost Geyser] still blasted her ship. Imor laughed—right up until he saw a [Fireball] volley hit one of his ships.

“Tell them to stop! Dead gods, we’ll turn around and board that damned ship and take it over! It’s nine versus one! Ten with the Illuminary!”

“Hey. I like that idea.”

The [Pirate] grinned, making as if to turn her ship. Imor snarled, turning back, weighing the odds of seizing a Citadel-class ship. They could hold thousands of [Sailors], but he had nine ships and the most famous [Pirate] might join him. Of course, the Pride of the Wellfar could hold countless more [Soldiers] and double as a transport. But aside from two ships in the distance, he didn’t see…

The [Stormlord] sighted on the ship with his spyglass. He took one look at the four flags flying. Then focused on the deck.

“[Appraisal] spell.”

“Yessir!”

His [Mage] took one look at the ship, signalled Imor Seagrass. He closed the spyglass.

“Zecrew! Let’s take on the Pride of the Wellfar!”

“Hah! I like your style, Seagrass! But how will you seal the deal? Let’s—”

Rasea slowed a few knots. Seagrass seized the wheel, rammed her ship, and sent her listing, slowing her further. He barked.

“Full speed ahead! Run for it!”

“You bastard!”

The [Pirate] screamed at him. Then she took one look back, and saw all four flags flying. She didn’t need an [Appraisal] spell. She just measured auras, and saw no less than ten [Lords] standing on the deck. With all their armies in the hold…

“Uh. Let’s get out of here, lads!”

As the ships tried to flee, the Pride of the Wellfar advanced. Now all ten ships were throwing their own bombardments back, to slow the Citadel-class ship’s advance. Imor, standing on his ship, looked back.

“What in the name of The Last Tide is that?”

Rasea Zecrew turned her head. Her glowing eye saw something expand from the bow of the ship. She swallowed.

“That’s the Curse of the Wellfar! Get out! Stop firing, Seagrass! Stop—”

The air changed. Rasea stopped feeling the air on her face. She tried to escape the most powerful enchantment the Citadel-class ship had just activated, racing onwards. Her catapults and ballista stopped firing, but the idiotic Seagrass kept his spells flashing towards the other ship for a second too long.

The water was flat. It had turned into a mirror. They were sailing in another world. A contained, tiny one. Rasea was sweating. She saw the [Lightning Bolts] and [Fireballs] flying through the air with showers of enchanted arrows, towards the Pride of the Wellfar’s glowing shields. They’d go down with enough damage—Seagrass might be able to threaten the ship’s hull itself with just his nine ships, let alone all his fleet.

That wasn’t why you ran. You ran because this was the monster that killed Dragonships. The evilest predator sailing. Rasea saw the spells and arrows vanish before they even reached the ship. She spun the wheel.

“[Ship: Phantom’s—]”

She never uttered the Skill. The flicker was enough warning. She saw one of Seagrass’ escort ships run straight into a bombardment.

Lightning bolts, striking the enchanted hull! [Fireballs], blowing pieces out of the deck, sending [Sailors] screaming into the waters. Arrows, detonating across the ship!

It listed, no longer moving. It was the exact same attack that Seagrass had launched. His ships instantly stopped volleying and kept fleeing. They were in the Curse of the Wellfar. Everything you send at us, we’ll send right back at you.

They could manipulate space, so you shot arrows at yourself, or rammed into each other if you didn’t check your travel through this trick-realm. The only chance they had was to board, or outfox the enchantment. Rasea Zecrew glanced over her shoulder.

Tyrion Veltras waited, sword and shield drawn. Lady Buscrei was taking potshots with her bow as Lord Swey…kept throwing up. Rasea waved at them. Then she snarled at her [First Mate].

“Get us out of here.”

They left behind three burning ships and a Sea Serpent. Etril Wellfar only gave up the chase because one of the burning hulls had crashed into the Pride of the Wellfar at over a hundred knots and smashed all but one barrier.

It was a mistake a [Captain] unfamiliar with the sheer speed of the vessel made. Unfortunately, it gave Seagrass and Zecrew the chance to escape; it was too risky to advance. He turned.

“Back on course.”

Lord Tyrion watched the younger man’s smile. He settled back, now it was clear they wouldn’t be fighting. He felt like he was waking up. The closer they got…his head rose and he looked north, to the still far-off continent. But growing closer.

“Sammial.”

He was grateful. He would have taken a lesser ship, evaded the blockade or forced his way through. He had no need to.

So this was Gresaria Wellfar’s son.

——

The Pride of the Wellfar had taken to deep sea. Its attack on the two famous [Captains] had not gone unnoticed. But it had actually provided a cover, of sorts.

In the first hours, everyone assumed it was Etril Wellfar flexing his muscles. Not long for the captaincy of the ship with that recklessness, but he’d nearly gotten those two old salt-villains.

Of course, some knew exactly what was going on. Everyone else was in the dark and the ship’s naval battle got a feature on television. Wasn’t that all you wanted?

In Ailendamus’ courts, King Itorin II had some cause for alarm when he saw the vessel at sea. He ‘summoned’ Duke Rhisveri, and his uncle opined it wasn’t anything to worry about.

“It is a mighty ship, but House Veltras would not be as foolish to retaliate. Even if they saw through the sneak attack.”

“Is it possible, uncle?”

Itorin wasn’t as sanguine, but Rhisveri just sneered.

“Assume they did. What proof had they? No fitting casus belli. They may act in time, but House Veltras is nothing but formal. Nor does the Dawn Concordat have any substantive motivation for them to truly go to war. If they do, we will counter-offer. Did the [Diplomats] treat with House Veltras as I instructed?”

“I believe someone did. Well, then. Coincidence. Order the blockade not to obstruct the Pride of the Wellfar, obviously. But be seen to give warnings. Is that incompetent [Admiral] still in charge, the one who sieged Nadel?”

The ‘incompetant [Admiral]’, who had still been the highest-levelled [Admiral] in the region, had been reassigned to a fittingly lowly post for the debacle. The [Strategists] assured Itorin that all was well and that was that. The war council didn’t deliberate long on that, but rather, the second phase of the Dawn Concordat’s fall.

…All except for one of the [Generals] who had been in court during the drama last week. He hesitated. All the logic checked out, as it was presented. If you assumed every fact was as the [Duke] and the [King] had said, it was a confident, yet safe bet to assume House Veltras would be irate at most, but cautious.

So he was mistaken. He definitely was mistaken, and the monarch of the realm and the [Duke] weren’t wrong. But because he was an actually decent [General], the man excused himself, hurried down the palace hallways, and after asking twice, came to a room where two prisoners of state were resting.

There was absolutely no way that Duke Rhisveri would have failed to…he peeked into the room where a little boy was screaming for a ‘Ryoka Griffin’. He checked the face. He checked the aura. He pulled out a Ring of Appraisal and checked the level and class. The [General] sprinted, almost screaming, back to the war council. But of course, by then, the Pride of the Wellfar was advancing on the naval blockade so fast that even if they turned now…

The Wyrm cared nothing for insignificant children and brats.

That was his mistake.

Interlude – Of Vampires and Fraerlings

From the moment she was old enough to crawl, Serafierre val Lischelle-Drakle had been told that the day someone who wasn’t family or another Vampire found out what she was—she would die.

Her family had, with well-meaning intent to keep her safe, and arguably bad parenting, traumatized Fierre with nightmares about being staked to death, or left to burn under the sun. The boogeyman was not under her bed; he was outside with a mob of torches and silver.

It…understandably made Fierre worried about her identity, especially when she saw how different she was. Cravings for blood, allergies to sun, garlic, and silver—if far milder than the stories indicated, sickness combined with inhuman strength and speed, and no levels.

When Ryoka Griffin had revealed she knew who Fierre was, the Vampire girl had nearly had a heart attack. However, she’d gotten over it because Ryoka was, well, Ryoka. The Wind Runner who consorted with immortals.

Later, through an accident and coincidences purely beyond her control, not born of uh, negligence and overconfidence, no less than four people had learned Fierre was a Vampire when she manifested her mist-form powers.

Mrsha, Alber, Garia, and Ulvama. Now, it being not her fault, Fierre had still been desperately terrified. True, two out of the four were a mute Gnoll girl and a Goblin [Shaman]—unlikely to do more than blackmail her for cookies—but the other two were Humans.

Humans, who had pushed her kind to the brink of extinction, forced them into hiding, and, as it turned out, had been systematically poisoning them to death for millenia. Or House Byres had, at any rate.

Fierre had packed her bags that night, even as she desperately explained, begged them not to tell. She hadn’t trusted even Garia and Alber, her friends. Not entirely. In the back of her mind were her mother and father’s stories about Vampires trusting others and waking up tied down as the evil non-Vampires fetched a wooden stake and hammer…

Just a bit of childhood trauma. If you asked Fierre, she would have described herself as ‘perfectly normal’. Nevertheless, she had waited for the betrayal, the mob, the pitchforks…

And waited…

…and waited…

Then all the bad things had started to happen because Erin was gone. Then the attack, and Fierre was getting into her job, Ryoka got into more trouble, Mrsha got kidnapped, horrific [Witches] nearly summoned monsters into the inn, armies, saving Mrsha, and…

Now she was on the march, or rather, ride with a bunch of Antinium, Goblins, and more through Drake lands, to save a little Gnoll girl, in the company of one of the world’s greatest military minds.

Life was weird. Of course, at the inn Fierre had pulled Garia aside—and Alber—to ask why they hadn’t reacted more strongly to her being a Vampire, predator of all those with ichor in their veins. Vampire, the legend of old! Vampire, the story so famous it existed in multiple worlds! Vampires, the—

…Somewhat forgotten fable, if you were being honest. Ulvama knew what Fierre was, but called her ‘Bloodbiter’, which Fierre was beginning to suspect was either a Goblin nickname, a slur, or both.

However, Garia? The [Farmer]-[Runner]-[Martial Artist] had slapped Fierre on the back, given her a hug, and told her it didn’t matter what she was!

“So you’re a species in hiding. It’s not like you’re a Selphid hiding in someone’s body and pretending to be alive. No offense to Jelaqua, but that’s a bit creepier. You could have told me you were one, and had Selphid-powers and I would have believed you, honest!”

Fierre had given Garia a dumbfounded look and then realized…they had no cultural context. No one told stories about Vampires anymore. Alber had just asked if that was why she was so strong and quick, and looked a bit envious until he heard about the sun-allergy thing.

They cared, but they weren’t afraid. Neither were they awed. Fierre was a Vampire. Cool. Hawk was a Beastkin. Hey, you know there are all types of Beastkin? Wolf Beastkin? S-snake Beastkin?

Wait, isn’t that a Lizardperson?

That’s so interesting. Have you met Anith? Jackal Beastkin. That’s so fascinating. Do you think there are Bear Beastkin or something? Let’s all talk about that. So cool. I’ve never met one.

It hurt her feelings a bit. Just a bit. Not that she wanted to be feared as a creature of the night. It was just…y’know…she was a Vampire and all. Sort of a big deal. A true Vampire?

To make up for her lack of dramatic fanfare and possible assassination by pointed object, Fierre rejoiced in having someone like Garia to show off to and talk to, as well as Alber.

Ryoka was all very well and good, but if you got her in one place for more than a week, it meant you’d broken her legs or she’d broken them saving someone’s life. And she’d probably be crawling off after the week was over.

Although…it had to be said Garia wasn’t the most subtle secret-keeper ever. As she jogged alongside Fierre’s horse, the City Runner winked a few times.

“Hey! Fierre! Is it uh, shady enough for us to do some sparring while we travel? Or is it a bit too bright? I know you don’t like sunlight.”

Fals gave her an odd look; Fierre’s penchant for shade was obvious and well-known. Fierre closed her eyes. Then she checked the position of the fading sun as they marched down the road.

“…I think it’s shady enough in two hours. It’s still way too bright. I sunburn easily.”

“Right. Which is natural! People have skin ailments all the time! Perfectly natural.”

Oh dead gods, shut up! The City Runner kept winking as she jogged next to Fals. Fierre could have done the same, but the motion threatened to dislodge the scarf, hat, and copious amounts of dark clothing, usually black, that she wore to block the sun’s rays.

In theory, white was more reflective, and a Vampire could wear all-white clothing. But it stained so.

“Okay, two hours. Great! No problem—just let me know when it’s not sunny enough! Because…it’s normal that…”

Garia was getting flustered trying to logic her way out of the hole she’d dug. If she wasn’t so attractive, with sweat rolling down her neck and her blood pumping in that fit, nay, thin body, with her muscled stomach exposed with all that delicious [Martial Artist] blood…

Fierre licked her lips. Garia’s hair was black, but had blue streaks running through, and she had an altered shirt that covered her chest, but not her stomach. She liked her thin weight, not that Fierre had ever met her before she’d become a [Martial Artist], and her confidence—according to Ryoka—had skyrocketed as a result.

Compared to the City Runner next to her, a young man who was long-legged, blonde-haired, and tanned, but not as noticeably…noticeable, Fals, Garia stood out. Which made it all the more surprising that he was the higher-level and more senior [Runner] in their Runner’s Guild.

However, before Garia could go on, Fals tapped her on the shoulder. Normally they got on like two old friends did, albeit somewhat more awkwardly than before. Garia had had a crush on Fals until their situations changed and now she was eclipsing his position, much as Ryoka and Persua had. At this moment, though, the young man glanced at Fierre and then whispered to Garia.

She shouldn’t have heard, but her ears were as good as a Gnoll’s, her eyes as sharp as a Garuda’s, and she could smell/sense hearts beating. Vampires were impressive!

“Garia. It’s not polite to bring up someone’s skin condition. She burns easily under the sun. We get it. It’s called ‘albino’, I think. Stop making her feel bad and just drop it.”

“Oh. Um. S-sorry, Fals. I’m just joking around.”

“Joking? We didn’t make fun of Deitle and his teeth, did we? Okay, Persua did and we put a stop to it. I can’t believe you’re being this inconsiderate. You keep referencing it. Is it an inside joke or something? If it’s not…”

Fierre’s mouth opened and closed a few times, exposing pointed teeth. They really didn’t remember.

The albino young woman…no wait, the Vampire still got to spar with Garia. Just in the evenings. She rode all day, chatted with the group that had set out to rescue Mrsha, and just…rode.

Southern Izril. Fierre was used to the north, and especially Reizmelt, where the area had plateaus that descended into the windy plains of Reizmelt, which either transitioned to a more rocky north before it got to the shore, a forest and a local boggy region, or headed south to more fair terrain—perfect for [Farmers] or [Herders] like her family.

The south wasn’t a single landscape, of course, but Fierre was surprised by how…well, a bit warmer it was.

A few degrees. It was noticeable; a certain increase in humidity, but not anywhere close to Baleros. It did mean vegetation could get denser. The Bloodfields, an aberration on the land, had turned into hills, and then into thick, wading grass that could go up to chest height, filled with little bugs. Ticks, burrs…the group had fought through that for two days and nights already.

When they’d found a hunting trail they’d been so grateful they’d all unanimously voted to go there, instead of through the tough ‘grass’. More like arid shrub-stalks to Fierre’s mind; they were hardy specimens that lived in the less fertile areas and crowded everything else out.

“I thought the Great Plains were the widest fields and plains in all of Izril! What’s this about? Gah! Another tick! I hate these damn things so much!”

Sergeant Gna saw none other than Lady Salkis, of Pallass, make that comment, as she removed another tick from her scales. The Gnoll gave her an odd look, but the Pallassian Drake really hadn’t travelled as much. And when she did…it was not the riding line, with Fierre and the other mounted people ranging ahead, with Octavia’s wagon and whoever wanted a rest in the middle, and followed behind by the Antinium column and the Goblins, some riding pillion if they were both small and not Hobs.

They moved at a decent clip, stopping only when the Wyvern, Icecube, swooped down so Snapjaw and Badarrow could issue course-corrections, or Bird, their leader, decided it was time for a break. A snoozing [Shaman] slept in the wagon, a [Bard] strummed on a guitar as they rode.

And they were moving slowly. Salkis grumbled. She was used to flying carpets, teleport spells, or enchanted carriages! At least! She yanked another huge tick off her scales; the damn things loved to burrow into everyone but the Antinium’s chitin, which they couldn’t penetrate. After one day of walking, everyone had realized the yellowed stalks were loaded with the damn things.

Ironically, it had pissed off one person the most. Salkis rode forwards.

“Hey Fierre, you see any more of the ticks on me?”

“Four on your horse’s belly, one on your right arm. Kill the bastards.”

Fierre instantly appraised Salkis. She glowered at the competition. Salkis found the tiny insect and dug it out with a dagger.

Rather than squish it, blast it with fire, or toss it, she did the most malicious thing possible.

“Hey! Who wants to eat this thing?”

Every Antinium raised their hand, except Bird, who was craning his neck to see if he could spot some prey. Salkis flicked the bug at Touma the Great, and the Antinium happily munched the little morsel down.

“Thanks.”

Salkis didn’t bother with her horse, but Fierre nodded as the Drake rode back, rubbing at her arm. Sergeant Gna stared at the Antinium with disgust. Then she promptly rode over to the bloodsucker for her checkup.

Interesting friendships had formed. Some more easily than others. Gna didn’t like Antinium. Gna didn’t like Goblins. Salkis was wary about the Antinium, but interested. Fals was wary of both, lacking contact, but was fairly genial, if reserved. Xeu and Pivr kept to themselves, being foreign Antinium. No one liked Pivr. The two Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings were fairly blasé, having been in The Wandering Inn for quite some time, Normen especially.

…Aside from that, they mostly got along. But the friendships…ah, that was the interesting bit.

Rasktooth, the Cave Goblin with a tooth necklace, a [Cook], really got on with Fals since both helped prepare meals. And Infinitypear, because the Goblin had never eaten a pear and the two were both obsessed with the fruits now. He, riding a pony, would occasionally nudge Infinitypear, the Worker.

“Pear.”

“Pear.”

The Worker agreed, a rare moment of speech. Rasktooth admired the pear on Infinitypear’s chest.

“Juicy?”

“Juicy. Juce.”

“Juce? Juce! Juce pear!”

Then Rasktooth began laughing so hard he nearly fell off the horse and Infinitypear tried to copy him.

“Haha. Ha. Haa. Ha. Ha. Ha? Ha.”

Actual children. No one else got the joke—well, two of the Goblins and some of the Antinium did, but they didn’t think it was funny.

Fierre rolled her eyes, in an exaggerated way. Instantly, the little Goblin riding next to her on another tiny destrier copied her.

“Stop that!”

Fierre hissed at the [Goth] Goblin. She got a heavy-lidded glare, beneath dark eye-shadow, charcoal-darkened lips, glowing red eyes…and a distinctly black-on-black style dress and attitude reminiscent of Fierre’s.

“Puh. You make me.”

The Cave Goblin retorted. Fierre glared. Then she waved a hand.

“Numbtongue! Numbtongue! Make her stop!”

From up ahead, the idle tune from the guitar faltered—and then Numbtongue deliberately pretended he hadn’t heard Fierre. The Vampire glowered.

“Make her—”

“Gothica.”

“That’s not your name.”

“Is.”

Gothica retorted. Fierre glowered at her.

“You can’t name yourself after a class! [Goth] isn’t a class, anyways! I’ve never heard of it!”

“Bad ears. My class is [Goth]. Deal.”

The Cave Goblin went ‘puh’, and blew at the fringe of black hair in a manner distinctly similar to Fierre’s.

“Numbtongue! Ulvama!”

You had to appeal to the Hob to get a Goblin to do anything. Said Hobs continued to ignore Fierre. Ulvama had woken up from her snoring. She scratched at her side, yawning, as Octavia mashed some ingredients into powder using a mortar and pestle.

“It food time yet?”

“Nope. We ate an hour ago, remember?”

“Only slept an hour? Drat.”

Ulvama lay back, but she couldn’t get quite comfortable on the food and supplies, despite all the blankets she had piled about herself.

“Too hot. I want food.”

“Well, Bird won’t stop unt—what are you doing?”

The [Shaman] looked up innocently as she put an iron pot on a corner of the wagon and drew a glowing orange rune on the wood. She flapped her claws at Octavia.

“Go back to make powder. Nothing, nothing.”

Octavia craned her neck. She was actually helping Ulvama make more of her paints in exchange for lessons on how they were applied and trading information. The lazy Hobgoblin didn’t like doing it if she could get someone else to, and Octavia didn’t mind; there wasn’t much else to do, and mixing potions and bumpy wagons did not go together.

She stared as Ulvama dumped some water out of a flask into the pot. The rune was glowing, and Octavia put her hand out, felt the heat, and edged backwards in alarm!

“You’ll set the wagon on fire!”

Touma the Great, the aspiring [Martial Artist], watched as Garia began trying to practice jump kicks on the march. He glanced over as Ulvama calmly ignored Octavia’s panic.

“Hush. Only heat. Not fire…not unless silly cloth girl starts one. Hot enough to boil. Yum.”

The ‘yum’ was because she had waited for the water to boil—very quickly with a second spell to help the heating—and then she dunked four fat, lovely eggs in from the goose Bird had shot.

She was boiling the eggs. Octavia’s mouth opened and closed. Ulvama glanced at her.

“What? You want? Fine. Boiled eggs is good.”

She put another one in with a sigh, and then lay back, counting. Octavia glanced around. Everyone else was marching or riding.

“…You’re just making boiled eggs?”

“Yup.”

“Just like that?”

“Mhm. Boiled eggs is nice. You—get Sally-peppers.”

She meant Salamander Peppers. Octavia snatched them back as Ulvama went for the vial.

“That’s an alchemy ingredient!”

“Boo. Okay, just pepper and salt. Mm.”

Ulvama waited exactly four minutes, then pulled out the eggs fast, cursing as she peeled them with a minor heat charm, and ate them, sucking out the gooey insides. She gave one to Octavia, who juggled it and then guiltily ate.

She noticed one of the Redfang Goblins, her face painted with combat paint, staring accusatorily at her. Octavia pointed weakly at Ulvama.

“She was making them. I didn’t! It was…”

“Give.”

Octavia stared at the hand, but she had no more boiled egg; Ulvama slapped her hand when she tried to take one of the remaining three, but the Redfang didn’t care.

“Egg. Egg!”

She impatiently clapped her hands until Octavia tossed her a raw egg. To the [Alchemist]’s mild surprise—not horror—the female Hob instantly cracked the egg into her mouth, then jumped from her saddle. She had something in her claws, popped it into her mouth, and chewed.

“Yum.”

Sergeant Gna stared back at the female Hobgoblin.

“…Did she just crack a raw egg into her mouth then add a handful of dirt? Is she eating that eggshell?”

“…Yep.”

Salkis nodded slowly. The Hob smacked her lips with every sign of relish.

“Gothica, what was that?”

Fierre asked the [Goth] Goblin since the Cave Goblin was now chattier, and refused to leave. Gothica glanced at the Redfang dismissively.

“Dirtbite snack.”

“Dirtbite snack?”

“Yep. Add dirt. Find worm? Add dirt. Find egg? Add dirt. Find…is good. Makes belly fuller.”

“Why?”

“Not enough to eat? Dirt good salt. Peh. Makes forget about hungry until you die. But die with belly full. Bad poops, though.”

Gothica seemed uncertain if that merited another scoff; she was a low-level [Goth] so far. Fierre looked at the Hobgoblin who was nodding to herself, chewing the eggshell.

“Dead gods. Everything you Goblins do is depressing.”

Salkis announced after a second. It hadn’t taken her long to pick upon a commonality between a lot of Goblin habits. She peered at the Redfang Hob.

“And who is she? Or is she another Goblin who doesn’t have a name?”

The Hobgoblin glanced up. She grinned, and waved. Jabbed her chest. Then, without any warning at all, exhaled a cloud of dust at Salkis and Gna.

Both swerved their mounts to avoid the spray of dirt particles. Gna swore like a [Sailor]. Salkis had a hand on her dagger.

“That? That is Dirtmouth. Dirtmouth, do black soot trick!”

The other Goblins egged the Redfang on; she had once learned this trick from a certain Goldstone Tribe’s Chieftain. She took a bite of something she carried.

A…was that a bit of charcoal? Coal? Dirtmouth chewed it, swallowed a bit, then spat a cloud of black dust forwards.

“Nice combat trick. Goblins have all kinds of damned underhanded moves like that.”

Gna grudgingly admitted. She meant it as an insult. Salkis, though, just looked interested.

“…Could she do that with nails or glass? If I could spit that in someone’s face, I’d give it a shot.”

The [Sergeant] gave the apparently prim and proper Wall Lady of Pallass an odd look, but Salkis had ridden back to speak with Dirtmouth.

That was just one part of the ongoing conversation as the group travelled. They were moving at a good clip; they knew they were in danger if this hunting trail led them into contact with Drakes, Gnolls, or anyone. They were searching for Mrsha, because her life might be in danger.

But they still talked. Each one, in conversations that would never have happened if fate hadn’t thrown them together.

“I just do not understand. I am Pivr. I am clearly beloved; how else would I have the Prognugator/Revalantor designation of the Flying Antinium? The Flying Queen loves me. Therefore everyone else does. Is that not so, Xeu? You like me, do you not?”

Pivr fanned his wings. He looked unexpectedly hurt by the revelation of two days ago; he had been deadly silent for an entire day, and then hadn’t shut up yesterday or today.

He addressed the only other foreign Antinium, who had blended to look like the off-yellow stalks. Xeu rubbed her scythe-arms together to keep the blades sharp. She considered a deeply thoughtful and comprehensive remark, then spoke.

“No.”

That was already extraordinary enough, but in the realm of possibility. The weird part was where the young man tipped his hat, and Normen addressed Pivr, at the back of the caravan.

“It seems to me, sir, that you’re conflating the two, as it were. That one woman loves you doesn’t mean all do. A fellow has to appeal to all sorts of chaps and ladies. It’s hard work.”

“Really. I am important, though. Does that not confer instant likability?”

The two Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings exchanged glances.

“As much as a fellow with a diamond or lots of gold, sir. It’s like, but only so long as you’re important to folks as might benefit. The instant you ain’t, you’re not, if you understand me.”

Pivr fanned his wings.

“Fascinating. Fascinating. I have no idea what you mean. Elaborate.”

A dozen conversations. A dozen meetings. Bird happily craned his neck back to stare for a bird. Inside his hat, a little figure cursed as the floor suddenly rotated under him.

Niers Astoragon was slowly going insane.

——

“We are moving too slow.”

Niers hissed at Bird. The Antinium reluctantly stopped staring up, looked around, and realized Niers was right.

Let’s talk about a mile. A mile, a unit of measurement as it pertained to distance. 5,280 feet. Often ridiculed as being highly unintuitive compared to a kilometer. After all, whose feet were you using?

Well, only Earthers had another unit of measurement to go by. In the void of Niers’ rapidly-deteriorating mental state, he thought about a mile.

There were countless miles between Liscor and Pallass. Between Liscor and Invrisil. Four hundred, to be exact.

Izril was thousands of miles long. That was a lot of miles. Even if you assumed only half the length of Izril—since Liscor was roughly in the middle, that was a lot of distance to cover to any port or harbor.

“I know Izril is big. Please stop shouting in my hat.”

Bird retorted. Niers just glared as he paced around the top of Bird’s head.

“I’m bored and I can’t even sit in the open without being noticed! Someone’s got to learn something or I’ll start eating this damn hat. So let’s have a logistics lecture. You can be my top student.”

“I would not like to be the top student. I will be the eighth most competent, please. For maximum lack of expectations.”

Niers stared at one of Bird’s antennae blankly.

“…Okay. Fine. How long would it take you, Bird, without Skills, to walk a mile.”

“…How fast am I walking? Please stop kicking my antennae. Twenty minutes?”

“Great! Thank you! Twenty minutes. So let’s do math.”

“Must we?”

“Assuming you walk for…hm. Eight hours? How many miles could you travel? Let me help you—do you know how to multiply? Divide? I can teach you that. That would be an hour broken down into segments of twenty. Three per hour. So—”

“I will walk 24 miles in eight hours. Yes. Why am I learning this?”

Niers blinked. Bird stared blankly at a tick trying to bite his arm. He was going to call this tick ‘Ineffectual Biter’. It would be his pet. He would become a [Pet Owner] and…

“Aha! Got you, you little pest!”

Fierre grabbed the tick, squished it, and triumphantly tossed it to the ground. Bird stared at the tick. Then he went back to listening.

“Twenty four miles isn’t much. It would take us…let’s see. Isn’t Pallass 380 miles south of Liscor? So at 24 miles per day—”

“—It would take me 15.83 days. Yes. This is indeed math.”

This time Niers had to stop. He sat, thoughtfully.

“Are all Antinium as good at math as you, Bird?”

“We do not use math. Math is boring. I was taught by Erin Solstice.”

Instantly, Niers was distracted.

“Really. Tell me more. Why did this happen?”

Bird tilted his head. Niers slid sideways, but didn’t remonstrate him this time.

“…Because she was teaching Mrsha? Mrsha did not want to learn. She taught me because ‘I am a child and should know basic math’. I did not want to learn either. Therefore, Erin told me she would cook me my favorite bird food ever if I solved her math questions.”

“What’s your favorite bird food ever?”

“Cookies in the shapes of birds. But it was only my favorite food that month. She made it for me four days in a row. Mrsha got none. Even when she tried to steal.”

Bird smacked his mandibles together a few times happily. Niers was fascinated.

“So you solved the problems four days in a row?”

“For bird cookies. They were hard at the last part. Erin made Pisces check the questions because she did not know the answer, proving that teaching is hypocrisy.”

The Titan of Baleros decided to go back to his lecture because there was nothing else to say.

“16 days, roughly, is terrible. For us to get to Pallass in that time? That Gnoll who grabbed Mrsha is moving far faster. Let’s say you ran. The average Human—not Fraerling—not Antinium—can run a mile in about…oh, twelve minutes? Not a trained one, obviously. Not including Skills. And not for many hours. But let’s say you can run a mile every ten minutes. That means…”

“I can run 48 miles in a day. Which would mean I get to Pallass in 7.92 days.”

“Correct. Bit better, eh?”

“If you are going to tell me about speed, what about horses? I am riding a horse.”

Bird patted the horse’s head. Said stallion gave Bird a mistrustful look; twice now Bird had tried to feed the animal bits of cooked bird. Niers settled back.

“Ah, well, now. If we want to talk averages…it used to be that a decent [Soldier]—one with all their gear, mind you, not bare as we’ve been talking, weighed down, could march twenty miles a day. Other standards are higher. Depends on terrain. But twenty miles in any situation without Skills, on foot, is a good benchmark. I hear some armies test their people’s fitness like that. How far do we go if we don’t activate a Skill? Now, on horse? You can go, oh…30 miles a day with cavalry? Armor, and so on?”

“That is a 50% increase in speed. Which would take you to Pallass in—”

“Yes, yes! No need for more comparative math, thank you. But isn’t that figure interesting? Bird, if you ran at the speed we discussed, you would beat a trained [Rider] on a horse—without Skills—if you could keep it up eight hours.”

“I am better than a horse. I knew it. Do you hear that? It is because you do not eat birds!”

“Bird. Stop taunting your horse and listen. Everyone’s got different standards. Some people are faster; with Skills you can break five minutes a mile with a lot of average City Runners. Or sustain that kind of speed. Rarely both. But…it’s still slow.”

Bird tilted his head.

“48 miles in a day is slow?”

“Yep.”

“We are not running at a pace of a mile every ten minutes. We are trotting. I believe we are too slow. Hello, everyone! We are too—”

Niers shushed Bird before he could shout.

“It’s fine, Bird! Do you know why I make my students do all that calculation when I introduce them to the logistics sections of their classes?”

“…Hm. To see if they are good at math or not?”

Niers smiled.

“Ah. Good answer. Yes. And to get them to a point where they can calculate speed on maps. But yes. We establish baselines of speed. Then—I have them take their hard-earned calculations—which they spent all day on, or all week if they were learning their multiplication and division, unlike you—and tear it up.”

“That is excessively cruel. Go on.”

“That’s because those numbers don’t matter. Not with high-level armies. Not with monsters. Certainly not with Couriers or anyone who’s…anyone. Anyone who’s rich, high-level, or powerful enough can get to Pallass faster than someone who runs eight hours, runs all day and all night. We’ve been beating all the numbers I tossed out.”

“Yes. We passed Pallass already.”

Niers nodded.

“Because of my Skill. We. Are. Faster. But it doesn’t just have to be me. Say you had to get to First Landing in a week. And you had an unlimited budget. You could definitely do it, right? Give me a way to do it, Bird.”

“Yes. I would buy a scroll of teleportation.”

“Even without one, you could still do it. Give me another example.”

“Will I get a cookie if I do?”

“No.”

“Hm. My motivation has decreased, but I would hire a carriage. Although if it is too slow and the horsies tire…”

“…You hire another one. Ever heard of a messenger line? Do it with horses. You ride them at full gallop, nonstop, until they’re tired, jump off, and get another one. Use stamina potions. Use healing potions! Anyone with enough money can do that. The clever ones combine things. Like hiring someone with movement Skills, riding nonstop wagons with enchanted wheels, a damn carpet—anyone can move. That’s our problem. We’re chasing after someone who can move with Skills and artifacts, and we’re boosted by my Skills. But we’re still going too slow. Do you know why?”

“Your Skills are inferior.”

Niers Astoragon sat there for a moment. He breathed in. He breathed out. He smiled. Calmly.

“Bird? I am over Level 60.”

“Yes.”

“You have seen my capstone Skill—you know, the Skill that disabled an immortal [Witch]’s protections for five minutes? I can do it to an entire army. You could put all of Wistram in front of me with every Archmage in the world, and give me an army of Level 5 [Archers] and I could kill them.”

“Okay. I have still seen your greatest Skill. And other ones. I have not been overly impressed.”

Niers chuckled darkly.

“Bird. Bird. Bird. Bird.”

“I am beginning to think you are upset. Yes?”

“You’ve seen my Level 60 capstone Skill. How about my Level 50 Skill? How about the Skill I got at Level 62?”

“Oooh. I am still unimpressed.”

Bird was enjoying making the tiny man upset. It was a good way to pass the time. He was also levelling up in [Liar]. He was already Level 6! One more and he might get a shiny new Skill.

Niers didn’t take the bait, unfortunately. He just muttered and then spoke to Bird.

“The point is, Bird—all my Skills work on armies. [Strategists] are force multipliers. We talk about that in class theory.”

“Class theory? Am I taking another lesson?”

“No. It’s just strategist-talk, and I can tell you’re getting bored. Say a [Warrior] is a linear addition to most armies unless their class is complementary like [Vanguard]—a [Mage] is a multiplier. A [Mage] can multiply a [Warrior]’s power. A [Warrior] doesn’t do more than ‘add’ to a [Mage]’s power because their Skills don’t synergize the other way. Mind you, a [Warrior] keeps the [Mage] from getting shanked, so there are dimensions, but a [Strategist] is a pure multiplier. We need armies to work. Without armies—we have no power. Unlike a [Warrior].”

“Ah. So you are saying since you did not have an army, that is your excuse for letting Belavierr get away and Mrsha being stolen.”

Niers sat in a state of zen on Bird’s head. After a while, he spoke.

“I was leading you to the conclusion that my Skills are boosting our speed, but we’re going through rough terrain. Not on open roads. I can make us go faster, and we need to pick up speed. But we can’t stick to the backcountry. We have to take to the trade roads. I know that takes us within literal spitting distance of some cities. I have a plan. But we need the kind of speed a wagon—and people on horseback—can’t sustain without a flat road, even a dirt one.”

Bird thought about this and nodded.

“All this makes sense. Why didn’t you say so from the beginning?”

He heard nothing from the tiny man for a long time. After a while, Bird clapped a hand to his head.

“No! Don’t—”

Too late. Niers kicked a hole out of the side of the hat he’d cut with his enchanted sword, and exhaled a cloud of smoke from the little Dreamleaf rollup. He leapt—and landed on the back of the bee he’d summoned. He offered Apista the rollup and flew off. Bird lifted up the hat and stared at it.

“My hat!”

——

Problems at home. Stranded on a continent without help. Hunted. Dead [Innkeepers]. Strange confluences of events.

Annoying Antinium.

There was a reason Niers Astoragon did not go insane. He’d seen it a lot of times. War heroes who couldn’t adapt to peace. The cure was more war…or an actual cure. His academy, his company actually maintaining and working on projects was why the Titan of Baleros didn’t go insane. He needed work, a project like instructing the next generation—and even then he had dozens of schemes he worked on at any time.

Foliana was different. She could literally hide in her tree-room and eat…gravy biscuits or something disgusting all day. Personality. Even now, Niers couldn’t tell which of theirs was actually better for the success they’d enjoyed.

Here, bereft of many diversions and on the road, in disguise with only Bird to talk to? Niers kept sane in other ways.

“Griffinwing dive! Spiral-roll!”

The Titan dove out of the air four hundred feet overhead. A little Ashfire Bee dove after him, wings folded, in the classic hunting form of a Terandrian Griffin. A move used aerially by all flying regiments over a certain size; you literally smashed an enemy below you in the air.

Apista broke out of the dive into a complex roll in the shape of a spiral; no aileron roll, but a spinning evasive tactic designed to throw off ray or beam-based spells. She caught Niers and he clung to the improvised saddle.

“Pitch drop! Ha! Hahahaha—”

It was an impressive technique to go from moving forwards into a near vertical dive. Niers had seen experienced [Wyvern Riders] and other fliers who couldn’t pull off the little bee’s tricks. But then, their mounts were famously temperamental. He was impressed Snapjaw even had control over her Frost Wyvern; it would have eaten a [Rider] it didn’t respect. Watching Snapjaw literally chew through stone had made an impression on Icecube.

Maybe that’s the trick. If a Wyvern thinks you can eat rocks…that’s almost stupid enough to work. I have to test it when I get back.

Apista levelled out of the snap-dive and Niers gave her the rest of the blunt he’d been smoking as a reward. The Ashfire Bee flew too high for even Badarrow to see the Fraerling, or so Niers hoped. He was too busy scouting around, anyways.

To keep himself entertained, Niers taught Apista flying combat tricks. Like she was a [Wing Rider] of Fissival’s Wyvern-squadrons. Or a Fraerling warmount.

Below him, the others were camping for dinner. They’d continue into the night. It was Niers’ plan, which Bird had faithfully implemented.

They needed to travel across Izril. Logic dictated they travel into night and early morning. From dusk till full morning, they travelled; this was ‘breakfast’. And that was good because it meant less traffic and they were harder to spot from afar.

Not that it matters with this terrain. Niers cast a look around the tick-infested wilds. He hated the damn bugs too; they could drain someone his size of blood completely.

They needed a road. More danger meant more speed and more reward. Niers was a bit put out, actually.

“Not one monster attack. Not one enemy group. What are the Drakes doing, sleeping? Hello! We’ve got Goblins and Antinium here! Come attack us!”

He shouted into the wind. Apista, fanning her wings lazily as she smoked, considered that Niers had just done his job too well. He had concealment Skills, and had chosen a route past the Bloodfields that had let them skirt Pallass and any major engagements.

Not that she could speak.

Well, bored Fraerlings aside, there was a lot of interesting things in the caravan. Niers sighed, then backflipped off Apista’s back.

“Catch me fifty feet off the gr…”

Apista sighed then floated down after him. Neither one was really worried; terminal velocity among Fraerlings was a joke.

——

On the ground, Fierre flew past Apista. The bee did a double-take. So did Niers.

Numbtongue just grumbled as he sat with his brother, Badarrow, and Badarrow’s…what was the Erin-term for it? Girlfriend?

That was almost completely wrong, but they were also not married. Nor were they going to bother with any formal system. They were a couple.

Numbtongue was still glad, heart-mended to see the Goblin he’d thought was dead after the battle at Liscor. However, this new dynamic? Not uncomfortable…just different.

Badarrow, the recalcitrant [Sniper], the grumpy [Archer] who was a Goblin-Halrac as Erin had once joked, was being cute. Tickling Snapjaw, feeding her ticks and grapes…and she was different, too.

“Numbtongue. Numbtongue, good songs. You know more Goblin-songs? I have some.”

She tried to hum a Goblin song from the south; she had lived in this part of Izril. She was sociable. Numbtongue had been a Redfang, but the company of his brothers—all brothers, the warband sent to kill Erin—had made him a bit unused to females of his species.

Not bad. Just…Numbtongue saw Snapjaw snap a giant centipede she’d found in half, and offer it around. Both he and Badarrow refused. Numbtongue was happy for Badarrow. But even for a Goblin, Badarrow’s girlfriend ate weird things.

Then the [Soulbard] looked up and grunted.

“Incoming.”

Both he and Badarrow rolled left. Snapjaw watched as Fierre thumped into the ground. She had been impressed by the flying as well. But she was fairly certain that you didn’t try to land on your head.

“Dead gods, Fierre, are you okay?”

“I’m okay!”

The Vampire girl hopped up onto her feet, a bit dizzily, but assured Fals that the fatal way she’d fallen hadn’t snapped her neck. She charged back…and then went flying again.

“Fierre! Stop jumping! I’m going to punch you straight into the fire—or into a cloud!”

The Vampire’s ‘flying’ was due to Garia smacking her through the air. It was astonishing how far Fierre could fly. She was fairly light, and she leapt about with considerable vigor, but even so…Numbtongue watched.

“[Enhanced Strength]?”

Snapjaw poked him in the side. He grunted.

“Mm. Oh. Nope. [Greater Strength] now.”

“Ooh.”

The [Eater] nodded at Garia appreciatively. The rest of the group watched.

“She’s going to have head-damage if she keeps it up.”

Sergeant Gna warned. She winced as Fierre took a full-force kick to the stomach. But the Vampire kept going, even though Garia knocked her sprawling countless times.

One had enthusiasm. The other had [Martial Artist] as a class and, by now, some experience in fights. Fierre was quick, but whenever she drew blood, metaphorically or literally, she lost her head and leapt in. She was too powerful, and the same problem she’d suffered in Invrisil was what she was trying to work on with Garia.

It was a nice floor show, though. A frustrated Fierre smacked the ground on her back next to Sergeant Gna, and the only friends she had.

“…Do you have a five?”

“Nope.”

Octavia frowned at her cards. Ulvama scratched at her side, yawning. Sergeant Gna glared at the Hobgoblin until Ulvama shook her head.

“Argh!”

“Fierre! Jumping attacks are really stupid. No one hops around like that.”

Fierre’s flying kick looked like something out of a movie. And it was about as practical in a fight.

“It’s just—I know I can punch and block, but I want something incredible! Don’t you feel that way, Garia? Numbtongue! Don’t you think a flying attack looks cool? Imagine jumping off that rock with your sword!”

The Vampire protested as Garia, sweating but exhilarated, tried to debrief her combat failings. The [Bard] looked up and glanced at the rock Fierre pointed at.

He and all the Hobs laughed.

“Jump? Sounds like good way to land on pike.”

Snapjaw chortled. Fierre’s face fell; even Salkis and Gna looked disapproving.

Amateur fighters. She acted like a Bronze-rank adventurer, all flash—but with some actual strength and speed to back it up.

“I just think—I know it’s not practical, but I just uh, levelled up! I want to fight like it! It feels…incredible. Like a Gold-rank. Why can’t I fight like that?”

“Hah. You want to be an adventurer, miss. They can show off; real [Soldiers] don’t flash around like that. Even our Wing Commander. She can do tricks like that with her spear; she’s as close to a [Spearmaster] as anyone. But she doesn’t, especially not in battle. Economy of movement.”

Sergeant Gna retorted as she lost three coppers to Ulvama. She threw down her cards in disgust. To make her feel better, and because it wasn’t her food but the group’s, Ulvama offered her a boiled egg. The Gnoll woman hesitated, then bit into it and chewed, grumpily.

“But…”

Fierre was crestfallen as the veterans assured her that no, she was stupid. Garia bit her lip—right up until Bird wandered over and sat down.

“There are flying fighting styles, Miss Fierre. I would know. I am Bird. Tell her, Pivr.”

“There are?”

Pivr looked up. Bird glowered as his antennae, poking out of his hat, waved idly. Fierre glanced up.

“There are, Bird? How do you know?”

“I am smart? There are [Martial Artists] who fight in midair. You are just doing it wrong and Garia cannot teach you.”

“…Can you teach me, Bird?”

“Nope!”

The Antinium [Bird Hunter] threw up his hands happily. Fierre sighed, but she glanced at him. And his hat.

“…So what should I do?”

“Figure out why you are being punched in the face. Don’t do that. I had a st—I mean, I know of a [Strategist] who practiced the ‘Steel Feather’ school. Garuda. Drop kicks and many leapings. I am also Bird. So my contribution is that you are not fast enough. Every bird in the world laughs at you. I wrote an article on the Terandrian Galewing because I am a column-writer for a newspaper. They are faster and more agile. Garia hits you because you always jump at her. Evade.”

Bird actually added to Niers’ advice. Fierre blinked for a bit to decipher his confusing rant, but she nodded.

“Garia! I’m ready for another try!”

“Are you sure?”

Even Garia, who knew Fierre’s nature, was astonished at her resilience. Niers, sitting in Bird’s hat, stroked his beard.

She was tough! He frowned at Fierre. She was a minor curiosity. He would have guessed she was a Selphid in hiding with that kind of physical superiority. Maybe her mother had passed on some kind of super-traits via Skills?

The little advice actually did a lot for Fierre. In that she didn’t take as many punches or kicks. She began to leap around; it was still easy for Garia to tell her trajectory. But…Fierre twisted in the air. What if she could execute an aerial dodge? What if…

——

Fierre took Garia aside, so they were fighting out of range of the campground on the pretense that they’d nearly hit the fire a few times.

“Garia. Garia, try hitting me now. Don’t hold back.”

The [Martial Artist] leapt at Fierre and the Vampire girl did a leap that defied gravity; she could jump ten feet straight up. Garia, with her [Greater Strength], was still envious of Fierre’s agility. Fierre landed, hopped, and dove as Garia advanced, grounded, striking and punching.

But Garia had many Skills and Fierre had only a handful.

“[Flash Kick]!”

Fierre leapt backwards, taking the kick on a cross-armed block, just like Garia had taught her. But her jump, again, was the most obvious thing in the world.

[Footwork: Half-circle Reposition].

Garia swept towards Fierre in that circling movement, like Grimalkin had taught her. She set up a roundhouse kick to Fierre’s back as the Vampire twisted in midair. She saw Fierre’s eyes glow red, and then—

She vanished. She turned to mist, just for a half-second, and changed directions in midair. Garia recoiled.

“Aaaaaah!”

[Sway Dodge] made her lean under a wild haymaker from Fierre. The Vampire girl could have pressed her attack then, but like the amateur she was, she stomped her feet.

“I nearly had you! I did it on the first try! Come on, Garia, couldn’t you let me have just one good punch?”

The [Martial Artist] just blinked at Fierre. She lacked Skills, but she could make up for it with her natural abilities. She just needed…

Practice.

——

Niers didn’t see the hidden sparring, but he didn’t need to. Fierre was fairly bright; if she didn’t work anything out, he, and her friend, would get her to adapt to a more grounded style.

Just a kid. Never seen a real fight. He agreed with the others’ assessments.

However. Fierre wasn’t wrong. If the Goblins and seasoned warriors laughed at her desire to be ‘cool’, Niers laughed at them. It was amazing. Her desire to be…well, a Gold-rank? A superhuman individual? That was what you needed.

At any rate, Bird had more tasks that night. Like squatting next to Gothica.

She confused the hell out of Niers. The Cave Goblin, rather than join Fierre, was mixing more eye-shadow. Bird asked about it when Niers prompted him.

“Gothica. What is a [Goth]?”

“Psh. Don’t know. [Goth] is [Goth].”

The Cave Goblin sneered. Niers prompted Bird again.

“Was your class…new? In your mind? I am asking because I have never heard of a [Goth].”

“Not new. But good class.”

“Can you tell me anything about the nature of [Goth]?”

The Cave Goblin had the same problem as Niers; her class didn’t have a helpful tutorial. Rather, like new Skills, it was something you learned, or knew about.

And Niers, who knew more classes than almost anyone in the entire world, didn’t know her class.

Of course he was interested. He narrowed his eyes.

Bird, acting as his voice, talked to Gothica. She had some intuition.

“[Goth] is look good. [Goth] is…like that one.”

She pointed in the direction Fierre had gone, and gave a wickedly sharp smile.

“Good teeth. But also good dress. Like…this color.”

She gestured to her clothing. Dark, brooding. Gothica tilted her head.

“…Should get good music, too.”

“Numbtongue plays good music. He is in a band with Kevin.”

Bird pointed out. Gothica made her ‘puh’ sound and swept her bangs back.

“Not good enough. Too light. Too…”

She searched for a word.

“Happy. Pop. Bleh.”

There was a twang as Numbtongue’s music slowed down. He raised his head. Gothica stared at him defiantly. Yeah. You heard what I said.

Niers got the distinct impression that Gothica liked annoying the Hobs and Fierre.

“Interesting. Reminds me of an [Anarchist]. [Rebel]. But the dress being a requirement she can sense…that’s closer to a [Jester] or a class with distinct dress requirements. [Chevaliers] have to have a certain style of dress. Hmm. Hmmmm. [Nudists]?”

He was trying to recall other classes with dress-based requirements. Gothica remained helpfully unhelpful, and Niers eventually told Bird to let her keep making her unique dress and makeup. She’d even begun to add to her parasol, in a copy of Fierre’s. Although Gothica, a Cave Goblin, aware of their mission, had begun to try to alter it further.

As in, she was trying to add razors to the edges and had sharpened the tip into a miniature dagger’s point.

Some combat potential there. Her class must at least be intrinsically linked with violence. Or she was adapting it to that. Niers was fascinated for another reason, though.

It sounds like a weak class, but it must be something…well, maybe there’s only one benefit. But it’s a damn good one.

He was definitely going to look into that. But later. Niers was distracted from telling Gothica about the thing she might not have realized yet herself. Because at last, there was some action!

Infinitypear, the new [Adventurer], had disappeared with Rasktooth for a second. Touma the Great, who had been covertly watching Fierre and Garia spar, and wondering if he could learn to turn into mist, edged out of his hiding place and hurried over to the commotion.

“Adventure! Adventure!”

The Goblin was waving something about. He and Infinitypear had had an adventure! They’d gone for a little walk to find supplements for the food, and then it had happened!

“We found a key.”

Infinitypear stood proudly, and couldn’t have known how his words made every senior Goblin and Niers look at him.

“A…key?”

Numbtongue glanced at Badarrow. Snapjaw had come alive, recalling something Reiss had wanted. The others gathered around. They had found a key! Rasktooth told them all about it. Niers sat forwards…then scowled.

“A little racoon had key. Shiny key. We followed. Key! And racoon.”

Salkis glanced at the skinned, red pile of flesh Infinitypear was carrying. She grinned.

“What about the key?”

“Looked about. Was in little den. Had a box! See? Look!”

They’d found…a key. Which a racoon had hoarded, along with a little lockbox. When Bird trooped out with the others, they found an abandoned homestead.

The little lockbox held the owner’s fortune. Which was fifty six silver pieces, two gold, and a gold ring.

Niers Astoragon needed a drink. Rasktooth and Infinitypear were beaming over their find and ‘adventure’, which had involved a bit of quick tracking and exploring.

A Level 5 [Adventurer]’s…adventure. Something an Antinium, who had an income of exactly zero, and a Cave Goblin, who had a similar economic background, thought was amazing. The racoon was worth more than the gold to them, but Infinitypear shared the ‘loot’ with Rasktooth, and the Cave Goblin wore the unenchanted gold ring proudly while Infinitypear got the shiny coins—and an invitation to the gambling with Ulvama, Gna, Octavia, and the Brothers.

“Dead gods dammit.”

Niers groaned. Where was his real adventure? Where was his conflict? One monster! Just one! There had to be one Gold-rank…berserk Tebrebull or something around here, right? What about a nest of horrors, drawn to the unusual prey so far from usual civilization?

He had been a Named Adventurer! He was the Titan of Baleros! He was…

Hell’s Warden. Niers kicked around in a bored rage in Bird’s hat until the Antinium shook it.

——

Niers was right. There were actually multiple Gold-rank threats in the region, some of which had actually noticed the group’s passing.

Even the very same creatures which had a title attached to slaying them. A small nest.

…The Cetoire Hunter, an old, biological, artificial creation crossed paths with the Creler nest. Nearly two dozen tiny Crelers and one larger, Juvenile one scuttled past the Gold-ranked monster. Both of them were heading away from the presence they’d sensed.

At top speed, so fast they didn’t even bother to kill each other.

The problem Niers Astoragon didn’t realize he had was that he was leaking his true nature. And the very same monsters could sense it. They took one look at him and left.

Even the Crelers. If they had a thought-process at this stage in life, it was something like this: they sensed him. Hell’s Warden. Crelerbane. Someone who had killed their kin! And that drove them into a ravening fr—wait a second. How many had he…?

Oh god, oh god, oh no, oh no—

And then they ran. Every species tended to defecate before a situation that required fast movement; it was a flight-or-fight response and Crelers were no different. They expelled the waste—what little they could not digest—along with the food meant to keep them growing and fled as fast as they could to somewhere away from this bane of their kind.

It was a peaceful night.

——

The next day, the band of travellers in pursuit of Mrsha found one of the trade routes stretching across Izril.

Snapjaw came swooping out of the air around two hours to dawn. Everyone stopped, wondering if she’d lost the trail.

The trail for Mrsha was not easy to follow. Sergeant Gna’s nose and her tracking Skills literally kept them on track; without her [Regain Pursuit] Skill, and her ability to direct Snapjaw and Badarrow in the right directions, the Goblins would never spot the minute trail.

What they could spot was thanks to Ulvama, who had given Badarrow a magic stone to sense powerful magical residue. They essentially dowsed the trail that Wanderer had left; neither scent nor magic were strong enough to let either side follow without the other.

And both failed without Niers, incidentally, who had to give both Gna and Ulvama’s magic the extra oomph to track the Gnoll. But Snapjaw wasn’t here to say she needed Gna to ride ahead; she jumped off Icecube’s back as the Frost Wyvern stared at Xeu.

Xeu stared back. She scuttled forwards and poked Icecube in the talon. The Frost Wyvern huffed a bit of cold breath and Xeu scurried back. But not far.

Friendship had been established yesterday.

“Big road. Paved. Nice stones. Big, wide—not many travellers, but is road. Have to cross and hide, but is flat like this, and road goes next to huuuuuge lake over there. Too hard hide unless we run to forest…very far.”

Snapjaw gave the others her assessment of the problem. The problem also being that Mrsha’s trail was heading south-east, across the road.

“Well. Snapjaw can try to keep tracking if she flies really high, but the rest of us need to keep out of sight. We could have the others wait until night again and catch up? And send…?”

The issue was the Goblins and Antinium. Fals raked at his hair. Salkis, Gna, Garia, Fierre, Octavia, and even the Brothers could all travel without too much suspicion, unless Salkis’ family was after her as she thought, but what of the two species who were kill-on-sight for most of Izril?

Splitting up the group was inherently dangerous, as Bird’s Skills only affected the people with him. Then again, that might let them keep up…

Bird was not part of this discussion. He had taken a nap on the wagon because he was sleepy even with the promise of hunting night-birds.

“Niers. Niers.”

“What? Shut up, Bird. I’m listening. I think I can deal with this. I need you to tell them what I’m going to say. I’m going to coach you. One sec. Is that Goblin incapable of talking in actual geographical details? She’s a [Chieftain]!”

He was glowering at Snapjaw as Bird sleepily raised his head. The Antinium regarded Niers.

“Okay. Then I did not level and I will not tell you about my new fantabulous Skill.”

Niers glanced back at Bird.

“You just levelled up?”

“Yes.”

“Well—tell me. And fantabulous is not a word.”

“Yes it is. Erin uses it.”

Niers glared at Bird. The Antinium happily annoyed the little man.

“What’s your new Skill? Come on, Bird. We don’t have time! I need you to repeat my words exactly. No making up anything this time. We have to convince them…”

“There will be no need. Because I am a superior Bird. I am now a Level 7 [Liar] because my lies are so big even I cannot believe them. Would you like me to tell you?”

“Yes, Bird. Tell me.”

“Say ‘please’.”

Niers snapped.

“Just tell me already! Levelling up is not impressive, Bird! It’s Level 7.”

Bird looked hurt.

“But I am already a [Bird Hunter] over Level 30. I am also a [Singer] and [Tactician] and [Revalantor] Level 4. My quick levelling with so many classes is thus extraordinary and I deserve a pat on the head. Maybe an egg.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

“No, it’s not, Bird. Because I’m Niers Astoragon, the Titan of Baleros. You’re not levelling faster because you’re an amazing [Liar]. It’s because I have [Swift Levelling] and I’ve been using it on you all since we started travelling.”

Bird dropped the egg. He looked at Niers. Then he opened his mandibles to protest that Skill did not exist or everyone would try to get it. And then he looked at the greatest [Strategist] with all his Skills.

“…My accomplishments have been invalidated and I am now sad.”

“You still have to earn them. Just…what’s your Skill?”

Bird sulked for four seconds, then cheered up since he was levelling. Niers rubbed at his head. Everyone loved to tell him it was cheating. Cheating? At what? Erin Solstice clearly had the benefit of that Skill. No one hit Level 40…he wondered who’d boosted her. That Grand Magus?

“I am now able to use [Marionette’s Imitation]. Praise me.”

Niers’ head snapped up. He looked at Bird. Then he developed the most evil grin Apista had ever seen. The Ashfire Bee grabbed one of the eggs and flew off. Good for Bird.

——

Something was different about Bird when he strode into the meeting about the road and their problem. Oh, he was the same Bird, wearing his weird new hat. His voice was the same…but it had a sudden authority, a difference in cadence now and then.

Bird would say something without the correct body-language to convey it, at first, but he began to act more normally—for Bird—soon enough. Even so.

“We are going to go across the road. Now. Listen to me, because I am Bird and I have a superior plan.”

The Goblins, Antinium, and others looked at him incredulously. Bird happily moved his mandibles in time to Niers talking. This was quite fun. He waved all four arms, gesticulating in how he felt Niers would like.

The others listened. They argued. Badarrow did not like the idea, but Snapjaw had heard of it working before. Numbtongue eventually smiled, and that was that. Pivr and Xeu expressed concerns, but agreed to try it.

They could always run away.

——

The trade roads of Izril were safe*. And that asterisk applied for any trade road in the world. Safe, until it wasn’t.

It just meant you weren’t going through untamed wilds, or ill-used roads, which were more dangerous because there were less people there.

[Bandits] could still hit you. Rogue monsters could come out. And so on and so forth. But there were more people on the road, it was paved, closer to nearby settlements who had a vested interest in keeping them relatively secure…

Safe*. For the Drakes and Gnolls who frequented them, it was still a good idea to be cautious. If you had a caravan, you had [Guards]. If you were travelling, you were either doing it when you knew the roads had enough security, or you could defend yourself from a [Mugger] as you went from inn to inn along known safe areas.

A trade road could still be empty for an hour with no one in sight—or as crowded as hell. Entire armies might use them for war, ironically invalidating the name. The traffic you could expect, however, was generally sporadic until you neared a larger city.

Even so, if you had a bunch of Goblins or obvious [Bandits] riding down it, you’d see them pretty fast. It would be stupid for a group to travel down it comprised of the hated Antinium and Goblins. Of course, who would ever imagine that could happen?

“This is the stupidest thing we’ve ever done. Why are we trusting Bird?”

Sergeant Gna was sweating so hard her fur glistened in the morning light. So was Fals as he jogged down the road. He waved at a wagon passing by.

“Gna, shut up. They’ll hear us. Uh—hi.”

A Drake riding past gave the Human a long, askance look. He didn’t reply.

“Humans.”

Someone muttered loudly. The Drake glanced over, saw Salkis lounging in one of the wagons, and grinned. He waved at her. She nodded, her onyx scales glinting in the light. One of the sleeping travelling companions in the covered wagon—a bit ramshackle, but decent transport—waved a gloved hand.

“Morning to you.”

The wagon passed by. Fals and Gna, sweating, saw Salkis nudge the figure with a hood over his head. They high-fived.

“Madness.”

Sergeant Gna glared so hard at Numbtongue that the Goblin started laughing again. So did some of the others in the wagon, or riding along. Like children. Like they wouldn’t die if they were found out.

What audacity. Salkis was grinning so hard that she couldn’t help but drum her feet against the wagon. It was brilliant.

No one expected Goblins or Antinium on the trade road. That would literally be the most obvious thing ever. But…if you saw them as you were just passing by, by new light or dusk? Who cared if you didn’t see all of the hooded figures, some wearing travelling cloaks on foot, which looked a bit like blankets with holes cut in them the closer you got?

Now, if you saw a line of hooded, suspiciously bulky characters you might stop and obviously look closer. Same with a bunch of people who you couldn’t quite see in one of the wagons, or a huge lump—Pivr, since Xeu could camouflage—lying under a pile of supplies?

Instantly suspicious. But that wasn’t what it looked like.

What it looked like was Salkis sitting next to a friend with a hood. And who would guess that the person was a Goblin, not just another Drake or Gnoll? If you saw Fierre and Garia riding along, you didn’t care about the others; they were just Humans.

Perspective. Assumptions.

Niers Astoragon was having a lot of fun. Of course, he wasn’t just trusting to the disguises, but he wanted to see how far they got with just them. This reminded him of being on campaign, like pretending an entire battalion of Selphids were reinforcements and sneaking them into the enemy camp.

“Your audacity is inspiring, Niers.”

Even Bird was impressed. He tilted his head, regarding the group moving through the dawn and early morning.

“We’ll stop by midday. Pretend we’re taking a rest. Move far off the road; we don’t want someone wanting to share our camp. If we see a huge group, move’ em off the road for something. Not a broken wagon wheel. Too many busybodies just looove to help.”

Bird addressed Garia, who was running ahead as a City Runner. She nodded, seriously, with the same awe that they were getting away with it. Which they had been for only two hours, to be fair.

“What do we do?”

“I do not know? I will improvise. I am Bird.”

Privately, Bird thought that Niers was not doing a good job pretending to be him. But it fooled everyone else. Niers went on.

“Pretend you are having the Yellow Rivers. That fools people because they will not like to get close. Or cough a lot. This is logic. I am Bird.”

“Got it, Bird.”

Garia jogged ahead. And…scene. Niers sat back, enjoying everything. Especially because the caravan got into it.

Some, like Gna and Ulvama, looked like they wanted to pee blood with the stress this was causing. But the Goblins and Antinium began to get really into it.

“Hey! What’s the news?”

Numbtongue shouted at a passing City Runner—on horseback. The Gnoll growled.

“Can’t talk! Armies on the road, you know how it is. Get a scrying orb!”

“Come on, anything new?”

Numbtongue galloped forwards a bit. The Gnoll growled.

“Oh—fine—I just heard that the King of Destruction’s so wounded he can’t move and they’re sieging Reim on all sides. There!”

“Ooh. Nice.”

“Thanks. Hey, take a bath! You’re a bit whiffy!”

Numbtongue shouted an insult and the City Runner galloped onwards. He returned, chortling, to Octavia and Ulvama, who both tried to kill him. Salkis had dared him to do that.

It was too fun. That was the problem. There was something intoxicating, to the Goblin mind, with being able to get away with being a normal person, how do you do fellow normal people, let’s not kill each other, on the road.

Like Gothica, who could wave behind a hood and little mask on her face at some Drake children.

“Want to trade toys?”

They shouted eagerly as their family urged them onwards. Gothica reached for a dagger. At that point Dirtmouth had to stop her since there was such a thing as going too far.

To the Antinium as well. The invisible Workers and Soldiers first just marched along in petrified silence. Then, they began to wave every time a group passed by because they would wave back. It was so much…fun.

“This is incredible.”

Fierre muttered, staring at the mastermind behind the entire event with awe.

Here was the thing. Bird, or rather, Niers, had done his job too well selling the group on this. They were relaxed, and it added to the cover, because he’d convinced them this ruse was going to work, 100%.

…It would not. Sooner or later, a Gnoll was going to sniff out a distinctly alien scent, or someone with a keen pair of eyes would see a glowing crimson eye, or the wind would blow and they’d be discovered.

Even by day and night, they had a limited window. The sun was rising and traffic was getting steadier. They were going to be found out.

But for Niers Astoragon. So he was relaxed because he could keep the lie going, even if something bad happened.

“Almost time for us to leave. Send word to Snapjaw or—no, get Gna to find us a campsite a few miles off the road.”

Niers was muttering to Bird. The Antinium was looking around for Gna when it happened.

“Soldiers! Soldiers!”

The cry came from—behind. Fierre twisted in her saddle, heart pounding, as Fals ran forwards. The group slowed as the figures in the wagon or riding along stiffened. The Antinium column slowed, bunching up to shield themselves behind the wagon. Xeu, pacing next to them, raised her scythe arms.

By now it was getting dangerously crowded on the road. The only reason Niers had kept them going this long was because this was a lot of fun for him, pushing the envelope.

…And because their group was moving so fast that all but City Runners couldn’t pass them and they literally only had time to wave before they passed by envious groups admiring their foot-speed. The Antinium only moved at a jog, but they travelled further than they should with each step.

Drake [Soldiers] were coming up the road. It sent reality jolting back into the group. Numbtongue reached for his crystal sword, wishing Badarrow and Snapjaw were here. They’d see the fighting and they’d have air support. But…

“How many?”

He snapped. Bird had ridden back. Fals had run back to make sure.

“Nearly four hundred! Armed, carrying weapons—coming up the road. Do you think…?”

“Calm down. It could just be a patrol or they’re after [Bandits] or—something! It’s not uncommon. What’s their sigil?”

Gna snapped, keeping a cooler head than the rest. Fals shook his head; he didn’t know the colors of Drake banners, so she cursed and rode quickly.

“Keep calm. Keep calm.”

Bird’s voice was laced with such quiet confidence that even Numbtongue stopped tensing as much. The group moved tensely onwards, a bit faster. However, for all their speed, the Drakes were somehow gaining! And that was twice as strange, because as Gna reported, they were on foot.

“Definitely not a patrol. Not an army either. I don’t recognize their city; it’s some local one. Not a big force. You’re not going to believe this—it’s a training group.”

Everyone started, then relaxed. A…what? Fierre peeked backwards, then remembered she was a ‘Human’ and relaxed further.

“Hup, two, three, four! Let’s hear the Salamanders roar!”

And there they came. A group of quick-jogging Drakes, carrying weapons and armor. Niers took one look at them through his spy-hole in Bird’s hat and snorted derisively.

“Bird, remember our conversation about marching [Soldiers]? Look at these idiots.”

The [Soldiers] were a group of [Soldiers] training for, well, soldiering. They were marching in full gear, armed with spears, behind an energetic [Captain] exhorting his [Soldiers]. They were in fairly good spirits, even if they were clearly feeling the strain.

“You’ll run like this in battle! Come on, lads! Another four miles and we’re turning back! You’ll be the Zephyr Salamanders’ finest! Keep it up!”

He was a younger Drake than Grimalkin, that kind of bright military officer fresh out of Manus. A bit older than Olesm; old enough to have received the [Captain]’s rank in whatever city he was in, to Gna’s eyes.

He was also noticeably different from Magus Grimalkin, the only other person that Numbtongue, Bird, and a few others could base a military trainer off of. Not just in body shape. Attitude. He was…cheering his men on. Not screaming invectives in their ears, and they weren’t running so hard that some had to stop and puke.

Even as they watched, the [Captain] slowed and grabbed the shoulder of a male Drake, as young as sixteen, slowing, panting.

“Keep up! We don’t leave anyone behind! What’s our motto?”

“Run like the wind and fight with one tail!”

The [Soldiers] shouted, then laughed. The [Captain] laughed too.

Fierre recognized an [Energizing Touch] when she saw one, because the flagging [Soldier] sped up, breathing lightly and looking gratefully at the [Captain]. From the way he charged back to the front and kept shouting, he was clearly in the best shape of all of them.

Not bad. Not great; the Redfangs among the Goblins weren’t impressed by this level of athleticism. Mainly because they were running at a decent clip with armor and weapons, but it was all flat. Redfangs trained in the High Passes so they’d do this exact same thing—minus Garen Redfang being nice—but up a slope.

The Antinium thought much the same thing; they weren’t bothered about the speed or intensity, but the Drakes didn’t have perfect, ruler-straight rows and were therefore objectionable.

It was a decent group to Gna. They’d form one of the better groups in an army, not some hastily-thrown-together unit that was little better than a [Militia].

Each a different perspective from representatives of fine military groups of their own. Not unfair, but it was for whichever city this group had come out for a training run. They didn’t have to be Izril’s finest.

The group of Drakes were slowly, slowly gaining on even Niers’ group. Which was going to be a problem. But Niers was working on countermeasures. He paused a second, but turned back to Ulvama.

“Can you make what I want?”

Their group was heading out of the ‘north’ of Drake lands, which was where the true rural cities and border settlements were, along the High Passes. Liscor was so north as to be remote. The covert band would have to do this trick more than once, even with Niers’ Skills, so they needed more insurance.

One of them was on the job he’d put to Ulvama and Octavia. Both looked amused by the project.

“Paint?”

“Or dye. Something to put on them. It does not have to be perfect.”

Octavia just blinked at Bird. He was so…forthright today.

“Just to clarify, Bird. You want us to make dye for the Goblin’s skin?”

“Yes.”

The Antinium spoke, then his mandibles opened and rose. Bird smiled.

“Oh? Oh! That is such an interesting idea!”

Someone kicked him in the antennae and he collected himself.

“…Which is why I thought of it. Naturally.”

Okay, that was more like Bird. The [Alchemist] relaxed. Ulvama just started laughing. She pointed at the color palette.

“Skin dye! Hah!”

It made sense, though. Why, slap some Human flesh tones on a Goblin and you might mistake them for half-Elves or Humans at a distance, right? The red eyes were a giveaway, but it would mean only the Antinium stood out.

“I do not care which color you make it. Just hide the green…and make it natural enough to fool others. Come to think of it, can you make a smell to fool Gnolls? Something to rub on with the paint?”

The two began debating dyes and if they had enough as Bird rode forwards. The Drakes were drawing alongside the group, and it was a problem.

“Maybe slow down in a minute. Pretend someone’s thrown a shoe.”

Niers muttered. Bird nodded. It wasn’t just the [Soldiers], who had waved at the Antinium. It was that [Captain].

He had glanced at Fals and Garia, recognized Gna as a [Soldier] herself, and now he was looking at the hooded Antinium and Goblins, craning for a better look now and then. Damn, was he a specialist of some kind?

“Don’t let that group beat us, men! Pick up the pace! You can do it!”

The Drake cheered the others on as he turned his head back, keeping them safe for another moment. He was competent, and the [Soldiers] clearly liked him. Now here was someone they’d follow into battle, the [Captain] who brought them up from Level 1, who cared for them, probably knew all their names by heart.

Niers Astoragon appraised the Drake, just like Numbtongue, Gna, the Antinium, had all looked at the [Soldiers] to establish their worth.

…He hated that [Captain]’s guts and it had only been five minutes.

“Bird! Bird! Trouble!”

“Oh, what now? Shut up, you idiot.”

The [Captain] and Niers both received news at the same time. News of the worst kind. Garia had come running back from up ahead.

“There’s another army ahead of us! An actual army this time! I recognized the banners! It’s…Fissival!”

“What?”

Fissival? The Walled City of Magic, the most eastern of all the Walled Cities? Niers cursed. It made sense; if they were heading to any western point on the continent, they must have passed through one of the mountainous passes.

“We can’t run into them! They will see through our disguises! Oh, dead gods we’re dead!”

Gna moaned. She was well aware of the Fissival [Mage]’s power to [Appraise] and any [General], natural foe of Goblins or Antinium?

“How close are we on their back ranks?”

“Too close! W-we have to…”

Niers was still not worried. He was getting excited. But also…annoyed. What was Fissival doing? An actual army or had Garia exaggerated? He saw a tiny figure and sensed Snapjaw returning from overhead; she was definitely not going to fly over them. They had Wyvern Riders of their own.

Even the others, tagging along the caravan from afar, decided now might be a good time to run. Despite Niers’ best efforts, his caravan had been spotted. Although not in any way he could have predicted. The little Goblins, staring at the many powerful Hobs from afar, were about to slink off.

As Niers thought calmly about what to do, that annoying voice intruded in his thoughts. And it irked him.

“Lads! Three more miles! There’s Fissival ahead of us; we’ll greet them, show them what the Salamanders have! It’ll be something to see an army on the march!”

He was encouraging the Drakes as they almost reached the back rank of the cloaked figures deliberately facing forwards, not revealing their faces to him. One of the [Soldiers] groaned.

“Captain! We can’t keep going! I’m dying, here!”

The Drake turned back and gave his group a radiant smile of encouragement.

“Just a bit more. Come on! I won’t ask you for much more! Give it your 100%! You can’t ask for more than that!”

The [Grandmaster Strategist], sitting in Bird’s hat, turned his head slowly.

“What did that moron just say? He’s never seen an actual battle before in his life.”

He got distracted again. The tiny Fraerling had to stand up to pace around.

“Bird, tell them not to worry. There’s a lot of ways this can go and I can get us out of it. Tell Gna to find us a place off the road. That’s the easiest thing to—”

Bird began to repeat his instructions, but once again Niers was distracted. It was that Drake [Captain]. He didn’t matter, but the way he cheered his [Soldiers], coddled them along? They were groaning, begging for a rest and then he said it.

“Alright, alright! One more mile! We’ve done a damned good job. One mile and we’ll break.”

“You just said three more miles. You idiot! What military school did you graduate from, the school of kittens and puppies and hugs?”

Niers began to shout in Bird’s hat. The Antinium, with his keen intellect and [Liar]’s intuition, decided that wasn’t meant to be repeated.

The Titan of Baleros peered out the hole in Bird’s hat. He looked at the [Soldiers]. He looked at the road, as his battlefield Skills pinged and revealed the first group of Fissival’s forces in the distance. He looked at the suspicious travelers on the road, who had begun to wonder just who was under the bulky cloaks. A Drake or Gnoll carrying packs under a travelling cloak? But it wasn’t raining.

A huge, manic, terrible smile spread across Niers’ face. The Titan of Baleros stepped back as the Drake [Captain] went down his lines.

“Say it. Just one time. Say it.”

He was slapping shoulders.

“Well done, lads. You’re a fighting force to be proud of.”

That was it. Niers’ face turned into a happy smile of pure evil. He snapped.

“Bird. Follow my orders exactly.”

The Antinium listened. Then his mandibles opened.

“What? No. I will not do that. That is insane. I am supposed to be the silly one. Not you. Let us return to those old roles. I liked that.”

He had been having a lot of fun at the Titan’s expense. Too much. Bird should have realized something. He wasn’t the insane one.

Niers was the insane one.

——

“Hey. Who are that lot? Humans and a Drake and a Gnoll. But what’s that group in hoods about? Some have masks on.”

“Dunno. Some kind of weird class? Gnolls?”

A travelling group of Drakes weren’t the only ones to notice the swift-moving group. Many had passed by with idle curiosity, but this one was on the group’s heels and had been keeping up, if not gaining, like the training regiment.

It was faster than any would have liked, but the Gnoll [Caravan Leader] had pushed the horses a bit faster because she kept staring at them in curiosity and sniffing their odd scents. It wasn’t as if ‘Human’ and ‘Drake’ were that different in scent, but she didn’t know what she was smelling. And the longer she looked at one of the bulky figures jogging along—why were they jogging if they had packs? They didn’t look like travelling packs.

But the more outlandish theories she had just couldn’t be true because that would be insane. Right? So she just…tried to get a better view.

One of the leaders was riding back, hood drawn over his face, no, actually shielding it as he stopped, talking to the other riders, the passengers on the wagon, and the jogging figures. They all looked stunned, began to argue. Someone began to shout.

“You’re insane, Bird! Ins—”

The [Caravan Leader] picked up something on the wind. Her eyes widened as she finally placed the scent.

“It can’t be.”

She had smelled that before, oh, yes, she had. Last time she’d nearly died during a surprise ambush. It was probably that they’d run into the monsters on the road, spilled blood.

…She didn’t smell blood. Did they have some prisoner? She craned her neck, then decided she had to ride forwards and see.

At the exact same time, a City Runner on the road had caught a flash of something that looked too insectile to be believed and slowed, turning back from the group of friends she was running with. The Drake jogged back, ignoring the desperately friendly calls of the two Human City Runners—already odd—to get a better look.

A crimson flash of light. An antenna, waving on the breeze. The positive Drake [Captain]’s mantra faltered as a figure rode to the front of the suspicious group. There were shouts, nervous cries. People trotted over as more attention began to unravel the entire mask and all the flaws.

Then it happened. The wind picked up. That treacherous wind, tugging at a hood, cloth, as the wagon began to turn, the horses were moved back towards it, two more hitched up for speed. The entire group slowed.

And then the Antinium with the bow on his back turned and faced the road. He threw back his hood. His cloak flew off his body, slapped the [Shaman] in the wagon on the face.

“It’s time! Off the horses! Get. Ready!”

Everyone on the road stared in stunned silence as Bird roared. The voice was authority—as the rest of his caravan froze, the order shocked them into movement.

“Wh—wh—”

The Drake [Captain] blinked. The Gnoll [Caravan Leader], the Drake City Runner, stared. Goblins leapt off the wagon, their horses, Cave Goblins, regular, Hobs, and Antinium threw back their hoods, slung packs into the wagon. They were tense. Crimson light flashed from eyes. One had a hand on a crystal sword and a guitar.

No one moved. Bird the Hunter looked around. At the wide-eyed terror in Fierre’s eyes, Gna, shielding her face so they wouldn’t pin her in this company. Numbtongue, looking at him…then he turned.

Follow my orders. The Antinium thrust one hand high in the air.

The Titan roared in Bird’s voice.

“With me! Let’s show them how it’s done! One, two, three, four!”

The Antinium turned—and began running down the road. There was a moment of hesitation—then the horses, all without riders, began to race behind the wagon as it picked up speed. The Goblins, Antinium, Humans, Drake, Gnoll, all looked at Bird’s back.

They looked back at the silent road. Did they run?

You had better believe they ran.

Bird ran. He knew Niers’ Skill was working on him, but he sprinted, the fastest run Bird had ever run in his entire life. On his heels were Goblins. Small or big—they ran with every fiber of their being down the road as the wagon, now controlled by a terrified Ulvama and Octavia, shot after them.

Niers must have used something to command the horses, because rather than bolt or stop, they galloped after the people on foot.

They were all dead. This was it. Fierre pumped her arms and legs, keeping up with the others more easily; aside from her, Fals, and Garia, everyone else was at their max speed already, and terror was pushing even the City Runners. She heard surprised shouts from behind. A roar from the Drake [Captain].

“Hey! Wait! W—after them!”

“Oh dead gods, dead gods, silver and blood and we’re all going to die!”

How did they handle it? Numbtongue’s teeth were bared, and he ran with one hand on his blade. Salkis was laughing. Gna was cursing as she pounded after the Goblins, who were laughing. Laughing like the dead. The Antinium just ran, terrified. Pivr scuttled after them.

“I am not part of the Flying Antinium! This is uh—the Armored Antinium. Xeu, you and I will shout that when they catch up—”

Terrified momentum. But for all they ran—Fierre chanced a glance over her shoulder and saw a furious regiment of four hundred Drakes charging after them at full bore. Not just them. A good deal of [Riders] were galloping to keep up, staring, shouting.

Were they all using movement Skills? Fierre saw the ground flash behind her. Even [Expeditious Retreat] wasn’t this fast, but the others were following! And what about those ahead? What was he doing? She stared at Bird, one hand on his hat as the other three arms pumped.

She had known he was as crazy as a loon! Crazier than Ryoka! Oh, dead gods, why hadn’t she said anything before now? They were going to die! They were going t—

The Drake [Captain] sprinted and somehow caught up with the first Goblins and Antinium. Gothica, running, having tossed her parasol and heavier clothes into the wagon, turned, a dagger in one hand. She wasn’t going to make it. The Drake stared at her. Then he shouted.

“Excuse me, miss. One second—”

He jogged past her. Gothica nearly fell flat on her face. The Drake jogged straight past Touma the Great, who stared at him.

“Sir! Sir! What are you doing?”

Bird the Hunter’s mandibles opened wide. But then ‘he’ just bellowed back in the [Captain]’s face.

“Showing you Zephyr Salamanders how it’s done! Keep up if you want, [Captain]! You heard me, you slow-as-slug bastards! I said, run!”

The Titan roared at the Antinium, Goblins, and other people following him. They looked at each other as the Drake [Captain] spluttered. Then they realized two things.

The Drake regiment was moving as fast as they were. So were those on horseback—the Skill was hitting everyone on the road. Second? The Drake [Captain] stared at Bird.

“I thought I smelled Goblin. Who’s that handsome Gnoll?”

The [Caravan Leader] pointed at the figure in armor, charging at the head of the group of assorted Drakes and Gnolls. She turned to the [Merchant]. The Drake shrugged. She eyed the bare-chested lot, wearing only loincloths.

“I have no idea.”

——

He was roaring with hilarity at the expressions on their faces. Even Bird. One antenna was waving around, smacking into his shoulder, but the Titan laughed.

Do you really think I was a one-trick [Strategist]? I am the Titan of Baleros! The Titan!

He didn’t try plans he knew were going to fail, not without backups.

[They Marched as Friends, Until the Hammer Fell]. The Drake in armor turned and bellowed at the Zephyr Salamanders of Rosiit. The [Soldiers] in training stared at the group of hooded figures who’d revealed themselves to be some kind of…what? [Mercenaries]? Fellow [Soldiers]?

Niers shouted at Captain Hoseev.

“You call that running? You call that training? I’ve seen one-legged Dullahans run faster! Run, you worms! You worthless rats! Run!”

Numbtongue had never heard Bird insult anyone like that. He looked left, where a furious group of Drakes were trying to either prove Bird wrong—or get close enough to throw a punch. The fact they were disguised did nothing to quell the instinctive fear.

The [Bard] ran faster. The Goblins were all natural sprinters…in that if you weren’t, you got caught. The Antinium? Only Klbkch had ever been seen to ride a horse before recently.

They sprinted, but the thing about a sprint was that it was something you kept up for bare minutes at the most. Even trained [Soldiers] were only prepared to launch a charge in battle to capitalize on the enemy’s opening; you didn’t keep going.

Niers demanded that of them. The Titan roared as one of the Workers began to flag.

“Do you want to die? Slow down and find out what happens!”

The terrified Worker instantly ran faster. The Drake [Captain] looked askance at the [Drillmaster] from hell. However, Niers wasn’t just insulting the [Soldiers]. That was certainly part of it, and the same strategy that Grimalkin to Niers’ own officers employed at times.

“You think I’m being mean, do you? There’s no place for rest on the battlefield! Push yourself! Faster!”

His voice, somehow, grew louder, despite the pace that sucked the breath from everyone else. Now, everyone on the road was staring as a roaring figure charged down it, leading a group at a speed that…

“Drakes’ Ancestors!”

The City Runner on horseback who had passed them a while back looked behind him and saw a charging mass of people on foot coming after him. He tried to race forwards—and they passed him. He saw a Drake pointing at him.

“Get off that horse and run! You call yourself a Runner? Show me you know how to run!”

It was an order. The Gnoll leapt off the horse. By now, lungs were burning and were it not for the terror of falling behind, half the group would have stopped. Fierre saw Rasktooth gasping for air. But then her head rose, and her own red pupils widened.

Bird was looking right back at them, and that voice, in his tone, but with that command that far exceeded Bird’s personality and levels, was speaking in her ears. She listened to it, panting, as even her legs burned and her skin hurt under the harsh, draining light of the sun.

“I don’t want to see a single person slowing down. Don’t waste breath telling me you’re at your limits. Your limits? You’ve never pushed your limits in your life. When you drop dead, you can complain you hit them! Did you come here to just ride along? Or did you come to fight and die for a reason? Weren’t you prepared to sacrifice everything to save someone’s life?”

The Goblins and Antinium looked up at him. The figure bellowed at them.

“Legends. I have seen legends. I have led heroes into battle. I have fought in more wars than you could dream of. I am telling you to run. Just run as fast as the men and women I’ve seen. So. Run. Faster.”

Bird sped up. [Charge of the Strategist]! But it extended to him and him alone. The column behind him desperately tried to catch up. Somehow…Bird saw the ground widen as he accelerated, then begin to shrink.

The words coming out of ‘his mouth’ were ridiculous. Who could believe that? If Bird said them, now or in any other moment, they would laugh at him and call him a silly Bird, because he was.

They didn’t come from him. Niers Astoragon, the Titan, was screaming them at the people running. Gothica, Fierre…the Drake [Captain]’s eyes widened.

“What is that?”

——

It was a question echoed by the first [Scouts] and a [Brigadier-General] on the march. They weren’t expecting trouble on the road. Not yet. But given who they were going to meet, and the reasons behind their deployment…

“What is that?”

The Drake, a [Mage]’s wand at his side and a sword on the other, as befit his city’s way of fighting, stared up at something. The other [Soldiers] looked blankly at the clear, blue sky. A few clouds, where a feral Wyvern had flown.

Some of the officers squinted, almost seeing what he meant. A few did, and stared wide-eyed at something. A [Scout], panting, pointed.

“They’re coming! It’s a thousand people and counting!”

“What, running? Some kind of training exercise?”

The [General] just kept watching something growing closer. It was almost on them, engulfing part of his army, throwing it into chaos. It was…he felt like he was staring at an invisible Giant, from the old tales of when they walked Izril.

The aura was the largest thing he’d ever seen.

——

The Drake ran past [Soldiers] on the march of another army. They stared, as hundreds, no, a thousand figures swept up by his demands charged after him.

“Run, you worthless worms! I want to see you—run! Break your limits and throw the worthless things into the void! Ignore the pain! This day, this moment, you are levelling up! Every second you cough blood, every step you take, you are pushing past the worthless selves you’re leaving behind. Anyone who falls behind has no place in war! Nor glory!”

He charged past a [Mage Lieutenant] from Fissival. The Drake took one look at the running officer who he couldn’t place. His authority was immediately overrun, overwritten. Half the Drakes took the figure racing ahead of them for a [Commander] and went after him. It was instinctive.

They couldn’t keep this up! Numbtongue was a fit Hobgoblin. Maybe he’d been slacking in the inn, but—he clutched at his side. His ribs felt like they were going to break! How long had it been, ten minutes? Eight? Fifteen? Yet Bird…no, that voice dragged him on.

“Stop looking down. Look up. Look at my back. Focus on my voice.”

They did. It was that or think about how much they were dying, and if they did, they’d stop. The Titan carried them onwards.

“I know your lungs are bleeding, that you cannot think! But run, run even if your legs break! Run even if you tear every muscle from your bones! Run, because in this moment, you are the greatest legend you have ever known. To yourself. There has never been a you that ran this hard, that fought so hard! Run! Have you ever dreamed of being better than you were? RUN.”

Who was running with them, by his side? More people were caught up by the procession. No, by the crowd.

The army, running down the road. The collective of faces—Numbtongue looked left and saw a panting Drake City Runner. On his right? Was that Drake wearing ceremonial armor? Who were they?

Gothica saw a foreign Goblin wearing white face-paint and a strange claw-handprint on his chest panting and running next to a Gnoll in [Merchant]’s clothes. And still, the voice kept on in their ears.

“A second more. A minute more. Right now, you are the greatest army the world has ever seen. I should know, because I would lead nothing less. Do you understand me?”

Silence. A beat, a heartbeat of rushing blood, and then the voice roared at them.

“I said, do you understand me? I want to hear it! Say ‘yes’!”

“Yes?”

It was a bare whisper—there wasn’t enough air for anyone to speak. That was obviously not good enough. The Titan howled at them.

“I can’t hear you! Look at you! You are surpassing my expectations, but you can’t even say a word? Listen to me. If the ground opens up in front of us and drags us over the end of the world—if the Deathless and every Demon in Rhir appears right here, right now. If the King of Destruction appears on the horizon. You will fight them and win. Do you have the courage to charge hell? Answer me!”

“Yes!”

“Can you overcome any foe against you?”

“Yes!”

Then it was a roar. Somehow, Touma the Great found the strength to shout it. He had no words, but he shouted something for the first time in his life. The [Soldier] saw the Drake [Captain] shouting. He looked forwards and Bird screamed at him. Or whoever it was. An Antinium like the stories of Centinium.

“Will you ever fall in battle? Will you ever die?”

“No!”

“That’s right! Let me hear it! Give me a roar befitting the world’s greatest warriors! What do you say? ‘Us’! Who can shake the Walled Cities and turn back the Black Tide?”

“Us!”

They were past pain, running on exactly nothing. Giving over whatever you called their maximum. Even the lead figure was flagging, but the voice demanded more.

“Listen to me. Follow me, for one last push. Look around you. Look to your right, your left, at those you are running with. In this moment.”

Touma looked at the Drake. The Drake’s eyes flickered. What did he see? Touma nodded, and the Drake bared all his teeth.

There they were. Flying down the road. So fast, each truly felt like they’d left something behind. Some had been on horseback, or flown with a Wyvern or used spells.

They had never won their speed. Not like this. Each step had been agony. Now—it vanished. They entered a state beyond pain, the same place [Soldiers] and [Runners] went. For some it was the first time they had ever felt alive.

The heat of battle. The roar of blood in your ears. Numbtongue knew it well. This was what the Redfangs chased. He returned to a simple world where all he had to do was run, just like the voice said, and leave behind his doubts, his fear of death, and everything else behind.

Because they were together, it was even stronger. Look right, and look left. Look at this army of countless species, charging down the road.

Travellers, entire cities, saw an army on the charge. They fled the road and stared. Cities sounded the alarm, for here was a force without fear. Just a bit longer. Until this feeling evaporates—

A [General] looked left. Was that an extraordinarily pale Human running with a toothy grin on his left? Was that a Gob—no, a short Drake girl running with them? He looked right and saw, for a second, an Antinium Soldier with no markings running next to him. He faltered, looked ahead, but couldn’t have stopped, or broken out of this moment if he wanted to.

Then his head turned right again. Who was that Soldier? The huge figure ran, arms and legs pumping, plain carapace scarred in thousands of places, but whole. He belonged in that army, right here, with this voice.

The Titan pointed at the warrior fitting of his vanguard. What stories did they never tell about you? He ran with every fiber of his being. Living. Breathing, as they strained towards infinity.

“Live louder. Breathe deeper. Fight, for every second, to be better than anyone has ever been before. Listen to those myths of old. Learn the legends. But tell yourself you will write one greater. Or you never will be.”

At last, exhaustion crept into the roaring tone. The figure ahead slowed, and, like a giant ripple, so did the rest.

“Push! Don’t you dare slack off. Not now. Not at your greatest triumph. Slow…slower…that’s it. Fight. Ten seconds. Nine, eight…”

Infinitypear had never fought to keep his legs moving like this. He felt like he’d torn parts of his body. Even so—to stop was unthinkable. In agony, he moved.

“Three…two…one. Stop.”

They had gone from the mad sprint to a slower pace. Then the group stopped. An army on the trade road halted, horses without riders wheezing. Figures who had only seen the storm pass by stared into the distance where they had been lost, at the cloud of dust they had left behind. Distant fliers, Wyverns in the air flying desperately to keep up, as much as an hour away.

For a second, just one second, there was no pain. Just some kind of glorious feeling behind their eyes, in their heads and hearts. Breathe in—

Then they coughed. Then people collapsed, crying out, clutching at legs, hacking so hard, unable to draw breath, literally crawling around if they didn’t just pass out.

Niers Astoragon stood there as Bird dropped like a stone, on top of the little Antinium’s head. He looked past Bird, at an army of people on the ground. He laughed.

That was how you trained [Soldiers]. With a few Skills, yes. But none to give them endurance. Only to magnify the speed they had created by pumping their legs and arms. Inspire them, with words, not a damn [Motivational Speech], to do what they thought was impossible.

He still had it.

——

The unknown commander’s run had done a lot in a little time. Barely any time in the grand scheme of a day, to be honest. But the distance covered?

The Zephyr Salamanders missed returning for the end of their training day. They were now days out from their city. And levels higher.

In Fissival, one of the top [Strategists] was summoned from her rest by an anxious tactician.

“Strategist—3rd Army. Brigadoon Mages.”

“The ones sent to reinforce Wall Lord Dragial? What about them? Don’t tell me they ran into a Gnoll tribe or a city attacked them?”

The [Sorcerous Strategist] sat up, worried. The [Tactician] meekly consulted his notes.

“No. Not that. Th-they…they just broke their land-speed record. For all of Fissival’s armies, actually. They’re three days ahead of schedule.”

“…Huh?”

The [Sorcerous Strategist] reached for a cup of tea. Then, since it was clearly defective, splashed her face with the scalding tea instead.

——

[Training Captain Level 22!]

[Skill – Exceed Yourself, Suffer Later obtained!]

[Skill – Madman’s Sprint obtained!]

[Ski—

The voice interrupted him, which was a shame because he’d been Level 19 until just this moment. The Drake groaned, and felt his lungs tear and coughed at the iron.

A hand slapped him, kindly, to wake him up. Then three more helpfully slapped for good measure.

There was a chuckle and the light battering stopped.

“Son. Wake up.”

The Drake opened his eyes, tried to stand. Someone was standing over him.

“Sir?”

The Drake looked down at him. It was impossible for the [Training Captain] to place, but his voice was calm, even grandfatherly. Authoritative.

“You’ll have to get your [Soldiers] in order. Listen. They’ve torn muscles in their legs and lungs. You need to get up, and administer some healing potions. Pay attention. What’s your healing potion rating?”

“U-um. Halflimb damage?”

The [Captain]’s mind was discombobulated, but he gave the answer instinctively. The Drake nodded.

“Good. Then…three drops in the mouth. Two per leg. Only that many, got it? Takes the damage off, but leaves the rest to heal and toughen up. Remember that. Repeat it.”

“Three in the mouth. Two…”

A coughing fit in his own lungs made the [Captain] reach for his potion. The unknown [General] nodded.

“That’ll do. Take care of your lads, and remember—that’s how you do it. Tell your [Soldiers] that whenever they want to level, remember this day.”

The [Captain] searched for something to say. But before he could rise, ask the questions, or even say something like ‘thank you’?

They were gone. And Fissival’s entire army was sufficiently grounded—the ones who’d joined the mad run sufficiently burned out, and separated from the rest of their forces—to be disorganized for days, although they had made up considerable ground to their target, if they had gone too far south without enough west to reach the Great Plains.

That was what happened when you got swept up in the Titan’s path. He saw travellers realizing they were way off course, people who had levelled—

Not just as [Soldiers] or [Captain]. He wasn’t sure if the [Bard] had levelled. But he was fairly sure [Goth] to [Adventurer] was covered. It wasn’t about running. It was about breaking something in half in your head.

The people on foot, plus Ulvama and Octavia on the wagons, were gone in a trice, before the others could apply a healing potion and restore their torn lungs and muscles. Bird himself had been unable to move until Niers helped him with a potion.

“I levelled up. I…”

“Yep. Ride and shut up. Let’s get out of here. My Skill won’t keep us hidden if this lot scrutinizes us too close. It barely holds up when we’re chatting with one person.”

Bird slapped the horse’s butt and a swaying Pivr followed the horse carrying a half-dead Gothica just lying on the saddle. The others clung to the animals, who got a full dose of a healing potion and a shot of stamina potion too. Niers offered some to Apista, but the little bee just clung to the wagon. Whew, what a workout, eh? The bee wondered what level she’d get.

Fierre was going to be as sad as Apista. Even so, her eyes were on Bird. Or rather, his hat. Even he took it off after a while and just lay in the wagon.

“I am dead. I am sorry for doubting…me. Please do not talk to me. I am going to level up now.”

Then passed out. Fierre, lying on the back of the wagon, was tired. Garia looked like even she had run herself to death; the thing about Niers’ Skill was that even though she was faster than some of the others, they’d all been neck-and-neck. Her speed had dragged everyone slower than her up a notch.

So she’d run herself to death. So had Fierre, to be fair, but she was a Vampire and more conscious than the others. Fals was literally being tied to a horse by Ulvama as they made tracks.

Fierre stared at Bird, in much the way the rest of the Antinium, Goblins…everyone had. Sergeant Gna kept looking at him. With more confusion, because his boasts had been real. Real, or he couldn’t have motivated them like that, with the confidence of someone who had been there, seen legends. But how did she square that with…Bird?

Bird the Hunter.

The Opener knew the truth. She stared at the hat. Slowly, Fierre looked around as the wagon lurched on and the rejuvenated horses trotted off. She saw no one paying attention and the hat was below the lip of the covered wagon’s sides, so…she lifted the hat. Stared at the little man.

He stared back. Waved. Made a ‘lower it’ gesture.

Fierre put the hat back. She lay down, heart racing. She hadn’t imagined the tiny heartbeat in the hat.

She knew it was risky, but she just had to see him.

——

By night, the caravan rested for once. They had to; they had gone an insane distance. The only problem was that Snapjaw would have to re-discover the trail with Gna, but the news might help.

People were trying to coordinate the search for Mrsha, and they had a trail of places she had last been found…maybe. Fierre had a scrying orb and Garia would go into the city; apparently some of the Plains Tribes were helping search.

That didn’t matter. Infinitypear had levelled. Gothica had levelled. Touma the Great had levelled.

It was easier to say who had not levelled.

Which was: Octavia because she hadn’t run, Snapjaw and Badarrow, much to their horrific disappointment. Numbtongue. And Ulvama because she was lazy.

Apista and Fierre would never level. Not like that. It was unfair.

“The world is unfair, Fierre. I think your [Martial Artist] friend envies…whatever you are.”

The little man looked up at her. The Vampire, holding him on one shoulder, bared her teeth nervously.

“I…what are you going to do?”

“Hm. What’s logical. For now, you have my word that keeping my secret earns my gratitude. I remember my friends. Believe me, I’m one of the best people to keep secrets. I’ve met more than one group that has secrets.”

She nodded, heart pounding. It was true, the Titan had knowledge of her. She had knowledge of him. One would decay, but in this moment?

He was helping her. What was that worth? The Titan looked back at the camp.

“Proof positive. You’re strong. You’re quick, and you’re tough. But what you have that Garia Strongheart lacks is this.”

He pointed at her.

“No potion. No need for it. You trashed her in sparring.”

“Well, yes. She was exhausted. You made me do it!”

Fierre felt bad. Niers just laughed at her. Guffawed in her face.

“So what? She’ll level up. And you…you just beat your friend. Because she cannot keep up with you. Whatever you are, you have the endurance a Selphid would turn green at. Keep them away from your body, incidentally.”

She nodded. Fierre’s heart was beating fast. The moon shone vividly out between the passing clouds. She felt…alive.

“But I am weaker. I cannot level. Not…not as easily. Is there a way for me to get stronger?”

The Titan’s eyes glowed.

“There is. I feel it. I am the Titan of Baleros. Go and join them, and follow my orders. I’ll whisper it in your ear.”

The Vampire looked at the group he had gathered. Niers had chosen them, out of seemingly nowhere. Because he had sensed something from them. He was no expert. Especially at this—but he knew how to train everything.

A Soldier. Gothica. Ulvama and Fierre stood together, looking confused. Snapjaw hurried over.

“Had to pee, sorry.”

“That’s fine. Um…we’re going to walk. Or run?”

“More training?”

The [Shaman] sneered at Fierre, but she had a curious look in her eyes. How much did she guess? She stared the Vampire girl up and down, but didn’t spot Niers’ hiding place in Fierre’s hair.

“Why are we walking?”

Gothica wobbled on her feet. Fierre replied as Niers had told her.

“Because we might discover something about ourselves. Do you want…power?”

The others looked at her. The Soldier tilted his head a few times. Why me? He didn’t even have paint. Fierre didn’t know either.

“Follow me.”

Under the moon, their shadows stretched long across the grass. Fierre looked at her shadow, many times taller than she was. She imagined the Vampire she had dreamed of being from those old stories.

Fear, yes. But awe, too. Awe at the stories of the night hunters, who were tall.

Graceful. Beautiful, undying. Masters of powerful magic. She had been cured by Ryoka. Yet Fierre didn’t feel like that.

The air was cold. Some of the others shivered; summer was passing. But the air felt…charged. The moon disappeared behind some clouds as they walked. Without purpose. Then…Ulvama looked back.

“Camp’s far away. What is happening? You using a Skill?”

She peered at Fierre. The Vampire girl started. She looked back and saw the camp was far away. How fast were they going?

Fast. They were striding along, exhaustion forgotten. Even Gothica and the Soldier. But something else was different. Was the camp…smaller?

The answer came as the moon appeared from beyond the clouds. Fierre turned. She gasped, as she saw the shadows stretching below them on the grass.

What vast shadows. The grass looked so tiny, that even with Fierre’s eyes, she could barely see the blades of grass. She looked at the others, confused. Nothing seemed wrong.

Then Gothica cried out. She pointed down.

“How…?”

Something looked up at them, wide-eyed. A fox, emerging from its den. It stared up at the group of five, then backed up, turned, and fled into the hole in a pure terror.

Not just because one was a Vampire, and there were Goblins and Antinium. The others realized what was happening and cried out. They looked down at the tiny fox.

It was smaller than they were, which it always had been. But Gothica, a Cave Goblin, was still short. In this moment? Now? She towered over it. She would have towered over Numbtongue.

“We’ve grown! I don’t want to be bigger Goblin!”

Ulvama shrieked. She felt at her body, but she saw no huge, rippling muscles like Tremborag’s war-form. She whirled, eyes wide, and saw Fierre’s pupils glowing red, like her own.

Niers. The Titan was laughing.

[Giants on the March]. The five swept around, bewildered. Then the Titan whispered, through Fierre.

“Can you feel it? Look at the moon. Can you sense it? Power. You have broken your limit. But there is more to power than a [Warrior]’s might. More to magic than [Mages] know. Do you sense it?”

He urged them to realize it. Could they feel it? It had come out of him, unguarded, as he inspired the others to run. Untrained, largely. But the Titan still had it. Not as powerful as a royal’s, or someone dedicated to the power like the Order of Seasons.

Yet no one could ever force him to kneel. No one could control his mind. The Titan unleashed what was essentially another manifestation of his ego. His will.

It was one of the reasons they had given him his name. A Fraerling with the aura of a Giant.

Titan of Baleros.

Did they feel it, as they stood above it all? By night? The Titan saw the Vampire girl’s eyes widen. Ulvama looked up, and realized she stood inside…

“What is…? Where?”

She was confused. She didn’t need to focus on him. Snapjaw’s eyes widened.

All of them.

[Chieftain]. [Shaman]. Snapjaw and Ulvama felt something rising in them, provoked by the Skill, the moment, the other aura weighing on them, forcing them to acknowledge what was in them.

Everyone had it, but some classes were drawn to it. But what of the other three?

Fierre and the Soldier—was it their nature, personality? Sometimes you couldn’t tell. Sheer potential. A force of will. Chance? No, there was always a reason. The Soldier stood there, the same one both the Titan and even a Drake [General] had identified. No one had ever asked for his story, but he belonged here. No, on a far greater stage. The Titan would uncover it, his hidden worth and valor.

It felt familiar to Fierre, like a part of herself she had never noticed. She reached for it, struggling. Niers studied the others. But his eyes were on the last.

What a strange class. Perhaps it was just chance. Uncertainty in what the word actually meant. Or maybe that was just how it was.

The little Cave Goblin, Gothica, opened her eyes wide. Under this moon. The darkness. As tall as a Giant. All it needed was some sombre music and it would be perfect. Her eyes gleamed and she smiled in ecstasy at this moment.

I look at nightmares and laugh. I would leap into the abyss to see what lay down there.

The world’s first Goblin [Goth] manifested her aura, and the moonlight turned to shade around her. She began to laugh.

Fierre swept around, eyes shining. Reaching for her aura, as the others manifested theirs.

How the Titan laughed. How he roared.

Bird, silly Bird. Do you think I am incapable? What do you think happened when I levelled and got my newest class?

[Grandmaster Strategist]. We make excellent pacts, don’t we? You help me, and I’ll help you. It’s not like I have an army to return to. It will be a while before I can use it again, but I was saving it for now.

His finger rose as he stood in the grass, and the Vampire leapt into the air, unable to keep still. Screaming for her blood to awaken. The Titan’s finger wavered. From her, to Ulvama, to Snapjaw, to…Gothica…back towards the camp. He could sense them, if not see them.

At last, he used the greatest Skill he owned. Higher than his Level 60 Skill. The Skill of a [Strategist] who multiplied everything.

Niers Astoragon spoke.

“[Promote the Pawn: Class Ascension].”

——

It broke over them like a wave, as they slept, as the extra Goblins curled up, unnoticed, happily levelling themselves. Snapjaw tried blearily to count them, but fell asleep, too tired for some reason.

[Conditions Met: Goblin Chieftain → Chieftain of the Maw Class!]

[Class Consolidation: Big Eater removed.]

[Class Consolidation: Beast Tamer removed.]

[Chieftain of the Maw Level 31!]

[Skill Change – Huge Chomp → Yawning Bite!]

[Skill – Unit: Yawning Bite obtained!]

[Skill – I Grew With Every Bite obtained!]

[Ski—

Someone poked her. Someone poked her. Badarrow cuddled the Hobgoblin as he entered the blankets.

“Want to—”

“Ugraaaah!”

She kicked him.

——

Not just her.

[Conditions Met: Magic Paint Shaman → Shaman of the Old Ways Class!]

[Shaman of the Old Ways Level 31!]

[Skill Change – Memory of a Hundred Lifetimes → Memory of a Thousand Lifetimes!]

[Skill – Memory of a Thousand Lifetimes obtained!]

[Skill—]

Ulvama’s eyes opened wide. She looked around. Alright. That was not earned.

Who was doing this?

Who was watching her? Who was…?

——

The little man, counting, choosing. Elevate the best. Bring up the worst. He failed once.

[Class Consolidation Failed. Unable to Advance Assassin.]

Fierre’s eyes opened wide. She sat up bolt upright as a Goblin curled up happily. Another voice was stuttering in Gothica’s mind.

[Conditions Met: Goth → Dark Knight Clas—]

[Conditions Met: Goth → Soulsteal—]

[Conditions Met: Goth → Abyssal W—]

[Conditions Met: Goth → Midnight Goth Class!]

[Midnight Goth Level 8!]

[Skill Change – Dark Aura → Aura of Midnight!]

[Skill – Aura of Midnight obtained!]

[Spell – Shade Barrier obtained!]

[Skill – Basic Concentration obtained!]

[Skill – Magic of Will obtained!]

——

Nobody knew his name. He did not have a name.

A Soldier who hadn’t been lucky enough to be painted. A unit in the rest of the Hive. Someone who had seen it.

He had been there when Skinner died and torn pieces out of nightmare.

He had slain [Assassins] and moths and more.

He had crushed armor to pieces as others fell. Because he was better? Luckier?

Because he was he.

[Conditions Met: Veteran Warrior → Exemplar Warrior Class!]

[Class Consolidation: Survivor removed.]

[Exemplar Warrior Level 17!]

[Skill – Aura of Battle obtained!]

[Skill Change – Armored Blow → Full Armor Onslaught!]

[Skill – Full Armor Onslaught obtained!]

[Skill – Phantom Sword Slash obtained!]

The Antinium didn’t roll over or move as it woke up. Was that the same Skill as the [Assassin]? It lay there.

What a lovely birthday present.

He was six years old.

——

Last of all. Six for six.

[Conditions Met: Tracking Sergeant → Goblinfriend Bug-Captain Class!]

[Goblinfriend Bug-Captain Level 25!]

[Skill – Squad: Minor Swarmblades obtained!]

[Skill – Squad: Hob’s Strength obtained!]

She jumped to her feet, screaming.

“No! It was just a game of cards! It was just a game of—”

Too late. Too…late. It wasn’t how she thought. It was how it looked. To a certain, slightly confused point of view.

——

The Fraerling chewed on a stale cookie. He chuckled. He listened to the shouting and sat back, smiling like he was thirty years younger.

Now they understood.

This was what it meant to be the Titan. This was how you should be alive. Shaking, until you could only sleep by exhaustion.

8.41

[The Wandering Inn will be on break until the 14th of September for Patrons!]

…After all, what was the worst that could happen?

Oblivion. Nay, worse than oblivion. A depth of horror and agony unfathomable. Death as kindness. Existence where suffering pitied you, and corruption—oh, yes.

Corruption of more than just you and those you held dear. A spreading plague to engulf every fathomable thing, until the few lights left were drowned and nothing remained, and it devoured itself. Perhaps there would be something, afterwards, a start again.

But would you bet on it? If one fell, who fell next? Would you gamble, with those odds?

The answer was that sometimes, they did bet against outrageous fortune, because it must be done. They took the wager and paid. That was what you also remembered. The cost of failure.

Mindful of the odds and the dangers, the stakes that grew larger than just them, another door was locked. An old foe counted. Watchtowers lit in warning, edges honed in preparation. However, not even one dared peek through. No one defied the edict.

Not this time. Not yet.

There were affairs and businesses of every court, even as fallow as they now lay. Japes and trivial pursuits?

Not as she had heard it, not for a long time. And ‘long’ meant something here, even to her. So when the summons arrived, she was nervous.

Her sisters and kin made much of it. They laughed and joked she had finally crossed a line—half seriously. So she did her hair, put on the most elegant of attire and accentuated her makeup to impress. No half-measures, no chance of offending. This was an official summons, not when they came laughing.

The Faerie King called her name, so Sikeri’val-Toreshio-Maresssui answered.

Obviously, doing her hair was a metaphorical statement, but every being had a way to primp and pamper themselves. From a certain perspective, it did look like the haughty woman did just that. From one point of view, you could see her painting nails, brushing at dark, beautiful skin with a brush.

Or see one of the greatest beings of fables sleeking her scales with an ointment, even patterning each vast scale with delicate, subtle designs, paint, even words in her world’s tongue. Which looked like she was applying rouge from another angle.

Her sisters laughed at her, but there was an edge to the merriment. One draped herself on the windowsill of her mansion with the mountain as backdrop.

A vast head emerged from a tunnel gleaming with inset jewels along the stone walls. A voice hissed like thunder towards Sikeri.

“If you get us kicked out, Sikeri, as soon as I’ve properly moved in, I will be beside myself! What will we do? We’ll have to eat you!”

Laughter from within. More of her kin made similar…assurances. The Wyrm snapped insults back as she flicked some makeup at the other women calling down at her from the base of the slope.

A magical firefight of hurled insults, words that turned into screaming spells, blasted through the air as the Wyrm on the ground hissed at her kin, who replied with earth-shattering retorts, verbal and magical.

The petty argument only stopped when a sighing, annoyed, furry woman picked her way across the ground, a basket with mushrooms in hand. Nama glanced at Sikeri and her kin. Everyone but her was already inside, and the windows were shuttered. They stared out from the cracks, from under shuttered garage doors, balefully.

Sikeri finished her preparations, and debated over a gift. She ignored the jeers as they started up, as the furry figure…from one point of view…kept walking, through the newly founded patch of reality, homes for those from other places.

All relative terms. This would have been petty drama, as Sikeri was used to at any time. Certainly, she paid her kin little mind—although she catalogued a host of insults to be held as grudges for later payback—because such threats bore little weight.

Conflict, real conflict, was rare here. It was not allowed or half the denizens might have already turned on the others. Some fools couldn’t help but be themselves, like the giant oaf blundering around, still looking for the little morsel who had pepper-sprayed and kicked him. Sikeri and her kin were not that crude.

However, the summons was concerning. Very. The Wyrm was nervous, not least because her sisters were not…joking. It was an outside chance, of course, very remote, that all of Wyrm-kind would be expelled.

It was still there. That was a consequence for their species, though. For her, Sikeri’val-Toreshio-Maresssui, specifically? It…it could be bad.

The number of things that could worry Sikeri were few and far between. An invitation to the Court of the Fae was one of them. It could go very badly indeed, especially if they were in a bad mood.

…Sikeri had not heard of a time all of them were in a good mood since she had fled here. The jollities of the court were long since past. So she prepared as quickly and as best she was able, and made the trek there.

It took a long time and a moment, as such things did. She travelled the entire way in a trice, but still experienced the long voyage. She had not begun in the outermost areas, nor the forest, nor city. Even so, it was a while.

A bad sign or good? It meant they were content to wait. It could be displeasure. It could be this wasn’t too important.

What had she done? Sikeri could think of a number of things, but given this? She…she had a theory. It wasn’t her fault! She had been a tiny bit opportunistic, with her knowledge of prophecy, seeing a chance, using an invitation to plant a message on a mortal agent. So what?

Yes, it was an off-limits place, and she had been a guest of Melidore’s company…but she hadn’t thought it would turn out like it did. Sikeri shuddered at the memory. She began to sweat.

He had made an appearance. Himself. In fullness. If she’d known that, she wouldn’t have interfered. So she’d twisted fate a tiny bit…in this one case. Which turned out to be a big case.

How mad were they? More importantly…which court was it going to be?

The woman, sweating a bit, came to a halt as she finally crossed into an inner place out of the more peripheral realms. She came to a palace. Of kinds. A courtyard, a sweeping place of delights and mystery and danger depending on what you saw, leading into a place for them to, well, be.

Further in, and greater acts abounded. Things were too real here. Do not lie. Lies could still be told, but sometimes they told themselves, and said things you didn’t want to hear. Truth began to blend with…possibility.

Here was a place for great audience and decision. Sikeri’s scales crawled with unease as she presented herself.

She noticed two things at this particular moment. Firstly? She was not the only guest today. Which was good! It meant she was not the lone, prime target of wrath or interest. The less important, the better. It did not jive with her usual sense of importance, but ego in this place was…dangerous.

When she stepped through the gates and saw inside, Sikeri exhaled in relief. The breath emerged as a plume of frost in quiet air.

The Winter Court awaits.

That was better than the Court of Spring. Winter could be harsh, cruel, and their mischief carried jagged edges.

Spring laughed. Spring made merry. Yet they were the more unpredictable of the two, and if Sikeri had heard buzzing, and the lights of the Spring Court had been out, and shadows darkened the hallways, she would have run, summons or not.

Even here, she saw so much to bother her. There was no broken city. Not here. No sign of disrepair; they had never left.

Yet so much empty space. It should have been filled, whichever court held sway. Countless little figures playing tricks and games with the great.

So few. Sikeri had walked here long ago, as a child, in her mother’s hand. She looked left, at where little Pixies should be pestering a calm figure. Or…

Naught but frozen space. Memories. No tumbling jesters. No laughter.

From a gathering that could sweep across the entire realm, spill out into each place, the host had reduced. Sikeri passed through an empty courtyard with a fountain, through hallways where only cold warriors stood, watching her. Uneasily, she nodded to them.

They never moved. The few other visitors walked along, some terrified, some in awe, not knowing what should be. Even Sikeri’s heart hurt for them.

Even in the court, when she finally reached them, all was not well. Look, if you ever come here, and see. For you shall never meet a more splendid gathering than this. Even if you are reborn from vessel to vessel, even if your soul wanders, you will remember…

…remember…

There were so few of them left. And still, their numbers were of countless thousands, shifting, never able to conform to that rule of petty math. Sikeri still saw it.

August figures turning, scrutinizing the visitors. Laughter, playful, as the youngest still paid homage to the tricks and jests, but only in places. They danced around the visitors, in many shapes.

It fooled those who had somehow made it this far without understanding how you were supposed to look. Sikeri fended off a little flying sprite by hissing at an impish member of the court, who skipped away, laughing.

Her eyes sought out the empty thrones. Sikeri relaxed. Good, good. He wasn’t here. That would have been a bad sign.

The Winter Court was made up of more subdued colors, but one learned to appreciate the subtler contrasts. The Spring Court was radiant, chaotic. Here were stark, contrasting colors, or subtle shades until entire parts of the court lay in a kind of darkness that revealed itself to be slow contrasts of midnight.

Brilliant pale frost, as painful as the pure, fiery intensity of the sun in space. Or…

Sikeri’s slow circuit of the room halted. What was that?

She had seen it before. They truly were…

A group of them sat and stood apart from the others. Their garb was festive. They had a limberness to their movements, an air that smelled of new earth, growing plants.

The Summer Fae, here? They refused to take the same air as their kin. They deliberately held their ground, in the heart of cold and winter. Was it a quarrel? Rebellion, however slight, a message? Mourning?

Not petty Fae, either. One of them was the very same personage who had led them to the party in question, the one where Sikeri had made…slight errors. She hadn’t known. No one had told her!

Melidore, whose full name was like Sikeri’s, too long to write out, stood with his group, in discord. Arguing with a delegation of the Winter Court.

A female Fae, for whatever looks and such terms were worth, was arguing with him. Her skin was pale blue, and her hair like crystals. She wore a scowl to match his thunderous fury. Sikeri halted with the other visitors, and turned her ears to that conversation. It couldn’t be coincidence. If those two were here, whose paths and fates had both crossed with that little mortal…she heard the words drifting towards her ear. What were they arguing about, what grand fate or designs?

“T’was not yours to choose, ye daft cunt! I chose, and let it be so. For better or worse, I invoke prophecy.”

“Prophecy be damned. Nevermore. We have paid every price. Theirs was greatest.”

Melidore pointed. The entire court of the fae went still. Sikeri’s stomach churned.

He pointed at the empty thrones. Two. But one was sometimes sat in. Sometimes used, although you should tremble if it was taken. But the other?

The other was covered by a veil. No, a shroud. The other would never be used again.

Even Ivolethe went quiet. Melidore raised his voice. His arms.

“Not for friendship! Not for fate! Nevermore, I said. Nevermore.”

The force of the argument made Sikeri begin to feel physically ill. Nor did she like the way the two Fae kept glancing in her direction. They scrutinized the visitors, some of whom clearly had business with lesser members of the Court, or just stood there, stunned, not even noticing this argument amid the countless things they had to tune out or be overwhelmed by.

Did a hundred thousand visitors and supplicants stand with her? Or just a handful? Time…time was…elusive here. Sikeri might well return before she finished her business here, if it was quick enough. She hadn’t seen herself on the way here, though, so she doubted it.

“There she is. Let us settle this now, Melidore.”

The other high Fae caught sight of Sikeri. The Fae around him stirred, and a familiar buzz filled the air—not friendly at all. She instantly bowed to the Winter Court, on the grounds that Ivolethe and her kin looked slightly less hostile and this was her place. Could she play them off against each other? They looked equally matched, at least those two did. If she was cunning, maybe—

Thoughts betrayed you, here. Sikeri knew better, but she fell into her own nature. Both of them saw it. Ivolethe laughed evilly. Melidore’s eyes narrowed.

“Agreed, Ivolethe. If it must be done, let it be done! More was done that day, and not all ill. This, though, this interference? The petition? We shall hear it now and be done. Especially that one, who violated the hospitality of guests.”

He pointed at her. Suddenly, the entire Faerie Court turned. Teasing figures broke away from the haughty, annoyed older cousins of Sikeri, escorting the boy who used to have a stick that Ryoka had once met.

The Wyrm was caught out in the open. She froze, and then saw how neat the trap was; no, how she should have counted the guests as well as the court itself. Many were puzzled, or amused, or understandably wary.

But even here, the guests…her head snaked left. She saw a furry figure with spectacles offering a basket of her mushrooms around. A trio of Kings stood idly to one side, watching with bright eyes.

Uh oh. Oh no. Sikeri turned to run. She was, of course, too slow, and had been the moment she came here. The little boy from the city pointed at her.

“Is she why we’re here?”

His older kin nodded. Every eye fell on Sikeri’val-Toreshio-Maresssui. Melidore strode down from the central dais, and the summer and winter split. Ivolethe on the other side. The Fae was enraged. He pointed.

“You, who interfered more than she should! You, who twisted everything for her own ends such that no one can make sense of it. You, who interfered in the one place you should not. Sikeri’val-Toreshio-Maresssui. I call on the Faerie King to judge you and what passes.”

“I—I was only acting in my nature. I throw myself on the Winter Court’s mercy. Allow me to explain. I was just—”

Sikeri stuttered. But Melidore did not wait for more words. He flung his head back, with nigh the same wrath and emotion as he had that night, confronting the intruders, the unwanted guests.

“Do not answer to me. Answer to him. I call on the judgement of the Faerie King. Oberon!”

The Wyrm froze. The court rocked with the name, invoked here. She would have fled, screaming, and was turning, but too late. Too late…Ivolethe’s eyes gleamed. Nastily, with a mirth that her mortal friend knew only too well, as she pointed at the trembling Wyrm.

“For the judgement of the Court, I call him too. Oberon!”

Two times. Everyone was watching. The empty thrones, the Wyrm, who had flung herself on the ground. Two times…there was a law of three. This time, the guests, the court, Melidore and Ivolethe all chorused it.

“Oberon.”

He was there, sitting upon the throne. As if he had always been there. Two eyes older than any other being here stared out underneath a frozen crown. They caught Sikeri and she quailed. The Faerie King pointed down, and the warriors of frost moved from their posts.

A storm blew, as if the Wild Hunt prepared to ride. The shaking Sikeri looked up. Lips moved, as the Faerie King slowly rose from his throne.

…It wasn’t a light matter after all. Now, the eyes said. Now, let the judgement begin.

The Faerie King held up his hand. For one second, his eyes roamed, searching. Everyone waited. He looked right, left, at things unfathomable. Waiting. Waiting…

For something, as Sikeri shook and cursed the mortal girl.

It was all her fault!

——

Ryoka Griffin lay in a bed, staring up at a ceiling with some kind of architectural art design going on. These interlocking pillars, which created a hypnotic effect as the dark marble ceiling, a good ways up, way too high for anything but showing off really, let bright dawn’s light spill in through two much lighter windows.

She was thinking. The Wind Runner had on some rather nice garments. All silk, if you could believe that. Who made so much clothing like that? A kingdom which wanted to show off, that was who. Ryoka wore deep, almost jet-black silk, dyed to exacting standards. It had just a hint of royal purple, another nod to the Ailendamus motif; their colors were purple and black.

A light green, rather pretty color broke up the super dark colors, the better to highlight. Light green or silver were the secondary colors.

Just like a certain someone’s features. The colors were almost spot-on. Now there was an ego for you.

Privately, Ryoka actually really liked the colors. If she was going through her super-rebellious phase, only a few years ago…let’s be honest, she had still been in it when she appeared in another world. It just looked different.

If she’d been dressing in all-black and experimenting with eye-shadow…this would have been her thing. Ryoka shuddered.

“Dead gods. Imagine that. A [Goth] in this world. That’s all we need.”

Now there was a stupid thought. She wondered if it were possible, though. There were already [Philosophers] and their equivalents, [Sages]. Could there actually be…she tried to remember some of the more outlandish ideas.

“[Superheroes]? But that implies they have powers. [Magical Girls]? That’s…a bit too close. Uh…uh…[Cultivation Experts]?”

If any one of those classes was actually possible, she’d clearly chosen the wrong thing to invest in. Then again…Ryoka’s head rose, and then she flopped down onto the bed.

It was so comfy. Clearly enchanted to make you just nod off. She wondered if there was an actual [Sleep] enchantment on the covers. Ryoka just wanted to lie there and not face reality. Everything was easier in abstract.

Like Ailendamus. She had been under the wrong assumptions when she came here, but she’d known she should go here, for the chance, despite the risks. Given her pursuit? Definitely. She hadn’t counted on Sammy tagging along.

Or the Duke Rhisveri being a Wyrm, rather than a Dragon. Ryoka, in her hypothesizing, had sort of just assumed he’d be a Dragon. Or a super-angry Elf. If she’d had a third guess, it would have been a Djinni in disguise.

Him being a Wyrm complicated things. For instance—Ryoka had been prepared for a lot when she came here. Not the Death of Magic killing a Great Knight of Ailendamus mid-transit, or Rhisveri trying to kill Sammial or strip-searching her.

But had she been thinking—‘if this is the third damn Dragon I’ve met, will I do what I need to in order to grab that scroll?’ Absolutely. It had been an outside shot, but if seducing a Dragon was what someone had to do, Ryoka was willing to give it a shot if he’d been the right age. Essentially between Teriarch and Trash Dragon.

For the good of Erin Solstice and all that. Not that she’d really been thinking it was an option! Just…

“This could be a problem.”

Ryoka rolled over one more time, went crashing out of bed, and lay on the ground in a tangled mess of her sheets. She didn’t move, but stared up at her right hand. The one with two fingers missing. Oh—and a bracelet made of different-colored jade interlocked together.

The problem with Wyrms who didn’t even look at you as remotely viable, and more of a glorified letter with perfume attached, was that they were too damn practical. The magical artifact was an unbreakable tracking bracelet. Rhisveri had told her he’d fry the blood in her veins before she escaped.

He also knew her name and could scry her, so between those two problems, Ryoka was well and truly a captive. Not that she intended to leave without getting something, but Ryoka had a second problem.

She was…lying in the bed here. Not being tortured or mind-probed for more information. Given that Rhisveri was more likely to go for the actually nasty medieval torture devices rather than hot wax, that was a good thing. On the other hand, it was still a bad thing. Because Ryoka was here, and he hadn’t summoned her for further interrogation or…anything for the last five days.

He might have forgotten she existed. Ryoka certainly mattered, but now that he’d caught the thief who dared to try to steal from him, the Duke and Wyrm of Ailendamus had more to do. So Ryoka was just a hostage with less importance than she wanted.

“I met a Dragon. That’s worth something! Doesn’t he want to know more? About Sikeri?”

Ryoka got up and paced. She was in trouble because she was a Wyrm’s hostage, and lacking pressing, urgent, you must strike a deal or get knowledge from me pressure, she could well imagine him keeping her for years!

She didn’t have years. She didn’t have a month. She had to get his animosity off her back so she could go after Mrsha, get the scroll of whatever-it-was for Erin, or both.

Now. The problem was…Ryoka walked to the door. She opened it, walked into the guest room’s antechamber. Then a living room. Then she chose the wrong door again, and walked into a parlour. Out the parlour, and finally found the room to the hallway.

She stepped out of the door, peered right and left down the huge, just absurdly giant hallway. Ryoka was no stranger to money, and from her family, she knew that the newly-rich liked big mansions, usually with the latest trend that looked rich but was about as comfy and homey as an overpriced hotel suite.

White marble, giant, expensive things like wine racks—no taste, just what people think rich should look like. She gave Rhisveri credit; his palace was not tacky. It was absurdly huge, but now that she knew each corridor was large enough for a Wyrm to move through, it made more sense.

Apparently, along with designing entire wings, the Wyrm had actually carved up other palaces from the kingdoms Ailendamus had conquered and had them connected to this place. There was some style in having someone else’s throne room as your tea parlor.

Anyways, this area was right next to the royal wing, which was off-limits to all but the royal family except via invitation. Rhisveri’s haunting grounds. Even this area was remote from the usual guests of court. Sammy was somewhere around here, but Ryoka had yet to find where he was.

She looked around the huge hallway, past the pillars reaching up to a domed walkway with a giant relief of Ailendamus’ first War of Reclamation of ancient lands, nearly two hundred years ago. A piece that was thousands of feet long and told the entire story. Chronologically.

It seemed like no one was here. Ryoka Griffin slowly shut the door behind her, and it magically locked itself; only she or the staff or someone with the right authority could open it at will. Not much for Ryoka’s privacy, but such was a prisoner’s lot. She stepped down the corridor, glancing around again…

“Do you wish for something, Miss?”

A voice from the side. Ryoka whirled, cursing. She didn’t kick the figure standing to the side of her door, mainly because a bare foot kicking plate armor was really stupid.

The Knight of the Order of the Thirsting Veil watched her without much friendship in her eyes. Three more [Knights] all stood there.

Female [Knights], and the same Order that Great Knight of Ailendamus had belonged to. They had been posted on Ryoka, proving Rhisveri had [Knights] to spare. Ryoka smiled.

“Um. No. Just looking to see if you were here…”

“We will accompany you to your destination without drawing attention to ourselves, Miss. You may find refreshments that way. The royal wing is in the other direction and off limits.”

The blank-faced woman pointed, her expression never changing. Ryoka nodded. She started in the other direction, then turned back.

The Great Knight who the Death of Magic killed was apparently part of their Order. Probably beloved, if the casual looks they were giving her were any indication.

Purely professional, but with that underlying edge that told Ryoka they hated her guts. She was a professional stink-eye expert, so she knew what she was talking about. It read as, ‘we are here to escort you because you’re a prisoner and we’ll be so professional you’ll never see us, ma’am. But if we get the order, we’d just love to gut you and leave you dying on the floor.’

That kind of stink-eye. And yes, Ryoka got all of that from the look. She had also seen the ‘we are co-workers, but I will happily run this heavy piece of machinery and turn you into paste if I ever get the chance to fake an accident, because I hate you and your stupid orders that much’. Come to think of it, she wondered if that had actually happened. Two months later, she’d seen there was an accident in the newspaper…

“Alright, then. Thank you.”

Ryoka trotted down the corridor, and didn’t even hear them keep up. When she turned her head, she saw nothing.

Permanent invisibility or camouflage spells, muffling enchantments on their armor, and I just bet they have enchanted weapons. They also use poison. Great.

She knew they were there because the wind vaguely told her something was displacing it. But Ryoka thought, privately, this was the hardest challenge yet. Convince the angry Wyrm to give her a treasure and stop holding a grudge. Ryoka Griffin.

Why couldn’t he have been a Vampire? A super-hot one? Ryoka had been all ready to put down the Fierre card.

——

King Itorin II was one of only five rulers in Ailendamus’ history. He was still somehow Itorin II because they had to re-use a name. Dead gods, there were Terandrian kingdoms that hadn’t come up with a new name for millenia!

Two hundred years. Ailendamus had gone from being a minor kingdom that had emerged from an old bloodline after the Kingdom of Thire lost the last eligible member of its royal house and collapsed—it was turned into multiple new, smaller kingdoms on the hopes some might fill the vacuum—when it renamed itself as Ailendamus and quickly began to gobble up everything in sight.

It was the success story of Terandria; the little nation that could and did and then stomped over everyone else and became a world power. Of course—Ryoka closed the history books.

These accounts don’t talk about Rhisveri. The ‘miraculous battles’, the ‘daring strategies and revolutionary ideas’ not to mention sudden boosts of magical, metallurgic, and other knowledge all were glossed over in the telling of their history by very biased accounts.

“But fill in the gap with a ___ and there you are.”

Ryoka Griffin stopped. She made a face.

“Rhisveri is a ___. He’s actually _ ____ __ ________. Fuck. That ___ ______ ____!”

The bracelet was better than she thought! No wonder Rhisveri hadn’t made her a prisoner confined to her room. She couldn’t even think out loud in the library—one of them—without triggering its effects.

“Better than a [Geas] spell. But it makes sense. If he can do this, imagine what happens if they need to win a battle. One second they’re facing the ‘outnumbered yet dauntless army of Ailendamus, outnumbered eight-to-one,’ the next? Angry ____ breathing ____ all over the entire army.”

It was like having Teriarch in your back pocket for emergencies. The other Terandrian Kingdoms were not ready for it. In the past they might have slain Giants and Dragons, but in this era?

A Wyrm-backed Kingdom, slowly swallowing up the other ones. Can he even be stopped? Is there a check on Ailendamus’ power? Probably, if the other nations team up. But he’s playing the long game. He might be ready to slowly grow in power and make alliances for a thousand years.

Ryoka put her feet up on the table and leaned back in the very expensive chair. She kept doing it, staring up at the ceiling, until someone made a sound.

“Excuse me, miss? That is the property of Ailendamus.”

Ryoka looked up as an angry man strode over. She stared at her bare feet on the table.

“This is a reading space!”

“Sorry. I’m just resting. I am a guest of the palace.”

She didn’t move. She had it up to here with being bossed around. The staff escorting her and feeding her knew she was a prisoner, so she didn’t exactly get good—or even warm—food delivered to her room. Rhisveri might have ordered it, he might not have. She didn’t know.

“Take the thief to a room and ensure she does not leave the palace. The same with that boy. I will send for them later. They are spelled to make sure neither can escape or betray Ailendamus’ secrets.”

Rhisveri had ordered the guards to do that when Itorin II, the [King], had come to ask what was happening. Ryoka hadn’t gotten close to him since then. The [Knights] helpfully blocked the hell out of her whenever she wanted to go anywhere important, and she didn’t really want to either be beaten or choked unconscious, as it was clear they were ready to do so.

So this petty person wasn’t going to make her put her feet down. Ryoka ignored the man.

“Put your feet down, Miss. Now. This is a library.”

“Take it up with Duke Rhisveri. I’m a guest.”

Ryoka knew she was being petty, but she liked sitting like this, and glaring at her bare feet in this empty library was just a show of power from some petty person. She rocked back even further, and wondered if he was going to try to kick her feet off the table. Or if the guards would stop her.

The man did neither. He just took one look at Ryoka, turned red, then unexpectedly calmed down.

“Very well. You are banned from the library today. [Forced Removal].”

“Wait. Wh—”

The [Librarian] clapped his hands and something tossed Ryoka out of the library. It picked her up and threw her out the entryway, past a pair of [Strategists] and some military officer.

They watched as Ryoka slid a good six feet on the marble. Carefully, all three backed up, wiped their feet on the rug, checked the rules on the library’s front, and went in, voices low, whispering.

Ryoka sat up.

“There are [Librarians] in this world. Cool. I hate it.”

Then she lay down. Right up until one of the cleaning staff asked her to move.

——

She had so many questions. What kind of high-level Skills did [Librarians] get? Sorting Skills seemed like Level 30 at most. Did you unlock hidden wings of books lost to time at Level 50? Could you defend your library from an army at Level 60 single-handedly?

She didn’t ask, and it was a pity. Ryoka Griffin paced Ailendamus’ palace, and felt…well.

This was familiar.

Strangely, yes. A Terandrian Kingdom had a mostly Human population, as expected, but there were half-Elves and Dwarves instead of your odd Gnoll or Drake. It was a bit disconcerting to see more than a token representation of their species.

Architecture different. Culture different. All these [Knights] and a certain amount of pomp that even Magnolia Reinhart had lacked; if she was the [Lady] with [Butlers] and [Maids], this was more high renaissance to Ryoka’s mind. Not the historical, mind you, but what Earth wished it could have been.

Where magic met imagination, you could make amazing things happen. So, different culture, different architecture, different captor.

Same prisoner. It reminded Ryoka of, well, a number of interactions. Had she been a hostage of Az’kerash? No, but the animosity felt familiar. Dealing with the Dragon wasn’t as hostile as this Wyrm, but it was certainly like her journey in the land of the fae.

Powerless, helpless Ryoka. An immortal with something she needs. All check. The Wind Runner scuffed along the floor with her bare feet. She looked around vaunted Ailendamus and felt something was wrong.

But what? She saw as many guests of the palace as servants. Ailendamus was no place for just court; half the people she passed looked like administrative assistants of some sort. Huh. So this place had an actual bureaucracy. She didn’t exp—

“Miss. This area is off-limits.”

A [Knight] materialized, scared the daylights out of a [Scribe] and Ryoka, and blocked her path forwards. She looked up and read the archway.

Administorum du Status.

Her lips moved silently. Either it was stupid, or it was some kind of bastardization of Latin and Terandria’s naming convention. Administration of State?

She looked at the [Knight] as the staff instantly made a gap around them. Ryoka shrugged. The unfriendly [Knight]’s face was visible behind her visor. Well, blankly unfriendly.

“Alright. Where can I go?”

“Nowhere in session or use. No higher official areas of the palace. You are confined to public areas and the immediate grounds, Miss.”

What an unhelpful reply. Ryoka was starting to dislike this [Knight] as much as the woman clearly—

No, no. Ryoka drew back. Wait a second. This was also familiar. Instant hostility only makes it worse. Imagine they’re like you.

It was a lesson hard-won, by meeting enough people willing to literally kick the crap out of her. And also by beating a copy of herself to death. Did wonders for your mental perceptions. Ryoka would recommend it, again.

“Thank you, Miss Knight. Can I ask where I could go to…stretch my legs?”

The Thirsting Veil [Knight] stared at Ryoka, then reluctantly replied to the reasonable tone and request.

“I suggest the outer gardens, Miss. They are typically unoccupied. However, formal events or gatherings…”

“…Don’t need me. Understood. Thank you.”

Ryoka Griffin walked back the way she’d come, ignoring the looks. The thing was, Rhisveri was ignoring her. Sensibly, in a way. What could Ryoka do?

He’d found his thief. Uncovering her identity and Teriarch’s status was clearly important, but not pressing. Ryoka needed to reverse that. She needed to also find where Sammial was and if he was safe.

Tyrion. What was he going to do? He had just nearly lost Hethon and Sammial. Now? Ryoka bit her lip.

This could be ugly.

“Um. Could I visit another prisoner? I have a friend. Sammial. If I could—”

“No interactions between prisoners are allowed.”

Ryoka stared at the unhelpful [Knight]’s vague shape in the air. This time she didn’t hide how annoyed she was.

“He’s a boy. I asked yesterday to have my request relayed—”

“His well-being is assured. No prisoners may meet without approval.”

“And who can grant approval?”

A moment of silence as she saw the three other invisible [Knights] shift.

“…Duke Rhisveri and the royal family are the only figures with the authority to grant permission.”

Ryoka narrowed her eyes.

“Then, may I petition for an audience with Duke Rhisveri?”

“No. The Duke will summon you when appropriate.”

There was a definite note of satisfaction in the [Knight]’s voice at this infuriating bit of logic. The Wind Runner’s kicking foot itched. The wind blew ominously around her. For a second.

Then she turned.

“Very well! Thank you for your help, Miss [Knight]. I’m sure Sammial’s safe and well-cared for. I wouldn’t dream of a [Knight] endangering a child, and I’m glad Ailendamus is holding to those high standards.”

She heard nothing but silence after this as she quickened her pace. Ryoka hoped that if Sammial needed anything, he’d get it.

As for this…Ryoka glanced back at the invisible [Knights] following her. She wasn’t certain, but she suspected she was getting four invisible glares under the visors. An enemy in enemy territory.

…Why did something bother her? Ryoka was working on it.

——

The ‘gardens’ were predictably the largest, most manicured area of green that Ryoka had ever seen. If you had a great palace of marble and stone and metal, you needed to prove you could also command nature.

It was nice, though. Ryoka stepped more lively down the steps of one of the entrances leading out of the palace, inhaling fresh air. Flower beds, multiple gazebos, some over water, an entire lake someone had decided to convert into a place to row boats, long walkways around exotic plants…

“It’s like someone crammed every single idea into one place. All this place needs is a menagerie.”

“The menagerie is that way, Miss.”

Ryoka bit her lip. Then she had to grin. She turned her head to hide it. And it wasn’t even a mocking smile.

There was something actually amazing about having this much space. Not about boring wealth, as Ryoka had observed. Buying a rich mansion that looked like exactly what other rich mansions looked like was stupid and self-aggrandizing. But this?

You could run for miles and not lap Ailendamus’ palace. What runner, in this or any other world, didn’t want a private running track? It wasn’t even as if this garden was artificially made either; Ryoka saw and heard a number of birds flittering around, and even some of the more acceptable bugs like butterflies.

It made her want to…run. Ryoka glanced over her shoulder, and sighed.

“I don’t suppose running is allowed in the gardens?”

She expected a happy ‘no’, but to her surprise, the [Knight] instantly reappeared.

“Running is acceptable, Miss.”

The Wind Runner paused. Okay, now they were going a bit too far. She scuffed at the ground.

“I’m not sure you know this, Miss. But I am a Courier.”

“Your magic has been disabled, as have your Skills. We are capable of keeping up with you if you wish to exercise.”

“Really.”

The [Knight] did not reply. Ryoka stared into the deliberately blank expression. Was that taunting she…?

Oh yes. Ryoka began to jog forwards. Instantly, she sensed the four figures following. Ryoka turned her head. Were they really thinking they could keep up in plate armor? Maybe it was enchanted. Maybe they had Skills. Even so…

She began to accelerate across the ground. The Order of the Thirsting Veil followed, silent as a whisper. But not intangible. Ryoka sensed them at her back. So, she picked up the pace.

Her legs felt good, moving after so long in captivity. She lengthened to her long stride, and then decided to pick up speed.

Niers Astoragon would have been happy to see someone who could run. Ryoka Griffin could run. She began flying down the road, faster than she had ever been before. She ran for a living, not just to push herself like on Earth. A diet of magic and Skill-enchanted foods made her body stronger; she’d observed that. Most importantly? A stamina potion meant you could beat any marathoner in the world.

The wind blew around her face, lifting her raven-black hair behind her as the Courier ran. Her eyes opened wide. She was smiling. She accelerated into near top-speed running. And then did a double-take.

“You’ve got to be—”

They were right behind her! The four figures were actually more visible as wind gusted over their enchanted armor, revealing the invisibility with minute specks of dust and whatnot. What the…

Ryoka sped up. She was practically sprinting. She didn’t even need to turn her head to know they hadn’t lost her.

How? Ryoka’s ego instantly protested this was wrong. Her brain began to fight with it.

Levels. They were all [Warrior]-classes at least Level 20. Skills; their armor might even boost their natural strength. Not to mention…she chanced a glance back.

Were those eyes she saw? Burning a hole in her head? Oh, yes. They hated her guts. And they were also Ailendamus’ finest.

[Knights]. Women who might have been selected from thousands to be the best of the best. They…they were competitive, polite to the point of being aggressively hostile, and thought that they could do anything Ryoka could do.

In short, they were exactly like Ryoka. To the point of practically challenging her to a footrace to prove they could beat a Courier without Skills.

Oh my dead and hopefully rotting gods, they’re me. Ryoka realized—she was staring at four Ryokas. If she had existed in this world, not come from Earth, what would her natural personality probably lean towards? If she was patriotic and had found a way to channel her levels…

Five Ryokas ran down the garden, the visible Ryoka attracting a few curious looks from passersby. That was way too many Ryokas. And they all hated themself. Each other. Ryoka would know.

There was just one thing. Ryoka looked back at the female [Knights] running with actually good form behind her. She couldn’t help it. As they stared silent murder at her—she grinned. Her teeth flashed and she grinned.

“Okay. You’re pretty fast. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

She turned, and sped up. All four [Knights] felt the wind change. From blowing in their faces, the headwind turned into a tailwind. Of course, it helped them too, and they followed her with ease. She was pretty quick without Skills, but they were—

Ryoka was headed straight for a six-foot tall hedge politely separating two parts of the garden. The [Knights] hesitated. Then the Wind Runner turned. She had spotted a decorative rock next to the wall. She dashed towards it, leapt, and performed a safety-vault, pushing off the top of the rock. She landed on the other side, scared the heck out of a young couple kissing there, and kept running.

“Sorry! I was j—what the hell!”

Ryoka’s parkour trick had been meant to lose the [Knights]. She saw one of them appear over the hedge, copying her move. The other three came over as well. By jumping. They landed, losing speed, then shot forwards in a sprint.

Jumping boots? Oh, come on!

Ryoka took one look at them. Oh yes, the four mini-Ryokas all stared back. The Wind Runner grinned harder.

Well then.

——

Baron Regalius, the [Baron of Ceremonies], was touring Ailendamus’ gardens after another knighthood ceremony. The second this week; it had been six hours long. Even he felt rather tired, so he was walking the vast palace.

In fact, he’d stopped to address some of the newly-knighted Order of the Hydra training in one of the open practice courts. Inspire, commend, invigorate. That was Regalius’ duty, and he took it seriously.

“It should be my pleasure to host a number of your Order, Ser Yoriven, at my mansion in the capital tonight. A toast, before you venture forth to claim the Dawn Concordat!”

The [Knights] were exceptionally flattered by the invitation; it was doubtless the first time they’d been invited to a noble’s mansion.

As always, the key was that Regalius did not ‘condescend to show the commoners true refinement’ as an uncouth peer might. He truly intended for a fitting meal and entertainment before they headed off. After all, a [Knight] who distinguished themselves might well be a peer in time.

He was just debating taking off his jacket to do a bit of sword practice himself and checking the position of the sun when something caught his eyes. The wind changed. One of the Hydra Knights turned and pointed.

“Now there’s someone hard at work too. Look at that woman move.”

They were pointing at a distant young woman, running barefoot across the royal gardens at top speed. Regalius’ plucked brows rose.

“Who, may I ask, is that? A [Squire]? A Runner?”

The Hydra Knights had no idea. Regalius frowned at the young woman. She was vaulting some of the hedges placed around to control the flow of traffic, leaping over flower beds, and kept glancing over her shoulders.

A guest of state? There were limits to how one could behave. He began to stride forwards, to call out to the young woman. Then Ryoka Griffin really began to challenge her pursuers. She took two steps towards another low-rise hedge, but rather than jump over it, she did a running front-flip, touched the ground, and kept going. There was another hedge no more than fifteen paces ahead. The Courier headed for it.

Regalius, and a pair of little boys fighting with toy swords, clearly waiting for their parents to finish their business, saw the Wind Runner do a running side flip, curling up like a living cannonball, hit the grass and do a roll into a spring back to her feet. And she was still running.

“My word!”

The Baron’s eyes popped. Then he saw four figures materialize. He recognized the Knights of the Thirsting Veil by their darker armor, sigilry, and distinctive, all-encompassing, water-proof armor to handle the poisons that were sometimes liquid, sometimes airborne.

They were following this young woman, this Runner—she could not be something else! They tried to copy her. Two did and went crashing through the hedge like thunder. In plate armor.

All the [Knights] and the [Baron] winced. The other two [Knights] were smart enough not to try the trick, and just followed. But the young woman wasn’t even done.

As they slowed down, she did a spinning cartwheel. Then began to do a series of consecutive handstand flips. She did a barrel roll over the next hedge, and turned.

——

The [Knights] stared at Ryoka Griffin. Grudgingly impressed. They had stopped trying to copy her, and began to turn invisible again. The Wind Runner smirked—right until she heard a voice.

“I say! Excuse me, Miss!”

She turned in time to see the most dressed man she’d ever seen in her life striding towards her with another group of [Knights]. He had a long coat which the wind was contriving to make flap as impressively behind him as possible.

He looked like he belonged in a movie or show, and he was either the biggest side villain ever or the supporting good guy who was going to get killed in some big battle.

“That was a most impressive display, Miss! Dame Knights, Miss Runner, the splendid lance-arrows of Ailendamus be with you. I greet you on this splendid day, as Baron Regalius du Ecte, [Regent] of the Barony Veilau! Might I detain you for the slightest word?”

Baron Regalius spoke…exactly like you thought he would. Ryoka stopped, sweating, blood rushing, and the four [Knights] reappeared.

“Uh. Good morning to you. I’m Ryoka Griffin. A Courier.”

“Splendid. What a fine display of physical acumen. Milady, I am at your service, as are the Knights of the Order of the Hydra.”

They bowed, a more casual-looking group of a dozen [Knights], some training in practice gear, others with armor on, all carrying wooden weapons. They gave their peers in the Thirsting Veil a competitive, polite, loaded look, then turned with clear interest to Ryoka.

Baron Regalius? He swept forwards and tried to kiss Ryoka’s hand. She nearly turned and ran. Unperturbed, he gave her an elaborate bow with a hand sign—then a nod to the [Knights].

“May I not only thank you, Courier Griffin, on behalf of Ailendamus for providing such a vital service—I should also like to inquire as to that display of physical acumen! Is this some new training program? I hope so, or else the [Gardeners] will be more upset than ever.”

He glanced knowingly at the destroyed hedge. The two little boys were still staring, open-mouthed. The [Knights] glanced at each other. Ryoka was hesitating. This man had no idea. She wasn’t going to spoil the fun.

It was one of the Thirsting Veil [Knights] who coughed into one gauntleted hand as she removed her helmet. She glared at Ryoka, then bowed stiffly to the Baron.

“Baron Regalius, I regret to inform you that Miss…Ryoka Griffin is not a Courier in service to glorious Ailendamus. She is a prisoner of state. We are accompanying her in the course of our duties.”

She said nothing about destroying the greenery, though twigs and leaves were still patterned across her armor. She was red up to her ears, though. Oh yes, much like her in the end.

Baron Regalius’ eyebrows rose. He stepped back for a second, caught himself, and glanced at the Order of the Hydra, all of whom looked openly surprised. Ryoka waited, for accusations, for the elegant Baron to turn instantly hostile.

Then, with the most dramatic flourish and shake of his hair, he swept a hand across his brow and smiled. It was deserving of a television show and a flash of light from his teeth.

“A prisoner? Well, such matters are out of my purview. Nevertheless, a prisoner of great Ailendamus is still a guest of state! If this Courier has the run of the palace, I should still like to ask about such fascinating tricks!”

He turned to Ryoka, and gave her a fabulous smile. She felt like shading her face to turn down the glow of personality.

“I do not know the particulars, Courier Griffin, but I hope you will resolve whatever issues lie between you and the crown.”

Is he serious? Even the Order of the Thirsting Veil looked taken aback for a second. After a second, their leader spoke, gruffly.

“Our apologies for disturbing you, Baron Regalius. We shall make sure Miss Griffin does not disturb others in the garden.”

As if she hadn’t dared Ryoka to…the Wind Runner’s glare was cut off by a hearty laugh.

“Disturb? Our sisters in the Thirsting Veil might not think that was special, but I’d like to learn how to do a flip like that! Imagine flipping over the enemy’s head—or running like that! Is she not allowed to talk to us, Dame Knights? We’d like to ask questions!”

The Order of the Hydra all nodded as one of the [Knights] put a sword on his shoulder. He peered at Ryoka.

“She’s not a war criminal, is she?”

“Her exact status is confidential, Ser Knight.”

The female [Knight] looked like she regretted everything that had led up to this moment. But the Hydra Knights were already pressing around. Ryoka’s guards hesitated. They clearly weren’t sure if this was permissible.

“If she has no restrictions placed on her, I would consider her a guest in all but name. Has a [Chamberlain] issued orders as to her hospitality?”

“No, Baron Regalius.”

“Ah. Then she is a prisoner of war? The crown has classified her as…?”

“…We are unsure, Baron Regalius.”

The [Baron] looked disbelieving.

“I have never heard of a guest or prisoner without proper credentials. Who gave you your orders, Dame [Knights]? I do not mean to impugn your duties, but this is highly unusual.”

They gave him a look that said they knew it.

“Duke Rhisveri prevailed on the [Knight-Commander] of our Order stationed here for this duty, Baron Regalius. He issued no official designation to any member of the palace.”

The Baron paused. He pressed the heel of his gloved hand to his forehead, face openly perplexed.

“The Duke…? Well, I should hardly question his will. Given the circumstances, it would behoove us all to act as if she is a guest of state. I shall have a word with the [Chamberlain] ere I depart.”

He emphasized the words. The [Knights] nodded, as if he was settling something for them. With relief. And then Regalius gave Ryoka another sparkling smile.

“Do forgive me, Courier Griffin.”

She had already been besieged by the Hydra Knights. They were everything the Thirsting Veil were not. Friendly, even disconcertingly chummy.

“Is that trick a Skill, Courier? Or can anyone learn how to spin in the air like that?”

“You want to learn to parkour? Why? It’s not a combat trick.”

“Ah, but it looks like fun! Could one do that in armor?”

“I know you can backflip in armor. So it’s possible.”

The answer came out of Ryoka instinctively, mostly because the Thirsting Veil [Knights] were still glaring at her. The Hydra Knights begged to learn.

“We’ve only a day or two before we march for the front lines. Perhaps some pointers? We could work out the rest. We’re bound for the warfront.”

“The war? You’re to fight on the front lines, Ser? Which area, may I ask?”

One of the female [Knights], who had taken off her helmet to reveal dark red hair and a once-broken nose, was frowning at Ryoka. She had freckles and had introduced herself as Dame Chorisa. The Hydra Knight, Ser Yoriven, had flax hair, and a beaming personality. Almost too young, despite being twenty years of…Ryoka blinked. He was younger than she was!

“That’s right. We’re bound straight for Kaliv, to give the Dawn Concordat a right thrashing! If we’re not diverted to fill the ranks of our brothers and sisters. I hear two legions are giving the Order of Seasons a grand fight. Our Great Knight, the Dame of Hills herself, is leading the charge!”

“What has it been? Three duels with the Summer Champion?”

“Three! Pressed back twice, pushed him once. Neither one has felled the other yet! I would run all the way to either front, but we’ve two more days and the Baron has graciously invited us to his mansion! What a fine speech he gave—my entire family was there to see, and my nephew and cousin both want to follow after…”

It was disconcerting. The Thirsting Veil [Knights] were clearly veterans, and traded words with the rookie [Knights] heading off, but they actually took off helmets, clasped hands, and introduced themselves as Ryoka watched. Baron Regalius smiled, with calm reserve.

They were going to die. New [Knights] with sparkling armor or not…they were headed into a warzone with too much vim and vigor for Ryoka to smile properly. She glanced at the Baron. Then at the [Knights].

“You’re the Order of the Hydra. Ah…”

How did she say it? Peasants? Common-folk? How would Lyonette put it? Peons? She was surprised that Ailendamus had a Knight-Order devoted to that. She hadn’t heard of it.

Regalius seemed to read her mind. He bowed, one arm outstretched.

“It is my role, Courier Griffin, as [Baron of Ceremonies], to induct these brave souls into their order. Ailendamus boasts the most [Knights] of non-noble blood of any nation in the world, and a fine thing it is. Any man or woman may one day earn land or a title from the crown by dint of deed or wit. So it is written, and so we see the success! Even one of the most famous [Knight] orders in all of Terandria is losing ground to a ‘new’ order.”

The Hydra Knights nodded proudly, and the Thirsting Veil gave a strange salute with two fingers. Ryoka blinked.

This was Rhisveri’s kingdom, though. She peered at Regalius.

“So…becoming a [Knight] is possible for anyone? Anyone at all?”

“Anyone who meets their exacting standards. Only the finest become [Knights]. Other roles are open for all. I myself am no fine [Warrior]. We must each find a suitable place to serve, Courier Griffin. If I could fight as well as those present, I might find myself impelled to join the military. Alas, I cannot.”

Regalius gave her a wan smile. The Hydra Knights protested.

“Surely you can use a blade, Baron Regalius! Let’s see it.”

“Ah, well…if you press me, Ser Yoriven, I was already intending to beg your indulgence. A moment.”

He clicked his fingers and two personal guards appeared. Or manservants? Ryoka saw Regalius toss his huge coat to one side, divest himself of a scarf he’d chosen, and reveal another layer of embroidered cloth.

Dead gods. He didn’t look bad!

Ryoka and the Thirsting Veil Knights all silently agreed on that. Some Hydra Knights too, and they were so busy watching Regalius flourish with a blade that they never saw the other audience appear until one of them poked Ryoka with a training sword.

She yelped. Regalius looked over and saw two boys, nobles’ sons, staring up at Ryoka. And two dozen more children, from serving children to guests. He blinked.

“Are you…the Wind Runner? The one who calls the wind?”

One of the boys stared up at Ryoka, his words carefully enunciated. Yet he looked at Ryoka with a certain knowing. She blinked.

“I am.”

The children murmured. A girl with a little hairnet pointed at her, excitedly.

“You’re the one who can make people fly?”

The Wind Runner started. How did they…?

Her fans. Her fans, who sent [Message] spells to each other or wrote, or just communicated with the power of gossip. Not the posers like Tyrion or Lupp or Ieka, the adults, but the real, hardcore fans.

Children. Of all the Couriers in the world, and they were all famous celebrities to children, the Wind Runner had a fantastic talent. They’d heard about her. And hadn’t that boy who kept shouting for her said she could do it?

Make them fly. Ryoka Griffin looked at the shining eyes, as Baron Regalius, amiably confused, swept his hair back.

“What’s this now?”

——

Children across the world loved to fly. It was simple. Just grab a sheet and soar through the air, as high as twenty feet overhead. Don’t let go, though! Well, twice the Wind Runner had dove and caught the children whom she could see were slipping—and they never went too far up, those ones.

The wind could be kind. It could also be cruel, but Ryoka had a word with it. Anyways, the wind loved to fill the little sailcloths, toss children up and let them come down, slowly.

Fly. A dream so grand, and she could make it happen, for a few minutes, for a few hours.

It changed something. It changed everything. Because it was one thing for a strange Courier to appear, able to parkour, tricking and flipping all over the place like a fish out of water.

Quite another to see how she let kids enjoy a dream, and carefully caught them, essentially nannied and worried over them, more than parents. More than one had laughed as a kid went splat a few feet off the ground. It was a good lesson to learn: ‘hold on when someone said hold on!’. Ryoka, though, was the anxious Wind Hen Mother.

It made the Thirsting Veil Knights…confused. The Hydra Knights just laughed along, and Baron Regalius found it all fascinating. That was how he and Ryoka ended up speaking.

“Simply extraordinary. Wind magic?”

“She’s not supposed to be able to—”

“That’s right.”

Ryoka ignored the whispering in the background. Regalius nodded at the sight. She had been worried he’d tell off the children for consorting with the nobles’ sons and daughters, but he was more taken with the activity.

“Wind magic. Blowing children up and down like that. Does it work with adults? What am I saying? You are the Wind Runner. I heard a new Courier from Izril could fly…”

“It’s a bit more complex. Uh…but yes, it can work.”

And then she gave away the secrets of flight. What had she done? Ryoka avoided projectile vomiting on Regalius long enough for him to adjust the lapels of his jacket, still floating behind him in the wind. He looked at the wind, at the children, and nodded.

“What a delightful scene. Perhaps it can be replicated. Ailendamus does not lack for talented [Mages]; I wonder if [Aeromancers] would provide this service for children across the kingdom?”

“What?”

Ryoka hesitated, her mind going blank for a second.

“What?”

The children cried out, ecstatic. Regalius nodded, looking pleased with himself.

“It would be a lovely diversion. You know, I heard a motion in the courts to adopt a formalized education system—not just the individual schools for [Knights] and academies of magic. Someone suggested it in lieu of entertainment, which of course prompted a discussion on whether the state should mandate festivities.”

“Uh. Ailendamus doesn’t, I presume.”

Ryoka Griffin could just imagine what Duke Rhisveri thought about children. He’d been prepared to kill Sammial when—

“Well, only to a certain extent, Courier Griffin. We host approximately forty one holidays each year, wherein festivities are provided across the nation. For regular entertainment, there are [Bards] and [Singers]—much like the Singer of Terandria—who travel the nation. Song Crystals, exceptionally popular, have also been subsidized, you see. But the Singer has declined to tour Ailendamus as of yet—I suppose she’s worried about the war or politics.”

Ryoka’s mouth fell open. Regalius went on, with a clearly informed point of view.

“The question is: would the Kingdom find it preferable to fund [Toymakers], or create new bodies like these ‘Players of Celum’ I have heard so many fine things about? That is the topic of the hour in court.”

“The topic of…”

The Wind Runner weakly repeated. The Baron nodded.

“Now, I am minded to bring up flying as a recreational activity. I do not know how far it would traverse the court, but it would be a fine topic to present for myself, especially if it gathered acclaim. I hope you will not mind me borrowing it?”

Ryoka Griffin just stared at him. Then she turned her head and heard a shout.

“I say! Make way, children! If you can fly, then why not a [Kniiiiii—oh dear.”

Ser Yoriven didn’t so much fly as glide past the children on an improvised sailcloth. He crashed into another hedge-sculpture and attracted the wrath of a [Gardener], who had just come by to see the destroyed lawn section.

Ryoka Griffin looked at him, fleeing the angry man’s wrath and the dangerous hedge-clippers. She looked at the Thirsting Veil [Knights], who were signing autographs for some shy children, mostly girls, who’d come up with bits of parchment or the autograph cardboard squares they’d gotten somewhere. Someone thrust one in her face, and Regalius signed one with a flourish for a shy girl.

She had to ask.

“The court decides everything, Baron Regalius? I thought the crown would…”

Or Duke Rhisveri. The Baron looked surprised.

“That you do not know, Miss Griffin, means you are a new guest. New to Terandria itself, although the Court of Masks is unprecedented in any case.”

“Court of Masks?”

“Indeed. It is not the Crown, nor the…how shall I say it? Not a formal echelon of government. Rather, it is simply the Court of Masks. I do apologize, it is hard to explain.”

He laughed, a bit self-consciously.

“You see, it was first put in place after his Majesty, Itorin the First, second [King] of Ailendamus, decreed that there should be a way to let meritorious thoughts inform good governance. He, in his wisdom, saw fit to create a setting wherein anyone was free to express their opinion, frankly, without retribution. Behind a mask. It was a splendid success, and the Court of Masks has changed somewhat over a hundred years, but it is a fascinating sight. I would like to show you.”

Ryoka Griffin listened. She felt a strange sensation tickling her stomach.

Rhisveri. It had to be. He had created…

“They all wear masks? That’s what I assume.”

“More magical than that, Miss Ryoka. I could not tell you who I spoke to unless they dropped hints. Which is one of the games of court, of course. I am almost sure I know the [Royal Captain of the Guard]—he has a lisp, though there is no intonation or height or even scent you could guess! Just words. In that place, if invited, a guest or member of state may find themselves frankly expressing an opinion to a [Great General] that they could not otherwise. There will be no retribution for utterances there, although one may earn quite a standing and the respect not garnered otherwise. Isn’t it fascinating? When I first heard of it, as a boy, I thought there was a place to rise or fall on your merits.”

On your merits. Ryoka Griffin felt like something was wrong with her jaw. And ears. Because that sounded like the most egalitarian, fanciful theory-based way to run a system…ever. It sounded so much like a philosophy-student’s wet dream that she wanted to find someone to shake and tell them it would never work in the real world.

But it existed, and apparently did inform the decisions made in government.

“More than one decision in the Court of Masks has been put forward by the crown, Miss Griffin. You may find yourself speaking with the [King]. Who knows, perhaps I have, and never known it.”

Ryoka took a look around. At the garden, the [Knights], Ser Yoriven, the children playing happily, the Baron Regalius who wanted to copy this on the basis that it made children happy—and it finally hit her.

From the library to even her guards. With the exception of perhaps one being, Rhisveri, the Wyrm itself—Ailendamus was not itself corrupted. Not evil.

It might be arrogant as a nation. It certainly made war. However, no one that Ryoka Griffin had met today had that underbelly of cruelty or disdain for others. She felt she would have noticed. If anything, she had met more ominous people back on Izril.

Ailendamus…was prosperous. It seemed to treat its people well, have systems in place that created more equality than other places Ryoka had been.

“Do people starve in Ailendamus, Baron Regalius? Do you have [Farmers], a lower class?”

To that, the [Baron] gave her a haughty look.

“The [Farmers] are not the lower class, Miss Griffin. No less than six of our holidays honor them. If you are referring to the collective farms they work on—yes, Ailendamus has seen fit to organize its agriculture rather than let them compete. It has worked fairly splendidly. We are no longer dependent on Noelictus’ fields.”

Rhisveri. Rhisveri—had he made this? Was she able to not give him credit for this? Ryoka Griffin wondered. But she feared the truth was—it was his doing. The Wyrm cared nothing for the life of a child. But he probably wanted a kingdom that ran efficiently. Even in the cold void of carelessness, there was an argument that a happy populace didn’t cause trouble.

No, no, she was giving Ailendamus too much credit. It probably had cracks and flaws and people caught there. It just wasn’t the nightmarish kingdom of corruption, puppeted by a Wyrm. It could be a decent place.

Ryoka Griffin stood there, wrestling with the horrible realization that she couldn’t label all of Ailendamus as mindlessly evil and had to treat them like people. And if they were people…if Rhisveri was more than a ‘bad Wyrm’?

She was doing this all wrong. Ryoka had been combative, angry. She had a certain right to be, but Ryoka Griffin knew from her many experiences that her right wouldn’t get her anything. To get what she wanted, to move the levers she needed…she had to be clever.

The Wind Runner had walked the lands of the fae. So she looked at Baron Regalius.

“I should like to visit this Court of Masks, if it’s allowed, Baron Regalius.”

He smiled, but her guards objected. The Court of Masks was warded against harm and assassin and arguably better at ensuring Ryoka did no mischief inside of it, but they weren’t sure if this was allowed, and therefore it should not be.

“I shall inquire with the [Chamberlain] tomorrow. I do have a pressing duty to entertain the Order of the Hydra today. Until tomorrow, Courier Griffin?”

“Of course, thank you, Baron Regalius.”

When the children had been reluctantly told there was no more playing with the wind—today—and the Order of the Hydra followed the [Baron], whom Ryoka actually liked, she was escorted back to her rooms. Food, sleep…Ryoka had some books on Ailendamus to check out.

“This is a magical, powerful place, isn’t it?”

She commented to Dame Chorisa. Ryoka could feel it. The wind was stronger here.

“It is built on a natural leyline, Miss Griffin, and historic sites of old.”

The Thirsting Veil Knight caught herself, then slowly began to replace her helm. The incident with the children had done something to the [Knights] too. They weren’t as sure as they had been.

Oh, but they still didn’t like her. Ryoka felt that. So she turned.

“…The Great Knight who kidnapp—who took me to Ailendamus. What was her name? She was part of your Order, wasn’t she?”

If they could have disliked Ryoka more—the slightly relaxed shoulders rolled back, up. The four [Knights] went dangerously still.

“Dame Eclizza. Great Knight of the Order of the Thirsting Veil. The Pale Serpent of Ailendamus.”

Chorisa spoke through gritted teeth. Her eyes bored into Ryoka’s face. The Wind Runner nodded, slowly. She spoke, carefully, without mockery or as she had before, carelessly. Because she’d realized something.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I barely met her before…we teleported across the world, you know. I didn’t kill her.”

The Thirsting Veil [Knights] started. Ryoka saw one’s head turn, then snap around. They looked at her.

“Dame Eclizza died in the course of her duties, Courier Griffin. She was a war hero to Ailendamus.”

Chorisa spoke. It was a nothing-phrase. Ryoka nodded.

They didn’t know.

“I didn’t kill her. I can swear on a truth spell or Skill. I’m sorry she died. There was nothing I could do to stop it. We were travelling via the spell when the Death of Magic killed her.”

The Death of…? Suddenly, all four visors were locked onto Ryoka’s face. Chorisa hesitated. The [Knight-Captain] looked at her sisters, at the empty corridor, and swung back to Ryoka.

“This is not information we are authorized to hear. We do not discuss the affairs of state with prisoners!”

Her tone betrayed her. Ryoka nodded, reasonably. She turned and walked down the corridor.

“Absolutely. Understood. In that case…I’m not talking to you. I’m just Ryoka Griffin, Courier, walking here. Talking to myself. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t Sammy, the boy who came with me. He was an accident. I don’t know if it was that or just bad luck. But we met, somehow, during the [Greater Teleport] spell.”

The [Knights] followed her as she strolled back to her room, listening. Ryoka thought they had stopped breathing.

“It was the Death of Magic. And the Death of Chains. They were there, somehow. The Death of Magic spotted us and cast a spell—somehow. Through the teleportation spell. That’s how Dame Eclizza died. She still perished because of me. But that’s what happened. I…would want you to know that.”

Ryoka Griffin stopped at her door. She looked back, at the four visible Thirsting Veil Knights, who were looking at her. She wondered what their faces were like, behind their helmets.

All was silent for a long time. Then Ryoka heard a whisper, strangled. From one of the others, the tallest one.

“Did…she die well?”

The Wind Runner saw Chorisa’s head snap around.

“Dame Lacres! Find your sisters for a changing of the guard!”

“Yes, Knight-Captain!”

The other [Knight] jerked to attention, performed a salute, and ran. Ryoka looked at the [Knights]. In silence, she nodded and closed the door.

——

The next day, Ryoka Griffin visited the Court of Masks. It was like…well. Venice’s festival of masks meeting Phantom of the Opera inside some kind of reinterpretation of a secret society, but without the depravity and greed.

That was how she could describe it to an outsider. When she and Baron Regalius stopped outside the Court of Masks, they found an archway and wardstones so powerful Ryoka felt the hum.

“Your guards will not be needed inside, Courier Griffin. Unless they object, I do not believe any force short of an army could bear actual threat inside the Court of Masks.”

Regalius looked at the four [Knights]. They did not object. They were quiet, today. And less instantly hostile. Ryoka glanced down at her bare feet and silk clothing. She looked at the masks, each on a pillow.

Masks. Ryoka had seen the old masks people made. From hawks to owls to long-nosed, eerie placeholders for the face. Sometimes for a purpose, like the old doctor’s masks for plague. Others, simply for entertainment. Style.

These masks were like that and more. Each one was carved in a different shape. Here a stylized sun, there your owl, a classic bird mask, over there just an oval with two eye holes. Each one fit over the face with a simple strap.

The difference that took Ryoka by surprise was that they weren’t all white masks. No bone-white, creepy audience of masks this time. Each one had color. Beautiful color, sometimes. Ryoka saw a veil of cloth hanging from one mask, a strange but fascinating pattern on the cheeks of another in three glowing colors.

A golden mask, a complete ensemble with a conical hat, one that only covered the eyes and nose…

Some were amazing. She stared at a mask like some ancient war-visor. Regalius picked up the one that slid over the eyes, like some ancient [Bandit] or [Gentleman Thief].

“Choose whichever you wish, Ryoka. It will be yours and yours alone, so do find one you like. Don’t worry about which conceals your face. It will not matter once we enter. The mask is flavor; you can tell, for instance, I am wearing this mask—we can identify each other based on that, or you may keep yours hidden until we enter. I am not adverse to either.”

“Won’t they tell who you are based on that mask? At least that you’re male.”

Regalius smiled as he fastened the mask to his face. Ryoka hesitated over a full face-mask with spiral patterns, like some sunburst motif, only colored dark silver.

“Not inside. You will see. I advise you to listen, watch, learn, before speaking. It is a sight most guests are taken by. Shall we?”

He offered an arm. Ryoka edged past it, and they entered through the archway as the [Knights] waited. There was only one entrance to the dark Court of Masks, which seemed to be darkness from the outside. Yet as Ryoka and Regalius walked inside, they saw what it truly was.

A dark ballroom? Some grand audience chamber or theatre with Ailendamus’ elite, waxing poetic philosophy?

Ryoka expected either. What she got was the void.

Black space. She was standing in space. There was no floor, no sky, no walls. For a second, she felt terrifyingly, horrifically like she was in transit to the world of the fae.

“Steady. This disconcerts me. Where are we bound?”

A voice spoke to her right. She turned and saw Baron R—

…Who was that? A figure walked next to her. A figure with a mask over eyes and not the nose. But the lips, the chin, the bearing and physique of the person who stood there?

She had no idea who it was. It was not that there were no clues; on the contrary, for one second she had the distinct impression a half-Elf was peering down at her, hair darker than Ryoka’s hiding a face behind the mask as two lips smiled, seven feet tall—

The next, that she was speaking to a Drake, the mask in the same spot, but gender, coloration, height, all confused. It shifted every time Ryoka thought about it, so that if she focused it would keep flicking as she failed to keep ahold of details. If she did not? She simply knew and remembered it was the half-masked person she was talking to.

Baron Regalius.

“Steady. Do you remember me? No names, here.”

“I do.”

The Baron was pleasantly surprised.

“It takes even seasoned [Diplomats] and experts a few minutes to get used to this. You are remarkable—we often call each other by masks—Sunburst.”

Ryoka Griffin nodded slowly.

“Thank you.”

She did indeed get ahold of her senses, arguably faster than Regalius himself. This was a weird modality of being.

It was not, however, unknown to her. In fact, it was simpler. She stepped into the Court of Masks, the first room, and gasped.

Nearly two hundred people stood on top of a lake by night. A bowl of clear liquid, which rippled around their feet as they walked on the surface. Some stood by the shore, talking, admiring an old watchtower; a few standing on the decrepit railing.

“Where is this?”

It came from Regalius. He peered around, fascinated, his voice betraying neither accent nor tone, or again, always a different one. He turned to Ryoka.

“You see? I think someone finds how to recreate these scenes. We stand in foreign courts, in the desert—far too hot for my taste—and other places. There is food, a chance to be sociable—elsewhere. You see those shadows?”

Ryoka did. There were hundreds of masked people like her, walking, talking in groups. Some were walking to the ‘edge’ of this place, and they vanished into the darkness. Interspersed with them were shadows, vague, blurred outlines of people, for all that easier to make out details like height or figure.

“They are heading to other rooms. Sometimes they get heated. Those shadows are the staff, or perhaps those who want to listen but not be heard. As for the topic, there is always a central theme. We might ask. Excuse me—”

He strode into the first passing group of six masks, walking together. Ryoka had no idea who they were. They were arguing, loudly.

“—cannot, I say again, cannot let the Five Families become involved in this war. It’s not about reinforcements to the Dawn Concordat.”

“Then I fail to take your point.”

Another mask spoke back. Neither person was identifiable; it was, as Regalius had claimed, a perfect place to be anonymous. Because of that, the first speaker was confident, and others deferential, quiet or bold, or the opposite of how they normally were because it was this place.

“It is my belief we can triumph over a struggle with the Five Families, even if they sent multiple transports instead of just three. Pride of the Wellfar or not, it’s not that I worry about. It’s an ensuing grudge, you see? If they rally behind every other nation under the stars whenever we go to war…”

“I take your point. Izril is difficult to assail. Continents apart. It’s why the Chandrarian offensive is going so poorly now the [Knights] have little immediate reinforcement…”

“A ridiculous crusade. I said it, as you recall.”

“You did. I remember that.”

The lead mask was a snarling dog. It must have been that they liked to take masks and seldom changed them, or else Ryoka guessed they’d never know each other.

“Excuse me. It’s me. Half-Mask. I’m showing around a newcomer. What’s the topic of the moment?”

The other masks turned, some visibly annoyed, others spotting Regalius as a sort of familiar ‘face’.

“You, is it? You’re just in time. House Veltras is sailing towards the fleet with The Pride of the Wellfar. It looks aggressive, though anyone who knows why isn’t saying. The fleet’s turning, but they’re days from a port at best speed. They’ll never make it if the Pride’s moving to engage, and all looks like it is.”

“The Five Families? But why?”

“No one who knows anything is saying. Well, I’ve heard six theories. The most outlandish being that we offended Tyrion Veltras by refusing the marriage offer and another being we kidnapped his son! Hah!”

Ryoka, glancing around and following ‘Half-Mask’, glanced up sharply. Snarling Dog addressed her.

“New, are you? Well, we all weigh each other on merit, as I’m sure Half-Mask explained. Speak clearly and be honest, but think. A poor reputation here lasts, and no one gets by without proving they have something worth hearing. I am Snarling Dog. Do you have anything to add?”

The Wind Runner paused. Sunburst voiced her opinion before the six present.

“Regarding the war? I am of the opinion the Five Families are not an enemy to take lightly. However, I would be more concerned as to why they are allegedly attacking. Or do other nations attack Ailendamus lightly?”

“Well said. It may be affairs of state we have no idea behind.”

A mask—Majestic Owl nodded at her.

“Or they are typically arrogant. I would believe either one. Well…well done, Sunburst. Let’s call you that. I’ll remember your mask. I don’t agree; it seems to me we should be focusing on the consequences of the war from a military standpoint.”

Snarling Dog replied with a snap in their voice. They had some support, and led the conversation away as Sunburst trailed after. It was certainly a sight to see.

Sunburst looked around at the other groups, some of whom were just gossiping. Half-Mask, with a knowing nod, went to find a less military-minded group to ply the fascinating theory about wind to. Sunburst heard any number of conversations strike up.

Arguments, debates, petty little gossip, scandalous talk that they would never repeat anywhere but here.

“Yes, eight. In one bed.”

“No. Is that something you censure?”

“The question isn’t censure, surely?”

“It is if the public hears about it. Displays of debauchery do not exactly endear the nobility to the public. It is also a stain on Ailendamus’ reputation. Moreover, there’s a health cost.”

“…You’ve lost me. How is it a health cost?”

“Well…eight? Surely that has to take away from one’s physical acumen.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What are you talking about? We’re talking about eight…partners…in one bed! Every night!”

“Sariant Lambs. I said, ‘Sariant Lambs’, not…whatever you were intimating.”

“Oh. Well, that’s still different.”

Sunburst laughed at that. However, it wasn’t all just practical military matters and gossip. There was exactly what she’d expected, for once. And that was high philosophy.

Two masks were debating hotly. Pink Moon and Clamshell. Pink Moon was making a lecture to a small crowd.

“The Crown should make a point to tax Song Crystals.”

Clamshell was appalled.

“Surely not. We subsidize them already.”

“Yes. ‘We’ do. However, my point is that they are pieces of entertainment. The working populace has time for such pursuits; well and good. They have merit. Yet a tax, however incremental, makes a statement of direction. It is one thing to improve oneself, another to be lax and lazy. If the Kingdom is to prosper, the people must strive towards self-improvement. I do not say ban them altogether! Yet by holding up those who work harder…it goes back to my argument of the Great Knights of Ailendamus being unbalanced. We have members like the Dame of the Hills who are substantively lower level than others.”

“She is a half-Giant. She has matched blades with the Summer’s Champion three times! I would watch your words, Pink Moon.”

“I will not. Does her species give her the right to the title over a higher-level [Knight]? If so, what message are we sending? To be exemplary by deed and self-improvement, or to be born better?”

The two strutted about, arguing, taking observations or comments from their crowd. Was this how Aristotle and Socrates went at it? Sunburst shook their head.

A social ecology of its own here. There were those in favor, those with supporters—and those on the outside. Anyone who shouted or obnoxiously tried to make points was ostracized; thrust away. There was no violence here, but a ruined reputation?

A new mask, Cracked Raven, made itself known to Sunburst as it was thrust out of conversation after conversation, running about like a chicken, shouting. It did them little good; they reminded Ryoka of a young [Lord], barking to be heard, but no one had to entertain them here. The other masks turned away from Cracked Raven.

A meritocracy indeed. This…this had Rhisveri’s claws all over it. Here was a place to express ideas, but more importantly, here was a true court of politics. The nobility would be playing on two angles, as their public identities, and as the Court of Masks, where their power availed them little.

It was possible to ‘exile’ someone if a majority of the group disagreed. It wasn’t done often, but Sunburst saw a shimmering white barrier appear around other groups, and then suddenly around Cracked Raven. They tried to charge into another group, and were thrown backwards. Publicly locked out of talking with anyone who didn’t interface with them.

Overwhelmed, the figure stumbled, collapsed in the center of the lake-illusion. Blocked by all, but not ignored; the masks were pointing at the target of derision. Now there was a ruined reputation. Cracked Raven would have to work their way up from the bottom or stop attending; everyone would remember that.

Sunburst saw the masks turn to the popular darlings of the hour, the known ones, like Snarling Dog, who had power in this place and wielded it. This was what Rhisveri wanted.

A logical place. Let the best rise to the top, here and here alone. That was the ruling force. Logic and reason, the best arguments. What could make this nation better?

Utilitarianism at its finest. They came up with good ways to make government run better, or people happier. But the masks…why the masks? So you were anonymous? Or so you could hide behind them and present ideas without retribution?

It was very like Rhisveri to make this after all, Sunburst decided. It was how a Wyrm saw people. You are not people, with faces, only values of worth. No wonder he had let this flourish.

Sunburst—no, Ryoka Griffin looked around. Perhaps she was being too harsh. It was a fascinating place.

She just had no time for it. She had no time to get on Ailendamus’ side, change parts of it she hated, or…anything. She looked around and closed her eyes behind her mask. It was like a second face; she doubted she could even take it off if she wanted.

The bodies changed, but the masks stayed the same. A separate world. An unreal space, like, well, the internet, really. How interesting. She turned.

How interesting. But she could not linger. So, on their first day here, Sunburst set about turning the Court of Masks on its head. After all, this was a neat and orderly society. But Ryoka Griffin was a troll to outmatch Durene. Sunburst cracked her knuckles.

It was time for ‘batman’ to ride once again.

——

They didn’t believe who he was, at first. It was days until they let him out of his room. They didn’t tell him where Ryoka was and he. Was. Angry!

Sammial Veltras let them have it. He thought Ryoka was dead and that evil man with the goatee killed her. He didn’t know where he was. Ailendamus?

“I am [Lord] Sammial Veltras. I demand you let me go!”

The servants couldn’t even enter his room. Not when he raged. Which meant the little boy starved; he refused to eat the food they put outside his door. When he passed out, he found they’d cleaned up, and he ate, then threw another tantrum.

Only when his father sailed on Ailendamus was the palace made aware that this was not some boy with delusions of grandeur, but the genuine article.

The problem was Duke Rhisveri. No one touched the Duke’s projects, so the servants, who could have told you from Hour 1 that the kid thought he was Sammial Veltras, had been unable to ratify it via any normal chain of command.

After the truth came out, there were stupid [Generals] and [Strategists] and [Diplomats] who came to ask Sammial questions. The boy screamed at them. He demanded to know where Ryoka was, but no one answered him.

So he ran away. Yesterday had been all shouting, all day long and the [Strategists] who had invested in magical earplugs were not keen on talking to the little boy. When they finally, reluctantly, told the [Servants] to open the door with a very upset [Diplomat] and three [Carers], they found no Sammy Veltras.

He’d escaped. Everyone rushed to the window because it was four floors up and if the little boy had decided—the staff had locked it, but they hadn’t been able to even stand inside with a [Lord]’s aura assailing them! Was he…?

Sammial Veltras waited until they rushed outside. Then he crawled out of the dresser. He’d hidden in the drawers; adults never thought anyone could fit into places like that. And without his aura making the room hostile, or just his aura’s natural presence, he was like a ghost.

It was a trick Ullim and Jericha had fallen for more than once. Hethon wouldn’t have fallen for it.

Nor would Ryoka. Where was she? Why had she come here? That evil Duke. Sammy was fuzzy on arriving—he thought he remembered a half-Elf laughing at them while they transited, and then he was on the floor, and Ryoka was arguing with the Duke…

It was all a haze, but someone had to rescue Ryoka, and Sammy was [Lord] of House Veltras. So he peeked out of the room, and ran down the hallway.

Of course, the search was on, but a little boy in a huge palace versus a small number of searchers wasn’t even a fair fight. Especially because the searchers did not want to tell everyone they were looking for a little boy who would instantly shout, ‘I am Sammial Veltras’ at the top of his lungs.

Sammy realized he didn’t even have to hide behind vases and suits of armor! The palace was used to children and guests, and half the staff wanted to take him to his parents. When he assured them, haughtily, he was fine, they only nodded, and went to find the nearest [Head of Staff], [Chamberlain], or so on.

Sammial then ran away before they could come back. None of them knew where Ryoka Griffin was. He was pointed to two guest wings, where the men and women had no idea who a ‘Ryoka’ was.

She had to be in the dungeons. Sammial sat, chewing on a bite of steak as children around him ate or ordered food.

They had a banquet hall. Another child might have been too afraid to eat, or considered the exigencies of hiding vis a vis public areas. Sammial was hungry. Therefore, he marched in, sat down, and ordered a steak, and no one looked twice at him.

“—Wind Runner!”

It was then that he heard Ryoka’s name. Sammial turned. He saw a girl talking excitedly in noble clothes with some friends. He marched over and the group of girls stared at him.

“Where’s Ryoka?”

Sammy demanded. They looked at him a bit askance. He had on the guest clothing, but his accent, lack of manners, and everything else painted him as a foreigner.

“You’re not polite. I’m a Duchess. Go away, boy.”

One of the girls sneered at him. Sammial’s eyes narrowed.

“Where is Ryoka?”

And once again, he used his aura. His aura, which everyone in his family knew was so powerful at his age that it defied belief. A prodigy, they said. To develop one so strong at his age?

What was it like, though? Well, an aura was who you were. Untrained ones like Sammy’s were pure expressions of class and personality; later on they could become a theme. Like Pryde, who was sheer, well, pride.

Sammy did not wield his aura like she could, or many [Ladies], who could change from a delicate cloth to a razor’s edge.

Meeting Sammy’s aura was like being smacked in the face by a hammer with ‘Sammy’ written on it. He had as much finesse as a certain [Innkeeper], but more force than she did out of her inn.

The young [Duchess] went cross-eyed and nearly fell out of her seat. Sammy could throw people out of rooms, make horses run away, and even force people to do things sometimes. However, no sooner had the [Duchess] recoiled, then her six friends all stood up.

“He’s using his aura! Rece!”

“Stop! Stop!”

They pushed at him. Children turned and a few of the minding staff saw a shouting match erupt. They walked over, not seeing the invisible battle between one boy and seven girls. They pushed, but none of them were Sammy. A few had higher-ranking classes.

Sammy had Sammy. Who also had Sammy.

“Where. Is. Ryoka!?”

“Here now, let’s n—”

A [Carer] recoiled, stumbling backwards, and fell over a bench from the shock of hitting the aura. The other adults stared, and half the girls were in tears. Two more glared at Sammial. One just looked at him, confuzzled as everything. She answered—no, three did. They had to.

“We only met her! You’re so mean!”

“You didn’t answer me! Where is she?”

“Outside! She let us fly!”

More [Carers] and bodyguards were rushing over, attracted by the row. They were careful, but their wards were in trouble, so while they might not kick this unknown child to the moon on the chance he was a noble or [Princeling], they were going to do something.

Sammial didn’t care. He pointed at the most authoritative of the girls, who wasn’t bawling for her caretakers.

“Where is she now? I have to rescue her!”

Instantly, two more girls stopped crying. They stared at Sammy with interest.

“Rescue her?”

The girl wearing a brocade dress of silk herself looked at Sammy. Then a girl burst out.

“She promised to come back and let us fly! But I heard the Baron of Rules say he was taking her to the Court of Masks!”

The other girls oohed. The guards and servants slowed as the crying stopped. Should they interfere? The little boy pressed the girl who’d heard this.

“Who’s the Baron of Rules?”

“Baron Regalius. He’s always around. He wanted to show her to the Court of Masks. She might be there!”

“What’s that? Explain!”

Patiently, the girls and their leader did.

“The Court of Masks is where Ailendamus’ main court is. We’re not allowed in alone until we have our majority. But everyone looks like everyone. I went in there with my mother. It’s…scary. I mean…important.”

“Where is it? Tell me. I have to rescue Ryoka!”

“Rescue her from who?”

“The Duke.”

The girl in the brocade dress peered at Sammial. She had reddish hair, but it was marred, by the high standards of hair-color in Terandria, by dark violet. She eyed Sammial, then beckoned. He stomped over impatiently and she whispered in his ear.

“Is she the one the Duke’s mad about? The…Thief?”

He looked at her. How did she know that?

“Yes! Where is she? He’s going to zap her with lightning again! Or take her clothes!”

“Take her clothes? He strips her?”

She was horrified! The boy hesitated. Sammy was a bit unclear on the details, but it did seem like Ryoka tended to lose her clothes around Duke Rhisveri. He’d seen Ryoka naked, they had to take off her clothes once she started sweating blood, and he could have sworn she’d lost them recently in his presence, although the details were unclear.

“Yes!”

“I didn’t know he did that! I hate him. I’ll tell you where the Court of Masks is. No one will be able to find you when you’re in there.”

She whispered in his ear. Sammial listened.

“Thank you. I will remember this! A [Lord] remembers favors.”

He dashed off. Then ran back to take a huge bite of his steak. The girl watched him go. Only then did the breathless caretaker even manage to fight her way towards the group.

“Your Highness! Are you alright? Did that ruffian hurt you?”

“I am alright. Nanny Lemra?”

“Yes, your Highness?”

“…Does Uncle Rhisveri have a habit of behaving…uncouthly towards guests?”

The [Nanny] bit her lip before figuring out which lie to tell. Which, for a smart child, was really all the answer you needed. The [Princess] of Ailendamus stared after Sammial Veltras. She wondered who the Wind Runner was. Her brother had assured her she would believe a [Princess] could fly. She hoped she’d get a chance.

——

That was how Sammial Veltras came to the Court of Masks. The attendants stared at him as he marched up.

“Sir, the Court of Masks is not open to those under…”

Sammial had a way to deal with people like this. Not a good way, but it was one he’d learned worked. He lifted his chin, glared at the poor man, and spoke.

“My friend is inside. I am going to find her. Out of my way!”

“I—”

The [Servant] looked at the others, who fed him to the dogs…or Sammial. Either he could deny this young man and risk wrath, or let him in and hope all went well.

“Absolutely, sir, but you will need a mask.”

“A mask? Why?”

Sammial listened to an abbreviated explanation of the Court of Masks and understood exactly 0% of it. He eventually lost patience, snatched a mask, and ran inside. Sammial Veltras found himself standing in a void of the abyss. He looked around, disoriented, shouted, and realized he’d…changed.

He was bigger. His voice sounded different. Sammial looked about. He saw the distant ‘rooms’, like far-off visions of places in the oasis of the void.

His heart was suddenly beating out of his chest. Sammial ran, clumsily, towards the rooms. He found himself in one, a desert court, and stopped, panting.

“Steady there. Is something wrong?”

A mask like a starfish addressed him. Sammial jerked.

“What? What—no, I…I’m looking for a friend.”

He sounded older. Starfish nodded.

“Fair enough. Say, what have you heard about this Five Families business?”

“The what?”

“You haven’t heard?”

Starfish was delighted.

“The Pride of the Wellfar itself is sailing towards our blockade at sea! Tyrion Veltras himself is on it. They have some objection with the kingdom, or so it appears. Maybe it’s just flexing muscles, but it’s dangerous. What do you think, eh?”

“Father.”

Sammial muttered. Something pressed at his chest.

“What was that? What do you make of it?”

Starfish turned his head. Sammial looked at him.

“I said, House Veltras is going to stomp Ailendamus’ fleet flat. Good!”

The Starfish mask recoiled.

“Well now, I can see you’re going to be a lively one. I’ll remember you…”

The mask peered at Sammial’s face. As it did, the overly red Starfish, encrusted with little gems, loomed larger. Yet there was no face behind it.

There was, and wasn’t. Sammial saw a Minotaur’s cheeks—then a Naga’s slitted eyes, and body—but he knew it was his mind playing tricks. Only the mask was constant.

He had no idea who this was.

“Why don’t you say why it was deserved? Or was that hyperbole? Here.”

Starfish patted a cushion of Nerrhavia’s courts, but suddenly Sammial was backing away. His breath caught in his lungs.

“No. Who are you? Where is…she…?”

“Ah, ah. No names here. You must be new. That’s a clue. You don’t want to be giving them out.”

The Starfish waggled a finger. Sammial didn’t answer. He looked around. So many masks. So many faces, voices without identity.

The boy turned, breath suddenly coming in gasps.

“Who…is this?”

A voice. Sammial turned and saw a looming horned figure. Glowing eyes, the face of a—a monster—

Starfish rolled their eyes.

“Don’t do that, Blue Demon. This is—”

“S-stay back!”

The words came out of Sammial’s mouth. He looked up at the looming figure. Then the Blue Demon’s mask was on a short figure. It regarded Sammial, perplexed. But the boy’s eyes were wide.

He realized what the girl had meant. Spooky?

Even for an adult, the sight of so many masked faces might be disconcerting. Frightening. For Sammial? He looked around, then ran back the way he’d come.

“Hey, wait!”

Starfish got up, but Sammial was in the void. And that was terrible too. It reminded him of the journey he’d had with Ryoka.

No. It reminded him of lying in his bed, feverish. Dying.

All the masks. Sammial broke into another room and froze. They turned, scrutinizing him.

Masks. Like [Assassins].

“Who are you all? Where is she?”

The boy screamed. But the masks just laughed at him.

“Who’s this fool? Shouting gets you nowhere in the Court of Masks.”

“Someone from the countryside, I’ll be bound. A new boy just come of age.”

“Say now. Is that implying you have something against provincial nobles, or the young?”

“No, I was just making a point about—er—causation—”

The mask spluttered as Sammial looked around. Another mask leaned in.

“Why did you assume it was a boy?”

His breath. Sammial clutched at his chest. Then he ran.

“I’m looking for—”

“Hey. You can’t just barge into a conversation! There is such a thing as decorum!”

A half-mask turned to him, offended. Sammial saw the group flick their fingers and something pushed him back. Terror turned to rage, and that was comforting, at least.

“Don’t you dare push me! I am—listen to me!”

He remembered the rules just in time, and threw his aura at them. But even his aura was wrong. It was…blank. Denuded of personality.

It still worked. Snarling Dog rocked, but Half-Mask and Majestic Owl instantly threw up their hands. Something met Sammial’s aura, and abruptly—blew him back along with the magic of this place.

“Now there’s someone without tact. Apologies, where were we?”

Head ringing, Sammial stumbled. He looked around, breathing more wildly.

“Hey! Listen to me! Someone—someone speak to me!”

He cried out, trying to look for something that wasn’t a face. But suddenly, Sammial was aware of the shade-people. He was surrounded by masks and ghosts. His aura wasn’t working properly here and they were blocking him out of groups.

The [Lord] ran right, and then left, shouting, but the others just excluded him. Now he felt like he was in one of his dreams. Trying to talk to people, his father, but no one listened. Surrounded by shadows. By masks. Only, this was reality, not a dream.

Yet for the boy, they began to merge. He was surrounded by ghosts. His mother. His breath caught.

He didn’t want to see his mother. Not here. The dead. They were all dead and so was he.

He clutched at his chest. His mind wasn’t working right. Neither were—his—lungs—

Overwhelmed, his breath catching, starting, stopping, unable to inhale, the masked figure collapsed, to the amused laughter of those watching. Sammial lay on the floor as a few shadows dithered over him. He tried to breathe. He tried to scream for help, but no one knew his name. No one cared.

Help me. Please. No one moved. Sammial tried to shout, to tear the Cracked Raven’s mask off his face. He was alone. He couldn’t breathe. The world turned dark as he tried to…

“Mother?”

She was coming. Coming to take him with her. He tried to run, to crawl, as a dead woman, a mask, reached down for him. His eyes opened wide.

Then air filled his lungs. The wind blew, in the Court of Masks, and a Sunburst mask bent down.

“Sammial?”

The boy looked up as an unfamiliar voice and body spoke his name. But then, Sunburst was helping him up. Even their hands felt different. Yet they spoke to him, and the wind blew, giving him air.

“It’s me, Ryoka. Sammial, how did you get here? What’s wrong?”

“R-Ryoka?”

The Cracked Raven looked at Sunburst. They were both there. Only, instead of finding her—she’d rescued him, again. He clung to her, shaking.

——

Sammial Veltras was here. Somehow, he’d escaped his room, found his way into the Court of Masks. Ryoka couldn’t believe it.

But it was him. She saw him, eyes welling with tears, face relaxing from terror. He was no longer choking, having a panic attack. The wind blew around them.

A few masks were looking over, realizing something had been actually wrong. Ryoka stared about. She looked at Sammial, at Baron Regalius, peering at her from behind his mask.

Half-Mask. Snarling Dog came over with the others.

“Was something actually wrong with Cracked Raven, Sunburst?”

“Something was. I think it’s alright.”

“Let’s call for a [Healer] or the staff—unless Cracked Raven is fine? Very well, as I was saying…”

Snarling Dog needed to make her point. Her point. The military mind telling others why the Five Families’ involvement was such a problem might have been one of their finest [Generals]. Looks were deceiving, after all.

…But she looked like a [Head of Staff], a mother behind her Snarling Dog mask. Or was she a [Head Baker]? Did they let those in? Ryoka swore it was flour on an apron.

Not that she saw that. One second Snarling Dog was a Gnoll [Hunter], the next, a Drowned Woman, half Quillfish. No one could see through the mask and their magic or Skill or whatever this was. It was a layer of reality separate from the regular one, to preserve anonymity.

A shame then, that to Ryoka Griffin, it was all just…a matter of perspective.

She honestly had no idea if she could have done this before the land of the fae, but the instant she had set foot in here, it had reminded her of that place.

See the world a different way. It was far, far easier to look behind the masks than it was to change the Faelands to another perspective. As Sammial calmed down, Ryoka tried to explain. He was agog.

“You can tell? How?”

“…Good eyes. Can you do it, Sammial? All you have to do is…look at reality from a different angle. See the meaning from the other side. I don’t know how to put it into words, but it’s possible. Do you understand?”

The boy gave her a look that said he, as a child, understood exactly what she was asking him to do and exactly how insane it was.

He gave it a shot. Ryoka kept trying to tell him how it worked.

“They’re different people, hidden by magic, but they’re still…them, Sammy. That’s the entire point. They reveal themselves with every step, breath, and word. Look at those two, arguing about the Great Knights. About merit. See them? Pink Moon and Clamshell. See them?”

“Yes…who are they?”

Ryoka Griffin smiled. The two revealed themselves to her as she looked at them from afar. Stepping out of the shadows of their masks. Ah.

“…I don’t know who Pink Moon is, but she’s a Human [Lady]. Young. Going on about self-determination and levels. She might be from a poorer house? Well, I know why Clamshell is arguing for the system as it is.”

“Why? I can’t do it.”

“He’s a half-Giant. A half-Giant in court? Sammy, are you okay? Have they been treating you well?”

Sammial Veltras nodded. He tried with all his might, to see what Ryoka was seeing. All he succeeded in doing was giving himself a nosebleed, which was impressive in itself. Ryoka offered him a handkerchief.

“Listen, Sammial, don’t lose me. I need to do something here; I might not get another shot. I’m going to mess with the Court of Masks.”

She was a hacker in the system. Someone with knowledge of both internet societies and the ability to see behind each mask. Ryoka Griffin rubbed her hands together. Sammial brightened up.

He wasn’t as afraid, with her here. And he liked being taller. Everyone was of a height here and no one ignored him because he was a child. They ignored him because…he shouted and lost his temper…hold on.

He felt like he was learning something. But what? Sammial had a chance to talk and realize when people started ignoring him—or they just told him he was being childish to his face. Ryoka Griffin began doing a circuit of the Court of Masks.

She was looking for people, introducing herself, weighing in on arguments, but in a distinctly…interesting…style that she could only pull off like this.

For instance, everyone was willing to debate everything and you got plaudits on saying the right things to the right people. For being smart, of course, but who had the time to do that? Ryoka Griffin just broke into the Clamshell vs Pink Moon argument.

“Listen, I am completely on board with a merit-based system for Great Knights, but the fact remains that we have underrepresentation among minority populations like half-Giants. If one decides to become a [Knight], and succeeds by their standards, doesn’t that make her more unique than every regular Human candidate? The same for half-Elves.”

“It only does if you are trying to promote a comparison of species! Which I don’t think we want! Everyone is equal in Ailendamus!”

Pink Moon spluttered, as the young woman turned flustered. Sunburst turned to Clamshell, as the half-Giant tried to hide how pleased he was.

“Clamshell, back me up. Surely you understand that it’s not comparison so much as understanding, realizing there are fewer half-Giants present. If we don’t account for a disparity in populations, we are de facto ignoring them by flooding an equal playing field with Humans. If the Dame of the Hills had to compete on an ‘equal level’, there would be a hundred thousand Humans and her in the same pool. Which is not fair because there would be one half-Giant.”

“Very true, Sunburst.”

Pink Moon began to object. Sunburst, aka Ryoka Griffin, happily interjected before they could come up with a cohesive argument.

“…Which is why, to some minds, you could see a system of incentivizing half-Giant population booms. Free housing, even some kind of, I don’t know, reimbursement from the crown for children so that more Dames of the Hills appear?”

“What?”

She caught Clamshell mid-nod. Her audience began to mutter as Sunburst introduced the idea of paid procreation to their minds. And then skipped off with Cracked Raven as the hubbub started.

No, she didn’t support targeting minority populations to repopulate with government mandates. She wasn’t even sure where she landed on the inclusion of minorities as a factor in other selection processes. It was complicated.

…But it was really easy to present the most confounding, annoying debates that were prone to huge, blow-out arguments and run like spit. Especially if you could see who was arguing.

“Look. Do we need Dwarven steel? Or do we need the secrets of Dwarfsteel? Ailendamus is effectively beholden to Deríthal-vel. The Dwarves are able to charge their prices, or they sell to whomever buys more. But if Ailendamus undercuts their steel for, oh, twenty years, then I think someone’s more likely to come to the table. What do you think, Lion?”

She turned to a spluttering Dwarf amid an argument on trade. Sammial was talking with Clamshell, who’d followed them.

“I’m not against half-Giants!”

“Why?”

“Stop asking why! It’s obnoxious!”

“But why don’t you like the Dame of Hills if you like half-Giants?”

“She’s an example.”

“Why not someone else?”

Nice one, Sammy! He had just evolved from…eight-year old rhetoric, to about eleven. Not bad for an hour’s work.

Ryoka caused chaos. She actually felt bad about one time, when she literally walked a haughty noblewoman into insulting the ‘consorting aristocracy’ who had nothing better to do than pander to the lowest-common denominator—straight into a certain Half-Mask and his friends.

Flame war! Flaaaame waaar! Ryoka Griffin was doing this to serve a purpose, mind you. Firstly, a huge grudge against Rhisveri. Second?

She was waiting for someone to notice. And as she toured each area of the Court of Masks, Ryoka Griffin began to realize something else.

“Sam—Cracked Raven. There’s something odd about this place.”

“…Besides the fact that we can walk straight up and down, Sunburst?”

“Yeah, besides that.”

Ryoka peered at each ‘room’, the different, selected illusions now all seething with arguments and fighting, and half the group looking for her, to keep arguing their side she actually didn’t care about. She squinted.

“…Strange. It’s a circle.”

“No, it’s not. You’re stupid. I mean, your opinion is demonstrably wrong, Sunburst. They’re all over the place.”

Sammy corrected himself. Ryoka shook her head.

“…No, they’re not.”

She saw what he meant. From a certain point of view, you could get to any number of the floating talking-rooms in the void, like stars in the night sky.

From her perspective, they were walking a long, circular corridor into rooms. Wait a second. Was she still not seeing…?

The world shifted. Ryoka vaguely, vaguely, made out a long…curving…circular…hallway. With rooms branching off. She looked at the boy, the ground—then lost it.

The void returned.

“…I feel stupid.”

There was an inner court to the projection. And…Ryoka began to feel her way through the void, and saw the arguing masks receding. Aha.

There were places they couldn’t go. Places that, unless you knew how to access them…Ryoka had suspected as much.

Even a Court of Masks needs someone to oversee it, maintain it. There are private rooms in Rhisveri’s community. Sammial struggled after Ryoka, having to take Sunburst’s hand.

“Where are we going? I can’t…you’re going weird places, Ryoka.”

“I always go weird places, Sammy. That’s my specialty.”

Ryoka Griffin reached for a door handle—pushed her hand through a void of space—and pulled. Then they found it. A door into—

The center of the Court of Masks. A room apart, never meant to be found by the rest of them. The young woman and the boy stumbled into a strange parlor. For it was a parlor, a private room for guests to sit, socialize and talk.

Only, it was made of ancient stone. Black jade for a floor, luminous crystal furniture. No—half were crystal of some kind. The other half stone until you looked closer and saw how they were too rounded, too natural. Stone, but it had once been alive.

Petrified wood. Interspersed around the tables were other oddities. Ancient pottery, so fine that the porcelain looked wafer-thin, a tea set that Ryoka was sure any appraiser in any world would value on the level of a royal possession. Or higher.

It was currently in use, and a half-full cup of tea had apparently been left at random on a stack of ancient tomes. Next to it, a huge feather was just…lying on the ground. A beautiful one that tapered from an off-tawny brown as deep as the forests to a sky grey.

The point was that each individual component was mysterious and grand. Rich stone that even Earthers believed was magical. Fossilized wood, in the shape of service. Ancient pottery, and to Ryoka’s eyes, a certain natural motif of enchanted collectibles. A big feather.

Together, they looked like a mess. The kind of hodge that not even pigs would podge. Completely out of place in Ailendamus, in short, and telling because no servants or Chamberlain du Asthetica or whatever would let a room like this exist.

It followed that the occupants of the room had put what they wanted here, and if anyone touched it, they too would soon not exist.

The occupants. Ryoka came to a slow stop. Everything slowly came together, at last. She saw three figures turn, out of presumably more. They were…doing the same thing everyone else had been doing.

“…in a terrible tantrum. It behooves us to leave them alone. In experience, leave alone.”

The first voice had no origin, just a general echo, as if you were hearing it after it bounced back from a place unseen.

“Not in kingdom. Not in land. He does not say everything. Nor why the world shook last solstice. Nor. Nor. It came from Rhir. My roots. Even now, they shake. You understand? They are shaking here. Something has happened.”

The second was old, grating. It sounded like dead wind in the woods, crumbling stone. Ryoka stirred. The third made no sound at all, just a keening whistle.

They turned, and Ryoka saw them. Sammial saw them. Three people, who, in this place, a safe space in a court famed for anonymity, could take the time to talk.

Three innocuous masks. The archetypical Crying Man mask from Greek tragedy, the first speaker. No…Ryoka’s eyes were round.

—That was how he looked to Sammial. The second had what Ryoka could only describe as a Fish. Silver Fish. The third? A Happy Cat.

They turned, without shock—more curiosity.

“What is this? Does Rhisveri introduce? No presence. No decorum.”

The Crying Man looked disapproving. The other two were more wary. One squinted at Sunburst, pointed.

“Two. What do they seem, Sophridel? That one carries magic like mine.”

“Never seen before. Never before has either walked the Court of Masks.”

Sophridel returned. The Crying Mask tilted the mask left and right. Like someone tilting their head.

“Impossible to find this place. Yet found. One sees us.”

The other two jolted. Crying Mask, Sophridel, stared at Ryoka, much in the same way she stared at h—it. Alarmed.

“So ancient, so cunningly done. Seen through by eyes and unmade. In an instant, secrets revealed. And a boy.”

Ryoka Griffin said nothing. Sammial, Cracked Raven, was looking at the three, a bit disappointed, but at the vast room, far more interested. He didn’t see them. Presumably, even here, they didn’t take off their masks. Or maybe they saw each other as Ryoka saw them now. Besides which…one of them could never take off the Crying Mask on its face…no, its body.

It was the mask. Ryoka didn’t know what she was seeing. She saw a presence, filling the air, ‘turning’ to face her.

But what did it turn? Shoulders? Arms? Legs? It had none of these things. It—Sophridel—was all masks.

They floated in the air, a body, a column of faces. Snarling beasts. Strange objects given eyes and the semblance of faces. Smiling and crying, blank-faced.

Masks. That was all it was. Ryoka felt something tingling on her face. She realized then, in an instant.

I’m wearing part of it. A mask, hundreds, thousands, all enchanted. She hadn’t given thought to how they had been made. Ryoka began to try to take it off. She could not. She looked at Sophridel. Then the second.

Two bright eyes gleamed at her. The second speaker, Silver Fish, knew her more than the curious first. The hunched, short, barely five foot six person was humanoid in vague ways. Still far better than her two companions. Yet her body had no skin. Her limbs looked grown, not like the fleshy digits and rather deliberate biology.

More than anything, though, she looked old. Shrunken. Ancient of days. Here had been vibrancy. Here had been life. It had faded away, and living wood had turned.

She was stone. Fossilized wood. The figure was, to Ryoka, like the forest in the lands of the fae. Like Nama, if lesser.

Earth and nature, no longer living, but still bound to the same element. Just changed. The figure regarded Ryoka with as much fascination, even more, then snapped.

“Gilaw! Do not harm. Not yet.”

“Cannot in this place. Sacrosanct. Disapproving.”

Sophridel added, a distinct tone of unhappy rebuke in its voice. Ryoka saw the third figure freeze in creeping up on them. She was something too. A seven-foot tall, armored woman with a shock of hair like a mane and dark skin.

Ryoka gave her a blank look. She wasn’t…uh…that unusual. Then Gilaw twisted her neck nearly ninety degrees around to stare at them.

It hurt her as much as them, clearly, and she clapped a hand to her neck and screeched. Ryoka backed up at the same time as Sammial.

Okay, she fit with the others.

There they stood, regarding each other. Intruders, the secret group within the Court of Masks. The founder itself, the being that created this space. Two wearing its masks. Ryoka, with eyes and understanding from the realm of the Fae.

Sammy. He stared at the huge feather on the ground.

“It’s huge. Is it a Griffin feather?”

He walked over and picked it up. Instantly, Gilaw looked offended. She grabbed the feather, and she and Sammial began to tug on it.

“I want it. It’s mine!”

Sammy shouted. To which Gilaw, the adult woman, said nothing, just glared. Somehow their strengths were equal in this place.

“Sammy.”

“That one does not see. [Lord]. Young.”

Sophridel commented to its companion. The stone tree-woman peered at Ryoka.

“Magic like mine. The furthest travellers. Is this Rhisveri’s guest?”

“Logic dictates it so. Disturbance. We have been found.”

“It knows Rhisveri already. Summon him. Gilaw! Leave it!”

Like a scolding mother, the tree-woman went to Gilaw and began scolding her. However, the armored woman refused to give up the feather for a good ten more seconds until she sulkily let go. Her gaze locked on Sammy, though, and she peered at him. Then she hurried over to Sophridel.

“Little boy. Hair so…stands so…eyes so…”

The masked…masks…informed her. Gilaw’s head turned and she peered at Sammial dangerously as he admired ‘his’ feather. Ryoka’s skin prickled. She was asking for a description.

She was going to remember that.

Ryoka could have stayed and tried to puzzle it out herself. She was closing in on the answer, the truth, but she didn’t have time.

She hadn’t expected to find this place, in truth. She had already set the entire Court of Masks abuzz, to the point where the creator, the Court itself, Sophridel, was staring at her disapprovingly.

“From every corner, a name. Sunburst. Arguments and discord. That one. That one. Come hither. Resolve.”

It was speaking to someone. Ryoka’s eyes flicked to the door they had come through. She sensed, even in this place, the wind blow slightly. Warning her.

Someone very unhappy was coming. That was enough. The tree woman touched Gilaw, and the strange woman started.

“Gilaw! Do you feel it?”

The foreign woman tilted her head, clapped a hand to her neck muscles, and nodded. Sophridel looked over.

“Fithea. What?”

“The wind. She walks with the wind. Windfriend of old!”

This was what it was. Ryoka Griffin realized, as the trouble she’d caused in this genteel forum finally caught up with her. A figure went tearing through the Court of Masks, ignoring the faces he could see behind. The ruler who didn’t bother to play the games.

Duke Rhisveri, the Wyrm. Just as planned, really. Aside from this. When you caused trouble, someone had to sort it out, even in this so-called impartial realm. He knew exactly where Ryoka was, perhaps aided by Sophridel, and stormed into the room. He beheld Ryoka and Sammial and stopped, seeing they’d ferreted out another secret.

The Wyrm was incandescent. However, even he stopped as Ryoka stepped back. Sunburst pointed a finger as all the pieces came into place.

“It’s not just you. It’s not just you. Immortals. Immortals and…”

That was obvious. But what were they? Her gaze swung back. Gilaw? No clue, but she was clearly wearing another mask on top of the one she already had. Transformed? The other two…Ryoka looked, and it came to her.

Sophridel. An…elemental. Yes, an elemental. But not of what you’d think. Not of fire, or ice. An ancient Elemental of Masks.

You could mistake Fithea for the same. Until you saw her. Wood turned to stone. A fossilized, ancient of nature. A stone…Dryad.

It burst out of Ryoka. So that was what Ailendamus was, at least in part. That was why here. That was why masks. Immortals. Perhaps the last of their kind.

“Sanctuary. Sanctuary!”

A sanctuary for the last. A kingdom protected by the immortals of old. More than Wyrm! Led by the Wyrm, but a collective.

The Minister of Decorum, Sophridel, turned, confused, to the Duke of Ailendamus. Fithea, the prickly Conservator of Forests, another high-ranking official, turned to the Great Knight Gilaw. That was what Sammy saw, even when they were marched out of the Court of Masks.

A tall, blank-faced half-Elf, Sophridel. An old Dwarf woman, scowling at Gilaw, a dark-skinned woman with a mane of hair punching her palm. Fithea grabbed Gilaw before she could knock Sammy’s lights out.

And the last, the angry man with the goatee that Sammy hated already. The great magician, brother of the [King]. Rhisveri.

He was screaming at Ryoka. Sammy put hands over his ears, and then remembered he had a feather. He clumsily put the quill into his belt so it trailed behind his head, like a crazy parasol. He could still hear, even blocking his ears, the roaring argument.

“You dare to upset my Court of Masks and trespass—I will have your fingernails plucked from your hands and fed to you!”

“Rhisveri. Rhisveri. Is this the Thief?”

Fithea interrupted. The angry Duke snapped at her.

“Yes! How did you let her find the inner place, Sophridel?”

The Elemental was hurt. Stately, the half-Elf drew himself up. Even now, Ryoka could see him and both of them knew it. After all—he was still his true self, just disguised.

“She sees. Impoliteness, Rhisveri Zessoprical, hurtful. Others should know.”

Others. Rhisveri’s head turned as Ryoka’s ears perked up. He snarled.

“This is my affair and I will deal with it.”

“It is not any longer. She walks with the wind. She is a friend of the furthest travellers!”

Fithea interrupted. The Dryad grabbed at Rhisveri’s arm. He went to shake her off—then caught himself and stopped. Almost gently, he prised her hand off his arm.

“I know that. Do you think I am a fool?”

Fithea and Sophridel looked at each other. Rhisveri snarled.

“Do not task me at this moment. That was what the Thief claimed. I also smelled…”

He gave Sammial a wary look. The boy was picking his nose.

“…I will tell you later. I thought the Thief was dangerous, but her claims were beyond outlandish. The furthest travellers…I was going to ask you, Fithea, about them.”

“Not do anything with her?”

The Dryad was appalled. Ryoka found it was time to break in. She bowed, to Sophridel and Fithea.

“My name is Ryoka Griffin. I am—”

“Shut up!”

Rhisveri blasted a [Silence] spell so hard into Ryoka that Sammial saw her fly backwards. He clenched his fists.

“How dare you! I’m going t—”

Rhisveri’s head swung around. Sammial stared at the livid face. He slowly backed away. He was learning. Arguably faster than Ryoka.

The Duke took a shuddering breath as Ryoka lay flat on her back. She slowly sat up as he snapped at his companions.

“I was content to wait. We are at war, and that little thing is leading us into conflict with the Five Families.”

“That was your fault. We advised you to—”

“Shut up. The Thief claimed protection from the furthest travellers and tried to invoke them, so I did not melt her on the spot. I was content to wait.”

“Until when? Dubious.”

“Until they arrived! With the winter! However, it seems she was not content to avoid my wrath. Five days and she puts the Court of Masks on its head!”

“Were you planning on keeping it from us until our next meeting? I wish to speak with…”

Ryoka Griffin got up. Her head was spinning, but the magical mute button didn’t keep her from hearing. So that was what Rhisveri had been planning. He…was going to be disappointed about the winter idea, but it made sense.

The Wyrm kept arguing with his companions, but it was clear who was in charge. Fithea stormed off to tell the ‘others’, with Gilaw hopping, literally hopping behind her, as Sophridel went back to sort out the Court of Masks. Rhisveri turned on Ryoka.

“Take that brat away.”

“Ryoka! Unhand me! That’s my feather. I found it! Ryoka!”

Sammial kicked as his pursuers finally caught up with him, but he was actually wise enough not to put up much of a fuss. Rhisveri was left with Ryoka outside the Court of Masks. He looked at her.

“I could kill you now for this, Thief.”

The Wind Runner moved her mouth and found she could speak.

“My name is Ryoka Griffin, Duke Rhisveri. I am under two protections, as you know. I want to explain my case for why I tried to steal from you. I want to negotiate for—”

His eyes began to bulge.

“For what? You? Negotiate? Let me make something clear. The only reason you are not dead or hanging in a torture chamber is because of your benefactors. Do you think you have room to negotiate?”

Ryoka hesitated.

“I don’t have time to waste. I want to negotiate, and you refused to see me, Duke Rhisveri. You know what was on me. Sikeri’val-Toreshio-Maresssui, remember? If you’d just listen.”

The Wyrm was looking about. He muttered, half to himself, half to Ryoka.

“Listen. This thing demands my attention when—listen? To you? Pay attention, mortal Thief. Because I will tell you this once: I will interrogate you as to the particulars of your ‘benefactor’, the furthest traveller’s connection, and that charming lady at my leisure. You do not make demands of me.”

He pointed at Ryoka, then advanced so he could begin aggressively poking her in the chest. Ryoka glared and tried to swat the finger down, but Rhisveri was strong.

“You. Have. No. Value! You are a glorified letter! A busybody socialite, like the countless flies demanding my attention! You represent and associate with greater powers. You yourself are worthless. When I wish to negotiate with a higher power, I will reluctantly do it through you. Why should I listen to a word you say?”

“Because the gods are coming back!”

Ryoka almost shouted it. Almost. But she didn’t, because she knew it had to be said.

Just not necessarily to Rhisveri. After all. Which side might he choose? What might he do if…?

One look at the way he stared at Sammial was proof enough he might land the wrong way. Even so, she was struck for a second, as he raged at her.

Wait a second. Is that right? Am I not the same person who went to the lands of the fae? Who knows Tyrion Veltras, Magnolia Reinhart, Teriarch, Lord of Flame? I am. But does that mean I’m essentially a glorified…social climber?

They have all the power. I do not. My power is derived from friendship.

Rhisveri was done screaming in her face. He stared at the Wind Runner, flecked by spittle, as some of the guards, including the Knights of the Thirsting Veil, and a curious [Princess], all stared at the target of the Duke’s pique. The Wind Runner stood there, looking stunned. Then she spoke.

“Dead gods. I’m a…a sycophant?”

She sounded so genuinely, horrifically appalled that Rhisveri’s enraged expression cleared up. He stared at Ryoka. Her look of self-actualizing disgust.

His eyes did that bulging thing again. His cheeks swelled. He tried to stop it. Then Rhisveri burst out.

“Hah!”

He laughed, for a second, as the unexpected humor came out. Then he glared at Ryoka. How dare you make me laugh?

A window opened. Ryoka Griffin felt an invisible hand seize her foot. She had a sudden premonition.

“Wait, waitwaitwait—”

He tossed her out the window.

——

That night, as the hubbub died down, Ryoka Griffin had cause to retract her instinctive conclusion to Rhisveri’s comments. Sammial was somewhere else, and she had been unable to see him, confined to her quarters, but she assumed he was well now that more people realized he was Sammial Veltras.

She had done some thinking. A step forwards in finding out the secret group in Ailendamus and realizing more of what this nation was. The [Knights] hadn’t beaten her with sticks for causing trouble, just marched her back to her room. Sammial had met her and she’d prevented him from dying from lack of oxygen.

All wins. She had even met the Duke again—but failed to get him to come to the negotiating table. That was because he was right.

Ryoka was a glorified socialite in a sense. She had very little actual power save for the people she rubbed shoulders with.

In the grand scheme of things. The Wind Runner reminded herself that she was Courier Ryoka Griffin. She had won the wind’s friendship and power. She had walked the lands of the fae. Her being able to navigate the Court of Masks proved that. She actually had a decent amount of wealth too. Not as many artifacts as established Couriers, but she was not worthless.

She just wasn’t able to move a Wyrm or negotiate on the level it took to make Rhisveri pay attention to her. She could not offer Teriarch much that he didn’t have. That was the same problem. Ryoka Griffin had moved up in the world, but she was now the literal messenger-girl in the game of kings. Or the letter itself, as the case might be.

Ryoka thought she could push Rhisveri based on promises, Sikeri, and so on, but he was right in assuming the odds of the fae coming to this world were remote. Even remoter than he thought, in truth.

Teriarch was also unavailable—as he was—to lean on. So Ryoka was left with Ryoka’s resources.

“And I don’t have enough.”

The Wind Runner scowled. As she lay in her comfy bed, she didn’t have the immediate answer out of the situation. Make friends with people like Baron Regalius, forge ties, albeit as a captive of Ailendamus.

As the Wind Runner lay there, her thread and mind kept snarling around Sikeri. That was what Ryoka couldn’t understand. If Rhisveri met her…she assumed it wasn’t a casual invitation extended. Why him? Were there no male Wyrms in the lands of the fae? What did Sikeri know?

——

What did Sikeri know? Well, it was also fair to ask what she didn’t know. What had she done?

The Wyrm trembled. She stood there, for…how long she couldn’t even tell. The Faerie King looked at her, then past her.

Then Oberon, King of the Fae, stopped. He held still, waiting. Everyone, visitors from far-off worlds, guests of the Realm of the Fae, the Winter Court and other fae, all held their breaths. Sikeri waited.

But nothing happened. He waited. The Faerie King waited and the moment was but a moment, but it lasted…how long? No one could say. He waited for the right point in time. Looked straight at Ryoka Griffin.

And spoke.

——

She was asleep when the voice called into her head, just like it did to so many who levelled. A voice in her mind. Only—a different one.

Distant, yes. Very distant. But far stronger.

Far louder.

“Ryoka Griffin.”

Her eyes opened in the middle of the night. Blearily, the Wind Runner looked around. But no one was in her room. Her eyes fluttered back closed, and she assumed it was like when you heard someone ring the doorbell but no one had. Phantom noise. It wasn’t a level up, anyways. She’d never hear that again. She began to drift off—

“Ryoka Griffin.”

This time there was no mistaking the voice. When it came the second time, it shook the entire room. Ryoka Griffin was out of bed and halfway under it by the time she came to her senses.

“Oh no. Oh fuck.”

She turned around. No, nononono…it had come for her at last. The consequences of being an idiot.

That voice. She knew that voice. She had heard it once before. It was him.

How? Hadn’t he said the gateway would be closed? Why?

Because she’d called his name. Three times. Oh dead and hopefully rotting gods which weren’t as bad as this! Ryoka raced around the room, then ran out of it, screaming inside her head. Something dragged at her.

The terrified wind, in the dark corridors. Ryoka stumbled past four figures and saw the [Knights] asleep at their posts. The wind was dragging at the Wind Runner and Ryoka ran.

I’m so dead. I’m so dead!

—Ryoka Griffin, 20??, died of never keeping her stupid mouth shut! Again!

She didn’t know where she was going. Only that she was summoned. And she had to attend. When the third time came, Ailendamus’ palace shook.

“RYOKA GRIFFIN.”

A Wyrm froze as he felt the entire palace move. He sensed the unfamiliar power, whispered ten thousand curses, and began preparing for what? War?

Fithea ran, screaming, through the hallways, searching for…she felt it too. But the target, the one who was dragged, running through the hallways where no mortal woke, not even the guards, was the Wind Runner.

She didn’t know which way she went. She was running down ancient corridors of stone, through older parts of the palace, founded at its inception two centuries ago, through parts leading to catacombs, storage rooms…where was she going? Why?

Something came to her, as, heart pounding out of her chest, she nearly collapsed. Ryoka Griffin heard a scream in her mind as thoughts finally caught up and collided in realization.

The fae came every year. Winter Sprites, they called them.

The gateway was old. Once, they came freely. Until tragedy.

This palace was built on a leyline. A—

Her head snapped up. She stared at something, buried at the bottom of Ailendamus’ palace. Forgotten by all.

A broken stone archway. A near-perfect circle, long-since broken, but still tracing the entryway. Writ with words so faded that they had lost all meaning. Covered in old lichen.

Ryoka’s breath caught in her chest. She stumbled towards the gateway, felt at the air.

There was nothing there. Just empty air. Yet she, for a second, touched the stone and saw them.

A bare sliver of an opening. So thin, perhaps even they couldn’t sense it. A risk, but one taken. Just a sliver, like a door ajar. So that you could press your eye to the crack and see…

The Court of the Fae stared at Ryoka. Sikeri stood before twin thrones. He looked at her and sat back.

Well. Ryoka Griffin froze. Those eyes caught her. Well now, you are here. All things are in place.

Let the deliberation of the fae begin.

——

From afar, they argued. She could see them, like a vision, that of someone from a mountain’s peak staring down below the layer of clouds to a tiny prairie below. That was how far it was, if you multiplied it a thousand times.

Even so, she vaguely caught the meaning. Not the words. Not more than the scene.

The Fae of the Winter Court, the great Wyrm, cowering before the ruler of this place. An audience of…visitors. Three Kings. Who smiled at her. Nama, waving.

A crack in the gate. Why? Just for her? No, Ryoka realized. Because she was needed. What was this? A trial?

Ivolethe was on one side, Melidore, the other. Fae were arguing their case before the Faerie King. It was as simple as the oldest arguments and trials in history.

One side was for, the other against. What…now, there was the key. Yet, as the Faerie King listened, it was clear something was off.

They weren’t arguing about what mattered. He was barely looking at Ivolethe and Melidore as some of the fae actually fought, with hands and claw and tooth or ringing swords, so furious was their debate.

But it wasn’t what was actually at stake. Two piercing eyes found Ryoka. Brown, like the world tree’s roots. Shifting to green, like the growth of every new life.

Oberon looked at her. What did he want? Then at the cowering Wyrm. There were clues here. The Wind Runner tried to piece them together.

She was no stranger to the rules of the fae, but she was still rather simple. Even Ivolethe admitted that. The Court of the Fae watched the young woman’s slack face trying to piece together what was expected. And because they were the Court of the Fae, they had no time for her meandering mind. They skipped ahead to the point where she got it in time, as casually as you changed postures.

“That one interfered! That one had no right! Because of a silly serpent, she throws fate into disarray. She meddles!”

A Fae of frost and winter snapped, pointing at a Wyrm, a guest of their realm. A member of the Summer Court, gleaming with life among somber cold, retorted.

“Meddles in prophecy! Hold your tongue, fool! That we should grant either thread of destiny a passing glance there is too much. I say it is not worth any cost! Any chance.”

The Faerie King heard both arguments and frowned at Sikeri. He did not speak. He did not need to, for he could think louder than either could scream.

That one had violated rule. Hospitality, the law set down as the guests attended. She had meddled.

Sikeri begged forgiveness. She would have thrown herself on the mercy of the court and probably squashed them, if the Winter Court had mercy to spare. They did not. They jeered and mocked her.

Yet again, that was not the issue. Or else…those eyes moved and the one called Ivolethe quailed. Others had interfered and broken law, twisted destiny just as strongly. So, he waited.

Waited, until at last, the Wind Runner spoke. And the audience realized she was not here to testify. She was not the accused. She was not the jury, either! Certainly not the judge or bailiff. Even Melidore and Ivolethe were surprised. They looked at Ryoka, and everyone realized.

She was the victim. The plaintiff.

Ryoka Griffin realized it too. She also knew, then, she had to advocate for herself. What did she say? She tried to lay down the facts.

“Milady Sikeri’val-Toreshio-Maresssui did interfere with me in no small way, your Majesty, Fae of the Winter Court. My fate may be tangled, it is true…”

The fae waited, impatiently, some shouting insults at her, others laughing at the confused mortal in her pajamas. Visitors from afar murmured.

“What is that?”

“Human. What world hails she from?”

“Why before him himself?”

“Is there anything to eat?”

Nama handed the last speaker a mushroom. The visitors from worlds apart watched yet one more.

“I…I don’t wish to press charges, your Majesty. Sikeri has caused me trouble, but I do not wish retribution. I am stuck where I am. Perhaps something has gone astray. It’s done, isn’t it? So…so…”

They waited, so impatiently, she felt it. Even the Faerie King looked as if he was about to roll his eyes. So, what? Ryoka Griffin tried to think. It was done. Even he couldn’t undo the past…probably. Punish Sikeri? And risk her wrath? It might even help, and the Wyrm was giving Ryoka the side-eye of legends. So what?

Then she had it at last. Oh. It was the nature of the day, and her realizations. Ryoka smiled broadly, with relief.

The Faerie King, Oberon, nodded. He was already smiling as she finally figured it out, and spoke it. Exactly what he wanted and waited for. He had heard her request and summoned Sikeri. He had called the Court of the Winter Fae. Just so she had all the pieces to make the request he knew she was going to make.

Fae logic. The Wind Runner, who danced on the kindness of immortals. The messenger girl with no real value of her own. She bowed before the Winter Fae, but there was a sparkle of daring in her eyes that made her friend clap her hands and laugh.

“This is all but one petty life, Fae of the Winter Court! It should not concern the Faerie King, or you at all! Fate? Mine is but one world, and a world some despise.”

Melidore glared at her. Even he nodded at that. Yet, the mortal girl swept them a bow.

“Even so, someone from the lands of the fae did interfere; what of it? The fair folk cheat and lie and do what they please. I expect no less from my great friend!”

A peal of frozen laughter. Ryoka concluded her argument as she looked at Sikeri, who didn’t understand, out of all of them now.

“So why deliberate? Why worry? Because…for every deed there are consequences. Every prank, the potential for retribution. Don’t worry about the consequence. Accept what happened. Still, I, Ryoka Griffin, humble mortal, was sent across a world—no, two worlds bearing a message. A message I had no idea I carried, but a letter still. From Sikeri’val-Toreshio-Maresssui to Rhisveri Zessoprical, from Wyrm to Wyrm. I may have little worth! But I am still a Runner. I am a Courier. And all deliveries require fair payment in kind. I demand Sikeri pay me the cost of running a message across the lands of the fae and from world to world.”

“What!?”

The grovelling Wyrm’s head rose. The Court of the Fae stopped. Nama chewed on a mushroom.

Oberon smiled. At last, the pieces were in place. The request had been made. It took her a while to get there.

Now, all the fae heard it. There was a breathless moment of silence. Then a whoop of laughter. A cackling guffaw from the friend of the plaintiff. Then, the fae laughed, and laughed loud. The Wyrm protested. She shrieked. She made her case, and Ryoka Griffin watched from a world apart as the court deliberated.

Yet the Winter Fae laughed, with that icy edge of cruelty and mirth. Oh, they rather liked that idea. Sikeri was screaming, an approximation of ‘over my dead body’, and the trial was in chaos.

Then. He rose. The Faerie King stood, and all was still again.

For a lesser trial, it might not have mattered. But the problem was the gate. Even to open it a sliver, he was here. Oberon looked at Ryoka Griffin. That was why Melidore and his folk protested, Ivolethe argued for.

What was the worst that could happen?

He knew. Surely, he, of them all, knew more than anyone else what could happen. Even so. The Faerie King reached out, a short distance, just plucking with his fingers.

A span unimaginable, in a fraction of a second. He pressed his fingers against the closed gate, against the crack in reality—and pulled.

——

They felt it. Six of them, two following the lost one warily through the ocean, two more playing games with their chosen, one more the ruler of this place, fighting with the angry dead—all of them felt it.

Their heads turned. Towards Terandria.

“What? Now? Why? They closed it!”

The Huntress was wary. The Dancing man warier still.

“Do they mean to make war? It would be the height of folly.”

“Yet they might triumph. Would they pay the cost, though?”

The two were all but ready to flee. Even the ghosts felt it, and flocked around in confusion. A Void Dragon seized the chance and took wing, flying across the ocean with the recent dead, representatives.

The six hesitated. A crack was danger, but for both sides. Why? They sensed him staring at them with malevolence. The Bearded Leader raged.

“What are you doing to our world? How dare you?”

Oberon smiled. Mockingly. Through just a tiny crack in a door.

Why? To mock them. Because it mattered.

There were many reasons. For fate. For chance.

But most of all…Ryoka Griffin stared as the broken gateway moved. The world twisted. for a second, they locked gazes and she felt an understanding shoot through her. A Dryad wept, falling, crying out. She heard countless voices calling her name.

“Cousin!”

Why? The Faerie King pushed something through, dropping them at Ryoka’s feet.

Because it was fair. Because there were rules. And he of all the fae—kept his word. He had always kept his word. No matter what it cost.

The gate slammed shut. Ryoka Griffin was alone once more. The palace rocked, and mortals began to wake. She saw the gateway crumble, another link broken.

The Wind Runner resolved to never, ever, say his name again. Not like that. Not three times. Unless she had to, of course.

What had he left her? What had Sikeri forfeited? Ob—he had paid it in stead of the Wyrm, and no doubt she’d have to pay the cost. Ryoka did not envy Sikeri.

He’d paid it? Suddenly, her breath caught. She bent down. It was dark. She couldn’t see what it was, at first, so she whispered, searching for the wand she’d been given to find the bathroom at night.

“[Light].”

The magic of this place shone down. She found what the Faerie King had left her, a pile of it. It was…weathered stone.

Little stones. Native to the strata of whatever land they came from. Rocks, not very big; none even half the size of her hand. Some very small. Some were granite. Others basic stone. Sandstone?

They had…holes in them. Holes, not always in the exact center. In older mythologies, people liked to say they were magic stones. River stones that had a gap just like…

Stones. Ryoka saw dozens rolling about. Not magical. Stone.

Now, a lesser Ryoka would have begun screaming hysterically about the world’s most valuable private rock collection. She would have been stupid, for a while at least.

The Wind Runner just looked down at the stones. Then, abruptly, turned the [Light] spell off. In the darkness? She took another glance downwards at the stones in her hand. From…a different point of view.

Then she saw. Saw how each one was different, each bit of stone written, marked with a magic that had no box and never would.

Written with words. She couldn’t even read them. She didn’t know the language. Yet Ryoka held up one and felt the inner heat. She knew it, because it was what the word meant.

Fire.

Each stone written differently. Each one, a coin. Currency. His people’s currency. Ryoka looked down at the money.

Obol of the Faerie King. She felt at her pockets for a bit of string. After all—she was fairly certain she was rich. And she was definitely going to flaunt it.

——

So then, that was how the Wind Runner’s name reached Itorin II again. He was already intending on talking with the young Lord of House Veltras, but both his son and daughter brought up her name.

So did some of the ministers. Something about the Court of Masks? The royal family heard her name more than once that day.

A [Princess] of Ailendamus and a little [Prince] both crowded towards the window, fascinated. Their father held them back, eying the figure standing there, fists clenched, warily.

Duke Rhisveri. He stood there, staring out the window like thunder, and no one, not even the royal family, disturbed him. Yet he was not the only person.

Baron Regalius, Fithea, Conservator of Forests, a liaison to half-Elves, and far more. They looked at her by morning.

The Wind Runner of Reizmelt, Courier, prisoner of Ailendamus, standing in the courtyard. Letting a little boy sail around to peals of laughter. Sammial Veltras.

Children, her adoring fans, stared as the wind blew harder. Ryoka Griffin stood there, as the wind whipped around Ailendamus’ palace. She was smiling.

No one pay any attention to me. I’m just doing my own thing. Nothing to see here.

She winked at Sammial as her hands moved. Juggling coins as she faced the palace. Currency you had no name for. Ryoka Griffin, approximate wealth: richer than a certain Wyrm.

Faefriend. Willing to make a trade.

Depending on what you had to offer.

Interlude – Songs and Stories

He knew all the stories—or enough of them—and the history, from both worlds. Even so, the Goblins seemed so…different from any generic monster in a video game to Kevin that he never thought of them like that.

They didn’t look like dirty, horrific evil placeholders in the army for the heroes to kill by the thousand. Oh, yes, they had vaguely shark-like features, lots of pointed teeth, red eyes, and green skin.

But they never acted like monsters. In fact, Kevin vaguely suspected that some had better hygiene than he had ever practiced in his life, like Calescent. Normal Goblins were short, but not unintelligent. When one looked at you, it was with more insight than, say, a little kid.

Sometimes, they were so weary and old that a two-year old made Kevin feel like he’d seen and done nothing. Mainly, though, they could be, like people, good and bad. Glorious and mundane.

Numbtongue. Now, Numbtongue was objectively handsome. Some Goblins—more than Humans—were naturally bald, and that went across genders. Numbtongue had hair, the kind of physique only an exercise-freak like a Redfang got, and he looked good, especially since Lyonette gave him clothing and he wore it.

Objectively. Hot. Kevin wasn’t an expert in male beauty, but he had a private dream he’d never told the [Bard]. And that was someday, somehow, to find a way back home. To San Diego, California, and take the Hobgoblin bar hopping for a night and just…see what happened. What would happen if Humans with no context for Goblins just saw Numbtongue rock in, and begin strumming on his guitar?

It might have been chance, a habit from growing up and avoiding danger or battle training, or innate style, but the Hobgoblin liked to choose the shady corner of the room. You’d hear music, and see him there, eyes glowing crimson in the darkness, shoulders and claws illuminated by sparks of electricity as he played on the guitar. Style. Kevin wished he had a look like that.

It wasn’t a grand dream, or even a noble one. It was a quintessentially ‘Kevin’ dream, though. Life should be like that. Not full of fire and glory—not all the time. Rarely. Once or twice in a lifetime was enough for him.

Just full of mundane highs and lows. He couldn’t be an adventurer. He’d tried. Right up until he, Joseph, Rose, and all of the others, equipped with relatively good gear—enchanted even—had gone on their first adventure, financed by Magnolia Reinhart.

Corusdeer skins were worth money. So were the horns. Heck, you could eat Corusdeer. But somehow, Kevin had completely forgotten that you had to skin animals to get…skin.

They’d given up and botched the job. Then they fought Eater Goats…and that was enough. Enough. As Magnolia Reinhart had probably intended, it brought home everything to the Earthers. We can die. And stabbing a screaming, writhing, biting Eater Goat until it stopped moving, even when he tore half of its jaw off and it kept trying to bite the spear impaling it through the head?

Kevin wondered how Erin had stood it. The Goblins told him she had fought in battles and killed people. To hear them talk about her, she was a one-woman army who could throw a knife through your skull, or melt you with a jar of acid.

The Destroyer. An old nickname. Kevin had asked why, and they, the original Goblins of the Flooded Waters tribe, including the Chieftain of Goblinhome herself, had told him about the time Erin Solstice killed her first thing in this world. A Hobgoblin Chieftain, with a pot of boiling oil.

That was the difference. Kevin knew it well. He knew it with Erin—yet he had forgotten that the same applied to Goblins.

They were so chill that until they went to war, he thought they were quite similar. Redscar, trying to ride a skateboard, slamming into half the rocks down the slope until he gave up and declared it a stupid device. Calescent, pestering him to talk about the Carolina Reaper, the hottest pepper in the world. Chasing after Poisonbite who’d stolen his Android and didn’t want to give it back…

Little Goblins obsessively crowded around, watching a video or listening to a song. And then? Finally noticing the Wyvern flights out, wondering where all the Ogres were. Rags coming over and…

Well.

——

Rags had the Healer of Tenbault. That was what Kevin heard from the outpost they’d established in the foothills. He had only their word because the city of Tenbault was a storm of settling dust, flashes of light—obscured in the distance.

The [Shaman], Taganchiel, was first to arrive. Goblins posted sentry in the narrow pass leading up, or standing watch from the piled boulders and dirt looked up, but they didn’t swing their bows or crossbows up at the Wyvern flying low.

The skies were safe from threats. The ground? Not so much.

Taganchiel shot down, with a chatter in the Goblin’s tongue Kevin missed. The lone Human in the camp hovered as a handful of Goblins raced around, the rest holding their positions. They were administering a stamina and healing potion to the snapping Wyvern, coaxing it back towards Tenbault.

“Tagan, what’s happening? Did Rags get her?”

“Yes! Humans too fast! Chieftain pursued! Gave orders. We go! Go!”

The [Shaman] snapped. Kevin looked up as Taganchiel began casting more magic; two Hobs with shields and spears grunted as they grew two feet in height. The Wyvern flew back, and Kevin looked out and saw the Goblins fleeing.

The Humans were already coming after them. But Rags had planned out the retreat almost as much as the attack. The Wyverns dove, loading Goblins not on horse or wolf-back up, flying, ferrying them to the outpost. The rest proceeded on their mounts, and the Ogres ran, as fast as they could, lugging their steel and iron armor and weapons.

Heading for the outpost. From there, they loaded the Wyverns a second time and sent them flying back towards the High Passes.

Not far. They leap-frogged to the outpost, and from there, into hiding. It was too far to fly into the true High Passes, but there were caves, and increasingly inhospitable and remote ground. All the Goblins had to do was get ahead of the Humans and lose them. Then smaller bands could lay low until they got home. Or were picked up.

…However. The plan was astray already. Rags didn’t return. Nor did a quarter of the Goblin force. And the ones who did…

Redfangs rode into camp and shook their heads as Taganchiel shouted at them. Poisonbite, who’d been in the fighting, was similarly distressed. She looked up as the [Shaman] addressed the dirt-covered, bloodied fighters who’d been in the thick of it.

“Where is Chieftain Rags? Where is Redscar?”

The leader of the Redfangs wasn’t here either, or Thunderfur. Kevin saw Poisonbite dig at one ear. He saw, with a shock, a bit of dried red running from her pointed ears.

“What? What?”

Taganchiel shouted right in Poisonbite’s ear, but the Goblin was deaf. Crowdcaller Merdon. Many of the Redfangs were deaf, despite their precautions. Whether it was temporary or not—it had made the retreat bloodier. They hadn’t been able to hear their comrades, and some had failed to miss the maneuvers or gotten lost in the dust storm.

The rest? A Redfang slung herself out of the saddle, and finally roared an answer.

“Redscar with Chieftain! Fighting! Followed! Cut north.”

“North? Why?”

“Followed. Humans’ fliers. We go!”

Without further guidance, Taganchiel led the retreat as Poisonbite was disabled, and the other leadership, Badarrow, Snapjaw, Calescent, Redscar, were all occupied. He knew what to do. Wyverns flew off, but they had a far longer flight to the secondary dispersal points.

Meanwhile, the Goblins held the hill they’d set up in and waited, tending to their wounds. They knew the Humans would come after them.

So Kevin got to see Goblins make war. From a distance. He sat in their command outpost, nervously holding onto the self-defence wand. Watching as Taganchiel grimly cast spell after spell.

Even they hadn’t predicted how furiously the Humans would come after them. The first group was hot on the heels of the Wyverns and riders, though this outpost was nearly fourteen miles south of Tenbault. Kevin waited, and waited—then there was violence and death. Waiting as they regrouped, rapid loading of Goblins onto the Wyverns’ backs.

Fiercer fighting as the Goblins’ numbers dwindled and the Humans’ grew. Yet, even then…

——

They finally reached the first line of Goblins. Kevin saw the infantry, the ‘foot’, charging up the slope. Six sallies of [Riders] had been broken, even with [Mages] in tow. It had been a bloodbath the last two times, but whoever was leading them hadn’t had an organized force, just the fastest groups, and had been clearly incredulous that they were being beaten back by Goblins.

They had shields, which protected them from the slings and casual arrows loosed by non-[Archer] classes. However—

The Thunderbow fired with a sound exactly like its name. Kevin saw a Hob, calmly standing behind the turret, aim and loose a gigantic bolt through two Humans charging with howls in the first rank. Another aimed her oversized crossbow, training it on a [Mage].

A bolt of lightning blinded Kevin. When he could see again, the Goblin was gone. One of her companions blinked at the charred body, then grabbed the Thunderbow, and with a roar, shifted the aim and took down the [Mage].

The second, a Redfang, didn’t reload the damaged Thunderbow. He had so many stripes of red warpaint he was practically covered in the stuff. One for each fallen comrade, or so Kevin had been told.

He came down the slope, into the Humans skirmishing with the line of Goblin pikes. An axe in each hand; the Humans looked up as the howling Redfang cut through them. They were already breaking; his charge put them to flight.

“Come back! Ecraw!”

Taganchiel howled. The Redfang lit up with a faint, glowing, misty aura that saved him from the first two arrows that shot towards him; they glanced off like they’d hit rubber, not flesh.

However, Ecraw kept going, cutting down fleeing Humans, charging towards the army exchanging bolts with the Goblins in their superior cover. He was headed straight for an officer. He went through a [Footsoldier], five of the militia, even what might have been an [Armswoman] or…

Kevin looked away as the Redfang fell. Taganchiel stared down as the Humans tried to regroup. He hissed.

“Too many Humans. Now. Now, now!”

The Wyverns had returned. Instead of flying back, though, two took off and strafed the clustered Humans below. They aimed up and one went down, screaming. But the other dropped a payload over the enemy and the screaming—

“What was that?”

It looked like…mist to Kevin. A spray of liquid? He’d heard of Rags’ dust-cloud tactic, and the Wyverns had dropped rocks too via Chests of Holding. But that? The [Shaman] bared his teeth.

“Acid. Too much water. Only burns.”

It ‘only’ burned? Kevin blanched. He saw the Humans falling back, but they stopped long enough to end the Wyvern’s screaming.

“Humans running!”

No one cheered. The latest force was pulling back, but Poisonbite, whose hearing was partially restored from healing potions literally poured down her ears, snarled. Twice, her commando-Goblins had gone down to stab Humans, vanishing and reappearing, and Goblins had died as much as Humans.

“Taganchiel! Break! Get Goblins going!”

They had a reprieve to load the Wyverns. However—the [Shaman] took one look at the loss of a Wyvern—already down since Rags had taken two with her—and at the Humans already trying to regroup. He came to the same conclusion as Kevin had.

“Can’t get all Goblins on Wyverns. Have to run.”

“Run? You want run-run-stab-in-back death? Humans have horses!”

Poisonbite scoffed. The [Shaman] gave her a steady glare.

“Have to run. Scatter Humans—we go. Redfangs!”

The Goblins’ finest looked up from where they were tending to their Carn Wolves and horses. Taganchiel gave them a long look.

“Buy time.”

They grinned, teeth and eyes flashing. Kevin just looked at them. How could they grin and laugh?

——

The attackers weren’t as hotly after the Goblins here as Rags, but since they could catch these Goblins…they were arriving in more numbers. The Goblins had to scatter them first, though, so the disordered mob retreating, tending to the acid burns, looked up and saw four Wyverns, the only four left to Taganchiel’s force, strafing over them.

The memory of the acid and dust cloud attacks sent the Humans fleeing in a disorganized mass. The Wyverns pursued, screaming. By the time the Humans realized the Wyverns had no more cargo to jettison, they were already banking. They landed on the hill, loaded the last Goblins they could carry, and took off, overburdened, to the High Passes.

The rest of the Goblins and lone Human, the rear-guard, fled on every mount they had available, many running on foot. They might have been pursued, but there were still Goblins on the hill.

Forty Redfangs stood on the hill, banging swords on shields, hooting, loosing the Thunderbows down at the Humans. They dared the Humans to come and take it, aiming at the riders, if not their mounts.

So they did. The Redfangs collapsed the dirt walls of the pass, fought with the Thunderbows as the Humans came up, and made them work for every step. Then they set fire to the Thunderbows, broke them beyond repair, and fled on their mounts’ backs.

They held the enemy for nearly fifty minutes. Kevin had no idea how they did it. What he did know was this: when they caught up to the group running for the High Passes, there were only six left.

It had been one of the more successful battles as Goblins counted it. Not all of them had died. In fact, less than a hundred had. The slaughter at their outpost had been one-sided. Humans had run into waves of crossbow bolts until they stopped. Only at the end had it gotten bloody, along with casualties from fighting adventurers in the city.

However, a hundred Goblins had died. Kevin had even known some of them, briefly. Still, they had died and still they had followed Rags for this risky plan. They had picked their battles, and there was no chance of all of their tribe being wiped out like at the Floodplains.

Even so. Kevin rode with Poisonbite behind him. The Goblin was so tired she’d tied a rope around her and Kevin, then either passed out or simply let the rope support her.

“Shaman. Where we going?”

“After others. Where Ogres? On foot? Find them! We run!”

Taganchiel snapped, looking back over his shoulder. They were being followed, despite the Redfangs’ sacrifice. Already, they were spotting Humans on an intercept course from the east…Kevin wondered if they’d make it to the High Passes.

They found the Ogres, jogging at a good clip, but not towards their next rendezvous spot. Some of their Goblin companions were with them. One leaned out of her saddle and snapped at Taganchiel.

“Humans.”

She pointed the direction they had to go. Taganchiel’s eyes roamed backwards, then to the High Passes, then the other ascending foothills and parts of the great mountain range dividing Izril in half. He pointed, and without a word everyone broke right, racing in the only direction they could go. He looked at Kevin once, and the young man wondered what he’d say.

The Goblin only shrugged. Rags had the Healer. Hopefully she’d make it back. If they lived, they lived. If not?

Well. Poisonbite roused long enough to poke Kevin hard in the side.

“Why gloomy? You won’t die. Heh.”

All of the Goblins found that insanely hilarious.

——

The thing about stories was that you told the same ones time and time again. Just in different ways. Sometimes, they weren’t stories you told; they just happened to you.

Loss, triumph, danger…and the thing about such stories, if there was an upside?

You didn’t have to make the same mistakes. You didn’t have to tell your part the same way twice.

It was rare that he took notice of the weather. Yet, even in his busy day—and every day was busy for King Itorin II—he noticed how blustery it was. He remarked on it over breakfast with his family.

Immediate family, that was, and the ones in the capital. Itorin II was, in the way of many Terandrian monarchs, in the habit of spreading his bloodline around. So while he wasn’t as prodigious as Calanfer’s royal family, which he was at war with, he had five offspring.

Two daughters, three sons. A good mix age and gender-wise. You could make do—again, like Calanfer—with more of one than the other, but this was almost perfect. Sometimes…sometimes Itorin wondered if that too had been arranged.

He didn’t like to think of that. Still, the [King] was a rather indulgent patriarch in private, and of the family in the capital, he often breakfasted with his youngest daughter and son, or elder daughter if she could ‘spare the time’ from Ailendamus’ magical academy. For his two elder sons? If one was returned from his command in safety, but at the front, they would make small festivities of it. The other was in training. With the half-Elves.

Again, his two youngest were easiest as breakfasting companions. They loved to talk about tutoring, what they saw on the scrying orb they were glued to, songs from the Songstress, the Singer, questions about some part of ruling Ailendamus they found fascinating, badgering his wife, Oiena, to buy them a trinket while knowing he might indulge them…

But today they were unusually eager to finish breakfast. Itorin II, somewhat content to let silence reign given all the people who’d speak to him shortly, kept glancing out the window. It was, naturally, spelled, but he couldn’t miss the leaves and even branches and dust positively whirling about the castle.

“My. What a windy day. Did a [Weather Mage] perhaps commit an error?”

That idle question garnered such looks of patented surprise and even scorn from his son and daughter that Itorin Zessoprical II was quite taken aback. His daughter, the youngest, but still already nine—nine, how time flew—Oesca, informed her father patiently.

“It’s the Wind Runner, Father. May we be excused? We want to fly.”

The King of Ailendamus, great superpower in the world, rising star to the faded kingdom of old, King Itorin II, Heir to the Lance-Arrows of Ailendamus, Keeper of…etcetera etcetera, gave his daughter a blank look.

“Do what now?”

They had to explain, and assure him that no, no one had been taking artifacts out of the vaults. Especially given what their Uncle would think of that. The name also made Itorin recall something.

Wasn’t that…the prisoner? The one who’d resulted in the costly death of one of the Great Knights, and that operation in Izril that might lead to one of the Five Families’ wrath? The one that had obsessed Rhisveri so?

When Itorin finally came to the window, he saw her. Just like yesterday, when Rhisveri had thrown a huge tantrum for reasons beyond him. He locked eyes with the Wind Runner of Reizmelt, the Courier from the scrying orb.

Ryoka Griffin.

She was outside the castle, summoning the wind to blow mightily. Whirling around this part of Ailendamus in such ferocity…

No, wild grace. Mighty gusts of wind, yes, but only terrifying in a way that exhilarated, as you felt when you beheld a mighty storm without rain, whipping trees and grass around. When you realized how mighty nature was.

The air whipped at her dark hair. Her silk guest clothing was light purple running to green jade, and it blew in a way about her naturally as the wind snatched at it that some movie directors paid lots of money to emulate.

Her eyes were open wide, and she had a strange smile on her lips. Patently mysterious. As if this wasn’t just weather magic, but something else. Oh yes, and one more thing.

Itorin II could see her quite well because she stood, arms outstretched, facing towards him. All fine, all understandable, but he was in Ailendamus’ palace. It didn’t exactly have a 360-degree view all around. In fact, the royal chambers were quite high up.

Thusly, the Wind Runner was standing on top of a tower. Right on the edge, in fact, as the wind blew around her. Facing the royal chambers.

Oesca and Ivenius pointed at Ryoka, the older [Prince] bouncing on his feet like he was as young as his sister was and not a [Squire] in training.

Itorin vaguely wondered if he should call the guard. What was she doing up there? How did she know where the royal chambers were?

“Is that Duke Rhisveri’s…guest?”

Oiena sounded horrified, as a former [Princess] of Taimaguros might. Itorin II didn’t immediately respond. Ryoka Griffin smiled at him, with that same enigmatic look. Then she bowed.

Only then did Itorin realize that a pair of armored figures wearing the colors of the Order of the Thirsting Veil were doggedly trying to climb up the tall tower towards her. More were gathered below, but the Wind Runner didn’t appear concerned as one finally reached the lip of the tower and hauled herself up. She just smiled, lifted something up, and jumped.

Oiena gasped and Itorin went to shield his son and daughters’ eyes before they saw the splat. And he knew from experience it wasn’t a splat. It was…something you never forgot.

Yet her limp body did not bounce from the roof and land terribly still far below. Rather, the Wind Runner leapt off the tower as the [Knight] reached for her…and flew.

For a tenuous second, her bare feet began to descend. Then her momentum shifted. She flew up as the wind blew in a fierce updraft. Up. Itorin’s mouth opened. He had seen [Mages] fly. He had used flying artifacts himself—who didn’t, when they had the chance?

But this?

“She’s flying! I told you, Father! Look, look!”

Oesca danced, pointing with simple delight. The Wind Runner held onto something that ballooned out above her. Itorin II recognized it. It was not the strange, triangular contraption she’d used to fly in her dramatic run, or even her Windsuit; he supposed those things had been taken away from her, if he even knew they existed.

No, this was a simple parachute. A…bedsheet.

Silk. Strained as it inflated perfectly in the wind. Ryoka Griffin soared past the [Knight] who made a grab for her and nearly fell off the tower. She floated down and away as the King of Ailendamus watched.

Pay no attention to the barefoot runner with the bedsheet.

——

Of course, she got in trouble. No less than the captain of the guard was ready to slap her in irons and beat her for daring to interrupt the royal family. To which the Wind Runner vouchsafed one thing that kept her alive before the [Prince] and [Princess] came running to demand flying lessons.

“Duke Rhisveri hasn’t prohibited me from using my powers.”

The [Royal Captain] hesitated. He stared at the angry Thirsting Veil [Knights], at Ryoka, and at the band on her wrist supposed to lock down her magical powers.

Which it did. All her amazing magical powers like casting uh, [Flashlight]. Ryoka Griffin knew that he knew what it was. She gave him a big, unhelpful smile.

“Take it up with Duke Rhisveri.”

She saw how his eyes flickered at that. Even if they didn’t know he was the true power, the Duke was still the Duke, and he had a reputation. Ryoka was still ready for some impositions, but then came a striding figure.

“Ryoka Griffin. We must speak, if the winds say it so. By earth and sea, by land and tree, will you speak with me?”

The Wind Runner turned. To her eyes, a limping…woman made out of branches turned to stone came her way, her bark fossilized with time, damaged with battles or trials long gone. A mask hung around her neck, a tiny version of the one in the Court of Masks, but one shaped with exquisite care, more than those there.

It was a perfect replica of what everyone saw, and Ryoka did after she adjusted her perspective. A short—but not too short—Dwarf woman, almost as old, hair gone white rather than grey.

The [Captain of the Guard] instantly turned and bowed.

“Lady Fithea! Forgive the interruption. We were just attending to a matter of royal security. We did not intend to disrupt the gardens. Rather, the culprit…”

Instantly, Ryoka noticed that the [Guards] hurried off the grass they’d been standing on. They looked somewhat apprehensively at the woman they knew as the Conservator of Forests, a high-ranking position in Ailendamus.

Fithea gave the man a blank look. Her voice was no different than it had been in the Court of Masks. Dry, cracked, but with a spark of life.

“You are pardoned. I must speak to Ryoka Griffin. Privately.”

“Yes, Lady Fithea, but—”

The Dwarf woman stared at the [Royal Captain]. He looked ready to insist, but then came two screaming figures.

“Wind Runner! Wind Runner! We want to fly!”

The [Prince] and [Princess], both with their friends, and followed more timidly by a gaggle of Ryoka’s biggest fans. The [Royal Captain] tried to block the [Princess] from this miscreant. Upon which point she grew vexed at him.

Ryoka felt bad for the man. But she wasn’t done. So she winked, checked to see if she still had a certain monarch’s attention. She thought she did, although his face wasn’t in the royal quarters.

“I can see I’m disturbing the peace. And the grass. So I’ll move away. Lady Fithea, I would be delighted to speak to you. Maybe in an hour? I’ll just step over here…”

So saying, and before they could grab her, the wind blew up her sailcloth again and she glided over the heads of the guards, and awed children. Like a herd of cattle following the parasailer, they raced after her as she flew away.

All I need now is some candy. Actually—isn’t that an activity back home? Someone flies around and scatters candy for kids? And here I thought I was the first person to channel Mary Poppins.

Ryoka Griffin landed. She turned, and her fans swept around her, begging to use the bedsheets. For a second, the Wind Runner remembered kids doing this for the first time. She looked towards the palace, where a [King] no less had come out to talk with the royal guard. She looked at the bangle on her arm, imprisoning her.

I have done this before. Not in the same way. Not exactly like this. But it was familiar. This time…Ryoka Griffin bent down.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was in the presence of royalty. Your Majesty, Princess Oesca, I think? And Prince Ivenius? Good morning to you! I hope I didn’t disturb you?”

The Courier sketched a bow. The [Princess] drew up short and everyone else drew back as they realized they had crowded in front of her in their excitement. Rank still existed in Ailendamus. The [Prince] caught himself and the boy, roughly Hethon’s age, maybe a bit younger, sketched a guilty bow.

“Courier Griffin.”

“I…greet you, Courier Griffin. I am Princess Oesca. But I hope you will not wait on my title.”

Oesca sounded unhappy. As a child might, when reminded of her rank as an impediment to fun. Oesca and Ivenius, named after their parents. Naming traditions. Ryoka had researched all this. She smiled.

“Not at all. If I may, I could call you…Oesca? I’m the Wind Runner of Reizmelt. I think you’ve heard of me?”

“You can make people fly. Could I…fly?”

The girl asked eagerly. Ryoka saw a woman sprinting at her, faster than the worried [Knights].

Holy crap, that’s one angry [Nursemaid].

Well, in for a pinch of pain, in for a wagonload. That was the Ryoka way. And if she wanted to make an impact…she hadn’t made one yet. So she winked at Oesca.

“I can indeed, Oesca. You could even fly around like I did. Although I don’t know if your guardians would let you go so high.”

Oesca’s lips twisted unhappily. As if Ryoka was going to let her soar hundreds of feet in the air holding a bedsheet, friendly wind or not.

“They wouldn’t, I fear. And I should hate for you to get in trouble, Miss Griffin. Did that young man find you yesterday? I directed him towards you, but I heard little of his fate.”

Sammial? Ryoka blinked.

“He did indeed. Thank you for that. I should thank you, Princess Oesca! As I was saying. If it was just you, I’m afraid I can’t let you fly alone that high. Everyone can certainly sail around on the ground. But if it’s not just you. Well. Would you like to go for a ride?”

She held out a hand, and smiled, a twinkle in her eye. The twinkle of little girls who broke laws and rebelled. She still had a bit. She wasn’t sure…but then Oesca glanced over her shoulder.

“Your Highness! [Protect the Innocent]! [Protect the Innocent]! Step away from that—your Highness!”

The [Carer] racing towards Ryoka was clearly trying to use a Skill and failing. Oesca stared at her, the adults, and then at Ryoka. She took Ryoka’s hand, and gasped as Ryoka put a hand under her shoulder.

“Hold tight. And no one else beg me for this later. It’s special. Get your parents’ permission.”

She winked at Ivenius. Then Ryoka gripped Oesca tightly with one arm, and lifted the bedsheet parachute with the other. The wind dragged them up as the [Carer] leapt. She had a good pounce. But even so, she missed and dove head-first into one of the [Prince]’s buddies as Ryoka and Oesca shot up into the air.

The [Princess]’ scream made her father and the people on the ground panic like hell. But it was only of surprise for the first, dizzying second of ascent. Then she screamed and laughed—in delight. Ryoka Griffin held on hard, wishing she’d practiced this. But the loop of cloth on her hand meant she wasn’t one grip away from dropping both of them. She kept tight hold of Oesca.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, don’t drop her. Next time I need to make a harness or an easier way to hold onto them!

However, the Princess of Ailendamus knew none of this. She waved with both arms in an astonishing display of trust at the people below, the envious children, as she flew around the palace, and awed people looked up. Ryoka saw a snappily dressed man tilt his head so far back he nearly fell backwards. She nodded at Baron Regalius.

He wasn’t the only person who saw Ryoka that day. A better question was who didn’t see her. While children were first to know, it was hard to miss a flying Courier. The Wind Runner was in Ailendamus. And she was seen, skipping across the ground with the [Princess] of Ailendamus no less, racing across the gardens, as the wind blew strongly. Laughing with the delighted girl in tow.

…Right up until the Great Knight, Gilaw, caught up to her, and with an amazing flying drop-kick, literally kicked Ryoka Griffin out of the air before catching the [Princess] in her arms.

No one said you didn’t pay the price for troublemaking.

——

Ryoka Griffin actually missed a lot of the punishment and haranguing. Mostly because King Itorin II, the furious [Caretakers], Royal Captain, and all the others, even Rhisveri, took one look at her curled up on the ground as Oesca berated Gilaw, and felt bad for her.

It was an amazing flying kick. Ryoka had to hand it to Gilaw—or she would if she could move. The ‘Great Knight’, who Ryoka deeply suspected to be some kind of avian immortal, had gotten nearly fifteen feet of air.

And she’d still managed to not only catch Oesca, but hit Ryoka so hard that she broke two ribs and ruptured her stomach.

Punishment had been administered, so Ryoka actually left the [Healer]’s without any more flying done two hours later. Ribs were bound with a poultice-infused gauze, and they’d actually spot-applied potion to her stomach. Ryoka was just grateful she had no appendix anymore or Gilaw might have popped it.

“Miss Griffin, by order of the throne, you are to refrain from laying hands on the royal family without express permission and supervision. You will also confine your…mobility…to the royal grounds and not the palace itself.”

One of the [Knights], Dame Chorisa, informed Ryoka with a blank face. Ryoka, wincing, put her hand over her ribs.

“Duly noted. Do they want me? The royal family, that is.”

“They are at their lessons.”

“Good, good. I don’t think the wind’s particularly nice right now. Was that…Great Knight Gilaw who hit me?”

“Lightly, yes, Courier Griffin. She was defending the royal family.”

“Lightly?”

The Thirsting Veil Knights gave her bright smiles behind their visors, Ryoka was sure, that mixed schadenfreude with…Ryoka suspected…a bit of familiarity.

The Wind Runner began walking down the corridor, now perceiving a certain amount of looks her way, but she spoke to Chorisa.

“Can I ask—what Order of [Knight] is Gilaw?”

“The Great Knight is an…independent [Knight]. A powerful one, as is obvious.”

“Very. When did she appear?”

Chorisa exchanged a glance with the other invisible [Knights].

“…It must have been twelve years ago she was accepted into Ailendamus’ service. She is an…unusual case, Miss Griffin. Zealous beyond reproach. Mute, however, and prone to overeagerness in some regards. Without manners or social graces, but she is entrusted to monster-slaying and guardianship of some of the most important members of Ailendamus.”

She was approving about the zealous part, but Ryoka swore she saw a patch of air wince at the ‘overeager’ part.

“Especially on the training courts.”

Another [Knight] muttered. Ryoka, wincing, nodded. Dame Chorisa eyed her, then walked in front of Ryoka and came to a stop. It was walk into her or stop, so Ryoka stopped.

“Miss Griffin, regarding your conduct. You have invalidated my order’s watchfulness in front of the royal family. In light of your specific nature as Duke Rhisveri’s…guest, you were allowed some licenses other prisoners of state are not. However, if you conduct yourself so again, we will be forced to address the issue.”

Her blank face but slightly clenched jaw told Ryoka exactly what she’d like to do. The Wind Runner smiled winsomely.

“Thank you for being forthright, Dame Chorisa. I’ll keep it in mind.”

That wasn’t the response Chorisa had been expecting, nor was it characteristic of Ryoka. She gave Ryoka a narrow-eyed glance.

“My warning…”

“Completely understood. You have to do what you have to do. I’ll hear you out if I make any errors you feel cross the line.”

Ryoka waited a beat.

“Good luck in stopping me.”

Before Chorisa could respond. Ryoka glanced around.

“And now, I would like to visit Lady Fithea, the Conservator of the Forest. I have an invitation. Can you escort me there?”

Chorisa looked like she wanted to escort Ryoka to a locker and keep her in there. But she blinked at Fithea’s name.

“Lady Fithea? That would be the private section of the palace. The Estexil Wing. Adjacent to the Court of Masks. Visitors are not allowed license to enter…even Baron Regalius or a [General] would be prohibited to enter.”

“Well, she wants to meet with me. You can ask her, but we could go over rather than waste time. Court of Masks, you said? I know the way.”

Ryoka began to trot down the corridors. Chorisa hesitated, then strode after Ryoka.

“We will escort you and confirm you have an appointment. Dame Lacres.”

Another figure materialized and marched off. Chorisa followed Ryoka, speaking hotly as the Wind Runner practically skipped along.

“If you disturb the peace again, Miss Griffin, we will not let it go unaddressed.”

“Mhm. Yep.”

“This is not an idle threat. Guest or not…”

“I understand. What, are you going to beat me with sticks?”

“We are not barbarians.”

“Ah, so you’ll beat me up in private. Want to go hand-to-hand? I like non-lethal fistfights. You can even book a timeslot in the Ryoka-asskicking schedule. How’s tonight sound? I’ll take advance payment on any beatdowns.”

Chorisa’s mouth worked. Ryoka smiled to herself.

Well. She didn’t have to change all the best scenes.

——

They were being followed. Doggedly; with literal dogs, or so the Goblins speculated. Kevin didn’t actually see them.

Both sides were using camouflage and speed Skills, and Poisonbite was leading them now, so she was making the best use of her Skills, which were suited to the job. Even so…she scowled as she tossed more of the [Thief]-brand scent-destroyer on their trail.

“Too many Humans. Too fast. Place to hide? No good. Place to die?”

She gave the others a thumbs-up she’d learned from Kevin. In short, as Kevin translated it, the Goblins had no way to find a hiding spot. Not with the Humans being able to track them and literally overturn every nook and cranny.

They could find a place to hole up and hope to outlast or just make a glorious last stand. The Goblins accepted this with equanimity, to some extent. They didn’t want to die, but they weren’t going to be paralyzed by the thought of it.

Now, the Human and Ogres were a bit more unhappy by the idea. Especially the Ogres.

Somo, the lead Ogre warrior from the clan she’d been poached from, rumbled and checked her shiny shield.

“No dying. Bring back big birds.”

“Wyverns? Can’t. Ogres can’t fly.”

Poisonbite sneered. Somo rumbled.

“Chieftain promised potions and fighting. Not death.”

There were ten Ogres present. All of whom looked pretty upset at the idea of dying. Even…dangerously upset. The Goblins were remarkably calm; the tallest Goblin was shy of seven feet here, and they were hobs. The Ogres were nine feet tall or larger. They had literally knocked down Tenbault’s gates and Kevin saw blood on their weapons. Even Gold-ranks didn’t like fighting Ogres en-masse, and these ones had discipline.

And armor.

“Not die. You use Skill. You use magic.”

Somo insisted, urgently, pointing a huge maul she wielded one-handed at Taganchiel, then Poisonbite. Both Goblins shrugged.

“No good magic or Skills left. High Passes…we climb and look for good spot? Maybe climb so fast Humans don’t catch?”

“Good way to find Gargoyles or Eater Goats. Or nastier. Let’s do.”

Poisonbite grinned. It certainly sounded like a better option than a slaughter in a cave mouth. They peered up at the mountains.

It was Kevin who decided he had to make a stand. He cleared his throat.

“Leave me behind. I’ll only be a nuisance. I can slow them down. Tie me up and I’ll tell them you went the wrong way.”

The Goblins glanced at Kevin. Poisonbite slapped him on the shoulder.

“Smart! You don’t die, we maybe die less.”

She fished around for some rope. Conversationally, she looked at Kevin.

“Maybe Humans don’t believe. Truth stones. If kill you, can I have skateboard?”

He began sweating instantly. Kevin hadn’t thought of that, but even so, he held out his wrists to bind up convincingly. It wasn’t much, but it was a Kevin-level sacrifice.

It was Somo who interrupted. The other Ogres weren’t deaf, although given their own language, it was doubtful how much they’d completely gotten of the Goblin’s own stylistic dialogue. But it was clear they weren’t happy. One was clearly of the opinion, ‘let’s smash these Goblins for getting us killed before we die’ in a clear display of Ogre-logic.

Somo was a bit smarter, though, and smacked him so hard Kevin saw the ground actually move a bit under his feet. The Ogre, cross-eyed, slunk back in line as she snapped.

“No death! No death! Goblins wrong!”

She waved a club. Instantly, Poisonbite went for the dagger at her wrist. She casually held a deadly, glowing blade coated in poison as she pretended to fiddle with Kevin’s bindings, smiling at him. She was ready to turn and throw, but Taganchiel gave her a warning look.

“Not die if we can help it, Somo. Come, climb.”

“No. Goblins wrong. Not die. Not climb. Better…way.”

Somo was conferring with the other Ogres. She frowned mightily, sniffed the air, and checked the mountains nearest to her. She looked at the others.

“Close?”

They were doing the same things as her. But they apparently couldn’t tell, so one got a better sense. Not by checking the mountain, but by stomping over to the nearest tree, tearing off a branch, and munching on it. Another scooped up some dirt, found a stone, and began to chew.

The Goblins and Kevin both stared. Yet Somo got an answer as an Ogre nodded. She turned to Taganchiel.

“Not climb. Better way. Maybe die. Maybe. Humans die too. Not follow long.”

She stressed ‘maybe’ as if it was a huge accomplishment. Which, to be fair…Taganchiel raised his brows.

“Redfangs don’t know other way.”

“Red-fang. Not Ogres. Ogres know hills. Ogres go…here.”

Somo made a snorting sound and spat. She gestured around the lower-lying areas of the High Passes on the Human’s side, which, to be fair, the Redfang Tribe had seldom if ever colonized. If other Tribes had, they weren’t here and had died.

Ogres had more staying power. Ogres had memory. Ogres were also not like onions and got no jokes in that regard, Kevin had learned.

“Tastes like old place. Old place. We not go up. We go there.”

Somo pointed. Apparently they knew something. The Goblins began to move, after the short break, and the jogging Ogres were suddenly leading. They broke out of the narrow forest they’d been using for cover, yet there was a confidence that sped the step. Taganchiel asked the obvious.

“Where are we going?”

“Down. Bad. Dangerous. Maybe die. Maybe. Humans not follow long. Not stay long. Bad stay long. Maybe die. Maybe…”

Somo repeated herself. Getting nervous. And she hadn’t been nervous, even when she heard they were raiding Tenbault. She’d only demanded a 60% cut of all mana potions seized.

Kevin traded a glance with Poisonbite. Taganchiel patiently raised his eyebrows.

“Where are we going, Somo?”

“Down. Into dark place. Ogres know. Ogres came. Ogres…don’t go anymore.”

Kevin…really didn’t like the sound of that. But it still beat having no place at all. He gulped.

“What’s down there, Somo? You sound nervous. Uh, what’s there to fear?”

Her head turned. She did not look confident at all.

“Thing many Ogres die. Place big clan once go. Five…no, fifteen lives ago.”

Fifteen lives? Oh, she meant fifteen generations. Kevin wondered how long that was. Ogres could live a long time…he licked his lips.

“What tribe? What happened? What’s there?”

“Maybe gone. Maybe all gone!”

Somo looked happy at the idea. Then she frowned.

“Maybe still there. Big clan die. Somo and nine Ogres and Goblins…not live long. Humans die too, though.”

That seemed to be some consolation. Kevin really didn’t like this. Taganchiel didn’t either.

“What tribe?”

“Thousand Warriors Clan.”

Kevin traded a look with the others. One of the surviving Redfangs slowly began checking her weapons, grinning as her friend traced new lines of red on her skin. Somo waited.

“Want know why clan famous?”

“Uh…what’s down there, Somo? What got the Thousand Warriors Clan? Somo, what’s there to fear, exactly?”

She licked her lips as her Ogres led her unerringly towards the entrance to below, ahead of the Humans who had spotted them. The Ogre came to a stop, and pointed, as the stone changed, and they found a tiny crack in the foot of the mountain. That led to strange, ghostly granite, so hard even Poisonbite’s dagger could make no impression. Down into darkness. Down into the deeps.

What did Ogres fear?

“Drums. Drums in the darkness.”

——

Ryoka Griffin missed meeting Fithea. She was actually busy with work, but she gave orders that Ryoka Griffin be admitted past the Golem Sentries in this private wing of the palace.

Not the Order of the Thirsting Veil, which made them mad as could be. Ryoka also wondered if this was against Rhisveri’s orders.

She had not missed the way the Wyrm looked at her when she taunted him with the magical obol. However, he had refrained from summoning her instantly.

Fithea, though…she looked at Ryoka differently. Like, well, the last member of a dying species seeing hope for the first time. It bordered on maniacal, having gone way past obsessive.

Ryoka just hoped it would help. Meanwhile, she realized she had just been invited into the immortals’ wing of the palace.

And there were no minders. Ryoka hurried along the corridors, and noticed a few things at once.

“…Good gracious, it’s dirty here.”

No cleaning staff were presumably allowed here, so it looked like someone literally just blasted a tidal wave spell through the corridors every now and then. Ryoka suspected that because of the streaks of dirt on the marble.

And feathers. Someone had a feather problem. Even…dandruff? Huge dandruff. There were discarded seeds here and there, footprints…

Ryoka Griffin wished she had slippers as she padded bare-foot down corridor after corridor. Yes…this was definitely a lair of multiple people. It even had an entrance from the Court of Masks.

Of course. Sophridel, the Elemental of Masks, ensured their secrecy. It was the caretaker of the Court of Masks. Rhisveri was the ‘boss’, or at least, the first among equals. Probably the boss.

So what was Fithea? Refugee? Guest? Another sharer of power? Gilaw…she was younger.

A lot younger. Compared to all three, she was practically a baby. Still old enough to pretend to be a Great Knight and dangerous as all hell if a light kick could nearly kill Ryoka, but the Wind Runner’s senses were not to be fooled.

She was still not an expert on the wind, her running was arguably surpassed by the best of both worlds, and so on, but she was probably a reigning expert in immortal studies. She could tell Gilaw was young.

Who else was here, though? That was the question. Ryoka got her first answer soon enough. She came to what looked like a hallway leading to various activity-rooms. The sound of splashing water hinted at a bath, or pool. Ryoka peeked into open doorways; there weren’t many doors here, although she’d passed by what might have been the living quarters back a ways.

“Library. Huh. I wonder if there’s an immortal librarian. If it’s an orangutang, I’m leaving. Let’s see. Is that a greenhouse? Wow—oh.”

She nearly stopped in the verdant place, which was probably Fithea’s, but the pool was on the other side and Ryoka just had to look inside. She peered through the door, and saw a huge, just, multiple-olympic-pool sized body of water. No…a practical lake in itself. Was there a dimensional spell on the room?

There had to be! Ryoka gaped up at the sunny ceiling, which looked like it was actually outside. Onto a beach on the far end, and what looked like a damn reef and other underwater nods. She heard laughter, the clink of glass.

“…so there I was. And I realize—they’re flirting with me. Both of them!”

“No. Twins? What did you do?”

“Nothing. Do you think I’m going to shed my disguise? ‘Rhisveri the mighty’ told me to keep it quiet. But could you believe it? Prince and princess of…? Do you think they were serious?”

“I don’t know. I wish I could travel.”

“Maybe next time you can come with. I was just—Gilaw, come in. You can swim in that form?”

A defiant woman’s voice, rather like a squawk, but translated through a Human set of vocal chords, answered.

“Suit yourself, but we’re not coming over. You have to learn to swim…come on. Aunt Fithea! Aunt Fithea, tell Gilaw to stop being silly and…”

A laughing group was in the middle of the body of water. They were teasing a dark-skinned woman with her huge mane of hair. She looked decidedly younger, despite the illusory spell, as she nervously peered into the water she was definitely afraid of entering. Not that she should have feared drowning.

Not among the company of the laughing group inside. They weren’t actually all that Human. Maybe it was inbreeding with Drowned Folks or a mistyping of legends—or they’d grown more Human in later legends. But some had beautiful scales, rather than skin.

Ryoka saw light silver scales running down one young man’s arms. Gills, or something, and fin-like protrusions. Webbed fingers.

Completely Human on others. There were only, oh, eleven she saw visible. Eleven. Yet they swam around, as energetic as could be. With floating dishes, gossiping, talking about their experience on land, as fast in the water as Ryoka was on land. Maybe faster.

After all. They had huge tails, some forked, others the single flipper you imagined. Some didn’t have scales, but a shark’s ‘skin’. Some had predatory teeth, others not.

Nevertheless…they were definitely Mermaids. A laughing young man turned sun-bronzed skin to the door. He saw Ryoka instead of Fithea and went still. Gilaw, shuffling away from the water, glanced up.

“Uh.”

Ryoka had not expected Merfolk of all species. It made sense. Drowned Folk existed. Unicorns had once existed. Why not Mermaids? But she just hadn’t—

“A Human! An intruder! She’s seen us!”

One of the Merfolk screamed. He pointed at Ryoka with a look of such genuine terror Ryoka backed up.

“No, wait. I was invited—”

“Call Rhisveri! Flee! Flee! Gilaw, run!”

They dove so fast Ryoka didn’t even get a chance to answer. Gilaw looked as the Merfolk dove, and Ryoka felt the underwater panic vibrating beneath her. Gilaw rose, her eyes flashing.

“Oh shit. Gilaw, Fithea invited me. Fithea—”

Too late. The Great Knight charged at her with a cawing scream. One fist raised—and she did look like she knew how to brawl. Ryoka backed up.

“Gilaw, don’t—”

The immortal leapt. It was a predatory strike, and it might have actually torn out Ryoka’s stomach or throat, for all it wasn’t the way Humans should move. It would have worked, but Gilaw ran into a wall of wind. It flipped her into the pool.

She landed, eyes wide, and immediately began thrashing and drowning, making screaming protests. Ryoka hesitated, but she saw the Merfolk moving in the water below.

Oh shit, were those weapons? Ryoka didn’t wait to find out. She ran for it. She dashed down the hallway, hoping to get back before Gilaw found her, so Fithea could sort this out. But she heard the angry, wet Great Knight tearing after her, so Ryoka dodged left, praying Gilaw didn’t have a sense of smell, and opened the first door she came to and shut herself in.

That was when she met the immortal named Menorkel.

——

It was obvious after mere moments of descending into the darkness that this place was not natural. Kevin felt it in his bones.

The strata of the rock was uniform. Some ultra-tough material even Poisonbite couldn’t chip a flake off of, at least not on the move. They had to move quickly too; the Humans had seen them entering and were coming.

A big army. Yet the Goblins were cheerful. As one Redfang, Atter, cheerfully explained to Kevin, this was a good place to die.

“No light. Humans hate no light. Small tunnels. Good to fight many in. Except [Fireballs].”

She was a former Mountain City Hobgoblin, hence her advanced command of linguistics. Compared to that, the Redfang next to her, a normal-sized Goblin, yet wearing the Redfang paint, was practically unintelligible and had no Shaman-name. He was called Pillowhead.

There was a difference in Antinium and Goblin naming conventions. Antinium were random, like Kevin2 and Infinitypear. Pillowhead? Kevin stared at the pillow strapped to the back of the Goblin’s head.

“…Why does he have a pillow on the back of his head?”

“Good sleep. Also, cheap helmet. If he dies, he gets to sleep a long time comfortably.”

Atter assured Kevin. Pillowhead, who had grunted after surviving the outpost stand, gave Kevin an amiable grunt. Kevin looked at them.

He had known them for exactly two minutes by name and already he didn’t want either to die. Die they might, though. Taganchiel had placed a ward at the entrance. He was monitoring it as they fled, following Poisonbite now, because her eyes were best and the Ogres only knew this place, not the layout.

Down they went. Through smooth stone tunnels. Debris became increasingly apparent, and some kind of detritus on the ground. None to obstruct movement, but it proved someone had been here.

No. Someone had built this place. Kevin shined a wand up and saw the strange, pale stone. Why was it so cavernous yet so clearly made? The answer came to him as they passed by a more intact part of the caves. He gasped. Atter made a sound.

“Oh. Dwarves.”

The part of the tunnel not worn to craggy stone was clearly a road, and the walls were not yet fully obscured. Kevin saw cut stone, old reliefs on the walls, depicting some design or mural…he swung the wand of light around.

Oh no. He had a bad feeling about this, and that was about as clichéd as…

“Ward gone. Humans behind. Hurry. They are coming.”

Taganchiel snapped. Kevin looked at him.

“Don’t say that.”

“What? Humans coming. They are—”

“Don’t say it like that, Tagan. Just…trust me.”

It was too silent down here. The Goblins moved, and the heavy tromp of the Ogres and the jingling of armor was the only sound Kevin heard. But he had been promised something. Drums. Drums in the…

Perhaps no one was here anymore? Kevin really, really doubted it. More likely, whatever was here might not have known there were intruders yet. However, any hopes of that ended as their pursuers entered the caves, spreading out through the branching tunnels, or as Kevin now knew, hallways. They made a lot of sound, a furious din in the distance.

They had to come on foot, probably, so it was a foot-race, but the Goblins were slowing. They felt it too.

Something was down there. Something Kevin really didn’t want to meet. He didn’t want a damn magic ring either. Invisibility spells were cheap and he’d seen Ryoka’s missing fingers.

All of Kevin’s worst fears were crescendoing in his head into a fever of paranoia. He almost wanted something to pop out as the Goblins marched downwards. Just get it over with! What was it, Crelers? Evil horrors? Actually…

“Atter. How do you know this is a Dwarf-place? Is it obvious?”

“Mountain. Underground? We lived in Dwarf-place. Many around. This one old. Very old.”

The Hobgoblin’s voice made Poisonbite scowl for breaking silence-discipline, but since they were already followed, she let it slide. Kevin nodded, gulped.

“So…what could be lurking down here?”

“Whatever kills Dwarves. Could be bad. Horrific-death.”

“Great. Uh…one last question?”

“Mm?”

“Do, uh, ‘Balrogs’ exist? Ever heard of one?”

He really had to know. Atter glanced at Taganchiel. She was about to dispel his fears that this particular horror was unknown to her when it happened.

Thum.

The first beat rose upwards from the ground. An earth-shaking sound. It made the Goblins and Ogres freeze. It made Kevin pee, just a bit.

We’re all dead.

Even the Humans stopped for a second. Everyone turned their heads wildly, setting themselves, waiting for an attack. But Kevin knew. Oh, he knew. That sound was huge, and in this confined space, it echoed for perhaps miles. It had come from far away.

It was the sound of something coming. Something waking up. He heard it again as Poisonbite wavered. Then she glanced over her shoulder, bared her teeth. Light from behind them.

“Run! Run or die!”

The Goblins ran. Now, Kevin heard shouts.

“There they are! Get the monsters! To me! To me!”

Someone was blowing a horn, and the pursuers converged, finding the tunnel the Goblins were heading down. Kevin pumped his arms and legs, and one of the Goblins turned—tossed something down and the howls of pain told Kevin they had deployed a trap.

Even so. It was a race downwards. Yet everyone was waiting. Waiting for the next—

Thum.

That was the sound it made. The sound of a drum, the boom of it in your bones. Less loud this time? Perhaps. The first had been a wakeup call. But this next one, when it came, did not leave the silence lingering long.

Thum. Thum.

The beats began. Picking up in speed. Kevin heard them, the boom of something in the darkness. They were coming. Oh yes.

Thum. Thum. Thum. Thum.

…And the drumbeats were picking up in tempo. Even the pursuers seemed nervous—but it meant they picked up speed instead. They wanted the Goblins dead now, before this trick or external threat got them.

The Goblins and Ogres sprinted into a huge space, some giant walkway or gathering point, mere seconds before the Humans. Somo actually turned and struck low someone charging after her. There was a scream—pursuit slowed a bit as the Humans realized they still had to fight at the end.

“Regroup! Box them in!”

More pursuers were coming out of other tunnels. Poisonbite’s head whirled; she saw the other pathways, and pointed straight down the huge intersection.

“This way!”

“That’s towards the drums!”

Kevin yelped. Somo groaned.

“No, no. Bad. Other way!”

Poisonbite just snarled. She did an amazing dive sideways and a crackling ray blasted the stone. Everyone started running after her, dodging as Taganchiel shot magic back.

“We find death or we die! Too many Humans!”

Thumthumthumthumthumthum—

It was fast now, a rhythmic beat Kevin was amazed by. Whoever was heralding their imminent horrific demise also had amazing beat control. Well, if movies could do it…the thunderous sounds were a quick rhythm, just a bit slower than his terrified heartbeat.

Something was coming. Poisonbite held up a claw. She stared ahead.

“Something—”

The Goblins, Ogres and Human slowed in their mad dash. They hesitated, but an army was coming towards them from the rear. Kevin heard the drumbeats change one last time.

Thum-thum thum thum. Thu-thu-thum. Thum. Thum thum.

Kevin stumbled. He slowed, as Poisonbite pointed and everyone ran left, staring at something coming out of the darkness. Wait a second. That was a half-beat. That was…

“Dude. It’s got a rhythm.”

That wasn’t the sonorous war-drums he’d expected. That sounded like something else, suddenly. Terrifying in the darkness, loud as everything. But it also sounded like…

Music. Someone had interrupted the steady downbeat, throwing in double-thums and a changing tempo. It was music.

Oh. And it was getting louder. So loud that Kevin didn’t even hear Poisonbite screaming at them. He saw her gesturing, pointing. Get to the side! Yet the world was filled with the drums.

Thum-thum-thum-thum…

Now it was a march. Thunder in the caverns. The Humans slowed, weapons raised, shining lights into the darkness, illuminating the Goblins, the Ogres, Kevin…

And the things coming up from the depths.

They came out of the darkness in ranks. Not with the Redfang’s military strictness, but shoulder-to-shoulder, with huge, swinging steps. Just seventeen of them. Seventeen, to face hundreds of Humans.

They were not as tall as Somo’s people. Yet each one was huge, their skin surprisingly more pale from lack of light. They carried crude weapons by the standards of civilization, but still, huge clubs of bone or axes. Somo backed up, weapon raised, snarling in alarm. She respected these warriors. Cousins of hers.

Trolls.

Seventeen Trolls thundered down the intersection to the beating of that drum. Weapons raised, ignoring the arrows and spells trying to hurt them. They marched past Goblins and Ogres, not oblivious, just confident. The Humans brought up weapons and shields, but they were not prepared. For Trolls or…

The drums! It was so loud, now, Kevin couldn’t even tell if his heart was working. He only heard that terrifying sound, and he was sure it was no different even for the Humans. A [Mage] was screaming a spell. For a second Kevin heard silence as the enchantm—

THUM.

He actually heard the sound blow apart the spell. No one could hear a thing! Yet the Trolls moved, and as the drums rolled, they struck.

Thum thum thum thum!

Every time the drum struck, the Troll warriors echoed it with mace and axe. A fast, yet rhythmic onslaught. They tore forwards, collapsing the first line of Humans like they were made of paper. Kevin was astonished. Yet there was no cohesion in the defenders.

The drum. It was throwing off the other warriors! It was so loud, so pervasive that it echoed through Kevin’s soul with every reverberation. It threw off the natural timing of the [Warriors], the shouted orders, a hostile rhythm they didn’t know and couldn’t predict on first contact. They couldn’t hear orders, or Skills, or the shouts to retreat or regroup.

The Trolls didn’t care. The drums were their orders. It picked up speed and they accelerated. Then a double-beat—they stepped back, slashing, letting the Humans charge forwards into a feint and more slaughter.

“Dead gods.”

Kevin didn’t hear himself say it. He just knew the song from the darkness. It played for nearly three minutes. Three minutes was all it took. The Trolls slowed as the beat lapsed into a very slow rhythm, breathing hard, grunting. But the Humans were in full flight.

As for the Goblins and Ogres? They set themselves, warily, in the corner they’d chosen, staring at the Trolls. For the fighting wasn’t done yet.

Thum. Thum. Thum.

An ominous sound. The seventeen Trolls turned back. Maybe they weren’t as big as Somo’s people, but Kevin swore he saw a cut on one of their arms closing as he watched. The Goblins and Ogres eyed them, and Kevin realized the thunderous drums could debilitate them as much as they had the Humans.

Thum…thum…thum…

It was slowing. Each beat growing longer, until it stopped. And the silence was more ominous than the music, now. The Trolls waited. Not for the Goblins to say anything, but for the sound.

When it played, everyone died.

Poisonbite was glaring at the biggest Troll, daggers out. Atter and Pillowhead were pointing to a flanking position, glancing warily into the depths for reinforcements. Taganchiel, muttering spells. Everyone was tensed, and Somo was readying the maul, prepared to take down at least one of her foes. Death or victory! The species, all humanoid cousins, glared at each other.

Except for the actual Human, Kevin. He had actually relaxed.

Drums in the darkness. Mysterious inhabitants of the underworld. He had been prepared for horrors.

All he saw were Trolls. And the music was not the impartial war drums of some abyssal creature. Someone had played that. Someone had a sense of rhythm and music.

In short, Kevin’s opinion was that someone had good taste. Someone could play music, and if that was so…Kevin had a Kevin-solution.

“Taganchiel!”

The [Shaman] started as Kevin grabbed his arm. He looked at the Human, who was holding a glowing object and completely ruining everyone’s night-vision.

“No lights! Stay back! Fighting!”

The Goblin snapped. But Kevin was pointing at the object he was holding.

“No, no! I have an idea! Can you cast magic on this? Make it louder! Louder, Taganchiel!”

The Goblin eyed Kevin. Poisonbite’s head turned. She glared; Kevin was not a warrior. He was here to negotiate and calm the Healer, but all the plans were upended.

Perhaps Taganchiel saw something different. He took the smartphone, touched it, and grunted. He shrugged, casting his equivalent of a loudness spell. Kevin saw him turn. The Trolls were tensing. Some conclusion might be being reached. But before the drums could play and sound an attack, Kevin pressed a button.

Music began to play. It came out of the little speakers, a bit tinny, a bit low-quality. Even so, amplified by Taganchiel’s magic.

A song.

The Troll warriors started as drums, far less loud, but drums began to play. There was a strumming sound—then a Human voice shouted, full of excitement.

“Crank it up and play it loud!”

That was Kevin’s voice. But it wasn’t Kevin who said it—at least, not the young man holding the smartphone up and sweating bullets. It was Kevin from a while back. Yet the voice was answered in moments. Someone began to riff on an electric guitar. At the same time, the drums continued, less fancy, but they were joined by a second guitar, and, to everyone’s surprise, and Kevin’s mild mortification, his slightly off-key singing.

Numbtongue himself joined in later, and improved the song. However, it was their song. It was a song Kevin had played with Numbtongue when they formed the world’s first Human-Goblin-Bird rock band. He was pretty sure Octavia and Mrsha had both participated too, come to that.

It echoed down through the Troll caves, an imperfect recreation of a rock song from back home. Nevertheless…music.

The Goblins were staring at Kevin. Taganchiel’s eyes opened wide, then he began to smile. Atter’s head began to nod to the beat, although everyone’s ears were still ringing from the drumbeat.

Somo stared down at the little Human. Slowly, and quite deliberately, she adjusted her weapon and shield to cover her ears. Kevin just grinned. It was a mad, nervous smile. But if he was going to die, at least he’d given it a shot.

The song was halfway through and he was wondering if he’d have to play a second one or if the Trolls would just attack. Then he saw something. One of the Trolls was moving.

It was…nodding. Exactly in time with the beat. The others were giving death-glares, but one Troll was just standing there.

Vibing to the beat. That was why Kevin thought there was a chance they might live. And sure enough—

Thum. Thu-Thum. Thum. Thum, Thum…

The drumbeats were less loud. The Trolls started. One raised a weapon and Somo raised her hammer, but then the warriors relaxed. Because they heard it. The drummer in the darkness wasn’t calling an attack.

They were copying the beat of the song! Replacing the recording’s drumming almost perfectly! Kevin’s head rose. He exhaled. Then he began to grin. He fumbled for a second song with a drum beat from his song collection.

Poisonbite just looked at Kevin and the smartphone. She checked the Trolls, her daggers, then sheathed them. She shrugged. Then sat back to listen.

“This Human. Pretty good. Chieftain should buy Calescent stupid spices.”

Taganchiel rubbed at one ringing ear. He nodded.

——

Ryoka Griffin closed the door behind her, and the sounds of furious pursuit died down. She looked ahead, and found herself in a bare room.

Not empty; there were cushions scattered around, an actual cork board with pinned up bits of paper, and so on. A pair of windows let sunlight in, but curtains had been drawn. The sole occupant stood at the back of the room. He didn’t see the Wind Runner, because his eyes were closed.

The young woman just gazed at him, mouth open, much like when she’d disturbed the Merfolk. Yet if that was one thing…the young man’s eyes opened wide after a few seconds. He still missed Ryoka, oblivious, lost in his own world.

There he stood, tapping his foot to a beat only he could hear. Ryoka saw the person he truly was, no illusions, not here in his home. How could she describe him?

Thin. Thin and tall. Lanky, in every sense of the word. Wiry where you’d expect superlative muscle, and so young. So young, compared to the only other member of his species that Ryoka had met.

She couldn’t take her eyes off his face. His skin was dusky orange, like the sky before it set, but blazed with evening—then faded. Of course, that wasn’t the first thing you noticed about him.

Yet his body began to sway. At last, his heads rose.

He began to sing.

“I~, I have a secret. And it’s you.

I~, I know it’s never just me alone.

It’s been gnawing at me for so long

Because I’m not honest with them all;

It’s not one, but two.”

He was singing. Ryoka Griffin’s mouth dropped, because it was astonishingly good pitch control. His head turned, looking left. Like a performer on a stage to an audience of one—no, two—his second head turned, and began singing.

“Everyone I know doesn’t see me

Somedays, somedays I can’t stand you.

But if they could see, could even see,

Would we be fine, just us two?”

The first face listened. Two heads, singing in a—a duet. He had something in one of his hands. It looked like a microphone. Only, it was clearly made of wood and painted. Hand-made, the only crude thing. He raised it to the first head’s lips.

“They talk to only you,

Somedays, somedays I wish it were true,

But if it wasn’t just us two, just us two,

Would you love me like you do?”

It was a song for two heads, clearly self-written. Performed with no intention of anyone seeing. It was so good, though, that Ryoka felt like recording it if she had her iPhone and putting it on the store. Especially because both heads were singing.

Two heads. A young man, a shock of short-cut hair on both heads, light black, skin a kind of unnatural orange that Ryoka had only ever seen on one other race—Gazi.

This was no Gazer, though. This young man…what was he?

If Ryoka could have been where Kevin was and compared the other humanoids, she would have seen how different he was from Ogres and Trolls. Ogres were tall, scaled up Humans in many ways, while Trolls were more squat, while still being tall. Skin like stone for Trolls, just thick skin for Ogres.

Cousins. Neither one was quite as…foreign as whomever this was. Yet he was heir to a bloodline older than both of theirs. Grander. He looked like he was young, which he surely was, yet Ryoka thought he looked astonishingly fit.

What was he? The singing…which species had two heads? Was he a variant of a Cyclops, some relative of Gazers?

No…Cyclops, Ogres, Trolls, ents, the old English word for Giant, eten, none of these descriptors worked. They were all too…young. Too narrow, species that didn’t fit.

Descendants of the original.

She had met his kind once before. Ryoka’s eyes widened as she recalled another member of the species, if distantly related. This? Her knees trembled a bit. She forgot completely about Gilaw, the alarmed immortals. She just looked at him. Could it be?

To find out who this young man was, his species, it was simple. Accept no substitutes. Go back, to the dawn of mythology. To Greek legend. To the age of g—Mount Olympus and their kind. Then go back further, to those who came before them.

Titans.

He wore a kind of loose toga, appropriately, like Drakes; perhaps the only thing that could be easily tailored for his frame. Both heads were attached to a fairly Human body, albeit with long arms, six fingers with carefully-cut nails.

Oh, and four arms. Ryoka had seen the Antinium before, but this was the prototype they were surely built on. A Titan of old, like the giant who had nearly eaten her in the lands of the fae. Yet if he was a rampaging brute, willing to throw down with old gods and creatures like Nama…

This was a teenager, or a young man, species aside, singing by himself in what he thought was private, oblivious to his guest. His song was self-conscious, but he swayed, turning as he sang with natural performative grace.

He was just a kid. And he was eleven feet tall. He was smiling as he sang. Right up until he saw the Wind Runner gawping at him. Then he froze, and two pairs of eyes locked onto Ryoka’s face with immortal terror—and embarrassment.

Ryoka Griffin, from much experience being an embarrassed younger person herself, knew he was probably two seconds from tossing himself out the window. So she raised her hands, and brought them together.

She began to clap. Not just politely, but with genuine approbation. For ten seconds, then twenty.

Then she stopped. The young man just looked at her in horror. The Wind Runner cleared her throat, twice.

“It was really good. I mean it. You…you must be a fan of music. That sounded like the Singer of Terandria’s music. You even have a mic. It’s as good as any song I’ve heard, really. Throw in a guitar, a drum, or some kind of acoustics, and it’s perfect. Just great. Yeah. Sorry, I was looking for a place to hide and…”

She made a wild guess, but there was no way to take what he’d been singing as anything but from a kind of pop-inspired genre. The microphone was the big clue. Someone had seen the Singer’s music video, or perhaps even a copy of her performance and taken the tool without knowing what it was for.

“Wh—what? You think it’s good?”

The blush on his cheeks actually manifested as brighter, not darkening. What color was his blood? Ryoka realized that his pupils were unnaturally large. He had no whites of the eyes; they were different colors instead, and his irises…she hesitated.

Play it calm. The fact that he didn’t jump to panic was a good sign. She checked herself, nodded.

“Absolutely. Did you come up with that song yourself? You could sing professionally.”

She wasn’t lying either. Even if he hadn’t been a good singer, being able to duet by yourself was a great talent, but he had amazing pipes.

“Really. Uh—I’ve never shown anyone. Only a few other songs. That was private. How—how did you get in here? No one told me we were having visitors. You’re a guest, aren’t you?”

The young man glanced around. He was reassuring himself that this wasn’t some random Human discovering his nature. Ryoka nodded.

“Fithea invited me. I know uh, Rhisveri. I’m a guest of his. Sort of.”

That made the young man visibly relax. Then his second head finally stopped grimacing in horror and peered at Ryoka.

“Oh, good. I thought…”

It was astonishing. The second head spoke for the first one as if continuing the conversation for the first. No visible infighting or separation of personalities. Two heads instead of one. Ryoka smiled.

“Sorry. I uh, caused a commotion, but I really am a guest. I didn’t mean to intrude. I upset some of the others. The—Merfolk? And Gilaw? They didn’t know I was a guest. I ducked in here. My name’s Ryoka Griffin.”

“Oh, Gilaw would do that. She gets nervous and she’s only been here fourteen years.”

The young man murmured. Ryoka blinked. This was such a casual conversation, but…no, keep it casual. It surely was to him.

“What’s your name?”

“Menorkel. It’s longer, but you can call me Menor. Paterghost—sorry, Lady Paterghost and Nube insist on full names, but no one else does.”

Paterghost and Nube. Hm. Ryoka’s immortal-senses were tingling. She smiled.

“Pleased to meet you. I’m a Courier.”

“A Courier? We’ve never had anyone who’s a Courier as a guest. I thought you were one of us…but you’re not.”

Menorkel was astonished. Ryoka shrugged.

“I’m a bit special. Look, I’ll keep your singing secret, but it was truly good.”

“You don’t think the song needed work? What about the lyrics?”

Dead gods. Ryoka felt like she was talking to a young musician. He wore his insecurities on his face. Both faces. She bit her lip.

Alright, whatever you do, say the opposite of every single thing you’ve ever said to other people. She had hurt a lot of feelings. It helped that she could be genuinely approving. Wait, what the hell was she doing?

Ryoka-things. Giving musical feedback to a Titan. Triton? Did he have an official name? Duotitan? That was stupid.

Just go with it.

“It’s really good. I think you need some kind of accompaniment. It’s not a song meant to be sung alone, is it? Tone? Spot on.”

“Really? I’ve tried with drums and flutes and so on, but I don’t think it fits. It’s new music. You’ve heard of the Singer of Terandria? It’s like that, but no one knows what instruments she plays. I want that…you know, that music?”

Ryoka rubbed at her chin. She knew what he meant. Pianos, electric music, the power of amps, all of that was beyond this world. Perhaps they had equivalents, but no one had put anything together like this.

“You know, it reminds me of pop. But not exactly pop. It’s sort of…electropop.”

“Electropop? What’s that?”

“Uh—a kind of pop. It needs a synth. That’s um, synthetic music. Something soothing. I don’t know, sorry. I don’t compose music, but not a flute. Something more background.”

He needed a music program and a recording set and a computer and she’d have the next pop sensation on her hands. If she was on Earth, Ryoka would have seriously considered throwing over the dangerous and relatively un-lucrative Courier business for the far more profitable world of music management.

Menorkel actually grabbed a pencil with one hand and began scribbling notes frantically as his other two hands fiddled with the microphone. The last one scratched at his short hair.

Amazing coordination. Ryoka was impressed. She’d observed that even the Antinium weren’t perfect with four arms. They could do things in tandem, but this was literally like someone using each hand deliberately for rapidly different tasks.

Two heads. He must have insane ability to multitask. It was probably not a genetically sound move for Humans, but if it existed…Ryoka wondered if he could literally out-think someone or do involved activities like equestrian polo. Heck, he could stand and be taller than someone on a horse’s back.

“I’ve wanted to learn how the Singer does her music for ages. You don’t know what a ‘synth’ is, do you?”

“Uh…you’d have to use magic. Literally copying music and playing it back, sorry. I don’t know how.”

Menorkel groaned.

“That’s what I thought! But I can’t cast that kind of magic and Fithea won’t teach anyone ‘silly magic’. And the Singer’s never performed in Ailendamus. I could listen to her at least, but even though Sophridel told me he tried to invite her a dozen times, she never came.”

Gee, I wonder why? Ryoka was reminded of Ailendamus’ reputation as a war machine and Cara’s own hints in her music video.

Then again, the truth of Ailendamus might have pulled the Singer over here in a heartbeat. Ryoka didn’t know her, but this was something else. She walked forwards slowly…then walked back. Because Menorkel was so tall that if she got too close, she’d have to literally talk while craning her neck straight up. And she was a tall girl!

He was so tall it was disconcerting. And unlike Moore, he didn’t naturally hunch himself over and try to look small and unthreatening. He walked and moved about naturally. Someone had taught him not to be afraid of his height. He seemed fine talking to Ryoka at a remove; it felt more natural to Ryoka too. Her brain could pretend he wasn’t almost twice her height.

“Right. Well, you can do a bit even without meeting the Singer. For instance, I know…a bit about her music. Did you know that the microphone amplifies her voice? Gives it a bit of an echo, maybe. You can enchant it.”

She nodded to the wooden mic he was holding. Menorkel nearly dropped it.

“Really? Is that what it does?”

“Absolutely.”

“Can you tell me more? I’ve never met anyone like—if Fithea wants to talk to you, you have to go. Where did you come from? I heard Rhisveri finally caught a Thief, but no one mentioned a guest. I didn’t think he liked anyone. You’re Human, aren’t you? You smell Human. I thought he’d only like another Wyrm or Dragon or…”

Ryoka coughed.

“Uh, funny story. The thing is—”

The door flew open. A furious Gilaw spotted Ryoka. The Wind Runner whirled, and the wind blew. Too weakly to stop Gilaw from grabbing her and strangling her with an arm like steel.

“Gilaw! Stop! Stop, she’s Fithea’s guest!”

Menorkel stared in horror as Gilaw dropped Ryoka with incredible force. The Wind Runner was kicking, but she was so outclassed in terms of strength she knew she was either going to be choked out or die. Gilaw was making furious sounds, and she was squeezing so tight Ryoka was afr—

“Gilaw!”

A pair of hands plucked the angry Great Knight off Ryoka. She breathed, coughing, gasping, and turned. She saw a pair of kicking legs, heard a furious squawking voice—and saw Menorkel effortlessly holding Gilaw under the shoulders in the way people did to stop a fight across worlds. He was holding Gilaw, armor and all, off the ground. The Great Knight was trying to break free.

And she couldn’t. Menorkel’s other two hands were gesticulating frantically as he spoke.

“Gilaw, shut up! Don’t attack! She’s Fithea’s guest! Fithea’s guest, understand?”

The angry woman couldn’t break free. She calmed down as she was forced to listen, and stared at Ryoka. The young woman looked at Menorkel in awe. Right up until the armored boot stomped her flat again.

“Thou perfidious fiend. I have thee at mine mercy. How dare you desecrate this place of respite?”

An echoing voice snapped. Ryoka looked up just in time to see an armored figure apply more pressure to her back. She groaned as a second figure, armed with a mace and shield no less, and a full set of ancient, ceremonial-looking armor put her full, and considerable, weight on Ryoka’s back.

“Lady Paterghost! Nube, stop her! Lady Paterghost, she’s a guest!”

“Stay your hand, Menorkel! I was not informed of a visitor. This intruder dareth lay her hands on—unhand me at once, child! This is a disgrace to my armor! Nube, stop him—”

The pressure on Ryoka vanished. Ryoka rolled over, heartily sick of being kicked around by immortals. Yet it seemed she’d backed the right Titan. Because as she scrambled up, she saw something amazing.

He still had Gilaw in the restraining hold, and she was dangling there, looking miserable. But with his other hand, he’d literally picked ‘Lady Paterghost’ up from the floor, and she was flailing at him with one gauntleted hand. Then Ryoka saw something ooze from her visored face. Some pinkish, fleshy mass which slapped Menorkel’s arm.

“Nube! Stop that! Lady Paterghost, please!”

Menorkel had a final hand free and he stopped the flailing assault as one of the armored arms extended, revealing more of the inner pink mass to try and pry his fingers free.

Armor? What was that inside it? Ryoka’s eyes fixed on the armored figure—no, the two beings as Lady Paterghost’s head rotated clean around on the shoulders to glower at her.

“How have you infiltrated Menorkel’s mind, fiend? I challenge thee to fisticuffs, before I exact further retribution for your insult to this place!”

Ryoka Griffin just stared at the wrathful, living suit of armor. Lady Paterghost. And what was clearly ‘Nube’, the…what was it? A Mimic living inside her?

However, both Gilaw and Lady Paterghost apparently didn’t equal one Menorkel, who held them off the ground with an ease that astounded Ryoka. He looked around, as if for a place to dump them. Ryoka was trying to back away from a swinging fist from Lady Paterghost that extended, trying to make good on the armored woman’s threat. Gilaw was just dangling, making peeping sounds unhappily that said she wanted to come down.

Predictably, that was when Fithea entered. The ancient Dryad looked at the scene. Menorkel turned pale and dropped all three other immortals with a crash. They were on their feet in a moment. Fithea stared at Ryoka. The Wind Runner smiled.

“Um. Sorry. I should have waited?”

But she didn’t regret it, in truth. Because while she had an enemy in Paterghost, who literally slapped Ryoka with a glove—thankfully not her armored hand—she’d made at least one tentative friend.

Menorkel. Titan of Ailendamus, who only left when Fithea ordered him to spread the word of their guest and calm the others down. Who looked after Ryoka with curiosity and interest in his four eyes.

——

Music. It was about music. It existed. Sometimes people sang along. However, in a world where instantaneous music on demand was yet to be widespread or fully implemented, people capable of making real music were fewer and further between.

Anyone could hold a beat or sing along. But who wrote the lyrics, who made new music? It was one thing to meet someone who could play decently. Someone who could play beautifully? As rare as a warrior among warriors, or an Archmage of magic.

It was just that they weren’t always as respected. What good did music do to my ability to stab people efficiently? That was the kind of cave-logic you got.

Ironically, not among actual Cave Trolls or just Trolls. They escorted the band of Goblins, Ogres, and one musical Human into the depths. So the master of drums could get a look at them.

Kevin had played three songs, and the unknown drummer had approved. So had the Trolls, apparently. One kept reaching for Kevin’s smartphone and their leader kept slapping the hand away.

Trolls. Male and female, fewer in number than Kevin guessed. Even in their ‘lair’, what he saw of it as they took him to a separate chamber at the heart of this old Dwarven fortress, they were fewer in number than Ogres or Goblins by far.

Yet seventeen had beaten back a small army of Humans. Perhaps it wouldn’t have worked except in this terrain. But those drums certainly hadn’t hurt. Nor was it fair to say Trolls didn’t have their own advantages.

Ogres could all learn to cast magic. Goblins were numerous and could become Hobs and level.

What did Trolls get? Well…the power to heal from a literal enchanted spear going through their stomach, into their guts, in less than ten minutes. The Troll kept pointing it out as he yanked the barbed spear out.

Ow. Look at what they did!

Even the Redfangs were impressed by that kind of resilience. They were wary, ready for a backstabbing, but Kevin was mostly interested in who was playing so eloquently.

Even now, he could hear it. A low, much quieter sound. His ears were still ringing, but Kevin heard a one-man band, just playing some beautiful lounge music on a set of drums, echoing through this place.

Proper lounge music, that was. As in, the kind of thing that was actually fun to have in the background, not obnoxious elevator-type music that made you want to throw yourself through the glass elevator’s window.

“Mm.”

The Trolls’ lead warrior pointed through a huge archway that the music was coming from. The rumbling rhythm was actually shaking some pebbles outside. Poisonbite hesitated, but Kevin had to see. So he walked through and met the drummer at last.

There he sat. The ruler of the Trolls, the lord of the deeps. Leaning back in a seat of stone, holding two glittering mallets in his hands. A blanket around his shoulders, and some wraps of clothing for modesty around their chest and lower half.

He had a huge drum in front of him, shimmering with magic in Kevin’s eyes. He had also chosen a natural place within the deep caves to play in. Even as Kevin watched, the Troll did a rolling melody, hands delicately playing on the massive drum sitting in front of him.

It was clearly a magical drum. The kind of thing that might have been meant to sit vertically, rather than as it did now. Kevin could just imagine it. You struck it with the mallets, sounded an alarm, perhaps used the power in it.

It had been abandoned when this place was left, or perhaps someone had taken it long ago. However it happened, it had ended up here, in the perfect spot for it.

A vaulted chamber, with a circular ceiling reaching up thousands of feet. The Troll King played on the ground, and the sound could echo up and out through the entire underground cave network.

Now he played softly. On the magical drums, with the glittering mallets tapping with the ease of a self-taught professional. Kevin saw it was not the main drum alone; hide-drums accompanied the main one.

It was a drum set. And the Troll, so engrossed in his task, didn’t even bother to glance up at Kevin. He just rumbled on the drum, a growing crescendo.

For the guests. Kevin realized when he slowed down to gesture at the other Goblins. The crescendo stopped rising in pitch and volume. He glanced back, and saw one eye flick up.

Kevin hesitated, and took a few steps forwards. Playfully, the sound rose in volume and tempo—then subsided as he walked back.

Amazing. With that alone—Kevin felt the last tension leaving him. He grinned, and the Troll smiled as he played.

No, wait. Poisonbite took one look at the leader of the Trolls, the drummer of the deeps, and looked more interested. She peered at Kevin as he addressed the leader.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Tum-tum whap. The first discord as the Troll actually slowed. A frown. Poisonbite blinked at Kevin. Then slapped him on the butt, since she thought it was hilarious.

“Idiot.”

Kevin looked at Poisonbite. The Goblin rolled her eyes and pointed. He looked back and corrected himself.

“I’m so sorry. Ma’am?”

The Troll Queen grunted. She. She gave Kevin a look that said he’d made the first mistake in coming here. But she glanced with interest at Kevin.

“Human.”

She rumbled; her voice was as deep as the drums, and her command of the language was a bit guttural. But she eyed the smartphone the music had come from. Then her gaze shifted.

“Ogres.”

Somo glowered, intimidated by this great Troll who was bigger than she was. She thrust her chest out, but the Troll Queen ignored her. She narrowed her eyes as she came to the last group.

“Goblins.”

Dum dum dum. Her hands never stopped moving. But the music was more of a read than her expression or posture. It drummed softly, disapprovingly.

“Thank you for helping us, er, Drummer Queen.”

Kevin began. He didn’t know what to say. The Troll didn’t introduce herself. Nor did she move as Taganchiel stepped forwards with Somo.

“I am Taganchiel, [Shaman] of the Flooded Waters Tribe and Goblinhome. My [Great Chieftain], Rags, will thank you. Trolls are mighty and helpful.”

She gave the Goblin [Shaman] a long look. The Troll Drummer-Queen—she had quite liked the appellation and given Kevin a drumroll of approval—played a staccato beat as she seemed to ponder his words. Then she actually stopped playing, reached to one side, and picked up a bowl of liquid. She drank.

…Not a good sign. She didn’t even deign to answer Taganchiel. The [Shaman] waited, a bit confused.

“Great Troll Queen. You gave aid. We are from a mighty tribe. We will reward help if you offer it. We ask in the name of Chieftain Rags. May I ask your name?”

“Bleh.”

Bleh the Drummer Queen stuck out her tongue, glaring at the stale water or whatever it was. She stared at Taganchiel. He hesitated.

Was it Bleh or…? She looked past the Goblin [Shaman]. At Somo.

“Goblins.”

It was a one-word dissertation on how she felt about all this. Taganchiel saw her quite deliberately look away.

“Troll Queen…”

Shoo, shoo. She literally flapped her hands at him. Taganchiel hesitated, but two Trolls came forwards. They ushered him back with motions from their weapons. Kevin stared at that, uneasily, but the Troll Queen beckoned him forwards.

“Hmm?”

She didn’t really speak, but she made her wishes clear as she pointed at the smartphone. He tried to explain.

“You were playing music. So I…my name’s Kevin. I have music. On here. Would you like to listen?”

“Kvn. Hmm.”

She tried to say his name. Then approvingly gestured. Kevin hesitated—and began to play a song. Instantly, the Troll Queen picked up the mallets, and began to play along to the beat. She began to nod to the beat of the song, pricking her ears up at the unfamiliar instruments.

The other Trolls did likewise, looking approvingly at Kevin. He found himself standing there, in the amazingly acoustical room, just playing music with the mighty drums playing an accompaniment.

Play more music. Kevin saw a keen-eyed intelligence flick her eyes at him. She smelled like dust and a bit like a cave, but not unpleasant. He sat down and played some songs. And she…just played music.

She vibed, the Troll Queen in this cave below the High Passes, this fortress of old. She played on her drums, then did a solo that shook Kevin’s world. Literally. And that was it.

She just played on the drums. The Trolls sat around, some finding food, others cultivating mushroom patches. A few tried to pawn off shiny rocks with the Goblins and Ogres for their gear.

Bleh the Troll Queen ignored Taganchiel, Poisonbite, and Somo completely. She barely had interest in Kevin relaying their questions.

“Will you help, Drummer-Queen? We’re trying to find our Chieftain and she had a great [Healer]. We—the Goblin tribe—can pay you. In gold, potions, magic items?”

The Drummer gave Kevin an amused look. Healer? The last group to need the Healer of Tenbault chuckled as they sat, listening to a rock song. Kevin looked at Taganchiel.

“Money? Food? Artifacts? We could use help.”

The Drummer rolled her eyes. At last she spoke, with a rumble of annoyance for having to negotiate when she could be listening to music.

“Help? You not dead. Humans gone. Helped.”

She stared pointedly at Poisonbite and the others. The Goblin eyed the Trolls.

“Give warriors? Show ways through mountain? Fight with—”

“No.”

The Drummer struck the huge drum with a boom that emphasized her words. The Trolls went silent and Kevin motioned to Poisonbite. Don’t say that again.

“You. Music.”

She pointed at Kevin. He fumbled with his smartphone. The Drummer pointed a mallet at Taganchiel.

“You. Go when music stop. No fight. No help. Go.”

The Goblins traded looks. That was already better than them being pursued, but now Taganchiel muttered with Atter and the Redfangs.

“What do you want, Troll Queen?”

“Not Queen. Heh. Goblins.”

The Drummer was amused. It was so…strange. Taganchiel was caught off-guard, because the Trolls seemed more knowing of the Goblins than vice-versa. He protested.

“You killed Humans for us. We can help. There may be consequences. We can give—”

To that, the Drummer literally played over him until he shut up. She stopped when he fell silent, shielding his ears, and looked exasperated. She jerked a thumb at Taganchiel. Kevin wasn’t sure what to say, but the Drummer sneered.

“Quence? Quence, ‘help’, ‘plan’. Goblin things. This? Troll’s.”

She stabbed a finger at the ground. Kevin nodded. Don’t come to my place and bring your stupid needs and fighting. I don’t want help. I don’t want to deal with this.

That’s what he guessed she was saying. She was literally…unmoved. He looked at her.

“Why did you let us live, then, Miss Drummer?”

She winked at him.

“Song. More songs? Give?”

She pointed at the smartphone. She looked disappointed when Kevin explained it would run out of power. But she shrugged.

Good songs for a bit. She listened to sixteen more songs, nodding to some, shaking her head and making him skip others. Then she sighed.

“Song. Go now.”

Kevin slid from her perch and stood, stretching his legs. The Trolls sighed, but then the beat began.

Thum, thumthumthum thum…

A marching song. It was time to go. One of Poisonbite’s lot had scouted back the way they’d come and looked worried.

“Humans. Many. Coming.”

The rest of the army. Kevin saw the Drummer look up once, snort contemptuously, and play on. She nodded at Kevin, Taganchiel, ignored Somo completely.

“Go.”

“We can help fight.”

“No. Go now. Before die.”

The Goblins hesitated. But now the Trolls were ushering them, with considerable agitation. Only one showed them a different route out of the caves. He jogged along. Hurry, hurry!

Why? Kevin glanced back. The Drummer was sitting there, calm as could be. She nodded at him. Come back and play more music sometime. The inviting drumbeats settled down and the thum began again. Growing in volume until his ears thought they’d burst.

“Fast!”

The Troll barked as they ran. He was leading them to another way out of the caves. Taganchiel kept glancing back. An army was flooding the caves, to kill the Trolls. Was the Drummer not going to run? Did she have that much confidence in her warriors? Why…?

They had their answer near the end of their journey. An hour out of the center of the Trolls’ home must have been enough time for the Humans to get close enough. The rising drumbeats made it easy to figure out which way to go.

They were thunderous where Kevin was, and they were nearly out of the caves. He couldn’t imagine how loud it was inside. But then it happened.

He heard a second drum, quieter than the first, but struck with such force by a Troll’s strength that it made a sound beyond even the biggest drums Humans had ever imagined. It echoed out of the deeps.

Whum. Whum. Whum!

Kevin actually felt like he was in danger of losing his hearing, and he had been in a band and not worn protective earplugs once. But then he heard a second Troll drummer begin to play. Then a third…

Then he realized what they were doing at the same time as the others. They began to sprint for the opening as the Troll leading them sighed sadly that he wouldn’t join in. He helpfully explained their defense mechanism.

“Loud.”

The Goblins, Ogres, and Human fled the Troll Caves and into the daylight just in time. The thunder from below died down, but Kevin still heard it. Like an earthquake.

A hundred Trolls playing drums so thunderously that only the ultra-strong caves could even withstand the vibrations of air and stone. So loud they shattered [Silence] spells. So loud they might actually kill anyone who wasn’t a Troll from the waves of sound alone.

It played like that for ten minutes. A roaring sound that sent every bird for miles flying. Kevin gulped. He didn’t know if the Humans survived it. But he doubted any of them would risk going deaf to try to take the caves from the Trolls.

It was like fighting Merdon, in a way. Poisonbite rubbed at her ears.

“Trolls. How do they do it?”

Their Troll guide was already headed back into the cave. He nodded once at Kevin, turned, and gave Somo a complex gesture that made the Ogres nearly charge him, snarling. But he gave Kevin a wink.

“Thick eardrums.”

Kevin started. That was the most complexly syllabic word he’d heard one of them say. The Troll nodded, and headed down.

They had drums. They clearly knew Goblins. Kevin wondered if they went above. Maybe some went travelling. Were there other Trolls in Izril? He stood there, with the Goblins, as the Caves of Drums became quiet once more. But Kevin would always know, whenever he saw a cave, that somewhere, in a deep cave, sat a Troll, playing drums, without any care in the world beyond music.

It made him less scared of caves. Or at least—this one. Kevin sighed. They’d made it to safety. Maybe with permanent hearing damage. But now…he turned to Taganchiel.

“Time to find Rags. Hopefully she’s at Goblinhome, eh?”

The [Shaman] gave him a blank look. He said something. Kevin frowned.

“What?”

The [Shaman] looked puzzled. He cupped a hand to one ear. He asked Kevin what he’d said. The young man realized there was a ringing in the back of his head.

“What?”

——

Of all the things to ask about, of all the secrets and deals to be made, she surprised Fithea as she sat in a sanctuary of trees. Not a wild, overgrown place, but neatly-grown. Not trimmed, no, but each plant in its place.

A Dryad’s home. It was Fithea who sat there, looking gnarled and…sad. Yes, sad. Because she was so old. She was wood turned to stone. And Ryoka thought—it meant she had lost something. Everything.

“Thank you for speaking with me, Ryoka Griffin. They call you Wind Runner. I know you now, more than before. More than Courier. Friend of the furthest travellers. Friend of Fae.”

Ryoka shivered. Fithea knew! The Dryad stared at Ryoka, with such an intense longing…

“That voice. Never have I heard it, yet I heard voices. That night. What did you do? Once, I knew, there were some visitors. The winter folk come, but only for winter and tricks. How did you…?”

“I’ve been to their lands, Fithea. Should I call you um, Lady Fithea or honored…?”

The Dryad’s smile was bleak and bitter.

“Those are names this kingdom gives me. Conservator of Forests. Half-Elves speak to me as if they owned the forests. They forget. I am Fithea the Last. Fithea Deadwood. Do you know me?”

Ryoka gulped.

“You’re…a Dryad?”

Two burning, glowing eyes in the old wood face.

“Yes. Not many remember. You do. But look at me. Do you know why my body is lost to stone? My forest is long gone. My tree is dead. The wise protectors fled into the sea. Kin of fang and fur are dead or wild or the last hide. The great forests are all but gone or tamed. So I will soon follow. But for now, I am part of this place they call Ailendamus. For my kind. Do you understand?”

“Immortals.”

Ryoka whispered. Fithea’s smile was cracked, like stone.

“Yes. You have met many, now.”

“I’m…I’m sorry about disturbing them.”

A gnarled hand rose, a slow gesture from side to side like the shake of a head.

“Better you didn’t die. Gilaw is young. Wild. They made her Great Knight because she is strong, but she is a child. I teach her, but she is young.”

Ryoka’s head turned. Gilaw had a room next to Fithea’s, and she had slunk in there, but Ryoka saw the telltale signs of a mess in part of this garden-home. A…nest of dead branches and feathers.

A giant one. It could hold a beast of incredible size, and the feathers, like the one Sammial had grabbed as a trophy, were scattered about.

“Er…what is Gilaw? Maybe that’s a private question. I know I—”

“A Griffin.”

Ryoka nearly spat out the earthy tea she’d been served in a pewter cup.

“A Griffin?”

“Not like the mortal ones. She was one amongst generations. She will someday rule her kind, but she is barely forty years old. They found her alone, born of a nest by chance, parents slain. By adventurers. Fools. But that is how it is for all of us. They are all children. You understand? I live to raise them to be old. Some will be, in a hundred years. Others? Longer.”

Ryoka took in a breath. Fithea was so natural about it. She drank by dipping her fingers into the water, like a tree might if it could move. The liquid in the cup didn’t go down, but Fithea just rested her hand in the cup and it slowly emptied over their conversation.

“You’re willing to tell me all this, Fithea? Just…so easily?”

The stone Dryad gave Ryoka a steady look. No—not steady. It burned with desire. Her other hand trembled as she offered Ryoka food clearly snatched from the kitchens.

“Yes. Yes. You know my kin. They spoke to me, from afar. I have not heard…and you bear coinage of another place. Could—could—are there my kind there? Is there a way? You are my guest. Ask me anything, I shall answer.”

“Would Rhisveri be angry if you did?”

Ryoka hesitated. This wasn’t what she expected, but Fithea looked longing. No, desperate. It made Ryoka feel like she was taking advantage of the Dryad’s desperation because she was about to do just that. Yet it was her way in.

“Rhisveri gave us shelter. He needs us to some extent. He does not rule me. I taught him the magic of forests. He is younger than I.”

“I see.”

Ryoka sipped at her drink again.

“So Menorkel, the Merfolk…”

“They come to us, like Gilaw. Most were always there. It was Rhisveri who brought them together, out of hiding. A final sanctuary built and protected by Humans. Only a Wyrm thinks like this.”

Fithea shrugged. Ryoka was fascinated.

“Then Menorkel. I’m sorry, let me show you some of the money…but can I ask about Menorkel?”

“Of course.”

Fithea’s eyes were greedy as Ryoka pulled out the magical coins. She reached for one, and snatched her hand back, barely able to contain herself. She stared at one. She might not have been able to read it, but Ryoka could, and the Dryad somehow knew what it said.

Life. Ryoka met her gaze.

“Menorkel?”

She prompted and Fithea jerked her attention back.

“He is old-blooded. Oldest blooded, perhaps, along with Wyrms.”

“He’s taller than he looks, isn’t he?”

Ryoka had suspected as much, but Fithea rewarded her with a nod.

“Even here, he is too large to be hidden well. So Rhisveri gave him a charm.”

“…How much taller?”

The Dryad pondered the question. She shrugged, once.

“He is second-tallest among our kind. Rhisveri is taller.”

So…shorter than a Wyrm that could literally rise hundreds of feet into the air. Ryoka gulped.

“He’s just a kid, isn’t he?”

Fithea paused in fiddling with a ball of rice. She gave the Wind Runner a sharp look. Because the young woman was correct.

“Yes. If you wish to speak with him, he is a guest. But ask your questions. May I…may I hold this stone? It speaks to me.”

“Of course. They are mine, but I might be willing to trade them. For the right price. And if we can talk…I think we can both help each other out.”

The Dryad was only half-listening. She closed her eyes as she held the stone. Then she looked at Ryoka, with real hope in her gaze. Maybe…Ryoka thought of the broken gate in Ailendamus’ depths. It was gone, but if you could put a bit of money through, maybe you could open it just once, just once for someone who didn’t belong here anymore?

Melidore promised the [Witches]…she looked at the Dryad and began to bargain in earnest. For at last, she did have something she wanted.

——

Something he wanted too. Rhisveri paced around, snapping at Sophridel. The Elemental of Masks kept secrets, by his nature. He was trustworthy, again by nature, or at least, his main form was.

“I don’t know what she summoned, but that coinage is invaluable. I must have it. She is taunting me, Sophridel, but she can’t know what I possess!”

“This one does not know what you possess, Rhisveri. Secrets kept. Alliances founded upon doubt. Disturbs.”

“I do not need to inform you of every treasure I possess! You are here for counsel, Sophridel.”

Rhisveri snapped at the immortal, who, like Fithea, held some sway even over him. The Elemental made no response. Rhisveri wasn’t sure if he had feelings that could be hurt.

“Explain value of currency. Money is artifice. Like a mask, the worth dependant. Paper. Metal. Negotiable.”

“Not this money. Dead gods, are you blind? Do I have to explain basic economics to you?”

“Yes.”

The Wyrm elaborated with a sigh.

“It’s universal currency. Do you have any idea how valuable that is? It is worth something in every world. And there are more than one! Money, gold even, is worth little in a world where gold might literally pave the streets, but that currency? It is inherently magical and you can feel it too. So the value is not just deferred, but present in the coinage itself. In fact—in everything but a highly-magical society, the value grows, especially if there is not any inherent magic at all! A universal coin that has value that cannot be taken away.”

His eyes shone. He practically salivated at the currency with its unique value. Sophridel gave Rhisveri a blank, blank stare.

“Money is still dependant upon culture and systems of economics. Debatable.”

“Go eat yourself!”

Rhisveri snarled. If there was ever a time he wished for a peer like a damned Dragon…at least they knew the value of concepts like this. He tried to figure out a way to get all of Ryoka’s money and the other objects she owned. Not for…that. Not for everything she owned, ten times over.

It was far too valuable, and no one could know what it was. Not Fithea, not Ryoka. Thankfully, all the people who did know were long dead.

——

A song for even the dead to listen to. Numbtongue played on his guitar as they travelled. Slower, after the mad dash of yesterday.

Changed. A Nameless Soldier flexed his hands, feeling the air around him belong to him. The other Antinium gazed at the oldest member of their kind among the Free Antinium who was not Klbkch or the Free Queen.

The first Free Antinium with an aura. He was not the only one. Gothica sat, adjusting her umbrella, smiling darkly in a world of midnight. She actually had a little zone of shadow around her.

Perfectly gothic. Ulvama kept poking herself, adjusting to her new class, and Snapjaw was cheering up Badarrow, beaming with her new class.

Fierre was lying face-down in the wagon, under a blanket. The Vampire who had gotten neither aura nor class consolidation was being tended to by Octavia, who occasionally gave her a pat on the shoulder.

Sergeant Gna lay next to Fierre, in much the same ‘corpse face-first in the mud’ position. The [Goblinfriend Bug-Captain] was not happy.

By contrast, the Goblins were in great spirits. Numbtongue was playing loudly, and they were grinning. Occasionally one would poke their head up over the wagon.

“Friend!”

“Shut up! Get away!”

They laughed so hard they nearly threw up. The Antinium kept staring at Gna too. Wow. She was a friend. That was so nice of her.

But of music, it was Numbtongue. He felt, after that run, that he had remembered something. He had not levelled, it was true. Yet he had remembered.

Redfangs. So he played, loudly, and remembered his companions, who would have loved the mad run. He didn’t fear being heard; Niers’ Skill still kept them relatively safe, although they travelled by evening and night, stopping at dawn.

He played the Ballad of the Redfangs, the same song he always worked on. The tale of thirteen Goblins who had come to an inn.

For the three ghosts who marched behind him. A lost Goblin, half-remembered, damaged, following a Hobgoblin warrior with a sword and a big Hob wishing he could munch on some rocks.

Ghosts. The song remembered them. It remembered them all.

What a strange company. One that had literally led an army on a run across countless miles. They looked like regular people unless you could see through a very powerful Skill.

Or…you knew they were Goblins. There were multiple Hobs in this group, with the power of Chieftains…sort of. So, for anyone who could see ghosts or sense fellow Goblins, it was confusing.

Still, the food was good. Even the bugs. Rasktooth kept staring left. Infinitypear saw his travelling buddy frown as he looked at some Goblins gamely marching with him. They were so…ordinary that Rasktooth assumed someone had okayed them. Badarrow, or Numbtongue, or Bird.

Otherwise…he poked the Goblin walking next to him, with a big white handprint on her shoulder. She swatted his finger, absently, and stared at Numbtongue and the ghosts. Another poke.

“Eh?”

She growled at him. Rasktooth gave her a long stare.

“Who you? Where you come from?”

The Goblin gave Rasktooth an exceedingly blank look. She pointed vaguely.

“Over there.”

“Oh.”

Rasktooth thought about it. He glanced in the vague direction she was pointing.

Well, it checked out.

——

“Six came to rest. Six, for one last test.

A village with no reason to die, but a voice to hear.

For memory, for flowers, there fell Bugear…”

Numbtongue was working on the lyrics. It was hard to put ‘Bugear’ into a rhyme, but his name mattered. He replayed the verses about Esthelm; that was good, workshopped material.

He was glad the Goblins and even some travellers liked the music. Few kept pace with them so late at night, but occasionally he saw a traveller turn to listen.

But it couldn’t be just headturningly good. It had to be beautiful. Something so sad it brought you to tears, so glorious when it mattered that it scorched the soul.

It was wrong to say that Numbtongue had no real desire or inclination towards his class. It was just that he hated playing anything that wasn’t good enough. Especially when it mattered.

For the moment, he played. He had been there, so only he could remember it properly. He, Badarrow, and Rabbiteater.

The last brothers.

It was also wrong to say that the song, as it was, was inherently poor. It was just a composition of Numbtongue’s finest work, some filler, and a conflicting bunch of ideas.

For instance, was it appropriate to have an electric guitar riff instead of a dirge for Bugear? Bugear probably would have appreciated it, but thematically it might be a bit off.

Nevertheless, Gothica glanced up as Numbtongue began to play like lightning, and actual electricity made the horse skip forwards a bit.

Music as you had never heard it, from an instrument born of knowledge of Earth. The Singer might have copies of that kind of music, and her own version, but this was the first instance of it existing in Izril outside of a recording.

The Hobgoblin’s music was electric. The company listened. Fierre poked her head up, nodding appreciatively. Salkis started. She liked this music. It was definitely the right choice to come here, bugs and annoyances or not, even if she hadn’t been able to do nearly as much fighting as she’d hoped. She’d levelled. Worth it.

Niers Astoragon wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. He just felt it lacked accompaniment.

“Bird, am I getting old? Old people have no taste in music.”

Bird tilted his head.

“Whether you have taste or not, you are certainly old.”

“Thank you, Bird.”

However, the consequence of Numbtongue’s playing wasn’t so much in affirming the relative age of his listeners. It was in how it affected them. Especially the ones who’d never heard it before.

Some of the Goblins began oohing or pointing at Numbtongue. Look at that! Look at that! Snapjaw stopped snuggling with Badarrow on her horse—she’d let someone else take over Icecube for the day—to frown.

“One, two…Badarrow, who those Goblins?”

The [Sniper] frowned at the odd Goblins. At last, he took notice of them. Just in time to see one of them approvingly see Numbtongue playing and decide this was a jam session. She pulled out a curious bone flute out of a pouch and began to play on it.

The haunting melody made Numbtongue falter for a second, but it was complementary, not competing. He turned to stare, but assumed for the first second that it was a Goblin disclosing a hither-to unknown musical gift.

The two began to experimentally duet as Badarrow and Snapjaw exchanged glances. They’d picked up Goblins? They were sort of used to it; like ticks, a Tribe could actually pick up Goblins. But it wasn’t something they wanted now.

Especially when attention came their way. And the bone flute/electric guitar solo finally picked up the wrong kind of attention.

“Excuse me. What is that music? We’ve been listening to it for the last hour.”

Numbtongue started. He recoiled, nearly went for his sword, but relaxed just in time as some Gnolls caught up down the road. The group slowed, uneasily, and Garia gulped.

But the sixty-odd Gnolls who’d come their way were as friendly as they could be. They even sniffed Numbtongue.

“Hello, brother! What tribe are you from, yes?”

Numbtongue stared at Bird. The Antinium helpfully tipped his hat, but there was no way his Skill could fool this many people.

Somehow, he did. And the Gnoll group was from a local tribe. Their leader explained.

“We’re hunting, yes? For one-horns. There are few about.”

“One horns? I don’t know them. I thought all Gnolls were at uh, Meeting of Tribes.”

Numbtongue blinked. The Gnolls were sniffing the air, looking a bit puzzled, but they clearly thought he was a Gnoll and their company was full of Drakes and Gnolls. They took them to be City Gnolls and Drakes.

“Ah, you cityfolk. Not all of a tribe goes. Our Chieftain’s over there. Probably eating all the food in sight. We are the Lomost Tribe. We settled this place; well, the Drakes love to say otherwise.”

The Gnoll indicated ‘this place’, which included the local hills, lowlands, which was fairly elevated in terrain. The Goblin with the bone flute rolled her eyes at the Gnolls, but was hiding behind the wagon.

“I see. Uh. Hrr.”

Numbtongue did his best. He felt bemused by the convivial Gnolls. One pointed to his guitar.

“It looks normal, but it must be enchanted, yes? How do you make it sound like that?”

“Skills.”

“Told you.”

Another [Hunter] sighed. They wanted to hear some songs and play with him. That was it.

“Why don’t you stop with our tribe tonight?”

“Er…we are moving.”

“Our tribe moves too. Are you going too fast? Ah, if you cannot, you cannot. But play with us for a bit, eh?”

Numbtongue kept glancing at Snapjaw, who looked alarmed, but their cover was holding amazingly well. He needed this Skill himself! He wondered how Bird had gotten it. He was just preparing to oblige them with a few of his songs he’d learned from Kevin when the Gnoll’s relaxed demeanor changed.

“Hunt Leader…”

One of the Gnolls whispered. The Hunt Leader, who’d spoken to Numbtongue, looked sideways. He cursed.

“Friend, don’t move. You’ve got…Goblins.”

The Hobgoblin gave him the best poker-face of his life.

“Goblins? No way.”

The Gnoll just pointed. Numbtongue’s head slowly turned and his heart beat faster. But it wasn’t at Snapjaw that the Gnoll was pointing. Or even Rasktooth or the Antinium.

It was at a little Goblin peeking at them from under the wagon. The Goblin with the bone flute, and a group of about eight. Numbtongue…had never seen them before today. They were not part of the group. Accordingly…

“Damn. They’re getting bolder.”

One of the Gnolls cursed. Numbtongue tensed. He didn’t know what was about to happen next, but his hand oh-so-casually moved, towards the hilt of his sword. They all had bows and weapons to hunt one-horns, the thick-skinned rhinos who were worth a lot of money for meat, hide, and horn.

The Gnoll [Hunters], oblivious to the growing danger, muttered. Niers watched from his hiding place. Was this going to be a bloodbath? He didn’t care for massacres, but his Skills suppressed their [Dangersense].

Until the hammer falls. They’d lose cover for a long time, but…his eyes narrowed. Wait a second.

The [Hunt Leader] didn’t go for his bow. Instead, he picked something off the ground. Numbtongue’s hand moved—but the Gnoll picked up a small stone, and threw it and sent the Goblin scurrying backwards.

“Get lost, you pests! You’ll die if someone sees you! Scat! Get away from here!”

The Goblins scurried backwards, making rude gestures and calling out to the Gnolls. Numbtongue’s jaw opened.

“Brother—don’t go for your sword. They’re harmless.”

One of the Gnolls looked at Numbtongue with concern. More threw stones and shouted, chasing the little Goblins back. The Goblins stared at Numbtongue’s group, more confused by them than afraid of the Gnolls.

“Wh—you’re not killing Goblins?”

“We don’t. It’s a local tribe. Listen, brother. Don’t get up in arms about killing Goblins to us. This tribe’s known to us. Lomost doesn’t make enemies if we can help it. Kill some of the Goblins and it escalates. I’ll explain it all over some Velrusk Claw if you can spare the time.”

Numbtongue’s jaw worked as the [Hunt Leader] tried to explain to the Goblin-hating Gnoll exactly that not all Goblins were bad enough to murder on sight. It was a tough up-sell, but he might have a chance.

He turned to the others in the caravan. Even Niers agreed. They had to figure this one out. Sergeant Gna was staring at the traitors to her species incredulously. What tribe was this?

But then the Hobgoblin just grinned, whipped out his guitar, and began to play. Music brought interesting meetings after all.

——

It was indeed something, to share time with a master of the craft. Sometimes it was young talent, yet to be developed, uncertain. Other times it was natural ability, the product of endless amounts of practice, but completely self-taught.

Numbtongue was certainly in the latter category. But there were also the musicians of talent, enthusiasm, and practice with formal educations.

Did it mean they were intrinsically better? Perhaps not. But they could be very good, and arguably better than even the self-taught if you added the things money and professional training could buy. Money could buy things that made music better. Especially if those things were magic.

All this to say that sometimes the world’s finest was an illusion. Sometimes, it was well-deserved.

The Four Winds of Teral set out from Wistram Academy with only one passenger. Not a Gold-rank team for two reasons. Firstly, they were too busy and the Courier ship was to leave within the day. The Silver Swords had a reason to stay and learn more, for at least a while longer, despite their pressing desire, and even their leader could see that.

The second was that their passenger refused to have company. And one did not argue with a Truestone Golem.

…Unless of course, one had a damn good reason to do so, and an ego to match. So, amazingly, Cognita was informed she would share passege and that the Four Winds was making one stop.

“I am terribly sorry, Miss, er…Cognita of Wistram.”

The sweating [Captain] saw the Truestone Golem’s head turn. She was reading a book and sitting while watching the waves go by. Cognita looked at Bressa.

“Captain Bressa. You are confused as to my address. When you address a woman of uncertain rank, what title would you use?”

“…I would say Miss, uh, if I didn’t—”

“Then I am Miss Cognita.”

Captain Bressa cast a look at the other [Sailors] of the Four Winds. It was a Garuda-led ship in many regards; she was the child of a Garuda-Human match, but the [Sailors] often had wings. You wanted to harness the power of the Four Winds, the famed Courier-Ship.

“Absolutely, Miss Cognita. I am terribly sorry, and it will not happen again. As I was saying, I am so sorry, but we cannot avoid this contract. The other passengers booked our ship—they have travelled nearly nonstop to get to a port and one of the passengers is a famed individual.”

“I see. I will accept this.”

Cognita sat back. She kept reading. That had been, oh, two days ago. She wasn’t in that much of a hurry to get to Illivere. The outdoor chair she’d been reading in, and indeed, the book, were her company. She didn’t read fast; she watched the ocean. Just watched the ocean, birds, plants, activity on the decks, so it took her two full days to close the book, having read it.

She hadn’t actually moved from her seat for two days straight. A fact that disconcerted the [Sailors] who had to eat, stretch, and sleep. But Cognita was enjoying herself.

She did not look forward to visitors, however. The Four Winds was hired for her, and she would rather not have passengers who stared and asked questions or treated her like…a thing. She wondered how disreputable it would be to toss someone into the sea.

However, it seemed it had to be done. Captain Bressa offered Cognita a partial refund, but the Truestone Golem didn’t want a refund. She just wanted no passengers. She watched, face stony, as they pulled into a dock. She wasn’t sure which continent it was at first. It was not Zeres, and a far smaller port than the ones she knew. And Cognita remembered every port she’d been to, on every continent of the world.

“I am told one of the guests has met you before, Miss Cognita. Perhaps that is some comfort?”

The Truestone Golem’s head slowly turned.

“I do not enjoy the company of many people who claim to know me, Captain Bressa. We will see how I react.”

If the [Captain] had been nervous before…she hoped this would not ruin the reputation of her ship. She already had Khelt’s wrath to worry about—she should never have taken that job for the Terandrian crusade! She was just glad they wanted to land on Chandrar’s south, not anywhere near the Revenant-class undead tearing up the north. She was going to sail wide of the northern coast until that was over.

However, you couldn’t refuse some passengers and just refund them so easily. Were they Cognita of Wistram? No, but one was close. The other?

“Looks like lots of cargo, Captain! Dead gods, look at that. A menagerie of stuff to load and an entire entourage.”

Bressa cursed as Cognita’s eyes flashed. She lowered the gangplank and strode down to meet her guests—and advise them they might have to confine themselves to their quarters. All things considered, it went well.

They only drew their blades in outrage once, but their leader was more understanding when he heard the name ‘Cognita’. They ponced up the deck, and yes, Bressa felt it was an appropriate verb to describe them. Then again, it was a royal entourage of sorts and her guest was a bit famous world-wide.

As for the other one, when he heard Cognita’s name, he came up the gangplank, stopping their leader from introducing himself despite the risk, to Cognita.

“Allow me first, [Prince]. She is not…amicable at all times. Cognita of Wistram? Might you remember me?”

A figure walked up the deck, in travelling boots, and a colorful cloak fluttering behind. In one hand he carried an artifact of such power that Cognita blinked. She recognized it, and focused on his face. Her look of annoyance changed to one of almost pleasure.

“You are Barelle the Bard.”

One of the world’s famous [Bards] swept her a bow. The magical harp he carried, with strings each of unique power, was held in one hand. Cognita actually smiled at him, then regarded his companion.

“I know you as well. Wistram had cause to feature you.”

“Lady Truestone. I humbly greet you in the name of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. My kingdom may be mighty, but it is nothing compared to your beauty.”

The [Prince] bowed with a flourish. Cognita gave him a level look, but passed him from the sea-dunk test. Prince Zenol of Nerrhavia’s Fallen had travelled hard to meet the Four Winds of Teral from inland, and it showed a bit, despite his entourage of servant-bodyguards’ luggage and their larger group.

Barelle the Bard glanced at Zenol as the [Prince] went to oversee the loading of cargo. They wanted to be out of port in twenty minutes or less.

“I believe the last time we met was six years ago, Miss Cognita.”

“Yes. You interviewed me for your latest song. Is it finished?”

Barelle looked wistful. He plucked at a chord on his harp. For a moment, the harbor paused, as a single chord stilled the waters, the rocking boat, and made all go quiet.

Such was the power of the great [Bard]. A man Cognita could respect in that sense.

“Almost. I have sung it many times, but my tales are more popular. It is one thing for me to sing it, with the Skills and power allotted to me. Another to write something that even a Level 5 [Bard] can recite and bring a room to silence.”

“That is true. That you know it is well. I am not displeased to meet you, Barelle. I believe your company is more welcome. As for the [Prince]…equanimous. Are you travelling in his company?”

She had not missed how familiar the two were. Barelle nodded. He eyed the [Prince] as Zenol strode up the decks. He looked fabulously stunning in his rich clothes, without an adventurer’s armor, but Cognita saw his sword was the most powerful artifact he held, and his defensive armaments. He was a match for any one of the Silver Swords at least, beyond them in terms of gear.

He was also an adventurer by the simplest of reckonings; she saw how he had replaced limbs with less-fitted ones. He had taken wounds and it did not show to non-experts, but it did to her.

“He participated in the Village of the Dead’s raid, Cognita. I saw fit to interview him and many of the others. Yet it is Prince Zenol I follow now, because he returns to Chandrar to chase the lead of the missing team.”

“The Horns of Hammerad.”

Memory stirred. Cognita saw Barelle’s eyes light up; he could spot a connection.

“You know them?”

“I am familiar with two of their number. They were—are—[Mages] of Wistram. They live.”

Barelle nodded.

“So it seems. Prince Zenol considers it a debt unpaid, so we are bound for Nerrhavia’s Fallen.”

Interesting. Cognita appraised the [Prince] again. He strode up the gangplank, and Bressa called for the ship to depart. Fast as could be, the Four Winds turned for its next destination.

“I see. Why do you join him? Barelle the Bard was content to his station. A great song for the ages, but no more adventures. That is what you told me the last time we met. Now, you are headed towards a continent rife with war, and towards Nerrhavia’s Fallen, at the side of a [Prince] who may endanger you. Why?”

Barelle gave her a shamefaced smile. His hair had grey in it. It had not the first time he met her, before he earned the first string on that harp. How soon it changed. Yet she was glad to see something had returned from his youth.

“I confess, my ambition died out. I was complacent, Cognita. Perhaps that’s why my songs stalled and I just made a comfortable living. But of late, I have had—interesting days. I was there when the first plays struck Invrisil. I met unique people, and had the chance to perform at an event which—well, I cannot say. I found myself asking what the stories behind each were, and I did not know.”

“You were drawn to the stories. That is Barelle the Bard, the Meddling Storyteller of tales.”

The [Bard] who found himself in grand tales and sometimes took up arms that they should end the right way. He looked old and young. He smiled, shamefaced.

“I confess, it was not just the desire to know that made me come out of my semi-retirement, Cognita. One of the stories I had hoped to investigate—ended. Too abruptly. I have seen it many times, as you have. Or maybe it is not ended, but I cannot imagine how it will return. The Horns are part of it.”

“Really.”

“Yes. I met with adventurers from the Village of the Dead raid. They are still fighting over who will gain the Helm of Fire, but the Horns of Hammerad saw what lay in the center of that place. Isn’t that a story worthy of Barelle the Bard? Not to mention, the King of Destruction has awoken! He will be more than the lifeless man on the throne. I wish to see it. So—yes. I am going to Chandrar.”

The [Bard] stood on the decks, breathing in the salt air as Cognita felt the ship move. She envied the life in his eyes, rekindled by adventure. He looked at her, and took her in fully.

“There is a story behind Cognita of Wistram leaving her home. May I ask it?”

The Truestone Golem considered him for a long time. Stories. True and untrue, flawed, the stories she told herself about Zelkyr, the ones told by history and the present.

“Perhaps. Yes, perhaps it was well we met after all, Barelle the Bard. Let us talk. As for the [Prince]?”

She glanced over, to where he was hovering, eyes alight with interest. Cognita glanced at Barelle.

“Does he matter? Or is he just a smaller player in your story?”

Barelle glanced at Zenol, who hadn’t heard them, only saw them looking his way. He bowed again, and Barelle smiled.

“Everyone has a story, Cognita of Wistram. Perhaps you will think more kindly of him if I tell you his?”

She considered it.

“I will listen.”

Thus, Barelle the Bard stood, setting his foot on the lip of a railing, and lifted his harp. The deck went silent and even Bressa turned to listen as Barelle the Bard gave a performance. He strummed one chord that sang like the sea, as blue as the sky. His double-harp had a mortal set of chords, and the magical strings on the other side.

Was it music or chant? Cognita listened. It was not rehearsed, but it was free-form, told by Barelle to the ringing notes. He touched the magical chords only rarely; they had power, but it was power that only had its magic because it was spent more rarely than the mortal chords.

“There is a story behind Prince Zenol of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. [Prince of Sands]. Prince of Isphel. One of many of Nerrhavia’s royal lines that stem from the throne. Long ago, the [Prince] left for an adventurer’s life. For war, for death, for untimely end and strife. He did so not just for glory or gold, but to fulfill fate. His father’s story, which shapes him. A tale of old.”

Prince Zenol watched Barelle the Bard. With a kind of eagerness and pain mixed. Cognita looked at him as Barelle told the story of the former Prince of Isphel. Now there was a man who might have risen higher. Who had risen higher.

A [Prince] who had carried his line into fame. A lion among Nerrhavia’s sheep.

Who died when his son was but a boy and left their house weakened irrevocably. And a legacy that would never be matched. Barelle touched a string like blood and it echoed across the sea as the Four Winds raced onwards. Past. Present. Future. Zenol listened. He whispered.

“[Like a Lion, He Leapt].”

“With his pride, he died alone. He left only his sword. His last Skill. And the burden of legacy on Prince Zenol Isphel. The lion who leaps. He did not die at the Village of the Dead. For he was taught, by Antinium no less, that the lion never fights alone.”

Barelle finished the high chant. There was a moment of silence as the last magic finished humming in the air, then applause. Zenol bowed slightly as people looked at him. He had a [Prince]’s air; many couldn’t have borne an entire story about them, but Zenol kept his head high.

An [Innkeeper] would have fled. But each to their own and Barelle…his eyes lingered on Zenol as he addressed Cognita, more quietly.

“Where will fate take him next? For the bonds of adventurers he returns to his kingdom. I do not know where the story ends, but I shall watch and see whether son steps out of the shadow of father.”

“You are fascinated by such things.”

“It is worth living dangerously to find out how each story ends. And they should end right. Gloriously, tragically—but right. So they call me the Meddling Storyteller.”

Barelle chuckled self-consciously. Cognita nodded. She took some things from the story. Little sympathy for Zenol. An appreciation of who she was. But perhaps…she looked at Barelle.

“I have never known much music. My master never cared for it to the degree of others.”

“Oh? That is interesting. Did he have no desire for it?”

“He simply never truly cared for music as made by mortal hands. And Golems play music poorly. They do not create. Perhaps, though…you will show me how to play a harp before we land. If one can be made for my hands.”

Cognita saw her fingers change shape. Barelle’s eyebrows rose and his eyes lit up with curiosity.

“Ah. There is a tale here. I am glad I travelled. To Chandrar, then, Cognita. Adventurers await. If only I could be everywhere and live longer. But such beings do not exist. Even Djinni are limited.”

He smiled. Cognita almost did too.

“There is a word for that, Barelle.”

“Really? Forgive an old [Bard], but I have never known it.”

The Truestone Golem’s eyes glittered.

“I would speak it. If you could survive it. There are words that Golems know that even [Bards] lack. Someday, Barelle. When you are a truly great [Bard], seek me out. I hope you will accomplish it before the end of your life.”

The man’s eyebrows rose. He looked at Cognita. She smiled as she set the flames of his curiosity higher.

It might be an interesting trip after all.

——

Music rang through the tunnels of the Antinium just once. It was quashed in a moment. The frightened little Worker hid in a corner and Anand had to carry him away with Goat and the others.

He had never heard the Armored Queen, who seemed nicest of all the Queens, even the Free Queen, scream like that. But the terrified little Worker, Pie Piper, had begun to play music and she had heard it and…

It distressed him so much he had to talk to Klbkch during their daily debriefing. That was what Klbkch referred to it as. Anand scurried up to the Antinium, reconnecting nerves and muscle. It was a long, painful process, being rebuilt.

However, Anand had to admit that Klbkch looked more dangerous. He was able to talk, and often discussed the building of ships, which was progressing now that they had a guide, albeit a terrified one.

But that was ongoing and neither here nor there. It was over there, in the underground lake. Today was about music. Klbkch had, of course, heard of the incident.

“Music will be forbidden in the Hives.”

“But why, Revalantor Klbkch? Bird sings to the Free Queen.”

“…He does?”

Anand hesitated.

“No?”

Klbkch stared at him. Anand amended his answer.

“Sometimes. Is it dangerous, in some way, Revalantor Klbkch?”

“It is unpleasant.”

“To Antinium?”

“To the Queens. The Free Queen’s decision is not that of the Armored Queen. Did she…react beyond screaming?”

Anand nodded.

“She was very upset. She told us that we will never make music in her presence again. She seemed…pained.”

For a long time, Klbkch was still, and the custom-Antinium delicately maneuvering gels to aid the developing body worked in silence.

“Yes. She would be. It is not a physical phenomenon, but a mental one that has troubled Antinium since our arrival on Izril, Strategist Anand. I inform you that you may not offend the Queens again and hinder their process. It is a commonality amongst other species as well. Memory causes pain.”

He expected Anand to grapple with the problem, but the Worker just nodded.

“Yes. It does. It hurts when I think of Erin.”

Klbkch was silent. His great wisdom learned from many years had been already internalized.

He expected Anand to shuffle off, but the Strategist hesitated.

“Revalantor Klbkch…may I talk to you about being sad? I am sad. I still think of Erin. So are the others.”

Klbkch evaluated his ability to move, and also his desire to talk to Anand about sadness and Erin being dead. He clacked his mandibles.

“Speak to Wrymvr instead. You informed me he was an inspirational leader in many ways.”

Anand hesitated. Yet he did not scurry off to find Wrymvr, who apparently could be more of a leader than Klbkch.

“…I would, but Wrymvr is not suitable for this conversation, Revalantor Klbkch.”

“Why not?”

“He does not care about us.”

This time Klbkch actually moved his head slightly. He glanced at Anand.

“Wrymvr is constantly appraising your actions, Anand. He is pleased about your progress and…kinder…than I am.”

Anand nodded amiably. He poked his fingers together, then refuted Klbkch.

“Yes, Revalantor Klbkch, but I have misphrased my communications. He can be caring, but he does not care about us. My perception is that Centenium Wrymvr is interested in our worth. Not if we live or die.”

Klbkch looked at Anand. Something like…approbation stirred in him. Because Anand was correct. That was probably what Xrn described. Anand went on.

“Wrymvr is very helpful to me. He tries to cheer me up when I am sad. He delivered the ship to me. He does what is helpful. However, I have seen the Twisted Antinium’s Hive. Wrymvr does not care about our lives. Only our function. I believe this is so, Klbkch.”

Ah. So that was why she called him insane. That was the difference between Wrymvr and Xrn. Klbkch considered Anand’s statement. If he was going to be depressed for another week, Wrymvr was going to be upset. So Klbkch tried to say the most comforting thing he could imagine.

“Do not be disheartened, Anand. Wrymvr may see you as a means to an end, but he is not biased.”

“…How so?”

Klbkch raised his mandibles in a fake smile.

“If he believed the benefits were worth the cost he would sacrifice me or Xrn, just like any of the Antinium and expect us to do the same. Wrymvr is committed to success.”

For some reason, Anand did not look particularly inspired by this information. His mandibles drooped.

“Now I am very sad, Revalantor Klbkch.”

The Antinium stared at Anand. This was so difficult. He tried a different tack.

“I have an interesting factoid, Anand. About Wrymvr as it pertains to this morning’s incident.”

The [Strategist] latched onto this and Klbkch saw him stop moping.

“What is this, Revalantor Klbkch?”

“It is not permissible to ask for a demonstration within the Queen’s hearing. However, I can inform you that Wrymvr is, himself, capable of singing.”

“What.”

Anand twitched his mandibles. Klbkch tried to nod, but his muscles weren’t there yet.

“He is capable of singing with multiple mouths. Quite adeptly.”

Rather than cheer Anand up, Klbkch got a suspicious look. Anand doubted him! Klbkch had no other recourse.

“Wrymvr. Wrymvr.”

“Klbkchhezeim.”

The two communicated, True Antinium to True Antinium. In truth, Wrymvr was one of the few that Klbkch could talk to like this and cared to.

“Wrymvr, I must ask you to sing to Anand to alleviate his fears that you do not care for his life on a personal level. Also, because he is growing depressed.”

“No.”

Klbkch paused.

“Why not? As I recall, you quite enjoy singing.”

“I will not sing again. Not until a sign our mission will succeed appears in fullness.”

There was something like Adamantium in that promise. Klbkch understood it full well. Exasperated, he kept Wrymvr in the link as he addressed Anand.

“…I assure you, Wrymvr can sing. He has declined to, but he is capable of music.”

“Yes, Revalantor Klbkch.”

“Why are you talking about singing?”

“I do not know. Anand has another issue he is bringing up. Indulging him boosts productivity.”

“You lead them poorly.”

“He perceives you don’t care about his fate. I do not care to converse with you given your lack of helpfulness.”

Klbkch snapped back mentally, coloring his mental tone with frustration. Wrymvr’s response was simple when it came back.

“Yet Anand comes to you. Therefore, he senses you do care, or can. This I agree with. That you do not, or do not try, is your failing. He is not of my Hive.”

The Slayer’s mandibles clicked a few times. In the end, he decided to talk to Anand since it was better than Wrymvr.

“Is it doubtful that Wrymvr is capable of song, Anand? Xrn is. We are able to perform every function you can. And more.”

“So Centenium sang?”

Anand peered at Klbkch, sitting on a stool, interested again. The Slayer tried to nod again and gave up.

“This is so. Are you happy again?”

Anand edged forwards on the edge of his seat.

“M-maybe. If you answer more questions. Were the Centenium like us? No one will tell me much, even the Grand Queen.”

For a moment, Klbkch was dumbfounded. Were they like…?

He couldn’t help it. A fluttering sound, like an insect, emerged from his mouth. Somewhere else in the Hivelands, Wrymvr copied the sound. Anand was terrified. Then he realized.

They were laughing.

“Like you. You are a copy of Galuc. You are nothing close t—”

Klbkch responded to Anand, and Wryvmr’s censor stopped him. He amended his statement.

“The Centenium had different personalities. So…yes, Anand. They were ‘like you’. Each one was different. Each one glorious. Complete in their function, beyond any other Antinium.”

“More or less. Some were more capable in all regards.”

This time Wrymvr’s comment left Klbkch speechless. He was silent—then gave Wrymvr a mental buffet so hefty it closed their connection. That was not an insult to Klbkch. That was…simply wrong.

Anand was still there, waiting for Klbkch’s next words. And because of what Wrymvr had intimated in thought, worse than word, Klbkch went on.

“Each one had great talents, Anand. Each one was…unique. Designed to be forerunners, exemplars of what they did. Some overlapped in talents. Some were truly unique. Yes, some sang. Of all of them, the hundred, there were some who did sing. Our Queen sang. So many could. Song…oh yes. We could ‘sing’. Not as you know it.”

It pained him to speak, so he stopped. Anand listened, then nodded, his eyes filled with understanding at last. They had sung.

“So that is why the Armored Queen was sad.”

“Sad? Yes…I suppose.”

“Did they make music? Or was it just singing that is not singing as I understood it?”

Klbkch’s head lowered. His mandibles drooped. For a long time, he hung there. Then he spoke.

“Only one ever learned an instrument that was not part of their body. If that is the difference, yes. One made music. The rest of us…no. To your question, there was one Antinium who ever fulfilled your criteria.”

Anand listened to the weary Slayer. To stories of old. How alike they were, how apparently different. Centenium. Of every form? Not all the same? What was Antinium, truly? He yearned to know.

“Is his statue among the Armored Queen’s?”

“Perhaps.”

“What is his name? I could look.”

Klbkch hesitated.

“His name was…”

——

“Czautha.”

The Death of Chains turned. Her body, inside of the Demons’ domain, was condensed. Still, she was reminiscent of a cloud of magic and color that had decided to take humanoid form. Two glowing eyes narrowed. For she was still wrathful.

The Death of Magic returned the look. Silvenia, Islandbreaker, The Curse of Elves, the Traitor of…well, one of Terandria’s traitors, did not back down.

She was a half-Elf. But Czautha thought that she came closest to the heritage of her kind. If Elves were pure magic, Silvenia was among the closest of her kind to that idea. Certainly, the closest living.

“I do not wish to speak with you, Silvenia. Begone.”

This was Czautha’s domain, and so even atmosphere as other species understood it was different. Still, Silvenia intruded.

“Ah, but I wish to speak to you, Czautha. Little whispers have reached my ears since our raid on Chandrar.”

“Our raid on Roshal.”

That was the difference. Little words, which heralded deep rifts. They had not cropped up as the Deathless were returned from their mortal wounds. Then, they had been grateful to live, too busy with the great news.

Flora.

Time had passed since then, and Czautha, the Djinni, Death of Chains, Chainbreaker, was reminded of how Silvenia was. She who loved wars, compared to the Djinni who would liberate her people, all slaves, if she could.

The Deathless looked at each other, and Czautha forced the hostility down. Now was not the time to fight. Silvenia might hold back, but she was always hungry for battle.

“Why have you come here, Silvenia?”

“Two reasons. The first is minor. We have time for the second. Yet the first bothers me. I interviewed the ones we brought to Rhir. One of them is a cousin of yours.”

“So?”

“His name is Azam. Or was. He is picking a new one, I know how you are with names, but since he has no new one…he told me something interesting, Czautha.”

The Death of Chains knew what was coming. She sighed.

“Yes. Which was?”

“In your raid, you came across a spellbook owned by a Gold-rank adventurer. The one who was on the scrying orbs everyone likes to watch?”

Silvenia wasn’t as interested in that. She peered at Czautha.

“He had a treasure. From the Putrid One. A spellbook. So powerful you could see it. You let him have it.”

“And?”

Silvenia narrowed her eyes as she floated towards Czautha. She was displeased. As if it didn’t matter to mention assassinating a [Knight] mid-transit and trying to kill a child and a girl in chains.

“You said I had ‘many spellbooks’ like that one. Did you appraise it? Did you check which spells it contained? Who wrote it?”

“I do not know. It was powerful, but I did not have time to investigate it. Every second mattered.”

Silvenia steepled her hands and ‘sat’, floating around Czautha.

“Indeed. Indeed. So you did not investigate, but you deemed this spellbook had nothing of value to me. Why?”

She was piqued. Former [Archmage] or not, Czautha rolled her shoulders and eyes. Silvenia’s own damaged features glared at her from their healing/stasis spells. Now here was someone who could bring back someone on the verge of death by magic alone. Flora had helped cure her, and thus she had expedited the return of the others, able to divide her magic rather than barely keep herself from dying.

The Djinni replied in a level tone, dismissing the memories of decades of pain, fighting for life.

“You do not need more tomes, Silvenia. I left it with a child of death who could take up arms. Who needed a weapon where he stood.”

What remained of Silvenia’s lips pursed. She was displeased. She glared at Czautha.

“There was the adventurer as well. A [Necromancer] of some talent. You should have taken him too. Level 40 would be acceptable as a lieutenant. Especially one who can create undead hordes. He was known enough. If we convinced him to speak and overwrote Wistram’s broadcast…”

Czautha interrupted Silvenia.

“Death of Magic. Do not lecture me about possibilities and choices. I am still displeased with you.”

The air turned ominous. The magic of the two beings collided, auras unto themselves such that even their distaste for one another created a magical storm that might have killed lesser spellcasters where they stood. Eventually, Silvenia floated back.

“Very well. I shall remember this, Czautha. Now is not the time for strife, however. I had two pieces of news. You are needed.”

“I am resting. Unless the Demon King summons me, or…”

Czautha was in no mood to be tugged around by Silvenia, but the half-Elf’s next words made her move. The Death of Magic turned and looked more serious than before.

“Czautha’qshe. One of them is coming.”

The Djinni’s eyes opened wide. Without a word, she looked at the Death of Magic. Then she followed, swiftly.

——

The Demon Kingdom was not as the Blighted Kingdom painted it. A horrific land of nightmares? It had nightmares. It had scars from war, like the Blighted Kingdom.

Yet this was home to a people apart. It was protected by the Deathless, beings of unsurpassed strength. It was not unpleasant to live in.

This was not the time to admire the Demons’ lands, however. Silvenia flew from Czautha’s domain. She blinked out of the air and teleported. Czautha just flew, and called out.

The Death of Wings took to the air. Harpies screamed around her as the most grievously wounded of the surviving Deathless flew. Czautha called out in worry, but this moment warranted even that.

They assembled. Not just Silvenia. Not just Czautha, or the Death of Wings. The might of Demons came together, lesser though they might be.

Bazeth, one of the Demons’ young [Generals], strode into place with every high-level Demon. Flora of Texas followed. Her nerves were humming.

Not just because Silvenia was there. Because all three Deathless were there, and she had only seen them like this twice. When wounded, and when the Demon King summoned them to give his words.

Now, they gathered a third time. Why?

Because they might be needed. Because their guests warranted it. Yet who would be guests to Demons? Only a few factions treated with them. And who warranted this level of—what? Respect?

Wariness?

“They are coming. Your Majesty.”

Czautha addressed the throne. A faint voice replied. Flora’s eyes flicked left—and the Demons stirred. Bazeth had a tight hold of his weapon. Flora looked at him.

“Is it them?”

“Yes.”

A terse answer. She had not seen him tense. Few came to the Demon King’s court without some measure of hardship, but she had never feared guests before. Not Drath. Not Dullahans or Drowned Folk or the few others.

They were not strong allies of the Demons. There was only one species in the entire world who could convene the Deathless by their very presence. One race which was known across the world.

The Black Tide of Izril. The monstrous species that came from Rhir. Yet oh, how they knew the wrong ones.

For now—Silvenia called out, and it might be warning or challenge. The ranks of Demon officers stirred. Flora felt the air grow tight.

You did not know them. Not the remnant that made it to distant shores. Here came the ones who remained.

The Antinium of Rhir.

What did she expect? Thunder and lighting? Portents? Omens? A bestial roar? Flora had never seen any of them, but she had heard Demons talk about the Antinium like the Blighted Kingdom talked about Demons.

With awe, fear, distaste—like stories. Now, something split the air as the doors were dragged open. Flora expected to hear the voices of the populace, some kind of murmuring, for the Demon King did not hold with silence. Silvenia would make a comment, or…

What she heard was music. The last thing she expected. Music, which by every note and second absorbed and reduced every other sound in the universe to stillness.

It sounded like voices. It sounded like alien reeds, singing. It sounded like what it was—music of insects, come to life. Flora had never heard a song like this.

It was a sign and welcome. She realized she could not even hear all the notes; they strayed into areas above and below her hearing. It should have made the sound discordant, but the musician played on multiple frequencies.

On an instrument he had made. Although it seemed not made, but grown, from the same arms and armor they carried. The same material as their bodies. Not the common chitin of insects, but something developed, refined until it became a kind of material analogous to that of steel or other qualities.

The last of it outside of Rhir was embodied in unbreakable swords carried by Klbkch the Slayer. The body of Xrn, the Small Queen. They had fragments.

These Antinium were made entirely of it. Flora saw the instrument was made of a string she could not name. It looked like a spiral staircase, ascending. Yet there were threads within the complex creation.

No normal fingers could hope to pluck the fine threads, of so many kinds, so thinly dispersed together that it seemed impossible to pick one out from the other, let alone distinguish the difference in pitch.

Yet this Antinium’s ‘fingers’ were thin enough to slip between the gaps, and so numerous they played the welcome, or…was it warning?…with ease. Vertical strings, horizontal, diagonal, ranging into pitches Flora had never dreamed of.

So came their representative. What Flora thought, her only conscious thought was—

How beautiful. Here was an alien. But an alien playing music. Not a bug. An insect of a civilization apart.

How beautiful. And…how weary. Even the music conveyed that. The Antinium stopped, surveying the Demons, without fear. Flora saw they were seven in total.

Their leader and six…representatives. Bodyguards? She heard Bazeth’s voice at last, as if he had held his breath for minutes.

“Czkelcill Mirrex. The Voice of the Antinium.”

Six came with him. Not Centenium—or so she didn’t think. True Antinium nevertheless.

These were the ones the lesser Demons watched, for if it came to battle, it would be Deathless versus the Centenium. They would have to stop at least one of the others.

Bazeth’s hand was so tight on his weapon…by contrast, Flora just backed away. She craned her head up at one; they were all different sizes.

All different forms, engineered for war. She was conscious of the weight on her hip. Yet she didn’t even move her hand towards the revolver at her side. Even if she had it in hand, would it do any good?

The Demon King rose, slowly, on his throne. Czkelcill halted before him, as the Demons watched.

The Voice of the Antinium did not bow. The Demon King spoke, softly, but audibly in the silence now pervading the room.

“We greet the Antinium of Rhir. Our allies.”

The Antinium did not gainsay the statement. Nor did they move. At last, Czkelcill spoke.

“You are not the Demon King of when last we met.”

The figure on the throne smiled bleakly.

“My mother is dead. The Demons have their king. Will you speak with me?”

“Yes.”

The Antinium ducked his head. His neck was long. His eyes…there was a glow to them, which never faded. Two of the Antinium stirred, were still.

They were speaking. Communicating, in flashes so fast that Flora could not even tell what was happening. Yet only Czkelcill spoke.

“We come to confer. To ask questions.”

“Then ask. Do the Antinium come to tell us they will leave Rhir a second time? Or do you wish to know about your kin on Izril?”

It was Silvenia who asked, gliding forwards to set herself in front of the throne. Next to her, Czautha, the Djinni mighty. The Death of Wings, still bleeding ichor, set herself on the other side. Three Deathless.

They spoke to Czkelcill. The Centenium looked at them as the Antinium stirred. Silvenia had provoked them, and the Demons were uneasy. However, the Centenium was unmoved.

“Do they still speak of Klbkchhezeim, Xrniavxxel, Wrymvr?”

“They do. Though they say Xrn was wounded of late. Not how. Not why. It is a rumor plucked from Wistram’s lips.”

Czautha answered next. If she hoped for a response, again, the Antinium’s strange bard made no response.

“Yet she lives.”

“We would tell you if she dies.”

“Very well.”

An ocean of emotions Flora couldn’t see, if the opening wings of the great shelled back on one Antinium were a clue. Scythe blades on another, sharpening against each other. However, it was clear the Antinium were not here to ask about that.

“What news of the world?”

The Deathless conferred. It was not a question that surprised them. At last, the Death of Wings croaked, though it pained her.

“To your kind? Little. The King of Destruction, he wakes and makes great war. We return for battle. Nothing else of note.”

She glanced left once. But did not look at Flora. They were lying to the Antinium. Or withholding truth.

And their statement! Two things to tell the Antinium. The only things that could even possibly concern them. The return of Deathless and the King of Destruction’s waking. Not Ailendamus. Not the Four Great Companies. Nothing.

Czkelcill looked at the huge, winged features of the Death of Wings, but no hint of emotion escaped her eyes. Not so for any of the Deathless. Even so…slowly, that tall Centenium’s head swept around. His fingers plucked at the strange chords.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then he looked straight at Flora. The Demons stirred. More than a few blades shifted. Yet all Czkelcill did was shake his head.

“It is not time for war.”

The Antinium accompanying him settled down. The Demons breathed again. The glowing gaze turned away from Flora, and she would have fallen but for Bazeth supporting her.

“We ask. Perhaps you omit. Now, we ask again. Do not lie. Tell me what changed during the longest day of the year.”

The Deathless looked at each other. The Demon King moved on his throne, and Flora’s head snapped up.

The Summer Solstice? Had they too received children from another world? Silvenia’s eyes flickered, but she dared not confer.

“A great magical event. I sensed it. A weft in space and time, exploited by magic of a scale so great, I cannot explain how it was brought into motion. Yet it was done, by the Blighted Kingdom no less. And it has torn…something.”

“Yes. It has.”

A whisper. Flora jerked. That did not come from Czkelcill. The Centenium just nodded.

“What was done, exactly?”

“We do not know. Something the Blighted Kingdom wrought.”

Silvenia was angry. She could guess. Opened a gateway. Yet her eyes kept flickering across the Antinium. The Demons were wary.

However, it seemed as though they were speaking cross-purposes. Czkelcill’s antennae moved, but one of the Antinium opened huge maws on its armored body and spoke. Not with the cavernous voice that Flora expected but with a deep, feminine voice.

As if it was but a relay for some other intelligence peering out. No—that was exactly what it was.

“You are magic. Does it lie in your power to stop this event from occurring again?”

She addressed Silvenia. Again, the Death of Magic hesitated, and this time Flora, who knew enough of Silvenia from their talks together, realized the half-Elf wasn’t confident.

Silvenia did not like admitting there was anything she could not do. So she was uncomfortable as she replied.

“…I have stratagems in place. It may be impossible to stop, however.”

Again, the Antinium conferred. This time with considerable agitation, although the only sign was the flicking of antennae.

Czkelcill replied.

“Then—can you sense if another attempt is made?”

“Oh yes. I can do that.”

Silvenia nodded, eyes glinting. Czautha’s eyes never moved, but a part of her body changed color and Bazeth blinked. She was signalling the others. Flora knew the Djinni well enough to realize they had complex signs of their own.

What did the Antinium want? It was clear they never came above, and the few times they had were heralded by terrible conflict. Now, though, Czkelcill nodded. A decision had been made, perhaps before they had even come. This was simply notification, politely, as the Antinium did it.

“Dispensation will be made. If it occurs again, inform us. We will come to halt it.”

…What? For a second, Flora didn’t get the implications. Yet the Demons’ officers did. They looked at each other.

Were the Antinium declaring that they were willing to fight the Blighted Kingdom if the ritual occurred again? And their wording?

We will come to halt it. No question. The Deathless looked to the throne, but then Czautha spoke for the Demons.

“If your goal is preventing the ritual from occuring again, great Antinium, will you lend your aid to help us crush the Blighted Kingdom?”

Czkelcill took a long moment to speak, and Flora saw the argument, invisible, in the air. However, when the Voice of the Antinium spoke, it was firm denial.

“No more time can be spared. No more Antinium. We part. Allies.”

With that, he turned and began walking back the way he’d come. As if there was no more that could be said. It was so abrupt the Demons were caught off-guard with dismay. Czautha opened and closed her mouth, clearly searching for words to use. A [Diplomat] spoke in the Demon King’s ear, but was patently unsure what would work on such foreign guests. Skills? Flora wondered if they dared to try it.

Into the uncertainty, as Czkelcill and the six Antinium were nearing the door, the only one of them who would have dared to speak—did.

Silvenia. The Death of Magic floated higher, and called out in a sing-song, teasing voice.

“Just so I know, Antinium. What if we were to tell you the ritual is happening…and make a little mistake?”

The Centenium halted in his tracks. Slowly, he turned, as Bazeth’s face drained of color. The Demons, some horned, other changed by the Blight, suddenly tensed once more. The other two Deathless looked at their insane companion. But it was said.

Slowly, Czkelcill extended one arm. The thin ‘finger’ changed. To something approaching fingers, which moved with such delicate grace into a single gesture like that of Humans and Demons and species of this and Flora’s world.

He pointed down at the tiles of the Demon King’s court. Just down at the ground. What if the Demons made a little mistake? Told a little lie?

“This ends.”

Silvenia’s smile opened wider, wider, like the gates of hell. Until something happened. The Voice of the Antinium plucked at his strings. He played eight notes. No—exponentially many times that. A complex melody.

Abruptly, Silvenia’s feet dropped out of the air. She landed hard, and the bindings of magic on her wounds flickered. The Demons exclaimed. Bazeth stared at his enchanted glaive. The steel looked like…

Steel.

The Voice of the Antinium turned magic back on after a second. Now, it was dead silence.

And Silvenia was no longer smiling. Again the Centenium turned, but one of the Antinium did not.

A different one, tall, like a mantis but only in the scything talons. It stalked forward two steps and Czautha drew her great relic. The Antinium was so fast. It left behind an afterimage or something, so that only when it moved—

But it did not spring forwards. Did not slash or deliver a second war to Demons and Antinium. Rather, it lowered itself. Spoke. A different voice, also female, but more grating. Authoritative, like Bazeth on a battlefield.

“Decisions have been made.”

The Deathless looked at the Antinium. The other five swung back, and Czkelcill looked at the lone warrior. Waiting.

The True Antinium of Rhir’s head rose. Foreign intelligence stared up towards the Demon King’s throne. It—she—addressed them.

“No chances can be taken. It dies. So speaks War Queen Heclaivk. This War Hive will eradicate. Claim Blighted Kingdom. Fortify. Reprisals acceptable now; not before. No chances.”

“Excuse me?”

Silvenia herself couldn’t believe it. The Demon King rose on his throne.

“Do you mean…?”

“One Hive will eliminate threats. Coordinate assault. Cost acceptable to prevent repeat.”

The Voice of the Antinium turned. Not with surprise, but with finality.

“So decided.”

Flora couldn’t believe her ears. The Demons were stunned. Stunned—and worried. Flora saw them looking at each other. If the Antinium took out their great foe, that was one thing. But—fortify? What if the Antinium decided—if one Hive could destroy the Blighted Kingdom, then…

Demons were speaking up now, unable to keep silent. Demanding questions of the War Queen Heclaivk, who was waiting for a response from the throne or Deathless. Into this moment, as chaos swirled, the Antinium were leaving. All but this lone warrior, herald of countless more.

Czkelcill passed by Flora, and no one dared to stop him, or the other five. His gaze turned and fixed her with a look again, but he seemed content to leave. A Hive went to war, for better or worse. So—

The True Antinium’s footsteps slowed. The other Antinium didn’t notice. They proceeded onwards, and comically halted after two dozen strides towards the door. Bazeth backed away, shielding her with one arm; he had orders to protect Flora with his life.

Slowly, the Centenium’s head turned. Flora saw that bright gaze turn. Suddenly—a discordant note filled the air.

The perfect strings on the instrument, snapped. Thousands of them, all at once. This time even the Deathless froze in sudden, terrible anticipation.

The Voice of the Antinium’s grip had torn the strings. His own instrument! Flora trembled as his gaze swept over her—

—And past her. He wasn’t looking at her at all. He was staring at—at—

Suddenly, the Centenium did not seem so weary. He did not seem so tired, or calm. Something filled the air.

Wrath. The other Antinium were tensed. One spoke, aiming towards the throne, the Deathless.

“What? Battle?”

One word from him and everyone died. Yet the Voice of the Antinium said nothing. Slowly, more strings snapped. Yet when he spoke, Czkelcill’s voice was filled with the same loathing, the same hatred as Flora felt emanating off of him. A rage beyond naming. Cold fury deeper than any grave.

“The enemy has multiplied.”

She did not know what it meant. The Antinium did. And it seemed then, as if the world did end. But how did he know?

What did he stare at?

Not even Silvenia and Czautha and the Death of Wings could see. Yet there the Centenium looked. He felt it. He saw…

——

It. It paused on its long journey. Past Terandria, far from Chandrar where it had begun. It had delayed, stalled, meandered. The journey meant as much as the end, after all.

It of the six. It was not alone, but only it dared tread on Rhir’s ground now. That was a madness of a different kind.

Even in the land of the dead, Rhir was empty. Two more watched warily from a distance.

The Huntress and the Dancing Man. They had followed it, seeing a change in one of their companions. They were alarmed, but did not tread on Rhir.

Why had it stopped? What was it looking at? For a moment, it stared at something, and the gaze was returned, across a veil thinner than paper, as wide as—

But if one person felt it—

So did something else. And it too—

Stirred.

——

“Stirs. The enemy stirs.”

The first croak came from the representative of War Queen Heclaivk. No longer calm, logical pronouncements, but a strained voice.

Suddenly, more voices filled the air, from the other five Antinium. They spoke rapidly, no longer in silence, forcing the words out that they might be heard through one medium or another.

“Czkelcill. Return. Return.”

“The Unitasis Network is breaking.”

“Queens are dying.”

It was so fast. One second everyone was tensed—the next, they were watching a nightmare, but one they couldn’t understand. The Centenium turned. Another voice cried out.

“Slk Hive…eradicated. Wrchrl Hive under siege. It stirs.”

That was enough. The Centenium moved for the exit. The other six were already blurs, and shouts and screams filled the air as they left the throne room so fast the Demons outside thought it was a prelude to war. Silvenia shot after the Bard of the Antinium as he moved after them.

“What is happening? Wait! Wait! What about our reinforcements?”

He stopped only once, and spoke to the Deathless, the Demons, Flora, as they poured out after the Antinium retreating to fight—something. Their old enemy.

“Our kin on Izril. Tell them we are waiting. We cannot wait long. Not anymore.”

Czkelcill stopped a moment. Looked at Silvenia, dead in her eyes. He nodded.

“If we fall, flee.”

Then he was gone, racing back the way he had come. Leaving the Demons bereft of their allies and fearing, with a mystery. What had happened?

——

“What is it doing?”

That was the question. It had nearly died. All of Rhir had stirred, as, provoked by footsteps, even in the lands of the dead…

Yet it was insane. That was what worried the others. If they could have, the two would have found all five so they could worry together. Of the six, and they all had foibles, strengths and faults, this one was the most…most…

Unpredictable. It walked past the broken lands of Rhir, now. Not close to Drath; Drath was dangerous in death. But further onwards.

Distance had meaning, but here it could be crossed faster, although time had less understanding too. They followed, watching.

Further still. Over sea, as the last large landmasses faded away into the distance. Past islands, bare pieces of land. Some were tiny rocks, and furthest out, closest to that edge of the world was where the furthest Earther had arrived.

Yet. That was not what it sought. Not that island. Not the living, waking world.

Something else. At last, the two, Huntress and Dancing Man could bear it no longer. Because they feared this inevitable conclusion. It would be beyond insanity. Yet if any of them were of kind and nature to do this…

“Norechl. What are you planning? Come back! This is madness. Even for us. Do you not know what lies there?”

So he called the name of it. And at last, with a kind of gleeful malice, it turned.

Norechl. A being with no face, though they could be anything. No features. No real shape to body, like Tamaroth. It did not change like Kasigna. It was…

Nothing. Nothing concrete. The absence of something. It was not of leaders.

It ruled…nothing. It was of lost things. It was of lost things, and that was what you understood. Lost things, dark places, where the forgotten lay.

Norechl stood there, on the rushing waters, over something that warped even this land of death itself. No ghost would ever emerge from the depths. Here was the end of the world.

The Last Tide? No, the Last Tide was what lay up to it. But that darkness past the edge, as waters roared downwards in a forever torrent. Norechl peered down there.

“Don’t go closer.”

The Huntress grabbed the Dancing Man. They were afraid. But just as afraid of…

“Do not. You will ruin all. We will overcome them. There is no point to victory—and this would be no victory if nothing remains. Not even us!”

The Dancing Man warned Norechl. All he got in return was…

A smile. A terrible, malicious smile. A smile with no face.

The exact same smile it had given as it beheld the stolen umbrella, that sword. It turned as the Dancing Man moved forwards, taking a risk—

“Do not—”

—And fell over the edge.

Gravity. Some kind of gravity, no, something pulled it downwards. For a moment it was visible, a shadow even amongst darkness. The Huntress and Dancing Man peered over the edge.

“Norechl is dead.”

The Huntress said at last. The Dancing Man hesitated.

“What if it is not? The others must know. If it is dead it is one thing. Down there. But if not?”

If not? The two looked at each other.

They stared down for a long time, over the edge. Into…

The two backed away. They fled, hoping that their kin was dead. But worse things than death existed.

So the music ran still, as Rhir stirred and Antinium held. So music played, a beautiful thing across places, connecting, binding. A powerful force indeed, until you remembered:

There were places you could fall where even music had died.

8.42

All things considered, he had been extraordinarily patient. To a reason; and he did believe reason was a tenet that should be held in high esteem. He did use logic, and patience was an inescapable part of that attitude.

There were reasons he had delayed. Wistram—the Earther connection—no, what he now dubbed the Earth connection. That was almost as pressing as the new, concerning narrative of Gnollish aggression.

“Gnollish aggression.”

He muttered it as he packed. Now there was a term that had little logic to it. People talked about the astonishing assaults, sackings of cities with Gnollish populations as the sparkpoint, like Cellidel, or the Woven Bladegrass tribe’s acrimonious approach and methods, and the bloodbath in the streets of Marwsh, and conflated all of the issues under a single umbrella.

As if they were one thing, not each with their own complex reasons and individual factions within the Gnollish population. It was the Meeting of Tribes. Comfortable people, people who might harbor anti-Gnollish sentiments from proximity or their own histories, or simply attitude, saw the might of the Gnolls gather every twenty years and they got jumpy.

They remembered times when Gnolls had brought down Walled Cities, and that, before the Antinium, things hadn’t been peaceful. Hence—Gnollish aggression.

He’d been dealing with idiotic notions of checking ‘Gnollish aggression’ here, as well as coordinating with Fissival’s representatives regarding the Earther situation. The problem was that Wistram was a lockbox, and the Academy of Mages was ahead of any of the Walled Cities by months and many Earthers.

What did they know? Were they enemies? Instinctively creating a zero-sum scenario was foolish. So was presuming Wistram would remain apolitical, especially with Grand Magus Eldavin in the equation.

“He does not seem like the same half-Elf I met.”

Questions without answers. Suppositions, pieces of the puzzle now found. However, key pieces he thought were constant were now gone.

Erin Solstice was dead. He was a practical Drake. He understood what ‘dead’ meant in this case, but he did not also think coming back to life was so easy.

Grimalkin of Pallass had too much to do. Too little time. Yet, as he packed a simple travelling kit—for both the exigencies of trade and strife—one thing motivated him.

His student. His apprentice. Yes, Earth. Yes, Gnollish politics and that missing child, Mrsha, and more.

However. The Drake grunted as his huge shoulders tried to relax, but the tension was cording his muscles. He felt like he’d been tensed for weeks.

“My apprentice is my responsibility. My student.”

Ferkr was missing. She had sent him two messages. One, telling him she had arrived at the Meeting of Tribes but few people credited her burgeoning magical talent as authentic, but she hoped to present herself to the Chieftains and a number of tribes.

The second, nearly four days later, a brief line.

I am sorry for disappointing you. I cannot be your apprentice any longer, Magus Grimalkin.

No context. Except when he heard that she had disavowed her magical ability, claimed to be a fraud that had tricked even him, and vanished.

Why? Grimalkin had no answers. She was nowhere to be seen, and he had faced both scrutiny and mockery in Pallass for his apprentice, as well as her family’s understandable worry.

Well, the Sinew Magus was calm. He calmly packed a backup wand into his bag of holding, a toothbrush, various supplements for nutrition he was trialling, quality potions, some basic magical gear—spell reagents, scrolls, blank and marked, magical tools like a Seeing Glass of Rheiw, which Troy and Leon had claimed was analogous to a ‘magnifying glass’ in their world, only specialized for magic—enough coin to avoid a trip to a Merchant’s Guild, two pairs of maps, three travelling books, a set of personal training weights, six sets of larger weights he hoped to trade or give to Gnollish tribes…

He was obviously using a Chest of Holding, a small one, along with his bag of holding. He would have to either carry it to a carriage or rent a horse. Probably carriage. He couldn’t justify a Pegasus flight, even if Oteslia were not under siege. This was a personal errand.

Oh, and a few more objects in his personal bag of holding. Three lead-silver orbs, shot puts, weighing exactly six point four pounds. Grimalkin had no idea about the Earth-based game. These were small, designed to be tossed through a magical barrier and through someone’s skull.

He was not intending on violence, especially in the Meeting of Tribes. This was simple, sensible self-defense equipment for a Drake confident in his hand-to-hand capabilities. He was just going to ask some questions regarding his apprentice’s disappearance.

If he didn’t like the answers, he would calmly break some bones.

The Sinew Magus was nearly done when he heard a rapping on the door. He sighed, pinched at his snout, similar to how Humans did it with their curious noses.

“Come in.”

It was not his apprentices; he had given them notice of his leave. It was going to be…Grimalkin heard the clack of a separate object along with two feet on his floor.

“Grand Strategist Chaldion.”

The withered Drake with his cane walked in, although he might have taken a transport even this short way. Dignity made him walk in, alone. Grimalkin appraised Chaldion. He had expected this.

“Magus Grimalkin. A word.”

Chaldion did not ask. Grimalkin kept packing as he picked up a letter. To Lady Pryde Ulta, informing her of a slight delay in their correspondence. He had a sheaf of contacts to inform via copied [Message] spell, but she was deserving of a personal missive.

Of course, Chaldion’s one good eye focused on that. Grimalkin knew that Chaldion probably had all of his correspondence monitored. The Cyclops of Pallass knew everything. So he had known what Grimalkin was doing.

In truth, Grimalkin had expected a [General], [Senator], or a fellow [Mage] of Pallass to be here. It did not matter.

“I have time for a word, Grand Strategist, but it will be for two minutes at most. I am headed out of the city and I will not delay myself.”

“To head to the Meeting of Tribes? Are you fully recovered?”

Grimalkin flexed his pectorals, grimacing. He’d torn them after being thrown into Liscor, much like he could throw a weight himself. Belavierr the Stitch Witch. Lacking information about her, however…

“Perfectly, Grand Strategist. And no, I do not intend to debate my leave of absence. I have perfect dispensation to do so, and will not entertain reasons to stay. I am aware of the risks, my position, and events occurring, so if you will see yourself out…? The door will lock when you depart.”

He tossed the last few objects into his pack. An illustration of Ferkr, the latest notes on Raskghar, his passport, and turned to go. Of course, he didn’t expect Chaldion to relent that easily.

Sure enough, the Grand Strategist, sometimes a companion at Tails and Scales, which Grimalkin was happy to hear had reopened, didn’t move. His one eye was sapphire today.

Magical clairvoyance? Paranoid about watchers? Wistram having Eldavin would invite that. Can he bypass even our detections, our protocols with [Message] spells? Grimalkin would ponder it en-route. He reached for a notepad, but checked the motion.

“Excuse me, Grand Strategist.”

“Sit down, Magus Grimalkin. We must discuss your journey.”

Grimalkin strode past Chaldion, towards the door.

“I’m sure you would like to. I, however, do not intend to be swayed. Therefore—”

“Magus Grimalkin, there is something we must discuss. Halt.”

This time, the order had the force of a Skill and the aura of command behind it. Grimalkin’s hand rested on the doorknob. He hated aura Skills. He’d been bested by them against Magnolia Reinhart.

However, Chaldion was one Drake, not three, and auras were not the purview of [Strategists] by and large. Grimalkin swung the door open. Then stopped.

“Magic-Captain Grimalkin Duveig. This is an order of the Grand Strategist of Pallass. Sit down.”

Grimalkin of Pallass turned. He looked back. Then he glanced ahead.

The thing about [Strategists] you could like or dislike was this: the good ones never took chances or fights they couldn’t win if they didn’t have to. General Duln stood, arms folded, politely taking his leisure with 1st Army’s personal guard.

Grimalkin saw the Dullahan nod at him. Slowly, he closed the door. He walked back to Chaldion, who had found his living room. He sat down.

Ah. Something unexpected. Grimalkin sat there, perched, looking at Chaldion and not hiding his annoyance. Not for long. Chaldion’s first words had him out of his seat and walking.

“You do not take hints well when you put your mind to it, Sinew Magus. I had hoped you would be more sensible.”

Grimalkin walked back and forth. He tried to keep his tail from lashing.

“Sensible. My apprentice, as you well know, has been coerced into lying about her class and levels. My reputation is at stake. There is a conspiracy, Grand Strategist. This could implicate a much larger event in the Meeting of Tribes. Strategically, personally, there is every reason to go—”

“Magus Grimalkin. You are not debating with me. I said, sit down. I am not speaking to you as anything but the Grand Strategist of Pallass. Do you understand?”

Grimalkin turned. Chaldion fixed him with one mortal eye, one glowing one.

“Sit down. Do not speak.”

Again, the giant Drake sat. Something…his eyes flickered to Chaldion’s face, to the door. The old Drake sighed. He felt at his own bag of holding, realized he lacked it, and coughed.

“Water.”

Grimalkin got up, pointed, and summoned a pitcher of purified water. He poured it, silently. Chaldion took a gulp.

“I am well aware of your apprentice and your personal…enthusiasm for your kind of magic, Magus Grimalkin. You taking Ferkr as an apprentice was one thing. Sending her to the Meeting of Tribes, another. Do you recall that I strongly hinted to you not to do this?”

Grimalkin vaguely recalled, but he had ignored it, along with some of Chaldion’s suggestions.

“You did not order me.”

“No, because ordering someone presents a narrative. Now, be quiet. You have stubbornly refused every opportunity. Leading our own search for these Earth-children. Searching for the Stitch Witch. Expanding your school to become an actual academy—and there is motivation at this time, the very thing you want! You are stubborn, intelligent, and loyal to Pallass. Everything this city needs.”

He coughed, despite drinking from the water. Grimalkin said nothing. Chaldion glared at him as his claw tightened on the cup of water. He was not noticeably worse than some times in his life, when Grimalkin truly thought it was Chaldion’s last year. He was old, though. Grimalkin suspected…

“You are not going to the Meeting of Tribes. You will disavow your apprentice. You will not inquire into the matter further.”

The Sinew Magus stirred.

“I refuse, Grand Strategist.”

“This is not up for debate. This is an order. An order, Sinew Magus, from your commanding officer.”

“I—”

“This is an order, from the top member of Pallass’ military. Do you understand?”

Chaldion snapped. Grimalkin’s posture straightened further, if possible.

“Yes, sir.”

In silence, Chaldion drank, coughed a last time, and spoke.

“I am going to inform you as to why. You may object. You may think what you wish. This is because I know you will ferret around if I don’t tell you something. You will never tell another soul.”

Grimalkin’s stony silence said volumes. Now, his mind was working into overdrive. But it kept running into a problem. He could leave the city, the Eyes of Pallass or not—the spy force they kept, like every Walled City. He could disobey.

They’d strip him of his rank. This was a military order with no less than the Grand Strategist behind it. Grimalkin could be found in violation of military law. He…listened, with such intensity that his muscles trembled.

“I took over this position from the last Grand Strategist of Pallass. There is information even the [Generals] of Pallass, let alone the Assembly of Crafts, have no idea about. You are privy to the security meetings. To a degree of information about the Antinium, our enemies, plans, that few people in this city have. You do not know a tenth of what I do. Old plans. All of which, foolish, successful, revealed or not, are to keep this city, our continent, safe.”

No response. Grimalkin’s eyes narrowed fractionally. Chaldion tapped his cane on the ground.

“Pallass makes many plans. I keep some running. I put others into motion. I have to live…live long enough to sort out this business with another world. And the Antinium. And make sure some plans do not come back to bite our tail. That is why you are not leaving for the Meeting of Tribes. That would be…a complication. And our allies will not suffer your presence. Do you understand?”

Grimalkin’s eyes flickered. Oh, he did. Pieces of a puzzle he’d worked on for nigh fourteen years now, suspicions, contradictions in a popular narrative, fit together in that one moment of perfect clarity.

Rather than a glorious insight, however—he stood.

“Chaldion. If what you are saying is absolutely true—”

“Don’t grandstand with me, Grimalkin! Sit back down!”

The Grand Strategist snapped. He waited until the Drake was sitting, shaking with emotion. Chaldion glared. Then he sighed.

“Plans made. Plans executed before I was Grand Strategist. You will not jeopardize them. Open your school, Sinew Magus. I will have someone issue a statement if you don’t care to. Good day to you.”

He stood up. Grimalkin did too.

“What about Ferkr?”

“She will come back to Pallass. I will make some kind of provision for her. To set up a new life, or simply be forgotten. It was a small incident.”

“She worked for two years. She sweat blood and tears—her reputation if I make a statement, her future—”

Chaldion turned his head. Grimalkin expected a glare, the famous one-eyed stare that had reduced grown [Senators] to tears. The all-seeing sapphire, carved eye in the scarred socket, the orange scales faded to grey on the hunched Drake, all made him look like what he was: one of the oldest military leaders of the Drakes.

Yet Grimalkin got no glare. No anger. Nor any guilt. Chaldion’s one good eye, which was a faded, deep blue trending to violet, just fixed Grimalkin with a…look. A look that was so blank as to be terrifying.

If there was anything in that gaze, it was irritation. Yes, the eyes told the Sinew Magus. Yes, you are factually, actually correct in everything you’ve said. So what?

Why are you wasting my time?

The old Drake spoke slowly, as if trying to put a two-piece puzzle together for Grimalkin.

“Magus Grimalkin. You once lectured an [Innkeeper] about the value of perspective. Pallass is a Walled City. She is one young Gnoll. Now. My business here is concluded.”

He walked to the door. Grimalkin watched as the Drake walked outside, murmured to Duln, and vanished. He had seldom been without words to say. He strode to the door, to—

To do what? Grimalkin had a fist clenched. Magic-Captain Grimalkin, in his beloved city, stood there. He looked around, at a recently-commissioned anatomical diagram. He spun, fist raised—

He didn’t put his claw through it, or the wall. He didn’t kick anything. What was the point? No logic to breaking something.

Logic. Grimalkin saw it. He needed a book, no, an encyclopedia of tribes, a history book, a timeline…he could do that.

But what was the point? The Sinew Magus sat there. Head blank. He did not leave for the Meeting of Tribes.

He had orders. It only occurred to Grimalkin later, as he was unpacking, that Chaldion had pulled rank as Grand Strategist of Pallass. A rank almost without equal. However…it begged a question.

Was it just Pallass?

How high did the orders go?

——

He had not lied to her. That was what she found terrifying, now. Mrsha held onto the scaled claw, eyes wide. The Drake loosely holding her paw hadn’t moved. His eyes were wide, his painted, red scales shining.

Not by daylight. Not by evening’s light, or moonlight. By [Light] spells. Mrsha heard a familiar alarm, in this city, so much like Liscor.

“Tesy! Mrsha! Get on!”

A figure ran towards them, with three stolen horses in tow. Mrsha saw Vetn riding towards them. She saw him realize she wasn’t fit to ride one, and grabbed her. Tesy had to be shaken until he climbed into a saddle. They raced out the gates amid a terrified crowd, shouting [Guards]. Behind them, the city was chaos.

Another city fell, thanks to Sellme being there. But it was wrong to blame the [Magical Painter]. Mrsha looked back and heard howling. She felt her fur stand up. Yet those weren’t Raskghar. They were Gnolls.

Gnolls.

It had been so quick. First, it had been happy. A huge relief! They saved her, right when she was about to die.

The Drake with white scales and a brush that could paint fake doorways in walls, create a pit by artfully painting it on the street. Tesy, or Sellme, as he was known.

And the other Gnoll, the long-legged, fast sprinter. Vetn, or as they called him, the Thief of Clouds. Two famous individuals who actually knew each other. Who, unbeknownst to the rest of the world, were actually friends. It was thanks to Sellme that the Thief of Clouds had his iconic name.

By chance and luck, Vetn and Tesy had seen when Wer and Mrsha were cornered. He stole her right out of the clutches of the Doomslayers, the Plain’s Eye hunters. At first, Mrsha just shook with relief, as they hid with his Skill and saw the Gnolls fleeing Marwsh, having lost her trail.

“Vetn, Vetn, you mad Gnoll!”

Tesy squeaked as the young Gnoll collapsed, covered in sweat. He’d outrun horses, he was so fast! Mrsha saw Tesy peek up at the Gnolls—right until the [Thief] yanked his friend down by the tail.

“Don’t be stupid, Tesy! My Skill’s not perfect—those are Doomslayers!”

“Doom-what? They were about to kill this kid! In cold blood! They stabbed a [Guard]…just like that.”

The [Painter] was shaken. Vetn just gulped air.

“I thought you hated Boots.”

“Well, yes, but—that was attempted murder! And killing children? What was that? Hey, are you alright?”

Mrsha was frantically searching for her notepad and quill, but she’d dropped the notepad. She tried to sign, and saw Tesy blankly staring at her.

I am Mrsha!

“What’s she waving her arms around for? Are you okay, kid?”

Vetn raised his head. He saw Tesy looking blankly at Mrsha opening and closing her mouth and doing an ‘X’ with her arms. She hopefully made a basic sign with her paws.

“Looks like [Rogue]-talk, Tesy.”

“What’s that?”

“Hand-signs. Can you say something?”

“Apparently not. Hey! What’s that? You want this?”

Tesy blinked as Mrsha reached for his brush. He recoiled, but then handed it to her and let her draw on the grass. It was a beautiful paintbrush and felt magical to Mrsha.

I Mrsha. I cnnot tlk! Thnk u fr sving me.

She had to abbreviate because drawing on grass was hard. But Tesy and Vetn got the message. Vetn pulled out a spare roll of parchment and saved Mrsha the trouble of communicating via grass-paint and pantomimes.

“Mrsha? She is the girl who was kidnapped! That didn’t look like a rescue, though.”

“Tesy. She’s a white Gnoll. They weren’t rescuing her! I knew that Drake had no idea what she was doing.”

“Why? She’s a white Gnoll. I’m a white Drake. Until I color my scales. So what?”

Albinism didn’t mean the same thing across species, clearly. Mrsha had never seen Tesy, with his white scales with just the faintest hint of color, but it was just natural. White Gnolls on the other hand…

“It means she’s lost her tribe or was outcast. It’s a death-sentence among the tribes. Once they find you, you’re dead. They’ll attack you even if you flee continents. I grew up in the tribes, Tesy. They’re serious.”

“That’s crazy. Why?”

“They bring doom. That’s the rumor. Doombringers. One of them hangs around and Crelers attack, or a volcano erupts or a sinkhole swallows your entire tribe. Apparently it’s happened before. I don’t know. I’m not an expert. Listen, little girl. Was that your friend back there?”

He meant Wer. Mrsha nodded. Tesy inhaled.

“That Gnoll? Is he alive?”

“I don’t know. We can’t go back into the city. It’s on high-alert, see?”

Marwsh was indeed going insane with noise and activity. Their army was marching out the gates, following the Gnolls. Vetn shook his head.

“If he’s alive, I hope he’ll run. We can’t get back in. Well, I could, but what would I do? Maybe I could check—but we have to move.”

Tesy spoke with experience.

“Don’t bother. If they’ve got him, he’s safer. If not—they’ve locked down the streets. Martial law. You’ll just stand out. Let’s make tracks, Vetn. Hey, Mrsha, right? Don’t worry. You’re safe with us! This is Vetn, and I’m Tesy. I suppose we should tell her who we are, Vetn.”

“What? Why?”

The Gnoll [Thief] recoiled, but Tesy looked askance.

“She’s already seen your abilities! And they even shouted your name. Besides, she can’t talk.”

“She can write.”

“Don’t worry. She’s on the run, so she’s one of us. Use logic, Vetn.”

“I don’t think you know what logic is.”

However, they introduced themselves as Vetn pointed and led the way through the grasslands. It was only then that Mrsha realized she was in the company of two seasoned criminals. The Thief of Clouds, and Sellme.

Since she knew Wilovan and Ratici, Mrsha considered herself safe as thieves…literally. Tesy was shorter than most Drakes she knew who were adults, and he was chatty. Vetn was more reserved, but he was always shifting his weight, even when standing still. They were both young males, but high-level!

“Vetn and I are famous for defying the order of Walled Cities. I paint truth on the walls and he steals from the powerful.”

And gives to the poor?

Mrsha was excited because she knew all about Robin Hood from Erin’s stories. Tesy hesitated and Vetn coughed.

“Uh. No. Tesy’s the one with a big plan to end the Watch and change everything. I just steal things.”

“From power. You shake the foundations of those rich, greedy, corrupt people with all the power who make terrible laws.”

“…Sure? Wait, does this shake the foundations of power?”

Vetn offered Mrsha something. She sniffed it and realized it was a Prelon. She took the fruit he’d snatched. Tesy hesitated.

“Why are you stealing from fruit stands?”

“I’m hungry.”

“But you can pay for it. Vetn—”

“Don’t ‘Vetn’ me. This is why we don’t collaborate anymore, Tesy. One of the reasons.”

The two gave each other long looks and Tesy’s tail thrashed in the grass. Vetn turned back to Mrsha.

“What are we going to do about her, anyways? First you nearly get caught at Cellidel, next this.”

“We could take her back home? Arrange for transport back to Liscor? I have friends.”

“Maybe. But I want a Thief’s Oath she doesn’t tell anyone.”

“You’re the one who saved her. Come on, Vetn. We’re heroes! Explain to me about the tribes. Mrsha, can you walk?”

She proudly strode along after them, and lifted up a message for them to read.

I can, thank you! Can you take me to Liscor? Or my mother? Wer the Gnoll who saved me wanted to take me to Salazsar, but I just don’t want to be caught! And killed.

Vetn rubbed at his fur, muttering.

“Where’s your mother? Oteslia? Maybe? Oteslia, Salazsar, and Liscor. They’re all far away. Although Oteslia and Salazsar are closer…ish. I’m not heading through the Bloodfields. Let’s think on it once we get somewhere safe.”

“It’s just horrendous. No one told me white Gnolls were killed on sight! Do they think white-scaled Drakes are evil, too? I should raise awareness. But how would I convey that? There aren’t any walls in the tribes!”

Sellme was already thinking of a way to combat this new injustice. The Thief of Clouds was more concerned with the immediate. He made them stop, and went racing across the grasslands, up a hill, and back, so fast that even Wanderer would have been stunned.

So fast!

Mrsha admiringly pointed to him. Tesy gave her the smile of someone who was uniquely proud on behalf of someone else. He swept his neck spines back with one claw and fiddled with his paintbrush and his own artbook.

“He is, isn’t he? He can outrun Couriers, and he’s stolen Relic-class artifacts. Mind you, he spends it like water. Not much on himself, either! He and I sort of met when I was painting and he was running from the Watch. He’s one of the few good people in Izril, you know. Someone who sees the corruption in the cities.”

Mrsha eyed Tesy. She caught onto his motif within the first ten minutes of meeting him. However, he wasn’t bad. He talked constantly about the corrupt Watch, which Mrsha had little experience with, but she did know about bad, power-hungry people.

Like Lism. And Agnes! And uh…uh…Pawn. That mother-stealing, cookie-thrifty Antinium. But of course, what stood out about Tesy was his amazing, just superlative ability to do two things:

Draw fast. And draw accurately.

There was a difference in art that Mrsha realized in meeting Tesy. Speed and accuracy-to-life were qualities that were good! But not always necessary. Tesy was amazing at those two things, but he wasn’t much for outrageous, incredible style.

His wall-drawings could be caricatures, but when he drew a door, it looked exactly like a door. In a sense, his art was valuable as much for its performative and utility aspects as the art itself, if not more so.

He could still draw good art that wasn’t just copied-life, but it took him a lot more work to translate what was imaginary, not replicable. For instance, he had a page open in his artbook and he was sketching with a stick of charcoal instead of painting right away.

It was Vetn. Much like he was as he ran back, angled in a sprinter’s run, fur blowing back, eyes alight, his beautiful dark fur alight with the patches of color, his muscular physique still contriving towards lean athleticism rather than Relc’s muscles. His handsome face—

Mrsha stared at Tesy as the Drake sat, then peeked over the artbook at Vetn. Ah. Now this was what you called artistic license. Not that Vetn wasn’t any of these things, but Tesy was contriving to make his friend look even better than reality.

“Do you like it?”

Tesy grinned, a bit abashed, as he saw Mrsha watching. He flipped through the artbook.

“This is my secret weapon. I can recreate some of the drawings. The painted ones. See? Here’s the brick wall. And here’s a pond…I’d show you more, but I’m almost out of paint for the day. Magical pigments, that is. I can only do it so often.”

Mrsha nodded. She saw quite a number of Vetn’s sketches. Children, friends, places from other cities that Tesy liked…Relc…

She slapped Tesy’s knee so hard the Drake yelped.

“Ow! What?”

Mrsha frantically pointed. Go back! Go back! She stared. There was no mistaking the [Spearmaster] caught practicing via the light of the day, sweat running off his scales, spear whirling around. Tesy had made it almost like a photograph, and Mrsha stared at Relc. Relc! How had Tesy met him?

“Oh, this one? This is of a Senior Guardsman. I thought he was a friend, an ally, even, but…he’s still against us. Bastard ran me out of that city. I hope he trips on his stupid spear, the—”

Mrsha’s eyes narrowed. She gave Tesy a flying kick to the crotch, a move she had learned stopped even bigger Gnoll kids dead on the playground.

“Looks clear. The Gnolls are heading off. Tesy, what are you doing?”

Vetn trotted back as Tesy lay, eyes streaming, on the ground. He picked Mrsha up as she furiously kicked at his shins.

——

There was a lot to talk about. On the way to another city, Tesy and Mrsha learned about each other’s pasts. They were astounded by the shared connection.

“So he’s actually decent? From Liscor? But he—”

Mrsha raised her [Relc Punch] and Tesy backed behind Vetn. The Gnoll [Thief] grumbled as they rode down the trade road. He’d had to pay for the horses, but it kept the other two moving at his pace.

“Looks like this is your fault after all, Tesy. You can pay me back.”

“Vetn, you’re too stingy. I don’t have much money…”

“Then help me on a heist.”

“Only if you uh…okay. That’s actually fine. Where are we headed?”

“Just some Drake city. I thought Ustel…”

“Not Ustel. How about Lellwickee? Since Marwsh is up in flames, I can talk to some of my friends.”

“Oh, great. Your [Anarchist] buddies? Let’s not.”

“Come on, Vetn! Maybe they can help us get Mrsha back to Liscor? They’re loyal to the cause, fearless, and good people.”

“No they’re not.”

The two argued with old familiarity. Not like an old couple, though. Old couples were still couples and stayed together despite pet peeves. Vetn and Tesy clearly had differences, even though they were friends.

It was like Klbkch and Relc, to Mrsha’s eyes, but with an added layer of complications she couldn’t parse.

Anyways, they got into Lellwickee with no real issue. For several reasons: firstly, Mrsha was not a lone Gnoll kidnapped by someone of Wer’s vague description. Tesy did the talking and the gate guards didn’t even look twice at the blonde Gnoll girl. Or the Grade-1 passport both she and Vetn carried.

That was all Tesy. He’d also given himself rosy red scales, a very flattering look, all with the power of paint. Mrsha had been worried it would be annoying, but like Wer’s dye, Tesy had too many Skills.

“I’m going to lie down. I’m tired. Where are we staying?”

“The Outrageous Hairpin. That’s our meeting place. Just don’t steal anything while I’m gone. Are you going to meet with…your friends?”

“Just don’t paint anything while I’m asleep. And I don’t know. I’d have to see if they’re in this city.”

Curious. Curious. Mrsha turned from Tesy to Vetn, but neither elaborated. They were tired from being on the road, so once they got to the inn, Tesy greeted a gang of young Drakes and Gnolls with delight and Vetn grumbled before heading upstairs. He rented three whole rooms; he might be upset about the cost, but there was no way he was sharing a bed.

It was a mark of the two’s age that they did the thing neither Wer nor any of Mrsha’s travelling companions had done. They completely forgot to ‘mind’ Mrsha. Neither asked if she brushed her teeth, or had a bath, or if she was hungry.

That suited Mrsha just fine. She jumped on her bed a bit, then wandered downstairs.

“Something to eat? Of course. Say, Tesy, this isn’t that missing Gnoll, is she? She writes and everything!”

Tesy jumped as a friendly Gnoll [Barmaid] shouted. Mrsha was worried, but Tesy turned and gave her an easy laugh.

“Her? She’s just a cousin of Vetn’s. Her throat’s all sore. Anyways, look at her fur!”

So Mrsha got a piping hot bowl of very lovely noodles with a meaty sauce and listened in as Tesy introduced her to his friends. This was an inn of allies. Or at least, the [Barmaid] was ‘one of them’.

Who ‘they’ were, and what an ally was, was apparently anyone who believed the Drake cities were rife with corruption. Who saw that Gnolls were discriminated against! Who believed in exposing it.

[Rebels]. [Anarchists]. [Dissidents]. It was a second, hidden class. Sometimes they organized; their best knew Tesy as his real identity and went with him to help overturn cities. Others just gave shelter, information, a bit of coin if they could.

It was amazing to Mrsha because she had never heard of this movement! But Sellme had never gone to Liscor; it was literally off his radar. He was concerned with the Drake Izril, and Liscor was the back end of nowhere, being so far north.

That made Mrsha a bit indignant, but the [Anarchists] were friendly. They ruffled her fur, gave her some of their food, and played cards and drank.

“So, is Sellme going to stay long? I heard there’s a Drake keeping [Slaves], Tesy.”

“What?”

The rosy-scaled Drake looked up from his hand of cards. Mrsha stared at them, then folded. The others did likewise. Tesy’s expression instantly turned thunderous.

“I’m sort of busy, Vaugh. But tell me! I don’t want to cause a fuss, but…”

“It’s all over the place where I work. The Cleaner’s Guild. [Slaves]. From Chandrar. Even a Drake!”

“And the city’s leadership lets him do it?”

“She’s a corrupt [Mayor]. They all are. He’s rich. Come on, Tesy. One painting? I even have a wall for you. We can cause a diversion.”

The Drake bit his lip.

“I don’t know. Mr—Mri’s here, and so Vetn and I promised I’d lay low. I’ve got heat on me after Cellidel.”

The others egged him on, drunk on literal wine and excitement now this famous rebel was among them. Some were Tesy’s friends, others had the high honor of meeting him and knowing who he was.

“Come on, Tesy! You-know-who doesn’t fear the Watch! We’re with you!”

“Are you really going to turn a blind eye to the [Slaves]? We’re ready to go, Tesy. We’ve been training. We can hit the Watch and get them liberated within the week! Within three days!”

They had slings, knives, and alchemical weapons. Tricks to fight the ‘boots’. Tesy squirmed, but in the face of all the eagerness…he turned to ‘Mri’.

“I won’t be long. You stay here. Just tell Vetn I’m out for a bit if he wakes up.”

Mrsha watched him go, vaguely feeling like this might be a mistake, but she was high on the feeling of being among the company of high-level professionals. Wer had been good and all, but he’d been on the lam. Tesy and Vetn felt free!

…A bit too free? When Vetn woke up, past midnight, and slouched down to bother the [Barmaid] on night-shift for food, he stared at Mrsha as if he had no idea why she was here. Then he groaned.

“Oh yeah. You’re here. Maybe one of Tesy’s friends can help you get home?”

Not he himself? Mrsha was hurt. But then Tesy came back, laughing, and word of Sellme’s latest painting began to spread and Vetn was upset.

“You’re making my job harder! And uh, Mri’s here!”

“Come on, Vetn. I’ll go with you to your event.”

The [Anarchists] didn’t know Vetn, and regarded him with a bit of wariness. He looked at them with clear disinterest.

“Pass if it’s your friends. I’ll check. So are we staying? How’s she getting to Salazsar, or Oteslia or Liscor?”

“Dunno. I’ll think on it tomorrow. I’m out for bed!”

Mrsha sat there as Vetn rubbed at his face, then turned to her.

“I’m going out to check on something. Be back in a bit.”

And they left her there. The [Barmaid] was the one to show Mrsha to her room, give her a glass of milk. Mrsha realized no one had told her to brush her teeth, so she did it herself. Then she went to sleep.

——

No one woke her up, either. Tesy was out, and Vetn had gone back to bed. Mrsha had breakfast, then sat, wondering if they had a plan.

They did not. Vetn and Tesy met over late breakfast, as Sellme’s painting was all over the city. Vetn was annoyed, Tesy clearly proud of his work, which featured the objectionable [Slave Owner] with a Drake with a collar—and trying to put one on a passerby.

It was already causing waves of discontent. And neither had even thought about Mrsha.

“Uh…uh…we’ll think about it tonight. Vetn, is there…?”

“Can’t tell. I’m going to scope out the city and see if there’s anything worth looking at.”

“Well, I’ll find out if there’s more to do. Some of the others are going to see if they can force that monster out of their home and free those poor people. You want to come, Mri?”

Mrsha looked at them. She had a thought. But she wasn’t sure if she should voice it. So she wrote, and held up a message.

I would like to tell my Mother I am safe. Can you help me?

Tesy and Vetn exchanged looks.

“Sure! She doesn’t know? Do you know where she is? I guess I can do it. Do you want to, Vetn?”

“Sure. The Mage’s Guild is on my list.”

That was how Mrsha found herself going to the Mage’s Guild as Vetn posed as her older brother. The [Scribe] didn’t bat an eyelid. He just took down a simple message for Lyonette.

Mrsha was a bit worried. Vetn had given her the blankest of looks when she asked if she should disguise where she was or something. He didn’t know, so she sent the following to Lyonette of Oteslia:

Salutations to Lionette du Solstice,

By the Eternal Throne, greetings! Or should I not swear by that? It is I, your humble little friend, by blood deferred, of Calanfer. Me! Mri! I know you have inquired after my health, and posthaste too, given the dire straits left to our friend of mutual acquaintance. However, I must inform you I am well.

Some complications have emerged, but I assure you I was not abducted and fully plan to rendezvous with you in time. Yet a pressing suitor is after me, and I must decline his invitations. I am simply well, and I hope to see you soon. Much love,

—Mri

She was super-proud of that. Vetn had no idea what it meant, and he grumbled over the cost.

“What does blood-deferred mean?”

Mrsha gave him an indignant look. It was obvious if you knew Terandrian expressions among the aristocracy and royal class. It meant she wasn’t technically of the bloodline, but since she was Lyonette’s daughter, she might qualify as a [Princess] of Calanfer! If the crown accepted her. Otherwise she was an [Illegitimate Heir] at best, but Mrsha wouldn’t mind that class.

Vetn gave her the look of someone who wished he’d had his morning tea.

“You actually know Terandrian lineages and whatnot? You’re something. You remind me of me when I was a kid…no, wait. You don’t. You remind me of someone else when they were young. Smart. Say, maybe she can help us with you needing to get places.”

All was going well, in short. Mrsha wanted to wait for a reply, but Vetn wanted to go off and he was at least conscious enough to drop her at the inn. Mrsha debated slipping outside, but before she could do so, or he could leave on his mysterious business, it happened.

“Hey. There’s a riot already at the gates.”

Tesy looked up from a lunch, frowning. Mrsha even heard the first horn blaring.

“Already? Why the gates? We’ve been stirring up trouble at the mansion, but the gates?”

“Maybe it’s relatives. Come see!”

Everyone went, even Vetn, frowning. He muttered to Tesy.

“My [Advanced Dangersense] is going off.”

“Really? Well, let’s stay back, then. Don’t worry. We’ve got a good group of fighters. Even if the Boots come out in force, it won’t b—”

And then they saw it. Mrsha, holding Tesy’s claw, saw the [Anarchists], ready to join in on behalf of the citizens, stop. They looked ahead as a Gnoll came through the gates, joining a throng of fighting Gnolls. Some were on the battlements.

They were armed, had glowing paint on their fur, and they were killing the Watch.

Not fighting. Not brawling. Not throwing things. They had weapons, and they were tearing through the unprepared City Watch. More were advancing into the city, sniffing, shouting.

“Doom! Somewhere! I don’t have her scent, but I have the Drake’s. Spread out! Chief Warrior, go!”

A familiar Gnoll and the biggest group yet advanced past the fighting, ignoring the screaming civilians. Tesy saw Vetn and Mrsha looking at him. Wer had already shown Mrsha how to hide her scent and Vetn was the Thief of Clouds.

“But I just drew…”

Sellme. They had come for Sellme. Not because they cared about his drawings, but because he was where she was.

Doom. Mrsha saw Vetn move first, again, breaking out of the horror. He pointed.

“The south gates. Move! I’ll find horses!”

——

And then they were here. Wer hadn’t lied. Mrsha fled with Tesy and Vetn as another city burned. Not literally, but the Gnolls had been tracking them through the streets. They missed catching Tesy only because Vetn had doused him in scent-killer. But they were right on their heels, and from this spot, they’d be tracking any city nearby, searching for new arrivals, prevailing on Gnolls in the city who believed in their ways, allying with local tribes…

It sunk in to Vetn and Tesy as they rode. They looked back at Mrsha, and really looked at her. A little Gnoll girl, hunted across Izril. Vetn had known, but this?

“Two Drake cities. They just walked in and…why do they hate her so much? One Gnoll?”

“It’s the Plain’s Eye tribe. They hate them more than anything in the world. Trust me. Other tribes wouldn’t go this far. But Plain’s Eye? I think there’s a reason. I don’t know. I left when I was young.”

Vetn stared back at the city. Tesy was looking back. The [Anarchists] had fled, to protect their homes. He turned to Vetn.

“My friends don’t fight warriors. Not like that. We can hide out with them, maybe. But—do you know where to go?”

“A Thieves’ Guild might give her up.”

“No. Come on.”

Vetn shrugged, matter-of-factly.

“Depends on the price. Listen. Tesy. This is…too big. I don’t know where to take her. Oteslia, Salazsar? We might not make it to either. But I do know who might help out. She’s nearby. Maybe…”

Tesy ran a claw, trembling, Mrsha noticed, down his neck spines. He looked at Vetn, and some composure returned.

“Her? She’s not always an ally…”

“Tesy—just shut up. She’s never turned you in, not once. She gives you money, and she’d know a safe place if there’s one in a local city. If you don’t want to—”

“Okay, okay. Yes! Let’s go. Come on, Mrsha. We’re going to a friend.”

A friend of Tesy and Vetn? And also a safe place, apparently. Vetn sped ahead. He needed to check where she was, but any Mage’s Guild or Merchant’s Guild or local gossiper could tell him. That was how Mrsha found herself heading along a route no one could predict.

Not her worried mother. Not her pursuers. Not even Plain’s Eye.

——

They were the best of times, and the worst—no, wait. They were just the best of times.

The Meeting of Tribes had gotten off to a big start, with festivities, games, activities, reunions, and spectacle. Now, nearly two months in…

It was pretty much still going strong. Lehra woke up one day, dangling foot-first from a rope, still drunk, and had no idea what had happened.

“Cliff jumping. You kept insisting it was ‘your turn’ because you forgot you did it last time.”

Suxhel, the Gazer [Wizard], patiently informed Lehra when she found one of her companions at their tents. Lehra rubbed at her face.

“Didn’t anyone stop me?”

“No. Everyone eventually left because you threw up on the way down. You fell asleep there.”

“Oh. But how’d there get to be a cliff, anyw—”

Lehra turned, saw the giant wooden scaffolding and tower set up to let Gnolls and brave visitors leap from the top with the enchanted rope and stop a dizzying ten feet from the ground, and frowned.

“…Was that always there?”

Suxhel rolled all her eyes, which, coming from a Gazer, was a sign of extreme annoyance. However, she still watched some Gnolls trying the new, and newly cleaned, activity.

“It does surprise me. Even Lizardfolk don’t do this.”

“Well, we’re an adventurous species.”

“Yes. Adventurous is exactly the word I’d use.”

Lehra grinned. The Star Gnoll was actually the one member of her species in Stargazer’s Promise, and while Suxhel had met many of her people, Lehra was something, even among Gnolls. She pointed.

“The Meeting of Tribes is a time to have fun, Suxhel. New experiences!”

“I thought it was a time to give the great gifts and make deliberations on the future of Gnolls.”

The Named Adventurer thought about it.

“Well, yes. But those’re the Chieftains’ jobs. Do you think we’re here to sit about and be stuffy? It’s super entertaining, every single day.”

That was true. The biggest tribes worked hard to make sure there wasn’t ever a lack of activities. Multiple events, per day, hosted by different tribes, meant that this gigantic fair never stopped being both economically and socially rewarding.

Case in point. Lehra dragged her friend over for food and the first activity she saw. She bought a pie, rather than find a free food stand, gobbled it down, and was licking her paws when she saw and remembered her friends in the Silverfang tribe.

“Suxhel! Look! Let’s visit, uh, uh…Inkar! Hey, is that Ekhtouch over there? I thought they were somewhere else.”

She pointed at a gathering near the Silverfang’s area. Children and adults were gathered up, in a placid activity of some kind. Suxhel’s eyes spotted what was going on at once, but Lehra had to come closer to see they were fiddling with beads, string, various carved symbols or even shells.

“Oh! They’re making jewelry?”

“It’s free! Honored Lehra, will you make something? If you have anything, we can help you make something. A clasp for a jewel or stone? Earrings?”

Lehra brightened up. Suxhel, who was a [Wizard] and thus loved magical accoutrements of all kinds, peered at the Gnolls helping children make necklaces. Some were on the level of children’s handicrafts, but some looked like bracelets or necklaces you’d actually keep.

“I have one last [Fit to Form] Skill for the hour! Who’d like it? You?”

A [Jeweler] walked over to a frantically waving young Gnoll woman. The necklace adjusted to fit her perfectly. In another area, a patient [Goldsmith] was working with actual gold, making earrings for a reduced fee.

“Suxhel, do you want something? I could make an earring, maybe? Maybe a dangling one like that Drake has?”

“It will get torn out in your next fight. Like the last one. Get a pin.”

“Fine. Do you see Inkar? That other one?”

“Tkrn? No. They seem to be absent today.”

Suxhel’s eyes scanned the crowd, but she didn’t see the acquaintances they’d met earlier on. Nor even the new visitors. They were all scattered across the Meeting of Tribes.

——

Not everyone was having such a great time, despite the fun and fare. Children were allowed a lot of free roam in the Meeting of Tribes, and they met Gnolls they hadn’t seen and never would outside this one event.

Sometimes friendships emerged. Odd meetings. Sometimes it changed your life. Adetr had been told of this, but he hadn’t expected how it would happen to him.

The Gnoll seemingly made of metal sat, head lowered, waiting for his guest just outside the Steelfur Tribe’s tents. Some children were playing in the background.

“We’re going to win! Plain’s Eye or not!”

“Yeah? There are lots more of us!”

It was a children’s war. It could be vicious, ugly, or silly. In this case it wasn’t going to go to blood unless there was an accident. It was just the Steelfur cubs ‘fighting’ with the Plain’s Eye tribe. There were nearly a thousand Plain’s Eye children, and a tenth of Steelfur, although more children were gathering in expectation of something interesting.

They could have gone to an activity, but sometimes you just had to ‘fight’. Adetr knew that. But he didn’t so much as glance at them as he saw a young woman slow, apprehensively. He rose, and heard a call in the background.

“Rawr! We’re a bear! Get them!”

“That’s cheating! That’s cheating! How are they—”

“Rose.”

Adetr strode over to her, but the young woman had lost focus on him. She was staring at something. Adetr turned, and saw a sight that made even the other visitors turn and laugh or point.

The Steelfur children had formed a kind of living pyramid of bodies. They all had the famous grey, hard fur of their tribe, given to them by their Chieftain. The ones on the bottom were biggest, and carried the Gnolls on top forward in a living mimicry of a bear. The Plain’s Eye children, faced with a goliath, realized they’d lost their tactical advantage and fled, shouting.

Multiple child-formations began rising as other children copied them and began to have fights as multiple levels of children grappled with each other, trying to push the others off-balance so the entire structure collapsed.

Adetr had done the same thing when he was a cub. He had no time for that. The [Battle Seeker] had seen actual creations of steel, which rolled or even flew. He looked at a harbinger of nightmares.

Rose. She waved weakly at him and wished she didn’t have to talk to the intense Gnoll warrior. Inkar had met Tkrn and she was friends with Gireulashia, Feshi, and all the other interesting and famous Gnolls. Some people had all the luck.

Speaking of Feshi, the Gnoll [Strategist] was gloomy because her friends had gone north on another huge adventure, but she was stuck at the Meeting of Tribes. She consoled herself that she’d see them, especially if they were successful, and this was an important time. She had interesting people to meet here as well, and Yerranola had stayed because she needed the Oteslian medicine.

On this fairly ordinary extraordinary day, in the Meeting of Tribes that came once every twenty years, Lehra was trying to make a circlet with a few gems she had in her bag of holding. Rose was greeting Adetr for their discussions. Tkrn and Inkar were having a more enjoyable time watching Gire puzzle out the iPhone that Inkar owned.

As the sun rose to early morning, someone walked over to one of the innermost tribes present. Az’muzarre. The famous defenders of the Great Plains, small, but wielders of weapons of old. Ancient weapons made from the bones of Dragons or armor of scales and such.

Yet that was not what this Gnoll sought. Rather, their greatest warrior strode over to something hanging there. A lesser artifact; ‘merely’ the gigantic, hollowed, crafted horn of a Horned Wyvern, a great beast from back in the day slain by warriors of old.

It hung on a vast stand, so huge it was her size again. Yet angled such that the tip now faced the Gnoll at head-height. She took a breath, and adjusted the converted horn into its new purpose. Then she blew through the cut opening.

It was no wail. The bass blast from the horn filled the air and every Gnoll present looked up, some clapping paws to their ears. A Gnoll on the cliff-diving scaffold turned, the magical rope around his foot. His buddy pushed him off and down he went, screaming. But then the other Gnoll stared.

Not in fear. If there was an attack, everyone would be piping their individual alarm calls and there would be howling. By the same token, there were few ‘universal’ events. This, though—he began to grin and pointed, the first to see it.

“It’s happening! It’s time!”

He was actually the second to see it, but the first person. For across from the Gnoll, the only other being of comparable height moved. A hill that had already begun to sprout with grass and flora native to the Great Plains, sitting in the center of its tribe, moved.

The Earth Elemental of the Gaarh Marsh Tribe raised its head as the thunderous call went out. It looked up, once.

Time.

Everyone had gone silent. Lehra, frozen in the midst of trying to hang a bracelet from one of Suxhel’s eye-stalks, turned her head. She saw a figure move, amidst stillness.

A gigantic figure. Reserved. So tall she put even Gire to shame. A ragged cloak of fur, like a second body, hung from her frame. Her eyes had a second luminescence, or so it seemed.

There she was. The [Racdelbear Shapechanger], the legend of her tribe. Garsine Wallbreaker, striding next to the much smaller Chieftain who walked almost deferentially with her. Neither one was alone; flanking them were five of their best warriors, and their tribe’s [Shaman].

They were walking, with Garsine herself bearing something, a huge Chest of Holding in her long arms. Lehra’s mouth opened in delight, awe, and comprehension. She turned to Suxhel.

“What’s happening, Lehra?”

“It’s time. Suxhel! It’s time! We have to get to my tribe!”

That was what Gnolls all around her were saying. Lehra leapt up, tugging the Gazer, activities forgotten. She wouldn’t go with her Chieftain, Nesiee, but she wanted to see, to be there. She saw Silverfang’s tribe stir, and from their tents emerged another group.

Lehra knew them. Chieftain Akrisa of the Silverfang Tribe did not look any more surprised than Garsine or the others. She had adorned herself in silver, as was most fitting; a band of silver fangs from various monsters was her chief decoration, and her [Shaman] and partner, Cetrule, stood tall, fur groomed, garb immaculate.

They had no Garsine, but their company of Silverfang’s warriors was no less dignified. Yet it was Krshia, and Senior Guardswoman Beilmark, who carried something wrapped in heavy, magic-concealing cloth between them. With ease, for it was light, but with immense pride and nerves. Lehra’s eyes fixed on it as Garsine Wallbreaker slowed.

“Chieftain Akrisa. Will you walk with us? The Chieftains gather.”

“It would be our honor, Chieftain Terrough. However, we await…”

Akrisa looked to the side. She let the words linger as more figures strode forth.

Here came Chieftain Orelighn, of the Greenpaw tribe. Longstalker’s Fang, on the other side, parted the sea of Gnolls as Chieftain Eska, Shaman Pulsg, and Honored Deskie walked forth, bearing their gift—the part that was obvious, at least—openly.

Magic cloth. And a strange device that the [Spinners] knew quite well. Yet the bolts of shimmering cloth, some of Waisrabbit fur, others made with the Shockwoolie wool, or other magical creature’s cloth, was something Deskie had labored over. It would be her last gift to the Meeting of Tribes, and the old [Magical Weaver] walked proudly.

From their tents came the Chieftain of Ekhtouch, Firrelle, and another escort. Four tribes met, coordinating their purpose and arrival.

Garsine and Chieftain Terrough noticed the way the four gathered. All Terrough did was nod, though, eyes keen, appraising.

“We would be honored to walk with you.”

Akrisa bowed her head to both, and so they did. Five tribes, each bearing a gift, great or small, towards the Meeting of Tribes.

Towards the huge tent that had been prepared for this enclave. Only the Chieftains, [Shamans], and Honored Gnolls would be let in. Three Gnolls per tribe at most. Even then, it would be a sea of them, because every tribe present had sent their Chieftain and a gift.

This was the day the Meeting of Chieftains began, and the great deliberations of Gnollkind began. Krshia’s blood was humming in her veins.

At last. At last. Gnolls stared at her, trying to sniff or see or guess what they carried. She kept her head high, noticing some tribes kept their gifts plain to see.

There was strategy in both. Some tribes plainly didn’t have a great gift, so had tried to curry favor in other ways, or simply resigned themselves to a poorer showing. Some tried to camouflage this by hiding their gifts.

Others considered a show of it. Like Demas Metal, who had weapons and armor and ingots of their new Demas-alloy borne proudly behind their young Chieftain, an armory’s worth.

Some tribes had enough for all. Others had one thing; a single magical blade, acquired at great cost from Hendall Fur’s group. Enough to arm a chosen Gnoll, perhaps. Some had already given their gifts and so made shows or reminded people of it, like the [Hunter]’s tribe of Yth Rethang, who had provided a lot of the food that fed every Gnoll for free for the last two months; they had a procession of food on display, cured meats or preserved foodstuffs.

Time. Krshia walked slowly, praying she didn’t trip. She didn’t know if they’d present their gift right away. This was the first Meeting of Chieftains she had ever been privy to, and Akrisa herself had taken the mantle before the last Meeting of Tribes. She knew from second-hand knowledge that the most powerful tribes spoke first, and the gifts would be shown with each Tribe’s pleas or suggestions over the coming days and maybe even weeks. It would be discussion. Great deeds.

She had to succeed. Success for Silverfangs, decisions on Earth—and Mrsha. Krshia’s heart pricked with worry, but if there were any way to curtail the hunt…she would have talked to each Chieftain individually, had this not been in the works. They had to present their case first. So she walked, carrying the great tome of magic. As the Chieftains gathered.

Krshia told herself she had little to fear. There would be disagreements, arguments, but they were all Gnolls. She brought them tidings of magic, a view that challenged tradition on white Gnolls. Yet they were Gnolls. She had no enemies here.

——

The Meeting of Tribes’ procession of Chieftains was all about reputation. The weight of fame. From Garsine to Lehra, the most famous Gnolls in the world were there. So they did not show off in the sense of engineering a spectacle. They had the kind of ponderous weight of authority. We do not need to remind people who we are.

Confidence. A commendable amount of self-assurance and even its own kind of panache, as such subtlety worked well in some cases.

Yet oh dear, was it dull. Not all Gnolls went to the Meeting of Tribes, once every twenty years yadda yadda, whatever. Not all Gnolls cared.

When she walked past the vast, shimmering curtains that had been set up, the audience screamed.

Mainly because of the fireball and howling gale of flames that hit the stage. Yet it did not touch the Gnoll that strode out of the fire. Or was it a Gnoll?

She had wings. Huge, flaming wings—no, an illusion! A dress? They turned with her as she strode down the stage, strutting, waving at the cheering Drakes and Gnolls, a riotous accompaniment with her.

This was an entrance. This was style. The Dragon-motif was not lost on the audience. Those who knew her cheered louder, but more than a few Drakes were outraged by someone invoking their Ancestors like that!

They were drowned out by the roaring of voices around her, the screams. And she herself had spells to amplify her voice.

She did not sing; she wasn’t the up-and-coming Singer of Terandria. There was music because you had to have music, and she performed to that. But she wasn’t a [Dancer] either, not exactly.

Like the motif of the flaming Dragon, her dress was some kind of bright, fiery fabric. It reflected fragments of light into the crowd.

“People of Beithstrel! It. Is. Me!”

They cheered even louder, her fans. The Gnoll woman laughed hugely. Then, and this was what made her different from a [Dancer], as the dress whirled around her, it abruptly vanished in a cascade of magical sparkles. Leaving behind all Gnoll, and only Gnoll.

Scandalous! Eyes popped, and the screaming grew louder. ‘Naked’, the Gnoll woman strutted down the stage, blowing kisses at outraged Drakes, and making a gesture that gave one a near heart-attack.

She was about as naked as your average Gnoll; which was to say, covered in fur. Even so, the morals of decency and such! This was not your average Gnoll, though. Nor was her fur brown, or spotted, or black, or russet red, or…white. No. It was what gave her the iconic name behind the famous [Merchant] and personality, so much so that her arrival in cities was performance and spectacle unto itself.

She shone in the spotlights trained on her, glittering so bright she reflected more than her dress. After all—

Her fur was golden. The Golden Gnoll herself, harbinger of good fortune, good business, and good love, was a celebrity who hadn’t attended the Meeting of Tribes. She was a City Gnoll, and she spread her arms wide to the horrified and adoring crowd.

“My beautiful darlings! Life is rich! Who wants to make money? Or—”

And here she tossed her head, dipping a paw into a basket another performer and assistant on stage had brought out.

“—make love? It’s one and the same to me. And I have enough to share!”

So saying, she drew a pawful of coins out and flung them into the crowd. Gold coins bounced off cheering faces, or in one case, into an open mouth, as a mad scramble broke out.

There were a few reasons you paid attention to the Golden Gnoll. Because you could actually get the gold coins she was known to throw out as signs of largesse, because she performed her business, because you were a fan of…various things, including her unique style of ‘dress’.

Or because you actually had business with her. The Golden Gnoll let the tension ride higher, then got down to work. First she hyped up the crowd. Then she gave her universal speech.

“I came here to do business. And do you know what that business is? Making money. Not making silver, or making a few pieces of gold. Children, I give away gold. And so should you! If you needed to pick up a gold coin, if that was something that would change your life—you are doing it wrong. You should be making enough money that if someone drops a gold coin on the ground in front of you, you pay someone else to pick it up. People like to say ‘money isn’t everything’. They talk about levels, family, love…in my experience, you can buy all of that. So. Let’s talk about how to make money.”

She practiced what she preached, and had followers. Oh yes. But the Golden Gnoll raised a paw and amended the time-honored speech she’d given for over a decade.

“—And before you shout at me, don’t talk nonsense about this Golden Triangle. I never invested a coin into it. I told everyone it was a scam, and guess who was laughed at? Well, guess who was right, you idiots! I have the names of every brainless ‘[Merchant]’ and ‘[Strategist]’ who told me I was a fool. Some of them are Merchant’s Guild guildmasters…or were. Because I’m going to shout them out. Money isn’t an idea. It’s something you have in your paws.”

To demonstrate, she seized another handful of coins and tossed them. The crowd was fixed on her every word. The Golden Gnoll paused for breath.

“Everything is a trade. Everything is a deal. People tell you there are rules. Like, ‘don’t sell yourself’. Well, I’ve sealed a deal any way I please, but always a deal I want to take. No one has ever made me take a bad offer. Because I don’t bet all my gold on dreams like the Golden Triangle. I diversify, I invest, and here’s how you’re going to start.”

Welcome to her finance-talk.

——

The thing about the Golden Gnoll, or Qwera, if you actually knew her name, was that she did give good advice. Yes, a lot of it was hype and showwomanship. However, her actual advice to the part-time entrepreneur or business person was frank.

Invest what you can, in appreciable commodities and don’t panic. Sell when high, buy when low.

What did that look like? Well, she did her research on local commodities, but healing potions were a good example. Quality ones that didn’t go bad were fairly easy to store as long as you kept them from spoiling due to temperature, breakage, etc. When a war broke out, everyone wanted good healing potions and you could literally double your investment with ease.

However! There were bad commodities to get into. The one her audience and fellow [Merchants] and [Traders] always winced at was the ‘purified water’ scam, wherein [Merchants] sold the highly valuable, yet extremely hard-to-keep stuff to some young fool and they stored it in a keg or glass jars and it lost its purity.

So she had good advice. But it was true that the Golden Gnoll was a personality. As in, her fans ranged from aspiring [Traders] to people who wanted to live her dream. Also, to members of both species that would worship her bare feet.

‘Fans’ of something other than her business acumen. Of course, Qwera took it as a sign of success. She played it up, as they tried to touch her on stage, making fun of them, or teasing.

When it was over, and the travelling conclave of [Merchants] got to actually sell and buy with the eager crowds, and after they had all retired and she was talking to fellow business people, she was more retiring, not performative.

But still her.

“If you don’t like me hogging the attention, find a way to attract interest yourself, Totosell. What’s that? Oh, you can’t.”

The angry Drake from a competing caravan who’d had the misfortune to stop at the same city as Qwera, glowered. Her group had outsold his by a large margin.

“All you do is cover yourself in gold paint, you—you shameless [Nudist]!”

Qwera rolled her eyes as the [Merchants] relaxing in the back rooms of the Merchant’s Guild all watched the impending fight.

“For the cost of a bit of gold paint, I multiply my income because people love the Golden Gnoll. It’s not all gold, anyways, see? I have a patch right here.”

She pointed down. Totosell stared down at—he jerked his eyes up, turning crimson under his scales. Qwera laughed.

“I get away with it. You? You couldn’t sell diamonds even if you covered yourself in gold paint.”

“You’re just a fraud, Qwera. You bring down the reputation of all [Merchants] and I don’t see how anyone allows you to keep doing this shameless act!”

He made a mistake. Which was getting into a war of insults with Qwera in the first place. She narrowed her eyes. The Golden Gnoll, who had been sipping some wine and drinking a soothing tonic for her throat, stood up, as some of her friends, knowing what was going to happen, backed up. One of her friends moved forwards, to stop her.

Qwera took two steps over to Totosell—who had chosen his business name much like her persona—and deliberately tossed her drink in his face. Then she growled in the gasping silence.

“You’re just a pathetic Drake who’s jealous I have what you don’t. So let me give you some advice, Totosell. Quit your job because you’re no good at your class and you’ll never even scrape Level 30. You have no style, no personality, and even toads can see you’re jealous of my assets.”

Here she made a gesture to indicate which ones she was talking about. Totosell was growing increasingly red, but Qwera wasn’t done and no one talked over her.

“So I’m going to give you some advice for free, since I doubt you’d find customers, even on Rhir. Go take your tail, find a hole that’s somehow dirtier than your shit-crusted scales and complete lack of hygiene, and then ram it—”

The horrified look on the local Guildmistress’ face grew over the next minute, and Totosell’s wine-dripping expression of similar stupefaction grew. He was just lucky he hadn’t pushed or taken a swing at her, because she wasn’t someone who held back there either.

His bodyguard made the mistake. A burly Drake went for his sword and Qwera’s friend stopped the Golden Gnoll from escalating, because she did not deescalate anything. The Drake had his sword half-out when someone kissed his throat.

Metaphorically. With a point of steel of her own. Totosell froze and Qwera turned and grinned.

“I’d keep the blades off the table, friend. Or Qwera will do exactly what she just said with your severed tail.”

The [Bodyguard] gulped and let go of his sword, slowly. Totosell backed up. He pointed a claw at both of them.

“You two are the reason why Izril’s gone to the Antinium! People like you. Foreigners and…”

He backed up more as Qwera’s eyes narrowed. Even so, he wasn’t fast enough. She threw a chair at him and at this point the local Guildmistress pulled the [Merchants] apart before Totosell got hurt any more.

In one of the private rooms, Qwera rolled her eyes, completely ignoring the scandals about assaulting fellow [Merchants]. She shut the door on the aggrieved [Secretary]’s face, turned, and, delighted, embraced her fellow [Merchant].

“Look who it is! You filthy fleshbag.”

“I’m here, you wet dog. And just in time to stop you from getting hurt.”

“Me? Hah!”

Qwera threw her head back. The Human woman had to smile. Qwera was not in danger of Totosell, who was far smaller and thinner, causing her harm. Dead gods, even the bodyguard had better watch out. Qwera wasn’t an expert with a sword, but her friend had once seen her use a bottle of wine to take out five people.

“I haven’t seen you since the last time I went north. Sit down. Have a drink. What brings you this far south, Ysara?”

The Golden Gnoll threw herself back into a seat. Ysara of House Byres, the Silver Trader, a delightful counterpoint to the Golden Gnoll, settled back in her seat.

“Multiple reasons. The north wasn’t exactly fun with the Goblin Lord marching about. I was caught in the south on a little run and decided to tour down this way. I would have gone north, but I’m actually pondering a cross-continental trip.”

“Really. Is there profit in that?”

“Not so much. It’s personal business. I’m sure my younger brother has it covered, but—let’s not get into that yet. I have a proposal for you.”

Ysara grimaced as she sipped her wine. Qwera’s eyes were sharp, but she shrugged. The Silver Trader didn’t actually sell just in her motif, it was just her nickname. You had to be known if you were more than a local, small-time person and the ‘Golden Gnoll’ was hard to forget.

Same for the former [Lady] of House Byres, who was so good with a sword she didn’t need a personal bodyguard outside her caravan’s usual security. She actually tended to invest in rare alchemical ingredients. Silver was one of those things, but it made good money if you knew what was in stock and were the provider for a number of good [Alchemists].

By contrast, Qwera did as she advised; she diversified. This was one of six caravans she had running, and while the central one made more money just because of her presence, she was a business magnate. Bigger than Ysara.

“So, what’s new? Anything happen on your trip? I’ve been heading back from Fissival. [Mages] and magicore. Name me a more profitable duo.”

Qwera prompted after a second. Ysara sighed.

“Have you ever heard of a Wailant Strongheart? I’ve been thinking about killing him because he’s devaluing Sage’s Grass across the south.”

“Hm. Not familiar. That’s a Human name. Is he a new [Merchant]?”

“Nope. Northern. But his Sage’s Grass is hitting Pallass’ markets, so I have bushels of the stuff I just got from Plain’s Eye losing money every second I don’t offload it.”

“How’d he get it there?”

“That damn magic door.”

“Ah.”

Qwera’s eyes lit up. She’d heard about the effect it was having on the economy, and had been thinking of ways to exploit it, but hadn’t had the golden idea yet. And without one, she wasn’t about to make a move. Ysara shrugged, rubbing at her mess of indigo hair.

Indigo, incidentally, was not blonde. Nor might her sister have recognized her older sister’s long earrings on one ear, or a tattoo on an arm. It was all Qwera knew of Ysara, though. Only the sword would be recognizable to both. A silversteel sword with House Byres’ crest, wielded by someone they had called a genius when she was growing up, but who had never become a [Knight].

“I also had to change directions and skip my Prelon run. For the [Alchemists]. Cellidel is up in flames and prices are skyrocketing.”

“Cellidel? Why?”

“Sellme.”

A one-word answer was all that was required. Instantly, Qwera threw her head back.

“Dead gods, don’t talk to me about Sellme. If that [Painter] gets anywhere within a hundred miles of me, I swear, I’ll nail his balls to the next mural he puts up. Such a pain.”

She grumbled, filling her cup. Ysara just shook her head.

“I’d watch out. Between Sellme and these ‘Gnoll attacks’, the cities are getting jumpy.”

“For everyone but the Golden Gnoll, darling. I’m just a [Merchant]. It helps being me. So, what did you want to talk about?”

“Hm. Buy out my stock so I can take a ship? All that I can’t transport without needing a wagon, at least.”

Qwera threw back her head and laughed, long and loud. Then she looked at Ysara.

“Wait, you’re serious, aren’t you? Oh, Ysara. What have you done this time? Don’t tell me someone else has captured your heart? Say if it’s so, so I can beat some sense into you.”

She raised a paw, but Ysara shook her head.

“Worse, it’s family.”

Instantly, the Golden Gnoll put a paw on Ysara’s arm, giving her a sympathetic look of understanding.

“My dear…we’ll talk numbers.”

They were, of course, friends, for a given value of friends. Not very close, but a bit more than acquaintances with a mutual respect for each other. However, business was business. And for Qwera, business was good. The Meeting of Tribes could kiss her shiny tail if she thought about it at all.

She agreed to look at Ysara’s wares and give her an answer by the next day, and retired to her rented inn, meeting with some starstruck fans, promising nothing, and making sure they left and she had her inn to herself to relax afterwards. Qwera pushed the door open to her luxury room, and stopped.

Vetn was slapping Tesy’s claws away from rummaging through Qwera’s possessions and most valuable items. A little Gnoll girl was jumping on her bed. Sellme and the Thief of Clouds took one look at the Golden Gnoll’s expression.

“Um, hi, Qwera. We were just—”

Tesy got no further before she seized him, and, holding him by both of his legs, began to shake him as he screamed, dangling out of the window, head-first over a three-story drop.

Here came trouble. Just like every time these two idiots brought it to her. She was just about to fetch a pair of clippers and make good on her threat when Vetn began to explain and she saw the telltale patch of white on the little Gnoll girl’s ears where Tesy’s paint had begun to disappear.

Then Qwera knew they were in even more trouble than usual.

——

Tesy and Vetn knew interesting people. Mrsha watched the angry Gnoll smack the younger two Drake and Gnoll for a good eight minutes. She hugged them once, then began to buffet them every time they did or said something she found stupid.

Which was a lot. Surprisingly, Tesy and Vetn just ran away or ducked or dodged. They all knew each other, the Golden Gnoll, Sellme, and the Thief of Clouds. They weren’t just friends. It was like a big sister taking two younger brothers to task.

But they clearly weren’t related. Childhood friends? Mrsha listened as Tesy spoke rapidly.

“And then they attacked a city! Like, literally sacked it, Qwery! They’re insane!”

“You mean, you, Sellme, the famous [Anarchist], are upset because some people attacked a Drake city?”

Qwera scowled at him. Tesy looked offended.

“We fight the corrupt Watch! We don’t slaughter people! They were insane!”

“Plain’s Eye. They’re completely out for blood, Qwera. You should have seen it.”

Vetn agreed. Qwera looked from one to the other, then at Mrsha.

“So you decided the best thing to do was bring this child and an armed force of high-level Gnolls to me.”

Tesy and Vetn exchanged a glance.

“We thought you could help. You’re connected, and you have guarded caravans…”

“I have [Guards]. I don’t fight armies! Dead gods. And I heard about Cellidel. You idiot.”

She raised the golden fist of justice to smite Tesy, and the [Magical Painter] threw up his claws.

“It wasn’t my fault! There was a Senior Guardsman—I wasn’t going to leave, but he found out who I was!”

“You idiot! Drakes’ Ancestors, I need another drink and a Calming Tonic or I am going to kill both of you. Give me one second, and don’t you dare cause trouble in the minute I’m gone!”

She stormed out of the room. Tesy and Vetn exchanged glances.

“She’s mad.”

“Yeah, but she didn’t throw us out so she’ll probably help. See? I told you she could help. Mrsha, that’s Qwera. Don’t worry, she’s n—she’s n—”

Tesy hesitated. Vetn interrupted.

“She’s nice to everyone but us. Children. Probably.”

“Yeah, definitely. Just don’t make her mad.”

Mrsha nodded respectfully. She was quite impressed; she’d met few [Merchants] before, and all gold? Plus, she didn’t wear clothes, which Mrsha respected. She knew Lyonette was lying about having to wear them!

Why does she know you two? Is she an [Anarchist]?

Tesy laughed so hard he spat water onto the floor. Vetn and he stared at it in horror, then moved the chairs so they covered the carpet stain. Sellme leaned forwards confidentially.

“No, she’s not. Actually, she told me never to paint in a city she’s in. She’s a childhood friend. Well, Vetn knew her and he introduced me. She was a [Trader] and he used to work with her.”

By selling stolen stuff? Or Sellme’s paintings?

“No! She’d kill us if we tried…”

The two instantly chorused. Vetn shook his head.

“She’s too smart. She used to make me tell her about things I saw so she got trading information. Break into the Merchant’s Guild and read ledgers. Tesy sometimes paints a Sellme piece and she ‘finds’ it fast. But only now and then.”

The [Magical Painter] looked aggrieved.

“I only do it because she’s an ally. She sort of funds us now and then. Even though she’s rich and she could be distributing…”

Vetn rolled his eyes. Mrsha glanced up as the doors flew back open and the Gnoll woman returned.

“I’m back. I am not calm. But here we are. Since you two can’t decide how you’re going to fix this, I will. And you two will pay for it later.”

The [Thief] and [Painter] cringed, but Qwera wasn’t interested in them. She sat down on her bed. Mrsha, sitting upright, saw two keen eyes fix her with a searching stare.

“So you’re Mrsha. You can’t speak, is that right? But you can write?”

Yes! I am Mrsha. It is nice to meet you!

Mrsha saw Qwera’s eyes study the neat handwriting.

“That’s interesting. And you have…white fur. Child. You poor child. You’re in trouble now, and no mistake. Ancestors.”

She sighed. Mrsha saw her glance at Tesy and Vetn. The two looked…well, much like Kevin and Rose and the others did when they first came to Erin’s inn.

Shocked. Still horrified by what they’d seen. Both were high-level, but the attacks had been something they weren’t used to, that they stayed away from, even Tesy and his anti-governmental stance.

Out of their depth. Qwera? She began to ask Mrsha questions.

“You had better explain all of it. Where did you come from? The Stone Spears tribe? Vetn, do you know about that? Liscor? Liscor? That backwater? And…The Wandering Inn? Wait a second. Didn’t Ysara say…?”

The story came out in scritching writings, questions, ‘are you lying?’, ‘really, that actually happened?’, lots of ‘whats?’, and so on. Vetn and Tesy actually forgot their worries long enough to stare.

It was a tale and a half. At one point Qwera made Mrsha actually swear on a little truth stone that she wasn’t lying. And then she had the gall to make Vetn double-check with a Skill! She sat back.

“This is bigger than I could have guessed. Your Human mother’s in Oteslia, your [Innkeeper] who’s also your guardian is frozen, you know the Wind Runner of Reizmelt, a Courier, and you were en-route to Salazsar. Why? Because that other Gnoll knew someone there?”

Mrsha hesitated.

He has a contact and a place to hide near there.

She lied about Wer, to keep the secret Gnolls safe. Qwera accepted that; the thing about truth stones was that they didn’t work as well on writing and she’d already asked if Mrsha was telling the truth about the inn.

“So you need to get to one or the other without a bunch of insane Plains Gnolls killing you for having white fur.”

“I still don’t understand that. Can you believe this, Qwera? It’s crazy.”

“It’s tribe-logic. Don’t argue about it, Tesy. They won’t listen. And they would attack Liscor again. Any city. They’ll come after you until you die because it’s more than pride. More than doom.”

There was something about the way Qwera said it. Mrsha shuddered. It was exactly like Wer, but the Gnoll had some reddish fur right there. Did she know a white-furred Gnoll? Did Vetn?

If so, it sounded like it was past-tense. Qwera rubbed at her ears; her golden fur didn’t lose its shiny coating, unlike even Sellme’s paint.

“It’s simple, then. We get you to either this Courier and have her pick you up and take you somewhere very safe, like House Veltras, or we get you into Oteslia. Gnolls can’t break through a siege. Or Salazsar if this Wanderer turns up. I’ll figure out exactly how, but it’s easy to hide little girls in chests and trunks for a [Merchant]. It’s not the riskiest thing I’ve smuggled.”

Vetn and Tesy brightened up.

“You’re a lifesaver, Qwera. And you can help Mrsha! Even with the checkpoints—”

Vetn kicked Tesy, but the white-scaled Drake’s mouth ran too fast. Qwera looked up.

“Checkpoints?‘

“There are armed Gnolls checking everyone on the roads. They uh…they’ve been following us. There are lots of them. There’s even been some fighting, but they’re so high-level…”

Vetn and Tesy saw the Golden Gnoll’s face go slack. Somehow, they’d followed Mrsha. They had Skills or a scent or something. She looked at Mrsha. Less confident. Sellme and the Thief of Clouds exchanged a glance.

“Yes. They would do that.”

That was all Qwera said. Mrsha’s ears drooped.

I’m sorry.

The Golden Gnoll looked at Mrsha. She brushed the piece of paper aside. She looked at Mrsha, and her eyes moved to Vetn. Then, she exhaled.

“You didn’t do anything but exist, child. Come here.”

The Gnoll woman picked Mrsha up and began to pat her head. Instantly, the little girl began to wriggle because she hated petting. However, Qwera didn’t do it like Rose or someone else. She just gently placed a paw on Mrsha’s head and enveloped her in a warm embrace. When next she spoke, her voice was sad. Sad, but oh, so determined.

“White fur. You did nothing wrong. Believe me, you didn’t. It was always what they brought. Their hatred. Their reasons why you had to die. They hunted you and you’re so young. But you never let them break you. You never will.”

Mrsha looked up at Qwera’s face. How did she know…? But the paw kept patting her hair, combing knots and tangles and a bit of dirt out of her fur.

“Well done. Just rest easy. I’m here, and they’ll never get to you with me in their way. That’s a promise.”

Many people had made Mrsha that promise. Or had they? She looked up, and realized Qwera was one of the few people to ever say it aloud. Her family had always implied it in everything they did. Wer had said he’d try.

This was somehow more comforting, in a moment. A promise. Mrsha knew adults couldn’t always keep them. But she liked to believe they could. She nodded at that knowing face, then she closed her eyes. She leaned into Qwera, trembling a bit, but relaxed.

It was like magic. But it wasn’t a Skill or magic the Golden Gnoll needed to be given. Just words. She whispered to Mrsha.

“Never let them trick you into thinking it was your fault. Understand?”

Tesy and Vetn looked at her solemnly as the little girl nodded, tearing up a bit. They looked awkward, unable to handle this moment. Unable to find anything to say that wouldn’t detract. At last, Tesy murmured.

“Thanks, Qwery. Really.”

Above Mrsha, the Golden Gnoll sighed.

“Just find a room. I’ll tell the [Innkeeper]. Mrsha can sleep here or in her own room. We’ll talk on it tomorrow.”

They nodded. Mrsha told Qwera she was fine and could have her own room. The Golden Gnoll nodded, and made sure she was fed, had a toothbrush, and told her to call if anything happened. Mrsha lay down.

This inn was called Sotosilt for some reason, but it catered to rich travellers. It had a big room, huge, fluffy sheets, and lovely beds. Mrsha wished she were back in The Wandering Inn.

She was tired. Scared by the relentless pursuit. Tesy and Vetn hadn’t even told Qwera how close it had been. The Thief of Clouds was high-level, but even he’d barely kept ahead of Gnolls that would stop any group, that feared no one.

She was scared. But also very tired. She just wanted to find Lyonette. If she found Lyonette…

Would she bring danger to her, too? Mrsha imagined a bunch of Gnolls with crossbows. She saw them aiming at Erin.

Doom.

She had fallen asleep at some point, because she jerked up with a wordless howl on her lips. However, it didn’t come out. Panting, Mrsha realized it was long past midnight and into dawn.

She woke up because of the bad dream, but she stayed up because she heard the creak of floorboards, a door opening, a whisper…

Mrsha ignored it at first, but then she padded to her door and opened it. Just in time to see Vetn and Tesy, clothed and packed, sneaking out the third-floor window. They whirled as Mrsha stared at them.

“Mrsha! We were—”

Tesy’s voice rose over the whisper. He was the one she’d been hearing; Vetn was as quiet as a cat. The Thief of Clouds was already scaling out the window. Mrsha stared at him. He avoided her look.

They were leaving her! Leaving her with…Tesy backed up.

“Look, Qwera’s really responsible. She’ll…we’re not cut out to fight Gnolls. Sorry. We’ll see you later, maybe. Don’t tell anyone who we are, okay? So…”

He was at the window. Mrsha just watched him go as the white-scaled Drake turned guiltily and put one foot over the window ledge. He was halfway out when a furious Gnoll charged out of her rooms, seized his tail, and yanked him back in.

“Oh no you don’t. You’re not dumping this problem in my lap and running! Vetn! Get back here or I’ll post a ten thousand gold bounty on your worthless hide!”

Her shout woke up the entire inn. Mrsha saw Tesy scramble for the window.

“Qwery! Don’t—”

She picked him up, and began to shake him as Vetn froze outside. Then she put him in a headlock as he frantically tried to get his paints. The Golden Gnoll took no prisoners.

——

Tesy and Vetn did not flee, mainly because Qwera promised them that if they did, she would personally make them suffer. They couldn’t meet Mrsha’s eyes either.

Cowards. Mrsha was hurt beyond words they’d just tried to run. She’d never, ever had anyone run away from her when she needed help.

Except Ryoka. But even Ryoka left after the monsters. These two?

They weren’t Wilovan and Ratici after all. They were just…in over their heads. They were like kids. Numbtongue would have stayed even if an army was attacking. And died.

Maybe there was something to it, after all, but Qwera wasn’t impressed either. She had a sumptuous breakfast that neither one got to eat and let Mrsha nibble at sea food canapes after a big, juicy meat brisket.

“They never grew up, neither of them. I was always the big sister—I’m not that much older than either! A bit. Vetn and I grew up outcasts and he…bah. He and Tesy get along right until they don’t. Little children. Unable to even face an ounce of responsibility.”

Mrsha glanced at Qwera as she ranted—then the two hunched figures of Tesy and Vetn, having to literally watch them eat and have Qwera insult them. The Golden Gnoll eyed them, then sighed.

“Vetn. You stole something from the Meeting of Tribes, didn’t you? Did you fence it?”

He glanced up.

“Sure did.”

“…Then I’ll let you go. I’ll catch up in…two hours. I need to meet a [Merchant] friend who might be able to help.”

“I’ll go—”

Qwera pointed a butter-knife at Tesy and he froze.

“You’ll go with Vetn, and if you so much as paint a drop on a single wall, I’ll tell the [Chef] to prepare me Drake balls for lunch and have you eat them. We’ll catch up. If there are Gnoll Doomslayers in this city, it will probably be the safest place.”

“So there is one in the city?”

“Yes. Here’s the address.”

She whispered in Vetn’s ear and he nodded. Mrsha perked her ears up. What was this, now? Tesy looked a bit uncomfortable, but the Golden Gnoll was adamant. She finished breakfast, told Mrsha they were going to meet a ‘Ysara’, which sounded a bit like two people with stupid names that Mrsha both sort of liked, and then meet them at a bar. She took Mrsha by the paw, and marched on.

——

Mrsha never saw Ysara. Qwera was warier than both Tesy and Vetn, and thus didn’t want to say she had the famous kidnapping victim in her company, even if she trusted her friend. There was trust, then there was being associated with that.

Rather, she engineered a clever disguise for Mrsha before even leaving the inn. The little Gnoll girl admired her new ‘look’.

Two gold-tipped ears, and a necklace with her bag of holding strung around it. She also had gold-themed clothing, adjusted for her height, and a little basket. It was full of two things.

Firstly, a kind of calling-card, only it wasn’t a business card, but a scroll with a list of Qwera’s future tours to cities, Merchant’s Guild info, and tied neatly to that, a gold coin.

An actual gold coin, and Mrsha had written a few cards she could hold up and show people to advertise the Golden Gnoll. She was Qwera’s helper and disguised because everyone batted an eye at her. Everyone saw the Golden Gnoll’s advertiser.

Here was the genius of Qwera, though. Where Mrsha would still have aroused suspicion from clever Gnolls who were looking for a girl of her build…she was just one of dozens. Qwera hired nearly three dozen children to advertise for her, and Mrsha could walk around and hand out the scrolls while following Qwera in disguise.

Smart. Just like Vetn said. She was waiting for Qwera as she emerged from the Merchant’s Guild.

“I might have a plan that gets you to real safety. But it’s a weird one. If there’s anywhere safe in the world, it’s a place where there are no Gnolls. I just wonder if she’ll agree…well, first we need to see about your mother and get out of this deathtrap. Follow me and I’ll explain.”

Qwera had a carriage waiting, even though it was a short trip and she informed the driver they’d walk the last few blocks. She spoke to Mrsha out of the corner of her mouth, so only they’d hear.

“Tesy and Vetn were right. There are Gnolls in this city and the ones nearby, searching for you. They’re stopping even [Merchants] outside the city…even Totosell got searched and the idiot put up a fight. Dead gods, but the Drakes aren’t going to take this. However. We’re dead and they’re closing in. I honestly don’t know if I’d be able to smuggle you out with my Skills. This is not an ordinary Doomslayer group. They sent their best. Multiple Level 30+ and I hear their leader was a Rhir war veteran.”

Mrsha gulped. How were they going to escape that? Qwera gave her a brief look.

“Don’t worry. We can get out of this net. Vetn is one of the best in the world. Not the best, but he didn’t get his name just because of Tesy. The problem is finding a way to keep you safe for good. I have some crazy ideas…but Ysara wants to see you and I didn’t dare tell her everything in the Merchant’s Guild. Not even a private room. Here though—here will be safe. If it was monitored or surveyed, we’d all be dead. So! Safe. Excuse me, we’ll stop here.”

The [Driver] halted the carriage and Qwera began to climb out. She offered Mrsha something.

“Put this on.”

Mrsha did. She saw, as they left the coach, that Qwera was suddenly an ordinary, black-furred Gnoll woman. She walked along with her daughter, as casually as could be, as the coach driver pulled away. She led them along a strange, circuitous route, until they finally got to an inconspicuous store on a street Mrsha had no idea about. Qwera headed straight for it—then turned left, headed down an alleyway, and halted in front of a brick wall in a curve where they were invisible from the street.

She kicked the wall low to the ground and Mrsha heard a hollow thunk from the ‘bricks’. Qwera coughed, then spoke.

“Is it a cow?”

Mrsha went cross-eyed with confusion. Right up until one of the bricks slid aside and two Drake eyes frowned at her.

“Who’s the child?”

“Someone in need. Don’t make me kick down the door!”

“She’s not one of us.”

“Yeah, well, neither’s my foot so far up your ass that—”

“Alright, alright, fine. Don’t throw a fuss! Who am I looking for? A Human?”

“Yep. Let her in. Also: your password is stupid. ‘Is it a cow’. Who thinks of that? If they’re standing in front of the door and saying anything, they know or it’s a coincidence beyond belief.”

The entire wall swung inwards. Mrsha’s jaw dropped. A Drake glowered at Qwera as she removed her ring and began to sparkle again. He folded his arms and she saw he was wearing a dress.

Like Selys. But it was a male Drake. Mrsha blinked up at Qwera, but she didn’t bat an eyelid.

“People like passwords. It makes them feel safe.”

“It makes me feel stupid. Come on, Mrsha. And this is a secret to everyone. Just like your fur. You protect us. And we…hello, my beautiful darlings! Guess who’s back?”

She spread her arms and the Golden Gnoll shone. This cheer was different than that of her crowds. Here were her real fans, the ones that knew her. She danced forwards into the most secret and fun bar Mrsha had ever seen as the brick wall closed. She looked up at the Drake, who gave her a friendly wink.

“What’s wrong, little miss? Never seen someone pull off a dress so well?”

She shook her head. To Mrsha’s eyes, the dress was a contemporaneous, pre-trend duovem, which was a word in the lexicon of Lyonette’s people—fancy people—to refer to a dress in how related it was to the common, current aesthetic. Obviously, according to Drake trends, which were currently those airy, fairy-like long dresses; this one was more form-fitting, with that seam on either side.

Mrsha knew Lyonette would probably know exactly which dress it was and Mrsha had already failed the test. It looked like the red silk had the patterns of the city’s emblems on it, and personal names in gold.

But she was no expert on dresses or anything. The Drake laughed and bent down.

“Ah. Well. Just remember: this is secret. You’re that girl from the scrying orb, aren’t you? Do you know what this place is?”

Mrsha stared into the bar, built out of an old and forgotten safe room that criminals had used. Concealed doorway. Passwords of dubious quality.

Yet this wasn’t a hiding place. Or at least, not in the sense she knew it. In here, in secret, there was alcohol, dancing, and a flamboyant Gnoll on stage—Qwera. Drakes and Gnolls in lovely clothing. None of this was illegal.

Only they were. It was when Mrsha saw two male Drakes holding hands and talking, Tesy sitting uncomfortably as Vetn laughed with a Drake girl with colorful tail-tattoos, saw how Qwera was at home here, that she put it together. But she’d forgotten the word, so the Drake [Doorkeeper] supplied it for her.

“Turnscales.”

——

That was the answer to a question Mrsha didn’t know she had. Turnscales, a word she’d sometimes heard children shouting at each other. An insult that meant you had to run over and punch whoever said it.

She knew the meaning. But not the meaning. She got it now. One look at two Drakes doing a smooth groove together—and by together, she meant together, as if someone had stuck them together with glue—and she got it. They were dancing to some song and style that reminded Mrsha of the Earthers’ songs. Only, these people had it. Song crystals, from Terandria.

It was a big room, with a few other chambers. Some underground, a literally underground space. There was alcohol, dancing, and the cheer that had arisen when Qwera took the little stage at the back had filled the place.

They knew her. Mrsha was reminded of Tails and Scales at first, or The Wandering Inn as it pertained to the Players of Celum. In that this was clearly an establishment that sold alcohol and even food and had entertainment. Not Erin’s wackiness, which was chaos.

Why a password, though? Obviously, Mrsha approved of secret hiding places; she had lots. But why the secrecy? And, for that matter, she noticed instantly that this was a bar of more than just libations and adults doing gross things.

There was enough of that, but Mrsha saw that Tesy and Vetn were actually a similar dynamic that spoke to the…the room.

No, Tesy, Vetn, and Qwera. All three were represented. Some of the Drakes and Gnolls were like Tesy, inherently uncomfortable with this place, staring around as if everything was scandalous. Others were comfortable, like Vetn, flirting, talking, more relaxed than Mrsha had ever seen the Thief of Clouds.

Then there was Qwera, the doorman…doorlady?, and a few others. Whenever one of them spoke, everyone else listened. They gave orders, and people came to them.

“This is Mrsha. I’m bringing in a Human—she’s on the level. An Architect of her own people—in a sense. Don’t raise a fuss.”

“Isn’t that girl the one who everyone was saying was kidnapped? Qwera! Are you involving us in something dangerous?”

A worried Drake was remonstrating with Qwera. The Golden Gnoll just gave him a look.

“She’s a white Gnoll, Hetrell. Find out what that means. She’s a child and there are Plains Gnolls with their knives out to kill her for having white fur. Sound familiar? I thought so. I thought we’d offer her shelter. Or do you all disagree? Is Beithstrel in the habit of turning away people or children in need?”

“Don’t bite my head off. I wasn’t sure!”

The Drake backed up, as if trying to fend off Qwera’s attack with his claws.

“Well, I don’t have time for anyone who’s unsure. Mrsha, come over here. Let’s attend to business since I’m moving off like lightning. I can’t stay as I planned.”

There was a furor of discontent. Instantly, a number of people converged, but Qwera wasn’t about to argue.

“Bring the issues here and I’ll do what I can. Vetn, get over here! How many Architects do we have? Four? It’ll do.”

Mrsha tilted her head. She was the only child here, and it attracted as much attention as her white fur did. She was given a glass of milk, and watched, bemused.

What was this place? Dancing for some, drinks and food, company in quiet. But it wasn’t just these things. If Mrsha had any context, she might well have expected more of the dancing, more dresses, and maybe cigar-smoke and whatnot.

Actually, someone did produce one and they were told to put it out before they were tossed on their heads. Gnolls hated smoke in confined places.

Nor was this a place to simply meet. Qwera had sat down, pulled out a ledger of all things, and a pair of reading spectacles, and was making notations with an abacus. Since that was instantly boring, Mrsha padded over and stared at a whispering Gnoll girl to what was apparently her sponsor.

“Is that really the Golden Gnoll? She’s a…”

“She’s one of us, dear. And remember. It’s secret to everyone.”

“Of course. I knew that!”

The amused Drake glanced at Mrsha as he caught the girl up to speed. Clearly a City Gnoll, and just as clearly a bit nervous about everything.

“What do I do?”

“Do? Nothing. Just be. You can sit here. If anyone tries to chat you up, just shoo them away or tell them you’re new. You don’t have to do anything, for as long as you want. Just remember: no one’s going to judge you here. And keep it secret, no matter what. Those are the only two rules. And no smoking.”

The Gnoll girl nodded a few times. She glanced at Mrsha, and the little Gnoll girl held up a card.

Salutations good Sirs/Madams. My name is Mrsha.

That was her standard greeting card, but she followed it up with a question.

What is this place for?

The older Drake snorted. Mrsha couldn’t tell his profession, but the slightest bit of incense hung around him. He gestured around.

“Well, what do you think this place is?”

“A bar for Turnscales.”

The City Gnoll murmured. Instantly, she clapped a paw over her mouth. The Drake gave her a look as a few heads turned.

“That’s their word.”

“But I’m…”

“You don’t have to say anything. Listen. Why don’t I take you over and you can talk to some of my friends? Just relax, dear. You are safe here.”

Such an emphasis on safe. Mrsha tilted her head. And that was because she didn’t know Drake cities that well. Liscor? A bit. But that wasn’t…

She attended a little lecture with the City Gnoll, whose name was Ikla, the older Drake, and to her surprise, Tesy. He kept glancing at Vetn, who was at home here. In fact, he’d dumped a pile of gold onto the table! Mrsha’s eyes opened wide, and some of the ‘new’ members were astonished as well.

“Leave the Architects be. That’s what we call them, Ikla. Architects. If you’re actually set on running this place, you’re not ‘Guests’ or ‘Citizens’ like us. That’s a way to say it without…saying it, if we’re talking in the open. Architects are few and far between. They come and go, from city to city.”

“Then there are places like this in every city?”

Ikla murmured, astonished. The bartender grinned.

“Hardly. You think this just pops up? It takes an Architect to make something like this, and Sentries to keep it hidden.”

There he nodded at the Drake by the door, who was chatting, at ease, but watchful. Architects and Sentries. The last group was Masons. Mrsha was pointed towards a third acting member of this…organization.

A young Drake, who’d been strutting around on stage, before she gave way to Qwera. She’d come down—and she was only Vetn and Tesy’s age—to talk to a worried Drake clearly in need of help.

“If it’s not money? I can do it. Give me a day to prepare, and I’ll head out.”

“And you can help? They’re on to me, I swear.”

“Not a problem. But we are going to have to practice how to look like a couple on the way over. Don’t worry. We just need a convincing kiss. The age difference works out. I’m your secret mistress.”

“I’m not married.”

“Secret lover?”

The [Bartender] nodded at the Mason as she reassured the Drake.

“She’ll pose as his cover. Poor fellow’s from another city. Someone’s onto his tail—the Watch or someone. She’ll convince them there’s nothing wrong.”

“So that’s a Mason? Why do they call them that?”

The two Drakes explaining laughed.

“Think about it like a wall. There’s always an Architect to build and organize. You have Masons to keep it maintained—or keep someone’s cover from being blown. And Sentries to keep everyone safe.”

“These are all terms for walls. Drake cities.”

Tesy murmured. He was uncharacteristically quiet. The Drake at the bar served someone a drink on request, and eyed him thoughtfully.

“Yes. Of course it is. The first bars started in the Walled Cities. New, are you? Vetn’s been here more than once, but you…I don’t know you.”

Sellme twitched his tail. Mrsha had expected him to be part of this place, talking about the injustices of the Watch, but he seemed as out of his depth as the new City Gnoll.

“I’ve…been here a few times. But I’ve never heard of a bar in a Walled City. Vetn travels to them, but he doesn’t talk about that.”

“Of course not. That’s where they started. These days? No one with half a brain tries to set up a bar there. It’s a world apart. The Watch is too good, and Walled Cities…no, you can’t just go in and out. I’m told there are places there, but it’s a nightmare. If here’s got a bit of danger, a bar over there is like dancing naked in front of Crelers. In Rhir.”

Mrsha and the inductees nodded. The two tutors conferred. What else was there to say?

“Just enjoy yourselves. Citizens get to relax. However, if you have a problem, come talk to us. Sentries or Masons will sort it out. If it’s a huge problem? An Architect will resolve it.”

“Are there…there’s dancing. Is the Golden Gnoll going to perform?”

The [Bartender] laughed.

“Perform? You mean like her speeches? No, she doesn’t do that. What would we do? This is just an underground tavern. It’s not organized enough for anything more than the odd play.”

Play? Mrsha’s ears pricked up. The incense-Drake pointed out the Mason who’d agreed to help the Drake in trouble.

“We have a few [Actors]. They’re all clamoring to hear about those Players of Pallass, but I keep telling them—it’s not the same. I think? Anyways, if it ever comes to our city, I hope they don’t make anyone suspicious…ah, I think the Architects have sorted their work out.”

Mrsha saw the last piece fall into place as Qwera finished her talks. She took a portion of Vetn’s gold as the Thief of Clouds, so stingy in every other regard, gave a small fortune over to the Drake at the door.

“That will sort you out for four months. Resolve the burnt house with that. I’ll put you in touch with a [Merchant] who has connections among the Builder’s Guild.”

The Architect, Qwera, had been talking with some of the people here. Not about being found out, but about more mundane issues. A bad fire that had left some of them homeless. They’d doubled-up with generous individuals, but her arrival had heralded a change.

“Thank you.”

“Just invest in decent fire-wards. Alright. Is that Ysara? Vetn, keep the rest. My work here is done. Onto Mrsha.”

Qwera was headed towards a Human woman who’d stopped just inside. Mrsha peered at her. Wow. Blue hair! She looked…not at all familiar. Must have been Mrsha’s imagination. No one whose name started with a ‘Y’ that Mrsha knew had a tattoo or hair like that.

She turned back to scribbling on a pad of parchment she’d been given. The [Bartender] frowned as Mrsha did her best and copied what she remembered.

“Two species, both alike in dignity,

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny…hold on. Sheiklessa! Come over here and look at this!”

As a crowd gathered around the girl who had heard the ‘famous plays’ so many times she could remember most of the lines, Vetn sidled up to Tesy.

“Hey. Enjoying yourself?”

The white-scale Drake jumped and sipped hurriedly at his drink.

“What? Oh—it’s fine. I’m just not uh, among my p—the crew.”

“To overthrow the walls.”

“Right. Right.”

The two stopped. Mrsha glanced up and saw how Vetn sat back, and Tesy fiddled with his own charcoal pencil. For that matter, Qwera, who’d pointed Mrsha out to Ysara, was watching her two younger friends as well.

“…I told them that you were Sellme.”

Tesy jumped, but Vetn had his paws in his pockets.

“I um. Told them what you did last time. Would you be willing to do it again?”

“…Sure.”

Vetn’s grateful smile made Tesy answer, but it turned a bit apprehensive as the Thief of Clouds beckoned the door-Drake over. The Drake was as anxious as Tesy, and they began to confer in hushed voices. Mrsha missed what was happening. She was scribbling as fast as she could, but there was no way she was going to transcribe all of Juliet and Romeo in one go.

She did her best, and the crowd, already wanting to recite it on stage, was delighted, but Qwera grabbed Mrsha despite the protests and towed her over to Ysara.

“Hello, Mrsha. Are you…Mrsha from The Wandering Inn? Of Liscor? My younger sister wrote to me about you.”

Mrsha’s tiny jaw opened wide as Ysara introduced herself. She backed up and the merchant of arms and alchemy snorted.

“That’s someone who’s met Yvlon and Ylawes, alright.”

She told me you were an arms merchant in the north!

“She is. A respectable member of House Byres in the north, an upstanding armor merchant. A filthy degenerate in the south.”

The two women laughed at the joke. Then Ysara turned back to Mrsha.

“You had better explain what happened. I understand some of it—but if you’re the reason armed Gnolls are waylaying people on the roads, this is serious.”

“I know of a safe place to take her, Ysara. We have to lose the trackers on her. Even if we use a lesser teleport scroll…we have four stashed, but they’ll pick up her scent. Unless we either get her so far away there’s no chance of them tracking her, like over sea. Or…”

Mrsha’s eyes went round as Qwera laid out a brilliant, and brilliantly dangerous plan. Ysara’s brows rose ever higher.

“That’s incredibly dangerous, Qwera.”

“Which is why it will save her. I won’t have Plain’s Eye tearing down this place or putting this city into chaos. We move out tonight. But it depends on you helping us. I need someone to be a ‘client’, and someone I can trust.”

The woman sighed, but looked at Mrsha and nodded.

“Yvlon knows her too. I can hardly refuse. Alright. What’s…”

All three broke off from the planning as a great cry ensued, and the attention around the plays, plans to spirit Mrsha out of danger, and the general hum of the bar ended. For there stood Vetn, smiling wider than Mrsha had ever…

No—smiling. Which she didn’t know if she had seen since he’d rescued her. The Thief of Clouds looked proud, too. Immensely, deeply proud. Because it wasn’t himself he was proud of.

It was the Drake with the magic brush, who shyly lowered it. He backed up. Mrsha didn’t understand, for a second, as a tall female Drake gasped and looked into a mirror that Vetn held up.

It was only when she saw the same dress that she did a double-take. Yet every line of the Sentry had changed. Even her face was different. Mrsha stared at Sellme and realized.

He had painted her. The Drake stood back, and tears sprang to her eyes.

“Careful. You’ll get it wet.”

Sellme muttered, awkwardly. He was taken aback by the hug, and kiss on his cheek. Then, the Drake stepped back.

A second person begged for the [Magical Painter]’s help. This time, Mrsha watched. Even Qwera and Ysara watched.

“Is that…Sellme?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know he could…?”

Qwera half-rose. She looked to Vetn, who was hovering, then clearly invited the Drake to a dance as someone produced an actual instrument, a violin, and began to play a song different from the peppy beat from the song crystal. The Golden Gnoll looked at Tesy as he began to work, swiftly, conferring with a female Gnoll in her sixties.

“No. But Vetn did.”

This time, Mrsha heard a song suited to a ballroom. It suited the magnificent Drake dancing with the charming Thief of Clouds, holding back tears, which would spoil the moment. Someone else joined her. A handsome Gnoll, his fur gleaming like silver, dressed in an old suit that fit him as only an artist could envision it.

More people turned, and suddenly they were out of place. For a moment. For it seemed like two figures had emerged from a painting of a royal court.

For a little bit they were like characters in the wrong world of the real. Then Tesy swept across the floor, creating a pattern, then copying it. The wood turned, becoming marble tiles. He swept across the plain furniture, adding gloss and gilding. For a second, the female Drake turned. Then the Gnoll gave her a bow, awkwardly, and gestured. She laughed and took his arm and they tried to dance like they were on that ballroom floor.

Sellme. Mrsha’s eyes were wide. The [Magical Painter] worked so fast. Not perfectly. If you looked closely, you could see imperfection. But only if you looked. He painted two more people, listening to their whispers, as people walked onto the dance floor.

“Ah.”

Ysara herself rose and walked forwards, like she was dreaming. To show them the dances she remembered. Not for her enjoyment, but to complete the scene. Qwera hesitated, half-rising herself, all plans forgotten for a moment. Then her eyes followed two figures.

Vetn and Tesy. The Thief of Clouds had been propositioned and he was swinging a partner around in a dance on the illusory floor, laughing with delight. The tune was picking up; no somber, boring waltz, this. Almost everyone was dancing and Mrsha felt like doing some herself.

Then she saw Vetn turn, and the panting [Magical Painter] looked up. Vetn strode over, paw outstretched, beaming with pride and admiration. He offered a hand to Sellme.

The Drake froze. Tesy stared at Vetn, and the Thief of Clouds hesitated. It was something only Qwera and Mrsha saw, amid the great cheer. After all—it was only three seconds. Then Vetn stepped back, was seized by another partner, and Tesy sat, fiddling with his brush.

Oh. So that’s how it is.

Qwera looked down at Mrsha. She nodded, sadly.

“That’s how it is.”

Even so, she rose, and carried Tesy herself into a dance, and applause from the rest for his work. Sellme did smile, then. A tentative…ally.

Mrsha took Ysara’s hand and they did a simple waltz to show the others how it was done in Terandria and Izril’s Human courts. She looked around the grand ballroom, the bar that existed across Izril that she had never known about. She smiled, for a while, until the paint began to flake away.

Then to reality she returned. But she never forgot.

Nor did Qwera. She approached Tesy as he helped remove paint, told the tearful Drakes and Gnolls he couldn’t make it permanent. That he was sorry. Qwera turned to Vetn, as Ysara waited.

“We have a plan to escape this net of hunters, Vetn.”

“A teleport scroll? They can track it.”

“I am sure they can.”

The Golden Gnoll replied. She swung her eyes to Ysara. Then she calmly, carefully, picked up Mrsha, and handed her to Ysara. The little Gnoll wiggled, but only a little bit.

“I have now enslaved and captured this Gnoll girl. I will sell her to you for two coppers, Ysara.”

“Hm. I’m not in the business of taking [Slaves], but I’ll make an exception if you take the rest of my products, Qwera. Dead gods, this is going to be a problem if I head north and they ask me about cargo in the last six months.”

“Sometimes you have to sell people.”

Qwera turned back to Vetn. The young Gnoll was blinking. Tesy looked outraged as he whirled around…then saw Mrsha waving. Mrsha the Helpless wiggled her ears at him.

“Vetn. Ysara is going to stay here for two days. I’m riding south at best speed; I’ve decided to amend my travel plans. In two days, I would like to hire the Thief of Clouds to steal something. To steal something, and to bring it to me, in secret, past all security and watchers.”

“Hm. And what would that be?”

The Thief grinned at the smart Gnoll friend. Qwera looked at Mrsha. The object of extreme value waved.

“Oh, I have an idea. I’ll pay you five thousand gold.”

The Thief of Clouds considered it. His eyes sparkled at the challenge. He looked at the object he had to steal.

“I think I can use my Skills on that. Make it fifteen thousand?”

Qwera grabbed for his ear and he ducked away. Mrsha held up a bit of parchment.

Make it twenty thousand!

Now that was how you cheated with Skills and meaning. The Golden Gnoll winked at her. Mrsha liked Qwera already. Vetn, Tesy, they were alright.

And she…she was going to beat those stinky Plain’s Eye Gnolls. Mrsha wiggled in delight at her plan. No one was going to expect this.

——

The Meeting of Chieftains had to be led. By custom, the hosting tribe, Az’muzarre, along with the eldest [Shaman], that of Gaarh Marsh, convened the event. The vast tent that the chattering Chieftains and [Shamans], introducing themselves, settling in clear groups or deliberately apart, gathered in, had been fashioned into a round bowl, so that someone could stand in the center and talk, or speak and be seen and heard across the vast place.

There were over two thousand representatives, from tribes big and small. A vast gathering. Dangerous?

Well, if all the Chieftains and [Shamans] and greatest members of their tribes were to perish in this one moment, certainly. But apart from Adetr’s paranoia, there was little to fear.

From Named Adventurers—although Lehra wasn’t among those actually attending because she presumed it was going to be boring—to the many warriors outside, there was no way anyone was getting inside.

Of course, Gnolls could be invited and they often were, to give testimonial, put forth ideas…Krshia heard a murmur.

“The Raskghar.”

Her ears pricked up. A growling Chieftain sat, bright-eyed, muttering down to Demas Metal’s Chieftain.

“Are they going to appear before us today? I’d rather get it over with. I can still smell them.”

“Today, unless a tribe brings up something of more importance still. I cannot imagine what that might be.”

The first Chieftain, that of Heshfur’s tribe, one Krshia didn’t know, far to the east, grinned and sat back.

“Then you’ve never been to one of these events before. Tomorrow, then.”

Krshia was vibrating with nerves. She was about to bring up something greater than even the Raskghar. Which would it be first? Akrisa noticed her younger sister’s nerves and leaned over to whisper, so quietly only they could hear.

“Gift first. Show them magic. Then tell them a key to it should not be slain. Leave Inkar for Eska and her tribe. First our gift, then Mrsha. Then Earth.”

Cetrule nodded imperceptibly. Krshia nodded. That was a logical way to do it. She had seen some of the other gifts of the tribes. Some were fine, others mediocre.

Silverfang’s? She didn’t know if even a great tribe could beat it. Mind you, not all had tried as hard. Krshia and Akrisa had planned and labored for two decades to make their debut here, and impress the others. She was almost positive the spellbook would be beyond others.

Even so, she waited as Az’muzarre’s Chieftain spoke. She was an old Gnoll, a [Warrior] to her core. The Gaarh Marsh Tribe’s [Shaman] was even more old still, and when she died, it would probably be Plain’s Eye’s Ulcreziek who convened future meetings—if he didn’t pass away as well.

Theirs was a huge gathering in the center, surrounded by Steelfur and other traditional tribes. Woven Bladegrass sat far opposite with the ‘young’ tribes, progressives, newly-formed. Some, like Demas Metal, were carefully neutral.

Silverfang was as well, to some extent. That Ekhtouch sat with them was already attracting notice. Krshia saw Chieftain Iraz glancing her way. Her stomach tightened, but his nod made her relax.

In exchange for knowledge about Rose, he had agreed to support Silverfang in speaking first at this gathering. It was a simple procedure.

Every tribe wanted to be first, but only a few would actually stand when the [Shaman] of Gaarh Marsh asked. Only those who thought they could have enough tribes stand to support them.

Chieftains only. That was how they voted. This was a communal affair, and they would work out every tribe’s issue, from first to last. Krshia had heard of Chieftains meeting every day for three months straight—although that was an outlier. She doubted it would take that long. They’d argue and discuss outside of the eight hour sessions, and you could actually come and go. But no one would do that on this first day.

Chieftain Xherw of the Plain’s Eye tribe himself glanced at Akrisa, and his look was intent. But then he glanced around the room.

Tribes of power. Great tribes. Krshia knew many.

Gaarh Marsh. Weatherfur. Plain’s Eye. Wild Wastes. Steelfur. Az’muzarre. Populations so huge that they could equal Drake cities in number, and make even the Walled Cities walk carefully. Tribes she had never even seen, only heard of, like Deskoit Travellers, who moved by night.

The three of them sat, fur dark as midnight, comfortably talking with the Wild Wastes Chieftain. Honored Berr wasn’t present for some reason; then again, not all Gnolls wanted to sit and listen, great moments or not.

Silverfang counted itself among the bigger tribes, not the greatest.

“Brothers and Sisters of the Plains.”

The voice of Az’muzarre’s Chieftain made Krshia jump, and she wasn’t the only one. It was a roar fit for a battlefield and echoed in this tent. The Chieftain moderated her tone.

“At last we gather. So again, twenty years ago I stood here. So, now. Let the cities of Drakes remember who we are. Now is the time to plan our future. To gather our strength for great deed and necessity. I will not speak long. I give this to Gaarh Marsh’s wise Theikha. We shall speak of our enemy soon enough.”

She had said far more with that speech, however. A reminder that Az’muzarre had hosted this last gathering. As always, a reminder that Drakes did not rule Izril alone.

Chieftain Xherw frowned a bit, as did some Chieftains who thought Az’muzarre made much, acting as the war-leader of any presumed host. However, the universally respected Honored Theikha, [Shaman] of Gaarh Marsh, was more diplomatic in word.

“As each tribe has many needs and wishes, I call upon each to stand and lay every issue they might before the Chieftains present. We shall return to some issues, but they shall all be heard in time. If you have a gift to share among the tribes, let it be when you speak. I shall oversee and silence the most furious arguments, but I am intermediary alone. I do not speak for my tribe. Let my voice be the one of reason if tempers flare. After all—some reason is needed in such times, yes?”

A chuckle. The old, grey-haired Gnoll smiled around as tribes relaxed. She was a good pick and had done this two times, a sign of skill and age. Krshia’s breath caught.

Now was the moment she had waited twenty years for. She saw Akrisa trembling, and Cetrule silently placing a hand on his partner’s shoulder. She nodded as the three Silverfangs waited. Theikha looked around, eyes knowing.

“Then. Which tribes will first lay their claim before the Meeting of Chieftains?”

A moment of humongous silence. Even Akrisa didn’t move, even though she had planned this. To stand was a sign. A sign you considered your message most important of all. She slowly began to rise, as another body shot to its feet.

Chieftain Reizet, of Az’muzarre. She had returned to her tribe, and stood. Krshia saw Akrisa freeze as Az’muzarre’s Chieftain barked.

“I do not stand for my tribe alone, but for all tribes! I say—I ask that we bring forth our ancient foe, the Raskghar, and deal with them first of all!”

Voices rose in surprise, murmurs of agreement—silenced as Theikha, frowning, looked at Chieftain Reizet.

“One Chieftain speaks. It is a matter of Az’muzarre, Chieftain Reizet, to claim Raskghar as the first issue of note. All tribes care about all issues. Who else wishes to speak?”

A moment of silence. Akrisa rose.

“I am Chieftain Akrisa of the Silverfang Tribe. I ask to bring forth a decision regarding our gift, which I find worthy to put forth before even the Raskghar. As well as a discussion on the traditions of our tribes.”

Hers was far more of an enigmatic statement, but it raised even more of a murmur. She thought her gift was more important than the Raskghar? Some Gnolls laughed, but others looked at Krshia and she heard a murmur.

“Liscor.”

From whence the Raskghar had come. Even Reizet frowned at Akrisa. Krshia was vibrating so hard she thought she was shaking her seat, but she saw the Wild Wastes Chieftain, Gaarh Marsh, Weatherfur’s Chieftain—and Feshi—all looking their way.

“Two tribes wish to speak. Then let each Chieftain vote—”

Theikha began, but a third candidate rose. And this one neither Krshia nor Reizet expected.

“I am from a new tribe. Forgiveness, Shaman Theikha, I did not know how this gathering worked. I am Chieftain Werri of the Woven Bladegrass Tribe, and I bring forth a discussion fit to change all tribes. I bring to you our gift, and an offering to be decided on.”

Chieftain Werri rose, the young Gnoll and her tribe who had made war on the Drakes poised, grinning widely. Krshia saw Xherw frown, and the tribes looked at this third challenger.

Three. No one else rose. It was incredible; even the great tribes didn’t think anything was more important than Raskghar. So why these two?

“Very well. Three tribes ask to be heard first. We shall vote. Who stands for the Az’muzarre tribe’s request?”

Theikha didn’t waste time. Now Krshia’s fur prickled. They could, of course, always be heard after the Raskghar, but Mrsha was in danger and each deliberation could take ages or a short time depending on how long they argued. There was protocol for that.

But now—she watched as Chieftains got to their feet, rose, or, sometimes, looked around and sat down. Because this was factional, to some degree. Who voted meant other tribes might agree—or disagree if they had issues with the tribes supporting.

Plain’s Eye’s Xherw rose with great dignity, the force of his presence in the air. Instantly, other tribes rose with him. Decles, traditionalists, Az’muzarre, of course…

Not Iraz. Xherw turned his head, visibly surprised, and then looked around.

Gaarh Marsh was seated. Wild Wastes, Weatherfur…Krshia’s heart leapt in her chest. Deskoit Travellers were completely caught off-guard. They and their allies had risen, but not even a fifth of the tribes here had supported talking about the Raskghar!

Some Chieftains had risen, taken a look at Iraz, who was pointedly staring at Akrisa, and sat back down. Even Theikha seemed surprised.

“Then, who will rise for Silverfang? And their gift?”

Iraz stood, as well as Ekhtouch, Greenpaw, Longstalker’s Fang, Akrisa herself…over a hundred different Chieftains rose to their feet in a moment. Curiosity, knowledge of Silverfang’s relationship with the Raskghar, following the great tribes like Iraz and Ekhtouch—

Krshia breathed. It was happening. She turned to Akrisa, beaming—just in time for Cetrule to inhale. She looked back at the [Shaman] and saw him looking around.

If less than a fifth of the tribes had voted for Az’muzarre, a fourth of the room was now on its feet. But—and this was some advanced math here—a fifth and a fourth didn’t even equal one half of the room.

The other tribes were sitting. And the greatest tribes, even Weatherfur, had yet to move. Theikha nodded. She sensed it too.

“Very well. Not all tribes will vote, so I ask. Who will hear Woven Bladegrass and Chieftain Werri first?”

Dead silence. Then Wild Wastes, Weatherfur, Gaarh Marsh’s Chieftains all stood in unison. Werri grinned. Gnoll Chieftains rose, glancing at her tribe, some nodding, others following the biggest tribes.

Half the room rose to its feet. Krshia choked and the other Chieftains, even Iraz, even Xherw, Reizet especially, looked aghast.

A new tribe had just beaten two old ones in presenting its gift and case first. Theikha let the murmurs run for a good minute. She lifted her paw.

“It is done. Woven Bladegrass will offer its gift and proposals first. Then Silverfang. Then Az’muzarre. Those who wish to speak afterwards will ask then. Chieftain Werri. You may speak where you stand or come to the center.”

She bowed, slightly, and Chieftain Werri descended. A small Gnoll. Very short by their species’ standards. Krshia had heard…she could grow.

The Chieftain stopped, a second, and looked around that gathering of Chieftains. She was unafraid. Like Reizet, she was a warrior, and she neither flinched nor hesitated. She grinned, with young bravado, with a passion to put age to shame.

“I thank you all for hearing my words first. Some of your tribes know what I plan to ask. Others simply agree with me. My tribe, from the day it was founded, has fought the Drake cities. We do not seek peace, with these overlords of scale who think to claim our lands, to tell us what to do with their armies. Woven Bladegrass will fight on behalf of the tribes. But, I think, we will not do it alone.”

“Woven Bladegrass makes war and brings us into conflict with the Drakes. We can ill afford it. Not all tribes hunger for blood like yours.”

A Chieftain leapt to her feet and shouted at Werri. Krshia was stunned, but apparently that was completely acceptable. Now a proposal had been launched, anyone could speak. Werri just laughed.

“Not all tribes have the strength to live in peace with Drakes! Or have all you, Chieftains, always felt Drakes were happy neighbors? Or did they tolerate us, make threats, make demands, treat our people like savages? Barbarians of the plains?”

The Gnolls muttered. She struck a chord, even with Krshia, who was used to Liscor. But a laugh came from lower down in the stands.

“Some of us are savages. [Barbarians]. Let them call us what they want.”

Wild Wastes’ Chieftain was reclining. Werri grinned, and ducked her head as a few people chuckled; others were disapprovingly staring at the pipe the Chieftain was smoking.

“Perhaps so, Chieftain Perale. But I ask—have you never heard of Paworkers? Do you not know of tribes that have disappeared because a Drake city objected to them being there?”

A slow nod was her reply. A silence that spoke volumes. However, then Chieftain Iraz rose. He glanced once at Akrisa, perhaps in apology, before glaring at Werri.

“Not all tribes make war to enflame the Drake’s fury, Chieftain Werri. They are quite capable of sending armies to attack us all because of what you do. What would you say to that?”

Her eyes glittered.

“I would say, great Chieftain Iraz, that your tribe is famous for fighting Drakes as well. But if mine has burnt cities of Drakes? What of Plain’s Eye, who, in their hunt for Doom, has set multiple cities ablaze! Who has provoked more, eh?”

Krshia sat bolt upright. Now, all eyes turned to Chieftain Xherw. He calmly stood, as Shaman Ulcre stood with him.

“We hunt monsters, Chieftain Werri. It must be done. I admit we have provoked the cities. Both our tribe and yours. We shall decide if censure is needed for both, here. Your point? I ask it, yes?”

The calm response made Werri scowl for a second. She gestured, without a word, and the Chieftains turned as Gnolls marched down, carrying huge chests, and unveiled their gift before the tribes.

“This is what I offer.”

It was what Krshia had expected. She saw magical swords, shields, arms and armor being placed down around Werri. Not just enough for a hundred Gnolls to be geared up. Not just enough for a thousand.

Weapons for a small army, magical all. Lesser or greater enchantments; usually lesser. Looted, perhaps used and now recycled into gifts.

Spoils of war. It was an impressive gift, but not impressive, if that made sense. It was entirely what Werri would give if anyone thought about it, so while there were a few murmurs, even she did not stand long on her gift.

“I offer weapons and armor for battle! To each tribe!”

“Fitting. Enough to arm a warrior from head to toe in most tribes. Is this your gift that exceeds the Raskghar’s danger, though, Chieftain Werri?”

That remark was amazingly snippy and it came from Reizet herself. Werri turned and the look the two warrior-Chieftains gave was like lightning bolts meeting in midair. Then Werri bowed deeply, and, in this setting, it was the most insulting thing she could have done. Az’muzarre’s warrior and [Shaman] growled, and Theikha stirred. But Werri continued.

“It would be a poor gift, yes, Chieftain Reizet. A poor gift, say, to a weapon of Dragonbone. If Az’muzarre ever thought to share its great power with another tribe. But it never does.”

“Chieftain Werri. We do not provoke conflict. State your piece, please.”

The growling from Reizet’s throat was followed by Theikha’s warning. Werri nodded. She turned and shouted to the others.

“This is half of Woven Bladegrass’ gift, Chieftains. The other half is conditional! I did not think to offer it, but I accepted it on behalf of my tribe to offer you. A great offer, and a gift.”

Krshia’s eyes narrowed. What was this? This was what Werri had intended. What could be on par with their gift? What could…

“We claim the Great Plains, though few Drake cities ever acknowledge it as ours. We claim bits and pieces of land, and travel, for the Drakes put down their damned cities and say ‘all this is mine’. We never put flags and stone down, so we have no claim. As they say it. We have contracts. Some tribes have land, like Greenpaw—”

Werri turned and Orelighn jumped and went white under his fur as everyone suddenly looked at him. But he was only the point to her claim. Werri brandished something in her paws. It looked like a contract scroll, enforced by magic.

A good one. Krshia leaned in. Werri’s voice dropped. She was practically shaking with excitement, now.

“There is little land not ours. Some of our kin even went to Chandrar, and perhaps some tribes will say we should follow them—”

Weatherfur’s Chieftain jumped and Feshi inhaled as Werri glanced at them. Both glared, and some Chieftains gasped.

“Chandrar? Leave Izril?”

She had just given away their plan! Krshia sat back, having heard the same. What was Werri doing? Yet the Chieftain brandished the contract.

“I say—I say we do not need to go to Chandrar! Or go north! I know there are Chieftains who wish to live among Humans! I know there are Chieftains who wish to join the King of Destruction—perhaps even his messengers stand among us! But there is land here. I hold in my paws an agreement. An agreement that would give us, by contract, witnessed by magic, four hundred thousand acres of land. As a gift, offered freely! With more to come if we accept what is offered.”

Four hundred th—? Krshia’s gasp filled the room along with voices of sheer incredulity. That was…she tried to estimate. A square of over six hundred miles!

Multiple tribes could roam around freely in that space! Given? To Woven Bladegrass?

“This cannot be true, Chieftain Werri. Not even a Walled City would give that much as a gift.”

Chieftain Xherw snapped. Many Chieftains barked agreement. Yet Werri’s smile was confident.

“I do not lie, Chieftain Xherw. The free land is a place, and this contract is true. It extends from Recles’ Ridge, all the way down to the mouth of the River Illel.”

She named Izrilian landmarks. The names were certainly that, but—Krshia’s brow furrowed. She thought she knew the names, but who had that much land? No Wall Lord, even. Not even Ilvriss could just…but where had she heard the names?

Cetrule’s mouth had opened wide. He knew where that was. Xherw turned to Ulcre—then the [Shaman] barked a hoarse laugh.

“…Chieftain Werri. That is a poor joke. Those lands are already…not occupied, but claimed. That? That is—no one’s land. Land that used to belong to Manus. It extends from their borders right up to…the Hivelands.”

Iraz’s neck whirled around. Then he leapt to his feet. Chieftain Werri grinned. Theikha had to actually bar the way of the Steelfur’s Chieftain as he descended, pointing a finger at her.

“Chieftain Iraz! Let Chieftain Werri speak!”

“Are you consorting with the Antinium, Werri?”

“I consort with no one, Chieftain Iraz! Listen to me!”

The shouting died down as everyone listened. Krshia was on the edge of her seat. Werri, turned, eyes alight.

“This is a gift. From no less than the Grand Queen of the Antinium. Before you shout—it is a gift unfettered. She contacted me, via the one known as the Small Queen, nearly a year ago. This is a gift—though we need not take it. I know it is near danger, but she assured me that we would never conflict with the Antinium. And this is the offer she asked me to present.”

Now, everyone hung on her words. Even Xherw, who had been prepared for revelations about another world. Even Iraz, Krshia, Akrisa…Werri spoke. To the tribes who had no love for Drakes, to their…

Allies. Who began to realize this Meeting of Tribes might be concerning indeed.

“She asks nothing of us. Antinium are not Gnolls, and we have shed blood with each other. We do not know each other. However—the Antinium and Drakes are bitter enemies, yet they left us largely alone in two wars. Drakes made war on our people for aeons. Should we come to the aid of these cities for lip service and a dagger in the back when they have no need of us? The Grand Queen asks nothing of us. Exactly nothing.”

“Meaning?”

Chieftain Perale’s whisper was quiet. Feshi’s head was raised, like someone hearing distant war drums. Or her Professor’s laughter. Werri’s eyes shone.

“If the Antinium should go to war with the Drakes—we will not take arms against them. A pact of non-aggression. Either way, an enemy weakens. We take not the Antinium’s side. We take not the Drakes’. Neither has love of us. So why should we die for the other? That is what I put before you, first.”

Dead silence. Krshia’s mind spun with the implications. Xherw was on his feet. Werri waited, as even Theikha’s head turned with a look of consternation. Right before the roar of voices, even bodies surging down to argue with her in the center.

The Meeting of Chieftains had truly begun.

——

News about the first offer of the Antinium to Gnoll tribes was out and in circulation within the hour. From Grand Magus Eldavin and Wistram, to Drake cities, certain people heard the contents through various means and flipped.

Sometimes literally. But while Grand Magus Eldavin cursed again that Wistram should have taken more interest in the Meeting of Tribes, it was not to say that there weren’t representatives at that gathering.

Just not Wistram. Because Gnolls had ‘no magic’, or at least, none that included Wistram and there was a mutual grudge over some misunderstanding.

Which was an interesting thing, when you really got down to it. As for the news with the Antinium? Well, it was interesting, but it had no way of passing. Even the most radical tribes would hesitate before thinking about that kind of deal, which would make the Drakes hostile.

Whether they took the land was interesting. Still concerning, because it meant the Antinium were showing a level of radical cunning beyond what anyone had expected of them.

He only wished he could see, and have a voice in that gathering. Not for the first time, the Necromancer, Az’kerash, bane of the living and so on and so forth, regretted that Regrika Blackpaw had been exposed, right before this Meeting of Tribes when her identity had been neatly set up.

Then again, if she were revealed by the highest-level [Shamans], it might be just as concerning. It was not impossible. He had agents in the Meeting of Tribes, both direct and indirect, but he didn’t have anyone inside the tent with the Chieftains. It was inherently dangerous.

That was why Kerash posed as a travelling warrior, albeit one who had spoken with Chieftains. It was the logical move to influence events without putting him in any danger of being seen by someone who could break through the veils. Again—Az’kerash was beyond almost all living mortals, but specialists could match him in one area, especially if talents combined.

Of course that went the other way as well. He was privy to the frantic [Message] spells shooting out of the Meeting of Tribes, despite their poor attempts at concealment.

“Peace with the Antinium. I did not consider that. However, even if I thought it had the remotest chance of passing—which it does not—I am not sure which would benefit me. Her vote will, of course, fail. Even Chieftain Werri understands that. This is a sign there is a growing rift between Drakes and Gnolls once more. Perhaps an opportunity to truly sow discord here.”

He mused. Kerash, who was roaming the outside of the Meeting of Chieftains, the very outskirts lest Chieftain Ulcre or someone else look at him, listened to his master’s voice.

“Should I attempt to find the Chieftains if they leave the tent?”

Perril Chandler paused but a moment, thinking.

“No, Kerash. Continue to circle. You will attend another Chieftain you have met tonight, and discuss with them the issue then.”

“Yes, Master.”

Some things were very curious. Az’kerash frowned. No—Archmage Chandler frowned, because this reminded him of his past.

“Gnolls were never the most populous species at Wistram. Did I perceive a—a decline in their number? Yes…I did. I mentioned it to Zelkyr, but only once. This narrative that Gnolls know no magic, however? Do you know what this is, Belavierr?”

He turned. Speaking of specialists beating the great legends of old…the Stitch Witch sat, her eyes locked on the representation of the world as through Kerash’s eyes on the scrying orb. She was furious.

She had come back, missing an eye, from her errand abroad, down on magic, time, and dignity. She had refused to talk about it. Now, she sat, hunched over. She did not speak to Az’kerash, but to his servant.

“There is a child there. Stare at her. Left.”

Kerash hesitated, but turned his head. He peered at a Gnoll boy, running along, laughing.

“Cers! Stop that!”

Kerash stared, but Belavierr had lost interest. She kept telling him to stare at random Gnoll children. Az’kerash did not know why, but someone had incurred her wrath. A dangerous thing.

Only then did the Spider address Az’kerash.

“Gnolls have become [Mage]-less?”

She was as oblivious as he was. Which wasn’t surprising, but the Necromancer had found that Belavierr either knew nothing of even obvious events, like Ailendamus’ rise—or she was hyper specialized and knew some knowledge about the secrets of the world that even he lacked.

“A strange belief, yes. Wistram Academy has no Gnoll [Mages]. Which is odd because their narrative is that ‘Gnolls cannot learn magic’.”

“…Odd.”

Even the Stitch Witch looked interested at that. Az’kerash continued.

“I have encountered Gnolls capable of performing arcane magic as opposed to spiritual magic.”

“I have as well.”

“Do you recall any in recent history?”

The two immortals thought. ‘Recent history’ was a loaded term for them. Belavierr twisted her neck left. Right. Az’kerash himself frowned. Then he had it.

“The [Druid] child. There was a Gnoll child with white fur.”

Belavierr twitched. Her ringed gaze slowly, slowly crept over to him. Az’kerash met it.

“Do you have something to add, Stitch Witch?”

“No. Proceed.”

Az’kerash continued, speaking more to Kerash because he could tell Belavierr nothing she did not already know. Organizing his thoughts on a verbal level.

“She was capable of arcane magic. I sensed a reservoir within her. Or rather…her fur. She had white fur.”

“This matters?”

Belavierr tilted her head again. Az’kerash’s gaze flicked to her.

“Fur is a storage device, or can be. For power.”

“More than power with their kind.”

Belavierr’s comment made Az’kerash raise his brows. That was intriguing. He had no idea about white fur’s significance.

“I shall discuss it with you later, Belavierr. Perhaps in the context of an undead creation?”

“Yes. One made of fur.”

Her smile was deeply malicious. Again, the Necromancer felt like he was missing a piece of the puzzle, but he nodded slowly.

“Fur. I merely mention it as proof that she was capable of arcane magic. Gnolls are, of course, experts in the spiritual, collective magic of their people…I do not recall seeing many arcane vessels or mana wells. But they are hardly ‘magic-less’.”

“True. They have been [Witches], and [Shamans], and [Archmages]. Why would anyone doubt it?”

“Perhaps they’ve forgotten?”

“So soon?”

It was a fault of their kind that both saw a hundred years, or even forty, as a small amount of time. Az’kerash was ‘only’ two hundred years old, but the narrative had amazed him. Belavierr hadn’t even heard of the change.

“I distinctly recall Gnolls who were [Mages]. Now though…Kerash, I will overlay your sight. Inspect the Gnolls passing by.”

The undead Draug had been patiently listening to the discussion as he pretended to eat food, socialize, and whatnot. Now he obediently turned his head. Az’kerash and Belavierr peered through his eyes.

“Odd.”

That was what the Stitch Witch said at last. Az’kerash murmured.

“…That is odd. Perhaps there is some credence. What could have caused it, though? No—wait! I see some arcane magic. There. Kerash, that Gnoll.”

The impressive Gnoll warrior’s head turned. Az’kerash relaxed.

“You see? There are Gnolls with innate magical power. At least one. The others…I didn’t even sense a mana well. Did you?”

The Spider made no answer. She had produced a thread and was slowly knitting it into a shape. Her eyes were suddenly…interested. Not just wrathful.

“A strange Meeting of Tribes. I remember when they were only every hundred years. Why so soon together?”

“Were they grand affairs?”

Archmage Chandler asked, his interest piqued as a student of history. Belavierr considered the question.

“Monarchs came to beg favors. I went to trade. I saved my best works for that time. Yes. Yes, they were.”

Kerash approached the Gnoll they had identified as the two talked. Even moving casually, it wasn’t hard; she was stumbling around, eyes vacant. Az’kerash frowned…he sensed something, but he went on, like a professor to his students. He couldn’t help but explain.

“There, you see? She lacks for a distinct mana pool…but she too has an arcane reservoir. In her muscles, of all things. Physical magic. Have you ever seen it?”

“Mmm. I don’t recall.”

Belavierr stared blankly at Grimalkin’s apprentice. Az’kerash nodded.

“It is an esoteric school. But this Gnoll has converted her muscles into a distinct, separate mana environment, you see? Even lacking a mana pool…they all lack one. But she can clearly cast magic. See? [Mage]. Level 8.”

“Interesting.”

Belavierr peered at the Gnoll. Az’kerash was about to tell Kerash to continue looking around, object lesson done, but the Stitch Witch’s eyes were glittering.

“She is enchanted.”

The Necromancer’s head turned. He had missed it—only vaguely sensed it. Belavierr could somehow see it, even through his spells. But a [Necromancer] had to…

“[True Sight]. [Eye of Revelations].”

Kerash’s sight changed. The two undead saw what Belavierr had already sensed. Az’kerash frowned.

“Hexes. This…this is interesting.”

“I sense a pattern here.”

Belavierr smiled. Az’kerash nodded slowly. He began to decipher the spells. Not arcane magic, his purview, that of [Mages], but he could see what they did. Mind, confidence…someone fairly high-level had cast them on her. He glanced at Belavierr as Ferkr stumbled along, fur ragged, eyes blank.

Then he heard the second great gift of the Meeting of Tribes and his eyes opened wide. Interesting? He decided exciting was more appropriate.

“…Is that a spellbook of the Rihal era? A teaching spellbook in first-class condition? I think it is. A genuine Tome of the Rihal Imperium. It has to be three hundred years old! The market worth alone must have been—how did they find…?”

Belavierr glanced at Az’kerash. She was trying to pull the first thread of a very interesting web out, untangle it. She was distracted by the Necromancer as he suddenly sat forwards with a collector’s avid fascination and edged away so she could concentrate.

[Mages].

——

The vote was fast and simple. It still took nearly two hours, mainly to calm down the angry Chieftains. The debate had mostly been one of hot blood, but as Theikha patiently reminded the others, they could revisit the issue of new lands given to them by the Antinium.

“Who will accept supporting non-aggression with the Antinium?”

No one stood. A few Chieftains half-rose, looked around to make sure they were seen, and sat. But not even Werri supported it. She just returned to her seat, her smile self-evident, of a job well done.

“Next, Silverfang. Please, Chieftain Akrisa, present your gift.”

It was almost a relief after the raging debate, so much so that Krshia almost forgot all of her terror and excitement. Almost. Yet Akrisa herself helped Krshia bring down the tome. The Chieftains sat forward, even Xherw, who hadn’t heard of the gift, only Iraz’s part of it.

Ulcre, though, the Shaman of the Plain’s Eye, was already frowning before the magical blanket was removed. Other [Shamans] had sensed the power there too. But as the blanket was thrown back, it came out.

A treasure from what felt like ages ago. Brought by Ryoka Griffin, to pay a debt that Krshia had thought would ruin all.

Treasure of the Grand Magus Eldavin. A great, vast volume, bound in beautiful leather, bigger than Mrsha was, so wide across two Gnolls had to carry it.

Yet light as a feather. Enchanted with so much magic that Krshia had thought you could have dragged it behind the wagon, rather than kept it in secret and security, and it would not have suffered a scratch.

A shining tome of Rihal, bearing the signet of an imperium long lost. A spellbook of magic, glowing in the light, to teach young students every basic spell ever known to their kingdom.

A magic book.

The gasps and murmurs of appreciation were but a herald to what Krshia wanted. She waited, but Akrisa was looking at her. Krshia nearly swallowed her tongue, but then gulped and spoke.

“I—I am Krshia Silverfang! Sister to Chieftain Akrisa! In the name of the Silverfang Tribe, I offer the tribes of Izril a spellbook of magic! A Tome of Rihal, from ages past, to teach every spell from Tier 1 to Tier 4 to anyone who would learn magic! I offer it that Gnolls may once again claim their glory among the [Mages] of this world.”

Dead silence. Gnolls stared down at Krshia. She saw some look up. Feshi, with eyes alight with wonder. Some were approving, like Gaarh Marsh’s [Chieftain] and Theikha herself, smiling as she glanced at the book. Krshia’s back straightened—

Then she heard a laugh. A laugh, not mocking, but more…her head turned, and she saw the Chieftain of the Decles tribe shaking his head at her.

“Honored Krshia Silverfang. Is this the gift you bring before the tribes? A magic spellbook? No—let me not make light of it. Is a relic indeed, and will fetch a vast sum if Fissival or another city, even hated Wistram, buys it. But do you claim that Gnolls should be [Mages]?”

Her heart sank. Yet Krshia’s chin rose.

“I do. I have met Gnolls who are capable of learning magic! I have heard the story of how our apprentice was mocked at Wistram, but I have met two Gnolls that—”

“Honored Krshia. Chieftain Akrisa. I do not mean to be rude.”

Shaman Ulcre rose slowly. He looked at Theikha, who was disapproving. The [Shaman] bowed.

“And I do not mean to interrupt, Shaman Theikha, but to prevent misunderstandings—I have often heard the claim Gnolls can learn magic. Certainly, we sent an apprentice forty years back to learn magic and Wistram insulted them. But I have never once seen a Gnoll who truly cast magic as [Mages] do. Only those who mistook a [Shaman]’s magic for a [Mage]’s, or who lied.”

Krshia saw the Chieftains nodding, even Weatherfur’s. But Feshi was watching her, and Werri, who had come alight with interest. Firrelle, Eska, even Orelighn, all were looking confused; none had known this was Silverfang’s gift. Dismayed? Krshia knew they were wrong.

“Great Shaman Ulcre. I appreciate your knowledge, but my sister has seen Gnolls who cast magic. Even learned from this very book.”

It was Akrisa who spoke next. Krshia glanced gratefully at her sister. Ulcre dipped his head. Krshia nodded.

“I have, Chieftains. I say to you—it might be difficult, but I saw with my very eyes, a child who did not know our failing pick up a wand and began to cast spells.”

“Ah.”

Ulcre nodded. Understandingly. Even expectantly. Xherw leaned forwards, calmly. Waiting.

“Will you have them perform magic before us, then, Krshia Silverfang?”

The Gnoll woman hesitated.

“She is not here, Shaman. I had sent for her, but…”

Her eyes slid sideways to Akrisa. They should have led with Mrsha. But Krshia had been prepared. She straightened her back.

“…But there is another! I did not send for her because I knew that there was also a Ferkr, apprentice to Magus Grimalkin of Pallass! She cast magic and—”

Now the laughter came from a few spots. Chuckles—but only a few. Most Gnolls shook their heads, wincing. Krshia stuttered and Ulcre gave her a sympathetic look. Xherw as well, genuinely sympathetic.

Because she didn’t know.

“Honored Krshia. This ‘Ferkr’ you speak of? Was she the one who admitted she was a fraud in front of the others at the beginning of the Meeting of Tribes?”

“She did, but she was…”

Lying? Krshia Silverfang’s tongue went still. Ferkr, Mrsha, both mattered, but she had never wanted to rely on either. The proof was right in front of her. And the [Shaman] knew it too.

Ulcre looked at her, and at the book.

“Can anyone cast magic? Can you? Once again, as we have in times past, let us bring forward the question of magic before the Chieftains of Izril. I am willing to let anyone cast magic from this spellbook, which I have no doubt is a relic of old. But…”

He looked around and there was silence. Desperately, Krshia opened the spellbook. The magic swam in front of her eyes, but she had never quite managed a spell. And even as Cetrule came down the steps, he stared at the words, put his paw on the page and…and…shook his head.

“I cannot do it. I have no power here, Krshia.”

Akrisa’s head turned, as her skin blanched under her fur. Krshia desperately looked around. Some Chieftains just didn’t look at her, politely, to avoid compounding the moment. She searched for words in her dry mouth as Xherw stood.

“Let us hear whatever Silverfang has to say. Magic aside, they have brought a Relic to us, and we shall not take that lightly. Honored Krshia, Chieftain Akrisa, proceed.”

They tried, or rather, Akrisa did, but it had all gone wrong. All…according to someone’s plan. Deeply laid. Krshia Silverfang felt the world imploding around her.

Until the shouting. The argument at the entrance to the Meeting of Chieftains. Shaman Theikha’s head rose and Chieftain Reizet bounded to her feet. Yet she did not throw out the intruder. She looked down, eyes alight. Then shouted down.

“Shaman Theikha. Here comes someone to put truth to claims, or lay it to rest. Will you let someone in, by Az’muzarre? She dared to challenge even my warriors. I say—let the Gnoll come forth!”

Krshia’s head rose, as the voice cut through the roaring. Shaman Theikha nodded, interested. And down she came.

Shaman Ulcre’s polite stare away from Krshia suddenly turned. Chieftain Xherw’s sympathetic smile shifted. He looked up, as a figure came down the stairs.

Young. Well-muscled, even for warriors. Stepping, well, shaking like a leaf before a storm. Yet she did walk down, despite it all. Freed. Apprentice to the Sinew Magus of Pallass. And he did not train cowards.

Ferkr. She came to a rest, in front of Krshia, Akrisa. Her eyes lingered on the spellbook. Then she bowed to Shaman Theikha, and in a trembling voice, spoke.

“I…I am Ferkr of Pallass. Apprentice to Grimalkin the Fist! Sinew Magus of Pallass. By his bidding, my master asked me to present myself here and prove that magic can be cast by Gnolls. I was intercepted by Gnolls who convinced me I was wrong. But they were wrong. It can be done.”

She looked sideways, straight at Shaman Ulcre and Chieftain Xherw. The Plain’s Eye Gnolls looked at each other. Now, Krshia’s pulse roared in her veins.

Now.

——-

The Spider sensed it. A weave across time and space and lifetimes. She followed the thread. She did not have to hear what was going on in the Meeting of Tribes. She didn’t have to.

The arguing Gnolls, the accusations that a group of Gnolls had abducted Ferkr, convinced her to avow her claims to casting magic because it was false, messed with her mind? Oh, she smiled as she saw how it knotted and tangled the Meeting of Tribes.

But it was the wrong thread to pull. The right thread to find the true one, but not the thread. She and the Necromancer had put it into motion. He had not known, nor she, whether the Gnoll apprentice would flee or confront them if released from her magic.

It had never been a question, apparently. She stared at Az’kerash with ill-concealed curiosity.

“You released her.”

“It is a poor thing to keep [Slaves] by magic or metal. Though the hexes might have worn off.”

A pair of white pupils in dark eyes met Belavierr’s ringed ones. The Stitch Witch was…thoughtful.

“The days when you made war on Roshal are long passed, Necromancer.”

“And?”

He stood, with a surplus of emotion. As if some things had to be done. Belavierr saw him study the orb, then swing back to her.

“Do you not find it abhorrent?”

She shrugged.

“I have never cared. They praise me. They hate me. I have always done as I please.”

“Really. Then I am disappointed, Belavierr. For one of the legends I always admired about you is what you did for peoples across the ages, in cages, in chains. Yet you do not think each one should be free?”

She smiled at him, almost mocking his convictions he had remembered. But then. He was young.

“Is it poor for all, Necromancer? Is it without gain? Those who suffer rise higher from depths no one in comfort could ever sink to.”

Perril Chandler’s voice was steady.

“They should never have to climb.”

A curious voice. Rings of immortality, blinking in dissent.

“Then. How ever would they learn? Look. She has become more of herself in this moment than a year, three years could give her.”

The finger pointed and Az’kerash saw it trace the place where the young Gnoll had gone. The Archmage of Death looked at that marching back. Like the students he had ever had who made something of themselves. For all he and Belavierr disagreed on fundamentals—they agreed on this.

Ferkr had never hesitated. Outside the Meeting of Chieftains, Kerash was reclaiming his blade. He’d backed Ferkr up, but she’d won Az’muzarre’s respect. She might not have their weapons of power, or levels. But she did have a right hook backed up by the Sinew Magus’ muscle-training.

Ferkr had won her audience. Now, she stared at the Tome of Rihal. Belavierr could hear her, though Az’kerash could not. For she could see and pluck threads unseen, following the skein.

“I was told by my master about teaching spellbooks like these. All I have to do is channel some magic into one of the pages and the spell should activate for me, to practice.”

Krshia nearly ate her tongue. No one had provided an instruction manual! Not to Ryoka or Mrsha! Belavierr fumbled with the needle she held. No, something was off.

“I would like to know why Plain’s Eye interrogated this young Gnoll! Chieftain Xherw, will you respond to that, first?”

Chieftain Perale’s sharp voice. Yes, a good thread to pull, but Belavierr saw how it wouldn’t go anywhere, even before Xherw spoke.

“I regret to say, Chieftain Perale, I honestly have no knowledge of which Gnolls seized Ferkr of Pallass. My tribe will investigate this matter—no, I invite other Gnolls to do so. We will make amends, this I promise, but Plain’s Eye has been used to charlatan’s claims before.”

He honestly didn’t know about Ferkr in particular. A false thread that looked like it went to the right place. The argument Belavierr tuned out. Az’kerash was trying to get more information as well, but she was probing the true tangle. Why did that Chieftain sound calm? Something…

“This will be investigated. Yet, Apprentice Ferkr. Can you not cast magic to show us a spell, tome or not?”

A pause. Belavierr’s eyes glanced sideways at Az’kerash. He had seen part of the thread.

“…I can’t. I’ve been feeling as though my magic’s disappeared. I can cast [Light], but not [Fireball]. Something’s wrong.”

“Even [Shamans] can cast that spell.”

“Yes, Chieftain. But if I put magic through this spell tome…anyone can do it. Even a [Shaman] can learn [Mage]’s spells, my teacher always said. Magic is magic. Converting it across disciplines is the challenge.”

The spellbook. Such a valuable, worthless thing. But its thread was laced by a familiar wind-blown thread. Ice. Ice and fire. Belavierr’s eyes narrowed.

It was all connected. Now, she sensed the [Shaman], Cetrule, approach Ferkr, who had placed a hand on the spellbook.

“If it is magic you need, I channel Silverfang’s magic through me. I will give you some…”

He placed his paw on her shoulder. Ferkr had the spellbook open to a single spell. It should have been so easy. But as she pushed with both magics, it entered the spellbook…circulated through her body…

And nothing happened.

“There, you see? Gnolls cannot perform magic.”

“Yet. She has the class. Will you call this Sinew Magus a liar?”

“Perhaps it is simply a sign she cannot ever exceed her level. Level 8?”

Ferkr stood with Krshia, who had joined Cetrule, trying to call on the communal magic of Silverfang, give her the power to cast the magic suddenly lost to her. Belavierr’s head tilted this way and that. She didn’t have all the pieces.

But they were there.

——

Krshia, through the roaring in her ears of her blood pounding, looked up. Plain’s Eye’s [Shaman] watched her, seemingly genuinely encouraging. Not worried. One of many.

“How long do we have to wait?”

Decles’ Chieftain was impatient, but it was Xherw who gave him a glance that silenced him. However, after nearly five minutes, the other Chieftains were shaking their heads. Once again, it was proof. Cetrule was sweating.

“It’s like a block. I can’t change my magic. I’m sorry, Ferkr.”

“But—it was like this for me, until I was through the first months of Magus Grimalkin’s program. He said I was the slowest student he’d had, but not because of my mind or effort. It was…”

Ferkr was sweating too. She couldn’t make the magic…come out! She didn’t know what was wrong.

Az’kerash had observed that her magic lay in her muscle. An esoteric type of magic practice. Like a Gnoll’s white fur. External storage from what was natural.

It was [Shaman] Theikha who interrupted. She was looking at Cetrule. At Ferkr. Now, her head rose and she looked at the Chieftain of Gaarh Marsh.

“By your will, Chieftains, my Chieftain. I ask to intercede. If Silverfang’s magic is not enough, one apprentice…I believe there is something to this claim. If there is [Mage]’s magic among us, Gaarh Marsh’s power will uncover it. By the will of tribes.”

“Let it be done.”

Gaarh Marsh’s Chieftain was on her feet. Now, two Gnolls stirred slightly. The Chieftains sat forwards as one of the greatest Gnoll [Shamans] living approached Ferkr. Cetrule backed away, but she gestured for him to join her. Both [Shamans] placed their paws on Ferkr’s shoulders.

In the Meeting of Tribes, every Gaarh Marsh Gnoll stopped for a second, as something tugged on them. They turned, lending their energies towards one cause. Krshia felt the air suddenly change, and her own fur stood up on end.

Nevertheless…

Nothing happened. No spell was cast, but Theikha was frowning.

“Something strange is happening. You are right, young Ferkr.”

Nothing was happening. But that did not mean nothing was there to see.

——

“…What is that?”

Archmage Chandler walked through Kerash’s body. As one, servant and master turned. They looked at the power gathering across the skies, into a single locus. Any fool could see that a [Shaman] was casting magic of great power. Or…trying to.

Shamanic magic. He didn’t even sense the weak arcane magic’s glow next to that burning sun. Yet—it wasn’t moving, not unleashed. It was strange. Was someone preparing to use it? But if so—it would be flowing out in some way.

It was like a cork in a bottle. But why that analogy? Then the [Archmage of Death] saw it. He was the greatest [Mage] of his era. And he saw it. The Stitch Witch, in the castle, looked at him.

“What do you see, Necromancer?”

Kerash and Az’kerash’s lips moved as one.

“Something. A counterforce. But it is…why there? What have they done? Zelkyr. Did you know about this?”

He walked forwards, in a dream. Finding pieces to connect.

All things faded. The Gnolls called this era the Waning World. Great magics of old had begun to end, like the Gnoll [Archmages], a distant memory. The Walled Cities’ power, like the Gnolls, had reduced.

There. There…the Gnoll came to a stop in the middle of the Meeting of Tribes. Almost directly down.

——

Inside the tent with the Chieftains, [Shaman] Theikha’s teeth were grinding.

“Shaman, do not hurt yourself.”

“There is something there. But what? I do not know. I call upon Gaarh Marsh’s wisdom! Let there be truth, one way or another! Let the will of Izril decide! Khoteizetrough! Khoteizetrough!”

It was searching, too. A vague…vague sense. A head turned, and Gnolls glanced up. It looked around. But for another [Mage]’s genius, it might not have found it until it was too late. But there stood a helpful figure, right there.

——

Az’kerash, puzzled, unable to throw even his insight down so far, was so absorbed he didn’t see the mountain until it moved. A hill lurched. He stared up. Kerash, the mighty Draugr, Chosen of the Necromancer, undef—he backed up.

He feared no mortal. But Khoteizetrough? The Earth Elemental, guardian of Gaarh Marsh Tribe, legend of old?

That was no mortal. With a roar like the earth quaking, it moved from its resting place. Gnolls fled, screaming. The Earth Elemental had gone berserk!

No. He came to a stop in front of the Necromancer. One arm rose. The Necromancer was ordering Kerash to back up fast. Because he knew Earth Elementals and this—

The crude ‘fist’ touched the ground almost lightly. A feather’s touch. Yet the ground reacted. With the tremor that shook the Gnoll Plains, a fissure opened in the ground. The kind of thing that could suck an army screaming into the deeps.

Or uncover something. Az’kerash stood, staring down.

You know, Fissival always had a hunger for magicore. It was a reliable trade good.

A hand reached down. Grasping.

The Stitch Witch laughed as she saw the web unravelling.

——

He never moved. He was, in fact, sitting. A rare drink in his hand. Alcohol did the body no good, and he needed less of it, since fat and Grimalkin of Pallass weren’t friends.

Sometimes, though. One had to drink. The pieces spun into place as the Sinew Magus watched the scrying orb.

Fissival’s teleportation network used to span all of Izril. But it began failing in recent times. No one transported people anymore. Things could go wrong. It could have been flaws in old spells decaying.

Or…

He didn’t look up as someone compromised his mansion. The Eyes of Pallass, the spies that each Walled City had in some form or another, were very good. However, Grimalkin had trained them and learned their methods. And he was very good too.

He had only one way they could sneak in through his home, and that was the front door. He glanced up.

“I know you’re there. You may be wondering if I somehow, covertly, sent a [Message] to my apprentice. I did not. As I’m sure you’re aware, I have sent no [Messages] other than to inform others that I will not be making a trip.”

An invisible figure said nothing. Magus Grimalkin’s huge claw tightened on his cup. He went on, tersely. Watching as the Earth Elemental dug something up and began to lift it.

“I have done nothing. Absolutely nothing, as ordered. I simply…”

He looked at the scrying orb. In the background, the huge tent with the Meeting of Chieftains rose. Grimalkin whispered.

“…I simply chose my apprentices well. I tried to uncover in them the same qualities I find best. Logic, discipline, reasoning…”

Testicles? The Sinew Magus considered it. Then he shook his head. His voice rose.

“Grit. My master told me how melancholy it would be, how extraordinary, but I never observed it myself. He told me to wait. For surely, one day they would astonish me, the day I saw my apprentices rise.”

The cup shattered as he gripped it. Grimalkin didn’t pay any attention. He was on his feet. There it was. For all to see.

A gigantic, glowing crystal. Formed out of nearly pure magicore, shaped. Connected. Probably to others. A gigantic network. The kind that had once spanned all of Izril.

Repurposed. It was shining with so much magic that Grimalkin thought he might have seen it. Trying to contain—

The enraged Elemental knew too. It raised a huge fist, roaring, with the sound of all old plans breaking.

Deeply laid plans. They were contained in the single crystal as the fist swung down. It struck, and the explosion turned off the scrying orb as the backblast of magic obliterated every low-grade magical artifact in ten miles.

It was genius, really. The Sinew Magus had never considered that you could repurpose a teleportation network to…counter natural attempts at magic. A blanket across southern Izril, maybe even parts of the north. How much magic had Fissival poured into it?

He’d studied in Fissival. But he would ask more later. And now everyone would ask. It was done, and no one would be able to hide what had been done. The scrying orb winked out.

Yet not before Grimalkin saw the jet of fire blast straight up, from a Gnoll’s finger. A [Flame Swathe] spell, shooting into the skies of the Meeting of Tribes, fuelled by the magic of two Gnollish tribes. His greatest apprentice’s triumph, burning in his eyes.

Magic.

——

It was broken. The crystal that had been suppressing all natural magic but Ferkr’s unique training, the magic of Gnolls apart shattered. And magic returned to the places where it had been exiled.

For Gnolls. They all felt it. Even Krshia, who had been so far from southern Izril proper she’d been on the edges of the effect.

Like a bit of your soul you had never realized was missing. A door in your head that had been artificially closed every second since you were born.

Ferkr of Pallass lay on her back, grinning at the flaming hole in the roof of the tent. Shaman Theikha lay in Cetrule’s arms, a smile on her face. Bitter, but triumphant.

Truth. Chieftain Xherw and Shaman Ulcre stared, as did all the Chieftains, at the shattered crystal lying before the great guardian of Gaarh Marsh. There was nothing to identify it. No helpful sigil.

But it was there. And because it was there…Chieftain Xherw was first to speak.

“It seems there is much to answer for. Plain’s Eye will lead this hunt for facts. This—this is indeed worthy of taking precedence over the Raskghar.”

“Indeed.”

Ulcre managed. Krshia didn’t see that. She was just weeping, looking at the spellbook. It was done. Let truth come to light.

The Spider laughed at someone else’s web coming unravelled. Somewhere, the Archmage of Death sat back. For he had changed and fallen and hated the living. But once upon a time, he had been [Archmage] of Wistram. Not one people. So he smiled.

Drake cities prepared to answer the Gnollish aggression displayed of late. The aggressive Gnolls looked down at the broken link in a conspiracy under their very feet.

They decided the Drakes might be right. They had a reason to be aggressive after all.

8.43

“There are but two laws in this world as they apply to all folks capable of levelling, be they winged or finned, small or large. There is law for those of low-level. And law for those who level higher than the rest.”

The Book of Levels, Chapter 4. On the whole, Teresa Atwood found it curious. It was a mix of biblical-esque writings about morality, strength through suffering and perseverance–‘those who struggle will one day outlevel those who live in complacency’–and a kind of, well, power-gamer’s handbook.

She was no expert, but telling a [Farmer] to try cultivating difficult crops in bad soil? Sounded like a good way to give yourself a hard time. Or to gain experience.

However, it was a mix of morality and tips, and thus parts simply read wrong to her. Like the opening to Chapter 4.

“It’s not fair.”

She broke off reading, frowning at the passage. A steady, no, trying to be steady look was her only reply. Teresa didn’t know if that was impatience or a desire to hear what she said.

She deferred to the latter, as it had been a chapter every day at best, despite neither having read this before.

“I know it’s true. I’ve seen Orthenon spar and he can do eight-versus-one. I don’t think anyone in my world…maybe if it was an actual fighter or soldier versus a bunch of idiots, maybe. But with weapons? I know everyone can break our world’s records, even if they’re only Level 40. But it just doesn’t sit right.”

She had actually done this, in the times between war and strife. And in the Kingdom of Reim, that was all the time. To test her theory, she’d asked some of the King of Destruction’s vassals, from Mars and Orthenon to ‘lesser’ vassals like Maresar, Venith, and so on, to perform some tests.

Teresa hadn’t watched the Olympics and written down all the scores, but she knew things like the hundred meter dash. Of course, figuring out how far a meter was when no one thought in anything but feet was annoying…

However, the results were clear even without precise measurements. Some people weren’t built to run, didn’t enjoy it, and some people like Orthenon could zip across the battlefield, being all about attacks and maneuvering.

Mars, for instance, wore armor, and she could run forever, but she didn’t sprint, only charged into the enemy at the head of a vanguard. Nevertheless, she could easily break ten seconds without Skills.

That was a Level 60+ [Vanguard], though, one of the greatest warriors of Chandrar. By contrast, the [Mages] were actually quick…for what Teresa expected of them. But even Ulyse, the highest-levelled among them, couldn’t compare to [Warriors] half his level.

Teres missed Ulyse.

A single one of Flos’ vassals could scare an army. But the law applying to only a select few rankled Teres.

Her audience never replied. He sat, never moving, blinking a few times. Covered head to toe in bandages. Teresa looked at a living mummy, and the flash of green. However, even the flesh around his eyes had burned. He hadn’t been able to open his eyes for days and the [Healers] had privately confessed they were terrified that the heat had melted his eyes from his sockets.

That they hadn’t was because he’d been drinking healing potions as he fought, and his level. Even so, and even now, the King of Destruction sat, bandages hiding horrific burns that did not want to heal.

Magical fire. The power of a great Djinni, the terrifying Drenir. Yes, he’d been freed and laid waste to a Nerrhavian city. However, the battle had left the King of Destruction so wounded he’d been levitated away. Now, without him to lead armies, Takhatres had abandoned Reim to hold Hellios. Orthenon and Mars were stuck in the north, and Maresar and Venith alone were holding off the biggest push of Nerrhavia’s Fallen yet.

Teres? She was keeping Flos company. She could have been fighting, but after he had woken up, he had said two words, though his throat was as burned as the rest of him.

First–Gnolls. Second? Teresa’s name.

“They’re all safe. Takhatres is sweeping Hellios, holding off the armies. The only problem is if Queen Calliope rebels…or her son.”

Teres put aside the book after three more pages, when his eyes began to roll. The King of Destruction tried to nod, then froze.

Teres bit her lip. She didn’t need to read his mind to see how much that hurt. His bandages needed to be changed regularly because his wounds seeped or bled, but that was so painful she couldn’t watch. And no one dared try healing the burn wounds at this point. The risk of infection and thus murdering him in seconds via potion-enhanced disease was extreme.

So Teresa read to Flos. She reached for the newspaper next and Remi Canada’s articles. Reim’s capital was under lockdown. They were preparing for a siege. She wished she knew whether Trey was safe. Or if relief would be coming. But it was this, speaking to Flos, practicing her sword drills alone, or speaking to Nawal.

Yet if Flos didn’t speak, for once silenced by burns, forced to write if ever–and all he wrote were simple questions, like ‘Gnolls’, ‘war’, ‘Trey’, or ‘Fetohep’…the Blacksmith of Clan Tannousin said nothing by choice.

She stood by the anvil, swinging her hammer and making superlative blades of steel, until her hands were raw and bloody.

Two ghosts. The war was going poorly, and the one magical cure for Nawal–perhaps–who knew her, was lost to Wistram. The other, for Flos?

He was in no position to gainsay Fetohep at the moment, even if he could ride on the capital and demand one of the great treasures like a Potion of Regeneration to heal himself. Not with Khelt’s show of force. Rather, the opposite. Venith and Maresar were almost more worried about a single army from Khelt than five from Nerrhavia’s Fallen, and they were worried about both.

So, Teresa did her best. Distract Flos Reimarch from his terrible pain. She held up the newspaper so he could read.

“The Gnoll tribes are saying it’s Fissival that uh, planted this anti-magic crystal in the ground. Did you know they could do that?”

Flos blinked twice for ‘no’. He looked at the paper, and Teresa read out the commentary and analysis by Chandrar’s most beloved [Journalist].

“…the allegation, among many conflicting narratives, in brief, can be summarized as this: the Walled Cities, or Fissival alone, conspired to nullify the Gnollish people’s arcane abilities, which differ from that of Shamanic magic, using said crystals. Whether they are scattered across Izril, and how far this plot reaches, or even the accuracy is not yet verifiable. However, the facts are these: a crystal was uncovered directly under the Meeting of Tribes. It correlated to a burst of arcane magic. More Gnolls have yet to manifest talents, but some have managed to cast arcane magic when they could not before. And finally, Fissival, the City of Magic, is known to have had a continent-wide teleportation network which ran on waystones such as these.”

It was dry, well, newspaper-like, but that was clearly an attempt to be accurate and not shout the obvious, which was unverifiable as of yet. Flos Reimarch expressed his thoughts on the matter.

“Fgtr.”

“You said it. No wonder the Gnolls left Izril. What do you think will happen?”

“Hmbth.”

Teresa began to find some of the other newspapers from Izril. Some of them were spicy. The news was the talk of the world. The talk of the week. The talk of…well. The century. Right up until the next big thing happened. Like Reim falling.

But the Gnolls weren’t going to forget. She wondered what the consequences would be.

—-

“Consequences? I’m sure the tribes will be furious. It might be war and that would be disastrous, given that would be exactly what the Antinium want. Why would we add anything to that?”

The question was so stupid that Grand Magus Eldavin didn’t even deign to look at the speaker as he addressed Wistram’s own Council of Mages.

“Gnolls have historically been part of Wistram. Gnolls have been [Archmages]. Fissival alone, or some wider conspiracy, has engineered their exclusion from Wistram, and indeed the rift between the species and the academy now! Is Wistram Academy going to simply sit by, or censure this with words?”

“It would be neutral, Grand Magus.”

A cautious voice from a [Mage] of the Hulltp faction, a tiny one, but which had a whole two seats on the Council of three hundred. The half-Elf looked at the Drake.

“Neutral? Neutrality is not the same as inaction, young man. If we do nothing, or merely reply in words, we, by doing so, imply that there is little problem with this kind of action. That it is fine to erase the magical talents of generations. I am putting a vote to the Council to do more than censure. Down with the City of Magic! I suggest, to begin with, all Fissival [Mages] be banned from all but public spaces of the academy. Certainly from speaking with any…Humans…among us. We need not eject them yet…the guests at Wistram are token. More importantly, we will begin a magical boycott of all items from Fissival’s academy by all magical institutions across the world. That would be today’s items, but I suggest that we make the following announcements over the next few days…”

Eldavin said the words ‘suggest’ and ‘vote’. However, he spoke with no such intentions in mind. The [Mages] listened as the Terras faction seats, newly acquired, and a majority, waited behind their leader. The other Archmages weren’t even present. What would be the point?

Cognita was gone. Who ruled Wistram?

Grand Magus Eldavin.

—-

Of course it was horrific. The Gnolls of the tribe they’d joined were hopping mad. The news had just hit them, less than an hour after the Earth Elemental had uncovered the stone. They weren’t even at the tribe yet, but the [Hunters] were howling, throwing things, and uttering so many bad words that Bird was glad they hadn’t found Mrsha yet.

Her trail was getting harder to follow. They now had to rely on guesswork, sightings of white Gnolls, so this detour wasn’t actually a bad thing. It gave their scouts, like Snapjaw, the chance to use Icecube to search.

Bird had been staring at Fierre’s scrying orb, where Drassi had done the smart thing. Which was to kick Relz and Noass out of the booth and give a proper opinion piece of the entire event.

…By bringing on a Councilmember Elirr of Liscor, and a Pallassian Gnoll [Camerawoman] to take over. It was smart. So smart that it might have been a certain [Cook]’s suggestion in Drassi’s ear, as well as Remi’s, that made her do it.

At any rate, the composition was Drassi’s doing, and it also worked. Elirr was older, but had the perspective of a Gnoll who had been in the tribes. The Pallassian [Camerawoman] knew how the best interviews went, and took over a kind of interviewer/commentator role. She’d lived in Pallass all her life.

Not to say there wasn’t shouting. But the best moments were like these, in silence, when you saw Elirr’s paw trembling on a cup of tea.

“Am I surprised, Miss Treisha? Surprised? Yes. Horribly, terribly. But it does not surprise me, no. That is the worst part. That is…”

He swallowed.

“That is the worst part of all.”

No one had a good thing to say about Drakes in this moment. From Magnolia Reinhart, to Rasea Zecrew, to Ailendamus, not one person had a good thing to say about this.

Well, Magnolia Reinhart did thoughtfully remark to Ressa one thing.

“It might make our reluctant allies come to the table. That would be a silver lining in the stormcloud they’ve summoned. And we must have some silver lining, Ressa, or I’ll have to cut short this visit to find out what has happened to…Eldavin…with no gain and all loss.”

Her hand tightened on the teacup. Ressa nodded slowly. She watched the ongoing coverage, as Elirr and Treisha, overburdened despite talking for nearly two hours, let another trio of Gnolls storm in.

“You never considered offering the Gnolls land in the north?”

Magnolia Reinhart’s gaze shifted. She looked at the young woman feverishly reading something in between trying to hold the conversation down and watching the scrying orb. Lyonette du Marquin touched the letters as if trying to pick them off the page. They’d been having a tea party when the news struck.

“Never once, Lyonette. Not in my wildest dreams of pursuing a peace with the Drakes.”

“Why not?”

Lyonette glanced up, all vim and vigour and action. Magnolia had been hearing about some of the things she was getting up to. Calmly, the [Lady] regarded the [Princess]. Did she know who she was talking to and dancing with? Did her class attract them? That would put fact to the stories.

“My dear Miss Marquin–oh don’t look so worried. No one can hear us, magically or otherwise. Do you think I’d allow it?”

Lyonette hesitated, frowning, but chose her words with the tact Calanferian [Princesses] were supposed to be known for. In Magnolia’s experience, it was not a given.

“No offense to your security, Lady Reinhart, but we were nearly all assassinated in the open.”

Magnolia Reinhart heard a snort and elbowed Ressa’s knee. Lyonette blinked as both older women smiled.

“Miss Lyonette. What is the point of nearly being assassinated in public if no one sees? Rest assured, I don’t take chances in private for no gain.”

The [Princess] blinked. Magnolia glanced out the window and sighed.

“There are a lot of them. But the quality?”

Lyonette’s head turned just in time to see a [Butler] politely shove a figure climbing up towards one of the windows of the mansion with a stick. A figure flashed past her. There was no sound, but Lyonette winced.

There was a reason even the Assassin’s Guild of Izril had only ever taken Magnolia Reinhart’s holdings or attacked her in ambushes, as opposed to clandestine, convenient operations. Figures carefully swapping out bags of sugar in deliveries to the house turned as someone tapped them on the shoulder and they saw a trio of maids, led by an angry Gnoll [Maid], standing with cleaning supplies.

Not that scary, but you got the point. Magnolia answered Lyonette’s question as Reynold watched the figure run off, glad he didn’t have to get a broom.

“Gnolls are not the group sending forces north each year to slap hands with Human armies, Lyonette. Nor would the Walled Cities, ah, see a non-aggression pact between Humans and Gnolls any more favorably than between Antinium and Gnolls. Finally? Yes, I could probably arrange a huge patch of land to be given, or at least free access to the north. If I drank a Potion of Dunce, I would do just that.”

Why? But of course, Lyonette was too intelligent to ask that. She thought about it and came to the conclusion in two sips of sweet tea.

“…Ah. Conflicts.”

“Exactly. The worst thing I could do for Human-Gnoll relations is to let them be our neighbors. Can you imagine the first time a [Lord] or [Lady] decides one of them has stolen something?”

Magnolia sighed. You took matters one step at a time. But–she had to admit, as she scowled at the commentary…

“…Even my family wouldn’t enact a scheme as ludicrously unpleasant as this.”

It was hyperbole, because Ressa snorted again, but it just went to show that Magnolia Reinhart had more to learn.

Lyonette went to sip more tea, but it was hard. The [Princess] looked up from her cup. She tried to speak, coughed, and lifted her tea cup.

“I fear…with great apologies, Lady Reinhart, I might request a different cup? Mine is rather too sweet for my liking.”

Magnolia eyed Lyonette as Ressa, smirking, offered her a cup without Magnolia’s usual dose of sugar. She rolled her eyes. Fine, you were right. She’d add less sugar. Maybe.

Lyonette tried to wash the sugar dissolving the enamel of her teeth away with some of the rather fine tea. She looked at Magnolia, and the [Lady] murmured.

“We do have much to talk about, Miss Marquin. Too many issues cropping up of late. Even one is a headache. The Titan of Baleros is apparently running around Izril with every [Bounty Hunter] in existence tearing apart Invrisil on the hunch he is there.”

“You know that for a fact, Lady Reinhart?”

Magnolia sighed.

“I do have my network still, Miss Lyonette. Diminished, but it seems intelligence is not the strong suit of those pursuing Niers Astoragon. If I were to start my search anywhere…but it seems they’ve checked Liscor. Drat the fellow. He ignores me, and doesn’t even have the decency to conduct his affairs without causing a commotion.”

She scowled, then her lips quirked.

“Of course, that is hardly surprising given the Titan of Baleros’ character. What is surprising…I am not surprised by much, Lyonette. Not by much. If anything shocked me of late–it was that Tyrion Veltras proposed to anyone. Truly. I could accept the rest. But Tyrion Veltras, proposing to Ryoka Griffin no less?”

The [Princess]’ face twisted. She hadn’t expected Magnolia to bring that up, out of all the pressing and urgent events, but the [Lady] looked like she was slightly in shock, even now.

“You heard about it?”

“I believe I actually swooned. Ressa, do you recall that?”

The [Maid] considered the question.

“If you mean by ‘swooned’, laughed so hard you actually cracked a rib, yes.”

Both women traded glances. Magnolia began to chuckle so hard she had to put down her cup.

“I am sorry, Miss Marquin. You have come to me with great need and urgency and believe me, I am looking for that young child. But–you do know Miss Ryoka Griffin?”

“Yes…”

“And I am sure you know of Tyrion Veltras and his…reputation?”

Oh yes. Lyonette saw Magnolia lift a handkerchief and dab at her eyes.

“On bended knee. Asking permission to court her.”

A snort–Lyonette looked, but Ressa had turned her head. Magnolia laughed. Then she grew serious.

“What a disaster. What riotous, unacceptable messes they’re making of my continent. I thought the worst they could do was start the war to end all wars or create weapons on par with Tier 7 spells. Instead, they’ve got Tyrion Veltras making war on Ailendamus. Well, better than him writing love letters, eh, Ressa?”

“Please never say that again, Lady Reinhart.”

Ressa shuddered. Lyonette saw her blanch, actually bend down, pick up a cookie, and pour herself a cup of tea. Completely ignoring decorum, she downed the entire teacup and cookie.

“Do forgive Ressa. Terrible memories. Tyrion Veltras has always admired women of a…particular character. Even as a young man.”

“Particular…”

Lyonette’s mouth worked. Magnolia Reinhart smiled as Ressa shook her head like she was trying to throw off a shade’s grasping hands. But then she lost her smile.

“However, and I do regret bringing this up now, but I had no opportunity to speak to you before–Lyonette. Erin Solstice’s passing was a tragedy and I was deeply sorry to hear of it.”

Lyonette’s heart began to pound, painfully. She waited, but Magnolia Reinhart said nothing more. Her face was bleak. Bleak. Not uncaring. At the same time, however, she did not weep. She just looked…mildly sad. Lyonette found the words bursting out.

“She isn’t dead.”

Lyonette knew she was being a poor guest. She couldn’t help it, though. Her voice rose. Magnolia glanced at her.

“…Of course not, my dear. I do hope she can be revived, with this technique of ice. It is beyond curious, though. Such strange messages from…Khelt.”

“You know ab–”

The [Lady] glanced at Ressa. She didn’t even bother responding to that.

“Have either you or Erin Solstice met Fetohep of Khelt, Miss Marquin?”

“No.”

“He does commission from Solar Cycles. And yet. And yet. Is this all connected?”

Magnolia Reinhart couldn’t even begin to fathom it. Erin Solstice? Not surprising. Tragic. Heartfelt. She should have truly taken the girl in hand, or posted more of her people there, but the young woman had seemed fine on her own.

Careless. Yet…

“We cannot shape them. Only give them the chance to be all they might. A tyrant’s claw weighs down on all souls, yet the hand of kindness smothers as well.”

Lyonette glanced up. She had never heard that, but it sounded like a quote. Magnolia nodded to herself, then glanced up.

“Miss Marquin. Let us not play too many games. You are busy, no doubt, sequestering aid for your beloved little Mrsha–”

“My daughter.”

The [Lady]’s eyebrows rose. She peered at Lyonette and for a second, the full weight of her aura hit the [Princess]. Not like someone swinging a hammer, but a pressing scrutiny. Lyonette began to fight it, but then…Magnolia’s eyebrows rose.

“Your daughter. Indeed. Forgive me, Lyonette. I will help you. I have been, but navigating Drake lands is not easy for my people, what few of them there are. I can certainly tell you she made it out of that city long before the Gnolls got to her. And they are Plain’s Eye.”

Lyonette inhaled, hard. Magnolia went on.

“I will help you. But you will answer some questions for me, first.”

“Of course. Anything I can within reason. Is it the Healer of Tenbault that worries you that much? I…”

Lyonette had deep suspicions about just which Goblins might have kidnapped her, and why. Maybe Magnolia suspected it too, given how much she knew about Erin’s friends. But it seemed she was off. Magnolia turned, blankly.

“Oh, her? She is…quite capable of negotiating for her safety, and I’m sure the others are looking for her and all that. No, that is not what worries me. Not at all. We are following her, aren’t we, Ressa?”

“Someone’s on the job.”

The [Lady] waved the thought away without a second word. The [Princess] sat upright. What had Magnolia Reinhart so worried? If she wanted answers, she had summoned the right person to spill all.

Almost nothing was out of reason. If she wanted to get to Mrsha, when she found her, or if her brave little girl managed to tell her where she was, she would need the fastest vehicle in the world. A Pegasus, perhaps, or maybe a pink carriage. Magnolia Reinhart nodded. She appraised Lyonette, pursed her lips.

Why was she nervous?

“Lyonette…I would like you to recall meeting with a certain…a certain person. Spare me no details or speculation. But tell me everything. Did a Grand Magus Eldavin seem–off–to you when he visited your inn?”

The [Princess] hesitated. She knew that name. But why, of all disasters and opportunities, did this make Ressa stop taunting her mistress, make Magnolia’s hand tremble on the cup like that? Was it a cunning feint? Or…? She tried to think back to the enigmatic [Mage]. Magnolia listened.

Who had done it? Ryoka? Had he…?

If there was one thing that worried her, it was not the Circle, or Tyrion’s addled mind, or events in Oteslia, even the Drakes’ actions. It was simply this.

What had happened to him? He, who had never taken sides for as long as she had ever known him? The weary legend who slumbered? Why now? Why like this, and so odd, missing all her hints? Talking about reshaping Wistram?

The [Princess]’ eyes flickered, trying to work out what Magnolia’s game was. In any other time, the [Lady] wouldn’t even have hinted at the card being on the table. Now was not that time. She had to know.

What had they done to the Dragonlord of Flame?

—-

It was true that even Regis Reinhart sneered at the mistake Fissival had made–if it was Fissival. Real genius was that it wasn’t.

“Either way, that it could ever be found out makes it a fool’s gambit.”

Yes, no one with a single good word for what had gone down. No one at all. Except for the little man in Bird’s head.

…Niers Astoragon, that was. He sat, listening to the outraged commentary, the shock, the fury, and told Bird it was fine.

“In fact, listen to what they just said.”

The Gnolls had exploded into fury as Drassi read out a breaking news bulletin. Bird was not sure why Niers laughed.

“Fissival just announced that the city had no motives against Gnolls, and any conclusions drawn are incorrect. Also, that they may have destroyed ancient Drake property, and the Walled City wishes to investigate.”

“Is that what you expected?”

The only thing Bird had expected all day was omelettes, and he’d gotten boiled eggs instead. He shook his head.

“No. It is silly, and I would know silly.”

“No, it’s not. I just bet you, that army from Fissival we passed? It’s picking up the pace. The Drakes aren’t going to apologize. Why would they? That’s an admission of guilt. They’re going to claim the Gnolls are making it all up.”

“Provoke them? Why?”

The Titan laughed.

“If you know you’re getting into a fight, Bird, you might as well throw the first punch. And they have. I can’t imagine many tribes are going to walk away from this. But the Drakes have the march on them in a huge way.”

“I do not understand. They did not turn off magic for [Shamans]. They have only made the Gnolls angry.”

“And killed generations of their magical talent in the arcane field. Put a huge rift between them and Wistram–that’s two hundred years of progress if what these Gnolls are saying is true. Maybe more. Think of it like this, Bird. You know that Great Shaman of the Goblin King during the Second Antinium War? He threw an army of your people into the sky by himself.”

“Yes. I wish I had been there.”

Bird sighed sadly. Niers paused.

“…Well, that was one [Shaman]. Gnolls? Gnolls have had [Archmages] and great [Shamans]. Two spellcasters, across a single race.”

“Is that so impressive?”

“Stop tilting your head, Bird. Yes, it is. Most races have one or the other. Good [Mages]? Good [Shamans]–both is rarer. Humans, for instance, tend to have one per civilization. Having a mix of them means you have more magic-users competing for less resources. More chances for truly high-level people to emerge. Even Fraerlings, my people, are behind in [Shaman]-magic. Dullahans are [Mages] without [Shamans]…Centaurs have a bit of both, but aside from them, Humans, Gnolls, and Garuda…no other species has an equitable mix.”

The Goblins, milling about, were oblivious, but might have protested being left out. To which the Titan would have replied they were a shamanic-leaning species, much like Gnolls, but without institutional opportunity, by and large, to benefit from arcane magic training. At which point they would have probably agreed.

Bird digested all of this, processed it, and came to a simple conclusion.

“So Drakes have done a bad thing for a clever reason. They have still done a bad thing. It is not nice. I think.”

In his hat, the Fraerling laughed. He laughed so hard he nearly knocked Bird’s hat sideways. To one of the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings, it looked like Bird’s hat tipped itself at him. He cautiously returned it and then backed away.

“Bird, Bird.”

“Niers. Niers. Yes?”

“Listen to me. Are the Drakes going to beg for the Gnolls’ forgiveness? Absolutely not. Did they do this? Rhir’s hells and Foliana’s stupid tail, yes. I’ll bet a fortune. Do you know why? ‘Nice’ doesn’t win wars. Worry about morality after you win. That’s a luxury and that’s why I’ve rolled over idiots who think I have to obey their rules. Do you know what the proof of who’s better is, now? After all their history of fall and rise, decline and triumph–the Drakes still have the Walled Cities. The Gnolls have traditions like the Meeting of Tribes. Who won?”

Bird considered the question. He replied, slowly.

“You are not a nice man.”

Niers snapped back. He wished he could sit in Fierre’s hat. But she didn’t have one. Why not? He’d start a damn trend.

“I’m nice when I can afford to be. When your opponent’s hanging by the cliff, Bird, you don’t give them a hand. You break their fingers. You get to be a ‘silly Bird’ because someone else keeps you safe. They never do nice things. If you want to lead people, remember that. Their lives are your responsibility, so you never hold back. Never.”

He waited. The Professor realized he’d lost his temper and calmed down a bit. Something about Bird did annoy him, though. Perhaps it was being stuck in the hat. Perhaps it was just that: moralizing over what had been done.

The enemy has hurt your entire people. Don’t argue over the ethics. They’ve done it.

What are you going to do? Feshi was at the Meeting of Tribes. She’d have an answer, he was sure. They needed to find Mrsha, but these Gnoll hunters…they were tearing apart cities for her!

Even I wouldn’t authorize that, even if someone knifed me personally. There’s more than just vengeance and tradition here. The Titan began to tug on a string, but he had far fewer.

When the Antinium did speak, he was calm, for he liked and disliked Niers, but he knew the Titan was still the Titan. Even so, he murmured.

“I do not see why you wanted to meet Erin. I do not think she would like you.”

Niers Astoragon froze in his hat.

“Why not? She’s a brilliant chess player, and from what you’ve said, she’s done hard things and led armies. Dead gods, she challenged the Assassin’s Guild in Invrisil! She–”

He stopped then, because something strange happened. Something that made even the group talking about the incident turn. Numbtongue, Pivr, Goblins, Antinium, Humans, and more.

Bird was laughing. He laughed, like he had been taught, not like True Antinium laughed. And oh, it was free and gentle and mocking and innocent.

And sad. Niers heard him speak then.

“You do not know Erin at all. I hope you someday do.”

“…Me too, Bird. Me too.”

The world had changed in a day. A grand conspiracy had been unveiled. Big things were going to happen and now everyone sensed it, not just the Titan of Baleros.

What did you do on such days? Well, you either talked, processed it, or you kept moving. In great tragedy or triumph, what else could you do?

Perhaps…even Niers was taken completely aback by what came next.

“So, [Shamans] are a power of spiritual magic?”

“Collective. I don’t think there’s a difference. Certainly in how they cast it, but one’s simply innate, which is why you can suppress it. The other’s shared. I’m not a [Scholar], but I know enough to know how to foil both.”

“Intriguing. But how do [Shamans] get magic?”

Niers shrugged.

“Ask Ulvama.”

Bird went over and plucked at Ulvama’s arm. The snoozing Hobgoblin jerked, raised her staff, and relaxed only fractionally.

“Oh, you. Bird. What? Trouble?”

She peered at the Gnolls, unconcerned with Gnoll drama. Bird shook his head.

“How do [Shamans] get power, please?”

Ulvama peered at him as if doubting this was a real question. Then she shrugged.

“All Goblins have power. Not just magic bzzt.”

She flicked her fingers, and tapped her chest.

“Power. Because we are united. Tiny bit, lots–usually tiny. [Shamans] gather. [Shamans] have power from old things too.”

She saw Bird’s blank expression, and Fierre’s, who had come over for a history lesson. So Ulvama sighed, and switched into a suddenly more advanced diatribe.

“There is magic in many things. Magic in tradition. Magic in ideas. If you take a boring rock, and put it in a special place for a long time, it is powerful. Not to [Mages] unless the special place is mana zone, because [Mages] only see one thing. But [Shamans] see the value. [Shamans] take it. So our magic does not do what [Mages] do because it is not the same magic. Understand?”

“Oooh. Yes. So even non-[Mages] can…”

“Yes, yes. I go back to sleep now. Okay?”

Ulvama was turning over and Niers was chortling. He was going to borrow that for his lecture on [Shamans]. It was a nice little way of explaining it. What Ulvama didn’t say was that the same held true. Cut off a [Mage]’s magic and they had none. That was simple; anti-magic fields, or Skills, although a truly extraordinary [Mage] could punch through it.

To beat a [Shaman], you could have a harder time or easier. Like a [Wizard], if the staff mattered, hit the staff. If a tribe’s will mattered, shake it.

He was about to explain this all to Bird, since he regarded the Antinium as something of a pet project–how high could his [Revalantor] class go? What did it do?–when Bird spoke.

“If it does not matter how much each person has, like Gnolls have [Shamans] even though there was a bad stone, does that not mean that Antinium can have [Shamans]?”

Ulvama had snuggled into a ball, facing deliberately away from Bird. Fierre saw the crimson eyes open. The Vampire girl herself sat upright, blinking.

Niers said nothing at all. Bird looked around. He nodded to himself.

Then, he walked over to the Antinium. They were milling around, the ones with names and the many with none. Of them was Infinitypear, an [Adventurer], Touma the Great, [Martial Artist], and so on.

And the Antinium with scars all over his carapace. He had no name. He had an aura. He was old.

Bird did not know his story. No one knew his story. That was fine. The Soldier had never expected anyone to tell his story. He had never had Erin sit him down individually. He had never done anything worthy of note–certainly not like these Individuals. He did not envy them. He did not hate them. If anything, he was glad they had come because things were better.

He had not even known Mrsha that well. So why was he here? Because he had seen her, scampering around once when he got to come to the inn. He had eaten a bowl of congee. Stared into a fire and seen half of a play.

And that was more than he had ever had in six years of his life. So when they called, he came.

…Bird passed right by him. The Antinium turned as Bird peered at an Antinium Worker with something interesting on its shell. Rather than just paint, it had discovered that some of the paints were also glues, so it had sprinkled dirt and grass onto its back shell, and applied what was more like a resin than glue.

Thus, Grass Shell had been created. The Worker had a little shortbow, a spear, and a buckler. He stopped still, as Bird came to him. The Individual of the Free Antinium pointed at him with all four hands.

“You. You have the power of grass and dirt on your side. Therefore, you are most worthy. You are a [Shaman].”

Grass Shell’s antennae waved frantically. A [Shaman]? Him? He peered down at his chest. Bird nodded.

“You have the magic of the Free Antinium. Yay. Xrn will be happy! Or not? Someone tore her head off. Part of it.”

He hopped away, humming to himself. Ulvama stared at Grass Shell. Xeu, Pivr, looked at each other in dead silence.

Niers Astoragon sat there, and came to a slow realization. Of course, he had known it, but he gave voice to it in full.

“You are exceptionally dangerous, Bird.”

The [Bird Hunter] tilted his head.

“Me? I am just a silly Bird. You must be mistaken.”

The Titan rubbed at his chin, smiling. He thought for a while, then mused aloud.

“I wonder…no, I don’t have a copy of a chessboard. And Tallfolk’s are way too damn big. A pity. You told me you played chess, once. If only–”

“Pawn to F4.”

Bird happily spoke. The Titan blinked. He paused for a long moment. Then replied.

“Pawn to E5.”

“Pawn takes E5. My bird is appearing.”

Bird happily clapped two of his hands together. The Titan blinked, in the silence of his hat.

“Erin Solstice taught you how to play chess with numbers?”

“Of course. Every Antinium can do it if they learn. Chess does not need a board. Silly. Even Apista can play chess with a board.”

Apista, the undisputed grandmistress of chess in the bee world, buzzed lazily past Bird. She had, in fact, demonstrably won a game against Mrsha one time. It took nearly two hours as the two wandered away from the chess board–well, Mrsha did. Apista kept having to figure out how to correctly attack with knights.

…But she did win. Niers sat in Bird’s hat, murmuring chess notation. It did not go unnoticed, of course.

“Bird. Are you playing a chess game against yourself?”

Fals couldn’t help but ask. Bird stopped muttering his moves, and hesitated.

“No? Yes. I am lying.”

The City Runner took it at face value, but Fierre almost went cross-eyed trying to work out…Fals grinned.

“We can play an actual game of chess, if you want. I have a board. From Erin’s inn. I bought it back in the day. It might be worth something, right?”

Some of the Gnolls looked over as Fals hopped onto the wagon and Bird climbed onto it.

“I would like to play games of chess.”

“Well, take it easy on me. I’ve seen the chess players in The Wandering Inn. I can let you finish your game.”

“Do not worry, Fals. It was only in my head. And I was winning.”

Someone kicked Bird’s antennae and he winced and slapped his hat. Fals didn’t notice.

“Anyone else play chess?”

Even the angry [Hunters] looked up. Fals was friendly enough to get a response from the growling Gnolls.

“Chess? We’ve heard of it. Some people in our tribe have a chess board. All they do is play the game. I had to hunt with one of them, once. Idiot watched a Corusdeer walk right by him because he was thinking of the next move.”

“I’m not bad at chess.”

Fierre offered. Numbtongue just rolled his eyes, but even Badarrow had been taught. And of course, the Antinium knew the game. It was Ulvama, of all people, who yawned.

“Silly game. I am good at games. You show me, I win.”

Her instant confidence made Bird’s head slowly turn. Niers whispered in Bird’s hat.

“Let her win two games. Then crush her.”

For once, both Antinium and Fraerling were in complete agreement. So Niers sat, watching, playing off games with Bird. It was amazing, but he actually did it. The Titan actually had to peek under a crack in his hat as Fals spluttered.

“Poke me with needles, it actually looks like a bird. Sort of.”

Chess and drama. Numbtongue listened sympathetically to a species who had gotten the quintessential Goblin experience for the first time in living memory. Ulvama began losing rapidly, for all the [Shaman] was, in fact, the best player in the Mountain City tribe, and started throwing fits.

Grass Shell just lay down. The thing about Antinium was that they had no true class. [Butcher], [Digger], [Warrior]–all usually below Level 5, let alone Level 10.

[Shaman], now? He’d never even dreamed of being a [Shaman]. What did a [Shaman] do? He must be, though. Bird was a [Liar], but he didn’t lie. The power of grass is in me? The little Antinium lay on his shelled back and lazily waved his arms and legs as he stared up at the sky.

[Shaman Level 1!]

[Skill – Ambient Focus: Grass obtained!]

[Spell – Razorgrass Patch obtained!]

—-

Some people who didn’t know all about the betrayal of Gnolls, the drama at the Meeting of Tribes, actually covered a lot of ground.

Ksmvr of the Horns of Hammerad ran across the ground, in the kind of run the Antinium could keep up forever. Only, faster because he had the Ring of Jumping that let him easily leap over obstacles, and his [Brave Skirmisher] class.

Next to him rode a woman with dark skin, bright eyes, hair flying behind her. Below her, horse sped along, bearing the Empress of Tiqr, the Empress of Beasts, on its back. Other animals had more speed, more enhancements by Skill or magic or pedigree. Few had such will.

A little cat meowed on the back of the saddle, strapped in to avoid falling off. She kept staring at a giant figure, running as the lights flashed in its crystal ‘head’, carrying a huge battleaxe on one shoulder.

Domehead was the slowest of the lot, which meant that the Golem’s dead-run that never faltered, and could run down horses within an hour or two, was the benchmark by which they travelled. They did not stop travelling, the three.

They were being followed. And they had destiny to catch.

“Ksmvr. Do you know where your comrades are?”

“Yvlon is behind us, in Nerrhavia’s Fallen. However, Comrade Pisces is a captive of Roshal. I do not know where Ceria is. It is Pisces I must go to first. He will not be a [Slave].”

Nsiia’s eyes glinted.

“No indeed. Well-reasoned. Do you have a plan to catch him, though?”

Ksmvr nodded.

“I sequestered the aid of the First Crafter, among others. [Bandits] have been hired to raid Pisces’ caravan. Along with other bits of material aid. However, I will personally free Pisces if need be.”

“All by yourself? I heard tell it was a large caravan.”

Ksmvr shrugged.

“I am a Gold-rank adventurer. I will pick them off, lay traps. And I have this.”

The sword of the [Paladin] was sheathed at his side. Nsiia eyed it.

“Hyenas laugh at me, but that’s fair enough. Even a Djinni would fear that blade.”

Ksmvr nodded. He glanced at the Empress of Beasts.

“And you are headed the same way to find your army along the Kilalle Steppes. I suppose we are allies, then. It occurred to me an army might free Pisces.”

The woman smiled.

“It might, mightn’t it? But that would depend on whether we stick together.”

Ksmvr nodded. The sun rose over the borders of Illivere’s lands, as they passed out of the greenery and cliffs which had given rise to each state’s strength in stone and the cultivated lands built on Golem-labor. They headed north, for anyone wanting to hide marched along Zeikhal, the Great Desert where sand and sheer distance made it easier to elude pursuit.

“Are you sure you didn’t want to take the Golem horse?”

Nsiia asked Ksmvr after the first hour. She was busy setting herself, adjusting what she had taken, and looking at Domehead. Domehead, who had come after her, not to Femithain or anyone else when freed. Ksmvr had called her a poor mother.

Which meant he was a son? The Empress of Beasts had no idea what to say to that. If she feared anything, more than pursuit, being captured by the forces that would surely follow from all countries that feared her return and Femithain himself, she feared that Ksmvr was right even more.

Ksmvr replied steadily as he ran.

“I am a [Skirmisher], I have plentiful stamina potions, and I am Antinium. We have marched for days on end without rest. It is what we were designed to do. Moreover, as a law-abiding adventurer, stealing a Golem Horse would be considered theft of a national treasure.”

Nsiia threw her head back and laughed.

“The rest of it was not a crime? Facing down Illivere’s finest, freeing me?”

Ksmvr shrugged. He calmly munched on a dry ration bar, as he had exerted himself a bit that night.

“It is lawful refusal to be held prisoner, asserting my right to self-defense…and I did not free you.”

“Oh?”

“I simply waved my sword between your hands. That is what Ceria told me to say if I ever got in trouble. It sometimes works.”

Nsiia laughed. She threw her head back and breathed in. Free. There was a difference, for all that Femithain had never chained her until the end. Free. She spoke, a note in her voice.

“I shall not forget this, Ksmvr of the Horns of Hammerad. This is a mighty thing you have done for me. I failed my kingdom once; never again, I say. I shall have it back. Not at any cost. I paid one far too high in losing it, but I hear my people are the poor subjects of other lands, slaves like your friend. I will free every single one, and I will repay you as well.”

Ksmvr’s head turned. He nodded, calmly.

“I shall register the debt, Empress Nsiia.”

She regarded him.

“Ksmvr of the Horns of Hammerad. Ksmvr of the Free Antinium. Have you no last name to call yourself, Ksmvr?”

“No. I do not need one. Antinium have one name, if any.”

“Hm. You should have two. One so they know you, the other so they know from where you came. Be it tribe, or deed, or place. I am Nsiia Oliphant, so-named because of my capital city, and the very Grand Elephants my people made friends with long ago. You should have a name like that. Perhaps you should choose one?”

Ksmvr stared ahead.

“…Byres, maybe?”

The Empress’ eyes brightened, but Ksmvr shook his head.

“It does not matter at this moment, Empress Nsiia.”

“True! As for you. Domehead!”

The Golem turned, arms and legs pumping in distance-covering run #1, the algorithm running smoothly. Yet Nsiia saw lights shine from individual crystals in its atrium-dome. She drew closer as the Golem kept running. It never changed speed, never did more than slightly turn to her, as it was programmed to do when addressed.

Yet she sensed something watching her. Nsiia reached out. Her hand hovered near the reinforced plate armor. And Domehead…moved back.

To avoid hurting her by accident? Getting in her way? Or…?

“Oh, Domehead. I have not treated you well. Do you…do you understand me? Can you communicate?”

The great automaton said nothing, but the lights moved in its head. Nsiia threw her head back and yowled, like Yinah. A guilty sound. Ksmvr nearly fell over a rock as the sun began to bake the dry, flat ground. It was warm at first, then unpleasantly hot. He absently reached for a water bottle. He must remember to hydrate.

“I will make it up to you. I must apologize. You–Domehead, never let anyone strike you again. Not I, not your creators, not anyone. Do you understand me? Can you tell me if you rage?”

He said and did nothing, just ran. Nsiia looked at him. Then she rode closer.

Again, the Golem veered away slightly, but Nsiia just followed. Domehead hesitated…then did what no unthinking Golem should. He stopped moving away and let her come nearer. As they rode, Nsiia gently placed a hand on his side.

“I know not what Femithain has given you. But if Ksmvr is correct…I beg your forgiveness again, and again, Domehead. For you are a child born of metal and magic. Yet…you come to us, on this day we shall mark, and mark again. Little child. Born to Tiqr. Beast’s friend. Stop your crying. Still your fear. For wherever animal or person roams, a friend shall be near. I ask that you grow older, and wiser, and live long. Levels come to you, and may your life be filled with song…”

Ksmvr listened, as she began to recite a nursery rhyme. He had never heard it before, and she dared not slow, even as she rode. Yet the Empress never took her hand away from the great Golem as she sang.

So passed their first hours in flight. As the sun rose, it got hotter, and hotter, and hotter.

Ksmvr knew this, of course, but he found it displeasurable the more it baked his brown-black carapace. Nsiia was used to it. Domehead didn’t care. Ksmvr did not slow, but he emptied the first water flask that would have lasted him half a day on Izril.

“The heat is a disadvantageous foe.”

He confided to Nsiia as they slowed. She nodded.

“What manner of provisions have you? I didn’t have much to take, although I had a bag in case I did ever manage to flee…”

“I have ample food and supplies. Observe. Rations.”

He had bought nearly twenty pounds of dried rations, a staple across Adventurer’s Guilds and one of the things they sold. These were, of course, a local variety used by Illivere’s folk, so it was a kind of Yellat-paste mixed with nuts, dried jerky, then sun-dried and compiled into bars or even cubes.

Nsiia’s look of disgust said it all. Yinah sniffed a bit of a bar and tried to hawk a hairball up.

“I shall hunt, if we have time to slow. Or on the ride.”

“Will your horse tire? If we must slow…”

Ksmvr was aware horses needed such things. Nsiia laughed and patted the brave mare who tossed her head and actually reared slightly as if she understood everything.

“She rides in the company of the Empress of Beasts! A finer horse you will not find even in Jecrass! And this is a woman who was born for battle and adventure. I will only give her the strength for it!”

“Ah. Enhancement Skills. Very nice.”

Nsiia lost some of her smile. She frowned at Ksmvr.

“You are a bit too practical for my tastes, Ksmvr. Have you no sense of drama?”

“I have attended many plays, thank you.”

Ksmvr carefully topped up his water supplies. He had a lot of water, but he still felt unpleasant, so he drank more. Nsiia saw, and nodded.

“I know how to find wells. We shall stop and perhaps purchase more supplies. It is hard to disguise you, but at a distance with a cloak? It can be done. No doubt we are being scried.”

She snapped her fingers with vexation.

“Femithain gifted me with a ring to hide my presence! A standard thing. But you do not have one, do you?”

“No.”

“Nor does Yinah. Or Domehead. Well, I shall simply have to try to ruin any [Scrying] spells myself. Let me simply…”

She frowned mightily, and Ksmvr felt the air change. He felt his heart beat a bit faster, and Yinah yowled.

“What are you doing?”

“Using my aura to block spells. I dislike it, and it will tire me out. Grr…there.”

She shook herself, as if shedding something on her back. Ksmvr was mightily impressed.

“Auras seem very convenient.”

“They are. I myself trust a blade more than an aura, though. Enough talk. If you have one, perhaps I shall teach you as we run? I do not have the means to unearth it, though. Onwards!”

They headed off. Ksmvr ran, but something began to happen after only twenty six minutes. He began to…slow. Domehead moved up a pace, and Nsiia glanced at him.

“Is something wrong?”

“I do not feel good. This is a distasteful heat.”

“A potion, perhaps…?”

Ksmvr sipped a stamina potion, and felt the jolt of energy, but he still felt bad. He sped up anyways, but Nsiia watched him, frowning.

After only six minutes, Ksmvr went for his water again and drank a lot. Nsiia cautioned him.

“Too much will slow you down.”

Ksmvr splashed some on his body.

“I am not a fool. Do not lecture me, Empress.”

She blinked once. The Antinium had a snappish tone to his voice. After only three more minutes, he slowed further, stumbling.

“Ksmvr! What is wrong?”

“I do not feel good. It is hot.”

The Antinium muttered. He tried to keep moving…then slowed down. Then he fell down and curled up. Nsiia, astonished, leapt from the mare’s back and ran over to him. She put a hand on his shelled back and yanked it away.

“You are burning up!”

Ksmvr was hot to the touch. Not like metal left under the sun, but close. She grabbed her own water flask and poured it on him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hot.”

That was all Ksmvr said. She was watching him shut down in front of her. Why? He had seemed to hydrate and he was a Level 30 [Skirmisher]! What was…?

It was as Nsiia stared at the sweat on her own skin, and at Ksmvr, that she realized what it was.

Perspiration. He wasn’t sweating.

“Ksmvr! You don’t sweat?”

He didn’t respond, but Nsiia realized–bugs didn’t. They didn’t regulate their body’s temperatures, not like other creatures did. They hid in the shade in the heat, under the sand, and when winter came…

Heat and cold. Ksmvr wasn’t moving. Frantically, Nsiia dumped the rest of her flask over him and looked around.

This was not the place for shade. They were entering Tiqr, but a war-ravaged part of Tiqr, and this was one of those places where you travelled in arid conditions from oasis to oasis, which were greatly important. Further towards the capital there was more water, but it was a plague across Chandrar.

Water. Some nations had the Purifier Golem, or had money to buy water, or natural rivers. Or they stole it, like Savere. But nowhere was immune from thirst. And heat?

A shadow passed over her. Nsiia whirled.

“Domehead! Stand here, please! Shield Ksmvr from the sun while I think.”

The Golem instantly blocked the killing sun from covering Ksmvr. Nsiia searched through his gear, frantically. However, neither was a [Mage]…

“We need to cool him down. Ah! He hasn’t any elemental scrolls…very well. Very well.”

She seized the objects he had and improvised to save his life.

—-

Ksmvr was hot. He was too hot. It was pain, not like physical pain, but a bad, terrible suffocation of heat. He couldn’t see or think. It was just there, to be endured, with no relief.

Until it wasn’t. Until he felt something all over him, dripping, swishing, pattering. So much of it that it cooled him down.

Right up until he realized he was drowning.

“I am going to die! Water! Water!”

He flailed his arms wildly. Nsiia backed up, and Yinah stopped bathing in the entirety of Ksmvr’s water rations she was dumping on him. But it had worked. She had given him the perspiration his body lacked, and Ksmvr came to.

“Wh–what happened?”

“You are dying of heatstroke, friend. Domehead, help me. Carefully, carefully…”

Ksmvr tried to move, but it was like someone had hit him with a spell. He felt two massive hands pick him up, and Nsiia fussed around him, bending down, applying something to him.

“What are you doing? I will run…I am a Gold-rank adventurer. I do not fall to heat.”

She patted his shoulder.

“You are in no condition to do either, Ksmvr. Until it turns dark and we can cool you down, you are as weak as a Sariant Lamb, the worthless little things. Rest. Domehead will carry you.”

“But the sun? You have used up my water.”

“Yes. We will manage. A well will present itself. But this…should save you until we get there.”

She pasted more of whatever it was all over Ksmvr. It was mud, he realized. The glop from all the water she’d dumped down. A cooling covering.

“I am embarrassed.”

“Everyone has a flaw, friend. Isn’t it lucky you took me?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Domehead’s crystals whirled as he carefully held Ksmvr, the dangerous Antinium, weak as a lamb in his hands. If the Golem thought…Nsiia put a hand on his arm.

“You see? We two laid you low, Domehead. He, of necessity. I, of cruelty. But we are allies. Protect him, I ask you.”

The Golem did nothing. Nsiia stared up at him, anxiously. Ksmvr, head lolling, indeed unable to move, had an insight.

“You. Domehead.”

The Golem adjusted its posture. Ksmvr whispered.

“You nod when someone asks you for something like this. It is a sign of affirmation, and expected.”

The Golem paused. Then Nsiia saw it try to nod at her. Her eyes went wide. Ksmvr smiled. Nsiia’s head turned to him.

“How did you…?”

“I had to be told too.”

—-

Onwards, and this time with a pressing concern as the trio moved. Nsiia rode ahead, head high, on a swivel. From what the delirious Ksmvr saw, it was not good.

So flat. The horizon turned to wavy lines in the distance. They were passing through a true desert terrain and it seemed to Ksmvr nothing could survive here. That anything did was because they were so small they could survive off the barest hints of moisture–or they had magic in them.

“Sand Worms will be our only true threat, I think. This is not part of Zeikhal in truth; just a place sands reclaimed. Yet there will be wells.”

“Wells. Where does the water come from?”

“From mountains. It runs down. Or groundwater from whenever it rains, deep basins. Or simply…up.”

“That is not how water works.”

“Then you have not seen all wells, friend! And it may seem deserted to you, but any traveller knows there are wells on their journey. I think…if I recall correctly…aha!”

She spotted a well at last, though Ksmvr had no earthly idea how. Experience; Nsiia pointed, and they headed down the barest hint of a road, packed from use compared to the dust around them. The very earth was cracked, but as promised, there was a well.

Just a circle of tightly-packed stones, into which you could hurl a bucket or waterskin and use the rope to draw it up. Nsiia was doing just that.

“Water for your rations, cooling for you. We must travel at night and find a way to remedy your weakness, Ksmvr.”

The mud had baked dry already in the heat. The Antinium was still weak as she applied more water and fed Yinah some. It was not good water, but it was there.

“I did not expect this. I have never been away from Izril.”

“Ah, well…when we reach my people, we sh–”

Nsiia broke off, because there was a scream from above. Then, without warning, a stone struck the earth near them and a shape circled overhead.

“That is my well!”

Ksmvr tried to pull for his blade, but he couldn’t. Domehead moved–but Nsiia held up a hand.

“Domehead, stop! Hey there, well’s guardian! We did not see a sign!”

A Garuda landed, far enough away to be well out of danger, a sling in one hand, a simple spear in the other.

What was this? Ksmvr saw the Garuda eye him, but he must have seemed a ball of mud. Domehead and Nsiia he was far more wary of.

“What’s this? Are you travellers or nobility, to have a Golem bodyguard? What’s that he holds?”

“Private business, friend. I come from Illivere.”

The Garuda grunted. Ksmvr didn’t see his dress, but it must have been light to let him fly around.

“That’s clear. This is my well.”

“And I did not see the sign. Was there a bowl? I would have left the fee if I had seen it. You come to anger too fast, guardian.”

“Hmph. Well, it must have been blown away, though it was secured! The fee is four silver. More, with all the water you’ve taken.”

Nsiia mumbled and Ksmvr, holding still, heard her fish around in her bag of holding.

“It seems a steep price to pay! I have been at this well before, and it was a silver only, and we saw no guardian.”

“Well, I must not have seen you. Times are harder. Tiqr’s fallen, but this is my well. I’ve maintained it for years.”

“Only the one?”

“Psh. What do you care? It’s a pittance to you and it keeps me alive.”

Nsiia nodded agreeably. The Garuda kept frowning at Ksmvr as she tossed the coins down.

“We’ll leave and be on our way, friend. As soon as we draw the rest of the water.”

“Hmph. Do that.”

Ksmvr heard the beat of wings, but he still didn’t move. He heard Nsiia go back to the well, and draw more water. She filled his flasks, then murmured.

“Domehead, he’s circling. Turn slightly.”

The Golem obeyed, shielding Ksmvr. Nsiia was silent as Ksmvr whispered.

“Is that common?”

“Oh yes. Someone must own a well. Someone must make sure it is not befouled. It is a living, and individuals or tribes or cities hold their own. A single Garuda is a threat indeed. Had I no bow, he could strike me with stones with the right Skills, or even harry a group. Even if they were mighty, he could warn others out of maliciousness.”

“I see. A different place indeed. No one does this in Izril.”

“So I am told. They don’t claim rivers?”

Ksmvr shook his head slightly. He felt so miserable. He was beginning to hate Chandrar. It definitely ranked below Izril on his scale of exactly two continents he had now been to. Below Rhir, maybe, even though he had heard Crelers came from there.

“Some do, but not for access. Yvlon tells me that no noble truly tries to claim all of a river. Some do things like toss silver into wells, but that is only tradition.”

“What, to purify the water? Odd traditions, Ksmvr. I should like to visit, nevertheless. Someday…we have the water. Domehead, keep up. Quickly, now.”

Something was wrong. Nsiia set a fast pace, so that Domehead jolted Ksmvr a bit. Did she want to escape the Garuda?

No. As it turned out, she was merely finding the right place. She set herself, on a hill of all things, a natural rise and the only such one, and bade Domehead stop. She waited.

“Why have we stopped, Nsiia?”

“For his friends, of course.”

The Garuda was back. This time Ksmvr raised his head and saw nearly two dozen riders approaching. The Garuda was the only flier of the lot, and shouted as he drew near.

“Surprised?”

“Not at all.”

Nsiia’s voice was steely. The [Bandit], who had disguised himself as a well guardian, hesitated. But Nsiia explained, for Domehead and Ksmvr’s benefit.

“I knew the previous well-guardian. An old man who kept it clean. No one else could claim to have worked here for years. Second? I doubt many Garuda would watch one well. They can fly many miles to watch over each one. Lastly–the price told me you were checking if I could pay it. Of course, since I had a Golem, you decided to kill me anyways. Tiqr has fallen, and already the scum infest the travelways!”

She drew her sword, an unenchanted weapon, but a good steel one with a ringing sound. The [Bandits] stared at her.

“She’s dangerous. That’s a big Golem.”

“Who cares? Kill her and it’ll only chase or guard.”

Bandits. Ksmvr tried to get up, but he was still too weak.

“Nsiia, take my Forceshield and bow. Domehead, put me down.”

The Golem began to obey, but Nsiia shook her head.

“They’ll be on you as a hostage, Ksmvr. Domehead, stay here. Guard Yinah and Ksmvr.”

An angry yowl as the Empress tossed the cat. Domehead hesitated as a furry figure landed on Ksmvr. He began to put Ksmvr down.

Nsiia’s head turned as the [Bandits] began to ride forwards, aiming bows to end this without danger to themselves.

“Domehead. Do you worry for me?”

“It is sensible. He guards you, not me.”

Ksmvr answered for the Golem. A light flashed in Domehead’s head. Thoughtfully, Nsiia looked at it. Then she beamed and smiled. She touched his arm since his shoulder was far too high.

“Ah, then. If I am to teach you anything, let it be war and respite. This is a lesson for war, today. These scum are a threat to small bands, to the innocent. Yet when it comes to battle…”

“They have horses. They have bows and outnumber you.”

Nsiia laughed. She hadn’t even taken his Forceshield.

“A single warrior can scatter fifty times her number! I have seen it done. Watch!”

With that, she kicked her mare into a gallop. Straight at the [Bandits].

At first, they laughed. Fast as she was, she was still far distant and they did have bows, and levels enough. They formed a loose line, joking about who would hit her.

“Don’t kill her! That’s a fine prize!”

One laughed. The Garuda was circling, warily, as the first shots began to range out, bow, crossbow, slings.

Most went wide. It was a single figure, riding on them, sword drawn, galloping. A few were enhanced, though. Nsiia spun her sword, a cavalryman’s sabre, and slashed down an arrow. She turned the mare and avoided a second projectile. On she came.

The [Bandits] frowned. They loosed a second volley. This time, without the benefit of Skills, most went wide again. She was riding at them fast.

“Enough. [Perpendicular Shot]!”

A [Bandit] aimed an arrow wide of Nsiia, but as it flashed past her, it suddenly turned at a ninety-degree angle and shot straight at her.

She leaned out of the saddle. Now, the [Bandits] were turning.

“Break up! Break up and surround her!”

They still hadn’t even met. Ksmvr, watching, saw Nsiia riding at the [Bandits] as they began to realize something. She was literally cutting arrows out of the air, and her speed…she could run down any single one of them on horseback.

Not a problem if they killed her, of course. But what if she killed them? Now, the woman was riding faster. She swung her sword, and he heard a shout.

“As I am sovereign of these lands, you shall all die! Know me! I am Nsiia of Tiqr! Nsiia Oliphant! [Empress of Beasts]!”

Silence. Then a shout of horror. The Garuda turned, and Nsiia whirled. She brought up the shortbow she had taken from Ksmvr, aimed, and loosed.

A figure dropped out of the skies. The [Bandits] watched their leader fall, and wavered. She rode at twenty, and their nerve broke. They began to scatter. One, seeing her come at him, turned, and raised his own blade.

Nsiia swept past him as her sword flashed. [Elephant’s Strength]. [Cat’s Grace]. She had fought on battlefields against armies.

She ran them down, one after another, catching them and dispensing a quick justice. Ksmvr watched her check the bodies with distaste, whistling to the mounts. They trotted over and joined her as she returned.

“That is impressive.”

“They weren’t worth the effort. Nor will they trouble this well. I won’t waste time on money or arms. But here. We have a solution, of sorts.”

She helped Domehead put Ksmvr down. The Antinium could stand, but he was mostly embarrassed by his weakness.

“I will be able to run by nightfall, Nsiia.”

“We have no time for that, Ksmvr. You will ride. Here. With a pole, and some cloth, we can make an umbrella of sorts. Use it to cover yourself and we will make sure you stay cool.”

“Ride?”

Ksmvr brightened up a bit. Nsiia smiled.

“Aye. As for your mount, this lot treated theirs poorly. Hey, four-legged kin? Do you know me?”

The mounts clustered around her, for petting, and Ksmvr saw Nsiia laugh, check their injuries, run her hands across a few, and murmur a Skill.

“I’m sorry. I have no ability to keep you all, and I do not know how far we will go. Let me cut your saddles off. Roam free! Tiqr will return.”

The Empress of Beasts blessed them, and most began to gallop off. But she held one back.

“You are the finest fellow of the lot. And a good mount for Ksmvr, I think.”

The Antinium saw an animal come over. He brightened up and raised his three petting hands. And…stopped.

“What is this?”

A giant, humped, tan…thing was staring at him with a very odd face. It bared yellowed teeth and Ksmvr backed up. Nsiia eyed him.

“Never seen a camel before, have you? He’s fine, for all they worked him ragged. And a better match for some of the places we might go. He’ll not want for water, either. They store it well.”

Ksmvr stared at the camel. He did not know if he liked this creature, and it did not know if it liked him, for all the camel clearly adored Nsiia.

“I…I will ride it, then. Hello, camel. I am Ksmvr. Pat, pat, p–”

He got to the third pat on the nose when the camel bared its teeth and spat on him. Saliva dripped from Ksmvr’s face. Nsiia started laughing.

“Hah! Now here’s spirit! You shall need a name, just like Chance.”

She patted the mare’s flank. She regarded the camel.

“Spitty.”

“I will not ride this thing. Domehead can carry me.”

“Oh, no. You must ride Spitty, Ksmvr.”

The Empress of Beasts had a twinkle in her eyes. Ksmvr stared at Spitty. He found himself riding the humpy, lumpy camel as it followed Nsiia, a little tent of cloth over his head to protect him from the sun’s glare.

He hated Spitty. Off the two rode, seeking Nsiia’s army. To challenge the greatest slaver-nation in the entire world for a comrade, a friend, a teammate.

—-

Such terrible wars. Why did they have to keep fighting them? The answer was that, sometimes, history told that conflicts arose due to need, hostilities between similar peoples over finite resources or belief. Yet it did not have to be this way.

War created advancement. War also caused death and suffering on vast scales. War…was not necessary.

Why did we fight, then? Every officer like Paethex learned of previous wars and why they had ended. How peace could reign.

Conflict was not endemic to the mortal condition. At one point, entire civilizations and peoples had stopped fighting and agreed that there was no zero-sum equation. Everyone could live on an elevated level, rather than claw and fight each other to the top.

It may seem small. Perhaps it was. Yet they had done it for a hundred and eight years. A hundred and eight years of peace, out of war that each species had lived through. Complete, thorough, alliance-wide.

Then, like all stories that told such things, came Oelt-Vaar. A foreign empire who considered that peace was an option. But not a necessary one.

“Commander. Eighty six and counting. More flashing in.”

Commander Paethex was, of course, a translation. As close as she’d been able to approximate it for the stranger who called herself Ryoka Griffin, the Wind Runner of Reizmelt. ‘Commander’ was a translation, too, but a good one. Real-time translation was nothing to even blink at, of course.

Eight digits paused on a control panel. She could see it too. In response, the air around her changed as a primordial fight-or-flight response released a faint wave of pheromones. She was glad the air filters kept it from reaching the rest of her crew. Yet each one reacted in their own way against such odds.

They would never use them unless something went really wrong, but some checked sidearms, adjusted their own suits, rated for hard vacuum as well as combat with anything below a Threat Rating of 16…and about as useless as spit against certain foes.

Same with Thiv-stablight carbines, which could blow chunks out of mere metal and simple-alloy vehicles on their lowest-diffusion settings, and Hetshal-knives. Well, ‘knives’. She hoped that a certain Human knew how to calibrate hers. They’d had to literally write the instructions in minutes.

Words were stupid if you didn’t have an automatic translator. Again, ‘see’ was a foolish concept. It was impossible to truly see the vast distances involved, let alone at the speeds each vessel was moving. The view she had was just that; a projected view to allow her to analyze on a visual level. Destroy or hinder the programs running the analysis and they’d have to rely on only sensors.

And they needed to see. Paethex’s head turned.

“Do we have any friendly contacts?”

“Scattered, Commander.”

“Three full Victory Companies, wiped out. Commander–they’re not even bothering with hails.”

“I thought not. They must have heard of us. Maneuver. Put out a wide-ranged hail, no encryption. This is Commander Paethex of the Victory Company Delsa. Do not reinforce. Repeat, stay clear.”

Even in this day and age, there was something so ludicrous about their statement that no one answered. Eighty six plus vessels of the Oelt-Vaar empire were closing, an entire war fleet. They had destroyed entire Victory Companies of ships.

Spaceships. That was another bad name, but it was what she’d used, hadn’t she? Human. Paethex thought about it as she watched them traverse the incomprehensible distance.

“We are suffering long-ranged shots…diversionary fields holding. Deploying Aerem fields, Commander. Should we try to counter?”

“No.”

They were already being hit. Paethex felt no rumble or other effects on the ship–and she had felt the hard rumble of weapons so powerful that even diffusing them distorted the entire ship. However, the enemy was firing even from outside the technical solar system limits with no clear effect.

Of course they were. If you could engineer a vessel capable of travelling from star to star, then weapons could be even better. Near-instantaneous ‘beams’ were striking them, but only a pattern-spray. Neither she nor whomever was leading the enemy fleet really expected any damage.

There were ways to deflect, neutralize, or dodge any kind of weapon. Both empires had armed their ships like a dance of move and countermove. If you trumped the enemy in one area, you could reliably take them to pieces until they adapted.

In practice, it came down to more of a battering match, and here strategy actually mattered. Paethex’s eyes narrowed. Her fingers did not tighten on the controls, but danced faster. Accordingly, her lower limbs moved. When trouble came, her people infamously did not stand and fight. They moved and she itched to race like her ship, now speeding and pushing its engines to the max.

Oelt-Vaar’s warships were larger, far more well-armored, and each had Aerem fields. They’d taken apart the alliance’s fleets in a systematic, crushing advance due to the simple scale of advancement. Attempts had been made to equalize the gap, but the difference was that of prototypes not manufactured en-masse against a standing army also developing and upgrading.

Somewhere, out there, the enemy intelligence was laughing at the single ship on attack. Flagship or not, a single Victory Company cruiser couldn’t even expect to survive five seconds. Why was it here? Anyone who read Paethex’s call would be surprised.

They were supposed to be on a wild goose chase, lightyears upon lightyears away. If anything was concerning, it was the sudden line of victories and silenced operations among Oelt-Vaar’s ships. That was why all eighty six ships calmly entered the Aerem fields.

Aerem fields. She’d tried to explain it to Ryoka. If you could move at the speed of light–and they could, when they had to go slower–fighting other ships in space was stupid. You were all moving in a different time, and if you fired anything slower, it would be literal years before the enemy even noticed it missed.

Hence, Aerem fields. A way to create a battleground that demanded a nod to maneuverability, more conventional weapons like the charged weapons now tracking her vessel.

She should have been taking Worldpact into an evasionary maneuver. That was the one thing her people’s ships had on them. She did not.

“Incoming–”

Eighty six ships fired, with slower weaponry, but ones that didn’t diffuse against simple diffraction-shields. A calculated firestorm, on all possible vectors.

It looked like the inside of a star, in every color. A deadly lightshow.

Worldpact, rechristened in its new name, had seconds before they impacted in the Aerem field. Paethex felt a lurch, a sense of inevitable death, even now. However–

Of the many differences they shared, like the first contacts with other species in the alliance, Commander Paethex had been surprised, gratified, to learn that the most basic trick in interstellar diplomacy worked. The Human was different, but they shared commonalities in biology and culture.

Both of them did smile. In their own way.

—-

Worldpact emerged from the storm of energy, unscathed. At this point, the literal intelligence commanding Oelt-Vaar was stunned into eight processes of sheer computing.

“Its shields have not been downed?”

It demanded to the crew, re-checking the sensors. What trick was this?

We supplied/projected in excess of 341.8% of what shields could/should be capable of, even with all auxiliary power supplied.

Yet Worldpact flew on. Either this was some kind of trick that had fooled all sensors–and they had hit it and it was giving off every sign it existed–or it had some kind of energy source beyond belief.

The second. The intelligence finally saw a reading that made it stop. Five sensors on its vessel actually overloaded as a panicked call went through the fleet.

“Unknown energy reading beyond scale. Evasive maneuvers requested.”

All this in fractions of a second. The intelligence hesitated, and fear enveloped some emotional core. Was this the reason behind the sudden wave of silence? It had been speculated that a single force could have overwhelmed nearly eight different war sectors, but it would have had to literally engage in minute-long battles before entering transit. However–

“Evade. Redeploy projectiles, mark–”

This time, the second volley lit up the field like…well, enough energy to atomize significant parts of a smaller celestial body.

And still, Worldpact accelerated. Straight towards the enemy lead cruiser. It was somehow maxing out its engines and shields. How? And that energy–why hadn’t it fired any weapons? What new ship was this?

The intelligence saw they were coming in for a ram. A tactic so old and futile compared to the many available moves you could make it beggared belief. Did they trust to their boarding party’s superiority? Why–

And then, for a second, it saw what Worldpact was carrying. A strange object, suspended in front of the other ship, contained by simple gravitational fields.

Archaic. It had to open up an actual history file. What a ludicrous thing. It projected towards the Oelt-Vaar’s vessel as Worldpact spun just past it.

–And broke through every single barrier. The intelligence saw the projected energy fields dissipate. Backup shields just blinked off and generators suddenly vented energy meant to be going into said fields. An explosion rang through a section of the ship. Then one of the menials fired a desperate message through the command structure.

“Hull br–”

—-

Of course, nothing else was said after that, or ever again. It was just a nick through armor, but when atmosphere breached at that speed, in a void, with no backup systems or countermeasures?

It was a bad way to go, sucked out a tiny gap–Paethex was glad the monitors didn’t show that. She felt the forces of their acceleration in this self-contained physics-boundary, the Aerem field. She’d ordered the engineers to disable all safety limits.

If their shields went down, they’d suffer a fate analogous to the doomed vessel currently trying to tear itself apart. But their shields would not go down. Not with a power source like this. She turned her head as one of her officers breathed a comment, an oxygen-rich expletive, filtered away quickly.

“Ship destroyed. Targeting next.”

Worldpact shot forwards. Paethex didn’t hear the wild cheering this time, but there was still that sense of incredulity. Eighty six vessels–eighty five now, began to break away, stunned, as a predator ate through their formations. How was this happening? Some incredible energy source was attached to Worldpact, and whenever it struck…

“Commander, we have a surrender hail.”

The captain’s gaze flickered. Her digits rested cautiously on the controls, taking them out of another deadly dive, leaving multiple ships behind.

“Surrender? They’ve never surrendered once before. They must be aware of the previous defeats.”

“We can take the rest out before they leave the field…”

“No. We’re still under the rules of engagement. Order them to vent their koil-reserves. If we have to, we’ll make them literally remove their emplaced arms. Signal what remains of the Victory Companies; we’ll need them for disarmament.”

This time they’d be staying for a while, rather than shooting to the next front. Paethex was almost glad of it.

“Rotate the bridge crew.”

“We’re functional for another two cycles, commander.”

She nodded.

“I don’t doubt it, but save your mental actuators, officers. It may be we’ll be fighting for dozens of cycles without rest. I will address the Victory Company’s commander and download our report in brief. Prepare the public files.”

“Done. The full report is going to be the longest piece ever written in stellar history, Commander. Good luck to you.”

One of her officers, who had been on the mission that would go down in history, saluted wryly. Paethex shuddered.

“I’ll write it once the war ends. And it is my solemn promise that Worldpact will not stop fighting until the very last battle.”

Amusement ran through the group, translated as laughter by their personal communication devices. Now that the battle-alert was taken off, seals on helmets were released. Some of the non-tacticals, the bridge crew not familiar with close-combat deployment, took off their helmets at this point.

Paethex and the squad who’d survived the lands of the fae did not. In fact, it was her promoted second, Reiy-Tosiy, who checked his side.

Of course, he’d been reissued with the same standard weapon. Hetshal-knives were literally the most common denominator across alliance-ships. A standard, mass-produced weapon issued to any tacticals; they weren’t seen as needed by space crew who would fight from range, if at all.

Not cheap; it was one thing Oelt-Vaar lacked, preferring single piece, machined weapons with mechanical functionality, as opposed to the far more technologically advanced Hetshal-knives. Even so, Oelt-Vaar’s weapons would have done better than their knives where they’d gone.

And yet. Reiy-Tosiy turned to Paethex.

“Seems like a bad trade, eh, commander?”

She knew what he meant. It felt like that was what they’d done. Traded a knife for…the weapon. The alien captain nodded.

“We left that child-thing with enough of its metal to coat a small moon. Not to mention all the other minerals it wanted. And five strike ships.”

“Still. Do you think that…Ryoka…knows how the weapon works?”

If they’d had an hour, they could have cycled her through a combat tutorial. Reiy-Tosiy had talked about her more than the rest–and they’d had entire mission briefings on their brief encounter and speculation of all they’d learned, recordings, such as they were, and more. He carefully configured the Hetshal-knife into a different combat setting.

“We gave her the best instructions we could.”

They’d even resorted to drawing pictures in their desperate attempts to translate. With a day of running her linguistics in their cycles or just a bit of writing samples…Reiy nodded.

“Next time I’ll offer her my combat armor. And weapon systems. If we ever return.”

“If we return, I will personally authorize you a strike ship to trade. Her name will be written. And…if we manage to end this and find a way back, we’ll bring back something nicer instead of a knife.”

Reiy made an affirmative gesture. The crew all signed affirmative, some copying the head-bob the Human did as a joke. Paethex did not. That gesture hurt. But every one of them looked out the viewport at the weapon hanging in space, scaring Oelt-Vaar to pieces. Salvation–a war-changing device.

Paethex turned. She knew that, from afar, Oelt-Vaar probably read it as a signature that would literally destroy their sensors. Or saw it as a strange object from their antiquated past. She saw both things too, but even now…

Even now, sometimes, as she stared at it in the viewport, it still looked like a damn stick.

—-

They asked for volunteers. Volunteers, willing to risk their lives. Six, to fly to the Forgotten Wing Company.

Four, to follow the Giant.

Sentry Leader Ekrn himself had debated taking one role or the other, but he was now one of the most senior Tallguards of Feiland. So he delegated Noa and three others to the job. To his dismay, the Architects insisted on sending a civilian, a capable [Alchemist]-[Mage], with Luan.

“He may need clarification or improvisation and we cannot send [Messages], Sentry Leader. This is a dangerous mission and Alchimagus Resk is aware of the risks.”

Guidance had been firm. Ekrn couldn’t really object. This was not a time to fight.

Paeth on the Coast, the tree-civilization, had just had an influx of hundreds of thousands of refugees from their home. This was beyond a crisis. Ekrn was prepared for an army of Tallfolk to appear. Worse–they’d already destroyed one Fraerling settlement, and a larger one than Paeth.

Feiland’s best Tallguard had died to evacuate the city. So, yes. This was not the time to argue about one brave Fraerling risking their life.

“We need food. We need everything on the list. Whatever you can get–we need it.”

Luan nodded. The Human was one of few Ekrn had ever met, but the Fraerling wished he didn’t trust him so much. He had to, but Luan was almost too easy to ask for help.

He had a huge secret of his own, though. And Paeth was desperate.

Not, importantly, rife with famine from the sudden influx. Or overcrowded. Or even in danger from the predators who’d followed the Fraerling army.

Said predators were currently being harvested and Paeth had literally vaporized half of them. Even without that extra meat, though, they didn’t need to worry about shelter or food in the same way Luan had feared, like creating a refugee camp outside the tree.

“Prepare for magical injection! Pellets planted?”

“All set. Where’s our [Druid]?”

“Ready to pervert nature!”

A Fraerling dressed without metal or the more machined fabrics strode down one of the vast, magical growing rooms. The overseer, none other than Ilekrome himself, was observing the emergency food production.

Pellets of pre-prepared alchemical design had been inserted into beds of similarly enriched soil. It was no more than a simple ‘container’ of energy. After all, food, or at least, plants, were just different kinds of life. Less complex in some ways than a person, but you could use spells on plants.

Not create food wholesale; cornucopia had that ‘magic food’ problem. However…what if you were able to inject bare seeds with everything they needed to grow? Food, water, a substitute for light…it would grow. That was what [Farmers] knew. The only problem was time.

There was an equation someone had worked out about how much magic went into time. Ilekrome would look it up later. For now, he watched as earth-attuned magicore was dumped out, filling the area with magical radiation. The [Druid] activated his Skills, and the growing team stepped back.

The first buds of life shot out of the soil less than a minute later. And that was from frozen seeds. There was applause, but the [Farmers] were already activating their Skills for bountiful, quick harvests.

“Excellent work, everyone. Let’s fill eight silos within the week and I’ll personally throw you a celebration when this is over.”

Ilekrome went around, shaking hands. The Fraerlings nodded, turning serious.

This was all possible, of course. They’d done experiments with this in the past, neatly catalogued the method, and put it in the files until they needed it.

The reason why Paeth didn’t do this all the time was that magically-grown food tasted worse than the natural stuff–too magic-y.

More importantly, it played hell with your Allotment, the magical limit to what Paeth could disguise.

In this moment? Ilekrome strode out of the greenhouses and saw a [Geomancer] raising a wall of stone out of raw material. Forming emergency housing–Fraerlings were hefting huge objects, enhanced by strength spells. Some were literally levitating around–the supervisors and anyone with a justification.

Damn the Allotment. Paeth was like a lighthouse of magic. They’d fear a Tallfolk [Mage] would spot it, or the more serious kinds of monster, in any other time. A Hydra was not what you wanted to come looking for a bite to eat, Paeth’s defensive spells or not.

However, this was a time of crisis. So Paeth flurried about. But they were relying on Luan.

—-

“Why do you need some of the ingredients on this list so badly?”

Luan was marching through the jungle. He’d seen some of Paeth’s incredible abilities. Defensive spells, food grown overnight…Noa clung to one shoulder, and two Tallguard [Rangers] kept watch on the other shoulder. One, like Noa, was equipped for close-combat. The other, like Alchimagus Resk, was magic-oriented.

It was Resk who explained. He wasn’t nearly as old as Luan had expected. Barely forty, since he needed to be in good shape for the dangers of the outside world. Still, he was apparently Level 32 in [Alchemist].

And Level 35 in his [Mage] class.

“We need raw magic to keep Paeth energized, Luan. We have a surplus stored; if we need to activate all of our enchantments, we need more. However. Even more critical is raw magicore, Culthen clay, Sompter vine…anything that can neutralize Paeth’s magical aura.”

“To keep you hidden. But if whoever attacked the other city knows you’re here…”

“They may only have a rough estimate. Either way, Paeth must survive, Luan. Magical supplies, food…preparations for war. If you could get even a single cube of adamantium, or unprocessed ore…”

Luan really doubted he could do that, but he nodded.

“We’ll try Mithril. I’ve seen it on the markets.”

“That will do. Mithril, iron.”

They didn’t even need that much. The Fraerlings had submitted a wish list of every possible resource they could use, and told Luan they’d maxed out the numbers. They’d worried about the cost and how much he could get back to them soon.

…He’d looked at ‘twenty pounds of iron’ and thought he could do that. Even without a chest of holding, or a crappy bag of holding. Hell, he could probably carry it.

“You sure you don’t want steel?”

The Giant was carrying his new, Fraerling-enhanced scull towards the water. He was anxious, worried for Paeth, but relieved he was going to Talenqual.

The United Nations company. Daly, Ken–everyone must think I’m dead. He would need to keep Paeth’s secret, but he’d tell them what he could. However, Paeth’s desire for absolute secrecy was out the window.

Someone was razing Fraerling settlements. They were supposed to be under the Titan’s protection, even though they weren’t directly allied.

This was bad. But Luan had to admit, as he approached the piranha and crocodile-infested waters from the beach, he was still excited to see what the scull did. Fraerling-magic was on a level beyond anything you could find short of Wistram. And they’d worked hard on his scull.

Hell, the hand-crossbow by his side was so dangerous Luan was afraid to touch it. Automatically reloading, capable of firing a wooden bolt through a significant amount of a tree…he hesitated on the edge of the water.

“If a damn crocodile comes out of the water, we’re going to be in trouble.”

Resk gulped, but the Tallguard nodded.

“Just get out of the inlet as fast as you can, Human Luan. We’ll cover you. Remember–aim for the eyes. Conserve your magical ammunition. No telling what we’ll run into.”

They spoke like they were headed into Rhir itself, not Talenqual, a fairly nice city. Luan just eyed the lazy surf. Resk chattered, casting a protective spell as he anchored himself to Luan’s shoulders. Some kind of localized gravity spell on his boots that let him walk up and down Luan’s body without the need to fear falling off.

It felt like someone had heavy magnets and he was made of metal. Luan made sure not to roll his shoulders or rub his head against Resk and crush the Fraerling to death.

“No steel, Luan. It’s appreciated, but we’ve seen the quality your people come out with. Just porous. Terrible grain. We’ll take iron and refine it; it’s not hard. Now, Dwarfsteel would be excellent…”

Luan set down the scull, which was virtually weightless, and got into it. He’d push into the water; he didn’t like how quiet it was.

“We’re moving fast. Everyone ready? Anchored?”

“Grappling in place. Do what you’re going to do, Mister Luan.”

Noa’s eyes were shining with excitement. The other three Fraerlings braced as Luan put his new paddle to the sand. He gently pushed into the water.

Amazing. It was so easy to push himself forwards! Even the top-of-the-line sculls back home weren’t this lightweight. This weighed practically nothing, enchanted by magic. They had engineered it to cut through the water, the paddle to push more water than it should…

Luan glided out into the surf, but didn’t feel it trying to rock the tiny vessel. He grinned.

“This is amazing. This is–”

“Watch out!”

A Tallguard loosed an arrow as the water exploded and a Giant Crocodile came out, huge jaws open. Luan shouted.

“You bastard!”

A little explosion blew a tooth out of the mouth as one arrow hit it, but Luan didn’t try to hit the croc. He just put the paddle into the water, and pushed.

The crocodile snapped its jaws shut, thrashing, biting…water. It turned left and right, huge eyes confused. What? Where had…

The scull skipped. It actually left the water for a second. Luan, the Fraerlings, Noa, all had that open-mouthed, bug-eyed expression. Then they started screaming.

“Aaaaa–”

Luan hit the water and made the mistake of trying to correct himself with another full-force stroke; he thought they were about to roll. Instead, the scull auto-balanced and his second push with the oar?

Luan Khumalo. Olympian-class [Athlete], [Expert Rower], with multiple Skills already enhancing the best technique in sculling in either world. [Lesser Strength], [Power Strokes].

Scull. Nearly zero-gravity, enhanced with water resistance, balance, and durability.

Oar. Also lightweight, extremely reinforced to take on the main enchantment, which was to generate an approximately quadruple-sized ‘presence’ in the water with each stroke, to magnify the amount of water Luan could displace, and thus generate acceleration in–

A passing seagull did a double-take as a screaming man and four tiny people flew past it. It banked, swerving away. Now the apes were flying? The sky was just going downhill, it really was. Who would they allow up here next? Dogs?

Luan actually capsized his scull. Like some kind of complete rookie, he felt the water engulf him, began to roll–right before a force twisted him around and sent him whirling back upright.

Drenched, water in his ears, nose, the Human spat out seawater.

“Noa! Resk! Are you…”

Four soaked Fraerlings were still clinging to his shoulders. They stared at Luan as the boat auto-rolled him back upright. Everyone was silent as the scull serenely glided forwards, like it was on a flat lake, not the actual waves near the coast.

“I thought you said you were good at this paddling thing.”

Resk muttered after a moment of silence. Luan didn’t even correct him. He slowly, gingerly put his paddle into the water.

“No one told me this thing auto-corrects itself. This…this might be overengineered.”

“I’m going to complain when I get back.”

One of the Tallguard agreed. Gingerly, Luan pushed and the scull shot forwards. Noa gasped.

“It’s so fast!”

“Too fast! I’m about to launch us with every stroke!”

Luan agreed. He was actually way too strong and the scull was like a wild animal, threatening to shoot out of the water if he put any strength into it. Nevertheless–a wild grin was on his face. He began to adjust, pushing lightly, and the scull shot forwards. Luan thought he passed an imaginary Luan in his head. The other man took one look at the Luan in his enchanted boat, shooting past him as he labored with all his best Skills working.

This is amazing. Wild, in need of adjustment, but–Luan caught himself as he laughed.

“Think we can install a cabin or something?”

Resk was muttering as he surveyed the scull for a place to sit besides Luan’s shoulders. Maybe they could? The only other place was in the waterskirt, but he really didn’t want to sit in a confined space next to Luan’s groin. He settled for another anchoring spell.

Yet the Giant was laughing. He cast about, and then recalled he’d lost a lot of his gear.

“Noa, can you get out your compass and your map? We need to head south, along the coast.”

The Fraerlings did have a good map of the region. Luan turned, and began to shoot into deeper waters.

“First stop! Talenqual!”

He smiled, then tried to temper the joy in his heart as he recalled Paeth’s plight. His friends.

They had work to do. Even so, he felt that indescribable sense of adventure in his heart. Magic. This was what he’d wanted, the moment he appeared.

—-

There was a joy to magic. Yes, like all things, if you made it your profession, if you took it in the context of politics and work, it lost its charm.

Yet it was still magic. Point at something, cast a spell, and you could levitate an object, or shoot fire from your palms or…

The problem was how hard it was to memorize, redeploy the magic in exactly the right way, and strain. One component of magic as [Mages] did it was to have absolute focus in your mind, like holding an entire calculus equation and understanding it while recreating it.

So no wonder the Earthers who came to Wistram couldn’t get into it as fast as they wanted. No ‘swish and flick’ for them.

“Well, you can do that. Sort of. If you’re a [Wizard], you can rely on enchanted gear. That makes sense, doesn’t it? It’s just not [Mage]-magic.”

“In that case, I want to be a fucking [Wizard], Harry. Not a [Mage]. How about a [Sorcerer]?”

“Uh…they’ll laugh at you. And it’s just as hard. Only, instead of knowing spells, you just think so hard–”

“Gaaaaah!”

Flynn tossed the spellbook to one side and buried his face in his hands. Instantly, Pokey, the Needlehound, nosed up to him and licked his arm. He gently petted her on the head as Elena rubbed at her face.

“It’s really unpleasant, Aaron. My head feels like it’s going to explode. How does Troy do it?”

Aaron Vanwell, or Blackmage, shrugged. He was a bit envious of Troy, to be honest.

“Someone taught him really well. He said he also saw combat, so I think he has, y’know, perspective?”

“I’ve seen combat. I still can’t ‘hold the magic’ in my head. What if I got a wand and just cast magic like that?”

“You can do that. But someone’s got to charge it up.”

“That’s what I’ll do. Sorry, I need to take a walk.”

Aaron nodded, biting back any comment as Flynn got up. George, Elena, Saif, Basil, Sang-min, Caroline, and more were part of the study group.

A lot of the Earthers had quit, though, and Aaron feared that Flynn would too. He wished Troy were here to give some advice, but he was studying at a higher level than the rest.

And to be fair, Aaron was high-level and had been here the longest. He even had tips and knowledge that all [Mages] except maybe Eldavin lacked. It was just that you still had to work hard, and not everyone was cut out for it.

“How about we all take a break and play in the adventure rooms? Or have a beach party? I’ve got a new drinks-mix from one of the [Mages].”

George suggested hopefully. Aaron bit his lip. Elena answered for him.

“If we keep taking breaks, no one’s going to level, George. You’re free to go, but this isn’t a school project or homework. It’s a class.”

Chastened, he flushed, and the [Beautician] rubbed at her temples.

“Okay, Aaron. Let’s go over [Firefly] again.”

In truth, the magic study sessions were really for those who hadn’t found their place yet. Some came to learn magic, but they already had a class. Already knew who they were, in a way. Flynn was a Bronze-rank [Beast Tamer]. Elena was a [Beautician] and she spent as much time with Sa’la as chivvying the other Earthers.

Malia, for instance, didn’t even attend the magical lessons. She was a [Thought Healer] and made it her duty to make sure Basil, Sidney, and the others were alright. They were doing a lot better now, thanks to Telim’s help.

And then there were the Earthers who didn’t just live, but thrive. Leon was the newest arrival, and he was a bit aghast when Erik, the [Actor] and ‘member’ of the Aquais faction of Wistram, handed out flyers.

“We’re putting on Elisial tonight. Anyone want to come?”

“Is there free food?”

Erik grinned.

“You show me a play without some. Don’t worry. There are silence spells and special effects.”

“You uh, know Elisial? I know the Players of Celum put it on…”

Leon murmured. Aaron glanced at him and Elena’s lips pursed, but Erik just nodded.

“We got a copy of their script.”

Some of Leon’s newfound popularity had diminished, as had his bold claims, after meeting with the Silver Swords, but he still had the amazing connections to so many things. Aaron knew he wasn’t all that. Elena, for instance, had met Cara O’Sullivan, the Singer of Terandria. She hadn’t seen all of what Cara had been through–but oh, she could tell he hadn’t been as central to some of his stories as he claimed.

She didn’t out him. The others dithered over the play; there was a lot to do in Wistram, but one young woman announced she couldn’t make it.

“I’m sorry, but I have to get back to work! I’m trying to come out with a new piece for this month’s magazine, and I just have to write The [Cook] and the Centaur. Leon, tell me more about Imani.”

Caroline, the lone [Writer] of their group, and survivor of Baleros, looked at Leon and he hesitated.

“Alright, then. But um. Is it going to be another…romance?”

“It’s fiction. Don’t worry, I’ll change her name!”

‘Heartslayi’ smiled as ‘Blackmage’ gave her a long look. She had come to them completely by chance. She’d actually been abducted in Baleros’ jungles, but before she was sold off, a Wistram [Mage] had found her and immediately taken her to Wistram.

She had stories aplenty, but had been cagey about other Earthers, on Elena’s immediate advice. Nevertheless, Caroline was a success story. Her romance stories, that was.

…Aaron was not sure what to think about that. He’d read her latest…piece. Which involved a love story between the Horns of Hammerad who had perished in the Village of the Dead.

Privately, he thought it was in bad taste, but Caroline already had a fan base. And even rivals.

“Are you still getting letters from Sandquen?”

“Every week. I don’t know who she is, but she keeps writing insults about my stories. It’s just like home, you know? Only slower since there’s no internet. Do you think we could get someone to help me trace who it is? She’s really getting on my nerves, but she’s not getting published, is she?”

Caroline scoffed at her unknown rival. It was as they were breaking up, heading to their respective places, that someone accosted Aaron and Saif.

A half-Elf with white hair. Not Feor. A huge, built [Grand Mage], who Aaron had been warned to stay away from by his…own mentor. Nevertheless, Grand Magus Eldavin had shot to the top of Wistram’s hierarchy, so he was allowed even in the new Earth-corridors arranged for them.

By request, Elena had petitioned for that. The factions could demand an Earther be ‘theirs’, but the Earthers wanted to stick together and it kept them from leaking secrets to the general body.

So they now had their zone, with the exception of a few people like Troy who were active students. It was like dorm life in college, complete with quarrels, drama…

But they were also part of Wistram. So Eldavin halted.

“Aaron Vanwell. I have need of you. Teura, which one is ‘Saif’?”

“Right there, Grand Magus.”

Saif gulped as the half-Elf glanced at him with his mismatched eyes.

“Ah, excellent. Young Saif, with me, please. And you Aaron. We’ll head to your rooms. Saif, fetch this ‘gun’ I’ve heard so much about.”

Elena’s head shot up as Eldavin led the way. Aaron blinked.

“Grand Magus? You wanted me?”

The half-Elf nodded, striding along, with his personal entourage of devoted [Mages]. Teura had jumped ship so fast she’d left the boat rocking. She hung on Eldavin’s words, and she wasn’t the only one.

Even Telim and Sa’la were part of the new Terras faction. Even Valeterisa. Eldavin was speaking.

“It’s past time. I’ve been occupied getting ahold of Wistram. Now? Action. Is the announcement about the boycott…?”

“Already done, Grand Magus. Fissival is already protesting.”

“Excellent. Let them. Inform the Meeting of Tribes that we–I–would personally like to assure them that if they would like to rectify our long-standing differences, we would be delighted to host no less than two hundred Gnoll students capable of arcane magic with the next semester. Assuming any of them have any magic. We might have to make [Wizards] of the lot.”

“You think they might not have the aptitude?”

“From magical suppression that extensive? It might have literally crippled their natural development. However, the announcement…”

Aaron trailed in Eldavin’s wake, like he was following a hurricane. Here was a force to be reckoned with. Yet why did Emerrhain dislike him so? He refused to tell Aaron why in their…lessons. Only that Eldavin was a complication.

To whose plans? Moreover, Emerrhain himself…

No one had ever really talked about the message sent on all the iPhones on the Summer Solstice. Sometimes Elena would stare at Aaron, but he had denied doing it. Most of the others thought it was a joke or…

Some had begun praying again. To their respective religions. In private. Aaron couldn’t talk about anything he knew, anyways. He could only help the others. If he wanted to, Emerrhain had promised he could actually get Elena off Wistram. Did Aaron want that? He felt things were actually going well. Better to be a prisoner, yet growing in ability in the safety of Wistram, than faced with some of the horrors Leon had talked about.

However, things changed so fast. Eldavin opened the door to Aaron’s room without asking. Aaron would have protested, but nothing…special…was in there.

“Grand Magus Eldavin. What are you doing in Aaron’s room?”

Eldavin turned at Elena’s sharp voice. He gave her a slight nod.

“Miss Elena. Excuse the intrusion, but I am in a hurry. Moreover, young Vanwell did mention this before…ah, there it is. Is this gun-object there too? To the battle rooms or whatever nonsense you call it.”

He turned. And he had…Aaron’s heart skipped a beat. Elena started.

The Iron Man glove.

That was what everyone called it. It could actually shoot lightning, but it had to be hooked up to a bulky magicore battery. Eldavin eyed the creation of Aaron, Archmage Naili, and to some degree, Emerrhain, with distaste.

“I see what’s been done, now. Yes, yes. A decent reinforcement spell, non-conductivity and electrical resistance, obviously, and a simple link to a [Shock Volt] spell from the magicore battery. Activate in a number of ways. How…simple. Yet I’m told it echoes some element from Earth?”

“Er…er…stories, Grand Magus. It doesn’t exist yet, but it’s one of the uh, superhero stories.”

“Ah, yes. Theoretical. But this is a version of a weapon from your world? It fires pellets, though, not metal?”

Saif had the airsoft gun that had perplexed and intimidated the [Mages] on the wrong end of it. The pellets that the [Mages] had made for it gave it more ammunition, and indeed, they had found out how to maintain it.

Just not replicate. Eldavin stared at the object with clear distaste.

“I’d like to see it in action. Teura, would you do me the favor of…?”

She was already stepping into the battle room, and let Saif do his demonstration with his Boots of Speed, tricks, zipping out of cover, firing, repositioning…

Eldavin watched as he summoned more of his apprentices. A young [Bard] had some armor–plain steel, unenchanted, unlike the painted gauntlet Aaron had worked so hard on. He had a bad feeling about what was coming next.

“I see. So Earth’s amazing tactics, which so befuddled our best battle mages, is a simple upgrade of a crossbow and the ability to use cover and move around. The age of Wistram’s name being feared on every war front is clearly long gone. No wonder that Magus Grimalkin told me he had a kill count of over three dozen.”

Eldavin looked disgusted. Not at Teura, but at Saif’s amazing combat abilities. The young man saw Eldavin walk over.

“I can see what is meant now. If that object were to fire metal at the speeds described, I hardly imagine a mundane army would survive long. [Mages]? We can certainly counter that.”

“You have a thought, Grand Magus?”

Teura reappeared, and his personal cortege listened avidly. Eldavin smiled.

“Intangibility spells. Unless their munitions are enchanted, it should be a standard. We’ll bring it back. However, Earth has many unique ideas that echo, or build upon, concepts of times past. Their notions of armored vehicles…intriguing. I have to say, there is some charm to experimenting. So, young Aaron, I’m told you’ve been working on this ‘armored suit’ idea for quite some time.”

Aaron stared as Eldavin turned, holding the glove out.

“Will you talk to me about this ‘Iron Man’ concept?”

“I–I–well, it’s only an idea. But I thought if you had a suit of armor, and you could still cast magic…or just fly around…”

Elena watched as Aaron tried to explain to Eldavin. For some reason he stuttered, despite being so enthusiastic about it. Eldavin hmmed, tapping his lips.

“So a flying [Knight]. There have been those in the past. What I like is the idea of this magical battery. You see? Clearly a simple magicore battery is foolish, but a pack mounted on the rear?”

“It’s an expensive idea, Grand Magus. A single suit of that would cost gold to bronze pennies compared to even a traditional [Knight].”

Telim murmured. The High Magus liked the idea of adventure, same as Aaron. But Eldavin…why was he asking?

“Of course, High Mage Telim. But considering that it might protect a [Mage], who has spent decades in study? A single warrior can change the tides. That’s what a superhero is all about, isn’t it, Aaron?”

“Sort of.”

Eldavin smiled. It was kindly, but…Elena thought it was different from how he had acted at the start. He was less mysterious. More…active.

“Then we’ll begin. Everyone, follow through. I don’t think we need to enchant from the ground up; we’ll get some Boots of Levitation. Just so long as we keep the magical interference near zero. Teura, you lightweight that breastplate. I’ll overlay it; just keep the enchantment concise. Should I enchant Saif’s gun to enhance the output? Perhaps not if it’s meant to be demonstrated. We don’t need casualties already.”

Aaron’s mouth went dry as Eldavin pointed and a gauntlet rose. The Grand Magus hmmed, and it changed color, matching the very gauntlet he had.

“Grand Magus? What are you doing?”

Elena spoke quietly. The half-Elf turned.

“Realizing young Aaron’s project, Miss Elena. Aaron, I hope you will volunteer to trial the armor? If we can get it working, this can be one of the hearts of Wistram’s own arm of battle. Flying, [Armored Mages]. It’s been done before. They don’t cast spells, they just blast things with bound spells from the gauntlets and rely on magical batteries. Ingenious.”

Blackmage and Elena traded a look. Eldavin turned back to the suit of armor as the other [Mages] gathered around. Teura went off to get the boots. Aaron stood there.

It was one thing to make a gauntlet, to dream of it. Eldavin? He intended to realize it.

“Did you say ‘arm of battle’, Grand Magus? Wistram doesn’t have an army.”

He turned, impatient.

“Nonsense, my dear. We have a Golem army here, but we cannot control it or do anything with it. Wistram used to stride into battlefields. Well, if we are preparing for anything, be it Earth, or…anything else…”

His eyes flickered.

“We might as well prepare, shouldn’t we? Aaron, come here. How fast were you hoping to go? And ah, are there any more things about this iron-fellow you can tell me about? Any more ideas would be quite interesting. Flying planes? I don’t see a [Flying] spell being superceded for the moment and this is already one aerial project. However…”

Elena backed away. Saif had his toy gun in his hands, and it was a toy. He backed up too. Eldavin had just offered to transform it. Elena had worried and told the others to keep silent. Now here was the nightmare Cara had dreamed of, calmly making the first suit of magical armor. And that?

That was only the beginning of Eldavin’s renaissance in Wistram.

—-

When it seemed like the world was burning, when it all seemed bad. Not all hands were against you. Not all events were sad.

The misconception was about enemies. Who were their enemies? Wistram? Drakes? Dead things?

You were against some people by accident, or because you had a side. Not because they were evil. Some of them might be misguided, or simply stubborn or…

They were not all against you. Grand Magus Eldavin was so busy as he worked. Nevertheless, he had time to realize a young man’s dream, and that was how he saw it. Armored [Mages], flying around?

Sometimes you needed them. After all…he paused and thought about it.

House Veltras, backed by the Five Families, was sailing into conflict against Ailendamus. Ryoka Griffin was missing, spirited away by a superi–by a competent spellcaster. He could put two and two together.

That girl is under my protection. The half-Elf hummed. He had felt like he’d woken up. He had indeed had a revelation of sorts. But he was still T–Eldavin. That girl is under my protection.

How dare you? Whoever you are–and children? He had told Valeterisa to look into that little child’s disappearance on her way south. Too long had Wistram allowed things like Fissival’s actions to go unchecked.

There could be a better world. He knew it. Not Earth. A better world. He felt like he had seen it, before. Time now again.

—-

Who are your enemies? Who, in this wide world, are your foes?

Only a fool said they had no foes. That was a thoughtless, incredibly stupid statement. Understandable, hyperbolic, but consider this: to say you had ‘no enemies’ and you got along with everyone was to turn a blind eye to injustice.

You weren’t opposed to the act of keeping slaves? If you had no enemies, you stayed away from politics or world-events, you didn’t get to pretend terrible atrocities didn’t happen. You just stated, by inaction, you didn’t really care.

Erin Solstice had enemies. She also had great friends. Even now, though, even in death, she had taken a stand.

“Slaves are bad. No, wait. Slavery is bad. Yup. Yup.”

It might be a hard pill to swallow, but someone had to say it. And shove it down every throat, if need be. That was why some of them loved her.

The ghosts of Roshal and their like watched, narrow-eyed, thin lipped, and poor of soul. The ‘best’ of them weren’t even here, but those who were just petty enough not to sink into Riqre’s depths had no voice that Erin wanted to hear.

She sat amongst friends and companions, dead though they might be. She listened and learned and laughed.

“Gerial. Was that what Ceria was like? She’s so…different now.”

“Ah, well. That’s how we knew her. She was in a slump. So were we, in a way. Calruz was always sort of bull-headed, but he really got into trouble when he first came to Izril. He thought they’d make him Gold-rank in a month.”

“That’s Calruz…I need to see him. What should I…I say?”

The man thought. He shook his head, but not for lack of words.

You got one chance, ever. Which was terrifying because everyone forgot it, until it was too late and they were reminded. But if you got two…

“Tell that bull-headed idiot. Tell him…tell him I said…”

He leaned over and whispered. The [Innkeeper] listened. And promised to remember.

“I’ll tell him, I promise. And–and has anyone found anyone else who knows someone I know? I don’t think Mrsha’s parents are here, or…her tribe. Maybe there are some ghosts still coming?”

“If there are any, we will find them.”

Calmly, Califor replied. Erin nodded. Now was time to rest. They would go back to studying soon, but she had a day off. A day, measured by the dead.

“What day is it today? Is it the fourteenth or fifteenth?”

Out on the sands, a Queen of Nerrhavia’s Fallen seized a newly-appeared [Bandit] and shook him until he answered her. She relaxed.

“Still the same day!”

Nerrhavia’s own shade rolled her eyes at Queen Merindue.

Silly ghosts. Silly…sad ghosts, working together. Erin was aware of a great event taking place with Khelt’s rulers. They tried to keep it secret, but everyone could see the magical thingamabobby they were working on.

However, she had different goals and a job to do. Erin’s head was packed with revelations of the dead and she feared she’d forget some things. Unimportant things, like Potions of Youth, as opposed to Gerial’s last words, of course.

It was as she sat, though, that a few more ghosts introduced themselves to her. The [Witches] were aware even Erin’s ghost had limits to the knowledge she could cram into her mind. They were cutting out that portion of her learning.

“Just in case her head were to explode upon returning to her body.”

Somillune remarked. Erin Solstice hesitated.

“Hah. That’s a joke, right?”

“Most likely.”

However, one ghost did come up the steps, hobbling, frowning up at her. Erin Solstice, in the midst of asking Cawe about her family, anyone to talk to, hesitated.

“Who’s this? Someone else to help out the Khelt-people?”

Queen Khelta herself frowned down as she floated past, but shook her head.

“Not ours. Is yon figure a guest, Witch Califor?”

The Witch peered down. Her eyes blinked twice, and she looked past Khelta, sharply.

A gigantic [Witch] of tree and earth nodded.

“I HAVE FOUND HIM, THOUGH IT TOOK A DOING TO CONVINCE HIM TO COME.”

The ghost walking up the stairs winced, and put two fingers in his ears. Khelta blinked, and the ghosts stirred.

“Who’s that?”

A [Vision of the Desert] nudged the [Archmage of Grasses], the Gnoll who was really unhappy to hear about what those damn Drakes had done to her people. The Gnoll stroked her chin.

“I…don’t know. Perhaps he is not as important?”

On the contrary. The older ghosts had no idea, even the ones who had been [Legends]–literally–in their era. Yet all the hip, trendy new ghosts knew.

“I didn’t even think to–Califor, you sent for him?”

The Witch nodded at the recently dead. Her eyes lit on an older man, balding, grumpily stomping up the stairs and looking around. That he was old, was a meaning. Some ghosts looked like they had at the prime of their life. However they chose.

But this man clearly believed how I died is how I damn well died. He had his eyes on Erin, recognizing her as halfway between life and death as all ghosts could.

“So this is the young woman you hauled me all the way here for? Well, she doesn’t look like much. And I’m to celebrate her as the ‘one true hope’, eh? Hah.”

Erin Solstice blinked as a crabby old man halted, arms folded. He wore a kind of robe, but more sensical than [Mages]. Many pockets, to hold sheafs of paper–there was a quill behind one ear, and two in various sleeves. He had ink stains on one arm, a sign his ghost was more powerful, and remembered such details.

Personality. He peered down his glasses at her.

“Um. Hello. Who are you?”

“Annoyed, miss. Annoyed that even when I’m dead, I don’t have time to work and sit alone in peace. Annoyed that you don’t have the courtesy to stand up and introduce yourself despite me coming all this way.”

Erin Solstice blinked. Then she slowly rose. She had the conflicting desire to poke fun at this old man, and to apologize.

“I’m sorry. Sort of. Uh, I’m Erin Solstice. Who are you?”

She offered him a hand. He took it, briskly, and shook it.

“Architect Drevish, formerly of Reim. At your service, miss.”

Below her, ghosts turned. The old ones had no idea what all the fuss was. But Cawe went wide-eyed, as did Gerial. Even Reim’s former king, or rather, grandfather of Flos, raised his head.

“Drevish. Drevish. Hold on. I sort of know that name. Drevish…”

Erin rubbed her chin with genuine puzzlement. The [Architect] snorted. Gerial whispered.

“Erin! This is Drevish, the Architect! One of the King of Destruction’s Seven!”

Erin Solstice’s eyes widened. Below her, every [Architect], [Builder of Fables], and similarly-classed ghost looked up in deep offense. Yet the greatest [Architect] of his time had an ego to match.

“I can see they still remember me. And I’m told you own an inn of your own, Erin Solstice.”

“Yes. Um–wow. So you’re the guy who went around with that jerk? I mean–the King of Destruction?”

Erin was conflicted since she didn’t hear nice things about Flos. Drevish’s mouth quirked.

“‘That jerk?’ Hah. I can see you’re worth the travel, if only to get rid of that annoying witch.”

He nodded at the [Witch] who’d come to find him. Then he peered at Erin.

“With that said, refrain from insulting him in my presence, young woman.”

“But he’s a warmongering guy who…”

“He is the King of Destruction, and you do not know him, clearly. There is a reason I served him, and if you are at all polite, I ask you to be polite. Know him before you mock him, because the tales told about Flos Reimarch range from truth exaggerated to falsehood completely. And I do not build walls out of lies.”

He had a little cane, and waved it slightly before tapping it on the ground. Erin Solstice blinked at Drevish.

“I…sorry.”

The ghosts around her were impressed. This [Architect] had done more than some royalty, including Nerrhavia, who had stormed away from Erin twice while telling her tales. Perhaps it was because Drevish was not royalty. He nodded at her.

“There is much to talk about. I am told you might need help upon living, if such a thing can be done. And perhaps you need information about my [King]. Indeed, there are things I could tell you that would…persuade him to act.”

He glanced, troubled, around this vast gathering. Califor’s eyes were on Drevish’s face. The Architect shook his head.

“I do not know if that is appropriate. I do not know if it is wise for the dead to haunt the living. And he is haunted, that fool. If Queravia were here, I would let her decide. Or…Tottenval. But I am told Tottenval might not be here, if he was lost at sea. As for Queravia…I cannot find her. Perhaps she lies on Baleros.”

“Likely so.”

Califor muttered. Drevish shook his head.

“I had hoped to meet them in time, and we had forever to reunite. But I simply sat and relaxed and before I knew it, a calamity was upon us. Simply obnoxious. Who designed death and life so?”

Erin smiled. He was so offended. Yet the old man fixed her with a gaze, as if she were a pet project and he was wondering if she was worth the effort.

“Well, I shall take stock of the situation, as always. But before that, young miss! You will sit down, as I am old and I feel tired, even though I am dead, and tell me all about your inn. What style was it? I’m told you have inherited the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Have you unearthed its secrets? Have you designed around it? What is the style of Izrilian architecture today? Please tell me you don’t have decorative pillars or I may have to simply up and leave…”

Erin stuttered. Suddenly, she was faced with the greatest challenge of her death. Which was explaining why she had separated outhouses, a weird Bird-tower, and the particulars of her inn to an [Architect] who had opinions on how stupid each part was.

“So you have a pointless hallway filled with obvious traps that everyone must proceed down and waste precious seconds of their life? A hallway that did not, in fact, save your life when you were shot by crossbows?”

“W–buh–when you say it like that it sounds stupid. But it works! I think!”

Drevish looked pained beyond belief. He was already making Erin sketch since only she could create in the world of the dead.

“If I tell you anything, you will swear to me to completely rework this abomination. It sounds like these Antinium are good [Builders]–I should have liked to meet them and studied their design. But the style? Did a [Princess] of Terandria decide to make this rubbish?”

“Now that you mention it…”

Oh, a great meeting. Oh, the dead who mattered in conjunction with the living. Erin and Drevish were arguing about Bird’s tower, but he took her by surprise, as the Giant standing sentry on Chandrar’s shores with the umbrella raised his head and called an alarm.

“No, no. If you’re going to do a watchtower, miss, you build the inn around it. See here! A central tower, three times as tall! Put Liscor’s walls to shame and mount a ballista on top.”

“…Are you sure you’re an [Architect]? Bird would love you.”

The old man smiled.

“Miss Erin Solstice. What is the point of being generic? Buildings should be perfect for their intent. They should also be grand when they need to be. Impressive! Eye-catching! Worth building. They should protect, and inspire, and make people laugh.”

She looked at him, and liked him. And wished he weren’t here to meet her, because Drevish the Architect was alright.

Then she heard the hubbub, the call to arms. That copy of the sword in the stone rose, and Erin saw all heads turn. Something was coming. Something was…

No, it wasn’t an attack.

Not yet.

Not…

Yet.

—-

It was in fact, a familiar ghost who came. Well, one of them was familiar.

“Xarkouth!”

The Void Dragonlord rested his wings, panting. He rasped as he landed in front of Khelt’s palace.

“Greetings, undead rulers.”

“Dragon.”

Khelta inclined her head a fraction of a millimeter at him. The two traded barbs, but weakly. Xarkouth shook his head.

“We barely escaped them. But not for Terandria’s ghosts in the south sallying forth–and they seemed distracted, from the presence as well as something that drew three north–even so, we barely made it.”

He had passengers. Ghosts who landed, calling out greetings. Erin, peeking down at Xarkouth and waving, heard a shout.

“Glorious Calanfer be with you!”

“Oh, dead gods. Terandrians.”

One of the ghosts muttered. Erin just smiled and laughed. For no less than a [King] and [Queen] had come on Xarkouth’s back! And more!

“It amazes us! We thought only Baleros yet lived, but here we see sunlight and a sword to match any relic we battle the foes with! Greetings, queen of…”

The [King] did a double-take at Khelta’s clear [Necromancer] origins, but the [Queen] shoved him aside.

“From Noelictus to you, I bear words of hope and support, kin.”

“Ah. Then you are well met indeed, cousin! How fares Terandria?”

Khelta kissed the cheek of the Noelictus [Queen] with delight. Xarkouth nodded at Erin.

“Mortal girl. Have they not brought you back, yet?”

“Not yet. Hey, Xark.”

The Dragonlord gave her a look. Erin grinned. Drevish harumphed quietly, taking it all in.

The ghosts were talking, conveying news, how they had held off the six with weapons that remained in death. Also, events of note.

“We come from Ailendamus, where they make war on the Dawn Concordat. A waste of time–but something happened. For a second, I swear I smelled grass and felt the wind on my face. It certainly frightened the six. It was centered in Ailendamus, in the castle.”

“Where? I have never heard of this nation.”

“Brand new. It’s swept each nation aside, and there’s a reason for that. If I could but warn my kingdom…”

“Silence. Enough petty talk!”

Xarkouth bellowed and offended ghosts looked up at the Void Dragonlord. Yet he opened one wing and revealed a final ghost.

“That you have a name for the foes who assail us–I brought the news from Baleros, and there are kin there who want to speak with you. Great ghosts, Erin Solstice. However. There is news of even greater import here. They were not sure whether to tell me, these petty arguers. Seeing one of the six convinced them. Tell them what you know, [Knight].”

A single figure, far less grand than the other ghosts present, but still shining with some measure of her soul, stepped forwards and bowed. She was wide-eyed, with that look of Cawe’s, that of someone recently dead, taking it all in. She looked at Erin, then addressed the others, humbly, sinking to one knee.

“I am Dame Eclizza of Ailendamus. Great Knight, and newly fallen to the Death of Magic.”

Some of the ghosts stirred. Others muttered, ‘who’?

“Our sympathies for your death, but the Death of Chains, even the Death of Magic are not the threats that concern us. Perhaps what they hold back…but we know not details.”

It was the Rebel of String, Elucina, who called down. Dame Eclizza nodded.

“Yes, great ghosts. In this time and place, loyalty and bonds of the living fall away. I understand that now, but when the great Dragonlord came, I realized there was some knowledge I had that might aid even the greatest of you. I…heard of the girl who was not yet dead. No–I heard that a muster was being taken, to fight these six…things. There is more than resistance to be put up. There is a way to fight back.”

She clenched a fist. Khelta raised her brows.

“If you mean a weapon of Ailendamus we can bring to this world…”

“No, great Majesty. I mean something else entirely. I am privy to a bit of knowledge about my great Kingdom, but far less than those…directly involved. Yet I knew enough. So when Great Xarkouth came, I journeyed to persuade one who could tell you all.”

“Thus, she came here. Listen, you arrogant fools of Chandrar. Listen.”

Xarkouth’s head rose. The Great Knight Eclizza’s eyes burned.

“I died escorting one called the Wind Runner of Reizmelt to Ailendamus. She was a curious woman. A ‘thief’, or so the Duke Rhisveri of Ailendamus claimed. She had tried to steal a certain object, of whose worth even I was not aware until recently. His great treasure.”

Erin Solstice choked. She knew–? But Eclizza wasn’t done.

“No one living knows, save the Duke, who is, in fact, in control of Ailendamus. Who is…not a mortal man. I did not know this. He has an object of such worth that my death was a pittance to it, in his eyes! And I cannot help but agree! I tell you this now, as it is heard among Terandria. Yet Terandria has no agents in the mortal realm.”

“What is this Duke? Not a mortal man?”

Xarkouth’s eyes glittered in dour amusement, and the ghosts of dead rulers looked offended. Yet for answer, Dame Eclizza only turned.

“I did not know the answer, milady ghosts, Miss Solstice. I only knew who to ask.”

She turned, and the last ghost approached, who had not ridden with Xarkouth. Who could not. Ghosts looked up and Khelta muttered an oath that shook the land slightly. Erin Solstice’s jaw opened wide, wide…

No one living knew what Rhisveri possessed. Ryoka knew it was there. But even the Great Knights did not know. Yet the dead? Oh, the dead knew, and they were willing to talk.

Down, out of the skies, came a figure larger than Xarkouth. Beautiful, ghostly scales, deep eyes of power.

A Wyrm. He descended, as hostility rose from the ghosts below, but the Wyrm sneered, even at Xarkouth, though they were distant cousins.

“So here are the fabled ghosts of Chandrar. Well, for this journey I roused myself, and I shall accept your gratitude.”

He was not the oldest of his kind, or the grandest in death. But he had a temperament to match. Khelta called out, frowning at the arrogant Wyrm.

“Who are you, Wyrm of Terandria?”

“Second-last of my spawn. Perhaps the last true Wyrm’s get in this world. Certainly, of the last male Wyrms. For the serpent who spawned me and my kin was the last, and our sisters died young. We grew, and fought, across age to age, but withered. The last of us were great, and Dragons feared us.”

“Hah.”

Xarkouth muttered, but Erin was entranced by the Wyrm. He raised his head.

“I am Calthusveri. Brother of the damned Rhisveri of Ailendamus, who masquerades as a man. I died eight hundred years ago when we fought. The last two of us, over my great treasure he now hoards. An artifact of such power that even you sneering ghosts of old would wet yourself at its name.”

The sneering ghosts of old looked at the Wyrm. Yet–Erin suddenly saw a flicker in even the oldest’s eyes. Could it actually be?

“Do not delay, Calthusveri. What is so important a Dragonlord, Wyrm, and such ghosts risked their souls to cross the ocean once more to tell us of?”

The Wyrm hesitated. Then his eyes grew crafty.

“If I tell you, I would demand a favor in kind.”

“Not to use it.”

Dame Eclizza interrupted hurriedly. The Wyrm snarled at her.

“Silence, you little…! Very well. I shall tell you, since it is more common knowledge. But I expect favors in kind! From this working, perhaps. It may all be realized, and we may all benefit if we use it right. Not that it will be easy to acquire. My brother will defend it with everything, yet I hear you have a nation you can spur to fight. So. Then.”

He huffed, clearly regretting telling anyone. His eyes glittered as he glanced at Erin, but he did not care about her.

“It is more valuable than a half-dead child. More than a way to talk with the living. After all, did I not acquire it from the deepest places, from the very fingers of legend? Was it not worth kin battling kin to the death for? Yes, each of you ghosts, one yet remains. One more! One of the greatest works ever created, by one who reached the zenith of magic!”

The ghosts looked as the Wyrm raised his head and told them what Rhisveri was hiding. What Ryoka Griffin had nearly stolen. Erin Solstice couldn’t believe it. It was unfair. It shouldn’t exist.

But if you had a game. If you had levels, and classes, and Skills…you also had this. At least one, from days so ancient even Dragons thought none remained. It would change everything. But who would use it?

“A Scroll of Resurrection.”

Author’s Story: I bought one of those frozen deep dish pizzas which you can cook in an oven. Now the worst pizza type in the world to me.

I don’t know if it was not cooked enough or sat out too long. It tasted fine, but my stomach started hurting as I was writing, live, at the end of my day. It got worse and worse, but I could not tell if it was back pain or stomach pain because they sometimes run together.

And I couldn’t sit up straight. Then I had to lie down in the middle of writing and I couldn’t even get up. I was fairly sure it was food poisoning and am now, but for three hours, the pain really sucked. As in, for the first time I was wondering if I was going to call an ambulance if I had to endure it much longer.

I’ve never had pain from food poisoning that intense before, but after three hours it went away and I could handle moving and doing things…now it’s fine, as I type this. Hurts, but it wasn’t ‘I cannot move’ pain.

That’s my story. It’s hour 4 of food poisoning and I have chills despite it being the same temperature as always. So whatever this chapter was, I’m sure it was shorter. Nasty stuff. I have one more of those frozen pizzas left, but if I eat it, it’ll be charred.

The point is: I hate getting sick. This is pirateaba’s mini-story about food poisoning. Hope you didn’t enjoy it.

8.44 O

[I did another interview with the friendly Fantasy Inn! Check it out here!]

It was now time to ask questions, even if the answers were undesirable. Simple questions with answers like barbs, if you asked them right.

If you got truthful answers. Each one of them knew all the little lies, half-truths, omissions you could get. They also knew how to cut to the heart of truth and yank it out if they had to.

Did they want to?

——

Wall Lord Ilvriss of Salazsar had learned you could not buy truth. You could buy words, you could buy the answers you wanted, and have them shouted loudly, but truth? The closest you could get to that were experts. A kind of loyalty.

“Who can we trust?”

He murmured to himself. His audience of five, including himself, sat, thinking hard. More than that? Ilvriss was getting answers—in part to that question. Answers he…didn’t think he wanted.

Xesci, the [Courtesan of Change], was the kind of person who had all the answers by her very nature. She did not—usually—give them out since there was such a thing as confidentiality and client privilege, especially in her line of work. These circumstances dictated otherwise.

“I’m not a truth teller. So I can’t tell you for certain, that just because I sense a…a love, or certain things, that they’re not agents of the Necromancer.”

She prefaced herself again. Nerul, Ilvriss’ uncle and [Diplomat] at the top of his class, wiped at his brow, slightly. He was sweating from a ‘quick jaunt’ that had him climbing all the way down to the gates of Oteslia and back up to their higher mansion. He could have hired a sedan chair or the like, but that was too noticeable. He replied to Xesci.

“That’s where we come in. Captain Osthia and I do the back-check. Income, suspicious visits, and so on. We have the diadem of whatever-the-hell for a final check. But we do need impressions, Miss Xesci. So…what have you learned?”

Again, the Courtesan pulled a face. At last, Ilvriss stirred. The last member of their group did not. She was shaking slightly, curled up in a corner of the room. Shriekblade, or Tessa, depending on how she was feeling, was not in a good way of late.

“I know you have reservations, Miss Xesci. But I swear on Salazsar’s walls, it will not leave this room.”

“Even as fantastic gossip material. My promise as well, on my tail.”

Nerul added. Ilvriss glared at his uncle, but a [Diplomat] knew his targets, and Xesci smiled a bit, surprising Ilvriss.

“Fair enough, Wall Lord Nerul. Then…I don’t think your sister is an agent. Nor your mother, Wall Lord. Nor Magnolia Reinhart, the First Gardener, your Miss Marquin—especially not her—or anyone on your Priority One list. Actually, my impression is that Magnolia Reinhart and Miss Marquin, and your sister…definitely not. I can’t prove it, but that’s my instinct.”

“Go on.”

Ilvriss relaxed. He relaxed, and he didn’t know how tense he’d gotten. Nerul clapped his claws together.

“What a relief. Start with my dear niece, who I would be very upset to learn was an undead puppet or conspirator. She does have absences and secrets…”

“So does any Walled Drake. Why are you certain my mother and sister are safe, Miss Xesci? Can you elaborate?”

They had to look into such things. Again, the [Courtesan] eyed Ilvriss.

“There are some answers, Wall Lord, that…you might not want to receive.”

The purple-scaled Wall Lord blinked a few times. Nerul bit his lip and his tail curled up, but Ilvriss wasn’t quite sure what Xesci meant. He got sure in moments.

“I can see which face or likeness I would ah, take, if I were to work for a certain client. You know that. Well…I have met those who have no face, or who are just—odd. That’s a big hint. However, both of your family members have distinct people in mind—a range. Everyone does.”

Ilvriss nodded, trying to block out Xesci’s own analysis of his childhood crushes, loves…Nerul leaned forwards.

“Just out of curiosity, who’s mine?”

Xesci glanced at him. Ilvriss groaned.

“Uncle…”

“I want to hear it.”

Captain Osthia Blackwing muttered, then coughed as everyone looked at her. The Pallassian [Wing Captain], presumed dead and under the name of Captain Shieldscale, saw Nerul smile.

Ilvriss had asked Xesci already, so he knew her answer.

“Charming women, Wall Lord Nerul. I could choose from nearly forty faces.”

“Ah, how appropriate. No one person?”

“A few. But that would be, ah, exoticism. I think. People you’ve met but never interacted with.”

“And you know this because…?”

“I would have to improvise them naked. And I recognize a number of influential faces, even without being an expert on regional leaders.”

Nerul started laughing. Ilvriss covered his eyes with one claw.

“Can we return to my sister?”

“Absolutely, Wall Lord. It’s simple. I ah, saw a number of faces in her mind’s eye, but one of the reasons I think she can’t be an agent is simply that she…that is to say, some of my co-workers do know she’s engaged their services. Privately.”

Ilvriss’ face went blank. Xesci went on, as Captain Osthia glanced at Ilvriss and Nerul sat up, eying his nephew.

“It would be good cover, but I somehow doubt a true puppet would maintain that kind of intimate…”

“You happen to know these fellow workers? I have never heard of Navine ever visiting a brothel or…it would be all over Salazsar!”

Ilvriss protested. He was already uncomfortable with Xesci’s power in some ways. This? This had gone off the uncomfort waterfall and he was fighting discomfort sharks in the water.

Xesci was an expert of intimacy, and she winced. She had a very bland face on; the schemer she had been when she first met with Ilvriss. It helped her detach, and she claimed it made her smarter, if ruthless. There was still enough of her to look awkward on his behalf.

“I’m sorry, Wall Lord. But I did see a number of figures, so it indicates she could only be a double-agent.”

“Which we can investigate. So that’s instinct and knowledge for you. Anything we should know?”

“Uncle.”

“No, he has a point. Wall Lord, I know this is difficult, but anything relevant, Xesci…?”

Osthia gave Ilvriss a pleading look. He had to stand up and walk over their private, secured rooms to pour himself a drink. Not wine; he had meetings to go to later and he was off the stuff. But he wondered if you could do something similar—just to drown out sensation. Distilled plum and lemon juice, no sugar, maybe. He’d ask for some made up.

“No one I know. Rather handsome Gnolls, Drakes, even a Human—that would be my co-worker. And uh—two female Drakes.”

The spray out of Ilvriss’ nose-holes and mouth made Tessa roll out of the way reflexively. He turned, coughing.

“What?”

“Ah. Uncomfortable secrets. Don’t let’s get on the Turnscale wagon, nephew. We have bigger fish to kick.”

Nerul wagged a claw. Ilvriss shook his head.

“I’m not about t—I just—Navine?”

“I told you there were answers you didn’t want to hear, Wall Lord. Your mother…”

Xesci looked even more uncomfortable. This time Nerul and Ilvriss traded a look.

“Er, Miss Xesci. For my nephew’s sake, if it’s a matter of delicate…”

“No! Not in that way.”

Ilvriss breathed again. Xesci paused.

“She just doesn’t have Wall Lord Zail in her mind. Someone else. A Drake. Multiple ages. Perhaps deceased? A lover? Er…”

She watched as Ilvriss slowly rubbed at his eyes.

“…We’re going to have to look into this, aren’t we?”

“I’ll handle it. Just give me a description, or better yet—pose with the face so I can do a rough check. I’ll do it later.”

Nerul murmured. Ilvriss sat back down, heavily. After that opening salvo into finding allies and uncovering Az’kerash’s minions, he thought nothing would surprise him.

…Right up until Xesci told him why she was almost convinced Lyonette was genuinely non-Az’kerash.

“A what?”

Captain Osthia shouted. Xesci lifted a claw.

“Two things. It is not strong. Not in an…intimate way. First loves. I would be hesitant to look like that. It makes it too much like cheating on someone…with a copy of them. But she does like this…Antinium. A Worker, I think?”

“An Antinium.”

Ilvriss was least-surprised of all of them. Which still meant shocked. Xesci gave him a helpless nod.

“It is surprising, but this is personal, something unconscious, Wall Lord. It’s the fourth Antinium I’ve seen.”

“Fourth?”

“Well, hers was the most accurate, I believe. The others were…I would call it a very specific desire.”

“For what? Insects?”

“Or being frightened. Someone’s deepest fantasy can be a terrifying, albeit safe, encounter with something…not quite like a person? I’ve seen Goblins, Golems, even a Creler, the King of Destruction—fame is popular—two of the four I saw were actually of the one they call the ‘Small Queen’, Xrn, and the askers were both male.”

“Please stop talking.”

Ilvriss felt like he was going to die. He shifted focus.

“…I doubt there’s much chance Navine or Lyonette could be puppets with that kind of imaginative backstory. Can we go to the Gardener?”

“Of course, Wall Lord. You’ll be glad to understand her desires are standard.”

“Wonderful.”

“A bit colorful in one of the images I could have chosen as a fantasy. She apparently met a rather splendid Minotaur, in a bath-house or something, because I—”

“Next.”

“Ah. Magnolia Reinhart, then. She’s harder to read, as [Ladies] are, but her maid, butler, and so on all had people in their desires. It’s…complicated.”

“How so?”

Ilvriss just wanted to know if they were monsters in disguise. Xesci hesitated.

“The [Butler] loves someone who’s dead. I can tell. They tend to be idealized. Captured in a particular pose or dress. The maid—”

“Ressa. Former Assassin’s Guild.”

“—She’s simpler. A number, including Lady Reinhart herself. I’m not sure if that’s love or desire. However, Lady Reinhart?”

“Yes?”

“…I could do someone attractive to her, certainly. But the face of the real person she wants is—impossible. I’d fail. I could become him…but I’d still be wrong. And I don’t know why.”

The [Courtesan] frowned. Professional pride appearing for the first time. She was reluctant to divulge these deep, intimate secrets, but she did. Ilvriss sat up.

“Please, explain. Could that mean…?”

“Oh, no. I know who she loves. It would be that fellow—I saw him in the scrying orb. Grand Magus Eldavin.”

“Really. That explains a lot. If I could use this, Salazsar would be able to confirm a number of intelligence hypotheses that—sorry, sorry. Secret.”

Nerul sat back as Xesci gave him a look. Ilvriss frowned.

“That’s not too unusual.”

Xesci nodded patiently.

“Yes, Wall Lord. But I have an instinct beyond mere Skill, because I am good at my job. If I presented myself to her, I feel as though I would still fail to capture…something. Something is wrong with that image, yet it is right. Does that make sense?”

“No.”

“It doesn’t to me, either. She’s…a challenge. Although I’m not likely to find out why.”

“Well. It seems as though they’re at least not undead puppets. Have you found anyone who matches that?”

Xesci hesitated.

“One. But it could just be a lack of loves or someone who really doesn’t care. Not high-ranking, but I will pass you the name…”

Nerul rubbed his claws together, nodding. Ilvriss leaned back in his chair to process what he really didn’t want to think about in some cases. He only looked up when Nerul spoke.

“Hm, Uncle?”

“I said, which one do we reach out to first, nephew? I’d put money on Reinhart. Risky, given who she is, but you said she intimated she was an ally.”

The Wall Lord hesitated.

“…We need to run more checks on movements, connections—”

“On Reinhart? Hah. Tell you what, I’ll do my best work, get Blackwing to help me, and pull in all of Salazsar’s intelligence. We’ll come back to you in a year with squat. The First Gardener’s probably just as bad. A Calanferian [Princess]? We’ll only trace her back to Izril, not before.”

“True. But we can’t make a mistake.”

Nerul fixed Ilvriss with a keen, perceptive eye.

“Nephew. You already took a chance with the three of us.”

He gestured at Shriekblade, himself, and Xesci.

“It’s time to take action. We need allies. It could go bad, but now is not the time to sit. Not now. Not with the Gnolls boiling mad and threatening a war we can’t sustain. For the Antinium or the Necromancer. Someone needs to be caught up.”

Ilvriss knew he was right. He rubbed at his face, then nodded. And then looked at Nerul.

They’d all heard the news, even under siege in Oteslia. It was complicating an already complicated affair with Magnolia Reinhart, and his own mission. Ilvriss met Nerul’s eyes directly.

“Tell me something. Did you know about this, Uncle?”

Nerul gave him a clear look which could have held a million lies. Yet he did shake his head.

“No, Ilvriss. I didn’t have a clue. Nor would anyone with half a brain have told me, given my job. Mind you, I might have found out…but I didn’t know. The question is: did anyone in Salazsar? Did you?”

Ilvriss saw Osthia’s gaze swing back to him. She had no knowledge. He frowned.

“No. But then, even for a Wall Lord, I’m younger. I wonder if my father would have access to that kind of information? He would be the only one in the family. But we do know Fissival’s always loved magicore.”

“Along with any number of magical items. Well, it’s a mess. And I can’t envy whomever’s sent to calm the Gnolls down, if anyone. Bloody idiots might just escalate and that will not go well. There’s little respect for [Diplomats] among High Commands.”

Nerul grumbled. Ilvriss raised his brows.

“Do you actually think you could do something, Uncle? What about the siege?”

“The army outside? Of course! Mind you, Zeres’ Admiralty is smart. They’d run if I walked at them. They know a shark in the waters. Let’s stay focused. Allies and Necromancers. Where do we start first?”

Ilvriss thought about it. He glanced left, and smelled and saw Tessa lean over and vomit onto the carpet. She collapsed into the puddle and lay there, curled up. In the silence, Ilvriss gestured.

“Probably with her.”

——

“Why is she sick?”

Wall Lord Ilvriss asked that question to three [Healers], all of whom had no idea. Well—one never got a chance to investigate Shriekblade. She came round, slashed with her claws across the poor Gnoll’s face, and sent the [Healer] screaming for…a [Healer].

“Adventurer Tessa. You will collect yourself.”

Ilvriss snapped, as Osthia wrestled Tessa back to their coach. The scarred Drake turned her head and gave him a stare like a wall had sprouted eyes.

“I’m Shriekblade.”

“Shriekblade, then. What is wrong?”

“She’s gone. She’s gone. I have to go get her. I’m never going to be okay again. She’s gone. She’sgoneshe’sgoneshe’sgone…”

She was having some kind of breakdown, like a [Soldier] fighting a horror for the first time. Ilvriss looked at Osthia, but the other Drake had it.

“Do you mean…the Healer of Tenbault?”

Tessa looked up. She shot to her feet.

“Yes. I have to go get her. I’m leaving.”

With that, she began to try to commandeer the coach. Osthia stopped her. Tessa kicked her across the street, and Ilvriss jumped for the coach. Cursing, he fought with Shriekblade and got her to stop—mainly because she collapsed halfway through trying to claw out his eyes.

“No. She’s already dead. Goblins are killing and eating and raping her. She’s dead and I’m not going to ever be me again.”

She lay there as Osthia caught up with Ilvriss. He looked at his helper. Shriekblade was their ace in the hole, the one genuinely high-level deterrent against a traitor. They needed her better, as callous as it was to ignore her own distress. But how? Damn. Goblins?

Ilvriss had a sinking suspicion it might be connected to a lot of events. But for now, he wrestled Tessa back into the coach and began to hunt for a temporary cure to what ailed her.

——

“So, feeling any side-effects? Are you alright?”

As they partied out the night in Oteslia, Mirn, the [Protector] of Pallass’ secret bar, a Sentry as they called him, former [Soldier], and friend to Saliss of Lights…and Onieva, asked a question that really cut down on his personal enjoyment of the night.

Such as there was to be had with a bunch of horny, silly kids like Cire and his friends. Some were interesting, like Lyonette for instance, but Mirn had come for Onieva.

She gave him a long look.

“…Nope.”

“Well, be careful. I know you’re on a high after so long, but don’t lose track of the time! And be careful what you put in your body!”

“Mirn. Mirn, you are the last person I want to hear that from.”

Oneiva laughed as she followed the group down the street. Mirn rolled his eyes, tail curling.

“You’re the one who told me to be careful!”

In truth, Onieva shouldn’t have been out there at all. She should have tested the new, faerie-flower substitute for her potion, but Mirn understood she’d been desperate. So she’d taken it. It had worked perfectly…and would probably be a huge upset in the alchemical world and all that, once Saliss returned.

The problem was that Onieva was clearly deliriously happy, and thus, incautious. Mirn had to be the one to watch out for complications. And there were going to be some.

——

“What are the side effects?”

“Excuse me?”

Saliss gave Mirn a look as he prepared the vial. He’d taken one drop as a taste, sworn a blue streak, and told Mirn his crazy hypothesis about the changing, convenient nature of the Faerie Flowers was right.

“It means this stuff is adapting to what it does, and Xif and I and all the idiots trying to make it into something are effectively gutting its usefulness, Mirn. I’ll write him a note and get the others to stop…after I take this.”

“I got that. But what do you mean, side effects? Did you sense any?”

Saliss just snorted.

“I don’t need to, even if I could. Mirn, I did my research. Faerie Flower drinks that make you go back in time and dream true-ish dreams, but lead to incredible depression or dependancy. Glory drinks that make you cry buckets. Soporific smoke and so on. They’re tricky flowers. There’s always a catch. I don’t doubt that fertilizer composite does something too. Maybe it makes anything it grows allergens or something. So when I take this…I need you to look out for me.”

The Sentry folded his arms.

“And do what, exactly?”

“Make sure it doesn’t wear off when I’m out there. Make sure to test whether it’s doing anything to my head. Memory, and so on. And most importantly—”

——

“—Avoid a scene.”

Mirn repeated the instructions. Onieva rolled her eyes.

“Please, Mirn. When do I cause a scene?”

“…I’ll stomp on your tail, you Wyvern-bitch. Don’t pretend you’ve forgotten how many bars fights you cause every time you go out.”

She laughed and danced ahead of him, spreading her arms and swinging around in a wide circle. It caught the attention of Lyonette and the others.

“Mirn! I’m so glad you’re here. This is going to be a good night!”

“That’s right! I told you they were sort of Archmage!”

A shout from the rambunctious teen, the leader, Cire himself. The others cheered and Mirn felt his head beginning to ache. That was the beginning of a long night.

——

“…Am I old, now?”

It was a terrible thing to think. Because, Mirn felt, if you had to ask, you already knew the answer. He reminded himself that he was youn—he wasn’t technically young, but he was far from aged! He wasn’t at his middle years…y-yet.

He had no back pain. He was a former [Soldier] who had kept his levels, and knew what the hell ‘Archmage’ meant. Mirn might not be able to do a backflip like Onieva, who promptly astounded the skeptical kids, but he could still march forty damn miles with armor and packs.

Probably.

The thing wasn’t his disabilities, it was his ability to…well, run around. Mirn was a one-bar Sentry. Literally. Sometimes that bar moved, but it was because someone was literally kicking down the door. He had forgotten that ‘fun’ involved hitting eight places in one night, mostly because you kept getting kicked out of them.

“We’ve got a real [Lady] with us, so everyone behave! Let’s show Lionette a good time, since I finally got her to come with us!”

Cire crowed, oblivious to how that made Lyonette start. He was turning up the charm, but he’d forgotten that alcohol adjusted all the dials.

Well, he had something. Mirn saw someone hurry into the pub, which had wisely given them an outdoor table, and come back with an Oteslian rye. Naturally, Oteslia was an expert at brewing all kinds of alcohols. Every city had their specialty, and Zeres had a lot of foreign imports. Pallass could hold its own as could Fissival, because of alchemical or magical drinks.

But if you ever wanted to stare at a row of two hundred different beers and then walk to the ‘ale’ category in massive breweries…this was the place.

Mirn had no desire to do that. He served two dozen kinds of drinks, max. His clientele wanted alcohol, and if he had any, that was good. In that sense, Mirn was a terrible [Bartender]; he had about three levels in the class.

But he was a damned good Sentry, so what he saw was everything.

“Let’s see. Eighteen to mind. That one’s already drowning, that one’s on something…the rest are rather fine.”

Mirn was actually surprised. One was clearly as drunk as a Sariant Lamb alcoholic—and the little things did have a drinking problem, which was hilarious—but the rest weren’t in over their heads.

Rather…he eyed them. Something about a few of Cire’s gang of friends gave Mirn a vaguely odd sensation, but he didn’t parse it fully. He was a bit distracted.

“Damn. He is handsome.”

“He is, isn’t he? If only he had ten years. And his head out of his tail.”

Onieva took down a beer as the others egged each other on. Cire promptly had to copy that, and two of his friends. Mirn eyed Cire. It was hard…not to.

He was far too young, but now Mirn understood why people followed him about. He was young, but everything that was perfect about being young. Not a scale out of place, and Mirn was sure Cire had no idea about scale creams or tonics that some of his friends and clientele used. Some things were just unfair. Even his scales and eyes set him apart; there were ‘bronze’ Drakes, or ones with copper-colorations, or brown.

Few had a meld of colors like his. Not Lizardfolk. Not Drakes. Well, staring at handsome kids was not his job, so Mirn went back to watching Onieva.

And Lyonette. And…well, it was interesting.

“Whoo! Hey, Utasen, why are you looking sick? We’re just getting started!”

Cire laughed. A new friend, whose name he somehow already knew, looked appalled.

“You just took down four beers!”

They weren’t small tankards, either. Mirn sniffed at his drink. Not spiked or worse than anything; it had a pleasant scent, and he tasted it and guessed it was corn? Too light for him, but tasty.

Even so. Cire didn’t even wobble as he spun around on one foot to show how fine he was. By contrast, his Drake friend looked wobbly.

“Everyone knows Cire’s got two holes in his boots.”

One of the female Drakes put in dryly. Cire laughed and held up his boots. Lyonette sipped her beer, refusing to take it down fast. Mirn saw Onieva spin a tankard around and wink at Lyonette.

“You won’t hang with this crowd if you can’t hold your liquor. But why the hell are you all wasting good beers?”

So saying, she gulped down half of her drink with about the same effect. Cire’s brows rose as Onieva finished off her tankard. Mirn rolled his eyes.

“Onieva, don’t bully them.”

“Oh? Can she hold her water? Look at these old crabs.”

“Old crabs?”

Onieva reached out to a sniggering Gnoll and slapped his shoulder so hard he fell out of his seat, much to the amusement of others. She looked around.

“I’ll have you know that I could drink all of you under the table.”

“Oooh.”

Cire grinned and Mirn shook his head. He had no idea, but Onieva, even without turning on her complete immunity to alcohol, was still resistant. She had trouble getting drunk.

“Hey! Pull out a Firebreath! Let’s take some shots.”

“So soon?”

That came from both Lyonette and Raef, the Gnoll sitting next to her. The young man grinned as Mirn tried to kick Onieva. He got a stinging retort to his shin and swore, holding it.

“You don’t like spirits, Miss Lionette? Can I call you Lionette?”

Raef leaned over, smiling with his teeth. Lyonette copied him, showing no unease. She did hold herself with a kind of dignified reserve. Mirn eyed her as a bottle was brought out by a [Server], who demanded payment in advance. Cire scattered gold coins on the table with a promise of more to come.

Little brat. That was the First Gardener’s son, alright. Mirn watched as he took down a shot of the famous Drake whiskey with Onieva and two others. They were going to be in trouble soon.

“I don’t usually drink, actually. I’m around alcohol a lot, but I’ve worked as a…a [Server].”

“Really?”

Raef’s eyebrows rose. He…gave Lyonette a look. Mirn raised his own brows. Wasn’t she supposed to be a [Princess]? That was what Chaldion had told him while he briefed Mirn for this odd mission. Chaldion had told him Lyonette wasn’t as important as Saliss, obviously.

“Yes. But tonight’s a night to have fun, so I’m trusting Cire to show me the ropes.”

Lyonette smiled, and the young Drake burped, realized she was talking to him, and went back to playing the good host of the event, a bit abashed.

Clever girl. Mirn nodded along, and realized two things. He did have experience in watching drinkers, and there was a difference between them.

When you had alcohol, how you drank it revealed something about your personality. A clue, at least.

Young people…of which Mirn felt a growing disconnection with…drank a lot. Infamously, but it wasn’t without purpose. Their consumption waxed and waned. It was social, and so they had competitions, or imbibed a lot when the excitement dictated it. Their goal was to have fun, and so they went for a night of fun that might end up with them head-first in a pile of their own vomit, but not necessarily.

By contrast, if you looked at Onieva, or Mirn himself, or, interestingly here, two of the young friends of Cire, they took over the whiskey and drank it down fast. No savoring it, or even the need for snacks. It was practiced. They had something like water or a juice along with the shots, or mixed it in. They weren’t excited by the prospect of drinking; they knew exactly what they wanted.

Calmly, each one took down enough to obscure reality for a bit. Make them stop thinking. It was cynical drinking, in a way. You didn’t need other people for it and sometimes you preferred that.

What was odd was that Onieva and Mirn should know how to do it, but why would Raef and those two drink like that? An odd personality trait in younger generations. But Raef calmly poured himself a double shot and took it down without blinking, much to Mirn and Lyonette’s astonishment.

Mirn himself tried that, and had to reach for a pitcher of water. Nope, it wasn’t diluted. So there were three people here with constitutions of steel!

The last kind of drinker was just Lyonette, incidentally. Lyonette alone. Someone who didn’t actually drink that much due to her upbringing, and had been told by well-intentioned idiots that it was a social thing, to be done at banquets and smaller events, but completely missed the context of it all.

Especially because this was the first time Lyonette had really been able to kick back with peers, not run a business or be responsible for a child. She was a small minnow in deep waters, and someone had just spiked the pond with rum. Mirn watched her as she experienced the joys of social drinking, perhaps for the first time.

——

Raef, or, as she was behind the illusion, Rafaema of Manus, watched Lyonette with about as much keenness as Cire. More so because Cire was caught up in a competition with the odd Drake woman who had invited herself along.

The male Drake was quieter, the responsible guardian. That was fine. Rafaema was focused on Lyonette. The trouble was…

Was she lying to Raef already? She claimed she was used to working. Which wasn’t a [Princess] thing at all.

Ferris claimed she worked at the inn. Maybe she actually did? Or she saw it as work.

In her way, the Dragon was as world-weary as Mirn…and she had four times his lifespan to amplify her views. She was not here to party like Cire—and she saw how much he had to drink to bypass his own natural immunities to alcohol. Even Onieva began to fall behind just due to the sheer quantity he could imbibe, which would explode a lesser Drake’s stomach.

Still. Onieva was odd, as well as Mirn. Rafaema had a feeling about them…but it could wait. For the moment, she was doing something unpleasant for her city. Which, to judge by the news coming out of the Meeting of Tribes, was as Drake as you could get.

Those damned idiots. We don’t need a war with Gnolls! Did Luciva know about this? How am I going to fix it? What else have they…

“It’s the cities. It’s always the cities. Everyone asks why we fucking hate the walls and the boots. It’s stuff like that.”

One of the non-actor Gnolls began growling as that very conversation came up. Cire turned, looking a bit uncomfortable.

“Hey, that’s Fissival. Fissival is totally Creler eggs, Rox. Oteslia’s okay. I’d know about them doing anything bad.”

“Just because your mother’s the First Gardener, Cire? Hah! They’re all evil. You don’t know. You’re a Drake.”

“Hey now. Don’t bring us down, dude. Let’s not monk about on boring stuff.”

That had to be an actor. Raef rolled his eyes as a Gnoll cut in, fur dyed strategically, ushering them to another bar. On the way, Raef leaned over to Lyonette.

“What do you think about the Meeting of Tribes thing, Lyonette?”

“Me? Oh…it’s terrible. One supposes they have their reasons, though. Cire! I believe you wouldn’t do anything that terrible. You do know a lot about Oteslia, don’t you?”

Raef frowned as Lyonette went over to console Cire, who cheered up.

“That’s right, Lionette! I do! And if I’d heard about that gemstone or whatever, I would have had someone go dig it up.”

“You can do that?”

“I mean, probably, yeah. I could probably get the Pegasus Fliers to do that.”

Rafaema frowned at Cire, who was bragging too hard. And at Lyonette, who was clearly interested in Cire. Genuinely?

She hadn’t drunk much. Rafaema glanced around, then, as they headed to the next bar, suggested a round.

“Let’s all take a shot to Fissival sticking its fat tail into an ant hive!”

The others cheered at that, and Rafaema saw Lyonette protest. Cire, laughing, offered her a shot and she sipped at it, then reluctantly took it down.

“So, Lionette, where are you fr—”

Raef headed over to Lyonette, as the others began to dance or drink or grab snacks and bother the other clientele. It was turning into a damned party and Cire knew everyone. But this time Onieva got in the way.

“You’re looking a bit unsteady. You can say no, you know? Come on. Do you know how to dance?”

The [Princess] shook her head, eyes determinedly clear.

“I can. And I’m having fun, Onieva, thank you. I’m actually a quite decent dancer.”

Onieva raised a single brow, mockingly.

“Saliss told me all about your ballroom dancing. But that’s not dancing. Come on. Mirn, get over here and let’s have fun!”

“Dead gods, Onieva…”

Again, Lyonette was spirited away and Rafaema cursed. A party? Why had she thought that was a good idea? It was, in fact, the worst way to get Lyonette to spill anything. Even if she was drunk…

“Hey, Raef. Stop getting in my way! Those two crabs are bad enough, but I’m trying to impress Lionette!”

“Shut up, Cire.”

Raef glowered, watching Onieva and Mirn actually join in quite proficiently. At least they were acting their age, or not hiding it, rather. The other actors hiding their true ages and pretending to enjoy shaking it out in the bar, or laughing?

She hated it. He had to see it. Rafaema’s lip curled. Cire was already away, catching up with some friends.

He did see it. Or else why did he always gravitate towards the genuinely younger crowd, letting his group follow him around? It might be unconscious, but it was there. Raef leaned back, plotting her next move.

Two more pubs they hit, and each time Mirn calmly advised Lyonette to take a glass of something else because she was overdoing it, or Onieva took over the event. She was here to have fun—and apparently get in Rafaema’s way. However, the Dragon noticed something interesting as Mirn yanked Onieva aside after she headed to the restroom. They whispered for a second and Rafaema glanced up from watching Cire and Lyonette flirt.

“…and what’s eight times sixty three?”

“Dead gods, Mirn. I don’t…five hundred and four, okay? Who wrote that crap?”

“Saliss did.”

“Well, I hate him. What else?”

“What’s the key component of healing potions?”

“Eir gel. Basic faculties are all here! No side effects, okay?”

Mirn nodded. Rafaema glanced over. Onieva knew Saliss of Lights? Right, she was his cousin. Interesting, though. And interesting how she was as intoxicated as Cire and Rafaema.

Which was to say, not at all. Lyonette, even Mirn and the other actors were all feeling it, but Onieva had an inexhaustible amount of energy. Maybe she was a [Social Drunkard], or some class that turned this kind of thing into power? It fit the socialite. Rafaema nodded to herself…right up until the street fight.

“What? Someone’s doing what?”

A Drake was talking to Cire, plucking at the young man’s arm.

“In broad daylight! I mean…whatever, Cire. We were just walking along and they told us to clear the street.”

“And did you?”

“Do we look like Lizards? ‘Course not! We were about to really get into it, y’know, but they said we’d settle this tonight. There’s eleven of us and thirteen of them. Come on, can you bring some of your group?”

Cire hesitated as Rafaema and some of his minders’ heads turned. He was bright-eyed with excitement, but he did waver.

“I dunno, Lotse. I’m showing this Human around—Lionette—”

“She can watch! Come on, Cire.”

The Drake girl was definitely not an actor, and she and some Drakes were asking him to…Rafaema scooted over.

“What’s this, Cire?”

“Someone tried to bully friends of mine. I dunno, Lotse, I’ve got a reputation to worry about…”

“That’s right. Cire, we’re here to have fun. Let’s uh—let’s go get some snacks. On me!”

A Gnoll emphasized the words, glancing around for backup, but Lotse grabbed Cire’s arm as the Drake began to backpeddle.

“Cire! We’re begging you. Are we friends or not?”

The Earth Dragon’s eyes turned back. His expression cleared—then took on an obstinate cast that Rafaema didn’t like.

“Of course we are. I’ll come with you.”

“No, Cire—”

The Gnoll grabbed for Cire, but the Earth Dragon prised off the paws with casual strength.

“I’ll just duck out for a second. Come on, Lotse. Twelve against thirteen’s fine. We’ll just…”

He glanced at ‘Raef’, but the Dragon just folded her arms.

“You want backup?”

“If you want to come, Raef? What, you too good for it?”

Rafaema ignored the goading words. She had trained with a sword and she doubted Cire was trained in anything except how to hit a toilet bowl when sick. She had killed someone, just this week.

“I’m not fighting your battles. Nor should you.”

She emphasized the words. Cire just made a face at her.

“They’re my friends, Rafae—I mean, Raef. You never leave your friends when they need you. Come on, Lotse. She’s Creler-brained.”

“Who?”

The Drake blinked at Raef. Cire hurried her off.

“He. Whatever.”

Rafaema was going to kick him again for being so stupid. She sat there, growling, and glanced at Lyonette who was free. The Gnoll actor was sounding a quiet alarm and four of the others hurried out of the bar, cursing. Rafaema had a clear shot at Lyonette. She stood there, cursing—then went after Cire.

Not for his safety, but for anyone he tangled with.

…Maybe for his safety. He was a Dragon, but he was still…

——

It was a fast fight, so Rafaema arrived when it was one minute into it, and thus almost a third over. She watched, coming to a halt in the shadows as a smaller crowd watched two dozen mostly-Drakes brawling.

Clubs, fists, nothing edged. It was a street fight between two groups who didn’t have anything more than pride on the line.

But pride…well. Rafaema watched the melee. It was a bad one. No formations, no tactics other than ‘hit anyone who’s not my buddy’. The thing was that Cirediel was in there.

And he changed things. He was young, yes. Transformed by magic, yes. But he was still a Dragon.

He had little training, too. Even so, Rafaema watched someone throw a hook at him as Lotse tackled a Gnoll and they went down, throwing punches. She probably had [Street Fighter] as a class, because she hit the Gnoll in the jaw with a vicious elbow. Cire?

The Drake throwing the punch had a good one. He’d probably brawled enough. Cire? Cire blinked, reflexively put up his hands to shield his face, and backed up.

In short, everything you didn’t do in a brawl. And yet—Rafaema saw his eyes open, and he blocked the punch. He returned with a big, telegraphed swing. The Drake saw the motion, but it still laid him flat.

Cire was too quick. Too strong. And while you could equalize it, like the Drake with [Lesser Dexterity] or something that swore and punched Cire in the back for downing his buddy—Cire just turned and tried to uppercut him.

Tough. Rafaema watched someone glance a club off of Cire’s shoulder and wince at the unexpectedly jarring impact. It was still fairly even—until another haymaker from Cire tossed someone else clean out of the fight and into tomorrow. Then it got nasty.

“They’re using potions or artifacts or something! They brought a leveller!”

Someone clearly thought Cire had levels above his age, which was actually fair. Lotse’s jeer and her friends were cut off as a furious Drake tore a dagger out of his belt.

Cire froze, eyes on the sharp blade. Instantly, the other unarmed brawlers moved back. Rafaema tensed. What was Cire going to do? If he breathed acid, or panicked…

He jumped up and began to fly back.

“This guy’s berserking! Lotse, Auhousa, get back!”

He grabbed at his friends as the Drake charged, scattering the others. Cire threw out a wing as he changed directions for Lotse. So the Drake went for him, dagger out.

It might snap on his scales. Unless it’s enchanted. Rafaema saw the entire moment. Either way—she had her sword hilt in her hands. Step in, slash. Don’t kill him. She’d have to cut off his…hand?

She leapt forwards, and the [Knife Fighter] charged at Cire. Right into a broomstick.

The thing about broomsticks was that they were not designed as weapons. Too light, no edges—quarterstaffs were heavy and hurt, and were a decent weapon.

Then again, so was a broomstick if it hit your neck right as someone swung it. Not a killing blow, but it laid out the poor Drake. As did a foot, kicking him in the chest.

Rafaema slowed. Cire recoiled, and the Pegasus Riders shooting down from the skies roared.

“Oteslia’s Watch! Break it up! You’re all under arrest!”

“Creler eggs! It’s the boots! Run!”

Lotse and the others ran. But the lone Drake with an actual knife didn’t get away; an old Gnoll had come out of his shuttered shop-home with a few others and were beating Cire’s assailants with weapons. Well, in one case a Gnoll looked at a Drake with a kitchen knife in her claw and ran for it.

“You alright there?”

Cire was still frozen, staring at the downed Drake. The old Gnoll panted as he leaned on his broom. He had greying fur, and Oteslia’s Watch swept down around him, chasing the others. They saw Cire was safe, and Rafaema saw the plain relief in their eyes.

“I’m fine. Thanks uh, Mister. That was totally Archmage of you. I would have probably taken him out, but I didn’t want to hurt him.”

Cire nodded at the dagger. Plain steel. He would have been fine. Rafaema sheathed her sword, sighing. But then the old Gnoll smiled.

“I’m sure you would have been, Cire. But you never learn. You keep closing your eyes. Sixty years and you never fixed it. You should, or it’ll stick.”

Cirediel stopped, walking towards a severe [Pegasus Rider]. Rafaema’s head turned. The Earth Dragon’s eyes opened wide. He looked at the old Gnoll, and the [Shopkeeper] grinned.

Just a shopkeeper. Just one of the many citizens of Oteslia, who probably knew Cire as one of the many kids running around. As he had always done. As he had…

Oh no.

“Uh. Do I know you, old guy?”

Cire tried to chuckle. But something surfaced in his eyes. The Gnoll glanced at him.

“It’s me. I’m sure you’ve forgotten, but I’m Eshell. We used to hang out sixty years ago. I was…”

“…a [Shopkeeper’s Apprentice]. You worked at the place we got our sweets. At—”

Cire stared at the shop the Gnoll had come out of. Sign faded. Rafaema didn’t read it, but the Earth Dragon recoiled.

“We stopped going there—but you were—”

Eshell looked at Cire. The Earth Dragon backed up.

“That’s a bad joke. Eshell left Oteslia. It’s been only…”

His eyes flickered. The Gnoll glanced at the Pegasus Rider, who had noticed Cire’s behavior, dismounted, and was striding over.

“There’s never a chance to talk to you, Cire. But I just wanted to say hello. Don’t worry. I’d never say a thing. It’s just…good to see you. I doubt you’d want to talk, but I have a family now. Well, grandchildren. Your age. Maybe you’ll meet them.”

“I—I—”

Cirediel backed up from the Gnoll. The [Shopkeeper] looked at him.

“Cire?”

The Pegasus Rider swore. Cire looked at his old friend, whom he had forgotten about. Purposefully, Rafaema had no doubt. In the shadows, she watched as he backed away from Eshell without a word. He ran, leaping into the air. So fast, flying away from the truth.

No, she didn’t prefer Cire’s life at all. Or how Oteslia did things.

——

Back at the bar, Cire returned with an explosion of laughter, seizing two drinks, and towing Lyonette to dance with him as if nothing had happened. That something had was obvious. That he would not talk about it? Doubly so.

Rafaema returned too, a bit too dispirited to interrogate Lyonette, if she even could. She decided she’d just prevail on her as Wall Lady Rafaema. She didn’t want to talk to Cire, even if he wanted to. She was about to tell him she was off, and walking across the bar when someone beat her to it.

“Excuse me.”

A Drake tapped Lyonette on the shoulder as she did a quick-step with Cire. He turned.

“Hey, guy. I’m dancing with Lionette.”

“Sorry.”

And with that, the Drake produced something. He had a coat on, and was not one of the younger partying people. He held it up and Lyonette turned.

“I’m sorry, I’m—”

She blinked at the Faerie Flower. The Drake smiled.

“It’s not good to hoard, Miss. You know what happens to hoarders?”

He was already stabbing. Lyonette tried to back up and bumped into Cire. The Drake snarled—stabbed her with his empty claw, and blinked at it.

“What the f—”

Rafaema’s head spun. Who the heck was that? A Drake adjusted his cap, and a Gnoll with a top hat stepped through the doorway.

“Backup! She’s got a bodyguard! Get me—”

The Drake reached for another blade, and two more figures rose. Someone tried to come through the doorway and disappeared into a casual backhand from the Gnoll with the top hat. Lyonette reached for the sword she didn’t have. Rafaema spun, drawing her own sword…

—And saw one of the two figures was down. Mirn stood over a Drake, rubbing his fists. The other was lying on the floor too. How the—?

The first Drake attacked, oblivious, having finally gotten another dagger out. He snarled, looked over, saw all of his buddies were gone, and the female Drake with pink and cobalt scales leaping over the Drake she’d taken out in a flash. She had a bottle of Firebreath whiskey in her claws. Rafaema ran after her. She was going to get h—

The funny thing about wine bottles was that they were actually harder to smash than they looked. Rafaema saw it thunk into the Drake’s hand, face, eye—and didn’t break. Parts of him did. Onieva kicked his legs down and went to stomp, but by that point he was so far out that she didn’t bother completing the motion.

Five attackers, all taken out in moments. Rafaema saw Cire’s head spinning left and right, comically, just as much as Lyonette’s. The Lightning Dragon only wished she could claim credit for anything.

Who…? She looked at Mirn, dusting his claws off, Onieva, who tossed the bottle down and put her claws on her hips, exasperated, and the two hatted figures…who were already gone.

Who were they?

——

“Just one time. Just one night without someone trying to kill me, thank you.”

“It reminds me of home.”

The party was over, obviously. Cire’s brawl was one thing, but an actual murder attempt? The Watch had arrived with amazing speed, no less than Oteslia’s Pegasus Riders, which was very suspicious.

As suspicious as Cire’s ‘friends’, who all had drawn some actual artifacts the instant he was in danger. Mind you, they’d still been slower than Mirn and Onieva, but that wasn’t fair.

A Sentry and Architect were always ready for danger. They speculated on the whys and wherefores as they went. However, the two Gentlemen Callers had assured them they’d get Lyonette home safely.

“How are you feeling? Good? Any side effects? You took out those two as fast as I’ve ever seen you.”

“Mirn, stop worrying. I am fine. In fact, I’m amazing!”

Onieva did a happy cartwheel and Mirn tried to smile.

“I just wonder when it will wear off. You’re taking a huge risk, you know.”

“Yes, yes.”

The Drake kept on cartwheeling with amazing grace, especially since she had to account for a moving tail, and then stopped. She turned.

“Mirn. Those Faerie Flowers are going to change everything. Once Saliss gets ahold of them…it could be everyone.”

“I know. I know, just don’t get ahead of yourself. Come on, if you have to celebrate and still be up…here.”

He stopped, and checked a note he carried. Carefully, Mirn walked over to a door set among countless other doors in a residential street, and knocked twice.

“Excuse me. I’m looking for a cow?”

Without a word, the door opened. Onieva mouthed silently.

“Why a cow?”

The Gnoll sitting inside the doorway grinned.

“It’s a good password, though, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s really not. Hello, Onieva and Mirn.”

The Sentry’s eyes widened.

“I’ve heard of you. The Mirn and Onieva?”

“Keep it secret. What the hell are you doing, talking before the door’s closed?”

Mirn scowled. Abashed, the Sentry closed the door, and locked it. Mirn checked the door, looked around the Turnscale bar, as they were known, and saw this one was big. Big, populated, and, to his eyes, established.

Some of the bars like the ones he had to run had a lifespan of days or months at most. They were literally abandoned buildings or rented. This one? It had custom sofas in circular patterns, a magical ‘curtain’ to separate one section, and areas for relaxation, consultation…Onieva blinked.

“Is that a smoking section?”

“Like it? I’m Esse. It’s got magical containment so you can have a puffer and not disturb everyone else.”

“Dead gods. I’ve got some. This place is…”

The Sentry smiled proudly as Mirn and Onieva looked around. The two chorused almost at the same time.

“Unsecured.”

Esse looked puzzled. Mirn pointed at the door.

“This isn’t reinforced enough. You’ve got a decent lock, but I could blow this thing down with a single spell. Where’s your magical shielding?”

“This is too crowded.”

Onieva agreed with a frown. There had to be three hundred people in here at once! Which, of course, was a given due to Oteslia’s massive population—millions meant that any Turnscale population could easily fill a bar like this and every inch of it several times over. However, allowing so many was a risk.

“How are you going to evacuate them if it goes bad? What about a raid?”

Mirn glanced at the other Sentry. Esse blinked, then grinned.

“Oh, a raid? We haven’t had one of those—not a raid—for a decade! Trust me, we’ll hear it coming.”

“That’s what they all say, before everyone gets caught and exiled. And you’re using a week-old password with the cow thing.”

The Gnoll’s smile vanished as she realized this wasn’t a joke or light commentary, Mirn was serious. The [Protector] glared at Esse.

“Magical shielding? How long has this bar been open? You know you should rotate every two years at most. What about screening?”

“Listen, you just walked in here and you have a problem? Take it up with our Architects. I’m just the Sentry for this bar.”

“This bar? You have more?”

Onieva and Mirn chorused, outraged. Esse frowned at them, and glanced around for someone more senior.

“I don’t know what Pallass is like. I hear horror stories, but please, Architect, Sentry—relax. Oteslia’s more like the other cities.”

“Other cities…I’ve never seen this. Not in the other Walled Cities.”

Mirn shook his head. Onieva just frowned around. Then frowned deeper as someone knocked on the door. Reflexively, she and Mirn backed away as Esse casually adjusted the spyhole. He should have motioned them back; there should be a checkpoint area to shield the interior from view and buy a second, or at least a spell trap waiting to hit anyone coming through.

What was wrong with them?

The two settled down at an actual bar with a variety of drinks and food. Rude opening aside, they were still Mirn and Onieva, and some recognized them once they introduced themselves.

“It’s not Esse’s fault. Let me get you to an Architect. Oteslia’s not as hostile as many places.”

“How is that possible? Even if it’s the First Gardener, the entire city?”

“They just don’t enforce it. Thank the [Druids].”

Mirn frowned, until he realized the Drake explaining things was being literal.

“You mean…?”

“Thank the [Druids]. I think they tend to lean on our side. None of them ever come in here, but between you and me…if they were searching for us, they’d probably find us. No one can hide anything underground with them around.”

Mirn shuddered at the very idea. Onieva just frowned. Mirn turned to her.

“You haven’t seen this before?”

“I didn’t go here before, not often. I just met with Architects. If I did go out, it was just anywhere I felt like.”

“Fair enough.”

The [Protector] grimaced. Onieva was a rare case in that when she went out, there was almost no way to trace her back to Saliss. In a sense, she was freer than anyone here…so long as she was Onieva.

“Anyways, I’m just glad no one got hurt and this potion is working so well. No side effects?”

Onieva yawned, smiling.

“None. Tell Saliss it’s the best thing ever and to make more.”

“I will. Say, is this place in need of funding? We can provide a few services. Mostly protective, but financials…and alchemical.”

One of the Drakes leaned forwards, interested.

“We’re set for the first two, but what do you mean, ‘alchemical’?”

The two were explaining what they could add for anyone in need, when Onieva’s head turned. She kept a claw on her cup, but frowned.

“That piece of Ancestor crap.”

Mirn froze. He kept smiling, but didn’t turn his head.

“Onieva?”

“You know that thing about saying shit and having it proven, Mirn? There’s a tail.”

The others gathered around Onieva turned pale. The Drake woman leaned back casually, and her head turned. Mirn didn’t look around.

“Who? And how sure are you?”

Onieva’s mouth moved.

“…Could be a coincidence. But it’s one hell of a one if so. Eyes at eight o’clock. Lone, fur.”

Mirn waited a beat as Onieva pretended to flirt with the Drake on her left, then he turned to go get a drink. On the way to the bar, he glanced at the bartender.

“Sober up. You’re drunk.”

The Drake nearly dropped the mug she was passing to Mirn. She glanced under the counter.

“You sure?”

“Wait on it.”

Mirn turned and finally spotted who Onieva had picked up. He walked back.

“Shit.”

“Did someone follow you? Is it Pallass?”

One of the others squeaked. Mirn and Onieva exchanged a glance.

“Doubt it. But we were just in their company. It could be they’re fine.”

“Maybe it is! Don’t scare us!”

Onieva shook her head. She stared, turning in her seat on the pretext of waving at Esse. Of course, the figure pretended to be in his cups, but it was definitely Raef. The Gnoll, one of Cire’s friends. Onieva’s eyes narrowed.

“…Something’s off about him. Mirn, do you see it?”

“Nothing I’ve got is alarming me besides the face. Onieva, what is it?”

The [Alchemist]’s eyes stared across the room at Raef for a long moment. Her tail began to thrash, slowly, as she turned back to Mirn. She gave him a needle-toothed smile and murmured.

“…That’s an illusion.”

——

Of course, Rafaema knew this existed. Not all of Manus’ High Command even admitted this place existed. Discussing it with her? Not a chance.

Yet she had, like Cire, had many instructors over the years. Some had taken risks. Some had, because they were them, told her, shown her things she never forgot.

Lead us. But what did that mean? It was a question Rafaema always asked.

“How will I lead my people?”

How could she reconcile this to…she sat in a Turnscale bar, having used the password she’d collected to get in. It was a relief it worked, but she’d shadowed Onieva and Mirn here.

Shadowed, in a way only she could. They might have noticed a tail, someone who had to follow them on foot. They had no scent Rafaema could take up, even if she could smell like a Gnoll.

Nor could someone hanging high, just below the cloud layer expect to see them.

Unless they were Rafaema.

This was certainly more of a lively place than the ones in Manus, the few she’d been to. But then, Manus knew almost everything. It had informants among all groups, and if it didn’t crack down often, it was because it was concerned with greater matters.

“Hello there, are you new or waiting for someone?”

They were too friendly here. Raef smiled at a Gnoll who’d come over.

“I’m just uh, looking around. I’ve been to places like this before. I’m just…I’m trying to understand?”

“Of course. Listen, if you want to talk to anyone, my name is…”

That was a good excuse to keep mostly unobserved. Rafaema glanced at Onieva and Mirn. She knew she might be spotted, but if she was, she’d explain she was one of them and find out more.

It certainly went to telling her why they were so good at fighting. So, Saliss of Lights’ cousin was one of them? That was important intelligence. Did they know something about Lyonette? Could she prevail on being a Turnscale to get their aid?

She was so busy trying to work this out she didn’t notice the population of the bar decreasing for the first few minutes. Then she noticed people heading out.

“Looks like a big party’s going on! Anyone with us?”

An excited Drake ran over, shouting the reason why they were all leaving. Rafaema’s eyebrows rose. This was casual. She wavered, but Onieva and Mirn were staying put. Even so, she had to probably introduce herself or…

She was headed for the bar when it struck her that too many people were leaving, all at once. Quickly, not like people making up their minds. But Onieva sat, with her curious coloration.

Her curious mismatched eyes. How she’d made Rafaema start, when she first saw them. Cire too, but she wasn’t…one of them. They’d be able to tell. But if she knew Lyonette—was it connected?

Rafaema approached the bar, but the [Bartender] had hurried into the back. She glanced around, and her heartbeat picked up. From three hundred people, the room was emptying fast. And she wasn’t stupid. But then Mirn glanced over.

“Hey there. You’re one of us, aren’t you? Cire’s friend?”

Raef hesitated as he put a tankard on the bar. He adjusted his belt.

“That’s right. I’m new to Oteslia.”

“You don’t say? So are we. Always good to meet someone like us. You know the rules, I hope?”

“Of course. Not a word to anyone. I don’t tell lies.”

They probably had truth stones. Rafaema calmly took a chair two seats over. Oh, dead gods. Had she gotten herself into…?

“I’m telling the truth.”

“I know that, dear. Mirn. Sentry. You know Onieva?”

Someone waved. The female Drake who was so casual, leaning with both arms back on the bar’s counter.

“Hello! Raef, right?”

“Yep.”

“A secret’s a secret. Everyone has to keep them. I know you’re new, a citizen, not anyone else, so it’s fine, you knowing and nothing else. It’s a Sentry’s job to sort out protection and whatnot. Especially if someone does come after us.”

“I wouldn’t tell anyone. It’s just chance, us meeting like this. Sorry if I’m…”

Rafaema looked around and her throat went dry. Esse, the Sentry, was calmly locking the door. As one did, when not letting anyone in. But…they were the last person in the bar besides them. Evacuated, in less than ten minutes.

Shoddy. You should all be out the door in less than one minute. A wakeup call.

“We believe you, Raef. Onieva, don’t scare him. It’s just…there are rules. Call it paranoia, but anyone who seems odd who isn’t known? Concerning.”

Mirn winked. Raef swallowed. Sword on hip. Activate teleport scroll or alarm and Makhir can be here like lightning. But he and Ferris don’t know I’m here. I gave them the slip!

“What have I done besides show up?”

“Nothing. That’s fair. Like I said, we have to be paranoid. So we’re not accusing you of anything. If you belong, you belong. But the ring needs to come off.”

Rafaema jerked. How did they…? No one should be able to tell. No one except—

Onieva’s eyes glittered as she glanced at Rafaema. The Lightning Dragon looked down at her ring. Had she adjusted it and made it more noticeable? Fool. Fool—

The air began to ionize in her lungs. She spoke, calmly as she could, in a whisper. They didn’t know her.

“I’m sorry, but I really won’t tell anyone.”

“I’m sure. But you cannot walk in here in disguise.”

“…Isn’t that the point?”

Mirn blinked. Then he threw back his head and laughed. He swung himself out of the bar and Rafaema twisted, hand on her sword hilt. But the Drake looked at Onieva and shrugged.

“He’s got us there. Onieva, maybe we’re being too overprotective?”

“Psht. Maybe we are, but that’s our job, Mirn.”

Onieva swept her neck spines back. Mirn hesitated.

“…Let me talk to the bartender. One sec. Onieva, come with me. Raef? One minute, I promise.”

He headed towards the back door. Onieva followed. Rafaema hesitated.

I’m in a trap. I have to go, now. She stood up, wavered, as she heard the back door shut. Not that way. So she strode over to the front door. She didn’t have the key, but she could unlock it from the front! She fumbled with the locks, listening for anyone coming through.

They’re the most dangerous if they think I’m after them. I just have to risk it. I—

They were her people too, weren’t they? But they didn’t know her. She didn’t want to have to kill them, or call down Manus and Oteslia’s wrath on them. Rafaema was still a Dragon. Like Cire, but with training. If she had to—

She tore the door open, teleport scroll in her claw, wings opening wide to shoot into the sky, at a speed that would take even them by surprise. She would have leapt forwards, but for the fact the door was blocked.

“Hi there. My name’s Onieva.”

A Drake with pink and cobalt scales smiled at her. Her mismatched eyes gleamed under moonlight. And the glowing bottle she held.

Rafaema recoiled with a cry of surprise. Her sword rang as she dropped the scroll, but Onieva just waited for the Drake’s impulsive lunge. Then she slammed the door in Rafaema’s face.

The Dragon collided with the door in a whumph as it slammed shut. She caught herself, whirling—were they going to attack? Wh—

Then she saw the bottle, stuck to the door with a bit of something tacky. The glowing bottle that had been in Onieva’s claws. Rafaem—

——

The door wasn’t up to Mirn’s quality, but it still reflected the burst of force without more than a quiet burp. Onieva threw the door open, and strode in.

Mirn’s club was in her claws. He had a backup, and could have helped, but she was the highest-levelled person here.

The ‘Gnoll’ was lying on the ground, his shape flickering slightly from the impact that had sent him hurling across the room. Onieva charged as ‘Raef’ tried to get up.

He was tough. Mirn watched from the back door, ready to move in to help. Esse was watching for an incoming raid, but if there was one, they didn’t see it. Tough, fast, and strong. Whomever this stranger was—a female Drake?—she was also very good with her sword. Someone had trained her well.

Mirn watched as Onieva began to kick the stuffing out of her opponent. Oh, but it was ugly.

The first thing the Oldblood Drake tried to do was breathe something. She opened her mouth, roaring, swinging her sword, and aimed at Onieva. In response, the [Alchemist] threw a small vial into Raef’s mouth and a smoke bomb blew out of every orifice. Raef was blinded, and whatever she was trying to spit was gone completely.

She still swung madly, and quickly too. Was that [Enhanced Agility] or [Greater Agility]? What level was she? Onieva circled around the smoking figure and lashed out. A nasty blow that rewarded her with a cry. She circled as the figure spun.

[Enhanced Toughness] too. Mirn couldn’t imagine Onieva taking it easy. Not in a fight. Not here. Nor did she. She calmly walked around the slashing Raef, took her legs out, and backed away as the figure thrashed. Raef was almost back on her feet when the Sticky Web jar exploded all over her. Then Onieva picked up a chair and began bashing her on the ground with it.

In another time, Saliss could have ended the fight in seconds with a spray of acid or another potion. But Onieva had to improvise. Which meant she ‘only’ had some low-grade potions anyone could afford, or you could attribute to her being a relative of Saliss in the worst case.

She ‘only’ had that. Chaldion’s heir.

Rafaema should have stopped moving, because the sturdy chair had already broken from the impacts. Onieva glanced at the handles as it broke off, and backed up. The female Drake tore out of the sticky webs, roaring, spitting electricity.

“Ancestors. What is she? A mini-[Juggernaut]? Some kind of [Indomitable]? [Berserker]?”

Mirn muttered. Onieva backed up as the sword hunted for her again. A lunge—Mirn would have been sweating if he was tangling with whoever this was.

Onieva? She dropped Raef as the sword missed her. Did not dodge away, but dodged into her, took her down, pinned her, and began to choke her.

Mirn had experienced that move first-hand. Short of a Skill, a [Warrior] had no way to free themselves and it had to be terrifying. The Drake couldn’t breathe electricity, only thrash, and Onieva had the perfect posture to lock her joints down with minimal effort.

…Even so. She was having trouble. Raef was so strong even Onieva was being thrown, using all of her weight and force to keep a stranglehold over the throat. Who was this? But the movements were slowing down. No matter what you were, you needed to breathe.

A minute. Then two minutes.

“Rhir’s hells.”

The furious Drake was still fighting. Her illusion spell was almost completely off. Mirn was checking her face, frowning. He blinked as Esse grabbed his arm.

“Mirn! That’s—”

“I see it. Shit. Onieva! On—”

——

She was going to die. To a single Drake! Here! Rafaema couldn’t breathe. Two minutes had passed, but she couldn’t breathe and the other Drake was on top of her.

She’d tried to cast magic, but Onieva had just avoided the spell, then webbed her claw down. The Lighting Dragon felt something rising inside of her. Not here! Not this way! Not—

The arm released from her throat. She gasped, and lay there. She began to rise, but someone was still on her in a joint-lock. Two voices were speaking.

“Leave her. A Wall Lady disappears, and there will be hell to pay.”

“Mirn. She’s seen us.”

“Well, if she reveals anything, Esse, you, and I are compromised. That’s a given. This place has to be abandoned anyways. She knows what will happen. But Onieva, I am telling you, as Sentry. Leave. Her.”

“I’m an Architect, Mirn. You don’t give me orders about threats.”

“I give it to you about citizens and people I protect. [Protector]. Leave her.”

Dead silence. Then Onieva suddenly began to laugh.

“Really? Fine. We know who she is. Alright…”

Then they picked her up. When Rafaema came too, she was lying on the street, in an alleyway two streets over from the repopulating bar. Only when she got back to her place, where Hunt Commander Makhir and Ferris arrived after searching all night and stopped, ready to berate her, did Rafaema realize the final insult.

Someone had written ‘idiot’ across her face in ink.

——

Onieva relaxed, in the awe of the others who’d seen her. She was the best of them. Mirn could not imagine anyone who could beat her.

“Want to speculate what that was?”

Esse had left them be with food and drinks. And, Mirn suspected, gratitude for not killing Rafaema.

It could still go bad, and the two Pallass-residents were ready for all of it. Sometimes, though…well. Everything was a risk.

“Nah. I’m tired. I think…no? It’s not wearing off. Mirn…it’s not wearing off and it’s been hours. It’s as good as the other version! Better!”

Onieva pinched herself, and was delighted. Amid it all, danger, annoying kids, and the rest, her delight remained and Mirn was happy for her.

“That’s wonderful. What do you think Saliss will do? Can he share it around? Maybe we can provide it for the others, if only my bar. What do you think?”

Onieva’s lips moved. She frowned.

“…That would be wonderful. We still have to figure out side effects, but we’ll have to see what Saliss thinks when he’s up.”

Mirn was nodding, tired, but elated, when something stopped him. He looked over at Onieva.

“…Or you could tell me now. Unless you’re not thinking about it.”

The Drake snorted.

“Why? I can’t read minds. Ask Saliss.”

Slowly, Mirn sat up at the bar. There was a difference between being playful, or being…Onieva…and ignorance. And this was different from how she’d ever talked.

“Right, Onieva. But I am saying that you would know what Saliss is thinking.”

“Why?”

The [Protector] felt his stomach knot. Onieva looked at him. She lost her smile; she was not a fool, after all.

“Mirn? Something wrong?”

“Do you…not remember? What’s your class, Onieva?”

“[Alchemist], of course. And don’t ask me my level. Some things are secret, even to you.”

“Just like Saliss?”

“We are cousins. But he’s the Named Adventurer. I’ve never wanted to…Mirn? What’s wrong?”

The [Protector] sat there. Wondering if he should tell her. Wondering what he should say. Would Saliss…?

“What’s the catch?”

He understood it, now.

——

Lyonette had a hangover the day after the outing. She discovered how much it hurt for nearly an hour of lying in bed.

When she finally arose, Saliss was lounging in the dining room, heckling Xif.

Xif had his head in his paws, but he looked more rested than Saliss or Lyonette. Onieva was nowhere to be seen, but Mirn was with them. Lyonette paused.

“Good…”

Her voice caused her so much pain that she stopped. Saliss glanced up, and tossed something at her. It bounced off Lyonette’s head and she glared at him.

“That’s a vial, dummy. You catch them and drink them or it looks as stupid as…that.”

“What is it?”

Lyonette whispered. Her throat was sore, she felt exhausted and grumpy, and the naked Drake was not who she wanted to see right now. Saliss raised his brows.

“A Hangover Potion. But if you don’t want it…”

The [Princess] scrambled so fast to down the orange-flavored vial of actually tasty liquid for once that Mirn snorted. He nodded at her as she came downstairs, headache and fog already clearing.

“Where’s Onieva? I have to thank her, and you, Mirn, for last night. And the Gentlemen Callers…?”

“Gone. They’re looking into the people who tried to kill you. They said they finally have a lead since some were actually taken alive. Onieva’s resting.”

Saliss replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Is she here?”

“Nope. She’s private and she partied harder than you. You’ll see her around.”

Lyonette could believe Onieva needed a rest, hangover cure or not. She’d seen how much the Drake drank. Cire, Onieva—they were excellent customers, in a sense, for The Wandering Inn.

“Well, thank you, Mirn.”

“No problem. Saliss and I can keep you company without them.”

“Really? You’re not busy, Saliss? I thought you were working on the potion with the flowers all night.”

“Nope. I took a break too.”

“I trust it was somewhat fun? I had…a somewhat enjoyable experience.”

The Named Adventurer paused for an infinitesimal moment Lyonette missed as she stared at a bought breakfast; no one cooked here, not Mirn or the two [Alchemists].

“I’m told other people had a fun night. Onieva can have all the fun she wants. Saliss gets the jobs. Saliss is the responsible one, and can you believe that?”

“It boggles the mind.”

Mirn whispered. Saliss shrugged.

“Everyone needs Saliss. My cousin’s even more worthless than I am, if you can believe that.”

“No. She’s not.”

Lyonette glanced up from a sandwich as the two Drakes locked gazes. Saliss obviously didn’t like Mirn; maybe it was a history? She knew that.

“I can’t believe you figured it out. We’ve…have we wasted the potential of the flowers?”

Xif’s first remark made Lyonette sit up. Saliss turned back to Xif, and a huge, happy smile crossed his features.

“Xif, my friend…absolutely, yes. I figured it out and you didn’t. And all your hard work has, in fact, been negative work. I figured it out and you—”

He got up and began to dance, chortling at the Gnoll [Alchemist]. Lyonette stared at them blankly.

——

They caught her up on the unique properties of the Faerie Flowers later. Lyonette shook her head.

“You mean, by trying to find out their properties…”

“We have now created nearly a thousand bad combinations with them. Which means anything based off of those formulas is probably gone too. As it stands, we have a flower that’s a powerful fertilizer, sleeping agent, painkiller, drink additive…now we have to figure out what can be made that’s not ruined by Xif’s hard work.”

For all that, Saliss didn’t appear as annoyed as Lyonette expected him to be. If anything, he was more focused and less annoying than usual. He turned to Lyonette.

“What’s the first thing to do? I promised Wilovan and Ratici I’d stay with you.”

“Well, looking into the killers after me would be my first step—”

“—And they’re doing it. I’d advise you not to get in their way.”

Lyonette bit her lip, but she accepted that with a curt nod.

“Then, Mrsha. I have a number of people to petition.”

“Alright, then.”

——

That was how Lyonette found herself sitting and sipping tea with Magnolia Reinhart.

Why she paid a visit to Wall Lord Ilvriss, who had also requested to meet Saliss of Lights on behalf of the sickly, shivering, shaking Shriekblade.

And the reason why the [Druids] of Oteslia heard her, in their Circle. From Nalthaliarstrelous to Shassa, because she knew Mrsha, and Drakes and Gnolls she had never met. Even a Beastkin.

All to answer the one question that mattered. Not who was after her, not even, at this moment, how to cure Erin Solstice. Her only question:

“How can I save my daughter?”

There was so much power here, represented in individual people and groups. The only problem was that Oteslia was under siege.

And that Lyonette had nothing to offer them. Oh, she had many things, but very little herself. Very little tangibly.

They knew it, too. They knew her. That was what shocked Lyonette.

“A [Princess] of Calanfer begs our help for one of our kin.”

The first [Druid] spoke from where he sat, a single eye fixing on her, his large eyes gleaming behind brown, leathery skin. Lyonette had expected grey, if at all. She did not know the [Druids]’ number included those from Baleros, the rare Beastkin tribes.

Nor had she ever met one of them like this. Hawk was ordinary, a Rabbit Beastkin compared to…

At first she had thought he was almost like stone, so unmoving and still. Yet stone did not have horns; a pair, one larger, one smaller. What was so strange was that despite being Beastkin, adopting more humanoid characteristics, he could walk on all fours or upright.

Rhinoceros Beastkin. The others sat in silence, letting each speak. One sat in the midst of an actual stream of water, a waterfall in miniature, which somehow gave Lyonette the impression the Drowned Man was not being struck by the water, but enveloped in it.

Nalthaliarstrelous himself sat with Shassa, the [Spiderweb Druid], far enough away that the nest in her staff didn’t bother him. He was rubbing at the head of a creature, trimming very gently the horns of a Corusdeer, young, not yet adult, who had an overgrowth of the horn.

“A child. She has the class, but children have many classes.”

“Do you discount her as one of us for age?”

That came from a Gnoll making a cairn of stones. In their inner sanctum in Oteslia, Lyonette had been surprised to see hundreds of [Druids], some on patrol for cruelty. Others growing food or plants. Some tending to animals.

They were not all alike. If Nalthaliarstrelous represented their most warlike aspect, some of these [Druids] were clearly peaceful, like Shassa had been. Others walked hand-in-hand with the politics of Oteslia.

They knew who she was. She gulped.

“My…identity is known to you, [Druids] of Oteslia?”

There was no point in denying the truth. Nor would it have been wise. Nalthaliarstrelous snorted.

“Even if you dyed your hair, Lionette Solstice, it would have been obvious. You hide your class, and name, but not nature. Your aura reeks of Terandria.”

The [Princess] colored; she had considered it was difficult to conceal her identity, but it was another thing to be so casually revealed. The leader of the [Druids] was not the Rhino Beastkin, but a Drake, fairly fittingly.

She sat on a hovering basket of soil in the air, a levitating plant growing up there, roots reaching down to basins of water placed to feed them. A naturally levitating plant? She pruned it carefully, flicking bugs down for a giant mouse-thing to eat. It reminded Lyonette of Apista, because the rodent—fully six times larger than your standard rat—was too intelligent. It was in the eyes.

“Your identity is known to us, Lyonette du Marquin. Rest assured, we will not reveal it. We are not part of Oteslia’s plans. However, the concerns of [Druids] still exist. You would have us do what?”

“Send [Druids]. Or just one to find my daughter. Bring her here. I know it is in your power.”

Lyonette looked directly at Nalthaliarstrelous when she said that. The [Druid] snorted.

“And kill those who pursue her.”

“She is a child.”

“Yes. And we are no enemies of the Tribes.”

“Then you’d let her die? She’s done nothing wrong!”

Lyonette saw Nalthal’s eyes flash, and movement flickered around the Circle. It was the Drowned Man under the waterfall who spoke, his voice like Seborn’s.

“We make no war on Roshal. Injustice exists and we choose our battles. If you asked us ten thousand years ago, when there were many times our number, you would have a different answer, Princess Marquin. From other circles, different as well.”

“This one asks for what gain do we move, when you might well find your aid in similar allies.”

Shassa spoke nervously, glancing at Nalthal. Lyonette looked at him too, and thought of her second meeting of that day, with Magnolia Reinhart. The Human [Druid] scowled at Shassa. He must have told them a lot. But he was clearly not happy with the decision. Proof positive: him kicking Shassa in the stomach.

However, the Circle was a vote, or so it seemed. Lyonette tried again.

“If you would intercede, just to help her…?”

“Miss Marquin. What could you offer us? Everything is a trade, and we do not forswear our pacts. Let us say we gave you our aid. Perhaps you resolve everything peacefully, in safety. In the worst case? We defend our sister, child or not. We might die like mayflies, but we will honor our words. For what would we weigh the lives of many [Druids] and our kin here with a single one of us?”

Another nod, from a Gnoll.

“If it seems callous, simply count how many lives are weighed on either choice, Lyonette of Calanfer. Betimes that is simply what we must do. Or did you not see the grim necessity wrought at Liscor by Druid Nathale…Nathelire…Druid Nalthal?”

She had come to a too-practical group. Lyonette bit her lip.

“If you know I am a [Princess] of Calanfer—then would you accept a promise on behalf of the kingdom?”

She was willing to sign a lot she had no right to. But the [Druids] just snorted.

“Were you [Queen], we would consider it. Yet Calanfer lost its forests and sanctuaries. Lost it and clung to their Eternal Throne. Calanfer has little good will with us, Lyonette du Marquin. The actions of your predecessors have done much to harm us.”

“Not me.”

The [Princess] defended herself. To that, Nalthal laughed nastily. He flicked a shaving of Corusdeer antler at her.

“Of course not. But we remember. That is how it works. No aid will come from us. Begone and waste neither’s time.”

His eyes lingered on her.

“Go. Sometimes you must do what is necessary yourself. Seize it, [Princess] of Calanfer. You cannot ask others to fight your wars forever.”

——

Of course, he was right. Lyonette laid out her second case to Magnolia Reinhart after they finally got to the heart of the discussion. She had no idea why Magnolia had segued into Grand Magus Eldavin.

She was sweating as she tried to sip from her tea. The first part of their conversation had gone well, but Lyonette was keenly aware she was outmatched, if Magnolia Reinhart’s aura didn’t prove that itself.

In Skill, experience, aura…Magnolia Reinhart was renowned as the bloodless warlady of the north. The Deadly Flower. Well, she was bloody enough in the past, but her ability to make deals was the stuff they told stories about.

Curiously, she had not swept Oteslia with backdeals, threats, or grand, covetous deals as of yet. If anything, Lyonette had considered her presence in Oteslia as inoffensive as possible, especially at the ball she’d attended.

“I would only need a small favor, Lady Reinhart. I would, of course, repay it many times over.”

“Indeed, Miss Lyonette? Or is it Lionette? Do forgive me, I forgot to clarify which it was. We must keep up appearances. Although…I would have personally changed more than a single letter on my passport.”

“…Lyonette will do, Lady Reinhart.”

The [Lady] smiled as Lyonette flushed. The [Princess] resolved not to let it shake her. She met Magnolia’s gaze.

“You know my daughter is in grave danger. From the Plain’s Eye tribe and others. I do not think you are heartless, Lady Reinhart. The [Druids] are—out of necessity, they claim. But you could give me a small escort. A few favors. All I would need is…”

She hesitated. Lady Reinhart helpfully filled the gap.

“My carriage. Which I presume you would ride out of Oteslia, with, perhaps, Reynold driving it? Two [Maids]? I can well imagine it might break Zeres’ cordon. You do know Liscor’s army has joined them? Well, even combined, if Reynold got up to speed, they could not catch him.”

Lyonette nodded slowly.

“…And once I had my daughter, I could bring her to safety.”

“Indeed. Along the way, would you, by any chance, out of, oh, necessity, be forced to run over any Gnolls of the largest tribe in the world with my rather famous and noticeable coach? Or kill Drakes if any got in your way?”

The [Princess] did not respond. Magnolia Reinhart pretended to pluck lint off her dress. Ressa produced a duster and flicked it over her arm. The [Lady] gave her [Maid] a long look. Ressa smiled politely.

“…In my hour of delicate negotiations, Miss Lyonette, bloodshed is not desirable.”

“But—”

Magnolia lifted a finger.

“I told you, Miss Mrsha departed the city she was last in, in the company of Sellme, if what the Gnolls hunting her are shouting can be believed. I am not sure this is for the best, although it makes tracking her harder than this other white Gnoll. He moved objectionably fast.”

Lyonette sat up. Magnolia went on, scowling.

“If that child is as bright as I am led to believe, she will slip away if her captors are that. If not? If the chance arises in any city they are in, my people will try to escort her to safety. But they do not know where she is. We believe she is in a number of cities near the one she fled from, but the hunters are searching every person on the road.”

“Then you do have people looking for her.”

Lyonette whispered. Magnolia Reinhart glanced up.

“My dear. If this was the north, they would have already delivered her to you and I would be claiming my ransom in…what would I ask for, Ressa?”

“Probably cake and ice cream.”

“Ah, that would be like me. But I do not have as…many…agents in the south. I am not inclined to lend you my carriage unless the need arises.”

“Thank you. Thank you.”

Lyonette whispered. The lack of resistance was like a balm on a burn. But Magnolia Reinhart waved it away.

“Miss Marquin, it is I who must thank you for being rather charming. At the ball, you know? Being a gracious visitor with a number of Drakes who have every reason to dislike you is rather difficult and I am not exerting my, ah, more pressing charms. Shall we talk about what you might do for me, in the interim you are here, under this lovely siege? Very refreshing. No boulders crashing down around us, no arrows, no rationing as of yet…I quite think we should copy it in the north.”

The young woman hesitated.

“Naturally, Lady Reinhart. But if Mrsha is found…”

“I assure you, Miss Marquin. If you have the opportunity, rush—with considerable decorum, foresight, and caution—to her. However, I have a little soiree planned for tomorrow. Soirée. Dreadful word. I’d rather it was a dish. Raspberry or something. That’s what it sounds like.”

“Are you hungry, milady?”

Ressa bent down. Magnolia paused.

“…I do believe I am, Ressa.”

“Ah, then I shall fetch a delicious sampler of sweets fit for a pig.”

“Thank you, Ressa. Are you hinting at anything?”

“Not at all. Your Highness, will you take anything?”

“Er…perhaps something savory?”

“Very good, your Highness.”

The two watched Ressa go. Magnolia murmured to Lyonette.

“You know, she only tends to act like this to prove a point, when she thinks I will be embarrassed. I would prefer it if you would be your charming self tomorrow. I plan to finally make a concerted appeal to the gathered individuals here. Some cannot arrive due to this dratted siege…well. It is time.”

Lyonette’s ears perked up. Time for what? She sipped at her tea cautiously as she was served a kind of delicate brie, crackers, fruits, and Magnolia stared down at an entire cake. Lyonette was impressed. It would have gone for several gold in The Wandering Inn, even without her markup. There was so much frosting as Ressa cut a slice that she wondered if there was more actual cake or frosting in it.

“Ressa. You offend me.”

“I am so sorry, Milady…”

Magnolia stopped Ressa as she went to take the rest of the cake away.

“You slice the entire cake if it’s meant to be eaten, Ressa. Lyonette, will you take a slice? No?”

She delicately put a fork into the first bite of pure frosting as Lyonette and Ressa exchanged a glance.

“…You were about to unveil your project, Lady Reinhart? Is that not…well, peace between Drakes and Humans?”

Lyonette prompted after a few seconds of horrified staring. The thing wasn’t that Magnolia ate like a pig. In fact, her manners were better than most. She sipped her tea, ate with a very small fork…it was just that she didn’t stop. Lyonette felt her teeth melting and heart beginning to stop just watching her and jerked her eyes away.

“Indeed. I have yet to offer the many exquisite gifts I so tempted the Drakes with. For that matter, we have yet to come to any accord on peace. I did ask them what they envisioned. The idea of mutual cooperation…rather like talking to a bunch of angry bricks in a wall. So it is my turn to make an offer, and I have one. It only remains to be seen whether they will listen at all. Hence, your involvement.”

Lyonette nodded. She had observed how much dislike Magnolia Reinhart generated by being…Magnolia Reinhart. Which was not surprising, given her family’s history.

“Of course I will attend, Lady Reinhart. However—with deepest apologies, I am sure you can accept some reservations? I would not want to be privy to anything untoward.”

Magnolia laughed drily.

“A Calanferian [Princess] to the core. You will not take it on trust?”

“I would prefer to know what you plan to offer Oteslia, or the Drakes at large, yes, Lady Reinhart.”

The woman pursed her lips, but to Lyonette’s deepest surprise, she nodded.

“Very well. Ressa, fetch some of the materials.”

“You’ll tell me?”

This was not Magnolia Reinhart’s modus operandi at all. Nor was it wise in any game to show anyone the cards you wanted to hold onto; knowledge was power, even if it was only time to prepare and think. Yet, Magnolia Reinhart met Lyonette’s gaze calmly.

“I cannot have secrets. Not for this. It must be a plan without frill or duplicity. Do you see why I struggle so, Lyonette? This is what I intend…”

She outlined her plan. Lyonette’s head shot up. She leaned forwards and said—

——

But of course, her daughter mattered more. Lyonette was already flustered when she went to meet with Wall Lord Ilvriss.

Who also knew who she was. At this point, the [Princess] felt like she should wear her tiara just to present herself properly.

“Miss Marquin. I apologize for the awkward situation. Alchemist Saliss. Greetings.”

It was actually one of the few times the two had met. Lyonette forgot they were not actual contemporaries, for all that Pallass had been open to Liscor for a while. Saliss walked butt-naked into Ilvriss’ temporary estates.

“Wall Lord. I hope you don’t mind, but I dressed up for the occasion. Is that Shriekblade lying in a pool of her vomit? Classic Tessa.”

Ilvriss had been prepared, but no one was prepared for Saliss. He actually did a double-take, snapped his gaze up from Saliss’ bare…bareness. Even Lyonette looked askance at the [Alchemist]. What did he…?

Both Human and Drake looked down and their eyes tracked a miniature version of a tuxedo or similar dress.

…Attached to Saliss’ tail. Ilvriss closed his eyes. Then he turned to Lyonette.

“This way, Lyonette. I presume we shouldn’t stand on formalities?”

She smiled at him, genuinely, for the first time that day.

“Of course not…Ilvriss. If that’s acceptable?”

“I would rather imagine that lies up to you, Lyonette. Thank you. I have to apologize again—one of my employees, the Named Adventurer Shriekblade, is ill, so this serves a dual purpose.”

Mannerisms. If Magnolia, even at her most open, was a kind of dignified, charming social dance, and the Druids a fairly blunt enclave, then Ilvriss was a different kind to both. He had that [Merchant]’s manner, almost. Businesslike, direct, but with a certain style of due dignity and ceremony. Lyonette had some familiarity with it, and sped up her own tempo to match his, like a good [Diplomat].

Speaking of which, Ilvriss introduced her in quick succession to Nerul, a charming, if somewhat portly Drake, Captain Shieldscale, a brusque [Soldier]’s [Captain], and Xesci, who seemed too charming to be a [Secretary], and the comatose Shriekblade.

“My personal aides this time. A rather…different group, but trustworthy.”

Lyonette frowned. She had little read on the [Captain] or Xesci, but Nerul made her hair want to stand up. As a [Princess] of the famous political kingdom, she had more respect and wariness for him than anyone else in the room except for Shriekblade.

She sat there, muttering to herself.

“She’s dead. I’m dead. She’s dead. I’m dead…”

Saliss had focused on her without even doing more than nodding at Nerul and giving Xesci a second look and frowning. He squatted down as Lyonette was caught up as to the reason Shriekblade was in this state. She bit her lip and Ilvriss glanced at her.

“Goblins?”

“A strange coincidence. Unfortunate given the timing. I need Shriekblade to be…herself. I had few recourses left; it was either a [Druid] or [Alchemist] Saliss.”

Of the two, Lyonette would have gone with a [Druid]. She fully expected Saliss to annoy the Drake with countless thin scars all over her body, but to her surprise, he didn’t. He squatted down and spoke, almost kindly to her.

“Hey Shrieky. It’s me. Saliss. Remember me?”

She didn’t say anything. Saliss turned.

“Look. I dressed up my tail. You’re not doing well, are you? Tessa? Shriekblade?”

“She’s dead, Saliss. She’s dead. I’m not going to be well again.”

The Drake muttered. Saliss shook his head.

“You don’t need the Healer, Tessa. Hm. You’re sick. Are you eating? Mirn would throw a fit. Let’s see. Are you…?”

He went to feel at her forehead and Shiekblade moved. She drew two daggers and slashed at his claw so fast Lyonette didn’t see her move. Only that Saliss was two steps back, on his feet.

“Yep. She’s dangerous. I’m surprised no one’s dead.”

Ilvriss rubbed at his cheek, and Lyonette saw tell-tale signs of a healing potion; fresh scales.

“It has been troubling, to say the least. She refuses to take anything. We did administer a calming spray…”

The [Alchemist] shrugged.

“Tessa’s got more of a tolerance to that kind of thing than a [Veteran Warrior] does to healing potions. You might as well spit onto a warm towel and toss it on her. It would do about as much good. She’s really down; I don’t think you’d be able to take her out of it, just blank her for a while. And that won’t help.”

Ilvriss hissed through his teeth.

“I feared that was the case. Saliss of Lights. Could you prescribe and create something to help Miss Tessa? A calming draught? Something to at least keep her from violence? Restore her senses?”

Saliss tilted his head, regarding Ilvriss.

“Do you mean make her work?”

There was no change to his tone, but Lyonette’s honed abilities made her glance up. So did Nerul. But Ilvriss glanced at neither his uncle trying to signal him, nor Lyonette. He met Saliss’ gaze calmly.

“I mean, help Adventurer Tessa. Not Shriekblade.”

Saliss smiled.

“Good answer. And the answer is…no. I can give her any number of mind-altering tonics, but I won’t. I don’t prescribe potions for this. That’s sort of how we got here.”

He gestured at Tessa. Ilvriss, a bit taken aback, looked at her.

“But how can she…?”

“[Healer]. [Thought Healers] if you have any. Get a [Druid]. But she’s out for at least a week. If the Healer comes back, so does she, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

Saliss eyed Ilvriss. The Wall Lord paced around a bit.

“Adventurer Tessa’s aid is necessary, Saliss. We need her now.”

“Well, I can’t do it aside from turning her into a Golem. Sorry.”

Saliss gave Ilvriss an almost apologetic look. Almost. Lyonette, wavering, looked between him and Ilvriss. He had to have thought of it. Why wasn’t he saying…?

“Saliss. Do you think a Faerie Flower might help her?”

The Named Adventurer turned his head slowly to Lyonette, and his flat, blank look told her that he was not happy. Ilvriss glanced over.

“Faerie Flowers. Yes. It did cross my mind. Do you have a supply in Oteslia, Miss Marquin? I heard…something about it?”

The fact that he hadn’t heard all about her monopoly surprised Lyonette, until she remembered he was a [Wall Lord] who specialized in gems and not a [Merchant], [Herbalist], [Gardener], [Alchemist], or so on. She nodded.

“I have some in the city. Saliss, could we give um, Shriekblade, a Faerie Flower drink? A Minotaur’s Punch? It’s helped people like Halrac and—”

“No.”

The Drake folded his orange-scaled arms. Ilvriss and Lyonette turned to him.

“Why not? It helped me considerably, Adventurer Saliss. Have you tried the drink?”

Saliss scoffed.

“Have I tried…? Who do you think I am? Of course I’ve tried it. And I’m telling you, I won’t give it to Tessa. Nor am I going to whip up some kind of magical cure based on it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it might work. And that would be terrible!”

The Drake snapped. He looked at both blank faces and threw up his claws.

“Tessa doesn’t need another potion! I don’t think there’s a single potion in the world that could fix her, unless it’s one that just clears out everything she’s drunk for the last twenty years! Yes, you might make a miracle-drink. But it’s a bad idea.”

The [Alchemist] looked from face to face and realized…they had no idea what he meant. Not even Nerul—maybe the odd Drake, Xesci.

“But if it helps, Saliss…”

They didn’t understand and Saliss didn’t know how to fully explain. He raked a claw through his neck spines. How to explain that the worst thing would be if it did help, because that meant…?

He made one mistake. A huge one, but Saliss hadn’t thought Lyonette would spring the question on him. Because he’d forgotten that she was well-meaning, genuinely probably a good girl, especially for a [Princess]. But she just had no context for this. His mistake was saying all this, arguing with Lyonette and Ilvriss, in front of Shriekblade.

The Adventurer had her claws around his leg before he could move. Saliss whirled.

“Tessa, don’t—”

But she didn’t have her blades out. She stared up at him.

“You…there’s a new potion? What’s a Faerie Flower? I’ve heard of it. What does it do?”

Saliss cursed. Lyonette wavered.

“It’s—Wall Lord, maybe if we applied it to a Potion of Cleansing or something similar? Saliss, if you don’t want to make it, perhaps Xif could?”

“No. Tessa, you don’t need it. Get off—”

“I need it. Saliss, don’t stop me. I’ll kill you. Give it to me. Give it—who’s Xif? Xif of Pallass? He makes some of my potions. Where is…?”

The [Alchemist] was one of the fastest Drakes in the world. He was second-fastest in this room. He went for Tessa, this time in a complicated grab. She dove past him, and shot for the door.

“Tessa!”

He charged after her. Lyonette saw Captain Shieldscale go after both. Nerul cursed.

“Ilvriss! I’m going to stop them! Is she going to gut that poor…?”

He ran out the door. Xesci hesitated, but then followed on the general principle that everyone was running and she’d better get a head start. Ilvriss cursed, going for the door, but then stopped. He very much doubted that he could beat two Named Adventurers, even if they found a coach. The Wall Lord turned.

“I’ve bungled this situation nicely, Lyonette. It’s been—difficult.”

Lyonette hesitated, about to go after them, then strode over to the door and closed it. She was also aware of how fast the others moved. The [Princess] looked at Ilvriss. He was far more tired than she remembered. But some of the grief…it was not necessarily gone, but it had changed.

“Why are you here, Wall Lord Ilvriss?”

They had not been able to get into it at the ball. The Wall Lord smiled, bleakly.

“I am on an assignment. Self-imposed. I actually intended to meet with Magnolia Reinhart later today.”

“I just met with her. May I ask…what for?”

Wall Lord Ilvriss hesitated. He looked at the closed door. Then at Lyonette. It occurred to him, suddenly, that Saliss of Lights, who was connected to the Cyclops of Pallass, a dangerous Drake and a possible ally, but a…dangerous Drake…had just left. Leaving Lyonette alone and proving he was about as good as the Gentlemen Callers at bodyguarding.

To be fair, it was difficult, and combat experience did not equate to good preservation instincts for anyone but yourself. However, he had left Lyonette behind and Wilovan and Ratici were likewise missing. Ilvriss looked at Lyonette.

It was becoming a paranoia, as Nerul had pointed out, in how few people he did trust. Even now, he wrestled with the implications.

Yet. If there was one person in the world he would have taken the chance on, for better or worse, because of what he thought about her, because of what she could do—it would have been Erin Solstice.

Lyonette? Could he really imagine a Terandrian [Princess] had come all the way to Liscor as part of some Necromancer’s scheme?

…Absolutely, yes. In fact, it happening without some kind of guidance was even more suspicious still. Ilvriss realized his claw was on the doorknob.

“Important business, Miss Lyonette. Very confidential to Salazsar. However…I trust only a few people with the particulars. And this Oteslian business confounds it all. The Meeting of Tribes as well. Trust is a difficult quality these days.”

“I…I imagine so, Ilvriss.”

Lyonette glanced at the Drake. He took his claw off the handle. Then carefully produced a magical key and locked the door. Then he twisted a ring on his claw. She glanced around.

…Now that she thought of it, she had seen no servants in this mansion, as evidenced by some track marks, a general sign this was not a place you hosted people. She saw Wall Lord Ilvriss turn.

“It would be acceptable for me to inform you of the details. And now might be an opportune moment. May I trouble you, Miss Lyonette, for your time? I would only need about twenty minutes.”

“I…would like to make sure Alchemist Xif is well, Wall Lord.”

“Naturally. Perhaps after?”

He stood, quite polite, the same Drake she remembered with deep purple scales, a certain dignity like a [Lord] of Terandria to him.

Claw on his sword hilt. Of course, Lyonette had her own sword too, but she was well aware of the difference. She glanced at the shut, locked door. Empty mansion. No one to hear her…she took a few steps back.

“What…kind of questions?”

——

Thirty minutes later, Lyonette found Alchemist Xif with Wall Lord Ilvriss. Nerul glanced up, breathing hard, and eyed Ilvriss.

“You took your time.”

“We had to catch up. I answered a few questions. Is Xif alive?”

Lyonette snapped. She stalked past Nerul without a word. The [Diplomat]’s eyes narrowed at ‘questions’. He glanced at Ilvriss as Xesci and Osthia turned.

A fun fact. Because their biologies were rather similar to Humans, albeit with scales, lacking noses, and so forth, unlike Lizardfolk who were closer to actual lizard biology rather than mammalian, many things were the same.

However, unless you were a Drake—and even then—it was harder to tell someone was blushing. Or, alternatively, had been slapped. Blood below the scales was less visible, but swelling was still swelling.

Ilvriss rubbed at his cheek. He supposed he deserved that, when viewing it from her context. Yet he gave Nerul a significant look.

“I assume they were questions that had good answers, nephew?”

“The best, Uncle. The best.”

Nerul smiled and Osthia let out a huge sigh of relief. Ilvriss felt his own shoulders relax. They could talk more. For now—he pushed into the door as he heard a cry. Nerul’s head snapped up and they crowded through into the shared home.

Shriekblade had taken Xif hostage in the laboratory they’d set up, and Saliss had broken in, but been unable to enter without her making good on a threat to slit his throat. Mirn, who’d been napping, then nearly died to the whirlwind of blades, watched with a club in his claw, but Saliss had no weapons in his claws. He just looked ahead, bleakly, then walked away.

Lyonette du Marquin and Wall Lord Ilvriss heard sobbing. They entered the laboratory and saw Shriekblade. Still a mess, and this time compounded by tears, snot, practically lying on top of a terrified Gnoll.

Xif had an empty vial in one paw. He looked at Shriekblade, but she had dropped the daggers. She was sobbing, feeling at herself.

“It worked. It worked!”

The impromptu potion lay empty to the dregs in the bottle. Lyonette saw the Named Adventurer sobbing, and shaking, then laughing in relief. She was better. She broke into a relieved smile that she traded with Ilvriss.

Finally. Some good news. Ilvriss smiled all the way back to his mansion. Right up until Xesci whispered to him. She had noticed two people in the crowd around Lyonette’s home and they concerned her greatly.

“On the list is the First Gardener’s son, Cirediel, and a Wall Lady Rafaema. I…I can’t get anything from them. At all.”

——

Questions. While the others asked the important ones, it was the considered opinion of two fellows of singular talents that they could ask one, as it were.

Singular talents. A man had a number of gifts, some quite good ones, if he was lucky. However, expertise was hard to come by. Insofar as anyone could claim anything without being a braggart, they were fairly good at one thing, each.

The two were Wilovan and Ratici. They knew a lot of things.

They knew they were not good men.

They knew they had failed when they absolutely should not.

They knew they did not want to fail again.

They knew a girl was missing, a child, rather spirited, but entirely innocent, and that was a terrible thing. If they found out who was threatening to harm a hair on her head, all bets were off.

All hats were off. They had been on their best behavior, so far from their normal grounds. And see what happened? People kept taking advantage of their kindness.

It was enough. They had one question, and sometimes a fellow had to ask, no matter what the answer was. They had chosen to ask a question like that. The two walked through Oteslia, in their best suits.

Ratici still had a vest, but he had chosen a good, Wyvern-leather one. The kind a fellow brought out and kept well-secured. His pants were a bit different; a Noelictus-brand fiber, black as shadow. Not black as black could be, because that was altogether too dark and stood out at night. He had on his usual cap, but he’d even taken the time to buff his shoes, and fetch the good ones that didn’t just make no sound, but made anti-sound, sound which ate other sounds.

Wilovan had on a more formal attire. Erin had called it close to a suit from her world, but it was more open than that. And with deepest respect to her…she didn’t know clothing.

No constraining fabric when he turned, twisted, or lifted his arms. Nothing to catch onto either, mind you, and the outer layer wasn’t silk, or even fine cotton, but a stiffer composite from Ironrams. Mixed with cotton; you weren’t about to ask for a solid weave, my word, no. It gave him a grey look, as the cotton woven in was of roughly the same color.

With his top hat, he looked a bit too austere, so he’d chosen a patterned scarf, a token from an encounter no gentleman talks about, patterned green and braided with a soft cream color. Now there was a fine piece of clothing, fit for any man, rich or poor. Like Ratici, his shoes were buffed, personally, and his pants covered all fur.

They stood out. Neither Gnolls nor Drakes dressed exactly like they did. It was more of a northern look. But the two Gentlemen Callers were used to such looks. If anything, it was funny.

“Seems to me we stand out here as much as in the north. Two fellows, never quite right at home, Ratici.”

“That’s true, Wilovan. However, perhaps there’s some comfort in that.”

“…I fail to take your meaning, Ratici.”

The Drake [Gentleman Thief] shrugged.

“It’s one of those things where a fellow never has to think ‘well, the grass is greener over there’. He’s always a bit out of place wherever he goes.”

Wilovan turned to his friend and companion of long years.

“Why, Ratici. If you don’t mind me saying, that’s as philosophically fine as I’ve ever heard you vouch.”

“I suppose it’s your comments rubbing off, Wilovan.”

The Gnoll smiled. They walked on, in that unhurried, self-assured stroll. They did not stride quickly, nor meander. It was slow, purposeful. Deliberate.

Style. Of course, they both knew where they were going. Wilovan even had a rounded walking cane, and Ratici had a little map of Oteslia, so they wouldn’t get lost. Not that they had an appointment, but both were sure they were expected.

Here were the facts: five fellows had conducted themselves rather unpleasantly yesterday. Five fellows—and it wasn’t as if there hadn’t been some rudeness before, hmm? This time, though, there were people to ask.

The Watch had four, but the fifth had vanished rather unexpectedly. Of course, Ratici and Wilovan were old hands at this. They had sat the man down, offered him a drink, and pressed him gently on where he was from and what all this spot and bother was about.

He had vouchsafed the information quite quickly, and they had taken him at his word. After all—when he told them this ran through the biggest Gang in Oteslia, and exactly where to go if a fellow was to have a chat—why, it all sounded straightforward.

They’d asked him to sit tight and he’d obliged them. So the two Gentlemen Callers had prepared themselves for a little trip.

“…I’m told the fellows at Invrisil have disbanded. That is to say, they’ve been replaced. Not enough left.”

“Good lads.”

Ratici mumbled. Wilovan nodded.

“One of them wrote to me. I have the letter here.”

He proffered it, but Ratici didn’t look at it.

“You can tell me, Wilovan. A [Reader] gets through such things faster than me.”

“Very well. In summary, he spoke about cost. It seems the last bit was too much coin, even for most of the fellows to pay.”

“When you take a lady out…”

“…you spare not a dime. Even so, they considered it that way. Crimshaw put his hat up.”

“Did he?”

Ratici traced a claw gently along a wall. He flicked a coin up, then approached a booth selling something. He did not steal, but bought and paid with the stall owner. A girl, who beamed at the large gold coin. What kind of fellow stole from children?

“Here. A souvenir.”

“Not a gift fit for the lads back at Invrisil. Normen went off, you know. After that girl.”

“Good. I thought he had promise.”

Ratici tipped his cap at the Gnoll girl. Wilovan did the same with his hat. He paused, as the Drake attached something to his vest. Wilovan debated, and eventually stuck his behind an ear, since he had one and it did not do to infringe upon the other’s look.

On they went. Ratici adjusted the little flower hanging out of his vest’s pocket. Wilovan had it tucked across one ear. It got them admiring looks from passersby. Glares from a few fellows, especially since the Gentlemen Callers tipped their hats at a few ladies. But if a man wasn’t brave enough to wear a flower, how could he hope to ever make a positive impression?

They did not go into the dark streets of Oteslia, into the poorer sections. If anything, they went up. They headed to a commercial district. To a rather ritzy section, really. True, it wasn’t the kind of place some self-respecting folks like Erin Solstice would go, but…

It was a gambler’s den. But someone had taken the den, and upgraded it into a casino. If they had words for that kind of thing. The Gentlemen Callers would have called it a ‘money haven’, or a ‘flash visit’. Or…

A base. Not that there wasn’t food, a restaurant, and a place to play cards, dice, and other such activities for massive amounts of coin. Ratici felt at his vest.

“I should have taken my cards along. If we have time, we should play a few hands.”

“If we have time, afterwards.”

Wilovan agreed softly. The two checked themselves one last time, and then strode up to the door.

“Excuse me, sir. Miss. Would you happen to have an open-door policy on this fine establishment? Me and my friend, Ratici, here, were hoping to play some games and enjoy ourselves for a night on the city, as it were.”

The male and female Drake at the door gave each other a look at the odd accents, address, and dress, but it was clear both had money. One leaned over, whispered, and the first Drake nodded.

“Head on in. Someone will let you know the rules. Do you have weapons?”

“Nary a one.”

They were searched, of course. Wilovan and Ratici stood back as the two found not a single weapon—aside from a pocket knife Wilovan used to trim his claws. They took it, and let the two Gentlemen Callers in.

Of course, they were expected. Of course, the two knew they were expected. Sometimes, though. You had to ask a question. They tipped their hats to the lovely lady in the rather scandalous—yet fetching, you had to admit—dress as she smiled and asked them if they wanted food or the tables. Ratici ventured he would prefer a bite to scope out the scene, and Wilovan agreed.

They were charming, polite, and followed her into the casino, nicknamed ‘The Dragon’s Horde’. The most lucrative establishment with rich clientele, some of whom had actually come by their earnings honestly. Run by a fellow said to be in charge of a bunch of other fellows, who had sent said fellows to pay Lyonette a visit.

The two Gentlemen Callers followed the Drake [Waitress] to a table and sat down as eyes focused on them. They smiled, looking around.

As good guests did, they left their hats at the door.

8.45 O

A Gnoll and a Drake without hats walked into a casino. If you laughed, it was only because you had mistaken the smiles on their faces for something else.

At roughly the same time, other important people gathered. Not fellows. Not if you called Navine Gemscale and Helessia Gemscale ‘fellows’.

Magnolia Reinhart. The First Gardener of Oteslia. Wall Lords and Wall Ladies. Drakes, a few Gnolls, all guests of the party that had never really gone down right.

Zeres’ army had led to that. Assassins after Magnolia Reinhart. It had to be said, she had failed to impress as of yet. Everyone had seen her dramatic entry into Zeres, with all that wealth and gifts on display. But had they gotten any?

No. Did she think she could buy Drake affection? Buy goodwill and treaties? Absolutely not!

…But she could give them something. It might help.

This was the hour, however. The hour did not include Saliss of Lights, or the Gentlemen Callers, or Xif, or Shriekblade.

It did include Nerul, Osthia, Ilvriss, Rafaema, even Cire, who was here because he’d heard Lyonette was here. He was giving the First Gardener a headache, but he hadn’t called anyone Creler-headed to their face. Yet.

Magnolia Reinhart had yet to arrive, yet Navine Gemscale felt that was only appropriate. She had to offer them something substantive, or she would be all talk and no delivery. She had been so…much of a let down. What had happened to the young woman who had taken control of the Reinhart family? Not that Navine wanted that ruthless woman, but where was the Deadly Flower of the North?

Questions. They dominated the minds of those present. Rafaema glowered, behind a layer of makeup.

Makeup, because the damned ink wasn’t coming off. Makhir and Ferris were especially watchful, and she’d had to order them not to bring an actual guard. She’d refused to tell them what had happened, but both could recognize a Grade-A asskicking when they saw one.

Who is Onieva? She looked around, but the Drake wasn’t here. Rafaema wasn’t at a simmer. She was on a boil and the lid was shut—long enough for her to see what the Human was scheming.

——

“Who is Rafaema?”

Saliss was asking the same question. He was keeping an eye on Tessa; she’d collapsed after taking the damn cure. But he speculated with Mirn.

“Do you mean…?”

“I remember.”

Mirn stood with Saliss. The [Alchemist] snapped, then tried to modulate his tone.

“I remember.”

“You remember everything?”

The Named Adventurer should have been smiling, then. But he hadn’t been and even Mirn was afraid to ask. It was one look. A shuddering breath. Saliss bit out the words.

“I remember. That she was there. As she saw it.”

“Oh. Oh—”

“Who is Rafaema? Why have I never heard of her? Focus on that, Mirn. I’m going to find one of Chaldion’s lot. I’ve never heard of her, but maybe she’s a grade above mine. Maybe he doesn’t know.”

“Hah! But what about uh…Tessa?”

Saliss stopped at the door.

“If she wakes up and she’s sick, do your thing.”

“If she’s violent?”

“Try not to bleed everywhere.”

Saliss shut the door and walked off.

Questions that mattered. Saliss’ would also be…why? Why was he doing this? For Lyonette, obviously, Erin, in the local ‘now’. But why was he doing this?

How much longer?

——

For Wall Lord Ilvriss, as he watched Magnolia Reinhart sweep in, and the grand ballroom—recycled from the last time he had danced with Lyonette here—he had a thought. He could trust Lyonette. He did not know how much she could help, but now he had to ask.

“Can I trust her?”

He waited, glass in hand, ignoring his mother’s looks as he stood with Nerul, not next to Lyonette.

Waiting.

“Good evening, Drakes and Gnolls of Izril. I realize this is a small gathering. Smaller than I had hoped, but I see that Oteslia has attended in full. It is my honor to meet you, once again. I pray your indulgence. For the time has come to speak candidly.”

Magnolia Reinhart’s voice reached them first, before the [Lady] herself. The guests looked around, over a thousand of them. Some suspicious, others bored or just hostile, even now. Lyonette did not move, just glanced around at the open doors, showing a view of the city.

She had no doubt that what would follow was impressive. She, in fact, knew what would follow, at least, the contents of it, the big twist. Oh, but it was huge.

Yet that was not the question she had asked. Now, and then. The noble Drakes stirred. Some adjusted their trendy monocles. A few popped out as the amateurs forgot to hold them tense and they broke on the ground. The others turned, some in the flowing dresses, a copy of which Lyonette wore.

Navine focused on the common, bronze ring on Lyonette’s hand and her brother. Then her head snapped up.

For here came Magnolia Reinhart. No—outside there was a roar of voices. Shouting. The Drakes turned to the steps leading up to the grand, public ballroom. They could see something coming up the steps. They pointed.

Then the others saw it. Ilvriss blinked. Nerul began to chuckle. He threw his head back and laughed, a deep guffaw. His was one of the few sounds amid the gasps or just silence. Even the First Gardener was taken aback, but Cire stood up with interest, as Mivifa hid behind a curtain.

For here came a carpet. No, the carpet. The very same that had unfurled at Zeres. A train of Humans, even a Gnoll in a [Maid]’s dress, rolled out the vast, ridiculously long piece of cloth. Straight through the ballroom, up the steps.

Here she came. Heads turned, and the people tried not to crowd. But surely…surely…there she was.

Speaking through the stone, addressing them, as she rode, standing on top of the rolling vehicle coming up the stairs. No…it was floating off the ground. A pink carriage.

“Do forgive me, friends. But I had to make a bit of a scene out of it.”

The pink carriage rolled into the ballroom, through the double doors, as Magnolia Reinhart stood on it. Ressa calmly brushed at her shoulder as she stood with the same pink dress she had worn when she stood on Pallass’ walls.

There was a meaning in each thing. Lyonette had eyes for Reynold, though few looked at him. They were gawping at Magnolia, or the servants proceeding with treasure after treasure, held on pillows or in their arms. And the Dragonsail, fluttering behind the carriage…

But the [Butler] she looked at. The same man she had seen a few times before. Erin had liked him. So had Ryoka. He looked older. Tired.

His legs. He had legs. They were as striking as any Lyonette had ever seen. The feet were carved, and she did not see them in the shoes. So were the upper legs, joined to the torso. But he could not wear pants, for a coruscating beam of magical energy, like lightning, connected foot to the upper part of his legs, where shins could be.

Magic. He looked left, as he slowly moved into the room and came to a stop, and a bridge appeared that Magnolia might step down. He nodded at her once, as Magnolia descended into this moment.

And all Lyonette could think—as she looked at this grand scene that the Lady of House Reinhart could engineer, at what was coming next—at Magnolia Reinhart’s confident face, hiding what had to be nerves beyond belief—was the same thing she had asked her then.

——

“What is wrong with you?”

Lyonette du Marquin saw Magnolia’s hand stop, a bit of cake perched on the fork.

“I beg your pardon?”

The [Princess] was shaking. She looked at Magnolia. Her plan still echoed in Lyonette’s mind. It could work. It could. It was intelligent, it had been well-planned.

Yet something was wrong. And it was this.

“Forgive me, Lady Magnolia. But I meant to say…what is wrong with you? What has changed? Why are you so…timid?”

Lyonette du Marquin rose along with Ressa’s brows. But the [Maid] did not look disapproving. She saw Lyonette stand like everything she was.

Red hair, blue eyes, the product of luck or Skill—a strikingly beautiful young woman who held herself, even in ‘disguise’, with the poise she had been taught from birth. Something else as well. A dignity, an age she had earned that her sisters lacked.

Not just like a [Princess]. Like youth, the very embodiment of it. It was quite familiar to the two. It hurt that it was nostalgic, because it meant you truly had changed. Even when you swore you wouldn’t.

Age judged youth. It famously loved to do so. However—youth? It went two ways, and it was never comfortable. That was called fairness.

“What do you mean, Miss Marquin?”

The [Princess]’ eyes flashed.

“I must struggle, Lady Reinhart, to find help for my daughter.”

“Which I have given, to the fullest extent I can without tangling this issue further.”

Lyonette jerked her chin down, in a grudging nod.

“I know, and I thank you on behalf of The Wandering Inn, and myself, Lady Reinhart. That is not what I was referring to. Rather—I am perplexed. No, I am angry and outraged. Because I had come here expecting to beg and fight for a single favor, not have it held out wholesale.”

“One supposes it would be a lovely relief. Why do I feel as though you hold the opposite to be true?”

Magnolia’s eyes were outwardly perplexed, but she tapped her forefinger against the stem of her teacup. Lyonette shook her head.

“That is the good, equitable, nice thing to do, Lady Magnolia. It is not what I expect of the Deadly Flower of the North! I was prepared to sign almost anything. That I would sign…something punitive. Demanding. Not necessarily unfair, but which gave you something I did not know I possessed, or was willing to part with. And in return, I would have the famous carriage. Or the aid of no one less than Ressa, and damn the consequences.”

“Interesting. Is that all?”

Lyonette was breathing hard already, but she met Magnolia’s gaze because she couldn’t speak like this and not do that. Her eyes strained, so she focused on the words pouring out.

“No. You came to Zeres like a storm. Forced the Serpentine Matriarch to allow you access, displayed the grandeur of your house. Then—you came to Oteslia like a mouse. All these people who have come to visit you, Zeres besieging the city itself? You have not…pulled at them. Or pushed. I know you can.”

“What do you imagine of me?”

Magnolia toyed with a ring on her finger. She was still. Lyonette didn’t have to imagine it.

“Secrets. Everyone has them. A Wall Lady suddenly supports you because of a little letter on her dress stand. Another—a rich [Merchant] is set to become very rich if she backs you. So she does. It does not cost House Reinhart as much because there are clever ways to do it. Preferential treatment. Another group backs you because you tacitly support their enemies.”

“Calanferian politics, in short.”

“Politics. Wherever you go. The very heart of diplomacy, with the bows and ribbons removed and the insides exposed. I do not think it is evil, or reprehensible. It is only how we behave. I would not hold it against you, Lady Reinhart. Rather—the Magnolia Reinhart I heard of, that even Calanfer saluted, was the very woman who would strangle anyone in her way with the very noose they wove for her, and drag them after her as unwilling allies. The flower that could not be plucked, even with adamantine gloves.”

At last, Magnolia Reinhart laughed. It was soft, amused, genuinely amused. She shook her head.

“I quite liked that turn of phrase. I still do. What do you think, Ressa?”

“They called you a flower, rather than a viper. Flowers are still innocent, Lady Reinhart. They should have called you a Creler, if they could bear to call a [Lady] that. Crelers don’t just defend or hunt. They crawl into your room and lay eggs in your head.”

Magnolia’s lips quirked. Ressa was fixing Lyonette with a long look that was more painful than the [Lady] herself. It was not disapproving, however. She almost looked encouraging.

“I will admit. I have changed my methods, Lyonette. It is true; I could employ less kindly methods. I could be more persuasive.”

“Yes. Why aren’t you?”

Lyonette was breathing hard. Magnolia pursed her lips. She didn’t move. She just sat there, accepting Lyonette’s frank criticism. That too, was wrong. She was no outraged personality, to throw Lyonette out on her rear. But Lyonette was sure she could say something to singe Lyonette’s ears.

Why have you changed?

To that, Magnolia Reinhart sighed. She put down her teacup, and stretched. She looked at Lyonette—then calmly, and quite deliberately, put her feet up on the low table between them. Lyonette was appalled at such a display of indifference to the Oteslian furniture. But Magnolia Reinhart just looked up at the ceiling and murmured.

“You know. I quite feel like you do, some days. Why should I listen to fools, with no notion beyond swinging a sword at their ‘enemies’? Why do I allow them to impede me? Why should I tolerate them waving a stick in my face, as if that is the only power that matters in this world? I could not. Zeres’ army stands outside. I could prevail on my allies and make their situation untenable. Move other Walled Cities and groups against them. I do have connections.”

She lifted her hand. Lyonette saw it change in the air, her fingers leaving…afterimages? Yet it was a delicate, slow movement. Magnolia Reinhart reached out. Dozens of trailing images of her hands, opening something.

“I could ask him.”

Was it a scroll? Or the idea of a contract? Lyonette saw a man standing there, cursing, staring over the bow of his ship. She saw something, writ between them. A simple contract.

Coin and goods. Trade and security.

Gold for sugar. House Reinhart famously imported it from Baleros, free of [Pirates] or price fluctuations. With none other than…

Lord Admiral Seagrass glanced up, and Magnolia Reinhart smiled. He frowned at her, and only at her, and raised two brows, impatient, glaring over the wreckage of ships after his encounter with The Pride of Wellfar. Lyonette saw something glowing on his arm.

A tattoo. None other than House Reinhart’s. Magnolia nodded at him, and her fingers curled. Then—abruptly—she released her grip, and he faded, looking annoyed. Lyonette saw Magnolia’s head turn.

“I could prevail on a certain, notably upstanding, [Stormlord Captain] with certain…scurrilous rumors to raid Zeres’ famous trade routes. He is no fond friend of them, you know, since the Walled City does like to throw its weight around. He would have a cost, of course, but I could pay it. I could hire [Pirates]. I could forge the same kind of deals my family is famous for.”

“Favors for silence. Murders done. Fortunes stolen. Lies made. Lovers. Lovers. More lovers…discrepancies in taxes paid. Embezzlement. Secret projects and children.”

Ressa had on a pair of reading spectacles. She was going down a list. Lyonette saw Magnolia’s gaze flicker left for a moment. She focused on the cards Ressa was flicking through, hoping to see just one bit of writing…

“It is what I am good at. I do admit it. If you wanted me to, I could even become…nastier. A blade in the dark. That was why the Assassin’s Guild broke ties with me. Not because they were offered more, but because I refused to wield them. I could have the Admiralty of Zeres wake up and find their comrades’ throats cut if I prepared. Is that what you would like, Lyonette du Marquin?”

Lyonette took a moment. She had to look away from that burning gaze. Two burning sage-green and sand-yellow irises in a lovely [Lady]’s face. Not at all soft, even like the most deadly of flowers. She whispered, hoarsely.

“Not all of it, Lady Reinhart. But why do you do none of it?”

Magnolia Reinhart sighed, sat back, and the force behind the stare flicked off like a switch. She looked at Lyonette, tiredly.

“Because, Lyonette. A tyrant is still a tyrant, no matter if she dresses her hand in perfume and hides the blood with silk, rather than steel and sorcery. And a tyrant can change the landscape with force if need be. They can make fortresses, make terrible war, and destroy many things. They can also create places where wealth, learning, and a kind of happiness emerge, that is true. What they cannot do is change minds. You can unite foes against a single enemy. But once the monster is dead, they go back to quarrelling. You can force a cease-fire. Peace does not come like that.”

Lyonette looked at Magnolia. Was she…quoting something?

“That still does not mean you must do without any of it, Lady Reinhart.”

She smiled.

“Of course not, my dear. I do not. There have been times, even recently, when I forced certain people to stop. When I did, I was quite unkind. I simply prefer not to get to that point if at all possible.”

“But why not then—I understand that, Lady Magnolia. I truly do. But what about…there have been times when I felt as though if you had but given us aid—you could have had considerable parts of Liscor! You could have used…”

She hesitated.

“…The knowledge of your guests. They’ve done well for themselves. Some of them.”

“Some.”

“You never used it. They were just guests of yours. I know you are not that simple. Erin…she can find the best in people. Yet I refuse to believe you cannot do the same.”

Ressa nodded, fractionally. Magnolia sighed.

“Very true. I could have had Kevin begin his…what is it? Solar Cycles? Very catchy. Or perhaps unearthed young Joseph’s abilities in kicking round objects. I did not. In truth, I rather expected Erin Solstice to get sick of them, much as I was. She can find the best in people. Yes. I never tried.”

“Why didn’t you? Even Invrisil is making a soccer team. If you…”

“I do not need more wealth, Miss Lyonette. I could throw away every artifact and gold coin I could get my hands on and not notice it. I do not, actually, need more power. Not in that regard. Isn’t it lovely that they are making something of themselves? I am sure they are levelling up and doing something worthwhile, that helps multiple cities.”

“You didn’t help them.”

Lyonette accused Magnolia. She sat down, because she was getting tired of standing to little point. Magnolia shook her head. She pursed her lips, and again, seemed to quote something.

“We cannot shape them. Only give them the chance to be all they might. A tyrant’s claw weighs down on all souls, yet the hand of kindness smothers as well. If they are to rise, Lyonette, they should do so on their own merits.”

“…I have never heard that sentiment expressed before, Magnolia. Not once. The first part about tyrants—of course. Never the second. Why would you not help people? Focus on them? Bring out their best?”

“Whether they want to or not? That is quite like The Wandering Inn, Miss Marquin. Quite like a certain young woman who could see the best of everyone. Antinium, Goblins.”

“Yes. You don’t share that belief?”

Magnolia Reinhart smiled, eyes glittering.

“I did. However, I have met wiser guides. It is entirely possible for me to gain my way by force and words. It will not change anything. I came here not to drag Drakes kicking and screaming into peace, but persuade them. So yes. I will not bully or blackmail or threaten them. Nor will I tempt their greed and avarice, or push one or the other into potential. I came here for something far longer. That applies to how I have acted. Earth…is a dratted inconvenience. But for it, I could have worked in peace, I think.”

Lyonette looked at Magnolia.

“Who told you that? They’re wrong. Without Erin…without the inn, the world would be worse off. You need to find the best in people. She’s befriended Goblins and Antinium and…”

“…They stand out. Don’t they? Ahead of their time. Touched by a kindly [Innkeeper]. They will have the most difficult lives one can imagine. Perhaps it is kinder, to give them all that, as terrible as their lives have been and will be. Perhaps. But that is Erin Solstice’s choice, not mine. Because she can do quite a lot where she stands, but I? I could do everything. I could build them a city, engineer pacts and peace and gather them up.”

Magnolia clapped her hands and Lyonette saw it. A city, perhaps not Liscor, somewhere safer, backed by all of the cunning of the Five Families, the wealth, agents like Ressa and Reynold who kept undesirables away.

Manufactured.

“A tyranny of kindness. No. That is too far. I admire your struggles, Miss Marquin. If you ever come to where I stand, I wonder if you will think as I do, though. Hate me. Take whatever I offer, or do not. But I oppose only the rawest calamities. The Spider. All out war. I do not lift up, and I do not crush anymore. I leave people be. If they will change, make more of themselves, that is well and I support it. I refinance areas struck by disaster, I offer opportunity. But if they will not change, if they will not do anything, I do not force them. It is their choice.”

She turned to Lyonette.

“That is freedom. That is the ideal way to rule, if you strip down your own ambitions and moralities and views of how you think the world should be to its plain core. Strive to make the world better without forcing people into your schemes.”

Who? Who in the world told her that? Lyonette rocked back in her seat. It sounded so weary, so different from what she would have imagined the Magnolia of old saying, she had to believe it wasn’t just something Magnolia had come up with. Who had told her that?

Because—

“You are wrong, Magnolia Reinhart.”

Ressa sighed as Lyonette stood. She looked at Magnolia as Lyonette curtseyed, quite appropriately, as a [Princess] did. A swish of the dresses, an inclination of the head to a powerful [Lady]. No more.

“You are wrong. I will be there for your announcement to the Drakes. It may even succeed. But whoever told you that—there is no limit on the good one can do.”

Magnolia sighed as Lyonette spun on her heel, to visit Ilvriss, so furious she was shaking. She called after Lyonette.

“Very good, Miss Marquin. Drag them kicking and screaming into your vision.”

The [Princess] stormed away without a word. Ressa glanced at Magnolia. She walked over, and for once, sat down, where Lyonette was. Magnolia eyed her, but picked up her cold tea cup. She frowned at it, and it began to steam as the enchanted ceramics warmed themselves.

“She is right, you know. There is nothing wrong with fighting for something. You have, all your life. He’s not perfect. Look what he’s doing now.”

“He is out of his mind and I fear for him. We will head north as soon as this ends, siege or not.”

“…And? You believe everything you just said?”

Ressa folded her arms, glaring. Magnolia sighed.

“The difference that I realized, Ressa, is that when I was Lyonette, she was right. Now? I can move mountains. Teriarch is right. There is too much power to do it fairly. I could never guide Kevin into making Solar Cycles. It would be too easy.”

She stood, brushing at her dress.

“Come, Ressa. It’s time.”

Without a word, the [Maid] rose. She helped prepare for the grand, gentle pact of Magnolia Reinhart. She couldn’t help but remember something that the very same guide and mentor had once said to Magnolia, though. She muttered it and Magnolia stopped dead.

“…you need not be a Dragon yourself, though.”

——

As Magnolia Reinhart greeted the Drakes of Izril and laid out her grand plan for a kind of peace, two men sat in The Dragon’s Hoard. Fairly appropriately, in name and symbolism, though they couldn’t see all the threads.

“A fairly posh place.”

“Posh?”

Ratici looked at Wilovan. The Gnoll was checking a menu, glancing around. The restaurant section was set in the center, and to the sides were the gambling tables.

Magical cards, dice, even a new area where you could place wagers internationally on events like gladiator bouts or fights. Wilovan glanced over as he heard a small voice, leaking into the magically divided areas.

“…and here comes the Champion of Rust, into the greatest arena of Nerrhavia’s Fallen! The terror that came out of the sands! The One-Armed Warrior! The Silver-Killer! Yv—”

But he was distracted. The Gnoll looked around. If a lot of the guests here were rich, there was a noticeable contingent who were not. Who were…in a word…disreputable.

Of course, a fellow could be honorably disreputable, but Wilovan felt in his marrow these were the gents who did not deserve the name. They skulked in the background, avoiding the light where some Drakes and Gnolls did come to just gamble.

“I wonder where the leader is?”

The [Thief] snorted.

“Look ahead, Wilovan.”

“Ah, a fellow at the heart of things.”

Wilovan went to tip a hat he didn’t have. There he saw the person to put a question to. It was a burly Drake, laughing at the largest table in the center of things. He had some quite lovely companions, some fellows and ladies of a peculiar sort of expertise in one area—just like Wilovan and Ratici—and he ruled this place.

“Hm. Looks like a few…colleagues.”

“Yes indeed. Good to know a large city doesn’t want for fellows like us.”

The two Gentlemen Callers stopped only a second. A few heads glanced their way. They did not look for the exits. A question was a question when you asked it.

“I wonder if he’ll keep us waiting?”

“It falls in line with the lack of manners we might expect, Ratici. I suggest we start with an appetizer. Do you like…tomato fritters?”

“Wilovan, insofar as I dislike anything, that is the most repulsive food I could imagine.”

“Mm. Appropriate for the moment?”

“…Get two.”

The Gnoll waited politely for a [Waitress] to come over. They waited, and knew that the Drake in the center had noticed them. Even so. A fellow had to wait for the right moment to take the spotlight. They just wondered one thing, if anything.

“Is it today?”

Wilovan glanced up from the knife and fork he was placing just so. He glanced at Ratici.

“We shall find out, won’t we?”

Ratici nodded.

——

From another perspective, it looked different. The Dragon’s Horde. It sounded like a joke, but the Drakes did like such things.

The tables rolled with coin, but they weren’t a casino, if that word was even in this world’s vocabulary. Not yet. The tables made money, but they had rich clientele.

Which was stupid. Logical, as far as they saw it, but stupid. You didn’t want the rich to come here. Well, you did, but not just the rich. The rich were few and far between, and they tended not to come back if they spent a fortune.

Having more accessible stations for someone with only a bit of gold, and incentives for them to come. More addiction. More…delight.

That was what it could be. As it was, this was clearly just a base of operations. If you came here even a few times, you’d notice figures slipping in and out the back hallways. They avoided you, unless you poked your head in, because you were the innocent guest. And there were rules.

Rules, set down by the huge Drake in the center of the room, at that table three times bigger than even the largest group ones. He was a big fellow, not yet fat, but with the way he was eating, he clearly had reached the top of the food chain. Indeed, he had a huge kind of suit on him.

Again, not a suit—not yet, but a swaggering set of clothes still aping other people’s fashions. Hence the doublet. Terandrian, the watcher guessed. He had a lovely Gnoll on one arm. But she was, in fact, very dangerous, if the stiletto dagger he’d seen her use to nab some treats was any indication.

She was not, however, a Face. There were three of them present. Here was the boss. Here were the best underlings.

Three against…the figure glanced over as he adjusted his hand, half a mind on the game.

Two. He knew the three, not the two, the Gnoll and Drake who’d walked in with style. Hat-men? From the north? He liked them almost at once.

Not so for this lot. There was a lazy Drake, feet up on one of the couches, stacking gold coins and counting them. A Gnoll, sitting with arms wide, trying to hide his patchy fur with regrown fur that still stood out, no matter the dye job.

Lastly, the Drake whispering to a huge, two-headed dog he kept feeding huge portions of meat to. Not three-headed; two giant heads, a dark blue coat, and fangs that made the watcher glad he was well clear of the monster. Even a Carn Wolf would take one look at this hound from hell and decide he had better things to do.

Since he was closer, from his table, he could actually pick up a few words—not that the center group tried to keep their voices low.

“…There’s just not as much good soil this month.”

The Drake counting coins was complaining. The Drake in the center stopped letting his companions feed him treats and snapped.

“Well, go water more and you’ll get more good soil. Everyone knows that. I keep telling you. There’s mites around. I’m dealing with them. You can take a month with less than a wagonload of soil, Ecleeif.”

Ecleeif. The Drake counting coins; thinner than the other three and with a kind of whine in his voice.

“It’s not like you’re getting any less—Porun—”

The furious stare from the center made him amend his words.

“Chief.”

“Chief. Mind your manners. We’re at work, Ecleeif.”

The [Beast Master] snapped, glancing up from his hound, who issued a growl. Ecleeif sulked back into his seat. The watcher smiled, and the person opposite him folded.

He couldn’t help it. He muttered, so low no one heard him.

“Oh my god. They’re stereotypes. Are they doing it on purpose?”

They had to think they were genuine. He cast a glance down at the two figures watching the center table as they ate. One was picking at a fried tomato, the other flirting with the [Waitress]. Yet they had a kind of edge to the way they sat.

“Good fellows.”

“Are you going to play or not?”

At last, one of the other players demanded. The watcher jumped. In doing so, he knocked over his stack of silver coins.

“Oops! Sorry—I—drat—”

——

A commotion made Wilovan look up. The Drake in the center was looking their way, signalling one of the [Waitresses]. However, a shout at a table made everyone’s heads turn.

A figure was scrambling after some coins rolling all over. The other [Gamblers] at the card table were on their feet, shielding their cards. Wilovan raised his brows.

A young Human man was scrambling to pick up the coins, some of which had scattered so far by him turning and spraying them they’d actually bounced off a table. And into someone’s soup.

“My soup!”

“Ancestors damn it, Rickel!”

One of the Drakes roared. The young man hurried over.

“I am so sorry—I have no idea how they got this far.”

“I’ve been looking forwards to eating all day, sir!”

The Human was a gambler, clearly. A bad one, and flustered as he tried to apologize to a couple breaking from their gambling or watching the scrying orb. He reached for a coin pouch, a small one.

“I uh—I’ll pay for it.”

“And the damage to my dress!”

The Drake insisted. Rickel bit his lip.

“I…of course. How’s…this?”

He offered them a gold coin. To Wilovan’s eye, even if you factored in the soup and the dress—not exactly the most expensive one, it wasn’t bad. The Drakes hesitated. The Human stared at their faces.

“Wait, is that not enough? Um…how’s this?”

He added another gold coin. Bit his lip, and added a third.

“That’s all I can afford. Is it enough?”

Did he not know how much he was offering? Ratici snorted in disbelief, but the young man didn’t look rich, especially if three gold coins was a setback. He was gambling at the silver-tables, not gold.

“It—well, it’ll have to do. Go on, now.”

The Drake shooed Rickel away and scooped up the gold coins. His partner even fished out the silver coin out of her soup.

“You fertilizer-head. Don’t you know how much a gold coin is worth?”

Rickel went back, flustered, to his table, apologizing to the other diners who seemed to know him and were clearly amused. The Human rubbed at his head.

“Uh—sometimes I’m off. Sorry. I think I’m out. Especially if I’m paying for the food.”

He looked at his much-depleted money pouch and his face fell. The other [Gamblers] laughed at his misfortune, but the Drake in the center raised a claw and boomed.

“I’ll cover it.”

“Boss, why do you like that idiot?”

Rickel actually threw a salute with a grin, and the Drake addressed the whining Drake counting coins.

“Because he’s funny, and he has good ideas now and then. He’s harmless. Come back tomorrow, Rickel! And next time, don’t put all your coins where you can toss them into soup!”

Laughter. Red-faced, the Human hurried down the tables, heading for the restroom. He tripped halfway across. On a silver coin.

“Oh sh—”

He crashed into a table and the Drake in the center of the room laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his huge chair. Rickel got up, flustered.

“I am so sorry—”

“Not at all, sir. Don’t you worry.”

Wilovan helped him up; Ratici had saved all the dishes and drinks. It didn’t escape the center group’s attention and they fixed on Ratici. Not Rickel. The Human glanced at Wilovan as the Gnoll picked him up and dusted him off.

“Thanks. Feel free to laugh. I’ve made a mess of myself.”

He grinned, cheeks still red. He had an inviting smile, which was probably why the others tolerated him, despite messing up their game. A young [Gambler]. Wilovan shook his head, remembering his hat was gone.

“A fellow doesn’t laugh at another fellow’s misfortune. I hope some good luck comes your way, sir.”

Rickel’s lips twitched.

“I love the way you said that. Now there’s a bit of style.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m pleased you noticed.”

Ratici glanced up. Rickel looked at the two of them.

“You’re not from here, are you? You have…amazing style. I’m Rickel, by the way.”

“Mister Rickel, that puts a stride in my step, so it does. You’re not half badly done yourself, if I may say so.”

Indeed, the young man had a quite nice set of clothes on himself. Nothing in the vein of either the Gentleman Caller’s style, or the current one, or the suit and fashion on display in the center of the room. He had a kind of jacketed hoodie on, able to be buttoned up, comfortable green pants with a slash of white down each side, and a complementary undershirt with Oteslia’s own regalia on it.

Throw on a hat and he’d not be too bad. He grinned at Wilovan, fashion recognizing fashion of its own. His was not at all popular or in vogue…but he wore it as if it was.

“You’ve got to have style, right? Well, I have to go—but you know this is a trap, don’t you?”

Wilovan’s smile never changed. Ratici glanced up. The young man kept smiling.

“That’s a fairly odd thing for a fellow to say. Dangerous, even.”

Wilovan remarked calmly. Rickel nodded. He glanced at the two of them.

“It is. But I like you two. You walk in here, cool as cucumbers, and sit down. Why?”

Ratici raised his brows.

“Are cucumbers cool, Wilovan? I never looked into how cool any were.”

“It may be they’re fairly pleasant in that regard, Ratici. I have never eaten a warm one.”

The Human laughed. He laughed, throwing his head back, and looked at them, even more amused. Even more happily.

“I like you two! You’re not afraid? At all?”

Now the figure in the center was waiting, staring at Rickel with clear annoyance; he was getting in the way. Wilovan glanced over the young man’s shoulder.

“Sir. I’d advise you to stay in the restroom a good spell. Or have a wander in the city. As to your question? Sometimes a man does what he does. He’ll pay the cost of it. Tomorrow. Or today. We’ll find out, won’t we, Ratici?”

“That we will, Wilovan.”

Rickel was lost for words for a moment. He stood there, then looked at the two. He shook his head, and flipped a coin.

“[Bet: Luck].”

The coin flipped around and around in the air. Wilovan looked up. The coin fell, glittering, bounced off Rickel’s thumb—and straight into his eye.

He swore, stumbling away, as the silver coin bounced off and someone picked it up. Wilovan shook his head, and Ratici adjusted his belt.

“Well, more to you.”

Rickel called out after their backs. He walked off, sighing, hands in his pockets, as the two Gentlemen Callers walked on. They’d forgotten all about him already.

“So here’s the two foreigners who think they can plant seeds wherever they want.”

The Drake in the center was the gardener. He was the head. He was the boss.

And this was a Gang. Idioms aside, Wilovan knew what this was. Oteslia’s largest Gang was here. He raised a paw to his head, realized his hat was gone a third time, and nodded.

“Good evening to you, sir. My name’s Wilovan. My companion here is Ratici. We were hoping to have a word, as it were, if you weren’t too busy. A pressing matter.”

“Good evening. Do you hear how they talk?”

One of the others at the table wheezed with laughter. The Drake in the center looked over, picked up a fork, and tossed it at the Drake.

It was the thin fellow who counted gold in the open. He dodged, cursing, but just. The tines of the fork buried into the couch cushion.

He nearly hurt that fellow. Wilovan frowned. Ratici just shook his head.

The others fell silent as the Drake glared. Then he shifted his eyes to the two.

“So who’re you? The Gentlemen Callers?”

“Some call us that.”

Ratici murmured. The Drake snorted.

“Well. They call me the boss. Or the gardener, if we’re out in the open. Poruniv, Oteslia’s Second Gardener.”

As names went, there was significance in it. Wilovan tipped his head, and Ratici did the same.

“Well, sir. If we could have a word regarding a certain bit of unpleasantness, that would be a gracious thing.”

“Hah. You northern lot are funny. I never thought I’d see a Drake and Gnoll instead of Humans. Just goes to show.”

Poruniv’s eyes narrowed.

“You’ve got a lot of guts, strolling in here. You think I want to hear you out? Ecleeif, Zanzeil, Neverwhine. Get up.”

Three figures rose. The Gnoll with odd fur patches, hands suddenly in his pockets as the rest of the table scattered wide of him. The scowling Ecleeif, stopping to shove all the gold into his bag of holding, bare-clawed. And Neverwhine, and the giant dog, which rose.

A huge rumble from the two maws. Wilovan and Ratici never looked sideways.

“This is my place. The Dragon’s Horde. You want to come here, to the Second Gardener’s Gang? The Earthtenders? Other gangs in Walled Cities would know better, but that’s the north for you. I’ll tell you what: if you tell me what I want to hear, you might walk out. You think you two are the only Faces in Oteslia? You’re looking at four of them.”

The Second Gardener stared down at Wilovan and Ratici. The Gentlemen Callers never blinked. Wilovan calmly reached into his jacket. The three next to Poruniv tensed, but he held up a claw. Wilovan slowly pulled out a club.

Just a polished, wooden club. He raised it, as the rest of the room stared, and placed it down on the table in front of the Second Gardener.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mister Poruniv, sir. We may be a rather bit uncouth, but we have a question to put to you. Will you stop harassing a certain lady under our care? We consider it rather unmannerly, sir. We hope you’ll say yes. Because we don’t intend to take no for an answer.”

The Second Gardener’s eyes bulged. Then he laughed. He pointed at the little club; not even a long one. Even the other faces snickered—two of them. Ecleeif was just scowling.

“Poruniv—it’s a waste of time to get hurt, even if there’s only two. What if we…?”

“Shut up, Ecleeif!”

The Second Gardener whirled on him. Classic. Unprofessional. Wilovan’s nose wrinkled. The smaller Drake backed up and back Poruniv’s head turned.

“You two are annoying me, you know that? Let the ‘lady’ go? You mean that Human who’s taken all the Faerie Flowers out of circulation? Who hired you two to take them? Tell her we can deal or she’ll find a dagger in—”

“No, sir.”

The Second Gardener stopped. Wilovan calmly squared his shoulders.

“It’s unmannerly to involve civilians in this. And since I find this entire business distasteful, sir, and how you’ve done things, I don’t care to prolong it. I am Wilovan of the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings. Wilovan of the Gentlemen Callers.”

“And Ratici, of both.”

The two nodded once. Poruniv stared as Wilovan picked up the club. He pointed it at the leader of Oteslia’s biggest gang.

“I challenge you, sir. To an ungentlemanly bout. To the death. Here and now. Let’s have it done.”

Dead silence reigned. It was an open challenge. Wilovan would have done it differently, more eloquently, in the ways of the north. But sometimes you had to state your case plain, rude and boorish though it was.

And frankly, he did not care for Poruniv’s place, his attitude, his gang, or what he had done. Wilovan’s eyes were calm. The Drake?

He laughed.

“Now I know you’re both idiots. Why would I take up a challenge from two idiots?”

“Two Faces. Does the south not count Faces, or do you not have enough to remember how it’s done?”

Wilovan nudged Ratici as the Drake snapped at last. Poruniv’s eyes narrowed. He glared at the [Thief].

“I’ve killed more Faces than you’ve ever seen. I don’t need to throw down with every foreigner who comes to my city.”

Wilovan saw the pronouncement run through the group in two ways. The Gnoll with the paws in his pockets nodded. Neverwhine frowned a bit, and Ecleeif looked done with it all. None objected, and the others standing behind Poruniv were careful not to let him see their reactions.

They wouldn’t protest, at any rate. And now Wilovan saw more guests who were smart heading for the doors. The idiots just watched, but more figures were coming out and blocking the exits.

Well, it was going as badly as the two had thought it might. Wilovan sighed, and turned to Ratici.

“Looks like it’s today, Ratici. A crying shame.”

He reached out, and Ratici shook his paw, solemnly. The Drake nodded.

“A shame. We came here, asked a question, and you can’t say we didn’t try. It’s just a shame when a fellow doesn’t have dig-nity.”

He said that last word oddly. The criminals of Izril’s south saw the two shake their heads. Rather like an audience watching fascinating actors in a bit.

“A fellow expects it, but without dig-nity, what can you do? Indeed, Ratici.”

Poruniv refused to rise to the bait, although he was smiling through gritted teeth. It was the way they said it.

Dig-nity. Stretching the word out with that little pause in between. So much of a word that it was two, the way they said it. Ratici nodded, sighing.

“Are you two done? Because if I lose my temper, there’s no last chances. And I don’t think you’re that stupid. No duels.”

Wilovan turned to face the Second Gardener. He shook his head.

“No, sir. You’ve made that rather clear. A fellow states his mind, and we take him at his word. Eh, Ratici?”

“That’s right.”

“Well then, shut up and—”

All three Faces shouted at the same time. The Gnoll tried to cut at it with something, then dove away. Neverwhine grabbed his hound and blurred to the side. Ecleeif just ran for it.

Poruniv held still as Ratici threw the object he’d retrieved with lightning speed. He saw it coming; perhaps his reactions were slower than the other three, or some of the [Thieves] who’d seen the blur, but he held himself still.

The magical barrier around him caught the strange, runic cube in midair and blasted it. Wilovan and Ratici were already throwing themselves backwards, but the Second Gardener laughed.

“You Ancestors-damned id—”

Then the cube opened as the magic tried to disintegrate it, and the world imploded.

Negative space. A sucking vortex. Wilovan saw magic, the air, and the Second Gardener all rush towards the hole in the world.

As he rolled to his feet, club in hand, and struck a head so hard it would never rise again, Wilovan felt the pull at his back. Even from a ways away.

A few facts. Firstly, most gang leaders had something like that. Protections from assassinations from fellow gangs or even within their group. But most fools kept their magical barriers just past their skin layer. Which helped…but not if something literally sucked out magic as well as your body.

Fact number two? Unfortunately, the Second Gardener’s barrier was a bit too far removed. Wilovan whirled and saw a Drake screaming.

“Kill them! Kill those bastards!”

He was missing all the scales from his face, arms, and front, though. Literally ripped off his body by the pull. He was grabbing for a healing potion. And while he was backing away, the Gentlemen Callers’ hats were off.

——

You know, it was hard. A man did his best. He kept a hold of his temper. He acted as he should be.

A gentleman. Even when he wasn’t. The hats weren’t just fashion or a symbol. They were a reminder. A heavy one.

When they came off, it was a relief. A terrible relief. That was why the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings were tolerated. Even by the other Gangs, who laughed at them. Never to their faces. Izril’s south learned the same lesson the north had learned.

Violence. Sheer violence. Not battle nor glory nor even fury. A Gnoll raised his club and hit someone so hard their skull shattered and their brains moved.

A [Thief]. A [Thief] was not a combat class. Yet he stole lives. He grabbed a dagger out of someone’s claws and buried it back in her eye. They never hesitated. They never spoke. As if even the acts of speaking, shouting, were wasted. All of it was channeled into one thing.

A [Thug] with a club. He performed no tricks. He had no flash. He swung and swung and men and women died. Aim for the joints. Aim for shoulders. Anywhere a blow like a hammer would do the most damage. A cluster of five tangled around a table and realized there was no blocking it when he struck down a swordsman’s guard and left the sword buried in the screaming Gnoll’s chest. No dodging—one cartwheeled left and a Drake appeared and slashed six times. The two tore around another table, scattering the others like wheat.

“Kill them! Kill…”

A choked voice. The two were headed for the side of the room, because they had failed. The Second Gardener was alive. Secured behind more protections and a wall of blades. It was probably today, but the Earthtenders would pay the toll.

Not for anyone Level 20. Not for Level 30—Wilovan snarled and ducked a [Dagger Art]. A wide-eyed Drake passed by him, caught in the Skill, and he swung his club once.

But it was two and four. Two and three, since one was incapacitated. A Face…

The air turned to fire. Wilovan inhaled flames and bellowed, the first sound he’d made. Ratici tore out of the flames and saw the Drake named Ecleeif standing there, pointing a finger. No spell. The [Sorcerer] just pointed and the air turned to flame. He backed up, cursing, shooting a spell in his off-hand with a wand as Ratici dove at him.

A hound leapt. It covered thirty feet like a bullet of flesh and weight. Ratici performed an [Aerial Dodge], just in time for Neverwhine to come from the other side, with, of all things, a shield and whip. It cracked, the tip exploding in the air with a shower of deadly ‘sparks’. Flechette shrapnel. Ratici felt one sting his arm for the first time.

Wilovan was on fire, but he barrelled out of the flames, as the [Sorcerer] tried to suck the air out of the world. The Gnoll came face-to-face with a shorter Gnoll. But his paws were armed with the signature weapon prized by Gnolls of the south in Gangs.

Claws. They slashed, light, fast. None even close to a killing blow, aiming for Wilovan’s arms, chest. He struck, but the other figure blurred into dodges, burning Skills, slashing Wilovan six times. The Gnoll barely felt it as Zanzeil backed up, grinning.

Then he felt the burning pain. An agony so specific, Wilovan had it in a moment.

“Creler poison.”

The claws. They were made of…Wilovan registered them as Ratici spun, dodging two biting heads.

Curved legs. Fangs, attached to a crude band of metal. Zanzeil went for Ratici. Wilovan snarled, abandoning the potion. He charged and the claw-wielding expert backed up in alarm.

“Keep them away from me!”

None of them wanted to die. They threw underlings at the Gentlemen Callers and they died. Ratici tossed a vial into a group of six and it exploded, sending screaming Drakes and Gnolls crashing down. Not because it was any alchemical substance or poison. It was all-natural…magma.

“Wilovan! There! There!”

The Second Gardener turned. Poruniv saw a staggering, burnt Gnoll turn, and those eyes fixed on his. The [Thief] drew his daggers and three Faces hesitated.

If it was today, we’ll take you with us. And the thing about the gangs was that they were pragmatists. They really didn’t want to die.

“Hey! Over here! Over here!”

A shout. Wilovan almost missed it, but it was familiar. And so was his hat. It sat on a head as Rickel waved. The Human shouted and Poruniv’s head turned.

“You?”

The Gentlemen Callers hesitated, but it was close, and if they—they looked at each other. Ahead was certain death, but a repayment of dues.

Was it…today?

They turned and ran on a single hunch. It could have been a trap. But the young man ran, and they surged down a hallway.

“If you let them get away, you’re all dead, you hear me? Dead!”

The others ran, although Elceeif stayed back, letting Zanzeil and the roaring hound, led by Neverwhine, with a group of the most deadly underlings surge forward first. They pounded after the Gentlemen Callers. One was poisoned! The other had taken a few shrapnel hits and they were outnumbered. All they had to do…

They charged down the corridor, turned, cursing, and headed right. Where were they? Rickel? Wilovan? Ratici? They must be fast, but…wait a second.

…Where were they?

“This way, this way!”

In the exact opposite direction, Rickel urged Wilovan on. Ratici was jabbing something into Wilovan’s shoulder.

“Antidote. If that bastard cut it with something else…”

“It will do. Give me my hat.”

Wilovan snatched the hat out of Rickel’s hands. Ratici was turning, priming a weapon, but no one was coming after them. They were going…the wrong way.

“We have a minute. They think we went that way. Come on!”

The two traded glances. Oteslia’s best gang…? But Rickel was running, and he could run.

Some people were sprinters. Other people were marathoners. Rickel belonged to the hundred meter—get-out-of-trouble specialists. He dodged around a screaming [Waitress], vaulted a cart—Ratici was already next to him. Wilovan just charged through everything but the Human, who he tipped his hat to.

“Terribly sorry, Miss—”

Rickel pointed, and Wilovan crashed through a door into a yard around The Dragon’s Horde. There was a wall. And…a ladder?

“I should have put it up, but I wasn’t sure I’d have time.”

Ratici blinked, stowing a grappling hook. Wilovan looked at Rickel.

“It was a risky bet to gamble on. If your Skill didn’t work…”

Rickel shook his head, grinning desperately.

“What kind of idiot bets on life-or-death stuff? I’m not a high-level [Gambler]. Shit, they’re coming…”

The ladder, strategically placed, was being wrestled into position, but the fastest members of the gang had come right after them. They poured out the door—and into Wilovan’s club.

Thump. Thump. Thump. A heavy sound emerged in quick succession, puzzling the Human at first. His heart was pounding out of his chest. He had never done this, risked his life like this, but—what was that sound?

One, two, three, four, five-six, seven—Rickel heard the sounds and turned as Ratici swarmed up the ladder. He turned, and stopped for a second.

Seven bodies and a [Thief] halted before exiting into that deadly kill-zone. A Gnoll stepped back, and stormed to the ladder.

“Up, up!”

Ratici grabbed Wilovan and he tumbled over the wall. Rickel leapt and landed hard, swearing. Ratici nimbly dove and landed like a cat—but he tossed down one last object before he did.

The whumph and smoke and screams echoed in the background as the three ran for it. Rickel kept pace until he had to slow, clutching at his side. Ratici and Wilovan just towed him on.

“Well, that’s torn it. We need either the Watch or to get Miss Lyonette to safety. If they’ll continue.”

“Might not. The Watch will never get them, Wilovan. They’re right in the open. Either they’re twisted to sideways, or something’s up.”

The two Gentlemen Callers caught their breath. They looked at their hats, put them on their head—and they were alive. Alive, thanks to the Human, grinning, shaking with adrenaline.

“I’m…I’m going to pee. And then puke. I’ve never done that—we nearly died.”

Rickel gasped, holding his heart. Wilovan clapped him on the shoulder.

“We didn’t, thanks to you, sir.”

“I know…you’ve got to go!”

“What about you?”

Rickel had run so hard he tasted iron. He tried to speak, coughing.

“—catch up. You have to go. You’re with the Human with the Faerie Flowers, right? She’s going to be assassinated! Poruniv’s sending a huge group. In the open.”

Wilovan and Ratici tensed.

“You’re sure?”

“I heard him and double-checked. I’ll—”

They were already going, but Ratici held for a second to hear Rickel’s voice. Wilovan was pounding down the pavement—where was she now? Rickel gasped. He had saved them in a moment when even they thought they’d die. But why? Who was he? Part of the answer was in Rickel’s next words.

A question.

“Ask her. Is she…? Are we from the same place? If she is—”

He grinned. At last. At last!

“We’re on the same side.”

——

Magnolia Reinhart stood with her famous carriage behind her. She walked down across a gloriously long carpet, past lines of servants holding treasures. In that moment, she looked like a fitting guest of Oteslia.

The scion of the Five Families. The Deadly Flower of the North. A foe, perhaps. To be trusted? How could they trust her?

What did she want, really? Some dearly wanted it to be something genuine, like Navine. Others saw her as inherently untrustworthy, the great manipulator in some game they could barely see.

Ilvriss studied the [Lady] as she passed him by. Lyonette looked at Magnolia, hands clenched in her dress, disturbed by their conversation of yesterday. Waiting. All of them.

“Drakes and Gnolls of Izril. Or is it ladies and gentlemen?”

Magnolia’s lips quirked. No one spoke, nor did they chuckle. She looked around, eyes alight.

“I know I have put on something of a show. We have engaged with my visit in delightful ways. And, I will admit, less delightful and somewhat tedious little gatherings. I suppose it is to be expected; we are nominally enemies, after all.”

That alone drew a chuckle. Drakes nodded; at least she wasn’t going to lie about the truth. Magnolia nodded as well.

“Yet we could dance forever, and while some of us dance quite well…I did not pack my dancing shoes, among the many things I thought to bring. Some of them gifts. And I do mean that quite sincerely: gifts. None of this is meant to impel you to a decision. In the coming moments, I will lay out a proposal. It is my sincere hope you will ask questions, think on it, and reply in earnest. I hope, naturally, that some of you choose to agree, to participate. But I will not force you.”

Her eyes lit on Lyonette.

“I will not lie, or obfuscate the truth. Which is quite difficult for me—”

More titters of amusement. Magnolia glanced about, breaking the look.

“—but it must be this way. Without further ado: Ressa. Please distribute copies of my proposal.”

“And what would that be, Lady Reinhart?”

A Drake called out, one who hadn’t lost a monocle and was Wall Lord of Manus. Rafaema frowned at him; he wasn’t of the High Council. Hunt Commander Makhir’s ears twitched.

“Why, Wall Lord Aldonss, exactly what I claimed and said from the beginning. This is a gathering, put on by the First Gardener, to assemble like-minded Drakes—or anyone willing to listen—to propose a simple thing. Peace. Between Human and Drakes. As I have said from the start.”

The Wall Lord looked at Magnolia. He began to snort…but then stilled.

“You mean, you were serious?”

She sighed. But it was not an uncommon reaction. Peace? It was too simple. Too…straightforwards for a woman rumored to walk in zig-zags and squiggles. Yet it was true. She had come here, to try and make peace. That was what she did. That it took them by surprise said something about plans and schemes.

Ressa and six other [Maids] and two [Butlers], including Reynold, had simple stacks of scrolls in their arms. They passed them out, and Drakes gathered around, reading over each other’s shoulders, snatching more to inspect. It was a contract—a copy of the one Magnolia Reinhart presented to the First Gardener.

Ilvriss read one with Nerul and the [Diplomat] began swearing before he was halfway down the page. He recognized a legally-binding magical contract when he saw one, but it was what it contained that made his mind race. Navine held it up for her mother, eyes incredulous. Rafaema read her copy with Cire peeking at her.

“Is she serious?”

Rafaema scoffed. But Cire just blinked.

“Wait…is it bad? It’s not…”

“This is ridiculous.”

One Gnoll from Zeres tore her copy up before she was halfway through. Her companion, rather than join her friend, gave her a steady look.

“Why don’t we read it first before shredding it entirely? Excuse me, Miss Human? Another copy, please.”

“But the contents…is this serious? It’s nothing!”

“On the contrary. It’s everything. It may be less ambitious than you expect of me—but I think it is eminently acceptable. Or do you disagree, First Gardener?”

Lyonette had her own copy, proffered to her by Reynold. She read the same thing she had looked at yesterday. It was indeed simple. Iron-tight, such that even Nerul doubted Mister Superior and all his best teammates could find a loophole. But simple.

“Uncle. I think I have it all set out; it’s the most straightforward contract I’ve read. But can you make sure we have it right?”

Osthia was staring at it and blinking. Nerul cleared his throat and Navine and Helessia drifted over.

“Of course, nephew. Family. It’s…well. It is a straightforward, three-part contract. Three clauses, no open ways to rephrase or add anything. Firstly, a commitment to the project known as the ‘Wall of South and North’—that bit’s a placeholder. Second? A mutual defense clause. If the signatories underlined therein come under attack, their counterparts are obligated to come to their aid only if the following groups should attack. From the north: Terandria. From the south? Antinium.”

Makhir was blinking at the contract. A mutual defensive pact against two specific enemies. Not Baleros, or the King of Destruction. But the Antinium? Rafaema wanted to know what Manus would make of that.

“That’s…and the last bit?”

Navine looked at Nerul. The [Diplomat] smiled and nodded at Magnolia like he was a [Fencer], acknowledging the first cut of a bout. She winked back with a smile.

“What I suspect will cause the biggest fight because it might actually be…a simple non-aggression pact. Again, non-binding in terms of future wars. It does not prohibit us from making war or joining it on the north. It does, however, declare that the signatories—the sides who sign the pact will no longer consider themselves in a state of war. Humans and Drakes. They will not support, financially or militarily, the yearly conflict in the Bloodfields, and will agree to open borders and trade…assuming there are any that exist, which, given the state of things, is impossible. But it would mean…”

“Peace.”

Ilvriss murmured succinctly. An end to even the scheduled battle at the Bloodfields that cost lives each year. In truth, it even made sense. Neither side waged war as they could, because of the Antinium. But it was—

“You cannot be serious, Magnolia Reinhart. Do you think we’ll agree to this?”

“Which part…is it Merchant Redoger?”

“You have it right, Lady Reinhart. And I represent my city of Marwsh, not just as a [Merchant]. You would have us agree to put money into this wall, say we’re at peace—what will the other cities think?”

“That it is a good idea?”

Navine snapped. She turned.

“Honestly, what part of this is so concerning? I would like to hear more—”

“Wall Lady Navine! This is far too much to accept!”

“Why? Which part? Not wasting lives and weapons at the Bloodfields? Do you know how much it costs to clear it out each year, to begin with? We lose nearly a dozen [Soldiers], even when we clear it at range.”

“After the last battle? When House Veltras—”

“Oh, so you’d be fine if you thought we won the last one?”

The babble of voices grew, but Magnolia Reinhart clapped her hands.

“Excuse me.”

And there was silence. She spoke, brightly.

“I believe there are three issues in the contract. Each one I hope to discuss. I hope each one is reasonable. Let us break it down, if you will. The first is simple. A clear-cut agreement that we do not need to be at war any longer. That the Bloodfields skirmishes waste lives. What does anyone gain from them?”

No one had an immediate response. They fought there because Humans and Drakes were at war. But to outsiders, including Lyonette, it was the most reasonable part of Magnolia’s proposal. She shook her head.

“It has always seemed to me that the only thing that wins at those skirmishes are the Bloodfields themselves. The most you could say is that some level from the conflict, and that is a poor silver lining. Indeed, some years, both Human and Drake groups have refused to send soldiers to fight and die there. This will simply make that arrangement, that sensibility, permanent.”

“And invite critique from all sides.”

“I imagine that is already the case for anyone who is present, Wall Lord Aldonss.”

Magnolia returned. The Wall Lord hesitated, but gave her a grudging nod.

“If you had that as your only clause, we could discuss it. But this second part—Manus would never accept it. A complete defensive pact if the north is attacked by Terandria? Your Houses Veltras and Wellfar just attacked a Human navy.”

Magnolia grimaced.

“I will admit, Wall Lord Aldonss, that was not the case when this contract was drafted. Do note the date.”

…Months ago. Ilvriss nodded. That was fair. Yet the Wall Lord went on.

“Very well, but in exchange, you promise that the north—or whichever Houses sign this, and I see around two dozen—”

Bethal Walchaís.

Zanthia of House Briez

Pryde Ulta—who had written her name in a tiny gap above Bethal’s, just below Magnolia’s. Lady Wuvren…Lyonette recognized the names.

“Powerful Human Houses. But they would march entire armies to defend us if a third Antinium War broke out?”

Those present were patently skeptical. To which Magnolia simply responded.

“Of course we would. By ship or through Liscor. I chose the two largest enemies of our peoples; Terandria and the Five Families have an uneasy relationship, as the present now indicates. The Antinium…even more so. [Diplomat] Nerul, I assure you we might even provide a clause that exempts Ailendamus in this case if war were to break out before signatories begin signing. But yes, Drakes might well join the north.”

“And be wiped out. We march our armies north, they die and we’re weakened.”

A Drake from Fissival folded his arms. A Pallassian [Senator], Errif, edged away from him. Magnolia Reinhart frowned mightily.

“This is a magically enforced clause, Spell Lord Uhis.”

“There are ways around it. We need not send all our forces.”

“Then you will not. I do not believe any [Strategist] would demand that, anyways. But it is still binding.”

Magnolia Reinhart’s eyes glittered and the Spell Lord frowned, looking for a retort.

“…Then why would we take this as genuine that the Five Families would come to our aid during an Antinium incursion?”

Two eyes flashed, and for the first time, genuine ire entered the [Lady]’s tone. Ilvriss looked up as Magnolia Reinhart swung around and placed her feet, confronting Uhis.

“Because we will. Because, Spell Lord, I am Magnolia Reinhart. And I did ride to the aid of the Walled Cities and Drakes during the First Antinium War. Or did you forget? I believe it is in your history books, though you do tend to omit my name.”

She looked around, and they looked at her. You did forget, didn’t you? The Lady of House Reinhart had been far younger, then. Younger than Lyonette was now.

“That was decades ago.”

“And I was there, sir!”

The [Lady]’s voice cracked back and the Drake flinched. Magnolia’s eyes burned.

“I was there. No contract forced me to march. The Five Families considered letting the Walled Cities crumble, but I defied even the head of House Reinhart to muster an army. I did not do it expecting the Drakes to throw their gates open and call me a hero, and I am glad to find my trust was never misplaced, not once. I did not do it for accolades; they called me a traitor when I returned. I did it because the Antinium were a threat to all of Izril, just like the Goblin King.”

She looked around.

“The Goblin King, whom the Drakes marched against to fight in the Second Antinium War. So before you say anything, I do not hold that debt over the south. Even if I could. I hope, though, Spell Lord, that I have at least earned a modicum of trust. If the Antinium attack…I will be there. Have I earned the right to say that?”

The [Lady] looked about. No one, not even the red-faced Uhis, dared gainsay her that. Lyonette held her breath. For a moment, that was the Magnolia she wanted. But then the [Lady] calmed. Smiled. And hid away her fangs.

What a waste.

“…Both are somewhat contentious offers. The last, perhaps the most. But I must explain it. ‘The Wall of South and North’. Ressa, the diagram.”

The [Maid] brought out something. Not just a blueprint that Reynold walked over to get, but another object. A custom-made dais, set with a huge quartz-stone that reflected something into the air.

“What project is this? A Wall? As in a Walled City?”

The First Gardener, Shaerrha Brasswing, asked. She wasn’t sure what to make of Magnolia’s offer. It was ambitious. And yes, almost less than she had expected Magnolia to offer. But it might work. She might be able to agree to that. But what would the other Walled Cities do? Her eyes lingered on Cire, then Ilvriss, Makhir…

None of them gave away their thoughts. Zeres, Fissival, and Pallass were noticeably absent in any major respect aside from individuals. And this contract only had one of the Five Families and their allies signing it.

Not enough? She looked, as Magnolia Reinhart unveiled her final trick that wasn’t a trick. Because she explained it. Because she showed them openly what it was, to get them to agree.

“On the contrary, First Gardener. I do not put a lot of stock in walls around cities. It has always seemed to me that you can just…fly over walls. Oh, don’t bristle. It was a little joke. I know there are protections and I do not doubt they have saved countless lives. But if there was ever to be a wall I built, I would not shelter Invrisil. It is…this.”

A wall rose, glittering, a kind of projection that Lyonette recognized. Because she had met someone who did the exact same. The [Architect] of Liscor, Hexel, had the same thing in a Skill. This was more permanent, made out of magic. Magnolia gestured at it.

“A way to make good on the promises outlined. Peace. Defensive pacts. And…a way to be more than distant allies, or disgruntled neighbors. I did not have the way to realize it. So, a long time ago, nearly a decade, really…I reached out to someone who could help me. He completed it, a great work. One of the last, I think. Before his death.”

A name traced out as the project unveiled itself. Lyonette had missed it the first time, and she gasped. Ilvriss murmured.

“Drevish the Architect.”

One of the King’s Seven. The famous, deceased…Rafema stared at it.

“What is it?”

For it was no Walled City she had ever known. It was, in fact, a wall of a strange kind. It had a roof—of sorts. But it was a long, slightly curved wall. No battlements on top. Indeed, no one could walk on top of it. It looked like it would fit into something. And it was entirely hollow. Strong, thick walls, as thick as Manus’ second layer of walls. Defensive spells aimed…up? Some down. Clear anti-tunneling defenses, and two reinforced gates at either end.

The most curious bastion she’d ever seen. It almost looked like it was designed to defend against itself. That was to say, people who’d already entered it. And aerial attacks—half the defenses were pointed straight up.

“I regret to say that Drevish’s amazing abilities did not extend to names. Or rather, he considered the ‘Wall of South and North’ a quite apt title and never bothered to update it. Yet he did pour his genius into this project. I believe it can be done, and quickly too. With the right funding and will.”

“It’s the most damned confusing construction I’ve ever seen. And I grew up in Manus. What…what is this for?”

“And where?”

Wall Lord Aldonss and Merchant Redoger peered at it. Of the two, it was the [Merchant] who asked the right question. Magnolia Reinhart smiled.

“Why, the High Passes, of course. The actual, second area seldom-used. The pass between north and south. This would be a tunnel. A pass…within the High Passes. Protected from monsters and anything underground. A safer road than even Liscor, with respect. Liscor does flood, and it does have the Bloodfields. This? This would be…”

“It would be madness.”

Helessia whispered. The Drake actually tried to prop herself in her bed and her attendants moved to help raise her up. She spoke, coughing lightly, as she looked at Magnolia.

“With all due respect, Lady Reinhart—even I could not agree to this. War-hungry [Lords] would allow its completion—if only to send raiding parties through. It would be the prize to whichever side held it; unfettered access to the enemy’s lands.”

Ilvriss agreed. His scales prickled, just imagining House Veltras holding it, able to send through a lightning-army whenever they wanted.

“Lady Helessia. I am so glad you spoke. Nor do I think you are a fool, and you recognized the very same thing I pointed out to Drevish when I first brought up the problem. To which, I have to say, he laughed and came up with a solution in fourteen seconds. And it is this: no force can or ever will fully take this wall. Because of the gates.”

She pointed. Now, everyone focused as the blueprint focused on the two gates inside the walled tunnel. Two gigantic gates that looked as ugly as any Manus fortification Rafaema was familiar with. She muttered.

“You could put an entire army there and have every [Mage] blast it and it wouldn’t break.”

“Yes, Lady Rafaema. Not to mention, the tunnel is not exactly a good place to fight. No fortifications for an army assailing either gate. Do you see? Each side will have access. A key is not needed; one can simply shut the gate and hold it. And the other side…”

…Would rather pass by Liscor or climb around it than go through. Rafaema tapped her lips. She was beginning to understand.

“Then how would it work? I can see it’s defensive on both sides. But if one side closes the gate…”

“The other doesn’t get through. I could hold this with a thousand Drakes against twenty, fifty times that number. Yes…so we would have some safety. Obviously a garrison, but Lady Reinhart. This ambitious project will cost gold for dirt. Why would we make this, fund it, work together for a door we can both slam in each other’s faces?”

Magnolia looked to the side. And for the first time, Merchant Redoger, not she, answered.

“…Because we wouldn’t. Not unless an actual war occured. With all this effort put in, it’s too costly. It’s a crying waste of gold if we did that. But we would not have to. There would be two trade routes to either side of Izril, west and east. It would change the economies. House Veltras goods flowing in from one side, Invrisil’s monopoly would break—Pallass wouldn’t be the Walled City in control of all the goods flowing from the south.”

“What? That’s—”

Errif yelped. But Magnolia Reinhart smiled.

“It is a [Merchant]’s answer. What good is a door, if it is always locked? I thought someone would understand.”

The Gnoll nodded at her. Thoughtfully, Ilvriss tried to imagine it. It was far from Salazsar, but it would provoke a boom of settlements near the door—assuming it stayed open. Perhaps…multiple Liscors. Before, he would not have thought that was a boon, but a city with Humans and Drakes and Gnolls might not consider each other so…alien.

He looked at Lyonette, and wondered if Magnolia had looked at Liscor as the example. But she hadn’t. This was years, nearly a decade or more, in the works.

This was Magnolia Reinhart’s proposal. A contract of three. And no matter how they craned their necks or twisted, none of her guests could say that any one part was beyond all comprehension. There were certainly parts they objected to, and the whole was a grand, dubious undertaking. Put their names on the contract?

Yet. Wall Lord Aldonss looked at Magnolia Reinhart. He cleared his throat.

“…Forgive me, Lady Reinhart. I understand that you would now have us ask questions about details, and we would likely receive…gifts…and communicate this with our cities and our own people.”

She twinkled at him, expectantly.

“I sense a ‘but’, Wall Lord.”

He nodded, almost smiling.

“But. Is this truly it? Do you have a future design, or is this the whole of what you propose? I would take further revelations poorly, you understand.”

She clasped her hands together, and spoke sincerely. But oh, even when she was, she was bad at it, Lyonette thought.

“It is, Wall Lord. The whole of it, I swear on truth stone and Skill and House Reinhart. I could not lie to you. Not if I wanted sincere allies. And I must have that. I did not come to trick you, or force you to agree. I hope each Walled City will hear this and deliberate. Negotiate, although it is a straightforward contract I have no intention of changing. I hope at least one Walled City will sign, and other Drake cities as well.”

Her eyes lingered on the First Gardener, but it was a troubled reply she got. Aldonss sighed.

“This will not lead to peace, though. Even if we create this in our lifetimes, the gates might close for decades. It will not, I fear, do more than end some of the hostilities at the Bloodfields. Yet I imagine it will continue, and distrust…it cannot be said that this is the cure for Drake and Humans’ bad blood. Not after so long.”

Everyone nodded, then. Even Magnolia Reinhart. And here it was. Lyonette saw her take a breath.

“I know. You know, Wall Lord Aldonss, I feel like that is almost a poor argument. Because, yes, it cannot fix the history of war and injustices we have done against each other. It is only a step, and a small one at that. But it would be a step, the first taken in millenia. A step, for another step in the future. This is not enough? If you say this—I would be very upset, because even coming to this one step has taken me half my life, Wall Lord. And it would be my greatest triumph if I could realize it.”

She turned her head, and regarded her plan. Magnolia chuckled softly. Lyonette felt like the next words were aimed at her. But then—Ilvriss and Navine and many others thought the same thing.

“I know some of you expected a genius proposal from me. I do hope this meets your standards. Yes, it is not quick. But change never is. And…I must tell you something. True change never is. If, by some miracle, each Walled City agreed to trade and make peace with their enemies, the Humans, tomorrow, I doubt it would change a thing. Because that is not how the people would see it. Those are but words.”

Rafaema found herself nodding. Yes. Yes…she locked onto Magnolia and listened more intently. The [Lady]’s head turned.

“I can force those present, persuade them into doing things my way. But that does not change the citizens of your cities. It will not change their children. This might. Seeing Humans coming through a safe passage, cities where our kinds mingle? It is a good first step. You see—there is a way of looking at things like this. It is like…to use an analogy fit for Oteslia, a tree. A hope. We plant it, and water it, and do things to the soil I suspect.”

She waved her hands, impatiently, as one of the actual [Gardeners] snorted.

“We let it grow. Over years. Decades. Until it is mighty. A beautiful tree, fit for shade, sometimes for fruit, sometimes just to be. And then some fool takes an axe and in an hour, undoes decades of work. That is inevitable, I am afraid. If not a fool, then a lightning bolt in a storm. A wildfire. Bugs. Dreadful things. You cannot prevent it all.”

She tsked, as those experienced in the art of horticulture winced at memories. Magnolia Reinhart went on, looking ahead.

“…But that is why you plant hundreds of trees. Entire forests, in case one falls. Multiple forests, you see? Some will inevitably die. Others, though, will live. However. It is a fact that you will not see the results in your lifetimes. You will see the first trees. Not those that reproduce and come after. Yet what you are doing—is making the world better. Just not for you. That is what I would like to do, if you will help me.”

Wall Lord Ilvriss had never met Magnolia Reinhart before. This was not the woman he expected. He envisioned what she was imagining. How…difficult that was. How against everything he had been raised to think it was. Forests. Nothing immediate.

Good for the future. Hard work with no reward. Yet—when statues faded, there trees would be. They would not bear your name. They would not be the same ones you planted, but descendants that survived if you worked hard.

Who would do such a thing? Who could appreciate it? Not you. Not your children. But…

Ressa stood there, behind the woman she had chosen to follow on her lonely quest. And she knew the answer.

You would never benefit yourself. No one would thank you in your lifetime, or see the full scale of what you had done. But perhaps. Perhaps someone with eternity ahead and behind him would. He could see it, and see what she had done across the ages he slept and woke.

A girl’s answer to a weary Dragon’s despair. Even now—what a young, idealistic idiot. Ressa closed her eyes as Magnolia Reinhart spoke.

The First Gardener, Shaerrha Brasswing, did not know what Ressa saw. But at the same time…she saw. She looked at the image and idea Magnolia was talking about. Not as it was. Everything was so blurry. But her eyes roamed, looking for the Earth Dragon, listening to Magnolia with an uncharacteristically solemn look on his face. A gentle, slightly wild child. Her son.

As he had always been, for them all. She clutched at her heart and had to sit. Mivifa helped her down. She saw it too.

Wall Lord Ilvriss shook his head. Magnolia Reinhart stood there.

“I will have peace, as honestly as I can contrive it. I am not your enemy, ladies and gentlemen. Believe me. Whenever a threat should arise, be it [Witch] or Antinium, Necromancer, or plague, that is what I must fight. I stopped my cousin from making war at Liscor. Because that is our role. Let us allow Izril to change, and fight only what we must.”

There she stood, a watch-woman, holding a torch, looking at him. At him. He nodded to her. So that was what she was trying to be.

“Terribly difficult.”

He murmured. Yet not a second passed that he thought she was wrong. Only saw what it had cost. Was that what Zel Shivertail had seen? Why had Ilvriss not gone with him? How the future might have changed if he was the him that could go back.

“I should have been me, back when I was him.”

He saluted Magnolia Reinhart with one claw, and she dipped her head at him and walked on.

They admired her. Even Cire, who stared at an image she had conjured.

“That would be nice. I like trees.”

…But she disagreed. Lyonette du Marquin shook her head. And she spoke, though that was not arranged, though she knew it was unwise to attract attention to herself.

“It’s too long, Lady Reinhart. We can do more. You say we will be allies—that is to say, north and south for only the most dire enemies. You give these species a chance to change over time. But I have been to a place where bonds just as great can be forged far faster. Why not ask for more? Let those who sign that contract be allies in all wars. In all battles.”

Drakes shook their heads at her, and Ilvriss fixed Lyonette with a gaze, but her hands were clenched. She had seen it.

“When there is danger, we will be there. That is a promise between true friends. I know there are those who could make such a promise, now. Perhaps not all. Not by one contract. But…”

And her head turned to Wall Lord Ilvriss. Magnolia Reinhart shook her head. She smiled at Lyonette, sadly.

“I am sure it would endure, Miss…Solstice. I do not doubt the strength of your words. Or individual friendships. However, even if we could agree to that—and we do not trust each other enough—”

She looked around, and met rueful smiles with her own.

“—such promises would only last as long as we lived, no matter how hard we tried to keep to them. The problem with such fiery pacts, you see? Inevitably, they are broken. Because they must be. Because something changes. Something slow. We will not see it, friends. But we may live proudly, if we keep ourselves moving to that goal.”

The First Gardener nodded. A [Druid] in the back let his tears dribble down into his beard. And that was why he followed her. The [Druids] of Oteslia nodded.

Such gentle persuasion Magnolia Reinhart used. Lyonette wanted her to inspire. Lead by example! Do more than hold out a hand—grasp mine. She could not love Magnolia’s idea, not alone.

Nor—the shaking figure. Makhir felt a nudge. He looked over at Ferris and the [Infiltrator] directed his attention left.

“Rafaema? Is something…?”

The Lightning Dragon stared at Magnolia. She was shaking. Shaking her head, backing up a few steps, her discipline shattered. She saw what Magnolia was talking about. She saw the scale, taken in mortal lifetimes. But unlike Cire—Rafaema was horrified.

“No. No. It’s too long. It’s too much. I can’t—”

Her breath came in gasps. As if something heavy were on her chest. Panic welled in her, and she could not explain why. Only that she saw herself. Over those long ages. Was that what it took? Alone?

“Raf?”

Cire touched her claw. Rafaema turned. She tore away from Cire and stumbled away. Magnolia Reinhart glanced at her, as she stood in the center of it all.

Some would never agree. Drakes and Gnolls left to tell their allies exactly what the Human wanted and conspired to oppose it. But more than she could have hoped at this weary point stayed. Not a single quill touched the contract. Not yet.

A tiny step, that she had to write in ink by the time this ended.

——

The debate was in full force, and Magnolia Reinhart occupied the center circle, talking candidly about the cost—which Drevish had tried to marry to speed and quality. It was said you could only get ‘cheap’, ‘quick’, or ‘good’, on a project, and not all three. It was a truism Drevish had laughed at. For lesser people, perhaps. While he had died, his work had not.

It was at this moment, as Lyonette hung back, offended to her core, without being able to fully denounce Magnolia—only that she was doing the right thing the wrong way—and as Ilvriss was thoughtfully heading over to introduce himself to a stiff [Butler]—that someone came rushing up the steps.

“First Gardener—a minor issue.”

Shaerrha glanced up. She listened, then approached Magnolia.

“Lady Reinhart. Do you have any…Human allies in the area?”

People listened in, and the First Gardener let them as Magnolia Reinhart raised her brows.

“Many allies, but none directly here.”

“Ah. Well, there is an emerging situation. It may become…unpleasant. I am told Liscor’s army is there, and they are pragmatists. But the Admiralty and Zeres’ army also hold the area. And while I am told Admiral Asale and the Admiral of the Land are reasonable—the current Sharkcaptain is not. There are four Humans trying to reach Oteslia. They have passports and I do not know how they got this far unhindered. But they are [Knights] and Zeres seems prepared to capture them.”

Lyonette’s head turned. Magnolia raised her brows. She took a deep sip of tea.

“And who might they be?”

“Thronebearers of Calanfer. If their golden plate is anything t—”

Magnolia Reinhart was too much of a [Lady] to do a proper spit-take. She didn’t even so much as purse her lips. Lyonette du Marquin, on the other hand, was quite capable of expectorating all over Nerul. The [Diplomat] stared down at his vest.

“I have never seen such a splendid execution. The old Winebreath Blaster. Classic diplomatic trick. You, young lady, are a credit to your home. Natural talent. Indeed.”

Ruefully he walked away. Lyonette didn’t even hear—she turned.

Oh no. Not them. How had they…? Mrsha had written to her about four idiots, but not…

“Dear me. By provoke, do you mean…?”

Magnolia Reinhart glanced towards the double doors. Shaerrha bit her lip.

——

“Oteslia is just ahead! Ride! Ride, damn you!”

Dalimont roared. The three Thronebearers surged after him, terrified. A sea of Drakes were hot on their heels.

“We have passports! We h—”

An arrow grazed Ser Lormel’s head and he ducked. To be fair, it was a practice arrow, but the idiot didn’t have his helmet on and he was trying to put it on as they rode. Which was an exercise in futility and he lost track of it. It went rolling and two Drakes tripped over it, which was something.

Lormel nearly went back to get it, but Zeres’ army, loosing arrows without arrowheads, daring them to take a swing, was cutting off their exit.

“Do not draw your blades. Even if they attack.”

Dalimont growled at the others. They had their hands on their hilts, but they could see the Drakes wanted them to spill blood. Then they died.

It had all gone so well. The Liscorian army had been very reasonable, especially when they saw the passports originated out of Liscor! However, Zeres?

“They’d violate the rules of war just to kill us?”

“I believe they would, Dame Ushar. Listen to me. One of us has to make it to Oteslia.”

“The gates are closed!”

“Then do nothing. If they beat or torture us, tell them only the truth. Listen—”

Hands were grabbing for Dalimont. Warily, he knocked them down with his glove, but he dared not strike at the jeering Drakes. He saw the Admiralty, including a thunderously powerful Drake with an aura that sent barbs into Dalimont even from afar. Arguing with two leaders.

Was this where they failed? After going so far to reach the 6th Princess? As someone grabbed his leg and he jerked, Dalimont feared it was so. His horse reared, and if a flying hoof struck—

Exactly that happened. A Drake cried out and the others shouted.

“They’re attacking! Get them!”

“No, damn you! The Eternal Throne—”

Blades came out. Dalimont went down, cursing. Not now! Not after all! He was thrashing as someone ripped off his helm and put a spear to his throat when he heard a sound.

…At first, he thought it was a horn, from one of the Singer’s songs.

“Cara?”

But it wasn’t her songs, as he had heard in desperate hours. It was just a horn. First one, then two—musical, in a sense, but a single, crescendoing note.

They came from the walls. The fighting slowed. Someone shouted.

“1st Marines, about face! Formation! Formation!”

It was a worried tone. Dalimont, still on the ground, didn’t dare move. The other three Thronebearers rose, armor muddied. Scarcely believing it. Yet in the distance…

Oteslia’s gates were swinging open.

Both Zeres and Liscor’s forces reacted with calm alarm. There was no chance Oteslia’s 1st Army would sally forth. That would be silly.

…But just in case. [Archers] and [Mages] trained their arrows on the gates. The Sharkcaptain crowed and pointed to Asale.

“See? Wait for it—that damned coach is coming!”

Asale rolled his eyes. The Admiral of the Supply doubted Magnolia Reinhart was so stupid as to do something expected. Indeed, no pink carriage came out of the gates.

…But Magnolia Reinhart did.

The Sharkcaptain choked on his own words. He stared as a figure filled the gates nearest the Thronebearers.

“Archers!”

“You idiot. Belay that order. We will not assassinate a [Lady] of the Five Families in the open!”

The Admiral of the Land roared at the Sharkcaptain. Bows went up and untensed, as the [Lady] halted there. Asale’s spyglass was one of thousands on her. What was she doing?

Well, standing there. But that wasn’t what made Asale’s eye lock on her and realize she was playing a different game from the impulsive Zeresian army. His gaze swung sideways.

“Ah. That would be…the First Gardener of Oteslia. Bows. Down.”

Shaerrha Brasswing stood beside Magnolia Reinhart. She looked shaky with nerves. Magnolia was serene—or at least, outwardly composed. The Sharkcaptain, Femar, hesitated.

“What in the name of Creler nests is she doing out there?”

Well. Standing with Magnolia Reinhart. And then…walking forwards. Asale saw Magnolia Reinhart glance around, smile, and make a comment.

To a tall [Maid] who produced a parasol, a pink one, and opened it over both’s heads. On her right, Mivifa of Feathers strode forwards, grim, staring around at the army in front of them. And behind them came Oteslia’s guard. And…

“That’s a [Druid]. One of Oteslia’s finest.”

The Admiral of the Land was slower to catch on. Asale just lowered his spyglass when he saw another face.

“And Wall Lord Ilvriss of Salazsar. His sister too. If eyes don’t mistake, that was Wall Lord Aldonss.”

“What are they doing?”

“Walking, you idiot.”

Diplomat Nerul was striding along in a new shirt, rubbing his claws together happily and waving for any scrying orb that might be there. Asale rubbed at his face.

“You just walked into their trap.”

“Nonsense. We have an army. Do they want to be captured?”

“Oh, please, Femar. Yes, let’s capture the First Gardener of Oteslia, Magnolia Reinhart, and multiple Wall Lords and Ladies of different cities. If we even got close—I count three Named-rank threats. There’s Shriekblade…and there’s Saliss of Lights. Four. And look at the walls.”

The Drakes looked up. Asale pointed out more figures had joined Oteslia’s [Soldiers]. Who were now manning the walls as if they expected an attack. The figures wore [Maid] or [Butler] uniforms and they carried…presents.

Bows. A spear. A box you did not want opened in your direction. They had, of course, been meant as gifts, and many weren’t combat items. But if they had to give them to Zeres’ army…

“We are not going to attack. Send word to 1st Marines. Tell them to let the Thronebearers go.”

Asale sighed. Femar spluttered.

“I’m going to—”

“If you go down there, Sharkcaptain of Zeres—”

The Admiral of the Supply, who was a peer to his cousins with levels—and seldom gave orders, raised his voice. Even Femar stopped, and turned, full of anger.

“—What? What will you do?”

Asale glared at him.

“I’ll save a recording and play it in every barracks in all of Zeres. Not that I’d be the only one.”

Femar hesitated. Magnolia Reinhart was proceeding slowly across one of the bridges, waving at the disbelieving Ser Dalimont. Asale sighed.

“Idiot.”

He had probably helped Magnolia Reinhart more than he could believe. Admiral Asale looked at the image that would be playing on every scrying orb.

——

Grand Magus Eldavin looked at the young woman…no, the woman, walking with her head raised, smiling, chatting, at ease.

As Zeres’ army drew back. They could attack. An arrow could claim her life—well, if it got past her ring. But would they attack?

For there walked the First Gardener, Mivifa, Wall Lord Ilvriss, and more. Would you attack? Because you could. And if you did, it was war. But if there was a chance of peace…

“You did it.”

Eldavin looked at Magnolia. Then—clutched at his heart. Why did it hurt…? But he never took his eyes off of her. Gnolls and Drakes and Humans, walking together, to stop some idiots from getting slaughtered. Daring an army to attack. Knowing full well they wouldn’t dare.

——

A message. Asale leaned on his chair. Not for the first time, he regretted not accepting Magnolia’s invitation to Oteslia weeks ago, the Serpentine Matriarch’s will or not. He was so focused on the events outside, he nearly missed the next bit.

——

Inspire them. She was doing it. Just what Lyonette had wanted. Magnolia Reinhart had looked out and seen the Thronebearers wallowing in a trap of their own stupidity—

And she’d gone to save them. Not for them, but because of what it could mean. She’d talked the First Gardener into it, Ilvriss, and the rest. Some had resisted—and it had been no less than Wall Lord Aldonss who agreed first.

Lyonette du Marquin stood on the steps of the ballroom, watching the small group going to thumb its nose at Zeres depart. She would have gone with Magnolia, but the [Lady] had stopped her.

“Not you, Miss Solstice. I think you and the poor unfortunates out there should not be, ah, together on scrying orb. Don’t you?”

That was completely reasonable. So Lyonette remained. She didn’t fear for the [Knights], yet dreaded their arrival. Magnolia might save her some trouble by convincing them to keep their heads down.

Maybe they could go after Mrsha. For once she didn’t dread them as much, not with the cunning [Lady] on her side. Lyonette was wavering, as Cire chased after Rafaema, who was sitting, head in her knees, not with the others.

Naturally, that was when Wilovan and Ratici found her.

“Lyonette! Get inside!”

A Gnoll tore up the stairs, followed by a blur of a figure. Lyonette looked down. He was singed head to toe. His clothing was battered and he had cuts showing through his fur.

“Wilovan?”

Ratici was hot on his heels. The Gentlemen Callers barked one word.

“Assassins!”

Lyonette saw them a second later. Ratici leapt, snatched an arrow out of the air as Lyonette turned and ran. In truth, they misnamed what was coming for her.

[Assassins] used stealth and cunning and had shown how poorly they did in a stand-up fight in the north. The Second Gardener didn’t have many, if any in his Gang. He just sent a mob to kill Lyonette.

Dozens of figures were swarming up the steps, blades in hand. Someone screamed for the Watch as Lyonette looked towards the ballroom. The ballroom filled with people and few guards now, who would be diced in seconds and had so many openings—

“This way!”

Ratici pointed and she raced down the steps. Of all the times—! Magnolia wasn’t here, nor was Saliss, or anyone else! Even the staff had gone!

“Kill the Human!”

“Why are they after me?”

“Flowers.”

Wilovan bellowed. He and Ratici charged down the street. The [Thug] turned, saw a wagon, and bellowed.

“Off your seat, sir!”

A Gnoll had a second to gawp before Wilovan was up. He tore the Gnoll out, tossed him onto the street, and to Lyonette’s surprise, didn’t commandeer the wagon—it would be too slow. Rather, he cut the horses loose by ripping their harness off the wagon, then strode around and struck two wheels with clinical blows.

The wagon collapsed, and Wilovan grunted.

“Ratici—”

“On it.”

A wall of dirt rose, blocking the rest of the street, aside from a single opening. Wilovan glanced at Lyonette.

“Inside this building, Miss. Sword out. We just have to wait for Mister Saliss. Don’t move. Ratici will have the inside. I’ll stand here.”

He set himself. Grimly, calmly. Lyonette felt her throat constricting. Her heart pounding. What madness was this?

She didn’t know, not knowing what had passed with the two. But she did know a dead man when she saw one.

She saw Erin lying on the ground.

“No. Wilovan—don’t—”

“Glad we could get to you, Miss Lyonette. We owe a Rickel a favor. A good man. This is the place, Ratici.”

“A good place, Wilovan.”

The two tipped hats. Lyonette saw Wilovan take a huge breath. He turned, and smiled jauntily at a mob of low-level, deadly, unscrupulous men and women. Then he bellowed, for perhaps the first time in memory.

“Watch! Summon the Watch!”

They never slowed.

——

As Magnolia Reinhart greeted the Thronebearers, outside the gates, someone came pelting to get them nearly ten minutes after the mob first attacked Lyonette, shouting—Ilvriss turned, cursing, and Saliss blurred. Too late. Everyone who was moving, moved.

——

A hat lay on the ground. A man made his stand. He should not die. A [Princess] beseeched him, and a fellow tried to honor her request.

It was golden. It was a shout.

“[Boon of the Princess]!”

Out in the open, but she didn’t care. A Gnoll, a [Gentleman Thug], a contradiction in terms, laughed, as it whispered in his mind. It was so bright. Was this real magic?

His club never sang. It just struck and it was a sick thing, as sick as the beast was, without a hat. He held the gap as they went over the top of the walls and wagon. But they came for him. Trying to get past the guardian.

When it fell, they died. But they had knives and arrows. Here came the Gnoll with claws, dodging past two sacrificial pawns. He slashed, six times in a moment, and Wilovan waited for the sting and burn. A fool with a sword ran him through the side.

Too many to dodge. Not for a big lad. The two looked down in shock. At—the torn fabric. The sword literally running through Wilovan’s side—across his fur. His poor coat.

[He Scratched Only Thread].

A club descended on the swordsman as the Gnoll leapt backwards with a cry of alarm. The Drake staggered, alive, but shaking his head, bewildered. Heeding not the cries.

[I Struck Him Deaf].

—Until he fell dead, Ratici’s blades buried in his throat. The [Thug] laughed. It was so golden. No, so bright. Was it just in his head?

…It wasn’t. As the others backed down and Zanzeil fled backwards, and Ecleeif stopped, took one look at the furious duo, and carefully slapped himself with a stray brick and lay down in the alleyway, the rest saw the light.

It did not come from Wilovan’s Skill. It came…from a ring. It should have been bronze. Or it had been. Now, it was gold. It was shining.

The [Worldly Princess] stared at it. What was…this? She saw a ring, the very same ring that Erin Solstice had once worn. A gift—from the Wall Lord of Salazsar light up.

At last. When you needed it. When, and where it mattered most. Just a formality. A trinket that spelled out a single word.

SALAZSAR.

The light burst upwards. In a distant Walled City, an alarm rang.

“A Daughter of the Walls calls for aid!”

“Ilvriss?”

They were alarmed. What was wrong? The people stared at the scrying orb where Ilvriss was turning, looking back at Oteslia. The scrying orb was on delay, so they saw the beam of light shoot upwards from inside the City of Growth.

…Ilvriss definitely wasn’t wearing the ring.

——

But what did it do? Lyonette stared at the glowing ring that had activated due to her distress and fear. Calanfer had objects just like that. Seraphel had a tiara that shielded her from danger, and so on.

Lyonette’s ring of [Fireballs] was pointed, but Wilovan was in the line of fire. Her sword in her free hand that held the glowing ring. Yet it hadn’t exactly done more than scare the army of criminals.

To be fair—that was good. But they realized the light wasn’t harming or hindering them in any way.

“It’s just a trick! Get her!”

Zanzeil, the Gnoll with the Creler-claws, pushed at a low-level [Knifer]. There were nearly eighty in the attack wave left, and the boss himself was on the way since he wanted blood.

And…the Watch wasn’t attacking. Cirediel hesitated as he watched. He’d been about to come to Lyonette’s aid, but there were so many. He raised the brick he’d picked up.

“I’m—I’m—”

Why was the Watch not coming? Pegasus Riders were circling, but an armored core had yet to advance. They were pointing. Seeing something.

“Lady Rafaema, don’t!”

“Out of my way!”

A furious struggle to the side. The only other person who had remained who could help, Rafaema, was struggling with Makhir and Ferris. Both Gnolls had her wings pinned and she was bashing both, Ferris taking the worst of it since Makhir was behind her. Her mouth was sparking, but they were holding her back.

“We cannot risk—”

Cire stared at the two. Then at Lyonette, and the glowing ring. Someone was aiming a bow at her! Where was the Watch?

“Cire, stand back.”

“Aren’t you going to save her?”

The [Guardsman] hesitated. Cire squared his shoulders. He ran forward, brick raised. If they didn’t go for Lyonette, then—

“I wouldn’t do that, Cire.”

Someone blocked him. Cire wavered, but a claw shot out and plucked the brick from his claw before he could move. A huge figure barred the way. He had an impressive physique, not muscled, but a telltale discolored patch on his neck. Well—newly grown scales too.

The Second Gardener, flanked by the last of the Faces under his command, saw spears rise. Instantly, Oteslia’s Watch converged.

“Let go of the First Gardener’s son.”

A warning voice. Neverwhine and his hound hesitated. Even the two-headed dog stared up at nigh on four dozen bows trained on them. But the Drake never moved. He tossed the brick aside.

“Hello, Cire. Don’t worry, it’s all fine. They’ll be out of our city soon enough.”

He grinned at Cire. The Dragon stared up at him. No—not at his face, or build, which were foreign. But at that patch on his neck. His voice trembled.

“Poruniv? Is that…?”

Cire’s old friend looked around at the Watch, who gritted their teeth in silence. At Oteslia’s flying guard, who looked at each other in silent alarm.

Neither Dragon moved, though Rafaema struggled. The light—

——

A press of bodies around the wagon and walls. [Thugs] and [Thieves] and worse gathered around.

“Someone kill that damned Human already!”

A roar from the frustrated Face leading them. One of the [Thugs], armed with a deadly hammer—a literal hammer, but so deadly if you swung it hard on either end—was queued up. He didn’t want to die, but there were only three of them. All one needed was to get past the [Thief] and [Thug] and strike once.

Someone jogged up and joined the crowd trying not to foul each other up.

“Hey, are you all here to kill that Human?”

“That’s right! What are you, an idiot? Where were you?”

The [Sneak Thug] snapped at a Drake. The figure caught his breath.

“Sorry. I have no idea what’s going on. But you’re here to kill a Human with a ring? Red hair? Right over there? Exactly forty one paces?”

The [Thug] hesitated. He stared at the Drake. It wasn’t Saliss of Lights; you tended to notice nudity fast. Nor Ilvriss. Nor anyone he personally knew. The Drake was, if anything, just some random Drake. A [Trader]?

“Yeah.”

“Oh, good.”

The Drake backed up. Then he produced a vase, for some reason—because he was a [Pottery Trader], but that was unnecessary background detail—and crashed it into the [Thug]’s face. The Drake went down and figures turned.

“What the hell?”

A [Thief] raised a dagger uncertainly as the [Trader] gulped. He stabbed, but an armored hand grabbed it. The [Thief] looked up into two burning…lenses? An armored face. An armored body, ruby-red.

“Rubirel Guard! To the aid of the walls!”

A Drake with a halberd decapitated the [Thief]. The crowd of criminals whirled. They saw three bodyguards crash into the mob.

“Reinforcements! Get—”

“Attack! Attack! In the name of Salazsar!”

Something bounced off Zanziel’s head. The Face saw a furious…little…Drake woman throw more items from her purse. Suddenly, he realized more figures were emerging, literally running forwards and hurling objects, drawing blades.

“Salazsar!”

Another object bounced off his face. He looked around.

“What the…”

Then more figures broke forwards. Even Oteslia’s [Guards], some of them. But mostly travellers, people who had moved, but anyone who…belonged. Allies, citizens. Summoned by the ring.

Salazsar’s last defenders.

——

Lyonette saw a mob sweep into the side of the small group of killers. Drakes, Gnolls, civilians, aside from a few of them with actual armor and weapons. The criminals turned, caught off-guard and already nervous. A few began to attack back, like at the old Drake lady waving a cane.

Wilovan snarled, but saw Zanzeil, the Face, slash someone across the arm before they could slash the little figure.

“Retreat! Get out of here! That damned ring—”

More figures were sprinting towards them. And this time—a blurring shape came up the street. Zanzeil took one look at Saliss of Lights, followed by Mivifa of Feathers shooting out of the skies, and ran for it.

Poruniv stared as his attack failed. He stared at that damned ring—then at Cire. Mivifa was flying towards him, and she had seen the Second Gardener.

“Damn.”

He twisted a ring and a spear jabbed, but he distorted out of reality before he was touched. Mivifa landed, as Saliss of Lights threw an orb at the retreating criminals running for bolt-holes, many boxed in and surrendering.

Rafaema was still howling, though. She was shuddering, striking the paws holding her. She was enraged. No—burning—

“Rafaema of Manus. Enough. You are hurting your people.”

Only when the voice spoke did she come to her senses. She looked around, and saw Magnolia Reinhart standing there. The [Lady] was a bit winded, but watched Ilvriss and the sons and daughters of Salazsar charging into the city—as well as their allies. Anyone who truly had ever made an oath to defend Salazsar. She’d heard of the rings; more ornamental than useful. Never seen one used.

But it was to Rafaema that Magnolia turned now. The Drake was panting, wild-eyed.

“Let go of—”

Then and only then she saw the bloody-faced Gnoll, still holding onto her. Ferris? Rafaema lowered her arms. Makhir was bleeding, but not nearly as badly wounded.

“What am—I didn’t—”

Her head had gone white. She’d been ready to fight, but they had held her back and she had thought she was going to die like when that Drake, Onieva, got her. But she’d been ready to fight.

“Ferris?”

Rafaema reached for him, and then doubled over. She nearly fell, and this time Makhir was holding onto her.

“Wall Lady Rafaema? Wall Lady! Are you well? Lady Reinhart, back up—get a [Battlefield Healer]!”

Makhir snapped at Manus’ [Soldiers]. Ferris tried to rise, and Rafaema was clutching at her chest. It hurt. What was—? She felt like she was going to explode, all of a sudden.

“Oh, be quiet, Hunt Commander. What a mess. Rafaema. Rafaema, do you hear me?”

A voice. It was so knowing, so pervasive, it even fought through the Lightning Dragon’s confusion. She shuddered, unable to do more than listen. Something terrible was trying to emerge. She fought now, to keep the lightning from exiting her lungs.

“Listen to me. Do not let it out, here. Fly. Do you hear me? Fly as high as you can. Go! Fly!”

How did she know? How did—

Rafaema was in the air before she could think. Her wings strained, but the magic carried her up. Makhir, held back from Magnolia by Ressa, saw his charge fly straight up. Her eyes were glowing. Her mouth was opening and—

Something burst out of Rafaema. A sudden change in her. Near-death, Magnolia’s speech, something—many things, a confluence of it. An awakening.

Makhir and Ferris saw it. The First Gardener, hurrying towards Cire, Manus itself, watching the events on the scrying orb, suddenly focused on a figure streaking up, high over Oteslia. So high even the great tree receded. No one noticed at first.

They did when the sky split in half and a bolt of lightning pierced the heavens. A strike so thunderous every cloud discharged all the rain within it.

Gigantic leaves fell from Oteslia’s tree. Every animal in a thousand miles screamed—and then hid. Makhir stared up as Rafaema lurched in the air, then discharged a second, smaller blast. How did that woman…?

“Stress. My word. You would think Manus of all places knows how to rear Oldbloods.”

Magnolia winked at Makhir, then lost her smile. She pinched the bridge of her nose. Oh dear.

“Ressa. Tell me I’m not seeing what I’m seeing?”

“You are blind and deaf and stupid, Lady Reinhart.”

“Wonderful.”

She had a nosebleed. Ressa offered a handkerchief to Magnolia as the [Lady] wiped at her nose. And stared at the…scene.

The ionized air filled Oteslia. Outside, an army of Drakes was in disarray. No less than the Admiral of Supply himself came to a halt, too late to save…

Well, the Human. The young woman with fiery, just, striking red hair, a certain complexion of the features, blue eyes, standing with two weary men with hats by her side like bodyguards. Or [Knights] of the street.

Which took nothing away from the actual [Knights], battered, dirty, yes, who had come to a halt and thrown themselves into kneeling postures before her. Just to complete the moment? The high tension in the air, the crowd of Salazsar’s Drakes, multiple famous individuals all here to see, the ringing in your ears after lightning split the world in half and the rain pattering down, revealing gold on the armor, and that shining ring on her finger?

Well, there was Wall Lord Ilvriss, curiously missing his ring himself. Wall Lady Navine and Helessia, shielded from the rain by a kindly [Combat Butler], both looked at the Human. The ring. The [Knights].

All that was missing was a scrying orb. Fortunately, Ressa had slapped and deactivated every one she could see. But here it was.

Oteslia. City of Growth. Rickel laughed until he nearly fell off the rooftop he was watching from. He sipped a cup of coffee and laughed in delight.

You loved to see it.

8.46 G

[Barbara Clark will edit a chapter in October! Look forward to it! Also, vote in the Patreon poll! These two things are not related. At all.]

“One. Kiscre. Two. Highsword. Three. Seizhe. Four…”

“I don’t know Seizhe.”

“Mountain City Tribe.”

“Mm.”

“Four. Filthblade.”

“Redfang. How many?”

“Over three dozen. Held a hill.”

“Mm. Not as many as war.”

“Still too many.”

“Not as many as a battle, Chieftain.”

“…Five. Escre. Six…”

It was incomprehensible at first, over her terror. Lady Hekusha—technically ‘lady’ as it was a noble title, if ornamental, for she owned no formal land nor had a house—or Magus Hekusha as they failed to call her. Were even surprised by her insistence on the title.

Hekky. That would be a…a childhood name. Although the rag-tag group that had used to call her that was long-since grown. No more adventures. No more watching them play at being proper [Ladies]—which they were, even then—but devolving into actual fistfights.

Well, back then only Pryde and Bethal had hated each other that much. And it was more like a rivalry which blew out of proportion at times.

Nevertheless, Hekusha was too terrified to make sense of it. The quiet voices, the reasoned, even carefully enunciated words—at least from the smaller one. The Chieftain, for all the big one seemed more in line with the image. It took her a while to realize what was happening.

Numbers and names. A simple system. The little one—called ‘Rags’—was counting the dead. Apparently the Goblins hadn’t overrun Tenbault without loss. It was still…so strange.

For she counted just over a hundred names, solemnly, refusing to let one off her list, even those that didn’t have official names and were just ‘that one with the scar on his…’ and so on. Strange, because she thought a hundred Goblins to defeat a Named Rank adventurer and Tenbault’s defenders was too high a cost.

Strange, because why did Goblins sound like they cared about anything? She was only glad they hadn’t touched or harmed her. Yet.

The woman flinched when the big Goblin looked down at her. There were three on the Wyvern’s back, though the last one didn’t speak. She had red paint on her arms and, of all things, a strange, spectacle-like headpiece. A helmet, but with eye-coverings. Hekusha had never seen the like…but then, she had never seen a Goblin flying a Wyvern before. The [Wyvern Rider] grunted, taking orders from the little Goblin.

It was the big Hob who grunted at the terrified woman lashed into place on the Wyvern’s back. The great creature was grumbling with four passengers, nevermind that two were child-sized, and the [Wyvern Rider] kept reassuring it, urging it on.

They were being followed. And whilst Hekusha, known to all and sundry as The Healer of Tenbault, and not by any other name, dearly wished for her freedom, she was terrified that any battle in the air would result in her falling to her death. And she couldn’t quite recall [Featherfall] off the top of her head. If she had her spellbook…

Her teeth chattered and she really needed to pee. She was still shellshocked and afraid of what would come next. And—she shrank back, trying not to disturb the angry Hob. They were clearly aware of her value, which was good, but they were dangerously unpredictable, angry, for all they could speak.

——

“Calescent, stop smiling.”

Rags glanced up once and saw the Healer of Tenbault’s terrified expression. Her [Spice Chef] gave her a hurt look.

“I have great smile.”

“No you don’t. Humans scared of more than thirty teeth. Sharp teeth, too.”

Calescent frowned. He opened his mouth and began to count his first row of teeth. The horrified look on the woman’s face…Rags sighed.

“Kevin’s alive.”

“Hh. Dn’t nd tll uf.”

Calescent retorted, finger tapping each tooth. Rags rolled her eyes. She had just received a signal from Taganchiel. She brushed absently at something on her wrist.

A glowing mark in paint. Taganchiel was from Mountain City’s tribe. He was a former apprentice of none other than Ulvama herself, and as such, practiced her brand of shamanic magic. When Rags had discussed the issue of [Message] spells being difficult—she couldn’t cast them herself, and he was a [Shaman], not to mention interception—he’d shown her how they did it.

The magical paint wasn’t nearly as complex as the stuff that could turn to armor or produce advanced effects. But Taganchiel could make the white paint glow certain colors. Right now it was glowing a steady blue.

Safety. He’d broken down the marking into different quadrants. She saw all four were blue. He was safe, the bulk of the Goblins were safe, Poisonbite was safe, Kevin was safe.

She sighed. The last word they’d gotten before they were out of range was of the messy withdrawal. Her Wyvern flew alone through dark skies, having long since passed nearly two days in travel time.

Fleeing Tenbault. That had not been the plan. But…Rags glanced over her shoulder.

“Fightipilota.”

She poked the Goblin in front of her. The Redfang turned her head, and Rags rolled her eyes at the newly named Goblin. Officially sanctioned, by no less than the Goblin herself and Taganchiel. Just in case it helped land her the coveted class.

“Any Humans following, still?”

Fightipilota shrugged.

“Went into clouds, Chieftain. Hard see. Night. Maybe track?”

Her shrug went to indicate that all things being equal, the Wyvern they were flying was overburdened, however, given the Humans’ lack of aerial forces in any number, the few flying carpets and solo Pegasus would not easily catch them unless they had advanced tracking capabilities.

Rags nodded. It was as good as you got. She glanced down and frowned as the Wyvern made a rumbling mraarh sound, which meant it wanted a break.

“Idiot’s still following.”

“Idiot.”

Calescent stopped poking his teeth long enough to agree. Rags sighed.

“Fighti. Down. There.”

She pointed to a forest. They were headed north, fleeing a massive Human army trying to get back their beloved Healer. Alone. Rags had told the other Goblins to get back to Goblinhome, and take Kevin back to Liscor and await their return. If they lost the Humans, they could circle back. It was risky with one Wyvern, but they had a better shot than multiple Wyverns.

…The problem wasn’t just that, though. It was that some idiot had decided to heck with Rags’ orders and followed them. He’d barely been on the horizon yesterday. By the time they landed, he’d sped up and Rags guessed that he’d be on them in less than twenty minutes. She glared as the Wyvern dove quickly, hoping to escape notice; the nearest Human settlement was a ways away. Even so, she still spotted the group of sixteen, led by the giant wolf.

Rags dismounted in a clearing as Fighti took the Wyvern in slow at the end, saving the monster from tearing its wings on the branches.

The Frost Wyvern whined, much like a dog. It did not like forests, where the canopies could shred its wings if it landed fast or hard enough. In fact, Rags had heard that Wyverns sometimes died to Griffins, their rivals to the north, a species from Terandria, who loved to bait them into dives that crashed them into the trees, leaving them easy prey from above.

Fighti reassured her mount, and set to work. She fed the Wyvern a meal-bag, a huge amount of dried Eater Goat meat that the beast scarfed down as it also pooed. Rags wrinkled her nose at the smell, but Fighti was already offering it a stamina potion and slashing the branches overhead, readying for a fast takeoff.

“O-oh, dead gods…”

A weak voice made Rags look over. The Healer was slowly sliding down the Wyvern’s back. Her hands were tied, and her wand was gone, in Rags’ own belt. The woman looked like she wouldn’t have put up much of a fight, even without these precautions.

She was a bit…disappointing. Rags had expected the brilliant Healer of Izril, for all she hadn’t liked Tenbault itself. At the very least, she’d expected a kind of Erin, or powerful Human—someone with power, for good or ill.

The Healer was, rather than that, a strange, strikingly ordinary person. In that she had a look to her. Beauty products had given her fair skin even advancing into her forties, as smooth as some baby’s bottom, which Rags had no idea why Humans loved to use as points of comparison.

She had rather lustrous hair, beautiful magical robes, and what Rags assumed was a fairly lovely complexion. She might be a [Mage], but she had no spectacles and didn’t dress like you’d think. She looked aristocratic in all the rich ways, at least.

But she held herself like a mouse. And she had not the power Rags expected out of her, either in presence or magic. She stared around, then jumped and backed away as Calescent thumped to the ground.

“Ten minutes. Good for snack.”

He announced. The Healer backed up as if she expected she was the snack. She stared around at Rags, then folded her hands.

“I—”

She stared at Rags and the Goblin waited. She peered at the woman, heard a choking sound, and realized the woman had completely lost her next words.

“You stay there. We rest. Twenty minutes.”

Rags ordered the woman. She got an instant, terrified nod.

“Of course. I am your prisoner. I am in complete cooperation, Chieftain—Chieftain Rags, isn’t it? Believe me, I will not offer you any…”

She trailed off again, and that look of horror resumed. Rags rubbed at her head. Two days of this. She knew the woman was listening to them, watching them, but she was scared spitless.

Not, however, incapable of being dangerous. Rags peered at the Healer’s hands as she turned to talk to Fighti. She swung back and snapped.

“Don’t take off ring!”

The Healer’s hands flew back. Calescent whirled, a spatula raised like the wrath of cuisine.

“I wasn’t! I was just—it’s a lovely ring you gave me, Chieftain! It was just chafing a bit—”

The woman’s huge, reassuring smile failed under the spotlight of Rags’ crimson glare. The Goblin crossed her arms as the Frost Wyvern begged for more food and Fighti offered him a huge cow femur.

“Don’t. Take off. Ring.”

She stared pointedly at the Healer. The woman nodded. Rags snorted as the Healer cast her eyes to the sky.

“Humans can’t track you with an anti-scrying ring. Do you think I’m stupid?”

The woman jumped. She stared at her ring, then at Rags.

“This is—?”

Rags traded a glance with Calescent. The Hob gave her a weird look. Did she think Rags had just made her put on jewelry? The first thing Rags had done when she’d woken the woman out of her faint was to make her put on the ring.

And warn her not to cast [Message]. Rags rolled her eyes.

“Take off the ring and Calescent takes off your hand, got it? And he’ll make you eat it. No [Message] spells. I can tell.”

The Healer went dead-white. She looked at Calescent and the offended [Chef], preparing a fast meal on a little pan, put his hands on his hips.

“No meat on hands. I don’t feed hands, Chieftain. Although…if marinate…”

He tapped a finger to his lips, then smiled reassuringly at the Healer, without his teeth.

She just stared at her hands as Rags, grumbling, strode over to Fighti.

“Can we turn yet? Find way to turn?”

“Got to find no-Humans place, Chieftain. Humans see us turn, they turn. Like this.”

Fightipilota made a little diagram in the dirt, to indicate that their ability to turn left or right was hampered by them having to go through pursuers, who could then cross a shorter distance to reach them. Simple geometry—a word she had no idea about. But she knew how to raid and get away.

Rags grumbled.

“What about hiding?”

“Hah! Good one. Chieftain wants to hide? From [Trackers]? How long?”

Fair point. Rags sighed.

“North, then. But…go that way. Too many Human settlements, see? Aim for here.”

She pulled out a map and showed Fighti where she thought they were, and tried to chart them into areas with no Human settlements. Fighti nodded.

“Okay, Chieftain. You, boss. I get promotion if we get back?”

Rags gave the Redfang-turned-[Wyvern Rider] a long look.

“You Redfang. I promote what, Poisonbite job?”

“No…maybe Air Force Major? Ma’am! Sir! Drop bombs! Vrooom!”

She made sounds and gesticulated, trying to get across her limited understanding of Earth’s air forces and the powers she’d get. Rags stared at her.

“…Sure.”

She blamed Kevin for that. The Human was a huge boon in many ways, not least of which was the casual way he’d come to Goblinhome and just…hung out. Done ollies with Goblins. Shown them there was one Human who just thought they were ‘cool’.

Also, he’d helped her design a new kind of ballista they were already prototyping, given her insight into Earth’s industrial complex, the power of gears and bicycle schematics, knowledge about Earth that reframed Erin Solstice in an entire new light—even helped design two pieces of gear for this mission.

Fighti had an experimental helmet with ‘goggles’. In this case, two pieces of glass that saved her eyes from being blown out by bugs or grit hitting her at high-speed, embedded in a leather helmet. It wasn’t advanced, and Kevin had talked about ‘plastic’ being probably better, or enchanted glass, but they had done it!

…Mainly by literally stealing glass from a window and cutting it into the right shape. But Fighti had told Rags it made seeing a lot easier. She also had the same gear Rags still had around her neck, hanging down from the strap.

A crude breathing mask, or ‘gas mask’ as Kevin had called it. It was a curious snout-like device with a filter, but it had worked to keep the dust out. It too used glass and leather, their two main objects, or metal in Calescent’s case, though the [Smiths] hadn’t had enough iron or time to do all of them.

Rags really liked the idea, even though these were literally only dust-grade. Kevin had suggested them and told her about filtering, although he only had charcoal and various layers of cotton and cloth as a filter, with no idea of how to make an actual one to filter out gasses.

That was sort of his weak point. He was friendly, laid back, informative…but he had all the [Wyvern Riders] chanting ‘fighter pilot, fighter pilot, fighter pilot, jet pilot’, each night as they went to bed. He couldn’t tell Rags how gunpowder was made, and a lot of what he knew was neat. It was up to her to turn ‘neat’ into useful.

Even so, she had to own that he’d helped spur her to make the Tenbault assault a reality. And he had been for it, too.

Save Erin Solstice. Bring her back. Rags had once again gone to war, but this time for the [Innkeeper]. What a curious feeling.

She had the Healer. Now they just had to get her to Liscor or Goblinhome. And it would be so much easier if Rags only had to worry about one Wyvern. However…she turned, sighing, as a sound broke into the clearing. Calescent looked up and casually shifted his grip on the frying pan, ready to toss the contents in someone’s face. Fighti and her Wyvern turned, and the Healer started. Rags saw a figure break into the clearing, and heard the panting whine of a huge beast that even the Frost Wyvern edged back from.

Thunderfur, the mightiest Carn Wolf, and Redscar. The Goblin hopped to the ground, grinning, two pieces of cotton wedged into his ears. Rags glared at him.

“Idiot. I told you to go back.”

“What, Chieftain? Can’t hear! I come for backup!”

The Goblin cheerfully bellowed. Rags threw some dirt at him, but then fifteen more Redfangs, all on Carn Wolves, raced into the clearing. They were the best group, which had gone with Redscar in the assault. They had also declined to flee, and punched through the Human lines after her.

“Finally caught up!”

A Goblin moaned in relief and slid from his saddle, clutching at his groin. A female Redfang and Fighti cackled. Rags gave the ailing Goblin a blank look; she was told that Carn Wolves’ loping pace was ‘harder’ on male Goblins than even horses. She had no idea why.

“Redscar, you alive? You rode for two days. Need a break? Stupid. Any injuries?”

She poked at the taller Goblin, scowling. He was mostly a Hob, though lean as ever, and eating three times what he used to. He’d shot up in height, and was now a reflection of Garen—albeit different in a number of ways. Nevertheless, the bladesman had survived a clash with a Named-rank, albeit on advantageous ground.

Just not unhindered.

“What? Sorry, Chieftain! Can’t hear!”

Redscar bellowed cheerfully. He hadn’t actually been pretending. His hearing—no, all the Redfangs’—was clearly gone. Even the Carn Wolves, which made loud sounds, were clearly bemused by their new state of being.

Rags bit her lip. Not good. She hoped his hearing would return. But if it didn’t…

The Healer had looked up as Rags gave up on words and signed to Redscar, who replied with ease. If anything, his one concern about hearing loss wasn’t for a lack of communication given how well Goblins read each other, it was in his situational awareness on the battlefield.

The woman jumped as Calescent tapped her on the shoulder. Her shriek was so loud that even the deaf Redfangs and Carn Wolves looked over. The [Spice Chef] gave her a long look.

“Food.”

He offered her a plate of…the woman peered at it.

“W-what is this?”

“Savor Pancakes. Is good. Eater Goat meat. Not hand.”

The Healer of Tenbault stared at the pancakes in sheer stupefaction, then at the sizzling pan over a quick fire. Calescent had, in the course of fifteen minutes, set up a fire, unwrapped some pre-made dough from a cloth bundle, and mixed it with stringy goat meat in a pan to create ‘Savor Pancakes’, which were a meat-based, savory pancake you ate hot with gravy and butter.

It was the kind of thing even the Carn Wolves would eat, which either spoke to the adaptability of Calescent’s cooking, or its bottom denominator. The Redfangs scarfed it down quick, the first real meal they’d had from hard riding. Calescent had some spice he offered everyone for taste, but no one was stupid enough to take him up on the offer.

It was technically more of a flatbread-like parathas than a pancake, but since no one had educated Calescent on the fine art of naming things specifically, he called them pancakes.

Rags checked on all the warriors first, and then got her plate. Her Savor Pancake was a bit too moist and didn’t have any gravy, despite her demanding a double-helping! She stared at her pancake, about to take Calescent to rare task, when she heard a huffing sound that was slightly…guilty.

She looked over and saw Thunderfur turning his head away, the wolf licking his chops. She looked at her pancake and recognized Carn Wolf drool all over it. He’d licked her pancake clean!

The Redfangs laughed at the fight between the Chieftain and Thunderfur, as Redscar sat, exhausted. He poked at one ear and grunted in disgust; it was filled with dried blood. He poked with one claw, still hearing a ringing sound in the back of his head.

Not good. He’d known the risks going in, but wow, did this suck. The Hobgoblin wondered if they’d get back to Goblinhome in time. He wasn’t too concerned with the next steps; Rags was in charge and she was smart. He just had to win against any foe they met. If they did that…

It was as he sat there, wondering if he’d have to retrain himself to notice what his ears could not, that he felt a tentative, cold hand on his shoulder. He jumped, and heard—

“—toration].”

A spell. Rags stopped punching Thunderfur’s left foreleg and whirled. Redscar jerked back, then grabbed at his ears. He stared at the Healer of Tenbault as she backed away.

“It’s only a healing spell! See? I can be useful! I’m an asset. It should—it did work, didn’t it? I’ve never healed a Goblin…”

“What? What did y—I can hear.”

Redscar stopped shouting, and felt at his ears. Suddenly, he could hear. Thunderfur bounded over and the Healer fled with a shriek. She hid behind a tree as Rags got to her feet. Calescent’s eyebrows were in his hair, and Rags saw the Healer staring at Redscar as the other warriors got to their feet.

“I can heal you! Just don’t—don’t touch me, understand? Don’t do bad things. I can be very valuable, but only if I’m treated well!”

She called at them. The Goblins exchanged a look. Rags exhaled, slowly. Oh yeah. That was right. They’d kidnapped the Healer of Tenbault.

——

“[Restoration]?”

Rags had never heard of the spell before. The Healer of Tenbault, who was apparently named Hekusha, looked a bit offended as she sat, half-comatose, on Thunderfur’s back.

Rags was riding pillion on a second Carn Wolf, so only Fighti and Calescent were in the skies, to let the Wyvern fly ahead and at a reduced burden.

Also because Hekusha could barely sit upright and you didn’t want to play ‘catch the Healer’ at high altitude.

She’d cast the spell that made her famous four times, as Goblins and Carn Wolves lined up to have their hearing restored. Only four times, and she’d done it quick—just about twenty seconds of what looked like magical prep time, and then, like a miracle, the Goblins could hear, and Thunderfur howled in delight before being shushed.

Even healing potions hadn’t saved the ruptured eardrums—at least, not from Merdon’s voice. But the Healer had cast her spell and restored them to as good as new.

In fact, two Redfangs had complained she’d removed their new war scars, and some old ones! A grizzled veteran of nearly ten years had pointed at her hip and complained it didn’t ache anymore.

Three times. Then the Healer had touched the final Goblin, cast her spell, and keeled over. Just—dead backwards, such that she would have hit the ground hard if Calescent hadn’t caught her.

“Mana drain. I can only cast it…four or five times a day. With potions, up to ten. I’ll cast more tomorrow!”

Hekusha hurried to assure Rags. The Goblin Chieftain folded her arms.

“Ten? But only ear-damage. Why so much…mana?”

She was no expert, but Hekusha had to be what, Level 40? Level 30 at least, since she claimed [Restoration] was actually a Tier 6 specialized spell. Rags was awed she could cast it. Rags was awed they weren’t dead if someone could throw that kind of magic around.

“It…does not differentiate. [Restoration] is a set-cost spell. It is…a bit…impractical to use repeatedly. I was only capable of casting it once per day, you know. Even with nearly a dozen Skills dedicated to casting one spell, four per day is what I normally do. Three or four.”

Rags raised her brows.

“How did you learn?”

“A—I am a friend, a great friend—of Magnolia Reinhart’s. The Lady of House Reinhart? Of the Five Families?”

Hekusha looked hopeful. Rags nodded.

“I know who that is.”

“Duh.”

Redscar grumbled. Hekusha stared at him, then gave Rags another big, still-scared smile. But she had relaxed enough to talk after the Goblins expressed approval in no uncertain way.

“We were—childhood friends. I was common-born, back then, but they hired me to act as a kind of—magical follower. I was their age, and later Magnolia Reinhart, who is deeply much a friend, helped find a mentor to teach me this spell. Which no one else has mastered! Thus my name.”

She seemed to really want Rags to know Magnolia was her friend. Rags nodded.

“So you cast it. So you aren’t a [Healer]?”

“No. A [Mage]. [Restoration], you see, is one of the few healing-class spells. The school of life-magic is thought to be relatively non-existent in modern-day magic, given that few spells to heal exist. I, ah, am I making sense?”

“Yes. Go on.”

“Well…that’s it. I can cast [Restoration], and I have quite a lot of people who want me to cast the spell, you know. I have a lot of money. At the Merchant’s Guild. I could, uh, give it to you if you set me free.”

“Hm. No. We want you to heal someone.”

The Healer’s eyes lit up.

“Heal someone? A Goblin? I can do that! And then you’ll let me go?”

“Yup.”

“Oh. Really? I’m—so delighted you’re reasonable! You know, this has happened three times before. Normally by people who demand I heal someone. But uh—never by Goblins. I thought Merdon would protect me properly. He’s never allowed anyone to capture me. Is he alive?”

“Redscar?”

“Mm. Stupid armor. Big-voice-man fine. Lots of shouting.”

“Oh, that’s good. Redscar, is it?”

“Mhm. Chieftain, maybe we can keep her? Good for not dying bleed-bleed-death.”

Rags sighed at Hekusha’s expression.

“No, Redscar. Hekusha. We want you to heal one person. Redfangs, any Goblin hurt, but one person. Then you can go. We’ll drop you off at, uh, close to a Human place.”

“That’s so very generous of you, Chieftain!”

The Healer smiled wanly. Rags raised her eyebrows. She wouldn’t have described her own actions as ‘generous’, but the woman had clearly expected a Tremborag-type Chieftain, to judge by her reaction. Rags tapped her chest.

“No one touches you. Except maybe to keep you from stepping in wolf poo. I promise.”

“Of course I—that’s good. Thank you.”

Rags nodded. This was a good step. Hekusha relaxed, and they passed a few minutes as Redscar followed the column pursuing Fighti flying ahead of them, occasionally correcting their course to keep hidden in valleys or forests. After a second, she spoke.

“Um. Who am I healing? An important Goblin, surely. What are they suffering from? Disease? It’s often disease or poison that leads people to come to me. Or permanent illnesses. I have Named Adventurers among my clients, you know. But if it’s just one person and you’re letting me go, maybe I could even signal to them I’m well?”

“Hrr. Doubt that. It is not a Goblin. She’s…Human.”

“R-really?”

“Mhm. Shot. By crossbows. Six.”

“Oh dear. She’s not dead…?”

“No.”

Hekusha relaxed. She’d clearly been worried about that. Rags went on.

“Poisoned crossbows. She was hurt…bad. Lost a lot of blood. So…she’s frozen. In ice.”

“In—”

Rags watched the woman’s face. She nodded slowly.

“Solid ice, almost. She is not dead—spells don’t say so. But not alive, either. So—frozen. With crossbow bolts in her, see? Right here. In the chest. You…we warm her, somehow. You heal her. Maybe through ice? Then you can go.”

She waited. Hekusha’s expression changed slowly. She tried to keep up her smiling, nodding face, but Rags saw the look of deep, deep uncertainty and fear. The Chieftain gritted her teeth.

“Can you do it?”

“I…maybe? I have Skills. Yes, of course. Yes. Of course.”

Rags stared at her. Then she turned her head forwards, so she didn’t see anything that contradicted the hope she had to cling to. And they were still headed north. Away from the High Passes.

How far did they have to run? Rags’ head turned forwards, as Redscar took over the questioning, keeping his smile toothless. The other Goblins clustered a bit closer, a bit fascinated by the second or third Human they’d ever truly met, who did try to smile back, if tremulously.

Rags, though, looked ahead. Searching. Her eyes flickered, and she saw Fighti bank, turning. Perhaps it was just a gust up there. Or she felt it too. Like…candles in the dark.

Something Rags had never seen, but knew the moment she’d heard it described to her.

Lighthouses.

——

Four days of battle. Four days of strange war. Then he fell.

Luck, experience, and his levels had carried him this far. Yet war was war; he slipped on a patch of mud. A rookie mistake, but he hadn’t even seen it in the press of bodies.

Rabbiteater fell. His shield rose, reflexively, but he was armed with a sword, not the enchanted axe, in the melee.

There the [Knight] stood, violet armor battered. A mace in two hands. It swung down, and the Goblin tried to guess where it would land. He failed. He guarded his face and it struck his gut.

A crushing blow that knocked the wind out of him, and touched him inside. Like a shockwave—some kind of Skill. Despite himself, the [Champion], [Knight-Errant], curled up reflexively. Then the mace rose, and fell. No grand pronouncement or movement to it. Just the efficient two-stroke to finish off a wounded foe.

How sensible. If the Goblin had the time, he might have grinned or even nodded, but every fiber in him was reaching to raise his sinking shield, twist out of the way.

He was too slow. The mace thudded into its target as the embattled Order of Seasons gave ground to their foe.

…Which was the mud, right next to Rabbiteater’s helmet. The Goblin blinked. He’d expected to die. And he could not believe anyone had aim that poor. Had something thrown his enemy off?

“I have you, ser! Yield like a good chap!”

A huge, booming, cheerful voice emerged from the helmet. Rabbiteater stared upwards at the [Knight] of the Order of the Hydra. He carefully kicked up.

The blow to the groin had [Enhanced Strength] behind it. [Aspect of the Champion]. Codpiece or no, he heard an oath from behind the helm, but then found he’d miscalculated as much as his foe. The figure grabbed his leg.

“Unsporting, ser! Yield; you’ve been bested!”

“Rabbiteater!”

A voice out of the melee and Ser Markus broke through with Meisa. The two Spring Knights were battered, their armor showing dents, their own spring green revealing grey underneath.

The female [Knight] turned, mace rising as she let go of his leg. Rabbiteater struggled up, but the foreign [Knight] just gave him a glare.

“I’ve bested your friend, [Knights]! The fellow doesn’t intend to yield.”

“Rabbiteater?”

Ser Markus lowered his blade. He glanced at the Goblin, and Meisa motioned him down.

“Yield, Rabbit—Solstice! Yield! We’ll win!”

“Hah! Two against one? Hardly sporting!”

At this, Ser Markus put up his blade. Dame Meisa saluted the [Knight], wielding hatchets in both hands. An unexpectedly aggressive approach, but Spring was often unexpected.

“Not two against one. En garde, Dame Knight!”

The Hydra Knight charged, mace swinging, but Meisa just whirled away and began her chopping assault, forcing the cursing opponent to back up for fear of the enchanted blades that could cut her armor if struck right.

“Solstice. That is to say, Rabbiteater, are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

Rabbiteater was still gasping from the blow he’d taken. But he wanted to jump Meisa’s opponent. Markus held him back.

“You’ve been bested, Rabbiteater. Stay down. It’s unchivalrous. By rights, you can’t participate in the battle. You’ve seen it done enough times! Is this the first time you’ve been beaten?”

“Yes. Who cares?”

Rabbiteater wanted to open his visor to spit what felt like blood or phlegm. He watched as Ser Markus restrained him by the shoulder. Meisa was winning, unexpectedly.

The other [Knight] was good, but her mace was just steel. Meisa’s hatchets came from the Order’s armories, and they had already taken nasty gashes out of her foe’s armor. Markus watched, but didn’t look like he’d intervene even if things went south. Indeed, the milling battle around them…

“Aha! A pair of foes. I challenge you two!”

Another group emerged from the fighting. No less than six Knights of the Hydra. Damn. Rabbiteater reached for his axe, but Ser Markus blocked him with an arm.

“My companion’s been bested.”

“Has he? Crying shame. You then, Ser? I challenge your Season of Spring! I am Ser Hedey.”

“Ser Markus of the Spring. Very well. En garde!”

And they fought. Rabbiteater watched as one of the Hydra Knights began to duel Markus in a ringing bout—they both had sword and shield—while the five others looked on. One even nodded at Rabbiteater.

They could have jumped Ser Markus and, even if Rabbiteater had joined in, he doubted they’d fare happily two on six. But instead, they dueled.

Dueled. And when the Hydra [Mace Knight] fell to one knee, bleeding from a limp arm and croaked ‘yield’, Meisa raised her hatchets.

“A well-fought match. Watch her hatchets, friends. Dame Spring! At your convenience.”

Another of the Hydra Knights bowed slightly. Two more helped the fallen Hydra Knight back up and towed her away. Meisa removed her helmet—an incredibly stupid move given arrows might be falling around them, but there were no arrows—and drank a stamina potion.

“I’m ready.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Very well then…”

Rabbiteater watched, arms folded. After a second he looked at Markus, who might have the edge. Again, because his armor and weapon were a cut above the Hydra’s [Knight]. But there were more opponents for him even if he won. And in the distance…Rabbiteater saw a huge shape, fighting a literal fireball.

“Hah! A fourth time, Summer’s Champion?”

The Dame of the Hills, the huge half-Giant [Knight], saluted an invisible opponent as the two champions of their respective orders advanced on each other. Around them, [Knights] of both sides clashed, but in duels, for the most part. Melees in others, but…so few died. Most shouted that damn word.

Yield. Rabbiteater stared at the fight, then stomped off. Four times someone tried to stop him, and he just shrugged.

“I yielded.”

And they let him go. Rabbiteater retreated to safety, where other fallen [Knights] and the wounded were recuperating, or resting before entering the fray. He sat down and fished out a healing potion for his stomach.

This was a stupid way to fight wars.

——

Or, alternatively, a smart one. Because, and here was the thing—the Order of Seasons lost this battle.

The Summer’s Champion didn’t. Rabbiteater saw the cursing half-Giant woman, the famous Great Knight of Ailendamus, retreat, her armor scorched all the way up her arms and legs. But the Summer’s Champion, Greysten, had fought two thirds of the battle against her alone, and couldn’t shift the odds even after his victory.

Nor had he killed the Dame of the Hills, Merila. By now, the Order of Seasons was too battered and ‘losing’ [Knights]. Which was to say that some were taken prisoner. Not killed.

Twelve dead on both sides. Twelve. Because most [Knights] never finished the kill-stroke, and armor saved them from the worst wounds, as did a quickly-applied healing potion. Thousands of [Knights] had clashed, under a thousand now from the Order of Seasons’ side, but the Order of the Hydra had sent over ten thousand.

Many had been bested in duels, but the Order of Seasons didn’t take any prisoner. They couldn’t; they were forced to flee on horseback, as a furious rearguard held off the unmounted [Knights] who cheerfully pursued for a mile or two then gave up as the victors, nearly eighty [Knights] now prisoners of war.

A stupid kind of battle. A [Knight]’s kind of battle. Ser Markus and Rabbiteater argued in one rare moment of discord as they wearily retreated.

“It is not stupid, Rabbiteater.”

“Is.”

“It is how Terandria has always fought. Are you calling millenia of tradition stupid?”

“Yup.”

Ser Markus made an indignant squawk. Meisa rode up on Rabbiteater’s other side. She was beaten, having lost her last duel, but she’d been able to ‘escape’, as the [Knights] hadn’t been able to demand she accompany them to their back lines.

“Few [Knights] died, Rabbiteater. Better that than a slaughter. You would have died if not for the rules of war.”

“Yup.”

“Well…? And don’t give me a one-word answer.”

She poked at him with a gauntleted finger, which was a very Goblin thing to do. Ser Markus saw the annoyed ‘Ser Solstice’ turn his helmet, then elaborate.

“We took no prisoners. They did. They’re winning.”

He pointed back at the Order of the Hydra.

“They certainly have the numbers on their side. Ordinarily we’d establish prisoner trains—escorts to take our prisoners away. But they have us on the run.”

Markus agreed wearily. Rabbiteater shook his head.

“There are thousands of them. They’re winning.”

“Not if we break their lines! The Order’s won greater battles with less, Rabbiteater, and reinforcements should be coming.”

“Pgrh.”

The Goblin made a rude sound in his helmet. He rode ahead as the two Spring Knights exchanged exasperated glances.

“What’s wrong with fighting a war where you don’t kill the other fellow, Rabbiteater? Isn’t that better, from what you’ve told us of Izril’s conflicts?”

Rabbiteater stopped. He glared back at them as the Spring Knights around them caught up with the main force. He pointed a furious finger.

“I don’t care about how you fight. [Knights] fight like the other one’s…people. A person. What about the people who don’t get to be people on the battlefield?”

He was not as eloquent as Numbtongue, and even now struggled to make himself clear. But one finger was enough. Meisa and Markus turned and saw the army that had taken casualties. In the hundreds.

Pheislant’s forces and Ailendamus’ forces had fought, but there was a distinction between [Knights] and…non-[Knights]. You’d often see both fighting together, but in this case, the Order of the Hydra was playing to the rules and essentially boxing out the Order of Seasons from fighting the regular [Soldiers] of Ailendamus. They formed a wall of duels and melees, such that the Order of the Summer couldn’t use their famous fire aura to burn the [Soldiers] en-masse.

Which meant that two armies of mostly non-[Knights] fought. Ailendamus’ army, and Pheislant’s mostly mounted force. Again, it was people on horses versus a very grounded army.

Unfortunately, no rules of war existed there for yielding. Ailendamus’ army had torn Pheislant’s to pieces. Again. They’d sat on a hill, and showered the poor [Soldiers] with crossbow bolts, keeping them from helping the Order of Seasons.

The dead. Rabbiteater saw Greysten talking to the bloodied Pheislant commander. Ser Markus followed after.

“It’s a damned shame. If we could have broken through again to help them—but yielding and the code of honorable engagements doesn’t work as well with [Soldiers], Rabbiteater. They don’t have our armor, by and large.”

“Yes. So the [Knights] get to live. Everyone else gets to fight like they’re monsters. Or Goblins.”

“That’s not fair…!”

“Markus. Let him be angry.”

Meisa drew back her companion. Markus glowered, but let Rabbiteater ride on. The Goblin Knight slowed as Greysten removed his helmet.

“Damn. Is there any way out of it?”

“No, Summer’s Champion.”

“Then we break west. Now. Rabbiteater, we’re being boxed in. Damn. Damn!”

The Summer’s Champion tossed his helmet down. He looked bruised. His entire body looked like one bruise, and no wonder. He’d been battling a literal giant. Well—half-Giant, but kin to Zamea and the largest of her kind.

A half-Giant with levels. That Greysten had driven her off was amazing. Even so, he had the energy to command.

“What’s a box?”

“This valley. They’ve driven us into a corner. We’ll need to break west. And we must take the battle to Ailendamus’ lines. They’ve torn up the [Soldiers] again. Crossbows. I’m sure Pheislant’s own could rout them if they got a good charge in, but they can never get close.”

Rabbiteater grunted. He’d seen that. Whoever was commanding Ailendamus’ forces had seen how the last army got beaten and had done everything in their power to not let that happen. They played on the Order’s knightly nature by forcing the individually inferior, yet numerous Order of the Hydra to hold them in place.

Even if the Order of the Hydra ‘lost’, the Order of Seasons couldn’t take the [Knights] prisoner. In the meantime, Ailendamus had the boring-but-efficient strategy of creating a fortified line behind which their far superior and numerous archers punished Pheislant’s riders for coming close.

“This is a stupid war. Stupid rules.”

Rabbiteater growled. Greysten was drinking from a water bottle. He looked at Rabbiteater.

“I heard you were bested, Rabbiteater. I’m glad they didn’t take you prisoner, although the Order of the Hydra’s reported to be an honorable lot. They probably would have let you keep your armor.”

“That’s not…the point. How you [Knights] fight is stupid.”

Rabbiteater glowered. Greysten stoppered the canteen and sighed.

“You’re entitled to being angry, Rabbiteater. But if you keep calling how we fight stupid, I’ll have to smack you. It’s how we’re fighting, and we’re not about to change how the rules of war work.”

The Goblin hesitated. Then he saw how Greysten was actually giving off steam, even in the warm evening breeze. He was as angry as Rabbiteater—only his aura showed it. He went for another drink of water, and grimaced as steam rose out of his canteen.

“Damn. And damn that giant…half-Giant…giant…woman!”

He made a fist and shook it at the figure still visible in the distance. Someone else joined them and tossed Greysten her water flask. Dame Voost, one of the best duelists in the Season of Summer.

“Cool yourself, Summer’s Champion. Ser Solstice.”

Rabbiteater nodded at the woman who’d yet to be bested in the duels. On the other side, Ser Zulv, another of Greysten’s close companions and leader of one of their strike groups, joined them.

“You must refuse her challenge, Summer’s Champion. Neither you nor she ever wins, only forces the other to retreat.”

“I know. But she can force me to it! [A Knight’s Duel]! I can scorch her and melt her weapons, but her damn [Squire] keeps tossing more in. And she’s as strong as—well, a half-Giant.”

Rabbiteater had seen Greysten fighting the nigh thirty-foot tall [Knight]. It seemed like he’d lose any encounter, but he had levels on her. So while she could strike him like a hammer, his Skills could turn blows or hold his ground, and she had to be wary of Greysten’s flame; conjuring a fireball like a [Mage] was the least of his tricks.

“If only the Spring’s Warden was here. She’d do better—or the Knight-Commander or the Winter’s Watcher. I’m not a good match for someone with that kind of reach, who can stay clear of me. And we can’t let her go rampaging into our lines!”

“Perhaps if I challenged her…?”

Voost offered. Greysten grunted.

“I’m not sure you could win, Voost.”

“Neither am I. But if it means you could break the stalemate…”

The [Knights] talked strategy as Rabbiteater cooled off and listened. The brunt of it was this: after multiple battles, their glorious advance into Ailendamus had stalled out. The enemy army had been made to fight them, and they had to break out of this trap and fight out of the valley or be captured.

Which didn’t mean dying. For the [Knights], at least. They’d all be prisoners of war for a time, ransomed when convenient. Even the [Soldiers], if they surrendered en-masse.

Later in his tent, as they ate around a pot of food, Greysten had a more reasoned discussion with Rabbiteater.

“To your point, Rabbiteater, it may be that only [Knights] have the luxury of a safer battle, but we do not exactly attempt to slaughter our foes in general. Many an army has lost only a tenth or fifth of its numbers and surrendered. Still bloody, but better.”

“Goblins don’t get that mercy.”

The Hobgoblin snapped. Greysten stopped filling a bowl and nodded.

“Aye, they don’t. But that’s an issue…damn, I wish Venoriat was here to talk about it.”

He meant the Fall’s Sentinel. Greysten offered Rabbiteater a bowl and the Goblin ate hungrily as Greysten tried to figure out what to say.

“…If every people fought like this, it wouldn’t be bad, though, would it? And I would like everyone to fight like this. I’ve seen bad battles, where the blood’s turned the ground red. I’d like to see no more if possible. Can we agree on that?”

“Fine. But it’s still stupid. No one’s going to level.”

“Yes they will. Don’t be a prat.”

Greysten heaved a ladle at Rabbiteater. Then, grumbling, he scooped up the soup with a bowl. Rabbiteater glowered, but it wasn’t as hostile as the wide-eyed Markus and Meisa thought. They were guests and probably saw tossing ladles as the height of acrimony. To Rabbiteater and Greysten, it was more like how Redfangs argued. If they threw a punch, well, it meant they were annoyed.

“Dame Meisa, you levelled up last battle, didn’t you? And Markus?”

“Yes, Ser Greysten. Two levels so far.”

“See?”

The angry Summer’s Champion waved a spoon at Rabbiteater, gobbling so fast it looked like the two were also racing to see who could finish their bowl faster, as if that conferred some legitimacy to their arguments.

“Not as much as a real battle. I am high-level for your [Knights]. And I’m ‘just a Goblin’. But a Goblin who fought real battles. They trained for years with fancy dummies. Magic and good food and techniques and practice. I’m higher level.”

Fancy dummies? Greysten’s lips moved until Markus coughed.

“Training dummies.”

“Oh.”

Rabbiteater jabbed his chest with his thumb.

“You fight in a way that makes you weaker. Ever fought Crelers? Eater Goats? Gargoyles? They don’t yield. Real fighting…no yielding. Fight like that, and you’ll level.”

He glared at Greysten. The Summer’s Champion glanced at him.

“It’s true, Rabbiteater. You are higher-level than most of my [Knights], even Summer’s lot. You’d be a veteran among them if your main class was your [Knight]’s class. However, with all due respect, the fact that I am higher-level than you by quite a bit proves we can still level. And survive. If I fought like you, I would be dead many times over because I have been bested. You are higher-level, Rabbiteater. But…there’s only one of you.”

Markus inhaled. Rabbiteater stared at Greysten for a long moment, and the Summer’s Champion waited, chewing. At last, the Goblin grunted, reached for the pot, and filled his bowl.

“Yeah. True.”

What else could you say but that he was right? Rabbiteater ate slowly. The coming battle would be fierce. He saw Greysten grimace.

“If we are routed here, surrender or not, we will fail both Pheislant and the Dawn Concordat. We must break through their lines. Or I fear this war will not last long at all. We are meant to ride to Kaliv’s defense. Seeing how they’ve held down an entire Season…”

He sat there, face dark, fiery hair reflecting the cookfire’s light. Markus and Meisa stirred.

“…I fear for all of Terandria’s south if Ailendamus isn’t checked. Can we do it, though? Lend me your strength for this next battle, Rabbiteater. I wish I had talked one of my peers into joining us. I didn’t think they could hold us back like this.”

Rabbiteater nodded. This was not his war. He didn’t know the Dawn Concordat, or hold Ailendamus as an enemy in any real way. But…he looked at Markus, Meisa, Greysten, and thought of the Order of Seasons.

A tribe of Humans. Friends. If he could have, he would have taken them back to the inn after this was over, to show a surprised [Innkeeper] who he’d found that was like her. You fought and died for friends and family. He ate with Greysten, and dreamt of an inn. If only she was alive. Then, surely—even if the coming battle had twice the odds against them—

He wouldn’t lose. But the boon had long since left him. All he had were memories.

——

Something strange happened over the next day of travel. Rags noticed it first, over breakfast.

“Ta. Da?”

Calescent had covered it with a plate. Hekusha blinked at the complex little puffball in the charred, wooden ‘cup’.

“U-um, what’s this? Calescent, is it?”

The [Spice Chef] gave her a beaming smile.

“Soufflé.”

He looked triumphantly at Rags. Hekusha peered at the item he served her for breakfast. Rags stared down at her porridge and cinnamon and gave him a thin-eyed glare. Clearly someone had been laboring harder over a certain dish than others.

“How did you make…?”

The Hobgoblin was exceptionally proud of himself and showed the two. He’d worked on the basic ingredients for the soufflé by having a Redfang raid birds’ nests for eggs. He had flour, along with a variety of travel rations like your basic salt, spices, and so on. He had the recipe from his studies with Imani and one could pan-fry a lot.

But soufflés also required ovens, so Calescent had, after much thinking, improvised one by carefully laying embers in a hole in the ground and constantly replacing them to get as close to an even bake in a primitive field-kitchen as one could hope for.

Incidentally, Redscar and Fighti were eating his failed attempts with considerable relish. The [Spice Chef] waited like some anxious contestant on a cooking show as Hekusha ate the food which she had never actually partaken of before. Variants, of course, but her eyes went wide.

“It’s…delicious!”

Calescent clapped his hands and whooped, much to her shock. Rags just glared at her porridge, but Hekusha’s appreciation trumped her annoyance. Indeed, Calescent was keen to tell her he could cook.

“Lasagnas. Soufflés. Quiches. Egg-dishes is nice. Eggs is nice. But I have been told…there are good dishes. Needs rice. Or bread. Curry. Have you eaten curry?”

“I have not. Curry…I’ve, ah, had those other dishes. And you know how to cook them?”

Calescent nodded self-importantly.

“I have a cookbook.”

“You do? I’ve…that was quite delicious, that soufflé. I’ve eaten at restaurants with [Chefs] who have cooked worse.”

“Ah! Ah, that is good.”

The Hobgoblin beamed, already trying to figure out a new dish. To impress her. Hekusha glanced over as a Redfang looked over.

“You eat fancy food? All the time? Like…cake?”

“Cake? You’ve eaten cake? But that’s the newest thing to come out of the kitchens! Frosted cakes, that is. It’s…you have?”

The Goblins grinned. Rags listened, in silence, as the Healer of Tenbault was taken aback. She explained.

“I do visit fine restaurants regularly, actually. I ah, do it in disguise. I have a ring. That is…I believe your Chieftain has it.”

Rags had confiscated all of her magical items. Frowning, she dug in her bag of holding and produced one.

“This?”

The carved eye was clouded over, a milky-white gemstone inset in the ring. A Ring of Illusory Form, as it turned out. Hekusha nodded.

“Yes, well, it’s not good to be so popular as I am. So I must go abroad like someone else. The Healer rarely leaves Tenbault publicly, you see. It’s…mystique.”

“Mystique. Why?”

Calescent savored the word. Hekusha brushed at her hair, uncombed, and losing some of its sheen from days of travel. But last night the other Goblins had even found a stream for her to wash in.

“Well…it’s, ah, important not to let people find me, especially when I travel. They make demands, or pleas…I can’t help everyone. Hence the system at Tenbault. A lottery and purchased tickets. It provides an income for the city, you see, and my guards, and my work.”

The Goblins gave her blank looks. The Healer tried to elaborate.

“Much of my income goes to keeping Tenbault running. Hiring a Named Adventurer is not cheap, but I do have the opportunity to travel and visit restaurants, dine with company, and see attractions fairly regularly. However, I also have magical research. Into magic in general, but also [Restoration] as a spell. To make it more…accessible.”

“Ah, so many people can cast it? Useful.”

Redscar nodded thoughtfully. Hekusha hesitated.

“Well, a few. I have apprentices and staff. I hope they escaped.”

“They did. Ran off.”

Rags murmured. Hekusha nodded. The little Goblin fished in her bag of holding, but before she could produce some of the objects they’d taken from the Healer’s home, Calescent broke in.

“Do you know ice cream?”

“You mean…gelato? It’s extraordinarily expensive, but I bought eight pounds of it. And it went by distressingly fast…don’t tell me you know how to…really?”

“I will make you some. When we get to Goblinhome.”

The [Chef] looked happy, although Rags knew for a fact he hadn’t ever made any, since ice was harder to get. Even so, him smiling at her, the other Redfangs chatting, asking her what fancy things she’d seen…

It was notable to Rags. They were really trying to reassure Hekusha. No—she sensed the same hunger she felt once upon a time, with a certain [Innkeeper]. Kevin had rekindled it, but Hekusha was, ironically, the one who truly brought it out.

Because she was terrified of them, or had been, and they wanted her to see. Look at us. We’re people. Not for just anyone would Calescent have burned his fingers making a soufflé in the early morning.

It seemed to be working too, if the Healer’s more relaxed riding and talking was any indication. Rags wasn’t as eager as the others and just went back to trying to read the Healer’s notes. They were written quite legibly by Hekusha’s own hands, but the magical theorems were mind-boggling to Rags.

Not for the first time, she bemoaned not getting Pisces to teach her everything he’d known. Noears had been the best [Mage] that Rags had ever met among her kind, but even he hadn’t been academic. He’d learned magic by studying, not like [Sorcerers], it was true, but it was from scavenged spellbooks.

Perhaps Hekusha could teach her? When Rags asked, the Healer was all too willing.

“Of course! I’m er, all too willing to do so! I don’t teach much, and [Restoration] is technically a spell for Level 40 [Mages] at least. You need a very…dedicated teacher to learn it at lower-levels.”

“Did you?”

Rags frowned as Hekusha tried to show her a basic spell—[Featherfall]. Learning while riding was difficult, but Rags had little better to do; Fighti was taking them on a course they had arranged last night with the map. Hekusha bit her lip.

“I learned from…well, I suppose there’s no harm in saying to you all. A rather mysterious person that one of my childhood friends knew. She asked me if I was willing to change my career, and I accepted. It was an intensive apprenticeship. Four months—not all personal mentoring! But I would have never understood it without…an old half-Elf. I actually heard he reappeared, which is astonishing…”

So there were two people who could cast [Restoration]. Rags’ eyebrows rose. Then she focused on the spell, and the Healer of Tenbault was amazed how fast Rags learned.

“You really are gifted. And you taught yourself magic?”

“I had a teacher.”

“Incredible. Well, I can certainly teach you more! Do you have more Goblins who can cast magic at this…Goblinhome? Where is it?”

“Mm. Somewhere else. We have to go around, first. Lose trackers.”

Rags cast a warning glance at Calescent, who ducked his head. The Healer nodded a few times.

“Of course. Maybe I could write them a letter, though? Signal them I’m safe? Some of my pursuers won’t give up…”

“Maybe. I don’t see any so far.”

Rags frowned back the way they’d come. Hekusha bit her lip.

“I’m sure they’re out there. Magnolia Reinhart is a dear friend. You know, if we head to this person who needs healing—I’m sure Magnolia might ransom me for a spell scroll of similar value. She certainly has a Scroll of Restoration lying around.”

“Eh. Maybe.”

——

In fact, there was a bit of a problem with the Healer’s pursuit. Oh, there was all the will in the world. Izril’s north didn’t have as established a flying contingent, a fact they sorely regretted now.

But there was a Pegasus in the air, flying carpets, House Zolde providing two of theirs, and ground pursuit too. The speed the Goblins were moving astounded their pursuers, though. Top-level Skills and the Carn Wolves made them hard to catch.

However, they would be caught! In any other time, the pink carriage of Magnolia Reinhart would have been on an intercept course, loaded with her staff. Or House Veltras’ fastest would be racing after the Goblins. Or…

…Well, Magnolia Reinhart was in the south. House Veltras had politely declined to join the chase in a significant way and then gone off to sail on Terandria. They were smashing an Ailendamus fleet after a two-day chase even now.

So while there were pursuers, the highest-levelled Skills weren’t behind them, or the same kind of organization. A weary [Pegasus Flier] landed, ready to demand food, water, a conference with the trackers…and found no one at all, least of all the carefully-grown magical grasses the Pegasus demanded.

The carpet riders swore they had the Goblins dead to rights, and signalled for an intercept, only to find the only force capable of bringing battle to the Goblins was over twenty miles back, and no one had thought to move forces from ahead of them.

Coordination was a virtue. Coordination won wars, and while there was a lot of force, it wasn’t directed. That was why more formal institutions, love ‘em or hate ‘em, were often employed in situations like this. A fast-moving target with elusive qualities in small numbers?

Send the Guild of Assassins. A perfect match. But oh wait.

They were all dead, or in hiding. Funny how that worked out. As for the Healer of Tenbault, she was an asset.

Yet the lone [Assassin] left in the North, to his knowledge the only one still endorsed and in the employ of one of the Five Families, thought it was really a sign of how much Magnolia Reinhart liked the Healer.

Because she’d put him on the job.

Him.

T-Theofore. Who everyone remembered.

Right?

…No one had even come after him when they’d purged the Assassin’s Guild. His own guild had put a bounty on his head for siding with Magnolia Reinhart—then promptly forgotten all about him. He’d thought he’d have an easier time of it, with Ressa and Reynold and Magnolia’s fearsome staff.

But noooo. The instant Magnolia Reinhart heard about the Healer being missing, she’d chartered a Pegasus, flown him to Pallass, and made him join the hunt.

Five days without sleeping in a bed. Two on a non-stop Pegasus flight, one getting through damned Pallass and Liscor and Invrisil because no one would answer the portal door, and two more flying on carpet.

Theofore hated his job. He didn’t want to find the Goblins, but he had a terrible, sinking suspicion that he was on their trail. He certainly wasn’t about to kill them or try to rescue the [Healer].

He’d levelled up a lot by the horrors of Magnolia Reinhart making him pursue the Wind Runner, clash with fellow [Assassins], and Ressa’s hell-training. She was a former Face of the Assassin’s Guild, and Theofore had thought those days of recruit-training were behind him. Even so, he wouldn’t want to fight multiple Hobs and a Chieftain.

He was simply on reconnaissance, and could report back to Magnolia where they were headed. Theofore hunched on the carpet he was flying and prayed like hell he didn’t hit a goose flight in midair. You heard horror stories of how you died on these flying death-traps. Even with a Scroll of Featherfalling, he was terrified, miserable…and flying through rain.

“I hate Magnolia Reinhart. I hate Ressa. I hate that damned Wind Runner, Ryoka Griffin. I hate rain. I hate Goblins. I hate the Healer of Tenbault. I hate Izril. I hate the Assassin’s Guild. I hate rain. I hate rain. I hate Pegasi. I hate Drakes. I hate…”

His litany of misery was only abated slightly by being right. He began to compose a [Message] spell—or would when he got out of the damned rain. Whether Magnolia Reinhart wanted to act on it was up to her.

However, Theofore now knew where the Goblins were headed. It wasn’t that he was a good tracker, or was faster than the other people in the sky or on the ground. Theofore was still an [Assassin], and he’d used his knowledge of Izril and a map and common sense to figure out where the Goblins were going.

There was only one place a Goblin in this region of the upper north might go to escape pursuers. Theofore grimaced as he descended and confirmed he’d found a giant Wyvern stool lying across a horrified rabbit’s den.

“You and me both.”

He muttered at the poor bunny. Theofore nodded and checked the map. There were…places that someone in his line of work knew. No doubt about it. When Goblins fled, they tended to go to places no one was around. That was elementary. Or, in this case…

Other Goblins.

——

The change in landscape and temperature wasn’t immediate, but it was fairly quick. Rags saw Fighti descend as the terrain changed.

What had been rather green lands had slowly begun to grow a bit barren. A bit…hotter too, come to think of it. And rather than forests, what they now found were more like swamps, as the indigenous trees and flora turned tropical.

“Chieftain. Air smells funny.”

Fighti coughed as she circled back. Rags frowned. She stared ahead at a distant smoke stack and a valley.

“Too hot?”

“Not for Snowscale. But funny air. Funny land. Not good hide.”

Fighti patted the Frost Wyvern who exhaled a plume of cold. Rags glanced ahead.

“Hekusha. You know where we are?”

“I…maybe? It looks like we’re close to the Deuse Valley.”

“What’s that?”

The Healer licked her lips.

“Mostly abandoned land. There’s not much habitable there and it’s hot. An active volcano, I believe. Do you…know what that is?”

Rags had no idea. The Healer explained.

“It’s this phenomenon where hot, molten stone shoots up. I would recommend we go around this place. No one comes here, not even [Alchemists]. Monsters and Lava Golems and others might love the heat, and it’s simply inhospitable.”

“So no one’s here.”

“…Yes, but…”

“Good place to hide. Fighti, you keep going. Besides…”

Rags glanced at Hekusha and completed the statement in her head.

There are Goblins here.

She sensed them. In fact, she sensed the Chieftain, a strong presence. Although…and Rags had never experienced this before, dimmed. Greydath had been invisible, but this was like a light you only saw when you got close. She was fascinated, but mainly just hoped they could break east or west and head back south.

Fighti took to the air, but with clear reservations. Rags didn’t understand why, but Redscar tasted the air and spat.

“Weird air. Smoke. Smells like alchemy.”

“That might be sulfur. It’s a compound [Alchemists] sometimes use.”

“Huh. So [Alchemists] come here?”

“Oh, no. Never.”

“Then how they get it? It lying around all over the place?”

Hekusha shrugged.

“It’s simply not in that much demand. I suppose I’ve never asked, but it’s clear the market has saturation. Er—that means there is enough to buy. But I do know this valley is deserted.”

Redscar grinned.

“Right. Sure.”

The Healer didn’t know. The Goblins grinned at each other, chuckling. Hekusha smiled uncertainly; she really seemed to have taken her ease with them. The Carn Wolves grumbled, not liking the hotter air, especially as they proceeded in.

Rags’ first warning that something was wrong was when she heard a shriek from above. She looked up, tensing, and saw Fighti bank back. Calescent had joined her and was waving frantically. Rags saw the Wyvern, a small shape, wobble in the air. Then—drop.

“Attack!”

Redscar howled. He pointed as the Wyvern went into a sudden, uncontrolled dive. But—Rags stared. Nothing had hit them! Was it a tiny projectile?

No—the Wyvern, Snowscale, flapped his wings and caught himself from the deadly dive. He wobbled, descended, tried to rise, then came down too fast. Rags whirled.

“To them! Go, go!”

Hekusha cried out, but Rags left her with two Redfangs as Redscar charged with Thunderfur. She was right behind him, clinging to a Redfang’s back.

They found Snowscale lying on his side, breathing with a wheeze. Fighti was trying to tend to him, but Calescent wasn’t helping. He was lying on the ground.

“Calescent! What happened?”

“Where’s enemy?”

Redscar demanded. He had both his swords drawn, but Fighti just shook her head. Calescent wheezed.

“No enemy.”

“No enemy? What?”

“No enemy. Bad…air.”

Rags stared up, then she too felt a strange, burning pain in her lungs. She began to cough, and finally saw something rising into the air, invisible by the time it got higher.

Steam. No, steam and…

The correct word for it was a fumarole, a natural steam-vent created by the heat of volcanic activity. It emitted gas, not just water vapor.

Sulfuric gas. And a host of other bad things in the smoke that had knocked Snowscale out of the air when it had accidentally flown too low over a vent.

Not just sulfur. One of the Carn Wolves began sneezing and backing away from the vent, still six hundred meters distant. A Goblin joined the wolf.

“Chieftain. Poison.”

The Redfang did double-duty in Poisonbite’s unit and knew what she was talking about. When she spoke, all the Goblins moved. Snowscale was urged up, and forced, whining, to lumber away.

“What is that?”

The fumarole didn’t look like deadly poison to Rags, but the instant they retreated further, she felt the stinging pain in her lungs and incessant need to cough dissipating. Redscar swore and shaded his eyes.

“…Not just smoke. Chieftain. You see?”

Rags squinted ahead. And the barren landscape began to resolve itself into something else.

Yes, it was hot. And the stone and dirt had that dry, igneous quality that came from being situated near a heat source that leeched water out of the ground.

However. This was not a place lacking water. It pooled in groundwells, often thin and shallow, at least, from what Rags saw. The swampy outer region gave way to this different kind of marsh. But there was still life here.

Maybe it would be harder if this was Kevin’s Earth. All these poisonous compounds made even small life difficult to sustain, let alone a complex organism.

Here, magic provided. And only magic. Rags saw strange clumps of plants growing along the water she’d never drink even if she was dying of thirst. Strange plants, mosses…even some of the stones were odd.

Yellow sulfur deposits. She frowned at them. She’d never seen the powdery, yellow stuff before. Sand? This wasn’t sand. However, her attention was on the plants. Some were located right over the vents, and if her eyes didn’t deceive her, they were adding their own mixture to the smoke.

“Poison plants. Great.”

The Redfang nodded.

“Chieftain, poof-air places death. Choke-poison death. There. There. There…maybe there, safe.”

She pointed, and Rags saw her tracing a route away from the poisonous vents located near anything growing. The other ones might just emit a toxic smoke, but…

Rags growled.

“Wonderful.”

She liked sarcasm. It suited her. Fighti anxiously propped herself up on her shoulder.

“Snowscale sick, Chieftain.”

A retching sound made Rags look over as the Frost Wyvern threw up. And it was a lot for a Wyvern to throw up. Rags grimaced.

“Get Snowscale up.”

“But Chieftain—”

“Get up. We take to Hekusha, okay? She heals…we go on foot. Maybe scout. Oh, and masks.”

“Kevin’s masks help?”

Calescent was on his feet, and grimacing, shaking his head a bit woozily. Rags shrugged.

“Better than not, right? Now—”

She turned as a warning howl came from behind them. Where the Healer was. Cursing, Rags ran for the Carn Wolves. Redscar raced back the way they’d come. What now? What—?

What now turned out to be…Goblins. Goblins, of course, but more Goblins. In fact?

A tribe. Nearly two hundred Goblins, surrounding the two Redfangs and Carn Wolves, who were riding around a terrified Hekusha hiding behind a barrier she’d cast.

Such strange Goblins though. Rags and Redscar halted. She heard whoops, the classic yiyiyiyi of Goblin war-screams, but the Goblins looked different.

They all wore masks. Carved, wooden ones. Stone ones. Even a metal one on what was clearly the Chieftain-Hob. Some were painted, others crude. But each one was securely over the Goblin’s face, giving it a terrifying visage.

Goblins were monsters and horrifying to regular people. For the first time, Rags got something of that sense from seeing these Goblins. Was this what Humans felt like? Strange, unknown creatures?

They were still Goblins, though, and their chatter and interplay were still familiar to Rags, so the dissonance only lasted a second. And they hadn’t attacked, though two spears buried in the ground a ways away from the Redfangs who’d drawn bows clearly showed they weren’t happy.

“Redfang! Stay back!”

Redscar advanced with a snarling Thunderfur. At the sight of him on the mighty wolf, the other Goblins scampered back. However, the Chieftain roared and slapped his chest.

“Our tribe! Not here-Goblins. You leave! Now!”

It had been a while since Rags met Goblins who were not part of her tribe. It was almost refreshing. She raised a hand and the Hob turned to her, then to Redscar, confused. Rags saw Redscar nod to her, and thus confirm she was in charge.

“I am Chieftain of Flooded Waters tribe! Not to fight!”

“Leave! My tribe strong!”

The Hob bellowed back. He saw the other Goblins and even Snowscale and Fighti loping over and hesitated.

Not because the Frost Wyvern was particularly horrifying with vomit and drool leaking out of its jaws, wings folded, limping along. Although it was still certainly big. Rather, because of the basic dynamic among Goblins.

He was a single Hob, a powerful, well-fed Goblin with scavenged armor that might even be steel, or iron; it was rusted from heat and weather. His tribe of two hundred was armed with bows, spears, throwing javelins, slings, and so on. Not bad…

But the real denominator that separated him and Rags was Hobgoblins. Hobs were a measure of strength and Redscar and six of his warriors were all Hobs, as well as Calescent. Any one of them was an equal to this Chieftain in theory, and he grew warier still.

“You leave. You come, we fight!”

He warned them as the little Goblins drew back on bows. Rags didn’t like the way her [Dangersense] pricked her when she stared at them.

“Arrows might be poisoned, Chieftain.”

Her expert in the field whispered. Rags grimaced. It made sense. Give a Goblin any natural poison and you bet they were putting it on their bows.

A memory of a frozen Human struck her. She shook her head. No. They would not repeat that. Not here. She pointed at the Hob.

“No fight. We run from Humans. Rest here. Get sick. Bad air. Okay?”

She gestured at Snowscale. The Hob clearly understood what happened, but he glared, and shook his head.

“Take Human. Go now! No stay! You fight—all tribes fight! This Molten Stone tribe! They come? Kill you all!”

Rags’ ears pricked up. Molten Stone? He wasn’t talking about his tribe. More tribes would fight them if they advanced? She tried to shout, coughed.

“Hah! Sick Goblin. You leave. Leave!”

Arrows showered the ground in front of Rags’ group. Redscar snarled. He drew his swords and the Hob Chieftain backed up.

“Chieftain. I challenge him?”

“No. Leave him.”

Rags didn’t want Redscar to antagonize this tribe, though she was sure he could win. She coughed again and saw Hekusha standing there.

“Hekusha, heal Snowscale.”

“Heal a Wyvern? But…”

She hadn’t gotten much of the interplay between Goblins. Rags pointed and the Healer hesitated.

“But my barrier—”

“We’ll shield you. They won’t attack. Go!”

Even so, Calescent had to gently urge Hekusha before she’d drop the barrier, and she scurried over, using his body as a shield.

“Might be fighting, Chieftain. Can’t turn back.”

Redscar muttered. Rags bit her tongue.

“Maybe. I don’t want to fight poison. Challenge Chieftain if they attack. They’ll probably run when you win.”

“Mm.”

The tense standoff might have gone on longer, as the Redfangs took out bows and their Carn Wolves snarled. Rags was preparing her own last resort. Her Dwarfsteel crossbow with [Dual Shot], and [Fast Fireball], would make the Goblins think twice, but she really didn’t want to fight them, even if she ‘took over’ their tribe.

She was actually wondering why this Chieftain was so…hostile. Normally, Goblin tribes didn’t like to stick together and the Mountain City tribe was a rarity, but Goblin tribes didn’t just brawl when they met. They usually traded, exchanged news, and agreed to part after a short meeting.

Sometimes a tribe took over other tribes, but instant hostility without aggression was strange. She would have been curious and at least talked to the foreign Goblins. Maybe they thought having a Human would be trouble?

The jeering tribe of mask-Goblins suddenly went silent. Rags saw a few lower bows and point. She turned.

What was…?

Calescent, waiting for Hekusha to heal Snowscale, had clearly had enough of this toxic environment. Grumbling, the [Spice Chef] had taken his hand away from his death-spice bag, ready to dump in an attacker’s face, and pulled something out of his bag of holding.

A leather mask, with glass eye sockets. The complex little filter Kevin had worked up went over Calescent’s mouth and he breathed a bit easier.

“Hrm. Better breathing. Harder seeing. Chieftain, masks help. Chieftain?”

Then he noticed that the other tribe had gone still. The mask-wearing Goblins stared at the curious device on Calescent’s face. Rags turned, saw their avid expressions, the way the Chieftain hesitated, and whirled.

“Everyone. Put on Kevin-masks. Now.”

The Redfangs didn’t hesitate. They pulled out the masks, and fastened them. Hekusha, devoid of mask or comprehension, just watched as two sides stared at each other behind masks. Even then, the other Goblins wavered.

What broke the spell was when Redscar dismounted, fished out a complex hood, and put it over a whining Thunderfur’s face. The Carn Wolf’s ‘mask’ to keep him from inhaling dust looked like a cross between horse blinders and an elephant’s trunk. Rags saw the masked Chieftain’s figure jolt—then he nearly fell over laughing.

“Mask! Mask for dog! They know mask-dog!”

Goblins hooted, and Rags saw their hostility evaporate in an instant. They holstered their weapons, then marched over, pointing at Thunderfur, who looked really indignant about all of this.

——

And once again, the day was saved thanks to…Kevin?

Or putting masks on dogs. Which, Rags discovered, was a real thing. She stared at the wagging hunting dog’s tail as it sniffed at Thunderfur and the huge Carn Wolf blinked at the ceramic mask attached to the dog’s face with careful straps.

It was clear that the mask was not meant to really come off except when the dog was fed. At first, Rags wondered if it was a punishment, but the tribe of mask-Goblins, who were actually known as the Yellow Powder tribe, due to the deposits they harvested and the color of the poison they manufactured, were friendly enough once the ice had been broken.

“Mask not bad. Dog wear mask since this small. Good mask. Mask or die choke-choke-argh-death.”

Rags nodded. Oh, of course. But…the Chieftain Hobgoblin was fascinated by the mask she’d let him inspect. He loved the filters, and the glass eye-goggles.

“Is good. Chieftains have glass. I not have.”

He muttered, a bit upset by this lacking problem. But he loved the filters. They were new to him and he asked to see one of the replacements Kevin had worked up.

“Ooh. What black stuff?”

“Charcoal. Help bad air.”

“Smart. Goblins wear masks. Good goblins. Friends.”

The dog wagged its tail. It had a droopy face, but was clearly used to Goblins. In fact, it barked at Hekusha, who kept well behind Calescent, who was talking with the Goblins present. Rags frowned.

“Good Goblins? There bad Goblins?”

“Sometimes. Goblins fight Goblins. Bad Goblins come from big mountain. Or sea. Sometimes fight. Sometimes to see Great Chieftain.”

Rags sat upright.

“Great Chieftain? I am Great Chieftain too.”

The Hob blinked, but he took Rags at her word.

“Then you come for Great Chieftain of Molten Stone tribe? You know masks. Not fight us.”

“No. Humans following. We come…know Goblins here. Molten Stone tribe is big tribe here?”

“Yes. Tribes here…here…here…Molten Stone here.”

The Chieftain of the Yellow Powder tribe, who was named Neuz, showed Rags a simple map. If the Molten Stone was in the center, around what Rags guessed was the smoke stack, a volcano, then there were in fact many tribes around the center one, all of this tribe’s size or a bit bigger.

It was so strange. Rags was instantly reminded of the only other tribe to do things that way. In fact…Redscar leaned over.

“Chieftain. Sounds like Mountain City tribe. And Kraken Eaters.”

“Mountain City! Kraken Eaters!”

Neuz exploded with rage, and the hunting dog barked behind its mask. Rags guessed these were ‘bad Goblins’. To calm him, Rags pointed at the mask he held.

“Chieftain Neuz. You take my mask. Gift. You help us get to Molten Stone tribe?”

The Hob looked at the mask and the coveted glass.

“You give?”

Rags nodded. Instantly, he jumped to his feet, beaming.

“You guests! Molten Stone tribe not like visitors. You must have gift. Gift for Great Chieftain, Anazurhe! [Witch]! Business. You say ‘business’, and show gift, they let you go.”

Rags traded a glance with Redscar. Now what was this?

——

“Molten Stone. Kraken Eaters. Redscar, you remember?”

The Redfang leaned against Neuz’s hut as he found a guide and messengers to tell the other tribes to let the Flooded Waters Goblins through. He frowned as a little Goblin child tottered past them, intent on touching Thunderfur’s leg. She began to pluck hairs and Redscar ushered her away as Thunderfur growled. But even this little child wore a mask.

“Garen talked about them. Remember?”

Rags did. Tremborag and Garen had looked for allies during the Goblin Lord’s attack, but the two tribes they had decided were worth approaching…hadn’t come. Neither Chieftain would work with Tremborag.

It felt like a long time ago. She had wondered to the character of the two, and recalled something vague about a brute and a spellcaster, respectively.

Well, Kraken Eaters had come to Invrisil and she’d heard about what even a few warriors had done. As for Molten Stone? She felt more of a Mountain City vibe from them, which didn’t comfort her, knowing Tremborag.

However, Neuz came back and did elaborate on some things.

“Goblins come. Humans come. Even…”

He frowned, and searched for the word in the common tongue. He traced a triangle on his hat.

“[Witches]?”

Rags supplied. Neuz brightened.

“[Witches]. Like Great Chieftain. You take gift. Only [Witches] no gift.”

Rags frowned. She felt at her bag of holding, not expecting this hurdle. Calescent hmmed too, looking around.

“What good gift, Chieftain Neuz?”

“Gold. Magic things. Things Molten Stone want. Like spices. Tasty food.”

Neuz looked longingly in the direction of the central plume. Calescent raised his brows and pulled out his patented bag of spices.

“Like this?”

Neuz took one finger’s taste of the death-spice and ran around howling for five minutes. Then he promptly offered Calescent a mask for some of the spices, which were hard to get in this terrain.

“Magic mask. Very good. Need. We give Goblins, and things like yellow powder. They give this.”

He gestured to the masks they all wore. Calescent didn’t mind the trade, lopsided as it seemed for a plain wooden one, but the instant he put it on his face, he stiffened.

“Chieftain! This mask! Magic!”

Neuz clapped his hands, laughing, as Calescent tore it off and showed it to Rags. She squinted at it, but barely saw any magic on it. Nevertheless…when she put it on her face, the world suddenly changed. She inhaled and the air was sweet and clean.

“A magical filter?”

Hekusha edged out from behind Calescent to stare at the mask. Rags was astounded. Kevin’s filters were one thing, but no wonder even the dogs wore these masks at all times! Neuz nodded.

“Goblins go to Molten Stone. Sometimes Goblins come, take good Goblins. Sometimes Goblins come back. If bad Humans, Molten Stone comes. Molten Stone powerful. Has…psst psst.”

He flicked his fingers and nodded at Hekusha.

“Magic?”

“Mm. Other tribes, Humans come for Great Chieftain. Not you. Other one. She has great magic. You go—but give spice.”

Rags nodded, as it seemed Neuz wanted to go back to work. Goblins were actually harvesting sulfur, scooping it into bags. They loaded up a group of four Goblins with some, who would be their guides the rest of the way in. Hekusha was patently amazed by their industry. The Redfangs, for their part, made judicious trades. They refused to part with enchanted weapons or good steel, but they ended up trading entire sheaves of steel-tipped arrows for carefully-prepared bundles of cheap wood tipped with obsidian.

“Poisoned arrows? Losing ammunition.”

Rags commented to Redscar. He shrugged.

“Poison better than steel for annoying Gold-ranks. Shoot one in foot? ‘Argh! I’m poisoned! Fall back!’ Scared of no healing.”

Rags snorted. That was true enough. She bade farewell to Neuz, not too concerned about his tribe running into pursuers. Anyone in the air would suffer the same fate as Snowscale, and if an army wanted to cross this terrain, good luck. Neuz’s tribe could harry them here for days with ease.

Thus, the Goblins advanced, and while two more tribes spotted them, their guides and their masks led them forwards. Snowscale grumbled as he waddled after Fighti, and Hekusha ended up with the clean-air mask as the other Goblins walked forwards, breathing lightly.

They ascended, then, curiously, descended into the last valley. For there, in the center of it all, was a vast mountain of stone, cavernous tunnels where the active volcano belched smoke. Fearless of it all, though, was the Molten Stone tribe.

The ground was powdery and stones ran down as their guides carried them down the slope, shouting.

“Business! Business! Yellow Powder!”

…But there was no one in immediate view. Only when Redscar nudged Rags and pointed up did she spot a telltale shadow in an opening higher up. A Goblin with a bow.

Yet the strange, volcanic fortress in the center of the circular valley was massive. And as Rags approached, that sense of impending power heightened. There was someone here. If Rags sensed her, surely the opposite was true. So the twenty or so Goblins walked towards the igneous lair of Anazurhe, the Great Chieftain of the Molten Stone tribe. They passed through tunnels of obsidian, cut by lava flows, into extreme heat…and then, suddenly, into cool air, deliberately cut stone, and cooling spells.

Into a volcano, tamed by the power of Izril’s Goblin [Witch]. [Witch of Flame]. Great Chieftain.

And…the strangest tribe Rags had seen yet. Her eyes went wide. Hekusha’s nearly popped out of her head. Especially when they saw the other Humans.

——

Names were unimportant. If you gave your real name, you were de facto a fool, especially in their line of work. He was named Roell, for instance, and his companion was Vinn.

Vinn was new. Roell was not. Roell was a paid Guide, or rather, the intermediary, and Vinn was under employment. It was a good job, but Roell had to emphasize a few things.

“Listen. There are rules here. You saw them on your way in? All four tribes that challenged us?”

Vinn was sweating. He nodded.

“I thought they’d gut us. But I just…and they left.”

Roell sighed. He adjusted his mask—like all hells you’d walk through this place without one—and took it off. You didn’t need it inside. Vinn was still staring around.

“You agreed to this job and you thought they’d gut us?”

“Well…it’s just…”

“Never seen a Goblin, have you?”

The man shook his head, wordlessly. Roell suspected Vinn might be his real name. But what could you expect from a Daylighter?

Daylighter, as in common citizen. Roell was no Daylighter. He was a [Rogue], a catchall term for someone on his side of the law. His exact class was private, thank-you-very-much. Nor was he a member of a gang. He didn’t have a hat, he didn’t have a tattoo, and he didn’t have a penchant for cutting off a fellow’s pride and joy—but the Sisters of Chell were female-only, so there.

Roell was connected enough in certain respects, though. Hence him being allowed here, and given the sometimes-unenviable job of shepherding people like Vinn around.

“Just relax. Follow my rules. Do you remember them?”

“Uh—uh—”

Vinn panicked like this was a damned test. Roell rolled his eyes.

“If you don’t remember, ask me. I get paid more if you live. Remember, it’s very simple. Rule number one. Don’t look at…”

“The blueprints.”

“That’s right.”

The two men turned, and a Goblin stared at them behind one of the masks. It slowly rolled up the scroll it was holding. Roell nudged Vinn and the man turned his head.

“Don’t look at the blueprints. We know.”

“Good.”

The Goblin glared. Vinn jumped at the voice. Roell turned back to him. He stared past the Goblins waiting for Vinn to get to work, at another group that had just entered.

“That’s a damned Wyvern. Huh.”

A little Goblin’s jaw was hanging open as he pulled Vinn to one side. Masked Goblins were everywhere, walking down the interior street, pointing at the two Humans—but without much surprise. Some had pointed hats, others masks. A lot had wands. They were more interested in the new Goblins, anyways.

“Rule two. If they start chattering, in any language, just don’t do whatever you were doing. Got it? They won’t kill you right away, although they might beat you senseless.”

“Okay, okay. I remember. And it’s safe, right? I’m filling in for the last fellow—”

“The last woman.”

“What happened to her?”

Roell rubbed at his sooty face and wished he hadn’t because he got something in his eye.

“What happened to her? She made a fortune and retired, that’s what happened.”

“Oh.”

The [Rogue] neglected to mention that the person before her had ended up with half her face melted off. Because she’d violated Rule #1. He sighed.

“Last rule. Well, you know the others. Don’t bother them, don’t get in their way, don’t say anything that’ll tick them off…but this one’s messed with. If they flirt with you, that’s one thing. But don’t bother them.”

“Flirt with—who would—with them?”

Vinn made a choked sound. Roell shrugged.

“You’d be surprised. Just remember all three. Now, get to work. This one’s ready.”

The masked Goblin nodded. Vinn turned his head desperately, but Roell strolled after him. He saw the civilian heft his tools like a shield. But really…you could land yourself in trouble, but it was a simple job. Every now and then, this tribe called for something and Humans answered. Sometimes, what they wanted, and what Roell provided, was someone with Vinn’s class.

A…[Mason]. But, Roell always wondered, looking around the city of the Molten Stone tribe, with its houses and cut stone—why did Goblins need a [Mason] over Level 30? They were very specific. He never saw what they worked on, and he never looked at the blueprints the Goblin leader held.

As far as he knew, all of this place had been built with Goblin tools. He strolled down a walkway and stared at a Goblin planting glowing, hot flowers. She chittered at him behind his mask and he backed away, carefully raising his hands.

“Pardon me, Miss.”

The [Rogue] produced a handkerchief to wipe at his brow. At least the job paid well.

——

Rags couldn’t believe her eyes. It was a Goblin city! No, a town? It wasn’t large enough to be called a city, or even a town in sheer numbers, but it was the most…civilized thing she’d ever seen.

Even the Mountain City tribe, with its sprawling occupation of the mountain Dwarf fortress, hadn’t compared to this. She was sure it was a cooling spell making the air breathable, and while every Goblin wore a mask, or almost all, they clearly only did it for decoration.

“Whaaaa.”

Calescent gaped at a Goblin house. Rags had thought the individual rooms in Goblinhome were a first, but she had never expected to see a Goblin sweeping out the door with a wicker broom.

Nor so many Goblins with magic. Hekusha stared at a gaggle of little Goblins Rags’ height, holding wands and whispering and pointing at the Redfangs with clear delight. They were all magic-capable—no, magic-users! It was easy for her and Rags to tell they all had mana pools.

“Magic-users? But—”

And they had wands. Decent ones too. The Healer of Tenbault was agog. Not least because she had just seen two Human men standing amid this place! She felt woozy. What was going on?

Even Redscar was clearly amazed, though he tried not to show it. The little Goblin guides of the Yellow Powder tribe were talking and explaining to the nearest masked Goblin, who pointed them off. Rags couldn’t see a single face that looked malnourished.

In fact…there was clothing on every frame, good quality clothing like any of Liscor’s citizens might want to wear. Even Goblins with snacks! Few children; most were at least a certain age, although there were a few young ones.

Calescent’s jaw was so far open a passing Goblin child took one look at it and promptly chucked the snack she was chewing into it. Upon which point the Hob began to choke.

It was only when a bell tolled, and the pace of the Goblins milling about changed, that Rags realized the truth of it. She saw some Goblins ignore the bell completely, like the one planting and harvesting the glowing flowers, and the one sweeping the door. But the gaggle of little Goblins with hats her age turned. There was a laugh high overhead, and Rags saw a figure racing over the roofs.

A Hob, grinning, holding her pointed hat as her feet glowed and she leapt across a gap nearly ten feet wide. Rushing…towards the bell. She was followed by a second Goblin, another Hobgoblin, male, who had a pointed hat and tattoos on one arm that gleamed. He did a flying leap after her…

And went splat onto the street. But he got up, laughing, as if he hadn’t felt a thing, and chased after his companions. He turned and stared at the Redfangs for a second.

“New Goblins! What tribe are you from?”

The stranger slowed, and Rags saw the magic in him, but different from hers. Redscar checked the younger Goblin, with no visible scars. He frowned.

“Flooded Waters. We—Redfangs.”

The Goblin did a double-take as his companion halted on a rooftop, glancing back.

“Redfang warriors? Are you Garen Redfang?”

He stared at the sword Redscar carried. The Goblin hesitated.

“No. Redscar.”

“Oh. What class?”

The male Goblin’s eyes lit up with interest. Redscar shrugged.

“[War Leader].”

“Oooh!”

Goblins skidded to a halt, hearing and pointing out the Redfang [War Leader], despite their rush. Redscar saw the admiring look on the Hob’s face.

“What’s your class?”

He eyed the tattoos, the hat. The young Hob grinned.

“[Warlock]. You staying? I’ll visit you, Redscar of Redfangs!”

Then he leapt, and joined his companion on the rooftop. He began to explain as they raced off. The other Goblins ran, a few small ones screeching. One ran back as she lost her hat and Rags had it at the same time as Hekusha. The Healer of Tenbault muttered.

“It’s almost like they’re going to…class.”

“They are.”

Rags stared at the Goblin who ran after her friends with a wand, screeching that they’d left her behind. A class. This was…

An academy. A Goblin magical academy.

——

How was this possible? Even in Rags’ most delirious fever-dreams, she couldn’t imagine this place existed. And it didn’t, in a sense.

Rags quickly realized that this Molten Stone tribe was comparatively tiny. Even depleted from battle, the population of Goblinhome outnumbered it by a good deal already. That this was a collection of spellcasters was self-evident, but Rags realized that the bulk of the Goblin population was camped outside this inner sanctum.

As in, in the Yellow Powder tribe, and other tribes who roamed the outskirts. She saw their four guides offering the bags of sulfur to a Hobgoblin [Witch]. She checked them, then handed them something.

Three glowing healing potions. The Goblins hurried back as she made a smaller Goblin carry the bags off. Sulfur. Rags’ eyes narrowed. She checked one of the doors.

Brass. Now here was some rather nice, polished brass that she really doubted had come from this region, or even been made here, judging by the lack of any smithies. There was some sulfur from the only volcanic region she’d ever encountered, which was not lacking on the markets.

“You. You are Chieftain Rags of the Flooded Waters tribe. The Witch of the Molten Stone tribe has been expecting you.”

The female [Witch]’s voice was as eloquent as any Rags had ever met. Rags nodded.

“Has she?”

“She knew you were coming. She will see you. Do you have a gift?”

“Huh. Maybe. What is this place?”

“The Molten Stone tribe.”

The Hob was interesting. She looked fully-grown, which was a statement in itself because only Pyrite had ever seemed actually old enough to say ‘yep, there’s no chance I’m going to grow again’. Even Garen and Reiss were young.

Moreover, she had a complex structure to her hair, like a spiderweb. It looked like if you did anything as provocative as run a comb through the hair, it would create the most horrific tangle you’d ever imagine, which nothing short of a razor would save you from. Yet they never quite tangled.

Oh, and she’d dyed it blonde. Which was such a strange choice. It was purely aesthetic, so Rags had never seen it before.

“Who are you?”

“Witch Prixall. Hob of the Molten Stone tribe or…spellcaster? Yes, spellcaster of the Molten Stone tribe. Not a [Shaman]. We do not have many rankings.”

The response was just as intriguing from the softly-spoken Goblin. Most Goblins knew what they were in relation to the Chieftain’s authority. She didn’t.

Rags’ sense of the Mountain City tribe grew. She crossed her arms as Redscar started after her. But Prixall pointed.

“Your wolves. Carn Wolves. Leave them and the Wyvern Riders. Some may come.”

“Me.”

Redscar announced. Calescent nodded, and Rags glanced at Hekusha. Prixall nodded.

“The Healer of Tenbault too. The others can put the wolves in the stables. If they don’t eat horses.”

“They won’t. You have a stable?”

The [Witch] nodded. She pointed ahead and Rags strode with her. Paved roads, with soil for planting. Cool air. No restaurants, she noted. No shops. This was not a city; there was no economy in place. Nevertheless, it was not a tribe either.

“You have doors. Buildings.”

She commented neutrally. Prixall nodded.

“We trade and build.”

“What do you trade? Do the tribes outside raid for gold?”

“No.”

The [Witch] frowned. Rags noted the gesture. She was…hard to read. As if she lacked the Goblin’s technical ability to express themselves with body language. Rags made a raised eyebrow of disbelief and inquiry. Prixall missed it.

“…Do you not raid? How do you get that?”

She pointed at something. A bunch of little Goblins clustered around a scrying orb under the boughs of a huge tree. The scrying orb was clearly new, placed there so anyone could watch.

“We bought it. We trade. The Molten Stone tribe does not steal anything.”

The response astounded Rags so much she had to stride to catch up. She stared up at Prixall.

“How was this place made? How do Humans not attack? Why do they visit?”

“Because Witch Anazurhe is too powerful. Molten Stone she made, here. When she came. It is young, but the Humans write it off their maps. We do not fight other Goblins or make war. She was here when the Goblin King came. She refused to join him. This is Molten Stone, and your trouble, Chieftain Rags, is not ours.”

It was a speech that told Rags a number of things. Firstly, that she really wanted to kick Prixall right behind the knee and send her sprawling. Second? This Witch was old as Goblins thought of things. She had founded this tribe? Humans cooperated with them?

The Goblin King had come to her, too.

——

Hekusha’s mind was reeling from revelation after revelation. Talking with Rags had been one thing, erudite as she was. Seeing the two holding a conversation while walking down a Goblin city—that was how the Healer of Tenbault saw it—beggared belief.

How could this be? Who were those men? She didn’t know, but surely someone would look into this when she was free. Maybe Magnolia Reinhart, when she freed Hekusha.

Hekusha was hurrying after Calescent, who seemed favorably disposed towards her, as the [Witch] led them further into this place. Through tunnels of dark stone, cut to let the polished glass catch the light.

Obsidian? The Healer didn’t see many guards, but she sensed a powerful magic coming from ahead. So did the one called Redscar, because he strode with his hands casually on his swords’ hilts. Calescent kept smiling, reassuringly.

“Chieftains don’t fight. All is good. Chieftains don’t fight. Well…mostly.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mm. All is good.”

She gave him a smile which he returned. At least she had a bodyguard. Hekusha heard Rags talking.

“She will ‘see us’, this Great Chieftain?”

“She has a guest. But yes. You have caused trouble and brought it here.”

“I have done what I wanted. What I must. Does Witch Anazurhe think I am wrong?”

“She will decide when she meets you. She has met Chieftains she does not care for.”

“Tremborag?”

“Yes. Among them.”

Rags grunted.

“Maybe I will like her. But this? This is not Goblin.”

They had crossed from obsidian tunnels into the heart of this mystery. A glowing stream of lava ran across the way from them, but was heatless as they entered a room with two huge doors. The lair of the Great Chieftain.

However, Rags’ words did not go unnoticed. Not Goblin. Hekusha could not have known how much those were fighting words. Prixall recoiled and Redscar tensed. Calescent just sighed. But before the [Witch] could respond, another voice, older, more wicked, perhaps, but simply vexed in this moment, responded.

“Not Goblin. Not Goblin, this little child says. So she said to Tremborag’s face. Tremborag the Great. Tremborag the Fat, who led his tribe to sate his hunger. Not Goblin. How would you know what Goblin is? Why do you decide? I am Goblin. I am [Witch]. You do not get to judge me, little Chieftain.”

The voice echoed around them as the four Goblins and one Human turned, seeking the source. Prixall turned back to the doors, smiling a bit. Triumphantly. However, then the voice continued.

“You said it to Tremborag and Garen Redfang. So I laughed. Come, Rags of the Flooded Waters tribe, and tell me to my face that I am not a Goblin.”

The doors swung open slowly, dark granite, with all the showwomanship of any [Lady] of the Five Houses.

Rags eyed the opening, from which light cascaded. She never hesitated, and strode forwards, Redscar at her side. Calescent beckoned as Prixall turned, and Hekusha gulped.

“Maybe I should wait outside? I don’t think a Chieftain needs to see me. I’m quite valuable, you know, and if they come to blows…”

“You too.”

The [Witch] glanced at Hekusha, and the Healer scurried after her. She saw the huge sanctum of Anazurhe first, a circular room with a powerful spell circle surrounding, appropriately, a glowing cauldron.

Yet there was light aplenty from glowing orbs on the walls. If they went out, you’d get some proper occult lighting, but for the moment the central chamber was actually fairly inviting. Two figures stood in conference—well, one did. The other was watching Rags approach, head tilted back, a half-mask over her lower face letting her glowing eyes wink red. Graceful and tall, a pointed hat on her head. A [Witch], dressed in her motif, with a robe like fire and jewelry, magical and not, hanging from her arms. Even an earring set with a curious plain green stone, the least expensive item she wore.

Anazurhe, the [Witch of Flames]. And standing next to her…watching with interest, or feigned interest at least…

Hekusha froze. She rubbed at her eyes to make sure she was right. Then, before the [Witch] could speak, before Rags could greet her or insult her to her face, the Healer of Tenbault ran.

She hadn’t run since she was a girl, but she put every stride and ounce of desperate, sudden adrenaline into…well, a pretty bad dash, honestly.

But the other Goblins were so surprised, they watched her run across the room and fling herself towards the last figure, Anazurhe’s second guest, who looked bemused.

“Archmage Valeterisa! Archmage Valeterisa!”

The Archmage of Izril blinked. The Healer of Tenbault seized her arm.

“I’ve been kidnapped by Goblins! Please, save me! I’ll repay you! There they are!”

She pointed a finger back at the Goblins. Then grabbed Valeterisa’s arm.

“Teleport us away!”

The rather plain woman with messy hair, powerful magic and robes, but a complete lack of attention to style like the Goblin [Witch], stared at the Healer of Tenbault.

Rags stared at the Healer, and nodded. She was disappointed, but she had expected that. Calescent on the other hand? He stared at Hekusha, hurt written all over his face. Redscar had only heard ‘Archmage’, and he was ready to draw his blades and leap at her.

Prixall started uncertainly, but the Witch Chieftain raised a hand. She looked…amused. So Rags nudged Redscar.

Valeterisa looked at the terrified woman, trying to shield herself from the Goblins as she waited for salvation. She pursed her lips, and her eyes flickered.

“I…am not Valeterisa. My name is Anabelle. Charmed. I’m sorry, you must have me confused with someone else. Goodbye.”

And she tried to pluck Hekusha’s hands from her arm. The Healer looked at her.

“What? Valeterisa! It’s me! Hekusha!”

“Hekusha. Hekusha…”

Again, the eyes flickered.

“Oh, the Healer of Tenbault. Hello…that is what I would say if I was Valeterisa. Which I’m not, because the Archmage would not socialize with Goblins. You have me mistaken.”

“What? You can’t—help me! I’ve been kidnapped!”

“Please let go. Please let go of my arm. No? Very well.”

Valeterisa pointed a finger, and Hekusha froze as a paralysis spell hit her. Valeterisa tried to remove her arm and realized she’d just locked Hekusha’s hands around it. She sighed, and stared at her arm, as if seriously considering removing it.

“So this is the Healer of Tenbault. She does not seem worth the effort to me. But the Chieftain of the Kraken Eaters would want her, and Tremborag would have. Did you steal her to heal Goblin after Goblin?”

Anazurhe spoke. Hekusha flinched—then tore her hands away from Valeterisa’s arm with a scream. She danced, as the magical fire covering the Archmage of Izril’s arms went out. Then she stood, realizing she had miscalculated all.

Rags stared at the woman, then swung her head around to meet the Chieftain’s gaze. With a shock, she felt like she was staring into two dancing flames. The [Witch] was fire, and even a [Steelflame Tactician] paled before it. Even a [Great Chieftain]…

No, they were alike in that. If anything, Anazurhe, up close, only confirmed what Rags had felt.

A faded lighthouse. Like Greydath, but not quite. She shook her head.

“No. She might not be worth it, but I stole her to save a friend.”

“A Goblin’s life? Whose? Does Garen Redfang live? The Goblin Lord?”

Rags hesitated.

“No. A Human who is friend to Goblins.”

The [Witch]’s eyes opened wider. Valeterisa cocked her head and pulled something out. She scribbled down a note. Prixall blinked, and the Healer saw the [Witch of Flames] throw back her head and laugh.

She removed the half-mask she wore, and smiled, her lips showing a slight scar. Redscar noted with approval that at least someone here had a wound from a blade. Anazurhe smiled at Rags, not as condescendingly arrogant as Tremborag, nor as single-minded as Garen. Nor as weary as Reiss. But she had some of these things. Mostly, though? She bent down the ways between their heights.

“So the Great Chieftain of the Flooded Waters tribe has upset all of north Izril and stolen their precious Healer of Tenbault, all to save the life of a Human. I say…that is not-Goblin at all.”

Redscar winced. Calescent didn’t move, still looking sad. But Redscar took a look at Rags’ expression and grinned.

“Got you, Chieftain.”

——

Archmage Valeterisa was on her way south to visit…someone. She had a note. Let’s see.

Actionable items for this month:

-Visit the Meeting of Tribes. Confer with Grand Magus Eldavin.

-Appended notes: inquire into ‘Fissival magic suppression’ endeavors. Obtain Gnollish favor.

-Meet with Wall Lord Ilvriss regarding ‘plans’.

-Inspect one ‘Erin Solstice’ regarding death, condition. Confer with Grand Magus Eldavin.

-Investigate Ryoka Griffin or Wind Runner of Reizmelt.

-Investigate ‘The Wandering Inn’, Liscor. Connection with—investigate disappearance of a ‘Mrsha’. Confer with Grand Magus Eldavin, local authorities.

-Visit your niece (Ieka). Very important! Do not forget! Present ten years of birthday presents. Do it now. Don’t forget this time. Hurry up.

She felt like that bottom note had been there a while, given the appended instructions. However, she had already crossed out one item off her list, hadn’t she? Or was she still doing it?

-Visit Anazurhe. Bring gift. Collect any magical items/knowledge present.

She waited, patiently, devoting her mental capacities to memorizing the spells Eldavin had presented her with to long-term memory. She also began plotting where to put the next teleport beacon; she’d been setting them up but she wondered if they’d fail once she got to Fissival.

How fascinating. If Fissival did have a magical suppression field continent-wide, could they then lock down teleportation spells if they chose to? She would assume they had in the past, but could they do it now, or monitor them? Valeterisa began trying to calculate how they’d do it if so, when she saw the two Goblins arguing.

The small one was attempting to kick the taller one. Which the taller one, Anazurhe, responded to with a jet of fire. That was in keeping with her personality, but she did not appear to be malevolent.

Valeterisa knew that because the little Goblin wasn’t dead. Two Goblins, both of the Hob variety, dragged her back, and they began to argue. Valeterisa wondered if she should listen, but she decided one of her mental processes could distill any useful information later.

She had six trains of thought running on the Fissival question, but she had to devote three to dealing with the Healer of Tenbault. The woman was pleading with her.

“They’ll kill me, Archmage! Please, you can save me, can’t you?”

“Hello, Lady Hekusha. I am very pleased to meet you after—twelve years. How do you do? You are looking well.”

Valeterisa’s mouth moved in her ‘social greeting’ setting. The look on Hekusha’s face made Valeterisa devote another few thoughts to actually addressing this situation.

“…I am not Valeterisa, Hekusha. If I was, I would not be in the company of Goblins, who are a de facto monster, without treaty or sympathies at this moment.”

She hesitated, and sent off a mental query.

Archmage Valeterisa to Invrisil’s Mage’s Guild. Query. Are Goblins still classified as monsters?

She got a response after three minutes.

Yes.

During which Hekusha had laid out an appeal to spirit her to safety. Valeterisa could, of course, do this. Although if Anazurhe objected, it might put her in danger. She did not want to, which she calmly pointed out. At which point the Healer said something that triggered one of Valeterisa’s subconscious routines.

“I’ll…I’ll tell them you were here and didn’t help me!”

That. Was a threat. Valeterisa’s brows rose as a third of her mental processes, which equated to enough to run her at what she estimated to be an older Valeterisa’s full mental capacities, formed up. She nodded to herself.

“I see. In that case, Lady Hekusha, I will have to kill you.”

The Healer of Tenbault stared as Valeterisa drew her wand, and aimed it at her forehead. She squealed and dove. Valeterisa waited and let the ominous [Orange Light] spell glow until the Healer’s head was out of the way, then cast her spell.

[Ray of Incineration].

It blasted forwards, scorching the far wall as the Goblins whirled. Anazurhe hissed, but Valeterisa calmly pointed her wand down at the Healer.

[Orange Light].

“Don’t kill me!”

“If you threaten me or reveal anything inconveniencing in the future, I will kill you, Lady Hekusha.”

Valeterisa waited to see if her intimidation ploy had worked. It seemed so, given the babble of assurances, so she put her wand back.

“Very good! Please stop bothering me. Thank you.”

She stood there for a while, as the Goblins stared at her. Valeterisa eventually did look back down at the Healer of Tenbault, because it occurred to her that she should elaborate, the woman being important enough to warrant it.

“Goblins are not an isolated group, Lady Hekusha. Like other ‘non-civilized’ species, they do trade and have their own items of worth. It is only…mm…an ‘illegal’ group that trades with them. However, it would be foolish to turn down the opportunity for knowledge. Witch Anazurhe is in the possession of a method of spellcasting and materials even an Archmage finds useful.”

“But they’re monsters!”

A full third of Valeterisa refocused again. She sighed, removed her spectacles, and cleaned them with a spell.

“Yes. That is a common refrain. Since you have said it, I disqualify you from being heard. Thank you.”

And she heard nothing else. Which was quite pleasant. The Goblins stared at her and she peered at them. They had nothing too interesting that she wanted. A Ghostly Blade enchantment on that sword, Ice Edge enchantment…no, no. She hoped this was not a waste of time. She had important business to be on.

Then she stared at something hanging around the Great Chieftain’s neck. Rags. She saw that Witch Anazurhe was looking at it too, but it had no magical aura.

That Valeterisa could see or sense. And that was fascinating. Because, and this was nothing more than observation, a number of her observational thoughts putting together information—

It had no magical aura. It looked plain.

However, Witch Anazurhe looked at it. Ergo, it had value.

Witch Anazurhe did not lack for wealth. The key was therefore significant if she knew it, as neither Goblin had met.

Therefore, it was important. No mundane key was worth keeping, however, given the intrinsic risk of destruction and the fact that a mundane key could be easily replicated.

Therefore it was magical.

And she could not read it.

Therefore, it was very magical.

——

“Talk to me in our language, Great Chieftain of Flooded Waters. Not their tongue, but ours.”

The two Chieftains walked together, after their eventful meeting. Rags stumbled and looked at Anazurhe.

“You…speak well.”

She managed, but the Goblin [Witch] was using inflections and words that Rags had never known existed. Rags was used to filling the gaps in the Goblins’ language with body language. This lacked any body language.

Anazurhe smiled, or Rags saw the movement, because she had replaced the half-mask over her face. She walked through the heart of a volcano, the strange Molten Stone tribe, showing Rags around.

Not grandly, like Tremborag, to impress upon other Goblins how superior he was. There was a bit of pride, but it was well-earned. This place was…beautiful. Peaceful, as Rags had never known a tribe.

The other Redfangs and Calescent lagged behind, touring the city on their own time. Well, Calescent just stared at some Goblins on swings of all things, seeing who could fly highest before going whuph on the ground. Such a silly game with a piece of wood and rope. Rags thought they could make it in Goblinhome.

But it was a children’s toy, something you’d see in Liscor’s parks. It brought a smile of longing to her face. Calescent’s was morose. He was hurt.

Rags was…less so. In the back of her mind, she had thought Hekusha was too friendly; even Erin Solstice herself probably wouldn’t have gone from kidnap-victim to friend in…or perhaps only her. And only because she knew Goblins.

Anazurhe gave him and Rags a knowing look.

“I speak like Goblins here do. You speak like Goblins who steal the Healer of Tenbault do. You could remember how to speak like this. Few do.”

Rags frowned. She was already copying Anazurhe.

“Speak like…what is difference?”

She felt like she was learning the common tongue again, and it was odd for a language she knew. The Great Witch shook her head.

“Warrior talk. You speak, all Goblins, in low verse. Talk meant for battlefields. See? You…understand danger, northwest, coming in fast?”

She switched, mid-sentence, to the expressive body language that Rags knew well. Reflexively, Rags even glanced north-west and ducked. A screeching Goblin on a broomstick flashed just overhead for approximately four seconds. Then she ran out of power and crashed.

“You stupid Goblins! Don’t fly here! Begone or I will hex your ears off!”

Anazurhe bellowed and the terrified Goblin apprentices picked up their companion and the broken broom and ran. They had [Witch]’s hats. Rags shook her head.

“You teach them magic?”

“Yes.”

“And trade with Humans.”

“Sulfur. Other tribes gather ingredients. We trade for gold, sometimes artifacts. Food we cannot buy.”

“Other tribes are not allowed here, though?”

Anazurhe shrugged like a Human. An omni-shrug, which could mean a lot of things, distinctly unhelpful.

“Other tribes must guard this place. My magic can only do so much. They give talented Goblins. I make masks. My apprentices make masks. They are safer here. Even adventurers choke in these fumes.”

It still seemed like a variant on Tremborag’s own system and Rags frowned mightily. Anazurhe gave her a piercing look.

“If you say ‘not Goblin’, Chieftain Rags, I will scorch you. What is Goblin? Why must Goblins always copy Goblins? It was good to say to Tremborag because he wanted to be a Human [King], or a Drake. Not me.”

“Fine. Then…cruel to other tribes. Not nice.”

To this, Anazurhe threw back her head and cackled. It was an amused sound, lively, and, to judge by the way all Goblins turned and looked, rare. She looked down at Rags.

“Yes. [Witches] are not nice. Have you met [Witches]?”

“No.”

Rags narrowed her eyes. Then amended her statement.

“One. Didn’t like. Rings in the eyes.”

Anazurhe’s own eyes widened. Rags saw with interest that, while they were crimson like every Goblin’s, they seemed to flicker like a dancing flame with a brighter core. She made a sound, and touched her own fancy hat on her head.

“Belavierr.”

She said that in the common tongue. Rags jumped. Anazurhe’s gaze darkened.

“That is a bad Witch. Do not go near her. Take not her offers.”

“Figured that out.”

The two walked on. Anazurhe nodded at Rags.

“Tell me how. Where.”

“You don’t know?”

“No. I knew you came. I know many things. My eyes go far. Not to the High Passes.”

She knew of Rags’ tribe. She knew of Reiss, the battles at Tremborag’s mountain, and the sorry tale of how it had ended. She did not know of The Wandering Inn, Erin, the encounter with Belavierr, or Kevin. Rags explained as Anazurhe showed her the city.

It really was quite inhospitable land, even if you were a Goblin. Outside the concealed fortress, the volcano looked lively, and it certainly spewed toxic gas. Even on the way in, Rags had begun feeling faint. It was actually ‘purer’ than the toxins the plants shot into the gas vents…but that only meant a different kind of poison.

You needed a mask. But if you had one…it was just really hot, and if you had water and food, any Goblin could live here.

The Molten Stone tribe clearly relied on the other ones to provide resources, and Humans. But without the Great Witch herself? It could not exist. With her, it had achieved the closest thing to Reiss’ dream that Rags had ever seen.

She watched one of the smallest Goblins, one of the ‘talented Goblins’ hand-picked by Anazurhe’s people from the tribes, playing outside with some others. She had magical potential, or some other aspect that set her apart. But Rags just watched the little Goblin tilt her head up and stare at the ash coming down. Like…snow. And she was making a snow-Goblin. Ash-Goblin. A little head, two pointed ears, a pebble for eyes.

That any Goblin would waste time on such a thing told Rags this place was safe. They could have fun here. It only took a Great Chieftain, and multiple tribes on perimeter defense.

“…This is not a home for all Goblins. Just those who are here.”

She had finished telling Anazurhe her story. Now, the Great Witch nodded. She had shown Rags actual classrooms, alchemy stations, even a library of books. The Molten Stone tribe had [Cooks] and [Chefs], [Stonecutters], [Cleaners] even, who kept it running, but most Goblins were magic-users of some kind.

“I am not Reiss, the Goblin Lord. I am not Tremborag. Do you see what I have made?”

Rags nodded.

“An…academy. Like Wistram.”

Anazurhe smiled proudly.

“Yes.”

Rags looked at this place and it did take her breath away. What a grand idea. Do what every other species had, only for Goblins. A hidden academy of magic. And yet…she shook her head and rounded on Anazurhe.

“It is beautiful, Chieftain Anazurhe. But when Reiss made war on other Goblins. When the Humans chased us to Liscor. When we died—your Goblins did not come. Do you care for no Goblins? Why this? Why let other Goblins die? Your Goblins do not go to other tribes. They do not teach their magic. My tribe had no [Shaman]. No [Witches]. Why are they here?”

Was she just a power-hoarding Goblin? The [Witch of Flames] regarded Rags, not upset by the challenge. She took off her mask again, and Rags understood this was the Molten Stone’s custom. A sign of revelation, intimacy.

“Chieftain Rags. Is my tribe not wonderful? Is it not safe? You see it now, with classrooms, learning. Magic and food to eat. When other tribes suffer, my Goblins can go. Great students, to learn. To live. To die. When Humans come, or Goblins make war on Goblins, they will go.”

Rags frowned. But they hadn’t. She waited as Anazurhe explained.

“Yet they do not. Not this time. Next time. Ten years. Twenty. Then it is done. Since I came here, I built this. Molten Stone is my tribe. It has lived as long as I made it. I, you understand? This was just rock decades ago.”

She touched the opening to the fortress entrance. Rags blinked at it. Then looked at Anazurhe. The Great Chieftain smiled.

“You…made this? Molten Stone is not old?”

“Yes. No.”

Then Rags understood. She stepped back and beheld it again. A fort hidden in stone. An academy. Being built. Wistram before it had been Wistram. Anazurhe whispered.

“It is not done. Not yet. Goblins must have a safe haven. For magic, here. For war? Our island. I made this. I refused to follow even our King who lost himself to madness. So I greet you, Chieftain Rags. But I will not give you more than aid here. No armies. No great pacts. Not yet.”

She reached out, and touched Rags’ shoulder. The Chieftain looked up at her. Then saw the long claws reach down and touch something hanging around her neck.

The key.

Valeterisa poked her head out from behind a rock. Both Goblins turned to stare at her and she poked her head back. Anazurhe looked at Rags and shook her head.

“You and I are not the same. I will stay here and make something that may last. You? Beware, Rags. You are a Great Chieftain, but you walk the path of Goblin Lords. Stay.”

“What is the difference?”

Anazurhe shook her head.

“One, like Tremborag, like me, like Kraken Eater’s Chieftain, are content to be Chieftains. The other are Goblin Lords, and seek a Goblin King. Like Greydath. They will all die. Take the key and toss it away.”

She pointed across the vast, barren wasteland. Rags’ own hand clutched at the key. She backed up a step.

“We need it. It is the great treasure of Goblins. We need more than this, Anazurhe.”

She gestured around at the hidden enclave, so small, for all it was so hopeful. The Goblin Witch saw her walk away. An Archmage hopped out from her hiding place and hurried over.

“Hello, Chieftain Rags. I am Archmage Valeterisa. Would you like to trade for that key you are holding? May I inspect it? I am a friendly Human…”

Prixall had also been watching the conversation, eavesdropping as well. She walked over.

“Mother.”

Anazurhe looked over.

“Chieftain.”

She corrected, but mildly. Prixall, the oldest [Witch] besides Anazurhe herself, like a spark next to a great fire, watched Rags go. Curious. Dismissive of a ‘lesser’ tribe, but curious.

“She is not like the Fomirelin Chieftain.”

“No. He loves battle. She wants something more. Watch her. That one will never grow as old as you. She walks the path of a Goblin Lord. She has his key. To uncover his gift, she would need to be a Goblin Lord at least.”

Anazurhe murmured, sadly. Prixall nodded, but hesitated.

“What if she survives to become a Goblin Lord? Survives and lives even then?”

The Great [Witch] exhaled slowly. Her burning gaze turned back towards the fortress, and Prixall knew exactly what she was staring at.

“Then? She will die.”

——

Ah, that was it. Tired.

Like Greydath. Anazurhe made sense to Rags, now. She had done wonderful things here. But she was tired. Resigned. She did not even want the key.

The difference between a Great Chieftain and another Goblin Lord, Rags supposed. She walked back inside the Molten Stone tribe and found there were two things she had left to see. Two more things. One, an ambition, the other, an explanation.

The first thing she did see, though, was Redscar hitting Goblins with sticks. He had practice swords and was whalloping nearly a dozen Goblins in an exhibition of what it meant to be Redfang.

Anazurhe joined Rags as the Goblin Chieftain groaned, but she looked amused.

“So this is Redfang. My Goblins train with blades. They want to learn.”

“What kind of Goblin warriors?”

It was hard to see at first, because the eager Goblins, male and female, tried to fight Redscar on his own terms.

Which was objectively stupid, because he was a war veteran and praticed with blades every second he breathed. They couldn’t get near him; Rags saw a Goblin charge in with a spirited cry and shout. Redscar let him swing and slashed him mid-strike. He actually halted another Goblin’s thrust by grabbing their arm and applying a knee to their chest.

“Weak! Weak!”

Redscar left a trail of bruised Goblins behind. He seemed offended by their lack of experience. They had arms training. But they were clearly a cut far below Redfangs, who had all the practical knowledge in the world.

Rags saw they had a huge audience. Goblins were watching Redscar fighting. Not just admiring him, personally, but staring at him with a familiar expression. It took Rags a while to realize it was adoration. Awe.

“They know Redfang. They think he is Garen Redfang.”

“You know his name?”

“Yes. We know famous tribes. This is the first Redfang they have seen, though.”

To judge by their looks, Redscar did not disappoint. But Rags found it curious. Goblins knew of other tribes, but this expression was again, more of something from Liscor. It was…she snapped her fingers.

“Joseph.”

“Hm?”

Rags didn’t know how to explain. It was like how Ekirra looked at Joseph, or Drakes at Drassi. Celebrity.

She looked at the scrying orb set in the plaza and pointed at it.

“You have scrying orbs? Not worried about Wistram spying? They can do that.”

Anazurhe snorted. But it was a Human man who edged over, wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Not to worry, Miss, er, Chieftain. All our scrying orbs are custom-enchanted. No one’s spying through them. Matter of fact, I can arrange some if you have the coin. May I introduce myself? Roell, [Rogue]. I can get you what you need, have it delivered right here.”

Rags stared at the Human, but she was reminded instantly of the other [Rogue] who’d come to Goblinhome. She actually shook his hand.

“You sell things to Goblins?”

“That’s right. Begging your pardon.”

He gave Anazurhe a wary look, but the Great Witch was analyzing Redscar’s performance. At last, some of the Goblins had decided to use their talents.

Here came that [Warlock]. Roell and Rags both watched the magic-user show off his talents. Rags had never met a [Warlock] before, but she understood his power was analogous to [Witches]. So how would he…?

The young Hob leapt with a whooping shout, his practice sword glowing in Rags’ eyes. He’d run his hand over it while waiting for an opening. Redscar was no idiot. He backed up, parrying the sword—then recoiled as a hissing snake shot out of the blade and tried to bite him!

A spectral snake made of orange light. Rags started. The [Warlock] turned, and flicked a bolt of concussive magic that knocked one of his buddies flat as she tried to charge Redscar from behind. He hesitated in dismay, and Redscar knocked the blade from his hands. The [Warlock] stared stupidly at his hand, backpedalled, and Redscar gave him a flying drop-kick to the back.

“That’s a fairly dangerous fellow. He’d be a Face for sure. Makes this lot look silly.”

Rags shrugged. She eyed the [Warlock] with interest as Redscar picked him up and tried to explain how not to do that again. He had potential. That bound creature trick would have done a lot of damage if he had the experience to back it up.

“Anyways, Miss. Where are you from? Don’t worry! Rogue’s confidentiality. I reckon you’re on the list if your tribe’s met my people.”

“Mm. I met someone else. Gave me free rings.”

“Oh. What’s his name? I can do you a better offer. Do you need potions? Supplies? I can get you a scrying orb, free, depending on what you have to sell…”

The man broke off as Rags saw Hekusha again. The Healer of Tenbault was staring at Valeterisa, who kept wanting to see the key. And Roell. He blinked.

“That’s…is that the Healer of Tenbault? Then you’re…”

He looked at Rags, recoiled, and backed up. Rags raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t want to sell me things?”

“Er—maybe when all’s cooled down, Miss Chieftain. Terribly sorry, but we don’t like dealing with active tribes.”

The Healer of Tenbault stared at Roell. Then pointed an accusing finger at him and Valeterisa.

“You’re conspiring with Goblins. I’ve been kidnapped! They slaughtered Tenbault’s people! How could you?”

Rags crossed her arms. Now that her true feelings were out, the Healer looked even more afraid of the Goblin monsters than before. And equally—as outraged at the traitors to her people.

It was Valeterisa who rubbed at one ear.

“Is she speaking? I can’t hear anything.”

Roell, on the other hand, just gave the Healer of Tenbault a long look. A…none-too-friendly look, actually.

“Begging your pardon, Miss. I’m just a poor man, trying to make a decent living. I’ve never seen more than…”

His lips moved. Roell counted.

“Eight people get killed, all because they were stupid. I heard they got you.”

He nodded at Rags.

“Crying shame. Hope you’re treated well.”

“You’re just going to leave me here? You won’t tell them where I am? I am the Healer of Tenbault.”

Hekusha shook her fist at him. Roell glanced at Rags and Anazurhe.

“…Assuming I was stupid enough to do that anywhere near the Great Chieftain of the Molten Stone tribe, Miss? I’d still not really bother. Molten Stone pays well, and they give [Alchemists] good stuff through my gang. Even set me up with a poultice once. I had a niece who died in Tenbault. Never saw you. Good riddance. G’day, too.”

He nodded to her and stalked off. Rags liked him. She nudged Fighti.

“We buy stuff from him later.”

Fighti was munching on some food the Molten Stone tribe had provided as Hekusha was lost for words. And friends. Anazurhe gave Rags a knowing look.

“Chieftain Rags. Humans will come and search for her. They will not get here, but tribes will fight them. You cannot stay.”

Rags already knew that. She nodded.

“Can you give food, directions? Get away from Humans?”

Anazurhe’s eyes glinted.

“I can give you magic to hide you or speed you. That is what I do. Even to distant Goblins; Chieftains have paid me to give aid. My magic can stretch across the north, and I can give you great potions or spells.”

Rags’ ears perked up. She nodded slowly.

“Useful. You want something?”

Anazurhe winked.

“No one comes to the Great Chieftain without a gift. Except [Witches]. What will you give me for aid?”

Rags pursed her lips. Valeterisa jumped in.

“I will pay Anazurhe if you would consider trading me the key…no? Very well.”

Rags stared at the woman.

“Are you really an Archmage of Wistram?”

“Yes. I believe so.”

Valeterisa gave her a blank look. She raised a finger to her temple.

“Valeterisa to Wistram. Am I still an Archmage? …Yes? Good. Yes, I am.”

Rags wondered if she was sick, and if it was contagious. She edged back a bit, but she did have a suitable gift in mind.

“Chieftain Anazurhe. If you give us shelter to rest a day or two, and magic, we will trade. And Archmage Valeterisa will give us something, for my gift.”

Both Anazurhe and Valeterisa glanced at Rags. The [Witch of Flames] looked amused.

“Archmage and Great Chieftain both owe you favors? It must be a gift of gifts.”

Rags shrugged, casually. She produced her gift, and held it out. Valeterisa’s eyes sharpened and Hekusha whirled.

“That’s my—!”

Her notes, personal spellbook, and everything looted from her research station all came out of Rags’ bag of holding. She held up the trove of knowledge to Valeterisa, who made a snatching grab for it, eyes alight with curiosity.

“Good gift?”

Anazurhe grinned, taking off her mask. She eyed Izril’s most famous Healer, who had turned dead-white. And you know what? Rags didn’t feel bad about it at all.

“Good gift, Chieftain Rags. You are welcome to Molten Stone!”

——

Rabbiteater joined the battle with the Order of Seasons, riding in neat wedges of cavalry. This time, the Order of Seasons would take their mounts into battle. They had to risk it, despite the danger of being bogged down by the Order of Hydra’s numbers.

The army of Ailendamus had parked themselves along a ridgeline, cutting off the Order’s escape route. And here came the legion of [Knights], chanting and cheering as they marched forwards, led by the Dame of the Hills.

“Dame of the Hills! I challenge you!”

Dame Voost saluted the half-Giant with her sword. The Great Knight smiled behind her helm.

“Ah, a ploy for the Summer’s Champion to burn my fellows down, is it? Challenge denied! [A Knight’s Duel], Ser Greysten! Let’s have it out!”

The Summer’s Champion roared in frustration, but he swung his own warhorse around and rode at her. Rabbiteater cursed. It was already going bad.

Just like last time, the Order of the Hydra moved in, refusing to let the Order of Seasons charge and breakaway. They neatly cut off Pheislant’s [Soldiers] from the rest of the fighting with a hail of crossbow bolts, and Rabbiteater watched Pheislant’s forces skirmish against Ailendamus’ infantry while under heavy crossbow fire.

…Behind a wall of the Order of the Hydra, who cheerfully surrounded two lance-charges of Ser Zulv’s best Summer Knights who tried to break to the aid of their regular forces. The Order of Seasons was forced backwards, charging, regrouping, refusing to duel, but hemmed in by a press of bodies that would take down any mounted [Knight] in seconds. They moved back into the valley as Greysten and Dame Merila fought.

Greysten was roaring with flame, and slashed halfway through her own sword with his axe. It wasn’t enchanted; it was a huge blade for a half-Giant, a colossal expense of metal, let alone in forging. She dropped it with a curse, throwing her shield out to block a gout of flames.

“Sword!”

“[Armed At All Times]!”

The highest-leveled [Squire] that Rabbiteater had ever seen, a fully-grown man, charged forwards. Somehow, he tossed up a blade longer than he was tall, and Dame Merila caught it. She swept back down with a scything blow that Greysten parried with a Skill—but sent his horse rearing back with the shock of it.

“If he just killed the [Squire], it would be easier.”

“That’s not chivalrous.”

Ser Markus pointed out. Rabbiteater rolled his eyes behind his helm. He began to charge with his group. They were going to lose. The Order of the Hydra had marked Voost, Zulv, and were playing this game and winning. If only…his eyes roamed.

If only…

——

There was a secret at the heart of the Molten Stone tribe. Rags was shown it, while Valeterisa and Anazurhe read the Healer’s notes.

It was Prixall who was tasked with showing Rags, as a sign of the Molten Stone tribe’s largesse. She was a bit uncomfortable, and Rags got the sense the [Witch] didn’t know if she was the clearly superior Goblin anymore.

“You don’t like me.”

Rags commented as the two walked deep into the bowels of the volcano. It was still being built, and Anazurhe was expanding down. She feared not the volcano, explaining to Rags that she could keep it suppressed. How and for how long were her problems, so long as nothing exploded at the moment.

“…I think Chieftain Rags is a mighty Chieftain.”

Prixall answered, cautiously. Rags grinned.

“You sound like a Human.”

Prixall glared. After a second, she answered, matter-of-factly.

“You…that Redfang, the one with two swords, is strong. Redfang is famous. Even we hear of Flooded Waters. Goblin Lords. You stole the Healer of Tenbault. All Izril hates you. You are high-level.”

She looked at Rags, and the shorter Goblin deciphered the gaze at last.

“Jealous?”

Prixall looked away.

“You have adventure and fame. Other Goblins like what you do.”

Rags peered at the [Witch]. Prixall herself, too. And yet…

“What is wrong, then?”

“…You will die.”

Rags slowed as they descended further, into a place not used by any Goblins. Prixall glanced back at her.

“That is what Chieftain Anazurhe says. Goblins like you will die. We stay here, we learn. We level—slowly. But we level safely. You have bright lives. Short lives. Like…”

She made a little flame with her fingers and blew it out. Rags smiled grimly.

“Not all. Redscar is eight years old. I knew a Chieftain over ten years. Goldstone Tribe. His name was…”

She saw the Goblin [Witch] stop, remove her mask, and start laughing. Prixall put her mask back, and shook her head at Rags.

“Great Chieftain. Do not be mad.”

“Why not?”

Rags put her hands on her hips. Prixall just shrugged. She tapped her chest.

“That is old for Goblins not here. Chieftain Anazurhe is not old. There was a Goblin who was old who came here, once. Greydath of Blades. But he was old. No other Goblin I have ever met was old. Not other Goblin Lords. Not other Great Chieftains. Not even Velan was old.”

This time, the young, young Goblin came to a halt.

“You met Velan the Kind?”

“Yes. He was here. He asked my mother to fight for him. She told him no, to run and not die. He refused.”

Mother. Rags looked at Prixall. The [Witch] touched her hat, then her chest.

“Chieftain Rags. I am not old. I am her oldest daughter. Living. When she came here, started this tribe, she had me. Long ago. I studied here. I helped make this…”

She tapped the walls of the cavern.

“I am not old. I am over sixty years old. And I am not old. You all die too soon.”

Rags recoiled so hard she slammed into the wall. She looked at Prixall. A fully-grown Hob. And—Rags didn’t see a difference between her and Snapjaw. She had no white hair like Greydath. She could have been a Hob of four years. She was…

Prixall nodded.

“Goblins of the Molten Stone tribe admire you. Want to be Redfangs or Flooded Waters. But why? If they leave, they die. Glory is…”

A flame burned for a second. Then winked out. And there was nothing Rags could say against it. Prixall pointed down the corridor.

“See what Chieftain Anazurhe makes, Chieftain Rags. You are smart. You may see.”

She led Rags forwards, and they came to a strange place. Through carved tunnels—neat, but still with a bit of variation in craft, signs of mixed skill levels, albeit hard work—they came to a huge…chamber.

Chamber was Rags’ word, because she couldn’t figure out what the purpose was, at first. It was a completely square room in all dimensions. Unlike even the rest of the fortress, even Anazurhe’s personal magic room, this place was perfect.

Perfect as in, each line of geometry was a mathematical constant. As in, each tile was laid with such outstanding craftsmanship and skill that even Hexel or Drevish would have said it was fine work. Rags saw two braziers, custom-made, each a solid piece of iron, sitting next to the one part in progress.

A…staircase. Which led to nowhere yet, as it was only sixteen feet down. Each step made of gleaming, dark granite. Each block without flaw. And the new ones were being laid personally by a sweating Human [Mason].

Watched by no less than eighteen Goblins, and commanded by another Hob, holding a scroll and inspecting it constantly.

“I, ah, I’ve got a little flaw in this stone, sir?”

The Human poked his head up and showed them one of the blocks he was installing. He was clearly using Skills; it looked like the place he’d laid was as seamless as the rest of the room. He was good at his job, and clearly nervous about his audience, who were armed.

“Bad stone?”

“Yes, sir?”

The female Goblin took a look at the stone, made a noise of disgust, and hurled it past Rags and Prixall into the plain corridor beyond. She went over to kick at the pieces as the [Mason] watched. Then turned back.

“Good. No bad stones.”

“No bad stones at all, Miss. I…”

He stared at Prixall and Rags. The [Witch] spoke.

“Keep working, [Mason]. We will observe.”

“Yes ma’am. Of course. I…”

He went back to inspecting each stone before laying it. Rags stared around the perfect room. Black stone, polished like a mirror. When the two braziers were lit, it would give this room ambiance, especially with the walls of equally smooth stone. The stairway wasn’t a slope, but an actual stairway. Why?

There was no reason for this much clear expense and, to judge by it, painstaking perfection if Anazure just wanted a new wing. Why hire a Human? Was this some magical room?

If so, why wouldn’t a [Mage] make it? Rags saw Prixall watching her with amusement as she strode around the room.

“Anything special?”

“No. Just built to exacting standards. Show her.”

The Goblin with the scroll hesitated. Prixall glared.

“Anazurhe has given Chieftain Rags permission. Show her.”

The [Mason] hesitated as Rags looked at the blueprints to this room. Which he had been told that if he so much as glanced at would result in a painful death. Rags stared at a very neat set of blueprints of…

This room. A perfect square, noted out with exact measurements for how big each tile should be. A scrawl about the quality of stones, and a staircase leading down to…

Nothing. It literally ended with a single arch. It was nearly done. Rags nearly went cross-eyed trying to figure out what this damned room was for. It was only when she saw the writing on the top left that it all clicked. It was how it was written, and it was what Rags had seen before that let her understand at last.

[The Labyrinth of Fithel].

It was written like that. Like…Rags’ eyes narrowed.

A Skill. She looked around the room and had the distinct impression it was familiar. Not in appearance, but…she closed her eyes and remembered a door. A door that led into a garden, that had existed before someone found it. She turned, suddenly, and gasped.

“Inheritance Sk—”

Prixall made a slashing gesture and Rags stopped before she clued in the [Mason]. He was oblivious, inspecting another stone with sweaty fingers. Prixall couldn’t hide her astonishment.

“You know what this is?”

Like the [Garden of Sanctuary]. Rags nodded.

“This is…something that exists, but you get. A Skill of a place?”

The [Witch] inhaled sharply.

“You are smart. Chieftain Anazurhe is making. This is…a special place. If we get, we get danger, but lots of space.”

“How does she know?”

Prixall snorted softly.

“She remembers. She is stealing this place, see? Nearly done.”

Rags’ mouth opened. She had never thought of that! Goblin memory extended to many things, but remembering an inheritance Skill and stealing it? She thought she was good with the Healer of Tenbault! This…this was real theft, the kind even Ratici would tip his hat to.

And it gave Rags a lot of ideas. Prixall hurried her back before she could give the game away to the oblivious [Mason]. Each one had to be Level 30, and they came here with no idea what they were doing. Obviously, seeing the blueprints was death, given what it was about.

Rags, knowing the Molten Stone tribe’s even greater dreams, thought nothing could surprise her as she went to meet with Anazurhe.

Until she saw the last part of the Molten Stone tribe, a water fountain that doubled as their water supply. The Goblins purified the natural water they collected from the very toxic landscape, and Anazurhe had made a water fountain out of it so that Goblins could scoop water out of a basin.

Bathing in it was frowned upon, even if it technically would purify the waters. Just a fountain, another resting area, and where the [Witch of Flames] and Archmage of Izril had retreated to argue over the magic notes while silly Goblins hit each other with sticks in the other plaza and watched the scrying orb.

That was the place. Rags saw the fountain first. Then…without warning, he was there. Without explanation—no, without preface. Suddenly, she saw him and stopped dead.

——

Velan the Kind, no, he was just ‘Velan’ before they named him like that, yawned. It made the other Goblin Chieftains snort.

A rare gathering of their kind, but the Great Chieftain had come when asked. He really tried to hold it in, but he couldn’t help it.

It upset the Goblin [Witch] of the Burning Snow tribe, who was trying to explain her grand plan to them all. She shouted at him.

“Stop snoozing you stupid—stupid Great Chieftain!”

Then she threw a ball of fire at him and singed his eyebrows off. Which sort of ruined the dignified showcase and plan she was trying to get the other Goblin Chieftains on board with, but they just didn’t have a good place or the will.

“A Goblin academy is good. But where? Gazers have jungles. Dullahans will find you in the north. Underground?”

He tried to console her afterwards, as the Chieftains went to more interesting activities. The Goblin [Witch], sulking, muttered.

“Maybe somewhere else. Chandrar. Izril.”

“Far to go.”

The Great Chieftain stretched. Anazurhe shrugged.

“Maybe.”

That was his first meeting with the [Witch] named Anazurhe. She did leave for Izril, and he saw her only a few times before then. Then once more…fifty years later. And then? He was already—

——

Rags jolted. She stumbled backwards and Prixall caught her. The Chieftain was breathing heavily. She looked up and saw.

Velan the Kind. He sat there, staring over her head into the distance. At something amusing or…contenting.

His statue, of course. The Goblin King—no, he wasn’t quite the Goblin King, was he? It had triggered the memory in her, but this Goblin wasn’t the same one who had raged across Izril. A bit younger.

“Chieftain Rags. Are you alright?”

Rags looked up and saw Prixall looking concerned. She realized what had happened to Rags.

“Chieftains see it differently. Some Goblins too.”

Velan. He was just like her memories, but it was something to see him sculpted out of stone. Rags…looked around, and saw a figure sitting by the fountain.

Anazurhe was looking at her. The Great Witch had commissioned the statue. The statue of one of the most hated beings in the world. Her eyes were distant as she looked at Rags.

“You did know him.”

“Of course I did. Some Goblins are older, Rags. I saw him be the great Goblin Lord that they called kind. The one they made pacts with. Then…madness. That is the fate of Goblin Kings. He was mad when he died. And I do not know why.”

She looked so sad. Rags shook her head. From wanting to take Anazurhe to task, she had gone to respecting her vision to…she could not condemn it any longer. Not someone who had been there. No wonder she hid her tribe here, playing a longer game.

“I saw what you are making.”

“Ah. You knew?”

“I have seen another.”

Anazurhe’s pointed hat tilted up. Her eyes glinted.

“Interesting.”

“Quiet, please. I am committing these notes to memory.”

Valeterisa muttered from the side. Anazurhe looked over, and poked her hard in the side. The Archmage did not respond.

“You see much, Chieftain Rags.”

“I do. I say…it is Goblin if it matters, Chieftain Anazurhe.”

The Witch smiled. Rags went on.

“I would like some of what you do for my tribe. We are young…”

She glanced at Prixall.

“Very young. But we are making something in the High Passes. Maybe it is in danger. Maybe it will not last. But if you will let some of your Goblins come, we will try to make something like this.”

“And what is ‘this’? A safe place? A place of power?”

Rags shook her head. The Great Chieftain was testing her. She gestured around.

“A place that does not need to steal.”

“Ah.”

Anazurhe smiled. She nodded. That was what Rags liked most of all. This was not Tremborag’s domain. Everything she saw had been won fairly. You could not walk here and say this was stolen, that Goblins were a people who could only raid and destroy.

Only she had done that. She looked at the Healer’s notes, shamefaced. But she had a task she needed done, and it was worth the cost, she thought.

“If a Goblin wishes to go with you, I will let them. They will not.”

“Not one?”

Anazurhe shook her head.

“They know what lies outside. You have little to offer them. They will go, like the island-Goblins, to die, for great deeds. But not because they see hope.”

That was the weariness. Rags shrugged.

“I will ask.”

——

Not one Goblin volunteered. Not even Redscar’s fans. They were tempted, from the little [Witches] to [Mages] to the [Warlocks], but they looked at Prixall, at Rags, and the ‘old’ Redscar and Redfangs, and saw exactly how long they’d live.

Rags couldn’t blame them. But she needed them. She was trying and failing to figure out how to convince them, as the Molten Stone tribe feasted them. Rags saw Calescent, a bit happier, trading his death spice with the Goblin [Chefs] and showing the Molten Stone tribe that there was fire they had yet to experience.

“Could I…purchase a bit of that? Might be a cheaper way to distract someone.”

Even Roell made a purchase of Calescent’s death-spice after he sampled it. Rags herself munched on a delicacy of their tribes; some kind of weird preservation technique. The Molten Stone tribe loved to bury eggs, Yellats, and other foods like fish, in clay pots with ash and other things—and let them rot into weird, discolored foods.

Well, not rot. They were perfectly edible. It wasn’t quite fermenting as her experts knew it, but it certainly took advantage of the natural terrain. Rags poked an egg with a brown outside and a black yolk. Hekusha stared in horror at her plate; the Goblins had, with careful spitefulness, served her a huge bowl of them.

Rags shrugged, took a bite, and found it was good! She liked it a lot more than bugs. She tried a pickled bit of herring next and chomped it down.

“Your Healer does not like you.”

Anazurhe murmured as she removed her mask to eat. Hekusha had indeed shown her colors and she was alone. Rags grimaced.

“She will heal Erin or not. Then we let her leave. We kidnapped her. She does not need to like us.”

“Mm. I don’t think she can.”

Rags’ heart sank. She looked at Anazurhe, then shook her head.

“If there is a chance…”

“Potion of Regeneration failed. Will [Restoration] work? Weaker spell. Different, but weaker.”

“Maybe she can heal Erin’s body.”

“Hmm. She is not a [Healer]. She can only cast the spell. She is a [Mage] who casts a spell efficiently. Not someone who knows why and how to kill sickness. There is a difference.”

Rags stabbed at one of the eggs with her claw. She had to believe this was for something. She had to do something!

“We will try.”

“Mhm. But do not bet on her. She is a greedy thing. Like crows.”

Anazurhe gestured. Rags turned and saw a giant, fire-resistant crow hassling Snowscale for his food. Apparently, due to some pact with another [Witch], the Molten Stone tribe had fliers who could use special masks. The crows were far smaller, though, and only a normal-sized Goblin could ride them, not a Hob.

Valeterisa was munching down on the black eggs, oblivious to what she was eating as she read the notes.

“It is interesting. Healer Hekusha, you seem capable of teaching this [Restoration] spell to other [Mages]. I believe I can learn it. Note to self…learn…[Restoration]…devote eight processes to memorization and casting.”

“You can’t steal my magic!”

The Healer of Tenbault wailed. Valeterisa raised her eyebrows. She rubbed at one ear.

“Oh, I stopped listening. One second…ah. Why not, Healer Hekusha? It is clear you decoded the spell you were taught nearly five years ago. Your research changed, and I do not believe this spell is being communicated. Even Wistram has lost it, with the exception of Grand Magus Eldavin.”

Rags’ ears sharpened. She looked at Hekusha. The woman stuttered.

“I—I was attempting to simplify it. To allow me to—”

Valeterisa scanned the notes and shook her head.

“You were not. Your research is plainly devoted to developing link-spells that you might cast it more efficiently. Not simplify it for others. In fact, half your research is designed to encode the spell. Interesting.”

Anazurhe’s eyes narrowed. She looked at Rags and the Goblin made a face. They understood. Valeterisa calmly reached for an egg, then stared at it.

“Is this poisonous? [Detect Poison]. No? Very well. It is now clear why Magnolia Reinhart declined to support you. Mystery solved. Note to self…tell Ieka…excuse me, Witch Anazurhe? Is there an acceptable magical present I could buy here?”

“Want a mask?”

Anazurhe turned to Rags. She nodded at the magical notes and Hekusha, watching someone effortlessly copy her spell. And unveil the truth.

“Greedy Human. If she can save…who is it?”

“An ice cube.”

Rags stared down at her plate, no longer hungry. She sat there, doodling on the table.

“You know—and I am being social here, hello Chieftain Rags, I hope we can do good business together, please accept this friendliness as a discount for favors owed for magical notes—this entire business with healing someone reminds me of an issue I must look into. Perhaps [Restoration] would help? I am looking into a frozen young woman in…Liscor, The Wandering Inn. How strange. Coincidence. Ahahahaha.”

Valeterisa’s polite laughter cut off as Rags jolted. The Archmage looked up as every Goblin in Rags’ entourage stared at her.

“…Was that a faux pas?”

Roell looked over from his dish where he was telling Vinn he’d done a good job, relax, have a drink, go to bed. Rags saw him bow politely.

“Excuse me, Great Chieftain? Er, other Great Chieftain, Archmage? This wouldn’t happen to be about the Oteslia-Khelt puzzle, would it?”

Everyone looked over. Rags frowned.

“The what?”

The [Rogue] realized he had everyone’s ears. He fumbled to recall.

“It’s…something in the Mage’s Guilds. Oteslia put out an alchemical problem. Something to do with a complex poison thing. You know, Oteslian generosity? They’re researching it, but Khelt put out a huge bounty on anyone who solves a number of problems. Think it’s reversing a freeze spell, finishing an antidote…‘course it might not have reached you, but I just thought I’d mention it.”

Anazurhe tapped her lips thoughtfully. Valeterisa began bothering the nearest Mage’s Guild about it. The Great [Witch of Flames] glanced at Rags.

“Oteslia and Khelt? Are they helping?”

Rags sat there. Yes. Perhaps! And yet, if the best [Alchemists] and [Researchers] of Oteslia could do naught, and the other [Witches] of Riverfarm, and all the people helping Erin, even the Healer of Tenbault, who could? She sat there, but Anazurhe was moving.

“Let us check.”

——

Rabbiteater was fighting with the Spring Knights, not in the thick of the fighting but on the edges. He battered down faces, yanked Markus out of a knot of [Knights], and dueled.

“Challenge!”

And like idiots, Spring Knights leapt from saddles or fought on horseback against their opponents. Rabbiteater had to admit—it was easier than a melee. The Order of Seasons would be squished against such numbers.

But maybe, they’d also combine their auras and burn their enemies out of their plate armor. He grimly battered a [Knight]’s guard down and rammed his shield into a face. The fellow fell down stupidly and Rabbiteater drove the sword point down next to his visor.

“Alas, Ser Domost. A valiant effort! At your leisure, Ser Plain Armor!”

Another Hydra [Knight] saluted Rabbiteater. The Goblin actually tilted his visor open and took a drink of a stamina potion. This was so…

He was no closer to any edge of the fighting. And he’d been trying to push out. The duels made it impossible. Rabbiteater kept staring towards the edge of the fighting.

The thing was, he saw something. The Order of the Hydra was boxing in the Order of Seasons, wearing them down despite the dangerous charges. But they were on foot. Fast as they were, if you broke clear of them…could they catch up?

You’d have to do that, first. And if Rabbiteater refused a duel, he was fairly sure they’d take him out in a second. He was still sick of it, though. So when he heard a shout that he liked, his head swivelled instantly.

“No fair, Ser! That is unsporting!”

A [Knight] lay on the ground. Order of the Hydra, plate dented. An energetic [Knight] in a kind of purple and fading orange had bashed him flat. It had been a one-sided match, mainly because when the Hydra Knight had gone down, he’d never been able to get back up.

Mostly due to the vines holding his limbs down. The Fall Knight, or Autumn Knight of the Order of Seasons, turned, wiping sweat from his brow as he loosened his helmet.

“Nonsense. Magic’s perfectly acceptable. You can use potions or scrolls, I can use magic. I trained with a mace and spells. Next?”

A Hydra Knight charged him. The Autumn Knight waited and the figure slipped on a patch of greased ground. He was on him with less skill than some of his counterparts, but a considerable vigor in attacking downed foes. The other waiting [Knights] booed the display.

Rabbiteater loved it. He made his way over to the Autumn Knight. The waiting [Knight] who wanted to duel him sighed, but let him do it.

More fool, he. The Autumn Knight spun.

“Is that Ser Solstice? We’re getting thrashed out here. Our people are, at any rate.”

Rabbiteater turned to the same sight he’d been watching; Ailendamus’ huge crossbow corps raining fire down on the enemy while their infantry held them back. He glared.

“Yes. Who’re you?”

“Ser Ilm. Autumn’s children. I’ve been separated from my lance. Want to join up? See here, we’ll duel you two at a time! My sword-arm’s getting tired, Ser Solstice, but if you back me up…”

For once, the Hydra Knights weren’t as keen to take the fight. One pointed at Ser Ilm.

“You’ll just cast magic on us! We’re not loosing arrows at you!”

“Too true, Dame Hydra! It is a duel. I could throw a [Fireball] at you all, but I won’t.”

The Autumn Knight had a practical, almost needling tone that Rabbiteater liked. And his presence gave Rabbiteater an idea. The Goblin dragged at Ser Ilm’s shoulder.

“Let’s retreat. Get Markus. Meisa.”

The lance was already falling back to rest and charge again. Ilm nodded. They waited for a duel, but the Hydra Knights just folded their arms.

“Let’s take on the Summer Knights. They’re sporting, even if they melt your armor. Yon’s Dame Talia Kalinad, over there. You know, from the games at Daquin? It would be a feather in your cap to take her out.”

They moved left, and Rabbiteater saw the fiery blade of the first [Knight] he had liked. He shook his head and pulled Ser Ilm back.

“They are going to win, Ser Solstice.”

The Autumn Knight calmly spoke when they were riding back to the defensive line of skirmishing [Knights]. Markus and Meisa, both of whom had survived their duels, looked at Rabbiteater. Ser Thaime was also there; Dame Ingrela was not. She’d been captured, along with Raist.

Rabbiteater nodded. He stared out at Ailendamus’ army. And…he kept seeing the figure there. He’d assumed it was a feint, but from the way he saw the figure strutting about, followed by a unit of fighters, he thought it was what it looked like.

There was Ailendamus’ [General]. A [General] could empower an army beyond belief, and since he had those pikes, he had put all of his fancy archers in one spot. Eggs and baskets and all that.

Of course, there was a wall of Hydra Knights keeping the Order of Seasons back. And they had Voost surrounded, forcing her into duels she was winning, but unable to break out from, like Zulv. Rabbiteater looked at Ilm, his friends.

“I have an idea. We can’t win without playing different…games. Not like Ailendamus.”

He tried to explain. Markus frowned, but Meisa lifted a hand.

“We can’t just violate the rules of engagement, Rabbiteater. It goes both ways.”

She glanced at Ailendamus’ army.

“There is a way to die quick, and it’s out there.”

Rabbiteater nodded.

“But. One person can change everything.”

“You’re speaking like you’re the Summer’s Champion.”

Ser Thaime snorted, but he eyed the Goblin Slayer, whom he’d ridden with. Ser Ilm leaned on his horse’s saddle, interested. Rabbiteater shrugged.

“Maybe. But you don’t need him. One person can do it.”

“You seem sure. We’re not high-level—”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Rabbiteater stared at something only he could see. Levels? Status? It didn’t matter. He had learned the lesson Greysten had, and the heads of each order.

One person was all it took. He saw a young woman with a white flag. If she had not stood there. If she had not been there…his hand tightened. He longed for the same power, the hand of the Drake [General] on his shoulder.

He didn’t have it. All he had was…a memory.

It was enough. Just because it was a memory did not mean it had not happened. He had been there. He had bested the Bear of Ailendamus. Rabbiteater reached for that feeling. And found…some of it was in him.

Ser Markus was about to object that he didn’t want his friend to die. The words slowed on his tongue. He squinted at Rabbiteater. He felt…the Spring Knight’s eyes widened, but Meisa nudged him. Her eyes were glittering.

“Do you have a plan, Ser Solstice? I am willing to listen.”

Thaime was sensing the same thing. He removed his helmet, his sharp mustache gleaming with sweat, and looked at Rabbiteater. The Goblin glanced at the Autumn Knight. He hesitated. One was coming.

“Maybe. Ser Ilm. Are there any more Autumn Knights with you?”

The [Knight] grinned.

“We’re spread out. Why?”

“…What kind of magic can you cast? Any of these spells?”

The [Knight] listened. Then he really began to smile. And Rabbiteater felt something welling inside of him. He looked back ahead. Reaching for it.

——

[Communication] was a Tier 4 spell, and [Message] was Tier 3. Both were used at Mage’s Guilds, although not everyone could use the [Communication] spell.

Nevertheless, any large Mage’s Guild could. The [Mage] taking incoming calls grumbled, but the friendly, female voice didn’t add to his bad mood on this mundane day of days.

“Oteslia’s Mage Guild. If you’re calling about a delayed shipment, please be advised we are currently under siege…how can I help you?”

“Hello! I’m from the Mage’s Guild in Anazuland. I was just communicating an information request regarding a bounty, if that’s alright?”

Anazuland? The Drake had a map out. You got vague directions the further you cast the spell from, and he checked the map. Some place in the middle of nowhere next to a huge uninhabited area. About right. He’d never been to ‘Anazuland’, but it was on the lists they sent out and did some basic communicating.

“No problem, Miss. What can I look up?”

“Just the bounty on a ‘Seifre Poison — Frozen Complications’, I believe the research topic is called.”

“Ah, another one.”

The Drake even had the applicable materials here; everyone wanted a piece of that bounty. But he’d noted no one had actually come back with a solution. He read it out.

“Let’s see. Khelt’s backing this information request—verified cures only. A partial solution awards you twenty two thousand gold.”

“Oh my. That’s…hey, get away from there, you ***** brat!”

That last part wasn’t censored, but it was a word the Drake had never known before. He heard a screech, remarkably high-pitched, and the voice returned.

“I am so sorry about that.”

Probably children in this small-town Mage’s Guild. The Drake assured her it was fine and gave her the rest of the relevant details as she copied the notes down. He thought no more about the interaction, instead counting the minutes down to his lunch.

——

In the ‘Mage’s Guild’ of Anazuland, Rags stared with open-mouth at a Goblin [Mage] who’d chirpily requested the info. She’d stopped only once, to kick a little Goblin trying to peer at her scrying orb. However, even swearing in Goblin hadn’t broken her cover.

Anazurhe inspected the bounty as it was printed out. Even Valeterisa looked mildly interested at the money offered.

However, the problem was clearly that the Healer of Tenbault had her spell, not an answer to the rest. Rags had Lyonette’s information.

Cure for being an ice cube. Antidote for poison. Way to bring a sort-of-dead person back. Way to mend her flesh, even if she isn’t technically alive.

A four-part process, and the [Doctor] who’d written it up had hinted there were more problems she hadn’t worked out yet before disappearing. They might have one with the Healer. Maybe.

But the rest? Anazurhe looked at the antidote and listed poison. She tsked.

“Okay poison. Bad if shot. In veins? Frozen in blood? Yuck.”

She was so casual it made Rags angry, despite knowing that the Goblin Witch had no reference for Erin Solstice. Anazurhe nodded. Valeterisa was peering at the details.

“Hm. Liquid would not work. Potions require a living system. Powder? Gas? If the body is frozen—ah. No wonder it is so difficult to administer. I…hm. I would risk applying it to the body as it warmed. But then the patient might die. Which I assume is not the desired outcome? No? Simply inquiring.”

She was rather interested by the puzzle as an academic, but she had no good answers either. Rags offered it to Hekusha, who gave the entire sheet a blank look.

“What would you do?”

“C-cast [Restoration]? I seldom get immediate poison victims…”

Valeterisa, Rags, and Anazurhe looked at the Healer of Tenbault. Now here was someone who had a single answer for everything. Mind you—it worked, but still.

Anazurhe tapped the sheet thoughtfully. Rags hopefully looked at her.

“Is your tribe filled with many poison-experts?”

She glanced at the crowd of Goblins that Redscar, Fighti and Calescent were trying to recruit into coming with them. The Goblins listened to stories of battle and looked at the celebrities…but shook their heads. More were clustered around the scrying orb, and Calescent stopped and went to sit with them, giving up.

“Not like a great tribe. No. But this…”

Anazurhe frowned. She inspected the details provided by Oteslia’s [Researchers], who believed in communication. She ran her finger down attempted solutions that had not worked on frozen trial rodents. And her eyes turned.

She looked left, and Rags looked left as well. Anazurhe spoke.

“There is the Goblin who could find the cure.”

She pointed at Velan the Kind. Who had once been one of the greatest [Alchemists] ever. That was what Rags kept forgetting. He had made such medicines that his body had become as strong as any [Warrior]. He had travelled to Drath, had learned secrets…

And was dead. Did the answer lie in memory? Anazurhe looked at the list. She turned it over. Frowned.

“…Hm. Hmmm. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

Rags’ head rose. No one ‘hmmed’ like that for nothing. Anazurhe’s eyes flickered down the list again, and she muttered.

“There is one potion. Not tried? Not known? Maybe…maybe…Prixall! Get over here!”

She snapped at the [Witch]. The Goblin walked over with an exasperated look Rags recognized. Safety or not, it couldn’t be fun being the eldest daughter of the Great Chieftain for sixty years. If only she could get Prixall. Alas, Redscar wasn’t enough, especially since he probably would refuse to seduce her.

“Chieftain?”

“Get that thing. The drink for ceremonies. Useless drink.”

Anazurhe snapped her fingers, clearly at a loss for what she wanted. She glared at Prixall as the Goblin suggested fifteen different names, finally got the one Anazurhe had forgotten, and stomped off to get it.

“What is it?”

Valeterisa was still engrossed in the problem. Anazurhe, on the other hand, explained, her eyes glittering.

“Useless drink.”

“…Great.”

Rags snorted. Anazurhe rolled her eyes, flapped her hat at Rags, and explained haughtily.

“A useless drink now. Something…made it less useful. It used to be used all the time. Goblin’s Lament made it. Some tribes made it. A very valuable drink. Less useful now than many, many lifetimes ago. Useless…now. I tried many times. But…”

She spread her claws.

“No good. I put it in special cups, put it in special ceremonies. Nothing happened. It is not a drink for us.”

“Drink? Not medicine? Drink for who?”

“Spirits.”

Rags’ eyes narrowed. Prixall came back, and Anazurhe shook her head. She stared about.

“So quiet. So empty. Nothing comes…one did, but didn’t stay. Only one? Used to be many. Here.”

She took a mostly-empty container and held it out. It glowed with magic, and Valeterisa dropped the notes instantly and came over.

“What a fascinating magical binding. It is a specific barrier on this amphora.”

She tapped the clay vessel. Anazurhe slapped her hands away.

“Yes, yes. Obvious. Duh. Now, look, Chieftain Rags. Prixall. Cup!”

The [Witch] held out a hand. She opened and closed it, then turned her head.

“You didn’t say ‘get a cup’, Chieftain.”

Prixall glowered. Anazurhe spoke slowly.

“Get…a…cup.”

Prixal was about to burst, but Rags offered her own canteen.

“Will this do?”

“Sure.”

Anazurhe held the canteen out, not even bothering to align it with the amphora. Rags worried she’d waste it, but, as it turned out, there was no need.

The liquid that flowed out of the amphora didn’t fall like regular water. It…drifted, as if it was made less of liquid, but not quite gas. Oh, and it was a light green, swimming with motes of violet and even particles that might have been for taste or a byproduct of how it was made, for it was surely old, as the vessel indicated.

…It went straight through the canteen. Straight through Anazurhe’s hand. As if neither were there. It fell into the ground and vanished. Valeterisa’s head followed the small stream down. Anazurhe looked at Rags.

“Hmm? Only a special barrier keeps it inside, you see.”

Rags stared at the liquid. Then at Anazurhe. She flicked her eyes back to the scattered bounty, and her eyes opened wide.

“Does it…do anything?”

“Spirits drink this. But ethereal poison? Very bad. You take an arrow, dip it, and it goes through armor. Like that one’s sword.”

She looked at Redscar. Valeterisa nodded happily.

“Goblins have their own version of a Ghost Touch liquid. Fascinating. I have never seen this kind of potion, although I do not foray into alchemy…”

“Yes, yes. Shut up. This is hard to get. This is a drink. If an [Alchemist] uses the ingredients…maybe an antidote goes through her, you see? Your ice cube.”

Rags was hopping from foot to foot. Yes! Yes! That did seem likely! Anazurhe smiled.

“And I get the partial bounty. Twenty two thousand gold! Everyone wins!”

“Where can we get it? How is it made? Do you know?”

“Hmm. I know how. Or I can remember from [Shamans] past. The problem is…ingredients are rare. Rarer than Kraken Hearts, maybe.”

Rags stopped dancing.

“…Where are they? Do you have any?”

“I did. I used them to make this, see?”

The Goblin [Witch] helpfully held out the useless amphora of ghost happy-juice. Rags was tempted to kick it into the fountain.

“Do you have more ingredients? Where are they?”

“I know of three.”

Anazurhe was enjoying Rags’ impatience. She held up three fingers.

“One comes from fish deep in the ocean. Hard to get. Drowned Folk maybe can get it. The second? A Baleros creature deep in the jungles. Might be none left. Both are one in a decade.”

No, no, no! Rags was tearing at her hair. So close and yet—no wonder not even Oteslia had any! Anazurhe waited until Rags was about to explode, and then smiled.

“Fortunately, Chieftain Rags, the last one is more plentiful. There is one place to get it. Or rather…one tribe in Izril grows the mushroom. Harvests it. Uses it. Maybe they are dead. Maybe they live. I think, with the Goblin Lord, they may be dead, but maybe some remain.”

“Who?”

Rags stared at Anazurhe. The Great Witch smiled.

“The Ghostly Hand tribe.”

Rags stared at her. Anazurhe went to inform Oteslia of the possible solution and put in for a partial bounty. Rags just stood there. How…how was she supposed to get there? In southern Izril? How in the—?

——

“Shoo. Shoo.”

Numbtongue kept urging the little Goblins away as they followed the Gnolls to their tribe. The [Hunters] were tolerant, but the Goblins were still putting them all in danger.

Even so, the annoying Goblins with the white handprint on their skin could tell he was a Hob. One kept poking him.

“You Hob. We Goblins.”

“Yes. Go away.”

“We have tribe.”

“Good for you. Go away.”

“You visit?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“You have ghosts. Chieftain have ghosts. We show?”

“N—what?”

The Goblin grinned at him and stared at Pyrite. The Hob stared back. He waved slowly. She grinned wider and waved back.

——

Hope. Secrets. Other tribes. Rags was mixed on what she’d learned, but she felt in her marrow she’d found a clue. Healer of Tenbault aside.

This was something, if she could get to Goblinhome. Anazurhe assured her that she could help speed and aid their journey. They would also go with something from Valeterisa, who kept avoiding Rags mentioning payback for the notes.

But Rags would not go with other Goblins. They had refused. Maybe some of the Goblins from the outlying tribes, but no one from this academy. Not yet.

She had nothing to show them. Only stories of death. What could inspire them? What could…and not Kevin. Not this time. He wasn’t a Goblin, and that was the point.

Redscar had given up on recruiting to speculate with Rags about a way back. Fighti kept trying, but no one was listening. Calescent sat at the scrying orb as Hekusha tried to re-ingratiate herself with him.

“I just meant…you must understand. I quite like your cooking, but, you see…”

Goblins perched on swings or lay about the scrying orb, with their favorite new hobby. Watching television. Calescent gloomily watched too. He wished they had a cooking section. All they showed were angry Gnolls, angry Drakes, and now people killing each other. War, strife…he stared at a figure as Drassi began to commentate. Then he frowned. Then…

Hekusha backed up as Calescent made a fist. She squeaked and hid her face as he swung it. Then stared. Calescent picked himself back up and rubbed at his jaw. He checked the news. Then he shot to his feet with a roar.

“Chieftain!”

Rags turned. Anazurhe saw the [Chef] shoot to his feet, sadness forgotten. He waved his arms, scattering children and the Healer as he pointed, lost for words.

“Him! Him! Chieftain, here! It’s him!”

“Who?”

“Rabbiteater!”

And then every Goblin was running over. Pushing each other aside. Anazurhe picked up a Goblin child, squealing as his space was invaded, and tossed him at Prixall. She threw herself down and saw the [Knight]. You’d never know he was a Goblin unless you knew.

Then…you saw him.

——

Ser Greysten’s arm was burning from mortal exhaustion, not from fire. He felt like his entire body rang from throwing himself into terrible blows against the Dame of the Hills. She was stronger. He was higher-level and refused to burn her.

Neither would yield. And because of that, his Order was losing. He cursed, surging forwards as she drank a potion, to deny her that.

“Hardly sporting, Ser Greysten!”

“Then damn sport! Fight, Dame of the Hills, until one falls!”

She grinned, tossing the bottle aside. Her [Squire] ran after it, since a bottle fit for her was actually too expensive to waste. Greysten rode at the half-Giant, into her shadow, and felt Rabbiteater was right. Ailendamus had played their [Knightly] nature against them. Perhaps not the Order of the Hydra, but someone…

It was the same conclusion Dame Talia came to. She looked around as a cluster of [Summer Knights] fought inwards. Winning duels, or the crushing melee—but hindered by the rules of, well, chivalry.

How would Wil do this? How would the Titan? She imagined them sailing a ship into the middle of a formation. [Strategists] didn’t fight fair. She grimly set herself—and then saw it.

Someone was recording this battle to see whether the Order of Seasons won or lost their bid to aid the Dawn Concordat. But it had not been exciting; a bunch of armored people bashing each other down, or Ailendamus calmly shooting Pheislant’s forces from afar, was hardly the stuff of prime-time television after the King of Destruction and similar battles.

…And that was the case right up until the shouts of dismay. The cry of impropriety. Talia turned her head. There was only one [Knight] on this field who would do such a thing. She saw what was happening at once.

Hydra Knights by the dozens were shouting, flailing, hacking at…webs. More were slipping and falling all over each other as the ground turned to butter. A cadre of Autumn Knights was standing, throwing non-lethal, but highly annoying spells into a section of the bunched [Knights].

“Unsporting! They are attacking with magic!”

“Well, have at them!”

A roar went up from the Hydra Knights. Outraged, they charged the emplaced Autumn [Knights], who began to cast more [Sticky Webs], [Tripvines], and other spells. However, this backfired almost at once.

“[Dispel Magic]!”

A [Knight] drew a scroll and Talia grimaced as the webs and other hindering spells vanished at once. Of course they had magical countermeasures. She bet Rabbiteater had thought he could overrun them. Chivalrous rules went two ways!

The Goblin. She felt a tightness in her chest, an anger at his name, which went hand-in-hand with Greysten’s lecture and her own sense of betrayal. Even so…she looked for him.

If he was in the knot of Autumn Knights being swarmed by the Order of the Hydra, he was dismounted or already down. They refused to duel—they took out the [Mage-Knights] fast, knocking them off their saddles, some going as far as to aim blunt-tipped crossbows which dented plate armor. Talia winced. And now they’d just lost six Autumn Knights. That…she turned to see if she could spot him or Markus.

…There was no one there. The Hydra Knights picked themselves up, reprimanded the six Autumn Knights, and frowned at the grins on the captured group’s faces.

——

“Oops! Looks like that ploy didn’t work, eh, Sir Relz?”

Noass laughed as the two went over light coverage of the battle, in between Drassi’s Gnoll-segments. Sir Relz chuckled, but then frowned.

“Hold on, Noass. Do you see that?”

He pointed out something odd in the battlefield. Noass frowned.

“Indeed I do, Sir Relz. What is that?”

“Looks like something our scrying spells are picking up. Clearly magical. Excuse me? Can we zoom in on—there! There’s ten of them! See?”

A disturbance in the lines of the Order of the Hydra, exactly opposite where the Autumn Knights had made their brief stand. The Hydra Knights were resetting themselves, but they were a bit disjointed there. Some were being knocked down, looking around, confused. Shouting—and not seeing ten [Knights] riding through their ranks.

Not at first. Noass eyed the glittering figures.

“They must be invisible. I think we have a situation. We are watching, live, ladies and gentlemen, ten [Knights] under [Invisibility] spells trying to break the Order of the Hydra’s lines. They’re clearly noticing, but they don’t see them. Will they make it? This is Wistram News Network and—”

——

Rabbiteater wasn’t technically breaking any rules of chivalry. The Autumn Knights had, and they’d been punished for it. But what was he doing? He wasn’t attacking the [Knights]. Okay, his horse bumped several over, but he was just…

Invisible. He surged forwards, as Ser Ilm cursed.

“They’re on us.”

“[Invisibility] spells! To arms! To arms!”

The Hydra Knights weren’t stupid. Seeing the space where the group of ten were pushing through, the [Knights] on foot and anyone bumped by a horse could put two and two together. The Hydra Knights, caught off-guard, began to converge.

Too late. Rabbiteater roared.

“Charge!”

“Spring ends! With Ser Solstice!”

Markus shouted, another invisible figure. They rode forwards, no longer trying to hide. Hydra Knights tried to block their path, but they couldn’t see, and Rabbiteater knocked two flat, breaking through more and more trying to form a wall of flesh and armor. But they’d been distracted.

Classic tactics. Goblin tactics in this case. Burn a farm and hit a road twenty miles away. Rabbiteater rode and saw their back lines desperately closing.

“Break free! Go!”

It was only ten of them. Then nine, as Ser Thaime got tangled at the rear. He lashed around him, reappearing as someone dispelled the magic on the group.

Another Spring Knight ran into eight [Knights]. Horse or not, it was she and her mount that were stopped cold. Eight.

Rabbiteater leaned down and struck a helmet with his sword. It jarred the blade from his hand and he cursed, abandoning it, but then—he was clear. The Order of the Hydra turned as one.

“They’ve broken the lines! After them! Signal the army!”

Horns began to blare. Ailendamus’ forces turned from their systematic breakdown of Pheislant’s forces. Accordingly, the [Soldiers] of Pheislant cheered to see eight [Knights] riding clear.

Eight.

Rabbiteater saw Ser Ilm, Dame Meisa, and Markus riding next to him as the last [Invisibility] spell melted away. He looked back and saw a furious wave of purple pounding after him; Hydra Knights.

“If we slow, they’ll get us! Where are we going?”

“There.”

Rabbiteater pointed at the army. The [General] of Ailendamus, a head turning in a plumed helmet. But if the [General] lacked for [Knights]…

“Infantry! Reposition!”

A row of pikes rotated smoothly, and two battalions of crossbows pivoted. Rabbiteater saw Markus’ wild grin waver.

This was why no one had tried this. The [Knights] surging towards Ailendamus’ lines found themselves running towards the enemy [Archers]. Less infantry, but there were eight of them. The Order of the Hydra was in chaos behind them, nearly half trying to intercept the [Knights] or force the rest of the Order of Seasons back.

“Rabbiteater. We’re going to run right into the crossbows.”

“Yeah.”

The Goblin never turned. He rode, not at a gallop, slower, enough so that the Hydra Knights almost appeared to be gaining. Markus looked at Meisa. One of the Spring Knights cursed.

“There’s no chivalry in dying like a porcupine, Ser Solstice!”

“I know.”

He knew that. They said she had died like…

Something was burning in Rabbiteater’s chest. A feeling. Home.

An adventure. He looked back at the army behind him, [Knights] fighting [Knights]. This was not his war. Not his people or land. But they were his friends.

He looked forwards. He could still feel it. A claw on his back, a hand on his shoulder. An [Innkeeper] and a [General].

Meisa looked at Rabbiteater, then at the other Spring Knights.

“I will ride with Ser Solstice! Fall back! But I tell you this, my sisters and brothers! Spring ends!”

They looked at each other. And then the Spring Knight who had protested squared his shoulders.

“I am Ser Jauslef of Pheislant! I will ride with you, Ser Solstice! To victory! To the end of Spring!”

Rabbiteater nodded. Eight figures streaked forwards. And now—Ailendamus’ crossbows were levelled. Eight [Knights] rode at a wall of pikes.

They were going to die. Talia Kallinad was fighting clear of the Order of Hydra. Her group had seized the moment to break away, and they were going to the aid of Ser Greysten, who might well defeat the Dame of the Hills judging from his fiery onslaught. If he did, they needed to escort him into the next charge. She waited for the crossbows to fire. She did not want Markus to die. Nor Meisa…or even Rabbiteater.

She waited. But the deadly hail never fell. Talia didn’t understand it. She saw the [General] signalling in frustration. Why…?

Then she saw. Of course. Eight [Knights] were charging the enemy lines, but behind them…

As the Summer Knights broke free of the Order of the Hydra’s forces and a second wave turned to follow them, she saw hundreds of [Knights] on foot, pounding right behind Rabbiteater. Right in the line of fire if any crossbows missed.

“Turn back! Turn back, you idiots!”

The Ailendamus [General] was shouting fury at the courageous idiots fouling his lines of fire. Well, he ordered the crossbows to hold. It was only eight [Knights]. The pikes would tear them up. And if they didn’t? The [Crossbowmen] were terrified of [Knights] and heavy infantry in their ranks, but why would they fear eight [Knights]? His own bodyguard outnumbered them.

Why indeed? Then he felt something on his face. The [General] turned back. He was a [General of the Line], not a particularly powerful one to work with the Order of the Hydra, but good enough to serve in this specialized kind of engagement and bully Pheislant’s army.

And good enough to see auras. The Order of Seasons was like a light show, but only three main auras; Spring, Summer, and Fall. He squinted back the way he’d come.

“…What kind of an aura is that?”

It was like nothing he’d seen. Then…he shivered. Something happened.

A fell wind blew across the battlefield. A biting breeze in the midst of summer. Such that the pikes, archers, and even [General] felt it. He felt a terrible suspicion creeping in the back of his mind. The leader of this band of eight was charging in plain, grey armor. Yet the wind blew cold.

And everyone knew they were battling the famed Order of Seasons, heroes, if not in this case. They fought Summer, Spring, and a bit of Autumn. Of their Order, there was only one [Knight] who might not wear the colors given to them.

Now? Out of nowhere? But that was how it always happened. A lone [Knight]—or only eight. Who would be so mad?

It was cold. The [General]’s skin broke out in sudden goosebumps. No. It couldn’t be. He stared at the [Knight] with the strange aura and recalled that General V-something had been defeated by an unknown [Knight] too, hadn’t he? Then he heard it.

A voice, one of the Spring Knights bellowing.

“—the—er!”

It was too faint at first. But then, as he rode, someone magnified his voice with magic. Then the entire battlefield heard it. A man, Ser Markus, roaring.

“To battle! To victory! To the Winter’s Watcher! Spring ends! Winter dies! For the Order of Seasons!”

——

Greysten’s blood froze in his veins. He raised his head as the cry went out. Suddenly, it was around him. Even the Dame of the Hills turned and cursed, on the back foot.

“Already?”

“The Winter’s Watcher! To the Winter’s Watcher!”

Greysten whirled. Had reinforcements come? Another head of the Order of Seasons? A smile broke across his lips. Then he saw who was shouting it. His smile flickered.

That was not the Winter’s Watcher. He knew it because it wasn’t snowing. Because the Winter’s Watcher had specific armor. Because he would have felt the champion of winter.

Yet…the wind did blow cold. And a [Knight] shouted it. And because he shouted it, it must be true. He was a [Knight]. He fooled even his own Order. Greysten’s lips moved in horror. He almost laughed. But that was not the Winter’s Watcher. And that charge was—

——

Rabbiteater was laughing. Ser Markus was bellowing, crimson with embarrassment. But Ailendamus was recoiling as one army. The air was cold. The [Soldiers] stared in horror at the legend of frost. Or what they thought was the Winter’s Watcher.

The cold?

Ser Ilm had a wand in one glove.

“[Cold Air]. [Cold Air]…”

He was concentrating so hard on blasting the enemy army that he nearly was caught from behind. For the Order of the Hydra had doubled their chase.

“Rabbiteater, they’re all turning on us!”

“Good. Pheislant gets away if we die.”

The pikes were lowering. A [General] was bellowing; Rabbiteater heard his voice.

“[Hold the Line]! The brave Order of Hydra will bring down this Winter’s Watcher! Hold your ground, brave sons and daughters of Ailendamus!”

Damn. Rabbiteater saw the glittering tips of spears. He looked back. Then he sped up.

“Rabbiteater!”

But the [Champion] had drawn his axe. A cloak of blood flew behind him as the glowing axe rose. The [Pikemen] stared in grim terror at the [Knight] bearing down on them. They would fight to the death.

So be it. Something was calling to him. He felt it in his chest. Tidebreaker. He felt like he could almost triumph. Almost…almost…

But why couldn’t he reach it? Why? Something was in the way of that feeling. Conflicting. The power of the greatest [General] of Izril…faltered.

Because it wasn’t all he was. He wasn’t Rabbiteater of war. He wasn’t even as good at it as his brothers. Shorthilt. Numbtongue. Headscratcher. Badarrow. Rabbiteater was the average one. And Zel Shivertail had not been the only one in that memory.

——

Erin Solstice sat there at a table, smiling at him.

“Is this it? Hey. Hey.”

She poked Zel. The [General] snapped.

“You poking me is the rudest gesture imaginable, Miss Solstice.”

“Well, sorry. It’s a Goblin thing. You calling them rude, huh?”

The Drake [General] gave Erin a withering look that said she was beneath that kind of argument. And Rabbiteater—

——

Laughed. The burning strength in his arms faded. She was there too. Inside his memory. He clung to that.

Home. A different kind of strength. The two warred in him. He was afraid. He didn’t want to die.

He was doing it for both reasons. He had never fought for glory. Only for the inn. Friends. His tribe. His family. But the strength to do it…

He saw the line of pikes approaching. Not yet. He didn’t—he didn’t think he could—

The [Champion] plunged onwards, fighting to seize one or the other. Unable to reconcile the feelings. Meisa spurred her horse, shouting for him to stop. She was too slow.

They were Spring Knights. Even Rabbiteater was too low-level. Spring was young. It needed more. It needed age to grow. Light and wrath, even winter to temper it.

So the [Knight] shouted. Summer’s wrath.

“Knights of Summer! To arms! To the Winter’s Watcher! With me—charge! Charge!”

The Order of the Hydra turned, too late. They saw a second wedge of armored figures, a full lance, thundering to their left. Orange and yellow and red. The colors of summer.

Talia Kallinad lowered her lance as Rabbiteater twisted in his saddle. The [Summer Knights] accelerated, as the faith of the first line of pikes wavered. They saw the light blazing from the tips of the lances, a match for their pikes. Heard the massed oath.

“Summer fades!”

The [Knight] glanced sideways at Rabbiteater. She couldn’t see his face behind the visor as it turned towards her. Did she see a surprised glint of red?

Then they hit Ailendamus’ lines. Talia Kallinad rammed her lance home before two pike tips slammed into her breastplate. She kept going, abandoning the lance and swinging her sword, as the Season of Summer and then Spring overran the first rank of pikes. Fighting forwards, following the Goblin [Knight].

An oath fulfilled. Just in time.

So long as your cause is just, your heart unwavering, and you live with honor, I will be your ally. I will stand with you.

She had wavered in her oath. Nor was he perfectly honorable. But he was as good as she had ever met in a Goblin. For now—Talia Kallinad rode with Rabbiteater.

——

Rags saw it all. The feint. A classic Redfang trick that had Redscar and every Goblin with her on their feet, cheering. Then the charge, the shouting.

“That’s a Goblin?”

Prixall stared at Rabbiteater. The Humans didn’t get it; like hell a Goblin was going to reveal the secret. They just thought the Goblins loved good television, which this was, even without the secret.

“Rabbiteater.”

She had thought he was going to die. Rags had tried to throw a Skill across the world, but she wasn’t strong enough. And there wasn’t enough time. Anazurhe had had the same thought, looking towards her ritual room.

But then they had seen the Summer Knights charge. With Rabbiteater. Humans, fighting with a Goblin. Following him. Rags looked at Prixall’s eyes, fixed on him. All the Goblins, transfixed on a Goblin on television—not one being slaughtered, or hunted, but the hero even Sir Relz and Noass were cheering on.

A hero. No.

A [Champion]. And he set the Humans to flight.

——

“Flee! Flee!”

Rabbiteater cut through Ailendamus [Archers] like a [Farmer] through wheat with an enchanted scythe. But his axe did not fall and cut the Humans to pieces, though he could have killed dozens with the jade axe.

He didn’t. He thought of Erin, and what she might do.

“I am the Winter’s Watcher! Flee or perish! Winter dies!”

Ser Ilm was laughing, magnifying Rabbiteater’s voice and tossing [Snowballs]. The sight of the Summer Knights charging, that famous name—

The [Crossbowmen] in Ailendamus’ army were brave, experienced [Soldiers] who honestly liked their kingdom. They were probably even paid well.

But they didn’t want to be killed. They broke and ran, screaming, as Rabbiteater tore apart the orderly formation. Pheislant’s army regrouped, free of the harassing crossbow fire. It was all—falling apart.

The Order of the Hydra was trying to stem the chaos, attacking from behind. Yet they had no hope of stopping the rout of the army. Only one person could do that.

The [General]. He was waiting for Rabbiteater. No flight on horses. A bodyguard of two dozen surrounded him and he was restoring order to some battalions, but he’d set himself, sword drawn. Rabbiteater headed towards him.

“Rabbiteater! Watch out! They’re [Bodyguards]! They’ll—”

Ser Markus fell. A Knight of the Order of the Hydra took him down with a halberd to the stomach and the Spring Knight was on the ground, fighting. Talia rode with Rabbiteater, four Knights of the Summer with her.

“Strike the head from the Hydra’s neck! Follow Ser Solstice!”

She bellowed. They crashed towards the [General]. Rabbiteater saw the [Bodyguard] brace. Some were superior [Armsmen] and [Armswomen]. But there were six…his eyes narrowed as he saw lightly armored figures stepping in an ominously familiar way. Each one carried only a blade in one hand, and a buckler, dagger, wand, or nothing at all in the other. They looked like—

—Pisces—

The [Duelists] struck in unison as the [Knights] charged in. Rabbiteater saw a blur and heard multiple voices at once.

“[Disarming Strike]!”

“[Weapon Clash]! [Sundering Slash]!”

“[Dismounting—”

He hit the ground hard as Talia and the other Summer Knights shouted in horror and frustration. Their weapons were cut from their hands. In one case, a [Knight] clutched at a suddenly-limp arm, expertly slashed.

My axe. Rabbiteater stared at his empty hand. He looked around for an axe, but then they were on top of him in the melee. A man ran at him with a polearm. Rabbiteater had lost his sword, his axe—so he threw his shield at the man. It hit him in the gorget and Rabbiteater kicked him to the ground.

“Defend the [General]! Push them back!”

Talia was fighting with a blade made of pure fire, keeping two [Duelists] at bay. One spotted Rabbiteater. The woman lunged, in that perfect, deadly strike. Rabbiteater twisted, and the blade pierced only the first layer of armor, then tore it up.

Champion’s gear. He retreated, panting. The woman slashed, keeping him well out of range. Rabbiteater had no time to retrieve his weapon or find a new one. He reached for his bag of holding and she slashed it from his belt.

“Surrender or die!”

He said nothing. The [Duelist] waited only a second before slashing. This time she scored a blow across his gauntlets that cut all the way through. Red blood ran down his arm. The Goblin stared at it.

Damn. That was a sharp sword. And he had no weapons. If only he could block it. But she’d slice his hands off. Or poke him through the neck.

Something was coming out of him. Like your lunch coming out of your chest. But not in a bad way. He had never felt this way before.

How had it gone? Rabbiteater felt like he was swimming through the air. His hands opened. No—not hands. They looked like—

Claws.

The [Duelist] lunged, in a strike to one leg, at perfect range. He slashed at her blade, and she flicked her sword to cut across his hands. If he lost a finger—

Her rapier rebounded. The force sent a shock rippling down her sword and nearly twisted it out of her hands. The [Duelist] backed up, eyes widening, then checked herself. But the [Knight] was charging her. She didn’t panic.

[Long Backstep]. Her sword aimed, a piercing thrust that could turn into a slash. He didn’t expect that and she lunged. The blade struck his side and—bent.

The armor was hard. Her eyes went round. Was that a Skill? Now he was too close. She slashed with her parrying dagger.

He caught her hand. The [Duelist] cursed. She went for a slash to his arm, but he caught that too. She stared at him. Then saw the helmet come back.

“Oh dead g—”

The [General] saw the headbutt. He felt it. The [Knight] dropped the [Duelist] and turned.

“You are not the Winter’s Watcher.”

The [General of the Line] felt calm in saying that. He lifted his sword; his bodyguard was in shambles, fighting for their lives. And this [Knight] had no sword.

But he had the strangest aura the [General] had ever seen. It twisted suddenly, and the [General] struck. A slicing blow that evaded the desperate hands which were so strong. It struck the [Knight]’s shoulder, and—bounced.

The [General] whirled back as the [Knight] stumbled. He checked his artifact. Even a Summer Knight should have been cut. What Skill was that?

Not a Skill. Aura. But a different one. What was…he looked up.

“—Who are you?”

——

Rabbiteater was shaking. His hands felt like Zel Shivertail’s. He felt like he had when he fought the Bear of Ailendamus, almost. As if he could bring down even the Dame of the Hills.

But that was not what saved his life. It was something else. Twice now, a blade had come for him. They had been turned by something else. The second feeling.

Like an [Innkeeper], standing in front of her inn with a frying pan. He thought she was staring into his soul. It filled him, and Talia shouted.

“An aura?”

Of course. After so long in their company, it was inevitable. But—what a strange aura. Both [General] and [Summer Knight] saw it. It was flickering. Between two…

The [General] tried another strike. Again he got through, and again he hit something. Something…like hitting a wall. Of an inn. The man stared at the [Knight]. His lips moved.

“I smell something.”

Of all the things to say. But it was true. It smelled like fresh bread. The air felt warm, like there was a fire nearby. A strange fruit’s smell hung in the air. Cooking.

Home.

Then the [Knight] charged. The sword struck his armor and bounced. He tore the blade free. And then there were the [General] and [Knight], barehanded.

Soldiers of Ailendamus saw the [General] recoil, reaching for a dagger. The [Knight] needed no blades. His fist rose. The [General] had been in bar-fights. He had been a [Soldier] and a common man. He put up his fists.

The uppercut broke his guard. It broke his teeth. It lifted his feet off the ground. An [Armsman] charged. Talia saw the Goblin dent his chestplate and send him flying backwards. The [General] wobbled, threw a punch. The Goblin threw a headbutt.

Invincible. Unstoppable. Indomitable. Never give up, the Drake roared in his ears. You cannot fall!

A [Duelist] slashed across his chest. Cutting armor. The blade stopped a second before it cut through his ribs.

“I’m waiting for you to come back.”

It smelled like pasta. The fist of a [General] broke a nose. Talia saw the reeling [General] backing up, barely able to see, spitting fragments of teeth and blood. The [Knight] charged, and she realized what she was seeing.

Two. Two auras. One. Then the other. Somehow linked. Then—both.

——

The Goblin hit the [General] in the stomach. He threw an elbow up, whirled to backhand a [Soldier]. Jabbed, and followed it up with his right. A swaying figure stood there, his jaw broken, as he saw the Goblin twist, a fist raised, bloody metal knuckles swinging.

The ghosts waited. Three figures were clustered around the small incline. One nodded to a bewildered ghost who had just appeared, lying on the ground.

“Aha, you see? Experience does provide, even when Skill abandons us. As I projected, we should see one or the other appear shortly, with a veritable bountitude of modern information.”

The [Strategist] saw one of Terandria’s ghosts approach to interrogate the bewildered survivor. He did not move; he was waiting. The other two, companions, looked at each other.

One was a [Warlord] from ages past. The other scratched at her chin.

“…What’s he talking about?”

The [Warlord] rolled his eyes.

“Some idiot [General] got charged by a high-level [Knight] and is getting the shit kicked out of them. We’re here to interrogate whichever one dies. Figure out what’s going on in this war and such.”

“Ah.”

The [Strategist] glared at his two companions. Their only sources of information came from the dead, so battlefields like this were important. You could even see who was winning or losing.

Now, they waited. For one or the other or even both to pop up. It seemed bad, to hear it from a recently-dead [Soldier].

They waited. Seconds. Then a minute. Then…

——

The final punch never came. The Goblin looked at the swaying [General]. The Human was unconscious. If Rabbiteater hit him, he would die.

The Goblin pulled out a healing potion and splashed it on the man’s face. The Human sagged, and the Goblin caught him before he hit the ground. Because…he didn’t have to die.

Erin wouldn’t have killed him. This was not that kind of war. Rabbiteater looked around.

“Flee!”

Ailendamus’ army broke, their [General] lost, seeing the Winter’s Watcher or some great [Knight] standing in the ruined command tent. Pheislant’s army was already charging their way.

Only the Order of the Hydra remained. They tried to take the command where the Summer Knights, Spring Knights, and mysterious warrior stood. One of them cursed as he saw the army of Pheislant coming.

“Back! Back to the Dame of the Hills! Prepare for an attack on both sides!”

The Order of the Hydra disengaged. But their leader pointed a finger at the mysterious warrior.

“You are not the Winter’s Watcher! Name yourself, Ser!”

The mysterious figure hesitated. Then he nodded. He spoke a gravelly word.

“Rabbiteater.”

The Hydra Knight hesitated. Then he nodded and ran.

——

The battle had reversed in a moment, as battles did. The Order of the Hydra turned, as they realized they were in a bad spot. Pheislant’s army was to their rear and [Soldiers] or not, they were ready to attack.

It would be a fight to remember. The Dame of the Hills had abandoned her duel.

“We will die and they will die. Ten thousand [Knights] stand ready for battle! For Ailendamus!”

The Order of the Hydra set itself. They waited, as the milling forces around the ruined camp and their fleeing support army tried to regroup. They turned as half their forces held back the furious, reinvigorated Order of Seasons and Champion of Summer. Setting themelseves. Arming their rear ranks with crossbows for a full battle. Waiting…

Pheislant’s forces and the [Knights] never came. In fact, they began to stream away from the battle.

“What? They’re running?”

The [Knight-Commander] couldn’t believe it. But Pheislant’s forces declined to save their beleaguered Season of Summer. Only as they headed away and the [Knights] who’d been fighting them returned did he realize—

“Break ranks! After them! Send all [Riders]! Send word!”

Too late. The army was breaking off. Not attacking the dangerous Order of the Hydra. Rather, without anyone to stop them, they rampaged back the way they’d come. Riding. Racing towards…

Ailendamus’ war camp. Where their supplies, baggage trains, support like [Cooks], [Healers], and so on were located…

And the prisoners. They had a rear-guard there. But by the time the Order of the Hydra arrived, everything not taken was burning. And the prisoners of the Order of Seasons, so hard-won?

…Gone. This—this was a disaster, even if General Avring was alive! This wasn’t how the Order of Seasons fought! This was more like…

A raid.

——

Rabbiteater laughed. He was racing east, with the newly-liberated Order of Seasons’ [Knights]. With Pheislant’s army, breaking away from Greysten’s forces. Rabbiteater hoped he’d escaped, but he’d told the others they weren’t going to join up.

“That’s not how you fight! Strike here! Strike there! And take prisoners!”

“You mean, free prisoners. I say, is that chivalrous or not?”

Ser Markus had a bandage on his head. He looked concerned, but Dame Meisa just grinned.

“They were prisoners, and we rescued them! Just like the Bear-[General]’s camp! It’s completely fair!”

“Well, it feels jolly unsporting. I might like it!”

Dame Talia rode with Rabbiteater. She looked at the Goblin. She was not the only one. He didn’t know how a tribe of Goblins cheered him. The Flooded Water’s champion. A symbol.

A [Champion]. But also…he smiled.

A [Knight]. And he carried that memory with him still. Two things.

[Champion Level 34!]

[Skill – Aura of the Hearth obtained!]

[Knight-Errant Level 15!]

[Conditions Met: Knight-Errant → Aura Knight Class!]

[Skill – Aura of the Brave obtained!]

Copies of that memory. Rabbiteater closed his eyes.

“They’ll be following us.”

Ser Ilm observed. Rabbiteater nodded. He looked forwards.

“So. Onwards?”

“Onwards.”

Dame Meisa smiled, her eyes alight. Markus raised his fist.

“Onwards! The Order of Seasons rides to the Dawn Concordat’s aid! With—”

He realized that Greysten wasn’t with them and wavered. So Talia spoke.

“The Knight of Solstice?”

She glanced at him. Markus and Meisa turned. The Spring Knights’ eyes lit up.

“Yes. A fitting name. The Knight of Solstice!”

And that was the kind of story to move even Goblins to action. Hope. Daring. Adventure. But more than that…a Goblin riding in the company of friends.

——

It puzzled the Order of the Hydra, even as word came that reinforcements would be coming. The few [Knights] who had clashed with the mysterious warrior gave their reports, and it was the [Knight-Commander] and the Dame of the Hills herself who speculated who it could be.

“A warrior from Izril. A Drake?”

“Perhaps. But it’s the name he gave you that makes me question that, Dame Merila. ‘Rabbiteater’—have you ever heard of such a name?”

The Dame of the Hills sat cross-legged, not angry for having lost a battle. If anything, the foreign knight had lit the spark of battle in her eyes. She spoke, slowly.

“I have not, [Knight-Commander]. But I think we are being too…too literal. Think of it. Ser Berst asked this [Knight] his name. What sort of fellow would use deceit in such a way? What fine, proud lot like the Order of Seasons would do such a thing?”

The Order of the Hydra snorted. They had fought rich [Knights] in enchanted armor and thrashed them until this battle. The Dame of the Hills grinned.

“Not a proper [Knight] poncing down on his stallion, no. That fellow fought with fists and beat a street-boy of Ailendamus hand-to-hand. Humbled [Duelists]! He didn’t give you his name, Ser Berst. Think on it.”

The Hydra Knight did, and then his eyes widened.

“Of course!”

“I don’t follow.”

“Rabbiteater, Knight-Commander. A rabbit eater. Common-folk, as we are. ‘Tis a challenge to us! No rich fellow! Well, I take it as a personal vendetta. To this ‘Rabbit Eater’, I’ll bring him down, upon my oath as a Great Knight of Ailendamus!”

The Dame of the Hills rose, and cast her gaze eastwards. So there it rang, from Ailendamus’ Court of Masks to Izril. That [Knight] of Izril. The mysterious Goblin Slayer.

Ser Rabbiteater Solstice.

Interlude – Perspective and Past

[The Wandering Inn is on its monthly break until October 16th for Patreons, when the edited chapter is due to be written! It may be delayed or the 1st Draft released then, and the edited version later. See you then!]

“The worst thing that could happen has come to pass. We are damned. This is a disaster in our war; I would even venture to say this may be the end of us.”

The grim voice spoke, in the lands of the dead. A pronouncement so dark, so at odds with hope. But then—the brighter anything burned, the longer the shadows. Every [Witch] knew that.

Not that they were here, among this gathering. Nor was the girl who brought true sunlight into this land. Erin Solstice, the living ghost among the dead—no.

She sat there, on the steps of Khelt’s palace. Right over there. Doing something that looked suspiciously like recreating cotton candy and trying to tempt Xarkouth, the Last Dragonlord of Stars with it.

However, it was not always about Erin. True, part of the dead’s concerns revolved around her, but they did not stop plotting or thinking out of her sight. Thus, a smaller conference took place as one member of the group gave their dire pronouncement.

Nerrhavia of Nerrhavia’s Fallen spoke, and it was a motley crew of ghosts who heard her words. Not Califor. Not Khelta of Khelt; she was ever busy. Rather, Nerrhavia had gathered the ghosts who would listen to her. She did not have even Erin Solstice’s ear whenever she wanted, and that rankled.

However, she did have a contact. A friend of Erin Solstice.

Cawe. And Gerial. She had towed him along, and since the great ghosts were in deep deliberation over the news, he came with. They were friends. Low-level friends, who found themselves consorting with legends.

That Cawe was here was simple enough. Nerrhavia stood there, legend of Cawe’s homeland, albeit a dark one. The [Pickpocket] knew the ghostly ruler was being kind and even flattering to her in order to get to Erin. Well…she liked it.

Nerrhavia didn’t lack for important people to speak to, even without being the most important ghost present. Queen Merindue of Nerrhavia’s Fallen often deigned to bear the old tyrant’s company, despite being at odds. That was, ironically, because they shared interests. One had helped depose the other’s reign and dismantle the ancient empire. But it was still the same land, the same people, in a sense. They were Stitchfolk, and keenly aware that all the power here lay in the Necrocracy of Khelt…and Erin Solstice, in a sense.

“You speak like the six have made some grand move. When, in fact, we have received the greatest hope of all, Nerrhavia. Do not be dramatic.”

Nerrhavia turned, and her braided hair of this vision sparkled, each braid banded by a single ring of power. Her eyes flashed behind eye-shadow and painted makeup, and her dress was the very same she had once demanded cut out of the shade of her throne and stitched together.

“Dramatic? I am never dramatic, Merindue. And if I am—it is not now. I do not exaggerate. If you had but the tenth of my least-favored [Magistrate]’s wisdom, you would see it clearly. Or do I not speak the truth, General Ignoyeithe?”

She turned and nodded slightly to one of Chandrar’s legends. And again…they had lots. However, the [General] who had scorched earth across all five continents, once won a battle with a hundred-to-one odds, and had commanded [Soldiers] in his first victory as a boy of eight?

Some respect due. He took attendance, along with some of the less-popular ghosts, those who had served Nerrhavia in life, and crucially, a [Slaver] of Roshal.

Not the company Cawe wanted to keep, although this ghost was old and had reigned in Roshal long before she had even been born—millenia ago—but it was Nerrhavia’s will. Because if you denied them a seat at any table, they were your enemies. And like it or not, they were allies here.

“Do you see, Grand Emir? General? Would one of you explain to Merindue, my able successor?”

Nerrhavia paced back and forth, sneering at Merindue, and turning her gaze to Gerial and Cawe. She fluttered her fingers at both.

“I trust you are not bored? I thank you, Cawe, my subject, for attending me during this busy hour.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

“Please, you shall call me Nerrhavia. And if ever a way is found, I shall have your name rendered unto Nerrhavia’s honored families, posthumously.”

Cawe fluttered her wings with embarrassment and Gerial nudged her. She winked at him. However, the Silver-rank adventurer was nothing but approving.

“Now there’s a generous client.”

The Grand Emir rose slowly and sighed. He was old and refused to change, much like Drevish. The Garuda opened his cracked beak.

“I see it plainly, Queen Nerrhavia. For did I not use the same ploy? The same tactics? It may not be intentional, but now there is a scroll that presents hope to each ghost, that they might live again. Unity? The Dragon has shattered it among us, if Khelt’s growing power had not already.”

“Exactly. More fool, he. Yet I sense desperation from Terandria too. They have no mortal agents. We do, though the path is long. But that is not why I summoned you.”

Nerrhavia’s eyes flashed. Merindue sat up, eyes flicking back to the gathering. She was sharp, but Nerrhavia was quick. Proof positive?

It was bare moments after Xarkouth had landed and news had spread of the scroll. Already, the most savvy ghosts saw what would happen and were drawing sides.

Cawe wondered if Nerrhavia wanted to live herself. However, the tyrant of old seemed to have a different goal, or one more subtle.

“You see, that you come, and I call you—I do not call you friends, for we never broke bread or shared water. I only call you allies, and the enemy oblivion. Even now, I tell you that we must, the whole of us, put aside ambitions to live. Cawe, you must speak to Erin Solstice and we to our factions. This must not splinter.”

She put a hand into her palm, delicately. Some of the ghosts murmured.

“No designs on life, Nerrhavia?”

An amused [Martial Artist] murmured. Nerrhavia’s eyes flashed again. That wasn’t metaphor, either; little glowing shards of light in her irises told you exactly how peeved she was. All the time.

“Do you think I am talking lightly? I wish to live with every fiber of my being, but there is one scroll, and too many hands grasping. And I have not the means to grasp any harder. Not here. What I am telling you is that this is the thread that will snap, and drag us all into defeat! So yes. My ambition?”

She made a plucking gesture, as if drawing something from her heart, and blew on it.

“I will have you all make that same pact.”

It was an impressive speech. What made even Merindue hesitate was…it sounded like Nerrhavia was serious. And yet—yes, remember the tyrant. Remember her acts and evil that led them to denounce her, and celebrate her demise.

Also remember she was devious enough to rule an empire for nearly a thousand years, and that she did not want to die twice. Erin and Khelt could use worse allies, even of convenience.

“Then, your goal. I can only assume it focuses on Khelt, or Erin Solstice. Given her companions—why the girl? Khelt has the means to utilize our knowledge and might. She is far from her body, and only a single girl.”

“I expected better of you, Grand Emir. Only a girl? Look. She sits there, in the company of the great ghosts. She had the sword. She had the light. Something turns on her. I would count her as a great ally or enemy had I lived. I will bet on one person to be a vessel for my will. And it will be her, not a scroll.”

Nerrhavia glanced at Cawe and Gerial, significantly. Then turned.

“…And we must focus, because I believe this scroll is a great opportunity, chaos or not. Khelt is needed. We are all needed, and greater deeds must be done.”

“Greater than driving those six from Chandrar?”

Gerial muttered. Nerrhavia nodded.

“General?”

Ignoyeithe straightened. He nodded at Nerrhavia, and spoke.

“I have been thinking. It is hard to know the exact nature of our foe, even with Erin Solstice’s explanation. Yet…it seems to me we have lacked a perspective on this conflict, strange as it might be. We see it as a predation of sorts. Perhaps survival. A return? This is speculation, from our limited talks with Dragons and knowledge gleaned. Yet I look at it like a [Strategist]. There is a certainty in any battle, no matter how oddly fought. Simply—it is this.”

He raised two fingers, and made a simple fist with the other. He gestured, touching fingers to fist.

“Attack. And location.”

“Not attack and defense, surely?”

Merindue was amused. Ignoyeithe shook his head.

“Defense is a form of attack. Perhaps the word is simply ‘conflict’. Supplies, movement, intelligence, feints…even magic boils down to two elements. Where the attack comes, and the nature itself.”

“Your meaning?”

The [General] floated past them. He stared out into the distance of dead Chandrar, but what he stared at was…the reflection of ‘now’. The many changing landscapes of then. His words came slowly.

“…This is a war. Consider our foes. Six. Able to walk this world, perhaps exiled as we are. Trapped. However, I suspect that they have a way back, just like Erin Solstice. Perhaps scrolls of their own, or similar methods. Now consider their nature. They are all anathema. I have felt such revulsion only a few times. I do not know the ‘Crelers’ which came after me; but the Soulless of Rhir? The things that come from beyond, that Drath hunts? And…A’ctelios Salash itself. These all provoke the same universal hatred in my being. Do you understand?”

His audience looked at each other. Gerial shuddered. What in the name of d…what was a Soulless of Rhir? Some horror before Crelers?

“We are all united against them. [Slaver]. [Rebel]. Garuda, Human, ghost. That is not in dispute, [General].”

The Grand Emir nodded. Ignoyeithe made a palm-bow gesture.

“No, Emir. To my point, then? They are surely reviled in the living world. The one girl who lives hates them as much as we! So this is not a war between the dead and dead things. This is a war that we must regard as all versus them. And…they have attacked in the first theatre of war. The first place which, if they conquer, becomes a beachhead for terrible victories to follow.”

Nerrhavia was nodding. Cawe was struggling to follow the metaphysics of what the [General] was seeing, but the Grand Emir had it.

“…The land of the dead?”

“Yes. If it lies empty, then each dead person becomes fuel for them. It becomes, perhaps, an unassailable ground to attack the living world. They will not know from where the danger stems! They will not be able to fight back!”

The [General] gazed around.

“Queen Nerrhavia is correct. This is no time for disunity. The dead must aid the living.”

“But how? Short of Khelt…”

The ghosts were frustrated, galvanized by the repositioning of this war. If this was the first battle…Gerial was feeling for the sword he didn’t have.

“In times past, it was possible. [Witches] harnessed spirits. Even I had ghosts bound to serve me. Whether they were the ones here?”

Nerrhavia frowned mightily.

“There are ways to touch the living. Usually, ways that the living must enable. But surely…if we could become an army of ghosts? All we can give is knowledge, and Khelt is an unpleasant repository for our power. I do not wish to make them the new rulers of our world.”

The Grand Emir nodded, although General Ignoyeithe was upset by the attitude. However, even Merindue remembered that Khelt had once been an expanding kingdom, and aggressive.

“Thus, Erin Solstice, Nerrhavia?”

The woman’s face twisted.

“Yes. But she does not want to know how to acquire power. None that I could give her.”

“Like what? Draining ten thousand men of life the hard way?”

Nerrhavia went over to try and chase Merindue off.

“Thou wretched and inferior successor! We must pool our knowledge. Surely there is more we can use? Is there any message Roshal might heed, if Fetohep of Khelt spoke it?”

The Grand Emir was tellingly silent. When the ghosts looked at him, he sighed.

“…That we do not see eye-to-eye with Khelt, that we have been insulted, is plain, Queen Nerrhavia. The same for the young woman who will heed none of our words. Yet you yourself are as charismatic as you are convincing. We do not wish to end. Roshal will reconvene. Now. Permit me a time to give your words to them.”

He strode away without another word. Cawe glared at him, but Nerrhavia looked satisfied for a moment, before concealing the expression. Merindue hovered over and murmured quietly.

“Did it work? You clearly aimed to sway them.”

“I hope so. It would be just like the [Slavers] of Roshal to hold back a trick. Indeed, among the many who tried to cheat death who remain…I have tried to make a list, but only a few Dragons, perhaps a few surly fools in Terandria, the last Giants…”

“Regis Reinhart?”

“That ancient ghost? Perhaps. Perhaps…now that you say it, perhaps, but I assumed he would be eaten with the rest. Unless he is like the Quarass? But Roshal, indeed.”

Nerrhavia looked at the Grand Emir. Her eyes glittered like dark diamonds.

“After all. If there were any lot to hoard another scroll of rebirth, or doorway to death…it would be them. Now, to work. I have made my oath. Let us restore sense to this rabble.”

Two [Queens] swept onwards. Was this a war, like General Ignoyeithe claimed? A game of chess? If so, they were more useful than not. Otherwise…

And there the greatest chess player, living or dead, sat, happily giving a dead Dragon a sweet tooth. Sometimes there was a central actor to a story, a heroine of the moment. But it was a poor stage if they were alone.

——

Speaking of Dragons imbibing sugar…well, it was a peculiar thing. But as Reynold, [Combat Butler], driver for Magnolia Reinhart’s famous carriage, looked on, he couldn’t actually remember if Eldavin—that was, Teriarch, that was, Eldavin—had a sweet tooth or not.

He hadn’t known Eldavin was Teriarch, of course, but he had been ‘let in on the secret’ so to speak after being saved from the [Assassins]’ ambush. He was one of three people to know, and considered it a great honor.

Almost as much as being granted the magical legs. Reynold was no expert on the exact cost of the artifacts, but it was probably more than he had ever been paid or was technically worth. Thanks to them, he could walk.

He was a grateful man. If he chose, he could think on the reasons why he needed the legs to begin with. He could think of his dear friend, Sacra. He could think…they were so cold.

His legs, that was. He could ‘feel’ them, connected to his flesh-and-blood legs. A magical bonding at the joining site. But be it some error or just bad design, they were always a bit cold, since no blood flowed through them.

Reynold didn’t think of that. If he did, surely, it had to be in the context that all that he had lost, or seen lost…had to matter. That Magnolia Reinhart had a worthy dream. If not? Then it was for nothing.

He was at least important enough now to have knowledge second only to Ressa herself. Reynold suspected it was Magnolia and Ressa’s way of repaying his loyalty. For instance…he stared at the two Dragons.

Did Teriarch have a sweet tooth? He didn’t know, because the half-Elf had visited sporadically, and before Reynold was employed as well. And…well, because Magnolia Reinhart made you not notice even a [Glutton]’s appetite for sugar.

Incidentally, she was currently engaged in a quiet screaming match with Lyonette du Marquin, in a [Silenced] corner of the ballroom. Reynold saw Wall Lord Ilvriss being harangued by his sister and mother for similar explanations. He was impressed; the Drake calmly thrust his uncle in the way of his family, and ran for it.

Now there’s a fellow who’s led a battlefield rear action more than once. Commendably fast retreat. No hesitation.

Reynold saw Ilvriss pass by the two Dragons. Now here was his chance to observe, and Reynold had to own that, scouting for enemy [Assassins] and [Spies] as he was doing even now, despite that fellow from Manus, and Magnolia’s own security cordon, he couldn’t take his eyes off the Dragons.

They fascinated him, but he was careful not to give away that he was watching. The one with blue scales—Rafaema—and the one with brown-green, Cire? Different! She was taller, older, and more snappy, and he was a happy-go-lucky scamp. But that wasn’t the fascinating thing.

It was how they reacted to stress. Cire was glued to the First Gardener, checking on Mivifa, going back to Rafaema, peering at Lyonette—making sure everyone he knew was alright. By contrast? Once she’d come down, out of the rain and tremendous hole in the clouds she’d created, Rafaema had taken stock of the situation, then marched back to the buffet table.

She was currently clearing out every dessert with a hint of sugar in it, and this being Magnolia’s party, there was a lot. Even so…Reynold eyed Rafaema.

Lady Reinhart had a secret to her sugar consumption. It didn’t touch her, which was how she managed to eat so much without her heart stopping. The Lightning Dragon? She just ate it, and Magnolia Reinhart herself would have applauded anyone who could eat…

“Five…six…pounds of ice cream.”

Reynold shook his head. Extraordinary. And it wasn’t like that was her only option. Rafaema was going for the sweets, and her minders looked worried she’d puke. But then, the one called Ferris had taken a tremendous beating and was recovering.

“Reynold.”

The [Butler] didn’t jump. But he had a hand on his longsword, even though only Ressa could have crept up on him like that. He nodded to her as she appeared. The [Maid] turned to Reynold, inquisitive.

“All clear?”

He nodded.

“No more killers I could find. Numbers 1-7 are on patrol.”

“Naturally.”

There had been a bad opening in their security, which allowed the criminal mob to get at Miss Lyonette. They’d pulled their attention back to watch Magnolia, and the only people on guard-duty had been forced to choose between the dignitaries and Lyonette.

“Is it simply Oteslia’s underworld?”

Reynold murmured, covering his lips, on the pretense of smoothing his mustache. Ressa grimaced.

“For a measure of ‘simply’? They have Faces. I want you to post more watchers on Lyonette’s residence.”

“Watchers or ready to intervene? I must say, her guardians have done a rather poor job so far.”

By which, Reynold meant Saliss of Lights, the Gentlemen Callers, and, to some extent, Wall Lord Ilvriss. Ressa growled.

“They’re not professionals.”

She meant as they were. Reynold nodded.

“And are we launching a counter-offensive?”

“No.”

“But…”

Ressa folded her arms. She was unhappy, but she twisted a ring and Reynold caught a thought on the linked band on each of their fingers.

“It’s the damned Dragon. Oteslia’s afraid to move on them because whoever’s in charge clearly knows. Magnolia does not want to reveal she knows or get entangled in it. Even the First Gardener would slit all our throats if she suspected we knew.”

“Ah.”

Now that complicated things. Reynold grimaced.

“But we have…our Grand Magus. Surely that might persuade them…?”

“If he was—normal—I’m sure that would be an option.”

“Aha.”

Reynold wanted to say something un-butler-y. It was a bad situation all around. He didn’t know how far from ‘normal’ Grand Magus Eldavin was behaving, but given that Magnolia and Ressa were worried…

“Then we’re collecting signatures? Stay on plan and leave for Wistram as soon as possible?”

“…Almost. If we leave, we’ll have to avoid Zeres. The Velistrane will pick us up when that occurs.”

“Not myself via carriage?”

It seemed to Reynold they could travel on land just as fast north to a safe harbor, but Ressa elaborated.

“No. That is because you will head north when we depart Oteslia. At that time, you will go via carriage to the ancestral manor. And you will collect a few household trinkets.”

They had been strolling left as they walked, circumnavigating the buzzing Oteslian ballroom, all eyes on Lyonette or the golden [Knights] who had come and knelt towards her, or looking at her ring. Reynold nearly slammed into a decorative pillar.

“A few household…?”

He turned a shade paler, despite himself. Ressa smiled thinly.

“Magnolia has forgotten some of her travel supplies. We will need them for where we’re heading next.”

If you didn’t know what they were talking about, it sounded perfectly innocuous. If you saw Reynold’s face, you’d suspect it was not.

If you were Reynold? You would have understood that, while Magnolia Reinhart and Ressa headed for the Reinharts’ capital warship, he would run a fetch errand and meet them at sea, no doubt.

…Carrying every doomsday and armageddon-class artifact he could tear out of Regis Reinhart’s possession.

There was a contingency. Reynold knew what could be traded to make the ghost give up items, as well as Magnolia claiming her birthright. But that kind of weaponry was a step up from the items Magnolia had requested to use against the Goblin Lord. Just what did she intend to do when she met Grand Magus Eldavin?

Even Ressa didn’t know. But she laid one more piece of information on Reynold.

“That’s just a bit of servant gossip. Keep it in mind when we leave.”

“…Naturally, Miss Ressa. The other?”

“Prepare yourself for a trip. Lady Reinhart has, in her infinite wisdom, decided to split some of her gifts that are Oteslia-bound. She is going to get every signatory she can before leaving. You are going to present some gifts to the Gnolls.”

Reynold’s head snapped up.

“But Zeres’ army is outside. I can’t imagine they’ll be keen to let Lady Reinhart leave, the statement we made at the gates or not! Ressa, I can’t guarantee her safety.”

Ressa gave Reynold a happy, sympathetic smile. And that chilled him to the bone worse than any scowl.

“No. Which is why she won’t be going.”

She patted him on the shoulder. Reynold took a moment to let that sink in. He pressed some cool fingers to his brow.

“About my vacation…”

“After this. Bonuses, as well.”

“Very good, Miss Ressa. Might I request a change in shifts?”

“Why?”

“I have the pressing need to find a drink.”

Ressa thought about it.

“Granted.”

The [Butler] nodded smartly, gave her a bow, and stepped lively over to the nearest available drinks. No good, cheap beer or ale. But the fancy stuff did it, and maybe they were serving Firebreath Whiskey, an impropriety to the occasion or not?

He found something almost as good; Hoshill Champagne. Now, your average champagne was slightly less alcoholic than wine. Of course, they also served it in tiny glasses. But Hoshill Champagne was a particular type of the stuff that was made from grapes. All kinds of grapes, but grown on Hoshill.

It was a place in Izril with higher-than-average gravity. Reynold didn’t know the details. Someone had been mucking around with physics, as usual. The end result was a particular kind of grape that took to a stronger, more concentrated drink, even after fermentation.

Strong stuff, which they served in what Reynold had always thought of as a noble’s version of a shot glass. It was a fluted, fancy, thin glass, practically pencil-wide and almost as long.

He calmly walked around the table, to where one of the staff was serving drinks.

“Excuse me, Miss. Would you mind if I…?”

She recognized him as being in the employ of the caterer, and nodded.

“Of course. Do you need some drinks?”

She offered the tray, which had little holsters to prevent the glasses from tilting. Reynold adjusted his suit lapels.

“I shall requisition what is needed, thank you very much.”

She nodded. The Drake watched as Reynold carefully picked out an appropriate vessel. Which was the biggest cup he could find. Then he expertly popped the cork on another bottle, filled the entire cup up to the brim, and took it down.

Her mouth opened wide with awe. Reynold sighed. Now that hit you well and truly proper. One of the other guests, none other than Wall Lord Aldonss of Manus, stared at Reynold. He checked his tiny glass, then tried to copy the [Butler]. He took down two mouthfuls of the Hoshill Champagne and realized he’d made a mistake when the world tilted forty five degrees. Reynold just poured himself a second cup.

Someone else drinking hard was also causing a scene. Two rather shabby fellows were clinking cups of wine. They would have fit in, normally…except that both had scorched clothing, dried blood all over their scales and fur, and they had just been seen laying waste to everyone within reach.

“Not today, then, Ratici. We nearly died.”

“Nearly, Wilovan, nearly. Here’s to nearly. Was that the aforementioned boon I saw on you?”

“Ratici, it was.”

“What did it feel like?”

Reynold’s head turned in time to see a Gnoll with a battered top-hat exhale. Wilovan looked at Ratici gravely.

“It felt like I was a…it was like being filled up with light and…when I saw that ring glowing, I thought—”

He hesitated, and took a drink. Then he shook his head and spoke, solemnly.

“…It felt like I was a decent man. With a hat made of gold, and a knighthood.”

“All that.”

The Drake looked wistful and envious. Wilovan touched his chest, as if he could still feel it.

“Humbling.”

“Do you think you’ll level, then, Wilovan? It seems to me a fellow might hope for a bit of good news ere he lies down his head.”

“Ah, Ratici, that would be asking. That would…but a fellow does hope.”

“Excuse me.”

At this point Reynold had to break in. The two Gentlemen Callers turned, and gave Reynold a supercilious look. He saw them recognize him. On two levels.

First, as two men who saw someone else who was dangerous. And Reynold had to own—he wasn’t sure if he was the kind of danger they were. His magical legs and recent levels…well, he’d dare any group if he was sitting on the pink carriage’s driver seat.

But the second way they recognized him was, more importantly, as another man with the ability to dress himself. They gave his suit a nod. He gave their battle-worn ensembles the same. Ratici went to adjust his vest.

“Good day to you, sir. I hope we’re not disturbing the environs, such as it were? Been a rough day.”

“Not at all, gentlemen. Allow me to welcome you to Lady Reinhart’s gathering, in the name of Lady Reinhart herself.”

The two exchanged a glance. Ratici coughed into a fist.

“That’s a tall thing for a fellow to offer, sir. We’d be happy, but I’m not sure that’s yours to give.”

Reynold gestured at his garb.

“I am, in fact, Lady Reinhart’s personal [Butler] and driver. I can happily assure you that you two are welcome. Especially in light of you keeping Miss Lyonette alive. Believe me, Lady Reinhart respects acts like that.”

They all looked over to where Magnolia Reinhart and Lyonette were still arguing. By now, Ressa had included a visual filter, but Reynold, and, he suspected, Ratici at least could see right through it. Magnolia was splashing tea at Lyonette, and the [Princess] was pointing at the Thronebearers, clearly shouting ‘get rid of them!’.

“Well, thank you, sir.”

Wilovan broke the silence and raised his wine glass. Only then did he see Reynold was drinking.

“Is it customary for the help to drink? Not that we’d tell, sir.”

“I’m actually off-duty. Can I interest either of you two gentlemen in a fine Hoshill Champagne?”

“I’ve never really tried the stuff myself. I can’t say I’m in the mood for social drinking.”

“Ah, then you will be pleased to note Wall Lord Aldonss’ condition, Mister Ratici. Two gulps.”

Reynold expertly poured two full cups, having to crack open a second bottle as he did. Ratici saw the Wall Lord walking sideways, bumping into people.

“Aldonss? Aldonss, what’s the matter?”

Makhir hurried over, breaking off his surveillance of Rafaema as Ferris composed a [Message] back to the screaming High Command of their mutual city. The Drake was shaking his head.

“I can’t stop. I can’t stop. Everything’s sliding! Is the world on a slant or just me?”

Makhir seized Aldonss. The Drake breathed a sigh of relief as he stopped and began to right himself. Just a loss of equilibrium. He’d really thought for a second…

Hunt Commander Makhir’s eyes widened. Then he looked down and saw both himself and Aldonss sliding down the ballroom floor, despite standing perfectly upright.

Wilovan and Ratici looked at Reynold. The [Combat Butler] offered them a cup.

“Inebriation changes your gravity, sirs. Just don’t drink enough that you pass out.”

“Now this seems like a fellow who knows his drink.”

The two abandoned their wines and took a gulp. It went down hard and stung, but that was what you wanted. All three sighed. Then Reynold nodded.

“Gentlemen Callers?”

They stiffened. Both nearly went for their weapons, but Reynold glanced at them.

“I am in Lady Reinhart’s employ.”

“Ah. The Flower Lady.”

Wilovan murmured, relaxing slightly. Reynold nodded.

“I never did foray into it before becoming a [Butler]. But I am from the north.”

“Ah, then sir, you have us at a disadvantage, knowing our names and all. To whom are we speaking?”

“Do pardon me, gentlemen. Reynold, [Butler], at your service. Charmed to meet you.”

He gave both a firm handshake. Ratici and Wilovan smiled, and Reynold managed one himself.

Some things didn’t need to be said. Wilovan checked Reynold’s legs, as everyone did, and Ratici glanced down too. Reynold eyed their wear and tear, and thought of the reports he’d heard from Liscor, the Brotherhood of Serendipitous Meetings.

“It seems to me that I’d be rude to say it, but you were that fellow in the nasty ambush with the Guild, weren’t you?”

“…The very same.”

Wilovan looked at Reynold. Not even many of the guests had put that together. The Gnoll nodded slowly.

“Then, sir. I shall drop it and offer you my sincere apologies.”

“It’s…not necessary. Thank you for your discretion.”

Ratici nodded as well. He looked around at the gathering. They had known each other a minute, no more, and yet, the Drake was confident as he raised a cup.

“It’s been a difficult time, fellows. But that’s what a man has to do. A difficult time of late.”

It was a simple toast that said nothing and said it all. Reynold slowly tapped cups with the Drake and Gnoll. They drank in silence.

The [Server], who had watched the strange meeting in the center of Oteslia’s ballroom, felt someone tap her on the shoulder. One of Oteslia’s Wall Ladies stared at the three.

“…Excuse me. Who are they?”

——

Debonair. Now there was a word that said a lot. Too much, really, especially if someone used it to describe themselves. It was a word that said what a lot of other words could say much more simply. Fancy for fancy’s sake, perhaps, like ‘eloquent’ or ‘preface’. Sometimes things were too much gilding and not enough substance.

Now, the [Butler], the hat-men? They were style layered onto a lot of substance, which could and would kill you with a tap from a club that pushed your brains out your mouth. On the other hand…the Thronebearers were to [Knights] what debonair was to words.

Or so it seemed to anyone meeting them for the first time. Ser Lormel, Dame Ushar, Ser Sest, and Ser Dalimont of the Thronebearers of Calanfer marched in radiant pomposity towards her temporary home, followed by a seething gaggle of onlookers.

It did not matter that they were covered in grime; in fact, even as you watched, you could see Ser Lormel’s armor magically losing some of the lesser dents, cleaning itself.

“Now there’s a Skill that’s useless.”

Saliss shook his head as he watched the [Knight] gallivant forwards, bowing to some people in the crowd, giving the onlookers a real display of Terandrian etiquette. Which, it had to be said, the Drakes and Gnolls either found amusing, vaguely charming, or ludicrously stupid.

Mirn knew Saliss was shaken, and folded his arms.

“Self-cleaning armor? I’d trade one of my Skills for that. Does it do clothing too?”

He admired a well-dressed man, even though the Thronebearers were in a different style to, say, Wilovan or Ratici. Saliss could appreciate it…but didn’t. He glowered as Lyonette fled into her mansion.

Certainly, the rest of Lyonette’s growing entourage didn’t hold anything but the lowest of expectations for this group. Wilovan and Ratici slumped into chairs as they entered, clearly ready for more near-death encounters. Xif took one look at Dame Ushar as she greeted him and rubbed at his eyes.

Saliss, Mirn, the three watching [Covert Maids] from their hiding places? Not a single thought ran in their heads but ‘how could this lot make things worse?’. They had already outed Lyonette to the rest of Oteslia, if they hadn’t known already, and from what everyone had seen of the war, the Thronebearers of Calanfer were as good in a fight as Saliss’ left sock.

Saliss was tired, dealing with new layers of complexity added to the Oteslian situation. He was no [Strategist], despite being Chaldion’s grandchild. But he could see what they’d see.

“Let’s figure out how deep a hole we’re in. Magnolia Reinhart just tweaked Zeres’ tail again. She’s got a grand plan and people now have to choose sides and support her or not—and it’s a damned tempting offer, but it’s a side. Her side. At the same time, Oteslia’s gangs have Lyonette marked for death, but Oteslia’s Watch won’t go after them hard—did you see that, Mirn?”

“Yep. As bad as it gets.”

“No, no. It’s worse. Because now everyone knows Lyonette is Lyonette, thinks she’s mixed up with Ilvriss from the ring, and we have four gold-plated idiots ready to complicate things. Plus the Faerie Flowers, Mrsha being missing, the tribes of Izril ready to tear the Drakes a second tail, the antidote, and…!”

Saliss didn’t even know about the Dragons. His head hurt. He expected to get a message from Chaldion any moment now. When one came, from the Mage’s Guild of all places, and Researcher Dromenl—he was surprised.

“What? A possible lead? Don’t pull my tail. That’s the last thing we need—where in the name of Sewer Slimes is Anazuland? What’s…huh…what’s this?”

He frowned as he snatched the sheaf from a Street Runner at the door and scanned the pages. Saliss’ eyes sharpened. Even he had only vaguely heard of the ingredients mentioned. He’d normally dismiss it out of claw altogether. But today? He saw something Researcher Dromenl had underlined several times. An appended note.

Khelt has begun experimentation. Alchemical ingredients are limited; superlative experts concur this solution is likely to succeed. Sourcing of reagents has begun.

‘Superlative experts’? As the Named Adventurer [Alchemist], Saliss was insulted. He might have been less so if he came face to face with the Sage of a Hundred Thousand Secrets and the experts who agreed that, if the reagent still existed, it was definitely likely to help. See? You hadn’t lost all the good stuff! Now just get a Unicorn horn, and…

He strode out of the mansion and left Mirn to watch the Gentlemen Callers sit, wearily tending to wounds and discussing the situation. Mirn’s own head hurt trying to process what was at stake.

Lyonette du Marquin had retreated to her rooms already. The Thronebearers were to wait on her pleasure, and that might be a few years in coming. Nevertheless, Ser Dalimont was first on the chopping block as their leader.

“Here of all places. Just like that.”

One of the Thronebearers was murmuring. Ser Sest cast a glance around the mansion, at Xif, the Gentlemen Callers, Mirn, and coughed.

“Dalimont, do you think it’s wise to go by yourself? I could smooth Her Highness’ temper…”

Dalimont glanced up as Lormel offered to join him. He eyed Ser Lormel.

“…When was the last time you attended Her Highness?”

“Hm. Well, not personally, but she was a lovely girl of about twelve…”

“Ah. In that case, I think I will risk her wrath alone. Her Highness, Seraphel, gave me a message to relay to her sister should I meet her.”

None of the other Thronebearers looked keen to join Dalimont, especially since it turned out they’d also let her daughter uh…vanish. They gathered around, taking stock of the situation, as Dalimont girded his loins or whatever the hell [Knights] did.

Mirn watched with a bit of Saliss’ skepticism as they muttered.

“So this is Oteslia. What a huge tree. I’ve seen paintings and the scrying orb world tour, of course, but it is a sight to see in person.”

Ser Lormel nodded.

“Extraordinary. You know, this is the time to purchase some souvenirs in person. As much as one can afford, really. I am told they sell cuttings of some plants, seeds—”

Sest raised a finger.

“Is it germane to gift something frivolous, in times of war?”

“More to gift than not, I should think, Sest. Why, it’s the height of impoliteness to travel a continent apart and not have some token to bring back. Now, what’s this business we’re caught up in? I got that Lady Reinhart’s here—what a scandalous contract! And a siege. And the Meeting of Tribes. And…I say, does anyone have a bit of paper so we can jot this all down?”

Amazing. They were idiots. Dalimont rose as Ratici looked up. Lyonette had called his name, and he marched to the steps like a man towards a Creler nest.

“Excuse me, Miss, Sirs. Paper’s over there.”

The Thronebearers turned. Dame Ushar fetched some writing supplies.

“Thank you, Mister…”

“Ratici. Are you staying with us, then?”

Wilovan raised his intoxicated and weary head; he was indeed feeling a bit of gravity pulling him sideways, not altogether unpleasant. But he was in no mood for another fight, thank you sir. Dame Ushar watched Dalimont head to Lyonette’s room and bowed slightly.

“Indeed, Mister Ratici. We trust we shall not be a burden on her H—Lady—Miss Marquin.”

“You mean, Miss Solstice.”

“Is that the name she’s using?”

Ser Sest exclaimed. Xif poked his head back into the dining room.

“Are you all staying here? Someone had better get groceries. Not me. I’m trying to experiment…”

The Thronebearers traded glances. Lormel looked patently horrified.

“Is Her Highness staying under the same roof as an [Alchemist]? Hardly safe, I must say! Mister Ratici, and Wilovan, is it? And good day to you too, Mister Mirn! I know we are allies of convenience, but I must ask if Miss Lionette is so strapped for coin that she must share a home?”

Interestingly, he gave Lyonette the curious inflection of her fake name. Mirn shrugged.

“I just got here. I think we’re all here to avoid her being shanked in her sleep. There have been attempts already. This is a house given to her by the First Gardener.”

“Yes, but the impropriety!”

Xif looked rather hurt.

“Saliss of Lights is here too. He’s a Named Adventurer and he’s naked.”

“We did notice. But a Named Adventurer is considered de rigueur in making scandalous moves…no, no. Absolutely not. This will not do!”

Dame Ushar had investigated the pantry and found it was almost empty of foodstuffs. She tapped Lormel on the shoulder.

“Add provisions to this list. Make a column—next to the one with the political issues. Lady Marquin surely hungers for food from home. A Calanfer wrap, perhaps for an evening snack? I imagine the ingredients would not be that hard to source.”

“Fresh beef? Perhaps an issue with the [Druids]…”

Lormel adjusted his writing. Mirn, Xif, and the Gentlemen Callers were now watching this side show with a kind of awed stupefaction. Were they idiots? No, were they real?

“Nonsense, I’m sure even Oteslia has a [Butcher]’s. Who has the best Skills here in the appropriate cuisine preparation?”

Lormel hmmed.

“I suppose I would do, in lieu of a chef. At least in preparing small treats. [Delight Cooking], you know. Not for meals, but at least something to cheer Her Highness?”

“Ah, I knew you had your weight in gold, Ser Lormel.”

Sest had been taking a tour of the house. He nodded at the Thronebearer and Lormel modestly shook his head.

“It’s only for entertainment. The Princesses do appreciate a bit of a show, especially when they have guests…now, to business. Dame Ushar, your shopping list.”

“Thank you, Ser Lormel. Sest, are you going to walk about the mansion?”

“A few rounds. Lormel, the streets?”

“At once, Ser Sest! Just to scope out this quagmire. Perhaps inform the palace we have made it anon to the Princess’ side?”

“Very good. With deepest apologies, guests—it is a very difficult situation and we have landed ourselves in the center of it. We must make formal introductions later…”

Sest bowed as the two Thronebearers hurried to the door, but they all stopped to shake hands, bow, and then speed out. He walked around the rooms and the mansion’s exterior. Mirn just shook his head and collapsed into a chair.

Humans. I thought Saliss was making some of it up, but they really are all as crazy as the rumors say.

He was tired enough himself that he might have dozed off. The occasional raised word from Lyonette drifting down the stairs was not enough to take him out of a dozing state.

Dame Ushar returning with groceries wasn’t either. Nor Lormel returning, still amid the buzz from outside. Sest? It was only when someone shrieked that Mirn was on his feet, club in hand.

Wilovan had a similar weapon in his grip. They surged forwards as someone screamed.

“[Assassin]! Murder!”

The watching [Maids] cursed as they focused on the mansion. Already?

It was Xif’s fault. Xif’s, the First Gardener’s, and mainly Xif’s again. Given the gravitas of the situation, the First Gardener had decided Lyonette needed some help. So she’d sent some staff to assist in the mansion’s upkeep, as she very much doubted anyone with Lyonette could wield a broom properly.

Sending staff to a Human who had just been nearly killed? You might want to vet them. You might not want to open the door, but the [Alchemist] had absent-mindedly let them in.

And—Mirn skidded to a halt as he raced upstairs and saw the carnage.

A shock of red hair. Blood. Mirn’s jaw opened. A body in a dress lay on the floor as an innocuous Drake with a feather duster whirled. She looked almost as confused as Wilovan and Mirn. But they froze in shock. The [Assassin] cursed.

“I got her! Understand?”

She threw down something. A badge or calling card, and burst out the window. Mirn looked around for Dalimont, but he was gone. Dead? A traitor? What was—

“What’s happening? Another attack? Dead gods.”

Xif stared in horror at Lyonette’s body. She wasn’t breathing. Someone had stabbed her so many times that—everyone was frozen as they saw the murder. How? Without anyone seeing?

Ser Sest, Ushar, and Lormel appeared behind the group, the slowest to arrive. They took one look at the bloody room, the dead body. Ser Sest nodded.

“Ah. They’ve discovered the body.”

“Well done, Ser Sest. This must be a record.”

Lormel went to shake Sest’s hand. Every head turned slowly as the Thronebearer adjusted his mustache.

“Yes, well. I say, is that a calling card? I do love collecting them.”

He strode over and picked up the token, a kind of curved wing. He tucked it away and Ushar scolded him.

“We have to analyze which [Assassin] it was, Sest.”

“Excuse me. Lyonette is dead!”

Mirn shouted. The Thronebearers turned to him, looking amused. Ratici and Wilovan were turning, realizing something—

A door opened. Mirn saw a familiar young woman poke her head out. Lyonette stared, still angry, and now confused, at the gathered people. Mirn’s jaw dropped as Dalimont heaved a sigh.

“Excuse me, Your Highness. I believe your [Knights] are securing the mansion.”

He closed the door as Mirn’s jaw clicked shut. Dame Ushar studied the dead…body…

“Does anyone have a spare preservation charm? I need a bit more pig’s blood.”

“We could use beetroot juice. It washes easier.”

“Ser Lormel, please. Blood is not that easy to replicate. Excuse me, Mister Mirn? We need to preserve the moment.”

Dame Ushar carefully covered Mirn’s footprints with a fresh splattering of blood. She stepped back, nodded, and closed the door. Then she adjusted something on the front.

Lyonette’s Room.

The sign was a bit askew. The Thronebearer dusted her hands.

“We need a new window, Lormel.”

“I will ask the help to look into it.”

“What is going on?”

Mirn burst out at last. The Thronebearers gave him an odd look. Sest explained after a moment.

“Why, security of course, Mister Mirn. This is just the first step. I’ve taken the liberty of placing wards on all the windows, and I suspect the roof isn’t fully secured yet, Ushar, Lormel. Also, we have at least four pairs of eyes. I noticed three of Reinhart’s staff.”

“Fitting. I suppose they’ll deal with other surveillance.”

The three Thronebearers trooped downstairs. They stood around the table as Lormel consulted their notes. This time, their audience followed and looked again.

“This is by way of being the pre-murdered-quarry feint. A classic in Calanfer, and I am delighted it worked here. I apologize for the ruse, but it is always most convincing the first time.”

“The dead body?”

“Pig’s meat. I bought some blood and meat from a [Butcher]’s. We do have to hang a charm up to make sure it won’t smell or rot, but that room is effectively occupied. Some [Assassins] break in, see the dead body, and leave. Not that you intend to let them onto the premises, you understand? But it is amazing how often they check the signs on the doors.”

Ushar smiled. Sest rolled his eyes.

“We only let in that one so she would cast further bounties into doubt, Ushar. Let’s not imply that we make a habit of letting killers near Their Highnesses. Now, I’m nearly done setting up the sound wards, Lormel. What’s the situation politically?”

Ser Lormel adjusted his hair with a comb.

“In a word? Tricky. We’re clearly married to the Wall Lord Ilvriss, aha, that is to say, both as allies of convenience and perception-wise. I should wait on Her Highness’ word, but I have already had nearly eight invitations from concerned parties wishing to meet with one of us, personally.”

“Very good. Perhaps I should visit them?”

“Polish your armor first, Ser Sest. I actually have written invitations as well. How many, Ushar?”

She counted.

“Sixteen.”

“Sixteen. Then how about this? I shall respond to all signatories via the Mage’s Guild. No, no, the Runner’s Guild. Let me just accidentally list all parties in correspondence so they can see each other…and my delighted acquiescence…on behalf of Calanfer, the Eternal Throne protect all allies…that should do.”

“Do you think they’ll buy it? Perhaps it’s too blunt, Lormel.”

“Not for [Knights] far from home. Forgetting to respond individually is a classic mistake, Ser Sest. Now, when you go, they want you to ride in a carriage.”

“Ah, excellent. Then I shall ride myself. Armor shining. Should I announce myself? Ser Sest of the Thronebearers of Calanfer!”

Dame Ushar tapped a finger on the table.

“Mm. That’s quite good. Give them the Duke’s bow as well before entering.”

Mirn traded a look with Ratici. The other Drake looked like he’d turned into a fish. Was he hearing things right? Were the Thronebearers…

“Excuse me. What are you doing?”

Xif looked bewildered. The Thronebearers instantly elaborated.

“I’m so sorry, Alchemist Xif. This is by way of being a rushed moment, so we have failed to elaborate. Simple politics. Sers Sest and Lormel are simply engaging in a muddied waters tactic. The Thronebearers prevailing rather publicly on a lot of interested parties, nay, allies. At least in presentation.”

“And presentation leads to reality at times. Lormel, would you draw up a list of all the priority candidates to keep track of?”

“I have a list of thirty two and growing. Would you like to quibble over the names?”

Sest glanced at the list. And there it was. Like watching a fish, flopping on land, finally enter the water. The Thronebearers didn’t even seem bothered by the tangle of politics. This was their battlefield and they calmly set to work. Dame Ushar stepped outside for a second and Mirn listened as she vocalized loud enough for the watchers to hear.

“Excuse me, Miss? I am Dame Ushar of the Thronebearers of Calanfer, at your service. May the Eternal Throne watch over you! Might I trouble you for directions or a method by which to communicate my deepest thanks to Pallass for allowing my company safe passage? Perhaps an embassy? Quite a splendid journey, near the end, but I do see their warning about Zeres was to be heeded. Perhaps a way to send a written letter? Thank you.”

She marched off. Sest shook his head.

“Ushar does like the theatrics. Should we ask her to skulk in armor amidst nightfall?”

“With a shadowed figure? Next to whose mansion?”

“Mm. Make it one of Her Highness’ enemies. She gets to rub soot into her armor. Who are we bribing and how much?”

“Can you slip…eight gold pieces to…this Drake? A Wall Lord Aldonss’ staff. And then, of course, slip up.”

“Trip?”

“Maybe just drop the bag. Let’s not all fall over ourselves, Lormel. Save that for the right moment.”

“Too true, Sest. Too true…”

Fascinating fellows. Quite an upgrade from fancy idiots. But it occurred to their audience, watching the Thronebearers, that perhaps these were the reinforcements they needed in this hour. After all. Lyonette had a Named Adventurer in her corner. She had Mirn, the underworld’s famous duo, and a lot of allies.

What she did not have—until now—were people who could help her deal with the many factions warring for her interest. And, more crucially? Sest and Lormel were drawing up a rotation, and Ratici and Wilovan, Mirn, even Xif, realized none of them intended to leave her side, sleeping or eating.

She didn’t have good bodyguards. The Gentlemen Callers were good fighters. Terrible bodyguards. There was a difference between being able to kill someone and watching someone. Saliss had the exact same problem. The Thronebearers of Calanfer lived for this job alone.

“I rather think we have a chance of escorting Her Highness out of this mess, between us all, Lormel. It’s Dalimont I’m worried about. The man’s changed.”

Sest said at last, when they were done with their brainstorming session. By now, Mirn, Ratici, Wilovan, and Xif were sitting with the Thronebearers, having learned a respect for their methods. Mirn glanced up as Lormel nodded eloquently. Ushar stepped back in, having sent a signatory address to Pallass and accidentally read part of her letter out loud for ‘great services rendered to Calanfer’.

“Are we gossiping about Ser Dalimont? For shame.”

Sest ducked his head, but he glanced significantly around.

“You see, Mister Mirn—”

“Mirn’s fine.”

“—I thank you. It is not that we don’t trust Ser Dalimont. All of us were sent by our respective members of the royal family. Ser Lormel normally guards their Majesties, the [King] and [Queen] of Calanfer, I am Princess Shardele’s champion, and Dame Ushar is the chosen representative of Princess Vernoue.”

It was all Terandrian to Mirn, but Ser Sest had a point.

“Ser Dalimont is—or rather, is recently—Princess Seraphel du Marquin’s [Knight]. That is, her chosen representative of the Thronebearers in enforcing her will, defending her honor, a trustworthy aid and confidant. Calanfer is united as one, but there are…factions, shall we say.”

Lormel coughed tactfully.

“Indeed. Not that we, any of us, bear Her Highness Lyonette any ill-will. But Dalimont? Changed.”

“How so? He seemed like a fairly well-set chap. Not that I’ve seen much of him yet.”

Wilovan leaned over. The Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings might be divorced in some ways from the Thronebearers, but they had interesting similarities. Especially as two groups that sometimes regarded their own members. Ushar pursed her lips.

“Well, Dalimont was not in Seraphel’s camp to begin with. This is gossip, of course, but I have to admit…I’ve been itching to speak of it. We haven’t had a moment to spot it, but the differences have been growing. Her Highness, Princess Seraphel, didn’t have a champion until recently; she had no desire to do so.”

“Who is that? The…”

“4th Princess, Mister Xif. Lyonette’s the 6th.”

“Oh. And wait…she’s a [Princess]? What!?”

Mirn grinned.

“Keep up, Xif. Is that significant, Dame Ushar?”

“Mm. Not really, Mirn. I would say it is significantly insignificant, given Princess Seraphel’s…personality. She can be difficult.”

“I say, Ushar! A bit harsh!”

That was Lormel, protesting. He explained to the group.

“Princess Seraphel has had an unlucky run of it. I would put a better spin on it if we were not so closely allied…between us, she is ‘Seraphel the Dutiful’ in Calanfer. Her other nickname is…Seraphel the Cursed. The Widow. She has survived two husbands now in their graves.”

“Three, if you count the fiancé who eloped.”

“Was it…unscrupulous?”

Wilovan looked as uncomfortable as Lormel about this line of gossip, which the Thronebearer clearly appreciated. Lormel sighed.

“Not in any case. One died of age, in bed, another a hunting accident—after they divorced, but still—the last one, most recent, soon after they were wed, in battle. So I suppose it should not count, but it does. Dalimont was escorting her on that last marriage. Messy business. Quite a scandal at the time, over in Noelictus. It…changed him.”

“I never knew Dalimont as well before that. How do you mean, Lormel? Obviously, I’ve seen how he acted at Liscor. Differently.”

Ushar rested her weight on the table. Lormel, oldest of the lot, and the one who’d been at the royal court, frowned.

“I—I don’t know how to say it. He pledged his allegiance to Her Highness, Seraphel. He certainly levelled up a bit. He was a [Knight] like any other—decent. Mannered, a bit ill-fated to be chosen as Her Highness’ leader to escort her to the wedding, or so I thought. He came back without as much patience. For some kinds of activities, you see? Like at Liscor, where he did away with our customary address.”

“It’s part and parcel of our very order.”

“Yes. Well…he wasn’t the only one who changed.”

Lormel murmured. He cast his eyes up towards the ceiling, where the ‘discussion’ that had gone on for at least two hours had at least stopped being vocal enough to be heard through the floorboards. Lyonette had stopped shouting. Lormel tapped a finger to his lips.

“I have heard rumors Princess Seraphel changed too. But no further can I speculate. And what happened there? Only Ser Dalimont knows.”

“Surely you could ask another Thronebearer who went with them.”

Ushar remarked. Ser Sest shook his head.

“I would make a joke about the Kingdom of Shade, Noelictus, if it were not entirely unseemly, Dame Ushar. I fear the only ones who could tell us of it were those two, unless the dead can speak. We sent a royal escort to Noelictus with Princess Seraphel. Ser Dalimont is the only one who came back.”

——

Princess Lyonette du Marquin did not like him. She did not trust him, or the other Thronebearers. They were an inconvenience, fools, and had nearly died to no good end. She was not Calanfer’s pawn. She had her daughter to save and she knew the Thronebearers.

She had every right not to trust them. Dalimont could even agree with her frank assessment of their combat capabilities.

What saddened him was that she wondered why her sisters had sent their [Knights], and Seraphel, 4th Princess of Calanfer, him. Lyonette du Marquin did not think of familial love in their actions. She just saw familial gain.

It saddened Dalimont, because that was no way for her to live. He had not thought of it like that before. Now? He looked at Lyonette du Marquin and struggled to recognize her.

Not in appearance; she was clearly older, changed by her experiences, but in everything else. The way she held herself, looked at him. Even spoke.

Gone was the young [Princess] who made a name for herself by calling people ‘peons’ and refusing to so much as acknowledge anyone she considered lesser. Even her presence felt different. She had been a Princess of Calanfer, before.

Here was a [Princess]. Dalimont would not have credited the transformation, and he wondered if his companions would sense it. But he had seen a change just like this.

“Your Highness. I beg your pardon for our interruption to your plans. Yet Calanfer is at war. The crown would seek you out as it would any hope of defending the Dawn Concordat.”

He saw those blue eyes narrow. You mean, a tool. A weapon. Dalimont hesitated.

“…Yes, at least as far as His Majesty is concerned. However, I do not represent the Eternal Throne alone. Princess Seraphel bade me come and render you aid, Your Highness. Not purely for her political gain! I cannot speak for my company. But I shall do as I believe Her Highness, Seraphel du Marquin, wishes. And that does not mean I shall demand you return immediately.”

It surprised her, though Lyonette kept her face clear. Dalimont was born and bred in Calanfer, though, so what others would miss, he read.

The thing was, she was skeptical. She knew the 4th Princess of Calanfer. Seraphel du Marquin was not as…unkind as some of her sisters. She was famed for her sharp tongue, her failed marriages. But she and Lyonette had not been closer than any other two sisters; far less than some. Neither were they enemies.

“She has changed, Your Highness. I do not know how else to say it other than…an experience. No, I apologize, for those words are lacking. It was…”

Dalimont closed his eyes, and the perplexed [Princess] lost some of the ire and actually listened after two hours of remonstrations. He didn’t blame her; she was terrified for her daughter. He had wondered—but it was true. And her learning of their journey, their encounter with Mrsha, and him understanding her position had taken that long just to go through.

But there was more she didn’t know. Ser Dalimont had changed. He had been in the company of the 4th Princess. How could he explain it to her? He tried, hesitating, but all he could say was—

“…An adventure. Such as the one you yourself have gone through. Princess Lyonette, I beg you. Listen to me. I am Seraphel’s will. She sent me, war or not, to help you. My fellow Thronebearers may demand you come home. Seraphel…does not. She is worried for you. She is not the same woman you knew.”

The [Princess] looked at Dalimont. The Thronebearer rose from his kneeling position where he had rested. His armor was still battered. But gold was not light, anyways.

“I will tell you almost all that I can, without revealing Her Highness’ secrets, such as they may be. For the rest? You must ask Princess Seraphel herself. It may be an incredible tale, Princess Lyonette. Nevertheless, I tell you this: it was an adventure. A tragedy in parts. Noelictus, the Kingdom of Shade, saw war and calamity. The dead walked. I fought undead and saw a [Necromancer] assail the living. I saw war. And…the very same monster who assailed your inn. The Spider herself.”

He clenched a fist. Now, Lyonette was listening. Dalimont shook his head.

“Her Highness was there. Yet it seems that at the center of it all…it may sound incredible to say, unbelievable, but at the heart of it, among the many things, the reason she changed and we escaped the direst of odds was a simple—meeting. We met someone extraordinary, before her name rang across the continent and world. You know her, I think. We met the Singer of Terandria under Noelictus’ dark skies.”

Lyonette’s eyes widened. She stopped growing angry, questioning Seraphel’s intentions. She sat down and listened. Because though the story was incredible, unbelievable—she had met someone too. And she knew more than Dalimont of why it had come to pass.

In Noelictus, the Singer of Terandria had appeared out of nowhere, seemingly. Her tale intertwined with the 4th Princess of Calanfer, among many others. Dalimont spoke, haltingly, conveying as much as he could to explain to Lyonette why she could trust him. Not all of it. He didn’t know all of it, and what he did speak was incredible enough.

But that—was a tale for another time. And before Dalimont could tell it fully, Lyonette du Marquin and he both turned and saw the news coming from Terandria.

A single battle among many, but an astonishing one. What made the two stop was that Lyonette looked at the figure and named him. Dalimont realized that, somehow, his long journey across another continent had led him straight back home.

It was all, somehow—connecting.

——

A [Knight]-order quite unlike the Thronebearers of Calanfer rode like fire. Literally; some of them ran so hot after the battle that their horses’ hooves ignited the ground.

However, theirs was a distant flame to the Order of Seasons’ true might. Pheislant’s fighting army, much battered, but rescued from a complete rout, rode with them, as did the liberated prisoners.

To the south, the Summer’s Champion and Order of Seasons’ main force fell back for reinforcements. Yet they had survived the anvil of the Order of the Hydra.

This disparate force was moving deeper into Ailendamus’ territory, cutting east, already being pursued. But from the Order of the Hydra, who were on foot.

“We have a window to strike from. I will not gainsay Ser Solstice his choice. If anything, I say it is the only option left to us! We could fall back and regroup, but Ailendamus will be forced to pursue us. We might even hope to enter the main battleground of Kaliv and the Dawn Concordat, as we hoped.”

One of the most senior Spring Knights voiced his opinion as they rode. He was one of the former prisoners, a Ser Gauradin, who was checking his armor as he spoke. He adjusted a gauntlet, then murmured to the company.

“…I think I have the wrong armor set. Mine has my name etched in it, just behind the cuirass. Can anyone check?”

The recently-liberated prisoners were trading their gear back and forth, much of which had been neatly, conveniently stored. One called out that she had Gauradin’s armor and they arranged to trade the next time they stopped.

What the Spring Knight didn’t say was what everyone knew. One person’s unorthodox tactics had turned the battle in their favor. If Ser Solstice thought continuing the raid across Ailendamus’ lines would help, well, the recently-liberated prisoners were not about to question his judgement.

If anyone would, it would be Talia Kallinad, one of the most senior Summer Knights present. She wasn’t sure she would.

There he rode. Talk of the hour, the mysterious Goblin Slayer of Izril. Ser Solstice, or the ‘rabbit eater’, as the Order of the Hydra knew him.

The Goblin [Knight]. She couldn’t decide what to make of him anymore. She had ridden to his aid and did not regret that. She had seen him best a [General] of Ailendamus—for the third time.

And now? He had two auras.

Every [Knight] could tell. Gauradin rode forwards, next to Ser Solstice.

“A fine moment, Ser Solstice! If we were at the Order of Seasons, we would celebrate your achievement! It is customary, you see, for friends and comrades to toast the occasion. We of the Order of Seasons call it the Advent of Color. I had not your acquaintance except in passing, even though we rode in the same host. I would take it as an honor, Ser, if you would allow me to participate. You have liberated us from ignoble imprisonment and won a great battle.”

“I would also join your Advent upon our return!”

A Summer Knight who had ridden with Talia called out. Ser Solstice raised his hands, his body language expressive despite the armor, but he didn’t object. He seemed quietly pleased as the others gathered around him.

The hero of the moment. Behind him, Ser Ilm was discussing Rabbiteater’s new change with a veteran Summer Knight. Neither Zolv nor Voost were here, not the Summer Champion’s personal guard, but every Order of Seasons [Knight] was an aura-wielder, and thus among the world’s experts in using them, aside from [Ladies], royalty, and the few other classes that specialized in the subject.

“Two auras. Now, neither one is seasonal.”

“Does it matter, Ser Ilm? An aura is a fine thing! Two? Why, that’s rare even among our order!”

“Not unheard of, but yes. I only fear it will make Ser Solstice’s life more difficult. Not worse—but we have a precedent.”

“Do we, Ser Ilm?”

Talia rode closer and joined the conversation. Ser Ilm nodded, the Autumn Knight’s eyes alight with scholarly interest.

“Sometimes a member of our order is so gifted as to receive two at once. Even be caught between seasons, though that is rarest yet. It is a blessing…and a complication.”

“I can see the complication. Will his auras fight for dominance? He cannot sustain both at once, surely.”

Talia knew auras. Each person had their innate personality, beliefs, willpower, made manifest. If you could physically manipulate it, that was a huge, versatile help. But…like any muscle, pool of magic, or so on, it had limits. Ilm nodded seriously.

“He will have to find his balance. That he has two means two forces weigh equally upon his soul. For instance, I am Autumn’s Child. You two are Summer’s Wrath. He? Something in him speaks to Hearth. Something in him is quite Brave.”

“I cannot doubt the latter!”

The Summer Knight laughed. Talia smiled politely, and Ilm went on.

“He shall have to train. Battle will help him, I think, although I hope it will not cost him anything. I see Ser Markus and Dame Meisa are already showing him the basics.”

Talia looked ahead. And there they were, his friends. She had been among their number just a month ago, and would have been most pleased of all. She was conflicted. And Ser Ilm noticed.

“I was gratified to see you break Ailendamus’ lines with us, Dame Talia. But I would be remiss in not mentioning the wedge between you and Ser Solstice.”

“I cannot credit it, Talia.”

The other [Knight] leaned over. He frowned, flipping up his visor to stare at Ser Solstice.

“You have never elaborated on your reasons for drawing a line, nor did I ask. But I have not found his conduct unbecoming! Unconventional, perhaps.”

“I cannot explain, Ser Ioust.”

“Very well. But I shall make amends for my own absence of warmth.”

The man nodded sharply and rode forwards. Talia bit her lip. They had noticed her obvious split with Rabbiteater, in the mess hall and at other times. Greysten had had words with her, but not forced her to do anything. Now? Damn it all—she ground her teeth.

Why was it not easy?

——

They made camp shortly, only travelling far enough to avoid pursuit. There was a lot to do, injuries to attend to that healing potions had not fully fixed, armor to swap, plans to be made.

Rabbiteater was at the center of it, with the veteran [Knights] and Pheislant’s command. He was not eloquent, but Talia saw him surprise the others with the course he plotted. He was not an expert on maps. He did not know the particulars of their logistics or Pheislant’s army’s style.

However, he did see places to hide, places to strike from. He was a veteran raider and knew how to lose pursuit or make a defender’s life a misery.

She absented herself from the discussion, though she had every right to attend. She still didn’t know how to act around him. Talia was attending to her armor when someone joined her.

“Dame Talia. A word?”

Dame Meisa. Talia glanced up. They were closer to the sentry posts than the camp proper, a ways out from the latrines. Talia saw few [Knights] around.

“Of course, Dame Meisa.”

She tensed a bit, despite herself, as Dame Meisa sat, removed her helmet, and began to check her own gear. The two were silent for a moment. But Meisa was Spring and spring did not like waiting.

“I was pleased to see that you honored your vow at the end. Rabbiteater might have died, but for your intervention, and I thank you for that.”

Talia’s hand paused as she applied a thin coat of fast-drying paint to her armor.

“I only did what any [Knight] of the Summer would do, Dame Meisa.”

“Of course, Dame Talia. But I didn’t know if you would do even that. You’ve made your feelings about Rabbiteater plain.”

The Summer Knight calmly put down her breastplate. She suppressed her aura, although posture was more difficult.

“—That sounds unworthy of you, Dame Meisa.”

“Does it? I didn’t know if you would ride to the Goblin’s defence.”

“You rode with him. I was not about to let any [Knight] die in vain.”

“And if it was just Rabbiteater, Ser Solstice alone?”

Talia set down her tools.

“If you want to take me to task for my views, Dame Meisa, it feels like this has been a conversation long set aside.”

Meisa’s not-quite-glare never wavered.

“Indeed. I recognize that, as a Spring Knight not yet set in her season, I cannot take a superior [Knight] to task.”

“By all means, Dame Meisa. Speak your mind.”

“Very well, Talia. Then I find your conduct towards Rabbiteater dishonorable and shameful. I am glad you acted properly at the crucial moment.”

Talia Kallinad was not the woman you turned to when you defused a situation. The Summer Knight felt her temper roused in an instant.

“Really. That is an incredible position from you, Meisa. Should we simply ignore that Goblins have been our enemies? That Goblin Kings have destroyed entire nations?”

“I think we should make a difference between individuals and species! Or did his identity undo the fact that he saved us from the Bear of Ailendamus? He sailed across an ocean because you asked him to, Dame Talia. And you insulted him time and time again, when before that I counted you as his strongest ally.”

Talia did not deny that. She folded her arms.

“And I am not blind to the fact that the instant I vouched my doubts, you hopped entirely into Rabbiteater’s camp.”

“Is that a slur on my dignity, Dame Talia?”

Meisa asked, calmly. Talia shrugged.

“You tell me. I do not suggest that intimacy is disgraceful. I am not a prude, Dame Meisa. But it is one thing to greet a Goblin [Knight] as a comrade, and another to go as far as you.”

The Spring Knight smiled with more than a hint of Winter’s element.

“I confess, Dame Talia, you may be right. Perhaps I have ‘hopped’ faster than most. But I will tell you, honestly, that it was you who pushed me into it.”

Talia hadn’t expected that.

“Really? Why?”

The Spring Knight stretched out her legs. The two sat alone, ignored by the rest of the camp. Unheard—except for Ser Markus, trying to slowly edge away, on his way back from the latrines.

“You drove me to it, Dame Talia. I will confess, it was swift. And motivated by sympathy. Sympathy, aye, for a brave warrior who crossed a sea for war, did all this, and was stabbed in the chest by a woman who would not look him in the eye. But I found he was more than he seemed. So I will not be lectured by you and—what are you doing, Ser Markus?”

Talia’s head snapped around. Ser Markus froze, halfway behind the tent.

“I, ah, was just heading off. Don’t mind me, Dame Talia, Meisa.”

“You look as if you fear we’ll kill each other, Markus. Don’t be a prat. We’re talking.”

Meisa nodded. Both stared at Ser Markus and the Spring Knight hesitated. He checked his armor, then shook his head.

“I appreciate the situation is deeply personal and thank you for your words of assurance, Meisa. Talia. But with respect? I have sisters.”

He made his escape. Ironically, his flight calmed the argument. For a moment. Meisa turned back to Talia.

“You disgust me, Talia. I held you in considerable esteem, and we fought for Ser Raim together. Despite that, despite sailing to Baleros for your brother, you could not see past the color of Rabbiteater’s skin and eyes. For that, I hate you. It is like our half-Elven brethren in the Order of Seasons facing issues with the least-tolerant of our order.”

“How dare you. It is not the same—”

“Then why did you ride to his aid? Why do you clearly struggle to maintain your hostility? I am glad you are conflicted. Mayhaps, with time, you will stop breathing hypocrisy. Good evening to you.”

Dame Meisa rose, and Talia was rendered speechless for a moment. She watched the Spring Knight walk away. Talia caught up after fourteen steps. Meisa swung around.

“There is one thing you have yet to think of, Meisa.”

“Which is?”

Meisa waited. Talia looked past her, at Rabbiteater.

“Some day that helmet will come off. Some day, if we live, and I do hope we all will—he will have to choose where he goes. Will he stay with the Order of Seasons? Will he live his entire life behind a mask? Will you go with him? You offer him a Spring’s fancy, Meisa. Do not deny it. Or would you wed a Goblin? Do you see the end of the strange road he has taken?”

Meisa hesitated. And Talia thrust the only knife she had home. Which was that Meisa’s kindness was not necessarily forever. The Spring Knight looked at Talia.

“Spring is short. For however long it lasts…”

“That is the fault of Spring. It runs off, ever quick. Think more carefully yourself, Dame Meisa, on what you believe. And what you think he believes of your actions.”

Talia turned on her heels and strode off. Ser Markus ducked back behind a tent flap. She turned, and kicked him through the canvas.

——

The Order of Seasons had gotten away. No—worse. They’d gotten away, looked good while doing it, and humbled a third Ailendamus [General].

Or had one [Knight]? Rumors were flying everywhere about this ‘Ser Solstice’, and fact was hard to tell from fiction, so little stock was placed in the veracity of everything. But he was a name to remember, especially if he popped up again.

“I want those [Knights] crushed! Not by another army! Tell the Dame of the Hills to kill them all!”

Rhisveri stormed out of a war meeting, knowing full well that his words would be tempered by the damned [King], his advisors, [Strategists], [Generals], and all the incompetents.

“Incompetents. Mortal fools with a fraction of my lifespan, who think a Skill equates to strategic genius! I don’t know why I bothered to create them!”

He raged in private. It was his counsel who calmed him.

Yes, Rhisveri was the Wyrm who ruled Ailendamus. But even he had people he listened to, although the relationship was notably unbalanced. Nevertheless, Sophridel, the Elemental of Masks; Fithea, the ancient Dryad; Culnous, eldest of the Merfolk; and a few more were allowed to speak to him.

Not Gilaw or children like Menorkel the Titan. Rhisveri had a hair-trigger temper. Yet even he needed someone to vent to.

“Let them fight their wars. Ailendamus wins in the end, Rhisveri. Take a step back. If we lose mortals, we lose mortals.”

It was a calm rejoinder from a remarkably…cold…eyed man. With horns. And colored skin. As in—not the colors normally associated with Humans. If he was even Human. Which he was not. Nor was he a Demon of Rhir…technically. That was a catchall term for them. He?

He was closer to, oh, let’s say, the genuine article. And his dispassionate expression didn’t change, even when the worst casualty reports came in.

By contrast, Sophridel was a logical being of many faces, but he was not uncaring, just incapable. One could care and didn’t choose to, the other was simply alien to it.

“I did not create Ailendamus to waste lives, Visophecin. This reflects upon a larger setting. The Order of the Hydra was bested.”

“Not by lack of numbers. It was a fluke. You saw that high-level [Knight] charge out. Izril. He did not fall into the trap of their system of warfare.”

Culnous pointed out. Rhisveri growled over it.

“I don’t care. If our strategy were perfect, flukes would make no difference! And now House Veltras is sinking our navy!”

“One fleet. Which you had a hand in.”

Visophecin calmly reminded Rhisveri. He didn’t flinch from the Wyrm’s glare—in this place, they were all in their natural forms.

“Peace. He was unwise to kidnap Ryoka Griffin, and Veltras’ child. So I believed. Yet I see a deeper wisdom, by chance or design. Or did you not feel it as she opened that gate?”

The horned man turned and nodded at Fithea. Even Rhisveri bit back the hostile comment. The Dryad commanded attention; she was oldest of them all, and that said a lot.

“I did, Fithea. I have also heard of the commotion she caused just yesterday.”

“That was Gilaw’s fault as much as mine. Culnous, are your people distraught?”

“Only startled. No harm done.”

The Merman spat some water from his mouth as he swam up in the portable vessel. He eyed Visophecin.

“I was sorry to miss her. You arrived in a storm. Do you want to meet her too, this Wind Runner?”

“I already have observed her with the children. I did not care to get close. Someone must treat her with due wariness.”

Visophecin’s caution infected the others. Rhisveri glowered.

“The coinage she has…”

“Rhisveri. Do not fixate.”

Sophridel spoke, and the Wyrm hissed. He really wanted that money, but Fithea was more focused on the gateway.

“I heard voices. Do you know what this means? She has offered you a meeting with your kind, Rhisveri. Worlds apart! She cannot be ignored. You must meet with her. If you will not, I will.”

“You do not know what she wants, Fithea!”

“No. We do not. And it must be something, given the forces at play, mustn’t it, Rhisveri? I wonder exactly what this Ryoka Griffin is seeking?”

Visophecin made Rhisveri hesitate. If you had to rank them in terms of power…well, power was a silly game to play. But if you did, and you took out Culnous being the head of his people, Fithea’s respect, and such?

Visophecin was one to make even Rhisveri at least watch his tongue, now and then. The Wyrm smiled.

“My affairs are mine. Have I not done a fine job?”

The man paused a moment. When he spoke, as many times, it surprised the others.

“You have. I will not deny your role has done more for us all than can be stated. And here is the proof: Ryoka Griffin.”

“How do you mean, Visophecin?”

Sophridel floated closer, more masks turning to face the man. The cold eyes flickered with something like…interest. Visophecin smiled, a rare motion.

“Why, because we have finally entered into what I will colloquially call the ‘big leagues’, Sophridel. The grand stage.”

“Ailendamus was not that already?”

Rhisveri snapped, offended. Visophecin shook his head.

“No. Rhisveri, reframe your perspective as Fithea suggests. We have had successes. Ailendamus was a major power decades ago, over a century ago. And it has had more power here that it has not needed to even unleash.”

He gestured around at all of them, and the others besides, the shadow players behind Ailendamus’ greatness. There were nods from all around. Visophecin looked at Rhisveri.

“However. We have, by chance, luck, or a design on a grander scale, now had someone try to steal our greatest treasure. Concurrently, we have also had a marriage invitation—a pact analogous to matrimony. I do not pretend to understand Wyrm courtships, but it is there, is it not?”

“Er…in a sense.”

Rhisveri recoiled backwards. Visophecin went on.

“The first pact to Ailendamus’ ruler.”

“Nonsense. We’ve had plenty of…oh.”

Rhisveri saw everyone look at him, then at Visophecin. The man tapped his lips, and a tail—of a kind—moved behind him.

“Yes. To the true ruler of Ailendamus. We have established contact, even possible trade with a foreign power. Only, instead of on a planetary scale? A dimensional scale. We have entered into a new phase of imperium. So when I say I take this matter seriously? I take it seriously. I suggest you reframe the Wind Runner not as a thief, but as tidings, Rhisveri. Now—what shall we do about it? Leave the Order of Seasons to the mortals. We must be serious, cautious, resolute, for we dance a game with our kin. And they play as well as we.”

The other immortals slowly nodded. Now there was a reason why you had Visophecin come and speak, for all his idiosyncrasies. There were far worse things to have than a devil on one shoulder. Well, the other one had…uh…Gilaw? Rhisveri tapped his claws on the ground.

“It’s too soon, almost.”

“Almost. But such invitations never come when they are wanted exactly, Rhisveri. We must adapt. That it is inconvenient to us?”

“Damned inconvenient! There’s no way we can accept—”

“Discuss it, Rhisveri. Remember. Scale.”

“Hmph. Then we need to accelerate the Dawn Concordat’s war. It’s going very well. Soon—and once we have Calanfer, we’ll have the Dragonthrone! A proper meeting place! A proper safe place, if we can restore it.”

Visophecin and the others nodded. Ryoka was one thing, but that was a long-laid plan. Fithea sighed in longing, but she did not covet it as much anymore. The voices! Oh—she stretched out trembling, ancient limbs.

Hope was closer than she thought. She wanted to see her kin again. Visophecin watched her, and Rhisveri. Yes, now was not the time to withdraw and hide. The only question was: who would gain? He resolved to meet this Wind Runner as soon as possible. After all, they were united behind Rhisveri and Ailendamus. But you could always make a private bargain.

——

There was nothing in the world that could not be taken cynically. If you grew up seeing it, breathing treachery and learning gain and manipulation, then in time, that was all you saw.

No matter where it was, no matter what the gesture. A gentle hand stroking a lock of hair on a child’s face. A smile, a compliment. It was all artifice. Of course, then someone might protest that a ‘mother’s love’ was a genuine thing, that people trusted and cared for each other.

To which Seraphel du Marquin and every member of Calanfer’s royal family would probably have laughed until they were sick—if that was not completely unbecoming of royalty.

Do you really think your family loves you? Or are you, and those around you, simply better at lying to yourselves? It was all gain. If you raised children kindly, it was so they remembered, and because it reflected on you. If you followed the law, were pious and noble, it was because it behooved you to do so, rather than be seen as a thuggish brigand.

It was a cynicism that ran beyond bone-deep. Crucially, though…Seraphel sat on horseback, riding briskly and somewhat uncomfortably ahead of the royal carriage through the rocky pass.

It was wrong. So the greatest lie was a trick on her, believing Calanfer’s family was the truth behind every household, only with the paint and gilding stripped away in private. The truth was…she had seen loving families.

Just not hers. Oh, it was there, in a strained, distant way. She had considerable affection for some, exasperated and crossed with the quibble of the month though it may be. She was just—

Changed.

Very changed. Seraphel du Marquin rode through the rocky pass next to Kaliv’s border. They had just passed through that famously narrow gap, one of the few into Calanfer from Kaliv. The very place that had been in the news—where Calanfer had won historic battles against invading forces. Krawlnmak’s Pass. A rather silly name for a landmark of Calanfer and place of so many military victories.

Sullied by the Archmage of Death’s fall. It was, of course, garrisoned at this point in the war. The fortress which occupied Kaliv’s side of the pass was a deterrent to attacking armies. Should they want to cross into Calanfer, they would have to fight both the fortress and the famously treacherous ground.

Of course, it ran the other way too. Kaliv’s fortress was a not-so-subtle reminder to Calanfer; they could hold it if the two nations ever came to blows. Which they had not, because fighting was not usually a game Calanfer liked to play.

Wit and diplomacy. Elegance and style. Seraphel du Marquin was not alone as she rode, nor was the royal carriage. In fact, a baggage train and countless servants were accompanying the royal procession, not to mention nigh on a hundred Thronebearers of Calanfer.

A huge number, but the capital had rotated them out of Calanfer in order to guard the [Princesses]. Nominally, they were there to support the war effort and reinforce the local garrison, but they were bodyguards.

No one wanted to take chances. Indeed, as was so often the case, this was a move on multiple fronts. Seraphel could not guess her father and mother’s exact thoughts, but she knew the game.

“Let me see. It would be a suitable gesture to Kaliv that we are contributing to the war effort, to let Aielef return. That I and Vernoue are here proves that, to other nations, we don’t think Kaliv will fall. We also get to garrison one of Kaliv’s fortresses and prove that fact with our escorts. Oh, and it makes Ailendamus think something is happening. And…”

Schemes. Calanfer’s royal crown played them out like another person played cards. Not always malicious, or even wrong much of the time. But it was always a scheme.

It made other nations rather refreshing to Seraphel. Nadel had been a wonderful diversion. Charming, in love with its famous Lord of the Dance, and safe. Each kingdom of Terandria had its peculiarities. Seraphel had been to more than a few, and it was not just a definition of borders in some cases.

For instance, Desonis really was marshy and wet. A complete climate change, and still, they had a remarkable indoor life and a cheerful indifference to storms. Seraphel had once been asked if she’d like to go for a swim as a minor hurricane was blowing through the area.

By contrast, Nadel had an obsession with dance and music, to the extent that [Dancers] and schools were an acceptable occupation, and even the meanest inn or dive had better footwork than you’d find in other nations’ major cities.

Workers, and even [Scribes], could leave their jobs for a lunch, or break and shake out their exhaustion or stiffness in dedicated buildings. Seraphel had heard it described as a ‘night club’ by some of the Lord of the Dance’s guests, despite them being open in the day, but she hadn’t had a chance to meet them long…

A pity. There was so much Seraphel wanted to do, but Calanfer was at war, and she was still a [Princess] of Calanfer. On a royal tour to ‘boost morale’, in Kaliv’s border regions.

In truth, Seraphel suspected it was partly to give Aielef a reward for her campaigning to raise support for months on end, and to let her go home. Seraphel and Vernoue? It might be a punishment. She had not exactly gelled well with her parents on her return, and while she had made a striking impact at the ball at Nadel, it was not in the way the [King] and [Queen] would have preferred.

Well, Seraphel was a little rebel. And not the worst of the bunch, because Lyonette was still out there.

“The Princesses of Calanfer return! Glory to the Eternal Throne and Mighty Kaliv! Hail the Griffin Queen!”

A voice from up ahead. Seraphel sighed. There went the peaceful quasi-silence of the ride. She had to own, she was a bit saddle-sore, but it beat being cooped up in the carriage with Aielef and Vernoue the entire way here. The Thronebearers were doing what they did best: impressing the local populace that had come out to see the procession and greet their liege-lady.

Aielef of Calanfer waved genteelly from her carriage, smiling as people called out her name. She hadn’t done badly here; Seraphel saw people calling out to her, welcoming her back. Well, they would love the [Princess] who had married their Duke.

He was not someone Seraphel had met more than a few times, but it had been a prestigious, acceptable marriage in the Terandrian royalty bloodlines, and, importantly, a pact between Calanfer and Kaliv. It was customary for at least one of the royal family to wed to Kaliv, as their alliance was exceptionally important.

Aielef, the 3rd Princess of Calanfer, had a small family here. She was Aielef the Fierce, known as the most outspoken, bravest of the Princesses of Calanfer, a fitting match for Kaliv’s tough kingdom.

…Or so the propaganda said, at any rate. In truth, Seraphel wondered how well Aielef matched Kaliv. Because the first thing she said as the carriage’s windows were rolled back up was quite audible to those nearby, if not the distant crowds.

“Disperse them immediately. I don’t want to see them when I reach the manor. I don’t want to breathe the same—”

Ah, and there it was. Good old Aielef. Seraphel rolled her eyes.

If you knew the Princesses of Calanfer by their gossip, each one had a peculiarity. Seraphel was ‘Seraphel the Dutiful’, Shardele was ‘the Radiant’, and so on. It was a good way for the people to separate the large royal household and identify with them.

However, if you wanted to do it the way Seraphel did, you took them at their faults, not their imaginary virtues.

Shardele smoked Dreamleaf like a [Charcoal Burner] smoked wood. Menisi had an obsession with things that went beyond mere ‘scandalous’, past ‘depraved’, and into horrific. Aielef hated the peasantry, a habit she’d passed on to some of her sisters. Seraphel herself was known for once insulting one of her three brothers so badly he hid in his rooms for eighteen days.

Vernoue was in her mid-twenties, and had yet to grow, but she’d demonstrated an amazing ability to ignore people already and just read her magic books. Lyonette? Lyonette was a brat which encompassed any number of issues.

After her was Ellet, the youngest [Princess], the 7th, who was only twelve or something. She was cute, had been spared the company of many of her sisters, and was doted on by her parents. Her fault was…that she was charmingly naive and delightful…and had an objectionable habit of chasing the dogs around…

Alright, Ellet didn’t have a major one. Yet.

Aielef, now…she was cleverer than Lyonette. She never said ‘peon’ where there was a chance it could be overheard. She was all smiles as she swept out of the carriage, waved, and blew a kiss outside the fortress. Then she hurried inside.

“I am exhausted from this life on the road. Ithe? Ithe, my sisters are here, as I wrote. Have them led to their rooms. I do not wish to speak to anyone. I will be in my observatory. Oh, and someone deal with the Griffin.”

She strode into her home, which doubled as one of Kaliv’s keeps, and Seraphel saw the whip crack as servants clustered around her. They bowed, keeping well out of the way as the other two [Princesses], the 4th and 5th, entered far more slowly. Seraphel waddled a bit; she’d ridden all day and she wasn’t used to it, still.

Vernoue glanced up from her open books and put a book leaf in between the pages. She fiddled with her reading glasses, which she didn’t really need, Calanfer’s [Princesses] being the product of good breeding, but thought made her look mage-like.

“We’re here at last. Good. I was getting tired of Aielef’s snapping.”

“I should have thought you’d have tuned it out, Vernoue.”

Seraphel murmured. The 5th Princess regarded her older sister. They had a fairly good relationship as it went; some of the [Princesses] could not stand each other. Menisi and Shardele were a classic, hence why they were never paired together if possible.

“Even I can’t ignore her harrumphing. I almost wanted to ride, but I can’t imagine sitting in a saddle for hours. You need a healing potion.”

“I’m…fine, Vernoue. It builds—”

“Character?”

“No, tough skin. Which one needs if they want to ride.”

Vernoue raised an expressive eyebrow as she shook her red hair. Hers was deeper, like ruby. Aielef dyed hers, while Seraphel had a lighter cast. Why would you want to ride?

Of course, that was the question. But Seraphel was not about to elaborate as the nervous household fussed around her.

“Your Highnesses, I am Ithe, Princess Aielef’s head of the household. If there is anything we can do, you have but to ask.”

A nervous woman bowed. Seraphel tsked quietly and Vernoue nodded, losing interest. Now here was a staff ruled by fear.

“Will we be dining with the Duke or the family?”

“The Duke has departed to join the war front, Your Highnesses. I believe Her Highness would like you to attend a dinner in four hours, with her daughters…?”

“That is acceptable, thank you. I believe Princess Vernoue and I would like to see our rooms. It has been a long journey.”

“Of course, Your Highness…”

They were escorted to their rooms, which were rather decent. Vernoue disappeared into hers, and Seraphel inquired as to Aielef and the family. She knew Aielef had a son, but he was probably in training or even serving as a [Squire] or some such.

[Squire]? [Trainee], perhaps. It was a fact that Kaliv did not have a standing [Knight] order like many nations. Rather, it was folded into their mighty Griffin Rider forces and they had, of all things, a goat cavalry. But they didn’t discriminate on the basis of royal entry.

You had to bond with a Griffin or one of the giant, mountainous goats. If you just took from noble families, the odds were you wouldn’t have enough riders.

“Which probably makes Aielef as happy as a crab in boiling water every time she has to host Kaliv’s warriors.”

Seraphel smirked at the thought of Aielef baring her teeth and having to be polite. She really felt as though royal blood conferred a kind of gentility, thought, and elegance unobtainable in other ways. She even had a Skill to bring that quality out in her chosen circle.

Well, Seraphel had been here only once before. So the fortress was distantly familiar to her at best.

A sprawling, vertical compound set into the rocky passes of Kaliv, which was a small nation, but a hugely vertical one. It was hard, even as Ailendamus’ armies poured in, for them to easily take Kaliv. They could win the lowland fights, and they had with distressing ease. But they had to climb to assail the major cities on plateaus and higher up the mountain. Taking the capital meant scaling small passes as Griffins dropped rocks on them or entire sections suffered landslides.

…On the other hand, they’ve de-winged even Kaliv’s Griffin Riders with their Greatbows, and I haven’t heard good news aside from the Order of Seasons joining.

Seraphel did not like being so close to the front, even if it was Kaliv’s rear. She knew the crown was sending three [Princesses] to this fortress as a gesture of faith. Kaliv had to stay in the Dawn Concordat. If they folded, Gaiil-Drome and Calanfer were on the chopping block.

Anyways, Seraphel could think on politics all day. She could wander Aielef’s home all day. She did neither, because both were eminently boring. She could only do so much.

She wished she could do more. She wished the war were over so perhaps she could go to Izril, see what that continent of Drakes and Gnolls was like, and find Lyonette and give her a good yank on the ears. She wanted…

Something else. Seraphel was aware her parents had been trying to make another match for her, without much success. She didn’t blame anyone interested; even the most desperate [Merchant] wanting to be partly royal had heard of Seraphel the Cursed. The woman who murdered husbands with bad luck.

“It was only two. Technically that brat died after he broke the engagement.”

Seraphel kicked down the corridor. Yet even she wondered. No…she knew why each one had died. One was truly an accident. The other had been old age. The last, and most recent…?

Ah. That was why her sisters thought she was so changed. Why Seraphel was different. She imagined that, before this, she would have ridden with Aielef, sniping with her sisters, then sat in her room as bored and miserable as could be.

…She honestly wasn’t better off now, since she was still bored and had to do what Calanfer’s crown bid. But perhaps the difference was hope. She had been through a lot. And so, as Seraphel dismissed the servants, she walked Kaliv’s fortress.

Not the higher levels, which were quite nice. Aielef had an ‘observatory’, with an actual glass roof to the stars and very un-fortress-like viewing platforms, that she might have some elegance in her life. Seraphel understood she didn’t actually stay here as much if she could help it.

Rather, Seraphel headed down. Down, alone, not waited on by anyone. Even Vernoue was probably ordering her special mana-infused tea, some snacks before dinner…a [Princess] was used to being surrounded by servants, not going as far as to pick up anything that they didn’t need to.

Seraphel had been roughing it, as they understood it, of late. So she could at least ride and walk about, even survive on something not prepared by a [Chef]. She was well aware that was not a [Warrior]’s ability to rough it, but that wasn’t what she wanted.

If she wanted anything…the [Princess] began to hum as she descended, going to a place she knew probably existed.

The 4th Princess of Calanfer had developed a few interesting hobbies of late. The first was that she sang, not that anyone had ever known her to be particularly enamoured with singing. But as she walked down increasingly narrow corridors that even the servants didn’t bother using, past the wine cellar, she sang a simple song.

“Do, a deer, a Corusdeer. Rei, a ray of magic light…”

It was a cute song. A child’s song, adapted. Taught to her not just because it was fun, but as training. Hold the note properly.

A friend had taught it to her. Seraphel sang as she came to her destination.

The second hobby of Princess Seraphel, that concerned everyone who heard of it because it sounded distinctly like something the 2nd Princess might do, was this.

She would seek out the deepest part of many fortresses, palaces, or so on. The place where more than armor or treasure or wine was stored.

The crypt. The mausoleum. The…resting place of honored dead. And she would walk it. She would pass by remains, carefully interred such that no [Necromancer] might awaken them, and look around.

As if searching for something. She would not linger long. But she might say something, when no one watched her. A simple…question.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

Of course, no one answered her. What was strange was why she expected it.

——

Aielef’s family joined them at dinner. Two shy daughters, both in their teens. One was older than Ellet by four years.

They were rather meek, perhaps counting themselves as inferior in terms of rank, being divorced from the royal family. Maybe it was how Aielef raised them; they were certainly no strident Lyonettes, but dutiful daughters.

Nor did Aielef put on any pretense, not here.

“You’ll be here for a week, two at most. Then you can begone, and I shall either be forced to sojourn with Kaliv’s aristocracy somewhere else as part of the war, or go on tour. Azole, don’t fidget. And don’t copy your aunts. Vernoue, must you read at the table?”

The 5th Princess didn’t look up from the food she was eating while reading her spell tome.

“You’re not my mother, Aielef.”

“Aielef, I don’t believe I was ever introduced to your youngest daughter. Will you tell us how your family is doing?”

Seraphel smiled at a shy girl with dark purple hair. Purple, not the fiery red. Aielef had to dye her hair, but Seraphel guessed that one bloodline removed was enough to let her daughter keep her hair natural.

Aielef gave her younger sister a long look.

“This is Ayuse. Ayuse, greet your Aunt Seraphel. Aumerth isn’t here; he’s apprenticed, safely away from the front.”

“Hello, Ayuse.”

Seraphel smiled at the timid girl. She received a murmur in reply, which grew louder as Aielef stared at her daughter. It was the elder daughter, Azole, who kept staring at Seraphel as Aielef dined with the Princesses. They didn’t talk politics. Nor, Seraphel suspected, would Aielef insist they dined together.

“You’ll find the manor equipped for some of your needs. Just don’t burn anything, Vernoue. Seraphel, there’s not much to do here. We certainly can’t ride or visit the city, but I shall have some of my friends over and I suppose you must attend.”

“I may take you up on that, Aielef. But I’ll find something to do. We are at war.”

“Yes, and it’s dreadfully boring.”

“Not worried for your husband, the Duke? Ronnel?”

They all had perfect memories for such things. Aielef flapped her hand, chewing an inferior cut of meat that had the servants sweating as she glared.

“I am sure he will be fine.”

No love in that statement. Vernoue raised expressive eyebrows at Seraphel from her book, proving she did listen in now and then. It was not missed on Aielef.

“You will do your part soon enough, Vernoue. I can only hope you manage to find a match!”

Do your part. By which she meant, get married, bear children, and forge a powerful alliance. Seraphel had done her part multiple times, with increasingly less value. She wondered if her family would marry her off. Surely…even to one of the Thronebearers. She didn’t want that. After the war ended…perhaps Cara could…?

Vernoue’s response was to close her book shut. She glared at Aielef. Yes, here was a less-than-ideal pairing of the [Princesses], but she’d been the only one besides Seraphel that could be spared.

“If I have to marry someone, Aielef. I’m a [Mage].”

“You’re half-decent at best. If you were gifted, you’d be at Wistram.”

Vernoue’s cheeks flared. Seraphel bit her tongue.

“I’m supposed to be the one with the barbed comments, Aielef. What has you bothered?”

“That damned baby Griffin scratched me on our last tour and it hasn’t healed! A minor infection! Me!”

Aielef snapped and showed them a red, faintly irritated line on her arm. Seraphel had seen far worse, although she was glad the [Healer] had told Aielef to leave off healing potions.

“It’s almost gone down. The poultice will take it away in a day, two at most. Leave off Vernoue. She could have gone to Wistram, but they never let go of their [Mages].”

Vernoue gave Seraphel a grateful nod and turned back to her elder sister.

“That’s right, Aielef. If I must get married, I’d rather marry…an Archmage! Yes, I’ll marry a famous [Mage] from Wistram. Don’t take me to task for applying myself. I’m adding value to my marriage. What do you do, besides sip wine in your ‘observatory’ and complain about all the peasants below? And don’t try to say Seraphel’s done less either; she’s ‘done her part’ more times than you!”

Aielef scowled at the unexpected team up. She pleated her napkin, eyes flicking between the two. It was then that her elder daughter interrupted.

“Your Highness, Aunt Seraphel?”

“You don’t need to use her formal title, Azole.”

Azole nodded. She looked at Seraphel, every bit the daughter Calanfer wanted. Hair red, skin flawless, no noticeable quirks.

“Is it…I don’t mean to be rude, but mother says you’ve married multiple men and have lots of experience. Is it—difficult? I might be wed soon.”

Seraphel’s eyes opened wide and she glanced at Aielef. Azole’s mother went crimson, and Seraphel suspected that she had never thought Azole would repeat her comments verbatim. Nor did Azole quite know what Seraphel took from the statement.

The 4th Princess took her time in replying.

“I…am sure Aielef refers to my familiarity with matrimony. I can’t say I know married life well. You are to be wed, Azole?”

“I am of age to be engaged.”

She was seventeen. Seraphel gave Aielef a bleak look. Her mother scowled.

“Don’t give me that, Seraphel. Ronnel and I have agreed on some fine, eligible bachelors. Not out of her age, with promising classes and backgrounds. Nothing like what you went through.”

Vernoue’s head slowly rose from her book, then ducked down behind it. Azole and her younger sister looked at Seraphel as the 4th Princess spoke, slowly.

“I would have thought you’d give her more time.”

“To do what, lose the best matches?”

“Your daughters need not marry as a necessity of state, Aielef.”

“Better that she has time to set up now than wait. You’ll have a difficult time, bearing children and starting a family, Seraphel. Believe me. I’m not saying any of it is your fault. It’s bad luck. War, age, hunting accidents, and a divorce. None of it is your fault.”

“But…you have a point, Aielef. Make it.”

Seraphel tapped her ring finger on the table in a way her sisters knew was a sign she was losing her patience. And thus control of her tongue. Aielef hesitated, but they were in the weeds now.

“—I only mean that you don’t get to complain from having simple bad luck. Every one of us is to be married, even that runaway, Lyonette. Take what you’re given and make the best of it, I say.”

Azole looked at her mother, not nodding, but listening. Seraphel glanced at her.

“And what if the marriage isn’t…ideal? As mine were certainly not. Death aside, divorce aside?”

“You make it work. Do you think I’m not aware of complications? Dead gods and eternal steps, Seraphel, you hold yourself like you’re the martyr of all [Princesses]. You’re one of four of us. We’ve all been married. We make it work. Shardele? Do you think she smokes Dreamleaf just because it’s fun?”

“Absolutely.”

Vernoue muttered quietly. Her older sisters looked at her and she fell quiet. Seraphel knew what Aielef meant and her older sister went on.

“Menisi—well, she’s the only lucky one of the lot! She has someone who fits her damned personality.”

“True enough.”

Seraphel caught something Aielef had let slip. But that meant…

“Then what about you, Aielef?”

Vernoue peeked around a page. Aielef sat still, and Seraphel looked at her daughters and cursed. She shouldn’t have said it here, but in private.

Incidentally, the serving staff were calm automatons this entire time, like Golems. They took plates, filled glasses, and scurried out of the way. All of the diners ignored them; they were used to being watched.

Seraphel was about to take it back, but Aielef replied in a calm voice.

“I have borne three children for Kaliv and Calanfer, Seraphel. I quite love them. Ronnel is a perfectly fine husband and we understand each other. It took a few years, but I do not lack for my enjoyments. And I understand he has his.”

Vernoue sat bolt upright and Seraphel hoped her daughters didn’t understand that last part. She feared they did.

“Is this how you talk about marriage to your daughters?”

“What, realistically? You do not need to love the man you wed. Or do you disagree, Seraphel? Can you honestly say you even liked any of the three you were betrothed to?”

Azole and Ayuse turned to Seraphel. She saw the elder daughter staring at her. This was, perhaps, the only moment Seraphel would see her before she was married. They did not often visit, and Seraphel could say any number of things.

Most of them useless. Their fates were nearly written in stone. And yet…Seraphel’s head rose, and Vernoue edged back from the table.

“Uh oh.”

She prepared a small barrier spell. Even Aielef hesitated, because she knew her younger sister.

“Seraphel, don’t make a scene…”

“No, you’re right, Aielef. I suppose I do seem rather dramatic to you. I didn’t realize how you saw it. You have a very pragmatic approach to your situation. And I have not had the luxury of finding out how I would behave. And you are right.”

Seraphel looked past Aielef. Her eyes flickered, and she shook her head.

“No man I have ever married has loved me. That is eminently true.”

Her sisters, her nieces, even the staff were all looking at her. Seraphel spoke, seeing faces, places…

A dead man grinning up at her from a bed. A child hand-in-hand with a [Shepherd]’s daughter…each one, sometimes in intimacy. The things she did for her kingdom. The last one, smiling up at her through eyes that were glassy, face covered in blood.

“They call me Seraphel the Cursed. But I think…no man has ever loved me for being me. They have loved my body, loved aspects they saw in me—never me. Nor did I have a choice. If that is a curse, I think it is not one women find rare.”

She looked pointedly at Aielef. The 3rd Princess’ mouth was a hard line. Seraphel went on.

“I have never been pleased by the matches made to me. But perhaps, then, I have never met someone I could truly love, because I am a [Princess] and they see my class, or see my past. Besides, the good ones are all dead.”

She stopped and closed her eyes.

“…I need not be jaded and complacent about it. If I am to be married off again, Aielef, it should be the one I choose. I will keep searching for happiness, even though my value is long spent. And I encourage your daughters to fight, to find something more than value for their kingdom. Because it matters.”

“You’d throw over your kingdom for your pettiness, Seraphel?”

The 4th Princess smiled like a viper.

“If it is that, or turn into someone as miserable as you, Aielef? Of course.”

Vernoue cast her spell just in time. Good old Seraphel. Words like arrows. She watched the first tureen sail over the table as Seraphel ducked.

——

Well, that was an eventful dinner. Seraphel had her dress cleaned, and thought she wouldn’t see Aielef all week. Her daughters?

She spent that night watching the scrying orb, which had the fascinating recap of the Meeting of Tribes on. At least someone was as miserable as she.

Oh, and there was the Singer of Terandria, one of her concerts. Seraphel smiled.

“Once this is over, I will find a way to meet you, if I have to hire you personally to tour Calanfer.”

Once this was over…she fell asleep, remembering the past.

The next day, Seraphel du Marquin was prepared to find her own way to keep entertained when something happened.

A flier came hurtling down from the skies as Seraphel was going on a morning ride. The Thronebearers cried out and hurried her back as they raised bows and shields, but it was a lone [Griffin Rider].

Nevertheless, they kept their guards up, but the flier was headed for the fortress. Shouts arose and the defenders swarmed out as the Griffin landed.

Wounded. Seraphel rode back and heard the commotion.

“Absolutely not. Turn them away! I will not have it.”

Aielef was speaking to her head of the guard as the weary, wounded Griffin closed its wings and the rider held their hands up. To her vague surprise, Seraphel saw it was a young woman. And she called out, outraged.

“You bitch! We’ve been dying for months and you won’t even give us a place to rest?”

Aielef turned white and the Thronebearers drew their blades. Seraphel held up a hand. Well now, she liked this young woman already.

“Aielef, who is this?”

“A criminal. This swine came here, demanding shelter for her group.”

Seraphel was mystified. Griffin Riders were held in great esteem in Kaliv. She couldn’t imagine anyone turning them away, especially in times of war.

Unless…she thought of the one group that would not be welcome. She turned and saw the crest on the light armor the Griffin wore, emblazoned on its sides. Not an official crest, mind you. They couldn’t afford embroidery, but the black streaks of soot, marred with blood and damage to the armor, was plain.

“Kaliv’s Wing of Shame.”

Vernoue muttered. Lillian Woods glared at the three [Princesses], but had her hands up and was eying Kaliv’s warriors warily.

“They’re not to land. Begone! You will find no respite here!”

Aielef snapped. Seraphel held up a hand.

“Aielef. I know they’re disgraced criminals, but the Griffin Prince fights with them, doesn’t he?”

“Yes! And all the brigands and murderers and waste! No one in Kaliv will give them welcome.”

Well, some did, or else how had they existed for over a decade? Seraphel didn’t know the Griffin Prince well, but everyone knew his story.

If she was ‘cursed’, he was cursed. He had made a pact with dark, dark magic as a boy. They said he was immortal, but had paid such a price that his mother, the [Queen], had exiled him, and his name was never to be spoken aloud. Yet still, he flew Kaliv’s skies, redeeming criminals, clashing with brigands and monsters.

And…fighting Ailendamus’ armies. Seraphel pointed to the young woman.

“I’ve seen the Griffin Prince fighting, Aielef. So have you. He’s killed more [Generals] and high-ranking warriors of Ailendamus than anyone else! He’s half the reason why they haven’t taken more ground!”

“Seraphel, I am the ruler of this manor in the Duke’s absence! I will not argue with you!”

Aielef’s eyes flashed fury from yesterday as well as the public altercation. Seraphel looked at the young woman and saw something familiar. She was probably a criminal, but her Griffin was wounded and she had a desperately furious look in her eyes. Outraged, not just angry.

“Very well, Princess Aielef du Marquin. You are the liege-lady of this land, my elder sister, and have every right to refuse them.”

Aielef blinked. So did Vernoue. Seraphel the Reasonable was not any Seraphel they knew. Aielef almost relaxed, but Seraphel was famous for her backswing. And here it came…

“I am 4th Princess of Calanfer. By my authority, I demand the Thronebearers of Calanfer render aid! Set up outside of the fortress. Bring food, potions, supplies. They can camp.”

“You can’t do that!”

Aielef exploded, but Seraphel pointed at one of the Thronebearers. The unlucky [Knight-Captain] hesitated.

“Your Highness…”

“Do not bother to sequester any supplies from Aielef’s domain, Knight-Captain Doniff. But I do demand you unload all of the Thronebearers’s supplies, potions, and whatnot.”

“Then how will they protect us?”

Seraphel gave Aielef a beaming smile.

“Why, I suppose they will have to prevail upon you. But that is not my concern. Do it, Knight-Captain.”

The Thronebearer hesitated. He looked between the two [Princesses]. He could spoil Seraphel’s designs easily by refusing and it was the 3rd vs the 4th Princess.

However, he was still a warrior, as much as he was a Thronebearer, and he knew exactly what Seraphel did. If anything, the man was impressed that Seraphel saw it.

“I beg your pardon, Princess Aielef, but we cannot disobey the 4th Princess’ orders. We are technically assigned to ward Her Highness, Seraphel, and Princess Vernoue…”

“You are here to protect me!”

Aielef raged. Doniff stepped back hurriedly, and pretended to have gone deaf. Aielef went after him. Seraphel stuck her foot out.

The wounded [Griffin Rider] was surprised to get aid. But she didn’t waste time. She was clearly desperate, and shot into the skies as the Thronebearers indicated a place to land. Seraphel hurried away before Aielef could seek vengeance, and hid behind a tree until the screaming stopped.

In that way, she was able to see Kaliv’s Wing of Shame in person for the first time.

They were…not an inspiring sight. Three dozen Griffins landed, all wounded, and their riders were filthy, travel-worn, and exhausted. Some just lay down. Griffins snapped as Thronebearers approached with supplies.

Gleaming [Knights] versus the rag-tag brigands. But one group had become Ailendamus’ nightmare and racked up a kill count beyond belief.

All thanks to one man. Seraphel spotted him as the young Human woman who had come to beg for aid dismounted.

He was still a [Prince], after all. But…oh, such a strange one.

Seraphel was no aura-expert, but she could tell the power of royalty and bloodline. He was like…a child. A [Prince], but for a second, Seraphel swore he was a child as young as Aielef’s younger daughter.

Then she saw the tall man with his curled, short-cut hair, a weary expression, a warrior’s physique—but devoid of any scars. Yet the way he walked and the wary respect Doniff gave him told Seraphel that here was a veteran of more battles than any ten warriors combined.

Because he did not die. For proof? She stared at his right arm. It was…steaming as a terrible acid ate away at it. So terribly he’d kept his arm free from his fierce Royal Griffin, who lay panting. Yet though the acid ate away skin, bone, tendon, it regrew in moments. For a second she saw black thread, knitting itself out of the air…then it turned to flesh and bone.

Seraphel shuddered as the Thronebearers moved back. The young woman threw a healing potion on the acid and finally it stopped. The Griffin Prince had been grimacing mildly. Now he relaxed as his arm reappeared in seconds.

Not even a Potion of Regeneration could do that, surely. The man was younger than Seraphel, and his shoulders were broad. He was actually shorter than she expected, but a stocky [Prince] of Kaliv. But for the curse.

He bowed as she approached.

“Your Highness, Seraphel du Marquin. You do me a great kindness by allowing us to rest here. I…am the Griffin Prince.”

He gave her no name. He needed no introduction. He just stood there, with a kind of shamed dignity. He obviously knew all the stories about him.

Seraphel gave him the slight bow of royalty to royalty, casual, but she was fascinated. Indeed, she saw Vernoue approaching, warily, drawn in by the strange story of Kaliv.

“I am sorry that we cannot give you more aid, Griffin Prince. But take whatever you need. You have been fighting.”

A silly statement, and the young woman next to him snorted. The Griffin Prince just laid a hand on her arm.

“Lillian. Forgive my companion, Your Highness.”

“Of course.”

Seraphel supposed someone else might have been offended, but there was a kind of familiarity with him. She had met warriors like him, and in situations like this. The Griffin Prince studied her, and then she saw recognition in his eyes.

“Princess Seraphel. The…4th Princess. Do they call you…? Forgive me again, but—”

“Yes. Seraphel the Cursed. I think we are kin, you and I. Though your curse is rather more dramatic than mine.”

The Griffin Prince stared at Seraphel, then he did laugh, ruefully. And oh, if Seraphel thought her face had lines, if she looked in the mirror and saw sadness there?

It was nothing compared to how weary he sounded. She had known women and men three times his age who had borne and lost children, lived through war and disease, who did not sound that sad. But he had nothing. Even Seraphel was still a [Princess]. His title was just a name.

“Well met indeed. I bear warning, if Her Highness will hear it. At least to the [Captain of the Guard], and the Thronebearers. To Kaliv’s command and Calanfer’s throne itself, though we are bound for the capital next.”

He nodded upwards, towards the distant misty peaks. Seraphel’s heart beat faster and Vernoue and Captain Doniff came forwards.

“What is this news?”

The Griffin Prince looked bleakly at them.

“Kaliv’s lowlands are lost. Our combined forces are routed and Ailendamus is sending three armies to march upwards. The Wing of Shame flies now in defense of the throne itself. You should brace yourselves. Fleeing [Soldiers] will be coming soon, with Ailendamus’ armies hot on their heels.”

For a second, Seraphel was speechless. She turned to Vernoue, and the 5th Princess exclaimed.

“But we’ve not heard of any battle on scrying orb! The last we’ve heard, the Order of Seasons was trapped in a valley and they’re fighting today!”

The Griffin Prince nodded slowly.

“I have no doubt. Perhaps the Dawn Concordat will want to keep it silent. Ailendamus may, even. But it would not have been on the scrying orb, because they attacked under cover of night. They sent waves of stealthed fighters forwards, their own Griffins—even damned Hydras. Then the rest of their army. It wasn’t even a battle.”

Seraphel looked in horror at the Knight-Captain, who was pale.

“I cannot imagine they would have attacked and won so easily, Griffin Prince. I do not doubt your words, but…how? Surely there were fortifications?”

The Griffin Prince shook his head.

“There were. I was there, and Calanfer, Gaiil-Drome, Kaliv’s own…I took to the air the moment I heard the horns. By then it was too late. Knight-Captain, Your Highnesses—they struck like lightning. It is the Great General who took the field who did it. He is…he has some kind of Skill or magic that tore through every formation. Overran us, as if we were children caught unawares by professional [Mercenaries]. We barely escaped, and only then because…”

He gestured at his bare arm, ruefully.

Seraphel was lost for words. This was a disaster. What would Calanfer do now? That army was the one which had held the ground so far. That it had lost in a single battle, even a sneak-attack?

“How long will you stay? Can you speak, sir Griffin Prince, or will you fly onwards?”

The Griffin Prince grimaced.

“Only a few hours. Less. We will take as much as we can carry. Eat. Lillian, get everyone fed. But then we must fly. Your Highness, I must advise you to retreat.”

“Flee the pass? We have held armies here before…and with the fortress, if the [Soldiers] rally here?”

Seraphel knew she was no [Strategist], but she repeated what she’d heard, dumb with shock. The Griffin Prince shook his head.

“Were any other army coming your way, I would say there was a chance, Your Highness. This one? No. No, it’s the same army we’ve fought. No more unique soldiers aside from the ones in stealth. We’ve beaten worse forces back. It’s that [General].”

A Great General of Ailendamus. To her knowledge, there were exactly two of the unique title of Ailendamus’ finest on the field. The Dame of the Hills, and this Great General. It seemed the titles were not for show.

“I will inform my sister and the [Captain of the Guard], of course, sir Griffin Prince. I thank you for the warning.”

He nodded, and Seraphel realized he was probably starved for drink and food too. She bowed, so that he might partake, and hurried over to Vernoue.

“Did you hear?”

“We’re in trouble. We might be leaving after all. Aielef and her daughters shouldn’t stay, right?”

“I don’t think so. I can’t imagine what this Great General is capable of, but the crown won’t risk it. You tell Aielef. She won’t want to turn away the Griffin Prince, not after this. Send a [Message] to the capital.”

“And what will you do?”

Seraphel needed to talk to the Griffin Prince. This was as dire as she’d ever known it. She had seen Ailendamus make war before. But this was a scale above the fighting, then. Although the Great Knight, the Dame of the Hills had been there. And she was a terrible, terrifying foe.

Not one without honor, though. Seraphel was hurrying back to the Griffin Prince, but in truth, she didn’t have the levels or Skills to change things. She had some, from what she’d witnessed, but it sounded like they needed a miracle.

And here was Kaliv’s miracle, their immortal protector, bested and wounded, flying to the last battles high above. Seraphel hadn’t believed in miracles. Things that could turn a battle around.

Noelictus has one. Perhaps. But it’s gone now and—far from here. The only other person she could think of was…

Cara. The Singer of Terandria. Yet neither was here. Neither was here. So Seraphel would have to do what she could. She had seen brave men, too, fighting against all odds. But they…died.

She was walking towards the Griffin Prince, set to ask if he might perhaps know what could be done, had some insight—perhaps to fly to the Order of Seasons instead and beg their full might? They were not far! Or Pheislant or—

She never got to speak to him. The young man had been eating ravenously as his Wing of Shame tended to their wounds. Yet he raised his head incredulously and turned to the north.

“Impossible. Impossible!”

He cried out. Seraphel saw him sprint towards his Griffin, calling its name. The fierce beast spread its wings, shrieking, as everyone, Thronebearers, [Princesses], and the Wing of Shame themselves looked north. The Griffin Prince took to the air, rising, then he cried out, a note of incredulity—and horror. He pointed, and it took those on the ground a moment to see.

Then they saw it. Princess Seraphel du Marquin knew the fighting was days to the north. Even if the combined army were smashed, the Griffin Prince’s flight was far faster than any rider could hope to achieve. And yet.

And yet—something came out of the hills in the distance. Figures. Riders, rather. Even a few people on foot. Seraphel’s eyes opened wide. She saw them blur across the ground, so fast—then suddenly jump. Not physically, but jump across the landscape, mid-flight.

She didn’t understand what she was seeing. They were moving so fast. What kind of movement Skill was this? And yet, it wasn’t just them. She saw the air change. Were those…birds? Why was the sky rippling in color, from blue to cloudy to orange then black? As if it was going through the cycle of day and night in a moment.

Then the first wave of riders crashed forwards, within less than a mile and, suddenly, Seraphel heard distant, blaring horns. Shouts. The Griffin Prince jerked in the air and she saw a foremost rider, a [Knight], no, an armored half-Elf, riding towards her, armor battered.

“Can you not hear? Damn you all! What’s going on? They’re behind us! Our [Message] spells—”

He was roaring in a hoarse, hopeless voice, as if he’d been shouting for nigh on an hour. His voice was magnified by a spell, and Seraphel flinched as it bounced off the canyon walls. She recoiled, and Vernoue stumbled.

“[Message] spells! N—so many! They sent it at—there are hundreds—”

A wave of birds screamed past the Griffin Prince, then saw him in the air and banked, flying in every direction. His fierce mount snapped and had a mouthful of one of them. Seraphel felt something snap around her, and the reverberation of whatever it was stunned her.

As the half-Elf slowed, seeing the statues of people finally move, Seraphel looked down. Not at the first wave of fleeing soldiers, so close, already reaching them at last, the Dawn Concordat’s shattered army.

Not at the animals, or at Vernoue, who finally got the desperate [Messages] that had gone unanswered, piled up and coming in all at once. Not even at the Griffin Prince, hanging in the air, staring at the land-forces who had caught up, against all logic, to his faster force.

She stared down at…the grass. The grass that the half-Elf rode over. It was nothing that should be too obvious, unless you had just seen it. Then—well, it had rained. It was still fading summer. So she saw a noticeable change over however long it had been.

The grass? It was nearly twice as high. It had been shorter a moment ago. Yet all had grown, the [Soldiers] fled, an army been routed due to strange laws. A dire rule.

A Great General of Ailendamus’ power. The Griffin Prince, circling overhead, had it at the same time as Seraphel, as the fortress suddenly came to arms, and war swept closer. After all, you could have a fast army. One that could increase in power. One with skin like stone, or that killed magic.

You could have many things, but what did every [General], [Strategist], and warlord love? What was the key to a hundred battles, if only you could clutch it in your hands? Seraphel looked past the [Soldiers].

How did it go? Something about turning mountains to dust? The final warrior that killed all? Could bring nations down? What was…the one thing Ailendamus had? Though Seraphel could not know that. What they ruled, or at least, did not fear like mortals did?

“Time.”

8.47 H

It was a strange thing they saw. Almost incomprehensible in that first moment, especially for many who were not familiar with the idea. Then it caught in the mind, like a burr to the imagination. A brilliant idea, a natural extension of something they had already been led towards. After all, it had flowed like this before.

In another world. But only a fraction realized that. It changed the experience of viewing, but what it told remained the same.

The first thing they saw was the sky. It was evening, cloudless, and it looked like someone had poured fire across a pink aurora in the sky, turning to a deep blue like the ocean on the very edges of the horizon. A few stars were visible, glowing a faint fiery red, or bright yellow, or just plain white.

There was virtually nothing on the horizon that interfered with the glorious view. No clouds. No mountains. No hills or buildings or trees, and no birds either. It filled everything, beautiful, hauntingly vast. Then, a moment later, was the sound.

Sound. Not smell. Not touch. The audience heard crunching, the sounds of someone walking on something dry, powdered, with labored breathing close by. The view shifted upwards abruptly, and someone’s face came into the frame.

Yes…frame. For it was a kind of lens, if not a camera or video recorder. Something similar, and the person angling the image understood something about capturing images. They settled the image on themselves, not too low, so you weren’t staring up at them and into their nostrils. For a second, two faintly violet, mostly grey eyes stared straight into the audience’s. Then they flicked ahead, scanning for something.

The person in-frame was a young man. Human, skin tanned as well as sunburnt, wearing a headwrap and long, concealing clothes to prevent the rest of his fair-ish skin from burning. They were nondescript, a beige that ran to brown, as to make him somewhat invisible amid the sand surrounding him. He was dusty, sandblown, and looked tired.

Behind him was the undercarriage of something huge and hairy that went mweh. It was, in fact, a camel, standing to grudging attention as the young man spoke. He had the reins of the camel in one hand, and spoke quickly. His voice was clipped, precise, and fast. As if he only had half the time to get a word in that everyone else did.

“This is Rémi Canada…[Journalist]. I think I’m here at last. If not—this joins a dozen other failed attempts. It will be, to the best of my ability, an accurate account of everything I see, without editing or falsehood.”

He stopped for a second. His eyes flickered, but he didn’t open his mouth. The view changed again, and that was when the audience realized he held the view that bobbed occasionally, dipping as he climbed onto the camel’s back. It knelt and he rose, riding up the hill, set against the sunset in that vivid, open sky that could only belong to one continent.

Chandrar. As the camel crested the hill, Rémi adjusted his camera, or whatever else the audience was seeing through, allowing them a view of the great sand dune he had crested sweeping back towards actual ground. Still dry, but dotted with actual vegetation brave enough to grow along the changing border of sand.

“Hup. Go faster. That way.”

Rémi ordered the camel, and it went down the hill, somehow tracking the finger that appeared for a second. The destination was as obvious to the animal as it was to the viewers.

Amid the arid place, with still no visible signs of civilization or large patches of vegetation—anything—a giant valley had formed, completely coincidentally, out of two large sand dunes.

It might be gone tomorrow, if the wind blowing the tops off the dunes kept up. But for now, it completely hid several miles of land in the neverending landscape about here.

Yet it was not completely empty. There was nothing much to see beyond tough low-level vegetation, actual dirt rather than sand—except for one little spot where something glowed despite the fading light.

A distant fire. Tiny, smokeless, and distinctly—at least one figure. Rémi focused on it and the image magnified, bouncing around as the camel descended.

“I think this is it. My Skills are telling me—this could be it. Slow down, girl.”

“Mweh.”

The distant fire was disappearing into the night, so even though Rémi rode closer at a measured pace, details were nearly impossible for all but the most discerning viewer. All they could see was a fuzzy group of shapes amid the small amount of light, not pixelated, because this was not an electronic recording. More like how the eye lost detail, and everything grew blurry and indistinct.

Nevertheless, the campfire’s residents finally came into focus, and a voice murmured, loud enough to be heard as Rémi and the camel approached.

“…tracked. The same one stalking us. Prepare for battle. Not you, Yinah.”

Something meowed loudly, and then one of the three figures standing around the campfire turned. Rémi stopped abruptly, as a voice called out.

“You there. Halt! Draw blade and die.”

The camera moved, rising, as the young man called out.

“I’m unarmed! This is a magical artifact! Don’t shoot! I just want to talk!”

“Hah!”

But the female figure didn’t loose an arrow. She held a bow, tipped with an arrow that glittered dangerously with a light of its own. She was only a silhouette against the fire’s light. She turned her head.

“Do you see anyone else, Ksmvr?”

Ksmvr. Then, you might remember the name and put together the pieces.

A figure leapt down, causing the camel and Rémi to start. He followed it, and an odd figure landed, a cloak billowing around him. He too was nearly invisible without light, but something shone dully, light reflected off a curious body.

A strange one. Not as tall as the woman, but squatter, with a rounded back even when he stood upright. Shorter too, but he had leapt downwards from an incredible height with such ease. He stood there, tilting his head left and right, and…were those antennae? One, a stump of one, waved left and right erratically.

“I saw no one else, Nsiia.”

“Well then, it seems our pursuer either has invisible friends, ones far away, or tells the truth. Come closer, stranger! Keep your arms raised and don’t aim that…thing directly at any of us. Domehead, awake. No need to keep hidden.”

The leader, or so it seemed, the woman, gestured. Rémi rode forwards, slowly, then jerked. The camel screamed, and understandably.

Something came out of what had seemed like part of the hill the group was camped next to. A massive figure, with a glowing head, rose out of the sand it had been buried in, a giant! A [Knight] in full armor—

No. Something even larger. A giant wearing metal armor glowing with faint, magical runework. And rather than a helmet, his glowing ‘head’ was a perfect half-sphere. A crystal dome, transparent, disclosing a small forest of glowing crystals of many colors, predominantly bright yellow, within. They winked and turned off or on hypnotically, but the giant metal creation—the Golem—had a huge axe in one hand. It stowed the weapon on its back as the camel backed away, making sounds of alarm.

“Hush, Sandi. Relax…”

The camel, whose name was apparently Sandi, did not want to get close. Yet then the woman laughed, and whistled.

“Come here. Don’t be alarmed by this giant child. If your master means treachery, he’ll be the one to suffer for it. Not you, brave one.”

Somehow, her words calmed the camel and it trotted forwards, even eagerly. Rémi dismounted, and that’s when the woman came into view by firelight, and Ksmvr as well.

The first sight of Empress Nsiia of Tiqr, the Empress of Beasts, was a fitting one. Whether Rémi had chosen the moment or by luck, she stood with only the faintest hints of light on the horizon. A cooking fire was at her back, and she was as travel-worn as Rémi. Still, she wore riding clothes and, over them, a patchwork of leather pieces. She had a sword at her side, and dark skin.

But what stood out was the way she held herself, hands on her hips, eyes glinting. They were a bright orange, almost as wild as the cat that perched on her shoulders, eyes aglow. A city cat, a house-cat with blonde and ashy fur, but two strange, ceramic back legs, perfectly carved to imitate the real things.

The Empress of Beasts smiled, warily, facing down Rémi and his unseen audience as if she had an army at her back, rather than a single cat and two odd companions. Her eyes had a faint glow, like an animal’s, and her hair was running long, uncut, almost as wild as the very air around her.

She was Nsiia of Tiqr, Nsiia Oliphant, the fallen Empress of Beasts who had lost her empire and been taken prisoner of war months ago. A friend of the King of Destruction. A recent escapee, hounded by at least three major powers who had no desire to see her regain power.

…She was the least interesting of the three people who stood there. Marginally more interesting than the cat, Yinah.

The giant Golem was eight feet tall, made of polished metal despite the fine layer of grit, and carried a battleaxe that no normal Human could have wielded without being a giant of their kind. Yet Domehead could lift it one-handed. He was an automaton, voiceless, seemingly without personality—certainly without face—but he was a miracle of the Magus-Crafter of Illivere.

The first Sentient-class Golem in living memory. Built by the finest magical craftspeople of Illivere, champion of the Testing Grounds. Affectionately dubbed ‘Domehead’ by a nation that wanted him back.

Yet even Domehead was not as strange as the last figure, which the audience may have seen, certainly heard of, but never up close. Never like he was: still, watchful, his two broken antennae twitching, his three arms at rest.

One hand on the hilt of a long, wrapped sword at his side. Another casually drifting near what looked like a plain little cloth sack—a bag of holding. The last clutched a strange buckler with a shimmering forcefield around it.

Three arms. He had a fourth, but it was severed above the elbow, the stump long since healed over. Yet not with flesh. His entire body was…chitin.

Insectile armor. A carapace of dark brown and black, and his eyes were two round, multi-faceted orbs without pupils or any other color. He had two biting mandibles, and his ‘back’ was a rounded shell, like a beetle’s. He was shorter than Nsiia, discounting his antennae, and compact, but bedecked with strange artifacts.

His long cloak, bearing two holes from arrows or spells. The wrapped sword at his side, the sword of a [Paladin] from antiquity—though the audience did not know its exact nature. A Forceshield, two hanging compact hand-crossbows, a belt of potions, bag of holding, and more tools and weapons.

He was an adventurer. The only Gold-rank Antinium adventurer in existence. The only Antinium to ever leave his Hive and journey abroad, alone.

Ksmvr of the Horns of Hammerad.

There they stood, a trio—quartet if you counted the narrow-eyed Yinah, and sextet if you counted the mare and second camel resting around the fire—each one as striking and as different as they could be from each other.

Rémi Canada, unseen but audible to the audience, held up his hands.

“I’ve found you. I’m Rémi Canada, a [Journalist]—please, give me a second to speak?”

Nsiia’s eyes narrowed as she pointed directly at the viewers.

“What is that you’re holding?”

“A modified artifact. It’s a scrying mirror, but it’s not active!”

Nsiia had raised the shortbow she was carrying at the word ‘scrying mirror’. She aimed the arrow straight at Rémi’s chest.

“And how are we to know it’s not active?”

“Nsiia, I do not believe he would admit it is a scrying device if he intended to spy on us. He has already found our location and you believed he has been following us the last four days. If this is an ambush, we are already jeopardized. He would die, either way. Should we not hear him out?”

The Antinium spoke. Nsiia glanced at Ksmvr, and put up her bow again with a wry laugh.

“Well thought out, Ksmvr. Alright then. Explain yourself, Rémi Canada.”

The young man exhaled, and lowered the magical camera, with a telltale shaking until he steadied it. He approached, explaining.

“I’ve been trying to find you for nearly two weeks. As soon as I heard you’d escaped the Illivere Federation—before that, honestly. I was hoping to interview you. Or even have a chance to meet you. Now that you’re fleeing from Illivere, I hope you’ll…take me with you. I realize this is sudden, but I am a [Journalist]—I’ve written articles for newspapers and reported on Tiqr’s war. However, I believe you will be the story this world needs to hear. If you’ll let me accompany you and film what you do.”

Nsiia tossed her head back as she pointed to the fire. Domehead had already stepped backwards, in the shadow of the camp, as still as a statue, without the need to move, even to look around. However, his arms were cradled—the better for Yinah to curl up and nap in them. The Empress of Beasts glanced at Domehead and smiled.

“You found us, when at least three nations have hunters and trackers after us—and you want to accompany us into a warzone for a story? Hah! Well, I have heard of [Writers], [Historians], [Poets], and other fools trying the same. I also know your name, Rémi Canada. Sit, and I shall consider it.”

She gestured, and again, the viewpoint wobbled as Rémi hesitated. He coughed, and then spoke.

“—As a matter of fact, Empress Nsiia, I hate to contradict you, but I am not here to follow you, specifically. I was hoping to meet with…”

The camera swung left, and Nsiia’s look of shocked outrage was replaced by a puzzled Antinium. Ksmvr looked left, then at the camera. Then he pointed to himself with one of his hands.

“Me?”

And that, of course, was how it all began.

——

Ksmvr did not know Rémi Canada, except vaguely by name. The young man was interesting, at least as Humans went. Which was not very, to Ksmvr.

He could not fly, possess bodies, breathe acid, breathe underwater, smell what you had eaten yesterday, or so on. Also, Humans looked vaguely the same, but Ksmvr appreciated that not everyone could be Pisces.

Rémi was fascinating in that he had somehow sought out this small group, despite Nsiia’s best attempts to take them through the least-populated areas of Tiqr. She was native to this land and had chosen the most inhospitable terrain, the better to foil trackers. They had also moved at a near-gallop, albeit with Skills, the entire time.

Nevertheless, this young man had done what other [Trackers], [Hunters], and [Scouts] had not. He had already been on the way, and heading from the opposite direction, which helped, but he explained as he let his camel sit and took a seat next to the fire.

“I had to ride nearly day and night to catch you. I wouldn’t have dared try to catch up, but I have [Expeditious Traveller]—it’s helped me get around.”

Nsiia grunted, already in a dangerously bad mood. She sat, cross-armed and cross-legged, next to a bubbling pot of porridge by the small fire they’d made. Breakfast, in fact. They were travelling by night due to Ksmvr’s allergy to baking to death in the heat of the sun, but she’d sensed Rémi coming.

“Alone? Even when Tiqr was safe, I would have called you foolish without any escort. Monsters abound, especially near the borders of my empire…my former empire. How could you find us, nonetheless? Neither scrying spell nor Skill should let you follow me. A [Tracker] would not be able to hone onto me personally, only follow what little trail we have—and sand and camouflage take care of that.”

“You mean, because of your aura?”

Rémi angled the strange object he held and Nsiia glowered at it. It was, to Ksmvr’s eyes, a curious kind of box. He had seen what was surely part of a scrying mirror inside, but it was somehow attached to, or linked with, what looked like a glowing crystal, expertly cut into a rough sphere, but with smooth facets rather than perfect roundness, like some kind of extreme geometric object.

“My aura, yes. I am a monarch in class—even deposed of my throne. You either have a level beyond mine, or a different means.”

“Different means, Your Majesty. I’m…a [Journalist]. The Skill that led me here isn’t one that means you harm. Nor does it track you, specifically. It must not interfere with your aura. It’s called [Follow the Story].”

“Hah! Explain your class then. I’ve never heard of it. Is it like that…Drassi? Of Wistram News Network? Television?”

Ksmvr grew more interested as he sat around the warm fire. Rémi nodded, fishing out a flask of water but keeping his device perfectly level with what looked like practice.

“Yes, Empress Nsiia. It’s a class about news. About…truth, reporting events. A new class, in a sense. Not [Reporter]. Mine’s more of a derivation. A [Reporter] is on the scene, or someone who relays what’s happening to an audience, like television. My class writes news articles. Have you seen a newspaper?”

“That new thing? I saw a few articles.”

“Well, a [Journalist] researches, finds new stories for the public, be it through magazines, newspapers, the television…and I do think I may be the highest-levelled [Journalist] in this world.”

Nsiia’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and Ksmvr sat up at this claim. But Rémi didn’t appear to be attempting to deceive them, and he spoke very confidently indeed about such new things.

“Hah. So you find stories to tell? Why did you come to us? I will own that my flight from Illivere is news, as is Domehead. Ksmvr himself is a famed adventurer, but one who survived the raid on the Village of the Dead. We three all have tales to tell, but why Ksmvr?”

Nsiia couldn’t hide that she was peeved, and didn’t bother to try. Rémi glanced at Ksmvr, and angled the box towards him. Instantly, Nsiia moved her head left and towards it, scowling.

“What are you doing? What is that thing for?”

“Recording, Your Majesty.”

“Recording our positions?”

“No!”

Rémi shielded the box from her wrath. He explained, backing up.

“It’s not transmitting to Wistram or any other organization. I’d never do that—there is a thing known as ‘journalistic integrity’, Your Majesty! It is not my job to interfere like that unless I feel I have an ethical responsibility to do so—not in this case at all. This is a new artifact I commissioned, with almost all of my profits. Not a new one, in fact; an existing kind of magical device. It takes images and transfers them into this crystal, here.”

He tapped the rounded crystal very gently.

“[Mages] have had the magical acumen to broadcast images, record them, from creating pictures to full-scale images, for a long time. They have not created…media until very recently.”

“And you want to record Ksmvr? Why him? You are aware the King of Destruction has been wounded gravely in battle, aren’t you? There is a war in Terandria, unrest in Wistram of all places—a thousand and one great events. Why him?”

Ksmvr opened his mandibles.

“Yes, why me, Rémi Canada? You are surely aware of who I am?”

He looked at the young man and Rémi nodded.

“Ksmvr of the Horns of Hammerad, Gold-rank adventurer. Former or current member of the Hive of the Free Antinium, Liscor. I couldn’t identify which was true.”

“Former.”

Ksmvr was impressed by Rémi’s understanding, not to mention the gratifying speed and accuracy with which he spoke. Ksmvr liked that kind of person. Rémi reminded Ksmvr of Hedault, or Femithain, although the two other Humans were different in other ways.

“Why did you seek me out, Journalist Rémi? If you are aware that the Horns of Hammerad live, and I do believe it is an interesting news story of some small fascination, you surely should have sought out the more veteran and important members of my team. Captain Ceria Springwalker, Pisces Jealnet, or Yvlon Byres. Unless…I was the only one you could find?”

Rémi brushed at some hair in his face and shook his head. His eyes were intent on Ksmvr, searching him, but he kept as much attention on that little recording box. He hesitated, then angled it towards himself.

He had an odd tool for that. He could actually place the box on a long arm and hook with a lever that let it rotate back towards him, or to capture a sight that he couldn’t with only his arm for extension. He recorded himself now with the box as Nsiia scooted over so she was next to Ksmvr.

“I have heard credible reports that at least Pisces Jealnet and Yvlon Byres are alive. I can give them to you if you would like, Ksmvr. I assume you’re going after them?”

“That is my intention, yes.”

“Well, I would like to record that. I can’t fight, but I will find my own supplies. I can even offer to pay you, although it’s not much…”

“But why?”

Nsiia glowered at Rémi. He gave her a puzzled look, and realized Ksmvr also didn’t understand. He looked at Ksmvr, shaking his head slightly.

“Ksmvr—excuse me—do you have any last name, Ksvmr?”

“I do not. Antinium do not have last names. Ksmvr of the Free Antinium is a suitable appellation if you must give me one.”

Rémi nodded.

“Then that’s a fact I, and my audience, now know about Antinium, Ksmvr, where we knew virtually nothing before. You are the first Antinium willing to talk, an adventurer, an emissary of your people. This is the chance of a lifetime to show the world what Antinium are.”

Ksmvr found many fallacies in Rémi’s plan, though he had to admit, he understood the [Journalist]’s idea.

“I regret to inform you, Rémi Canada, that I am an outcast of my Hive.”

“Nevertheless, Ksmvr, there is no way for me to meet an Antinium under normal circumstances. I believe you could change the world’s perception of your species.”

“I see this one’s logic, Ksmvr.”

Nsiia leaned over, whispering. Ksmvr hesitated, then tilted his head slightly.

“Then you think we should let him accompany us, Nsiia?”

“Why not? This…what do you call your box, Journalist Canada?”

“Rémi is fine, Your Majesty. I call it a ‘camera’, although that’s more of a catchall term. Magic recorder would also do.”

“Then Nsiia is fine. It seems to me that since Ksmvr and I are thrown together by the whims of fate, your recordings might also detail Tiqr’s plight, mightn’t they? Or do you have no care for Tiqr?”

Rémi nodded at Nsiia.

“I reported on the war for Tiqr, Your Majesty.”

“I know. Then…?”

Rémi held up the box on the stick, which somehow stayed perfectly level despite his less-than-perfect motor control. A balancing spell, Ksmvr guessed.

“I would consider it as important a news story as that of interviewing the Antinium.”

Nsiia smiled, satisfied.

“Good. Then we shall eat, and break camp. We ride by night. Just what is it you want to do? Shall it interfere with us or will you just…watch?”

“If you’ll let me use whatever Skills you are employing, I will follow you, ask questions when you are free—I can eat by myself, but I also have supplies. If fighting breaks out—I am protected from some harm by my Skills. [Impartial Observer].”

Nsiia threw her head back.

“Hah! Now there’s a [Spy]’s Skill! What a curious coincidence. I shall allow it. Unless Ksmvr objects?”

She looked at him and Ksmvr hesitated. However, it did seem like Rémi Canada might be helpful, and if he had news of the others…Ksmvr nodded slowly.

“I shall allow it. Although I must inform you, Rémi Canada, that I am not part of Empress Nsiia’s movement to free Tiqr.”

“Really?”

Rémi focused on Ksmvr in an instant. Nsiia scowled.

“I consider Ksmvr a boon companion—”

“I am only coincidentally in the Empress’ company, due to shared pursuit. In fact, I would like to state that I am not part of any political or military movement in direct confrontation with other nations.”

“—a friend and comrade in arms, who has saved my life and I his.”

Nsiia shouted. Ksmvr saw Rémi track both of them, and then turn to Domehead.

“And Domehead? Isn’t he property of Illivere? Or, do you consider you’ve liberated him as a Sentient-class Golem?”

He swung back to Nsiia and Ksmvr in time to catch the way they looked at each other. Ksmvr hesitated.

“I did not free or liberate Domehead. Nor did Nsiia.”

“Yes…”

Nsiia turned back to Rémi, and Ksmvr saw her narrow her eyes with more than just annoyance or pique. She regarded him a bit more warily. Rémi eyed them.

“Then how did he come into your company? I would like the full story later, whenever you can give it to me.”

Nsiia frowned and crossed her arms again. Ksmvr scratched at his head. Already, he somewhat regretted his choice, but all he had to do was…be recorded? Surely, it was not a problem. So he shrugged.

“He followed us. I believe the dynamics and cultural significance of Golem-creation have not extended to Sentience-class Golems and am unsure of the exact positions in play. But it is my understanding that Nsiia is Domehead’s mother.”

He pointed at Nsiia. She blinked at him. Rémi blinked at Ksmvr. Domehead’s crystals winked in their dome. Ksmvr looked around, then went to eat breakfast.

——

It was at this point that Drassi fell out of her seat and hit the floor. The crash in the newsroom was accompanied by her swearing and two assistants rushing into frame to help her up. Drassi stood up, re-seated herself, and spoke.

“Uh…if you’re just tuning in, this is Drassi, and we just saw—I can only describe it as a recording of [Journalist] Rémi Canada meeting the Empress of Tiqr and Ksmvr—and a Golem named Domehead? This is…this is extraordinary! It’s like one of those recorded broadcasts, only—well, how did we get it?”

Another Drake hurried over to confer with Drassi, but the [Reporter] pointed him around. So the Drake gave a nervous report.

“Apparently—it was a, uh, delivery to the Mage’s Guild via a City Runner. It broadcast first on Visions of Chandrar—one of the competing news outlets.”

“I’ve never even heard of that one. Is it new? And then we got ahold of it?”

Drassi blinked. The Drake nodded. Drassi turned to the viewers, looking amazed.

“Well, there you have it. Rémi Canada is apparently travelling with the Empress of Beasts and Ksmvr—he’s a personal friend, I’ll have you know—in Chandrar! Expect more of these recordings to come. In fact, this one’s not over! So, uh…is this going to be a thing? Because I like it!”

She looked around, and there it was. It was a thing.

Not a movie. Not a television show, or news broadcast. Technically, if you had the terminology for it, it was a documentary, or a journalistic report. And it went around the world, mainly thanks to Drassi’s personal friendship with Rémi Canada that led her to copy the recording.

Also, the nature of the revolutionary little device Rémi had poured all of his income into producing. The documentary hit every major city, every person who could pay to see a broadcast of the recording, and even small villages where people now had a habit of gathering around the scrying orb to see interesting events, or even had it playing as they worked.

This is what they saw.

——

Nights of riding, days of rest. Or talking with Rémi. At first, it was disconcerting, him with his little box and how he asked questions and always pointed it at them.

But then Ksmvr and Nsiia got used to it, and she stopped trying to walk into every frame. In fact, they almost forgot about it. Not that it existed, but they never saw anything other than Rémi pointing it at them, so they began to just…act normally. After all, nothing ever came of it.

The first days of flight and adjusting to Chandrar’s challenges were over. Ksmvr had settled into a routine of travel across Chandrar, such that riding each night was involved, and chatter was minimal as they moved as fast as they could—besides, sand and the bumpy ride of Spitty, Ksmvr’s mortal nemesis, didn’t make for great chatter anyways.

They had some time to talk around fires or eating without fires, or before they broke camp or slept, but Rémi occupied that. He kept up well, despite being noticeably the weakest traveller among the group.

“I’m not used to travelling. I’ve done it before—but never at this intensity. I’ve gotten a lot of experience.”

That was his one comment around a breakfast of dried Yellats and dry jerky, followed by not-dry water. Nsiia quirked an eyebrow, amused.

“You’re too modest, Rémi. Even a trained [Warrior] would find this pace somewhat tiring. Ksmvr, how does it trouble you, if at all?”

“I hate Spitty.”

The camel turned his head from flirting with Sandi and spat. Ksmvr blocked it with his Forceshield and glared at the camel. Nsiia laughed. Yinah meowed, complaining at being woken up. She got to ride in a side-basket hanging, not on the mare’s flanks or Spitty’s side, but on the smoothest, most comfortable ride: around Domehead’s neck. Indeed, the Golem was carefully feeding Yinah bits of meat.

For some reason Rémi recorded that, then focused on the group. Nsiia stabbed the ground with her sheathed sword, and did a rough sketch in the dirt.

“We’ve circumnavigated much of Tiqr. I would have liked to ride through the heart of it—but now is not the time. We had to place distance between us and Illivere. Us and Savere, as well, which is why I held us so far north. There are garrisons in my empire as well—and no doubt Nerrhavia’s Fallen will be after us soon.”

“Are those the three groups most likely to pursue, in your mind, Nsiia?”

Rémi asked. He did talk and interject questions, but usually preferred to let Ksmvr or Nsiia fill the air. Nsiia scowled.

“Yes. The Siren personally wants me. Nerrhavia? They have an interest in keeping me from my people. Femithain wants Domehead, and he was responsible for my captivity. It falls on his head if we are not caught. So—three nations. There are smaller ones, but—peh.”

She turned her head and spat, to show how she cared for them. Ksmvr nodded.

“We are nearing your western border. What is the plan after that? Where are we bound? I am content to be headed in Pisces’ direction.”

Pisces was due west, headed towards Roshal, so Ksmvr had not objected. But Nsiia just sighed.

“I need my army. And they are here. To the west of Tiqr lies three major lands.”

She pointed, and Ksmvr and Rémi leaned forwards. Ksmvr was aware of the nations around Reim, having followed the King of Destruction’s war, but the rest of Chandrar was largely unknown to him. He knew Roshal was a harbor on the furthest west coast of Chandrar, the famous nation of slavers.

In the center of Chandrar was Zeikhal, the Great Desert that had devoured countless nations and was a no man’s land that few could survive the further in you went. But along the southern coast? Savere, then Nerrhavia’s Fallen to the east…tiny Pomle, Illivere, Tiqr, smaller nations, and then?

“The Kilalle Steppes border Zeikhal here, you see? They are a wild place—few permanent cities. No central ruler. Garuda territory. Their clans—groups of Garuda, much like your Gnolls—hold it. They have been friends to Tiqr more than enemies. It is here Vasraf and what remains of my armies hide.”

She pointed to the northwest of Tiqr. Then circled a section along the coast.

“Here lies another power we should be wary of, and why you should keep accompanying me, Ksmvr. The Empire of Scaied is a mercenary one, and they might well go after an Antinium alone for the bounty on his head. More than that? You helped me escape.”

“In fact, I merely waved my sword in the vague direction of—”

“Yes, yes. But they are enemies of Tiqr and you are an enemy of theirs by extension.”

“I object to this line of thought.”

Nsiia grinned at Ksmvr.

“Not everyone is as reasonable as you, Ksmvr. The Beitv Underlands are in the middle, there. Another land without a central great power, though they do have rulers…”

“Tell me about them.”

Ksmvr was fascinated. Nsiia shrugged and cast her eyes at the evening sky. They had an hour before the land cooled enough to ride.

“Shortly? Very well. The Empire of Scaied made war on Tiqr many times—and we them. They fight for coin. Mercenary—they clash with other kingdoms, raid, and sustain themselves by war. Tiqr does not, and we share opposing views. I thought they would attack Tiqr when the other nations made war, but they were busy enough not to join in.”

She grimaced.

“They have a number of unsavory features, and I do not have time to list their many faults.”

Ksmvr held up his hand.

“…Is this an unbiased opinion?”

Nsiia’s glare made him lower it after a few seconds. She poked holes in the little sketch of Scaied for a moment, then sighed.

“I wonder if you would like them, Ksmvr, or they you, without fear of the Antinium in name. You see—they do deal with creatures kin to yours. Or so I think. Giant scorpions, which they ride—somewhat like the Jaws of Zeikhal, but far smaller.”

Ksmvr looked at Nsiia. He frowned, drawing his mandibles together.

“I am not a scorpion.”

She blinked at him.

“Yes, but I meant you are like an insect. And a scorpion…”

“I am not a scorpion. No one rides Antinium.”

Ksmvr crossed his arms. Nsiia peered at him.

“Fine then. The Beitv Underlands might be more your folk.”

“Why?”

“Because they live underground.”

The [Brave Skirmisher] paused. He opened his mandibles, raised a finger, then crossed two arms.

“I admit, there is some correlation there.”

“It’s my understanding that the Beitv Underlands have never had a strong military presence or a large standing army, Empress Nsiia. How have they survived? Peace treaties? Economic strength? Skills?”

Rémi looked intrigued. Nsiia just laughed.

“Nothing so smart, Rémi! They survived because no one would bother to invade them. The Beitv Underlands have some wealth, but if anyone tries to conquer them, they collapse the tunnels and withdraw. You would have to take two armies—one to fight and one to dig!”

“Antinium could do it.”

Ksmvr spoke, and Rémi shifted the box to him.

“Do the Antinium have designs on Chandrar, Ksmvr?”

The Gold-rank adventurer hesitated. Ksmvr looked at Rémi, at the box. He shrugged.

“I am not a Queen of the Antinium. But we have designs on everywhere acceptable to be colonized. Chandrar is far away.”

Nsiia eyed him. Rémi nodded, but frowned.

“Yet the Antinium have a reputation for being a warlike, invasive people, Ksmvr. What would you say to that?”

Ksmvr gave him a blank look.

“We have invaded Izril by Drake and Human rhetoric. We did make war. We would move to Chandrar if we could, to establish new Hives, I believe. If possible.”

He fell silent. Rémi waited, then prompted him.

“And?”

“…That is what species do to live. The Gnolls left Izril. Someday, we may leave Izril too. If so, the Beitv Underlands might be a prime target.”

Ksmvr stared calmly into the camera. He chewed on his breakfast as even the Empress of Beasts gave him a troubled look. Then he amended his statement.

“Except that we would have to cross water. We hate water. I hate water.”

——

Rémi Canada’s first documentary came out after a lot of drama and news around the Meeting of Tribes, to substantially less fanfare and instant attention. That it even got coverage was thanks to Drassi, but it didn’t have every eye glued on it, like, say, watching Foliana of the Forgotten Wing Company, Three-Color Stalker, try to throw peanuts at Grand Magus Eldavin did.

…Through the scrying orb. As if she could somehow toss a nut across the world and onto the other projection just because they were presented side-by-side in the same picture. Which demonstrated her lack of spatial understanding vis-à-vis the perspective of a camera, or her own misplaced confidence in her Skills. Or just her desire to toss shelled peanuts at [Mages] who annoyed her.

That was hugely interesting to any audience, no matter who you were, and had happened on the news. Live. Including such memorable scenes as the [King] of Pheislant, who was currently divorced, maybe, possibly, definitely asking both Queen Geilouna of Desonis and Strategist Perorn of the Forgotten Wing company out on a date.

And being shot down. By flaming arrows. That was another event from the news, and the Meeting of Tribes. So you could see why, frankly, even though Ksmvr was in the news, and Nsiia and Domehead, it wasn’t as instantly eye-catching.

Moreover, Wistram and the other news networks, which were becoming more mainstream television, were learning a lesson—their audiences did need breaks. They could only show so much high-drama before being tuned out.

Enter Rémi Canada’s first foray into the documentary. Was it at the worst possible time? Or…best?

There was something that made the documentary do the rounds on the other channels. It was just…well, a lot of quiet. Actual conversations, rather than a bloody battle. Like the opening, sometimes Rémi and the others just rode and the view was of Chandrar’s landscapes, the vivid sky, or capturing a conversation.

Because, crucially, Rémi Canada’s recordings were not edited. It was up to anyone who received a copy of the magical image to do so—or not at all. He didn’t have the magical acumen to do so, so, very interestingly, some groups chose to play it wholesale, and to their interest, they found audiences willing to watch someone just ride across Chandrar for an entire day in the background.

And—coincidentally—watch Ksmvr, Nsiia, and Domehead. None of the people being filmed really understood who was watching them. They didn’t stop near Mage’s Guilds or civilization. They were certainly staying away from scrying orbs, which, by now, everyone sort of knew could be reverse-engineered to spy on the user. And ‘everyone’ was really just anyone with a modicum of power or connection to a group with any military might or secrets they didn’t want revealed.

The only person who could chart any of this was Rémi Canada. And he was just the journalist, film crew, and passenger in this adventure together.

——

Ksmvr observed a few qualities about Rémi after two days of travel. First, the [Journalist] possessed a number of interesting abilities, both in Skills and developed by his profession.

He was able to keep up well with Nsiia, Domehead, and Ksmvr, despite being the least-conditioned of the group. Ksmvr could ride Spitty until the camel dropped dead, but Nsiia made sure they got plenty of rest, and he was a [Skirmisher] over Level 30, and had Antinium biology designed to weather most extremes.

Short of heatstroke, he could keep on going. Nsiia was the Empress of Beasts and Chandrar was her home. She could sleep in the saddle, and her faithful animal companions had extra intelligence and strength due to her presence.

Domehead was a Golem. He could run all day and all night. So even Yinah looked perkier than Rémi after a day of hard riding. Nevertheless, he kept up.

“I’ve done some hard riding. Unless you have an escort, you have to bounce around for stories.”

“And you seek those out.”

Ksmvr was riding Spitty, side-by-side with Rémi and his camel, Sandi.

Spitty and Sandi. He kept trying to ride closer and Ksmvr kept pulling him away. The camel turned his head to glare at Ksmvr, and the Antinium offered him a Yellat to eat. Spitty hated Yellats.

“I had to, right when I was starting out. Newspapers were not in circulation, nor was the television. I actually went from city to city with a little news bulletin—I made a small profit selling them to [Merchants] and people who were interested in my writing.”

“Fascinating. And you did this alone?”

Rémi hesitated. He had his magic-camera out, and it was on that swivel-stick that let it film both Ksmvr, the camels, and him.

“I had companions. At first. They died.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

Rémi’s face had gone guarded. Ksmvr saw him nod, slowly, and look at Ksmvr.

“May I ask a question? Did any Antinium leave the Free Hive but you?”

“No. I was exiled.”

“Really? May I ask why?”

“…Gross incompetence.”

Nsiia turned in her saddle. Rémi raised his eyebrows.

“Really? But you’re a Gold-rank adventurer. You seem to be one of the most competent the Antinium could hope for—every species and nation respects Gold-ranks. I also thought you once threatened to start a war in the name of the Hives?”

Ksmvr felt unpleasantly warm, despite the cold air. He shrugged.

“…That was a bluff.”

“Really? A bluff?”

Nsiia cackled with delight. Rémi smiled.

“And you don’t mind sharing that to our audience?”

Ksmvr hesitated.

“—Ah. Will many people see this? In that case, I would like you to remove this commentary.”

“Could I persuade you to keep it in?”

“I would prefer you to remove it. Threatening war is a viable tactical advantage. Psychologically.”

Rémi coaxed Ksmvr into allowing him to keep it in. Ksmvr relented because his war threats had backfired and he’d been cautioned by Captain Ceria not to do that too often anymore. He tried to go back to Ksmvr’s expulsion.

“I have heard that other Antinium have left the Free Hive in some way. Bird the Hunter. So others have exited.”

“Yes, but their situations were not analogous to mine. You asked, specifically, if any had left with me. They did not. I was exiled. Their status is less directly related to that.”

“May I ask what that is?”

Ksmvr thought for a second. He prodded his stomach. And found he didn’t want to talk about it.

“You may. I decline to answer.”

Rémi nodded. He changed tack instantly. He was tactful, and had already managed to get Nsiia’s account of Tiqr’s fall out of her. Ksmvr was surprised to hear the Empress of Beasts relay her view of how the war had gone.

“—I never thought Tiqr was doomed, Journalist Canada.”

“No, Your Majesty? But you could see the odds stacked against Tiqr from the outset. Surely you heard your [Strategist] and [General]’s commentary. Did General Vasraf ever advise you to sue for peace?”

Nsiia threw her head back, eyes blazing.

“Peace? That would have looked much like what we see now! At best, I would have been a puppet on the throne, but the other nations in the coalition did not make war just to stop me from allying with Flos Reimarch. They did it to take Tiqr, which they wanted. Let us not play games.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. But the odds…?”

Nsiia sighed.

“I thought if I bled them, wounded them in great battles, they would relent. If one hound in the pack falls away, the next is more likely to follow. Even Nerrhavia’s hordes would not eagerly come one after another, not with the King of Destruction in the north. If I could do it again, I would sue for peace, if only to avoid the needless losses. Does that answer your question?”

The young man nodded, focusing on her face for a moment.

“Yes, thank you. And your plans next?”

She smiled thinly.

“That will wait until we find Vasraf. I do not trust you that much, Rémi Canada.”

She met his grey-violet eyes with hers, and Rémi ducked his head. Which led Ksmvr into his question.

“Violet eyes are not a natural color amongst Humans except when exposed to some magic, in their heritage or otherwise. May I ask your heritage, Rémi Canada? You do not appear to be natively Chandrarian.”

That was a guess based on skin tone and the fact that Rémi didn’t seem as used to the glare of the sun as even Chandrarians of his skin color were. The young man hesitated.

“—My eyes aren’t inherited, Ksmvr. They changed color due to one of my Skills.”

“Ah. Interesting. Which one? Unless it is secret.”

“No. I can share that. [Eyes of Personality]. It’s…call it a Skill fit for a journalist. It was one of the earlier Skills I got.”

Ksmvr nodded politely and added it to his lexicon of eye-based Skills. He concluded his observation.

Rémi Canada was a good deceiver. Not by outright lie, but by omission. He side-stepped, like Pisces could do with his rapier and footwork. He had things he did not want to say, like Ksmvr, who ignored or declined all of Rémi’s questions about the inner workings of Antinium Hives, and so on.

If anything, the most honest person here was Nsiia. Domehead could not talk, but ironically, Ksmvr realized the Empress of Beasts was fairly honest. She had been careful with Femithain, but he had never seen her do anything that was duplicitous, save when she needed to hide something. She was no manipulator.

Indeed, she was much like Spitty or Yinah. They did not pretend. Spitty spat at Ksmvr before the Antinium got on his back and kicked sand on Ksmvr’s bedroll. Yinah would hiss and scratch at you if she did not want pets or cuddles.

Ksmvr…thought it was nice that Nsiia was like animals. He disagreed. Deception was a key element of warfare. But he liked it in Nsiia.

——

Even in how she fought, Nsiia was straightforward. She feinted, drawing her sword back for a strike. She pretended to favor her left leg after Ksmvr struck her a lucky blow with a practice sword, then exploded outwards with a leaping slash.

…But these were not deceptions and Ksmvr said as much. With a laugh, Nsiia planted the wooden blade in the sand. She had grabbed everything she could from Femithain’s mansion that might be useful. Fearing she wouldn’t find an actual sword, she’d grabbed the lead-weighted training blades Armsmaster Dellic had given her to practice with Ksmvr.

“How else should I lie in combat, Ksmvr? Ask you politely to block my thrust, then slash you from another direction?”

Ksmvr shook his head.

“No. But there is a nuance to combat you lack. Feinting is one thing.”

“And what else is th—”

He kicked sand into her face and she howled and slashed at the air. Ksmvr darted left, swinging low at her legs. That was how he’d do it if he got this chance. Take away her mobility, because Nsiia could leap around and almost match him. He cut in—

She blocked his sword without seeing it, hand wiping grit out of her gaze. Then followed it up with a roaring slash. Ksmvr jumped back, but he’d taken a blow across his chest.

“Point. I fear that—”

“You Manticore-kissed bastard! My eyes!”

Nsiia’s flying kick hit him in the chest. Ksmvr ran as she chased him with her sword for a good half a minute. Rémi was just watching. When she had calmed down, Nsiia pointed at Ksmvr.

“That was a dirty trick. It does not become a warrior of Tiqr.”

“But it worked.”

Ksmvr rejoined. Nsiia narrowed her gaze dangerously as Yinah dragged over a water bottle so she could rinse her face.

“If that is your lie, I do not do it, Ksmvr. I would consider tossing grit, changing weapons, but not attacking when I or another brave warrior parlayed.”

“Then that is the difference between adventurers and warriors.”

“Hah.”

She took a gulp of water and splashed some on her face. Then she pointed her sword.

“Come out and let’s finish our spar.”

“…Not if you are angry. This is only for practice.”

Nsiia tilted her head and smiled thinly.

“I am not angry, Ksmvr.”

“You sound like you are lying now.”

“Come on out.”

“No.”

Ksmvr was hiding behind Domehead. The Golem had watched the spar, and was now regarding Ksmvr as he poked his head out from behind the giant Golem. Nsiia pursed her lips.

“What if I ask Domehead to take over sparring?”

“…He does not need to do that. You do not need to do that, Domehead. You have no muscles to train.”

“He could practice by hitting you.”

“Domehead would not do that. We are friends, tempered by adversity. This is so, Domehead.”

Ksmvr patted Domehead on the shoulder. The Golem didn’t really have a head to turn since his neck and head were a giant dome, but his body twisted slightly from Nsiia to Ksmvr, clearly confused.

Nsiia glared.

——

Training with Nsiia was one of the things Ksmvr did regularly, in hopes of improving. The other thing they did on their march was talk to Rémi. The third, other than mundane activities like riding, feeding, resting, excreting, and so on?

Train Domehead. Nsiia had taken Ksmvr’s words to heart. She did not recite the lullaby or oath as when she first called Domehead a child of Tiqr. Ksmvr suspected she felt Rémi’s eyes and camera on her, since he did see her take Domehead aside in private before they slept and rose.

What she did with them was talk to Domehead; though, the Golem seldom said anything.

“A warrior fights, Domehead. You are a Golem; I, an [Empress]. It is not either of our duties to fight without end. A [Soldier] knows only war and service until they rest. You will not be asked to do the same, and a [Soldier] will rest and retire, or else their life is one thing. Remember that. Someday you will put down the blade. You may be a guardian, a protector of the innocent. Spare no quarter when you fight monsters and horrors. When you fight warriors, offer them mercy. That is not weakness. That is honor.”

Domehead said nothing. Nsiia raised her voice.

“Honor is sparing a foe who asks for surrender. Honor is turning your blade when you can, and sparing the ground their blood. Honor is not kicking sand in someone’s face when you are talking.”

Ksmvr turned to Rémi.

“I think she is still angry. Nsiia, was that directed at me?”

“Why would you think so, Ksmvr? Not at all.”

“I feel as though you are now lying.”

“I am not.”

“I suspect that is a lie, too.”

The [Journalist]’s lips quirked. Yet, the idle banter was broken as Ksmvr, now riding on Domehead’s other side, across from Nsiia for his safety and petting Yinah’s head, spoke.

“Domehead. When a warrior surrenders, watch them to make sure they do not pick up their blade and stab you in the back. That may be a cunning feint. I would surrender to you, and then escape, or use a Skill to attack you. Flee, if I thought I could not win.”

“Do not teach him that!”

Nsiia snapped at Ksmvr. The Antinium saw Domehead turn to her. He could not speak, and he had yet to express himself, but Ksmvr thought that the way Domehead faced was a good clue as to what the Golem preferred. Another nuance was how many lights shone in Domehead’s ‘head’, and the crystals lit up most when Nsiia spoke. They went dark as Domehead turned to Ksmvr, with the Golem’s inherited disapproval.

Yet Ksmvr was determined.

“I am not teaching you my scurrilous ways, Nsiia. I am educating Domehead. He would take your words literally, and a foe would take advantage of that. You do not understand how Golems think. I do.”

She blinked. Ksmvr saw her eyes flicker to Domehead, and after a second the Empress of Beasts went on.

“—Many enemies will do that. It shows their dishonor, so yes, as Ksmvr says, I never lower my guard. But there are honorable warriors, Domehead, and I trust them. Sometimes, I realize they may dishonor themselves for what they see as a greater need. Other times, when they act dishonorably, they reveal themselves, and that is a tragedy. Even so, I do not regret sparing lives. It is the mark that separates us from blood-thirsty monsters.”

She patted her mare’s neck.

“Even wolves and other animals do it. They surrender and are spared. To kill without need, or for only the sport, the joy of death, is cruelty, and that is a thing of people. And animals who know enough to be so cruel. And cats.”

She looked pointedly at Yinah. The cat stretched out her claws. Ksmvr held her up.

“You would not do that, would you, Yinah? Kill for sport?”

“She would kill an entire population of creatures just to satisfy her hunting desires. She is a lady of death without mercy or compassion and only bloodlust, Ksmvr.”

Nsiia warned him. Yinah purred innocently. Ksmvr cuddled her. He completely missed her narrowing her eyes and nodding in his arms.

——

Between all these day-to-day activities, by the time Rémi Canada stopped and announced he needed to send the first recording crystal off, they were in the Kilalle Steppes.

The ground had risen, and grown less dry, actually. Ksmvr was used to Tiqr’s arid climes near the nation’s border. Literal desert and just cracked dirt, broken up by the rare oasis. Nsiia told him there were actual rivers and such closer in, but he hadn’t seen that since they had to flee her homeland.

But the Kilalle Steppes rose slightly, and then turned into brush. Not super-green brush, granted, but a kind of yellow, tough plant that hinted to Ksmvr that this place got some kind of rain.

And oh, it went on forever. Flat, leading into the occasional hilly area, but with that disconcerting effect. Ksmvr did see landmarks far, far in the distance, but Nsiia explained that the Kilalle Steppes were a vast piece of land.

“There are noticeable things to see, Ksmvr. But so spread out—this is ideal ground for Vasraf and my army to hide. This is also the territory of Garuda clans. They hold the skies; we may see a few.”

“Will they be hostile?”

She thought and answered simply.

“Not to me, most likely. They have always respected Tiqr. Some might be tempted by the lure of money, but Tiqr has been friend to Garuda and I do not think they would cast that aside. They will not necessarily be allies.”

In fact, they ran into the first Garuda clan within five hours of entering the first real areas of that grassy biome. Ksmvr took it as a lesson. One second he was staring around, watching for danger as always; the next, someone screamed.

It was a bird’s cry mixed with a voice. Ksmvr looked up.

“Garuda?”

But he hadn’t seen anything in the skies! And that was because he hadn’t been looking. Ksmvr stared up, wildly, and saw a patch of the grey-blue heavens move.

A Garuda banked, and flew left—he or she had been far distant and to the west, but even so, Ksmvr might have spotted them. Yet the Garuda had been camouflaged in the sky. They had feathers that were a darker blue than the sky, but…

Nsiia grinned at Ksmvr’s confusion.

“You think Garuda can’t hide? The sky is to them what a patch of grass or shadow is to us, Ksmvr.”

“I have been humbled.”

Ksmvr murmured. He stared up, and saw Nsiia raise her hand; the Garuda was already flying back, but she seemed to think she’d be seen. He stared at the sky, and, no less than twenty one minutes later, saw the clan coming in.

They flew in fast. As fast as, well, birds. Maybe not as fast as some birds in flight; they had a slower air speed due to their size and what they carried. But as fast as horseback riders? At least.

They came swooping down so fast Ksmvr resolved never to drop his guard if Garuda might be about. Here was a people who had [Skirmisher] in their very biology.

“Travellers below, do you fly in peace or war?”

A voice shouted from up above. Nsiia had her hand lifted. She beamed upwards.

“Only wings of peace for the clans of Kilalle! Don’t you recognize me, sky-friends?”

The other Garuda circled, and one folded his wings and dove. Ksmvr stared up, thinking how much Bird would like to see this. And how good it was Bird wasn’t here. He saw the Garuda pull up sharply and hover in the air, flapping his wings. He stared, narrow eyed, at Ksmvr, Domehead, and Rémi with clear suspicion. Then he did a double-take in the air. He looped a quick arc and shouted.

“Featherfriend, I’m as blind as a Human! Is it true? The Empress of Beasts! You did escape Illivere!”

His shout caused exclamations from above. More Garuda dove, and the rest broke off.

In minutes, they were landing, striding forwards a bit awkwardly to clasp Nsiia’s hand with their wing-arms. Not necessarily their talons—they touched forearm to forewing or simply bowed.

Nsiia hadn’t lied. The Garuda were delighted to see her. One pointed back the way they’d flown from.

“The rest of our clan will want to see you, Empress of Beasts. Will you eat with us?”

Nsiia smiled, eyes bright with emotion at the warm welcome.

“Not more than a meal, I fear. Which clan is this? I must find Vasraf—if you know where he is, I beg you for information. And are my companions welcome?”

The Garuda who had swept downwards had a bow on his back. Just a bow, Ksmvr noted. No blade, nothing more than a single potion at his belt.

No armor, no bag of holding. Of course, he might not be able to afford the bag of holding, but nothing else? Ksmvr found it odd because all of the Garuda literally carried one or two items at most. The warrior nodded slowly.

“Oh, the clan will want to see this. But if you vouch they’re featherfriends, they’re welcome, Empress.”

“They are.”

And that was that. Ksmvr got his answer to the odd attire of the Garuda as soon as he saw their clan.

More Garuda rose in the distance, a huge flight, to meet Nsiia. They landed, gaping at her, asking questions, and staring, not least at Ksmvr and Domehead. The rest of the clan stayed with their mobile camp.

Travelling animals. Beasts of burden like oxen carrying wagons. Even, Ksmvr saw, platforms that were very wide and could only travel on this kind of flatland without fear of falling or breaking or getting stuck.

This was how a Garuda clan lived. They flew almost nonstop, carrying very little to ease their burdens. Supplies, baggage, all went slowly below with herds of animals. In that way, any enemy would have to both evade their warrior patrols and make it through countless miles of aerial harassment to attack anything valuable if they couldn’t fly or attack back.

At night, Garuda slept on the ground and were at their most vulnerable. Rich clans could afford a kind of aerial sleeping encampment or formal bases, or, if Garuda had a city or settlement, they obviously moved from shelter to shelter.

They were sort of like Gnolls of Izril, but only in that both were nomadic and centered around groups. In fact, Ksmvr understood that their greeting and interactions with Nsiia were an exception; they landed to speak with her, when most would conduct their conversations airborne.

“A single warrior might speak with you to learn your intentions. You could attack them, in which case her friends will shoot you full of arrows or fly off, well out of range. There is a reason why few nations dare the Kilalle Steppes, even with great armies.”

Nsiia remarked drily. Ksmvr nodded.

“Yet, surely, Garuda have not conquered the world because they have a weakness.”

“In the air? No fiercer foe. Not your Oldblood Drakes or people with artifacts or riding steeds. But Garuda must sleep and land at some point. That’s when [Generals] across every age strike. They do better when mixed with Humans or another force on the ground. Many flew in Tiqr’s defense…but the other nations brought Garuda and archers too.”

Nsiia sighed. However, she beamed as an old Garuda chieftain flew forwards to greet her. Garuda didn’t hug, Ksmvr noticed. Weaker bones and feathers too easily ruffled; they made much with their wing-arms, though, and could perform amazing gestures, riffling their feathers to add to an emotion they were displaying.

The clan offered food, conversation, and a direction to take. They actually had heard of Vasraf striking back, liberating Tiqr’s people from slavery, but they’d fled a massive counter force weeks ago.

“If they are anywhere, here, in the foothills, is a good bet. But you will find more clans. We shall tell them the Empress rides for her kingdom and send you support!”

“Not aid. Not yet. The wind is not in your favor, Empress, and we did not fly for you before. Apologies, but that is how it must be.”

Another Garuda had come forwards to speak with Nsiia and she was nodding to both the old leader, and the second Garuda, who had an odd sureness to the ground that her kin lacked.

“Your goodwill is all I can ask at this time. Perhaps later—but here is one you should meet. Adventurer Ksmvr, I introduce you to Skyleader Rekai—”

The old Garuda who had white and black feathers, almost like a seagull’s, eyed Ksmvr, and held out a claw. Ksmvr shook it.

“—and Landguide Heka.”

Heka, the younger Garuda, was in her forties, and walked over to take Ksmvr’s hand with more firmness. He was interested.

“And who rules this clan?”

Both Garuda laughed with a familiar, light humor.

“He must be from Izril, if his being so odd wasn’t proof enough.”

Skyleader Rekai commented. Nsiia nodded with a grin. She gestured to Rekai, whom Ksmvr had thought was the Garuda’s equivalent of a [Chieftain] due to his age and the respect of others.

“Rekai governs the sky, Ksmvr. Heka, the land. It is a leadership of two.”

“What if the two disagree? Surely there must be a first among equals.”

Ksmvr was fascinated. Rekai and Heka exchanged glances that looked knowing.

“If sky and land disagree, one does what one thinks is best and the other must adapt or be blown away. Sometimes they quarrel completely independently, but neither can do without the other. Heka knows animals. I know air currents, sky battles, and I don’t presume to tell her where animals rest.”

Nsiia smiled, and Heka nodded, a respectful smile on her face. Even so, when they turned to have food brought out, Nsiia whispered to Ksmvr in a low voice.

“She is the power on the land, but Garuda who tend to animals or can’t fly are not as well respected. Bear that in mind.”

“Ah. And all landfolk would be…”

Nsiia laughed.

“Exactly. Can you blame them?”

She looked up. Rémi was capturing the Garuda doing amazing, three-dimensional maneuvers in the air just for fun. Ksmvr looked up and felt a pang of envy for once, even though he was no Bird. He could jump, but the Garuda had an entire other dimension, only partially touched by gravity, for them to explore.

“We’ll tell other clans you are coming, so you aren’t mistaken. Even, perhaps, send word to your [General], Empress. But let us ask this Antinium more questions! Are your people truly not going to invade?”

“I do not think that is germane at this given time, Skyleader Rekai. Rest assured, I will inform you if this changes.”

The Garuda laughed in disbelief, opening and closing his beak, which had a small crack from years of combat. He pointed, and the other Garuda, many flying even as they listened, laughed.

“He doesn’t speak like I thought he would! The Black Tide—I imagined you would be like Crelers.”

“We would resent the comparison. Antinium hate Crelers as much as any species. More.”

Ksmvr found that, to his amazement, he really was the source of fascination. And…a bit of uncomfortable fascination too. For the Garuda possessed little of the fear other species had for him. In fact, some muttered a bit, loud enough for him to hear.

“If you stare at it from high enough, it looks like a snack. I don’t see how the Drakes ever lost to…”

Ksmvr…did not think they meant that in a complimentary way towards him. He was uncomfortable. And unfortunately, reminded of Apista whenever the Antinium were present.

At least the lack of fear was a pleasant change. And there were supplies to be traded to supplement their dwindling food supply. In fact, Rémi sent off his first recording crystal to one of the Garuda, who was a City Runner—albeit in their sense.

“Don’t worry. Hey, I know you, Journalist Canada! I’m going to be the talk of the Runner’s Guild! I’m experienced. I fly between clans often, but that just means I’m one of the best Garuda since I’m fast, even for my kind! Alright, let me repeat the order. Send a [Message] spell to Wistram, the newspaper, a Drassi…”

Rémi watched the Garuda take off with the first crystal, but he exhaled once the runner was out of sight. Ksmvr was surprised.

“Have we done enough to warrant a first recording, Journalist Canada?”

The young man blinked at him.

“For a first one, of course! This is just the opening. I think we’ll have many more, and I don’t want a backlog.”

Ksmvr thought he was overestimating the appeal, but he didn’t dwell on it. Nsiia led them on after only an hour of talk, and warned both Garuda they might run into pursuit. The clan assured her—they didn’t care. No pursuers were likely to trouble them.

On they went. Three more days after that. But that little event with Rémi’s crystal?

It changed everything.

——

They continued. Nsiia was training Domehead on the third day as Ksmvr combed Yinah’s fur. She was educating the Golem, a bit overly-patient in her tone.

“It is a splendid block, Domehead. Now, attack—good.”

The Golem attacked, swinging his battleaxe into a blow that stopped a good three feet from Nsiia. The problem was he was too strong, and they had no practice weapons for him. More than that?

Domehead simply didn’t learn like Ksmvr or Nsiia. He did not speak, so even Ksmvr couldn’t tell if he took everything they said to heart.

Nor was he instantly able to communicate via Ksmvr’s clever idea, which was Mrsha’s hand-signals. He had tried to teach Domehead a few, like ‘yes’ or ‘no’. But even then…the Golem didn’t respond, even when asked a question.

If it frustrated his caretakers and companions, they still did their best. Nsiia was attempting to add nuance into Domehead’s attack routines. Ironically, this was what the Golem did well. She moved her blade to parry the strike, and stopped him.

“No, you moved into the low-cut. I don’t know what Femithain called it, but next time, change your attack.”

Domehead’s head lit up brightly, as it did when the Golem was ‘focused’. Nsiia explained.

“It is too obvious. I fought Golems in Tiqr’s war, and other times besides. They can be splendidly fast, and attack with all the precision engineered into them. Even by [Golem Artificers].”

She sneered at that.

“Especially if they base it off actual warriors. You were made without flaw, and they did not sacrifice ability for some odd quirk in you. Even so—I can tell where you are going to attack. Come, attack.”

Domehead did. Nsiia moved her sword unerringly in the direction of each of his strikes, even when he halted mid-swing or changed it into another routine.

“I know every pattern because you took it from me, and Femithain gave it to you. Which is not a poor thing, but you do not surprise your foe.”

“Deception.”

The Antinium happily called from his seat. Nsiia scooped up a clod of dirt and hurled it at Ksmvr. He ducked. The Antinium saw Nsiia turn, exasperated, as Domehead froze, seeming to attempt to internalize her suggestions.

“Do you have anything to add, Ksmvr? I don’t know how to explain it like a…a Golem would know. Or an Antinium.”

Ksmvr tilted his head as Yinah scratched him lightly to remind him who was most important here. He went back to combing her fur.

“Only that you state that Domehead has a lack of deception and the unpredictability of non-Golem warriors. I would add to that: his attack patterns are not that refined. He is a capable warrior, but he does not fight like he could.”

Nsiia scowled.

“He fights better than any veteran [Soldier] below Level 30!”

“Yes…but by virtue of an aggressive offense that makes use of his reach and strength.”

The Empress of Beasts stared at Ksmvr as Rémi Canada, yawning, leaned against Sandi. Spitty trotted over, saw Rémi making moves, and spat all over the [Journalist]’s arm.

“They based his attacks and patterns on my fighting, and Armsmaster Dellic’s, Ksmvr. Neither of us take an axe as our primary weapon, but we are quite good with them.”

Nsiia put her hands on her hips, looking dangerously peeved. Ksmvr nodded.

“Yet Domehead would still lose to any [Blademaster]. Or even a suitably skilled [Swordsman].”

“Really. Then show me how Domehead should be attacking.”

“I do not know how to use an axe properly. I am only pointing out—do not hit me. I have Yinah. Do not hit—”

He was running away from Nsiia, Yinah raised as a shield, when someone blew a long, warbling horn. Nsiia lowered her practice sword. Domehead lifted his axe, turning, and Rémi spun. Spitty spat and hit him on the face this time, but the [Journalist], Ksmvr, Nsiia, and Domehead were all turning.

“Already?”

Nsiia whispered. Ksmvr saw her drop the practice sword, then raise a hand. He looked across the wide steppes, across the dry grass, and saw, in the distance, a small, dark outline amid the grass.

Only one figure. From there came the horn. Then—another call. Then another. Yet Ksmvr was confused, because he saw only one figure.

A man on horseback, although that was only a guess based on the way Nsiia began to run forwards, arm raised. He was riding hard, straight towards her, yet now, as Ksmvr ran forwards too, and hopped on Spitty’s back, he saw no horn in hand.

“Nsiia. This may be a trick. Domehead, do not follow her. Prepare for ambush.”

Nsiia didn’t turn. She was racing forwards, and that lone figure just rode at her. Rémi didn’t mount up. He swept his eyes towards Ksmvr, saw the Antinium halt, warily, and just recorded the moment.

They were so far away that even as both figures ran, Nsiia on foot, the man on horseback, it was minutes before they met. That dot of a figure never changed, even as it slowly grew, revealing the flash of armor, twinned shortswords, a bow, and patterned clothing, worn from battle. Ksmvr couldn’t make out the face yet, but he heard more hunting horns blowing.

Yet only one man rode forwards. Ksmvr heard other sounds now. Whoops. Wild shouting. Voices shouting someone’s name.

Nsiia. No—they didn’t call her that.

“—press! Empress of—!”

It sounded like thousands. But where…?

At last, Ksmvr figured it out. In Rémi’s camera, the truth was revealed as well. The stalks of short, yellowed grass in the Kilalle Steppes were flattening, moving behind the single rider in a huge pattern. As if something was pushing it down. Like a wave, with him at the fore.

It was a hypnotic sight. Only as General Vasraf of Tiqr finally came within the last thousand paces of Nsiia did his Skill finally lift and reveal who was making all that noise.

Like they suddenly had appeared out of an invisible mist, an army materialized behind the [General], riding horses, camels, racing along with war-dogs, even strange, canine-feline animals that Ksmvr knew were Tiqr’s hyenas. He saw one group of [Riders] screaming Nsiia’s name riding a mix of strange animals, from an impossibly dark Nightmare, to a striped horse.

There were two Grand Elephants, who began trumpeting, carrying a small host on their backs, armed with bows. But all of them were running at Nsiia, who howled as she raised her arm. Vasraf was the first to meet Nsiia, leaping from his horse, yet it was the stallion who stopped first and, without prompting, knelt.

Vasraf halted on the ground, the [General] looking weary, haggard from months of guerilla warfare. It seemed like part of that wounded exhaustion fled as he looked at Nsiia, then began to sink to one knee.

“Vasraf.”

She caught his arm and held him. The Empress of Beasts looked past him, at the army that swirled around her, cheering, shouting, reaching for her, then falling silent. She looked at him, and then embraced him.

“You kept faith.”

“How could I not?”

Ksmvr, Rémi, and Domehead all watched as Nsiia turned, tears in her eyes. She raised her hand, and the soldiers and civilians, Tiqr’s last army, looked at her.

She made no speeches, as if this was the right place to suddenly orate with a speaking Skill. She had no famous quote, probably rehearsed, to say now. All Nsiia did was raise her hand into the air and shout one word.

“Tiqr!”

The army looked at her, and then they and whatever audience watching was there, back in time when Nsiia had walked out of the gates of her city. The Empress of Beasts waited a heartbeat, then thrust her hand into the air, higher.

“Tiqr!”

This time, Vasraf shouted the word with her, and many people around her. Once more, Nsiia threw up her arm, and this time, animals howled and brayed and everyone shouted it, so loudly even the Kilalle Steppes heard it.

“TIQR!”

That was how Nsiia Oliphant returned to her people. The Empress of Beasts, freed from her captivity, reunited with her army and greatest [General], on a mission to free her nation and people or die trying.

Ksmvr had completely forgotten that was who she was. She was just Nsiia, to him. Who got mad, laughed, and rode about like another adventurer or a simple warrior.

Ah, but that was because he hadn’t seen her in the context of who she was. Her class. An [Empress] needed a people, or it was just a name.

She returned to Ksmvr, Rémi, and Domehead as that person, head held high, changed in a moment. As if, Ksmvr thought, someone had suddenly thrown something around her shoulders. A heavy weight. Not simply a burden, because it added something to her.

“I believe it is customary to kneel in front of royalty. Or at this moment.”

He murmured to Rémi. Ksmvr knelt as General Vasraf and the [Soldiers] followed Nsiia. Ksmvr saw Domehead hesitate, then kneel. Rémi copied him.

The Antinium tugged on Spitty’s reins, expecting him to kneel. Even Sandi knelt, like the horses. Spitty took one look at the procession of the Empress of Beasts, turned his head, and spat on Ksmvr’s head.

“Mweh.”

Sandi made a sound as Ksmvr stared up at Spitty and his archrival smugly bared his teeth. How could a camel look smug? Very easily.

Nsiia laughed as she saw the sight. She strode forwards, and tugged at Domehead to bring the Golem up. Then she turned.

“You do not have to kneel to me, friends. You never did, and I consider you equals. Rise, and let me introduce you to my people. Vasraf, here are the people who accompanied me out of Illivere. Yinah, a brave little cat. Domehead, whose fate is linked to mine and to whom I owe the burden of raising, and teaching. My brave mare, Chance. Rémi Canada, who takes images of everything to show the world. Sandi, and this one is Spitty, a finer spirit you will never meet.”

Her eyes twinkled as she indicated the camel. Vasraf stayed out of range as the camel straightened himself with obvious pride.

“That much is clear, Your Majesty.”

But his eyes were on Ksmvr. Nsiia turned to him, and again, the Antinium felt every gaze lock onto him. Tiqr’s people were curious, wary, but not hostile. Nsiia spoke for everyone’s benefit.

“This is Ksmvr of the Horns of Hammerad. Ksmvr of the Free Antinium! The very same one who broke the chains placed on me. Bearer of a sword from aeons past, a [Paladin]’s blade! A Gold-rank adventurer who escaped death a continent away and appeared before me, by great fate and magic! If there is ever a sign for hope, for victory, he is surely it. I have returned, and together, we shall liberate Tiqr or fall in such a blaze that our enemies shall remember their wounds until the day they die!”

A cheer rose up from the soldiers as Ksmvr waved an urgent hand.

“I did not liberate Nsiia, in fact. That is an objectionable interpretation of events. I did not agree to liberate Tiqr—hello—I am not declaring a side in—”

His voice was lost in the roar from around him. Ksmvr waved his arms frantically, and Rémi’s little box caught it all. The [Journalist] waited until Ksmvr was hurrying after Vasraf to clarify, Nsiia was taking the arms and hands of her people, talking, and the army was making camp. He shot nearly an hour of footage, then calmly pulled the memory crystal out of his artifact.

“Time to find another Runner.”

This was a recording alright. And yet—Rémi’s eyes glittered as he watched Ksmvr, Nsiia with her army, and the rest. This was enough to be topical, fascinating. Yet the real story he had come for—ah. It was finally time to record that.

——

Things moved fast the moment Nsiia reclaimed her army. She did not immediately assume command of military operations. In fact, she left that to Vasraf, who had the forces he’d cloaked in one of his Skills already striking camp with long practice.

“We’ll be hidden fairly well from pursuit, although if they know exactly where you are, Your Majesty, we may need to ambush them before they reach us. Thankfully, I obtained this Skill. From afar, they will see only me. Closer, and it falls away.”

“A thousand paces is far too close for any sane [General]’s comfort. No wonder they never caught you!”

Nsiia was inspecting the numbers of Tiqr’s people, the state of their armor and weapons. It did not visibly dismay her, but she did take a long breath.

“You took most of our forces. Even swelled their numbers.”

“We took on Tiqr’s citizens. I hit prisoner trains, caravans of slaves—but I didn’t dare strike at any in Roshal’s grip. They might have retaliated.”

Vasraf shook his head. He gestured at the army.

“We have supplies—we’ve raided outposts, and we survive on gifts of food, and trade with the Garuda clans. You see veterans of combat. But even so.”

“…The coalition broke Tiqr’s full might. Yes, I know. Yet this is more than I had alone. We will create a victory out of it, Vasraf. I have an idea as to how. But you will tell me everything, and I will listen. Domehead? Where is he, and Ksmvr?”

She turned and saw the two, behind the officers and other [Soldiers], apart from the rest. Vasraf eyed Rémi Canada. He nodded at the [Journalist].

“I know his name. What is his role in this? Another way to broadcast our battles? We have seen you on the scrying orb, Your Majesty. Are we to call this…Golem and the adventurer your closest aides, Empress? You hoped to have a force of Golems…”

“In vain. I could not sway Femithain. Domehead followed me. Ksmvr freed me, as I said, and I trust both without reservation. As for the [Journalist]—be careful what he sees. His box records all.”

Nsiia grimaced. Vasraf nodded warily. Rémi scrambled forwards as Nsiia beckoned to the other two.

“Your Majesty, I would like permission to record—”

“No. I am going to speak with Vasraf. Domehead and Ksmvr may join me, but you will not record that.”

“If I could make a case—”

“No. Record the camp. Vasraf?”

Rémi didn’t put up much of an argument as Nsiia pointed, and the war tent already being set up opened for her. Ksmvr thought the young man had expected not to be allowed to film an actual strategy meeting.

It surprised Ksmvr that he was allowed in the tent. Even the other officers held back, and the fact that Domehead accompanied Nsiia surprised Vasraf more than Ksmvr. Yet he didn’t mince words.

“Your arrival gives me hope, Empress. It truly does. I had begun to despair, and our army could not endure without you. We would be in dire straits by winter. And yet—have you a plan?”

“I do. I did not lie, Vasraf. I admit, I was not prepared for Illivere. Many of the things I tried to do—learn the art of Golem-making, find allies to deliver you supplies, arms, fighters like Golems—were a fool’s dream. Of course they were, for I was desperate and in captivity with no real chance of escape. Now? I did not know if my people would embrace me.”

Vasraf shook his head. He was actually slightly shorter than Nsiia, but a helmet with a red plume, and his boots, made him seem taller. Ksmvr thought he must be a good [General] given his Skills, and he held himself like a warrior. Even so, it seemed that if it came to battle, he would reach for the bow on his back, rather than the two less-impressive shortswords.

The bow looked like a piece of bone. And since it was bone, Ksmvr wondered if it was Grand Elephant bone. Clearly enchanted. He respected a [General] smart enough not to endanger his life directly.

More than that, Vasraf was noticeable in how he and Nsiia played off each other. He was a [Wild General], but his deep voice, his short-cut beard, and the way his features always seemed so watchful, piercing blue eyes in brown skin, made him the opposite of Nsiia.

Where she became angry, he became watchful. But not simply watchful…if Nsiia attacked like her moniker, the Empress of Beasts, he was a stalking hunter in the grass. A different kind of predator.

“Your stallion knelt to me, Vasraf. Herothe. He was born of Tiqr’s soil. He saw me declare the [Wild Riot]. All the blood shed by Tiqr’s children of fang and paw and wing…and yet he knelt. They still call me their leader, and I must answer, don’t you see? The animals of Tiqr could take away my class, but they wait and give me a final chance. Tiqr still breathes. It knows me.”

Vasraf nodded, eyes fixed on Nsiia as she clenched her hands, staring down at a simple map laid on a worn wooden table.

“This is so, Your Majesty. Yet the Grand Elephants have left Tiqr. I present to you an army, a fighting force. Yet we are a fraction of our strength. A beaten army, Your Majesty. We can harry the forces holding Tiqr, but we cannot take on Nerrhavia’s hordes, or even Savere’s bandits. And every nation will send forces after you.”

Nsiia nodded. Now, they walked around the war map, and she spoke, pointing down at it. Vasraf had a new map and Ksmvr saw Tiqr, the same place geologically, but demarcated into zones. Each nation held an area of land, and Nerrhavia and Savere held the lion’s share, to the east and south respectively. For Savere, it was just an addition to their landmass. For Nerrhavia, it was an outpost. Vasraf had marked different garrisons, the last known points of armies…Nsiia shook her head.

“I will not hide and wait a lifetime to see Tiqr restored, Vasraf. Yes, I am aware this army is not capable of fighting a massive force. But I have listened, as Femithain’s guest. Even without you, no nation finds holding Tiqr that easy, is that so?”

Vasraf smiled grimly.

“With a populace like ours? No. Animals and people, we do not take new chains and collars well. Many have been made slaves, but many more know this land. Will the kingdoms bring in their people to work our land? It has not been pleasant.”

“Exactly. As to their armies—some will come to pursue me, but the forces in Tiqr are not as mighty as the ones that conquered it. We face garrisons. And they are not as keen to hold onto Tiqr, I think. Savere? Yes. But Nerrhavia is distracted with Reim.”

Vasraf was nodding and they spoke quickly; both saw the same thing. If anything, the explanation was just to make sure they were on the same page, and perhaps for Ksmvr and Domehead’s benefit. Ksmvr saw the Golem’s head shining brightly.

“You mean to sue for peace if we deal them a blow. Defeat some nations, force Nerrhavia’s peace if possible.”

“It is the only way. You disagree?”

“Not at all, Your Majesty. But I say to you: if we take the field against Savere alone, with the Siren of Savere versus you, I, and our army—we will lose.”

Nsiia exhaled.

“Yes. I am no fool, Vasraf. Your struggle becomes mine. To win this battle for Tiqr’s freedom, we must liberate our people, turn many into warriors, reclaim lands so we are not scavenging or begging for food. We require an army, supplies; we must seize them from victories, level by combat. We have a foundation here, but to live? That…will require allies.”

Ksmvr’s broken antennae waved. Ooh. This was fascinating, because he understood something of war, and he knew Tiqr’s history. Vasraf leaned on the table.

“Allies Tiqr lacked to begin with. We called on every hand, and no one came. Perhaps some might, if they thought they had aught to gain, but who would come that failed to aid us last time?”

Slowly, his head moved, and he looked towards Ksmvr. Vasraf’s eyes flickered, and he looked at Nsiia. With a start—Ksmvr realized what Vasraf had been thinking, perhaps from the moment they’d met. Nsiia glanced at Ksmvr, and the Antinium had to speak.

“I must regretfully inform you that I am not a representative of the Hives, General Vasraf. Nor am I willing to declare myself for Empress Nsiia’s bid. She informed you incorrectly.”

He nodded slowly.

“That is understood, Adventurer…Ksmvr. Your Majesty?”

He glanced at her. She smiled thinly.

“No, Vasraf. Not him. I hope Ksmvr will help us, if only because he does have a relic worthy of inspiring, and he is a doughty warrior. But I do not intend to invite the Black Tide to Chandrar.”

He exhaled, slowly.

“…It had crossed my mind.”

“They would not come. Not for me.”

Ksmvr spoke, and both Humans looked at him. Vasraf nodded slowly. Nsiia stared at Ksmvr.

“You must tell me the whole of it, sometime, Ksmvr. No, Vasraf. The Black Tide would mean war on all fronts, it would take too long, and the Antinium—the Queens at least—are not allies I would trust. Rather, for forces willing to take Tiqr back, I know where they are to be had.”

“Really.”

Vasraf was openly skeptical. Hopeful, but he folded his arms and waited. Nsiia smiled, and her eyes twinkled. Vasraf refused to ask her the obvious. He seemed used to this, so she came out with it.

“The King of Destruction has them.”

The [Wild General]’s eyebrows shot into his helmet. Ksmvr started.

“You want his allies? When the coalition made war on us because we might ally with Reim?”

“Yet we did not! And Flos, damn him, refused to intervene because of his peace. In fact, he fights to the north, surrounded, and everyone is trying to stop him from growing, because his allies lie scattered across Chandrar. Only a handful went to his aid because they wait for the King of Destruction to roar. Some are, like Tiqr, held down under boot. Some will not move for fear of being the next Tiqr. But they exist.”

Nsiia spun around to the map and pointed.

“You know it. I know it. There exists one clan in the Kilalle Steppes—many clans flew for the King of Destruction. One went to him and was feared above all else. And look—here. In our foe’s lands, the Empire of Scaied?”

The empire of scorpions and mercenaries? Ksmvr looked at a dot that was on the map, though it was no city or fort. Vasraf muttered.

“The [Monks] of Sottheim. I heard Scaied watches them like hawks. They would not have left their monastery lightly anyways, not if they feared reprisals.”

“Hah. Fear and Sottheim. You jest, Vasraf. They were simply aware of the journey and odds. But if we freed them…”

“It will be as if we are coming to the King of Destruction’s aid.”

Nsiia scowled. She stabbed the map.

“He refused to aid us. I will not declare for him. This is for Tiqr alone, and I say we do what can be done. Which is to attack other nations and reclaim these warriors for Tiqr!”

“Sottheim would be thousands of [Monks]. If they joined us. No nation would welcome fighting them. Only Pomle—and they would call that a worthy foe. And if we attacked or convinced another ally…”

Vasraf flicked his eyes across the map. Nsiia waited, and turned to him.

“This is all I have to offer, Vasraf. What do you say? If you tell me, as my [General], it is impossible, we will talk about hiding, building, and biding our time. Then—I will repay what debt I can, and bury hope for a while.”

She flicked her eyes to Ksmvr and he started. Then she turned to Vasraf.

“But if there is a chance, now? It lies in your hands, Vasraf. Can it be done?”

The [General] stood there, looking at the map. He looked up at Nsiia, and then at Ksmvr, Domehead. He rested his weight on the table for only a moment. Then he nodded.

“I say it can.”

Nsiia’s eyes gleamed bright and she clasped arms. So it began. Ksmvr stared at the map.

…He wondered if he should go now.

——

Nsiia convinced Ksmvr to stay for a few reasons. Firstly, she owed him, and an army to free Pisces and Yvlon and find Ceria was an attractive thing. Second?

“Scaied is still west, Ksmvr. So if you go with us, you benefit from Vasraf’s and my Skills to speed your journey. Lastly, you are still being hunted for freeing me and for being Antinium. For all these reasons, you must stay.”

He didn’t like it, but he agreed it was better. Better to have Yinah to pet, Nsiia’s army, and company, rather than just Spitty.

Chronologically, this was the moment captured on the third of Rémi Canada’s crystals. Third in the documentary, although, again, no one in Vasraf’s army used scrying orbs except to check news as it pertained to a chase. They were already having trouble fighting off scrying spells and television was not a luxury they could afford.

Rémi’s documentary captured Ksmvr, Domehead, and Nsiia fitting into the army. The [Journalist] saw the Empress of Beasts at her most charismatic. She sought out warriors, remembering some, stopping by groups to thank them, inspire them. She was a warrior-queen, and animals and people flocked to her.

He wasn’t interested in that. Oh, he recorded it, but the young man had the feeling it was the kind of puff piece you could do on any ruler. It mattered more because Nsiia was fighting for her homeland, but showing her at her best, the heroine of a tale of independence, was still not what he was after.

It was important. Privately, Rémi supported Nsiia’s bid, but he also bore in mind how bloody any war of freedom was going to be. He was interested in the wary way Tiqr’s warriors watched Domehead—because they had lost many friends to the Golems—but they almost respected Domehead for throwing over all of Illivere to follow Nsiia, his mother.

That was a story for his world. Artificial intelligence, ethics, morality, learning at play. But not this one. Rémi was fascinated by it and watched Domehead privately, but he and his camera were here for one person.

Ksmvr. He had not lied to Nsiia. If Ksmvr went, Rémi went. If the other Horns of Hammerad popped up, each with a grand story to tell, Rémi would still stay right here, rather than chasing after them. He wanted to film Ksmvr. Because the Antinium was Antinium, and like ‘Goblins’, he was only a monster, a nightmare from Rhir.

That he was not was obvious. Rémi wanted to show that to everyone. He had deliberately chosen a side—and that was Ksmvr’s, and he was searching for a moment to bring it out to people, capture the world’s imagination.

The problem was—it was hard.

Oh, the first two documentaries had attracted some attention. Rémi had an audience, Chandrarians—and a surprising number of non-Chandrarian— viewers who were intrigued by this window into the continent. However, it wasn’t ‘soccer-famous’. It wasn’t ‘King of Destruction’ viral.

It frustrated Rémi, and he could keep a tab on what was going on. His small news team had a feed to him that he was sure no one could trace and his [Message] scroll gave him a few updates.

[Confidential Sources]. If Wistram could tap into that, he’d answer for it, but he had to believe in his Skill.

“The problem is…”

Rémi watched Ksmvr as the Antinium warrior sat with Vasraf around a fire on their first night of journeying together. The [General] was sitting with some veterans, getting a feel for Ksmvr. Not as warily as they might have been, but swapping stories, asking Ksmvr about the Village of the Dead raid. The problem was…

Ksmvr was sort of boring.

——

The Blighted Kingdom, Walled Cities, and other interested parties were among those who watched Ksmvr and the documentaries by Rémi Canada. Yes, some watched because Ksmvr was Antinium. Some watched because Nsiia, Domehead, or just Chandrar was fascinating, because they were growing addicted to television, and so on.

But some watched because that was the enemy, right there. Some watched because they did not want Antinium cast in any light besides [Incinerating Radiance], and they could see what Rémi was up to.

The Blighted Kingdom had an entire group dedicated to this unhappy phenomenon taking place. They were glad to see Ksmvr was being boring.

Yes, because aside from some interesting comments, petting Yinah, and being a bit silly, he did do the alien invader quite well. He spoke of the Hives and you felt your skin crawl. It was fine if he was a bit personable.

…Well, fine as fine could be, given that Wistram had refused to take the documentary off the Wistram News Network. The Blighted Kingdom had made a request, and the Archmages and Council should have normally obliged, given their mutual foe.

However, it seemed Wistram’s new leader had overruled the request. Grand Magus Eldavin had replied, quite bluntly to their [Diplomat], that censoring the series when Drassi and other networks were broadcasting it sounded like an incredibly stupid idea, and thus not one he would ever endorse.

Still, Ksmvr was doing his enemies’ jobs for them, by and large. He was reserved, and you could call that professional, or whatever you wanted, but he was fading into the background in the Nsiia-Tiqr independence documentary.

Or maybe the Chandrarian documentary? Because that’s what the third memory crystal was showing. Ksmvr sat around with Vasraf. He had just, impartially, recounted the events of the City of the Dead, without giving away too many details.

“…understand that it is a matter for my team to reveal.”

Vasraf nodded, almost as formal. He looked around as some of the warriors looked ready to object, and they went silent.

“This is fair. That you freed Her Majesty is deed enough. You come to Chandrar, and I wish I could show you the best of it, friend Ksmvr.”

Yinah hopped into Ksmvr’s lap and he began to pet her, which didn’t make the Blighted Kingdom’s analysts happy. Cats were beloved in most parts of the world, and Ksmvr holding one didn’t help. But it was only a cat.

“I wonder if you would tell another story, Ksmvr? Perhaps about your earlier adventuring career?”

Rémi Canada himself tried. But Ksmvr calmly, and instantly, deflected.

“I would prefer not to take over the conversation. I am quite interested by General Vasraf. Would you share some stories, [General]? I have shared as much as I feel enabled to of the raid on the Village of the Dead. It is a custom in Tiqr to swap stories thusly, is it not?”

Vasraf gave his warriors an amused look and they chuckled. Rémi ground his teeth. Ksmvr was too good at being…diplomatic. Vasraf sat back.

“Ah. You speak eloquently, Ksmvr. And it is true; we are ingracious hosts. By rights, I should have led. But I have few tales of such daring, for I was not an adventurer. It also does not feel right to boast of great things. Not here. Not now.”

He looked around the camp and the warriors of Tiqr sombered. A hyena, resting by the fire, raised his head and nodded.

Too intriguing. Too interesting. Ksmvr was overshadowed by…Chandrar itself. As the night fell in that incredibly dark sky, before the vividness of the stars, on that hauntingly isolating view of the steppes, stretching into nowhere? Vasraf looked around and spoke.

“Ah, here’s a dark story for this day. Perhaps one that might help. We march to Sottheim—among other places. Scaied. Our enemies with stinger and venom. Take none lightly. Chandrar has many ruins. Many old powers. I will tell you a tale all who visit Chandrar and this region should know. Especially an adventurer who goes far.”

He nodded at Ksmvr and the Antinium nodded back. Vasraf looked around; in the distance, some people were cheering Nsiia, but here, the warriors sat around a bright fire, resting. Animals wandered around, and Domehead himself was sitting, dome glowing with a light of his own as firelight played off the reflection of the crystal and his armor.

“A’ctelios Salash.”

The warriors stirred. One, a woman with only one ear, started.

“Wild General…?”

“Do you say it is a bad thing to tell Ksmvr?”

She hesitated. Some of the other warriors had tensed. One grabbed the hyena and hugged him. After a second, the woman shook her head.

“No, General. It is the story to tell.”

“I have heard that name. One of the Shield Kingdoms of Chandrar, is it not?”

Vasraf smiled thinly.

“You are right, Ksmvr. And it will defend Chandrar if a great foe comes. But I do not think we celebrate it like Ger or other Shield Kingdoms. Listen and know: there is one rule all travellers to A’ctelios Salash must remember. To eat the meat they offer freely is a choice. One that can never be taken back. Never make it lightly. But—here is my story. I do not say never eat of it. For I have been to A’ctelios Salash.”

Even the other warriors were surprised. Vasraf closed his eyes. Of all things, an owl flew down to perch on his shoulder. Not one from the camp. Just a wild owl. He offered it some meat as he began to speak, his features far away.

“It was when I was a young [Fighter]. We went on raids against the enemy—in this case, [Bandits] who struck many nations. We pursued them north, along Zeikhal. A war party—not a poor one, but too zealous, without proper leadership. We ran out of supplies, like the amateurs we were. Inexperienced—we thought we could hunt and forage, even in Zeikhal, during the spring. We were fools.”

He shook his head, and Ksmvr nodded along, sympathetic. Vasraf went on.

“That was when, hungry, starving, we realized we had journeyed close enough to A’ctelios Salash. Have you ever seen the Carven City?”

He turned and only one warrior nodded. Vasraf shook his head.

“Then I must describe it. I don’t know how to say it. I saw…a face buried in the sand. Like some great statue. But then I realized, it was no being I could ever name. Not animal. Not beast. Not even monster. And it was no statue. That is what they carved out of it. They lived in its head. Each eye was an entrance and they lived within.”

His audience shuddered. Vasraf went on, holding out a hand.

“Understand me. A’ctelios Salash is not evil. At least, they were not. We came to them starving, desperate, and they gave us water for free, directions. And they offered us food.”

“Meat.”

Someone whispered. Vasraf nodded. He held up a finger.

“Just so. But they did not trick us. They told us what all travellers must know. It is a choice. They urged us to try it, and seemed to think it would be a great favor. I…I do not wish to describe what it looked like. It was not normal meat, and it came in a huge chunk that never rotted. It did not smell quite normal. And yet?”

He gulped.

“I have never been hungrier in my life. Not just because I starved. Some days I can still smell it.”

The owl fluttered off and Vasraf looked about.

“A choice. What would you have done? I had starved for six days straight on the last of our rations. Here was food in plenty.”

“You did not eat it, though.”

Ksmvr was sure of that. Vasraf cast a glance his way and smiled.

“…Nearly. I knew what it did, but I did not mind. It is not a curse; and the people offered the choice freely. They were friendly, and hospitable. I might have taken that first bite. But for Algr. We had a warhound with us. One of the hunting dogs, a more loyal or fierce friend you’d never find. Algr we called her. She was starving to death but she sniffed that meat and refused to eat, even with some in my hand.”

As one, the people around the campfire turned to the hyena lying there. The animal looked up, and there was such a knowing look in its eyes, shining by moonlight and firelight, that Ksmvr felt something tingle in his body himself. Vasraf nodded.

“I didn’t eat. There was other food to be bartered for, though we had to trade dearly for it. Half the warriors ate. Then we set out to find the bandits. To make a story short, and because it was not glorious, we won. We tracked them down. Beat them.”

He shrugged, letting that part escape as if it had not mattered. Vasraf looked around, motioned. Someone offered him a pipe they’d been passing around. Ksmvr saw him blow some smoke quietly over the fire.

“What happened to the warriors who ate the meat, General? How did you win when half your company had eaten it?”

Vasraf started. The [Wild General] looked up and smiled a second.

“They came with us, of course.”

He paused. His face clouded.

“They fought with us, and we won a great battle against the raider-tribes. Then…they went to their home. To the Carven City, and I never saw them again.”

Now the silence was all-consuming. Ksmvr looked around. At the faces of the somber warriors. At Vasraf. He noticed something, then, and hesitated, but Vasraf was finishing the story.

“This is why I will not besmirch A’ctelios Salash, you see? Only tell this story. Yes, the warriors ate meat. But it was a choice. It was a fair trade. They had strength and endurance given by their food, which never spoiled, and their wounds closed quickly, even without potions; they bled less. I thought them the same men and women I had known.”

He passed the smoking pipe, took a swig of water. Stopped. Stared into the fire for a long time.

“Up until it came time to part ways…then I saw a hunger there. They could not have returned to Tiqr, even if they had the heart for the long journey.”

It was a fine tale. A tale of Chandrar, spooky, mysterious, but as Vasraf delivered it, not evil. For an audience, it was fascinating—more fascinating than Ksmvr.

But there was something they did not see, that Ksmvr did. As the Antinium sat around the fire, he saw something that the people watching the third recording would not. Could not, except maybe in the small vibrations.

Rémi Canada, holding the recording box, was shaking. He had the box on the stabilizing arm, but he himself was shaking, his features so contorted that…no one else noticed, sucked in by Vasraf’s tale. But Ksmvr saw Rémi staring at Vasraf—until the [Journalist] saw him looking. Then he turned his head.

But he had not looked like he agreed with Vasraf’s tale at all. Ksmvr did not know why. Because he did not know the story.

It was just a moment, and then Vasraf clapped his hands.

“Argh! I have brought us down too low. The first stories should be ones of daring. Not ones to draw us to silence. I should have saved it for the end.”

He laughed, self-consciously, and it broke the spell. Vasraf looked around and called out.

“Here! Is there no one with music? Let us play some for Ksmvr, a song that makes even hyenas dance!”

He stood up, and someone brought over a variation on a dulcimer, flutes, and drums, and played a merry tune for Ksmvr. The Antinium sat up as he listened, and applauded politely with the others.

“Do Antinium have music, Ksmvr?”

Nsiia was back now, with Domehead, and Yinah leapt from Ksmvr’s arms to Nsiia. She waited for pets and scratches, but the other animals were too close to Nsiia. So Yinah went right back to Ksmvr for full attention, haughtily offended.

The Antinium looked up.

“I know one Antinium who sings. I have never heard music in the Hives.”

“Really? What of dancing? Drinking? What do you do for fun?”

“Nothing. Antinium do not have social activities, Empress Nsiia.”

Just another thing to make Tiqr’s people frown and look at each other and set him apart. Excellent, excellent. The alien thing sat there. Until he added in a distant voice.

“We do like it, though. I had not the opportunity to hear music until I left my Hive. It is a nice thing.”

Nsiia’s head rose. She looked at Ksmvr and Rémi raised his camera suddenly. For the Antinium was suddenly unguarded.

“Really? You love music, but never play it in the Hives?”

“How would we know how, Empress Nsiia?”

“No one picks up an instrument in their spare time?”

Ksmvr looked at her, bewildered.

“Spare time? Instruments? We have no objects in the hive. We have no spare time.”

“Not a second to whistle or…?”

Vasraf leaned forward. Ksmvr looked at him.

“We wake, we sleep, we work. We fight. General Vasraf, I must inform you that many things of culture other species have, Antinium lack. We are a different people than what you understand. We are not a people. I am a former Prognugator, but I bear the body of a Worker. There are Soldiers and…other Antinium types, but we serve our Queen. There is no other need for entertainment.”

In silence, Tiqr’s people looked at him, more alien still. Rémi was waiting, breathless. And then Ksmvr said it. He looked at a flute someone held and his voice betrayed something. A quiver in that steady, perfect diction.

“…But since I am exiled, I am allowed to listen to music. It is…good. I like it. Will you play more?”

Nsiia turned to Vasraf, struck. The [General] sat up and now his eyes looked like a copy of hers, of Rémi’s, of an audience unseen.

Interested. No, beyond interested. Fascinated.

“What music do you like? I will have my people play any song you wish!”

Nsiia spread her arms wide. Ksmvr shook his head, blankly.

“I do not know what music I like. I have liked every music I have ever heard. Eighteen times so far.”

Again, everyone listening turned to each other with that look. What? And yet, he was telling the truth. Into this moment, someone decided to act.

“I…have some music. Not to offend Tiqr of Chandrar’s songs, but I have something that might interest you all. Have you heard of the song crystals from Terandria?”

Rémi Canada spoke. He produced something from his collection, the very impetus for his recording crystals, as Nsiia turned. Some warriors knew what he meant, and Nsiia herself clapped her hands and laughed.

“You have a song crystal? Why didn’t you share it earlier, Canada?”

“I thought it would be too noisy while we were trying to avoid attention…I have a few, actually. From the Singer of Terandria. Have you listened to them, Ksmvr?”

He shook his head. The Antinium stared as Rémi tossed one to Vasraf, who read the inscription.

“I have not. My team has not purchased any.”

“You could buy them yourself. Don’t you get paid?”

Ksmvr nodded.

“But that would be a misuse of my funds, when I could put them to better use for my team. But I will listen if you play a song. Is it good music?”

“There is only one way to find out! This one! Play this one, Vasraf. It says it is merry. I am not in the mood for sad, or ‘rock’, whatever that may be. This is a joyous moment, so play merry! Play laughter! Play for Ksmvr, who does not know music!”

Nsiia demanded, and the people cheered. Ksmvr was about to tell them he knew music—he had listened to it eighteen times—when the song crystal activated, and Cara O’Sullivan, the Singer of Terandria, brought a song straight out of Rémi’s world and into this one.

Rémi’s camera caught it all. Ksmvr’s head snapped up. A female voice began singing as a fast drum beat began to play. A catchy, modern song benefitting from Earth’s range of instruments.

Nsiia blinked—then clapped her hands and laughed with delight. Some of the warriors shook their heads, but most were fascinated. Vasraf himself scrutinized the crystal he was holding, but most people enjoyed the music.

Even the animals. It was a new kind of music, and Tiqr’s people, regardless of individual taste, could appreciate something new. Same with animals.

Of course, music was not new to any audience. This song was probably well-known, especially to a Terandrian audience or a city with access to song crystals. But that wasn’t the moment.

The moment came spontaneously, and inevitably. For, unlike what Ksmvr expected, the audience here wasn’t content to just listen along appreciatively to the nuance and tone of the music, analyze the lyrics, and give a round of polite applause or their considered feelings on the piece as a whole or individual elements.

That was boring. This song was not boring. He saw the first person begin to tap their foot as it lay stretched out next to the fire. The shaking foot began to translate into head-bobbing. Then the person stood up. And they began to dance.

It was a warrior’s dance, accompanied by laughter and clapping as they tried to sync it up to the sound. But they were hardly the only person to spontaneously begin to dance. One of the Grand Elephants began to slowly stomp to the beat, or tried to keep up since it was fast, and waved its trunk back and forth.

And that was how the animals did it. More people began to dance, together—although this was not really a couple’s song—just an expression of wanting to move your body to fun music.

Nsiia didn’t. She just looked around, taking it in. Vasraf didn’t either, because he was a [General]. Also, because he didn’t actually like dancing.

Wonderful. Fun. Still, not amazingly new, but it was certainly authentic and captured on Rémi’s camera. He panned it right and left, taking it in as the song began to play. Then Nsiia pointed and laughed.

“Yinah! You?”

The little cat had been bobbing her head left and right. Now, she began to happily roll right and left, in such a silly way that Vasraf took one look at her and began chuckling. So did a lot of Tiqr’s warriors, who stopped to watch. The cat seemed content to just keep doing that as the song played.

“Repeat the music! Have her do it again!”

The song was ending, but Nsiia badgered Vasraf into repeating it. And sure enough—the instant the music replayed, Yinah began doing her musical roll.

Cat videos were a powerful force in any world. Rémi rolled his eyes, wondering what he had just unleashed. But he gamely recorded the cat rolling back and forth in front of Ksmvr. At least he’d have another claim to fame. He saw something happen then.

Ksmvr stood up. He looked at Yinah, the people who were dancing. And then he began to dance too.

Somewhere, when this documentary was being aired live, a Blighted Kingdom [Strategist] performed the old Winebreath Blaster with commendable spray. Everyone stared. It was unimaginable! Literally—they could not imagine this. But there it was, live.

The Antinium didn’t really have the joint-flexibility of Humans, Garuda, or Stitchfolk. Like animals, he was hampered by his very body; for instance, his back shell didn’t bend like a spine.

So he couldn’t perform half the moves. But he had stood up, and, knees bent, was bobbing to the tune of the beat, all three of his arms stuck out. He was waving them up and down, arms straight, like he was banging on some imaginary drums, shaking his body to the beat. Every few seconds he alternated sides.

He was, in fact, performing a simple dance move that Rémi Canada recognized as the…no…wait. It was so simple Rémi wasn’t sure if it was a dance move. But it was hypnotic, because that was literally the only thing Ksmvr did.

No footwork, no movement. He just stood in front of Yinah as the cat rolled back and forth, doing what Rémi could only describe as an Antinium boogie, completely unprompted. The monster mash, that was what it was! A dance move so old and so…and Ksmvr was doing it happily, mandibles raised.

Completely unself-conscious because he was dancing. It never occurred to Ksmvr people might think it was silly.

Which it was. Tiqr’s army and Nsiia stared at Ksmvr for a long moment. Then Nsiia started laughing. Ksmvr didn’t notice, nor did he stop; he was caught up in the song. And Yinah didn’t care; she was just rolling back and forth.

“He’s dancing! Do you see that?”

Someone exclaimed. But then they were cheering Ksmvr on. Rémi double-checked he had the camera rolling. This…this was it.

He knew it in his marrow. But Rémi couldn’t have predicted what came next. Because, like a steel chair from the corner, a literal steel being rose.

Domehead. Nsiia saw the Golem flash its head-dome with a multitude of lights. It looked at Ksmvr. At Yinah, rolling back and forth. And then, behind Ksmvr, it copied the Antinium. Move for move, although Domehead only had two arms to wave.

Ksmvr turned his head and saw the Golem dancing. He almost stopped, but then Nsiia leapt forwards. She had seen Domehead, gasped, and leapt towards them with peal of laughter.

“Don’t stop dancing! Vasraf, come on and join us!”

“No.”

“Vasraf, this is an order!”

The [Wild General] refused. So Nsiia leapt forwards and all three of them were doing it. Yinah rolled back and forth in front of Ksmvr, Domehead, and Nsiia doing the silly dance as an entire army laughed—and began to copy them.

The stupidest dance in the world. Well, that was harsh, but it was so silly. Yet the genius was that Ksmvr and Domehead didn’t do it self-consciously. They did it completely seriously, with no sense of embarrassment or irony that ruined it to watch. In fact, their enthusiasm was contagious. Add in a little cat rolling around…

“This is a disaster! Call Wistram! Have it removed! Now! Those damned Antinium geniuses!”

The Blighted Kingdom was in full panic. The cunning of the Hives. Their twisted genius! Who had known they were this savvy? Because—you took one look at this image. The Antinium doing this dance?

And it was hard to remember that they were the scourge of Rhir, the Black Tide, allies to the Demons. The Walled Cities were experiencing much the same problem. The worst part was you had an [Empress] dancing in the background, a cat, and a Golem doing the same infectious dance. To music.

No worse weapon in the history of memes had yet been unleashed. That was what people saw in the third documentary series.

That was the moment Rémi Canada had been waiting for. It went around the world the moment it was aired. To mixed reactions. Panic from people who saw what it was doing. Amusement. Disbelief. A horrible dance move infesting every bar and club.

Outrage. Outraged. The instant she saw it, Crafter Se, who had personally volunteered to lead the advance force chasing after Domehead, sent a message to Femithain’s main force, moving slower.

“Magus-Crafter!”

“This is Armsmaster Dellic. You’ve seen it?”

The [Golem Artificer] pointed at the scrying orb, as if he could see it. Domehead—dancing?

“This is an embarrassment to Illivere! Do you see what they’re doing to my—to Domehead? Tell the Magus-Crafter I move to add ‘defacing a national relic’ to the charges to be brought against Ksmvr and the Empress of Beasts! Tell the Magus-Crafter…”

Armsmaster Dellic looked around the main camp. He replied to Crafter Se, cutting off the woman’s shouting.

“I’m afraid the Magus-Crafter is unable to hear you at this moment, Crafter Se. He’s…er…laughing too hard.”

“Wh—”

Armsmaster Dellic held the speaking stone away from his ear. He looked over. And it was true. The sight of Domehead doing that dance was making the Magus-Crafter laugh so hard…

Or were they tears?

——

[Dancer Class Obtained!]

[Dancer Level 1!]

[Skill — Feel the Rhythm obtained!]

Ksmvr knew he should feel bad about that one. But he didn’t. Everything had changed.

The third documentary crystal went out hot and fresh, less than two days after the last one. Because Rémi Canada had such intense confidence that, short as it was, it was worth watching. Which he was right about, of course.

Everything changed after that night. How could it not? Tiqr’s army woke up and more than one person laughed about the dance over breakfast. With Ksmvr. They were friendly, and he feared he’d lost his dignity.

Nsiia assured him it was the exact opposite.

“Ksmvr, you must ride with us. You are a symbol, and your sword inspires. More than that? You are something to draw the world’s eyes to our cause.”

“I must refuse.”

Rémi Canada was recording over breakfast, having sent for a City Runner, the best he could afford. But like heck he’d miss anything now.

His instincts were good. He had a front-row shot of Ksmvr stopping his munching on breakfast, turning to Nsiia as she leaned over.

“I will free your friends, Ksmvr. My army will join forces. But I am not so stingy as to think that is a suitable reward. For freeing me? For aiding me? Should I reclaim Tiqr’s throne, I will give you a royal class. I shall remove your friend, Pisces’, [Slave] class if I can—though I have not the knowing, just the understanding it can be done. And I shall award you lands and riches. Is that not an adventurer’s dream?”

Ksmvr calmly ate a banana. He replied with a copy of the calm dignity of yesterday, made more outstanding because you had just seen him doing the ‘Antinium dance’ as it would be known.

“Even so, Empress Nsiia. I do not have Captain Ceria’s approval, and I am well aware of the risks.”

Nsiia slapped her knee, impatiently.

“You could help us independent of your team’s decision! Land, Ksmvr! I would make you an [Emir] if you desired! A [Lord], or whatever rank you wish! Is that not a great thing?”

Ksmvr stopped. Then he did something odd with his mandibles. He waited, but Nsiia just frowned.

“What are you doing?”

“I am sneering. I cannot sniff, but you may assume I am now sniffing. Sniff. I must inform you, Empress Nsiia, that I am already de facto a land-owner. I own two trees. You cannot sway me with what I already possess.”

Gold! Rémi dropped his food, focusing with two hands. Vasraf’s mouth was hanging open, mid-bite, and Sandi trotted over, stole one of the precious bananas, a treat, with a mweh of happiness.

Nsiia looked at Ksmvr.

“You own…what?”

Nothing would do but for Ksmvr to pull out a scroll and present her with it.

“My contract of ownership and seal. Do not damage it, although I have backups.”

Nsiia stared at the scroll. Vasraf leaned over. Then she turned.

“Someone find me—do I have a—?”

She called for someone, and, after only a minute, the growing crowd of soldiers admitted a woman with a ragged hole for one ear, and a scar along the visible part of her shoulder. She bowed.

“I was an [Emissary] before I laid down the quill and took up a blade in defense of Tiqr, Your Majesty. What may I do for you?”

“Will you…tell me if this is real?”

Nsiia handed her the scroll. The woman took the scroll, read it, and stared at it. She had to find a pair of reading spectacles. She studied the seal, held up the scroll to the light, looked at Ksmvr, and then spoke slowly.

“…I would have to cross-reference it with a guild, as I do not know Izrilian seals, and it has no magical signature. It does not need one…it looks…real. Adventurer Ksmvr…by right of deed, friendship, and valor…hereby granted in perpetuity to descendants and…he owns two trees.”

He owns two trees. Rémi had the entire thing on the crystal, and the City Runner who had come to pick it up was eating another banana, staring. Ksmvr proudly accepted the scroll.

“So you see, I will not be bought by mere lucre or gifts of land.”

Nsiia exchanged a look with Vasraf.

“I…I see that, Ksmvr. Er. Well then. Would you consider throwing your might behind Tiqr if I gave you…a rock?”

Ksmvr scoffed.

“A rock. What good is a rock? Unless it is made of a rare mineral, of course. Do not insult me, Empress Nsiia.”

“How about…fifty rocks? And th—eight trees?”

Ksmvr halted, in the middle of peeling a banana. Spitty came over to do Sandi’s trick and Ksmvr slapped his mouth away from the banana.

“…Eight trees? What kind?”

Nsiia had to find a [Botanist]-equivalent.

“Er, acadias?”

“You have my attention. Perhaps I might consider endorsing…”

Rémi had to send off the crystal by midday. He delayed for another day. And that was when his contact told him the series was blowing up. Of course it was. Ksmvr had gone from being the Gold-rank adventurer, a loner from a hostile race, to becoming Ksmvr, the Dancing Antinium. Ksmvr, Lord of Two Trees!

It had an effect. They found Tiqr’s army the day after that—perhaps they’d already been coming, by the first documentary.

——

The attack was fast, sudden, and vicious. They came out of the skies, camouflaged, invisible—it was too fast to tell what, or diagnose their exact method of creeping up.

Or rather, flying up. They dove out of the sky with a speed and savagery that befitted [Bandits].

Garuda bandits. [Air Bandits], who slashed down with killing blows. They might have been lightly-armored, but you only needed one arrow between the eyes to kill. Or a spell like [Lightning Bolt].

Or an arrow through the wing, or sword, because it wasn’t Nsiia’s army that was under attack. Rather, it was another Garuda clan.

In fact, it was the same clan that they had met on the way in. The army was marching south and one of their [Scouts] rode up.

“Bandits attacking a clan! It’s two clans in the air! They’re going after the ground!”

Nsiia cursed. Vasraf held up a hand.

“They haven’t seen us?”

“They see you, General. And maybe those two. They must have failed to beat your Skill.”

The [Scout] pointed at Ksmvr and Rémi, the only two members not of Tiqr’s army, who might not benefit from Vasraf’s Skill. Which meant an entire force was in range of this sky-battle and attack on the clan’s ground.

“We must save them. They gave aid to us and alerted you, no less, Vasraf. To arms!”

Nsiia snapped. Vasraf nodded.

“Bows. We’ll only get one shot before they fly. Do we have the Garuda to battle them?”

“Not an entire clan, [General]. Take your moment. Once they see our army, they’ll fly off. It’s a raiding clan; they won’t risk fighting an army.”

One of his Garuda replied. Vasraf nodded.

“Empress?”

“With me!”

Nsiia stormed towards the fighting Garuda. Skyleader Rekai was fighting off the surprise-attack, but he was outnumbered, and below, Landguide Heka was fighting this raiding clan’s ground-based Garuda.

Either Garuda who had been too injured to fly, or, Ksmvr noted, Humans and Stitchfolk. It made sense; they were trying to steal the supplies on land and nearly had them.

They never saw Nsiia riding towards them until she was nearly on them, and she shot ahead of even Tiqr’s fastest [Riders] on Chance. She leapt from the saddle as one raised a blade to stab a wounded Heka.

“Stop!”

The Empress of Beasts landed as Ksmvr calmly aimed three crossbows, preparing for his [Aggregate Volley]. Domehead was running along with the other warriors, and Vasraf was signalling for the attack. They saw Nsiia stand there and throw up a hand.

The Garuda [Raiders] leapt back in surprise. The clan warriors on the ground looked up and stopped, hope in their eyes. Because this time, it was an [Empress] who stood there.

She had claimed a small crown, a circlet of gold with a single gem that Vasraf had carried from the capital. She had added to her armor, and wore a complete set, but the proof was simply in her aura, now blazing free. Her eyes.

She threw up a hand, palm up and shouted, her sword angled, held straight out as she stood over Heka.

“Enough! There is enough bloodshed here! Enough death! By my blade and kingdom, I will see no more of it! Lay down your arms or I will be your foe!”

One of the Garuda above spotted Nsiia and called an alarm. More swooped down, but they didn’t see Vasraf’s army waiting just out of their range, hidden by the Skill. Nsiia turned, fearlessly, as bows aimed and they jeered down at her.

Then she grabbed a spear she had armed herself with—because she used a spear arguably better than even a sword—and slashed the ground, drawing a line. Spear planted, ready to be plucked and cast, sword held in her other hand, she pointed it at the leader of this group.

“Lay down your arms, raiders, or die. I am the Empress of Beasts and you will not harm this clan.”

Words of a ruler. The [Raider] laughed, without any belief, though he did hesitate.

“If you’re the Empress of Beasts, I want that bounty. Take her alive!”

The other Garuda switched weapons. Nsiia sighed. She held up her sword, and swung it down. From his position, Vasraf calmly aimed his bow.

“Loose!”

His shot took the head off the Garuda who’d replied to her. The rest of his army armed with bows took their shots at the Garuda attacking the land forces. Only three, [Markswomen], aimed up and dared to fire into the melee.

Ksmvr hit a Garuda with eight bolts and wondered if that was overkill. His volley only hit one target, after all. Domehead pounded forwards as Tiqr’s army revealed itself.

“Flee! Flee!”

The clan on the attack saw all the Garuda who had flown down die in two swift volleys. Seeing thousands of warriors below, the ones in the air understandably panicked and fled.

Rekai’s warriors didn’t pursue. There was an army in the air, a clan of Garuda, and they loosed arrows and spells as they fled, such that Tiqr’s soldiers kept shields up. Nsiia spat; she knew they couldn’t catch the raiding clan, and she shouted.

“Skyleader Rekai! Take your warriors down!”

He was diving, wounded, with the surviving Garuda, to take shelter in the army’s aegis. Nsiia glared after the retreating raiders, who had lost a lot, but lived to strike again. Hopefully against fewer targets now that they’d lost warriors. Even so…

She was turning to talk to the Skyleader and Groundguide when a flicker caught Ksmvr’s gaze. He looked up, in the middle of having to reload each crossbow he carried, one by one.

“General Vasraf. We may be under harassing fire.”

The [General] had seen it too. He cursed.

“Bows up! Prepare for Garuda bombardments! They’re going to hit us from the clouds! Prepare barrier spells!”

The army groaned, going for shields. Indeed, the swarm of hundreds of Garuda [Raiders] were coming this way. They were going to attack, damn them! Safely out of range, unless Tiqr chased them off with spells, their own Garuda, or bow shots.

“We will defeat them, if you can protect our wings.”

Skyleader Rekai croaked. Nsiia frowned. She stared at the Garuda, swooping towards them, faster than they had run.

“No. Vasraf, wait. [Hawk’s Eyes]. Does anyone else see that?”

One of her [Markswomen] nodded. So did a [Scout].

“General, they’re not flying to attack. They’re fleeing a second force in the air.”

Vasraf narrowed his eyes. He nodded, slowly.

“Barely four dozen. They’re in pursuit. What kind of flying force…they’re fast.”

He broke off suddenly. The [Raiders] were streaming back the way they’d come. They were feinting left, right, but it seemed single figures were blocking them, herding them towards Tiqr’s army. Like sheepdogs, Ksmvr thought.

Or wolves. But instead of hunting one or two—he saw a distant speck tangle with another for a moment. One began falling, and the other flew away as the [Raiders] resumed their flight.

“What clan is that?”

Nsiia was staring at something. Her eyesight, magnified by her Skill, focused on something only she could see. Then she blinked.

“Wait…”

Skyleader Rekai and Groundguide Heka had both seen the movements too. Garuda eyes were keen, and they looked up. Then—abruptly, Rekai, who had been ready to fight, and who had grinned to see the [Raiders] flee, suddenly went pale. He squawked.

“That’s them. It’s them! The Executioners! It’s them!”

He shouted. The Garuda in his clan took one look at the fleeing [Raiders], and Ksmvr saw a panic set into them in an instant. Groundguide Heka sat up.

“Loquea?”

She looked up and screamed. In fear. Ksmvr saw more of the Garuda raiding clan drop out of the sky. One after another, as barely sixty figures pursued them. Now, they were getting closer and the aerial pursuit let him see something.

Blood. Showers of blood, as [Raiders] died. A flash, as one of the larger shapes dove. A scream. Not like other Garuda screamed. What was happening?

They passed closer still. Now, Ksmvr saw them. Garuda, in their many-plumed feathers, screaming, diving—and it sounded like, pleading—as sixty Garuda followed them.

A…kind of Garuda. But some group that, either by subspecies or nature, was completely different from the rest. They were taller than regular Garuda by far. Tall, long, their beaks curved. But that was not what was most striking. What was most striking was the cloth armor they wore, which matched the feathers on their wings. They dove, and Ksmvr saw the wings open.

Black. A midnight Garuda dove after a screaming [Raider], hurtling towards the ground. A weapon swung down, as the pursuer took aim. The Garuda [Raider] twisted, in an amazing spiralling dive that no regular warrior on the ground or [Archer] had a hope of hitting. The [Raider] dove—straight into her pursuer’s blade.

It was the strangest weapon for use in war. A ridiculous weapon that only a fool would use, or someone who knew only how to use this. It had no place in a fighting line, and it was cumbersome, designed for another purpose. And that was…the [Farmer]’s cutting tool.

A scythe. The fact that the blade cut inwards made it a contradictory weapon. And Ksmvr had never bothered to imagine even wielding one. Except—now he saw it.

In the air. The giant crow-warrior extended the blade in front of the [Raider]. And let the enemy warrior dive into the razor edge. Another warrior of this…Loquea clan performed a similar maneuver, swinging their scythe around and catching a Garuda mid-dodge.

Rekai hadn’t named them wrongly. It wasn’t a battle—it was an execution. The [Raiders] were so terrified of this small group that they fled. And those that fought—Ksmvr saw one Garuda fight back. She grappled with one of the crow-Garuda, slashing with daggers. They tumbled through the air, and Ksmvr saw them break apart after a moment. The Loquea warrior flew up, and the Garuda warrior fell, dead, to hit the ground in front of Tiqr’s army.

Her neck was snapped.

“Loquea…”

Someone breathed. Ksmvr looked around. Vasraf. He was looking up, and his eyes caught each warrior. Their armor made it hard to see where feather or figure began, but they finished their grisly battle and circled. Dark shapes in the air.

Terrifying the Garuda clan below. Vasraf turned, and Nsiia, Empress of Beasts, stood there. She looked up, and there was a smile on her face.

But it was grim, and whether it was genuine or wary, Ksmvr couldn’t tell. Vasraf spoke to Nsiia, and glanced at Ksmvr.

“Another sign, Your Majesty? You wanted to find the King of Destruction’s vassals. Here is one. The Loquea Dree clan. The Executioners of the Garuda.”

Nsiia looked at him and nodded. The figures were descending. Sixty of them, and Ksmvr didn’t think one had died in their attack. She raised her voice.

“Hail, Loquea Dree! I am the Empress of Beasts! Will you parlay with me?”

Not one answered. Then—abruptly, as one, they dropped. Fearlessly, towards the landfolk who saw them bank, land, scythes held in long arms, wings spread, around the army. Tiqr’s warriors started. Domehead whirled and Nsiia spun.

“Ksmvr!”

Rémi’s camera whirled, and he saw Ksmvr move, leaping, diving—a [Skirmisher] at his fastest. For once—too slow. He rolled upright, and came to a stop. He could have transitioned into any number of moves—

But for two scythes. One on his right, the other on his left. Boxing him in. Two warriors stood there, and if they pulled, the scythes would go right through him. He froze, a crossbow in his hand, the hilt of the [Paladin]’s sword in the other.

A figure landed in front of Nsiia, taller than she was. The tallest Garuda Ksmvr had ever seen. Face like a mask, eyes dark black, beady.

Loquea Dree. He or she spoke, voice rough, as if from disuse.

“Antinium. Black Tide of Rhir. Enemy to Garuda? Of Chandrar? So claimed. If it is, they die. We guard Garuda. From crime. From monsters. From enemies. What is your answer, Empress of Beasts?”

The crow-warrior looked at Nsiia. She looked at him, and the clan that had once served Flos Reimarch. Ksmvr looked around, at Rémi, capturing the scene; Domehead, frozen, uncertain what the move was; Vasraf; the terrified Garuda.

He was really reconsidering whether this was worth eight trees.

——

The scythe blades were very sharp. Enchanted. It was incredible, but each blade was individually enchanted by a master [Enchanter]. The shaft of the scythes, which Ksmvr now understood to be war scythes, a very odd creation even in the varied annals of arms making, was a separate piece. Given the wear and tear of battle, it made sense you’d have blades that could be fit into new frames.

The interesting thing was that the scythes’ shafts of wood were also enchanted, this time for protection and to be as light as possible. Having two separate enchantments should have been very difficult.

And it was, but as Ksmvr admired a blade of the Loquea Dree’s warriors, he received an explanation.

“The King of Destruction ordered each one forged. Each blade, made by his greatest [Enchanters]. When he ruled nation upon nation.”

“Superlative weapons.”

“Yes.”

Ksmvr eyed the giant crow-Garuda standing and talking to him. It was the leader, the same one who had demanded to know if he was a threat to Garuda.

“Warrior Leka.”

“Leka Thri.”

The warrior corrected him instantly, without inflection in his voice—which was like a caw, the Garuda’s traditional accents, —mixed with a screaming sigh.

It contrived to make his tall, thin silhouette, his dark cloth armor and feathers, not to mention his scythe, curved beak, and dark eyes rather intimidating. Not to Ksmvr particularly, but he admired the effect.

If not nearly dying. But the Loquea Dree clan had put up their weapons the instant Nsiia vouched for him. Now, they stood in a conference with Tiqr’s army, the Empress of Beasts, and the terrified Garuda clan, staring at the bodies of their attackers.

“Leka Thri. My apologies. It is one name?”

“It is my only name. If you address me, address me so.”

The warrior stopped. Then, of all things, coughed. He reached for something, a small flask, and drank.

“Apologies. I do not speak long.”

“Interesting.”

Leka Thri had not said much. He had spoken for about five minutes in total, in fact. Now, Ksmvr saw the head tilt uncannily sideways, like an owl.

“You interest as well. Ksmvr of the Antinium.”

“You did not come to kill me, then?”

Nsiia looked up from talking with the other warriors.

“I say he is not harbinger of war, warriors of Loquea Dree. First of Judgement, Seelaw Ya. Why did you threaten Ksmvr? You came hostile, to one who is an adventurer. Your clan is not declared against the Antinium, and you have no quarrel with Tiqr.”

The leader was actually one of the two Loquea warriors who’d put their scythes around Ksmvr. He bent slightly, so he could talk to Nsiia at eye-level.

“We hear many things. Some, even Garuda clans, say this is the forerunner of invasion. Some say he is spy. Infiltrator. We held blades out, and judged him as well as the weight of your words. You are Empress of Beasts and honorable. Ksmvr of the Antinium passed both tests.”

Ksmvr glanced at the scythe. Interesting indeed. Now he looked closer, the wicked edge of the warscythe had a sheen to it. And it was changing color, even as he watched. But when Leka Thri held it up slightly, closer to his head, it turned a faint, dark blue laced with red.

“Your blades judge?”

“Yes. See.”

Leka Thri held it closer to Ksmvr, and the blade changed again. It turned…well, no different blue, but the red receded and mixed faintly with grey, and, of all things, the faintest of yellows, like a daisy.

“What does that mean?”

Leka Thri turned as Nsiia approached. He bowed, deeply, and Vasraf nodded. For all they had come down like meteors, Loquea Dree was showing deference to Nsiia. Leka Thri turned to Seelaw Ya, and received a slight gesture from one of the First of Judgement’s wings. So he spoke.

“It says he has little of sin. Here. Yet he spills blood. Distantly; not so I. He has taken lives of people.”

He pointed to the blue. The red that grew when Leka Thri lifted the blade closer to him, and Ksmvr eyed the [Raider] corpses. But when Leka Thri shifted the scythe back, Ksmvr eyed the grey and yellow.

“Those two?”

“Lawbreaker.”

“In fact, I did not break many of Illivere’s laws. I merely…”

Ksmvr stared at the scythe. He technically freed Nsiia. And did a few other things. Leka Thri pointed.

“Breaking law is only one measure of judgement. Which law? How great? We do not slay for small crimes. We are not…murderous. You call us Executioners. That is not our name for ourselves.”

He turned his head and Seelaw Ya nodded once.

“Just so.”

Both looked at Skyleader Rekai, who flinched.

“It is just a nickname, great Loquea Dree.”

“Names matter.”

Nsiia was watching the interplay just like Ksmvr and Rémi’s camera. She pointed to the final aspect.

“And yellow?”

Leka Thri looked at Seelaw Ya again, then turned. He put up the scythe and spoke, simply.

“Valor.”

Ksmvr stared at the yellow running along the blade. He turned to Leka Thri, and shook his head.

“Using a blade to measure crime seems imprecise, to me. As proof, I am not valorous. I have done little that is commendable, of late.”

Nsiia looked at Ksmvr, and her lips twisted. Leka Thri stared at Ksmvr, without moving or saying anything. An uncanny stare…rather like any Antinium would give.

“This blade is a guide. It is meant to take lives; the colors of judgement were a secondary effect. Requested by the King of Destruction when he gave us our role. We make our own judgement. Only sometimes do the blades tell a simple story. When they run red and black with great murder and sin.”

So this was one of his vassals. An entire clan of Garuda—the Executioners, despite their distaste for the name.

But why were they here? No, for that matter, why were they not flying off to the King of Destruction’s side? Just for Ksmvr?

Well…yes.

Leka Thri was something of a speaker for their clan, it seemed, since he translated some of Seelaw Ya’s intentions as they stood together. Ksmvr saw a few of their own helping restore order to the clan, even herding back the animals. However, the regular Garuda stayed well clear of them if possible. They looked terrified—and Ksmvr began to understand why.

One of the scythe-wielders stalked among the clan, staring at the blade as he passed by Garuda. Most he ignored; children hiding behind parents, warriors and non-warriors alike, backing up, flying away on some pretext. But now and then he would follow a Garuda. Stop them. And ask them a question.

It never resulted in anything. But the scythe blade was always just…there.

“Loquea Dree are one of the bodies of law, especially among the Garuda. There are Garuda nations, like the Shield Kingdom of Qualvekkaras, Kingdom of the Winds. Some answer to the law within nations, but Loquea Dree was formed when the King of Destruction first rose to power. I recall it, as a girl, hearing their name.”

“Yes.”

Seelaw Ya had produced a wrap of dried meat, mixed with other herbs and some kind of spice Ksmvr had never tasted, but it was a simple meal. Still, Nsiia ate some out of politeness, as did Vasraf. Yinah sniffed the bundle, and reached down with one paw. Nsiia stopped the cat.

To Ksmvr’s surprise, Seelaw Ya silently raised the bundle and Yinah grabbed a morsel. The crow-Garuda stared as the cat chewed it down with no expression. Yinah eyed Seelaw Ya—then slowly edged around Nsiia’s shoulder so the cat was out of sight.

“When the King of Destruction had empire, he faced a problem. Garuda raided. Quarrelled. Clans under him fought with those not. Between each other. He had no great vassal to quell such issues, hunt down crimes. Some clan leaders—biased. None of his Seven could fly like Garuda, even Amerys.”

Leka Thri spoke. Ksmvr thought about the ‘Lord of the Skies’…Takhatres, the fastest Garuda in the world. On the ground. Leka Thri gestured to himself and the sixty warriors.

“So he found a clan feared by all. Great warriors. He gave them scythes and a charge.”

“To be the law of all Garuda?”

Leka Thri looked at Ksmvr. Seelaw Ya’s beak opened.

“Ha.”

It was a monosyllable. It might have been a laugh. It sounded ominous. After a moment, Leka Thri went on.

“No. He charged us to hunt down murder, great crimes. ‘For so long as you carry my blades, protect your people from great evil. Even mine.’ He broke the Black Judgement, who slaughtered and executed the law without nuance. We protect Garuda from great foes. Crelers. Those seeking to wipe out clans. Foreign powers.”

He stared at Ksmvr. Well, that explained most of what they were and why they’d come. Nsiia grimaced.

“You did not go to Reim once Flos Reimarch awoke.”

“No. He broke faith with us. We did not forget that. Nor can he offer us what we want. If he reclaims empire and Garuda flock to his banner, more than one clan, we will think. But he has nothing we want.”

Seelaw Ya spoke. Leka Thri nodded, and Ksmvr didn’t miss the way the Garuda lowered their heads. They had never seemed angry. Now, they looked…more scary.

“So, you have come, judged Ksmvr, and not found him wanting. Could I ask you to fly in support of Tiqr? Garuda are my people, though not as many in number. Loquea Dree are renowned warriors, on land or in the sky. You would be a powerful ally and I reward such allies.”

Nsiia’s voice had only the barest hint of hope in it. Seelaw Ya looked at her instantly.

“No. Tiqr’s battle is not of interest to us.”

She sighed, but nodded. Vasraf interrupted.

“First of Judgement, we plan on finding the aid of other warriors who might join with those sympathetic to the King of Destruction. Tiqr does not ride in his aid, but the Monks of Sottheim are our target. Will you not share common cause with us? Tiqr fell for its association with Reim, Loquea Dree may well consider us allies in that sense.”

It was another good argument. Seelaw Ya gave it a second’s thought.

“No. We have seen what has passed. We are not blind. Tiqr’s war is still not ours. This flight does not come to fight in your name, Empress of Beasts.”

Nsiia and Vasraf both sighed. Ksmvr spotted one of Loquea Dree’s shorter warriors stop in front of Landguide Heka. He watched as the crow-Garuda bent down so they were at a level.

“Y-yes, warrior?”

Landguide Heka stared in horror at the black eyes of the warrior. Garuda had irises, but the Loquea Dree’s were so dark that iris and pupil mixed together. It was part of why they were so alien. So odd.

Ksmvr thought they looked like Antinium eyes, albeit in bird-form. The warrior stared at Heka as the Garuda shook in terror. But crow-warrior didn’t look at the scythe. After a moment, the warrior opened her beak.

“Kin.”

Heka froze in sheer terror. Which was funny, to Ksmvr. She made a strangled noise in her throat—and her beak opened and closed. She said nothing. After a full twenty seconds, the warrior stood up again. And she looked…odd.

Seelaw Ya and Leka Thri had both turned to watch. Now, they looked at Nsiia. Then at Vasraf, and Yinah, peeking out at them with clear nervousness.

Then their heads rotated to stare at Ksmvr. And Rémi Canada. Leka Thri looked at his leader and got a nod. So he turned back to Nsiia.

“Therefore we shall journey with your army. If it is acceptable. If not, we shall negotiate.”

Nsiia blinked at them. She rubbed at one ear.

“…What? You said you would not fight with Tiqr.”

“Yes. We will not. If we must do battle against common foe, we shall consider it. But we will journey with your army for as long as that one remains.”

He pointed at Ksmvr. The Antinium was as astonished as everyone else.

“Do you still suspect me of being a spy? A threat to Garuda?”

“No.”

Leka Thri sounded surprised. Ksmvr tilted his head, much like they did, although not to the same degree.

“Then…why?”

Nsiia looked from Ksmvr to Leka Thri. The warrior glanced at Rémi Canada, aware he was being recorded perhaps, Seelaw Ya, and then turned to Ksmvr.

“You have something we greatly desire. Perhaps we can obtain it. We shall be ally. Journey with you. Even…friend. If you accept it.”

He opened his beak. Ksmvr saw no teeth, although that would have just completed the look, but a razor’s edge, serrated to rip. He stared at Leka Thri’s extended talon. At Nsiia. She was frowning, clearly confused, but she looked at Ksmvr. The Antinium hesitated.

“Will you fight to help me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You have something we desire.”

“Will you tell me what it is?”

Leka Thri hesitated. He looked around again and leaned in to whisper.

“…To tell you what it is may ruin what we desire. Especially if it is known.”

He glanced around and Ksmvr wondered who he was talking about. Nsiia’s eyes had sharpened, but Ksmvr doubted she could hear the minute whisper, even with a Skill. Leka Thri paused.

“…We will bare our blades in your cause, be it Tiqr or otherwise. If we cannot find what we want, we will leave. But we think you have it.”

“I cannot give you what you desire if I do not know what it is. May I be told?”

Leka Thri hesitated as Ksmvr whispered back. He paused, then replied.

“…It is embarrassing. Perhaps later. Will you accept our company?”

He stood back. Ksmvr opened and closed his mandibles, perplexed beyond reason. But he looked at some superb warriors, at Nsiia, and shrugged.

“Very well.”

And thus, Loquea Dree’s sixty warriors joined Nsiia’s army. Or rather—Ksmvr.

——

It was all about Ksmvr. The meeting with Loquea Dree’s clan, his magical sword, his curious personality, were all creating a kind of wave in an audience now fascinated by him.

These crow-Garuda, mysterious intentions or not, only added to Rémi Canada’s conviction that he was right. He filmed them joining Nsiia’s army, and Tiqr’s liberation was an amazing side-plot and backdrop to Ksmvr’s story.

But it was Ksmvr’s story. Loquea Dree and Rémi had come for him, and Rémi couldn’t parse quite why they were here. Until that night, when he got a clue.

Leka Thri and Seelaw Ya and a few others of the crow-Garuda were honored guests. The rest mingled, but largely kept to themselves. And how not?

They were intimidating. Not as much to Humans and Stitchfolk, perhaps, lacking some of the cultural understanding Garuda had, but even Tiqr’s warriors couldn’t hide how they found the Loquea Dree warriors.

Indeed, even the animals backed up. This was a bit of Loquea Dree’s fault in truth. Animals hated it when you stared too long at them, because that was what predators did. And Loquea Dree were excellent predators.

Nevertheless, Vasraf did his best to accommodate them and broke bread, offering it to Seelaw Ya as he sat around that night’s campfire with Ksmvr, Nsiia, and the others. Rémi had it all on film, of course, and watched as he tried to draw them in with tradition.

“The right to entertainment of choice belongs to our new guests and allies! Will you share stories, between warriors and travellers, First of Judgement? Or perhaps some sport? A game?”

He turned to Seelaw Ya. The First of Judgement considered the question. And to everyone’s surprise, he nodded.

“We shall have…music.”

Music? Ksmvr sat up and Rémi focused as Nsiia nodded.

“Of course. We have songs and bands of our own. Does Loquea Dree have music?”

“Yes. We know you have songs. Perhaps you shall play some. For us—we shall begin.”

So saying, no less than eight of Loquea Dree produced small objects. They carried little gear, even though they were stronger fliers than regular Garuda. But they had small…bone flutes. Whistles. Yet Ksmvr and Rémi soon learned with everyone else that Loquea Dree’s main source of music was their voices.

A shrill, high-pitched orchestra began as the eight warriors played, four on the small instruments. The other four waited, perfectly still, until the beginning of a strange melody. Almost pleasant.

Right until they began to sing. And then every hair on Rémi Canada’s arms rose. Because he had heard singing, bad singing, sonatas, opera, and all kinds of music.

This? He added a new term into his musical lexicon.

Scream-songs.

It was not a cacophony of disorganized music. In fact, it was music, and beautiful. Also? Terrifying. The singers had some gift, but the sight of eight dark shadows in the night performing what sounded like a screaming lament seemed like the herald to a night-ambush by horrors with lots of teeth and claws.

Seelaw Ya and Leka Thri looked around as Nsiia’s smile froze into a rictus and Tiqr’s army stared in horrified fascination. Ksmvr himself tried to nod along to the song as Yinah slowly dug her claws into his carapace. For some reason…Leka Thri kept staring at him. At Yinah. At Domehead.

They were halfway through the song when Seelaw Ya looked over. Then, without warning, Leka Thri stood. Every eye was on him. What would the crow-warrior do now? Join in? Was there some new part of the ceremony unique to their clan? He stared at Ksmvr, then turned sideways, glanced at Rémi—put his arms out, his long arms, talons balled into fists.

And began to do Ksmvr’s dance. Arms waving, legs slightly bent, butt out a bit. The Ksmvr dance. He did it a bit slower than Ksmvr, to the cadence of the song. Then reversed directions.

Nsiia’s mouth opened wide and she covered it slowly with her hands. Vasraf began choking to death, assassinated by his food. Ksmvr just looked at Leka Thri. The warrior was doing what could only be a copy of Ksmvr’s moves. But how had he seen…

Rémi Canada himself had stopped thinking. Domehead’s dome flashed with lights. He watched Leka Thri do the dance, and began to rise, but Nsiia touched his arm. She looked around, desperately, and mouthed.

Don’t laugh.

It was a tossup whether Tiqr’s warriors would have laughed anyways. Somehow, the silly dance…Vasraf looked at Leka Thri, doing it to the background of the scream-song.

“This is the most horrifying…”

His voice was quiet. Literally horrifying, and also horrifying in the sense of watching a social disaster. Ksmvr didn’t understand, though. Leka Thri was just looking at him.

We want something from you. Which would be…?

The song ended. Leka Thri lowered his hands. There was applause—led by Vasraf—but the Loquea Dree didn’t seem happy. Seelaw Ya, the others, were looking at Ksmvr.

“Will you play music now, Empress of Beasts?”

“Of course. Something dignified. Vasraf? For our guests?”

Seelaw Ya hesitated. Ksmvr looked at him. He looked at Leka Thri’s hard-to-read expression. But he seemed displeased.

Rémi Canada had it. The [Journalist] nearly dropped his recording device. He raised his voice, shakily, interrupting the moment. Because he could. He was part of this story, even if he was the recorder, the eyes and lens. And because…Loquea Dree really needed a hand right now.

“Why don’t you play the song from last night, Empress Nsiia?”

“That song? I’m sure our guests would not…”

Nsiia hesitated. But they knew the dance. Seelaw Ya glanced at Rémi, and nodded instantly.

“That would be preferable.”

Nsiia looked at Vasraf helplessly, and he didn’t understand. Not yet. But then that merry song began to play. Yinah didn’t roll about, much to the crow-Garuda’s disappointment, but after a second, Domehead got up. So did Ksmvr. He saw Leka Thri rise.

“You will dance?”

The warrior looked at him. Ksmvr nodded.

“I like music.”

“This is good. Music is good. You see. We are not just Executioners.”

Leka Thri glanced at Rémi. The crow-warrior adjusted his posture as Domehead began to do the dance, so that Domehead was on one side, Ksmvr in the center, Leka Thri on the other.

For the camera. Rémi met Seelaw Ya’s intent gaze. Leka Thri went on.

“Just as we said. We are law, but not without nuance. We are kin. We are not simply terror.”

Then he began to do the dance. Ksmvr did too, wondering why Leka Thri had told him what was obvious. The three began to do the Antinium dance—and now it was a bit scary.

But mostly hilarious. A giant crow-man, like a nightmare—one of the nightmares of Garuda children, Domehead, and Ksmvr, the representative of the Black Tide, doing that silly little dance.

Vasraf tried. He really did. He actually stabbed himself with his sheathed dagger. But then he started chuckling. Nsiia elbowed him hard, but it was like a cork popping out of a bottle. More of Tiqr’s warriors had to laugh.

“Apologies, Seelaw Ya. It is objectively funny.”

She turned to the leader, First of Judgement, fearing he would be offended. But he was not. In fact, and it was still scary—Nsiia stopped as she saw the expression on his face.

He was smiling. The crow-man turned to Nsiia.

“Yes. It is good. All is well, Empress of Beasts.”

Ah. Rémi Canada exhaled. There it was. He kept the camera focused on the scene. Recording #4 would have to go out soon. Maybe even tomorrow, if he could arrange a pickup. Somehow, he had a feeling one of Loquea Dree’s warriors might even do it if they couldn’t find a Runner.

You did things quite deliberately. Rémi Canada knew exactly what he was doing. So, it seemed, did Loquea Dree; though, they had slightly different purposes and, arguably, weren’t good at it. But they knew where to be for what they wanted.

As for Rémi? He wrote something down on the [Message] scroll he carried, one-handed. A note to his team when they sent this one out, and when they communicated. Just a title, a name to be used to refer to this series. It meant something, after all. Names. Intention.

He had weighed the ethics, and made a decision. When this video went out, and when they talked about it, they would use his name. A recording of Ksmvr, the Horns of Hammerad’s Antinium member.

Ksmvr, Gold-rank adventurer. Ksmvr the [Skirmisher], if you referred to his class. Ksmvr of the Free Antinium, technically formerly of the Free Antinium, but few made that distinction. Ksmvr of Liscor, a title not yet endorsed, but perhaps when they learned more of Ksmvr’s story. Saw what he did.

And Rémi’s name for him, so that everyone would know it. Intention spelled plain to anyone who understood.

Ksmvr of Chandrar.

——

Ksmvr of Chandrar. What a peculiar title. He was not made in Chandrar. He had not lived in Chandrar long. Why call it that?

It was just one of those nonsensical elements in life. And the Flying Queen of the Antinium knew nonsensical. No one else was as sensible as she. Proof positive? They had rejoined with the last of the six Queens of Izril. The Free Queen had finally been brought back into contact with the others.

Yet, oh, how dreary were her complaints. She stated, more than once in their meetings, that her Hive had been bereft of material and technological aid. Some of that was due to her remote location and the lack of any supply network until now. Even now, the Drakes were attempting to collapse it, thanks to Magnolia Reinhart. But Antinium could keep digging, so it was simply annoying…

However, the Flying Queen had to take umbrage with the Free Queen’s complaints. Did she think it was simple, to be one of the Queens in the proximity of the Grand Queen? Every figure and metric of her Hive was assessed, her placement of Soldiers, her research projects, all had to be tabulated and accounted for.

“Flying Queen. Your Hive’s efficiency has decreased in this last week. Can you account for the variance?”

And there she was. The Grand Queen of the Antinium. Taking the Flying Queen to task for something the Flying Queen was already looking into. Irritated, the Flying Queen rubbed her palps together.

Around her bustled her Hive, Workers and Soldiers, of more types than regular Antinium, many with wings, transporting goods, repairing parts of the Hive, and so on. Like any Hive, and hers had always been quick since she had incorporated the Flying Antinium’s naturally high speed into their network.

Hers was also the only chamber in the heart of the Hive. Every other Queen sequestered themselves away. The Flying Queen was surrounded by her Hive, the better to see them.

“I am tracing the reason for the delays, Grand Queen. Fear not.”

“That is a Drake expression, Flying Queen. I do not fear this inefficiency. Merely require it solved.”

Irritated, the Flying Queen watched the scrying mirror go blank. That was just it. No one appreciated her. She had used the idiom to exemplify her study of the enemies! No one had her vision! Pivr—she missed Pivr. Her greatest Revalantor should be here, to make her feel better.

“Inefficiency. My projects are mine to dictate. The Free Queen thinks she is so removed, so superior because she is creating Individuals.”

It was a sore point with the Flying Queen, because the other Queens had agreed that the creation of Anand and other Prognugator-type Antinium for far less of the cost of a regular Prognugator—not to mention their ability to level—outstripped any other achievement of late.

It irked her more because she couldn’t replicate it. She had tried. For instance, every Antinium in the entire Hive had been issued with a single copper coin just last week. The Flying Queen had waited…and nothing had happened.

She didn’t understand why, which indicated something of her lack of understanding about fiscal economics and the need for an actual system to spend said coinage.

Yet that was part of her success. She tried projects, more than any other Queen, and if they failed? She moved on. Some called that ‘reckless’, or ‘without proper foundation’, like the Silent Queen. Well, the Flying Queen had wings on her Antinium. So there!

And she had proof the Free Queen was not flawless. The Flying Queen went back to her second scrying orb, a large one she had placed next to the mirror. She reached down for a bowl of cheese-stuffs. Anand had brought some foods from the Free Antinium’s Hive, and the Flying Queen had instantly added it to her diet.

“The Free Queen informed us that this Ksmvr was exiled due to incompetence. Despite creating a Prognugator in secret without authorization, she exiled him? What a waste. I do not think he is incompetant. Proof? He is a Gold-rank adventurer. She is so blind.”

She stared at the recording of Ksmvr doing his dance. She had watched it eight times, often while working on her projects in the Hive. It was just…interesting. She rubbed her feelers together; she had been informed via the news network that another part would be airing tonight and had cleared her schedule to watch.

For now, though, the Flying Queen had to get to the bottom of these inefficiencies. It was in the supply chain, of all things. Apparently goods weren’t getting to the right places on time, or Antinium. She’d had her Prognugators analyze what was nearly a 22% slowdown! The Flying Queen focused on the logistical problem.

“…The area of interference…no. Not food distribution. Not the other Hives…”

She was so vexed by it, because the Grand Queen had intimated it was because of the Flying Queen’s methods that her Hive was falling behind quota. The Flying Queen was going to establish it was some outside force.

Of course, the Grand Queen was right. It was due to the quality only the Flying Hive had. She finally completed her analysis and stopped.

The source of the slowdown and congestion that made her entire Hive run so much slower was…right here. It was centered around her throne room. How could that be?

In the background, Nsiia began to dance with Ksmvr. The Flying Queen stared at the image and the series she’d been playing non-stop. Then turned her head.

All of the Antinium instantly went back to bustling around, carrying objects, putting foodstuffs for her next meal in place, scurrying here and there, rotating Soldiers out, and so on. Fast, commendable, perfect as could be, even above average. The Flying Queen hmmed.

“How odd.”

She went back to watching the scrying orb. Instantly, behind her, the Workers and Soldiers slowed. Not a huge amount. But they did slow, well, by 22% when you accounted for pileups and delays in the Hive. Not even that much. Just…walking a bit slower. Heads turned. Lingering as a they exited through a tunnel.

Staring at the Antinium above ground. The beautiful land. The dance.

Ksmvr of Chandrar.

“It is so odd. I cannot figure out…”

The Flying Queen’s head turned and Antinium snapped back to work. She stared blankly at them. Back at the scrying orb. A slight…reflection finally caught her eye on the blank mirror she used to talk to the other Queens. Slowly, she turned back to watching and waited for three minutes. Stared at the reflection in the mirror. Then whirled.

“Aha!”

Antinium froze in terror and mortal fear as the Flying Queen of the Antinium loomed, catching them in the act. The Flying Queen gazed down upon them. Well, well, well. Well, well, well, well…she hesitated.

“Well. How interesting.”

Later that week, the Grand Queen grudgingly—exceedingly grudgingly—commended the Flying Queen. Her workforce slowdown had somehow, mysteriously, vanished, and she had, in fact, hit a 4.5% increase that no Hive could match.

The Grand Queen suspected it wouldn’t last. But unfortunately for her, in some sense, the Flying Queen’s Hive continued to work even harder, and that was by Antinium standards. She couldn’t figure it out, but that was because she only looked at the reports.

She had no idea that part of the reason why Antinium Workers and Soldiers worked even harder than usual was due to the one-hour break before their rest period. In which they entered the now-enclosed area to stare at the scrying orb on repeat. The Flying Queen refused to tell the Grand Queen why until she was asked. She was not impeding the Antinium’s growth as a whole.

She was just a bit smug about it. And that was all there was to it. The Flying Antinium did not suddenly all turn into Individuals. In fact, they watched and went back to work and that was that.

Except for one single Worker, in Tunnel B35-South—this was obviously a translation for the Antinium—which corresponded to a job serving the nutritional paste to Soldiers and Workers. It was very simple. The Worker filled bowls with the slop. Antinium took said slop and ate it, and deposited it with another Worker.

This was the entire day of said nameless Worker, and it had been for nearly three years straight. Wait, eat, dispense food, rest—unless it was called to some urgent task like fighting to defend the Hive.

There were no feelings involved in said Worker. And yet—of late—it had been hesitating.

The moments in between rushes of Workers and Soldiers were sometimes minute, but it was there. Like the moment between filling bowls. Then, the Worker just stood. Stood, and waited. That had been everything, and that hadn’t been fine because ‘fine’ implied there was good and bad. It had just been.

But now—the moment seemed to stretch on. It had no orders during this moment. No monsters attacked, no Queen to command. So the moment…had no expectations.

There the Worker stood. The last Soldier took a bowl. It had time. It stared ahead. Then, slowly, it turned in its small cubicle, looking left, for a Worker delivering more slop, right, for more Workers or Soldiers or its replacement.

No one. And it was not exactly visible from the place where Soldiers ate without voice or interruption. Slowly, the Worker stood straight. Then it turned left—and began to shake all four arms. It did a little dance, left, right, left, right. Snapped to attention and began filling bowls as Workers entered. When they were done, and in that moment—the Worker began to do the dance again. Dance, and danced.

And began to level.

——

So that was what was happening with the other Horns of Hammerad. The first entry in the documentary series came quite some time after the other Horns had all been located, each by a different group, and had begun their long journeys.

Still, the first glimpse of Ksmvr was an insight. A way for the others to link up…if they had a scrying orb. Which not one did, at least on hand. Only Ceria Springwalker had a tiny scrying mirror.

“Block the scrying device she has. She cannot be allowed to see this. Yet.”

The Siren of Savere, Revine Zecrew, turned away from the orb, furious. So that was where Nsiia was? She was going to hunt her down and—

But this was only one of the Siren’s many plans. The [Bandit Queen], the [Hydromancer] who ruled lawless Savere—at least, that was what it was known for—did not pace around her study long.

In another time she would have been focused on Nsiia, but she had something else to allay her wrath, much to her people’s relief. She kept going back to something in her workshop, as one of her [Mages] ran off to do her bidding.

“Illphres.”

Her old friend. The Siren stared bleakly at a sheaf of organized letters. Amid spell tomes, books, even an illustration. Yet…

“She had an apprentice. She told me she would never take one. And here she is. Good enough to damn an Adult Creler, almost. And with some kind of powerful relic!”

The Siren didn’t believe in chances, and she often suspected designs, but she couldn’t see the one here that had led Ceria Springwalker to her. She thought about it. The half-Elf…was an adventurer. Perhaps one of those traditional, annoying, upstanding ones.

But perhaps not. She was Illphres’ apprentice. And even if she was the of the most holier-than-thou type? So what? The Siren…got what she wanted. There were ways.

She smiled. This was good. This was fascinating. This might be what she needed. She strode back through her palace, at the port-capital of Savere, Runsblud, home to an ever-changing court. The most dangerous [Bandits], [Pirates], and other criminals who took Savere as a port from the storm of law.

The Siren descended into a banquet hall replete with laughter, rogues—mostly women—her warriors, not a traditional army, but a match for many nations. Into Savere had come the half-Elf with ice powers. Savere was not Roshal, which twisted. But it could corrupt. And the Siren herself desired something. So beware, Ceria Springwalker. Could she navigate Savere’s dangerous reefs of power? Ingratiate herself to—or survive—the deadliest rogues and criminals?

Could she do that? Would the Siren find what she wanted? Revine turned, the power of water sweeping behind her as she saw the half-Elf, surrounded by Savere’s deadliest. She was—

Ceria Springwalkere turned. Revine stopped dead as she saw the half-Elf’s face. Her…cheeks were bulging so huge they looked like they had doubled her facial size.

“Ib a squirrel!”

Half the audience around her was cheering her on to fit more Yellats into her mouth. The other half were laughing so hard they were sliding off their chairs. Revine stared at Ceria. She closed her eyes.

…What had Illphres been thinking?

8.48 H

Ksmvr of Chandrar was no naturalistic force in the world’s consciousness. That did not mean he didn’t deserve to be there. Only that he was made.

Of course, he had to have the right stuff to appear, and it had to be the right moment. Yet not even Ksmvr would deny the fact that he was, in some sense, as artificial as Domehead. He had been created, not born.

He told the audience a story as the fourth entry in his series began. It was, at first, a simple scene. A lone Antinium Worker, sitting around a campfire, speaking.

Until you saw he carried a glowing sword, partially-hidden by a cloth wrap. A relic from another era. Until you saw that he wore a cape, and had a little cat in his lap.

When you saw the Empress of Beasts, leaning against Domehead, who sat perfectly still, in the company of her army; the huge, hunched forms of the Loquea Dree clan, as the camera panned across everything, it became a moment. Then—you heard Ksmvr’s voice.

“The day the Horns of Hammerad were named Crelerbane, Hell’s Wardens, was cloudy. I distinctly recall a buildup of clouds that hinted at approaching precipitation. However, it did not, in fact, rain, which might have aided Captain Ceria Springwalker in conjuring ice magic. Indeed, the cloud cover dissipated over the course of the day.”

His audience stared at him. Nsiia coughed.

“Ksmvr. Is that important to the story?”

Ksmvr looked blankly over at her.

“I am trying to add salient details. Strategically, you see, we were fighting in the area just outside the Bloodfields, which was largely grassy, with only slight gradation to the terrain. If we had been fighting in the Floodplains, we could have used the landscape as cover…”

“Yes, yes. But perhaps…you might tell us the story dramatically?”

For a second, everyone, including the audience captured in the image, looked as though they expected Ksmvr to try and fail. After all, what they knew Ksmvr could be amazingly literal at times. Oddly silly, fixated on trees, a fond lover of cats.

Spitty’s mortal enemy. It was amazing how many small details about Ksmvr were known by hundreds of thousands, nay, millions of people. Objectively useless information, even if you were to meet him. Yet they did not know him, for now the Antinium went still. He seemed to think, to ponder for a great moment.

When he spoke next, his voice deepened, as deep as he could make it. He struck a pose and, if you knew what he was imitating, you might see some Wesle or Jasi in him. Perhaps even Barelle the Bard.

“The Crelers attacked a group of adventurers hired for simple guard-duty just outside of Liscor, along the Bloodfields. We were one team of many, all Silver-rank or Bronze, tasked with protecting [Builders] and road layers. Hitherto this moment, we had encountered exactly one substantial danger from the Bloodfields itself.”

He looked around.

“We were not prepared. We never reached the magical portal door leading back to the inn. We had no teleportation scrolls. We assumed, naively, that we would be able to retreat in the face of any threat. It was a rare lapse in the judgement of my team, but my Captain, Ceria Springwalker, did not have command of the operation. Nor were we allowed to deploy undead, another fact that might have saved lives. When the Crelers struck, they came out of the ground by the thousands. Juvenile Crelers, Baby Crelers. And the Adult Creler.”

His audience shifted. Even here—no, —anywhere—the word ‘Creler’ was synonymous with terror, with one of the world’s universal threats. Ksmvr’s own voice reflected that. A kind of warble, never heard before. Intensity. Hatred.

“If you have never seen one, I cannot describe an Adult Creler fully. It was approximately twice as large as a house. It spat bolts of…something. Internalized substances that could kill from afar. Nothing but great magic stopped its fangs from slicing armor apart. It was so well-armored that few weapons could even harm it. And it was aware. It fought us with tactics. It was cunning. It had a mind.”

He looked around.

“Even magic could not stop it. I watched a [Mage] of Wistram cast the full might of his power on it and fail to kill the Adult Creler. It was not a threat for Silver-rank teams. The instant it emerged, my captain, along with all of the others, instantly ordered a retreat. We did not reach the door; in fact, Crelers pursued the teams that did escape into the inn. We realized we would surely perish in flight. So we took a stand.”

It was a tale already told, the greatest moment of the Horns of Hammerad, the instant they became Gold-rank adventurers. Ksmvr did it some justice, although he had peculiarities in the way he talked. He was not a natural [Storyteller], but his enthusiasm and the fact that he had been there gave some moments a quality other renditions would lack, as did his style:

“The Adult Creler severed Yvlon’s arm after it began to break. Nevertheless, she picked up her arm and, using it as a replacement for her sword, began hitting the Creler. It was ineffective, but I believe it may have unsettled the Adult Creler.”

“She used her own arm to attack the Creler?”

Someone called out. Ksmvr turned his head.

“Only briefly. She made a tactical retreat to request Pisces reattach it. Which he did, to the best of his abilities. However, when Yvlon Byres reentered the battle, she charged the Adult Creler alone. Brave warriors like Crossbow Stan had already fallen, yet she brought her damaged blade up and performed a mordhau blow—with the crossguard as the hammer. It was she who finally broke the weakened armor of the Adult Creler’s head. One adventurer, who ignored the wounds she had taken. She would surely have died in moments, but she advanced. And that is why we took hold of victory.”

His voice rose with evident pride, and his gesturing, with three arms, became more dramatic.

“Yvlon Byres knew no fear. That is why she became a [Silversteel Armsmistress]. She fought, despite losing her arm. Despite taking near-fatal wounds. I believe that, of the two, the Adult Creler knew fear first. Its spirit and armor broke before her, and she began to carve out its main brain as it began to retreat for the first time.”

A Frostmarrow Behemoth dueling with the Adult Creler, a spontaneous link moment. The desperate barrier raised by Montressa du Valeross. Yvlon’s suicidal charge and, as she cut into the Adult Creler’s brain, the final, pivotal blow.

The audience leaned in as Ksmvr concluded his tale.

“I took advantage of the moment, landed on the Adult Creler, and finished her blow. Thereafter, it expired.”

His audience, like a free-falling bird in a beautiful dive, came to an abrupt stop, slamming into the end of Ksmvr’s story. Leka Thri frowned, his beak opening.

“Your story seems to lack a proper ending, Ksmvr.”

“Yes. You told parts of it well—parts not at all!”

Nsiia objected loudly as Ksmvr looked blankly at his companions. The Antinium scratched at his antennae.

“I am not a perfect storyteller, so I apologize for not giving my team due diligence—”

“No, Ksmvr. Not that. You told it fairly well. But just not about yourself.”

That was the key element his audience noticed. Ksmvr hesitated.

“Yes I did. I represented myself in the story—”

At this, he stopped because everyone began to chuckle. From Vasraf to the crow-Garuda—even Yinah opened her mouth. Nsiia’s smile was humorous—but a bit sad. She looked at him.

“Ksmvr, recount the part where Pisces drew his blade and fought.”

Ksmvr nodded slowly.

“He was the swiftest warrior on the battlefield, and fought up close, despite lacking armor. Crelers were all about him, but he had his flaming rapier in one hand, slashing, casting with the other. I personally witnessed hundreds of Crelers attacking him, yet he danced between them as if he were on a ballroom floor in Terandria. Even when they struck him, he refused to stop fighting. Indeed, his white robes of surpassing hygienic value turned crimson and orange with blood—”

He was warming to that section of the tale, but Nsiia propped her chin in her hands.

“…And where were you?”

Ksmvr gave her a blank look.

“Fighting Crelers. I contributed in a distraction role, as I was unable to do any qualitative damage to the Adult Creler until the end. My role was lamentably low.”

“Yet…you mentioned you are invulnerable to Creler poisons.”

“Yes. Therefore, I did risk wounds.”

“Where, exactly?”

Ksmvr shrugged matter-of-factly.

“I believe I concentrated on centers of the smallest Crelers, to do the most effective damage. You see, the smallest Crelers were weak enough that one could easily inflict damage, even by biting. Although they swarmed over and attempted to eat everything. I kept mobile, and survived by luck as much as the others’ efforts. Mostly due to Captain Ceria, in fact. Her fortress of ice—”

Vasraf had been listening. Now, he narrowed his eyes as he put the pieces together.

“You mean to say, you were fighting while they climbed you, in the thickest swarms of the Crelers, biting them?”

“It is an effective use of mouth-parts when not imbibing potions. Yes, General Vasraf. What of it?”

His audience looked at each other. Yes, this was Ksmvr. The Antinium looked genuinely uncomprehending. Because he had no worth. Or so he claimed.

“Ksmvr, you make it sound as if your team single-handedly killed a thousand small Crelers, scared the Adult Creler into fleeing, and then brought it down while you sat to the side, knitting!”

“I did not, Nsiia. I have well-documented my role. I simply contextualize it with their achievements.”

Nsiia was shaking her head.

“Ksmvr. You make too little of yourself, and that does a disservice to your team. Surely they are impressive, the three of them. I would quite like to meet them all. Ceria, Yvlon, Pisces. And yet—when you lie, even by kindness, it still paints a picture of them. Each one has a fault. Only not when they come from your mouth.”

The Antinium sat there, digesting her words. He almost shook his head, but looked around.

“I am aware they have their faults, Empress Nsiia. No one is perfect.”

“Ah, then…?”

Ksmvr shook his head.

“They are simply superior to me. You see, I am an exile. I am inferior by every standard I should be held to, and therefore, it does not merit me pointing out any flaws they have when…”

His audience sighed. Ksmvr tried to justify himself, but he already had, just not in the way he wanted. He looked around, then finally at Rémi. Even the [Journalist] seemed skeptical, but Ksmvr spoke to the camera.

“They are not perfect. But truly, they lack great flaws. I am honored to be their teammate. They each set a great example. You do not know them. Nsiia thinks I am biased, but I can find little fault with any of them that truly matters. They are…”

——

“Raaagh!”

The scream from Yvlon Byres’ mouth was followed a second later by her running a [Gladiator] through with a lance of metal. Silversteel, a jagged point that emerged from her arm. Her arm of living, shifting metal.

The [Silversteel Armsmistress]’ scream was followed by her stomping on the other woman’s chest, to screams and roar from the crowd. She whirled, and the melee around her moved, drawing away, as everyone in sight saw the berserk Human searching for a target and declared ‘not-it’.

The two women holding Yvlon’s back, Rexel and Leprel, watched as Yvlon’s head turned left and right. Her face was contorted with fury—more so than last time.

“Byres! Slow down! We’ve already taken out one. Don’t—sands blast it!”

Rexel, the [Storm Bandit], watched as Yvlon charged towards the biggest foe, a huge Hemp-caste [Gladiator] holding a tower shield and spear. He backed up, cursing.

“The Silver-Killer is on a rampage again!”

A voice was roaring over the din of it all. And with it, a chant.

“Silver-Killer! Silver-Killer!”

The chant was a thrum in your veins, a second heartbeat to mix with the roaring of blood. The air smelled like iron, and the packed ground radiated Chandrar’s heat. But despite it, all you could see was the other fighters.

Low-grade ones, in this entry bout in one of the capital’s lesser arenas. The capital city of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, ironically or fittingly dubbed Tyrant’s Rest, was so large and the arenas so popular it had lesser arenas and the central one, the Coliseum of Monarchs.

As in, the [Gladiators] were [Kings] and [Queens] of their class. This place was good enough for monarchs to visit. Nerrhavia did few things small.

And because there were so many bouts and the arenas could be specialized, there were countless crowd-favorites. Old veterans with wily tricks, champions who came from other cities to rise and fall, eternal losers, lucky dark horses, and, of course, newcomers.

The Silver-Killer of Izril was the latest entry into that lineup, and she was taking the Arena of Change by storm. So-named because it was where a lot of new gladiators got tossed in; into huge fights like these, where outstanding talent rose to the top and got shuffled to other arenas.

——

“We’re not going to stay here long.”

After the bout, Rexel made the proclamation to Leprel, the [Thief] and her teammate in the three-woman team. Yvlon was sitting on a bench as an [Arena Healer] gingerly tended to her wounds.

She had some bad ones, but Yvlon had avoided more of them by being on the offense so much that her enemies largely focused on saving their skins. Rexel winced as the [Healer] muttered over a huge gash that actually seemed like it had gone into the tendons of her leg.

“You’re wounded badly, Miss Byres. I don’t know if it’s infected—I need to put this gel on it. If it turns dark, there will be no potions and no fighting for you for a while.”

“Got it.”

Yvlon finally spoke, the first time since she’d entered the arena. The woman nodded warily, and turned to Rexel.

“Any more wounds…? Speak up; you don’t want a small infection. Even a scratch? No?”

“No, Miss Healer. Do we have time to rest?”

The [Healer] began packing up.

“Rest, eat, request anything you have credit or coin for. I think Miss Yvlon Byres has at least a few notices in her room. You won’t fight until tomorrow at the earliest. I will be back in ten minutes to check the leg. Don’t move until then.”

Yvlon nodded tightly. The [Healer] paused, pursed her lips, and regarded Yvlon’s right arm.

“…As to your arm, I have no remedy. But it seems as though I am not needed.”

Rexel stared at it in a kind of morbid fascination. The jagged metal that had been Yvlon’s right arm, torn off from her encounter in the Village of the Dead, had gone up to her shoulder, a terrible, crippling wound.

Now? Yvlon’s right arm ran down to the crook of her elbow. It even tried to flex slightly.

It was growing back. Rexel had heard of people who could regenerate, and potions and spells that did the same. Even so, Yvlon’s arm being able to do it, however slowly, was the stuff of stories.

The woman stared at her arm as the [Healer] left. Only now did Leprel speak up. She was dizzy, and had raw meat and ice on her head where someone had smacked her a good one.

“That [Gladiator] you ran through, Yvlon…is she alive?”

The woman turned.

“I don’t know.”

“I could ask if you want.”

“Why?”

Leprel hesitated. Her eyes met Yvlon’s, then moved away.

“Well, if you were worried…”

“I’m not. That was a [Gladiator]. She chose to fight. You told me all the regulars here signed up for this. Rexel, are we fighting here? Did anyone say anything about the investigation?”

“Neither, Silver…I mean, Yvlon. Maybe they sent you a message?”

Yvlon half-stood, looked at her leg, and grimaced. She relaxed, but only barely.

“Fine. I’ll check.”

Then she sat and…simmered. Rexel and Leprel exchanged glances.

“Is your ass still troubling you, Silver-Killer? There’s medication for bad toilet shits…”

“I’m fine.”

Yvlon snapped. She glared at them. Rexel hesitated, but she’d been a [Bandit]. She knew dangerous tempers, so she pressed on.

“You’ve torn through three opening bouts. The investigation’s ongoing. They’re actually investigating that—who was it that wronged you and accused you, Magistrate…?”

“Ducaz.”

“Yes. So all’s well, eh? People are cheering you. Yes, you’re a prisoner, but you even have a sponsor!”

Yvlon Byres glanced at their private waiting room, the [Arena Healer] who had tended them without checking if they could afford it, and Rexel thought of their nice rooms in the arena. No rusted equipment or people manipulating things against them. Someone powerful had decided to become Yvlon’s patron, and it showed.

And yet, there the woman sat.

“I’m still a prisoner, Rexel. Don’t worry, I respect you and Leprel for helping me. Even if you two are criminals. But we’re prisoners.”

“Yes…and I know that’s got to grate, Byres. But eh, it’s the best of a bad situation. I’m cheering, myself, each time I eat the food here, and it’s so good! You though, you’re as angry as a beehive up a mule’s ass. Are you sure you’re alright? Not still sick?”

Yvlon Byres had been about to snap back. She was a striking warrior; no wonder Nerrhavia’s Fallen had embraced her. Yes, she was pale of skin, despite being tanned under Chandrar’s sun, she had blonde hair, blue eyes, and she was merely beautiful.

One could not help how they looked, especially Humans. Stitch-Folk, who could be as stunning as they chose, placed less value on mere appearance.

Yet substance—like her glorious metal arms? Fascinating. Alluring, even. It was one of the reasons Stitch-Folk liked her so much. Look! Here was a Human who did what they could do! And the metal was arguably better than most cloth!

Her fame as a member of the Horns of Hammerad, insistence that she was wrongfully accused, and brutal fighting style all played into that. Yet now, Yvlon’s shapely nose, once broken but correctly set, wrinkled. The scar on her cheek, very faint, twitched.

“I’m not angry, Rexel.”

The [Storm Bandit] opened her mouth wide. Leprel took the melting bag of ice off her head to stare. Yvlon sat up straighter and squared her shoulders.

“I’m not. That is to say, I’m angry that I’m imprisoned. I do—intensify in battle, but I’m calm. See?”

She took in a breath, exhaled, and nodded at Rexel. She tried a faint, wry smile.

“I’m just exasperated. Irritated.”

“So you’re not seething with fury? Or about to eat people’s ears when we fight, like you were ten minutes ago?”

“Rexel…you say the strangest things. I’m a [Warrior]. I’m calm. I’m just—”

Yvlon looked around. Her brow furrowed. Then she caught Rexel’s eyes, exhaled.

“—Under stress. My team’s missing. I am fine. Thank you for your concern.”

“But you fight like you’re in a fury!”

“It’s just a Skill. It’s just me being more aggressive. It works. I have a hold on it. There’s a difference between that and having a temper, Rexel. Well, I don’t see the gel turning any colors. I’ll find that [Healer] and see you in our quarters.”

Yvlon stood up briskly. Rexel and Leprel exchanged a glance as she strode out of the room. Only when she was out of earshot did Leprel whisper.

“She thinks she doesn’t have a temper? My mother beat me like a sack of gnats and she was a calm, gentle lamb compared to Yvlon!”

“She’s deluding herself. But she fights so fiercely even the other [Gladiators] won’t get near her.”

Rexel grimaced. It was a problem, though…she looked after Yvlon. She kept saying the same things. She didn’t have a temper.

Rexel wondered if it was just being Human, or Izrilian. She sighed, rose to her feet, and groaned.

“Let’s smooth things over for her, eh?”

Leprel nodded. They had to do their part, which was, since they couldn’t fight well, represent Yvlon among the gladiators, make sure they didn’t gang up on her. It wasn’t too hard. Rexel left their waiting room and found some of the gladiators that were not badly wounded. She slapped the nearest woman she could find on the stomach and the Stitch-Woman [Javelin Thrower] sat up with a yell.

“What the—”

Rexel offered her a hand and one of the oranges she’d taken from the fruit bowl in their waiting room. The [Gladiator] saw Rexel’s grin, the fruit, snatched it, and glared. Rexel winked.

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake, eh? Sorry about Silver-Killer back there. She’s a fury once you let her loose. Name’s Rexel. What’s yours…?”

——

Yvlon Byres stalked back to her rooms. And she did stalk. The [Gladiators] watched her, and not just the ones who had fought in the Arena of Change.

Given the varying nature of the arenas, the gladiators were housed in a central location so they could go to whatever arena needed to. It took a bit of transport time, but saved in other ways.

Most of the low-level ones got out of her path. The ones with confidence, or the appearance of it, watched her go without clearing a space. One of them, a short Beastkin from Baleros—well, that’s where most of her kind came from—stood on the tips of her toes to stare after Yvlon.

“There goes the Silver-Killer. Mad as a loon, they say.”

She spoke with a perfect accent to Nerrhavia’s Fallen, though. The fur on her face was a bit sandy, but only because she’d just finished her arena match.

One of her fellow [Gladiators], and sometimes-partner, watched with a moribund expression on his face.

“I hear she’s too vicious for the Arena of Change. They’re saying she might tour in the Labyrinth of Challenges. Or even debut in the Coliseum of Monarchs, with us. Which means we have to fight her. We’re dead.”

He was a curious fellow. Human…but not apparently so. In fact, he looked as foreign in nature as any [Gladiator], because of the semi-permanent [Stoneskin] spell on his body. The armored plates made him slow, but with armor and his natural tendency not to get hurt, he was one of the Coliseum of Monarchs’ favorite defensive fighters.

“I’d try my luck. She’s too full of holes, give me a moment and I’ll add one more. Some poison’d slow her down.”

A woman grinned, flicking a dagger up. The [Stoneskin Warrior], Relladen, shook his head.

“Not if she hits you with that changing arm, Thexca. Would you fight her? Vitte?”

He nudged the Beastkin. She flicked her ears back and forth a few times.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t look like fun.”

Her two companions sighed. They were all top-tier [Gladiators], as evidenced by where they fought and their open abilities on display, like Vitte’s dagger from her homeland, the Empire of Scaied. She was, in fact, a heroine of theirs, being the highest-ranked [Gladiator] from that land.

“It’s always fun or not fun for you, Vitte. Why did you drag us out to look at one newcomer?”

Vitte scratched at her ears with a paw. You could mistake her species for Gnoll from far away…and mostly if you didn’t know Gnolls. But she was of that same kind of group, where ‘paws’ replaced hands, and she had an elongated muzzle.

“It’s not me. You wanted to see her most, didn’t you, Mectail?”

The last of the quartet said nothing. He had watched Yvlon Byres pass. Now, he slowly nodded.

“She’s losing herself. She fights like a [Berserker], but she isn’t one, nor was she trained as one. Someone has to stop her, before one of us with the right Skills takes her head off.”

Thexca, Relladen, and Vitte all looked at Mectail. The last of them stood out in his own way, more than the rest.

Relladen was armor, [Stoneskin], one of the rare kinds of fighters who used tridents, nets, shields. A [Gladiator]’s [Gladiator], experienced in hampering foes, putting on a show, and fighting in concert or alone.

Thexca was the knife-throwing poison expert, quick on her feet, with a curved blade—two of them—ready to capitalize on a weak point.

Vitte was Beastkin. Her features were reminiscent of a Gnoll’s, but her fur was shorter, her species was far smaller than the tall Gnolls of Izril, and she herself was renowned for her agility. Also…her magical ability, which went hand-in-paw with her species’ nature.

She was of the one Beastkin species who could be found in great numbers in Chandrar at all, and even that was a relative term. But then—she had an iconic appearance. One of her people had even been known to have served the King of Destruction himself.

Tottenval the Blooming Plague. And, like him, Vitte was a Fox Beastkin.

She had armor, despite being a magic-user. They all did. Only a fool went without, striding around with his chest bare, still oiled like the attendants loved to add to you. His muscles stood out on his frame, and the Stitch-Man’s cloth was not fine, but Mectail didn’t care.

He was even bare-footed, and he only had some worn pants on. The [Martial Artist] followed the path Yvlon had taken, arms folded, frowning.

“She is going mad with her Skill. There is something else about her, but I do not know what. Her arms? Her balance is completely off. Spiritually, that is.”

“Uh oh. Mectail’s found someone he wants to fight again.”

Thexca sighed. But Yvlon Byres was a person to watch. How else to explain her rise? It wasn’t her natural talents alone. Vitte was right. Someone was protecting her from running into that bad moment where she’d be caught out. But who?

——

Queen Yisame of Nerrhavia’s Fallen was still aglow from rallying her political power. Her grand showing on television was one thing. Now she had two glorious matters, along with the politics and her restored image abroad.

Not that she wasn’t sympathetic to the Gnolls. It was just that—to Yisame, some things came first.

Like watching, obsessively, the brand new documentary about Ksmvr! It had just come out, by Rémi Canada of all people! She was waiting for a “Part 2”, but, as she watched, she also had someone else on replay.

The Silver-Killer of Izril was as fierce as Yisame had dreamed. Heartslayi, that fool of a [Writer], didn’t understand Yvlon. She wrote as if the woman fought like some genteel [Knight]. When the reality was Yvlon spearing an opponent on her arm and stomping their ribs.

“Send a basket of oranges. They seem to gobble them up. Is she injured? Send for an [Infection Healer] if she’s injured.”

Yisame’s quill danced as she wrote instructions to one of her agents. After all, she couldn’t be seen openly to favor Yvlon Byres—yet. Right now, she was posing as one of the rich, anonymous benefactors.

And waiting, waiting for Yvlon Byres’ debut. She had pushed it back as far as she could, and been assured that, all things being equal, Yvlon would fight in the Coliseum of Monarchs next week, if she won and survived all her matches with no injuries that would keep her from participating.

Once she was there, Yisame could reveal her support; it would be unseemly to support Yvlon before that. The sky was the limit after that. Because a [Gladiator] in the Coliseum of Monarchs could take work even as a [Bodyguard], and the ones in lower arenas could meet with adoring fans and clients.

Yisame waited for that moment. She lived for the moment story met reality, and she hoped Yvlon would not disappoint her. She had plans, she had momentum. Life was well.

…Right up until the listings changed and Yisame checked a sudden, unusual event. She took one look at Yvlon’s next fight, which had been decided far before any arena bout, and cursed.

“What?”

——

Yvlon Byres stared at the spell scrolls. Two pieces of rolled parchment, sealed by a simple bit of string.

Nothing fancy. Nothing huge. Very swallowable, in fact—although they had trouble on the way out. They were cleaned—obsessively—with soap, and smelled of berries and nothing else.

She still didn’t touch one as she grimly carved herself a slice of apple. There was a mountain of oranges that Rexel and Leprel kept sharing, but Yvlon didn’t want any.

She wasn’t mad. She was just—fed up. Irritated. Ready to hit something—but not due to anger. Due to the injustice of it all. She was still a prisoner. She still had to fight, like a hound in some dog-fighting arena. Like a [Slave].

Yvlon was surely allowed some pique over that, no matter what Rexel thought. She just wondered…

If I open one of these scrolls and it’s a Scroll of the Void and I suck half of Nerrhavia into it, would it be worth it? They probably don’t activate without me trying. Maybe the effects are even listed. Most scrolls are that sensible.

She was just—Yvlon heard a snap and cursed.

“Not again!”

The little steel knife had snapped and the blade was embedded halfway in a chunk of apple. Yvlon stared at it.

“What is going on?”

First the doorknobs fell apart. Then her bed collapsed as the supports beneath it gave way, rusted. Even the silverware—including the actual silver—seemed to have a half-life of minutes. Yvlon looked at her hands.

“It’s me. But why?”

Even enchanted metal. She didn’t feel bad for the arena’s staff, but it was concerning. Yvlon had stopped fighting with a sword because she couldn’t actually trust the metal. That, and because her arms were so much more dangerous than even lesser enchanted blades.

“My amazing arms that everyone loves.”

Yvlon stared at her arms. She slowly raised a finger, and stared at it. Before her eyes, it turned into a knife’s blade. She went back to slicing the apple. Then stopped.

She stared at her arms. Her monstrous arms. Yvlon clenched her fist, and something hit her in the cheek. The apple crushed in her grip, squirting a bit of juice. Yvlon cursed and raised her hand to throw the mess, then just sat there, head bowed.

“Damn this.”

And to what she was referring to, her glorified captivity, her arms, the mysterious problems, or all of it, she didn’t know.

Someone knocking at the door made Yvlon look up.

“Silver?”

“What is it, Rexel?”

The woman cracked open Yvlon’s private room and saw the mess. Yvlon started, then began to explain.

“I just lost control of my strength. It’s nothing. What’s the matter?”

Rexel looked nervous. She edged into the room, followed by Leprel.

“It’s—I just heard, and one of the arena managers is coming to ask. But I think you shouldn’t. I know you’ll want to, but it’s a good gladiator and he’s…challenging you. To a match.”

Yvlon’s head rose.

“A challenge? You mean, a duel?”

“Yes. But listen, Yvlon—”

The woman’s arm stretched and Rexel yelped as it grabbed the bit of paper. Yvlon and Rexel stared at it.

What is—

Yvlon saw her arm retract and stared at it. Then she forced her eyes on the short missive.

“Who’s…Mectail of Pomle? Pomle. Why do I know that name?”

“He’s a [Martial Artist]. From Pomle. He’s beaten more people with his bare fists than I’ve stabbed and he’s a [Gladiator] in the Coliseum of Monarchs. You could rise high in rank if you win. But Silver, he’s really dangerous. He’s broken people’s skulls with a single punch.”

“Worried for me, Rexel? If he uses his hands, he’ll never get close. Not to me. Not with…these. Why did he want to challenge me?”

“Maybe he thinks your arms are a good match? Or maybe he wants to get ahead. I don’t know. People don’t seem to think he wants an easy win…even if he was stupid enough to think your right arm can’t change.”

Yvlon grimaced. She stared at the invitation.

“Fine.”

“Silver! Let’s talk about this over dinner! You’re still healing, and this isn’t the plan!”

Yvlon raised her leg and showed it to Rexel.

“I’m fully healed up, thanks to the potion. I could fight in five minutes. If he wants to fight, I’ll oblige him. I’m a prisoner, but you said that the higher I rise, the closer I can get to freedom. Well, fine. If I have to battle my way out of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, person by person, I’ll do it.”

Her eyes flashed dangerously. She was breathing hard, and she didn’t understand why Rexel edged away. She didn’t see how her hands changed and little razors ran up the smooth skin like gooseflesh.

“Tell him I’ll fight him tomorrow.”

——

Mectail of Pomle. Now there was a name she heard more often in the courts. Yisame peeked at a biography of the [Gladiator]. Wins, losses, his background…

Obviously a fluff piece written to make him sound as good as possible, but the statistics spoke to anyone who followed arena matches.

Lots of ‘losses’, where he either surrendered or was rendered unconscious or incapacitated and spared actual death. Not uncommon in the Coliseum of Monarchs; even psychopaths thought twice, because if they killed a friend of someone else’s, they were now a target.

However…that was because he had a long career. Six years on the sands. Typical beginning. Indebted, given a choice between a number of ways to repay the debt…meteoric rise.

Lots of wins. In fact—Yisame stared at the breakdown. Most of his losses came from group battles, where he achieved a very high number of opponents downed, but didn’t last until the end. And he had a win-rating of over 90% in duels.

“Pomle.”

Yisame muttered on the Throne of Logic, in another of Nerrhavia’s Courts, this one to a different purpose. That she could do more advanced sums and actually break down Mectail’s history statistically was due to her seat. She felt clear-headed, as befit an artifact like this. Mental or physical enhancements were the stuff of legends—or the very rich.

“Yes, Your Majesty. You…anticipated me.”

Yisame’s head snapped up guiltily. She saw her Minister of War looking somewhat surprised. Instantly, Yisame’s expression became guarded. She made a signal, and her voice spoke. It was rare for the [Queen] to voice her opinion when the Court of Steel invoked itself.

Court of Steel. A general term that divided those allowed into this gathering. The Court of Silk was the catchall term for anyone allowed in the political-yet-social quagmire. This was a council of war—although it was often about politics within Nerrhavia—so it was a bit more constrained.

Nevertheless, it was not an official council of war, which would see Yisame, her [Generals], [Strategists], and other core cabinet members. So Yisame had been sitting back, largely ignoring the drama of the day.

“Her Fabricated Majesty is concerned by such rumors as pass by her ears. Minister, let us withdraw conversation of Reim. Our armies advance. We see no reason to overstate the obvious.”

Yisame’s [Royal Speaker] had an excellent ability to cover for any mistakes. The [Minister] bowed, only a bit off-put. Yisame, behind her one-way fan, could see him glancing at his allies. Suspecting a ploy or perhaps wondering what she knew.

“Pomle indeed, Your Majesty. I have heard word that it has freed [Slaves]. Cast out the masters. A grave insult to Roshal.”

A fool’s insult. The Court of Steel looked aghast, but some just shook their heads at the stupidity of Pomle’s [Martial Artists]. What did you expect of people like that?

Yisame just nodded fractionally, though it was largely unseen. However…the Minister of War looked around.

“—An insult. Yet in this case, the insult is compounded twice. For the offended parties were none other than Prince Exhait, who had graciously travelled to Pomle to learn from the masters there.”

Yisame sat up. The Court of Steel’s murmuring reached a threshold—then abruptly went quiet.

“That is a grave insult, Minister Deroti.”

The Emissary of Cloth, the foremost head of Nerrhavia Fallen’s diplomatic wing, murmured. Completely unsurprised. She had known about this, but the way she glanced at Yisame’s throne made it clear that the [Queen] had taken her advantage and nullified it.

A babble of voices broke out as Yisame sat back. Her mind raced ahead of what was playing out before her, since that needed to move at the speed of sound.

“It cannot stand. Has Roshal petitioned…? Of course they have.”

“A [Prince] of the realm. Was there any offense given? Not that Pomle would have an excuse. Did they issue any statement?”

“They grow overconfident. An example should be made.”

“Absolutely, yes.”

“No.”

Yisame subvocalized that. She stared at her [Royal Speaker], and the woman licked her lips. She spoke for Yisame. She was very good at keeping the royal throne from looking bad and steering the conversation. The trick was that Yisame could give her basic instructions, but you did have to trust your voice to convey your thoughts accurately. Normally, the [Royal Speaker], Issu-le, understood Yisame perfectly, in that the [Queen] did not want to have to deal with more problems.

In this case? She said the wrong thing.

“We do not find it suitable to mete out punishment for a single instance. Not when Tiqr takes arms once more.”

Yisame’s head turned. What did you just say? Issu-le, who had beautiful silver paint on her silk-skin, flinched slightly as she saw the glare from the throne.

No one else noticed behind the fan. The Court of Steel brightened up.

“Yes, Tiqr. The Antinium problem and the Empress of Beasts fled Illivere. Should we expect the lumbering Golems to catch up? The Magus-Crafter has already failed to keep her prisoner.”

“The garrison under Ste-General Hvcia…?”

“No.”

That calm voice came from an actual [General]. General Thellican, fresh off his victory in Tiqr, however bruised it had come. He hadn’t gone north yet, having already fought in a war. Nerrhavia did rotate its military leaders to spread experience and prevent them from burning out. Yet now, the [General] looked alarmingly keen. He bowed to the Throne of Logic and Yisame.

“I think I espy Her Majesty’s wisdom. If I may be bold—this knot is one of several in the region. Pomle has issued Nerrhavia with a grave insult. Similarly, Tiqr. Our ‘allies’ in the region prove incompetent, in Illivere, or untrustworthy.”

He was referring to Savere and the rhetoric played well. Yisame’s fingers drummed on her throne as Thellican turned.

“If one is to address the issue, let it be a single shear to cut through each problem. A single grand army, from the capital, to issue Pomle our wrath and curtail the Empress of Beasts’ rebellion.”

“Former Empress, General Thellican.”

Someone whispered. And the proposal was met with round approval. The [Royal Speaker], or rather, Yisame, had issued a suggestion that the Court of Steel liked.

But which Yisame hated. Issu-le wouldn’t meet her gaze. Not only was adding a third opponent not what Yisame wanted, she happened to know that Ksmvr was with the Empress of Beasts. Which was why sending an army…

“Subtlety. You hemp-headed idiot.”

Issu-le flinched as Yisame sent a scathing instruction to her earpiece, her earring. The speaker did her best.

“We are pleased to have such a loyal and capable [General], Thellican. Yet we consider a single needle enough to deal with minor issues. Thellican’s might may well be needed to deliver the final blow to Reim. Perhaps a lesser recourse?”

The [General] frowned. But his opponent, the Emissary of Cloth, smiled hugely, welcoming the moment to humble her opponent.

“Your Majesty, I am sure our Ste-General is able to quell Pomle and pursue the former Empress with his ample forces and allies in the region. We need not add to the expense with a bloated army to perform such a simple task, as I am sure the throne is mindful of.”

Yisame sat back, sighing. Thellican began to argue, but now that Yisame had reminded the Court of Steel of how much it cost to mobilize, send out an army, and so on, it devolved into another fight that she nudged in the Emissary of Cloth’s favor.

“Only the garrison. Have the Magus-Crafter understand it is his responsibility. Mobilize our allies. This is well-agreed.”

Yisame smiled, genuinely smiled, as the Court of Steel rendered its verdict for her. That only encouraged them, because they thought Yisame approved. Which she did.

A Ste-General was a rank for someone who held a region. Sometimes conquered regions, such as Tiqr, but they were not high-levelled or as capable as Thellican, who could go on the full attack.

There, you see, Yvlon? Your friend will not run into Nerrhavia’s full might. Yisame wondered how she would be able to tell Yvlon this. Soon…she rose and her sweating [Royal Speaker] spoke, relieved.

“Her Majesty is pleased by the wisdom of the Court of Steel. We shall adjourn for the day. Unless dire straits dictate otherwise, we shall remember Nerrhavia’s entertainments. With great diversion.”

“Perhaps the latest royal dancers? We have begun preparation of one of these plays, and even sequestered some of the…scripts. Although they are being re-written for more grace.”

The Emissary of Cloth was pushing her luck. The [Royal Speaker] smiled condescendingly.

“In such times of war, Her Majesty may choose to visit an appropriate venue.”

That left them guessing, and gave her the perfect opportunity. Yisame smiled and walked off. The next day, she visited the Coliseum of Monarchs in ‘disguise’, which meant that everyone in the court knew she was there, and half attended as well. Purely by chance.

——

Mectail of Pomle waited in the center of the flattened ground, still stained crimson in some places. Yvlon saw him as the announcer read out some of his accomplishments.

It was hot. It was always hot in this damned place. Her armor fit a bit better; a cuirass over her chest, greaves, but nothing on her arms. A helmet.

Steel painted with silver. Artifice. Rexel and Leprel were staring at Yvlon from the waiting room. They’d tried to talk her out of it, and then, when she refused, had attempted to give her hints.

“He’s a [Grappler]. Or was. He transitioned into striking for mass-fights. So he can do both. Don’t let him touch you.”

It was a vague buzzing in the back of her head. And Rexel’s anxious voice was the only thing Yvlon did hear. The crowd was roaring; they seemed to be even louder and more numerous this time.

She just looked at the arrogant Stitch-Man standing there. Arms folded. A sword held loosely in his left hand.

No grip, no stance—

“I thought he was a [Martial Artist]. Why’s he got a blade?”

“Some use swords. I’ve never heard of him…Leprel?”

“He shouldn’t have a sword. Why’s he got a sword?”

The [Thief] panicked. Yvlon shook her head.

“I don’t care. Am I not supposed to kill him?”

Rexel bit her tongue. She had a scar across part of her upper lip.

“Maybe. You look at the royal booth, remember? If you see anyone—”

“I follow their orders or don’t. Got it.”

“Yvlon…he’s better than anyone else you’ve fought. Even the Champion of Rust would be average in the Coliseum of Monarchs.”

“I’m not underestimating him.”

“I didn’t say you were. You’re…”

Yvlon turned her head. A strand of her hair fell out of her helmet, across her vision. Slowly, she lifted her left hand. The silver fingers closed over the strand—and morphed into scissors. They snipped it off. Rexel closed her mouth.

“I’ll be fine. Thank you for your concern.”

The gates were opening. Mectail of Pomle had been staring their way the entire time, ignoring the cheering. Yvlon would have taken that as a sign of respect, but he had his eyes closed. Arrogant.

She strode out of the waiting room without a word. She thought one of the two called something behind her.

“…luck…”

Yvlon almost laughed. She didn’t need luck. She didn’t…she stepped into the arena and saw tens of thousands of faces, shouting, screaming at her past magical barriers. Huge walls of weathered stone, a glowing, enchanted box where eager Stitch-Folk in regal clothing peered down at her.

Even a new giant scrying mirror, reflecting her face. Yvlon stared at a woman with metal arms, scowling up at something.

“I hate this nation.”

A second later, her lips moved. The woman’s eyes flickered and she looked down. At last, Mectail of Pomle opened his eyes. Across the long arena, the [Martial Artist] uncrossed his arms. He lifted the sword—then planted it in the ground. He looked at her, and Yvlon began striding towards him.

Did he think she was easy pickings? Did he expect her to play by some rules, like this was a game? Yvlon began striding forwards faster.

She had no sword. But in the projection, the woman’s silver arms began rippling. Turning to long blades. Mectail watched, eyes on Yvlon.

She sped up, her armor shifting as she began to jog then run across the long distance. She felt the weight pulling her down, but it was familiar. Not nearly as swift as Pisces or Ksmvr. But a charge, growing in momentum. No roar. She—

Yvlon felt her breathing intensify. Her heartbeat spiked. She thought she heard a voice. This time she didn’t reach for her Skill, but it activated anyways.

[Berserker’s Rage].

She barely noticed the fact that she hadn’t used it. Mectail’s eyes narrowed as the woman, already running at a sprint, suddenly moved faster. He heard the roar. Slowly, the [Martial Artist] moved. He held his hands out. Clasped them together, and bowed.

The woman never slowed. She didn’t even notice.

——

Vitte watched, anxiously, from her position with the other [Gladiators]. She knew Mectail was good. But he was up against a Gold-rank adventurer, and they were dangerous. Gold-rank was fitting for the Coliseum of Monarchs. And this one?

“Shit. I thought Mectail was taking it easy in this duel. What is that?”

Thexca stared at the opening attack. The woman, the one they called the Silver-Killer, slashed with one arm. It didn’t sound impressive; an arm was short. But what if you saw her arm lengthen, like some huge metal scythe, and slash outwards in a growing blade? By the time it came at Mectail’s chest, it was a long, thin blade, razor-sharp.

“Dead gods.”

The other [Gladiators] stared at that nervously. Especially those who weren’t Stitch-Folk. No—even the ones who were Stitch-Folk looked uneasily at that.

“That’s not a [Gladiator]. She’d murder everyone in range.”

Relladen turned to one of the others, who hadn’t been keeping up.

“She did that on her entry to the capital. Two dead. Someone else lost an arm.”

“Oh. That’s not—”

“Not Stitch-Folk.”

“I thought adventurers were supposed to do that to monsters.”

Vitte didn’t respond. She was watching. Mectail had taken one look at the slash and, rather than duck, leapt back.

Warily. And wisely. Because Yvlon’s second arm came up and a thin needle of silver jabbed out, a lance of metal that would have impaled him if he had been struck mid-duck.

“…That’s new.”

Thexca eyed the move. Yvlon’s arms began to flow back into shape. Vitte muttered.

“She doesn’t know how to use them right. Not perfectly.”

But she was learning. Already, she was unpredictable. She charged after Mectail as he kept stepping backwards. Now his arms were raised, open loosely, and he was balanced on the balls of his feet. Watching…

The second time, the Human woman thrust her broken arm forwards. It telescoped, her flesh turning into another piercing lance of metal that shot past Mectail as he leaned left. As it did—it morphed again and a second blade shot out of the lance, going for his face.

“Sands!”

Thexca looked a bit sick as Mectail’s head twisted. He stepped back, looking surprised, and brushed at a gash on his cheek. Then his hand moved. He went to block the other arm as it came in a slash. His forearm blocked the blade of metal—but it dug into his flesh. He knocked it back, grimacing, and the woman recoiled.

Arms as tough as metal. Even so—Vitte’s tail whished back and forth. She’d seen Mectail block regular swords without getting cut.

“Come on, Mectail.”

She muttered. And realized it was an echo of someone else’s words. The [Gladiators] in the audience focused, no longer laughing or placing bets. They were realizing that rather than this being an easy victory—Mectail was in genuine danger.

——

She never stopped advancing. The scream had ended. It might have been a warcry, but it sounded like a beast to him.

A beast of flesh and metal. With that helmet on, he could see the eyes flashing at him out of the shadows. Even her posture was lowered. And the arms—

Not poisoned. The [Martial Artist] was breathing calmly. Wound on the cheek, arm. His plan of attack wasn’t going smoothly. But that he was used to. He watched her. He had thought he understood those arms.

He did not. They could change multiple times, not just do one thing, like extend or turn into razors. What a terrifying ability. Because—

Here she came. A huge, overhand swing. Arm flashing—reflecting the light and threatening to blind him. But he didn’t dare take his eyes off it bec—

The arm exploded like a porcupine. Thin lines of metal, shooting outwards. The same move that had downed the Champion of Rust.

There was nowhere to dodge in that space; he’d be perforated a dozen times. So he could only back up. And the other arm came out like a whip, slashing.

[Long Backstep]. A low-level Skill carried him out of range. If he retreated, he was safest. But that meant he’d never get close.

“Coward!”

A bellow from her. Mectail saw her arm returning to normal. It took a moment; it wasn’t instantaneous. If it was—he didn’t know if he’d be safe. Yet he noticed something else that made the [Martial Artist] narrow his eyes.

…One of the spikes from her right arm was bloody. He stared at her shoulder. She’d stabbed herself by accident.

She didn’t even seem to notice. On she came, and there was a limit to how many times he could retreat. He’d seen enough. Mectail leapt forwards.

Under a razor’s edge—dodge the metal spike that shot downwards. She swept her left arm around. It was going to morph—

The razor blades were already extending when the palm hit Yvlon in the chest.

[Launch Palm]. Mectail had aimed and hit her in the solar plexus, angled up. He watched as she landed. He exhaled, and charged forwards.

——

She landed six feet away, stunned, feeling her ribs uncompressing. What kind of—

Weak blow. Don’t lie down!

She came up so fast it surprised him. Her arms dug into the ground and threw her back up, a lattice of metal. She saw his lips move. Yvlon swung her arms.

That’s right. Monster.

A long blade, like a sword, slashed down. But it curved, at waist height. Too low to dodge—she saw him jump, aborting his charge. Yvlon punched her arm, the [Razorform] metal blade at the tip. Straight at his chest. He saw it coming, and blocked the razor with his arm, thrusting it left. But it cut him.

He had another shot at her. Yvlon tried to pull her arm back into position, but she just gritted her teeth. Waiting—she’d close a net of metal around him and slash him ap—

The second palm hit her in the same place, denting her armor. Yvlon stumbled backwards, cursing. She brought her arm back, but he leapt out of the way of the scythe. That wasn’t as hard as she thought he’d hit her. Had he not used a Skill? What was…?

She almost went to charge him again. Then stopped. Something had suddenly gone out of her. The burning fury in her chest—extinguished. That quivering rage—suddenly she noticed a sharp pain in her shoulder. Had she stabbed herself? She felt her head clear and saw his intent eyes on her face.

A gauging look. The Stitch-Man with sun-darkened skin, no armor, not even clothing, just pants with a short ponytail. Bleeding from two places, circling left. Yvlon stared at him. She saw him. No, she had seen him before, but no details.

What had he just done? She saw his lips move and finally heard something.

“[Skillbreaker Palm]. Two palm-strikes from Pomle. Are you going to fight me like a person, Silver Arm?”

She stopped, looking at him. Skillbreaker—?

Her confusion only lasted a second. Then Yvlon took aim, and threw a telescoping punch. Her arm lengthened by about a foot, and he stepped sideways. She was about to slash with her other arm when he grabbed the first and—

Yvlon saw the world spin and stared up at the sky. He had just thrown her!

“What kind of a stupid—”

She rolled, waiting for a kick to her back, but when she got to her feet, Mectail was just waiting for her. Yvlon heard the cheering from the crowd, the shouting—she was panting. Something was gone.

Her—[Berserker’s Rage]. She didn’t need it. Even so—

“What are you doing?”

He hadn’t attacked her! The Stitch-Man was waiting. He replied, slowly.

“I don’t wish to battle the Silver-Killer of Izril. Will you fight me?”

Again, he performed that insulting gesture. Which was…Yvlon saw him put his hands together. One hand made a fist, the other a palm. He clasped them together. Then bowed.

“Don’t mock me.”

It was becoming too easy. Her arm reached out, like it was made of some elastic flesh, stretching, exploding into a network of blades. No one could dodge that. He didn’t even try, just backstepped again.

“That was not an insult, Yvlon Byres. It was—”

She ran at him. Her adrenaline was pumping again. She swung an arm like a blade. Aiming low, for a gutting strike with her other ar—

Her legs went out from under her. Yvlon landed on her back for the third time in this match. This time, it was a leg sweep, a kick behind her legs so fast she hadn’t seen it.

Mectail appeared in Yvlon’s vision as she stared up. He offered her a hand as the crowd shouted at him. And his fellow gladiators. Idiot. Attack her! Don’t—

Yvlon came up with a slash that made Mectail retreat, grimacing. He did his backstep trick again, and a whip of metal came tearing after him. He went to deflect it, and it looped, curling. The [Martial Artist]’s eyes widened—

It cut off his hand. A lasso of metal tightened, and Mectail stared at a bloody stump. Yvlon’s arm began to retract as she ran at him, her other arm raised, turning into a longsword’s blade. She slashed. Mectail looked at her, eyes wide with sudden pain and fury.

“[Earthshaker K—]”

Yvlon saw his leg coming up and twisted. Too slow.

This time, it felt like she was flying. She saw the world curve around her, thought she saw a woman with open-mouth in regal clothing looking horrif—

Yvlon bounced off the magical dome and hit the ground below. Ribs well and painfully broken. She lay there for a while. Only after a moment did she manage to drag something from her belt without screaming.

A Potion of healing. Yvlon felt the pain receding and managed to pull herself to her knees. She saw—dizzy, coughing up blood—Mectail reach down. He picked up his hand, and the Stitch-Man held it to the bleeding stump. Then, grimacing, he spoke.

“[Rejoin Thread].”

She saw a line of stitches knit themselves, sewing his hand back onto his arm. Yvlon cursed.

Stitch-Folk.

They advanced as the audience’s cheering died down. Yvlon felt like the healing potion had only been partially effective. That had to be one of his better Skills. She couldn’t let him kick her again.

“You’re not holding back anymore. Changed your mind?”

Mectail stared at Yvlon. He was frowning. He opened and closed his newly re-attached hand. Then he shook his head at her.

“No. I wish to fight the one called Yvlon Byres. A Gold-rank adventurer. Who went into the Village of the Dead. Crelerbane. Not a berserker with metal arms.”

She stared at him. And a third time, he did that gesture. The [Martial Artist] bowed to Yvlon silently.

“Would you stop insulting me?”

His head jerked up. Mectail eyed Yvlon, confused. Then shook his head.

“I would never insult a fellow warrior I respect, Yvlon Byres. Nor am I here to kill you. We are warriors from distant lands. I admire you, and your abilities. Will you fight me properly?”

“Properly. Here? You want a fight? Here, you [Gladiator] idiots—”

She slashed and he leaned under the blow before sweeping a fist upwards. This time he just hit her in the jaw. No Skills—just an uppercut with all the weight of a [Martial Artist] behind it. Yvlon stumbled, slashing with her arm, and tasted more blood. Mectail stood there, glaring at her. She opened her mouth, dizzy, and he snapped.

“We are both prisoners of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. We both fight with a code that goes beyond mere gold. Why are you insulting me? Show me the strength that took you across the world.”

Prisoner? Yvlon focused on him. She narrowed her eyes, head spinning, and finally saw it. A collar around his neck. A thin one, not a huge band of metal like she and the others had worn. One fit for the top-gladiator in the Coliseum of Monarchs.

Yvlon stopped, abruptly. Mectail of Pomle paced left. She watched him, but he didn’t go for a surprise attack. He too stopped, in front of something. The weapon he’d cast down when she first came into the arena.

A longsword. Plain metal. He picked it up, turned, and, to the amazement of the other [Gladiators], the audience, and Yvlon herself, reversed it in his grip, and offered the hilt to her.

“No matter where I go, or what bonds I wear, I am searching for great opponents to test myself against. Will you fight me, Yvlon of the Horns of Hammerad?”

Yvlon Byres heard the shouting from the arena—and it sounded like a good number of people were screaming insults at Mectail. Others were cheering him. Others still telling Yvlon to gut him, or for both to start fighting.

She heard them, and stared at the metal blade he offered her. Somewhere in the gladiator stands, his companions were pretending they had never met Mectail.

The [Martial Artist] waited. Slowly, Yvlon reached out and took the blade in her left hand. She held the sword, more awkwardly in her off-hand, and stepped back.

The two regarded each other. Yvlon looked around the coliseum, which she hated. Hot Chandrar, which she hated as someone not used to it, and also as someone who had metal flesh. She listened to the crowds baying for blood, and was reminded of the collar on her neck, which did not belong there.

She hated all these things. However—she glanced at Mectail. Dead gods, even Ylawes would have said he was something else. He waited, and it seemed that he was not going to bow a fourth time, not offer her the gesture of respect of Pomle.

So Mectail made a gesture that reached across species and continents. A universal sign. One hand, palm out, fingers folding back. Beckoning.

Come on.

Yvlon almost laughed. Almost. She lifted the longsword, which made her, in this moment, far weaker of a warrior. But it was a weapon, not the savage way she could kill people.

“I don’t think I’ll pose much of a challenge, except for my Skills.”

Mectail shrugged. He smiled.

“We did not come here to entertain them.”

He glanced at the audience, who were booing. Yvlon did grin, then. The [Silversteel Armsmistress] saluted him in the style of her land. She advanced as he circled left, in a slower bout. A sparring match between fellow warriors.

——

By now, the jeering was so loud Vitte could hear it everywhere. From Thexca, too. She even threw the snack she was carrying into the ring. Compared to the earlier fighting, this was like watching children squabbling. Yvlon Byres was good, but with only one arm—and her off-one at that—she was far less dangerous, and Mectail also pulled his best Skills.

“Dead gods, it was so kitschy. I forgot that Mectail is famous for his wholesome fights.”

The [Gladiators] were complaining loudly. Only the [Martial Artist]’s fans, who loved watching him perform stunts like this, were happy.

And maybe a certain Sandquen, who had a new chapter for her story entry. Vitte just watched as the two eventually stopped with Mectail knocking Yvlon down, and helping her to her feet. They departed the arena, talking, even laughing as detritus showered down around them from the stands.

“Well, I guess Mectail’s got a new friend. Does that mean we have to fight with her?”

“She nearly got him before his stunt. Might be a regular.”

The others were groaning. Vitte smiled.

“Look at it this way. He might convince her not to try and kill us in every match. Which means we don’t have to kill her. I’m going to introduce myself.”

She hopped off her seat. Thexca shook her head.

“I hate Mectail.”

——

Yvlon Byres felt like a cloud of resentment and ire had lifted from her head. She didn’t stalk back to her rooms to debate unleashing an unknown scroll after the match. She talked to Mectail and met his companions, a Fox Beastkin named Vitte, an annoyed woman named Thexca, a warrior called Relladen…all of whom awed Rexel and Leprel.

“You, uh, look a bit calmer, Yvlon. Never thought I’d see the audience boo someone off the grounds. I nearly thought the guards were going to halt the match.”

Rexel commented. Yvlon brushed at her hair.

“…Mectail’s interesting. He told me I’m suffering from a Skill I received. I didn’t believe him…but he’s offered to practice with me. I might take him up on the offer.”

“I just hope your patron doesn’t mind.”

Yvlon shrugged. She looked at her two teammates, bit her lip, and then exhaled.

“Rexel, Leprel…you might have been right. I have a slight temper.”

The two women stared at Yvlon. The [Armsmistress] raised her hand.

“A bit of one. I’ll work on it, alright?”

“A bit of—”

Rexel yelped as Leprel pinched her. She gave Yvlon an unconvincing grin.

“Sure. I mean, that’s great!”

“Thank you.”

Yvlon Byres remarked drily. She went back to her rooms, shaking her head, and went for a lie-down; even with potions, she’d been kicked around.

——

“I am beyond ashamed, Your Majesty. We—can prepare a far more suitable duel!”

The [Arena Master] had been both apoplectic and very nervous, but Yisame swept absently back to her rooms, already thinking about what to commit to writing next. It was a shame, but she wouldn’t be able to summon the triumphant or courageously defeated Yvlon —not after that show.

But it was like a book! The [Martial Artist], breaking her out of her fury. Offering her a sword! Yvlon and him, dueling genteely. A comradeship already born!

Yisame was nearly at her rooms when someone had to interrupt her. The Emissary of Cloth. The beaming woman stopped the [Queen] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen in the Court of the Steel.

“I beg a word, Your Majesty? I have tasked Ste-General Hvcia with bringing Pomle to heel and making a small example of them to remind them of their place. And I have also taken steps to address the Tiqr matter.”

“Very good, Emiss—what did you say?”

The woman beamed, her cloth radiant and her expression waiting for praise that was not about to come.

“Ste-General Hvcia believes she can deliver a small victory suitable for a reprimand. Pomle lacks for [Mages]; she will conduct an attack shortly. As for Tiqr, since no more forces have been authorized and Femithain is…shall we say, suspect, I have arranged for the Empire of Scaied to intervene, as our intelligence suggests Tiqr’s rebel army is headed into their lands. I have even hired a mercenary capable of killing that Antinium.”

She beamed at Yisame. The [Queen] looked at the Emissary of Cloth, and her war council, who all looked very pleased with their actions. This was the problem with encouraging a court to deal with things Yisame didn’t want to have to deal with personally. She decided…it might be for the best that she and Yvlon had not met today. Now, how was she going to deal with this?

——

Yvlon Byres slept. Which was a thing she did usually every day. And, like every day so far in Nerrhavia’s Fallen, she had a very unfortunate habit of turning all the metal she touched fragile. Even the sword Mectail had offered her.

She had wondered if it was the effect of her arms, making the metal weak to rejuvenate her flesh. Regardless, she hadn’t paid too much attention to it, preoccupied as she was with everything else, from her sickness, to changing locations, the fury simmering in her, and so on.

So one of the things she never thought on was…well. What happened to the bits of metal she broke by accident. She assumed they were just cleaned up by servants or staff.

Which was partly true. But the broken sword and silver knife that Yvlon had both placed on a dresser underwent a…change…as the woman slept. Not all the metal. Indeed, by the time the [Servant] did creep in to toss them away, they had already disgorged the tiny metal insects.

Like a beetle, albeit not one Yvlon would have ever recognized in form…or substance. A little steel beetle cast around the room. It began to move towards her, but recognized…something. Instead, it and the other one made of silver, a tiny insect of another kind, headed straight for the drain. They disappeared down into it.

Sewer systems. The sign of an advanced civilization. Pipes, plumbing…key infrastructure. A testament to Nerrhavia’s richness that it could afford superior materials, not cheap clay or stone. Lovely sewers for a capital city.

All made of metal.

——

Ksmvr sparred with Leka Thri. Well, sparred was not quite right. Because neither warrior had the ability to properly ‘spar’.

When it was clear that the Loquea Dree clan would join them, a number of Tiqr’s warriors, including Vasraf and Nsiia, expressed the earnest desire to see how good the crow-clan was.

The answer was…complicated. To someone with a connoisseur’s appreciation for battle, like someone who followed the thrilling fights in Nerrhavia Fallen’s arenas, say—

It was sort of boring. For actual experts in fighting, warriors, it was fascinating, because skill in combat did not always equate to flashy matches.

Most of Loquea Dree’s sparring exhibitions were over in a flash. Either their opponents slipped into their guard and managed to touch them, or they ran into the deadly scythes—true, a practice variant, but it was considered a mortal wound.

“As befits the deadly Executioners of the Kilalle Steppes.”

Nsiia herself got ‘cut’ on the shoulder at the same time as she ‘stabbed’ one of the warriors. Ksmvr considered she’d lost an arm, but possibly inflicted a mortal wound.

“Not Executioners. We prefer Loquea Dree.”

Leka Thri, who was the mouthpiece of his clan, hurriedly corrected her. The image-rehabilitation of his clan was in full…attempt. A nervous Yinah was sitting on Leka Thri’s head, meowing uneasily.

“We do not bare our blades except when a true crime has been committed. We have other techniques. See.”

And to demonstrate, he went barehanded up against one of Tiqr’s warriors. The woman gamely leapt forwards, earned herself a snap-punch from Leka Thri, and stopped moving. Some of her friends went to check on her.

…It was a work in progress. However, that was the style of Loquea Dree, and fascinating for Tiqr’s warriors. They actually used punches and kicks with their claws; if someone got under the huge scythes they wielded, they might eat a powerful punch.

Naturally, Ksmvr requested a sparring match and everyone watched as he and Leka Thri…spent the next five minutes trying to figure out how to effectively spar.

“I cannot use the relic-class sword. Or my crossbows. Even without points, the bolts could kill.”

“Barehanded?”

“I can fight barehanded, but it is not my natural weapon. I could attempt to use a scythe?”

“Do you know? How to use a scythe?”

“I have been taught to use almost every variety of weapon in existence, to a degree of competency.”

Leka Thri eyed Ksmvr.

“…Have you ever used a scythe?”

“No. I could borrow practice weapons.”

“Which weapons?”

“I am adept at using every kind of weapon…”

In the end, Ksmvr copied his current gear. Longsword, buckler, dagger. Leka Thri had a practice scythe. The two leapt into a mock battle…which became instantly boring.

Mostly because Ksmvr darted left and right, leaping, while Leka Thri swooped and dove. Neither one saw a perfect moment to strike, so they kept baiting each other.

Yet still, Nsiia and Vasraf watched.

“He is quick. As fast as anyone in the army.”

Vasraf was more fascinated by Ksmvr, and it was to him that Rémi and the others turned for commentary. Nsiia frowned.

“Yes. Far more of a danger with all his tricks like the crossbows. Leka Thri is a skilled warrior too, but if they are trying not to harm each other…”

It became that boring dance. Even so, Ksmvr was keeping up with a Garuda on the wing. Vasraf nodded.

“If all Antinium were as quick, I would be amazed. I always thought of them as hand-to-hand fighters.”

“That is my understanding. Ksmvr is an exception.”

Again, the [Wild General] nodded.

“And yet…it is almost a bit disappointing.”

“How so, [General]? He seems skilled, as any adventurer might. He’d press any warrior fairly hard, even our best.”

One of the veteran soldiers observed. Vasraf nodded, but he was frowning. He turned to Nsiia.

“Your Majesty. You have sparred with Ksmvr. How good is he with his blades?”

Nsiia pursed her lips.

“I can beat him almost every time, but that is because my Skills and class exceed his. With his crossbows and Skills and gear, I think he could push me hard enough that it might be equal if I had to charge him, and I without any artifacts. And I am the [Empress of Beasts].”

She tossed her head and grinned. Then turned to Vasraf.

“With his magic sword, he could threaten any warrior here with death. Especially with his speed.”

She nodded to him. A magic sword plus Ksmvr’s agility? Vasraf folded his arms.

“…But he is no great master of arms.”

Nsiia raised her brows.

“No. He fights very well with his sword and shield, and his extra arm makes him surprising. But he is no expert—ah, see.”

Leka Thri won. He came down in a risky attack, but his kick caught Ksmvr on the buckler, and the scythe descended. Ksmvr dodged, but it hooked him in the air. He stopped, nodded.

“If I had my Forceshield, your kick would have failed.”

“Yes. I know.”

The two regarded each other with approval. Nsiia strode over.

“Ah, Leka Thri. Will you or the First of Judgement tell me what unique style your people use?”

Because it was a style. Leka Thri looked over at Seelaw Ya. The clan leader gave a nod.

“We developed a style from warriors of old, who used similar weapons. We adapted it for the skies. Jakka and moreit.”

He demonstrated. Ksmvr saw him hold the blade out. Point to the scythe’s edge.

“Moreit. To fight like Loquea Dree is to understand threat and attack. Moreit is threat. Jakka—”

A fast punch that moved the air.

“—Attack.”

“A strange way of classifying it. You mean, you don’t consider the scythe an attack?”

Vasraf was fascinated. Leka Thri shook his head.

“It is a threat. If you fail to account for it, it will kill. Threaten areas where the opponent moves. Like so. And so—”

He changed the scythe rapidly, twisting it, cutting, but often just placing it at angles around an imaginary foe. Leka Thri could choke up on the handle, change directions, and move the long scythe blade anywhere he wanted. It was a bit odd until you remembered it was meant for an aerial battle.

“Moreit. Threats as the opponent moves. As you close—jakka.”

“Interesting. But you see, the way Tiqr teaches its warriors is like so. I imagine you know other weapons. So…do you see our fighting styles in the air? We have a style of blades based around animals.”

Nsiia herself demonstrated the mobile form of fighting she had used on Ksmvr. But she described the fighting more conventionally. Attack and defense. Watching your flanks, keeping your guard up, pushing your opponents—quite utilitarian. Leka Thri was only too happy to compare observations, and Ksmvr himself was drawn into the technical discussion.

“Here, Ksmvr. Do you know any style of fighting unknown to us?”

The Empress turned from a demonstration of two warriors with shield and sword battering at each other. Well, battering was the wrong word.

It had a kind of elegance, the way a proper shield and sword technique was used. You could clip the enemy with the edge of your shield, trap a blade, hit them with your shield, or just ram them back. Some styles even used larger shields as a weapon, lashing out sideways to tear an enemy’s face or hit them with a concussive edge.

Ksmvr observed that, the Loquea Dree warriors with their careful scythe placement and brutal hand-to-hand closers, and the warriors with axes showing off techniques for a student.

Domehead. The Golem was watching their methods, as someone who also used an axe. It was all about finding the moment to transmute all that weight and momentum into the final killing blow, unlike the dance of someone with a less all-or-nothing weapon.

“I have indeed been educated in the art of fighting in multiple weapon sets. My expertise is not the same as my ability, but I have an understanding of some advanced techniques.”

Leka Thri, Nsiia, and Vasraf turned to him eagerly.

“Yes? Then what blades would you use? Would you be able to use Leka Thri’s war scythe? I cannot fit it into my understanding of battle—at least, not without practice.”

Ksmvr looked at the war scythe. He nodded slowly.

“That is an acceptable weapon in my school of blade fighting. It is not one I am familiar with, but the concept is applicable.”

“Really?”

“Of course. A giant club, a sword that is ten feet long, all work. If you can apply the most important principle.”

“Which is?”

Everyone leaned forwards. Ksmvr looked around, as if to impart some great secret. He even whispered, so Rémi, who was capturing the rest of the fighting, couldn’t see or hear.

“…Do not be hit. Learn to parry blows. You see, fighting with any weapon is…”

His audience left so fast that Ksmvr looked around, slightly hurt. He turned to Domehead. The Golem was standing, observing the fighters. The lights in his head lit up as Ksmvr turned to him.

“…Fighting with any weapon is about that. Dodge or parry. Blocking is silly.”

Domehead’s lights…dimmed with dubious understanding of Ksmvr’s mentality. Ksmvr gestured at his Forceshield.

“I know this advice is incompatible with my current gear. But my current gear is made up of artifacts I have been given by my team. Ergo, it behooves me to use it. Yet true fighting is…creation and intention. With any weapon, one must eventually learn more than attacking and defending.”

Domehead’s lights actually flickered off and on. Ksmvr frowned. He tried to explain further.

“Dodge or parry. You see, other people use magic. Swords with enchantments do not conform to Nsiia or Leka Thri’s styles. The same with spells. So you must learn to parry magic itself.”

Domehead’s interior crystals, which had been going dim one by one, suddenly regained their color and glowed even brighter. Now, the Golem seemed to focus as Ksmvr went on. The Antinium stared at his relic-class sword.

“Create. You see, all those present fight with very silly styles. Simple styles. Someday, Skills will create a different world than mere steel. Their fighting will do nothing because they do not understand.”

Domehead turned to look at Nsiia, wielding her blade with perfect economy of form. Ksmvr shook his head.

“It is only good if everyone fights as if they have limbs. As if swords move in three dimensions. Skills.”

He looked at Domehead. The Golem stared at him. Ksmvr remembered his audience, and frowned.

“You will never level. Therefore, you will never have Skills and never be able to fight thusly.”

He patted Domehead on the shoulder. The lights started to die in Domehead’s mind once more. Ksmvr paused. Then leaned in and whispered.

“…So you will have to learn how to wield magic itself like a blade.”

He patted Domehead on the shoulder and walked off.

——

That wasn’t recorded by Rémi Canada, Nsiia, or anyone else. Ksmvr rejoined the discussion on fighting just in time for Nsiia to comment.

“Loquea Dree has mighty warriors. Some of the most able I have seen, even your weakest. Tiqr does not lack for strong fighters as well. I cannot imagine our foes will exceed us on average.”

Ksmvr saw Leka Thri nod and Vasraf smile. He stared at the warriors fighting, honing their talents every morning before they continued their journey into the Empire of Scaied. He spoke, calmly.

“They are very acceptable for average [Soldiers], Empress Nsiia. But I must take offense with ‘mighty’. Loquea Dree is average. True blademasters will threaten all of us. I have not yet observed anyone with the abilities to match even a partial master.”

He said it so politely and matter-of-factly, as if it were not an insult, that it was twice over. Nsiia’s head rotated slowly.

“You speak very boldly, to insult every warrior in front of you.”

Ksmvr looked at her, astonished.

“I did not. I merely spoke facts.”

Vasraf and some of the other warriors looked at each other. They came closer, folding their arms and frowning.

“Do you claim to be an expert, Ksmvr?”

“No. I am substandard. I have reiterated that point many times, Nsiia.”

She was smiling dangerously.

“But you do have the gall to tell me that every warrior present is merely…average. Even Loquea Dree?”

Leka Thri opened his beak.

“Who is superior to our abilities? Your team?”

Rémi Canada had come over by now, and he swung his camera towards Ksmvr. For the first time ever, the Antinium visibly hesitated.

“…Comrade Pisces is a fine duelist. Yvlon is a highly talented Gold-rank adventurer. Yes, they are quite good at fighting. Pisces is…superb for his age and class, especially without Skills.”

Nsiia’s wrath had been growing. Suddenly, it abated, and she raised her eyebrows high and looked at Vasraf.

“Really. And how good is your friend, Yvlon? The one with the arms, who beat an Adult Creler?”

Ksmvr opened and closed his mandibles.

“She is…good…and exceptionally direct.”

Nsiia opened her mouth, hesitating. Leka Thri, of all people, turned to Ksmvr.

“As an adventurer. How amazing is your Comrade Pisces, Ksmvr?”

The Antinium brightened up with relief.

“He is one of the most superior [Necromancers] to ever exist. You see, he has not only ignored the prejudices of flawed judicial systems of law, but he also trained himself in swordsmanship at a basic proficient level as well as becoming a strong [Mage] and [Necromancer]. His insight and…”

He went on like that for a while. But it was fascinating, especially given his penchant for how he talked about his companions. Nsiia frowned.

“…Ksmvr. Wait, you would not have actually seen…say. Does anyone have a recording of the Village of the Dead raid?”

Ksmvr looked up, interested, as someone did produce the famous recording. Rémi Canada offered Ksmvr a recording of the scenes Ksmvr had not seen. Fascinated, Ksmvr stared at the crystal.

“Ryoka Griffin was present? And House Veltras? That is very intriguing.”

“You know the Wind Runner?”

“She is a personal friend of my team. Not me myself, but she had a longstanding association with the previous incarnation of the Horns of Hammerad and I consider her an ally. Hmm. Hmm. What is that!?”

He pointed at the image of two glowing Antinium appearing to battle the specter undead. Nsiia glanced at him.

“You don’t know?”

“I…ah. That appears to be a dangerous Revenant.”

Ksmvr stared as the Drake who had cut a path through undead and adventurers alike made his grand entrance. [Dragonbane Swordlegend]. Nsiia pointed at him as the lone [Duelist] challenged him.

“Now there is a warrior without equal. Or will you gainsay that?”

Ksmvr did not immediately respond. He watched as the two crossed swords, rapier and parrying dagger versus the Drake’s sword. Attack and defense, a whirling dance of blades that was so fast that the recording had to slow down to give regular members of the audience time to appreciate the elegance and form.

Tomoor the [Duelist], who was immortalized in this single battle by his students as one of the great [Duelists] of this era. Posthumously awarded a golden bell.

The Drake [Swordlegend], fighting with a smile on his face. Ksmvr looked up slowly.

“The Drake appears to be quite good. The [Duelist] is certainly fighting at a superior level. It is impossible to tell if this ‘[Swordlegend]’ is exaggerating his abilities, however. It may be he is only using his Skills.”

Nsiia stared at Ksmvr like he had a huge grin on his face. The Antinium’s mandibles clacked as he went back to watching.

“Yes. He is certainly high-level. As to his actual skill with a sword—”

“Dead gods! Are you not seeing the battle? Am I blind?”

Vasraf exploded, turning a bit red with outrage. He gestured at the duel between the two. Ksmvr calmly stared at it.

“I see it too, General Vasraf. But that is only an indication of Instructor Tomoor’s proficiency. He did not challenge the Drake to use his true school of fighting. I believe he’s probably a true master, but I cannot tell from this alone.”

He handed the recording to Rémi. The [Journalist] silently took it, and zoomed in on the others’ faces. Nsiia turned to Ksmvr.

“You speak like you know something, Ksmvr. Yet your team is not made up of anyone who could come close to this level, even your friend Pisces. You must admit that, surely.”

Ksmvr hesitated. He clacked his mandibles together a few times, and twiddled his thumbs as he clasped his hands. He responded slowly, looking the other way.

“…They are adventurers. They may be the finest team ever to exist, that will leave their mark on history. One…one does not need to be proficient technique-wise to be a fine adventurer. Skills make up for many lacking qualities. Magic is also not my purview, so Ceria might be…Comrade Pisces may be very skilled in that area.”

He edged away, eager to be out of the conversation. Nsiia blew out her cheeks, looking purely amazed as Ksmvr went off. Vasraf leaned over.

“He does not have that talent, nor show it.”

“No. He does not.”

Nsiia frowned, eying his armaments. Ksmvr had a shortsword, longsword, bow, and Forceshield, along with his crossbows and used all…well, quite well. He was an excellent shot with any ranged weapon and he used all three arms at once. Even so, it sounded like he was talking amazing smack.

On the other hand…she tapped a finger to her lips.

“Ksmvr is not able to beat me or warriors of my level easily, Vasraf. With his magic sword, yes. But he lacks the strength to break my guard. He is fast, but he does not strike perfectly, and he struggles to keep up with a warrior who can push him constantly.”

“Is there anything that sets him apart?”

Vasraf waited. Nsiia nodded.

“…I have never seen him actually surprised by any technique I used. In that he never seemed to lack for a counter. He was only unable to move to it in time. I have a thought, Vasraf.”

“Yes?”

Nsiia looked at Ksmvr’s back.

“We remark upon Ksmvr’s abilities with a sword and his weapons. He seems arrogant. Yet now I wonder. I have heard of the Antinium fighting, just like you. So I must ask. Since he is the only Antinium I have ever heard of to wield a blade save one…who taught him?”

The others looked after Ksmvr. The obvious answer was simple. So Leka Thri walked over and asked.

“Ksmvr. Were you taught by the one known as…Centenium? Klbkch the Slayer?”

Ksmvr looked up blankly. He almost flinched at the name.

“No. Klbkch was occupied with his duties. I had no interaction with him until shortly before I was expelled from my Hive. I have never learned swordsmanship from him directly. My education was overseen by the Free Queen of the Antinium.”

Leka Thri turned and gave the others a blank look. He turned back to Ksmvr.

“Then, if you have observed Klbkch the Slayer’s style. Is he a master?”

Ksmvr turned from scratching Yinah, who was lying and wiggling on her back.

“He was.”

——

The Slayer of the Centenium stared at Ksmvr in the still recording. He flexed one arm and it moved, slowly.

Klbkch the Slayer. Revelantor of the Free Antinium. True Antinium of Rhir. Once he had been Klbkchhezeim, a [Swordslayer] and [Assassin] both.

Yet never hugely high-levelled. Even as a [Swordslayer], he had told Ryoka Griffin his highest level there had been…44.

Of course, dying didn’t help, and he had died many times. But what Ksmvr said was true. He had been far better, once.

“…Why is Ksmvr in Chandrar? Why is he being interviewed by Humans and associating with Garuda? Finally. Why are you showing me this? Wrymvr?”

The Centenium, Wrymvr the Deathless, dangled the scrying orb from one limb.

“Mockery and entertainment. Do you disagree?”

Klbkch’s hand twitched towards the two silver swords waiting for his new body’s completion. He looked at Wrymvr.

“There is more to combat than mere levels. Centenium were too superior to level quickly.”

“I am higher level than you.”

“You never died.”

Klbkch decided to ignore Wrymvr. The Centenium stared at the recording, then turned to Klbkch.

“Ksmvr. An unauthorized Prognugator of the Free Queen. Competency?”

“Minimal.”

A foreleg tapped Klbkch on the head. The Slayer stared at it.

“…He was created and trained by the Free Queen. Query her—I was unaware she was training a replacement. It is my understanding she wished to create a copy of me to ease our burdens. He was deployed prematurely. We exiled him for the reasons I outlined.”

“Yes. Experiment. Grow. But competency?”

Klbkch shrugged; he had control of his upper body, if not one of his arms or legs. He was impatient, but the time was allowing him to adjust to the enhanced reflexes and make plans.

“He was trained on the Free Queen’s abilities. I assume she based his fighting style on mine. She attempted to replicate my Worker-form abilities.”

“Ah. Therefore, weak.”

Klbkch looked around for something to throw at Wrymvr.

“He is most likely aware of my true capabilities. Hence his statement, however foolish. I am the basis for Antinium such as the Custodium the Grand Queen employs, as one of the few Centenium to use weapons.”

Wrymvr rubbed two limbs together.

“Yes…basis for inefficient, expensive Custodium. Alas. Regrettable. Weak.”

“Wrymvr. I am coming close to violence.”

The Centenium turned. Wrymvr seemed pleased by his interaction. He spread his wings, then shifted to turn back to Klbkch.

“Pity. You were good with blades. Will you reclaim them?”

Klbkch’s head rose. His mandibles opened and lifted in a smile. He flexed his one arm, and looked down at his body.

“Yes. I only need to wait a little longer.”

Wrymvr returned the gesture.

“Good.”

——

The pleasant days could only last so long. When they found Nsiia’s army, they struck like lightning.

“[Lightning Bolt]! Take cover!”

The crackling surge of electricity was strong in dry Chandrar. The static charge earthed itself as the shout came up: a sudden ambush! The [Scouts] had missed the invisible assailant. And the lightning bolt streaked towards Nsiia and Ksmvr as they whirled on their mounts—

—And earthed itself about two hundred feet to the left. And about two thousand paces too soon.

The invisible [Mage] shouted.

“There she is! You won’t escape you—you thieves! You wretches! Domehead! I’ve come to rescue you!”

Ksmvr stared as Crafter Se revealed herself and a small group of Illivere’s warriors. And by ‘small’, it was literally two hundred, a mixed force of the more advanced Golems, a few conventional ones, and armed Humans…who were doing a quick count as thousands of Tiqr’s warriors turned.

“…Is that Crafter Se?”

Nsiia shaded her eyes. Another lightning bolt fired from Crafter Se’s wand, but she was no combat magus. Even then, with nearly a mile between them, the enraged [Golem Artificer] was striking and howling.

“Domehead! Return! Domehead! Femithain is right behind us! Give Domehead up and we might let you live, Nsiia!”

“What’s she shouting?”

Vasraf saw Nsiia put her hand to her ear. He glanced at the force of two hundred.

“Looks like they have Stone Golems, and some ceramics. How dangerous are they?”

He turned to their [Strategist].

“Tough, agile; they might be armed with enchanted weapons, but there are only two hundred. A scouting force, perhaps meant for the Empress if we hadn’t found her first. I don’t think they’re wise, unless an entire army is close enough.”

Vasraf eyed another lightning bolt that just dissipated in midair before it got close.

“I…don’t believe this is a clever trick. Your Majesty, what are your orders?”

Nsiia sighed.

“I don’t want to slaughter them. Crafter Se is owed her fury. Vaguely.”

“Is it worth letting Domehead return? If that would pull Illivere off our backs…”

Everyone turned to Domehead. The Golem looked at Nsiia and Ksmvr. It didn’t move, or make a sound. Nsiia’s face screwed up.

“I…that would be helpful. But I will not tell Domehead to do so.”

“Because he is a valuable asset…?”

“Because Domehead may choose. As he chose to follow me. It is your choice, Domehead.”

The Golem stood there. He did not react as Nsiia pointed at Crafter Se.

“Do you wish to go back? I do not think she will punish you.”

No movement. The lights changed, but who could divine their meaning? Nsiia slowly rode to one side. Crafter Se was being restrained by her people.

“There she is. You may go to her or…”

Domehead walked towards Nsiia. He stopped, and the Empress of Beasts turned a rueful smile towards Vasraf.

“You see?”

The [Wild General] sighed, but nodded.

“Her Majesty’s will be done. Then let’s harry this force. I have no wish for them to trail us and lead the Magus-Crafter and a real army towards us.”

“How? Kill them?”

The blunt suggestion came from one of Vasraf’s officers. Ksmvr hesitated. He looked at Crafter Se. He did not wish that, but he listened. The [Wild General] shook his head.

“It shouldn’t be difficult. Have two Garuda squads in reserve. Archers, with me…”

The attack on Crafter Se’s advance group was fast. She squeaked as she saw nearly a thousand [Riders] coming her way. She tried casting more lightning bolts, but a [Mage] opposing her countered the spell.

“To arms! Arrows! Bows!”

The smaller, ceramic Golems smoothly raised their bows and the other [Mages] drew their wands. But the [Riders] bearing down on them were [Soldiers] used to fighting enemy [Mages] and arrows. Just before they drew into range, someone pointed up.

“Garuda! Garuda with—”

The first ceramic jars filled with the [Sticky Web] spell—an alchemical version of it—exploded, the ropes of webbing sticking to the archers and [Mages]. The [Riders], divided into two groups, came in for a pincer attack.

“Surrender or die!”

Crafter Se screamed.

“Surrender! We surrender! We—”

The purpose of the Garuda was twofold. After Crafter Se and the force had been stripped of weapons and useful gear and armor—including bags of holding—they were pointed back the way they’d come. But not directly back towards Illivere or their army.

“Send them on this route.”

“Yes, [General].”

One of the Garuda sighed as they began to herd the loudly-protesting Se and others away. Soon, the [Golem Artificer] would have no idea where she was or had been, Tiqr’s army would be far away, and it would be a guessing game to find them again.

Ksmvr thought little of that, aside from waving at Crafter Se, who cursed him so loudly from afar that some of Tiqr’s [Soldiers] began laughing and writing down the idioms. Nsiia shook her head.

“We’re on the border of the Empire of Scaied. She reached us before Nerrhavia’s garrison or anyone else. She must have truly wanted Domehead back. Do you wish to say anything to her?”

Domehead didn’t move. Nsiia shrugged.

“On we go, then. Crafter Se! Apologies! I will bring him back some day!”

A scream was her only answer. Tiqr’s army set off, distributing the gear they’d plundered. A shame they couldn’t take the Golems, but they were bound to Illivere and it was too risky to try and figure out how to control them without experts of their own.

Something occurred to Ksmvr only a bit later, though. He twisted to look back, but Crafter Se was far out of sight already. He supposed it was just a Skill or something. But to his knowledge, they were all part of General Vasraf’s army. Yet from afar…she should only have been able to see Vasraf.

Perhaps she had seen Domehead and Ksmvr? The Antinium rode on, thinking.

——

He could not stand by forever. Nsiia kept pushing him, but it took even Rémi Canada a while to understand why. It was a rare moment when the [Journalist] asked Nsiia why.

On film, of course. He could have done it off-screen, but he was genuinely confused.

“What, exactly, makes you want Ksmvr’s help so badly, Nsiia?”

The frankly astonished look on the Empress’ face turned into high amusement. She glanced over at Vasraf, who was not-so-subtly listening in. He had the same question.

“I forget, you were not there when I was freed, Rémi Canada. I would have thought you understood, Vasraf.”

“The sword, of course. A weapon worthy of you, Your Majesty? That’s all I understand. Perhaps some cleverness in how he freed you from the Magus-Crafter’s clutches? I never did ask how he secured the key.”

Nsiia started chuckling. Then laughing. She threw her head back. Oh, silly audiences. The thing they never saw. Ksmvr hadn’t unsheathed the [Paladin]’s sword. Not once.

——

They were crossing into the Empire of Scaied’s territory; however, they still had to pass though Tiqr. Ksmvr observed that it changed something in the warriors. In Nsiia as well. They stared at their homeland, though the geography only changed by increments.

But with such longing. As if there was something about just standing in their home. Ksmvr did not see it as wholly positive; some grew agitated or morose. Few fought directly in Nsiia’s presence, so she would walk the camps and calm warriors at night.

Their motive was not to fight the garrisons. Multiple nations had cut Tiqr up and put their forces here, seeking to exploit new lands neighboring theirs or establish close colonies. Some were even trying to make their areas into vassal nations—with little success.

Even so, the armies outnumbered Tiqr’s rebel force, and a single nation could potentially do enough damage to ruin Nsiia’s ambitions. So Nsiia had reluctantly accepted Vasraf’s advice to hold off on any conflict if possible until they found allies like the Monks of Sottheim at their destination.

That resolve lasted right up until the first convoy they passed. ‘Caravan’ was too small for the several thousand of Nerrhavia Fallen’s [Soldiers] leading a group half as large. No shackles, but the Garuda [Scout] came flying back, cursing.

“Rebels, Empress, General! Either rebels, dissidents, or Nerrhavia’s Fallen is selling Tiqr’s people by the thousand. They must be bound for Roshal!”

“Not all the way. A Slave City. In Scaied, perhaps. Somewhere to hold them; no ordinary convoy could carry that many.”

Nsiia’s head rose as Vasraf called their army to a halt. She stared at the army moving through one of the valleys below. Tiqr’s army had been crossing the rough hills, and both groups were close enough that they kept getting glimpses of each other across the ridgeline.

The difference was that Nerrhavia’s commander saw a single man on a horse. A few [Riders] were lazily summiting the slope, beckoning for Vasraf to come down.

The Nerrhavian [Commander] kept turning his head towards Vasraf and rubbing the back of his neck. But his instinct was to send more scouts, a handful of Garuda and Stitch-Folk on horseback, to scout around, in every direction, on a hunch.

“There’s enough of them to put up a real fight. Your Majesty, if there’s a garrison anywhere nearby…”

Vasraf was murmuring. Nsiia stared down the slopes. Ksmvr eyed her. Rémi Canada was focused on the people trudging along. This was not his moment; he was not in command. So he just looked at Tiqr’s people.

They looked poorly. Not poor, though they only had the clothes on their backs. What they looked was wounded. Ksmvr stared at bloody gashes and didn’t understand until he saw one of the [Soldiers] wielding a whip.

Then the Antinium went still. Rémi Canada looked left and realized there was something Ksmvr had never seen: a [Slave]. You could expect most people to at least understand. Ksmvr did not.

“…Give away our position.”

Vasraf concluded to an audience barely focused on him. His own voice trailed off. Nsiia was perched on Chance’s back. The horse was breathing hard, pawing the ground with a hoof. She nodded.

“You have made your point. Now I ask you, Vasraf. Do you truly believe we should leave our people to that?”

She pointed down at a [Soldier] angrily moving the people forwards. By hitting them as hard as he could with the butt of his spear. Ksmvr saw Vasraf stare down as he spat on a man. The [Wild General] sighed.

“I have two conditions, Your Majesty.”

“Name them.”

“Five minutes. [Claw Captain]—take your forces around, fast. Stealth-Skills once you leave my radius. Seelaw Ya, will your warriors commit to an attack?”

“I will give you eight.”

The Loquea Dree warrior saw Vasraf grimace. Nsiia turned and the First of Judgement nodded to her.

“Eight to the death.”

“Hit the archers. Otherwise, keep the skies clear, [Sky Strikeleader].”

One of the Garuda nodded. Nsiia turned to Ksmvr.

“Will you join me at the fore, Ksmvr?”

The Antinium looked at her. He stared down at the valley below, then opened and closed his mandibles, clacking them several times.

“—I cannot.”

“No? Do you see my people down there? I thought we were allied, Ksmvr.”

“That army is Nerrhavia Fallen’s. My companion, Yvlon, is their prisoner. If I am identified, and I believe I would be—I would not put her in jeopardy.”

The Antinium spoke uncertainly. Nsiia looked at him, but the army was moving. She whirled.

“Very well. I cannot argue with that. Domehead!”

The Golem moved. Nsiia pointed. Vasraf glanced up from his rapid-fire orders to see Nsiia point.

“You will stay with the archers. There. Protect the [Mages] and [Archers]. Do not move from this area unless Vasraf tells you to.”

Domehead began walking over to the spot Nsiia pointed, but his torso swivelled as she set herself with the [Riders]. Ksmvr watched as Tiqr’s army moved into position. Not a full encirclement; the commander was getting so antsy he’d stopped the convoy and had begun moving them into a defensive stance. Nor did Tiqr’s army have the patience for it.

Five minutes. The second of Vasraf’s two demands was this:

The [Scouts] approaching the lone warrior saw him dismount. They watched, waving him on and telling him to get his worthless flesh-body down so they could interrogate him. Then…they saw him climb onto something.

Something big. And invisible. The man scaled a rope that appeared out of nowhere. And then sat himself on…a giant, grey thing. About twenty feet tall. It had big, floppy ears, long horns, and a strange, trunk-like nose. Normally, the two wide-spaced eyes in the head looked almost cute, or at least as friendly as any animal got. This animal…did not look so placid.

It was glaring at them. The Grand Elephant raised its nose and blew a blast of air like a trumpet. Nerrhavia Fallen’s army turned just in time to see General Vasraf shed his Skill. He stood on the Grand Elephant’s back, put an arrow to his bow, and shot both [Scouts] through the neck. Then he pointed.

“For Tiqr’s children!”

Nsiia howled at the same time.

“Charge!”

They went down the hills from multiple flanks, appearing out of nowhere to Nerrhavia Fallen’s terrified army. Ksmvr, watching from Spitty’s back, saw Tiqr’s warriors charging on foot. Many had horses or camels or other animals and rode with amazing nimbleness down the rocky terrain. They didn’t fear stray stones or breaking their mounts’ legs; they had Skills to protect their friends.

Flights of Garuda took to the air, chasing down the enemy scouts, who screamed when they saw eight of Loquea Dree’s warriors spread out. [Archers] mixed with the small number of [Mages] in pockets, aiming down at the soldiers below.

That was what Tiqr’s children of flesh and metal did. The ones of fang and claw fought too. Ksmvr saw hyenas, packs of them, racing down, laughing, in a flanking move. Even some birds joining the Garuda in the air.

The hammer was the two Grand Elephants, who moved behind the riders with the warriors on foot, trampling towards the enemy lines. They had armor protecting their fronts, and Vasraf was only one of several [Archers] on the giant animals’ backs, shooting down into the melee.

They didn’t wipe out Nerrhavia’s army in one go, or rout them. They did hit the soldiers below so hard that Ksmvr saw the shock ripple through the Stitch-Folk [Soldiers]’ ranks. But then Tiqr’s warriors were skirmishing with ranks of Hemp-caste [Soldiers], and their blades dug into the tough ‘skin’ of their opponents as well as armor.

Nor did Stitch-Folk fear blades or fangs like other warriors. Ksmvr saw one take a terrible slash from Nsiia that nearly severed her shoulder. The [Soldier] screamed, scrambled back, but some kind of [Healer] or…[Stitch Healer] sewed the wound back up and pushed the warrior back to the front.

It was still a battle that favored Tiqr overwhelmingly. Ksmvr stood there, with the [Archers] and noncombatants. Rémi Canada shifted from the battle to Ksmvr.

“You’re not fighting?”

“I have reiterated my points to Empress Nsiia. I am an adventurer. I do not know if…”

Ksmvr trailed off to look at the fighting.

“—I am one warrior. Hardly as high-level as Empress Nsiia or General Vasraf. My contribution makes little difference.”

Yinah yowled from her position with Rémi; she had not been allowed to join the attack. Spitty took umbrage as well and kept trying to turn his head straight around so he could hit Ksmvr with phlegm.

Rémi Canada said nothing, but turned to Seelaw Ya and Leka Thri.

“And Loquea Dree?”

“Eight warriors, life or death. We stay here. With Ksmvr. We do not hunger for blood. Our kin should remember that.”

Seelaw Ya replied. Ksmvr thought he was genuinely calm. Ksmvr was conflicted. But…Tiqr was winning. Nerrhavia’s Fallen was retreating backwards, literally sacrificing its front ranks to pull into a better formation.

Ksmvr saw something that the soldiers in the melee missed. Amid the terrible fighting in the fore, the convoy of Tiqr’s people had broken away. They turned, spotted Vasraf and Nsiia, and began to cheer and scream.

They did not join the fighting; they had no weapons or armor. However, the few [Soldiers] guarding them met swift ends. Tiqr’s people streamed away from the fighting. And the Nerrhavia’s Fallen [Commander] saw it.

——

“[Bodies of Iron]. Push forwards.”

General Vasraf’s Skill took Nsiia and the warriors in the vanguard forwards without fear. They charged in, yet not just because of him. The Empress of Beasts herself had taken to the front as well, and she raised her sword.

“[Wild Gift: Elephant’s Strength]! Bring me that [Commander]’s head!”

Two top-level Skills combined, one from the [General], one from Nsiia, taking the place of a [Captain] or [Vanguard]. Even the horses turned into terrifying beasts of war, trampling forwards as the [Soldiers] in front of them were knocked backwards by terrific blows. A hyena that had somehow found itself near Nsiia leapt and dragged a [Soldier] down by the leg. Strong as an elephant, with fur like iron.

No matter how well-armed the enemy were, in this place, they could only slow down Tiqr’s advance. In this place. Nsiia saw something strange. The enemy cavalry hadn’t fought with her people for long. Not when a quarter of their horses would buck them, rather than fight Nsiia. Now though, they were streaming away from the defensive half-circle she was breaking into.

Nsiia’s head turned as she let a warrior charge past her with mace and shield. She traced the riders heading…away? No—they were on a collision course with—

“Vasraf!”

He’d seen it too. The [Wild General] furiously blew a horn and pointed to intercept, but even as both watched, the [Riders] sped up.

The Nerrhavia’s Fallen [Commander] was laughing. Check! To use a chess term. He was threatening the one area that would force Tiqr to split its forces.

“[Skirmisher’s Onslaught]! Don’t let them join Tiqr’s army!”

He pointed at the unarmed people now fleeing from the riding [Soldiers], racing past Vasraf’s desperate encirclement. Vasraf began to pull warriors back from the fighting to give chase, but they would still be too slow.

——

“What a commendable move.”

Ksmvr quietly spoke. Rémi Canada looked at him. The archers on the hills were furiously shooting arrows down towards the force going after the civilians, but they were having trouble even hitting the enemy, fast as they were.

“Commendable?”

“It is working. Of course, such tactics have their flaws. I do not believe the Nerrhavia’s Fallen [Commander] realizes he is being recorded.”

This was true. Rémi turned back to the battle. Then—back to Ksmvr. The Antinium sat there.

“They will not be able to stop the [Riders]. One side has a speed Skill.”

Seelaw Ya stared at Vasraf’s [Soldiers] giving pursuit. Leka Thri opened and closed his wing-arms. But before anyone said anything else, Ksmvr spoke.

“I am resolute in my decision not to aid Nsiia openly. She has dragged me into her war. An adventurer should not play politics lightly. These are things I have been told by my team. ‘Do not dip your quill in an inkwell without an ink cap.’ Wise words, by Crossbow Stan. I…think they apply?”

Seelaw Ya looked at Leka Thri. The crow-warrior shook his head in the background. Rémi Canada was looking at Ksmvr, his camera fixed on the Antinium. He was staring down at the people, screaming and running.

“I am an adventurer. Not a [Soldier]. I do not participate in wars. It is bad for my health.”

“I understand that, Ksmvr.”

The Antinium looked at Rémi, bouncing a bit now.

“My team captain or my teammates would make their decision, because they are capable and understand the nuance of everything they do. I am not empowered to make such a decision.”

Rémi’s camera was bouncing a bit too, despite his best efforts. Some of the shaking entered Rémi’s voice. He tried not to bite his tongue.

“Perfectly understood. So…why are we riding down the hill?”

Spitty was picking up the pace. Ksmvr was already halfway down the slopes and moving faster.

“I am just going for a ride! This does not mean anything! I am an adventurer. I do not let random groups of clearly-criminal [Bandits] slaughter unarmed citizens going for a walk! I wish to clarif—”

Spitty hit a rough patch and Ksmvr bounced in the saddle. At first, no one noticed the lone Antinium picking up speed as he went down the hills. That is—until over twenty dark shapes took wing.

“Leka Thri?”

The crow-Garuda led twenty of his kin after Ksmvr. He flew next to Ksmvr. The Antinium twisted in his saddle.

“What are you doing? I am going for a walk. I mean, ride.”

“Stretching my wings.”

The warrior opened his beak with a sharp, menacing smile. Ksmvr looked at him. Now Nerrhavia’s soldiers spotted them coming, and slowed uncertainly. But it was twenty-some versus hundreds. Tiqr’s civilians ran towards them, screaming. Ksmvr looked ahead.

“It occurs to me that if we are fighting [Bandits]—”

“Leave the riders to us.”

Ksmvr nodded. He angled towards the soldiers on foot. Leka Thri pulled upwards, but Ksmvr shouted after him.

“Advice! Scream for psychological effect!”

Leka Thri did a double-take in the air. Then—he laughed. Nerrhavia Fallen’s [Soldiers] saw a lone warrior on a camel’s back racing towards them. The figure leapt from the saddle and the affronted camel peeled away. He landed, and they slowed in their mad charge.

What was that thing? A bug? A bug-person? With a cape?

A shimmering Forceshield came to life in one hand. With his other two hands, he drew something, both hands clasped around the hilt of…a wrapped blade. A longsword. Overhead, twenty Garuda sped at the riders on horseback.

It was just one…in the heat of the battle, only a few [Soldiers] realized what he was. They remembered a name. A story from Rhir and Izril.

Antinium. Again, just one.

But then the binding on the blade fell away. Vasraf, twisting in his saddle, bow drawn, saw the light. A blinding radiance at first. A…strange light, different from magic alone. He felt the hair on his arms rise from thousands of feet away.

A Relic-class blade rose. Nsiia turned and laughed to see it, in delight. In relief. The Antinium held the sword up. He turned his head to the first rank of Nerrhavia’s Fallen’s hordes. Then he opened his mandibles and screamed.

A screaming, running Antinium with a magic sword charged at the warriors. Which was scary enough. Then the Loquea Dree clan shrieked like the ravens of death. Like the heralds of the end. They dove, and the warrior leading the attack twisted, looking for the enemy. He saw a huge shape moving overhead, and saw a single glowing blade right in front of him.

Moreit. Threat and—the [Captain] tried to swerve, and collided with the scythe at neck-height. The other crow-warriors swept across the [Riders], aiming for the Stitch-Folk in their saddles, unable to dodge.

Ksmvr didn’t see Leka Thri’s battle. He was running, charging, and wondering—what would Captain Ceria say? He hoped she understood and wouldn’t be too angry.

“Kill—kill it!”

A [Sword Captain] charged Ksmvr. The Gold-rank adventurer saw a sword moving, and judged his vector of attack. The longsword was light in his hands. Not his preferred weapon, but he knew how to use it. The Forceshield angled, and he swung the sword down in a perfectly executed slash.

The [Sword Captain] moved to parry the vertical blow. He was quick. His blade slashed across Ksmvr’s downstroke, to send the blade sideways and move into a slash—

The [Sword Captain]’s enchanted sword split into two. His parrying blow sundered his own sword and the man stared at the neat cut through his weapon. Ksmvr was so surprised he almost missed.

Almost. The [Paladin]’s blade slashed down without any resistance. Ksmvr was again surprised and had to reverse the motion before it cut into the ground. Such poor execution and form! Even so…he stepped back, shield raised, ready to attack. Only to see the [Sword Captain] staring at his right side.

“That’s my arm.”

The Stitch-Man stared at his severed arm and shoulder, mildly shocked. Ksmvr glanced down at the arm, still holding a shield. He whirled the blade as someone stabbed at him.

The sword cut a spear in half. Ksmvr slashed, and was rewarded with a scream of pain. The other [Soldier] had been too far away for a killing blow, but Ksmvr had sliced across the top of her metal shield…and breastplate…and cut through the top of the shield and into the woman’s body. She stumbled back, staring at her shield.

“Kill—”

The Antinium spun, swung his sword, and sheared through another sword instead of rebounding or locking, and the top of someone’s shoulder. He blocked a mace blow with the Forceshield, and swung in two crescent arcs.

The longsword was fast. Not as fast as it could be…but it never met any resistance. Even the air seemed like it refused to impede the blade.

The [Soldiers] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen pressed closer, hearing screams, shouts. Was the Antinium dead? Suddenly, their momentum was coming to a standstill, and they had to get forwards before Tiqr attacked from behind! But the forward advance had stopped. No—it was going backwards?

[Soldiers] were trying to push back. Some were running, holding severed limbs. A few simply threw their weapons down. Why? It was just—

A single Antinium with a magic sword. A holy blade with no peer. Whatever it struck was cut. Even enchanted weapons and shields. Even—

“[Perfect Block]!”

A [Shield Warrior] threw up his shield. Ksmvr slashed. Carefully. Like a science experiment. The two warriors regarded the Stitch-Man’s shield. Or rather, half of it. The Nerrhavia’s Fallen [Soldier] regarded his shield, dropped what remained of it, and put up his hands.

“I surrender.”

He didn’t even look ashamed. It was just…common sense. And it spread amazingly fast. The [Commander] couldn’t understand it from afar, as his entire attack wave of infantry came to a standstill. He was cursing them and ordering them forwards when Nsiia threw a javelin.

[Officer’s Second Chance]! The javelin curved in midair and the man yelped, scrambling back as he realized Tiqr had pushed too far in. He was turning to issue more orders, his gambit failed, when Vasraf shot him through the armpit.

——

The battle was over soon after that. Ksmvr stood in front of hundreds of surrendering [Soldiers], trying to argue with them.

“No, you are not surrendering to me. I am not here. I did not know you were [Soldiers]. Therefore, your surrender is to Empress Nsiia of Tiqr.”

Leka Thri had landed with his warriors, having routed his foes almost as quickly as Ksmvr. In the distance, the army of Nerrhavia’s Fallen was surrendering—or dead.

“This was only part of whatever garrison was in the region. Too many soldiers to count.”

Vasraf was counting losses and grimacing. A single convoy had put up too much of a fight, even taken by surprise. Nsiia shook her head.

“Vasraf. Hush. We have liberated our people. And look—”

They found Ksmvr by the cheering. When the Empress of Beasts parted the crowds with her [Wild General], he was standing there, surrounded by Tiqr’s people. Her [Soldiers]. The Antinium looked confused as Rémi Canada fought to record it all, jostling for room.

“Nsiia. Please confirm that my involvement in this battle was accidental. Please do not cheer. Unless it is because I am a Gold-rank adventurer. Why are they cheering…?”

He still didn’t see it. Vasraf turned to Nsiia. This close, the air felt charged. The Antinium saw Nsiia gesture.

“Lift the sword, Ksmvr! So we can all see it!”

“Why?”

“Just do it!”

Slowly, the Antinium lifted the sword overhead. He still didn’t understand. But there it was. A glowing sword. And as her people saw her, they turned and fell to their knees, or looked at the Empress of Beasts. She raised her fist.

“Tiqr lives!”

A symbol. No. Just look at him. The Antinium, standing with his cloak and shining sword, fighting for Tiqr no matter what he claimed. He looked like something out of those old stories. The warrior in Tiqr’s darkest hour.

A…[Hero]. You looked at him and remembered they had once existed. Ksmvr stood there, holding the sword up. He saw people smiling at him, cheering him. Even wanting to talk, take his hand and thank him.

“This sword is a bit heavy.”

He confessed to Leka Thri. The crow-warrior didn’t answer him immediately. He looked around.

“It is not unpleasant. Is it?”

Ksmvr was confused as to what he meant. Then he looked around at the smiling faces. Leka Thri’s expression was hard to read. But it looked…the Antinium shook his head slightly.

“No. It is not.”

“It is what I dreamed of. Someday, for all of my people. We will not be answered by screams, but by this.”

Leka Thri looked at Ksmvr. The Antinium offered a smile, and got one in return.

——

Ksmvr did not become a [Hero] that night. In fact, he did not level. When one had a magic blade of the caliber he wielded…it was unlikely one would level. The one drawback of such things.

He did remember something, though. That he was substandard.

It was good to remember. Otherwise Ksmvr might have a huge ego, which was a terrible flaw to have. He had indulged too much in the accolades of yesterday for not doing much.

Nsiia was still beaming over the victory days later, despite the headaches it had given Vasraf. He’d made a quick decision, and split the freed people.

Those who wished to fight for Tiqr, former [Warriors] or just men and women with the will, he let join the army. Those who feared they would not make it, but couldn’t fight, he sent to the Kilalle Steppes. They already had some of Tiqr’s liberated citizens hiding there. The rest? He let them go back to Tiqr if they wanted, to find their families, hide, or spread word.

Nsiia gave them all her blessing. It was an emotional reunion that Ksmvr saw, as she went among her people. It reminded him why she was fighting. Each person in Tiqr was her responsibility, her burden.

When you saw Nsiia like that, surrounded by people, pledging to find each and every one of their family members, friends, to return with an army—an impossible promise she would keep or die—that was the Empress of Beasts. Ruler of a nation.

He was Ksmvr. Even now…

It came out in a moment as Tiqr’s army crossed into the Empire of Scaied. Still fairly dry in the north; relatively rich as it reached the coastline.

Scorpion territory. Ksmvr saw the curious insects the first week. One crawled up by the fire, six-legged, all dark chitin, stinger raised. He eyed it.

“Ksmvr…what are you eating?”

“Nfing.”

Ksmvr’s voice was a bit muffled. He had been told that eating insects was a faux pas, even though Captain Ceria did it. He spat the stinger out of his mandibles. Nsiia stared at the limb.

“It is poisonous. I am most likely immune, but poison does not taste good. Nor is it very nutritious. If I was eating something. Which I was not.”

Nsiia eyed him, and then cursed.

“These damned things. I think they sense we’re here. Scaied is a haven for such vermin.”

“Technically, I believe they are arachnids.”

“What?”

“Spiders.”

Nsiia flicked another scorpion, this one pale and semi-transparent, and turned to Ksmvr.

“Don’t be ridiculous. They are bugs. Spiders look different. And spiders are a kind of bug, are they not?”

Ksmvr huffed.

“Spiders are very distinct, Nsiia. You see…”

The Empress wasn’t listening. She paced the ground, frowning. Now, Ksmvr saw no less than six scorpions in close proximity. Which was odd.

Scorpions, contrary to popular belief, did not go out of their way to pick fights with giant things that could squash them. Yes, they had stingers and would sting you, but Humans didn’t just run up to Giants and start punching them. Actually…given certain [Knight]-Orders, that was a bad analogy.

However, these scorpions did seem to be coming out of the ground. And heading towards one person. Nsiia saw Yinah bare her teeth.

“Yinah! Don’t. They’ll sting you.”

The cat backed off, snarling. Some of the hyenas, one of whom was gravid, yet had refused to leave even when pregnant, were also snarling, yipping as more scorpions appeared.

“Your Majesty.”

Vasraf calmly strode towards her in the mortal enemy of scorpions of this size. Boots. He calmly stomped some flat and looked around.

“I believe Scaied has noticed us. And it seems they are eminently hostile.”

“We would have had to fight them anyways. Hopefully it’s just pests.”

Nsiia frowned, though. Vasraf was just as wary, and it was as they broke camp and were heading south towards the monastery of Sottheim that one of the [Scouts] to their rear spotted a force.

“It’s far distant, Your Majesty. But I think I see…Illivere’s standards.”

“Femithain?”

Nsiia halted. Ksmvr turned back and saw Vasraf frown.

“Are you sure they’re bearing towards us?”

“Unerringly, General. They’re slow, though. The Golems are moving at a slower clip, but they won’t stop.”

“…Change course.”

Instantly, Vasraf ordered the army to zig left. However, they had only gone two hours when the [Scout] came back.

“They’re following us, [General]. I saw another Garuda in the skies.”

Illivere had zagged to catch up. However, Vasraf was equal to them. He conferred with Nsiia for her approval, and issued an order.

“[Army: No Foe Caught Us]. Full march!”

It was a Skill he’d picked up after Tiqr’s fall. Ksmvr saw Tiqr’s army speed up. They shot across the ground, moving at a pace that left Illivere’s army in the dust. However—unlike the famous King of Destruction or other high-level Skills, they paid for it.

Six hours of marching was not even a full-day’s effort, yet Tiqr’s army had to stop. Each person was issued a mere spoonful of stamina potion to fight off the worst effects, but the [Soldiers] dropped where they stopped for rest.

“Would that we had Flos here. His basic Skills can do almost as well without the backlash.”

“I will try to enlist the King of Destruction into the army if I ever get the chance, Your Majesty.”

Vasraf wearily traded jests with Nsiia. However, even with their exhaustion, Illivere wouldn’t be in range of them, even if they marched all day and all night. So Tiqr fell to resting.

Naturally, that was when they were attacked.

——

“Ambush! Ambush! Rally to the Grand Elephants!”

Vasraf’s voice had Ksmvr out of bed in an instant. He leapt up, confused, and saw figures attacking the camp. Something huge erupted out of the ground and Ksmvr drew his sword. The radiance threw the fighting into relief and the attackers cried out while Tiqr’s people rallied.

Warriors in light armor with curved blades, some dripping with poison, charging out of the darkness. More with arrows—but Ksmvr was focused on the giant shapes attacking screaming warriors.

Scorpions. Giant scorpions, one fourteen feet long with a stinger that impaled someone even as he watched.

“To me! Fight them off!”

Nsiia was howling. Ksmvr saw someone run at him. He parried the blade—and the surprised attacker’s head—clean from the body. Other people were shouting as more of the giant things came out from hiding.

“Oisk Stingers in the sands!”

Loquea Dree were in the sky, and the attackers were already falling back. Tiqr saw one figure pursuing them, battling with one of the giant scorpions.

Domehead. Nsiia shouted as the Golem took a furious stinger-blow straight to the chest and staggered. Yet he brought down his axe and smashed the scorpion flat, yet the giant arachnid got up and scuttled back as someone blew a shrill whistle.

“Domehead, to me! Don’t pursue!”

Flaming arrows struck Domehead’s crystal dome. A bolt of magic hit him in the chest and he hesitated—then stomped backwards.

It was a fast attack. An ambush by the Empire of Scaied. Vasraf didn’t even have time to bury the dead. Seelaw Ya landed as the [Wild General] ordered the camp struck.

“An army is coming. Eight thousand strong.”

“Damn. Tend to the wounded. Prepare to move! Now! If Illivere flanks us—”

Nsiia helping tend to the wounded. She bent down.

“Oh no. You…[Sympathetic Heal—].”

She tried to cast the Skill on the wounded hyena, but the animal snapped at her. It growled, a spear embedded in its side. Nsiia bent, eyes wet. She put her ear to the animal’s belly.

“I understand. [Sympathetic Healing]. I promise, we will take care of them, brave mother.”

Ksmvr didn’t understand. It seemed as if Nsiia had used the Skill just as she’d tried. Until he saw Nsiia call for a dagger and help.

One of the [Druids] strode over, face bleak. They bent over the hyena and cut her open.

“What are you…?”

Ksmvr saw Nsiia reach down and heard a sound. A coughing whine. The Empress of Beasts lifted something up, turning to him.

A tiny hyena cub. Three, in fact. The [Druid] helped her rescue three out of four. Then save them because they were prematurely born. She urgently mixed milk with a healing potion. It was them that Nsiia had saved.

The mother was already dead. She had been before Nsiia called for the knife. Nsiia bore them away as Vasraf put the army into a desperate march, still by night.

Their pursuers were visible by the time dawn rose. Ksmvr saw an army, banging on their shields, blowing those strange whistles. Nsiia cursed them.

“Scaied. Someone’s hired the mercenaries. Vasraf, how did they find us?”

The [Wild General] eyed thousands of Scaied’s mercenary army. You could hire companies like Baleros’ endless outfits. However, in Chandrar [Mercenaries] were less common. Yet this was an entire empire you could hire. For a fee.

“I don’t know, Your Majesty. We should have been hidden. Perhaps magic? Or they sensed us another way?”

“Can we rout them?”

Nsiia demanded. Her eyes were flashing, but Vasraf shook his head.

“It’s too close. Moreover…look. Oisk Stingers. Sixteen.”

Nsiia’s mouth became a thin line. Ksmvr spotted more of the huge scorpions. These ones looked like they had armored bodies, some kind of magical adaptation. Worse—some had two sting-tails, and their claws were dangerous weapons too.

“How dangerous are they?”

He kept staring at the little hyena babies the [Druid] was trying to save. Vasraf turned. He pointed.

“Our Grand Elephants are the might and fear of enemy armies. In battle, it is wise to assume an Oisk Stinger is a match for one of our Grand Elephants. Perhaps not as fearsome in laying waste to infantry—but they’re deadly and strong. Even Domehead couldn’t kill one with a single blow. Perhaps with your sword—”

He eyed Ksmvr. Then he turned to Nsiia.

“We move, Empress. That’s my decision. We can lose them.”

She nodded tightly. Ksmvr had no idea how Vasraf would do that; the armies were so close some of the [Archers] were exchanging ultra-long-range fire via Skills.

“[Battlefield: Dust Storm].”

Vasraf grimly pointed. At his words, the wind began to pick up. The jeering intensified, and Ksmvr felt the first sting of sand on his carapace. Tiqr’s army headed into the sandstorm without a word and Scaied followed, but warily, fearful of an ambush.

——

The hyena cubs lived. All three, and Rémi Canada was there to record when one finally opened its eyes and looked around for its mother. But at least it did live, and there were other hyenas and experts in animal rearing in the army.

That was the one good piece of news. The bad news was that Scaied was following them.

The dust storm raged for two days, surprising even Vasraf. His Skill was a wild card, as befit his class; he could only summon one, and climate often dictated the rest. Nevertheless, when they finally broke out of it, Scaied was close behind.

“They can’t have scouted us through that. They’re following us. Illivere too!”

The army of Magus-Crafter Femithian had been spotted, doggedly following at their slower pace. Now, a crisis had enveloped Tiqr’s army. Ksmvr had begun to suspect as early as Crafter Se; it was confirmed now.

“We have a spy. Or someone is giving away our position. Inadvertently or deliberately.”

Vasraf spoke calmly, but his gaze rotated to include Ksmvr, Rémi Canada, the Loquea Dree clan, Tiqr’s newly-joined citizens, and even his own warriors. Nsiia, inspecting the scratches on Domehead’s armor, frowned.

“Exclude Ksmvr from your suspicions, Vasraf. If he had not rescued me, I would not be here.”

“One can be deceived. It may be a spell or some other method. I am sure that, somehow, news is reaching one of our enemies.”

Vasraf looked pointedly at Ksmvr’s wrapped sword. The Antinium lifted it.

“I believed that this wrap would confuse its magical aura, General Vasraf. However, if I am at fault…”

The [Wild General] nodded.

“I will conduct an inspection. My [Mages] would have noticed if your sword was visible, but I may ask you to show us the bindings. Thank you, Adventurer Ksmvr.”

He rose. Nsiia murmured.

“And while he does that—I will talk to you.”

Ksmvr turned his head. Nsiia stood, and faced Domehead. The Golem sat there, only the paint on his armor damaged from his encounter with the Oisk Stinger. But Nsiia pointed at him.

“Domehead, I am not your master as Golems have them. You are different and I hold no command spells, nor do I know how, unlike Crafter Se or Femithain. Yet you are my…”

She hesitated, looking at Ksmvr.

“…Creation. My offspring, perhaps, as much as Femithain’s. I try to teach you. I will try to protect you. However, you are new to this world and yet you are more capable than most [Soldiers] under my command. Still. You are a target.”

She frowned, folding her arms. Ksmvr saw Yinah peeking at the mostly-blind hyena cubs. He kept a close eye on them; he would not pet them because they were too fragile. He had offered his personal healing potion, but the [Druid] said they needed good food and rest to build their strength.

Nsiia glanced at the cubs, and then at Domehead, who had Gold-rank grade armor and a battleaxe enchanted by Femithain himself. And yet…she gave both the same look.

“If you were Human, Garuda, Stitch-Folk, or any other child, I could order you to fight with other [Soldiers], if I had to. Shoulder-to-shoulder, to learn with others protecting you. Well, you cannot. And your great strength may be needed…”

She hesitated, looking towards the distance where Scaied was marching towards them, even now, as Tiqr rested. Domehead’s lights winked on and off.

How frustrating. Did he understand? He did not communicate, as even Goblins and Antinium did. He just…sat there. Nsiia bent down.

“I will place you with the [Archers] and [Mages]. It is not a valorous place, but you must stay there. Do not chase the enemy, like you did with the Oisk Stingers. If they had surrounded you—the enemy would focus on you and bring you down. Do you understand? Stay to the rear. If I can rest assured our rear lines are safe, it will do good in the battle and allow Vasraf to commit forces forwards.”

A single light in one of the biggest crystals turned on and off. Nsiia gave Domehead a helpless look.

“Do you understand? Will you do this?”

Ksmvr had been listening. Now he leaned over.

“Nsiia. I have seen Domehead’s strength. He may do more good in the vanguard, like a Grand Elephant. He does not bleed. He does not die as easily—even Stitch-Folk might envy him. If he could beat an Oisk Stinger—and I think he could—is that not a better use of his abilities?”

Domehead swiveled to face him. Nsiia scowled.

“You will be silent, Ksmvr.”

“Empress. I have to agree.”

Vasraf had returned. He stood at the edge of the conversation, but came forwards slowly. He nodded at Domehead.

“I understand…Domehead is different from any Golem. But if Scaied’s army forces us to battle, I cannot ask our remaining Grand Elephants to die fighting them. And our regular warriors will be torn apart by the sixteen Oisk Stingers. If even one could fall…Seelaw Ya has promised to send Loquea Dree to combat them, but Oisk Stingers hide in the ground; his clan is a poor match. Hyena teeth will do nothing.”

Nsiia spun, glaring at Vasraf.

“I will not have Domehead die twice, Vasraf! The first time was my fault and as Ksmvr and Femithain have told me…”

Her face screwed up.

“…It is a debt I must pay. I will not send him to be destroyed.”

“That is the responsibility of any warrior, to know when to fall back.”

“He does not know anything! Nor am I sure Domehead understands even this!”

Vasraf and Nsiia began arguing as Domehead turned from one to the other. Ksmvr saw a hand twitch. The Antinium sat forwards as the crystals began flashing. Almost like…alarm? Anxiety?

Ksmvr moved over to sit in front of Domehead. Behind him, Yinah had crept into the basket with the hyena cubs. She picked one up like a cat and towed it out. Rémi went to stop her and got a slash across one hand for his troubles. He cursed, swinging the camera towards Ksmvr and keeping an eye on Yinah.

The Antinium sat in front of Domehead. As still, as seemingly emotionless as the Golem. He looked up at Domehead. It was up to him to speak, because Nsiia did not understand.

Ksmvr did. Domehead and he were alike in some ways, in their understanding of the world. Yet Domehead was Ksmvr when he had just left the Hive. How would Ksmvr have felt, with the Horns?

…Wary at first, perhaps. Suspicious. Lost. Yet what if…what if Nsiia was like Ceria, Pisces, and Yvlon later? Especially like Yvlon. Ksmvr thought of how Nsiia sang to him, and taught him. Yes…in that case, Ksmvr thought he would do whatever it took. So what to tell Domehead?

Perhaps—a precious lesson he’d had to be told many times. Ksmvr leaned forwards.

“Domehead. You are not wrong to understand that you can make a difference in battle. There is always a time and place to act. Nsiia may put you in the rear, but you may have to go forwards to save her. To do what must be done.”

Nsiia whirled around, furious. Domehead’s crystal lights began to brighten, and Ksmvr went on. He looked carefully at Domehead, and thought of Femithain.

“However. You should have a care for your existence as well, Domehead. You must preserve your life and body. Not because you matter.”

“Ksmvr!”

Ksmvr tapped his chest, ignoring the angry ruler. Then he tapped Domehead’s huge metal plate, where his Golem Heart lay.

“Not because you matter. But if you should be destroyed, you will sadden at least two people. At least.”

He looked at Nsiia, then back to Domehead.

“That is two too many.”

Nsiia was striding over, eyes flashing, as Yinah tugged the crying hyena cub over, one of the two who hadn’t opened its eyes yet. But then Domehead moved. The Golem had been sitting there, no face to be read, just that round dome that looked everywhere and nowhere. It had not moved when Nsiia spoke. It had not moved when Ksmvr spoke, or Vasraf voiced its opinion, only shifted its frame ever so slightly, twitched a hand.

Now, Domehead moved. He did not speak. The lights played in different colors in the crystals in his head-dome as the Golem raised a slow finger on his left hand. He reached out—and tapped Ksmvr on the chest.

Exactly like Ksmvr had done. The Antinium was surprised. Nsiia halted in her tracks. Ksmvr saw the finger retract, and Domehead sat still. Ksmvr looked at Domehead. Then he smiled.

“I have three. That is more than you, Domehead. I know this lesson. I must not die. But you understand. You must not let them die. Or you would have no worth or purpose. It is a tricky thing, to do both. If the time comes…you will know what to do.”

He smiled happily. Right before Nsiia seized him and dragged him up. She was angry. Ksmvr braced himself for her wrath, but he did not understand why she looked so…distraught. Nor how his words had affected those who heard him.

“That is a terrible thing to teach, Ksmvr.”

“No it is not. Domehead understands.”

“You—”

Nsiia shook Ksmvr, at a loss for words. Vasraf was looking at Ksmvr, holding his tongue, but the [Wild General] kept glancing at his [Empress]. He did not fully disagree and Ksmvr saw that.

And yet, in this moment, as it came on again, and Nsiia began to shout, it was the man behind the camera who couldn’t help it. Rémi Canada spoke.

“Ksmvr.”

Nsiia stopped and let go of Ksmvr. The Antinium [Skirmisher] turned. Rémi Canada rose. He glanced at Yinah, but the cat was not attacking the little hyena baby. Rather, she had curled around the small red thing and was purring.

Even a heartless, murderous household cat understood something Ksmvr only had half a grasp on. Rémi spoke.

“I know we haven’t known each other long, Ksmvr. And I’ve played the role of observer. But I feel as though I have to say something. When I’ve watched you—when we’ve watched you—you talk about yourself with such…low self-esteem. As if you don’t matter. As if your team were g—”

He hesitated.

“Were great and glorious and perfect, and you were not. Not deserving of accolades for freeing Nsiia, or saving innocent people from being slaughtered. Even the way you speak about staying alive for them, not for yourself.”

Ksmvr tilted his head, confused. He saw Rémi fix his strange violet gaze on him and go on.

“…You are not heartless. That’s why I came out here. To prove that. To prove Antinium were not monsters. I know a [Journalist] has to weigh their conflicts of interest, but I felt it was a story I had to tell. I wasn’t wrong. But do you not understand, Ksmvr? It comes out in your stories, but you don’t seem to realize it’s more than that you would make your team sad by dying. They appreciate you. You are their friend, teammate…I would go as far as to say they love you. Do you not see that?”

Ksmvr stood there. Rémi Canada waited, but Ksmvr did not immediately speak. When he did—his voice had the slightest warble.

“I believe you are speaking of interpersonal matters. I think this is an invasion of my privacy, Rémi Canada. But to your point…I suspect I am…regarded fondly by my team.”

“Oh, Ksmvr.”

Nsiia exhaled in a rush of sudden, sympathetic exasperation. Ksmvr held up one of his hands. He looked at Rémi.

“I suspect. How can anyone know? They have not said so, but I hope it is true.”

“Said so? Explicitly? Would they have to, Ksmvr?”

Rémi Canada’s eyebrows were in danger of floating into space. Ksmvr looked at him.

“It is the only way to know for sure. I…I have a new Skill. [Sense Affection]. Perhaps when I meet them again, I will know definitively.”

Ksmvr shuffled his feet. He looked at the sky.

“I would like that. But I do not take it for granted. They are the only people who have ever cared for me, when I had nothing to offer them. When I, myself, was inferior.”

“Why do you say that, Ksmvr?”

“Because I know it to be true, Nsiia. I was informed of this fact.”

“By who? Tell me, and I will add them to the list of people who I intend to stab.”

The Empress of Beasts snapped, eyes flashing. Ksmvr calmly returned the look.

“I was told by Klbkchhezeim of the Free Antinium. Revelantor of my people, when he cast me out. He was not wrong. I made a mess of the Hive and nearly jeopardized its place in my city, and—nearly killed someone important. Many Antinium who mattered could have lived if I had not failed.”

“That was one failure, surely. One Antinium tells that you are a failure, or worthless, and you believe them?”

Nsiia ran her hands through her hair. Ksmvr nodded.

“Yes. Do not look so surprised, Nsiia. Who better to know than a Centenium of my people? He would not lie to me. He told me I was worthless, and cast me out. I am grateful, because I knew I was worthless. If you do not know your worth, how can you judge how to improve yourself? When the Horns of Hammerad formed and Ceria Springwalker, Pisces, and Yvlon Byres took me in, I was appropriately grateful because they did not have to. I owe them everything. I had nothing. I have them, now. I must not lose their affection.”

He turned back to Domehead. Ah. It was like another piece of the puzzle being placed. Almost like a sound, or a feeling. Rémi Canada broke in, taking over for Nsiia. Like a tag-team, speaking to Ksmvr from both sides.

“Do you think you will lose their affection, Ksmvr? Is that something that happens among the Antinium? Do you think your team would simply stop loving you someday? I have to tell you—that is not how it happens. Not if they care for you.”

Ksmvr turned to face Rémi. He looked at the young man and his mandibles rose and opened in what people now understood to be how an Antinium smiled. Yet the mandibles drooped slowly at the end. Nuance to the smile. Perhaps even other Antinium would have to look at it for context. Since it was so rare that they did smile. Until now.

What did the Free Antinium, the Antinium of the Flying Hive, all those who saw this now and later, think? The one representative of their species stood, in the recording, in the present, smiling, a bit melancholy.

“I have always thought it humorous, Rémi Canada, how you people speak about love and affection. By which, I mean, non-Antinium. It seems a common thread across continents and nations. Perhaps there are other species who understand.”

He glanced at Nsiia and Vasraf. Leka Thri had come to listen, but he did not intrude. Ksmvr told his audience, calmly.

“You speak as if parenthood is a truth. That those who produce offspring must, should love their creations. Even Domehead. But he knows the truth of all other Golems. Just as Antinium. It is not a given.”

Domehead looked at Ksmvr. The Antinium nodded politely to him. Nsiia began to object, but was uncertain. Yinah licked the baby hyena’s closed eyes. The infant tried to nuzzle the far smaller cat. She gave Ksmvr much the same look as his audience. Only Rémi kept his face neutral. He listened. This was what he wanted. Ksmvr had to explain.

“Do [Golem Artificers] love every Golem they make, even flawed ones? No. I do not believe so. Some do have affection for their creations, like Femithian, but he will destroy a failure. That is fair because it is economical and expedient. Antinium are much like that. I was not born of any mother or father. I was created in a vessel designed to bring me to life, that has no feeling or true mind. Should I expect it to love me?”

“A…”

Vasraf couldn’t even understand what Ksmvr was saying. The Antinium turned back to Rémi, speaking matter-of-factly.

“Perhaps you would think that my Queen is then my parental figure, as she oversees such things. Would you expect her to bear affection for me, personally? Or all Antinium? My Queen has a Hive of Antinium. So many thousands of Workers and Soldiers—should she love them all? They die, sometimes by the hundreds, each day. We will inevitably perish in a fraction of her lifespan. I am over three quarters of the lifespan of a Worker. I am a Prognugator—or was—so I may live longer, but adventurers live short lives.”

“And how old is that, Ksmvr?”

The Antinium beamed at Rémi Canada.

“This year, I am three years old.”

The child looked around at the shocked faces. No—he was a fully grown Antinium. Older than average, really. Even Yinah was older than he was. Vasraf had dropped the water flask he was holding, and the precious liquid dribbled into the sand, but the [Wild General] didn’t even notice.

“You’re only three?”

“I am proudly three. For an Antinium, Nsiia, I would only have one year left to live, on average. So I have calculated myself as being sixty six years old, thereby allowing me to drink at establishments. I understand Humans assign age like ‘dog years’. Therefore, I do the same.”

The Antinium puffed out his chest. Then turned back to Rémi and shook his head.

“That is inconsequential to my point, Rémi Canada.”

The young man gazed at Ksmvr behind his camera, with as much emotion as the others, but urgency. Show them this.

“I don’t think it is, Ksmvr. I’m…sorry to hear Antinium have such short lives. But you have to know that we Humans, and many other species, do love unconditionally. I think if your team were here, they would say they care for you no matter what you do. I will try to be there when you meet them, so I can ask them just that.”

Ksmvr chuckled, a light fluttering sound, and looked surprised that he had made it. He shook his head at Rémi.

“Your point is made like a Human. And it is a good one, Rémi. I would be happy if it were so. But I think it is silly, nevertheless. Shortsighted. Wrong. I think it is so foolish that you have what I have. All of you.”

He turned around, fingers pointing to the people around him. Ksmvr gave them a deep stare.

“Even a fraction of what I have—and you take it so lightly. You say I should be loved without any deeds? You think it is yours by right, and does not need to be earned? That it will never disappear? You are the fools.”

He looked at them all.

“You take it so lightly. You think you have some value, that your life has meaning just because you existed. It was random chance. That is your value. You must work to keep it. You could have easily never been. If you achieve nothing, you are not worth something even so. You are worth less than what you began with.”

“Why do you believe that, Ksmvr?”

The Antinium turned. And he was in a kind of…trance. Delirium? No, just as if someone had cracked a stone and water was leaking out, from where it had been contained for a long time.

“When I was made, Rémi, I was a Prognugator. Not a Worker. Not a Soldier. When I was made…ten thousand Antinium were created. Not as you see me. Not like this. But ten thousand. Then, nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine Antinium died. I could have been one of those who were subsumed at any stage of their creation. I was not. I was the best of them. I took a bit of their insight. A bit of their strength. Their space, their right to live…that most of all.”

He touched his fingers to his chest.

“I know I am unique. I know what I had, and I thought, once, it made me superior. Special. I was taught by the Free Queen to be the best of my kind. I learned from studying one of the Antinium’s heroes. And we have so few. Only ever a hundred. But I am a pale copy of the Antinium I was created in imitation of. My worth is as an adventurer, in my team.”

“How does that work? Ten thousand Antinium die to make a Prognugator? Is that how Klbkch the Slayer was made? Is he the one you were supposed to replace?”

Rémi’s voice was urgent. Ksmvr hesitated. He knew he should not be speaking, but he continued.

“No. He was not one of ten thousand. He was one in a million. No. He was one of a million.”

Ksmvr touched his chest and looked at his fingers, opening and closing them.

“I am one in ten thousand. Perhaps more. Perhaps only that. I was chance. I know this to be true, though—Klbkchhezeim is that million. He was made in a way none before or since have ever been created.”

The Antinium’s head rose. He looked around at his silent audience. After a second, he closed his mandibles.

“I have said too much already. I only tell you this so you understand. When I say I am worthless, that I was cast out of my Hive despite all that was poured into me, I do not lie. When I say my team is owed everything, I do not lie. I will do all I can for them, and that includes living. But I am not them. Now, I am going to walk away because I do not know how to end this conversation.”

He turned away. He was walking towards Spitty when Nsiia called out after him.

“Ksmvr! Did you not see them cheer you? When you saved them? Will you not acknowledge you have something?”

The [Skirmisher] spun. He drew his sword in a flash, and a beautiful glow, like the sunrise, illuminated Tiqr’s camps. Warriors looked up as Ksmvr raised the blade high overhead. He looked at Nsiia.

“Did they cheer me, or the blade? I am just Ksmvr.”

He lowered the sword, painstakingly re-wrapped it with the cloth, and went over to offer Spitty a Yellat. Nsiia stood there, with Vasraf, Leka Thri, and the others.

“Vasraf. I will free Tiqr. I will hold each one of our enemies to account. I will free my people, wherever they have been taken.”

“Yes, Nsiia.”

The [Wild General] saw the [Empress of Beasts] turn her head. But her gaze never left Ksmvr.

“I will also have that child see he is loved and happy. Mark me, Vasraf.”

The man smiled, looking at the same person.

“Your desire is my wish, Your Majesty.”

——

The Empire of Scaied had not sent its full might against Tiqr. It had been paid. It was a nation that had an ethos that revolved around gold. Cost-effectiveness. Rather like the Antinium, they would take no war to the bitter end, fighting to the last.

“If it becomes unprofitable, they will stop fighting us. They have a metric. Mercenaries.”

Nsiia spat.

“Valorless.”

Leka Thri agreed.

“Sensible.”

Ksmvr looked around the war table. Nsiia scowled at him, but not for long. Everyone was treating him differently now that they knew how old he was. Ceria had told Ksmvr it would be bad if it got out, but he did not realize how bad.

Warriors came over to ask about his age, clap him on the shoulder, offer to teach him things. They tried to give him treats. Yinah even gave him a desert mouse she’d caught, rather than feed it to the baby hyena she’d adopted.

“We are being tracked somehow. I cannot tell how—only that it is done. Two armies are approaching us. Scaied is the faster, but they are coordinating with Illivere. Hemming us in. If we must battle both…but we cannot escape. The scouts are sensing movement ahead of us. We must smash one army first, and force the Empire of Scaied to see this as too costly.”

Vasraf looked around the war council. Nsiia hesitated.

“I would take many battles, Vasraf. But are you suggesting we battle Scaied and Illivere?”

“No. Only Scaied. We can triumph over this army. But we must do so before Illivere reaches us. Destroy them, and then continue to evade Illivere.”

It was the only plan Vasraf had. He suspected more armies or soldiers might be lying in ambush ahead, now that they could tell where Tiqr’s army was. And if they were trapped and both armies hit them—they were dead.

If only they could tell where or who was giving away their position! Yet Vasraf had covertly investigated Loquea Dree, checked that Rémi was not giving away anything—the [Journalist] had even given his [Message] scroll over voluntarily—watched Ksmvr, even checked for tracking spells and artifacts on everyone else. The citizens of Tiqr didn’t seem to hide double-agents…what were they missing?

Domehead sat there, without a word, completely there and completely silent. Listening as the others conferred. Vasraf looked weary.

“We cannot risk moving ahead, Empress. I feel like that Nerrhavian commander…I can almost taste the ambush lying ahead of us. If you have another vision, I will hear it.”

“No. Vasraf, your insight has saved us many times. I am no [General]. To arms, then.”

Nsiia rose. She looked at Domehead.

“You will protect Yinah and the rear. Ksmvr—”

“I will consider fighting, Empress Nsiia. Scaied is not Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Ergo, I will battle them, especially as I was attacked.”

Ksmvr saw the Empress hesitate.

“You are a child.”

“Only by your standards. Loquea Dree will not fly in force unless I do battle. Is that not so?”

He turned to Seelaw Ya. The First of Judgement regarded Ksmvr.

“Truth.”

Nsiia grimaced.

“Then—I will entrust you to kill the Oisk Stingers. You may well be able to wipe out all sixteen if your blade carves them up as well as it did Nerrhavia’s Fallen. I will make sure you are protected.”

Ksmvr nodded and gathered up his blade. Domehead watched him go. The Golem could not speak. Nor…no. He was sure. He had realized something. He knew where the tracking signal was coming from.

But he did not speak. Or communicate. It was not even that he was unwilling to nod or use sign language. It was just…foreign. Incomprehensible. He did not quite understand how to ‘say’ something. Because there was just a huge gap in his head. It was slowly, slowly filling. But Femithain hadn’t even left him blueprints for speech. Even the Magus-Crafter had never thought to write a language center.

Frustrating. Frustrating. Domehead rose from his seat. He saw the danger. But he did not understand how to articulate it. There was so much he did not know how to even encompass. All he knew was what he had been taught. So he did just that.

——

The Empire of Scaied saw Tiqr’s army coming and halted. They sent runners to Illivere; they could not see Tiqr’s army, only Vasraf, but they knew Nsiia was there.

Illivere was still out of sight, but the Magus-Crafter received Scaied’s correspondence. He stared at it.

“Magus-Crafter? Is Tiqr fighting? The ambush is a day away.”

Crafter Se jostled with Armsmaster Dellic for his attention. The Magus-Crafter spoke, succinctly. He turned to the horizon, but both forces were out of sight.

“Tiqr has advanced on Scaied. They are faster; Scaied is requesting us to flank them at full-speed. We will do so. Order the [Golem Artificers] to push the Golems to the limit. Leave the supply train here; we will even leave the slower Golems to catch up if need be.”

“At last!”

Crafter Se strode off to arm herself. Armsmaster Dellic peered at Femithain. He checked the coordinates they were following.

“Magus-Crafter? Any…reservations?”

“—None that stopped me before. And now is too late for any. Prepare yourself, Armsmaster Dellic.”

Femithain passed a hand over his face. He saw Illivere’s army move into double-time. Slowly, the Magus-Crafter followed the signal he had planted long ago. Ah, Nsiia. He had half-hoped…she would find it. Too late.

——

Scaied’s army and the sixteen huge monster-scorpions arrayed themselves in a long line, jeering. Looking a tad bit nervous. They were, after all, [Mercenaries], and while they had a lot of historical enmity with Tiqr, the attitudes of both sides were completely different.

Tiqr was not in this for the money. And word had reached Scaied that the Empress of Beasts was on the rampage. She and Vasraf were bad enough, but that Antinium, the one with the magic blade? He made them nervous.

Still, Nerrhavia’s Fallen was a rich employer and, more importantly, Illivere was on the way. They just had to hold.

But that sword. Ksmvr held it up, as Vasraf bellowed from his perch on the Grand Elephant’s back.

“We have Ksmvr of the Horns of Hammerad, who bears a relic from days of legend! If you do not wish to see your precious scorpions taken to pieces and your dead piled high, lay down your arms and surrender!”

The enemy army jeered, but the bright light from that blade made the jeers grow faint and uncertain. Yet then, Ksmvr saw a movement amid their ranks.

Humans and Stitch-Folk, the people of Scaied, parted. A cheer ran through their number, and Ksmvr saw a lone figure walk forwards and plant himself across the field from him. Nsiia cursed.

“Who is that?”

A Stitch-Man planted his feet, a huge smile on his features. He raised his arm, and Scaied’s soldiers cheered. He bellowed back at Vasraf.

“A blade fit for a great warrior! But it is more than a blade that makes the battle! I will claim the head of Ksmvr the Antinium! Nerrhavia’s Fallen has hired me!”

He threw back his shoulders and drew two objects from their sheathes. Daggers. Ksmvr was instantly reminded of Seborn. But these were longer, a mix between both dagger and shortsword. Wavy, with curved edges like they had warped. Those left cuts you couldn’t close easily.

More importantly? The man had no armor. None. He had clothing, which looked enchanted from afar, but not a trace of even leather. Ksmvr eyed him, lowering the sword. Now, the army was cheering his name. Vasraf recognized it, and his eyes flicked to Ksmvr.

“Hscel! Hscel Scarless!”

“Who is that? It’s a familiar name, but I don’t recall one of Scaied’s champions bearing that title. Is he a [Prince]? A famed [Mercenary Captain]?”

Nsiia was trying to recall. It was Seelaw Ya who answered.

“He is not a mercenary or soldier. That is Hscel Scarless. A Gold-rank adventurer.”

Ksmvr’s head snapped up. Hscel saluted him with a blade.

“Adventurers should not fight in wars! But since we’re here—I am Hscel, Gold-rank. Shall we duel, rookie?”

He grinned. Nsiia looked at Vasraf.

“What position would he be?”

“Average. But he’s a team of one.”

“Ksmvr?”

Nsiia turned. The [Skirmisher] checked his sword. The glow of the [Paladin]’s blade illuminated his chitin. The sun was setting; Vasraf had even calculated when they attacked to account for Ksmvr’s heat-weakness.

“I believe I can defeat him, Nsiia.”

She nodded tightly. Vasraf lifted his bow as the horns began to blare. Loquea Dree took to the air, screaming. Ksmvr watched the first ranks of both sides charge. The Grand Elephants trumpeted and the Oisk Stingers advanced, with no sound at all.

Hscel Scarless didn’t move. He just waited. Only when Ksmvr stepped forward did he copy the Antinium. The [Skirmisher] saw the man eying the longsword. His balance was…very good. Ksmvr saw the two kris blades were held one forward, one back. He suspected they were poisoned and enchanted.

Around them, soldiers fought, but the two opened a path towards each other. It was not the dramatic parting of [Soldiers] in respect for the ceremony. Rather—they opened it themselves.

A soldier ran at Ksmvr, slashing, and he swung his sword through their blade. The warrior tried to dodge and Ksmvr leapt onto them. He was too fast to evade. He ran towards a rank of Scaied warriors, and swept his blade forwards.

Tiqr’s forces backed away, then charged into the breach. A huge shape tunneled out of the ground suddenly. An Oisk Stinger! It had been lying in wait. It stung—

Air. Ksmvr was already jumping. He was an Antinium. He had sensed the vibrations and landed on its head. The impact was heavy, but the arachnid was huge, tough, and its stinger was already drawing back as its claw snapped.

Ksmvr cut one claw off. The Oisk Stinger kept waving its appendage; it hadn’t even felt the pain. Confused, it snapped with the other pincer and lost that too. Then Ksmvr ran the blade through its head and swept it sideways.

A huge cheer went up from Tiqr’s forces as a sixteenth of Scaied’s monstrous war creatures fell in the first minute of battle. The other Oisk Stingers were whisked far clear of him. Ksmvr whirled—and heard applause.

“That is a sword worthy of a death-zone. You wield it well. But you are still awkward.”

Hscel Scarless appeared out of the battle without any blood on his blades. He had walked through both sides, dodging everything. Vasraf had aimed an arrow at him once; the Gold-rank adventurer cut it in half mid-flight. The [Wild General] didn’t bother after that.

“Hscel Scarless. You are a fellow adventurer. We do not fight. I was attacked while accompanying Empress Nsiia of Tiqr. This need not come to battle.”

Ksmvr straightened, his Forceshield in one hand. He put his third hand on his belt for his crossbow. Hscel smiled.

“You need not support Tiqr. Ksmvr of the Horns, is it? I have heard them call you Ksmvr of Chandrar. This is not personal. I do not fight for Scaied. Or against Tiqr. It’s just…a lot of gold.”

Ksmvr watched him, pacing left. He saw someone turn, slash. One of Tiqr’s warriors, hoping to help Ksmvr. Hscel didn’t even look around. He leaned over, and stabbed the warrior through her neck before her blade reached him.

That was…fast. Very fast. Ksmvr didn’t know if Pisces could have…Hscel shook his head.

“I’m not here to kill warriors. Back off! I tell you, Ksmvr, I will trade you your life for that sword.”

“That does not sound like a fair offer to me.”

Hscel grinned faintly.

“I know. But I thought I’d try. I’ll kill you for the bounty and that sword, adventurers or not. But I would like you to believe I’d only attack you because of the bounty.”

Ksmvr considered his words. The man sounded reasonable. Friendly, even.

“…How much is the bounty?”

“Two hundred thousand.”

“Ah. I would consider it too.”

Hscel laughed. Then looked at Ksmvr.

“I know you’ve made Gold-rank. But it was this year, wasn’t it? I’m fully Gold, Ksmvr of Chandrar. I won’t warn you again.”

Ksmvr hesitated. He opened his mandibles.

“Perhaps—Nsiia, don’t!”

Hscel’s head turned slightly. Ksmvr brought his crossbow up and fired.

[Aggregate Volley]! It seemed like eight of Ksmvr’s arms all unleashed their crossbows at once, a spread of bolts—all in an instant. Then he was leaping forwards, longsword slashing, Forceshield raised.

He’d placed each bolt in a pattern, so that they spread out. They shot into Scaied’s forces, going through warriors who fell screaming or missed and hit the ground.

Not one hit Hscel. Ksmvr leapt forwards.

[Quick Movement], [Quick Slash]—

He was a [Skirmisher]. Ksmvr was so fast that Pisces had to use [Flash Step] just to keep up with his mobility. He closed towards the other Gold-ranked adventurer in a moment. The world was a blur around Ksmvr as the sword flashed and—missed.

Hscel spun out of the way. Ksmvr was in a world of speed, where everyone else slowed down to a crawl. He turned his head and saw Hscel moving in the same dimension. And he was—

—faster—

[Twin Strikes]. Two long daggers like lances shot at Ksmvr’s sword-arm. Ksmvr threw himself left. [Evasive Flip]!

One cut right through the top of his shoulder; the other missed. Ksmvr flipped, angling his shield, slashing. He saw a bl—

A flurry of stabs hit him in the stomach. Half glanced off his Forceshield. Ksmvr detonated the Tripvine Bag he’d taken out of his belt with his third hand and heard a curse. He landed, grabbed a potion, and pressed it to his stomach, but Hscel didn’t advance.

He’d backed off. A single vine had tangled around his arm and the adventurer carefully cut it loose. The rest lay draped around Ksmvr, or on the ground; the Antinium swept them away.

“Three arms. Tricky. That was a foul trick.”

Hscel glared at Ksmvr. The Antinium didn’t respond. Slowly, the wounds on his stomach began to close. Hscel did a double-take, and stared at his blades.

“How? They’re poisoned.”

“Antinium.”

The wounds weren’t closing fast. Ksmvr played for time.

“I apologize for the trick, Hscel Scarless. You are…quick.”

“I am a Gold-rank adventurer.”

Hscel paced left, watching Ksmvr’s third hand. The Antinium was hesitating. He’d missed. Eight crossbow shots and a Skill-enhanced sword. He had…he couldn’t actually remember meeting anyone this fast besides Hawk. And he had never sparred with Hawk. This was his first experience meeting someone faster than he was in battle.

“You say that as if you are not actually quick.”

Hscel gave Ksmvr a mirthless look. He didn’t miss Ksmvr closing his wounds, but he seemed…wary. He kept eying the sword Ksmvr held.

He was waiting for Ksmvr to use another effect. Pity that Ksmvr had no idea what other enchantments the blade held.

“I once had the honor of challenging the Lord of the Skies to a duel. Do you know his name in the Hives? The King of Destruction’s vassal?”

“Ah.”

This would be the point where Ceria would curse and say something pithy, like, ‘he has a nickname, we’re in trouble’. Ksmvr shifted his posture. He had to equalize the speed disadvantage. Remember—Hscel could not block Ksmvr’s sword. He had not beaten the Forceshield. Therefore—

“Was it a fair duel?”

“I lasted a minute. I brag about it to my companions. Well?”

Hscel saw Ksmvr kick the ground. A shower of dirt sprayed at the Gold-rank adventurer. Ksmvr drew a spare dagger, wishing he had the Flamecoat Dagger. He leapt forwards, sweeping the longsword up in a diagonal slash. If Hscel jumped—

A miffed Stitch-Man appeared through the dust. He kicked Ksmvr in the chest and slashed, cutting Ksmvr deep along one arm. He leaned under the slash, tried to sever Ksmvr’s hand, but backed off as the dagger slashed. Even so, he flicked his arm and cut Ksmvr across another wrist. He circled, staring at Ksmvr.

“You do not fight honorably at all.”

Ksmvr felt green blood running down his body from his wounds. Uh oh. Uh oh. He reached for another potion, speaking rapidly.

“People with acid for blood do not fight fair.”

Hscel blinked down at his blades.

——

The battle was going well and going south. Tiqr was pushing Scaied hard. However, without Ksmvr, the Oisk Stingers were conducting deadly hit-and-runs. They were suffering for it, but the battle was already dragging on.

And Illivere was coming as fast as they could. Ksmvr was fighting Hscel, and only the Gold-rank adventurer’s wariness and Ksmvr’s lies had kept the Antinium from losing more than two potions.

However, Illivere could change it all. Nsiia even heard the Scaied officers shouting.

“How much longer?”

“They’re closer than we thought! Less than an hour—”

“Damn!”

Nsiia ran through the [Tactician] who hadn’t spotted the break in their lines. She screamed at one of her warriors.

“Tell Vasraf we have one hour! One hour!”

She spun, looking for Ksmvr. Some battles were over fast, but those tended to be ones where it was an ambush that turned into a rout. Unfortunately, without grand magic or that kind of momentum like a cavalry charge, this was turning into a long battle.

One that could go many hours. If they beat Scaied before the end of the hour and withdrew, they could hold Illivere off. But they had to be winning much faster than this. They needed Ksmvr. Loquea Dree was circling, attacking weak flanks, but they had to keep out of range of the enemy [Archers] and there were only sixty of them.

But Ksmvr…

“Pull back! Pull back the line!”

Nsiia saw the warriors disengaging around her. A second wave hit the enemy. She backed up, panting, as her bodyguards surrounded her.

“Your Majesty, to the rear!”

“I can fight. Where’s Vasraf? Tell him to send me into another spot!”

Warriors moved back, some carrying the wounded to [Healers], others on their own momentum. Nsiia thought it had been nearly thirty minutes since they’d started fighting. Even with stamina potions…

Vasraf was standing in the rear, directing the army’s clashes and loosing arrows. He turned as Nsiia strode back, gulping water.

“Where’s Ksmvr? Has he won or…?”

The [Wild General] pointed. Nsiia turned and saw Ksmvr. He was staggering backwards from Hscel Scarless. True to the man’s name, he hadn’t taken a single wound. Ksmvr on the other hand…Nsiia saw green blood splashing the ground.

“Ksmvr!”

She began to run towards him, but Vasraf bellowed.

“[Pinpoint Volley]!”

Hscel looked up as the archers loosed. He stared at a wall of arrows, cursed, and flicked his wrist. A bracelet glowed and a bubble enveloped him for a single second. Long enough that the arrows bounced off the temporary shield. He whirled to attack Ksmvr, but found The Laughing Brigade. Snarling hyenas and warriors advanced, as the laughter picked up. Hscel backed up, scowling, unwilling to join the clash.

“Get him back here.”

Vasraf ordered his forces. Nsiia ran from their back lines to meet Ksmvr. He was already healing as they helped drag him back.

“…so that. So that’s…”

She almost thought he was saying ‘substandard’ at first. Ksmvr looked up as she seized his arm.

“Ksmvr!”

The Antinium sagged. He reached for a stamina potion as a [Healer] and Vasraf himself hurried forwards.

“So that’s Gold-rank. He is—difficult.”

“He beat you? Even with the sword?”

Nsiia could hardly believe it. But then—she had seen how fast Hscel moved. Ksmvr shook his head.

“I would rather fight Eldertuin the Fortress, please. Someone chose him well.”

Nsiia had to agree. The Empress looked towards Hscel. He had done something in Scaied’s ranks. They were chanting Ksmvr’s name.

“Could you avoid him?”

“I suspect he’ll seek out Ksmvr no matter where he goes. Do you need arms? Can we help you win?”

The [Wild General] crouched beside Ksmvr. The Antinium shook his head slightly.

“Tricks are too slow. He dodged dirt.”

“Vasraf, we need Ksmvr’s sword. Could he lend it to me? I would fight the Oisk Stingers.”

“Could you defeat Hscel, Your Majesty? If he goes after you, with that blade?”

Nsiia hesitated.

“—I don’t know. I don’t think he will find me easy prey.”

“And I will not risk it. He may well assail this camp if you take the blade and leave Ksmvr defenseless. Ksmvr, if you cannot win, stand back. We will take Scaied’s army without your sword.”

“Vasraf, we have one hour at most.”

The [Wild General] nodded. He stood and strode back to the front. Ksmvr was panting.

“I—do not think victory is impossible. He is fast. He is fast. But he is not a master. He has weak spots. I am just substandard.”

“Don’t say that.”

Nsiia gripped his arm. Ksmvr looked at her.

“I know I am. If I was better, I would be a [Hero]. I am not. I have a plan. I need gear. Wands.”

He was stumbling to his feet. Nsiia saw a [Mage] rush forwards. Hscel Scarless waited. Ksmvr got up.

“You don’t need to be a [Hero]. I will fight with you, Ksmvr. But not being one—remember what I said.”

Ksmvr turned blankly to Nsiia. He half-shook his head.

“You do not understand, Empress Nsiia. I was almost…no. Maybe not. But it was not a Skill. What kind of class was it?”

He ran without another word. Nsiia’s brow furrowed. What did…that mean?

——

Hscel and Ksmvr met a second time. The Gold-rank adventurer seemed surprised Ksmvr had returned.

“You know I’m faster. You’re worse than I am, relic or not.”

Ksmvr lifted a wand. Hscel twisted left.

“I can defeat you.”

He knew he could. Hscel was quick, but that was all he was. He was almost like Halrac. He had weaknesses. Ksmvr thought Jelaqua could beat him.

He never got close. He refused to, because if he did he was at risk, like the one time Ksmvr had detonated the Tripvine bag. No armor.

Captain Ceria could beat him. Freeze him. He would not be able to bypass her [Ice Walls] so easily.

But could he sweep her head from her shoulders before she cast a spell? Ksmvr bled. He slashed. The hand was gone before he could strike it.

Comrade Pisces could lock him down with undead. With magic and his rapier.

Yet—would Pisces also step into the whirl of blades and take a poisoned wound? Yvlon? Her arms—

He was so fast. All or nothing. Each one of Ksmvr’s teammates—

Another sting. Ksmvr let Hscel drive the blade deep. He leapt into the kris dagger, biting, slashing with all three limbs. He just needed one wound. The man jerked—he was not perfect.

But the mistake never came. He dodged back, letting go of the blade’s hilt. Ksmvr staggered as Hscel drew a spare.

“Brave.”

Ksmvr thought he heard it again. He was bleeding badly. Stumbling. He drew Hscel in. One more time. One more time. He thought he heard himself levelling, despite the sword. Because he was outmatched.

[H—]

[Her—]

Substandard. A blade swept in across his neck and opened it. Ksmvr bit and slashed without looking. A cry. Ksmvr clutched at his throat. Blood in his airway. Hscel stared at his cut arm.

“I shall remember this scar.”

That was all he said. Ksmvr said nothing. He was gurgling, reaching for a potion. Hscel Scarless leapt at him, blades closing towards Ksmvr’s neck. His eyes locked on the Antinium, staggering, the glowing sword wavering. Ksmvr tried to move it but it was so…

Heavy. Heavy? Something…

Hscel never took his eyes away from Ksmvr’s face. Antinium features. Broken antennae. Adventurer still. He saw Ksmvr’s chitin, the huge, beige snout. The giant lolling tongue and yellow teeth.

“What the—”

Spitty spat right into Hscel’s face. The Gold-rank adventurer almost dodged it. He stumbled back. Ksmvr heard a sound.

“Mweh.”

Then Rémi Canada was grabbing him, towing him back with Sandi.

“Get back here!”

Hscel howled, but camel spit was in his eyes, and for some reason it burned. Probably because of the hot peppers Spitty ate. Ksmvr was alive. And yet—and yet—he saw Nsiia running towards him. Saw Vasraf turning a grim face to the distance as Scaied’s army cheered, hearing Femithain’s forces were imminent.

“What is it? Why do I keep failing? It’s so heavy.”

The [Paladin]’s sword. Nsiia stared at it. Ksmvr whispered.

“What is it?”

“You’re delirious. Potions! [Healers]! You will not fight Hscel again. Vasraf, we have to fall back. Where’s…”

The Empress of Beasts turned her head. Her lips moved, but Ksmvr was still whispering.

“Almost. Almost. What is it? [Her—]. What does it mean?”

[Hero]? But he wasn’t one. Nsiia bent down.

“—What was that?”

“My class. I can’t level up. I failed. [Brave Skirmisher].”

“What do you hear? Say it again.”

Ksmvr didn’t know. Only that it started with an ‘her’. But…Nsiia was looking down at him. It was all because he was substandard, didn’t you see?

“It’s too heavy. Too heavy.”

The Antinium complained. He stared at the sword. Nsiia reached for it. She lifted the blade, with Ksmvr’s hand.

“It’s…not.”

She looked down at the Antinium, mystified. What was he talking about? Swords were not heavy, contrary to what non-warriors believed. They were light. Even this longsword was perfectly balanced, a beautiful weapon designed for slashing and quick movements.

Ksmvr muttered.

“Not heavy then. What’s the word? It’s…cumbersome. It’s…”

Forceshield in one hand. Dagger, longsword, crossbows. These were the tools of an adventurer. He also had his belt, with his potions of healing and his bag of holding. All of which were necessary. Important gear.

But even a bag of holding weighed several pounds. Hscel had almost nothing. Ksmvr had on armor. He had…

Something was flickering in the back of his head. Nsiia looked at him. With a monarch’s knowledge. And a sudden—burning suspicion.

“That’s not a class, Ksmvr. That’s…how long have you been hearing it?”

“Since Level 30. I am wearing too much gear.”

“No. I don’t think so. You’re just not—”

Ksmvr dropped his Forceshield, began taking off his belt, his cape. Nsiia stepped back as he shed his modified chainmail armor.

“Ksmvr. What are you doing?”

“It’s heavy. It’s all so heavy. Captain Ceria told me to wear it. But capes make me slow in the air. The Forceshield is mine, but it isn’t necessary. Just evade or parry. These weapons are wrong.”

He was muttering, searching around on his hands and knees. Still dizzy from bloodloss. Ksmvr was going back in time. This…this wasn’t right. What had possessed him? An adventurer fought with all kinds of gear, though. But he hadn’t trained with any of the weapons here.

“What’s happening? Empress, I am preparing the retreat.”

“Ksmvr. I think he has a rare event occurring, Vasraf. But how—it doesn’t make sense with the Antinium. No wonder he doesn’t understand. Ksmvr, we have to leave.”

Ksmvr stared upwards.

“…There. That’s it. I need that to fight him. Everything else is too slow. Even this stupid sword.”

He tossed the blade to the ground. Nsiia and Rémi turned their heads. Spitty cocked his head and frowned. What was Ksmvr staring at? A weapon better than the [Paladin]’s sword? Where? Where was—

General Vasraf of Tiqr stared at Ksmvr’s finger. Then…at the weapons hanging by his side, which he had never drawn in the heat of battle, in all the time he’d spent with Nsiia and Ksmvr. After all, he was a bow-expert. A [General]. These were weapons for dire fighting.

A pair of twin shortswords made out of ivory. Enchanted, well-crafted, but hardly the stuff of legends.

“My blades?”

“Yes. I know them. Everything else is hard.”

Nsiia’s brows snapped together. Did he mean that every other weapon he had ever used…? No, but it made sense. If he had been trained to use every weapon, there was still one that he would use above all others.

One style he had learned from…her eyes flickered and opened wide. She began to understand.

Slowly, Vasraf drew his blades and offered them to Ksmvr.

“Hscel Scarless is advancing. General, I hear cheering. Illivere’s army will reach us.”

“Ksmvr—”

The Antinium was rising. He looked down at Hscel and the Gold-rank adventurer frowned as he saw Ksmvr had abandoned the sword. Ksmvr wasn’t even holding a weapon in his third hand.

“Ksmvr. It’s madness. We’re falling back. The Relic-class sword!”

Nsiia shouted at him. Ksmvr barely heard her.

“You take it. I hear something.”

The voice kept repeating in his head.

[H—

He had a feeling. Nsiia looked at him and her eyes flickered.

“Go.”

She bent and lifted the sword. It shone and Scaied’s warriors hesitated as the Empress of Beasts pointed it down at them. She stared at the Oisk Stingers and shouted.

“Tiqr’s children! To me! Rout them! Drive Scaied to despair!”

Vasraf looked at her as she swung herself onto the nearest mount. Spitty led her down in a mad charge. The [Wild General] turned.

“Illivere’s army will be upon us in moments, General—”

One of the [Strategists] was scanning the horizon. Vasraf nodded tightly, looking for hints of an invisible or camouflaged army. Then he looked down at Ksmvr. The Antinium was sprinting down the hill and Hscel had cleared a space around him. And behind him came the Empress of Beasts, holding the glowing sword in her hand, straight at one of the Oisk Stingers.

“We can grasp victory.”

If…his gaze swept across the ground again. If they had time. Vasraf looked around. Then around again. Then his eyes narrowed. At last, he realized something. An oddity he’d missed because it was gone, but it—he—should have stood out one time in this desperate battle.

“…Where is Domehead?”

——

Domehead was standing very still. He knew he had done something that violated his laws. Nsiia had told him to stay with the [Archer] and [Mage] designations. He had not done so.

But he had done one thing she had told him, once. And Domehead never forgot. He cradled something in his arms. You see—he could not speak. He didn’t even know how he’d begin expressing himself.

Yet Domehead was a Golem. And a Golem had realized what the people had not. He knew exactly how Illivere was tracking them. Their army was almost upon the battleground. Femithain had pushed them hard, and they crested a ridge and saw…

“What the—?”

Armsmaster Dellic had been prepared to call a charge. Golems with huge bows, swords, and more weapons, all stopped. Steel-type giants, rough stone, even the rare Ceramic-type Golems armed with spellbooks.

They saw no desperate Scaied army waiting for their fresh one. No Tiqr force. Just a lot of flat ground.

“We should be right on top of them! How are we not there? How—?”

And then he saw him. Illivere’s army stopped as they saw a lone figure standing there. Crafter Se screamed.

“Domehead!”

The Golem stood still. Femithain’s head rose from behind his two Golem bodyguards.

“Domehead?”

One Golem. They were in the wrong place! No…Femithain narrowed his eyes and saw a little figure move. A tiny, blonde cat yowled, and leapt out of Domehead’s arms. Yinah dropped something and went after the little, rolling gemstone.

The gemstone Domehead had removed from her artificial legs. She batted it around, saw the giant army standing there, and meowed.

“It’s a feint. We’re—we’re off-target. We might be miles away from the fighting.”

Armsmaster Dellic realized what Nsiia had done. He spun, calling for scouts, but Crafter Se lifted an excited hand.

“No, wait! Domehead’s right here! We can get him and attack Nsiia! Magus-Crafter! Domehead, to me!”

She began to fumble for a command scroll, but Femithain didn’t respond. Domehead was just standing there. Regarding Illivere’s army. Then—

Yinah was backed up, hissing, ready to attack. She glanced up as the huge Golem stepped forwards. The house cat saw him draw an axe many times her body mass and decided to leave it to him. She skittered backwards, then turned.

Domehead had drawn his axe. Without a visible command from anyone.

“She must have given him orders to fight. Domehead! Erase—commands. There!”

Crafter Se activated a scroll. Domehead’s dome lit up brightly in response. Crafter Se beamed. Then she waved at him.

“Domehead, to me! Forwards march and halt!”

“Crafter Se.”

The woman ignored him. Domehead heard her voice. He turned his body slightly. And didn’t move. The [Golem Artificer]’s voice trailed off.

“Magus-Crafter…we are close to Tiqr’s army. Local scrying spells indicate we can reach them in the next thirty minutes.”

“Turn the army and prepare to attack. Long-range spells. Inform Scaied to hold.”

Dellic was giving rapid orders, ignoring Domehead. It was just a Golem to him, and he did not relish the idea of Tiqr free to attack them if they wanted their prize back. The man was pivoting the forces when the Golem moved.

He moved from a standing position, axe in hand, to break-neck run with the speed and perfect motion Femithain had given him. The sight of an armored giant surging at them was enough to freeze all but the Golems. The army swung back as Domehead moved—to block their path.

Femithain’s eyes opened wide. Domehead stood there, an angry cat yowling in the distance.

“Domehead, what are you doing? Obey orders!”

Crafter Se was bewildered. And how could Domehead answer? The lights in his dome winked on and off, on and off. Not even other Golems could tell what they meant. All he knew was routine. All he knew was…what he had been taught. What he saw.

So, the axe rose. Domehead’s legs shifted. Armsmaster Dellic, Femithain, and Crafter Se saw him adjust his stance. Stance wide, legs braced. A hand rose as he held the axe one-handed—and he had never been taught to do that.

The armored digits rose on the other hand, palm out. Like a striking [Empress] of another land, Domehead stood. No, he strode, steps light, shoulders thrown back. He planted the axe in the ground and drew a line. He pointed down to it, walking back.

A perfect copy in all but voice. Just like the Empress of Beasts had once stood against Garuda [Raiders]. Domehead stood, axe raised.

Waiting. If they are honorable warriors…prepare for treachery…

Where you make the most difference. The [Golem Artificers] were staring, like they had just seen a painting come to life before their eyes. Or—since that wasn’t actually that rare—as if their tea cup had suddenly risen in rebellion.

“Sentience.”

Crafter Se whispered. She saw something move. A Steel Golem, weapons raised.

“What are you doing?”

“We have to restrain it. It is taking a hostile stance. Don’t worry! If we just subdue it—”

Domehead watched the Steel Golem advance on his position. The other Golem had a sword and shield and swung the blade as it lifted the shield, in a perfect Block and Attack, Routine #2. Domehead leaned back and brought the axe down as the sword missed.

Two more Golems strode forwards to win the battering match that happened when Golems fought. They were not prepared for the first Golem to fall backwards, missing the center of its body.

Domehead stood there, axe already raised. He made the gesture again. Drew a line in the sand. He did not know how to speak. But this time he was clear.

“We can hit him with spells. We have arrows trained…”

Armsmaster Dellic’s voice trailed off as every [Golem Artificer] in earshot looked at him. Crafter Se’s mouth was open in horror.

“At Domehead? He’s a work of art! I will [Lightning Bolt] anyone who damages him irrevocably! We must capture him—”

“With what? Nets? Other Golems?”

Armsmaster Dellic was beginning to understand. There was…Domehead. The greatest Golem of the Testing Grounds. The first Sentience-class Golem. If you weren’t going to destroy him—who wanted to volunteer to run up with a net?

“Magus-Crafter? What are your orders? Magus-Crafter?”

Femithain didn’t respond. He just looked at Domehead, standing there. He smiled, as the Golem looked right at him. He had often been proud of his creations. But only because he had made them. So it was still a form of vanity. Now?

The Magus-Crafter smiled as a single Golem held Illivere’s army at bay. Slowly, he dismounted from his horse and walked forwards, despite Armsmaster Dellic’s warning. To have a word with his prodigal son.

——

Ksmvr felt light. He shed the cape behind him in a flutter of cloth. And his Forceshield. Captain Ceria had told him he deserved to keep it. The magic sword was in Nsiia’s grip.

Ksmvr knew all these artifacts were good and necessary. But oh, they were awkward. For that matter—Hscel watched him coming, eying the two blades Ksmvr held.

“In imitation of me? You think that—”

He was braced for a trick. But Ksmvr didn’t need a trick. Two swords were all the trick you needed. This…yes. This was right.

His first cut with the shortsword established the distance between them. Ksmvr had more reach than Hscel. The Gold-rank adventurer’s eyes narrowed.

Ksmvr was moving faster. Of course, with no chainmail or other gear. It meant he was as exposed as Hscel. And—

He was still slower. Ksmvr deflected a quick slash and both of them knew it. Rather than dismay him, it only convinced Ksmvr he was right.

He was slower. But he had two shortswords, the same weapons he had trained with under the Free Queen’s guidance. Not a longsword and a shield. Against Hscel, with two blades of his own, both could attack and defend.

Two blades. Three arms. Did you know something?

Three arms were a pain to use properly. Four? They got in the way of your range of motion. Fighting was completely different with four arms than two. And two—

He had been trained to use two shortswords and two daggers. But that was a derivative fighting style, invented by the wielder himself to accompany a new body. In all of her teachings, Ksmvr had not learned from that style. That swordsman. He had glimpsed the Free Queen’s memories of that one person he was a substandard, flawed, failed, inferior replica of.

Klbkchhezeim the Slayer.

“—fast—”

Hscel muttered as he ducked a blade. Ksmvr was manipulating both blades perfectly, independent of each other. But not ignorant of each other.

He leapt, and Hscel pivoted to punish him in the air. He lanced outward, strike, strike—and met Ksmvr’s shortswords. Ksmvr swept in low.

My body doesn’t move right. Strange. It should be flexible.

Dissonance. He felt it. Was this what Klbkch felt in his Worker body? It couldn’t even bend properly. Four arms?

Someone else’s body. Galuc the Builder. Like this? Yes. Like—

He remembered Nsiia’s conversation with Loquea Dree’s clan. Attack and defense. Fighting schools. Very silly. All they were doing was playing in reality. But once you gained a Skill, you were fighting across dimensions. Fighting with blades that cut through armor, or stepping out of shadows. Seborn could even begin to do that.

Hscel was focusing on Ksmvr, cutting him with short moves. He was still a step ahead of Ksmvr. But he was making a mistake. He was watching Ksmvr’s body, his blades, but he didn’t see what Ksmvr was creating.

The shortswords rasped together, a flash under the rising moon. Hscel narrowed his eyes, moved back from a cut warily. He saw a blade flicker up—feint—leaned back. Blinking, he saw Ksmvr’s right hand waver, almost like a mirage.

“What the—?”

Nsiia was shouting at Ksmvr as she charged past him. She was screaming as loudly as she could, swinging that shining blade. He heard her, dimly. He was almost doing it. Almost…what was she saying?

“Believe, Ksmvr! Reach for it!”

How did she know what was pounding in the back of his head? A feeling—Ksmvr wanted to snap at her. What did she think he was doing? Hscel blinked again. He was falling into feints. The swords were confusing him—was the Antinium angling them to catch the fading light? The pale ivory was almost like a mirror. But it would work even better if they were…

“Claim it, Ksmvr! It is yours! Believe you are worthy of it! Take it! You’r—”

Nsiia slashed through one of the Oisk Stingers. Ksmvr hesitated.

Worthy? Ah. There it was. A core of uncertainty. How dare he try to copy it? Substandard. Failure. Hscel was moving his blades in an arc, mouthing a Skill, no longer confident. He was going to use a deadly attack. Ksmvr saw it. A moment of death.

Yes. In his mind’s eye, he saw a true expert move. Unconsciously, he copied it. A flash of light. A confusing…mirage. Hscel squinted. How was the Antinium doing that with those swords? He took aim—

“[Kiss of the Viper]!”

His greatest Skill. He cut the air, a venomous blade slashing. Straight at the Antinium’s face. Straight at—

The air. Hscel stumbled. How? He was faster than Ksmvr! The Antinium had been right there! How did he do that? It was like Ksmvr had tricked his eyes. Like a desert mirage. Or an—

Illusion. A figment of the blades. They moved so hypnotically. A flash of metal. They belonged somewhere else.

To an Antinium in the darkness, bearing silver swords. A warrior who fought alone. One of the few of his kind to ever pick up a weapon. A story long forgotten. Just a name, they called him later.

Centenium.

Klbkch the Slayer. Hscel stared at his opponent. An Antinium with two shining silver blades under moonlight. He slashed, lunging as fast as he could and missed. Someone slashed him across the leg and he cried out. Who was he fighting?

Ksmvr heard a voice. An answer to his question. But only because he already knew what he was being told, somewhere.

̶I̶ ̶a̶m̶ ̶s̶u̶b̶s̶t̶a̶n̶d̶a̶r̶d̶.̶

I am Ksmvr of the Horns of Hammerad. Though I was exiled, I have a good memory. I remember—

This.

Hscel slashed wildly. He couldn’t tell where Ksmvr was. He felt like he was fighting dozens of illusions, with no idea where the twin blades were coming from.

It was an echo. Rémi Canada’s camera caught what stirred old memories. In the Blighted Kingdom. In the Demons. In the Drakes who saw it, who remembered those old days. Even then, it had been a pale memory of the original.

You have never seen the original. Even this was a copy. But it was true. It was everything Ksmvr had ever been made for. And Nsiia knew it. So she shouted for him to claim it. His…

[Heritage: Silver Illusion – Conditions Met.]

[Skill School – Silver Illusion (Sword School) acquired!]

[Skill—]

A blade pierced though Ksmvr’s face. Hscel felt nothing. The image vanished and he saw the silver blades flash.

One cut through his hand. A second slashed at his ribs and he screamed, trying to bl—

A second shortsword slashed through his elbow. The Gold-rank adventurer’s blades dropped along with his severed limbs.

He stared up as Klbkch the Slayer…no. His heir crossed his swords, shaking the droplets of blood off them under moonlight.

“Glorious.”

Hscel closed his eyes as he sank to his knees. He waited, defeated by that common story. Counter-levelling.

Heritage Skills. Nsiia was screaming in triumph. Ksmvr swept his blades down—

The final blow never came. Hscel looked up.

“What are you doing?”

Klbkch vanished. Ksmvr calmly picked up Hscel’s severed hand and arm and prised the fingers off the kris blades. He tossed the limbs back at Hscel—and they were already cloth.

“You are a Stitch-Man. I believe limb loss is not an issue, although blood loss is.”

“You’re not going to kill me?”

Ksmvr turned. Scaied’s army was fleeing, as they realized Illivere was not coming. An [Empress] with a sword, fit for a legend, led her army in pursuit. Ksmvr smiled.

“That looks quite appropriate. I told her I was not fit for the blade. No, Hscel Scarless. I am an adventurer. As are you. I do not kill fellow adventurers or innocent people.”

He hesitated.

“…Unless they attack me first or really get on my nerves. But I will be content to rob you of your blades. I have learned something.”

Hscel stared as Ksmvr turned. He shouted after Ksmvr.

“What if I come after you again? That trick saved your life! But you still have a lot to learn.”

“I know. I will be content not to kill you.”

The Gold-rank Stitch-Man stared after Ksmvr as he ran back towards Vasraf’s army. He laughed, and turned his head to see a giant Golem with a glowing domed head sprinting across the sands, pursued by Illivere’s army. A yowling cat was clinging to his head-dome.

Domehead had learned the art of duplicity. And running away. Hscel laughed.

“You belong with us, rookie! Ksmvr of Chandrar! Gold-rank adventurer! I won’t forget this!”

——

That was what they would call him. Ksmvr of Chandrar. And also—heir apparent to one of the last Centenium. Klbkch the Slayer.

Ksmvr of Two Trees. He and Nsiia rode into the next adventure, armed with a realization—his new Skill fit for his level.

Inherited.

Klbkchhezeim’s mandibles were so far open they were in danger of detaching from his face. Wrymvr waved the scrying orb.

“See? He has your sword art. See? Mockery intensifies.”

“That—that is my sword style.”

“Obviously.”

Klbkch’s mandibles clacked together.

“But that is—my sword style! He cannot inherit it! That is mine!”

“He has inherited it. Well done. Well done.”

“My sword style! I owned that Skill! He can’t just—”

Klbkch stared at the image of the Antinium’s greatest thief, walking off into Chandrar’s night. With his Skills. Wrymvr waved the scrying orb around until Klbkch burst free of his restraints and kicked it into the ceiling.

8.49 M – Revised

It is a terrible thing for a child to exceed their parents. It probably happens to most children, if only in terms of physical strength or something as vain as beauty—when the child eclipses the adult. However, sometimes it becomes even more painful than that. The child accomplishes something truly extraordinary, and then their parents reveal they are not the all-perfect, superior force, but flawed people.

Even if you love them. No, especially if you do. The worst thing is when they see it that way and treat you like…something else.

She had known that feeling for a while. It was stronger now than ever, and not deserved.

“I have not done anything amazing yet.”

Which was an arrogant statement in itself, because she hoped she would. She dreamed of it, longed for the chance, and feared she had missed it—feared it would never come again. That she was famous now? It felt…undeserved. Borrowed fame. Illusory.

She turned the weapon around in her paws, a killing edge on a beautiful handle. She was deathly afraid of it, but she had already cut herself once with it by accident and her flesh had not mortified; her body had not begun to rot. Perhaps, as the owner, she was immune to its effects.

Nevertheless, there it sat. A strange, eerie metal formed seamlessly into a translucent blade, so fine and deadly it could cut through every material she had tried it on. So thin, glittering like someone had stolen a shard out of midnight.

Diamond. An onyx-colored blade, but not onyx in nature. One of the world’s most valuable minerals, smelted or forged somehow into this dagger. It would be a weapon worthy of any [General]. Yet it was more than mere ornamentation.

If she put the little carved sigil to her ear, Feshi could swear she heard it whispering. She told herself it was nonsense. But the Diamond Dagger of Serept did contain…

Souls. If she called for them, they would come. Great warriors, long deceased, guardians of Khelt who would protect and serve anyone who bore the blade. More than that, the edge could corrupt any wound it caused. Those struck dead by it would rot away and rise as Ghouls in service to the master. She had not known that last part until she had been told, and it made her fur crawl.

Here was a dread blade. Here was a weapon worthy of a warlord leading a legion of darkness. Yet it was hers. Hers and not hers; it would return to Khelt after she died, as she had promised. But she owned it, and it was hers because of her adventure at sea. But it wasn’t hers—not really. It was Wil’s. She had tagged along on their grand adventure, following his map. She had won this dagger entirely by chance.

It’s just more proof you’re meant to be the greatest Weatherfur of our generation. So her parents had claimed. They were beyond proud of her. The [Strategist] who attended the Titan’s Academy on scholarship. The genius of their tribe.

Feshi Weatherfur turned the dagger over again, then put it back in the magical sheath custom-made to hold it. She rose from her tent, festooned with books, maps, gifts, possessions—a yurt just for her. An honor for someone so young.

Everything was an honor. Feshi shook her head unhappily as she emerged from her tent. She looked about and saw some of Weatherfur’s guards spot her.

Feshi wasn’t tall by her people’s standards. Humans remarked on it, as did Lizardfolk, who were quite short until they became a variant of Naga. Feshi had white stripes mixed with russet fur, and that normal pattern of Gnoll fur was changed again by colorful patterns of yellow, blue, and even hints of green or purple. Mostly the first two colors, patterned on her arms.

Weatherfur’s Gnolls were more colorful than most you’d find at the Meeting of Tribes because they had access to plentiful dyes and loved to apply them to their fur. They didn’t come out with water, so Feshi only had to reapply them once a week. Plus, she wore long earrings, two links of beads dangling from her right ear—none on her left. That had a meaning too, although it was only here, at the Meeting of Tribes, that she wore them.

Earrings could be torn out in battle, so she had wisely removed them in Baleros.

She missed the Titan’s Academy. There she was a student among peers. Here?

“Honored Feshi, the Chieftain is meeting with Gaarh Marsh’s Chieftain and Shaman regarding what should be done about the Drakes. Do you wish to join your Aunt? We shall escort you if so—the Meeting of Tribes is hectic.”

One of the [Guards] addressed her, with even a slight nod of the head. Honored Feshi. She grimaced.

“I do not wish it just yet, no. Thank you.”

He bowed his head to her. Feshi cast her eyes around. The Great Plains of Izril looked beautiful by dawn, as light changed the color of the grasslands. Golden dawn’s light dripped over the landscape, like an inkwell slowly spilling over a world of green. It was not monochrome like the steppes, but had a bounty in plants fighting with the grasses, medicinal herbs, magical seedlings, forests and lakes—all interspersed across thousands upon thousands of miles.

So few cities, and only on the border of this land. It smelled like cooking, all the busy scents of a camp, hung mints and other odorizers to eliminate the bad smells from outhouses and such, but if you walked just a little ways out there, you would inhale a hundred different things, from Corusdeer herds to little rodents–this was home and Feshi usually smiled.

But she caught the sour note in the air where people dwelt. A lingering memory of anger—and anger was a smell, unpleasant, harsh. Anger and…she turned and looked around.

“Has anything else interesting happened?”

One of the other [Guards] snorted.

“Beyond fights and arguments all night? Everyone is finding out whether they have any magic and waiting for the Chieftains to make a full decision. Tempers are tense—but I would say ask your friend Honored Yerranola. She is breaking her fast there, yes?”

He gestured toward one of the mess tents and Feshi gave him a nod of thanks. She went in that direction, but it was a sign of who she was that they asked her and would have even taken her orders. Her parents? They were a [Gatherer]-[Fletcher] couple. Her parents were completely enamored with Wil, Venaz, Peki, Merrik, and Yerranola.

The two had a lot of respect in the tribe thanks to her. But it meant…well. Sometimes it felt like she was the responsible one, for all they had jobs. She could give their Chieftain advice, though at least Chieftain Torishi would take it as merely advice.

Here was a stupid fact that none of her friends had understood but that explained everything about Feshi’s complicated position in her tribe: the [Guards] had referred to Chieftain Torishi Weatherfur as Feshi’s Aunt. Which was completely true, and Feshi did use that term, and they were indeed close.

But technically, Feshi was Torishi’s first cousin five times removed. Not exactly ‘close in the tribe’, given that Weatherfur’s Gnolls shared a common bloodline. Most Gnolls could probably boast something like that of all their Honored members. Why did it matter? It didn’t unless someone said it. Then Feshi was the niece of the Chieftain, [Strategist] of the Titan’s Academy, as if he didn’t graduate countless [Strategists]…

She was obsessing, Feshi knew. It was a bad habit of hers. And of her tribe, really. She moped over to the open tent and seats where a somewhat silent, isolated…Gnoll…was taking her breakfast. Her arm trembled a bit as she ate some kind of toasted baguette. Her features were very pale under her fur, to the point where it was noticeable. But Feshi took that as a good sign.

“Yerra, how are you feeling?”

The Selphid grinned with some of her former vitality.

“Better. Now that I can’t hear Venaz snoring from two tents over. Although Peki’s worse. You know, every Gnoll moved their tent two dozen paces away after the first night?”

Feshi put on an air of mock-solemnity as she shook her head.

“We want to give you space as Honored guests.”

“Hah! I like that. My people would probably be too polite to do anything. No—wait. We’d just turn our ears off at night.”

Yerranola cackled, and Feshi was glad to see it. She gave Yerranola a quick glance, but the Selphid seemed like she’d had a full meal.

…Which was to say exactly half of what Feshi would eat for breakfast. But that was a bursting meal for a Selphid, whose body mass was simply lower than any other species but a Fraerling. The only times Yerranola ate large was when she wanted to taste something—or if her body was so freshly dead she could make its digestive system work.

“Busy day, eh?”

Yerranola carefully poured herself a cup of something strange. It looked like off-white tea at first, but it had a dark blue glow underneath the creamy substance at the top. Her medicine.

“Yes, though I’m not sure what my part is in it, no.”

Feshi sighed. She hadn’t been there at the Meeting of Tribes when Krshia Silverfang revealed that Gnolls could use magic. Or when Ferkr broke in to prove the truth of it before the disbelieving Chieftains. She had heard, of course: every Gnoll in the Great Plains had heard, though it was only a day since.

Some were making stories of it, a grand production, and the name Krshia Silverfang was on every Gnoll’s lips—along with Chieftain Akrisa’s and Ferkr’s. They were famous.

And I met Krshia Silverfang. She seemed…nice. Intelligent.

How strange for Krshia to suddenly become so famous and important. But then—it had happened to Feshi after Daquin. Yerranola too. Even now, after nigh on a month of resting at the Weatherfur camp, the Selphid got looks from children and adults. The wounded [Strategist], the Selphid who’d been at Daquin.

She bore it well, drinking her special medicine from Oteslia—a powerful painkiller—the antidote for the poison still eating at her.

Two very important people, international celebrities, if minor, at the Meeting of Tribes. And, Feshi felt, about as useful as ticks on a Stelbore’s ass.

Yerranola glanced at Feshi.

“Fesh, you’re spiraling again, aren’t you?”

“No I’m not.”

Feshi jerked her paws away from her belt, where she was fiddling with the diamond dagger. Yerranola rolled her eyes.

“Oh, sure. You’re not sitting in your tent, brooding over your dagger and obsessing over bringing ‘worth to the tribe’. Sure. I believe that.”

“I’m needed here. I should obsess a bit.”

Feshi turned red under her fur and crossed her arms defensively.

But Yerranola was a devious attacker, even socially. Like her strategy, she loved tricks and feints.

“Absolutely. Which is why I know you’ll do your best work when you’ve spent three days straight trying to crack the Professor’s latest chess puzzle, or when we find you hunched in the library, red-eyed and snarling at everyone who comes close while you’re reading books.”

Feshi wished she could turn her ears off. She coughed, flushing under her fur.

“I’m just focused.”

“Obsessive.”

That was true. Feshi had a bad habit that was really a Weatherfur trait. It was that she…focused on something. A passion, a hobby, an idea. She never let it go until she succeeded or something else wrested her attention away. It was one of the reasons why she’d attracted the Titan’s attention; she’d learned chess by playing it to the point of obsession when it came out. Similarly, she could focus on homework or a problem to the point where even Venaz thought she was too dedicated.

It was a flaw, but it had led Weatherfur’s Gnolls to do great things. Garusa Weatherfur had been one of the few [Generals] ever to be employed by a Drake city, and Torishi was a [Shaman] turned [Chieftain] by dint of her amazing proficiency with weather magic.

Her friends took her out of such obsessive states when they saw her in them, but Feshi knew she’d been bad of late.

“I just feel like I’m not adding enough. Weatherfur can boast of our trade deal with Pheislant—or at least we can if Pheislant isn’t eaten by Ailendamus in that blasted war.”

“Don’t let Wil hear you say that. He’s already agonized enough. I’m glad they took him to find the Professor.”

“I wish I’d gone. Imagine if I brought him here? I should have. Why didn’t I go? You should have let me talk Chieftain Torishi into it. I’m just—”

“Hey. Relax, Feshi.”

Yerranola grabbed her friend’s shoulder. Feshi kept muttering.

“Hey! Relax, Feshi.”

Yerranola’s second admonition was accompanied by a friendly kick to the stomach. That snapped Feshi out of it. She curled up on the ground, holding her stomach for a second.

“…Thank you, Yerranola.”

“What are friends for? Want breakfast?”

“No, thanks. My stomach hurts.”

“Gee, I wonder why?”

The Selphid grinned. She was like that. Well, it was one of the reasons why they liked each other. Yerranola was friendly but could be blunt if she needed to, yet she always came from a good place. She was likable but adaptable.

Unlike Venaz. Even Kissilt was better since they could talk about Izril—but Venaz was a pain. Yerra pointed ahead.

“Let’s go for a walk. You can obsess and I can stretch my body. I’m feeling better.”

Feshi smiled a bit. Her friend couldn’t feel the agonizing pain anymore, but she still grew tired too fast. Too fast to go on an adventure with the mercenaries of the Wild Wastes tribe to find the Professor to the north. Still, Yerranola was chipper today.

“What shall we do? Enjoy more Gnollish festivities? Flirt with handsome or cute Gnolls? Demonstrate how much better at chess we are?”

Yerranola spread her arms wide, beaming, as the two left Weatherfur’s central camp. Feshi made a face.

“I’m not in the mood to eat or play games. My stomach hurts.”

“I wonder why?”

“There’s more to life than games and romance. Everyone else can do it, but I need—”

“Worth! So let’s find some rather than speculate!”

——

So they did. They made a good team that way. Yerranola directed Feshi’s focus, nudged it, then went ahead when Feshi found a good idea.

“Lots of fallout from yesterday. I couldn’t sleep, and I heard there were over a thousand fights.”

“Only a thousand?”

“Hyperbole, Feshi. Underbole, or whatever you call it.”

Yerranola pointed around the communal area, showing Feshi damaged stalls, denuded of goods and treats for sale, trash on the ground, torn fabric. Feshi could smell a bit of blood, alcohol, and the remnants of adrenaline—which was a smell, just as fear was.

Gnolls had been fighting. Of course they had—the news that magic had been suppressed by the Drakes for countless years tended to rile people up. But they had no concrete proof. Only the giant crystal that everyone knew was probably part of Fissival’s ancient teleportation network. The Drakes denied that it had any connection to the problems the Gnolls were having with magic or anything else.

Feshi, like every Gnoll at the Meeting of Tribes, wasn’t in the mood to have a nice discussion about it.

“It could be war, you know. Did you hear anything like that last night?”

Feshi had been up late, talking with Torishi about what it all meant. Yerranola shrugged.

“Hotheads howling about it—I’d be more worried about what your Chieftain thought.”

“She’s not pleased.”

“No. I thought she’d be high-fiving Drakes left and right.”

Feshi snorted at Yerranola’s dry look.

“She doesn’t want war. At least not all-out war. Weatherfur has too many ties to Drake cities. She’s all for putting it to Fissival, but if one Walled City fights—”

“The rest gang up and kick the Selphid out of you?”

“That’s how it goes. There are enough tribes here to fight every Walled City, but if other Drake cities get drawn in—”

“All-out war. Right. So what are we doing, stopping the war or getting ready?”

“I don’t know. I’m mad as a…as Venaz, Yerra. But I know what the Professor would say. Bide your time, wait for vengeance if it’s appropriate.”

“Mm. So why don’t you join your Chieftain and say that to everyone?”

“Because she can say it. She doesn’t need me. Anyone who listens to Weatherfur will listen to her.”

Yerranola skipped around a little Gnoll staring at a scrying orb with a group of others. They were watching as Drassi introduced two Gnolls on the orb—an Elirr of Liscor and a Gnoll of Pallass—to discuss the magic-suppression incident. Feshi wanted to listen, but Yerra kept them moving onward. She was glad they were getting magical coverage on the television, though.

“And we’re back to looking for worth again. All right, I see what you mean. You want to be special. Hit the Chieftains from the other side.”

“They’re not my enemy.”

Feshi snagged a stick of free goat’s meat since her stomach had stopped smarting. She gnawed on it, savoring the bite, and thanked the Gnoll minding the booth. Yerranola tapped her chin.

“Hit them politically. Where do we start?”

Feshi swallowed.

“Well, that’s easy. The most important Gnolls in the entire Meeting of Tribes would be the ones who can sway minds. And they would be…”

Ferkr of Pallass, Grimalkin’s apprentice; Krshia Silverfang, and Akrisa Silverfang. Yerranola knew the way to their tribe’s camp as well as Feshi.

When they got there, they found a sea of Gnolls all thinking the exact same thing as they were. The [Guards] at the Silverfangs’ camp were keeping a wave of them back, all of whom wanted to talk to the Gnolls in question. A Chieftain broke through the throng.

“Daemonbane’s tribe to see Silverfang’s Chieftain and Krshia Silverfang!”

The [Guards] let them through. Yerranola and Feshi watched as the Gnolls were admitted, the Chieftain and a small retinue. Yerranola shielded her eyes, smiling cheerfully.

“Well, there’s the Silverfang camp. Who’s Daemonbane? That’s not a Gnollish tribe name.”

“It was awarded to them. They went to Rhir.”

“What, all of them?”

Feshi twiddled her thumbs, trying to recall, before nodding.

“Yep. Went, fought for three generations, came back. They kept the name. They’re fairly important. Everyone wants to talk to Silverfang.”

“Hm. Well, unless you think we can rely on our names, how about marching up there? You go, ‘I’m Feshi from the Titan’s Academy! Let me in’!”

Some heads swung toward them even at Yerranola’s proclamation. Feshi groaned.

“No thanks, Yerra. Even if Krshia hears me first, we’re working at cross-purposes. Too many officers for a single battalion. Remember—hit them where you do the most good.”

“Professor’s words of wisdom, right. But he also says, ‘Kick them in the face sometimes just so you have their attention’.”

The Professor had a lot of funny sayings. Feshi and Yerranola circled the crowd, grinning and trading a few. Yerranola eyed the circular Silverfang camp and its hide walls.

“You know, if you really wanted to get in, we could cut a hole through the walls. It’s just hide and wood, right?”

“It’s probably enchanted, and it’s tough. Even with my dagger it would be a pain. And that’s destruction of property, Yerra.”

The Selphid stepped back and eyed the tops of the walls, far too high and steep to see over.

“Well, what if we jumped over?”

“It’s an eight-foot wall, Yerra. Who can jump over that?”

“I could. If I Rampaged, I think.”

“Well, I can’t.”

“That’s what ladders are for. I’m just saying, if you wanted a private word, we…”

The two were arguing, more for fun than anything else, as Feshi looked around for another way to meet someone important. They walked around the back of the Silverfang compound. Feshi heard some loud voices past the wall, pounding footsteps. Yerranola might not have heard, because she was inhabiting a dead Gnoll’s body with atrophied senses. But then Yerranola heard a shout.

“Gireulashia! Don’t you dare—”

A giant hurtled over the wall, from the inside, to land just past Yerranola and Feshi. In a single bound. Nine feet tall, her red-brown fur gleaming—the tallest Gnoll, save for one, that Feshi had ever seen. She leaped over the wall like a high jumper, arcing her body so it just cleared the top of the stakes hammered into the ground.

Feshi’s and Yerranola’s jaws dropped open. The giant Gnoll landed as light as a cat. She spotted the two on her way down and avoided Yerranola, who jerked back.

“Excuse me.”

Gire muttered apologetically at the two, then sprinted. She barely stopped as she landed, but transitioned into an athlete’s run. She was nearly a hundred paces away before Feshi and Yerranola had even turned.

“Dead gods. She just—”

“She jumped over the wall! How did she do that? Magic? A Skill?”

“I thought you said you could do that!”

The Selphid grabbed at her ears.

“Yeah, but I’m a Selphid! Look at that body!”

Feshi saw the distant Gire racing across the Great Plains and knew which tribe she was from. Even if she hadn’t known Gireulashia—and she was hard to forget—she’d know an Ekhtouch anywhere.

Sure enough, her pursuers looked much like Gire herself. One was ‘only’ seven and a half feet tall, and he clearly had to use a jumping Skill to clear the wall. The rest had to climb over; one was boosted up, and the others, no less than six of them, swarmed over it.

“There she is! Gire, come back! This is the Chieftain’s order! Come—”

They raced after her. The last ones over the wall completely ignored Feshi and Yerranola. They cursed as they pointed at Gire.

“She’s running! We’ll never catch her without Skills. Stubborn—[Marathon Run]! The rest of you, get some horses!”

One of the Gnolls accelerated but barely seemed to break even with Gire’s pace. The two [Strategists] watched as the others sprinted with commendable form, off to get horses. Yerra turned to Feshi.

“What’s that about?”

The Gnoll hesitated, but before she could answer, she heard a voice.

“What are they doing to her, Tkrn?”

“I don’t know. Here. Let me just get ov—let me—uh…”

Someone smacked into the hide wall, scrabbled at it, and then jumped a few times. Yerranola and Feshi heard a grunt.

“Maybe you can get up there. Here, I’ll boost you, Inkar.”

“Okay…argh! Don’t drop me!”

“Well, it’s hard! Do you have a handhold?”

“Yes…”

Someone pulled themselves up, red-faced. Feshi saw a Human face turn, nearly fall over the wall, and then try to haul someone else up.

“You’re too heavy! Let go, let go! You’ll pull me—”

Inkar disappeared back into the compound with a scream, and Feshi and Yerranola heard a crash as she fell on top of whoever was on the other side. Yerranola looked at Feshi.

“Hey! Anyone need a hand over there?”

“Yes, please!”

That was the female Human. Yerranola did a little hop, then a big jump, and nimbly hoisted herself up onto the wall. Feshi knew her friend had Rampaged—exceeded her body’s natural limits, tearing muscle, but giving herself amazing strength. There was a voice, male and mystified.

“Who’s that? That’s not one of the Ekhtouch—”

From her position on top of the wall, Yerra reached down, hauled up the two figures with ease, and Feshi was once again reacquainted with Inkar and Tkrn.

“Don’t I know you? From the brawl…”

“That’s right! Inkar, and this is Tkrn.”

“Hi.”

The Gnoll was a bit breathless from getting over the wall. He looked shamefaced as Yerranola helped Inkar down to the ground. He tried to jump down, but Feshi opened her mouth.

“I wouldn’t—”

She heard the click and saw his face as the Gnoll [Guardsman] landed from a nine-foot drop onto his haunches. But the force of the landing had turned his squat into more of a rapid sit-down, so fast that he kneed himself in the chin. And all the weight and force of his hitting the ground went right into—

Tkrn rolled over.

“Healing potion! Healing potion! I just broke my legs!”

Inkar landed with Yerra’s help and fished out a potion. Tkrn sat up after she helped him fix the torn muscle in his legs, not actual bone. Tkrn sat up, panting.

“Okay—how does Gire do that? Where did she go?”

The two were clearly after the same Gnoll. Feshi and Yerra pointed, but the other Gnolls were almost out of sight, mere dots on the horizon. Feshi shaded her eyes, frowning.

“What’s happening? That’s Honored Gireulashia, isn’t it?”

“It’s Gire. But I don’t know what’s happening. She was just playing with—and then the Ekhtouch Gnolls came and said she had to pass a Trial and she ran for it.”

Yerranola’s eyes lit up, as they did whenever she found something interesting.

“Ooh. Feshi, what’s a Trial?”

She turned to her friend. The Weatherfur Gnoll scratched at her head.

“I have no idea. It must be an Ekhtouch thing. I can’t imagine that it’s pleasant if she ran away. What was she doing in the Silverfang camp?”

She thought Gire might have been there on Ekhtouch business, but Inkar and this Tkrn had made it sound different. Indeed, Inkar was worried.

“We have to find her! She sounded terrified! She’s only fifteen!”

“What?”

Yerranola and Feshi started. But hadn’t Venaz said…? Feshi saw Tkrn look around.

“Let’s get some horses. Thanks for your help, um—”

“Yerranola. And this is Honored Feshi, of the Games of Daquin. Greatest Gnoll [Strategist] to ever—”

Feshi stomped on Yerranola’s foot. Since she knew the Selphid had no pain receptors, she also had to cover Yerranola’s mouth. Inkar and Tkrn recalled who their acquaintances were and did that staring thing, but only for a second.

Yerranola was beside herself.

“Can we come and see what’s happening? This sounds amazing.”

Inkar glanced about the area.

“Only if you can find horses.”

“I can do that!”

The Selphid dashed off with Tkrn. Which left Feshi and Inkar standing together. The Gnoll glanced at the Silverfang camp, then at Inkar.

Now, here was another interesting coincidence, like meeting that Lyonette at Oteslia. A Human who just happened to be a rather important guest of Longstalker’s Fang, in the Silverfang camp, and friends—or at least concerned—with Honored Gireulashia of Ekhtouch? There was an explanation for it, obviously, but the why of it made Feshi’s fur tingle.

“I’m Feshi of Weatherfur. Pleased to see you again, Inkar.”

She held out her paw, and Inkar took it.

“Thank you for your help again, Miss Feshi. We meet when people are fighting each other or running around, yes?”

There was a twinkle in her eye as she used the Gnollish inflections, and Feshi grinned despite herself.

“Hrr, yes. Let’s find Gire. It shouldn’t be too bad—and then maybe we can talk? I’m interested in Silverfang, as everyone is.”

Perhaps this was her moment?

Tkrn and Yerra came back with four horses, including Inkar’s own horse, and Feshi and Inkar mounted up. They sped off to find Gire and discover what was so bad about the Trials.

But Feshi was more concerned with what they’d do after that. She completely failed to understand what Ekhtouch Trials meant.

——

During the Meeting of Tribes, even though the participants were angry, wrathful, talking, and full of unrest after yesterday’s drama, there was always fascination. Always delight and chaos.

In fact, perhaps more now than ever. Because all the Gnolls were so upset, the tribes had pushed together some festivities planned for later that week. So here came a rarity—a Gnoll [Performer], no less than one of Weatherfur’s own. She did a flip into the air and threw three daggers.

They hit three targets tossed up by helpers. She landed, laughing, and in swept a Gnoll band playing merry music on flutes and drums.

“Let’s have some cheer! Who wants to learn how to throw knives? How to balance on the very tip of a pole, like so? Well, if you can hold your balance for ten seconds, I’ll give you a prize!”

The [Performer] shouted down at the adults and children. She stood on a narrow wooden pole with one foot, the other raised behind her, arms outstretched, grinning with the light of a challenge in her eyes. Then she winked.

“If you can do this, I’ll give you my class!”

And with a laugh, she did a front flip from her standing position and landed again, in the same pose.

Children pointed and oohed and gathered around, because there were also traditional Gnollish sweets being passed out in huge baskets, along with more food and nonalcoholic drinks. The sights and sounds were all a welcome distraction.

Some Gnolls didn’t even have to try to be exciting. Garsine Wallbreaker just walked past the others, but the eleven-foot-tall Gnoll was enough to dumbfound a little Gnoll cub clinging to an adult Gnoll’s paw.

Some people hurried to eat or let the children play; many only drifted about, still furious, still talking. The air was tense, and as a result, more than one child and adult pitched a fit.

One big child in particular threw up her hands, lay down on the ground, and wailed.

“I don’t want to! I don’t want to!”

It was…something. Feshi felt embarrassed, astonished, awed, at the sight of a nine-foot-tall Gnoll, whom she had taken to be fully grown, throwing a tantrum, pounding her paws and feet on the ground, wailing, her nose running as the Ekhtouch adults tried to get her to be quiet and others watched.

She was a girl, and the tantrum drew no less than Firrelle, Chieftain of the Ekhtouch, to her side.

“Gireulashia! Calm yourself!”

“I don’t want to do a Trial! I won’t! You can’t make me!”

Gire had been hauled back by the time Inkar and the others caught up with her. Hauled back in a net, wailing. What was this Trial? Well, the other Ekhtouch Gnolls of their small tribe were already setting it up.

Firelle was furious.

“Gire, this is meant to be an exhibition. You are embarrassing all of Ekhtouch!”

To which Gire just sniveled.

“I don’t care! You do it! You can’t! It’s scary and I don’t want to!”

The Chieftain looked exasperated. Then a Gnoll couple came over. Well—a couple of Gnolls, as in ‘two’. They were not a married pair.

“Gireulashia, you are more than capable. Do not embarrass Ekhtouch. You must succeed—only then can you level. You know this.”

“Yes, do it for our tribe. Do it for us, Honored Daughter.”

A tall male and female Gnoll smiled down at Gire. She sat up, sullenly, and Feshi realized—they were her parents. But what an odd relationship. They coaxed Gire until she stopped crying, but not once did they give her true orders, only cajoled and pleaded. Even Feshi found it—disconcerting. Inkar pointed at the two.

“Those are her parents?”

Tkrn was watching, just as bemused. Gire bowed her head as the Ekhtouch tribe finished moving other Gnolls back, creating a kind of enclosure with what looked like a magical powder. One of them placed an odd-looking marker in the center…Feshi narrowed her eyes.

“Yerra, you see that? It looks familiar.”

Gire looked up when she saw the strange long strip of paper delicately laid out on the ground. She stood in one movement and ignored her parents. She looked around.

“Don’t I get anything?”

“One object.”

“Then I want a spear!”

An Ekhtouch warrior instantly went to arm her, but Firrelle didn’t offer Gire her own spear or any of the fine enchanted spears her warriors carried. Rather, someone hurried off and came back with the most plain iron-tipped spear that Feshi had ever seen. It wasn’t a training weapon…exactly…but that was all it was good for, in her eyes.

Yerranola was focused on the item Feshi had spotted. She frowned.

“Yeah. I’ve seen it before. What is that? I can’t remember where…”

Feshi had the exact same impression. Her eyes widened, and she clapped her paws together.

“Oh! I know! Venaz has some!”

The Selphid gave Feshi a look of comprehension and snapped her fingers.

“Yes! It’s one of those weird summoning things! He said they were from Drath, remember? The same things he used at the…games…of…”

Her voice trailed off. She and Feshi both slowly rotated and saw one of the Ekhtouch Gnolls make a gesture and speak.

“Ramish! Arise!”

The talisman glowed, and the magical paper unraveled. Something rose, glittering, taking shape as spectral energy moved to create a replica of the real thing. No less deadly, but made of magic. Conjured to create—

A Manticore.

Feshi leaped backward, the Diamond Dagger out of its sheath before she processed anything. Gnolls fled backward, shouting in alarm as the massive Manticore—with the face of a lion, a tail like a stinger, and wings like an eagle—roared into the enclosure. It was far, far larger than any normal lion. Gireulashia made a whimpering sound.

The Manticore, even without the stinger, had a mane slightly taller than she was, and it outweighed her. It paced left and right, snarling.

“What the—”

Tkrn had his sword drawn but was trying to shield Inkar. However, she, Feshi, and Yerranola were all looking at the Ekhtouch warrior who had summoned the beast. The Gnoll was looking at Firrelle, and the monster didn’t attack.

The Chieftain called out, frowning, at the lone Gnoll with an iron spear facing down what Feshi knew was considered a Gold-rank monster. As in—no Silver-rank adventurer was ever expected to be able to handle one alone. A Silver-rank team could, but Manticore packs required Gold-rank teams, multiple teams, to quell. Firrelle surely knew this, but she only shouted to Gireulashia.

“Five minutes, Gire! Three blows!”

“I don’t want to!”

The [Paragon] howled. But Firrelle ignored her and lifted a paw.

“Now.”

“Attack!”

The Manticore sprang forward at the Gnoll warrior’s command. It bit and struck with paw and stinger, all at once.

Feshi cried out. That was as vicious as the real monster! She had assumed—naively—that it would at least hold back or be a lesser copy. But it struck like a serpent, nearly as fast.

Gireulashia was too agile for it to tag her. She swung left, and her spear stabbed the Manticore along the shoulder, aiming for the place where the muscles were grouped. She swiped the spear left and backed up, circling. She was still sniffing, but she kept her eyes on the Manticore. And that stinger—

This was an Ekhtouch Trial, Feshi realized. She was not the only Gnoll to stride toward Firrelle, who was watching Gire do battle—striking from range, dodging back as the stinger shot forward again and again—with every sign of approval and calm scrutiny of Gire’s performance.

A panting Chieftain, Eska of Longstalker’s Fang, was the first Gnoll to appear, racing up with her bodyguards. She pointed at the contained battle within the circle the Ekhtouch had set up.

“Chieftain Firrelle! What is this madness?”

“A demonstration, Chieftain Eska. I told you we would keep training Gire and other warriors. They will go through the same, but she must be first, even if she throws tantrums.”

Firrelle replied calmly, nodding to acknowledge the other Chieftain. Eska looked appalled.

“Tantrums? She’s fighting a Manticore with an iron spear!”

“Yes. In the next Trial, she must climb a mountain in a day. Or, if we have time, swim up a river. If we find monsters of the correct type, perhaps she will battle them. Without weapons. She is doing too well, battling too easily.”

She turned to one of the Ekhtouch Gnolls analyzing Gire’s performance.

“You see, Gorekh? She does not try in sparring.”

“I see.”

Feshi glanced back and saw one of Ekhtouch’s veteran [Warriors] watching, arms folded. Gire had somehow kept out of range of the Manticore, baited two charges, and stabbed it repeatedly in the same place. The magical summoned monster was now limping on its right foreleg, and Gireulashia was keeping out of range, circling and striking.

“This…I would not ask the greatest warriors of Longstalker’s Fang to do this! And Gireulashia is a child, no?”

Firrelle looked overly patient as she replied, still in that maddeningly calm tone of voice.

“She is. But she is also a [Paragon], and her Trials must exceed any other. How else would she level?”

Eska stared at her, then at Gire.

“You put her in this kind of danger?”

“There is no leveling without some danger. Rest assured—we would step in if she looked truly in danger of losing life or limb, but there must be challenge. Please, Chieftain Eska. I understand that our ways seem difficult to you. But the greatest of Longstalker’s Fang’s warriors—skilled as they are—are not Honored Gireulashia.”

Now, there was a statement to take Feshi’s breath clean away. The worst part was that Firrelle didn’t even seem to think she’d given Eska an insult. Eska just stood there until her ears flattened. Then she moved toward Inkar. The young woman was watching with horror, looking for a way to stop the Trial, but Gire was winning. Even so—Feshi glanced at Gire’s parents, who were watching with eager approval. The [Strategist] noted Firrelle’s calm judgment and murmuring with her people about how to make the Trial more challenging.

And she had thought her tribe had terrible expectations of her. Feshi gripped the dagger at her belt.

So this was the Meeting of Tribes? She looked around at the Gnolls watching this exhibition of talent, arguing over the revelation from the Chieftain’s gathering—and watching the scrying orb, where Drassi was covering the news.

The news about them. In this great gathering, which came only every twenty years, somehow the news was all about them—and not about them. It was about Ailendamus, the [Knight] charging Ailendamus’ armies, and the Drake conspiracy—but not about here. As if the Gnolls, even at their peak, were a sideshow to the real events taking place.

That should not be. Feshi had to bring great worth and deed to Weatherfur. It occurred to her, in that moment, that it should also be Weatherfur, Krshia Silverfang, and even poor Gire whose names were called across the world. This was no less fascinating, for ill or good, than anything she saw on the scrying orb.

So why wasn’t it there?

——

While Gire’s Trial was going on, elsewhere in the Meeting of Tribes, Chieftain Mrell had an answer for Feshi’s question, though he didn’t know she’d asked it. They had simply come to the same conclusion.

“We are an insular people, Chieftain Iraz. We do not look like it, because we travel widely. But I tell you—Gnolls, in their way, are even more resistant to change and sharing than Drakes are.”

“Not a popular opinion, Chieftain Mrell. Especially given how sharing space has worked out for our people.”

Mrell had to own that was true. He sat in his small Chieftain’s tent. Small compared to some of the tents of the grand tribes. But it was his, and he was a new Chieftain. Not as famous for war as Woven Bladegrass, but the fact that his tribe was consorting with famous tribes showed everyone how far they’d come.

He was Chieftain of Demas Metal. The tribe that had risen by sheer dint of the new metal they had created. Mrell was young, in his late twenties. Yet he was Chieftain, having created this tribe by himself. For one reason alone. Because it would change this world.

Because it was the only thing he had left that mattered.

Demas Metal. It lay before them, a deeply blue alloy that had the magical luster that regular metals, even gold, lacked. Like Mithril, Adamantium—when processed and smelted—and other fantastical metals, it had a power to it.

But such metals were few and far between. Demas Metal? Iraz had the blade that Mrell had presented him with. He flicked it up and caught it, the light glinting off his own steel-gray fur.

Mrell admired Iraz. Here was a Chieftain that Mrell wanted to be like. Iraz too had created the Steelfur tribe by dint of his Skill, which gave them all fur like steel. In fact, Mrell felt a commonality, and Iraz clearly seemed to think there was some value in speaking with the new Chieftain, hence their breaking bread together—and dipping it in silkap—this early morning.

“I will admit, Chieftain Mrell, there is some weight to your words. But I assume you have a point?”

They were debating, as Gnolls did, although in private, without an audience. Mrell inclined his head eagerly.

“I would not say something so provocative without proof. And my proof is this: Demas Metal. It was not a creation I could have come up with alone. I did not, in fact; though the final creation I claim as a stroke of inspiration. But I learned my craft from another species.”

“Really.”

Iraz set the blade down. He admired the strange alloy.

“It is not purple, like Orichalcum. But it has the same qualities. Cloud blue to dark violet, depending on the weather. Hard. Strong—but that tells you nothing. Even steel can be sharp as can be with a great [Blacksmith] behind it. This, though?”

Iraz made a slashing motion, very quick.

Mrell was glad he didn’t jump. He stared at the fine line that followed the tip of the blade, then vanished a heartbeat later.

“Is it a magical effect?”

“Just the metal, Chieftain Iraz. If you strike a shield or piece of armor made of the stuff, it leaves the same…afterimage. It doesn’t harm, but Demas Metal has many qualities. It is superior to steel, heavier than Mithril, but just as strong. And as you know, it has another grand secret besides being beautiful when swung.”

Iraz grinned his warrior’s grin, and his eyes lit up. He put aside the blade and refilled his small bowl. They were eating from Mrell’s prepared snacks, and the Chieftain of the Steelfur Tribe did not eat silkap on bread or crackers—not when Mrell had treats out. Everything from pickled herring, cheeses, and even odd treats like roasted plums to fill voids in the conversation.

Yet it seemed Iraz had a fondness for Chandrarian dates; he had already eaten sixteen of the sweet fruits. Unlike regular dates, these were not a brown or purple, but remained yellow and even red or blue, despite being wizened. They also had a mix of drinks; in this case, Amentus wine, sweet and only a bit heady this early.

“Yes. I found out when testing it. I could have remained ignorant.”

Mrell smiled too, deeply pleased.

“I knew you’d discover it. And how else to show what a gift it could be in the hands of enough warriors?”

Chieftain Iraz agreed slowly, taking Mrell and his tent in. The younger Chieftain had a tent decorated with his research notes. Books, of all things; guides to blacksmithing; even what was akin to an [Alchemist]’s workbench devoted to metallurgy.

“It is not complete, though. You said there were improvements to be made.”

Mrell spread his paws helplessly.

“Steel has many alloys, many forms, Chieftain Iraz, and we have made and used it for countless ages. I cannot claim this is the perfect Demas Metal. But it is my alloy, and if it existed in times past? Well, the one who beheld it and helped me complete it told me that others—only the true ancients of our world—might know how to make it to perfection. That I discovered the making…he told me I would usher in a new era on the strength of it alone. And he was a Dwarf.”

Iraz was leaning forwards, hooked on the story, and caught himself, sitting back. He slowly lifted the sword he had been given and pondered it. Then, carefully, slowly, he took out a simple water flask and dribbled water onto the blade. Mrell watched, knowing what would happen.

Rather than simply dribble down the blade and onto his floor—carpeted with beautiful depictions of Gnolls in battle, tapestries of triumph and tradition, a careful nod to this Meeting of Tribes, which he’d paid for just this effect—the water pooled along the blade. Coating it. It formed a second edge, as fine as a razor. Iraz moved the blade, and the water rippled but did not fly away.

It would if he swung it hard enough, though.

“Fire does the same. Does lightning?”

“I haven’t dared hold it up in the middle of a storm, but a little shock spell—yes. Though it lasts for seconds at most.”

“Incredible. You said…a Dwarf helped you make it?”

Mrell sighed.

“Yes. This is a great secret, Iraz. But I tell you this because I hope you will buy many blades from me, and our tribes might work together. After all, Demas Metal can be made far more plentifully than Orichalcum, which we put into it, but it will not ever replace steel. Perhaps, though…steelcloth and Demas Metal together?”

The Steelfur traded their fur, which could be laboriously processed into metallic cloth, to other places. Iraz nodded.

“It is rare that we offer trade concessions to any tribe but the large ones, like Plain’s Eye. But you have my full attention. So you met a Dwarf? When?”

Mrell exhaled. He chose his words carefully, telling only what needed to be told, though his face grew somber.

“On my journeys. I left my tribe, you see. I became a wandering Gnoll. Not Plains. Or City. It was not pleasant, always—I shall spare you the details. But the crux of the story is only this: I met a Dwarf on my travels. I never expected to meet him, for we both were seeking Orichalcum—the very vein my tribe uses for Demas Metal. Well, I say ‘we,’ but he had found it. He lived alone, in a cave, in misery, a master beyond compare.”

Iraz murmured, placing his paws under his chin.

“I have heard of such reclusive masters. Although they are the stuff of legend.”

Mrell lifted a paw.

“This Dwarf was not there out of some great training journey or because the isolation suited him, Chieftain Iraz. He was in exile. And…dying. I forged under him for three years, until he passed, and that was when I made my discovery. He did not give it to me, you see. He told me I had surpassed every expectation in discovering the alloy. Shortly thereafter, he passed.”

“A strange story. What was he doing there?”

Mrell stared back, leaning to look upwards at a memory.

“He never said. Only that he had betrayed the heart of the craft he and I both pursued. I named the metal after him. Demas. Demastel was the only name he ever gave me, you see. Without his guidance, I would have never had the skill to create this.”

“Honorable of you. So your tribe will work the vein, make more Demas Metal—and make it better still. What do you intend?”

Mrell lifted the blade Iraz offered him and smiled.

“Simply to redefine the world, Chieftain Iraz. I do not know if Gnolls will take my metal and create great tribes or armies. I am a [Smith]. I do not know if this heralds some great new era—but I do know this. Demas Metal will sweep this world. In ten years, it will be sought after by every Gold-rank adventurer. We have the means to make more. We have the resources. Unlike Mithril, Adamantium, and Orichalcum—of which there is enough only to arm a small group, or one person—Demas Metal will arm armies. And I will sell it only to the tribes, or let them sell it to others. But I do ask a fair price.”

Iraz was agreeing as he listened to Mrell.

“That is fair, Chieftain Mrell. And Steelfur will be honored to support and bid on your items.”

Indeed, this was what many Chieftains said, although Iraz was refreshingly direct. Mrell smiled and offered Iraz more food, but the Chieftain had already eaten his fill. Iraz took some to be polite, and Mrell saw him eying the blade. Everyone, from Greenpaw and Orelign to Steelfur, wanted Demas Metal. If—and only if—it could do everything Mrell said it could.

There had to be a catch. A plentiful metal exceeding steel? It had to have some weakness or flaw. That’s what they thought in private, where they tested Mrell’s gifts. But here was his dirty, dark secret:

There wasn’t one. Not one flaw that he could find. It didn’t dissolve if you sneezed on it right. It didn’t have a crippling weakness. Krshia Silverfang had upset the Meeting of Tribes with her announcement, and rightly so; Mrell himself was shaken by the news. But the announcement of his metal would be just as grand. Demas Metal was simply a revolution.

The two Chieftains toasted the success of Demas Metal. Then Iraz asked a pointed question.

“If I were to ask for…twenty blades, each custom-made for my best warriors, could you produce them?”

“I have the ingots here, Chieftain Iraz. I can have my best [Smiths] work on them, and I would personally forge your blade myself. They cannot stand up to the greatest artifacts—so I can offer you nothing worthy of a Chieftain’s blade. But perhaps armor?”

You could wear Demas Metal without it affecting other magical gear, which was a huge plus, and he was talking Iraz into commissioning some chainmail. Which was damned annoying to make, but if Chieftain Iraz wore it and when people saw how it worked in battle…

The two Gnolls were about to seal the deal with a shake of the paws when Mrell sniffed something. He closed his eyes as an acrid odor assailed him.

Dead gods, not now.

Iraz sat up, smelling the exact same thing and hearing what Mrell did. A faint…pattering sound.

“What is that? Some smith or…?”

No, it was not that, and he realized what it was just as any Gnoll would. Both stood up, and Mrell strode out of his tent.

He didn’t post guards around his tent because his tribe was too small to need them, especially during the Meeting of Tribes. But it occurred to him he needed them now, not because of the threat of assassination, but to deter…

A pair of Gnolls stood to the side of the tent. Both female, and both with markings on their fur from a tribe neither Iraz nor Mrell belonged to. One Gnoll had just adjusted her loincloth.

She was currently peeing on the side of Mrell’s tent. She and her companion froze when they saw the two staring Chieftains. They hadn’t expected Iraz.

“Uh-oh. That’s the Chieftain of the—Prha, run!”

The other Gnoll yelped, redid her loincloth, whirled around, and took off. Chieftain Iraz stared at the stain on the side of Mrell’s tent. The Chieftain of the Demas Metal tribe had his face in his paws.

“Why are two Gnolls from the Sofang tribe peeing on your tent?” Iraz asked. He recognized the markings of a distant coastal tribe. Mrell didn’t have the heart to answer.

“Hey! You two!”

One of the camp [Guards] finally noticed the two intruders and chased after them. The two Gnolls, one of whom was exactly Mrell’s age, shook her fist back at Mrell.

“Take that, you worthless furball!”

She fled with her companion. Iraz peered at Mrell, trying to hide his amusement.

“I take it you two know each other?”

“She was my partner. We had a falling-out. I’ll…make a formal complaint to Sofang.”

“I shall as well. Disgracing a Chieftain’s tent…”

“It’s complicated, Chieftain Iraz. She has a right to be—upset. Perhaps she’ll stop.”

Hugely embarrassed, Mrell led Iraz to the blacksmith’s tents, where they could finish their talks. Yes, that was from his past. He cursed running into Prha here. He wanted to just move on. But here they were.

Mrell turned his mind back to Demas Metal. That was all he could focus on. His great gift to Gnolls and the world.

It was all he had left. If he could go back in time, he would have saved what mattered. But he couldn’t.

——

Feshi was beginning to happen upon an idea, but it wasn’t concrete. She passed by some of the [Merchants] trying to buy and sell goods. Especially some of that Demas Metal, although most pieces weren’t sold as such; they were gifts.

But it could damn well change the world.

It was how two tribes saw value. Demas Metal put its faith in a change in the market, metallurgy; a new metal. Ekhtouch? They believed in one over all.

Gireulashia, a [Paragon] of her kind, had bested a Manticore in under five minutes, and with less than three blows taken, just as her Chieftain demanded. What could she have done if she had been equipped with Demas Metal?

Despite both amazing achievements, Feshi noticed something. There were no scrying orbs here. Rather, they were all showing images of other places. Wistram News Network had broadcast a few views of the Meeting of Tribes once and left it at that.

And that was because Gnolls and Wistram had been feuding, and Gnolls were insular, and so on and so forth. Yes, yes.

It did not mean that there were no non-Gnolls here. Look at Yerranola. Look at the truly intelligent [Merchants], [Traders], and emissaries who came here. Just…no movers and shakers.

“I’m sorry, none of it is for sale. Chieftain Mrell of our tribe sells it—but no pieces for non-Gnolls.”

“Oh, come on, now. I’m a reputable [Arms Dealer] across Izril and Baleros! This is your chance for your tribe to break into a huge market!”

An upset [Merchant] was trying to badger a Gnoll [Smith] into selling some he’d been letting passersby try out on practice dummies, but the Gnoll didn’t move. Feshi sighed. Apart from Demas Metal’s politics, she was bothered by how the [Merchant] was speaking to the [Smith].

This is me, doing you a favor. No wonder the Gnoll wasn’t receptive.

“I tell you what. [Name Your Price]. Just do it. Name your—”

The [Merchant] resorted to another bad but understandable idea. Which was using a Skill. The Gnoll [Smith] stiffened, and his mouth opened as he held out the shortsword he had been holding back. Which meant he’d have to sell it if the [Merchant] met his price, probably at a high markup.

But it was a bad idea because every other Demas Metal Gnoll and others who’d heard the Skill being used were looking around very unhappily. Feshi wondered if she’d watch the [Merchant] and his nervous bodyguards being dumped out of the Meeting of Tribes in a wheelbarrow.

However, the [Merchant Armsdealer] was saved from being beaten senseless…by someone giving him a knee to the stomach. Feshi winced in sympathy. There seemed to be a lot of that going around.

“[Belay That], Merchant Equed. You know better than to force a sale. Especially when every Gnoll in the Great Plains will beat your caravan senseless and take the blades back. You’re tactless. Please excuse him.”

The [Merchant] doubled over as someone pushed him over, cancelling his Skill. Gratified, the Gnoll [Smith] bowed to the woman.

“Thank you. I’m afraid the Demas Metal isn’t for sale. Not to—”

“Non-Gnolls. Which I quite understand! Might I try holding the blade, though? I haven’t had a chance.”

“Of course.”

Merchant Equed was pulled back by his bodyguard as he spluttered in outrage, but Feshi saw someone pick up the blade and then—Feshi turned—execute a marvelous cross-cut technique. Even the [Smith] was impressed, having seen a number of [Warriors] with varying levels of expertise try the blade.

“You have a fair hand with it, Miss Human.”

A woman with colorful hair tossed it back and laughed.

“Thank you! It’s a bit heavier than I thought, but it feels wonderfully balanced. Can I try that trick with the oil?”

“Of course. Hey, bring the pot over!”

The strange female [Merchant] dipped the blade in the pot and admired the odd oil-coating on the Demas Metal blade.

“I know people who would buy this just for that effect. You could sell little toys to children! I want some.”

The Gnoll opened his mouth, but she raised a hand.

“Yes, I know. No non-Gnolls. Well…would your Chieftain consider selling to a Gnoll? Another [Merchant]?”

The [Smith] raised his brows.

“I don’t see why not. He has many meetings at this time, but surely so.”

“Would he entertain an offer for a thousand pieces? Because I will back that price. And that’s just my order. Hey, Qwery! Look at what I found! And I just got here!”

Ysara Byres raised her voice and raised the blade overhead. And in answer…

Feshi glanced over and went momentarily blind as the most glittery Gnoll in the world whirled and dazzled everyone in a display of light off her golden fur.

The Golden Gnoll of Izril herself descended into the Meeting of Tribes like a lightshow—not a performance, but her caravan had come in and was in the middle of unloading. She strode over, ignoring the looks from other Gnolls.

“Ysara, what’s that?”

“Demas Metal, Qwera. Apparently sold only to Gnolls. But I want some. I think it’s a marvelous metal. I’ll have to put it through its paces, but I have a good feeling about it.”

“If you have a good feeling, I’ll buy it. And sell it to you at, oh, a 5% markup. How could you get a better deal? You can’t.”

“What if I threaten to kill you?”

Ysara held the blade out across Qwera’s throat, a bit teasingly. The Golden Gnoll gave her a grin that showed every tooth.

“Then you can get 3% off the regular sale. This Demas Chieftain can sell to me, and I’ll sell to you. You can take your half to Chandrar and stay out of my business.”

Ysara narrowed her eyes.

“I hate you. Well, let’s find this Chieftain. Just as soon as I do a few more tests with this. Does it work on anything other than oil?”

The Golden Gnoll turned back to the [Smith], but she kept her attention on something out of the corner of her eye. Qwera saw that, at last, the little Gnoll cub who’d been staring at the giant Garsine Wallbreaker passing by finally broke out of her stupor.

She yanked urgently at the paw of the adult she was holding hands with. He groaned, massaging his back.

“What now? Over there? Fine…Tesy, you hold her hand. My everything hurts.”

“Hmm? What was that, Vetn?”

Nearby, Tesy, a Drake with brass scales, stopped doing a quick sketch with charcoal and a bit of parchment. He held out the rather fine image to a Gnoll, grinning and posing in place.

“Three coppers. Here you go. Thank you.”

The Drake stood up as Vetn hobbled over to Qwera, clutching at his back, then his legs. He was obviously in a considerable amount of muscular pain, despite having taken one healing potion already.

“I want another potion, Qwera.”

The Golden Gnoll had lost her patience.

“Well, go get one.”

Vetn whined.

“I want you to pay for it.”

“Hm…no. I already paid you. It’s one potion. Don’t be stingy—use one of yours.”

“My own money?”

Qwera raised the Paw of Slapping-idiots-on-the-head, and Vetn hobbled away quickly.

Then the little Gnoll cub, her fur a plain, ordinary brown, just as it had been on the day she was born, spotted the Demas Metal blade. She raced over to Ysara and began jumping up and down.

Give me! Give me! I want to hold it!

Her meaning couldn’t have been more plain if she were shouting. The [Smith] chuckled as Ysara held the blade high overhead.

“Oh, no. I’m not going to have someone sever a hand on my watch. Qwera—”

“That’s it! Move back, you. Vetn, I said don’t let go of her paw. One of you holds it at all times—you or Tesy—or I make both of you do all the unloading for my caravans.”

Tesy hurriedly grabbed the little Gnoll girl’s paw.

The cub looked reproachfully up at Ysara but remained oddly silent. Then she lowered one paw to her side, pressed something hidden on her belt, opened her mouth, and spoke.

“I want that. Please?”

What a completely ordinary thing for a Gnoll to say. Ysara instantly refused.

“No, Mri. You cannot.”

“Pretty please?”

“Absolutely not. Vetn, would you mind giving me some room?”

“Pretty please?”

The [Smith] was too busy admiring Ysara’s excellent bladeswomanship to notice it, but something was off about the second time the girl said that. The little Gnoll girl said it…exactly the same way. Intonation, pitch, and volume.

Qwera noticed. She let Vetn drag the girl back, then bent down and grabbed an ear.

“Don’t be silly, Mri. And don’t think about touching one of those blades! I’m not explaining to your mother why you’re missing a digit.”

She added that for the benefit of the listeners, then went back to haranguing the workers who were unloading her caravans.

The little Gnoll girl with brown fur, a curious pattern on her arms and chest, and two gold-painted ears pouted. She was clearly in the company of the Golden Gnoll herself.

She took her paw away from the tiny activation runes she’d been given. No one would really think twice about the gaudy gemstone set into a fancy necklace hanging from her neck. It was still a risk to use, but if people didn’t look too closely, they wouldn’t notice that the ‘voice’ of the girl hadn’t come from her mouth but from a little bit farther down. Or that she could only say a few things.

“I want food, Vetn.”

The Thief of Clouds patted his stomach.

“I want food too. Qwery, can we have food money?”

Mri slapped her speaking rune.

“Pretty please?”

Qwera spun with the wrath of…Qwera…and both Gnolls hid behind Tesy. Qwera pointed at Tesy, also known as Sellme, the Magical Painter, who looked around for someone to hide behind.

“Tesy, take these two children around the Meeting of Tribes. Not far—and if you get into mischief, I will break your favorite paintbrushes with my own two paws. Get some food. Buy it if you have to.”

“Can I have an allowance?”

“Make Vetn pay. I’ll pay him back. Five gold pieces.”

Mri brightened up, as did Tesy. Vetn just sulked.

“No, you won’t.”

“Damn right I won’t. Get lost!”

Tesy, Vetn, and the little Gnoll scampered off despite that, and Qwera went back to unloading her caravan. It was odd—she had publicly declared that she wouldn’t bother attending the Meeting of Tribes, but one supposed she had learned of something worthy of changing her mind. Demas Metal already seemed promising.

Ysara wasn’t much of a surprise, either, given her status as another [Merchant] who sold both arms and ingredients depending on her location and inventory. Vetn, Tesy? Childhood friends, just one Gnoll and Drake out of many in the Meeting of Tribes.

So there they were. A small gang to join the great, wonderful, eye-catching Meeting of Tribes. Qwera, Tesy, Vetn, Ysara, and Mri, the little Gnoll girl.

Or rather…Mrsha. She clung to both Tesy and Vetn’s hands, making them swing her off the ground rather than walk as they groaned and held her up. Beaming, eyes popping with everything to see, the interesting sights, smells…she was here.

She’d made it.

——

It was all part of Qwera’s master plan. With Plain’s Eye Gnoll hunters stopping everyone on the roads, ready to pursue even one child close to Mrsha’s age, even in her caravan, she had decided there was only one place to hide Mrsha.

Among as many Gnolls as possible. Of course, everyone had said it was dangerous. But Qwera had pointed out that their options were slim. More important, Mrsha had allies here. Krshia Silverfang, even her mother, had intended to come here.

To get Mrsha out of the city and past the checkpoints, she’d made Vetn do it. The Thief of Clouds had been hired to steal Mrsha away from Ysara. Which he had done. It somehow let him use his Skills, and so he had run with Mrsha in his arms on one breathless night.

She thought Wanderer was fast, but he was like nothing compared to the Thief of Clouds. The Gnoll had raced up a wall, leaped past two [Guards] while they were distracted in response to a little noise spell he’d used, and landed on the other side in a moment. Then he had raced across the grasslands.

He’d avoided the Plain’s Eye hunters too. Invisible, soundless, he had sped Mrsha low through the grass, leaving no trail, leaped over a gorge, shadowed a galloping City Runner on horseback at night, and run and run to deliver Mrsha back to Qwera, who was waiting to take her to the Meeting of Gnolls…

…And he had been confined to bed for nearly two days straight with muscle pain. He refused to take a potion for it, claiming that it would build up his body. Despite Qwera having paid him five thousand gold pieces to steal Mrsha, he wouldn’t spend so much as a silver coin on a healing potion.

Mrsha thought he was funny. She liked Vetn, even though he was cheap and whined about spending five gold pieces out of his fortune on snacks.

“Don’t be stingy, Vetn. Mri’s never been here. Neither have I! Do it for us—come on. Pwease?”

“Tesy, I swear…”

The Drake rested his head on Vetn’s shoulder and gave him a fairly good Mrsha-eyes impression. Mrsha copied him, and Vetn scowled.

“Fine. We’ll take four.”

He paid for some delicious-looking dough-fried meatballs in a small container and got an extra-large one for himself. Tesy and Mrsha began to gobble theirs, using a little toothpick to pop them into their mouths.

“Hey. Why’d you get more than us?”

“Because I exercise and deserve more food.”

“I paint all the time!”

“That’s your arms.”

“And my brain! You know how much energy this thing takes?”

Tesy jabbed his head repeatedly. Vetn muttered under his breath.

“Not much.”

Tesy looked hurt as Mrsha nearly snorted meatball out of her nose. Vetn elbowed Tesy.

“I’m joking.”

“I know…so give me a meatball.”

“Hey! You have yours; I have mine!”

It was amazing how outraged the Thief of Clouds could be about someone stealing one of his meatballs. Tesy rolled his eyes.

“Fine. Have one of mine. He’s going to sulk all day if you even steal one.”

Mrsha, who had been eying the big basket of meatballs, had been contemplating the very same thing. She saw Vetn glowering, but Tesy poked a meatball from Vetn’s own basket and pushed it at him.

“Here.”

Vetn chomped it down. Tesy went for another of Vetn’s snacks, and the Thief of Clouds slapped his claw down. They were having a good time. Mrsha beamed. She tapped one of the runes she’d been given.

“This is fun!”

Vetn and Tesy glanced down at her. The prerecorded message was in fact a little Gnoll girl in the city they’d left who, in exchange for some coin, had happily recorded all the lines in a song crystal, the kind Qwera sold.

“It is. Vetn, I don’t understand why you uh…left.”

The Thief of Clouds gave Tesy an angry wide-eyed glare, and Mrsha recalled that he’d actually stolen something from this very place. Vetn gulped down more food.

“Is that Velrusk free? No? How much for o—two? A silver and…? All right, fine. Two, please.”

He sipped from his drink as Tesy took one with delight. Mrsha reached out for one and glared when it was clear that she was not going to be the benefactor of either. Tesy snagged a cup of goat’s milk for Mrsha, which mollified her.

“I left because I have better things to do than eat and stare at things all day. Which is what happens here.”

“I thought the most important Gnolls made big decisions.”

Vetn sniffed.

“Maybe the Chieftains do. I haven’t heard it changes that much. At least—until recently.”

Mrsha thought he was a fool. A damned fool! There was food and drink that was delicious, plus amazing Gnolls—she knew the legend of Garsine Wallbreaker, and she had been right there! And a [Performer]! And some Gnoll had been poking a Manticore with a spear! And she was huge! And there was Demas Metal, which she was going to buy. And, and…

And she was here. She had been so worried and afraid for a long time, ever since Wer had taken her from the inn. Ever since Belavierr. Mrsha was still nervous, so she made sure Tesy held her paw, even as they moved along. Vetn had to juggle two mugs and his own snack tray. She knew this was a dangerous place, but she had Wer’s fur dye and Qwera’s gold disguise on, and she had the speaking crystal so no one thought it was strange that she was silent.

She was very proud of her brown color. She’d asked specifically for it to be the same brown she used to be when she was growing up, but as an added bonus, she’d had Qwera and Tesy help her do a very Plains Gnoll thing, which was apply the markings of her tribe.

Stone Spears. The gray pattern on her arms and shoulders was technically for older Gnolls, but who else but Mrsha could wear it? It made her sad, but Qwera had approved. She was the last of the Stone Spears in this world. Stone Spears should be at this Meeting of Tribes. Even in secret. And it made her look like a real Plains Gnoll.

Mrsha was proud, and happy to be eating, but she was also…tired. She just wanted respite. She wanted Lyonette to come here and to see Krshia and for the adult to say that everything was going to be okay.

“Why don’t we find a place to sit, Vetn? Or should we look into, y’know, the Silverfang thing?”

Mrsha had been thinking the same thing. Vetn shrugged.

“We can try, but I saw a huge crowd around the Silverfang camp. You know, because of the news.”

Mrsha frowned darkly. Oh, yes, the news. Tesy and Vetn circled back with Mrsha—but only after they picked up some nali-sticks being sold by the Gaarh Marsh tribe. And the news was on every tongue.

“They stole our magic. Stole it. The [Shamans] are saying that’s why no Gnoll can cast magic.”

“Well, now that the crystal’s gone, surely we can all be [Mages]…?”

“No. It’s deeper than that. See?”

Mrsha idly looked around. Then she dropped her meatball snacks. Vetn cursed, and Tesy bent.

“Oh, no. What’s…”

But Mrsha was staring, open-mouthed, at…of all things…a Gnoll standing there. Holding a magic wand. Then she looked around and realized. It wasn’t just one Gnoll.

——

“Do you have a spark, Honored Qwera?”

The Golden Gnoll of Izril put her hands on her hips.

“I have plenty of sparks. Which one are you referring to?”

One of her fellow Gnoll [Merchants] who’d come to visit gave her a grin and held out a wand. It had been dead in his paw, but the instant Qwera took it with a frown, it lit up.

A faint glow, but faintly orange. She blinked at it, and he sighed.

“You do! Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Now, for what and why should I care?”

He laughed.

“It means you have magical aptitude! For [Mage]-magic, that is. All of us could be [Shamans]—well, all those in a tribe. But our magic was suppressed. Inhibited. Apparently, if we were born close to one of those magic–anti-magic things, we might have lost our mana wells entirely.”

“Damn. That’s…beyond heinous. So they took away your magical capability? Not just your ability to cast it?”

The Gnoll glared at the wand as he took it back, which turned blank when he held it. He shook his head, face bleak with loss.

“Look. It’s just a reaction, they tell me. The wand draws out mana—a Grand Magus from Wistram developed the spell to test whether we have a mana pool. Apparently, most of us will not. Honorable Qwera must be lucky.”

“I wasn’t a Plains Gnoll growing up. So yes.”

Qwera brushed at her paws, then looked around. She snapped her fingers.

“…And that’s why every third Gnoll has a wand.”

Indeed, it was a craze. Every third Gnoll had a wand, or was trying out this test, or trying to cast [Light], or [Spark], or another Tier 0 spell. It gave Qwera an idea and she whirled.

“Hey! Stop unloading the rest of the cargo! Get me every magical object we’ve got! Wands! Staves! Orbs!”

Her team rushed to the caravan, and Qwera smiled like a [Bandit]. Ysara rolled her eyes.

“Don’t you have better and more important things to do, Qwera? Like help Mri?”

“I can be an altruist and make a profit, Ysara.”

“I think that’s actually impossible.”

“Well, then, forget the altruism. Besides—we have to be subtle about this. We’ll get Mri to the people she needs to meet. We just have to keep her out of sight.”

The daughter of House Byres nodded. She glanced around.

“And you did that by entrusting her to Vetn and Tesy?”

Qwera laughed.

“You may think they’re idiots—and they are—but they haven’t stayed alive this long by being completely inept. Now…hello, my golden darlings! The Golden Gnoll is here, and I have wands to sell! Magic staves! Even spellbooks! Who wants to reclaim their magic?”

She began shouting, and Ysara rolled her eyes as a panoply of magical items spilled forth around her. Yet she had to admit—Qwera’s plan had made Mrsha one in a crowd of literally hundreds of thousands of children.

However, she couldn’t help but worry. Ysara set off to find the group, because she remembered the way Yvlon talked about The Wandering Inn in her few letters. Exasperating, wonderful, friendly…but it seemed like it drew events like a magnetic stone drew iron fragments. She had a bad feeling that Mrsha might have learned from the best.

Ysara was half right. She should have watched out for Mrsha, but she had forgotten that Mrsha wasn’t the only actor on this stage. And if Mrsha had learned from Erin Solstice, there was another student who had learned from this world’s finest grandmaster.

——

Feshi Weatherfur was striding around the communal grounds of the Meeting of Tribes, lost in thought. Obsessing—but only a little bit. She was on to something.

She hadn’t been at the center of the negotiations with Fetohep or the adventure at sea. She was not with Venaz, Wil, Peki, or Merrik, searching for the Titan. This was her hour, but she was not the leader of the Meeting of Tribes, far from it.

Nor was the Meeting of Tribes at the center of the world. Rather…

“And now, my next guest has an opinion about the Gnoll-Drake magic-suppression allegations. And I am saying ‘allegations’ because it’s not proved, and I’m letting people speak. Even if their opinions sound stupid. The Drakes did nothing wrong—is that what I’m understanding here? What—nothing ever? And we had no motivations for doing this, is this right, Wall Lord Dragial? Or should I say former Wall Lord of Fissival?”

A rather disgruntled Drake appeared on the scrying orb as Drassi gave her rather biased introduction to him. But that was why Feshi liked her.

Just then, a Gnoll standing next to Feshi and watching the orb began choking to death.

“Itgh hm! Ith hmm!”

Her companions had to save her from dying and get her to spit out the mouthful of popcorn that had been clogging her windpipe. Feshi saw that it was none other than the Stargnoll herself—Lehra Ruinstrider, who pointed as Wall Lord Dragial, her mortal pursuer and nemesis, began to defend Drakes for doing nothing to Gnolls.

“I nearly choked to death. Damn you, Dragial! You nearly killed me, but I survived!”

Lehra pounded the ground with her fist. Suxhel, her Gazer companion, stared at Lehra.

“You’re blaming him for the fact that you nearly choked on popcorn?”

“Well—yes?”

Lehra coughed out another kernel and saw Feshi watching.

“Hey—Feshi, right? It’s Lehra. Haven’t we met?”

“I think we have. It’s an honor, Lehra. And Suxhel?”

The Gazer [Wizard] bowed slightly. Feshi eyed the scrying orb with renewed interest.

“That must be Wall Lord Dragial. The one who claims the Blade of Mershi is his.”

“Yep. Look at that smug bastard. He’s attacked more Drake cities, Gnoll tribes—and he has supporters. He shouldn’t be allowed on Wistram News Network!”

“Not even to voice his opinion?”

“Well, he’s lying, Suxhel! You know he lies! Unless he uses the truth to lie harder!”

Lehra threw up her paws as her friend rolled all her eyes. The Gnoll stalked off to eat something in a huff, tail furiously wagging.

Feshi sort of understood what Lehra meant, but it was a complex situation. Technically—and she didn’t voice this aloud—Lehra had taken the item that Dragial had paid her to recover. So he had some claim to it, although it was true that it seemed like the Blade of Mershi had chosen its owner.

Anyway, it just went to show that this place had as much to fascinate as what was on the news. So why weren’t they recording the Meeting of Tribes?

The answer: Gnolls didn’t like Wistram. They had no Wistram [Mages] here. Ergo, there was little motivation for coverage.

“But we need attention. We deserve it.”

“What’s this about attention we deserve?”

Lehra popped over, full of nervous energy after eating six nali-sticks in quick succession. Feshi jumped.

“Er—I’m sorry. I was just thinking out loud, Lehra. I was thinking that we need the spotlight. Why is Wall Lord Dragial talking—”

“Exactly! Shut him up! Arrest him!”

“—when Drassi could be interviewing Chieftains here?”

Lehra grabbed Suxhel’s shoulder excitedly.

“That’s a great point. Why can’t we be on the news? I’ll tell everyone what Dragial is doing!”

Suxhel gave Feshi an appraising look. By now, Yerranola had edged over. She’d run off for a second and had come back…with an armful of autograph squares.

“Excuse me, Lehra. I’m a huge fan. And I have family, cousins, friends…could I ask you to autograph these for them?”

Lehra happily began signing as Suxhel addressed Feshi.

“I believe you are right, Strategist Feshi, but television strikes me as being like the Clock of Eyes. It swings the world’s attention to whatever is loudest, not to what is most pressing. To swing the gaze here requires great urgency, which we have—but perhaps also something else. Something more.”

“The Clock of Eyes?”

Suxhel raised her oddly segmented fingers.

“Pardon. It’s a Gazer creation. A trap that stops all it sees. It is a simple thing, albeit deadly. I only meant that if you wish to have Wistram News Network feature the Meeting of Tribes, it must have an interest in the meeting. And Wistram and Gnolls are historically divided.”

Feshi agreed.

“Yes, although one Grand Magus seems like he’s sympathetic toward us.”

An idea was taking shape in her head. She might not be Niers Astoragon’s most aggressive student, or fastest, but she was one of his best. And although she didn’t have a specific genius, like Wil’s in logistics, she had a talent that had bested Venaz more than once.

She remembered the lessons she’d learned and never made the same mistake twice. Now she thought she was internalizing a lesson he had begun to teach them, but in a type of war new even to him.

Yerranola gestured at Feshi as she overheard their conversation.

“You’re referring to Grand Magus Eldavin. If our group heads to Chandrar after this, we should try to stop by Wistram. I know it’s sort of an odd route, but it seems too good to miss, if they’ll let us in. I’ll sign autographs if it helps.”

Lehra nodded eagerly. She eyed Feshi, and leaned in to whisper, far too loudly.

“Oh, yeah! I forgot you were bound for Chandrar! Don’t you have the Diamond Swords of Serept?”

Heads swiveled, and people stared at Feshi and Yerranola, reminded of that bit of recent history. The Gnoll [Strategist] hesitated and put a hand on her belt.

“I only have one. The rest are securely locked away—aside from Wil’s and Venaz’s.”

The Named Adventurer looked excited; artifacts like these were what her kind lived for.

“They have the ones that make you move super fast and make copies, right? What was yours? The necromancy dagger?”

“Yes.”

Feshi winced. There was a reason she wasn’t proud of the dagger. Gnolls did not like necromancy. Something about, oh, a certain Necromancer killing one of their beloved Chieftains, a general dislike of the undead, and so on.

Yet Lehra was fascinated. She held up the glowing armguard with the gem, the Blade of Mershi.

“This is my artifact. I can make it turn into a dagger. Well…I have to transform, then it turns into a dagger. Want to see?”

“Er—maybe later, Honored Lehra.”

Feshi was conscious that they were attracting a crowd. But now Lehra was staring at the hilt of the Diamond Dagger of Serept.

“Can I see the dagger? Do you die if you touch it?”

“There is a curse. I don’t think it’s on anything but the chest…here it is.”

Feshi drew the Diamond Dagger, and Suxhel’s eyes focused on it. Lehra oohed at the beautiful blade, and Yerranola smiled, but painfully. She had sacrificed the most of all of them for that adventure—and yet not one of the blades had gone to her. Feshi gave her a guilty look, but Lehra was already asking for another favor.

“You can summon the undead with it, can’t you? Would you mind summoning one for me? I want to know how strong it is.”

“Lehra, you’re being rude.”

Suxhel’s voice was stern, but Lehra didn’t let go of things easily. And to be honest, Feshi was tempted.

How strong is one of the undead compared to a Named Adventurer of Lehra’s level? It was the kind of battle data you’d rarely get. And if it meant a favor or two? Slowly, Feshi raised the Diamond Dagger.

Gnolls broke off from watching the scrying orb and stepped back. Yerra stepped toward Feshi, supporting her friend.

“I will summon one. Everyone, stand back. Lehra, are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Feshi hesitated, then said the words Fetohep had taught her. Which one…?

“I call upon the defenders of old! From Khelt’s vaults, from the lands of the dead, a warrior to do battle in my name! Come forth, champion of forgotten fame!”

She felt silly, holding the dagger slightly up, reciting the ostentatious-sounding summoning oath.

Yerranola sniggered.

“You’re going to have to practice that, Feshi.”

The young Gnoll woman’s cheeks burned, but then a hole opened in the ground. Gnolls raced away and pointed as a perfect circle opened, a chasm of blackness ringed by a dark circle of black magic, like the Diamond Dagger itself. And out of it rose…

Glowing blue eyes. A face of bone—not a Human’s but, of all things, a Minotaur’s. Ancient armor but still burnished, glowing faintly white. A long halberd with a wicked edge.

The Skeletal Champion rose, ascending out of whatever place it had been summoned from. It looked like a creature from stories or nightmares, but it was not malevolent. Not to Feshi. If anything, as it looked at her, she felt guarded.

Here is something that will die before I do. Feshi sighed in relief. And she realized she was the only one to do so.

Every Gnoll in sight had frozen at the appearance of the Skeletal Champion. A dread had come over their faces, and Yerra grabbed Feshi’s arm.

“Dead gods, Feshi! It’s terrifying!”

It was just a skeleton in armor. But Feshi realized—seeing that even Suxhel had readied her staff, though she knew the skeleton was under Feshi’s control—they were not seeing what she was.

Terror ran around the gathering. Lehra had gone still; the young Named Adventurer had stopped her excited wavering about. Now her eyes locked on to the Skeletal Champion’s, and a smile played over her face. Confidence. A challenge. She took a breath, then lifted the arm with the armguard over her head.

“My turn. In the name of the City of Stars!”

Then there was light. A blinding flash, as the Blade of Mershi’s gemstone glowed. It covered Lehra—and transformed her. When Feshi stopped shielding her eyes, there Lehra stood.

A figure covered in the strange metal of the Blade of Mershi from helm to tail. A Drake’s tail armor—scaled, flexible, stronger than any other armor. And in Lehra’s hands were a longsword and shield.

She saluted the Skeletal Champion. Yerranola gasped, and her grip loosened on Feshi. The horror of the undead seemed to have been blasted to pieces by the Stargnoll’s artifact.

“Hey, Feshi.”

“Yeah, Yerra?”

“That’s how you use your artifact and look good.”

“Well, come on, you undead—uh—thing. Let’s see how good you are.”

The Skeletal Champion had not taken Lehra for granted. It had readied itself subtly as she used her artifact. Now its head turned, and Feshi got the sense it was waiting for her. She hesitated, then waved it forward.

Instantly, the halberd swung down, and Lehra tensed. But the long-dead champion of Khelt did not attack at once. Instead, the Minotaur champion saluted Lehra in return. The Stargnoll’s eyes widened, then she raised her sword and swung the longsword down, readying herself.

A second later, the skeleton leaped forward, and the Named Adventurer brought up her shield. The first impact sounded like a gong ringing through the Meeting of Tribes. Then they began to fight, and Gnolls spread out to watch a Named Adventurer doing battle with Khelt’s champion.

“Three gold on Lehra!”

Yerranola was the first to speak, as the Gnolls pushed out to create a very respectable semicircle around the amazing battle.

“Six on the skeleton.”

“Suxhel!”

Lehra yelped, then ducked a two-handed swing from the halberd. She dodged back, rolling to avoid another swing. The Minotaur whirled his halberd, and she blocked a swing.

“Uh—he’s strong.”

Indeed, the Skeletal Champion was swinging the halberd around, and despite Lehra’s magical shield and armor, the impacts were making her stagger. Still, she ignored a blow that Feshi thought would make Venaz fall over and lunged in with her longsword, stabbing. Against which the undead warrior spun his halberd, deflecting her sword with the shaft, then drew the blade back. Lehra spun left, swearing, as the tip of the halberd nearly struck her from behind. Then—the tip of the deadly shaft swung up in a precise chop under her right armpit.

“Chieftain’s fur!”

Lehra blocked it with her shield and moved back, trying to get out of range. The halberd began to stab in a flurry of thrusts as the pike on the end aimed at her.

“[Deflecting Slashes]—whoa!”

The first blow skated off her armor, even though her Skill knocked six previous strikes aside. Feshi blinked. Had she just seen the undead warrior…?

She had. He cut a dizzying zigzag in the air. So fast that Lehra threw up her shield, and a cascade of magical sparks or conflicting energies flew upwards. The Minotaur brought down a two-handed chop, then turned it into a horizontal cut halfway down, feinting so well that it caught Lehra by the side and tossed her several feet, though it never broke her armor.

“Lehra! Stop—”

“No, I’m fine! This guy’s sort of tough. I’ve got him.”

Lehra got to her feet, unharmed. She stared at the undead warrior. Suxhel and Yerra both saw what Feshi had.

The Minotaur skeleton was smiling. Of course, all skeletons grin. But this one was definitely…

Lehra’s eyes narrowed. She abandoned the longsword and shield. There was a flash, and Feshi saw in the next moment the Stargnoll holding a halberd.

“Let’s see how you like it.”

Suxhel shouted from the sidelines, exasperated.

“Lehra, you don’t know how to use a halberd!”

“It’s sort of like a spear! Let me see—aha!”

Yerranola watched as Lehra charged in and the skeleton blocked the blow, almost contemptuously. It seemed to know this was a spar, or else Feshi suspected it would have punished the huge overswing. Then the skeleton stopped smiling. Its one-armed block began to waver, and it grabbed the halberd with a second arm, forcing Lehra back. It seemed she was strong too.

Even so. The audience realized this was a closer match than they’d thought and began betting in earnest. Yerra anxiously turned to Suxhel.

“Uh…can I redo that bet on Lehra?”

“No.”

Yerra winced as Lehra yelped and dove out of the way of a return chop.

“Halberds aren’t my style! Mace! No, wait! Greatsword!”

The Selphid addressed the [Wizard].

“He’s a lot better than her. She. Whatever this champion is.”

Suxhel nodded slowly, her eyes flicking to track the fight—both combatants at once, look at Yerranola, and survey the crowd, all at once. It made some people nauseous even to see, but Yerranola had met Gazers before and conversed as naturally as could be.

“She trains with Emper and Elgrinna, but she’s not at their level yet. If it won’t kill her, please have your undead beat her bruised, Feshi. It will be a good lesson in overconfidence.”

“I think I can do that, Suxhel. I’m sorry about this.”

“No. It isn’t your fault. Lehra thinks she can beat anyone just because she has the Blade of Mershi. She’s done this before.”

“And why, pray, is a Named Adventurer sporting against one of Khelt’s greatest champions? Poorly?”

Yerranola turned her head. She looked at a bouncing little Gnoll with gold ears, pointing with open mouth as Tesy and Vetn held her paws and placed bets with a nearby Gnoll—against Lehra. The girl was gaping at Feshi. The [Strategist] combed her fur, embarrassed. Yerranola replied absently, still looking around.

“Well, Lehra wanted to see if she could win, and we’ve never tried to use the Diamond Dagger and—”

Her voice trailed off. Slowly, one of Suxhel’s many eyes rotated downward. So did Feshi’s and Yerranola’s. They all had a thought.

…Who was speaking to them?

They all looked down at the dagger Feshi held. From there had come the voice. Now came the icy reply.

“I see. I granted you the words of greater summoning, Strategist Feshi Weatherfur, to call forth the greatest souls contained within the dagger when your need is most dire. You could have summoned a lesser shade of Khelt, but you have chosen its greatest warrior. I take offense.”

“Your Majesty?”

Feshi had heard that tone before. The dagger flashed—and sand billowed up. A figure appeared, and Yerranola backed away.

A skeletal monarch made of sand stood next to Feshi and regarded Lehra slashing and parrying the Minotaur’s blows. He slowly twisted his head, and even though he was made of sand, his simulacrum conveyed the flashing of his deathly eyes, his displeasure.

“My displeasure is not that the tools of Serept are being used for frivolity. He would…enjoy their usage, I think. Rather, it is a disservice to the great soul of this warrior to pit him against such an amateurish foe, even if she’s armed with a relic of her own.”

Lehra kept fighting as the figure appeared, summoned by the power of the diamond blade. Feshi saw the last glittering piece of the puzzle slide into place in her head. But for a second, she was just standing there, wordless. The Gnolls were frozen by this casual display of great magic.

The Stargnoll kept fighting for a few seconds until she spotted Fetohep of Khelt in the sand. Her guard lowered, and she blinked.

“Hey, is that F—”

The halberd caught her on the side and threw her, spinning, fourteen feet, where she crashed into the crowd. She lay there for a second before springing to her feet.

“I’m okay!”

——

And there he was. Larger than life! Mrsha’s mouth was open so wide she could have eaten one of Erin’s cakes whole.

Fetohep of Khelt! He was speaking to Feshi, who was bowing, holding the diamond dagger out. And there, at her side but unharmed, thanks to her armor, was Lehra Ruinstrider! The Named Adventurer!

Mrsha’s heroes. Gnoll heroes. People she’d seen on the scrying orb! Feshi, Yerranola, Lehra—

Can we get closer? Please?

She had to hold up the card so Vetn would see her question. He eyed the undead with great apprehension.

“I think this is exactly the kind of thing Qwera wouldn’t want us to get near. Besides—that undead…”

“Yeah.”

Tesy shuddered. Mrsha stared blankly at the undead Minotaur, who had abandoned his duel to kneel to Fetohep. What? It was just one undead. Flesh Worms were a lot worse. Although she had to admit…it was a lot cooler than any of Pisces’ undead. Except the Frostmarrow Behemoth.

“Your Majesty, I apologize. I didn’t realize there was a distinction between the undead summoned by chant and…not. I will refrain from doing so again.”

Feshi was speaking humbly to the apparition of sand. Fetohep inclined his head.

“And I shall accept your apology. The blade is yours to use. Moreover, I shall not interfere with mortal concerns. This is but the last remnant of the enchantment upon the Diamond Dagger for protection. I took advantage of its activation to make certain inquiries of the Meeting of Tribes.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

Fetohep produced a list as Mrsha dragged Vetn and Tesy forward, and they dragged her back.

“I would like to obtain a rare reagent lacking even within Khelt’s vaults. It is my understanding the Plain’s Eye tribe and Gaarh Marsh, or another tribe, may have instances of it. I shall reward whoever secures it for me with great wealth. It is a specific mushroom known to possess ghostly capabilities…”

Mrsha’s ears perked up. She had no idea what this was about, but on general principle, she approved of the idea of traveling across the world and appearing out of a magical dagger to get your shopping list taken care of. She wondered if she could get this guy’s autograph.

“She’s strong. Vetn, help me hold her back!”

Tesy was dragging Mrsha away. Which was funny, because despite the fact that this amazing moment was sure to become a piece of history or an adventure, no other Gnoll was running over and asking for an autograph.

By rights, they would after Fetohep was gone, but no one could quite find the audacity to insert themselves in this conversation. Who would dare? Who would just stroll over, go, ‘Hey, I’m Erin, whatcha talking about?’

Well…Mrsha had a different perspective on what you ‘were allowed to do.’ But Fetohep was already departing. Except that Feshi had interrupted.

“Your Majesty, if I may…I wonder whether you might do me a favor. One that may benefit glorious Khelt.”

He reformed himself out of the collapsing grains of sand, raising one eyebrow on his emaciated face.

“How intriguing, Feshi Weatherfur. It would have to be something desirable indeed, for my time is limited.”

Feshi was bowing, but she had a glint in her eyes.

“Yes, Your Majesty. But I hope you might agree it is of interest. It’s…”

She began to speak, but then the Gazer cast a spell and Mrsha couldn’t hear! She strained forward, kicking at Vetn and Tesy’s hands, but they were too—

“Hey, where’d that Minotaur go? I’m up for round two! I’m not dizzy at all. The world’s just tilted a bit.”

Lehra stumbled past them. She stopped as a little Gnoll froze and was yanked off her paws by two adults. Lehra glanced back as Mrsha waved her arms frantically.

“Oh, hey, what’s this?”

“I like this! I love this!”

Mrsha slapped her magical gemstone and held up a card.

Autograph, please!

Lehra looked at the card, then burst out laughing.

“Why not? Who am I writing it to?”

Mrsha nearly wrote her own name. She hesitated, had an agonized moment, then scribbled.

“Ekirra? Is that your friend? All right. To Ekirra…my biggest fan! There! Hope you like it! Now, where’s…?”

Lehra winked at Mrsha. At Mrsha. The Gnoll wanted to ask her how she found the Blade of Mershi, if she had ever considered an apprentice, if she—but Lehra was already heading back to her group. Mrsha clutched the autograph, tucking it into her bag of holding. Ekirra owed her huge for this. He was almost as big a fan as she was.

Fetohep of Khelt was already disappearing. Lehra hurried over.

“Hey, you’re Fetohep, right? Can I ask…?”

The undead monarch swiveled his head.

“No. I shall also add, Lehra Ruinstrider, that the halberd is a superior weapon. You may wish to improve your training.”

He paused. His features began to disintegrate as the sand fell back, dissolving. But he got one last word in.

“Train at all, that is.”

Then he was gone. Lehra stood, cut deeper than she’d been by the blows she’d sustained in the brief sparring match. Suxhel looked at Feshi with great respect, and Yerra hugged her friend.

“Feshi, you mad Gnollwoman! You genius! Do you think it’ll happen?”

“Let’s find a scrying orb.”

Feshi was grinning with delight. Mrsha stared at them as Vetn muttered to Tesy.

“If Qwera hears that Mri nearly…with Lehra, our ears are toast. Let’s get out of here.”

The Drake nodded nervously, and they scurried away, dragging Mrsha, who was trying to cling to the ground.

Not that it mattered. Countless Gnolls and onlookers took this moment to flood forward, to ask, to be part of the moment—after the moment had passed. Lehra was also the right person for Mrsha to ask for an autograph, because of all the keen-eyed, intelligent, sharp people here, she gave no thought to a little Gnoll who uttered suspiciously few words and wrote her requests down.

It didn’t matter. It was all fine, and Mrsha was being spirited away by Vetn and Tesy, kicking and struggling, as Feshi turned. There were more acquaintances coming their way. Just a morning’s incident during the Meeting of Tribes.

“You can play on my phone all day, Gire. I promise.”

“You promise? Did we miss the fight?”

Two voices entered the conversation, drawing nearer. Feshi’s ears perked up. She smiled, spotted the group, and beckoned over two friends.

“Inkar, Tkrn! You won’t believe what just happened!”

Lehra broke away from Suxhel’s berating her to frown at the group and grin.

“Hey, is that Tkrn and Inkar? Didn’t I sleep with one of you?”

Mrsha stopped as a giant Gnoll, nine feet tall, wiping tears from her eyes and holding Inkar’s hand with her other paw, passed right by her. They were both followed by a rather plain, ordinary Gnoll in [Guardsman]’s armor bearing a familiar crest. He scuttled over as heads tracked him, embarrassed.

What a scene. Tkrn looked straight past Mrsha, the brown Gnoll with golden ears, not at all her familiar white-furred self, toward Lehra, Feshi, and the others. Inkar hurried over, still fuming at the way Ekhtouch…Ekhtouched.

“Feshi, what happened? Gire is a bit upset. She was—ouch. Tkrn!”

The Gnoll started. He’d just stepped right on Inkar’s heel with his big guardsman’s boots. He blinked.

“Sorry.”

“Well, everyone’s here. Except for Venaz. Where is he? Wait…wait. Wasn’t there another Human? And that Gnoll made out of metal who kept staring at me? Remember him, Suxhel?”

“He was using a Skill on you, Lehra.”

The Stargnoll was rubbing at her chin, having fun, in the thick of it. Feshi was whispering to Inkar about what was going to happen next. Tkrn? He sniffed the air. He frowned. He looked back and saw a brown Gnoll with gold painted ears.

Completely different. Unusual. Unfamiliar. Except for her face and body, which he recognized. And her scent, which was returning even with de-odor tonics. And her eyes.

Just as you’d notice someone who looked the same as a friend, with the exact same features but a different hair color. Tkrn stared. Rubbed his eyes.

“Is he flirting with me?”

He was walking into Lehra, blankly. Tkrn looked at her. Then he looked back at the wide-eyed Gnoll girl. He slapped his face. Stared at his paw. Rubbed his cheek.

And then he went tearing toward Mrsha. He lunged and grabbed her.

“What the—”

Vetn yelped. Tesy whirled, paintbrush in hand, and bonked Tkrn on the forehead.

“Let go! What’s happening! Mr—Mri!”

“You—you’re—”

Lehra, Inkar, and the others turned. The crowd was confused; they didn’t see who Tkrn was grabbing, and all three adults and Mrsha fell down. Vetn was instantly alarmed. He grabbed Mrsha, trying to tear her away. Tkrn was breathless. He was speechless!

“What happened?”

“Where’d Tkrn go?”

“Hey! Clear a path!”

“Gire, help me—”

Voices from behind. Mrsha was lost for words herself, but that was how Tkrn knew who she was. He held on to her, squeezing her tight. Him? Silly, stupid Tkrn? Mrsha from the inn, stealing food?

Home?

Them? The cells with Calruz? The right thing? Two rats.

The Wandering Inn.

“You?”

His voice cracked. Mrsha reached out to him. Feshi spotted the little Gnoll girl that Tkrn was holding on to. Her brows snapped together as Gireulashia reached down to clear the knot of fallen Gnolls.

Then Vetn, understandably, lamentably, and with perfect aim, cursed, pulled a little pouch out of his bag of holding, and hit Tkrn in the face with a smoke bomb.

Tkrn let go with a shout of pain. Vetn lost hold of Mrsha too, and so did everyone else. She hit the ground as smoke billowed up.

That fool! The Thief of Clouds had thought someone had spotted Mrsha. Which Tkrn had, but Vetn thought it was someone bad. She moved left, dodging out of the press of feet trying to stomp her. Well, she’d explain everything. And Tkrn! He could take her to Krshia! He knew she was here! She hoped he wouldn’t say anything.

She heard a babble of voices.

“Mri! Where’s Mri—”

“Tkrn! What was that?”

Mrsha backed up from the stomping feet. She was in the press of Gnolls now, cursing silently, and it seemed like half the Meeting of Tribes was coming over here. Why not, after the Stargnoll, famous people, and Fetohep himself had been sighted?

“It was—I saw M—I s—Inkar, I have to find—my Aunt—”

Tkrn was babbling, unable to make the words come out fast enough. Everyone was focused on him, not the other voice lost in the babble.

“Hello. Hello. Hello. I’m Mri.”

Mrsha slapped her voice-necklace, trying to jump up and be seen. Damn you tall people! She was waving her arms as the smoke cleared when someone spoke and the ground shook.

“Stop. We shall have calm.”

A tremor, but then it was like the world grew still, and everyone stopped babbling, and it was all…peaceful.

Mrsha looked about. The crowd broke up, and she backed up. She peeked out of the tangle of legs and saw two Gnolls standing there. They must have heard the commotion, and like the multiple Chieftains and Shamans in the mix, had decided to restore order.

The Gnoll who had tapped his staff on the ground was a [Shaman] with a normal brown eye and a strange other eye. It had a depth to it, a winding maze of the kind Mrsha had only seen once before. That eye seemed to see all things.

Yet it missed her because it was aimed at Lehra, Feshi, and the others. The [Shaman] spoke, and Mrsha, who had been about to jump out into Tkrn’s arms, or find Vetn and Tesy, froze when she heard the name.

“Chieftain Xherw. Your words?”

Standing before her was Chieftain Xherw of the Plain’s Eye tribe, the same tribe that hunted white Gnolls, Doombringers, one of the most powerful [Chieftains] in the world.

“Thank you, Ulcreziek. Honored Feshi, Lehra, and the guests and friends of the Meeting of Tribes. Is all well? We saw the commotion.”

Lehra’s ears drooped.

“Chieftain Xherw. Sorry. It was my fault. Again. I just had to challenge Feshi’s dagger thing. And then Fetohep of Khelt appeared!”

“Did he really?”

The Chieftain raised an eyebrow. His fur was dark, with lines of silver—rather nice looking. He wore the Raiment of the Plains, a light artifact made with beautiful colors faded by time, despite the enchantment. It bore the Plain’s Eye’s motif, which included eyes, among other symbols.

None of this was bad. In fact, if she had not known him, Mrsha would have thought he was a bit ordinary, although she would have known he was a Chieftain. He was not super tall, but he did look like a warrior, or a former one.

However, as every Gnoll who had ever stood near him knew, something walked with Xherw. A presence.

It hung in the air, hundreds of feet wide, making you feel its weight, unseen. Not on your shoulders but somewhere else. It was not necessarily unpleasant, though it felt that way for some; for others it was inspiring. A shadow of something in the world; a mark of power.

It was not an aura, though. And, like Feshi’s undead, it had only a small effect on all those in attendance, reminding them that they stood in Xherw’s presence—all those in attendance, that is, except one.

Xherw’s eyes roamed the Gnolls, who looked variously abashed, impressed, amused by Lehra’s antics, annoyed by the incident, and everything in between. Of course, he looked around at head height.

So he completely missed the little Gnoll girl, lost amid a sea of legs, cowering and hiding her head with her paws. She didn’t know why, but she stopped jumping up and down, and suddenly hid herself deeper in the mix of people. She didn’t have a good reason. Only that, suddenly, without even needing to remember he was the Plain’s Eye’s Chieftain…she was terrified.

Don’t see me. Don’t look at me. She hid her face, as if not seeing him meant that he would not see her. She was shaking so badly that she missed what was being said.

“…moment like any other. Spirit is well, but disturbance…”

“Yes, Shaman Ulcre.”

Lehra was being lectured. It was so ordinary. Xherw smiled, and the crowd was laughing, already beginning to break up. Yet as he looked away from Tkrn, who had gone as stiff as a statue, Xherw paused.

“Where to, Ulcre?”

Xherw glanced over his shoulder, looking around as if something had distracted him. The [Shaman] sighed.

“We are due to meet with Wild Wastes next. Then Daemonbane. We shall not have war, and at least Silverfang agrees. Their words could push us into it.”

“We must not. Some censure, but…a moment, Ulcre.”

Xherw laid a paw on Ulcre’s shoulder. He frowned, his head dipping, his eyes searching.

“Something the matter, Chieftain Xherw?”

Mrsha was frozen. It was as if a spotlight were roaming the crowd. It kept missing her because it was at the wrong angle, but if he saw her…

She began crawling away, hoping to find Vetn so he could steal her away. Or Tesy, so he could hide her! Someone! Someone…

But Vetn and Tesy were desperately looking around for Mrsha, unable to slip away so close to Tkrn, who had a grip on Tesy’s arm. They were not enemies, but they didn’t know that!

Mrsha was alone. Now Gnolls were noticing her, but to them, she looked like just another young Gnoll refusing to walk on two legs. They gave her room, which was the last thing she wanted. Mrsha was panting wildly. Xherw’s gaze was swinging downward. She heard an exclamation.

“Whose cub is this? Ah—excuse me.”

“Did I miss the fight? Is that Lehra Ruinstrider?”

“Chieftain Xherw, no less. I might have to excuse myself…”

The last few Gnolls broke up. And now Xherw was homing in. He paused for that little moment in time when a single look could change everything. So many people, all coming here.

Drawing together. Xherw glanced down as Ulcre, his [Shaman], waited.

“Chieftain…?”

——

The Chieftain of Plain’s Eye blinked, shook his head. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. He thought—for a second, he’d thought he’d sensed something, but it had vanished. And he had experienced tricks of the mind like that before. It wasn’t even intuition. It would have become intuition if he’d laid eyes on…

“Never mind, Ulcre. Today will be a busy day, and I am beyond distracted. Where were we?”

He walked on. He had missed Mrsha. Somehow, incredibly, his eyes had alighted on her for a fraction of a second and swept past. But she had been shielded.

Mrsha was frozen, terrified, but she wasn’t on the ground anymore. Something had blocked her from Xherw’s sight for that fraction of a second, which changed everything.

No. Not something. Someone.

In a gathering of countless Gnolls, someone had picked the little girl up. Not Tkrn, who was arguing fiercely with Vetn behind a magical shield, drawing in Gire, Feshi, Inkar, and the rest. Nor was it Krshia, who was far away elsewhere.

Someone had recognized Mrsha’s face, as Tkrn had, though it was only possible for someone who, like Tkrn, knew Mrsha. Who could see past the painted gold ears, past something as transitory as the color of her fur, and look at her face. Her features. Even her build, her eyes…and hesitate. And recognize her.

Mrsha was unsure how she had been saved. She looked up, and someone recoiled and breathed out a single word that no one else heard, and it made her start. It was just a word. But the one holding her knew it.

“Mrsha…?”

Recognized. Not because she had brown fur instead of white, although that helped. Because that was how she had looked, once. The eyes stared down at the markings. The markings of a tribe…

And that was how, through many coincidences, an adventure, a flight, travails, the bravery of friends, and her own luck and determination, her parent finally found her, though it had taken so long and it had nearly been too late. At long last, her father finally found her.

Mrsha stared up into Chieftain Mrell’s eyes, blankly, and wondered why his face seemed so familiar.

It all began to draw together.

——

It began with Fetohep of Khelt.

You needed Fetohep of Khelt for it to work, even if you had a great idea like Feshi’s. She was arguably in the right place to make it happen.

She had seen variations; she had studied with a master at grabbing people’s attention—the Titan himself—but even so, she didn’t have a chance without Fetohep.

Because of two things. First, once you had Fetohep’s approval, you had his expertise in making things happen. Monarch of eternal Khelt he might be, but he did not like waiting around.

Second? Fetohep of Khelt was a name to respect, especially now. When you had Fetohep’s name, you had—paradoxically—a fairly neutral party, but one that made everyone sit up. They could ignore Feshi, even if they recognized her name. They could rebuff Chieftains, depending on how much they respected Gnolls.

But Fetohep? His name opened doors. And he was part of what Feshi was trying to create. Or, rather, in this case, what she was trying to re-create. Which was why he’d agreed, of course.

Drassi’s segment in which she cleverly gave Gnolls and a few Drakes a voice on the contentious issue of magic suppression had been going strong all yesterday and today. But it was suddenly, abruptly, and instantly cut short. She had five seconds to interrupt the interviewee, Wall Lord Dragial, her most controversial speaker yet.

“I’m sorry, Wall Lord, I’m being told we’re being kicked off the network. Stand by for—I have no idea—”

Feshi was hard at work, still, practically shouting into a speaking stone. Multiple stones.

“Yes, this is Feshi. Um, in the Professor—that is, Niers Astoragon’s class? I’d like to speak to Professor Perorn on a matter of great urgency. Or Commander Foliana! It’s highest priority.”

“Strategist Feshi?”

The [Mage] was surprised but agreed to relay her request. Feshi breathlessly spoke into the next stone; sweat was dripping down her fur.

“Yes, if I could put in a [Message] for His Majesty? No? Okay…Yerra, call another!”

“I’m trying. Most don’t even want to hear it. Hey. Priority [Message]. That’s right. It’s me—Yerranola. What do you mean you don’t know who I am? I got poisoned by a giant blowfish!”

The Selphid was arguing with a [Mage] on the other line. But then the scrying orb lit up.

It began. It was simple. Iconic. Despite not being ready—no, he must have anticipated that, because Fetohep began the process in order to help Feshi complete it, if that made sense. He had everything Niers would want in a student. A flair for the dramatic, an understanding of how to move people.

The ruler of Khelt appeared, eyes flashing dramatically, in a world of blackness on the scrying orb, replacing Drassi. His eyes shone bright gold, and his undead features were alarming. He sat there on his throne, with his great throne room as the backdrop, poised, a goblet hovering by one hand.

He sat there as Feshi and Yerranola turned, astounded. He was in the scrying orb, but not full frame. Rather, he was in only part of the scrying orb—the center, but his image was small, as if someone had shrunk him into that section.

Why? Well, the first thing that sprang to mind was that they were looking at a picture-in-picture, as they were when the commentators showed a battle but wanted to have themselves in the background. Or…Fetohep conjured this because he had been there, the one other time this had happened.

He just sat there, patient, eyes dancing with golden flames, unmoving. With such poise that even his fellow undead rulers had to give him a grudging seven out of ten. He didn’t move. Said nothing. And that was more fascinating than anything he could have done, especially since the audience wondered if someone had made a mistake. In which case, this was even better.

His silence only lasted a few minutes. Then someone else appeared, in another part of the blackness.

A square of light opened into the world, and there stood a figure surrounded by stars and the whirling ether of magic. It was an impressive effect, yet he, like Fetohep, held still. But he was not undead, so the impressive figure, the Half-Elf with white hair and mismatched eyes and shimmering robes, spoke.

“It appears we are early.”

One of Fetohep’s brows arched.

“Indeed. Grand Magus Eldavin, I greet thee in the name of Eternal Khelt.”

The Grand Magus inclined his head.

“From the halls of Wistram, I offer you the aegis of magic, thou immortal scion. So long as sand shifts, let not Khelt’s deeds slip away. For every grain of sand called Khelt, every breath of air and drop of water is magic and Wistram’s blood.”

He never wavered in the address. There was an infinitesimal pause, then a sigh. An approving sigh.

“Ah. Now, that was worthy of a magus of Wistram. We are well met. Greatness conducts itself with due dignity.”

Eldavin’s lips moved upward in a ghost of a smile.

“On that, Your Majesty, we may well agree. I believe the next to arrive will be one of the Chieftains. Whom else may Wistram expect?”

Fetohep lifted a finger as the audience began to catch on. Casually, he captured the floating goblet and sipped his ethereal drink.

“That would depend on the discretion of one Strategist Feshi Weatherfur, who requested my presence. I believe we shall not wait long, although it would not become me to let fellow attendees wait without refreshment. Grand Magus, will you take a vintage? A bouquet of any vineyard in the last thousand years, perhaps? I shall teleport it to Wistram directly, if the delay does not distress.”

The Grand Magus stroked his beard.

“Though Wistram has fine wine cellars, I confess that if you had a bottle of Gelath’s Depths—a genuine Drowned Folk vintage from around a hundred and three years ago—I would be quite able to teleport it here directly.”

“I believe so.”

“Then I am in your debt, Your Eternal Majesty.”

Fetohep smiled.

“A trifling matter. It shall appear forthwith.”

Indeed, in the time it took for the next person to appear, Eldavin casually murmured a few words, and a wine bottle, glowing with preservation runes, popped delicately out of the air. He made it hover and poured himself a fine glass of a deep blue, almost black liquid. For there were kinds of grapes undersea that landfolk had never even heard of.

Two more attendees. Then, abruptly, four. A Gnoll appeared in front of a tent, looking rather nervous. Someone else hurried out of frame, and a second later there was another.

Gnolls. Two of them. One was no less than Torishi Weatherfur. The other—and Feshi felt a bit bad about this, but she’d accepted the invitation, of course she had—was Akrisa Silverfang. She had her [Shaman] standing next to her, and it seemed there were more Gnolls all waiting in the background of both frames.

“Ah.”

Fetohep inclined his head.

“Khelt greets thee, mighty Gnolls of the Great Plains. For as long as sand endures, your people have trod every land. Wayfarers, the great travelers of Izril. It is my pleasure to meet Chieftain Akrisa of the Silverfang tribe and Chieftain Torishi of Weatherfur. I also note Shaman Cetrule of Silverfang.”

He was good. Feshi hadn’t even told him who was attending. Grand Magus Eldavin wasn’t any slouch either. He made a gesture.

“Indeed. Upon Wistram’s name, I invoke the Archmage of the Eternal Grasslands, Archmage Kishkeria, and the second, Archmage of Izril fifteen centuries past, Archmage Dreosh. Let Wistram never forget that Gnolls have shaped magic across the ages. I greet the Great Plains and let them sing the names of their magical kin forevermore.”

He leaned forward as the two Chieftains waited.

“And may I offer, once again, my deepest apologies on behalf of Wistram for our part in this debacle? I take responsibility for Wistram’s culpability in this…manipulation, intentional and ignorant by turns. It does not behoove Wistram. It will end. This is but a poor gesture, but I shall personally ensure that all wrongs are righted.”

The two Chieftains exchanged a glance. Akrisa opened her mouth, then Torishi spoke. She drew herself up. She was no immortal or half immortal, but she was as dignified as Feshi could have hoped. Even indoors, the sun shone around her, her permanent aura. When she was wrathful, the air was charged; when she was sad, it rained. Right now, the sun shone, but it was expectant. A prelude to something else.

“Your words honor us, Your Majesty Fetohep, Grand Magus. The tribes of Izril know your names. They shall echo across Izril. This day shall not be forgotten so long as memory endures.”

“Of that I am sure.”

The Grand Magus bowed his head. Then his tone became a hair more casual.

“Might I offer you His Majesty Fetohep’s fine vintage? It does quite the honor of the occasion…unless you would care for something else? Courtesy of Wistram, by delivery, and great Khelt’s limitless largesse, naturally.”

He toasted Fetohep, who smiled.

“Naturally.”

Akrisa hesitated. She seemed a bit mesmerized by the grace and impeccable class of the speakers. Her open mouth finally moved.

“Wine? I, ah—ah—wouldn’t mind some.”

Feshi thought someone had tossed something and bounced it off her legs just out of frame to prompt that response. Perhaps her sister? But even Krshia Silverfang surely didn’t expect Eldavin to smile, gesture, and port a floating bottle into their frame. Akrisa nearly leaped into Cetrule’s arms, and he nearly leaped into hers. They gingerly looked at the floating vintage, which had recently been in Khelt, then Wistram.

Now, this, as even Drassi would agree, was television. This was the kind of display that would glue everyone to their scrying orbs. If all Izril had been watching the events being covered before, the entire world was watching this now—or being told, ‘Drop what you’re doing and grab a scrying orb!’

If you still didn’t get it, you either missed the last broadcast or had a memory like Swiss cheese. Eldavin was calmly conversing with the two Gnolls.

“…at least two from Chandrar, I believe, but this is a global affair. Hence a global discussion.”

“Ah, then…more from Wistram?”

Fetohep managed to convey a nuanced interest that indicated a hint of disapproval. Eldavin was quick to shake his head.

“I was personally invited by Strategist Feshi, but Wistram shall simply host this august meeting; we are fairly culpable, as I shall admit readily. I believe at least two from Baleros…two from Terandria, and the rest of the seats will be given to Izril. Or perhaps to a few other parties? I cannot imagine the Blighted King has the time for such frivolities.”

“No, indeed. Well, then…ah.”

Incidentally, simultaneously with this discussion, the smart ones had begun answering Feshi’s calls. The really smart ones had begun calling her. But Feshi had a list, and it was first come, first served.

Everyone watching realized what this was when the fifth personage appeared. She did not fit. Or did she? If she fit, and if Feshi had asked for her specifically, it was because of recent deeds.

Jecaina of Jecrass sat on her throne and stood to greet the others. Fetohep was smiling, and the Chieftains saw it, as did Eldavin, who had sounded quite approving when he agreed to this.

The Arbiter Queen and her council of judgment ride again! Only this time, the crime was greater. The personages weightier.

You could not hold the excitement in the Meeting of Tribes in any container. Feshi was kicking people, telling them to shut up as she organized the rest. All she had to do was speak a name and Eldavin made it happen—or, rather, one of his aides did.

It was an intoxicating amount of power. And here they came.

What was noticeable, and what made an entire continent nearly flip, was who wasn’t part of this council. For instance…no Treespeaker. No Flos Reimarch.

Not even Femithain.

Flos, the King of Destruction, would have attended if he had not been a crisped piece of bacon incapable of speech. Feshi had called, and someone young and female had told her, over the sound of some furious, incomprehensible noises, that it was impossible.

She did bring Queen Yisame into it. Because Nerrhavia’s Fallen had been in the last one, they were hugely powerful, and Yisame was the most important of the other rulers. No Orjin—much to his relief—and that was all of Chandrar.

Three from Chandrar.

Two from Baleros. Feshi invited two, and two came. She had a hard time at first, but then—

“I see two of the Great Companies have elected to send representatives. Greetings. Nerrhavia’s Fallen has always heard of Baleros’ might. Might and wisdom personified, then.”

Queen Yisame spoke behind a fan, as two groups appeared. The first group Feshi knew well, and it was with a pang that she saw not Niers Astoragon, with his huge hat, striding into frame but…well.

A giant squirrel-woman with eyes to match Eldavin’s and a bushy tail. An aghast Centauress grabbed her.

“Foliana, this way!”

“Mm. Hello.”

The Three-Color Stalker, Foliana of the Forgotten Wing company, was the Orjin of this council. She was unapologetically chewing on a raw clam, dipping the meat in sauce. Queen Yisame faltered on the rest of her address, and Akrisa did a double take.

“The Three-Color Stalker herself. A [Rogue] of unsurpassed ability. From Khelt, hail.”

Fetohep had begun addressing people less formally, but there was a way to do that in style. Foliana stared into the camera blankly.

“Why am I here?”

“To discuss…”

Perorn whispered furiously as Yisame collected herself to finish her greeting; she had elected to make the next address after greeting the others and receiving the bottle of Khelt’s wine that was being passed around. But she never got the chance.

The figures in the other frames arranged side by side across the projection were two of the same species, unlike Perorn and Yisame. However, they were not alike in size. One was a gleaming figure that made Feshi feel a cold flash run up her back. One of the greatest [Strategists] to walk Baleros, including the Titan. His armor shone with a light beyond silver.

Tulm the Mithril. Yet he, who had his head in his hands, was nothing compared to the giant of metal whose head rested on a pedestal. The figure waved an armored hand.

“HELLO. CAN OUR VOICES BE HEARD? THE IRON VANGUARD COMETH.”

Everyone went temporarily deaf as Eldavin hastily lowered the volume. The Seer of Steel, the leader of the Iron Vanguard, spoke, but even turned down, his voice was a shout.

“APOLOGIES. I SPEAK WITH THE WEIGHT OF DULLAHANS, BUT THE LACK OF TACT IS MY OWN. TULM IS THE BETTER VOICE, YET I ATTEND FOR THE MOMENT AND OFFER MY RESPECT FOR THE GNOLLISH PEOPLE. THREE-COLOR STALKER, I GREET YOU.”

Foliana glanced up. She had wedged two fingers in her ears and was trying to eat the clam out of the sauce without the use of her hands. She unstuck one ear.

“It’s you again. Didn’t I stab you one time?”

“IT DID NOT WORK.”

That was for Baleros. Of course, Maelstrom’s Howling was not happy, but Tulm had beaten their representative and told Feshi they could get both in one room faster than anyone else. So…that left two places.

Izril and Terandria. For Izril had one last representative to field. That one was a while in coming, but Terandria got its showing.

By now, there were so many people that the screen had to flick between them, holding on a speaker before changing to another point of view.

Jecaina, Eldavin, the Iron Vanguard, the Forgotten Wing, Silverfang, Weatherfur, Fetohep, and Yisame.

Eight, and two more continents left to go. But while there were too many to speak at once, it was important that they each have a chance to speak. More important? Their being here added so much weight.

Every continent except Rhir represented in power. And for Terandria? Well, Feshi had to admit…she was a tiny bit spiteful.

None of the Terandrian monarchs save one had given her the time of day until this had begun. So she got a spot—although Krshia might have had something to do with it, since she had suggested the man who relayed the unusual request to her. As for the other—well, she thought Wil would thank her.

Pheislant’s [King] had done his best and was among the last to arrive, mainly because he had made the odd, and unfortunate, choice to array his royal court around him. They looked impressive, waiting upon his regal words. But so many people had to stay in frame, and you could see them fidgeting, coughing, or whispering every time the image changed to them.

Nevertheless, Pheislant spoke, whereas Ailendamus was too late to join in. And the last Terandrian was…

Queen Geilouna of Desonis, who arrived third to last. And after so many impressive entrances, it seemed she could not upstage any of them; even Pheislant looked good. However, she had some of Foliana’s genius. Or Orjin’s madness.

She appeared, legs folded, reclining horizontally on a royal couch, a slice of cake on a plate in one hand, a fork in the other. On top of the couch rested one of her cats, idly staring at the people. And there, by her feet, was a sweet little Sariant Lamb, who made adorable eyes at the camera.

Fetohep, Tulm, and Eldavin stared so balefully that the little lamb fled, shivering, behind the couch, mewling cutely. It kept poking its head out, stealing the focus, until Earl Altestiel nearly kicked it accidentally as he stood behind his Queen. Because he was naturally in the frame. Queen Geilouna lifted one hand, lazily.

“Hail. Desonis rests with me. I wonder, shouldn’t you all find a seat or somewhere delightful to rest? I cannot imagine this will be a short discussion. I would love some wine, if it’s being offered. Would anyone like cake?”

Geilouna waved her fork at Eldavin, who was standing, and at the Dullahans and others. That was almost as charming as watching the Earl of the Rains sweep a bow to Perorn and Foliana.

“May I trouble you with a compliment, Lady Foliana and Strategist Perorn? I am a deep admirer of your campaigns and of the Titan himself. I hope you will remember me to him?”

Foliana muttered.

“Mm. Sure.”

“A greeting to you as well, Earl of Desonis. I have heard of the war commander who strikes like a storm.”

Tulm inclined his head a touch frostily at the Earl, who begged his forgiveness for the slight. The others were chattering, sometimes together, sometimes apart.

“Yes. An invitation to any Chieftain and tribe! Nerrhavia welcomes thee!”

Yisame tried to raise her voice, speaking to the Chieftains. Meanwhile, Pheislant’s King had the misfortune of speaking to Fetohep and Jecaina, because Fetohep was in a nostalgic mood.

“…And while Pheislant’s spires of light no longer exist, murals still stand of that great edifice. So for war, victory. For wave, smoothest sailing. For sky, clarity.”

Fetohep was reminding Pheislant of their glorious past, and their [King] was trying to signal his court to find him a [Historian] who could remember the fallen lighthouses rather than the ones that had been around here forever.

What a magnificent disaster. What a triumph! But the audience members, who were already on board with this gaggle of personalities and places, were not to be disappointed by the last two to arrive.

After all, when the second-to-last frame was filled, it was no ordinary monarch who appeared. No ordinary monarch could lift the ax that sat next to her throne. She wore no crown. Nor was her throne made of anything but simple carved stone.

Yet when the King of the House of Minos stood, she silenced all.

“The House of Minos has been called to stand for judgment. I am the King of Minotaurs. These are not my people. Yet I shall stand witness and judge the alleged crimes against the Gnolls by the Drakes. I shall take no side but truth and law and hold every person present to that standard. What say you?”

The thunderous address had a gravity apart from its sheer volume. The other rulers and leaders fell silent. Then Fetohep rose slightly.

“King of Minotaurs. Your Majesty, Inreza of the House of Minos. I greet the Arbiter of Minos. Your house has made war on this world’s enemies. It has marched to every shore. Brought low kingdom and wall, battled Dragon and Giant, Archmage and Djinni. No more fitting ruler to judge and speak can I name. Strategist Feshi has chosen well.”

The King of Minotaurs, despite her gender—since it didn’t matter—did not seem uncomfortable for her first worldwide appearance. It was the first time Feshi had ever seen her, though she had known the King was female.

Even so, Inreza was striking. She was a warrior, just like Flos and Fetohep. But the difference was that she was a living one. She was old, for there was gray in her hair. But what you saw most were the scars.

A massive one ran across her chest and down her side. Even as she breathed, you heard a rasp. And yet the giant ax by her throne was a copy of the one Feshi had once seen. The one she had thrown from the House of Minos. The one her [General] had borne into battle and returned to her at his end.

The King nodded to Fetohep, her eyes unwavering.

“I thank you for your address, King Fetohep. Pardon me for insult caused. As to your words…there are other rulers more eloquent. Others with fairer minds. Deeper understandings of morality and law. Yet you have the heart of it. The House of Minos has made war on great aggressors as we deem them. We have battled Creler and Goblin King. We have gone to war against the King of Destruction and Khelt when its ambitions grew to conquest. We have stemmed Baleros’ armies and sieged Wistram. We have fought across Izril and doomed Terandrian kingdoms.”

Her eyes flicked across the frames, and the rulers went silent. Fetohep’s eyes shone in their sockets. He spoke, slowly.

“Yes. King His-xe of Khelt would…remember the House of Minos. As would Queen Akhta. Would you like to know the words of the dead, if they could but speak, Minotaur King?”

She looked at him.

“I will ask them when I see them, Your Majesty.”

“Well said.”

Fetohep sat back. The Minotaur King inclined her head, and now there was a sense of expectation. It was Eldavin who spoke into the silence.

“To those who do not yet discern the crux of this gathering, it is simple. As before, a Gnoll, Feshi Weatherfur, has petitioned those gathered to make a ruling upon a great crime. The details shall be laid out, evidence given, and debated, as the Arbiter Queen once did.”

He indicated Jecaina, who inclined her head slowly. Eldavin shifted his gaze to the last panel, hanging silent and dark.

“But every judgment, in fairness, requires both defense and prosecution. Two Gnolls speak for this crime. One from Izril will defend these actions and allegations.”

Everyone leaned forward. Who would it be? Who had the wherewithal, the courage, and the understanding to stand in front of this decidedly unfriendly audience and defend what seemed very clear? Feshi had debated the names in the brief time she had, then the clarity hit her.

She had seen only one fit name. Well, a few, but her first choice had obliged her. He appeared without fanfare, sitting in, of all places, an empty bar.

Tails and Scales, the beautiful bar that had seen grief and desolation, but rallied. Pallass’ most famous bar no longer looked empty. It had been cleaned top-to-bottom, re-varnished, and the perfectly-worn seating inviting you in hadn’t been touched, but the menu and bar had been reorganized. It looked like it was waiting. For new and old customers.

For a new start. Yet only one person had rented it today. The Drake sat amid style, yet had refused to let anyone light the place up. He looked like the last customer after midnight into dawn, hunched, a single [Bartender] in the background.

He had a curious drink in front of him—one named after him. A strong spirit with a floating ice cube of sour liquid. If anything, it was impressively calculated. But the most impressive thing was that Rufelt hadn’t spit in Chaldion’s drink.

Chaldion of Pallass, the oldest Drake Feshi had ever seen, raised his glass slightly. Akrisa stiffened. Torishi glared, and the other rulers murmured. Someone clearly whispered in Desonis’ frame.

“Who is the Cyclops of Pallass?”

Everyone was silent as Chaldion slowly lifted the cup to his lips. He took a sip; no wine bottle was passed around here; it was long empty, and two more had already been decanted and passed out anyways. He spoke in his low, gravelly voice without even the pretense of looking happy to meet everyone.

“Hail, salutations, and so forth. Need we stand on ceremony? Or shall we retread evidence? Let’s begin.”

His eye patch was off, and a bright cloudy white gemstone eye stared at the audience before he calmly lowered the bit of cloth back into place. He never flinched as he met every gaze—his peers’ gazes ranging from hostile, impartial, and curious to amused.

If there was anyone who could defend the Drakes, Feshi had to admit, it was Chaldion. She might have done the Walled Cities a favor. The Dragonspeaker of Manus might have tried diplomacy. The Serpentine Matriarch would have certainly lost her temper, and Fissival was too close. Salazsar, a [Senator] from Pallass…but Chaldion was a [Strategist]. Did he see a [Path to Victory] here?

But here it was. Feshi sat back, shaking, as Yerranola massaged her shoulders and gave her a hug.

“You did it. There we are.”

Gnolls. They were in the Meeting of Tribes. Akrisa’s frame was moving, showing the Meeting of Tribes, Gnolls who wanted to get a word in. Very clever, that. Had Krshia thought of it? Finally, the world was doing what it should. Focusing on the Meeting of Tribes, rulers debating what had been done. Laying it out. Passing judgment.

Was it real? Was it just glorified attention with no real effect? No—for once, Feshi believed that this would be drama colliding with reality. Consequence meeting news and artifice. She bared her teeth.

“The Professor had better give me a good grade for this one.”

She was sure that, if he could see this, if he was alive—somewhere—he was watching all this, swearing that he wasn’t part of it.

And…laughing.

——

There was a war going on across the television networks. A war, but no amount of [Soldiers] would save you, no relics. Countless Drakes and Gnolls and people around the world watched a brutal battle in which the enemy was gutted and left to rot.

But what an unfair war! [Messages] were storming Wistram—only a fraction of them read—complaining that people had no voice. Which was always how it worked. But the Drakes, as a species, were accused of having manipulated magic and having suppressed the Gnoll population for generations.

And it was an ugly battlefield for them because they looked incredibly guilty, and popular opinion was part of this war as much as fact was. Also, Feshi had chosen her battleground and set it to the Drakes’ disadvantage.

Of course she had. She had invited one member of their population, two Gnolls…and a bunch of species and nations across the world who had every intention of being fair. Which meant they were probably not going to take the Drakes’ side automatically.

One defender. One Drake had to take on everyone else, defend his species’ actions—the magical crystal that just so happened to be there, and then, when destroyed, let Ferkr cast magic. You could make a stupid argument—and the Drakes had—that it was coincidental, Gnolls casting magic. That it was correlation without proof of causation. Gnolls might have been able to cast magic before that shiny rock was destroyed. How can you prove it?

Well, that kind of argument played well in a sympathetic crowd, but it got the Drakes slaughtered here. Grand Magus Eldavin proved that in the opening salvo. He adjusted some reading spectacles, held a scribed [Message] out like it was a bug, and spoke.

“I see a ‘Sir Relz of Pallass’ has the courage to dignify this twaddle with his name. Regrettable, that. How can we ‘prove’ the two are linked? Perhaps with something as simple as our minds, you imbecile. I do not need to prove every single thing beyond a shadow of a doubt. If you breathe, you can infer there is air. Arguing for complete proof is a child’s gambit.”

He burned up the [Message] with a flick of his fingers.

“Furthermore, I, as Grand Magus of Wistram—and I will call upon no less than four Archmages to lend credence to my words if you like—declare that the magicore crystal located underground, as observed, was, to the best of my knowledge, generating a magical suppression field. That is my testimony as magus, bolstered by the historical fact that Fissival has long had a network of such stones buried across Izril.”

Earl Altestiel raised an eyebrow.

“You could make the argument that, er, someone else buried the stones to implicate Fissival, Grand Magus.”

“Under Az’muzarre’s nose?”

That sneering remark came from Chieftain Torishi. Eldavin—he was in charge of giving those who asked for it time to speak—looked at Altestiel. The Earl bowed slightly to Torishi.

“I wouldn’t hide a single [Archer] behind an excuse that foolish, Lady Chieftain. But I am speaking for all hypotheticals.”

Eldavin conceded the point.

“We will consider it. But I will say, in my opinion alone, that the rest of these ancillary arguments are idiotic and should be ignored.”

The half-Elf swept back toward Chaldion, who had been silent as those ancillary arguments, sent in by Drakes, were laid out. The lone Drake with a perspective had merely grimaced when some of the really stupid arguments were read.

“We’ve set the stage, debunked foolishness. What say you, Grand Strategist of Pallass? Will you deny this, as some of your people do?”

Yisame was in full sway, fan open, expressing her opinion by expression even when it wasn’t her turn to talk. The Grand Strategist sat there, his one good eye glinting as Izril held its breath.

How could he defend the Drakes? How could he explain this? When Chaldion spoke, he revealed why they called him the Cyclops. Like Tulm the Mithril, like the Titan.

The Drakes’ great monster.

“Proof is an onus that’s a pain to produce. A judiciary will struggle to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Gnolls’ claims are true. I’d question that. But as a bit of propaganda, for public perception, why not?”

He waved that off, insolently. Yisame’s fan snapped open to cover her nose and mouth. Not to be outdone, Pheislant’s [King] snorted and sat back, arms folded. Which didn’t mean he wasn’t outdone, but he tried.

Chaldion ignored both of them. He looked quite deliberately at Torishi, then at Eldavin, then at the King of Minotaurs, eye steady. He took a sip from his glass, exhaled softly.

“Proof is such a tiresome thing. You will never get it fully, and even if you do, I assure you, the Walled Cities will deny it. Drakes will not believe you, and they will not be wrong. They didn’t have a claw in this. Drakes in cities far from Pallass, Fissival, Manus, and the rest will rightly say it wasn’t their doing. So let’s reframe the question. Why was it done? And now, ask yourselves this: By whom? Because let’s just say that one Walled City would not be enough.”

Dead silence. Yisame dropped her fan. Jecaina sat forward, and Fetohep waved away his goblet, looking as if even the immortal drink had soured on him. Torishi’s eyes widened. The Queen of Desonis gasped.

The sound was cut off a second later by thunder. The Seer of Steel had slammed his gauntlet down on the table. The babble of voices was so loud that Eldavin silenced it all.

And there sat Chaldion. If Feshi, watching, had ever doubted he was a monster like the other great [Strategists]—well. She had just watched him throw part of Izril to the wolves. And so brilliantly that she almost wanted to applaud him.

“Grand Strategist Chaldion! Are you implying that you know for a fact this was orchestrated by the Drakes?”

Chaldion raised his eyebrows as the King of Pheislant rose to his feet. He didn’t answer immediately—because someone was hammering on the door to the bar.

“Excuse me. It seems someone objects. That may be Fissival’s ambassador. Or a mob. Keep them out. Send for Magus Grimalkin and General Duln if they attempt to break in.”

He gave orders to an off-screen person, then focused back on the scrying orb.

“Excuse the noise. I am here as Grand Strategist of Pallass, Your Majesties. In the interest of Drakes, I must keep my people’s best interests at heart…”

He took another sip, from the second glass in front of him, water, and grimaced.

“But it occurs to me that saying nothing is worst of all. So—I am under truth spell. Skills, I have no doubt. Hypothetically, if I knew about any plot—”

Torishi roared.

“You knew?”

Chaldion waited, sipping his drink, and Eldavin silenced her section, though she began hurling things.

“Chieftain Torishi, you will have your moment, I promise you. Grand Strategist?”

“Thank you, Grand Magus. Let’s say I knew. Or uncovered it. Under truth spell…let’s say I knew of some foolishness. Something I would go as far as to say was the most idiotic plan—and I know idiotic plans. It is not in my interest to unveil it, even if I could do so without waking up with a dagger in my chest.”

Chaldion played with his drink.

“But if it came to light, and I sat before a grand jury, I might be able to admit I knew. Certainly that one Walled City maintained…something. And another Walled City, not Pallass…led the co-venture.”

Waxworks. The Minotaur King was leaning forward. Foliana actually picked up her orb to give everyone an unparalleled view of her ear.

“Which two cities?”

“Now, that would be a military secret, Chieftain Akrisa. But then I might tell you that every Walled City knew, or learned. After all, this is a grand enterprise. An undertaking, a plan that takes decades to set up. It would require the cooperation of local Drake cities—the Walled Cities with the means to do this and finance such a powerful network, as I’m sure Wistram could tell you.”

He glanced pointedly at Eldavin. The Grand Magus was just waiting. Chaldion sipped his drink one more time—the ice was melting, and its green melded with darker colors.

“And help from groups in starting the deception and keeping it going. Which, to be clear, under truth spell, wouldn’t be Walled Cities. Or Drake cities. Or Human.”

He waited.

Feshi suddenly felt like she’d been stabbed by her dagger. Her paws flew to her chest. She had just realized something, seconds before he said it.

“You clever old…”

Torishi stopped bellowing curses, and suddenly her head rose as if she were hunting.

“Did you just imply…”

“Excuse me, I’ll have a refill. I can’t say anything, Your Majesty of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. I am Grand Strategist of Pallass. Excuse me while I cough and look away. If I point as I’m doing it, think nothing of it.”

A few heads followed the Drake’s claw, which was pointed at a very sweaty monarch of Pheislant, despite his having done nothing wrong. Until they realized that Chaldion wasn’t being literal.

Somehow, uncannily, Chaldion had gone from being put on his back foot and outnumbered to having everyone waiting on his words. He was on the offensive.

“If you are aware of who is to blame, speak, Grand Strategist. Or damn Pallass by omission. You have already indicated that the City of Inventions knew of this action, admitted what has been done. You prevaricate to throw blame askew. Well done. The House of Minos shall remember all that is said.”

The King of Minotaurs’ hand tightened on her throne’s stone armrest, and Chaldion’s eyes narrowed for a brief second.

“Well, then, Your Majesty, I will be as straightforward as I am able to be in my position. Injustice was done. A conspiracy, some might call it. Analogous to the Circle of Thorns in the north. Hah. Every powerful entity makes plans in secret.”

He waved a claw, but the Seer of Steel interrupted.

“YOU MAKE A TOPICAL COMPARISON LIGHTLY. BUT IT SUGGESTS SOMETHING. DOES THE NORTH HAVE ANY INVOLVEMENT? OR DO YOU MERELY PUT THE IDEAS TOGETHER? ANSWER DIRECTLY, CHALDION OF PALLASS.”

Again, the Drake grimaced.

“Merely comparative. Very well. What I am sure about is this: no Walled City could do this alone. As I said, holding the Walled Cities as a whole, or Drakes as a whole, responsible for any actions taken is impossible. Misguided, though understandable. They had no role to play in orchestrating or implementing anything that might have been done. In the same way…there were beneficiaries of even ostensibly hostile actions against the Gnollish people at large.”

Chieftain Torishi choked, barely able to speak.

“You are suggesting…tribes were culpable in this?”

Chaldion flicked a claw back and forth, as if swatting at a gnat.

“I am not suggesting anything. Merely illustrating, Chieftain Torishi. Let me rephrase my statement. There was a benefit. To whom? Drakes alone? I can say definitively—no.”

“You are muddying clear waters. When a crapfish stinks up the catch, I do not blame it on shrimp.”

Queen Geilouna narrowed her eyes at Chaldion. Some of the others winced at her metaphor, but Chieftain Akrisa was quick to agree.

“You must offer proof, Chaldion. You cannot simply…hint. Who benefits? Why?”

Her eyes flickered. Tulm the Mithril hadn’t said a word, but he was holding his head, and his eyes were distant. He was thinking. So was Perorn, who had gone uncannily still, especially given the way Centaurs usually move around.

“Sounds tricky. I think she knows.”

The voice was a mutter. Eyes snapped sideways. Foliana blinked. Chieftain Akrisa’s fur rose.

“I don’t know what you…er, Three-Color…”

She trailed off, unsure how to address Foliana. And, moreover, because she was caught.

The giant Squirrel Beastkin chewed on her raw clams, inspiring paranoia in every person who loved clams. She stared back at Akrisa as she replied, that disconcerting stare of three colors.

“Yes, you do. Suggesting. You have something in mind. There. I was clever. Can I go now?”

Akrisa paled, but another voice interrupted, for the first time since this had begun. Despite her name, the youngest member of this group had been still, listening, and she chose her moment to voice her opinions well.

“I do not know this Grand Strategist. Nor am I as gifted in diplomacy as some of my peers. But it seems to me this is quite cunningly accusing Gnolls of conspiring. It astonishes me, frankly, Grand Strategist, that you would dare.”

The Grand Strategist raised an eyebrow at Jecaina.

“Your Majesty of Jecrass. Is the truth limited to your personal feelings?”

She flushed slightly, and lifted her chin. Fetohep’s golden eyes flashed a moment, but he waited. Jecaina could take care of herself.

“I do not think it is my personal feelings that change the truth, Grand Strategist. We have seen Gnolls slaughtered on Chandrarian ground without mercy, and a nation burned for it. I do not even know if the King of Destruction was wrong in his wrath—only how far he took it. We have seen innocent tribes slaughtered, a people deprived of magic, and clear culprits. Only, you have the gall to turn the blame back on Gnolls? Without proof? Let us have some, or we should call every statement into doubt. As well as your feelings, if any, on the people you share this continent with.”

Chaldion’s expression was unreadable, but he didn’t look quite as sanguine as before. He danced like a striking viper, but the others had nets, and some were experts at this.

“Proof. If I said a name at this moment, it would be war.”

And like a [Magician], everyone was back to listening to Chaldion again. The Grand Strategist pursed his lips. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he refused to speak.

“Let’s say there was a plan. There were names. I remind you all that everyone who took part…initially…would be long dead by now. I advise you to think historically. Let me also be up-front. There have been times when the facade cracked. Actions were taken.”

He forestalled another furious outburst.

“Here is one such point in time. One moment.”

Chaldion had pulled something from his pocket. He slowly lit a cigar and blew out some smoke.

“Wistram.”

“We have no involvement in a Gnollish conspiracy. I will swear on behalf of every current Archmage and have each one attest to that. No faction in Wistram was aware of this, and I have conducted an internal purge and review.”

The words were out of Eldavin’s mouth in a second. So fast that most people failed to check his words fully. Chaldion gave him a slight nod.

“Yes. But Wistram was involved. Four decades ago. The Wistram-Gnoll rift.”

Queen Geilouna muttered darkly.

“Which hampered magical trade and made it harder for Gnolls to—”

Chaldion raised a brow again.

“There was groundwork before. The idea that Gnolls couldn’t become [Mages] was already quite prevalent. Rather, if you recall history, that was an attempt to send a Gnoll to become a [Mage]. It failed. Why? There is a secret here, isn’t there, Grand Magus Eldavin?”

“Yes. It seems so. And it seems that it behooves anyone curious to investigate this incident.”

Eldavin flicked his eyes to the side. Chaldion let the cigar heat up; it would not last as long as it was meant to. It didn’t matter. Now he spoke more quickly.

“So. A conspiracy long laid. Walled Cities…other parties. You don’t know how. And you don’t know why. Something was gained. There was a larger reason—well, I suspect the Walled Cities saw it as straightforward. But what would someone else gain?”

Queen Yisame could hardly contain herself, eyes flashing with what could be read as fury or excitement.

“Tell us already, and spare the secret! No mystery lasts forever! Skip to the end!”

Chaldion paused. He seemed to take umbrage with Yisame above all others; as if her lack of a concise verbal jab was more offensive than her pressing him.

“Your Majesty. I am protecting the interests of the Walled Cities. Should I be more direct, it would be dire for my people and cities.”

The Queen of Nerrhavia’s Fallen threw back her head. Her eyes opened, and behind her, six [Handmaidens] snapped open their fans like the wrath a small hurricane.

“Dire? More still than everything you have admitted? Do not presume, Grand Strategist. You are here before a council of judgement.”

“In what court? I see only arbitration. There is a difference between public opinion and law, Your Majesty. Nerrhavia’s Fallen does not command Izril.”

Chaldion was turning away when Yisame spoke.

“No secrets lie buried forever, [Strategist]. Tyrants die, even if immortal, even if we must claw and tear them from their thrones, and kill them a thousand times. This is the very truth my kingdom was founded on. So speak your truth. Or else Nerrhavia’s hordes will pry it out. Not as invaders, but because we were invited by the rulers of this land. Just so as we march shoulder to shoulder with the House of Minos, Dullahans, and Humans.”

The Grand Strategist of Pallass stopped, a claw on his cup. He looked back, and a light shone from under his eyepatch. Yisame looked straight past him, fanned idly by an attendant.

“…Forgive me. That overreaches. After all—I did not ask those with the authority, nay, the right. Chieftain Akrisa, Chieftain Torishi. What will you? May I offer you an armada?”

She smiled, as the other leaders looked at Yisame, and her vainglorious nation cheered their [Queen]. Yet of the two Gnolls…Torishi spoke.

“Your Majesty. Not yet.”

Chaldion saw Torishi rise. The Chieftain of the Weatherfur tribe looked at Chaldion.

“Grand Strategist. You play with words well.”

“Thank you, Chieftain Torishi.”

She gave him a bitter look.

“You hide dark truths well, until it becomes convenient for you to tell all. I wish I could say this was Pallass, and turn the wrath of empires on you. But it is not Pallass, as you so carefully say. You throw other Walled Cities on the pyre, and hint. I expect no great revelations—not in common words from you. Nor can I ask for armies and war, because my heart does not want these things. Not now. Not until great decisions have been made, and you will not guide us far, only hint.”

Chaldion frowned, because there was no direct opening there. Torishi just looked at him.

“Would that I could say this was Pallass’ way. Crafty and manipulative. But I know Pallass. My tribe will not forget this day, nor your part. You are not Pallass, though, because we have shed blood with Pallass. Our great daughter, Garusa Weatherfur, fought with Thrissiam Blackwing against the Goblin Lord and perished there. She did not run. Nor did her last letter to me ever say she found Pallass’ [General] wanting. We have known Walled Cities as enemies and friends. This day? I say the Cyclops of Pallass sullies its name in my eyes. Speak.”

It stuck. Everything else had slid away. Water on oil. Arrows bouncing off a magic shield. Save for this. Chieftain Torishi sat, cross-legged, and looked at the old Drake with the hope of exactly nothing in her gaze. He frowned. Choosing his words, displeased. Perhaps it changed nothing in what he said next. Perhaps…everything.

Across Izril, Drakes were waiting. The High Command of Manus, the Serpentine Matriarch, Wall Lords and Ladies of Salazsar, Oteslia’s First Gardener—and far more—appraising Chaldion. Was he selling them out? Or doing the only thing that could be done?

He hesitated, and it seemed to those watching that this was the moment when he was truly conflicted.

“The Walled Cities have known many things for a long time. They buried this secret. Quite literally. Other groups helped them. Something was lost. Something was gained. Even I’m not sure of the…exact price. So when you go digging, ask yourself what was traded. Gnollish magic for centuries. A suppression field can hold it back, but the energy still went somewhere. Where? Perhaps someone hid something. Perhaps it’s needed. Used. Every Walled City has a secret.”

His one eye swept across the camera. Someone quietly breathed an oath.

“Traitor’s scales. Does he know?”

Dragonspeaker Luciva rose slightly. She looked around the High Command of Manus.

“Does he…? Is he referring to Rafaema? Or…”

She swung her gaze around. Was it this? How far would Chaldion go? But even the other Drakes and Gnolls looked at her. What was he talking about? Manus? Or something else?

“Too many secrets.”

The Drake grinned like a devil in the dark bar as he spoke. Light shone from under his eye patch, and his scarred face twisted. He looked at Torishi and nodded once.

“Let’s have some come to light. We’ve known too much. Leaders. It’s coming out. We have always known of things like this. Now you see a buried crystal. But you already had the first hint. Or haven’t you looked into it? They were right there, too. Buried but never forgotten. One after another. You found them first. The greatest enemies of Gnolls. Greater than Dragons. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

Heads tilted. For once, no one did know. Akrisa and Torishi slowly blinked, then grew visibly uneasy. You could see their fur beginning to stand on end.

Geilouna whispered to Altestiel.

“What is he talking about?”

The Earl of the Rains glanced up and realized that if he spoke, it would be to the entire group.

Fetohep knew. He focused on the others, seeing who else did.

Tulm the Mithril was nodding, like someone watching a masterpiece being completed. Perorn got it with a quiet snap of her fingers. Outside of Izril, the only other person to put it together in a flash was Eldavin, who cursed. The rest didn’t know because it wasn’t yet a word spoken aloud. Chaldion drew it out, a single word, in an exhalation of smoke.

“Raskghar.”

Someone dropped a mug. The sound of shattering glass was the perfect note to fit that moment. Chaldion nodded.

“Ask yourselves who forgot they remained. Gnollish memory is a famous thing. Someone has taken a quill to it, which I quite applaud. I couldn’t have done so well myself. That is my testimony. Now, if you will excuse me, I believe I may soon be court-martialed or summoned before the Assembly of Crafts. Good day.”

He cut off the image of himself before anyone could speak a word. Then it was madness. Then everyone was speaking, demanding that Chaldion be brought back, demanding that other leaders of Drake cities, who were suddenly very reticent, be put on. It was done. Some people watching—even enemies, people who found the entire business as reprehensible as could be—still felt the urge to stand up and applaud.

Earl Visophecin of Ailendamus and the Blighted King even did. Applaud a craftsman on the stage, an artist of intention. That took all the momentum in the world and trained it…

Where? Drake plots. Lack of magic. Traitors?

Raskghar.

Somehow…he had thrown water into the air. And now they saw it. Like the Stitch Witch of Terandria, who decided she had an interesting project as well. Who smiled. They all saw it. Glittering drops of water on a tapestry of very different things.

All…somehow…connected. Now tug at one string and find out where it led.

If you dared.

——

Every Gnoll in the Great Plains was practically glued to the drama unfolding between Chaldion and the council Feshi had convened. It was about them. It was a clue to a greater story. Treachery and betrayal and mystery.

And why not? It was the most important thing that could happen today. For almost all of them. What could be more important than that? What could be…?

“Mrsha?”

It was just one word. A question. A name.

Her name.

Mri was her name. The little Gnoll girl wasn’t too attached to it, but no one had actually said her real name since they had come to the Meeting of Tribes. Her real name was dangerous. Who knew it?

Well, anyone who’d heard Drassi’s broadcast, maybe. But Mrsha wasn’t that spectacularly rare of a name for a Gnoll. Why apply it to her?

For that matter—who could recognize her? Tkrn had recognized her face because he had visited the inn where she stayed for a long time, saw her face every time she was there, up close. He was an exception. With her brown fur, the Stone Spears tribe markings, who else could…?

The strange Gnoll had picked Mrsha up. She’d been so terrified of Chieftain Xherw that she hadn’t moved, just grateful that he shielded her from Xherw’s gaze somehow.

Because…he was a Chieftain himself? The Gnoll had the appearance of one, though she didn’t recognize the blue dye and markings of his tribe. But he had a bodyguard, and he’d been right next to another Chieftain—the famous Chieftain of the Steelfur tribe, who’d gone off without giving Mrsha a second glance.

Yet this Gnoll had gone pale.

He had picked her up, spoken her name—and now he grabbed her and hurried her off. Mrsha didn’t know if she should fight back or not.

How did he know her name?

She began to squirm as she realized she was getting farther from her protectors, Vetn and Tesy, but the Gnoll had her firmly in his grip.

“Excuse me. I have to go. Please. Please.”

The Gnoll Chieftain started. He almost dropped Mrsha, then swiveled her around.

“That’s impossible. You can’t—”

He almost let go of Mrsha, but then his eyes focused on the speaking-crystal necklace. He stared at Mrsha’s fur.

“You can’t speak.”

Mrsha’s eyes widened. She definitely didn’t know this Gnoll…did she? He wasn’t from Liscor. But how did he know she couldn’t speak? She hesitated, but if she triggered her speaking crystal, her canned speech would be obvious.

Twice confused by her ‘voice’, Chieftain Mrell stared at Mrsha. And again, his eyes darted to her face, with faint recognition but no true certainty. He saw something, but he wasn’t certain.

What he looked at was…her fur. Her brown fur. And more than that, the gray markings on her shoulders and arms. Mrsha saw the look and went still.

Slashes of gray, arrows in stylized patterns across her fur. Any Gnoll of age could apply them, though most only did as a matter of rank or for special occasions. Mrsha had thought it would be an honor, a Good Thing. No one else knew what they meant exactly. Perhaps someone might recognize them, but the markings were those of her tribe. And her tribe was dead.

“Stone Spears. It’s Stone Spears’ markings. And you…”

Yet he knew it. Mrsha stared wide-eyed up at Chieftain Mrell. He looked at her, then recoiled.

“You’re the runaway child? You w—”

He recognized her at last as the kidnapped girl! Mrsha squirmed harder, kicking at his arms, but now Chieftain Mrell’s head snapped around. He whirled, largely unnoticed among the Gnolls chattering about seeing Fetohep of Khelt and the Stargnoll. Then he began to run.

“Chieftain Mrell? Something wrong? Who’s the child?”

One of his guards spotted him as the Gnoll hurried with Mrsha still struggling in his arms. The Gnoll was panting.

“I—nothing. I know this…send a messenger. I’m returning to my quarters. No meetings with other Chieftains.”

“A famous [Merchant]—”

“Later. This is important. I need you to send a runner to the Sofang tribe. Now. Tell them I demand that Prha come here now. To me.”

“Yes, Chieftain.”

Mrell. Prha. Those were stupid names. Mrsha…thought they sounded familiar. But how?

Something was stirring in the back of her mind, but she was reaching for it and…not. At the same time. What a curious thing. It was almost as if she knew. But she didn’t want to.

Was that why she let him carry her out of danger into a foreign tribe’s camp? Gnolls greeted this Chieftain Mrell, and he answered with strained casualness. He was clearly well liked, and it was a fairly prosperous tribe, from what Mrsha saw. Smallish, but it looked pretty wealthy. She heard a lot of hammering, smelled smoke and metal—a crafting tribe?

“Seal the camp. No visitors. I’m—working on a change to Demas Metal. Tell everyone I will see them later. Tonight, if I can. This is a…guest.”

The Gnoll strode into his tent, issuing rapid orders. The guards stared at Mrsha, but they didn’t question the orders. Mrsha found herself in a Chieftain’s tent, carpeted by expensive tapestries depicting Gnolls in battle. There was a single rolled-up cot and samples of that strange Demas Metal stuff.

Was this the Chieftain behind the blades? She sat there, staring up at him. The Gnoll went to the tent flaps, closed them, fumbled with something, and hung it up.

A [Silence] charm. Mrsha thought she should be worried. It was likely he had realized who she was somehow and was now going to kill her.

Except that he knew her tribe. He knew her name. And she knew him. He looked back at her, at last, and she saw Mrell flinch.

He wore a band of Demas Metal around one bicep, a Chieftain’s loose garments over his top, and a loose kind of kilt open at both sides, made with cotton and richly dyed. He smelled like coal and fire, and he was young.

Older than Erin and definitely older than Lyonette, but younger than Relc. That was how Mrsha thought of it. A Gnoll man out of his true ‘young man’ years but as young as Chieftains got.

He had brown fur, like trees in a forest, and ears that were forward and a bit pointy. Mrsha thought they looked familiar too. His eyes were brown, like every Gnoll’s. No odd rings or quirks. But they were wide.

When he spoke, his voice was a growl, and sometimes he slurred his r’s a bit more than usual, but he enunciated with care.

“Are you…Mrsha of the Stone Spears tribe? Child? Girl? You—I know you.”

He hesitated. Mrsha had hold of her speaking charm. She raised one arm to cover her mouth, pretended to cough, and triggered it.

“No.”

He started. Oh, how he jumped! He did not expect that, but then he stared. He crouched, slowly, at the other end of the tent, near the flaps.

“No. Did you say that? Please, say it again. Are y—do you know me?”

His voice was so strained. Mrsha bit her tongue.

“No.”

Again, she hid her mouth. Chieftain Mrell squinted.

“You’re not saying that. You can’t be. Not unless…it’s not coming from your mouth. What is that?”

Mrsha bit her tongue. Darn! He was a Gnoll, and his hearing was too good. Even a Human could probably have understood where the voice was coming from with this much scrutiny. Yet…

“I’m Mri. Hi. I have to go. Excuse me.”

This time, he saw that her lips didn’t move in sync with the ‘voice’ coming from her speaking stone. He straightened, slowly.

“It is…”

Mrsha glanced around the tent. She could run. She could tunnel under the tent if she had to—and Qwera had given her an emergency wand. Heck, she could howl and probably receive help if he didn’t stab her within five seconds.

Why did he look even more afraid of her now? This Chieftain Mrell hesitated, took one step forward and two steps back. It seemed to Mrsha that if she could but speak, he might bolt for the hills.

There was a funny feeling in her stomach. Chieftain Mrell was speaking. He kept starting, stopping. Mrsha stared at his face. Was he handsome? Nah. She didn’t care, and that wasn’t it. His ears. Now, where had she seen ears like those?

“Please, listen to me. You’re from the Stone Spears tribe. You’re…Mrsha Stone Spears. Your name is Mrsha. Did you change it to Mri? When I heard there was a white Gnoll named…I’ve met Gnolls named Mrsha. I didn’t think of it. I didn’t want to think of it. Stone Spears is dead. They were wiped out.”

He knew her tribe. Mrsha’s eyes opened wide. She stared at him. This time, without opening her mouth, she touched one of the runes.

“Yes.”

Mrell jumped. He went on after a second, swallowing.

“Th—your Chieftain was Urksh. Chieftain Urksh, [Mining Chieftain]. He was in his sixties. A good Gnoll. He had a scar along his chin here. He was Chieftain of your tribe. He…raised you.”

Yes. Yes. Mrsha’s chest began to hurt. She remembered Urksh. Oh, it felt like it had been every day she cried and remembered him. When had she begun forgetting? When had she stopped thinking of him every second?

She was exactly who he said she was. It came back to her, living along the High Passes, being scolded by Urksh, going hunting, the tribe moving from place to place. And then had come winter, and out of her boredom had come the most interesting person ever. A young City Runner, rescued out of the snow, followed by Winter Sprites…

Then disaster. Goblins.

“Stone Spears died. A Goblin Lord’s army wiped them out. Almost all of them. Zel Shivertail fought the Goblin Lord, but they all died there. That’s…that’s what I heard. From the last survivors.”

Mrsha’s eyes widened. Survivors? Mrell hadn’t blinked. She stared at him. Survivors…?

But now he was speaking.

“I know this. I’m…from the Stone Spears tribe. I was. I’d know those markings anywhere. I thought the only survivors were a handful of children, and I met every single one. Believe me. I never thought—Liscor? I saw a white Gnoll and never looked close—they only had a sketch of you on that Drake’s report. Do you understand what I’m saying? Do you…know…?”

He was waiting for something. It was building behind Mrsha’s eyes. Something pounding in her head. She just held still. Sitting there in the center of his tent. Why did everything he say ring a bell? Ears?

There was something in his tent that made her look around. Since it included a workshop, he had a number of things. Tools for creating powders, tools for working on the Demas Metal stuff, even books. And because he was at the Meeting of Tribes, he had formal clothes laid out ready for use, and, of course, a mirror.

No vanity like one Lyonette would consider proper, or makeup—just something to remove bad scents, shampoo, a brush tangled with hair, and a mirror. A big mirror for a Chieftain. Mrsha looked into it.

There were those ears again. She stared at them, quite puzzled. Now, how could that be? Her ears were smaller than Mrell’s, but they had the same shape. Gnollish ears had more variance than silly Human ones. And these were tipped with gold paint. They twitched as she looked at them.

Her ears. Slowly, the little Gnoll in the mirror reached out. Mrsha felt her paws touch her ears. Then she looked up.

Chieftain Mrell stood there. Like he’d seen a ghost. Like he was incredibly afraid, incredibly…guilty. Mrsha looked at his face. His fur looked familiar. Normal for a Gnoll. She stared down at her dyed fur, a copy of the fur she’d had growing up. It was close.

His ears looked like hers. Now she listened to what he said. He was from her tribe. Stone Spears. He…wasn’t anymore? It was rare for a Gnoll to leave a tribe. But it happened.

If you wanted to go your own way. Or, sometimes, if you were exiled.

Stone Spears had always been good with stone. Mining. Mrsha looked at Mrell.

“Urksh cast me out. You were too young to even walk on all fours. Me and Prha.”

What stupid names. Mrell? Prha? Why did they sound odd together? Almost like…

Slowly, the [Last Survivor] of the Stone Spears tribe, or so she had always thought—the girl who had received white fur for doom deferred, who had lost her people, her home; who had gone to faraway Liscor and found her mother, another home, friends, magic—looked up.

Mrell stood there, pale under his fur, looking at her but unable to meet her eyes. She listened to what he was saying and finally, finally understood what he had not said.

Was too ashamed to say.

Slowly, Chieftain Mrell of the Demas Metal tribe, a new tribe started by a single Gnoll who had discovered a fantastical new metal, walked forward. Not directly at Mrsha. He sat down in a chair, legs collapsing under him. He was shaking.

He was an outcast. From the Stone Spears tribe.

Urksh never talked about it. He had only told Mrsha about it a few times, and the others, even the children, didn’t bother Mrsha about it. Urksh only told Mrsha, once, when she was very little, that her parents were gone.

She thought that meant they were dead. The second time, he told her they had done a bad thing and been exiled.

She thought that meant they were dead. Mrsha had never thought of them again. She had her tribe, Urksh. Later, she had Lyonette, the inn, Ryoka, Erin, Numbtongue, Bird, Apista. When Stone Spears died, so had every connection to the old Mrsha with brown fur, Mrsha of the Plains Gnolls.

That was that. Never once had she expected…never had she dreamed of finding someone like the strange Gnoll standing here. Yet. Here he was.

Her…

“You’re Mrsha. My—”

Mrell spoke at last, and she didn’t know how long it had been. He didn’t say it, either.

The little girl looked up at the Chieftain sitting in his chair. She stared at him. Then, at last, she moved. She stood up on two legs, and he flinched.

“I—”

Words failed him. Disbelieving, Mrsha took a step forward. She looked around.

Chieftain of the Demas Metal tribe. Chieftain of a tribe she hadn’t known, but a growing one. Come here to become famous. An important Gnoll. Here.

Urksh hadn’t known about him. She was almost certain. This…he was just here. Out of nowhere. No warning. No signs. And now?

She looked at him. Walked over to the chair. Stared up at him. Mrell looked down at her and didn’t smile.

He looked pale, shaky, like he was about to be sick or run. And as Mrsha looked at him, his head jerked to one side. He had stared at her so fiercely before. Now, up close, as he saw the light of comprehension in her face—suddenly Mrell turned into a statue.

“I—”

She waited. Saw a brown eye flick her way, then skitter away and stare right at the tent flaps. Mrsha waited. But he didn’t look at her.

Like Ekirra when he was being naughty. Mrsha reached for her speaking rune. Then she dropped it. She stood there, waiting.

He never moved. He was frozen. Outside, Gnolls were watching the scrying orb where Chaldion spoke. Neither Mrell nor Mrsha moved. It didn’t even matter.

Mrsha waited. She counted ten seconds. Then twenty. Then thirty. Then…she slowly spread her arms out.

It was not a hug. It was a gesture.

Here I am.

She waited.

Mrell didn’t move. Mrsha stomped her foot, and he jumped. He almost glanced at her. But he didn’t.

Now she was angry. The little Gnoll girl grabbed hold of another chair and yanked herself up. Now she stood there, right in front of him.

I’m right here.

She couldn’t say anything. But she knew he could see her. Yet those eyes didn’t swing her way.

“I—didn’t expect—”

Mrsha clapped her paws together as loudly as she could. Mrell started again. She pointed at her chest.

Look at me. Look at me when you speak!

“Your m—Prha is coming. I sh—”

He began to rise. Mrsha lunged forward. He jerked, and she grabbed his clothes. Now she was touching him. He looked down—jerked again, like he was being zapped by a spell. He stared right over her head. She twisted the clothing.

Look down.

And he did not. He tried, but it was like a magnetic force was dragging his head up. His gaze darted around. Mrsha punched his shoulder. And still, Chieftain Mrell never looked at her. He glanced at her face. He tried to say something.

He refused to meet her eyes.

He didn’t want to meet her eyes.

He was afraid to meet her eyes.

He couldn’t meet her eyes.

Which was it? Whichwasitwhichwasit? How dare you? Her mouth opened and closed, but the adult sat there, unable to hear a word. Only a frustrated half sound. A coughing growl. She clawed at her own throat, trying to make the words.

He saw that and almost reached for her. But when she looked up, he flinched away again.

Mrsha had never…not Tkrn in the prison. Not the worst Drake. Not Lism or anyone else.

She had never met such a coward. Him? He came here and just picked her up and—

Her head swung around. Now, now she saw it all clearly. She looked. Saw.

What a fancy tent. How rich it was. She knew rich. She stared at his clothing, letting go of it. The armband, a signal that this was what he was selling.

Demas Metal. Now, there was a name that screamed pride. Confidence that the name would one day equate to fame and fortune. Not ‘Stone Spears’. Her tribe had never been rich.

She had never really cared, but she had known what it was like to want a bit more in the food pot, to have Urksh worrying about where the tribe would go. They had lived along the High Passes with dignity and pride. They had laughed and life had been fun at times, hard at others.

This Gnoll? He was rich. He had a growing tribe and a special metal. He had come here, to the Meeting of Tribes, to be richer still. After he had left the Stone Spears tribe. Been exiled.

She sniffed the air. It smelled like metal and burning and soot. Even that was like home. Stone Spears had always had a knack for minerals and mining. These were talents he had learned from her people. But he had no right to them.

Urksh had cast him out. He had said Urksh’s name, and he had no right. This Gnoll had been cast out of his tribe. If other Plains Gnolls knew, would they want to join his tribe, buy his metal? He hadn’t even…he’d left…

Suddenly, Mrsha didn’t want to be here. She looked at Mrell and let go of his clothing. She backed up. She stared at him—then bolted for the exit.

“Wait—”

Mrell moved. He was out of his chair and after her in a flash. Mrsha was almost out of the tent flaps when he grabbed her by the sides. She whirled, punched, kicked.

Let go! Leave me!

She wanted out! Begone! She wanted to find Vetn and tell him to bring her to Oteslia. Now! Nownownownow!

“Wait. Don’t go. I’m sorry. Mrsha, I’m—”

Mrell was desperate all of a sudden. He picked her up, and she bit him. She sank her teeth into his arm, and he cursed. Then—stopped.

Mrsha looked up. Mrell had almost yanked his arm free, but he stopped. She felt his muscles tense—then relax, and his face took on a pained, reserved expression. As if it didn’t hurt. As if he was going to just take it…

She bit with all the strength in her jaws and saw his face contort. Mrsha sank her teeth deeper, gnawing, as if she were trying to tear his wrist in two—

“Stop!”

He tore his arm free. She tasted blood and spat a clump of fur out. Mrell stared at his bloody wrist.

She snapped again, and this time he jerked his arm away. Mrsha kicked and punched, and he held her back. He had to drop her or she’d have bitten his other hand. She landed hard, and Mrell moved toward the door. He already had a healing potion out.

“Please, listen to me. I don’t know what to say, but—”

Mrsha spat on his carpeted floors and watched the dribble of bloody saliva give the image of a Gnoll on the beautiful carpet a funny face. She snarled and looked for the entrance. She darted left, and he blocked the way. She could slip past him, but then the damned Gnoll spoke.

“Prha is coming. She’s your mother. Mrsha. My daughter…”

Her eyes widened with outrage. What did he just say?

My daughter. Someone else had said that. And she had every right. Lyonette, her mother, said that. What did he just…

“Mrsha, I’m your f—”

She stopped going for the door. Mrsha put her paws over her ears. She saw his lips move. Saw him looking at her.

He walked over. Mrsha got to her feet, tried to walk around him. She still had her paws over her ears. He blocked her way, said something.

She couldn’t hear. She would not hear. Mrell bent down. Desperately, he made a gesture.

Listen?

No.

Mrsha tried to run left, but he was too quick and was blocking the way. He stopped her. The Gnoll man took her arms and tried to pry her paws from her ears. Mrsha began to kick at his groin, and he held her up.

“Stop it. Enough! I know you have every right to be angry. Let me explain.”

He had both her arms in his grip! So Mrsha twisted and kicked him in the chin. He dropped her with a cry of astonishment. [Relc Kick]! Relc—

He went to grab her again, and she tore a wand from its hiding place under her fur and aimed it at his face. Mrell’s eyes widened, and he ducked as a single arrow of stone shot past him. It hit the wall of the tent, but the thick fabric only tore a bit upon impact.

Chieftain Mrell dove sideways, wide-eyed.

“Magic? How—?”

He went to tear the wand from her paw but then yanked his paw back. Because Mrsha had just slashed at him with a huge, sharp thorn protruding from her paw. She snarled, slashing, and he took a step back.

They were frozen like that. With one paw, Mrsha menacingly waved the thorn she’d conjured. She dropped the wand to fumble at her side.

Mrell was unmoving, watching her. He saw the little girl fumble for her belt pouch. Her hands were trembling because she was so angry, but when he tried to move, just a bit, she slashed at the air.

She’d drawn blood. A slash across his shin was leaking red into his fur. Mrsha ignored it as she dropped something on the ground.

Mrell saw the little girl spilling an assortment of strange objects. Crumpled paper, a roll of parchment, a bottle of ink, a quill…she grabbed the quill and unstoppered the inkwell after two tries, all while holding her other paw out. She wrote as fast as she could, but so neatly. So…well.

In a cursive script. It was a laborious process that took nearly five minutes, handicapped as she was by one paw. But what she finally threw at him—or tried to—was a single slip of paper.

Paper didn’t fly. Mrsha had to blow on it, then crumple it up and toss the small wad at Mrell’s feet. She glared at him as the Gnoll hesitated. He bent down and unwrapped it as she edged sideways.

He read the beautiful calligraphy, albeit in smudged ink on crumpled paper.

I have no father. I have a mother, and her name is Lyonette. Leave me alone, stranger.

Mrell stared at the piece of paper, then the girl moving for the exit. Mrell spoke, and now it was without hesitation, desperate.

“We—didn’t know what to do. We thought you were dead at first because you never cried. You couldn’t. You howled—but the [Shaman] thought it was ill luck.”

She had been about to leap past him. Mrsha hesitated, every muscle tensed. She looked back at him, eyes wide.

What?

“Prha and I were young. I was successful. Rising in the tribe. We didn’t know what to do, and the [Shaman] suggested—there is a custom.”

What?

“I was a fool for even dreaming of it. But we did. Almost. Urksh found out right before it happened.”

The words spilled out of Mrell like a confession. Not one Mrsha wanted to hear, but she heard it, as if it were filling the air with poison. Faster and faster.

“He cast us out. Me. Your mother. The [Shaman]. A few other Gnolls who went with us—I never went back. Your m—Prha and I split up. We couldn’t stay together. Not after that. I only met her later. I was wracked with guilt. I was. But I didn’t deserve to go back. I became a wanderer, took up smithing. I founded this tribe.”

Mrell pointed at the ground, at the tent.

“It was luck. I thought of you—wondered—but Prha wanted nothing to do with me. Urksh wouldn’t acknowledge me, even when I sent him a [Message]. I never went back. I meant to, after the Meeting of Tribes. I planned on meeting Urksh here, maybe even…then I heard of the Goblin Lord.”

Mrell was panting now. Shaking.

“I was too late. I didn’t sleep or eat for nearly a month. It was my fault. I looked for the other survivors of the Stone Spears tribe, but they thought you were dead, and Urksh…they told stories about a City Runner who brought the Goblin Lord and a blizzard and…if I’d known you were in Liscor, I would have found you. Mrsha. I am so sorry. You’re…the white Gnoll, aren’t you? The one all the tribes are hunting?”

She stood there, across from him, at the entrance to the tent. Just staring as his words came out, until there was nothing left, until they stopped. Mrell looked at her, reaching a paw out, but afraid to draw near.

“Mrsha. Just wait. Prha will come, and then…I don’t know how you got here, but if one of the traditionalist tribes finds you—wait. I failed my tribe and you and Urksh. But wait. Please.”

He looked at her, straight in the eyes.

“I will protect you.”

The little Gnoll girl stood there, staring up at Chieftain Mrell. Neither one moved or spoke. Then, abruptly, there was a voice that broke the bubble of magical silence.

Mrell whirled, and a voice began speaking, higher-pitched, angry. It had an unusual cadence to it. Slower, then faster near the end of a sentence, especially when the speaker was angry. Which she was.

“Mrell! How dare you summon me here! I won’t answer to you. Leave Sofang out of it. You—”

A Gnoll came storming into the tent, a warrior of a tribe Mrsha didn’t know. She was leaner than other warriors Mrsha had known and had a bow on her back, a shield and short-spear too. She had eyes only for Mrell, so she missed the girl standing there.

If there was something familiar about her, it was probably her paws? No—her fur was the exact same color as—

Prha strode toward Mrell. She was snarling, furious. She saw Chieftain Mrell’s face and hesitated.

“What’s your problem? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Did I ruin one of your precious deals?”

“Prha. I found her. Look over…”

“Found who? Don’t bring my tribe into this. You shouldn’t have flaunted your famous Demas Metal tribe if you didn’t want to see me. I hope your metal shatters in the forge. You…”

Prha glanced behind her and finally saw the girl with the gold-tipped ears standing there. She had been staring at Prha, face blank.

“Who’s this?”

She turned to Mrell, but he just stared at her. Like he’d seen a ghost. The female Gnoll lost some of her bluster. Prha looked back, focused on the girl, but it wasn’t as if she could suddenly figure it out.

Her mind focused on what was easiest to put together first. Her angry look turned to puzzlement. The little girl was doing something with her bag of holding, but what was that on her fur? The gold ears were one thing, but…

“Are those Stone Spears markings? How…is she another survivor? Did you bring me here to—”

“Prha.”

The word was so strained and so intense that it stopped her again. This time, she looked. And like Mrell, she went completely still.

She had the same look on her face. The one of sheer disbelief. It played across her features. Shock, disbelief, and guilt were all there, too, just as they were on Mrell’s face. But Prha displayed a simple emotion above all.

Fear.

“Her spirit haunts me.”

Prha whispered. Mrell jerked—because he had not expected that. So did the girl. But then Mrsha moved, made the thorn disappear, and rubbed at her left ear. Because it was itchy.

That broke Prha out of her trance. She looked at Mrell. Then she cried out.

“Mrsha—?”

The girl flinched. But she looked at the two adults. Two parents. Someone else’s parents. Slowly, she brought out the object she’d reached for. Looked at Mrell. That Gnoll woman.

“I can protect you.”

What audacity. What a terrible twist of fate. Mrsha was shaking. Her ears were filled with the sound of blood roaring, and she saw Prha saying someone’s name. She looked at Mrell, then lifted something.

Her wrist. Both Gnolls looked down and saw Mrsha pour a single drop of something onto her wrist, onto the fur there. From a little bottle Qwera had given her and told her not to use unless she needed to change something.

It sank into her brown fur, the fur she had had all her life, which she had inherited from those two. And, before all three’s eyes, the fur on her wrist changed color. The brown of the forest turned pale. Then white.

Pure white. Prha stared at the patch of white on Mrsha’s arm. Then she recoiled.

“Doomb—”

She stopped herself. Mrell himself stared at the white patch. Mrsha looked at them. She covered the spot with her paw.

“Mrsha, wait. We’re your—”

Mrell began. Mrsha whirled.

Too late. She ran. She ran, and a second later both her parents burst out of the tent after her. The Gnolls of the Demas Metal tribe saw a little girl running, racing into the Meeting of Tribes, as fast as she had ever run. Away, away from these impostors and this lie.

Away.

——

Revelation. Chaldion had spoken and put into motion an inevitable event. Nudged it in the direction he thought would be best.

The tribes were full of voices. People stood around, stunned, arguing, disbelieving. They barely noticed the little Gnoll girl racing through the midst of them—until a Chieftain and hundreds of Gnolls followed after her.

At first, she just ran. Away from that thing. Then she ran for someone she knew, anyone. But she didn’t know this place, and she was terribly afraid that she’d run into a hunter.

“Get her! Grab her!”

She heard Mrell’s voice. Desperate. Afraid. For her? She didn’t care. Even knowing the danger, she didn’t want to be anywhere near him.

But it seemed that more Gnolls had heard and seen the chase and were coming after her. She dodged left as someone whirled.

“There! That one!”

Someone dove for her. She saw an adult warrior. No. Mrsha leaped over him, and now she was fleeing for her life.

Another tribe had found her! She looked around for the one thing that would keep her safe. Silverfang. Or the Golden Gnoll. She had to find them.

“That girl. Grab her, on the Chieftain’s orders!”

And it was not a Demas Metal Gnoll who spoke, but another warrior from another tribe. A stranger. Mrsha ran left, wide-eyed. This was her end? She looked around for that glitter of gold. She saw something bright. Golden. Was that…?

No. Not Qwera. Mrsha desperately raced past Gnolls forming a wall and signaling others who joined in. She raced left, saw she was headed for another tribe’s camp, and saw more Gnolls running to block her in. She frantically spun around.

“There she is. Get—”

Mrsha leaped as someone raced toward her. She bounced, pushed off a chest, and vaulted over the Gnoll’s head. For a second, she did a flip through the air, just as Wer had taught her. The [Grasshopper’s Run]. She strained, though she had not the Skill. Fly. Back to her mother. Let me l—

A pair of paws caught her. Someone leaped and yanked Mrsha out of the sky. Paws dragged her to earth, and it was not Mrell—who stopped, suddenly afraid—or Prha, or any Gnoll Mrsha knew. A Chieftain calmly caught Mrsha and held her up.

“Is this the one?”

“It’s her.”

Mrsha went still. She looked for that golden glitter, but it was only fake gold on fur. No Qwera.

Why, then, is there still gold? She looked up and, through the clouds, saw something shining down.

A golden ray of light. And the Chieftain who held her was illuminated by it. It played over her dyed fur, and she smiled as she turned.

“Is this the girl, niece?”

Feshi Weatherfur exhaled. She looked at Mrsha and the little white patch, quickly blocked by Chieftain Torishi Weatherfur’s paw. She nodded toward their camp and all the Weatherfur, Ekhtouch, Longstalker’s Fang, and Silverfang Gnolls who had come searching for her.

“That’s her.”

“Demas Metal’s here. I recognize Chieftain Mrell. Signal our people. He cannot shout, or it will be dangerous.”

Torishi murmured. She lifted Mrsha up, into the ray of light.

“I found the troublemaker! All’s well!”

Mrsha stared around. Troublemaker? Me? She saw a figure starting toward her, face filled with relief.

“Mri!”

Vetn? And there was Qwera, pushing through the crowd, and Tkrn, and that Human girl, and…Mrsha looked at Torishi, and the Weatherfur’s Chieftain smiled.

“Hello. Don’t worry. You’re safe. Are those Gnolls after you?”

She looked past Mrsha at Mrell and Prha. Mrsha didn’t know what to say, so Torishi nodded in answer to her own question. She looked tired. Worn from her duties on the scrying orb council, though it was still ongoing. She jerked her head at Feshi.

“Let’s go, Feshi. Come, child. You’re safe now.”

Mrsha didn’t know if she was. But then Weatherfur Gnolls were around her, escorting their Chieftain to their camp and her private Chieftain’s tent, telling the others all was well. And…escorting Chieftain Mrell and Prha forward. They stood in her tent as Torishi spoke.

Feshi, standing behind her Chieftain, Mrsha, sitting just behind the impressive Chieftain of the Weatherfur tribe. Warriors standing outside, and an audience behind them, lined across the entrance and walls, her friends, Vetn, Qwera, Tkrn, strangers like Inkar, all of them listening, trying to understand what was playing out before their eyes. Torishi knew. She looked at the two Gnolls standing in front of her, almost as if they were on trial.

“Chieftain Mrell. I trust you will listen first. Speak after. I do not know what you may think—but this child is under Weatherfur’s protection. Weatherfur, Silverfang, Ekhtouch, Longstalker’s Fang, and Liscor’s.”

Chieftain Torishi had Mrsha right next to her. She did not know everything. She looked at Mrell warily, and he didn’t know what to say. So Torishi went on.

“Before you say anything—this is a time of great change. Everything is unrest. If you declare her…anathema, as some tribes might, I will not stand idly by. I would not have tribes do battle. So I ask you to listen.”

“No, Chieftain Torishi. That wasn’t…”

Feshi glanced at Mrell, who was lost for words. She was behind Torishi, eying the Weatherfur warriors who were far back…but would notice any slight gestures she made. Vetn had run off somewhere to tell Krshia, who was still with Akrisa, debating the issue worldwide.

Krshia didn’t know. Torishi didn’t know, because the sun shone down as radiantly as the intense smile on her face, ready for trouble, a warning glare. Such powerfully bright light. Her wariness was because she had no idea.

And what could Mrell say? He looked at Mrsha.

“It is not that, Chieftain Torishi.”

“Really? Then what?”

Qwera looked straight at Mrsha, bending down to whisper.

“Mrsha, are you all right? Did he do anything? Or are we gutting him?”

Mrsha shook her head, but she didn’t know…

Mrell looked at Mrsha. He looked at Prha, who was shocked, unable to process it all—the tense Gnolls, Tesy with his paintbrush held in a threatening manner, Torishi’s intense readiness…and then looked down at his paws.

He still held something. A crumpled bit of paper. He stared at it…then, without a word, held it out. His paw shook.

Torishi frowned. But she stepped forward, took the paper, and read it. The Chieftain of Weatherfur stared at the words.

“I hate cursive. What does this…?”

Her brows furrowed together. She looked up at Mrell, twisted her head to Mrsha. It was not a hard thing to put together, but the message needed to be understood. Then she got it. She nearly dropped the bit of paper.

“Oh.”

Qwera didn’t know what Torishi now knew.

Ysara was here, and she had none other than the Demas Metal blade aimed not so casually toward the very Chieftain who made it. What a funny coincidence. Ha. Ha.

Qwera addressed the child.

“Mrsha, tell me what happened. Why are you shaking? Ysara, get ready to stab him.”

Qwera was watching as the little Gnoll child wrote. Trying to explain. Trying to encapsulate all that had happened in such a short amount of time.

Mrsha looked up as Torishi sighed. Slowly. Painfully.

“Lower your sword, Merchant Ysara. This Gnoll is not…an enemy. I think.”

Mrell looked up as Ysara hesitated. The woman raised a brow, but for answer, Torishi passed her the bit of paper. Feshi walked over.

You couldn’t understand until you saw the clue that put it all together. But the paper was one of the fastest ways to get it. That, the message…Mrsha felt her shoulders shaking. She heard Feshi muttering, a gasp.

“Who are…? You mean…?”

Tkrn and Inkar walked over.

Gireulashia arrived, striding through the knot of guards like a giant. One drew their blade on her, and she flicked it out of the warrior’s grasp.

“Peace! Ekhtouch is here to help. Where is the girl? What’s happening?”

She stopped, spotted the paper, read it backward through the transparent paper in Torishi’s spotlight, and looked around.

“Hm. You and you.”

Gireulashia looked at Mrell and Prha. She seemed pleased with herself…then realized she was going to have to wait for everyone else to catch up. She tapped Inkar on the shoulder and whispered to explain.

“That’s this girl’s…”

Lehra Ruinstrider barreled into the tent a second later with Suxhel, who did the same trick, immobilizing a guard before they could block her with one huge eye. The rest of her team slowed, but Mrsha heard none of the explanations, the chatter.

She was trying to write something to Qwera, but she couldn’t. She saw Torishi walk back toward her and crouch.

“Mrsha Silverfang? Or is it…Mrsha of The Wandering Inn?”

Tkrn must have told her. She had it wrong. It was Mrsha du Marquin. That was all she wanted, though she could do without the ‘du’.

That was all she wanted. And now…Mrell was looking at her. Prha was beginning to reach out but was held back by a wall of Mrsha’s friends and protectors. Torishi glanced at them.

“I take it you two have never met.”

“Chieftain Torishi. The story is…”

Tkrn gasped loudly.

“He’s the father who got exiled? I thought he was dead!”

Mrsha flinched. Inkar looked at her, then instantly she and Lehra stomped on Tkrn’s feet. Gireulashia raised her foot as well but decided against it.

Now it came out: Mrell and Prha were in the center of another kind of spotlight. What else was there to do but explain?

Mrsha didn’t hear it. She heard him speaking, in a shaking voice, saying it less coherently than he had said it in his tent. She didn’t listen.

She had a quill in one paw and a bit of paper in the other. She was still trying to say something. She had dropped her activation rune. And that wasn’t her voice anyway, just some prerecorded messages. Only what should she say?

Her…parents—the Gnolls who had brought her into this world, rather, and then abandoned her—stood here, in Torishi’s tent.

Chieftain Mrell, who had saved her from being seen by Chieftain Xherw. Who looked guilty in his successful tribe. Prha, who had thought Mrsha was a spirit.

I will protect you. Words many people had said, that Chieftain Mrell had said. The thing he called himself. Which he had no right to say. Lyonette had earned the right.

Mrell was staring at Mrsha. Longingly. Desperately.

Mrsha refused to meet his gaze. Now. Now, only now…she began to write. Her paw began to shake. Her shoulders trembled.

Tears fell out of her eyes. Only here, only now, as Chieftain Torishi, basking in the sunlight coming through the top of her open tent, bent. She did not know Mrsha, but her face was kind.

“You have traveled a long way, Mrsha. Even here, much has happened. Too much in one moment. What is it you wish to say?”

Mrsha wrote, hand shaking. Tears rolled down her face, dripping from the fur around her chin. She held something out to Torishi. The Weatherfur Chieftain read it, slowly.

Now—at last, this was the only thing Mrsha could think to write.

I want to go home. To Liscor.

She was done. She wanted to go home, now. With her mother. She wanted to go home, go back in time, lie in her room, and erase this place from ever having happened. Even if it meant that she never would have met Qwera, Vetn, and Tesy.

Torishi sighed. She looked back, and the sunlight was not the harsh light of warning. Even so, Mrell and Prha flinched. Urksh had looked like that once.

It was the look of a Chieftain. But Torishi did not shout at them to leave. She looked at Mrsha. Then she walked around the tent, to the scrying orb that still broadcast the arbitration council, now engaged in arguments, debate about what should be done.

There was dissension in the Meeting of Tribes. Confusion. Anger. Could there truly be traitors among them? Torishi looked at the white patch on Mrsha’s wrist. And there lay an entire world of knowledge.

When Torishi spoke, she sounded very tired. She did not address her words to Feshi, or to Mrell, or even to Mrsha alone. Just to herself and the tent. The world and no one.

“We are a bitterly cruel people. We put tribe in front of person. We quarrel, and we diminish in our smallness, our shortsighted pride. We have descended into madness. And we are hated, hunted by other species. We hate and hunt each other. There is little good, on those dark days, that I can say about Gnolls.”

She looked up at the sun, which vanished behind a cloud, then turned her head. Mrsha saw the light vanish. Rain did not fall. Torishi shook her head.

“But that is what I can say of every people who has ever lived. We try. Sometimes, in the trying, we succeed. And we are glorious. Right now? I look at a brave girl who survived killers coming after her. Who traveled across Izril and survived, despite all odds. Who has a story that stretches before and after her and already makes her something of a legend.”

She looked at Mrsha, then pointed to Mrell and Prha.

“Over yonder, I see two very small, very petty Gnolls who did what the worst of us have always done.”

One of the two stirred. Prha opened her mouth.

“Hey…”

Torishi’s single glance made her fall silent. She walked back over to Mrsha. The girl did not want to look at either of her parents, and Torishi knelt.

“I know this is a painful moment for you, Mrsha. So listen to me. Close your eyes.”

Mrsha did. That was easy. Torishi murmured, very gently.

“There sits Chieftain Mrell of Demas Metal. And, I think, Prha of Sofang. You know what they are. What they claim? You know that too. I do not know all of what they said. But you sit in my tent, in my tribe. So I say this: as you close your eyes, you do not need to open them and see them again.”

“Chieftain Torishi—”

“Be silent, Mrell. Weatherfur is speaking.”

Chieftain Eska snapped.

Torishi waited.

“If you do not want to, Mrsha, when you open your eyes, you will not see them. If you do wish to—and I believe someday you should—Chieftain Mrell will be there. You will speak with him and he with you, if you so desire. But remember. No matter what you choose—you do not owe either one of them anything. You do not need to love them. You do not need to listen to them.”

Mrsha listened desperately as that kind voice went on. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Neither of them can take you or force you to do anything. They can hurt you, by kindness or thoughtlessness or cruelty. What you take, and what you give, is your choice. I only ask that you think. You do not need an answer for all these troubles. Just tell me when you are ready. What do you want, right now?”

Mrsha trembled. Because that was exactly what she wanted to be asked. She reached out, and a big paw let her squeeze it. Mrsha cried. She wanted to go home. And she wanted her mother.

She knew what she wanted right now. Slowly, Mrsha wrote and gave Torishi a bit of paper.

——

Feshi Weatherfur saw the others talking in her camp. Such an unlikely alliance. Ekhtouch, famously reclusive; Silverfang; Longstalker’s Fang—and Demas Metal.

But not their Chieftain. He had left, as had Prha, to their own tribes, silent. Neither had the words yet to begin to comprehend this moment.

Only three Gnolls remained in the tent. One was Torishi, the other Feshi. The last was the Gnoll girl with white fur, albeit covered by her fake brown fur. Feshi couldn’t take her eyes off her.

Tkrn had only said a few things. But his remarks had been like the Professor’s stories—here was a girl who had survived Goblin Lord and Raskghar.

Doombringer…no. Feshi listened. That was what Torishi had done. Feshi had been afraid of what her Chieftain would do, but now Torishi sat with Mrsha, who had stopped crying and was blowing her nose. Torishi was speaking, softly.

“I was once told there was a time when Doombringer was not the name they called you. But we have forgotten…I know part of why we began hating your kind. Such terrible days—but it was not your kind’s fault, nor was it ours alone. It was a tragedy, and we must not let it repeat itself.”

Torishi had been a [Shaman]. Yet Feshi had known with every fiber of her being that Torishi would not kill a child, white fur or not. So she came over as Torishi stroked Mrsha’s head.

“But you shall not die. That is my promise. And it is written twice, because we were wrong about magic. Silverfang showed us the truth. So when Krshia Silverfang and Tkrn shout that we have been fools, I listen. Here is my niece, whom I trust. Do you know her?”

Mrsha looked up. Feshi bent over and smiled.

“My name is Feshi. You’re Mrsha, aren’t you?”

The Gnoll looked at the famous [Strategist]. Yet Feshi didn’t think Mrsha was the one most impressed by the meeting.

They had much to tell each other. But not now. Today was a day of great revelations. Great news. Things coming together.

Too much. So when Feshi took Mrsha’s paw and led her from the tent, the others blinked at the strange girl.

She had…brown fur. But someone had dabbed green and red on her and other colors besides. She had gold ears, courtesy of Qwera and Weatherfur.

Inkar clapped her hands together.

“Oh! How smart!”

Feshi had covered Mrsha’s white patch.

Torishi came out of the tent.

“We have much to do.”

“You have never said truer words, Torishi.”

Eska walked over. Torishi smiled.

“But not we as in, we here. You and I, Eska, we have much to do, yes? This child will go with Feshi. And I entrust her to her guardians, who will not let her out of their sight.”

Vetn and Tesy flushed, and Mrsha was amazed they still had their ears.

Qwera nodded.

“I won’t let her out of my sight.”

Tkrn promised too.

“Or mine.”

Torishi raised an eyebrow.

“All of you might be just enough. But I think we have less to fear now, yes?”

What? But Mrsha was right there, and she had her magic wand, her true nature hidden by paint, but…everyone looked at Mrsha, who rubbed one red eye. What did Torishi mean by that?

As if in reply, as the light faded over the Meeting of Tribes, Torishi led Mrsha and Feshi out of the Weatherfur camp. And there Mrsha saw a sight to take her breath away.

The Gnolls had stopped watching the council on the news. They had broken up, but they might reconvene tomorrow. Certainly Walled Cities and tribes would shake and tear apart over this. Something had begun.

But anger and rage could only last so long. Right now, there was a feeling in the air. Solemnity. A quiet. But not silence.

As light faded from the sky, and even as Torishi’s place in a permanent spotlight of her own weather turned quiet and still, darkness fell over the camp.

Yet no one lit torches or braziers. No one reached for a magical lantern or asked a [Shaman] to illuminate the darkness. Instead, Mrsha saw, in the crowd of gathered Gnolls, someone lift something up.

It was a wand. Bought at a markup from the Golden Gnoll or donated by Wistram, found, and held in an uncertain grip.

A Gnoll with a wand. Slowly, the tip began to glow with a faint green light. Not the green of any color Mrsha could name. Not the green of any artificial screen but a color mixed in a shade only produced by magic.

It filled the darkness, touched the silent figures. One light. Others held wands. But there was nothing.

Then…someone lifted a staff. They raised it high overhead, planted it, and a shimmering small fire of blue insects, beautiful little insects that flew and melted, rose upward. Mrsha saw another Gnoll, standing on a platform, lift a crystal ball that began to glow from no power but the one in its holder’s hand.

So few. So far between. Yet the light shone all the brighter because it was so dark.

Mrsha saw more lights appear, each one different. And she saw a Gnoll looking down at her.

Feshi smiled encouragingly. Mrsha hesitated—then plucked something from her side. A hidden object that no Gnoll could use.

Or—at least until a moment ago. She raised it, slowly, as in the center of the Meeting of Tribes, Ferkr of Pallass raised her paw skyward and conjured a vast globe of light.

Mrsha’s wand—well, the wand she’d stolen from Pisces, but technically he had given it to her later—rose into the air. It produced a green-yellow light, like blossoms in spring. Torishi looked up and smiled as the tendril of light grew upward, like a plant. She called out as she and Feshi lifted Mrsha to their shoulders.

“Look upon this child of Weatherfur! Look and know the truth of it forever! Let them never lie! Never shall we forget this injustice! Never!”

Some Gnolls took up the call. Others just looked at Mrsha, many with tears in their eyes.

In the distance, a Gnoll, a Chieftain, stood and saw the distant girl. Chieftain Mrell’s eyes fixed on her. Right there. So far away, yet so close.

A little Gnoll girl. With a shining light from the tip of a magic wand.

She gasped, and he heard it in that quiet moment. A small intake of breath, wondering.

Mrsha du Marquin looked around, and there they were. So many faces smiling at her. For having magic. Despite everything that had happened, as she sat there on the two shoulders, she felt it. A beautiful connection with everyone here. Mrsha looked at Tkrn, at Vetn, standing next to Tesy as the Drake painted the scene and showed it to Gireulashia, who was leaning over to watch, and Lehra waving Suxhel’s wand and grinning.

She was among her people. Mrsha breathed out. And then she finally saw it.

Gnolls, a group of them, pushing through the crowd. Led their way by a pointing Gnoll. One of them cried out and began running, pushing other Gnolls aside, racing toward her. Mrsha felt herself being lowered, and she ran forward so Krshia could sweep her up in her arms and kiss her and hug her properly.

That was how Mrsha found Krshia. That was her first day in the Meeting of Tribes.

That night, she ate with Krshia and Feshi, who were listening and reading the notes she passed around, as Vetn clammed up about his real profession and Gireulashia played with Inkar’s iPhone, listening to ‘computer’, ‘movie’, and ‘inn’ with ears that twitched.

But everyone listened, putting together a story to bind all other tales together into one, connected by a common thread. And though there was much more that happened that was good—and she knew she would have to see Mrell again, and there was more to worry about and do—for today, this was enough. Mrsha fell asleep in Krshia’s arms.

Not before she had done one last thing, though. One last super-important thing.

She sent a simple [Message] this time. No games. No plots. No cursive. It had one recipient, and it was something only that recipient would understand. To Lyonette, in Oteslia, her daughter wrote:

I’m here. Find me with everyone, Mother. I miss you.

Author’s Thoughts:

There exists a guidebook of grammar rules. I believe it’s Perdue or something. It indicates, among the many rules, that you should end quotations with punctuation inside the quotation marks. Like ‘I write like this.’

…It is disgusting, I refuse to do it, and I will not bow down to the tyranny of some random people who sound like a weird cheese you put into a fondue telling me how to write. Similarly, I do other things that are not grammarly correct, but are my style.

Ahem. All this to say that I felt bad when Barbara got her edits back to me, because the one thing I did have to disagree with in her first draft was her notes on dialogue. And that’s my fault because I have not told any of the three editors that I use a stylized dialogue with no tags. That’s not her fault; it’s on me and I’m going to remember with those in the future.

I also feel bad, sometimes, because when I write these edited chapters, I’ve felt like I’ve flipped a coin. Either it needs huge work and substantive edits on a plot/narrative level like Interlude — Pisces or it has really good bones like this one and Erin’s chapter.

I don’t write a ‘meh’ chapter, I guess. But each editor has done something rather different and this time, I was introduced to an amazing line edit job. I don’t know if that’s the term, but if you looked at the original chapter and this one, I think you’d find more differences on a line-by-line level than the other two chapters combined.

It had to be at least a thousand comments, I think. So many that when I uploaded it to Google Docs, it actually started crashing the browser. It was a huge amount of work and I wonder if you’ll see the changes because I think it tightened up prose and changed comprehension immensely.

Which is a lot of what I learned. More than anything, I have a problem with a staccato narrative and I sometimes forget to clarify when I write for like 7 hours straight. That’s…honestly something I don’t think I can fix on a first draft, but I will keep it in mind. And that’s why editing is so useful.

A huge amount of effort, such that I think that this kind of chapter would go really well with someone like Andrea reading it in audio because it’s just improved. Tightened up, things fixed. Except for the names. Nothing will save Andrea from Klbkchhezeim. Or Nalthar…Nath…I’m going to introduce his cousin, Androitixc’uleoum-adus.

The point is that I found that I could ‘trust’ Barbara’s edits, which was really good given how many there were. Signs of a good editor is that you can re-write in my narrative style, which she did. I was very pleased to work with her! However, I think the process had to be a killer for both her and me—I spent four hours going through the edits and I cannot imagine how long it took to write.

More than anything, this is what I want for a chapter that matters. And I think this chapter does matter. I hope you agree, and also remember—I wrote this exactly one week ago. This was fast editing, and good stuffs. Get an editor. Maybe don’t pay them at a contest rate. I hope you’re now looking forwards to the next edited chapter—they make me push harder and I think they’re all some of my best. Thanks to Barbara, me, and me and Barbara and not you because you didn’t write this or edit it. But maybe thanks for reading.

–pirateaba

Unedited Chapter and Cover Letter are combined in the following link.

Password:

aThousandChanges

https://wanderinginn.com/2021/10/27/8-49-m-unedited/

Lyonette by quenesu!

Twitter: https://twitter.com/qenesu

Fetohep by Dr.replig8r!

Imani and Palt, Elir and Hexel, and more by ArtsyNada!

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Ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/illudanajohns

Commission info: https://i.imgur.com/OmNDuK8.jpg

8.50

Chaldion of Pallass was a bastard. Not in the original meaning of the word, which had everything to do with genealogy and was such a Terandrian word.

Simply in the pure force of what it meant. There were other words that could be used. Chalk-assed, coal-hearted tunnel weasel were milder epithets. The really bad ones could literally singe your ears if someone with the right Skills said them.

However. Sometimes you needed the bastard around. The monster who saw the defenses overrun, heard something coming up—twenty thousand Crelers, maybe. He still had nightmares, and they weren’t about the Crelers.

Sometimes you needed someone who shut the gates in front of the people screaming to open them. Regardless, it had little to do with him.

Oh, perhaps he was a Chaldion-expert, in the sense that Chaldion had been one of the people to persuade him to move to Pallass. You could argue his longer lifespan meant he’d chronicled the Grand Strategist’s rise, and he remembered stories about that Drake when he was in his prime. And even then…Pelt had been old.

He was only half-watching the scrying orb, and he was annoyed at his apprentices for begging to watch it. But they were…getting decent, which meant they would rather miss anything than take their eyes off the steel. But they did listen.

Pelt, the Master Smith. Pelt, formerly of Deríthal-Vel, one of the greatest names alive to wield a hammer—well, among mortal smiths. A boast that only meant something if you forgot you would always be inferior, and rightly so.

But it had gotten to his head, once. Pelt. [Hammer of a Hundred Metals]. He looked old, now. His hair hadn’t turned white, only developed more grey than pepper. He was short, ‘only’ five feet tall; you could get shorter, so Dwarves were not exactly as diminutive as their names suggested.

Not anymore. He wore thick clothing, an apron over cloth. Plain colors darkened by soot, which was what he smelled of at all times. He didn’t care about his appearance, but the forge kept him at least smelling of that.

Mostly, though, Pelt sometimes saw himself in a mirror and saw what nigh on two and a half decades of drinking did. Even so—he remembered Chaldion, and that Drake had aged more poorly than he.

“Turn it off, apprentice.”

He barked at Emessa, his Drake apprentice. Pelt was no longer in the mood to listen. She hesitated.

“Something wrong, Master?”

One of the Gnolls glanced at Emessa and she avoided meeting the other woman’s eye. Pelt just grunted.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

Drakes had done a terrible thing to Gnolls. Or perhaps there had been traitors. Even now, the Arbitration Council was meeting for a second day, but the dramatic footage with Chaldion was playing again.

“It’s the same story. Damned treachery. Schemes. That Drake’s at the heart of it. You—girl. Stop swinging on the metal that hard.”

The Gnoll woman ducked her head, but for once Pelt didn’t threaten to kick her out and never let her take a turn in his forge again. The other apprentices went back to their stations as Pelt looked them over.

Some were masters of their own craft, over Level 30. They had begun coming from further north and south now. To meet Pelt and apprentice themselves for a time.

That was…unfamiliar. Pelt had never had apprentices like this. Which might surprise someone until you realized—he had been the best smith. The one who struck Adamantium and forged the greatest pieces, alongside the [Forgemaster]. Apprentices? They should have been so lucky.

Even now, he didn’t teach them what he could. He could have told them every secret of metal he had ever learned; no one would stop him. But pride did.

They were not worthy. Their steel wasn’t fine enough; they would disgrace greater metals, even if they copied the basic techniques.

Pelt though…he glanced at Emessa. Nevermore would he forge with his kind. Never would he retire in fame and fortune and glory in Deríthal-Vel. So, then…he had taught one apprentice the secret of Dwarfsteel, which one young man called ‘Titanium’ and Pelt had a different word for.

Kevin. Pelt glanced around and his mood soured abruptly. He stalked over to forge after forge, and began pointing fingers.

“Your hammer hold is weak. That finger. Move it. You with the idiot hat. You’re cooking the metal by a degree or two.”

“I—I’m sorry, Master Pelt. I can’t tell. It looks—”

“Don’t look. Feel the heat. Your eyes? I knew blind smiths who could tell when the metal was ready to strike!”

Pelt roared. The apprentices hunched over as he walked around. Pelt stomped left, right, and then grew tired.

Kevin was gone. Solar Cycles was running…but Kevin’s helpers were frantically taking over and Hedault had to help manage it. No word from him, only cryptic notes. Everyone in the forge dearly wished he would show up—if only because Pelt was less grumpy with Kevin’s ability to soothe him, and in his absence, he was taking it out on them.

Still. Pelt went back to the orb which Emessa had yet to actually turn off. She was staring at a map of possible sites for more of Fissival’s crystal network. Pelt snorted.

“Apprentice.”

“I’m sorry, Master—”

“It’s the same story. Turn that…volume thing lower, and put it in another room if you idiots have to watch. I’ve seen it.”

The other apprentices looked at Pelt as he stomped back to his station, where he was forging identical gears. It wasn’t hard; he waited for the rough shape, then cut perfect teeth into the gear. Kevin had said it was amazing that Pelt didn’t bother to use a mold, and he could work to the level of a machine’s precision despite hand-forging everything.

The Dwarf had told Kevin it wasn’t special. Just Skills. He was so fast, though, that his hammer would sing for mere minutes, then he’d put the gear in oil to cool and for finish-work, and continue watching his apprentices.

Now, he leaned against his anvil. At length, Emessa did dare to ask.

“You’ve seen the broadcast, Master Pelt? Or has this happened before?”

Pelt looked up. He glared…but glanced at the scrying orb and grunted.

“How old do you think I am? I haven’t seen that. But I’ve seen the same thing. Drakes and Gnolls. Humans and half-Elves. It’s not new.”

That was when he did feel tired. It was too nostalgic. Pelt scratched at his beard. He saw some of the others—Human, Drake, Gnoll, even a few Dullahans—all watching him. It was an odd mood that had taken him, but the Dwarf went on after a second.

“That bastard—”

“Chaldion?”

“—that’s what I said. He knows something. There’ll be blood before the month’s out, one way or another. I don’t have to watch to know what’s coming next.”

“But the Arbitration Council is coming to a ruling…”

“Phaw. They’re not Gnolls. They make a big show. They don’t speak for either species. It’s a waste of time. Nothing changes. The Meeting of Tribes…that’s where change’ll come. War or revelations. Not that.”

He pointed at the scrying orb. Some of his apprentices listened with keen ears. After all, Pelt was very high-level, and that apparently meant he was wise in all things.

What a joke. All Pelt knew was metal. But you had to give it to him…he frowned down at a side project.

“Hrmh. So what’s the auction at, apprentice? Are they done or am I still waiting?”

Emessa blinked at the change of subject, but hurried over to the ledger with the [Messages] she kept.

“…Two more days, Master. It’s narrowing down, but I can’t tell who’ll win.”

“And no one’s even damn well telling me what it’s going to be? Halberd? Sword? How many weapon masters are in it?”

Pelt had pulled out something that made the rest of the apprentices nearly miss their swings. They couldn’t help it. They stared at…a small amount of metal. Very small, really. You didn’t need much to make a sword if you didn’t burn or waste it; a blade should be light, not a block. However, this was no crucible of steel, even steel as pure as Pelt could make it. It was not Mithril, which in and of itself would be remarkable. Not even a rarer alloy like Truegold or Dwarfsteel or…

It was a deep red with fiery orange. It was, in fact, rather dull unless you polished it up, and even then, heavier than steel, and frankly less beautiful than many magical metals. The raw stuff was so plain people took it for cheap clay. But that was because regular people didn’t have an eye for metal.

To any one of Pelt’s apprentices, the metal he placed on his anvil and glared at was the stuff of stories. Rarer than diamonds. Tougher than almost any other substance in this world when forged right. The sign of true mastery.

Adamantium.

Most of that rare metal was used for relics, objects forged centuries or thousands of years ago that circulated very rarely. It was so rare that few ingots of the stuff ever appeared.

Yet due to a sudden discovery in Salazsar, Adamantium was back on the market and every famous [Smith] was buying it up. Whether they could forge it was a different matter. In fact, there were only two blocks of the stuff ready for the hammer in all of Izril.

One sat on that very anvil, a small block. The other? The other was in the possession of Maughin of Pallass, the famous [Armorer], and best smith in the city now that Pelt was gone. It was a challenge. A stepping stone to greatness.

“…I count at least one Named Adventurer famous for being a [Swordmaster], but the Iron Vanguard is arguing over it. The Seer of Steel or maybe one of their generals? And there are still several nobles from many nations who have a bid—and Rhir—and a dozen nations…”

“Not the Seer of Steel. That giant uses a hammer. I couldn’t make one out of this. Damn. Just outbid the others, already!”

Pelt had this piece up for auction, and he’d make a fortune on the commission when it got to him. In the meantime, though, he was unable to start working on it. In his pique, he took the Adamantium and tossed it across the forge.

“Master!”

Emessa and the other apprentices were horrified. Pelt snorted.

“It’s Adamantium. Stop looking horrified. If I could break it by tossing it, better it broke then!”

To prove his point, he kicked it into a corner. Then he turned. The scrying orb was still shining at him and his glare made Emessa watch his hand warily; Pelt could throw his hammer with pinpoint accuracy.

However, Pelt stopped as he caught sight of another Gnoll chieftain talking. He tugged at his beard.

“The Meeting of Tribes. Wait. Apprentice?”

“…Yes, Master?”

“Did that sample arrive yet? The one you managed to get in secret?”

Heads rose once more, and this time with more knowing. Emessa nodded eagerly.

“I did, Master. Do you want to see it?”

“Sure.”

Another part of smithing was…corporate espionage. And if you laughed, it was because you had never seen [Smiths] stealing each other’s techniques, metallurgical achievements, and so on.

Pelt normally didn’t bother, since everyone tried to steal from him. Yet he had let Emessa purchase one new metal he’d heard about. She brought him a wrapped bundle, and he weighed it in his palm without unwrapping it, critically.

“So this is Demas Metal, eh? From the…”

“Demas Metal tribe, Master.”

“Stupid name. They think they’ve come up with a new alloy. Well…Demas. Damned name. Feels lighter than steel. Balance is…a bit off.”

It was a dagger, but Pelt just lifted it, muttering, making an assessment by holding it. He was already angry.

“Damned name.”

“What’s wrong with it, Master? Is it a metal that’s existed before?”

“Demas Metal? No. Never heard of it!”

Pelt snapped, and Emessa nodded, not sure why it annoyed him so. Nor was Pelt willing to explain. He just held the dagger, already pre-disposed to disliking it.

If this is some mithril alloy with cobalt or something like that instead of an actual discovery…he was going to ruin that tribe. The Dwarf yanked the cloth off, took one look at the metal, and blinked.

“—the name of hairy hammers is—?”

His apprentices peeked up and saw him flipping the dagger. Running his fingers along it, sniffing it, even tasting it gingerly. It was a blue blade, set into a simple steel handle with a common guard. But the metal was a cloud-blue that shifted depending on the position of the moons. It was clearly magical, and Pelt’s look of pure ire instantly changed the moment he laid his eyes on it.

“Master?”

After ten minutes of scrutiny, Pelt looked up.

“…Orichalcum.”

“Just an alloy?”

“No. Orichalcum’s in it. Color-changing. Clearly magical. Did they say what this stuff does that’s special?”

His apprentices looked at each other. Never had one of them, even Emessa, heard Pelt ask what a metal did. She fumbled for her notes.

“It—it’s apparently able to take liquid if you dip it. Maybe even magic.”

“Huh.”

Pelt had to see it for himself. He dipped the dagger into the oil, stared at the second ‘layer’ of liquid running down the blade. He flicked his hand and saw it spray out, practically a razor of liquid that turned into a miniature arc of fire. His apprentices ducked, but Pelt just stared at the Demas Metal dagger.

“It’s like a Liquidtouch Enchantment. But it’s not enchanted. That’s for the alloy. Can’t tell what else is in here, but I’d bet Emessa it’s got…yeah. It has to have some kind of sea-stone in it. Coral? What’s the strength and flexibility like? I can snap it…”

He began testing the dagger, flexing it with his bare fingers, which was a sign of how strong he actually was. Emessa just watched him.

She had to ask.

“…Master. You don’t know what it is?”

Pelt looked at her. He looked at the metal on his anvil. At his apprentices. The [Master Smith] blinked once. Then shook his head.

“I don’t. It’s new to me.”

A current of shock and excitement ran through the smithy at that. New metal? Pelt hadn’t even pretended to know; nor would he. Yet Emessa was amazed.

“Then this is the discovery of a lifetime!”

“If it’s not got any flaws, and if it can be made…it is. Not sure how that liquid effect works in battle. Don’t know, don’t care. That’s for adventurers. We could make a small profit if we sold it to rich idiots who want a mantle piece, though. No—they’d want to show it off. Good money. What’s in this?”

He held it up, fascinated, now a puzzle-solver. It was actually fun, and Emessa saw him smile. But she was still at ‘Pelt the Smith doesn’t know what this is’.

“Master! It’s extraordinary, then! Do you want to meet the Chieftain who made this metal? He apparently invented it!”

Pelt glanced up. He looked at Emessa.

“Who’s that?”

“Mrell of Demas Metal.”

Again there was that name. Pelt frowned.

“Demas Metal. It’s a stupid damn name, but this Gnoll’s got some talent if he made it. Demas. Demas. Why did he call it Demas? If he ever comes by Esthelm or Pallass, I’ll think about it. But I don’t need to beg to learn from him.”

“But it’s amazing, isn’t it?”

Pelt did not look like a man who had seen the advent of a new metal. He glanced up.

“It’s an achievement of a lifetime. Fine blade. Poor balance, but a fine discovery. I’ll wager he could improve the composition…I’m seeing flecks here…”

“Master! Please! Give him some credit for inventing a new metal!”

Emessa was dismayed. It wasn’t like Pelt to be that stingy with praise. Pelt glanced at her, eyebrows raised. And then put the dagger down.

“That Gnoll or whoever he is didn’t invent a new metal. He rediscovered one. And for some reason, he named it strangely. Where did you say he learned from?”

“Uh…he was a wanderer, and he apparently roamed a lot of Izril. He ended up along the coast, I think. I don’t know who he learned from, but people say he had a great master who helped him make the stuff.”

Pelt’s hand slipped. He nearly cut his palm open. Slowly, his head rose.

“…Anyone say who the Master was?”

Emessa was frowning. She was offended on Mrell’s behalf that Pelt was ignoring his abilities, but the Dwarf suddenly looked…very interested.

“No, Master. Let me check to see if anything I have says the name…”

“—Was it a Demastel? Demastel the [Smelter]?”

Emessa scanned the parchment. She shook her head. But suddenly, Pelt was staring at the blade like he suddenly saw something. He knew something.

“It has to be. Demas. Dem…he probably did stay there. That idiot liked seafood. Unlike Taxus. It makes too much sense. App—Emessa! Where’s that master now?”

The Drake was looking at Pelt, keenly. She was picking up too much from hints about Pelt’s past. She knew the name Taxus, of course. You’d have to have been living with your head in the sand to be a [Smith] and not know that name, even if it was beginning to be forgotten.

“I think he’s dead, Master. Chieftain Mrell’s never said…”

Pelt’s face became as bleak as could be. He sat down, abruptly.

“Master Pelt? Do you want me to…?”

“No. That would make sense too.”

The Dwarf sat there, looking even older. He held the dagger up to the light and stared at it as his apprentices abandoned their work—those that could do it safely. He looked at the blade. Like a letter from home, and sharp as a razor—it hit him in the heart.

——

“Demastel was a [Smelter]. Knew more about perfecting alloys than anyone. He’s dead.”

“He might not be—”

“He’s dead. He was dying twenty years ago. I don’t know how that Gnoll found him, but Demastel isn’t the kind of—wasn’t the kind of Dwarf you could pull out of a stupor with a stupid magic flame and some kind words. His crime weighed so heavily—he’s dead.”

Yet he had taken an apprentice of sorts, just like Pelt. And the product was here. Emessa looked at Pelt; she had sent someone to run and get a hot meal and drink—non-alcoholic—but the Dwarf was just staring at the blade.

“Could he have invented the metal? Is this Mrell taking credit?”

“Doubt it. It’s new to me, so it was new to Demastel. I don’t think he tried to improve his craft. Probably, the Gnoll learned a few tricks and came up with it. Rediscovered the metal and called it Demas. After Demastel.”

It was the kind of thing a [Smith] would do in honor of another. Yet Pelt kept saying it like that.

“But Master, if even you don’t know what kind of metal it is, surely that’s invention.”

“That means no one forged this metal before, Emessa.”

“Yes, Master. It sounds like it, doesn’t it? If you don’t know…”

The gentle logic from his Drake apprentice made Pelt laugh. He saw Emessa start, along with one of the other smiths bringing food over.

“Ah. I see what you mean. You’re right. I don’t know what this is. Never seen it before in my life. It’s an alloy of some things, and I can probably figure out how to make it in a month or two. But I don’t know it.”

“So…?”

“So it’s been made before. If it was a metal like Naq-Alrama steel. If it was a metal made out of meteorites and Adamantium. If an [Archmage] helped discover it, and it came shooting out of legends, rare ores never seen under the light of the sun—whenever a [Smith] makes it, they’re geniuses and damned lucky and it’ll be a grand thing. But they always, always rediscovered it. Understand?”

Pelt waved the blade at the apprentices. He turned, smelling a huge brisket, and found he had an appetite. He glared at the goat’s milk as Emessa followed him to his table.

“Then who made all the metals? Surely not every…?”

“Every. Single. One. If it was ever metal, even fusions of stone, it was made.”

“By who? Dragons?”

“Hah! You think they’re good at anything besides cooking things? Well, apparently a few were good once they shape-changed, or so the story goes. No, Emessa.”

Pelt sighed as he sat down in his small office. He spread the meal out and stared at the dagger, then pushed it away.

“No. The greatest smiths to ever walk this world made every metal conceivable. And you can laugh. You can think I’m talking on forge-fumes. But I am not wrong. I could take this dagger, and if I went to…I would be able to come back and tell you exactly what it does, how it’s made, and why it’s a piece of worthless metal because it was forged so poorly, and smelted with no understanding of it.”

Pelt lifted the dagger. He looked at Emessa and the apprentice saw it in his gaze. The Dwarf turned away.

“Don’t ask me. Just know, apprentice. You’re young.”

“…I’m nearly twenty eight, Master.”

“Huh. Then—two more decades. Three. Maybe four. Damn. You live shorter than Dwarves. How long until you’re at least capable?”

The Drake’s heart sank as Pelt gave a rough count on his fingers. She was about to slink off before he began to rant, but the Dwarf looked up.

“I might be dead, then. Probably.”

“Master.”

She turned around, horrified. She knew Dwarves could live longer. But Pelt was just looking at her, distantly.

“Yes. It’ll take longer, even after I die. Make it twenty years if you aren’t already…fifty. At least ten. Work harder, then, since I won’t be able to keep on after you. Then, someday, you’ll go on a trip. With your best pieces of work—which you’ll toss into the sea afterwards, or sell because you’ll be ashamed. But you’ll go. Then you can tell the one you meet that you were my apprentice. I can already imagine how embarrassing it’ll be, but I’ll be dead.”

The brisket cooled in front of him, but the Dwarf and Drake were just looking at each other, her with wide eyes. And Pelt did smile then.

“You will know everything I’ve said is true, then. Look forwards to that, you untalented apprentice. And be worthy of that day.”

Decades in the future. Emessa took a step back, because it was so fatalistic, so sad that she wished Kevin or that [Innkeeper] were here. At the same time…the Dwarf began to eat, munching on the food without another word. He wouldn’t bring it up, probably because he was embarrassed.

Yet Emessa had never heard him say anything like that before. Not to any other [Smith]. Pelt’s apprentice looked at him—then fled. Pelt watched her go, then grunted at the dagger he’d planted in the table.

“You had a good apprentice, Demastel. You knew, didn’t you? You found it…”

His hands trembled.

“Redemption.”

——

Legends of the old world. Of the last generation. Someday, they would forget every name. The old stars were already being eclipsed. Yet even the most famous names would one day fade.

That was truth. One day, someone would say ‘King of Destruction’, and even [Historians] would have to fetch a book to figure out what was meant.

Even those for whom time did not touch died. So, then, a thoughtful person might ask: what was the point? It was a question that had driven immortals to despair. Everyone had to come up with their own answer. Why do you live and work and struggle?

Or else that question would find them on their deathbeds, in their last moments. What a terrifying way to die.

Naturally, he had his answer. The Viscount paused a moment, to check his appearance in the mirror of one of the restrooms.

‘Restroom’ was, of course, such a poor term. Dressing room was still too un-posh. Boudoir…was generally only thought to apply to women, which was ridiculous, of course.

Rather than a mirror, the man stood in front of a vanity. Just to make sure he hadn’t grown dishevelled from the journey or walking through the palace. He carefully adjusted his hair, his suit, the cuffs on his slightly dark skin. Almost…greyish. Although you’d only notice that cast if you looked at him in the right light.

With the right eyes. One of his earrings was askew, so he fixed it with a tap of the finger. He was meticulous, but the impression was rather disinterested. As if to say, I am not doing this for me, but for you.

The effect was completely opposite the man next to him, who had also entered the semi-public space reserved for the nobility or those of sufficient rank. It wasn’t guarded per se, but it was elite. He dressed himself with clear delight. Fashion was a choice that benefited everyone.

The wind was stronger these days, and an unseasonable cold patch had entered the air, heralding fall. Summer was over.

Thus, the man standing next to the Viscount had donned a beautiful purple-and-green scarf, a long piece that added to his usually vivid red clothing style.

He was combing his hair, and turned to nod as the first man finished his inspection.

“Viscount Visophecin, if I may be so bold, you are an inspiration of class.”

The Viscount of Ailendamus, a seldom-seen visitor at court, but a good friend of some members of the palace, including even the infamously touchy Duke Rhisveri, turned his head. He gave Baron Regalius a polite smile.

“You, Baron Regalius, are more fittingly fashionable than I, I believe. You have enthusiasm towards the subject.”

“And you do not, Viscount?”

The Baron looked Visophecin up and down. The man had a suit and high-necked collar that flew in the face of the doublet-and-ruff fashion of the present, but there was a kind of timeless elegance to his dark clothing, embellished with just the barest hint of lighter colors. Magical cloth, obviously; they called it sadun-prei patterning. Such that the effect in one color was to show you other colors as the cloth moved together; variations of shadow in this case.

Very nuanced, very stylish; the previous Viscount had apparently worn much the same style in the few paintings of him. Visophecin smiled thinly.

“I do not find it tiring per se. Dignity must be maintained. Yet I envy your enthusiasm, Baron. Let us put it like that.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Regalius nodded and went back to his own mirror as Visophecin left the dressing rooms. He hadn’t lied; truth was easy. Yet he had to admit, it was rare for him to conduct a self-inspection in the middle of his day. He began walking through the palace once more. It just went to show he cared about tiny things. When you went about important errands, you left nothing to chance, even as minor as dress.

After all, if you heard a whisper at your shoulder in your darkest hour and turned to see someone like Visophecin standing there, he had better look the part. His shoes had a high cuff around them—no boots like any military commander wore—and clicked as he walked through Ailendamus’ palace.

Still—Visophecin did not stride along. His walk was not, to look at him, the fast, speedy pace you expected. In fact, Baron Regalius passed him, having finished his ablutions shortly thereafter. Visophecin did not exactly amble, but he walked with an unhurried pace such that you lost sight of him in the crowd. And when you turned your head?

He was gone.

——

It was not a good day in Ailendamus for King Itorin II. He woke up to ships burning.

Dozens of them. Their charred carcasses sunk to the ocean floor—then lodged, potential hazards as they drew closer to shore. They’d done their best to flee. If he could, a second armada of Ailendamus and Taimaguros’ ships could have joined them. But even with countless miles on their side, they were far too slow, and the [Admiral] couldn’t speed them north along the coast fast enough.

Faced with that choice, the [Admiral] had made a desperate stand. After losing half his fleet in two hours without even being able to break the enemy vessel’s magical shields, he’d changed strategies.

Ship after ship had grounded themselves onto the shoreline, some exploding as magical artillery blew wood and metal to bits. It was a suicidal move for the vessels; some would never return to sea, not with their keels smashed against the shore from the speed they ran aground. But it did mean thousands of [Sailors] and crew had disembarked. They were climbing to higher ground, but The Pride of the Wellfar was sailing in…

It was not the end of the world, as the diplomats and courtiers hastened to assure everyone. But you couldn’t hide that it was a blow.

And one Ailendamus need not have taken at all. King Itorin II himself spoke with a member of the Five Families that morning, before breakfast. Nothing else would do; the Five Families were a touchy lot and escalation was not to be desired.

“Your Majesty. House Veltras is the only member of the Five Families to declare war. Wellfar, Terland, and El stand with them, but we have not declared war.”

“The Pride of the Wellfar’s deployment would then count as assistance?”

King Itorin spoke with Ulva Terland. He could not help but inject the note of skepticism in his voice. His lead [Diplomat], who listened in on the calls, winced, but Itorin II was in no mood to sugarcoat anything.

“I quite understand how it must look. But I must remind Your Exalted Majesty that the Five Families render aid to one another whenever another House asks.”

Your Exalted Majesty was flattering. The woman’s tone…was not. Itorin was aware she was famously reclusive and paranoid, but she did not sound meek. Nor did he buy the line about the happy cooperation between the Five Families. So…why, then?

“We must regard this act of war with all due hostility, Lady Terland. I would not wish to make war on Izril’s north.”

Itorin remarked calmly. He scratched at his trimmed beard, imagining, calculating the cost of an offensive. They would have to win the sea, then invade; great kingdoms had failed. Yet it could be done. It was a frank warning and Ulva Terland…

“The Five Families are content to let House Veltras wage its battles alone, save for the aid we have given them, Your Majesty of Ailendamus. That may change, and I am gratified you have taken this moment to talk with House Terland. Your answer, I hope, will not aggravate this delicate situation.”

King Itorin had, among other things, a personal team who trimmed stray hairs, applied light makeup, checked his physical condition, and so on. They all stopped and withdrew instantly as Itorin lifted a hand and his [Diplomat] paled. King Itorin himself had to sit up slightly.

“That is a bold statement to make, Lady Ulva.”

Her voice lost any pretense of honey. It was not quite a snap, but now the edge was out.

“It is no less than the accusations levelled against Ailendamus. I ask you, on behalf of House Terland and the other Five Families who will hear your reply. Is Sammial Veltras in Ailendamus’ custody?”

That name again. Itorin’s fingers were doing a desperate tap-dance on the table. His [Diplomat] closed her eyes. And once again, it all went back to…

“I do not believe I understand the question, Lady Ulva.”

Itorin replied after a moment of desperate thinking, because truth spells and Skills worked many ways. Unfortunately, what you learned was that Skills and magic were all very well, but an incisive mind was more dangerous still.

“Your reply is my answer, Your Majesty. House Veltras lacked for proof, but we stand together in such matters. Is Sammial Veltras in your care?”

Itorin was silent. And of course—that was an answer. So Ulva Terland went on.

“The Five Families shall stay out of this war, King Itorin, upon one condition.”

Condition and answer. Terlands loved their logic-gated theories and ways of making contracts and alliances. It was an absolute with them, so Itorin listened.

“Is Sammial Veltras alive and unharmed?”

The [Diplomat] had three answers prepared. Itorin II took the one circled, underlined, and marked with exclamation marks.

“Yes. I can personally assure you of that, Ulva Terland.”

“Then, King Itorin, we will abide. You may view this as House Veltras’ war. However, I shall ask again.”

She did not immediately end the call, of course. They exchanged a few more lines, and King Itorin II dropped the speaking stone. Then he uttered a quiet oath and leaned his full weight onto his chin and thumbs. After a second, he opened his eyes and turned.

“Something sumptuous for breakfast. Add a pudding option for dessert. Lemon.”

There were many things he had to do. But the one thing he had control of…was lemon pudding. King Itorin II looked forwards to it as one servant raced off to amend the breakfast already waiting for him. Burning ships, Rhisveri’s damned problems, and no one had invited him to the Arbitration Council and somehow Ailendamus was not finding a way onto it, despite all the pressure they were trying to put on other groups.

It was one of those days. Think of the pudding.

——

King Itorin II stared at a light, yellow piece of custard, topped with a darker rind. Of course, you couldn’t have just pudding if it was fancy. It had delicate sprinkles of what might be some kind of candy-alchemical treat. Someone had added a perfectly cut flower on top—made of a strawberry.

He carefully flicked the flower off and was sure it would never reappear again. The [King] had a small spoon and removed a piece near the side. He took a bite.

Pudding. What a delicious thing. And someone had injected a bit of bitter along the top. But the sweetness—that was a wondrous thing.

“Is all well, dear?”

Oiena looked at Itorin II. He had been silent this morning after his call, and the [Queen] of Ailendamus knew very well that if he ordered pudding, he was expecting a difficult day.

And it was an interesting thing, because if Itorin II so much as said so, he could have a bath of pudding. He could fill an entire hallway with pudding, and drown his enemies in a vat of the stuff, which was a waste, but very stylistic.

He never did. In fact, Itorin II only ate pudding once in a blue moon, or in times like this. Which mystified anyone who didn’t understand what it meant to be a [King] who could send for armies with a single word.

Oiena understood. Their children—at least, the two sitting at the table, Prince Ivenius and his younger sister, Princess Oesca—did not. Itorin II had been born a [Prince] of the realm and he had learned the lessons they would. Oh—how would he teach them this?

They had lessons in riding, etiquette, swordplay, magic, politics, geography, mathematics, reasoning, history, military strategy, and every subject a ruler might need to know—which was almost anything. But how to explain this?

In the past, Itorin II had not loved pudding. A young man or boy had different tastes. He had trended towards a favorite food, which was Stelbore pork. An odd thing, but it was something about the tough boar’s equally tough meat that he just loved to sink his teeth into. Then, it had been a kind of half-Elven pastry called heidas bread that used very magical, natural ingredients. Amazingly good.

Stelbore pork, heidas bread, glowberries, a kind of fondue with six cheeses, various substances and drinks…any of the above were now never served to Itorin II. He had ruined each one for himself, possibly forever. When you could have your favorite meal every day you wanted, any time you wanted, it quickly stopped being your favorite.

To love something, you couldn’t have it. Hence the rule about eating it. In fact, the knowledge that King Itorin II liked pudding was close to a royal secret. The [Chef] was sworn to silence, in order to prevent people wishing to play to his interests from serving it to excess.

That was how you kept something special…special. King Itorin II suspected his advisors would be following the battle with the remnants of the fleet on land and speculating on how dangerous the Five Families might be if they went on the attack. They’d rightly want him to cede Sammial Veltras to the wrathful Tyrion to prevent his entry into the war, and order the Duke to cease his actions. And he’d have to deal with that because Rhisveri was a Wyrm, not a mere Duke, and no one commanded him.

Things a [King] could and could not do. He was happy, at least, to listen to his children, who had seemed far more energetic of late.

“Father. May we be excused from our morning lessons?”

“Why?”

Oesca hesitated and her mother sighed. Exasperated. Itorin II suspected they’d gone to her first, but Ivenius explained.

“The Wind Runner is showing everyone tricking.”

“Tricking? Tricking people?”

“No—”

“It’s a ridiculous [Tumbler]’s trick and you two will not disgrace yourselves in public.”

“…What about in private? Father, may we summon her to show us?”

King Itorin II stared at his half of a pudding. Careful now. You didn’t want to rush such things. He frowned.

The Wind Runner. That young woman who’d pulled the stunt on the roof and could fly about like a high-level [Mage]. Rhisveri hated her and wouldn’t say why.

“Hmm.”

“Dear!”

Queen Oiena had been Itorin’s wife for a long time, and was as much Ailendamus’ daughter as her home country’s—Taimaguros, another great power and Ailendamus’ strongest ally. She was canny, quite liked not having to manage the realm but only the pocket she chose to occupy herself with—a lot of it politics from home which she could influence with her husband’s blessing—and she did not hesitate to surround herself with what she loved. Although she understood the same lesson Itorin II knew about excess.

However, Oiena was also aware there was something—odd—about Itorin’s uncle, the only high-ranking member of court who was both genius and aggravating and got away with things. Slights, actions that no one else could. She was not blind. The Wind Runner was part of Rhisveri’s schemes and, therefore, she didn’t want her son or daughter fraternizing with the Courier.

Itorin II, reverse-sculpting the pudding piece by piece, completely missed all of that in the look she shot him. He murmured.

“Why not? Is she very entertaining, this Wind Runner? I thought you would have gotten tired of flying. Didn’t we send for a [Mage] capable of casting [Fly]?”

“Yes, Father, but she uses the wind. It’s different!”

“Really?”

“Yes. She knows all kinds of fun things. She can ask the wind to do whatever she wants, and she saved Sammial Veltras’ life. Would you like my pudding, Father?”

Oesca carefully offered him her dish. Of course, the servants hastened to offer as much pudding as Itorin wanted, which was the problem…he waved away the bribes and looked at Oesca. Suddenly, Itorin was worried again.

“Sammial Veltras? What do you mean by that?”

Oesca gave her father a blank look.

“Sammial Veltras? I see him in the palace, Father. He eats luncheon with us. Sometimes.”

“He has an aura. I thought I had to be sixteen before I started my aura training!”

Ivenius was on his second pudding. Itorin II bit his lip.

“—He just walks around the palace?”

“I think he escapes. He says he’s a prisoner. Father, are we keeping him prisoner?”

King Itorin II saw the way Oesca looked at him, with that too-careful look of someone who ‘understood’ when things happened. He looked at Oiena, who frowned, but had probably taught their daughter about ‘acceptable actions’ like that. Taimaguros…did not play nice. Itorin II felt a headache coming on. So he turned.

“Headache tonic. And a second helping of pudding. Make it something bitter.”

Then he amended his plans.

——

The Wind Runner of Reizmelt stood, her dark hair whipping around her despite the ponytail as the wind blew in a way it should never have: in a circular motion, a miniature tornado, and she stood in the center of it. Her audience watched as she put one bare foot down, callused, but wrapped in a bit of linen, then leapt upwards.

She rotated her body, spinning, and children pointed and shouted in awe. It was a good trick. She performed a complete rotation, then another, defying gravity, before landing in a spinning move that carried one foot around in a circle.

Wind plus athleticism. King Itorin II had seen better. But he understood why the Wind Runner was famous. She was a striking figure and had the power of wind on her side, but he didn’t see why the children loved her, aside from the wind, which was quite good. Her letting them fly about was a lure, but why this?

There were [Acrobats] who could leap twenty feet up or balance on one finger, or do such tricks with objects in the air that you were left breathless—and those were the ones without magic. Illusions could make anything real, and Oesca and Ivenius had seen both. So why the fascination?

“Alright. Who wants to try that? Or just that cartwheel? Not here! A mat, something soft…”

The Wind Runner was a surprisingly anxious person as children surged forwards to show her the results of their practice. Somehow she’d requisitioned a mattress and let a boy who might be a [Servant] climb onto it. Then Itorin figured it out. He saw the grinning boy test the mattress, ask Ryoka Griffin if it would be easier on the ground, and then, despite the added difficulty, do a standing backflip.

He nearly missed the landing and stumbled, but Ryoka caught him and he was cheered by the other children.

“You can do that without a Skill?”

He hadn’t used one and Itorin twisted one of his rings and saw no [Tumbler] class. Itorin saw Ryoka turn to another girl. A [Squire].

“Courier Griffin! I can do a cartwheel! All the instructors and the older [Squires] can even do it. Look!”

She broke into a running start, then did a perfect cartwheel across the ground six times. Ryoka and Itorin stared.

There was a lot of natural talent in Ailendamus, and the best were put into places where their natural talents shone even brighter. Someone with outstanding physical abilities was a natural candidate to become a [Knight] or superior class, so it wasn’t surprising they had that kind of coordination.

Even so. Itorin understood why his daughter and son were bouncing and looking at him to request a private lesson. And why Oiena didn’t want them to.

“Where is Scholar Jsse? Summon her.”

Itorin II went back to watching as a servant and bodyguard rushed off. Ah, this made sense. These tricks, from handstands to cartwheels to flips and the fascinating aerial tricks, were all things you could do without Skills. It was something that, in theory, any person in the world could do.

Fascinating. Itorin II had assumed Ryoka Griffin was some kind of Courier-[Thief]. Rhisveri had explained a bit of why he was so obsessed. But this…Itorin II kept twisting his ring and frowning.

Scholar Jsse was with him in less than five minutes. You didn’t keep the King of Ailendamus waiting, after all.

“Your Majesty? You have a question for me?”

She was part of the intelligence of Ailendamus. Not the ‘spymaster’ intelligence, but the literal intellect cultivated here. Another of Rhisveri’s initiatives. He wanted [Sages]; thus far they had [Scholars], [Historians], [Librarians], [Teachers], [Philosophers], and those were just the ones who were specialized, unlike say, a [Mage].

She was a bit absent-minded with her address and manners, but she had royal dispensation to be that way, and Itorin regarded her as his go-to expert on a lot of matters.

“Scholar Jsse. What would be the…danger of allowing the [Prince] and [Princess] to learn this tumbling? These acrobatic tricks? If they gained a class, what would it be?”

The [Scholar] instantly turned to regard Ryoka Griffin as Oesca and Ivenius looked up excitedly. She frowned at Ryoka, and poked two fingers into her eyes.

That wasn’t intentional. She kept forgetting they’d corrected her near-sightedness and that she no longer wore glasses.

“Interesting. It looks like tumbling, but it might be more utilitarian. This is the Courier who races about and jumps over all the hedges, isn’t she? They were placing bets on her this morning.”

“…She does what?”

“The hedge maze. She runs all over the gardens, Your Majesty. Sometimes with the…Thirsting Veil [Knights], I believe. And others. She has an amazing ability to navigate obstacles. I think there’s a request to incorporate that kind of movement into our training regimes. We need to hire a Courier or [Acrobat], and it would be for irregulars…”

She broke off outlining the experimentation. Itorin II was sure they’d look into it, hire experts, consult them and develop a training plan, and then field-test the [Knights] or whatever group who learned it and see how practical it was in field operations. He couldn’t imagine how useful it would be in battlefields, but maybe they’d put it into training [Guards]? Urban-city chases had a lot of that.

If it worked, he’d probably see a plan to add it to general training in two years’ time. That was Ailendamus for you. Rhisveri and some of his…people had set up this system and Itorin II appreciated that.

Just not kidnapping children of foreign powers, thank you. He stared at his ring, at Ryoka, pulled it off, and handed it to one of his [Mage] bodyguards.

“Fetch me another Ring of Appraisal and have this one tested.”

Jsse had her analysis done within two minutes.

“Your Majesty. I believe the classes most likely to be obtained if Their Highnesses will it would be [Tumbler], [Performer], [Martial Artist], [Lightfoot], [Trickster]—that one would be a low chance, but I am throwing it in there as a possibility—and [Dancer]. Of the lot, I would say that [Tumbler], [Martial Artist], and [Lightfoot] are undesirable. The other three are actually beneficial if Their Highnesses reach Level 10.”

“Even [Trickster]?”

Itorin II saw she’d done a little diagram. Jsse held it up. Oesca and Ivenius were listening keenly.

“Yes, your Majesty. You’d have to, um, consult with their full plan, as it would change things. But a [Trickster Prince] is an established class. I can pull up nearly two dozen records; it’s quite versatile. [Dancer] and [Performer] combine with standard royal classes with no notable consolidation unless it overpowers the main class, so there’s little issue by Level 20 and if they are talented in either regard, that is quite a good option too. [Tumbler], [Martial Artist], and [Lightfoot] are simply harder to combine.”

“What’s [Lightfoot]?”

There were classes that Itorin had never heard of, many cultural or dependent on the society in which they existed. Jsse knew all of them.

“Criminal-class. Well, not criminal, but it often combines into that. A child-age class, mainly. It can be combined, but I don’t believe a [Prince of Rogues] or a [Princess of the Streets] is desirable.”

“Most certainly not.”

“Father, we won’t take those three classes. But may we learn the other classes? I could become a [Performer]! Or a [Dancer]! Mother wants me to become a [Dancer] anyways!”

Oesca begged. Itorin considered it.

“I will allow it. Prepare a room for training, and if you do gain a class, you must reach Level 10, agreed?”

“Yes!”

Ivenius and Oesca danced about happily. Which was fine. Oiena had thrown ten kinds of fits when their first son was found playing with servants. Itorin had been forced to explain that’s how he’d grown up and that Ailendamus allowed fraternization and indeed, displays of overt emotion. That was what he agreed with too. Rhisveri hadn’t put that into place, obviously. He had all the empathy and child-rearing ability of a sock. With needles in it.

That was the initiative of Lady Paterghost, a…personality. One of Rhisveri’s lot, but who had sought out Itorin personally a few times. Unlike the others, she actually mingled with Itorin’s people now and then, and not merely as a military force like Gilaw, but a kind of advisor to very few.

She had told Itorin stories about how badly it went with monarchs not letting children be children, or forcing them to do things that cropped up later in life as odd fetishes, personality quirks, or terrible deeds. And she would know; she’d seen countless generations of monarchs.

“Very well. Have it arranged. Inform Her Majesty that I believe it is harmless.”

He’d hear from Oiena about it later, but Oesca and Ivenius hugging him and their looks of delight as they ran over to the Wind Runner were worth it. Itorin II saw Jsse peering at Ryoka and frowning.

“Something wrong, Scholar Jsse?”

The woman was fumbling with her earring.

“I think—either my enchantment is not working on only her—or she has a magical safeguard. Or Skill? But it would register that.”

Itorin II glanced over, interested.

“Are you referring to your appraisal earring?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I thought my ring had failed as well. Does she lack a class?”

The two looked at each other and one of the [Royal Bodyguards] stirred. Itorin turned.

“Bodswen. Can you…?”

One of his elite guard was already casting the [Appraisal] spell. She took one look at Ryoka Griffin and shook her head.

“No class.”

“Really? How extraordinary! I’ve heard there are a few people like that, but I have never met one!”

Jsse whirled, eyes lighting up. Itorin II blinked. He saw the wind lifting a girl into the air with a little cloth parachute, and his eyes swiveled to Jsse.

“How is she controlling the wind?”

“Magic.”

“But if she has no classes…”

Jsse was frowning at Ryoka.

“She can learn magic without. It’s well-documented. In the few case-studies there are. I think she can even learn an aura, which is what this might be. It’s such an interesting choice. We had an initiative to have a thousand children live without levels to study the effects on a wide scale, but it was turned down; it was a waste of resources, the children would have to agree, and so on…”

“Is there a benefit?”

“Some. I would have to look this up, Your Majesty. [Summon Book]. Ah, here’s one of the tomes. A Life Without Levels…but it’s an autobiography. Alas.”

Jsse’s hand suddenly held a book. Itorin II saw her leafing through it, murmuring. Some people had the most useless Skills…except if you loved to read.

And still, he was more and more fascinated by the Wind Runner. Enough so that when the Courier looked up and saw Oesca and Ivenius standing there, Itorin II of Ailendamus approached.

“Your Majesty. I hope I’m not disturbing the peace? Forgive me, I didn’t realize you were here.”

She looked warily at his bodyguards as four of the Thirsting Veil [Knights] dropped their invisibility spells to briefly salute him, before returning to guard duty. Itorin II hated that; he’d forgotten they were attached to her.

Heart attacks, every time.

“Courier Griffin. You need not stand on formality with us. Nor have we been disturbed. Rather, we thank you for your entertainment.”

Itorin spoke for the benefit of his bodyguard, since Ryoka had not actually knelt. She tilted her head, recognizing the royal ‘we’ that Itorin applied while in public.

“I am grateful, Your Majesty. Did I…understand your children, I mean, Their Highnesses want to learn how to do a backflip? I…could teach them.”

Her voice revealed how odd she thought that was. Itorin smiled.

“Is it so unnatural that a monarch might wish to learn an interesting…trick, Courier Griffin? We have requested tutors in other subjects, from chess to even the new sport of football. Whatever invokes a passion in our children is to be pursued. All things have value.”

It felt a bit pretentious saying it like that, and Itorin regretted the public setting that required him to speak like this. Ryoka Griffin nodded, slowly. She looked…well, interested.

“I haven’t heard many monarchs saying that—not that I know many monarchs, er, Your Majesty. I’ve never met any. Er—one, but not in the same context—technically two—”

She began to turn red, and Itorin II smiled a bland courtier’s smile. Inwardly, he was surprised. He knew she was a new Courier, but meeting monarchs face-to-face? Still rare.

“Fascinating. You have a charmed life, as we have observed. We understand our royal uncle, the Duke, has his…quarrels with you. However, we are pleased by your actions. They enliven the times we live in, although our guard may object to any more dramatic actions.”

He nodded at Bodswen, who had nearly shot Ryoka when she appeared on the tower. Ryoka nodded, still flushing.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Father. May we go and try to learn the tricks? And be excused from our lessons?”

Itorin sighed.

“Very well, Oesca. You shall be excused.”

He was moving off when one of the many people waiting caught his eye. Itorin II grimaced, and beckoned forwards someone who had watched from the crowd around him this entire time. Never interrupted, only waited to see if he was called on. Now, the [Mage] came forwards with a scrying orb.

“Report.”

The [Court Mage] ducked his head, looking apprehensive.

“…Your Majesty, Wistram has declined to add your royal personage to the Arbitration Council as they meet today. They claim the event is organized by a Feshi and the Meeting of Tribes at large.”

“We see.”

Itorin’s voice was frosty. Also, his feelings were hurt. Queen Geilouna and Pheislant’s [King] had both been on the scrying orb. But Ailendamus couldn’t get an invitation while the Bedtime Queen was the darling of everyone watching.

Itorin II had to admit, the allure of being on a scrying orb called to him and this was a point of annoyance. Ailendamus had had its time in the sun, but being part of that group? His diplomats worried about how he might appear, but Itorin II wanted it, and it was a rare selfish desire.

Ryoka glanced up as the scrying orb changed. Itorin peered down at it and recoiled.

“What is that?”

He pointed at a giant bug, riding on a camel of all things. Oesca and Ivenius’ heads snapped around along with all those in eyesight at the television. The [Court Mage] grimaced.

“The documentary has just aired its third segment. ‘Ksmvr of Chandrar’, I believe.”

“Ksmvr of…?”

Itorin vaguely recalled some stir in his [Strategists] and [Generals] about the Antinium, but it wasn’t a threat and only tangentially related to Ailendamus’ activities.

“I know him! Father, the third part is out? Oesca, we have to watch with the others tonight!”

The [Princess] was nodding eagerly. Itorin II eyed them, and was about to ask just what this documentary was about when he heard a sound. It sounded like ‘eep’.

He turned his head and saw Ryoka Griffin about to be bisected, vivisected, and otherwise stabbed by no less than eight different blades lying across her neck, thrust to her chest, back, and sides from his bodyguard and the Thirsting Veil Knights. She had moved too close to him and if she sneezed, she’d turn into jelly.

“Release her.”

Itorin ordered at once, mindful of Rhisveri’s unpredictable wrath. The swords withdrew, but two hands yanked Ryoka back.

“Apologies, Your Majesty.”

“I’m sorry—can I see that?”

Ryoka struggled as one of the bodyguards blocked her. Oesca glared at Bodswen, but knew the woman would not relent for anything if she thought there was a hint of danger. Itorin II glanced at Bodswen.

“The Wind Runner is a guest, unhand her. You are interested in this…?”

He waved forwards the [Court Mage]. Ryoka made a choking sound as it grew larger and she saw the Antinium balancing a cat on his head.

“Ksmvr? That’s Ksmvr! You said he’s there? In Chandrar?”

She demanded, looking wildly at the [Court Mage]. The man backed up, glanced at Itorin, and replied succinctly.

“Yes, er, Miss Courier. This is the third part of a documentary by one Rémi Canada, I believe. He has been in Chandrar, in the company of the former Empress of Beasts.”

“Th—wh—what about the other Horns of Hammerad?”

Ryoka demanded. Itorin’s ears perked up. Who?

“Let me see. Gold-rank team. Part of the, um, raid on the Village of the Dead. Failed. [Transcribe Knowledge]. Oh, damn, I’m going to have to wait till tomorrow to get that report…here, Your Majesty.”

Scholar Jsse handed him a huge pamphlet about all the information in her prodigious mind about them. Itorin flipped through it with half an eye, but he was watching Ryoka.

“They’re alive? You’re sure?”

“Pisces Jealnet, Yvlon Byres, and Ksmvr the Antinium are all accounted for. One escaped the captivity of Roshal, one is in the custody of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, and the last is roaming Tiqr, at present.”

“Roshal?”

Itorin II didn’t need to stay here. At a word he could make Ryoka go with Oesca and Ivenius, or he could just walk off and attend to the many people waiting for him. But he was tickled with interest.

“You know this Antinium, Courier Griffin?”

Her head rose.

“I—they’re my friends. I know their team. I was there when…they entered the Village of the Dead. I thought they died. No—they’re alive.”

The Prince, Princess, and every other person looked at Ryoka. Itorin II just blinked at her. Now there was too many coincidences. First, she had a connection to Sammial Veltras and that unpleasant connection this morning. Next, to Ksmvr of Chandrar. His lips quirked with irony. He gestured to the [Court Mage] and the Arbitration Council came on.

Fetohep, Eldavin, a Gnoll he didn’t recognize, two more he saw were labeled Chieftain Xherw and Chieftain Torishi, Queen Yisame, Tulm the Mithril…

It was a different Arbitration Council this time. More, Itorin suspected, for the fun of being part of this discussion, the prestige of it. No Chaldion, and the Seer of Steel, Foliana, Perorn, the Minotaur King, and a number of others had declined to attend. Their seats were being filled by other personalities of note.

Not him, he noted with a sour feeling. But he was happy that the King of Pheislant had not been re-invited. Possibly because of his incredible pass at Perorn and Queen Geilouna which had resulted in two rejections. Itorin had laughed about it all night long.

In fact, not even the Bedtime Queen was present. Fetohep was remarking upon it.

“I believed Desonis requested reattendance. Is Her Majesty well?”

A smiling [Earl] stood there. Itorin did recognize Altestiel, the [Earl of the Rains]. He nodded politely to Fetohep.

“Your Eternal Majesty, I regret to inform you all that Queen Geilouna is…still asleep. I believe attempts are being made to rouse her, and she will join the council. By lunchtime at the latest. Most likely.”

Itorin heard a giggle from his daughter, who rather liked Geilouna. Itorin II couldn’t help but smile. He wanted to be there! To have some pithy remark! He looked at Ryoka.

“You would not happen to know anyone on this Council, would you? We have requested the…honor of joining, but it seems Ailendamus is not well-known among the Gnolls.”

Pressure them. He frowned at the [Court Mage], who had been bombarding Feshi with [Messages] all day and night. Itorin was smiling ruefully at his jest when he saw Ryoka’s face.

She…had the most twitchy smile he had ever seen in his life. Itorin stopped and Jsse nearly stabbed herself in an eye again as she regarded Ryoka.

Ryoka Griffin looked at Eldavin, Krshia Silverfang, Drassi, who had been able to get on the council, and Altestiel, and gave Itorin a smile trying to edge off her face.

“Not at all, Your Majesty…”

It was such a bad lie that even Bodswen raised her eyebrows under her helmet. Oesca’s mouth opened with delight, and Itorin blinked at Ryoka.

“You…know some of the individuals on this council?”

He didn’t. Ryoka twitched.

“No? I mean, not at all! How could I? I know one or two. Just in my job as a Courier! It’s not like I know them personally—it’s a coincidence. What are they…? Why is Kr—I don’t know them well. Or some of the rulers at all!”

“Which ones do you know?”

Prince Ivenius was looking at Ryoka with the awe he didn’t accord to Ailendamus’ [Generals] or great [Knights]. Ryoka’s lips moved.

“Well, obviously not him.”

She pointed at Fetohep. Then checked his name. Wait. Hadn’t he sent her a letter…?

Itorin II slowly raised his eyebrows. He had, in his possession, among utility items like his Ring of Appraisal and protective rings, a truth-telling enchantment. Ryoka’s lie hovered over her head.

“You know Fetohep of Khelt. How many others?”

“Not that many…”

Another huge lie. She knew at least half the Arbitration Council members on screen somehow! Five! It came out as Oesca and Ivenius pestered her. The Wind Runner tried to back up and stuttered.

“Do you know Grand Magus Eldavin? What about that Gnoll? That Gnoll? Do you know Drassi?”

“Not really—I uh—n—well, I—”

It was the most amazing display of lies and half-truths flickering over Itorin’s vision he’d ever seen. Jsse was making notes, and handed him a quick list. Oesca looked up and begged for it. Itorin II was feeling better, so he gave his daughter the list. She read it.

“You know Grand Magus Eldavin, Fetohep of Khelt, Krshia Silverfang, Drassi, and the Earl of the Rains!?”

The power of [Scholars]. Well…the power of anyone who could take notes and tell when Ryoka was lying and make a short list.

Ryoka turned pale, red, and then looked in silence at Itorin and his children, who were all staring at her with a mixture of amusement and fascination. She opened her mouth, realized there was nothing she could say that wouldn’t reveal her, and tried to run for it.

Two Thirsting Veil Knights checked her into the ground. Ryoka lay there, staring dazedly up at the sky. Itorin II blinked down at Ryoka Griffin.

It was a quintessential Wind Runner experience. He began to see why Oesca and Ivenius were such big fans of hers.

——

Ryoka Griffin was interesting. So interesting that Itorin II lingered outside the room where she was distractedly teaching Oesca how to do a handstand and Ivenius how to do a backflip while watching a replay of Ksmvr of Chandrar’s first documentary. He held court, answering questions, consulting with advisors…

Thinking.

Now Rhisveri’s fascination made more sense. Somehow, this Courier had met people across the world despite being so young. She looked and acted young. She grew flustered, she made mistakes—and he rather empathized with that and found her likeable.

But then she surprised him twice when he asked if she could somehow leverage her connections to get him a place on the Arbitration Council.

“I…don’t know this Feshi.”

“But you do know various members of the Council. If you said something…”

Ryoka Griffin looked at Itorin. Her eyes flickered to the bodyguards, and back at the children; and Oesca, who was trying to figure out how you backflipped in a dress.

“I don’t believe I should talk to…any members of the council, Your Majesty. Or rather, even if I thought I could ask them, I’m not an ally of Ailendamus right now. I am a…guest of Duke Rhisveri.”

Itorin stopped. He had almost forgotten that. The King regarded Ryoka gravely.

“Ah, yes. And House Veltras is involved with that issue. Sammial Veltras…Bodswen, is the young [Lord] around here?”

“In his rooms, Your Majesty.”

“Has he escaped?”

The [Royal Bodyguard] grimaced.

“Three times, I believe. I’ve personally made sure he will not again. He is…troublesome, I understand. He has an aura.”

“Has the Duke made any arrangements around him?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

Itorin II thought. It was just like Rhisveri. He saw Ryoka watching him and smiled.

“Then, summon him here and give him a freer reign of the palace. This…conflict with the Five Families only involves him incidentally.”

Ryoka started. She looked at Itorin. The man gazed at her and wondered how much Rhisveri had told her. Nothing important, surely. Then again…the Wind Runner had once driven him into a rage by juggling some colorful stones for some reason and he’d been told Rhisveri had stormed into the Court of Masks when she wandered in there.

But she didn’t know. That was inconceivable. Itorin II thought that, of the non-immortals, less than fifty people in all of Ailendamus knew, and all of them stood at the height of the kingdom. And of those who knew everything, it was just him.

And yet. Ryoka Griffin looked at him. Itorin hesitated and made an off-hand comment.

“Unless you think my uncle would object? I do stay out of his business unless it affects the realm. He is a touchy soul.”

She hesitated. The Wind Runner looked at Itorin, and spoke, slowly.

“I don’t think he even noticed Sammial. He was only focused on me. He’s…a strange man. Very possessive. Very arrogant. If I may say so, Your Majesty. I’d bet a Dragon would be more friendly.”

Itorin nearly jumped. Bodswen casually glanced over at Ryoka, and then her [King], and seemed to decide badmouthing the Duke was a-okay, especially since Itorin was talking with the Courier. She went back to watching Oesca try to do a handstand as her minders told her she could not because she was wearing a dress.

“Then I do not want a dress! Why can I not wear pants? Ivenius is! So is the Wind Runner!”

Oesca began to pitch a fit, one that Itorin was never going to jump into. Oiena had views on proper attire.

“Your Highness, we’ll spell the dress. Just give us ten minutes…”

The [Princess] glowered. Itorin couldn’t focus on her, though, because he was staring at Ryoka. Had she just implied what he thought she had? No. There was no way Rhisveri would take a thief, a foreign Courier, into his confidence. Unless she’d found out? But arrogant as he was, he’d never accidentally reveal anything and let her live.

Itorin slowly focused on something that was hovering around Ryoka’s wrist. A magical band of jade. A high-class restraining object. And Ryoka was just…staring at him.

Suddenly, Itorin had a thought. He glanced at Ryoka.

“You…I believe this is somewhat intrusive, but may I ask if you lack levels altogether, Miss Griffin? I did notice.”

She jumped. Ryoka opened her mouth, and mindful of his truth spells, replied slowly.

“I—don’t have them.”

“Really. That’s exceptionally rare.”

“Not too rare, surely? There are…people who don’t need levels. I do without, but you don’t need levels to cast magic. I’m sure Your Majesty has seen examples of that?”

Itorin nodded slowly.

“From time to time, one does meet individuals of exceptional ability. I have been privileged to meet the greatest spellcasters and minds in Ailendamus. You have met the Duke Rhisveri, my uncle, who is temperamental, but gifted.”

“Yes. Very gifted. I’ve also met other people in your kingdom, Your Majesty. Only a few, but they were quite striking.”

“Ah. Like…Baron Regalius? A fine man. I heard he had made your acquaintance.”

Ryoka smiled thinly.

“Yes, but he wasn’t who I met. Are you aware of a Fithea, a, um, Gilaw, Sophridel? Menorkel? I met them all. Especially Gilaw. And, uh—a Lady Paterghost and—”

“Nube.”

Itorin breathed. He stared at Ryoka. She knew. There was no way she mentioned all of them at random—not unless Rhisveri was somehow showing her around his association and she had no idea. But her comments. Her own powers and the reason why she wasn’t a pool of steaming acid already?

“They are all outstanding individuals. Ailendamus was founded on such talent and we do not lack for it. You have seen our flag, our heraldry?”

“Oh—the Hydra?”

That was their national animal. Itorin nodded, heart thundering as Bodswen turned and grimaced. A foreign aura assailed Itorin’s own force of will and bounced off, but it was amazing in such a small boy. Ryoka smiled, hearing a familiar loud voice.

“I think it’s quite suitable. The Duke reminds me of a Hydra, actually. Although he only has one head.”

“Indeed.”

Itorin managed. He looked at Ryoka Griffin and put it all together. Of course. How was he so blind?

She knew everyone. She was able to command the wind, but she had no classes and levels. She somehow had Rhisveri’s tolerance despite being a thief…

“You—are you Rhisveri’s guest, or a thief? Perhaps you have relatives in Ailendamus, or this is part of negotiations?”

This time it was Ryoka’s turn to look surprised. Itorin’s stomach lurched. But he did recall individuals joining Ailendamus, or entire groups. His father had told him of the day Viscount Visophecin had appeared…yet the Wind Runner’s eyes widened, and she smiled. She even chuckled.

“Oh—Your Majesty. I think you’ve misunderstood one thing.”

“Ah. And that would be?”

“I’m not—related to Rhisveri or any of the others. I’m just me. Human Ryoka. I don’t have classes because—I didn’t want any. I’ve been very lucky to survive this far. But I’m afraid that doesn’t make me…immortal.”

Truth. It shone clear in his magical eyesight, and Itorin recalled that one of the things about Rhisveri and his lot was that they were all protected from such spells. He looked at Ryoka Griffin. Wind Runner. Thief and friend to so many. Courier, classless.

Mortal.

Instantly, Itorin was taken by a feeling. Ryoka Griffin looked at him warily, a touch uncertainly, as Sammial Veltras tried to make for them and demand Itorin let them both go. Bodswen directed him into the private room. Oesca turned, smiling to Sammial, who brightened up when he saw Prince Ivenius doing handstands.

“You’re learning how to flip? Ryoka was showing me. Can you do a handstand?”

“I’m waiting for my dress to be enchanted so I can. Otherwise I might…”

Princess Oesca hesitated, blushed, and whispered to Sammial.

“Show my undergarments.”

He gave her a blank look, which completely fit his age. He stared at Oesca’s magnificent dress, like a green lily on water, hand-picked by Queen Oiena and gifted to Oesca as a birthday present, fine even by the standards of royalty. Sammial made a rude sound.

“That’s stupid. Girls wear trousers. Look at Ryoka. Dresses are stupid in battle, you know.”

He pointed. Oesca glanced at her nursemaids, who were glaring at Sammy but already catching wind of his aura.

“[Princesses] do not, nor the nobility.”

She sighed. Sammial looked at her like she was stupid.

“Yes they do. Every girl in House Veltras wears trousers when they go hunting. I’ve never seen Lady Buscrei wear a dress. Unless…no. Wait. That wasn’t a dress. That was just a bath towel.”

Oesca listened to House Veltras’ line of practical clothing options. Her head slowly turned to her nursemaids, and they braced themselves for the demand that came in the next second. However, the first chink in the armor of pleated skirts had been found and the war for pants was on.

Itorin II didn’t see it. And it was somewhat unfortunate because when his daughter demanded to be given a pair of pants, he just said, ‘yes, Oesca’, absentmindedly.

He was too busy shaking Ryoka’s hand.

“Truly?”

“I…well, yes. So you know?”

“One could not be in my position and not. Ah—don’t worry. I’ve deployed a small speaking dome.”

Even Bodswen was staring; Itorin II had activated an enchantment that he normally employed when speaking to his [Great Generals] or fellow heads of state, and he was shaking Ryoka’s hand! He almost looked like he wanted to hug the Wind Runner.

“Who do you know?”

“I—uh—Winter Sprites.”

“Winter Sprites? Truly?”

“Do you know them?”

“Of course! They used to stop by—I have no idea what they are, but they would sometimes say or do something to Fithea. They positively loathe Rhisveri, I think; we get so much snow we have to use [Pyromancers] because shovels could not shift enough. Even Cenidau’s diplomats think it’s unreasonably snowy. What are they like?”

“Uh—dangerous.”

Itorin nearly laughed.

“Of course they are. I meant…do they have personality?”

“I—y—”

She hesitated, and the King leaned in.

“It is not for secrets of state. I just wish to know.”

He looked at her, a fellow mortal who knew the great secret of this world. Ryoka Griffin hesitated, wary, but then she looked at him and seemed to come to a decision.

“They’re little sprites. Little people made of ice. All female, but they’re, um, visiting. They’re pranksters and tricksters, but one time they hit me with an avalanche. Twice, actually. Three times—but the last one was to help me.”

“Really. What do they want?”

“That’s so complicated I—so you know what Rhisveri’s up to?”

Itorin’s hesitation was an explanation in itself.

“I—am aware of much of it. But as you might expect, he guards his secrets well. You may think me a…puppet.”

“N…I just wondered…how much you know.”

“He leaves the management of the state to me, except in rare cases. You would be surprised, I think, but it is a beneficial relationship most of the time. I think of it as best for Ailendamus. Your situation—will he try to kill you?”

“I don’t think so. He got Sammial by accident and things have changed. How do you…was it all your life?”

Itorin laughed.

“Not at all. Only when I took the throne. I had hints, from my father, you see, but…no. No one but I knows as much, and—I cannot believe he trusted you with it.”

“He didn’t. It was close. I nearly got, uh…”

“Melted?”

Ryoka blanched.

“He does that?”

Itorin hesitated.

“…Never that I’ve seen, but I have heard stories. You should be wary around him, if that advice is not redundant. In truth, Miss Griffin, I fear you are in dire straits.”

He meant it seriously and saw she took it as such, but to his amazement, she smiled.

“It won’t be the first time. Not that I can tell you all of it, Your Majesty. But believe me—I’ve done this before. I think I can at least survive…but whether or not I’ll get what I want is a different matter.”

He stepped back, a smile of delight crossing his features. Wonder, even.

“You…‘get what you want’? Is that even possible?”

The Wind Runner’s smile had pride and a kind of joy of her own.

“It is. You just have to know how to talk to them. Play their game and don’t. Respect them and push back. Have something they need. They’re still people.”

“They…”

Itorin hesitated. He stroked his beard.

“…They are, aren’t they? Rhisveri is one thing, and I would caution you to beware of some of the others. I don’t know…everything. But I do know some are good…people. Sophridel is fair-minded. He runs the Court of Masks, as you know. Have you met him?”

“I found him by accident.”

“By accident? Then—you know Lady Fithea. She and he are two of the most reasonable, esteemed, I think. I would also say—Lady Paterghost.”

“Really?”

“She is a fine soul.”

“She kicked me when we met. I don’t think she likes me.”

Ryoka rubbed at her stomach. Itorin smiled.

“Ah. She’s quite kind. Even Oesca and Ivenius have met her, you know, though they only know her as one of the Great Knights in retirement. She is fond of the royal family; guarded above all others. But Rhisveri is completely beyond all the rest. You know why.”

“Yes. He is. But he’s not the biggest…snake…in the pond.”

Ryoka muttered. Itorin stepped back.

“You are extraordinary. Do you mean that?”

He grew nervous just at the idea. Ryoka looked at him. And it was a humanizing look, as well as one that had both wonder and distance to it. She had seen something, but her smile made him breathe again.

“Believe me, Your Majesty. He’s powerful and great, in his way. But believe me.”

——

Sammial Veltras met Prince Ivenius and Princess Oesca of Ailendamus and struck a blow against the patriarchy…which was actually the matriarchy in Queen Oiena…with the aid of King Itorin…

Oesca wore pants. And it was as much about family and culture as anything else, but Sammial Veltras was there, and he and Oesca, in the course of two mere hours, both learned how to do a backflip and became friends.

“We have otter-dogs.”

“What do they do?”

Ivenius and Oesca both wanted to know, even though Oesca’s older brother was usually aloof from younger kids, being a [Squire]. Sammial tried to explain.

“They have webbed skin on their feet, and they’re long. But really strong; they can pull water sleds.”

“Water sleds?”

“That’s nothing. Other parts of House Veltras have weird pets. Like Lord Swey.”

“Who’s he?”

“He lives on a big cliff place. He has a pet…buddy. It’s this giant, furry thing that looks like us. It’s called a monkey. He can climb up the cliffs. And he throws poop at bandits.”

“What?”

Oesca began giggling. Sammial was trying to recount to her the famous tale of when the monkey had killed a [Bandit Leader] scaling the cliffs by hitting him with feces, which led to the man falling to his doom.

But that was a sideshow as Itorin and Ryoka walked out of the bubble. Ryoka had an appointment with Fithea, and Itorin had work to do. But he stopped, and, in view of his inner cabinet, took her hand again.

“It was a true pleasure, Ryoka.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Itorin. That…is something I should insist upon. I will hope for your success. But perhaps…hm. I have appointments all of today. Tomorrow? If no royal dinners are extant—or if they are, perhaps afterwards?”

“I—really?”

“It would greatly please me to continue our conversation and ask you what you are willing to share.”

Oesca, Sammial, Ivenius, and the court all saw Itorin give Ryoka a rare, genuine smile. Ryoka hesitated, then ducked her head.

“Of course. I’d be honored.”

Such a strange thing. What a strange power Ryoka Griffin had.

What a dangerous moment. Oesca’s nursemaids and several other people instantly had alarm bells go off in their heads. And not the tiny [Dangersense] ones that went dingalingaling. More like giant bells tolling across half the kingdom. Queen Oiena was going to hear about this. His Majesty had looked like he wanted to hug the Wind Runner. He’d almost gone in for it.

Why her? When he had met with foreign beauties and all kinds of…Oesca was concerned, and whispered to Sammial.

“I think father likes the Wind Runner.”

Sammial frowned at Itorin II, who’d he wanted to have words with. He folded his arms and announced, decisively.

“Well, it’s too bad because my father is Tyrion Veltras and he’s courting Ryoka. He proposed to her. Also, she’s not a slut, no matter what you hear.”

He informed Oesca, with the high-minded pride of a young boy who wanted to clear the air and make sure no one insulted Ryoka. One of the nursemaids stared at Sammial. From keeping the wretched boy away from Oesca, she now decided he should have a playdate where Sammial could tell more about this Wind Runner.

Oh yes, Oiena was going to hear about this.

——

Goddamnit.

Wait. Dead gods damnit, but that didn’t flow right. How about…

Dead-gods-with-a-pinecone-shoved-up-their-asses damnit. Why did Itorin have to do this to her? Ailendamus? In a larger, more meta sense, most of the people she’d met? Stop it.

Stop being likable. Because she had caught herself, mid-talk with Itorin about the shit you got into with immortals, laughing, wanting to pat the man on the back and say ‘it was going to be okay’, exchange stories about mishaps, trade tips.

She’d felt sorry for him. But he had looked her in the eye when she asked how bad Rhisveri was and said this:

“I won’t lie and tell you he is perfect, because he is anything but. Yet I regard him and his people as the thing my kingdom needs. It has been a trade that favors Ailendamus. I believe we are a kingdom out of kingdoms and we have just begun, Miss Griffin. So I will take him, even if you offered me a choice.”

He believed in Ailendamus. And Ryoka had seen it in Regalius, in the Court of Masks. She had seen good and bad, but she had seen good, and, in that moment, she had liked Itorin.

Only afterwards had she recalled—he was making war on the Dawn Concordat and his kingdom was known for wiping out other nations and they’d kidnapped her and Sammial and nearly killed them both.

Yet, like Tyrion, he just wasn’t one pure note of evil. And it made it hard to balance liking him and remembering why you shouldn’t. Or was that the problem? Like them, don’t like them.

But remember what they were.

…Incredibly sad.

Fithea’s gnarled hand traced the symbol on one of the obol stones. A glowing word in Ryoka’s eyes. The Stone Dryad finally spoke.

“It…it means earth, doesn’t it?”

And the word was magic. Her hand almost began to close, but it was Ryoka’s. And her look of longing…Ryoka gazed at the old woman.

Gnarled hands. And they were gnarled. They were like tree roots come to life. She herself looked like a being made out of bark and elements of a tree. Yet—she had turned to stone.

She was old. So old, Ryoka suspected she was far past a Dryad’s natural life cycle. How long did it take for wood to turn to stone? She thought the answer was millions of years.

Fithea laughed when she heard that. Her voice was cracked, rasping. Weary.

“I am not that old, Ryoka Griffin. Merely old. I…I have lost my forest. You understand what I am. You know what that means.”

Ryoka nodded slowly.

“I…I don’t know everything. But you are a Dryad, aren’t you?”

“Yes. The last of the great forests that I know of.”

“I thought there were Dryads still. I’ve heard of…people fighting them?”

Fithea shook her head. Sadly.

“They surely do. But what those who cut wood find is not…thinking. They come from young saplings. Hundreds of years old at most. Lesser trees. Not greatwood. Not from a proper tree. Only after countless years will something emerge that thinks. That…can be something. You understand? We are the oldest seeds, and grow slowest, but from every tree.”

Ryoka did see.

“And the forests that you came from, your kind…?”

She sat with Fithea in the sanctuary of wood and water, sunlight pouring in from above. In the Immortal’s Wing, as Ryoka thought of it. The old Dryad had tried to offer her food, but she was fixated on Ryoka’s stones.

On Ryoka, even on the wind that blew quietly through this place. Gently, as if it too wanted to respect Fithea.

Respect. Ryoka had that and more. The old Dryad deserved it. And she had vouched for Ryoka, such that not even Rhisveri had stopped her from coming here.

Indeed, some people were staring at Ryoka from behind a doorway. They hid when she looked up, but she saw them.

Gilaw, a mane of hair and a piercing glare from the tall woman, wordless as always, wearing armor as if it weighed nothing.

A wet face and dripping hair; ostensibly a youth she would have thought came from somewhere in South America in her world, but she had noticed he never stopped looking like he’d just come out of the water. And standing taller than both—Menorkel, a giant figure with orange skin, two heads, and four arms.

Titan. Merfolk. Griffin. Ryoka suspected there were more, and Fithea had offered to show her around later. But the Dryad was staring at the stone.

“May I hold it? Just hold it…”

“Of course.”

The old woman held the stone and closed her eyes. Her ‘eyes’ were glowing lights in her wooden sockets. Not fire; that would be nonsensical. Just…glowing magic itself. She did not weep tears, but it was in her voice.

“It feels like home! It feels like the Great Forests, before they died and the old protectors walked into the sea! It comes from a place where they have not died. It does, surely. That land. It has…does it have a forest?”

“The biggest forest I’ve ever seen.”

Ryoka answered, truthfully. Fithea looked hungrily at her.

“How tall were the trees?”

“…Beyond imagining. There was a representative who came here.”

“One of the old ones? The wood that walks?”

“Yes. He was named Silverpine.”

Fithea looked blankly at Ryoka.

“Silverpine? As in…the tree? That is not a name I would expect.”

The Wind Runner felt goosebumps on her arm even as she smiled. Because Fithea had seen mystery and came from a time of legends. But even she…

“No. That was his name. And I think—nature.”

The Dryad sat there, her mouth open slightly. Silverpine. She breathed, slowly.

“Then you are a representative of them. You’ve walked in the forests of legend. Here—take something. Eat. Are you hungry? These come from the half-Elves I work with. They live in small forests, and some know how to work with trees.”

She offered Ryoka what looked like, well, snowflakes made of sap. Beautiful patterns of pure maple sap or another tree’s sugar. Ryoka took a flake and it was delicious. It did melt on the tongue.

There were other treats; Fithea either had the impression Ryoka had the sweetest of teeth, or that was simply what she thought Humans liked. Which…fair.

“Is it okay to offer me this? I mean um—I’m sure it is. But why…?”

Ryoka lifted a chunk of honeycomb the size of her hand, trimmed of larvae and the waxy bits. Fithea looked at the honeycomb—meant for bees of a regular size, not Apista-bees—and shook her head.

“All these things harm nothing. The bees know it will be taken, so they simply make honeycomb like so. Like this.”

She offered Ryoka some cheese—still sweet, a hint of it, and deliciously savory.

“Some [Druids] think never to touch animals or trees. I am only custodian of the lands in Ailendamus. But I let them cut down trees. Herd animals.”

“…And burn trees in Gaiil-Drome?”

Ryoka hesitated before she said it, but she did say it. Fithea’s face twisted.

“They tell me it is necessary for war. So I tell them to do it since no old trees remain. They will ravage that place. Shed blood. And when they take that land, they will plant a new forest, which springs up after fire. Fire does ravage forests and they regrow. They will plant more forests and that will be my legacy. Rhisveri has promised me, upon his treasures. They will last. Maybe…maybe even one day grow so tall they produce Dryads again.”

She cradled the stone, not quite looking at Ryoka.

“Cows desire milking, the ones Humans have raised. Insects and animals can work with Humans. My kind would call me a traitor, metal-minded, stonefriend. And they would be right, you see? But they are dead and I…I care for a new forest. One that has no roots. There.”

She pointed and three heads ducked back. Well, four. Ryoka saw Fithea look at her. As if…as if Ryoka was some kind of judge and Fithea had to explain herself.

“I understand.”

“Thank you. Do you come on behalf of them? You opened a door. I found it. Shattered. It never opened before. Can you…lead us there?”

Her eyes were so longing. Ryoka had to duck her head.

“…Not now. Something—something bad has happened, Fithea. So the doors are shut. That was an exception.”

“An exception made for you.”

The Dryad pointed out. Ryoka nodded, hesitantly.

“I’m on a mission. I know Ailendamus has its own goals, and Rhisveri calls me a thief…rightly. But I would like to help, Fithea. I can offer you money, but I can’t promise to open a door. I just want to speak to Rhisveri.”

“He’s guarded. Wary of you. He thought you were a mere thief or an agent of…Dragons.”

Fithea hesitated, but the words spilled out of her amazingly fast. Ryoka felt like she was taking advantage of Fithea’s desires, and flushed. But the pile of obol sat in front of her, currency with inherent value.

“I’m…not able to say everything. But what are the odds I can get Rhisveri to hear me out?”

“Good. In time. He will ask you, but to get whatever it is you want? What is it you tried to steal? He would not tell us, but it must be a treasure beyond treasures.”

Ryoka hesitated.

“I don’t know.”

Fithea shot her a keen glance, looking up from the stone, but Ryoka genuinely didn’t know. The Dryad almost laughed.

“Those farthest travellers. I knew they played games. They play one with you, like days of old. When they danced under our boughs and brought strangers. You are in danger, Ryoka Griffin. Not from me—but from Rhisveri. He is a Wyrm and he killed his kin for his treasures.”

Ryoka’s skin prickled.

“He did? There were more Wyrms?”

“At least two. Now—one. He claims he is the last, at least in this world. You have this…currency. It has great power. Perhaps it is worth quite a lot. Would you…trade me for one? I have told you without lies or secrets what I know.”

Ryoka hesitated. She bit her tongue. She wanted to say ‘yes’, and earn Fithea’s goodwill. But she couldn’t.

“I’m sorry.”

The Dryad flinched. Ryoka went on.

“If you have something to offer—”

“I could teach you magic. Earth magic. I could…offer you many goods. I am rich. They gave me a royal position. Gold?”

Ryoka shook her head. She was tempted by the magic, but, in this moment, she wanted only one thing.

“I must speak to Rhisveri. And I need to have something he wants. Some way of convincing him.”

“I could arrange a meeting today!”

Fithea leapt to her feet with surprising speed, but Ryoka was convinced by her actions that it wasn’t worth a single obol. She shook her head and Fithea looked heartbroken.

“May I at least hold this? I feel…alive.”

“Of course.”

The Dryad held the stone. Ryoka felt wretched, but she pressed on.

“Can you—tell me about the other immortals here? Or is it all secret?”

“I can tell you. I will tell you, in hopes you will think kindly of me. I do not think this stone can change me, but…I will tell you everything I can. Gilaw! Gilaw, come here.”

The giant woman with dark skin stalked into the room at Fithea’s order. She looked like she was, oh, thirty, but she leaned over and sat next to Fithea, resting her weight on the Dryad’s shoulders.

Despite the size and apparent weight difference, Fithea never moved. She stroked Gilaw’s untidy hair.

“Gilaw is the newest of us. Youngest. She was wild, just a girl, when she came here. I raised her.”

“How old is she?”

“Sixty three years. Very young. She looks older because we had to change her shape. But most of that time was wild. She does not speak, either, but already they call her a ‘Great Knight’. She is strong, to them. Like half-Giants.”

Gilaw snuggled closer, reaching for the stone. Fithea stopped her, but Ryoka coughed.

“She can hold them. Just not…take them.”

Fithea nodded.

“Gilaw will give it back. She likes shiny things, though. Let her have only one. You will give it back, Gilaw.”

The woman made an odd calling sound in her throat. Ryoka stared, but she realized—Gilaw was trying to make a bird-sound with Human vocal cords. She inspected Ryoka’s pile, and plucked a single stone from it.

Air.

There was something simple about the way the two held the stones and found them out of all the others. They understood, even without Ryoka’s sight, what they held. Gilaw was more fascinated by the stone and writing. Fithea turned to her.

“Thank Ryoka Griffin. Apologize for kicking her so many times, Gilaw. She is a guest.”

The Great Knight turned her head, and made a noise of protest. Fithea glared.

“Apologize, Gilaw. Say, ‘thank you’.”

Like a mother and a child, Ryoka saw Gilaw abruptly turn and hop away. Fithea looked at her.

“Gilaw.”

About to spring away, Gilaw leapt and went splat—because a number of root-like tendrils had just snagged her. She thrashed, then twisted her head uncannily around. There was a crack and she winced. But she opened her mouth.

“thANK.”

It was more of a squawk than anything. Fithea didn’t wince, but Ryoka did. The Dryad released the Griffin and, sulkily, Gilaw sat cross-legged with them.

“Er…you’re welcome, Gilaw. It’s fine. You don’t have to apologize. You—”

You’re a Griffin, huh?

That was the stupidest thing Ryoka could have said, but what was immortal small-talk anyways? She thought carefully.

“Is it hard, being in a Human body?”

The Griffin looked up. She peered at Ryoka, then nodded. She squinted, screwed her face up, then opened her mouth and leaned over to Ryoka. The Wind Runner tilted her head and Gilaw screamed into it.

“Taw-kii-nn! Iii-zz. Hra-di!”

Each syllable sounded more like what a bird might conceivably scream. Ryoka was in no mood to appreciate the odd phonetic way Gilaw tried to speak.

Ryoka was deaf. Fithea herself patted Gilaw and offered her some honeycomb as a reward. Gilaw ate it messily.

“Gilaw is sharper than she seems to some, but she is young. I’m sorry she struck you. She did not like you.”

“Because I was a thief? I understand…”

“No. Because she thinks you’ve stolen your name.”

Ryoka Griffin hesitated until she saw Gilaw glare at her.

“Oh—I uh—I didn’t choose my family’s name, Gilaw. I’m sorry if it offended you, but we don’t have Griffins where I come from.”

Gilaw slapped her chest.

My name! It was rather like talking to Mrsha. Fithea looked exasperated. Gilaw hunted around and pulled up something. She offered it to Ryoka. Ryoka stared at…a blade of grass.

“You uh, want me to change my name to Ryoka Grass?”

Gilaw nodded. Ryoka didn’t know what to say.

“…I’m sorry, but I’ll keep my name.”

Gilaw glowered. Then you have chosen stomach-kicks. But, mindful of Fithea, she contented herself with eating.

“There are more groups in this place. Not all stay at the palace; few do, in fact. But there are not many of us. Some are found; others simply find us. Many stand out. You have met Menorkel and the Merfolk. Come here, you two.”

They did, meekly. Menorkel, nine feet tall in his shrunken form, grinned nervously at Ryoka. She recalled his singing and smiled at him.

“I did. I’m sorry about the Merfolk. Menorkel though—he has an amazing voice.”

“Thank you.”

“No, it’s—”

Two voices, both Menorkel’s, replied at the same time. Menorkel blushed as the Merboy, Nemed, introduced himself. Fithea’s look wasn’t entirely disapproving, just…warning.

“Menorkel. Rhisveri will not approve of you singing when you should have been practicing. You may do both, but you must practice.”

“I…hate learning to use a sword, Fithea. I don’t feel like becoming a Great Knight.”

Menorkel drew on the ground while his other hands picked up snacks. He was like the Antinium, but even they didn’t have his level of coordination. One of his heads looked at Fithea; the other kept looking at Ryoka, fascinated with her. Fithea was scolding him.

“You have natural talent. You must learn to defend yourself, even if you will not become a Great Knight. Menorkel is almost as young as Gilaw. Only two decades older. And unlike her, he grows far slower. He was a boy, but now he is growing.”

The Titan blushed, and Ryoka smiled at him. Then her smile faded.

“You do teach them how to fight?”

Fithea looked at Ryoka and nodded.

“If Ailendamus were to fall, or if we were uncovered—they must all learn. To defend themselves. We have seen sanctuaries die, the older of us. We are not fools. Rhisveri makes Ailendamus to find and keep us safe, but it is only one nation.”

“Then he is doing this for you all as well as for his ambitions?”

That was what Ryoka struggled with. It was so…charitable, for the Wyrm. Fithea smiled thinly.

“He is selfish. It is mainly for him. But he is no fool. Rather than fight with us, he works with us, although he must be the first among all. One last place for all of us.”

“But to do that he will make war on innocent kingdoms. Ailendamus has destroyed other kingdoms, Lady Fithea.”

Menorkel shifted and Gilaw opened one eye to glower at Ryoka. Fithea frowned.

“It…is true. But some kingdoms made war on Ailendamus. And this latest war is…”

“Ambitious. Is that a bad thing? Calanfer has a Dragonthrone. It would be a grand sanctuary for our kind, if Rhisveri thought merely in those terms. The truth is that he will one day try to take over all of Terandria. Overthrow every royal throne. Perhaps the world. Or perhaps only one continent. There is such a thing as overreaching, but Ryoka Griffin, that is merely the ambition of a tyrant. And Rhisveri is one of many. That does not mean we are without reason.”

A voice interrupted the Dryad. Ryoka Griffin, Menorkel, Nemed and Gilaw all looked up. Fithea frowned, and Gilaw hid behind Menorkel. Ryoka’s head snapped around and she saw him.

Her first impression of Viscount Visophecin was that Baron Regalius had a twin who liked dark colors. Not that they were alike in height. Visophecin was tall, even lean, and his skin had a darker cast than Regalius’.

His hair was almost jet black, but tinted the slightest bit blue. It was swept forwards, and he had a single earring on sharp features. His lips looked bloodless, but you barely noticed that because his eyes were an orange yellow, bright, both focused on Ryoka.

He was sitting with one leg hanging down from one of the boulders, long, dark clothing in that pattern based on shadows draped around him. Long-sleeved jacket and pants that covered every inch of his body, even dark gloves. He had the most modern dress Ryoka had seen, which still somehow contrived to be more reminiscent of old nobility crossed with a modern suit.

However, what struck her in that moment, as the immortal looked at her, were two things. The man was at first a handsome [Lord], some kind of reclusive eccentric, unlike Tyrion, who clearly was athletic.

…Until she saw a flicker behind the illusion. Until she smelled something odd.

Like the metal from forge-fires. Like steel, burning, crossed with a spice. A fragrance of its own, rather appealing—but only one part was from actual cologne. Ryoka stared at Visophecin and had a thought:

His pupils are square.

Of all the things to notice in that moment—that was one of the least consequential. But Ryoka had a thing about eyes. They might not be windows to the soul, but they were revealing. From Teriarch to Belavierr…she sat up and stared at him as Fithea turned.

“Visophecin. Why are you here?”

“To meet with Ryoka Griffin. It was past time I met Rhisveri’s thief. And you, Fithea, are too open with secrets.”

The man stood, straightening his coat. How long had he been here? Ryoka hadn’t even seen him come through the door. Instantly, she had Belavierr-vibes on her ‘how much trouble am I in this time’ scale. But she didn’t immediately get worried, although a subtle alarm bell had begun ringing in her head just from his appearance. It was so…clichéd.

But Ryoka didn’t get it yet. Not until Fithea stood.

“She is my guest. Make your greetings and deals later, Visophecin. Ryoka Griffin, be wary of this one. He stands second to Rhisveri in power. He is…cunning. He may not mean you harm, but you are as selfish as Rhisveri, Visophecin.”

Ryoka’s eyebrows rose. Something about the way Fithea worded that…Visophecin dipped his head.

“Is that wrong? I am upfront with my desires, Fithea. If you wish me gone, I will leave. I merely ask that Ryoka Griffin let me prevail on her later.”

He turned to her. Ryoka hesitated.

“I…of course?”

Visophecin strode over with two of his curiously languid strides. He held out a hand.

“Later, then. We have an agreement.”

She reached out, unthinking, to take his gloved hand. Then something went click in her head.

What is stereotypical in this world only looks that way because I’ve seen it in my world.

Like Fierre, who wore that Vampire-Goth aesthetic sometimes and had pointy teeth, red eyes, and whose mother could have fit into any Halloween group. But what would Visophecin…?

She focused on his odd eyes. Perfectly square. That smell was odd too. It was surprisingly nice. But who deliberately came up with a scent to remind people of a forge? Of…fire. Metal…

Then Ryoka’s eyes focused on his face. The slight grey tinge to his skin. But the kicker wasn’t that. It was that Visophecin was in the Immortal’s Wing. So he’d dropped a few of the safeguards he might normally employ. His smile was just a bit pointed, but nothing on a Vampire or Drake or Gnoll.

The real tell? The real tell was that as sunlight streamed into Fithea’s private rooms, filtering down around him and the others, Ryoka saw something. The motes of light shone down over Visophecin’s head, and they didn’t cause him to burst into flame or anything so dramatic. But she did see something; a shadow amidst the light. Ryoka stared up at Visophecin’s head. Then down. The man’s eyebrows rose.

“Well. That’s clever.”

Ryoka’s eyes jerked back up to the two small, but almost-invisible horns on his forehead. Then at the ground. And the way his shadow just completely failed to materialize.

Dark clothing. Horns on his head. Odd skin, odd eyes. Talking about ‘deals’. Smells like forgefire—which wasn’t quite brimstone, for brimstone smelled terrible. And…Ryoka eyed his posterior.

“Do you have a tail?”

Visophecin’s perfect eyebrows shot upwards.

“Incredible. Now how would you know that? I would love to talk lat—”

He reached for Ryoka’s hand. She realized she’d nearly taken his hand. His hand.

“Gyaaaaah!”

She snatched her hand back and did an amazing flying-sideways-leap-flop backwards. Menorkel nearly spat water out both his mouths as Ryoka landed, scrabbling backwards from Visophecin.

The Devil, the literal Devil, stopped, a fairly surprised look on his features. But…mild. As if true shock was beyond him. He blinked at Ryoka, as Fithea stared at the Wind Runner.

“Is something wrong?”

“Y-you’re—holy—you’re—”

Ryoka edged back as he walked over. The immortal-loving, immortophilliac, obsessed, #1 member in the immortal’s fanclub, Flamedaddy fan, Lichfather aficionado, Stitch-mom appreciating…

Ryoka Griffin, who had found something to respect in the Spider of Terandria, who was best friends with a Vampire, and on money-lending terms with the Faerie King, took one look at Viscount Visophecin. His hand.

His eyes and the shadow that wasn’t there. He stepped over.

“Can I offer you a hand up, Miss Griffin?”

He reached down and found only air. Ryoka Griffin was already sprinting towards the door. She hurtled out of it, finally an immortal too far.

Visophecin blinked. Even he hadn’t expected that. He recovered instantly, but Fithea, Menorkel, Nemed, all looked at Visophecin. Visophecin, who was still not Rhisveri, and Ryoka Griffin, who had repeatedly stood up to Rhisveri, even going as far as to tease and insult him.

…Now running for the hills. Even the immortals were stunned.

All except for Gilaw, who stared at Visophecin’s back. She thought Ryoka might deserve her name after all. The Human knew what was what.

——

It was hard to contextualize why Ryoka ran so hard. She knew in a world with Dragons and Liches and whatnot, it was not like she should have been surprised by anything.

Yet even she had her ‘this is too far’ moment. And that was right there. It was rooted in her mythos. Her mythos from Earth. Things as simple as…being told she had to go to church.

And there he was, in every story. Not Visophecin specifically. Maybe there were many of them.

“Not lots. But he’s their representative.”

“What?”

Menorkel found Ryoka hiding behind his door, demanding to know what Visophecin was. And she was really hoping it was just a coincidence. But Menorkel was not being reassuring.

“No, he’s not a Demon. He’s very specific about that. He’s one of…I don’t know. A few dozen?”

“A few dozen. And they all have horns and tails and…?”

Ryoka wondered if that made it better. She relaxed a bit. If he was one of many, he wasn’t the one. Menorkel nodded.

“Yep. I don’t know what a ‘Devil’ is.”

“Oh, good.”

“They call themselves Lucifen.”

Ryoka began to crawl under Menorkel’s bed. The Titan didn’t understand. Maybe they only had the appearance.

“So what does he do?”

“Well…he’s second only to Rhisveri. That’s what Fithea says. He’s a magic-user. Without levels. No one knows how old he is. He wasn’t rescued; he showed up with his people.”

The Wind Runner stared out from under the bed like the world’s lamest boogeyman.

“And Rhisveri just let him in?”

“Not immediately. Visophecin’s smart. He advises Rhisveri. He struck a deal. He loves deals. He’s got contracts, too.”

“Oh shit.”

Menorkel went on, glancing at the door, a bit uneasy now, despite himself.

“The thing is…Fithea’s sort of right. I don’t know why you freaked out, but you don’t want to make Visophecin mad. I don’t know how you’d do that; he’s never angry. I once accidentally spilled paint all over his clothes and he just told me it was okay. He even helped me paint my room.”

“What did it cost you?”

“Nothing. Oh. I did a small favor for him, I think.”

The Titan scratched his head. He shrugged.

“He’s nice. But Fithea says don’t make him angry. Rhisveri did that once and apparently we had to evacuate our old hideout.”

“And where was that?”

“The previous palace. Um. Are you going to come out of…?”

Since Menorkel was so huge, his bed was actually quite spacious underneath. Ryoka thought she could live the rest of her life here. It wouldn’t be a bad life. He could bring her food and she could just lie here until she died.

“Okay. Okay. Listen, Menorkel. Maybe he’s not what I think he is. He just…really sounds like something I know. And that’s bad news.”

The Titan scratched at his head. But he had no context.

Okay. It was more than just religion. In fact, it was anti-religion, which was another kind of religion.

But let’s say you were Ryoka Griffin over the many years she had inflicted suffering onto her parents and the world at large before she came to this world. And that was Ryoka Griffin with a hundred different edges.

Ryoka Griffin who partied, who was a rebel, who was ‘batman’ as a little girl and scared her parents at night. She had okay phases she wasn’t completely ashamed of.

But there were other, uh…moments. Moments Ryoka would think of and spend the next hour with a pillow over her head or trying to smack the memory out of her skull. If you wanted to know who tagged walls and thought that changed the world? That was her.

If you wanted to know who stole cars and raced them? That was her. If you wanted to know who experimented with anything from the world of goths to punk?

That was her.

And let’s say there was a Ryoka at, oh, fifteen. Height of her rebellion. Who had gotten tossed out of the reform-camps. Once set a tent on fire…and you can’t pray away what she had. Her parents had tried, and gotten other people to try for them since they weren’t actually the most spiritual types.

Maybe. Maaaaybe Ryoka Griffin at 15, in response to all this well-meaning religiosity, decided she wasn’t just an atheist. God wasn’t just dead a la Nietzsche, but there was someone even better. And she just happened to…make an offering for her soul to the devil as a Satanist.

It was just a kid thing, but it was hitting her now. And the thing about ‘selling your soul’ was that you didn’t really get too bothered by it except on those days when you wondered ‘what if’, but you really thought about it when you came to a world where there were literal dead things who wanted to touch you around a fire.

When you learned that souls and ghosts existed, and you met a man with no shadow who smelled like hell and wanted to shake your hand.

Ryoka felt it was a bit understandable, even if she couldn’t convey that to Menorkel.

The Titan was rather understanding of it all. Ryoka had a view of the closed door. Menorkel went to check it.

“I can go see if Visophecin is gone.”

“Please. But close the—”

Too late. Menorkel was already outside and trotting off. Ryoka lay under the bed. She stared at the open door. But…this was stupid.

Visophecin was a Viscount, not some stupid amalgamation of all her weird childhood issues. Like Vampires, there was a nuance to how stories played out. She stared at the door, and around Menorkel’s rather plain room. But then—she happened to know he had a singing room where all his real possessions were stored.

So Ryoka climbed out from under the bed. She shook her head, sheepishly.

“I’m being an idiot. I’m just…he’s probably not the Devil. Just think of the stereotypes. Don’t shake his hand. Don’t promise anything. It’s not worse than Rhisveri, right? He’s not…necessarily…inherently evil.”

Ryoka inhaled, exhaled. She was calming down when someone spoke behind her.

“And what does ‘evil’ mean?”

The Wind Runner’s head turned.

There he sat. On Menorkel’s bed, adjusting one of his shoes. Visophecin glanced up.

“You have an interesting impression of me, Miss Ryoka Griffin. It makes me more interested in you. I don’t normally debate philosophy with people I’ve just met. But it could be a fascinating icebreaker.”

He looked at her horrified expression. Chuckled.

“I’m sorry. I tend to appear where I’m invited. I don’t bother with doors. Can we start—”

He watched as Ryoka didn’t so much as walk, or even shuffle, but slide over to the door and out of it. Visophecin blinked.

“That was incredible footwork. I have never seen someone shuffle their feet like that.”

The Viscount rubbed at his chin. He was smooth-shaven, incidentally. Not a hair to be seen, let alone stubble. Interesting. He stood up, slowly. Because there was something fascinating here.

Ryoka Griffin didn’t know it. But if he was conforming to a lot of her stereotypes by accident…she was conforming to some of his. It had been a long time…no.

“They told me once it was like this. She knows the old game. Is that what she’s playing?”

He smiled. His eyes lit up. Rarely had Visophecin ever said it. But he thought it now.

That might be fun.

——

Ryoka Griffin found the Knights of the Thirsting Veil waiting for her outside the Immortal’s Wing. They snapped to attention.

Two of them she knew well. Chorisa and Lacres. Their squad-leader, Chorisa, glared suspiciously at Ryoka.

“Have you caused any trouble, Miss Ryoka?”

That was a question that was entirely appropriate for anyone who knew anything about, er, Ryoka. The Wind Runner certainly looked guilty. She was wide-eyed, panting.

“I uh—no. I just left Fithea—”

“Lady Fithea.”

“Whatever. I left early. It’s all fine. I um—I’d like to be put in my room, please. No—no—”

Ryoka reconsidered instantly.

“Maybe somewhere with lots of people? No, somewhere in bright light? Is there running water anywhere? A stream? Can I buy some silver? Uh…”

Would making a cross help? Ryoka knew she was panicking, but on the other hand, if she made a cross out of silver and Visophecin said it made him feel uncomfortable?

That was when she was going to flip out for real. Ryoka glanced around. She was expecting Visophecin to appear at any moment.

“You haven’t offended anyone, have you?”

Chorisa was glaring at Ryoka. The Wind Runner hesitated. She had a kind of truce with the Thirsting Veil Knights. They didn’t get on her back, and she was at least honest.

“Maybe?”

They groaned, but looked at the Immortal’s Wing.

“We can’t enter…who did you offend?”

“No one! I mean, I didn’t offend him in any serious way. I just—Visophecin’s his name?”

Dame Chorisa had been eying Ryoka’s stomach and clearly wondering how much trouble you got into for beating prisoners, but at his name, she stiffened.

“You mean…Viscount Visophecin? Of House Shoel?”

“Oh come on! That’s not his House!”

The [Knights] exchanged a look. They conferred, quickly.

“The Viscount is…how did you offend him? We may have to issue an apology…”

“The Duke will hear of this. House Shoel? If they lodge a protest with our order…”

Ryoka was looking over her shoulder.

“What’s, uh—the Viscount’s a high rank. I just, uh—ran off from Viscount Visophecin.”

“Why?”

“I can’t say. What’s—what’s he like?”

“Extremely well-respected. I can’t believe he offered you a reason to be offended. He’s not impolite. Did he flirt with you?”

Dame Chorisa gave Ryoka a searching look. The Wind Runner colored.

“No! I just—look. I’m just going to walk away. It’s my problem.”

She began stalking forwards, looking back over her shoulder at the Immortal’s Wing. The Thirsting Veil Knights followed her.

“What is wrong with the Viscount?”

“I don’t know! You tell me!”

Chorisa looked at Ryoka.

“Do you have a fever, Miss Griffin?”

“Maybe? That would explain everything! I—”

The Thirsting Veil Knights tried to interrogate her, but Ryoka was being honest and it was hard for them to figure out why—the truth was she had just freaked out and refused to talk to Visophecin. They still interrogated her, but Ryoka was making tracks and they returned to crowded corridors soon enough.

Servants and guests were all looking at the Wind Runner who was the topic of this morning’s gossip. They eyed the young woman as she passed, and that only added to her paranoia.

Ryoka was picking up speed, but she saw a man striding towards her as she shot through the main palace. She relaxed, slightly, as the man raised his hand.

“Miss Ryoka! A fair day to you!”

A fixed figure in the palace’s courts, Baron Regalius, smiled, and got a weak one from the Wind Runner. Relieved, Ryoka slowed down.

“Baron Regalius.”

“Regalius to my friends. And I hope I can count to call you that.”

He flashed her a winning smile, which made Ryoka stop and follow. They strolled along a hallway with many windows as Ryoka wiped at her brow.

“Sorry. Thank you, and yes, Regalius! Um—I’m just a bit harried.”

“I can imagine, with this morning’s gossip. They say all kinds of things, but I hear His Majesty and the royal family were taken with your…what was it, tricking?”

“What? Oh, yes. That happened.”

The [Baron] smiled.

“Ah, well, children do love Couriers. I think that explains the rest. It should die down shortly; unsubstantiated rumor does that.”

Ryoka had no idea what he meant, but it seemed the Baron was supporting her…for something. He strode along proudly in a show of solidarity. She nodded.

“Thank you…?”

“And what is distressing you at this moment? An unfortunate encounter? Aforementioned rumors? You know, I think many of the Court of Masks realized who you were—you were a new mask. But they were taken with you, for all the hubbub you caused. Maybe you would like to meet them there, or even talk to some acquaintances of mine? They are fiercely interested in you…”

“I—”

This was not the time for Ryoka to consider politics. She kept looking over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Regalius. I just had a spook. I don’t know if—no, you might be the one to ask. Do you know a Viscount…Visophecin?”

Regalius’ brows snapped together.

“Viscount Visophecin? Naturally. Of one of the finest houses of Ailendamus—and I do mean that in the sense that we are a young kingdom. But he has roots that go back beyond living memory. His is an old house.”

He chuckled. Ryoka’s hair stood up on end.

“Right. I’m sure he does. Can you…tell me anything about him? I met him, but I think I, uh, offended him?”

Regalius waved that away.

“I am sure he takes no offense. Visophecin. I could tell you he is regarded as a keen mind, one of the most incisive. A threat on any floor, almost worthy of the Lord of the Dance. Finely spoken. He’s gone through the Court of Masks, but I think he doesn’t care for the anonymity. Mainly, though, he’s a famously sharp mercantile mind and—I cannot stress that this is no slight—he’s made deals to make even the best [Merchants] envious.”

“He—he has a lot of deals, huh?”

“A man of his word. Friends with Duke Rhisveri; he is not always at the palace, but I have nothing but good to say of him—though I personally am not close. I hope you are not bothered by anything he might have said or done. It’s quite a coincidence.”

“You’re telling me.”

Regalius adjusted his lapels.

“On many levels, Ryoka. I met the Viscount in a dressing room this morning—he does take care of his appearance. And then I was heading to my midday repast when he asked if I would apologize to you for any slights of his. I can’t imagine he did anything intentionally…”

Regalius stopped because Ryoka had walked right into one of the decorative pillars. She whirled around.

“He did what?”

“Just now. I passed him in the hallway and he seemed to know we’d meet.”

Baron Regalius turned innocently. He saw Ryoka’s wide-eyed look, and stopped.

“It was just a passing mention. Did you just meet with him? If I can smooth things over…he asked if you had any dinner plans? But I can see it might be more serious than I…Ryoka?”

The Thirsting Veil Knights were looking at each other. Baron Regalius had come from ahead of Ryoka a few minutes after she’d left that isolated wing. Still, there were any number of reasons Visophecin had been ahead of her. Ryoka looked at Regalius.

“I—it might be a misunderstanding? I just—I’m startled. Wary of him.”

“He does have a reputation for keenness. Great friend, mortal enemy. I can understand that, Miss Griffin, but the Viscount is a man to count if he is predisposed to you—and he seems to have taken a shine to you. Why don’t we discuss the issue?”

“I…”

“As a matter of fact, there he is! Viscount! The timing! Are you perhaps—”

Ryoka whirled. No way. No damn way. But there he was. The Viscount stepped out of a dressing room, tugging a glove up. He looked up, as if he had just spotted them, and smiled.

“Baron, you found her before me. What a happy coincidence. Miss Griffin?”

“I—I—”

He walked towards her, slowly, hand raising. Now—was there a glitter in his eyes. Eyes burning orange, like the hell she’d always sort of hoped existed? Regalius beamed.

“There now, Ryoka. May I reintroduce you t—”

Ryoka turned and went sprinting down the hallway. Dame Chorisa barked.

“Hey!”

People who had already been watching her out of the corners of their eyes turned. They saw the Wind Runner running down the corridor, dodging around servants, pursued by four Thirsting Veil Knights.

What was going on? Ryoka rounded the corner, nearly slammed into an older woman wheeling a cart forwards. The woman recoiled and nearly fell over backwards. Ryoka reached for her—

“Excuse me, Miss.”

Visophecin caught the servant. He smiled at Ryoka. The Wind Runner recoiled.

Dame Chorisa skidded to a stop and did a double-take when she saw the Viscount. The man carefully helped the servant back to her feet as she apologized. He looked at Ryoka. She stared at him.

“Viscount. Is something the matter?”

“I believe Miss Griffin is simply wary of me, Dame Chorisa. I hope I can have a simple word? Miss Griffin. I do apologize for anything I have done or said!”

He held out his gloved hand, enunciating clearly for a breathless Regalius and the crowd. Ryoka stared at it.

Oh hell no. She looked up and saw Visophecin grin. Ryoka looked around, edged over, yanked a window open, and bailed out the third floor window. Dame Chorisa jumped for her and another Thirsting Veil Knight leapt…and shouted.

“Gaa—”

She dropped as she missed Ryoka, but the Wind Runner had leapt to safety and landed on the ground with the wind cushioning her fall.

“Escape! She’s escaping—”

Chorisa panicked. She whirled to ask Visophecin what was happening—she hadn’t thought Ryoka would escape like that, especially with the bracelet! But when she turned—

He was gone.

——

Ryoka raced with the wind behind her. She knew she couldn’t escape the palace, not without Rhisveri’s wrath or dying, but she shot towards a small forest in the palace grounds.

“Please don’t be here, please don’t be here—”

She stopped, panting, clutching at her chest, by a tree several dozen feet into the forest. She inhaled, and Visophecin stepped out from behind a tree.

“May I offer you a stamina draught, Miss Ryoka? Completely complimentary.”

He was there. Ryoka backed up. In the shadow of the trees, Visophecin stood. Eyes…glowing. Square pupils fixed on her. Smiling, a little glowing bottle held out.

“How are you doing that?”

“I tend to find my way around where I need to be. I’ve been told I’m impossible to outrun. But you may try. Please, Courier Griffin. A potion? You may need the energy. Absolutely free, with no obligations. What could be the harm?”

He nearly didn’t get that last part out. Ryoka turned and ran back towards the [Knights] chasing after her, glancing over her shoulder. Visophecin stood there in the shadow of the trees. Then he threw back his head and chuckled. She even got the references!

“This is too much fun.”

——

Ryoka stood in the middle of a courtyard plaza, slowly turning around. Sunlight streamed down around her and there were no hedges, ledges, statues, or anything else you could hide behind. She kept turning, not spinning, but turning in a complete circle.

Dame Chorisa looked at the other Thirsting Veil Knights standing and watching her. One of them muttered.

“…Is she alright?”

Dame Chorisa frowned.

“This is almost worse than normal.”

Ryoka relaxed after a few minutes. Okay. Okay. She had run towards this spot, after telling Dame Chorisa she was not trying to run out of the palace, just away from Visophecin. The [Knight] had debated knocking her out, and decided to humor her.

Empty plaza. Sunlight. No hiding spots. And no matter where she turned, she didn’t see him peeking out at her like some horror monster. Ryoka had heard of Facestealer and she had that thing in her nightmares, but no Visophecin.

She began to breathe. Right up until nearly four dozen people emerged from the palace and came towards her in a huge gaggle.

“There she is! Just where the Viscount said! Miss Courier? Miss Courier!”

Ryoka’s heart squeezed.

“Oh no. Hey! I’m, uh, busy! Don’t come near!”

The people didn’t understand. They were nobles, guests, walking out, opening parasols, calling her name.

“The Viscount would like a word! He’s deeply apologetic! Would you hear him out?”

“No—no thank you!”

Ryoka began jogging the other way. The group picked up the pace, but Ryoka was not above just running away from this fancy lot, and she doubted they could catch her. Still in the open, Ryoka breathed out—until she saw a second group of people striding towards her.

“Excuse me—”

A wide-eyed Wind Runner ran towards the hedge maze. She vaulted over the first wall, landed, took one look at the man smoking on a cigar and offering her one, and practically climbed back over to the other side.

She was scratching herself on branches of the hedge wall and halfway up when she heard him speak.

“How do you know me? Curious. There was a time when folk like you existed. I’m told they played glorious games.”

A glowing, red cigar tip. A smile. He looked at Ryoka. She said not a word, listening to the confused voices, the thundering footsteps of the [Knights]. She just looked at him.

How did you see him? The handsome, if enigmatic, Viscount? Ryoka saw something completely different. But she was good at perspectives. For a Human.

She thought this might be a game. It was certainly less subtle than she’d imagine the genuine article could pull off. He was smiling.

However, Ryoka’s part wasn’t imaginary. On paper, it was funny. But he truly did appear every time she turned her head. That was…one thing.

Yet what made her truly uneasy was his face. His glowing eyes danced in the shadowed hedge maze. Visophecin was smiling. With a kind of delight that surprised even himself.

“You play very well, Ryoka Griffin. I wonder though—how do you dance? I shall have to try harder.”

Ryoka hesitated. Visophecin stood up and strolled around the corner of the hedge maze. She cursed, leapt down, and strode after him.

“No, wait—”

Too late. He was gone, exposing only paved pathways, huge walls of green, decorated with flowers that bloomed amid the faint light. Ryoka cursed, stopping and looking around. This was going too—she was sweating. She wiped a bead from her brow and looked down.

A hole opened up under her feet, pitch black and whispering. Something reached up and grabbed Ryoka’s leg.

She screamed once and yanked her leg. A hand like oblivion dragged her into the hole in the ground.

There. That was true terror, before she vanished.

Someone stepped around a corner. He was still smoking the cigar. One did not waste a quality product.

“I thought she would dodge that. Pity.”

It was over too quickly. A good game was like that, though. Unpredictable. Visophecin touched his face.

He was smiling? He was. What a strange thing. He had heard stories of these grand games. The hunt. Scarcely given them credence. He supposed he should let her out of the—

“—volethe!”

Visophecin whirled. He saw a light, and dodged the glowing blade that cut a hole through the air. And half the hedge wall.

The Wind Runner came stumbling out of the Asphod Maze, wild-eyed, breathing heavily. She held that glowing artifact Rhisveri was so interested in. She slashed—the hedges disappeared, falling to bits. But that—she couldn’t have just cut her way out.

She’d escaped? That fast?

She whirled, took one look at him, and ran. This time, she truly ran. Terror. And—

Visophecin stood there. Now, he felt it. Stretching across his face, from ear to ear. He couldn’t remember a time when he had smiled like this.

A delighted expression ran across his face. What surprises! Even Sophridel could not find his way out of the maze so easily. Visophecin chuckled and put out the cigar. He knew it was a distraction, but he couldn’t help it.

The hunt was on.

——

Something was afoot in Ailendamus’ palace today. Not war. Not the Five Families’ threats, or even Itorin himself. For the people, for one Wind Runner, a second event was playing.

Word was out. Viscount Visophecin had somehow offended the Wind Runner, that mysterious Courier guest. Or perhaps she had taken offense? It was hard to imagine the Viscount erring that poorly, but he wished to make amends.

So if you saw Ryoka, wouldn’t you stop her? Intercede on his behalf? Of course, to win his favor. In fact, why not make a game of it? The Viscount was in rare form. So here was something amusing…

Ryoka had stopped even seeing the potential for humor in it after the hedge maze. She looked down the staircase at some of Visophecin’s allies. Which was apparently…everyone.

Even Sophridel. Because she could not imagine how else…

“Ryoka Griffin! Will you stop a moment?”

The Viscount called up at her. He tried to climb up the staircase, but was jostled by another Visophecin. No—someone wearing a mask that looked uncannily like his face.

More of the ‘hunters’ were following her. As well as the palace’s security, who had no reason to like Ryoka. Many were amused. Most were just annoyed. Why was she making such an event of this? Was this just the Wind Runner being incapable of living a single day without drama?

Which, yes, it was. But that was not why she was breathing so hard. Ryoka ran. And it got worse.

Library. The [Librarian] was ready to throw Ryoka out on her head again. But instead, she squinted at Ryoka and handed her something.

“The Viscount asked me to recommend this to you, Miss…Griffin.”

Ryoka stared down at the book. She blanched.

Rain and War: An Anthology of Memoirs by Liscor’s Generals.

She looked at the book. Glanced up as she almost reached for it.

The Viscount held the book out. He watched her recoil.

“Poor Erin Solstice. What would you do to save her?”

“How did yo—”

His smile never changed, but he did tilt his head.

“I make it my business to know. It’s quite a simple deduction. [Messages]. Cause and effect. It seems as though not many people can see a simple line if it zigs and zags. I can.”

She turned, whirling for the door. The Viscount opened it.

“A child abducted. All over Izril’s news. Mrsha. Who could help her? Who has such resource—to cure a mortal wound? And while you search, a child might die. What would you do to help her?”

“Don’t—”

Ryoka was getting angry. Visophecin smiled. His eyes fixed on her face.

“What would you do to save them? I am known for my deals, Courier Griffin. Everything can be bartered. Why don’t we discuss the matter? I have a suitable stage for discussion set up.”

He offered her a hand. Ryoka wanted to slap it down and then jump-kick him. But she knew better than to reach out. So she whirled. She was going to blast straight out the window and—

Ryoka took three steps and felt the hand on her shoulder. Restraining her. Her head turned.

“You can’t—”

“Touch you? I’m afraid, Miss Ryoka, that you don’t understand the rules. You are a criminal of Ailendamus. Have a seat.”

Now, she tried to move and felt that incredible strength, like an adult with a child. Like Fierre, only stronger. Ryoka looked at Visophecin and she was past Devils and silly pacts made as a child where they had no power.

She was not scared because of that. His smile made it worse. He was enjoying this.

“I do love a good opponent. But I never lose.”

She drew the Faeblade and slashed at his arm. He was suddenly no longer holding her. Visophecin watched as she ran for the window.

This was too fun. So he pointed as the Wind Runner looked back, aiming a finger as the wind blew ominously indoors.

“Before you leave, Miss Griffin. You might want to fetch a mirror. You have something on your face.”

She stared at him, wavered—then stared into the glass of the window, using it as a poor mirror. Her eyes opened wide. She saw the scrawl of ink on her cheek. She didn’t understand, for a second.

It was just an arch, like an upside-down smiley face. But instead of eyes, there were two little curved triangles sticking out. It was a simple, cute little design. But it looked…like…

Horns.

Visophecin stood there, laughing. Actually laughing. Glass shattered. He was enjoying this far too much. He saw her running, scrubbing at her cheek. What a glorious day. What a splendid game.

——

The palace was in uproar. By now, the nature of the pursuit had changed. Why, the Viscount had a grand game in play! He was teasing the Wind Runner.

So—if you were in the kitchens, you had new orders. Make some food like this…and if you were staffing the hallways, would you kindly put this portrait up? No, there was no telling how fast the Viscount got a portrait of himself; maybe it was in storage?

The Viscount was everywhere, or perhaps it was people posing as him. One thing was sure though—no one had ever seen him this amused.

Yet. The humor was going one way. Dame Chorisa, running around, threatened with punitive action by her superiors if she didn’t find her prisoner, saw Ryoka once. The Wind Runner bolted so fast Chorisa almost missed what she’d seen. But she didn’t miss Ryoka’s pale face.

She looked and saw Viscount Visophecin. He was so fast. He probably had a teleportation artifact or some speed spell, but Chorisa had to admit, she was astonished. Yet—when she saw him?

“Dead gods. Lance-arrows strike me, that’s going too far, Chorisa. Isn’t it?”

Knight Lacres muttered. Chorisa just heard laughter and saw people pointing. She hesitated, and didn’t disagree.

Viscount Visophecin had met Ryoka Griffin in one of the ballrooms. Mid-dance, as if she had caught him out by accident while he was engaged in completely social pursuits. As Baron Regalius had mentioned, he was a threat on the dance floor and his partner was practically off her feet. He had kissed her—that was to say—

Ryoka Griffin. Or someone who looked exactly like her. The Viscount stepped away as the actual Wind Runner fled, and the illusion faded to reveal a laughing young woman from the court. He bowed to his audience, largely to applause and laughter.

“I must say, that seems…unmannerly. The Viscount must truly find Ryoka Griffin to be quite something. I have never seen him get up to pranks.”

A voice remarked. The [Knights] saw Baron Regalius panting, clutching at a stitch in his side. He hadn’t missed it either. But he didn’t really see it.

And it could get worse. A lot worse, especially since there was no bottom.

——

When Ryoka Griffin stopped, she was shaking. Visophecin walked towards her in that slow, unhurried pace. Behind him was a crowd.

At this point, Fithea had emerged from her quarters to find Ryoka. She was joined by Gilaw, Menorkel, and a few others. The old Dryad glanced at Visophecin, and then Ryoka.

“We found her, Viscount!”

Dame Chorisa was no longer panting. But she was incredibly apprehensive. She followed along in a group of her own and saw the Wind Runner standing there. Ryoka Griffin held perfectly still. Chorisa didn’t understand why—until she saw nearly two dozen [Court Mages], laughing and waving the Viscount over.

“It took some doing, to stop a Courier dead. Protective artifacts—but we found her!”

Ryoka was enmeshed in [Stasis] spells. She saw the Viscount smiling at the [Mages]. He walked forwards, eyes on her. Wondering, clearly, if she would escape.

What a glorious game. Will you surprise me, before I win?

The Devil smiled. Ryoka was shaking, although she couldn’t quite move. No one quite noticed, at least the immortals. Fithea just looked confused, and why not? She had no perspective. Many of the staff or people in the palace were laughing or applauding the [Mages].

Those that weren’t amused or merely indifferent were angry at Ryoka, who had caused this entire mess. Or angry at her for reasons beyond even that.

“There that…harlot is.”

A seething voice. Someone stormed forwards, ahead of Dame Chorisa. The Thirsting Veil [Knight] saw Ryoka right ahead of her and knew it behooved her to get close before Ryoka pulled some stunt and fled. But one did not push past the woman and her bodyguard ahead of her.

Queen Oiena of Ailendamus had heard about this morning. She did not stride at Ryoka, but she wanted to see the Courier. One did not acknowledge one’s foes because that gave them strength. But Oiena did make a point of observing…people…who might soon regret whatever they had done.

In this case, steering her children towards acting like tavern [Performers], slighting the royal presence, involving Ailendamus in a war with one of the Five Families, and attempted seduction of His Majesty.

Any one of these reasons would be enough for Oiena to consider taking matters into her own hands, since Itorin could not do anything and he could not do everything she could. But that last bit, compounded with what she had heard of this Courier—

It still hadn’t worried her when she’d heard of Itorin laughing or shaking her hand; so he’d taken to her. So what? She had not had reason to be paranoid, not since they were newly-wed, so she was confident.

…Right until she heard Itorin had made plans for a private dinner with absolutely no observers, even bodyguards, the next night. That…that was not normal.

Rhisveri’s guest or not, the [Queen] halted, watching the Wind Runner in this new debacle she had caused. Her eyes narrowed with instant dislike and she focused on Ryoka Griffin.

“Courier Griffin. I apologize for the chase. Allow me to make it up to you.”

Visophecin called out to the amusement of the hour. Queen Oiena stared at him, puzzled. He had never been one to participate in many games, only a few courtly diversions, and usually only with a specific bent. She looked at Ryoka, glaring…

Then looked twice. Ryoka Griffin was webbed in stasis spells, even light bindings, and she still had a smudge of ink on her cheek. She looked harried, and Oiena turned.

“What did you say she has been doing?”

“Running all over the palace, Your Majesty. Apparently the Viscount keeps popping up. Half the court is taken with the game. They were tossing lassos around her before they caught her.”

“Las…what?”

“Loops of cloth, Your Majesty. It’s been a game of catch-as-catch-can all morning and into the evening.”

Queen Oiena blinked.

“I have never known the Viscount to play a…a game?”

Her voice sounded doubtful. She turned, and her eyes fell on Dame Chorisa, who flinched.

“You were assigned to guard the Wind Runner. Is this true?”

Chorisa knelt.

“Your Majesty, I regret to say we failed to catch Ryoka Griffin. I am ashamed—”

“Yes, yes. But is it true?”

Chorisa exchanged a quick glance with the others. She hesitated, then nodded.

“The Wind Runner has been fleeing the Viscount all day. I have never heard why, but she has had little success. He…I believe it is a game?”

“A game.”

Queen Oiena gave Chorisa a sharp look. The [Knight] nodded slowly.

“So they say. I—did find the Wind Runner in her rooms. Briefly. She attempted to rest.”

“And why does that matter…?”

“The Viscount was apparently standing in the closet.”

Two of the [Queen]’s bodyguards snorted despite themselves. However, Queen Oiena gave the [Knight] a sharp look.

“Truly?”

“Upon my honor and Order, Your Majesty.”

Oiena’s head swung around. She saw the Viscount approaching, a flower in his hand. Some dark rose, from Noelictus by the shade. He was teasingly aiming to put it in her hair. He looked far more amused than Oiena had ever seen him.

It did matter on how you saw it. Like the Viscount, a grand game with the greatest of quarries. Or maybe as Visophecin, who revelled in the same thing Oiena saw.

Which was Ryoka’s expression, even frozen. She looked…afraid. Exhausted and helpless. Bound up like…

The [Queen] of Ailendamus had a moment of justifiable pique. Then…

“Gura-drat the man!”

She swore like a native of Taimaguros as she stalked forwards.

——

Ryoka Griffin stared up at the flower stem, as Viscount Visophecin delicately went to place it in her hair. She was almost about to cry.

This was…the Viscount was watching her, that unholy amusement in his eyes. Expectation, almost, that she was going to do something. But what? Blow him sky-high in front of Ailendamus’ courts, who thought this was a game?

Ryoka felt a bit of nausea rise. Viscount Visophecin bent down, smiling.

“I suppose that marks my victory, Ryoka Griffin. Perhaps now we can disc—”

“Viscount Visophecin!”

He turned, blinking. Even Ryoka didn’t see Queen Oiena coming until she strode over and slapped the Devil in his face with a glove.

Visophecin recoiled like a striking snake…that had been slapped in the face by a glove. He blinked, and his expression turned from pure enjoyment into outrage—

Until Queen Oiena shoved a finger into his face. Her bodyguard watched, half-resigned, half-appalled, mostly approving. Ryoka just gaped.

She had no background for this, but Queen Oiena was from Taimaguros. She had opinions about proper attire, proper conduct, and she had all the hallmarks of her homeland despite having left.

“I would have expected this from any rogue but you, Viscount Visophecin. Have you lost your gura-loving senses? This kind of behavior does not stand in Ailendamus. Guest of the state or not—who is restraining this young woman? Release her at once.”

The binding spells evaporated on Ryoka as the [Court Mages] suddenly found the [Queen] was here, the [Queen] was angry, and the [Queen] had a glove raised like a morningstar. Of course, her bodyguards had actual weapons they were only too happy to hit you with.

“Your Majesty, I beg your—”

“You beg my pardon, and this Courier’s, and you will all begone before I remember your faces.”

The [Mages] scattered. Queen Oiena turned like the wrath of Queen Oiena, and Ryoka saw her glance down. She did not look exactly friendly, but she saw Ryoka.

Ink smudged on the cheek, exhausted from running all day from someone who would not relent—she did see exactly what Ryoka was feeling. She glared at the [Mages] running for it—who were all male.

Fithea didn’t get it. She was a Dryad, and in this context, an old Dwarf woman. The other immortals? Well, Gilaw didn’t, or Menorkel. But Queen Oiena did.

She was brandishing her glove and Visophecin was staring at her, quite taken aback, when someone strode over.

“What is going on here?”

And here came the last player on any scene in Ailendamus. Duke Rhisveri walked forwards, scowling. He glared at Visophecin.

“You’re late. Oh, Your Majesty. Hello.”

He barely bothered to sketch a bow to Oiena. The [Queen] turned on Rhisveri.

“Duke Rhisveri. I have just found Viscount Visophecin behaving in the most unmannerly way possible. I hope you will take him to task as much as I.”

“What? Visophecin? Doing anything unmannerly? What’s going on—it’s you again. Why is it always you?”

Rhisveri saw Ryoka and pointed an accusatory finger at her. But for once, his wrath stopped as Oiena made to slap his hand with her glove. Rhisveri stared at her.

“What has gotten into you?”

“Me? Would you but listen to what Visophecin has done?”

The Viscount was listening, puzzlement turning to…he looked at Ryoka’s face, at Oiena, and blinked rapidly as if coming to…but Rhisveri was listening, and Fithea and the other immortals drew forwards while everyone else was ushered back.

It was not hard for Visophecin to give a somewhat embarrassed tale of his pursuit of Ryoka. However, halfway through he grew noticeably more hesitant.

“…I did pursue her in a lighthearted manner, Your Majesty, Duke. Which…coincided with attempts to surround Courier Griffin with pranks of my choosing.”

“He was in her closet. Appeared around corners! No matter where she went!”

The [Queen] was incandescent. Viscount Visophecin looked at her, then at Ryoka, and closed his eyes for a moment, tilting his head back. Rhisveri just blinked his eyes at Oiena, Ryoka, and Visophecin. Then he grinned.

“You did that? That’s hilarious. I don’t see the problem. I would have joined in if I—would you stop that?”

He leaned back from the wrath of gloves. Queen Oiena had two scarlet spots in her cheeks.

“It may be amusing to you, Duke Rhisveri, but His Majesty will not find it so amusing to have women pursued in such a manner! Or would you care to have your mother, your daughter, your niece followed about so?”

Rhisveri gave Oiena the blankest of looks.

“I would not particularly care. It sounds like a game. If this Th—Courier Griffin didn’t like it, she should just say so.”

The [Queen] was lost for words. She looked around, made a motion, and her bodyguards closed ranks, shielding them from view. Then she tried to stomp on Rhisveri’s foot with one of her heels.

He dodged, of course, and backed up.

“I do not see—”

“Duke Rhisveri. Her Majesty is, of course, wise. And I begin to realize just how improper I have been.”

Visophecin forestalled him with an arm. Rhisveri glared, but the Viscount abruptly bowed.

“Your Majesty, I beg your sincerest pardon, and to you as well, Courier Griffin. I will make sincere amends, but I believe the most prudent course now is…to remove myself completely. If you will allow me to withdraw?”

“There. At least one of you has sense. You may, Viscount, but I shall expect your finest behavior for the foreseeable future.”

“Absolutely, Your Majesty.”

He bowed, stepping back and tugging along Rhisveri. Ryoka saw him retreat, eyes on her. But his face no longer looked amused. It looked…well.

Guilty?

Queen Oiena was still breathing hard when she turned. Then she and Ryoka were alone, in a rapidly-emptying hallway. No one wanted to risk her wrath, but it seemed that the [Queen] was as unprepared for a face-to-face with Ryoka as the Wind Runner.

Ryoka still felt shaken. A true panic had taken over near the end there. Seeing herself in Visophecin’s arms or him just walking out of the closet when she’d begun to lie down…

The [Queen] understood.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I, uh…thank you. I’m sorry for—for causing a scene.”

“I do believe, Courier Griffin, that this incident was not your fault. For once.”

The [Queen] stiffly added that last part, and nodded her head.

“You are pardoned, and Viscount Visophecin will make a full formal apology. Such actions…reflect poorly on Ailendamus. A rare incident, given the man has been such an exemplar. Even Rhisveri—well, he is not surprising. But the blindness! The gall!”

She fumed. Then looked at Ryoka.

“I suppose it comes with being a Courier.”

“I…what does, Your Majesty?”

“Pursuit. The way you are so…adventurous. A [Lady] is protected by her class and station, but you must have the worst of it.”

Ryoka didn’t know about that. She made a face.

“That—was unexpected, Your Majesty. I, uh, I should have said something. I just didn’t realize—thank you, again.”

Another stiff incline of the head. Queen Oiena gazed rather unfavorably at Ryoka and the Wind Runner didn’t know why. Until the [Queen] spoke next.

“I hope you will remember this in any future contexts, Courier Griffin. It would not do to be repaid with any trespasses. Of course, His Majesty is entitled to any…decisions on his own, but I trust you will remember who saved you today.”

Ryoka Griffin gave Oiena a blank look. The [Queen] frowned, then elaborated.

“I understand you are set to dine with His Majesty tomorrow.”

“I am?”

The Wind Runner recalled Itorin’s comments. Her eyes widened.

“I am! I didn’t know if…oh.”

“His Majesty has, apparently, cancelled a formal banquet with the ambassador of Noelictus.”

Queen Oiena pointedly tugged on a glove, avoiding looking at Ryoka. The Wind Runner stared at her, put the pieces together in rapid order, and then grinned.

“Oh. Oh. Your Majesty—you have nothing to fear. Believe me.”

Oiena furrowed her brows sharply. Her bodyguards, who were listening with huge ears while standing to perfect attention, saw the glove begin to come off again.

“You sound quite confident, Miss Griffin. I am told my husband found you exceptionally charming.”

“He and I—had a conversation, Your Majesty. I quite liked him. I, uh…”

Oiena twitched. Ryoka held up her hands, and then started to lower them. She gave Oiena a long look. Then just lowered her hands and spoke, a touch exasperatedly.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard, Your Majesty, but if I may be frank?”

“Why hold your tongue now?”

Ryoka ignored the acidic remark.

“I’ve…met with a number of people. But Your Majesty, I hardly go around seducing everyone I meet. Some people are interested in me for—other reasons. Including Viscount Visophecin. I think.”

She wasn’t actually sure about Visophecin. Queen Oiena narrowed her eyes again. Ryoka looked at her.

“I’m sure you know this, Queen Oiena. But…a man and a woman can have a conversation and like each other, without necessarily being attracted romantically or physically.”

Ryoka held her breath. She wasn’t sure if that direct comment was going to work or have her head rolling. Oiena searched her face, eyes roaming like a spotlight. Then, suddenly, she relaxed. She actually chuckled, a note of rueful melancholy in it, and looked at Ryoka with what almost looked like familiarity. Or even sympathy.

“I know that. We know that. But do they?”

Ryoka thought of Tyrion Veltras.

“How I wish. But I swear, Queen Oiena, King Itorin is purely interested in my travels.”

“I see. You know, I actually believe you. I wish I did not. It would be so easy to dislike you.”

Oiena tapped a finger against her other hand thoughtfully.

“Do not sell yourself short either, Courier Griffin. Very well. Very well. You are quite…better than I had expected. Do tell me if the Viscount troubles you. I shall also allow Oesca to keep learning her tumbling. Perhaps you and I shall have dinner as well.”

“Thank you—what?”

Queen Oiena looked around. She shook her head, and strode off, looking rather happier than before. Ryoka Griffin stood there.

She had a strange way of meeting people, but it did work.

——

Duke Rhisveri was annoyed by the whole thing. Visophecin had done nothing wrong. The Wind Runner and the Queen both got on his nerves, and he caught no less than His Majesty, Itorin II, as he came away from the war coucil.

Itorin was relieved, if not with the new developments with the war, but then in a day of hard work. He was even smiling—an expression which soured as soon as Rhisveri thrust one of the [Generals] out of the way to talk with him privately.

“Control your wife. The woman is absolutely nonsensical.”

“I shall do no such thing, Duke. You are my uncle, and she is not a fool. What did she allegedly do?”

“Interfere with Visophecin.”

Itorin stopped. Visophecin? He looked around and saw the Viscount trailing them.

“I—how, exactly?”

“The Wind Runner. Do not engage with her. She is a prisoner.”

Rhisveri snarled, but he was wise enough to keep his face at least blank. Itorin had a sudden premonition as Rhisveri gave the briefest of biased summaries.

He didn’t see what his wife did—not exactly—but he had an instant moment of sympathy for Ryoka Griffin. Immortals were difficult. And it seemed Rhisveri had her in his sights.

Yet—the [King] stopped as the Viscount, Duke, bodyguards, and gaggle of advisors, servants, and so on, were walking down one of the open promenades towards the war room. They looked up, and saw the subject of the hour standing there.

Ryoka Griffin. She had pulled a Visophecin, which meant she suddenly walked out from behind a statue of one of Ailendamus’ former rulers—of which there had only been four—and bowed.

“Your Majesty. Viscount Visophecin. Rhis. Might I have a moment of your time?”

All three turned, Rhisveri with sudden wrath. Itorin nodded.

“Of course, Courier Griffin. I understand there has been some…misunderstandings this morning?”

The Viscount was looking at Ryoka, puzzled. He bowed silently, and Ryoka Griffin smiled. She looked at Itorin, and they had that shared bond which Oiena had mistaken for attraction. No. Just a kinship.

I’m sorry. Itorin’s eyes flicked left to Rhisveri. Ryoka gave him a slight nod.

This is the shit you have to deal with every day? She grimaced.

Like you would never believe. His eyes betrayed an aeon of silent pain. Mostly due to Rhisveri’s shenanigans. He would have to tell her about the melted statues incident.

And yet—communal suffering was what he saw. Ryoka, though, looked at the two powerful immortals behind Itorin. She had something to show the [King].

“…I did let it get carried away. I should have directly asked Viscount Visophecin to relent, and that is my fault. Sometimes I have to be direct. Nor was I quite willing to play the Viscount’s game. Boys play silly games.”

The Devil and the Wyrm saw her pointedly glance at them. Ryoka Griffin met Itorin’s gaze. The [King], hugely amused but equally alarmed for her sake, raised an eyebrow.

“A bold claim, Wind Runner.”

“I know, Your Majesty. I just wanted to make it clear—I am a guest. I am playing by every rule of hospitality. I would rather like to be treated that way. Or else I am not a guest.”

“Is that a threat?”

Bodswen looked ready to punish it. Itorin held up a hand. Ryoka had no idea, but if she did actually threaten him, or Ailendamus, she would suffer for it. [Instant Retribution: Threat] was a terrible thing. Especially when the retribution was a spiked metal gauntlet to your face.

“Not at all, Your Majesty. Just…I hate games of hide-and-seek. If the Viscount wants to play tag, though. And if I am not a guest, I may oblige him.”

Ryoka Griffin waved an arm. Itorin saw the bangle on her wrist, the jade bracelet, gleaming. Rhisveri narrowed his eyes.

“Go to your quarters, Wind Runner. Guards, escort her there. I will—”

“Duke Rhisveri. But for this thing on my arm?”

Ryoka interrupted him. Rhisveri’s eyes bulged. She smiled at Itorin.

“—you’d never catch me. I’m quite boring when I’m cooped up. You can’t cage the wind.”

She spread her arms. And only now did Itorin II notice something. She’d changed out of her regular, guest clothing which had Ailendamus’ colors and symbols. She had something else on. A curious style of dress that was never going to catch on.

Who liked full-body…bodysuits? Not a suit, but some kind of all-covering fabric. With what looked like an odd cloth-webbing around her armpits, even between her legs. Like…a bat. Or flying squirrel.

Ryoka Griffin spread the wingsuit and the wind picked up. She met Itorin’s gaze as his eyes widened. Rhisveri blinked.

“Don’t you d—”

Visophecin felt the wind rise. But the explosion of air was more than even he was prepared for. The [Bodyguards] shielded Itorin, although the magic barriers already did that. The Devil craned his head back, blinking. He saw His Majesty of Ailendamus looking up, face delighted. Visophecin stared up at a dot in the sky.

“…She wasn’t even playing my game. I couldn’t catch that so easily.”

Itorin II just laughed in sheer amazement. He saw Rhisveri howl and leap forwards, staring up. And he understood what Ryoka meant.

They can mess around with you as much as they want. So you have to push back too. You have to have…

Something they lacked.

——

Ryoka Griffin flew. She flew. The wingsuit carried her up with the blast of air. But she had never flown this high before, this fast.

No, wait. During the typhoon. Once. She left her consciousness far below. Trusted to the wind to carry her up.

A hundred feet a second? Faster.

Carry me up. Show them I won’t be scared. Far below her, the Devil was left far behind. There was nowhere to hide in the sunset sky, no corner to wait behind.

She flew. This was flying. Before, Ryoka had just flown as fast as she dared. Right now? She was playing immortal games. She had no internal speed limit.

The wind tore at her face, pulling at her skin with the speed of the ascent. Ryoka would have laughed, if she wasn’t concentrating so hard.

On her wrist, her jade bracelet was going insane. It was making sounds, flashing, trying to lock down her body and Skills and magic. But it couldn’t do that to the wind.

Go ahead. I dare you. Below her, Rhisveri could probably boil her blood in her veins, just like he said. Do it.

She called his bluff. Nothing happened. Ryoka shot upwards, until Ailendamus’ palace was a dot below her. Straight up into the sky.

She saw a figure flying after her, furious, squawking, as slower figures mounted Griffins, even a few Pegasi. [Mages] flew upwards, going after the prisoner.

Great Knight Gilaw was first into the air, riding a Griffin. Ryoka thought it must be an illusion—she saw the Griffin, magnificent black feathers streaked with silver, shriek at her. Ryoka Griffin waved.

She left Gilaw floundering in an instant. After all, the Griffin was only as fast as she could flap her wings. Ryoka was as fast as…

She saw a vast cloud high overhead. Countless miles in a stratosphere many times Earth’s. Ryoka headed straight up to it. She wondered what would happen. Would Rhisveri teleport her? Zap her? Would Itorin stop her? It didn’t matter. She had to show them…

“Not bad.”

A grudging voice boomed through the air. Ryoka twisted, her meteoric ascent slowing so she could see. What was that? It didn’t sound like it had come from the bracelet. Then—she saw the air ripple. She saw a giant, slitted eye appear.

Not the eye in the sky, the magical illusion. This time—it was real. Physical. Ryoka almost shot a [Flashbang] into it. But then she saw a second eye appear. She looked down and there he was.

Rhisveri. The Wyrm shot into the air. Ryoka Griffin stared down as a huge, hundreds of feet long Wyrm twisted into the sky. Like…a story. Eastern Dragons.

He flew. His coiled body undulated, striking upwards like a snake, but so fast!

He came out of the palace and blew past her in a gust of air. Circling around in the sky, so long that Ryoka saw his body flowing after the head, like a hypnotic serpent, but at lightning speed.

“You are an insufferable mortal. Did you think you were the only being that could fly?”

Rhisveri boomed. The Wyrm was under some kind of illusion that only she could see through, or the little fliers and people below her would be freaking out. Ryoka looked up at him as he made an infinity sign in the air, then circled her. She looked at him. Then laughed.

She went shooting straight up, then changed directions abruptly and dove in a corkscrew. Rhisveri’s head snapped after her, looking contemptuous. However he flew, it was like a giant serpent. He lunged through the air, and that momentum would slow unless he performed a second mid-air strike. He was faster than Ryoka—but he didn’t expect her to move like that.

She dove along his scales and he jerked, as if afraid he would strike her. She corkscrewed along his huge body, and performed a reverse-dive upwards. She turned and saw Rhisveri’s head snap around, then focus on her.

“—huh.”

He managed. The Wyrm dove after her.

“Not bad, but—you’re too slow. I could catch you like—”

The Wyrm struck. He hit only the laughing air, and did a double-take. How did she do that? He was faster!

But she was small, agile, and the wind was her friend. More importantly, Rhisveri was a Wyrm. Every move he made had to telegraph itself as his body changed postures. Rhisveri craned his head back, forth, then twisted all the way around.

“Get off my scales!”

The Wind Runner was sliding down his neck! She was laughing, and leapt into the air. This time Rhisveri, infuriated, twisted, making an actual sphere around her with his constricting body. A perfect sphere.

Ryoka Griffin saw him poke his head into the capture orb at her. He looked around, swore.

“Where…?”

——

Gilaw was the only flier who had gotten even close to Ryoka. She saw a huge, invisible shape in the air uncurl and pursue a single figure who shot even higher. The Griffin stared up as the Wind Runner shot towards the giant cloud, with Rhisveri in hot pursuit. His curses were so loud Gilaw half heard them, even with the silencing spells.

——

That just made Ryoka laugh harder. She hit the cloud and it was wet. Also, charged. A furious Wyrm tore into it.

——

On the ground, Itorin II made a hasty decision.

“Rain. I require rain. For…proper ambiance. See it done.”

A [Weather Mage] cast a spell and rain began pouring down and more clouds gathered. Just in time, or else more people would have seen the holes appearing, or even the misty outline of something huge breaking through the nimbus cloud high overhead.

——

“Cyclops’ eyes! I think she’s evading him!”

Menorkel’s eyes were some of the best of the immortals. He and the others were staring up as the rain fell over them. Fithea stared up.

“The wind is her ally. Of course…but even Rhisveri?”

“He’s not using any spells.”

Visophecin saw the others turn to him. He sat under the rain, staring up at the sky as night fell. He couldn’t see perfectly that high, and Rhisveri had his own invisibility spells. But he thought—

——

—He was laughing. He kept trying to hide it. Glaring. But it was like when you were angry and struggling to stay angry, but you kept laughing.

Both furious and amused. And worse for Rhisveri’s temper—happy.

High above even the clouds, Ryoka stopped being able to breathe easily. She clawed at her mouth, trying to get the wind to push oxygen into her lungs. She gasped—and a bubble appeared around her head.

“You’d have to carry air from below. Amateur.”

Rhisveri appeared as Ryoka slowed. The Wyrm hovered in the air, able to sustain his position without moving. He was…panting a bit. He had been chasing Ryoka for only, say, sixteen minutes, but it had to be tiring. For once, he had to use his entire body to move like he did, and the sky was so vast even Rhisveri was small in it.

Yet he was smiling. He glared at Ryoka a second later.

“I should blast you to pieces and feed your melted remains into the sewers. Do that again and die. That bracelet tells me exactly where you are.”

He flicked a tongue at it. Ryoka raised her arm.

“I know. But a girl’s gotta fly.”

Rhisveri snorted.

“You cause trouble just by existing. I should kill you. But Visophecin has led me to believe you have some value. You’ll never get what you want, you know.”

“Can we talk it out? You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve—been—busy!”

The Wyrm roared. He snapped through the air with each word, until he was right in front of her. His furious glare was a bit too furious, though. He looked at Ryoka, then cast around in the sky. The sight of well…everything seemed to calm him down.

Ryoka looked down too. Everything was so small. She saw huge mountains in the distance; the palace was a dot. The landscape was a darkening miniature world below her, little trees and grass like some perfect recreation, a toy.

“Is this what it means to be a Wyrm? It looks so…”

It was different than seeing it from a plane window. No—the scale in this world was off as well, such that Ryoka wondered if they were above a plane’s maximum cruising altitude. Yet still, almost able to breathe.

Rhisveri looked down.

“Small? You all take such pride in your palaces and edifices. This is what it looks like from above. So yes, this is what it means to be a Wyrm. Look. That cloud.”

He pointed with his head at the one they had gone through. It was so large that ten of Itorin’s palaces would have fit comfortably inside. Rhisveri’s look was wistful.

“There are larger clouds still. Permanent fixtures. When they gather, there are stormheads so vast you could fly through them…and there are beasts inside. Or were. You think you know Giants and Dragons? You have never seen half of it. They may all be dead. And there are other things hidden in the sky. Invisible. So high you cannot see them. Camouflaged. Hidden in clouds. Entire…”

Ryoka looked at him.

“Cities?”

Rhisveri’s head twisted around. He stared at Ryoka.

“…So you’ve heard of the same. Pah. It must be generic if you’re not surprised.”

Even so, his gaze was wistful. He looked up. Then glared at Ryoka.

“What a waste of time. Return to your quarters, Thief. If you try to do this again, I’ll fry you.”

He turned abruptly. Ryoka called out after him.

“Will you hear me out?”

A single baleful eye fixed her with a sudden force that arrested her momentum in the air. Rhisveri opened his mouth and a wisp of acrid vapor emerged…then he grunted.

“You’ll get your audience. You had better have something worthwhile to say.”

He dove without a word, leaving Ryoka up there. She smiled. Then she turned and looked up. So much more sky above, and beyond that…?

The world was so vast. She floated there a moment. Wishing this was all she had to worry about. But inevitably…

She had to return to earth.

——

They looked at her differently after that. They always did. She was in trouble, of course, but His Majesty’s—and Her Majesty’s— approval meant that it was muted.

The truth was that Ryoka did break rules and get away with it. It was the kind of privilege, well, a Courier got. The power of knowing people.

She only wished she had Erin’s strength, which was to move them. Ryoka did get to know people. Erin? Erin could lean.

Obol and a meeting with Rhisveri. Ryoka did worry because she didn’t know what she was bargaining for. She knew what it did—sort of—and she had money, and the Faerie King clearly believed she had enough.

But Ryoka hated uncertainty. Still…as days went, she had gotten Rhisveri to commit to a meeting before winter. So that was something. She was limping back to her room.

Her body hurt. Not from running all day, but from the stresses the wind placed on it. Her [Knights] saw her to her quarters and took up position. Ryoka was about to enter the guest suite when she stopped.

Her hand on the doorknob, she remembered this morning. Surely he wouldn’t…?

She swung the door open, stepped into the entry room, and looked around. Ryoka hastened into the living room, checked the window, swung around—

“Phew.”

No Devil. She relaxed. If he had been here, she might have screamed and then tried to actually stab him. She was so grateful for Oiena’s help…

Ryoka walked towards the last door to her actual bedroom and stopped. She backed up.

“What the fuck.”

She stood there for a second. Then stared at the huge piece of parchment. Attached to the front of her door.

Viscount Visophecin’s offer within.

It was so big that in order to open the door she had to pull it off the wall. Ryoka Griffin stared at it. She was half-tempted to run. But she put her hand on the handle. She was prepared…

But all she saw was what looked like an office meeting presentation piece on her table. Another piece of paper.

Magical ring of dispelling. One charge. Use to refuse.

That last part was underlined. It was very clear writing, not cursive or embellished. Ryoka turned her head as another big piece of paper on one of the walls caught her eye.

Enchanted doorway to place to converse. Enter to accept.

And below it was an arrow pointing to her closet door. Ryoka opened and closed her mouth. She looked at the Ring of Dispelling, and the doorway.

“Well, that’s simple enough. Are you listening, Duke Visophecin? I’m—oh.”

She spotted the last note on her bed.

I have enchanted only the closet and left the following notes. You are not under surveillance of any kind, nor have I left any other spells in place. Fithea, Sophridel, or Duke Rhisveri may vouch for this fact.

She stared at the piece of parchment. Ryoka ran her hand through her hair. She looked at the closet. The thing was—she appreciated this a bit? But the thing was…

Her stomach growled. Ryoka closed her eyes. She hadn’t had lunch and it was past dinner.

…She was so damn hungry.

——

Ryoka Griffin ate dried runner’s rations and drank stale water. Then she opened the door after taking a few deep breaths and thinking about it. She had no assurances she’d be safe—but she had a gut feeling and it was a funny change of pace.

The door was a portal. Ryoka stared at it. A literal portal that did not disclose her clothing, but a strange place beyond. Clearly out in the open. No…she spotted some kind of roof, but the wind told her it was out in the open on the other side somehow. And the floor was strange and glossy, reflecting a bit of light.

“Strange. Well, what’s the worst that can happen?”

Ryoka knocked on the side of the closet, then stepped through. She walked onto a flat ground, slippery under her bare feet, and stopped.

“Whoa.”

She stood in the ruins of a huge palace. A crumbling roof over her head. It showed starlight, the two moons high above. The walls were gutted, scorched, and nothing remained but stone.

Stone, and this curious basin. Almost closer to the bottom of some pond, but perfectly circular, slanting downwards at the edges. The floor was smooth. Smooth as marble. Ryoka bent down.

“What is this?”

She frowned as she touched the smooth, familiar substance and realized abruptly—it was glass.

A glass bowl, created by some intense heat, which had burned a circle in the middle of this—

Palace. A giant palace. Ryoka blinked around and something came to her.

Former palace. Ailendamus’ former…her eyes widened. She looked around for the figure she knew was there. Where would he be, in this suitably dramatic place? With the moonlight pouring down from the broken ceiling? Wh—

“Pft.”

Ryoka’s snort escaped her mouth. She looked around and spotted Viscount Visophecin. He sat in a huge chair, one of two, padded, dark wood, in front of a simple table with what looked like drinks and food.

But unlike every other time, he did not appear with a question. He was just there, sitting far across the glass floor, with plenty of time to spot him.

With…a giant flaming arrow pointing down at him, hovering in the air. Even a spotlight from an invisible light source, a beam of light illuminating him and the spot.

The Devil sat there, looking supremely uncomfortable, for all he contrived to be lounging in place. Ryoka walked forwards, trying not to laugh.

“…Is this some kind of new game?”

“I wish I could find it amusing. Courier Griffin, thank you for meeting with me despite this morning’s unpleasantness. I was not sure you would accept.”

Viscount Visophecin stood at once. He offered her a chair, but the Wind Runner just stood there. He looked…awkward. Not in how he acted or carried himself, but just in how she found him. She glanced up at the flaming arrow and it winked out of existence; the spotlight did not.

“I take it that’s not normal?”

His features took on a faintest wince.

“I am unaccustomed to announcing my presence. Nor do I find it enjoyable. However, to make amends…the invitation. I hope you believe that I would have respected your privacy had you refused, and attempted to contact you in three more days.”

Ryoka tilted her head at him. She had a sudden realization and tried not to laugh.

“Were you—when you appear behind me, you’re teleporting, aren’t you? Were you just sitting here and waiting for me to come through or dispel the door?”

The Viscount said nothing. Ryoka bit her lip. He looked at her, then went to sit back down. Visophecin sat with his back perfectly straight in the comfortable chair. After a second, Ryoka went to sit too. She saw he’d placed a bottle of wine, one of those spreadable cheeses, crackers, grapes, a number of snacks, all high-quality, before them.

She regretted her dried ration snacks since this looked far better. But Ryoka didn’t touch them. Visophecin spoke, slowly, looking her up and down.

“I am glad you find levity in the situation, Ryoka Griffin. I feared I had damaged any possible chance at conversation beyond all repair. Thank you. I must apologize again for my actions. I behaved in a boorish manner unbefitting me, and I did not realize my trespasses until Her Majesty corrected me. I will make formal amends.”

Ryoka was…surprised. He bowed very sincerely and then sat down again. She didn’t quite understand.

Rhisveri would never apologize. He was a Wyrm. Here was a Devil or…

Ah, misconceptions. Ryoka rested her arms on her legs. She wasn’t cold, though there was a night wind blowing through the palace. The air felt warmer here. And there was that smell of forge fires.

She couldn’t see his horns. But that grey cast to his skin…Ryoka squinted at Visophecin.

“Is this a formal meeting, or an apology, Viscount?”

“Visophecin is acceptable. It is a combination of both. You are free to leave at any time you wish. I can teleport you back to your rooms in a moment.”

“I…see.”

She thought he was growing less uncomfortable now she had sat down. Visophecin didn’t smile. Nor did he move much. He was no fidgeter. His features were not blank—but muted.

“If you would like me to do anything to further pay amends for my actions, please let me know what I can do.”

Ryoka looked at him quizzically.

“You’re sorry? I can accept you didn’t understand how it looked. You’re…an immortal, Viscount Visophecin. Aren’t you?”

“I am.”

He never blinked. His orange-yellow eyes were fixed on her. Square pupils. Ryoka hesitated.

“May I see your true appearance?”

“If you would like to. I shall oblige. It is rare I reveal myself. I hope my actions can prove my sincerity.”

He clicked his fingers. Visophecin sat back, and Ryoka stared.

He was the same person in height and shape, unlike Fithea, Gilaw, or the other immortals. However, now she saw a pair of fairly tall horns, curving up from his forehead. His skin was grey, not pale. He wore the exact same clothing.

And he had a tail. It hung under the seat. She looked down, wondering if he had cloven hooves, but all he had were shoes…

Shoes that looked a bit different. Longer, as if they held something within. A bit…different. With an arch?

Maybe claws? Visophecin watched Ryoka inspecting him. He was still slim. Still smelled like fire and metal. When he spoke, his teeth were noticeably sharper.

“I trust you do not find me unsettling. Inform me if you do, and I will revert back. However. I believe you are used to species foreign to this world.”

Her head snapped up. Visophecin saw the movement.

“I would prefer not to waste time, Ryoka Griffin. You and I are both aware of facts about the other. But I ask you again, before that. Will you forgive my actions?”

Her face wrinkled.

“You really are sorry? It—wasn’t that big a trespass, honestly. It was very unpleasant, but I’ve seen worse from…immortals.”

It was such a strange thing to say the word out loud. Visophecin hesitated. He looked at Ryoka. Then he slowly shook his head.

“I…am not sorry, Ryoka.”

“Oh. Well—”

“I cannot be. If I could, I believe I would be. But as you know, I am Lucifen. I am…Visophecin of House Shoel. I cannot be sorry. I cannot feel sorry for what I did. I am apologizing because that is the correct thing to do. But I am not remorseful.”

At first she thought he was just being insincere. For a second. Then Ryoka focused on how he said it.

“You can’t be?”

The Devil smiled.

“If I am honest? I quite enjoyed that, Ryoka. More than enjoyed that. I have not been so delighted in fourteen years. I would have continued. I was—enjoying myself. I am grateful to Queen Oiena. For I acted as though you and I were playing a…game. Believe me, if I had not come to my senses by your actions, Oiena’s, or my own, it would have escalated.”

Ryoka felt a ripple of goosebumps run down her arms. Visophecin looked at her.

“I cannot feel sorry for you. I recognized fully what you must have felt, once I stopped to consider the actions I took. But you are Human. And I? My people do not have such capability for emotions. For better or worse.”

Now there was an answer worthy of the horns. He sat there, eyes fixed on her. Seeing if she reacted. So sharp. Ryoka slowly nodded.

“I get it. And you’re…may I ask a question?”

“Naturally.”

“Can you feel happy? Sad? No—”

He lifted a hand.

“I can feel both. Anger, sadness, happiness—perhaps I have misphrased myself. It is not often I need to explain. I can feel the range of emotions any person of sentience does. I envy your kind’s ability to feel emotions so strongly. I seldom do. Another advantage of my species. Or weakness.”

He leaned forwards, pouring a glass of wine. He offered it to Ryoka, and she took it. Visophecin saw her inspecting the dark liquid without drinking it as he sat back. He sipped from his own cup.

“I certainly can feel any emotion I believe you might. I have checked. However. I do not feel emotions like sadness towards…you. Your people. If you bleed, if you suffer. Even what I did to you this day, I understand how you must feel. I understand it is wrong under law and how it will lead to further reactions. I cannot feel sorry for you.”

Ah. Ryoka had it.

“Sympathy. You don’t have…”

“No.”

No sympathy. No shadow, either, even under the spotlight. Reflexively, Ryoka took a drink of wine. She nearly spat it out, then relaxed.

“You wouldn’t poison the wine.”

“I would not. You are someone who must be negotiated with in good faith, Ryoka Griffin. You yourself are a Courier, and, as Rhisveri points out, an enemy of Ailendamus by your actions. Yet you represent powers we are aware of. Hence—my sincere regret for my actions.”

“Because of how you jeopardize our potential relationship.”

Ryoka had him figured out. Or so she thought. A Devil in truth; no sympathy. But a terribly sharp intellect and logic. Yet she was surprised again because Visophecin shook his head.

“Not only that. My actions reflect negatively on me. They ruin my reputation.”

“You care about something like that?”

Two eyebrows rose.

“Of course. Duke Rhisveri may be the individual you are used to, but his beliefs are not mine. I deeply care about my perception and favorability in court. I do not like to besmirch my House’s name. It behooves me to be liked.”

Ryoka’s lips quirked. He was so logical. Scary, but…she couldn’t help but quote Machiavelli.

Just to see what he’d say.

“Better to be feared than loved?”

Visophecin sat there. He sipped from his cup, regarding Ryoka as she reached for a piece of brie.

“Interesting. Why would you say that?”

Ryoka shrugged, spreading it on a cracker. She waited, but all Visophecin did was drink; he never reached for food.

“Just, uh, philosophy. If you had to choose between the two, it is better to be feared than loved, surely?”

“Why would I wish to be feared?”

Ryoka hesitated.

“Well, let’s say you were a tyrant or a ruler. If you were feared, then it’s better than being loved because in times of crisis, someone who’s feared has an edge on someone who’s loved. Obviously that’s if you had to choose. So that’s, um…what’s the quote…”

The Viscount was just watching her. Not blankly, but thinking. He smiled.

“Fascinating. You are quoting someone, but I have never heard that sentiment expressed exactly in such words. I do enjoy discussions of morality. Feared. Loved. Better to be feared? I would never wish that. Only loved, and even then…only vaguely. Admired, as I am now, rather. A respected Viscount. I would rather neither, even as a ruler.”

“Really. But why not either?”

Ryoka chewed down her food. She wondered if Machiavelli could explain better—most definitely. The Viscount gave her a faint smile.

“Either assumes I desire direct power. Either assumes I am a [King] or ruler or someone in power, and assumes I must effect control through loyalty or fear. It is a simple statement. It has no bearing on me. I wish neither love nor fear. I am simply content to be largely invisible. Or have you not seen how Rhisveri and we manage Ailendamus? That is ideal, to me.”

“Ah. Right. Sorry. I was just, uh, quoting philosophy at random. Silly of me.”

Visophecin shook his head.

“Please continue to do so. Smalltalk is quite enjoyable. Yet I believe you and I have deeper matters to resolve. If you are willing to speak to me, and you understand my regret, perhaps we may discuss the reason you came here.”

Ryoka paused, a bit of wine and cheese in her mouth.

“You mean, Rhisveri’s…”

“Treasure. Yes. Which I believe somehow pertains to Erin Solstice. To Liscor. Why else would you have made attempts to heal her? With a Potion of Regeneration no less. It follows, then, that because it failed, you were made aware via your unique allies of something Rhisveri owns. His treasure, that you failed to steal and he hunted you at great cost to obtain.”

He knew. Ryoka realized she was giving everything away by her reactions, but she suspected that was inevitable. He already knew.

“Do you know what…?”

“No. Nor am I privy to Rhisveri’s thoughts. But you have come to Ailendamus on behalf of great powers. Your very presence has dragged House Veltras into this war. I am not as foolish as Rhisveri to think you should be killed. I believe that would make enemies of a number of unknown powers. And I do not make enemies lightly.”

His eyes glittered as he took another sip from his wine. Ryoka was silent. This was perfectly laid out, and made sense to her too.

“So…what is the point of this?”

He sighed.

“The reason I sought you out was to gauge your personality, your abilities. I have made a rare mistake in how I acted. Principally, I would have preferred to establish trust. A relationship of understanding which can be resolved lead to all parties’ benefit. I believe that will be—difficult.”

Ryoka had to agree.

“Aside from how we met, Visophecin. If I can be blunt—I’m not exactly safe with Rhisveri’s wrath hovering over me. I need what he, uh, has. And you’re part of Ailendamus. On the opposite side.”

“Interesting. What makes you believe we are opposed?”

Ryoka sat back.

“Well, you’ve kidnapped me and Sammial Veltras. Ailendamus is known for making war on other parties, and Rhisveri wants to kill me for trying to steal items.”

Visophecin nodded. He lifted a finger.

“It might be beneficial for all parties to release Sammial Veltras. Rhisveri’s grudge against you may well be settled. If so, neither you nor Sammial Veltras are hostages of Ailendamus. Your last point refers to Ailendamus’ national policy. Which nation do you support that places you against us?”

Ryoka hesitated.

“I—well, maybe Calanfer? I’m not part of any nation. But Ailendamus makes war and costs a lot of lives!”

“Is that unique to Ailendamus? I believe Tyrion Veltras nearly launched a war between Drakes and Humans. You regard him as an ally, and he was apparently close enough to propose to you.”

Ryoka’s ears turned red. She tried to think. Damn. She shouldn’t have had any wine.

“No. That’s not untrue. But I haven’t said I’m fine with Tyrion Veltras’ actions. I just find Ailendamus to be…a threat.”

Viscount Visophecin nodded.

“An existential one.”

“Sort of. Tyrannies and vast empires lead to terrible deeds. Warcrimes, corruption, slavery…”

Ryoka Griffin hesitated. Because she said that and it was true, historically. But she hadn’t seen that in Ailendamus. Visophecin saw the hesitation.

“You are speaking in general. Tell me, Ryoka. What do you see in Ailendamus that directly, visibly conflicts with your sense of morality? You spoke of evil. What in Ailendamus is evil?”

The Courier was silent for a long time. Mulling it over.

“…Your wars of aggression. I disagree with how I’ve been treated, even as a thief. The fact that Rhisveri is eager to kill, and that he nearly killed Sammial when we first appeared in front of him. The fact that he controls the throne, and you do, has bad historical precedents.”

Visophecin nodded to each point. He looked at the table, noticing how fast Ryoka had eaten all the cheese and crackers. He reached for something, and offered it to her.

“May I present you with a hanadrid salad? From the Hanadrid region. Note the dressing, if you are so inclined. I hope you will sample at least a bite.”

Ryoka blinked, but took some of the dish. She saw what looked like a kind of chickpea, mixed with your typical greens, but apparently the big lure of hanadrid salad was a big focus away from the sweets. The only one she counted were some pieces of apple; there was tomato, yellat, fresh cucumber…

The dressing was amazing. Delicious. Ryoka thought it was one of the top 5 dressings she’d ever had, including all the fancy ones. She blinked.

“This is so good. It’s got a bit of a spice to it, it’s tangy—it goes perfectly with all the salad ingredients.”

She looked up and saw Visophecin smile.

“I am glad you think so. Hanadrid is one of the regions House Shoel has an interest in. All the ingredients come from the farms and the salad is a staple across that region of Ailendamus’ kingdom. The variance comes from Veil Tomatoes, which were imported from Noelictus, yellats from Chandrar, and native crops to the region. You see, the diversification of vegetables and sundry dishes was a focus forty years back.”

Ryoka took another bite of salad, eyebrows raised. What was this apropos of? But she listened. Visophecin went on, like some food historian.

“The previous salads and staple meals served across Ailendamus were serviceable…but with our magical supplement program, the capital received complaints about the taste. Thus, it was my initiative to create a contest to create a staple salad and dressing. Over ten thousand participants competed, and the contest of creating new dishes Ailendamus can claim as its own goes on to this day.”

“That’s…impressive.”

Ryoka had to own it was a good salad. Not the best in the world. But Visophecin read her expression.

“Ryoka, I will inform you that I did not request a palace [Chef] to prepare that dish. I requested one from a local inn and I am gratified that a Courier finds it palatable.”

Ryoka looked down at the salad.

“Oh. That is good. So this, uh, was to improve cuisine across Ailendamus?”

The Devil nodded.

“And to disguise the alchemical supplements. The dressing is comprised in part of a powder sold across the nation, subsidized by the crown. It is, I am told, very edible. We were forced to improve the taste, as apparently the alchemical ingredients, such as insect shells, were notable in previous spice mixes.”

Ryoka choked on her salad.

“The what?”

“Insects. Among other alchemical ingredients. Ailendamus sells national spice packets that contain mana restoratives, physical supplements, and so on. The idea comes from Drath, although we cannot afford to copy their pills and tonics. Yet.”

Ryoka stared at her salad and pushed the plate back.

“—That’s what I meant. You’re a group of immortals controlling the kingdom. Doing whatever you want.”

“And that is the crux of why you find yourself opposed to us.”

“Yes.”

Visophecin nodded. He regarded Ryoka, like a puzzle. Ryoka stared at the salad. After a while, the Devil spoke. He sat back in the spotlight, taking a drink from his goblet.

“What bothers you about the fact that Ailendamus gives its populace alchemical supplements? They have no side-effects aside from improving the quality of health among the people.”

“You don’t tell them you’re doing it. Don’t the people have a right to know what they’re eating?”

Visophecin raised his brows.

“Do they have a right?”

“Surely everyone has a right to, oh, freedom of speech, freedom of expression, a right not to be attacked, shelter, food…”

“Naturally. That is the foundation of good governance. Nothing you have said contradicts Ailendamus’ own laws.”

“Yes, but—! They don’t know who’s really ruling them. They have no say in the decisions that get made.”

“The Court of Masks allows their opinions to be heard. A [Commoner] can rise to a position of office short of the crown on merit. I do not believe other kingdoms do the same. In fact, I know they do not. No nation in Terandria, and seldom elsewhere in the world, has as much opportunity to rise.”

“Except to the very top where immortals rule and never die.”

Visophecin shook his head.

“Of course not. I will not trust a mortal man or woman to make the right decisions alone. Itorin II is a capable ruler. He makes most of his decisions autonomously. However, Rhisveri is the Wyrm behind the throne. I am one of his peers, if advisor to Rhisveri. You disagree with this.”

“I’m only Human.”

The Devil laughed. He sat forwards, looking at Ryoka.

“But what else can you tell me is wrong with this nation, Ryoka? Show me what is evil besides the truth only you know. Forget that one secret. You have met Baron Regalius and the Order of the Hydra, which accepts commoners. Every nation decried that as a lessening of the authority of [Knights]. Rhisveri and I pushed for the change because we saw that it was not only equitable, it would make Ailendamus stronger.”

“I—yes. However…you crush other nations. It’s bloody and kills hundreds of thousands. At least tens of thousands. I only need to point to one action.”

Visophecin regarded her and sat back, frowning, as if he hadn’t thought of that.

“Ah. Of course. Empathy for people you have never met. That is fair.”

He shrugged.

“Alas, I do not think I can convince you Ailendamus is perfect.”

Ryoka narrowed her eyes at him.

“I know it isn’t. This nation is set up to support Rhisveri and you all. It may be…good in some ways. The people are not evil, some of the laws I like. However—it’s for you all. Rhisveri threatened to kill a child. I cannot believe he doesn’t kill more people whenever they get on his nerves.”

Visophecin sighed, vexed at the Wyrm.

“Rhisveri. Would it surprise you to learn that he rarely attacks anyone, even irate as he can be? He recognizes value in the palace’s staff, and if he detests someone, he makes a point of removing himself or them from interactions.”

Ryoka bit her lip.

“…So there’s nothing that immortals do that would bother me at all. You all just live in secret and none of you have any…unlawful activities? If you’d like to tell me that, Visophecin, I’d be happy to accept it. If you swear in the way I choose.”

The Devil sat there. He drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair. He stared at Ryoka, and his lips moved.

“I would prefer to lie. However, I have already incurred your distrust. Moreover, given Rhisveri’s penchant, I cannot trust he will support any lie I tell. The truth is a risk. I choose to give it to you, in the hopes it will resolve your distrust. And the truth, Ryoka Griffin, is that there is one objectionable group to your sensibilities. Not all immortals were made to coexist with other species. Rhisveri eats, but he may eat meat of any kind. However. The Lucifen are…specific. You have noticed I do not eat, but drink. I may enjoy foods of all kinds. But I eat one thing.”

He looked at her and Ryoka went pale. Her hand slipped to her Faeblade. Visophecin watched her.

“Not you.”

“You eat people?”

He frowned.

“I thought you knew. Interesting. You knew me from the start. But you did not know…what do you know of my kind?”

Ryoka saw him lean forwards with genuine interest. She shook her head.

“You eat—what do you eat? Their souls?”

“Their…”

Visophecin looked at her, blankly. He shook his head.

“I eat their flesh. Their bones. It is not pleasant, I am told. Rhisveri does not eat Humans or half-Elves or Dwarves or any other species. I, and my people, do. But, Ryoka Griffin. We only consume once a month. And we eat murderers. We eat criminals. We eat predators and killers that Ailendamus judges worthy of death.”

Ryoka was edged so far back in her chair that she was in danger of tipping over.

“Why? For strength? Because you have to? That makes no sense!”

“I believe it has something to do with the nature of people. As for strength? Do you grow stronger if you eat an entire turkey? I wish it were that simple.”

Visophecin looked a bit offended. He looked at Ryoka.

“We eat what we must. Lucifen are predators of people. We are not the only ones.”

Ryoka thought of Vampires. And yet they only took blood! Even so…she shivered.

“And I’m supposed to be okay with that?”

He stood up.

“I thought you might understand. Courier Griffin, listen to my words again. Ailendamus struck a deal with House Shoel. I was there. In exchange for my position, our aid, we are given the people who are bound for the executioner’s block. Men and women of any species who do what you find abhorrent. Last month, I ate a woman who stabbed her husband and two children to death. Would you have rather she lived?”

His eyes glinted.

“There are worse people still. Such that even I felt I did the world a great service by eating them. Would you like me to list their crimes?”

He began to. Ryoka made him stop. Her stomach roiled.

“I understand that! But in any other society, they’d be locked up.”

“For the rest of their lives?”

“Yes! Or humanely executed. If you can’t prove beyond a shadow of a doubt they were criminals—”

Visophecin raised his eyebrows.

“…And if I could? If I personally inspected each one under my magic to ensure they were guilty, and they simply…fell asleep? If we simply disposed of the remains, would that still offend you?”

Ryoka couldn’t respond. Visophecin raised his eyebrows, and then stood. He turned to stare at the sky.

“Well. They do not fall asleep. They do not die peacefully. So you are welcome to your unease. I will not say Ailendamus is without dark deeds. And they are mine.”

He turned his head. And then he smiled, and Ryoka was reminded of the way he grinned at her terror. He spoke, seeming to revel in the look she gave him.

“They broke laws that are not difficult to abide by. Do not murder. Do not steal, or beat, or hurt each other. They did such things that I care not, but if it were done to my kind, I would hunt them down. So their victims know they die. And I feel nothing at all because I must eat. No. I relish that I end them in misery.”

He pointed at her.

“We have reached an impasse, Ryoka Griffin. You see all the secrets Ailendamus bears. I would have you accept them.”

“You, eating people? Rhisveri?”

“Yes. Because we are not perfect. But I reject the notion that we must be. I have entertained the debate—now I ask you this. If I eat the worst of this society, if Rhisveri makes war for his ambitions—what places us behind any other kingdom on this continent? Why are we your principal enemies? Are our people worse than any other? No. I take pride that they are not.”

“Pride? I thought you didn’t care about them.”

The Devil whirled around. Angry. He touched his chest and drew himself up, and he looked taller.

“I cannot feel for them. But I have made it a point of pride, as has Rhisveri and the crown, that no one will starve in Ailendamus. Not a traveller, not a child. Starvation is a sign of weakness. You asked me if I would rather be feared than loved? Happiness costs me nothing and gains me far more than fear. My people and I think of ways to improve the populace’s lives.”

“Because they benefit you and protect Ailendamus.”

“Yes. Why is my motivation what matters?”

His voice grew deeper. Ryoka saw Visophecin point at her.

“It is a mistake to think that we cannot both benefit, immortal and mortal. That is why I thought Rhisveri’s great ambition was a stroke of genius, and joined my people to his. We are the power behind the throne! Immortals. But I make no deals that cut those I deal with to the quick. I have given without taking. Because what I take is different. I asked you to take my hand. If you had, I would have gained something. If I traded you something you wanted, I would gain something. And that is simply this.”

He lifted his hand and Ryoka saw something open. A book. It flickered in his hands. Names and details.

“Contracts. What do they give you? A part of their…”

“Connections.”

Ryoka stopped, a finger raised. Visophecin held the book lovingly. He looked at it, and closed his eyes.

“I grow by the deals I make. Grand acts and small. My power is not from what I take or give, but only the magnitude of it. So I give the generosity of Ailendamus. I build this nation piece by piece. Because it is selfish. It all benefits me.”

He turned, and looked at Ryoka.

“In the past, my people hunted yours. Just like this morning. We struck mighty deals and gained power by suffering. We walked among Dragons and made deals with Giants and great immortals. But in time, we dwindled. And the very small people, the people who cry for each other, who care and suffer and live lives like candle flames, covered every land. How I envy your people’s power.”

He closed the book.

“So yes. Ailendamus is ruled by a selfish Wyrm. By his side stands one of the Lucifen, who consumes people. We are the last of our kind. Do you think we haven’t tried to be something else? We cannot. I am your people’s predator. And that…”

He indicated his gloved hand, and Ryoka thought it was a claw for a second.

“That would bother me, if I could but care.”

He looked at her and she was reminded of what a Vampire had once said. Ryoka stared at Visophecin as he walked back into the spotlight and into the air. On steps that glowed with magic, into the moonlight. And his eyes were alive. He stood, looking at Ryoka, a showman performing. A Devil walking under moonlight. He loved the moment of it.

Visophecin stood there, silhouetted in the light.

“We are selfish. And that is why we will make a land beyond all compare. Because we can be selfish in a way that elevates us all. Petty men and women cannot be selfish as we. They only take. I will build an empire more glorious than any before so it benefits me more. So I do not wish your enmity. Will you see Ailendamus like this, or do we stand apart? You, a mortal who has met Dragons?”

Ryoka jumped. The Devil laughed at her. She stood, slowly.

He had played his cards—more than she thought. But perhaps that was genius. The truth was the only thing that could convince her, and he had told her who he was. He ate people. And yet—she wanted to almost believe him.

The young woman’s head was bowed. She stood there, very still, and the Devil watched her, not without anticipation. When she raised her head, there was something in her green eyes.

Something beyond mere moonlight or wariness.

“You do it very well, Visophecin. Tempt me to believe you. You know—that fits in with the stories I know of you. Not your people; I didn’t know they were a people. But it makes me wary.”

“Really. Who told you those legends of Lucifen?”

Visophecin saw Ryoka smile and wag a finger.

“Not Lucifen. We call you devils. And there was never Lucifen. No—perhaps there were more than one. But I knew one. We called him Lucifer. Morningstar. The Devil, Satan himself who ruled over Hell. The place where sinners went when they died. And he was feared and loved, because he rebelled against Heaven. Against angels. Against…God.”

The Devil stood there, looking down at Ryoka. She did not have magical steps, or horns. But the Wind Runner still made the world echo with that last word. His ears…

“I have…never heard that name. What did you say he fought against? Angels? Agelum? And…”

She walked left. Skipping across the glass floor. The spotlight shifted to follow her. The Wind Runner turned. And she winked at him.

“It’s just a story. They tell another one, about Faust, a man who made a pact with a devil. Who sold his soul, and made a deal that cost him everything for great power. We have so many stories about deals.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

Visophecin descended the steps. Ryoka saw him hover in front of the spotlight. The word burned in his ears. He couldn’t even process it. She stepped back.

“People from another world, obviously. You know that.”

It occurred to the Lucifen. He had thought he knew the answer. Now—

Which world? But he was following Ryoka with his eyes.

“I don’t know if I can trust you, Visophecin. You’re too smart. Too dangerous.”

“Are we enemies?”

He walked along the edge of the light, eyes shining out of the shadows. The Wind Runner looked up at the false sunlight. She saw him slowly extend a hand. It hovered at the veil between light and darkness.

“I am able to speak to Rhisveri. I do not know what he hides, but I am no fool. He has always had secrets. It occurs to me that whatever you desire may be given without destabilizing Ailendamus. We both have things to gain.”

“Can I trust you? I could tell you something that would help Ailendamus. Many things. But you are a predator of Humans.”

She hesitated, looking at that hand. Visophecin shook his head. He spoke, slowly, trying to emphasize each word.

“I want you to trust me, knowing what I represent. Knowing who I am and what I do. Because that means you are willing to ally yourself with me despite knowing everything.”

“Why?”

He looked at her, and couldn’t help it.

“Because that would make you fascinating.”

She wavered.

“Can I trust you? You do terrible things.”

“I do. But that does not mean I cannot do things that lift Ailendamus up. No one is without flaw, and the flaws attract me. I am not like my fair cousins, who see only the best and cannot be stained. I am Ailendamus’ shadow, more than Rhisveri. And that is why this kingdom rises. Light needs darkness to shine.”

He felt a sudden desire to win her over, more than practicality. He stepped closer, and the light shone down around him. The Viscount put it all to the wind, and offered her a sweeping bow. His gloved hand rose, palm out. The Wind Runner saw him look up.

“Can you trust I am the hero of my story? We are all sinners. But can you believe me, Ryoka Griffin? Believe even a…devil has a soul?”

For a long moment, the Wind Runner didn’t reply. Seconds passed. Then a minute. Visophecin was lowering his hand when someone caught it.

Ryoka saw Visophecin blink in astonishment. He looked at her, surprised. She drew him up. And smiled. The wind blew around the glassy floor like a strange quartet playing on a surreal dance floor.

“Strange. I didn’t think you would believe me.”

He walked with her, feet sliding across the smooth floor and it looked like they were dancing under moonlight. Until they were. He saw the Wind Runner smile at him, eyes alight.

“I’m sure you do have a soul. Or else I wouldn’t be able to tempt you.”

That she-Devil, whispering of foreign worlds and Devils, laughed at his face. He was left without words for a moment. But then he snapped his fingers ruefully and an actual quartet began to play. He offered her a hand.

“Do you dance, Wind Runner?”

“A bit.”

Ryoka Griffin laughed with delight as she did the very thing that fifteen year-old Ryoka would have died for. She had forgotten that. Visophecin’s strange eyes followed her. She leaned forwards.

“You know. You’re very good at being a devil. But there’s one thing you didn’t count on.”

“And what would that be?”

Ryoka smiled.

“You talk a lot about your nature and how everything is selfish. But. If you’re actually a good man, then I think you’d hate anyone figuring that out.”

“Are you sure? I’m quite a deceiver, or so I’m told.”

She grinned.

“Yes, but when I arrived, I could tell you felt quite guilty about scaring me. You say a lot, but you know how much you lie. And the truth is, Visophecin, a bad man—a real devil—never apologizes.”

Her hand tightened on his.

“Besides. Even if you played me like a fiddle, and I’m being duped, there’s one thing I can believe.”

They stood very close together. Visophecin whispered.

“And that is…?”

The Wind Runner produced an obol. She pointed up at the stars.

“I’m your gateway to a stage you’ve never seen. With stakes you can’t even dream of, Visophecin. You know it too, so you need me. And I think we’re going to need a devil on our side.”

He looked at her, eyes wide. Then he laughed.

Interlude – Conversations

(The author is on break until the 13th of November for Patrons! I am also taking Thanksgiving week off to visit family so bear that in mind. Thanks!)

The truth was he was just fast when he needed to be. Fast, and gifted. Think about what that meant. He was gifted. And old—that meant he had lived long, not a breadth of experience. But that was beneficial because strength came from age, unlike mortals who withered.

He could walk across the immediate world in moments. Not far. Not across the world. But he could visit the palace and return to his estates with a modest expenditure of power. Which he did now.

Part of him regretted that. It was in his nature to hunt and seek. But the intellectual side of him said she had given him all the trust she was willing to, and far more than he had expected.

She bounced back uncannily fast. She was used to this, he realized. Perhaps—even beings more intimidating than him.

The thought did not bother Viscount Visophecin. It was a good reminder that arrogance killed. And that he still had more to learn.

He had played a dangerous game, laying so many cards down to win her trust. Part of it, honestly, had been her needling, which in hindsight he realized was calculated. Her speech about Devils, which he did not quite equal. Her dismissiveness of Ailendamus.

And she could judge. She had seen multiple civilizations, he was sure.

“Fascinating.”

He did not blink through the world. How could he describe it? Visophecin walked forwards in a place without light. Without touch. Only a kind of perception. He reached for a door and it opened.

It was not instantaneous. He stepped out into a world where you could breathe and see. It was purely his desire to have someone recognize a superior system. Vanity. Tyrannies were so wasteful. He looked at them and wanted to eat the fools who didn’t see how temporary, how shortsighted they were. Good, evil—it should last an aeon. It should be remembered forever.

It should be glorious. He would have loved discussing more philosophy with Ryoka Griffin, but she had to sleep, and she was still wary enough.

“I have returned.”

The mansion sprawled. House Shoel’s lands were overflowing with richness, and the Lucifen could afford countless servants—and did employ them. However, the words were not meant for servants, not in this private area.

A figure looked at Visophecin. They neither moved nor acknowledged Visophecin in any physical way. But her voice was calm, deadpan.

“You were out late. Is the Duke throwing another tantrum over his thief?”

Visophecin strode past the guard, who looked quite like he did. Both had illusions on, but they were still related. He responded absently, already far out of the room and down the vacant hallway—no furnishings here. Furnishings had to be cleaned, maintained. No servants were allowed here. Ergo, no one who used this area could be bothered with more than cleaning spells at most.

“Not entirely.”

If he hadn’t spoken, if she had doubted who he was, he might be dead. When you consorted with beings of Rhisveri’s class and nothing was ever certain, you took precautions.

“I met an interesting mortal.”

Her voice floated around him.

“Really. The Thief? Maybe I should visit the palace.”

“No. This is a surpassingly delicate matter. I will convene a forum if need be.”

“Are you certain?”

The guard was audibly disappointed, as someone who had to sit in this space for the entire week might well be. But she didn’t push it.

She was not Visophecin. He was first of all.

The Lucifen’s lands did not contain them all in one place. This was their central base and meeting place. Many kept to themselves, only coming here for the deliveries. And they sated their appetites here alone. There were rules, and they were kept.

Lucifen were allowed free rein in many other respects, though. Most were young. Visophecin recalled a time when there had been far, far more. But here was the irony: they were as dangerous as Ryoka believed. More dangerous still, because they were not foolish enough to go without allies, even before coming to Ailendamus.

The Creler Wars had taken a few of them. But Lucifen had accounted well, realizing they fought enemies who were natural counters to their magic. They had…a trump card, which had allowed them to weather that armageddon, purely because the entire world had taken up arms.

Do you want to know irony? It was not Crelers. It was not an enemy Terandrian nation.

It was Goblins. Not the last Goblin King. The one before him. Curulac of a Hundred Days. A hundred days was all it had taken.

Now there was a monster. Visophecin happened to know that Rhisveri had his own nightmares around the Goblin King. But then—he had known more than two.

So into the heart of the manor. What did you expect it to look like? Gothic architecture stretching hundreds of feet high? Some height of depravity or temptation? Carnal and sadistic passions unrestrained, or a kind of cold bureaucracy? A hidden menace draped in pure elegance?

Visophecin walked through a disguised door into the manor proper. He stopped and stared around his home.

House Shoel in glory. House Shoel in radiance. Literal radiance. The wallpaper was bright yellow, and someone had drawn a bunch of children’s doodles all across the lower half—even finding a ladder to draw higher up. Visophecin eyed a cute sheep drawn in stencil with two dots for eyes.

He walked past a giant sofa with toys scattered about. Past a room where all the latest Singer of Terandria song crystals had been obsessively bought and cataloged. Across a foyer with an open glass front that showed a garden blooming with every delightful flower and beautiful plant you could imagine, complete with benches for sitting, a pond with fish that would come and nibble at your fingers, and a pet frog section.

He passed by the servants’ mess hall. And their private kitchens, sleeping quarters—since it would be more difficult if they had a distant servants’ quarters, after all. And a private rec room.

And a pool. They had framed pictures on the walls. The servants, not House Shoel.

“Viscount! You’ve returned. May I take your coat? Can I offer you refreshment?”

A bright, happy voice made the Viscount turn. A beaming [Housemistress], in the peak of health, bustled up with the air of a foster mother. He hesitated, then shook his head.

“Perhaps another time, Herea. I am looking for my cousins.”

Instantly, the woman’s face fell.

“Oh, Viscount. If you had been here sooner—perhaps it’s as well you weren’t. They’re in tears.”

“Really.”

His voice was flat. Herea sniffed.

“The most tragic thing. Little Lesy’s Sariant Lamb passed away. Ser Tubeliges.”

“I see.”

Not a muscle moved on Visophecin’s face. Herea was used to it.

“Simply awash. I think Lady Gadrea is even trying to console Lesy.”

Lesy was a serving girl, one of the [Servants]’ daughters. Visophecin’s eyes sharpened.

“Take me to her.”

——

It was death by natural causes. Ser Tubeliges had lived a Sariant Lamb lifespan and a half. He was thirty two, and had died wanting for nothing. In fact…Visophecin stopped as he arrived at the wake.

Well, it had mostly ended and all the others had left. But the Sariant Lamb had been buried with full honors in the cemetery…for pets…and had his own tombstone. Marble. Upon which his name, genealogy, and brave deeds, which included once saving a baby from drowning, were etched.

Ser Tubeliges had been the favorite of a serving girl, a Human, named Lesy. She was crying, but her parents had left, and the other staff who had loved the Sariant Lambs.

Of which there were…twenty eight. Twenty seven, now.

Viscount Visophecin saw the little girl crying and placing a flower on the grave. She was not alone. A tall figure stood next to her, practically willowy. But tall. Visophecin was tall. The woman was taller still, and crying into a handkerchief.

He stopped when he saw Lady Gadrea. She was patting Lesy on the shoulder, but the little girl, despite being eight, had still had a year to understand Ser Tubeliges had been reaching the end of his life. She was crying, but he had died peacefully, eating toffee. She was dealing with it.

Lady Gadrea was sobbing so hard she was almost leaning on Lesy for support. She turned as Visophecin approached.

“Visophecin! Cousin! Did you hear? Ser Tubeliges is…he was so brave and he went so peacefully. But it cut at me! And poor Lesy!”

The girl looked up at Visophecin and began to bow.

“Viscount—”

“You needn’t bow, Lesy. Visophecin wouldn’t ask it of you any more than I. And he surely understands.”

“…Yes.”

Visophecin did not eat meat—except for people. He could enjoy food, but he didn’t make a habit of it.

He requested lamb if he did eat at state functions. Always lamb.

But in this moment, he slowly bent.

“I am sorry to hear this, Lesy. Gadrea. Cousin. You should not be standing.”

“But I had to. When I heard—I couldn’t simply let Lesy be! She has been so brave. So caring. I know Ser Tubeliges and she were close. You are an inspiration to me, Lesy. I want you to know that if you need anything, you must ask.”

She patted Lesy on the shoulder. The girl sniffed. She had faintly green hair running through dark blonde, and she was benefitting from Ailendamus’ enhanced nutrition programs. She wasn’t old enough to work, but she was bright, intelligent, and wanted for nothing. Usually she adored running about the mansion, and she was the one who had drawn the Sariant Lamb on the wall. Among others. Children were allowed to ‘decorate’.

Visophecin saw her bow to Lady Gadrea. She probably knew the lady was serious—but her parents and the [Housemistress] had drilled it into her long ago how much to ask for. Besides…

“You are very kind, Lady Gadrea. But I’ll be fine. I cried an awful lot when Lady Ichewool died, but I will be fine. I’ll just…visit Ser Tubeliges now and then so he won’t be sad.”

She almost teared up again as she choked the last words out. Nevertheless, it was a fine, touching, even adult thing to say in her young way. And that was that.

…Until Lady Gadrea seized Lesy’s hands with both of hers. Her eyes opened wide and she gave Lesy a stare of such intensity that children who did not meet House Shoel’s other members sometimes burst into tears, despite the stares never being hostile.

She had…two pupils in one eye. Three in the other. And her irises had changed accordingly. Her stare wasn’t even as pronounced as some of her kin.

Not only that; it was intense. Lesy had grown up here all eight years of her short life. But even she froze before the spotlight of such passion that radiated from Gadrea’s face.

“Nonsense. Don’t stopper your emotions for me or Visophecin, Lesy. I know how much Ser Tubeliges meant. You will remember this day forever. He will not leave you, and you will be the better for it. Let out your emotions. He saved you as a babe—he was a champion among Sariant Lambs.”

“He—he did do that. Everyone said I was drowning and I remember—”

Lesy had been fine. Now she began to hiccup as the old story—the Sariant Lamb who had dove into the pool and dragged out a baby—struck home twice. Gadrea hugged her tightly, but gently.

“Never forget. Never forget those that die, Lesy. We cannot. We shall—we must do something for him. A statue! A painting!”

At this point Viscount Visophecin felt the need to interrupt. He spoke, calmly.

“I believe there is a communal painting of all Sariant Lambs in this generation, Gadrea.”

She glared at him and, for a second, he felt the force of her emotions.

“Not enough, Visophecin! For Lesy and Ser Tubeliges—you wouldn’t gainsay her that, surely?”

Visophecin sighed. The [Painter] who had come expecting to do portraits of House Shoel’s reclusive and rich family had been forced to paint each Sariant Lamb in great detail. And they looked alike. He did a quick estimate of how much a marble bust would cost.

“I never spare you anything, Cousin. If you would like a marble statue, so be it.”

And yet…he eyed Lesy. The girl was crying harder than she had at the funeral. Visophecin looked around.

“Herea. I believe Lesy is overwrought. Will you take her somewhere quiet and make sure she wants for nothing?”

“Of course, Viscount.”

The [Housemistress] had been hovering. Now she came forwards and Lesy clung to her, sobbing violently.

“I shall go with her—”

Lady Gadrea moved to join Lesy, and Visophecin blocked her.

“I require a word, Cousin.”

“When Lesy is grieving?”

“Alas, it is a matter of state. A…young woman, and the Duke.”

Gadrea paused, but looked after Lesy. Herea smiled.

“Lesy will be fine. If she asks, I will send for you, Lady Gadrea.”

“I suppose that is well.”

Visophecin met Herea’s eyes briefly. The [Housemistress] was not going to send for Gadrea. And that ran two ways.

Because it was true that the servants of House Shoel wanted for nothing. In fact, applications to work at the manor were fought over tooth-and-nail by even the palace’s finest, because not only did House Shoel want large families, the children would not work, you would be paid the fattest wage in the entire nation, and amenities went from healing potions on demand to extensive vacation time to the recreation rooms.

Nor was this because House Shoel’s folk were hard to please. Oh, Visophecin’s side of the family was aloof, but polite and demanded nothing—they preferred to be left alone aside from simple fetch requests.

Lady Gadrea’s side of the family was engaging, lovely, cared about you, and sent flowers and thoughtful gifts to your wedding. However. They were also as dangerous in their way as anything Visophecin might do.

He had seen it before. Lesy might well grow up to be a woman in her thirties who still celebrated a ‘Ser Tubeliges’ every year. Or simply develop some odd savior-complex where she went around protecting sheep—or other people.

Lady Gadrea stood with Visophecin as Lesy was led away, now wailing. She watched Lesy anxiously, with a pure sadness, empathy, concern that Visophecin lacked entirely. But that was her nature.

“So why do you wish to speak to me rather than the other Lucifen? Did you say a young woman? Then you’ve come to us with sense, Visophecin. One of us should be at court. You know you don’t…deal well with mortals.”

Lady Gadrea of House Shoel coughed, looking tired in Lesy’s absence. But she drew herself up and regarded her cousin. Cousin, which confused people because they were both of House Shoel. But that was just for appearances. After all…Visophecin looked at her strange gaze, her tall, frail body, but with a passion and vigor that seemed to defy her weak flesh.

What had Ryoka called her? He nodded to his kin.

“I seek the council of all Agelum, Gadrea. Not just you. I was concerned you were on your feet.”

She looked after Lesy.

“I couldn’t leave her behind. They grow up so fast, and the darling Sariant Lambs bring them so much joy.”

“Yes. They do a fine job.”

Visophecin agreed, absently. He looked at the grave. The cemetery. All the things designed to make the servants’ lives as happy as possible. Not for him. He thought he would have run a pleasant household with minimal interaction if given the chance; the kind of efficiency you got from the top [Maids] and [Butlers]. Magnolia Reinhart was an exemplar in that area, or so his notes went for the current serving scene.

But Gadrea needed Lesy, tears and joy in all, just like Visophecin needed the dregs of Ailendamus. Of course, she would rather die than harm a hair on Lesy’s head. But she still took something from the girl. Or perhaps…basked in it, for he didn’t think it was like [Witches] or other such classes or monsters.

Happiness. When the staff were content, thriving, in passion, Gadrea and her kin lived. Even now, she smiled like…an Angel.

——

But what did an angel smile like? Visophecin told her no lies. They were too close, and Gadrea might not be the greatest of her kind, but she was close. She grew excited as she paced around the cemetery.

“From another world? And you did what to her? I could harm you, Visophecin.”

He watched her, because that was no idle threat—or wouldn’t be if she were in better health. Gadrea glared at him.

“Have you no thought for how a young woman would perceive it? After so long?”

“I was carried away. I rectified the issue.”

Gadrea shook her head. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, but they had turned a lighter color, rather than darker. Light blue?

“I must speak to her! I must ask her—oh, everything. You said she brought Fithea comfort? Why, then she must be an ally! And Rhisveri should grant her whatever she needs. I am glad you saw sense. If there is another place out there…”

Her eyes sparkled with the very possibility. She was no fool. Visophecin remarked quietly.

“She trusted me because she was aware of how valuable she was. But I have not earned her trust. Nor do I intend to blindly invoke whatever powers brought her here.”

“Visophecin! Have you no trust? An extraordinary girl comes here, with the daring, the drive to stand up to Rhisveri and you, knowing what you two are, and it truly strikes no chord? Imagine what she could become. How old is she?”

“Hm. I would say…twenty two?”

“Twenty two. Dead gods. I can almost picture her. Such bravery. And—and you were cold.”

Gadrea turned, almost resignedly, to Visophecin. He touched his chin.

“…No, actually. I rather desired to keep dancing with her. Even court her.”

“Really? This is wonderful! Astonishing! Inconceivable, truthfully!”

Gadrea clapped her hands, becoming even more animated. Visophecin’s smile was crooked.

“Not for the reasons you hope, fair cousin. I was simply aware that Tyrion Veltras seems enamoured with her. Rumor has it already that His Majesty, Itorin, has invited her to a personal dinner. Whether or not he truly is in love, Queen Oiena has done the same. She is the more suspect of the two, between you and I.”

“Oh. But then…”

Visophecin’s smile had sharpness to it.

“I would rather like to charm her first. Simply because of the competition.”

Gadrea gave him a long look. It was not unfamiliar, and she had given him many such looks over their long lifespans, and he did the same to her. They were fundamentally opposed. Yet…she was so excited she began pleading with him.

“Take me with you to the palace next time. I won’t give anything away. I just want to behold her. See her. If she knows about you, perhaps about me? I—I could even see if we could fly. She can fly, Visophecin. She could be—”

She coughed, raising her hand.

“—so brilliant. I have to ask how little Yorishi is doing. Did she become a [Mage]? If I could just go out—”

Another cough. She blinked. Something was trickling down her mouth. Visophecin’s eyes opened wide. Gadrea stared down at the light blue liquid running down her hand. It did not look like it, but it was her…

Blood. She began to cough harder, and Visophecin caught her. He turned and Gadrea collapsed as he carried her out of the garden, calling for a [Healer].

——

“…A regular collapse. She was up for nearly three hours.”

“And no one stopped her. I shall speak to Herea.”

“Don’t…don’t…”

Gadrea was calmer now that she was lying down and had been treated. Visophecin saw her agitation, and lowered his voice. Another of the Agelum, now that the [Healer] had seen to Gadrea, was speaking.

The [Healer] saw only red blood. He didn’t notice the discrepancies, and he was loyal to House Shoel beyond doubt. But he was still only a half-Elf, albeit one with long experience with the fragile kin of the Lucifen.

Uzine, older than both Gadrea and Visophecin, oldest of all on the Agelum’s side, sat in a chair that could be pushed around. There were any number of devices the Agelum could use. Floating beds, simple mechanical variants…he patted Gadrea’s hand, and she lay there, resting.

He went outside with Visophecin as Gadrea lay in the bed of healing crystals. Visophecin pushed the chair.

“Did you hear about Ser Tubeliges? Such a sad thing.”

Visophecin sighed.

“I heard about Ser Tubeliges. I have news, Uzine.”

“Tell me, then.”

They went for a tour of the manor, Visophecin letting Uzine greet the children running past, who had to stop and bow or show him a toy or a flower, ask him if he had heard the latest song from the Singer. Visophecin regarded it as a necessary evil. But Uzine smiled with delight. He had an infinite patience like all his people for such things.

Yet Agelum would have surprised Ryoka—or maybe not. They, like Lucifen, had their role to play. But it was not always benign.

“Did you meet with Ser Lomoor’s widow when you were there? Please remember me to her.”

It was another child that Uzine had known since he was a serving boy. In fact, and people attributed this to the care of House Shoel, patriotism, their rich lands, or any number of factors, many of the serving children went on to become [Mages], [Knights], and more in Ailendamus’ ranks. Some rose to positions of great power and still visited and remembered their beloved friends who didn’t age.

It was inevitable. Uzine smiled at a boy with a scar and a limp.

“Tored. How are you healing?”

“Good, Lord Uzine! I’m sorry, Viscount.”

“And those wretches who picked that fight?”

“Haven’t seem ‘em!”

The boy gave him a huge grin exposing missing teeth. Uzine nodded.

“Suffer no bullying. Go proudly in House Shoel’s name.”

When the boy had limped off, he turned to Visophecin.

“I wanted to give him a practice sword for the end of the month. Herea refused. Speak to her, will you?”

“Hm.”

Visophecin’s eyes followed Tored. The boy had, after several incidents with a neighboring village’s children, single-handedly picked a fight with no less than four children with multiple years on him. He’d broken a leg and lost several teeth, but had given them more scars than the one he had. He had done it after a chat with Uzine on the issue.

Until Tored was older, Visophecin would have left him alone. Treated him like a servant if he was employed, and not bothered with any facet of his life unless it affected Visophecin for whatever reason. Unless Tored committed a crime. Then they would meet one more time, as man and Lucifen.

But Uzine and his kind…meddled. The children they poured their affection and attention into went on adventures. Many died young. Some became great heroes and figures of renown. Champions of the poor, feared warriors. Some simply snapped. There was no middle ground.

Live. Live louder, live with conviction, with passion. If Uzine had been able to stand for long periods, he might have founded a new [Knight] Order, or led the charge into enemy lines. As it was—he couldn’t.

They were all bedridden. All…weak. So, as Visophecin spoke, a few more were escorted over, to give him advice. Ironically, he trusted the Agelum more than his kin. Not all of his kin were as practical; you could learn the kind of selfish altruism he believed made great rulers. But Agelum…

“A girl from another world? Or one who travels at least? You were right to stop Rhisveri. Hear her out. Give her aid, Visophecin. Bring her here, perhaps. Have you heard about Ser Tubeliges?”

Another of the Agelum wheeled herself over. She was old, white in her hair…but that didn’t mean much. She coughed.

“Gadrea collapsed, then?”

“You shouldn’t have let her stand so long. Three hours? You are lucky she didn’t suffer intense harm.”

Razia smiled.

“You don’t know what it’s like, Visophecin. To want to stand and hold someone. Don’t scold Gadrea too long. I feel for mortals who suffer injuries like ours.”

“I have put forward your suggestions about ways to improve their lives and give them employment in the Court of Masks already. And we are purchasing magical prosthesis designs. Sophridel and Fithea, among some of the others, are looking into the project, but we have a war to fight, Razia.”

“I know that. I wish we could give more aid. But we are not as skilled at magic.”

She shook her head. Then she smiled ruefully.

“I hope we do not add to your worries, Visophecin. To tell you the truth, I stood and walked about the manor just this morning. Only thirty minutes.”

He sighed. But he did understand the frustration they had to feel. To occupy them, he gave them wide liberties to begin and envision projects. One of Ailendamus’ dishes that was now a standard across the kingdom had come from House Shoel’s kitchens, and thousands of taste-testings, much to their pride. Razia smiled.

“I know, but I had Herea send someone to watch me. I didn’t feel poorly at all. I’ve felt better this last month—months, really—than I have since before Curulac, damn him. And I’m not the only one, am I, Uzine?”

Visophecin raised his eyebrows.

“I hope you will remind the others not to push themselves, however you feel, Cousins.”

“We know. But it is nice to feel better, Visophecin. I know it must be something—good humors, if they existed. Perhaps it’s that lad Tored. He put a spark in me, but I really feel better. Perhaps there’s a project in Ailendamus that’s boosting the mana?”

“Not that I know of. I will ask. Tell me if you continue to feel better next month.”

“Of course. Of course. And bring this young woman here! Visophecin is minded to seduce her, Razia.”

The other immortal laughed as Visophecin sighed.

“We shall all flirt with her. If that’s what she wants. But Visophecin? I thought the only mortal that could ever conceivably catch his eye would be someone like Tulm the Mithril. Or Magnolia Reinhart.”

“I am pleased to see you are in high spirits. Should I purchase a new Sariant Lamb?”

“Visophecin! But perhaps you will find a [Chef] who can make more of that gelato? Oh, and soccer. Could you even hire that [Football Coach]? It would benefit Ailendamus. While I have you—bicycles, Visophecin. When are they arriving? I promised the children and the adults they would all get to ride one. Also, do we have room in the budget for a camel in the stables? Just one! Or three. Have you seen the documentary…”

The Devil walked his home, in the company of his fair cousins. He would never understand them, not completely. But he could appreciate them. For them, he had taken them all to Ailendamus.

This would be his kingdom. This place would be safe, until the end of time. Until his ambitions came crashing down. And if he had to see it all end, he would stand here, with a flaming sword in hand, at the doorway.

Until the end, the last of the two species lived and waited in the world’s twilight.

——

The things the Wind Runner did. She had won herself an audience because she charmed immortals. She struggled, because they were not alike at all except in the most fundamental part of their nature, and even then…

But she did find a way to charm them. Perhaps it was because she liked them.

She thought she was clever. Well, she might have designs on others, and even won Visophecin’s approval somehow, but some beings were beyond her charms.

She had a talent for the wind, but Rhisveri found her about as appealing as a block of meat. Less, frankly, because if it was a prime cut of sirloin?

He had no weaknesses and he knew the advantage of surprise. He had granted her an audience. So the audience was now.

Rhisveri strode into Ryoka Griffin’s rooms just past morning. He tried the handle, and busted the door in when it was locked.

“Now we shall discuss things, Ryoka Gr—ah.”

He stopped for a second. Stared, and backed up.

“…You are a disgrace to your Order. All of y—”

Something bounced off the wall. It was a helmet. The Duke began to lambast them for their—he ducked as more pieces of metal hit the walls.

Rhisveri retreated backwards, into the guest rooms, to recollect himself. It turned out a surprise visit—had its own flaws. Several voices followed him, uttering loud curses. It turned out when you got a lot of Ryokas together, they did have similarities.

The Duke walked out of Ryoka’s quarters just in time to see Queen Oiena headed this way. Following Sammial, marching over to say hello with Oesca, and Fithea bringing up the rear. He wondered if he should stop them.

He really wanted not to.

——

Mrsha du Marquin ate breakfast. Next to her, a little Gnoll cub slapped his knees as he chanted.

“Bird hash. Bird hash! Bird hash!”

That would be…Cers. Mrsha had no idea what a ‘bird hash’ was. It turned out it was a nickname for a simple breakfast.

“Cers. Stop eating that or I will tell Chieftain Akrisa.”

Satar, the [Shaman] and his older sister, slapped his paw away from the raw and dried bird meat. The Silverfang tribe did not want for things like runes of preservation, being able to afford them, so ‘bird hash’ let them use a mix of preserved and fresh foods.

Meat. Gnolls ate meat. But since they were also famously good herders, chickens, one of the most economical creatures in any world, were sources of all kinds of food, and all you had to feed them was non-edible stuff.

Bird hash was when you fried up the meat with a gravy or spices, which made Mrsha’s mouth water terribly, then cracked a few eggs and made a simple, fast scramble. Completely dependent on chickens. Then you could plop it into a sandwich, eat it as it was, or add it to another dish.

It was not fine cuisine by any standard. It was food Satar could make with all the adults being busy. Comfort food.

Cers stuck his entire face into the bowl the instant he was passed it. Mrsha ate slowly. Satar watched her, a bit anxiously.

“Are you hungry for something else, Mrsha? Honored Krshia said whatever you need…”

Mrsha shook her head, and continued to nibble on bites of her meal. Krshia was elsewhere; she was the star of the Meeting of Tribes along with Ferkr, who was a guest at the Silverfang camp. But, because of this, she was breakfasting elsewhere; Gnolls just had to speak to her. Therefore, Mrsha should not be anywhere near her if one just so happened to poke their head in.

This was despite Mrsha wearing her disguise. And she was not the only person in this tent, incidentally. Satar and Cers had come over to a small camp that had been newly set up within the aegis of Ekhtouch—mainly because Ekhtouch was the most reclusive and suffered few visitors.

“Vetn, Tesy, stop complaining. Bird hash. Dead gods, that takes me back.”

Qwera took a bowl and reached over, but the two ducked away. Vetn sniffed.

“I thought Silverfang would offer us a fancy dish. They’re rich.”

Satar flushed, and Qwera kicked the younger Gnoll.

“You loved bird hash when you were young. Shut up and eat. You too, Tesy.”

“But I didn’t—ow. Alright!”

The Drake bent over his bowl. Vetn and Tesy scarfed down their food. Cers was already done and begging for a second helping. Satar bowed to Qwera.

“I’m sorry, Honored Qwera. Honored Krshia recommended something simple, like Cers’ favorite food…”

“It’s perfectly fine. I drank water flavored with wild mint when I was out of provisions. You want to complain, Ysara?”

“…I’ve eaten nothing but meat for the last three days in your company, Qwera.”

“Humans.”

Everyone else rolled their eyes. Mrsha kept eating. Despite Vetn’s complaints, she rather liked this meal. It was simple, but tasty. It was something…

Erin might have made. It was about her level of cooking and she lacked the patience for bigger dishes, unless it was a special occasion.

The thought of Erin made Mrsha stop eating for a second. It wasn’t that she was sad. She had met Krshia and Krshia had hugged her and now she was among everyone. From Qwera to the Silverfangs to new people like Feshi and Torishi, who Mrsha thought was the best Chieftain ever, aside from Urksh.

It was just that she had met another Chieftain. Mrell. And Prha. And…

Mrsha sighed. Qwera eyed her, and then began to kick Vetn and Tesy out of the tent.

“I have to get to work. You two, get lost.”

“But I was going to stay with Mrsha…”

Tesy looked at Mrsha with quite a lot of concern and Vetn turned at the door. Cers was already racing into the Ekhtouch camp to play Triumphs, whatever that was, with the other children. Qwera glanced knowingly at Mrsha.

“Sometimes a girl has to think things over. With the fine company of a caring, sensitive soul.”

Tesy nodded.

“So—”

Qwera put him in a choke hold and dragged him off.

“A caring, sensitive soul. That Feshi or Chieftain Torishi will be over in a moment. You stay far away.”

Satar hesitated, but she had a job too, and Mrsha passed her a note thanking her for the repast and vouchsafing that she was merely taking her time to savor the melody of flavors.

She had that one pre-prepared, incidentally. She tended to give it to Lyonette when she had to eat salads, then tossed them out the window.

Lyonette. Erin. Mrsha sighed. She wasn’t sad. It was just…she thought of Mrell. No…no. But…

Life was never easy. Dead gods. Mrsha took a sip of her goat milk and sighed like the last drunk in a bar, leaning on the counter. She was left alone with a generous helping of breakfast cooling in the pot. Outside, Ekhtouch was starting their own day. Mrsha knew that Chieftain Torishi would soon be here to talk, and Feshi, and…Rose and Inkar, and more.

They all cared about Mrsha, and were invested in getting Lyonette here, or Mrsha to Lyonette, or Mrsha to home, or something. But Qwera was right. Mrsha had ‘parents’. She was going to have to do something. They just showed up out of nowhere and gave her a headache.

Mrsha was in her maudlin mood and content to sit in contemplative silence.

…Right up until a shadow passed by the door flap. Mrsha froze. A huge shape. A giant muzzle, like a Gnoll’s, but far larger. Gigantic muscles, yet unearthly dexterity. That shape—she began to choke on her food, and tried to stand and run. It was them! Somehow!

Raskgh—

Gire poked her head into the tent. She sniffed.

“Bird hash? You’re making bird hash for breakfast?”

She looked over her shoulder, then blew into the tent so fast Mrsha barely saw her move. She had two bowls full and a spoon raised before she saw Mrsha.

“Oh. Good morning. Mrsha du Marquin. May I have some food?”

She blinked at Mrsha. The Gnoll stared up at the gigantic [Paragon], the second-tallest Gnoll in the entire Meeting of Tribes, and nodded. Gire smiled, ducked her head, and began to eat her breakfast.

Satar had prepared enough for Mrsha to stuff herself until bird hash came out her ears, and for everyone else in the tent to eat their fill; she could always save or re-use it. Gire chowed it down so fast Mrsha saw less of it every time she raised her head.

Not that she didn’t savor it. She was beaming with delight.

“Bird hash. I love bird hash. What kind of bird is it? Chicken…but the speckled hen breed. Probably eight years old. Yum, yum…”

Then Gire blinked at Mrsha and looked embarrassed. She offered the last bowl to Mrsha.

“My apologies, Mrsha. You’re an honored guest. Do you want more?”

Mrsha shook her head, in awe of how much Gire was putting away. The Ekhtouch Gnoll ducked her head and went back to eating. She had good manners. Even so, now that she was reminded Mrsha was there, her eyes assessed Mrsha as she sat cross-legged, back straight. A giant among even her tribe.

[Paragon]. Mrsha had seen her yesterday, of course. But today? She took in Gire, and Gire did the same.

“I should introduce myself. I am Gireulashia of Ekhtouch. [Paragon]. It is my honor to meet you, Mrsha from Liscor. Especially after all you’ve done!”

Mrsha, still eating, looked around for her notepad. She began to sign with her paw, one-handed. Then, frustrated, remembered that no one could understand. And the voice runes…

Gire tilted her head, ears flicking with interest. She reached over, and handed Mrsha her notepad without having to stand.

Thank you. What is a [Paragon]? What do you do, again?

The big Gnoll girl smiled.

“[Paragon] is my class. Only one Ekhtouch has it—perhaps I’m the only Gnoll living that has this class. It means I am the inspiration, the exemplar of all Gnolls. I am…superior. In body and mind. I must lead my tribe and people by example.”

She said that all with a straight face. Mrsha blinked at Gire. The tall Gnoll touched her chest, then sighed and went back to eating.

“…Or so Chieftain Firrelle says. But how would she know? The last [Paragon] was four generations before her, so all she has to go on is rumor and [Shaman]-memory. All I do is train. I’m not old enough to have a job, so I am Tested, learn fighting, crafts, and am witnessed at the Meeting of Tribes.”

A sour look crossed Gire’s face. She caught herself as she saw Mrsha watching and bowed her head again.

“Forgive me. I’m complaining and you’re an esteemed guest. Are you waiting for Chieftain Torishi? I could fetch her if you wanted.”

Mrsha shook her head. She was fascinated by Gire. Especially—what had she said?

How old r u?

Gire frowned at the abbreviation.

“Fifteen. Fifteen years, two months, five days.”

Mrsha’s jaw dropped. Fifteen? But she was huge! Mrsha wondered if she would get that big. That was…a long way up. But then she could do anything she wanted! Lyonette could never stop her! But it probably made crawling under the table harder. And sneaking around.

She thought that, but just then, someone shouted.

“Gireulashia! Where are you? Breakfast!”

Gire grimaced. She turned with Mrsha, and clearly someone was following her by scent. Mrsha saw the Gnoll glance at the pot, conspicuously empty, and her paws blurred.

By the time a Gnoll with a huge, covered bin appeared, some kind of woven container charred at the bottom, Gire was innocently sitting with Mrsha, and the frying pan and the bowls were nowhere to be seen.

“Gire—oh. The guest.”

“I was entertaining our guest, as Chieftain Firrelle asked.”

Gire innocently gestured to Mrsha, and gave her a swift look. Mrsha nodded obediently. The Ekhtouch Gnoll sniffed, but nodded.

“Then—will you breakfast here?”

“I…yes. Yes, I will.”

Gire accepted the odd container from the Ekhtouch Gnoll, who gestured.

“I will have the rest sent over. Chieftain Firrelle wishes you to take part in sparring later today.”

“Very well.”

The [Paragon] sighed. But she was already opening what Mrsha realized was some kind of steaming device. The charred wood sat over a fire and within were…

Green…steamed buns? Mrsha craned her head to see as Gire put the huge basket in front of her. They could have fed everyone. And they were curiously green buns, with strange flecks of some kind of vegetable baked into the exterior. They had an odd smell, but Gire lifted one, took a huge bite, and revealed there was meat inside. Meat and some other ingredients.

“I’m sorry. They never let me have bird hash. And I cannot go and buy food with them watching. Just pretend I’m eating everything. I’ll account for the extra food…”

Mrsha’s eyes nearly popped out of her head as a second basket was brought in, placed before Gire, and revealed a double helping of food. Mrsha was known in various circles back home as a devilish stealer of food.

Mrsha the Mouth. Mrsha the Morsel-Hunter. Mrsha the Maw.

She watched as Gire calmly, and apparently still hungry, ate more food than Mrsha would eat all day in the form of those strange buns, on top of her bird hash! Gire ate with a resigned look. Until Mrsha pointed and showed Gire a note.

May I try one?

She didn’t comment about the amount of food; Lyonette said it was unmannerly to comment about such things to fellow women. Gire looked surprised, but instantly handed Mrsha a bun.

“If you like. It’s not tasty, though.”

Mrsha thought it was. It did have some fine meat within, beef if she was to judge. She took a bite, chewed—

Gire leaned out of the way of the spitball as it hit a corner of the yurt. She grinned, as Mrsha scrubbed at her tongue.

What the heck is in that thing? Nasty! Horrible!

She signed with her paws, because she had to express her revulsion, then went to scribble it down. Gire replied, glancing at Mrsha and the note.

“It’s got herbs in the bun. That’s why it tastes bad. Here. Have the inside.”

She opened the offending bun and Mrsha suspiciously took a bite of the filling. That tasted good. A bit odd, but fine quality.

“The herbs make you stronger, you know.”

Mrsha would rather die. She glowered at the buns.

Do you eat that every day?

Gire sighed.

“Not every day. Every four days is bun-day. I have an eating pattern. They try to vary it up, but they just use a sequence. Every four days, then every three, three, four, eight—four…even when they think they’re being clever, they just throw in a single variation.”

Mrsha tilted her head. There was something about Gire that was fascinating. Aside from her mere height. She spoke very adult-like, but she complained about food like Mrsha. Not only that—Gire blinked at Mrsha.

“I’m sorry. I’m supposed to be a good host. And you don’t want to hear about food. You escaped the hunters, didn’t you? You’re safe here. Ekhtouch lets no one in. Also, the authority of Weatherfur and Ekhtouch are such that no other tribes can directly force their way into either camp. Or are you worried about your parents?”

Mrsha’s ears drooped. Her tail did likewise, and Gire hesitated.

“Chieftain Mrell and Warrior Prha. Formerly of Stone Spears? And you don’t like them because you have a mother. Lyonette du Marquin, in Oteslia. You fled from Liscor, The Wandering Inn, and arrived here thanks to Qwera, among other factors…”

Thanks for noticing, jerk.

Mrsha didn’t write that one down, but signed with one paw. She didn’t appreciate the commentary on her life. The fact that Gire knew the confusing story didn’t register with Mrsha—but Lehra and the others still had to have some of the details clarified.

Gire frowned at Mrsha’s paws. But she saw how the little girl was hunched over, and ameliorated her tone.

“I, ah…I suppose it’s hard? To have parents you don’t want. Mine don’t have much bearing in my life. I’m sorry.”

She ate an entire bun as she thought for a second, eyes flickering. Mrsha put her bowl down and Gire leaned over.

“You know, technically, under tribe-law, if they were expelled via a [Chieftain]’s orders, they have no formal claim on you as parents. The fact that you’re the survivor of a tribe means that your legal status is a bit strange…I guess Krshia would have a strong claim on you, but if this Lyonette comes, she can have the [Shamans] formally recognize her as your guardian.”

Mrsha blinked. She looked up at Gire. The [Paragon] frowned.

“…Unfortunately, ‘Lyonette du Marquin’ is the name of a [Princess] of Calanfer and under Terandrian laws of royal inheritance, she cannot legally adopt or declare you her ward without approval from the throne, due to the Bloodlines Decree. Especially since you’re non-Human so they can’t even claim you’d be partially intermingled after marrying a royal bloodline; non-Humans can’t develop royal blood. Half-Elves are an exception ratified to the treaty, but you’re not one.”

She looked at Mrsha. The legal knowledge of the [Paragon] was impressive. The rest? Mrsha slowly wrote a note and handed it to Gire.

You suck at being nice.

Gire looked a bit hurt. Mrsha passed her another note.

How do you know all that? Do they teach you Terandrian law?

Even Lyonette hadn’t done that and she taught Mrsha tea etiquette and the flower-signs of court. Gire shook her head, bemused.

“No. I read a book once. I’m sorry I’m not comforting. Um…maybe Liscor has separate bylaws in regard to adoption?”

She went back to eating, a bit embarrassed. As if she had explained everything. Mrsha frowned at her. What, you just remembered everything you read?

You mean jerk. You’re big and smelly and stupid.

The little white Gnoll girl took some pleasure in signing it, with a smile on her face. She was Lyonette’s daughter no matter what.

Gire looked at Mrsha’s paws. Then frowned.

Horrible!

She signed back. Mrsha nearly catapulted herself into a wall in astonishment. Gire glared.

“I don’t know what the rest of that meant, but I can tell I’m being insulted.”

You can read my signs?

Gire tilted her head back and forth, eying Mrsha as the Gnoll girl, disbelieving, moved her paws.

“You…something….my…can I understand you? Not yet. It’s very obvious, you know. Some of the gestures, like ‘you’.”

She made the simple indicator. Mrsha was agog. Only Goblins and Antinium had ever picked up on her language free-form! And yet, Gire smiled with clear interest.

“Did you make that? Warriors have their own hand signs, but yours are funny. I like your signs more.”

Mrsha’s were more expressive. When she insulted you, it was very obvious, like her word for ‘smelly’, which was pinching an imaginary nose. The Gnoll girl shyly waved a paw.

Aw, go on.

And that was how they became friends. By the time the Ekhtouch adults came to clear the meal, they found Gire and Mrsha having a completely silent conversation, paws flashing. They were even inventing new words, and the older Gnolls frowned.

They were sharp enough to read some of it, but they weren’t Gire. And the Gnoll [Paragon] was visibly excited.

“Really? So it does rain and flood all spring? Do you swim?”

Mrsha shook her head, explaining about the things in the water. Gire sighed.

“I’m going to have to fight underwater soon. It’s hard.”

Mrsha had no basis for that statement, but she was fascinated by Gire’s experiences. And the same went for Gire.

“You met with a holder of an inheritance Skill? That’s so rare. What’s the garden like? And you came from Liscor. Does that inn have all the treats the Silverfangs are bringing? Like cookies?”

She didn’t know. Mrsha almost stopped signing and grew sad when she thought of Erin, but the desire to tell Gire was stronger. The [Paragon] knew how Mrsha had gotten here. But the entire story?

Mrsha almost hesitated, but then she remembered that Gire knew everything. So Mrsha could tell her…

——

It was a strange duo that walked around the Ekhtouch camp. A tiny Gnoll cub and a giant girl. Mrsha rode on Gire’s shoulders, and the Gnoll let her sign, watching out of the corner of her eye and replying. The older Ekhtouch Gnolls were a bit grumpy.

“Gire, you should be stretching and practicing.”

“I am with an honored guest. Chieftain Firrelle will agree. Chieftain Torishi and Chieftain Akrisa both think so.”

“But your training…”

The instructor blinked, then dodged a [Mudball]. Mrsha waved her wand. Back off, fool! Gire laughed in delight.

“You can use magic! I don’t have any magical capability, or if I do, it’s tiny. Firrelle thinks we have to breed for that too.”

Mrsha wrinkled her nose. Breeding? Adult stuff? Disgusting!

“I know. But I have to have lots of children some day.”

Gire sighed. Mrsha shook her head. No way. Just run off! Gire gave her a long look.

“I thought about it. But where would I go?”

Liscor! Liscor was nicer than anywhere. It had football, cakes, the plays…and Numbtongue, Bird, Ishkr, everyone, and the laptop!

Gire had an interesting reaction to Mrsha’s tales of home. She wasn’t actually as fascinated with how famous people got, or even football.

“I’ve played it. It’s not as fun. I don’t want to be famous.”

…said the [Paragon]. Mrsha blinked, but Gire’s eyes did light up at the mention of Numbtongue and the laptop.

“I would like to meet a Goblin who’s not hostile. There are stories about them, you know. And a laptop? Rose and Inkar have their phones. Inkar even let me borrow it. What’s a laptop?”

Only the greatest invention of all time! It had movies, games where you got to kill alien things with big booming weapons if Numbtongue didn’t hog it all the time, card games, music, and it was proof against evil, immortal [Witches]!

Gire’s ears perked up. She reached down and produced the iPhone, upgraded, small in her paws. Mrsha’s eyes bulged as she realized this was a new model thanks to Krshia’s Skill.

“I want to see this laptop! Did you know this device has lots of games?”

Give, give that to me. So I can inspect it.

Mrsha reached for the smartphone, but Gire effortlessly held it out of reach. She was moving through the apps, and held the screen out to Mrsha.

“Hold on. You can try the games. I’ve beaten most of them…but look at this. Do you know what this is?”

She had opened the most boring app of all the ones on the phones. Mrsha sighed. Really? But Gire pointed.

“No, look. I know what it does and so do you. It’s not that useful, or so I thought. But look over here.”

She pointed as she tapped a few numbers into the calculator.

“Multiplication, division…it can do larger numbers flawlessly, which is good if you can’t do it in your head, I guess. But—here. You see?”

She pointed to something Mrsha had never bothered with, with all the other interesting things. Gire frowned.

“It works with a lot of numbers. It’s some kind of…answer. But I don’t understand what it means and Inkar couldn’t explain. See?”

She pointed to a little button that labeled a nonsense word. It said ‘log’. Gire pointed to others. ‘Sin’, ‘ln’, ‘cos’…they were nonsense words.

“Inkar told me they were mathematical devices. But she didn’t know what they represented. Neither does Rose.”

Mrsha raised her eyebrows. That checked out. Rose didn’t know anything. Kevin might know. Gire shook her head.

“But Mrsha, everyone has this device. Phones. Everyone. It follows then, and I checked, that this ‘app’ is on both phones. And since this is here, this is an important thing. Whatever it represents. So it matters. I’ve almost figured out what it’s doing to each number…but how do you use it? No one makes something you don’t use.”

Mrsha hesitated. She had never cared one bit about the calculator or maths, although she could now multiply up to six without having to use her fingers. Yet Gire said things so sensibly.

There was a logic behind that button. Behind everything.

“Someone made this, Mrsha. It’s very clever, but you can see the line here, and here, see? I wanted to open it up, but Inkar said that would break it. That’s fascinating.”

If you say so. Mrsha tried to explain what was really cool to Gire. You think you had fun making birds kill pigs? Granted, hugely amusing. But that was nothing compared to the complexity of a firefight where you had one of those glowy grenades, and they were coming at you and all you had was a pistol.

Master Chief Mrsha saw Gire’s eyes light up.

“So you have to fight them? How many?”

Hundreds. And they were on your ship! And then you crashed and you had to beat up them all over the place, and you ride in this big thing that was named after a pig, but didn’t look like one at all, and rescue these stupid Humans. But then Numbtongue took the laptop away because he wanted to beat the game again and he overwrote your save data!

Like every enthusiast ever, Mrsha tried to explain just how cool this thing was to Gire, who listened, mouth agape. She had to play it. And there was only one place in the world where she could. Mrsha took Gire’s paw and the [Paragon] swung her about—then tossed her twenty feet up and caught Mrsha.

She didn’t do that again, because that was more scary than cool, even though Gire promised she could catch her every time. But by the time Feshi and Torishi came, just past breakfast, Gire and her little friend were waiting for them.

——

The Meeting of Tribes had a lot of rogue elements in it. From little Gnoll girls, to undead Revenants. You know, standard. And it was attracting political attention from around the world and it had already uncovered a Drake conspiracy and there were Raskghar.

All that to say…fall was upon them. The wind was growing colder, with that crisp breeze, and the first leaves were beginning to change, but it would be a long season.

Ah, back in those days—no, even now, a small village might gather around, burn some wood to produce a merry blaze, and cook something over the fire. A baked sweet potato, some fish if they were along bodies of water, or simply warm themselves with some cider…

That was memory. A potato on a stick with some butter was among the finest of meals. One he remembered even now.

Az’kerash stood in front of the burning fire. He did not hold out his hands. There was nothing to warm, or rather, he would not feel it. Belavierr stopped in her slow circuit of the castle. She was knitting something, and her look of discontent ever since she had returned from Liscor changed slightly.

“What are you doing?”

The Necromancer slowly placed another sheaf of paper on the fire. He didn’t really want her company, but she was a guest.

“I am disposing of unneeded…material.”

She looked at the pieces of paper. The fire wasn’t large, but Az’kerash had added some wood just so it wasn’t a single thing. A tiny bit of ceremony, he supposed.

A skeleton scuttled away with a baked apple as Belavierr came close. Damned [Witches]. A skeleton couldn’t even sit around a fire and bake apples for his friend slime without….grumble grumble…

Belavierr glanced at Toren, but her attention was on the pieces of paper.

“What are you burning?”

She was too direct. Az’kerash sighed, but proffered one of the pieces of paper.

“…An approximately hundred-page plan with as many steps and options for fostering conflict between Gnollish tribes and the Drake cities.”

“Ah.”

The [Witch] discarded the piece of paper. She watched Az’kerash burn more pages, faster now that she was here and the ceremony of the moment was less enjoyable. Az’kerash felt motivated to speak after six minutes.

“I had designed the plans during my recuperation. Far before the Raskghar or these latest developments.”

“I see. Is your agent, Kerash, following these plans?”

“He is adapting.”

The [Witch] stared at the fire. She looked at Az’kerash.

“I have found that plans of that nature go awry. Especially if laid too many centuries in advance.”

He bowed, stiffly.

“I will bear it in mind for the future, Witch Belavierr.”

“Ah. Yes. I had forgotten you were new.”

Az’kerash sighed. He waved a finger and the rest of the pages ignited in one moment, swirling into the fire before extinguishing themselves. He inclined his head to her.

“Until later, Belavierr.”

She made no response. Az’kerash returned to his lair.

Long laid plans set up in literal flames. And yet—everything had changed. He went back to checking on Pisces’ position. Oh. The next part of the documentary had aired.

It was a strange confluence of circumstances. Az’kerash remembered designing the plans, to take advantage of the bloodbath. But that was not the Necromancer of now. Now, his undead levelled. His Chosen, his alliance with the Stitch Witch…

And, of course, among the limited aid he could give to an…ally? No, apprentice? A worthy [Necromancer], if only starting out, and a debt he was finding alarmingly difficult to fulfil was this:

“Erin Solstice.”

“That’s me! Hey, don’t wear it out. I’m Erin. Hi.”

A zombie lurched past Az’kerash. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he went to consult his notes.

“Belavierr. Will you consult with me?”

She was there in a moment. The Stitch Witch eyed the zombie, who stuck out her hand.

“I’m—”

The zombie hesitated, then lurched off to stand by a wall, dead silent. Belavierr walked forwards.

“Interesting. This was not part of our agreement.”

“Must we renegotiate on the basis of limited magical discussion?”

Belavierr tilted her head.

“If you wish.”

“I do not wish for that.”

“Ah. Then I shall consider it…a gesture of respect.”

The Stitch Witch walked forwards. Az’kerash turned. He did not have to speak, exactly. She saw multiple stages of his investigation, and regarded them, frowning.

“Fetohep of Khelt. Frost magic. Regeneration magic.”

“Do you have a reagent capable of mimicking ethereal effects in alchemy?”

Belavierr blinked at the complex spells. She tilted her head, left and right.

“Not one of the items listed.”

“Ah.”

Even she didn’t have…the Necromancer turned as the Stitch Witch produced something.

“Do you wish to use this?”

A long, semi-transparent thread on a single spool. The Necromancer eyed it.

“What use would that have?”

The Stitch Witch blinked at him, her ringed eyes shifting a bit.

“Dealing with spectres. This…soul. You know you must retrieve it?”

The Necromancer sighed.

“I am aware. That is, ironically, the simplest task. It will probably be close to her body. The one thing I am sure of is that the body must be placed in the inn, not the garden.”

“Hm. Yes. You would be able to do it well. As a Necromancer. Why are you speaking with Khelt?”

Az’kerash didn’t turn his head, but one of the floating lines of text in the air abruptly vanished. The Stitch Witch looked at him.

“A separate matter. Khelt has an interest. I may pursue it.”

She smiled.

“An intriguing one. I have offered my services to Khelt several times. They do not accept.”

Az’kerash knew the Stitch Witch entangled every affair. He wasn’t surprised the rulers had such sense. Although…he did not mention Belavierr to Fetohep, as even communication was delicate. But perhaps she was what the immortal ruler desired, along with Az’kerash’s abilities. But what a grand ambition. Bring back the…?

He had this commitment to see through first. So the Necromancer put any other project to the side, especially ones that might be beyond even his abilities at present.

“Pieces. Can you improve any aspect of this planned healing project, Witch Belavierr?”

She regarded the component parts. It would be exceedingly difficult to put together. Az’kerash could substitute his own abilities and considerable wealth and influence to copy the project, but again, he was no specialist in healing.

Yet the Stitch Witch…her eyes flickered from incomplete part to part. She came to a swift conclusion.

“Something is missing.”

The Necromancer nodded.

“Do you mean the frost magic? Or the antidote to the poison? No [Alchemist] has yet synthesized a proper application method, and most lack the proposed reagents. Although…”

His eyes flickered to the line of thread. Intriguing. He dipped it in the simple antidote, and walked over to a number of frozen corpses. Female Humans, roughly the same in age. Belavierr watched him point a finger. The thread slowly sank into the first frozen chest, and the layer of poison trapped underneath.

“Not that. Part. And piece. And part.”

The Stitch Witch’s fingers crawled as she moved from section to section, each incomplete. Her head tilted left, and right, and left.

“Almost. It lacks something else.”

“I see. That is valuable insight. Thank you, Witch Belavierr.”

It meant that they needed one more acting factor. Belavierr wasn’t looking at the actual proposed cures. Like her craft, she was looking at the whole of it. And yet…Az’kerash stared with grim satisfaction down at something. He raised a finger.

Eight corpses sat up. Frozen Ghouls rose; a foray into ice combined with death. He didn’t usually bother, but Az’kerash made a point to move them to another room for later designs. They left the stone slabs where they had been waiting for tests.

He looked down, grimly satisfied. Because when he tested next…the Necromancer stepped back. He cast a spell.

“[Detect Poison].”

Belavierr saw the corpse light up. She watched as the veins darkened, flooded with a toxin that revealed itself to Az’kerash and Belavierr. A network of death…

And a single spot without, in the center of the dead body’s chest. Az’kerash lifted the thread, and handed it back to Belavierr without another word.

“My gratitude, Witch Belavierr.”

She regarded the spool. Then, as Az’kerash was turning back to advise Fetohep to pursue the matter intensely, reached out—and tapped him on the shoulder. The Necromancer turned, waiting to see if she had any more insight…

Two more spools of ghostly thread appeared, and an ethereal needle. She also added, after some thought, a hat.

“Would you care to purchase any of it?”

She paused. Then offered him the hat.

“The hat is complimentary.”

——

Almost. That was what they told him.

Almost. Did they need help? Well…he could not go and help them. He could move, and he had acted. But when she wrote to him and told him they were under siege, what could he say?

“I will move mountains?”

No. What he could do was make it worse. That he understood very well. Yet it did seem that he had a role here. Someone had to make sure nothing happened, even though very little did at that inn anymore.

There had been one incident. It had never even reached the front door before being stomped, punched, and obliterated into nothingness.

Some days it was hard to preach faith. Yet many brave and wise and desperate people had gone to find a cure, so when he thought of it, he thought—soon. Soon, and he would go on saying that until the day he died.

Pawn of the Free Antinium swung his censer as he walked through the streets of Liscor, out of the Hive. Workers and Soldiers walked with him.

They did not have to do it. They could have left through another entrance. They could have done this secretly.

That was not the point. The point was when the Workers and Soldiers first saw the sky, they should see it like this. Walk the city they had lived every day of their lives under and breathe fresh air. See Drakes and Gnolls and Humans.

And be seen. If someone stopped them, threw something—it happened. But this was not the first congregation led up like this. People watched. Some pointed; many knew exactly where they were headed.

Not a congregation after all. That was what they were. But they were on…a pilgrimage.

They did not have to go far. Just through the gates, up a hill, to a place where Antinium held guard. They would stop there for a while. Then they would go get a Garry-cookie, or maybe a stroganoff.

Months. Months now. When had it been? Just after the middle of summer, and summer was over. That was a long time, though it had seemed even longer as it passed. Years.

In other places, mere months would not seem such a dramatic shift. Nations had risen over the course of centuries; what was months?

It was a lot. In Liscor especially. After all…

It had been months.

The Antinium congregation made their steady way down the street, so they could see and experience everything. Their heads swivelled, overwhelmed by the sights, smells, even the feel of the wind up here. Pawn saw a shadow following them. He turned his head, but the Drowned Man was just watching. The censer moved. What did he see? Pawn did not pray, but this too was…

Religion.

Yet it was not in a bubble.

“New paper out! The war against Hectval—new arrivals to Liscor! Five new condominiums open at cheap rent!”

A [Crier] was standing in the same place many had for a long time, in one of Liscor’s plazas. But this too was new; he was selling newspapers with the aid of a young Gnoll boy passing them out for copper coins. Pawn himself almost stopped to see if that was referring to Relc.

“One side! Watch coming through! Clear the way! Fire!”

The Antinium halted. They looked to Pawn, readying themselves, but he just gestured and they stepped smoothly to one side of the street. The Watch had this—and if they did not, no one did. Because they weren’t going to be able to rely on the Antinium.

…Not when a line of Drakes and Gnolls led the Antinium and Human [Guards] forwards at a double-time march. A new visitor to the city, clearly, was staring in horror at the Antinium. And Pawn himself.

“They’re just walking about.”

“Yes. Duh. Stop staring. Didn’t you read the brochure? Don’t make a scene or we’ll never get a copy of the plays! I hear they kick you out if you badmouth them!”

Another Drake hissed at her companion. She dragged him out of the way and gave Pawn a huge stare, but two things had changed the visitors’ reactions.

First was the documentary, which was on repeat in the Free Antinium’s Hive. Pawn had mixed feelings about Ksmvr, but he had prayed for him anyways.

The second was…well, the brochure. Which was offered to new cities, especially ones with the door. It was free, and it had a number of travel advisories.

Cost of using the magical door, times, rules on entering Pallass, Liscor’s own warnings and information. And, among them, two rules. One pertained to the Antinium, emphasizing their status as citizens. The second…

No killing Goblins.

Pawn didn’t know who had arranged for that. Olesm was fighting Liscor’s war, so he had to imagine it was Elirr or the Council. He didn’t know how they’d gotten past Lism. But perhaps it had been…Zevara.

He didn’t see the Watch Captain much these days. Not in person; she was always striding about, teaching the new recruits. A lot of her job was sorting out incidents with visitors.

And, oh, there were a lot. The Antinium passed through the main square, nicknamed Traveller’s Gate already. He heard another shout.

“The day-transport to Pallass is beginning! If you don’t have documentation, please, don’t line up! You’ll just be turned away. A reminder that you will have to pass an inspection and background check!”

That was a snappy, official-looking Gnoll. He was good at his job. He also wasn’t Liska; she’d been fired two days after the door had been moved. Mainly because she was lazy.

However, it was also because the door only opened to Pallass twice a day. No exceptions except diplomatic travel or emergencies. People wondered why—and other cities got the same treatment. It was faster to ride to Esthelm with a Skill than use the door, much to the discontent of regular travellers who had to plan around it.

But that was because of the stream of goods that came through the door. Pallass wanted to send something to Invrisil, or further north? It was an entire operation of organizing the goods coming in and out, holding them for later transit.

Plus, without its proximity to the inn, the door had to be regularly recharged. They had debated keeping it in the inn, but the inn was too small, it wasn’t right, and…no.

The [Guards] at the gates let Pawn and the pilgrims out without a word. He walked up towards the hill with a stream of other people. In fact—it looked like a new group was heading out into the wild green yonder.

That was to say, the Floodplains. Humans mostly, this time. [Farmers], no less. They looked a bit nervous, but they’d already established a base camp and were chatting.

“I reckon it’s Yellats.”

“For a first crop? It’s not worth spit!”

“But they’ll grow fast. Hear me out. Yellats first. But we put up some fast growing trees. Wood’s a premium. Buy some magical fertilizer. And we have an entire grove of Amentus trees. That’s long-term. Short-term? Anything on the list. ‘Scuse me, sir.”

The [Farmer] nodded at Pawn and walked wide of him. But she was leading a group out towards the Floodplains. It wasn’t as dicey as it used to be, but they’d hired a Bronze-rank team for the job, and they were on the lookout for Rock Crabs. Not as many Shield Spiders; now it was cleared up, more [Farmers] had begun heading this way.

Liscor had changed. Pawn looked back and saw Gnolls and Drakes playing baseball in the pitch just outside the wall. But more than that, the new quarter was rising ever higher. The temporary dirt walls? Turned to stone in many places.

Hexel was constantly redesigning the city, and the new quarter already was being called ‘Human Liscor’ because of how many Humans had moved to the cheap buildings. There were…conflicts. Ironically, they took some of the heat off Antinium.

Pawn walked up the hill. A Gnoll sweeping out the front turned to look at him. He raised a paw, and Pawn waved back.

“Moore must have left with Ulinde and Jelaqua for Pallass.”

That was all Seborn said, as the Workers and Soldiers stopped there, to look at the inn and tower and…take it all in. Pawn nodded.

“Do you see anything, Seborn?”

The Drowned Man put his hands on his pockets.

“No. Not yet.”

“Then perhaps you are looking for something else. If you wish to watch…we are going to visit her.”

Seborn hesitated. Then nodded. He followed Pawn inside. On the way, they met two people, the last few people who stayed at the inn, coming out.

——

“Are you drunk?”

“No…”

“Get ahold of yourself, Montressa.”

The [Aegiscaster] stumbled after Bezale. She was vaguely aware of the Antinium walking past her.

“I’m not drunk. I’m hungover.”

“Wonderful.”

The Minotauress grunted. But she didn’t lambast Montressa that long. She understood, she really did. And yet…

“We’re a duo, Montressa. Bezale and Montressa. Secrets, services—not Bezale and this Human who our clients have never seen, only heard me speak of.”

Montressa du Valeross hung her head.

“You should kick me out of the partnership. I deserve it.”

“And watch you fall deeper into your cups? Come on. Shores of Mawei! Do I have to buy you a robe that cleans itself?”

“Hey. I’m not Pisces.”

Montressa brushed at her robes guiltily. But it was true. She was a wreck and she’d fallen further. Bezale? Bezale was doing great. The Scriptels had forgiven her, and she was their representative in Invrisil. But Montressa wasn’t part of Wistram.

She was making money. Their business was going well—all thanks to Bezale. Montressa drank her profits. And unlike Ceria and Pisces, she hadn’t bounced back.

No, it had taken them years. Her family wanted her home, especially in light of the war, and they wanted explanations. Montressa didn’t want to go. She was still trying to communicate with Ceria, but the half-Elf had fallen off the radar. She was watching the Ksmvr documentaries, trying to get word of Pisces, pleading with Nerrhavia’s stubborn judicial system from afar—

And mostly being useless. Every day was the same. Bezale dragged her out of bed and Montressa said the same thing.

“I’m going to get out of this, Bezale. I’m going to start learning magic again. By myself. I still have spellbooks. I’ll…I’ll do that. I’ll make a career here.”

By the end of the day, or week, she was saying the exact same thing again after Ishkr found her face-down in a corner of the inn.

Not all of Liscor had changed for the better. Bezale was dragging Montressa forwards.

“Hurry. Or we’ll completely miss the Invrisil gateway. And we cannot miss this appointment!”

She strode ahead of Montressa. The [Aegiscaster] felt distinctly nauseous and felt around for a hangover cure.

“One second. I’m right behind you.”

Bezale was already lining up, but Montressa had to swig the terrible-tasting stuff. She wiped at her mouth, caught sight of herself in the mirror of a shop window. Definitely gaining weight. Despite being a [Mage], constantly trying to eat and/or drown her sorrows didn’t help.

Something in the corner of the jewelry shop’s window caught her eye. Montressa read the little piece of paper and almost smiled.

“Courtesy of Silveran’s Cleaners. Inquire with the Free Antinium’s representatives or Cleaner’s Guild for services.”

Silveran did it. The mad-ant had actually gotten Guild membership, mainly because he was threatening to put them out of work.

“This city. When the Horns get back…when they get back, are they going to recognize it, Bezale? Bezale?”

Montressa looked over and saw the line for the door. Guiltily, she hurried forwards. It was just—Liscor was changing. It had grown used to such a fast pace that innovations were sweeping through it. It was at the flashpoint.

A Human boy on a skateboard was trying to do tricks with some Drakes. They weren’t all calling each other scalebags and fleshbags. Although it had…no. It wasn’t nearly as bad as a monster attack, and say what you would, but it was quieter now.

Even during a war with Hectval, there were less random events and attacks. They’d had one major monster incident.

And by ‘incident’, it was just that some Metalbite slimes had infested Liscor. Even gone on a ‘rampage’. They’d been wiped out in three days and the sewers re-cleaned.

New arrivals in Liscor were amazed by how sanguine the Liscorians were. No—it was even a kind of in-joke. A band of Stitch-Folk had rolled in one time via Invrisil, and been put out that no one asked them anything.

“Excuse me, you know I’m String-Folk?”

“Yeah, sure, buddy. You want somewhere to stay, directions, or what?”

Same when high-level individuals hit Liscor. They didn’t often get a lot of attention purely based on levels. Let’s say you were a Gold-rank come to explore Liscor’s dungeons.

A semi-famous [Merchant] attempting to make a huge profit on this new circuit.

A mysterious young woman with a crystal hand and a map, on the lam from [Bounty Hunters].

You came into Liscor and expected someone to ask questions. They did ask questions.

“You new here? Try the ice cream. Players of Liscor are putting on a show tonight. Don’t bother with Invrisil; they’re pricey and we’re just as good.”

It was so strange. Visitors didn’t understand it at first. It was not that Liscorians were blind to something interesting or exciting. It was just that it wasn’t their first time seeing something amazing. Or even tenth.

And no one would say why. Why they were used to the Antinium, why there were sports and all these new ideas and things coming here. Why the brochure had that funny line.

No one would tell you. It was like a secret test to be a true Liscorian. You had to know what to ask. And it was this:

What’s up with The Wandering Inn?

Or, perhaps, ‘Why is it empty?’ ‘What happened?’

And finally…

Who is Erin Solstice?

Of course, if you understood it all, you’d know of one of the local legends of Liscor already. And you would ask it right.

“Who was Erin Solstice?”

Montressa heard that question in the air. Then a voice, as she hurried towards the plaza and the portal door. The voice was so familiar she turned.

“Say that again. Say it again. Was? Was?”

Someone had taken umbrage to the question and was shaking the person who’d asked. A Drake was trying to un-pry the claws around the terrified asker’s collar.

“Menolit. Menolit, calm down. They don’t know.”

Menolit? Now who was that…? Montressa saw the [Veteran] with a missing tail and recalled him. But not this Drake.

Menolit? He stood, scarred, bearing wounds from Liscor’s army, which he had been honorably discharged from. But rather than the down-on-his luck guest that often visited Erin’s inn, she saw him wearing a combination of armor and suit.

As in, dress-suit. Something casual, but which had the motif of armor worked into it; chainmail combined with cloth. It had an adventurous flair of what looked like blood on one shoulder, but was actually just paint. And a symbol of Liscor on the other shoulder, but with a strange, stylized claw holding a sword as well.

Menolit was not alone. In fact, he’d been escorting a group of clearly foreign Drakes and Gnolls forwards. Even some Humans. The other people, including the Drake trying to calm Menolit down from throttling their customer, all wore the same kind of armor.

They also carried weapons. Indeed, Montressa recognized none other than Vuliel Drae, along with some [Hunters] who had joined this group.

No. This company. This organization.

Liscor Hunted. A new service in the city that was getting steady business. And if that sounded familiar, perhaps you’d heard of Pallass Hunting?

Funny story. The Pallass group that let civilians experience the thrill of the outdoors in a carefully contained environment was hugely popular. Once upon a time, an [Innkeeper] had remarked on how funny it was to her guests.

And a while later, he’d had an idea. Fighting a single Grass Slime in a curated environment? That wasn’t adventure. You wanted adventure? Go sneeze outside of Liscor’s walls and you’d have a Fortress Beaver trying to gnaw your leg off.

…Or would if they weren’t a protected species, having been ‘employed’ by Hexel to help with some construction. Also, a curious number were Selys’ roommates and guard…beavers.

But Menolit had somehow started Liscor Hunted, which let you go outside the walls and possibly die. They had a motto, ‘death is not guaranteed’.

That was actually a typo from back when Menolit first advertised it. He’d meant safety, or the opposite, but the motif had attracted some clients who thought they knew what was what.

They were wrong.

It had been a local broadcast, not an international news story, mainly because it was hugely embarrassing for the Drakes involved. Noass and Sir Relz had decided that if Drassi could do ‘on-the-scene’ reporting, well, so could they! They’d gone out to experience this quaint mimicry of Pallass Hunting, armed with expensive gear.

And run into a herd of Rock Crabs. Liscor Hunted still played the scene as part of their intro-video and promotion.

——

Noass reached for Sir Relz, who was halfway inside the cave. The clicking Rock Crabs were outside and a small one had his leg. Menolit and the two [Hunters] were shooting arrows, trying to drag him inside.

But the camera focused on Noass and Sir Relz. The Drake was panting to his friend and fellow [Commentator].

“Hold on, Relz!”

He was trying to drag the Drake inside as the Rock Crab slowly pulled him out. Sir Relz’s face was white. He spoke, desperately.

“Noass. I’m not going to make it. Take my monocle.”

——

…They’d made it. But the scene was so iconic, Menolit had leaned into the theme all the way. There were some rules Liscor Hunted employed:

-You were on your own. They had helpers, experienced adventurers, and fighters, but you still made the choices. Want to take on Shield Spider nests? Go ahead, but know your limits.

-You had to be Level 20 or higher in any class. Any class, but you could not sign up without that.

-Death was not guaranteed.

-Run if you see a crab.

The rules, the style, and the challenge meant that no end of people came to test themselves and prove they could do it.

All of it meant that Menolit was a successful businessdrake. He was pulled back from the Human who’d asked, angry. Montressa saw his expression, as he adjusted his gear and pointed the group forwards; they were hunting Razorbeaks. She lingered a second, then recalled.

“On no. Bezale! Bez—”

She ran forwards just in time to see the door close. She’d let her friend down.

Again.

——

Bezale walked through Invrisil. Stormed, rather. She knew Montressa was suffering. Even so…

The Minotauress hadn’t been able to step out of line. Montressa had been lost in her own world, and so Bezale went to her first appointment alone. Which, to be fair, was what their clients expected.

Today, her first call was actually on behalf of Wistram so it might be as well that Montressa had missed it. Small silver linings. And it was an irony, because Bezale was trying to talk the [Mayor] into allocating land, even buying into this.

“…I understand that Lady Reinhart’s approval is not needed. I have led this city for quite some time, Mage Bezale. It’s just that I don’t see the point.”

The Minotauress smiled as politely as she could.

“But the Adventure Rooms will be a huge draw, sir. If you would like to put coin into it—we just need a single warehouse’s space.”

“Guaranteed housing. Wistram—I have a lot of respect for Wistram, you know—but I’ve been speaking to…no, I should say it’s just that Wistram wants guaranteed housing. From the city. Why don’t they just buy it? It’s preferential treatment.”

The [Mayor] was friendly, intelligent, and Bezale was working uphill because he was right.

“Wistram has customarily made such requests, for the fine services it provides.”

She reminded him. The [Mayor] smiled politely.

“Yes, but…must they? And the city to help cover the costs in exchange for a small amount of the profits? I don’t really think it’s germane to negotiate over something as small as this—even if it becomes a success.”

“Ah, then—”

“…Can’t Wistram cover the costs themselves?”

Bezale stopped. It was interesting. You had Liscor to thank for all these innovations. But she could not help but suspect the [Mayor] had been talking to a certain Drake.

Named Lism. And his bearishness on giving Wistram exclusive rights to setting up their Adventure Room project was due to this.

Bezale had heard it was a problem across other big cities where the initiative—backed by Ullsinoi, of all factions—was rolling out. Wistram’s reputation had…suffered…of late.

Most of all here. The [Mayor] regarded the plans for a way to have the greatest adventures in total safety.

“It’s a wonderful idea. Magical—I do think the cost is a bit too high. But I think it could work.”

“Then…?”

He gave her an apologetic smile.

“It’s just, Mage Bezale, forgive me for saying so, but it sounds like Pallass Hunting. A delightful experience, but you know, Liscor Hunted is already offering its services. And I’ve gone through one trip and I must say, nothing gets the heart pounding like that.”

——

An entire hour, wasted. Bezale did her best, and simply sent off a [Message] to Wistram. If you wanted space and to build the thing, pay for it yourself. At least Ullsinoi would remember she’d tried.

“Next…bicycles. We have to ramp up production. Pelt can do it. But Hedault?”

They were sending the first shipments out at last. It had taken some doing to convince the impatient buyers that building a complex mechanical instrument took time. Pelt could manufacture the ‘cheap’ bicycles fairly fast, and some other [Smiths] had even created far less perfect versions.

However, the ones that Kevin had pioneered—and Ryoka herself—required a master [Enchanter]’s skill. Or, failing that, a number of apprentices.

Hedault was alone in that regard. You couldn’t get apprentices as fast as Pelt, and to be frank, Hedault was as tricky as Pelt in that regard. He had no desire for apprentices, but either he did the enchanting full-time or they’d have to outsource.

Dead gods, maybe they could make Montressa do some of the basic protective spells? It would give her work if she could stick to a quota.

Bezale was going to chat with him. She hurried because she knew the [Enchanter] hated people being late. But when she knocked on his door—or rather, used the enchanted gemstone to announce herself—he did not immediately answer.

That wasn’t like Hedault at all. Bezale tried again.

“Master Hedault? I’m here for my appointment. 11:00 sharp. Did you send me a rescheduling note? I didn’t get it…”

She put her hand on the door and it swung open. Bezale’s instincts sharpened as she heard a loud, angry voice from within.

Hedault. She made a fist, prepared her spell scrolls. She surged towards his workshop and living space.

“Stay back! You are not welcome—”

Bezale exploded into his workshop, fist raised. She saw the [Enchanter], aiming his wand at someone who had…

….a bag of gold in one hand…and was waving it at him.

“I can prepare gemstones. Please sell the wand to me. Also, do you have any other artifacts of interesting qualities? I will offer you fifty thousand gold pieces. No? Sixty.”

Valeterisa, Archmage of Izril, had backed Hedault into a corner. She plucked for the wand with one hand as Hedault backed up, a look of pure frustration on his face.

“Please let me inspect it. I will compensate you for the time.”

“Master Hedault? Is th—”

Bezale stared at the powerful [Mage], then realized who she had to be. Her eyes went wide. Hedault turned.

“Mage Bezale. Please eject this Archmage. She comes from your academy. Archmage Valeterisa, I will call the Watch!”

Valeterisa turned. She peered at Bezale.

“Hm. Minotaur. Female. You must be Bezale, contact of…[Recall Memories]. Scriptels. Note on record about loyalty. Mage Montressa. Hello.”

Then she turned back to Hedault.

“I would like to inspect it.”

“I recall you from last time! You disassembled an artifact meant for a Gold-rank adventurer!”

Hedault covered the wand with one hand. Valeterisa blinked.

“I offered compensation at market value. Perhaps you will take other artifacts? I have a teleportation spell…or we can come to…other arrangements?”

She struck what Bezale thought might be a seductive pose. Hedault stared at her. Valeterisa blinked at his expression.

“Ah. I’m not young. Alas. I need to amend that persuasion tactic. Note to self…illusions or don’t…”

She began muttering. Bezale looked at Hedault. The [Enchanter] gave her an exasperated look. Valeterisa peered at Bezale.

“Hm. Come to think of it. If I cannot sequester the wand, I might as well continue on my way. Next location…Liscor. Liscor? That’s four hundred miles…oh. Magic door…make teleportation network…Erin Solstice. Who? Aha. Communicate with Eldavin. Interesting.”

With that, she strode past Bezale. The Minotauress was so startled she went after Valeterisa.

“Begging your pardon, Archmage Valeterisa. Did you say—it is an honor to meet you.”

Valeterisa was walking under some kind of a speed spell, but her head snapped around as Bezale jogged to keep up. She looked blankly at the Minotauress. Then a huge, fake smile appeared on her face.

“Oh, a fellow student? How do you do. I am Archmage Valeterisa! It is a delight to see young people interested in magic. I am a bit busy, but please contact the Mage’s Guild; Wistram always needs new talent.”

“What? No, Archmage…”

Valeterisa’s ‘meet and greet’ routine ended and the Archmage lifted a hand.

“I am sure you are quite a capable [Mage], Miss Bezale, but I am already behind schedule.”

“You are banned from my premises!”

Hedault shouted after her. Valeterisa ignored that. She was making a beeline for the door.

“I will entertain any requests, favors, bribes, or offers. Please send me a [Message] spell. I have a backlog, but I should get to you within the week.”

She was as…insane as Bezale had heard. The Minotauress struggled to keep up.

“If you want to go to Liscor, Archmage—did you say you were looking into an Erin Solstice?”

“Yes. I don’t believe she can be cured, but I will assess her and make notes. I also have a number of others to meet…oh! A Mage Montressa? At the same inn. Good, good. Excuse me, I would like to purchase travel to Liscor.”

Valeterisa came to a stop at the door on this side, which had closed for the duration and was waiting for a shipment of goods. The tired person at the door pointed to the queue.

“You’ll have to wait. There’s restaurants and places to rest. No exceptions.”

Valeterisa blinked. She peered at the door.

“I would like to go to Liscor, now, please. I understand this door can be opened upon request?”

“Only for [Diplomats] and emergencies. There’s a transit this evening. In almost exactly five hours. Please…”

The tired man rolled his eyes. He had to field questions like this constantly. They needed…a bulletin board or something. No, an announcer, like one of those speaking crystals to shout it every five minutes. In fact, this plaza was a bad space since you couldn’t herd these idiots and the goods. They needed a building of their own. Yes, that would do it…

His imagination of a better system cut off as Archmage Valeterisa lifted a finger. She enunciated carefully and loudly.

“I. Would like. To go to Liscor.”

The attendant lost his patience and looked around for some of the people who’d taken notice of the argument and were strolling over.

“Miss, if you don’t step back, I will ask the [Guards] to—”

Valeterisas spoke over him.

“I am Archmage Valeterisa of Wistram. I would like to go to Liscor. On behalf of Wistram. It is an emergency. [Message]. Archmage Valeterisa to Wistram. Please declare an emergency if I am still an Archmage…”

The [Attendant] and Bezale stared at Valeterisa. She stood there, taking all questions and ignoring them. She sent [Messages] to Wistram, Liscor, and waited.

The door opened in five minutes. Bezale choked and Valeterisa smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Wait—”

Valeterisa walked through before Bezale could stop her. The [Spellscribe] sent a hurried [Message] to Montressa. But since she had no idea how to send an all-encompassing explanation of what was headed her way, she simply wrote:

Watch out.

——

“I can’t stay long.”

“I know that. I hope you’ll be safe.”

“Thank you. I—I can only stay a day, really. So I want to make it memorable. It’s, um, a bit embarrassing.”

She blushed shyly. Because she meant one thing. Jelaqua had put on her best body, and she was fiddling with a lock of her styled hair.

Maughin, the Armorer of Pallass, sat in his private apartment. Jelaqua let her robe slip lower around her shoulders. She breathed, savoring the feeling in the nerves not rotted away.

“So…Maughin?”

“Yes?”

“I was thinking. We could do something really adventurous. Anything you want.”

“I see.”

The Dullahan’s face never changed. Jelaqua let the robes slip even lower. She whispered.

“And Maughin? Before I go after Mrsha, and risk my life? It’s been a long journey south and they’re still fighting over the Helm of Fire. But I never stopped thinking of you. And I would love to have something to remind you by. I even have a new Skill. So I would love for you to ask me to do anything, and I will. And then you can turn away from that piece of metal which you seem to care about more than me!”

She tore off her robes and stomped on them. Maughin jumped, and turned his head guiltily away from the Adamantium ingot. His body had been facing her, but he swiveled his head around just in time to see Jelaqua burst into tears.

“It’s over. I knew it was too good to be true!”

Faint green ran from her eyes and nose. Maughin reached out.

“What? Jelaqua, what do you mean? I just—look.”

He tried to show it to her. A tiny sliver of metal lay next to the block.

“It’s taken me two months, but I’ve not only figured out how to manipulate it, I think I’ve finally figured out how to heat it like Master Pelt. I’m inspecting the unique grain, you see; I managed to cut it yesterday. Well, not cut, but—”

“You care about a piece of metal more than me! Well, fine! She can be your partner!”

Jelaqua pointed at the block of metal. Maughin’s head slowly swung back and forth.

“Jelaqua, that is a block of Adamantium. It’s not you. I’m sorry, it’s just that Pelt gave it to me as a challenge. It’s a sign of deep respect. The challenge of my career.”

“Oh, fine then! Go marry the block of Adamantium and Pelt!”

Maughin’s mouth opened, but Jelaqua went on.

“I’ve been on the road, and fighting with idiots to make sure they don’t sell the Helm of Fire out from under the Horns! I nearly died at the Village of the Dead and I was waiting to meet you and you can’t even look at me!”

The Dullahan tried to apologize. Jelaqua refused to be consoled until he began to rectify his mistakes. And only then, after he quickly booked a restaurant, made arrangements, professed his deepest mistake—

And put a cloth over that damned block of metal.

——

Something was in the air. A familiar feeling. Pawn saw it ripple through Liscor on his way back. Someone had just arrived that made even the citizens look up and say, ‘what now?’

It was a feeling. A familiar feeling of excitement, confusion, and apprehension in the air. But perhaps it was a sign.

These days will come again. And the harbinger of them walked through Liscor’s door. What was the first thing she did? It was something that lived up to expectations.

To that name.

In Liscor, there was no embassy of the Antinium. Their representatives could be found in Yellow Splatters of the Watch, or Pawn, or a number of other people.

But, strangely, one of the voices of the Antinium, who actually fielded requests to talk with Silveran, this or that, had a shop next to the fairly empty street where the entrance to the Hive was. He got good foot traffic on top of the people who sought him out. Mainly because he was the only Antinium with a regular presence.

Also, you could not beat those prices. Although, as the sign said…

May contain insects.

You were gambling with every bite. But the food looked very good. Loaves of bread even Antinium could consume, pies, even a cake. Yet, as anyone who had ever eaten from Garry’s unmarked foods would attest, you could find a crunch in your slice of cake and discover a leg in your teeth.

The worst part was if it tasted good. Garry had a clientele, from people who told him they could not afford food at other prices, to people who had begun to develop curious tastes. He wondered what the stir was about.

Then he sensed a command from the Queen, a mobilization order. She was alarmed. But why? Garry wondered if he should go inside the Hive, but he had just put a pie out labeled ‘free samples’.

…Where was it? Garry peered at his counter. He had just put it out, piping hot, steam rising from it. Lovely berries and, uh, other things. Normally the smell attracted some people who stopped when they saw the sign.

“Excuse me.”

A voice spoke from somewhere odd. Garry hesitated. He looked around, but no one was in front of his stall that opened out of the window of the shop he rented. Some people were lined up, but they were all…frozen in the street.

“You are Antinium. I would like to speak to the Centenium known as Xrn, the Small Queen. I am Archmage Valeterisa of Wistram. I come in peace. Unless we are at war.”

The voice was coming from…Garry leaned out of his stall. Then he walked out of his shop’s door and looked up, past the awning.

Archmage Valeterisa of Wistram hung in the air. Flying. A quad-layered barrier of magic hung around her. And—coincidentally, Garry and the other passersby emptying the street couldn’t help but notice this—a giant orb of darkness, and what looked like burning fireballs suspended in the air.

“Oh.”

The [Chef] stared up at enough firepower to waste everything in a five block radius. His antennae wilted. But then—he couldn’t help but notice one more detail.

“Do not be alarmed. I have simply taken precautions against any offensive action. Please summon the Small Queen. I come in peace.”

Soldiers were streaming out of the Hive, taking one look at the flying Archmage with spells, and reconsidering the validity of their tactics. However, Garry, despite the distinct threat of death, was not quite afraid. He couldn’t be. Because…

Valeterisa spoke, watching the Antinium take up possibly hostile positions. She wondered if she should bind another spell for quick activation. She decided to repeat herself.

“I come in peace. Please do not be alarmed.”

As she addressed Garry, she took another bite of the pie. She noticed the Antinium staring at her.

“That is my pie.”

Valeterisa blinked at him.

“It was marked as ‘free’, was it not?”

“…Yes.”

The Archmage peered at Garry. At the pie. She hovered left a bit. Checked his store and the sign.

Garry’s Bakery.

She stared at something, then swivelled to Garry.

“Does this contain bugs?”

Valeterisa pointed at the pie. Garry hesitated.

“Yes.”

Valeterisa looked at the pie.

“I see.”

She kept eating. Sustenance for the day had been achieved. Sadly, though, Xrn refused to meet her. So she floated off. Alas, it seemed like Archmage Feor would have to employ other means. She had been as diplomatic as possible under the circumstances, but the Antinium simply weren’t open to that sort of thing.

Now, where to next? Valeterisa absently floated past an angry Drake [Councilmember] shouting at her to come down. The Captain of the Watch stared at a nightmare worse than the [Innkeeper] of stories herself. Archmage Valeterisa quite liked the pie. Maybe it was a suitable birthday gift? No, wait. Ten years…so a thousand pies?

But she didn’t know if she could recommend crickets to Ieka.

——

Montressa du Valeross saw her coming. She saw her coming, then going, as she flew past her. Overhead.

She could fly! Maybe it was [Levitation], not [Flight], but even so—there went an old Wistram legend. An Archmage. She flew through Liscor, ignored the law, nearly blew a hole in the city with what had to be at least a Tier 5 spell…then flew off.

“Old school Wistram.”

Montressa stared at Valeterisa with awe. That was like the Archmages who went anywhere they pleased. Got what they wanted. Put a door in their way? That was what [Acid Wave] was for.

Of course, she was making Wistram look bad—but where was she headed now? She flew straight for…Montressa heard murmurs.

The Wandering Inn. Montressa stared. Then she saw Valeterisa circling the inn as Antinium burst out of hiding places, aiming bows up at her. But she didn’t attack, and she had cancelled the other spells. Instead, she seemed to be searching for something.

And indeed, after only a few seconds, she stopped by a window, and, it seemed, unlatched it from the outside. She flew in through the window.

Well, in point of fact, she smacked into it, and then had to re-angle herself so she flew in horizontally, head-first. At this point Montressa began choking—then burst into a stumbling run.

Mainly because that was her window.

——

Montressa raced past Ishkr as she heard a voice floating down from upstairs.

“Hm. No. No. No. Ah, I am running out of clothing. Can I purchase this?”

“Where is she…?”

The Gnoll just pointed a finger. She arrived, panting, breathless, just in time to see Valeterisa stuffing her undergarments into her bag of holding. Montressa’s—

“Archmage Valeterisa!”

Her room was a mess! The Archmage had opened every cupboard, drawer, and the closet, and half of Montressa’s possessions, including empty bottles of wine rolled under the bed, were floating around as she sorted through them. Montressa’s awe was turning into fury, but then Valeterisa finally found what she was looking for.

“There it is. A prototype, just as promised. Oh, how interesting. Destroyed, but someone’s attempted to repair it. Nailiuaile did not mention that. However, I can attempt to repair it and see…excellent. Excellent.”

She floated over, and plucked the Shock Orb from behind Montressa’s dresser. The ruined orb of brass had indeed been destroyed, but it had been repaired as best as Montressa could; she even had a note appended to replace the liquid inside, and some still remained, sloshing about.

The Archmage of Izril’s eyes were alight with curiosity. She floated past Montressa, into the hallway.

“Hello. You must be Mage Montressa. I have left recompense for the objects. Thank you for the orb—I am taking it. Archmage Nailihuaile informed me I could. Goodbye. Excuse me, sir. Do you know where I can find an ‘Erin Solstice’…?”

She walked past Montressa without a second look. The [Aegiscaster] was lost for words. It was like Valeterisa was walking past furniture. Or people who just existed to get in her way.

“Erin Solstice is unavailable, Miss…?”

Ishkr saw Valeterisa frown.

“She’s dead. Or in stasis. Yes, I have been briefed. Please direct me to her. I am on the business of Grand Magus Eldavin. Or is he Archmage now?”

“Archmage Valeterisa. I hugely admire your magic. That’s my—property. I don’t know what Archmage Nailihuaile told you, but…”

Montressa hovered there, afraid to touch the older woman. Ishkr crossed his arms, frowning.

“Grand Magus Eldavin…?”

“Yes. I may be able to resuscitate her. Failing that, I would like to inspect her body.”

Ishkr gave Montressa a pointed glance. The young woman saw him clear his throat.

“Perhaps, Archmage Valeterisa, you could ask Mage Montressa for guidance?”

“…Does she have any salient information?”

Valeterisa slowly swung around and seemed to take Montressa in for the first time. She peered at Montressa.

“Ah, yes. The [Aegiscaster]. Formerly Revivalists. My note says ‘rub it in’ per request of Nailihuaile.”

Montressa flinched. The Archmage had actually…?

“Yes, Archmage Valeterisa. I can, um, direct you to Erin Solstice. And she’s in a special zone. An Inheritance Skill, you see. But can we talk about the Shock Orb?”

Valeterisa looked at Montressa, impatiently.

“If you would like to direct me to Erin Solstice, [Mage] Montressa, I would be grateful. However, I have been gifted the Shock Orb. Archmage Nailihuaile did point out it was created by her and therefore property of Wistram. You have been loaned it; that is the end of the discussion. Thank you.”

“But it’s all I have left. They kicked me out of Wistram. You can’t just walk in and…”

Montressa’s voice broke. Valeterisa took one look at her wet eyes and sighed.

“I believe this will take too much time. Excuse me, Mister Gnoll. Please direct me to this garden.”

She turned away. Montressa followed her as Ishkr gave Valeterisa a long look, then directed her downstairs.

“I’m sorry. It’s just—c-could you perhaps induct me back into Wistram? The situation was—I’m a [Mage] of Wistram. I gave my entire life to the Academy. I’m a secret broker. I could offer you…”

Valeterisa glanced back at the ‘secret broker’ comment. She frowned.

“Intriguing. But if I weigh the costs to benefits—I cannot imagine you could offer me something worth more than Archmage Nailihuaile’s personal ire. If you can, please correct me. She is a rather personal being, however.”

Montressa couldn’t imagine she did have anything, besides knowledge of Earth, and…she knew Valeterisa was right.

The purest quill of logic. Uncaring, just like the stories said. She floated after Ishkr as he pointed to a door that had hither-to not been there before, and a warm light beyond.

“Fascinating. An inheritance Skill. But there’s no…magical residue I can sense. Inside is another matter, but the manifestation is purely Skill-based. Alas.”

Valeterisa’s eyes lit up, but after a few seconds of casting identification spells, she lost interest because this was not a magical phenomenon. She floated forwards, into the [Garden of Sanctuary].

“Valeterisa to Eldavin. I have arrived at the inn and am insp—whub.”

The last part was cut off because she ran face-first into the invisible barrier. Valeterisa recoiled, looking mildly shocked. Montressa stopped, and saw Ishkr, unflappable Ishkr, who hadn’t blinked more than four times to see the Archmage of Izril drop by…

Smile.

Valeterisa ran her hands over the invisible barrier in the air.

“I have been obstructed. By a Skill? Excuse me, Mister Gnoll. Do you know what is wrong?”

“I believe you have not been invited in, Miss.”

“Ah. Then how would I obtain an invitation?”

Ishkr coughed.

“You would need to speak to the owner of the Skill, Miss Erin Solstice.”

Valeterisa nodded, eyes a bit blank as her hands and magic explored the obstruction.

“I see. Then may I meet with…ah.”

She stared at the garden’s door. Montressa saw the Archmage float back and put a finger to her head.

“Grand Magus, I have a small problem. I will contact you once I find a solution. Hm.”

She lowered herself to the floor, then began to walk back and forth. Montressa saw, in a flash, magical symbols appear. Valeterisa reached into her pouch, produced a rock, and stared at it. It vanished, popping out of existence…and appeared right in front of the door, landing with a thump.

“Teleportation failure. [Dispel Magic] failure, of course. Can you portal in? Do I know a portal spell? Let’s see. Shadow walking, beacon-based porting, intangibility? I see an opening in the area beyond. Intriguing, but if it is dimensional…I would have to search for it. A barrier exists. I wonder how strong it is? [Bind Spell]. [Tier Ascendant: Localized Earthquake].”

“Archmage, it’s the [Garden of Sanctuary]. You can’t just—no, no, no!”

Montressa panicked as the Archmage’s eyes began to glow. She was really doing it! Not [Acid Wave], but—she tried to grab Valeterisa, but her hands struck another invisible barrier. Montressa saw Valeterisa focus on the door…

And then Ishkr walked in front of her. She stopped, hand raised.

“Excuse me. I am attempting to enter this area. Please step back. This is probably dangerous.”

The Gnoll [Head Server] glanced at her. He calmly held out a paw. And when he spoke, his words reached even Valeterisa. Mainly because he was using a [Thought-Provoking Statement]. A Skill for legends…or people working at Erin’s inn. You would not believe how useful it was.

“Archmage Valeterisa, this is private property. Moreover, I would advise you not to do something you would regret.”

The Archmage focused on his calm, polite words. She frowned. She looked at Montressa blankly—then saw a figure standing behind her.

Well, figures. Pawn had his hands clasped together, all four, and Seborn was staring at Valeterisa in a way only the Drowned Man could. Antinium were filing out of the basement, hallway, and some were staring through the windows.

“Ah. This would be unacceptable?”

“Unacceptable.”

Valeterisa’s mouth moved silently and then she lifted a finger.

“…Could I pay a fine?”

“No.”

“Would Wistram be able to compensate the damages?”

“I believe not. It would be a hugely significant issue for Wistram, Archmage Valeterisa.”

The woman frowned, looked at Ishkr, then sighed and lowered her hand.

“Hm. Well, damn.”

She kicked at the opening to the garden, looking genuinely frustrated. She glanced around and her eyes narrowed.

“Interesting. Higher levels than I would have anticipated among Antinium based on records. And…”

Her head swivelled around and she focused on Pawn.

“The leader has…three levels in [Carpenter]. [Tactician]…odd. Very low.”

She stared at Pawn. Her brows crossed. Valeterisa eyed Seborn, then looked around. Another smile appeared on her face.

“I am so sorry, I appear to have caused a misunderstanding or incident. Please accept my sincere apologies, and this, for the inconvenience.”

She reached into her money pouch, put five gold coins into Ishkr’s surprised paw, and headed for the door. Montressa saw the Archmage walk past one of the Antinium Soldiers.

“Excuse me. Pardon me.”

Montressa almost admired it. The same thing people might hate—the sheer nerve of the woman, who went through every social protocol and barrier, physical or otherwise, because she didn’t care and didn’t have time to waste.

And yet—Montressa ran after her as Ishkr offered Pawn a complimentary drink, which Seborn accepted for him.

“Archmage Valeterisa. Please. I know I can’t—legally—but please, let me have my Shock Orb. Or—or consider Wistram. I need it.”

The woman ignored her. Montressa reached for her shoulder, casting a spell.

[Barrier Breach]—and it actually worked. Or at least, it passed the first barrier. Montressa was an expert in her field, but even she was shocked. Until she felt a paper-thin barrier around Valeterisa’s shoulder.

“Please do not interfere with me, Mage Montressa. I will retaliate with offensive casting.”

Valeterisa kept walking. Montressa grabbed her shoulder—and was yanked off her feet. She tried to pull the academic back, but Valeterisa was like a moving woman of iron. She dragged Montressa halfway down the hill, muttering about ‘trying Xrn again’ before her meeting.

She ignored Montressa. The [Aegiscaster] tried everything. Begging, pleading, mild threats, cajoling—Valeterisa paid her no mind. Nothing Montressa had mattered. She was aware of the girl pleading for the Shock Orb, for readmittance to Wistram.

She even tried to hold the Archmage in place with a quintuple barrier. Valeterisa stared at it forming.

“Interesting. I can benchmark a Wistram graduate in the barrier field…unleash.”

The [Localized Earthquake] blasted a hole straight up as the air shook. The angry Watch, Councilmember, and even 4th Company of Liscor’s army, all halted as Valeterisa looked at the shattered barrier.

“Hm. Well, that was expected. It didn’t fully strengthen and I was casting from within. Well done. Acceptable magic.”

And with that, she began to float away. Montressa grabbed her legs and Valeterisa sighed. She vaguely tried to kick the young woman off, because dropping her from extreme altitude probably meant her death. She was sobbing, begging for a second chance…and Valeterisa really didn’t care.

She was just about to cast [Paralysis] when something the young woman said caught the fleeting thought process attached to listening to her. Valeterisa stopped her kicking process, and listened.

“Please. Just let me keep it. It’s all I have left. My friends, my academy—it’s all I have. Magic.”

It was, of course, a nonsensical statement, and Bezale, storming up the hill, would have kicked Montressa into the well if she heard it. Montressa didn’t have nothing left besides magic.

But perhaps that was how she saw it. They kicked her out of the academy, which she had given everything for. She didn’t have a vendetta anymore, against Pisces. She had Bezale, but…

“All I have left is magic.”

Montressa waited to be kicked onto the ground, or hit with a spell. But neither thing happened. Instead…her feet touched the ground. Valeterisa slowly drifted downwards. Montressa looked up through blurry eyes, and wiped at them. The Archmage of Izril gave her a long, strange look. She met Montressa’s eyes, for the first time, and replied, in a distinct, not-distant voice.

“That is all you need.”

The [Aegiscaster] saw the woman look down at her, eyes alight, perhaps with emotion. Irritation? Understanding?

“That is what makes us [Mages]. Do not look at losing the rest as despair. Be grateful. Throw yourself deeper into the heart of magic, student. Never look back.”

Her eyes flickered. She regarded Montressa’s open mouth, and sighed.

“This is why I do not give inspirational advice.”

She turned away to float off. Montressa looked at the older woman’s back. And she understood why people did not follow her, for all she had reached her vaunted position by talent alone. That was a terrifying statement.

That was the Archmage of Izril. It was incredibly lonely and strange and…it reminded Montressa of something. Someone.

For a second, she did recall another [Mage] like that. Almost as strange, just as rude—no, even more. And back in those old halcyon days…

“Archmage Valeterisa!”

The Archmage did turn. She sighed, but she had seemingly decided to pay attention to Montressa. The [Aegiscaster] scrambled forwards, wiping at her face, following a sudden, crazy idea.

Following a half-Elf in her memories, just like she used to. She had no giant bag of salt looted from the kitchens, but…

“Archmage.”

“Yes?”

“Do you…would you have any use for an, um—an apprentice?”

Bezale, charging towards her friend, nearly tripped. She stopped as Archmage Valeterisa focused on Montressa. The young woman spoke, rapidly.

“I’m expelled from Wistram. But if you taught me magic—”

Valeterisa frowned.

“I do not take apprentices. I did—but apprentices require too much energy. They’re a net loss. And they die, which causes problems. Vendettas with family, friends.”

Montressa gulped. She spoke rapidly, praying that Ishkr’s Skill was still in effect.

“Not me. I can do all kinds of useful things. Like…”

She glanced at Valeterisa’s bag of holding that had a bit of cloth hanging out of it.

“…buy you undergarments. And smooth things over. I bet you—to get to Liscor—you had to queue up to use the door, didn’t you? And you must get a lot of [Messages].”

Archmage Nailihuaile employed Beatrice full-time just to manage her affairs. Valeterisa considered that.

“This is true, but I am proficient at multitasking.”

She frowned deeper.

“…Which nearly cost me multiple decades of my life. You’re…what are you?”

“A Level 28 [Aegiscaster]. Full Wistram graduate, secret broker, um, with training in both runecraft, enchanting, and I took a course in divination magic.”

Montressa felt like she was back in Wistram, listing her classes. Valeterisa’s eyes flickered.

“[Aegiscaster]. You must have a decent spell selection to gain the class before Level 30. That’s a post-30 consolidation mark in terms of casting power. But if I employed you as an apprentice…I would have to feed you, pay you, deal with Nailihuaile—”

“I can do all of that. I did assist Archmage Nailihuaile.”

Montressa saw Valeterisa go hmm, silently. Bezale hurried over.

“Montressa, have you taken leave of your senses?”

“…Transport is the issue. I would have to dual-cast [Levitation], and I don’t know you. Valeterisa to Archmage Nailihuaile—no, wait. She’s not going to give you references.”

She was clearly devoting more mental energy to this moment, because she actually grew more animated, snapping her fingers, frowning, floating back and forth as if she were pacing. She looked at Montressa.

“I’m intrigued, but I am quite busy and this is not the moment to spend training an apprentice. I must decline, Mage Montressa. But I will review your offer after I return north.”

“But I…”

Montressa ran after Valeterisa as the Archmage floated downhill. She had to do it! She remembered how Ceria had done it. Literally de-icing a magical spell with salt. Being tested with Illphres—don’t jump and watch out for when you get pushed.

She had a chance, she knew. Because Valeterisa kept glancing over her shoulder, clearly not certain.

“It needs thought. I will consider your offer and…let’s put learning [Restoration] on hold. There. Plenty of thought to devote to the problem. However, I would rather take an apprentice with significant advantages, and you have qualities that may cause issues, Mage Montressa. An idea. What if I offered one of the Earthers an apprenticeship? Troy Atlas. And then I have access to a Lifesand Golem…”

Montressa feared Valeterisa’s new lines of thought. The Archmage was floating faster, lighting up with ideas. Valeterisa was excusing herself, promising to get back to Montressa later—

When she nearly floated into a line of spears. She stopped, looked down, and saw Liscor’s Watch aiming bows and spears up at her. A Watch Captain walked forwards and barked.

“Archmage Valeterisa, you are under arrest for violating the peace, threats of aggression, breaking and entering, and casting high-level magical spells of a hostile nature within city bounds without a permit!”

Valeterisa blinked. She saw the [Guards] apprehensively aiming their weapons at her, and then noticed someone on the walls activating Liscor’s wall spells. Not in a ‘we really want to do this’ kind of sense, but a ‘do I have your attention’ moment?

She frowned; a city actually taking her to task was new. But a young woman hurried forwards before Valeterisa could decide if she was just going to teleport out of there.

“Watch Captain! Watch Captain—Archmage Valeterisa is willing to pay all fines. And issue a written apology. In fact, she’s leaving now, which is preferable to processing any paperwork or trying to arrest her. I’ll handle it. Isn’t that right, Archmage?”

Valeterisa peered down at Montressa. Zevara glowered, but Montressa had her at ‘she’s leaving’. She looked suspiciously up at Archmage Valeterisa. Montressa turned her head, heart pounding in her chest. She saw Valeterisa eye her. Then, of all things?

Valeterisa chuckled.

The amusement surprised her more than anyone else. She floated down, as Zevara held her ground, sweating a bit.

“Archmage…Valeterisa. Is Mage Montressa your, ah, agent? Representative?”

Valeterisa peered at Montressa. She nodded, slightly.

“She is my apprentice, and authorized to speak for me. Provisionally.”

Montressa saw Bezale’s jaw open wide. But she had no time to celebrate. Valeterisa plucked at her shoulder and drew her aside as Zevara ordered the Watch back to the city. Lism was demanding a verbal apology and she’d have to explain how bad of an idea that was.

Valeterisa was looking at her.

“Provisional apprentice?”

“A test. Deal with that.”

Valeterisa waved her hand at Liscor as a whole. Then she eyed Montressa again.

“You were a secret broker. A capable manager? And you meant what you said? You will learn magic from me. That is all I want. Everything is to forward that goal. If you are my apprentice, you must have the same belief.”

“It’s all I have. Magic. Everything else changes but…I stopped learning at some point, in Wistram. I want to learn again, Archmage. I’ll prove myself, I promise.”

Valeterisa nodded slowly, searching Montressa. She almost smiled, then snapped her fingers.

“Very well. You are on trial. Firstly, after you deal with any fines or legalities—can you find me a geological spot with no active monsters, suitable for inscribing a rune four by four feet wide? Somewhere that will not be disturbed. Safe from…”

“Elements and travellers?”

Valeterisa gave her a gratified look.

“Yes. Locations every hundred miles, beginning here and heading south. Plot me a course on a map.”

“I can do that!”

Montressa grew excited, thanking Beatrice for making her take rune studies. Not a wasted course, no matter what her peers said! She was already thinking of where to direct Valeterisa when she realized—the woman was still speaking. And speaking faster.

“I require a birthday gift suitable for my niece. Ah, that’s Lady Ieka Imarris. Budget for ten years’ worth. I may also need you to send and write a missive. I will copy over a—no, you probably can’t mentally compartmentalize it. I will have the [Mage]’s Guild print every [Message] sent to me. Please reply, sort anything of value, and have it prepared. Finally, I am out of the following reagents and magical items…”

Montressa was fumbling for a piece of paper, but, to her relief, she saw Bezale, her great friend, her wonderful friend, writing like a Demon, as only a [Spellscribe] could, noting down the rapid-fire items. Valeterisa finished, and looked rather pleased.

“If you can handle that, it will be beneficial indeed. I will need time to set up the teleportation marker. And sleep.”

She sniffed her robes, frowned. She tapped her robes and a bunch of dirt fell off.

“[Cleanse]. And bathe. Direct me to a bathhouse, please. And suitable lodgings since I suppose I should take a day to let you familiarize yourself.”

“Y-yes, Archmage Valeterisa. I’ll get on it.”

Montressa’s head was spinning. But as she turned to go to Bezale—and celebrate and run around doing everything at once—Valeterisa stopped her.

“One final thing.”

Montressa turned. Valeterisa paused.

“Garry’s Bakery. Get me another pie from that shop. Ask for less bugs.”

[Apprentice Level 4!]

[Skill – Exhaustive Memory obtained!]

[Skill – Magical Tutelage (Grand Magus) obtained!]

——

Of Angels and Archmages. [Paragons] and Doombringers. Every Devil was a hero of his own story.

“I don’t care if some people call me a monster, you understand. I’m prepared for it. That’s what people in our position have to understand. You do what you have to do because it’s necessary.”

“Absolutely, Commander.”

The two sat together, in a spacious place to converse and drink some wine. There was an unparalleled view of the city outside.

Though he was technically far lower in class and rank, the other poured a drink for him. That was because he knew Peclir Im’s true status. The pourer went on.

“They’ll call us Demons, maybe. But I agreed the moment I heard the plan. It’s this moralizing that’s the crutch. You understand?”

“Perhaps. Can you elaborate, sir?”

Peclir received a thin smile.

“Come now, you get it. I’m told Foliana and Niers Astoragon were heroes. Of their generation. Dead gods, I’ll admit—I had a children’s book of them growing up. Forgotten Wing, the Named Rank team. But that’s not the Titan and Three-Color Stalker of now. The Forgotten Wing company is an entity. They have the boot on the neck of the future. That’s the conceit of these ‘Great Companies’. You become one, and you have interests. You suppress your enemies. Iron Vanguard, Howling Maelstrom, the Eyes of Baleros—they suffer small companies, but not enemies.”

“Very true.”

Peclir kept his face straight. He knew this person loved to pontificate, so he indulged him. After all…it was a huge request, but this wasn’t the asking part. This was just the delivery. So he could wait a few minutes, or even an hour if he had to.

He had waited for years, doing his part. So he sat, listening.

“Lizardfolk don’t see it. They’re so…they’re children. We’re the adults. That’s how it’s always been. Nagas…I remember when I wondered why they were so serious. Then I understood. Not that I lost my sense of humor, but it’s when you grow up. That’s what Nagas are about.”

He undulated back and forth. Peclir Im cleared his throat.

“Then you believe once the Forgotten Wing company is upstaged, it should not be replaced?”

That would be concerning, to put it mildly. He saw a long tail disappear as the first speaker swung around.

“…No. That’s the point. You see? It’s harsh. It is truly sad. But—Nagas. You look at it clearly. You need to prioritize the people that matter. Forgotten Wing is for Fraerlings, and a handful of Beastkin. I’m saying that everything is for us.”

He meant Lizardfolk. Despite Peclir being Human. So the speaker raised a cup, using his tail as dexterously as other people used their hands.

“Jungle Tails. To its resurgence. I expect a company-command once we’re done, you understand.”

He peered hard at Peclir, and the former [Chamberlain] of the Forgotten Wing company moved at once to reassure him.

“You will be one of the Serpent Leaders. I have that in writing.”

Instantly, the huge, serpentine figure with feathered wings relaxed. The Quexal nodded. Fezimet smiled.

“The Featherfolk Brigade is at your service. We’ll strike this tree-fortress with your irregulars as soon as we find it. The primary strike force is all yours. Will you take them now?”

“Yes.”

Peclir stood, relieved that no more time would be wasted. He had more allies to visit. Fezimet walked him to the door—well, slithered. The city of Talenqual lay behind him, his domain. After all, his was not an inconsiderable company.

He did hesitate as he halted Peclir at the entryway. The Quexal stared at the Human, and then spoke.

“One more thing, Mister Im?”

Peclir turned. Fezimet looked a bit uncomfortable, then leaned in.

“I await the resurgence of our Great Company as well as anyone, and I hope you tell the Nagas that. But, ah…can you put a word in delicately?”

“Of course, and what would that be?”

The Human saw the Quexal’s face screw up.

“…The name. Can we rebrand it afterwards? ‘Jungle Tails’ is, of course, famed, but it’s so…it’s the dignity of the thing, overseas.”

——

Time was running out. In a shorthand sense. Something was coming. On multiple levels, in multiple places. You could be as impatient as you wanted, but what mattered was…were you ready?

It wasn’t about walls alone. Sometimes it was just about who you knew. Strange meetings.

Conversations. Grand and short, telling and secretive. Chance and designed.

The voices were faint, arguing, but they were clear enough. Echoing a bit, impatient.

“…personally told not to allow this young man to…”

“…Archmage Viltach’s orders. Directly.”

A head rose, slowly, under quite a lot of weight. A mask on the face, chains and bindings. Because there was a second voice, one she knew. She would have laughed.

Telim?

“I quite understand that, you two. But let me vouchsafe this to you. Grand Magus Eldavin. Who’s soon to be Archmage. You say Viltach? I say Eldavin. Let the lad through. It’s the kind of thing a young man just wants to do. Meet a story. That fellow, Aaron, comes here all the time?”

“Yes, but Archmage—”

“Eldavin.”

“But Vilt—”

“Eldavin. Also Valeterisa, for what it’s worth.”

Perhaps it wasn’t worth much. But, eventually, the voices gave up. A door opened, and a figure sitting against a wall stared up. She saw…nothing much.

Just a young man, like the other one, walking into the room. Although he had a bit more confidence. A bit more weariness in the eyes. He had seen a bit more…but it was the way he stopped and looked at her that counted. Perhaps—she waited.

He bowed, slightly. A little golem made of sand poked her head out of his hood, which was a surprise. The young man gazed at her, glanced at the door, and didn’t quite smile. But he did look at her.

“Archmage Amerys? Hello. My name is Troy Atlas.”

8.51 D

It was everywhere and nowhere. That kind of riddle. Something you carried with you, the land that could be as vast as infinity or smaller than any island. Your safest home. A prison.

What am I?

No…where am I?

The longer she asked herself, the harder she tried to focus, the more difficult it became. This place was more than just abstraction or a riddle.

…The floor. The sky. What was that color? Only when she asked did she realize there were such things. That was how it worked.

So there she was. Imagine a world of antiseptic paleness. A void like that—with no limits. Not just ‘monochrome’, but with scale. Though there was little you could see until it appeared, you had the feeling of looking into infinity.

If she focused on it. And at the very verge of infinity, consciousness—somehow—she could tell there was a world apart. No, hundreds, thousands of worlds, each one different. She couldn’t make out their contents.

She stood there, in nothing. And she was not a person—at least, not one with a body. When she realized that, she had a body. Which was hers, only she could walk without assistance and she didn’t feel hunger or pain.

Geneva Scala looked around. She saw nothing—then, like a mirror, she saw a reflection of this strange reality. A reflection of her. Geneva faced Geneva in the void and gave herself the answer, just like every time, as her being scrambled to make sense of it all. Where was she? She told herself:

“I am the center of the Mind.”

Ah. And then it crystalized and all those worlds connected to her were one and the same. Geneva looked around.

“I am the mind in the Center.”

The other Geneva walked left. She seemed to step through a doorway, but she said one last thing as more figures emerged. They said the exact same thing, in unison.

“I am myself. And we are me.”

Then the [Doctor] thought, and remembered, and it began again.

——

This was how it worked. Sometimes she spoke, or thought, and got a reply. Speaking was not essential.

She forgot she needed to breathe. She didn’t need to breathe. But she did have other…

And then there was a figure. Skin pale as could be; not that the body had been fair-skinned, but that the body had been dead, and the person inside of it could only stave off decay so long.

“What do you need?”

“I need to understand…Dullahans, today. No, a multitude of problems.”

“Lay them out.”

Geneva did. It was like a giant thought-board, like she might use to study, because that was how she understood things. More figures appeared and regarded the things she tacked to the air, which hovered and explained themselves if you focused on them. Then it was multiple Genevas, explaining the problem.

“Microscopes. The foundation of any investigation has to be seeing the problem. I can’t. Can you make an equivalent? Enchanted?”

“I am looking into the differences in biology between species. Humans—comparing Humans from Earth to ones from this world. Dullahans. Selphid biology is foreign to me, but I can understand humanoid biologies a bit better.”

“The foundation of a cure for the Yellow Rivers disease is in progress, but the cure is not as effective as it could have been. Segue—”

Another problem, tacked on below it. Another explanation.

“—Magical crystals actually exist, which is partly ridiculous. But the existence of potions and crystals? No, crystals especially could create virtually costless healing, aside from purchasing the crystals. Can you micro-heal or concentrate the effects, like closing sutures made during surgery?”

The other figures were listening, dividing up, and ‘summoning’ more to deal with one problem or another. Geneva waited, because ‘she’ could only be in one place at one time. But that wasn’t as much of a problem as you might have thought.

Despite not knowing Earth, never having been born there, living there, and having had no frame of reference for a microscope…each Selphid knew exactly what she meant. Oh, a high-powered microscope with resolution that went far, far beyond sixteen magnification or even a hundred and twenty eight. To see things on a cellular level, of course.

They took something from her. Knowledge. Her understanding. That was the genius of it. There was no uncertainty of words or intention. It was all clear, because they saw exactly what she thought.

Thought could still be limited, of course. There were dangers, flaws in thinking. But…this was powerful. Geneva kept listing each item, going down and down the list.

“I need to verify beyond reasonable doubt what the Wasting entails, first. There are too many variables. Allergy? Poison? Magic—I can’t detect magic, but perhaps see its effects? Some kind of basic biological degradation? Radiation? Lack of nutrition. Inbreeding. Part of that is also seeing if some Selphids are immune or don’t suffer the effects.”

“Ah. Hence the investigation into bodies.”

Geneva turned to the first figure.

“Yes. Is something different about a Selphid that, say, only lived in a Dullahan body all their lives? Do Selphids need to change bodies? Or is the change linked to some kind of issue in itself? Transmitting collected toxins, diseases? Selphids are in great danger of passing on or exacerbating interspecies illness.”

That last part alarmed some of the listeners, and nearly three dozen appeared. One of them, who was wearing a half-Elf’s form, turned his head to address the others.

“We must consider that. Selphids fall ill to other species’ diseases more rarely, but we are not immune.”

“Agreed. What can be done now, though?”

“Merely bringing it to awareness as a possible issue is enough. This Mind shall open a channel to the other Minds?”

It was phrased as a question. The speakers each stood around, many wearing forms from Baleros—that was, Human, Dullahan, or Lizardfolk—facing one another. Geneva heard their voices as if they were speaking perfectly clearly next to her. Some ‘spoke’, as in they moved their mouths to the words, yet others didn’t bother or had forgotten to. She still heard them plain as day.

“Agreed.”

It was a vote. No one bothered to raise their heads, but Geneva sensed the affirmations from the group of nearly forty. Five dissents. Instantly, a group of eighteen moved off.

This time, she saw them vanish. A collection of eighteen individual minds, entire worlds of thought, knowledge, and understanding, moved away from her. Focusing. Communicating with the outside world. Like watching a hole open up in the skies and seeing them pour through—and beyond that, in some version of interstellar cosmos—a distant galaxy apart.

Another Mind.

Geneva was in the center of this Mind. So the people who appeared to help her were all one…being? Collective. She saw another Geneva appear.

“I still don’t understand Selphid culture and…natural abilities. The Mind is a collective, a psychic creation. This goes beyond any science I know, but on a biological level…how? Are the effects of the Mind applicable in any other ways? What other abilities does a ‘Mind’ have and how does that intersect with classes and Skills?”

One of the remaining figures addressed Geneva, smiling slightly with wry, dry humor.

“Is this beneficial to your research, Geneva Scala?”

Geneva answered truthfully. She couldn’t lie. Not in her head. It was obvious to them, even more to her.

“I would like to know. If it can help, it would be in my understanding of what I can do here, and perhaps why the Selphids are Wasting.”

At that word, something finally appeared in front of Geneva. The white space was broken up and she saw something floating in front of her, at roughly chest height.

It was…a Selphid. A Selphid, bereft of a body. Moving slightly. Writhing. To look at the Selphid reminded Geneva of unfavorable comparisons to octopus tentacles—at least in rough form—or gastropods, like a slug or other mollusc. However, the Selphid body was rather colorful, not being normally exposed to dangerous elements.

Orange blood, for instance, was quite visible running through green, yellow—even traces of purple. The Selphid had no ‘skin’, and could rapidly reconfigure itself into a network as complex as, well, a nervous system. Thinner than any wire; a being as amorphous and flexible as a slime, if not more so.

Right now, the Selphid was more like a slug. It just…lay there. Twitching. In clear distress, if not pain. Shedding parts of its body which no longer moved. It was disintegrating, bit by bit, unable to halt the disease, effect, or whatever it was.

Wasting. This was the dreaded death of Selphids, which struck their species as a whole. It did not spread like a conventional illness might; not by notable airborne factors, or even contact. At least—not from the data Geneva had been given, and the Minds had been looking into it for a long time.

That was why she was here. They had searched for a solution to this ailment for…she didn’t know how long. Millenia? Centuries at the very least; this collective, and Selphids as a whole, had done their own studies. They were not a single unified people with one base of knowledge, for all they could become…Minds.

But they hadn’t figured out what the Wasting was, or how to cure it. Slow it? Yes. But Geneva Scala’s appearance had been a surge of hope for the Selphid people, and thus the Minds had directed their agents to collect Geneva, keep her safe, and—when they thought the danger of losing her was too great—bring her here.

Geneva understood they were desperate. Selphids were not in danger of dying off now, but…

“Our lifespans are shortening. Great heroes are struck down by the disease.”

“Condition.”

She was sitting with the half-Elf Selphid, who was speaking earnestly with her. He was some kind of central personality to the Mind.

At that thought, the half-Elf smiled. Geneva had asked no question, but he understood the curiosity.

“My name was Yeque. I was a [General]. Level 43.”

“Oh.”

Was he dead? The answer was ‘no’, but why…?

“I was nearing eighty-one years. My career was strong—but hardly extraordinary. When they asked me to join the Mind, I accepted. It is an honor. Not all are asked. If I was Level 50, Level 60—I would have remained apart, unless I were injured beyond function.”

“I see.”

Geneva thought back to what the Minds looked like, but again, that was one part of her. The list of her desires and thoughts was still unspooling.

“—make contact with the United Nations company and tell them I am safe—”

“—cure for Erin Solstice still needs work. I cannot figure it out. It’s all too nebulous, too many variables I can’t work with like magic. I need to understand magic, I need—”

“I want to be free.”

And there it was. Geneva turned her head, and saw herself. She stood there, and the Selphids that made up the Mind looked at that last desire. Yeque raised a hand, and that last Geneva…vanished. He spoke calmly, not unkindly, but without any way for her to gainsay him. And that, of course, was the problem.

“Let us begin with bodies.”

Geneva just nodded. She stood up, and followed him into a room.

It was a room that had never existed. A patchwork made of various things she had seen—and the Selphids had seen. It looked like the perfect surgery room. Every tool she had ever used or could conceivably need was present, there was no dirt, no impediments—and the surgical table had a body opened, clearly displaying internal organs and a perfect diagram of the interior.

No one had been harmed in the making. Geneva stared at the Dullahan. She turned to Yeque.

“How can I see this? Did a Selphid…dissect a body just like this?”

He shook his head and pointed up. Nearly sixty other Selphids stood in the viewing area, looking down at her.

“This is an image made of our understanding. The perspective makes sense to you, but we share knowledge for a complete understanding. Like everything else.”

Geneva nodded. It made sense. What a unique biological development. She struggled to think of an equivalent from Earth. Oh, there were species that had a connection like this—ants being a famous example—but pooling knowledge? A mental gestalt like this meant that a Mind had expertise from specialists on multiple levels.

Like…consider a Selphid who devoted their life to being a [Blacksmith]. They were naturally an expert in metalwork, and if they had made weapons for a living, they were the equivalent of any high-level [Smith] of any species.

But in the Mind, you also had [Warriors] who had held weapons and understood the importance of balance, the nuance a [Smith] might lack. Those two points of view combined and, in theory, made for a being that could create something neither individual could.

In theory. In practice, the Minds were hardly omniscient and acknowledged that. But it meant…

Geneva studied the Dullahan body. She traced a finger across nerves, tendons, inspected bones and found they were much like Humans. And yet, as she had suspected all along, they had a strange reliance on armor to replace their skin. Like a hermit crab.

However, she had known that from her work saving Dullahans to begin with. What Geneva found that was new was this. She bent low and stared at something.

“…This isn’t normal. I’ve seen this in some Humans too. But it’s clearly…what is this?”

Another Selphid appeared in a flash and Geneva saw a female Dullahan—no, a Selphid inhabiting one—step forwards.

“This? This is how they can detach limbs and move them separately. This is important. If it is severed, a Dullahan loses that ability. A limb detached and cut might simply die.”

Geneva stared down at her first entry into this world’s biological database. She had no encyclopedic term, so the common term she’d used to explain it to Ken, Daly, Paige, and the others was…

“Magical sinew.”

The Selphids nodded, pleased. Yeque turned to Geneva.

“We call it galas-muscle. We define valuable bodies in that way. The formation of galas in high-level people happens with every species.”

“Show me.”

Geneva was entranced. She saw another body appear, and walked over to another surgical table and saw a Human warrior, face mid-grimace, lying there. She looked as normal as could be from the outside, but once Geneva opened her arm…

There was something clearly different about the muscle fibers. Even without a microscope or other tests, Geneva could see it. Or perhaps that was the Minds giving her some insight. Either way—

“This explains it. It’s not just Skills. Skills…bend the laws of physics. But this explains why someone can be stronger without visible muscular changes.”

Geneva felt dizzy—or would have if she had a physical body here. Was she looking at a logical step in every species’ evolution? If you replaced the body with this kind of muscle, was it simply an upgrade? Why did bodies change like this? Was it now reliant on magic as a kind of nutrition?

She turned back to Yeque.

“And you can see—sense these muscles in valuable bodies.”

“Yes. They degrade slower, have greater ability—hence why we value them so highly. Only a few people have them.”

“How?”

Four Selphids appeared. Each one wearing a different body. One flexed her arm and winked at Geneva; she was a copy of the Human lying on the surgical table.

“High-level warriors.”

A fussy young man pursed his lips, although it didn’t change the fact that someone had slashed open his throat with a dagger. The Selphid had made up for that with a fancy scarf.

“Nobility pass along galas in bloodlines, sometimes. It is not a guarantee, but even children have innate formations if their parents were strong.”

The next Selphid waved a hand. She was a Naga, a Lamia with bright red scales. She smiled.

“[Mages] have it slightly differently. They can use magic to form it, and they develop magical pools.”

The last Selphid was most unique, at least to Geneva. Because he looked distinctly…

The Drathian bowed formally, and spoke quietly. No—was it the Selphid copying the man?

“You can also develop galas by consuming a specific diet. Training—in their way. But Drath allows us to take their bodies very seldomly.”

Fascinating. All this took place so quickly—yet Geneva knew she couldn’t dwell on it forever. Even so, this brief lesson confirmed a number of things for her. She muttered, almost to herself.

“I wonder if you could transplant that kind of muscle. We can do it on Earth—but the ethics…”

Instantly, she could see it. Someone taking muscle, tendons, even tissue, and creating a super-soldier. She regretted thinking it, because it meant the Mind saw it too. The Selphids looked at her image.

“Intriguing. But beyond our capabilities. Geneva Scala, focus on your studies.”

Geneva turned back to the body, but she did not miss the ‘for now’ that lingered in the air. And she would have argued ethics, morality, or tried to remove the idea if it were possible.

But that wasn’t how this worked. Geneva turned back to the Dullahan.

So each Dullahan had a type of galas, but it was not like the kind that developed in high-level fighters. This clearly enabled their ability to remove their heads and limbs and control them from afar.

“Is it possible for me to see how the muscles work when active?”

She expected the answer to be ‘no’, but, to her surprise, the Dullahan’s body suddenly came alive. Geneva backed up as blood began to move through veins, tissues stretched and contracted, muscle and bone shifted—

It was unearthly. Horrifying, fascinating—the kind of lesson any scientist or doctor on Earth would pay dearly to see, because this was how a body moved. Not a computer simulation, but the real thing. Imagine how much orthopedics could be moved forwards if she could only…!

She saw the Dullahan’s left arm vanish. And then appear a few feet left. Geneva saw the magical muscle moving, flexing, in perfect synchronicity. And—she gasped.

“So it is a portal. No—a magical connection!”

She could see blood pumping smoothly through the veins, despite the physical separation. Enabled by the Dullahan’s unique biology. This…this was a lesson she could spend weeks on.

And yet it begged the question. Geneva’s mind snapped to the obvious instantly.

“…How would you know what a Dullahan’s body looks like? This is a living body. Not a corpse.”

She looked up at the sixty-some Selphids present. She saw the Mind take a lightning-fast vote, but she already knew the answer. And because she knew—from her experience with Okasha, Idis—one of the Selphids, the one that looked like the Dullahan that Geneva was inspecting, stepped forwards.

“We were lovers. He let me in. Though it was wrong. I was condemned. I…joined the Mind rather than face exile or death.”

The Selphid met Geneva’s eyes. The [Doctor] looked down at the Dullahan. So that was how she could learn like this.

But more flowed through the simple words. A deeper meaning. Geneva was in the Mind. The Mind was also in her. And they gave away more than they expected. After all—a foreign presence to the Mind was all but unheard of, and only in ancient memory.

A realization struck Geneva.

The Minds allowed criminals, Selphids condemned to death or who had committed transgressions like this, to join them in order to understand their perspective, gain their understanding. They were careful not to create scenarios where dangerous personalities reigned supreme because that would alter the Mind itself.

Not all Minds were alike. This one had been created with the express intent of researching the Wasting disease, unlike a Mind devoted to strategy for Selphids as a whole, or magic. Hence Geneva’s interaction with this Mind in this way. It was willing to do whatever was necessary to save its people, and had led the decision to take her.

A flash of insight. The other Selphids saw Geneva learning this, but couldn’t stop her. They tried to pull back, but Geneva was staring at the Dullahan lying there. The Selphid who had been his partner was named Bethi. They had been lovers; or else the deception was in her very mind. She had loved him, and their forbidden relationship had been discovered by a [Detect Life] spell cast on a hunt.

He had been executed. She had mourned him.

Geneva was falling. Not physically, or even in this artificial reality. She was becoming too connected with Bethi’s memories. This Dullahan had been named Revorthe. Geneva suddenly knew that he would scratch at his neck when he was lying.

No—she suddenly saw him doing it. She remembered how he did it. What his voice sounded like.

“She is too close. Pull her back.”

Yeque was speaking, but the Mind was struggling with itself. Geneva…Bethi?…was just thinking. She could see the body.

This is what it felt like to move it.

She saw the Dullahan man looking at her. She heard the tenor of his voice, surprisingly light. She could hear him.

This was what it felt like to love him. Touch, how it felt in your heart when they fought. This was—

For a moment, Geneva was Bethi, a Selphid. Her mind spun and fell and was two people. One person. Geneva felt the artificial zone beginning to shatter. She saw herself, hovering in the void.

“I am Geneva. I am the Mind. I am—”

——

Her name was Idis. Her classes were [Blademaster] and a bit of [Barbarian]. Her job occupation was generally killing people.

Nothing fancy. No pretense; she knew she was a [Warrior]. She had participated in long campaigns, one nearly eight years long where she fought Centaurs in a huge battle for territory—that was where she had gained her [Barbarian] class.

Right now, she was wearing the body of a Human. Not a good one; certainly not a Centaur’s body, which generally required two Selphids to operate. Just your basic degraded corpse, fit to move, not fun to eat with, or do anything else. At least the vocal cords still worked.

“…Do you have any [Archmages]?”

“Fish.”

The Selphid opposite her muttered. Idis hesitated.

“I think it’s ‘go fish’.”

“I’d rather go fishing. Are you sure the Humans played this game?”

“I think it’s meant for children. They played it a few times. Although…I think they were drinking.”

The second Selphid rolled his eyes. He was wearing a much fancier Minotaur’s body, very fresh and preserved, and he sat back and cast his hand of cards down.

“In that case, Idis, I will wait until we are off-duty to drink and play this game.”

Idis was disappointed.

“Come on, Wettle.”

Weteleq, who was nicknamed Wettle, folded his arms and refused to pick up the cards. Idis was about to suggest they play a more traditional card game when someone spoke.

“To attention. Something is happening with the [Doctor]. To the Third Mind.”

Idis and Wettle shot to their feet, knocking over the card table so fast they sent the cards flying. Six more Selphids all leapt to their feet. Idis whirled and saw the speaker.

“Calectus? What’s—”

But the [Honor Guard], who wore the body of a huge Dullahan wearing steel armor, was already pounding down the hallway. Idis was after him in a flash, and ran through the inner compound of the Minds’ fortress, one of the few places where Selphids were in full power, albeit hidden.

A Gathering Citadel.

But not a traditional palace. That would be notable, and Selphids did not want other species learning of their bases. So unlike Lizardfolk temples or traditional palaces or forts, this one looked like a basic hill. In fact, people had camped on top of it before; it was just one hill in the middle of Baleros’ least inhabitable jungle areas. A secret base for their species.

Not unguarded, though. Idis’ guard unit was one of several that flooded the corridor, heading towards a specific room. Idis saw Selphids taking up positions in the checkpoint designed to hold off attackers—but Calectus motioned her specifically to follow him into the Minds’ chamber.

“Inside.”

“Me?”

“It’s the [Doctor].”

Idis had been with Geneva second-longest of all the Selphids, so she didn’t argue but stepped into the room that held a Mind. Even now—she looked into the room and gasped.

“What’s happening?”

To Selphids, it was strange. To outsiders? Idis had heard some thought of it as horrific. And part of her couldn’t blame whoever saw it for being a bit overwhelmed.

A Mind was this: an orb, or vaguely rotund mass, of Selphids. Selphids without bodies, joined together. Moving, because they were individually alive, and if the body died, so did their part of the Mind—all suspended in the air over a small basin. Water and food could all be placed below and would drift upwards and be consumed.

The Mind floated in the air—the Third Mind, the one devoted to the Wasting. One of six in this Gathering Citadel. Each one had a room like this.

Right now, the Third Mind was clearly agitated. Each Selphid was moving at speed, and Idis saw Calectus hesitate.

“[Guardian] Ressk. Orders?”

A Drake Selphid turned; he did not wear armor like Idis and Calectus, but robes. Nevertheless, he was in charge, and Calectus was the [Honor Guard] pledged to defend the Minds and their interests. The Selphid flicked out his long tongue.

“Hold, Calectus. You—Idis.”

“Yes? Guardian?”

Idis snapped to attention. One of the highest-ranking Selphids who was not a Mind looked at her, and she felt a wave of apprehension. But all he did was point.

“Go to Geneva Scala. She is breaking her connection with the Third Mind. Something is wrong. She will be unable to move.”

Idis saw there were four stone platforms that let someone approach the Third Mind floating in the center. In front of the platform closest to her was Geneva.

She was…hovering in the air. Eyes closed. Grimacing. Idis hesitated.

“Do I go over and…will I do something wrong if I enter her?”

Ressk paused as Calectus gave her a quiet glare, though he acted much like the Dullahan body he inhabited. Some Selphids took on the characteristics of their host bodies.

“Third Mind. Will Idis harm the [Doctor] by approaching and inhabiting her?”

He spoke to the floating Mind. Idis heard the reply—but not with her atrophied ears, one of which had fully rotted off. She heard the reply in her mind.

“She is too deep. Bring Selphid Idis forwards. We are breaking the connection. Do so now.”

Ressk nodded and pointed a finger. Idis was already hurrying forwards. Geneva floated to her, and Idis caught her in her arms. She began to leave this body as the Third Mind’s agitation began to calm.

Geneva Scala began to stir. Her eyes opened, and her breathing caught. She tried to move her legs and couldn’t, but Idis bridged the gap in her nervous system. She felt Geneva’s slow, almost sleep-like rhythm change as her body ‘woke up’. The Third Mind released her, and Geneva sat up, with Idis simply playing helper.

Here was the final fact that most species had no knowledge of. The secret of the Minds. Not only did they have the amalgamation of Selphids who joined them—a huge honor and sacrifice. Not only did they lead the Selphid people, but the Mind was a rarity in its abilities that only a few species could copy.

Unfortunately, one of them being Crelers. The Mind could think at you and you would hear it. Also—as the Third Mind floated in the air? Idis was aware, and amazed, as always. Because…

It was not floating due to magic. Nor had Geneva been floating with it due to magic. Or even a Skill—at least, not a Skill alone. Geneva Scala had a word for it.

“Telekinesis.”

Idis whispered, in awe. She had been privileged enough to see the Third Mind four times in her life, a huge honor for someone not an [Honor Guard] or [Guardian], or the caretaking staff. She had never seen the Mind use its powers, even for something as mundane as lifting Geneva.

Now she saw water floating upwards, gently falling so the component parts of the Mind could consume it and some fruit. A literal banana peeled itself in midair.

There was a pause. Idis saw the banana mush itself, but something exited the banana.

…A bug. A crawling beetle. It went flying across the room and the banana was divided up. Idis heard the thought.

“Infested banana. Please perform quality checks.”

Ressk, hugely embarrassed, bowed his head and apologized. Idis heard the thought too. She whispered in Geneva’s ear as the [Doctor] slowly rose to her feet.

“Telepathy. Or is it that psi…pshi…?”

“Psionics, Idis. That’s the umbrella term. Telekinesis and telepathy are component parts.”

Geneva Scala spoke, her mouth dry. Idis pumped a bit of saliva out of her glands and checked her condition. Fine. Muscles a bit stiff…Idis began to activate them. Geneva Scala stood, as Calectus and Ressk approached.

“…will perform more inspections, with greatest apologies, Third Mind. What shall we do with Doctor Scala?”

“Let her perform research/rest as she desires. Mental backlash from joining has been mitigated. We will begin again tomorrow. We will communicate with other Minds and continue to pursue her projects.”

“As the Minds will it.”

Ressk offered a hand to Geneva. She stared at it, and Calectus. Slowly, Geneva walked past the two, though Idis needed to help her. She’d forgotten to breathe as well. She forgot these things for a while, lost in the Mind.

“I…will go to my rooms. Then conduct my own studies.”

Ressk nodded. Calectus followed Geneva as the alarm was called off. The Selphids on guard-duty watched Geneva as she walked towards her quarters. Idis held her ‘tongue’ until they were a ways away from the Third Mind. Then she began to chatter.

“Are you okay, Geneva? What happened? Did you make a lot of progress? Are you bored? You’re a bit hungry. Want to eat…”

She trailed off as Geneva Scala stopped, one hand on the wall of smooth stone. The [Doctor] spoke.

“I’m physically fine, Idis. I…experienced someone else’s life. I don’t know if I can say it was unpleasant. It wasn’t at the time. Now? I was someone else and that is horrifying. I learned so much. But I am still your people’s prisoner. I want to leave, Idis.”

The Selphid went quiet as Geneva straightened. Her hand tensed on the wall.

“I want to leave. They can make me forget that, but only when I’m in the Mind. Do you think this is right?”

“I…I’m just a single Selphid, Geneva. I have orders.”

Idis didn’t know what to say. Nor was this the first time Geneva had said it. The [Doctor] almost laughed; Idis felt the muscles move, but it never came out.

“I wanted to trust you, Idis. You know, this is just like what Okasha did.”

“No. It’s not. It’s for our people. They’re not taking your body. It’s…”

Idis bristled. Okasha had committed the gravest crime of a Selphid. Geneva began to walk.

“Really? Explain to me how it’s different.”

Idis struggled to explain it. Aware all the while that she was enabling Geneva to move. That Geneva was de facto a prisoner and Calectus had told Idis the [Doctor] was by no means allowed to leave, though she had free rein of the facility. And why not, with Idis in her? Geneva Scala replied and Idis realized she now dreaded the moments Geneva left the Third Mind—after their daily meetings, which lasted from an hour to four at most.

She had thought they were becoming friends. Now, the [Doctor] was angry. And Idis…was starting to run out of reasons she shouldn’t be.

——

There was a saying that people who spoke English had. ‘When it rained, it poured’. That was the kind of phrase that confused the heck out of non-native speakers sometimes. Like ‘blue’. Just…blue. As a word. Why did it have to be a color and emotion?

Ah, but the phrase was not a unique sentiment to English. There was an equivalent expression in Kenjiro Murata’s language.

“雨が降れば土砂降り.”

“Hm?”

The young man instantly bowed his head deeply.

“I am sorry, Second of Armor, I was merely remarking upon the weather.”

He regretted the slip. Especially because the Second of Armor was an important Dullahan, and they did not appreciate slips in manners.

Yet it seemed like luck was on Ken’s side, because the Dullahan did not take offense. Or perhaps it was Ken’s class and Skills.

[Diplomat]. [Excuse My Failings (Twiceover)].

A very curious Skill, but his latest one. It didn’t mean Ken could flip over the table between the two and walk away without consequence. However, it did smooth over minor slips.

And this was a moment that required such a Skill, because the Second of Armor, who represented the Torum Legion, had made time to meet with Ken.

He glanced out the window now, as both knelt in a style very familiar to Ken. The Second of Armor glanced out the window at the light drizzle.

“Ah. You will forgive my lack of understanding. I understood you were of the…United Nations company. That there were Drath’s people among them is a lapse in logic. I must greet you again, Kenjiro Murata. I am glad also; you must be familiar with such formalities.”

So saying, he indicated the square table and light foods placed there. Ken eyed the dishes. Oh yes, they were familiar. But the next moment caught him off-guard.

“…您好. It is my honor to greet you far from home. I hope I have said that correctly?”

Ken hesitated, but kept his face smooth before smiling.

“Very well, Second of Armor.”

He was rewarded with a small smile from the Dullahan.

“Ah, this is good. We even have dishes of shared interest.”

Rice, in what Ken thought had distinct traces from Japan, especially in the way it was laid out with appetizers and chopsticks placed…he was so off-guard he nearly dropped his, although he waited for the Second of Armor to begin.

And yet…the two words would have confused a speaker who wasn’t familiar with either language. But for anyone with a passing understanding of at least one…they would have been struck.

Because Ken had spoken a phrase from his native homeland, the Japanese equivalent of ‘when it rains, it pours’. Whereas, the Second of Armor had mistaken his words and offered a very, very simple greeting in another language.

Nin hao, from Chinese. Yet Ken would swear this was more suited for a Japanese meal; they were even sitting in seiza, which was a very Japanese way of sitting, legs under your knees.

Something called to him. Some greater revelation about Drath, this world, and its interaction with Earth. But Ken had to focus.

“You have very graciously accepted my request, Second of Armor.”

“I hope you will now call me Zentel.”

Another good sign. The Second of Armor smiled faintly, and the invitation to use his real name was exceptionally good. Of course, if Ken had been a Dullahan it would have been amazingly forward, but the rules were not the same between Dullahans and non-Dullahans.

Actually, from a strategic perspective, Ken would never ask a Dullahan to negotiate with other Dullahans unless they were exceptionally high-ranking and had armor of some high-grade metal. They were more forgiving with him.

“Thank you, Lord Zentel.”

“I am not a [Lord], though I suppose my rank is equivalent.”

Ken hid a smile.

“Forgive me, Lord Zentel. I did mean your equivalent.”

Another smile. Zentel knew he was being flattered and appreciated it. Ken smiled back as well. This was what he was good at. Getting along with people, and he had refined that ability since he had first come to this world.

“You are very gifted in the ways of negotiation, Diplomat Kenjiro. Or Ken, if I may call you that? Ah, good. I am also very sympathetic to your company’s plight. You see, the Torum Legion has also suffered the Yellow Rivers plague. A few cases, spread by air. Not by…any actions among our soldiers.”

“It is a very virulent disease, Second of Armor.”

The Dullahan, whose skin was a beautiful brown where it seemed to meld with a rare, expensive wooden armor, relaxed slightly. Suggestions of impropriety among the Dullahan soldiers would have been a touchy spot.

“Yes. So we are doubly grateful that the Last Light clarified this disease spread via air. Indeed, her name was why I heard of your request; I fear it would have been lost in the many people seeking to speak to our company.”

Ken ducked his head, listening, but with a bad feeling in his stomach. It was true. Even now, her name opened doors.

Geneva Scala. The Last Light of Baleros. The United Nations company’s claim to fame…

“Missing. Which implicates a company you will not name. That the Torum Legion may…clash with?”

“Violence is not the first answer I would hope to reach, Second of Armor.”

The Dullahan put down the cup he’d been sipping from and sighed. He adjusted his head, on the little stand with a cushion where it sat. Sometimes Ken wanted to do that. Just pull off a body part and relax.

“Wisdom, Diplomat Ken. Yet it may be an inevitability. I fear you know what I will say. If Doctor Scala would agree to train our soldiers, if we were given certain assurances…but I have heard she is adamant. Nor can I blame her, given her involvement in that—disgraceful battlefield. But you see, I would not lightly clash with The Bodies of Fellden.”

Ken winced. The Second of Armor knew. It wasn’t hard to figure out, granted. But…

“If a Selphid company were to have…taken the Last Light of Baleros, Second of Armor…”

“It would be a disgrace. If true.”

The Dullahan returned quickly. He sipped from his cup again, looking uncomfortable.

“Yet The Bodies of Fellden are the supreme Selphid-company. The only Selphid-company. I do not mean to imply the Torum Legion would fail to face them in the field. Yet we must be practical. If you had concrete proof, and other companies…”

Ken spread his hands out helplessly.

“Proof is difficult to obtain, Second of Armor. As for companies, there must be a first one. Would you not consider it for the name of Geneva Scala?”

The Second of Armor hesitated, and Ken knew the answer before he spoke. So there it was. He ate and drank and made polite conversation about his ‘homeland’—revealing he was not from there specifically, which would not equate a lie, and the Second of Armor asked about the United Nations company, expressed sympathies for the loss of their City Runner whom he had no information of, and promised Ken he would help if they had…something.

Something to offer. Some proof. A location of where Geneva was. Lacking it?

Her name opened doors. It had opened a lot of doors because Geneva was extraordinary. Ken walked outside, shoulders drooping. But now Geneva was gone, and so was Luan.

It was a rainy day. It had been for a while.

——

The United Nations company was doing well.

No, really, it was.

…Geneva Scala was gone. Luan was gone. Some people thought he was dead. Paige was sure he was not. So was Daly, and the Bushrangers kept taking assignments close to the places where he might have been, but it was a lot of jungle and, frankly, if he hadn’t made it back to civilization after…

No. He wasn’t dead.

Paige was the [Engineer] of the United Nations company. One of the leaders, for whatever that meant. No—it meant people expected her to have a handle on things. Now that Luan and Geneva were gone, the soul really was her, Daly, Siri, Kirana, Ken, Aiko…

The original group. The ones who’d seen battle. If you thought you were hot shit, and you hadn’t seen a monster, you could, at your peril, ask someone to tell you what it was like seeing companies fight. Or volunteer to join the Bushrangers for a mission. Or even just a training run.

That tended to kick most people out of it.

“Hey. Does anyone know if Scorpo’s got a job?”

Paige winced at the name. She was running down the ledger and saw Filip grimace. He was a [Scribe] and had been helping her do bookkeeping.

“…You mean Hudson?”

“Yes! But he writes Scorpo here. And he says he’s putting in coppers…but I think we’ve got our missing funds.”

The Polish [Scribe] glowered.

“Bastard.”

He was normally fairly mild-mannered, but he and Paige had just spent nearly an hour going over the entries to figure out why they were short on money. They’d found a few missing entries, and it wasn’t a lot of missing money, but every coin counted now that their two biggest earners were missing.

“I’ll have a word with him.”

“You could…ask Dawson to kick his ass?”

Filip suggested mildly. He didn’t like Scorpo. Paige didn’t like Scorpo. And to be fair…maybe even Hudson didn’t like Hudson because he’d tried to rename himself Scorpo. Start a new life, be the person he always wanted to be.

“He’s fourteen, Filip. Besides, if I had to kick his ass, I could do it. Or Kirana could. I’ll be nice. It’s tough. He’s not used to having to have a job.”

“Everyone helps. Maybe he can cook?”

“If he says cooking’s for girls or not fun…yeah. We’ll work on it. Let’s see about Sc—Hudson, and if he’s the culprit, we can close the books on this one.”

Filip nodded and stretched. Paige rubbed at her back, but really, she wasn’t that stiff. They had actual padded chairs, not the basic wood ones—some of which Daly had made and were about as comfortable as a rock.

The United Nations company now occupied four houses, two side-by-side, and two more across the street, also joined. Paige was in the ‘oldest’ one, which was headquarters. They had one area devoted just for leisure, and the other two were to sleep in—though there were beds in every house. Woe to anyone who wanted to sleep in the rec-house, though.

Rent was low, and they had put money into a number of projects, including comfy chairs. You might be surprised, but it had been voted on fast. At first, Paige had thought everyone would vote for ‘magical items’, but when you got people used to living in this world, acting as adults, even if they were as young as fourteen or thirteen, you began to develop certain…tastes.

Like—a couch. Take your magic wand and shove it somewhere else. Give me a couch so I can nap after working all day. Of course, magic went hand-in-hand with that, but sensible magic.

“Paige. Paige. Help! The cooling charms aren’t working! Some idiot had to try and put them together and I think it broke the enchantments.”

One of the younger members of the company ran up as Paige was heading downstairs. She closed her eyes.

“Who? Kendra, get me my crossbow.”

The girl grinned uncertainly because Paige did have one of her custom-made crossbows in her room.

“I think it was Lorenzo.”

“Lorenzo! If you broke the charms, I’m taking it out of your pay!”

Paige shouted, and some of the voices from below went ‘oooh’ and started calling similar insults, since it was getting warmer in this house. She heard an angry reply from the Italian man.

“It wasn’t me!”

Paige came down the steps as Kendra slid down the banister—the thirteen year-old girl from the United Kingdom stopped as Lorenzo stormed over. He began arguing with Paige in accented English—he was still learning—that he could not be the culprit.

Lorenzo, one of the Italians that Daly had found. Paige, an Australian from the original group who’d joined Gravetender’s Fist. And here came Kirana, who had been found after they’d escaped that deathtrap, the [House Manager] from India.

Not that they were their countries, but it was something to remember. They had different backgrounds, and it puzzled the Lizardfolk who just saw Humans. There was some kind of irony about that…but Paige was too busy interrogating Lorenzo.

Kirana, who was smelling of papadums, emerged with an exasperated look. She heard out the first beats of the argument as the two sweated, turned, and frowned.

“Kendra did it.”

“I did not!”

The girl squeaked and hid behind Paige. Which turned out to be a mistake because Paige whirled around.

“Kendra!”

The girl protested, without knowing one of Kirana’s Skills she’d obtained recently was [Spot the Culprit]. The perfect identity-Skill for squabbles over lost electronics, people neglecting chores, and so on.

The offender was soon punished, by Lorenzo the falsely accused, Kirana, and Paige, with cleaning the toilets and scrubbing dishes—not on the same day—for three weeks. Kendra burst into tears and Kirana stopped Paige before she could shout.

“I will let her cry. You go.”

“Thanks, Kirana. Uh—could you ask Sc—Hudson if he was lying about his new job?”

Kirana nodded. Paige felt guilty passing off the work, but there it was. Kirana wasn’t necessarily nicer than Paige, but she was better at not blowing up.

…She was nicer. And Paige had less patience with tears, but she forgot—Kendra was thirteen. She’d appeared, lost, by herself, and had been stealing with a gang of friendly Lizardfolk kids when Ken found her.

Not everyone hit the ground running. In fact, almost everyone went splat at one point. It was why the United Nations company was working. Why it was going well. They could prop each other up.

It was going well. They had a bank of coins. The Bushrangers were able to afford gear, Paige was developing better crossbows, they had allies in Gravetender’s Fist, a small but growing company led by Quallet Marshhand. They were levelling in their respective classes, they found more people from Earth now and then, and Geneva’s clinic and her trainees could still help people, even if she was gone.

…But she was gone. And so was Luan. And some days it felt like now they’d lost their way and everyone was searching for Geneva. The attention had dried up, which was good; Geneva wasn’t being besieged by requests from powerful groups to meet with her.

“We don’t matter. And that’s a problem and a good thing right there. It ain’t perfect, but I’ll tell you what—doing something that puts us at risk isn’t the solution either.”

For a second, Paige thought someone was reading her mind. Then she looked over and saw Blake arguing with Myron and Nicola and Andel. Paige slowed.

“What’s not a good solution?”

“Here comes the hammer. Hi, Paige.”

Nicola muttered a bit too loudly and guiltily looked away. Blake waved Paige over.

“Nothing.”

“It sounds like something.”

“It’s not happening, but people are talking about it.”

Blake clarified after a second. He scratched at his hair and looked at the other three. None of them wanted to explain, but Paige had a feeling she knew what was under discussion.

“Who’s agitating for us to pull up now? And where are we going this time? Wistram? Or to find the Singer of Terandria? High-five Joseph? Or is it Rémi?”

Nicola shuffled her feet. Andel coughed.

“It’s just talk, Paige.”

“Right, and it just takes one person going to the Mage’s Guild…listen, guys. I know it’s not perfect, but I do not want to have to ask Daly to post someone to watch the guild.”

“So you’re going to keep us from going there? That’s tyranny!”

Myron flushed, getting angry. Paige snapped.

“I’m not keeping you from doing anything, Myron. That’s not tyranny, that’s us not making stupid moves that can’t be taken back without everyone voting on it.”

“You mean, us voting and the leaders getting to say what’s happening.”

“Oi, Myron. Watch it.”

Blake reached out to slap Myron’s shoulder. Paige bit her tongue.

“This doesn’t come from nothing, does it? What was it this time?”

“Cockroaches. Someone left a bunch of food out and the window was open and then…”

Paige shuddered. Talenqual was a port-city, but it was still firmly set in the tropics, or maybe sub-tropics, of Baleros. And the problem with a world of magic was that you got magical bugs. Invisible mosquitoes, teleporting cockroaches…

Okay, she hadn’t seen either one, but you heard stories! And the regular ones were big, disgusting, and a lot of people had never seen a proper giant bug before.

It was clearly time for a rousing speech. And since Kirana was busy, Paige did her best. She looked at the four of them and pitched her voice so some of the other people dozing or sitting waiting for a turn at one of the gaming laptops could hear. Gaming, incidentally, had infected almost all of the United Nations company. When there was a limited amount of electronics but nigh-infinite power if you could afford or cast the [Repair] spell, you quickly did everything you could do with said devices.

“Look, guys. I get it. It’s not perfect. It’s not great. I know we have to work, but listen—there’s no guarantee it’ll be better at any of those places. There’s danger out there. Remember the phone message?”

She got a few nods, a decisive one from Blake and one from Nicola, but Andel frowned.

“How would we know it’s not good if we don’t look?”

“I didn’t say we won’t look! We’re investigating. We will find a good base. Maybe it’s Talenqual but we cast anti-bug spells everywhere. Maybe it’s Izril, Terandria, Chandrar—”

Blake interrupted.

“Not Chandrar. Too fecking hot. Did you see the documentary by that Rémi Canada guy? Positively baking.”

Paige rolled her eyes.

“Maybe Wistram. Maybe Terandria. Just—give it time. We’re making life better. We’re levelling up!”

Andel muttered.

“Some of us have cool classes. Some of us are [Fishers].”

Paige exploded.

“Then get another job! Practice sword fighting or magic! We’ve got a spell tome!”

Blake patted her on the shoulder as everyone went quiet. She struggled to reel her tongue in.

“Sorry. Listen. It’s hard. We’re looking for Geneva, and if we don’t find her…”

Her voice trailed off.

“…We’ll make a change. But we’ve come a long way, believe me. So let’s not do anything rash, huh? Give it time, bring it up, and I promise you, we’ll send scouts the next time Ken returns from his trips if we don’t get any progress there.”

That was altogether likely, and the reminder of their past sobered the others. They gave her that wary look, even Blake.

I was there. It sounded…stupid. Like a badge of pride or something, but she had been on a battlefield with the others. Sometimes Paige wanted to throw them there—not to kill them or traumatize them, but just so they got it.

It can get far, far worse. The dangers in this world exceeded belief.

“Yeah. Sorry, Paige.”

Andel muttered after a while. She awkwardly nodded. Set off to…find Scorpo? Work on another mechanical invention?

The United Nations company hadn’t invented football. They hadn’t become the Singers of Baleros. They were not [Reporters], and while they had one member who’d shaken things up, The Last Light of Baleros, only Luan had come close in fame.

Oh, everyone had ideas. But it was amazing how little expertise there was. So a lot of it went to Paige.

‘Hey Paige, why don’t you invent something from home? What about…a bicycle? Or how about a pump? Or…or electricity? That’d make a lot of money, right?’

Oh, sure. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Hold on, Paige would just get her expert [Smith] friend who could machine gears and pay for all that steelwork. Electricity? No problem! You could make a basic battery, and a lightbulb wasn’t that hard. It was only blown glass and a custom filament she had no idea how to make. To be fair, it wasn’t a bad idea, and the pump for wells and such wasn’t bad either!

She had actually invented a basic pump. Only to have Lizardfolk laugh at it and show her an enchanted well pump that auto-pumped water.

Ken had thought he could sell the pump to poorer villages, but he’d warned her they would copy the design. That was the issue. Anything you could make, someone could probably steal. And—Paige had nearly flipped when she saw a bicycle being advertised in the Mage’s Guild.

Solar Cycles, Esthelm, Izril.

She was in an inventions-race with other people from Earth who stole the ideas that would make money, damn them!

…But they were in the same spot. And to be fair…Paige hesitated, then went to the basement of the United Nations’ headquarters. She opened a reinforced iron door, and carefully used a [Light] spell to illuminate everything. No fire was allowed anywhere near this place. Everything was sealed up, and she had emergency extinguishers—buckets of water—and never put enough of the stuff together unless she was finishing it. Then they went straight into bags of holding.

The [Blackpowder Engineer] sighed as she looked at the morning’s work.

“[Daily Resource: Blackpowder].”

She carefully pointed a finger, and a small shower of the stuff fell into a glass container. She stared at the creation—the alchemical creation, technically. That was the term Daly used to explain it in the rare cases his team employed it.

Gunpowder. Or at least, the precursor to it all. Yes. Paige’s hands moved as she went for the outer shell of another, well…bomb. Explosive. They had long since stopped trembling. Especially since she’d gained [Lesser Explosive Resistance]. She didn’t know if it would save her up-close, but here it was.

The United Nations company might be smaller than some groups of Earthers who’d come to this world, especially given their numbers. But they had not fallen behind. They had brought something big here. But using it?

Paige did not want to use it. She still remembered Geneva and Daly’s rift. But she’d continued and now she had a thought.

Ken couldn’t get allies to find Geneva. He kept trying, and they kept trying to figure out where she was. They had no knowledge of her, or allies beyond Quallet. But if they found out, if Geneva signalled them…

Paige slowly poured pieces of stone into the outer casing. If they found where Geneva was…

Everything wasn’t going well. They needed Geneva back. They were lost without her.

——

Summer took a long time. Technically, the summer break was over, but since the Professor was gone, classes were on a kind of hiatus.

No one said the Titan was missing, but if you had to be told outright…and the regular teachers had cut their curriculums too. Perorn, for instance, had cancelled all her classes, so the students on break were advised to extend their stays. Refunds were issued—and that was the least of the Forgotten Wing company’s problems, frankly.

But something that no one said outright was this: when you took your summer break, or the winter one, to visit family and go home, you were expected to come back better.

A student who lazed around and didn’t try anything for months? They had missed the point. When you had free time, it was your chance.

Thus, you could look at Wil’s group as an example of what students should do. Go out, gain valuable levels and experience in the field. Dying was optional.

In the same way—Perorn glanced at her notes. What had they called it?

“Kismet Securities? Dead gods and trench hoof. That’s not egotistical at all. I should have expected nothing less, I suppose.”

“Plaudits that they have any success at all. Do you have any records of their work?”

One of the top [Strategists] in the company that Perorn actually respected, a Selphid [Battle Master]—a unique specialization that combined other focuses—leaned over. They were named Hetoque, and in charge of planning individual offensives.

“Here. Look—this is a sampler they’re offering. A redesign on a city they consulted with.”

The four students, Kissilt, Cameral, Umina, and Marian, had re-worked the city—Izrilian, Human, apparently—to change the standard design of, well, ‘put a wall down around your ever-increasing radius’. Some cities did have proper planning, but many were simple geometric shapes.

A giant square. A circle, or semi-circle that made use of a natural backdrop like cliffs. All fine…but when they designed things like walls or gates, they just left it as a sheer, vertical drop to deter most monsters and bandits.

Which was fine—if you didn’t think you’d ever run into a high-level monster or person.

“This city was struck by the Bloodfeast Raiders. No relation to the Bloodtear Pirates.”

“I’ve heard of them. Ah—so they redesigned for…”

Perorn smiled faintly.

“High-level attacks. See? They’ve at least paid attention in class. Economical too; nothing foolish like demanding twice the cost in stone to justify bastion-level defences.”

The city was called ‘Celum’. Kissilt and his team had done well. Rather than trying to turn the city into a fort and demanding a huge cost in construction and high-level [Builders], they’d simply made an attack as nasty as possible for a group of high-level individuals like the Bloodfeast Raiders.

In other words, you looked at it like this: you could not stop the enemy from coming over the walls. They could jump, fly, or sneak past. Then they’d blast the city with [Fireballs]. Same with monsters.

So—you made it untenable for them to do so without reckoning with the defenders first. The recommendations were simple but telling: build a covered wall, with no exposed battlements. Interior crenellations would face in both directions. If someone gained entry into the city, they’d be watching for arrows in their backs the entire time. In theory, someone could just blast the walls down, but if they could do that, you had more problems.

Let’s say the raiders knew this, though. They’d naturally enter the walls through a breach they’d cause and slaughter the low-level [Guards]. That’s what they’d try, and probably be laughing, charging through the cramped corridors, blocking arrows and low-level spells.

…Right up until the loaded spike trap hit them with enough force to kill even a Gold-rank [Warrior]. Or maim at least, if you didn’t see it coming. It was just a bent piece of wood.

Lizardfolk tactics. Perorn’s right foreleg twitched at the memory. It was a nightmare, entering their territory when they set those things up in swampy water, or in a forest. You could take hundreds in casualties just trying to march forwards if you didn’t prepare.

So, an interior death-trap that even adventurers would sweat at. Carefully-designed fallback points. Perorn reached the end of the free sampler.

“Not bad work.”

“I think so. I see Cameral’s work most in this. He does like his defensive lines.”

Hetoque smiled faintly. She was wearing a Human female’s body today. Perorn smiled too, but then lost it.

That was one of the few things you could smile about right now. They turned back to listening to the briefing from one of their peers—but it wasn’t something they needed to hear, really.

The trick was getting her to understand. A giant Squirrel-woman was perched on her chair, eating a block of brie coated with jam. In theory, it was probably tasty. In practice? Perorn wondered which depraved animal ate it like that.

“…escalating pushes from our northern territories. You see, Commander Foliana? Commander Foliana?”

The leader of the Forgotten Wing company, one of the world’s most famous [Rogues] and assassins, Three-Colored Stalker, opened her eyes and stopped chewing. She transferred the food to one bulging cheek.

“I wasn’t asleep.”

Perorn sighed. She waved a hand, and the exasperated Naga, one of the six [Strategists] present besides herself, meant to replace Niers’ ability to lead the company, if temporarily, let her trot forwards.

“Foliana. We’re trying to explain the situation.”

She got the uncanny gaze of the [Rogue] full-force—three colors, pink, yellow, and green, each one occupying a part of her eye. She sat in the war council, which was set with a long, simple table of wood.

That was the only simple thing about Niers’ war council. He had maps, both physical and magical, ready to project almost every region of Baleros.

At any given time, the complete layout of their forces could be observed, a huge section of territory or allied interests across the lower-middle of Baleros. There was a list of treaties and ongoing contracts with cabinets ready for inspection on the exact wording.

Dossiers on the commanders in charge of each grouping, the breakdown of soldiers and supplies. Multiple encrypted scrying devices. Pride of place of it all, of course, was their smaller command deck on the table where the Fraerling himself could orchestrate the room.

It was empty, and the room was uncannily vacant compared to normal. Ordinarily, if they were planning a huge offensive, it would be filled with officers and experts in their fields. [Generals] and [Strategists].

But now it was only Foliana and the seven [Strategists]. The rest were all out of the citadel.

Putting out fires.

“I am not a [Strategist]. Mm. I’m bored.”

Foliana took another bite of her strange snack. Perorn folded her arms and glared. She could do that; few people would take her to task, but Perorn knew Foliana.

“You need to pay attention. Niers is gone.”

“Not dead. He’ll be back.”

Two huge eyes blinked at her. Perorn looked around and the other [Strategists] gave her a look saying clearly that she had to hammer this into Foliana’s stubborn head. She had never quite understood why Niers wanted to be second-in-command. Then again, he liked being the real power behind the throne, so to speak. But it did make it hard to reason with her.

“Yes, but in his absence, we are under attack. By whomever hired Peclir Im…and from outside forces.”

“It’s probably not even organized. Simple logic on behalf of whomever is after us.”

That came from one of the two Dullahans present. Perorn nodded at him.

“Exactly. The other Great Companies know he’s missing. Everyone knows he’s missing, so everyone’s piling on. What’s that saying about that?”

Foliana pursed her lips.

“…When you see someone being mugged, join in and kick them while they’re on the ground?”

Perorn hesitated.

“Not the expression I’d use, but it’s damned applicable here. The Iron Vanguard is threatening our fortresses on their border. Maelstrom’s Howling is watching them since they know they need us, but they’re edging up on our most valuable areas. Damned greedy Centaur vultures.”

The other [Strategists] and Foliana all looked pointedly at Perorn, the lone Centaur in the room. She glared, pawing the ground.

“What? It’s true. Not a shred of foresight in most of their heads. Listen. Foliana, we have small companies trying to bite at us, thinking we’re distracted. We’ve pulled every group we can to hotspots, keeping things under control.”

Hence the vacancies here. They even had students acting as officers. Foliana pointed to the magical map, glowing with danger zones. She turned to Foliana.

“You see what they’re doing, don’t you?”

Please see. It wasn’t hard. If you couldn’t figure it out after all that, you’d fail out of her entry-class on the spot.

“Bleeding us. Taking forces away from the capital. Here.”

Foliana answered grudgingly after a minute of waiting. Perorn exhaled. She saw the giant Squirrel reach for a glass of wine.

“You could just say it. Mm. I’ve been here forty minutes. Numbers. Places. Just say that part. Niers does.”

“Niers isn’t here. I am asking you for judgement, Foliana. It’s clear as day they want to divide up our strengths. You are the only other head of the company. If someone strikes us here…I have a list. Which investments do we drop? We can evacuate forts, keep an army in reserve. If you’re not comfortable, I have it ranked by my priority.”

Foliana saw the other [Strategists] tense as she was presented with the list. And, again, she barely looked at it.

“Mm. That’s all our territory. We took that fort. I was there. I stabbed someone in the foot for it. That village mines gold.”

“I know, Foliana. But we can’t keep them all. We’re leaving ourselves exposed.”

Two huge eyes blinked.

“Just like they want.”

“Yes, so…”

“Keep them all.”

That was the last thing the Centaur wanted to hear. She trotted forwards. The problem was…

This campaign had to be Peclir’s initiative. He understood Niers and Foliana, that damned traitor. And Foliana was possessive.

“I know it’s our territory. We can win it back. But if we don’t want to be vulnerable here…”

“They’ll take our forces anyways. Mm. It’s a plan. Plans usually work if they’re good. Don’t bother.”

Perorn blinked. That clear line came from Foliana—she still refused to look at the map, but she gave Perorn a piercing glance.

“We will lose forces. Something…mm. Something will happen. We will be exposed. Then they strike.”

“…That seems to be their plan, yes. Which means we have to safeguard you. Perhaps even consider abandoning this city if it comes to it. Though they might—”

“—Strike us on the road. Mm. Yes. They have good plans if they’re smart. If they’re not, they’re not. If they are? Doesn’t matter.”

The Centauress tilted her head slightly. She trotted back as the other [Strategists] looked worried. Foliana sounded defeatist, but that wasn’t what Perorn was getting.

“You seem like you have a plan, Foliana. Which would be…?”

“Keep everything. Lose nothing. Unless you have to. Don’t bother me.”

Three-Color Stalker sat there, nibbling at her food. Just like she’d been doing since Niers left. She’d participated in the news, disappeared to check her news sources, but carried on as Perorn tried to hold everything together.

The Centauress had resented that. Fleethoof, the famous [Strategist], was aware of her limits and she needed Niers, just as much as he needed her and his other officers.

But Foliana…she just sat there. When the last of the brie disappeared and she was licking her paws, she looked up.

“I am not a [Strategist].”

“You lead this company…”

Foliana shrugged.

“But I’m not a [Strategist]. Don’t tell me strategy things. Just do it. Keep everything you can. Let them take forces. Something else will come up. Plans are smart. Opponents are smart.”

“And when they corner us?”

Perorn snapped. And, at last, she saw Foliana’s eyes gleam. The Squirrel Beastkin raised her head slowly.

“When they reveal themselves? They always do. Then I know their faces. Then I know who they are. They die, or we die. All I have to do is wait. Don’t bother me. I’m going to eat more brie.”

She hopped off her chair and vanished halfway towards the door. Perorn saw Hetoque edge back, but the door never opened. Maybe Foliana was here? Maybe she’d left.

The room was silent for a moment. Perorn looked around.

“…You heard her.”

It was then she was reminded of the difference. No—even reassured, despite Foliana’s completely unhelpful demands. She wasn’t Niers. A [Strategist], like Perorn, like Niers, thought of gain and loss. Of where to apply strength, to retreat, how to conserve their forces.

Foliana was not a [Strategist]. She was a [Rogue]. She was the Stalker of Baleros. She…waited.

For a target. But she was waiting for the trap’s jaws to close. Perorn felt it too. Not all the coins had yet to drop.

Dead gods. If only the students could find Niers. That was the one element Peclir had failed to account for. He was alive. Or he had been, during the Village of the Dead raid. If he could return? Perorn went back to keeping things from falling apart. Buying time.

——

Geneva was a prisoner. Not an ill-treated one—at least, in terms of hospitality. She had access to the entire Gathering Citadel. She could ask for any food she wanted—not that she did—and it would doubtless be provided.

Her rooms weren’t magically bugged, at least to Idis’ knowledge. And she thought she was trusted.

The young Selphid’s career was on the rise. It should have made Idis happy. But more and more, she felt…terrible for Geneva. Yet here was the thing.

Geneva Scala was prisoner of the Minds.

Prisoner in her mind. And the problem with any escape attempt or sympathizers? With any plans, plots, or schemes?

The Minds knew. They knew…everything. The summons came for Geneva shortly after she rested in the comfortable room they had made for her.

Idis was back in her temporary body. Geneva had asked to be left to sleep for a few hours. She’d use the speaking stone if she wanted to move, but Idis had left her body while she slept. It seemed…better. Geneva hadn’t demanded it, but Idis had noticed the change in her body. Not exactly endorphins, as Geneva called them, but she’d been glad Idis had offered to do it.

She was too connected. She could tell when Geneva was upset. Feelings were chemical. A Selphid living in someone’s living body experienced feelings, albeit in a different way.

“You are becoming too close. There is a term for it. Unification. You are aware of how prisoners can be manipulated by captors?”

“By Skills and mentally? Of course. I took lessons, Guardian—I mean, venerable—um—”

Idis ducked and the staff nearly clipped her head. Ressk, the [Guardian], lowered his staff. They were training. Another honor; she was allowed to learn from him.

He was no [Honor Guard], like Calectus, but Ressk had abilities on par with the best of the Selphids here. He smiled thinly.

“Don’t stand on honorifics. I am telling you, Idis—your doubts and reservations come from your connection with Geneva Scala.”

“I—I’m sorry. It’s just—”

He held up a hand.

“The Minds hear. If it is a concern, they will inform you. I am simply giving context to why you feel this way. Trust the Minds.”

Idis tried. She tried to do her job, which was kill people, just like she’d told Geneva before she understood what the [Doctor] believed. She had a practice sword and slashed, coming in low and fast.

[Arc Slash]! A basic technique, but fast, which would bisect Ressk if she had a steel blade. He blocked the stroke—Idis wasn’t sure if that would work in a real battle. If he had an enchanted quarterstaff? She moved backwards as it twirled. He wasn’t faster than her, which was a bit embarrassing for someone of his level. But then, his class wasn’t all pure physical combat. She would hold back a bit, even though he’d said to go all o—

Idis tripped on a stone and nearly went sprawling as she leapt backwards. She cursed, and Ressk tagged her twice.

“Damn!”

The Selphid’s sword blurred in a flurry, pressing the [Guardian] backwards. Ressk kept his distance as Idis glared at the floor.

“Who left a rock in the training room?”

She looked around, but the other sparring courts were occupied and no one answered. Idis sighed. Then she blurred at Ressk. It wasn’t her Rampaging—just a Skill-enhanced leap.

She felt…slow for some reason. And he was quick enough to dodge, although he gave her a nod as she whirled.

“You are quite gifted, Idis. You may become an [Honor Guard]—or another great class. Fulfill your duties. Help Geneva Scala as best you can. You are a credit thus far.”

Idis blushed orange. She made up for it with a flick of her wrist.

“Thanks—”

A line of sharp air swept at Ressk. His eyes went wide and he blocked it. Perfect! Idis lunged left, diving at his side for the perfect killing blow—Selphids still got hurt if you stabbed up through their side and swept your bl—

She tripped, went sprawling, and Ressk pinned her with the butt of his quarterstaff. Idis blinked up at him. She heard polite clapping from some of the other Selphids, laughter, and groaned before getting up.

“Well done. You have more to learn, but we will see if you will benefit from lessons. Later. If Geneva Scala needs for more minders. For now, focus on that, Idis. I believe one of the Minds wishes to speak to her.”

Idis sat up, accepting the hand, and felt a tremor of unease in her stomach.

“I’ll go wake Geneva. Thank you for the lesson, Guardian Ressk.”

He nodded in his Drake body and Idis hurried to Geneva’s room. But before she left, she turned to give that rock a damn good kick. She looked at the training space and frowned.

It was smooth stone, no rock to be seen. She glanced at Ressk and saw him wink at her. The Selphid hurried away, wondering.

…What kind of a Skill was [Invisible Appearing Rock]?

——

Geneva Scala waited for Idis to arrive. A Mind had summoned her. So she was going.

She wasn’t sanguine. Sanguine implied happy. Geneva wasn’t as distraught as she could be, either.

She was a captive with no perceivable way out. She was being violated—and that was the language she would use, no matter how much Idis protested. This was an invasion, but she understood the reasoning. Her abilities were being employed as a [Doctor] and there was at least that.

“Sorry, Geneva. I was tripping on rocks and sparring with Ressk—give me one second. Okay! Off to the Minds. You’re rested, right? Want me to get you there?”

“I will walk, Idis.”

So she did. Idis guided her down the hallway, but Geneva knew the route. She walked down; the Third Mind was closer to the bottom of this underground fortress, but Idis stopped her as they came to one of the stairwells.

“No, it’s up, Geneva.”

“Up? But we’re going…”

“I, uh—it’s not the Third Mind who wants you. Excuse me? Which way to the Second Mind?”

Idis spoke in Geneva’s voice, and a Selphid passing them with a basket of contaminated bananas pointed.

“Up two floors.”

“Thank you!”

Up they went. Geneva was surprised. The Second Mind? She had met them all, briefly, but never spoken to one besides the Mind, the one she had associated with this all. The Third Mind.

What did another of them want with her? To do the same thing? Would they now take turns?

Everything became different as Geneva Scala realized something was off from her routine.

What was regular was this: she existed in a comfortable guest room with amenities, from a bathroom to clothing to food, but spent a good deal of her day walking the smooth, perfect stone corridors which were almost analogous to hospital walls, to the Third Mind.

To do so, she passed through two Selphid guard-checkpoints, one of which was next to Idis’ sleeping quarters. A great deal of protection in this hidden fortress. Calectus or Ressk would meet her, or another [Guardian], and escort her to the Third Mind. Then Geneva would float upwards and commune. Enter the Mind.

It was a stark place. Like…no, exactly like a research lab, really. Geneva had seen other areas where her demands, her needs, were being constructed, including the microscope and an area with surgical equipment. There was an alchemical lab, a library—all devoted to the efforts to fight the Wasting.

Two floors up, something changed. Geneva Scala and Idis walked past an arch warded with what looked like some kind of magic and heard…

Music. Some kind of incredibly heavy bass, echoing down the corridor. Geneva looked for the first Selphid checkpoint—and saw no guards. Idis reflexively covered Geneva’s ears and somehow deadened the sound Geneva was hearing.

“Selphid’s tits which we don’t have! What is that!?”

Geneva walked forwards and saw a room where objects, crystals, were practically bouncing in their places. The thundering bass—which sounded like something from her world—cut off as a Selphid touched a glowing crystal, seeing her.

“Hey, are you the Human?”

“What?”

Idis and Geneva shouted back. The Selphid unplugged their ears with a bit of wax. They still shouted, a bit unnecessarily.

“Apologies! The Second Mind told me to stop playing once you got here! Did you like the music! It’s like your world’s, right?”

He looked at Geneva. She stared at the Selphid, a bit aghast to realize he knew about Earth.

“It—it’s not like anything I’ve heard. Is it a song? From the Singer of Terandria?”

That was her first instinct; some song turned up too loud. The Selphid grinned.

“I’m glad you thought so! We’re working on lyrics. But we can make our own crystals and take those…sounds. No idea how to replicate them.”

“Why is it so loud?”

Idis asked with Geneva’s voice, though she made an effort to change Geneva’s vocal chords so the voice sounded different. The Selphid blinked at her.

“Oh, so as many people can listen as they want to. Sorry, we’re enchanting this room to deaden the sound and it echoes in confined spaces. The regular song crystals don’t have enough volume; Lizardfolk complain it’s only good for small groups.”

“You’re…making song crystals?”

Geneva Scala couldn’t help but be surprised. The Selphid…what was he? [Composer]? [Researcher]? [Gem Mage]? Grinned.

“Of course we are. Baleros music. Selphid music! We’ll sell the Lizardfolk crystals they can make songs with.”

Geneva and Idis couldn’t exchange glances, but they were fairly in unison.

“That’s what a, uh, Mind is working on? The Second Mind, I mean?”

The Selphid raised his brows.

“The Second Mind thinks it’s worth a project. I don’t argue. If it’ll make us tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of gold pieces each month? I’ll play music until these eardrums pop. I can always get more. Do you have any feedback on…?”

He caught himself.

“No, the Second Mind is waiting. Down the corridor.”

He pointed. Geneva blinked at him, but Idis, reminded they were supposed to be there, hastily swivelled Geneva around.

“Idis. What’s going on?”

Geneva subvocalized to the Selphid. Idis’ internal voice in her ears sounded just as confused.

“I…I don’t know. I’m part of the Third Mind’s authority. I know the other Minds have their own projects. I guess one of them’s making money.”

“So you don’t know this…Second Mind?”

Idis shook Geneva’s head slightly.

“No. I mean—I knew the Minds, and The Bodies of Fellden do whatever they say. But I always thought the Minds were all together. Most Selphids only know the Minds exist. I’ve never…huh.”

Geneva walked down a corridor and saw the pale stone change. From cut stone, it turned to…color. A bright yellow, painted onto the walls. She stopped at an intersection and saw it change abruptly at the end of the corridor where it met another. Into a deep blue, very dark.

“That’s so…colorful.”

Idis breathed. Geneva saw another corridor of green stretching out, and Selphids walking down it. They pointed her down a final section, which was pitch black.

Only then did they come to a checkpoint, where a single Selphid was waiting in front of some [Guards]. Idis waved a hand.

“Excuse me, the Second Mind asked for Geneva? Uh. Why the different colors?”

“The Second Mind’s project. Go inside.”

The [Guardian] looked…different from Ressk, and it took Geneva a moment to understand why. She had it when she saw that this Selphid wore regular clothing, no robes or staff or symbols of authority. The [Guards] looked casual too; they were watching a scrying orb and taking notes. Idis blinked.

“Project? What, coloring the hallways? I, uh—I’ll take a spare body if you have one.”

The [Guardian] raised her eyebrows.

“No need. The Second Mind wishes to speak with you both. Enter.”

“Me? Why me?”

Something stirred in Geneva’s mind as Idis squeaked and they were led into the room. She looked back.

“Those colors. It’s…color theory. There was a study for that.”

“Colors, Geneva? What do you mean?”

The [Guardian] Selphid tilted her head. Geneva tried to explain, absently.

“It’s about colors and emotion. How seeing brighter colors or the same ones affects your wellbeing. At least, I think—”

Then she entered the room of the Second Mind and stopped. Because in front of her hovered another Mind, floating, a suspended mass of Selphids. A presence in the air, one of the greatest leaders of this species.

And in front of the Mind, about, oh, ten feet tall, was something strange. A fragile, temporary construction. It looked like—no. It was. Geneva Scala stopped and stared along with Idis at the tallest house of cards she had ever seen in her life. Even as she watched, another level was being added as cards floated forwards.

Floating next to the giant house of cards were multiple games of chess, in progress. At least eighteen scrying orbs, each set to a different television network or point of view, and a pair of books were slowly flipping themselves open. The Second Mind didn’t move visually beyond its constant hovering, but Geneva felt it recognize them.

“Wait. Wait. Orell, guide them forwards. I almost have it…”

A card delicately placed itself on the tower. But a bit too hard, or something gave, because the entire construction began to collapse. Geneva saw hundreds of cards go fluttering down. She saw the Second Mind’s individual component parts all visibly stop for a moment, then heard a thundering exclamation in her mind.

“DAMN.”

The Second Mind let the cards fall, and swept them into the air and individual decks. They landed to the side, and Geneva and Idis halted as the [Guardian] bowed.

“Will you need anything else, Second Mind?”

“Retrieve a chair for the [Doctor]. And food, drinks. Also, I am informed our banana stock is contaminated with beetles?”

“Yes, Second Mind.”

“Fetch me the beetles. And the eggs. I’ll eat them.”

The [Guardian] bowed and left. Leaving Geneva alone with a far stranger example of the Minds than she had hitherto observed. No—the Third Mind was clinical. This Mind was…

“Strange?”

The thought entered her head, like a delicate phrase. She felt like she heard it, but it was a thought. The Second Mind seemed to regard her, slowly rotating around as if all of its ‘body’ were looking at her. It was identical in form to the Third Mind, but the paraphernalia it surrounded itself with, the clear differentiation in the corridors?

“Personality. You—are a different personality than the Third Mind.”

“Yes. I am.”

That alone revealed something to Geneva. The Third Mind spoke in the collective. The royal ‘we’. The Second Mind seemed animated. Individual.

“Rather, I make an effort to act as an individual. To play games. To tax myself and rest. The other Minds tend towards collectivism. To survive, we must create different opinions and points of view. Each one of us is made up of Selphids we choose to accept into ourselves. Yet that is our great weakness.”

The Second Mind was reading her thoughts. Speaking into her head. Geneva bit her tongue, and the Second Mind spoke again.

“Then I shall apologize, Geneva Scala. I shall wait for your words rather than hear them as you think them. This is polite. The Minds have enjoyed…three…visitors over the last ten years. So I shall apologize, though that is the least of the issues binding you here. Speak. You are a guest. Speak also, Idis. This is a conversation.”

Geneva saw Orell returning with a chair. Idis stammered.

“I—I greet you, Second Mind! I apologize if I do anything rude or—I’m honored to be in your presence!”

“Yes…you are. Doctor Scala, by comparison, is not. Speak freely, Geneva Scala.”

She realized she was sitting, facing the Second Mind. Geneva hesitated.

“I…am at a loss for words. You are not like the Third Mind. I met with you once.”

“In enclave, with the other five. Yes.”

“You did not sound like this, then.”

“When we are together, we think as one. So you meet a gestalt of all. Here, you meet separate nuances of us. Just as a single Selphid is a personality. I am the Second Mind. Inventor. Far thinker. The Selphids who embody my personality and will are not like the Third Mind. We are in opposition, they and I.”

Another revealing statement. Geneva blinked. The Second Mind waited, then seemed to conclude she wasn’t going to speak. It went on.

“You have been a prisoner/‘guest’/in the custody of the Minds for nearly a month now. Your focus has been with the Third Mind, who seeks to cure the Wasting of Selphids. It has led the initiative. This Mind, I, attempted to communicate with you. I was denied, due to conflicting interests. The Third Mind’s failure today presented a breaching point in the discussion.”

“Failure. You mean…when I felt the memories of the Selphid who loved that Dullahan?”

“Yes. Very dangerous. You could have lost something. Or gained something. The Third Mind pushes too hard, too fast. Now, the other Minds sense it. A consensus was reached. 4-2; an upset after a deadlock of 3-3. You understand, we sometimes think together. But given personalities, we argue. We vote. Hence your presence here.”

She was beginning to understand. Idis gasped, but quietly. She whispered in Geneva’s ears.

“The Minds argue?”

The Second Mind didn’t respond to that. Maybe it was being honest and not reading her thoughts.

You can hear my thoughts, can’t you?

Geneva ‘thought’ that, but the Second Mind didn’t respond. But if it was a telepath who could read into her head, it would know that she was suspicious of it anyways and wouldn’t believe it was being polite. But if it could reach into her head…

Confusing. Beyond confusing. This had been an altering experience to begin with, to meet with creatures as foreign to Geneva’s understanding of this world as magic was to Earth. Now, she realized this was indeed a turning point.

But what kind?

“You are suspicious of me. Understandable. But I would hope you will speak. Honestly. Ask me any question. Tell me anything. I will answer. I hope to reach an understanding.”

Geneva started. She frowned, slowly, and her hands clenched reflexively.

“An understanding. Couldn’t you simply—force whatever understanding you desired on me? Change my attitude? This is not an equal relationship…Second Mind. I am, as you said, a captive held against my will. I would like to be freed. Now. That is my desire.”

Something like a sigh ran through her mind. Several of the scrying orbs abruptly went dark. The Second Mind left the perfect bowl in the center of the room and actually floated closer. Idis made a squeaking sound in Geneva’s head.

“From inception of this idea to present, I informed the other Minds this was a foolish plan. I was supported only by the Sixth Mind, and the Sixth Mind only speaks of the abhorrence of a Selphid in a living being’s body. That is anathema and they believe in that law above all others. I? I say that this is a poor way to make allies of another world. Yet the Third Mind—and the other Minds—seem insular to me. Selfish. You are here to cure the Wasting. I say: we should have asked, and supported you until you chose to come of your own volition.”

Geneva stared at the countless Selphids, almost entranced, then glared upwards.

“That—is a convenient answer. Given all that has happened to me.”

“Yes. Quite. But it is the truth, and the other Minds voted. 4-2. A collective always votes via majority. It seems to me to be foolish. The will of the largest party is not always correct; indeed, it favors actions that will preserve the majority. Ergo, the Minds act selfishly. The Wasting affects all Selphids, but we have long lifespans. Yet it strikes at seemingly random, and, given its nature, it affects the Minds predominantly because we are comprised of so many Selphids. Selfishly, frightened because we are dying piece by piece, we voted to take you against your will.”

That made sense. Geneva blinked. She actually leaned forwards.

“That—does sound selfish. I am told that Selphids can live for many, many years. You have a lifespan longer than the average Human, but the Wasting cuts it short very quickly once it develops. It is a plague, but analogous to a disease on my world. A terrible one, but…”

“Cancer?”

The term shocked Geneva, but the Second Mind floated back.

“The Third Mind communicates its findings. Another world. Implications of worlds, plural. How were you transported? The First Mind is investigating a gateway. The anomalous events of the Summer Solstice. Wistram. It is all concerning, but I am concerned with you, Geneva Scala. This is wrong. The Sixth Mind understands. Selphids are hated because we are the ‘bodysnatchers of Baleros’. Because we made empire and slaves of people in ways even Roshal could not. Now, look what happens. A full circle.”

And in that moment, Geneva saw the Second Mind change. The Selphids in its body shifted as a hole opened in the center and, for a second, it was a giant ring, a perfect circle with a hole in the center, moving clockwise. To illustrate its point.

“You—you are completely different from the Third Mind. How is this possible? You are completely animated, and—can you explain this?”

Geneva saw the Second Mind return to its orb-form.

“Naturally. The Third Mind told you what we are.”

“An amalgamation of Selphids. A…hive mind of sorts. Leaders of the Selphid people.”

“Ah. Aaaah. What a revealing lie. We cannot lie, because we think. But we reveal ourselves.”

The Second Mind sounded displeased. It floated backwards, and with what looked like growing agitation, began moving chess pieces. It kept thinking at her.

“We are not leaders of the Selphids. To clarify: this Gathering Citadel is one of the ruling bodies. The Minds certainly occupy a leadership role. But we have not been stewards of Selphids in every era. Or even universally today. Selphids, individuals, have historically commanded us and we act as advisors/guides/aides. I consider that possibly superior to this. The Third Mind believes Minds are superior to ordinary Selphids. Revealing.”

Geneva nodded. She felt engaged—and perhaps that was because she wasn’t in the Second Mind. Even so—she was aware this was just a conversation that sounded friendly.

“Nevertheless, here I am. It sounds as though the Minds have an inefficient system? Or that they are…different to your personality. Again, why are you different?”

The Second Mind floated back.

“Because I choose to accept Selphids into myself that have a certain perspective. I am represented by Selphids of every kind. From [Warrior] to [Mage] to [Potter]; only a few Minds are specialized, such as the Fourth Mind. Yet I did not screen by class. I deliberately incepted into my being two thirds Selphids with a particular quality. Will you guess?”

Geneva frowned.

“I hate guessing games.”

“Ah.”

“I love guessing games. Can I try, Geneva?”

Idis whispered. Geneva pursed her lips, but let her give it a shot.

“Second Mind, I’m speaking. Idis. Uh—is it that you took in really creative minds? Authority figures? Something like that? Like—a Gold-rank team leader rather than just a regular adventurer?”

“What is creativity? How would I judge that, Selphid to Selphid? As to authority—no. The answer is simple. I chose travellers. Selphids that left the shores of Baleros. They are in me. The ones who lived all their lives abroad, from Chandrar, Rhir, Izril, Terandria. Who understand how we are seen abroad. Who think differently.”

“I see. How—”

Intelligent? Geneva almost said it, but she wasn’t sure.

“Surely the other Minds do the same.”

The Second Mind sounded unhappy.

“They do. Yet consider the flaw, Geneva Scala, who is a [Doctor], and understand more than we. The other Minds only see you as a resource because they will not acknowledge the individual can surpass the collective. We are many minds. If one voice shouts—”

“…It’s drowned out.”

The flaw of the Minds appeared in Geneva’s mind suddenly and with perfect clarity. The Second Mind sounded sardonically pleased.

“Flaw. We are not superior beings to Selphids. We are superior in our own ways, just as they are in their own. An amalgamation of thoughts has vulnerability. Chief of all—to complacency. Uniformity. Decay.”

Food for thought. Literally. In another situation, Geneva would be in the thick of comparing this alien biology and culture to her own. But—she shifted in the comfortable chair.

“You have answered my questions, Second Mind. Thank you for your clarity. But again. I am a prisoner and I will state this plainly: I am an unwilling one. I regard this as a violation of my natural rights. I do not wish to be here, but I am being compelled to help you—Selphids as a whole. I wish to be freed. Will you free me?”

“Geneva…”

Idis whispered. Guiltily. The Second Mind took its time responding. When it did, it was plain.

“I cannot do more than argue with the other Minds. It took a 4-2 majority to summon you here. It will take the same to impel your leaving in a…safe manner. To tell you anything is for the Third Mind to hear it. If I were to hint.”

Idis gasped. Geneva blinked. The Second Mind went on, blasé.

“Which I did not, and the Third Mind cannot use this conversation against me. Yet I maintain: this situation is unpleasant. For me on multiple grounds. Ethical. For our relationship with your world. And purely in how it motivates you and for actual assistance. And how it will seem to other species if they discover this. In short—I am against this course. But you are under the broad authority of the Third Mind.”

“Second Mind. I—I understand what you’re saying. I know I might get in trouble—but I do. I agree!”

Idis burst out. The Second Mind regarded her, and the Selphid shivered in Geneva.

“Your guilt is moral, Idis. You have it now. Where was it when you received orders from Calectus to take Geneva Scala?”

“Second Mind? But he was an [Honor Guard] and—”

The Selphid quailed. The Second Mind went on.

“Why do you see Calectus’ words as absolute? Because he is an [Honor Guard]? That is a class. Because his orders came from the Minds? That is absolutist thinking. You observe we are divided. Ergo, we are not perfect. Therefore, we will not always give you orders without flaws. So yes. Be guilty.”

“Enough.”

Geneva interrupted the Second Mind. It floated away from her a pace. The Selphid was shaking so hard Geneva’s own hand was shaking. Something more than mere words came through the telepathic communication between the Second Mind and her. The pure disapproval was almost painful, and Geneva was not the recipient.

“You wish to defend Idis?”

“You are moralizing. I don’t approve of hurting anyone. I am your prisoner. Idis is complicit. You…are hypocritical.”

The Second Mind floated there. It did not laugh. But it sounded amused.

“Your ethical nature revealed itself in the Third Mind’s thoughts about you. You know, it was willing to offer you Selphids who would volunteer for cures for this Wasting disease. I believe the Third Mind hoped you could engineer a cure similar to the Yellow Rivers treatment.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“No. But it convinced itself that was possible. Now, you are in the Third Mind. You know your situation is untenable. Once you have completed your research, your fate becomes dangerous to Selphids and the Minds in particular.”

Geneva looked up at the Second Mind and felt a wave of…gratitude. Idis was dead silent. The [Doctor] nodded.

“I know.”

“The Third Mind does need your cooperation. It will try to be kind. It will try to persuade you, because if you resist, it will become more difficult. But once it is over? I believe we will vote.”

A vast presence, for all it spoke more conversationally, floated so close Geneva could touch an individual Selphid. It was not uncaring. But it was foreign and Geneva…

“So what can I do? There’s no way for me to escape. I am…”

She hesitated, and the words came back.

“I am in the center of the Mind. In the presence of the Minds. There’s no way out. You could help me, perhaps. But you are unable to, by your admission. So I am trapped.”

The Second Mind hovered there. For a heartbeat, then another—then something moved.

Selphids. They reached out to her, the physical bodies, like a kind of grasping hand. But it stopped as Geneva recoiled.

“Geneva Scala. You make one assumption wrongly. Like Idis. You think we are invincible in our role, in thought. Thought? I have studied our own nature. Thought is as weak as flesh, only with different faults. I can aid you. All I need is to teach you. Do you wish to learn? The consequences will infuriate the Third Mind. But it will stymie the Third Mind. There are ways to fight, even among Minds.”

Geneva stared at the appendage. Idis was breathless.

“Second Mind. Are you…? Why are you going this far?”

“Idis. Sometimes you must stand up for what you believe in. You and Geneva have a choice.”

“Will it change me? Will I give something up?”

Geneva Scala stared at the Second Mind.

“You will be allowed to choose this. I promise you. It is knowledge. How you use it is up to you.”

The [Doctor] sat there. Idis was silent. But she made a sound as Geneva Scala slowly rose.

“Geneva…”

“I have few options left. But I do have a choice. And since I have a choice—and if you are being honest, Second Mind. I will hear you out. No more.”

So saying, she reached out. Her hand jerked—Idis? Her? But then she touched the Selphids. She was drawn into the Second Mind and heard its voice.

“Very well.”

——

Some days it seemed like everything was life-or-death moments. Decisions of great and overly complicated consequences where the wrong move—or any move—would hurt someone. Situations where there were no good answers, only bad outcomes.

This was…not that kind of day in the river-city of Ysai. It was certainly frantic, excited, but it had the kind of vibe of fun, rather than ‘we are all going to die if we get near the inciting incident’.

So Lizardfolk were all over the event, cheering on the swearing people actually hard at work. A grumpy Naga kept smacking Lizardfolk into the water where they cheerfully swam about.

“Stay back! If you get in the way of the work I’ll pull off your tails, got it?”

“I’ve got a big one! I’ll sell it for five silv—ulp!”

A Lizardgirl had pulled a giant, dripping wet…thing out of the river where she’d been diving, just upstream of the hard-working people cracking them open and searching them frantically. She fled as the Naga chased after her.

“Give that back you damned thief! This is city property! If you don’t I’ll—”

But before he could swat her, two groups made a beeline for the Lizardgirl, because they’d seen how huge the giant…shell was.

“Five silver. Toss it over!”

A Centaur galloped forwards, splashing into the muck and holding out some silver. Instantly, on the other side of the river, nearly a dozen Dullahans, led by one in gleaming armor, shouted.

“Fifteen silver! Toss it here and you will be paid!”

“A gold coin!”

“Two gold coins!”

“I’ll give you a gold coin and the Bannermare’s signature!”

The Dullahan glared, and came back with a shout as the exasperated Naga [Overseer] stopped.

“Two gold coins and the signature of no less than Tulm the Mithril!”

The Lizardgirl with the giant, dripping object wavered between the two. She made up her mind and ran at the Centaurs.

“I want her signature!”

That was a commentary more on the popularity of the two famous seconds to each Great Company among your young Lizardfolk than the fiscal economics of each signature in the developing market of celebrity-signage.

However, the little incident resulted in a gold coin and a promise for the signature changing claws, and the Centaur trotted back to the group on his side, as more Centaurs trotted about, calling encouragement or even trying to help.

But the crews on the banks of the Ysai were experts. And it seemed the Centaur had made a good purchase, because the object the Lizardgirl turned over turned out to be…

An oyster. It was brackish enough on the banks of the Ysai river for them to survive, and because the city kept the rivers clean and even cultivated the famous oyster beds, this was where you came to get some fine oysters.

Or, if you were more mercantile, their other product.

Pearls.

In this case, not just ‘pearls’, but magic pearls. Because if you were going to have a pearl, it might as well do something.

In this case, the [Pearl Hunters], [Shell Openers], and so on, including even hired [Treasure Seekers], [Divers], and more, were in a frantic race to find a pearl from the many oysters here. Oh, they’d found a number of quite fine ones already, but they were after a Ysai speciality—a Purewater Pearl.

It was a kind of pearl that developed among the oysters here, that purified water. A very valuable object that allowed for saltwater purification, and was thus highly sought after—although it wasn’t that powerful. You got a gallon of freshwater a day if you let it sit in the right amount of saltwater.

Very useful for someone by themselves. But given the cost and the fact that you’d need countless numbers of them for a city…

It had more applications for [Mages] and [Alchemists] than just as it was. But [Jewelers] and such, along with your collectors of fine and rare items like this, sought the Purewater Pearl for that reason, so it was lucrative enough.

“But why are two Great Companies both trying to get the pearl?”

The audience was confused, but one of the chatty Lizardfolk was happy to clue them in.

“It’s a race! Have you heard of the [Jeweler], Sitq the Setter?”

“That’s a silly name.”

“Well, he’s a Lizardfolk! Can you believe that? People say he never wanted to be one of the Naga.”

“No. Really?”

The Lizardfolk in the crowd were, by turns, fascinated and aghast. The know-it-all smugly nodded and went on.

“But he’s really good. Like Level 40 at least! Maybe Level 50? He’s oooold. But he said he was working on a new masterpiece! He calls it the Band of Eight. Or the 8-Band. Or the Octoring!”

Several people groaned, but most of the Lizardfolk were laughing at the name. Yet, humorous as it was…

“It might be relic-class. At least a top-tier artifact. I’m serious! You know how he did it? He took eight pearls, each with a different magical property, and did something magic to them. Apparently they all came within days of each other because they had to be fresh. But guess what happened to the last one? He broke it! Now he needs a Purewater Pearl, so he said that whoever gets one to him first gets to make the first bid on the relic.”

Hence both Maelstrom’s Howling and the Iron Vanguard arriving at Ysai. They were engaging in a competition to both get the Purewater Pearl…and deliver it to the [Jeweler] first. It was about a new artifact. Also, it was about pride, and so the audience was seeing who would get the pearl first.

Because whoever got it first? They would be giving it to the figure casually lounging by the Runner’s Guild, signing autographs and laughing, ready to go.

“That’s the Wave Runner! A Courier’s shown up to do the delivery!”

People pointed at one of the Couriers who could run both water and land.

Funny thing, Runner names. It was always ‘running’ based, so you got the Wind Runner, the Wave Runner, the [Mage]-Runner…

Well, it was easy to remember. And to be fair, the half-Elven Runner had magic boots. Water Walking boots. He had shown up, and since no other Courier was in the region, he’d be delivering the pearl for whomever got to him first.

It was a fun day, and the normally quiet village of Ysai, along the coast and inset to the sea, was having a blast. The food vendors were having a field day, and there was a discount on, you guessed it, oysters.

“Oysters n’ Crab! Who wanted the oysters and the crab thing? Not you, I know you didn’t pay for—hands off!”

An exasperated Lizardman [Server] was navigating one of the packed restaurants, fighting off hungry Lizardfolk who all insisted they’d ordered it. Fortunately, he remembered the client and spotted a waving hand.

“Here you are, sir! Don’t let them—who took one of the crab legs? Sorry.”

He went back for more food as a huge cheer went up from the river.

“Someone’s got it! A Purewater Pearl!”

The Wave Runner, Oredien, looked up and grinned as a commotion broke out on shore. Everyone ran to look. Who was it? Who had gotten the pearl first?

The Maelstrom’s Howling company, that’s who. They were fighting their way up the streets, Centaurs stamping their hooves, forcing the crowd back. They had the pearl and they wanted it delivered now.

But…and here the first note of alarm entered Ysai’s small moment.

Would the Iron Vanguard stand for that? Because here a detachment came, Dullahans marching in their ranks. The Centaurs slowed and they aimed their bows warily at the ground. Lizardfolk saw the second group coming and now they were pushing to get out of the way.

“Hold your fire! This is neutral ground! You have no legs to stand on, Iron Vanguard. Don’t make this escalate.”

The Centaur leading their group warned the Iron Vanguard’s representative. The Dullahan who replied had some kind of pale steel armor, a different alloy than normal.

“This will not come to blows. But we will inhibit your progress.”

“Good luck with that. Courier Oredien—to the [Jeweler] in Hemglass, please. Courtesy of the Maelstrom’s Howling company.”

With some fanfare, the Centaur offered the Wave Runner the bag, in case this appeared on the news. Hemglass was further south, one of the big cities just north of Talenqual.

The half-Elven Courier…didn’t move. He looked at the Centaur, who shook the bag impatiently, and sighed.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid I’ve been booked for another delivery.”

The Centaur’s face went slack for a moment. Then he turned pale. The Dullahan’s representative smiled slightly.

“You—how much are they paying you?”

“I can’t name numbers, sir. I’m afraid it was pre-agreed.”

Upset! Lizardfolk ran around in the streets, shouting. It was all a trick! The Iron Vanguard had pre-hired the Wave Runner before he came to the city, and the idiots in the Maelstrom’s Howling Company hadn’t gotten a backup!

Now that was the kind of underhanded play people were here to see. Tulm the Mithril, back at it again. The Centaur galloped towards the [Mages].

“Get me any Courier in the region! A—a City Runner?”

But a City Runner, beating a Courier? Couriers did runs in mere hours that took City Runners days. The Maelstrom’s Howling’s leader was panicking, but there was a chance. If the Iron Vanguard didn’t find another Purewater Pearl soon, if…

A cheer from the river. The Centaur turned and the Dullahans began to smile with, what was for them, exuberant victory. The Dullahans had just found their own magic pearl.

“We’ll offer you half again what the Iron Vanguard is paying.”

The Centaur swung around to the Wave Runner. The Courier hesitated, but he had to shake his head.

“I’m afraid it’s pre-arranged, sir. I’m sorry—”

“You won’t hear the last of this! The Maelstrom’s Howling will remember this!”

“And so will the Iron Vanguard. You can’t threaten a Courier.”

The Dullahan and Centaur were arguing as the Centaurs galloped around, calling for an emergency teleportation spell—but it was a magic pearl—debating having one of their own try to run down one of the trade routes.

But even Centaurs weren’t close to Courier-levels, and the Wave Runner had the straightest shot down the coast. The second pearl was being transported up the hill and now the Centaurs were blocking the Dullahans, jostling with them and shouting.

Low-level drama. In the grand scheme of things. Not even scrying orb-worthy, because it seemed like a predestined loss. But it was more interesting, especially to the person who’d ordered oysters. He’d finished his plate, left a tip—but he had to wave the [Server] down so one of the Lizardfolk didn’t steal it.

“Here you are.”

“Thank you! You ate that fast. Was it not that good or too good?”

The restaurant’s guest grinned, and flashed the Lizardman a smile which was returned toothily.

“I’m in a hurry. It was great, yeah? Loved the crabs.”

“Thank you! Ooh, thanks for the tip! Come again!”

The Lizardman waved, and the person pushed through the crowds. He muttered under his breath as he went.

“…I wish I’d had any of the crab.”

A little figure half-poked her head out of the hiding place on his clothing before a hand yanked her out of sight. She retorted via the speaking stone they’d placed in his ear.

“It was great crab! I told you we were hungry! We never get great crab at Paeth. You thought we’d eat one leg? I told you we ate lots, but no, you had to get one order.”

“Noa, I swear, you’d drive the Gnomes insane. Stop poking your head out!”

A muffled argument in the Human man’s ear. He grinned, but he was pushing his way through the crowd. The crestfallen Centaur was watching Oredien accept the pearl with literal fanfare from some Dullahan [Trumpeters], and waving. Casually. And why not? He had the drop on everyone and there was no one to match…

“Excuse me!”

The crowd broke up. The Centaur turned and Oredien slowed. What was it? Perhaps it was the species of the Human man who trotted forwards. Perhaps his height, or the fact that he was clearly in excellent, just amazing shape. Perhaps it was a sense of drama, an instinct about what was coming next.

Perhaps it was the speaking spell on his voice, cast by a miniature [Mage].

“Who’s this?”

The Iron Vanguard’s representative was impatient, but the Centaur turned to the newcomer with pure desperation.

“I’m a City Runner. I specialize in sea-deliveries. I heard the Maelstrom’s Howling company needed a runner?”

A disbelieving laugh from the crowd and the Centaur. He almost reared back and looked down at the Human, skeptically.

“We do need a fast Runner. A Courier. There’s the Wave Runner. We need someone to beat him to Hemglass.”

The Human smiled. Confidently, which caught the eye of the Centaur, who’d been trained to tell confidence and false bravado apart.

“I’m headed towards Talenqual, actually. That’s a perfect delivery for me.”

The Centaur snorted and the Wave Runner chuckled, but he eyed the other Runner up and down, a bit speculatively.

“I’m sorry if I didn’t clarify—I want you to arrive before that Courier and deliver it. Since I don’t think a…what, a City Runner can do that? No offense…”

He trailed off, because the man hadn’t stopped smiling. He glanced at Oredien.

“Well, why don’t we see who gets there first? I’m not a Courier. But I’ll tell you what. I’ll take the delivery, and if I fail, I’ll pay you for the Purewater Pearl and take no payment for the attempt. Deal?”

“Oooh. Did you hear that? That City Runner thinks he can beat the Wave Runner!”

Shouts from the crowd, and a reignited sense of interest. It wasn’t every day you got to see a race.

The Centaur from the Maelstrom’s Howling’s company raised his brows. He checked the Human. They had the same skin tone, but something about his accent and the way he was glancing at Oredien made the Centaur doubt he was a native Balerosian. He did look fit, though…and the Wave Runner was eying him.

“You’re a City Runner?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Well, that’s not a bad deal for us given that the pearl’s useless if we lose. I’m warning you, though—it’s not cheap.”

The man shrugged.

“It works for me. I could use one. Sell it—I’m willing to take the risk. Besides, what have you got to lose?”

He grinned, and the Centaurs stomped their hooves approvingly. They did like a show of bravado. The Dullahans, on the other hand, didn’t like this new variable. Although…he was only a City Runner. They were subtly looking at the Wave Runner to run off, but the half-Elf stepped forwards.

“Excuse me. May I ask your name? I am Oredien, Courier. They call me the Wave Runner. I think I know you. I thought you were dead.”

The Human turned and took the half-Elf’s hand. He grinned.

“I’m Luan. Luan Khumalo. City Runner, affiliated with the United Nations company.”

Oredien’s eyes lit up. At the same time, one of the Dullahans recoiled and eyed Luan with sudden recognition.

“Ah. I knew I had heard of you! Luan the [Rower], that’s your nickname, isn’t it? I heard someone claimed a bounty on you. But they were arrested for murder.”

“Were they? They nearly got me. Those Lizard-bastards.”

“Hey! That’s fairly accurate, but hey! It’s not all of us!”

Luan grinned and waved at someone in the crowd. The light caught a hint of gold. Writing—a tattoo on his arm. Oredien eyed it, but looked at Luan.

“Listen. I appreciate you’re fast, but I do have a reputation to maintain. I’ll be running as fast as I can.”

“That’s fine.”

The half-Elf’s brows rose. Luan wasn’t being insulting—not quite. You could read it that way, but it sounded less like bravado. More like someone who was just…confident.

The Centaur was exchanging a [Message] with his superior. He trotted over, eying Luan. The crowd was already on board with this idea. They were already chanting.

“Race, race!”

“It’s a race!”

“Someone get Wistram! I want to be on the news!”

“If you’re confident, I won’t stop you. I’m interested to see what makes you think you can beat me. Share a drink afterwards, no hard feelings?”

Luan’s teeth flashed as he grinned.

“Absolutely, my friend.”

The Dullahan’s leader glared about, adjusting his head haughtily.

“This is ridiculous.”

“Don’t be upset. I intend to fulfill my contract; but it’s poor sport for a Courier to turn down a race. Think of it as publicity. See?”

The Runner’s Guild was open and a [Receptionist]—no, the Guildmaster himself—had come out to record the race. But the Centaur was still doubtful.

“Are you sure about this? We don’t want to embarrass ourselves any more than you do, I imagine. I’m reluctant to just give this to a random City Runner.”

Luan tilted his head. He thought for a second, on how to reassure the Centaur, and, at last, grinned.

“I’m new, but trust me. I’ll put on a show. Besides—I’ve got a score to settle with the Iron Vanguard myself.”

“Really. This bounty?”

The Centaur tilted his head. Luan glanced over at the Dullahans.

“That. But that started at the Games of Daquin. I was there.”

The crowd was agog. Then—they looked at Luan, and someone pointed.

“That was the Human who was with Umina, Venaz, and Marian! I thought he looked familiar!”

“No way! It’s the same Human? But they all look alike!”

“I want an autograph!”

Luan backed up as the crowd surged forwards, but the Centaurs and Dullahan soldiers blocked them. Now, Oredien was looking at Luan. That convinced the Centaur.

“Here you are, then. To the [Jeweler]. Sitq the Setter. Anyone should be able to direct you there. I’d find a map, but…”

Oredien glanced at Luan. He walked over and held out his pouch. Luan was debating putting his into a bag of holding or tying it to his belt.

“Well, it looks like it is a race. I’ll take it seriously. Do you want to start anywhere?”

Luan glanced up.

“You could start running. I need to get to the water.”

The Wave Runner glanced knowingly at Luan.

“Ah, right. You use a boat.”

“Scull.”

The half-Elf blinked at the unfamiliar term.

“I’ll start there.”

“You’re very sporting. Thank you.”

The two began walking towards the riverbank, which was muddied from all the work, littered with oyster shells. They walked a bit downriver with an army of people following them.

Dullahans, Centaurs. Lizardfolk. And now the Mage’s Guild was sending a [Mage] to record this moment. Luan reached for something and—to Oredien’s surprise—produced a vehicle which he placed on the shore, just before the water.

“That’s a beautiful little craft. What did you call it? A scull?”

Luan nodded. He began to get in, on a very, very thin seat in a practically arrow-like vehicle. Oredien didn’t look away, even as the Dullahan representative hurried over to remind him how important it was that he won.

What a strange collection of objects the Human man had. His dress hadn’t been regular cloth, but a kind of skin-tight suit. And he had two oars. Even a kind of bar that kept them in place.

“Not a kayak.”

Oredien was familiar with smaller crafts, but this was completely different. It was aerodynamic, practically vertical, and you sat higher up on it, despite it being virtually just on top of the water.

A strange craft, and yet the City Runner seemed at home in it, like a [Rider] with a horse. It was also clear the vehicle was very well-made. It was wood, but someone had painted it a very bright red, and the half-Elf couldn’t help but notice—it was definitely enchanted.

“This might be a serious challenge after all. Give me a second?”

He began to stretch out his legs. Luan adjusted himself, breathing in and out, smiling.

It was that damned smile. That was when the Iron Vanguard’s representative sent an urgent [Message], when the Wave Runner decided not to take it even the slightest bit easy, and the Maelstrom’s Howling’s Centaur began to hope.

Luan smiled like what he was. An athlete. And this?

It had been a long time. He pulled the oars back, his bare arms shining under the bright sun. He saw a scrying orb heading his way, and wondered if this had gone too far, but he couldn’t help it. He wore something close to his uniform from home; no sleeves, close to the skin, and he wished he had some glasses to block the glare.

But aside from that? The scull was light on the ground as it dipped into the water. So light that he felt like it might lose its connection with the ground. He didn’t even feel the weight of the oars.

“…That’s an enchanted craft he has there.”

A Centaur [Mage] whispered to her superior. Luan winked at the Lizardgirl with the gold coin. She waved a claw.

“Can I get an autograph?”

“If I win, I’ll come back and you can get one.”

The half-Elf laughed at that, but he and Luan traded another look. Luan was breathing calmly, but his heartbeat was picking up. The Fraerlings were arguing in his ear, but distantly.

“So we get a Purewater Pearl either way. That’s great for the allotment and, frankly, we can use the purification powers for all the refugees.”

“Think he can win? Noa, don’t gamble away everything.”

“You’re going to bet against our craftspeople?”

“Hm. Good point. But we nearly died getting here a few times. How fast are Couriers these days? At least this one’s not a teleporter…”

Luan’s grin grew wider. It was all distant, falling away. It had been so long. He had entered a warzone. Fought undead. He missed his wife and son and he had thought he was dead. He had met the little folk of Baleros and seen real magic. He had met something on the Summer Solstice.

And through all of it. After all this time, at last—no, he’d ‘competed’ with Lizardfolk at that village, once. But not really competed. Not with anything on the line.

Oredien had no idea why he was getting nervous. The half-Elf bounced on his feet as the Dullahan stomped over.

“Very well, I shall give you a count. On zero. From ten. Beginning…ten, nine, eight…”

The crowd was hushed. Bets were placed, and Wistram got the feed but weren’t sure if they really wanted to run it. A bored [Mage] was eying the two and concluding that it would be a good show on the City Runner’s corner, but nothing close to the half-Elf Courier. Although…he was Human…but there was no way. Although that was an odd vehicle.

“…seven, six, five, four…”

Why? Why was Luan smiling, though his records indicated he was far below the Wave Runner’s speed? Why was the half-Elf concentrated, even nervous? He felt pressured. And the answer was too complicated to explain. But it was simply this.

“Three! Two! One—”

Luan tensed. Oredien crouched, but he was a Courier. No sprinter. He had doubtless survived life-or-death scenarios, but there was a difference between the two. If it was survival, he might beat Luan, or fight his way to a destination or…many things.

But here was Luan. [Athlete]. Olympian from another world. The finest competitor you’d be able to meet in either one.

“Zero!”

Oredien took off. He leapt into the water before the voices could cheer, with the speed only a Courier could obtain. His feet touched the running water’s surface—and the water rippled, and he pushed off.

The Wave Runner ran on the water’s surface, his boots leaving a trail of splashing impacts. The water running down towards the sea was like a second ground to him, one only he could run on.

But everything else was the same. The river was going downhill, and so Oredien leapt downwards, like someone running down the hill, boosted by Skills and his long-legged sprint.

[Pure Acceleration]! [Half-Giant’s Stride]! [Elk’s Run]!

Three Skills used all at once. Overkill for a race? As poorly as it might reflect on him—Oredien was doing it on purpose. Luan would give up after the first mile’s gap. The half-Elf hit the surf as the inlet met the sea in minutes. He charged into the first huge wave, cursed, and vaulted it.

“Damn tide—”

But it benefitted him in the long run, because the scull would struggle in those kinds of waves, Oredien was sure. He turned, racing southwards along the coast. But first—Oredien surged further away from the beach. It was bad footing right where the surf happened. He was panting, more from the adrenaline than being tired.

He could make the journey in three hours normally. He’d probably hit two if he burned every Skill in him. Oredien was ready for the Maelstrom’s Howling to maybe ambush him; though, he was promised an escort once he got close to the city. The Iron Vanguard even had a fleet nearby. So he’d run far enough away from the coast to avoid any ‘accidental’ arrows, and then…

The half-Elf was glancing over his shoulder, just in case, to see if Luan was even visible. He knew the Human wasn’t. He was no Courier. Oredien had heard he was fast, a very capable Human on the rise, but there was no way he’d—

“Duck!”

The half-Elf saw the biggest arrow he’d ever seen in his life streaking at his face. For a second he thought the Centaurs had pulled out a ballista—then he recognized the bright red paint. He threw himself sideways and nearly went into the water.

“What the—”

Luan hit the water. He swerved right. Oredien saw him dip his oars in the water. The Human had shouted at him to warn the Wave Runner. Now he grinned.

“See you.”

“What?”

The half-Elf saw Luan heave—and then accelerate. It was like watching an arrow leave a bowstring. The scull blurred and actually left the water for nearly four seconds.

“Damn!”

Luan exclaimed. The scull wobbled as it landed, but no sooner had it begun to slow than he dipped his oars into the water and heaved again. All of this took place in moments. Oredien saw it all. It looked like Luan was skipping across the water, barely even touching it. He saw the City Runner accelerating, the man’s raised brows, his arms blurring back to reset his oars with perfect form.

It was only then, as the half-Elf began to sink—he’d thrown out a hand to catch himself and it was sinking into the ocean’s surface—that he realized he’d stopped running. He began to charge.

After Luan. He could swear the man was laughing. Not at him, but with just the sheer joy of how fast he was moving. He had that look—of someone who had reached…this level for the first time. Oredien remembered it. Then the laughter stopped, and Luan began to row faster. But Oredien could swear he heard some other voices. Figments of his imagination. It sounded like—

——

“Waaaaaa—”

Thump.

“Gyaaaah—”

Thump.

“We’re going to f—”

Thump.

“Mai tongs! I bith—”

Thump.

Every time they left the surface, every time Luan pulled, the scull shot slightly out of the water. The sheer speed of it and momentum might have actually started to damage a lesser craft. Luan certainly would have feared wind shear slowing them down, let alone the water.

But the only effect the wind had was on him. It dragged at his arms and body, but the scull cut through the water and air alike with barely any resistance. The Fraerlings were holding on, and it was Noa screaming in his earpiece.

One of the two Tallguard accompanying Noa shouted at Luan.

“We’re going too fast!”

He was patently terrified of the sight of an ocean of water zooming past them, and they’d capsized before in the trial runs. But the other Tallguard was screaming.

“Faster! Faster! Beat that half-Elf!”

To Luan’s great amusement, the [Alchemist]-[Magus], Resk, was poking his head out of his place, though he’d tied a piece of string to keep himself from flying away. The older Fraerling with a beard, [Mage]’s robes, was screaming back at his bodyguards.

“Too fast? Shut your mouth! There’s no such thing!”

Noa was holding her tongue, but the Fraerlings were cheering like mad as, behind them, the Wave Runner gave chase.

The mad Fraerlings of Paeth on the Coast had given Luan the greatest scull to ever exist. It had flaws—like its penchant to launch itself out of the water, which could result in a complete wipeout if Luan hit something wrong, but he’d learned to steady himself. [Anchor Balance] helped a lot; it was hard for him to tilt the already secure scull.

But more than that, they’d added a bunch of experimental features. Including a mirror on either side like a car’s side mirrors that let Luan see ahead. He was facing backwards so he had a perfect view of the half-Elf chasing after them.

“He’s picking up speed, Luan! He’s using another Skill!”

“Got it. My turn. I’m doing it again! Hold on!”

“No, no, no! Not again! That’s how we nearly died last time! Don’t—”

The male Tallguard, Cotm, shouted. But he and the other three were already clinging to the bars. Luan put his oars into the water and shouted.

“[Two Hundred Pound Stroke]—”

Luan didn’t know exactly how much power he put into each pull of the oars regularly. But his Skill definitely had a quantifiable number. He never finished the Skill—he left his thoughts and voice behind him.

——

The Wistram broadcast was on a definite delay. It even had a marker in the corner, because they had to catch the audience up from the beginning. Drassi charged into the studio in her pajamas. She led with this simple question:

“Do you believe a Human can fly?”

Daly was having breakfast and scratching at a recent tick bite. He reached for a glass of juice and Paige spat out her entire mouthful of cereal all over him. The old Cerealbreath blaster.

“Fuck, Paige! What’s—”

——

Luan screamed. Noa screamed. Everyone screamed, and got to scream for a long time. They were in the air. And just like last time—the scull was angling, headed straight for the water and they were going to go into it, then flip out as the enchantments—

“[Featherfall]! [Featherfall]!”

Resk cast the spell and the scull levelled out just in time. Luan saw the front go under in the mirror, but heaved, and they shot forwards again in another hop.

“I want to go home!”

Cotm was shouting. But Luan was rowing again, and Oredien? The Wave Runner’s mad dash hadn’t gotten him any closer. In fact, he was staring at Luan. The man could see his clear confusion.

What is…?

Now this was, uh, scull-racing! Luan laughed as he pulled ahead, again. The scrying spell following him was trying to clock their speeds.

The Wave Runner was fast. He could beat any ship going without specific enchantments. He had a land speed on water that any [Rider] would envy. It was indeed hard for most vessels to match land-speed.

Sea, land, air, in terms of priority. Except—if you’d ever seen someone cross Igawiz’s Jet. If you’d ever seen The Pride of the Wellfar at top speed.

“He’s falling behind! This City Runner—I’m told his name is Luan—Luan the Rower—is breaking his speed record by multiple factors! What is that thing? A canoe for one?”

Drassi was commentating the race with Sir Relz. The Drake was trying to peer at the object.

“It’s no known object I’ve seen. Some hybrid canoe and er…”

“You don’t know? Then I get to commentate! Out, out! [Commentators] only get to talk if they know anything! I’m Drassi, [Reporter], and I say that Human is going fast!”

Luan was zooming along, heading out to sea to avoid the chop. The first jump of when he used his Skill had been a mistake, dramatic or not. He’d slowed down to compensate, and was picking up speed.

It didn’t get boring though, even though the race was longer than ten minutes—or even one hour. For one thing—just look at him.

——

“That’s a Human. I mean—no. That’s an Earther! One of us! It has to be! Richard! Richard!”

Emily was shouting for him in Rhir. She was hardly the only person to take one look at him and jump to the conclusion. It wasn’t just her, though.

——

There was just something about the way he moved. Magus Grimalkin ignored Troydel’s excited voice. He leaned forwards.

“Hm. Magnify. Magnify.”

The view enhanced until you could see Luan. Dark-skinned, set in his seat. And then you observed his form.

Legs, body, core, all moving as one. When he pulled, the technique saw him ‘crouch’ forwards. The seat actually moved with him on some kind of rollers. He timed when the blades of his oars hit the water, pulled with one huge effort that combined his legs and arms’ strength, and then lifted the blades out of the water, tilting them sideways to reduce air drag. Then they were ready to pull again.

“Look at that. Look at that! What economy of form! What a refined movement!”

Grimalkin was striding up and down his ranks of students, which included more Gnolls than Drakes, pointing. Each time Luan moved, Grimalkin would indicate another group of muscles flexing. Shining, under the sun.

“This is conditioning! Look at his fat-to-muscle ratio. And he is not failing in his form! It has been thirty minutes and his speed hasn’t dropped! Gonads! This Human has gonads! We will be adapting this exercise if I have to create a lake!”

“What about a rowing machine?”

Troydel saw Grimalkin’s head snap around.

“You. Explain.”

But even as he listened, he looked at Luan. There was more than mere appreciation there. Respect. The Human was rowing at an incredible pace. But—he wasn’t slowing.

——

Luan could honestly row on a conventional scull. But he couldn’t here because this scull, enchanted as it was, actually meant that his maximum pace would send them out of control. Same with the oars—he had to balance his form to avoid them hitting waves. In a more controlled environment…

But he had gone so long! Luan had trained in multiple areas, before specializing in the single scull—and he was in excellent shape—but the men’s single sculls was a time attack. Seven minutes? That was seven minutes of your utmost energy.

Forty minutes and he felt like he was still in the top 90% of his energy. This was [Greater Endurance]. This was the effect of surviving for countless days at sea.

And yet—lest you forget—Luan glanced up.

The Wave Runner was still keeping pace. Every time he tried to speed up, Luan kept ahead of him. It was a psychological attack as much as a desire not to have Oredien pass him. If the half-Elf slowed, Luan would happily leave him behind, but they were close.

Running was, inherently, a bit easier than sculling to Luan’s mind. You could get ultramarathoners. He didn’t hear about people sculling for forty eight hours.

But with his Skills he had Oredien in a break-neck race. He just had to keep going, and to look at the half-Elf, he’d burned through a lot of his stamina to begin with too. Ironically, they’d both acted a bit like rookies for a longer race; pushed themselves too fast, too soon. But that was okay—Luan had a cheering team.

“Mouth!”

Noa saw Luan open his mouth. She tossed the snack up at him and saw him chew, furiously.

“Got any stamina potions? Water?”

He panted. Another Fraerling heaved at the stamina potion.

“Hold on, it’s h—whoops. Uh oh.”

They were moving so fast that the heave of Luan’s oars caught the potion and, freed from his belt, it zipped away from them, appearing to be stationary in the air. The Tallguard shaded her eyes.

“Uh…well, I think the half-Elf’s got the potion. As in, it just smacked him in the face. Hear him swearing?”

Luan didn’t, but he saw it. Noa helped them grab another one. And they continued. However—

——

“He is alive.”

Xol of Ingrilt sounded vaguely pleased. The Dullahan [Admiral] pursed her lips. Her head was monitoring the situation while her body paced back and forth.

“You sound pleased.”

“I am. I did not ask for him to die.”

“He is interfering with the Iron Vanguard’s victory. It is patently obvious that the Wave Runner is struggling. We cannot trust this merely to chance. Move the fleet to intercept.”

By chance or fate, theirs was the fleet in the area. Xol slowly rotated his head as the gigantic War Walker aboard the warship saw their heading change. He eyed the projection of the [Admiral]’s map.

“We may not intercept them in time.”

The [Admiral] was aware of this. The two Runners were moving incredibly fast, and she had seen the projections of Daquin and how Luan had dodged ships before.

“We may not. Send three cutter-class ships. Nets and capture spells. No deadly force. Unless you disagree, Xol?”

She turned deferentially to him. She hoped he wouldn’t, but he did have the authority to dissent. The War Walker hmmed, a huge rumble. At last, he shook his head.

“No. He and I have a history. Send the cutters.”

——

Potions. At the two hour mark, Luan was sure they were closing on the harbor. He thought he could see it, and but for potions…

Oredien was right behind him. It was now clear to Luan that the half-Elf and he were saving their Skills for the final stretch. Who would use them first? He was a distant speck now; Luan had steadily pulled ahead, mostly by virtue of the scull being so fast.

However, potions meant he couldn’t lose the Courier. Ironically, it was neutralizing the stamina element.

“We have to ban those in the magical Olympics.”

Luan grunted. The four-Fraerling team, riding on the front of the scull with a safety harness—all save for Cotm, who was cowering under cover—didn’t look as enthused by the idea as he was. They knew what it was; he’d explained it to them, but they just acted dubious.

“What, Tallfolk Olympics? I bet we’d have to do our own. Sure, you can run around a forest. But can you climb a tree in under ten minutes?”

Luan was about to reply that some Humans couldn’t even climb a tree, period, when he saw three shapes gliding towards him. One look at their sails and he cursed.

“The Iron Vanguard! Not again!”

They were angling to form a giant cordon—and tracking him, keeping pace. As he turned left, they moved with him, and it looked like their goal was just to block and then trap him.

Unlike last time at Daquin, they knew he was coming, and so they’d draped nets, creating a moving wall hundreds of feet long. Luan swore a blue streak as he shot towards them.

“We’re going to have to beat them in a race!”

Noa warned him. She was trying to figure out if Luan could; the closer he got, the faster he’d pull away, but Resk was tugging at her arm.

“Don’t get too close! Luan, I sense [Mages]. They’ll hit you with spells.”

“Cheating—Dullahan—Xol!”

Luan shouted, pulling even faster with the oars. He was eying the gap—and noticing Oredien had sped up. Even if they didn’t catch him, they could slow him down and the Wave Runner would win! Luan stared at the low-hanging cutters. Not warships, but speedy ships perfect for chases and events like this. Damn. Damn…

Cotm glanced up at the cutters as he saw Luan searching for a way to go. The cutters were drifting towards the coast and they surely couldn’t follow him onto the surf, but if they blocked him there—the other choice was deep sea.

“Resk, can you enchant us? Turn the scull invisible? Counter spells?”

The Alchimagus gave Luan an insulted look.

“Oh, sure. Why don’t you get a [Mage] to turn an entire house and a Giant invisible. Or counter a [Fireball] the size of a hill?”

Luan didn’t reply. He was straining, a Skill on the tip of his tongue. But would it be enough? That’s when Cotm burst out.

“Damned boats! They don’t even look that big to me. This is why the sea is idiotic. On land, we can just go over hazards.”

“Cotm, don’t be stupid. The designers just forgot to add an underwater feature to the scull.”

Noa began scolding him. Then she saw their course change. Luan headed straight for the nearest cutter, which paused as the [Captain] halted its momentum. Surprised.

“Luan? What’s gotten into you?”

“I have a stupid plan. Watch out for nets! Gah—”

Luan shot left, avoiding a [Sticky Webs] spell. But he continued straight for the cutter. The other two ships were moving out, prepared for a feint. But that wasn’t—Cotm realized what Luan was about to do, what he’d suggested, and screamed. The [Captain] realized it too.

“Nets in the air! In the—”

The [Athlete] dug his oars into the water a few dozen paces away from the cutter’s low railings. He shouted a Skill.

“[Two Hundred Pound—]”

——

Noa stared down at the deck of the Iron Vanguard’s ship. Below her, she saw figures standing there. They looked small, just like she was to other species.

For a second, she experienced the inverse, and she saw Dullahans gaping up at her. Holding their heads, tracking them. In a time out of time. A moment—then they were falling.

They hit the water as Luan vaulted the cutter. The [Mages] and net-throwers were so stunned that they completely forgot to target him until he was dozens of feet away. And then…

Luan was redefining movement in the scull. Forget mere speed. He could jump! He was laughing. And then he remembered—he was competing.

Here came the Wave Runner. The half-Elf sped up. He flashed past the ships, which actually had impeded him, but Luan saw something.

“Dead gods. What is that?”

He saw Oredien running. And realized his nickname was a misnomer. They called him the Wave Runner, but that was only because he had boots. Luan saw the half-Elf nod at him as he ran across the water, towards the distant city of Hemglass.

Running…along a forest trail. A flattened dirt road, beautiful trees, not the thick undergrowth of Baleros, but somewhere else.

The half-Elf’s home. He was running, and was that an elk racing him? Luan blinked. The Wave Runner was running in some kind of—second world. Maybe a vision. A memory. A piece of home.

He was going faster. So Luan laughed. He was tired. The city’s harbor was in sight. But this would be nothing if it wasn’t a tough competition! So he whispered. Skill versus Skill. If that was your best—

“This is mine. [Time of the Olympian].”

Noa looked up.

“I’ve never heard that Sk—”

She saw Luan’s arms blur. He began to move faster than she had ever seen him move before. Accordingly—she felt a kick to her back. She went flying. The scull surged across the waves and Noa was picked up, hurled into the ocean—

And caught by the safety-tether. She hung there, flying horizontally in the air, as Resk and Cotm and Kessice dragged her over to hang onto the bars. They held on, floating by the sheer speed of it.

——

“Elves.”

Oredien saw Luan pass him again. He knew running. He was one of the best. But he had to look at Luan and something told him—there was a difference. They had Skills. They had magic.

But there went an [Athlete]. If Oredien knew how to run, had practiced it, Luan had studied it. He wasted no movement. He was faster.

It would have been a better story if they were neck-and-neck, but Luan pulled ahead. His body blurred, moving in perfect rhythm, and even Oredien’s best Skill just…

Luan reached the harbor first. The half-Elf surged after him, but the Wave Runner didn’t slacken, even though he felt like he’d lost. Yet he murmured as Luan slowed, seeing the crowds, Centaurs galloping, jostling with the Iron Vanguard. Pointing.

“I’m sorry, Luan.”

Despite it—and he would have preferred it otherwise—he was going to win. He saw Luan realize it too as he slowed, coming into the harbor. The last problem.

Not the Iron Vanguard. The Maelstrom’s Howling’s company was there in force and they could probably neutralize each other. Rather…the [Jeweler].

He was in the city. And Luan had a watercraft. Oredien strained for speed. He was hundreds of feet behind Luan—but the man would lose everything when he got out of his scull. Depending on if he tossed the pearl to a Centaur and the Centaur was quick—it would be close.

——

“God! F—”

Luan shouted. He saw the people pointing to a street that apparently led to the [Jeweler]. But he realized the same thing the Wave Runner did. No! Not like this!

He could run, but he knew how slow it would be. It was practically a straight shot! If only—

“Toss it to us! We’ll run it in!”

A Centaur was galloping along the docks, pointing at a group waiting to ferry it there. But Luan had taken it here and—he looked up—

Oredien was closing in.

“Sorry, Luan.”

Noa groaned. She saw the man panting. He had rowed for two hours plus—and there was a kind of battle-fever in his eyes. No—competition fever. He wasn’t a [Warrior]. She saw him glance at her, teeth grinding—then eye the streets.

Hemglass was a modern port city. No dirt like Talenqual. Someone had taken the time to pave it over with stone, rather than incur the costs of mud and the like. Decent stones. His eyes flickered.

“Resk.”

“Huh? No, I can’t teleport it. Imagine teleporting a giant coconut to a place you’ve never seen and—”

“Resk!”

The [Mage] fell silent. Luan heaved, calculating. He looked down—he had less than ten seconds at the speed they were coming if he wanted to slow.

“Resk, exactly how tough did they make this scull’s enchantments?”

The [Mage] peered at Luan. He stared at the street, at Noa, who had a delighted look on her face.

“No! I will shoot you! Don’t you—”

Noa turned her head. She had to. She looked ahead when they landed, but she turned her head. Just to see the half-Elf Courier’s face—the crowds’—as they saw Luan launch the scull off water and onto land. He hit the paved street, and the crowds, Centaurs colliding into each other, scattered as the scull stormed across the paved street.

It barely lost momentum! If anything, it might have gone faster, since it was enchanted to be frictionless and the smooth surface couldn’t grip the enchanted wood. It shot forwards like a skateboard from hell. The Death of Kneecaps—a huge pointed ram, shooting down Hemglass’ streets.

Thus, Luan the Rower became the first sculler to go over land.

——

Sitq the Setter was having a lot of fun. He was staring at the scrying orb and Luan had just gotten to the cutters when he heard something from outside.

“Out of the way! Aaah! Aaaaa—”

The sound was like the most tremendous thunder of wood-on-stone, but so fast it sounded like a miniature earthquake. Sitq saw the representatives of both companies in the front of his famous shop point at something, then scatter. The old Lizardman sat up, the Octoring behind him.

“What is th—”

Luan Khumalo, the very same Human in the scrying orb, twenty minutes delayed, came through the glass window of Sitq’s storefront, hitting the displays, bouncing, in his scull, skidding towards Sitq, desperately trying to arrest his movement. The scull flipped and Sitq ducked—but far too slowly.

Luan slammed into the counter and lay there, the scull amazingly intact. The Human?

A trembling Sitq got up after a second and stared at the dazed man. He saw two eyes open, and a hand rose.

“Pearl.”

He pulled something out of a bag of holding, put it on the counter, and lay back. Sitq stared at the bag. He opened it and found the Purewater Pearl, ready to be set after the proper cutting. He stared at the Human, his destroyed shop, and the Maelstrom’s Howling and Iron Vanguard forces, watching Oredien jog up the street. They stared at the [Jeweler], apprehensively waiting for his reaction.

The Lizardman eyed the scull, his destroyed shop again, and Luan. He bent down.

“You. Are my new favorite Human. Autograph, please.”

——

Luan the [Rower].

Of course, he needed a better name. Couriers needed suitable names, and ‘the Wave Runner’ was the first rung on that kind of recognition. Later, you would earn more specific titles. Or—sometimes they just knew your name.

Like Mihaela Godfrey, the Courier of Izril.

Yet. Courier? The Human man had been registered as a City Runner that morning. Right until the Guildmistress of the Hemglass Runner’s Guild took a look out her window. She shouted one word.

“Courier!”

No one who beat a Courier in a race could be anything less. Not just that; a Courier was someone whose name you knew.

They knew his name. Sitq the Setter himself was laughing, having his vaguely traumatized shop assistants and guards sweep up his destroyed store front, and Luan shook Oredien’s hand.

The half-Elf had a rueful look on his face—and an accusatory tone in his voice, but mildly.

“If I’d known you were intending to make your Courier debut…you could have warned me.”

“I didn’t know if I’d beat you, to be fair.”

“Yes, but I’d have started running and kicked your damn boat—ah, damn. Well done. You’ll be buying the drinks, though. After this.”

He gestured at the crowd, people wanting autographs, and a [Mage] wanting to interview him. Luan looked around, thoughtfully. Noa and the other Fraerlings were very silent—hidden. Hopefully magically concealed from spells.

“I know where to get the drinks. It’s the next city over. Want to skip this?”

The Wave Runner raised his brows. Fascinating.

Someone was at least used to being in the spotlight as well. Luan didn’t just run—well, row—like a Courier. He walked like one too, not some rookie.

“You Human [Trickster]. You were already a Courier or something, weren’t you?”

The Courier, who for some reason would develop a nickname completely foreign, completely suitable, turned his head to grin and wink at Oredien. They saw him and recognized him. His scattered people.

So that was how Luan the Olympian came back to Talenqual. The harbor docks were heaving as he rowed in with Oredien jogging alongside him. A miniature flotilla followed the two into the harbor; ahead he could see a lot of Humans jumping up and down, screaming at him as loud as they could.

Tears in some eyes. Daly just shouted.

“You bloody bastard! I knew you weren’t dead! You kept us hanging for months!”

He was laughing, though, and Dawson was going around slapping backs and hugging people. He knocked Siri into the drink and she climbed out to kick him into it.

Chaos and confusion and drama. The only person arguably unhappy was Cotm, who had been heartily sick afterwards. He raised a distinctly green face from throwing up into a bag of holding. Noa shuddered.

“I hope you emptied that first. Look at all the Tallfolk. Is this going to make our job easier or harder? We have to get to Paeth with the supplies.”

“Nothing like a Courier for opening doors. Besides, it’s nice to zoom about. That’s a story to tell.”

Resk, the Alchimagus, smiled, but he was watching the Humans. Allies? That was a hard thing to say with the Fraer-folk, but Paeth needed allies. In fact…

There were more than just Talenqual’s people, the United Nations company, and the Featherfolk Brigade, who were a bit put out that all this celebration wasn’t for them.

Kissilt, Cameral, Umina, and Marian all stood further back on the docks. Kissilt was cursing and fishing around for something.

“Damn. Just when I’d thought this was all wasted. Do we have to cozy back up to that company, or what?”

“It is just a Courier. Not the Last Light.”

Cameral was making notes—for their next job. Umina and Marian exchanged a look.

“He was just a City Runner the last time we saw him. That’s some serious gear, Cameral. Did you see his scull-thing? It’s a new kind of variation on a traditional craft. There’s something here.”

The [Strategists] were fairly disguised; enough so that no one immediately pointed to them as the Titan’s students. They all had anti-[Appraisal] artifacts, even Umina. Of course, if you were wise, you’d spot them.

That was why Peclir Im was not on the streets. He had returned for a second meeting with Fezimet, the leader of the Featherfolk Brigade. The Quexal was glaring at the celebrations.

“Something of an important moment. Should you be down there, Commander Fezimet?”

The Naga-leader irritably waved his tail as his feathered wings opened and closed.

“It’s just a Courier. Rest assured, Peclir, it will not affect anything. In fact, I intend to expunge this company from my city. I’ll remove them within the month. Within the week! You can’t have two companies in a city, even if they’re more like a Human collective.”

“Hm. That’s very well.”

Peclir had halted his exodus with the forces because of all the attention coming their way. But also…he sat there, looking out the glass windows.

The students weren’t much of a variable. The Last Light was interesting, but she was gone and a lot of interests coincided with her. But that new Courier…

“Is something wrong, Peclir? Er…can I offer you anything?”

Fezimet was a bit distracted, unaccustomed to having someone who might be a superior in the room. Peclir just stared down.

“Not immediately, Commander Fezimet. I am just thinking. Would you entertain a request? Not from the Jungle Tails company; a personal one. Simply a hunch.”

“I…will certainly do my best.”

“Thank you.”

Peclir turned. It was just a hunch. But he happened to know his enemy—which was to say, the Forgotten Wing company—and their strengths and weaknesses. He didn’t know everything, which annoyed him; they were careful with even trusted help.

Even so. That was an amazingly sturdy vehicle that Human had. Peclir had seen it go down Hemglass’ street at incredible speed, wood on stone. Steel would have been scratched or bent from the impacts. Of course, craftsmanship was craftsmanship. But putting together that class of boat, which Peclir had never seen before in…what, two months?

And where had he disappeared? Peclir decided that, like the Titan, he had to give someone a bit of homework.

——

Luan was hugging his friends, and they were surrounding him, laughing, crying…

It was very good that the Fraerlings were hidden. Not in the scull; half the Lizardfolk in the city would try to take it for a joyride, and there were [Thieves] probably salivating at the chance. No, Luan had put it away in his bag of holding and given them an exit point.

…And by exit point, four Fraerlings were holding onto barnacles under the docks. Every now and then a big swell from one of the boats would cover them, but Resk had created a miniature bubble that anchored them.

Fraerling magic, which was very hard for even good [Mages] to just spot. Noa sighed.

“This is the part they don’t tell you about.”

“Are you kidding? This is the part the Tallguard tells everyone about so you don’t get little idiots wanting to run out and fight cats.”

The other Tallguard, Kessice, shot back. Cotm was peering upwards from their vantage point with Resk. The [Mage] was muttering.

“…And there’s probably the leader of that Lizardfolk company. See that? Quexal.”

“I’ve only spotted them in books. Amazing. What’s the level?”

“Only 37.”

“That’s so low. Isn’t it?”

“Tallfolk city like this? It’s not the best. Besides, he’s got a decent [Commander] class. [Gorgeleap Commander], to be precise—he can probably hit one of the moons with his jumping Skills.”

“Huh. Any other high-level people present?”

Cotm was making notes like a good Tallguard. Still looking miserable; he clearly hadn’t expected the sheer speed of Luan’s scull, but he had volunteered for the mission. Resk turned his head.

“…[Blackpowder Engineer]. What in—hm. That’s one of Luan’s allies. We need to slap an anti-appraisal spell on that. That must be the one he was talking about.”

“Amazing. You can see all of it?”

The [Mage] looked offended.

“Of course I can! I prepared for this mission, you know. Even before the refugees arrived, I knew I might be going with Luan so I memorized proper [Appraisal] spells. Oh, look. There are some [Strategists]. Four of ‘em. High-level, too.”

He pointed out another group. Cotm frowned.

“Isn’t it a bad idea for them to show their levels? Someone could [Appraise] us, surely…?”

“Well, if we wore a basic warding enchantment, sure. Do you think we’re wearing the shiny pebbles they’re wearing?”

Cotm’s enchanted quill had paused as he stared at the group that Resk had pointed out. He frowned. Then began to try to pull out objects from his cleaned bag of holding while holding on.

“Darn…Noa, can you anchor me?”

“Oh come on, Cotm. Don’t pull out everything. What, do you want a desk?”

“I could create a desk. A magical surface…”

“Shut up. Just hold me.”

Noa, sighing, steadied his grappling hook as Cotm pulled out a number of pages and even a bound book and began leafing through them. Kessice blew out her cheeks, but she gave Noa a look.

“He’s my partner. You get the Sentry Leader, so I guess you have it worse. Cotm’s our [Encyclopedia Scout]. Analysis.”

“Ah. I’m, uh, not specialized. What’s your focus?”

“Sniping.”

Kessice patted the crossbow at her side. Noa nodded. Classic partner duo. Someone tells you where to shoot the bird and you do it. Although…given some monsters, the answer was often ‘the eyes’, or ‘the belly’, and it wasn’t hard. But you had exceptions.

“Hmm…there’s no way…damn. There is a way. Ugh. Stop swinging me, Noa! I’m going to puke again!”

Cotm glared up as the other Fraerling resisted the urge to kick him. He looked up, then around.

“We’re a four-Fraerling team. I’m beginning to think we should have called in a squad of sixteen.”

“Really? Well, I can’t say we would have added to the burden—but we’d take away from Paeth. Given the situation…I wish we had another dedicated [Alchemist] or our own [Engineers] or [Mages].”

Resk agreed. The civilian-Fraerling looked around.

“I haven’t been in that much danger yet. Although I’m counting on you all to shoot any cats in the city.”

Noa and Kessice nodded grimly. The city would be the biggest challenge, ironically. There were evil fish at sea, but Luan’s boat was Fraerling-magictech. In the city?

“We’ll set up traps, show you proper barrier spells, and if there are bugs, we’ll incinerate the bastards in their lair. We’ll need to secure any room he puts us in; there’s no guarantee the Tallfolk don’t have cracks as huge as we are they don’t know about.”

“Watch for doors. Noa, how’s your close-quarters fighting?”

“G-good? I’ve fought rats close-quarters, aside from the fighting at Paeth. Our armor’s rated for magical creatures.”

“Well, we’ll try to poison them or burn them. Resk, do you know [Acid Wave]?”

“You want waves? I can do waves. You want rain? Orbs? Geysers? Just don’t let them get near me with their feely-bits and pinchers. Unless it’s as dinner.”

Cotm ignored the other Fraerlings planning. He looked up, sighed, looked down at something, and reached up as he packed away his gear. He took the grappling hook’s line back from Noa and turned to face the others.

“We’re authorized to make a lot of choices. Alchimagus Resk, you’re the civilian-lead, and I’m technically the Tallguard in authority.”

“You are? I thought Kess—”

Cotm glared at Noa.

“I’m empowered to make decisions for Paeth. We all are. This isn’t a game, so bear it in mind. Paeth is in danger. Oierdressql fell and we might be next.”

The others fell silent. Cotm glanced up at Luan, who had glanced their way a few times; he’d have to pick them up later under some pretense.

“When you get to this United Nations company, it’s up to you whether we make contact with more Humans, Alchimagus Resk. Get the supplies, and…well, I’m not sure what we need. We can contact Paeth and get in touch with the Sentry Leader and Architects. Be careful. Luan’s trustworthy, but Tallfolk can still lie.”

Noa frowned.

“…You’re saying it like you won’t be there.”

Cotm looked at Kessice. He checked his grappling hook, then pulled a second enchanted hook and rope from his belt. He looked at the others, who all stared at him.

“I’m Tallguard Cotm, making an independent decision for Paeth and Feiland. Don’t make contact with me and if you don’t see or hear from me—expect the worst.”

“Cotm—”

Kessice began to argue, but the [Scout] had made up his mind. Only…Noa’s brow wrinkled. For what?

——

It was a mystery. One that would be answered soon enough.

Idis shrank a bit because while Calectus and Ressk weren’t precisely glaring at her as she walked along in that decayed substitute body, they weren’t happy.

“It is the Mind’s business, Idis. You were right to obey.”

Guardian Ressk said, as they exited the Third Mind’s chamber. Idis heard the but in his words. She ducked her head.

“I’m sorry, Guardian Ressk.”

He looked at her, a bit uncertain. Which was new; the Selphid had been very calm before. Now, he was clearly agitated, and he glanced back.

“I will take you at your…words. The [Doctor] is well?”

“Physically, yes. Perfect condition.”

“Good.”

Geneva Scala was beginning to float upwards. The Third Mind waited for her. A day had passed since their meeting with the Second Mind. A lot could happen.

The Third Mind wanted to know exactly what.

——

“I am in the center of the Mind.”

Geneva Scala looked at herself, standing in the void. Then she was herself. Like before, she made contact and the Mind engulfed her.

Yeque, the representative personality, the Selphid [General], appeared, looking displeased.

“You have spoken with the Second Mind. It is not your fault. Nevertheless, the Second Mind is divergent in notable ways. Sympathetic where it must be practical.”

Geneva Scala turned. She felt…clearer. Rather than the Third Mind simply guiding her from topic to topic, it seemed to be waiting for a response. She thought/spoke her reply.

“The Second Mind is ethical. As a [Doctor], I find more common ground with it.”

Yeque frowned and more Selphids appeared, with more Genevas.

“The Second Mind is not superior to this gathering. It is not able to conduct research into the Wasting optimally. What did it tell you/inform you/offer?”

Geneva folded her arms.

“Why don’t you simply take what you want to know?”

Yeque hesitated. He grimaced and Geneva was sitting with him at a table. It was the United Nations’ table, where she used to talk with Daly, Paige, and the others. She had a cup of tea in her hand and he leaned forwards.

“We are not hostile, Geneva Scala. You understand our great urgency. You are a [Doctor], sworn to help others in need.”

Geneva felt a pang in her chest. She closed her eyes, and replied, slowly.

“I am. But a [Doctor]…no, a doctor is still a person. I can’t be everywhere and do everything. I also did not agree to give up my rights just because I want to help people. My Hippocratic Oath does not mean I place myself in danger or allow situations like this to occur.”

The Selphid frowned. He looked around the room and shook his head.

“We would like to cooperate.”

Geneva Scala stood. She did feel clearer. She focused—she had to focus, just like the Second Mind had taught her.

“You have not cooperated thus far. You have had me do whatever you needed. I am in the center of the Mind, but I have no agency.”

Yeque narrowed his eyes. Suddenly, he was gone and Geneva felt hundreds, thousands of other minds all pressing at her, one being of many parts.

“The Second Mind has done something. What? We must know.”

Geneva was in the void again, but, unlike last time, she thought there was a nuance to the displeased force of the Third Mind. She…heard. No, she sensed? She thought-heard whispers. A kind of undercurrent to the main words.

“Implications of treachery? The Minds are united in purpose.”

“Conflict with the Second Mind is not desired. Redefine as disagreement—”

“The Second Mind may be attempting to co-opt the [Doctor].”

The Third Mind wasn’t sure. And Geneva heard the many opinions within it, from separate Selphids. Yet as the Second Mind had told her—the Mind ruled by majority.

“Tell us what the Second Mind did/said/promised. We ask.”

Geneva Scala folded her arms.

“I refuse. What will you do then?”

The Third Mind paused for less than a fraction of a heartbeat in real-time. But Geneva sensed many, many individual voices…minds…doing something that was like a vote. Only, with all their perspectives and feelings in play.

Some of the Selphids regretted it. Some were adamant. Many…many were afraid, angry, curious. What emerged was a will forged of the majority of opinions, and it was this. She felt a vast, implacable will.

“We will know.”

Geneva Scala tried to fight it—but even with the Second Mind’s lessons, it was like…

It was like you stood on a beach and you were trying to hold your ground. But the storm had picked up and the waves were taller than you were. Twice as tall. Now…without moving, without anything else, stand your ground and don’t let it knock you off your feet.

The Third Mind could produce waves far stronger, and it was made up of thousands of minds, all with wills arguably as strong as any Human’s. Some stronger, some weaker.

Geneva didn’t even have a chance. Her resistance was swept away and then…

——

Geneva Scala stood in the center of the Mind. ‘Geneva’. Her eyes were blank. The Third Mind was everything, and she was…walking. Forwards, in the void of her own mind, to something.

A representation. To her, it was what most Humans from her world would probably compartmentalize in any visible or understandable way.

It was a door. To Geneva, it looked like a door from her home, a painted white piece of wood with a little bit of flecked paint near the edges, where it had scraped off a bit. It stuck sometimes when you tried to close it.

A door to the mind. A door of memory, for private things.

The Third Mind was displeased it existed. It thought at her—although ‘Geneva’ was just a shell. The real Geneva was inside the door, everywhere.

“The Second Mind has taught you things it should not. The Second Mind is foolish. You cannot/should not/will not hide your thoughts. Not in the center of a Mind.”

One Human, versus a collective of Selphids? What kind of foolish being would think you could ever win that, anyways? The puppet Geneva hesitated as it put its hand on the brass doorknob. The Third Mind was entreating, showing her genuine remorse and sympathy.

“Tell us honestly. We wish to cooperate. The Second Mind poisons your thoughts.”

Geneva refused. This was not equal. There was no give and take, only give. That was what the Second Mind recognized.

That understanding was like a red thread. The Third Mind focused, and suddenly a little red thread ran from behind the door, spooling at ‘Geneva’s’ feet. Ah, a through-line. The answer to its question.

“Then we will know all of what transpired.”

It made Geneva open the door, revealing everything she had seen and thought and done. Just as the Second Mind, even Geneva, had known would surely happen. You could not beat the Third Mind. So why had the Second Mind even tried to help? What had it done?

The answer lay behind the door, obviously. It opened, exposing Geneva’s inner thoughts, her memories, her desires and feelings even she did not let herself know. Geneva fought, she rebelled, but she was captive of the Mind.

And yet. The Third Mind’s probe of her halted, because it was stopped. Not by another door, but by a defender of Geneva’s mind. It took a specific form.

Like the angel at the Garden of Eden in the biblical teachings Geneva had learned as a child. Like the hero, the [Knight] for the princess she hadn’t really wanted to be later on. However, like a hero at the nth hour, the guardian at the gates, he stood there, in the way of the Third Mind.

A fragile thing, because it was just an image in Geneva’s memory and heart. A memory could not stand against the Third Mind. It could erase memories, or so the Second Mind had told Geneva. Change them. The power of a Mind when it truly knew no bounds was terrible indeed. Her most beloved parental figure, an image of someone she trusted—it was just a thought. How did you fight a Mind?

Who was this stranger? The answer was, he was Human. His skin was fair, he had on older clothing, and his hair was slicked back a bit. He also was standing in front of a microphone.

His name was, in fact, Rick Astley. And he began to sing and dance.

The Third Mind stopped dead. It processed the song. Which was the hit single, ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’. An Earth song with a surprising resurgence after the inception of the internet.

“Ridiculous.”

The image vanished. The door reappeared, and the Third Mind made the Geneva-representation open it. It revealed Geneva reaching out for the Second M—

Rick Astley replaced the memory. Same pose, same clothing. He began singing again.

“Enough.”

Again, the memory disappeared. Geneva Scala turned—and she stood in a hallway filled with doors. All her memories. The Third Mind created Yeque’s representation, and he stalked past her. He opened a door for Geneva. But instead of seeing what had happened after that—

Yeque, the Third Mind, looked through the doorway at a strange, pastel world of artificial colors. Just blue sky and green, supposed to represent grass. A bad image, really. An animation. And in that odd picture of the world was…

A squatting badger. A very loud and repetitive song was playing. It had about five words, one of which was ‘badger’.

The Third Mind slammed the door. Geneva felt a surge of genuine anger.

“What trick is this? This…”

It opened another door and Rick Astley was back. The door slammed shut.

More Selphids appeared. They strode over to other doors and began to open them. What they got was…more songs.

Songs. Like this talking, animated parrot that sang It’s a Small World, or childhood songs Geneva knew. Not necessarily good songs—although she had loved some of them. Rather—the annoying ones.

The ones that got stuck in your head and never left. There was a name for them on Earth. Earworms. But this—the Third Mind was exceptionally confused.

“Stop this. Enough. Stop thinking of—”

It tried to force Geneva to stop. But here was the thing. You couldn’t. The harder you tried, the more it got stuck in your head. That was the power of…well. Memes.

To be precise, it was memetic. Geneva couldn’t stop any more than the Third Mind. Another door opened and it was just filled with a single question—not an image, just a thought.

“What happens when you divide something by zero?”

What flowed out was about eight hours of Geneva’s life where she had wrestled with that question and even tried to conceptualize what that meant. And once you asked that question, it just…lodged. In your head.

“The Second Mind! The damned Second Mind is—!”

The Third Mind was under attack. It was a brilliant conception; if you couldn’t defend, go on the offensive. And the problem was spreading.

Geneva was back in control of her body. She looked around the void, in her limited perception, and saw something hit the Third Mind. The other personalities, the many component minds, were all reflecting the same thing in the sky.

A giant, dancing singer from the early 2000’s. It kept popping up. Along with the other annoying things that popped into her head and deserved only hellfire.

This was an attack. The Second Mind had started laughing when it realized just how badly Geneva could ‘hurt’ the Third Mind. It had studied mental battles, but even the Second Mind hadn’t the levels of sheer practice Earth had at getting something stuck in your brain.

Geneva Scala watched the Third Mind start to turn into one giant, annoying song. Yes—it was far weaker to this than she was because it was made of so many minds. It was—

——

“Something is wrong.”

Guardian Ressk saw the Third Mind’s component Selphids writhing in agitation. He ran forwards, a finger to his brow.

“Third Mind. What is wrong? What is…what is that song?”

He blinked, then whirled to face Idis.

“What has the Second Mind done?”

Calectus tensed and Idis flinched.

“I—I—”

But before anyone did anything, before Ressk could demand answers, something abruptly happened. The Third Mind’s agitation suddenly—ceased. It floated there, serene, and Ressk and the other Selphids turned back.

——

Inside the Mind, Geneva Scala saw the memetic attack…cease. The dancing man vanished and, suddenly, she stood back in front of the door.

“Enough.”

Yeque stood there, eyes flashing. He did not look calm, but the Third Mind was back in control. It had erased the distracting songs and images. Or perhaps, simply ignored them, compartmentalized them with a force of will that only a Mind could generate.

The Third Mind focused on Geneva. Yeque spoke for it, grimly.

“So. The Second Mind aids you. It is not enough. This is noted. But it is not enough.”

The [Doctor] stood there, in the center of the Mind. But no longer a component. Geneva Scala faced Yeque, faced the Mind, in front of the door.

“I can fight back. And I will. Don’t force me to do so. Please. I do not want to hurt you. But…”

Geneva Scala hesitated.

“…I will not be a puppet either. I have free will.”

She was a [Doctor], sworn to do no harm. But she was also a person. She could not save everyone. She could not allow the Third Mind to simply use her.

That was what it meant to be a medical practitioner. To struggle with ethics. It wasn’t always this. Sometimes it was just having to charge people money for the work you did. Sometimes it was a triage.

But it was hers to choose, not the Third Mind’s. She felt the ominous weight of its anger growing. It was realizing something. No—it was casting magic. The spell completed, and the eruption of fury reached out of the mental world.

——

Guardian Ressk gasped. His eyes bulged and he recoiled. He looked at Geneva, and then swung around to face Idis, who flinched because she knew what he’d realized.

The Third Mind had taken a while to figure it out, because it had a weakness and that was that it thought and learned everything via thought. But if it had cast a simple spell, it would have learned this from the start.

The thought wave ran through the Gathering Fortress, into the chambers of the other Minds who were horrified. A mental war broke out, and the Second Mind pushed back.

“THE SECOND MIND HAS DONE THIS?”

“UNACCEPTABLE.”

“NO NON-SELPHID IS PERMITTED! A SECRET REVEALED!”

Idis clapped a hand over her ears, but it was all in her head. Screaming thoughts so loud it felt like her brain would pop. Calectus hesitated, hand on his sword hilt.

“Guardian Ressk? What is it?”

“The Second Mind—it has—”

The Selphid choked. He pointed with a shaking finger at Geneva.

“—it has given the Human, the [Doctor], a class! Taught her what only we are allowed to learn!”

He looked at Idis, recoiled.

“And you. You were not initiated!”

Idis bowed low.

“Guardian Ressk—the Second Mind did so itself.”

He hesitated, looking appalled. But that was the key. He recognized her. After all…Ressk was a [Guardian], a class designed to guard the Minds. But that was what you’d call a generalization of his class.

Ressk was a [Psychic Guardian]. Capable of the same feats as the Minds, on a smaller scale. And Geneva Scala?

——

[Telepath].

She stood on the stepping stone to something else. First think—then transmit it into reality. The latter was very hard, but both physical and mental were boundless fields that were lost to all but a few.

“THIS SHOULD NOT BE. YOU HAVE BEEN TAUGHT WITHOUT THE CONSENSUS OF THE MINDS. WHAT ELSE? WHAT TREACHERY? WHAT MADNESS?”

The Third Mind was beyond rage. It forced her towards the door. Nothing would stop it learning all, now. Not Rick Astley. Not memes, or Geneva’s burgeoning talents, including her ability to at least block off parts of her personality from immediate mental searches.

Nothing.

“Don’t. I am warning you.”

Geneva Scala’s hand closed on the door. The unassailable force of the Third Mind made her twist the doorknob. Geneva Scala sighed, with regret. She opened the door and revealed what was inside.

It was just one thing. Rather than the memory promised. The Third Mind began to rage, to force the projection to change. But it halted. It stopped. Then it recoiled.

Geneva Scala felt the shockwave of something like agony—a kind of paralysis, shock. She cried out, hoping it hadn’t done too much. The Second Mind had survived it. Please, no! She didn’t want to hurt it. And yet…

She stared at what was within for a second before closing the door. It was just one thing, really.

A glowing line of text, just like when she had read it. Words. Just words.

The Gods are alive.

Like a line in the sand. Geneva Scala looked back, then opened the door and stepped through. A line no one from that world could cross so easily.

Geneva Scala stood in the center of Geneva Scala. For a moment, it was just her. She inhaled and exhaled, though it was just the thought of doing so.

Then she exited, to begin…

Negotiations.

——

Geneva Scala stood before the Minds. Not in the Minds, but in their physical presence.

They were there, all six of them, though the Third Mind looked distinctly worse for wear. By contrast, the Second Mind floated apart, with the Sixth Mind.

Two more were undecided, floating back and forth with the First Mind by the Third Mind’s side. They were arguing. But none of them wanted to try Geneva again.

It had been chance that she found the ultimate tool to block a Mind from taking too much. And yet—she was a physical prisoner and she was not a perfect telepath. In truth, Geneva surprised them.

“I want a microscope. I want to conduct my studies in the physical world as much as the mental one. The Yellow Rivers plague is still without a finalized, efficacious cure. And there is someone I need to heal.”

The Minds regarded her. It was the First Mind, the authority, who projected at her, cautiously.

“You would allow the Minds to embody your consciousness?”

Geneva Scala looked past it at the Second Mind.

“I…want to help people. For now, you are unwilling to release me, correct?”

“Correct.”

That came from all of them. Geneva nodded.

“Then I am a prisoner. I am unwilling. But I will help you. For a time. If you help me. Give me your insight and ability to—think. I wish to cure the Yellow Rivers plague, and I know that if I work with a Mind, I will be able to.”

They could do things she could only dream of, and with their aid she could think a thousand times faster and with more clarity. The Minds debated.

“An exchange. This is fair. No—fairness is the wrong concept. This is simply a tad more equitable. We are unfair, but the [Doctor] has agency.”

The Second Mind was smug. The Minds argued, fiercely, but they had encountered a breaking point with Geneva. They could not take everything.

Yet…the Third Mind was balefully opposed to the Second Mind. Geneva watched, conscious of Idis supporting her. This was not a situation that could last. Yet for now…for now.

“You are genuinely willing to aid us for the sake of others. This desire we recognize. The Yellow Rivers plague is a danger, so we accept. We accept your aid in learning of the Wasting, furthering your understanding of medicine.”

The Minds came back to her as one. Even the Second and Third Mind in unison. Yet they had one final thought and question for her.

“What is the final request? You wish to help…who? Why?”

Geneva Scala looked up.

“It is a promise, Minds. I cannot perfectly put the pieces together myself. But if it is possible—”

She reached out, slowly. The Minds drifted closer and the individual Selphids backed away. She reached out, and communed, and thought. Searching for the answer. To heal the Yellow Rivers disease, to do some good in the world, no matter where she was. That was her desire. Even if it was one person. Geneva thought at them.

“I have never met her. But help me find a cure for the closest thing to death. To bring one person back to life, if it can be done. Her name is…Erin Solstice.”

——

It was this scenario. You knew. You knew you were on the cusp of something. Something amazing. A conclusion beyond you, possibly earth-shattering. But you couldn’t march on over and shake it out of them.

If you played your hand, you were in danger. But enough was enough. Umina Caxical stared at the United Nations company.

“I have to know.”

Cameral and Kissilt were distracted, still talking about their consulting job. But Umina had an instinct as sure as the time she’d figured out how to cheaply win the games of Daquin. The Professor had always told her to follow such instincts. She looked at Marian.

“If only we had Venaz’s money. Or Wil’s contacts.”

“We’re not helpless. We’re just not super-elite.”

Umina, who had seen Venaz spend more money than she’d ever had in her entire life in a single shopping trip, nodded. She squared her shoulders.

“I’m going over. It’ll be…Paige. Or Luan. I’ll just march over and tell them what’s what. I’m Umina, from the Forgotten Wing company. You choose someone and we bluff. We’ll figure it out. Pretend we already know and they’ll hopefully confirm it for us.”

“Hm. Are you sure?”

“It’s that or we never get there. We’ll…”

Umina hesitated. She scratched at the back of her neck frills and looked around. But they were just loitering in one of the alleys; it was so packed around the docks. Marian nodded, swishing her tail distractedly.

“If you wanted to wait for the Professor…”

“They’re too close-mouthed, Marian. Kissilt’s project was a distraction.”

“Hey! I resent that, Umina. You’re invested in the group, and we are earning real money. If you don’t want to be a part, we’ll buy you out. But don’t look down at the kind of money we’ve already made and the reputation we’re gathering!”

Umina turned to argue with Kissilt. The Drake glared—and then Cameral raised a finger. Kissilt was last to catch on, and all four students fell silent. They looked around.

“—Could have sworn—”

“I don’t see anything.”

Kissilt was twisting a ring on his finger. Umina bit her tongue. She went for the dagger at her side as they backed up in case of…what? A [Fireball]? A…

“You’re not bad.”

The voice was normal-sized, but it came from—the [Strategists] recoiled. Marian aimed her bow up with Cameral and Kissilt’s wand side-arms. At…what?

Nothing. Just bare brick. Umina squinted. There was nothing there.

“Invisible? Camouflaged?”

“No—”

“I’m neither. But you are all students of the Forgotten Wing company, aren’t you? In the name of the Titan of Baleros, I invoke your aid. I hope you’re honorable. But we’ll see.”

The students looked around. Umina squinted up and Marian frowned. With her keener eyes due to her archery Skills, she saw something.

“It’s a little…pebble. Wait. A speaking st—”

Something moved. Umina jerked, but it tracked her, and she flinched, raising her dagger as—

A Fraerling landed on her head. Umina went cross-eyed. Kissilt and Cameral froze. The Drake nearly shouted.

“Profess—”

But it wasn’t the Titan. The Fraerling man was clearly younger, and he had different hair, a more stocky build…yet he was a Fraerling.

Cotm stood up on Umina’s snout, glanced at the cross-eyed Lizardgirl, and around at the students. His heart was pounding, but he kept his voice level.

“I am Cotm, Tallguard of Feiland. I am requesting aid from the Forgotten Wing company!”

And that was when the gears really began to turn. But…Cotm? He began to explain as the [Strategists] took him to a safe place. Why them? Why not the Forgotten Wing company?

Because they were in the right place, at hopefully the right time. But you didn’t put all your eggs in one basket—or aphid eggs as the case might be. Cotm wished Noa’s group the best of luck. He was taking a risk. Not alone, though.

——

Perorn Fleethoof ran. She ran through the academy, up a flight of stairs tailored for Centaurs, and burst into the room. She was panting; she was not a filly anymore.

Foliana was already there, somehow. She sat there, calmly eating a berry the size of her paws. A little bit had been broken off and placed on the table in front of her.

Someone kicked it. Instantly, he was scolded, but he folded his arms.

“What, no plates? I thought this ‘Great Company’ was used to Fraerlings. We’re not savages. Are you?”

“Mm. Someone’s getting some plates. You all came at once.”

The tiny little man put his hands on his hips.

“So rather than wait for it, you expect all of us to devour a single piece of berry.”

Foliana eyed the piece of berry. She picked it up, popped it into her mouth, and began to chew.

“…Mm. Tasty.”

“Dead gods.”

Perorn stopped. She stared at the visitors. Counted. One, two…

Sentry Leader Ekrn stared up at Foliana, trying not to look away, but Three-Color Stalker was hunched over, staring almost at eye-level with him. And her eyes were huge. Some of the other Fraerlings had backed up, surrounding the female Fraerling who was just behind Ekrn.

“Mm.”

That was all the Squirrel Beastkin woman said. She looked at the other Fraerlings.

“Who are you?”

“Sentry Leader Ekrn of the Tallguard of Feiland. Here to demand answers from the Forgotten Wing Company on behalf of Feiland!”

He barked back. Foliana blinked, slowly. Then focused on the second figure.

“And I am Guidance of Paeth on the Coast. Also here to represent my colony, and other cities which have come under attack by Tallfolk who know where we are.”

Guidance glanced at Ekrn. They had come together, and the Tallguard escort was meant for her as much as Ekrn, but they represented two powers, Tallguard and city.

That would have been enough for Perorn to gasp. But not enough to represent the others.

More Fraerlings stared and muttered. They pointed at Ekrn and the Guidance. Ekrn heard them—he wanted to look at them, but his eyes were still engaged in a staring match with Foliana, who was glancing at them.

“The Guidance herself? Sentry Leader…no one higher-ranked?”

“And who are you?”

At last, Ekrn looked around. The Guidance did too, and they saw other Fraerlings. Nearly four dozen Fraerlings stood there, despite Ekrn’s team only being six strong. Some had come alone. Others in groups, the largest fourteen strong.

“We also represent Fraerling…settlements. Under attack! We have seen Tallfolk scouts looking for something! We are not part of Forgotten Wing’s aegis, but we identify them as your enemies. Someone knows where we are.”

A Fraerling strode forwards, silver-haired, and barked up at Foliana. Other representatives shouted too.

“A village is gone! It was a complete slaughter! It will be repaid!”

“No one knows where we are but the Titan of Baleros and this company! We must be defended! We have given the Titan his precious signim—and is this how he repays us?”

Fraerlings from multiple regions. All in danger. Ekrn’s neck prickled. He looked at the Guidance, and then at Foliana. Slowly, the Squirrel Beastkin sat up and looked at Perorn. She murmured.

“Here comes the trap. Mm.”

Her eyes glittered.

“Almost done waiting. Waiting for it to snap.”

8.52 MN

[See that header up top? Book 5 on Audible. E-book’s also coming out on the 23rd. Consider buying it!]

(The Wandering Inn now has a fan-podcast! Read this Reddit post to learn about ‘No Killing Goblins’, which has an intro video here, and the podcast’s first episode here!)

The Meeting of Tribes had begun to lose its luster. After months, the tribes had, ironically, had enough of each other. There was a natural flow to the events; at first it was a twenty-year mega-reunion with all the celebration and fun you could want.

Then you got the traders, the pacts from tribe-to-tribe buying goods, making alliances. Lastly, and this was now, was the deliberation of Chieftains. The wrangling, the decisions, some great, others less so, and then the Meeting of Tribes would break up with good accomplished and, hopefully, benefits gained for all, even if some more than others.

Someone had thrown a hammer into that cycle, and it was called ‘Drakes stealing our magic’. To another extent, ‘Raskghar’.

Much had been said by important people on television. But the truth was that what was done had been done for a long time. There might be traitors. There certainly had been injustice, between two peoples who had been friends and mortal enemies. It was a complicated situation.

The end result, though, was that the adults had lost their cheer. They waited, sensing the worst on the horizon. Did they want war? No, for many reasons. But you looked around and realized that Drakes—maybe a few Drakes, but maybe quite a lot—had stolen your magic. Stolen your future, your children’s future. Engaged in the kind of treacherous actions…could you forgive it? You thought of other tribes, driven out of their homelands. A friend killed in a city, past wars…

And you wondered if one of your own people had helped them. That was…even worse. So the Meeting of Tribes was waiting, and that twenty-year gathering now sounded like, instead of a moment of unity and strength, the precursor to something terrible. [Shamans] looked up and spoke of this era.

The Waning World. Perhaps—one of the last ones? At least, one of the last to have even memories of great magic.

That was the conversation for the worried, the old. However, it was not all Gnolls. Some had done this before. The amateurs saw the sky falling and thought it meant the end of everything. Some people who’d had it fall on them before looked up and went to find a stepladder to prop it back up.

A laughing pair of children raced around the Meeting of Tribes, followed by an awed crowd of lesser children. In the pecking order of youth, they won, and so Cers and Gnoll cubs from every tribe followed in their wake.

Of course, they were careful. They stayed away from the biggest thoroughfares, and it was odd, because they were very different, from temperament to height and even age.

Nevertheless, Gireulashia and Mrsha raced about, often with Mrsha clinging to Gireulashia’s shoulders. Chieftain Torishi had a careful eye on them, even if she was busy, and she smiled to see it.

Feshi thought it was incredible, but Gire looked and acted younger. She still displayed hallmarks of Ekhtouch; for instance, she had already learned Mrsha’s paw-language and they often used that to talk.

“I’m glad you’re here, Mrsha. Things were so boring at the Meeting of Tribes until you came.”

Mrsha rolled about in some grass and then sat up and stared up at Gire. She had barely gotten started seeing all the Gnoll tribes and things to do. She signed back emphatically.

Nuh uh. Boring?

What about playing games? Sparring? The races on horseback, good things to eat? Amazing sights? Gire sighed.

“Boring. The games are, at least, and I’m not allowed to eat much. Sparring isn’t fun. Races aren’t fun. Things you can do easy are boring, right?”

Mrsha raised her paws to say that if she could become Mrsha the Legged and beat Ryoka in a footrace, she’d do it nonstop just to prove she could. But then she thought about it and had to nod.

This was true. It was no fun to play Ekirra in chess. Even Mrsha could beat him unless she closed her eyes—and only because he rearranged the pieces.

“Hard things are fun.”

It was odd to hear Gire, who was capable of the most erudite language, talking like that. But on the other hand…it was fundamentally true. Mrsha tilted her head.

What things are hard for you?

Gire searched for listeners before leaning in conspiratorially. Cers waved at her; he and a bunch of children from four entire tribes—Longstalker’s Fang, Greenpaw, Ekhtouch, and Silverfang—were following the two leaders respectfully.

“Kick the ball, Gire!”

Gire had one of Joseph’s footballs—not one of the autographed ones—but a nice, bouncy ball. She obligingly kicked it.

The Gnoll children stared up as the ball flew over the walls of the Ekhtouch tribe’s enclosure. Past the Meeting of Tribes. Over the heads of some Gnolls riding about on horseback. Cers stared at the ball, mid-dash after it. He glanced back, realized no one was going to race him for it, and, whining, went to hike to get it back.

The [Paragon] looked at Mrsha.

“Magic. Magic isn’t easy.”

Mrsha’s ears perked up. That was another thing they had in common. Gire leaned down to whisper to Mrsha so that even the other Ekhtouch children couldn’t hear.

“…I want to be a [Wizard]. I know I can do it, even if I have no magical talent. Or go to Pomle and learn more than just hitting things. Or be an artist. Or…”

Her face screwed up and she glanced towards the busy tribes. Ekhtouch and all the Chieftains were debating what must be done, what would happen next vis à vis the Drakes and all this international attention. Gire waved an exhausted paw at it.

“I don’t want to do that. I don’t just want to fight and lead. That’s boring.”

She turned back to Mrsha for a nod of understanding. What she got instead was a [Relc Kick] to her shin.

Mrsha bounced off and lay there, stunned. Curse your defense! Gire blinked down at her and picked her up and patted her.

“What was that for? Are you okay?”

Since violence was clearly not effective, Mrsha the Pacifist shook a paw at Gire’s bewildered face. She had to explain, because Gire looked hurt.

Don’t say that. You can do something. Don’t be a stupid Lism. You can do something to help. I envy you.

Gire’s brow furrowed. She glanced at Mrsha’s small frame, then her own. She looked at Mrsha, and her ears flattened a bit. She half-nodded, then stared at the card Mrsha had held up to use proper names.

“Sorry. I forget. Um…what’s a Lism?”

Mrsha tried to explain what the most objectionable form of creature in the world was to a bewildered Gire, who thought it was a kind of evil, money-grubbing salamander until she realized Mrsha was talking about a person.

Yet. That wasn’t why she listened to Mrsha alone. Not just because Mrsha was a white Gnoll or [Druid], or her connections with Liscor. That was all part of it, but she had a mysterious power. That was why Feshi watched her play.

Mrsha had brought something into the Meeting of Tribes. A perspective from home. Feshi watched as she waved her paws, puffing up her chest, swaggering about clumsily on two legs.

Don’t be a Lism. Be a Relc! Punching things hard was a very valuable ability! Ever seen a [Relc Punch]?

“But I’m too young. Chieftain Firrelle says that all the time.”

Mrsha scoffed. She blew air out of her mouth and stuck her tongue out.

Young? She knew some people who were only one or two years old. And they were shooting Wyverns, taking names—literally—and chopping up Flesh Worms.

Mrsha slowed. Her ears drooped, then she met Gire’s gaze with determination.

You can do something. Something bad is happening. Isn’t it?

Gire bent down.

“Yes. It might be war. It could be—very bad.”

She grew somber, with uncanny perception of all that might come to pass. Most children wouldn’t understand that, not entirely. Yet Mrsha just sighed.

Then we should do something.

Gire looked astounded.

“What, just like that?”

Mrsha rolled her eyes. She reached up and Gire put her huge paw down and held her hand.

That’s how it works.

Gire listened as Mrsha told her a story from home. Feshi, sitting on a chair and watching Mrsha’s animated paws moving and Gire’s face as she listened, murmured to herself.

“…I really wish I knew what she was saying.”

She stood up to ask Mrsha to tell her as well—or Gire to translate. That was when one of the Weatherfur [Guards] trotted forwards. He touched her shoulder. Feshi looked over and saw a grim Gnoll’s face.

“What is it?”

“They’re declaring war on us, Feshi. Chieftain Torishi needs you.”

Feshi’s fur began to rise. Gire looked up, and Mrsha paused in her story. The first howl rose, breaking the other sounds in the Meeting of Tribes, followed by horns, other calls.

So it began.

——

Who began it first? No…before that.

Did you believe in synchronicity? A confluence of events? The same realization, or action, occurring simultaneously across the world? Just like how an invention could be realized by multiple people concurrently without them ever collaborating.

It was not random. There was a pattern, made of pieces that were connected and genuinely unrelated. Yet consider—

The Meeting of Tribes already had the potential to enflame tensions between Drake and Gnoll populations. The show of force made enemies of the Gnolls…or people who thought they might be enemies of the Gnolls…nervous.

However, it was also a time of weakness as much as strength. The authority of the Gnolls travelled to the Great Plains, but many tribes could not send everyone. Thus, they were actually weaker, split, with their most important Gnolls absent.

Yet who would make an enemy and invite the wrath of countless tribes? No one wanted to be the first to pop up. Not unless there were too many targets to count.

Or…you thought war was an inevitability.

There were other flashpoints. The city of Marwsh was one such city that flipped its traditional stances fast. It had seen a beloved Senior Guardsman stabbed in the streets—and it was not the only Drake settlement to clash with strange Plains Gnolls who left behind few survivors.

Add to that the Gnollish reaction. Gnolls across Izril had already seen tribes wiped out in Chandrar. Now it came to light there was a continent-wide Drake conspiracy.

“It wasn’t the Gnolls who threw the first punch, though.”

Grand Strategist Chaldion had convened one of the inner security councils of Pallass. He smoked on a puffer. General Dulm of 1st Army, General Shirka of 3rd Army, General Edellein of 4th Army…the regulars of these get-togethers had been joined by two more [Generals], several high-ranking [Senators], and other officials. One of the [Strategists], a Garuda, cleared his throat.

“You’re sure, Grand Strategist?”

Chaldion stubbed the cigar on the ashtray for a moment to respond.

“I’m confident in this: what you’ll see from the Gnoll side are fights, smaller raids, maybe, thefts, burned grain silos—nothing in the vein of actual military action. The Tribes have concentrated their strength in the Great Plains. No tribe will make war; young hotheads no doubt took matters into their own claws. That is quite different from a declaration of war. How many battlezones are emerging?”

“A lot are simply declarations, Grand Strategist. But there’s a few armies on the move. Mostly around the Great Plains region. After the Woven Bladegrass tribe’s sacking of cities…”

“Naturally. And how many Walled Cities have issued some declaration of war?”

“None. Yet.”

Edellein glanced up at the ‘yet’. The [Strategist] understudy to Chaldion looked up. The Garuda saw Chaldion nod.

“Then who’s pivoting?”

“Zeres’ army has moved the siege of Oteslia wider. Fissival’s army is moving faster, and a Wall Lord Dragial—ah, the former Wall Lord—was spotted en-route to meet them. I see detachments from Salazsar, but that might be in response to the Oteslian siege; the Gemscale family banners are in greatest proximity and they’ve called representatives of at least two Gem Regiments.”

“What about Manus?”

Chaldion puffed on the cigar again. The [Senators] listening shifted. Technically, Chaldion was under house arrest, and there would be a public hearing discussing his actions. He would not actually be forced to bear witness.

And if anyone wanted to protest outside of his guarded home, or throw things, they could. They could also demand he was removed from his position and the Assembly of Crafts would hear them out and vote on the issue.

None of that stopped Chaldion from being right here. He wasn’t ‘giving orders’; he had been placed on a kind of military probation. He was just listening. And speaking. And they’d do whatever he suggested.

“Manus has sent two forces. The first one is unrelated—I am bringing it up in case officers were not aware, and in light of possible maneuvers. However, it headed north weeks ago. Plural. A small group of high-level [Soldiers] led by none other than Spearmaster Lulv.”

General Edellein interrupted, suddenly tense.

“A strike on the Antinium? That’s the last thing we need.”

The Garuda [Strategist] ducked his feathered head.

“No, [General]. They skirted the Hivelands and headed north.”

“I’ve been aware of it. Possibly unrelated. They might do something—we’ll review the Hectval-Liscor war later. What is this second army?”

Chaldion’s eyes sharpened. The [Strategist] bowed.

“Breaking news, Grand Strategist. It’s…a large force. Under anti-scrying effects, they left the city fast. Our [Informants] believe it might be as large as eighty thousand alone, and if they pull from garrisons on the way…”

That was standard procedure for Manus. Chaldion stopped.

“Why would Manus send an army? They have as much desire as we do to not see this escalate. I can understand Zeres and Fissival taking a position against the Tribes. This?”

“Another thing, Grand Strategist?”

Chaldion’s one good eye glinted.

“What?”

“Dragonspeaker Luciva is leading the force herself. They’re bearing southwards; they’re skirting the Great Plains by our projections of their travel. Maybe it’s Zeres? Or Oteslia?”

The Grand Strategist just drummed his claws on the table. His eye flicked back and forth. Everyone else was guessing too, but did they have all the facts? Chaldion cursed under his breath.

Did he? What Chaldion saw, individual, conflicting motivations aside? He stared down at a glowing map of Izril.

Individual battle zones between Drake cities who wanted battle and had the most hostile relationships against Gnollish tribes in the region. Strike first if it’s going to be a fight.

“Idiots.”

But the thing about this kind of war was that other cities and tribes saw the fighting. And the potential for it to spread…he was watching a wildfire tossing embers into the sky.

“General Duln. I’m minded to pull the reforming 2nd Army into the city. I suggest the Assembly of Crafts votes to mobilize the 1st, 3rd, 4th, 5th, and 6th armies. Now.”

They were going to need…all of them. Of course, some of these battles had begun before this war council could even convene. Chaldion needed to put out fires in Pallass’ region of control.

Gnolls were dying. And if they died—Drakes would die too.

——

Six days ago.

It was as he dried his socks he realized a few things. Firstly, that it had been a while since he had to self-launder. Or that he needed a spare change of clothing; he had enchantments, spells, and a wardrobe under normal circumstances.

For that matter, his ‘socks’ were cut from a bit of linen meant for bandages. Hardly the kind of thing you really wanted.

Secondly? It was really hard to dry socks inside of a hat. Also, it didn’t do anything for the odor, or his good mood.

Niers Astoragon debated trying to make a fire to dry them, but he’d have to do it on Bird’s head. That aside, someone might ask why Bird’s hat was smoking.

Again.

It was amazing the kind of things you could get away with if you had Bird as your cover. He was so…unpredictable. For instance, Niers engineered strange situations. We’re running low on game? Oh—what’s this, a flock of geese? They just happened to be going that way? What a coincidence. Yes, how coincidental. Not like someone with [Battlefield Awareness] guided them towards that using Bird.

On the other hand…them nearly being found out by a suspicious Drake patrol who were beginning to see through the disguise Skill? Instead of a Niers-level solution, they were ambushed by a pack of evil geese because someone had shot their leader and it had landed on the patrol leader’s head—that was Bird.

There were a lot of bird-related deaths, was the point. Niers felt no sympathy for the Fraerling-eating bastards. He’d been nearly force-fed to baby hatchlings…

“Seven times in my life. That’s about three too many.”

Bird tilted his head and Niers went sliding across Bird’s smooth head. He kicked an antenna and Bird tilted his head back straight. The clothing line he’d strung between both antennae thankfully didn’t snap.

“I do not understand. Why is four an acceptable number of times to be nearly eaten by baby birds?”

“First time is for the experience. Second, you refine your crowd-fighting abilities. Third? You get to figure out your best escape tactics and you’re learning from your mistakes; how to fight off the parents, trick them, beat the children, escape the nest, and so on. The fourth time you deserve because it’s happened four times. The other three just suck.”

Bird nodded.

“I shall bear this in mind. I have not yet been abducted by giant birds and transported to their nest, but I have high hopes on this matter. I am told Rocs are very big.”

Niers stood there, head in his hands, as he was wont to do after hearing a Bird-ism. Not exactly in pain or exasperation. Just…amazement.

It was actually kind of gratifying. Niers had fun with Bird. He also got angry, annoyed, and was sometimes shocked or impressed, and that was excellent. He felt good around Bird. He pinned the last sock up and turned.

“We’ve lost Mrsha.”

Bird stopped talking. He was riding along, and, ahead of them, Numbtongue was chatting with the Gnoll [Hunters] leading them to meet with their tribe.

“…Are you sure? I believe these [Hunters] may help us, especially if we communicate we are looking for Mrsha, as you said. They may also have seen her.”

Niers Astoragon shook his head. It had been three days without a major lead, despite their marathon-run across the landscape.

“Gna and Snapjaw have lost her scent, even with tracking Skills. Something’s happened.”

Bird was silent for a long moment.

“Is she dead?”

Niers checked his enchanted sword.

“If she was, I think we’d have heard about it. If she was, I think those damned Plains Gnolls wouldn’t be marching into cities. We may hear more from this tribe. My hope is the girl was clever or lucky and lost them. Bets from the top go: Magnolia Reinhart’s agents found her. She got in touch with a [Druid]. More white Gnolls or their allies rescued her. She was aided by some friendly, high-level individual like a Courier or…someone. Or Jexishe, the Friendly Creler, crawled out of the ground, defeated all the white Gnoll hunters, and carried her off to Smile-Land.”

Bird rode in dead silence and Niers counted the seconds until he replied.

“I think you made that last one up.”

“I said it was in order of likeliness.”

Niers waited. He smiled to himself. After a minute, Bird asked in a very uncertain voice.

“…Is there a friendly Creler?”

You could have fun. Bird still had his faults. One of which was that he sounded genuinely unsure about the existence of Jexishe. Niers smiled…then sat, pulling out a tiny copy of a map he’d made back at the inn.

“We’ve lost her, Bird. I’m not going to pretend or sugar-coat it. I’ve done this before. We’ve lost the quarry and you don’t always find the trail. We have to reconfigure our objectives.”

“What do we do next, then?”

“Go back to Liscor?”

Bird slowed his horse. Fierre glanced up; he was riding at the back of the group, since the Gnolls were guiding them, but only the Vampire knew exactly how important Bird’s odd muttering to himself was. Only her.

Ulvama cracked open one eye and peered at Bird as she lay on the wagon’s back. The Antinium, marching next to the Goblins, who were chattering and eying their strange counterparts from another tribe, all turned to stare at Bird. Then snapped forwards when he noticed them.

“We have come so far, Niers. We cannot leave now.”

“We can and we must, if that’s the most practical answer, Bird. I understand your feelings, but I teach my students this: just because you invest something in a battle, or take losses—you don’t keep pushing. Sometimes you walk away because you’re just adding to your losses otherwise. Sometimes you just lose. I don’t suggest that’s happened here. Rather—I think our next goal is taking me to either Oteslia to link up with this Lyonette or Reinhart herself—although that puts me in peril—or Zeres. I get to my company, and come back with reinforcements. But your role might be ending.”

Bird absorbed that slowly. He looked around. Niers modulated his voice, gently.

“It’s been a good journey. You’ve all levelled, I’ve seen interesting things, but let me be clear: we can’t take you to the Great Plains or any big city. Goblins, Antinium, and this group’s high-level, but not cut out for a mass battle.”

“We have not fought yet.”

“Good. Sometimes that’s the adventure you want. Listen, Bird…I’m keeping my ears open. We’ll visit this tribe, and keep moving. Either way, you’re stuck with me for at least a week or two more, so I can finish training you. I’m interested, especially in that Antinium with the aura.”

They were projects. From Snapjaw to Fierre to Ulvama, and Gothica especially—their new auras and abilities were interesting to Niers. But he had to keep moving. They’d lost Mrsha, and thus the band, the fellowship, was in jeopardy of simply losing their way. Better to send them back than get them killed.

Bird nodded slowly. He peered ahead as the Gnoll [Hunters] led them towards their tribe’s home, set around the foothills these alternative Goblins had come from. Niers put his bare feet up as his socks dried and decided to cut another ventilation hole.

“Bird, we’ll get Mrsha. Trust me. I think we’d know if she died. You can’t believe you’ll be the force that finds and saves her, though. It’s like I told Jexishe at the Battle of the Braves—sometimes you have to play second-fiddle to the real heroes of the day.”

“…I believe you are lying. Are you? Please tell me. I am getting confused…”

——

The Lomost Gnolls were strange. Numbtongue felt he could say that. There was weird like Bird, who was slapping his top hat for some reason…Numbtongue turned and stared at the Antinium, then back to his riding companion.

“Irry.”

“Hm? What’s up, brother?”

The Gnoll grinned at Numbtongue, who was another Gnoll as far as he could tell. It was amazing—and disturbing—how powerful Bird’s Skill was.

Numbtongue wanted it. He wanted it with everything he had—and he didn’t want it at all because he felt he shouldn’t have to hide. It was that kind of complicated feeling. Also, Numbtongue was fairly certain this wasn’t Bird’s power, and Snapjaw and Badarrow both agreed. Ulvama wouldn’t tell them what she suspected, but the senior Hobs weren’t idiots. Bird was Bird, but he wasn’t Erin.

“Explain it to me again. Why are you…fine with Goblins?”

Numbtongue glanced over his shoulder at the strange Goblins who had the white handprint on their clothing or skin. They grinned and waved at him. Irry eyed him.

“Why’re you okay with them, Numbtongue? I’m more shocked, frankly.”

“I…know Goblins. From an inn. At Liscor. They come in as guests.”

“Liscor. Liscor…oh, the northern Drake city. I’ve heard it coming up recently. That’s a strange inn.”

“You have no idea.”

Numbtongue smiled sadly, and Irry glanced at him, then gestured at his hunting party.

“It’s not my choice. Not that I think they’re more than pests—they will steal your supplies, and if they don’t like you, they’ll toss crap all over your tents. But these Goblins’re not like ones elsewhere, either. It was ten years back. The Second Antinium Wars. The Goblin King’s war.”

Numbtongue’s ears perked up. He glanced at Irry.

“He fought in the north.”

“And Goblins invaded the south. You must’ve grown up in Liscor. Humans like to talk about it. But brother, your [Shaman] never told you ab—ah, City Gnolls.”

Irry shook his head. He glanced at some of the other [Hunters] and one of them, a female Gnoll, grinned at Numbtongue.

“Don’t mind Irry. He’s never set foot in a city. A real [Savage].”

She winked at him, and Numbtongue resisted the urge to blush. Because he felt it was that kind of wink. But it was more surprising than anything else to see a Gnoll do that.

Irry sighed, but he went on.

“One of the Goblin Lords hit the coast. More Goblin tribes were joining the armies—they cut north, but they were massive. And the Antinium were attacking too, fighting Goblins, Drakes—our tribes were fighting too, of course. Most went to the Great Plains for shelter. Ours? We were cut off.”

The other Lomost Gnolls nodded. Most would have been children at the time, given their ages, but a few had been old enough to remember it. One of the older [Hunters] took over.

“Antinium armies fighting Drakes. Goblins wiping out entire cities. One tribe appeared near the Drake city closest to ours. That’s Bentill. Not that we’d have been that sad if they wiped out the city.”

“Honored Calar!”

Some of the other Gnolls were shocked. Irry just grunted. He whispered to Numbtongue.

“They hate our guts. Partly because of the Goblin thing. They also claim this is their land, despite our tribe having been in the region for ages. They used to be more friendly.”

Honored Calar went on.

“The Goblin Tribe knew where we were too. Goblin King rampaging—he hadn’t been killed by Arcsinger yet—and it seemed like they’d wipe us out too. Their Chieftain took the tribe forwards—we were backed into the hills, and Bentill was hiding behind their walls. Then…”

He spread his paws. Numbtongue waited, and leaned over his saddlehorn.

“Then what happened? Honored Calar?”

The Gnoll gave him a steady look.

“Nothing. Two more times Goblin armies came by; the Ghostly Hand tribe gave ‘em some warriors. They squabbled for four days, the second time. Later, when the Goblin King died—the Goblins knew it instantly. They packed up, vanished into the foothills—that’s the group there now. The rest split up. Into other tribes, I think. Most died.”

Numbtongue struggled to understand.

“So this tribe—Ghostly Hand. They didn’t do anything?”

“No. They never attacked. Our Chieftain and [Shaman] think what they were doing was protecting the city—or our tribe. From other Goblins attacking us. We did make contact a few times. There was fighting—Bentill still calls them monsters. We don’t have a treaty, but that’s how it works. We try to chase them away from roads and don’t ask for adventurers. They’re usually content to stay out of sight.”

Irry glared at the Ghostly Hand Goblins, who waved at him, grinning. They stared at Numbtongue. They knew he was a Hob. But they were patently confused and amused by the Skill disguising him.

“Hrr. I’ve never heard of that story.”

“No one believes it when I meet other Gnolls or travellers! But you must have one too, eh? How’d you meet Goblins at this inn?”

Numbtongue glanced past Irry as the other Gnolls riding with him perked up their ears. The female Gnoll gestured at his guitar with clear interest.

“You said you’re a [Bard]. Do you have any songs or is it just music, Numbtongue?”

The Hobgoblin looked at her. Then back at the long line of strange guests of the inn. Without a word, he slowly unslung the guitar. He normally hated to play on demand, and rarely, if ever, sang words to a song.

This time, unbidden, he began to strum as he rode along. He didn’t have a perfect song—and it occurred to him that more than the Redfangs, more than Liscor—this was the song he should have learned. How would you even begin? The Lomost Tribe and the Ghostly Hands…if you could believe that, it was strange.

His tale was a true story. It began something like this—and the Ballad of the Thirteen Redfangs was part of it. But—Numbtongue began composing something far longer. An epic. Which might start like this.

“On the hill outside of Liscor sits an inn

Look up at the sign before you go within…”

——

The music and Numbtongue’s voice floated down the line of travellers. Lady Salkis raised her head and frowned at him.

He sang so well, for a Goblin. He wasn’t like what she’d expected at all. He hadn’t drawn his sword once—nor had she killed anyone. And yet—she’d levelled.

And yet, this was slightly fun. If only she wouldn’t get in trouble once she got back. The Bloodfeast Raider sighed. She went back to poking an object with one claw, gingerly.

“Come on, work, damn you. I’m nearly out of charges for my [Repair] wand…”

The glowing…thing she had taken from the City Runner, who was now a famous Courier, stubbornly refused to unlock. Salkis was tempted to throw it, she was so frustrated. She shooed away a little Goblin.

“Damn. Also, someone tell Numbtongue you can’t rhyme ‘inn’ with ‘within’. It’s not poetic enough.”

“You can’t? It sounds good enough to me. What’s that thing?”

One of Salkis’ more permanent riding buddies was, ironically, Sergeant Gna. She still looked a bit gloomy about her new class, for all it sounded unique. She kicked at one of the Goblins who stuck out his tongue at her.

Salkis put up with Gna on the pretense of playing nice, but if there was any natural enemy for her, it was probably Gna, and vice-versa. She hastily tucked away the device on her belt.

“Some useless artifact. Trust me—I know about poetry and that kind of verse. I lived in Pallass long enough; you get people like ‘Sir Relz’ who tear you to shreds if it’s not all original and doesn’t have proper meter.”

She snorted. It was one of the things she hated about Pallass. Sergeant Gna glanced at her.

“You…never said why you left. Just tired of home? You fight very well during practice. They teach you how to fight like that?”

“I had good [Tutors]. And I levelled during the Wyvern attack.”

“Ah, right.”

Gna nodded, smiling awkwardly. Salkis wondered if she’d have to kill Gna before this was over. She wondered what would come next. She was in this for the long haul—if only because if she levelled even once more, it justified any duration of travel, bloodshed or not. Absently, she reached for the odd glowing device, the iPhone, it called itself—

…And groped at her side. She looked around.

“What the—you little bastard! Give that back!”

One of the Goblins ran off with the smartphone, cackling. The Gnoll hunters turned back as Numbtongue slowed in his playing. The Goblin tapped and stared at the glowing iPhone, agog, dodging as Salkis wheeled her horse around. He dodged through the lines of Antinium who slowed, Workers and Soldiers, some Painted, some not, his claws flashing. The Goblin leapt for the underbrush where he could hide and sneak away with his prize—

An Antinium caught him by the scruff of the neck. The Goblin dangled, staring at a Soldier with weathered armor. He waved, grinning uncertainly as Salkis herself halted.

The Soldier did not wave back.

——

He had no name.

Names were for Antinium who were Individual, or at least, Autonomous. They were the new Antinium. The ones who had come this year and the last; Antinium who levelled up and took names and had created the Painted Antinium, a new generation.

He was glad of it. But this Antinium, who held the Goblin back towards the Drake named Salkis, was no Individual. He had not been…what, lucky? Unique? He had not been whatever it was that made the original chess group, and that might simply be ‘chosen’.

Chosen by the [Innkeeper] who had made it all happen. He had seen her, you know. He had been there, when Klbkchhezeim returned and ordered the Soldiers to take the city as Skinner’s undead army overran the defenses.

He had killed a Crypt Lord there. Not alone; it had been filled with spears and other Soldiers had helped topple it. But he had killed it, tearing off its ‘head’. Later, he had seen Skinner die, by Goblins.

He had also seen the dungeon’s monsters, both below and above-ground. Face-Eater Moths? He couldn’t count how many he’d killed. Suits of enchanted armor? At least sixty had died in his presence, even if he hadn’t dealt the killing blow.

When the [Innkeeper] called, he had fought [Assassins] in the streets of Invrisil, following Xrn, the Small Queen. That had been an extraordinary moment, when he first saw the Small Queen. Even for him.

And he had lived longer than any other Antinium in the Free Hive that he had ever met, save for the Free Queen and Klbkchhezeim. Not that he talked. Not that they communicated.

He was six years old. A Soldier who had fought from the second day he had emerged from a Birther sac, till Belgrade had created his maze of traps—and even a bit after that. Despite that—until recently, until he had become an [Exemplar Warrior] and gained an aura—

He was only Level 15. That was because he was an Antinium with no name, and they did not level quickly. It was not that he had fought less than other warriors of higher level. In fact—the Soldier privately considered that he had more fighting experience than anyone but the little man in Bird’s hat.

He saw things. The others, Goblins and Antinium at least, noticed Bird was talking to someone. This Soldier? He noticed more. He was good at fighting. Soldiers were not actually good at fighting; that was just what other species believed. He was good at fighting because he had six years of nonstop practice.

But he was only Level 15. 17, now, with his class consolidation. It was the Soldier’s observation that the Free Queen was correct and the lack of a name and identity or maybe the Antinium’s nature meant they levelled slowly.

He could have vouchsafed this if she asked.

She’d never asked him. Klbkchhezeim had never noticed him. He looked for Aberrations, Antinium who expressed themselves. This Soldier just fought and obeyed. He had never stood out, never tried to do anything other than survive.

Then the [Innkeeper] had come and life had gotten better. He had eaten one of the first Acid Fly bowls and she had looked into his eyes and asked how it was. Soldiers and Workers stopped dying as much. Someone got rid of Klbkchhezeim. Aberrations virtually vanished.

So when Bird asked for volunteers, the Soldier had done something that would cut short his lifespan and stepped forwards. For the cute little white thing that stole everything but his meals. For the [Innkeeper]. He had still believed he would die, nameless, filling the gap in the lines so the Hobgoblins or others could do what had to be done.

But the tiny man had seen him and given him this. So the Soldier considered…perhaps.

Perhaps something. He couldn’t even put a name to it.

He was so lost in thought he didn’t notice Salkis until she trotted over.

“Er. Thank you.”

The Ghostly Hand Goblin was twisting in his grip, desperately tapping on the device he held. Which was like the devices the other Humans had in the inn. You see, this Soldier saw that too. You learned how to spot gaps in the inn’s wall, just like how you dodged traps when you were sent into the dungeon. Secret walls, magical tripwires…

“You can put it down. Give me that.”

Salkis grabbed at the phone. The Goblin refused to give it over. The Soldier shook him, mildly.

“Thanks. Just give him to me and I’ll hit him until he gives me that. Hey, which Soldier is…?”

Salkis hesitated, lowering her voice since she remembered they had the Gnoll guests. She pointed at him as Bird rode forwards. The Worker tilted his head and he looked at the Soldier with no name.

The little man in the hat was there too. Bird tilted his head, left and right.

“I do not know. This is a Soldier.”

“Yes, but what’s his name?”

Bird answered after a second.

“…He has none. He is not Painted Antinium. Nor is he anyone I know. Hello, you.”

The Soldier nodded. This was so. Sergeant Gna blinked and Salkis and even the Goblin thief squirming in his grip stared at him.

“What, no name? He’s one of the faceless bug b—the Soldiers?”

“That is so.”

Bird looked at the Soldier again. He tilted his head.

“A strong bug. He has the most highest levels of any Antinium here in fighting. Except for me.”

Grammar aside, this was also true. Salkis and Gna blinked. After a second, Salkis reached out and tried to prise the phone free of the little Goblin’s grip. He opened his mouth and she yanked her hand back. She made a fist—saw the others watching, and lowered it.

“You. Give.”

Badarrow rode over and snapped. The Goblin gave up the iPhone sulkily, and Salkis sighed.

“Thanks. Uh—you.”

She nodded at the Soldier. He nodded slowly. Gna glanced at him.

“That’s just like you Antinium. People should have names, you know.”

She half-addressed Bird, muttering. The [Bird Hunter] tilted his head.

“He can choose a name if he wishes. But he was not inducted into the Painted Antinium. Pawn could have done that.”

“What, doesn’t that make you lot stronger? If you’re on a suicide mission, you probably should.”

“Mm. Yes. Too late now. We don’t even have any paint.”

Ulvama raised her head slightly. Gna waved a paw.

“Yeah, or that weird Pawn-bug.”

“No, he is not necessary. I think.”

Gna turned back to Bird.

“What? What do you need for these, uh, Painted ants?”

Her eyes sharpened and the Soldier knew she was going to write down whatever Bird told her. On a strategic level…

He said nothing. No one asked him anything. To which the little man in the hat would have said, ‘that was the problem’. Sometimes you needed to…

Bird was counting on his fingers.

“Let me think. It is a complex ritual of the Free Antinium, the first of its kind. First you need an Antinium that has not been painted. Then you need paint. And then you need…”

He stared at his third finger. He lowered it.

“…A brush is optional.”

Sergeant Gna and Salkis—even Badarrow—gave Bird a slightly slack-jawed look. Gna hesitated, hand on her notepad.

“You’re messing with me. I thought that makes Antinium stronger. Individuals, or something.”

Bird smiled happily.

“It does. I mean…maybe. I am a [Liar].”

He waved all four arms. Gna looked around, at the Soldier, the other Painted Antinium like Touma the Great…

“Really? That’s it? Then give this Antinium some paint. I mean—just so we can tell him apart. And a damn name. If we’re going to be travelling with him.”

She folded her arms, caught herself, and glared at everyone with as much hostility as she could muster.

“I don’t care. I hope you all get shanked. But if I have to ride with you…”

Badarrow rode over. He put an arm around Gna’s shoulder—or tried to as she flinched away.

“You do care. Friend.”

“Gah! Stop it! I’m not—”

She rode off with a gang of Goblins in pursuit, all saying ‘friend’. Salkis grinned, but she was fumbling with the reclaimed iPhone. The Soldier watched out of the corner of his eye as Bird trotted over to Ulvama, who had already begun grumbling, but was fishing out powders and water.

“If that little monster broke i—what in the name of the Ancestor’s assholes is—”

The light had changed. The Drake held up the iPhone and stared at it. She whirled around and the little Ghostly Hand Goblin poked his head back up from under Badarrow’s arm. But how?

The [Lockpicker] grinned. He wasn’t quite sure either, but it was a lock. He picked locks. Salkis rode away from the Soldier, staring, tapping, as Bird rode back.

“Hello.”

The Soldier stared up at Bird. Bird stared back.

Antinium conversations being what they were, Bird eventually pointed to Ulvama.

“Ulvama has paints. Would you like to become a Painted Antinium? You should choose a name. And, um, you have worth. Pat, pat.”

He rode closer and patted the Soldier on the shoulder. Bird stopped. The two stared at each other for a while longer.

“Please do not become an Aberration. This is my first time doing this.”

On a lesser Soldier, maybe it would have provoked something. The Soldier with no name just stood there. He saw Ulvama slide off the wagon and stomp over.

“This the Antinium? I paint all of them?”

She made an exaggerated sighing motion as if this were a taxing effort, but she was keenly watching the Soldier. She held out a small tray with a bunch of colored bowls.

“You take colors. Go paint. You need wagon, you go. There.”

She waved at him. The Soldier stared down at the tray of colors. And, once again, he had been given something where no one had ever regarded him before. He walked obediently over to the wagon, sat down as Octavia edged over. She smiled at him.

“Um. Hello. I’ll give you some space.”

She edged over further as Ulvama flopped back onto her bed of pillows, but both of them watched the Soldier. He sat there.

Now he would become a Painted Antinium. An Individual of sorts, or, at least, Autonomous. All he had to do was…choose.

An identity. A name. Like all the other painted Antinium. The Soldier sat there. Ulvama and Octavia began to mutter, but they eyed him, waiting. Then they turned and looked for Bird.

The Soldier didn’t move.

——

Fierre watched the Soldier. Her fingers twitched on her notepad as she rode with the two Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings, at the back of the group.

“It’s worth nothing, Normen. I’m telling you, the Goblin clearly misjudged the mark.”

The younger man, who had served under Crimshaw and had a kind of triangle-hat, turned to Alcaz, the older Brother.

“But why did he take it? And don’t tell me it was just because it shone. Consider this, Alcaz. What’s more probable? Something that emits light—clearly magical—that has zero value, not even on par with a Wand of [Light]…or that it’s beating your Skill of [Ascertain Value]?”

Alcaz paused.

“…If that were so, it’s warded or it goes beyond even normal magical artifacts. Which puts the price at roughly four thousand gold pieces, upper bar.”

Normen whistled. Fierre’s ears perked up and all three eyed Salkis. Casually. As goodfellows or goodladies might. The two turned to Fierre and touched their hats.

“Would you happen to have an insight, as it were, unto the value of said object, Miss Fierre?”

Fierre frowned. She was in easy company with the Brothers, whom she liked, and could talk northern city-talk with, so she played their game of appraising various objects’ values, like Numbtongue’s sword.

“I think it’s worth quite a lot. Or why is a Wall Lady of Pallass holding it?”

“Ah, but she’s only the runaway daughter…”

“…Who steals the best objects before she runs away.”

Normen and Alcaz looked at each other. Normen tipped his hat to Fierre and grinned.

“Fairer words, Miss Fierre.”

She grinned back. Then she went back to staring at the Soldier with no name, but an aura. Fierre had no aura. She had no amazing class consolidation because she was a Vampire and she was still upset. Even so.

[Exemplar Warrior], Level 17. The Titan himself had said that he was outstanding, capable of gaining an aura, and Fierre had her Ring of Appraisal on. What did an [Aura of Battle] entail?

“I wish I was in a city. Then I could look up everything.”

Normen and Alcaz nodded, but Fierre meant that in relation to auras. She hadn’t ever needed to really research the topic, but she could probably buy a complete list of auras and their rankings in terms of relative power.

Same with classes—how ‘exemplar’ was an [Exemplar Warrior]? Was it close to [Peerless], which was literally based on geographical or national standards? It could be deceptive, but…

It was still very strong for anyone below Level 20. An aura plus a strong-sounding class on an Antinium with no name. The Titan was right, and Fierre was still dizzy thinking about her and the Titan knowing each other. Him sitting in Bird’s hat!

And yet, he was not the full quarry of her studies. Along with Fierre trying to learn how to use her own Aura—the Titan’s night-walk being a stepping stone for everyone who hadn’t gained an aura from that alone—she was observing the final outstanding member, the new talent.

Even the Gnolls were glancing back at her, although she just looked like a short Drake. But even under an illusory Skill…what did it look like?

Because to Fierre, it seemed like a grinning flash of teeth. Two crimson eyes flashing amid the darkness. The darkness…which extended downwards from her black parasol, lined with a bit of white and crimson cloth. Like shade amplified. Her clothing was dark, a copy of Fierre’s, and her hair was black, bangs hanging low over her face.

Gothica’s [Aura of Midnight] wasn’t a hypothetical. The Goblin rode under a shade of her own making, and the other Goblins kept sticking their hands in, or even faces, poking at her, clearly asking how they could do that.

She would swat at their hands or chatter back, but she was clearly pleased with herself. Not only that—Fierre watched as Gothica raised one hand.

“Glove.”

The Cave Goblin handed the Gnoll [Hunter] a few silver coins that Fierre had no idea how she’d gotten and he traded her some very small riding gloves made out of decent leather.

“Ah, gloves? Good luck in making it if you can craft that. Nice Skill.”

She nodded with distinct pride, and he rode forwards. Gothica set the riding gloves on her lap, produced some charcoal, and began turning them as dark as the rest of her clothing. She wanted gloves, dark boots, and, apparently, of a higher-quality than Fierre’s own clothing.

“Gothica…why are you dressing like that? Do you have to?”

Fierre rode forwards and couldn’t keep a peeved note from her voice. Gothica glanced up.

“Yep.”

“Why? Does your class demand it?”

“Mm.”

That wasn’t an answer. Fierre blew out her cheeks.

“You know, it’s my style technically. You’re just copying it. I don’t know how you got the class, but can’t you show some appreciation?”

The [Goth] Goblin glanced up. She eyed Fierre, and to the Vampire girl’s amazement, blew the bangs out of the way with her—Fierre’s trademark scoff.

“Peh. Your style? I do better now.”

Fierre debated picking up Gothica—no, Gothica and her pony—and throwing them off the side of the road. She snapped back.

“Well, I’m looking into your class, so do me a favor? Take off your, uh, clothes.”

She slowed down as she realized the implication of that last bit. Normen and Alcaz looked up and then away. Gothica raised her eyebrows. Fierre tried to clarify.

“I mean, get rid of the clothes. Put on some other clothes, brighter, and try using your Skills. Okay? Then we can establish if it’s related to the [Goth] class. How about it?”

Gothica considered the question amiably. She nodded, smiled, stared Fierre in the eye, and replied.

“Make me.”

Fierre twitched.

“Gothica, I know you’re being…but I could make you, so can we at least talk about it?”

Gothica thought about it.

“No.”

She began to ride ahead, smugly. Fierre heard the other Goblins go, ‘ooooh’.

“Fierre? You okay?”

Garia raised her head from where she and Fals were plotting more travel routes, to show Snapjaw when she returned. She gave Fierre a concerned look, because she had noticed a commonality in Fierre and Ryoka.

They both had a temper. Fierre smiled at Garia, waved, and rode forwards until Gothica was in arms-reach. Gothica eyed her. Fierre smiled like the sun—that burning ball of fire that turned your skin to blisters in minutes—

Her hand shot out and grabbed Gothica’s parasol. The Goblin yelped and Fierre felt a twinge of pain.

“Fierre! She put blades on the—”

Normen shouted. Fierre winced—she remembered that, but she tightened her grip and yanked up. What was metal or glass to a Vampire, a real Vampire?

Up Gothica came, holding onto the parasol and kicking at Fierre.

“Let go!”

“Up your butt!”

The Goblin shouted back, with an amazing display of colloquial language acquisition. She started kicking at Fierre’s face, but the Vampire girl shook her so hard that Gothica let go. She hit the dirt as her pony stopped.

“There. Now, will you listen t—”

Fierre turned and realized dominance had not been established. Because a furious Goblin leapt onto her own pony, and began to punch, claw, and bite. Fierre yelped and tried to ward her off as the pony panicked.

The sight of the two fighting over the parasol made Numbtongue sigh and stop playing again. He saw Badarrow riding over to break up the second Goblin fight, as the Soldier sat there on the wagon, paralyzed by the first choice he had to make himself, and just as Salkis opened the photos and videos app on Ryoka’s phone and began to really freak out.

Into this moment, Niers Astoragon, Titan of Baleros, saw it happen. He rose to his feet, staring. Bird stared too.

“Give it back!”

“Say you’re sorry for mocking me!”

“Up your butt twice!”

The two were fighting and the Vampire was winning. She was stronger, faster, even under sunlight, and she was taller and heavier than Gothica—a very rare experience. The enraged Cave Goblin wasn’t about to take this lying down, though—but as Fierre kept shoving her off, she realized there was no way she was going to get her precious parasol back by force.

So she stood back, as Fierre grinned mockingly, keeping the parasol high out of reach and the other hand blocking Gothica like the first [Footballer]—a class that had not been invented yet.

Yet. But Gothica’s eyes flickered and trailed towards the parasol, now devoid of its shade effect. The crimson glare narrowed. She raised her finger and Bird saw the faint shadow under it condense.

Like…rainwater. Droplets of shadows gathered. Fierre went cross-eyed as a little orb of shadow gathered around Gothica’s finger.

“What th—”

The miniature bolt of shadows shot forwards and Fierre twisted amazingly in the saddle to avoid it. It shot past the pony’s head and struck the rocks with a faint crack.

“Dead gods, what was that? A spell?”

Fierre was hanging sideways in the saddle. She stared up at Gothica.

“Gothica, that was amazing! Was that your a—”

The [Goth] leapt on her and brought her, kicking and punching, down to the ground. Fierre unconsciously threw a punch and Garia shouted.

“Fierre, don’t—”

Fierre punched the shadows from Gothica’s parasol as the Goblin grabbed it and felt like she’d hit a wall of slime. Her fist slowed—Gothica grinned—

—And sent the Cave Goblin flying. Gothica bounced once, and Normen saw her smack into a horse’s hooves. Fierre stared at Gothica in horror, and heard the Goblin start screaming fury. She shot to her feet.

“Gothica, I am so sorry—”

And yet it was the manifestation of an aura’s powers. A serious aura. Ulvama eyed Gothica in shock.

“That’s…high class. Isn’t it? I’ve only seen manifestations of auras twice back in Nerrhavia’s Fallen.”

Octavia whistled. Ulvama nodded slowly. Bird began to trot over, speaking to Niers.

“I wish you had given me [Aura of the Bird]. I am sure I would have gotten it. Then I would fly and find Mrsha. That Soldier is having trouble with a name. I vote we give him the name of Jexishe. She would not mind because she does not exist, is this not so?”

“Bird.”

“I am also in need of going poo. Maybe I can give this hat to Fierre? She is currently beating Gothica.”

“Bird. Shut up. Stop the group. Now. We’re about to enter a battlefield.”

Bird froze. He heard Niers’ tone, turned his head, and raised his voice.

“Everyone! Halt!”

Fierre stopped at the odd note in Bird’s voice and Gothica stopped trying to bite her fingers off. The Gnolls, Numbtongue, everyone glanced at Bird, first in amusement. Until they saw him draw his bow and put an arrow to the string. Bird spoke, pointing with another hand.

Irry rubbed at his eyes. How did…? But then he saw the way the finger was pointing. Heard Bird’s voice.

“There is fighting over the ridge line. Two miles ahead of us. Gnolls versus a Drake army.”

The Lomost [Hunters] stared at him. Sergeant Gna looked away from the teasing Goblins. Salkis glanced up from the iPhone.

Inside Bird’s hat, Niers Astoragon put on his still-damp socks. His nerves sang. He heard it. He felt it. A familiar calling.

“You idiots. You stupid, shortsighted idiots. You did it. Well done.”

Irry galloped up the hill, and came back just as fast. He shouted, and half the Gnolls went to charge down the hill before Numbtongue and some of the others yanked them back. The Lomost tribe was under attack from an army from the Drake city of Bentill.

——

It shouldn’t have surprised anyone. Niers Astoragon listened to the argument, but he was speaking to Bird and Fierre, who were huddled with him.

“It makes sense. It completely makes sense with the Drake mentality. You saw what happened at the Meeting of Tribes. The Drakes have been implicated in the worst scandal in living memory.”

“But they want to attack the Gnolls and make it worse?”

Fierre didn’t understand. But then—for all she was a ‘Vampire’, she was young. The Titan smiled tightly.

“If you know you’re going to fight with someone in a bar, do you wait for them to get themselves psyched up and ready? Or do you attack them when their back is turned? When they’re in the lavatory? Me, if I wanted to win, I’d stab them as they were having a drink. This Gnoll tribe and Drake city have already been at odds. This was just the excuse.”

It would be the first of many conflicts in this region. Niers could see it. His mind was racing ahead of this, considering the implications. For the Antinium, the South, other forces…

But then he snapped back to reality. The others had never left.

Below the ridge, along the foothills of the Lomost tribe’s territory, a Gnoll tribe was under attack. They’d clearly been retreating and possibly hoping to head higher, but outriders had cut them off.

Niers understood a few things instantly: the Drake army from Bentill had certainly caught them unawares. No Gnoll tribe went to war with their young and non-combatants.

They were in the center of the semi-circle formation. Defended by a wavering line of Gnoll [Fighters] and [Warriors] while their [Archers] exchanged shots with a steady Drake line slowly advancing.

“Classic Drake attritional warfare. It favors them. Do you see, Bird? The Gnolls could flank and attack, even hide in an open setting. This army is making them protect their tribe. The [Commander] down there isn’t a fool.”

Bird said nothing. He was staring at the blood. The fighting. The Titan heard the suppressed shouting.

“—go down there and die. Don’t be stupid.”

Numbtongue was holding Irry back. The Gnoll was shouting at him.

“Our tribe is down there! Our people.”

“I know. Shut up. You attack like that, you’ll die.”

The Gnoll calmed slightly, because Numbtongue was staring down at the fighting. His grip on the other Gnoll’s shoulder was so strong it was beginning to bruise. Badarrow spat.

“Bad fight. Cornered-death.”

One of the older Gnolls whispered.

“They can’t be intending to slaughter the entire tribe.”

Salkis just grunted.

“Maybe not. They don’t have to. Wipe out all the fighting adults and the tribe’s a goner anyways. They’ll have to leave.”

She had less of an emotional reaction than almost anyone else there. Garia stared at her, shocked, and opened her mouth, but it was Gna who spoke. She was practically vibrating.

“Don’t focus on the future! They’re losing Gnolls every minute, even with potions! Are we going to get down there or what?”

The [Sergeant] was staring down at the battlefield. Numbtongue watched Badarrow as the Gnoll looked up. Then around.

The two City Runners, Garia and Fals, appeared horrified, but they were almost as surprised by her suggestion. The Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings exchanged bleak looks and adjusted their hats. Fierre and Octavia both seemed sick and shocked by turns.

However. The Goblins and Antinium were both silent. Bird was talking to himself, watching the battle, Pivr and Xeu were both watching in dead silence from their sections, while Numbtongue and Badarrow glanced at each other. Ulvama silently watched the Soldier with no name staring at the powdered paints. She was slowly, slowly pouring the red and silver dyes into basins of water. She watched the fighting narrow-eyed.

What were they thinking? Gna’s pointing hand lowered slightly. These two species though…this was not their fight. And—she looked down and cursed.

“Thousands of Drakes. Lots of Gnolls. We are a force substantively in the dozens. As Revalantor of the Flying Antinium, I must add my strategic insight and say we will most likely perish in any maneuver.”

Pivr clacked his mandibles open and closed. He saw Normen glance at him.

“…But in the interest of being likable, I will support any suicidal action, in theory.”

Xeu glanced at him. She shook her own body side-to-side.

“Impossible. Death is certain. Gnolls perishing. Let us move on.”

She scuttled sideways, glanced back—no one followed her, not even the Antinium. Xeu scuttled back, poked the nearest Worker, scuttled off. The Worker, Infinitypear, stared at her. Xeu stared back, nonplussed.

“Brother, you’ve got a magic sword, don’t you? At least help us get them up the slope. We can lure the Drakes off.”

Irry pleaded with Numbtongue as the other [Hunters] drew their bows, arguing about attacking or setting up on one of the cliffs to shoot down at the archers. Numbtongue was still counting.

Yep. Thousands of Drakes. The Gnolls outnumbered them—it might have been ‘only’ four thousand [Soldiers] down there versus a larger tribe. But in terms of fighting adults…he saw children slinging rocks at the Drakes, but the [Hunters] here had iron arrows at best. Those Drakes had proper armor, proper formations.

His grip tightened on his sword. Numbtongue looked over and saw two—no, three—Goblins standing to his left. Not the physical form of Badarrow, or Irry pleading with him.

“Gonna die today?”

Shorthilt stared down at the fighting. He raised his head. The Ballad of the Thirteen Redfangs seemed to play around him. By his side, Pyrite grunted.

“Death. Probably.”

He agreed, but he looked up at Numbtongue. The [Soulbard] silently spread his claws apart. What should I do?

Pyrite grunted again. He tried to pick up a stone and bite it, and his claw passed through. Shorthilt was silent. Pyrite glanced at the third figure, torn, only partly there, silently staring down, almost as if he didn’t see the fighting.

Reiss, the Goblin Lord. Pyrite turned away from Numbtongue.

“Why are you asking?”

Indeed, Numbtongue—already knew the answer. But he looked around and saw the other Goblins. Young Goblins, and Antinium. Octavia too—and she was no warrior. She was less of a warrior than…Erin.

He could not ask them to do something like this. He had promised to save Mrsha. However.

Badarrow was looking up. Snapjaw was flying low. They heard her cursing before she leapt off Icecube’s back.

“Bad-bad battle! What’s happening?”

She landed hard, and the other Gnolls recoiled from the Frost Wyvern. Numbtongue eyed Icecube. He turned to Badarrow.

“Badarrow. We need a plan.”

“Hm. Shoot and run? Hit [Commander] and run away?”

The [Sniper] was trying to find the Drake in the enemy army, but he was unsportingly making the tactical choice of not wearing fancy armor or a helmet or sitting in the center of a clear command formation. He glanced up as Numbtongue put a hand on his Dragonblood crystal sword hilt.

“You do that. Keep Octavia and others back. When the Drakes come—run. I will go with Gnolls.”

Irry looked up. Numbtongue glanced around.

“Only those who want to come with me.”

“Numbtongue?”

Octavia seemed shocked, then horrified as she saw the Hobgoblin staring down at the battle. Salkis began to grin.

“Are you saying…?”

“Absolutely not. That’s a death mission right there. I’m no [Fighter], but they’ll mince you up in seconds. You won’t even get to them before they shoot you dead!”

Fals looked at Numbtongue. The Hobgoblin gave him a level stare.

“Maybe. Maybe we’ll be smart and sneak up.”

“Brother—Numbtongue. Are you serious?”

The Hobgoblin pointed down the slopes.

“There. Along rocks and bushes. Hit them there—then you get your tribe up here.”

He was pointing to the Drakes’ left flank, comfortably secure. But if someone started carving them up, the Gnolls might be able to push the other way and break through—

Ulvama was staring at Numbtongue. Slowly, she produced a brush and drew a slash across a grinning Redfang Hob’s arm. Dirtmouth, who was nodding.

“Stupid Redfangs. You die. Stupid plan.”

She snapped, eyes flashing. Badarrow looked at Numbtongue, deeply disturbed, and Snapjaw glared.

“That’s right. Bad idea. I take Icecube, we distract. Everyone fights there, Gnolls run.”

That was almost as bad, and Badarrow instantly began protesting.

“Not you.”

“You hush. Or no sex. I have Frost Wyvern.”

“They have Oldbloods.”

A flash of light caught everyone’s eye. A tiny figure had been flying above the fighting. Practically hovering. Now—it exhaled a plume of fire and the Gnolls shouted and ran, trying to put the fire out as the Drakes pushed in harder. The fire was followed by a few balls of fire before the Drake flew higher.

“Oldblood [Mage]. That would be one of the Flying Antinium’s specialty targets.”

Pivr observed. Gna looked at him and her fur rose.

“That bastard isn’t alone. They have five Oldbloods in the air and I see riders. They can run down any group making a break for it.”

She had her own shortbow aimed down at them. Gna was a [Captain], though, a veteran of 4th Company. She knew a terrible battlefield when she saw one, and Liscor’s army wasn’t here. Yet Badarrow had a hand on Numbtongue’s arm.

“Erin is waiting.”

“She’d understand.”

The conversation between the two was the focus of it. Gothica, Touma the Great, the other Goblins and Antinium looked at each other. The Ghostly Hand Goblins shifted. Most had run off at the sight of the fighting, save for a group of three.

Garia exhaled hard. She was trembling, and the [Martial Artist] City Runner was opening and closing one hand. She shook her head at Fals.

“We can’t do nothing.”

“We can’t die either. To what point?”

Fals looked around. Normen tapped him politely on the shoulder.

“Sometimes a fellow has to make a stand.”

Fals looked disbelievingly at Normen. The Brother saw Numbtongue’s head turn. He touched the tip of his tricorn.

“If you need someone watching your back, I’m your man, sir. But the thing about stands—sometimes they’re your last. Bearing it in mind.”

The Redfang [Bard] bared his teeth. He didn’t have to tell him that. But he nodded at Normen.

A little bee buzzed past his head. Apista had woken up from napping in a jar. That’s right. Sometimes you had to sting someone right in the eye. Who were they stinging? She spotted the giant army below her and buzzed back a few paces.

…That was a lot of enemies. Maybe they needed a bigger hive?

Drama and confusion. This conversation was taking moments, and the voices were overlapping. They were so…interesting. The desperate Gnolls even realized it. The [Hunters] stared at a group of strangers, which to them were Drakes and Gnolls, arguing over helping.

Not—the traditional reaction of most bystanders, which was to be horrified and helpless. They were gazing down into the heart of this battle and weighing their deaths on a scale. But it would be their deaths.

Unless…Bird was speaking.

“You can stop this. Stop this. Use a big Skill and make them…go away. Please?”

Niers Astoragon sat on Bird’s head, listening. He examined them. What a motley band. What a strange fellowship.

“Even that [Shaman] cares. Look, you can see that, Bird. Your Antinium look ready to fight.”

Bird’s head turned to the Workers and Soldiers. They just stood there, but somehow…he slapped the side of his hat, hard.

“They are dying. You can do something.”

“Not if I’m not part of that battle. Those Gnolls aren’t under my command. I can throw a Skill at them—but to change a battle decisively, you need a moment.”

Bird didn’t respond. He was watching Numbtongue make up his mind as he stared up at the figures breathing fire, frost, and even what appeared to be living shadows, down at the Gnolls. Tiny bird-people.

Evil bird-people. He had known wretched birds before. Horrible things that didn’t deserve to be eaten. But birds were good. They flew.

These were evil birds. Niers Astoragon was frowning around. The Titan saw Numbtongue arguing with Badarrow, jerking his arm away.

“I am going.”

“Numbtongue!”

Normen stepped up in an instant. After a moment of hesitation, Pivr scuttled after him, muttering about ‘establishing social credibility’. Two Goblins followed. Rasktooth and Dirtmouth. But even the Antinium waited. They were watching Bird.

“Bird, talk some sense into him. This is madness. I don’t want this any more than you do, but we can’t just all risk certain death.”

Octavia was pleading. Bird opened and closed his mandibles. Then…the [Liar] listened to the voice inside his head. Or rather, hat.

——

Fierre’s head rose slowly as Bird began to speak. The others started, because as Bird whirled around, the stupid top hat with his antennae poking out perched on his head, his voice changed.

It grew…different. Another cadence, another depth, not just from the mere vocalization, but from the way he spoke. So knowingly. The same way he had when he led them on the crazy run that had swept an entire army up behind him.

“I hear you. Do you all see what’s happening below?”

He pointed with one arm, as if they could not. The Gnolls were howling, crying at the army to stop, blowing horns for allies they had no hope of finding.

“Certain death. This is so. Only an idiot would think they could save anyone without paying the ultimate price. You may be over Level 30, Numbtongue, and you might have a Frost Wyvern, Snapjaw, but that is an army. You’re not children or new warriors. So why fight? Let us ride on and find Mrsha. That is what we came here to do.”

Numbtongue’s eyes narrowed. But it was Fierre who burst out, looking at Bird strangely.

“Bird! I—you—if we can help—”

“Don’t be stupid, Fierre. I am Bird. And I see things clearly. Or don’t you? The instant we go down there—these Gnolls will know who we are. So will those Drakes. Unless we slaughter every single one—and even if we do, the Gnolls will know. You might not be in danger. But they are. I am.”

Bird nodded at the Goblins. Irry opened his mouth, and the older [Hunter] hushed him and focused on Bird. Clues coming together. Bird went on, a smile in his voice though none was on his face.

“They will hunt us without mercy. Antinium and Goblins, this continent’s greatest threats. Our hope of finding Mrsha—already slim—will vanish. Is that worth the cost of almost certain death? Sometimes we must let people die. They are not your people. They are not mine. Why fight for them?”

“Did he just say…?”

Bird ignored the others. He was waiting for a response. Salkis was just gripping the hilts of her daggers.

“I came here for a fight. Near certain death? What are we waiting for?”

She grinned, but even she licked her lips as she stared down at the overwhelming odds. The nameless Soldier looked up. Slowly, Ulvama was adding a line of silver to her arm, her face. Warpaint. She eyed him.

“Choose already.”

Numbtongue faced…Bird. He bared his teeth, but spoke after a moment. Holding the crystal blade Pelt had made for him.

“Bird. Erin would do something.”

“We are on a mission to help her. To save Mrsha. Erin is smart, but, I think, she is also foolish. She has made mistakes. Good people died for her battles. Do you want to die here?”

Numbtongue’s hand tightened on the hilt. Badarrow’s eyes focused on something. Snapjaw glanced at his gaze and her own gaze focused.

“I’m going. Not arguing. Those aren’t my people.”

Numbtongue pointed down. Irry looked at him as the Goblin strode past him. He shoved past Bird, who called out, almost mockingly, after him.

“And?”

The [Bard] whirled. The ghosts he carried watched him. One of them slowly raised his head, listening. Numbtongue jabbed Bird in the chest.

“And I don’t have to explain things.”

He began to stride down the hill, the small group following him. Fierre hesitated, eyes darting from him to Bird with disbelief.

I’m going with you. That was what she didn’t say. She tried, eight times, but the words didn’t come out. She was a Vampire. An immortal. She…gazed down at the Drake [Soldiers] and the words died on her tongue.

And Bird—no, he was laughing.

“What about all of you? Are you just going to stand here or leave? The most practical choice is to leave before you’re found. If that army finds you, they’ll encircle this position and run you down. You can’t just shoot arrows and run away.”

Ulvama was glowering at Bird’s hat. Pivr scratched at one antenna.

“Something is off about Bird.”

Normen nodded. The others shifted. The Antinium, who had been waiting for orders, stared at Bird. Grass Shell, Infinitypear, Touma, and more. The [Shaman] nervously clutched at his walking staff, the focus of his new powers.

“It’s not that we don’t want to do anything, it’s just that…it’s an army.”

Fals muttered. Normen and Alcaz glanced at each other as they lined up next to Numbtongue. The younger brother muttered.

“Crimshaw. Crimshaw…”

Like a prayer. And, abruptly, the others were angry. From Octavia to Gna. Bird was right. But he sounded so…contemptuous. Goading.

“If we could do something, we would! It’s just—there’s no chance. Numbtongue, come back!”

Garia clenched and unclenched her hands. Apista buzzed around Bird’s face. Yeah, yeah! Don’t mock us, small man! I’ll sting you!

Bird brushed her away from his hat. He looked around.

“So if you could do something, if you had a 50-50 chance, would you? Is your excuse that you ‘can’t do anything’?”

Irry cried out. One of the Gnollish fighting lines had buckled at last and the Drakes were threatening the non-combatants themselves.

“Yes! Alright, yes! What are you doing, Bird?”

Octavia shouted at him. She saw Ulvama hop off the wagon. Eyes narrowed, she stepped forwards. Badarrow was cursing at the other Goblins and pointing.

“That cliff. There!”

They were moving. Fierre opened her mouth to say—she twitched as someone walked past her.

Grass Shell. He halted behind Numbtongue and lifted his head. A second later, Infinitypear, Touma, and two other Antinium joined him.

“You’re mad.”

Sergeant Gna glowered at them—as she kicked her horse forwards to join Salkis, who was grinning with real insanity in her gaze. Garia—Fals grabbed her shoulder as she took a step forwards.

“Garia—”

“I’m going with Numbtongue. You—you guard everyone, Fals. Okay?”

Her voice was trembling. Rasktooth held out a hand, grinning, and Infinitypear touched his fist to it gently.

Xeu looked around as the Antinium slowly walked past her. She hesitated, staring at Bird. Fals hung back, Octavia, Fierre…everyone else watched Bird. Gothica adjusted her parasol and drew a shortsword; Apista landed on top of the parasol, fanning her wings defiantly.

“Madness.”

The Soldier with no name didn’t know who said it. He agreed. Orders were one thing. But this? This? Even he knew he had no chance of surviving going down there, and they were not all fools. Why risk their lives to no end? He knew there was another force at play, but the others made this choice without understanding it.

Why? He peered down at the paints, paralyzed. Ulvama was going down the line of Goblins, Antinium, even Garia and Gna, applying her magical paints. Even Ulvama.

“Madness? Madness.”

Bird stood there, like he had lost his mind. He turned to face the others. Numbtongue glared at him as Snapjaw pulled herself onto Icecube’s back. But the Frost Wyvern didn’t move when she kicked his sides. He was…staring.

Not at her. Not at the battlefield below filled with meat and blood and danger. The Wyvern was focused on Bird.

Pyrite’s ghost grunted. Numbtongue’s eyes finally found the spot most of the others were gazing at. Normen fixed blankly on the others. Why were they all focused on…

“Madness? We’re all mad. Standing by while someone’s killing someone else? That’s madness. Risking your life for someone you don’t know? For gold? Madness. There’s no one sane in the world.”

Bird’s voice was changing. Deepening. Desyncing with Bird’s mandibles. It went on, as the others started, as even the Lomost [Hunters] caught on.

“Helplessness is one thing. Bravery is moving. Doing what you believe in. You have conviction. You have no power. Not enough power. And yet you’ll still go down there.”

He laughed at them. He clapped his hands. He was grinning. Almost dancing.

“That is what makes you different. That is what separates you from the rest. Madness. Righteousness. I knew I liked you all from the start. You have only your convictions, you stupid little children.”

“Bird?”

Garia blinked at him. She saw Bird reach up with two hands. He lifted his hat up. He cast a mocking glance over his shoulder at Xeu, Octavia, the soldier with no name, Fals, and the others. Everyone else? Even those who’d suspected something. Even the ones who had seen the worst and best of what Erin Solstice could conjure.

They stared up at the laughing man. Salkis’ mouth opened wide, then wider. Gna fell off her horse and hit the ground with a thud. Badarrow, Numbtongue—glanced at Ulvama, whose eyes were bulging. At Pivr, whose wings were fanning with clear disbelief. Garia choked.

“The—the Titan of—”

His eyes shone. He laughed, that little legend. He shouted down at them.

“Now—will you risk it all? I will give you the rest.”

——

They came down the slopes in a blaze of sudden light. The Drake [Soldiers] stared up at the sunburst of color, the flash of magic.

“Enemies spotted!”

The [Commander] of Bentill’s army glanced up, hidden behind the lines of [Soldiers]. To prevent Gnolls sniping her.

“It must be one of their hunting parties. Looks like a [Shaman] in the mix.”

The odd display of colored magic was no [Light] spell. The idiots had given their position away. She thought she saw [Archers] heading up across the ridgeline.

“Superior vantage. Send an Oldblood after them?”

“And get them shot? You idiot. Two mounted wings and [Shield Warriors]. Flush them out and keep them off our backs.”

“Yessir.”

Close enough. The Drake rolled her eyes. She turned back to the folding Gnolls. They’d held the breach, but they were losing ground.

This was a distasteful battle, but the Lomost tribe would lose its warriors. Then they’d remove that Goblin tribe the Gnolls allied with. Savages and monsters working together.

“Surrender or perish!”

The Drakes at the front had orders to avoid a slaughter. Once they reached the tribespeople past the warriors, the Lomost tribe would have a stark choice. Almost…

Something made her scales prickle, though. Something felt off all of a sudden. The Drake [Pursuit Commander] looked around. Then she spotted the second group charging down the slopes.

“Enemy [Swordsman]! Group of…three dozen!”

“That’s not a threat. [Archers], turn and volley!”

The entire rank of [Archers] turned, pivoting, and their bows came up. They focused on the distant figures. The [Commander] glanced at them. What was…that wasn’t a Gnoll. But her officer was shouting.

“Volley—Ancestors!”

The scream came and the [Commander] saw two hundred bowstrings simultaneously snap. The [Archers] recoiled, some screaming as their bows exploded, striking them.

“Enemy attack!”

“No, Skill! Replace those bows! Heal up and—”

The [Commander] shoved forwards, restoring order. Like any good Drake army, Bentill began to pivot. The front lines of Drake [Soldiers] created a spear wall, facing the newcomers. Archers or not, they were outnumbered by the first rank, and the Drakes were set, dug in, and had mages, archers, and Oldblood support. As the [Commander] caught another clear sight of the figures charging down the hill, she stopped and stared.

“What is…”

——

The Soldier with no name saw them go down the slope like a lightning bolt. Indeed, the sky was changing. Although the Goblin had put away the guitar for the sword.

The Drake army pivoted towards them, but they didn’t see them at first. The Drake [Captain] in front finally got a view of them. The glowing red sword of crystal was one thing, but then you looked at them and realized—they weren’t Gnolls. At least, not all Gnolls.

And that green skin wasn’t scales. The Gnoll [Hunters] on the cliffs stared down. Some shouted in horror, but the Goblin with the longbow snarled at them as he drew an arrow. Bird himself put an arrow to his bowstring.

The [Captain] stared ahead. Then shouted.

“Goblins! Goblins! The damned Goblins are coming to—”

He hesitated. Because that wasn’t quite accurate. The group slowed slightly as they came to flat ground. The Drakes saw roughly three dozen fighters. One of them blinked.

“A Goblin. A-Antinium?”

The shouts of horror came from the other Drakes. There were Antinium behind the Goblin. The [Commander] of Bentill’s force shaded her eyes in disbelief.

For there they stood. At the front was Numbtongue, Fierre, Salkis, Sergeant Gna, and Pivr. The Drake [Commander]’s mouth went dry.

“A Goblin, a Human, a Drake, a Gnoll and an Antinium? And another Antinium. And…a bee?”

Apista buzzed around Numbtongue’s head as he charged forwards. The Drakes looked at each other. Were they dreaming?

“Hold your ground! [Counterspears]! Ready!”

The [Spear Captain] bellowed, and the spears aimed as the Hobgoblin charged forwards. Behind him ran the others. Fierre, heart pounding out of her chest, ran after him. Infinitypear ran with his spear as Sergeant Gna, on horseback, shouted.

“Follow Numbtongue into the breach! Watch those spears! Get in close or you’re dead! [Swarmblades]!”

Her own sword was buzzing and a cloud of strange insects was buzzing around it—Gothica’s parasol was folded, but the tip was a dagger point.

From his vantage point, Bird carefully aimed downwards. He saw Numbtongue charge at the Drake lines. One Goblin. Running ahead of the others. But so few—

“Now.”

From high above, on the cliffs, a dancing [Shaman] cast her spell and cackled.

“[Lava Orb].”

Ulvama pointed down. Numbtongue saw the flash of orange. The Drakes in front of him looked up and screamed. Shields rose as a burning orb of molten rock landed among them.

“Fill the gaps! Find that [Mage]! Don’t—”

The [Spear Captain] screamed desperately. He opened his mouth and Badarrow’s arrow hit him in the back of the throat. The Drake collapsed without a word and his Skill vanished.

Numbtongue saw the Drakes jerk as their poised spears wavered. He grinned and ducked a thrusting spear. The Hobgoblin cleaved upwards, and six Drakes recoiled, staring at their severed spear hafts. The ones behind them aimed at Numbtongue and saw the crystal sword turn.

Shorthilt’s ghost slashed across the first line of Drakes. They collapsed without the blade slowing. He dodged a sword and sundered another with his own.

The Dragonblood crystal blade never halted. The tip of it pierced a shield and another Drake’s chest. The Hobgoblin was still moving forwards, soldiers collapsing around him. His momentum barely slowed as the Drake line wavered—

And then the others hit it. Fierre surged into the gap and someone stabbed her. She ran onto the sword and gasped.

“Fierre!”

It wasn’t a deep cut. Her skin was like iron. Fierre grabbed the sword as the Drake recoiled. She bent it—then punched the face through the helmet. Someone else tried to bring an axe down on her shoulder. She recoiled—but a flying kick tossed the Drake into several of her friends.

Garia landed, and followed the kick up with a roundhouse punch that dented the chestplate. She whirled.

“Fierre! Are you—”

“Keep moving! Forwards, and don’t stop!”

Gna thundered past them. Garia whirled as Infinitypear rammed into a [Soldier] with a spear. He grabbed the shield and mace as the Drake shouted.

“Antinium! Antinium! Someone—”

Rasktooth darted under the struggling two. The smaller Cave Goblin stabbed hard at the other Drake’s groin. The [Soldier] screamed and the two were on him. Gna saw a blur hit the wavering [Soldiers] on her left. She barely even caught a glimpse of Salkis; she whirled through eight [Soldiers], slashing from one to the other, transferring her momentum from strike to strike.

She was laughing. Yet the Drake paused to look at her blades. They indeed had a cloud of spectral insects around them. As Gna locked blades with a Drake she picked out as an officer, the insects landed, biting, stinging, making the Drake cry out and waver. Gna rode past him and caught him on the backswing.

“Amateur. Rally! Rally—”

She was the [Captain] on the ground, pulling Fierre and the other warriors back, focusing them around Numbtongue.

——

The entire charge took seconds, and Bentill’s entire right flank dissolved into pure chaos. The [Commander] couldn’t believe her eyes.

Those were high-level fighters! Some [Mage] had cast a powerful spell from above—and they were taking arrows.

“Oldbloods under attack! They’re—Ancestors!”

Someone pointed up. A screaming Drake was descending. She had two arrows in her wings. Even as they watched, the [Soldiers] saw an arrow go through a second Oldblood’s wing. Then the hand holding a wand.

“Dive! D—”

The [Pursuit Commander] saw one of her Oldbloods doing just that. She dove towards the ground—then twisted—and hit the ground without levelling out. Someone had hit her in the wing as she dove.

“Surround the flanking force! Wipe them out!”

The army was trying to do just that. Highly dangerous combatants or not, they were outnumbered by a huge margin. The Gnolls saw the pressure abating and pushed back, but once the attack was dealt with…

Something was wrong. The Bentill Drakes saw the new group pushing in…and they weren’t falling. What was…?

——

Dirtmouth spat a cloud of dust into the face of her first foe, and ran them through. But she couldn’t pull that trick more than once. The Redfang was no Numbtongue with a magic sword. Hers was just steel and she had chainmail—

But the next warrior who she met was some kind of veteran. He charged into her.

“[Bull’s Ram]!”

She went flying backwards as the others fought around her, running into [Lineholders] and other classes. This Drake was huge and he or she was fully armored. They tried to bring an axe down, armored gauntlets flashing.

On her back, Dirtmouth desperately raised her arms. She wasn’t going to be able to bl—

The battleaxe touched her chest and she forced it back with a roar. The Drake staggered as she shot to her feet.

“Damned Goblins—”

They whirled their axe. Dirtmouth saw the slash and leaned back. She blinked. Then she raised her sword and slashed. This time the Drake staggered.

Stronger. [Hob’s Strength]? Behind the Drake, Dirtmouth saw one of the Workers overpowering his opponent, raining down blows with a maul and shattering the other’s guard.

[Hob’s Strength] plus…

The axe on the backswing nearly hit her again, but she twisted and it cut into her side, tearing the chainmail—but not deeply. Why? The Drake backed up, confused.

The glowing silver paint on Dirtmouth’s skin flashed. She grinned at the second layer of magical armor. The veteran soldier swore. Yet even that didn’t explain why…he saw Dirtmouth blur at his neck and raised his guard too slowly.

——

“[Unit: Speed Raid].”

The sudden increase in speed caught them off-guard. Niers saw Fierre misjudge her timing and slam into an opponent before recovering. He lowered his finger.

“Keep up the pressure. Ulvama. Throw an invisibility spell on Numbtongue!”

She glared at him, but then began to chant, waving her claws. Niers switched focuses.

“Gnoll lines are reforming. Bird, one more Oldblood over there. Hit her. Bird? Bird?”

The Antinium still had Niers on his head. He lowered his bow slightly. Four Oldbloods, all downed. Bird stared down at them.

“I have killed them.”

“Hit the last one. Force coming up the ridgeline! Riders and infantry! Alchemy 1, hit them!”

“Aaah!”

A scream answered him as Badarrow’s archers pelted the advancing Drakes. Octavia and some of the smaller Goblins rose from their cover—before Badarrow shouted at them to stay low—and tossed their alchemical vials.

They were safe. The Drakes were caught completely off-guard and the Tripvine bags and sticky vials slowed them. Badarrow drew an arrow and downed one [Soldier]—then another—with pinpoint shots through the eyes.

“Snapjaw, the archers are readying a volley. Drop.”

Niers barked through a Skill. He saw below him, in his mind’s eye of the battlefield, Numbtongue suddenly vanish. Ulvama wiped at her brow, panting with the effort of casting through her magical paints, but now there was an invisible Hobgoblin with a crystal sword slashing through the Drakes.

“Timer on the invisibility spell?”

“I don’t know! Fifteen seconds?”

“Excellent. [Hear Me]! Numbtongue, strike forwards and clear those [Lineholders]!”

The Hobgoblin charged and Niers swivelled so fast he preempted Snapjaw’s drop. She came out of the skies with Icecube, and the Frost Wyvern exhaled a deadly freezing mist over the back lines of the army.

The shock of the attack was almost as valuable as how many [Archers] and [Mages] it got. Niers’ eyes narrowed.

“Snapjaw, fly! You’re under [Arrowguard]—evasives, now!”

The Goblin [Eater] pulled away with notable reluctance, but the arrows swerving before they hit her or her mount wouldn’t do that forever. Niers was grinning.

The enemy [Commander] had no idea what was happening. This wasn’t even a chaotic battlefield on Niers’ end; he had a very small group to micromanage, but it was a hundred, a thousand times worse on the receiving end. Still—Niers was managing personalities, not trained soldiers.

“Bird. Hit the final Oldblood.”

Bird had shot one arrow and clipped the Drake’s wing. The Drake was descending, and, as Niers watched, Bird clipped the other one right on the edge.

Precision shooting. But he knew those were not near-misses.

“Bird. What’s wrong?”

“Bad birds. Bad birds…they don’t look like bad birds.”

Bird was muttering to himself. Niers stared at him, then down at the fighting. Ah. Damn.

Badarrow was erasing [Soldier] after [Soldier] and the other Goblins were doing a fine job. He saw Pivr, the two Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings, and Xeu all fighting without reservations. They simply put themselves on one side of the attack ground and carved in. Xeu’s scythe-arms were almost as unstoppable as Numbtongue, and she appeared and slashed her foes, skittering away as Pivr leapt and launched himself about, attacking with mandibles and his own scythe-appendages.

He was in more danger, honestly, but under so many Skills and Normen and Alcaz’s protection, he was surviving. The two Brothers weren’t showy, but they were deceptively good. They just waited for an opening and a club would descend with perfect brutal precision.

However. Niers saw Garia, Fierre, and even some of the other Antinium slowing.

“Civilians. Bird, shoot them through the head. Don’t worry about casualties!”

They were afraid of killing the Drakes. It would be different if it weren’t so one-sided. Bird hesitated. Salkis was wiping out the Drakes, and she and Numbtongue were pressing in, but they’d be lost if the others couldn’t back them up.

“Gna. Get them moving!”

“I…”

Bird’s hesitation hung in the air. Niers swung himself towards one of Bird’s earholes.

“Bird! This is a battle! Your friends will die if you don’t fight! They’re not even dead!”

The Antinium’s head rose.

“What?”

The Fraerling shouted as Ulvama turned.

“I am the Titan of Baleros! Do you think I don’t have Skills? Look!”

He pointed down and Bird focused on the first [Soldiers] Numbtongue had cut down. The dead [Soldiers], cut into bloody…chunks?

Where was all the blood? For that matter—Bird frowned down at the Drakes who’d been hit by the [Lava Orb] spell. Ulvama blinked.

“What.”

They were covered in soot, immobile. But not charred. Their armor was burnt away or actually melted but—Bird turned and saw Badarrow catch a Drake climbing up and slash across the [Soldier]’s shoulder.

The Drake fell, crying out, as a sharp blade cut through metal. He clasped at his arm.

“My arm! He got my—”

He stared at the limp limb. Tried to move it.

“I can’t move my—it’s still there. But he cut it—”

“Some kind of Skill! Get a healing potion! Get a h—”

The other [Soldier] went down as a boulder tossed from above mashed his head. Or…he lay there, dead to the world, as his companions shook him, completely immobile. But his head wasn’t pulped.

“They’re alive, Bird! [I Left the Carrion None of Their Due]! So shoot the b—”

Bird raised his bow and the last Oldblood fell in the distance, an arrow between their shoulders. He began loosing arrows like five archers combined. Ulvama stared at Niers.

“A Skill that doesn’t let one side kill the other?”

The Titan swung himself off Bird’s head now he was unsteady. He whistled.

“You damned bee! Get up here! I need a command vehicle!”

Apista flew up to him, a wing slightly crushed. Two soldiers down from a stinger to the eyes! She let Niers swing up onto her back. He buzzed towards Ulvama.

“Recharge your mana. I’m giving you a [Boost Spell] next.”

The [Shaman] just looked up at him.

“You can make us not kill them? You never said. You never used.”

She was fairly certain she would hear about the Titan of Baleros never killing a foe in battle. The Fraerling stared at her.

“What’s the point of always fighting a bloodless battle? It’s a strategic Skill to bleed a foe of resources or take prisoners. When you crush your enemy—”

He looked over his shoulder at Bird and made a sound.

“—Pick your battles. Bentill will get a lot of wounded, useless [Soldiers] they have to tend to. And these civilians will fight harder.”

Bird’s head slowly turned as he somehow kept hitting targets. He spoke, once.

“I do not know if she will hate you or like you. You are everything she wants and does not want. You confusing person.”

Niers Astoragon blinked at him. Then he shook his head and turned. The battle wasn’t over. He grinned, his eyes flashing.

Home. Ah, this was home.

——

This is what the Drake [Commander] felt. Shock of this new force aside. The Frost Wyvern—Goblins. Antinium?

The soldiers were reacting to all of that at once. Another Antinium had made his choice. He accepted the paint and went streaking down into the battle. That great warrior—

“Aura Skill! It’s not working! It’s not—”

A screaming Oldblood Drake had tried to kill some of the attackers. She had exhaled deadly, choking shade at her foes, and some of them had gone staggering away, unable to breathe, attacked by the cloying darkness.

But it hadn’t killed any of them. Why? Someone was advancing on her.

Crimson eyes in the darkness. A shade wrapped around her, so thick that a cast javelin slowed and stuck in midair.

An aura of midnight. [Goth]. On her other side, Grass Shell was conjuring…grass. And painful burrs that hurt even if you stepped on them with boots.

Not everyone had an equal impact. Fierre was throwing Drakes around; Garia had kicked and punched down several foes, but they had also cut her, and the [Martial Artist] was realizing she needed to single out foes in the melee.

But Fierre—she was going berserk, and the Drakes saw a short Human picking up and hurling foes in full armor. Ignoring cuts to her; they seemed to heal within an instant, as if she had a permanent low-grade healing potion! She leapt onto the back of an officer, and the screaming Drake ran around, trying to yank her off until they collapsed. Fierre raised a bloody mouth and Drakes backed away.

They didn’t even recognize they weren’t actually being killed. Even so—the [Commander] of Bentill’s forces could have still rallied. Still forced three dozen fighters and that group on the hill back with unacceptable casualties, but won.

If not for that monster. She tried—the Drakes forcing the Lomost tribe back were attacking full-on, rather than slowly wearing them down.

“Now! Advance the spears! [Barbed Charge]!”

The [Soldiers] thundered forwards at the Gnolls. Then—their momentum slowed. The [Commander] saw the Gnolls accelerate in a howling attack. They hit the Drakes coming at them and it was her forces who vanished in a melee.

“[Countercharge].”

Her Skill vanished as someone not only ate, but reversed it. It wasn’t a rare Skill. She knew she was up against some kind of commander. Some kind of—

“[Granite Formation]!”

Another line turned into a holding action as the Gnolls tried to move forwards and attack it. In response? She saw Drakes staggering as the Gnolls’ clubs, axes, and their own weapons suddenly began to glow. Each blow sounded and looked like a bolt of lightning.

“[D-Defiance To The Last]! [Unit: Razor’s Edge]”

She ordered a stand. No Gnoll fighters would pass beyond that killing ground. In response? The Gnolls pulled back and a flight of arrows showered the empowered Drakes.

Someone was reading her tactics and casually, even contemptuously, beating them! And it was so fast—she was maneuvering an entire army with the aid of her command staff.

Somehow—they were all losing. Who could do that? Some great Gnollish [General]? A [Strategist]? Who…

She thought she saw him in her mind’s eye. A giant, laughing down at her. The [Commander] wobbled around, terrified, trying to see her foe. If she had thought of the name, realized who it might be, she would have instantly had it.

A giant.

The Titan of Baleros.

But what good was the world’s greatest [Strategist] without an army? The Lomost Tribe was rallying, healing its wounded, and surging forwards. Still, the Bentill army was reforming. Beginning to close and dangerously encircle Numbtongue’s position. The [Commander]’s terror and losing the war of Skills didn’t account for the numbers difference. The Titan needed Numbtongue to keep fighting. To multiply his Skills and put the enemy into disarray.

He needed…

——

The Soldier left the wagon. Ulvama spun around; she had forgotten he was there. Paralyzed, he was the only fighter who hadn’t joined the fighting. She almost cursed at him—then stared.

“What. What did you do?”

He didn’t answer. The Antinium halted. Ulvama waved her arms, eyes bulging. Even Bird turned.

“Oh. That is new. What is your name?”

Niers Astoragon looked right. He saw the [Exemplar Warrior], the Free Antinium’s forgotten warrior, gaze up at him. Ulvama screeched—then he opened his mandibles.

“I. Hkve. Nne.”

Ulvama froze, arms raised. Bird’s mandibles opened.

“Soldiers don’t speak. I…how did you do that?”

It wasn’t speaking like Bird did. It was clicking, barely audible as a proper language. From vocal chords that were never configured for…

“Khere? W-kre?”

The Titan stared at the Soldier. He spun, pointed.

“There. The Gnolls are faltering. Hit them there and don’t let them overwhelm it!”

“You—”

The Antinium leapt down the hill. Ulvama stared at him. He charged down the slopes, so fast the Drakes fighting and pushing into the Gnoll lines despite Niers’ Skill saw him only as a blur.

Unlike Numbtongue, unlike the other attacks, they saw him. They began screaming.

“Antinium attack! Prognugator attack! New Antinium attacking!”

Their lines wavered in the face of him. Pivr, Xeu, Flying and Silent Antinium, the Painted Antinium—all looked around. The terrified Drakes pointed up, completely missing Bird the Hunter, at the horror of the Hivelands.

The newest breed of Antinium. After all—he could be nothing else. Forget that he had the body of a Soldier.

This Antinium was crimson. From head to toe. The blood-fire of the Redfang’s paint. The Drakes screamed as he surged towards their lines and the Gnolls ran back, yelping.

“Crimson Antinium! Don’t let him close! Don’t—”

Ulvama was hopping up and down and screaming.

“My red paint! He stole all my red—”

Crimson. He liked that name. Maybe? The Soldier raised a fist as he charged towards the first Drake. The spear shot at his stomach—and he pivoted. The Drake stabbing saw the Soldier rotate, twisting as he caught and moved along the spear’s length with one arm—and then at the elbow flying at his f—

The [Exemplar Warrior] crashed into the line of Drakes alone. They tried to kill him, stabbing. He swung left, knocked two Drakes down with two fists moving, caught a spear aimed at him, hit another Drake with an uppercut, spun, threw a Drake in front of the others to stop the attack on that side.

The other Antinium stared at him as the Soldier fought. Here was the secret. Soldiers did not know how to fight. The other species thought they were great warriors from the start. Soldiers knew how to kill from the moment they emerged from the Birther sacs.

But fight?

Touma the Great had punched down six Drakes. But they had stabbed him and the healing potions kept him alive, as had Gna, who’d been guarding her squad. Yet this Soldier—this old one—

He moved like Garia and Fierre. No, better than them. Garia had explained, but Touma the Great hadn’t understood what she meant by shifting her posture because she did it like a Human.

This Soldier, the Crimson Antinium, rotated with his punches. He swung with all his momentum, all four arms moving, blocking—independent of one another.

Even Soldiers and Workers had trouble commanding all four arms separately. They tended to move them together, especially in the heat of battle. Touma had never seen any Antinium fight like that. He raised his fists and the Antinium around him, Soldiers and Workers, watched.

Then—they began to copy him. It was almost like—a current running through them. Pivr and Xeu glanced up. The Soldiers and Workers were growing sharper. Pivr looked around and Xeu spoke.

“A…Queen…?”

Not yet. Not—she turned, scuttling, and a Drake ran a spear through one of her eyes.

——

“Xeu! She’s down!”

Numbtongue spun. The Silent Antinium’s Prognugator was under attack. Pivr leapt at the [Soldiers] and Infinitypear led a counter charge. No sooner had they driven off the [Soldiers] and tried to tend to Xeu than someone screamed.

“Snapjaw!”

Badarrow nearly left his cliff as he saw the Frost Wyvern spiraling, wings shredded by arrows. The Drakes advanced as she emerged, fighting. Numbtongue immediately began trying to fight to her, but Niers roared.

“Push in, Numbtongue! If you leave, they’ll wipe out your group! Badarrow—”

His voice thundered to the [Sniper] via his Skill. Badarrow snarled, in no mood to listen, but the Titan bellowed into his head.

“Protect Snapjaw! Bird, shoot them down! Ulvama, boost Snapjaw! Defensive spells! Snapjaw, get that Wyvern to those rocks! I don’t care if you have to drag it! Go!”

They were beginning to falter. Niers began using more Skills, but—the Ghostly Hand Goblins looked at each other. One stopped throwing rocks at the Drakes still trying to make it up the pass. They stared off into the distance. Then one plucked at Badarrow’s sleeve.

“Hob. Hob!”

“Shut up and fight!”

The [Sniper] was trying to place one of the longest-range shots he had. He saw an entire column of Drakes advancing on Snapjaw, who was urging Icecube up, but he had clearly wounded his legs. She had a sword. She was strong. But—

“Not that arrow. This.”

Badarrow nearly punched the Goblin yanking on him, but he saw it was one of the first Ghostly Hand Goblins he’d met. She had something.

A strange assortment. Octavia, hurling a Pepperspray Potion down, stopped, and stared as the Goblin hurriedly mashed a semi-transparent…

“What is that? A mushroom? I’ve never seen…”

The Goblin ignored her. Carefully, she coated the paste onto a simple steel arrowtip, and jabbered.

“Quick, quick—”

She had coated nearly the entire arrow with it when the strange glowing paste on the little stick she was using to slather it on…suddenly dropped off the stick and melded into the ground. The rest of it slowly sank through the little stone bowl and into the ground. Octavia’s eyes bulged.

“That’s some kind of ethereal effect! What in the—”

Then she focused on the object the Goblin held out to Badarrow. He stared at the glowing arrow.

The [Sniper] rose to his feet. He aimed out, mind suddenly clear.

[Eagle Eyes]. [Farshot Mastery]. [Doubled Range]. [Two Mile Shot].

He was building Skills. He felt his consciousness zoom in. Bird was pelting the Drakes, but they had shields and thick armor up. Badarrow thought of the best Skill to use. When he was younger—he had used this Skill.

[Shattershot]. Today? The Goblin [Sniper] spoke as he drew back, aiming for the center of them all.

“[Splintershot Arrow].”

The arrow arced up, a glow lost to all but Octavia, Badarrow, the grinning Ghostly Hand Goblin, and Niers. He watched it land, but couldn’t even see it as it sped through the air. He had to rely on his [Battlefield Awareness]. But he felt the effects as it landed.

The threat indicators of every Drake in a fifteen foot radius—

——

Snapjaw saw a glowing arrow land. It shot downwards, and a Drake [Shieldguard Warrior] cried out.

“Incoming enchanted! [Stonewall Shield]!”

His shield rose confidently. It was even enchanted. The arrow went straight for him, in the center of the formation. Snapjaw cursed—saw the arrow pass through the shield—the Drake’s chest—then explode into multiple copies which shot through the other Drakes and into the ground.

The [Eater] watched as, slowly and without a sound, every [Soldier] collapsed like puppets with their strings cut. The other Drakes backed up.

“They’re all—retreat!”

Icecube rose to his feet, whining. Snapjaw urged him to cover as more arrows from the enemy army sang down. But she stopped to blow a kiss up at her lover.

——

Niers Astoragon sat there for a second.

“I want that damn arrow. How did…?”

Then he refocused. The last act of the battlefield was taking place.

——

The Gnolls were fighting with the newcomers. Avoiding the Crimson Antinium, but clearly aware he was on their side. They actually covered the Goblins, shooting arrows into the Drake melee.

However, the [Commander] refused to retreat. To retreat was to invite a counter from the enraged Lomost tribe. It was to lose everything Bentill was counting on. Better to invite a slaughter on both sides.

Especially because her [Soldiers] weren’t dying. She had realized it and the flaw in Niers’ Skill revealed itself. This was why he didn’t use it.

If they had slaughtered even a fifth of the ‘dead’ fighters…

Gothica was next. Numbtongue saw a Drake club her from behind. Her aura wasn’t—he spun, slashing, but Pyrite had given his minute into the battle to take out an enemy [Officer]. Shorthilt had led the charge—

“Damn. Damn, damn, damn—”

Salkis retreated. She was bloody; someone had gotten her in the latest scrape and she was moving behind their lines, clutching at her guts. Numbtongue whirled around.

There was no time for a song. Perhaps he should have sung, called down lightning with Ulvama, but someone needed to be here.

Here he was. Infinitypear fell down. Rasktooth stopped, eyes wide.

“Infinity…?”

Smoke rose from his back shell. A [Mage]. The second blast of fire hit the Cave Goblin.

Were they dead? The Titan—Numbtongue raised his sword, reaching for the guitar. Lightning. He had to use his Skills before it was too late. A dirge for—

“[Snap Throw]!”

Numbtongue tried to duck, but the hatchet struck him across the head. He went down, Niers roaring in his ears.

“[They Fought Like Imm—”

Numbtongue was on the ground. Now he was surrounded as the [Soldiers] closed in. The Titan was trying to rally them; Sergeant Gna was leading the others, pulling those she could back to safety. But Numbtongue. They wanted Numbtongue.

“—it: Selphid’s Rampage!] Don’t—”

A Skill was worth nothing if it had no one to affect. The quality of [Soldiers]…he had a bunch of talented individuals.

Numbtongue drifted off. He saw Gnolls fighting near him; he had been trying to connect their lines. Almost. Almost.

Gnolls. Trying to reach him. Goblins. A tribe that didn’t want to slaughter them.

“A vision of the future. What might have been. They still remembered. I never forgot. Again and again, even this much is taken.”

Who was speaking? Numbtongue turned his head as someone tried to thrust a spear at his chest. Garia leapt over him and kicked them away.

Amid the fighting, the sea of legs, the dizzy world fading to blackness, someone sat there. A third ghost. He appeared…tattered. As if parts of him had been forgotten. Like a painting eaten by moths.

A warning. A battle on the longest day of the year. He had barely spoken. Barely done anything. Lost…forgetting even his own name.

Until now. Two vacant eyes focused on the Gnolls. On Numbtongue. His head rose.

“Once. I grew up in this tribe. Ghostly Hand. My name…someone gave me my name. And they called me…”

Numbtongue’s lips moved as a Drake with a crossbow shouldered her companions aside. It rose, tracking his face.

——

Niers Astoragon saw Numbtongue vanish. He was shouting orders, using his Skills—but he couldn’t see Numbtongue and the Hobgoblin was down. He saw only confusion, Garia struggling alone—

Then a flash. No—the opposite of a flash. A searing bolt of darkness, anti-light, shot upwards. Niers Astoragon saw Ulvama, chanting spells, freeze. He frowned.

“That’s…”

A figure rose up to his feet. He had lost his sword. For a second, Niers feared he was concussed, but then a Drake unit charged him. The Goblin swung around slowly, almost dreamily. He pointed a finger—and another bolt of blackness punched through the [Soldiers]. Two fell over, and the other two fell to their knees, tripping up their companions.

Two more [Deathbolts] followed. The Drakes stared at their companions. One bent to check a pulse.

They found none. Niers’ Skill…the Goblin looked up. Then he stretched a hand upwards to the sky.

“Arise!”

The dead Drakes began to rise to their feet. Niers saw Ghouls animating—not mere zombies—and they fell on the horrified Drakes around them.

He didn’t know what he was seeing. He had a number of guesses—but as the Hobgoblin wearing Numbtongue’s face turned, his answer came for him. The Goblin began shooting more [Deathbolts] around, and the Drakes died. He pointed his fingers and a swathe of flames lit up Drakes who ran screaming. These ones didn’t die—but the agonizing fire and powerful spell?

A Drake ran at the not-Numbtongue and the Hob slashed across his chest with his claws. Like some kind of [Clawfighter]…

The Drakes fell back from this threat. A higher-level threat. The Goblin turned. He blasted the Drakes around the others. Then, as Garia stumbled back, he opened his eyes and bellowed at the sky.

“Goblin Lord!”

The [Soldiers] of Bentill gazed up in horror. Their dead companions began to rise as undead. A wall of bone cut off their attacks on Fierre and the others. And that Goblin—Reiss—stood in the center of the army. He pointed up, at the foothills.

“Death!”

His voice grew louder. Echoing. It was just a volume spell, but Niers himself felt a chill run down his arms.

“What am I seeing, Ulvama?”

She didn’t respond. She’d gone pale. Niers traced the route of Numbtongue’s finger. It wasn’t at him…

“Ah. At last.”

The Titan sighed. The Gnolls of the Lomost tribe stared up at the Goblin Lord, who stood on a dais of bone, a barrier shielding him from arrows and spells. They looked up, and the Drakes of Bentill cried out. The Goblin Lord bellowed a third time, and the answer came from the foothills, from the glowing eyes and pointed teeth of the army, the tribe who wore a handprint of white. The Chieftain who rode on the back of a spider and pointed down.

“Goblin.”

The Ghostly Hand tribe began to race down the hills, some shooting spectral arrows that went through all but the greatest Skills or enchantments. At last—Niers whispered.

“[Fear Me, Your Mortality].”

The Drakes’ nerve broke. They began to flee. Niers stood there, bellowing down.

“Encircle them! Force them to surrender! Don’t let up! Tend to the wounded and—”

The Goblin Lord had the exact same idea. Entire walls of bone rose, and terrified Drakes surrendered—to the Gnolls they had been trying to kill, rather than the dread Antinium or Goblins. Niers Astoragon finally began to relax.

Apista came to rest next to Bird as he lowered his bow. The bee saluted Niers Astoragon as he stood there. He shook his head.

“I hate irregulars. We did it. But I hate—”

Apista waited for a ‘thank you’, a congratulations, or even a high-feeler. After a few seconds of the Titan grumbling, she did a surprise aileron roll and dumped him off the edge of the cliff.

——

[Adventurer Level 11!]

[Skill – Slinger’s Whirl obtained!]

[Skill – Deny Parry obtained!]

[Combination Skill – You Go Low, I’ll Go High obtained!]

Infinitypear thought that was quite something. First he was Level 3 at the start of this journey, he gained another level from finding the treasure with Rasktooth—then he jumped to Level 8 after the Titan’s dramatic run. Now three more levels for surviving…

Ow.

“Infinitypear? You okay?”

Rasktooth saw the Worker begin to sit up, then lie back; his back shell was burnt and he was lying on his front, a rarity. The Cave Goblin saw Infinitypear nod, then shake his head, and hugged him, laughing.

“You okay!”

Infinitypear realized Rasktooth was also scorched when the Cave Goblin swore. He had…no eyebrows, and most of his hair was gone.

Fire spells. But they were alive, in no small way thanks to Gna, who’d pulled them out, Ulvama’s magic paints, Niers’ Skills, and Gna’s command. Numbtongue distracting the others too, of course, but an expert had given them the longest odds for survival.

In fact, the expert was speaking in a loud, carrying voice as Infinitypear rolled onto his bottom.

“…Enchantments, local leader Skills, and high-level [Strategist] Skills. Throw in some high-level fighters against what are uniform [Soldiers] of a lower level, and you can get a one-sided battle. It was closer than I’d have liked. Most of the Antinium and Goblins weren’t actually higher-level than the [Soldiers]. But thanks to that…transformation, and a few other variables, we made it.”

Infinitypear tilted his head. He saw a tiny man, the one they called the Titan, standing there, assessing the damages. Then Infinitypear realized he was alive. He was alive…

They had made it.

——

Xeu lost her eye. Since she had two, that was something, but Pivr had lost a wing and the other was damaged beyond repair. He could still glide, but far less quickly than before.

Fortunately, or rather, amazingly, that was as bad as it got.

“As bad as it got? Icecube’s wings are shredded! Look!”

Snapjaw cuddled the whining Frost Wyvern, who snapped at Badarrow as he went for his hug.

“Touma lost his hand!”

Garia shouted back. Snapjaw focused on the upper right arm of Touma’s…which was gone.

“Oh.”

“It’s just a hand. They grow back.”

Bird waved his limbs for emphasis. Touma let Octavia fuss around him, but it was true that injuries were…light.

Healing potions had saved the worst wounds, and the people who’d gone in hard, like Fierre, Numbtongue, Salkis, all had either the levels or healing power to come out the other side. And potions saved lives.

Like, for instance, the Antinium that stood apart even from the others. Ulvama eyed him balefully, but Dirtmouth and Numbtongue both had to grin and clasp hands with him.

“Super Antinium. He all red. Biggest target. Best Antinium.”

Dirtmouth announced. The other Goblins even seemed slightly in awe of him. You had to be something to dye your entire body red.

“So what is your name? His name?”

Numbtongue glanced around, unaware this Soldier could actually make sounds approximating speech. However, Grass Shell turned his head and replied, the first time he had ever spoken.

“The Crimson Soldier.”

Numbtongue blinked.

“Yes, but what is his name?”

“The Crimson Soldier. Are you being silly, Numbtongue?”

Bird looked at Numbtongue. The Hobgoblin opened his mouth and then got it.

That was a name for a Soldier who had none. But how did the other Antinium know that? They had not talked—and The Crimson Soldier had not told them…

Pivr was staring at the other Antinium as Normen leaned on his side. After a while, Pivr spoke.

“Have I regained my social capital, Normen?”

The Brother looked up and grinned.

“If you didn’t from this, a fellow only has to do it until he’s liked.”

“Hm. I find your methods of gaining endearment dangerous, but perhaps effective.”

After all, he was wearing a little bouquet of flowers. Admittedly here, Apista had buzzed over and dropped it on his head, but you had to start small.

——

Fierre was panting. She was…sated. She also felt like she’d lost her mind for a bit. She licked her lips, trembling slightly. No one had seen her, right? No one had…?

Salkis sat down on a rock next to her. She appeared almost as pleased as Fierre, which was to say half-dead. She nodded.

“Hey. You’re crazy. I saw you tearing out their necks with your teeth.”

“What? No, I just—I—I—”

Fierre saw Garia look over from getting her cuts checked. Salkis just grinned at her.

“You’re awesome.”

“Um. T-thanks?”

——

That was the scene. The fellowship of the ‘we didn’t actually die’, sitting around on the elevated ridgeline, reclining on rocks, fishing food and supplies out of the wagon and packs, chatting—being alive.

Some, like Gothica, were recuperating. She had been healed, but the nasty knock on her head meant she wouldn’t be walking around any time soon. Others, like Ulvama, were eating, literally face over baskets of food.

To be fair, she’d earned it, since she’d cast so much magic, and those not tending to urgent needs, or processing what had happened like Infinitypear, stood with the little man who had perched himself on top of a rock close to head-height.

To this moment came the Gnolls of the Lomost Tribe. A Chieftain, limping, supported by Irry and another Gnoll, slowed as she saw the short Goblin and the Hob regarding each other.

“Chieftain Shaik.”

The Lomost Tribe’s Chieftain looked at the Goblin who’d ridden the spider. She glanced over.

“Chieftain Orni. You alive? Good.”

“And this is…”

Both Chieftains stared at the tiny man. He gave Chieftain Orni a formal bow.

“Niers Astoragon, Titan of Baleros. At your service, Chieftains Shaik, Orni.”

He gave the Goblin a sardonic glance. She blinked at him as her tribe of Goblins of the Ghostly Hand tribe surrounded Badarrow, whom they recognized—and Dirtmouth, a Redfang too.

…And they kept as far away from Snapjaw and Numbtongue as possible. For different reasons. They glared at Snapjaw.

Numbtongue? Some of the Goblins regarded him with a kind of respect. But Chieftain Shaik stared at Numbtongue and the [Soulbard] shifted.

There was a lot to unpack. Yet Niers Astoragon stood at the center of it all, watching. Assessing. He had not gone back in Bird’s hat. You couldn’t put the Fraerling back in the hat. They’d stab you. It stank in there. Mushrooms were beginning to grow.

“I…I feel as though I am dreaming. A terrible dream. First the news of the Drakes. Then an attack—Bentill has betrayed us. Yet we were rescued by…the Titan of Baleros? And our allies.”

Chieftain Orni had to sit down, heavily. She was wounded across the shoulder and either there hadn’t been enough potions or…

“Chieftain Orni. Please. A healing potion?”

“Give it to my warriors, please. We used up so many…and many died, but it would have been a true massacre had you not intervened. You…Goblins. And…”

The Chieftain glanced at Bird and flinched. He smiled, and the Gnolls rustled. Even the Ghostly Hand Goblins eyed him.

“I am Bird. Hello. I am friendly. Like Jexishe, the Friendly Creler.”

Niers covered his face. Orni and Shaik eyed Bird, and even his companions had to look at him. But then the Titan spoke.

“Do you need more guards to mind the Drake prisoners, Chieftain Orni? Thank you for complying with my requests.”

She blinked at him.

“Of course. I…I do not think we can hold so many. Bentill is too close, and we are too few, now.”

She pointed below, at where a huge prisoner camp of the surrendered [Soldiers] and the ‘dead’ had been compiled. Niers had assured the Gnolls the Drakes who’d been killed while under his Skill would wake in exactly twenty four hours from the moment the blow had happened. They could still die of lack of oxygen, though, so they were lined up on the ground.

“Good. I don’t intend to keep them. But I hope you’ll hear me out. The first thing that will happen once Bentill stops being in shock is that they’ll immediately shout that an Antinium-Goblin force attacked them. Before that, I’d like a few things.”

Niers hopped from the rock onto Apista as she flew by. She buzzed past them towards a map Niers had had laid out. The Gnoll Chieftain opened her mouth, clearly overwhelmed, but Niers was talking slowly—for him—and decisively.

“Thank you, Apista. Now, Bentill will try for reinforcements or a counter attack. I’d like us to preempt them. Firstly, by sending word to the Meeting of Tribes and every Drake city and power in the region, telling them exactly what happened. Every tribe needs to be warned they’re in danger. Secondly—informing Bentill that any retaliatory measures means the death of half their soldiers.”

Orni blanched.

“You mean execute them?”

Niers shrugged.

“Tell them the Goblins have them prisoner. That tends to work. Issue an immediate ransom to the tune of one silver and nine coppers per soldier.”

One of the Gnolls looked outraged.

“That’s low. That is—we’re ransoming them? These murderous bastards? They were going to kill all of us!”

Niers snapped his fingers.

“I don’t suggest we forgive Bentill, [Shaman]—I presume that’s your class. However, we must be practical. Request at one point nine per, delivered in the form of potions, then food, then gold for priority. Ultimatum—”

He glanced at the night sky.

“—By sunrise. Not that ‘you’ll’ do anything, but the Goblins will do whatever they do by sunrise. Sunrise for an agreement—they should deliver within the hour, though, via a City Runner and bags of holding. Don’t give them time to do more than react.”

He glanced at Chieftain Shaik who raised her brows. Chieftain Orni was frowning.

“Ransom them.”

“Yes. It’s just for whatever you can gain; as you said, we cannot hold the prisoners, especially once the ‘dead’ ones begin to wake up. Nor can we press Bentill for proper redress, as much as I’m sure you would sorely love to. We have the real value anyways.”

“Which is?”

The [Shaman] snapped. Niers pointed down at the army.

“Arms and armor. Potions too. Strip the [Soldiers], take everything. Horses, any gear they had—Bentill will have to replace it all. They won’t be able to pursue for at least a few days. By then, we should be at least a day out. Of course, that depends on whether Chieftain Shaik is joining us with her tribe.”

The silence that statement provoked was the silence of people catching up. Chieftain Shaik eyed the Titan.

“Go? Where are we going?”

The Goblin watched Niers. He nodded at her.

“Your tribe might be able to hide, although they will come after you, Chieftain Shaik. I honestly can’t promise you it will be safer with Lomost given the situation. However, I will be leading this joint force and the more tribes we can gather, the better.”

“More tribes. Titan—Lord Astoragon, you must slow down.”

Chieftain Orni spoke, shaking her head, dazed. Niers nodded to her, not unsympathetically.

“I know you have lost many of your people, Chieftain Orni. But let me be clear. I am the Titan of Baleros. Chance has led me here. Chance and providence, and, thanks to the bravery of this group—Goblins, Antinium, and other species—we managed to avoid catastrophe. Given the situation, I am requesting command of your soldiers and tribe. Because in a week, or less, this entire region—maybe this entire damn continent—will be a warzone with Drakes versus Gnolls.”

He looked around. The others stirred. Bird’s antennae waved at Niers.

“This is a very big jump. And I would know, I have watched Pivr.”

The Gnolls shuddered and jumped back as Pivr scuttled forwards.

“Hello. Pivr, socially friendly Antinium.”

Niers went on, ignoring Pivr.

“It will be Gnoll tribes versus Drake armies. Maybe some Gnoll tribes or cities will flip, but I think I am looking at a huge species war. I don’t think you’d disagree after this. Any rivalries—any excuse—and both sides will march on the other. To survive, we need to find other tribes in danger and link them up into a fighting force no group of cities will tangle with. And the more [Soldiers], the more dangerous I become.”

His eyes glittered.

“Then we break for the Meeting of Tribes or simply a port. Put our backs to the sea or a cliff. Hells, if it’s truly all Drakes starting the Third Antinium Wars the most idiotic way possible, we’ll have to take a harbor city. Carve out a nation and see how fast we can build walls until the Antinium come calling.”

Everyone was open-mouthed, listening to him. The Titan knew he was getting ahead of himself, but he had to take charge. He strutted along.

“Don’t mind the Antinium. Don’t mind the Goblins. Or rather—do mind them. Yes, I know they’re Antinium and Goblins, but they just pulled you out of the fire. That Goblin in particular was adamant we go down there and fight for your lives, not that I disagreed.”

He pointed at Numbtongue. Orni saw Niers look at her.

“You’re a sensible tribe. An interesting one. You can shake hands with Goblins—these are Free Antinum, by and large.”

Pivr lifted a feeler and opened his mandibles, and closed them slowly. Normen gave him a thumbs-up. He was learning.

“This is too much. Lord Astoragon, we will listen. But this…”

Niers nodded, and turned to the [Shaman].

“Take all the time you need, Chieftain. But I will do what we cannot wait on. Do you have [Message] scrolls, [Shaman]? We need them now for those warnings and that ransom.”

The [Shaman] hesitated, but Irry raised a paw.

“I could—”

“Go. Get me every [Message] scroll you have. Do you have a [Chief Warrior]? [Hunting Leaders]? Every Gnoll who’s not on guard—no, the Ghostly Hand tribe can watch them—get every one of them not grieving, wounded, or unconscious. Shaman, you stand there and think of every Gnoll tribe in the area. Chieftain Shaik.”

“Hah?”

She saluted, a bit mockingly, as Niers whirled to face her. His lips crooked and he gave her a salute in turn.

“Do you want to fight with us? If not, I’d advise you to think of a route away from here. Drake retaliatory armies will be on the way, adventurers too. I’ll split some of the things we took, arms and armor, but we need that ransom.”

The Ghostly Hand’s Chieftain was more up-to-speed than the shocked Gnoll Chieftain. She folded her arms.

“You’re the big [Strategist] from Baleros.”

Niers didn’t even blink.

“The biggest, the best. Accept no Tulms, Perorns, or Bannermares, with respect to all but Tulm. I’m away from my Great Company, as you can tell, but I’m up for side projects on the way back, and that might include saving as many tribes as possible from this disaster. Goblins too.”

She cocked her head, thinking. Then she pointed.

“You’re a funny little man. I like it. Thinking…maybe. Lots of danger, but Drakes attacked Lomost, so we fought.”

She shrugged.

“Good time. Decade of peace. Now time to die again.”

Shaik sighed. Scratched at her head. She was rather young, Numbtongue thought. Not like Rags-young, but…she glanced around.

“Goblins here. Big-important Goblins. So maybe we come. More survive if Titan keeps word.”

“We can make a pact and swear by important concepts.”

Niers was watching her. Shaik shrugged again. She glanced sideways.

“Yes. But one thing before. That Goblin.”

She pointed at Snapjaw, who was tending to Icecube. The other Ghostly Hand Goblins glared at her. Shaik’s finger pointed then to Numbtongue.

“…Is something wrong?”

The Ghostly Hand Chieftain grinned at Niers Astoragon. She nodded.

“That Goblin was a Chieftain who served the Goblin Lord. And that Goblin has ghosts.”

Niers’ head turned. So did the Gnoll [Shaman], and everyone in earshot. Numbtongue started as Shaik gave him a knowing glance. She stared pointedly past him, past Pyrite and Shorthilt, at the Goblin staring at her. Her eyes narrowed.

“He has the Goblin who became Lord. The traitor of my tribe. She served him. He carries the ghost. It is small thing. Just for me and my tribe.”

Shaik stared at Numbtongue.

“The Goblin Lord killed the last Chieftain. Mother. We did not go with him.”

Some of the Hobs following her calmly put their hands on their weapons’ hilts. Shaik waved a claw at them. She stared at Numbtongue.

“So, small problem.”

——

Niers Astoragon let Numbtongue walk away with Chieftain Shaik. If she tried to kill him or he her…it was a risk you had to take. She didn’t seem vengeful, which was good.

“Ghostly Hand tribe. Good tribe. Strong magic. Not just [Shamans]. Good mushrooms too. And spiders.”

Ulvama whispered to him. Niers Astoragon grunted.

“Yes, thank you. I can see their rideable Shield Spiders.”

He eyed the giant, flat insects and shuddered. Nests of those bastards. The one thing he was glad he hadn’t run into on his journey to The Wandering Inn.

“Can you tell me anything strategic?”

“You don’t boss me.”

Ulvama narrowed her eyes and went to poke him. Niers half-unsheathed his sword and the finger stopped.

“I boss everyone. Poke me, go ahead. You get ten tries.”

She hesitated. Niers Astoragon pointedly re-sheathed the sword.

“I know you’re not stupid, Great Shaman of the Flooded Waters tribe. I’m here to rescue Mrsha, so let’s not play idiotic games.”

She thought about it, folded her arms, and sighed.

“Fine. The Ghostly Hand tribe refused to fight for Velan the Kind. They are…a power among tribes. In the south. I don’t know them well. But they could probably have killed Bentill’s army themselves.”

Niers nodded.

“Nice mushrooms. I saw their effects. I want them. Can you make sure that Numbtongue isn’t in trouble for…harboring ghosts?”

Ulvama shrugged. She eyed Numbtongue with interest.

“I can try. What can you promise Ghostly Hand? They know they’re in danger, but better to run than get caught up in Gnoll civil war, eh?”

“They’ll have a hard time finding anywhere safe with all eyes on us. Tell them…well, tell them you could take them to your tribe in the High Passes.”

The [Shaman] recoiled slightly, then caught herself. Niers traded another look with her.

“Don’t worry. If I wanted anyone dead, they’d be dead. Right now I’m playing, ‘let’s save Mrsha and keep the Gnolls from being wiped out’. Your Goblin tribe is not my job. Not unless I think I see another Goblin King.”

He went back to studying the map and notes on other Gnoll tribes. They were going to have to move like spit. Ulvama saw the tent flaps open and Bird entered.

“Niers.”

The tiny man sighed.

“What, Bird? Now that you’re no longer my cover, you know that you can do whatever you want, right?”

Bird nodded his head.

“I could always do that. But I am still in charge.”

Niers and Ulvama slowly blinked at Bird. The Titan coughed.

“…I’m the Titan of Baleros, Bird. I’ve revealed myself and taken charge of at least the Lomost Tribe. We’re organizing to link up with other tribes.”

The Antinium smiled brightly.

“Yes, but I said I was in charge at the start of this adventure.”

“That was at my behest, Bird.”

“Yes, but I said so. Therefore I am still in charge. So what are we doing? I will tell you if you can do this. Which is probably yes because you are smart, but I am in charge.”

He walked over and put all four hands on the table. Niers looked at Ulvama.

“Hex him for me.”

The [Shaman] grinned. Niers walked around the map, sighing.

“The goal’s not changed. The method has, but the goal has not. In fact, I regard this as a net positive since we lost Mrsha’s trail.”

Bird frowned with his mandibles and antennae. So did Ulvama.

“What do you mean? We are now joining Gnoll tribes. That is not saving Mrsha. We cannot move fast, you said.”

“Oh, we’ll move fast for an entire tribe. Just not at the pace I want. And we’re still doing that. Saving Mrsha, that is. Keep up.”

The Titan had a twinkle in his eyes. Ulvama looked at him as more figures entered the tent. In came Shaik, Orni, who appeared more composed after a rest, Numbtongue, Badarrow, and Snapjaw, who stood well clear of Shaik. A few more Hobs and Gnolls walked in.

“Welcome to the first war council. I’ve outlined the basic course we’re going to take as soon as that ransom rolls in and we’re patched up. We break camp, we take everything, find other tribes, and go. But as I was saying, this is to protect the Lomost tribe and Ghostly Hand tribe…but also to accomplish some selfish goals.”

The Gnolls and Goblins exchanged looks. Niers explained.

“This band came together to go after a little Gnoll girl who was kidnapped. It comes from Liscor and it’s the reason so many disparate factions are working together. I will be honest; that will still be our mission, but I promise you that I will not endanger us all unnecessarily if I can. But that is my goal.”

“A Gnoll child?”

Orni started. It was Shaik who narrowed her eyes.

“Ah. Mrsha. Little cute white Gnoll.”

Everyone made fish-eyes at her, but she just snorted.

“We watch scrying orb. Liscor? You have soccer balls?”

Niers snorted.

“The scrying orbs? Wistram has them bugged.”

He ignored Shaik swearing in alarm, but went on.

“Yes. A white Gnoll girl. Who is not a ‘Doombringer’, and I would dearly like to talk with a [Shaman] about that. But our mission is to rescue her from whoever’s got her, or find her, and certainly protect her from a bunch of [Hunters] who have made it their job to kill a little girl whose only fault is that she steals people’s food. If you have reservations, kindly state them now and I’ll stab you and get it over with.”

His audience looked at each other, mostly the Lomost tribe. Orni shook her head slowly.

“There are…reasons. And danger, Lord Astoragon. But this is greater than one Doombr—we would not object to that.”

Niers smiled tightly. Excellent. From the way the [Shaman] shifted, intelligence was present. An army—he glanced at the Goblins. Two armies, with unique abilities, and it furthered his goals of investigating the Goblins anyways.

This was what he needed. But as Ulvama and Bird had said—Numbtongue fixed Niers with a look.

“I don’t know you. You were in Bird’s…hat. You’re the Titan of Baleros.”

“And you’re Numbtongue. I saw you back at the inn, but only Mrsha knew about me. We can reminisce later. Do you have a point now?”

The Hobgoblin hesitated. Then he pointed at the map.

“This isn’t saving Mrsha. This is an army. This is…important, but…”

He struggled.

“…Mrsha is in danger. We need to help her. Maybe you lead the army, we go?”

Niers shook his head.

“Go where? Without me you’d never have gotten this far. Stick with me, Numbtongue. We’ll have [Trackers], information, and other tribes on our side. But mostly, this is the best way to save Mrsha. I would know. I am a [Strategist].”

He tapped the side of his head, ironically. Then folded his hands behind his back. His eyes began to twinkle.

“Besides, now we’ve got her, we do need to keep her safe. Her and her companion. I really want to know how those hunters go after her with a Gnoll tribe guarding her, but I want it put out—no one harms Mrsha, got it?”

Ulvama looked blankly at him. Numbtongue’s brows crossed. Bird tilted his head.

“Niers has lost his mind. We do not have Mrsha. I would notice.”

“Shut up, Bird. Didn’t you see her in camp?”

“…Is this like Jexishe? Is she invisible? Why am I being lied to?”

Bird ran outside, angrily. Then he stopped. Uttered a swear-word Niers had no idea he knew. Ran back inside.

“Mrsha is out there.”

Numbtongue nearly bowled him over. He ran out, stared at the white Gnoll sitting there, stared at the adult white Gnoll, and ran back inside.

“That’s not Mrsha.”

Bird paused from running around screaming to poke his head out. He walked outside, and came back as Ulvama blinked. Then she realized what was going on and looked at Niers with something like respect.

“No, that is not Mrsha.”

Niers Astoragon chuckled. Ulvama glowered at him.

“That’s my paint.”

“Well, I’ll damn well pay you for it. Yes, Numbtongue. We have Mrsha. And if anyone wants to kill her, well, they’d better bring a real army.”

The [Bard]’s eyes widened as he caught on to what Niers was saying. The Titan smiled tightly.

“If you can’t get to her to save her, you might as well take the heat of the pursuit, eh? The official stance of every tribe who links up with us, along with ‘Drakes are not going to kill us’, is ‘Doombringers are fine’. And we’ll let our volunteers walk around safely away from any [Snipers] or [Assassins].”

Orni stared at Niers, and Shaik cackled with delight.

“Ah, chessmaster!”

Niers gave her another salute. Who needed chess when you could play on this many levels? He exhaled, slowly.

“Alright. I’ve finally got a good position. We’ll keep my name hidden for now. Nothing like amateur [Armchair Generals] for overconfidence if they have a simple numerical advantage. Now let’s go kick some heads in.”

——

That was six days ago. Chaldion of Pallass stared at the map of ongoing conflicts. It was just a hunch, which no one else was privy to.

Connect the dots. The Titan of Baleros was on Izril, but like someone of his size, people forgot about his presence far too fast. As if a Giant stopped moving and suddenly turned invisible.

A suspicious turnaround victory…rapid mobilization. It could just be luck, unforeseen factors, and there were certainly many, many elements at play that Chaldion had no control over.

Even so. Six days of march time was not a boon you gave to a poor [Strategist]. To the Titan?

Of course, it was not a given that the Titan would be Pallass’ enemy. On the contrary, Chaldion had the feeling the Titan was not about to support wholesale massacres of Gnoll tribes. It could be interests aligned, at least along the intersection that brought the entire tale back around Liscor.

The thing was…Chaldion eyed the game board, dangerously unstable despite his best efforts. Manus, Zeres, Oteslia, Salazsar, Fissival, each pursuing their own goals, armies on the move. The tribes, as furious as they’d ever been; Drake cities, each acting in their own selfish interests. The problem was not that the Titan was on the board.

The problem was that the Titan lived for this kind of game. He had a habit—which was that he tended to fight everything on the damn board.

Worse?

He had students.

——

“Looks like a running battle. Ever seen the like, Wil? Merrik? Peki?”

It was a strange habit of [Strategists], to stand there and watch during a battle while lives were lost and won. The Gnoll mercenaries, led by Berr, were almost frothing at the mouth to jump into it. They didn’t berserk—yet—but Wil Kallinad edged away from the one shaking in place.

“Calm down.”

Someone smacked the Gnoll on the back of the head, and he froze and ducked his head; though, his eyes were locked on the conflict.

Honored Berr, Berrigal the Berserker, was a tiny Gnoll…unless he was fighting. He went around ‘gently’ calming down the other Gnolls of the Wild Wastes tribe. Even the Human and his minders—another [Berserker] who Berr had insisted they take along.

So many [Barbarians] and [Berserkers]. This was the most unique mercenary outfit that Wil had ever worked with. In Terandria, he’d have hired [Duelists], [Knights] if an Order would consent to the cause, or generic [Sellswords] and [Mages] like an adventuring team. Some balanced group, good at ranged attacks given their small size, which could hold defensive positions.

This group was all-melee, all in-your-face fighting, and the most offensive classes you could find. Wil didn’t like it, but his eyes were glued on the battle.

Venaz stood there, carefully putting his back to the overhang of stone above the cave they’d hit when they sensed the battle. He grunted as a centipede slithered past him, but didn’t move. They were keeping in cover, gazing down at the battlefield.

One of the Wild Wastes Gnolls growled.

“Strategists. Are we going to watch?”

Berr stomped on his foot as he passed.

“Shut up. We’re employed. You’re as bad as my sons.”

“Honored Berr! That’s the Hekitr Tribe!”

“And we’re letting our employers decide. I’m glad I didn’t take my sons after all. They’d be halfway down there and you all would be following along. Control yourselves. You especially, young man.”

He patted the Human’s shoulder. Wil eyed the rictus of clenched teeth on the Human [Berserker]’s face. Berr spoke to him.

“Control yourself.”

“I can’t hold it in, Honored Berr!”

“Yes, you can. When you fight, it will come out. You can wait for that moment. Wait…”

Wil tuned the voices out. He focused on the battle. Peki and Merrik were shifting, but Wil and Venaz were the calmest of the lot as true representatives of their class. [Strategists] liked elevation. They were taught to observe first. Observe fast, but Niers had hammered it home into them. Wait. If you’re in a position to influence a battlefield as an ambusher—make it count.

“War in Izril. Drakes and Gnolls. That’s the last thing we need. If I were more suspicious of his character, I’d wonder if the Professor set it off.”

“Don’t be stupid, Venaz. To what purpose?”

The Minotaur shrugged.

“If it were Dullahans and Centaurs—what’s your appraisal of the battle, you two? How do [Officers] see it?”

Peki and Merrik looked up. The Dwarf grunted.

“Not my style. I’d be that army pursuing the tribe. Hekitr? They’ve got their non-combatants out of the way. It’s like fighting Peki, right?”

“Not me.”

The Garuda [Martial Artist] folded her wing-arms. Merrik snorted.

“Exactly like you. They just used traps instead of direct attacks.”

“Not like me. I don’t use traps.”

“And that’s why you failed our course on…”

Wil ignored them too. Sure enough, the Gnoll warriors were racing ahead of a slow-moving Drake army that was understandably cautious to give pursuit, even with their mounted divisions. They’d tried—and run straight into bear traps, hidden tripwires in the tall grass, and harassing fire.

“Nice slowing tactics. Unfortunately, that army won’t stop. And there’s a second force in the region.”

Peki frowned. Merrik hesitated from nodding, and the Wild Wastes tribe looked sharply at Venaz. Wil saw Venaz glance at him. The Minotaur was breathing steadily, but he had adjusted the green diamond greatsword on his back. Ready to draw it.

“Do you concur, Wil?”

“Looks like it.”

“How do you know?”

One of the Gnolls demanded angrily. Wil pointed down.

“Baggage trains. This army’s carrying far too much; also, you can count the pennants and other regalia. I see a gap in their numbering.”

“And they don’t have nearly as many riders as a Drake army traditionally sports. That’s anecdotal, but it’s not even a 1:16 split from infantry to horse. Besides…look at them. They’re setting fires, wasting the Gnoll tribe’s lands. Boxing them in. There’s a natural ridge up ahead. The tribe heads that way, they get boxed in.”

Venaz pointed it out and Wil nodded. Textbook. He bit his tongue.

“If we go down there, we’re embroiled in Izrilian politics, Venaz. We’re bound for Liscor. To the Professor.”

“Wil. Are you suggesting we let this tribe perish?”

Venaz folded his arms. Wil blinked a few times.

“No…but this isn’t our home. We’re not invincible.”

“Then we’ll be careful. I will, carefully, join Berr and the Wild Wastes tribe. You contact the Hekitr tribe and we’ll ambush the ambushers. Merrik? Your preference?”

“Give me a defensive line any time. Wil and I hold the line, you and Peki go in?”

Merrik nodded. The Gnoll [Mercenaries] watched them. The four students exchanged glances. Were they doing this? Wil took a deep breath. He put a hand on the hilt of his shortsword.

“One amendment to the plan, Venaz.”

The Minotaur looked carefully at him. Wil touched the Sword of Serept and three Wils stood there.

“I’ve got two extra lives. Put one of me in the vanguard.”

The Minotaur grinned and slapped one of the Wils on the back. They began to race via cover to the ambush site. Wil kept cursing as he ran, panting, to keep up since their horses were too noticeable.

Ailendamus and home. The Titan and Liscor! Damn, damn—

But he had found the Titan’s promised adventure.

——

Her friends were idiots. Because she knew that, knew their personalities, Yerranola was not surprised when Feshi burst into their tents.

“Strange medicine.”

She finished staring at the powdered yellow flower before mixing it into the small vial of liquid she personally imbibed. Her Selphid-body relaxed.

The pain was gone. It crept back and she knew she had to take the next dose, along with her antidote. So many mysteries.

“Say it again, Feshi?”

“They just joined the Hekitr tribe. The tribes are under attack! There are armies marching along the Great Plains.”

“Continental war?”

The Selphid saw her friend blanch. That was a name for a very specific kind of war. Civil wars could be between peoples, a nation or kingdom. Magic wars took place over dimensions you couldn’t fathom, and so on.

Continental war was one step below the greatest of battlefronts—intercontinental conflicts. Technically, it was only south Izril…but that was a huge place. Intercontinental war? Well, the last time that had happened, the King of Destruction had launched attacks from Chandrar after beating every invasion force running.

“So what are we doing, Feshi? Going after them?”

“I—I can’t. Weatherfur needs me. Some of the tribes want to take the battle to the Drake armies, some want to just hold ground, and they have rivalries—but there will be fighting here.”

Yerranola nodded reasonably.

“Then we trust Wil and Merrik to do the smart thing and keep Venaz and Peki alive. Don’t obsess over it, Feshi. This is our battlefield.”

And they had work to do. Her friend calmed down as Yerranola stood up. Suddenly, the Selphid felt better. Just in time too.

“The Meeting of Tribes wasn’t designed as a defensive position. It’s flat. We need earthworks. Actual walls, defenses.”

Yerranola emerged from her tent, talking and arguing with Feshi. The Gnoll gritted her teeth.

“I know. We have countless Gnolls and lots of [Shamans]—but you can’t just start building a defensive line, Yerra.”

“Why not?”

“This is Az’muzarre’s land. Also, the Chieftains need to agree—”

“To make defenses? Feshi, I thought your people were smart. Let’s just grab some expert. Who would that be. Gaarh Marsh?”

“I—yeah.”

“They can build earthworks outside the Meeting of Tribes. Just a dirt-fort like the Professor had us do with [Geomancers]…are we the only two people thinking about this? Where are all the Gnoll [Generals] and [Strategists]?”

“They’re usually combined with [Chieftains]. Yerra, if the enemy reaches us here, it’s a worst-case scenario. The tribes won’t sit in forts; they’ll attack any Drake army on the march. It’s how they’ve won every war when the Drakes tried to push into the Great Plains.”

Yerra nodded reasonably and rolled her eyes.

“And so they have no fallback plan. Does that remind you of any historical defeats?”

Feshi hesitated and the Selphid patted her on the shoulder.

“Let’s call it a ‘just-in-case’ fort. The Drakes have the Walled Cities; the Gnolls should probably have had at least one big capital.”

“We used to.”

Feshi muttered. Yerra strode faster, trying to think. Diplomacy getting in the way of strategy. Yuck. She wasn’t in pain, but she couldn’t help but feel a pang in her host body’s stomach. After all…there was another name for this war neither she nor Feshi had used. Because that would be the worst scenario.

Interspecies war.

The question was if the Gnoll tribes were united enough to hold their ground. They certainly were if an army came marching at them. But going on the offense, fighting as one?

——

There was an undercurrent in the Meeting of Tribes. Sudden poison. It leaked in, amid the outrage and shock, and it lay there, a line of suspicion. Drawn by that damn Drake, with just words.

Traitors. Allies to the Walled Cities in engineering this plot. So, even as Gire sat, playing ‘Five Paws’ with Mrsha, where you tapped each other’s paws in a complex child’s game of reaction and basic tactics, she listened.

“Ekhtouch will not join Woven Bladegrass on an offensive attack, Chieftain Werri. If an army crosses the water-line…”

An old marking around the Great Plains, the furthest point which any [Shaman] could call water from the rivers crossing through the region. Often noted as an absolute border, which Drake forces could not cross.

Her mind clicked to these facts as Mrsha tried to slap one of her paws. She kept missing, and Gire didn’t attack Mrsha’s own paws. The Gnoll girl slapped with both paws and Gire’s paw blurred left and right.

“Then we will go with Tribes who will prevent that from happening, Chieftain Firrelle. When an army does march, I hope you will join the defense.”

Firrelle’s voice was cold as she spoke to another Chieftain—the fierce leader of the new Woven Bladegrass tribe.

“Rest assured, Ekhtouch will be there, Chieftain Werri.”

The other Chieftain stalked away with a group of Gnolls representing other tribes. Gire thought of the conversation.

Then Woven Bladegrass would be conducting its own battles with its alliance. At the same time, other tribes would hold the Great Plains, responding to an incursion. They were all on the same side…but tribes would fight and die with only their closest allies, rather than forming one unified army.

In that case—what side was Ekhtouch on? Gire stared at Mrsha and hoped it was Silverfang’s. But—

“I’m Mri. Stop! Stop!”

Mrsha, exasperated, toggled her speaking stone. She pointed at Gire’s paws which she had been unable to tag once after an entire minute.

“No one beats me at Five Paws, Mrsha. I could close my eyes and only use one hand. Sometimes the children can touch me—but they’re the ones who’re the best at Triumphs. I don’t think you can do it.”

Mrsha’s eyes narrowed. Her paws blurred.

Don’t you mock me, you giant Yellat! I am Mrsha the Great and Terrible. Take—

Her two-armed attack missed Gire’s one paw. Gire lifted it up, moved it left, right, as Mrsha punched and furiously struck at her paw, trying to touch Gire’s palm-pad. She missed. In her fury, she launched into a flying kick at Gire’s stomach.

Take th—

Gire caught her by one leg. Mrsha dangled there upside-down and saw the nine-foot tall Gnoll give her a reproachful look.

“Kicking me is cheating.”

Mrsha tried to punch Gire, but her flailing limbs were far too short to reach the [Paragon]. Realizing she was failing even there, she reached for something. Gire saw her draw a wand and—

[Mudball]!

An orb of mud shot forwards at Gire’s face. Mrsha felt the [Paragon] let go. She landed and saw Gire dodge the [Mudball] at point blank range. She swung her head just under it, and a foot rose, sweeping sideways and up like—

Like Ryoka’s best kick. Only it wasn’t a spinning hook but a roundhouse, the shin coming towards Mrsha’s head with bone-crushing force—

Gire halted well clear of Mrsha and frowned.

“Don’t do that, Mrsha. I nearly kicked you.”

Mrsha stared at the giant leg. She nodded slowly and raised her paws.

Five Paws was a stupid game, anyways. For children. Only someone without class or dignity would try too hard to win or cheat.

Gire yawned. Mrsha saw her sit back down, cross legged.

“Okay. I forgive you. What do you want to do next?”

Mrsha sat there, panting a bit. She had done her best, but Gire had truly not even been strained, even by Mrsha’s most underhanded Lism-tactics. Her [Mrsha Kick], developed from the Relc-school of fighting arts, had done nothing!

It was true what Gire had said this morning. Even this game with Mrsha the Incredibly Athletic…was making the [Paragon] bored. For the first time, she was patently bored but, like the growing girl she was, clearly trying to make herself look interested for Mrsha’s benefit.

“We can play other games if you want. Like football.”

Mrsha’s eyes narrowed. Was she being patronized? It was the kind of thing big kids said to others, like Visma’s big brother. She had heard Satar use that exact same tone of voice when Cers begged to play.

Mrsha had never recognized it before, but her new friendship made it obvious in Gire. The Gnoll [Paragon] smiled at her. Mrsha folded her arms and sat like Gire.

No way. I’m a big girl. Let’s do something fun.

Gire nodded reasonably, but she was distracted.

“We could…go get something to eat? I can pay for whatever you want.”

Mrsha’s ears twitched. She saw the too-casual look on Gire’s face as she glanced towards the Meeting of Tribes. And these treats would just happen to be in line with Chieftain Torishi’s orders that Mrsha was an honored guest, eh? Nothing to do with a certain big Gnoll girl being prohibited from anything but her specific diet.

I could use some food. Let’s get snacks!

Gire smiled eagerly and picked Mrsha up. With Mrsha riding on her shoulders like she did with Moore, Gire trotted to the entrance of the Ekhtouch tribe.

“Where are you going, Gire? You have lessons.”

“I’m taking our guest out.”

The Ekhtouch Gnolls exchanged glances. But Firrelle was busy and Gire pointed to some Gnolls who looked up.

“We will ask Weatherfur to accompany us. We cannot be rude to the Silverfangs, can we? Or Weatherfur?”

“No…”

The [Guard] drew out the word with clear reluctance. Gire didn’t wait for a counterargument, so she strode with Mrsha as the Weatherfur Gnolls followed. Mrsha sniffed the air and saw Gire brighten with delight.

“Miss Qwera said that you can buy whatever you want as long as it doesn’t ruin your appetite. And she gave you money, didn’t she?”

Mrsha gave Gire a superior look and signed with her paws.

Give me money? Do I look like a Peon? I’ve got lots of gold.

Gire blinked.

“Really? How much? I have sixty one gold coins, you know. All from odd jobs or monsters I killed and such. A lot of money; Ekhtouch doesn’t give me an allowance.”

She seemed rather proud of that. Mrsha sighed and patted her on the head. Good for you. She saw Gire frown, and thus had to show her the bag of holding with so many gold coins in it that Gire’s eyes popped.

“How did you get that? Did Qwera give…?”

The Golden Gnoll? She wasn’t that generous. No, this was Wer’s bad-luck money. Mrsha hoped he was okay…but the upshot was that no food was out of reach. Anything was fair game, from the free stalls to the most expensive luxury items.

“Mrsha…you’ll share with me, right? I shared my breakfast with you.”

Mrsha gagged at the memory of the steamed health buns, but she nodded munificently. She sniffed the air, and, like a [Sailor] clinging to the bird’s eye mast—which was Gire’s head—she pointed. The giant Gnoll made her way through the crowd.

Gnolls turned and stared at Gire, of course, but ironically, this was, in a way, safer than Mrsha being alone. People saw Gire and the tiny Gnoll cub and thought—well, that had to be Ekhtouch’s [Paragon] and some Gnoll kid. Mrsha, with her brown fur and painted gold ears, was probably with the Golden Gnoll of Izril, and none of them stopped to think about her being alone, a white Gnoll, or her lack of speaking.

Besides, Mrsha had her speaking stone setup.

“Left. Left…I want that.”

The first stall they stopped at was offering a rare food. The [Stall Manager] looked suspicious, but the first handful of silver coins Mrsha plonked down was enough to make him call to the special [Chef].

Both were Drowned Folk, incidentally, one Human, one Drake. But they were also part sea-folk, so they weren’t as hostilely regarded. Mrsha saw one huge eye blink at her as the Drake with long tendril arms—three on his Drowned Folk side—reached for a cleaver, a pot lid, and the cage with the fresh ingredients.

“What’s that you want?”

He didn’t have the same resonance as Seborn’s voice, but the half-Squid Drowned Drake was a fascination to Mrsha. Gire answered for her.

“Um…it looks really good. All of it. Mrsha, what are we getting?”

The Drowned Man saw the strange Gnoll girl point to one of the items listed. The [Stall Owner] blinked.

“An entire grilled lobster?”

“And that!”

The girl insisted. The [Chef] grinned.

“Spiced lobster tail? I cut off the tail, prepare it—and the rest’s the Sailor’s Grill? You have expensive tastes, little girl. Can you pay for it?”

For answer, the Gnoll girl reached into her bag of holding and slapped a gold coin on the counter. She stared challengingly at the [Chef], who laughed uproariously, then read the piece of paper she pushed over the counter.

My friend’s a [Rogue] who was at sea. He is a Drowned Man. I also know a [Pirate].

“Ah, you know a Drowned Man? And a [Pirate]? Well, I’ll give you the best lobster we have, then. How about…this one?”

He pulled out a big lobster. Mrsha brightened up. Gire licked her lips.

“M-Mri. You can’t eat all of that, can you? I guess I’ll have to eat the rest…”

Mrsha nodded, smiling at her big friend who looked alive again. Salivating as the [Chef] asked how spicy Mrsha wanted her food.

“It’ll take twelve minutes. [Fast Boiling] on the water…come back within thirty or it’ll lose the taste, got it? I won’t forget your faces.”

Mrsha nodded. Then she grabbed Gire’s hand and pointed.

Onwards, then!

“We’re not going to wait for it?”

Mrsha the Impatient gave Gire a look of scorn. Wait? For twelve minutes? She had to grant the Drowned Man chef that it might be fascinating to watch, but she had scented something else on the breeze.

No lobster snack is okay without second snacks! Buy that, buy that!

She pointed instantly at another cart, where a specialized half-Elf vendor was selling a very peculiar stock.

“All the way from Terandria! Gelato! Special containers—it’ll last for up to four hours so long as you keep it away from heat!”

She had come from Terandria, at great time and effort, travelled all the way to the Great Plains with her cargo and knowhow, and paid for the recipe and materials. It was a huge expense—and this particular half-Elf had recouped her expenses in the first day. She was here after months doing victory laps and establishing her savings fund for retirement.

“Is that…ice magic?”

Mrsha stared at the half-Elf. There was a reason she’d been drawn to the half-Elf, although she seemed nothing like Ceria. Oh, they were both half-immortal Elves, but this woman was far older, with wrinkles, and even reddish hair.

“Hello there. Are you interested in a bit of gelato? Ice cream? It’s not cheap, but I can sell you a scoop. Just one second while I finish this order.”

The half-Elf was creating something amazing for a customer. Children watched, although most couldn’t afford to buy even a scoop of the stuff without getting a silver coin from their parents. Mrsha saw a big dollop placed in the center of what the half-Elf was creating.

A basin of frozen ice, which she made out of water set into a wooden mold. She closed the simple lid and offered the entire thing to the Gnoll waiting to run it over to his Chieftain’s tribe.

“And it won’t, uh, melt?”

“It’s good for hours. You can even keep it frozen.”

The half-Elf assured him. She sat back, stretching the lower half of her back, just in time to see Gire’s head rise. Mrsha had been writing urgently so she wouldn’t have to hand cards over. Gire cleared her throat.

“Excuse me, are you a [Cryomancer] by any chance? I—I mean, my friend Mri knows a half-Elf [Cryomancer]. She’d also like to buy some gelato.”

The half-Elf peered down at the little girl, but she had spotted Mrsha making the lobster order.

“Well, that’s very interesting. I’m not a [Cryomancer]. I’m simply a [Naturalist Mage]. My specialization is magic in combination with existing things. No giant walls of ice unless I’m standing near a lake, I’m afraid. What’s your friend’s name? We might know each other.”

Gire hesitated, but Mrsha pretended to ‘whisper’ in her ear.

“Ceria Springwalker.”

The half-Elf vendor slipped slightly as she went to clean the knife she’d been cutting the gelato into portions with. She didn’t cut herself, but she stared at Mrsha.

“Ceria…I know that name. Isn’t that the adventurer who was—?”

Gire herself had recalled the name and was giving Mrsha a strange look. The Gnoll girl nodded proudly, defiantly clinging to Gire’s paw. Ceria wasn’t dead! Ksmvr was alive, and doing silly things in Chandrar. So Pisces and Yvlon were okay, and Ceria too!

But that wasn’t what had the half-Elf blinking. She rubbed at her face.

“Springwalker. I’ve been to their village. Springwalker…I don’t know her in particular, but I do know where she came from.”

Mrsha’s ears perked up. Oh? She’d always thought Springwalker was a last name. Apparently not.

“We name ourselves after our homes. Springwalker is a Terandrian village. In fact—it’s known for water-related gifts. Hence the name. I went there to learn some purity magics. It’s a very traditional village…although it’s had a bit of unrest. It always does. I’m sorry, that is quite amazing. You’re a well-travelled girl, aren’t you? Mri? Where do you come from?”

Gire saw Mrsha hesitate. Behind her, some Gnolls with Weatherfur’s dye looked up. This was what Torishi and everyone who knew Mrsha worried about. For a girl who couldn’t talk, she had a fat mouth.

——

A scowling Gnoll with fur like metal found he was actually sinking into the earth. He shifted his posture, but he was so heavy that he was literally twice the weight of some other Gnolls his height.

Even so, that made Adetr into an unstoppable warrior. One of the greatest to emerge from the Steelfur clan. He was something of a loner, but a respected battle leader and, the stories said, possibly Iraz’s successor by nature of his Skills.

That was why other Steelfur Gnolls, who themselves had the classic metal fur that made their tribe so renowned and feared on the battlefield, eyed Adetr as he lounged against a wooden post.

He never relaxed and had said publicly he wouldn’t ‘waste his time’ at the Meeting of Tribes. He just stalked around using his battle-prediction Skills. And yet here he was, clearly waiting near the food section.

“You’re late.”

He growled as someone approached. The Steelfur Gnolls pointing at him saw a young Human woman hurry over. Ah, that explained everything. But who would have thought? Adetr?

The [Battle Seeker]’s glare hurried off the members of his tribe as Rose stopped.

“Sorry. Everything’s in chaos. So…d’you want to sit and talk?”

She glanced around. Adetr touched the Ring of Silence he’d brought.

“Anywhere is fine. Let’s talk again. You were explaining the history of where your people passed ours. The…dark times?”

“Medieval ages. The dark ages is a nickname.”

Rose sighed. She peered around wistfully.

“You don’t want to get anything to eat first? Explore the Meeting of Tribes?”

This was a habit of theirs. A somewhat uneasy habit, but Krshia had agreed with Rose that it had to be done, or Adetr would have only a half-truth without explanations. Still…Rose was tired of feeling like a history professor teaching a student who knew nothing of Earth—at all—the history of everything. Especially because Adetr had seen…

Modern warfare. He’d fought tanks, seen the effects of guns against his tribe, and, Rose couldn’t believe this, had even been hit by some kind of aerial bombardment. Even maybe a nuke.

Adetr was a [Battle Seeker]. He was also a fine warrior, or so she was told, but one of his Skills, a rarity among any normal person, was [Vision of Greatest Battle]. It allowed him to see…well, what it would be like to fight someone else.

And apparently on an Earther, it meant he was suddenly fighting soldiers from her world armed with modern weaponry. That had freaked Rose out, especially because Adetr had nearly gone crazy, thinking this army existed and might go on the attack.

However, Adetr really was an oddity. [Battle Seeker] was a strange class, and he was a single-minded Gnoll. He glanced around, and Rose sniffed the air more eagerly than he did.

“I’ll pay for something if you have to eat.”

“You don’t want anything? Really?”

“No. It’s just food. I thought you Humans from…”

Adetr hesitated, looking around.

“…your home would have better food than this, anyways.”

“Not magic food. And besides, good food is good food. Let’s just walk around a tiny bit before we get back to talking. Please?”

“Gah—fine. You know I’m busy. Steelfur might have to fight the Drakes soon so I have to go. Not that I’d mind that, but I need to know…everything.”

“Well, I’m not telling you how to make anything.”

“I don’t need to know that. Yet. Just how my tribe’s supposed to survive.”

Adetr stalked after Rose. She sighed. Why couldn’t her Gnoll contact be…well, someone like Tkrn? Inkar, that lovely young woman from Kazakhstan, who rode like a seasoned [Rider], fit so well into the tribe that clearly loved and appreciated her, had Tkrn, who was smitten.

Rose got Adetr, who stalked along behind her like a giant metal shark, such that even the other Gnolls got out of the way. She might have decided he was too…insane and refused to meet with him at all except for one thing.

Adetr didn’t look at Rose like some psychotic war-hungry fighter. He was surly, bad-tempered, focused on only military matters or ‘how strong Humans were’, and so on. But she caught the expression in his eyes now and then, the same as when he had first accosted her.

He was afraid. He had experienced a war completely unlike battles he understood, and he saw how dangerous it might be to everything he cared about.

So Rose did her best. Not only to educate in a limited sense, but also to…convince him.

“So, um…the Drakes declaring war on the Gnolls. Are you worried?”

“Chieftain Iraz is. He’ll decide if we go out and fight. We’ll probably just hold the Great Plains. I’m not worried about that.”

The metal Gnoll saw Rose glance back at him.

“Not about Gnolls and Drakes fighting?”

He shrugged.

“I’ve seen some of the Drakes’ best. We have amazing warriors too. If it happens, it happens. Neither side can toss the other over and the Great Plains have never been taken when the tribes gather. I’m more worried about something else. What do you want? Let’s get it and find a seat. You can have as much tea and snacks at the Steelfur camp as you want.”

…And there he went again. Rose sighed. They drifted by a stall with a delicious seafood grill and she stopped to stare at it.

“Oh my gosh. Lobster?”

“I’m not buying that.”

Adetr checked the prices and instantly glared at her. Rose raised her hands.

“I can pay for myself, thanks! Anyways, who could eat an entire lobster? For a snack?”

“I don’t know. You’ve been eating every day we ‘talk’.”

“Don’t be rude. I don’t know why I—”

Rose went to shove Adetr and he stared at her as she tried to push him. His fur wasn’t as spiky as the metal indicated, but it was like shoving a brick wall. She sighed and walked on as he stomped behind her.

As a result, they both naturally spotted the giant Gnoll girl bent over to talk to a half-Elf. Who wouldn’t stare at Gire? Rose’s mouth opened.

“That’s her! That’s, um—Gire!”

“Gireulashia. [Paragon]. Don’t make her mad. She’s an excellent warrior.”

Adetr glanced at her with clear interest. But Rose spotted the little girl there and froze.

“Mr—Mri?”

She caught herself just in time and Adetr glanced at her.

“Someone you know?”

“Yeah, she’s…why is she out here?”

Instantly, Rose began to worry. She’d been so glad to hear Mrsha was safe, but she knew this was a dangerous position. Her talking with Adetr she hoped was helping, but she glanced at him and recalled that his tribe was traditionalist. Fortunately, he didn’t look twice at the Gnoll girl, only to check out her ears.

“What’s with the gold? Is she with that Golden Gnoll half my tribe wants to buy from?”

“Yes…yes. She’s a friend of Silverfang. What’s she…”

They were just in time to hear Gire laugh and explain, her words quick and calm.

“Sorry, Miss. Mri’s voice is hurt from a cold. And eating too many Herthee. She’s from the city. The Golden Gnoll’s caravan, actually, but she’s related to my tribe. Ekhtouch.”

She named the somewhat allergic vegetable that could swell up your throat. The half-Elf nodded.

“Poor girl. Well, some gelato will help with that.”

Gire smiled, and Rose sighed with relief. What a perfect lie. The [Paragon] was a natural actor, and Rose had met Jasi and Wesle. She drew closer as Adetr sighed and checked his money pouch; the gelato was not cheap.

“So you know Ceria Springwalker? That is amazing. Well, I can give you a little taste just for that.”

“I can pay!”

Rose jumped, but Mrsha had toggled her speaking stone. She slapped three gold coins on the counter and everyone stared. Adetr nearly dropped his coin pouch.

“Oh…I, ah, well, that’s quite a lot. What do you want, Miss Mri?”

“C-can we get the vanilla ice cream, Mri? I love vanilla. What does it taste like?”

Mrsha and Rose gave Gire the pitying looks of people who understood the neophyte’s entry into sweet tastes. Mrsha was about to opine that this half-Elf should invest in chocolate, despite knowing how hard the stuff was to make. But she saw ‘lemon’, ‘Sage’s Grass’, ‘mint’, and ‘bithstone’ as flavors and was content to order a big bucket for after the lobster.

She was just about to let Gire get her basic ice cream and get a mix of lemon and bithstone, when Adetr swore. He jolted and Rose nearly leapt into the stall.

“Adetr! Don’t do that!”

Gire turned. She recognized the Steelfur warrior at a glance.

“Oh no, not the crazy one again. Is he following us?”

She sighed. But the Steelfur warrior jerked and then stared at Mrsha. He pointed an accusatory finger at her.

“Who is that girl? Why does she know the Black Tide, a [Spearmaster], and—”

Rose saw people turn around. She instantly knew what Adetr had done. He had heard ‘Ceria Springwalker’, a famous Gold-rank adventurer, and, like the stupid fight-seeker he was, he’d used his Skill on Mrsha.

And, incidentally, gotten to meet Relc, multiple Gold-rank adventurers, angry Antinium, and acid jars to the face. He began to raise his voice.

“She’s from the same place as that other Gnoll. From—”

Rose slapped a hand over his mouth so fast Mrsha saw Adetr recoil. The Human glared at him, and then turned to Gire and Mrsha.

“I…”

Mrsha saw Adetr staring at her. She stared at him, Gire, Rose, and slowly raised a paw. She stared at Adetr’s strange fur. At Rose. She touched the speaking stone rune hidden at her side.

“Hello. I’m Mri. Wanna eat?”

——

That was how Rose, Adetr, Mrsha, and Gire found themselves eating a lobster, special lobster tail on a bed of buttered rice, with a giant bucket of ice cream in an ice-bound container.

As a snack. Mrsha had also snagged three skewers of meat and a bucket of popcorn with meat flavoring.

“…Is she some kind of [Eater]? A [Gourmet]?”

Adetr stared as Mrsha came back with Gire. Rose looked at the hamburger from the Silverfang stalls with fries.

“Mri, are you insane? That’s too much food! Lyonette’s right, you will get fat!”

Adetr glanced at her. Rose was trying not to smile, even as she eyed Adetr, worried about this new development. After all, she and Mrsha were from the inn.

It felt like a long time since they’d left. Mrsha beamed at Rose. She took a single bite from the meat skewer, a big bite of hamburger, and some popcorn. Then she handed the hamburger to Gire.

“Thanks, Mri.”

The [Paragon] opened her mouth, and devoured the hamburger. Not fast—rather, she took small bites and chewed until all the flavor was gone, then swallowed, savoring each bite. But she didn’t stop and her mouth was so huge that…

Adetr and Rose looked at the nine foot tall Gnoll, who had the metabolism of a [Paragon]. Mrsha had seen how much Gire ate for breakfast; she was confident this qualified as a Gire-snack.

For his part, Adetr had no idea how this ‘Mri’ knew Rose, and he was half-impatient to get back to talking about Earth. But Rose had told him Mri was from Liscor and he could absolutely not talk about her.

He didn’t get why, and he didn’t really care. But he did notice Mri writing little notes and signing with her paws. Adetr raised his brows…and ate some of the lobster, and found the fast food wasn’t bad.

He really didn’t watch the news unless there was fighting on. Rose, eying him, saw the light of a [Detective]’s keen insight…not at all in his face. She sighed with relief.

Thank goodness for idiots.

“Honored Gireulashia. Sorry for interrupting you. Rose and I will be going.”

“Itfsh fine, Warrior Adetr. Rose is a friend.”

Gire spoke with her mouth full. She glanced around guiltily and hunched down as if she would somehow get smaller sitting at the food table.

“Uh—don’t tell the Ekhtouch tribe I’m eating. I’m just helping Mri finish her meals.”

Mrsha nodded, a huge bite of lobster in her mouth. She waved at the Drowned [Chef]. This was good stuff!

Food united Gire and Mrsha, but could you eat food forever? Adetr sighed, but picked at the french fries as Rose asked Mri what she’d been doing. She nearly slipped a few times, but Gire was flawless in keeping Mri’s name out there.

“Mri and I are finding things to do.”

Mrsha agreed, signing—Rose could sort of get what Mrsha said after some second-hand exposure, and Mrsha could always write a note to clarify or have Gire translate.

It was hard. The blunt truth of it was that Gire and Mrsha liked each other, but Mrsha playing tag with Gire was like…Visma trying to play tag with Relc in full Relc-mode.

That was Gire’s problem with everyone, to be fair. You actually needed Relc at his best to give Gire a challenge. She was flawless.

[Paragon]. Adetr watched Gire with one eye.

“Are you going to fight when Ekhtouch takes to the front? Steelfur refuses to advance unless a Drake army violates the water line.”

Gire stopped speaking for a second. She swallowed slowly, and fumbled with her food.

“I…suppose Chieftain Firrelle will tell me to.”

Adetr blinked at her.

“You don’t want to level?”

Rose looked between him and Gire. The [Paragon] sighed.

“I haven’t killed people. I don’t want to. But if Ekhtouch fights—I’m old enough to fight. I might have to.”

“You haven’t? You’re one of the greatest warriors of Ekhtouch. Don’t be a coward.”

Adetr snapped, seeming irritated. Instantly, Rose smacked his head and shouted in pain. It was like hitting a metal pole.

“Adetr! Don’t tell Gire that! She’s only fifteen!”

Mrsha ducked, but Adetr wasn’t fun at all. For proof, he hadn’t taken a drink of water and didn’t perform the old Winebreath Blaster. He just blinked, and, like a normal person, stared at Gire.

“You’re what?”

He turned to Rose. She folded her arms as Gire doodled on the table.

“That’s right. Gire shouldn’t be fighting at all! Who makes a fifteen year old fight?”

Adetr hesitated. He was clearly stunned by the revelation, but he replied after a second.

“I was joining patrols when I was fourteen. You’re fifteen and you’re…”

Gire and Rose and Mrsha looked at Adetr. Rose shook her head.

“That’s insane. No one should be fighting that young. The minimum age on E—where I come from is sixteen!”

Gire’s ears perked up and she exchanged a look with Mrsha. Adetr snorted, but his ears had perked up.

“And how old are you?”

“Eighteen. What’s it to you?”

He eyed her.

“I am nineteen years old. I thought you were older. Are you telling me none of you have fought and killed enemy warriors?”

He glanced around. Gire shook her head. Rose shook her head. Mrsha sat back and gave Adetr a long look. He eyed her.

“What’s with her? Does she speak or not?”

“Mri’s voice is hurt.”

“Right. What’s this…?”

Mrsha held up a card.

I’ve killed Face-Eater Moths, fought Crelers, Raskghar, and evil [Witches], rookie. Bow down to Mrsha the Warrior!

She triumphantly held the card out. Adetr stared at it. Gire stared at the card—Mrsha was holding it out away from her, but she read the lines of ink through the thin paper.

“Mri!”

Adetr’s mouth opened. He focused on the card and Rose stared in horror at Mrsha’s name. Adetr stood up abruptly, just as an arguing duo walked by. Feshi saw Adetr pointing at Mrsha and froze.

“Oh no.”

“You fought Crelers? Raskghar? Where?”

Rose covered her face as Mrsha snatched the card back. Adetr leaned over the table. But Gire’s eyes lit up as Mrsha, relieved, put her feet up on the table. She waved for Rose to break out the ice cream. Darn, she should have bought more food. Mrsha idly scribbled with one paw. She supposed she could tell the story.

Mrsha ‘Crelerbane’ du Marquin smirked at Adetr. And Gire for that matter. The [Paragon] had that look again. Of sheer interest.

“You fought Crelers, Mri? Chieftain Firrelle has me fight monsters, but never Crelers for practice. The most I’ve ever beaten by myself is a Wyvern.”

Mrsha and Adetr turned to look at her and the little Gnoll lost some of her swagger. What, an entire Wyvern? By herself?

And yet—it was one thing for Gire to say she’d beaten a Wyvern. Quite another for a little Gnoll cub actually the normal size for her age to say she’d fought one of the dark legends of Gnolls and come out on top.

Most people would assume she was lying, like Adetr, with genuine introspection for the first time…for the one thing Mrsha wasn’t lying about. Yet Rose knew better. Gire knew better. Even…

“Hello, what’s this? Is that lobster? Are you Mri? I’m Yerra—Feshi, stop staring and come over. Is this the little girl you were telling me was so important?”

And here came the Selphid. Adetr looked up and Mrsha’s little jaw dropped. She stared at Yerranola, from the Games of Daquin, the sea trip, and scrying orbs. She fumbled for an autograph card as Feshi walked over.

“I—sorry to interrupt, Miss Rose, Honored Gire. We were just—is that a whole lobster?”

Yerranola’s mouth was watering. Lobster?

“I love lobster. What was that about Raskghar? Crelers?”

“Yerra, don’t be rude.”

“Sit, sit! Please! I’m Mri! Hello! Nice to meet you!”

The little Gnoll girl practically danced on the spot, waving an autograph card. Yerranola winked at Feshi, who was embarrassed for her glutton of a friend who loved seafood. Adetr edged over, a bit respectfully; after all, they were the Titan’s students.

“We haven’t met, yes?”

Feshi nodded at him. He nodded back.

“Adetr of Steelfur. Honored Feshi, it is my privilege to meet you. And this is—”

He looked at Yerranola, who froze mid-reach for a lobster claw.

“Uh, Yerranola. Hello! Are you made of metal? Amazing. Yerranola. Does anyone mind if I have a bite…?”

“Help yourself.”

Everyone agreed; the lobster was too huge for anyone but Gire to make a dent in it. Yerranola rubbed her hands as Mrsha held out a quill.

“Autograph? Sure! What’s…whoa. What is this card?”

She stared, suddenly moving her buttered fingers away from the card. Adetr was recalling trying to fight Yerranola—to his disappointment it hadn’t resulted in the Titan appearing—and glanced with disinterest down at the card Mrsha was holding.

“Who orders a lobster for food? Miss Rose, I know Silverfang has a lot of money, but it’s more expensive here. We could have gotten you a cheaper one.”

Feshi was whispering to Rose, looking at Gire who was wolfing down fries. Rose pointed.

“It wasn’t Gire. It’s Mri.”

“What? She has that much money?”

The other people eating at the table were eyeing the fascinating group sitting there. Four big names, and Mri and Rose were the odd ones out. The smell of cooked lobster hung in the air, and perhaps it was inevitable.

“Hey! I knew I recognized that giant! And look, I smell lobster! See? See, Emper? I told you someone else would buy lobster. Hey! It’s me!”

There came the cavalcade. The six people sitting there turned and saw four people striding their way.

Lehra Ruinstrider; Suxhel, the Gazer; Emper, the Stitch-Man [Monk], sighing; and Elgrinna, the Dwarf, holding a bucket.

A bucket of crab from the exact same stall. Mrsha’s eyes went round, but Lehra knew her.

“Mri! It’s Mri! Or was it that other n—”

Suxhel elbowed her in the stomach and the Stargnoll went oof. She hurried over.

“Is that lobster? My team wouldn’t let me buy one because ‘no one buys lobsters as a snack’. Well, look who’s the ignorant person here, eh, Suxhel?”

“Lehra. Stop bothering these poor people. Sorry about that folks. Our ‘amazing’ Named-rank adventurer doesn’t ever quit.”

Elgrinna grabbed Lehra by the tail. Mrsha bounced up and down at the table, and Rose, looking at her, and at Lehra with an awe that didn’t quite fade, waved her hand.

“No, sit, please! Mri would love the company. She bought the lobster.”

“Can we share? I’ve got crab and shrimp!”

Lehra plonked her bucket of food down and suddenly it was a feast. Adetr found himself staring at Suxhel, and that was a competition you were destined to lose. Abruptly, he was sharing a table with many of the people he had used his prediction of battle against.

And…they were nothing like the shades he had fought. Gire had once thrown a spear through his eye, and he recalled the peerless way she’d fought with her small tribe.

But that was just her phantom at war. Her real self ducked when she saw an Ekhtouch Gnoll trotting by and tried to hide under the table. Far from being the focused warrior wearing the Blade of Mershi, Lehra Ruinstrider was light-hearted, slapping him on the back and asking after Chieftain Iraz.

This was a new moment for Adetr. Uncomfortable. He looked around.

I’ve killed you all—

His mindset was largely lost though. Yerranola was gobbling food and Feshi, exasperated, went with Rose to get more so they wouldn’t be seen just leeching off the others.

It could have been yet another moment of convivial meetings, and, by now, only Inkar and Tkrn were missing. By now, they knew each other by name, aside from Adetr.

“Shame that Venaz isn’t here. Or, uh—uh—that funny Lizardguy and the Plain’s Eye fellow. He was interesting. What was his name?”

“Merish. Venaz and Wil and the others went north, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, damn. For that Professor? The Titan? I wanted to go with you! But I forgot. Besides, I guess I have to stay at the Meeting of Tribes.”

Feshi stared at Lehra as the Stargnoll rolled her eyes. Maybe it was just words; Lehra had the air of someone who made a lot of promises. Even so…Mrsha’s eyes were shining.

Lehra knew Mrsha too—at least part of it. It was Elgrinna, the Dwarf woman, and Emper, who regarded Mrsha and introduced themselves. What they knew, exactly, was unclear, but Suxhel smiled at Mrsha.

The entire moment was lovely. It was also extraordinary, seeing how Mrsha sat there. Gire peered around, eating, and all these other famous people were chatting.

But the Gnoll woman couldn’t stop staring at that little girl. She peeked at her from around one of the tents. One of her companions stared at her, then at the small team who’d followed their friend.

“Prha. What is with you?”

The Gnoll warrior of the Sofang tribe didn’t answer. Some of the other warriors muttered.

“She’s been like this ever since she was called to Chieftain Mrell’s camp. What did he do?”

“Should we burn down his tent? If he said anything—”

“I heard Chieftain Torishi got involved. If Sofang’s in trouble, it’s all our tails on the line. Prha—”

“She’s real.”

Prha stared at the little Gnoll girl who laughed and wrote things and signed with her paws. Her companions had no idea what she meant. Not yet. But they were beginning to.

Chieftain Mrell was watching too. Not as conspicuously pressed up between two tents like Prha—not that anyone noticed aside from people passing by—but dining at a far distant table. They watched her. But Torishi had forbidden them from getting close. And what…

What could you say? Then they saw the inevitable happen.

“Autograph? Sure! For who? Visma. Ekirra. Got it. Hey, you hold onto that, you know these things are valuable, right? But for free lobster, I’ll autograph anything!”

Mrsha took the cards Lehra signed and Emper took the quill next.

“It is an honor. A strange one, because we are not icons. I suppose Lehra is, but as a role model or inspiration…”

He stared pointedly as the Gnoll tried to lick butter off her nose. Then passed the card along.

The new thing was to get multiple autographs of famous people. Or—and this was a move for someone who had the most valuable autographs—to get all the names on one card. That meant it had been in the presence of all the biggest names and was therefore most valuable.

Mrsha asked Feshi and Yerranola to sign the card for her two friends, and so a six-name card would blow her two friends’ minds with envy. Feshi did so, seeing the delighted look on Mrsha’s face.

“Yerra, sign the card for Mri.”

The Selphid didn’t move. She was staring down at the first card Mrsha had offered her.

“This…I know these names. Feshi, look at this?”

Gire glanced up from her first ever mouthful of ice cream as Adetr sighed, but decided he could go for some shrimp as Rose convinced him they were, in fact, good, and not giant bugs. He dipped one in sauce just in time for Feshi to exclaim.

“The Players of Celum?”

The others looked up. Lehra with keen-eyed interest, as did Gire who had heard the name before. Adetr raised his head, looked blank, and went back to dipping prawns.

“No way. This is impossible.”

Yerranola lifted the card. She stared at it.

“There’s not supposed to be more than, what, ten cards with the entire cast’s names on it. I wanted to go see them, do you remember, Feshi? Then they left Invrisil—this is genuine! It seems like it!”

“You know the Players of Celum? Or is that a gift?”

Lehra instantly turned to Mrsha. Gire stared at her small friend, as Mrsha looked smug. She fished something out of her bag of holding.

If you think that’s cool—

Yerranola and Feshi had assumed Mrsha was some lucky recipient of a rare card. Then they saw her pull out a Jasi-special signature, with a kiss mark from lipstick. A Wesle monogrammed card. Kilkran, Emme—she had every single one.

“Dead gods. You could buy a hundred lobsters for this much! A thousand! How did you…?”

Gire gaped at Mrsha, and there it was. The little Gnoll sat there. Smug—yes, very smug. But the common thread was this.

I was there when they started. I was at the first shows. I can get you autographs if you want. Jasi’s a friend.

Yes, it was self-aggrandizing, yes it was bragging. But it was also—Rose covered a smile as eyes turned to disbelieving looks.

“It’s true. I know it’s amazing, but Mr—Mri was there.”

“So she actually fought Raskghar? And survived a Creler attack?”

Adetr leaned forwards. All eyes swung towards him. Mrsha nodded. She had been there. She had seen it, done it.

Nothing would do but for Rose to help her explain the context—the inn, and tell the story of the Face-Eater moth attack. Feshi shook her head wordlessly, and Lehra traded looks with her team. It was Gire who muttered.

“That’s amazing. You really survived that. You’re not a [Paragon] or big…”

Mrsha glared up at her friend, but Gire went on.

“But you did that. Wasn’t it scary? The Drakes are declaring war and the Walled Cities might send a unified army to attack us. I might have to fight. I don’t want to. But you…you’ve done it. I guess I have to, too.”

She appeared smaller, despite her huge size. Afraid. Mrsha gazed up at Gire, and grabbed her paw. The older warriors looked somberly at Gire—but who were they?

Lehra was sympathetic, but she was a young adventurer, rapidly risen to Named-rank. Feshi and Yerra were students, but only Yerra had seen real wounds. If anyone, it was Elgrinna and Emper who grew silent. And Adetr.

It was hard to explain what it was. Adetr studied Gire and wondered if she could become the same unstoppable force of battle as in his visions. Fifteen. He thought Ekhtouch would surely be worried too. A warrior could be as ready as they could ever be with training and still freeze up or snap in battle.

She was young.

He remembered killing her. Even if that was just a vision.

The Steelfur warrior twitched.

Into that uncertainty, Mrsha gazed up at Gire’s uncertain face. How big she was. And how young. Like Ekirra, in her way, for all she was far smarter and taller and quicker.

It will be okay.

She wrote on the card and held it up. The others watched the little girl. Mrsha scribbled quickly.

I have seen bad people. Belavierr. Raskghar. Giant moths. Tyrion Veltras. Lism. You can beat them. My best friend is Ryoka, the Wind Runner. She beat the Assassin’s Guild. You can win. You just have to do the right thing. You just need Erin—

Her quill slowed as she wrote that name. Gire was reading.

“Who’s Erin?”

Rose’s head rose, and her face turned despondent at once. Adetr regarded her, then Mrsha. He saw the little Gnoll with her brown fur and gold ears sit at the long wooden table for a moment, surrounded by delicacies, rich as could be, with all those famous cards, by important people.

When her head came up, her face was bleak and none of that mattered. He thought she would cry, and began to rise to go to the bathroom. But she didn’t.

She sat there, eyes shining a bit, and then looked up at Gire. Mrsha began to write, hesitated, and tore the card in frustration. She motioned at Gire and made a few signals with her paws.

“Speak for you? Okay. What do I say?”

Mrsha looked solemnly up at her great friend. Around at the others. War was coming to the Great Plains. Or not? She didn’t know. She was no [Strategist]. No adventurer.

Her eyes did a circuit of the table. In the distance, unseen, her parents looked at this little stranger. Mrsha stood up. She tried to express herself—and she had to own, Gire was more eloquent in translation. But this was the core of Mrsha’s message:

“There are bad people out there. Terrible things happened and terrible things will happen. I know. I have seen it. But I have also survived. Bad things may happen now. Stupid Drakes and people may try to do something horrible. They can try, but we just have to stop them. There are consequences. We just have to beat them up.”

Feshi listened as Gire spoke for Mrsha. Lehra was grinning, but Mrsha’s face was serious. And…Feshi felt her hair rise as Mrsha went on.

“I have seen Raskghar. They tried to eat me. I have seen Facestealer. A Goblin Lord killed my tribe. Humans tried to kill my city. They nearly did. Headscratcher and Shorthilt died to stop them. It is never easy. But it can be done.”

She stared up as the others focused on her. The teasing grins faded. Adetr looked at the little girl. Mrsha felt something building in her chest. Like tears, but it was also hot. Righteous and sad and…oh, how she missed Headscratcher. How she missed them all.

“Terrible, stupid, stinky people do terrible things. I lived, despite the [Witch]. Despite it all. I won’t let them do it again. Some day, I will be big and no one will ever do such things again. My friends won’t let it happen either. We all knew Erin. And each time this happens, we level up. When she comes back, everything will be okay. Until then—we have to do Erin-things.”

“Who?”

Mrsha ignored the question. She felt that certainty building in her. That memory of long-dead heroes she had known.

It was disconcerting to the adults. It was—to Feshi—like hearing the Professor talk. Too weary for a child to say. And yet—Mrsha gazed so confidently up at her that Feshi had to look away.

We can win. Gire’s eyes lit up as she looked at someone who had seen and done things she could never imagine. A girl who had gone somewhere Adetr’s great Skill could not encompass because it was not war she had seen. Beyond the imagination of the [Paragon].

It was an inn on a hill. Mrsha stared at that vision. As humble as could be, sometimes. Not nearly as grand as the Meeting of Tribes, but there was magic there. That was what this place lacked, for all its grandeur and important people.

Perspective. So what if every evil Drake city in the world declared war? Beat them up. All you needed was a flag, an [Innkeeper]. You needed guests of an inn and…

Something was building inside Mrsha. A feeling. A familiar one. She regarded all of these adults, not seeing her parents, noticing even the Weatherfur Gnolls watching her. She had a strange power. A presence despite her age.

She had brought something from home. Mrsha looked at the greatest assembly of Gnolls in the world, and the resolve built in her.

This was her people. This was their moment of triumph. They should not be so small, and sad. What could they not do? Had this army been there, Tyrion Veltras would have run screaming off a cliff. Had they been there, Stone Spears would not have died.

She couldn’t go back in time. But she could tell them: it could be done. Just not alone.

Mrsha felt an energy building in the core of her being. Not like Grimalkin’s muscles, but something inside of her. A fierce energy. She reached for it.

She was tired of being small. Tired of running. Well, she had made it here. Here she stood, and here they would be. Together. She looked at Gire, and the [Paragon]’s eyes were wondering.

Something burst out of Mrsha as she reached for that memory. The power—Mrsha heard gasps. A cry of shock. It rose out from her fur. She gritted her teeth, focusing.

Yes! Her power! Was it from Erin’s inn? The natural, latent abilities of a [Princess]’ daughter? Her experiences?

It was an aura. No—it was more powerful still. Mrsha felt it envelop her in sudden strength as she felt a wave of triumph, that great memory of every time Erin Solstice had walked forwards and changed the world. This was it.

She had done it. Her eyes opened and Mrsha took in the shocked, recoiling people with calm serenity. She had achieved the next level. Powered up. She could feel her powerful aura, her hair standing up—why, she even thought she’d changed colors. Not to white; this was her final form! This was—

Gireulashia stared at Mrsha in horror and shouted.

“Mri, you’re on fire!”

The little Gnoll girl’s confident expression wavered. She looked at her body, and realized—that wasn’t her aura. Instead, it was a glorious flame. A pink—

Fire! I’m on fire! Put it out! Putitoutputitout—

The Gnoll girl ran around, rolling on the ground until she realized—pink fire? She rose, and the flames did not burn her skin. The others were trying to extinguish it, but water would not work. Nor flame spells or even a cloud of dirt.

Rose stopped Emper from trying to smother the flames.

“No. It’s—Mri. It’s Erin’s…”

The little Gnoll raised her paw. It was still there. She almost cried. It was still there. She burned, and it illuminated the Meeting of Tribes and all who saw it. It seared Adetr’s eyes. Something unlike triumph in battle. Deeper than victory or defeat. Memory, like fire, burning bright.

Glory.

It burned so bright. So short-lived. And yet. While the flames on the girl eventually went out, all who saw remembered them. And this time—they did not die. Mrsha held it in her paws, and then slowly transferred it to a torch.

The flames caught for a second, burned…and went out. Mrsha stared at the wisps of smoke.

It was okay. Gently, she touched the torch, and it burned like glory again. She lifted it up. Something to show people. Something to…bring them together. The [Paragon] looked as the little girl offered her glory.

This time—it was golden. And more colors still flickered in her eyes. She had seen two flames burning. Going out. It was very small, and she was small. But she would show them all.

[Emberbearer Class obtained!]

[Emberbearer Level 1!]

[Skill – Rekindle Flame obtained!]

[Skill – Fire’s Fuel (Mundane) obtained!]

8.53 FH

[See that header up top? Book 5 on Audible. E-book’s also coming out on the 23rd. Consider buying it!]

(I am on break until the 30th for Patrons so I can go and visit family for Turkey-day. Apologies, and hope you have a good one yourself! I…don’t like turkey that much.)

Is it cowardice, that I hope they’ll flee?

They do not, of course. I only hope they do, that they’ll turn tail and run—though I never would. It would make every war so much easier.

Then, I would not have to kill them.

It looks like rust on metal’s edge as the sun rises. Dark sand and dirt, already stained once over. I can see metal glinting, fragments shining as the sun catches them. A pretty sight if you cannot fathom what it means.

Blood spilled. So recently it has not yet been covered by dust or bleached by rains. Broken armor and weapons lodged in the sand.

A [Scavenger]’s paradise. Are they here? I cannot see them; my eyes are locked on the faces in the distance. Shining armor—they are chanting, now. Blowing horns, rattling war drums. Cheering, as if they intend to hide the truth.

I know they are afraid.

My feet crunch on the ground. I still feel the ground, you know. I can feel the padding in my boots, the way my fingers flex. I feel everything. I am not so divorced from being Human that I have forgotten, yet.

After this battle is done, if there are not more to come—no, even then. By darkness, under the glorious night sky with countless glittering stars, there will be a second battle. People will creep out of the darkness where they hide—sometimes all night, as a battle rages, in danger of stray arrows or spells striking them—rush forwards, and pick over this place.

They will grab broken swords, or better yet, pieces of intact armor or weapons cast down. Fight with each other and, yes, kill each other over such finds. As if there has not been enough already. They are not noble soldiers—if such a thing exists. Nor are they evil. I have seen them and been them. They are desperate, hungry, and, like carrion, they follow us.

We are [Soldiers]. I keep walking forwards. Now—yes, now they know something is off. I can see the army maneuvering. Galloping about; their vaunted colors, such expensive dyes whipping flags and banners.

And the chariots. The damned, idiotic chariots. I grew up thinking they were such grand devices only to learn that few nations employed them in war. But the Silk love to ride on them, casting javelins down and seeing themselves as the star of every battlefield.

Not a one is not painted with reliefs of their kingdom, Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Sigils of the countless aristocracy. Markings to denote kills—even embroidery like fur.

Soon, they will lie in wreckage, broken, splintered wood to be hauled off for firewood or raw material for other, better uses. The proud [Chariot Masters] whoop at me, waving swords in arcs. A few even try to throw spears from afar.

They’re afraid too.

Now, the army advances. I see the real fighters, the ranks of what, to us Humans, appears to be a cruder people. Blunt-hewn expressions. Almost like they were carved of rock compared to the intricate expressions of someone cut of Silk.

Hemp [Soldiers]. As poor as the [Scavengers]—some will be conscripted. Most, in a lesser army. Not so for one of Nerrhavia’s endless hordes, the primary armies from the capital. These will be career soldiers, paid a bit better. Armed with genuine steel since Nerrhavia can afford it.

Still—the first line in the slaughter. Tough. Fearless of blades.

People. I know how they look because I have seen them smile. They look different, and all of Stitch-Folk is only skin-deep. They know that, and those soldiers standing in a line are braver than the riders on chariots will ever be.

I do not want to kill them. Throw down your arms and flee. You know me.

—Perhaps they believe in their cause. In that case, they stand there, and I stand here. Walking towards them. A shield in my left hand. A sword in my right. This sword burns, and they shudder as they watch it.

Just an Everflaming Sword. A cheap weapon even a Silver-rank could afford. I will wield many before this battle ends. But it is a reminder.

Run.

What do they see? I think—they must see a glorious figure. I cannot remember which face I wear. Perhaps she looks like them. Cut of cloth, striding along, hair blowing like fire. Taller than I am in actuality. Her armor will be shining like burnished Truegold and they will know me not for one face, but simply because of that appearance.

Now they realize it. I can see the [Soldiers] turning their heads. Looking up, as if Takhatres’ tribe might be nearby. Scanning the distant, flat battleground for the rest of my army. They won’t find it, but they’re even searching for [Invisibility] spells.

Then they scream my name. Not the one I was given at birth, but the name I chose. I have heard it from either side, countless times. I raise my sword and stop. Yes, that’s me.

“Mars!”

A roar, meant to be contemptuous, perhaps so they believe it. A lone warrior come to meet an entire army of Nerrhavia’s Fallen on the sands. The soldiers are already spreading out to encircle me, but I can see the hesitation on their faces as the officers shout orders.

They have never done this before. Surround a single warrior? How does an army fight one woman?

Exactly. Exactly…you have done too well against the others. We’ve left too many of Reim’s dead. So it’s just me.

I halt as the Hemp [Soldiers] stop four dozen feet away from me. Oh—they’re already shooting arrows. I barely notice.

I can’t even feel the impacts on my armor. Someone tries for a [Piercing Shot] and it feels as though someone tickled my armor. I can see and hear the arrow shafts snapping, though.

I raise my sword overhead and they halt. That’s enough for an entire army. The words come to me again, and I shout them wearily. It rarely changes anything, but I still hope.

“Flee or perish! In the name of the King of Reim! By the will of the King of Destruction! I am Mars the Illusionist! Greatest of the Seven! I will not quit this field until the last foe falls before me or runs howling back into the sands that birthed you!”

I see them tremble at the words. Mere words. Admittedly, they sound as if Zamea herself shouts them. A simple voice-changing spell.

It is my voice which roars in their ears, fit for the name. Mars. Vassal of the King of Destruction. The King’s Seven.

I do not lie, either. I am highest-levelled. There are others who are better than me in many things. Almost all things, actually. Sometimes it bothers me. Takhatres, Gazi, even Orthenon, who is not technically one of us, but is—

Those that remain have so many useful talents. I? I can make my [King] laugh and that is good. But in peace, I am so very useless.

Here—I lower my sword and plant the tip in the ground. My head bowed. I wait. Someone hurls a javelin into my back with all their might. An enchanted tip. A blow from the mighty Silk nobles.

I laugh. A child has kicked me, me, in full body armor. I let them shoot their arrows, watching for spells. If they are clever, they will not try lightning or fire. The first crackling arc of electricity strikes me and bounces, hitting the ground with the crack of thunder.

Amerys would mock them if she could see it. I let them attack me, so they understand.

I am Mars. [Vanguard]. They know the nature of my class, if not the exact wording. And they know my level, or close enough.

Vanguard. Level 66.

I stand alone before an army of tens of thousands. They are beginning to chant again. Do they think it will scare me? I was born in Nerrhavia’s Fallen. I conquered their Coliseum of Monarchs. I wait.

Soon…they will muster their courage. I wait for them to attack me. I give them every chance. Not for that [General] who hides in the back, or the charioteers who race around calling insults, but with fear in their eyes. For the poor [Soldiers] who look at me, who will face me the instant they advance.

That is bravery. I grit my teeth. One army, here, in the north. Countless enemies assail us. I lift my sword as I see a wall of [Soldiers] advance, faces set, eyes wide, staring. Such beautifully polished armor.

This will not be easy. It is an act of desperation, even for me. But only I can do it. So I lift my sword, and when I charge, the entire army shudders. I bring it down, and the first Skill makes it a blade far longer than it should be, with the weight of a hill behind it. I see terrified brown eyes staring up at me from behind a helm, a shield raised.

I bring down the sword, shield rising, head turning.

I barely feel the blade connecting.

——

The first hour of battle is easy. The first ten minutes. The second hour is exhausting. The fourth—I have burned my stamina potions almost to the end.

By the end of the seventh—

I am beginning to bleed.

My armor is beginning to fail. I have to change it, via Skills. My sword? I broke the Everflaming Blade in the first hour of battle. Enchantments fail, in time. The sheer force I or my lord can swing a sword at can blunt the steel.

I have many blades. I have countless sets of armor. But only two hands. One body. And they—

They are still an army.

I cannot tell you how fast I am moving. What does it look like? I have been told it seems like a figure stands in the storm of blades and bodies, swinging a sword without end, cutting through armor and bodies while she blocks only the most dangerous blows. Wading through unenchanted steel and arrows without end.

That is what a [Poet] once tried to put to words. I thought she must not have been close to the battle.

It smells like blood. Blood and urine and death. Although I have stopped smelling anything for a while now. I hear a roar—that too is deafening. But I can hear myself gasping.

Hours of battle. My sword swings without end—that’s true. I lift my shield, blocking an axe glowing with some kind of ghost’s flame. It’s all automatic and it’s all hard despite that. I feel as though I have lead in my very bones. I know what to do.

Block death. Strike. Strike—this sword looks like glass that captures light inside. It is so sharp I sweep through every foe around me—except the strong ones.

Now I am bleeding. The first was an arrow. There is an [Archer] here who can pierce my armor. So I charged him and rammed into pikes, let them try to drag me down.

Idiots. The [Trick Riders] of Jecrass did it and they died. They were a nation’s best. Bring me down with your hands and try to kill me. It’s my armor.

An [Archer] died. He stood on a chariot and he had no helmet. Some brave [Lord] perhaps. An [Emir]’s son? But a gifted archer. I cut off his head and they learned to keep their best away from me.

Now, the [Mages] are remembering how to do it. They try acid. They turn the ground to mud under me. I can see the ground warping, trying to entomb me—see poor [Soldiers] screaming and flailing in the muck as I charge away.

The [Mages] don’t care. Nor, in truth, do I care about them. They will run out of spells before they hurt me. If they could have hurt me, they would have at the start of the battle.

It’s the poor, damned [Soldiers]. They keep coming. I cut an officer down and he falls, screaming, before he can lift that axe with ghost-flames. But here is where I bleed. Here is where the danger lies.

I am cutting them down, and they still keep coming, with a bravery I cannot believe no matter how many times I see it. Then I feel a blow to my shoulder. A chilling pain.

That axe. I whirl and my sword has already taken the wielder in the gut. I see…no Silk-cast officer. No high-level face. Just a staring pair of eyes in a face like mine. Someone from Cotton.

No great warrior. A [Soldier]. One daring enough to pick up that blade and—

I slash, reach for the axe, but now they have ropes. The [General] is sending them in waves, lest I cut them down by scores. Clever—I slash the ropes, and the axe is gone. I see someone toss their spear aside and reach for something. An enchanted sword. I feel another sting, and know my cut shoulder is letting acid inside.

It won’t burn me that easily. I must replace my armor. I have potions, but now they have weapons that can harm me.

I…

I am beginning to bleed.

——

They send Sand Golems against me. It is a welcome break. They stop when they realize I am letting the giant constructs just hit me around. I think I fell asleep for a minute.

It helped. I want to sleep. I want to rest one second, but now they know. The group that surrounds me has enchanted weapons and armor. Torn from the hands of the dead. For each that falls—I try to sunder each blade, but they pick up even broken metal. And Nerrhavia is rich enough to afford many artifacts.

It comes as my arm burns. I hear them roaring, and I try—but she’s fast. Fast and young, and I am old. She looks like I was—not in face, for she’s Stitch-Folk and Hemp and I am Human—but like me.

A [Warrior] with talents, gifts. Slashing in, dodging my weary thrust from the sword. And she holds—

The glass blade that is so sharp. Broken halfway. I tossed it aside for another sword, but she picked it up.

Foolish. It cuts my armor as I twist. Try to bring her down. The entire army is cheering her as she dives in. I’ve fought for…I don’t know, and she’s fresh.

It isn’t fair, but how many have I killed? The ground is wet, and she—

She runs me through the chest. With that short, broken blade. Piercing my armor. I stagger back and she exhales, as if this all took a single breath. She steps back, her brown skin caked with dirt, eyes like the orange of the fruits, staring at me. Disbelieving. Relieved? They were so determined before.

Their hero. The Stitch-Folk of Nerrhavia are cheering her. They don’t even know her name. I feel that damned sword, my sword, cutting deep.

My lips rasp. Has it nicked a lung? I taste blood on my tongue, but maybe it’s just from some other wound. She must have a Skill. Perhaps she levelled in battle. They are levelling if they survive even one clash with me.

A champion who will go down in legend…but she let go of the sword. She looks at me, and then I rasp.

“Is this your first time here?”

She looks at me, eyes widening, scrambling backwards. I tear the sword hilt free, toss it down, and snap the blade with my boot. The cheering stops.

Her friends pull her backwards, shielding her. Now they’re rallying around her, but—she’s still staring at me. And I? I smile behind my visor. Perhaps my illusion copies it, if it’s still working.

“Do you see…death?”

She doesn’t understand, and I begin to swing my sword again. Now—I have a target. I reach for a healing potion. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I can see it waiting.

——

Is this your first time here?

It was not mockery. It was an honest question. A warning. I cannot explain to her, not with words, and I am not an eloquent speaker like the others. How can I say it? Trey and Teres—they are her age. Children. Teres has a sword and she is good with it, again, for her age and experience.

Trey might understand better. It is not vanity. It is simply…truth.

I have done this a thousand times. Ten thousand times. I am bleeding, exhausted, and they still strike at me. Yet.

This was not the battle where I crawled in my own guts to find a sword.

This was not the day when I wept for weariness and slept among corpses.

This was not the day I saw Tottenval die.

Even so, this may yet be the day I…

Now I feel the blade slide in through my side. It hurts. Every time, after so many wounds, it hurts and I scream for the pain of it. A razor’s edge, hot, burning, trying to bake me from within.

The worst blow I have taken yet. And it is hunting deeper. Trying to end me.

Lift. The. Sword.

I do, and then we meet again. Her eyes are wide, desperate, and she sees me. This is the second time.

This time—the entire army is watching in silence. Her dead comrades lie around me, sacrificing themselves for this single moment. A chance to fell a legend.

An enchanted blade sticking out of my side. A blow fit for a [Hero].

The stuff of stories. After this, they will cheer her. She will be an officer, elevated to Silk or beyond. The Queen of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, Yisame herself, will see this warrior kneel before her. If she lives, she will be a legend. The story that began with the day she felled—

The girl recoils as I slash at her, and the pain—it’s still there, but the blade vanishes. She retreats, then freezes.

For I am laughing.

I am laughing, I know. Weeping for her.

The bravery to strike at me, the daring to take a mortal wound to fell a monstrous foe. All of this is genuine. All of it is grand.

But—

“I have been here before.”

She doesn’t understand. Perhaps she thinks I’m rambling. I point my sword at her. Ah—poison runs down the blade. I know how to use this enchantment. I rasp, and it feels like my voice is gone, through screaming, shouting—breathing that bloody air. I look her in her eyes.

“I was you. But girl. I have been here before and held your blade.”

I have been you. Now she understands. I charge, and the army watches. I bring that sword down, and look into those bright eyes until they close.

When I rise—turn my head—I see it in their eyes. That is when they begin to break.

——

I am on my knees. I cannot remember when I fell. It is dark. I grope around for my sword, but I’ve lost it.

“Not yet.”

So I stand.

——

Were they reinforcements? Did they rally? All I know is that the sun is rising again. Yet I have a reprieve. Somehow.

Soldiers are screaming and running. No—they broke long before that. Came back. Tried to fill me with arrows, held their ground, retreating, and I kept coming after.

This is different. I raise my blade and pull it just in time. The [Rider] halts.

“Lady Mars.”

I recognize Reim’s crest. I don’t reply, just…stand there. The [Rider] dismounts, calling for potions, as more [Soldiers] charge, scattering the army.

“Pull back. Give me…five minutes.”

The man looks around. He’s no stranger to battle, but perhaps he’s forgotten. Or this is the first time…his eyes are familiar. Is he looking at a legend or monster?

He gulps several times. I just sit down. Five minutes. Glorious.

“Lady Mars. The King of Destruction bid us find you when he heard you had taken to the front alone. This is madness. Please, retreat with us.”

I would have fallen asleep, but I raise my head. I try to make sounds, but—I cough, spit. Try again.

“He spoke?”

“The order came from his mouth, Lady Mars.”

Djinni. They did not send Djinni against me. They told me he was so badly burned—

I am on my feet. No less exhausted. No less in pain. But I look at this officer.

“Is he still fighting?”

The man doesn’t know how to respond to that. I grab the potion, cough as it burns my throat. But I grab him—not even five minutes. The army is coming back.

“Then so shall I. Tell him I am fighting.”

I see him back away. I ignore whatever he has to say. I check my armor. Sword…shield…I swap the shield and begin walking forwards again.

It is a new army. Damn Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Too many [Soldiers]. And in truth—I am one woman. No Amerys who can kill them by the hundreds with each spell. But unlike her—I do not fall.

They shudder to a stop as my allies retreat. This time, I plant my feet on the ground. I raise the sword and strike it against the shield. Like a gong. I shout at them. They are brave—but I would try this against their army.

Not the sons and daughters of the House of Minos. So I laugh and roar at them.

“Challenge me.”

——

My second wind comes from no Skill or potion. They are falling back. I raise my sword and they look up at me. Am I shouting?

“Reim!”

Yes. I think I am. I sweep around in an arc and my shield catches a lance. They’re trying lances now?

I laugh. And I feel younger, truly. It has been a long time. But I waited for twenty years. I can wait another day.

I gave my life for my lord’s dream. I can still see it. Once more. Once more. They can’t see what’s keeping me upright.

But if he is fighting, so shall I. For a dream of kingdom, and the fallen.

“Tottenval! Queravia! Drevish—”

Like a chant. With each name, I feel lighter. The [Soldiers] shudder at each one. They are legends to you. Perhaps you are old enough to remember them?

I walked with those legends. And I know, in that moment.

I will not fall today.

This army is too afraid. Too broken. Already—they are beginning to flee once more. Perhaps I cut down an officer?

No…I cough, looking around. Suddenly, my exuberance dies.

Another [Champion]? I thought Nerrhavia was too canny to send their best to die against me. Yet—I lower my sword, reach for one of the new potions. Suddenly—alarmed.

I am in great danger. But I don’t see…

There. My sword sings again as I clear the space around me. They are still attacking, yet I sense the shift in the army. The movement in the back ranks.

It takes me another minute of fighting. Another hour, it feels, before I see it again.

Strange. Now they are fleeing, and I try to make sense of the shouting, but I am too tired to latch onto one voice. But why fleeing? I wonder—

Until I see a group swept apart. Recognize a Skill. Someone else is fighting them. And I…I cast aside my sword and shield and reach for my best gear. If I had time, I would replace my armor too.

“Damn.”

Something clears another group of [Soldiers]. A slaughter in a single strike. My hair begins to rise—and it is short-cropped to hide in my helmet, unlike all of my lovely illusions. I am not half as beautiful—not a tenth—as I would like to be.

Hence my name. I grit my teeth and wait, unsteady. That is not Orthenon. Who…?

It…he…appears out of the milling bodies like the one real person among a sandstorm of shades. Not that they aren’t real, but sometimes it feels…I gasp as I recognize him, and I think he does the same.

You are like me. Someone who can walk through an army. Someone who…

I think he gasps, but I cannot tell. His throat is rotted away. Yet his eyes burn with a ghost’s fire. Undead flame.

He halts in front of me, this warrior covered in glorious armor from another era. He carries a massive axe, ludicrously oversized since he is still a Human, for all he would be a huge man if he were still alive. I break into a sweat at the sight of it, though, since he carries it so easily.

It could break my armor. That is a weapon for killing half-Giants and great monsters. Or foes like me.

The figure stops. He stands there, eyes glowing, yet I see the battle-fury in him abate slightly. We stare at each other, and I recognize a foe that even I have seldom crossed blades with. Undead. This one a champion of Khelt, another threat. A dire omen if he appears before me—or aid? I don’t know. But my skin tingles as I nod to him. An undead warrior from another age, bearing Skills and classes even in death.

Revenant.

——

The two warriors stood amid the shattered battlefield. Nerrhavia Fallen’s army was fleeing, shattered by two warriors of such level.

An alliance between Khelt and Reim? Disaster! Disaster!

But it was not an alliance. The Revenant, the warrior…regarded the woman. She looked like a battered [Knight], encased in armor.

Yet she was not. [Knights] in far more glorious regalia had died. Even so—

“Salui. You must return to your battlefield! This is Nerrhavia Fallen’s army. You have no permission to attack them! Attend, Salui!”

The angry voice came from the Vizir. The buzzing of a giant gnat with Tier 6 spells. The Revenant reached up and crushed the speaking stone without a word. Then he pointed a hand at the other warrior.

“I. I am Salui of King His-Xe. Greatest ruler of Khelt.”

Mars nodded warily.

“I am Mars. Are you here to do battle or aid me, stranger?”

Her stance was lowered, her shield elevated. She was watching him, and Salui’s blood—no, the memory of it—began to boil. He was shaking—almost—with anticipation, but he caught himself.

“No. You are not the enemy. That one called Fetohep…no. I sought you out. I knew you existed. How do they call you?”

The armored head hesitated.

“What do you mean? Mars is my name.”

“No. No!”

Salui shouted and she tensed. He caught himself again, looking around blankly.

“They call themselves [Soldiers]. I fought…[Knights]. I think. I was told to fight. I left. I had to find you. To know you existed. What do they call you? They called me Salui. [Champion of War]. Yet they called me the Dragon of the Sands. The Crimson Viper.”

She understood. The warrior hesitated, lowered her sword fractionally, and nodded.

“…They call me Mars the Illusionist. In the arena, I was known as the ‘Eternal Gladiator’. They call me Mars. Mars, one of the Seven of the King of Destruction.”

“Ah.”

The answer calmed the Revenant instantly. He stood there, undead eyes fixed on Mars. Then gestured, aimlessly.

“The other one. There are two of you. You. You are…like me. You are from the days I breathed. A warrior. I had to know. They are pale reflections. I thought I was dreaming.”

That was his explanation. Mars hesitated. She didn’t understand his purpose—and when he turned and began to trudge away, she called out.

“Where are you going?”

“Back.”

The Revenant’s head turned. Suddenly, he began to shake again, then calmed himself. He spoke in a flat tone, as his off-hand rose and touched at his emaciated face.

“I am sure I’m not dreaming, now. His-Xe is dead. I went to sleep, to guard his kingdom. He is dead…and I will kill his enemies. You are not one of them. If you become one, we will see who dies.”

He turned away. Began striding back the way he’d come. Mars panted, leaning on her sword.

“Who…who is the other one? The one who’s a warrior?”

Salui turned back one last time.

“They call her Herald of the Forests.”

He began to walk back the way he’d come. Mars stood there, panting. Staring at his back. At someone far, far older than she. Somehow—

She knew exactly what he was thinking.

——

“They’ve left. That insane warrior and…the mage.”

It should have been a relief. Instead, the horror written across the faces of the army staring at the undead soldiers slowly advancing towards them did not slacken. Because the two Revenants had left so casually.

Just—walked away. The warrior, Salui, had simply stopped fighting in the middle of battle, turned his head, and walked off. Ceased hacking apart foes—the Vizir had left on ‘business’ of his own.

As if this battle had no bearing on them. That was how overwhelming it was.

Claiven Earth, the Terandrian Crusade, and Medain held the line. Say it again. The Treespeaker, High King Perric, and the commanders of the crusade heard that in their nightmares, and it was a waking nightmare.

They held the line. Two of Chandrar’s mightiest nations in the north and an entire Crusade against one tiny one.

The Herald of the Forests lay slumped in her saddle. Another volunteer wing to recreate the Fables of the Forest…their great [Mage] was unconscious from a duel with the Vizir.

This was the moment to push in, in theory. Without the two mighty Revenants. Yet no one dared utter those words. Not with…

“Our predecessors lacked for discipline. Hold the line.”

The booming voice came from a half-Giant, thirty feet tall, ghostly flames blazing in its sockets. Another half-Giant, all bone, took careful aim with the largest bow anyone had ever seen and loosed another arrow.

A half-Giant [Mage] began casting a spell as Khelt’s undead continued forwards. A force of half-Giants, each one likely Level 30 or higher.

“Serept guides us. Come, [Knights] of Terandria.”

Their leader boomed. His head swivelled the battlefield, searching for targets. He saluted a wedge of armored figures pushing in for a charge and began striding towards them. The only thing the mortals could claim in their favor was that Khelt’s advance was…slow.

Deliberate. Only Salui took risks; the half-Giants, and even the Vizir, refused to even chance their destruction, and the lower-ranking undead were a horde, despite Khelt’s armories. Yet they were pushing in towards the coast and now—now the Claiven Earth was willing to negotiate. Now High King Perric lay sick abed, as his [Generals] frantically begged him to make peace. Terandria refused to admit defeat—for now—and the three combined armies struggled to hold the line.

Yet the Herald of the Forests had a terrible feeling that the war front was stalled out not because of the disinterested Revenants alone, or the necessity for caution in their fighting. She had a feeling they were…

Waiting for something.

——

But time was up. Suddenly, and just like that.

“It does amuse, you know. Twenty years is a young man’s life entire. For Humans, at least. Twenty years, wasted. They say you are the [King] to terrify other [Kings]. You seem not so grand. Not so to one who has seen greatness.”

In Reim, the world’s most dangerous toasted marshmallow lay in his bed. Covered in bandages, which seemed to be a trend these days.

His skin refused to heal. It was burned so badly by a Djinni’s fire that some worried it might never heal—not without some great restorative. The King of Destruction was immobilized. He could move, speak, but at great pain.

It was a terrible thing. Nerrhavia was advancing, and without him to lead one of the armies—no, it had been a slow withdrawal already.

Now…time had run out. The figure who had entered through the window stood alone in the room. Well…‘stood’.

He floated in midair, in a contemptuous display of disregard for the laws of gravity and the security of Reim. But then, he had flown here invisibly, beyond detection. Flown, in an era where most [Mages] could barely teleport short distances. He was the relic of an earlier age.

“The Vizir Hecrelunn has many titles. You may know the Vizir simply this way, as you are a [King]. However disappointing.”

No Teres, no Venith or Maresar, despite one or the other being near the capital, the other leading the armies in defense. No servants…the figure stirred. The Vizir sneered down at him, eyes glowing a bright red.

“Are the [Kings] so petty in this day and age they can be called Kings of Destruction so lightly? When this Vizir heard that one man had united Chandrar, he was intrigued. Yet all he found were stories of greatness. A pitiful remnant and a burned husk of a man.”

He cast his eyes dismissively around the royal bedchamber. With his hands clasped behind him, he floated past Flos Reimarch, to stare out the window. He wore enchanted clothing as regal as any ruler’s, and he turned to regard the King of Destruction.

“A pitiful ruler without bodyguards or ample protections. Brought low by a single Djinni? This Vizir could snuff your life out with one hand.”

He lifted a finger, which crackled with red-dark light. At last, the figure lying in bed opened his mouth and uttered a coherent word. Two baleful eyes stared at the Revenant.

“Try.”

There was no flesh on the lips to move, but the Vizir still grinned with his deathly corpse-face at Flos. He floated closer and bent over.

“Your death serves Khelt little, King of Destruction. This nation, ‘Nerrhavia’s Fallen’, and other nations which claim greatness, focus on Reim. Better to suit the Vizir’s needs that they focus on you for a time. Yet this Vizir comes to make you an offer, since the current ruler of Khelt is too shortsighted and weak of will to return Khelt to its greatness.”

The King of Destruction’s eyes narrowed and he listened as Hecrelunn bent lower. At least he was direct.

“Swear fealty to glorious Khelt, your lands and armies. They are not without some merit. Do this, and this Vizir shall not only provide healing to your ruined flesh, but an answer to the armies besieging your lands. Surely you know, ‘King of Destruction’, you cannot long endure.”

Flos thought about it for about two seconds. His reply made the Vizir’s crimson flames narrow to pinpoints of malevolent light.

“Not unexpected. Even small men have such egos beyond their true worth. This Vizir thought of that. Yet he has a contract, an oath to be sworn.”

He produced a scroll which glowed with power. The Vizir ignored the buzzing [Message] spells, glancing out the window. Then he looked back at the helpless figure in bed.

“He will spare some time for this matter. Let us speak of persuasion, King of Destruction. He must imagine yours is a painful existence. One cannot simply command oaths of binding—but there is persuasion to such ends. Tell me…”

He bent lower over the bed, and he was grinning now. He whispered to the living [King].

“…Do you think you know true agony?”

——

The alarm in the palace made the soldiers think it was battle too early. It was not—at least, not a direct battle.

The Vizir Hecrelunn floated out the window of Reim’s capital. He ignored the slashing young woman with a sword and paused only one moment to point backwards and send her flying head-over-heels.

He flew off as people pointed up and screamed, rolling up the contract and accelerating southwards. It was not wholly wasted time, though he left empty-handed.

“—At least he has a monarch’s pride and will. That is more than the petty rulers thus far. Few could free a Djinni with their bare hands in any era.”

That was about as much of a compliment as the Vizir Hecrelunn had paid for centuries. Certainly more than Fetohep of Khelt would ever get. The Vizir stopped, several miles outside of Reim’s capital, and cleared his throat. One more errand.

An arrow flew up at his face. Again, his crimson eye-flames narrowed and he pointed down.

“[Meteor Strike].”

There was the thunder and flash of something striking the earth. Screaming. Then refreshing silence. The Vizir cleared his throat again, and this time no one interrupted.

“By the authority of Eternal Khelt, whose glorious reign extends beyond death and whose majesty knows no bounds, he, the Greatest Vizir of Khelt, Hecrelunn, grants you leave to besiege this city!”

The Vizir pointed to the distant walls of Reim. Below him, a hundred thousand [Soldiers]…a bit less now…stared up at him.

Nerrhavia Fallen’s banners waved in the small breeze, and the [Generals] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen stared up at the Vizir, mouths dry. The Vizir went on, magnifying his voice with a spell.

“For your insolence, you should all bake in your worthless juices as a million scorpions cover you. Know that you have been spared his wrath only because you serve the Vizir’s ambitions, and that of Khelt! Fell Reim swiftly, and you shall know the Vizir’s tolerance.”

He looked around, floating higher, and his eyes flashed.

“Thou petty mortals—remember this day, for you have beheld a being that strode the world and knew the tyrant you heard only whispers of! Nerrhavia, Suzerain of Cloth, Tyrant of the Woven Citadel, Ruler of Clothkind! A being so great even in death she defines your little kingdom.”

A great roar rose up, of choked voices, of horror. The Vizir floated there, looking down at them as the Stitch-Folk froze at what he was saying. Yet Hecrelunn simply floated higher, spreading his arms.

“…And remember this. This Vizir did not bow to her. Begin the siege.”

And with that, he flew off, laughing. Cackling. You had never heard proper cackling, truly villainous laughter for want of another word. Without remorse or regret or forethought to how it might sound.

Pure ego.

In dead silence, the army of Nerrhavia’s Fallen stared at the distant capital of Reim, finally in sight after so long. Their glorious attack force, poised to take the King of Destruction’s head…stared off at the Revenant flying away on important business. The [Generals] looked at each other.

Their eagerness to fight was…quite sapped.

——

More drama in Pomle. No, truly, though, things were happening. At the same time the Vizir was causing trouble, it was true that the siege of Reim had begun.

At the same time? There were rumors of other great deeds occurring.

Mars the Illusionist laying an army to waste by herself was the stuff of stories. Khelt’s resurgence, the stuff of nightmares. And in that vein—

It was a recording you could purchase. Not shown on television; it had apparently been recorded like Rémi Canada’s ongoing documentary about Ksmvr of Chandrar, who had already been suggested as the Slayer’s replacement. Certainly his heir—an Antinium with incredible abilities.

The recording in question was of about sixty [Martial Artists]. Who, over the course of two hours, kicked, punched, and otherwise threw back a force nearly a hundred times their size. That reminded you of why their nation existed to begin with.

Trouble on the winds. Especially since, while they didn’t show it overtly, only one nation had that many Stitch-Folk being turned into literal ragdolls.

Roshal was still up in arms about the Death of Chains, who had liberated countless [Slaves] from caravans they were still scrambling to go after. Not least the nearly million-gold adventurer on the loose.

All of this as the damned Arbitration Council was now condemning the Drake attacks on Gnolls with the power of words. Not that she was bitter. She hadn’t even gotten on the waiting list for invitations.

As for Roshal…Roshal was an unpleasant enemy, but a bunch of [Slaves] and all the trade routes in disarray?

Plink, plink, plink. The pile of gold coins and even several artifacts had arrived this morning. The woman trailed her hand across the pile.

“Not exactly rich. How much is this?”

“F-four hundred and eighty four gold pieces, Your Majesty.”

The nervous other woman was an [Accountant]. You had to have them. To count things. She was afraid, most likely because she’d heard what happened to the last woman who’d made a costly mistake.

The Siren of Savere didn’t bother addressing the issue. The last [Accountant] had been embezzling money; that’s why she got what she deserved, but she didn’t tell the newcomer that. She didn’t waste lives.

Revine Zecrew sat back and regarded the morning’s income. Which, to be clear, she hadn’t earned herself. It had appeared in its designated spot. But whom, or rather, who it came from was very important.

Who being correct since she did understand basic grammar. She had gone to higher education, which some people might find interesting. Especially in a [Bandit Queen].

“Not a huge haul, but she did tribute it to me. Which means she escaped. Tell me. How faithful has Merr been on her payments?”

The [Accountant] rushed to open her ledger.

“Um. Q-quite good, Your Majesty.”

“Siren.”

“Excuse…?”

“I am the Siren of Savere. Say that.”

Your Majesty was too generic and people needed to remember her title. It was all about respect and titles. Revine looked at the small tribute and sighed.

It hadn’t been sent via traditional means, like a [Messenger] or in a chest. That tempted [Bandits] to steal away with it, and besides—it was so slow. A [Bandit Queen] had better, more secure options.

“So Merr’s back to raiding. Roshal’s going to be after her.”

“Yes, Siren?”

“That wasn’t a question. Shut up.”

The [Accountant] clapped her mouth shut. Revine rubbed at her forehead. She had a headache. She was a [Bandit Lady] and thus technically Revine’s follower.

In practice? No. They would have both laughed until they were sick at the implications of traditional serving and loyalty. This was a business relationship. Revine was on top. Merr was being practical.

“Fine.”

Revine slapped the table. The [Accountant] jumped. The Siren turned.

“Find the nearest gang or raiding group in the region and tell them to join Merr.”

“Tell them to join…? How, Siren? Where do I…I, uh—”

“Go get it done. Ask someone else and don’t bother me!”

The woman fled, white-faced, and Revine cursed, because she should have told the woman to put the coin in the treasury first. That was the problem with new help.

The Siren of Savere, Revine Zecrew, was an unusual ruler for an unusual land. And yes, many rulers could boast the same, but she was a strange criminal class. [Bandit Queen]—an authority that didn’t always exist generation to generation.

Why, in the age of Maresar, there hadn’t even been a ruling [Bandit Queen], and there still wasn’t a [Pirate King]—a ridiculous concept, but they did pop up now and then.

Criminality? Well, that was such a refined word for them. [Bandits], [Raiders], [Pillagers], and [Rogues], oh my. Most people thought they were just disorganized thugs, and that was true for a lot of them.

Yet there were secrets to their classes. [Bandit Queen] was one of them. And Savere?

Before it had been taken, Savere had been a province of multiple local city-states, like other areas on Chandrar. This port-city had been the capital and it still was…only for a new power. It had existed for quite some time, having emerged after the King of Destruction’s slumber, in the chaos of the power vacuum.

Revine had not always ruled it, but under her, the ‘lawless’ Savere had gained some laws. Again—not like another kingdom, but laws as they applied to her people.

She was Siren of Savere. [Hydromancer] supreme; a master of weather magic as well, such that the citizens who lived in Savere would never want for water, unlike other parts of Chandrar. So long as they paid up, that was. Life was not perfect, of course. Revine had her enemies here and abroad. She had to watch her back, stay on top, and there were people she hated, like the Empress of Tiqr, whom Savere had clashed with many times since their inception.

However, she wasn’t in mortal danger, and her sister happened to be one of the most famous [Pirates] in the world. Rasea Zecrew, [Pirate Captain] of the Illuminary.

…Of course, she was the younger sister and they were universally annoying. Revine reached for a glass of wine. She did not want to think of Rasea right now. That idiot sister of hers kept pulling stunts like running the King of Destruction over with her ship. No thought of how that might get back to Savere.

Revine had a project at the moment. An unexpected opportunity—even a boon. And yet…she sipped at her wine as she stared balefully out of her position in her palace.

“I cannot believe that’s Illphres’ apprentice.”

Ah, childhood. Ah, youth and past and regret and friendship—one of the few she had ever made. Revine closed her eyes.

Once upon a time…

——

Once upon a time, Illphres the [Cryomancer] had been alive in Wistram. Her status had been one of the top [Mages]—even on the level of fighting with Amerys, now and then.

She had been an Isolationist—but a staunchly pro-magic one, who wanted to uncover the true mysteries of the Academy. Challenge Zelkyr’s last test. She was not apolitical, but had stayed out of the center of the debates and power struggles.

Her true class had been a variation of [Cryomancer]. Everyone knew the basic class; few knew the details.

Back then…Ceria Springwalker had been privileged enough to know Illphres’ true class in the last year of her master’s life. Back then…

She had really hated Illphres.

“Student. Get me some Everfrozen Ice.”

“Okay, Master. From where?”

Illphres, the [Cryomancer of Masks], gave Ceria a blank look. Her beautiful mask had colored ice and looked like a real face, but the lips didn’t always move perfectly with her actual flesh. She pointed and her young half-Elf apprentice, the first she had ever taken, looked…out her door.

“I don’t know. Go find some.”

“From who?”

“I don’t know.”

Ceria Springwalker waited, mouth opening and closing slightly.

“…Do I have any money to buy some, Master?”

“Yes. Go find some.”

“From where?”

“I have some lying about. Get me a big block. Oh—and breakfast. And find my other wand. The one with earth attunement. And a Potion of Relief.”

“Relief for—what?”

“My period. Get to it.”

Ceria Springwalker threw her hands up. She stalked out of the room, cursing Illphres’ name. Her master watched, slightly smugly. She had learned the value of largely unpaid labor and it was getting them to do whatever you were too busy to do.

And yet—she was good at her job. Which was freezing things. So good, in fact, that Ceria’s own ice magic studies were progressing far faster than any other student in her year. So by the time Ceria came back, Illphres would have a spell for her to study, or a book to read about famous [Cryomancers] of the past.

“Read and learn, Ceria. We might not know their spells, but this is how they lived. Some fought—others earned money more traditional ways. They were all geniuses.”

“The one who sank in that ship made of ice sounded like an idiot.”

Illphres slapped Ceria on the back of the head.

“Don’t contradict me. They were better than you. You can’t make structured ice so show some respect until you pass them.”

“Master! I’m learning quickly! No one is even close to learning [Ice Wall] in the 3rd Year!”

“So? You’re comparing yourself to post-Zelkyr [Mages]. And they get more worthless each generation. When I was a student, I knew [Ice Wall] by my third year because some of my teachers remembered what real magic was like.”

Ceria ducked another swat. She glared, shielding her head.

“Well, I’m sorry for disappointing you, Master. What was it like, learning from [Mages] who remembered that?”

Illphres stopped. She wasn’t actually that violent, or even mean. No—she was definitely mean. But she loved magic and so Ceria could get her to reminisce.

“Back then? Not all of them were old enough. Some, like Feor, predate Zelkyr vanishing. But some were apprentices of [Mages] who existed before the upper floors were locked up. They weren’t that different. Infighting idiots. But they knew what they had lost. That’s the difference.”

Ceria sat cross-legged as Illphres slowly sat. Ceria had never asked how Illphres’ face had been damaged exactly, but it had been frostbite, not another injury. She had warned Ceria she could draw too heavily on ice magic if she couldn’t withstand it and damage herself. She hadn’t said ‘never do that’. Only told Ceria the risks.

“You’re a half-Elf. I don’t want to talk about age with you about anyways, you annoying brat. You’re older than I am.”

Illphres grumbled. Ceria rolled her eyes.

“I spent most of my time in a traditional half-Elf village, Master. You don’t age there the same way.”

“Clearly, or you’d master [Ice Wall] already. Well…you know the fundamentals. But I won’t have you casting [Ice Hedge] while you’re my apprentice. When I was your age…”

“I bet you didn’t have any friends.”

Illphres’ kicking foot twitched and Ceria scooted back. But the woman returned mildly.

“I didn’t. Or at least, not as many as you.”

Ceria blinked. The woman sat there and her apprentice asked after a while.

“Did you…uh, are they the [Mages] I know now?”

Illphres blinked.

“Hm? No. They were student friends. Most went off, or died…I don’t keep up with most. I had one or two good ones. Actual complementary experts. Unlike your lot.”

She meant Beatrice and Calvaron, Pisces and Montressa…although Pisces…Ceria’s lips twisted. Illphres gazed at her.

“You should consider finding a [Mage] who can complement your abilities. If you fall in love with a [Pyromancer], though, I’ll disown you as an apprentice. [Pyromancers] and [Hydromancers] work…although all they can do is create steam spells. [Aeromancers] and [Hydromancers] work well—earth magic and water magic, even color magic and water magic. But we’re ice mages, so we’re less complementary with other disciplines.”

Ceria raised her brows.

“You sound like you know a lot about hydromancy, Master. Who was your friend? A [Hydromancer]?”

Illphres shrugged.

“A good one. We worked well together, but she left. Different attitudes. Don’t bother learning too much water magic, though. Ours is superior.”

And that was all she had ever said about that. Ceria Springwalker had forgotten all about it. It certainly hadn’t been an important conversation.

…Until now.

——

Ceria Springwalker opened her eyes and stopped meditating in her rooms. She recalled Illphres’ face, the way she would walk, somewhat stiffly, unless she was in battle.

Ceria still remembered how she had frozen the sea and skated across it to rescue her. She wished she had talked with Illphres more, but she had been so young.

Not in age—she wasn’t that much older now. But…Ceria sighed.

“I was so immature. Pisces and Mons and…”

Her skeletal hand opened and closed. Here was the thing about memory and regrets. If. Everyone did it, especially adventurers.

“If I was the me of now back then…”

She would have been able to get Illphres to apprentice her right off, Ceria just bet. And she would have learned all the spells Illphres tried to teach her, rather than only manage to pick them up years after being taught the fundamentals. Ceria would have been able to persuade her not to try the test, accepted Pisces…

But regrets? Ceria shook her head. You couldn’t dwell on them forever. And right now, she regretted Illphres not ever elaborating about her friend quite a lot. Because Ceria Springwalker was a guest of the Siren of Savere, the ruler of Savere. [Bandit Queen], and Crelerbane in her own right.

…Not a nice woman. Ceria was no expert on Savere, and she wished she was, but in coming here as a ‘guest’ she’d seen how the Siren was treated.

The [Bandits] who had come to shake the village down? The [Pirates], [Rogues], and other criminal classes infesting the port city of Runsblud? They didn’t cross her. They were very respectful. Mostly because…and here Ceria glanced out the window again.

“I might be in trouble.”

You could still see the last [Accountant] the Siren of Savere had employed. Well…parts of her. She was hanging from the docks.

That sort of set the tone for Ceria’s stay in Savere. She took a breath, and got to work.

——

Day One

“Ib a squirrel!”

Ceria had a party trick. Which was to fit as much food in her cheeks as possible. A [Bandit] snorted her drink out her nose and the others fell over laughing.

Shortly after she had arrived in the capital, Ceria had been ‘invited’ to the first banquet. She hadn’t known what to expect.

She’d been so tired from being mana-burnt again that, on the way from the village of Nerhs, she hadn’t talked with the Siren much. She’d only learned that the Siren had been a friend of Illphres and that Ceria would accompany her, along with the people of the village since theirs was infested by Creler corpses.

That wasn’t an option either, by the by. Ceria was going with the Siren, and so were the people of Nerhs, and Ceria suspected the Siren would have left them to deal with the dead Crelers alone if not for the half-Elf’s involvement.

In a way, it was for the best. Poor Luaar and Novethur and the others. Their village was a goner, even though Ceria had wiped out the Adult Creler and the others with the Siren’s aid.

Too many corpses. Too many corpses with the potential for little Creler eggs. The entire thing needed to be burned and it was already smashed to pieces by the attack. The Siren had left orders for it to be burned.

And now Ceria was here, in Runsblud, the charmingly named capital port-city. The palace had a frightened staff of civilians, but the Siren’s people were [Rogues], [Bandits], and every criminal class you could name. In fact, the very people who’d tried to shake down Nerhs were sitting at Ceria’s table.

“You are the craziest half-Elf I’ve met. Go on, put another Yellat in!”

Revine Zecrew stared at Ceria as she obligingly tried to cram another Yellat into her mouth.

“If gnna cmb out my noth!”

Some of the other people at the dining tables looked offended by the laughter. A rough-looking man slouched over, and here was a salient detail: the Siren’s staff and indeed, personal cronies, were a largely female force.

“What’s going on? Who’s the newcomer?”

“Some [Cryomancer] Gold-rank. Heard of the Horns of Hammerad?”

He blinked as one of the [Bandits] leaned over. The rest were taking bets on whether Ceria could get another Yellat in.

“Is that who made a fuss at that new village?”

“Yep. Wiped out an entire nest of Crelers by herself. And an Adult Creler.”

“No. Don’t shit me.”

The female [Bandit] grinned.

“I was there. Saw the end of it myself. She had the big one all frozen up before the Siren cut it to pieces. She was probably gonna die, but she got the little ones. Smashed them to bits. Seems the Siren liked her so much she took her here.”

The man whistled as he blinked at Ceria.

“Gold-rank adventurer, eh? Think she’s gonna survive long here?”

He eyed his companions, who were all glaring at the half-Elf because they were trying to have a proper meal here, and the sight of her opening her mouth while eating was putting them off their feed. The [Bandit] shrugged, but she leaned over.

“Don’t know, but the Siren’s interested in her. So she’s not just fish bait. Spread it around.”

The man nodded carefully. No one got on the Siren’s bad side. He glanced at Ceria again and then his eyes sharpened.

“What did you say her name was? Ceria…”

Some of the others sitting at the table looked up at once. Two rose.

“That’s the Gold-ranker on the orb, isn’t it? Krakens awake. The [Captain]’ll want to hear about this.”

“Easy on. She’s under the Siren’s protection.”

The [Bandit] emphasized again. And as if to prove that, the Siren was personally striding over, cutting the laughter short. Ceria glanced up, half-choking on Yellats, and saw an icy glare Illphres would have been proud of on Revine’s face.

She glanced at the clearly disparate faction at the other table. They dressed and acted in a way that clearly set themselves apart from Revine’s crew.

The Siren dressed like a [Mage]-[Noble], with the richness of enchanted cloth, and her palace wasn’t filthy; on the contrary, it was one of the grandest settings Ceria had ever been to.

Yet there was a looseness to the discipline here. Rather than [Soldiers], she had what looked like [Rogues] and [Bandits] who’d taken up semi-official posts. They had good gear, no ragged holes in leather, but they even sauntered around in small patrols, and most eschewed shields.

For instance, the [Bandits] who’d come to Nerhs to demand protection money wore light leather under chainmail, and carried bows, swords, like any [Outrider] group or [Scout] party.

They also had throwing daggers and a few other nasty tricks, like a blast vial. Their [Enforcement Raider] leader had an enchanted, scimitar-like blade and magic boots.

Also—again—it was an all-female group, even the [Corrupt Accountant] who had ridden with them. Very interesting.

By contrast, the men and women at the other table were practically bare-chested. A jerkin exposing skin—to be fair, it was leather—or just casual clothing. They swaggered around with single weapons, not lacking for attitude among Savere’s forces, but they had a curious walk. And, Ceria noticed, they tended to have a wand, side-arm in a sleeve holster or at their belt, and jewelry that was clearly magical.

[Pirates].

The Siren of Savere put them all to silence, though. She stopped in front of Ceria and stared down at the half-Elf who really did feel like a Yellat was trying to come out her nose. Her look of disgust made Ceria swallow, or try to.

“You. Come with me.”

Ceria slowly rose as the [Bandits] bowed or dipped their heads. Meanwhile, the [Pirates] watched. One stood up to tell the others that someone interesting had dropped by.

——

The Siren of Savere glared at Ceria as the two walked higher. She halted Ceria and pointed.

“Do you understand what Savere is, Ceria Springwalker?”

The half-Elf followed her finger. It traced along one of the open-air windows to the outside. Salty air blew in, along with the other odors of the port. Not great for the drapes…which meant it was a good thing the palace had none, at least in these hallways.

Ceria eyed the largest docks she’d seen short of First Landing. A massive port, heaving with ships and crew, was outside. And—yet again—different from any city like Pallass or Liscor.

She could see a fight on the streets taking place between groups of [Sailors] or [Pirates]. Rather than anyone breaking it up, she thought she distinctly saw one of Savere’s patrols cheering on the fight. From so high up and far off, Ceria didn’t see more than a flash of limbs, someone attacking someone from behind. But she did see blood when someone drew a dagger.

Cargo came off ships, and it did seem like a fairly orderly system. However…Ceria eyed the ships and she saw pendants, flags that were not like the regular ones. Too many skull motifs. Indeed, one of the hulls was even painted red, with some kind of teardrop motif in blue. At least, she assumed it was paint.

“Savere’s a bandit kingdom.”

Ravine gave Ceria a thin smile.

“Savere is the bandit kingdom. There are other places—none so official as this. None that have official borders and trades and makes war with the authority of a nation. I am the Siren of Savere, and you are my guest. Quite an…interesting one.”

Her tone and look made Ceria hastily wipe her face; she had a bit of food on her chin.

“Er, I’m sorry, Siren Revine. Is that how I should address you?”

“That will do. Do you always eat so?”

Ceria’s ears turned a bit red.

“Uh—it’s my icebreaking trick, Siren.”

The [Hydromancer] snorted.

“And Illphres is your master. We did not converse on the ride here overlong.”

“Yes. Um. She was my master for two years. Before she…you knew her? You were her fr—”

Revine made a slashing gesture, eyes sliding sideways. Ceria hesitated, and the Siren glanced out another window.

“Yes or no will do. We will converse in my domain later. There are ears everywhere in Savere. While I am the principal power, I am not the only power here, and you would do well to remember that. Did you see the guests of Savere?”

“The [Pirates]?”

Revine’s expression darkened slightly as she glanced out at the harbor through another window again. She stared at the ships with the painted hulls—Ceria saw no less than nine in tight formation at the docks.

“They are the Bloodtear Pirates. You’ve heard of them?”

The half-Elf inhaled sharply. Yes, she had. The Bloodfeast Raiders were known across Izril as the principal [Bandit] gang, but they were a rare, elusive force. Arguably…copycats of the famous [Pirate] army who flew under one flag and slaughtered their foes.

The Bloodtear Pirates. She felt her skin prickle a bit. Revine looked somewhat approvingly at her expression.

“Then you understand they can be touchy. Half would challenge you to a blood duel for the sport of it if they knew you were a Gold-rank. You are under my protection, so fewer will dare, but that is a warning. The other?”

She flicked a finger as they passed by a third window on the sea-facing corridor. Ceria saw the flicker of magic and dove.

Ceria heard a scream. Revine stared down at Ceria lying sprawled on the ground. The scream had not come from her. Rather, it came from outside.

A figure clinging to the exterior of the palace fell, screaming, as their handhold on the stone grew slick. Ceria scrambled up, looked out the window, and wished she hadn’t. She saw the Siren glancing at her, amused.

“You sensed my magic. Illphres did teach you something.”

“Who was…?”

The Siren was already walking on.

“An idiot who thought they’d profit by knowledge. Which they would have if they got away. There are ears everywhere—save for my domain.”

Ceria hesitated, then walked after Revine.

“An [Assassin]?”

“No. I said, an idiot. A [Rogue], perhaps. A [Thief]? It doesn’t matter. Secrets have currency and there are brokers for that everywhere. You should know that. You were at Wistram. Then—expelled. We shall discuss the rest of it later, as I said. Make lighter conversation until we ascend.”

Another searching look. Ceria Springwalker slowed once more, and saw Revine looking at her.

Illphres had been in her fifties or sixties when she died. Ceria had never asked for exact details, but she had claimed to be younger than Ceria in actual, biological age. Ceria had been in her sixties already, albeit as she often said, sixty for a half-Elf raised in the never changing forests. There were days there when you just sat and watched a tree grow all day long, or the shoots of a flower you’d planted.

It only got boring if you realized there was a faster world outside. At any rate, the Siren…did not look so old. She had jet black hair with lines of sea-blue streaking through the darkness, down to the very roots of her hair—but it was wavy, and she could have been in her late thirties, for a Human. Her robes were a [Mage]’s, but had the sigil of Savere drawn large on the back—Ceria saw an anchor, a curved dagger, and a raincloud all in one.

Under the robes, the Siren had a kind of shimmering fabric that Ceria thought might be watercloth; very fitting for someone of her class. And…the half-Elf noticed…she was very conventionally attractive, lips full red, thin, skin without flaw, like a Terandrian [Lady] might aspire to be.

Not that Ceria found Revine attractive. If anything, her killing that [Rogue] only made Ceria warier. What Ceria did think was…

Beauty products. She’s spent a fortune on her appearance. It’s not an illusion spell or I’d be able to tell. Plus, most don’t copy facial muscle movements properly.

Enough to take a decade or two off; more than her clothing or jewelry, that was largesse for anyone who knew to notice it. Ceria thought of her master, whose only nod to vanity was her mask of ice; she didn’t even bother changing her robes most days, having a Pisces-like attitude towards clothing cleanliness.

Ceria was off-guard. It seemed like, from Nerhs to Savere, she kept being tossed into weird situations. But she was alive, not eaten by a giant Creler, and, rather than being captive of a dangerous [Bandit Queen], it seemed like Revine was disposed to like her due to Illphres. So Ceria was cautiously optimistic.

“Do you have anything to say?”

Revine’s snappish tone made Ceria start. She was rather like an impatient client, who wanted you to prove how good you were before she gave the job. Ceria remembered Calruz was particularly good at impressing prospective clients like that; he’d just challenge their bodyguard to a short match that involved him slapping them across the room.

Since Ceria lacked for biceps thicker than her legs, she took an alternate approach. Revine must have been from Wistram; secret brokers sounded very familiar, so Ceria coughed.

“Er…I can’t help but wonder, Siren. Savere is clearly an exceptionally rich nation. You have an, um, amazing wardrobe that I think even an Archmage would be pressed to match in terms of money. But the palace is a bit—is it due to wanting an open window for hydromancy magic? No glass?”

She pointed at the open-air windows, which let in salt and mildew that the hard-pressed cleaning staff—who fled the instant they saw Revine—probably had to work every week to clean.

Revine blinked at Ceria. She glanced at the windows, and her expression changed again.

“No. Not for hydromancy. Practicality. Those fools fight and have no discipline. Do you think I’d litter my palace with vases or other valuable objects?”

“Ah. But they’re under your command…”

“They are still [Rogues] and [Thieves]. I trust them to do their jobs if properly motivated. No more. Savere has an army and my officers are trustworthy enough, but Runsblud has too many guests.”

“I see. So…not even enchanted glass?”

Revine’s expression twisted into one of disgust.

“They would steal the entire window and carve it out of the stonework. I have had entire doors go missing. That is the quality of…door thieves. Who would do something like that?”

She made a disgusted sound, glancing back at her guest to join in the condemnation of door thievery. Ceria bit her lip and avoided meeting her eyes.

They passed into the Siren’s territory in a moment as they reached the stairwell and headed up. Ceria felt a tingle on her skin and stopped dead. The Siren looked back, and, once more, she switched from annoyed to approving.

“What’s…”

Ceria felt the power of water in the air. Not humidity, but like if you stood in a graveyard and you were Pisces, or in the middle of a snowstorm and you were her—

The sheer potential for water magic made Ceria’s own cryomancy instincts tingle. She could raise a wall of ice here in a fraction of the time it would take anywhere else. She looked around, frowning.

Not only that, it felt like this was a distinct ward in the air, probably against hostile magics. How…?

“Oh. There.”

Ceria pointed at something built into the hallway. An archway of strange stone. It looked pitted, like it was corroded—until Ceria realized the gleaming, polished material was coral. Coral mixed with some water-blue stone.

“Lapis lazuli. This marks the boundary of my domain. You may enter; few others can. Speak openly here and nowhere else. Servants! Refreshments!”

Ceria saw people scurry out and looked ahead towards a far grander, far more decorated section of the palace. Actual paintings and pictures—some of Revine, others of a strange Drowned Woman with a glowing left eye—decorated the halls, along with other paraphernalia that was distinctly…

Wistram. And by ‘Wistram’—Ceria glanced at a giant relief of The Wisdom of Mages. There were four copies in Wistram; it was a painting of a bunch of monarchs, lords, generals, and even adventurers, slowly approaching a shining group of [Mages] who were depicted in rather noble poses, dispensing wisdom to the masses.

The same with the paintings. You had to have a few of yourself, but the real showoffs framed…artifacts. Ceria eyed a glowing embossed eye-pendant on a wall, a wand that Revine had personally wielded, almost out of charges…

Yep. This was a Wistram [Mage] alright. So many decorations that Revine swept past—carefully waiting to see if Ceria noticed them—

But such a lonely place at the top of her palace. Her servants bowed, but said nothing to her, and Revine herself halted as Ceria approached.

“Fit for an Archmage, you said? Did Illphres have such treasures? You don’t have to answer that. She never did understand how to put her magic to use. She lived and died at Wistram and barely set her foot out into the wider world. As if Wistram was everything. I thought she would never take an apprentice. When I heard of her death—I knew it was coming. I never thought to meet you, though.”

She stood there, as a glass of wine floated towards her from a serving tray placed on a table. She gestured around.

“Sit. Stand. You and I shall converse.”

Ceria nodded slightly.

“You did know my master then, Siren Revine?”

Revine’s eyes narrowed. Ceria looked around and went to pick up a cup of wine. When she turned back, the Siren was glaring again.

“Know her. Know her? She and I were the greatest of friends as students. She never mentioned me?”

“Er…”

Ceria was afraid of stating the obvious. Revine’s eyes flashed—then she abruptly grew cool. Her moods swung so fast Ceria was having trouble keeping up.

“That would be like her. Not a word about me—the Siren of Savere—to the only apprentice she ever kept. Ceria Springwalker, a student who stayed for only three years at Wistram before being expelled in an incident that slew countless [Mages]. Yet a graduate of Wistram because Cognita of Truestone herself declared it so. I would have never thought that heartless piece of stone would bestir herself for anything but her dead master.”

Ceria jumped as Revine drained her goblet. She didn’t move to fill it from the pitcher—she pointed and a stream of wine spiralled up and poured into her cup.

Casual water magic. Indeed, at Ceria’s glance, with a mocking look she sat back—and water rose from out of nowhere to create a molded seat for her. Her legs dangling, she reclined as it adjusted itself.

“I do know who you are, Ceria. And while Illphres may not have spoken about me, let me assure you it was not because I was inferior to her in any way. In fact, she could never afford anything but magical studies to enhance her power. I have a kingdom’s treasury at my disposal.”

She waved a hand around. The [Cryomancer] stood there, eying the water chair, the rich rooms, the tapestries, and Revine herself. When she replied, it was with a shrug.

“My master would have said magic is all you needed, Siren.”

Revine’s mocking smile went out. Her hand holding the goblet froze—then she set it down on a pedestal of water. Her languid posture changed. She sat forwards, shoulders hunched, hands in her lap. She looked at Ceria, bleakly.

“…Yes. She would have said just that. So you were her apprentice after all. Tell me…”

Revine struggled. She took a deep breath, then stared at Ceria with a fixed look. A dangerous one, but…her eyes shone with some deep emotion.

“I know it. Yet tell me, from your own mouth. You were there, were you not? Tell me…how Illphres died.”

——

The Siren of Savere didn’t know what to make of this half-Elf girl. A girl, despite being a half-Elf.

She was no ancient [Mage]. She looked like a fool, especially when she had been in the banquet hall. Yet she was sharp enough to notice several things. A capable mage—she had been using Illphres’ tactics when she killed the Crelers.

Even so, it made no sense to Revine that her old friend would ever take an apprentice. Illphres had no affection for anyone. Not for friends or lovers. Magic was her goal.

Yet…she saw something as Ceria spoke. Perhaps it was that.

“You won her apprenticeship by melting her ice with salt?”

The half-Elf ducked her head. Revine threw back her head and laughed.

“I was desperate for a master at the time…I didn’t know if it would work.”

“I am surprised it did. You must have bruised her ego. Illphres was always determined to make ice that no force could ever melt. And for a 1st year student to do it with salt?”

She listened as Ceria told her stories, what few there were of Illphres. And, in truth—there were not many. Illphres had taught Ceria for two paltry years. Well, it seemed. She had even…

“She battled a [Storm Captain] for you?”

Revine blinked. Ceria nodded.

“That was when my friend showed his [Necromancer] class.”

“Yes, yes. I’m familiar with the basics of your team. The Horns of Hammerad. Illphres left the academy for you.”

Ceria blinked.

“It was very…it was amazing and it saved our lives. Was it that extraordinary?”

Revine shook her head.

“I can’t believe she would do that. But then…”

Her voice trailed off. Ceria sat there, across from her.

“Illphres never talked about her past. Or you, Siren. I’m sorry if that’s…unpleasant to hear. She was a good master, but she was driven to challenge the exam.”

“Yes. She was. Perhaps that was why she took an apprentice. Knowing it was coming. Or perhaps—hah. Perhaps it was you.”

Now she saw it. Ceria’s eyes lifted. Her eyes were like pale ice. She had begun showing the effects of her class. Revine felt the chill emanating from her. And her hand—her hand was bone.

Lost from an ice spell she had pushed too far. It was so much like Illphres it gave Revine goosebumps. Had Illphres seen that and—no, that had come after. But it was proof.

“You must have—I’m sure she took you melting her ice into account. If she knew she was challenging the test soon—but Illphres would break her word and refuse to teach you. She was that sort of woman. She had another reason for teaching you.”

Ceria blinked.

“She…did?”

Revine reached for the wine, but it was muddying her memory. She cast it aside and looked back.

“Of course. She must have been reminded of…”

The past. The half-Elf girl leaned forward, and Revine closed her eyes. Incredible as it might seem. Once upon a time—

——

A young woman stood on the table in the banquet hall, pointing down at another student in her year who had mocked her. She raised a hand as Revine drew an enchanted dagger, menacing the other students they were fighting with.

But the Archmages, the actual [Mages] in the room—they looked over when they heard the young woman shouting furiously. She pointed down at Vilt and shouted.

“I won’t stay down here. I will be the one to pass Zelkyr’s last test! I will become the Archmage of Ice!”

His jaw opened. Illphres turned to look at Revine, who stared up at her, astonished. Right before the laughter began. Illphres stood there, turning slowly paler and paler with fury. She pointed a finger and an [Ice Spike] flashed across the floor at the head table—

——

Ceria Springwalker’s mouth was open.

“She said that? In front of everyone?”

The Siren of Savere’s gaze rose, breaking out of memory. She glared at Ceria…then relaxed. With a rueful smile, she nodded.

“They never let her forget that. Later on, before I left and when she was coming into her full power, she’d throw [Ice Spears] around if someone brought it up. The [Mages] must have decided to walk warily of her by the time you came to the academy. That was Illphres.”

An impetuous, ambitious young woman who had already known how to cast [Ice Spike] by the time she came to the Academy. Talented, and who had befriended a young woman in her year who was talented in water magic, stuck by her even when the latter was found thieving.

Those days. They felt like yesterday and a thousand years ago.

“—and after I created as much water as possible, she froze it all over then shouted that a Chandrarian custard was being served and it was running out quick. So every [Mage] in the Centrist faction went running and—”

Revine found herself talking animatedly and cut herself off. Ceria was smiling, disbelieving, shaking her head.

“She did that. Master Illphres.”

Revine halted. She looked at Ceria. It was not entirely a sad smile. It should have been. Didn’t she mourn Illphres?

But no—there it was. Sadness. And at the same time…the half-Elf smiled.

“Thank you for telling me. I never knew.”

“…You’ve moved past her death.”

The Siren stood and turned, abruptly. Ceria hesitated.

“It’s been years. I guess…I have. She went up to challenge Cognita and—I’ve never been back. It took me a long time to make my peace with it, everything that happened. If I went back I think it would hit me, but—I never did.”

Revine envied Ceria’s steady tone. She shook her head. No wine; Revine had purified water, the real stuff, and took a drink of it.

“You haven’t been…? Ah, you were expelled. You might well return, you know.”

“I…I’ve never thought of that. Yes. Wistram wouldn’t refuse me entry?”

The Siren sneered as she turned around, thinking of her alma mater, and in a sense, the place where she had grown up as much as the streets of this very city.

“Not Wistram. Not for a Gold-rank adventurer. I have returned to Wistram myself, despite my status as ‘criminal’ by many sensibilities. Rarely; the academy has little to offer me besides politicking, and Wistram is not interested in Savere’s dealings. Too unscrupulous for their high-minded ways. To me, there is little difference between dealing with gangs and [Mages].”

Ceria nodded cautiously.

“Did…may I ask, Revine, why you didn’t stay at Wistram? Or why you and Illphres parted ways?”

Revine snorted bitterly.

“Haven’t you been listening? Illphres stayed. I left. I asked her many times—even when I became the Siren—if she would leave. She refused. Her magic changed her. The academy changed her, when she saw how pitiful the other [Mages]’ dreams were. She was one of a few who loved magic. Everyone else, the majority were…”

She trailed off. Ceria hesitated.

“Petty?”

Revine turned and laughed. She shook her head.

“The rest were like me. Practical. We knew the doors would never open. Illphres was the dreamer. She was the one who was obsessed with the challenge, with the impossible. She kept trying until everything else fell away.”

The half-Elf lowered her head. Revine drank furiously, and turned her head.

“Bring me something stronger! Krakenblood Rum!”

That was it. A simple story. A woman who gambled everything after fifty years of toil—and it was all wasted. Wasted, by that murderous Truestone Golem, an Archmage’s trickery.

Except for Ceria. Revine saw the dark rum being brought over. In shot glasses. She took one, hesitated before tossing it down. Ceria was offered one and Revine snapped at the terrified serving girl.

“Did I tell you to serve her some? You idiot. Don’t try this, Ceria.”

With that, she tossed the drink down. A small shot of Krakenblood, people said, could knock a [Drunk] out. Revine shook her head.

“—I’m a [Hydromancer]. Try it if you want, but if you faint, I’ll throw you down the steps and let you sleep it off.”

Ceria gingerly tasted the dark liquid and gagged.

“My tongue’s going numb! How did you…?”

Revine laughed with genuine pleasure.

“I am a [Hydromancer]. Illphres never could hold her liquor—I could drink all of our group under the table. Liquor is still a liquid. As my class progresses, we learn more than mere magic. Poison—my spells have saved me from poison more than once. I doubt I could ever die of thirst, even in Zeikhal. You’re entering that stage too, aren’t you?”

She eyed Ceria. The half-Elf took another taste of the Krakenblood and put it to the side. She nodded.

“My aura, you mean.”

“Your aura, your eyes…Illphres would have taught you to mitigate it. She never had an aura, but she could create the same effect with magic alone. She never finished teaching you, did she?”

Ceria shook her head, shamefaced. Revine eyed her, swaying a bit despite her boasts.

“I can tell. Your [Ice Walls] are too simple. I saw that copy of her [Fortress of the Ice Queen] spell…sloppy. It only fooled me from afar. You tried to freeze an Adult Creler? You didn’t think to keep a bag of holding with water on you? That is basic [Cryomancer] and [Hydromancer] training.”

“She didn’t prepare me for adventuring. And it was only two years…”

“Even so. You didn’t have any other spells? You said you were stranded in that nowhere village. Nels.”

“Nerhs. Yes. If I’d known, I would have taken water with me. But it was a teleportation spell gone awry…”

The Siren saw Ceria watching her, carefully. She reminded herself—Ceria wasn’t on her side. Just Illphres’ apprentice. Revine sat down on the wobbly water-chair.

“And you didn’t…cast [Condensation] and gather the water? You didn’t think to create an ice domain when you saw the Crelers coming? When you took the well’s water—you could have at least cast [Whiteout Blizzard] and fled. You fought extraordinarily well, but with, what? Four, six spells at most?”

Ceria turned beet red. Revine saw her open her mouth, stutter.

“I—I never learned any more spells from Illphres. I barely caught up to [Ice Wall] last year.”

“Last year…? Are you that stupid? You said Illphres was teaching you herself! She would have disowned any student who couldn’t pick up [Ice Wall] by—”

“She was dead. I didn’t have anything else but memories to go on!”

Revine’s lolling head rose. The Siren blinked. She muttered.

“[Sobering]…what? She never left you anything? Not her spellbook? Not…”

Ceria Springwalker shook her head.

“There was no time to ask. I was expelled and—she must not have included me in her will.”

The Siren blinked. Illphres’ apprentice sat there, looking forlorn. All that time without…?

That wasn’t like Illphres at all. She was so meticulous, and she wouldn’t have…Revine blinked at her.

“You don’t know any ice magic beyond what you’ve levelled and…? Truly?”

“I have a spellbook, but there aren’t many ice spells and I’m missing the fundamentals. I never completed my education.”

Revine’s mouth opened and closed.

“Wait. You said you were in your third year. Then—did they even teach you the higher courses? Linked magic? Domains?”

Ceria Springwalker bit her tongue.

“—I learned about linked casting this year. I cast a spell with my friend, Pisces. My friend who graduated, Montressa, called it natural link magic—”

Revine Zecrew sat back so far she nearly fell over. Instead, her chair turned into a recliner and she lay there.

You never knew anything besides the basics? No—her thoughts changed to astonishment. She sat up and looked at Ceria.

“You entered a death-zone, reached Level 30, became a Gold-rank adventurer without learning magical theory?”

The [Arctic Cryomancer] shrugged helplessly. Revine sat bolt upright, and her heart began to beat with excitement again. That was talent. That was…

Perfect. She was like Illphres, but not. The Illphres who left Wistram, who went out into the world and became an adventurer. She had accomplished this without a proper mentor. If she had one—

She was exactly what the Siren needed.

——

Savere had seafood. And if that was obvious, well…

The Siren watched Ceria carefully as they dined. She was still getting a handle on the half-Elf’s personality. To that end, she’d requested a dish that made some people turn squeamish. Trust was the thing.

Ceria stared down into a bowl of dozens of tiny, fried eels. Which, yes, looked like Selphids, albeit different in color, or…she slowly put her fork in the bowl, raised it—and began eating.

“This is really good stuff. What is this? Eels?”

“You’ve never had it?”

The half-Elf began scarfing down the actually very tasty food.

“Nope. Love it. Eels? Not bad at all. Do you have it with this rice stuff? That’s new too, but I’ve had it recently.”

“Er. Yes. With chopst—”

Ceria began putting the eels and other side dishes with the rice—and eating it with a fork. The Siren reflected that on the whole…it wasn’t much worse than the rest of her underlings’ manners.

Revine spoke after Ceria’s first burst of hunger had abated.

“I asked Illphres to come with me many times. Her abilities were second to only the best [Mages] living—she might have even made Archmage if she could stand to build alliances.”

Ceria lowered her fork slightly.

“Yes…she did say that she had no patience for it. So she didn’t want to leave?”

Revine’s mouth twisted.

“She did not. I offered her a position just under mine. Savere is a powerful place; the Bloodtear Pirates are not the only powerful force on the seas that comes here. Any [Pirate] that seeks to trade, repair their ships, or gang on Chandrar might well come here. Even groups from other continents. But you can imagine it is not simple to keep them in line.”

Ceria nodded cautiously. Revine glowered at sights unseen.

“I am the Siren—which means I have the right to refuse any group hospitality if they bring trouble. Savere is quite capable of doing battle with any group, so they abide by my rules largely. But there are many after my position. Illphres…with her, I would have feared no one. You understand why?”

“…Because she was that powerful?”

Ceria hazarded a guess. Revine pinched at the bridge of her nose.

“Dead gods. I forget you didn’t even get to your fourth year—they never told you about elemental combinations, did they? Illphres was an ice mage. I specialize in water. We were complementary!”

The half-Elf blinked. She slurped down an eel as Revine explained.

“Water and ice grow stronger together. We are two close elements. So close—temperature is the only difference between us. Fire and lightning. Earth and metal—none are as close as our two.”

She lifted a finger and a twirl of water brought a bowl of light broth up. It froze into a pillar as Ceria watched, and Revine dipped her spoon into the broth, which began to steam before Ceria’s eyes.

“Water magic is infinite in possibility so long as water exists. Frost has power even without water, but requires it for strength. One molds and changes constantly—the other is static, shattering. A duality of strength. And one is weak against the other. You cannot freeze an ocean, but water is helpless once turned to ice.”

Her eyes flicked upwards to Ceria.

“—Which is why I would not trust any [Cryomancer] to help me. But together, we could combine our powers, Illphres and I. Moreover, she would have been someone I trusted. Trust is the most valuable commodity in Savere, more than gems or magic.”

“Is it…that difficult, Siren?”

Ceria’s mind was racing ahead of this conversation. She thought she understood why Revine had gone to all this trouble now, and she wasn’t sure she liked the answer her mind presented her with. But she had to admit, it hadn’t been bad thus far. Revine had clearly been true friends with Illphres and the food was good.

The Siren smiled tightly.

“I trust two people in this world not to kill me in my sleep if it benefits them. My sister, Rasea, and Joam. And I only trust Rasea because she’d rather duel me face-to-face.”

Ceria bit her tongue. She began to say something—decided it was a bad idea. After a second, she coughed.

“Er—who’s Joam?”

Revine’s partner? Was she married?

For answer, Revine made a psking sound and raised her voice.

“Joam? Come here and greet my guest.”

Ceria saw nothing for a second. Revine glared.

“Joam!”

There was a yowl, and then Ceria saw a moving orb of water carrying a startled creature towards them. It leapt off with surprising familiarity, landed in the Siren’s lap, and sniffed the food. She offered it an eel, and the cat, which looked wet despite the orb of water not actually leaving any of it on Joam, accepted the treat.

The Watercat, Joam, had fins and gills. He could swim through water with amazing ease and, apparently, breathe in it, and he dove into the Siren’s chair made of water and out the other side to peek at Ceria.

“This is Joam. The only other being I trust not to stab me in my sleep besides Rasea Zecrew, my sister.”

Revine gave Ceria a sardonic look. The half-Elf hesitated.

“He’s, uh—very handsome. I can see why you trust him…?”

Revine smiled.

“Yes. He doesn’t have hands. Servant! Fetch Joam his meal. I feed him any number of foods—although he mostly does eat fish and the like. Also, Sariant Lambs.”

Ceria saw the cat lick his chops at that. She eyed the cat.

“Er, Your Majesty. I appreciate you telling me about Illphres. But why…?”

Revine ignored the question. She stared past Ceria, and the half-Elf turned her head slowly and saw a very rough sketch compared to the paintings in the room. Something a much poorer person might pay an [Artist] for with a bit of silver. Ceria saw a group of young people and…she blinked.

Illphres. Revine murmured to herself.

“In those days, I almost bought into Illphres’ dream to challenge the Golems. Almost. Until I saw how many people died. We weren’t alone back then, though. If things had played out differently—if she hadn’t vanished—you know, Illphres tried to apprentice herself to a master, just like you did.”

“Really? Who?”

Revine shrugged.

“The only woman who shared her dreams. Valeterisa, Archmage of Izril. But she was a recluse, and besides—she vanished. I hear she’s back. We all had that dream, though. Illphres, Valeterisa, even Viltach used to be one of us in spirit—but he lost his nerve when he had his first child.”

“…Hm?”

Ceria frowned. She felt like she’d missed something there.

“You mean…Archmage Viltach? He has children?”

Revine laughed at her.

“You think Archmages are celibate? Yes, he kept all his affairs outside of Wistram, though. Unlike some Archmages, he doesn’t go after fellow [Mages]. You truly didn’t know? It’s a minor secret at best.”

She seemed delighted by Ceria’s reactions to things like this. Revine leaned forwards.

“Have you kept up with the intrigue at Wistram? There is some grand secret there, but no one will tell me what it is.”

“Some secret…? No. I don’t know many Wistram [Mages] although—I know a half-Elf and a former [Mage], and they both said the same thing.”

Ceria thought of Falene and Viceria. The Siren frowned darkly.

“I as well, but my position and my allies are few there. I have been meaning to ferret it out, but I trust few of those in Savere to represent me properly. There are [Mages] here—decent ones—but not ones I trust. If I had an agent…I could send her abroad. Or trade places without leaving an untrustworthy commander in my place to stage a coup. You understand?”

It all went back to her. Ceria bit her tongue, then spoke, as carefully and professionally as she could. The Siren’s eyes flicked up and she focused on Ceria with a gaze as deep as the sea.

“Illphres. Siren Revine…I am grateful for you saving me and Nerhs from the Crelers. However, I am a Gold-rank adventurer and my teammates are missing. I need to find them, so, er, I’d, uh, like to be granted permission to go soon. I’m very happy to reminisce about Illphres! But if I could ride out tomorrow, maybe? I could pay for…”

Her voice trailed off. Revine Zecrew scrutinized Ceria.

“Your team. Naturally, you’d want to find them. And naturally, I don’t know you. Only that Illphres made you her apprentice. And that you are an adventurer with a history of working for an honorable Silver-rank team. In fact, you lost your hand holding the line rather than fleeing in the crypt of Liscor.”

Ceria blinked. She knew about…?

“A powerful [Cryomancer] who survived the Village of the Dead yet who lacks for any training. I was Illphres’ best friend. I may not be her specialization, but she and I share similar schools and I am an accomplished mage. A Wistram graduate. I could teach you. Savere is a powerful nation. You know, I have heard your friend is captive of Roshal. There is even a bounty out for his freedom.”

“Pisces? You know about—”

Revine lifted a finger and Ceria fell silent. She waved a hand.

“Calendar.”

Instead of it floating over, Joam brought it over in his mouth and received another eel. The Siren consulted it.

“He has been their prisoner for nearly two weeks. I am told one gang tried to free him and failed. He is not at Roshal yet, though. And your other friend—Yvlon Byres—is a gladiator in Nerrhavia’s Fallen. The last one, the bug-man? Illivere.”

Ceria’s mouth was wide open. They were all alive! She felt dizzy with relief—and then the Siren looked up.

“It isn’t impossible to free all of them. To gather them here? Not for me. Roshal is a mighty foe, though, and of the three, your friend the [Necromancer] is in gravest danger. I would not take on that request, no matter how much is being offered. Unless I had something worth doing it for.”

She looked at Ceria. The half-Elf shifted in her seat.

“…I’m not exactly keen to join Savere, Your Majesty. I have a…mission. An important one I need to get back to.”

Revine sighed delicately. She sat back as her cat leapt into her lap.

“Very understandable. I can’t force you to do anything. Then you have my permission to go. On the hour, in fact. I will let you purchase a horse and ride off to find your friends with the best of luck wished.”

She raised a hand and made a little gesture with her fingers splayed. Ceria hesitated.

“That’s…so generous.”

“Yes, indeed it is.”

The [Cryomancer]’s eyes flicked to something behind Revine.

“Er…might I make one request, Your Majesty?”

“Hmm?”

“Could I persuade you to…give me back that circlet before I go? It is my property, you see. I earned it at the Village of the Dead.”

The Siren of Savere turned her head. The circlet in question sat in the center of a perfect cube of barrier spells, on a small pedestal. The same circlet Ceria had been about to wear before the last-minute save.

Revine Zecrew looked at Ceria and smiled blandly.

“Ah, but that is my possession, you see. I am a [Bandit Queen]. If you want that back, I may be convinced to turn it over. But you would have to be very persuasive.”

Ceria sighed. It was never easy. She ducked her head as Revine went on.

“I might be persuaded to part with it if you made promises to me that you would return. I am not a fool, Ceria Springwalker. Nor am I blind to your desires and missions. But I do need…an ally.”

Her eyes glinted. The half-Elf smiled weakly.

“You don’t say?”

——

Revine Zecrew got exactly what she wanted out of the conversation. Which was nostalgia about Illphres and nothing from Ceria remotely resembling a promise.

But she was staying. She wanted that relic-class object. Revine hovered around it after Ceria had gone. Joam was prowling off, hunting mice or something.

“Dangerous.”

Revine stayed well clear of the pedestal. She wasn’t getting anywhere near the circlet and she’d had the best spells placed on it. She knew the dangers of relic-class objects and she was certain it was one.

“Find me every [Enchanter] worthy of the class. I want to know what this thing does. But secretly.”

She spoke, and one of her court mages bowed, eyes locked on the circlet. Revine halted her.

“Don’t think of touching it, Ureita. I have warded it so well that even an Archmage would vaporize if they tried.”

The woman, Ureita, licked her lips.

“I’d never dream of—”

“Yes, yes. Get out.”

The [Mage] scurried out, looking annoyed, but trying to hide it. Revine sighed after her. So transparent. She hadn’t lied about needing an ally.

“But I am not stupid. You’re no Illphres.”

She threw herself backwards and a chair of water materialized. Ceria was also far lower-level than Illphres, despite her accomplishments. Yet…Revine sat there. She eyed the circlet.

“Relic class artifacts aside…servant.”

Someone came out of the darkness.

“Siren?”

“Get me Omusc. Tell her I want to see her, now, about bodyguard duty. And spread the word.”

The woman froze as Revine lifted a hand. The Siren beckoned her back and pointed to the place Ceria had been.

“That half-Elf. I want her on Savere’s side. Tell the guests she’s not to be harmed unless she’s a complete fool. And that I want to see if she’ll join Savere. Persuade her.”

The servant bowed. The Siren’s eyes glowed with a magic of their own. Yes…she had seen the limits of magic at Wistram. That was what Illphres had refused to see. Magic had limits. You filled the gaps with gold and power and alliances.

There was more to power than just magic classes. Revine was something Ceria took lightly.

A [Bandit Queen]. Did Ceria think [Corrupt Accountant] was just a class? She was clearly intelligent, but not as…cunning…as some. That was perfect.

“Chip at what makes her Gold-rank. Tell Omusc that’s her job. See who she really is. Send for the [Agents of Corruption].”

——

Day Two

Omusc found Ceria Springwalker that morning before the half-Elf even got out of her room. She heard the triple-knock, opened the door, and found the woman standing there eying her.

“So you’re the Gold-rank, eh? Ice Squirrel. I’m Omusc. The Siren’s told me I’ve gotta keep you alive. You want food?”

“What?”

The woman was dark-skinned…at least, half of her was. She spoke fast and with an accent, slurring her words a bit.

“Ice Squirrel. That’s your nickname. Heard you ate food like a damn squirrel. You can call me Omusc. [Pillager]. Exactly the kinda thing you Gold-ranks hate, right?”

She didn’t hold out a hand, but a third of her face opened up, exposing her insides. Ceria Springwalker stared at the Drowned Woman.

“Huh? It’s morning. What’s this about?”

Omusc was a Drowned Woman, like many of Savere’s people who lived with the sea. However, unlike many other Drowned Folk, who were half-fish, half-crustacean, or so on…

Omusc was half mollusc. Hence the…name.

Ceria had never seen a creature like her. One half of her face looked like bark, and, as Ceria watched, something moved the bark out—revealing fleshy, pink insides that used the bark as a false skin.

Sort of like a Dullahan. Omusc glanced at Ceria.

“Am I bothering you, Ice Squirrel?”

“It’s morning. What?”

The [Pillager] hesitated. Ceria rubbed at her face. Omusc glanced out one of the windows.

“It’s nearly midday. What’re you talking about?”

“It’s morning.”

——

Ceria was still bleary-eyed at breakfast. She stared at a giant piece of fowl meat.

“What’s this?”

“Bird. Some kind of it. You picky?”

“No.”

Ceria began chomping down instantly. Omusc reached for her plate. She cracked part of her face open—one of the other [Bandits] at the table turned away, gagging—deposited a slice of meat into her face, and then began to chew normally.

She waited for a reaction. Ceria just blinked at her a few times.

“So you’re Omusc. Is that…a pun?”

Along the table, one of the very specialist classes that Savere could field watched her target. Oh yes. [Corruptor] was a class.

There were always people like her in the world. People whose job it was to bribe, convince, threaten, or do whatever it took to get someone to abandon beliefs.

Sometimes it wasn’t hard. They were needed for sabotage, intrigue, and they could even make [Traitors]. Savere didn’t exist with the goodwill of other nations alone. They had people like her in every area.

Her job, and Omusc’s to some extent, was to fulfill the Siren’s wish and see who this Gold-rank was deep down. Reveal her true nature—sometimes you found just a bastard—or just someone who was like they were normally, only freed of fault.

Everyone had a weak spot. She narrowed her eyes, appraising Ceria as Omusc sat there, bemused. Ceria stared as a frightened person brought over more food.

“Got a problem with my face, Ice Squirrel?”

Omusc was trying to rile Ceria up. And…the [Bandits] grabbed for foods, calling insults at the [Slave] as more was brought around. Ceria turned, saw the collar, and now…the [Agent of Corruption] leaned in.

Now she understood what Savere was. Adventurers were tricky. Not all were upstanding, but some took lots of work. Yet the Siren had no limits, and there were lots of Skills that did many things. But she had to know what Ceria Springwalker was like.

The half-Elf blinked at the [Slave]. She looked at Omusc. She bit into a sandwich of chicken.

“…Is Omusc not a pun? It’s really early. Sorry…why are you with me?”

Omusc’s and the [Agent]’s faces fell. Dead gods damnit. Was she just an idiot?

——

Ceria rubbed at her head.

“So you’re a [Pillager].”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that sort of a weird class?”

One of the [Bandits] from the Nerhs raid sniggered. They were her eating buddies, having gained some respect for Ceria after seeing her take down so many Crelers. They were also off-duty, having been given a leave for the incident.

Omusc had multiple eyes. Her entire left side was…mollusc. That meant it was flexible. She didn’t even have limbs. Indeed, her left arm was so long it was uncanny. And, if she wanted to, she could change parts of her body on that side.

Including her eyes. She pulled off the staring, painted piece of wood, revealing the pink insides, and pasted another piece of bark in its place.

A painted eye glared at Ceria.

“The fuck you mean weird? We fight, I pillage. I’m the reason a raid comes back with more loot than normal. Hidden stashes, artifacts—I grab it all.”

“Right…but that means all your Skills are devoted to the one moment when you get everything. It’s just…really specialized. You know, like [Treasure Hunters]. I get it—but they appraise loot, find it, and have Skills to sell it. Sort of an odd distribution.”

“She’s got you there, Omusc. Tell her about your Skills—oof!”

Omusc’s arm shot out and punched someone in the stomach. Ceria blinked. She could extend her arms? It wasn’t lightning quick but…the [Pillager] glared around.

“It’s not a wasted class. Ever seen someone strip gold paint from the walls? I can steal everything. I can steal things that aren’t there!”

She pointed a finger at Ceria.

“You get on my bad side and I’ll steal everything you own after I kick the shit out of you—and your mother’s jewelry, no matter where she is!”

Ceria blinked at Omusc.

“My mother’s jewelry is mostly wood. Painted. Half-Elf jewelry sucks.”

The [Bandits] fell over each other laughing. Omusc strode around, swatting at them. She moved very fluidly, and Ceria suspected she wasn’t lying—[Pillager] was an advanced class. When she came back, more than a few were groaning and swearing at her.

“Omusc, you hit me again and I’ll stab you!”

One woman threatened, raising a dagger. Omusc turned her head.

“Yeah? Go ahead. I’ll let you have five.”

The [Bandit] glared, but she backed up and not just because her friends talked her down. Omusc turned back and eyed Ceria.

“Just so you know, the Siren wants me to keep you alive, but I’ll kick the hell out of you if you mock me again.”

“I’m not mocking you.”

Ceria saw the woman narrow her one real eye. Ceria leaned on her chin, fascinated.

“I know a Drowned Man…but you’re nothing like him.”

“Great. Another expert on Drowned People. You know one, you know ‘em all, huh?”

Omusc rolled her eyes. Ceria felt this was somewhat inaccurate.

“No—I just meant—”

Someone took a swing at Omusc from behind. Without moving her head, the woman twisted her mollusc arm back behind her back, blocked the blow at an angle that would have snapped Ceria’s bones if she tried that, and punched.

Molluscs apparently had eyes in the back of their heads. Or something. Also, Omusc was apparently as tough as nails.

“I’m a Drowned Woman Mollusc. Not sure exactly which one it is—don’t know, don’t care. I know what I can do. I’ve survived more fights because of that than anything else. Like the other half of my body or does it make you sick?”

Ceria shrugged.

“My best friend’s got morphing silver arms.”

Omusc glanced at her.

“Huh. Sounds nice. Horns of Hammerad, right?”

Ceria blinked.

“Does everyone know who I am?”

The [Enforcement Raider] laughed with great amusement.

“Didn’t you know? You were on every scrying orb in the world a while ago! Just for a moment—and we didn’t see you lot, but ‘course we know!”

“Really? We were on the scrying orb?”

A delighted look passed over Ceria’s face briefly. Omusc snorted.

“You had no idea? Truly?”

“No! We were fighting—and then I was in this village in the middle of nowhere—wait. If you know that—did anyone die? The Halfseekers—Griffon Hunt—”

Suddenly, Ceria had a thousand questions and she realized she was in a bandit-held city. But still a city. She turned to Omusc and the [Pillager] raised her hands.

“I’m not a [Mage]. Like I said, I’m your guard—”

“Do you know how I can find out? Is there a Mage’s Guild or…?”

Half the [Bandits] fell over each other laughing again. Even Omusc grinned.

“Is there a Mage’s Guild. What, do half the cities in Izril not have one?”

“But you’re…[Bandits].”

The [Enforcement Raider] leaned over.

“We’re civilized bandits. For instance, we use cutlery.”

She looked pointedly at the finger-food Ceria had been eating. Someone else handed Ceria a napkin. She looked at Omusc, who seemed more amused, and that was how her strange stay in Runsblud began.

——

“Hey, we’ve got the Siren’s guest here! Service!”

Omusc led Ceria to a Mage’s Guild that looked like any other. It was fairly well-swept, although the influx of visitors kept it a bit dirty and wet from the harbor, but it was hardly overflowing with rats, and there was even a [Receptionist] at the counter. Everything was the same—until a mage emerged from the back.

“Yeah? Well, why doesn’t the Siren cast her bloody spells herself? Forgotten how to do [Message]?”

He was smoking a huge blunt of dreamleaf, but aside from that, he didn’t have any notab—

The [Mage] poured himself a glass of low-quality wine, and offered one to Omusc. She took a swig.

“Gah. Dead gods, you drink that stuff?”

“Look at you fancy palace-lot. Most of the customers don’t even get wine—or special deals. Is this your fancy guest? Alright, let’s deal with whatever she has. Who am I sending to?”

The [Mage] sneered at Ceria. If anything, the [Bandits], [Pirates], [Raiders], and honest sailors seemed to regard Ceria’s clean robes as something of a provocation.

“She’s a Gold-rank adventurer.”

Omusc said it with no lack of irony. The [Mage] snorted, eying Ceria.

“One who can’t cast [Message]?”

“I can cast [Message]. I just don’t have the range—”

“A Gold-rank [Mage] who can’t cross-continent [Message]. Tsk, tsk.”

Some of the others in line were enjoying the show. Ceria looked around. So this was how it was? She sighed and lifted a cup of wine to her lips.

“Fine. I get it. Can I just get some help or what?”

The [Mage] and Omusc eyed her. Ceria gulped the wine down.

“…What? Tree rot, this is bad stuff.”

The [Mage]’s lips quirked. He took the blunt out of his mouth, fished in his pocket, and offered Omusc and Ceria something.

“Want a puff? Special for the Siren’s friends.”

Omusc waved away the Dreamleaf rollup.

“We’re n—”

“Sure.”

Ceria lit the tip, took a puff, and went cross eyed.

“Wait. This is way stronger than Palt’s stuff. You drink and smoke Dreamleaf?”

“It’s…an acquired taste. And you’re clearly a [Mage] of culture.”

The Savereian [Mage] blinked at Ceria. She snorted in derisive amusement.

“It’s not my hobby, but I was in Wistram.”

“Aaaaah. They still throw massive parties over there? I hear about them sometimes. Ordering ten pounds of Dreamleaf and lighting it up in a single room?”

“…Sounds about right. I never went to them myself, but—”

Omusc stared at Ceria as she began swapping stories with the [Mage] about the things Wistram [Mages] got up to. Which, yes, in a subsection of their student and adult population, included ingesting any number of illicit substances through any orifice possible and a few that weren’t.

Omusc leaned over and glared covertly with one eye at the figure lurking in line. Are you sure she needs corrupting?

The most basic, overt plays were clearly not going to work, so they were abandoned and a deeper strategy employed. Meanwhile, any number of people entered the Mage’s Guild, mostly to see Ceria sitting at one of the tables as the [Mage] got to work.

“…No dead names from either Griffon Hunt or the Halfseekers. Confirmed. Here’s your recording of the battle. Just start playing it.”

He placed a crystal on the table. Ceria got to watch the actual battle as the world had seen it of the Village of the Dead, and Omusc got to watch her reaction to it.

“Dead gods! Ryoka! I forgot! She brought an entire army—is that Tyrion Veltras?”

Ceria exclaimed. Omusc leaned in as Ceria started swearing—she saw the teleporting undead trap, the way the undead began pressing the Gold-ranks.

“Where were you in all this?”

“On that.”

Ceria pointed at the Frostmarrow Behemoth going toe-to-toe with a Zombie Giant. She whistled as Omusc and the [Mage] both turned to stare at her.

“Wow. It looks a lot cooler like this. Is that Halrac kicking Ghouls off that roof? It is!”

She peered at Halrac’s rescue of adventurers on the rooftop. Things like that, or even how Prince Zenol had dramatically gone to fight the Liches, made Ceria fixate on the replay—and the mysterious eye in the sky that had assailed Ryoka.

She had just gotten to the part where the [Sword Legend] appeared when someone plonked down at the table.

“Ceria Springwalker. So you’re the Gold-rank that wiped out Crelers in the north.”

Ceria heard Omusc swear. She looked up and saw a [Pirate].

To be precise, a [Pirate] Gnoll. He had a bandanna tied around his head, and two swords at his side. He also had scars she could see under his fur, which was a typical chestnut brown—

Aside from the red dye. It was on his bandanna too, and the group that came swaggering in.

Bloodtear Pirates.

“Oi. This is the Siren’s guest. Heard about her?”

“All of Savere’s heard about her. The big half-Elf who everyone thought was dead. So this is the Siren’s new favorite pawful of spellcaster? I had to see her myself. I’m Gorry. [First Mate] of Plainsblood. Bloodtear Pirates.”

The Gnoll grinned with all his teeth. Ceria met his gaze as he held out a paw. Omusc glanced at the other [Pirates] as they strode over.

“Hope you’re not thinking of doing anything stupid, friend.”

She leaned on the edge of Gorry’s chair. He glanced up at her, completely unperturbed as the [Mage] in the back of the guild slowly closed the door to his work room.

“And if I was, clam-girl?”

Omusc grinned wide. Several of Savere’s [Bandits] waiting in line looked up and shifted slightly. The Bloodtear Pirates looked about, grinning wider if that were possible. Ceria remembered the Siren’s warning.

“Aren’t the Bloodtear Pirates guests of Savere?”

Gorry glanced at her.

“Sure we are. But there’s always time to throw down and the Siren doesn’t stop a good bloodbath every time.”

“She’ll stop it this time. This one’s a guest.”

“And am I doing anything other than shaking her hand, landgirl?”

The Gnoll and Drowned Woman stared at each other—until Ceria reached out and clasped Gorry’s paw.

“Alright, that’s enough. Gorry? Ceria. Nice to meet you.”

The [Pirate] swiveled back to Ceria, and she shook his hand with a strong grip. He grinned and returned the pressure, looking her up and down. He eyed her right hand, all-bone, and Ceria’s eyes.

“Ice magic, huh? You’ve got some nice scars.”

“Thanks? Can I help you or anything? Sorry, but I’m sort of in the middle of finding out what happened to all my friends.”

Ceria glanced over as the Bloodtear Pirates approached. They stood around Omusc, who glared about, and Gorry leaned back. He reached for something.

“We’ll leave you be, although our [Captain] says he wants to speak with you, Miss Ceria. Not every day you meet a Gold-rank on the news. But before that…”

Ceria watched his paws as they slowly drew something out of his belt pouch. He slowly put a white cardboard square on the table, then found one of the quills and inkpots at the table.

“…I’ll take an autograph. Want to tell us about killing Crelers? Now there’s something sea and land respect. We’ll buy you your weight in wine if you tell us what you saw in that village, eh?”

He grinned at her. Ceria blinked at him and Omusc sighed. Then she remembered.

Bloodtear Pirates. Famous for slaughtering opponents. Merciless fighters…who had also personally escorted the Waterbear after her delivery through the magical hurricane. They loved a display of courage. Crazy madpeople of the sea, even for [Pirates].

She smiled and shrugged.

“I’m willing to talk. Are you staying in port for a day or two?”

The [Pirate] glanced up at Omusc, whose one-eyed glare made him grin even wider. He gave Ceria a speculative glance.

“For a day or two, why not?”

Then the [Mage] came bustling out of the doors. Ceria Springwalker half-stood as he spoke.

“I don’t have the spells for [Communication]—but one of your friends wants a [Message] spell. They’re paying. You free to talk, or are you shanking each other?”

He eyed the Bloodtear Pirates, who turned as Ceria rose.

“Who’s…?”

The [Mage] gave the orb a glance, and Ceria the same look as the others.

“Says he’s Halrac Everam. He wants to know if you’re alive.”

——

—And then I woke up.

Halrac Everam stared at the glowing words on the [Message] scroll. He heard not a sound, including the thoughts in his head. At last, someone breathed hard into one ear.

“Dead gods.”

“Briganda.”

He shoved her away, but the [Shield Maiden] was leaning on his shoulder. Typhenous kept elbowing other adventurers out of the way; most were still with them. Fighting like cats, dogs, and Crelers over the treasure.

“What’s she saying? Let me see. Is it that half-Elf? I’m part of Arcsinger’s Bows, you know…”

A plaintive voice from the adventurers, who, regardless of rank, were jostling to see. Revi growled as she fought for a chair.

“Get off! This is my team’s—”

The chair snapped under the weight of about six adventurers and she went down, cursing. Typhenous’ chair was unmolested. Perhaps because the kindly old man kept poking people with the tip of a dagger whenever they tried. An unsheathed dagger.

“Is she really Ceria? This could be a scam. I hate to bring it up, but it is a classic…”

That came from one of the older adventurers. A senior [Wizard], who’d survived their trial by fire. Halrac nodded. The conversation moved fast—although he had to write legibly—it moved even faster when Revi took over. She and Typhenous had the best penmanship and literary natures of the team, and she was even teaching Cade (and his mother to some extent) his letters.

This is Halrac. Your words are coming to us in Renost. We all want to believe this is Ceria, but a teleportation scroll? Some final monster in the center of the Village of the Dead? All hard to believe. Can you prove you’re Ceria? This is not coming from her directly but from a [Mage]’s Guild.

“Damned good point, Halrac. Savere. Anyone know Savere well? I’ve heard it’s got more criminals than Scurrydel has rats. How can we tell if it’s the right Ceria?”

Levil of the Pithfire Hounds looked at Keima and Lamont.

“Eldertuin the Fortress might know. He’s a Named Rank and I heard him say he’d been to Chandrar. But…”

He had left. Not all the adventurers wanted to stay here and stake their claim on the treasure directly. He was arguably one of the ones who had a presence even without being there. He also had less interest in being lauded and the talk of every city they passed through, with free drinks and admiration galore. That was why they were moving so slowly towards Invrisil; the adventurers milked the attention for all they could get.

However, a second Named Adventurer seemed content to ride the wave of fame. When she approached, no one jostled her except her daughter, shooting everyone triumphant looks.

“I know Savere. Not personally, but the odds are she might be under some kind of duress. If it is Ceria Springwalker? I will be delighted, but we must be sure, I agree. Ask her…where she decided to place my team for maximum effect in the battle.”

Halrac Everam looked up into the eyes of that famed Named Adventurer. Elia Arcsinger herself. Revi quickly scribbled as Typhenous raised his eyebrows, carefully keeping his face away from Elia or her team. Halrac’s expression never changed from a block of wood. But his eyes were glued to the scroll.

Ceria, can you tell us where you deployed Arcsinger’s Bows during the battle? Not where they ended up, but your orders. Or anything else only the real Ceria would know? What did you tell my team?

A pause whilst everyone waited with baited breath.

Er, I said to Elia’s team to hang back and shoot the big monsters? Halrac…I don’t know. I told you to get on a roof? I can’t remember.

A groan from the adventurers. Briganda slowly put her head in her hands and Cade grabbed her arm worriedly.

“She’s such an idiot.”

“Anyone who saw the battle could tell you that! This has got to be a scam.”

Keima whispered. Halrac eyed the [Message] scroll. He muttered to Elia and Typhenous.

“…It sounds like Ceria.”

The old man’s eyes were dancing. He coughed and whispered to Revi. She blinked, and, after a moment, nodded.

“Smart, Typhenous.”

Her next scrawl made everyone but Griffon Hunt blink.

Ceria, what is the favorite dish of Flesh Worms in The Wandering Inn? You have five seconds or you’re—

The response came before she was even done writing.

Acid jars.

Halrac sat back with a sigh.

“It’s her. She’s alive.”

The Adventurer’s Guild was silent for a second as everyone looked at him, then they burst into cheers—and a renewed argument.

“Wait, does she get the Helm of Fire? Because we had to fight the Revenant—”

It started up again. Elia rose as Revi kept writing, glaring about. The question was…

——

Are you coming back? Do you need help of any kind?

Ceria Springwalker was dictating verbatim to the [Mage] on her side of the conversation. Albeit, in a private room…but Omusc was listening keenly, eyes on the scroll. And—Ceria turned her head and saw a Gnoll waving at her.

Gorry and the Bloodtear Pirates didn’t even pretend they weren’t listening in. She hesitated.

“Um…”

Um, no. We’re too far away right now. I plan on finding my team. You just tell the others I’m alright. I’m going to get them. This is our mess; we’ll sort it out. But tell the others we want the Helm of Fire. We’re ready to negotiate for it, but that’s the one we need.

The [Mage] snorted. He was auto-transcribing Ceria’s words via a spell, and was mainly just keeping the spell active as a quill skittered across the parchment. He looked at Ceria and grinned, showing some golden teeth.

“I’m sure that’s going to go down well. You have the biggest Relic-class artifact sitting there and you think you can walk on back and grab it?”

Ceria scratched her head. She feared that was the problem. Elia and Eldertuin—not to mention other Gold-rank teams—might well force the issue. She chose her words carefully.

“We did claim dibs, Mage Teic. One Relic—and we’ll make it up to the others. Not that I want to be bankrupted, but we have other artifacts. Even other Relic-class—oh shit.”

“Ice Squirrel!”

Omusc snapped, and the [Mage] looked down and snatched at the quill, but it was too late. Ceria saw him desperately swipe at the parchment, trying to cross out the words, but they had been written there, ink still gleaming.

We did claim dibs, Mage Teic. One Relic and we’ll make it up to the others. Not that I want to be bankrupted, but we have other artifacts. Even other Relic-class oh shit

Ceria didn’t see a response forming. Rather—she saw a huge blotch of ink appear on the [Message] scroll, and—she suspected—the wavy line of a hundred hands fighting for the quill at the same time.

“Well this [Message] scroll’s worth nothing. Dead gods damnit!”

Mage Teic threw up his hands, but he looked at Ceria. Omusc was cursing. Not from just Ceria’s idiocy—she was staring out the door at the suddenly very still [Pirates].

What a blunder. The Siren was going to kill her—after Ceria. She saw the half-Elf scratch her head as the [Pillager] whirled to tell Teic to cut the spell. But then she saw something.

Ceria Springwalker didn’t look like a mortified half-Elf. She smiled—and put a skeletal finger to her temple.

Typh. Tell Halrac I’m in dicey waters at Savere. But I’ll handle it. The Helm of Fire is for a trade to cure Erin. Hold onto it. We do have artifacts. If I find the others—they have more.

“What was that?”

Mage Teic snapped. His eyes flickered and he slapped a palm to his forehead, but he cursed.

“What? What did she do?”

Omusc strode back to stare at Ceria as the half-Elf lowered her hand.

“She sent a [Message]! I thought she couldn’t do that! I missed what she sent—damn—you said you couldn’t do it!”

Ceria blinked at the two. She shrugged.

“I can’t do it long-term. Not for a lot of [Messages]. Plus, I had no idea where to aim. Don’t worry. I just told them something private. No one’s stupid enough to come after Savere. We’re adventurers.”

Omusc’s jaw opened and closed. She saw Ceria raise her brows, innocently. Mage Teic glanced at the hubbub outside.

“Right, well, I’m getting money for the scroll from the Siren. If you’re done…I have some juicy gossip to sell.”

His eagerness to get Ceria and Omusc out of the guild wasn’t just due to him selling the news far and wide. There was a loud argument at the front desk.

“Hey! We want to send some [Messages] today! Why does someone get to cut the line?”

An angry group of people was demanding service, and the one other [Mage] on duty was overworked. Even in Savere, there were things that could not be tolerated.

“Sorry. Siren’s business. Cool your feathers.”

“Watch it, you.”

Ceria emerged from the back to see who was so angry. Not the Bloodtear Pirates—they were grinning fit to burst and Gorry clearly wanted to get her attention.

Rather, this was another distinctive group.

Garuda, with their traditional light armaments, although some had some enchanted armor—a [Raider] group to look at them. But these ones had a similar motif: all their beaks were dyed an ashen grey.

“Bleakbeaks.”

Omusc sighed. She lifted her hands.

“Siren’s business. You see that half-Elf? She’s the Siren’s guest. Cool off.”

The Bleakbeak Garuda glared at Ceria, but then they seemed to recognize her.

“That’s the Gold-ranker from Izril? Huh. And here I thought it was for some no-name idiot from one of the nearby kingdoms. Alright…hey, you. You’re Ceria Springwalker, aren’t you?”

“Does everyone know my name?”

Ceria was astonished. The Garuda glanced at his friends. Then he leaned over, trotting out of line with the others. They muttered—then grabbed some parchment.

“I hear it’s worth some gold. You wouldn’t mind tossing us a few gold coins, eh? Give us one of those, um…autographs.”

He grinned at her with his beak—right before a Gnoll calmly shoved him out of the way.

“Hey! Who wants to die?”

Gorry grinned at him.

“I’ve got dibs on an autograph, landfolk. And it’s a promise. Tonight, at the Hanging Bait—drinks on us?”

He looked at Ceria. She hesitated as the Garuda bristled. One went for a long dagger at his side, and the other stopped them.

“That’s Bloodtear—”

“So? No one pushes us and—”

Gorry’s head turned as the [Pirates] behind him all instantly, and with huge grins, put their hands on their weapon hilts. The Bleakbeaks froze and counted; they were outnumbered by five.

“Break it up!”

Omusc’s shout made both groups turn to her. Fearlessly, the [Pillager] moved both groups back. She turned to face Gorry.

“The Ice Squirrel’s going nowhere. Siren’s orders.”

“Oh? Aren’t you confident.”

The Gnoll had a dangerous look in his eyes. Omusc folded her arms.

“‘Fraid so. Ceria’s got orders to meet with her.”

“Huh.”

The Gnoll tilted his head left and right, clearly thinking on whether this was upsetting. Ceria forestalled him.

“How about tomorrow? Hanged Bait?”

He blinked at her, then grinned.

“Ah, there’s a willingness I like. Tomorrow.”

He watched with satisfaction as Ceria signed the autograph, and then took a piece of parchment and scrawled her name on it. The tense atmosphere defused, and Ceria saw Omusc breathe out, slowly. Ceria felt her own adrenaline stop coursing through her veins.

She’d seen adventurers getting into petty arguments before—but something about the way Mage Teic had been hiding behind a door and Omusc’s desperate orders and invoking the Siren’s authority told Ceria that it wouldn’t be just a fistfight. The Siren’s authority kept a delicate peace indeed.

——

“You’re damned lucky. You know that? The Bloodtear Pirates are insane. Clap you on the back and stab you in the eye the next second if you cross them wrong. Bleakbeaks? They’ll stab you too—you’re just lucky you’re not a Garuda.”

“Is there anyone who won’t stab me? How does the Siren keep the peace with so many factions?”

Omusc grunted.

“By not having someone start sparks, for one. Second? She keeps them from causing havoc, stealing everything and running off. Mage’s Guild is off-limits. But if they decided to—there would be a hundred dead bodies in the street in the hour.”

Ceria halted.

“What?”

The [Pillager] looked back at her.

“Runsblud’s not like any other city. Ever heard of Drowning Nights? No…hah.”

She exhaled, giving Ceria a look much like she was a Bronze-rank who’d never heard of Shield Spiders. The [Cryomancer] frowned.

“What’s that, a term for Savere?”

“A term. What am I, a [Scribe]? It’s the thing that every gang, and especially seafolk, know to watch for in gatherings like Savere. How do I say it so someone like you’ll understand? An adventurer…”

She stalked off, leading Ceria back towards the palace looming over the docks. Ceria walked after her.

“I’m not exactly a rookie world-wise, Omusc.”

The Drowned Woman hesitated.

“Guess not. You’re not exactly as upstanding as I thought. I thought you’d be some [Knight]-idiot. Terandrian adventurers are all like that.”

“That’s the Silver Swords. Not my team. Yvlon—my teammate—she’s sort of like that.”

The [Pillager] shouldered aside a group engrossed in a shell game. They turned to bicker with her, saw her glare, and decided they’d rather not.

She was some kind of authority, Ceria guessed. Omusc went on.

“Drowned Nights are…when people have too much to drink. One big gang—six it’s almost a given—and let’s say they’ve got blood rivalries going on. On that day, everyone closes their doors.”

She nodded to the wary [Shopkeepers], people doing rather mundane jobs like processing fish, carving furniture, and so on. Ceria frowned.

“…And that’s normal?”

“No, it’s not normal. It just happens. And with the Bloodtear Pirates, it’s more likely than ever. They must have paid a fortune for the Siren to let them in. If a Drowned Night happens, it’ll be a slaughter.”

“Do they attack civilians?”

If that were the case, Ceria thought the people here…wouldn’t be here. She’d known people to live in bad circumstances, but that seemed a cut too far. And sure enough, Omusc shook her head.

“No. If they went after people in homes, the Siren would ban them forever. Even Bloodtear isn’t that stupid. But it’s free game and anyone on the streets—”

She drew a line across her throat.

“—that’s when you level or die. And when groups sort things out.”

Ceria’s skin prickled.

“So Savere can turn into a bloodbath at any time?”

“Yep.”

“And people like living like that?”

“Like it? You don’t have to join in. There are laws. If you’re not a gang, no one can just walk up and stab you. The other groups come here to trade, buy potions—they can’t anywhere else. They’re the ones in danger. Like you. You don’t seem to get that.”

Again, the Drowned Woman looked back at Ceria. The Gold-rank adventurer walked along, digesting that. She scratched at her head, looking speculatively at Omusc, and around the city.

“…I guess that’s why the Siren put me in your care. You must be a pretty good officer, right?”

Omusc nearly tripped. She caught herself, and glared back.

“I’m a [Pillager]. It’s my job to keep idiots in line and make sure the loot’s divided up. I guess that’s why I got saddled with you.”

Ceria smiled faintly.

“I bet that’s not your entire class. Or your only one. Were you born in Savere?”

“What is this, Archmage’s Questions? I’m from Savere. I’m minding you. That’s it.”

“Well, you know all about me. I don’t know anything about you.”

Omusc snorted.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Ice Squirrel. I don’t care that much about you. You were on some big raid, you have a bug in your team…that’s what I’ve got. Oh, and you’re too stupid to keep your mouth shut about artifacts.”

Ceria grinned.

“I have a [Necromancer] in my team too. We’re not bad pillagers ourselves either, you know. That wasn’t our first dungeon.”

“Really. You’re going to make me explain why you’re not even a tenth as good as a [Pillager]. You think adventurers steal something? I steal everything. You idiots leave traps, good metal, even bodies behind. Do you know how much Selphids pay for a good body? And that’s only the dead ones.”

Omusc tossed that barb out and watched it bounce off Ceria’s puffy cheeks. The half-Elf smiled at her, eyes lighting up with mischief.

“You might be right. But I hear someone steals the Siren’s doors.”

The Drowned Woman felt a tingle run down her back, the precursor to sweat.

“Yeah? So? That’s basic. Any Level 15 [Raider] could think of that.”

“Well…I stole a magic door with my team. A portal door. Worth a fortune—actually, I think it was the most valuable thing we took, all-told.”

Omusc came to a dead halt in the street. She looked back at Ceria.

“You did?”

——

It turned out that if there was anything to win Omusc’s respect in this world, the tale of Albez and taking the enchanted door was it. By the time they got to the palace, the [Pillager] was shaking her head.

“Where’s Albez?”

“Why, you want to look for more treasure?”

“No…I want to find that exact spot you all went to, get down to that trap room, and pry all those insanity glyphs off the wall. I’d make a fortune.”

The [Pillager] was salivating at the prospect.

“Even one is a good trap that any [Merchant] would buy. You said there were hundreds in the room?”

“Maybe even thousands.”

“Dead gods. You land-brained idiots—that was the real treasure. Although I’ll give you credit—that’s a dangerous removal job. You want a professional, not some idiot with a dagger and a pickaxe. Stealing that door—that was smart. You might deserve Gold-rank after all.”

She gave Ceria a grudging look of approval. The half-Elf whistled to herself.

“It’s worth that much, is it?”

“Depends on the grade. Sounds like they’re good—I’d say you can get four hundred gold minimum per glyph.”

“Really?”

The Mollusc Drowned Woman was doing a rough calculation.

“Rechargeable, long-lasting magical glyphs of a Tier 4+ spell? Remember, this ain’t something some no-name Level 30 whipped up. This is a pre-civilization spell. From an older kingdom. That just multiplies the value. It turns out this Warmage Thresk was some big shot? Eight hundred, easy.”

She caught herself with a sigh.

“‘Course, they might all be burned or someone else looted them. I’d kill you over it if I thought there was a chance of me getting to Izril and this Albez. I guess that’s just a friendly advisor, yeah?”

She kicked along, regretting mentioning it to Ceria—there was something inoffensive about the half-Elf’s personality. Although it was true that Omusc wasn’t getting there. Ceria grinned.

“I could tell you where we were, roughly. Landmarks shift all the time, but we had a map and I remember the rough spot. If you want to run to Albez—my team’s in no hurry.”

“Don’t shit me.”

“I’m not. You want to know where?”

Omusc halted. She eyed Ceria up and down and then gave a grudging laugh.

“You’re not bad, Ice Squirrel. I’d have to, what, leave Savere, find a crew, get all the way to this place and get out while protecting my haul…”

She stared upwards.

“That would be the adventure of a lifetime. The kind of thing that sets you up for good. I’m no adventurer, but that’s tempting. Money like that, even if I had to give up half of it? I could retire on that.”

“And what would you do then?”

The [Cryomancer] saw Omusc frown, turn to glare at her.

“…None of your business. If this is you trying to bribe me to get on my good side, well…”

She glanced around as they entered into the Siren’s palace. She leaned over and whispered.

“…It won’t do you any good. The Siren’s the boss. No one beats her. Remember that. As long as you’re on her good side, all you have to worry about is people with a grudge who’ll risk her wrath.”

“Good thing I don’t have any of those, then.”

Ceria remarked blandly. The Drowned Woman gave her an odd look.

“You’ve got at least one.”

Ceria halted, blinking.

“…You?”

“No, you idiot. You think you didn’t make anyone mad when you came here and stole the Siren’s attention? Follow me—we’re almost late. I’ll meet you after the dinner thing. Not that you want to go out in Runsblud at night anyways, unless you’re looking for trouble.”

“What am I doing now?”

Ceria frowned around. Since she had woken up so late and gotten a lay of the port city and done her work at the Mage’s Guild, it was early evening. Omusc gave her a look.

“The Siren’s got a plan for you.”

——

Revine Zecrew watched as Ceria began to sweat. It beaded on her forehead, but only a bit—and it never rolled down her cheeks. It froze there.

The room was cold. Ceria’s aura was in full-force—which was the problem.

“Control yourself. Your aura is leaking. Focus it down. Did Illphres never teach you that?”

“She did—but it’s an aura—”

Ceria was panting as she tried to do as the Siren demanded. It was difficult—not least because she was working on something else simultaneously.

Fifteen candles were set around the room, burning, but not with any waxy deposits. They burned and would keep burning forever.

Everburning candles. It was Ceria’s job to extinguish them without a puff of air, just suppress the fire magic with an equivalent of ice magic.

It wasn’t something you could do on actual candles, mind you. Maybe it was possible to snap freeze fire, but this was a magical test. Ceria could easily extinguish one, even from afar.

Fifteen? Simultaneously? She had gotten six at a time.

Revine had to admit—the [Cryomancer] wasn’t bad. Even so, she sat on a rolling ball of water, circling the room.

“Illphres could do all fifteen with ease. This is the fundamental of how to chill a foe at range.”

“I thought you couldn’t directly…?”

“No, you can’t. So you freeze the air around them.”

“Oh. Oh!”

Revine rolled her eyes, but she mitigated her temper. She came to a stop as Ceria turned her head.

“…This is the kind of thing Illphres would have told you if you were ready. How did you say that idiotic [Mage] told you to train? Cooling boiling water?”

“Yes. Is that wrong?”

Revine’s expression said it all.

“It’s suicidal. Why…why not just cool the boiling water without being in it? That achieves the exact same goal.”

“You don’t know Magus Grimalkin.”

The Siren shook her head. She sat back as Joam batted at one flame, hissing when he realized it was hot and, therefore, hurt.

“If you need pain to motivate you…you have no desire to improve as a [Mage]. Which might be the case, frankly. How many years since you left Illphres’ care? Even without a spellbook or mentor, you clearly stopped improving your magic fundamentals.”

She eyed the half-Elf and Ceria blushed. It was true. Even later on in Erin’s inn, she had fallen behind Pisces for lack of ambition. She did need the boiling water to force herself to improve.

“You can’t move [Ice Walls], they’re just simple geometric shapes. Your [Ice Spikes] aren’t bad, but you don’t do anything with them. You have no ability to use snow-spells, only solid ice. You have no grounding in trap runes, magical domains, or advanced cryomancy techniques.”

Revine was listing off Ceria’s many faults. Ceria bit her lip.

“…I thought my [Ice Spikes] were fine. Even Illphres said their form didn’t lack for much.”

She lifted a finger, and a jagged shard of ice appeared, roughly twice as long as her hand and almost as thick. A deadly, nasty projectile. Revine pursed her lips and waved her hand.

This was her personal practice room, and as such, the reinforced walls could weather most spells without a scratch. A glowing target appeared on the far wall.

“Hit that if you c—”

Ceria hit the center. Revine blinked at it. She narrowed the target, spun it left.

“Hm. Hit that one.”

Ceria pointed and hit the target dead-center. The Siren peered at her.

“…Now that’s interesting. Illphres was a markswoman too. Did she teach you how to do that?”

“First thing. I had to go out every morning…”

Revine clapped her hands, her face lighting up.

“…With the others and cast spells over the sea? She still does—did that?”

She stumbled, and a scowl appeared. But she had to see it to believe it. She led Ceria to a balcony and began making targets in the air out of illusion magic.

It took Ceria back. She aimed, loosed an [Ice Spike], and hit eighteen out of the twenty targets—even the ones hundreds of feet away. Revine was impressed.

“That’s almost as good as Illphres.”

“Well, that’s what I trained while being a Silver-rank. Lots of moving targets.”

The Siren nodded. Ceria wiped some of the icy sweat from her brow. She was surprised. Omusc had made it sound like the Siren intended something quite dire.

Instead—she was training Ceria in magic. They had begun by establishing where Ceria was, but the Siren had simply started teaching her after that. Spells were hard, but she could show Ceria one and have the half-Elf practice it. She even had a spellbook she loaned Ceria.

“Not bad. But Illphres could use [Ice Spear] and do the exact same. I doubt you have that control. Or advanced [Ice Spikes].”

“Advanced [Ice Spikes]? What, are they bigger? Faster?”

The Siren snorted. She conjured eight targets in an orb-pattern, with one in the center. Ceria watched as she created an [Ice Spike], as fast as Ceria could. The Siren pointed—and the [Ice Spike] flashed outwards.

She…missed the center target. Her aim was off by a hair, but it didn’t matter. As the [Ice Spike] flashed by the center orb, it detonated, spraying outwards.

Five of the orbs vanished. The Siren and Ceria stared at the three glowing orbs remaining. They winked out and Revine turned her head slowly.

Her look dared Ceria to say anything. The half-Elf coughed after a second.

“…I didn’t know you could do that.”

Revine replied after a moment.

“Ice magic is not my preference. Water magic is far simpler. I can create pressurized water jets—but that is the benefit of ice magic.”

She sat back, turning hurriedly towards the practice room.

“There are even variations on the ice you can create. Illphres’ was far stronger than yours. Lesser spells couldn’t even melt it, as you saw. You should develop your own ice.”

“Really? I had a thought—is there blood ice?”

“Yes. Blood, saltwater ice…it’s all varied. I can see I have much to teach you. I will consider the matter. You’ll come here each evening; I’m too busy to do more than an hour or two, and you are years behind. But if you make it worth my while and live up to Illphres’ name—”

Revine realized Ceria wasn’t with her. She turned back, scowling, and saw Ceria scratching at her head.

“It’s not that much harder…”

“[Shatterspray Ice Spike]? No, it’s just an effect. You can layer it onto other spells that harmonize. Not [Fireball], for instance; fire doesn’t work the same way. It is not that impressive. [Ice Spear] is still stronger in most cases.”

“Unless you’re tossing it around a corner. I bet you could even angle the way it explodes.”

Revine’s brows rose.

“Yes. You can do that. Illphres never understood that, but an adventurer…yes. I will teach you that, but on the list of spells you would benefit from, that’s not the highest. As I said, this is the work of years, and in the time you have…”

Ceria’s scratching stopped. Slowly, her finger rose and Revine saw her conjure an [Ice Spike]. The Siren snorted as Ceria aimed it out into the middle distance in the sky. She shot the [Ice Spike] forwards.

“Like—”

The Siren saw the [Ice Spike] explode into a cloud of icy particles. Sardonically, the woman applauded.

“Very well done. That is a complete unmaking of the spell. If you want to learn to diffuse enemy spells in midair—do that. Shattering is taking the power in the [Ice Spike] and directing it outwards.”

You idiot. The half-Elf ignored that last implication—in truth, Revine was impressed she’d even managed to undo her spell in the air. She indulged Ceria, watching the half-Elf’s eyes widen.

“Oh. Oh. A second spell. But can I re-cast at a distance?”

“You could layer both spells in a single cast if you knew how. A predetermined spell—even giving your projectiles a course to follow. That is quite complex, though. In the heat of battle?”

The Siren watched Ceria throw another shard of ice—this one twice as large as normal—out into the air. She saw Ceria jerk a finger.

“[Ice Spray]. [Ice—]”

Revine was about to insist Ceria give it up. She was bending down to tell Joam not to steal the Everburning Candles when she heard a crack. She looked up and saw a spray of shards shoot through the air.

Revine blinked. Her mouth opened in disbelief. She saw Ceria create another [Ice Spike], hurl it out, and saw it shatter, spraying out sideways.

“[Shatterspray Ice Spike].”

The Siren of Savere couldn’t believe it. She had just shown—and the half-Elf had picked it up from two tries? Was it her aura? Or just…

A mentor? Ceria turned, eyes sparkling with delight.

“I did it! I could do that to [Ice Wall], couldn’t I? Each [Ice Wall] becomes a weapon. You could create a maze of attacks!”

“…Yes. Yes. If your opponent doesn’t just blast through it. Well done.”

Revine murmured slowly. She stared at Ceria. This half-Elf was…

She really was Illphres’ apprentice.

——

Day Five

The Siren of Savere was impressed by Ceria, and that wasn’t something either Ceria or Omusc took for granted. Ceria herself was astonished.

“[Glitterfrost Gust].”

Omusc swore as a blinding sheet of snow particles laced with wind blew upwards. She batted at it and sneezed. The other diners in the huge feasting hall looked up and swore.

Tables of rather fine, polished wood sat under three grand candelabras hung over the interior of a room fit for any Terandrian dining hall. Only—there was more of a Chandrarian style to it; a huge rug, regularly cleaned by spells, had a wave-like pattern of colors to it, and the windows of the room even had tinted glass so light could stream through in multiple colors.

However, because this was Savere, these nods to decoration and actual ornamentation came with caveats; the candelabras were fanciful pieces of enchanted water, draped in the air like glass and colored so they looked golden if illuminated. Worth a ton, but if you tried to steal them, you’d get…water.

Similarly, the windows were glass unlike the ones the Siren didn’t have—mainly because they were so high up. Similarly, the tables were too large to steal—but the cutlery and plates were cheap porcelain and wood, such that the forces of Savere, staff, and anyone else eating here couldn’t walk off with anything worth more than a few copper coins.

Amused heads turned as they saw the Drowned Woman jump away from the spray of ice and water. Some curses came from people caught on the edges of it, but they were amused by the regular here. Omusc shook a hand at the half-Elf who tucked her wand away.

“Kraken’s tits, that’s cold!”

The other [Bandits] agreed, shouting insults as they had lunch. Ceria just grinned. That was one of four spells she’d learned—admittedly, this one was a Tier 1 spell, but one she could have used many times.

“Imagine trying to fight through that.”

“Go show Gorry. They like talking about fighting non-stop. I’m just—”

“My long-suffering bodyguard. Sure. Do you want to show me those hot baths later? I miss them. We have a lot in Liscor, you know.”

Omusc was wet and glaring, but the water faded from her clothing, running off it, and she felt as dry as a bone. She eyed Ceria and shrugged.

“Sure. Are you drinking with the Bloodtear Pirates again tonight?”

“Mm…yep.”

“You’re mad, you know. What do you do with them? We don’t fuck with their lot.”

The [Enforcement Raider] from Nerhs was named Abelesque. A very fancy name that was shortened to ‘Abel’, which she was touchy about. But Ceria did know it, and this group of women and Omusc were something like friends.

As were Gorry and the small group of Bloodtear Pirates from Plainsblood, the ship he served on.

“Mostly it’s just been stories. You know, I tell them about Liscor’s crypt, they tell me about fighting Crelers at sea.”

Half the [Bandits] shuddered at the thought. Omusc eyed Ceria.

“That would be a place to start.”

Mutual respect for each other. Not only was Gorry a [First Mate] on a Bloodtear ship, he was a [Dualblade Marauder]—which meant he had seen arguably more combat than even Ceria had. However, it was very amiable and Ceria had realized something. Savere might be lawless, dangerous, and all that stuff—but it had excellent drinks. Just spot on, and cheap too.

“I haven’t met their [Captain] yet. Apparently, it’s a Gnoll-crewed ship, by and large.”

“Well, I’m not joining you. I’ve seen Bloodtear fights.”

So had Ceria. They weren’t punches; they started with knives, and if the [Pirates] bickered, blood was spilled. They generally pulled their blows from an actual kill, but that meant you had someone leaning on a table, drinking a healing potion before they bled out.

Even so, Omusc, who had been there to mind Ceria, had to admit the half-Elf held her own. She barely blinked at any of it, and not only was the Siren making time each day to teach her, she seemed to be thriving in Savere.

…At least food-wise. She was packing in a shrimp-and-cheese pasta, and her nickname, ‘Ice Squirrel’, was spreading.

She was doing too well. And that thought didn’t come from just Omusc. Ceria scratched at the back of her neck.

“…Hey Omusc. Is someone staring at me?”

“Yep.”

The [Pillager] glanced over and Ceria saw a Human woman balefully glaring at her. It wasn’t the first time Ceria had seen…

“You’re treading in the deeps, Adventurer. Watch yourself.”

The [Mage] stalked over, unable to keep herself contained any longer as the [Bandits] broke over lunch. Ceria turned and saw a woman with huge, dangling earrings, about seventeen years old perhaps, Human, with a shocking yellow robe.

Literally shocking. Shockwool, very finely graded and woven into a motif that combined watercloth with the wool to form Savere’s sigil on the arms and back. Where the two cloths met, you could see a line of sizzling electricity, permanently crackling together.

It was a look. Omusc edged away from it since sparks connected the robes to nearby bits of metal. Ceria slowly took another bite of shrimp and cheese pasta.

[Aeromancer]. Lightning mage. Or…lightning and water?

“Um. Hello? What am I doing, exactly? Who are you?”

“I’m Ureita. The Siren’s favorite [Mage]!”

The Human hissed at Ceria. She was definitely young. Ceria was put in mind of Erin’s Earther guests—but Ureita was from this world, and far more worldly at that. She looked confident—and angry.

“Ureita, leave off. Ceria’s—”

“Shut up, Omusc!”

The [Pillager] frowned at Ureita, but the [Mage]’s eyes sparked dangerously and the other [Bandits] edged back. She pointed at Ceria.

“You might be in the spotlight for now, but I’m warning you—stop hogging the Siren’s attention. She’s my mentor and I’m her best [Mage].”

“After the last one ran for it, sure—”

Abel ducked as Ureita pointed a finger and a shot of something flashed past her. She dove, swearing.

“It was a joke, Ureita! Leave off!”

Ceria’s eyes narrowed. Had she just seen…? It wasn’t a bolt of electricity; the shot was too well-aimed to zoom just past Abel’s ear for that. It was a jet of water, infused with electricity.

A combination elemental mage! Ceria was impressed. She stood up to hold out a hand.

“That’s pretty impressive magic. Are you from Wistram? Another academy? I’m not, uh, taking the Siren from—”

Ureita slapped Ceria’s hand down. She leaned in close and hissed at her.

“Don’t get in my way. Just leave—and nothing will happen. Revine’s mine. We’re lovers, understand?”

“Uh.”

Ceria blinked. That was a lot to process, but only she’d heard it. Ureita turned and stalked out of the hall before Omusc or the other [Bandits] could take her to task. Ceria looked at Omusc and pointed at the [Mage].

“…That’s the one who doesn’t like me?”

The [Pillager] reached for a cup.

“Yep.”

Ceria thought about this. She frowned. Something about the way Ureita had said that…Omusc sighed as she glanced out the window and heard shouts from outside.

“Sounds like another fight in the streets. More ships coming in. I hope the Bloodtear bastards leave. You sure you want to drink with them after the lessons? Squirrel? Ice Squirrel? Ceria?”

The half-Elf didn’t respond. She was thinking.

——

“We’ll have to cut this short. I have business later today. And no, I haven’t been able to muster more than one gang to free your friend, Pisces. They’ve got Djinni guards. At least your ant is staying put with that insolent woman.”

“His name’s Ksmvr. Why do you hate Nsiia?”

Revine glared at Ceria.

“I’m in no mood to debate this. I have ships coming in, the Bloodtear idiots have killed someone under my protection—and they’ll pay blood money for it or I’ll sink their entire fleet!”

Her voice boomed and Ceria saw the skies open up. Rain poured down in a sudden torrent—but not over the palace. It concentrated itself squarely over the docks, and the ships of the Bloodtear Pirates actually vanished from sight.

For a minute. Then the Siren sat back, panting, and Ceria saw figures picking themselves up, shaking fists and swearing up at the palace from the rails of their ships. Still…they looked wary.

The Siren was at her peak power around water and she could slice an Adult Creler in half with water alone. And Runsblud was a port city. You do the math.

“What do you want? We’ll see if you can handle some hydromancy spells along with the others.”

Revine snapped at Ceria. The half-Elf was wary of her temper, but she had to ask.

“Do you teach other [Mages] magic?”

“Only a few. I have [Mages] in my forces—what’s with the stupid questions? I don’t trust most enough to spend the time tutoring them. And you’re only here because you might be useful to me and Illphres was your teacher.”

Revine stalked into her practice rooms. She glared back at Ceria for reasons only partly under the half-Elf’s control.

“Tell Omusc I want to speak with her before you leave.”

“Uh—alright. I was just asking because—do you teach someone named Ureita magic?”

Revine glanced at Ceria.

“You’ve met Ureita? She’s my [Court Mage]…in a sense. She’s one of the best battlemages I’ve ever seen, especially so young. Did she pick a fight with you?”

A sudden, resigned expression crossed her face. Ceria hesitated.

“Not exactly. Er…I don’t know how to say this—”

“Spit it out.”

“She seemed to think I was hogging your attention. Which I am—given that you and she are lovers?”

Ceria delicately appended the question mark to the end of that statement like a butterfly landing on a flower. She saw the statement sink in on Revine much like Apista landing on anyone’s face.

The Siren of Savere’s expression changed from mild shock to a kind of subdued horror. She shuddered, then shouted.

“Ureita! What has that brat done—is she going around telling…? I will peel her fingernails off!”

She almost stormed out of the room, but halted as Ceria called out.

“So it’s not true?”

Revine whirled around. She stalked back and poked a finger at Ceria’s chest.

“Ureita was a girl when I took Savere and became the Siren. She grew up, and I did teach her magic because I saw her potential. She latched onto me, and she has ideas. Make no mistake. I regard her, if anything, like the daughter I never wanted and don’t have. She thinks—”

The Siren shuddered. Ceria winced, getting where she was coming from.

“She seemed, uh, rather taken with you.”

“She is a pest and I would have exiled her to another city if she wasn’t so good at her magic. She even combined her natural talents in lightning with my magic. She wants to be…Illphres.”

Or you. The Siren didn’t say that part.

“To link our magic. We might well be stronger for it, but I don’t trust her judgement or age. Ignore her. Servant. Find me Ureita.”

Ceria felt like she might have made things worse. Still…she left the Siren’s rooms after only an hour’s training, interrupted by the Siren interjecting to complain about her life. Omusc tapped her on the shoulder as she headed out.

“Give me a few minutes. Don’t leave.”

“I’ll wait and grab a snack.”

“Of course you will.”

Omusc sighed, squared her shoulders, and entered the Siren’s quarters as Ceria traded places with her. She was apprehensive—and the first thing she heard didn’t exactly make her feel better.

“Revine! Please!”

“Shut up! I am the Siren of Savere! If I hear you spreading lies about me—”

There was a brief argument—Omusc halted, her back to the door—then she saw another pair of women waiting for her. One was dressed in plain clothes—for her—and had been with the others at the table this morning. The other looked like an upstanding citizen—and both were very apprehensive.

Omusc heard a scream, heard the crack of magic, and saw Ureita for a second. The [Mage] waved her arms—right before a colossal hand made of water picked her up and threw her screaming over the balcony.

That wasn’t enough, incidentally. The Siren of Savere lifted her hands, and an orb of water as big as a house followed her down. The angry Bloodtear Pirates saw the orb strike the water, and the geyser of an explosion afterwards made them decide it was better to pay up blood money after all, steep as it was.

Omusc thought Ureita was probably alive. But that was no light spanking. One of her friends had to dive into the water to fish the unconscious [Mage] out of it.

The Siren watched long enough to see someone grab Ureita…and perhaps that was why she hadn’t drowned and floated. But her head turned, and Omusc and the two [Corruptors] were reminded of something as they stared at the docks where the old [Accountant] was still being pecked at.

This was not a boss you crossed lightly. She was not unfair…most of the time, but Omusc coughed.

“Er—we can come back later, Siren?”

She was slightly hopeful and her companions nodded. The Siren pointed a finger, advancing on them.

“You’re going to get to work, Omusc. I have a ship coming in and I don’t know who it is—go find out. But I want Ceria on our side. It’s been five days, and I don’t see any progress! You—go with her.”

She pointed at the [Agent of Corruption] in her [Bandit] garb. The woman nodded.

“Absolutely, S—”

“Shut up. You’re part of the team working on Ceria.”

The last woman gulped. The Siren beckoned.

“You’re going to explain to me exactly how much progress you’ve made. If I don’t like what I hear, the next time I hear about a Creler nest, Manticore gang, or group of [Raiders] who won’t pay their dues, you’re going to lead the team that exterminates them.”

“Yes, S—”

Revine leaned over.

“That’s Omusc’s punishment.”

The [Pillager] turned at the door. The [Corruptor] leaned back.

“And me, Siren?”

“If I don’t like what I hear right now, Omusc gets a new coworker. So think up something that will make me feel merciful.”

The woman blanched. Omusc and the [Agent] turned at the door and saw the desperate look cast their way. Omusc slowly closed the door. She heard a muffled shout.

“Get me that ship, Omusc!”

——

Ceria Springwalker sat with the Bloodtear Pirates and met the [Captain] of the Plainsblood.

“Captain Aldrail.”

A huge grin, filled with teeth. The male Gnoll had a strange weapon on his back. Ceria eyed it.

“What kind of spear is that?”

“Harpoon. Whale-killer. Ever fought one of them, Goldie?”

Captain Aldrail had a challenging look in his eyes as they drank at the Hanged Bait, one of the best pubs for this kind of thing in Savere. The Bloodtear Pirates weren’t the only people inside; it had a spatial component, which meant you could have literal hundreds. And the [Bartender] was made of strong stuff—he didn’t flinch, even at the angriest [Pirate] or [Bandit].

True, the grille of metal between him and his customers that he could pass a drink under helped. Even so, he was very careful to get anything the [Captain] wanted first.

Because Aldrail wasn’t alone. A Drowned Woman had come off the ships, and she was half-Jellyfish. Half her face looked melted, and she had a strange arm that was wet, glistening—and filled with venom.

Captain Jiupe was known as ‘Screamtouch Jiupe’, because if she touched you…

They were not fancy names. But two Bloodtear [Captains]? The other [Bandits], even ones like Omusc, jested, held their own—and didn’t provoke either [Captain] one iota. There was bravado against a regular Bloodtear Pirate, dangerous as it was, and this.

Jiupe looked up from talking with her second on shore.

“…all the way out there. No sport aside from a few damn raids, but they had to cut wide of the Iron Vanguard. Should we help them?”

She snorted.

“They didn’t get torn up, did they?”

“Not badly.”

“Then we’ll let them sit out there and find their way back. If they want us to sail off and help, they’d better have a good damned reason. I’m more interested in…”

She jerked her head to the half-Elf. She was watching to see what the [Cryomancer] would do in response to Aldrail’s attitude. Ceria Springwalker reached out…and took a huge handful of peanuts.

“Nope.”

The Gnoll waited, but it wasn’t a ‘nope’ that suggested a challenge. It was just…no. And that was Ceria for you. Gorry laughed.

“See, Captain? You’re not going to get a fight out of her that easy!”

The Gnoll sighed.

“Damn. You’re as chill as your name, Ice Squirrel.”

He gave Ceria a hopeful look, but the [Cryomancer] just chortled.

“That’s what Omusc calls me. I don’t mind, but I’m not going to fight you.”

“Why not? Gold-rank’s too good for a duel? Or are you nervous?”

Ceria gave another Bloodtear Pirate a skeptical look. She pointed at Aldrail’s weapon.

“I make it a point never to duel anyone with a weapon as tall as I am. I’m an adventurer. I don’t pick fights if I don’t have to. I like to eat, drink—”

“Dead gods, are you going to eat all the nuts?”

Aldrail exploded as Ceria emptied two thirds of the bowl. She stopped.

“…It’s just nuts. I thought you killed whales.”

The table exploded with laughter; though, it wasn’t really a joke. The Bloodtear Pirates, including Aldrail, roared with laughter as Jiupe got up to introduce herself.

It wasn’t that Ceria wasn’t trying to make an effort—she was, a bit. But mostly, she was neither. Neither intimidated nor eager to please. Neither confrontational nor overly diplomatic.

She just…was fun.

“I’m Captain Jiupe of Blood-By-Tide. You’re Crelerbane, eh? Put it there. From one to another.”

The half-Elf eyed the dangerous jelly-hand as Aldrail leaned back, swearing as his fur nearly tickled Jiupe’s skin. The Drowned Woman grinned mockingly—then swore.

Ceria reached out and shook her hand.

“You idiot—hah!”

The skeletal hand waggled its fingers and Jiupe laughed in delight. She slapped Ceria on the back with her other hand.

“This half-Elf I like! Gorry, you did right by finding her. Get me a round and you’ll tell me how you killed that Creler! Then the village—”

Aldrail nodded.

“You know any Gnolls? Been a while since I was home. Would have gone to the Meeting of Tribes if they wouldn’t string me up.”

“Really? You miss home? Well…the only Gnolls I know are Silverfang. Ever heard of them?”

“Uh…silver. That’s all I’ve got. I forgot you were around Liscor.”

Gorry was hopping with impatience. He leaned over.

“Captain. Wait’ll you hear she says they have a white Gnoll at the inn where she stays. Only, she’s under protection.”

Aldrail’s brows shot up.

“A white Gnoll on land? And the tribes haven’t axed her? There’s a proper recruit.”

Some of the other Gnolls looked askance at the very idea, but Jiupe recalled something about that and leaned over, even more intrigued. Ceria raised her brows.

“We have a lot to talk about. She’s only a kid, but…”

“I can see this is good stew right here. Hey! Drinks, you slow bastard! Get me a Krakenblood shot!”

The others laughed as Jiupe shouted for the famous rum. Ceria rose to her feet.

“And more peanuts! You’re paying, right?”

She turned to Jiupe. Omusc watched with a resigned face as more Garuda waiting at the bar grumbled as the Bloodtear Pirates were served first. The Bleakbeaks were getting less respect, and a ship was coming in. And it was actually fun—which was the problem.

——

The Siren of Savere stared out the window in her private domain. The top of the palace was hers, and this was a safe place.

Even so, Savere was not somewhere where she exercised complete, unquestioned control. If three Bloodtear [Captains] stood in close proximity to her…the Siren wouldn’t get into that situation without proper security, nor would they just try for her head.

But yes, some forces could push on her, so she did want Ceria on her side. Mostly because two [Mages] could play off each other’s powers.

Ceria could create Ice Elementals. When the Siren had heard that, she’d known. She wanted Ceria’s aid if it could be sequestered. She stared off into the distance. A storm was brewing at sea, but she could still see Runsblud’s own lighthouse by the shore, throwing a bright diffusion into the clouds.

She was tempted to turn it off.

“No ship lands at Savere without my permission. I’ll sink it myself if they can’t show me respect.”

“I think they were caught in some kind of magical disturbance, Siren. I am requesting details now.”

The Siren had one of her personal [Mages] doing that. The [Corruptor] gulped as the busy woman sorted through her work flow.

“…Who’s this ‘Omniscel’?”

“The [Enchanter] you wanted, Siren? He came from Illivere where he was staying—”

“Ah. Send him up instantly. Hm. Yes…where were we, Dascy?”

“T-the half-Elf, Siren?”

The [Corruptor] was known as Dascy. A name that might not be relevant or need remembering in about five seconds.

Especially if the Siren dropped her. She was hanging over the balcony—not over the water, but the sheer rocks below. A hand made of water was holding her there. Revine eyed her as she sipped from a cup of purified water.

“Yes. You were explaining why Ceria Springwalker is showing no signs of changing her attitudes and I was wondering if I should drop you or throw you.”

“S-Siren, please. We’re doing our best! You know we are!”

“Then explain why nothing’s working.”

Dascy gulped.

“We’re [Corruptors], Siren. Not Roshal’s lot. We can’t…force people to do anything. You know our classes.”

“Remind me.”

“Well…we need something to latch onto. Most people, they’re hiding something. Like some [Magistrate]. He can act however he wants, but if he’s greedy, or favors one group over another—we can take that. Same with someone who acts high-and-mighty, but really loves the brothel.”

“Hypocrisy.”

The [Mage] supplied helpfully. The Siren turned to glare and the [Mage] decided to continue communications elsewhere. She tapped a foot.

“Yes. You latch on, you offer them what they want, and they start to see it our way. I expected to have Ceria on a raid within the week.”

“She wouldn’t do it willingly, Siren. You’d have to threaten her, and hold the Nerhs people hostage—which is why we brought them.”

“Yes. And…”

Dascy gulped. She did not like floating in the air like this, as the wind blew at her back.

“…And then she’ll push back. But you threaten her, and get her to slowly push at her values—we’ve done it before! [A Crack in Morality]. T-that’s my best Skill. And [See It My Way]. Omusc’s been putting Ceria in positions where she has to see our [Slaves]. She drinks with Bloodtear every night!”

“So why haven’t your Skills been working?”

“I don’t know, alright?”

The Siren recoiled slightly. Dascy snapped, at the end of her wits.

“I don’t know! She’s too laid back! She’s—she’s a glutton! She eats, sleeps, drinks—she’s selfish and she’s not pretentious! She acts like she wants to! Do you know how hard it is to tempt someone who does what they want?”

The Siren frowned. The door opened as she opened her mouth to reply.

“Omniscel the Enchanter has arrived! Forsooth, I have come from lands far—oh. Is this a bad time?”

An [Enchanter] with a magnificent white beard exploded into the room with hands raised. He had a glittering cloak of magic, and wands in both hands—the Drake spotted Dascy dangling in space and hesitated.

The Siren hesitated, because Omniscel, which was a Drake name, for a Drake…she stared at the huge, white beard hanging off his scaled chin. So did Dascy, despite the imminent threat of death.

“You’re my [Enchanter]?”

“Er. Yes. Omniscel the Omnipotent! Grand [Enchanter] specializing in artifacts! And I’m told you, oh great Siren, have a Relic-class object. Therefore, I…are you going to toss that woman? I’d like to step out if I may. I get queasy at the sight of death.”

The Drake eyed Dascy. The Siren hesitated, as nonplussed by him as he was by her. Slowly, the giant water hand pulled Dascy back. She hit the balcony, scrambled into the Siren’s rooms, and lay in a fetal position, hugging herself, as the Siren addressed the Drake.

“No. I have the circlet I want you to appraise right here. It may be cursed…I want you to tell me what it does, what it’s worth—and if you spill any secrets.”

“Please, Siren! I am a professional. Is that the circlet? Dead gods, you put it out there in the open? What if it opens a rift and swallows us whole?”

The Drake recoiled as he saw the circlet on the pedestal. Instantly, the Siren backed up.

“That could happen?”

“I’ve never seen it myself, no. But it could, in theory. Ah, but you have a Cortix Cube around it…that’s what I’d tell any [Mage] to use. So the chances of any curse activating are very slim, even if it’s possessed.”

The Siren relaxed and glared at Omniscel as he stroked his beard. [Mages]. They were either normal people—or people like him. He stalked around it.

“I think I can do a quick appraisal from the get-go here. We’ll need to transport it to a formal working environs to analyze later…I say, this is quite cleverly done.”

“I can transport it now.”

The Siren clearly wanted to get back to Dascy, but Omiscel waved his wand.

“I think I can do a rough appraisal right now, Siren. And I do want to check that moving it won’t trip a Tier 8 destructive spell.”

Put like that…the Siren backed off with Dascy to another part of the huge central room, where she could hiss at her.

“Fine. You have trouble with the half-Elf. But I demand results!”

“I know, Siren! There are six of us on her, but she’s…she’s tough! It’s like she’s some kind of honest [Knight]—or she’s just been through too much!”

The Siren chewed this over.

“You can’t corrupt a [Slaver] of Roshal.”

“That’s because they’re already too far gone. You can bribe them—we can do that, but she’s a Gold-rank, Siren. Rich. And that’s not the problem or else you wouldn’t need us to corrupt her to begin with. It’s finding the chink in her armor.”

The Siren frowned.

“She has to have one.”

“I know, but it’s like hitting a brick wall. Normally we get her mad, but [Slaves], insults…”

“Insult her team. Be more creative! She’s also as oblivious as her [Ice Wall] spells. Have Omusc take her to buy a [Slave] or something—she’s from Terandria. Maybe she just doesn’t care. This is not my job, so figure it out by the end of the week or I’ll start removing digits!”

Revine snapped. She was watching Omniscel edge around the circlet with grave misgivings. The circlet looked like something made of plain silver, incidentally, one smooth, perfect piece.

Although…maybe it was mithril? It was a beautiful pale material without ornamentation or anything else. Revine believed it looked like that as much as Dascy believed she could fly.

It was a Relic, she was sure. And so was Omniscel.

“It’s definitely powerful, Siren! It’s hiding it, but dead gods!”

She wasn’t certain this [Enchanter] was any good. For instance, he had a wand in both claws and he was waving both around like a child.

“Does that idiot actually know what he’s doing?”

She snapped at her [Communication Mage] as the woman hurried back. The [Mage] eyed Omniscel.

“He’s supposed to be a very good [Mage], Siren. One of the best in this region.”

“Well, he looks like an idiot. What news on the ship?”

The woman gulped and cast an eye out towards the storm at sea.

“We finally have a name, Siren. Details. Um—they’re fleeing pursuit. One ship. They claim their pursuers are getting lost in the storm, but they want shelter at Savere. They’ll pay more than just docking fees—it’s one of the Vessels.”

The Siren’s ears perked up, as did Dascy’s. A Vessel was simply one of the ships that had an individual or crew that merited notice. The Four Winds of Teral, the Bloodtear Pirates, the Illuminary—all counted. For good or ill, like the Velistrane, the well-reputed capital ship of the Reinharts.

A Vessel paid for docking at Savere because they always brought trouble.

“Sounds like a pain. Which ship, then?”

The woman licked her lips. The Siren focused on her because she saw the apprehension in her eyes. But before the [Mage] spoke, Omniscel shouted.

“Dead gods! Another layer unfolds! Was it made by the Elves?”

The Siren whirled around and saw the circlet had changed. Suddenly, it looked like the circlet that Ceria had seen. Black bone, with a single gem set at the top. Another illusion? Another—

“The Elves?”

The circlet flickered, and suddenly it was a high crown, with a gem set on every tooth. Omniscel saw all three women race over. The [Enchanter] turned as their eyes turned round. He stroked his beard.

“…Probably not. I don’t know. But look, I can make it change into different shapes, see?”

He smiled proudly. The Siren stared at him. Her own hand twitched toward her wand. The Drake hurriedly backed up around the pedestal.

“I’ll just get back to work, then. Don’t mind me. I like to hypothesize.”

The Siren stomped back to her corner. The [Mage] came over to whisper.

“Siren! This ship that wants entry…it’s calling itself Shifthold. And the [Captain] is…Irurx. Irurx the Alchemist.”

A chill went down Dascy’s back. The Siren compressed her lips into a line.

“He wants entry?”

“Yes, Siren. He’s willing to offer quite a lot.”

The Siren went to the balcony and drummed her fingers on the edge. Dascy exchanged a look with the [Mage]. Of the unsavory lots that Savere found at Runsblud…the Alchemist Irurx was a stain on Savere’s reputation.

“Tell him no.”

“But he’s offering two thousand gold—”

“No.”

The [Mage] scuttled off. Omniscel frowned.

“Uncover your dark powers to me, dread circlet! I abjure you, by my name! Omniscel the Omniscient! They say Relics forged by Dragons have no master, but I…will…master…you!”

He threw up his wands. Dascy stared at him.

“Was it made by…?”

The Drake grinned at her.

“Possibly! Possibly, we can’t rule it out!”

Her face went slack and the Siren rubbed at her forehead. Her plan included tossing the [Enchanter], Dascy, and Shifthold into the ocean and burying them in the shoals if that damned ship dared approach. But they kept coming back.

“Siren, Alchemist Irurx is offering more. He’ll custom-make any ten potions—”

“No. Tell him if he approaches I will capsize his damned ship.”

She could see it now, on the edges of sight. A ship on the waves—a big one. Shifthold. There were places even the Siren did not want to go.

A’ctelios Salash. The deeps of Lailight Scintillation. Shifthold’s lower decks would be another one. But this was not a horror born of Chandrar, for once. If you wanted to lay blame…

This one was Terandria’s.

She stood there as lights began to flash around the room and an unearthly groan filled the air and the wails of the damned turned the air dark. The Siren turned her head.

“Enchanter Omniscel. If you keep casting illusion spells, I will murder you.”

The groaning and lights stopped, and the Drake sulkily got back to work. The [Mage] came back.

“Siren…a thousand potions if he docks. Medium-grade healing potions or more. He swears pursuit will not reach Savere—he only requests the ‘honor of residing at Savere’ while he recoups. He will even promise not to let his crew leave their ship, only himself.”

The Siren twitched.

“A thousand potions?”

She stared out at the ship slowed at sea. After a long moment, the Siren cursed.

“His crew never leaves their ship. He can leave, purchase, as long as he follows the rules of Savere. Tell him Bloodtear and Bleakbeaks are here.”

“Yes, Siren.”

Revine leaned on the balcony. A ship came in with the storm and tides. Dark green wood mottled with strange moss and growths. Sails not made of cloth.

Shifthold came into port and the Siren shuddered slightly. But it was one visitor of many, and Savere had seen worse. She just thought of her project.

——

And, at last, Omusc saw something that even Ceria Springwalker could not ignore. For once, she didn’t cause it.

Not here. Not in the Hanged Bait pub; if the owner thought the Siren was playing games, he’d ban her crew, and that was no idle threat.

Nor would it have been easy to find volunteers, for any amount of gold. Not with Bloodtear surrounding Ceria. The [Agent of Corruption] had been sitting with her head in her hands, clearly unsure of how to further provoke anything from Ceria.

When it came, it was just…well, from them.

They’d watched the loud Bloodtear Pirates enjoying themselves with the half-Elf, served first, laughing loudly, and they had that problem where someone else enjoying themselves became a detriment to one’s own happiness.

The Bleakbeak Raiders watched as Ceria recounted the tale of the Village of the Dead, and ended on her companions, stranded across Chandrar.

“…Ksmvr’s alive, and so is Yvlon, and they’re not in bad straits. Yvlon’s in the gladiator rings and Ksmvr’s got a bounty on his head, but they can take care of each other. But my friend—Pisces. He’s in Roshal’s clutches.”

Ceria looked around as the Bloodtear Pirates listened. Gorry was grinning as she finished.

“The Siren’s not likely to let me go with my…possessions.”

“You mean what you took from the village.”

Ceria grimaced.

“Yeah. And I hear Roshal’s as dangerous as can be.”

“Dangerous as Krakens at sea, in their own way. You’d need a powerful force to steal from a Djinni.”

“Mhm. So…how much does Bloodtear charge for a raid?”

Both [Captains] looked at each other, then Aldrail and Jiupe burst into laughter. Omusc froze, but Jiupe grinned.

“I knew I liked you! Straight to the heart, eh? You think you can hire us?”

“Maybe? I don’t want all of Bloodtear…wouldn’t a single crew do?”

“Ah, but then Roshal holds a grudge on all of us. ‘Sides, it’s land. We fight best at sea. That’s interesting, though. Very…interesting.”

Jiupe sat back, brows raised. Aldrail grinned.

“I won’t lie, Ice Squirrel. We’re not keen to fight Roshal. How far gone is he?”

Ceria grimaced.

“Two and a half weeks. But I’ll get him back. I promise.”

That was when the mocking laughter started. The Garuda listening in called out from a table well away from the [Pirates] and Ceria, proving they’d been listening in. But the entire pub had; Ceria had to raise her voice to talk to her audience and she was the celebrity of the hour.

“From Roshal? Good luck, half-Elf. Gold-ranks have broken the same as everyone else. No one’s getting free from Lailight Scintillation.”

One of the Bleakbeak Raiders laughed at Ceria unkindly. She looked at the other Garuda, face blank as she reached for another handful of salted peanuts. That was it. Just a moment for mockery. The kind of unpleasantness that was the precursor to truly disliking someone.

The Bloodtear Pirates had gone quiet, eying Ceria as she sat there. The half-Elf slowly raised her cup.

“I’ll get him back. Even if I have to get to Lailight Scintillation.”

“Good luck with that. Izrilians. You have no idea what you’re up against.”

The Raider sneered back and went to her drink. Ceria frowned, and Jiupe nodded.

“She’s got a point. Hey, Roisere.”

She turned to one of her [Pirates], who was a big Dullahan woman wearing wood armor—but very tough wood—and standing around the group.

Roisere nodded. Omusc saw her walk over to the laughing Bleakbeak Raiders. The Garuda who’d talked looked up.

“Hey, what do y—hey!”

The Dullahan [Pirate] calmly grabbed the Bleakbeak Raider and towed her up. The other Raiders shot to their feet, warily. They saw the Duallahan woman draw back her head and headbutt the other Garuda straight in the face.

The [Raider]’s head snapped back with a cry. Ceria stirred. She saw Jiupe hold out a hand, and the other Bloodtear Pirates watched in dead silence.

“You b—”

The [Raider] went for a dagger. Then saw the head drawing back.

The second headbutt nearly knocked her out. Dizzy, she held there as the other raiders grabbed at the Dullahan.

“You bitch. Let her g—”

The head went back. Snapped forwards. And this time Omusc heard a crack. The Dullahan, Roisere, broke the other woman’s beak. She shook off blood running down from her forehead where she’d connected as the other Bleakbeak Raiders grabbed her in horror. Because her head was drawing back—

“Stop! Stop!”

In dead silence, the bar listened to the fourth impact. Then saw the [Pirate] draw her head back. The other body wasn’t even moving.

That’s when the Bleakbeak Raiders drew steel. One went for a hatchet and, screaming, charged Roisere. Omusc saw a flash and crouched—she heard the terrible thud, and saw a pinned body on the floor.

By a harpoon.

“Dead gods. Dead gods. It’s a blood feud.”

The [Agent] whispered. The pub was evacuating. Slowly, Captain Aldrail rose. The Bleakbeak Raiders turned.

“You insane maniacs. This won’t stand! You—it was one taunt!”

“That’s our friend and guest. Bloodtear takes that from no one. It won’t stand? Get your gang.”

Jiupe rose, draining her cup. She looked around. There were more Bleakbeak Raiders in the pub, but they were shocked. They’d seen fast fights, but this? The Drowned Woman pointed at the Garuda who’d spoken.

“That one lives.”

Then she hurled the mug across the room. It didn’t break, but the face did. The [Pirates] charged, weapons drawn.

Omusc grabbed the [Agent] and threw her behind her. She backed up into a corner and drew her weapons of choice—sickle in the offhand, a strange weapon, and shortsword in the other. She waited, but the Bloodtear Pirates were after only Garuda.

It was fast. Omusc had seen them fight and they stacked up with the best of Savere’s warriors. [Pirates] were fewer in number than armies, but this lot—took no prisoners. Even when asked.

The [Bartender] was hiding behind the grille and the floor was wet. Omusc stared as the [Pirates] looked around, realized they had no foes left, and began grinning, grabbing drinks and heading back. Laughing.

“It’ll be blood alright. Someone run and tell the other ships we’re here for a Drowned Night!”

Omusc heard Gorry roar. She let the [Agent] run—it was only one person she wanted to see. And that person had risen, but not cast any spells in the brief surge of violence. She, like any experienced bar fighter, had put her back to something—in this case, the bar itself.

Ceria Springwalker stood there. Eyes searching the bar. The Bloodtear Pirates halted as she lowered her wand. Captain Jiupe’s eyes glittered and Aldrail had retrieved his bloody harpoon. He shook the blood off of it.

“No need to thank us, Ceria. The least we can do is shut up loudmouths, even if Roshal’s under negotiations.”

He grinned at her, watching her face. And that’s when Omusk remembered. The Siren had said—

Tell the guests. The Bloodtear Pirates watched Ceria’s expression. Waiting. They saw her look at Aldrail, the dead Garuda, the one who lay motionless, who started it all with the barest provocation.

Ceria scratched at her head.

“…I’m not paying you to fight them. And if you get us kicked out of this pub, I’m going to be upset.”

Slowly, she reached out, picked up a handful of peanuts, and began chewing on them. Aldrail blinked. Omusc stared. Ceria sat herself back down and peered around.

“Wait, I’ve got a spell for this. [Spray Wave].”

A little wave of water rose and swirled around her table and raced out the door, red with blood. Ceria sat back. She raised her brows.

“You can take the bodies.”

The Bloodtear Pirates looked at her, and then whooped and cheered. All except for Aldrail, who looked at Ceria thoughtfully. And Omusc. What was she doing?

——

At last the Siren knew. She turned as the breathless [Agent] made her report, away from watching the Shifthold dock.

“That’s it. That’s what she’s doing. It’s exactly what Illphres would do. Clever…stupid? Clever, at least.”

“What, Siren?”

Dascy saw the Siren shake her head. She looked down at the Hanged Bait, cursing—it would be a Drowned Night soon enough if one or the other group didn’t leave. Revine could hear Garudas screaming in fury.

“She’s…stepping into her class. Her emotions. Her outrage. Everything. She’s freezing them.”

The [Corruptors] and [Communication Mage] stared at the Siren of Savere in astonishment.

“She can do that?”

Revine turned.

“Of course she can. A [Cryomancer] can freeze anything! That’s why you have no purchase on her. She’s no fool. She has to know she’s in danger. But she’ll go through this ice-cold.”

She sounded almost admiring. Revine shook her head as Omniscel did a little dance, clapping his claws together. She glared at him and turned back to her people.

“We need to thaw her out. It’s not hard. She’s playing a game with her magic, but she can’t do it if there isn’t any magic or we counter it. We’ll—what are you doing?”

The Siren shouted. Omniscel had lifted the circlet out of the containment field and was inspecting it with his bare claws. Then—he ‘held’ it on the tips of his wands.

“Oho. Oho. I think I’m figuring it out. You see, I knew this was a Relic-class object, so I went backwards. Instead of finding out merely what enchantments it was, I looked up a list of powerful circlets—and I think—”

“Are you trying to get us all killed?”

The Drake gave the Siren an offended look. She would have strode over and slapped the circlet out of his grasp—if she wasn’t preparing to teleport to safety.

“It’s perfectly safe, Siren. I’m impressed by your precautions. It’s so clever what you’ve done, and besides—I am an expert.”

“The precautions only work if it’s in the cube!”

The Siren screeched. Omniscel nearly dropped the circlet.

“What? Oh sh—wait a second.”

He caught it with his wands, eyed it, then picked it up with one claw and turned it over and over.

“Hmm…ah good one. I make a few jokes, you make a few jokes. I like this working relationship.”

He stroked his beard with his other claw, and saw the Siren staring at him. Omniscel blinked at the circlet and the Siren.

“Wait. Are you joking? What’s going on here?”

Revine Zecrew was lost for words. She looked at the [Enchanter], at her other minions—at the circlet. She wanted to know that too. Then she’d kill him.

——

The Bloodtear Pirates had cottoned on to the same thing the Siren and Omusc had. They sat around her, having let the [Bouncers] take out the bodies. Alone—save for Omusc and a few other very brave souls.

But it was true. They had only killed the Bleakbeak Raiders. There was something so…casual, cavalier, even, about it. Ceria Springwalker glanced up, chewing on more peanuts.

“So just so I’m clear—why did you kill that poor Garuda?”

“We killed them for insulting you. Or did you like that idiot needling you about your teammate?”

Ceria hesitated.

“I didn’t. Honestly, no. But I wouldn’t have killed her over that.”

Jiupe smiled.

“That’s the difference between you and us. You don’t do things because there might be trouble. We’re Bloodtear. Free. No one insults our own. No laws, no mercy—except for people we like. And that doesn’t bother an adventurer?”

Ceria took a drink of her ale.

“Should it? I can tell you want it to, you know.”

She tapped the side of her head as Aldrail stirred. Omusc, who had joined their table, kept her face straight as possible, but Ceria just glanced at her.

“It’s, uh—not hard to tell. Honestly. Listen, I know you want a rise out of me, but what am I supposed to do?”

“Object to us killing people? Not that all adventurers’re like that, but you’re calm as can be. Huh.”

Jiupe glanced at one of the Bloodtear Pirates. Calm. Ice magic. She made a little sign.

Get me a [Dispeller].

Gorry watched as Aldrail grinned. Ceria, oblivious, kept speaking. She was scratching at her head, and Omusc feared she had lice. So did some of the other Gnolls, who backed up.

“Listen. Look at it like this. If I do object to [Slaves], you killing people—what am I going to do? Fight all of Bloodtear, Savere?”

“That’d be a stupid fight. So you’re not stupid. But let’s say you and I go for a long walk and I take a nap. You not going to object then?”

Aldrail watched Ceria’s face. She looked at him, and for the first time, a serious frown crossed her expression. She set her mug down, pushed herself back from the table, and spoke.

“…Have you ever fought a monster, Aldrail? A real monster?”

The Bloodtear Pirates looked at their [Captain]. Aldrail began grinning.

“From anyone else, I’d teach them a lesson. From you? I haven’t fought Crelers at sea personally. My crew? A few. But I have fought undead. Goblins. The worst monster I fought?”

He closed his eyes for a second.

“Rech o’ Hell.”

The others shuddered. Ceria’s ears perked up.

“What’s that?”

“Giant monster. Lives in the ocean. Around Rhir. Hell itself. Grabs everything and drags it down. Nearly took out an entire ship one time. I had to dive to kill it. Deep. Two hundred feet down, as it ate my crew.”

Omusc shuddered at the thought. Even Aldrail’s calm confidence turned to grim reflection at the memory, and the other Bloodtear Pirates sobered up.

“There’s a monster you don’t see often. Is that your monster, Ceria? Or can you do one more?”

Gorry refilled tankards. Ceria smiled thinly.

“Maybe. It’s not a bad monster. I don’t even know if I’d call it a monster.”

The Bloodtear Pirates looked at her. The [Cryomancer] spread her hands on the table.

“How’d you mean?”

Aldrail demanded angrily. Ceria shrugged.

“Well, it sounds nasty. I don’t want to fight it. But…it’s just a killing machine, isn’t it? Like Crelers. Adult Crelers…I’m fairly sure they think, but even they’re just things that live to kill. A monster…I’ve seen a few monsters. Monsters like what they do. They enjoy it. Skinner. That was a monster. Facestealer. Another monster. Same dungeon. They killed my friends and I was sure…they liked it.”

Her eyes rose, and those pale, snowy eyes fixed the group. Now the Bloodtear Pirates leaned in. These were the stories they had come for. The true tales.

“Did you kill them?”

“No. One died. The other’s out there. And it’s unbelievably tough. I…couldn’t kill them. But listen, Jiupe. Aldrail. There was one monster I was ready to kill. I nearly did. A monster who enjoyed doing the worst of things. He didn’t…kill nearly as many people as a Creler. He wasn’t as mindlessly violent. In fact, he thought he was doing the right thing. But I looked at him and he’d lost his mind. Lost his mind, his honor—he led the Raskghar, these monstrous people, to kill and sacrifice Gnolls.”

The Gnolls among the group shuddered. Gorry looked at Ceria and she continued, voice level, hands clenched.

“…That was Calruz. My old team captain. Captain of the Horns of Hammerad before I took over. I thought he was dead. When I found him—we defeated him, didn’t kill him. I was ready to. Because that was a monster.”

She looked up and met the eyes of the others.

“You understand? I don’t like what you do. [Slaves]? Killing people? That’s not me. But my team is out there and they need me. So…”

Someone edged into the room. Jiupe glanced up, pointed. A [Mage] grinned and began casting a spell. She froze as Ceria turned her head.

The half-Elf stared right at the [Dispeller]. Aldrail watched, and Jiupe tensed, but Ceria just exhaled.

“Go ahead.”

The [Dispeller] hesitated, and Jiupe nodded. She murmured a spell. Ceria stared at the woman—then settled back. Her face didn’t change. She stared at Aldrail, and now the Bloodtear [Captain] looked at her, curiously.

“Did you think I’d blink?”

That was all the half-Elf said. She looked around.

“Honestly. Do you think I’m a Gold-rank because I haven’t seen terrible things? I’ve taken bad jobs. I try not to. I have regrets. I’ve left my friends to die and watched them die. I’m not going to fall for provocation. Because my team is out there.”

“So what are we? Monsters if we enjoy killing? I think we’re just free.”

Ceria looked at Jiupe, who looked genuinely curious. She shrugged.

“At the end of the day, maybe your crew is, Captain Jiupe. Laws are funny. Some are terrible, and my best friend does things that everyone else tells her she cannot do. I admire her for that. If you’re happy, and you’re living as much as you want…I’m an adventurer. Odds are I’ll die young, but it’s worth doing. Like finding my friends.”

She looked around. The Bloodtear Pirates murmured, and it sounded like admiration to Omusc. The [Pillager] just watched Ceria. The half-Elf brushed at her hair.

“So I’ll hire Bloodtear, do whatever the Siren asks, so long as I can get to my team. But here’s the thing. If I saw Pisces, Yvlon, or Ksmvr haul off and do what you did to that poor Garuda?”

She nodded to the stain on the floor. The memory. Ceria looked at the Dullahan [Pirate].

“I would have stopped them. I’d be shocked—I’d take them to task. If I saw them doing something like that…Ksmvr? Pisces? Something monstrous—or if someone tried to do that to my friend? Yes, you’d see me fight.”

Her eyes were cold. Gorry saw Captain Aldrail look at her, frowning.

“And what’s the difference between them and me, eh? Circumstance? Respect? Fear?”

Ceria shook her head.

“No. I’ll throw down with you if you got every [Pirate] in the world. Maybe not stupidly—the difference, Captain Aldrail?”

She lifted a tankard, smiling wryly.

“You’re not on my team.”

The Bloodtear Pirates sighed. Ah. There was an answer…Jiupe looked at Ceria, then she began to applaud. Gorry banged a mug on the table. They laughed.

“Now there’s something we can respect!”

Ceria Springwalker laughed. She raised her hand absently, cursed, and scratched at her head. Aldrail swore.

“I like you, Ice Squirrel, but if you have lice and it gets on my ship, I will keelhaul you. Much less me!”

The half-Elf sighed.

“No. Sorry. It’s just—I’m so itchy. Hold on…”

She absently raised her hand. Lifted something up, put it on the table, and gave her head a damn good scratch. Ceria put it back on, and saw the Bloodtear Pirates, Omusc, all go suddenly silent.

——

“It’s so clever, you see? I know it’s dangerous, but once I realized it was just a simulacrum, there was nothing to fear.”

Omniscel the Omniscient pointed at the circlet he was carelessly waving about. The Siren kept flinching every time it passed near her face, but then she stopped.

“A what?”

“A simulacrum. A copy. It’s not the real thing. But you knew…”

The Drake’s voice trailed off. The [Enchanter] looked at the copy in his hand. He spoke slowly, his eyes slowly rising to meet the Siren’s.

“It mimics other relics. Well, I suspect it can change forms with ease. The true nature is hard to divine, but I can tell you what it is.”

She said not a word. The [Enchanter] slowly placed the circlet down.

“At least in part. You see, I am good at my job. And I can cross-reference known enchantments to artifacts, more or less. And I’m sure I know at least two. The first—well, the first is bog-standard on any [Mage]’s gear. Although…”

“What is it?”

Omniscel lifted the circlet and breathed longingly.

“Intelligence. Mental acuity. The most powerful booster spell I’ve seen…worthy of an Archmage. No. An [Archmage].”

The other [Mage]’s eyes grew wide. The Siren saw Omniscel lift the circlet, but he placed it back down.

“Not that I would ever put it on my head. You are right, Siren. I’m sure there are other aspects that might be curses. Or enchantments. I will need to research this quite some time. But you’re lucky. I had a list of possible curses and—”

“Spit it out. What is it? She’s wearing it. She…she was wearing it all…”

The Siren recoiled from the circlet. Omniscel froze, and everyone turned to him. The Drake gulped.

“Well…the spell isn’t a curse depending on how you look at it. It’s just an enchantment. Freedom, actually. Freedom From…Morality.”

——

Ceria Springwalker slowly conjured a mirror made of ice. She looked into it. She saw a half-Elf with dirty blonde hair, a splatter of blood on her cheek, and pale frosty eyes. The tips of her ears waggled—and then she saw a thin circlet, sitting on her head. It shone with power now, now that she realized it was there. It had been so invisible, but of course—her mind connected the dots.

“Oh. I put it on after all.”

She blinked at the circlet, at her stunned audience, and then she smiled. She reached out and grabbed another handful of peanuts. Slowly, Ceria began to chew on them.

“That changes things, doesn’t it?”

8.54 H

There were many things that people affectionately liked to call ‘hell’, in this or any other world. Often, it was a rather subjective term that seemed to range from mildly-inconvenient to a genuinely nightmarish situation.

Rhir was an excellent example of how the term could apply, in geography, event, and the simply nightmarish array of monsters and enemies one might face there.

Compared to that, it was fairly difficult to come up with another, more suitable definition for ‘hell’. At least, in this world.

But the term and expression still applied. Hell was a concept. And, in a larger term, the hells that people suffered through might well be a commentary on what truly made a hell.

Or they were simply prone to exaggeration.

Either way, hell was Rhir. Hell was Crelers. Hell was devils and angels. Hell was a shard of glass under your big toe that would not come out, digging into your metaphorical soul.

Hell…and this was a broader term, was travel.

——

It was amazing, though. How quickly boredom could set in. Pisces had survived the worst humanity—no, any species could devise. He had seen a legend come to life, and had won his freedom against all odds.

And yet—boredom still crept in, even after all that. It was not that he lacked for things to do.

He had a magic spellbook predating or possibly refusing to bend to conventional spellcasting theories. His caravan of freed [Slaves] and [Bandits] needed constant minding, and, even with Merr the Storm now leading the group, Pisces, as the [Necromancer] with a majority of their strength, had to be vigilant.

He had a Skeleton Lord, the difficulty of navigating the Glass Straits, and more. And yet…he got bored.

He couldn’t help it. Yes, he reminded himself that he was a free man every other minute. He touched the scarred skin around his neck, where he had worn that hateful collar. He talked with Eloque, Bearig, and the others about the future, tried to make the little half-Elf boy, Rophir, smile.

However, that pernicious foe crept in. In truth, the problem was that boredom was largely tied to helplessness. Boredom was a disease born of a lack, and the lack?

Well, it snuck up on him when he put the spellbook down, mind practically exploding out of his skull with the agony of trying to process theorems, nay, ideas that he had never thought of before.

The magical book was incredible. Mainly because it revealed something to him. Where Pisces had thought he was talented—alright, a prodigy, so gifted even his abridged magical lessons were only an impedance—this revealed just how woefully ignorant he was.

It brought him to mind of other encounters like this. Pisces had met more incredible mages in his short time than most could dream of. Among them: the mysterious half-Elf on the road, and…Az’kerash.

There was a difference between the two. The Necromancer of Terandria was a genius beyond compare. A being whose very power could generate national conflict at the least, and raise armies.

He had all the magic Pisces could ever dream of. And yet…he was using magic as Pisces understood it. Even though the scope and complexity was beyond Pisces, the framework was understandable.

It was the half-Elf who had thoroughly trashed Pisces and Ceria with Tier 1 and 0 spells and his cryptic comments, combined with this spellbook, that was beginning to unearth some kind of revelation in Pisces’ mind.

Magic…the magic he practiced…was a shortcut. No—it wasn’t a shortcut, but it contained, somehow, a great deal of—of—

“Secret magic.”

That was the only way he could explain it. It sounded ridiculous, but even the most basic spells seemed to contain a nuance and complexity he had never dreamed of.

For instance, this Unicorn Light Arrow function like a [Light Arrow] normally did, but Pisces was struggling to re-learn the spell because it was so difficult. So complex!

It was as if he had been cooking with a cookbook all his life that left out three out of every five ingredients and some of the preparation. And yet—if Pisces cast the spell, or cooked the food, he was still rewarded with the end result.

That was how he could explain it, if he had to, to a layperson.

Like Erin. Ah…Pisces closed his eyes and massaged his forehead as he rode at dusk, along the hard glass road, hearing quiet voices, the crunch of hooves on glass, and smelled the dry emptiness and cold that cut him despite the warm hood—

Erin. How had he gotten so far from his goal? He had tried everything he could. Right now—he had to survive.

So, magic. So, studying. Pisces memorized the spell, learning just how much went into such a simple spell. And he realized—you could theoretically customize such magic far, far beyond even what the most adaptive Skills and normal spells could. Perhaps…

Then his head would burn with agony, like someone was slapping it with a hammer, and Pisces would put down the spellbook and ride, trying to contain everything.

That was when boredom set in. Boredom and travel and…

Part of the issue was that Pisces had no one to talk to. The long caravan and desert winds along Zeikhal were such that unless you rode side-by-side and kept yourself on-track, you would have trouble keeping anything like a coherent conversation.

The other problem was that they left him alone. Pisces rode, often at the head or back in case of danger, and saw the freed [Slaves] he knew congregating in other parts of the caravan.

They sometimes looked at him, or rode ahead, backwards, fetching snacks, arguing, but Pisces felt excluded. On the second day since Merr had taken charge, he asked why over their regular stop.

“Pisces? We thought you were studying or casting your [Necromancy] spells.”

Eloque was plainly surprised. The Lizardwoman was letting Qshom work on her arm as she rode on one of the wagons. She eyed Pisces as he blinked and sniffed.

“Ah, well…I do most of the time. But I am hardly immune to the necessities of conversation.”

Bearig turned to Eloque for translation. She frowned at him.

“…I have no idea what that means. Are you angry or not?”

Pisces hesitated. Again, dissonance. Not bad, but most of the people he knew, from Ceria to Yvlon to Erin to Selys, would have figured out what that meant and taken him to task.

“I, er…”

Eloque watched as Pisces’ ears slowly grew red. It was Qshom, the [Tailor], who looked up and hid a smile.

Someone roared with laughter in Pisces’ ears and he searched about.

“He got lonely! That’s what all those fancy words mean, or I’ll be a naked camel.”

Merr the Storm had spotted the gathering and rode in, head held high, voice commanding. She had fallen into the role of leader as naturally as she breathed, and Pisces had to admit she had been the right person to trust. Now that he knew he could trust her.

Merr was a [Bandit Lady], and so her style of command was as rough-and-ready as Pisces had ever seen. Not abusive…she tended to slap some sense into anyone giving her lip, but she was careful around the freed [Slaves].

Not so the [Raiders] and other outlaws she’d picked up somehow. They were on a short leash, and Merr suffered no challenges. However, this was her group.

This was Pisces’ group. The freed [Slaves] of Hrome and Igheriz.

“Lonely? Well, why didn’t you ride with us? Even Azam did, you know. He’d stride over and you’d know he wanted to talk.”

“Terandrians. Not a social body among them.”

Merr agreed with a wink at Bearig. The [Cook] said nothing as Rophir sat on his lap, face blank as always, but he gave Pisces a look.

Not mocking, not hostile or anything close. Just…wondering. Perhaps even happy.

Pisces was red, and not from sunburn. He cleared his throat.

“That is not how I would phrase my position, but I am happy to wile away the hours between studying. I can only devote myself to learning magic for so long each day.”

Eloque smiled and Merr grinned again, reaching out to slap Pisces on the shoulder. That was how they fought boredom. No—that was how they fought the dark thoughts. The memories that came creeping in, with any second, at any time.

Together, they talked. About what, it didn’t matter. They were here. And not all conversations were pointless either.

——

The first thing they talked about was their dreams. Each one had a dream. Yet it varied, depending on how long they had been in captivity.

“I must find my team. They are out there—I will rescue them, return to Izril, and tend to my friend. I hope…I hope we have not left it too long.”

Bearig and the others nodded, listening to Pisces talk. He had a story to tell, the story of adventure and daring. Yet…he didn’t belabor his point. It was a long journey ahead, and it gave him little comfort, imagining Ceria, Yvlon, or Ksmvr in situations similar to his. If he thought of it, he would not sleep, and imagining them in someone like Igheriz’s clutches…no. No.

Better to listen to someone else speak. Anyone, really, for they all had better dreams. Theirs bore no battles to come, just hope, hope liberated and set free to dare to think of better days.

“I hope to go home.”

Bearig looked around, his diminishing second chin moving as he spoke. He ladled the soup he’d been working on into bowls; it was a hot mix of mostly Yellats with fat, water, and spices, but it did the job, and a single bit of meat added something. A meal for hunger—somehow better because it was like this. Rophir had already scarfed down his portion, but Bearig fed him by spoon, carefully giving him some of his portion.

“Does home exist, Bearig? We were all [Slaves] taken from Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Home…I was a debtor. I could not even pay to keep myself free. Yet you were imprisoned, is that so?”

Qshom’s head turned to the [Cook] and Bearig hung his head.

“For nearly killing the [Magistrate], yes. But while that was my incompetence—I am glad it fell on my shoulders alone. My wife, my daughter—they weren’t harmed. I know it’s a fool’s dream, but I hope to come home. I know I am a [Slave] and it would mean me risking all. But I have this image, you see.”

He shrugged, gulping hard as he filled another bowl.

“…There I am. At the door to my house. I knock, and my wife opens it and she’s astonished to see me. She rushes me in and I find our daughter well, and I tell them what happens and we…we leave. We pack what we can, and we head out.”

He hesitated.

“When I think too hard, I imagine how much they’d have to leave. They’d think I’m dead, or not likely to see them again, and I’d have to ask them to run with me, to risk enslavery and where would we go?”

For a second, no one spoke. Then Eloque raised her voice. Pisces had been opening and closing his mouth, but he saw her look his way, eyes shining by the stars and moonlight reflected onto the glass road.

“Izril. You go to Izril. Izril, and Liscor. Isn’t that right, Pisces?”

She looked at him and he nodded.

“I promise you, Bearig. You and anyone I can manage—my team and I will go there, and so shall you.”

The [Cook] sighed, long and hard.

“Now there is a proper dream. Izril, serving Gnolls and Drakes food—not seafood.”

Everyone chuckled. Bearig glanced at Rophir, then at Pisces.

“I know things may change, but if it did happen, if naught else came up, would you have room for two more…? Perhaps three or four, even, if more relatives were to join me? I have an ailing mother.”

“Of course.”

The Stitch-man smiled and said no more. Next was Merr.

“I don’t know as I’d go to Izril yet. A [Bandit]’s a [Bandit] wherever you go, and I’ve heard Drakes are even keener on stringing us up than Stitch-folk. You can break a magic collar or steal the key…but few can walk away from the noose. Still, I plan on some payback to Roshal if possible, and, next time, my gang won’t fall to army or adventurer.”

She winked at Pisces, who raised his brows.

“You wish to continue, Merr? Even after…Roshal would be hunting you.”

The others went still, thinking of that unpleasant truth, but Merr’s eyes gleamed.

“I don’t take them lightly, Necrolad. But I’m a [Bandit Lady]. I have my own backup—they can try to grab me, but in Savere, even [Bounty Hunters] are prey, often as not.”

“Necrolad…?”

Eloque started laughing. She nearly fell off the wagon as she covered her mouth, then gave up. Pisces saw Merr wink, then go on.

“Aye, Savere. Not that it’s sunshine and roses, mind you. Did you wonder how I got a gang behind me so fast, Pisces? Or why I was starving for gold within days of being freed?”

Pisces recalled something after Merr’s first raids. He’d seen her taking a huge cut of the loot, and wondered where it had gone.

“I did…I assume the two are connected, then?”

Merr nodded seriously.

“I gifted the treasure via a Skill. That’s how a gang came to me. ‘Course, I took in two small lowland groups, but it wasn’t all my own talents. It’s a special Skill. You might’ve never heard of it, but we like to call them Yellat Skills. [Tribute to the Bandit Queen]—that’s it. Takes whatever I send straight to the Siren of Savere herself, the ruler of Savere. The [Bandit Queen].”

Pisces’ ears perked up.

“[Bandit Queen]?”

“I’ve never heard of a Yellat Skill, Merr. What’s that about?”

The woman winked.

“Oh, that, Eloque? It’s just our term for it. Rare Skill. But it’s, ah…orange? I don’t know how to say it. Not exactly, but close. Not like a Bloody Skill at all. That’s red, like death. Yellat Skills pop up sometimes; tied to fame, or other things. The [Bandit Queen]—that’s all part of [Bandit Ladies] and [Bandit Lords] popping up. Without us, she doesn’t get to rule. With it—well. Let’s just say that Savere sometimes backs up a gang in need.”

“Not when you were taken.”

Merr’s face darkened, and Qshom ducked his head apologetically, but she waved it off.

“It’s worth, Qboy. I’m worth a bit to the Siren. I pay my dues, don’t cause trouble, but she wasn’t going to throw down with Nerrhavia over me. Or Roshal. Same with me getting out here and restarting my gang. I’ll need to be careful…”

“Of Roshal?”

“That. And Savere. When you’re in the downs, that’s when you’re at risk. But hey, I’m a [Bandit]. Qshom, you go next. Tell us about opening a new shop.”

Pisces rode closer as the Dullahan began his tale.

“Savere. I don’t know it too well, Merr. Is this Siren someone to be worried about? Might she be a possible ally?”

She snorted.

“Enemy? No. Ally? Also no. If we don’t fuck with her, she won’t bother us. Same thing—I wouldn’t say let’s bother her too much. A gang or two or a bit of favor is all I can curry unless I send her real artifacts and treasure.”

Pisces nodded dubiously.

“You suggested Savere might be dangerous for you?”

Merr seemed about ready to give him a comment with bravado, but she hesitated. She looked at Pisces, then sighed.

“I’m gonna say this once, and you didn’t hear it from me directly, Pisces. Merr the Storm’s the [Bandit Lady] that even Nerrhavia puts bounties on. She doesn’t take shit or crap or even camel dung from anyone. But…Savere is sometimes a refuge, sometimes a hideout, sometimes just a place to stop over. When Merr’s there, she doesn’t fuck with Savere or anyone in it, you understand?”

She tapped her chest, eyes serious.

“Merr’s Merr. Savere’s Savere and it gets dangerous. Not like Roshal, but Merr likes to keep her head on her shoulders, and there are powers there, got it? Now, Merr is going to stop talking about Savere—and she thinks she is stuck talking in third person. Damn.”

She coughed, and Pisces nodded. Something to be wary of indeed, if Merr phrased it like that. He mentally tabled the idea of using that to find a ship. Well, it depended on how fast they had to leave and where his team was at.

The fact was, they did have a good shot with Merr and Pisces. Better than having no Level 30+ people. But the reality of pursuit and their long trek weighed on Pisces. He hoped to reach a town or settlement and find some way to search for his team, but it might be a needle in a haystack. His fame among the [Slavers] gave him hope there might be clues.

He just didn’t know if he could move the caravan away from danger or leave them with his promise. Merr was training them all to fight, but they were far from becoming good fighters overnight. Watching Eloque try different weapons or Bearig trying to take his [Cook] knife-handling into using a butcher’s cleaver was…well, something.

So he rode and talked and found these people he knew so well: Eloque, of course, slowly removing the thread one stitch at a time, blinking around at everything, the Lizardwoman from Baleros, her neck frills opening and closing when she laughed, scales running from bright orange down to the shades closest—red and yellow and violet at the edges.

Next, Qshom, silent often, listening, reserved, skin darkened with the sun, often with his cloth armor body holding his head in his hands—or with a needle and thread in the other, mending some of the Stitch-folk’s bodies. But a keen intelligence, and when he spoke, he sounded almost academic.

Bearig, and, of course, Rophir were two constants. The big [Cook], often sweating or red-faced, was always looking for the blank half-Elf boy with scars and a stare as old as time. By contrast, Bearig smiled or laughed on the brighter side of everything, despite it all, and the Stitch-man lifted dark conversations up with good food or just his presence.

Last, at least among the living, was Merr the Storm. A [Bandit] to her core; she looked like she could have ridden out of a story in Izril, albeit having darker skin than many northern Izrilians. She was the [Bandit Leader] challenging the hero, with a grin on her face, spitting, swaggering around, referring to herself in third-person.

They were the ones Pisces knew. Of course, there was also Ivery…another odd skeleton. Pisces sighed when he saw Ivery marching about with his sword, shield, and magically bound glass rock. Was he completely unable to make normal undead?

There were far more [Bandits] and freed [Slaves], but Pisces was more passing with them, though he learned more names every day. Yet in the quiet moments, he did recall.

There had been Astotha, who had seemed—no, had been kind, caring, but ultimately too afraid, treacherous. Droppe, the cunning Lizardman who had chosen wrong after all, and Shein, the Bronze-rank who would never rise higher.

And…Cawe. Pisces forgot her least of all. He would have forgotten Riqre, Igheriz, and Hrome’s names gladly. Azam…Pisces wondered if he would see Azam again, or the Death of Chains. Czautha—he would never forget her either.

But Cawe. As the freed [Slaves] rode onwards over the Glass Straits, they talked about the future. They ate, gained strength and some saddle sores from riding instead of walking all the time, and breathed in fresh air. They had the luxury of becoming bored, but the future…

——

The first conversations began on the morning of the fourth day. Not of the future. Nor the past…no, not that. It was just as Bearig was discussing plans—well, he and the others were badgering Merr and she was patiently explaining their rough goals.

“Listen. I’m not some fancy [General], you lot. You want a route? Go ahead and make one, and I’ll toss it to the winds. Planning a route and sticking to it gets you caught, ‘specially if there’s some bastard snitch in the ranks. We’re going east towards Pisces’ friends and maybe Savere, or Nerrhavia, or something. And that’s all. We’ll play it by ear. There’s nothing as hard as catching someone who has no idea where they’re going. That’s [Bandit] cunning for ya.”

She tapped the side of her head. Eloque gave her a skeptical look, but Merr refused to discuss specifics.

“The Glass Straits run for a long while along the south here. We’ll keep going long as we can. There are some settlements…we might hit them.”

“So we’re going to attack other people and pillage them?”

Merr caught Qshom’s gaze. She shrugged and spat over the side of her horse’s back.

“Listen, Qshom. You don’t have to come along—in fact, I’ll probably leave anyone who can’t fight while we ride out. But this lot?”

She jerked a thumb at the [Bandits] and [Raiders].

“They won’t stick around without something every week or two at least. And we need them. Without good fighters and riders, this group’s never going to make it. Right, Pisces?”

She turned and Pisces glanced up. He was half-reading his spellbook. He nodded.

“It seems like an unfortunate necessity, Qshom. I will not object. However…I hope I can persuade you to keep casualties to a minimum?”

Merr nodded.

“We’re [Raiders], not butchers. Speaking of which—can you get me some undead? You mentioned skeleton horses. We’ll—I’ll take any if we end up with dead mounts, but, uh—three dozen Ghouls or even Zombies wouldn’t go amiss.”

Pisces rode straight for nearly twenty seconds, blinking at Merr. The [Bandit Lady] coughed.

“No? I’d do ten.”

“You want…undead?”

He had indeed offered them to Merr, but her asking him for regular undead was a first. Merr grinned.

“Don’t tell me a fancy Level 30+ [Necromancer] can’t rustle up a few for me? Bodies’re hard, but we’ll have some soon—and the Glass Straits have more’n a few dead travellers. Zombie horse? It’ll tie up the fighters.”

“Ah—I could certainly do that. And you just want…average undead?”

“Sure, sure. I don’t want them munching on us, obviously, but you can just point the Ghouls and we’ll keep wide of them. I’ve done it before with [Necromancers] who couldn’t control ‘em. How many can you raise?”

Pisces hesitated.

“I don’t know. I have never…”

The others looked at him as Pisces just blinked, and they realized he was surprised. Surprised because, aside from the Horns, no one had counted his abilities as an asset.

Oh, he had run with cults and cabals as far back as Terandria, and then afterwards. But never so casually had anyone just asked for a handful of Zombies, like you’d ask for a bit of parsnip.

A difference in continents. Indeed, Eloque leaned over as Pisces began to ask what bodies Merr had and search the sands for any ‘materials’.

“Can I watch as you animate them? I’ve never seen you actually do it.”

He twisted in his saddle.

“You’re curious? None of you—necromancy is disturbing to most sensibilities where I come from.”

“It’s not pleasant. I will not watch. But Baleros has [Necromancers]. Some. We are well aware of the undead, and Suppression Companies must keep them down.”

Qshom shuddered, but Merr just grinned.

“A few rotting corpses isn’t the worst you’ll see, Pisces my lad. We’re not as soft as some Terandrians.”

Pisces began to smile.

“Ah, well then. I can certainly try with the bodies we have. Although, if you can procure more…”

“We’ll see. I don’t want to kill many people when we raid—that gets you a bounty fast. And it’s touchy on our side too, unless no one likes the bugger. Shame it’s got to be people.”

Pisces tapped a finger to his lips, looking amused.

“And why would that be a requirement?”

Merr eyed him.

“…You can do monsters?”

Pisces shrugged, sniffing slightly. Eloque pointed and grinned and Bearig hid a smile, and he hastily stopped with a glare. He covered his nose as he went on.

“…I have dabbled in arachnids. It is possible to animate most creatures with a skeleton or flesh. Believe me, it is possible. Whether or not I can do it effectively is another matter, but…”

He had a mentor who might be able to give him some pointers. Instantly, Merr whistled.

“Hey, idiots!”

A few [Raiders] quickly rode over.

“Something up, boss? And we’re not idiots.”

One of the [Raiders] plaintively complained. He was from a gang that apparently went around the Glass Straits; he had a glass sword, made of sharpened detritus from the road, which was pretty much how rich this gang was. Merr gave him a long look.

“Fine. Yokels. Go and start hunting for anything with bones around here. Don’t kill anything, but find me dead carcasses of travellers—dead camels, people—and if there’s a graveyard, we’ll be doing some digging.”

“Aw. We have to pick up corpses? I don’t want—”

“Shut it.”

Merr rode over and two of the ragged [Raiders] tried to flee—but she swatted them as they cursed. She projected her voice around.

“I don’t want to hear it! Get me some corpses! And don’t slack, you lazy idiots—every dead body you find is an undead between you and an arrow! If Pisces can’t raise enough bodies, guess who gets to lead the charge?”

The [Bandits] looked at each other. Merr went on, speaking slowly and loudly.

“Undead mean we ride in while people are fighting them, steal everything, and get out without a scratch, got it?”

Oh. Eyes lit up at the idea, and the scouts moved off with considerably more enthusiasm than before, with a few people calling out suggestions for where to check. Merr rolled her eyes as she rode back.

“You do that quite well.”

Pisces commented to her. She winked at him.

“[Bandit Lady]. You have to talk to them and make them see why they’re doing crap they hate. That’s most of the job. So—what can I get? Ghouls?”

“You could get Draugr if I can figure out the spells. No more Skeleton Lords this month, I believe—”

Az’kerash had told Pisces it was a ritual thus far, which meant that he could not animate them as much as he wanted. Merr whistled at Draugr, though.

“Are you kidding? Those things can knock down gates. I’ll take one over a lot if you can make it. But I also need numbers. So Ghouls and Zombies—several dozen’d distract anyone.”

Pisces smiled.

“That doesn’t seem arduous. A few high-level undead mixed with the others? I will see what the night’s count is. I can even animate them and move them with the group, assuming my mana pool can sustain them. Perhaps, ah, downwind and behind us. Nevertheless…”

He was rising to the challenge. To the idea that his [Necromancer] class would be the most useful thing here—and realizing that there was no law, people’s opinions to care about, or anything else here. To survive, he’d do whatever it took. He was smiling.

Until he saw Rophir’s face. The half-Elf boy was staring at Pisces. And the young man remembered what Riqre had done to his parents.

He abruptly fell silent. Merr glanced up from her calculations and hesitated. Eloque, Bearig, Qshom—all looked at Rophir. Pisces saw the half-Elf boy staring at him.

An [Assassin] in training. A killer, at least, that was what Riqre had tried to make of him. Pisces…he didn’t see Rophir look away or blink, but he had to. He turned his head away, to Merr.

“…Monsters.”

“Monsters?”

The [Necromancer] nodded slowly. He cleared his throat, looked back.

“Monsters and, ah, mounts. Those would be the ones to animate. Perhaps a deceased traveller—the—the graveyards contain the loved ones of others. The same with those who might inadvertently die. I will animate the corpses of monsters if I can, and dead animals. Not people. Not in large numbers.”

Merr glanced at Rophir, and nodded.

“Sure. Bad example anyways, I guess. If those idiots think they’ll get more meatshields they might…yeah.”

Both glanced at the boy, but still, Rophir said and did nothing. He just stared at Pisces, and that was worst of all. He and Merr fell silent—until Bearig’s deep voice broke in.

Gently, very gently, the [Cook] reached forward. He was letting Rophir ride ahead of him, vaguely holding onto the reins. Now he took Rophir’s shoulder.

“So you see, Rophir? Only monsters and animals. And only because Pisces must. We may have to fight, but Pisces is doing his best to protect us. I know it is hard…but Pisces is not a bad man. You know that. He helped save us. If you wanted to say anything, Rophir, I am sure Pisces would talk with you willingly. He feels great sadness for you.”

“I—yes. Yes, Rophir. I would not want to make you uncomfortable.”

Pisces rasped after a second. His throat had gone dry. He coughed, watching the little boy. Bearig’s eyes rose to meet Pisces’, and he gently patted Rophir’s shoulder.

“Anything. Anything, Rophir—just say it. Or tell me and I will let Pisces know.”

The half-Elf boy never said a word. But after a second, he looked ahead. Pisces exhaled, and Merr gave Bearig a nod.

“You’re kind to him. Wish my fellow’d been half as good, but all he knew was this life.”

“Rophir is the bravest boy I’ve met.”

That was all Bearig said. He patted Rophir on the shoulder and fished out a bit of this morning’s flatbread. He offered it to Rophir and the boy munched on it. Bearig gazed at him as Rophir stared ahead with a look of such profound…Pisces felt the exact same way, yet it was Bearig he admired, because the man took care of the boy nonstop. Spoke gently, even when Rophir stole food or struck him in fits of anger.

It reminded Pisces of how Erin had talked about Mrsha when she first came to the inn. He closed his eyes.

Mrsha. He wanted, suddenly, for Rophir to go to the inn and perhaps meet her. To see Bearig experiencing all the strange dishes Erin made.

He was sick of this continent, though he had seen virtually none of it. He knew that, intellectually, but it contained Roshal and the likes of Riqre. It was therefore the worst place he could imagine. A hell.

And yet…it was their home. Merr and Bearig, Stitch-folk. Cawe’s too. What astonished Pisces was that they still loved it. They loved the land, their family, the cultures and peoples. However…Bearig looked at Rophir, then his head rose.

“…Do you think she knows?”

Everyone else turned to him. The [Cook] glanced around blankly, then clarified.

“Ah. Her Majesty, that is.”

Still, Pisces was blank. Bearig tried a third time.

“Queen Yisame of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Do you think she knows…what Roshal does? What the likes of Igheriz, Leciaun—Riqre?”

Rophir twitched at the last name. Bearig looked guilty, but Eloque had sat up in her cart. Merr blinked long at him.

“Knows. Do you mean…about what do you mean, Bearig?”

Qshom seemed uncertain. The [Cook] struggled for words.

“I have always known [Slaves] exist. As a boy. But you see—I did not know anyone who was one…I have had them working for coin in my kitchens. Later, I knew a relative who could pay no debts and became one. A [Thief]—I was glad to see him caught. You see? I would tell a joke that I’d rather be a slave than fillet another fish this evening. I…I quite knew it. But I didn’t know.”

He looked around helplessly. Pisces met his gaze and Bearig shook his head.

“I knew it was a terrible fate. But better that than dying. A [Slave] earns their fate—they were defeated in battle, a debtor, a criminal—until I had a collar on my neck, it did not bother me in the same way. Now?”

He took a deep breath.

“Now? It has been a mere month—no, two, I suppose. For me. I have seen such things…I will never see someone in a collar again, nor—even if my bounty were lifted and I could walk around freely, without fear—I will never look at Roshal’s [Slavers] again.”

A shudder ran through those listening. Bearig looked anxiously at Rophir, but it seemed even the boy was listening. He took a deep breath.

“So. I dream of home, friends. But—when I think of it—does Her Majesty know? Not about [Slaves] but about…what it is truly like.”

No one said a thing. Pisces hesitated, and, eventually, Merr spat.

“If she does, what matter? She won’t take on Roshal; she’d lose out on far too much coin. ‘Sides which, she’s a ruler. We’re not people she’ll ever meet.”

“Yes, but, Merr…she is Her Majesty. She protects Nerrhavia’s Fallen. If she knew, surely—but then she doesn’t know. Or does she?”

Eloque glanced at Bearig.

“Do you truly believe that, Bearig? That Queen Yisame protects Nerrhavia’s Fallen?”

He squared his shoulders, a flash of indignation in his eyes.

“I’ve lived in Nerrhavia’s Fallen all my life, Eloque. It is a good nation, one I’m proud of. A nation of the String-Folk—and Queen Yisame’s a proud ruler for a man to have. Better than the King of Destruction, who abandoned his kingdom to ruin. Our cities are rich, our borders strong…and all is…well. It all seemed well, until they put me in chains. I never thought of Roshal.”

He stared down at his hands.

“She must not know, then. As much as I—perhaps more, but it must be that she has never seen the likes of Riqre. If she did?”

Pisces waited, but Bearig said nothing else. Pisces prompted him after a minute of silence.

“…Then what?”

The [Cook] looked up.

“If she did know…if she does. It has been two months. Weeks for you, Pisces. But I have seen—I shall never—”

He struggled for words. Qshom’s grip slowly tightened on his scissors until his knuckles were white. Eloque almost reached out for Rophir, but the boy was just glancing up. Bearig struggled, face contorting as Merr and Pisces rode alongside him.

“It will never be the same.”

That was all he said. They all nodded. Pisces set his eyes forwards and touched his bare neck. It would not be. And it would never be that again. Even if Roshal set every guard and bounty hunter on the world upon him—

He would never be chained again.

——

Someday, the Walled Cities would fall.

Not just them. The Drake cities and their proud monuments would crumble to ruin. Their inhabitants would flee or fight and die, screaming, their bodies ravaged and turned against their kind.

The Gnolls would perish, the great tribes of the world end, and the Waning World—or perhaps the next era—be their last. Perhaps it would take thousands of years, or tens of thousands. But they would die, adults, heroes, children…

It was nothing personal. No, truly, it wasn’t, in every sense of the phrase. He hadn’t even thought of it like that until now. When he had sworn to haunt the living, he had dedicated himself to the eradication of all life, and the hatred in his heart had continued beating even when his body fell long silent.

…But Az’kerash, Perril Chandler, had mostly meant Terandrian life at the time. He didn’t actually have a grudge against most other parts of the world. Oh, some private quibbles from life. The Lizardfolk of Baleros, for example, had made brutal war. But he had had friends…among Drakes and Gnolls.

He had done the Gnollish people a terrible injustice in a sense. Dealt them a blow beyond blows.

Az’kerash. Slayer of Kerash. That title…he had not welcomed that title when they first gave it to him. It had been a shame. A thing he had thought necessary—no—something he had done out of necessity, from the bonds made.

For his great friend.

So Az’kerash would one day overwhelm Izril under a tide of the undead, but it was not personal. He had severe distaste for some things, but it was his hatred of life itself that motivated him. He would rather tear down each Terandrian kingdom, starting with the hypocrisy of shining Calanfer…

Yet if he had a list, Az’kerash might well admit that he had sated some of his desire for vengeance against Terandria after a century of war. At the moment, if he had a Top 10 list—he would place Roshal on the top.

“Why not? It has always been thus. A cesspool…no. Cess would fain flee the depths they sink to.”

Why hadn’t it occurred to him? They would be mighty foes. Yet inevitable ones, given his ambitions. Az’kerash sat there, thinking of how even Archmage Chandler at the height of his power had not been able to eradicate Roshal, or drum up the support for it.

Perhaps if the Rhir war had ended in success…perhaps if he had lived without being cast down. Perhaps if—

At the moment, he thought of Roshal and regretted that he had concentrated so hard on Izril and Terandria. He had few agents there, and even less political power. The [Necromancer] studied the map.

It was going to be an arduous journey to escape Chandrar. Long, with countless perils due to Roshal’s wide reach.

Pisces Jealnet may have been freed, but he was far from any port, and weighed down by low-level people he had elected to protect. In any other situation, he might have been surely doomed, because Roshal had reacted to the Death of Chains’ raid by dispatching high-level [Slavers], and their most deadly [Slaves] to recapture those freed.

Level 40 [Mages] on flying carpets. Named Adventurers wearing collars. Brave and resourceful though he was, Pisces would have no chance if they concentrated on him, and no less than the Naga of Roshal was in pursuit.

However…they were going to have a bad time. Az’kerash calmly reached out to an object in front of him.

It was a small, perfectly round crystal ball hovering in midair. It looked like many scrying orbs. It was not. Most scrying orbs were clear, enchanted glass, a quartz if they were fancier.

They were generally not made of literal blood diamond, glowing with the ominous light that seemed wet, like the rare crimson moons. Their colors did not run and drip as they reflected Pisces—then a startled, straining, sweating face of a Garuda [Mage].

“Something is interfering with the scrying spell, Master!”

“Abort the spell! Cut the connection, damn you! Cut th—”

Az’kerash saw a hand striking down, holding what might have been a riding crop or something similar. He put his hand on the orb. It shone.

The screaming started before he cut the spell. He didn’t need to see the rest. Az’kerash sat back, and the dead orb floated away.

“Next. Ijvani. Bring me that scepter.”

“Yes, Master!”

The [Skeleton Mage] scuttled forwards with a staff that screamed faintly as something crawled around the inside. She watched with delight as Az’kerash lifted it in one hand.

Roshal was indeed mighty. It had vast reservoirs of artifacts, and had hoarded its strength. Well…it could join the club. And a nation’s might was not the same as an individual of his level.

The Necromancer could keep Pisces free of [Scrying] spells, as Roshal was learning. Direct aid…that was more difficult.

He eyed his own [Eye of Clairvoyance] spell, frowning down at Pisces.

“At least one raiding group. Low-level [Raiders] and [Brigands]. A [Bandit Lady]…”

Hardly ideal. The Necromancer drummed his fingers on the table.

“Ijvani, go check on the [Message] scroll. Has Fetohep of Khelt replied?”

“No, master.”

“Then…send another missive to Savere under the same identity. Emira Se-Hexri. Are there no [Mercenaries] in the entire region?”

Frustrated, he swept his hand across the orb. Ijvani hesitated.

“Master…”

“Ijvani, I am at work. What is it?”

“Master, I sent a [Message] twelve minutes ago. I can send another, but the [Mage] said…”

Az’kerash glanced up. He sat back, frowning. His black eyes flickered and he shook his head.

“Ah. Of course. In that case, hold off, Ijvani. I shall…”

He stared darkly at the scrying orb. The Necromancer tapped his fingers together.

“He is approaching a trading settlement. If he were to raise a horde…”

But would he? Perril Chandler observed Pisces. He hesitated, finger on his temple, nearly about to send a message…

To the Gold-rank adventurer. Az’kerash lowered his finger. Made a fist. Grimaced, though he was not consciously aware of doing any of these things.

“The others. If but one linked up—not the Antinium. The half-Elf. Yes. But the impetus for her learning would be…”

He hesitated. His mind scrambled over a number of scenarios. Highly difficult. Did he sacrifice the Emira? That was no issue except if the attention it garnered—arguably, Savere was more dangerous. A million gold bounty—which he could pay the Siren, but from which source? What was Fetohep of Khelt, damn…that esteemed ruler…doing?

Archmage Chandler was just about to settle on a plan that went through the Horns of Hammerad’s allies when someone interrupted him. He looked up and someone spoke.

“You are late. You must continue spellcasting or we will be in danger of failure. Or worse.”

Belavierr stood there. She regarded his setup with calm interest. Az’kerash got to his feet. He frowned about and conjured a magical timekeeper.

“I had lost track of the time, Witch Belavierr.”

“Yes. You must join me. Now.”

The Necromancer hesitated. He peered back at Pisces’ orb.

“I have a pressing—”

“I would prefer not to perish.”

Belavierr’s tone rose slightly, and that was so extraordinary that the Necromancer realized—he checked the timekeeper again and was halfway towards the door.

“I have an affair I must tend to.”

“Then choose between failure or that. Our pact will not extend to a second attempt.”

The Witch’s tone was warning. The Necromancer saw her glance ahead, and he focused on the present. Magic was twisting…he stopped walking and raised a hand to teleport in.

“I understand. I will focus my efforts there.”

“Good. I will leave with my daughter until you succeed. I shall return if the castle remains.”

Belavierr eyed Az’kerash. The Necromancer cursed. He cast one glance back—then vanished. Belavierr looked back towards the room where Ijvani appeared. The skeleton stared at the [Witch]. The Witch stared back and the skeleton slowly retreated back into the room.

“Mother?”

The undead called Maviola appeared. Belavierr turned and smiled. The…[Lady]…looked at where Az’kerash had been and then at the room.

“Are we leaving?”

“For a moment. It is still likely he will fail.”

Belavierr kept staring at the room. Maviola twisted her head from side to side.

“What is the matter with him? You said something was wrong.”

Belavierr regarded her second daughter, then the room. Ijvani poked her head out, saw there were two, and hid again. The Stitch Witch sneered. Just a small sneer, but…

“He is entangled. Entangled by his own threads.”

“Is he a fool, then?”

The Stitch Witch turned. She began striding along, holding her daughter’s arm, out of the castle.

“Fool. Not a fool. He tugs on threads too far for him to control. They move without him. Do you see them?”

She turned, hopefully, and the Revenant stared blankly ahead.

“No, Mother.”

Belavierr paused, then nodded. She stared up.

“My daughter will, someday. They move. All coming together. Four threads by fate tie faintly to the Necromancer of Terandria. Fate…fate moves. You must learn to twist it.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Maviola stared obediently at the Stitch Witch. Belavierr’s sneer turned to puzzlement. Then her eyes, the ringed orange eyes, narrowed slightly.

“They twist together here, too. From him to the Gnolls. From him to…it matters not. He has countless threads and to pluck one is difficult.”

She was trying to teach. It was about as effective as her lessons in bookkeeping to Wiskeria were. Yet her new daughter listened dutifully. And she saw Belavierr touch her chest as they left the castle.

“Threads. Many threads for mortal get. Far fewer have I. But one…”

She reached out as if to pluck it, eyes narrowed.

“I have one. It leads to him and to the Meeting of Tribes. That little thread. That…”

Her voice grew darker.

“…wretched child.”

‘Maviola’ looked at Belavierr. She looked at the thread the Witch traced, unseen. She hesitated, then decided to burst into tears.

“Me?”

——

Yvlon Byres lost the good fight. Which was because she put up a bad fight.

She slipped. That was all it took. It wasn’t a slick patch of ground, or any Skill. Sometimes you just slipped.

The foot kicked her onto her back. Yvlon hit the ground, winded, a curse on her lips. She saw someone raise a spear, aim it—and thrust it down.

The roar of the crowd thundered, and they shouted as the [Gladiator] thrust the spear down—right next to Yvlon’s head. He raised an arm, and Yvlon almost rose.

Almost. The voice thundered behind the helmet.

“Yield!”

She hesitated, raising her arm, and the figure tensed, but Yvlon only took a second to inhale.

“…I yield.”

He nodded and stepped back. Yvlon half-lay there. She wasn’t sure what to do.

“Yvlon, get out of the arena!”

Someone shouted in her earpiece. The woman touched her ear and winced. For some reason, she’d not flinched when her arm was torn off by an undead Revenant, taken terrible wounds from Crelers, monsters, and people—but she still smarted from getting her ear pierced.

She rolled to the side, looking for her sword, but Rexel, the [Storm Bandit], was shouting.

“Leave it! Leave it, and raise one arm up! Your right one! You’ve surrendered!”

Yvlon did that, lifting the jagged stump of her right metal arm up as she slowly walked past fighting figures, a group all dodging a rain of [Light Arrows]—she heard a shout.

“Silver Killer! We’re not done with you.”

She whirled. The [Gladiator] who’d beaten her turned as a pair of other [Gladiators] advanced. Yvlon saw one aim a bow straight at her.

“Rexel…I’ve surrendered.”

“I know! They’re not supposed to—duck!”

Yvlon didn’t duck. She raised her arm and shielded her face, just in time. She felt the impact, heard the snap as an arrow glanced off her metal flesh.

“She’s yielded!”

The [Gladiator] snapped, but the second attacker lifted a wickedly curved half-moon on the end of a pole. Some kind of glaive or halberd variant.

“Stay out of it.”

The [Gladiator] was panting; he and Yvlon had traded blows for nearly five minutes. He backed up, looking at Yvlon.

“Rexel. What do I do?”

“Fight! Get to the gates!”

Yvlon backed up, aiming her jagged stump of an arm towards the other two. She could extend the metal into a stabbing lance—but they knew that and circled.The second arrow was tracking down, and Yvlon knew she couldn’t get lucky a second time. They were going to shoot her legs out or strike her in the stomach! She tensed. She’d have to charge in and—

“There she is! Mectail, over here!”

Yvlon looked around. She saw the two [Gladiators] turn; curse. Then Yvlon saw a figure burst through a clump of struggling figures. A [Martial Artist] moved aside a sword thrust with his bare hands, and advanced.

“Damn, it’s them.”

“Back up! No one’s killing Silver today!”

A second figure followed the Stitch-man from Pomle, cursing, slashing left and right and forcing back those around with two poisoned long daggers. Yvlon saw the [Archer]-[Gladiator] curse as the second veteran, Thexca, stormed forwards.

“Do it. I won’t slow them more than—”

“I know.”

Yvlon saw the bow rise as the two [Gladiators] exchanged terse words. She saw the [Martial Artist] charge, but step back as the half-moon spear slashed. Yvlon saw a flicker—

“Yvlon!”

The crowds watching the group-battle in the Coliseum of Monarchs were roaring and cheering and screaming. There were many things going on, but the scrying orb projection had focused on one bit of drama. The newcomer, the Silver Killer from Izril, Yvlon Byres, Gold-rank adventurer of the Horns of Hammerad, was down.

“Those bastards! They got her in the knee!”

Rexel was screaming from the gates. There was indeed an arrow going straight through Yvlon’s leg, and she was half-collapsed, shielding her face and throat with her metal arms. One had turned into a miniature shield, but the [Archer] calmly stepped left and put another arrow into her other leg.

Thexca and Mectail were furiously attacking the second [Gladiator], who ate a full palm to the chest—somehow he kept standing, though Mectail had clearly broken another rib. But all they needed was a final shot…

“Not yet!”

And that’s when the last [Gladiator] appeared. She leapt through the air in a huge leap, twenty feet long, defying gravity in an arc that carried her over the heads of the others. Even the other Garuda in the air, fighting and diving, didn’t have the strange momentum of the…

Fox. The fox-girl, the [Gladiator], Vitte, who seemed to swing towards the [Archer]. She twirled as the [Archer] turned, cursing, a single shortsword in her hand, a strange claw-weapon in her other paw. She landed as Yvlon looked up, blood streaming from both legs.

“Vitte Groundless!”

The audience cheered as the trio of [Gladiators] fought to rescue Yvlon from the cowardly attack. Mectail knocked the other [Gladiator] left into a hail of stabs in a perfect combination attack from Thexca. Vitte saluted the stands, facing the [Archer] who backed up three steps, cursed—

Then shot Yvlon straight in the chest. Vitte recoiled, turned left, and saw Yvlon grab at the shaft of the arrow. She fell backwards as Mectail, Thexca, and Vitte heard Rexel and Leprel shouting Yvlon’s name. Vitte looked back as the [Archer] turned and raced for the gates, raising her hands in surrender. The Foxgirl stared at Yvlon.

“Oh heck.”

——

Two female gladiators stood at the entrance to one of the waiting pens in the Coliseum of Monarchs.

“Bring her here! Quickly! Is she dead? She’s dead!”

Leprel was wailing. Rexel had a healing potion, and jogged out a few steps to meet Mectail and Thexca as they dragged Yvlon towards her. The blonde woman’s eyes were closed, and she had one hand around the bloody arrow shaft in her chest.

Behind them, Vitte was giving chase to the last treacherous gladiator, and the thunderous disapproval from around the arena made it clear in no uncertain terms how the audience felt about such treachery.

In fact, people were throwing bits of food, rocks, and other objects into the sands. The magical fields that protected the arena were one-way. Defiantly, the [Archer] raised his arm and made a gesture at the stands. The blowback of noise temporarily deafened Rexel as she rushed Yvlon into the waiting room, out of sight and, hopefully, more danger. Vitte kept pursuing in huge leaps, but kept wide of the arrows streaking her way, and another tangle of [Gladiators] nearly took her down.

“She’s dead.”

Leprel kept wailing as Rexel saw Mectail and Thexca drop Yvlon. The [Martial Artist] bent down to touch her neck; Thexca snorted and glared.

“That’s the end of it for us. Unless you want to go out there and knock heads, Mectail? I think it’s done.”

She stood over Yvlon, looking down at the woman’s closed eyes, grimace of pain, and the deadly arrow lodged just under a rib. Mectail straightened.

“No.”

“Right. Me neither. We’re out of sight. Good work, I guess.”

“She’s d—oh, can I stop now?”

Leprel stopped wringing her hands. Rexel lifted the healing potion, and, unopened, put it back on her belt. There was a moment’s pause, and then Yvlon Byres sat up.

“That hurt.”

She reached up, touched the arrow shaft still embedded in her flesh, and swore.

“Silver in my eyes, that hurt! You said it was all arranged! I felt all three arrows!”

She gingerly touched the arrow shaft in her right knee and pulled it out with another muffled oath between her gritted teeth. She looked up and Thexca grinned unsympathetically.

“It’s a real arrow—the only not real thing is the Skill. What, you thought it wouldn’t smart? That’s why it’s realistic. Good work.”

She grudgingly gave Yvlon a nod, and peered out of the waiting room, eying Vitte.

“Vitte said you’d be able to do it, but I would have stabbed you myself if you messed it up. I think we got the attention of the massed bout, though, don’t you?”

Yvlon looked out. She couldn’t see much besides distant figures fighting, but she still heard the booing and people chanting Vitte’s name. She glanced sideways. Rexel wiped sweat from her brow, looking relieved, and Leprel seemed quite pleased by her one-line performance.

Mectail…he offered her a hand. Yvlon took it, and the Stitch-man [Martial Artist] helped her up. Then he casually and quickly yanked the arrow out of her chest.

“Gah.”

“You did well, Yvlon. Vitte loves her performances.”

Yvlon Byres, [Silversteel Armsmistress], unwilling [Gladiator], and captive of Nerrhavia’s Fallen under false pretenses—well, half false—rubbed at her chest and eyed her friend.

The other gladiator of the Coliseum of Monarchs, who had snapped her out of her one-woman, one-armed rampage through the capital city. The only Stitch-Person she’d met with integrity, that she respected, aside from Oct—aside from Rev—

The only Stitch-Person she’d met with integrity, that she respected. And yet…Yvlon gave him a quick glance, and Thexca as well.

“So you won’t go back out and fight?”

Thexca answered for both of them. She was a Human woman, but from some nation to the west, the Empire of Scaied, and her poisoned daggers spoke to that, as did her light, free-flowing armor.

“No. Dramatically, it makes sense we’re with you since you’ll survive this. If you actually died, Mectail and I would be seeking vengeance. Or if you were on your deathbed.”

Yvlon frowned, trying to figure this out. Thexca rolled her eyes.

“Think about the narrative.”

“Narrative. It’s just a show. And you’re okay with this, Mectail? Truly?”

The [Martial Artist] stretched his arms, and now he showed her his fist. It was slightly cut from where he’d been blocking swords and other blades.

“It is half a show. You did well, to let Arnei strike you. But he is quite good, isn’t he?”

Yvlon hesitated. The truth was that kick had caught her off-guard. She nodded.

“He is…those kicks are fast.”

“You have to be good to make people fall for a fight like that. Let alone put on a good one or one that lasts a while. Don’t worry; you and Mectail will get a chance to actually bloody each other up. In a smaller setting.”

The [Martial Artist] nodded in agreement. He still saw Yvlon’s doubtful look, and smiled.

“I know you must be thinking the same thing I did. But I sometimes enjoy such battles. Vitte comes up with interesting plans and we try them. Sometimes it does not work and we run inside while they throw trash at us.”

“Rarely. And it’s mostly Mectail’s fault because he can’t Knight well enough. This is no place for amateurs in any field. Anyways…there’s room for improvisation. Nice combo attack, Mectail.”

He nodded. Yvlon ran her good hand through her hair, mystified. She knew Mectail was a genuine expert fighter from Pomle, so good he’d taken on her shifting, metal arms barehanded.

“So it really is fine?”

He smiled again as Thexca rolled her eyes and walked off to drink some honeyed water set out for the returning gladiators.

“I think of it as fake, Yvlon. A show, but no worse than a practice bout or a casual duel you adventurers might put on.”

The Gold-rank adventurer’s brows furled.

“We don’t put on shows.”

Rexel interrupted her.

“Cup? Potion, Silver?”

Yvlon distractedly saw the [Storm Bandit] offering her and Mectail a drink and even a shot of potion. She seemed to have moved into a supporting role quite happily, as had Leprel, who even had a towel. Yvlon reached for the cup and realized it was with her jagged stump of a right arm. She grimaced, switched hands, and nodded. Mectail took a drink, nodded at the two women, then turned to Yvlon.

“Do you not? Do you fight with all your strength, with your lives on the line?”

“No, of course not. But…”

He lifted a hand apologetically.

“I am sorry. It is not an insult, but I would call it something like that. Testing, then. Showing each other your strengths. But it is not a true bout to me. This? This is much the same. In truth, I like some aspects of it.”

“Really.”

He gestured and they sat on a bench. Yvlon leaned forwards, resting her arm on her knees. She still felt her blood pumping hard—even knowing it was a trick, it had been something to let that [Archer] shoot her.

In the back of her mind, Yvlon had to admit that even had she been doing her best, he might have still done the exact same thing. Dodging arrows…they were real, genuine warriors. But this was also an arena. The duality of that was something she disliked, and, but for Mectail, she never would have agreed to participate.

The Stitch-man took another sip, shrugging.

“It makes coin, and the audience enjoys it. That is a valuable thing for someone who can only fight like me.”

“Except we’re prisoners. You and I, at least.”

Thexca glanced up.

“Don’t lump me in with you two.”

Both Yvlon and Mectail were criminals of Nerrhavia’s Fallen who’d been shuffled into the [Gladiator] ring. Yvlon grimaced, and Mectail nodded, tapping his own neckband. Not as painful as a collar, but…it boiled her blood. And that was despite Yvlon having a wooden one since all the enchanted, metal ones kept breaking.

“That is true, Yvlon Byres. And I wish to be freed. I hope it will come soon; I have been a gladiator here long enough, even without a patron.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

The woman was mystified. Mectail kept smiling.

“Why are you angry, Yvlon?”

Where to start? But before she could answer, he went on.

“That is what the Strongest of Pomle once asked me. Ah—the one before. One of the ones before? He retired to live with his relatives in his old age. A wise man. Once, as a boy, he caught me in a fury and asked why I was angry. Why? If you are angry because you think you should be angry, or angry at things you cannot change…better to leave it for later and enjoy the present.”

“That’s an incredible statement.”

Yvlon muttered. Mectail shrugged.

“It helps me. Anger is a waste of energy. When I need to be angry—I will. I think you have every right to it, Yvlon. But remember your Skill. It can change you.”

She looked up and remembered. [Berserker’s Rage]. It was indeed—more concerning than any other Skill she had ever gained. She sat back, content with her answers for the moment, and all those in the waiting room watched the mass-battle end.

It was a sight. Yvlon Byres had to admit, grudgingly, that most of the warriors in the Coliseum of Monarchs could go toe-to-toe with a lot of Gold-ranks she’d seen, just on pure weapon skill alone. And they had levels to match—but in that [Gladiator] class, which she now knew to be part show.

Some were outsiders like her and Mectail, but many had grown up in this circuit, and they were so good that if she’d fought with two arms, all her might…she might have gotten to the top twenty reliably, but any higher would be chance.

You needed a team in a massed battle. Sure enough, even Vitte went down, hit by a flying dagger. She rolled around, and surrendered before the [Gladiator] could hit her with a mace.

From then on, it became a quick free-for-all of shifting allegiances as teams broke up, sensing a shot at being the last person standing. To be fair—that was drama.

Yvlon saw a five-way standoff between a hurried alliance of three [Gladiators] and a duo of a big Dullahan and Garuda break up as the Dullahan shoved the Garuda into the crossfire of blades, and the other two [Gladiators] took out one of their teammates. The three fought against each other and the Dullahan woman won—mainly by picking up the last gladiator and hitting the other one with the first’s body.

“Was that last bit scripted or real?”

Mectail was watching. He closed one eye as he studied the woman raising two huge arms to the sky; she was larger than anyone but Moore that Yvlon had met.

“Real, most definitely. Pethore’s grip is similar to any [Grappler]’s. If she grabs you…”

Yvlon imagined what would happen if Moore got a grip on you and was really mad. She nodded. Skill at arms was one thing. The ability to throw someone through a wall was generally respected most places.

The last [Gladiators] were coming in, some being carried, and the injuries looked about half-real, half-fake.

For instance, Vitte was lying on a stretcher, swearing a blue-streak. The blood running down her furred leg was matted, and she was drinking a healing potion.

“You bastard. I nearly had top ten!”

She shouted at the [Gladiator] with the throwing knives, who waved cheerily at her and blew a kiss.

“That’s for last week, Vitte!”

The Fox Beastkin sat up, grumbling. Thexca walked over and touched fists with Vitte.

“Nice performance. Did you really say ‘oh heck’?”

“I thought it was convincing. Don’t bug me, Thexca. I nearly had top ten. That’s a cash prize, Yvlon.”

The woman nodded awkwardly. What a strange world this was. She hesitated, and then saw two figures walking over. One of them was a Human man, tall, long armed, and tattooed. He was the [Archer]. His companion was the other [Gladiator]—a Dwarf who was rubbing at his sides.

“Nice work out there.”

“You say that, but you stabbed me in the liver, Thexca. That hurts like fire, even now! Still…the crowd will remember that. Everyone’s asking if the Silver Killer’s alive.”

They gathered up, and the [Archer], Romen, nodded at Yvlon. She nodded back, hesitated, and glanced at Mectail.

“Er—good shooting. I barely saw it coming.”

Romen nodded again. He frowned, pursed his lips, and then addressed the entire group as a whole.

“Thank you, Yvlon. May I ask a question? How did you find my expression? My posture? It’s hard to convey proper menace. Did you think it was off?”

The woman wavered. Leprel waved a hand.

“I thought it was very convincing, Mister Romen, sir! I’m a huge fan of yours, actually…”

“Really? That’s gratifying. I think I left an impact, but I need to plot the rest of my villainous story.”

Vitte nodded, getting up to rest her leg in a chair. Yvlon sat back as Romen took a cup of honey water. The Fox girl gave Romen a huge grin.

“Now that you have a lot of people who want to take you to task, I bet you could team up. Vengeance arc?”

He frowned.

“That’s fairly predictable. But if we can work together if we’re ever thrown with Miss Yvlon into another massed match…”

Thexca grinned crookedly, watching Yvlon’s colorful expression.

“Sure, but you’d better hope she’s learned how to show off properly by then. Or all you’ll be able to pull off is a Knighting.”

“A what? Excuse me, what does that mean?”

Even Rexel and Leprel seemed confused. ‘Knight’. Thexca had mentioned that before. Romen rubbed at his hair and grimaced at his slick hand.

“Sweat and hair grease. Does anyone have a towel? Thank you. That’s an inside term. We pulled off a variation just now. It’s where…no. Now that I have to explain it, can anyone…?”

He gave the others a helpless look. Mectail shrugged, but the Dwarf man leaned in, giving Yvlon a knowing wink.

“It comes from back home. Terandria, eh? Izril too, but mostly Terandria. You know the story of a [Knight]? Brave fellow or woman—goes off. Always has a grand struggle between them and the monster, but they win. So it’s like that. You have one person who’s about to win or lose, and then it looks the other way…”

“You can pull it off in less than what, six strikes? Mectail, show Yvlon.”

Thexca drew her daggers. She slashed at Mectail, and the [Martial Artist] swept her arm down from a standing position, without even bothering to shift positions. He knocked her back and she staggered, going to one knee and raising one hand as if to shield her head. He sighed, walked over, punched at her face—and Thexca surged upwards, the tip of her blades gently drawing across his throat.

“And…that’s a Knight routine. Well?”

Yvlon Byres, [Lady] of House Byres, one of the oldest and most honorable families of Izril that still maintained at least one [Knight] per generation and often more…bit back all the things she could say. She sat there, perched on her chair, as Romen went around shaking hands.

“Here’s hoping for a patronage, or that we all ride your newcomer fame, Miss Byres. Best of luck.”

“Thank you.”

It was her first match of cooperation. And, in a way…Romen smiled, and she saw some of the other [Gladiators] here watching. They waved and came over to meet her. Because she was no longer the Silver Killer, a genuinely unpredictable warrior who would try to kill or maim them.

Yvlon realized, watching Mectail smiling and Vitte and Thexca nodding at each other when they thought she couldn’t see, as well as Rexel and Leprel’s relaxed expressions, that this was vital. Because…she looked at Romen.

If we were fighting, I could probably take him if I was anywhere close or ran in. But he’d be thinking she was an actual threat. And all it took was one arrow.

She knew that full well. Far, far better to engage in these fake bloodsports. Yvlon managed a smile. But she was surprised as the [Gladiator] nodded.

“And best of luck finding your team, Miss Yvlon. I often go drinking with a group from Baleros—my homeland. I’ll spread the news about you being falsely imprisoned. There’s a tale that will spread like fire, not least because it rings true. If I hear anything about the others, I will let you know, though doubtless you’ll hear it first. Could I ask for an autograph, to that end?”

“I—of course—”

Yvlon scribbled on a piece of cardboard. Only then did Vitte stop smiling.

Fox Beastkin. A species Yvlon had never seen, that apparently had as many numbers in Chandrar as Baleros because they were the same species as Tottenval, one of the King of Destruction’s Seven. She was short, as in barely five-foot-three, on par with a Dwarf, but slim, usually happy, mischievous, her face expressive.

Her fur was not the red Yvlon was used to, but more of a sandy…sand. Because it fit the natural landscape, Yvlon supposed, with darker pale-grey fur on her underarms, belly, chin and so forth. Right now, her amusement soured slightly.

“We’re the best [Gladiators] in all of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, in the world, maybe. And we’re asking for autographs from Gold-ranks?”

“Don’t start, Vitte. Thank you, Miss Yvlon.”

“Yes, but we’re falling behind. First these [Actors] from Izril—I only autograph, what, twelve things a week!”

“That’s because you autograph everything, Vitte. It’s about value. Supply and demand. Even a non-[Trader] knows that. You can’t sell a scorpion to someone with five down their pants.”

Everyone turned to Thexca. The woman raised her hands.

“What? What? It’s not that weird to say! Didn’t you sell, I don’t know, mice, growing up?”

“…No.”

The woman looked at Rexel. She lowered her hands.

“Oh. Well, we sold scorpions on the streets. Good money. You can get a silver for a rare one…”

Romen gave her a completely mystified look.

“…Do people just collect scorpions where you live, Thexca.”

“Why not?”

“Why would you?”

“Uh, because they’re food, self-defense, poison, collectible—some are really rare and poisonous, they don’t cost much to keep, they’re cute…”

“…What?”

The [Gladiators] were breaking up now the match was done. Some were heading off to rest, or train, and many to eat. Yvlon saw more than a few being tossed small bags of coin, and, in fact, a [Guard] sauntered over to their group.

“Vitte. Everyone’s talking about the Silver Killer. Huge stir—actually, go show her face, hey? The [Arena Master] doesn’t want a fuss, and some big patrons want to know she’s actually alive. Here.”

He tossed her a bag, and the Fox girl leapt up and caught it. She opened it, and Yvlon saw the flash of gold amidst silver. Vitte grinned wickedly.

“Can do! Thexca, stop talking about your pet scorpions. She’s got, like, twenty in her room, Romen. You can come over and watch them try to kill you later. We did good, today. Especially Yvlon.”

She smiled at Yvlon with sharp teeth. That was at least normal, and Yvlon nodded. She sat there, feeling…odd. Struggling, she realized, to stay angry. She had every reason to be, but—she looked up and saw Mectail smiling.

Enjoy what you could. Yvlon exhaled. She nodded, turning to the Dwarf [Gladiator].

“Thanks, Vitte. Thank you, Romen and…I’m sorry, I don’t know your name?”

“Granith. Don’t laugh, please. It’s my actual name, not my arena name…”

Yvlon shook his hand. And she thought the Coliseum of Monarchs might be a bit more bearable. Right up until Vitte raised the bag of coins and looked around.

“Okay, everyone! And by everyone, I mean Thexca, Mectail, Leprel, Rexel, and Yvlon—Romen, you’re welcome and you too, Granith—drinks are on me! Let’s get out and hit the city! Who wants to go to the Silken Saloon?”

Yvlon Byres’ head rose as the other [Gladiators] hurled insults at Vitte’s qualifier and Thexca smacked her lips. She stared at Vitte.

“…Do what now?”

——

Yvlon Byres stared at the door. She stared out the door. She stared into the street where crowds were pouring out of the Coliseum of Monarchs. She stared at Thexca, who offered her a piece of cloth.

“A hood. Unless you want to be mobbed.”

“We can leave?”

Yvlon’s shout drew more than a few heads and the other [Gladiators] leaving glared her way. Vitte doubled over laughing and Mectail nudged her.

“Don’t be unkind. I didn’t realize it either.”

“We can leave, Yvlon. Yes, even you and Mectail. Not the city—did you think [Gladiators] had to stay in their rooms and train all day?”

Yvlon inhaled.

“But—so you get paid based on how well you do and even the convicted criminals can…?”

“Well, you’d have to rise up pretty far to get to the position where they let you out, but sure. You do know [Gladiator] pays extremely well, don’t you? More’n even Gold-ranks who don’t land huge cushy jobs or get treasure. Alright, hood on and try not to flash your arms around?”

Yvlon put on the hood silently and stared at Leprel and Rexel. The [Thief] and [Storm Bandit] followed the other three [Gladiators] into the capital of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Rexel grinned at Yvlon.

“Don’t look at me, Silver. You’re the one who never wanted to talk. I told you it was worth rising up. And look at us! [Gladiators] in the Coliseum of Monarchs!”

Thexca turned her head and glowered.

“You mean, ‘gladiator and her two support crew’. Yvlon’s the one fighting and they’ll take your nice rooms out of her coin.”

Leprel bit her lip and slid her eyes sideways to Yvlon. The Gold-rank adventurer rubbed at her forehead.

“I don’t care. Rexel and Leprel helped me out. And I…I am not staying here. This is insanity.”

“No, it’s just sensible. Come on, the city awaits! This is Yvlon’s first day out there, isn’t it? In that case—”

Vitte threw her hood back. The Fox Beastkin leapt upwards, and the people down the street pointed. She leapt up onto the roof of a house in a single gravity-defying bound, spread her paws, and shouted.

“This calls for a party!”

Mectail sighed good-naturedly and Thexca threw back her hood.

“So much for getting there in peace and quiet.”

——

Yvlon Byres’ first true hour as a semi-free woman in Tyrant’s Rest was like a storm. The first thing she saw was the crowds.

She had thought Pallass was crowded, or Invrisil. She had thought they had wide streets, and rich cities. She had been to First Landing, but even the capital city of the north…was just small compared to the scale of Nerrhavia’s Fallen.

The streets were so wide you could play a baseball game across some of them. There were thousands of people, usually Stitch-folk, with Humans in the minority, but every species, crossing streets, buying goods, living.

But unlike Izril, the skies were just as crowded. Garuda swooped around, filling the air traffic, occasionally lazily dodging a flying carpet or, even more rarely, strange figures of all shapes and sizes that flew through the air.

Djinni.

The colors of Nerrhavia’s Fallen were just as vivid. Like Ger of Germina, bright colors were painted onto the stone worn by the wind and dust. Unlike Ger, or other cities with less funds, Nerrhavia’s Fallen was rich.

So Tyrant’s Rest had countless fountains, waterworks, plumbing, sewers, which meant no one would die of thirst. Yvlon also saw there was a kind of gradation to the city. The center, marked by the royal palace itself, towered over the rest of the city, and the buildings were tallest there, countless stories high. The further out you got, the less developed, so the furthest buildings up against the walls were ‘short’, and, even then, were proper houses and sometimes walkways overhead.

That was architecture. The people? Well, they were sights just as foreign to Yvlon.

String-Folk. Stitch-folk. The self-made people of Chandrar. They came in three rough categories—Hemp, Cotton, and Silk. Of course, those were catchall terms for a variety of cloth, and so Yvlon saw the most varied set of quasi-humanity she had ever seen in her life, in every shade of skin tone, feature, and design.

Because Stitch-folk could choose how they looked, if not always from which cloth they were first cut. Therefore, if they wanted certain features, they popped into their version of a [Barber], and had someone stitch up their nose, adjust their eyes—or just replace entire body parts altogether.

If you had the coin, you could be anything you wanted. And, oh, they did.

“That person has blue skin.”

“Yeah? Drakes have blue scales. Garuda have blue feathers.”

Yvlon Byres stared at a Cotton-Man walking past, carrying a load of fat grapes in a basket. She turned to Rexel. The Stitch-Woman was much amused by Yvlon’s reactions.

“Is that—normal? All the Stitch-folk I’ve met didn’t look like that.”

“And how many have you met?”

Mectail glanced back and Yvlon bit her tongue.

“…Revi, Octavia, about six more before that…oh. There were those at the Village of the Dead…”

“So, until Chandrar, less than twenty, easy? And I just bet they wanted to fit in around Izril. It’s not normal over here either. Well…that’s just because it’s a pain in the stitches.”

Yvlon saw someone else with a distinctly red component to their skin that had nothing to do with sunburn. Hair? Hair was an illusion. You could have hair any color you wanted. Pink, neon yellow, rainbow…

“Pain? Why?”

“Getting all the cloth dyed. It does wear, you know. And you can’t replace anything easily on the outside because it’s all a different color from standard. That’s all. It’s more usual to get something more…copycat-ish. See?”

She pointed out a half-Elf walking along and giggling with some of her friends, all of whom were younger, maybe young teens? A half-Elf…until Yvlon saw the stitch-marks on her skin.

“Isn’t that…”

Rexel waited, looking expectant. Yvlon didn’t even know what she wanted to say. Isn’t that something? But then her eye was caught by a group of [Laborers] with features like actual stone, walking along one side of the street. They were ignored and had broad shoulders, strong frames…

“They’re Hemp, aren’t they? Uh—the Hemp Stitch-folk?”

Rexel grimaced.

“Yep. Glad I wasn’t born Hemp. But then—I was always a [Bandit], and we change up, see?”

She waggled her arms at Yvlon, which were old silk, but noticeably smoother and more supple than the rest of her body. It was as if where her arms met the shoulders, the skin became more weathered, less well-cared for. Even a bit off in skin tone.

Yvlon glanced at the Hemp [Laborers].

“So they’re the ones who stand at the bottom of Nerrhavia Fallen’s society?”

“Mhm. If they’re lucky they’ll trade up to Cotton—not that you can change who you are on the inside. Some even get lucky, but most are like that.”

“Like…what?”

“You know. Slower. They’re good [Soldiers], but not the brightest bunch. Believe me—Merr used to run rings around them with the [Storm Bandits].”

Rexel casually spat in their direction. She didn’t look twice at the Hemp people. Yvlon stared at the [Storm Bandit] in silence.

“I see.”

“Some of them are smart. But it’s rarer. Heard of Alked Fellbow? He’s a Named Adventurer, even. Or was. But you know that you take the cloth from your parents, right? So the best thing is if they somehow marry someone who’s Cotton. Or Silk. Then their children are set.”

“I see.”

Mectail glanced at Yvlon. Rexel clearly didn’t pick up on anything Yvlon was saying, but the Stitch-man nodded her way. It was, however, Thexca who glanced back. Somehow she had already picked up a snack while Yvlon was gawking around. She sidled back down.

“Hey. Newcomer to Nerrhavia’s Fallen, heh? Strikes me like that too. Don’t get too bothered by every Silk-woman looking like she’s royalty. It’s all just cloth-deep. Just make sure you don’t get into it with the Silk-caste. They’re touchy, every single one, and it’s a pain to deal with. They’ll challenge you to a duel if they don’t know who you are, and the other half will do it if they think they’ll win.”

Yvlon nodded. The Human woman offered her a bag.

“Nuts?”

Yvlon reached down and received a handful of roasted, salted nuts that were sweet to the taste. She frowned.

“…These are perfectly round. What are they?”

They were like dark brown marbles with a sweet, crunchy interior. Thexca grinned.

“Rollynuts. I love ‘em. Specialty grown around here. Have you ever had anything as good?”

“Walnuts dipped in honey…are not as good.”

Yvlon took another handful. Thexca slapped Rexel’s hand away from her bag.

“Get your own. I’m just humoring Yvlon.”

Rexel sighed, but she had some coin somehow, so she instantly went off to get some. In truth, for all her worldly wisdom about this place, she seemed just as impressed. Yvlon suspected a [Storm Bandit] didn’t get to hit the big city that often.

While she was gone, Thexca leaned over.

“Hemp gets a lot of shit. We’re all fleshies—meat people, so the worst is that we’re all outsiders. Don’t bring it up.”

“But that—”

A friendly hand squeezed her arm. Thexca frowned at Yvlon’s metal bicep.

“Dead gods, that’s an odd feeling. Look, it’s friendly advice. Just don’t bring it up. Some [Gladiators] do and get nowhere. They don’t like Hemp, but it’s mostly just talk. There are some [Gladiators] and most treat ‘em just fine. It’s like anywhere in the world, you know?”

Yvlon Byres grimaced. She hadn’t missed how the [Laborers] kept out of the way of everyone else and were cursed at if they impeded the progress of someone who wasn’t Hemp.

“I come from Izril, and we don’t have anything like that. If I saw someone of the nobility talk to someone like that—most Izrilians wouldn’t stand for it to begin with.”

“Huh. Are you a [Lady] or something?”

“House Byres, yes.”

Thexca gave Yvlon a friendly nod and popped two Rollynuts into her mouth.

“Oh, makes sense. Then this is your first time on the other side of it, huh? Yeah, just think of Hemp like your commonfolk. You’re not a noble here, though. They might respect it a bit, mind you.”

Yvlon turned to stare at Thexca.

“I beg your pardon? I just said they’re nothing like—”

The Human woman shifted her gaze past Yvlon and suddenly pointed a finger.

“We should be heading to Vitte’s favorite spot soon. The Silken Saloon. And, oh, look who’s found Vitte. Her fans.”

And there they were. At first, Yvlon thought Thexca was pointing out a giant rug in the distance. It took her a second to realize it was countless Fox Beastkin, mixed with Stitch-folk, mostly young, milling around, begging for autographs, with Vitte in the center.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure you bet on me. Where’s my sister at? Anyone seen—hands off the coin purse!”

She was laughing, slapping paws, and scolding the others at the center of it. Yvlon recognized the leader of a group, and she had to admit, Vitte did have that infectious charm and confidence. She was young, but she was a top-[Gladiator].

What fascinated Yvlon, though, was the Fox Beastkin. Many had fur like Vitte’s, but some had red or black—even a flash of silver. Unlike Gnolls, the Fox Beastkin didn’t have the more brownish focus and really did stay true to their distant cousins’ variations in fur.

They were shorter on average than most Humans, slim, and animated. What interested Yvlon the most was how nimble they were. One enterprising thief had snatched Vitte’s purse. He scaled up a drainpipe in seconds, and perched on the roof, waving it. He was so flexible; she saw him curl up into a ball as he rolled backwards without any trouble.

However, Vitte had a strange quality of her own and it was this—she narrowed her eyes and leapt upwards.

And there it was again. Yvlon saw the other fox-boy yelp in alarm, somersaulting back as Vitte landed on the roof. He leapt for a second roof even as she descended, and seemed to be running for the distance, if playfully.

In response, Vitte grabbed something in midair, and swung herself into a flying kick that knocked him flat.

“Got you, you little—”

Yvlon watched her thrash the thief, and come back with the coin pouch in seconds. The Human woman narrowed her eyes.

What had Vitte grabbed hold of? It looked like she’d swung herself, like someone would swing off a bar. But…the space above the roof was empty.

Still, it was clear that had just been a prank, and the Foxfolk were full of pranks. And excitement. When they saw Yvlon, they swarmed her.

“The Silver Killer! Can you move your arms for us?”

“Autograph, please!”

“Where are the other Horns? Do you know? Were you really falsely imprisoned?”

“Can I have a lock of hair? I won’t sell more than half of it—promise!”

Yvlon raised her hands, feeling like she was at a Byres family reunion—but they weren’t half as chaotic as this. It was like…a bunch of talking Mrshas.

What a thought. Thexca was noticed too, but she kept them away, swatting unkindly at paws reaching for her snacks.

“Clear off, you walking fur-rats! Vitte, get rid of ‘em or I’ll start stabbing!”

The press let up a bit, and Vitte herself stood on the roof to give a pronouncement.

“Hear me! I’m giving Yvlon a tour of the city! We’re drinking, and no, you’re not invited! But tell the elders Yvlon’s here and if they want to meet her, they can ask me!”

She gave the others a wicked smile as they groaned and pleaded. Sure enough, three lucky people—two Fox Beastkin, one Stitchgirl—were allowed to join their group.

“I had no idea that Fox Beastkin lived in Nerrhavia’s Fallen in such numbers.”

“Eh, some cities. And many’re here because I’m here, you know. We’re still a super-minority. There are just lots of us for us. We’re here because, back during the King of Destruction’s time, our people were protected under Tottenval. We had lots of kids.”

Vitte airily waved a paw. Yvlon looked sharply at her.

“The King of Destruction. I forgot he—it feels like a story, elsewhere. But he’s actually awake again, isn’t he?”

The way they told his story made it sound like he was dead—and he had been slumbering twenty years. Vitte just grinned at Yvlon.

“He’s as real as you or me. Some of the elders in the city even met him. Heck, some served under him when he was still young.”

“Really. And no one holds a grudge? You don’t have…”

The [Gladiator] made a phshing sound.

“That’s old news, and we never ruled over anyone. Unlike some. Besides, Tottenval was the nicest of the King’s Seven. You know Thexca’s Rollynuts? He planted those nut bushes. A lot of kingdoms benefited from all the plants he put down, so most didn’t kick us out.”

“Will…does that mean the Fox Beastkin have no intention of joining the King of Destruction?”

Thexca frowned. Mectail, Leprel, and Rexel glanced back, frowning, and Vitte eyed Yvlon.

“What, all of us? Why would we? Tottenval was his vassal. We just came for him. We’re not going to fight in his armies—most of us. Some of the elders like him, but Tottenval’s dead. We don’t have a grudge either, like some vassals. He’s just…”

She searched for a word, then snapped her furred fingers together.

“Old.”

And that was it. Vitte walked forwards, waving to people she knew, preening and then glaring because people wanted to meet Yvlon. The woman realized hers was a generation that cared little for Flos Reimarch.

So, Nerrhavia’s Fallen. It took them an hour to get to the Silken Saloon. Mainly due to the crowds, the size of the city, and the people wanting to meet Yvlon and the other [Gladiators].

Even so, Yvlon hesitated as they passed by a street where a gate in the distance was clearly open and manned by two ceremonial guards. She looked around and, aside from her friends, no one was here minding her. And she was a Gold-rank adventurer. If she grabbed the artifacts…

Thexca popped up.

“They’ll find you, you know. Mectail never bothered, but I think that’s because he saw them grab a [Gladiator] who tried it and toss them back to the lowest circuit. Besides, that’s the middle city gate. You’d be running for a long time. There’s the lower city, and then the outer city.”

Yvlon jumped.

“I was just—”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you were going to say, I totally believe it.”

The woman grinned at Yvlon.

“Listen, Yvlon. No one’s found your friends, right? Aside from that Pisces fellow, and he’s in Roshal. There’s not much you can do if Nerrhavia’s haunting you. Best thing you can do right now is get free, legally. You do that? Then you can see about hiring someone to get your friend. Maybe even my home. Scaied’s not cheap, but we do have armies for sale.”

“And how would I do that?”

The woman clapped Yvlon on the shoulder.

“Let’s get a drink.”

——

Elsewhere in Chandrar, at this exact moment, in Savere, the Kingdom of Bandits as some called it, all secrets were revealed.

Or perhaps just one. A circlet sat on a half-Elf’s head. It did not shine. It did not glow. And that was scary because even [Detect Magic] made it look like ordinary metal. But then—it didn’t even appear unless the owner wanted you to see it.

And even she had forgotten it was there. So they gazed at her, in the banquet room. Siren and [Pirates], [Rogues], and [Bandits]. She sat at the table, wearing the relic of a lost time. Ceria Springwalker turned her head to Omusc and the [Bandits].

“Ib a chubbfy chipmunkf!”

Her cheeks were bulging with sweet yams this time. And yes, it was the second time she’d done this. Omusc stared silently at Ceria. Then at her circlet.

No one laughed.

——

At roughly the same time, Yvlon Byres was having the exact opposite problem as Ceria Springwalker. Her companions realized it shortly after they got to the Silken Saloon.

“So, can you explain patrons to me? Someone suggested that was one of the fastest ways to be freed.”

“Sure, sure. But come on, look around this place, Yvlon! The Silken Saloon? Like it? Silk servers. And there’s dancing! Hey, it’s me! Has anyone seen my sister?”

Yvlon did actually meet Vitte’s sister, who was named Zirre. And yes, it was deliberate. More than a few Fox Beastkins who were ‘elders’, something of a respected term, came to meet her.

Or were allowed to meet her? There was something going on that Yvlon couldn’t quite parse. This wasn’t like Gnoll culture, where honored Gnolls existed in cities or tribes. Nor were the elders accorded the same respect of age—Vitte ribbed them and they did the same to her.

In fact, the Fox Beastkin who put her in a headlock and tried to rub the fur on her head until she broke loose and tossed a drink on him was seventy-three. Yvlon was amazed—partly because she hadn’t been able to tell.

For instance, Vitte’s sister was younger than her by about a year, had silver fur, and thus the family resemblance was lost, as was age on Fox Beastkin who’d gained silver or simply lost color. They were all so spry.

“Zirre’s one of those [Mages], Yvlon. From Nerrhavia’s academy, though. Hey, Zirre. Look who I found. She’s on my team.”

“I saw you on the scrying orb! Vitte, you joined Miss Byres’ team?”

Zirre covered her head as Vitte threw a half-finished rib at her; they were all eating at one of the private booths, and she was clearly a well-known patron and celebrity. Mectail casually slapped the rib straight back down and, amazingly, back onto Vitte’s plate. The Fox [Gladiator] glared.

“She’s on my team, Zirre. Get it right.”

“Where are you from, exactly? Not Wistram, then.”

“No. Thousand Tomes.”

At the woman’s blank look, Zirre elaborated.

“The Hundred Thousand Tomes Academy of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. It’s…the best in the kingdom.”

“And she’s not the best student. But she did get in. Let’s talk about patrons later. Who wants to dance? Is that the Singer of Terandria’s newest song?”

Vitte soared up from the table. Even Thexca and Mectail were going. Yvlon looked up as Zirre hesitated, unsure if she was joining them.

Rexel and Leprel were already dancing, incidentally. They had found partners, though you could dance alone.

“Are you dancing, Miss Yvlon?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t dance often.”

And this was not the dancing Yvlon had been raised for, which was Lyonette’s formal ballroom affair. Thexca stopped as Mectail was offered a hand by Rexel. To both her and Yvlon’s surprise, the teasing gesture turned into Mectail matching Rexel step for step. He seemed focused too, as if this were training.

“Aren’t you an adventurer, Yvlon? Surely Izril has at least one tavern.”

“Yes, we do. I don’t make a point of dancing in them.”

Thexca eyed her.

“…Want to try?”

Yvlon passed. She sat back down with Zirre. The Fox-girl was definitely not like her older sister, but she was quite friendly; like most of her classmates, they’d kept up to date on the news.

“It is just amazing, Miss Byres. Not many adventurers are on the scrying orb, but some took scrying orbs into their dungeoneering. Dungeoning? I’m sorry, I don’t know what—”

“Dungeon diving is probably the term. Really. So more are, uh, being noticed?”

Zirre shook her head.

“Not exactly. Most aren’t interesting. Wistram News Network featured a few—but the only interesting one was when the team walked into an ambush. And a lot of teams didn’t, um…look good.”

“Ah.”

Yvlon thought she understood. A team could probably reveal a lot of flaws, from picking your nose to all the things you did when you were normally not being watched. And an adventurer’s approach to taking down monsters wasn’t exactly inspiring either. Jumping them from behind wasn’t like the Village of the Dead.

Zirre told Yvlon about the Hundred Thousand Tomes Academy, which actually sounded quite decent. Not Wistram, but Nerrhavia’s Fallen had a vast amount of its own magic, and the underground academy had apparently existed from the time of Nerrhavia the Tyrant herself. It was one of the reasons why Nerrhavia’s Fallen was so powerful; it had a strong foundation of [Mages].

“I’ve actually thought about changing my focus. I’m studying traditional magic for my people, you know, but scrying might be steady work, right? I, um, don’t know about being an adventurer. I’ve wanted to—so has Vitte, but—”

Before they could finish, somehow, it was already an hour past and they were having more food with drinks. Then they hit the city, leaving the pub, and the problem cropped up again.

“So what do you want to do, Yvlon?”

“Can we discuss the patron issue?”

Rexel waved a hand, still grinning. She’d been exchanging locations with some people after dancing and she seemed hepped up by this dose of freedom.

“Silver, Silver—we can talk about it back at the arena. But come on, you have a chance to explore one of the greatest cities in the world! What do you want to do?”

“I—”

“Rexel’s right, Yvlon. What do you want to do? We’ll come with.”

The others nodded as Thexca interjected. So Yvlon had to think. She was indeed in one of the shining capitals of the world, which had so much to do any tourist would be spoiled for choice even a month in. So what did she want to do?

“…Do they have any galleries of art open for public display? Perhaps some landmarks? Some historical sections?”

Vitte’s face went blank. Rexel and Leprel exchanged a look. Mectail blinked and Thexca stared at Yvlon.

“Yeah, I’m sure we have some of them. Uh…let me get a map.”

——

No, but it was an important part of any city and culture. And each nation was quite different. For instance, Yvlon had seen art galleries in private estates and other places, and she had to admit that Nerrhavia’s wealth meant that the pigmentation open to the [Artists] here was certainly varied.

“A strong foundation in [Alchemists] must also help the design. But you paint your statues?”

“We do, Miss Byres. The bleached color of Izril and Terandria is so odd. Most things aren’t just pale marble, so why not add color?”

“Isn’t there a kind of austerity to…”

Vitte and Yvlon were admiring the sculptures on display when Vitte slapped herself, coming out of her dazed look.

“I’m going to die. Yvlon, I’ll catch you later.”

She left. Indeed, even Mectail and Thexca didn’t linger; Rexel and Leprel looked around a bit longer, but Yvlon and Zirre cut short their watching to find Mectail doing squats outside.

“I’m sorry—I am genuinely interested by Nerrhavia’s culture.”

“Each to their own. Okay, what next? We could go shopping in the bazaar, maybe do some singing with the Singer’s ‘kara-okay’ crystals—oh, there’s also trying out fun magical artifacts! Anything you want, Yvlon? What do you normally do?”

The woman hmmed. And she made the mistake of answering honestly.

“Truthfully, in Liscor or another city? I’d see the sights, art—have a drink and a meal that night, but I tend to spend most of my time in the practice courts.”

She looked at the slack looks on the others’ faces and clarified.

“I do go around—with my team. With Ksmvr especially.”

“Seeing the sights? What about…hobbies? Like getting a pawful of Dreamleaf and jumping off roofs? Or—we have lots of good restaurants.”

“Hmm. I do like good food, but that’s mostly Ceria’s thing. Pisces dances and enjoys magical items. I…”

Yvlon hesitated.

“I have a great deal of hobbies.”

Mectail prompted after a moment.

“…Such as?”

Thexca kicked him. Yvlon stood there, biting her lip. And she realized the same thing everyone else did.

She was mainly—an adventurer. When she was at Liscor? Yvlon counted it off on her fingers. Get up, eat with the team, then she went to the Adventurer’s Guild like clockwork with Ksmvr. If she went around the city, shopped—she was with Ceria, or again, Ksmvr—

It was taking the Antinium to new places he’d never been, or doing things with her team that took a lot of her day. But before that? In the Silver Spears…

“I must have swung a sword four hours a day, or spent an hour or two on my gear—and we travelled a lot…of course, I went to see the sights everywhere…”

Thexca exchanged looks with Rexel. The [Storm Bandit] cleared her throat.

“Silver.”

Yvlon looked up. Rexel patted her on the arm.

“You have no life.”

The [Armsmistress] began to protest that was untrue. But really…she sat back. Stared about. They were in a restaurant, as food was one of the uniting things even Yvlon enjoyed. She stared at a bowl of some kind of curry they were pouring over rice and other very tasty foods.

“I’m not fit company for Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Or the Coliseum of Monarchs. I’m sorry, Vitte. I’m simply focused on my team. I do…tend to work hard, I suppose. And I can’t act.”

“Not even a little bit?”

Yvlon grimaced expressively.

“I’ve seen it done. The Players of Celum—I’ve seen their performances, but I can’t imagine myself doing it. As for the showing off, attracting the crowd to get a patron?”

They had explained the system to Yvlon briefly over food. It was quite simple: if someone liked her, they could pay off the arena master or guards, or arrange favors for her in the arena. They might even pay for her freedom, or simply pay her in Vitte or Thexca’s case. In return? She might represent them, even work for them in some capacity. It ran from above-board behavior to relationships—and all the [Gladiators] warned her about that.

“You know the—you know what? It’s fair, it’s fair. Being a [Gladiator] isn’t for everyone, but you did your best. We’ll work around that. Dead gods, I don’t want to do a match tomorrow. We have another group-bout, but no Romen.”

“Well, you’re coming up with the plan to get us attention. Or we can just hit people and try to come out on top.”

Thexca slapped Vitte’s shoulder. Yvlon felt the need to clarify.

“…It wouldn’t be the same if my brother were here. I can’t imagine Ylawes would do poorly, though he’s no actor. As for Ysara—she has her own flair.”

“Older or younger?”

“Both older. Brother and sister.”

Yvlon grimaced again into her plate. She began to eat, and realised she was famished. The silver spoon glittered as she took a bite, and she instantly reached for the yogurt. When the pain abated, Yvlon sighed.

“They’re…well, Ylawes would be perfect for you, Vitte. He really is a [Knight] and he’d probably challenge people to duels.”

“Oho. So he’s really the kind of person who rides around fighting battles?”

Yvlon chewed glumly.

“You have no idea. You know those stories about [Knights]?”

Everyone nodded. Yvlon waved her spoon and frowned at it. Was it bending? She looked around.

“Excuse me, can I get a wooden spoon…? I think my grip’s too strong. Thank you. Where was I? Ylawes? He is that [Knight]. I know that sounds off, but he looks the part, he’s impossible to sway, he’s…well, a hero. Just without the class. His team is famous, you know. The Silver Swords. Countless people look up to them.”

Thexca raised her brows.

“More famous than the Horns of Hammerad?”

Yvlon started. She stared at Thexca, then sat back.

“I—well, up until—they were. They’re a veteran Gold-rank team. Ylawes could probably even meet your [Queen]; he’s got the manners for it.”

“A real knight’s [Knight]. Huh. And your sister? Why’d she do better than you? Is she higher-level? That’d be something.”

Yvlon drew in her plate with the replacement spoon.

“No…and yes. She’s not higher-level, but she is a prodigy with the sword. I have never seen anyone better. I don’t think I could beat her without Skills, maybe not even with my new arms.”

Something about the way Yvlon talked…Rexel looked around the table and saw she wasn’t the only one who noticed it. Vitte put her chin in her paws, fascinated. It was Mectail who looked at Yvlon.

“Neither one raided the Village of the Dead.”

“Ylawes might have—would have done a better job. I nearly got my team killed. I should have pulled them back.”

Yvlon grimaced. Thexca frowned at her over her meal.

“But you’re a Gold-rank. So your big sister’s the genius with the sword and your brother’s the upstanding hero. What’s Yvlon got?”

The woman looked past them. She stared at her jagged metal stump, growing slowly, her left hand. She looked up and calmly met Thexca’s gaze. Calmly, because she’d had that very thought before. And this was her answer.

“I’m the adventurer. I can’t fight like either Ylawes or Ysara. My bladework isn’t so fine, and I can’t stand in the center like Ylawes. But…”

She flexed her hand and Mectail nodded.

“…I can certainly win. I just have to work hard enough. And that’s fine. I don’t want to be Ylawes. I couldn’t, even if I tried. Ysara…”

She paused.

“I’d quite like to see her again. But not Ylawes. It’s impossible, truly.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

That was like opening the floodgates, Vitte kicked her sister under the table, because Yvlon was only too happy to explain.

“He doesn’t just act like a [Knight], he just does what he ‘thinks is right’, and that’s always the most moral outcome. It’s as if the world twists so that he’s the one who carries someone out of a burning building, or fights the monster face-to-face. I thought he was pretending at one point, but he’s not. That’s the worst part. It’s actually something like a trick.”

“How so?”

Leprel was slurping down noodles, fascinated. Yvlon grimaced.

“Ylawes isn’t an idiot. He’s actually quite experienced. So—part of it is that when he sees something happening, he puts himself right where it’s likely to swoop down. He stands in front of the [Fireball] because he sees where it’s going.”

“So he’s actually quite clever. Is he not pretending?”

Vitte was confused. Yvlon shook her head.

“No, you see. That’s all part of it. I think…Ylawes believes he’s the only person who can do what needs to be done. So he does it, regardless of the danger. And it’s not pretentious. He’s just…a good man.”

She took a long drink from her cup. Thexca whistled.

“Wow. I hate him already.”

Yvlon shook her head.

“No, he’s someone you’d like. It’s my fault. I’ve just been in his shadow for a long time. It’s not his fault he casts it. I—nevermind. I’m sorry, let’s change the subject.”

Moodily, she took a huge draft of what she realized was wine. Her friends looked at her, and, thereafter, their goals changed.

“Yvlon, it is my solemn duty to get you to have some fun. Come on. Follow me! There’s a saying in Nerrhavia’s Fallen: no one has fun like a fox!”

“No one says that.”

That was how they began the First Temptation of Yvlon. It was certainly a Gold-rank challenge. Yvlon Byres herself didn’t realize how many things she just…didn’t do. She found herself arguing with Rexel as the woman tried to offer her a pipe.

“It’s illegal.”

“Not here. Silver, as I shit on Nerrhavia’s grave, you’ve never tried anything? Not a pinch of Dreamleaf? Not a single—one puff.”

Yvlon’s arms folded like the gates of propriety itself.

“No. I don’t need drugs to enjoy myself.”

“How would you even know what that looks like—alright, fine! Who’s next?”

“Me. I’ve got just the pet for—”

“Thexca, get away from me with those scorpions!”

Vitte nearly threw an entire jar of bright red hairdye over Thexca. Which she did not get Yvlon to use, incidentally.

“Come on, don’t Terandrians love red hair? Izrilians too, I hear.”

“I don’t need to dye my hair.”

“Well, you’re going to sing, then. You can sing, can’t you?”

——

Yvlon Byres stood like the solo member of a choir, a silver hand placed over her heart. Her blonde hair shone in the light of a silver spotlight, and her clear voice had the training of tutelage behind it. She projected her voice into the silence, like an opera singer into the limitless dark, be it crowd or only the empty sky.

“I saw the Silver Dragon flying

Over home and golden fields…”

It was an old song, a House Byres song, actually. As close to an anthem as they had. Yvlon had sung it with peers at celebrations, and she still remembered every word. Her friends watched, open-mouthed.

“Courage be my sword and shield

While valor holds I will never yield.”

It was a good song. Perfect intonation, really. If Yvlon had an accompaniment, some stately string instruments, more voices, it would have been a solemn, even patriotic melody.

The bar was so dead that Zirre could hear her sister slowly dying of laughter, covering her mouth with her paws. Thexca was covering her face, not quite able to look at Yvlon or around.

“This is not a bar song. Mectail, punch me into tomorrow.”

She looked up and saw the stoic [Martial Artist] in an expression she had never seen before. His wince was so pained she actually stopped and started staring at him.

Yvlon finished and sat back down. Rexel glanced around as people applauded to fill the gap in existence.

“Silver…Yvlon. Don’t you sing, uh, bar songs?”

“I sing along. But you asked me to sing. That’s the song I’ve sung the most.”

The amazing part was that Yvlon seemed aware how well the song had gone over, based on her red cheeks. She coughed, reaching for a drink.

“…I just don’t remember the other ones at all. A Skill really would have been nice when I was on the spot.”

Vitte stared at her. Then she exploded with laughter. Zirre sighed, but the Fox [Gladiator] reached over. She hugged Yvlon and, to the audience, which included many of her kind, shouted.

“See? This is Gold-rank madness! Alright, let’s have a party! For Yvlon, unjustly imprisoned! Spread the word! Magistrate Ducaz is a corrupt bastard and the heroine of the Village of the Dead raid is right here!”

The bar cheered and came back to life. And that, in a way, was progress. Yvlon watched Vitte take down two tankards in one go, and frowned.

“Don’t we have another match tomorrow?”

“It’s fine. Fine, Yvlon. It’s smaller-scale. We have to enjoy ourselves! Drinks all around!”

Vitte laughed as Thexca and Mectail drank more responsibly. Yvlon looked at her. She had to admit, she envied the Fox girl. She had…

The Silver Spears had done this. Not this, dancing with a bucket on your head on a table like Vitte was doing—and the bucket was somehow rotating despite her not touching it—but like this. She had lied, Yvlon realized.

She had done more with her first team. It was only after that she’d stopped. She swished the drink around in her cup.

“I lost more than I thought, that day. I’ll get it back later.”

But first—her team.

——

The next day, Yvlon checked on her jagged stump of an arm. It had definitely grown a little bit.

“Maybe that’s why I’m so hungry. How much did I eat…?”

She wasn’t even that hungover; though, Yvlon had realized she’d possibly lost more mass than the average Human if her metal arms didn’t add to her flesh-weight. People had kept trying to touch them as the alcohol flowed last night.

She flexed her arms, found the sword she used as a [Gladiator], swung it a few times, and frowned. It felt…lighter. Brittle. She swung it, nevertheless, a hundred times, then flexed the blade gently.

It snapped. Yvlon tossed it down with an oath, and then checked her arms again.

“…Not great.”

It was just off. Yvlon thought losing an arm to that monster counted as trauma though, so she was willing to wait until it was healed. As for the rest…she walked over to a table, opened a drawer.

Still there. Good. Two scrolls, two rings. Yvlon checked the scrolls. A single roll of parchment, bound with a mundane bit of string as far as she could tell. It hadn’t been affected by passing through her…literally.

I could unroll it. It might well be another Scroll of Greater Teleportation. Put on a ring…they came from the dead adventurers.

Yes, they did, didn’t they? On the actual fingers. So…the odds of them being cursed were remote. Yvlon’s hand twitched towards the rings.

Yet she had to be free first, and, unless one of the rings could help her escape…she had no idea what they did.

Information. Power. That was what she lacked, and it was clear Vitte and the other [Gladiators] did have a measure of power. So Yvlon was on-board with rising in the ranks. And if that meant acting…well, so be it.

“Silver! Ready for the morning’s bout? Can we get you anything?”

“I’m fine, Leprel, thank you. How many?”

“Um…twenty, I think. All of your friends are with you. Just give ‘em a show for an hour, that’s what I was told.”

Yvlon nodded. The Coliseum of Monarchs had a sight at any given moment, which meant [Gladiators] had schedules and, yes, planned events.

“Maybe we’ll just fight. I can do that. Oh—Rexel. There is something.”

“Yes, Silver?”

Yvlon handed her the broken blade.

“…I need a new sword. I know the [Arena Master] is going to be upset—maybe just a wooden one? I can hit someone as hard as I need to, especially if it’s fake.”

Rexel took the blade, wincing as she noticed the costly steel was broken. She frowned, though.

“There’s a huge, gaping void in the steel. I think it’s just crap equipment you’re getting, Silver. I’ll show this to the [Arena Master]…anyone could have broken this.”

“Thanks.”

Yvlon squared her shoulders and made her way to the waiting room. She didn’t see Mectail or Thexca or Vitte; they were all in private areas.

“Free-for-all. You can team up, of course. Don’t worry, Silver, just go out there and fight. Vitte didn’t send word to meet you, so it’s fair game.”

“I understand. I’m surprised she’s on her feet. She was drinking hard last night.”

The Fox Beastkin had barely been mobile at the end. Leprel gave Yvlon a quick grin.

“Thexca will probably give her hell. She kept promising she’d have a show; you have to make people remember you. Of course, she’s visible as Vitte Groundless, but…”

“Yeah. Is she an [Acrobat]? Do you know how she does that, Leprel? Those jumping tricks?”

“Magic.”

Yvlon grunted. Well, it was one or the other. She heard the announcer spin things up.

“And it is the morning in glorious Nerrhavia’s Fallen! I am your host, the [Commentator] Thoweina Silk! I have the great honor of welcoming the following august figures this morning…”

Yvlon tuned out the recital of various noble or important figures. A [Guard] approached, scowling, as she adjusted her armor.

“Silver Killer.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t go off into the city after this. You were wanted yesterday. A patron wanted to meet with you and you were gone.”

“A patron? So she does have one? Who is it?”

Leprel squeaked. The [Guard] shrugged.

“No clue. It came in late, so when we went to find you—just don’t run off. You’ll be called.”

“Understood.”

Yvlon’s blood began to pump a bit faster. So she did have a mysterious benefactor. Well, first things first. The [Commentator] was getting the crowd amped, but it was difficult first thing in the morning. They did their best, then seemed to latch onto something.

“—it seems like there’s a bit of commotion on the grounds! The [Gladiators] are just coming in, but I can hear some arguments from the waiting rooms where I sit, exalted guests! Is it the Silver Killer, ready for payback? Unfortunately, Romen the [Archer] is not here, but we may see blood on the sands—unless her new companions rein her in!”

“Hah.”

Yvlon rolled her eyes, but then frowned. She could hear a loud argument and what sounded like laughter, muffled through the open gate. It began to rise, and Yvlon warily accepted the sword as a panting Rexel ran over.

“—and here come the [Gladiators]! The Silver Killer emerges slowly, like the hunting Mothbear of Izril, sword in hand. In the far corner, the [Gladiator] already moving for high-ground is the Eagle of Senusk, Gekoi! And…oh, what’s this? Something unusual is happening, dear audience, unless I miss my guess! Direct your attention to Gate 11, please!”

Yvlon glanced around. She was in Gate 9, and if memory served, her companions would be…

Mectail and Thexca were both coming out fast, but they slowed as they looked around. They were in Gates 10 and 8, which meant that the oddity was coming from…

Yvlon looked over as the laughter, the sudden roar of interest from an audience waking up, all came together. She saw a terrified Fox Beastkin girl standing there with a spear…and her silver fur blowing in the breeze.

“That is not Vitte Groundless, dear audience! It seems—and I am being told that her sister, a [Mage] from the Thousand Tomes academy has been substituted in for her! Vitte Groundless is, in fact, resting, and apparently requested—”

Yvlon heard laughter from the crowds, and a sudden keen interest as the [Gladiators] turned to the low-level prey entering the arena. Yvlon began to jog over as Zirre screamed, banging on the gates.

“No, this is a mistake! Let me out! Let me—Yvlon!”

She whirled as Yvlon slowed.

“Why are you here, Zirre?”

The Fox-girl was looking around the arena in a wide-eyed panic, barely listening to Yvlon. She was certainly no fighter. Yvlon grabbed her shoulder and she squeaked.

“I—Vitte was lying in, and she told me to go here and tell them she was sick! Then they said I was filling in for her and it was arranged!”

Vitte. Yvlon’s brows snapped together. She peered around and realized this was definitely no misunderstanding.

“It seems Vitte Groundless continues to amuse even the Coliseum of Monarchs! We’ll see if her sister survives meeting trained [Gladiators] in the sands—or if her three companions will protect her.”

“Vitte! I’m going to pull your tail off! Is she mad?”

Thexca came running over, but Mectail and she couldn’t discuss anything—or break the sturdy gate. A huge gong rang and the bout commenced.

Twenty gladiators. Technically, Yvlon and the other three comprised an entire fifth of the arena, but all fifteen [Gladiators] had the scent of drama in the air. Mectail didn’t even get over to them—the Eagle took aim, and no less than six [Gladiators] surrounded him in a second. They kept a wide circle, attacking to keep the pressure off the others as he whirled, chopping, meeting blades with bare hands.

“Damn, damn—this is twisted, even for Vitte. Listen, Zirre. Just—stay behind me and Yvlon. No one’s going to kill you, but they’ll put on a show. It’s just a stabbing. All it does is hurt. Can you actually fight?”

Thexca could have used a better pep talk, but there was no time. She and Yvlon stood alone as nine [Gladiators] closed in. Zirre was shaking, and she clearly didn’t know how to use the spear.

“I—no! I can use magic, but I don’t have a battle stave! My school is gravitation, but I’m a [Mage]—Vitte’s the fighter.”

Gravity magic? Yvlon blinked. Then she realized what Vitte was…Thexca swore.

“We’re not going to win this one, Yvlon. We need to stall for at least twenty minutes before they’ll open the gates. Nine on two is…”

Yvlon knew she was right. Nine Level 30 [Gladiators]? She looked at them, then at Zirre.

“It doesn’t hurt long. I’ll hit Vitte until her stupid brains come out her ears. Just…”

Thexca was trying to reassure her. Yvlon glanced at her sword, cursing. If it was Ylawes, he would stand there with his shield and block them. Somehow defend her for an hour, even if they took him to pieces. He was a [Knight]—but this was cruel amusement, and Vitte’s trick and drama or not, there was going to be blood; Zirre would have to experience the pain of being stabbed at least once.

And it did hurt. If only she was Ylawes. If only…

“Mi, mirror menagerie, making my mithril sing…”

Yvlon heard a voice. She looked up as the [Gladiators] moved, six on her side, three on Thexca’s, aiming for Zirre. Was that…a vocal warmup? Yes, it was! The Dullahan from the last bout was doing a voice exercise, coughing.

“Let’s settle this, ladies. No losing limbs or killing, agreed? Sorry about Vitte’s sister, but the audience needs a show. Poor sport of her, though.”

One of the others saluted them. Yvlon thought about it. She could escalate this. But…she saw the [Gladiators], even Thexca watching her.

“Yvlon, don’t do anything stupid.”

The problem was, that was practically the motto of the Horns of Hammerad. ‘Get the treasure, don’t die’. Yvlon felt like being stupid. She was not Ylawes. She couldn’t…

She looked at the [Gladiators]. Hesitated. Well…wait a second.

The audience had a display of the standoff by now, and the nine versus three was reflected on the scrying orb, so the Dullahan woman had stopped her warmups. The [Commentator] herself stopped talking for the moment to play out—Yvlon Byres stepped forwards and they tensed as she lifted the sword in her left hand.

Her right arm began to morph, and they all watched that. That deadly weapon—and Yvlon had no Skills to pretend. She had no artifice either. She was Gold-rank.

She lifted her sword high, and called out to them. Her other arm came up and they tensed—then stared at the curious shape it had taken. Which it had never taken before…

“You are all cowardly, perfidious worms! Worthless, honorless vagrants, assaulting an innocent girl!”

Her voice was caught by the scrying spell. The audience listening to it saw one of the [Gladiators] recoil. Yvlon hesitated, then went on.

“You worthless worms, and maggots of no-good repute! I am ashamed to lay eyes on you. I have killed Crelers with more dignity, and if this is a [Gladiator] of the Coliseum of Monarchs, you aren’t worthy to rub shoulders with common [Bandits].”

The nine [Gladiators] exchanged looks. This was starting to really hurt their feelings. Had Yvlon gone mad? Then she adjusted the strange object on her hand.

It had morphed, the jagged front of it turning into a rough crescent forming a teardrop at the bottom. She held it in front of her chest. Angling it. Almost like…a shield. Then she spoke, and they understood.

“I am a Gold-rank adventurer. And as…a knight defends his honor, I will not let you lay a finger on her. If I have to kill you all to do it, I will. Do you understand?”

They blinked at her. Thexca’s worried face turned to astonishment and then delight—and then to righteous fury so fast the audience missed it. The [Gladiators] eyed each other. Then the Dullahan sneered.

“You couldn’t even last against one of us in the last bout, ‘Silver Killer’. That Fox girl isn’t worthy of stepping in the Coliseum of Monarchs. Her blood will stain the sands, on my word, and no one will heal that. That is the price for mocking our great arena!”

She raised her arm, but the cheers were mixed with boos. She grinned, and winked at Yvlon as she turned her head away from the scrying orb. Yvlon Byres set herself. Now—how would it go…?

Ah, yes. She saluted them with her sword, then raised it high overhead. The [Gladiators] waited.

“In the name of House Byres, honor, the dignity of Izril and—”

One threw a knife and Yvlon felt a flash of pain across her cheeks. She saw Thexca leap forwards with a cry of outrage. Yvlon readied herself, and the first two [Gladiators] came in.

And the audience loved it. Two against nine. Three, because Zirre rallied herself enough to start casting magic. A shower of sand, even a spell that lowered the Dullahan woman’s weight so much so that Yvlon sent her flying across the ground with a punch.

That was unprompted. Unscripted. But you had the world’s best improvisers here, and Yvlon? She was an untrained actor, but she knew her source material by heart.

Oh, but it wasn’t easy. It couldn’t be or it wouldn’t be real. Someone leapt on Yvlon’s back, garroting her as another bore her to the ground and then began raining blows with a mace on her torso. But she severed the cord, which was a bit too loose, and staggered upright, drinking a potion.

But she was losing. She put up a fight as much as she could, though. The nine ducked a wire of metal that threatened to cut them in half—one of them screamed, staggering away as she cut off his arm…which turned to cloth as it hit the ground. Yvlon Byres charged them, and they scattered after fifteen minutes of fighting that left three face-down. She had them on the run, six-to-two—

They bore her down. It was so fast she never saw the tripwire, went sprawling, and the Dullahan woman herself planted a foot on her back and ground Yvlon’s face down. She turned, as Mectail went over, taking five of the six original [Gladiators] set against him with him, and only defeated by the reinforcements.

“Now bring that girl over so they can watch as she dies!”

The Dullahan boomed. The last [Gladiators] whirled—but then shouted.

“You idiots! Close it! Close it—”

The gates of Zirre’s waiting area were slowly rising. Zirre, who had fled their lazy pursuit, looked up. Yvlon struggled, but the foot held her still. She saw the Dullahan point, roaring in fury.

“Now, get her you idiots!”

She waited a beat, then whispered to Yvlon.

“I hope she can jump half as well as her sister.”

Zirre ran, screaming, as four [Gladiators] tried to grab her—then the Dullahan as well. Yvlon tackled the woman from behind, and Zirre dashed for the gates. But she was far slower, and a [Gladiator] leapt at her. The Fox-girl saw it coming and—

Leapt. Yvlon’s head rose and she heard a delighted, quiet laugh from the Dullahan woman’s throat. The audience cheered and roared as Zirre leapt through the air. Weightless. Soaring as if she had forgotten the earth had a hold on her, silver fur flashing in the light. Reaching upwards, seeing an arrow aimed—twisting—swinging herself through the air in that curious fashion.

As if orbiting an invisible force. But, of course, Yvlon could not understand how—only the name of that magic.

Gravity.

Zirre plummeted to the earth faster than anyone else, slowed—slammed into the ground as she miscalculated her descent. She rolled under the closing gates as the last [Gladiator] leapt, slammed into the bars, and howled upwards like a depraved animal. The audience was on their feet as the [Commentator] shouted.

“She’s done it! Zirre, the sister of Vitte Groundless can fly as well as the [Gladiator]! She’s escaped the Coliseum of Monarchs, but that was a splendid debut! Will she return? The Silver Killer, Thexca of Scaied, and Mectail the Striker won’t forget this humiliation and the depravity of Pethore and her gang any time soon, however! I am [Commentator]…”

Now that was a show worth coming for.

——

Afterwards, Yvlon stood in the waiting room shaking hands. Pethore herself was smiling.

“Excellent improvisation. I feared we would have to make the girl suffer. Where is Vitte? I would like to have words with her.”

“I’m going to hurt her. She’s pulled stupid stunts before, but that—Zirre, how are you doing?”

The girl had her head in her knees, but she was unharmed, and still shaking. The other [Gladiators] didn’t know where Vitte was either, but they were congratulating Yvlon on the performance.

And she? She smiled.

“I just did what my brother would do. Only, he would have actually fought you all.”

“Well then, I’m damned grateful it was you. The last thing we need is an idiot who can’t read the crowds—and that’s someone who dies. I thought you—er, well, I’m glad. Vitte, though—it is something else, to put your sister in a place where she’ll be stabbed! What were we supposed to do? Stabbing—dead gods! I did it one time on my cousin because he insisted and it traumatized him for years, Skill or not!”

Another was helping tend to Mectail, who had genuinely been quite badly battered in the fighting.

“We’ll settle this next time, Mectail. A duel to see who truly is the better fighter.”

The [Martial Artist] spat out a tooth. He eyed it ruefully and offered the torn bit of cloth to Leprel.

“I need another one. We will, Tren.”

Yvlon shook her head. Stitch-folk were as adaptive as they came. Replacing teeth, limbs…she could envy that.

She was so caught up in deciding what to do about Vitte, talking, that she didn’t see the [Guards] waiting for her until one of them interrupted.

“I have to take Yvlon Byres with me, now, [Gladiators]. Excuse me—excellent match. But her patron is waiting. There’s actually an invitation for her companions, Thexca, Mectail, and I suppose Zirre since Vitte is missing.”

The others turned. The [Gladiators] glanced with keen interest at Yvlon.

“And who is she meeting? Or is it in the secret meeting rooms?”

The [Guard] glanced over his shoulder and Thexca eyed the odd group behind him. Usually a single [Guard] just took you to a private, spell-proof room if you had to have secrecy. This though…she frowned.

Those aren’t [Arena Guards]. Their armor was far, far too ornate. Each one was, in fact, Silk, and looked down at the Cotton [Guards] who stood respectfully back, as professionally as they could. There were no less than eight of them and…her eyes went round as the [Guard] turned and lowered his voice.

“It’s not the secret rooms. Miss Yvlon Byres? I don’t know who it is but…you’re bound for the palace. The palace.”

The other [Gladiators] looked up. Yvlon sat straighter, and Mectail and Thexca exchanged a glance. Zirre sat up suddenly.

“Wait, me too?”

The [Guard] hesitated, and, at that point, the impatient Silk-caste [Palace Guard] stepped in.

“You four will all ride to the royal palace of Tyrant’s Rest, at the behest of the patron of Yvlon Byres, who sits on the Council of Steel. Their name and identity is not at liberty to be discussed; you shall all be guests of the palace until then. Make such preparations as is needed to leave in twenty minute’s time.”

Yvlon Byres nodded, heart beating faster. Someone on the Council of Steel? She…she had no idea what that was, but she could guess. The other [Gladiators] watched as the [Palace Guards] marched back, then burst into frantic gossip. Thexca sat back, and then spoke after a second.

“…You know what?”

Everyone looked at her. The woman nodded slowly to Yvlon, then Zirre.

“Forget me stabbing Vitte. I can’t think of anything that would hurt her more than knowing she’s going to miss this.”

——

It was time. Beyond time, really.

The quartet entered into the palace of Tyrant’s Rest, Resturgium, so-named because it had been seized from the Tyrant of Cloth, then rebuilt so that no stone remained that had belonged to that old seat of evil.

The Stitch-folk architecture, melding styles, and flowing approach to construction—as opposed to the rigidity of Izrilian and Terandrian forms—rightly made Resturgium one of the wonders of Chandrar and the world.

Of course, a proper monarch would receive a welcome of thousands of servants and [Slaves], some grand entrance—perhaps on the walkways of air, a procession seen across the entire city.

The four [Gladiators]—wait, was it three plus the sister of one?—were simply walked in, with no fanfare, to the Court of Silk as it convened in the wide forum. They attracted attention, of course.

“That is the adventurer from Izril. You know, the one in the scrying orb?”

“Who sent for her? Look at that arm.”

“—Swear my plumbing was working fine yesterday. In the capital? An outrage, the [Chamberlain] should be—”

Yisame sat on the royal throne which granted her hearing across the entire area. She tuned out the superfluous talk, trying not to crane her neck as she kept her face impassive. Her [Speaker] kept up a light conversation in her name as the other powerful members of the palace circulated around her, or skulked off on their own designs.

It was time…but Yvlon was at the edge of the royal courts, and a proper opening needed to appear for Yisame to quite-coincidentally meet her. Open favor…no. But it would come.

She had missed the chance to coincidentally meet Yvlon yesterday, and had to spend forty minutes meeting other [Gladiators]. Yisame pursed her lips, frowning. It might be too brazen to invite Yvlon now, but…

It was time. Those [Gladiators]—what a mockery they made of a real adventurer, a heroine of true wit and daring. Involving her in those charades? Yisame knew their playacting when she saw it.

That wasn’t Yvlon Byres. She was a Horn of Hammerad. She had gone into the Village of the Dead…Yisame saw a flash of blonde hair as Yvlon circulated. She let a [Servant] fan her, waiting impatiently as the happy group around her discussed the siege of Reim.

“Three armies have begun the advance. No sign of that Rev—that ‘Vizir’, but we have placed an army facing Khelt.”

“Facing Khelt?”

Yisame broke off from looking for Yvlon to look around in alarm. The [Strategist] hastened to clarify.

“At a great remove, of course. A symbolic position far from the borders. Yet we cannot be seen to give way to undead. As for Pomle…”

“These are insolent wasps. Incompetence is truly what it is. Too many feather touches when what is called for is the hand to wield a hammer for a decisive strike. Isn’t that so, General Thelican?”

The Stitch-man touched his beard, smiling around at the others.

“You would say it, not me, Chancellor…”

Yisame rolled her eyes, but privately. Now where was Yvlon…?

——

[Gladiator Level 6!]

[Skill – Weakness Feint obtained!]

[Skill – Suresand Step obtained!]

“Yvlon! What are you doing?”

Yvlon Byres jerked. She opened her eyes, and realized she’d dozed off. She sat up hurriedly as Thexca looked askance at her.

“You’re in the royal palace! Resturgium itself! Are you sleeping?”

“Yes. I levelled up as a [Gladiator] again.”

She had mixed feelings on it, but none wholly negative. Thexca hesitated.

“Oh—congratulations. Er, we’ll have to celebrate. But what are you doing?”

Yvlon sighed and stretched her back slightly. She looked around, and eyed the table filled with high-class delicacies. They sat in one of the royal courts, where Named Adventurers and [Courtiers], powerful [Magistrates] and no less than the [Queen] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen herself, Yisame, would come and deliberate upon the affairs of state.

The two [Gladiators], Thexca and Mectail, were looking around, and even he was clearly taken in by the atmosphere. Zirre? Zirre was petrified, sitting and agog.

Yvlon yawned. Thexca was offended by it, but Yvlon rubbed at her right shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Thexca. Healing and fighting in the morning…”

“Aren’t you excited? Your patron is from the Council of Steel!”

“Well, they haven’t shown up. And I think we had better prepare to be here all day.”

Yvlon glanced around the royal court. She eyed the delicacies on the table, then sat back, sighing. Thexca gave her another glare.

“You don’t seem impressed. What, do Izrilian [Ladies] get this sort of treatment all the time? We can order whatever we want—look at all the richness! Scaied is not half as rich…and we might meet the [Queen] herself!”

She trailed off. Yvlon nodded, understandingly.

“I don’t want to take away from the moment. But you should know, Thexca, we’re not going to meet the [Queen].”

“You sure? She’s sitting right there.”

Mectail pointed towards a distant throne. Yvlon shook her head.

“I know royal courts, Mectail. We are far too unimportant to get close. We’ll circulate the lesser areas. Maybe meet with curious members of the aristocracy, important figures—but not too important. Unless one of them is interested in us…it’s impossible. And who would be?”

“We are top [Gladiators]. And you’re famous from Izril.”

Yvlon waved that away.

“Not to a monarch. She could summon Named-rank adventurers.”

That put it into context for the others. Thexca eyed a frosted delicacy sprinkled with gold.

“And the furnishings? The treats? You don’t want anything?”

Yvlon looked at the sweets. She shuddered.

“…No. To be honest, I’d like more regional foods from Nerrhavia’s Fallen. This is all—well, simply rich foods. More edible gold than substance. And no, thank you. I’ve had enough pastries and sweets to last eighteen lifetimes. And fifteen stomachs.”

The others gave her a curious look. Yvlon Byres had to explain.

“I used to visit my aunt. Magnolia Reinhart. She…”

…Quite ruined even a young girl’s sweet tooth. It was like that parental trick of giving a child who tried wine an entire bottle until they were sick—not that it was a smart move. But in Yvlon’s case? She shuddered. Sweet tea. Sweet pies. Sweet…

So she was more analytical than the others. Still, Yvlon had to admit, this court was huge. Thousands of people, all who qualified to be here, and, soon enough, more than a few made her acquaintance.

“So you are the adventurer from Izril. I am the Emira Sal-Therrisa, and I have observed you on the news network, of scrying orb repute.”

The complex statement was followed by the delicate snap of a fan as a Stitch-woman with eye-shadow and a sigil of some kind painted on each cheek in gold stopped before Yvlon. All the [Gladiators] and Zirre bowed.

“I’m honored to meet your acquaintance, milady.”

Yvlon pulled from some of Ylawes for that, and the [Emira] smiled.

“Ah, Izrilian etiquette. How delightful. Tell me, Adventurer Byres. Truthfully—was all of that quite real? I have an acquaintance who insists it was staged.”

She fingered a brooch as she eyed Yvlon. The woman blinked at her.

“…It was certainly real, Emira. I don’t know what you saw exactly, but we didn’t stage the Village of the Dead raid.”

“Really. It was so untidy—and quite dangerous. Yet thrilling. And now you come here—and I hear you have been unjustly imprisoned? How did this come to pass?”

She was the first of a number. Yvlon saw Thexca give her a nod, and she launched into an abbreviated version of the tale. Emira Sal-Therrisa frowned mightily.

“A corrupt [Magistrate]? Your team is missing?”

“I believe…one of my teammates may have been unjustly taken prisoner by Roshal as a [Slave].”

“Fascinating.”

The Emira caught herself.

“Well, I shall hope mightily for your success, Adventurer Yvlon. Nerrhavia is a just kingdom, and if this [Magistrate] is indeed false…it will bear out. Indeed. I am glad to have met you—such lovely arms you have. More Humans should adopt your class. They are entirely fetching.”

Yvlon’s mouth opened and closed. She managed to reply after a moment.

“Thank you.”

“Yes. Well, I must attend to my husband—but before we part, I believe a token of our meeting might be in order? A keepsake?”

Yvlon had no idea what she meant, and the [Emira] eyed her over the fan. They stood there in awkward silence for a good few seconds before Thexca leaned over and whispered.

“A signature, Yvlon.”

“What? Oh—I don’t have—”

Yvlon was about to protest, but Thexca silently handed her a piece of white cardboard. The Emira smiled as Yvlon awkwardly scrawled with her left hand.

“Thank you. I shall quite enjoy mentioning our meeting.”

She departed as a [Servant] bowed, offered her a drink, and directed her towards her husband. Yvlon watched the Emira go.

“What was that?”

“I think she wanted to meet you. You did well. She’ll definitely remember your name if she has your autograph. She didn’t ask for mine.”

Thexca wistfully stared after the Emira’s back—she hadn’t so much as looked at Thexca. Then the [Gladiator]’s eyes brightened.

“Hold on…Zirre, do you have more autograph cards? Mectail, hand ‘em over. I know you have one…”

“Excuse me, are you Adventurer Byres? In the flesh? I just wanted to get your opinion on the latest raid they’re showing on the scrying orb. And, ah, a token of remembrance. And is it true you found a gateway from Izril to Chandrar?”

The second person accosted Yvlon seconds after the Emira. She found herself staring at a Stitch-man who turned out to be a [Merchant Lord] who thought she’d seen the latest adventurer drama on the scrying orb and had some funny rumors about her.

“So not a gateway? I was told Izril had one.”

“That’s a portal door, er, sir. It doesn’t connect nearly as far as Chandrar; only to other parts of Izril, and only around Liscor.”

He snapped his fingers.

“Damn. Someone assured me there was cross-continental teleportation in the works, but that’s rumor-based Skills for you. Excuse me—the darn thread—”

He noticed a stray thread on his thumb, and, looking embarrassed, pulled it and removed his entire thumb. He tucked the digit away in a pocket and turned to Yvlon.

“Frayed cloth. I keep meaning to have it all redone, but they never have the right cuts of cloth I’m happy with.”

“I…quite understand.”

Yvlon felt a tap on her shoulder and blinked as Thexca offered her an autograph card.

“Honored guest? Adventurer Yvlon’s token of remembrance.”

“Ah, thank you.”

Yvlon reached for it to sign—then saw a curious thing. The autograph card was pre-signed, and it had no less than four signatures. The [Merchant Lord]’s eyes brightened.

“Now what is this?”

“Thexca of Scaied, Mectail the Striker, uh, Zirre, and the Silver Killer of the Coliseum of Monarchs. We are a team of this morning, sir.”

Thexca saw the [Merchant Lord] glance at Yvlon’s companions. He eyed the signatures, each in a different color, and Yvlon saw a very stylish ‘Silver Killer’ followed by an elegant signature of her name—she eyed Thexca and the [Gladiator] winked.

“How delightful. Thank you. A new team, is it? I must visit the arenas again sometime soon.”

Yvlon turned just in time to see Thexca forging another signature on a small pile of cardboard squares. She glanced up at Yvlon, and the woman…gave her a covert thumbs-up. She understood adventurers marketing themselves. What amused Yvlon the most was the final signature. After the [Merchant] had walked away, she leaned over.

“Are you adding Zirre’s signature to the card?”

“A four-set. It looks better, and she will be a [Mage] someday. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Yvlon. For her. I’ll be back. Why?”

Thexca looked up as Yvlon glanced at Zirre. She saw a rare twinkle in Yvlon’s eyes. The [Armsmistress] whispered.

“Write ‘Zirre Groundless’ on the card. We’ll tell Vitte later.”

Thexca’s face was slack—then a huge grin reached her ears. Even Mectail snorted approvingly.

The introductions in the first hour were a whirlwind of people asking Yvlon all manner of things. Was the scrying orb telling the truth? How did she get here? Where was her team? What were her thoughts on the war, how did she find Nerrhavia, the honor of being a [Gladiator]…

Interesting, revealing conversations. But mostly, they asked about the gossip spreading through the court.

“So. You claim the Magistrate Ducaz of…well, I’d have to find the region. He falsely accused and imprisoned a Gold-rank adventurer?”

Ylvon met the interrogative eyes that were a bit too small in a glaring face. Yet this was a Stitch-man. She nodded slightly, never looking away.

“I will stake my team’s reputation on it, sir. And swear on truth stones.”

“Ah, but truth stones were surely employed in your conviction.”

“Then someone is lying. But it is not me, sir.”

The man’s stare was like a pair of hot needles, but Yvlon had met prickly [Lords] before. They were part and parcel for Izril, and so she held his gaze until he nodded.

“If it is true, then perhaps it is a form of lesser corruption. Or the [Magistrate] himself…but one cannot lie alone. If it is true. I will take you at your word, Adventurer. I do not want a remembrance token. I offer you a farewell. Walk on the bones of tyrants.”

He turned and hobbled off, and no less than three [Bodyguards] and a cluster of servants followed. Yvlon exhaled as Thexca lowered the card she kept offering.

“Who was that?”

The [Gladiator] didn’t know, but Zirre hurried over, looking nervous and excited.

“That…was [Supreme Adjudicator] Coroint. He’s retired, but he used to be one of the officials who settled disputes between royal households.”

Yvlon whistled silently as she stared at the old Stitch-man. Thexca blinked, eyes huge.

“Now there’s a powerful patron. This might be bigger than we thought, Silver. Did you see how he kept touching that ring on his finger? That wasn’t just [Detect Truth], I think.”

No—Yvlon had noticed the huge opal as well. From the way Coroint had frowned…well, she had high hopes herself.

“Gladiators.”

A [Servant] with a blank face appeared. He was Silk and dressed in what Yvlon took to be royal colors; Nerrhavia’s were purely gold and white and, to cut the high colors, a deeper pink-red mixed with purple. He spoke, crisply.

“You are summoned to the inner walks of the Court of Silk. You may approach the second pavilion and may stay there until called further or dismissed.”

He gestured, and Yvlon saw that he was pointing to the second layer of the courts, closer to the throne.

“The second pavilion? That’s only one from being able to approach the throne! Excuse me—is Yvlon meeting someone? All of us are…?”

The [Servant] bowed slightly, eyes flickering to Yvlon’s face and her arms.

“You will be summoned shortly. Permission has been granted to enter the inner walkways—that is all I am at liberty to say.”

Yvlon saw him gesture, and she, Mectail, and Thexca followed him across a line on the stone floors. A distinction between the outer part of the Court of Silk and…

Heads turned as they watched the four being led in. Zirre was clinging to Mectail’s back, scurrying past him, and murmurs arose. Those who had seen Yvlon Byres already saw her draw closer to the throne and, accordingly, the aloof group in the inner court saw her enter and began to drift over.

Among their number was the [Supreme Adjudicator] himself. He turned in his seat and eyed Yvlon. She heard his faint harumph—and his eyes sharpened.

Who is my patron?

Now Yvlon was curious. She had assumed it was someone who was simply taken with her as an adventurer. But…this was no common member of the nobility.

Now even those around the dais were glancing up—and at each other. If you could understand how they thought, they were as open as a good book.

Who had invited this [Gladiator] here? Well, we might as well scope out the situation. Is this a ploy? Simply greeting…is that the adventurer from the scrying orb? Why yes it is!

Fascinating. Not least Yvlon’s arms, which were interesting even to most here. And with them came a rumor.

“Magistrate Ducaz…?”

Somewhere, the [Magistrate] was going to have a very bad day. However—there were things Yvlon hadn’t accounted for. One of them was Administrator Vebrynthe, who casually asked a [Servant] who that Human was—then asked again. The other was that she had forgotten how it worked. Everyone knew everyone. Friends…well, friend was an exaggeration in most cases.

But…

Someone came striding up to Yvlon before she truly began the second wave of introductions and greetings. She was just shaking hands with a Garuda woman who was a [Diplomat] from afar when a young man, oh, nineteen or so, planted himself in front of her.

He was shorter than her, young, and had a sword on his side. Yvlon noticed that first—then the strange quality of his skin, which seemed…almost a bit luminescent? He stared up at her, glaring at the taller Human woman, then snapped.

“How is it done?”

“Er, excuse me?”

The Garuda backed up as the young man glared at her.

“How is it done? With you Izrilians. Hm? Well?”

He turned, and, rather than address her, glared at a group behind him. Yvlon saw, in order, a Stitch-man with a huge frown for her, tugging out a riding glove from his bag of holding; he was dressed in dark scale mail, some monster’s clothing, and handsome in a sharp-featured way—Silk.

Eight bodyguards and just as many servants, and, among them, standing far at the back, a huge, broad-shouldered man with a severe nose, who stood quiet with a plain helm over his face and good, but severely plain armor, aside from the complicated blue seal that combined an anchor with some writing Yvlon couldn’t recognize. She met his gaze and realized—he was Hemp, the first of his caste she had seen here.

He was also, incidentally, the most dangerous of the entire group if Yvlon’s warrior senses were right; something about the way he stood made him feel like Calruz, or another fighter who could explode into an attack if need be.

The second most dangerous was the man who removed the riding glove.

“I believe it is with gloves, Highness.”

“Is it? Then—”

Yvlon blinked, recoiled, and the tip of the riding glove slapped her across the face. She cursed.

“What are you doing, you idiot?”

Her hand went to her side, but there was no sword. Instantly, the conversation around her went silent. [Guards] turned, and she stared as the tall Silk-man calmly put a hand on his own sword. The young man nodded.

“That is twice. First, the magistrate. Now, an insult to my line or my trusted retainer, which is equal.”

Yvlon stared down at him. Her jaw worked as her good hand clenched. Her first instinct was to punch the man who’d just slapped her with a glove. But she calmed herself, gritted her teeth.

“I’m sorry. I seem to have offended you, and I don’t know who you are…?”

“That’s three.”

The young man’s eyes flashed. He raised his voice, throwing his head back, and Yvlon saw he had some kind of decorative scarf-wrap around his head.

“I am Prince Esceit of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, glorious nation of cloth. I am heir of Quarein, whose royal blood stands second only to Beziin.”

He turned and bowed to the throne. Yvlon looked up, and saw a pair of staring eyes past a veiled fan. She and [Queen] Yisame Beziin of Nerrhavia’s Fallen locked eyes for a fraction of a second and then her attention was dragged back down by the [Prince].

“You have insulted the [Magistrate] of my domain and implied corruption among the Quarein family. You have insulted my servant and, therefore, me. You have no knowledge of whom you address. As the Izrilians do it, Adventurer Yvlon Byres, I say you spread falsehoods, I demand apology, to myself, my name, and Nerrhavia itself which you are guest of. If you understand none of this, understand at least that you stand in the presence of a [Prince] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen.”

The young man stood there, diatribe completed, and Yvlon Byres stared at him, rubbing her cheek. The first thought she had was that he didn’t quite understand that slapping someone with a glove was more of a Terandrian ideal. And even then—it wasn’t used quite like that.

The second was that…Ducaz? Yvlon understood why this young man was offended—well, one of the three reasons listed. She mildly, mildly replied to him.

“Your Highness Esceit, I apologize if there has been any misunderstanding. I did not mean to offend your family, but I have been unjustly imprisoned by Magistrate Ducaz. That is not a slight on your family.”

“You are using my name without permission, Human. And if I must explain, I must explain—Quarein has no corruption within it. To imply a [Magistrate] of an entire region is corrupt is to throw our loyalty to the throne into doubt. That is four. Septis?”

The glove raised and Yvlon cursed, but again, it tickled a cheek.

“Would you stop—Your Highness, I am a Gold-rank adventurer of Izril. Surely you have heard of—my raid on the Village of the Dead was on a scrying orb. I came to Chandrar by chance. That I appeared as a prisoner in Nerrhavia’s Fallen surely seems wrong, doesn’t it?”

She clenched her hand behind her back. Calm down. Don’t pull an Erin. Or a Pisces. Or a…no, those two were the worst. She eyed the young man balefully, and someone else approached.

“Your Highness. Your Highness, perhaps now is not the…we are in the presence of the crown.”

An anxious woman and another gaggle of people with the same odd sheen to their skin approached. Yvlon guessed they were the [Prince]’s family of some kind, but the [Prince] just snapped at the [Servant].

“Now is precisely the time. Or Her Majesty—”

Again, he bowed at the throne.

“—Will not see the loyalty of our royal name. We are Quarein of Satin! We do not suffer lies. By my cloth, I will not. And this Human—you are insolent, Adventurer Byres, but I will relent as you are a guest of the Court of Silks and your appearance on the scrying orb has some credence. Nevertheless, you will recant your words against Magistrate Ducaz and I will pardon the…”

He hesitated and his bodyguard or servant leaned over.

“Four.”

“Four transgressions. Yes, Septis.”

Yvlon Byres glanced at the man, who gave her an unfriendly look. She exhaled, slowly.

“…I cannot do that, Your Highness. I did not lie. I am Yvlon of House Byres, an Izrilian noble house, and my word is true as silver. I do not intend offense against…House Quarein of Satin or Nerrhavia’s Fallen—I am simply pointing out a corrupt man who lied and interfered with the system of law to place me in bonds illegally. That is all. I hope you will not be offended and if you try and slap me one more time, I will rip your arm off and feed it to you.”

The [Prince] recoiled and every [Guard] raised their weapons as Yvlon grabbed the glove and her hand turned into a flurry of spikes. It shredded the fabric as Septis recoiled, half-drawing his sword. Yvlon tossed the piece of fabric down.

“Back, Your Highness—to the [Prince]!”

Someone cried. The Silk Stitch-man slowly drew a dark, purple-tinted blade that made Yvlon’s nerves sing. The Hemp-man in the back calmly raised his hand, moving forwards in front of Esceit as Thexca backed up, horrified. Mectail raised a fist—

“Lay your weapons down.”

A voice from the dais. Yvlon stopped, hand raised, and the others froze, swords raised. Mainly because a line of archers had stood up, and, in front of them, a wall of [Palace Guards] were presenting enchanted steel. No less than forty advanced on Yvlon as she froze, then raised her arms.

The [Archers] had flaming arrows. Most were trained on her, but a few shifted aim towards Septis, the Hemp-man…and Mectail and Thexca. None to the [Prince].

The [Queen]. Her [Speaker] was on her feet, and it was she who called out, furious.

“You draw blades in the Court of Silk? Before Her Majesty? Even a [Prince] should not dare. Let alone an adventurer from foreign lands.”

Instantly, the Quarein family turned to the throne. Yvlon saw the [Prince] bow, face flushed, and glare at her. As if any part of this was her fault…well, she had lost her temper. She froze as they began to apologize.

“Your Majesty, we beg forgiveness for the disturbance…we will offer apologies to the throne and all present. His Highness was simply concerned with—”

“I will not accept this slight on my royal name, or that of the crown, Your Majesty. Forgive me.”

Prince Esceit broke in. He bowed to Yisame, who had never moved. Her [Speaker] stepped back, as Yisame’s fingers flashed, but she listened, glancing once at Yvlon as the [Prince] spoke.

“I will not trouble Your Majesty or the Court of Silk. Yet it is done five times now—five slights. Therefore, as this Human woman is a [Gladiator], I demand a bout in the Coliseum of Monarchs. My warriors will redress her—Septis, my loyal hand, will answer her insults in blood.”

He gestured, and Septis stepped back, sheathing his sword. The [Prince] glanced up, but the woman on the throne was silent. It was her right hand who spoke, eyes flashing, frown in full view of all.

“This entire affair…displeases us, Prince Esceit. The adventurer is a noted figure of distant Izril. We are unhappy with Quarein. Insults or no, a Gold-rank adventurer deserves respect, in combat or outside. Your warrior is no [Gladiator]; the Coliseum of Monarchs is for those who earn the right to battle there, not a grounds for simple dispute.”

The ominous speech from the [Speaker] made Pince Esceit duck his head further. His ears were bright red, and he hesitated. Before anyone else could speak—and they looked ready to drag him off—he glanced back.

“Then…if it pleases the throne, I shall answer [Gladiator] with [Gladiator]. Beton! Step forwards!”

Another figure came forwards, the calm Hemp-man who hadn’t drawn a weapon. Yvlon’s nerves tingled as he sank to one knee. The [Prince] gestured to him.

“Though it may shame the Courts to present him here—Beton is a champion of the Coliseum of Monarchs past. Beton [Doomguard]. I shall have him answer the adventurer in a manner befitting the arenas.”

Yvlon saw the [Gladiator] bow. She heard a muffled oath from behind her.

“Oh shit. That’s not…”

Thexca fell silent. And indeed, Yisame and her speaker were silent a long moment. Yvlon saw a finger twitch. The [Speaker] glanced at her, then smiled.

“We are most pleased by this. Honor to the traditions of Nerrhavia must stand above all. Honor and dignity. We shall forgive this slight once.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I am humbled by your words. I shall arrange the match at once.”

Prince Esceit shot to his feet. He turned, and fixed Yvlon with a stare. She looked back, glancing first at Septis, who eyed her balefully…then that man.

Beton. He rose, slowly, bowing, and tilted his head her way. His face changed not at all, but Yvlon cursed. Why did these things always happen to her?

She should have let that idiot slap her. But this was Nerrhavia’s Fallen. The courts where duels were not unknown, and the dignity of such things sometimes ended in blood. Where such plots were common. And the [Queen] floated above it all, serene, impartial, an observer among a current of plots. There was little else of note as Yvlon was towed backwards to the Coliseum for a match of vendettas. No time for a patron—who never revealed themself.

But she swore, when the [Speaker] took a bad fall off the dais, that she saw a foot kick her.

——

Yvlon Byres was getting awfully sick of people making life harder for her. Greedy, shortsighted, arrogant…

She was almost glad for a chance to fight back. Almost—but she kept staring at her right arm. It was still jagged just past her wrist. She couldn’t fight at full-strength without it, even if she could pull tricks with the metal itself.

This time she needed to be at full-strength. Prince Esceit’s challenge had hit Nerrhavia’s court and city like a storm, and he did not waste time. They had a duel that evening, and Yvlon had to not only figure out how to fight—she also had to see if she was alone.

“I wish it was the other one. The right hand—Septis, that Silk [Bodyguard]. Not that it would be easy. He’s got a poisoned blade. Did you see the purple edge?”

“How good is he? Some idiot in a distant family or…?”

“Professional bodyguard. No idea how good, but they’re one of the main bloodlines. He has to be Level 30. Not higher, probably.”

“Wonderful.”

Yvlon was sitting with Rexel and Leprel as the two freaked out. Vitte was here, and Zirre, Mectail, Thexca…and even Romen and sympathetic gladiators like Pethore. They’d all heard the story by now and Vitte’s outrage…

Was somehow still focused around Vitte.

“I missed it. You didn’t even put my name on the autograph card! You put Zirre’s?”

“Vitte, shut the hell up. Yvlon, you’re in trouble. Septis was the better choice. If they let you duel him, you’d have a fair shot, one arm or not.”

“I think so.”

Yvlon didn’t like the poisoned blade, but the man hadn’t seemed impossibly good and she had a distinct whiff of arrogance from him. Vitte nodded.

“All you’d have to do is not kill him or else there’d be a second feud. Beton, though…”

Everyone fell silent. Yvlon looked around.

“He was with the [Prince]. Part of the bodyguard, despite being Hemp.”

“Because he’s the real security, along with Septis. No one’ll try to take on an arena champion. And he was the champion of this arena.”

Romen muttered. Yvlon felt at her bad arm, touching the ends of the metal.

“…So how good is he? What’s his fighting style? Can I bring any—”

“Forty-three.”

Pethore spoke. Yvlon glanced up. The Dullahan woman looked down at her, eyes sympathetic, holding her head in her hands. She placed it on the table and her head addressed Yvlon solemnly.

“Forty-three. That was his level when he became champion. In true bouts—no pretense, no acting. That was then, and it was near a decade ago, when I was first here. He uses a mace in one hand, and has a kind of arm-gauntlet on the other. He can block with it as good as anyone with a shield, and I once saw him crack the arena’s magical barrier with a blow. That…is your opponent.”

The room fell silent. Yvlon felt cold.

Level 40. A step above her current stage. A huge one. No—she had other levels. She wasn’t purely Level 30 alone but…

He might have multiple classes too. Still, Level 40. And she had one arm, and not even her dominant one.

“Maybe it won’t be to the death.”

Thexca suggested after a while. She shrugged.

“I don’t know blood-duels in Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Back in Scaied, we just tap them with poison and let them scream for a week straight. Is there any chance…?”

“It depends on whether or not the [Prince] tells Beton to finish Yvlon off once—if she loses. Thumbs up, thumbs down. Simple.”

“And the odds of…?”

Thexca looked around. No one met her glance. Vitte coughed.

“Well, he was insulted five times.”

Yvlon Byres sat there. No gear. No secret weapon. The others began trying to talk tactics.

“At least he’ll have to use standard gear.”

“That favors him, not Yvlon—someone check her potions allowance. If we can give her a Potion of Speed instead of a healing potion—”

“…saw Beton fight once. He’ll charge straight in. If Yvlon could evade…”

She didn’t partake in the strategy. Mectail wanted to run through a practice battle. Someone else suggested a [Masseuse]. When everyone stared at Romen, he lifted his hands.

“They have good Skills! It will limber her up for a battle. Anything. Any temporary buff or advantage…”

“That’s a good point. Yvlon? We could try a massage or…Yvlon?”

The woman stood up without a word.

“I need a moment. Rexel, let me know when the match is an hour away.”

She slowly walked towards her room as her friends fell silent behind her. Yet it was not in despair or desolation as they might think. Yvlon entered her room, sat down, and went for the desk drawer. She pulled out the two rings, two scrolls, and stared at them.

I could destroy all of the arena if one of these scrolls is deadly. The rings…

She reached for one, hesitated.

There was nothing stupider than putting on an unknown relic. No one was that crazy. Ceria, Pisces…Ksmvr might do it because he was young and new to the job, but she might well take her chances that the [Prince] would spare her.

But if it was certain death or not—Yvlon Byres slowly put the rings in her pockets. She hoped that wouldn’t activate them—well, swallowing them hadn’t. The scrolls? She hesitated.

The scrolls could be truly dangerous if they were the possessions of that Putrid One. She would rely on the rings as a last-ditch resort. She stood up, shaking slightly, and went to talk to Mectail and Pethore. Either training or insight into that [Gladiator]’s style would be welcome.

She walked out the door and straight into a wall of flesh. Well, more like rock. Yvlon recoiled. She looked up—

And there he was. Beton [Doomguard]. Yvlon froze. She went for the sword she, again, didn’t have and he grabbed her arm.

“You have insulted Quarein’s royal line.”

“You—what are y—”

He was right outside her room! The former [Gladiator] pivoted, and tossed Yvlon as her shoulder morphed. The spike of steel missed his hands and she hit a wall.

“What was—dead gods!”

A [Guard] came walking down the corridor, saw Beton, and went pale. The [Gladiator] ignored him. He reached out and put an arm against her shoulder, away from her metal arm, pressing her against the wall. He was strong! And—Yvlon grabbed his hand—his flesh was almost as tough as her skin!

“Steel woven into thread. Steel wool. Quarein’s gold is my cloth and flesh. I am Beton, and I ruled this coliseum. You are a Gold-rank adventurer and brave, but I tell you now—you cannot best me. If you bow and grovel before Prince Esceit, you may yet live. I am offering you this chance.”

“Gladiator Beton—you can’t—let her go!”

The [Guard] nervously shouted. Beton glanced sideways at him and the man stepped back. Beton shook his head.

“Adventurer Byres will not die here. I am offering her a chance. Do not interfere.”

“You—I didn’t start—”

Yvlon’s chest was compressing. Beton leaned forwards. His skin did have a metallic-ish cast to it. And, yes, his features were dull. A blunt, curiously flat edge to his nose, two wide-set eyes, a mop of short, tough hair in grey, and cracked lips. He looked like an upscaled version of a [Bouncer] in some bar, a [Tough]. The [Guard] was backing up, calling for reinforcements as Beton leaned forwards.

“Surrender and beg for his mercy, or I will punish you before you die, adventurer. You are not my equal. You should have been a [Knight]. A [Knight] could face me well. You? Pathetic.”

He pressed harder and Yvlon gasped. Gasped…and stared at him.

“You think…I’m a [Knight]…?”

“Better you were. But then, I have no weaknesses. Understand?”

Beton stepped back, as more [Guards] skidded around the corner, saw Beton, and decided they didn’t have enough reinforcements. He lifted one huge hand.

“Do you understand?”

Yvlon saw him point at her. She backed up, coughing.

“I do. And—I refuse to bow to your [Prince] for telling the truth! I was told this city was founded on the bones of tyrants. It doesn’t seem much has changed.”

His eyes narrowed. Yvlon saw a hand come up. The [Guards] ran forwards, saw a fist go through the wall, and ran back.

Yvlon ducked. She stared up at the crumbling stone, plaster, and Beton’s face. Now shouting filled the halls, and more [Gladiators] came running, including Mectail, who sped up when he saw Beton. The [Gladiator] stared down at Yvlon and his lips moved fractionally.

“Just like that.”

“Beton!”

The [Doomguard] turned. Yvlon saw Mectail leap and throw a palm out.

“[Aeriform Palm]!”

“[Perfect Guard].”

They touched—palm to arm blocking Mectail’s chest. This time, the shockwave made Yvlon’s ears pop. When she got up, she saw Mectail recoiling, and Beton…walking backwards.

“I gave you one last chance, Human. Remember that.”

He pointed at her and walked off. Mectail was glaring. The others stared at the hole in the wall.

“Oh, dead gods Yvlon…”

“I’ll be okay. I think. I’ll be—”

Yvlon stared back at Beton. Her lips moved slightly.

“…A [Knight]?”

——

The arena was roaring already. They did for things like this. A former [Champion Gladiator], facing a Gold-rank adventurer in a blood match of honor?

The stuff of stories. Oh, but she wished it were a story she would like.

Yisame was furious. That idiot from Quarein—she hadn’t thought they’d take it personally. The [Princes], though—they were dangerous. Too close to the throne. Yet Yvlon!

She knew Yvlon was the heroine of the Horns of Hammerad’s tale. A brave woman, who had survived encounters most warriors couldn’t dream of.

Yet she kept repeating the numbers. Level 37 [Silversteel Armsmistress] versus Beton’s Level 43 [Doomguard Gladiator Champion]—and that was ten years ago.

“A Level 40 capstone does not make an entire battle.”

“No, but it tends to win most of them. There is a huge spike in power and Beton’s no rookie. Your Majesty.”

A cracked voice replied. Yisame turned to glare, but this wasn’t her [Speaker] and her gaze bounced right off her companion in the royal booth.

“So that’s the Gold-ranker, eh? One arm and she’s already fought this morning? I’ll bet on Beton any day of the week.”

Yisame had forgotten all about that. She ground her teeth together as Yvlon came out onto the sands. She raised her one arm briefly; she had a shield strapped to the other arm. The crowd cheered and roared and jeered, because she had insulted Quarein, a beloved royal line. Satin’s caste.

When Beton entered, though, the roaring was so loud the [Silence] spells automatically activated in the royal booth. He wore no enchanted armor; just that steel armguard over one arm, running down to his hand, and holding a mace in the other.

Hemp. Metal-cloth. Yisame had heard even his bones were made more of metal than cloth, and he had shown that toughness in the arena time and time again. She ran down the list of highlights as the [Announcer] read them off.

Survived a [Fireball] point blank range. Fought a Grand Elephant to a standstill. Hit by a catapult and…

“Oh come on.”

She watched as he raised his arms and the screaming grew even louder. Yvlon Byres looked quite small, standing there, even reflected onto the large, enchanted mirror set up to magnify her. How had it come to this?

In dead silence, she watched as Yvlon Byres was given one last chance to repent her scurrilous ways. The [Prince], Esceit, did not occupy Yisame’s most royal booth, but his family and entourage, including that idiot with the glove, Septis, were all watching from the front rows. Yisame half-wished Yvlon would…

But she did not. She shook her head, and that was everything Yisame wanted of her. And yet…Yvlon lifted her sword as the [Prince] pointed at Beton. The [Doomguard] bowed and then raised his mace. The two warriors stared at each other as the [Announcer] counted it down with the crowd.

Yvlon’s heart beat down. Three. Two. One…

And then Beton charged. He launched forwards so fast that Yisame didn’t see it. Yvlon herself was caught off-guard as he flashed across the arena. His mace screamed behind him and she saw him roar a Level 40 Skill.

[Doomshaker Blow].

Not his best. But a Skill of a level above Yvlon’s. The simple, iron mace turned dark. What Yisame could only describe as a pall of dark energy charged around it, and when it swung down, she saw the air fracture and spread outwards, crushing everything the shockwave touched.

She cried out. Yisame was on her feet, so was half the arena. The other half was watching the scrying orb. They saw a flurry—then, as the dust was whisked away by spells they saw Yvlon Byres.

She had ducked the blow, unimaginably fast as it was. Beton recoiled as her sword came up and the metal on her arms twisted—stabbed in an explosion outwards. He twisted, but too slow, and as he recoiled…

The [Doomguard] stepped back, touched his shoulder. He stared at Yvlon and a drop of dark red blood hit the sands. Yisame gasped as the crowd shouted and cheered and exclaimed. Yvlon Byres charged into an attack, took a step back—and the earth exploded. A geyser of rock and sand nearly took her face off. She stumbled backwards as Beton charged again, but once more he was caught off-guard by her morphing arms. Twice now! Yisame was breathless, as her companion chortled and demanded a drink and snack.

The stuff of stories.

——

A geyser of earth? She had never even seen a Skill like that. Had he somehow transmitted a blow through the ground? Yvlon Byres rolled, panting, and saw the mace come down.

The ground kicked her. The air kicked her. She went flying, caught herself, and saw Beton turning, looking for her. Each time his mace struck, it left a terrible shockwave—she had already realized she could block one blow at most before he destroyed her shield.

Yet he wouldn’t give her one blow if he could follow it up. Nor did he give her a chance to set herself. He was already charging. Yvlon saw the mace come up and aimed a finger—a needle of metal shot out and his hand twisted—but she’d forgotten his other hand.

The gauntleted arm blocked her sword, picked her up, and Yvlon felt herself being carried in a bull-rush towards one of the walls. She swore, trying to move free, but the momentum—

Up.

Her eyes widened. She struck the wall, so hard the wind went out of her. The stone cracked and she hoped her ribs hadn’t, but—she could breathe and she saw the mace moving—

Her foot dug into the stone. No, wait—his knee! Yvlon pushed up and jumped. The mace hit the stone wall of the arena. The detonation sent her tumbling, and the entire arena’s barrier flashed as people threw up their hands from the terrific cloud of debris.

When it was gone, Beton was staring incredulously at the wall, coughing in the dust. Looking around for her…Yvlon Byres charged him from the side. He whirled, and they locked blades. Yvlon’s arms began to explode into a porcupine and his eyes went wide. He tried to back up, too slow…

The illusion. Behind.

Beton went roaring away as the crowd howled; he had been struck dozens of times as Yvlon’s arms became a living porcupine of metal! Yet he was not the Champion of Rust; he turned, eyes ablaze with fury and came at her in a roar. Yvlon saw him blur slightly as he charged her. She ran forwards, hesitated, saw the image of Beton charging her vanish. She was already turning—

And the mace nearly took her face off again. The uppercut did send her reeling backwards. Yvlon’s mouth was bloody, but she staggered back. She began her [Sword Art], sword twisting in her hand and he stopped, warily.

They faced each other, for a shuddering heartbeat, then three—then he kicked sand up at her and charged. She hit the ground, wrestling away from punching fists, that mace—

During the throw. Sword art.

Her eyes widened. And up she went. And—he raised a mace to strike her as he held her and she stabbed down. He roared and threw her and Yvlon twisted.

[Sword Art: Crescent of the Moon]!

It caught him across the chest, and even the [Doomguard]’s partial block wasn’t enough. He stared at his torn flesh, in a crescent arc across his body, and howled. Yvlon got to her feet, reaching for her own potion. She saw Beton whirl, point at her, and shout. But she wasn’t listening to that.

Four times. Four deaths. From the first blow, impossibly fast to her head, to the rock geyser attack to being trapped in the wall—now the illusion attack. She had escaped each one by the barest chance—and only because she had the reflexes to match.

And…because she’d known it had been coming. Yvlon waited. Beton struck the ground with a mace, creating a huge dust cloud, which he disappeared into. She retreated, putting her back to the wall.

Waiting for his voice to tell her what was coming next. Yvlon Byres set herself.

Knighting.

The oldest trick in a [Gladiator]’s book. It was still life-or-death. But because he’d told her—he had to be improvising with her. They were cutting each other; she’d loosened a tooth in that punch! Yet he was—

Yvlon heard a voice. She dove forwards and this time he got her. The mace came up and her chestplate bowed in. She went spinning out of the cloud, and she thought she had snapped a rib. But she was sure if he had actually meant to hit her that hard…wait for the flash. What flash? Just wait for the—

She saw his mace flash, closed her eyes, and spun right. This time she caught him across the side with a horizontal slash, and the flash of light both blinded him as it bounced off her arms, and missed her. The crowd was on their feet; the [Prince] was howling at Beton to finish Yvlon.

He couldn’t. He tried, but she was too quick, her arms too adaptive. The metal could morph, cut him as he blocked with one arm, and Yvlon was too nimble, ducking blows—and he wasted Skill after Skill, destroying a lot of the arena in grand, showy blasts and clouds of dust while she cut him across the belly, hit him with her own Skills and metal arms.

Bleeding him down.

They had three potions each. Beton used one after Yvlon’s first sword art. The second after the cut against the side; the first clearly hadn’t been enough for all his wounds so far. When he reached for the third, Yvlon knocked it off his belt and shattered it on the ground.

His back against the wall, Beton [Doomguard] kept fighting, but Yvlon had two potions left. They kept at each other, and Yvlon pulled one potion out as he hammered her to the ground but failed to finish her, then the last as the two, staggering, traded blows in the center of the arena.

She knew her friends were cheering her on. She knew the crowd was roaring, the enraged [Prince] screaming orders. She could hear none of it, only her blood pounding and that quiet voice.

Dodge, block—be wary for this Skill. A quiet, methodical tone.

Wearying, now. A rasp, each time they collided.

“Good.”

Good. She looked up, and she saw his bared teeth, his snarling face. A [Gladiator]’s grin. He shoved her back.

“Now.”

She stumbled backwards, and saluted him with her sword. Beton, breathing heavily, lifted his mace. Blood running down his legs onto the sand as the arena fell deathly quiet, he tossed his armguard away. Lifted the mace high, and came at her with a roar for the last time.

Yvlon pivoted, watching him come in. She swung her sword up, charged shoulder-first, collided, felt like she’d hit a wagon—and swung the sword.

Beton [Doomguard] lay on the ground, staring up at the sky, unable to move. A sword was embedded in his belly—not far, Yvlon hoped. He stared as she yanked at her belt—looked around for a potion and shouted.

“Good.”

His lips moved, but the sound wasn’t even audible. Yvlon gazed down at him as [Guards] rushed out with potions and the [Queen] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen herself rose to her feet, applauding. She mouthed back, shielding her face.

“Thank you.”

The Hemp-man winked slightly. Yvlon looked down at him and wanted to know how he had come to work for a [Prince] like that. No—his class, whether he had done this before—she turned her head to the stands and saw the furious [Prince] shouting down. Yvlon reached for the sword as someone rushed forwards with a healing potion, wondering what came next…

And saw the [Prince]’s bodyguard, Septis, drop to the arena’s floor, sword drawn. Yvlon stiffened and Beton looked up.

Seven [Bodyguards] landed—one hit the ground and broke his leg—behind the Silk man. Quarein was on its feet, some remonstrating with the [Prince], but he pointed at Yvlon, thumb down.

“Prince Esceit Quarein has sent his personal bodyguard into the arena to slay Yvlon Byres! This—Her Majesty herself is outraged! This is a disgrace! The—”

Yvlon Byres backed up as Septis charged across the sands. The [Arena Guards] looked up, saw the deadly poison blade, and threw themselves sideways.

“You cowards! Don’t you have any honor?”

Yvlon ran backwards, stumbling. Behind Septis, the [Gladiators] were trying to raise the door to the arena, but the other [Bodyguards] were spreading out to block them and more were leaping down.

“Septis.”

Beton spoke, trying to pull himself up as the man passed by. The [Bodyguard] sneered as he lifted his sword, slowing, aiming up for a thrusting strike. His other hand was hidden on his belt, clasping something.

“You…”

Yvlon had no words. She lifted the sword up, and felt a terrible weakness in it. Yvlon shifted her guard. No, not now! Another sword? What was wrong with…?

Fighting in the arena. The [Queen] herself was shouting fury. Yvlon angled her metal arms. She saw a flicker—her hand caught the poisoned dart and it left a notch on her silversteel flesh. No more. Septis cursed, pivoting. He stepped closer, seeing Yvlon waver, bloody and exhausted.

“Enough!”

Yvlon heard a furious voice snap across the arena. A royal voice, no [Speaker], bringing silence. She agreed. The blood beating behind her eyes was speeding up. A fury was filling her. Septis hesitated, glancing up.

Then he craned his head back. Frowning. Eyes widening. Yvlon hesitated as the man took a step back, lips forming a curse. She was tempted to look up, but it was a feint—

Wasn’t it? Yvlon saw an uncertain boy staring up at the [Queen] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. No…something else? The Quarein family were all angled the same way as he was. So was everyone around him. Their heads slowly moving up, up…following something. Tracking—Septis leapt backwards, sword raising.

At last, Yvlon Byres looked up. She whirled, head turning as her sword stayed on-guard and saw the man charging down the steps of the coliseum. Cloth armor flying behind him, salt-flecked cloth blowing as his lips moved. As he jumped, an enchanted scimitar in hand, his own bodyguards surged after him, followed by a giant woman made of…marble?

But every eye was on him. Prince Zenol.

[Like a Lion, He Leapt].

The [Prince] took to the air in a single jump that carried him from the edge of the arena high overhead. Slowing, rising, until he reached the zenith of his arc and fell like a meteor towards Yvlon and Septis. The [Bodyguard] threw himself back and the Gold-rank Adventurer, the [Prince], struck the ground.

“Zenol?”

He rose, sword slashing out. Septis deflected it with an oath, then the second blow. Zenol advanced. Yvlon heard him whisper something.

——

Barelle the Bard stopped at the head of the stairs, next to Cognita Truestone, as Yisame rose to her feet. The [Bard] murmured as he saw the [Prince] land.

“[Like a Lion, He Leapt]. [He Fought With All His Pride].”

The world flashed. Barelle saw Zenol, standing in the arena, next to Yvlon Byres. Then—over a dozen figures. His [Bodyguards] leapt out of the air around him, weapons drawn.

The [Elite Bodyguard], Septis, stared at Zenol’s reinforcements, his pride. Like a lion, the [Prince] charged him.

Prince Zenol Isphel of Nerrhavia’s Fallen knocked the blade of Septis, bodyguard of Prince Esceit Quarein, down. In the Coliseum of Monarchs, before the [Queen] and all gathered, his sword swung once.

Septis’ upper torso collapsed, cut from the neck across down to his left armpit. Zenol flicked his sword and blood showered the sand. Then he turned.

Yvlon Byres looked at him as he offered a hand. The [Bodyguards] of Quarein stared as the [Silversteel Armsmistress] looked at Zenol. Then she laughed and clasped his hand. For a second, they stood there, then Zenol turned. He pointed his sword and the [Bodyguards] of the Isphel family followed their [Prince] and the Silver Killer into a charge.

[Gladiators], a [Prince], and an adventurer—no, two adventurers in the Coliseum of Monarchs.

Barelle the [Bard] let out a long sigh. Beside him, a woman folded her arms. Cognita stared down at the drama below.

“Is this what you and the [Prince] rushed to see? Blood and death and politics, Barelle? I expected more of you.”

Her green-jade eyes turned to meet his. The [Bard] bowed deeply to her.

“Not that, Miss Cognita. Stories.”

His head rose with an appreciation of a [Bard]. Someone who could say they had been there and seen it with their own eyes. But then, he was a storyteller in his own way.

A [Reader] half-stood, staring down at the two Gold-rank adventurers. Zenol and Yvlon. One who had rushed across the ocean to her, even at the cost of making mortal enemies. The kind of thing that had less consequences in a book. Here?

They looked up at her, then. So it was amidst a blood feud, war with the King of Destruction, and everything else that Queen Yisame met Yvlon Byres at last. Prince Zenol Isphel kneeling by her side.

8.55 L

[Mother of Learning is out on Amazon! Consider buying it to support an amazing (finished!) web serial! The link is here!]

If you didn’t know that sad story, you were hardly to be blamed. It did not matter to most people. It just was one personal life that affected a family—a bit more given their station. It was a simple tale too, and old history.

[Like a Lion, He Leapt]. The [Prince] of Isphel, Ziwar Isphel fought during the succession wars for Nerrhavia Fallen’s throne.

He died alone. With pride and little else.

With pride and no allies. Yes, like a lion. They told stories of that last minute.

Perhaps it would be a story remembered more often, now. However, what fewer people remembered was that Ziwar Isphel was succeeded by his son, who would one day inherit the very Skill of his father. Prince Zenol grew up alone. Now, the King of Destruction awoke. A companion from a single raid was prisoner of his very nation, and, for a single friendship made in combat over three short days, he put the name of Isphel against mighty Quarein.

It would have been easier, if someone had been able to teach him. All the rest of his life? If he had a true mentor besides [Tutors] and teachers—someone to guide him. But the time in the hour glass was out. These were dramatic days, and running faster.

From Nerrhavia’s Fallen to the Meeting of Tribes, they roamed about, entering the limelight for the first time. Sometimes they were completely alone. But what if someone could teach them? Even if it was just one thing?

——

“Yes, Your Majesty. We have found her. It is most certainly Her Highness, Princess Lyonette du Marquin. She is hale of heart and body, and, I feel, grown since last I laid eyes on her.”

Ser Lormel of the Order of the Thronebearers of Calanfer spoke cautiously—but rapidly—into the speaking stone. He kept checking it every two seconds, holding another artifact near it, which remained clear, but he was prepared to snatch the little stone away in a moment.

Dame Ushar was doing that with both hands, albeit with different artifacts, as Ser Sest and Dalimont kept watch. All of them could hear Lormel—although Ushar only faintly. The [Knight] paused.

“…No, Your Majesty. My Queen, if I may be so bold, it was, ah, not mete to inquire about that at the, er—the moment. I am sure Dame Ushar could…yes, Your Majesty. Quite for later.”

He wiped a bead of sweat off his face.

“Yes, sire? Her Hi—Princess du Marquin could speak w—she is quite, ah, composed, Your Majesty. If you would care to…”

He hesitated. Listened for nearly three minutes. The other [Knights] heard him reply now and then.

“…Yes, Your Majesty…if I may suggest, there are extenuating—of course not. I merely mention Her Highness has expressed to us on the authority of—naturally. By the Eternal Throne itself? …Yes. Yes. Securing safe passage will be—with utmost discretion and safety towards her—I will light a candle for success, Your Majesty. Glory to Calanfer and victory in battle against Ailendamus! We shall faithf—”

He hesitated, checked the speaking stone, and lowered it. Dame Ushar saw Lormel wipe at the sweat that had been growing on his brow with a handkerchief. Without a word, he put the speaking stone down, reached for a cup of water, and took a drink.

“What did their Majesties say, Ser Lormel? It was both of them?”

“Yes—yes, Ushar. Sest! Dalimont, you’d better come in. We have orders.”

The two Thronebearers entered at once. Sest closed the door as Dalimont eyed Lormel’s face. The man had served the crown faithfully, rather than one of the [Princesses] or the Order as a whole, but he appeared troubled by his conversation.

“And?”

“We have orders to take Her Highness to Calanfer immediately, without risking her capture or revealing our route.”

Lormel carefully spoke, dabbing at his brow. The Thronebearers exchanged a glance. Dalimont bit his lip, and even Ser Sest looked dismayed.

“…That would seem to be a rather difficult task, Lormel.”

“Yes, well…I did try to explain to His Majesty Princess Lyonette’s particular—but His Majesty was quite busy. The war is not going well.”

Lormel said it so quietly and plainly that Dalimont knew it was truly dire. Thronebearers could put a good face on a pig covered in muck.

“Surely if it is not well, then perhaps Her Highness is placed to affect some measure of aid? We have seen her capability.”

Dame Ushar ventured. Ser Lormel exhaled.

“His Majesty was—unable to hear my comments, Dame Ushar. I gather that it was a stressful moment. It seems a Great General of Ailendamus has just put three of the [Princesses] under siege. No less than Princess Aielef’s own fortress is now in the face of a tremendous force moving faster than anyone could credit. This is breaking news and not to leave this room.”

The Thronebearers paled. Instantly, though, all three other [Knights] demanded to know which [Princesses]. Each was pledged to one, and Dalimont…he saw Lormel look at him.

“Princess Seraphel is one of them. Princesses Aielef, Seraphel, and Vernoue…I am sorry to tender the news so poorly, Dalimont.”

The Thronebearer stood there in silence for a moment. He raised his head slowly, exhaling.

“It—it is not the first time she has survived a siege, Ser Lormel. I daresay she has practice by now, and Ailendamus honors the conduct of war. Mostly. I will do what I can here to protect her sister, as she bade.”

The other [Knights] nodded solemnly. Ser Sest looked from Dalimont to Lormel, then burst out.

“But Her Highness is not about to leave. And I don’t feel enough of a blackguard to knock her about the head and drag her off—even if that were an option! And to be clear, Ser Lormel, that is the only situation I feel as though we could convey Her Highness out of Oteslia. She will not leave without her self-declared daughter, Mrsha.”

“No, Ser Sest. I am aware, but His Majesty entrusted us with the task, and the particulars were not necessary for him at that time.”

Lormel sighed. He stroked at the tip of his chin and the thin beard there, frustrated. He hesitated, and then looked sideways at Dame Ushar. Lormel licked his lips and his forehead grew shiny again.

“That…would not be the only reason their Majesties are so keen Princess Lyonette return. I—I believe I shall leave the next conversation to you, Dame Ushar. Her Majesty expressed a, ah, realization that—well, it was quite—”

Dame Ushar raised her brows. Lormel looked at Sest and Dalimont, and leaned over to whisper something. Her eyes widened.

“Her Majesty could tell? That—”

“I say, Lormel! This is all pressing business. Don’t hold anything back.”

Ser Sest blustered. Dalimont eyed Lormel’s clamped lips and the look Ushar gave Sest, and came to the conclusion fast. Ser Sest hesitated and his eyes rapidly moved left and right. He was a fool in some ways to Dalimont, but a Thronebearer and politics? He bit his lip, then turned bright red.

“—unless that information were to somehow be of a nature unbefitting our ears?”

“I believe the latter, Ser Sest. Her Majesty expressed a…conviction which I will not bring up to Her Highness. Dame Ushar may.”

“Thank you, Ser Lormel. I look forwards to that conversation. How did Her Majesty know, pray? I am aware of many Skills in this world. That one seems like a [Mother]’s Skill…? I did not know Her Majesty had that class.”

Dalimont raised his brows. [Mother] could be a class? Lormel was in danger of severe dehydration. He patted furiously with his handkerchief.

“All I will say. All I will say is this: Princess Lyonette’s bridal price—her estimated dowry? It, ah, seems to have undergone rapid changes in value, and Her Majesty took particular note of the reasons why. Now, I would like to drop the line of conversation, please. Where is Her Highness right now?”

Under guard, or else they would have never let all four stay away from her. Dalimont didn’t envy the coming conversation. Nor…he sighed.

“With Lady Magnolia Reinhart. Downstairs. Did their Majesties say anything about that…?”

Lormel nodded.

“Yes. I believe it was, ‘get her away from Magnolia Reinhart as quickly as possible’. Ah…adjusting for language.”

Of the many things that could happen to a [Princess], from ransoming to kidnapping via enemies of the crown, Magnolia Reinhart apparently ranked up there with those threats. Dalimont glanced towards the doors and stairs of the mansion in which they had conducted their rapid report.

Bring Lyonette home. With a city under siege, in a continent of Drakes and Gnolls, and with Ailendamus at war. Oh—and the [Princess] being completely unwilling to do so and having bodyguards and allies that included Magnolia Reinhart, a Named Adventurer, and two men with hats.

Ser Sest’s lips moved as he calculated all that.

“So, at best speed, Ser Lormel?”

“As fast as can be managed safely and securely.”

Ser Sest nodded. He looked around, surprisingly calmly given the other Thronebearers’ expressions. Dalimont raised his brows in inquiry, and Ser Sest shrugged.

“I believe I shall rent a lot in one of the public gardens tomorrow. We may have time for a few harvests at best speed.”

——

Ser Sest was a funny man in the end. You had to appreciate wit like that.

“Ressa, are you alright?”

The [Maid] stopped stifling laughter. She coughed, stood straight, and her face returned to something like her usual implacable demeanor.

“Simply a coughing fit, milady.”

Magnolia Reinhart eyed Ressa over her brunch, fork resting against the delicate slice of cake. Lyonette du Marquin took that moment to lower her fork for good. She sat with Magnolia Reinhart, [Lady] to [Princess].

“I see. Well then…Lyonette, will you not have any more cake? Do forgive me, it’s Your Highness now, isn’t it? The Creler is out of the bag.”

“So it seems. Please, Lyonette or Miss Marquin is eminently preferable, Lady Reinhart.”

The [Lady] nodded, then sighed delicately. She took another bite of cake.

“Yet you don’t call me ‘Magnolia’. Quite distressing—but excellent manners. I can see you are well-equipped for high society in any nation you would find yourself in. Do you know more than Terandrian protocol, by any chance? Do help yourself to more cake. Such lovely cake. It was one of the few things I insisted the young people teach my [Cooks] before they left, well, that powder that makes it happen. So useful.”

Lyonette hesitated. She eyed the cake, and Magnolia Reinhart’s customary cup of tea.

“Baking powder? It is, quite, Lady Magnolia…although, I am quite fine, thank you. Yes, I do know other nations’ customs. I believe I could pass fairly well in most Chandrarian courts, and I know Centaur, Lizardfolk, and Dullahan customs. Minos is more difficult—”

“Isn’t it, though?”

“—And Drath I could manage a single greeting.”

Magnolia Reinhart tapped her lips.

“You are fairly well-schooled. Some [Princesses] retain nothing at all, you know.”

Lyonette grimaced.

“I…lost much. But my [Tutors] and mother drilled it into me, and I’ve actually begun practicing some of my addresses. So they aren’t lost.”

“Self-practice! You have changed! Are you sure you’re not hungry? You’ve barely touched your cake.”

Lyonette looked at her generous, frosted slice.

“Ah…to that, Lady Magnolia? I must ask—do you eat only sweets and drink your tea? I have seen you eat no food that is not sugary.”

Magnolia paused, fork in her mouth. She thought about it as she chewed delicately.

“I eat a rather complete meal, Lyonette. Ressa, tell her.”

“She does not.”

The [Head Maid] informed Lyonette. The [Lady]’s brows snapped together.

“Ressa, you wound me. Just the other day, I had a delightful salad.”

“Yes. You did.”

“And my credit?”

Ressa looked over Magnolia’s head as she replied. Lyonette glanced around at the servants, one of whom would now and then pass by, sweeping, carrying something on an urgent task, re-arming a trap…

“I will give you credit for healthy eating if you can last a day without something sugary in at least one meal. It was a fruit salad.”

“You see? Tyranny. But excellent help. Which is something you may need to cultivate, along with the many problems now facing you…”

Magnolia sighed delicately, but motioned to Ressa.

“Please bring Miss Marquin something more savory and allegedly ‘healthy’, Ressa. I could eat cake every day of the year.”

“You have been, almost.”

Lyonette watched the interplay. Ressa did not move herself, but briefly spoke into the speaking stone she held. Magnolia Reinhart took another bite of cake before going on.

“…And so, I gather your Thronebearers have orders to bring you to Calanfer. Was that the conversation, Ressa, or something else? And I shall be very surprised if they received anything like nuance from His Majesty, Reclis. Ielane is more subtle, but neither likes playing abroad.”

Lyonette blinked. Magnolia casually mentioned her father, King Reclis du Marquin, and Queen Ielane in the same moment as—Ressa glanced up as a [Maid] strode over with a small selection of vegetable cuts and a dip that Lyonette smiled at.

“Exactly so, Lady Reinhart.”

“You listened in on the Thronebearers?”

“They did make the mistake of requesting a room here. I suppose they thought, correctly, that the odds of it being warded were low.”

“Yes, but…how?”

Lyonette was impressed and a bit appalled. Thronebearers were nigh impossible to spy on, and they were quite good at being bodyguards. Ressa smirked in a self-satisfied manner.

“They’re good. No listening Skills, no magic, of course, no observers, even at remote distance, no lip-reading or standing near windows, and I’m fairly certain they deployed two eavesdropping counter-Skills.”

“And you heard them?”

Ressa nodded. She didn’t elaborate how—Lyonette shot Magnolia Reinhart a quick glance. The lady tapped her lips.

“Hm…I don’t think counterintelligence is something to teach, but do tell Miss Lyonette or she’ll die of impatience, Ressa. We must get to the meat of the conversation soon.”

Ressa sighed and shot Magnolia a glare, but turned and bowed slightly to Lyonette.

“Their room was infiltrated. The Thronebearers are quite adept, but they made a simple mistake. There is no hole in the walls or they’d sense it, or any false-partition, but there is a thread tap in one of the carpets. The right Skill can pick up the vibrations if it is pulled taut.”

Lyonette blinked. Someone listened through a thread? That was a level of spycraft beyond her. Yet…she looked at the duo.

That famous duo. Magnolia Reinhart, who apparently knew Lyonette’s own parents well enough to guess how they’d order their [Knights]. Deadly Flower of the North. And Ressa, one of the most dangerous [Maids] and bodyguards in existence.

“So, Lady Reinhart. Why did you summon me again? I—I must thank you for including me in your presentation of your plans. Much has changed.”

Lady Magnolia looked at Lyonette. A day had passed since the ball where she had proposed her joint effort between north and south. A day since Lyonette du Marquin had survived a flagrant assassination attempt by Oteslia’s biggest gang, and been revealed as a [Princess] by the Thronebearers.

A day. And much had indeed changed.

[Worldly Princess Level 26!]

[Skill – Royal Contract obtained!]

[Skill – Trifling Incentive obtained!]

The level ups still echoed in Lyonette’s head. She had gained them from one of the many things that had occurred yesterday, and she wondered if even the Gentlemen Callers had levelled too. She would ask, later, but the crowd waiting to get a piece of her would make that difficult.

Lionette Solstice of Liscor, who had the Faerie Flowers. Lyonette du Marquin of Calanfer, a kingdom a continent away, under siege. And, possibly, Lyonette Gemscale, if the rumors had it, fiancée of Wall Lord Ilvriss.

“So. You do quite well in encouraging chaos, Miss Marquin, and I think dear Erin Solstice taught you well in that. As for striking the correct bargains and moving Oteslia—well, what were your plans before being revealed as a [Princess]? Now?”

Lyonette stirred. She had a long piece of celery in one hand and looked at Magnolia, baffled.

“My plans, Lady Reinhart? I didn’t mean to inconvenience…”

Magnolia waved that away. She looked at Lyonette, a bit impatiently, but with some…reserve? A kind of off-kindness in her eyes.

Sympathy. Understanding.

“My dear Lyonette. The time is long past for recriminations and regrets. I know only too well how much trouble a Thronebearer can be. If I had known they would show up and cause that mess…? There is more to worry about. This gang is targeting you for reasons I can guess at, but do not know for certain. Yet. Ressa has begun countering them, but my staff are not as well-entrenched in Drake lands, nor as plentiful as I would like.”

Lyonette stirred, looking at Ressa, who nodded.

“We can only spare a dozen from security. It should be enough; Bekia, Reynold, and I will lead them on rotation. We can wipe out a safehouse every few days if all goes well.”

“A safehouse?”

Magnolia waved that away.

“The gangs love their hideaways, Lyonette. Ressa will be careful and, to be honest, I do not think you will want to stay long enough to continue a war. Nor is it your concern, in truth. If you were a Pryde or, dead gods forbid, a Bethal, you’d most likely need more combat training or strategy tutelage. I hope you’ve seen that you do best in your element—negotiating. Charming people. Quite well, in fact. Better than me.”

She gave Lyonette a rueful smile, then went on.

“But you don’t strike deals as well. Give and take, Miss Marquin. So. Did you have a plan?”

Lyonette du Marquin sat back and observed Magnolia for a moment. Her eyes moved from the oddly forthright Magnolia to Ressa. At length, she spoke up, hesitantly.

“I simply can’t quite fathom it, Lady Reinhart. I am grateful for any advice, but given your busy schedule, why are you rendering me with it?”

Magnolia sighed as she looked at Lyonette. She shook her head slowly.

“Miss Marquin. If you see a young puppy drowning in a lake, you might fish it out and hope it is never so foolish again. But if it is raining and the tide is coming in with nowhere to climb—wouldn’t you try to teach it to swim? I would like to help. So—I learned much, from experience and observation, but I had excellent tutors. Lady Zanthia, among others…”

Her eyes glinted. Lyonette saw Ressa produce something. She placed it before Lyonette and the [Princess] saw it was a file. A file…as she flipped through it…of every individual, family, and person of note in Oteslia, including those simply over Level 40 or a monetary or influence threshold. She gulped as she pulled a piece of paper out and it unfolded to show her notes on their backgrounds, ties, and enemies. Magnolia smiled.

“When you want something done, Miss Marquin, you should likely know which strings to pull. Or bridges to burn.”

——

She was trying to be helpful. No, they were all trying to be helpful. To do the right thing and impart…something.

Ilvriss knew only too well how quickly time ran out. So that was why he’d agreed to this. Well, that and Lyonette was busy, as was Magnolia. So he coughed, and sat up.

He did not have a cup of tea in his hand. Ilvriss was not that kind of Drake. A cup of water would do just fine, thank-you. Sage’s Water was a customary drink served that spoke to a certain cut of refinement, and instead of cake or a platter of vegetables and dip, the table in front of him was as utilitarian as the Wall Lord was known to be.

Claw snacks—a catchall term for finger-foods you’d pick up instead of utensils. In this case? Layered bites. A simple trick where you layered various elements together, using a strong paste or other method. For instance—meat, dried, but still soft and chewy rather than tough, a flavorful paste that allowed some kind of bready center to mix with a spicy topping—flounder?—and a more mellow sweet bottom, perhaps even a stable custard all in a square, or a more artistic design.

Fast, mini-meals with every bite. A working Drake’s meal as one might have if, say, he were discussing something with Alrric over lunch. Even Ilvriss’ study was like that; he’d rented a rich mansion, but the painting of a verdant garden on the far wall, grown-wood architecture with a very full foyer of plant-themed woodwork, and natural colors were not his element.

He did his best, too. But the fidgeting young Drake only picked at his food. Ilvriss coughed into one fist.

“So…Cirediel. Your m…the First Gardener asked me to discuss the role of leadership with you. Perhaps in the sense of taking charge of your own retinue. I imagine you’re pleased with the authority.”

Cirediel glanced up at Ilvriss. He was a striking young Drake, Ilvriss had to admit. Young, handsome, and full of a vitality that made Ilvriss feel a decade older. He’d been told he had been one of those dashing young men once, but Cirediel was an Oldblood Drake and Ilvriss quite understood why the First Gardener was so worried about her son.

A young, troublemaking man, running about Oteslia and causing havoc. Well cared for, though—Ilvriss had never heard anyone truly say a bad word about him, only express concern for him.

He was actually amazed—it seemed even Oteslia’s famed Named Adventurer, one of them, Mivifa the Oldblood of Feathers, was a family friend of the First Gardener and just as keen to watch out for Cire.

Then again, that might be the problem. Ilvriss sighed mentally, sitting back as he waited to see if Cire would take a snack. No maids or servants here; they were Drakes. Awkward Drakes. He had more important things to do, but one didn’t refuse a request from the First Gardener lightly, and it seemed Cire’s close call with all the fighting yesterday had rattled his mother.

Talk to Cire. Ilvriss waited, wondering if there wasn’t anyone else better for this job. Cire’s father…? Ah, but the First Gardener had never brought him up, and that would answer some questions. It had to be hard to guide him, given his rank.

At last, Cire looked up and stared at Ilvriss. He snagged a layered bite, chomped on it, and muttered.

“I don’t want command. That’s totally Creler. They’re just going to stick me with a bunch of bodyguards. And only the First Gardener calls me ‘Cirediel’. I’m Cire. Uh, Wall Lord.”

He stared at Ilvriss and opened his mouth, hesitating in a way that Ilvriss knew perfectly well, that meant Cire had forgotten his name.

“Ilvriss. Wall Lord of the Gemscale family.”

“Right. Zer—S—Salazsar?”

“…Yes.”

Ilvriss stared at Cire. Cire stared back, then shifted his gaze and sighed.

“I don’t know what the First Gardener wanted you to say, Wall Lord, but can we pretend you said it? She’s gotten, like, everyone to try to talk to me. The [Generals], the [Druids]…I don’t want a bodyguard.”

“The First Gardener seemed to me to suggest it was more of taking on a leadership role. You might earn a class?”

Cire snorted.

“Yeah, that’ll happen.”

Ilvriss resisted the urge to let his tail curl up. He saw the problem. Cire didn’t even seem interested by the prospect of a class.

Ancestors, was I like this when I was young? No…but then I never appreciated my father trying to teach me. I wanted to learn it myself. I would have appreciated…

Ilvriss sat up.

“I only suggested we spend an hour or two discussing what it might be like to lead a group of people, Cire. You may not replace the First Gardener in time, but—I believe she’s concerned for you. Perhaps overly so?”

It was the right question. Cire sat up and grumbled instantly.

“She’s always complaining I’m in danger and I need guards. Like I’m a piece of glass. I can handle myself!”

“Exactly.”

Cire blinked. He eyed Ilvriss and the Wall Lord smiled tightly.

“I was a young man too, once, Cire. If you can believe that. I can understand growing up in the shadow of my elders.”

“Really? But you’re so o—I mean, yeah. That’s exactly how it is.”

Cire took a drink of Sage’s Water and nearly spat it out.

“Gah! What is this?”

“Sage’s Water.”

“It tastes like dirt!”

Ilvriss eyed Cire. He couldn’t taste anything wrong with his drink and it had been poured of the same bottle. He ignored that one and gestured to Cire.

“Why don’t we head outside, Cire? Your mother’s worried about your safety, but there are more ways to solve a problem than one. She did ask me to talk to you about accepting a guard, I will admit. Perhaps she hoped you might be impressed with Captain Shieldscale.”

“Her? She’s got awesome scales and she breathes acid. Pretty Archmage.”

Cire shot to his feet as Ilvriss walked forwards. The Wall Lord hesitated.

“…Yes? Well, why don’t we head to the practice court? This place has one. Do you use a weapon? We could do a bit of sparring.”

Then maybe he’d ease Cire into discussing a bodyguard—one his age? It was a fair concern. Ilvriss nodded to four of Oteslia’s own [Pegasus Riders] as they stood to attention, surprised by the sudden exit.

“We are simply relocating.”

“Yeah. Hey, you’re not so bad, Wall Lord! That sounds sort of fun—I mean, totally football. It beats sitting around here all day.”

“Football? Er—I meant, do you use any weapons?”

Cire picked at his neck spines, proud at slipping in that new bit of lingo.

“I can use a sword. I used to take lessons. And a spear.”

“Really. Well then—”

Ilvriss smiled politely as the [Guards] and Osthia fell into step behind him. He waved at Nerul, who took one look at Cire and retreated into his rooms, muttering about ‘kids’. It was still early morning, and it seemed his uncle had come out to grab a bottle of wine. Ilvriss had to admit, it was a good way to kill time until he could meet with Lyonette.

Also…he’d do a bit more investigating, but if this was one of the Necromancer’s pawns, everyone was suspect. Ancestors.

——

She needed more lessons. Rafaema had thought she was in control. That she was ready for anything. One look at the puffy face of Ferris and the bones, set but mending, even with a healing potion, and she blamed herself all over again.

Rafaema placed the yellow flowers next to his bed. Ferris didn’t move; he was asleep.

“A day of rest, that’s all. He’ll be on his feet after his body recovers from the mended bones. Within a week he’ll be in fighting shape. He did his duty.”

“His face. I—I don’t even remember hitting him. I lost control.”

Rafaema turned her head as Hunt Commander Makhir materialized. The Gnoll looked tired. Worried, and trying to hide it from her. But then, he had a lot to worry about. Manus, his city. The Meeting of Tribes, for he was a Gnoll and disturbed by the news from there, for reasons on both Manus’ and the Gnoll people’s sides, and her. Rafaema hung her head.

“Control is difficult for Oldbloods. Much less you. We will practice again. Bow training—focus. The Dragonspeaker is already sending for an expert in the field.”

Rafaema nodded dully. She reached down to touch Ferris’ paw, and hesitated. He was sleeping and she—

In her panic, trying to help Lyonette, she’d broken at least eight of Ferris’ bones before nearly frying everyone in a thousand feet with her lightning breath. Only a chance encounter with Magnolia Reinhart had saved her—and Rafaema didn’t know what to make of that.

She didn’t know what to make of Lyonette—well, she had known the Human was a [Princess], but was she really Wall Lord Ilvriss’ fiancée? That was beyond odd. How had Magnolia Reinhart known what ailed Rafaema so perfectly?

And where was that Dragon she and Cire sensed? Makhir didn’t know all of it. She hadn’t even told him Magnolia Reinhart’s exact words.

“Rafaema. You can’t blame yourself too long. When Ferris wakes, he won’t hold a grudge.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but then switched subjects.

“…What do you mean, specialists? To help me manage my temper?”

“Not so much temper as control over your entire being. An Oldblood specialist—we have them already. But we are also hoping to find a [Monk]. Perhaps a Drake one, but Chandrar has them in number. I also suggested Berr the Berserker, but I don’t think it will be taken given the situation.”

With the Gnolls. Makhir stood stiffly, not bringing it up. But Rafaema hadn’t missed the fact that the Drake [Soldiers] from Manus now walked with her, instead of just Makhir.

It depressed her, but she pretended not to notice.

“Why him?”

“He is an excellent teacher—one of the few [Berserkers] who can control his rage perfectly. I thought…”

“I wish I could learn. I’ll—I’ll take those lessons, Makhir.”

She had to work harder. Harder still. Rafaema bent down suddenly as Ferris stirred.

“Wall Lady?”

He muttered up at her through puffed lips. Makhir bent down too.

“Report, Ferris. How are you doing?”

“I’m swollen up. What’s…is everyone well? What’s the situation?”

That was Ferris. Too loyal. Too competent. Makhir assured him all was well, and Rafaema opened and closed her mouth.

I’m sorry. I’ll behave. Ferris touched at his puffy face and looked at the flowers placed around him. He groaned.

“Rafaema, I’m touched by the flowers and concern. I don’t blame you at all. It’s just—I am grateful. But I’m allergic to marigolds.”

Rafaema and Makhir stared at the flowers, puffy and vibrantly yellow, not quite in their full orange bloom. The Lightning Dragon slowly moved the flowers away from Ferris. Do you see? Do you see how I hurt my people with every move I make?

How would she ever lead her people? Woe! Woe and failure and marigolds! Rafaema tossed them out the window and heard a scream and a crash of breaking glass. She covered her face.

——

Children were allowed to make mistakes. Well, actually, no, they weren’t. There were plenty of mistakes even a child got to make only once. Like walking in front of a wagon. Adults did their best, but they could not save children from everything.

It shouldn’t be that way. No one liked to think of it. Sometimes—you saw too much. So he drew a distinction. A line in the sand.

Lyonette was still in the land of children. It didn’t matter that she was past her majority, as every species but half-Elves counted it, and she had gone through quite a lot. There was a difference.

Saliss of Lights had seen everything. Yet, as he calmly regarded the vial sitting on the table in front of him, he had to admit it.

“This is a joke I haven’t seen before. This—this is old stuff. Erin Solstice got these flowers from the grave of an Old One. That’s what’s down in Liscor’s dungeon. That—or there’s something more that even the old man doesn’t know.”

Mirn hesitated, a claw on a morning cup of tea. His scales prickled faintly.

“Old One? I thought those were just legends.”

Saliss glanced up. He didn’t smile; nor was he his normal, ebullient to the point of incredibly annoying self. Those were fake selves.

“They exist.”

“You’ve never told me about meeting one.”

Saliss snorted.

“Meet one? I’d never get the chance to tell you about it. People ‘meet’ Old Ones. A decade later, a nation vanishes. Old monsters, down there…that’s the only thing I can think to explain this, though.”

He flicked the vial with a claw and it chimed once.

“It makes no sense, Mirn. You understand that, don’t you?”

“The flowers are worth more than they should be.”

“For something that grows from the ground like they do? Sage’s Grass is about as potent as a dandelion compared to this. Still. Every effect is twisted a bit. Pranks. Everything still has a cost. And that’s what scares me. Do you know, ‘Old Ones’ is a generic term for all kinds of things we find buried deep?”

“Mm. Now that you say it—and?”

Mirn sat back. The light coming through the window made the vial of Saliss’ potion glow faintly. The [Alchemist] studied it.

“If we’re lucky, they’re already dead. If we’re lucky, all we have to deal with is what they leave behind. That’s how I know they exist. I cleared a nest one time. Do you get it? Monsters, scavengers drawn to their corpse or what they left behind. I was Level 46. I jumped two levels and nearly lost both legs.”

Mirn shook his head. That was Saliss of Lights. A Named-rank adventurer. He shuddered, imagining what it could be, and was glad this was a conversation for early morning.

“So you think Erin Solstice got it from…? How would she even do that? Pure luck?”

“Not with her. But I’m telling you, Mirn. There’s something about these flowers that unsettles me. They’re not just magic. Or at least—not magic I understand. It reminds me of something we do. The most idiotic thing. The thing that pushes alchemy into the stuff of legends. Sometimes, the Old Ones die and we find their corpse or something comes over The Last Tide. Like A’ctelios Salash. Do you know…what we do to those things?”

Mirn waited. Saliss raised his head.

“That’s right. We use them as alchemical ingredients. There was a chapter of alchemy I once read in Nerrhavia’s Fallen, of [Alchemists] that used A’ctelios Salash’s flesh. Completely banned. They burned every single [Alchemist] involved they could find afterwards, and I can’t blame them. Some people still remember it, though. Some people still do it and they’re the monsters of alchemy. I know one exists.”

“How are they even alive? And what does this have to do with the flowers, Saliss?”

The Drake gave his friend a mirthless smile.

“Power. He can make things I can’t even dream of, at great cost. With the kind of morality that means he has a bounty of over hundred thousand gold on his head. Shifthold. If you ever hear of that ship, get out of the port. I’m just wondering if I’m headed down that path. Because this?”

He lifted the vial and stared at it. So longingly. So…nervously. Fear. Fear and desire.

“I couldn’t remember Saliss. I had my levels. I had my past, but I didn’t think hard on it. I was happy. Everything was right, but I forgot Saliss ever had been.”

Mirn stared at Saliss and remembered how carefree Onieva had seemed. He hesitated. The [Protector] of Turnscales, one of the only friends of Saliss and Onieva both, hesitated. Because Onieva was the truth, but Saliss was the one everyone knew. This was almost everything Saliss had ever worked for. A cheap, more potent reflection of the shape-shifting potion he had created.

Yet.

“So you remember her? Everything that happened?”

Saliss turned a blank face towards Mirn.

“Everything. Perfect detail; we’ve cross-referenced it. She can’t remember. I can once I’m here. And what I remember was: everything was like I wanted it to be. Now that’s cruelty.”

He tossed the vial down with a laugh. Mirn and Saliss stared at it for a long time. At last, the Named Adventurer spoke.

“It’s such a wonderful gift. If it lasted longer—we could give it to the few who…”

“Yes. But what about you?”

The [Alchemist] sat there.

“Some days I wonder if the world needs Saliss of Lights. If Onieva could replace him—no. Never replace. There’s no room in Izril for her, just because she’s her. I almost like it. Saliss is the Named Adventurer. Onieva can be Onieva.”

Mirn reached out.

“Saliss…it’s not your job to hold up the Walled Cities on your own.”

The Named Adventurer looked up, startled. He laughed in surprise.

“Hold them up? Mirn. Mirn, Mirn. Haven’t you been watching the news? Saliss isn’t holding them up. He has to hold them back. But Onieva…these idiots going after Lyonette? And this. This twisted gift.”

He lifted it up. Breathed. Mirn watched nervously as Saliss removed the cork with a single flick of the thumb.

“Yes. Onieva will not do the things that belong to Saliss. But Saliss? Saliss can’t be seen doing the truly ‘evil’ things. Depraved things like going to a bar or…that’s a good excuse.”

“Saliss…”

The Drake smiled. He took a single draft of the vial, and rasped as he sat back.

“These are better days, Mirn. Better than they were. Remind Onieva to search for those damned ethereal reagents. And…Saliss.”

He sat there. Mirn waited.

“How do I explain it?”

The [Alchemist] shrugged.

“Just tell her. How could she understand it? It’s good she won’t be able to. Just tell her. I’ll remember when I wake up.”

The smile lingered as Mirn looked away. The [Protector] took a deep breath, heart pounding, scales tingling. It was too painful to think of, his friend’s decisions and sacrifices. Many stories were like that. Yet—he turned as a Drake, an [Alchemist], stretched and laughed. That smile was so different, for all it had many of the same qualities.

Better days.

——

Wilovan and Ratici woke up at dawn. It was reflex, though they might sleep into evening. The Gnoll checked himself, reaching for his side. Ratici felt a pain that refused to go away. They started—Ratici half-rolled, a dagger in his claw.

Memories from yesterday faded. Wilovan opened one eye. He looked around the room in Mivifa’s estate. Ratici gave him a slow nod. Wilovan touched his tender healed flesh. He lay back—and went back to sleep. Ratici did the same, after a circumspect check of the room.

They had work to do. But later. They slept the sleep of goodfellows with another day, and that was a reward of its own. Pure and simple.

We are alive.

When they stood, life was simple and uncomplicated. Ratici rolled out of bed and found Wilovan already dressing himself. Or rather, trying to. He ruefully brushed at what looked like a bunch of rags.

“That was my best suit.”

“Indeed it was, Wilovan. I always thought it was rather too fine for you given how much you paid for it.”

The Gnoll looked askance at Ratici, who was selecting his own wardrobe from his bag of holding. He sighed long.

“I will admit, it was a special arrangement with the [Tailor]. A fine woman. Magnificent, really. Yet but for it—”

He felt at his side, his chest, perplexed. He should be dead. He was not. In fact, Wilovan felt better than he had been in…a long time. It still lingered on him, like a haze of goodwill. A distant light he could reach for in the dark hours he walked. A…blessing. A boon.

[Boon of the Princess]. And with it, the Skill that glowed with that same light in his head.

[He Scratched Only Thread].

Wilovan smiled. Ratici watched him standing there, only wearing his undergarments. The Drake [Thief] coughed.

“I must admit, Wilovan, unseemly as it is—I am beyond jealous of you.”

Wilovan turned. The [Gentleman Thug] nodded, going to tip his hat before he remembered it was sitting on the table. He went to fetch it.

“Ratici, I daresay your jealousy is beyond warranted. I could toss a hundred winning rolls on the feeling alone. The feeling of being…”

He paused, inhaling as Ratici went to the window. The Drake checked his corners, opened it. No poisoned dart sped through towards him, so it was a fine day. Morning air, fresh. He turned to Wilovan as the Gnoll finished his sentence.

“…a fine fellow.”

The two Gentlemen Callers stood there. Ratici nodded slowly.

“A fine fellow. That’s a feeling and a half, Wilovan.”

“Indeed it is, Ratici. And I think—we should repay the feeling. Too many close calls. Too much slow business. Miss Lyonette’s well attended with those [Knights], fine looking fellows, and that lady. It’s a bit of a relief, Ratici. I don’t think we’ll take another bodyguard job, do you?”

“Not at all, Wilovan. Us sorts are more direct. We forgot that—the Tall Man meant well, but it was a rare misplay.”

Wilovan pulled out a plain vest and breeches.

“Indeed it was, Ratici. To work?”

“To work.”

They nodded at each other. The two men adjusted their clothing in the handy full-length wall mirror, with pocket mirrors to check their backs and sides. Wilovan pointed out a ruffled sleeve; Ratici brushed Wilovan’s shoulder free of a bit of lint. Clothes straightened, they strolled out the door, smiling.

It was a fine day. There was a certain air to it. The day after you nearly died helped, but it was a smell in the air, a lovely lady to look at—

“Good morning, Miss Onieva. You are a dashing sight, if I may be so bold.”

“Well, well. Look who it is! Come on over—Xif, stop sleeping in breakfast. The heroes of yesterday are here.”

Onieva waved, a huge smile on her face as Mirn turned and Xif raised his head from a fat stack of various…pancakes? Ratici tipped his hat and sat down with alacrity as Wilovan smiled and shook his head.

“A wonderful morning to you too, Alchemist Xif, sir. Mister Mirn. Is Miss Lyonette already out?”

“Headed to visit Magnolia Reinhart, I think. You two are up fast. Did you heal all up?”

“Nothing worth mentioning, sir. What have we here? A sight for sore eyes.”

Xif stared at Wilovan as the Gnoll rubbed his paws together.

“You were stabbed two dozen times! Even the best healing potion doesn’t just put you together.”

Wilovan gave a huge wink to the [Alchemist].

“Ah, nothing a night’s rest won’t solve, Alchemist Xif. A fellow knows how to roll with a few punches and any day you don’t lose a digit is a net positive, eh?”

“Er…yes? That’s a very [Alchemist] concept too. Even so. Please, help yourself! Someone bought breakfast and—we have pancakes.”

“Pancakes? Are they that, sir? I’ve never seen them so…colorful.”

Ratici eyed the various colors. Onieva laughed.

“Mirn ran out to get them. He’s good at finding food to buy—not that any of us are good [Cooks]. You’d think an [Alchemist] would know how, but Xif is completely incapable.”

The Gnoll grumbled as she nudged him.

“I’m not as bad as Saliss. I just have no patience for it. Kneading and taste being the objective. No proper safety measures either. Flour explodes, you know.”

Onieva rolled her eyes. She began pointing as Wilovan began loading his plate high and Ratici did the same.

“Different pancakes. Yellat-pancake, obviously. Potato, carrot, wheats—I think there’s four different kinds of flour. The black one’s made of Ashwheat. Some kind of meat pancake, flower pancake. I mean…flower. As in the bright little things bees like, not wheat-based. Four vegetable-pancakes—and we’ve got honey, syrups, jam…”

The Gentlemen Callers sighed. Now there was a filling breakfast. Enough butter to stop a heart, a slathering of syrup, and each pancake was a different bite. They began putting away a tremendous amount of food as Mirn eyed the dapper pair with clear appreciation. Excellent table-manners. Onieva and Xif were completely unrepentant slobs anywhere but the alchemy station.

“So what’s your plan for the day? Onieva and I might be going for a walk. Xif?”

“Someone has to keep working at the Faerie Flowers now we know what’s up. Saliss is off doing Saliss things, damn him—I’m going to make a run for two more sets of alchemy-ware. Not enough test tubes. Fortunately, I know a good [Glassblower].”

“Mm. Unless Miss Lyonette said she’d need us, we may also head out on the town.”

Xif looked from Mirn and Onieva to the two casual Gentlemen Callers.

“Aren’t you worried about an attack? Those criminals attacked Lyonette in broad daylight. I’m safe…I think, but I’ll be sticking to the main streets until the Watch sorts it all out.”

Onieva snorted and the two Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings smiled politely. Wilovan nodded at Xif.

“I believe we’ll be just fine, sir. We know how to keep our noses out of trouble, as it were. Miss Onieva, we must have a meal at some point.”

“Oh, you. I might take you up on it.”

Onieva grinned with all her teeth. Mirn rolled his eyes. She had all the luck. Wilovan and Ratici stood, fortified and ready to face the world. They strolled out the door. Yes, life was good.

“Not even a watcher. I suspect they’re all on Miss Lyonette—oh, no. I see one.”

Ratici eyed the small figure lurking in the crowd. Wilovan brushed at his hair with a comb.

“No older fellows or ladies? Sensible.”

“A bit off from how they’d do it in the north, though. Too much downtime. I was ready for a night move—but they’re less afraid of the Watch. It’s rare to see a daylight go at it, wasn’t it?”

“Too right. Let’s not think the Watch will turn their noses up at us.”

The two nodded at each other. They still had yet to fully understand Oteslia’s intricacies, let alone the underworlds of any Walled City, but they knew the business, and this was a matter of nuance, not reinventing the wheel. They strolled forwards, planning out their day. Normally, they’d be on the job so to speak first off, but Wilovan raised a paw as Ratici made to walk left.

“Hold on, Ratici. I’d like to vouchsafe a change in plans before we get moving.”

“Hm? What’s that, then?”

Ratici was watching the Gnoll boy trying to tail them with a decent amount of stealth—for anyone but Ratici. He really didn’t see any other tails.

The Second Gardener. The Earthtenders, the biggest gang in Oteslia, with at least three Faces. Well, they’d certainly been dangerous, but Ratici and Wilovan had escaped against all odds thanks to that young man, Rickel. As for the miraculous stand with Lyonette in the open?

It had to have been a blow. Either the Earthtenders were regrouping or wary of a second costly attack—Ratici didn’t know. But it was a mistake however they did it. Because…

“I have a fancy this might be worth the investment. Give me an hour?”

“Oh, very well. I suppose we can see how they move, then.”

Ratici followed Wilovan, not so much following the Gnoll who went off searching for something, but watching the response.

Ah, there it is. The lad called in no less than eight fellows who appeared in less than ten minutes and began tailing Ratici and Wilovan. Respectable, Ratici supposed. He nudged Wilovan.

“Second street after we turn? Crosswalk?”

“Hm. If you like.”

The two turned left down a street. Wilovan paused to ask someone for directions, and was assured he was on the right trail. The Earthtenders following the duo saw Ratici and Wilovan step left hurriedly as a group of bulls hauling huge wagons of produce lumbered down the street, a [Beast Tamer] managing them. The eight plus the tail watched the wagons roll past…

And the two Gentlemen Callers were gone. Flummoxed, the eight hurried forwards, then snapped at the young Gnoll boy. He sniffed the air, but…the trail was gone! What had just—?

——

Ratici and Wilovan walked down the street in a casual saunter. The [Beast Tamer] managing the Aqua Bulls, the actually fairly docile, water-based bovines, frowned and did a double-take as he saw the two strolling along. He looked over his shoulder. Hadn’t he just seen them down that other street…?

“Sloppy. It seems they’re not as used to it the same way as the lads and ladies up north, Wilovan.”

“No indeed, Ratici. Different tricks, one supposes. Speaking of tricks—that fine young man, Rickel. Did he say how to get in touch?”

Ratici shook his head.

“I suspect we might run into him. He knows where to call on us. What was the pressing need, Wilovan? And if it was buying flowers for Miss Onieva…”

Wilovan looked offended.

“I wouldn’t waste our time when it counts, Ratici.”

The [Thief] harrumphed.

“I wouldn’t reproach you, Wilovan. A fine lady. Lovely scales.”

“Aren’t they? Not that a fellow should stare.”

“Indeed not. But I was going to say that it would be a competition, as it were.”

Wilovan gave Ratici a look of bemusement—it was rarer for Ratici to vouch an interest. He frowned, scratched at his head, then tipped his hat.

“In that case, Ratici, as a friend should, I will bow out and let you purchase a suitable bouquet or gift.”

“I should hardly want to take away honest competition, Wilovan. The lady will decide.”

Ratici replied, somewhat stiffly. He was a shorter Drake, and Wilovan, the tall, dashing Gnoll with broad shoulders and his easier manner tended to win ‘competitions’ where both professed admiration for a single person. Wilovan hastened to assure Ratici he wasn’t just being kind.

“She’s a fine woman, Ratici. But I confess—I don’t know her, and you know me. I have to say, my eye was caught already, and it might be the challenge of a lifetime, but I feel as though I’ve been lucky enough to push it to the brink.”

“Oh? And who might this beautiful woman be this time?”

Wilovan removed his hat briefly to smooth his hair.

“…That striking figure of a woman. Simply magnificent. A fellow would never have the chance to even say a word, of course, but a man can dream. Lady Magnolia Reinhart.”

Ratici nearly tripped over his feet. That was pure Wilovan. The Gnoll sighed—then replaced his top hat.

“But for later. Our current errand, Ratici, is to purchase armor as it were. Let us leave the amour for later.”

He pointed ahead and Ratici was sincerely flummoxed for a moment. Armor? Then he saw where Wilovan was pointing and his eyes lit up.

“Wilovan, if I might say so, you’re a half-man fellow in regards to Lady Reinhart. The Flower Lady herself? But a genius, I say. I didn’t consider it.”

“No indeed, Ratici, but we must count our advantages while they last. And Miss Lyonette has given us one…if I can gain it forever, or the Brothers can develop it as a whole? We might be onto something that changes the entire affair. Now…excuse me! I hope we’re not too early? I was hoping to look around and make a quick purchase.”

The two Gentlemen Callers walked in, and a suspicious [Attendant] turned into an appraising one as soon as she saw the way they dressed.

The Drake hurried forwards with a huge smile, welcoming the Drake and Gnoll into one of Oteslia’s finest clothing boutiques.

“Welcome, sirs! Are you here for a party? Urgent purchases, or something more long-term?”

She signaled the apprentice [Tailor] who was helping the front of the shop. He was another Drake, and looked up from the counter with a frown. Since he was an apprentice, he’d also managed the counter and had gained a [Salesman] class. He activated a Skill, eying the two Gentlemen Callers. They dressed well, but were they really the sorts you wanted in Canopies of Cloth?

Ratici and Wilovan felt the Skill incoming and let it happen. The [Tailor] blinked. He sat up, leapt off his stool, and came around the counter, adjusting the deep magenta vest and snappy leggings. The [Attendant] took the cue that these were real clients and beamed harder as Wilovan tipped his cap to her.

“I’m hoping to do both, Miss. An order, but something rather stylish for now if it can be arranged. I had a bit of an incident with my last best dress, you see…”

“Well, we can certainly help with that! Is it casual formalwear? Exclusively for events?”

Wilovan replied solemnly.

“Miss, I believe every day is an occasion for a fellow’s best dress.”

He was rewarded with an approving smile from the younger Drake and one of the customers window-shopping clothes. Someone understood how to live properly.

Ratici declined to have the [Tailor] measure him and let Wilovan be the focus while he inspected the clothing on racks. He did buy a suit in blue on a whim, but Wilovan was the star of the show.

“I am thinking—a full tuxedo suits your hat perfectly, Mister Wilovan. Our best [Tailor] can certainly amend it with perhaps an Oteslian motif? For today, what about this shirt to begin with? The silk comes from Oteslia itself, you see. I think it would accentuate—”

Wilovan’s chest and arms were broad, and the silk shirt on offer would highlight that. The Gnoll was a bit bashful as he entered the dressing room, but the [Attendant] and [Tailor] sighed as he came out.

“I fear it might be a tad bit too small, Miss. A fine suggestion, but I’d hate to burst it—”

Which Wilovan could certainly do if he had to move fast or started swinging. There was a component to this that was practical, but the [Attendant] hastened to assure Wilovan it would not be a problem.

“This is actually a custom line, Mister Wilovan. Does the shirt feel…uncomfortable? Tight?”

“No…but I am a bit wary of, ah, flexing.”

Wilovan admitted after a moment. It was rather nice and didn’t pull at his fur, which was always a consideration. The [Attendant] smiled and whispered.

“It has basic enchantments in that regard. The complete set. Stains, smoothness, and stretching. It isn’t our cheapest shirt, but I assure you, it will complement your physique. It actually comes from a new line of clothing inspired by a visitor our [Tailor] once had. The ‘Grimalkin’ look—won’t you try, ah, straining the shirt?”

Wilovan, quite embarrassed, did so, and the shirt strained across his chest and shoulders. One of the customers shopping was so impressed she came over to introduce herself and ask if he had plans for that evening.

He did, sadly, so the Gnoll turned the disappointed member of Oteslia’s upper crust down. That might have been forward, but one did not simply let a man in perfect shape who paid attention to his dress simply walk out of their day.

For that matter, the shirt itself was inspired by a previous encounter the [Tailor] who owned the shop had once had in her brilliant youth. There was a legend among clothes boutiques of a certain [Sinew Magus], who had once walked in, and, by the simple virtue of flexing, exploded a number of tight-fitting apparel. Which, while a sacrilege to ruin good cloth, had a certain kind of appeal to anyone who loved to see it happen.

Wilovan was not quite that muscular, but he approved the shirt and found himself replacing everything but his hat, which he refused to change despite the rest of his garments becoming as fine as could be.

The price tag made even Ratici wince, but Wilovan paid it with a straight face and put down money for the tuxedo. After all—

This was his armor. And a Skill that let a Brother of Serendipitous Meetings take cuts against his clothing? He strolled out of the tailor’s in enchanted plate armor. Then he nodded to Ratici.

“I think we’re ready, don’t you?”

The [Thief] smiled.

“Let’s scope out a few places first. Miss Marquin will be back by lunch, or so I heard. Plenty of time.”

They began to amble into the city. Fine dress, fine food, fine things to look forward to. Nothing better. Everyone else they ran into might have a really bad day, mind you.

——

Things were going a bit wrong. It was all going well.

Then Ilvriss hit the ground, three of Oteslia’s elite guard on top of him. Cirediel backed up, a scratch on his arm.

“It’s just a scratch! Ow, that’s totally—ow.”

The Wall Lord wheezed. He felt like he’d cracked a rib. It was just a cut—Cirediel was strong and quick, but he clearly had lied about keeping up with practice. Also?

Oteslia was far too overprotective of Cire.

“I am so sorry, Wall Lord, but I cannot imagine the First Gardener would approve of any harm to Cirediel.”

“I can keep practicing! I’m no lamb! Come on! I’ve got it!”

“Perhaps with less lethal weapons?”

Ilvriss had been using plain metal blades. He looked at the [Pegasus Rider].

“I am quite able to control myself, officer…”

“Of course, Wall Lord. But for the First Gardener’s peace of mind?”

“Very well. I suppose I could use a practice blade. Cirediel could use…”

“Just in case, Wall Lord, perhaps practice blades for both of you?”

Ilvriss gave the Drake officer such a look that anyone of his rank would have recoiled. Amazingly though, the [Officer] never blinked. Ilvriss did.

Ancestors. No wonder Cirediel resented a bodyguard, however necessary. Ilvriss turned to Cire and saw the young Drake was…not protesting the shackles on his freedoms, but chatting up Captain Osthia. She gave him a long look as he asked if she wanted to go flying after this. Ilvriss rubbed at his face and gave up.

——

The problem was exactly opposite for Magnolia Reinhart and Lyonette du Marquin. The [Princess] was a good listener, motivated, attentive, and intelligent. Moreover, she had a grounding in politics that any [Lady] would envy. The problem was…Lyonette smiled over a cup at Magnolia and received a charming smile in return.

They just didn’t see eye-to-eye. Like the last time they’d spoken and Lyonette had charged Magnolia with not doing enough…

“I quite understand, Magnolia. And—thank you for explaining my Skill. To me.”

“Only the nuances of it, Miss Lyonette. I know you are entirely intelligent, but there are things even a [Princess] would miss without anyone to inform her of the particulars.”

This was true and Lyonette flushed a bit, but she studied her feet before replying.

“Yet you would have me begin networking. My [Royal Contract] has only one possible bargain at a time. I know I could make less Skill-based pacts, but…I have reservations.”

“Which would be?”

Magnolia watched Lyonette carefully. The [Princess]’ face twisted.

“You would like me to meet and encourage relationships, however simple, with all of Oteslia’s elite. Wall Lords and Ladies of other cities—even a simple deal such as trading a Faerie Flower.”

“Relationships. Calanfer is the prince—or princess—among the Terandrian kingdoms of exactly that fashion, are they not?”

Lyonette bit her lip.

“Yes, but…I quite accept small relationships where I make no large, costly deals.”

“They can quite backfire. A multitude of pacts ensures a relationship where one does not lack on favors to call in, in theory. Better to give now to be owed.”

Yes, it was the Magnolia Reinhart ethos and her crash course in Izrilian politics was easy to grasp—quite adept in how it was implemented. And yet. Lyonette didn’t like it. She toyed with her cup for a second then burst out.

“I just find it so…cynical, Lady Reinhart. You would have me focus exclusively on the aristocracy, or those with financial or political power. It is as if anyone without those qualifications doesn’t matter.”

Magnolia’s brows rose.

“My dear, it is entirely cynical, as you say. Nor do I think you should like the people you work with, although they have appreciable qualities, sometimes buried deep. With a shovel. However, these are the people who can raise armies and fund wars. They are, practically, the only people who can make a difference.”

And that was it. Lyonette bit her tongue because she wanted to say, ‘you’re wrong’. She was thus surprised when Magnolia Reinhart gently scoffed.

“Am I, my dear? I am sorry, I [Read Your Lips].”

Lyonette had heard that Skill could do what it said, but never that it could read what she didn’t say. High-level [Ladies]. She frowned deeper.

“You are not wrong, Lady Magnolia. This is how I was raised to understand the world as well. It is even correct, but—I have changed. I do not want to live like that. I wish to trust…honest people.”

She looked past Magnolia, at something. Of all the people, Lyonette thought of Ishkr. Loyal, hardworking Ishkr.

“I prefer people who are honest, and whose word I can trust at face-value. I would rather not make connections with those with power and false pretense.”

Magnolia Reinhart sighed.

“Lyonette, I quite understand that point of view. I even feel so myself, but I will tell you this: such honest people make the world better, by and large. They do well, and some rise to deserving stations. Then they run into the people whose influence you must cultivate. Because they eat honest people. Honesty is a dangerous weakness when the stakes rise so high. It makes you a target.”

“I would just prefer not to live like that.”

Lyonette knew Magnolia was right, but she disliked this lesson. She shifted her gaze to the steps leading to the second floor and saw the Thronebearers bowing to one of the [Maids], at a remove from the conversation. Her expression turned further maudlin.

“I can see…these are difficult truths to swallow.”

Magnolia Reinhart tapped her lips, looking a bit vexed, but sympathetic. She glanced towards the window and saw the sun was rising. She sighed.

“I must continue my appeal for support for my project, Miss Lyonette. But I must warn you—I entirely understand the allure of your current course, but it cannot give you what you need.”

She stressed that last bit. Lyonette frowned.

“Can’t it? I stayed at an inn, Lady Reinhart, whose entire way of life ran opposite to what you espouse. When she called for help, Erin Solstice, it came, from her friends, from people who came and gave everything they could. Every time. That—to me—is far better than a network of fairweather friends and enemies.”

Magnolia Reinhart pursed her lips as Ressa glanced at her. She sat there, then put her cup down and stood with a long sigh.

“…It is a beautiful idea. Yet—Lyonette. The problem with that glorious dream is that the brave and good people you call on? They will not last to old age. They will die there, because they come whenever they are called. Far better to have wider acquaintances and let them bleed in the face of those you love. You are not wrong, but be very careful, especially should you return home. Honesty that breaks from every mold is dangerous. [Princesses] have suffered for it. Calanfer is no stranger to stepping on those that rise the wrong way, any more than Izril.”

Lyonette frowned. Her brows snapped together.

“Do you mean it has happened…? Wait, who? Shardele? It can’t be—M-Menisi? Seraphel? which…?”

Magnolia’s face was colorful. She had clearly not meant to let that slip. She lifted a hand.

“That—is a conversation for later, and a delicate one, Miss Marquin. Perhaps we shall let it lie until later?”

Lyonette couldn’t force her, so she rose and curtsied quite elegantly. Magnolia Reinhart thanked her, smiling, and Lyonette nodded.

“I do so appreciate your help, Lady Reinhart.”

“I hope it can be of some small use, Lyonette. Tomorrow then? Say, brunch?”

“Absolutely.”

The two women smiled at each other. Lyonette had the distinct impression Magnolia somewhat disliked her, and she knew that Magnolia knew the exact same feeling in her.

It was a relief, all things considered, to let the Thronebearers escort her back to Mivifa’s estates where everyone else was. Mind you, it was still different.

“Your carriage, milady? Permit us one moment.”

Dame Ushar stopped Lyonette as Ser Sest and Dalimont searched it. A small crowd watched Lyonette as she walked towards it and a little stair was lowered so she could avoid making a big step into the carriage. Ser Lormel held the door open.

Dame Ushar held a parasol over Lyonette’s head to protect her from the terrible sunlight. Lyonette’s bright smile which she had given Magnolia turned up a notch.

Yes, this was familiar.

“I do apologize, Your Highness.”

Dalimont sat in the coach itself, a security precaution. Lyonette deliberately looked out the window…just in time to see the curtains close. She glared at Dame Ushar, who gave her an apologetic look.

“Back to the estate, Your Highness?”

“Yes. You needn’t coddle me, Ser Lormel. Nor am I some wilting flower, Ser Dalimont.”

“It never crossed my mind, Your Highness. But we must insist on doing our jobs.”

“Protecting me from sunlight?”

Dalimont paused. He glanced towards the driver’s seat. Lormel had hired a [Driver] and Ser Sest rode next to her. Ushar and Lormel were mounted and riding with them.

“…From arrows, Your Highness. It is an enchanted umbrella. Do you have your tiara? It may be wise to wear it at all times. I note you have your Ring of Conflagration on—may I ask if you intend to use your Cloak of Balshadow or have it on you at any given moment?”

Lyonette blinked. She looked at Dalimont and half-reached for her bag of holding.

“I—the tiara is quite too flagrant, Ser Dalimont.”

“It does have a protection spell we cannot match, Your Highness. As to our behavior, I regret that as your life is under threat, we must take certain precautions. Lady Reinhart’s staff is immensely adept. Elsewhere?”

Lyonette frowned as she felt the carriage turn abruptly.

“Where are we going? Why are we going up? The estate is downhill.”

Dalimont glanced out the window.

“I believe we are now deviating from our route that we posted at the Carriage Driver’s Guild, Princess. We asked for traffic to be cleared for our fast travel so I believe others took note of it. Oteslia’s Watch will be observing our correct route, and any would-be attackers on the false route, but we cannot rely on them completely.”

Lyonette blinked. She kept forgetting—the Thronebearers were good at their job. Some of their peacockness wasn’t feigned, but Dalimont was more realistic than the others. She sat back with a deep sigh.

“You have orders to take me to Calanfer, don’t you?”

Dalimont didn’t blink. He inclined his head.

“They come from the Eternal Throne itself, Your Highness. But we are realistic; we know full well we cannot spirit you off, much less in a siege. I suggest you consider us an asset and I hope you will at least inform us of your plans geographically so we can protect you. As for myself—I have sworn to serve Princess Seraphel, and she bade me protect you.”

He stressed that. Lyonette looked at Dalimont thoughtfully. She exhaled.

“Well then…I will use you all as best I can. I only wish I could do more, Ser Dalimont. I must…”

She trailed off. She had to leave Oteslia and find Mrsha. Even if she was ‘safe’, as her last letter indicated. Lyonette knew Magnolia’s grand plan for peace mattered. That Ilvriss’ hunt for…dead gods, that mattered. It all mattered, including the Faerie Flowers and Erin’s cure.

But she felt so helpless. She knew one step was to start making pacts and forging alliances. Lyonette exhaled, hard.

“…Can you procure a list of people who might be interested in meeting with me, Ser Dalimont? I should imagine there are a few.”

“Quite a number, Princess. Should I make arrangements to meet with the most important at their convenience today?”

Lyonette imagined herself sitting with a cup of tea and cake in front of her, lecturing a younger woman—Mrsha?—in the arts of making deals with that world-weary air. She pulled an appalled face, but then mumbled.

“…Yes.”

——

It seemed the others had had a terrible day as well. All but Onieva, who was smiling, Wilovan and Ratici, who had a rather dapper outfit and a green rose for Onieva from Ratici, and…

No, that was it. Even the extra guests looked miserable. Ilvriss was rubbing at his back, Cirediel was muttering about Crelers, and Xif had half a dozen cuts and a black eye.

“I am so sorry. I didn’t think anyone was outside—”

Onieva was laughing so hard she was holding onto Mirn. A familiar-looking Oldblood Drake was apologizing to Xif, her sky-blue scales turned purple with embarrassment. Rafaema of Manus watched as Makhir wrote a note for the Merchant’s Guild.

“What happened?”

“An accident involving marigolds.”

Lyonette gave Mirn the blankest look in existence. Xif elaborated.

“I was just coming back with all my alchemy supplies when I ran into these flowers—those damned slopes. Someone should install handrails!”

“I think you hit one. With your face.”

Onieva wheezed. Xif glared at her. Rafaema turned even redder as Cire whistled.

“You mean Raef got you and you rolled down the hill, hit a handrail—and what happened to the glass? It broke all over you? That’s a totally Archmage wipeout. I wish I saw it!”

Rafaema glared at Cire. He pretended not to notice, saw Lyonette, and bounded over.

“Lyonette! I mean, Princess Lyonette. Hey—”

Dame Ushar nearly checked him with an arm. Cire recoiled and Oteslia’s [Pegasus Riders] stiffened. Dame Ushar bowed to Cire, and the guards.

“I beg your pardon, Lord Cirediel, but Her Highness is in imminent danger. I hope you understand.”

“Dame Ushar, please. Cirediel is a friend.”

The Drake brightened up as Lyonette brushed past Ushar. He swiped at his neck spines, grinning at her and looking her over.

“I knew you were important the moment I met you. I said that, didn’t I, Raef? You know Rafaema, right Lyonette?”

The nickname was…familiar. Lyonette frowned and Rafaema broke away from apologizing to glare at Cire.

“I believe we met. At Lady Reinhart’s party. Excuse me, Your Highness.”

She bowed quite politely, and Lyonette nodded. What a group. Ilvriss was studying Rafaema and Cire casually from the side, but nodded to her.

“Miss Marquin. How are you today?”

“Quite well, Ilvriss. Thank you.”

“You know…?”

Cire eyed Lyonette, Ilvriss, then the plain copper ring on her finger. Lyonette crossed her arms to hide it and smiled. Ilvriss ignored the look every person in the room gave him. Then he hesitated, stood there, looked around, and…

Wilovan and Ratici were standing far clear of all the bodyguards, but they’d dropped by for lunch—and to see if Lyonette needed anything. She was clearly busy, so they were debating stepping out.

In the same vein, Ilvriss wanted to speak to Lyonette, privately, about Magnolia or other issues. Rafaema would have dearly loved to speak to Lyonette candidly were it not for the danger, or talk to Cire about things they could not bring up here. Presumably, Onieva just wanted lunch.

The awkward silence was broken by Cire turning to Wilovan, recognizing him, and pointing.

“You’re that Gnoll with the club! That was totally Archmage. You beat, like, fifty people down!”

Wilovan started as everyone turned to look at him. He touched his hat.

“Er, thank you, sir. Just doing a bit of fighting as it needed to be done.”

He smiled unconvincingly, and it didn’t escape anyone’s notice that Ser Sest and the Oteslian Watch were both in between their charges and Wilovan. Lyonette glanced at Wilovan, deliberately pushed past Ser Sest, and clapped her hands.

“There are a number of people I know and am acquainted with. Why don’t we have lunch? Do we have any food…?”

“I bought pancakes, but I didn’t know if we were eating here. Sorry. We do have food in the pantries.”

Mirn raised a claw and tried to hide something behind his back. Everyone stared at the sandwich he’d made. Xif rubbed at his forehead.

“I could eat something. Perhaps a restaurant?”

“We can reserve one privately, Your Highness. In, say, thirty minutes?”

Ser Lormel vouched at once. Cire made a face.

“Thirty minutes? Why do we have to monk around that long? I can find us a spot at a pub I know in three minutes from here.”

“I believe they mean securely, Cire. To prevent attacks?”

Rafaema coughed, nodding at the Thronebearers. Cire frowned.

“That’s so…”

“It’s only monking about to no purpose, Cire. It’s more wave-surfin’ to hop over to a restaurant and pull an order. Sometimes the food might be Crelered over, but we can check. Know of any football places nearby where we can order for a group?”

Lyonette’s head turned. Her mouth opened, and so did Cire’s, because, finally, someone spoke the language. But it wasn’t one of Cire’s friends. The two finger-guns he’d somehow picked up, the hip-hopping talk came from Ser Sest. Cire blinked.

“Wow. You’re pretty up to date for a [Knight].”

Social chameleons. Rafaema edged away from Ser Sest in case it was catching, and Makhir rubbed his ears. Lyonette raised a hand.

“We don’t need food, Ser Sest, and I will not take a poison taste tester. We have ingredients? I’ll just make something.”

“Make something? Your Highness!”

Dame Ushar was scandalized. Everyone turned to see Lyonette march into the kitchens, open a pantry, and begin pulling out preserved foods.

“There’s quite enough food to make something simple for everyone. Um…”

Lyonette poked her head out of the kitchen, saw the Oteslian guards, Thronebearers, Ilvriss’ own group, and made a quick decision.

“A wrap.”

“A what? Your Highness, we can send for a [Chef]—we’ve been vetting them, but—”

“Dame Ushar, stand over there please. Be silent. Thank you.”

Lyonette began assembling ingredients. Oteslia had a multitude of plants, so even a casual pantry had a stronger variety than Liscor. A healthy, tasty wrap with—she could fry some meat, she supposed. Add a few dipping sauces, some snacks…the [Princess] realized Ushar looked horrified and glanced around.

“Cooking? I employ some servants. I could ask one of them to…”

Ilvriss watched Lyonette, but he was least-shocked of the rest. Rafaema was staring at Lyonette, Onieva looked amused, and even Cire was nonplussed. Lyonette looked at their clear surprise—and smiled.

Despite herself.

“Wall Lord Ilvriss. You know full well I worked at an inn. I may not be—be Erin, but I know my way around a meal. We’ll have wraps.”

“What’s a wrap?”

“It’s very simple. I just take this flatbread, wrap it around a meal. I think—chickpeas, beans, sliced tomatoes, other elements. We have chicken here, and we can dip it. It’s very tasty.”

She thought Imani had actually introduced it one time. It was the kind of thing Erin didn’t think of, but knew full well. Lyonette frowned at the bread on hand.

They could even make a basic dough and just put it on a pan without leavening it. She rolled up the sleeves of her dress as Dame Ushar looked appalled.

“Your Highness, please! We can do this. There is no need to—”

“Dame Ushar, I know how to cook. Excuse me? I’ll take requests. If anyone has an allergy, speak up. Hmm…Xif, you first. You liked meat-dishes, didn’t you, the last time you came to the inn? But I recall you liking parsley.”

The Gnoll glanced up in surprise, and lowered the healing potion he was using a dropper to put on his bruised eye.

“I do like the stuff. Lots of meat for me. Do you have pork?”

“Pork sausage and chicken, parsley, and…will you take beans?”

“Beans make me fart. Er, I mean, Your Highness—”

Xif floundered as Onieva collapsed with giggles. Cire started laughing too, until Rafaema kicked him. Lyonette coolly amended the order.

“Tomato, perhaps. Let me check sauces…can someone run to get us more sauces? Anything in the market. And something for the table.”

“I can do that. Some kind of snack? Silkap?”

Mirn got up. Lyonette nodded, smiling.

“Thank you. Now, Wall Lord?”

He blinked at her, but then shrugged.

“I hate chickpeas, but I will take something standard. Chicken over pork for me, but if there’s any beef…”

“I’ll grab some.”

Lyonette began taking orders like the [Server] she was. Bemused, the other guests watched as she marched about. Dame Ushar kept looking horrified, but Dalimont and Sest were pointed to the table to clear it of breakfast while Lormel kept watch. Even the Oteslian Watch got an order, and Lyonette was giving people cups of things to drink and—enjoying herself.

It was a measure of control. No—she enjoyed the looks the Thronebearers gave her. She gave Ushar a glance as she passed.

You see? It wasn’t what Magnolia Reinhart would have her do. This did nothing but fill someone’s stomach, and you could pay for that. But it was a practical skill.

“Alright. I need to make a flatdough for a proper wrap and, Ser Lormel, the ingredients are not poisoned! Begone!”

The Thronebearer jumped. He had traded with Ushar to enter the kitchen. He turned as Lyonette marched over to him; he was slicing up some of the vegetables to look for, what, hidden needles? Attack Fraerlings? There weren’t even any on Izril!

“Your Highness, I wasn’t simply checking for poison…it is quite unbecoming for a [Princess] to cook! Please, allow us to at least handle the menial tasks!”

“You? I’d trust you to cook as much as I’d trust Relc to—”

Lyonette paused as she stared at the tomato that Ser Lormel had been handling. She eyed it, then gingerly poked it—

And it fell sideways into perfectly symmetrical slices. Lyonette blinked. Then she saw Lormel had diced the washed vegetables into small bits for adding into a wrap. She looked sideways and saw a deboned chicken.

“How did you…?”

“A Thronebearer is skilled at all arts. Isn’t that so, Ser Dalimont?”

The man looked up from pulling flour out of the cupboards.

“Some more than others, Ser Lormel. He has [Advanced Cooking], Princess. I believe you even made snacks in the night for Princess Ellet.”

“When necessary.”

Lormel stroked his thin beard modestly. Lyonette, who had never been impressed by the martial prowess of the Thronebearers…felt no need to change her appraisal on that account. But their other abilities? She hesitated.

“Well…you can chop up the vegetables. I need to make the dough properly, and I don’t quite remember how. So—it will be a [Flawless Attempt].”

Lormel blinked as he saw Lyonette march over with perfect confidence and begin rapidly mixing the dough. He turned to Dalimont, and then the doorway. Half of those in the rapidly-filling estate stared inside the kitchen. A larger Drake with purple scales who wasn’t Ilvriss rubbed his claws together.

“She can cook too? First the Winebreath Blaster, now the art of cooking your guests a meal. You, Your Highness, would be an excellent [Diplomat].”

Nerul Gemscale smiled as Lyonette du Marquin turned, greatly surprised. He waved a claw.

“I don’t suppose I could put in an order for something filled with pork? My companion, Miss Xesci, is partial to beans. If you need a hand in the kitchen, I have been known to impress when called upon.”

——

What a strange, familiar sight. And only like this could you get meetings that would never have occurred naturally. For instance, Wilovan stopped as he was handed the first wrap and offered it very politely to Hunt Commander Makhir.

“For you, sir? Unless you’re waiting on one special.”

“Ah—not for me, thank you. I’m just esc—”

Makhir caught himself as Rafaema turned and glared. He hesitated, then took the wrap and eyed it. He sniffed, found it smelled quite good, and then looked at Wilovan.

“Er, a pleasure. Makhir of Manus.”

“Wilovan. A pleasure it is, sir.”

The two Gnolls cautiously shook hands, Makhir recognized a northern accent and Wilovan cautiously identified a commander of a foreign city. He tipped his hat, Makhir threw a salute.

“So…you’re acquainted with Miss—Her Highness?”

“In a sort of escort role, yes. And you’re escorting…”

“Er, I’m a fellow officer of Manus. Wall Lady Rafaema was visiting Oteslia when the siege occurred.”

Makhir nodded to Rafaema. She was cautiously speaking to Nerul and Xesci; the [Diplomat] was boisterously leading her around, doing introductions. Wilovan nodded.

“Strange business, but I’m not one for the south.”

“Really? A northern Gnoll? Our people are rarer up there, or so I’m told.”

“There are a few Gnolls, sir.”

Makhir paused. There was a clear distinction between ‘our people’ and the way Wilovan spoke, but the Gentlemen Caller wasn’t hostile in the way he said it. The two stood there a second, as Wilovan accepted another wrap being passed out by Ser Sest…on a platter, as if it were a high-class restaurant. He took a cautious bite and Makhir did the same.

“Mm. Hot. Quite good.”

“Yes indeed.”

A second. Wilovan glanced towards Ratici, who was speaking with Onieva, and decided not to trouble his friend. Makhir stared at Cire, who was slowly following the blue Drake bodyguard of Wall Lord Ilvriss about. It could have ended there, but Wilovan was in Lyonette’s company. And, after a second, Makhir spoke.

“You’re a mace-fighter? Or just club? You could give lessons on it. Economical form.”

Wilovan glanced up. Makhir indicated the longbow on his back.

“Bows for me.”

“I see. Not for me, sir. A bit cumbersome in close quarters as it were. A fellow gets within arms-reach and a bow’s a danger.”

Makhir smiled.

“It is a problem in a scrum, but have you ever heard about close-quarter bow techniques? It requires an enchanted bow, but you whip someone across the face or use the string to garrote them like…”

Lyonette found the two in deep discussion as she passed by Xif, talking with Ilvriss and, of all people, Rafaema as Nerul moved onto the others.

“…rising prices on Sage’s Grass for a long time until that [Farmer] came long. But you know what I’m talking about. Adamantium is sky-high for nothing until that vein in Salazsar opened up. The Gemscale family must be celebrating nightly.”

Ilvriss grimaced.

“As a matter of fact—not so much. There was an, ah, issue with the mining rights.”

“Oh dear me, I’m sorry.”

The Wall Lord shook his head.

“Not at all. House Gemscale will not want for funds. But on that note, there’s always a shortage of some goods, even if we hit a surplus. I can’t imagine Adamantium will go that much lower. You know, opals are the rarest gems; your ordinary rubies, even diamonds to some degree, are common given Salazsar’s gem deposits. Opals? Never a problem selling even during a boom.”

“You know, Eir Gel’s the exact same. Always a bit costly, given how you need it in healing potions. But I’m glad it’s steady.”

Rafaema glanced from Xif to Ilvriss.

“…What do you mean? It’s fluctuated hard.”

Xif gave Rafaema a blank look.

“Not recently, Miss Rafaema. Er—Wall Lady?”

“Rafaema is fine, Alchemist. Eir Gel’s completely dependent on one island, by and large. Hesheit, I think it’s called, and whenever there’s a shipping delay or problem the supply runs dry in months at most. There was a huge shortage and panic—don’t you remember?”

Ilvriss and Xif exchanged a look, then Xif snapped his paws together.

“That’s right! That must have been, Ancestors, fifty years back! I was barely an apprentice but I remember how much the potions went for. You’re quite up-to-date on alchemy history, Rafaema.”

She hesitated.

“I—study the economics of Walled Cities.”

Ilvriss gave her an approving look.

“Commendable. You should meet my [Administrator]. He’s as well-read. Then do you all think this new bicycle craze and the door in Liscor will change the trading dynamic? I already know that Salazsar’s goods are making a huge profit in the north, but we haven’t established formal trade routes, so it’s all independent.”

Xif snorted.

“All I know is that everything I have is selling faster, and I can get Sage’s Grass marginally cheaper from that literal [Pirate]…and other goods too! The only ones complaining are the Runner’s Guilds and Merchant’s Guilds—and the runners stopped once they realized they could head north and south for new jobs.”

“Wrap for anyone? Lady Rafaema?”

“Thank you, Your Highness…?”

Rafaema turned to Lyonette and blinked. With her hair tied up, an apron on, and changed out of her formal dress, Lyonette looked like, well, a [Barmaid], albeit with striking features. Ilvriss smiled at her and Xif sighed.

“Ah. It feels like we’re back at…the inn.”

Rafaema was confused, but Ilvriss just nodded. Lyonette smiled sadly. But before she could wallow, she moved on.

It was engineered and spontaneous. Just a moment for lunch, but it was moments like these Lyonette cared for. Not a grand pact. She was handing out wraps to the Oteslian Watch when there was a commotion. Instantly, one of the Gnoll [Pegasus Riders] grabbed his spear.

Ilvriss put a hand on his sword but found nowhere to draw it. Wilovan and Ratici were already sliding forwards, but they stopped as the door opened.

“Really! I know Wilovan and Ratici! I’m just—”

“What’s the matter?”

“Someone was attempting to climb in through one of the windows, Your Highness.”

Dame Ushar had caught the perpetrator, although his approach hadn’t exactly been stealthy. Lyonette du Marquin blinked as she saw a young man, hands held halfway up, with a curiously well-made hoodie, nondescript pants, and a cautious smile as he turned to face her. Wilovan blinked.

“Is that you, Mister Rickel?”

“Hey! It’s the Callers! I know them. I’d just like to say something. I promise I’m just here for a social call…”

He kept glancing over his shoulder, clearly nervous. Ushar eyed the street, which had curious watchers along with…Ratici saw two tails duck back—they might not have been from the Earthtenders, but they were there. The better tails didn’t even move and pretended to be ordinary passersby.

Lyonette saw Wilovan look at Rickel and remembered—they had said they had help. And hadn’t they said…?

She frowned at Rickel. Something about him instantly rang a few bells, but Lyonette was distracted. However, he was looking at her.

A [Princess]. So…not the person he wanted. Rickel sighed, but smiled.

“Hi, I’m—”

Ushar’s gauntleted arm blocked him, but Lyonette lifted a hand.

“Let him by, Ushar. Search him if you must, but he did help Wilovan and Ratici. I am Lyonette. You must be Rickel.”

He sketched a bow.

“Yes, Your Highness. I’m honored to meet you.”

Lyonette frowned. She eyed his hoodie.

“…Yes. Where are you from, Rickel? Not Oteslia. Perhaps you’re from other lands?”

His eyes flickered as she held out a hand. Rickel took it and stared at Lyonette.

“Uh—I’m from another continent, yes.”

“Ah, of course. I think I recognize your accent—but we should talk later. I think I know someone from the same clime, or thereabouts. Joseph? But won’t you come in and have a…wrap?”

Rickel nearly tripped as she indicated. He stared at Lyonette, then a huge smile appeared and vanished from his face. He saw Lyonette eye him.

Well now! Rickel saw Ratici smile briefly, and reached into his jacket. Ushar eyed him, but she had already checked him. The young man followed Lyonette in and blinked at the crowd and food.

“Wraps? Burrito wraps?”

“Won’t you have one? Ser Lormel! One more!”

Lyonette called out with a ringing voice, like someone in an inn. Rickel looked at her. He looked at Wilovan, and then Ilvriss, Cire, Rafaema—he exhaled hard.

“Wow. Talk about upping the ante.”

The [Gambler] paused, then drew something out of his jacket. He looked quite carefully at Lyonette, then proffered it as she turned.

“Looks like an amazing lunch. Mind if I add something to drink? I’m not sure if you’ve ever heard of…coffee?”

Lyonette stopped dead in her tracks. Just as Rickel had hoped. She looked back and recalled the ravings of the desperate, the withdrawn. The likes of Rose, Galina, Kevin, and even Ryoka, now and then. A list of things Erin Solstice had named once, and while they’d found chocolate…she blinked at Rickel.

“What did you say?”

He grinned. It was definitely worth the risk.

——

“A [Princess] served me a sandwich. I mean, a wrap. This…this is strange. Is she on the list? I feel as though that qualifies. I know I excluded her, but…”

Xesci needed to sit down. Osthia clearly felt the same way, but Ilvriss didn’t even blink.

“Lyonette is a special case and she is trustworthy, Xesci. Nerul, what about the rest?”

“I didn’t get much. Other than that Cire has more bodyguards than I do, even visiting hostile cities. Oh, and Rafaema had a [Hunt Commander] obviously on bodyguard. And who’s that lad?”

Nerul was munching on his third wrap, watching as Rickel and Lyonette conferred in the kitchen. Ilvriss glanced out the window.

“We should be going. Didn’t you want to catch Magnolia Reinhart?”

Nerul asked pointedly, but Ilvriss lifted a claw.

“Uncle, that is important. But I have to tell you—wait. On instinct.”

“Instinct?”

The [Diplomat] eyed his nephew. Ilvriss nodded, almost smiling. He looked into the kitchen where Lyonette was studying some odd beans that Makhir and Wilovan could smell.

“It’s…familiar.”

And yet, not. It was so familiar that Lyonette instantly dropped everything she was doing, and Ilvriss postponed leaving. Xif had sidled into the kitchen and been ejected hard, and Onieva was pointing it out to Mirn. They knew.

And yet—

Lyonette du Marquin looked at the beans. Which were actually the inner extract from a red cherry-like fruit like grapes that grew from a plant that did not resemble these shrivelled husks at all.

No wonder Erin had never found them. She kept describing beans, forgetting they had to be removed of flesh and dried. She would have gotten there, of course, once she found a plant or the beans. Then she’d have to organize getting a source, experimenting with drying them, grinding, finding the right mixture…

It would have been an adventure. A small one, but a worthy entry into The Wandering Inn’s hall of fame in fiscal inventions. However…the journey was already at an end. And that was strange because Lyonette hadn’t even taken one step in the process.

This young man, Rickel, had jogged down the journey of finding the plant, paying someone to cultivate more, and figuring out the rest. He had come here with the end result. Because he was from Earth.

“So, uh, you know Joseph of Pallass?”

“Mm. By acquaintance. I would love to introduce you.”

Rickel smiled, but both had an eye on Ser Lormel, boiling hot water.

“I’d…love to meet him. Okay, you filter hot water through the grounds. Slowly…there’s a better contraption, but…”

It was messy, but he knew what to do. Lyonette stared at the end result, which had a bit of grounds Rickel carefully scooped out. She knew better than to judge a book by its cover, especially around stuff like this, but she had to admit.

Wonderful. We’ve made mud water.

That was her first instinct, as Rickel offered her a cup.

“It’s pretty bitter, and a lot of people like sugar or milk for taste.”

“Let me try it, ah, raw? Do I need anything else?”

“Nope. The real benefit is the caffeine, though. The…stuff that makes you wake up?”

“Oh, like tea.”

“Yeah. But stronger. Way stronger.”

Rickel grinned as Lyonette took an experimental sip. She didn’t make a face or retch—but Mrsha would. It was certainly bitter, and did have what she would have called an earthy component. But it wasn’t poor.

“Sugar and milk would help. Lormel? More hot water. Sugar, milk.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He watched, curiously, as Rickel ground up more beans. It wasn’t poisoned, but it was new. Lyonette didn’t see the point at first. Then, as she was helping make more, she blinked.

“Huh.”

She hadn’t had much sleep last night, what with being revealed to be the [Princess] of Calanfer and everything else. Of course, Lyonette had learned to adapt, and she had even taken a sip of stamina potion, but that wasn’t the same as a cup of tea. This? She turned to Rickel and he raised his brows.

“So, I’m Rickel. You’re in a bit of trouble with the Earthtenders? I’d like to help if I can, but I’m only a [Gambler]. Not a [Fighter]. But I’d love to…meet people from home. Consider that my contribution to whatever’s going on. But I haven’t been able to convince many people to try it.”

“I think…I might know a few people who would be interested.”

Lyonette glanced towards the door and saw Xif, Onieva, and Ilvriss all glancing her way. She looked at the cups of coffee, then loaded a tray up for Ser Sest with sugar and milk. She had a project for the day, and smiled at Rickel. She saw him smile back, then blink at something.

“Is that…?”

Lyonette turned. She had planted something and put it by the windowsill where the light could strike a few little, yellow flowers. She looked at Rickel and smiled at his dumbstruck expression.

“You’ve heard of Faerie Flowers? That would be our contribution.”

She winked and was rewarded with his jaw dropping. He had come with something amazing, but there was more than one fish in the pond. Even if one of them was currently on ice.

Most of the audience for the first mass-trial of coffee didn’t see the point. Nerul did, as soon as he put in enough sugar and milk.

“Ah—that’s not bad. And it’s like a stamina potion or tea, you said? But stronger? Every person in my field drinks stamina shots with their morning tea, and it’s appalling, disgusting behavior. I’m glad there’s a substitute that’s a tiny bit more socially acceptable.”

“I just like the taste.”

Cire commented. Ilvriss raised his brows.

“So do I. I’ve never been for tea in the morning…huh.”

He felt something kick him even halfway through the cup after only about ten minutes of sipping and asking questions. Lyonette had felt it too, and it was completely normal to her since she had never experienced coffee before.

Rickel, on the other hand?

“I asked someone to use growing Skills on it. I paid a bit—and this is better than any other batch.”

“Coffee. Hm. So…could you grow more from those beans? How much for a handful?”

Xif looked keenly at the bag Rickel had produced, but his face fell when he learned those seeds were dead. Lyonette, on the other hand, scented commerce, and so did Rickel.

“I’ll pay you for a handful. What do the berries look like?”

“I’m sorry, but they’re not for sale. Unless there was a market. Then I’d want to corner it, right?”

Xif nodded agreeably as Rickel peeked at Lyonette. Wilovan was hmming over the coffee. He leaned towards Ratici.

“An interesting young man, like Miss Erin, I’ll say, Ratici. Quite a bit of fortune.”

The Drake nodded.

“Indeed, Wilovan. How do you like this coffee stuff?”

The Gnoll frowned.

“It’s fine, but I prefer a refined cup of tea to start my day, and I can’t say as I’d let this replace it.”

Ratici blinked.

“You astonish me, Wilovan. This is more the stuff I’d take. I even like the taste.”

The two Gentlemen Callers gave each other a long look of mutual confusion. They turned—and saw Cire down his fourth cup.

A vibrating Dragon began to speak rapidly, much to their handler’s concern.

“Wowthisisgreat. ThisiseverythingIeverwantedinlifegivememorewherecanIbuyit?”

Cirediel paused, and looked sideways at Rafaema. He took another gulp of coffee.

“Whoa, you’re all over the place, Rafaema. What’s wrong with you?”

The Lightning Dragon, who was on only two cups, was practically bouncing off the walls as Makhir watched. The Gnoll looked at Cire, who calmly finished his fourth cup.

“I like it! Tea’s good too, though, but will it sell?”

He looked around vaguely, with no appreciation for being the top competitor in an emerging market that might be as profitable as tea. Xif could see it, though, and he was beaming at Rickel.

“No worries. I’ll, ah, just step out, then. Coffee, you said?”

Lyonette glared at him. This was his worst trait he somehow shared with Octavia, only he was more successful than she was. Rickel smiled blandly.

“Yep.”

Xif headed for the door. Rickel called out at his back.

“I mean, that’s what I call it.”

Xif slowed.

“…Does it have another name?”

The young man put his hands in his pockets.

“I might have used a pseudonym. But it’s definitely growing somewhere in Oteslia.”

Oteslia, the City of Growth. Home to probably over a million individual plots of garden space. Lyonette whistled. Instantly, she placed Rickel over Erin for ‘common-sense cunning’. Xif came back.

“Er, you wouldn’t happen to want to strike a deal?”

“You’d need investment money. [Merchants] to sell it, advertise it, and a backer.”

“Yep. It’s not something I can figure out—I don’t know how these things work.”

Rickel spread his hands with a bit of frustration. He scratched at his head.

“…It’s about being known and knowing the right people. Influence, as much as having the right idea. Hecking frustrating, you get me?”

He looked at Lyonette, and she thought she heard Magnolia’s words echo for a second. Then she nodded.

“As it happens…I do know someone who might be interested in backing a project like this.”

“Me! Xif the [Alchemist]. I’m actually quite well known in Pallass, and, if it wakes you up, every [Alchemist] would love to buy. I’d be happy to vouch for it and put in—”

“Wall Lord Ilvriss? Can I introduce you to someone? Rickel, this is Ilvriss.”

“A Wall Lord?”

Rickel blinked as Ilvriss walked over, cup in hand. The Drake shook Rickel’s hand.

“Are you thinking of something akin to The Wandering Inn, Miss Lyonette?”

She smiled.

“A bit, but with actual planning rather than spontaneity and half the city stealing it instantly.”

Ilvriss chuckled.

“I think that sounds acceptable. I could contact my [Administrator]—and my uncle here knows [Merchants] he could drop by with today.”

“It wasn’t in my books—now it is. I walk in, talk them up, they feed me, and we have a liquid lunch—coffee and drinks. Does this pair with anything alcoholic, young man?”

Nerul brightened up when Rickel explained that, yes, some people did consider it a way of life. Rafaema vibrated over.

“Can you get more of this? I’ll invest.”

“And me as well! Xif…I’ve got money!”

Rickel was a bit overwhelmed, blinking around, but he shook hands, and agreed to give the location of the plot of land to someone willing to organize mass-replanting and collect more for processing so it could be trialed.

Which turned out to be Xif, who realized he had to put his paws where his mouth was. The [Alchemist] didn’t seem to mind, rubbing his paws together.

“This time I’m on the top floor of it. Top floor!”

Which made no sense until you remembered Pallass valued the higher floors more. At any rate, there it was. Low-key drama, something new.

The Gentlemen Callers watched it all with faint smiles. But it only reminded them—it wasn’t the inn. It was a bit off. So they excused themselves. Wall Lord Ilvriss broke off from Rickel handing over four entire bags of coffee beans to Nerul. The young man was remarkably prepared. Ilvriss frowned.

The Gentlemen Callers. Amazingly high-level for a simple duo. He hesitated, and set his cup down. Xesci hadn’t marked them as unusual, so that wasn’t the issue. They were just—quite high-level.

As for Lyonette, she was called to her first meeting by Ser Dalimont, who reminded her she’d asked for that. She cursed, but had to speak to Rickel.

“I need to head out. I am so sorry, but…”

“No, it’s fine. Great to meet you. Let’s talk again, yeah? There’s a lot…a lot to think about.”

He gave her a huge grin, eying Wilovan and Ratici as a few people began to leave the lunch session. Lyonette smiled gratefully and hurried upstairs to change. It was then that one of the Oteslian Watch did a count of the room, looked around, trotted over to check the restroom, and cursed.

“Cirediel is gone!”

The Watch looked about, realized the young Dragon had given them the slip as some of the other guests made their exodus, and went for the doors.

Amateurs. The Thronebearers and Makhir knew where their charges were. As Lyonette left, Hunt Commander Makhir shook his head at Oteslia’s security—and then eyed his charge.

“Rafaema, don’t you think you’ve had too much coffee?”

“I’m fine, Makhir. This is great. This is amazing! I need this in my life!”

Rafaema turned to him, eyes bright, smiling. She felt wonderful. She reached for another coffee cup, knocked it over, and grabbed for the drink.

“Oop—”

She snatched as the cup tumbled. Her reflexes were good, but she was on the first caffeine rush of her life. Jittering, she missed the coffee, cursed.

“Damn! Damn, damn, d—”

Her mouth opened and Makhir saw a streak of blue energy crackle. His eyes widened.

“Rafae—”

The only other people left in Lyonette’s temporary home were Xif and Mirn, one taking a nap, the other preparing to head out and get coffee into the world. Xif, humming, heard a crackle turn into a roar of thunder and then something kicked him into a wall.

Lightly. He came stumbling out of the bedroom to see Rafaema staring at a smoking hole in the wall. Crumbling masonry fell around her as Makhir picked himself up, every hair on his body standing up on end from the static charge. Rafaema stared in horror at the opening.

“I didn’t mean to! I didn’t—”

She covered her mouth, eyes wide. Xif took one look at her and ran for it. Rafaema swallowed the lightning building in her. Then her cheeks bulged and she ran over to a bucket and threw up. Coughing, she stared up as Makhir looked at her.

“I—something’s wrong. What’s happening to me?”

He didn’t know. The Hunt Commander stood there, unsure of what to say. What was wrong? Rafaema didn’t know. And the one person who could tell her—she looked around for Lyonette du Marquin. But how…?

Only one person. She was older than Cire and only one person could…Rafaema hesitated.

One?

——

There was anger on the streets. No, a fury. Why?

Not for the siege. Sieges were a part of life, and this was a bloodless siege—at least on their side. Not for the attack of a gang on a Human [Princess] in the city or her revelation or Magnolia Reinhart.

The Meeting of Tribes. Magic stolen across half a continent. Gnolls were angry. They were furious, and it was not just Plains Gnolls.

However, many did not act on it. Some were, like Makhir, part of a Drake city. Or simply not willing to shout and lose their jobs.

The gangs had no such problems. Angry Gnolls took to the streets. However, as it happened, they were not actually united but disparate. And, because they were the most vocal and ready to fight, they began quarreling not over whether the Drakes had done it, but whether or not the tribes were idiots for trusting them at all and it should be war or conflict, or whether it was just Fissival.

Two groups with larger Gnoll memberships were facing each other down over that very issue, while the majority Drake gangs decided not to go out for the next week and let their rivals hit each other.

There was a commentary there, although it might have been ‘when you’re angry, you tend to hit people’.

This particular fight was going south. Two gangs of mostly young men, not [Thugs], but [Street Brawlers], [Toughs], and even, rarely, ordinary [City Folk], were watching two fighters beat each other until one was unconscious or gave up. And since giving up wasn’t really an option, it was until one was unconscious or it turned into a full-on melee.

…It was going one way. They had a [Bruiser] in one corner who outweighed all his opponents by about thirty pounds. As much fat as muscle, and there was blood on the ground as his opponent tried to shield his face. He was about to bring both fists down over his opponent’s head as the other, smaller gang watched with that kind of terrible certainty of what would come next.

“Pardon me, gents. I think that poor fellow’s had enough.”

The [Bruiser] stopped, and the Gnolls and Drakes turned to see…a Gnoll and a Drake. But a dapper pair. Especially the Gnoll. They looked around for the Watch, but seeing no one, the [Bruiser] shouted.

“Clear off!”

The Gnoll with the top hat looked disapprovingly at the blood on the other’s fur. He looked at the other fellow who was collapsing over—and the Drake stepped forwards and caught him. He transferred the fighter to his friends, and suddenly the larger gang—nicknamed Furfangs, perhaps unwisely—eyed the unexpected intruders.

They were strangely calm for a duo that looked like easy…Wilovan smiled, and his tight-fitting shirt flexed—somewhat easy targets. There were only two, and the Furfangs alone numbered nearly thirty.

“You, sir, seem to have been winning quite a lot.”

The [Bruiser] grunted as Wilovan addressed him. He’d beaten down six people in a row. Wilovan looked at them—some were back up thanks to low-grade healing potions, but the other gang was on the wrong foot.

“Enough’s enough. When a fellow’s winning, he doesn’t need to push it. Mercy, as it were, is a fine thing when it’s all lighthearted.”

“I don’t need to hear that from some rich…get lost unless you want to be next.”

Wilovan raised his brows.

“If you insist, sir. But I warn you, that would be a mistake.”

The Furfangs hesitated. Their competitors, who were sometimes their friends until today, Streetrage, also watched Wilovan. The [Bruiser] eyed Wilovan and hesitated.

Wilovan was as tall as he was and despite being older…he had a sudden sinking feeling that wasn’t [Dangersense] but pure street intuition. He looked around and spotted Ratici, strolling back to square up with Wilovan. The far-shorter and slimmer Drake blinked once as the [Bruiser] pointed at him.

“Ah, and what about him? One’s all muscle? I’ll take him on.”

He blustered. Ratici and Wilovan exchanged a look. The Drake shrugged. Wilovan nodded.

“Just as you like, sir. Fair rules? Fists only? No knives, no low blows?”

Now it was a circus. Even the badly-beaten Gnoll who came to stared blearily as Ratici rolled up his sleeves, adjusted his vest, and squared up with a Gnoll a foot taller and arguably at least fifty…maybe it was a hundred pounds difference. The [Bruiser] raised his fists.

“Go ahead and dodge as long as you can.”

Ratici glanced at Wilovan. The [Gentleman Thug] was tapping an hourglass he’d pulled out of his vest. Ratici nodded. He turned to the younger Gnoll and smiled purely politely.

“I don’t think I need to, sir.”

“On your marks…now!”

The first punch the [Bruiser] threw was a [Heavyweight Punch] that was far faster than anyone who saw him usually credited. It had put a [Guardsman] down with a single punch. Ratici saw it coming—

And punched the Gnoll in the stomach. Which was a perfectly above-belt blow under the rules described, a textbook punch to the gut. It had all of Ratici’s weight and muscle behind it.

It did not exactly throw the Gnoll down. He grunted in pain mid-punch and would have clocked Ratici across the street if that were it. Until he felt three more punches land in the span of a heartbeat.

He never connected with Ratici. His arm jerked and the [Bruiser] staggered back. The jeering Furfangs and Streetrage gangs stared as Ratici hit the [Bruiser] with an uppercut to the solar plexus, then watched as his opponent staggered back, clutching at his gut.

“What was—fucking Skill?”

“Ready, sir?”

Ratici saw the [Bruiser] look up, a bit of spittle hanging from his mouth. The younger Gnoll realized he’d made a mistake. Wilovan was huge, strong as an elephant, and an expert in fighting. But he traded punches. Ratici was too fast to trade; he gave you everything first.

[Tough’s Duel]! [It Hurts Less]! [Hook Punch]!

The [Bruiser]’s best three Skills came out as he went in, swinging hard, hoping to tag Ratici. And he did.

Twice. The Drake didn’t dodge and he ate a punch twice, but once on the shoulder and once on the cheek, and not the full-force blows that would have knocked him flat. He could have dodged.

He didn’t need to. Ratici was too short to hit his opponent in the face, so he started hitting the [Bruiser] in the stomach. Even when the young man tried to guard, he threw hooks, hitting him in the sides.

“Gamith, he’s a runt! Get him! Stop shielding and punch him!”

One of the Gnolls shouted in frustration. He didn’t understand why the [Bruiser] was folding up and retreating. He was used to height and weight winning most fights and he had no idea how hard Ratici was hitting him. Until he saw Gamith’s body begin to move with each punch.

The two gangs went abruptly quiet as Ratici’s pace changed. He started hitting the [Bruiser] methodically, and the heavy impacts were suddenly very loud in the street. Wilovan watched, checking the hourglass. About…one minute.

The [Bruiser]’s head came down as he doubled over. Now—there was that feeling again, when you saw someone take a punch that not only shattered bone, but went far further. The Drake had his opponent at head-to-fist height and he was going to break every…

Ratici eyed Gamith’s face, checked his next punch, and stepped back. He adjusted his cap.

“I think he’s had enough. Unless you want to go on, sir?”

The [Bruiser] didn’t respond. He staggered, swung his fists a few times, reflexively still fighting—then saw Ratici and backed up into his friends. They stared at Ratici and Wilovan. The Drake adjusted his cap; it hadn’t even moved during the fight.

“It’s a young man’s game, sirs. I can’t say I haven’t done the same, growing up. But there’s no sport in beating another fellow’s face in. Not over pride alone.”

Wilovan remarked calmly. He looked around.

“What say we leave it there? Unless anyone else would like to stand up? Ratici and I would make it a point to take you on.”

There were no volunteers. Ratici nodded, dabbed a bit of potion on his shoulder and cheek, and the two Gentlemen Callers walked on. The gangs stood wide as Gamith stared at Ratici.

It wasn’t even a fight. The Drake hadn’t dodged, thrown any kicks—the [Bruiser] stared as Ratici tipped his hat at him.

“Better put some potion on that stomach, sir.”

Gamith backed up again. If he ever ran into a short Drake with a cap in a street brawl—he’d run the other way. He had the distinct impression he’d survived something.

——

In truth, he’d never been in danger. The hats were on.

Wall Lord Ilvriss had watched the entire thing. He didn’t know the Gentlemen Callers or their gang, these ‘Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings’, but Xesci and Nerul did, and they’d clued him in to the basic facts.

Honorable thugs. Well, that Drake had been able to take that young man apart and he hadn’t. If he had…Ilvriss might have stepped in.

Why was he shadowing the two? Curiosity. Wariness. They had left Lyonette’s place to do…what? Just walk about the streets and buy fancy clothing?

No. The two gangs broke up in the wake of the duo, and Ilvriss slipped around a corner, jogging to intercept them and see them turn into one of the more maze-like warrens in Oteslia. Not the lower city so much as the poorer city. Places less occupied, less well-patrolled.

He did not have to follow them long. They clearly knew where they were going. Wilovan paused by a brick wall running into an alleyway with no exit—between two buildings, both closed and boarded up. Odd, in a huge city like Oteslia, but even in Salazsar businesses failed.

Wilovan leaned against the wall for a second. Ratici whispered to him, and Ilvriss stared as the Gnoll nodded. Then…Ratici removed his cap. Wilovan did likewise, and tucked it into his bag of holding.

Ilvriss watched, his adrenaline beginning to pump in his veins.

“What are they doing?”

The Wall Lord jumped. He hadn’t said that! Who had—Ilvriss turned and saw the Furfangs, Gamith, and the Streetrage gang all staring at the Gentlemen Callers from various hiding places.

——

The safe house was, by definition, safe. Even if the Watch came calling, there were bolt-holes even if they could break down the door, which they wouldn’t, because it was a waste of time and energy. Also, if there was huge trouble, you could rally the forces—if you were in a good gang.

Well, the Earthtenders were the biggest gang and so this safehouse was doubly safe. But it relied on one thing. And that was simply that you didn’t open the door.

“Hey, open up! Open up!”

The ratatattat of furious knocking made the group inside look up. It was definitely not a code knock.

“Passcode? Who sent you?”

There was a panicked breath.

“I don’t—I don’t have one! Listen, I just got—they’re right behind me! It’s a huge score, I’ll give you half!”

The leader of the group hanging around inside, playing cards and eating while they patched themselves up from the disastrous attack, peered through the spyhole as one of the others motioned him over. He saw someone run back to the alleyway, then come running back. A panicked Drake with a huge scar over his face. He sounded young—and he was holding something.

“Clear off! This is Earthtender’s property.”

“They’re after me! Please!”

The [Marauder] eyed something that flashed in the light from the spyhole. Wait a second. Was that a bag of holding? Yes, it was!

A [Pickpocket] who’d just nabbed a bag of holding. And—from the looks of it—with the Watch or bodyguards in hot pursuit. The [Marauder] licked his lips. He made a quick decision.

“Let him in.”

“But the Second Gardener said—”

“Let him in. He’s got a bag of holding.”

The other members of the gang perked up. Free income? There was only a moment of hesitation, then one of them called out.

“Alright, one second. How fast are they on your tail?”

“I don’t—I think I lost them, but one of them has a sword! An enchanted—hurry the hell up!”

“We’re going, we’re going…there. Come on in and—”

The door opened and the [Marauder] stepped back, smiling happily at the free bag of holding delivery. They’d let the Drake have something—once they extracted a tax for the emergency use of the safehouse.

What he got, instead of a terrified Drake, was an empty doorway. The [Marauder] hesitated. The other members of the Earthtenders gang looked up.

“My [Dangersense] just went off.”

A Drake whispered. Her scales went white. The [Marauder] whirled.

“Close the—”

The thing about [Dangersense] is that it often went off when you were in danger. Of course, sometimes it was very helpful and said ‘do not open that door’. But the right fellows knew how to beat that Skill. After all, you could get it as low as before Level 10. It, like truth spells, was not infallible.

The room exploded into chaos as people surged to their feet. Hands reached for the door to push it shut.

A figure rammed into the closing door, throwing three bodies back. A huge Gnoll in an expensive suit, with a plain, wooden club in hand. Huge. With a face like—

He brought the club down and the [Marauder] stopped thinking forever. The wet thud and snap of a neck echoed in the room. The [Thug] pivoted and slammed the club left. Then he shoulder-rushed another Drake into the table and raised the club again.

There was no art there. It rose and fell. Behind him, a Drake with the fake scar now peeled off leapt into the room. He threw a dagger straight into an open mouth, then his two claws were moving. All he did was stab, so fast that a slow-moving arm failed to block it. Neck, side—

“Help! Help! We’re—”

That was the only thing that came through the speaking stone. It went dead a second later, the other end smashed.

A Gnoll stood in a room amid bodies and people. The people kept vanishing, the bodies kept growing as they touched the floor. He turned, dodging a jet of fire shot from a wand. A Drake leapt into the wand-holder, daggers stabbing, and there was one less person in the world. The Gnoll brought down a club through a guard.

Someone tried to run him through the back, but they cut only cloth. A slash against his coat. He turned, and the club came back.

Never did they say a word. Nor did their opponents. They fought in near-silence. A scream, a cry. A shout of rage…

Growing silent. You could hear them, then. And the rest were trying to get out the door, fleeing. They didn’t waste time begging. The Gnoll’s club rose and fell and as the silence grew, it was a bit louder.

He was humming. A nursery rhyme.

It took fifteen minutes. Not for the fighting, but for the aftermath. The Drake policed bodies, checking them not so much for coin but clues, artifacts—the Gnoll calmly poured something on the walls, smashed the other artifacts he didn’t decide to pocket. Blood hung in the air, so he dabbed a scent-killer on his fur as the Drake did likewise. Then he reached for something.

“Curio. Let me.”

Ratici backed up. Wilovan concentrated, lifted a small piece of wood—and struck a match. It lit satisfactorily, and he tossed it on the alchemist’s oil. The two watched the flames catch across the far wall. Then—Ratici closed the door, leaving only a crack for air.

They walked into the street, blood on their clothing, into a second fight. The backup skidded to a halt as Ratici and Wilovan looked at them. The Gentlemen Callers took a breath.

“You—”

The Earthtenders were not prepared for the Gnoll to charge. This was not an ambush; there were thirty on the street, experienced members of the gang. But they were not prepared. This was a gang from the north and they did things a different way.

When the hats came off, everyone died. Everyone. Brothers and foes. That was why the hats never, ever came off. Even the biggest Oteslian gang had never seen the—

Madness.

Two men fought to the death in a nowhere street. Two versus thirty, and it was a deadly fight for them despite their levels. They could have run. They did not run.

That magnificent shirt was in tatters. The Gnoll was in the thick of it and he began to bleed. The Drake tore an arrow out of the air, but took a splintering hail of needles that embedded themselves in his scales. He said not a word but threw a dagger back. Now, he was humming…

Someone was bearing Wilovan down. A [Rogue] had grabbed onto his back and was stabbing. The first two daggers struck cloth—the rest flesh. He tried to throw the figure off, but more were clinging to his arms to halt that lethal club. The dagger went for his neck—

“Salazsar!”

Wilovan felt the kiss of metal. He jerked—and the figure slid off him. He threw an arm off, swung the club, and broke an arm. There was a scream—then more.

A Drake charged into the fight, sword drawn and slashing. He had only hesitated a moment then angled himself for the best entry—that was how fast it was. Ilvriss swung his sword, lopping off a sword-arm and then running his opponent through in the same motion. Ratici paused in his own dagger throw—not because of Ilvriss, but the others.

“Get them!”

The Earthtenders turned as dozens of young men charged from the sides into the melee. The [Rogues] began to retreat instantly. With more bodies in the fight, Wilovan and Ratici were no longer in danger—

“Run, run—”

This time, the Gentlemen Callers didn’t pursue. Wilovan grabbed a potion and downed it; Ratici tore needles out of his scales, cursing.

“Antidote?”

“Spell. Where’s…?”

Ilvriss turned just in time for Ratici to point at a fleeing Gnoll woman.

“Marked.”

Wilovan grunted. He looked around, saw a Gnoll struggling with another Earthtender, and charged over. The last Earthtender fell dead and Ilvriss and the others on the street stared at the Gentlemen Callers.

“Wall Lord Ilvriss.”

Wilovan recognized Ilvriss after a moment. The Wall Lord nodded, but he didn’t sheathe his sword. He appraised Wilovan; the Gnoll was panting. After a few gulps of air, his breathing slowed. He stared at Ilvriss—then abruptly reached for his side. He put on his cap, and his air of calm returned.

“Good of you to intervene, sir. But I hope you won’t make a habit of it. It’s a nasty business we’re about, I’m afraid. No hats.”

“I…can see that. What are you doing?”

“Best not said outright, sir.”

Wilovan returned. Ilvriss looked at him. He was under no illusions what had gone down in the safehouse; nor were the other young men in the gang. They stared at the Gentlemen Callers, wide-eyed.

Violence like he had never seen. In war? Yes, of course! But there was something else to this. This was no [Fireball] or area of attack spell hitting an enemy formation, or Oldblood Drakes exacting terrible deaths. The two Gentlemen Callers with club and daggers…

Ilvriss’ scales prickled, but Wilovan and Ratici just glanced at each other, then began walking on.

“Where are you going?”

“To find where they went. Rats fleeing a nest leave a trail if you know how to follow it. I’d say not follow, sir, but it’s a free city, or so I’m told. I can’t promise you won’t fall afoul of blade or Watch, though.”

Wilovan answered curtly. He and Ratici moved into a striding stroll as Ilvriss hesitated. Half the group who’d seen the bloodbath was done and just ran; they’d been swept into the fighting, but not to kill. The other half—stared at Ilvriss. The Wall Lord hesitated, then sheathed his sword and followed.

——

Cirediel had been following Onieva, mainly because Rafaema had been glaring daggers at her but refused to say why. For her part, the Drake had been having a grand time with genuinely no attention paid towards Rafaema—which stung the most.

The Dragon knew he should probably talk to Rafaema about what would happen next since Lyonette was a [Princess]. Did that mean there was a Dragon in Terandria? What should they do next?

He flew up a bit, frowning, and cast about. Left, right…now where had she gone? She was quick! That Mirn person had stayed behind, but Onieva was just a Drake. And, no offense, but Cire was a Dragon, not even an Oldblood Drake. He was fast, strong…

And he had lost her. Cire flew about, then dove as he saw [Pegasus Riders] taking to the skies after him. So he lost Onieva, and his minders lost him.

Shriekblade, no, Tessa, no, Shriekblade didn’t lose Onieva. No one had seen her. No one had given her a wrap.

She was hungry. Still, Ilvriss had given her targets, and Cire, Rafaema, and Onieva were all highly suspicious—Onieva arguably the most since she was the cousin of two famous Drakes…and had a lot of holes in her personal life.

So who was she? Shriekblade kept silent. Her heartbeat was muffled. For once, she felt good. Clear.

The flowers. The glorious [Princess] had a cure! Tessa smiled—but she didn’t privately even whoop or whisper.

That was how hard it was. Onieva was…as good as Saliss? Even with artifacts and Skills, Shriekblade felt like she’d be spotted if she was unwary. So she watched. She would have rather watched the [Princess]. Asked her about the flowers. A cure, a cure!

But she had to admit—this was not boring either.

——

A safehouse had vanished. News was already spreading—do not open the damn door, and keep low.

The Watch was angry, and they had an enemy gang in the city. Not good times, but there was a truism, which was that you had to find your opponents to get them.

This apartment was completely innocuous. You’d have to know there were Earthtenders inside, carefully letting an [Alchemist] prepare Selphid’s Dust and Dreamleaf and other marketable items. There was no way for anyone to find them unless they had some kind of information or they were a high-level Watch officer, and the Watch and Earthtenders generally stayed away from each other.

Otherwise? There was no way any Gentlemen Caller would find out; even one of Reinhart’s famous [Maids] would need to trace clues to get here. You’d have to have supernatural hearing, eyes that saw through walls, or a nose like a scent-dog, and the know-how of an expert in alchemy to put together the clues to identify this as a narcotics workshop.

A scaled hand knocked on the front door. The [Rogue Leader], who had just heard about a safehouse going down, froze. He motioned to the duo nearest the doors, and they grabbed for crossbows and wands, swearing.

“Excuse me! Is this den run by the Earthtenders, or just a random gang? You know what? It really doesn’t matter.”

A female voice spoke up from outside the door. The [Rogue Leader] swore. He was brighter than the [Marauder] in the safehouse. He swung his own enchanted crossbow up and pulled the trigger.

Two bolts and a ray of light blasted through the door as the rest of the gang shot to their feet. The [Rogue Leader] backed up, unconvinced he’d killed anyone. He was indeed smart, and waited for the door to bow inwards. He reached for some Selphid’s Dust. It would mess you up, perhaps forever, but…these idiots coming to pick a fight were about to see what happened when a Drake rampaged.

The door never opened.

——

Onieva had a specialty-made jar with a curious curved opening on one end stoppered by a simple cork—like a vase. But unlike a vase, it had a wax seal on the back, which kept the sloshing liquid inside contained. The reason why was obvious for an [Alchemist].

She held the jar of nearly-colorless liquid at an angle as she leaned against the door. The crossbow bolts and ray spell had missed her, and no more were coming. She only needed a second.

She jammed the fluted opening of the first container into one of the holes made by the crossbow bolts after rapidly uncorking it. The liquid inside…began to expand rapidly, turning into a gas.

“What is—”

Onieva ignored the surprise. She had something in her other hand. A minor artifact. It was called, in colloquial terms by adventurers, a Jar of Air. A catchall term for the equivalent of a bag of holding but for air. You could dive with it, survive poison—but there were variations.

For instance, this one didn’t just supply air, but emitted a whoosh of it when opened. A nice blast; more like a kids’ toy. Even most adventurers didn’t use it.

Onieva had a use. Which was to jab the jar of air into the first jar, breaking the wax seal. The air blasted out, hit the liquid, which shot through the funnel into the room and underwent a fast metamorphosis from liquid to gas as it left the contained environment.

She held the jar in place as she heard shouts, a scream—then grimaced.

“Damn!”

She kept the jar steady as she tried to block the other two holes made by the second crossbow bolt and ray with her other arm. It was cumbersome, but you didn’t want what was inside leaking out.

She heard coughing, cries of pain—someone discharged a crossbow again. Onieva waited, counting.

Ten seconds…twenty…thirty…a minute passed. She listened, and heard a rasping voice.

Someone was alive in there. Someone with a high-level poison resistance Skill. It was already neutralizing itself, and she heard coughing. A weak voice.

“Hey. H—”

A cough.

“I surrender. Let’s talk this out. Please. I surrender. You hear me?”

The [Alchemist] put both objects away in her bag of holding. She reached for her side. She’d bought a sword. Saliss was still low on potions. One minute…she kicked the door open and walked inside, not that the poison would have bothered her.

“You hear me?”

She didn’t answer. Outside, Shriekblade—or was it Tessa?—watched in silent admiration. That was exactly like how Saliss fought. Who was she?

——

The Earthtenders were under siege. A lab and safehouse vanished, and that was only the beginning. Two Faces were on a rampage.

Two Faces and a Wall Lord, but Ilvriss didn’t count. At first, he felt he should have, but he didn’t.

“You might want to stow that, sir. This is really not a good business for you.”

“I am as invested in Lyonette’s safety as you are, Mister Ratici.”

The Drake walked along, slowly removing his cap. He glanced meaningfully at a group loitering outside some kind of club building. They were agitated; their friends had just run in, talking about a bloodbath.

“Suit yourself, sir. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Ilvriss frowned—and then saw Wilovan and Ratici accelerate. Hats off again. They were the most economical fighters he’d ever seen. No warmup—they went from calm to violence in seconds, and Ilvriss felt it jarring himself.

Still, he followed them in as they began fighting. He was no stranger to combat, at least. He swung a sword up, slashing at an opponent with a knife and was rewarded with a deep cut. Few of the Earthtenders had anything nearly as long as a shortsword, much less Ilvriss’ longsword. He was fighting, driving them back to their base, when someone screamed.

“Ancestors! Help! Help! Murder on the streets! Call the Watch!”

Ilvriss whirled. He saw a distant figure pointing, and Ratici cursed, breaking off from the door. Wilovan turned to Ilvriss.

“Away!”

The Wall Lord followed Ratici and Wilovan—and a number of young men—as someone blew a whistle, and the Watch on foot and a [Pegasus Rider] flew overhead towards the scene of the crime. Ilvriss stopped after two streets, panting, and thanking his stars he’d worn something less visible.

Purple-scaled Drakes were one thing, but if he was caught…he decided he needed a disguise. Just a hood or something.

“Hold on. I’m with you. I just need to buy a piece of cloth to hide my face. Or is there a Skill for that? Scale-dye?”

Ratici and Wilovan looked at each other as Ilvriss cast around. Ratici shook his head and raised his brows. Wilovan held his paws out, helplessly.

“Wall Lord, sir. This really isn’t your forte.”

“Isn’t it? Don’t you need another claw?”

Ratici frowned. Ilvriss seemed genuine, but…Wilovan was replacing his torn clothes again. With a sigh, he offered Ilvriss something.

“Try this scarf, sir.”

Ilvriss blinked at the embroidered scarf with rather fine green and grey woven together with a little message on the end—‘thinking of you’. He gingerly took it and wound it around his face.

“Er, I don’t look too noticeable, do I?”

Wilovan and Ratici exchanged colorful glances as they eyed the Drake with a scarf around his face so only his eyes showed, like some child-bandit. Wilovan coughed.

“Maybe only wear that when we’re in the thick of it, sir. The problem isn’t that.”

“Really?”

The two Gentlemen Callers realized they had to spell it out for him.

“It’s your sword.”

Ilvriss blinked at his sword. Ratici tried to explain as they continued to make tracks.

“You can’t pull out a full sword on the streets and expect no one to notice, Wall Lord. Daggers’re one thing. Clubs, knuckles, spiked or not, garroting wire, stilettos, all fair game, even blowpipes, a cosh with poisoned needles—”

“Ancestors.”

Ratici grinned briefly.

“Them too, if we had any around. Swords and bows are too noticeable. Folks’ll watch someone with a club fight and hope it’s just a toss-up or fists, at least where they’re used to it, but a sword? That’s blood and death, and they’ll call the Watch no matter where you are.”

Ilvriss blinked.

“I would have thought they’d call the Watch regardless. This is a Walled City, even if it’s poorer—”

He saw the two men smile and stopped because he had the feeling he was making a fool of himself. Wilovan leaned against a wall as Ratici consulted a notepad.

“There’s a place that looks unsecured—we’ll hit it next. As you say, Wall Lord. As you say. I don’t know Drake cities well myself, being a fellow from the north. Perhaps it’s different here.”

Ilvriss jogged after them. He glanced over his shoulder as he heard a puffing sound; several young men were tagging along. Ratici and Wilovan glanced at them, but they forbade comment. They didn’t seem to care.

“You’re implying I’m wrong about that. Salazsar has no organized crime like this, to my knowledge. Oh, there’s corporate theft all the time, and gem trading blackmarkets, I suppose—”

“Just as you say, sir.”

“I would know. Surely. I’m amazed there are so many Earthtenders in the city. That’s the gang, isn’t it? You must have wiped out a hundredth of them alone in…”

Ratici and Wilovan started laughing. They tried not to, but Ilvriss felt his scales grow crimson. He’d thought he was exaggerating. A hundredth? He couldn’t imagine the scope of a gang.

“Sir, there are probably thousands of safe houses like that in the entire Walled City. Maybe over ten thousand easy that the Earthtenders might have. We’re hitting them—but they’ll hit back. And soon the Faces will be back for blood. Then it’ll be a real fight. You know Faces?”

Ilvriss bit his tongue.

“High-level fighters in gangs?”

Wilovan nodded.

“Just like me and Ratici. Just so you know—of our level. Which means over Level 40, some of ‘em. And there won’t be one, or three—we know the Earthtenders have three at their headquarters alone. We might have to fight…what, for a Walled City, Ratici?”

“Dozens. Not all of the same level. Take them on one at a time. Hit and away. So long as they’re on us, Miss Lyonette’s safe. They won’t try her if they think we’re at their backs.”

This was a strategy, Ilvriss realized. A strategy that was actually thought-out, but he was the fool who couldn’t even see the battlefield. He slowed as they approached their next location.

“You’re telling me there are dozens of high-level members of gangs in Oteslia and every city? Including my own?”

Wilovan smiled at him, politely. It was like his mother patting his hand and telling him he’d done a ‘good job’. It wounded Ilvriss to the quick.

“There’s worlds beyond the one you know, sir. A fellow or lady has to level a bit faster if things are tough. Fair warning. Let us go in first this time.”

“Absolutely not. I am still a Wall Lord, and I have artifacts and the levels to match.”

Ratici sighed.

“Just as you like, sir.”

——

Ilvriss nearly died. In many ways, he was like Tyrion Veltras. He wasn’t that old, he was a prominent member of aristocracy, and he was good in a fight. He was not as martially famous as Tyrion, but he had artifacts and training and he nearly died.

Wilovan and Ratici went in like fire and fury and, Ilvriss had to admit, they were better fighters than he was, at least in the close-quarters fighting down another hideaway. This one was all corridors; an actual house turned into a base. Wilovan’s club and Ratici’s blades were perfect for these close conditions, but Ilvriss was still trained by the best.

Not only his old [Weapons Trainer], but Tessa and experience. He was adept at fighting, even without room to fully swing his sword. What he was not prepared for was how they fought.

The gangs. He took down three Drakes and Gnolls in quick succession, feeling like he was on a battlefield. The blood. Yet he didn’t waver. He turned as a Drake, a huge Drake with scars all over his scales, charged down the corridor.

Idiot. Ilvriss went to run him through and his strike bounced off the other’s scales. No—the enchanted blade clearly cut and drained the Drake, but he’d used a Skill! Ilvriss backed up, ready for a strike and—

The Drake grabbed his sword-arm. Ilvriss cursed, striking him with a fist, but the scarred Drake just grabbed him and refused to let go.

“You—”

It wasn’t even an arm-breaking grip, just implacable. Ilvriss could not wrest his arm free! He bashed the other over the face, drew a dagger, and stabbed at him, and it bounced off the other Drake’s scales as the Skill deflected it—then Ilvriss began stabbing the arm. The Drake grunted, but did not let go.

And then his buddy tried to stab Ilvriss. One-handed, the Wall Lord fought back, striking with his other hand. He survived only because one of his rings activated and formed a barrier over his scales. He remembered the ruby ring on his sword-arm and twisted it—the other Drake just held on—and his scales were set ablaze.

Still, the [Lockdown Grappler] didn’t budge. Ilvriss kept the other one off him with [Flurry Strikes], burning his Skills away, and then felt a cut that went through his enchanted cloth armor and glanced off a rib. He stared at his death—a Level 21 [Rogue] with a single, low-grade, enchanted dagger—

And Wilovan seized the Drake and smashed him into a wall, one-handed. The [Grappler] finally let go of Ilvriss, backing up—and Wilovan hit him. Three times, before the [Grappler] fell.

Ilvriss, panting, shaken, realized the fighting was over. He gasped for air.

“What was—what was—”

“Grabber. He gets you and his buddies run you through. You’re lucky he didn’t get both arms behind you.”

Wilovan commented succinctly. He looked around. There was a cry, and he raised his club, but a Gnoll came stumbling towards him. Gamith? The [Bruiser] was cut deep across his belly. Wilovan stared at him and then snatched a potion and threw it at him.

“That’s not—I have never seen that before. It’s suicidal.”

Ilvriss stared at what remained of the [Lockdown Grappler]. Wilovan nodded.

“See his scars? It’s not a class most fellows take long. Takes a big man who isn’t afraid of getting cut. But his Skills…I’ve seen Gold-ranks go down to that.”

“And that’s how you fight?”

Ilvriss looked at Wilovan. The Gnoll turned to face him, exasperation written over his face.

“Yes, sir. That’s how we fight and kill Wall Lords and even adventurers. The street isn’t fair. You mean well, but they know better than you what they’re getting into. We won’t stop you from dying.”

He jerked his head at Gamith and the Furfangs. The young Gnolls and Drakes stared as Ratici emerged, wiping his blades. Ilvriss just stood there.

Skills like that. Fighting that—he was a Wall Lord armed with Gold-rank grade artifacts, and he’d nearly died to two people ten levels lower than he was. He looked at Wilovan and Ratici and came to a realization.

High-level experts in fighting he’d never dreamed of. And…he looked around.

“You’re right. I’m only getting in your way, aren’t I?”

“You’re handling yourself well. We might have perished in that fight before, frankly, sir. But, I won’t lie, that it’s a risk.”

Ilvriss nodded, meeting Wilovan’s gaze.

“They nearly got you the same way, didn’t they?”

The Gnoll never blinked.

“It’s a good trick. The fellows die for certain if it fails, but they don’t lack for courage when they think they’ll win. Two more places vanish? They’ll think twice. They have to, or they’ll attack until we’re all dead. That’s how it works. The other Faces have to think twice. They’re afraid of dying, that’s the ticket, sir. None of us are death or glory.”

“Except you are. You…Brothers.”

Wilovan smiled. He reached up for his hat that wasn’t there, and nodded. Ratici did too.

“There are rules, sir. The Brothers don’t fight more than other gangs. We fight less, actually. Because when we fight…there are rules in the north, and that’s how we survive. Down here? We’ll teach them.”

Ilvriss looked from face to face. He shook his head, sheathed his blade, and reached for his claws.

“I won’t get in your way. Here.”

He tossed something at Wilovan. The Gnoll blinked and caught it.

“What’s this?”

A huge ruby set in a ring winked at him. Ilvriss gestured at it.

“Flamecoat Ring. Touch it when it’s twisted down—never twist it down unless you want it primed. Perhaps it will help. And…”

He bit his tongue, but handed Ratici the other ring, a dark onyx one.

“Invisibility.”

He could always replace them from his armory. The Gentlemen Callers blinked at him. Ilvriss nodded.

“Keep yourselves alive. I’ll put someone on Miss Marquin with her Thronebearers. A…face.”

“Er…thank you, Wall Lord. Will you be wanting these back?”

Ilvriss turned, briefly.

“I’ll consider them…a favor. We’ll talk later, I hope.”

The Gentlemen Callers exchanged a glance. Their opinion of the odd Wall Lord changed somewhat. He might not know, but he was learning. Wilovan grinned.

As the Wall Lord left, the two Gentlemen Callers took stock. They put their hats on, counted their injuries, and Wilovan went for another set of clothing. The Gnoll was buttoning up another coat when he looked sideways.

“You lads have a grudge against the Earthtenders or something?”

“Earthtenders? No one likes ‘em. You…you from another city?”

Gamith spat. He touched at his stomach, gingerly, but he’d seen fighting before, if not this. He stared at Wilovan. The Gnoll considered the question.

“Something like that. We’re not replacing them. This isn’t a feud. This is to the death. Hats off. You get me?”

Gamith nodded slowly. He gulped.

“Wh-why? What did they do?”

“They tried to kill someone who wasn’t part of it.”

The [Bruiser] waited. The other Furfangs looked at each other.

“And…how far is it going?”

Wilovan finished buttoning his coat.

“Until it ends. If you want to come with us, help yourself.”

He looked sideways, pointedly. His new ring was on his finger, but he quite clearly saw why the Furfangs had followed the Brothers on their deadly battles. Not just the fascination of the two men. Not just seeing the sheer violence and death.

They’d armed themselves with the goods of the dead Earthtenders. Money, weapons—more than they could earn in months. Gamith himself had picked up the enchanted dagger. He stared at it. He could sell this and feed himself and his family for…

All you had to do was look death straight in the eye. The two Gentlemen Callers began to walk off. The Furfangs had all the money they could want from two battles—three including the aborted one at the club—in the streets.

Sure enough, the Furfangs gang remained to loot the place and then run and tell everyone what they’d seen. Ratici nodded to Wilovan and they walked on. That was what Wall Lord Ilvriss would never understand. The sheer money in a jacket, even bloodstained, a bag of coins.

They turned as they heard pounding footsteps behind them. Gamith, the [Bruiser], and a pair of Drakes and three other Gnolls had caught up. They stared at the Gentlemen Callers in silence.

Something…Wilovan felt blood drying on his fur. He reached for his scent-killing potion. And wondered if he would level again. He would. And his next Skill would be…

[He Scratched Only Thread].

Yet in the now, in the moment, he looked at Gamith, right at the uncertain young man. Ratici glanced at Wilovan, then he snapped. The younger men jumped as Ratici gestured.

“Keep up, then. Listen and don’t move until we say so. And—find yourselves some damn hats.”

They had to at least look the part, if they wanted to walk with the Gentlemen Callers.

——

It was completely, eminently difficult. Because the problem was that you never had one problem at a time. When it rained, it poured. When it rained, it poured, and you discovered there were Crelers in the water and the Krakens were waking up.

At the moment of her greatest ambition, possible triumph or failure, there was unexpected war with the Gnolls. Erin Solstice, that dear girl, was dead, and she truly believed it was only a dream she could return.

Perhaps, though. Perhaps. She was equal to that—even to the news Tyrion Veltras was making war on Ailendamus for reasons only his addled brain could conceive. A younger woman might have struggled to hold it all. That poor little child, Mrsha…

Yet she could handle it all. Gangs and scandal and intrigue, because it was not the first time Magnolia Reinhart had been here. Cruel as it might be to say, not all of it was her true affair, and if she failed…

She could balance it all, do it all. Because there was a truth that Magnolia Reinhart knew in her heart of hearts.

In the end, come triumph or tragedy, she would do her best. She would do all she could to leave this world better, to build that which lasted.

In the end, she would die. But that would not be the end. While her name was yet spoken or even remembered, she would live. And…he would live.

This was the truth of the world. A foundation.

It shook. Ryoka Griffin had told Magnolia Reinhart to…she listened. The voice was incredibly clear; as if he stood in the room with her. Ressa was frozen. Implaccable Ressa…

“My dear girl, you were right. Don’t rub it in; we don’t have time for it. You were right. I have been abed, metaphorically speaking, far too long. I blame the condition of my people.”

His people. Magnolia whispered.

“Indeed?”

“Half-Elves and their patterns. You know, the Archmage of Izril was in the exact same predicament. That is the fundamental quality of—of those seeking the core of magic, I suspect. Well, enough. Wistram is ashambles. There is no time, but I am preparing it for the future. As for Ryoka…leave her to me.”

He sounded right. In intonation, in some aspects, and completely the stranger. Magnolia held the stone away from her ear.

“Old man?”

He chuckled. Fondly. He remembered that. He remembered everything.

“Such a girl, even now. I will see you soon, Magnolia. Just trust in your old mentor. Tell that ghost to watch himself. We have been quiet too long—no, I have. Even my lifespan is not infinite. We have this one chance. So…so wait. Don’t get caught up in the Drakes’ damned pettiness. I have had enough of it with Zelkyr—but I will see you sooner if need be. For now? Watch the news, dear girl.”

He ended the call. Magnolia lowered the stone, sat down, and nearly fell over. Ressa reached out and poured herself a cup of tea. She took a deep drink, looked at the cup, and muttered.

“Someone get me a cup of wine or something. That wasn’t him.”

“No. Ressa. Did you hear him talk about—”

Magnolia Reinhart was as white as a sheet, but she collected herself and began counting.

“His lifespan? He never plays coy about being—never. You know that. He wouldn’t even suggest it. As for the Drakes—he knows them. Everything he is doing. What happened?”

Ressa paced around—then went to sit where Lyonette had been. It had been a longer conversation, but she was used to standing forever. Right now? She put her head back as someone ran a wine bottle over.

“Something’s wrong for certain. Magic. He’s said things can take even him out.”

“Then we must check on him.”

“Yes? I can do it. Drop me off at Liscor or Celum and I’ll head there myself.”

Ressa sat up, inhaling hard. Magnolia hesitated.

“He warned us he trapped his ‘laboratory’. That’s still him, Ressa.”

“I know. Who else could you send, though? I have a shot.”

“Not one in a thousand. Not if he truly prepared any spells.”

Ressa nodded.

“…But this is beyond dangerous. If he’s truly arming Wistram with what he knows? Either he’s gone mad or his mind—”

“Do not continue that thought. That is an order.”

Magnolia Reinhart saw her [Maid] raise her head to snap, but Ressa hesitated. Magnolia sat there. She could suffer the skies opening up and flooding everything, but she hadn’t been ready for the ground to vanish beneath her feet.

The two looked at each other. And into that moment came a crash, a shout, and a commotion. Ressa was on her feet. Magnolia sat there, staring ahead, until Ressa came back.

“We have an intruder. Someone went through the second floor window.”

“Just once, I would like it to be a bat or bird that flies into the glass, Ressa. I take it this is more important than your average [Assassin]?”

Ressa pursed her lips. She looked upwards as Reynold and five [Butlers] and [Maids] marched a figure forwards who hadn’t been prepared for an ambush.

“…You could say that. What timing.”

Magnolia Reinhart looked up and saw Rafaema of Manus coming down the stairs. She closed her eyes.

“Of course.”

——

Rafaema had known it was risky, but Makhir couldn’t follow her and—after nearly vaporizing him, she had to take a risk.

She’d known it was dangerous, but the instant she went through the enchanted glass someone had kicked her into a wall. That [Butler]—

Then a [Maid] with two wands had appeared, and Rafaema had surrendered. She was getting tired of being beaten up! She probably could have taken both of them…but Magnolia Reinhart had a mansion full of servants and…

Onieva. So many questions, so many things to ask.

But she only cared about one thing. Rafaema looked up as she was halted in front of Magnolia Reinhart.

“Lady Reinhart, I’m sorry for the abrupt entry, but I needed to speak with you in secret.”

“Wall Lady Rafaema, you have either terrible timing or excellent, and I truly cannot tell which.”

Magnolia Reinhart looked…tired. Unusually wan, and Rafaema didn’t know why. She sagged in her chair, but sat up a bit as she eyed Rafaema. The Dragon opened her mouth, and saw a figure sitting opposite Magnolia fill a cup.

…Was that [Maid], Ressa, drinking wine? Well, Rafaema had heard Ressa was more than just a [Maid], but still.

“I’m sorry to be blunt, Lady Reinhart. But I have questions and you have answers.”

She didn’t know what she was doing. But that was the thing—no one did. Makhir, Luciva, no one in Manus had anything more than books and old legends to help them, and there were precious few of those. Yet Magnolia had spotted Rafaema about to explode and told her exactly what to do.

Either it was pure coincidence or…no, Rafaema knew there was one more. She knew. And perhaps that meant Magnolia knew too.

Rafaema inhaled, heart beating fast.

“I would like to speak with you. Privately.”

Magnolia Reinhart glanced around.

“There is hardly more of a private setting than this, my staff aside, and they are all trustworthy. But…speak? Let me think.”

She put her fingers together as she eyed Rafaema.

“Speak to a Wall Lady of Manus…hm. No, I do not believe that is wise. Reynold?”

“Lady Reinhart?”

“Escort Lady Rafaema back up to her window of entry, please. And toss her back out.”

The [Butler] bowed. Rafaema began to protest as they dragged her back.

“You can’t do that! I need to speak to you! I am a Wall Lady of Manus!”

“I know, my dear. And I am [Lady] Reinhart. Chalk it up to Human incivility, mm? But now is not appropriate.”

Ressa was eying Magnolia, more unsure, but she didn’t object. Rafaema struggled, but five servants had a hold on her—they struggled to keep her moving. They were strong!

“You know something, don’t you? You know about me!”

She shouted and Magnolia Reinhart looked up. Instantly Rafaema’s heart froze in her chest. She had been told every day since being small never, ever—and the Reinharts were one of the gravest enemies in her nightmares!

And yet—something prompted Rafaema. She dug her claws into the carpet and the five servants lurched. Reynold eyed Rafaema as she dragged all five, pulling herself forwards.

“You…you know…”

Magnolia Reinhart looked up as Rafaema slowed, panting. Reynold carefully lifted a cosh, and Magnolia lifted a hand.

“One moment, Reynold.”

They faced each other. Magnolia Reinhart peered at Rafaema, almost as unsure—no, more unsure than Rafaema. The Dragon drew a little closer and saw Ressa shift.

But she didn’t want to hurt Magnolia. Rafaema inhaled again. Yes…yes. It was faint, but she had never been this close to Magnolia before. Far fainter for some reason. Because of perfume? But she was attuned to it now, because of Lyonette.

It was the same smell. Rafaema’s eyes went round and Magnolia gave her a blank look.

“Ressa. Why is she sniffing m—”

Her brows drew together. Ressa sat up. Slowly, Rafaema breathed.

“You know…you knew I was in danger. You spoke to me. You knew. You know—”

“Reynold, the kosh to the back of the head, thank you. Toss her out.”

“No!”

Suddenly, Rafaema threw all five servants off her. She pointed at Magnolia and Ressa was there, wine cup in hand, sipping it. Not with dagger in hand, but even so!

And she smelled like…and it was even on the butler! How hadn’t she noticed? Well, simple. One didn’t get close to any of them that much.

“You—you know…”

Magnolia Reinhart looked at Rafaema’s stunned face. She sighed, then looked about.

“I suspect the Hunt Commander is on his way, and I will not have it said that I accosted Lady Rafaema. Reynold? Intercept him and explain the situation should he arrive too early.”

“At once, Lady Reinhart.”

The [Butler] strode away, his artificial legs moving rapidly across the carpet. Rafaema sat down.

Since no one put a chair behind her, she sat on the carpet. Magnolia Reinhart pursed her lips. She looked like she was thinking hard.

“Where are they? How many? How do you know? You knew about me. Do you know…?”

The word danced on Rafaema’s lips, unspoken, but Magnolia Reinhart read words that weren’t there. They didn’t need to say it. Perhaps it was dangerous, even here.

Certainly, the other five servants were instantly ordered away. Ressa poured a deep cup of wine and began sipping. After a second, she produced a snack and began crunching in the background as she watched.

“I’m afraid I have no idea as to what you’re speaking of, Wall Lady Rafaema. And I suggest, for the benefit of all, we leave it there after this is said and done.”

“Leave it—are you insane?”

Magnolia Reinhart’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Are you?”

The Lightning Dragon looked at her. Magnolia Reinhart pointed a finger at Rafaema’s chest.

“Whatever you may suspect, my dear, and I deeply regret not knowing that part of biology—it must be magical. Ressa?”

“Already on it. Magical skunks, the lot of ‘em.”

Rafaema jerked. They were so casual about it.

“So it’s true?”

Magnolia Reinhart rolled her eyes skywards.

“My dear, I know it is an earth shattering revelation and no doubt greatly joyous and hopeful and all of the following, but keep up. And understand—this will do you no good.”

“But—!”

“You are Lady Rafaema, ward of Manus. I am Magnolia Reinhart. I trust Manus as far as I can throw the entire city, and Manus trusts me as much as they can throw all of Izril. You will, regretfully, keep whatever you suspect to yourself or it will be complicated for all of us.”

Magnolia sighed, rubbing at her forehead.

“…Besides. It will do you little good. So consider this meeting a moment of hope, nothing more. Hope…but my dear. I know. You know. It will not be more than that.”

“Why not? You could take me to him—her?”

For some reason, him was Rafaema’s instinct. Magnolia smiled at Rafaema as Ressa shifted, eyes widening. Magnolia saw it, but shook her head at both of them.

“My dear Rafaema. I cannot imagine a world in which that does not include your…guardians. Your minders. And believe me, that is unacceptable.”

Makhir. Rafaema heard a bang from the door and a loud voice followed by muffled conversation. He’d already followed her? Well, she had flown into the window—Ressa stood up.

“I’ll talk to them. Reynold—let him see her.”

A fighting Gnoll at the gates—Makhir. He saw Rafaema, then was pulled back.

“Wall Lady!”

“I’m fine, Makhir! Leave me be!”

She shouted back, furious. Then turned to Magnolia.

“You see.”

“Who is it? Are they—are they young? Did they send you here to meet me? Could I send a message? How is it possible? Why doesn’t Manus know?”

Magnolia Reinhart’s face looked more and more pained as Rafaema begged for answers. She folded her hands in her lap.

“Not young. Wall Lady, truly. The more you know, the more painful it will be. Leave it be. Our meeting was not by design, I assure you. As for how I know? It is completely my news sources, which, I must say, have elements even Manus cannot safeguard against. He…may know. I suspect he does. But you will not meet with him, I think.”

“Why?”

Magnolia searched for some tea. But there was none, so she reached for the wine bottle, and sighed as she put it back.

“…Because he has no interest in you.”

“Not me? We are the last ones in the world! Unless—there are more?”

Magnolia Reinhart’s face wasn’t blank, it was just nothing. No clue to Rafaema. The Lightning Dragon focused.

“Why not? I have so many questions. We could be—you know about…?”

Cire? She was afraid she was giving something away, but Magnolia just sighed.

“My dear. The reason he does not care—no, let me put it another way. He may genuinely not know. I suspected he did, but sometimes I overestimate his intelligence. Either way—if he did not seek you out, even if he did not know, I do not think he would meet with you. And, to be clear, he would find you. You could never find him.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

Magnolia gave her a long look. A sad look. She glanced towards the door.

“Rafaema of Manus. What would you have to offer him? Nothing. Nothing but youth and, I think, grief. What could you do but entangle him in petty affairs? He may wish to meet one of his kin. That is true. That has always been true. But one of his kin. Not a child surrounded by minders. He has met too many of you, I think. Too many of us. Too many children.”

Rafaema sat there, vibrating. She felt something rising in her chest—she was hyperventilating and Magnolia saw it. The [Lady] reached out.

“Control your breathing. Calm. Calm yourself, Rafaema.”

Her aura was like an added link of chain in a wall. Rafaema stabilized. Then she cried out.

“I don’t know what is happening. I can’t control myself!”

“You are growing up. That’s all. It is never pleasant, Humans, Drakes, or otherwise. Find someone with aura training. Or go sit cross-legged and meditate for a year. [Monks] and whatnot.”

Magnolia sat back, sighing. Rafaema saw Makhir arguing his way forwards. She leaned towards Magnolia, desperately.

“Tell me. Tell me and…I’ll seek him out.”

“No.”

Magnolia Reinhart decided to pour herself a cup of wine. Rafaema’s fists clenched.

“Tell me! Or it will be a matter for Manus!”

“That is exactly why I will not. I know something. Manus does. If you are unwise enough to bring it to your Dragonspeaker, I trust it will be just her and we shall understand we both have much to lose. Her arguably more than I. I will advise you to go with your Hunt Commander, Rafaema.”

Magnolia waved as the Gnoll advanced. She looked at Rafaema. The Lightning Dragon sat there, vibrating with—Magnolia Reinhart murmured.

“It won’t be forever, Rafaema. Wait until you are an adult and I will make a provision to tell you. He will be there, waiting.”

Rafaema stared at her. The [Lady] rose to greet Makhir. She looked at Rafaema again.

“Either that—or prove to me that when you find him, it will not be Rafaema of Manus, but Rafaema alone. That is my promise.”

——

Grow up. Grow up, but it was so difficult. How were you supposed to do that, exactly? Most people were lucky. All they had to do was grow older.

“Cire! There you are!”

The Earth Dragon looked up. Mivifa, the Oldblood of Feathers, dove out of the sky with Feathi, her pegasus. Unlike normally, she wasn’t ‘Mivi’, but the Named Adventurer.

She looked old. She hesitated, but she called down to Cire.

“It’s been nearly eight hours! Oteslia’s in a panic! The First Gardener thought you’d flown over the walls and Zeres got you—where have you been?”

She’d found Cire on the ground, walking the streets of Oteslia. It was amazing she’d found him, really. He’d tossed his tracking spells, and in a city of millions, it was nigh impossible to find Cire, even with all the people in-the-know searching for him.

Especially since he wasn’t at any one of his customary hangouts, not even the place where he had hatched. Cirediel had his hands in his pockets. Mivifa swooped lower.

“I—I’ll call the Watch. Wait here.”

“So you’re not going to hang out anymore, huh?”

Mivifa stopped. Her wings were feathered. Feathers. Not snow-white, but a subtler blonde-grey, bordering silver with speckled dots, like Feathi’s own hide.

“I…”

She floated downwards. Cire stared up at her. How had she…? They must have used a substitute when he met ‘Mivifa’.

This was right. This was who Mivi was. Named Adventurer. Now he looked at her, he felt stupid. Of course she wore makeup. He felt like a fool and turned away.

“Get lost, Mivi. You found me. Congratulations. I’m not dead—you can get someone and go back to doing important things instead of having to follow me around. It must’ve really sucked, huh? Listening to me, having to pretend to be Silver-rank. Mom’s got a Named Adventurer to guard me because I’m that good at Crelering things up, huh?”

“It’s not like that at all, Cire. You don’t Creler much—it’s just—”

He spun back, shouting.

“Don’t pretend, Mivifa! You—how many of them are there? Do I have any friends?”

Cire had tears in his eyes, which he hated. He wiped at them, and furiously swung at her, but it went wide. Mivifa watched him, anguished.

“Cire—I wanted to be your friend. I was. All the time, growing up. I just…”

Her lips moved. Cire was preparing to run away from her, when Mivifa whispered.

“I got old, Cire. I tried, but I couldn’t stay young forever.”

He looked back at her and saw she had grown up. She had always been…he remembered a short Drake girl, running about. Then she got taller, but slowly. Slowly. Then he realized she was grown and then…

“How old are you?”

She looked at him. And Cire realized he didn’t want to know. He was the boy who was young forever. He shook his head.

“Don’t—don’t tell me. I—”

He looked around. He had been walking down the street, to a playground. It was an old haunt, so old only Mivifa had found it from earlier routes. Cire muttered.

“Everyone else is doing important things. I’m the one who…”

“What were you doing, Cire?”

He stared about. The street was empty, more worn than he remembered it.

“It feels like yesterday. I feel like you two knew each other, but he’s older’n even you, Mivifa. Poruniv. Porun. Do you remember…?”

She stiffened. Cire looked at her. He saw a young Drake, sometimes with cuts from scuffles, grinning at him.

“He runs a gang, doesn’t he? That was him. Just like you. I met a guy—we were friends and he was old. He was dying. Do you have to keep lying?”

“I…Cire. I didn’t want to at first. First it was just me hiding a few years. Then—we know how it hurts you.”

Cire’s voice rose.

“Yeah, well, it hurts more when I feel like the biggest idiot in the world! Every time! Mom—”

He stopped and gulped.

“I know Shaerrha isn’t my…I know the other First Gardeners retired. I know they have to be…”

He couldn’t say it. Cire looked away.

“I know they get old. I know that! I can handle it. It’s just—you can’t run around with people who’re thirty. That’s uncool.”

“I know. I wanted to hang out with you, Cire.”

“Did you even enjoy it?”

The Dragon scuffed along, heading towards the playground of swings and balance-beams built into the trees planted there. Ah, they were overgrown. When had that happened? Trees grew so fast.

Mivifa and Cire sat on swings there as evening set. Mivifa tried to smile.

“I did. Really.”

“Liar. I know I’m a child when you get older. Everyone tells me that.”

The Named-rank adventurer’s smile flickered.

“Who does?”

Cire avoided her gaze.

“People. I can’t help it. I can’t be old. Rafaema tries—but she’s miserable. Just look at her and that Makhir guy.”

Mivifa nodded. Manus sounded like military training camp to Cire.

“We don’t want to hurt you, Cire. It’s just—”

“Then let me leave. Just let me leave and—and go exploring!”

“We can’t do that. Cire, you’re the hope of Oteslia.”

The Dragon stared at the ground. He kicked at it savagely, unearthing a colony of actual ants. They began to swarm at him—then decided to go rebuild their colony instead. Uncool kick, guy, but what are you gonna do? Bite him? Nah.

“Yeah. The hope of the Walled Cities and the biggest joke. I can’t even wipe my butt without someone holding my hand.”

“That’s not true—”

“Is it?”

Cire leapt to his feet, carefully avoiding the anthill. He pointed at Mivifa, suddenly furious again.

“It always happens! You—you and Mom and everyone tell me it’s the last time, but I’m not stupid! You keep doing it! You told me I was going to Zeres and put me on a lake! I thought it was the ocean for three decades! And that wasn’t enough—you know what they did to Rafaema? When she blew up half of Manus?”

Mivifa bit her tongue and avoided his gaze. Cire threw his hands up.

“Her boyfriend was an agent of Manus! She can’t even date someone without them being, like, a super-secret [Soldier] or officer! And—and I know you put tracking spells on us. And that you read our letters! Want to know why we don’t write any? Because I don’t want to write to Dragonspeaker Luciva!”

He stomped his feet and cracked the earth. Mivifa couldn’t meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Cire. I’ve tried to give you more space. But everyone worries about you. Everyone does love you, and you two are the last ones ever. You’re the hope of Oteslia. Look.”

Cire looked down. A vast ant colony stretched under his feet, unearthed by his stomping. But rather than swarm over him, the ants bustled around him. Jeez, look at this guy.

They refused to attack. Plants grew faster when Cire planted them. Animals did love him. Feathi was a friend.

The last. It wasn’t true, but Cire refused to tell Mivifa. He might have, a month ago. Now? He looked at Mivifa, the Oldblood of Feathers, and knew they would never be friends again. That was how it worked. He turned away.

“Loved? That’s what everyone tells me. I don’t feel loved. I feel…needed.”

Mivifa stirred. She tried to speak, but Cire held up a claw.

“Just leave me alone, Mivifa. Go do important things. I won’t run away. I’ll just be here. Everyone tells me they’re doing things for my sake. You, the First Gardener, even Poruniv said that. You all sound the same.”

He turned. His wings opened wide, and the Earth Dragon’s scales, brown and green and purple, shimmered in the fading light. He looked up—then hesitated, and raised a claw.

The earth moved together, and the ant colony vanished as it melded. Cire stared down at the ground. One day—Mivifa looked at him. One day, he would guide them all like that. Kindly.

If he didn’t break of sadness before that. Cire spread his wings and flew.

He wanted to be alone. No—he was alone. He saw a streak of blue in the air and flew towards it. He saw Rafaema, fleeing as well. And there were tears in her eyes.

Cire flew at her and caught her arm. He embraced her, and hated the way they watched and celebrated it. The certainty grew in his chest, the little secret he had never told anyone, not even Rafaema.

One day, I will run away from this place and never return.

——

He wanted to run. But the Second Gardener, the nickname for the Earthtenders’ boss, Poruniv, had orders.

Multiple safe houses and havens. Labs, somehow. Workshops—vanished.

Earthtenders was indeed a massive gang, but the amount of damage done in a single day? There were two Faces smashing places up street-to-street, reports of places being found with dead gang members with no wounds—and [Maids].

Maids. It was like some kind of sick joke. But Poruniv was furious. The gloves were off and there would be a reckoning.

So he sent Faces. On the attack. Neverwhine, Zanzeil, and nearly a dozen more were called in. Favors pulled, arms twisted. Threats made.

“Ecleeif. You’re on killing those damn Callers. I want them dead.”

Poruniv’s face was still puffy from nearly getting sucked into a void. He pointed at the [Sorcerer] and the Drake gulped.

“M-me? Why me? Send Zanzeil and Neverwhine!”

The Gnoll with the Creler-poison on claws and the huge, double-headed dog [Beast Master] both glared at him. Poruniv shouted.

“Don’t argue! You’re a [Mage]—they’re warriors. Blast them! I’m sending you with a full combat group. Just hang back, hit them, and if you somehow miss—”

There were threats laden with his orders, but Poruniv just had to wound them or keep them from attacking. The [Sorcerer] knew he could do it. His [Airless Box] spell hadn’t killed either Caller, but it was swords versus sorcery.

But if they get me, I’m dead. I’m dead! Ecleeif was under no illusions. There were Faces and Faces. Some qualified because they were famous more than deadly. He’d even heard a child was a Face in Invrisil, which went to say something something something.

But those two? They were death walking. They had walked into the Earthtenders’ hideout, nearly done in Poruniv but for sheer luck, and killed dozens of the main crew before getting away. Even a broad-daylight attack had failed.

They scared Ecleeif shitless, and he stopped in a public outhouse to lose a few pounds. The [Sorcerer] hurried to get to his meeting place, sweating as he washed his claws with a quick [Flame Jet] spell. He stepped outside, cutting through a park, and a gold coin was lying on the ground.

Ecleeif stopped and looked around. Now here was a find! He reached down for it, and heard a voice.

“Want to bet on it?”

The [Sorcerer] spun. He pointed a finger, hesitated, as the young man threw his hands up.

“Ancestors. Rickel? Do you want to die?”

The [Gambler] grinned.

“Hey, Ecleeif. Sorry, but I thought you’d do something if I didn’t get your attention. Mind not blasting me?”

The [Sorcerer] thought about it.

“You’re in over your head, Rickel. Poruniv wants you dead. First the mistake with the flowers, now this…you’d better find a way to make it up.”

Rickel put his hands in his pockets.

“I didn’t make a mistake with the flowers. They’re worth everything, right? Not my fault.”

Ecleeif chewed his lip. He knew he was late, judging by the position of the sun, but he lingered…glancing at a sun-dial.

“Yeah, well. That’s not what the boss thinks. What, you want me to put in a good word?”

He vaguely liked Rickel. The young man was a mediocre [Gambler], but he knew his way around places, and Ecleeif would have sworn he was smart…until his stunt the other day. Rickel shrugged.

“I don’t think it matters. Listen, Ecleeif, let’s be honest. The Earthtenders are going to war, right? Against the Gentlemen Callers?”

“Those two? Yeah. Two Faces from up north. Crazy bastards.”

Ecleeif shuddered. Rickel smiled crookedly.

“They’re old-school.”

“School? We don’t go to school. They’re insane. Either they die or…no, we’ll get them. But I don’t want to be one of the ones who dies taking ‘em out, you understand? If you hadn’t saved them—hey, that’s right!”

Ecleeif was getting angry. He pointed a finger at Rickel.

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t drag you back to the boss!”

“Because I wouldn’t appear in front of you without a backup plan, Ecleeif. For all you know, the Gentlemen Callers are waiting around that tree.”

Rickel nodded, looking calm as could be. Ecleeif’s scales prickled. He lowered his finger, glancing around.

“Hold on. Why are you here?”

Rickel shrugged.

“It’s been a weird day, Ecleeif. First I meet a room full of real people. Like, genuine movers and shakers. The Gentlemen Callers—it’s all connected. Oteslia’s moving. Can’t you feel it? And Poruniv’s making bad plays if he wants to get in front of them.”

His eyes glittered. He grinned. Ecleeif gave him a nervous laugh.

“That all sounds…terrible for business.”

Rickel nodded reasonably. He gestured, and the [Sorcerer] walked slowly with him.

“Doesn’t it? I know you’re like me, Ecleeif.”

“In what way? We both appreciate a good chest over a tail?”

They had bonded over similar tastes. Rickel nearly tripped. He laughed.

“No! We’re sensible. You don’t think fighting the Gentlemen Callers is smart, do you?”

Ecleeif bit his tongue. He did not, but even saying that was a bad idea. Just let the two do what they wanted! Ancestors, why was it all personal? They had so little to gain from making Magnolia Reinhart an enemy, but Poruniv was a patriot.

“I bet a lot of people, even Faces, see it that way. Tell me—are Neverwhine and Zanzeil really that dedicated? I don’t think Zanzeil is, but Poruniv pays him well.”

“More than me.”

The [Sorcerer] scowled. Rickel eyed him, smiling again.

“And now he’s sent you to go after…who? Wilovan and Ratici?”

“I can’t say. Look, Rickel, whatever you’re trying to do, I’m an Earthtender. You have no idea how dangerous Poruniv is.”

Ecleeif turned away. Rickel called out.

“He’s only dangerous until he starts losing power, Ecleeif. And there’s a [Princess], two top Faces, and Magnolia Reinhart on the other side. And me. What if I told you it was a safer bet not to go and get killed?”

The [Sorcerer] turned. He saw Rickel produce something, swear, and drop it.

“I nearly broke my hand! That’s heavy!”

A thunk. It should have been a clink, but that much metal in one place was more like a solid object. Rickel had pulled something out of his bag of holding. Ecleeif stared at it. He approached, opened it, then closed it fast and stared up at Rickel.

“Where did you get that? You’re not that rich! Did those two give you…?”

He stared down at the huge, simple bag filled with…gold coins. Ecleeif’s tail began to wag, but then he wondered why Rickel had pulled it out. The young man squatted down.

“Believe it or not, that’s not even a thousand gold coins. You can’t even lug around a thousand gold coins. My bag of holding feels lighter. Whew!”

He wiped his brow. Ecleeif eyed it. That was a lot of weight to just…Rickel grinned at him.

“So. What if we said…six thousand gold coins. All together. You never show up. I know there are independent safe houses; I even have a few rented.”

“Six thousand…?”

“To begin with. I know you earn a lot. How about earning more? And if you can find people who think the same way—”

Rickel squatted there. Ecleeif stared at him. The [Sorcerer]’s lips moved.

“What’s stopping me from blasting you and taking the rest?”

Rickel laughed.

“Ecleeif! What kind of an idiot would I be if I didn’t have plans for that? And I can’t carry how much money I have. Stick with me, Ecleeif, and let’s not do dangerous things. How about it?”

He held out a hand, grinning. The [Sorcerer] stared at the bag of gold, and Rickel.

“Who…you’re not a [Gambler], are you? Who are you?”

The young man winked at him.

“I don’t gamble about important things. Call me Mr. Opportunity. I see it, I go. I think it’s time to play for keeps, don’t you?”

He waited. Slowly, Ecleeif made up his mind. The [Sorcerer] reached out and took Rickel’s hand, and the young man beamed. The two stood up as Ecleeif levitated the bag of gold up. He was still uncertain.

“You think we can actually take out Earthtenders, Rickel? Or replace Poruniv?”

The young man walked forwards. He turned to Ecleeif and spread his arms.

“Ecleeif, I can do anything.”

He stood there, radiating confidence. The gold he promised Ecleeif was there. No [Gambler], not Rickel, if that was even his real name. He was on the trail of something huge, and coffee was the sideshow act compared to this. It was going to be tough, but the Gentlemen Callers and Lyonette had an ace in the hole, and Rickel didn’t gamble.

He was an orchestrator, a planner, a trickster. He had been a [Con Man]. But that was before the Golden Triangle. If he had to buy the Earthtenders? Earth’s [Trickster of Fortunes] grinned. Time to make a play for his side.

——

Two children held hands.

Weren’t they all children, in the end? Did they ever grow up?

Yes. There was a day when you were probably older. It had nothing to do with age. Age was just the correlation, not the causation.

Older was something else. It was in a smile or a sigh. It was in what you did—or how you had lived. A little girl could be older than an elderly man in some ways.

It was in her. In her smile. A pure age that Maviola El had never achieved. In some ways, never needed. Had she wanted it?

Lyonette du Marquin grew older in a second and a moment. Older—yet she smiled. She smiled and relaxed, despite the news and short lines of text doing the opposite for her minders.

Ser Lormel broke out into a cold sweat. Dame Ushar and Ser Sest watched Lyonette like hawks. Dalimont? He just looked thoughtfully at her and saw the 6th Princess of Calanfer change.

It came after a day of introducing herself once more to Oteslia’s great and powerful. Meaningless, meaningful. A chance stop at the Mage’s Guild to see if there was any news.

There was, for Erin’s cure. There was news from abroad and home. And a lot of spam mail.

Among it, one letter. Just a short letter, three sentences so short you could write them on a single slip. That was why she had noticed it.

It said everything.

I’m here. Find me with everyone, Mother. I miss you.

Lyonette du Marquin smiled. Despite knowing what it meant. She was able to understand where it had to surely come from. She understood the danger, both heightened and lessened.

How had she gotten there? Why? What was happening? She didn’t know. And—that last line.

I miss you.

It spoke to a silent cry. She was needed and she was not there. She had been helpless when her daughter went missing, and she still was.

Even now, Lyonette knew, Zeres’ army was moving. Portions turning on the Meeting of Tribes. Drake armies were crossing the water line. The hunters were out there.

Yet she smiled. It was not a happy smile. Relieved? It was a bit that, but it was not any of those words at the heart of it. Determined—perhaps.

Something stronger. It was the smile of someone who had waited in uncertainty and grief. Despair and fear. Waited, lost, adrift, helpless, unable to do everything that she had to do.

This was the relief: the call had come. A location, a place. Now—she could throw everything towards that goal. Neither hell nor high water nor Thronebearers nor armies would stop her.

“Your Highness. You have a visitor.”

Ser Dalimont spoke as Lyonette retired to her rooms. She looked up. It was not Wilovan and Ratici, nor Ilvriss, nor even Xif or Rickel. This was a time of action. And time…time was running out.

Even for people who had forever. They could not wait any more.

“Wall Lady Rafaema. And…Cire. Lord Cirediel.”

The two stopped in the room as Ser Dalimont stood to attention. Lyonette addressed him.

“Ser Dalimont, you may leave us.”

He eyed the two. Rafaema offered him her sword. The Thronebearer hesitated.

“As you will, Princess.”

He shut the door, despite the argument with Dame Ushar. Lyonette did not fear danger. And perhaps Dalimont had seen their expressions.

“How can I help you, Wall Lady Rafaema? ‘Raef’?”

Her eyes narrowed. Rafaema started and glared at Cire, whose face said it all in extra-large type. Lyonette nodded to herself.

“I—apologize, Your Highness. I—was hoping to speak with you privately, and I thank you for making the time. I have a delicate issue I would like to bring up, but the matter is touchy. Exceedingly touchy.”

Lyonette raised her brows. Cire looked vaguely alarmed.

“Raef, are you sure?”

“Absolutely. This is highly confidential, Your Highness. I don’t believe I need to spell things out. I would like to ask some questions, if I may. And if we understand each other, perhaps we can elucidate.”

The [Princess] saw the cautious way Rafaema eyed her. She wondered what Rafaema saw, because she was drawing a blank. So she smiled.

My daughter is in the Meeting of Tribes.

“My daughter is in the Meeting of Tribes, Wall Lady Rafaema. I would appreciate if you can spit out what you want. I will answer you candidly, you have my word.”

The Lightning Dragon blinked. She looked at Lyonette. Cire blinked.

“You…you do have a daughter?”

Lyonette shifted her gaze to him and he flinched, though she was still smiling politely.

“Yes. I did not give birth to her, but she is mine. If that is what you are asking. What do you want?”

“It—is a matter of great secrecy. I can’t divulge it unless you were as informed as…someone who knows.”

Rafaema grimaced. She was dancing with a secret and unsure of how to do it. Just blurt it out? Not to a [Princess], not to Calanfer’s heir, Terandrian might.

A continent of [Knights]. Owners of a Dragonthrone. Why was it so hard? Rafaema hesitated and saw Lyonette narrow her eyes. The [Princess] tapped her lips, then half-rose and fetched a tea set. She offered some cold tea around and only Cire took it. She sipped from a cup, eyed Rafaema, then spoke.

“So? Which is it? It’s not coffee or my identity. Then…are you two some species in disguise? Do I have some kind of object in my possession you need? Wait—are you V—”

She hesitated. Rafaema and Cire jumped and gaped at her. Lyonette stared at them.

“Are you Goblins in disguise?”

“…What?”

The two goggled at Lyonette. She searched their faces.

“You are! You’re something. Not Goblins?”

“We’re not—you don’t know! That’s totally whacked in the head, that’s Lizard-brain thinking.”

Cire blustered. Lyonette looked at him. She looked at him in a way Rafaema had seldom seen, even in over a century of life.

“Yes. I do.”

“How?”

Rafaema put a claw out. It was shaking. No, Lyonette didn’t know or she would have guessed. But she looked at them and…the [Princess] breathed.

“It’s so obvious. I was distracted, but it’s obvious. You. Onieva. Even that Nerul and Xesci are for something. I don’t care. I wish I did but—yes, I know. I know you’re special, or on some kind of mission.”

“How? A Skill?”

Lyonette du Marquin laughed. She threw her head back and laughed, not like a [Princess], because they were taught not to laugh like that. Like a [Barmaid] at an inn. She laughed, giggling at the mirth and their uncomprehending faces and burst out.

“Because I have known people like you! I serve them drinks and food! I met the greatest [General] in Izril—the world! He stayed at my inn! I knew people who became Gold-rank adventurers. I know a Courier and—”

Her face stopped shining bright and fell sad.

“I know. So tell me. Ask me, and I’ll answer. I must leave Oteslia.”

“You cannot. Not through a siege. Zeres may be slouches in some ways, but they’ve been tweaked twice. To where, the Meeting of Tribes to find your daughter? You will never make it without an army.”

“Or a magical carriage.”

Lyonette nodded to Rafaema. She was so calm. She studied their wings, scales, mismatched eyes, and frowned. As if she recognized something.

The scent was fading. The trail grew colder. And could they trust her? Cire burst out.

“We’re looking for someone. You might not even know who it is. I bet you don’t, not really. But they were at your inn or crossed paths with you. And we want to find—”

He hesitated.

“It’s secret. But we need your help. But we can’t trust you. So, uh—checkmate.”

Rafaema and Lyonette stared at him. Had he just checkmated himself? Erin Solstice he was not. Yet Lyonette looked at Rafaema.

“Trust is a difficult thing, especially when you have something truly valuable to hide. I know that full well. I was a [Princess] in hiding. I have other secrets.”

“Mine are like that, Princess Lyonette. But they involve more than just me.”

Rafaema looked at Cire and Lyonette. She seemed tired and old in her own way.

“I cannot give them lightly.”

“I know that.”

Lyonette studied her, then Cire. Then she had an idea.

“We can do nothing without trust, though. Am I right in thinking that you two are more than you look? [Hunt Commander] Makhir seems to guard you, Rafaema, and I have seen no less than Mivifa, a Named-Rank adventurer, protecting you, Cire. This—this involves your Walled Cities. Doesn’t it?”

The two Dragons glanced uneasily at each other. This young woman was a bit too smart. This was exactly what they had been taught to fear. Yet Lyonette looked to them, then went to a drawer for something she had just been gifted. She sorted through it, pulling out a stick of something. Wax? She unveiled a scroll, and then turned to them.

“I…think there’s a simple way to go around the problem. If you don’t mind making a deal.”

“A deal?”

Rafaema stared warily at the scroll Lyonette offered. The [Princess] shook it out.

“We could write something more official. But since you do know I am a [Princess], I have a Skill. [Royal Contract]. I am assured it is as powerful as my class, but we could use magic and binding as well.”

“To swear…what?”

“Secrecy. Whatever you want to keep secret, swear me to secrecy. We can bind it with magic and Skills—that is the very foundation of trust. To some people’s minds.”

Little pacts and connections. But Lyonette did not want a little pact or connection. No deal about trade amnesties and so on. Lyonette took a deep breath.

“Tell me what you want and who you’re looking for. Someone like you? If it is a guest—I know all the important ones. I was there in the inn—I surely would know their faces.”

Rafaema licked her lips. Someone who both Magnolia Reinhart and Lyonette knew.

“Tell me.”

The [Princess] urged them. Her eyes flickered as she looked from one to the other. She couldn’t imagine what it was, but the way they jumped at the mention of other species was distinctly…Fierre-ish. Yet they weren’t Vampires; she was almost certain since she’d seen Cire positively bathing in sunlight.

Nor Goblins. Not enough poking. Her eyes narrowed. What else did that leave? Drakes. Guarded by two very powerful cities…

With very powerful, anxious bodyguards…

…Drakes who had Oldblood wings and scales…

Somehow connected to The Wandering Inn. Someone she had met.

Or someone else had met? Lyonette recalled a rumor. One of the most outlandish ones, and that went hand-in-hand with the [Innkeeper] who could spit blood and slew armies with frying pans and acid.

But then, that [Innkeeper] herself kept bringing it up, no matter how people laughed at her. Which was one thing. She wasn’t exactly the most reliable source.

Klbkch the Slayer now…

A Christmas party. Lyonette du Marquin stared at the eyes. The eyes…which were somehow familiar. Not in color, but the way they didn’t match. That was a rare, rare thing, even in this world.

Her own eyes widened. Her brain—no. It refused the answer. Cire and Rafaema looked at each other. Rafaema spoke, slowly.

“If we tell you, Princess Lyonette. I would have you swear never to reveal it, in a way that cannot be broken. I would have you find…the person we are looking for. We would be beyond grateful.”

“No, that’s not enough.”

Rafaema and Cire looked at Lyonette. Not again. The [Princess] was rising. She turned her head from one to the other.

“I need something.”

“We can’t give you anything. Money? A few artifacts, maybe—”

“No, no. What I need is…help. My daughter is in the Meeting of Tribes. She is in danger. Idiotic Drake armies are attacking there. I need—I must claim her and get her to safety. I cannot do it alone. I need to protect her and get to her. Both things I cannot do, trapped here. But…”

Lyonette looked at Cire. Cirediel, who was beloved and protected by no less than Mivifa of Feathers, Named-rank Adventurer.

With a flying pegasus. And Rafaema, who thought of the surprisingly capable [Infiltrator] of Manus. Ferris.

The two sides looked at each other. Lyonette took a deep breath.

“I could help you both. Find whoever you’re looking for. Track them down, perhaps. If you helped me. I would keep your secret and tell no one, if you swore to help me by the same oath. By Calanfer, the Eternal Throne, House Marquin, and my daughter Mrsha, I objure you to aid me as I keep your secrets, and render you all aid I can to locate the one you seek. In return, you must help me reach and protect my daughter at the Meeting of Tribes.”

She blinked. Something was tracing itself on the back of her hand. It looked like…Calanfer’s sigil. A glowing tattoo of light, radiating outwards and forming a longer design up her arm. Rafaema eyed it.

A Royal Skill. She was uncertain.

“Help you find your daughter. Find and protect her. What are we swearing by?”

Lyonette looked at the two. Magnolia Reinhart had so many deals. Lyonette cared little for them, with people she could not trust. Someone you could trust? Who would be there?

That. That was everything. So she smiled, not entirely carefree, but relaxed. She offered the hand to the two.

“You will help me get my daughter back. Or die trying. And if she dies first, so will we. I shall perish before I reveal your secret.”

The sigil was tracing itself up her arm. The two Dragons hesitated, staring at that clear, blue gaze. Rafaema’s claw twitched. Yet that pact. She saw Lyonette, desperate, smiling, and couldn’t take her hand. She lowered her claw, and turned away.

Cirediel of Oteslia reached out and took Lyonette’s hand. Rafaema spun back. She saw the light trace up his arm and he yelped, but he didn’t let go.

“Cire!”

He looked at her, trying to grin.

“Let’s find the last of us together, Rafaema. And if we don’t save Lyonette’s kid—you can find them. How’s that?”

The [Princess]’ eyes opened wide. The light grew, and she looked at him.

“Who…are you?”

She was leveling. Cire grinned, and whispered in her ear.

“A Dragon.”

8.56

Questions. They woke him in dreaming. Normally, he dreamed of nothing, not even ambition. The world ended in between the time his eyes closed and opened. Rarely, he had dreams.

In this one, he was chasing something. Fighting through dark waves breaking on an endless beach. Chasing something. An idea.

Something—which, in his dreaming state, he knew was ungraspable. It was like a thought experiment. How could you conceptualize something you had never seen? But via dream logic, he knew that if he saw it, caught it, he would understand all that he could not.

Onwards he ran, though he did not truly run. He wriggled, he dove, his body coiling. He flew, chasing after it, and realized what it was the closer he got. That damned Human, black hair blowing in some storm, hanging onto her glider. Not her. She was carrying something.

He reached for it, trying to swallow her. A vast Wyrm, chasing after…what? A shiny bauble, an orb, like a memory. Something it contained was so very precious. He stared at it and realized it was a people.

His people. Some kingdom he had never fathomed, an empire no mortal species could encompass. Rhisveri Zessoprical realized, remembered—

He had only ever met Wyrms related to him. True Wyrms, that was. The only adult Wyrm he had ever laid eyes on was his mother, and only in death. But that kingdom—

Rhisveri dove and woke up. The Wyrm jerked to wakefulness in the palace of Ailendamus. A rare nap. He uncoiled as he looked around, tensed—then realized he was squeezed around his ‘bed’.

Which, to be clear, was nothing as depraved as a bed of gold and artifacts. You crushed valuables that way; even gold got dirty. No, like his…as Rhisveri had found, he slept easiest when coiled around something.

In this case, one of the support pillars of this section of the palace. It was quite reinforced with his own magic, so even he couldn’t simply pull it out. Rhisveri was actually amid a sea of pillars, huge, towering columns stretching up to the vast ceiling above him.

The rare visitors felt it resembled a maze—and it did—but they had no notion of why you would make something like this. The upkeep in cleaning alone! All this empty space—for what? Encouraging giant spiders?

It was a Wyrm’s home, that was why. Cleaning? That was what magic was for. Idiots. Rhisveri grunted. Normally, he demanded a certain cultural magnificence from any additions to the palace, but this was just lightly crenellated stone in circular pillars of granite. Each one reinforced by magic, yes, and worn smooth in places since no [Masons] were called to maintain them—in a few places they had crumbled downwards and the stone removed.

Why, though? They weren’t even symmetrically placed about, some grouped together, others conspicuously alone. A strange palace.

When I die, if I am not revealed, perhaps some fools will repurpose this like the Dragonthrones. Claim it was some kind of magnificent art-piece, or use it as an actual maze.

The thought amused him. Rhisveri uncoiled from the largest pillar and began navigating his resting place. Why all of it? Well, the answer was clear if you saw him.

Rhisveri snaked left and right, his massive, hundreds-of-feet-long body, taller than any Human by multiple times, zig-zagged along through the pillars. He struck, undulating his body and shooting forwards like lesser snakes, and climbed, twisting himself around the pillars, using friction to maneuver in three dimensions.

Fast. A figure on the ground moving at a full gallop would have been caught off-guard by how fast Rhisveri moved. In fact, there was one now. A shimmering figure that looked like a [Knight], weaving left, right—it recoiled as Rhisveri’s head shot in front of it, blocking its path. Instantly, the illusion cut left—and Rhisveri struck from the side.

Wyrms fought like that. They were far larger than Dragons—at least when they aged to Rhisveri’s size. Although Dragons could shapeshift…Rhisveri hunted more illusions, then dashed through the maze, shooting from pillar to pillar, even diving, dodging imaginary threats.

He was panting after thirty minutes of it. Rhisveri was pushing himself, such that every now and then he smacked into a pillar or misjudged his timing and fell, ungainly, and, often, swearing like a [Sailor].

“Dragons damn it—!”

The whumph of a Wyrm hitting the ground was a minor earthquake, but the floors were proofed too. Rhisveri put another ten minutes in, then stopped.

“I have work to do.”

That was his excuse. Yet the truth was, he did do this at least four times a week. There had been a time when he had not, and he’d paid for it in harsh truths when he stared at a mirror. Keep in shape. There was no one to motivate him but him. After all, you couldn’t tell if a giant Wyrm the length of a skyscraper breathing phosphorus all over your face was a prime example of its species—or severely out of shape.

Rhisveri was in decent shape. Let it be known! Not that he went to anyone for advice. Or made an effort.

Fithea vouched he looked fine, and her half-remembered scale tonics seemed fairly good. Rhisveri puffed along as he went to his customary resting place, closer to where his fake body, the Duke Rhisveri, slept. Maybe he could put in a good hour—two hours every day. Not that he was going to war, but…

Female Wyrms. He could still smell it. That damned—Ryoka was tracking it all over his palace. Rhisveri had profound admiration for this unknown lady—

And a growing suspicion she was some kind of depraved manipulator. Well, that was what Wyrms were allegedly supposed to be. Rhisveri…wouldn’t know. He had read every book in existence, but he wouldn’t know. He had only ever met his family. And they could all tell you that their relationship had always been…well. Wyrm-like.

When he took control of the Duke Rhisveri, the Wyrm himself devoted much of his ‘self’ to the image. Not everything, but he certainly didn’t try to split himself up. After all, you heard stories about the mind-traps you ran into going all-in or too far removed, and Sophridel had all the anecdotes. Human Rhisveri functioned well because he was close to the original body.

Rhisveri’s main body lay there, occasionally moving about to eat or do whatever it pleased…much like someone lying on a metaphorical couch and watching television might pass an entire day without a conscious thought. However! It wasn’t slothfulness!

Not entirely. He had important tasks to fulfill, even if some were beneath him, and so, when Duke Rhisveri strode out of his spartan rooms, undecorated, only so his body didn’t get a crick in the neck, he picked up the first object, scrutinized it, sighed dramatically, and waved his hand.

Fifty-eight done, and more all day. Well, he’d pick the rest up. They flew into his personal bag of holding and he was off.

Thus began Rhisveri’s day. The first thing he did was call to him every report of Ailendamus’ intelligence, war front news, political, economic, and otherwise, and sort through the most pressing ones himself while Wyrm-Rhisveri read the other parts more slowly.

The Wyrm was displeased. Oh, the war was going well in some senses. Calanfer was under threat and Gaiil-Drome with it now they’d pushed up to the pass, and there were three [Princesses] under siege in that nothing-fort too. Excellent.

Tyrion Veltras and Izril? Annoying. Inconvenient! The Pride of the Wellfar ended the naval blockade and was a threat.

But if it comes up close enough, I’ll head out myself with Visophecin, Fithea, and Sophridel’s best mask. The four of us could probably do it alone if they’re sailing without escort.

Imagining a Citadel-class ship in Ailendamus’ armada made him happy. It wouldn’t be easy, but The Pride of the Wellfar, a Dragonship killer, was only lethal when it knew what it was fighting. If they had no idea Rhisveri was there, and if they didn’t activate their best defenses? Free ship.

Honestly, few things actually worried Rhisveri in terms of military consequence; you lost battles, and he hated that. But Ailendamus won wars because of the sheer numbers they brought to bear.

For instance, the ‘glorious, last-minute triumph’ of the Order of Seasons? Well, a third were now on the lam, under pursuit from one of Ailendamus’ Great Knights and the Order of the Hydra, who had split and were harrying the others back towards Pheislant. Well done for surviving one battle with two legions of Hydra [Knights]. How about four more?

Four more were marching towards Pheislant with a fuller army to check any notions of bravery from that side. The same with the Dawn Concordat. They had stalemated Ailendamus’ regular armies for a while while bleeding hard—right until a Great General knocked on their door.

And she…she could probably take Calanfer by herself. Rhisveri nodded as he strode along out of the royal wing, deserted compared to the rest of the palace. No, he didn’t fear the Five Families either—not in terms of overturning this war. Tyrion Veltras was a nuisance.

If I throw his son at him, maybe he’ll leave. He should do that, but—Rhisveri’s brows crossed.

Ah. Yes. His real headache, who had even invaded his dreams. But he put that aside just for a second.

There was…well, there were a few things that did actually rate on his ‘possibly concerning’ scale. The first one was Khelt. The second was anything to do with the Antinium, and the third was the King of Destruction, with an honorary place for A’ctelios Salash.

Three for Chandrar, one for Izril, and that’s partly Rhir. It just went to show which continent had the most old dangers aside from Terandria.

Khelt was…well, a kingdom with a lot of powerful relics, undead armies, and now at least three Revenant powers waking up for no good reason. Enough to halt a modern Terandrian crusade in its tracks without sweating. Rhisveri didn’t like it, but on the other claw, Khelt was far away, and if they did attack, all of Terandria would unite in their face.

Flos Reimarch was more dangerous because he could do what Ailendamus was doing and unite a continent’s worth of power. Fortunately, someone had turned him into a fried salamander and his capital was under siege. Rhisveri grinned savagely.

The Antinium? Not much news burning his ears, so he let it lie. And A’ctelios?

“…Someone should fill the entire thing with acid. Travellers warned to stay away? Who visits to begin with?”

They were acting…off. And that was not a good thing when people who knew the infamous Shield Kingdom said that A’ctelios was giving them bad vibes.

As long as it doesn’t start blinking, we’re fine, and Khelt can arguably deal with it. Yes—that’s a nice idea. Khelt can definitely check A’ctelios.

Well, that was it for modern news. Rhisveri did not care about petty drama. He refused to watch Wistram’s annoying network and let Itorin deal with those matters, which he was eminently capable of doing. His concerns were now towards Ailendamus for the day and her—but he actually had more work besides that.

“Servant!”

Duke Rhisveri barked. And there was one. The Duke was a famous presence in Ailendamus, and so the instant he had emerged, almost like clockwork just past dawn, a few people with [Nerves of Steel] and [Implacable Demeanor] Skills had squared up for one of the least-envied jobs in the palace.

“Your Grace?”

No less than a [Cogwork Bureaucrat] was first in line. A very interesting class…which Rhisveri had cultivated after understanding its benefits. The man looked like most people’s image of a slightly fussy official, and Rhisveri wondered if it was the class.

“You’re the competent one.”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

Rhisveri grunted.

“Good. Get these to the forest up north. The one with all the damned centipedes in the wood. These are the scrolls Fithea has been bothering me about. I’ll give you the rest later.”

He waved a finger and fifty-eight scrolls appeared out of his bag of holding and clattered into a pile at the man’s feet. The [Bureaucrat] saw a few other [Servants] stare at him, wincing, but all he did was bow.

“At once, Your Grace.”

And that was it. He didn’t say ‘what, how?’, or ‘how should I organize this?’, or ‘why me?’. That last question would have gotten him booted out a window.

[Cogwork Bureaucrat]. A class for someone who fit into Ailendamus’ system and kept it running. He knew where the servants to pick things up were. He knew how to look up ‘the forest up north’ that was suffering from a plague of wood-eating centipedes who were driving the half-Elves insane.

And he knew how to contact the [Druids] and adventurers to use the scrolls of [Insect Bane], the officials to organize the extermination with regular militia and [Knights], and get a [Message] out informing them a Courier or fast City Runner was inbound with the scrolls.

He was a handy man, and Rhisveri had done him the great honor of remembering he was one of the competent ones. Presumably, he had a life, a family, ambitions and passions, and he very helpfully did not ever tell Rhisveri what they were or bring these problems up when the Duke needed something.

Rhisveri’s contribution to this internal affair was the scrolls. Normally, he’d make someone else deal with it, but Fithea…and so he was spending his mana pool and time mass-producing [Insect Bane] scrolls. Boring, but about a week faster than if they made an academy or their scroll production facilities do it, and it was trees.

You had to humor the others on things like that. With Fithea, it was trees. Sophridel, his Court of Masks and those damned plays which he wanted so badly. Rhisveri was paying for plays, but not to ship the Players of Celum all the way out here—even if they could be bought!

Culnous, leader of the merfolk, demanded pure water, which was fair since he had to swim in the stuff. Everyone made sure Visophecin and his family got their deliveries on time, since there was nothing like hungry Lucifen for a bad mood. Gilaw, the newest one, got, uh…extra-large feather combs?

The point was that each one mattered, in a way that concerned Rhisveri more than anything else. They were all that mattered, in a sense. Ailendamus’ secret heart. Rhisveri mattered most of all, of course, but that was the trouble. Fithea wanted answers. She was taking Ryoka’s side.

Ah, Ryoka. Now it was time for the annoying part of his day. The Duke looked around.

“Prepare the Thief—the Wind Runner for a conversation with me. At…midday. Knock before entering. That is all. Unless my brother wants me. No? Then go.”

He strode along, on one last errand before he dealt with her. Memories of yesterday flooded in and Rhisveri shook his head.

“Just disgraceful. Mortals. Let me see. Let me see…”

He reached his destination, pulled something out, and raised his voice.

“I have the book. Here it is. Goodbye.”

The Duke slapped a book down on a table as he walked into one of the private libraries. He glared at a cool-eyed figure standing there, and backed away. Damned things. He never should have created public libraries.

[Librarians]. It was too much of a bother when they were on you for missing books. Not that they were avenging warriors of death and destruction when you failed to return a book—they just shouted like that. They didn’t have that overwhelmingly powerful Skills, but some were incredibly inconvenient, like the ability to teleport to said book and grab it.

He’d had to squish three over the course of his long life, and felt vaguely bad about it.

Not in Ailendamus, of course. Rhisveri huffed back the way he’d come, still mad about having to return the book in the first place. He just erased their memories and they founded a library in a city somewhere else. But…it was something. He hadn’t actually clashed with that many of his kin, but a few times he’d done great battle over treasures in a hoard with another immortal species.

But [Librarians]? You killed them, then you took their library and felt a bit bad and kept dusting off the books. Depressing.

“Although the one who could cast spells from the spellbooks in his library without being a [Mage] was a threat.”

The [Librarians] of Ailendamus were not there yet, but Rhisveri had high hopes. Classes, that was the thing. The thing he would never have was varied, unique, and interesting. He sighed. Then focused on the problem.

“Your Grace. Your Grace, I require a word.”

Rhisveri was nearly back to his sanctuary from the annoying people when one of them caught him. He turned, ready to bark at them to get lost, but it wasn’t some hanger-on or noble who thought they could befriend him. He hesitated, because this was no less than Queen Oiena of Ailendamus herself.

“Your Majesty. How may I…help you today?”

The Duke grudgingly slowed and even sketched a bow towards her. He had to. She was, in theory, the [Queen].

This had better not take long. He did not particularly like Oiena. Well, it had been a political marriage, and the woman wasn’t some harridan or a fool. She and Itorin seemed well enough to have children who looked vaguely healthy, and that was all Rhisveri wanted.

But she didn’t know who he was, and sometimes it showed. Perhaps she knew something, because she had given up trying to get to know Rhisveri—but she was even smarter then because she didn’t inquire.

She’s no Reinhart, but she has a decent network from Taimaguros and occasionally she makes use of it. [Assassins] and [Spies].

She probably had other power from there, but she hardly needed it most of the time. She was still the [Queen]…so what did she want? Probably to know if he could magically cure wrinkles or mend her daughter’s favorite dress. Dead gods, had he missed a birthday? It was someone else’s job to buy presents and if they’d forgotten, they would be swimming in the palace’s lake!

“I have a matter of great seriousness to speak to you with, Rhisveri, and I believe it falls under your purview. I did not get the chance yesterday…will you walk with me?”

“It would be my exalted honor, Your Majesty.”

Rhisveri was rolling his eyes when Queen Oiena turned and glared at him. Her bodyguard and servants fell back, and the [Queen] and Rhisveri both employed passive safeguards for conversations, but she still lowered her voice.

“Don’t take that Taima-damned tone with me today, Rhisveri. I haven’t forgotten what you and Viscount Visophecin did the other day! But for that—you heard what I told the Viscount? Be told. The same applies to you, special bond with my husband or not!”

The Wyrm stared down at a finger aimed towards his nostrils. He retreated a step, affronted.

“I didn’t do anything. That was entirely Visophecin’s matter—and I believe he’s made amends.”

“Has he? Well, at least he has some composure. I never expected it of him, but it proves one cannot know who to trust! Perhaps it is a misunderstanding and we shall see. I will ask Courier Griffin myself, but the Viscount and you are under my eyes, understand?”

I could teleport her into the stratosphere.

Rhisveri thought it, but he deliberately did nothing, ducking his head after a moment.

“Just as you say, Your Majesty. Was that what you wished to bring up?”

Oiena eyed Rhisveri balefully. He hadn’t known she was so fiery. She was a demure wife with Itorin in the banquets…the times he walked over to talk to Itorin about something important and…wait, that was about it.

He didn’t know her. Two of Ailendamus’ [Queens] before Oiena had come from Taimaguros as well, hence the ‘ancient ties’ between the two kingdoms. This entire conversation was more than Rhisveri had spoken to one of them. She would one day die.

They all would. But for now, he played along since it was the kingdom that mattered. They kept walking. Oiena looked around in silence, then broke it once more.

“I wish to bring up the—incident from yesterday morning. With the Courier and her guards?”

Rhisveri blinked. He had been reflecting on that just now. Well, well, well. He smiled, but internally. It seemed that Oiena had gone from championing the Wind Runner to his position of ‘she was a damned nuisance’. He put on an air of grave concern.

“Ah, yes. Your Majesty, I think we are on the same page. I was just thinking of how to reprimand those [Knights]. Embarking on behavior like that while said prisoner is in their custody.”

Oiena looked slightly flushed, as Humans…Terandrians in general did when discussing matters like that.

“Exactly. I’m glad you understand, Your Grace. You are handling it, then?”

The Duke nodded.

“I intend to make a request of their [Knight Commander] in the capital to replace them at once, reprimand them for unduly conduct, and issue a severe punishment for fraternization with a prisoner.”

“Yes, although the Courier admits she initiated it—but yes. It’s simply unacceptable.”

Rhisveri nodded, warming to his anger. The young boy hadn’t even been much affected, much to his disappointment, but Oiena had kicked up a commendable fuss. He’d happily watched the Wind Runner dashing about, but the Knights of the Thirsting Veil bothered him.

“On duty. I don’t care if she was a [Seductress], they’re [Knights]. It’s a disgrace! They’re one of the three peerless orders of Ailendamus and this is how they behave in the palace!”

Oiena was nodding. Frowning, but nodding.

“Yes, and they’re women. Not that it wouldn’t be bad enough if it had been four men—and they surely cannot guard a female prisoner, but my daughter saw it!”

Duke Rhisveri paused, mid-nod. He felt there was an inconsistency between the things he was complaining about and what she was.

“Er…well, four men in that situation wouldn’t have been that graphic in the same poses. Improper—what’s gender got to do with it?”

Queen Oiena slowed. She eyed Rhisveri and the Wyrm’s puzzled jade green eyes met her brown-yellow ones, topaz mixed with bark.

“Your Grace! It’s one thing for [Knights] to indulge in such acts, but women? I—that is to say—”

She looked at her escort again and moved them back with a flick of the wrist. She stood there and turned a bit red. She eyed Rhisveri, but his blank visage made her curse.

“Oh, Gura-damnit and Taima-damnit. Your Grace, you surely know how outrageous it is?”

Ah. The Duke frowned. Terandrian ideals. He sighed, folding his arms.

“I’m well aware, Your Majesty. My concern is that our elite protectors are compromised—but we are on the same page.”

“Yes! No!”

Rhisveri began to get a second headache. He exploded, but mildly.

“What?”

Queen Oiena looked around again, as if they were discussing having a head of state assassinated.

“I have never brought it up with you, Your Grace, so let me be blunt on the subject. I do not know your feelings on the matter, but—such things? Such…intimacies?”

She stared at Rhisveri, turning redder, and looking outraged that perhaps he wasn’t looking uncomfortable. Which he was, because this conversation had taken a strange turn, but Rhisveri was a master of facial muscles.

“Yes. I understand what you mean, Queen Oiena.”

She smoothed at her dress and if her hair had been braided, maybe she would have given it a damn good tug.

“Well. Well, it’s not to be condoned, naturally. Naturally! But if I were to hear of such things in private from someone in parlance of gossip…? Girls explore things. It is unacceptable if it were to be made public, of course. Much less the things they do in Baleros and Chandrar.”

“…Yes?”

He was at sea in a leaking boat. Rhisveri saw Oiena take a deep breath.

“—But not when revealed. Princess Oesca saw it, and Ivenius, although he thought they were just sparring, somehow. I regret the entire affair—doesn’t she have door locks?”

Rhisveri bit his tongue. But Queen Oiena went on, concluding simply.

“My guards and I have seen it. Young Lord Veltras saw it. So I am glad you are taking matters into your own hands. When will you strip them of their class?”

The Wyrm looked at Her Majesty of Ailendamus.

“Strip them of their class?”

“Their knighthood and membership in the Order of the Thirsting Veil. If you are minded to send them to the front—that would also be necessary, I suppose, but I am not asking for that. Either one, when…?”

Duke Rhisveri looked at Queen Oiena. Instinctively, reflexively, he crossed his arms.

“Never. What are you talking about?”

The two members of the royal family gave each other another look like distant lighthouses just missing each other. Queen Oiena frowned.

“You are minded to punish them?”

“I am. Probably digging ditches in some posting along Noelictus’ border for six months after, I don’t know, a lashing. I actually don’t know the Order of the Thirsting Veil’s methods. Maybe a mudding.”

“A…”

“Where you throw stones at someone? Only, with mudballs? The commonfolk enjoy it. We could allow them to add rocks and sticks. Most don’t, even then.”

The Queen looked at Rhisveri.

“Yes, I agree, that would be acceptable, but I saw them, and my bodyguard, and servants, Duke Rhisveri. If I could have quelled their tongues—I cannot. My daughter knows they are there.”

“So…you want me to take their classes. Strip four [Elite Knights] of Ailendamus of their class, or send them on suicide charges to the front?”

“—I thought we understood the matter, Duke.”

Oiena’s face was not hostile, let alone guilty, just blankly confused. Rhisveri on the other hand…he looked at her.

“No. Do you know how long an Order of the Thirsting Veil [Knight] has to train? We induct them sometimes as young as eight as [Pages], from noble families with strong bloodlines or gifts. It’s a decade from [Page], to [Squire], to [Knight] before they qualify as junior [Knights], unlike the Order of the Hydra, and it pays off. [Elite Knights]? They crop up in less than one out of a hundred regular [Knights] in their training, and we put them through intensive training. Those four hit that class—which is a minimum of Level 25—before they turned twenty five.”

He began counting off figures on his fingers.

“The amount of gold I—I mean, Ailendamus has invested in them? Why would I waste that?”

“Duke Rhisveri, I do not discount their cost—”

“You had no idea how long they trained! Do you think we just pull [Elite Knights] out of a hat?”

“Rhisveri! They have embarrassed the crown. Remove their classes and either exile them or send them to the war front, or I will petition the [Knight Commander] to do so myself!”

Oiena snapped. Rhisveri looked at her. He felt something sinking over him, something that had nothing to do with arguing with a mortal woman, or the [Knights]’ actions with Ryoka—no, all in this reaction. He spoke slowly, enunciating every word.

“—Just so I am clear. The reason they must lose their classes, and be banished until their likely deaths or never to step foot in Ailendamus again, is not because of their impropriety as [Knights]. Nor—nor is it your own personal objection, but because they were discovered, not the act itself.”

Queen Oiena looked at him, gravely.

“I take no pleasure in it, but yes, Rhisveri. If other nations learned of this, the scandal? Now, Courier Griffin is both prisoner and guest, and I shall have words with her. But as you said, it is one thing for her, another for [Knights] serving the crown itself and in the palace…”

Her words didn’t trail off, he just stopped listening. Rhisveri looked at Queen Oiena and a terrible weariness descended over him.

He knew how Terandrian morality played. He knew their customs and secrets, and, oh, there was a lot they said, which they did otherwise behind closed doors. He should have cottoned on to what Oiena meant earlier, but…the Wyrm sighed. He looked Queen Oiena straight in the eye and smiled politely.

“I will do no such thing, Your Majesty. Those four [Knights] will be duly punished, but I do not throw away useful people on a whim.”

She actually recoiled, astonished.

“You—did you not hear what I just said? The consequences—”

“It will not come out. Or if it does, we will simply deploy [Bards] and deny it.”

“My daughter saw it!”

“Then explain to her what you just said to me. Now, I am leaving. I must deal with that nuisance myself and I shall inform Ryoka Griffin just how much she makes the lives of everyone she meets distinctly worse. Good day, Your Majesty—”

He was walking off when Oiena blocked his way.

“Rhisveri! Do not make me go to Itorin! This is ridiculous to quibble over four [Knights] of no repute. If I must, I will tell the [Knight Commander]—”

“You will not. I will overrule that order.”

“You will what? Itorin will hear of this! And when he does—”

Rhisveri had had enough. He spun around. Queen Oiena stopped as he pointed a finger at her. Her [Bodyguard] moved—and bounced into a barrier. Rhisveri snarled as he pointed at Oiena.

“You’ll tell your husband? Go ahead. And I will tell him this is my affair and that will be that. Don’t touch them. Waste four [Knights]? They are mine. This conversation is over!”

She was staring at him, but Queen Oiena of Taimaguros had an instinctual reaction from her homeland, which was to stomp on his foot with a heeled slipper at once. Rhisveri stared down at his foot.

Oiena stared down at his foot. He calmly, and without changing his expression, lifted his foot, shook her heeled shoe off—which had left an imprint in his own shoes and flesh—and turned.

“[Haste]—”

He blurred away. Her Majesty was left staring at his back. What had he just said to her? How dare…? She turned and stormed away, but shaken.

——

What a stupid conversation. What a waste of seconds of his life. He was an immortal being, who might live millenia or beyond that into aeons, and he begrudged the three minutes she had stolen from him.

“What idiocy!”

The Wyrm boomed as Rhisveri stopped in the grand, seemingly empty room where his true body lay. Rhisveri was so annoyed he slapped his tail, slithered about.

“Who cares which ones do it? Who cares how many or which places? It doesn’t matter. Do you think Selphids care? Does Sophridel care?”

There were species and people and ways of life out there that Terandrian courts with their high-minded, idiotically close-minded ideals could never dream of. Male. Female. What did Drakes call it? Turnscales?

Rhisveri was furious. Then…he lay there, staring at the hallway he had come through, and was tired.

They had no idea. No notion how ridiculous their mating ways seemed to him. To a Wyrm. If only they knew…

“[Message] to Sophridel. Those four [Knights] guarding Ryoka Griffin are not to be harmed or relieved of their posts. I don’t care if the [Queen] herself tries. Inform me.”

He lay there, angry, furious that he was expending emotion on something so stupid. So…the Wyrm paused, and the Duke’s Human body swivelled around.

A [Servant] was coming.

“Where is the Wind Runner? Move her audience up. Now.”

Duke Rhisveri snapped. The [Servant] froze—it was only the Human Rhisveri she saw, but that was bad enough.

“Duke—I am terribly sorry, but she is not in the palace—”

“She’s escaped? She seduced all four?”

Instantly, Rhisveri went back to raging fury. The [Servant] stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Escaped? No, Duke. I was told—forgive me, it was Viscount Visophecin! I understand he, Lady Fithea, and some others went to his estate andhehadyourapprovalIamterriblysorryIdidnotknow!”

She backed away. Rhisveri stared in dead silence at her. Then the Wyrm-him calmly and carefully disgorged the bile rising in his throat and melted a hundred feet of floor tiles.

——

Ailendamus was large. House Shoel was far away from the capital’s heart, having been established later into Ailendamus’ admittedly short reign, and granted new lands, which they had managed for what were now multiple generations.

These factors meant that a ‘jaunt’ across the vast nation with a landmass equivalent to the Great Plains of Izril was generally impossible unless you were a Courier, or used the relays of horses and carriages that allowed people to travel at great need. Or you had a pet Griffin or magic on par with Wistram.

Since Viscount Visophecin had all these things, they got there. It was surreal, to ride under a mass [Haste] spell.

Even the horses were freaking out a bit, checking their own legs to make sure they were still attached given how fast they were going. The people?

The Order of the Thirsting Veil’s [Elite Knights] bodyguard was in full freak, with a possible addendum on panic. They were under no illusions on what came next, but they were still under oath, so they rode in a kind of subdued conversation. When they returned…

Ryoka Griffin was ahead of them, riding on a horse next to Viscount Visophecin. The old Ryoka charm struck again—which was simultaneously attracting immortals from the Devil himself to Fithea, Gilaw, Menorkel, and five of the Merfolk awkwardly riding horses—and making other people’s lives worse.

They were going to lose their jobs—possibly worse. Ryoka was petitioning Visophecin for help—which was a risky move given who he was. However, the Viscount just looked blandly amused.

“This would normally be something I would call a favor. However, in lieu of everything else—I do not think Rhisveri would object.”

“You’re sure? The Queen—”

Had cussed them out with language Ryoka hadn’t heard from even Wailant, while shielding her daughter’s curious eyes. Sammial had just given Ryoka a look of mild betrayal. Now, Ryoka felt Visophecin’s eyes on her.

“Rhisveri is a practical being. He dislikes waste, and the Order of the Thirsting Veil are highly valuable warriors. The ones stationed in the capital most of all. If anything, I am curious how you managed that…event. That would normally fall under my purview.”

He smiled, darkly amused. Ryoka was beet red.

“It wasn’t anything graphic!”

“Indeed?”

Nemed tried to ride forwards. The Merfolk young man was exceptionally interested in this conversation, although he sometimes forgot you moved your feet independently of one another and not like a giant flipper, and so fell flat on his face. Visophecin’s head turned and the young man decided to ride in the back.

The only person not on horseback was Menorkel. Even shapechanged, he was too tall, being a half-Giant in appearance. So he was flying ahead on a sulking Griffin, black, silver, and blonde-feathered, the largest Griffin that Ryoka had ever seen.

Gilaw. Visophecin was not impressed, so Ryoka went back to trying to explain in circuitous terms what had happened.

What had happened? Well—exactly what Ryoka had once offered. Which was the fight club. The ‘line up to punch Ryoka for things she’s done or said to you’ free-for-all. She had thought there was a market there and sure enough, when they realized she was serious, Dame Chorisa, Lacres, Indella, and Aine, the four on Ryoka babysitting duty, had agreed to settle things.

Mainly by engaging in a one-on-one fist-fight, no armor, no Skills, not to the death or anyone getting maimed. Still fairly violent, since healing potions would cover most wounds.

Ryoka had gone through some serious deja-vu in regards to getting floored. She hadn’t been under any illusions. Skills or not, they were [Elite Knights] and it had gone about as well as when she challenged Calruz and Yvlon to fist-fights.

Good times. Stupid times. What had possessed her to do it again?

Maybe the sense that they really wanted to hit her. This time? Ryoka didn’t strut about claiming how good she was. She did put them in arm-bars, and gave one a damn good kick—

Until she learned that the art of pugilism was taught by the Order of the Thirsting Veil fairly well. They didn’t grapple much, only knowing how to put someone down and hold them if they were a criminal, but they were tough.

Anyways, four asskickings for Ryoka that didn’t go entirely one way and then they just got to talking as they patched each other up. It was as they’d sat about, asking Ryoka about her ‘odd’ fighting techniques, that her missing fingers came up. And Ryoka asked how Chorisa had a scar down her midriff since they’d taken armor off to fight.

They were warriors. Young or not, they’d fought in wars. Chorisa had even survived running onto a pike in a charge. So they told her their stories and Ryoka told them some of hers. You had to respect that—they only half-believed her tales of the High Passes and escaping the Goblin Lord’s army until she told them the other ones. For her part? Ryoka respected the heck out of someone who took a pike to the chest, then kept fighting with the haft sticking out of her armor.

Mutual admiration. As for how things evolved? Well—Ryoka had a suspicion. She had intimated it, half jokingly, but when she thought about it, was it that strange?

You had the Order of the Thirsting Veil, who were raised from girls throughout puberty while being told that even touching a boy outside of sparring might ruin your ‘knightly virtues’. To both be maidens and warriors and refrain from extraneous affairs that might ruin your dedication to serving the proud nation of Ailendamus.

And if they were like her, they might say, ‘message understood, chief. I get what you’re putting down. The lads will not be a problem. We’ll handle it internally.’

The point was…well, the [Queen], Rhisveri, Sammial, Oesca, and all the others hadn’t seen too much. It hadn’t gotten there. It was just highly suggestive of what was happening next.

Ryoka hung her head. She hadn’t said all of that, but she was rewarded with the most amused look she had ever seen—Visophecin turned his head, but she could have sworn he was holding back a laugh.

“Quite…impressive. Quite entertaining—but improper.”

He caught himself, and Ryoka sighed. This was not the moral compass she needed right now. The Lucifen smiled wickedly.

“That you were discovered is the error. Terandrian customs will complicate matters, but I will prevail upon Rhisveri myself. Perhaps the four may be reassigned. House Shoel requires warriors to manage monsters and keep order.”

“Thank you, Viscount. I—that’s just how I do things. I make a mess.”

The Viscount glanced at Ryoka’s expression thoughtfully. Then he looked ahead.

“Perhaps. But aside from the impropriety of [Knights] guarding you…and they were quite certain you would not escape, having a hold on you in a physical sense.”

His slight smile grew wider as Ryoka turned into a plum. Visophecin went on, his expression smoothing to that curious blankness.

“Terandrian ideals are a matter to challenge and change. Later.”

“You…don’t support their beliefs?”

Ryoka glanced up sharply. The Devil raised his brows.

“It is not ideal for a nation without flaw to bother about such issues. I care not. Among my kin? They care not. But our views are influenced by those such as Sophridel, who is of…varied pasts. Some among our kind have strict views, such as Lady Paterghost. In truth, House Shoel accedes to our fairer kin whose views run entirely contrary to Terandrian values.”

“The…Agelum.”

Ryoka’s skin went into goosebumps at the name and implications. Visophecin noticed it, and he nodded, eyes on her face. The instant she had heard about the others, she had wanted to meet them and had arranged this visit astonishingly fast.

“Yes. I trust you will understand they are different from I. They can be…”

He searched for words.

“…Pushy.”

——

So this was how it ended. Not with a sword, in a duel, or a lost battle or life, or even an insult to a foreign power, but with a kiss.

Dame Chorisa of the Order of the Thirsting Veil reflected on her failures. Which were that she should have locked all the doors, not just the one to their rooms. Then they should have moved faster once the Duke left, rather than laugh about it.

“I will take full responsibility to the [Knight Commander]. I hope you will keep your postings, although I expect we shall all be moved to the front or borders at worst. I am sorry. It was my responsibility.”

“Dame Chorisa, it was all our…”

Dame Lacres hesitated. Failings? She trailed off.

“I don’t know how I would say it to my mother or family.”

They looked at each other; the party had stopped at House Shoel, that reclusive, famous noble house in Ailendamus. Any other time they would have been agog, to learn of the secrets within. Honored by the company of so many odd and notable figures from Ailendamus, all for the Wind Runner.

Right now? They looked at each other and saw the thing they had dedicated their lives to, all their emotion and sacrifice, vanishing.

For what? It was not fair, and they very deliberately said it without saying it.

“…We are on duty. Assume postings.”

Dame Chorisa said after a moment. The [Knights] nodded. They were, of course, invisible and muffled, since they were bodyguards—ostensibly to make sure Ryoka Griffin didn’t run off, but also to guard Ailendamus’ people.

The manor of House Shoel was nothing like Chorisa’s image of the Viscount, who dressed in dark style. There were colorful reliefs that brightened the mood rather than severe gothic architecture, a veritable sea of flowers and delightful plants in the open garden with the path leading up to the manor, and half the trees about the estate were fruit-bearing, some non-native to Terandria.

The children and servants looked, well, plush. Hale and happy. Chorisa thought it reflected well on the Viscount, but she understood why he might not advertise his family’s home. That stately Viscount did not fit into…

“…Is that a statue of a Sariant Lamb?”

Dame Chorisa’s lips moved silently as she stared up at a noble-looking lamb in what seemed like a cemetery. There were piles of flowers over the grave of…a ‘Ser Tubeliges’. A noble Sariant Lamb who had saved the life of…

Dame Chorisa wondered if this was all a fever dream. She put a hand on her head. Yes, that made sense. The Wind Runner, all the odd things that had happened—yes, that was it. She’d fallen sick and she was raving in her bed and she’d wake up soon.

She was so engrossed by the Sariant Lamb statue, not to mention the carved headstones, one of what looked like a goldfish, emblazoned with the names of beloved pets, that she completely missed Ryoka Griffin meeting House Shoel’s folk.

Half were like Visophecin, stately, reserved people who keenly watched Ryoka. If Chorisa had been able to see past their illusions, she would have noticed grey in their skin tones, horns, and delighted smiles—especially the more uncomfortable she got.

The other half? She jumped as someone spoke.

“Ah, you must be the [Knight] that Visophecin mentioned. Such a shame. Such silly business. I hope you like our cemetery. We have one for people, but the children should have their own place to remember their friends.”

Dame Chorisa whirled about. Who had snuck up on…? She saw an old man with…odd eyes wheeling forwards in a chair. There was a strange air about him, and he was very tall and looked strong—but frail, as if he had wasted away.

He was also clearly bound to the wheelchair, and had the too-healthy palor of someone who was not. Dame Chorisa was startled—firstly, because she wasn’t sure who this was, as he did not resemble Viscount Visophecin at all. Second, because his eyes had two pupils in each, one of which stared sideways at any given time. But they flicked to her, changing which pupil focused on her in the most unsettling way. Yet his smile was welcoming.

And he saw her. He had no apparent rings or amulets, but he looked straight at the invisible Chorisa. She slowly toggled off the invisibility spell and bowed.

“I beg your pardon, milord. I am Dame Chorisa of the Order of the Thirsting Veil, on attached guard duty to Courier Griffin.”

“Ah, yes. Thirsting Veil. I am Uzine. Lord Uzine of House Shoel, though you will not stand on ceremony with me. Viscount Visophecin is introducing Miss Ryoka to the others, but I had the energy to move about today. I am a bit tired…will you help me back inside?”

“Of course, my l…Lord Uzine?”

“Uzine. You sound like many of the new ones who come here. We do not stand on ceremony, Chorisa, and I know all the staff by name.”

Chorisa blinked as she took the man’s curious wheelchair—a concept she did not see often—and moved him back along the garden. He was instantly friendly, and, despite herself, she took to his chatty demeanor at once.

“It is rare Visophecin brings visitors. I imagine all of your [Knights] will have to eat and socialize—we will find them. Do not worry about safety. Not here. An army couldn’t take this place normally, and with all of Visophecin’s kin and mine here? They’re all curious to meet this Courier. Affairs of the state, you understand.”

“I—yes, Uzine.”

Somehow, Chorisa found herself in the manor, staring at walls with children’s graffiti ranging from drawings to little inscriptions.

Lord Uzine and Tored were here.

The Agelum waved over a [Housemistress] somewhat urgently.

“Herea. Herea, I have a guest.”

“Lord Uzine! You shouldn’t leave without telling anyone. I was beside myself—thank you, Lady Knight. Do you wish to meet the Courier?”

“Not now. And I won’t need a minder. I will have a chat with Dame Chorisa—but see to it she has something to eat? I am full.”

Herea instantly turned to Chorisa, who bowed slightly.

“I am content, Lord Uzine, Miss…”

“That is what [Knights] say. Herea, there are refreshments out, aren’t there? Chorisa, have some gelato. The delicacy we buy in bulk, given how much the children love it. Or other confections. The sweet stuff isn’t all for me, but we have treats from across the world…”

That was how Chorisa found herself staring at a cone of ice cream, gingerly licking it as she pushed Uzine along, then sat awkwardly in a chair as they talked. She couldn’t gainsay him as he was of the Viscount’s family—and he was pushy!

“Marvelous, isn’t it? Some kind of battered ‘cone’ and ice cream. The children love it. Apparently the Wind Runner suggested it.”

“I—really? When?”

Uzine smiled.

“Fifteen minutes ago. Our [Chef] is one of the best in the region and they had been experimenting—I think she told her the recipe, which will be a savings. A remarkable young woman.”

His eyes flickered left. Chorisa bit her tongue. Who was she? But then…part of her job was not to ask.

There was a split in House Shoel that any visitor could see. Uzine, the wheelchair or even bed-ridden folk with bright smiles, and the stately, reserved group with Visophecin. Cousins?

They were noticeably different. The Lucifen walked past the children, said curt ‘hellos’ to the cheery servants, and only truly interacted with each other—and the Agelum. They were respectful to the Agelum, although now and then Chorisa saw a few expressions slip out.

“Paxere. Come meet Dame Chorisa. Have you seen the ice cream cones? The children love them.”

A young woman in a dark suit stopped, looked at Uzine, and smiled. She nodded to Dame Chorisa.

“Thirsting Veil. Excuse me, Uzine. I must meet the Wind Runner.”

“Do take an ice cream cone. And introduce yourself to the staff—you hardly visit.”

She smiled, but Chorisa saw the faint exasperation in her expression. Resigned, tolerant—she nodded politely and moved on.

Such a curious place. Uzine was no fool, but he smiled, content with the exchange. Then he swivelled one eye to stare at Chorisa.

Only one eye. He had complete control over both. He saw her jump and smiled.

“Forgive me. As you can see, my family was exposed to magic radiation long ago in our bloodlines. We suffer for it. Our cousins, Viscount Visophecin chief among them, take care of us.”

“I see, my lord. I…I’m sorry. Is it…?”

She didn’t see any children, only the adults, all of whom had white or pale hair, regardless of skin tone. Uzine gave her a smile.

“We are the last ones. I don’t believe we’d want to inflict this on children, would you? We’re quite plentiful enough, even so. It’s simply how life is.”

“I see.”

Now there was a conversation-ender if ever she heard one, but Uzine said it straight off, without blinking. It was, and somehow it made things easier to hear it directly.

“It is my delight to spend my days among Shoel’s folk. And, frankly, we keep up with the news and help Ailendamus as best we may. I am glued to that scrying orb, and I was reading newspapers the instant they came out…we also make small recommendations the Viscount passes along.”

Chorisa gulped. There was a reminder that this was an important person. Who wanted her…Uzine gave her a keen look.

“You are in some difficulty at court over yesterday, aren’t you?”

Chorisa turned bright red. She began to bow.

“My lord, I cannot—”

Uzine leaned forwards, searching around for children.

“Well done. A Courier down? I knew a lad who told me he’d bedded a Courier, Named-rank adventurer, and was trying for a [Prince] to complete the set. Even had hopes of running away. Poor fellow. He died in a duel, and I never found out whether he managed it. They used to put Archmages on that list, but it was too hard, so the trinity was those three. But if you add [General], [Grand Magus], and [Captain], that’s six.”

Dame Chorisa stared at Uzine, wondering how close to death the real Chorisa was. Sunburst fever, that was what she had. They were probably preparing her family for the worst.

“Sir…? I don’t take your meaning.”

He laughed.

“I’m sure you do! There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Ah, is it me? I know I’m quite old, but I was young once. I won’t embarrass you further, though I have stories I could tell. I just wanted to tell you that Visophecin will have a word with Duke Rhisveri and smooth things over. If there is trouble, you will come here. Love should not matter in affairs of state or gossip. Let alone be a cause for censure. You are a [Knight] of Ailendamus, and you should be stealing kisses from whomever you please.”

He looked at her. Chorisa felt weak in the knees and was glad she was sitting down. Uzine smiled as she searched for words.

“I know it is unconventional, so I tend not to go to court—as if I could, regularly. But I have never cared, and no one in House Shoel will bother others on that. Or we’ll throw mud at them. Lucifen—that is, Visophecin’s side have their laws. We have ours. You would have done well if you’d grown up here. Many [Knights] have. Eclizza did, and I think she mentioned a Chorisa once. Hence me seeking you out.”

The young woman’s eyes widened. She looked up.

“You know—kn—knew Dame Eclizza?”

Uzine smiled sadly.

“I did. I did not know she passed until recently. The crown has not announced it. A tragedy. She grew up in these walls. Come—we will go and find something.”

A girl had once scrawled on these very walls. Chorisa had already been misty-eyed, but then she did weep to see it—especially that Eclizza had spelled her name wrong. Uzine patted her hand, still smiling.

“Forget this silliness over who was found in whose bed. Go back and romance half your Order, Dame Chorisa. Then—train. Then, live. If you must come here, you will be welcome. And then, you will hunt down the thing that killed her and bring it to justice.”

She looked at him. The Agelum’s eyes were bright.

“The Death of Magic did this, so I am told. Well then, Dame Chorisa. Be it you or any other, Ailendamus shall not forget. Level and live. For its sins—even Death shall die.”

Chorisa sank to one knee. She took his hand, and if he asked her to, she would have sworn herself to his service in a second. He smiled like the sun—no, like a tempest of light. Burn out bright and hot.

——

The Agelum scared the ever-loving hell out of Ryoka. Even more than the Lucifen, and they scared her to bits.

The idea of a devil, even as a species, was one thing. But the Agelum? She looked at them, from Gadrea to Razia with their vaguely…biblical names. She heard voices as she shook their hands and they teased her.

“How many [Knights] is enough in one bed, eh? Four? To be young again—”

“So you’re the girl who had Visophecin all riled up? Visophecin, tell us again—don’t be so coy! I think we may actually make him blush.”

They were her own voices that whispered to her. But it came out in the first hour of interactions with the Agelum. The Lucifen were reserved; they watched Ryoka like hawks watching an interesting prey, and she thought she understood them.

Predators of people. Humanity’s natural, only counter. Curious and dispassionate, like Visophecin was. Incapable of empathy, but not thoughtless; highly intelligent and moral in their own way.

They certainly bowed and fussed over Fithea, listening to her respectfully and going as far as to fetch things for her themselves.

Nemed and the Merfolk were wary, but jested with a few younger Lucifen who they knew. Interestingly, Menorkel and Gilaw hung back, and the Lucifen were more rival-ish with them, asking how Menorkel’s ‘training’ was going and suggesting they race Gilaw. There were younger members of the Lucifen—none of the Agelum.

Ryoka could see why. The Agelum were weak; not dying—not more than anyone was—but distinctly mortal for some reason. Too weak to stand, though some did to shake her hand before they were forced to rest.

Yet they were far, far scarier to Ryoka. She looked them in their odd eyes, thought of the original forms of Angels in mythology…and heard voices.

Be not afraid. I bring you tidings of great joy.

Given what she knew of…dead things…they were scary as shit. But not just that. If they could but stand, if they were healthier—these were the people Ryoka could see leading an army to war. She even felt it herself. If ever a crusade were to march on hell, the Agelum would lead the charge.

Only, in this version of hell, the Lucifen would probably have already opened the gates and set out tea and snacks for everyone. Ryoka felt dizzy.

“I would have thought both, uh, families wouldn’t get along.”

Her first unguarded comment to Gadrea, Visophecin, Razia, and two polite Lucifen after all the introductions and the ice cream recipe was revealing.

Instantly, the two Lucifen traded a glance. Gadrea raised her eyebrows, and her odd, deep blue veins in her pale skin moved as she raised a hand.

“So you do know of us. You have legends among your people? You are not of this world, so Agelum and Lucifen exist in others, even as ideas. Do we exist? Or are we stories? We were stories, but we’ve erased even those. And we did hate each other, until it became clear neither one of us would survive alone and possibly not together.”

Ryoka’s jaw opened. She’d pulled that from a one-line sentence? Her teeth clamped together and the Viscount gave Gadrea a slow look of warning.

“Gadrea, Ryoka has expressed a desire for secrecy. It is a delicate negotiation.”

One of her eyes swivelled to him; she had a tri-pupil eye and a dual-one.

“Visophecin, you play too many games of subtlety. This is the only time I will get to meet Miss Ryoka, in all likelihood! It may be secret—but surely she will trade answers with me. Have you played ‘Twenty Answers’, Ryoka?”

Oh dead gods. Magnolia Reinhart swam in Ryoka’s mind. First the fist-fights, now this. She bit her tongue.

“It’s…I’m sorry to say that there are things I don’t wish to reveal, Lady Gadrea.”

The Agelum frowned. One of the two Lucifen, who looked like a couple, leaned forwards. She had dark, wavy, red-black hair, a piercing stare, and long fingernails. Visophecin had introduced her as ‘Azemith’.

“Given how interesting she is, and how essential you described this moment for Ailendamus’ future, have you not considered asking more pointedly, Visophecin? We could…break for two hours. I would happily go to a private room and inquire with Miss Griffin, then come back and report.”

She bared her teeth. Ryoka edged over in her seat as the other Lucifen chuckled. Visophecin fixed the two with a flat look.

“Azemith, Igolze. Courier Griffin is a guest of Rhisveri. A prisoner of the crown and emissary from afar. Make it clear to the family—again—that no one is to compromise Ailendamus’ position.”

Azemith replied without looking at Visophecin. She was studying Ryoka, like someone might study a fascinating handbag in the store.

“I could be sweet. Although it’s far swifter to be direct. She has no classes. It would take no time at all.”

Gadrea smiled.

“And I would object, cousin. Let us not come to blows; Ryoka is my guest.”

Azemith pursed her lips and she and Gadrea locked eyes. It had to be said, the Lucifen, for all her imposing power and poise, was always going to lose a staring contest with an Agelum. Visophecin cut the hanging tension like a sword through a noose.

“That is one issue, Azemith. The other is that Courier Griffin is represented by powers. Who she could name. I believe you would regret it if you pushed her to that point.”

The Lucifen both eyed Ryoka, and Azemith’s eyes flickered. She smiled, but drew back a bit.

“Ah. That does make it interesting. Well, I will put the offer forwards. If Miss Griffin wishes it, I would happily make an opening in any day or night.”

Ryoka stared at her. Yeah. Wow.

She was still far more scared of Gadrea than Azemith, but that was something alright. And yet…Ryoka looked at Visophecin.

See, this was the trap she fell into last time with the Viscount. If you run, or don’t slap them in the face, they will go after you. Because they are your predators. So, Ryoka pushed.

“I’m not looking for anything involved after the last incident so soon, Lady Azemith. Also, not you, with respect. We mortals have unpresuming standards, but you might want to change tacks if you ever tried that in the Court of the Winter Fae.”

She was rewarded with a slack-faced expression from Azemith—right before her husband/partner smiled, and Gadrea and Razia started howling with laughter. Azemith’s eyes narrowed, but even Visophecin was amused. She stared at Ryoka, then sat back.

“Well, that’s new.”

Ryoka Griffin was vibrating with nervous energy, but she turned. The thing about mistakes was…the thing about the past and growing was…you tried not to make the same mistakes. So she took a breath, thought fast, and went.

“Let me see. Satan is one. Abbadon, Mephistopheles, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, uh, and, um, Chernabog? Those would all be names of famous Devils—which is what we call the Lucifen. Oh, Lucifer is also a name associated with the Devil, which is how I knew Visophecin in a moment. You may want to reconsider that given how they’re viewed across worlds. Does any of that sound familiar in your history?”

The smiles and laughter stopped. Visophecin sat up. Ryoka Griffin smiled nervously. The shots were fired. Fithea’s head rose from her corner.

Let’s dance. Ryoka Griffin was a striking cobra, a weaving reed in the wind. A…okay, that was an exaggeration. But anyone who had ever known her would have to have a lie down. Because the tea?

“Menorkel. Menorkel!”

The Titan looked down. He was rewarded with a wet Lucifen glaring at him. He’d tipped half his cup onto her head.

He began to apologize, but he kept looking at Ryoka as she kept talking. Because she had the immortals by the gonads, assuming they had any. Ryoka Griffin sat, shifting with nervous energy. And this is what she said, for the first time ever in Ryoka-history.

“We have legends of Angels and Devils in my world. Devil, really. Some people think there’s only one, so they’d call a number ‘Demons’, maybe. Heaven and Hell. Good and evil. But they are legends. Mythology. It’s completely different from stories of Griffins or Dryads or even Titans. A different…”

Theology.

“…culture. Different cultures, which I suppose you understand. You have the genuine article. Manticores, Griffins, Hydras. We have stories about them.”

They looked at her, some wide-eyed like the Merfolk, others focused on her like a laser, like Fithea, desperate to know. Menorkel was like that; Gilaw was just curious, scooting closer, wide-eyed.

The Agelum were whispering. Half the Lucifen, Visophecin included, were taking notes on sheets of paper. They were fascinated.

“So we are only legends in your…world?”

Gadrea stumbled over that last bit. Ryoka was glad to see it, because it meant they were just as amazed as she had been. She nodded.

“Yes. As far as I know. Which, now I’m beginning to wonder about. Magic is a myth there, too.”

“Then how does anything function? No magic? You mean, no spellcasting, right, or is the entire place just a void?”

Ryoka Griffin pretended to think. She glanced up.

“Well…we do have legends. So that implies perhaps there’s a truth to them. Maybe they could be there if there’s no magic?”

A withered voice. Fithea, sitting forwards.

“Not in a void. Some creatures—my people do not need it to live, but our great forests would never grow to fruition. Not without something. The trees of ages would produce more, but without a drop…”

“Fithea.”

Visophecin glanced at her, but the Dryad barely blinked. Ryoka memorized that. Yes, she was dancing. Bob and weave and duck.

“So, we are so common as to be known by all of your people?”

Azemith asked, eyes searching Ryoka. The young woman hesitated.

“Not by all peoples—I know Devils and Angels specifically. Which is why I associated Visophecin with danger. I would have thought you two would quarrel. And that you would have your own place. Heaven and Hell—but not Rhir. Unless that’s literal?”

“No. The oldest of us told us that in ancient memory, once—”

Razia broke off. Ryoka exhaled, but kept her face blank. Yes. Yes.

Last time she’d done this, it had been the other way. Magnolia Reinhart vs Ryoka, newly come to this world, and it had been a disaster. Ryoka had been too paranoid to say anything, and what she refused to say might have put Magnolia onto…everything.

This time? She spilled the tea. She said all the words they wanted to hear. She told them the stories of Angels and Demons and their own myths, from Griffins to Rocs, and how people didn’t believe them in a world full of Humans.

What Ryoka gained from this was what they said. So, Agelum and Lucifen had lived somewhere else. And—Ryoka Griffin kept speaking. The next person to press her was Visophecin, and he did it far better than the others.

“Is there evidence of any common link between your world and mine? Does yours have a name? We have many for ours, but they are what each people calls it. Simple names. The land. The world. Firmament. Others have specific names…such as the Drakes. The Fraer-folk. And now I wonder why some have names and others not.”

Ryoka Griffin smiled. That was a loaded question full of careful traps. So she answered.

“I don’t know. Aside from stories? Everything that is a story in my world is real in yours, but different. For instance, I was led to believe when I came here that a Devil stole souls.”

“Well, that sounds just fascinating.”

One of them called out. There was laughter—and Ryoka saw Visophecin quell it with one hand. Clever. The problem was he had an audience and he was realizing that was a mistake. Ryoka went on, blithely.

“—It might honestly be we know something of this world from a common link. After all, the Fae have gateways to both. They have gateways everywhere, so the truth being legend in another world could be just as likely as us having tons of extinct or hiding people.”

“I see. Yet how did—”

Visophecin broke off as Fithea leaned forwards.

“Ah. That land! The Farthest Travellers! So the gateways remain?”

She was so hungry, so desperate, everyone else had to sit back. Ryoka met Fithea’s eyes.

“They exist. But the gateways…they’re broken or closed. I think they can open them from their side. Not us from ours. There may be another way, but I only know one surefire way to cross.”

“And you can open it. What would it take?”

“Fithea. This is a discussion for later.”

Nemed and the Merfolk looked at Fithea, who was vibrating, and Visophecin. They stirred. Some of the other Lucifen sat up, and even the Agelum.

“We’d like to know more! This concerns all of us, Visophecin! The—this other place. There are only Humans in your world, Ryoka, but there are more of us over there?”

Hungry eyes. Ryoka exhaled, for even Visophecin was listening.

“Countless thousands. Perhaps millions or billions.”

She didn’t know. The strange land where the refugees from other dimensions gathered was like that. Ryoka told them earnestly, telling Fithea she hadn’t seen other Dryads—and only one for a moment—but she hadn’t stayed in the forest long, and her description of the trees?

“World trees! Each one! Each one a tree of ages! They must be there! They must—”

And what she was doing was telling them the truth. Fulfilling a desire they didn’t know they had. That they were known. And, at the same time, she dodged. Every question about the voids in her story, that Visophecin and a few others saw.

She said Heaven. She said Hell. She never said ___. What she did…

“Legions from Hell. That’s the story about the end of the world. The final day. Reckoning, where Hell’s demons would battle the armies of Heaven.”

“Hah! What a glorious war! If we were mortal enemies—yes, us on one side, our kin on the other.”

“Needless strife. I don’t see the point.”

Azemith sniffed and some of the Lucifen nodded. Uzine, who had entered to listen, clapped his hands.

“Of course, but the scale of it! It is the old tales!”

He gave Ryoka a hungry look. She smiled at him.

“I didn’t know what to expect, honestly, Uzine. Angels…some people think Angels are, well, rather like you are. Humans with wings.”

“That’s a Garuda. Or a Human with Skills. Although it’s…”

She saw glances between the Agelum who didn’t have wings…as far as she could see. Ryoka went on.

“Some called Angels more, um, abstract. Many eyes, little children—some aren’t even humanoid. Six wings, or a blazing ring of gold with eyes—”

She saw the Agelum looking at each other and her skin tingled. Uzine sat back, glancing at Visophecin.

“And Devils?”

That came from Paxere, one of the younger ones. Ryoka shrugged.

“Some would say they’re Humans with, uh, bat wings.”

“Original.”

Ryoka laughed. She actually laughed and Menorkel snorted. She looked at Paxere.

“Others would say they’re huge, red-skinned monsters with whips of fire and, yes, bat wings. That’s closer to a Demon—gigantic beings who live amidst lava and have dark legions…dark magic, too. Pacts. Secret lairs which they raise armies from…”

She saw most of the Lucifen fail to react, but a few of the younger ones had a tell, which was they gave her too-blank looks. Lost all emotion and became neutral and, when juxtaposed against their more savvy elders…

They hurried off that topic as Uzine and Visophecin both pressed Ryoka about Earth and how she had come to the lands of the Fae. She, in turn, went to the Merfolk and began recounting stories of Atlantis and…Aquaman.

A knock on the door broke Ryoka out of recounting the stories of the Titanomachy and Titans from Greek legend. Every immortal’s eye was on her, but the woman, the [Housemistress], Herea, made them all go silent.

“I am so sorry to interrupt you, lords and ladies…Viscount, you have a guest.”

He rose smoothly, and Ryoka broke off.

“By all means continue, Miss Griffin. I will not be long.”

She had a feeling…it could have been anyone, but she had a feeling. Ryoka went on. Drawing them in.

All she told them were their stories. Menorkel’s face fell when he heard only about the Titans overthrown by ‘the next powers’. Ryoka tried to tell him about Norse mythology, but then she remembered the Frost Giants and such were, uh, not great role models either.

Even so, Fithea kept interrupting, dragging the questions back to the lands of the fae.

“They exist. There are different…systems out there. See?”

That was when Ryoka held out a glowing obol. The Lucifen focused on it like crows staring at a shiny marble. The Agelum murmured.

“How much for one? I will trade you any artifact you wish for.”

Paxere announced instantly. Someone kicked her in the back.

“You idiot, do you know how to bargain?”

A glaring Lucifen young man. Paxere glared back, suddenly looking dangerous, and Ryoka made sure she had a tight grip on the obol as she showed it around.

“I am prepared to negotiate. But, uh—there was an incident with Rhisveri. So I hope we can establish good ties. I can’t promise on behalf of the fair folk, but I can make good-faith offers. I just need to clear my name and I am willing to pay for it. There’s something else I want to negotiate over, but I could tell most…tell all if we reach that point.”

They looked at her, keenly interested. Fascinated, wanting to know everything and more and…Ryoka saw a reflection of herself and luxuriated in the feeling.

For a second. Then Gadrea frowned.

“Ah, that would tie back to the incident bringing you here. Too costly. It goes back to one person though, and the most difficult of all. Rhisveri.”

A sigh ran through the room. The others conferred.

“Perhaps. He is still one of us—”

“He considers himself above mere votes. Yet if every single one were to…not just the Waterbound, not just Shoel, Fithea—”

The old Dryad was nodding fervently, and Ryoka remembered how much she had savored the obol when they had met.

“Sophridel will listen. I assure you. Ryoka Griffin committed an offence, but she is able to pay for it. The only thing else she desires is…”

“What is mine. I am glad that no one is foolish enough to promise that.”

A harsh voice broke into the room of chattering immortals. They fell silent and Ryoka looked up into what was now a familiar pair of vexed green eyes. Rhisveri and Visophecin stopped at the doorway of the room. The Duke looked at Ryoka.

“I did not give you permission to leave the palace, Ryoka Griffin.”

“That was upon my insistence, Rhisveri. We are negotiating—”

“On behalf of Ailendamus? This…this snake is playing you for a fool, Visophecin. You and your family! I am amazed. I thought you of all would handle her better, but it seems I alone appreciate how truly, incredibly inconvenient she is!”

Rhisveri stormed into the room, parting the others like minnows before a shark. He pointed at Ryoka. She was still wondering if the ‘snake’ comment was a compliment or not, given his nature.

“You have not only caused countless incidents in the palace, now you are throwing into jeopardy sworn servants of the realm, simply because you cannot keep your undergarments on your body for five seconds—”

Ryoka turned beet red as Rhisveri jabbed the Finger of Poking at her chest. He stopped dead, or rather, jerked to a stop as someone caught him.

Gadrea.

“Come, Rhisveri. Don’t castigate youth for doing what is natural. We are quite glad you’re here; you can reassure those four [Knights] they will not lose their positions. Which they will not.”

Rhisveri glared down at Gadrea, but he didn’t yank free instantly. He harrumphed.

“This matter has gone before the [Queen], and she is displeased.”

“Then, she will remain so. But this is our guest, and we quite approve. Next time she can record it.”

Half the Agelum laughed. Menorkel turned beet-red, and Gilaw rolled her eyes as the Merfolk were split. Some thought it was a great idea. Ryoka was red and Rhisveri gave Visophecin a pained look.

“…I am going to settle this now. You wished for an audience, Ryoka Griffin? You have it. Now—”

He turned to grab her, and froze. Because Gadrea had a hand on his arm.

“Rhisveri, I must insist we have her lovely company for a while longer.”

She smiled, planting her feet in the ground but never rising from her wheelchair. Rhisveri’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He pulled at his arm.

“I am not going to be gainsaid by—you are dangerously close to—would you let go of me?”

Ryoka’s eyes widened. Was it just her or…? Gadrea had locked the wheelchair with her feet, and she was holding onto Rhisveri’s arm. He was pulling—but she never budged. Ryoka didn’t know how strong his fake body was, but she doubted it was as ‘weak’ as a regular Human.

Gadrea never stopped smiling—until a sudden look of pain crossed her face. Visophecin was there in a moment.

“Gadrea. Unhand Rhisveri.”

She let go, and Rhisveri jerked free. Gadrea lay, a bit limply, but came round after a second. She flexed her hand, and then smiled in amazement.

“I am feeling better. I could go for a run. Barefoot.”

“Spare Ailendamus a plague of foot-mold and dirt.”

Rhisveri growled. However, he looked around, and the Agelum gave him their bright smiles.

“We must insist, Rhisveri. We have already learned quite a lot of fascinating tales about us. Ryoka, surely you have legends about Wyrms?”

Um. Ryoka gulped as Rhisveri glared at her. The truth was?

She did not. Not about Wyrms. Of all the species present, from Merfolk to Devils to even Paterghost and Nube, the mimic and enchanted armor, Ryoka had stories, or at least anecdotes of ‘adventurers’ traumatized by mimics in popular culture.

But Wyrms? There were few parallels in western mythos that weren’t more ‘dragon-like’. In the east…well, there were the Chinese dragons in similar appearance, but they were a bit different. The only ones Ryoka could even associate would be Ouroborous, the eternal serpent which ate itself, and Jomungandr of Norse legend—and even then, they were odd examples.

Oddly, that vaguely seemed to please Rhisveri, who snorted in derision when she explained that. He had remained, although he stood near the back, refusing snacks and refusing to participate in the asking. He made one comment.

“It is simply like Dragons to hog attention, even in legends. Only they would be foolish enough to get up to half their antics, anyways.”

“Like…instead of kidnapping [Princesses], kidnapping Couriers is better?”

That snarky comment came from Paxere, who was now Ryoka’s favorite. The Lucifen wore a pointed smile—until Rhisveri turned to stare at her. She met his gaze coolly, before bowing her head.

“No offense meant, Rhisveri.”

He stared at her. And continued to stare as Paxere looked away. The Lucifen played it cool, but after eight more minutes of Ryoka clarifying anecdotal points with Fithea on the existence of satyrs, who were apparently sort of bastards in either world, Rhisveri had not looked away from trying to bore a hole in the side of Paxere’s head.

“I believe we should break. Let us convene amongst the mortals.”

Visophecin announced, glancing at Rhisveri’s dangerous stare. The others grumbled, but the Agelum were quick to have the Lucifen wheel them outside.

“That is not the only thing the Wind Runner brings. You said you knew how to play the other games. Baseball, football—and you know ice cream. Perhaps the [Chef] is done translating the other things you mentioned?”

Rhisveri looked up as Uzine and Gadrea towed Ryoka outside. He looked at Visophecin, and Azemith, some of the other Lucifen, and a few Agelum including Razia all stopped. Fithea hadn’t noticed, swept up in the ‘follow-Ryoka’ crowd, but Menorkel, hanging back to stuff more snacks into his pockets, heard voices.

“She refused to answer how she came here. Which implies that the Farthest Travellers did not bring her here to begin with, Rhisveri.”

The Duke nodded.

“Those two sports. ‘Bicycles’. You remarked it was odd, or—was it Uzine?”

“Uzine did. He said a game with such nuanced rules was odd.”

“…She isn’t alone. That’s what she’s hiding. I will find out what else.”

Menorkel’s heartbeat spiked. He stared, then shuffled off, surprisingly quietly, to tell Gilaw and Nemed.

She wasn’t alone?

——

Ryoka had known she was going to have to reveal a lot. Once she’d made her pact with Visophecin, she’d sat down and given it a lot of thought. Then she’d hopped into ‘hey, ever done a massage?’ with the Thirsting Veil [Knights], but at least she’d done the real thinking first!

She was getting them on her side. Which, really, seemed like the only move you played with immortals. You never ‘won’ games of tag, fist-fights, or anything else with them.

You never outran the Wild Hunt. You couldn’t out-fight even the minions of an evil Necromancer.

…But you could get the King of Camelot to stall them, and Nama. You could pay off a Phoenix with that handbag Ryoka really wished she had, or knew what it was, to hold them off.

And you could get an angry Dragon to play pingpong with Venitra. So in the battle to sway Rhisveri, Ryoka felt like getting an Agelum and Lucifen on each shoulder might be her best move yet.

Nor was it hard. The Agelum liked her. They liked her story about her idiotic run to the High Passes. The time when she challenged the Assassin’s Guild to save Sammial and Hethon.

“I stood up and applauded, you know. I will have an autograph and frame it—or you can sign a wall, but we have to recoat them every generation. A tragedy—but I sometimes make them replace the walls so I can save them to look at. An autograph lasts longer. That was the stuff of real Couriers, though. Fighting [Assassins]—a Courier should be nothing less!”

Uzine was beaming as Ryoka, incredibly embarrassed, raised her hands.

“It was the stupidest thing I’d ever done. I nearly shattered every bone in my body with the glider.”

“Then you would have done it living larger than most.”

Yes, the Agelum were ride-or-die, 120-percenters. And it seemed the incident with the [Knights] was actually the thing that fully won them over.

The Lucifen, on the other hand, were harder. Visophecin was on Ryoka’s side because it made sense to be. The others?

Ryoka thought she had her way in with them. Which was playing to their vanity.

“So…you must find the Lucifen less than impressive, given your stories of the ruler of all Hell.”

Paxere commented too-casually to Ryoka as the games outside became an impromptu baseball game. Servants and children lined up as someone fetched a ball. Uzine led them, setting himself up as a catcher no less.

“I don’t think you’re anything less than incredible, Lady Paxere.”

Ryoka answered truthfully. The Lucifen searched her up and down, and raised her brows.

“No indeed? But we have much to live up to.”

“Well, the Devils are only the most important moral figures—or nightmare in the Human imagination. Expecting legions of servants and castles and whatnot is too much to ask.”

The Lucifen narrowed her eyes. She looked vexed, and so did a few others in earshot. That was the ticket. They were competitive with their imagined selves. And…they wanted to know more. They had not liked hearing about the land of the fae, because they were self-important and smart enough to realize they’d just been guppies in the pond seeing the sea.

Two sides. Yet Ryoka was also purely fascinated with their abilities. And baseball, ironically, was a good showcase of that.

In that…

The Lucifen were average baseball players. No, really. They were, uh…okay.

Ryoka could take, put them against your average Division 3 college baseball team, and they’d win half their games. However, think about what that meant.

Lucifen, all of whom had never swung a bat in their lives, were fit, coordinated, and fast enough to challenge a level of player who was arguably in a prime most people would never experience, and who played baseball well enough to do it at the college level. But that was a far cry from Division 2 or 1 or the major or minor leagues.

However, if Ryoka had been there when baseball first came to this world, she would have seen a true all-star team. On a grassy patch outside of Celum where adventurers, [Guardsmen], Antinium, Gnolls, Drakes, and Humans swung a bat.

A lot had been worse than the Lucifen. But the Gnolls had been very good. Relc? Typhenous’ magical fastball? What they lacked in skill they could have put on par with the best of Earth…mainly because most batters would probably blink at a hundred-mile fastball on fire or invisible.

Ryoka hadn’t been there. She had been for football, or soccer, or football. But this moment, as children swung bats and ran around, laughing as Agelum cheered them on?

It was meant for there. She watched—and then saw something interesting.

Which was Uzine. The Agelum pushed their reluctant Lucifen counterparts to play baseball, and they did, for exactly one run, often swinging for the fences so they didn’t have to wait at-base. They were quick, adept, and prone to stealing bases.

What they weren’t was superhuman. Fierre was faster and stronger, at least, out of the sunlight. And that was super interesting.

Visophecin didn’t play, so Ryoka didn’t see the true adults trying hard, but she wondered. What was most fascinating, though?

Uzine. He sat in his chair, playing catcher. Which seemed like a bad idea because the pitchers and batters weren’t professional, so he had to do a lot of catching. But here was the thing.

He couldn’t pick up the ball easily if it bounced around the batting cage, which was really just some actual fishing net strung up, so he’d roll over, pick up the ball, and toss it—which was fair because the laughing children would run and scream, and it was just a game.

However, that was only when the ball went terribly wide. When someone threw the ball?

Paxere threw the ball hard against a Lucifen batter—then Nemed. She struck both out. Three strikes, three swings each time, much to their loud complaints. She didn’t have perfect control; sometimes they went up or down or sideways around the strike zone, and the batters swung on everything, forgetting they could walk a base.

Uzine caught everything. They were decently fast balls, too! Ryoka thought she would have fumbled at least one, but he caught each one perfectly. Then, as Paxere was strutting about, he called out.

“Paxere? Throw a ball for me! Nemed, hand me that bat, would you? I’m too invigorated to sit still.”

Instantly, all the older Lucifen, the [Housemistress], and the servants began objecting. But Gadrea and the other Agelum encouraged Uzine. He reached for the bat the reluctant Nemed handed him and stood up, rather fluidly.

“Nonsense. Three swings.”

“Uzine, this is unnecessary.”

Visophecin appeared, as he was wont to do, but the Agelum waved him off with a frown.

“I will happily lie in bed all day, but I feel strong enough. I will compromise—Nemed can run the bases if I hit the ball, agreed?”

Visophecin exhaled, but nodded. He looked at Paxere and she set herself. Ryoka saw him murmur and her nod, though he wasn’t audible at all…

“I think he ordered her to strike Uzine out. So he doesn’t connect and hurt himself.”

Gadrea remarked. They were all sitting together on the grass; Gadrea had left her chair to sit on a blanket. The Agelum smiled brightly as Ryoka looked at her.

“Which is worse, swinging the bat three times or hitting the ball?”

“Oh, either is just tiring. It’s not doing, it’s the effort. But Uzine won’t rest until he’s had a good swing, so Visophecin is right.”

Indeed, Paxere looked resigned as she tossed the ball up—and Ryoka saw it drop faster than gravity should allow. The Lucifen’s body began to accelerate.

“Speed spells?”

Ryoka guessed. She saw someone nod. Fithea. The Dryad was watching, resting in the grass, her illusion being a short Dwarf woman while Gilaw lay with her head in Fithea’s lap; she had refused to play.

So had Menorkel. Both watched as Uzine swung the bat twice, then decided he was ready. Paxere stepped back, and this time she pulled her arm back, going for the pitcher’s throw despite never having practiced. When she let go, the ball flashed across the ground.

A magical pitch. Ryoka didn’t even have time to process it because Uzine swung so fast she only heard the clang—a shout of alarm from Paxere who ducked, too late—

And the sound of a crack as the baseball hit a tree, and promptly exploded. As did part of the tree. Everyone stared at the broken tree as Uzine scratched at his head. Nemed hesitated…was he supposed to run around or what?

The servants, four Thirsting Veil [Knights], and Ryoka all stared at Uzine. The Agelum sat back down in his chair, and with a broad smile, wheeled himself back over to the catcher’s spot.

“Ah, if only I could do that all day. I may have to rest.”

He looked tired but exuberant. Ryoka stared at him, and then at Visophecin’s resigned expression as he regarded all the mortals.

Well…no wonder they’d survived this long. Lucifen with magic and cunning. Agelum?

Dream team baseball players.

——

Ryoka Griffin watched the others play baseball. She even joined in, pitching and doing a run around the bases with a lucky hit. Uzine’s phenomenal hit took the top charts until Menorkel was asked to step up. Everyone backed up far for him, but the Titan just sighed.

“Are you sure?”

“Just one hit!”

Nemed pleaded. Menorkel reluctantly swung the bat. The crisp ringing of the metal bat echoed for a long time.

They never found the ball. Gilaw claimed it was ‘there’, but she just pointed at the sky. Menorkel walked around the bases and then shyly retreated in front of the stares.

However, that seemed more in line with him being a ‘half-giant’, and so attracted less attention than Uzine had. Even the Thirsting Veil [Knights] were coaxed into playing, and they were top-tier players. Especially because when Ryoka played second base and saw an armored boot sliding at her at top-speed, she decided it wasn’t worth losing her ankles over and ran for it.

The Agelum had bought the baseball set, incidentally. They had footballs, horseshoes, enchanted playing cards, and every other toy in existence. And…they demanded Ryoka tell them everything that was fun or interesting.

Which she did not. She had to hold onto some capital, but she told them about the most sinful, dangerous thing she could that might well ruin Ailendamus. A recipe which they would one day rue.

“…What is this called again?”

Viscount Visophecin had to have lunch with the others, and he politely stuck his fork into a bite and stared at it. Part of it dripped down, and Ryoka stared at the Lucifen, devils, holding bowls of…

“Um. Mac and cheese. Macaroni and cheese. That’s literally all there is in it, although I think there’s sausage and bread crumbs?”

He looked at Ryoka. Slowly, Visophecin took a bite, smiled, and ate half his bowl.

“A delightful meal. I am sure it will be much enjoyed by all.”

Ryoka thought he could taste the food—he just didn’t need to. The Agelum ate with good humor, seeming to enjoy the expressions on the other’s faces as much as the actual taste. Ryoka exhaled.

There were other foods she could mention, but the [Chef] had asked for something simple yet enjoyable. That was the entire Agelum thing. And she found she was enjoying herself.

“You know, this has been one of the most delightful visits. Menorkel is too shy to speak, and the Waterborn seldom leave. Visophecin, prevail on Ryoka Griffin to stay for us.”

Gadrea announced, and the Agelum agreed. Ryoka smiled; it was tempting despite knowing how much she had to do. Then the Agelum winked at her.

“We can prepare a secluded room for you. With one of the [King]-sized beds? For you and your guards.”

On second thought, I want to leave now. It was like having an Agelum cheering squad for…Ryoka stood up hastily.

“I’m going to get more to eat.”

The Lucifen grinned with wicked humor; this was something they could appreciate from their cousins. As Ryoka was walking with red ears to the buffet table, she saw something.

Amid the laughter and all of it, the immortals looked like they were smiling. Oh, not all on the same levels, not all for the same reasons. Fithea was reserved, and simply chatted with the oldest Lucifen and Agelum, who were deferential to her. Menorkel was shy, but he listened to some children singing, and his face was wistful.

Gilaw? Gilaw ran about with a bunch of younger children, seldom-talking, but sometimes making her odd bird-calls. The Merfolk kept together, but they clearly had friends among the Lucifen like Paxere.

Yet who was missing? Well, Sophridel, Paterghost, and, Ryoka suspected, more immortals she had never met. But…she looked at Visophecin, who sat politely with Uzine, Gadrea, and the others, and he did not seem unhappy. At worst, he tolerated the moment and when she saw him with the Agelum…

You big, fat liar. ‘I can’t understand empathy’ my missing fingers. He might not have understood it in other people, but for his kind, the immortals?

All of them. All of them in some way were here and enjoying themselves. Even the [Knights], who looked almost overwhelmed by the Agelum’s response and support. Even Ryoka.

Except for him.

Duke Rhisveri Zessoprical stood there, watching the festivities, refusing food, in the shade of a tree. He glared at everything and everyone, and when a Sariant Lamb—the flock of whom went around begging to be petted, fed macaroni and cheese, or bathed in their regular soap baths—came over, he leaned down, and said something that sent it running into the manor.

Ryoka saw Rhisveri’s expression. At last, it came to her. Like a revelation from heaven—not anyone else, just heaven—itself. Like a beam of insight from a celestial source.

She knew what to do. She had half-succeeded on the rest. Standing up to him, scaring him with Oberon, tempting him with the obols, earning his respect by flying?

All half-measures. All the wrong thing for Rhisveri the Wyrm. Yet now—Ryoka had been playing against a top-tier opponent. A Level 80 [Wyrm Of No Good Humor] if he had a class. Well, this was her field, and now he was a Level 10 [Party Pooper]. And she?

“Rhisveri. Do you not enjoy this kind of thing?”

“I prefer solitude. Especially over…what are you eating?”

Ryoka Griffin approached with a bowl of macaroni and cheese. She showed it to him and his expression said it all.

“Mortals with stomachs that need to be filled. Is that…they aren’t maggots covered in sauce? I swear that one moved.”

Ryoka stared down at her bowl and wasn’t hungry any more.

“No. Just food. You don’t see anything you want to take part in?”

“Should I lower myself to playing your games? Do you think I’d enjoy that, Ryoka Griffin?”

He dared her to say yes. But Ryoka shook her head.

“Honestly, no. It’s probably why Menorkel doesn’t feel like playing. He’s too good.”

Rhisveri hesitated. He nodded once at the young man, whose true form was hidden behind a half-Giant with a mop of brown hair.

“Precisely. He cannot even unveil his form, even smaller, here. They make concessions for you. Some…enjoy it.”

He looked at the Agelum. Ryoka nodded.

“This can’t challenge you, even if you were in your real form. I understand. Are there any games that…your people play?”

He frowned at her. Rhisveri’s eyes flickered.

“Games? Do you think we…play games for fun of this mundane variety?”

“Surely there are some. I did wonder. There are more than just three…Wyrms in the lands of the Fae. I wondered what they did all day. It must be difficult, being peerless.”

Ryoka watched Rhisveri carefully. His face slowly changed. The Wyrm looked at Ryoka, around House Shoel’s manor, and muttered.

“Pit nations against me. That is…true. Pit nations against my intelligence and drive, because no mortals rise to it. Not in this era. The Deaths of Rhir? Perhaps. But no others. The true rulers of this land are these and perhaps…”

He looked at Visophecin, then Fithea, then…Menorkel.

“I am first of all. First without match. You are right there, Human.”

Then his eyes were tired. For a moment, before he caught himself, glared at Ryoka, and conjured a bowl of the food to sample and then frown at. He did his best, but Ryoka Griffin stood there.

You poor soul. It was no longer his game or battle. He was a mighty Wyrm, but he was a Level 15 [Macaroni Critic] up against a Level 200 [Depression Spreader].

Ryoka Griffin, call if you want to feel sad.

Amidst the Agelum and Lucifen, who treated each other with exasperated, annoyed, sometimes disagreeable affection, Rhisveri looked at Ryoka and hesitated.

“…You shall return to the palace and we shall speak tonight. I do not care how; have Visophecin send you if he awaits you here. Prepare yourself.”

He glared at Ryoka. She nodded. Rhisveri turned, and she felt the magic around him build, a tingle in the wind. He hesitated once, and glanced over his shoulder.

“How many were there?”

“How many Wyrms?”

“Yes.”

She thought.

“I don’t know. I saw…at least eighteen.”

“Eighteen. All of the same size?”

“Some larger, some smaller.”

“And they existed together, communally?”

His tone was beyond disbelieving. Ryoka met his eyes.

“I think they had no choice. They were all refugees, Duke Rhisveri. I think—they had nowhere else to go. They were not all from the same place. They were all female—at least, the four I saw were, and I couldn’t tell the others’, uh, genders.”

He looked at her. And suddenly his eyes were bleak. Rhisveri took a breath.

“That—”

He stood there. Hesitated as children ran over to beg Ryoka to let them fly, saw Rhisveri, and stopped. Rhisveri ignored them. He looked at Ryoka, and his eyes were suddenly far away.

“That makes sense.”

Then he vanished. Ryoka Griffin stood there, uncertain of what that meant. Yet she did not have long to wait. As evening fell and the sun set over the glorious palace of Ailendamus, a Wyrm and Runner met for a long awaited conversation.

——

When you go to speak with Wyrms and Dragons and immortals’ get, how did you prepare? From experience?

No. It was a mistake to rely on that alone, just as it was a mistake to forget your lessons. Ryoka Griffin did her best. She reluctantly forgot about Dame Chorisa and the others. Visophecin offered her a door to the palace.

She stood in a world of blackness, walked through a place with no air or sound or…the Devil watched her, but Ryoka Griffin held her breath and crossed the void in an instant. He raised his brows, but she never looked back except to thank him.

All of it could come later. She…had to focus.

The times Ryoka had met someone of Rhisveri’s scale, she had always been dying. She had run the High Passes, seen her friend sacrifice herself to slow a horror of undeath…run the lands of the fae.

These things had terrible cost. So she expected it, not least because this was the angriest immortal yet. Ryoka Griffin prepared in several ways. She had the Faeblade, the Windsword as Oesca and Sammial kept calling it, hanging at her side.

She was under no illusions on how well it would do against a Wyrm. Ryoka had pulled out the instructions Jericha had translated and stared at them, but they were still somewhat complex.

Oh, the things I don’t do and instead…no. No, it was better to court the Agelum and Lucifen. Better, somehow, perhaps, to be running around with a Devil chasing you. The ‘being caught in bed’ part she wasn’t sure about, but the truth was this was no battle.

If it was a battle—she was dead. She had seen how fast Rhisveri moved, and he weighed probably as much as an entire skyscraper. He didn’t have to dodge and weave with her; he could roll over and she’d be a goner, wind and alien tech or not.

Her preparations came in other forms. Strange, and, yes, perhaps incredibly stupid. Ryoka had spent an entire hour writing down riddles in the form of slam poetry.

Just in case. She had stretched, and gone to pee five times. She had thought of every lever she could wield.

But the truth was, when she walked through the open doors into that vast chamber beyond and saw the Wyrm sitting there, head raised high to the ceiling, she had no idea what to expect.

He rose upwards, scales shining like green jade running across every variation of color, brightest at his tail and dark with age near his head. His underbelly was pale moonlight from Earth’s moon. His eyes were also green, but had tiny flecks of color within each iris, like distant, swimming fish, glowing.

Vast eyes. The Duke, the Human man, was not here. Only the Wyrm.

And Ryoka Griffin.

She looked at him, legs shaking a bit. How would it go? The Wyrm looked down at her, eyes narrowed. Then his mouth opened. He could have swallowed a truck whole. His fangs dripped with that acidic venom, and his tongue flicked out as his head lowered, so many times Ryoka’s size, one eye fixing her with a long stare.

“Sit down, Ryoka Griffin.”

She blinked. The Wyrm’s eye swivelled and she saw something was placed in front of him. She had missed the simple chair with a backrest and padded cushion. It looked like someone had simply taken it from one of the hallways.

Slowly, Ryoka walked over. She eyed the chair, and then sat down in it. Rhisveri seemed surprised. He slithered out of his coiled position.

He was so long. Ryoka saw his head move around the room, followed by his body, and he blocked the entrance of the room, all four corners, and wound inwards.

Not ominous at all. His head returned to the same place, staring down at her. The Wyrm spoke again.

“No witticisms? No insolence this time? Would you like to give me a nickname?”

Ryoka bit her tongue.

“Not this time, Rhisveri Zessoprical. Thank you for agreeing to an audience. How should I address you?”

The question patently surprised him. He recoiled back a few dozen feet, then narrowed his eyes.

“Rhisveri will do. Etiquette from you would be a painful, tedious thing.”

She nodded. Rhisveri slithered around again, drawing inwards like a slow spiral. There was something…off about him. He was too calm. No…he spoke, slowly.

“I am minded to hear you, as not only His Majesty, Itorin II of Ailendamus, but my personal advisors, from Fithea to Visophecin, think it wise. You are a thief. You have insulted me to my face. Yet…”

He sighed as Ryoka’s heart beat wildly.

“…I have been convinced you should be thought of as an ‘emissary’ as opposed to a mere common criminal. Therefore, I will accord you some politeness. We will come to your theft. We will come to the…item you attempted to steal, and we will have a reckoning.”

Closer still. Now he was so close she could smell his breath. It was—odd. There was definitely a breath quality to it, but not stinking meat. If anything, it was like juniper and elderberries overlaying the fumes of chemicals, and the sheer exhalation of any person. Rhisveri’s snout was now only a dozen feet from Ryoka, and two vast eyes stared down at her.

“But first you will answer a question for me.”

“Which is?”

Ryoka Griffin waited. Rhisveri’s eyes flickered. He blinked sideways, a thin membrane closing over his eyes like a snake, vertically, not horizontally like other people. He hesitated, and Ryoka saw a strange expression come over his face.

It all made sense with a single question.

“The Wyrms. The ones you referred to in the land of the Farthest Travellers. This…Sikeri’val-Toreshio-Maresssui.”

He breathed the name and Ryoka heard how he said it. So curiously. So longingly. Rhisveri caught himself and looked at her.

“Tell me about them.”

Oh. She’d known she had done something at the Agelum’s gathering, or they had—but Ryoka still blinked. She hesitated.

“I only met them briefly, Rhisveri. But—from what I remember—Sikeri wore a Human’s guise for most of the party where I met her. The same with the others. When I saw her in truth, she looked like a Wyrm two hundred feet tall. But I think even that was a copy. Her scales were…”

Her mouth worked, and Ryoka was glad she had prepared this.

“…byzantium and onyx. She had a crest and perhaps even fins, running down her body. One on her head, and then along her sides. They were a darker red, like crimson or blood. Her sisters looked slightly different. One of her sisters had that; the others were different. One had six legs, the other had something like fur on her underbelly. The first sister had a yellow—bright yellow scale pattern, like a mushroom, running down to earthy—loamy brown—”

Rhisveri listened like a hungry man staring at a plate of food as Ryoka tried to use adjectives. Sinuous, serpentine—she nearly said ‘Draconic’, but caught herself. How did you describe a Wyrm in a term another Wyrm might like?

Coloration made him interested, but he did a little wiggle when she mentioned the fins, so Ryoka began describing nuance, like the tinted claws on one of the sisters’ legs, like they were made of colored glass, or, now she remembered it, the tips of Sikeri’s teeth being a brighter orange.

She was just getting into trying to encapsulate their vocal range and was trying to figure out how to describe how they moved when Rhisveri broke in.

“Yes, yes. Enough about their appearances.”

Ryoka bit her tongue. Had she bungled it? But Rhisveri didn’t look annoyed as he lay on his claws. He only had two, but they supported his upper torso. He rested his head lower, frowning at Ryoka.

“Beautiful. I am sure your words do them little justice, but I am also sure they were all striking. Enough. I am not a fool. You do not need to describe their sheer…physicality.”

He shuddered again. Ryoka eyed him, and Rhisveri shook his head a few times, left to right. He glared at her as if it were her fault and exhaled again. Once again, that smell hit her. It was faintly familiar. She frowned, but then Rhisveri looked at her.

“That is not what I wished to know. I merely asked because—those Wyrms. The ones you saw, however briefly. Did they seem…happy?”

The Wind Runner stared at Rhisveri. Oh. Oh.

She had done her job very well. He was quite different from the Dragon she had met. Angrier, and, she thought, younger. More active, and far more involved—at least until recently. But that expression.

They all had it. From Fierre to Ivolethe to Rhisveri. That weary melancholy.

The weight of immortality. Ryoka swallowed.

“I…don’t know. They were living together, squabbling, the three I met. Sikeri was after something so she was focused? She ate quite a lot.”

“Hm. You say you met three. Sisters? Tell me again.”

So Ryoka did. She related in brief part of her journey to the lands of the fae as it pertained to the three sisters. Rhisveri snorted.

“So they appeared to be…women? Living in the same home until you saw them differently? Strange rules for a strange place. What was the handbag?”

“I don’t know. They did claim they were kin to Sikeri, but even greater than she.”

“Fascinating. Yet they feared the…the man whose signature you so carelessly show around.”

Rhisveri eyed Ryoka’s bag of holding. She touched it and he spoke.

“Do not show it to me. It—bothers me.”

She nodded. Rhisveri went on.

“So they approached you and made you an offer. That hardly speaks to their happiness.”

“No. I’m sorry.”

He blinked once, in that snake-way, and then flicked his tongue up. Was that a shrug?

“It is nothing I would expect you to glean from a chance encounter. A mountain filled with Wyrms. Living in…harmony.”

His tone sounded disbelieving. Ryoka sat on the edge of her chair.

“Wh—is that surprising? Why are you concerned with their happiness, if I can ask?”

“Is it not appropriate to care for your kin?”

Rhisveri gave her a huge frown. Ryoka opened her mouth.

“Uh, I’m s—”

She saw his scaled cheeks bulge. Then the Wyrm barked a huge blast of air in her face.

“Hah!”

He snorted. Ryoka caught herself, arms windmilling as the chair nearly toppled over. The Wyrm wheezed a few times as he laughed, writhing about. Then he coughed, and went back to staring at her.

“I was only curious. You see, I cannot imagine Wyrms, even with a vast amount of space, could ever truly co-exist without quarrels. Let alone in a single mountain, no matter how big. This…ruler you once invoked here must keep order.”

She nodded slowly.

“That he does. I don’t think they’d violate the laws of hospitality in his domain.”

“Yet they are guests. You said…refugees. Fleeing from worlds apart.”

“It’s only a guess. But…yes.”

“And all female?”

Once more Ryoka nodded and Rhisveri closed his eyes.

“Yes. They’re probably all female. Yes…”

He sank to the ground. Ryoka saw his eyes close and that sense of oddity struck her once more. She was standing up and peering around on a hunch, calling on the wind, when Rhisveri’s head snapped up.

“And fighting like cats and Wyrms all day and night! Dead gods, but I cannot imagine the petty squabbles and politics. If they can’t kill each other, they must make each other’s lives a living nightmare.”

He shuddered.

“Perish the thought. What an aberration of events for that to occur. The only thing I could imagine is worse in that entire kingdom would be the Dragon colonies. If there are Dragons.”

He looked at Ryoka. She blinked. Rhisveri nodded.

“You saw some?”

“I—yes. A child.”

He swore under his breath.

“Multiple Dragons in a single place. All…a child? But that implies you suspect there were more. And this king, this…that one rules them all? Such that they only fought you or aided you, but not one another?”

Ryoka nodded. She saw Rhisveri shift uneasily.

“I don’t think this is an invading kingdom, Rhisveri. The fae…”

“Of course not! I know the Farthest Travellers. Fithea has told me enough.”

He snapped. But he seemed relieved. Rhisveri coughed, and then went on, more calmly.

“No doubt that child could not even coexist with others of his kin. Wyrms, for all we might fight, can present a unified front. Dragons?”

He spat to the side. Ryoka saw a glob of something hit the floor and sizzle. She and Rhisveri stared at it eating through the floor. He sighed.

“Damn.”

His tail slapped somewhere in the vast room, and the acid bile vanished and the floor began to mend, closing together. Ryoka was almost positive by now what was going on, but she was curious too.

“What do you mean about Dragons? Do they quarrel too?”

“Ah, so you’ve only met them individually. Interesting. Even in this world?”

Ryoka hesitated. Rhisveri looked gleeful, but then waved his tail.

“Hmph. It matters not. You think Wyrms can be petty? Dragons also. We fight with each other, but Dragons—they quibble by color, tribe, rather than individuals.”

He glared at Ryoka as her mouth opened.

“Yes, that’s an oversimplification. They’re all individuals, but my limited observation and understanding from texts was that, while they fought within their groups as any society does, they truly clashed en masse. Frost Dragons versus Earth Dragons. Flame versus Void, and so on.”

Ryoka’s train of thought trying to run ahead of this conversation and play for what she needed suddenly derailed. She leaned forwards.

“Wait, Frost versus Earth? So they are elemental types, aren’t they? Was that just an example or is it usual? Why would ice and earth fight? Would it be, um, Frost Dragons versus Flame Dragons? And would they all have the same scale color? Because I’d expect fire Dragons to be red.”

But Teriarch was brass and he breathed fire. Rhisveri gave Ryoka such a supercilious look that she instantly flushed. He bent lower.

“I can see you haven’t talked to Dragons overlong, or one would have corrected you. Why would they adhere to a simple system like that? Frost hates fire? That’s so…reductionist.”

“What? Isn’t it logical?”

He went pft in her face. Ryoka braced herself against the exhalation of wind. Rhisveri rolled his eyes.

“Spare me. If anything, fire would find frost a rival because the elements oppose each other. A worthy rival or a diametrically opposed point of view. Flame would dominate earth and metallic elements while finding rivals among lightning and other energies—and while they would have an advantage, their greatest allies might be Earth Dragons, as one grows from the other. Of course, under your schema—how would you distinguish a Dragon with crimson scales to one that has, say, bronze scales if both breathe fire? Gold?”

Ryoka hesitated.

“I—would assume that they’re all part of the same fire element, I guess. Or maybe that different scale colors, uh, mean different ranks or perhaps temperaments? Gold is nobility?”

“Gold is nob—are you one of those Humans that ascribes superiority to skin tone?”

“What? No!”

Rhisveri glared at her.

“Well, you seem to have a very jaundiced opinion of how other species are valued by color.”

Ryoka was so appalled she couldn’t respond. Rhisveri grumbled.

“Gold is superior. Hah! I can see you haven’t thought this out. I should have liked you to meet a red-scaled Dragon, vouchsafed your ignorance, and had said Dragon breathe a blood mist all over you. Heh. That would be amusing.”

He chuckled to himself.

“Blood mist. Blood Dragons. It’s red so it must be hot. Hah. Hahahaha…”

The Wyrm’s head rolled over and his entire body slowly began to rotate as he chuckled, laying on his side. Ryoka Griffin stared at Rhisveri, and now she was dead sure. She stood up, incredulous.

“…Are you drunk?”

Rhisveri’s head snapped up. He turned to her, and she caught another whiff of his breath. The fruit scent! Rhisveri hesitated.

“Inebriated. Yes.”

“But—I—this is an audience!”

“So? It’s a pain in my entire being. I had to waste an entire day watching idiots hit balls with sticks, clean up a forest filled with bugs, and had a mortal woman harangue me about your mess. Did you think I’d sweep aside my entire schedule for you? That this is the most important thing I have to do all day?”

He slapped his tail for emphasis. Ryoka saw his expression shift, and his tone grew defensive.

“What kind of immortal creature would not partake of every kind of comfort and luxury available? Yes, I drink. I also bathe, exercise, and enjoy fine literature and the arts. What, should I wallow in my own filth and count gold coins all day like a Dragon?”

Ryoka bit her tongue. Rhisveri eyed her, and his expression grew amused again.

“…Does the Dragon you know do that? That’s so typical.”

He laughed to himself. Ryoka waved a hand. She felt like this conversation was getting away from her.

“Rhisveri. I have come to you on behalf of—I have come bearing coin from a foreign land. I know you think I am a thief, but I honestly wish to make amends and ask—ask if there is anything I can do to purchase or trade for the object I tried to steal. It is something I need. Will you hear my petition, seriously?”

It was like she’d tossed a potion of sobering into his mouth. As soon as she mentioned the artifact, the scroll, Rhisveri grew still. His head rose, and his eyes turned back to her, suddenly sharp again.

“Ah. So the pleasantries end. Just as I thought your company was almost tolerable.”

Ryoka met his gaze.

“I’m sorry to spoil the mood. But I thought…”

The Wyrm looked at her once more and he sighed. He sighed, grew visibly angry, furious.

“Yes, you tried to steal it! You snuck into my treasury, bypassing my guards, all to steal—if you had, do you know what I would have done? I would have destroyed Izril. Destroyed your precious House Veltras, and raised every army against you. Do you know what you tried to steal?”

He rose higher, his voice booming. Rhisveri snarled—looked at her expression—and hesitated.

“You don’t. Do you? Even now, you don’t know. You found out, somehow. How?”

“I…the Fae aided me. It was a kind of prophecy. That was what could help me save my friend. The surest, best way.”

The Wyrm cursed.

“Prophecy. [Oracles]! I have warded every means—except for the Farthest Travellers. No wonder. Well, it is safeguarded a hundred times over. You shall not have it. And before you ask—you could never pay for it. Not you.”

“I have—”

Ryoka spilled some of the stones from her bag of holding as she reached for a handful. Rhisveri snorted.

“Coins. I know their worth. But they are still coins. Do you think what you tried to steal was cheap? You have no idea! You have…”

He caught himself. Ryoka saw his lips quivering. He wanted to tell her. In that, he was like Teriarch, pointing out his own hoard.

“What could be so valuable? At least tell me what it is.”

She tried to coax him. The Wyrm glared.

“Do I look like a half-wit? That object—its value? Why would I tell you its worth? What would that gain me, except more danger, especially if I let you live? Especially if I know you cannot pay for it?”

“Could I pay to know…?”

Ryoka reached for the autograph, the obol. Rhisveri laughed in her face again.

“Everything you own wouldn’t be enough for me to risk telling you!”

Her skin prickled. That…that told her something. Ryoka wasn’t a fool. She had thought long and hard about what could possibly be used to help Erin. She had a few ideas, but they were all ridiculous. Impossible.

Except in a world that followed the rules of a game.

The Wyrm read her expression. Somehow, he grew calmer still.

“Yes. Yes, that’s right. Do you understand? That is the most valuable object in my entire treasury bar none. Somehow, you went for it. Terrifying. Infuriating. It has cost me and Ailendamus the lives of brave—of useful tools. Of a Great Knight. I put that death between us. And you cannot even pay me that cost, even with the strange objects you hold. For I value it higher.”

Ryoka waited, heart sinking. Rhisveri looked at her and thought of the Agelum and Lucifen. His head bowed deeply. He spoke.

“And yet. You will learn of it. For I have a reason. You, who have beheld Wyrms, who have spoken with Dragons…you have come from a world apart. A world I can scarcely imagine. There are worlds out there, aren’t there?”

He looked at the ceiling as if he could see the sky above. Ryoka whispered.

“Yes.”

“I knew it. But only in a vague, vain sense. Fithea told me stories. Never did I dream it would be possible to walk across reality. What a strange thing. How dare you come into my kingdom and make it smaller?”

Another glare, but Rhisveri was settling. His voice grew deeper, so she felt it in the marrow of her bones.

“I will tell you because I have held onto this secret for ages. What good is worth if only I know of it? For my own appreciation? No, no.”

His eyes glittered as the light in the room waned. Rhisveri began to draw into the shadows, but the light caught in the jade of his eyes, those little, swimming flecks, still glowing. He spoke.

“It is worth too much for you to ever have, Human. Mortal. After all—I paid the highest price for it. I fought in a life-and-death struggle for it. Do you know, Ryoka Griffin, that I am the last Wyrm I know? The last, truly, of my kind?”

“I…didn’t know that. Are you sure?”

He grinned at her in the darkness, a bleak smile.

“Perhaps there are others. Just like Dragons, we would be in hiding. It is all too probable, but I am all but certain no more will be born. Dragons might hide their eggs. Wyrms lay no eggs, and there are no female Wyrms left in this world that I know of. I think I would have sensed them, and I have travelled to every land. One laid her musk on you and it will last another twenty years. I have never smelled another, except when I was young.”

“Twenty—”

Rhisveri saw her splutter and then look at him.

“So there might be male Wyrms, then?”

“Perhaps. But I suspect I am the last of them. I know I am the last on Terandria. Because there were two, thousands of years ago. My brother and I. And I? I killed him and ate him.”

The Wyrm bared his teeth and Ryoka felt a chill. His head moved and she lost track of the eyes. He was all over the room but she saw nothing, only heard his voice.

“I slew him in battle and devoured his corpse. You do not react.”

She slowly turned, searching for a sign of him, but it was pitch-black. Ryoka tried to conjure a ball of [Light]. She saw his head for a moment, to the side, then the magic winked out. The air was dead in the room.

“I…don’t know what to say. I assume you had reasons.”

“Yet you don’t react. Is it because I am not Human? If I were, I suspect you would be outraged. Afraid. You would react, then, but I am a Wyrm. A monster. Even a Dragon you would hold to higher standards, but not me.”

His head appeared in a moment. Ryoka saw his eyes staring down at her, inches away.

“Isn’t that so?”

She hesitated. Rhisveri looked at her—then drew back.

“Well, you are right. We did not have to do battle! But we did, for each one of us coveted the other’s treasures. I knew what he owned, and it was the very scroll you sought to steal. Like you, I stole it from him, and to do so I murdered him. Kinslayer. That is what Wyrms are.”

His voice grew, growing louder, fiercer. More triumphant. Ryoka Griffin saw him rising to the top of the room, and part of her wanted to run and hide and quail. But all she did was ask a question.

“Did it have to come to that?”

Her voice was…Rhisveri twitched. He looked at her in the darkness and saw her face. Not blindly sorrowful. Not empathetic for a Wyrm she had never known. He would have raged at her for that. Just…

He uncoiled. The light in the room returned. Rhisveri lay in front of Ryoka, suddenly tired again.

“Perhaps. Perhaps we could have made amends. But he and I were younger. We fought for so many reasons. Primarily, that we knew of each other’s existence, and realized it was a weapon one could use against the other. Would we come to blows? We felt…I think we felt our territories would clash, especially if both of us stayed on this continent. We had our ambitions. Mine was kingdom; his was less grand, but each of us bided our time, gathered resources, strength and acumen. When we fought, it was for everything.”

He looked at Ryoka.

“One of us could have fled and ceded it all, of course. But the possibility of victory lay between us, and we wanted what the other had so badly…so we fought to the death. No quarter. No mercy. If I had offered it, he would have come back for vengeance or revealed me. Perhaps he would not have. I never gave him the chance.”

The Wyrm stared at a distant memory. He turned his gaze from that to the present.

“Now say your judgement, thief. Ryoka Griffin.”

She spread her hands, slowly.

“You murdered your brother. I can’t hear that and not be appalled. If I look at you like a Wyrm…I can understand it. Because that’s the stuff of stories. Legends. If I look at you like a person…”

She stared at him. Rhisveri smiled.

“But that is the heart of who I am. I am not playing for sympathy, Ryoka Griffin. Nor do I grandstand. I am this. And you are right. As a Wyrm—it is in my nature. My brother was not the first of my siblings I slew. I killed sisters and brothers before. Now, I wage war and I care not for the dead mortals. Only kingdom and desire. That is what a Wyrm is.”

“Is it? Or is it just an excuse?”

Rhisveri Zessoprical hesitated. He could squash her in a second or devour her, melt her away, or cast a spell to eradicate her. He wanted to, because the flash of rage—

But he didn’t, because it wouldn’t destroy the question. Bitterly, Rhisveri spoke.

“An excuse? For what? For doing what all species do? Conquer and kill each other? I am simply not lying, Ryoka Griffin. Or are the other immortals you have met so much more moral than me?”

He pointed his head at her, waiting for a rebuttal that did not come. Rhisveri spoke angrily.

“Dragons love to pretend they are so much better. So I killed my brother. So what? They duelled over incredibly petty matters, burnt cities down for insults, enslaved mortals and each other. Wyrms devour each other as they spawn, if measures are not taken. Dragons do not. So what? We are the same in nature—it is just that my kind does not pretend so long as it pleases us.”

“The Dragon I met did not pretend to be better. He told me he was done interfering. That every side had its reasons.”

Rhisveri looked up.

“Yes. And I am willing to trample others to get my way. Perhaps your Dragon is not. But I will not apologize nor relent. I can be rational. I can think. But I will not be some savior, some high-minded pretender. And I call your Dragon a hypocrite, though I have never met him.”

Rhisveri bared his teeth.

“No one who lives long does it without blood. We are both dead, this Dragon and I. The last members of a dead species that will never return. Not in this world. Yet what terrible irony it is that even if the last Dragon and Wyrm should meet, I think we would do great battle. Even in this fading world of mortal make. No. No, I say it is fitting! Our species have gone proudly to their end. For what should I change who I am? There is no disaster to forfend. Only the last to stand, the last to die. And that is a right I desire. I will never say mercy to mortals, though I could offer it to them. They will serve me, and I will kill them for aught I desire. I have every right to think nothing of them. You were not born when the first crime against me was committed. Nor your mother’s mother’s mother. You did not even come from this world, but I hold a grudge, Ryoka Griffin.”

His voice rose, and Ryoka Griffin saw him staring at something. Now…her skin was prickling.

“Why? Will you tell me? So I am not ignorant, at least?”

Rhisveri looked down at her. His expression was distant. Then, after a long wait, he nodded.

“Yes. To understand Wyrms, understand this: there is a reason I drink and laugh. The first is that Wyrms are dead. And I knew Wyrms were dead in this world until you came. I knew it—because I am the last Wyrm and believe it, hidden kin or not. You see…I knew the last adult female Wyrm. She was my mother. I knew the last female Wyrms; they were my brood sisters and they died by blade and infighting and monster and to me as we aged.”

“What happened?”

The Wyrm spoke, and Ryoka felt the wind blow at her hair. He looked through the walls of the palace, through time.

“Eleven thousand, four hundred and thirty…no, forty one years ago, the last Great Wyrm died. They called her Zessoprica, Sovereign of Sands. She ruled Zeikhal. She fought upon Baleros with Nagas serving under her. Even Zeres paid allegiance in years past, for she was more ancient than I. A legend of old. But they found her in Terandria, with no more allies. No more places to hide or run, and slew her.”

Ryoka Griffin felt cold. She shivered, and a blanket dropped on her as Rhisveri spoke. He never looked at her, but he seemed to recite this for the first time ever to someone else with such ease.

Because he had told this story many times to himself.

“I killed one of my own kind the moment I awoke. That is how Wyrms breed; a clutch of young, live-born. We look like serpents; we are not. Just as Dragons are not truly mammals. When Dragons bear young, they are in eggs and can wait for thousands of years if they must. When Wyrms spawn—we kill each other and the strongest grow. There is a difference in our natures. So I killed and killed in that first hour. Then…one of us spoke.”

His voice changed.

“They will kill us all. Who said it? My brother always claimed it was he. Perhaps it was another, or the message repeated. You see—we were not fools, even newly-born. Dragons are born far less intelligent—we were born cunning. Do you understand what had happened?”

Ryoka thought she did.

“Your mother. They killed her. But you…”

“Yes. We were inside her. So the hunters and celebrating armies had no idea as they began to take her body apart. We heard them. And so we stopped fighting. When those adventurers and soldiers and triumphant fools let down their guard and pierced her side, we came out. Six days. Six days of plotting and growing on her flesh. We died by the score, but an army perished. The very ‘heroes’ who slew my mother returned too late, for we had fled.”

Rhisveri smiled. He looked at Ryoka, at her pale face. Now there was sympathy.

“Do you know what I did next? What would you do, Ryoka Griffin?”

“Seek vengeance.”

“Exactly. I did not.”

She stirred. Rhisveri laughed quietly.

“They killed her. I realized—many of my kin realized—we were no match. So we dug into the loam. We hid. Some decided to flee for the water. Others hid elsewhere, or decided to fight. I think many died, but those that were found gave the rest of us time to hide. I dug deep, with an alliance of my brethren. Deep, so deep they would never find us. And then…we hatched a scheme. We would never live if we went above, not newly-born. But Wyrms are immortal. So do you know what we did next?”

“You bided your time.”

“Yes. So clever. We did exactly that. We tunneled, made lives in the deep, learned how to fight, even cast magic, and stole knowledge where we could. We fought each other, made pacts—we lived down there. I did for a thousand years.”

“A thousand…?”

Rhisveri nodded. He coiled around himself, staring around the vast room with a sudden distaste. He shuddered.

“A thousand years. Do you know how long that is? How long, eating things in the dark? Knowing there was a world above? Many of us went mad and surfaced, or simply turned into animals. A thousand years.”

His voice was shaking.

“I grubbed in the dirt and tunneled like a mole, like an insect for a thousand years. Do you know how it feels, to know I had forever to wait and to spend every hour fighting like an animal, because I feared what lay above? Yet I knew—I knew I had to grow in strength. Time passed so slowly, but it was there I learned patience. I learned fear and caution too, because there were things down there even Wyrms feared. After a thousand years, I surfaced, and then I walked under stars and continued my journey. I lived, and only a handful of my kin lived so long, because we had the will to hide so long.”

Ryoka’s mouth was open. She knew Wyrms were probably subterranean to judge from how Rhisveri’s body moved, but for a sentient being? She looked at him and realized.

It was him. Not Humans. Not people in other stories. Rhisveri was…the blessed child. The one given every gift, but with the world pitted against him. The one who had trained in secret for a thousand years, surviving to claim his birthright.

“After that, I roamed the world. I learned magic—I met others. I fought Dragons and my own kin, and I took wounds and made mistakes. I had great triumphs. By the time my brother and I fought, all my kin were dead and we were great, fed on thousands of years of life. So now you understand—when I say I am the last, I truly am.”

Ryoka’s heart hurt. Rhisveri stared at her and looked away.

“But—I came with—what about Sikeri’s offer?”

No wonder he cared for nothing, was even annoyed by the Lucifen and Agelum and Ryoka’s own relationships. Rhisveri snorted. He looked at Ryoka. By all rights he should have seen it as the last miracle, the greatest temptation ever offered, and Ryoka was, uh, Visophecin: offering him a chance to meet his own kind and sire another generation.

He laughed cruelly.

“You have no idea. You, Visophecin—it isn’t your fault. But oh, it is funny. This Wyrm—I can smell her on you. A beautiful creature from the sea. So intoxicating. She offers me the chance to mate. To repopulate. Do you know what the joke is? Guess. You must be able to guess. Think of all I have said. Understand that a Wyrm is cruel and savage, and guess. What is the catch?”

Why did he laugh like that? Why was he drunk? Ryoka Griffin’s eyes flickered. It was something primal. It wasn’t about personality or will…it went to the very heart of species. Of biology. If he wasn’t like a snake…no.

“No.”

“Yes. Say it.”

He bent low, his expression eager. Wanting her to voice it. Ryoka’s lips rasped together. Instantly, a cup of water appeared. She hesitated, wet her lips. Looked up at Rhisveri and guessed the joke.

“The…when a Wyrm mates with another Wyrm. What…what happens to the male Wyrm?”

A grin. Pleased as could be.

“It will be the most rapturous moment of my life. The last. When two Wyrms meet, the male dies and the female devours him that life will spawn.”

Oh. Ryoka Griffin sat there and Rhisveri giggled, laughed at her.

“Perhaps she thought I wouldn’t know! Or that I would be so tempted. And I am! I have never felt such desire! But I am no beast! I have mastered myself. I want, but I will not fall. It would be a glorious thing. Wyrms beyond counting. You talk of her like she is a legend as great as any Wyrm of this world. And I? I am the mightiest Wyrm, even by old days.”

He preened himself, rubbing his head against his scales. Ryoka saw Rhisveri sigh.

“The more powerful a Wyrm is, the more spawn they create.”

“What? How does that work? That’s not…”

He snorted.

“Oh, what would you know? Do you think Dragons and Wyrms have normal, mortal biologies? You probably have no clue how you make children. You are aware you can’t make any with females, aren’t you? That you contain the seeds of life within—”

“I’m aware I have ovaries, yes! I know I have eggs!”

Rhisveri recoiled. He stared at Ryoka.

“Ah. Other worlds. Well at least one of them has an adequate knowledge of biology…ahem.”

He coughed.

“Dragons and Wyrms do not have what you have. How could we, as old as we become? We match and mingle essences. A female Wyrm can create new life—but she requires a source and energy for it. Where does that come from, the other half of the equation?”

“The male Wyrm. So it’s mandatory.”

Rhisveri smiled bleakly.

“Exactly. With the power I sense from her and my own? It would be…”

His body trembled.

“Beyond counting. Our spawn would be no hundreds of thousands. Millions. Tens of millions.”

Ryoka felt a chill in her bones at the thought. Those were…and if they came from the lands of the fae and got to the gateways?

World-ending numbers. Multiple realities with Wyrms growing, entering through gateways…Rhisveri saw her expression and laughed.

“So you see, it benefits neither you nor me. And you had no idea, believing you had temptation.”

“I…isn’t there another way? Surely Dragons and Wyrms—”

He snorted.

“Experimented? Of course, I would bet they even achieved success. But if so—they did not care to bring countless false or temporary lives into this world, just to watch them die. What parent wishes to watch their children die, again, and again, over countless aeons? That is the flaw in our reproduction. Not that I die—not that alone. Simply because we grow too old.”

He waved his tail.

“Enough. Enough. I am tempted. You bring me fair distractions and I would like to meet this other Wyrm…but not die.”

He paused.

“Not die. I am no altruist. I am selfish, willing to do what I must to survive, and Wyrms are superior to Dragons. We grow without end. They only grow in magic. We populate like grains of sand on the beach and we are born strong and deadly. We even have powers that Dragons must work to match. Perhaps that is why Crelers took so much from us.”

Ryoka jerked.

“Crelers? Crelers are made based on—”

The Wyrm nodded. His expression was filled with distaste.

“I do not know when, but I remember the Creler Wars. I did not believe it at first, but now I know—sometime after my birth, one of my siblings found their way to Rhir. Somehow—their corpse, or perhaps they themselves, became the foundation of Crelers. They are too similar. The way they grow, their numbers and strength—and lastly, the old have my gift.”

“What gift?”

One eye swivelled towards Ryoka and she blinked.

Why, the gift of a mind, of course.

Telepathy. Ryoka Griffin stared at Rhisveri. The Wyrm nodded.

“Something lurks down there. I will purge it, but that is a battle for Ailendamus in the future. Mark me well; I knew Rhir when it was abandoned, and Rhir before the Blighted Kingdom and their nonsense about Demons. I know the truth and I will find what has plagued the world and slay it. That is a battle worthy of me.”

Her lips moved. Ryoka Griffin saw Klbkch in front of her, Xrn, and hesitated. Don’t say—

Don’t say it? She looked Rhisveri in the eye.

“If that day comes when I’m alive, I will do everything in my power to help you. But what’s down there is mightier than even you. Even so. It needs to die.”

His eyes widened. Rhisveri stared at Ryoka.

“You know…?”

He shook himself. Looked at Ryoka and drew back.

“Even now, you surprise me, Ryoka Griffin, thief. You bring temptation. News of another world. A name, a terrible presence contained in a single name. Stories and secrets. You know, I am tempted. I would meet with this lovely Sikeri, or her sisters, I would. I do not want to die, though.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I…”

Rhisveri’s eyes glittered. He was smiling. Ryoka Griffin felt a surge of unease. The Wyrm chuckled.

“I do not want to die. And here we come to the heart of it. But Ryoka—I could go there and surrender myself to the bliss of a lifetime. I could create children and a new kingdom—well, perhaps not in my world. I wouldn’t trust them. Maybe until they were a thousand years old, but after that?”

He reconsidered. Ryoka Griffin looked at him, her suspicions mounting. Rhisveri flicked his tongue up.

“—Regardless. I could do it. You understand? I could mate and die. And come back. Because I have a treasure beyond imagining. Oh yes. The very one you tried to steal. Now we come to it. Now you know.”

He bent low. Ryoka Griffin staggered back, and her back hit the chair. Rhisveri saw her face go white.

“A…a scroll? A scroll that—”

“Yes. A Scroll of Resurrection.”

His body shivered. He writhed with the sheer joy and pleasure of saying it aloud to someone else after so long. The Wind Runner looked up at him.

Somewhere, the fates were laughing. And then she knew how Erin would live again. It was so easy.

It was so…

“You will never claim it.”

Rhisveri broke her out of her reverie. He looked at her, coiling back on himself. He was conversational now, but the radiant exuberance of being able to tell, to brag, was all over him. It made him calm, even friendly.

“You must understand. This is no mere Scroll of Raise Dead, which would work on mortals, at cost. This is a genuine…it’s not even a relic. It’s beyond a relic. I don’t know how my brother found it. I think—in a long-buried tomb of a kingdom. It can revive me if I perish for any reason. So you understand. Why would I part with it?”

“I—I understand. But it’s real?”

“Oh, yes. The power in it? I tested it with all my knowledge. I even showed it to an [Archmage] before he died. It is the real thing. Now I have one last question for you, Ryoka Griffin. Knowing I have this scroll worth more than you could ever offer me, which would tempt even my allies, and send armies marching upon me without end to claim it—why did I tell you? Why do I laugh? Why do I weep?”

Oh. We’re here again. Ryoka Griffin stirred. It was never the same, but it had echoes.

A riddling game. Was that what she’d been playing the entire time? The Wyrm waited. Understand me. She thought about all he had said, how he presented Wyrms. A monster—or so he claimed, writhing in the darkness. Brother-killer. Born of a dead mother. Ruthless…

“I think I know why you laugh, Rhisveri Zessoprical.”

He smiled, with more admiration than he had ever had towards a mortal. Even the [General] he had trained himself, the Great General who marched to bring Calanfer low. He waited. Ryoka Griffin looked at him and her eyes…they pierced his scales with truth. His truth, which he had patiently explained to her over this long conversation.

“The scroll is the most valuable thing in the world. The most valuable. But…it does you no good if you have no one to resurrect. And if you want to be saved—you need someone you can trust. And you trust…”

The Wyrm began to laugh. It grew in him, not a conversational laugh, altogether like a person, but a deep rumbling that grew high in tone. A shriek, a roaring shriek like glass grinding against itself, glaciers of glass breaking. Hysterical laughter.

“No one. Yes, that’s why he laughed, my brother! Even as I killed him! He knew what he had, and he knew no one would bring him back! He would never use it on another. Nor I! We love no one! And we have no one to trust. Do you see?”

She saw. The Wyrm rolled about in his despair and mirth. Then he looked at her, panting.

“If there was one. If there was, I would be safe. But I have none. Who would I love? A mortal?”

“Why not? Is it impossible, Duke Rhisveri? Is there nothing in any of us—in any part of the world that you couldn’t admire or love?”

Rhisveri snorted. He snaked his head down to her.

“Perhaps there is. I admit that you folk have qualities I could find attractive. I could pretend I was a smaller man. But I am not. You cannot understand what I am, and any relationship would be imbalanced. But even then—perhaps I could love someone. Respect them.”

“Then…?”

Ryoka saw Rhisveri shake his head.

“Why would I give my heart away to someone who will die and break it? Even if I resurrected them, if I had a thousand scrolls. No. No, if it is true love, I will not waste it on a mere century. I could only love someone who walks time without age. Who could challenge and push me. I could only love…”

An immortal. And now Ryoka saw a kind of design in the air. She looked at Rhisveri.

“Is that why you made Ailendamus? To find other people, other immortals in hiding? Not Wyrms but…someone you could love? Trust?”

He jerked. The Wyrm whirled his head around and stared at Ryoka. She had seen too much. He blustered.

“Nonsense! Do you think I would trust Visophecin or his lot? I have kept the scroll secret because they would stab me in the back for it, even Fithea. Especially Fithea.”

“So why are you telling me? To mock me? Because you want me to know? I want that scroll, Rhisveri. Does that mean there’s something you want from me in return?”

Ryoka felt it happening again. Now came the [Geas]. Now came the bargain. But Rhisveri just smirked.

“No. No, I told you—you cannot offer me anything. I know its worth. Even useless—a hundred thousand Ryokas could offer nothing close.”

Then why risk it? The Wyrm had a gleeful look in his eyes. Why tell Ryoka if he didn’t intend to let her have it or bargain? Ryoka frowned.

“I must have it. My friend—”

“I know. Don’t you think I know? Everyone wants a scroll like that. Most believe it is a figment, but it is not. I know you will not relent—and you are an emissary. I cannot kill you.”

Rhisveri slithered back and forth. Ryoka felt her stomach sinking. And yet…his tone was sinking ominously. What was going to happen? Mind-erased? A spell?

“I am a friend of the Fair Folk of Avalon, Rhisveri Zessoprical. I have wronged you, but I will do everything I can to defend myself. I remind you of that.”

The Wyrm hissed. His body was coiling inwards, now, no longer giving her space. Closer and closer, walls of scales.

“Oh, I know. You threaten me in my home. You persuade me with every factor, from greed to passion to fear. You want what I am not willing to trade. Not to you. But you are dangerous. You know what hides in Rhir. You have things I want, but you and I both have a point where we will never cross. And I cannot force you…or can I? Go ahead. Try and stop me. I could pull your mind apart. Turn you into a dancing puppet. I could sell you to Roshal or simply kill you. Go ahead. Stop me. Say that name.”

Ryoka was shuddering. But—why was he threatening her? He had not seemed as wrathful at her. She thought they had understood each other, or at least, she him, and he had appreciated it.

“Rhisveri—”

“Say it.”

She refused to. The Wyrm was so close now she felt the coils constricting her. If he so much as sneezed she would be squished. He opened his maw, and venom pooled there. Ryoka waited, tensed—and then Rhisveri uncoiled. He moved his head back and laughed softly.

“You would be far better if you were of our nature. Mortality is wasted on you. Alas, you play too well. Do not flinch, brave Courier. I will still win. Or did you forget? I have a voice, the same as you. So I say it. Oberon.”

Ryoka Griffin recoiled. Her eyes went round. Rhisveri’s tail flicked and something flew through the air. It landed, scattering about, then reforming. She saw broken stones—familiar stone, from the very heart of the palace, rising into the air. Forming…an arch.

“Rhisveri!”

The Wyrm looked at her. His mouth opened wide. Do you see it yet?

“You can offer me nothing. But perhaps…Oberon! I invoke you!”

The stones rose, hovering in the air. The Wyrm raised his head as the Wind Runner shouted. He threw his head back and roared to the heavens.

“OBERON!”

For a moment, nothing happened. Ryoka, even Rhisveri, froze, sweating, hearts pounding in tandem in fear as he said it. Ryoka—nothing would happen, surely? He had never been there. The gateway broke! Nothing would…

She felt something happening. A strange sensation at her side. Ryoka Griffin slapped a hand to something odd. She had never felt that—she looked down and froze.

Her bag of holding was…rattling. And she felt the obols inside of it shaking about. Then the room began shaking. Rhisveri’s eyes flickered in unease, but he smiled. Staring down at…

The portal. Blank air. Nothing but old stone, even a bit moldy, written with ancient words. Nothing but his magic keeping it aloft. Ryoka stared at it, shaking. Then she realized something. She looked up slowly and made a squeaking sound. Rhisveri followed her gaze.

The stone archway collapsed as he let go of the magic. It was just old stone, after all. But that tiny, infinitesimal tear in the fabric of the world? It opened a fraction wider and the Wyrm turned pale.

——

Who was saying his name? Why was he risking it? The fool! The—

Five figures fled from Terandria as fast as possible. It was a possible opening! A place to invade—they made tracks. It was—they hid in the dark sea. There was just one of him, and they were—

They avoided that gaze and the touch of fall itself. They weren’t afraid! It just wasn’t time. Not yet.

Not yet.

——

It would be death, this time. The Court of the Fae waited. One of them stood alone, amid fading colors.

The Court of the Summer Fae was over. Fall and winter ruled, and, thusly, they changed. All but he. Like her—like Ivolethe, who now stood among the first in the Winter Court, he refused to change.

Melidore. One of the eldest of the Fae. One of the first of their number. It was not said lightly. He stood by the King of Fae himself, and his expression was thunderous.

Did that girl think this was done lightly? A door was closed and sealed. Sealed and closed—and only one in all of the lands of the fae could do it.

Oberon. Now, he had to reopen it and he did. Why? It was not a monumental task, but it took his strength. Melidore did not know why, but he knew it would be death this time.

If the answer did not suit him, he would violate hospitality itself. Not to go to that damned land and give another weapon to the Enemy’s hands. No.

Rather, he would go among the terrified women standing before the throne. They had been summoned, of course.

Just like last time. They had been called, and the court convened. They were all here again.

Three Kings, young, in his prime, and old, bearing the true blade which echoed across realities.

A bevy of proud folk, escorting a little child who had sold his stick for quite a lot—as he saw it. Their wings furled and unfurled with impatience as they eyed the terrified group of women with a disdain only reserved for family, albeit distant.

A Phoenix, preening his feathers with a handbag around his neck.

Ivolethe, of course, and the younger Fae who had known her.

Nama.

And in the center, facing the throne as the doorway opened—Sikeri’val-Toreshio-Maresssui. The Wyrm saw Melidore staring at her, hand on a sword. She avoided his gaze, staring at the opening rift.

Not just her, though. All of the Wyrms had been summoned. All came, despite their arrogance. They quailed before this throne. And Melidore’s wrath.

If the answer displeased him, he would go among them and slaughter them all. No matter the punishment. Enough.

The door opened and there she was. Ivolethe sighed as Ryoka Griffin appeared. But it was not she who had said the name thrice, with intention and daring.

Rhisveri Zessoprical saw the figure on the throne and quailed. But then his eyes spotted the women. They looked like women, Human women, with different shades of skin and hair styles—until you looked at them differently. Ryoka Griffin saw…

Her knees shook.

Wyrm gazed upon Wyrm, and the lone male Wyrm between two worlds raised his head proudly. He bowed it, first to the throne, then to his kin.

“King of the Fae. I am Rhisveri, Ruler of Ailendamus. I thank you for—meeting with me. I have an offer to place before the lands of the Farthest Travellers.”

“You invoke his name lightly, Wyrm. Speak your reasons and be they well. Or you shall die.”

A radiant figure warned him. He quelled his tongue as the Faerie King lifted a palm, but that calm gaze of fall made Ryoka and Rhisveri shake.

Yet the Wyrm spoke. He looked at Ryoka, and, even now, the cunning glance made her search ahead of his words. Understanding…

“I have been offended by your subjects and Ryoka Griffin, who claims friendship with your lands. She attempted to steal something that belonged to me. An object beyond any value I can name. I am minded to forgive her—and that is a petty squabble. But the Wind Runner, Ryoka Griffin, desires that which I cannot use. Which I will not trade for any value she possesses.”

The Fae listened. Rhisveri spoke. And something floated in front of him. A simple scroll, this one long, with a wooden handle. Ryoka shivered as she saw it. It felt…warm in her very soul. She felt alive, and the Faerie King said nothing as Rhisveri lifted it up for all to see.

“I know not if you have the like in your world. Or if it is mundane. I think not. I have one object in my possession. It is called a Scroll of Resurrection, and it can revive any being. Even me.”

The Court of the Fae had been rustling, the Wyrms nervously murmuring, the Dragons—even the Kings three waving to Ryoka. Suddenly—they went silent.

All eyes fixed on the scroll. Disbelieving. Incredulous. Magic, bottled like that? Melidore choked. That was not—

But the rules there. Nama’s grip touched one of the simple healing potions Ryoka had given her. And suddenly—she was staring at the scroll too.

“One life. One life—even your own if you have someone you trust. But if you have none? No one can afford it in this world that I know. Nor would I risk it.”

Rhisveri looked at her and Ryoka knew. You clever bastard. You—

She leapt, the wind rushing behind her, but he lifted a hand and she fell. No. Rhisveri watched as Oberon sat there. And even he looked at the scroll.

“Everyone has someone. Everyone but a Wyrm. I offer it. For a worthy price. If it can be paid, if you will accede to part of the trade—I will exchange it for something of equal value.”

The Wyrm smiled and Ryoka sank to her knees. Because he was right. She looked into that vision of another place and at them.

The three Kings of Camelot. Who had loved and lost and who had left their kingdom. Who would one day return. Their eyes were fixed on the scroll.

The Dragons, eyes opened wide, pointing, striding forwards to be blocked by the Faerie King’s guards.

The Wyrms, who stared at Rhisveri with admiration and lust for the magnificent bastard play, even by their standards. Sikeri blew Rhisveri a kiss, and he preened slightly.

Even Nama. Nama, who had once told Ryoka her home was empty because…

Ivolethe and the Court of the Fae were silent. Staring at the scroll. Ryoka’s best friend looked across the divide and gave Ryoka a sad nod.

It is never easy, is it? Ryoka Griffin knelt there as Rhisveri smiled. Oberon’s lips moved. He lifted a hand, and the gates began to close. But—oh, dead gods. Dead gods and fae and cunning Wyrms. Even the Faerie King. Ryoka stared at the empty throne, and Rhisveri laughed in delight.

For the greatest auction in any world had just begun.

——

Ryoka Griffin did not speak to Rhisveri after that. He offered her food, put the scroll away, and was the very model of a host. Would you care for a drink? A game of chess? I am so indebted to you—why don’t we forget about the thief incident? Full pardon.

She was sick. She stumbled towards her room, ignoring Visophecin, face white. Rhisveri had stopped her on the way out of his chambers.

“Miss Ryoka Griffin? You are pardoned. I will consider your attempted theft mitigated for the price of…mm. Ten of those coins.”

She dropped them on the ground, face blank. He smiled and levitated them up. They flashed past Ryoka, and Rhisveri nodded.

“You are free to go. We will discuss Sammial Veltras later—given House Veltras’ attacks on Ailendamus? He is a prisoner still. I invite you to join the bidding, although I do not think you’ll win—or how it will take place. But I am content to wait. Years if need be. I do not think it will be so long. Oh—and look at this.”

He lifted something up.

“Extraordinary.”

Someone had tossed something before the gates closed. A…handkerchief. From no less than Sikeri herself. Ryoka stared at the huge, house-sized blanket. Rhisveri patted it against his head.

“It feels quite nice. Yes, indeed, I think I won’t regret the trade. But just so we’re clear.”

He smiled at her.

“If you try to steal my scroll, I will kill you. If you tell the others—you will know my full wrath. There will be no next time. Have a good night. I would be quite willing to chat with you another day, but you seem tired.”

Ryoka had stumbled away. She had to steal that damned scroll. She had to…

He had it under guard. Would someone pay for it? What would they trade? What could they trade?

No stick for him. They’d trade the lever to move the world for it—and she just bet they could. She…she…

Would Ailendamus fight Rhir? Would they truly be allies? But for Erin. But for Erin…Ryoka closed her eyes. But for Erin, how evil were they? That lonely giant snake. The strange goodness and wrongness of Ailendamus.

She sagged against a wall as Visophecin strode in to ask Rhisveri what had happened and get no answers. Ryoka stumbled through the palace.

It was near nightfall and everyone was smiling. Some people wanted to say ‘hello’ to the Wind Runner. Queen Oiena of Ailendamus herself spotted Ryoka amidst the gathering and celebrations.

“There you are. I was told you were with Viscount Visophecin. Has he returned? Fortuitous, but you, my Gura-loving girl, will speak to me. And I will—”

She hesitated. She was back to being ready to kick Ryoka out a window, but one glance at Ryoka’s face and the [Queen] whirled.

“Someone fetch a [Healer]. Has the Viscount done something? Fetch me the Royal Guard—”

“I’m fine. Visophecin didn’t do anything. Look how good I am.”

Ryoka put her head down. Queen Oiena reached for her, but her bodyguard stopped her.

“Your Majesty, she’s either sick or hexed or about to vomit.”

Ryoka was probably number three. Queen Oiena looked around.

“Get her out of the way, then. We might as well not ruin the moment…”

The Wind Runner heard something weird as a [Healer] strode over, took one look at her face, and found a barf bucket. She sat there, breathing in and out and trying to make sense of it all. What about no scroll? What about asking Visophecin—what would happen? Ryoka messed up everything. The consequences? She couldn’t even imagine it!

What if Nama got her family, though? Even just one? What if King Arthur returned? What if…

What if it brought back Titania?

Ryoka’s head slowly rose. A thought. No. What if…

Oh, Erin. Her heart hurt. Ryoka was so overwhelmed and distraught, she didn’t even hear it at first. But then she did, because it sank into her head. Cheering and laughter—she looked around as Queen Oiena patted her hand.

“Wasgoingon.”

“Is that…language? Courier Ryoka, we should take you away.”

Queen Oiena gestured, but Ryoka stared about. Everyone was gathered around—she didn’t see Itorin–but even a lot of important people who might attend the Court of Masks, Oesca and Ivenius, both so excited they’d missed her…

What was this? Baron Regalius was leading a small procession, beaming, and there was music and everyone looked thrilled. But why though? And anyways, it was totally the wrong music for Ailendamus.

Not enough pomp. Way too fast-beat. Way too…peppy. Ryoka Griffin paused.

Way too…

Poppy.

Pop-y.

Then she heard it. A voice, singing amidst instruments that this world had never known until now. Ryoka slowly rose, and she saw it. A dancing procession, coming in. A figure on a moving platform, glittering like magic and artifice and celebrity.

She heard a voice, singing a familiar song, and the audience cheered. Ryoka Griffin’s mouth opened as the [Popstar] of Terandria, the Singer, Cara O’ Sullivan, blew a kiss and entered Ailendamus’ capital. She turned, waving, and Ryoka Griffin saw her eyes alight on the Wind Runner.

Cara winked and raised the microphone to her lips, and began to sing as she spotted the young woman.

This one’s for you, batman.

8.57 H

“He was right, all along. I think I knew it, deep down, or at least, I thought he had a point. But he was right. Necromancy is just magic. It is all just magic. Everything we are…”

The half-Elf hesitated. She took the circlet off her head and stared at it. She dropped it, and it rang as it struck the floor.

But it was still on her head.

“…It’s just magic. Good and evil are spells we cast to call things that. It doesn’t matter what the truth is, just how we react to things. What matters is what we believe.”

She played with the smooth, dark bone of the thin circlet. She touched the jewels set into a glittering, golden crown, heavy enough to hang low on the head. It changed. But it was hers. And it whispered to her what it was and what it could do. Or were those her thoughts?

Ceria Springwalker closed her eyes. She stood, facing the mirror, and looked at herself. The half-Elf spoke.

“What I’m trying to say is…”

She hesitated. Looked herself in the eye, and smiled.

“…I’m not very good at being pretentious. Even a magic circlet can’t stop me from being an idiot.”

Ceria grinned wider. Then she reached up and touched the circlet again.

“It’s not half-bad, though.”

A glittering circlet of bone set with a single frozen crystal as pale as ice sat on her head. A line with a single faint snowflake lattice holding the gem. Ceria nodded and closed her eyes.

“Freedom.”

She spread her arms, and the gem glowed faintly. Magic surrounded her, and her mind felt…she left something behind. Or it lost its hold on her. The circlet glowed, and she knew it had powers she hadn’t even begun to tap into.

But the first of these was this: she looked at herself and thought of everything that was, and everything that mattered to her. From a different point of view.

Free from morality. Free from conscience. Free from…everything. A mind unfettered, made more intelligent.

At last, Ceria Springwalker looked at herself. Her grin turned rueful and crooked. She touched the circlet.

“Heavy.”

She didn’t take it off.

——

They called her…Ice Squirrel.

The Frozen Chipmunk.

The Mouth of the Horns of Hammerad. Yellat-girl. Okay, the ‘Mouth’ nickname was a stretch, but she didn’t have other names.

Truly. She was just ‘Captain of the Horns of Hammerad’. Gold-rank [Cryomancer]. The Siren’s possible new squeeze. That half-Elf with the bone hand who kept eating everything in sight but was fun to drink with.

She was new to Gold-rank, so she didn’t have a nickname like Halrac the Grim. It said a lot that her greatest claim to fame was the Village of the Dead raid—

And the only title that mattered. That even Savere’s lawless lot respected.

Crelerbane. Hell’s Warden.

That you respected. But the half-Elf herself was…inoffensive. Amusing more than charming, but she was friendly, personable, and you knew her rough level and capabilities. She couldn’t move Savere; compared to the Bleakbeaks, let alone Bloodtear. Or Shifthold, which was now at port in a berth isolated from the others.

She wasn’t there yet. Most people weren’t. Most people would never be, so it was easy to laugh or ignore her one-note trick, which was stuffing her face full of food until it looked like she had doubled the holding capacity of her face.

Until the circlet appeared on her head. Until you saw a Relic-class item sitting on her head, and heard it was cursed in some way. Until you realized all the times you’d slapped her on the back or made fun of her, and all the times she was silly and idiotic and her guard was down—

It had always been there. Invisible.

Then—when she turned to you with her cheeks full of food and grinned—well, there was a horror to that.

Omusc, the [Pillager], and the other [Bandits] in the enforcement squad who’d taken Nerhs, the little, no-name village which had led to all this, were sitting at Ceria’s table. A bit away from her. The banquet hall of Savere’s capital, Runsblud, was strangely quiet.

“Ib a chubby chipmunkh!”

Ceria grinned around. No one laughed. Omusc stared at the circlet on Ceria’s head.

It had changed again. It was now a pale bone circlet with some kind of ice jewel. It sat on the half-Elf’s dirty blonde hair, glinting innocuously, without the true sheen of powerful magic. Indeed, when you cast [Detect Magic] or used a Skill, it was like a piece of scrap.

Omusc needed to use the bathroom. Her stomach had an explosive anchor it wanted to drop. She was more nervous than most—because she had both [Innate Spell: Detect Magic] and [Quick Appraisal], and a host of Skills pertaining to her class.

[Pillager]. Which meant ‘get the most valuable items and run’ in a raid. An important class, which also meant she was a competent leader if need be, and a good fighter. She tried her [Quick Appraisal] again.

Nice-looking headband: piece of carved bone and a glass gemstone. Probably worth 9 copper to a reseller. A few silver for the looks.

That was what her Skill told her. Her Skill said that thing was a piece of crap that only looked good.

Omusc’s brain told her that was a Relic with a curse that had outsmarted the Siren of Savere and her Skills. Her guts churned.

Ceria turned her head around, looking disappointed at the lack of a reaction. She swallowed with difficulty, nearly choked on her mouthful, and sipped some water.

“Come on. Nothing?”

She looked around, grinning. As if today was just like yesterday, before they’d found out what was on her head.

“Alright, I need a new trick. But I’m not shoving anything up my nose. One of my friends tried that once. She tripped. Did not end well.”

A few of the [Bandits] chuckled unwillingly. That was funny, and horrific to imagine. Ceria smiled. She turned to Omusc, and the [Pillager] met her gaze. Ceria raised her brows.

“It’s the circlet, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

Normally Omusc would snap back, something like, ‘what did you think it was, idiot?’ But she just held her tongue. Ceria sighed. She thoughtfully reached up and lifted the circlet off her head. Everyone stared at it as she put it on the table. The half-Elf took a breath. She blinked a few times and scratched at her head, repeatedly.

“Whoof. Okay—how about now?”

Everyone looked at the circlet, sitting on the table next to her plate. Omusc eyed it.

“Ice Squirrel—Ceria. That’s not a good—”

Ceria blinked at her, reaching for her drink. Then there was a flash across the ground.

“Hey!”

Ceria grabbed for it, too late. Someone dove, and the circlet vanished. Omusc whirled, cursing, as the table burst into chaos. [Bandits] leapt, grabbing, drawing blades, but the [Thief] was already half over the table and vaulting another.

“Stop them! They’ve got the—”

Omusc saw other diners surging to their feet. The [Thief] went for a window. She never made it.

Someone leapt up from their table and dove at her. She did an [Evasive Roll], ducked a thrown chair—and ran right into a blade.

A [Knifemaster] sitting at another table didn’t bother standing up. They just tossed the blade through her chest—then grabbed for the circlet. Omusc saw a brawl breaking out. Everyone was trying to grab the circlet. Some were trying to put it on—others toss it in their bag of holding and book it.

“Damn—”

She surged to her feet, drawing her own blade, and saw Ceria sitting there. She was picking at her plate, ignoring the fighting, helping herself to another bite of gravy-covered meatballs, today’s special. Omusc eyed her. Ceria glanced up.

“Ceria! Aren’t you going to—”

The [Enforcement Raider], Abelesque, stopped, staring at the two of them. Her crew was watching the fight, but reluctant to wade in. There were three bodies on the floor and from the blood—they wouldn’t be getting back up.

“Enough!”

The Siren of Savere herself came bursting into the room with a wave of water. The fighters looked up, saw her aiming a finger, and ran for it. Some put up their weapons; the ones with the circlet went for the window again.

A blast of water went through a back like an arrow, pressurized force cutting through armor and flesh. But someone tossed the circlet and six figures leapt out, never mind the two-story drop.

“Recover the circlet!”

The Siren shouted. Her personal, loyal fighters went for the window and doors. She whirled, face white with anger and…

And then she saw Omusc, staring at Ceria, slowly sheathing her blade. The other bandits, all looking at Ceria.

The half-Elf calmly took a huge bite of her breakfast and glanced around. It was that casual act that let the other diners know…they turned.

Four dead in this room, not counting the original [Thief]. The Siren focused on Ceria’s head. Her hair was a bit messy, and there was no indentation, no circlet. Ceria looked up, and her pale eyes glinted.

“Alright. I think I’ve got it. First trick? Chubby chipmunk. Here’s the second icebreaker. A magic trick. First you see it, then I let someone take it. Then…”

She tapped the side of her head.

“Tada.”

The circlet was back on her head. As if it had never left. Omusc recoiled and slammed into another [Bandit]. It wasn’t just that it had been invisible—a strand of hair had been right there, where the circlet was. Had it reappeared? Teleported? Messed with her appearance?

Ceria sat there, looking around as Revine Zecrew, Omusc, and the others looked at her.

“Just thought I’d get that out there so no one tries grabbing it. So how about it? Maybe I’ll work on it so there are fewer bodies next time. I didn’t think anyone would fall for it.”

She winked at Omusc and glanced at the five fallen figures in the room. Ceria took a sip of water. The [Pillager] looked at Ceria and something escaped her mouth. Abelesque too—unprompted, unrehearsed—they started laughing.

It wasn’t exactly amused laughter. At the same time? That half-Elf, sitting there, eating with an icebreaker that killed five people?

That was Savere’s kind of humor. Ceria got the joke. She grinned and winked as a few people threw food or utensils, cursing at her. They sat back down and the Siren eyed Ceria. She turned on her heel, but not before snapping.

“Ceria, my floor. Fifteen minutes.”

The half-Elf nodded. She saw a few figures get up and saunter over for a quick word or to keep cursing her out. A [Trickster] wanted to congratulate her, and Omusc watched. From being a Gold-rank in a foreign city to now?

She was a little too good at fitting in. Everything Omusc thought she had pegged down about Ceria was flapping around in a storm. The real question was—what would happen next? Everyone wanted to know. And that included people who would have never cared about Ceria a few weeks ago.

——

The Siren of Savere rarely felt nervous. Tense—angry—yes. But afraid?

She had faced down gang leaders and [Pirate Captains], from the famous Admiral Seagrass to the Drowned Folk’s deadliest marauders. Sometimes she compromised or acceded against her will, but it was Revine’s firm belief that she could kill anyone who sailed the sea. Some battles would almost certainly result in her death, but there was always the possibility that anyone who crossed her would end up with a hole in their forehead.

By contrast, she didn’t like unknown quantities. What bothered her wasn’t an overwhelmingly strong person, because you could run from them or bargain, or team up. It was not knowing how someone would jump when the storm rolled in.

It was part of the reason why she and her sister didn’t get along. The Siren of Savere paced around her rooms on the top floor of the Siren’s Lookout—the informal nickname for Runsblud’s palace.

She was half-watching Ceria out of the corner of her eye. The [Cryomancer] was reading a spellbook and standing in the practice rooms, which could contain high-grade magical spells. She was currently posing on one foot like a martial artist, the other foot resting against her knee. The spellbook floated in front of her as Ceria raised both hands upwards, spreading her fingers in a complicated pose. Every few seconds, the page would flip and Ceria’s eyes would skim across it.

“…What in the name of Rhir’s hells is she doing?”

Revine craned her neck, trying to find purpose in the pose. There were ways to chant to enhance a spell, or poses one could take; there was even a magical theory which proposed supporting spells with naturalistic movements to coordinate the flow of mana could enhance or facilitate easier casting.

Ceria just looked like an idiot. She stood on the tips of her toes; Revine admitted it was astonishing balance. Then she did a quick transfer and landed on her other foot, repeating the one-legged pose.

The Siren wasn’t the only one watching the antics. A Drake with a huge, white beard and robes was watching, eyes locked on the circlet on her head. So were the servants, gazing at Ceria out of the corners of their eyes.

“Revine? Are you there? Revine? I think we lost her. Hey, turn the ship around! We need better reception! Try riding that wave over there or something…”

The Siren snapped back to reality. She lifted the customized speaking stone to her lips.

“I can still hear you, Rasea.”

Her voice was resigned. She heard that famous tone, like it was laughing at all times, and, behind it, the chatter of a ship. Then Rasea Zecrew, one of the most famous [Pirates] in the world, spoke.

“Good! Good! So how’s Savere, Revine? Lots of interesting things happening? Stolen anything good, recently? I heard the Empress of Beasts is loose. Say, are the Bloodtear Pirates hanging out there? I heard one of their navies was sailing in.”

Revine closed her eyes. She had a headache.

“Everything is—fine here, sister.”

They were having a speaking stone call. Which was not actually that common, even though such spells were possible. But to carry on a conversation in real time rather than a [Message] spell, you needed a Wistram-trained [Mage] who could enchant two identical lodestones of enough power to carry on a conversation—and even then it only worked within a certain radius of Savere.

Often Rasea, a [Pirate Captain] who sailed the Illuminary, the world’s fastest ship, would often be far too far away to carry on a conversation. However, Revine was a [Bandit Queen], and that conferred certain privileges.

Such as them not having to worry about this speaking stone’s call being interrupted, which was a real hazard of most communication spells. Even so, long-distance calls weren’t that common…mainly because the two sisters didn’t often get along.

Yet right now, Rasea was cordial, even chatty.

“Good old Runsblud. Is the Hanged Bait still open? No one’s shanked old Ernol yet?”

“As far as I know, no.”

“Hah! He’s got more lives than a Cat O’ Nine Lives! I miss his drinks, though. Finest in any port, isn’t that right, lasses?”

There was a chorus in the background to the effect of, ‘aye, Captain!’, ‘never had better!’, ‘I’m one of the lads, Captain’, and so on. Rasea went on as Revine rolled her eyes.

“You know, it’s been too long since we talked. We should have a drink. Head out! Have a night in some coastal port, sink a few ships. What do you say?”

Revine sighed.

“Rasea. You’ve heard about my guest, haven’t you?”

A pause, infinitesimal, followed by a hearty laugh.

“What? Guest? I don’t know what you’re talking about, sister. Although, if you’ve got guests, I should meet them, eh? We can swap stories. I was on the trail of those [Strategists] and those damned Swords of Serept, but they’re inland and I don’t feel like sailing up a river with all those Drakes about. I just thought I’d head back, embrace my sister—”

“Rasea. Stop it.”

Of her many qualities, good and bad—and she had many—Rasea Zecrew was not exactly known for subtlety, and Revine knew her well. She was drawn to action and stories like a bee to sugar or Dreamleaf. Rasea paused, clearly thinking on how to tackle things next.

“Alright, big sis. My favorite sister—so, uh, you’ve got that famous Gold-rank team, eh?”

“Just one. Don’t flatter me.”

“Is it flattery? We’re family!”

“You tried to stab me the last time we met.”

“Only because you—you know what? Let’s let bygones be bygones. I’m just curious, Revine.”

“You and half the world.”

The Siren watched as Ceria cast a spell. [Ice Wall]. It rose upwards and she hopped over on one leg to inspect it. She put a hand to the wall, frowning. What was she doing?

“Will this take long? I don’t want your ship in my ports. I have a gang war brewing and there’s a Drowning Night coming—”

Mistake.

“You don’t say. How big? Bloodtear started it, didn’t they? Hah! You couldn’t ask them to postpone it until we get there?”

“If you come anywhere within ten miles of Savere, I will sink the Illuminary. Clear off!”

Revine snapped. Rasea paused.

“Don’t be like that, Revine. I just want to see this Relic. So it’s so good it fooled you, huh?”

Her tone was now needling. Revine knew what she was doing but…it was working. She gritted her teeth.

“Not just me. Omniscel the Omnipotent fell for it himself.”

“A high-level [Enchanter] and my big sister? Well, well, well.”

“You are not coming here. The Relic’s probably bound to Ceria Springwalker and—I am warning you, Rasea.”

“Just tell me what it does. It’s an Archmage’s circlet, isn’t it? Not too useful for me. If it’s all sparkles and spells, I’ll leave you alone, so let’s talk, huh?”

Revine hesitated. That was true. Rasea loved treasure, but she liked magical swords and armor more than artifacts she couldn’t use. She sighed. Family always knew how to push your buttons.

“It’s some kind of powerful mental circlet. That’s all I know. It can create false copies that fool everyone—and it’s cursed. Or at least, the [Enchanter] thinks so. He thinks it attached itself to Ceria when she picked it up.”

Rasea whistled through the stone.

“Interesting. I’ve seen a few of those. Is it sentient?”

Revine’s back prickled.

“I don’t know. But the only effects Omniscel has traced have been enhancing intelligence…and something called ‘Freedom from Morality’.”

“Oho. And what does that do?”

The Siren of Savere stared at Ceria, who was hopping about, casting [Ice Spikes] at a target with one foot. She spoke, slowly.

“As far as I can tell—either the intelligence booster isn’t that effective, or this half-Elf truly needed it. As for morality?”

Rasea cackled in the background and Revine was silent.

“I just watched her pull a ‘prank’ over breakfast that killed five people. She didn’t even blink.”

Savere had many stone-cold killers, but even they had some reaction to death. Ceria? It didn’t even put a sway in her step. Revine lowered the speaking stone. Ceria had just done a hop and crashed face-first onto the ground. The circlet hadn’t gone flying, though; it stayed anchored to her head like it was glued on.

“I have to go. Don’t add to my troubles, Rasea. Shifthold just docked, and I have to deal with that.”

Some of Rasea’s crew had clearly been listening in, because there were groans, and Rasea herself sounded less enthusiastic.

“Shifthold? Maybe it’s not worth a quick trip after all. Blegh. I’ll…think about it, sis. I am bored. I’m almost tempted to see if we can sack Medain and free the King of Duels. But we have work, and I suppose it’s not that interesting. Hey, if that circlet does anything else interesting like free teleportation? Just say the word and I’ll kidnap some handsome [Prince] for—”

Revine hung up. She was half-tempted to toss the stone out of her open-air balcony, but instead she just tucked it away with a sigh. Then she strode over to the practice rooms and threw the clear glass door open.

“What are you doing?”

She stared down at Ceria Springwalker. The half-Elf glanced up as Omniscel half-crouched next to her, shouting.

“That’s right! One, two, three! Testicles! How’s that for Magus Grimalkin impressions?”

He tried to flex, and Ceria broke off from doing pushups. She looked at Revine’s incredibly annoyed face and wiped at her brow.

“I’m, uh, doing tests. Omniscel, you can stop. I think there’s definitely no physical enhancements in the circlet. No balance, no speed, and definitely no strength. I can barely do thirty pushups in a row.”

The Drake [Enchanter] lowered his arms, unflexed, and began writing notes, which was ironically an even better impression of Grimalkin than before.

“Interesting. You’d think they’d add that in, but maybe it’s too complex with mental magic. Or they had a limited amount of enchanting capacity, even for a Relic-class object.”

“Testing?”

Revine realized Ceria’s stupid antics had a point. Ceria pushed herself up and shrugged.

“Yeah. Now I know I’m wearing it, I’m letting Omniscel help me figure out what it does. It’s definitely helping me concentrate, but…no physical boosting.”

“You seemed fairly well-balanced.”

Ceria had stood on one leg for five minutes without wobbling. The half-Elf shrugged.

“That’s not new. See?”

To prove it, she grabbed her right foot and began hopping about in a circle, then doing a spin-hop that Revine thought would make her throw up or fall over.

Ceria did neither, and she spun, lifted a finger, and shot an ice spike into a painted target across the room. She hit dead-center.

“Huh.”

Omniscel eyed Ceria, impressed. So was Revine.

“Did Illphres teach you that, too?‘

Ceria smiled sadly.

“No. I learned that. She taught me how to aim, but she never adventured; you have to know how to run, turn, and hit your targets.”

Huh. Revine had never…her aim was superlative, and it had to be since she could hit a target at extreme range, beating out an ordinary [Archer] with a longbow with her infamous [Water Spray] condensed into a pinpoint jet.

However, she had to admit, she didn’t practice the running spellcasting of adventurers. Could she do that?

Never when anyone could see me.

“I always had good aim, Omniscel, even before I went to Wistram. It’s not an ‘eye-booster’.”

Ceria was reading his notes over his shoulder. The Drake crabbed away from her.

“Stop altering my impartial observations!”

He slowly underlined ‘eye-booster’ just to spite her. Ceria shrugged. Then she went back to studying the spellbook.

“And what are you doing now?”

The Siren was of two minds on Ceria. Firstly, she realized why her [Corruptors] had been as effective as spit; Ceria was already compromised by a possibly greater force.

Was the circlet sentient? What kind of curses did it have? Could Ceria be trusted?

She was thus uncertain if training Ceria or keeping her anywhere near Runsblud was wise. There were cursed objects that transformed you or ate your mind…

But Ceria was Illphres’ apprentice. Moreover, for all her antics, she herself seemed intelligent enough to know wearing a foreign Relic was a problem.

“Are there any other curses, Omniscel? You can tell, can’t you?”

The Drake frowned.

“It’s not that easy. Sure, your average face-melting enchantment is pretty easy. That acid spell doesn’t belong. But all the real curses look like beneficial magic. So, um, if you wake up as some kind of horror in the night, I’ll be sleeping far away from your rooms. But…”

He sighed.

“—I don’t think it’s cursed like that? It’s just got enchantments that are dubiously beneficial.”

“You’re basing that on your instincts?”

The Drake looked offended. He tugged at his beard; it was real, but the Siren had heard he just used a beard-tonic for some inane reason.

“Context, Siren, context. Ceria snatched it from the lair of a powerful [Necromancer] as he was apparently killed in an ambush. You don’t leave powerful cursed objects just lying around unless you’re really sadistic or some kind of [Mastermind] who expects adventurers to try on objects like that. It sounds like this was his personal circlet. So…it’s ‘probably’ safe.”

He made air quotes with his claws. Ceria nodded.

“I could take it off, but I don’t feel any different. Just dumber. Slower.”

She lifted the circlet off her head. The Siren and Omniscel both looked skeptical. Ceria scowled at them.

“It’s actually off my head. See? I only notice the mental aspect.”

“If that’s so, then let Omniscel inspect it.”

The Siren reached out for the circlet, preparing a containing spell, and Omniscel backed up.

“Containment! Containment first—”

Ceria instantly lowered the circlet back onto her head as the Siren approached.

“…And now it’s back on.”

Revine halted, glaring at her. She got Ceria’s bland smile in return.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping the circlet, Siren Revine. I’m not an idiot, even without it on. I don’t really want to give away a Relic-class item. I’ll never get it back if I hand it over. So…even if there’s a chance something is eating my brain, I suppose I have to take it.”

The Siren eyed Ceria.

“You don’t trust me?”

Ceria snorted. She smiled, but she raised one eyebrow and Revine blushed.

“I’m not exactly a greenhorn, Siren. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m your guest, either. If you want to keep teaching me magic—we can definitely talk about deals. But the circlet’s off the table.”

The Siren hesitated. Ceria was calm and cool. Collected. Her nervousness and uncertainty were gone, and Revine had to wonder if that was an act. Was any of Ceria’s personality real?

That was the uncertainty she didn’t like about the circlet. That, and the other factions interested in Ceria. But…after a moment, Revine nodded.

“What are you studying, then? More spells?”

At least this explained how Ceria was mastering magic in a fraction of the time she should have, missed tutelage from Illphres or not. The half-Elf gestured at the book, and the Siren saw it was Fundamentals of Ice Magic, which sounded like a beginner’s book…but was more theory than actual spellbook.

“I’ve got one chance to improve myself. I was always behind Pisces a bit—and I never got to study, just adventure. I want to learn the kind of magic that will complete my training. I think I’m getting it. Hardening ice, changing its composition—extra-cold ice.”

“Can you do ice cubes that only make a drink cool, not super-cold? I’d pay a fortune for those on demand.”

Omniscel waved a claw. Ceria and Revine stared at him, and he backed up.

“Just a joke. Just a joke. [Cryomancers] and [Hydromancers], not a drop of humor in them. [Pyromancers], now, a ball of laughs and a house on fire…”

“You want to change the composition of your ice?”

Ceria smiled.

“That’s right. I can do [Glaciersheet Ice], and that held off even an Adult Creler. But ice magic is adaptive. Versatile. It…”

“—Is strong because you can create anything you can imagine with it.”

Revine finished her sentence. Those were Illphres’ words. She looked at Ceria, and the half-Elf nodded. Revine mumbled.

“She used to argue with me all the time that ice could be more adaptive than water.”

“That’s what she always told me.”

“She’s clearly wrong.”

Ceria snorted, then caught Revine’s glare and raised her hands.

“…Do you know some of the other ice qualities? That’s what I’d like to focus on. Rough ice, blood ice? It’s what I need, right now.”

“Need?”

The half-Elf tapped the side of her head. The circlet glinted and Revine stared at that, but Ceria met her eyes.

“Yes. I’ve been thinking about my weaknesses as a [Mage] and…it’s not the circlet talking. It’s just me, Siren. It’s still just me.”

Revine wished she could believe that. But she nodded, nonetheless, and began speaking with Ceria. The half-Elf listened, eyes bright, circlet shining. She continued on as normal with nothing being normal.

That evening, the Bleakbeaks began attacking Bloodtear Pirates who walked alone or unwisely moved about in smaller groups on the streets. The Bloodtear Pirates demanded an audience with the Siren of Savere.

And so did Alchemist Irurx, the captain of Shifthold.

——

How much time had he wasted, in days of peace and comfort? If he had worked a bit harder—now, when it mattered—it might have helped more.

The first real attack on Pisces’ caravan came roughly a week into their journey through the Glass Straits. He stumbled out of his tent and saw the enemy coming clearly by day.

Day, because they slept during the day and travelled at night; the glare coming off the Glass Straits meant the freed [Slaves] and [Bandits] had to camp in the shade of a dune. It also meant the Glass Straits were both as bright as the sun itself and hot. So hot the sand melted into the very glass that formed this long stretch of land.

They had been safe for a week. Pisces had feared the worst when the flying carpet found them, but it had been downed by the Necromancer, Az’kerash, and he had assured Pisces he would hold back Roshal’s eyes as best he could.

He had failed. Or something else had consumed his attention, because Roshal was still pursuing them. Not with elite [Slave Masters] or [Slave Lords], but with rank-and-file. With hired mercenaries and expendable troops. Pisces could not know how many had died, sniped out of the air by spells.

He did see Roshal’s attacking force, though. Like the Goblins who had raided the caravan—they hit hard and fast.

[Sand Mercenaries]. They charged out of the sands, riding camels, both people and mounts equipped with visors to shield them from the bright glare, screaming, shrieking.

“To arms! Get up! Get to your squads!”

Merr the Storm was bellowing as Pisces raced out of his tent, fumbling with his robes, rapier drawn. He whirled—saw Roshal’s warriors—and then saw them screaming, fleeing—Pisces hesitated.

What the?

One of them vanished as a beam of something blasted a hole in his back. The camels were running, wide-eyed, and half of them were on foot. Running towards their camp. Away from the real attackers.

“Monsters! Monsters from the Glass Straits!”

Merr realized what was happening faster than Pisces. Roshal’s mercenaries were being routed. They had snuck up on the caravan—only to be ambushed in turn. But by what?

Hidden from the glaring glass road by the dune, the people could only see flashes of something. A kind of ray-spell, to Pisces’ eyes. Screams—but no sound he could pick up on the other side. Pisces searched for Merr.

She had parked the wagons in a circle around their camp, and now she had a standard defensive line. Fighters with spears and swords to hold the gaps, and people with bows trained on the crest of the dune.

“Merr! I will scout it out!”

She looked at him, hesitated; Pisces saw her glancing around, then she swore and called back.

“Don’t lose your head!”

He nodded. No ‘don’t take a risk’; they had to know what was attacking. Monsters, someone had said. But what…?

[Invisibility]. [Muffle]. [Flash Step]…Pisces crested the hill and went blind. The glare from the Glass Straits! He tried to shade his eyes, but he didn’t know the spell…

Spells. A [Mage]’s toolbox, and if he had a proper, complete spellbook, he would have looked up—Pisces squinted, then swore. He came stumbling back, half-blind.

“Pisces! What is it?”

Eloque called out. Merr rode over. Pisces pointed.

“Some kind of…glass monster. With a center eye. Not Crelers. Not scorpions, but…”

Merr’s eyes flickered. She looked around, and a [Bandit] swore.

“Shield Kingdoms guard us. It must be Crystal Lights. Boss, boss, we have to move! They’ll set us all on fire!”

He was a Stitch-man. Merr licked her lips nervously.

“How many?”

“Only sixty.”

Pisces assured her. But rather than reassure the [Bandit], he went pale.

“Sixty? Boss, we can’t fight sixty of ‘em! They’ll kill us before we close, and we’re blind out here!”

Merr swore.

“How fast do they move?”

“Slow. We can outride them on horseback, even with wagons. But they have a range of…”

“Mount up! Get rolling! You lot—right up against the dune! They come up, you take five swings and run!”

Merr roared at once. She singled out a squad of [Bandits], who turned pale and hesitated. Merr snapped.

“Do it or I’ll fill you with arrows! I’ll cover us with a storm. Will that work?”

The [Bandit] looked up and brightened.

“Should do!”

“We’re running?”

Pisces was incredulous. He was still blinking spots out of his eyes, but the caravan numbered in the hundreds. There were sixty of the monsters…Merr looked at him.

“Unless you’re hiding the rest of your team up your ass? Yeah!”

“We can win! I have a Skeleton Lord and—”

Pisces was counting the [Bandits], but Merr seized his arm.

“Unless you want to lose lives, we’re running. This isn’t an adventure, this is a [Bandit]’s fight. We don’t fight monsters unless we have to! Move!”

Pisces looked at her. She was ordering everyone to run, moving the wagons, hitching horses…Merr pointed as the flashes and screaming stopped.

“They’re already dead.”

“Boss, call the storm now. If they see us, we’ll die. They shoot rays of sunlight, and in the middle of the day, it’s like eating an enhanced [Fire Bolt] spell!”

Pisces hesitated. When you said it like that—rays of light? He had only roughly made out a small group of shining things with six legs each, like a sort of spider with a strange eye in the center that shot a blast of concentrated light.

Sixty. But…wait.

How many of Roshal’s warriors had they killed? How many ‘rays’ could one of these Crystal Lights shoot each minute?

Merr swore and raised her hand. The [Bandit Lady] shouted.

“[Summon Dust Storm]! Go!”

The first people in the caravan were already riding. The wind was picking up. Pisces saw a cloud of dust whirl up, obscuring the glaring sun. He hesitated.

“Come on, Pisces!”

Eloque shouted. Bearig had Rophir in his saddle and was riding. Pisces looked back.

“Wait a moment. Merr—I’ll catch up.”

“You stupid? Don’t try to buy time—they’re expendable, you’re not! They’re just going to tie them up for a second then go!”

Merr snapped, pointing at the rear guard. Pisces shook his head.

“Not that. The bodies. The bodies—”

She blinked at him. Then she saw the [Necromancer] go full-tilt, flashing back across the sands and up the dunes. Eloque shouted as a figure charged after Pisces. But then the first Crystal Light came over the dunes.

They were half-lost against the sandstorm. But the sight of one was still disconcerting. It was a crawling, five-foot-tall monster with glass ‘skin’, like the glass ants that Pisces had seen. It had internal organs exposed to the light, but somehow the incredible heat didn’t seem to bother the creature.

Rather, it focused the heat into a single huge eye, and emitted a beam of light that turned sand to glass. It gnashed two pincers, and an open maw below the eye could tear and bite.

But it was that eye that made them so dangerous. Merr pointed as the sandstorm blew around them, and more Crystal Lights came crawling over the dunes.

“Go, go! The rest of you bastards, with me! Hold them off and then break! Ride!”

The sandstorm picked up, and the flashing rays of heat melted the sand and dust, diffusing among the particles. More crawlers came over the dune, and but for the sandstorm—the [Bandits] charged, fighting then breaking away to buy the caravan time.

It was bad fighting. Merr hacked at a Crystal Light and found it was like trying to cut through iron armor. The glass was hard, and the center eye discharged a beam of light at her face. She swore, maneuvering—then saw the eye grow dim—then begin to light up, less than six seconds later.

“Zeikhal-damned monsters!”

She lifted a throwing dagger and hurled it through the eye. The Crystal Light screamed in a low, warbling growl, and began slashing at the air. Merr rode back, slamming her blade into the head of another.

The [Bandits] were not faring well. To injure the Crystal Lights, you had to stab them in the eye, and that eye would blast you with searing light. They fired so fast. A smaller group was no danger, but sixty could kill six hundred in the open if they got the chance to keep firing.

The [Bandits] were no heroes. They hammered on the Crystal Lights, saw how tough they were, and began fleeing. The Crystal Lights growled, attacking, but were indeed slower than horses. However, they were scuttling to clear the sandstorm to where they could make a firing line…the first broke left, out of the whirling dust cloud, and its body shone with painful light. The eye grew brighter, and it trained on a distant wagon.

Even hundreds of feet away, the wagon burst into flame to screams from the people riding there. The eye grew brighter; the monster was feeding on the light, absorbing it to use its attack rapidly. By night it was far weaker. It took aim at a camel next; a meal for at least a few days—

Pisces ran it through the eye with his rapier. Panting, he saw the eye burst, and the monster screamed, but its brain wasn’t behind the eye, instead suspended above it. It recoiled, and Pisces yanked the blade free.

“Pisces! Watch out, they’re coming!”

The [Necromancer] turned and vanished. Invisible, he walked left as more Crystal Lights emerged from the sandcloud. Merr was galloping back; she had warned him. Pisces saw one of the Crystal Lights focus on her and stepped forwards, angling for another eye-stab. He saw the monster hesitate—

Then swivel towards him. It saw him, somehow. The monster was locking onto his body heat, but Pisces couldn’t know that. He threw himself sideways, and a beam blasted through the air. He felt the heat cooking his side and rolled to his feet.

The sand made moving hard. And—another Crystal Light took aim. Pisces flicked his other hand up, then saw a figure charge out of the dust and crash into it.

Ivery! The Skeleton Lord actually knocked the Crystal Light back with the force of his charge and began hammering on its head. The undead was so strong he began to crack the monster’s armor, but the Crystal Light began snapping at him with its jaws. They failed to rend Ivery’s bones, and the Skeleton Lord continued hammering it down.

But the rest of the sixty were emerging. Pisces was beating a fast retreat now that he realized this was a shooting gallery and that he was the closest target. The Crystal Light that had nearly singed him was lining up another shot. So he cursed, flicked his wrist, and activated the ring on his finger.

[Shatterbolt]. A thin, pale sliver of energy struck the Crystal Light just on the side, missing its eye. Pisces cursed again; aiming was difficult with that trick—

Then the monster exploded.

Pisces shielded his face. He saw the entire glass body break and the monster’s insides rupture. It collapsed, and even the other Crystal Lights slowed in dismay. Pisces wished he could do that twice.

As he couldn’t, he [Flash Stepped] backwards, pointed a finger, and spoke.

“[Deathbolt]!”

A black bolt struck one of the Crystal Lights, went through the armor, and it staggered, stunned. Woozily, it shuffled from side to side, then scuttled back into the cloud.

Two shots, then. Pisces turned and ran. Because two Crystal Lights had been maimed in the eye, but only one was dead; Ivery was smashing into the brain of the next, but that meant there were fifty-six angry monsters about to unleash death-by-sunlight on Pisces.

They were actually forming a battle line, lighting up and discharging beams of light. Pisces dodged left and right, feeling the air sizzle as Ivery ran for it as well. Some of the [Bandits] and mounts screamed as they were hit on the limits of the Crystal Lights’ range; their skin blistered, and some caught fire.

Ironically, Ivery was the most immune; he just ran after Pisces, bones turning black, but with no flesh to bake.

If only Ceria were here with an [Ice Wall]! He couldn’t cast [Bone Wall] without—Pisces threw himself behind a dune. The air over his head charred.

“[Bone Wall]!”

It took him only a few seconds to concentrate enough to throw it up. The ivory wall began charring as bones rose up to shield his retreat. Pisces got up and ran.

His team. They could have helped fight that many—not that they would have after seeing what the things were capable of. But Yvlon could probably smash the Crystal Lights with pure strength. Ksmvr could dodge, and Ceria could shield them. Without them—

The crack made Pisces’ head turn. He blanched; the angry monsters had just blasted apart his wall of bones in seconds, heating it so fast that the bones cracked from the sheer heat. But he was almost out of range…almost…the caravan just needed another five minutes! The Crystal Lights focused on Pisces as Merr whirled her horse.

“Pisces!”

She saw nearly twenty monsters focus on him from different angles. Ivery was on fire and running, flailing his arms. The Crystal Lights’ eyes glowed in unison—

And then the first Ghoul came hurtling out of the smoke and latched onto the back of the nearest Crystal Light. It jerked as the feral undead began to hammer on its head. The Crystal Light scuttled back and forth—then another blasted the Ghoul off its friend. The monsters turned and saw their prey, the dead people, were getting back up.

It was round two. Zombies and Ghouls charged forwards, grappling with the glass monsters. Merr saw Pisces look over his shoulder and laugh. Nearly a hundred undead came out of the sandstorm, still wearing their charred armor. They didn’t use weapons, not being ‘intelligent’ enough to wield them, but they were strong as undead, fearless, and the Crystal Lights recognized the threat.

The two sides began battering at each other, monsters cutting and biting the undead who slashed at them with pure brute strength. Pisces and Merr, racing away as only a few beams flashed overhead, saw the fighting.

“Dead gods. You really are a decent [Necromancer]! How many’d you get?”

“All of them.”

“All of—”

Merr saw Pisces gulp for air. He felt like throwing up.

“I just burned through my entire mana well. Can I get…a ride?”

She nodded and offered him a hand. Pisces swung himself up. He looked back and shook his head.

“Dead gods.”

The undead were losing. A hundred plus zombies and Ghouls were getting the hell kicked out of them by half that number. They tried to bite and claw the glass armor of the Crystal Lights and did no damage at all, unless they hit the eye or just bore the monster down by sheer numbers. This was one foe that was a bad matchup. They would have arguably done better against Mothbears.

“Damn. No wonder the local lot were scared shitless of them.”

The Crystal Lights were setting the undead on fire. Pisces watched as the undead went down, some being torn apart—he whispered and jerked his fingers.

“Come. Come.”

Merr glanced at him. By now, the caravan was out of danger.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to salvage some of them. We’ve already lost over half their number. They were Stitch-folk.”

“Can’t you animate…oh.”

Merr looked at the burning undead. The Stitch-folk had gone up like torches; there was nothing left to animate. As for the zombies and Ghouls? Well—some were just incinerated. More vaporized than burned.

However, the rest began to flee from the Crystal Lights, who kept blasting them until they seemed to realize there was no point. They left the undead to stride on, burning. Pisces, panting, watched them follow as the caravan kept riding. Merr rode ahead.

“Hey! Stop running so fast or we’ll run into a Sand Worm or something as bad! Slow! Slow—how far do they chase us? We’ll keep running until we find a new spot and…”

——

The brush with monsters and the natural dangers of the Glass Straits took another hour of marching before Merr called a halt. She told them to set up camp, and the weary people just threw down tents, climbed into them, and fell asleep.

All those except the guards who had first watch—and Pisces. Wearily, he sat, rubbing at blisters. He reached for a healing potion and a mana potion—then stopped.

We don’t have enough to waste. Grimacing, he resigned himself to the glaring headache and burnt skin. He did sit down, but he had to stay awake.

Eloque found him slapping himself every few seconds as he kept nodding off.

“Pisces, what are you doing?”

“I have to stay awake. Just a bit longer…a bit longer…don’t stop—”

Eloque slapped him across the face. None-too-gently. Pisces jerked. The Lizardwoman eyed him.

“Better?”

He rubbed his cheek.

“…Thank you.”

Eloque smiled briefly, then looked up. A figure came jogging over the dunes. The [Bandits] looked up.

“Att—oh. It’s that thing.”

They eyed the burnt Skeleton Lord, who came to a halt, shield and sword in hand. Ivery trudged down the hill, looking…well, a bit defeated. They don’t fight fair, chief.

Pisces ignored the Skeleton Lord. However, some of the [Slaves] saw Ivery and decided to remove the ash on his bones. Why they liked him…

“There.”

He struggled to his feet after another fifteen minutes. Eloque had a cup of tea. She sipped at it as Pisces reached for it and hesitated.

“Oh, fine.”

She handed it to him with a grin. Pisces took a gulp. Then he nodded to the hill.

“No one panic. It’s just undead.”

The [Bandits] looked at him. Eloque raised her brows, but the only person who noticeably reacted was Rophir. He stared at Pisces, then crawled into the tent he and Bearig shared.

And, sure enough, a minute later, the first charred body came over the hill. Eloque blanched.

“Ew.”

The zombies and Ghouls were, like Ivery, a collection of terrible burn victims. Them being dead didn’t change the fact that they looked horrible. What was perhaps worse?

“Dead gods, Pisces. It smells like charred meat. I don’t want to be hungry.”

Merr came out when she heard the small commotion. She paled, and Pisces nodded.

“I don’t think these are as salvageable as I hoped.”

The [Bandit Lady] shook her head instantly.

“Absolutely not. They smell like dinner and every scavenger downwind of here will come looking for a meal.”

Pisces nodded. He stared at the undead he’d put his life in danger to salvage and grimaced. thirty-one had made it. None of them looked able to function. However…he put a finger to his lips.

“I might be able to repurpose them.”

“How, exactly?”

The [Necromancer] looked around.

“…It’s going to be very messy. I should do it far from camp. I’ll be back in…thirty minutes.”

He began to chug the mana potion after all. Merr raised her eyes. She and Eloque followed him—then hastily came back. Bearig had gotten up and was making a snack before everyone slept for their evening march.

“What’s Pisces doing? Food?”

Eloque and Merr shook their heads without a word. Merr muttered.

“…Peeling them.”

Bearig thought about what that meant, and then shuddered and went back to stirring the stew.

——

Pisces Jealnet stared at piles of bone. He did not stare at the flesh, organs, and other things in the deconstruction spell he’d learned from Az’kerash.

He felt slightly queasy. Mostly because of the fleshy bits.

“This is why I don’t deal with flesh-and-blood creations as much.”

He shuddered. Pisces checked himself, then sat down.

“…I have her bones.”

Archmage Nekhret’s bones lay in his bag of holding. But he didn’t want to use them. Not now. Not casually.

Not after he’d seen what Toren was capable of, and all his flaws. He had no time to hand-scribe the necessary binding runes onto the bones. So he decided not to waste them.

Thirty-one bone piles. Pisces hesitated. It was…odd.

He hadn’t raised undead, not for a purpose, not deliberately, outside the heat of battle, for a long time. Thirty-one bodies.

So many. How would he explain it to the Adventurer’s Guild in Izril? Oh, yes, I just ‘happen’ to have thirty-one bodies lying around. All [Bandits], I swear.

But this was not Izril. They were [Slavers] or, at least, people working for Roshal, and Pisces had little sympathy for their fates. His concern was to keep the caravan safe.

We nearly died to indigenous monsters. If that raiding party had hit us…

He needed tough undead. But which ones?

“Archmage Chandler, are you there?”

Pisces raised a finger to his brow, but the Necromancer had not checked in for several days now. He was presumably alone. So Pisces sat there.

How much time had he wasted? It came back to him, the guilt. He had studied, of course. He’d learned [Deathbolt] and even how to summon a Bone Behemoth—but Pisces had to admit that he had slowed his studies while enjoying the inn.

He had been skating around on waxed floors, eating good food—good food for Erin—and helping Selys pick artifacts and arguing with her rather than…

Of course, that was living. But Pisces still regretted it now.

What do I make? Like an [Artist] staring at a blank canvas, he was somewhat at a loss. Pisces decided to go from the top.

“I cannot make a Bone Behemoth. Too noticeable. Too much mana, and not enough bone. The [Ritual of the Lord of Bones] is not available for another three weeks. Therefore…”

He went down the list in his head. Az’kerash had told him there were more forms of undead than Pisces had ever dreamed of, but it was one thing to know that—another to easily maintain and create undead. Pisces’ immediate repertoire of undead was low, and it made life simpler.

“The warbear. I don’t have bear bones here. Bone Horrors? Perhaps. Ordinary skeletons. And…Skeletal Crawlers. I could make a project of shaping the bones, but I’d have to do that on the move…”

And it was annoying and difficult and they needed an army now. Pisces sat there. Damn. Maybe he’d stick them in a bag of holding and just animate them when he…?

A [Necromancer] is not a [Summoner], young Pisces. We create undead to persist, not to appear and disappear. Know your class.

Az’kerash had admonished him on that very thing. Pisces frowned. But…wait a moment.

He felt at his bag of holding. Lifted it.

It was his bag of holding. It had been taken from him, and the contents inspected, but to his knowledge everything was still in there. He had only checked for Nekhret’s bones, as Igheriz had not known their worth, but…he stared thoughtfully at the piles of bone.

Bone Horrors were powerful. Skeletal Crawlers were dangerous ambushers. But Bone Horrors were slow, and he’d be able to make…two. Three, if he stretched things.

Skeletal Crawlers were weak in a straight-up fight, and Pisces didn’t see a lot of confined spaces for them to fight and hide in. So that left shaping them—or basic skeletons.

Weak skeletons. You could give them armor and weapons, but until he mastered the art of upgrading them into Skeleton Knights and so on, they sort of sucked. Az’kerash made use of skeletons, though. Every [Necromancer] did, but in legions. He had thirty-one. Put them up against thirty-one living fighters and they’d be crushed.

No worth for their individuality. Except…Pisces frowned. He reached for his bag of holding and pulled something out. He exhaled, slowly.

“Oh. You’re still here. Excellent.”

Slowly, he put the bear’s skull on the ground and smiled.

——

“What is that?”

When Pisces came marching back with his undead, Merr the Storm took one look at the two skeleton horses, the Skeleton Warbear, and twenty-five skeleton warriors and freaked out. She almost climbed into Eloque’s arms.

“It’s a warbear.”

“It’s a giant fucking rat with two heads! Gah!”

Merr backed up as the [Bandits] and [Slaves] murmured. Pisces eyed her.

“It isn’t that divergent from a standard bear, simply reinforced. I forgot I had the bones in my bag of holding—and two skeletal horses.”

“That’s great news. They can pull the wagons; some of the horses were killed.”

Eloque sighed, but Merr was still hiding behind her.

“Keep that thing away from me.”

“Merr, it’s just a bear.”

The Lizardwoman was amused. Merr looked at her.

“You say that like that fucking thing’s common or something.”

“Of course it is—”

Eloque glanced around and saw the other Chandrarians staring at the bear. Not in horror like Merr, but only Qshom and the other non-Chandrarians knew what it was based on.

“You don’t have bears in Chandrar?”

“Of course not…it’s too hot. You’ve never seen a bear, Merr?”

“No. And I don’t like it.”

Pisces was amused. Imagine being afraid of…bears…

He hesitated. Was that actually a genuinely decent phobia compared to mice? Was he the fool…?

Warbear aside, the undead did not receive the horror they would have on Izril. If anything, the [Bandits] were relieved.

“Better them than us. But why’re there only twenty-five skeleton guys? I could have sworn there were more.”

“I had to use the bodies of seven to fully finish these skeletons.”

Pisces explained. Merr edged away from the Warbear, who was sidling up to Ivery. The Skeleton Lord stared at the Warbear, who was actually Pisces’ oldest battle-undead. The warbear did nothing, being more mindless. It didn’t even react when the Skeleton Lord slowly climbed onto its back. Ivery swung his sword a few times and looked around.

Yes, this feels right.

Pisces had just caught sight of the first Skeleton Lord with a warbear mount, and he was wondering if he’d created another Toren, or if the undead was just…intelligent. Why not a horse? Qshom and some of the [Slaves] eyed it.

“Ivery’s got a steed? Ivery and…Bearbones.”

“Do not name that—”

Too late. The second undead got a name. Pisces rubbed at his face and got sand in his eyes. Meanwhile, Merr was poking the skeletons.

“Something’s funny about them. Say, Pisces-boy. You didn’t, uh, fail necromancer-class, did you?”

Pisces whirled around in outrage. Eloque laughed, but then she noticed it too.

“Wait, these are off!”

He sniffed in outrage.

“I will have you know that my knowledge of the anatomy of species is second to none in this caravan!”

“Are you sure? Because Stitch-folk know about how bodies look. And I’m definitely sure you messed up the ribs…”

Merr pointed out the very strange ribcage of the skeletons. She turned and saw Pisces smile. His modified skeletons lined up, five of them, for a test demonstration.

“These are more than simple Skeleton Warriors, Merr. Once per battle, you simply shout—Skelisis! And th—”

The ribcages of the five skeletons exploded outwards, and a splinter-spray of bones blasted into the sand. The [Bandits] ducked or swore, and Merr leapt back. Pisces beamed.

His designs from back at the inn had been roundly critiqued by Az’kerash and, come to mention it, Selys. She had pointed out the futility in making Crossbow Skeletons, and instead suggested a one-off trap. Az’kerash had disapproved—but Pisces had never heard him criticize the actual structure, just the concept of costly skeletons.

Well, these ones were now going through their test run. Merr eyed them.

“We could send them in and blast the enemy to bits. And you just shout—what was it? Skelisis?”

Pisces nodded.

“I can engineer them to respond to your voice as well as mine. You see—”

Merr was waving a hand.

“But Skelisis? Can you, uh, give them a better code phrase? Because I’m not shouting that.”

The [Necromancer] looked at her. Some of the [Bandits] and Eloque sniggered. The [Necromancer] threw up his hands and stalked off.

“Pisces! Come on! It’s an objectively stupid password. I love the skeletons. Let’s give ‘em some of the crap weapons. You just suck at naming things. Leave it to us. Ivery and Bearbones—top tier names. You could put ‘em in any [Bandit] gang and they’d never get anyone to bat an eye…”

Another day down. Despite it all, Pisces didn’t think it was the worst of them. It was a close call with death. It was dangerous, and he felt Roshal’s hand following them. But they were alive. Pisces exhaled as Merr found him. She clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Glad you were with us. I don’t think either group’d have done as well without us being on the same side.”

He sniffed, then relented and smiled.

“I suppose not. Do you think we’ll find civilization or reach a kingdom where we can leave the Glass Straits soon?”

Merr shrugged. She exhaled, then sniffed the air too. Pisces wondered if she was mocking him.

“Could be. I, uh—ergh. I hope so, because we need more supplies, and more supplies means I can tribute and get reinforcements from the…”

She trailed off. Pisces looked at her.

“From the Siren? Is there a problem with that?”

“No…it’s. Well, damn me. The fighting and undead—Pisces, you stink.”

Pisces blinked at Merr. She was holding her nose. He realized he did somewhat smell of burnt flesh, undead, sweat, grime and…he grimaced.

“My robes are clean. I trust the sand and grit will take away the worst of it.”

“What…just that? When did you last clean yourself?”

Pisces smiled at Merr.

“We are in the middle of a desert land, Merr. I don’t think there’s time for a shower, if we had the water to spare.”

She stared at him.

“Are you telling me you haven’t taken a single…you haven’t washed yourself once for over a month?”

Pisces hesitated. He coughed.

“It’s—there isn’t any water. So naturally—I have been meaning to learn [Cleanse], but I—Merr, we are all in desperate straits. I will cast [Neutralize Odor]. There…done. You see? No one bathes—Merr?”

He followed her, but she was backing away. The [Bandit Lady] held her nose.

“There aren’t any showers around here! There’s not a well or—”

“Oi, someone help me get this idiot a steam bath!”

——

Steam baths were a concept Pisces had vaguely heard of but never seen implemented. They were not hot baths, or even saunas.

Pisces made the mistake of comparing the two since he had seen saunas before, and he got the look he often gave other people. That shut him up throughout the entire setup process, which was actually quite quick.

The concept was simple. In a place with less water than most climates, how did you keep clean if you didn’t have access to an oasis or the like?

Pisces had half-wondered if it had something to do with scrubbing yourself with hot, dry sand or something. He didn’t say that part aloud because the instant he thought of it, he suspected Merr would go tell him to try that on his unmentionables and see how much fun that was.

A steam bath took place in the steam tent, which was a bit more reinforced than other tents—to keep air in. You’d enter through two heavy flaps, and then sit in a room with a single feature, aside from a few cleaning tools and a chair.

The entire way you cleaned yourself was through the steam; the literal condensation in the air. It would accumulate on your skin like a shower, only slower. And the heat and limited water this technique needed? It all came from a simple, boiling pot of water over a fire.

Most modern caravans had magical equivalents to this, which helped rehydrate the air and were even more efficient. They’d looted a steam generator among the caravan’s goods, so that was what was running now. An everburning flame, no less.

“Fancy. And I, ah, sit here and scrub myself? You know, I am not filthy.”

Merr, Eloque, and half the people gathered around the steam tent stared at Pisces.

“Says the man who hasn’t bathed for a month. Is it Izril that’s filthy, or Terandria?”

“Neither. I am far from unhygienic! Have you been smelling anything?”

Eloque shuddered.

“Only because you keep casting de-scent spells! You know filthiness makes you sick, right? The Nagas tell everyone—oh, swamp rats. He’s been eating and doing everything with those hands!”

Everyone stared at Pisces’ hands, the harbingers of plague worse than Yellow Rivers. He turned red.

“I clean them regularly!”

“Sure you do. In you get. Don’t come out until you’re actually clean. At least his robes are enchanted. I bet they’d be brown, not white, if…”

Pisces stalked into the tent as the others muttered about the disgusting Humans and their ways. They were still audible, and he heard Qshom quite clearly talking.

“I have heard they sit in mud. In, ah…Desonis? Mud baths.”

“It’s considered a skin treatment! That is one Terandrian nation!”

“Ah, but they do do it? Can you imagine how that would get in your armor?”

“Or stitching?”

“We don’t have either!”

“Well, it gets somewhere. You know, I heard that Drakes have these communal baths. Only, instead of being steam, it’s water. Eugh.”

That was from a Stitch-man. Pisces bristled, and the crowd lost some of their members. Eloque’s voice was audibly indignant.

“What is wrong with that?”

“Sharing dirty water? Please. The things some people do…”

Pisces sat there in the steamy room, which had yet to actually reach maximum condensation. He could already feel the grit beginning to turn wet as he added some sweat. It did not feel…pleasant.

At first. Then, as he removed his robes and decided they could use a bit of a dusting, enchantments or not, and undergarments, he looked around and found a towel, put it over his lap, and decided it wasn’t bad.

Hot, and he was breathing in humidity, but it was nice to feel moisture on his skin. And there was a brush to scrub with…he wasn’t that dirty. But still. Something to it.

What surprised Pisces, though, was that the arguments and banter continued, though it grew a little less present. The crowd was still talking…no, wait.

It sounded like a dozen conversations now, all semi-muted and inaudible. Pisces remembered there were more tents being set up, and realized everyone was taking that time to bathe.

He sat back, wishing he had a bench to rest against, and wondered how long you were supposed to do this. Until the water ran out? That might be a while. Not that Pisces was against long bathing or even baths. It was just that there was a finite amount of time in the day, and unless someone would helpfully draw a private bath for him, he did not feel the need to share his—

The tent flaps opened. Pisces jumped.

“Occupied!”

“What is this, a toilet? Please don’t tell me you shat in the bucket. Also, your Skeleton Lord is riding the bear around camp. Scoot over.”

The tent flaps opened and Pisces’ mouth opened. Merr the Storm pushed in, sealed the flaps—

“What are you doing?”

The [Bandit Lady] looked up, saw Pisces’ expression, and grinned wickedly.

“Oho. Someone’s shy. Wait a second—”

“I thought this was a private experience. Merr—”

She poked her head out of the steam bath.

“Hey, lads and lasses! Pisces our boy hasn’t ever heard of mixed bathing! He’s as red as a lobster in here!”

Pisces heard laughter and jeering from the [Bandits]. He was half-standing and sidling around, but Merr was in the entryway.

“I will come back later…”

“Oh no you don’t. It’s a waste of water, and we’ve none to spare. You’re just lucky I didn’t stick you in a tent with ten [Bandits] as filthy as you are.”

Merr stomped on in, set a chair down, and sighed as she stretched. Pisces stared at her and then turned the other way. Mainly because Merr was naked. Completely naked, and grinning at him.

“You have a towel on? Is that for me or do you do it in private?”

“Merr, I am warning you—”

“Don’t be shy. Unless you’re embarrassed. Or this is too much for you? We kick the lads out who make things awkward, but I’ll let you stay even if that towel moves.”

She cackled at his back. Pisces decided he would never get in a steam tent ever again. He realized that the longer he stared at a wall, the worse it would get, so he slowly rotated in his seat. Merr stared pointedly at his towel, then grinned.

“There we go. See? Let’s have a chat—and I bet you’ll have a quick bath. I won’t stay long; the stitching gets a bit loose the longer I rest.”

He stared at her, averted his gaze—and Merr laughed. She stared at him without a problem, and Pisces flushed.

“Of all the Chandrarian customs I’ve had to suffer, this is the…”

“Worst? Pisces, my boy. We were just [Slaves]. You’ll live through seeing some breasts, even if it’s not your preferred mount.”

He opened his mouth. But Merr had stopped teasing him and was reaching for a brush and cloth. By now, it was getting harder to see, and he was sweating and feeling condensation roll down his everywhere.

“Some fight to wake up to this morning, eh?”

Pisces blinked.

“What? Oh—yes. Dangerous monsters.”

“Glad they killed those fucking raiders. I never felt them coming. The lookouts might’ve spotted them, but that was a nasty group. What do you think Crystal Lights rate?”

“Rate?”

“In Izril. Silver? Gold?”

“Oh—ah—probably high-Silver if they’re alone. But that was a fearsome assortment. A group of sixty could threaten a city. Astonishing, really. I can’t recall seeing something like that in Izril, aside from Crelers or monsters in dungeons…”

The [Bandit Lady] gave him a wry grin.

“That’s Chandrar for you. We don’t have worse things—lots of people say that. But my old boss used to say it was just that we had more space between them. More space for things to get tough.”

Merr was industriously removing grit from her skin. She kept talking, because it was awkward to share a steam tent in silence, but after five minutes it was less completely mortifyingly awkward and more simply uncomfortable. After ten? He eyed her shoulders, not simply peeking, but looking at…

A Stitch-Person. Pisces had never actually seen a Stitch-Person…uncovered before. He had seen dead bodies, but contrary to everyone’s perception of the most degenerate [Necromancers], he was at least respectful of the dead. He did not…do things.

Stitch-People had that tell-tale pattern of stitches around where limbs connected. They were not in the same place. For instance, some, like Octavia, had a ring of stitches around their neck. Others had it lower down, around their collarbones. Most had stitching around their wrists, arms—for easy replacement.

But they had stitching everywhere. Merr had two huge rows of stitches running down around her shoulders, and another near her hips.

Patchwork people. And you could remove any part of yourself and turn it into cloth except…

“It is so weird seeing someone without stitches. You’re pretty fair-skinned too, nevermind the sunburn and tan.”

Merr was eying him. Pisces turned red again, but she only grinned.

“Don’t mind me. I like to bother people. Kick ‘em down early, that’s how I have to run my gang. I’m not used to having…people around, rather than underlings or other gang leaders.”

“Ah. Well I—I take no offense.”

Pisces began scrubbing absently at his skin and realized he had layers of grime. Merr eyed him.

“Might take a while for you.”

“Indeed.”

Pisces decided to wait a bit longer. Merr kept working. She glanced at him.

“At some point I’m probably going to ask you to get my back.”

The [Necromancer] sighed. Of course. He stared pointedly at one wall.

“Is this…normal?”

Merr laughed softly.

“In Chandrar? No. There’s plenty of solo bathing and only-lads bathing. This isn’t that common. Families would do it, or friends who know each other.”

“Then why—”

Pisces half-rose, saw her laughing at him, and realized this was why. He sat back down glumly. But he had to admit, it was sort of funny.

Merr was easygoing. She reminded him quite a lot of Jelaqua in some ways, but where Jelaqua would pull back…

“So you’ve been a [Bandit Lady] all your life?”

“[Bandit]. My first class. I was levelling when I was six. Not that you get [Bandit] straight off—I think I was first a [Scrounger]. Kid-classes, you know?”

“No, I…do you mean [Page]?”

“Page? What’s that, like books?”

Pisces had to explain the system of knighthood that went from page, squire, to knight-in-training, then full knight. It was so commonplace to him he expected everyone to know it, but Merr just nodded.

“Yeah, that sounds like kid-classes to me. It’s rare they get full ones unless they’re actually doing something. [Accomplice]—that’s another one. [Lowlife]?”

“It’s a very…generic class. Like [Peasant], I suppose.”

“No shit. Someone actually gets that class? Now there’s a class that was made to stink.”

Pisces grimaced.

“People do obtain it. I think it’s the kind of class one acquires in lieu of anything else.”

“What’s lieu mean?”

“It—you acquire the class because you can’t do anything. I understand what [Peasants] are good at is…working and surviving acrim—terrible conditions. They have a variety of Skills, but I have heard there are some benefits.”

Merr raised her brows, interested.

“Really? Like what?”

Pisces stared at a wall, trying to remember the stories.

“Surviving a famine, for one. Or a terrible winter; people would find villages of [Peasants] who had taken fewer deaths compared to more prosperous ones that had frozen to death. The [Peasants] stretched their firewood and food supplies with Skills.”

Merr whistled.

“Something for everyone, eh? That’s what I always heard. There’s no class in this world that doesn’t offer you something. Except the Blood Classes and Skills, though.”

Pisces shivered. He knew what that meant. He had one himself.

“[Slave]. You know about more classes and Skills than I. I considered I possessed a broad spectrum of knowledge…”

Merr shrugged.

“[Bandit Lady]. We trade information, and so, yeah, ‘course I learned up on stuff like that. Most people don’t even know Blood Classes exist. Tradeoffs. You pay something. You get something.”

“Yellat Skills. Blood Classes. Are there any others? I may know of one myself. Royal Skills are known to be…unique.”

Merr raised her brows.

“I wouldn’t know, but I’ve heard they get nice things, yeah. Let me see. You know you can get Skills by training hard?”

Pisces nodded.

“Rarely.”

“Yep. I once tried to learn [Scythe Cut]. Spent four months training…never got it. I think you need a good teacher or there’s something else—there’s folks you can pay to tutor you, but I never bothered.”

“Really?”

The Stitch-Woman removed her left breast to examine it. Pisces stared as she sewed it back on. She grinned wider, then turned.

“Want to give scrubbing my back a try?”

“I…”

“I’m just kidding. We have brushes. I wouldn’t trust you to scrub a camel’s ass. Heh. Yep, they’re out there. Expensive—I could raid for a month and barely have enough saved to pay them. But apparently they do good work. You get a Skill they teach you or your money back. [Tutors]. [Weapon Masters]. And so on.”

It was a fascinating conversation. Before he knew it, Pisces had really stopped being uncomfortable. He had never talked with Merr—not privately. And this was as private as you got.

“Any more Skills?”

“Hmm…Royal, Blood, Yellat…”

“That cannot be the true appellation, surely.”

Merr stopped brushing at her back and turned her head. She looked at him over her shoulder, genuinely irritated.

“Are you doing that on purpose?”

“What?”

“Trying to make me feel stupid?”

Pisces opened his mouth.

“No I—it’s a habit. I tend to…”

He stopped. It was a habit that he liked to throw in words that made people stop. He hesitated.

“I’m sorry.”

Merr relaxed slightly.

“…Eh. It’s fine. As long as you’re not laughing at me, I won’t kick you through the tent. I hate that the most.”

“I would not do that. Ever.”

Her back was turned, but he heard a smile in her chuckle. After a while, she went on.

“I guess you’d call them Fame classes. Fame, Royalty, Blood. Oh. And I’ve only heard of this, but there’s also…Original stuff.”

Pisces sat up.

“Original?”

“Yep. And you’d call that green.”

“Green.”

Merr raised one hand.

“Don’t look at me. But you’ve felt the Blood Classes. You get it, right?”

Pisces did. His lips moved. A green…wait a second.

“Original. By original, you mean new. As in—”

“Someone gets it for the first time, yeah. A new Skill.”

Pisces stared past Merr. His lips moved.

“…I think I know at least one person with that kind of class or Skills.”

“Really. Well, I don’t think it’s special beyond being, uh, new. But I could be wrong. Ah—Inheritance Skills. You know those. Not just the ones you get passed down, either. Skills that last. Places. Legacy Skills.”

Pisces was counting. There were more unique…his brows raised.

“When I consider how many there are—I have gained only one of these unique Skills.”

“They’re rare for a reason. I’ve heard there’s even another one.”

“Really? What else could there be?”

Pisces was fascinated. Merr chuckled drily.

“Nah, don’t hold your breath. It’s just—one time some [Sage] or another did a count. He said—there’s green, Original, red in Blood Skills. Yellow in probably that Royal stuff. Even Yellat Skills. There’s Skills you don’t even notice.”

“Mhm.”

“So…where’s the damn blue stuff, eh? Blue and maybe purple.”

Pisces stared at Merr.

“…And are there?”

She shrugged.

“I have no clue. Some idiot just said there ought to be them, right?”

“I suppose…it does make sense. Do you personally know anyone who has any of these Skills? Besides…[Slave].”

That word dropped into their conversation. Pisces tried to say it normally, but he couldn’t. His neck itched. He remembered…

Merr’s eyes flickered, but she replied normally.

“Aside from that? Yeah, I know some Blood Skills and Yellat Skills. I have a Yellat Skill. But Blood Skills? Nasty. One fellow had one that made him tougher. Not just feeling less pain—tougher. But guess what happened?”

“Hm?”

“He started…getting tougher skin. Rougher. I even think he grew a bit—it freaked everyone out, and I kicked him out of the gang. Never heard what happened to him. I asked him how he got it, once. Then I decided I didn’t want to know. You get me? You don’t want to know how they get those Skills.”

Pisces nodded slowly. The mood turned more somber. Merr kept scrubbing; she was nearly done. Pisces was beginning to do so himself, but he had dirt everywhere. And his hair…

“You really are a ball of dirt, eh?”

“I suppose you were right.”

He sighed. Merr nodded. She sat there, skin cleaned. He saw her glance at him. Merr smiled, looked at the tent flaps. Then…paused.

“I’d better get back out there and keep order. Nice magicing today. Raising a hundred undead in one go—that’s Gold-rank for you. Wistram graduate, never mind not finishing schooling.”

Pisces ducked his head. Merr glanced at him.

“How’s the spellbook going along?”

He grimaced. He also had the half-burned book from Albez, and some of the books that Az’kerash had given him, but they weren’t spellbooks as much as theory.

“Slowly. The new spellbook is…less valuable immediately. It might behoove—be better if I just studied spells.”

But the new spellbook was fascinating. Pisces wished Ceria had the Albez book, but they had traded it off and…he hoped she was well. He would find her.

Merr nodded. She looked towards the tent flaps again, then spoke.

“You said you were a decent [Mage]. You know a bunch of spells, right? You learned [Condensation], and you thought you could pick up [Cleanse]…”

“If I had the right magic. Is there a spell that would be helpful?”

The [Bandit Lady] hesitated. She looked at Pisces, then past him. For once, her easy companionship faltered.

“Nah. Maybe. Do you know…well, spells that make people forget things?”

Pisces stirred. Merr glanced at him and grinned, but this time it was fake.

“Just—you know, blank it out? I heard some [Mages] that ran with gangs had something like that—”

“Remove a memory completely, you mean?”

She nodded, still not quite looking at him. Pisces stared down, only half-thinking of the answer he knew. He looked at her.

“I…a complete memory removal spell would be beyond me. It’s very powerful, to be able to do that. I am sure it is possible…”

He thought of Az’kerash.

“But not…”

“Ah, it was just a thought! It might help some of the others sleep at night. I was just curious.”

Merr stood up abruptly. She turned, laughed as she stretched, then reached over to clap him on the shoulder.

“I’m heading out. You keep scrubbing. Eugh.”

She wiped her hand on her shoulder. Pisces started, then smiled. He looked at Merr. They held each other’s gazes too long, and then she walked out into the cooling world outside.

Pisces sat there for a while. Like a single drop of color in a bucket of water…he wondered if that was what Merr had truly come here to ask. He almost wished he knew that spell—

But no. That was too close to Riqre.

Riqre and…Pisces remembered his dreams. Roshal. They had nearly come. He sat there in silence; for how long, he couldn’t have said. Probably only minutes.

Then someone entered. Pisces blinked as someone shuffled into the tent.

“Merr said it was empty—Merr!”

A distant laugh. The Lizardwoman shook her fist, then stared at Pisces. At least she had a towel—two towels. She sighed.

“Hey.”

“Ah…hello.”

Eloque hesitated. Then she sat down on the vacated stool.

“Just so you know, I’m not scrubbing myself here. I’ll find another tent.”

“Perfectly reasonable. I would vacate, but…”

Eloque eyed Pisces working on one arm.

“Dead gods, you’re like me and my stitches. How can someone be so dirty?”

“I’m not that—”

Pisces gave up. Eloque half-rose, then sighed.

“There’s lines for the steam baths. I’ll join a queue. Merr didn’t bother you too much, did she?”

“Not really. It was actually a convivial talk—that is—enjoyable.”

Eloque nodded. Her lips moved. She adjusted the towels, making sure they weren’t slipping.

“She’s tough. Did she ask you about memory spells?”

Pisces stopped brushing at his skin. He looked up.

“Yes. I don’t have any.”

“I told her you didn’t, but she wanted to ask. Not that I think it’s…good. It’s too much like them. Like Roshal.”

Pisces nodded slowly. The Lizardwoman turned her head. She extended an arm.

“How do I look?”

He stared at bright scales, glowing in the faint light from the steam generator. Clean scales. They had faint marks, but the thread was gone. It ran up to Eloque’s shoulder…and then…

Everywhere. The Lizardwoman saw Pisces’ gaze and turned. This time he did turn away.

“It’s a work in progress.”

“It looks—better. I can’t tell from just the arm, truly.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eloque nod. She sat there in silence for a moment.

“It would help if they could forget. If everyone could. You know, someone got stabbed yesterday?”

Pisces glanced up.

“One of the [Bandits]…?”

That was one of his fears and why he hadn’t trusted Merr. He still trusted her; not necessarily the others. Eloque shook her head.

“No. It was one of the freed—one of us. We have those big tents, and she must have rolled over or someone else did. She woke up when they were partly on top of her and she stabbed—well, it was a Stitch-woman, so it wasn’t bad.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Like that.”

It was Roshal. Roshal…the encounter had brought it back. They were running. Not just free. Pisces sat there. Thirty undead weren’t enough. He tensed—and Eloque looked at him.

“We’ll make it. Or we won’t. Either way, we won’t go back.”

“No. I will get you to the coast. To…Izril. If the others don’t want to find their own way. But I have promised it, Eloque. And I have allies.”

He looked up and met her gaze. The Lizardwoman tilted her head.

“You know, I believe it. I saw that carpet go down…that was the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my life. I actually think, some days, that we might escape. But you know something?”

“What?”

She sat there, tail slowly waving in the steam bath. Eloque’s neck frills began to open. So strange, as strange in her ways as a Stitch-person. But just Eloque. She looked ahead.

“I couldn’t join in the conversation with you all the other day.”

“Which one?”

“Futures.”

“Oh.”

Pisces tried to say something, but he just waited. Eloque looked past him.

“I don’t see mine. Bearig wants to go home. Qshom wants to start a business. They have classes, families. Dreams. Me? I came to Chandrar when I was young. Ten years. All I have is this class. The only thing I can do is—”

“You don’t have to do anything. I’m an adventurer. The items we looted from Igheriz are enough to make a living for a long time. You could travel wherever you want, and start afresh.”

Pisces spoke quickly. Eloque glanced at him.

“…Yes. But I can’t go home. My village sold me. I agreed to it, but I can’t go back there. Not with Roshal welcome on Baleros’ shores in most places. I could hide in a company that refuses to treat with them. But I don’t have a future.”

He had nothing to say to that. Eloque met his eyes.

“That’s not a bad thing. At least I can be worried about that. I used to know my future. So I wanted to say—thank you. To you and the Death of Chains. I thank her every night. I know she’s a Demon. But she killed Igheriz.”

“Yes. I thank her too.”

The Lizardwoman smiled brightly.

“I’ll leave you to scrubbing. You have some dirt behind your ears. Ears and noses. Humans are so funny.”

She stood up and left. Pisces felt rattled by the talk. What could he say? What could he have said? What could Erin have…

There is an inn. Believe me. You cannot imagine it, even as I describe it. There is an inn in a city far from here. It is not perfect, but it is what you need.

I will take you there. And someone will greet us at the door. I don’t care if she throws a pan at me.

By now, Pisces was waiting. He had gotten his arms and his neck, and he was actually cleaning his hair with little cupfulls of water from the [Condensation] spell when the next person came in.

It was Bearig. The man knocked on the door flaps, unlike the other two.

“Pisces? Do you mind sharing the tent?”

“Come on in, Bearig.”

Strangely, it was more uncomfortable as the [Cook] shuffled in. The two men stared at each other, and Bearig coughed; he had a towel too.

“I’m sorry for interrupting.”

“No, come in. It is large enough for…”

“I wouldn’t have, really. But the lines are getting long and I had to let Rophir wash himself. I don’t want to—”

“Not at all.”

He was the opposite of Merr. Too polite because he held Pisces in some regard. The [Necromancer] gestured, and Bearig sat. He was heavier-set than most, but he was losing weight. Pisces and Bearig eyed each other.

“So Eloque and Merr were both in here?”

“Ah—Eloque thought it was empty.”

“I saw her waiting in line.”

Their conversation was about as deep as a puddle. And that was why it was uncomfortable. Pisces hesitated. He liked Bearig. The man respected him.

That was not the same as his connection with Eloque and Merr. But they had been chained up together for a long time. Pisces knew Bearig’s back as well as…

Well. He tried to smile, and Bearig returned it. He relaxed.

That was all it took. Pisces saw Bearig pull something out.

“Do you have any soap?”

“I do. Thank you—”

They got to work. Bearig was fast, perhaps trying to respect Pisces’ time. To make conversation, Pisces stared blankly ahead. That snack was most excellent. We survived those Crystal Lights, didn’t we? How are you feeling?

Nice weather today.

He shuddered. These were, no offense to him, Ksmvr-level remarks. No—Ksmvr tended to have practical statements and only used these because he thought it was social etiquette to do so.

These were Yvlon-level conversation topics. Pisces just defaulted to the only thing he could think of as the silence drew on.

“So, Rophir took a steam bath?”

Bearig looked up.

“He did.”

“You didn’t…?”

“He washed himself. I asked, but he doesn’t want company.”

“Of course not. That’s very kind of you to…it’s very good of you, what you do, Bearig. Taking care of Rophir.”

“Thank you.”

The [Cook] mumbled. Pisces felt he was being too humble. He twisted.

“Truly. No one else took care of him. I—I wouldn’t know how. I have no siblings, and children—someone needs to help him, and you do important work. If I can help?”

Bearig seemed surprised by the compliments. He turned a bit red.

“I just do what I can. It’s nothing commendable.”

“It is. Rophir is not always easy. I’ve seen him punch you or bite—”

“He’s suffering. It doesn’t hurt. Much.”

Bearig rubbed at his side and Pisces saw some blotches on his skin. Bruises. He shook his head and Bearig scrubbed as if they’d come away.

“—It’s nothing to what he’s been through.”

“Does he talk? I have never heard him talk…”

Bearig talked to Rophir all the time. The [Cook] shook his head.

“Never in words, but he can make it clear what he wants. He is a bit older than he looks. Just a bit. But half-Elves…”

“I’m sure. I…you do it so well.”

“Well.”

Bearig stared past Pisces. He shook his head slowly. The [Necromancer] was trying to be encouraging, but it wasn’t working. Not because Bearig was too modest. Because…

The [Cook] slowly ran a cloth down his arms. He glanced up and met the younger man’s gaze. Seriously. He spoke quietly.

“I am trying, Pisces. But it’s not well. I’d like to treat Rophir like I would my son, but he isn’t. He’s terribly hurt. I’m just taking care of him.”

“That’s all you can ask for, surely.”

Pisces saw Bearig take a deep breath. He let it out shakily.

“Is it? If he were my son—when I think of what’s been done to him, or when he wakes up screaming, but silent—I am helpless, Pisces. I am angry. Emir Riqre did things I would have killed him for. But I watched. We watched.”

“We were [Slaves]. He’s dead.”

Bearig nodded. Pisces felt his skin crawling. Riqre was a name not uttered in the caravan. Igheriz, Hrome—yes. People spat as they mentioned them. Not Riqre. Yet Bearig invoked him, here. In this place, filled with steam and, strangely, privacy.

“I have been thinking, Pisces. How…you heard me talk of Nerrhavia’s Fallen? I employed [Slaves]. I could never afford to buy them, but I rented their help. I did. It gnaws at me. I remember them—and I remember not caring, being annoyed when they made mistakes.”

“You didn’t know what their lives were like.”

Pisces saw the Stitch-man staring blankly ahead. The [Cook] passed a hand over his face.

“Does that excuse it? Perhaps I have seen the worst of Roshal. I hope so—because if there is worse, I hope never to see it. Yet I wonder, Pisces. How many more Riqres are there?”

The [Necromancer] slowly looked up towards the ceiling.

“His evil was one of a kind.”

“Was it?”

Pisces’ mouth was dry despite the steam.

“Igheriz and Hrome called him a monster. Even they did.”

“Even so. He existed. How many more exist?”

The young man felt revulsion building in him at the thought. Bearig glanced at him, then away.

“I shouldn’t say such things. Not now. But I think of them.”

“Why?”

The [Cook] shook his head. His hands trembled as he worked on his chest.

“I…when the attack came this morning, I fled. Rophir was ready to fight. He has a dagger—but I ran when Merr told me to. She’s teaching us how to fight, and I know how to swing a cleaver—but I was glad she told us to run. I couldn’t fight.”

“You’re not an adventurer. You don’t have combat classes. We all contribute in our ways, Bearig.”

He half-nodded.

“But when Roshal comes, it will be you who fights. It is your burden that’s heavier than mine, Pisces. I regret that. I wish I was a Level 15 [Warrior], at least. I am levelling in that class, but slowly. I thought it was a fool’s errand, a young man’s fancy to be a fighter. Now—I have to rely on other people to protect me from the worst. It is a terrible thing, being so helpless.”

Pisces didn’t know what to say. He had never felt like that. No—

He had once. When his inspiration burned. When he had seen Skinner attacking Liscor and feared for the inn, for Ceria. When he had fled the monsters that ravaged Wistram…

“I have felt that all throughout my life, Bearig.”

The man looked up. Pisces stared at him.

“I know it well. It’s not just you.”

The [Cook] blinked at him. Then he ducked his head.

“Then, I’m doubly grateful you and Merr are here. I…I suppose I will do what I can. Train and cook and help Rophir.”

“Someone must cook. It does make us feel better, rather than eat horrible food. If Ceria were cooking—my captain, my friend—she’d be serving bread dipped in eggs and sugar water.”

Bearig shuddered.

“Just…I can see that as a kind of—but just…?”

The two men laughed over that. Pisces was about to mention Erin’s cooking, which was functional but hardly as…nuanced as Bearig could do, despite her Skills. But he saw the [Cook] staring out the tent again.

Someone was making a loud, keening sound. Not entirely…it didn’t sound like a person.

“Is that Rophir?”

Bearig nodded. He began to hurry.

“He’s hungry.”

That was hungry? Yet Bearig began finishing his own cleaning. Pisces was down to his belly by now, and he did feel cleaner.

“You do do well, Bearig. Truly. No one is perfect, but you are kind to him, and he needs that.”

Bearig was already rising. He stopped as he trudged towards the tent flaps. He glanced back towards Pisces, and his face was…clouded. No—Pisces looked at him and saw the [Cook]’s eyes flash.

“I am helpless, Pisces. When I look at Rophir, I am angry.”

The [Necromancer] nodded slowly. Bearig went on, hand on the flaps.

“I know you mean well. But I am not. I am not. Well? I cannot be his father, even if I wanted to. His family…he had to kill his parents, night after night. I cannot hold Rophir, and tell him all will be well. When he wakes, screaming, and turns to me, I can’t tell him there are no monsters out the window. He has seen monsters. One tortured him and held him captive.”

Pisces saw the [Cook]’s fists clenching. The [Necromancer]’s lips moved. He slowly straightened.

“…You can remind Rophir that they die. Monsters die.”

The Stitch-man stopped. He looked at Pisces and nodded slowly. He murmured.

“I wish I had his bones. Then I could show Rophir that.”

He turned and left the tent. Pisces was alone once more. However, he had a bet going on. And sure enough…

“Excuse me. May I use this tent?”

Qshom, looking hugely embarrassed, entered. The Dullahan man was in his cloth armor, but he had to remove it to clean his actual body. Pisces nodded.

“Come in, Qshom. I will face the other way if you like…”

“That is very kind of you. I hoped to bathe alone, but I understand this is impossible.”

The Dullahan was the shyest of all. So much so that Pisces began to feel like he was the lecher, and deliberately faced the other way the entire time Qshom was in the tent. The Dullahan man placed his head down and began to clean himself with every air of extreme discomfort, for all he’d been in Chandrar long enough to know the custom.

Pisces was nearly done. He wondered what they’d speak of before they came to a topic around Roshal, or the future or…Qshom’s own battles with inner monsters. He was waiting for a segue in. Tailoring into how Qshom would bring up that he’d had to originally sew the stitches into Eloque or something horrific.

He was waiting. Waiting, searching for his own conversation topic. But so focused on that that he was more distracted than anything. At last, he spoke.

“Have you been sleeping well, Qshom?”

The Dullahan made a sound. He hesitated, then placed his head on a little stool so it looked up at Pisces. Now it was the Human’s turn to be uncomfortable; Qshom’s body cleaned itself while his head held a conversation with the young man.

“Well.”

“Really. Nothing is bothering you?”

Qshom smiled mildly.

“Nothing I should complain of at the moment.”

Pisces nodded. He waited. And now Qshom said…

After a few moments, the Dullahan looked at Pisces.

“How are you faring, Pisces Jealnet?”

The [Necromancer] blinked. He looked at Qshom. No one had asked him that. Off-guard, he blinked.

“I…I am also well, Qshom. I cannot complain. I am just—focused. Focused on survival and evading Roshal.”

That was the truth. He could have said so many things. His nightmares. His fears for his team. His desire to find Erin’s cure. His uncertainty about his ability to keep everyone safe, his ability to help them with anything that truly ailed them.

“It’s just that I was talking with Merr…”

Qshom listened as the words burst out of Pisces. The Dullahan listened, nodding, occasionally interjecting, but listening. Pisces scrubbed, realizing his hands were shaking. He had known pressure—but not this. This was something else.

Terror. He had fought for his life. Not his very soul. The worst that could happen with the Crelers was that you died as painfully as possible.

He realized he was doing to Qshom what the others had done to him, and was guilty. He couldn’t ask for a magical answer to these problems. Yet…surprisingly, the Dullahan just nodded when Pisces trailed off.

“It is a strange thing, Pisces Jealnet. A strange thing. Is it a comfort, I wonder? To me—it is slightly.”

“Comfort? What’s a comfort?”

Pisces could not imagine any comfort here. The steam baths? Talking with others? He supposed so, but the [Tailor] just smiled. He spoke, slowly, meeting Pisces’ eyes.

“Why, simply…to know that these days, these days past, this time alone is it. These are the hardest days we will ever live through. Whatever comes next, when we walk out of the desert, we will have survived it.”

Pisces Jealnet looked at the Dullahan. The hardest days they would ever…? He opened his mouth to object. To say…

Then he trailed off. He met Qshom’s eyes and nodded slowly.

“It is a strange feeling indeed.”

The Dullahan smiled, and that was all they said. It was a long bath, but when Pisces emerged, he did feel better. He sighed, looked up at the sky.

Then continued onwards.

——

Savere was change. Some cities were built on stagnation, on ensuring continuity. These were cities that had limited trade with the outside world. That could enforce or try to enforce something static.

Not so for Savere. The mightiest criminals on land and sea came to this harbor. When they did—sometimes they left intrigue, blood, or mysteries in their wake.

To rule Savere was to see things coming, to move with the tide as it ebbed and flowed. Only a fool, Rasea, saw the world as an endless stream of battles you could win.

Five Bloodtear [Pirate Captains] stood in front of the Siren of Savere. She sat on a throne that augmented her magic, with her most trusted subordinates at her back. With her was the [Aeromancer]-[Hydromancer], Ureita, her own [Bandit Generals], and high-level fighters, including Omusc.

It was not going to come to battle. It should not. The Bloodtear Captains had taken only their seconds into this meeting—but it would be a slaughter on both sides.

So they spoke civilly. Yet they did not mince words.

“Bleakbeaks are raiding our crew.”

“A battle you started, Captain Aldrail.”

The Siren looked pointedly at the Gnoll. He grinned, and the other captains chuckled.

“Your Majesty.”

Captain Jiupe swept her a bow that was fairly sincere. Gorry, the [First Mate] of Aldrail’s command, watched from the side, grinning at Omusc, who didn’t meet his gaze. Jiupe looked up, and the half-jellyfish woman grinned.

“We’re not here to squabble over law nor who started what. We’ve obeyed Savere’s laws and kept it between us outsiders, isn’t that right enough?”

“Mostly.”

There had been smaller incidents, but Revine would give them that. Jiupe nodded, and her eyes glinted.

“Then we only request what is already agreed. Bleakbeaks is callin’ for their friends. Land versus sea. Well, we just want to make sure it’s okay with you all, you being the Siren who rules Savere.”

“For…?”

“A Drowning Night.”

Revine’s skin prickled. All five [Captains] were grinning at her. She shifted.

“Bloodtear hasn’t ever needed to request that before. You want to fight? Pick a night and do it. Leave those inside alone. Savere has seen Drowning Nights before and will since. Bloodier than any five ships—even Bloodtear—can manage.”

It was a mild insult and a reminder. Two of the [Captains]’ eyes flashed, but Jiupe looked at them and they calmed down. Then they started smiling once more.

“You’re wrong about only one thing, Siren. Which is why we ask. We know Savere’s seen blood. So…is it okay? A Drowning Night?”

Revine’s skin prickled.

“I just said it was.”

Captain Aldrail grinned. The Gnoll spread his arms.

“Tonight, then. But what about tomorrow?”

The throne room hadn’t been exactly chatty, but the others of Savere looked up. Revine leaned forwards.

“…Tomorrow?”

“Tonight and tomorrow and every day. Until the last Bleakbeak dies or flees Savere. Let them bring every gang in a thousand miles. They think this will go a night. We of Bloodtear petition Your Exalted Majesty—”

Jiupe and the others bowed mockingly, the light of madness in their eyes—

“For free rein. Under your laws. As long as it takes.”

The Siren saw Omusc shudder. Even her most stalwart [Generals] looked uneasy. Bloodtear. Madpeople of the sea.

The harbors would be filled with bodies, and the streets would be red from one Drowning Night. A week? The Siren imagined the undead rising, the classes, the destruction…her lips moved.

“No. Savere weathers Drowning Nights like a storm. I will not have a week of it. Pacts or not, you will damage the city. You have not paid enough for me to tolerate that.”

“Then we’ll pay a thousand gold pieces a night.”

One of the [Pirate Captains] countered. They’d take more of that from the Bleakbeaks if they won. The Siren drummed her fingers on the armrest.

“I have made up my mind.”

The [Captains] looked at each other.

“Can we convince you otherwise, Your Majesty?”

“No. My will is final. One night.”

The Siren rose. She had a second audience, and this one she was looking forward to even less than Bloodtear. The Alchemist Irurx. He was upstairs, in her private domain. She did not want him there, but it beat him and the Bloodtear Pirates getting into it.

Besides, she hated to admit it, but she had business with him. His ship had faithfully obeyed her commands; they let no crew on shore and only sent for what they needed. Any other crew would have rioted at that. Shifthold?

So silent. Yet [Pirates] and [Rogues] came, whispered at the docks with figures, and paid for potions. Because Alchemist Irurx was one of the best in the world and some of his potions…you couldn’t pay for them anywhere else cheaper.

Revine didn’t know what he wanted for the audience, but she suspected it had something to do with Ceria Springwalker. The Bloodtear Pirates had clearly been hoping to meet her, but Ceria was waiting for Revine.

Upstairs, in her rooms. Omusc would have watched her…Revine began to leave the throne room. The [Pirates] were vocally unhappy, but she wasn’t going to continue this conversation. Jiupe muttered.

“I guess that’s that. One night or there’ll be two sides we’re fighting, eh?”

Revine slowed. She looked back.

“What did you just say?”

The Bloodtear Pirates smiled innocently at her. Jiupe coughed into one fist, her Human one.

“Just layin’ it out, Your Majesty. We can’t rightly break Savere’s laws. Not without making an enemy of the Siren herself. We’d have to fight the Bleakbeaks, their friends, and Savere. If we continued. Or you gave us an extension. But you’ve said your piece, and I respect that, woman to woman.”

She smiled, a toothy grin on one half of her face. The Siren stared at her. Without a word, she turned and stalked off.

“Siren? What the hell was that?”

Her people followed her as the [Pirates] filed out of the room. The Siren looked around and saw her [Raid General]. She pointed.

“Pull the army into the capital.”

“The army? But you said we were going to chase the Empress—they’re all the way at—”

“Don’t argue. March them this way now.”

The Siren did not like what the Bloodtear Pirates were implying. This was her ground, her city, and for all they were fearsome, even Rasea’s famous crew couldn’t storm Savere alone. But what did that mean?

“Revine. I could tail them invisibly and see what that meant…”

“Ureita, be silent. The rest of you, disperse. Omusc, get to Ceria Springwalker. I have to meet with the Alchemist.”

The [Mage] trailed off, hurt, and the others nodded. They broke up, and Omusc strode ahead of the Siren. She ascended the stairs.

Alchemist Irurx was a half-Elf. He had to be, for Shifthold to be so…old. To be one of the greatest [Alchemists] in this world on the other side of propriety.

He had come from Terandria, but made his name in other parts of the world. He was one of the few [Alchemists] who had survived Nerrhavia Fallen’s purge—when they infamously tried to make potions out of A’ctelios Salash’s unique ingredients. People had tried that before, and the nation had come down like a hammer when it had been uncovered.

Irurx survived. Shifthold. He traded in Roshal, too. He bought people. He fought at sea and dealt with [Pirates] and Drowned Folk. He had a massive bounty—for a single man. Few people tried to claim it.

You could buy magnificent potions from him. Healing, stamina, magic—all your standard goods, and a thousand top-quality potions were now in Savere’s treasury. The best kind of stuff you’d find on the market.

However, there were items Irurx sold that were not on any market’s listings. He was no battle-items specialist. No healing savant. His specialty was one thing.

Potions of Skill. Potions of Transformation. Hirelings of the kind you unleashed. Beasts of…burden.

Drink one of his potions, and if you were a fumble-fingered [Thug], for eight minutes you’d be able to flip over walls and pick locks with toothpicks. Or conversely—you’d fight with all the abilities of a Level 28 [Warrior].

Other [Alchemists] could do that, but Irurx’s were stronger, more potent, and his crew was known to be…different. What few you saw of them were generally hooded or clothed. They were beyond loyal to him, such that Revine would never try to corrupt one. She didn’t want one.

What did he want? The Siren entered her private quarters and snapped.

“Alchemist Irurx. I apologize for the wait. Alchemist—”

She looked around. Where was he? She felt like she would have smelled him at once; even now, there was some kind of mycenoid odor in the air, like fungus and mold and the conditions to grow it, mixed with the alchemical fugue.

But it wasn’t immediate. The Siren looked around.

“Where is…? You!”

She pointed and a servant flinched.

“Where is the Alchemist?”

The woman flinched and hurried to reply.

“He—he was just here, Siren! But he left about ten minutes ago…”

“For the restroom?”

The thought of Alchemist Irurx having something as normal as bowel movements…the Siren hesitated.

“Well…where is he?”

If it was her private bathrooms, she’d be casting [Cleanse] spells all day. The servant hurried off, clearly weighing having to find Irurx versus the Siren’s wrath. Revine tapped her foot until someone came hurrying to find her.

“Siren!”

It wasn’t the servant. Revine turned and saw Omusc striding her way. The [Pillager] looked worried.

“Where is Ceria? No—don’t bring her here. Don’t tell me she’s downstairs, making an ass of herself in front of those pirates!”

The Siren was losing her patience. She glanced out the window and saw it was getting dark.

“Drowning Night is coming. Don’t let her outside. We’re sealing the palace!”

Those damned Bloodtear Pirates! She hadn’t expected them to do a Drowning Night tonight. What were they hinting at? Omusc bowed.

“I’ll find her.”

“You had better. Find her and get her back here if she’s outside. Don’t bother coming back if she’s not with you!”

“Siren?”

Omusc turned pale. Revine actually gave her a shove.

“You heard me! Get Ceria or you will live to regret it!”

Omusc hesitated, then turned and ran to beat the fading sun. Revine looked around, foot tapping. Circlet. Irurx. Where was…?

She had a sudden suspicion. But before she could act on it, the Siren heard distant screams, coming from overhead. She cursed.

There were Garuda in the air. Hundreds. Outside Savere, she could see figures stalking the streets as people hurried into homes, boarding them up. They were actually fortifying the ground.

“Those idiots.”

The Bleakbeaks had called in every gang to teach Bloodtear a lesson. They outnumbered the [Pirates] by far. The Siren thought they were both fools for this petty toll in blood—for what, a handful of treasure and loot from the others’ corpses? Maybe Irurx would pay them for the dead bodies.

She had to admit, though, there were more landfolk than she had thought. Even with five ships, it would be five-to-one with just the people she saw in the open, and Bloodtear would have to fight defensively or they’d be surrounded and slaughtered.

However, the Bleakbeaks made one mistake. They were furious because their own had been brutally slaughtered in the bar over a petty insult. No gang would take that lying down, but Bloodtear?

They were maniacs. They’d fight to the death once you roused them. And they gave no quarter once it was truly a battle. Even so, a week of fighting would empty their ships and they weren’t stupid. So why…?

The Siren had her answer as she gazed out her balcony. Her senses over her domain tingled. Slowly, she turned her head.

The sun was setting. It looked red against the sky; [Sailors] beware. But that wasn’t what the Siren saw.

“Telescope.”

She glanced around—then strode over to a telescope. Her beloved Watercat bounded towards Revine, yowling, but she paid him no mind as she bent over the magical artifact. The Siren whirled it across the sea.

“No.”

The wind was picking up. As the sun turned red, the landfolk waited for the Drowning Night.

A storm was blowing in. Another one. But this one wasn’t one the Siren had conjured or allowed. She could feel it building in the distance. She reached out—but her hand trembled as she felt how strong it was.

She couldn’t toss this one towards another nation’s coast. It was backed by more than just a powerful tempest. It wasn’t a magical typhoon, thank sleeping Krakens. But it was backed by a force she knew at once.

A Skill. Multiple Skills. The Siren began sweating.

“Oh no.”

This was what she had once warned Ceria about. The Siren was mighty. But sometimes the Siren had to know fights that were deadly. And this? She stared through the telescope and saw them, coming in fast.

Sails billowing. Blue drops on red hulls. Their flags were black. She counted.

“…three…five…dead gods. Eleven.”

Three full fleets, including the ones in the docks. She had seen so many of them gathered only once. They were coming—and—the Siren stared out into the streets where the mocking Garuda were jeering, daring the [Pirates] to come out.

They had no idea. The Siren didn’t care about them, though. Damn them. She was sweating, despite the ocean breeze.

This was about…either she reversed her decision, or sixteen Bloodtear crews and their [Captains] would force the issue.

Jiupe’s grin. If you do not relent—then it’s us against Savere, eh? And if she did? If she bowed to them? Would that be enough? Or…was that the pretext?

“Get the army. Get me my [General]. Tell them the army has to arrive now. Not later. March them with every movement Skill, with every—”

The Siren went for her speaking stone. The army. They needed the army. With it, even Bloodtear’s full might…

Amid it all, the Siren’s panic as the first Drowning Night began, she forgot completely about Omusc. The cawing of the Garuda kept going until they saw the sails in the distance. And then an entirely new sound would fill the streets.

The Siren was busy. But she realized something, as she shouted at her people and braced. Not for today, but tomorrow. Her sister wasn’t answering her hails. Yet then, Revine looked around after nearly two hours.

“Where is Alchemist Irurx?”

He had never shown himself. At last, the Siren of Savere put something together. He was missing, but he had been here. He was unexpectedly gone.

And so was Ceria Springwalker. The Siren stared out of her balcony at the dark ship anchored far from the others.

Night fell. A storm blew into harbor. She looked up as the first drops began to hit the city. A Skill made storm.

——

Ceria Springwalker halted as she walked with the masked half-Elf across the decks of Shifthold. He gestured towards the Captain’s cabin as a figure garbed from head-to-toe in stained black bowed deeply, holding the door open.

“After you, sister.”

Alchemist Irurx bowed to his half-Elf cousin. Ceria held up a hand, her skeletal one, head turning to those distant ships. It was raining. But…she held up her hand and something fell into it.

A drop of red. It splashed over her bones. Like blood. Ceria Springwalker looked at the [Alchemist], who had ‘invited’ her to his ship.

“What’s that sound?”

Slowly, Irurx turned. He spoke in a flat voice.

“The Bloodtear Pirates. They are singing.”

She heard it now. From the ships at dock, and an echo at sea. Silencing the Garudas’ screams. Hovering over Savere. A chant to make even her skin tingle. She had never heard the like—but this was Bloodtear.

“[We Sailed Under Flags of No Quarter], [A Storm at Our Backs], [We Took No Prisoner]. [Blood in the Waters, Blood in the Sky].”

She stared out at the ships at sea. Then turned to the Alchemist. He beckoned her inside, smiling. Ceria exhaled, slowly.

“Entanglement.”

Then she walked into his cabin. The Alchemist smiled as he removed his mask. His eyes never left her face and the circlet on her head.

——

They fought in the shadow of the Glass Bazaar.

Fought, but it was an ever-doomed fight. That they did fight at all was desperation, wild courage because they knew what awaited them.

The observers watched.

“Roshal. You see them, brothers and sisters?”

One pointed them out. They too were not in the city, or rather, sprawling trading bazaar that watched on without interfering. They had been banned, and were debating their present course.

Roshal ignored them too. They had eyes only for their quarry.

[Slaves].

Hundreds. The [Slave Masters] and [Slave Takers] had them in wagons and lines, but there were so many that they required even more [Guards]. Fortunately…for Roshal, they had that many.

This was a hunting party. Across Chandrar, Roshal was moving. Where it had cowered, it now sprang up since the Death of Chains was confirmed to have left Chandrar. And in her wake, the freed [Slaves], liberated from their chains, were being pursued.

Each one would be found and reclaimed. This last, desperate group, who had fled a famous [Slave Master]—now dead—had been caught flat-footed by morning. They had weapons, and surprising numbers.

These [Slavers] had no Djinni, or they would have trampled the others in seconds. They were…cautious. Roshal had come under attack, though no one would say exactly how, only that it might be related to the Death of Chains.

So they employed mortal [Guards] and [Mercenaries] in great numbers. Not least, the [Slave Masters], the leader of whom was riding into battle with an enchanted sword. He swung it carefully, lashing with a Whip of Paralysis in his other hand. He only severed the limbs of Stitch-folk, and, one by one, the desperate band was being caught, only a few, the most defiant, killed. Each one was worth money, and the captives were being thrown with the others.

“Dark deeds. Roshal should not stand proudly, yet they do. I have thought on it long, brothers and sisters.”

One of the watchers remarked. He was eating simple bread and water, grimacing at the sight. The others nodded.

They were a group of only sixty, yet they feared neither the Glass Bazaar’s intolerance nor Roshal. Roshal had been known to…make mistakes when it came to those they took as [Slaves]. But this lot would not flinch. They had simple weapons, as most travellers did, simple clothing. They had been begging for alms, but they were odd.

“Tell me, brother Izreal. What are you thinking?”

“Only that these are a people who did not ask to be [Slaves]. Perhaps they were people who have done terrible things, but slavery? Isn’t there room for redemption? Doesn’t it go against our very core of beliefs?”

The others looked thoughtful. One woman clasped her hands together.

“I do not know. We must discuss it. But now?”

“I know.”

The slaves had no chance. Yet…the words lingered on the man called Izreal’s lips. Did they fear numbers? Did they fear adversity? They served a ruler who could shatter Roshal if his full fury was brought against them. Turn it to glass and ashes, even more than the Glass Straits.

What was right? What was…he thought hard as he watched the battle winding down. And because he was watching—he saw the first figures on the hilltop of one of the great dunes.

——

Pisces Jealnet stared down at the battle below. He had sunk down into a crouch, and Merr was on her belly.

“Damn, damn, damn. Stick a cactus up my ass—now? They beat us to the bazaar!”

This was the Glass Bazaar she’d been telling Pisces about, which she’d wanted to hit. Pisces had been dubious about it, but Merr had told him she needed the loot to keep the gang running.

However, the [Scouts] she’d sent ahead to plan their route for the day had woken everyone after another night of marching to sound the alarm. Roshal was there. A huge group of [Slaves] who’d been recaptured.

And…

[Slaves]. They were trying to get to the gates, but the gates were barred, and Pisces knew that the occupants of the Glass Bazaar would stand aside or hand them right back to Roshal.

Nowhere to run. Yet they fought because…Pisces clenched his teeth.

“What do we do, boss? There’s a lot of ‘em.”

One of the [Bandits] looked ready to turn around, rich bazaar or not. Merr the Storm was silent. She was staring down at Roshal’s people.

“There are hundreds of slaves. Just as many guards. No…no Djinni. I see few [Mages]. But we are outnumbered, even if they have not spotted us. That does not even account for the Glass Bazaar, if they intervened.”

Pisces was counting. Merr muttered.

“I heard they had a bit less than what we’re seeing; the caravans contribute to the defense. If you scare them…Roshal’s tougher. Yeah.”

She looked up at Pisces. He stared at her. Merr spoke, glancing down the slope. Eloque, the freed [Slaves], [Bandits], [Raiders], all milled around, but quietly, waiting.

“We could head east. We keep out of sight? Maybe they don’t realize we’re even here. Even with—with that many [Slaves] they’d have to split up. We’d be able to keep them off us, with my Skills.”

“Right.”

They stared down at the fighting. Pisces’ lips moved. It was a terribly dangerous battle. He saw Merr slowly rising. She looked at him, a hand on her sword hilt.

“The odds are against us. We’re outnumbered.”

Pisces nodded slowly. He stared at the people. There were children down there, and the [Guards] were cheering on the ones on the attack.

“We are. But there is a second army down there.”

Merr blinked as he pointed down at the people in chains. She looked up and exhaled. Pisces wavered. He looked down at Eloque and the others.

“If…but if we fail.”

The [Bandit Lady] followed his gaze. Towards Bearig, Rophir, Eloque, and Qshom. She clapped him on the shoulder.

“We can spare four horses. But if we go down there, Pisces, my lad—they’re nearly done.”

She pointed. The last three dozen [Slaves] were pressed against the wall. Pisces looked down at them.

“Boss, this is stupid.”

One of the [Bandits] tried to argue with them, eyes moving uncertainly from Merr to Pisces. Because she lacked context. Merr nodded simply.

“It is.”

——

They came down the hill without warning. [Raiders] and [Bandits], charging over the top of the hill in a second.

Roshal didn’t even see them at first. A sandstorm blew downwards, and the [Slavers] only saw that. They shouted warnings though; they sensed it—

Then they saw the first [Rider] break through the dust and grit at her back. She rode down on the unguarded lines of [Slaves], a sword held high. After her came a figure on horseback, a flaming rapier drawn. He aimed a finger and a bolt of black light went through one of the [Guards] tending to the wagons. He collapsed without a word, and the [Bandit Lady] chopped downwards.

“Charge! Wipe them out!”

The riders burst out of the sandstorm blinding their opponents. They rode down, slashing and breaking away, going for the sides, fighting, as figures on foot charged after them. There were strange creatures amid the storm. The [Guards] who turned, locking blades with people charging forwards on foot, saw glowing eyes amid the dust.

What was that? Someone was shouting.

“Merr the Storm! [Bandit] attack! Open the gates! It’s him! It’s the [Necromancer]—”

Then the voice cut off as a giant bear made of bone leapt out of the darkness, and a figure on its back brought a sword down.

A Skeleton Lord. And—the [Guards] shouted as the glowing eyes drew nearer, revealing burning flames in pale sockets of bone.

“Undead! Skeletons!”

“Keep the [Slaves] shackled! [Rally To Me]!”

The [Slave Master] with the enchanted sword whirled. The [Slavers] around him rallied, standing firm as the [Necromancer] and [Bandits] tried to break the shackles on the [Slaves]. Some tried to grab keys from dead [Guards], but the wagon bars were iron and so were the chains!

A figure burst past the fighting there and charged the main body of Roshal’s fighters. He flicked a ring, and the [Slave Master] leaned out of his saddle as a bolt of magic flashed past his head. A [Guard] saw the figure coming at him and raised his shield—so Pisces stabbed him in the guts.

Merr the Storm broke forwards. She whirled her sword overhead.

“To me! Keep moving! [Fight Like You Mean It], you half-balled idiots!”

The [Raiders] and [Bandits] screamed, surging forwards to clash with the armored [Guards]. Off-guard, they faltered—then held as the [Slave Taker] leader raised his sword.

“[Feet of Stone]. Stand or die. Roshal commands it! Now—[Advantage: The Unchained].”

Merr faltered as a spear slashed at her face. She knocked it down, but suddenly a quarter of the fighters found the [Guards] and [Slavers] fighting faster against them, stronger—the [Necromancer] cursed, raised his hands, and blasted a line of [Guards] with flames.

“Fire!”

They ran, screaming, rolling, but it didn’t ignite the Stitch-folk fully. The [Slave Master] recoiled, then pointed his sword down at Pisces.

“That is the slave worth a million gold pieces! Ten thousand to the one who brings him down!”

The [Guards] charged. Pisces backed up—then vanished with an oath. He reappeared, running one of the [Mages] through the side, and whirled.

——

It was chaos and confusion. Three sides watched the fighting, at first, for nearly three whole minutes, obscured by Merr’s summoned storm that had given her that famous name.

The Glass Bazaar saw the attack and hesitated. Merr the Storm. However, as the [Slave Master] rallied his forces, it became clear this was not Merr the Storm, head of Merr’s [Storm Bandits], the lighting-fast raids of her elite [Bandits].

She was deadly, lashing about even with a disadvantage, but she was not the common [Bandits] who had levels from below 10 to 20 at most, generally. They came to a rapid decision as Roshal’s people hammered on their gates.

Slowly, the Glass Bazaar began to open the gates and archers appeared on the walls. The [Slaves] began to be herded inside as a relief force moved out to support Roshal.

“No. They’re attacking.”

The second group to see the fighting was Eloque, Bearig, Qshom, Rophir, sitting on the horse pawing the ground in front of Bearig, and the other non-combatants. Merr had excluded those not ready to fight in her eyes, the young and old.

“If it looks like we’re losing, run. We’ll catch up. We’ll break away if we have to.”

That was her order to them. Eloque had the spear she’d been given, but she knew she wouldn’t last more than a single clash in the thick of that fighting—not without support. Roshal’s guards were dangerous, and the [Bandits] faltered as arrows began to rain down from above.

“They have a chance. Pisces and Merr are there.”

Qshom murmured. The Dullahan was feeling at his cloth armor, and Rophir kept looking from Bearig to the battle. The [Cook]’s lips were moving.

“Come on, Pisces…”

Rophir stared down at the battle. He could see better than the other slaves, both in terms of pure eyesight and how it was going.

The initial assault had pushed Roshal back, but they were rallying, and they wouldn’t be swept away by the sheer impact of the charge. It was a battle and so both sides had to lean on what they had.

Numbers and, arguably, training and vantage from Roshal. Equipment too. What did the freed [Slaves] and [Bandits] have against all that? The element of surprise.

The undead, who had surged into the fight. Even as Rophir watched, one locked blades with a [Guard], who began to hammer it down. The skeleton was knocked flat, and the warrior lifted a mace to hammer it to dust—

The ribcage exploded as the [Bandit] Merr had assigned to the job pointed and shouted.

“Spray!”

A simple command. The skeleton’s ribcage exploded. The [Guard] toppled over, armor and face shredded, and the skeleton, now lighter, got up, and, clattering its jaw, attacked the other [Guards], who fled the deadly trick-skeletons.

That was one advantage. The second were the three—four fighters.

Ivery. Bearbones. Merr and Pisces.

The four were higher-level or far more dangerous than anyone else present. Ivery had fallen off Bearbones, and the warbear was standing on two legs. It brought its full weight down on a [Guard], then savaged another as they hammered on its armor.

Ivery slashed, whirling around with his superior strength and speed. Not finesse—but as he fought in the melee, a warrior with a huge battle axe charged him. Ivery raised his shield and it split before a furious [Overpowering Chop]. The skeleton stared down at its off-hand as it staggered. The man raised his axe for another down-swing—

And Ivery threw a rock into his face. Rophir saw the man’s nose crunch. He staggered. How had—there was no—

Ivery’s magically bound rock reappeared in the Skeleton Lord’s hand. He stabbed the man through the chest, then whirled and threw it like a baseball pitcher through part of someone’s skull.

Two figures. Merr was fighting amidst the [Bandits], using her Skills.

“[Hammering Blows]! Get that bastard! Stop them from getting those slaves into the city!”

She was matching the [Slave Master]’s Skills and fighting at the front. The [Bandits] were ready to break and run, but Merr kept them in the battle. Even so, with all of it, they would have run. They would have been overwhelmed, Ivery’s magic rock and Bearbones or not, if not for him.

Pisces whirled, running a [Guard] through. He aimed a finger, shot a [Deathbolt] through someone’s chest, and sprayed flames around him. Just a Tier 2 spell, but it kept them back. He [Flash Stepped] to the side, evading a swinging man with a club, and an arrow curved as it shot at him.

“Alive! Keep him alive!”

The [Slave Master] was screaming, but the [Guards] were desperate. Pisces aimed another finger and they scattered.

“[Deathbolt].”

Where he pointed, they died. Pisces’ rapier took someone else, slashing across their leg, then when they struck wildly, across their eyes. His mouth was open. He was laboring for breath, but he never stopped moving.

He was shouting. Fighting wilder and with more savagery than he ever had before. Die. Die! He aimed a finger up and an [Arrow of Light]—a regular one—hit an [Archer] in the groin.

Low shot. Pisces sprayed the archers on the walls with the spell, wishing he had Ceria’s aim. Wishing he had her spells. He retreated, put his hand up.

[Bone Wall]! It blocked off the bandits on one side, letting Merr focus forwards. Pisces closed his eyes.

“Arise! Rise and fight for me, bodies of the worthless in life!”

They rose. [Guards] cried out as zombies rose, from [Bandits] and [Slavers] alike. They fell, clawing, adding to the numbers of the fighters. Pisces gulped for air.

In his very soul, something was emptying itself. He felt it.

[Ashen Mana Well]. He drew on it until it was expended. Rise! Rise, and fight for a just cause! This battle will never end. For all those that die, I will call them back!

“I am the [Necromancer] of the Horns of Hammerad! Flee or die!”

Pisces shouted. He saw Ivery racing past him and drank from a mana potion, the last of three he had. The [Slavers] hesitated. Pisces lifted his finger.

I shouldn’t have let Mrsha have that wand. He focused a second—a [Bandit] fell, screaming, as the [Slave Master] slashed across her neck. An arrow nearly struck Merr and hit someone in the arm. The [Slaves] were fighting, but they were being dragged into the city—

It rested on him. Pisces gathered the mana and shouted.

“[Acid Orb]!”

“Scatter—”

A squad of [Slavers] saw the orb coming. Too fast—too close. The backwash actually spattered Pisces’ cheek and burned. Not as deadly as Erin’s acid but—they ran, screaming. Pisces drank another potion.

“[Deathbolt]. [Deathbolt]!”

He shot two [Guards] dead. Something was happening.

My [Ashen Mana Well] is recharging! He realized it was filling up with every death, with the undead around him. But only with death magic. [Deathbolt] worked. Undead worked. But—

The mana from the potion filled his veins again and burned. He was pushing himself—but Pisces aimed a finger up. A trail of fire followed it as his focus wavered. It didn’t matter. It was still magic in a box. Push and—

“[Fireball].”

The [Archers] vanished. Spells he had never had to employ—Pisces used them one after another.

The slavers wavered. Gold-rank adventurer! Merr was laughing.

“Get them! Get—Pisces! Watch out!”

She slashed, but the riders charging forwards refused to get anywhere near her. Pisces looked up and saw the leader of this band coming straight at him.

The [Slave Master]. No—multiple [Slave Leaders]. He aimed up—

[Deathbolt]. One fell, white-faced, from her saddle. Pisces used [Flash Step], trying to evade. He leapt sideways and the horses began to turn, but were far wide of him. He saw the [Slave Master], the deadliest, probably highest-levelled of them, slash, but that was just a feint.

The whip! Pisces ducked and the tip cracked, missing his cheek with the paralyzing tip. He whirled.

Die—

His finger came up. The [Slave Master]’s hand tightened.

“[Recapture the Runaway].”

Pisces’ felt something lock around his neck. A metal—he choked, and was dragged off his feet as the horse and rider, now tethered to him by a gleaming rope, began to drag him across the ground.

——

“Pisces!”

[Slave Taker]. A class devoted to recapturing [Slaves]! The rider was dragging Pisces around on the ground and he was slashing at the rope attached to the collar to no avail. And just like that—it turned around.

Rophir heard Eloque scream. The morale of Merr’s bandits faltered in an instant, and the [Guards] pressed in. Pisces wasn’t out, nor were his undead—but he was fighting with the [Slave Master] and they were on the back foot.

“They’re losing.”

Qshom whispered. Rophir waited.

He knew what was coming next. They would all be taken captive. Given to someone like Riqre—but not before things were done to make sure they would never try to escape again.

“We have to help him! Someone—Merr!”

She was trying, but the [Slaver Leaders] were keeping far away from her. Someone had to help Pisces.

Rophir knew it. Someone else, to turn the battle around. It was…

It was what Riqre always said. Quality over quantity. The half-Elf boy waited.

Now. Now they would wonder how, these powerless [Slaves] without a class. Then…

He felt someone shift behind him. That big oaf. That…kindly man. Rophir waited.

“Rophir.”

Bearig looked down at him, a grave look on his face. Rophir waited.

I know. I know it has to be done.

So ask.

The half-Elf boy waited. [Assassin]. Young. But he had a class and levels…

Somewhere, Emir Riqre was laughing. He touched the dagger at his side. He felt Bearig lift him up—then he handed him to Qshom.

“Qshom, hold onto Rophir. Ride away if it looks south.”

Rophir stared at Bearig. Eloque turned. She had the spear in her claws, and twice now she had hesitated, almost looking as if she would ride into that fighting.

“Bearig?”

He watched as Pisces finally forced the [Slave Master] to let go of the rope. Staggering, Pisces whirled, slashing, but his magic was locked down. Not his Skills.

Bearig had a meat cleaver. A [Cook]’s tool that was also a deadly weapon. He drew it now. Stared at it.

“I’m no fighter. I may get in the way. But I have been thinking.”

He stared down at the battle. His lips moved. He only spoke and hesitated a moment. Less than a minute in total for all of it to take place. When Bearig turned, his eyes were bright.

“…I beat a [Slave]. I rented slaves, for my restaurant. I would curse at them, beat them if they were too slow, if they made mistakes. I treated them like I wouldn’t treat a dog.”

The others looked at him. Bearig turned back.

“I have a dream to go home. To find my family and live happily. But even if I do—I will never forget the things I have seen. Nerrhavia’s Fallen, my home. I asked if she knew. Her Majesty. She must. I have seen terrible things. I cannot go back and live in peace. Even if I was given the chance? I cannot.”

He stared down at the [Slavers] and people fighting. His eyes locked on the [Slaves]. On the [Slave Master]. The people in chains were watching Pisces, desperately. They had the eyes Rophir and the others had once had when they stared at Czautha. But Pisces was faltering.

“Bearig. You will surely die.”

The [Cook]’s shoulders were shaking. He was sweating.

“I know. But—I will not run. Better to die than be a [Slave]—no. No! I will never be a [Slave] again.”

He hefted the cleaver and looked at them.

“Such people—they deserve worse than death. All I will give them is death, if I can. Whatever it takes—in this next minute or year. I will be free. I am no [Slave]. Nor will I see anyone else be a [Slave]. No more collars and Riqres. Never again.”

He kicked his horse in the sides and the beast took him down the hill. Slowly. Then gathering momentum. Qshom hesitated. Eloque looked at the other [Slaves]. Some were already moving forwards. Rophir leapt off the saddle.

“Bearig!”

The Dullahan jerked and stared down. But Eloque was riding after Bearig next, then the others. The [Cook] charged, straight down. Some of the [Archers] saw and began taking shots at him from the walls. Most of the [Guards] ignored him. He was one man, face white, holding a cooking tool, not a sword.

But the [Slave Master] turned. His grin as he conjured more bindings and circled Pisces…faded. An odd, uncertain look entered his eyes as his head turned to stare directly at Bearig.

Perhaps he heard it. A sound under the light of day. A rarity that only occurred a few times. When you earned it. A temporary Skill.

A revelation from the divine.

And…it echoed in the [Cook]’s ears. A will as old as his people. A voice that had set the first of them free. From Elucina, to now.

[Slave class removed!]

[Rebel class obtained!]

[Skill – Mortal Enemy: Slavers obtained!]

[Skill —]

[Rebel]. He crashed towards the [Slave Master], who rode away from him, whip cracking.

——

They were still losing. But the sight of a mere [Cook] charging the enemy was enough. The Stitch-man spoke.

“I have seen enough.”

“Brother Izreal. There is nothing against—”

He whirled to the others.

“There is not. But there are contradictions. Were our own people not once [Slaves]? Were they not freed? Look. Those [Slaves] fight for freedom with courage. Roshal? There is no redemption in Roshal. I am called.”

“You must not make such decisions alone. You are not the will and voice and teacher.”

One of the other sixty stood up to confront Izreal. He met the uncertain gaze.

“I am certain. It lies in my heart and the heavens. Or do you fear the might of Roshal, Lazimeh? Is it not written? ‘Be strong and courageous; do not be afraid or terrified of them. For it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will never leave nor forsake you.’”

His hands clasped together. The woman kneeling next to him looked up. Slowly, the Stitch-man drew a simple club.

“I hear his voice. As He is my witness. I will go alone and smite them if I must and answer to the [Prophet] alone.”

He turned and began walking towards the fighting. Horseless. He had simple cloth clothing and a simple weapon. They had been begging and preaching odd faith in the Glass Bazaar, and thus been exiled.

Strange people who spoke strange words that made the ears ring. Fearless. No wonder they had been exiled. Alone, Izreal walked, and he had taken a name that was half from holy land, half from his people. A new name for a new calling. A better calling.

He walked alone—for a moment. Then a Stitch-woman caught up. She was murmuring, and when he heard her voice, he picked it up.

This was written.

“When you go forth to battle against your foes and see armies of horses and chariots and enemies more numerous than you, be not afraid of them. For the Lord thy God is with thee…”

“More enemies?”

Disbelieving [Guards] on the edges of the fighting saw the sixty coming down the slope. Just sixty people, far less terrifying than undead or anything else. One aimed a bow up—shot an arrow.

Someone went down, a cry of pain—an arrow in the leg. The [Guards] relaxed. They were exactly what they seemed. The sixty began charging as arrows came their way, and a rank of [Guards] moved out to slaughter them.

Then…they saw something odd. One of the women had stopped next to the Human man. She reached down, dragged the barbed arrow out of his flesh, and he screamed and nearly passed out. She bent—touched his leg.

There was no potion. But suddenly, he was rising, blood still on his legs, and charging, screaming. The [Guard] who saw it stared.

What was that? Then the first of them, led by a man with a club, came charging down the hill. The [Guards] set themselves. They saw the figure leading them raise the club and shout a word that echoed.

“___ protect us!”

And there was light. It pierced even the arms raised to shield against it. No mere [Light] spell. The air boomed, and the earth shook under the [Guards]’ feet. Some caught themselves; one ran through one of these strange warriors and killed them dead.

But another lifted a shield and saw the mace burning with white fire. It came down like a hammer and sent the figure sprawling back. An [Elite Mercenary] locked his enchanted blade with a simple shortsword and stared at the iron weapon that took no damage in disbelief.

Magic. Magic versus…

Faith.

[Pilgrims]. [Believers]. [Acolytes]…they surged forwards, blinding their foes, the words of a strange belief on their lips.

Merr shouted, seeing them breaking through. She raised her hand and the dust storm rose once more. But the strange new group and the freed [Slaves] fought without being blinded.

Pisces ran through the cover, looking around.

“Bearig! B—”

He saw a half-Elf boy bring down a [Guard] from the knees. Saw Eloque and Qshom fighting and ran through their opponents from behind. Then he saw Bearig.

The [Cook] brought down the cleaver on the [Slave Master]’s arm and hacked down to the bone. The man screamed, and Bearig wrenched the cleaver up and brought it down again. Again and again—as if he was hacking at some carcass.

Let all who hold chains beware. Pisces looked around. Then he ran through the Glass Bazaar’s gates. The confused guards and [Slavers] saw a Gold-rank [Necromancer] charge out of the darkness, a black light swirling around his aiming fingertip. Then followed a [Rebel] and a [Cook], a half-Elf boy, a Skeleton Lord…

——

The Glass Bazaar fell in a second round of fighting, followed by a surrender. By more fighting, really; Merr the Storm shouted at the people barricaded within.

“If you’re [Traders] and people of this place, you live! Give up Roshal or die, all of you!”

Roshal’s guards knew what awaited them outside. There was no hope of running or winning; Pisces had freed the [Slaves], and they had taken the bazaar. They fought the people inside, rather than leave.

Afterwards, Pisces found Bearig. The [Cook] sat there, half his face puffed up. The paralzying whip had struck him several times near the end.

“Rebel. I am a [Rebel]. A class as old as…the Rebel of String.”

He laughed. Pisces looked at him. A blue class. Or perhaps it had only been how he was saved.

Merr was counting heads, riding among the freed [Slaves], ordering her remaining [Bandits] to strip the Glass Bazaar. They had paid a dear price for victory. Ordinarily, they might decide to run or kill her for the loot until she found a loyal crew. However, the freed [Slaves] outnumbered them and there would be no need to petition the Siren for more reinforcements. [Bandits] fought for gold. [Slaves]?

Eloque was sitting down, throwing up. Not so much from the gore or horror of killing [Slavers]—she had drunk an entire bottle of water down and it had come right up. Bronze-rank mistake.

It was the last group Pisces sought out. They were only thirty-some strong now. They had fought with amazing spirit—and little actual skill—but they’d somehow exacted a terrible toll.

It was their lack of armor that did them in. Whatever they had trusted in—some of them had survived arrows striking them and bouncing off, or taken blows that would surely have killed them—others had just died.

However, more were on their feet than he had any reason to expect. As he watched, a woman bowed her head and placed her hands over a cut side.

“You will not die today, Brother Izreal. Not while the Lord watches over you.”

“He asks…what he asks…”

The man gasped—and Pisces saw light. A flash of…

It was familiar. He stopped, and saw Izreal rise. He touched at his side, and it was whole.

That was not a potion. Nor a spell. Pisces saw the woman look up.

“You’re the [Necromancer].”

She said it with little rancor. If anything, she was impressed. The man turned and bowed to Pisces.

“I am glad to see you lived, and these good people survived. May we introduce ourselves?”

“Please. I am Pisces Jealnet.”

“A pleasure.”

No recognition. So they didn’t have scrying orbs. They had fought—interceded—why?

“Because my heart told me to. Because I felt the calling.”

Izreal smiled. Pisces saw the others nod.

“You are people of conviction.”

“People of faith. The Glass Bazaar cast us out, but we find converts among [Slaves] and those who suffer. We spread the word of truth across Chandrar. We are small, but our classes shine bright. Already, we level, so we know our cause was just, our faith not misplaced. I am Marrieh.”

The woman smiled. She was Human too, and Pisces blinked at the strange statements.

She had levelled? He hadn’t seen her take a nap—maybe someone had hit her so hard she’d passed out?

No. He looked at them and his memory touched him.

“You must think our classes strange, but perhaps it is well you have seen the truth. There is something I would like to tell you—tell all those here, Pisces Jealnet. A great salvation has come to us all. To this world! Rejoice!”

Izreal smiled at Pisces. He was caught off-guard when Pisces smiled back.

“I…have seen this before, actually. Once.”

Pawn. Izreal stared at Pisces, then burst into a huge smile.

“Then the news is spreading! You are a friend twice over, Pisces. Shall we rest and talk?”

“We shall indeed. But please—tell me. Who are your people? Do you lead them?”

Izreal shook his head as Marrieh smiled.

“We are only one group. We were founded around the [Prophet]. We are the People of Zeikhal, who can survive even in the great desert because we want not for water or mana.”

Mana as in…? Izreal continued.

“Our true name you will not understand until you hear it. But we are simply…”

He smiled, spoke, and Pisces’ ears rang. Somewhere else, five heads rose, and they looked hungrily towards that desert continent, guarded by that damned sword and light.

“Can you repeat that?”

Pisces rubbed at his ears. Izreal smiled.

“We are the People of God.”

8.58 PFH

[I am taking a ~mysterious break~ for one update on the 18th, and I will be back on the 21st of December with a chapter and explanation! Maybe. See Author’s Notes for details.]

Would you like to know a secret?

A big secret. A top-tier secret.

You could get someone to pay for an entire roasted goose prepared by a Level 26 [Cook] with [Enhanced Seasoning] for a secret like this. And then give you a mana potion every week for four months straight.

Ceria knew, because she’d once sold a Major Secret back at Wistram for exactly that. She had no regrets; it had been a great dinner with the others when they were all friends. It was the most succulent goose she’d ever had; the real bourgeois experience, whatever that meant. Specially fed all its life until it realized at some point that it wasn’t going to have chopped food for dinner tonight…

Well, it had been exceptionally tasty. She had once mentioned that to Erin, offhandedly, not expecting the same quality, but on the chance the [Innkeeper] would like to experiment with the dish like she did with so many others. Erin had given her a horrified look and said geese were different from chickens. You fed geese, not ate them! It would be like eating duck—wait a second—

Whereupon she’d gone through an existential crisis about poultry until she wondered aloud whether swans were food too, if everything else was. Ceria had said she’d find out the next time she saw one.

Why did it matter? Well, as Ceria walked across the docks of Runsblud in Savere, following the Alchemist Irurx, as the blood storm and [Pirates] stormed into port—she thought of that.

Not because she was particularly hungry. But because, in that moment, past Ceria had missed the point. Which was not that Erin was odd, or that geese were important, or a commentary on the practice of raising animals for slaughter.

It was that Erin came from a place that was used to treating geese like semi-tame wildlife. It was that she was so used to chicken as a mainstay of food, she didn’t even bother to look into other types of poultry.

One day at market, she’d been unable to find chicken eggs. So she’d gone home empty-handed, and Lyonette had walked into Liscor and come back with a basket of duck eggs. When Erin said ‘milk’, she meant cows.

That was sort of odd, wasn’t it? A more perceptive Ceria would have wondered about that. Of course, Ceria, both past and present, knew why that was.

Erin came from another world. Ceria had never stopped to think about it.

No, she had. But she had only thought about it in a vague sense of, ‘I cannot comprehend this, but it makes complete sense given all I know about Erin.’ She had wondered about the methods and reasons behind a spell or…Skill that let it happen.

But she hadn’t discussed it with Erin or Pisces. Ceria supposed she had simply thought of it as Erin’s secret. Everyone had one, and, in truth, she had suspected it was like that port on Izril and other places. Dimensional magic was not unknown.

Now, though…Ceria thought about it. She thought fast and hard. It was like she had lived her entire life in a cloud and only now broke through it. Or, to put it another way—her mind had never been bad. It was a bit lazy, and she had trouble with some things other people were more naturally gifted at.

However, it had been a scrappy…Gerial. Poor Gerial. Good in a fight, though. He could throw a decent hook, and he would fight dirty. But now? Well, it was more like Calruz with both arms, who’d let you punch him while he picked up a table to hit you and all your buddies.

Erin came from another world. She and Ryoka. One that didn’t have levels or Skills. And…Ceria realized—everything they brought came from there.

That was elementary. But think about it. Not about the food; although, that was interesting. Think about…how Erin did things. How Kevin did things.

They didn’t understand magic. But they did know about refrigeration, even flight. What they were at home with was Pallass. The elevators, bicycles…

The half-Elf [Cryomancer] tried to picture it. A world made of those gears and lots of Humans. She had so many questions. So many thoughts. After all, it wasn’t about the inventions. It was about the perspective.

She had once seen Ryoka cast a simple [Light] spell and produce colors that Ceria had never dreamed of. Why hadn’t she chased that down? She’d accepted Ryoka’s explanation about seeing things and thought she was from Drath.

What might I learn from them? The half-Elf wondered. But her mind was running hot—or rather, cool. Thoughts were gliding across her mind, so while she thought of Erin—she was also focusing on Irurx.

A half-Elf with a mask. Two staring, painted eyes over a strange inscription-rune on his mouth and nose.

Purity seal. Maybe for gases or poisons in the air. I might be walking into a trap.

Ceria registered it calmly. Part of her head began searching for spells she could use to remove poison or ideas—the other kept thinking. Two Cerias, then, in perfect tandem.

The circlet. It was literally making her twice as smart—or perhaps—twice as fast. There was a difference. So Ceria went on thinking about the inciting thought as the Alchemist gestured to the gangplank slowly being lowered from his dark ship.

Would you like to know a secret?

Ceria did not approve of how Wistram ran itself. Buying and trading secrets, all the games of politics. It was why she had chosen exile. Because Pisces was right. Necromancy hadn’t been outlawed because it was inherently evil. Blood magic was arguably far worse, or hexes and curses. But there had been no [Witches] among her class, and few ever came. Gnolls? None. No [Necromancers]—not because the magic was wrong.

Simply because the [Mages] disapproved. Because the Archmage whose legacy still shaped Wistram had disapproved.

Zelkyr. Or perhaps it had been a sudden change, because he had certainly been friends with a [Necromancer] until the end. One [Mage] ruined the reputation of an entire school of magic.

However, Ceria had played the game quite gamely when she was there for three years. She had hoarded secrets, and Calvaron had been a secret-broker. So…she had obtained one, once.

A Major Secret. Which ran from Major, Big, Normal, Minor…Big being an intermediate category not always recognized in the shifting fiscal economics of secret-based currencies.

What was that secret? It was something Ceria had ferreted out based on her specific knowledge, and then bluffed a fellow [Mage] into verifying it. She was fairly proud of it. Of course, she’d been heavily warned to keep it secret, but she’d traded it to Calvaron, who promised he’d hold onto it.

Here it was. A Major-class secret. Not a hidden room—that was probably above Major. Not a spell, or some political revelation like an impending war, which was hot currency that devalued fast. The most powerful secret of all: personal information. It was this. Ceria had laughed when she realized it.

Archmage Feor dyes his hair.

How long did half-Elves live, truly? It was a question of half-Elven villages. Some people knew half-Elves who were only a century or two old at the most. Others knew those who were into multiple, multiple centuries.

There were half-Elves over a thousand years old, but the upper limit, the median, the average lifespan of a half-Elf who was not killed, was truly unknown. Because…they seldom lived that long.

Even in a ‘safe’ village, what were the odds you didn’t run into a monster, a [Bandit], or have an eagle drop a rock on your head over a hundred years? Two hundred? A thousand?

Half-Elves died from unnatural causes. Like sickness. Like falling and hitting their head wrong. Honestly and truly, they expected that more than to die of sheer age itself.

Feor wasn’t even two hundred years old; he remembered Zelkyr. He had studied under Zelkyr, being a young man at the time, new to Wistram, much like Ceria. Well, perhaps he’d come at sixty like Ceria—she had reason to believe he had only been thirty, a real fresh-faced half-Elf with a talent for magic. He was only around two hundred at best, and that meant…

He dyed his hair. It was probably white-ish. But he was no silver-maned half-Elf. That Eldavin fellow…

That was interesting.

Anyways, the point was that Ceria’s knowledge of half-Elf age had once won her a goose and mana potions. Feor was still old. He was a half-Elf in the real world, and they aged like regular people, by and large.

Half-Elves in villages did not. They created paradises that they defended as well as they could. In truth, some were quite vulnerable—just secluded. They found ways to live in a kind of harmony with whoever ruled the land, and while some clashed and some nations still remembered the half-Elven empire…the villagers were not the half-Elves of cities.

A true, traditional half-Elven village was timeless. You could and did stare at grass growing. Because you fell into patterns.

Rhythms.

Ceria had grown up there. She used to think the seasons changed so fast. When she left the village—she had been so shocked at how fast people moved. In the village, you said, ‘look, there’s a nice spot of land. I’ll plant some strawberries there.’

And your best friend would smile and nod. A year later you’d remember you said that—but it was all frosted over. So you waited another year, missed the timing because you’d lost your strawberry seeds, and they were all eaten by the squirrels. Bought some more.

Eight years later, your friend would wander by and find a field of strawberry bushes and say, ‘where did that come from?’ And you would remind them and they’d laugh and say how quickly you did it.

That was what Ceria had once seen happen with her grandmother. And yes, her grandmother had been going grey, but when Ceria had asked about her age?

“Why would I bother counting?”

Half-Elves didn’t bother, so the problem of their age didn’t come up. Young Ceria had lived in that village in a time-out-of-time for a long while. She had learned expressions and actions there that even other half-Elves found odd.

For instance—her favorite catchphrase.

Tree rot. Everyone thought it was such a mild epithet, but it wasn’t. It was the kind of thing half-Elves said when they were really mad. Why?

Well, think about it. You turn your back and half the forest is covered in slime, mushrooms, and mold. For a village that could pass eternity by, it was a terrible plague, and they hated it as much as bugs that ate into their forests. Termites? Forget about it.

Half-Elves would rather fight [Bandits] than a colony of bark beetles. Why? Because you had half-Elves who practiced hunting ‘on the side’ over three centuries. Not [Hunters]; just a hobby. Who could put an arrow in your eye from a thousand paces. Bugs? Not as easy; you’d battle them for years and years and they’d ruin your perfect pattern.

They loved patterns in the traditional villages. There were legends about half-Elves who mastered crafts and art by doing them for countless decades.

Why did that matter? Well, because Ceria had known the old villages. She had been there, had left—and, frankly, the Springwalker village was unlikely to want her back. It had only been…what, twenty-plus years?

They definitely remembered. If she strolled back in they’d throw rocks at her and claim she’d just been kicked out not a week ago.

It felt so long ago to Ceria. Not at all to them. That was because she was what they called ‘time-touched’. A derogatory expression to refer to half-Elves who walked the mortal world. It was a poor thing.

Ceria stopped on the deck of the Shifthold and looked at Irurx. Another half-Elf from home.

“Sister. This way.”

He gestured towards one of his hooded crew holding the cabin door open. Ceria smiled faintly. He was staring at her circlet. Twice, now, he’d probed it with a spell.

She was wary. Even nervous. But she had weighed his ‘invitation’ and decided to join him. The half-Elf murmured as she strode across the decks.

“Entanglement.”

Another word from home. A word half-Elves who had lived long used to talk about those that would soon die.

They did not die from age. Their blood was only half-crossed with immortals, but it was enough. What half-Elves knew, what they mourned and saw, was how even the best of them ended their lives.

Entangled. They could live their lives in solitude and live almost forever. But these static villages, entire colonies, individuals—they died when they cared. When they grew entangled with the short-lived folk. Ceria looked at Irurx, and wondered which he was. He was certainly old. The [Alchemist] shifted ever-so-slightly. His hand hovered over his mask as he began to remove it.

He had heard Ceria. She smiled politely as she stepped towards the cabin door. And reminded him. Immortality was a lovely, fragile, blooming flower. It only lived alone. When it entered the weeds—when it tangled with mortal, dangerous lives, however beautiful and long-lived and perfect it was—

That was how forever died.

——

He knew the phrase ‘entanglement’ too. It was practically required reading, understanding how half-Elves saw the world. They were among the most numerous quasi-immortals.

If you were gifted the right to live beyond mortal spans, take the time to study. You have forever. Understand the choices. Understand the…consequences.

Study two species—well, study them all, but study two to know how to live forever, to guard your immortality well.

Study half-Elves and their villages.

And study the Fraer-folk.

Long-lived and short. Fraerlings could live long, but they lived alongside great danger. Study both, to see how both prolonged life.

He knew entanglement. He knew the dangers completely well; it had already begun to weave around him. He had begun vendettas and blood feuds. Made enemies. Made himself a target. He could still escape the net of his death.

But there lay the key difference between them and he, those half-Elves, content in their hedonism. A hedonism of time, an arrogant selfishness that troubled no one and helped no one.

They wanted to live forever, or as long as they could.

He did not. Half-Elves would let their hearts beat for millenia, in solace, in repose. His would be far shorter, for all he could strive for longer.

Yet the worth of every second spent would be reflected across a hundred thousand hearts, a million. A day of happiness and bliss that never ended throughout their rich lives.

Fetohep of Khelt wondered if Khelt was entangled. No—it surely was. He had begun it, with Princess Jecaina. He would have answered for those sins gladly, for all he had taken part of Jecrass to feed Khelt for future generations.

However, the call had come. Come from the very first [Queen] of Khelt and every ruler hence. Forget peace. Forget waiting.

Now was the hour to drive Khelt so deeply into the sands that Chandrar shook. Fetohep spoke once.

“Almost.”

The mortal woman cringed, but it was not a rebuke. Fetohep lifted his hand.

“Almost, Your Majesty. Almost. It was a beating heart. I heard it.”

Her ear was…wet. The Dullahan came from distant Baleros, in the north where the world froze over. Fetohep turned his head. His golden gaze flashed.

“You heard it. Then the frozen soul…”

“Perished. But they did come back. At least, enough for their heart to beat.”

“Ah. Then why did it fail? And who…which of them was it?”

“One of the criminals. I can search for the name—”

Fetohep lifted a hand, and the [Cryomancer] fell silent.

“The reason alone will suffice.”

She nodded, licking her lips.

“We attempted the cure based on a number of improvised factors, Your Majesty. We prepared a slow, slow unfreezing spell given the last—failures. A Potion of Regeneration at one tenth of the entire dose we applied when [Detect Life] began to function. We believe it was working. However, two factors complicated the process: the antidote and the patient’s injuries.”

“From the damage of the crossbow bolts.”

She ducked her head.

“Yes, Your Majesty. The Potion of Regeneration should have worked. I even believe it did—but the poison…”

The woman hesitated and Fetohep sighed.

“Requires an antidote fabricated of ingredients so rare even Khelt lacks for a vast quantity.”

Another nod.

“Ethereal alchemical ingredients. If they exist, they are rare indeed. If I might ask about securing more…?”

It was a bold ask, but Fetohep had told her there was no expense to be spared. The King drummed his fingers on the balcony as he surveyed his city.

“…[Whale Hunters], [Deep-Sea Fishers], and net-ships of Drowned Folk are all searching for the fish that produces this ectoplasm. I will inform you when it is acquired.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. However, I can say that the antidote was likely working. It was only a liquid we injected into the ice, so as it melted it ran over the wounds, but we did find the poison neutralized in the blood when we took a sample and performed poison detection spells.”

That got Fetohep’s interest.

“—Then why did this person expire? Was the Potion of Regeneration not enough? I will allow a full dose if you are confident.”

Her eyes widened. The woman hesitated and then shook her head.

“No, Your Majesty. I do not believe it was the potion. As I said, Oteslia and my team are working on perfecting the defrosting process. The antidote being applied before unfreezing would also help greatly, as would more spellcasting—I am suggesting healing crystals being placed around the patient. The problem was not that. It was just…it was all working. All of it. Potions, antidote…”

“And what happened?”

She looked up.

“The patient died. We had three seconds, I think. But the damage, the arrows, the poison? They couldn’t last long enough to survive for the Potion of Regeneration to work. If we increase those chances…”

She trailed off. Fetohep nodded slowly.

“I see.”

They were so close. He turned back to watching his city, and the [Cryomancer] realized she was dismissed and bowed her way out.

Waiting. He was waiting for the ritual—the giant eyesore of magic—to be completed. It was so powerful all the [Mages] in the city wanted to know what he was doing. So costly, too, but Fetohep didn’t count the cost.

“Your Majesty, another missive from Medain.”

“Burn it.”

Fetohep didn’t turn his head as one of his servants for the day approached. The man bowed. Fetohep glared ahead.

Medain. It was a sign of changing fortunes, how High King Perric talked. He had invited Fetohep to some of his parties with exceptionally rude, condescending letters before they had come to blows.

When Fetohep had given his ultimatum, High King Perric had blustered and sent long screeds demanding a ceasefire, a peace, threatening Fetohep with a coalition of nations, and warning him of the cost of his aggression.

These days? After the deployment of the Vizir and other Revenants? His appeals were not about the possibility of surrender, but only in how it would go. But he hung onto Raelt because that was his only shield. Or so he believed. Perric didn’t quite seem to understand that Fetohep was not a liar or prevaricator like he himself was. Once Raelt of Jecrass walked free, Fetohep would go. He didn’t need to take Medain.

“Fools. Claiven Earth is little better, for all their age.”

Fetohep leaned on the balcony. In this way, he was the model of repose, the wary undead tyrant—but a loving tyrant—ruling over his paradise without equal. A scene of such grace and elegance that one of his subjects was, at this moment, painting him from far below.

Fetohep had always been popular, but after his dramatic flair in war, his subjects had taken to practicing swordplay, and his popularity had somehow gone even higher. He leaned there, a king caught in a moment of tangential melancholy, eyes burning gold as he rested in peace and tranquility.

“Yeah. Yeah. Fools. That’s right. Look at me, I’m leaning on balconies too.”

A young woman leaned on the railing next to him, putting on her best serious face. Fetohep saw her try to stroke her chin, lose focus, and pass through the railing.

“Whoa. Hi, Fetohep! Is this where you’ve been?”

She turned and grinned at him. The undead king didn’t exactly jump, and he covered it with a world-weary sigh.

She had nearly heard his discussion. He stared about and, sure enough, Erin Solstice began flapping her hands at the air and bickering.

“No—Cawe! I’m not bothering him! I just wanted to say hi! You don’t have to follow me—just because Nerrhavia and Khelta said—they’re only monarchs! See? Fetohep doesn’t mind! Am I bothering you, Fetohep?”

The king bowed towards the air Erin was staring at. The ghost of the young woman…had ghosts. Or rather, there were ghosts all about him, but he could only see the rulers of Khelt and Erin.

He suspected they had done something to allow her to become visible to him that they could not easily replicate with the other ghosts. Exactly what was a mystery, even to Fetohep, but Khelta had been a [Necromancer] without peer. Still…there were other [Necromancers] among Chandrar’s dead. The best who had ever lived. So the fact that they could not interact with the living and that that ritual was their best option meant it was tricky indeed.

So how did they let him see Erin? Fetohep wondered if it was the power of every ruler of Khelt focused on her. That was suitably…thematic. But he had a sneaking suspicion that might not work.

The…only other way he could imagine Erin Solstice being visible to him via his connection with the dead predecessors of Khelt was a technical one. He was bound to Khelt, and thus could hear and see them when he stood on Khelt’s grounds. So…if they wanted him to see Erin…they might have made her…

No, that was ludicrous. He did not mention the theory aloud, but he would if—when—she came back from the dead.

“Sorry about that. Khelta keeps saying you’re busy, but I saw you and wanted to say hello.”

The young woman rested next to him, sitting cross-legged in the air. Fetohep inclined his head.

“Indeed. May I ask if you have some great need?”

“Nope! Just wanted to say hi. You know how it is. I meet people, I take lessons—I lose track. How many days has it been?”

“Four since last we spoke in the august company of King His-Xe, I believe.”

“Wow.”

Erin began to slowly rotate upside down. Fetohep watched her. She was not entirely unpleasant to talk to. She was rather amusing—engaging—and entirely insolent. He could only hear and see the rulers of Khelt and her, of course, but Queen Xierca had related some amusing incidents.

A world of the dead. He watched her expression, because Fetohep was no fool. It was not when Erin smiled—she smiled constantly.

It was how she smiled.

“I’m…it’s been a few months, hasn’t it?”

She stopped her rotation in the air and looked at him. Fetohep nodded once more.

“It becomes fall.”

“And the Meeting of the Tribes is, um…not going well? Those Drake jerks really did take the Gnolls’ magic?”

Her face clouded. Fetohep nodded.

“So it appears. I can only speculate and observe; I have few informants, and all are for hire, not trusted envoys.”

“I see. If it’s true…the ghosts are mad about it. The Gnolls and some of the others. You would not believe how mad they are, and all the Drakes here keep saying they didn’t do it—then someone brings up the stuff they did do, and it’s all disgusting.”

Erin glowered.

“When I get un-dead—I mean, re-alive, I’m going to be saying some stuff to Chaldion. I—oh. Hey, buddy.”

She hesitated, waved, and put on a fake smile. Fetohep saw Erin turn, half-point at him.

“I was just talking with Fetohep about that. Archmage, um…Kishkeria. I was j—I asked, and he said nothing else is happening. Right, Fetohep?”

He shook his head. Erin glanced at him.

“She can’t see you. He shook his head! It’s all—right. No—yeah—absolutely. I told you about Mr—uh huh. No, but—Khelta’s the one giving orders and I—uh—uh—oh, hi, Serept! I guess I’d just better let you go. See you!”

She waved, then wiped at her brow and floated behind Fetohep as if hiding from someone’s gaze.

“I trust that was another ghost?”

“Archmage Kishkeria. She was asking about the Gnolls. Because she’s a Gnoll.”

Fetohep had no need to truly move his jaw, since his tongue was long withered away, as were his vocal chords, but his mouth opened slightly.

“…By which you mean the Archmage of Grasses, one of the most powerful Gnolls to ever walk Chandrar?”

“Yeah? She’s, uh, pushy. But the other ghosts keep them clear.”

Fetohep had just seen the giant form of King Serept floating past him, clearly escorting someone he couldn’t see away. Some of his servants worried he was going mad. Fetohep was worried too.

He saw Erin resting her arms on the balcony, staring out at the city. She could see it, and the places that had been here before, from a time before Khelt to other periods in its history.

He envied her that. It was beautiful, to hear the lands of the dead described. A place without pain, where kin and enemies gathered without strife.

Beautiful, until he heard how there was danger there. Until they told him there was something—six of them—attacking the ghosts, such that the mightiest legends were helpless against them.

Yet Fetohep still admired death. He found solace that the end would not be the end after his bones decayed and he was succeeded—provided he could fight to keep it secure. Yet, as he looked at Erin, he saw her expression.

It was only a beautiful dream for him. Because Fetohep did not eat. He did not sleep or drink, and he could not hold and feel or smell. He was already dead.

For this young ghost? It wore at her. Erin Solstice stared blankly ahead—until she noticed him watching her and smiled.

“So, uh…anything new happening? Not that I’m bored. I know, I know. I have lessons. It’s just…”

Her gaze flickered back to the horizon. Fetohep glanced around and saw a face he had only seen in death, Queen Xierca, looking at him from afar, from inside the palace. She mouthed words, and he nodded.

Fetohep of Khelt cleared his throat, or made a sound like it.

“The world is somewhat odd, Erin Solstice. I am…old, yet it changes quicker and quicker these days. I am told that Drakes are besieging the Gnolls in their Great Plains, and they are beginning to clash. I have news, some of which I cannot fathom, from Ailendamus, and Chandrar as well. The King of Destruction lies under siege. This troubles me.”

“It does? He’s a jerk too, though.”

Fetohep saw Erin frown and fold her arms. He nodded.

“…Jerk…though he may be, his death will cause great strife. I have not intervened, but perhaps you and I would speak on the world as it pertains to Khelt?”

Erin eyed Fetohep. With a slight smile, she shook her head.

“You don’t need me. I’m just an [Innkeeper].”

He hesitated.

“Ah. This is true. But I confess, Erin Solstice, it becomes…wearying. To have no one to speak to, even uncertainties, thoughts.”

“Oh. Well…I don’t mind. I mean, I know Califor wants me, but if it would help—lay it on me! You need to figure out what to do?”

“Inaction is a decision as much as action.”

Erin rubbed her hands together.

“Alright, let’s blow up Reim with a super-spell.”

Fetohep raised one brow and Erin laughed.

“Just kidding! There are people there. Let’s hex his hair green. Um…so what is happening?”

He told her, and the [Innkeeper] smiled and listened and gave her opinion, which made him smile. She seemed to brighten up for a moment, and Fetohep saw her look out across Chandrar.

“…And my friends?”

He paused.

“I do not know where Mrsha is. Yet I do now know where some of the Horns of Hammerad have landed. It has taken time, and one is as yet missing. But…”

Fetohep had hesitated to tell her, especially when he heard of Roshal—he had been distracted, and Roshal refused to have any dealings with Khelt, so he did not monitor their auctions and chatter. But Queen Xierca’s words and Erin’s mood convinced him.

Distract her. The [Innkeeper] brightened up in an instant.

“You know where they are? That’s wonderful! And—and Ryoka’s in Ailendamus for some reason? Married to Tyrion Veltras?”

“That would be the rumor. I do not think it is necessarily true.”

Erin shook her head, counting on her fingers.

“Lyonette’s in Oteslia, Halrac and the others are okay—Mrsha’s…”

“They are apparently still hunting a white Gnoll, to the best of my knowledge.”

He reassured her. She exhaled, slowly.

“Good. Good. I…I just need to…”

She looked around, distraught, then smiled at Fetohep, catching herself.

“As long as the Horns of Hammerad are okay. That’s—that’s all I can ask for. They went to the Village of the Dead and got out. They’re crazy like that. They did it for me, I’m sure. As long as they survive—where are they?”

Her expression was pleading and hurt and…Fetohep of Khelt stood there. Because what he would tell her…he hesitated. But then he saw Queen Khelta herself walk out of the void in the air and stand next to them.

“Tell her, Fetohep. She knows Cawe’s story. Tell her their trials and triumphs.”

Erin nodded, sitting eagerly. Fetohep glanced at her, and then Khelta. She looked at him, and he saw a flush in Erin’s cheeks, the way she sat up, brushed at her hair, clenched her fists, and muttered about pans for all of Roshal—and not as gifts.

Before, she had been static. She rested on the balcony, she moved—but like a ghost. Defying gravity, rotating without laws of physics. As if she was forgetting…he saw her chest rising and falling. She had begun to forget to pretend to breathe, begun to fade.

So he nodded and told her stories of her friends. Khelta smiled, but he watched her lips move.

Tell her.

And…

Hurry.

——

Nothing lasted forever. There was some humor in it.

Consider that if you spent your entire life in the pursuit of strength, it would one day wither away. Age. They had sayings about age, and they were all true. Age laid low mountains and [Kings].

Age would take away the muscle you prized so highly. In the same way—what was muscle? Stitch-folk looked at it differently than Humans. You wanted biceps the size of your head? You could do that. Just hand me a wad of cotton.

Naturally, that was a bit of an exaggeration. Muscle cloth fibers were actually important to get right, let alone use correctly. However—it was true that pure physicality came as easily to them as getting your hair done.

That was why they valued skill, knowledge here. That was valuable. That was what they could strive for.

But the [Martial Artists] of Pomle had known, had always known, that it too was finite. Techniques would be lost when masters died. Some would come and go. Pomle was small and young, and it had been a strange confluence when it had been created. [Martial Artists] had gathered around an oasis, refused to pay taxes or disperse when someone claimed the unused watering hole was ‘theirs’. They had fought.

That was all there was to it. The fighting had been legendary, but it was so simple. Some people had expected a kingdom to arise from the bones of that place. They were fools because they didn’t understand why it had all taken place.

Simple reasons. A simple battle.

Those days had come again. Orjin, the Strongest of Pomle, stood on one of the cliffs surrounding Pomle. A powerful shield against weather.

Less against armies. Two passes allowed travellers in and out of the simple oasis and training grounds. Of course, now much of the land around this canyon was also technically Pomle’s.

If it had contained anything valuable, that might have been a problem, because Pomle was at war.

With no less than Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Orjin sighed. He shifted from one leg to another. In doing so, he side-stepped the arrow. He pivoted, caught it. The glowing tip sparked, but didn’t detonate.

Long-range archery Skill. No nuance to it. Just distance, not flicker-shot, not teleporting arrows that curved or exploded in midair or ricocheted.

You’d think they’d learn. But then—it was a fast arrow, a small thing, and if you were distracted, maybe it would touch you and turn you to ash.

Orjin wasn’t distracted. Nor were the other figures sitting or standing on the canyon’s walls.

Guards. Not in class, but it was necessary. Mostly to prevent infiltrators scaling and launching attacks.

“Strongest!”

A cry from below. Orjin shifted. He hopped off the canyon’s plateau and ran down the vertical cliff.

Ran? Hopped, from one foothold to another, but so fast it seemed like he was running vertically, then arresting his movement and transferring it smoothly into a step that carried him horizontally, as if it were as simple to go up and down in the world as it was right to left.

“Salii.”

It was always Salii. Except…when it wasn’t. Orjin blinked. He’d assumed it was, but this was another Drake. Holding a clipboard.

“It’s Henss, Strongest. Salii’s [Assistant]?”

“Ah.”

The new Drake was not used to Orjin. He hesitated, his tail shifting in the dust.

“I’m, um—one of Tiqr’s former people. A [Wildfriend]? Low-level. I came from Oteslia with the [Druids] in their last expedition.”

“I see.”

Orjin’s face never moved. They could do this all day—but then he remembered.

He had begun this, so he couldn’t waste time. He stared at the sky.

“What did Salii send you for?”

The Drake consulted his notes, speaking rapidly and clearly.

“She wants to tell you another army’s coming in. Nerrhavia’s Fallen is attacking. The eastern entrance—or at least, that’s where they’re coming from. [Mages]. Lots of [Archers]. But this time they’ve brought a proper guard. She thinks they’re [Lineholders]. Hemp-caste; armed with tower shields and spears. They might be veterans, in which case they’re [Trampleguard Lineholders] who fought Grand Elephants.”

“I understand.”

Last time, Nerrhavia’s Fallen had brought lots of [Archers] to force Pomle to attack, but not taken enough warriors to guard them. Pomle had attacked. It had been fairly one-sided.

Most of the [Martial Artists] and [Warriors] were close-combat experts. Some, like Orjin, had long-range attacks like [Aeriform Punch], but they couldn’t win a long-range battle. They were aware of this weakness, so they would charge the enemy.

It had worked so far, but Nerrhavia’s Fallen wouldn’t relent. Henss went on.

“Salii says that the new [Archers] might be ready by then, but she is requesting three experts in arrow catching or blocking techniques. She wondered who that might be.”

Orjin scratched at his head.

“Try…Yesq.”

“Yesq?”

“The Garuda with the bright red plumage. He will know other experts.”

“I will do that, thank you, Strongest! Oh—”

Orjin stopped Henss. He handed over the arrow, and the Drake took it gingerly.

“What’s…this?”

“Give it to Yesq. Ammunition.”

And, like that, another arrow was added to Pomle’s stocks. Yesq was a [Master Skyarcher], so he would know experts in arrow-catching. He would also put that arrow to good use. Frankly, a quarter of Pomle’s ammunition was reclaimed arrows from those that were shot at them—or taken from the defeated [Archers].

However, the other three-quarters? The potions? And, indeed, the [Archers] in training? Orjin saw them practicing under the eye of a [Weapon Expert]. He saw refugees from Tiqr, and even one of the freed [Slaves].

He had freed them. Started a war with Nerrhavia’s Fallen by offending a [Prince] or…someone. Orjin didn’t remember. Now, all of Pomle was under threat of attack by the greatest nation in all of Chandrar.

“Are you angry?”

A Garuda was napping by where Orjin had been talking with Henss. He opened one eye.

“Hm?”

Xil, the [Peerless Spearmaster], sat up. Orjin looked at him.

“I have begun a war. [Martial Artists] will die. Salii is buying every bit of ammunition, weapons she can. Potions too.”

There were more [Merchants] and [Traders] than ever in Pomle. Orjin had never seen so many. It seemed counterintuitive, but they came because the [Secretary] was offering fistfuls of gold for whatever they would sell.

None had [Slaves]. Word got around that taking them into Pomle was as good as freeing them. So some of the most wealthy kept away. Yet more and more came.

Why? Why was Pomle so rich? Not just the fight club—Orjin watched as a line of not-slaves were being shuffled into position. They cursed—well, the Silk ones did. The rank-and-file just seemed grateful to not be dead.

Defeated prisoners. Pomle kept taking them and ransoming them back to Nerrhavia’s Fallen via the [Traders]. Orjin wasn’t sure how Salii had managed it, but she was funding them via Pomle’s victories. All they had to do was keep winning.

But more armies would come. More and more—until you break their backs and make this war too costly, they will attack, Orjin.

[Martial Artists] were already dying. At first, they’d let anyone join the fighting. Now? They had to be of the right level, and those who were weaker fought on the sides while Xil, Orjin, and the other masters attracted the worst of it. Yet—

“Herish is dead. He didn’t survive the poison arrows.”

“I barely recall him. What was his specialty?”

“Throws.”

“Ah.”

Xil sat back. His face didn’t change. Are you angry? He had waited for a challenge, and a few had come, but not from Xil or the others. At length, the Garuda picked up something.

“Wine?”

Orjin eyed it. The Garuda drank greedily.

“Ah. Wine. I have lived here for…it must be over a decade, and wine was something I’d have once a year. Now? I can walk over, and Salii can buy me some. Wine for gold for hitting fools with a spear. Death, too. How many have died so far?”

“…Twenty-three.”

Twenty-three, in six successive clashes. An incredibly low number?

Incredibly high, considering Pomle’s population. Xil nodded.

“So more armies will come. So now they’re bringing better fighters. We might lose more. I fought as a [Mercenary] for Nerrhavia’s Fallen. They have hordes—but they will send a final army to crush Pomle the longer we resist. You know that.”

“I do.”

Orjin stared ahead, arms folded. Xil grinned.

“The odds are we’ll die. A hundred to one. Two hundred. They’ll bring magic and proper [Generals] and chariots and enchanted weapons.”

“Yes.”

Already some [Martial Artists] had left, said their farewells. They did not want to die, nor had they come here for war or true violence. Most had stayed. Xil stared ahead.

“Good.”

“Good?”

The [Spearmaster] smiled.

“We will level or die. That is also martial arts. Orjin—you may have started it over your principles, but do you think most disagreed? We have trained all our lives in the shadow of those that started Pomle. Trained because skill is not killing. But don’t you think we wonder how we would do? And Salii is making warriors of the people here. I’m not angry. I only feel…”

Slowly, he rose, an old Garuda with part of his beak broken, more scars under his feathers than he could count. He lifted something.

Not his walking stick. Not the simple wooden sticks he made his [Students] train with. An enchanted spear. His eyes gleamed.

“I feel like I might begin levelling again. I, who have defeated over a dozen [Spearmasters]. Peerless. Static. Without challenge except to kill people far lower-level than I.”

The tip of his spear began to glow. Orjin eyed it. Xil grinned at him.

“I had an enjoyable decade, training students to hold a spear properly. Now…now? Let’s live up to Pomle’s old legends, eh?”

Orjin nodded slowly. They were leveling. Faster than they had with the most intense training. Combat was giving them levels.

“Growth amidst death. That was what Salthorn said.”

“She’s wiser.”

“But do you think we can win this war?”

Xil stopped preparing his spear. The tip was so intense that Orjin felt the air moving. The Garuda eyed Orjin, then muttered.

“[Spear Art: Skyjump]. [Flash Wings]. [Cast of th—]”

Orjin didn’t hear the rest. He saw Xil plant the butt of the spear and launch himself into the air, hundreds of feet up, as his wings snapped open. Light flashed and Orjin shielded his gaze, but he sensed Xil throw the spear.

[Cast of the Fisherman]. He flew back with his spear after fifteen seconds.

“Got the [Sniper]. I’ll make someone with evasion Skills get the bow and arrows.”

“Mm.”

The Garuda went back to sitting down.

“Can we win? Can we win? It’s not about fighting all of Nerrhavia. They could drown us in bodies, but they won’t. Nations hate cost; they hate being embarrassed just as much. Once they bleed, they’ll stop. They could send this kind of harassment against us for years. But they won’t. I don’t know if we’ll survive a true clash, but I trust in your [Secretary].”

“Salii? Why?”

Xil grinned as he lifted the wine flask to his beak.

“She’s the monster-[Secretary] of Izril. If she’s still here—she thinks we can win.”

Orjin nodded. He bade Xil farewell; the Garuda was already going back to sleep.

It would come down to the actual army, whenever it came. Salii was convinced of it. But when that army came?

They’d knock down the canyon walls. Attack from all angles. [Martial Artists] would fight as arrows and magic rained down around them, surrounded by foes.

When that happened—anyone who wasn’t a master would die. How would they survive that? Orjin wasn’t sure if he should…tell them all to leave. Just leave, for the Kilalle Steppes or elsewhere. Nerrhavia’s Fallen would pursue, but not catch many.

Yet Salii was confident. She stood in the center of a furore, giving orders, administrating, sending [Messages]. She saw Orjin and strode over.

“Something wrong, Orjin? About the attack?”

“When is this grand army coming?”

Her eyes flickered.

“Not yet. The [Garrison General] posted here is sending this attack, and she’s in danger of being replaced for incompetence. Nerrhavia’s Fallen is concentrating on Reim. They might pull together another army to attack us if we smash them hard enough today.”

“How will we survive it? I have been envisioning the battle, Salii.”

It was hard. He was no [Battle Seeker] or [Visionary Martial Artist], but he could imagine eight of those [Snipers] firing into a melee. See how well some of the younger fighters did against three [Soldiers] and imagine what would happen if there were eight, in a scrum, with nowhere to maneuver.

Salii’s eyes were bright.

“Good. Then you’re not a giant fist attached to two legs. I never thought you were, but at least you know what you did. Do you regret it?”

Orjin wasn’t sure. It was so much death for a few people.

“No. Not doing it. Only what it might cost. How will we survive?”

Salii smiled slightly.

“I have ideas. Ideas from the Walled Cities and how they fight. We have gold, Orjin, and experts. More high-level fighters in one place than most nations can field in their armies. And we have one most secret weapon.”

He raised his brows. Salii waved.

“Raúl? Come over. I’ve been talking with him—I think it’s finally time for you to tell Orjin everything.”

Her eyes glinted. Orjin saw the young man with the interesting fighting tricks look up. His small group was often following Salii around. And it seemed she had found something interesting.

“You might even want to call the other masters over. Salthorn, Xil—they’ll all want to hear this. They were being coy, but once the war started I lost patience and got it out of them.”

The Drake woman said conversationally. Orjin raised his brows.

“How can they help us?”

Salii smiled tightly.

“With knowledge. Most of what they have is impossible to replicate without industry, and even then…I could rule Pallass. I could revolutionize Salazsar.”

She laughed lightly.

“—But that’s too easy. If we win this war, we’ll win every single one afterwards. Let’s talk, Orjin. They will be coming.”

She smiled, looking towards the horizon. Orjin nodded. He went, listened to Raúl, rubbed at his ears—and was still somewhat shocked when he kicked a [Mage] thirty feet and routed the [Linebreaker] army.

No less than Salthorn herself took down the head of the attack, which turned out to be the [Garrison General] herself. Salii rubbed her claws together at the ransom, and Orjin walked back over to keep asking Raúl questions. The young man stared at the angry Nerrhavia’s Fallen [General] and Orjin knew.

They were coming.

——

Ceria Springwalker sat and listened to rain pounding the roof overhead. A blood storm was coming in. So were the Bloodtear Pirates.

“It may be the end of Savere—at least, the Siren’s long reign. I cannot imagine why now of all times, but Bloodtear may decide to take the capital.”

“Why? They don’t strike me as, uh…ruling types.”

Ceria politely eyed the platter as it was placed in front of her. She sat in the quite sumptuous cabin, and felt it was distinctly not like the rest of Shifthold.

The sides of the ship looked like half-eaten bark. As if it had grown the crusted, barnacle-ladened wood that smelled of rot and fungus—yet Ceria was sure—as tough as could be.

The decks were no better, and the sails were not cloth. Nor hide nor skin—in case that’s what you suspected.

It was something else. Some odd, shiny material, although it was furled up at the moment. A dark sheen. She was piecing together the clues, but it was all still a mystery.

The crew of Shifthold were, like their master, Alchemist Irurx, garbed in dark cloth from head-to-toe. But while his clothing was faded grandeur, expensive, enchanted robes worn dark from alchemical stains that had eaten at the magic cloth itself, their coverings were dark, stained, and only functional.

They were definitely not all humanoid, let alone Human. Some were too tall. Too oddly shaped. They had masks, like Irurx, and said nothing.

One had placed the platter in front of Ceria and served the half-Elf sitting next to her the same. He had taken off his mask. Irurx smiled politely as he replied. He had burn scars all over his face.

“Bloodtear? They are not…builders, but you may be confusing their reputation with the Bloodfeast Raiders of Izril. Imitators. Bloodtear would happily take a powerful base; they have at least one, and they do organize into fleets. Each ship has a powerful [Captain], but they will join together to raid important targets.”

“Oh, I see. I had no idea they could sustain…so many?”

Ceria smiled blandly. She looked at her food as the dish was lifted.

A giant crab. With butter, garnishings—but a huge crab, shell cracked for easy access to the meat. She glanced up. Irurx was watching her.

He was turning grey. But his hair, rather than having any original color, had dark streaks to it. Like soot. His skin was shiny across his neck and up to his cheeks. A terrible burn, never healed. His eyes were a mild reddish-green, mixed but not composite.

“I hope this is to your liking. We eat fresh catches, mostly. I was told you were not averse to meat…unlike those from home, sister. May I call you that? It has been a while since I conversed with someone who knows home.”

Home. The villages. Ceria poked her crab with a fork. It twitched. Was it alive?

No…no, it was properly cooked. But this was not a fork and knife meal. Irurx had the same food, and Ceria eyed her dish. It smelled good, even delicious. There was no poison in it…she glanced up.

“It is quite safe. I would prefer to be cordial.”

He hastened to assure her. Irurx’s eyes focused on Ceria’s face, and then flicked up. She looked at him, then shrugged.

“Fine by me. I love crab.”

She snapped off a leg and began removing the meat. She dipped it in some garlic butter, popped it into her mouth, and was chewing so fast that Irurx blinked.

“You have a commendable appetite.”

“I love seafood. We never got any in the villages.”

Irurx blinked. He looked at Ceria and relaxed slightly. His mask lay on the table next to him and the [Alchemist] raised his hands, somewhat painfully, and removed a leg himself.

He appeared quite ordinary to Ceria. A half-Elf, old, with burns, but he spoke in a fairly dignified accent. Oh—and one of his crew stood silently behind him, waiting for orders, a blank mask with two soulless sockets revealing nothing of what lay within. A grey, stained robe, draped over a body with no apparent shoulders.

Horrific. Imagine one of those standing behind you as you slept? Then you’d look up into that blank, iron mask, and the robe would come up—

Ceria was down three crab legs already. Each time she touched the crab, the pincher snapped. Some kind of automated reaction.

“The villages do not eat meat, by and large. I had almost forgotten. At least—mine did not. Did yours? How long has it been, sister? Apologies, Adventurer Springwalker? For me—it has been over eighty-one years.”

Ceria looked up.

“I think twenty-three for me.”

“So long, already? But you would be…pardon me asking…?”

The half-Elf sighed. Ceria frowned.

“I think I passed sixty-eight. I lost track at one point, but I’m nearing seventy.”

“Ah.”

“And you would be…?”

Irurx hesitated. He put down one leg, and made a gesture. The figure bent at the waist to listen.

“You have forgotten refreshments. And I believe Miss Springwalker would care for a second crab. Perhaps smaller?”

“I can do two. This is great crab.”

Again, the older half-Elf blinked, but smiled.

“Ironclaw Snappers. Fetch another.”

The masked figure moved past Ceria and she caught a whiff of something entirely…foreign? She slowed in eating.

“I apologize. I seldom have guests. Does their visage bother you? Their smell?”

Irurx watched her carefully. Ceria swallowed.

“I’ve smelled worse. They’re somewhat creepy, but I’ve seen worse.”

“Indeed. Astonishing. I can count on one hand those in this century who have had the stomach to dine in Shifthold, let alone quite so…voraciously?”

Again, his eyes travelled upwards. Ceria smiled.

“You did make me a pressing invitation.”

He chuckled.

“I am sorry. But the Siren is notoriously clever, and I knew she would not be occupied long. That was my chance, and I greatly desired speaking with you.”

He had knocked on her door with two of those crewmembers in his wake. Ceria had heard he was forbidden from taking any ashore. Well…no one had seen them after she had agreed to his dining invitation.

They had stepped into the shadow of his robe and vanished.

She assumed they might still be there. Ceria chomped down. Nothing’s wrong with me yet.

“Is that Gnoll fish paste sauce? I love that too.”

Irurx glanced up as the platter returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He hesitated, then spoke as it was placed next to the first.

“To answer your question. I am three hundred and twelve years old. I—”

Lightning flashed and boomed outside the cabin. If it had been just a hair earlier it would have been dramatic. As it was, it was just sort of annoying. The rain began pattering harder, and Ceria heard distant booms and a clash of metal on metal in the distance.

“The Drowned Night has begun.”

Irurx glanced towards the port window, then back at her. Ceria swallowed slowly.

“You’re three centuries old? Really?”

He smiled.

“A third of it was spent in a village. I was a century old when I left. Exactly.”

“Wow. That’s…why did you leave?”

Most half-Elves either stayed forever or left when they were younger, like Ceria. He was an odd case. Irurx drummed his fingers on the table and winced. His fingers were gloved, even to eat the crab, and he touched at one hand.

“Tonic.”

The figure who had brought the food left and came back with a bottle. Irurx spoke as he fussed with the glove, poured a tonic over his hand—under the table. It had to be burned too.

“I will tell you. But first, let us speak of home, sister.”

“Alright, brother.”

They stared at each other. Irurx hesitated.

“—Perhaps we should dispense with the familiarity. It sounds—”

“Odd?”

“Entirely uncomfortable, yes.”

Ceria rolled her eyes.

“I met a half-Elf who kept calling me ‘sister’. And she only ate vegetables and she did that thing, you know? We must guide the younger races?”

Irurx closed his eyes.

“I am all too familiar. Perhaps I’ve met her?”

“Falene Skystrall?”

“Skystrall…the village? Yes. That particular half-Elf? No. They’re all like that.”

“Dead gods. Well, I know where I’m not going.”

Irurx smiled and Ceria grinned. The conversation was shifting. Swinging, back and forth, like the gently moving boat. From casual to…

For now, it was pleasant. Ceria pointed at the crab.

“My village would never eat a crab. They’d be horrified. They hate eating things with…faces. Sometimes a [Hunter] would bring in a catch, like once every two months. Or they’d find a freshly-dead animal or whatnot. Then we’d eat it in a stew, or something. But always skinned and processed. No seafood. I thought fish were cute little friends you fed—until I ate one.”

“Ah. That is reasonably adventurous. My village was strictly vegetarian. Some refused to even eat eggs. Not that they wanted for food; they had a Yellat they’d grown for over eighty years. It was taller than my house.”

“Wow. And there weren’t birds or scavengers…?”

Irurx waved a hand.

“Spells. They warded the village outskirts from bugs, the skies…a perfect magical bubble.”

“That’s more magic than my village had, for certain.”

“Yes. They were a gifted village.”

“Which one…?”

Irurx hesitated.

“Therwardn.”

Ceria knew most of the half-Elven villages in the region of Terandria; they knew each other. She hesitated.

“I don’t know…”

“It does not exist any longer.”

“Oh.”

And there they went again. Irurx’s face darkened.

“I did not end it. So we are clear. They…chose to disperse. After they renounced me.”

“Oh. Because of what you did?”

“Yes. After the Grand Endeavor—A’ctelios Salash’s experiments. I returned there to heal and they cast me out. You…do you know much of my history?”

A hand rose to touch his burned face. Ceria slowly swallowed her bite of crab.

“Not at all.”

It seemed to surprise him. He glanced quickly up at her.

“Really. The Siren did not…mention me?”

“She’s been busy with the Bloodtear Pirates. I’ve heard Shifthold is a famous ship, one of the Vessels…but I didn’t look it up.”

“Or me.”

“Nope.”

The half-Elf man looked nonplussed. Ceria reached for the second crab, then noticed the wine bottle.

“Tree rot, is this a genuine vintage from the villages?”

He bestirred himself and smiled.

“None other. You cannot find finer.”

“No, you can’t! Can we—are we—doing this?”

Ceria hesitated, examining the corked bottle of half-Elven wine, which came from perfect vineyards. Irurx gestured.

“I would be delighted to share it with someone else who knows home. In truth—I had wondered how this conversation would go. I am delighted it is so…refreshing?”

Ceria poured herself a cup of wine, took a sip, and smiled.

“It’s nice to talk with someone who’s from home. I’ve met other half-Elves—but I can’t, um, talk with someone who left on purpose. Falene always made it sound like she left to save the world and become an adventurer. She’s a Gold-rank. I met another half-Elf who had lived for four generations in a Human village. We helped her out with a Golem problem.”

Irurx leaned forwards.

“Really. Four generations? As what? A minder?”

“Nope. [Headwoman]. She was married and kept marrying every few decades, I think. She had…children.”

That shocked Irurx as much as it did Ceria.

“I can’t imagine that. The heartbreak. The same village?”

“She gave me a scrying mirror. Here…”

She fished it out and passed the tiny mirror across the table. Irurx reached for it and stared at the inlays around the small mirror.

“This is from the villages.”

Ceria hesitated. She eyed the simple silver decoration; it was so worn she couldn’t make out any reliefs.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded.

“It is. I cannot imagine it was made anywhere else. Not because of the reliefs, you understand. I am no [Jeweler]; I cannot tell what this is supposed to be.”

He indicated the rounded bevels and faint markings that were just a rough oval around the glass. Ceria nodded. Irurx went on.

“I can tell it is pure silver, though. Most [Jewelers] don’t make items out of pure silver; they’ll add an alloy. But half-Elves don’t bother as the few who would mine it would cast out of silver alone. There was also a tradition to keep a bit of silver on oneself…”

“Really. I don’t remember that. The woman—Disabella, I think her name was?—she said that it was a gift from a suitor. I feel bad, now.”

Irurx passed the scrying mirror back.

“It’s an old tradition, and you know what that means among us. Perhaps it was a gift. From a suitor. From home. If so, perhaps you did a kindness, taking it from her. It may be a memory she no longer wished to keep.”

Thoughtfully, Ceria put the mirror away. She took another sip of wine and looked at Irurx.

“This is an enjoyable conversation.”

“Isn’t it? I am astonished. But it is everything…I hoped for.”

He looked at Ceria, hungrily, in a way that had nothing to do with food. She glanced at him, but he lifted a hand.

A ship sailed past the window, into port. Ceria heard a roar as the crew leapt from the railings and joined the fighting. Both half-Elves turned to watch it.

“Are you worried? The Drowned Night doesn’t safeguard people on ships.”

Irurx glanced at Ceria. He smiled. She heard voices pounding up the dock towards this ship. Then…an exclamation.

“Bleeding Shifthold! Back up! Back—”

Something screamed on the decks, right outside the cabin. Ceria whirled, finger raised, but whatever it was leapt off the ship and onto the docks. She knew that because there was shouting—fighting—a shriek, again, not like any animal she had ever heard—

“Keep away from that damned ship! Move into the streets! We’re not after another Vessel tonight!”

Ceria blinked. The screaming died with a wet sound. Someone—the Bloodtear’s [Captain]?—had ended it.

Irurx sighed.

“That would be one of my crew. A shame. I lost two in the storm and pursuit. [Bounty Hunters]. But as you can see, few would dare to do battle with me here. It is a costly endeavor.”

He lifted his cup and drank. Ceria nodded. Irurx lowered the glass, and his eyes sparked as he glanced up.

“Which begs the question—why did you acquiesce so easily? Adventurer or not—knowledge of me or not—I am sure the Siren warned you. Do you fear for your life?”

The ship groaned and rustled around them. Ceria glanced up and saw the masked crewmember looking at her. Irurx waited for her to shiver or for bravado or…

Ceria just took another sip of her wine and stared at the crab, as if wondering if she could fit another two legs into her stomach. The answer was always ‘yes’.

“Fear. I’m a bit nervous. But I don’t think you want to kill me. If you did—I was dead the moment I opened the door. You’d have gutted me, taken the circlet, and been sailing out of Savere before the Siren even knew. You’re cautious because you don’t know what it does.”

Ceria glanced up at Irurx as she snapped another leg and went for the orange sauce next. She took a bite—pushed the dish away.

“What is that?”

“Orange-flavored sauce of some kind. Sweet and spicy.”

“Not for me. Eugh.”

Irurx saw Ceria glance up. She smiled and went on.

“The reason you didn’t kill me, Alchemist Irurx, is that you want something. Everyone does. Maybe it’s the circlet. Maybe it’s to talk and then kill me. But I think…you’re curious. You want something. So I’m in danger. But I also think you’re not leaning towards killing me yet.”

He was fascinated. The half-Elf [Alchemist] sat there, eyes flickering over her face.

“Does your circlet grant you the power to read minds, or intuit such things? Or do you have a Skill, Adventurer Ceria?”

She laughed and poured herself another cup.

“No. I just know when someone’s getting ready to murder me. We’re not there yet. Is there dessert, by any chance?”

She lifted her cup in a silent toast. Irurx began chuckling. The crewmember watched them both. Yes, oh yes.

He was exceedingly curious. He leaned to the side, whispering urgently.

“Yes. Fetch me any if we looted any. Gelato…something from the hold. Sweet. Not the rations. Sweet and in a container. Understand? Show it to me, first.”

Ceria watched the odd interaction with the crewmember, who walked past her. Then, as it opened the door, the wind and rain blew inwards a bit and the remains of their crab-dinner blew slightly. Ceria heard something rattle, then a lid hit the floor.

Irurx cursed. She saw a flurry of movement—and then it happened. There was a rustle—

And fifteen large, large cockroaches swarmed onto the table and covered the crabs. Ceria saw their fat abdomens wriggling, their wings fanning—Irurx raised his hand.

“I apologize for—”

He looked up to see the half-Elf girl recoil. To see her blanch or scream, and regret the moment was over. Instead? Instead of doing what any half-Elf in the villages would have, she idly picked up a roach, which immediately panicked.

“I know I asked for dessert, but these guys don’t taste that good. Even if you dip them in honey. I’m sort of full.”

She held it to her mouth, pursed her lips, and tossed it down. It fled behind the crab and all fifteen roaches looked up.

“What?”

Irurx felt like he had stopped breathing for a moment. Ceria eyed them.

“Bugs. Taste awful. Except for honey-ants. Ever had them? They have these abdomens made of sweet stuff.”

“I know them. But you—you eat bugs?”

Ceria smiled, glancing at Irurx.

“Yep.”

The cockroaches stared up at her in horror. She does—they swarmed off the table and back towards their jar.

Ceria looked at them. Then the jar sitting in the corner of the room. Then she thought about Shifthold, about that strange scream. And about the sails that were so familiar and not. Not hide. Not skin…but glossy. Like…

Chitin. Ah. And those figures. And—

She saw Irurx turn back to her and saw him smile. Uncertainly. Like he thought he was being pranked.

“You truly don’t seem bothered. Is it your circlet, or the nature of being an adventurer?”

“No. I just eat bugs. I did all the time, growing up.”

For some reason, Irurx began to get angry.

“In a village? Don’t be…”

Ceria sighed. She didn’t talk about it to anyone. Not really. She looked at Irurx.

“No. When I left. I didn’t know how to fend for myself, not properly. I stole things. I hunted and ate raw eggs and even tree bark—and bugs. I still eat them, now and then. I feel like I have to. I nearly starved to death.”

Bugs were not tasty, but…Irurx sat back. Then he blurted out what was burning on his lips.

“You consume insects? You are the only—I dine on them as well. Crabs are the acceptable food, socially, but I—this ship—I do the exact same.”

A huge smile reappeared on his lips. Ceria rested her chin on her hands.

“Now that’s interesting.”

What an odd connection. It had nothing to do with the circlet. When the masked figure came back in, edging through the door with a bundle of what turned out to be old, molded shortcake, Irurx instantly sent him back to fetch a small tin of actual honey-ants. The crabs and shortcake went into the recycling bins…

The jars of bugs. Which sat around the room. There was no fear of Irurx knocking one over and having an infestation. They were…not pets. Not tame, not exactly. But they had an understanding.

Ceria was realizing this as she saw the odd movement of the masked crewmember. The way its body was so odd. The name of this ship.

This was Shifthold. She began to suspect what she would see next. But for now…

“Butterfly trees. You know? They hang on branches, thousands of them.”

“You ate them? Truly?”

Ceria shook her head.

“Their wings taste awful. I think they’re poisonous. And their actual bodies? It’s not really a meal, even if you grab a hundred. I threw up for two days after I tried—so I used them as bait for fishes. Worked just fine.”

Irurx was smiling with delight, eyes lighting up. He was leaning forwards now, talking animatedly. Someone understands me. Someone…

“I confess. I had—untoward plans—once I heard of your Relic, Ceria Springwalker. But I also had hope. Hope, when I heard what it might do. Now? I think it might be providence. I would like to…show you something.”

And here his face clouded, grew reserved. He wasn’t quite sure. But he wanted to be.

“I would like to show you Shifthold in its entirety. It is a privilege few earn, though many witness it. I would like to see what you make of it.”

Her reaction would decide everything. The young half-Elf woman wiped her mouth on her arm. She stood casually, and nodded.

“I thought it would come to this. Lead on.”

Slowly, Irurx opened the door, conjuring a shield to protect them from the red rain. There was fighting everywhere in Runsblud. Screaming, violence…Ceria Springwalker glanced at it, calmly as could be.

Not idly; she was watchful for danger. Yet she had looked at him and Shifthold and even the roaches with the same lack of fear or hatred or revulsion. Irurx licked his lips. Yet that was one thing.

Shifthold’s truth another. He pointed towards the dark stairwell and door that led to the deep decks below. The crew stirred. The ones keeping watch drifted after Irurx, but he motioned them back as Ceria walked ahead of him towards the stairs. He put a hand in his robes and clutched at a bottle. He did not wish to be…discourteous to a guest.

But she wore a Relic. But he wanted her to understand. Perhaps? Maybe? Someone in this wide world, who understood—let alone one of his kind? He realized he was trembling with nerves.

——

Ceria Springwalker had been on worse dates. She was surprised, really. Irurx was…

Oddly desperate. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t expected her to eat bugs. Perhaps he just didn’t get out much. Then again, if he was prepared to waste her with that bottle if he didn’t like what she did—she doubted many romantic interests got much further.

Shifthold was one of the places.

One of the places.

Like A’ctelios Salash.

Like the depths of Liscor’s dungeon.

Like the City of the Dead.

A place where normal was dead. Not just magical. Not just strange. Strange was Erin’s inn.

This was the kind of place that some people might call…wrong.

Somewhere where laws were being broken.

Where someone had done…something.

Or something had happened.

The kind of thing that led a nation to burn every [Alchemist] alive. Then—one of the survivors had gone home. Been rejected by his people. Fled every nation and law and…

Fallen deeper.

Shifthold. A ship that was tolerated in some ports because of what it sold. Potions to make you stronger. Potions to give you temporary Skills. Expertise you did not own. And, in his way, Alchemist Irurx had become an expert in other substances and creations. Thus he had named his ship, which seemed to constrict and move as Ceria walked down the stairs.

There was a second door there. Unlocked. It was the only thing truly made of metal on this ship; there were nails and bracings, but this was the only metal thing. A foreign object. The rest of Shifthold…the ship…it was in the name.

Change. But not that of A’ctelios Salash. Oh, no. That was just the foundation. Shifthold bought the meat from there. It bought [Slaves] and took prisoners. It conducted dark experiments, but it was no copycat. The foundation for Irurx’s work? He had studied the most adaptive creatures he could. Plagues that even his folk could not easily remove from their sanctuaries.

Possessing abilities beyond the normal species. The ability to…transform. Remake themselves completely. After all—had not one kind nearly overthrown the Blighted Kingdom and taken Izril?

The door opened, and the belowdecks scuttled. The crew, unmasked, ungarbed, looked up. Something clicked in the darkness.

A bulging sac twitched. They hung from hooks. They writhed in containment fields. They grew, eating A’ctelios’ flesh. They changed. Some of them had been people. Some were waiting, and flinched away from the [Alchemist]’s return.

Shifthold.

Ceria Springwalker stood in the light of the moonlit sky. Red light, seeping into the hold. There was light here, but it came from no magic. Nor flame. It made everything look worse than…no. It wasn’t really possible to make it worse, was it?

Irurx stood behind her. Alchemist Irurx. The Alchemist of Change. The monster exiled from half-Elven lands.

[Heretical Swarmlord Alchemist]. He lifted the moving, shaking bottle and watched her face. Hoping. Searching for…

Understanding? No. Acceptance? No. What he so dearly wanted, what he had idly wondered and now which had a hold over his heart was…

Appreciation. Do you see it? You are free from morality. Do you see…?

But he also wanted her to recoil. To gasp. To show him, like every single person who had stood here, her frailty in front of his creations.

No one had ever stood and beheld Shifthold without flinching. Even Irurx. Not half-Elves, not even Bloodtear’s [Pirates] or famed [Marauders] and [Murderers]. Even Roshal’s [Slavers] had cried out and fled.

He was smiling. Even now, if he sat down, in that moment, Irurx wouldn’t have been sure if he wanted her to scream and try to flee—or embrace it.

He waited a moment, watching her face. Waiting…waiting…

A second rolled by. A flash of lightning illuminated the below-decks. The things began to move. One of the cocoons twitched harder. The prisoners stared at Ceria, tubing attached to their veins. Outside, Runsblud howled with violence.

Ceria Springwalker stood there. Looking around. Irurx’s huge smile…wavered. She looked into each shadow. She stared at the things crawling across the ground. She stared into the cocoons and realized what they had been. She looked into the eyes of the prisoners, and the experiments.

She looked back at Irurx and saw what lay behind the masks of his crew…changed, bound to him in loyalty and madness.

Her face never changed. The [Alchemist] stared at her, unsettled. Ceria looked back into the depths of Shifthold.

“Huh. It’s about what I expected.”

“What?”

The [Alchemist] stumbled as if she had struck him. Ceria Springwalker looked around again.

“Yep. Ew.”

That was her reaction. No horror. No outrage. No fascination nor understanding. The half-Elf wrinkled her nose faintly.

Ew.

Irurx hesitated. The bottle was in his hands, but Ceria pivoted and he realized—she’d cast [Ice Armor]. Her lips, her real lips, moved within the faint sheen of colored ice.

“What were you expecting, Alchemist Irurx? For me to be horrified? If I didn’t have my circlet—you’d probably get your wish. Are we doing this?”

He stared at her. Then the worst exploded out of him.

“How do you not see anything? What you expected? This is my life’s work! This is such that even A’ctelios’ own creations flinched away from it! See what I make!”

She looked over her shoulder.

“I see it.”

“Can’t you see the beauty in it? You? You—doesn’t that Relic free you? Free you from misconceptions and the banality of people?”

He pointed a trembling finger at the circlet. That was why he wanted it. Or her—he wanted to see with eyes unfettered by even his own limitations or foibles! Ceria reached up and touched the circlet on her head. She looked at him and smiled, almost pityingly.

“Oh. I get it, Alchemist Irurx. You think I would have loved this. Loved…you. You, and Shifthold, because of what it does.”

Freedom from Morality. Ceria looked over her shoulder again. At the suffering and insanity. She shook her head.

“I don’t love that. I don’t like it. It is cruel. Disgusting—especially that.”

She pointed blandly at something that started at her, half-formed. Ceria wrinkled her nose.

“Yes. I can see how disturbing it is. It doesn’t bother me, though. That’s where you’re right. See the beauty? That’s where I’m afraid you’re wrong, Irurx. Even if you take this circlet from me and put it on someone else, you won’t get what you want. It’s only beautiful to you.”

She looked back at him, and the [Alchemist] recoiled as if she’d struck him. Ceria’s pale eyes were calm.

“It is the truth my people—a glorious—”

The circlet on her head gleamed as the half-Elf [Cryomancer] spoke.

“No. It is not an objective fact. I am free from morality, I suppose. It’s an odd feeling. But even so—I don’t like what you’ve done here. If I thought I could, I would stop you. Since I can’t—I’ll do nothing.”

“Stop me. You? Who’s freed from—”

“Free does not mean ignorant.”

Ceria moved. She grabbed the bottle he held, and her fingers closed over the stopper. Shifthold stirred, but now they were locked together. Ceria stared at Irurx.

“It’s still there. I can see it. I don’t like this place. Not because I care for anything in here. But because I have friends who would be horrified. Because this place would do terrible things to people I care about. I find it mildly offensive. But I’d also like to live.”

The [Alchemist] stared at her. His expression was trembling. Shifting as much as his ship.

Confusion—then to disappointment, anger—sadness—longing.

“You can see what I am doing.”

“Yes. Searching for something. But it’s not terrifying.”

“Why?”

Such a plaintive question. As if a child were asking it. Why don’t you see anything here? Ceria smiled. They were wrestling for the bottle now, and if it opened—she grabbed for it with two hands, but he was so strong. Changed by his own formulas.

“—Because—I’ve seen worse. I’ve seen things I don’t understand. This? You made this. I understand this. It’s just bullying. It’s just cruelty.”

He pulled and Ceria saw the bottle lift. The fragile glass crack in his grip. Irurx stared at Ceria, mystified.

“What should I do with you? I had such hopes. Now…even what you hold, I want less. But I still want it.”

The buzzing. Figures were above decks, shapes behind her. Ceria sighed. She put up her hands.

“Irurx. I came with you politely, as a guest. We enjoyed ourselves, didn’t we? I didn’t see what you wanted, but I am not here to stop or kill you or even judge you. Why don’t we speak? Or at least—go our separate ways.”

He looked at her, bottle raised. Ceria’s circlet shone without any magic he could see. She was a Gold-rank adventurer, but he had held them in Shifthold’s bowels.

“And if I don’t agree?”

Irurx whispered. Ceria’s smile never changed.

“Then, Alchemist. You will find out exactly what this circlet does.”

——

Revine Zecrew stared at Shifthold, at dock. She had her wand in one hand, and the other was clenched into a fist.

I could sink that damn ship.

Probably. She could certainly attempt to flip it; the [Alchemist] Irurx was not known to be a [Captain], and his ‘crew’ were probably lower-level, if dangerous in other ways.

Then again, she didn’t think it would kill all of them, and she didn’t want that in Runsblud’s bays.

There was blood enough already.

The Bleakbeak Raiders were getting slaughtered. It wasn’t one-sided, but it was going Bloodtear’s way. With a storm at their backs and wind and rain pelting everything, the Garuda were grounded, and the [Pirates] were fighting on their terrain, despite being on land.

Blood and death. Where was Ceria? What had possessed her to be so foolish?

Irurx got to her. If I hadn’t realized what he was planning—

He was a high-level [Alchemist]. Probably—definitely over Level 50. For all she had that circlet, Ceria was twenty levels below him, at least.

She might be dead. Or wishing she were dead. Revine was debating going down there. However—

She was afraid she couldn’t waste any magic. Not with Bloodtear moving through the port. Revine didn’t know for sure, but she had her emergency bag of holding ready, and a skiff was loaded in the secret docks. She was ready to flee Savere. She would not go down with this ship, but nor would she give it up easily.

Damn them. Damn these people getting in the way of her plans. It was Nsiia all over again. That arrogant empress, checking Savere, making costly war—but for her, the Siren would rule an area twice Savere’s current size, and then she wouldn’t need to fear strong groups forcing her hand.

If only she had…the Siren’s concentration lapsed. Then she saw a figure backing onto the decks. Revine focused downwards. Was that—

Ceria! The Alchemist, Irurx, was slowly backing away. And Ceria’s circlet was shining like…Revine’s mouth went dry.

——

There was a rule most people followed regarding artifacts. When it started shining, making sounds, or screaming at you, back away.

Alchemist Irurx had read the Adventurer’s Handbook too, clearly. His eyes were locked on the circlet, and his bottle of whatever-it-was was raised defensively now.

“I really don’t want to fight. Let’s agree to go our ways, okay?”

The half-Elf stood with Ceria amidst the rain. His crew was gathered around her, but Ceria Springwalker was cool.

“Truly. You’d just walk away?”

“Why not? You’re not my enemy. I might need to even buy potions from you—but I’ll talk and conduct business off this ship.”

The [Cryomancer] smiled. She was so casual. Irurx’s jaw was clenched in frustration. But he didn’t quite dare get closer.

Not without knowing what the circlet did.

Uncertainty. No…

“Entanglement.”

He jumped at the word. Ceria looked around.

“You don’t know what it does. No one does. Not even me. If there’s even a chance—”

You didn’t get to three hundred and twelve years old by taking those chances. Ceria Springwalker bowed, politely, to the alchemist.

“It’s been fun. Aside from the last part. Let’s agree to leave it here.”

She turned and began walking towards the docks, half-waiting. A spell burned on her lips, but none of the crew moved.

“Wait. Answer me one last thing.”

Irurx called out. He was staring at her. Mystified. Angry—but not mad with it. He pointed at Ceria as the bottle disappeared into his robes.

“Yes?”

She turned. The rain was just wet; not bloody at all. It had a faintly iron smell, but that wasn’t blood. It was still water. Irurx licked his lips.

“You…why did you leave your village?”

It was the last question half-Elves like that asked. The last…Ceria raised her brows. She looked up and sighed. Of all the things they had said and done—that one alone hurt.

“I left because my grandmother died. My grandmother, who raised me and took care of me and told me stories about the outside world. She died, and no one noticed for five months but me. So I burned down her house and left.”

She stepped back onto the gangplank. Irurx stared at her.

“Just that? Just that? I was cast out for delving into dark alchemy! Forbidden magic and experiments! They threw me out of my village the first time for creating an insect the likes of which no one had seen! It could have tended our forests. The second time they burned every [Alchemist]. I was scarred forever by that fire! My village renounced me and ended itself for shame! You—just that?”

Ceria Springwalker looked at him. Grandiosely small set against Shifthold’s unnatural crew, its reputation, and his famous name. She shook her head.

“Alchemist Irurx. Does it matter? I didn’t have a grand reason why I left. But I have seen and done things since then that…”

She trailed off. Reached up and touched the circlet. Ceria’s eyes, pale ice, shone. Once they had been a different color. The rain began to turn to sleet around her. Cold.

“I have lived through stories. Fought monsters. I walked into the heart of the Village of the Dead and saw a half-Elf there. Older than both of us combined. Perhaps older than my entire village put together, and yours. I saw him die. The greatest [Necromancer] I have ever seen.”

Irurx’s eyes were round. He mouthed the name.

“The Putrid One. You met—the—his creations! His legacy lives on—”

He stood there, poleaxed, and Ceria shrugged.

“It’s not who we were, Irurx. It’s what we do. I met the Putrid One. And I stole his circlet.”

He looked at her. One of the crew lunged suddenly, but Ceria was already moving. The crewmember slammed mask-first into a wall of ice. Ceria strode down the gangplank, waiting—but Irurx appeared alone on the railings. He and she stared at each other. At last, the [Alchemist] sighed.

“Tell me how to get to the heart. What you saw. I invite you upon my ship in truce and true hospitality. I swear it on truth spells.”

Ceria snorted.

“Come find me tomorrow and bring more wine. And I will tell you.”

He narrowed his eyes, hesitated.

“There were lots of bugs around the center.”

Ceria offered. The Alchemist licked his lips. How strange. She was just walking away—neither enemy nor friend. Just…like a practical adventurer.

He let her go. Irurx stepped back and laughed. Bitterly. He had gotten nothing of what he wanted and still—

“Clever. Too clever. You have walked into Shifthold and back out, Ceria Springwalker. They will tell stories of it, too!”

He walked back towards the belowdecks. He’d bring another bottle of wine. And potions to barter. That was all.

He wasn’t willing to find out the truth of that circlet.

——

Revine Zecrew met Ceria Springwalker as she returned to the Siren’s Lookout.

Not that Ceria took the streets. The half-Elf had left the ship, amazingly, without a fight beyond casting [Ice Wall]. Then she had headed towards the streets, taken one look at the bloodbath beyond—

And not gone that way. She had jogged back, waved at the Alchemist, and hopped into the sea. Or, rather, onto a pillar of ice, and begun casting [Ice Wall]. She navigated around the ships in their berths towards Runsblud.

Some of the [Pirates] had seen her and clearly weighed taking pot-shots, but they seemed to recognize her and let her pass. By the time Ceria got to the rocks closest to the palace, the Siren had cast a spell.

A staircase made of water led Ceria up to the balcony. She got up a third of the way, then sat down.

“What’s wrong?”

Revine shouted down at her. The storm raged around her, but neither the wind nor air bothered the [Hydromancer]. Ceria hollered back up.

“I’m—out of—breath!”

It was a lot of stairs, and a long walk from port. Even so. Revine stared at Ceria, and a ball of water rose under her and began to carry her up the stairs.

“Thank you.”

Ceria walked onto the balcony. Revine just looked at her.

“Irurx took you to Shifthold. You escaped. Did you see…what lies below?”

All she knew were stories. She had never set foot down there. Ceria grimaced.

“Yep. It’s not pretty. Lots of experiments. Bug-related. Not Antinium—just bugs, I think.”

“Ex—bugs? Was it—and he let you go?”

“Mhm. He didn’t have a choice. See?”

Ceria tapped the glowing circlet on her head. Revine eyed it apprehensively.

“What—what is it doing?”

“Glowing.”

It winked out as Ceria tapped it. She exhaled.

“Whew.”

The Siren of Savere was lost for words for a minute.

“Do you mean you just made it light up and—he let you walk off?”

Ceria smiled crookedly.

“Why not? It’s an adventurer’s oldest trick. Besides, I was pretty sure he couldn’t tell what the circlet was doing. You can’t.”

It was true. Revine couldn’t tell if that was a simple [Light] spell or illusion. Ceria exhaled again.

“I hate bluffing. But it worked so I didn’t have to do anything else. We parted on a truce. He might sell me some potions if I give him some information.”

“About…?”

“The Village of the Dead. Apparently, the [Necromancer] there was some kind of famous person to Irurx. He had undead beetles…I think they were undead. Good luck to Irurx, I say. He can shake hands with what’s inside.”

Revine just looked at Ceria. She was trying, very hard, not to be admiring. She had seen stone-cold bluffs before, but Ceria’s would be the stuff of bar stories among [Sailors], even if they never heard about her lies.

“Few can claim they’ve walked Shifthold’s lower decks and lived. I am glad you survived. It was foolish to take his offer.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice. He brought two of his crew ashore.”

“He did? That—”

“In his cloak. You might want to watch out for it; he’s got reinforcements.”

The Siren cursed. That was a high-level artifact for certain. Maybe a Relic-class object if it could store people. Or was it a Skill?

Either way—she was relieved it ended there. The Siren gestured to the wild streets below with a curled lip.

“As you can see, a Drowned Night has begun. Two more fleets of the Bloodtear Pirates have sailed in. I…believe they may be dangerous. To me.”

Ceria glanced up. The Siren was sweating in the small of her back. She didn’t know if it was wise to tell Ceria, but right now she was scrambling for any allies, and her army was days of marching away from the capital.

“Hm. Are they going to try to assassinate you?”

Revine spat over the balcony.

“They would not assassinate me. It would come in the open. Stay indoors. It will not be tonight. The Bleakbeaks are doomed. Tomorrow…it will be Savere’s own who begin to clash with them. Spill blood.”

Provocations and inciting incidents. That was how she’d do it. Revine’s stomach churned. Then she looked at Ceria and shook her head; the half-Elf was wet and she wasn’t shivering, but no one liked being soggy. Not even Revine.

“Come inside. We will discuss Irurx and the rest—he will not get away with this. I also need to tell my people to stop searching for you. Not that anyone can exactly go out into the streets with…”

Revine began to wave a hand at the chaos below and then hesitated. She cursed.

“Salt for blood! Omusc!”

Ceria turned as she began walking inside.

“Omusc?”

“I…sent her into the city to find you when I thought you’d left. With orders to return with you or not at all. She’s down there. She—might survive.”

Revine bit her lip, feeling genuine guilt. Omusc was a mollusc Drowned Woman, though. She’d survived a lot of fatal injuries thanks to her amazing regenerative abilities. Even so—that was a bloodbath, and Omusc could survive a stabbing, incredible damage—not being sliced into pieces.

Ceria looked at Revine.

“She’s down there?”

“Yes. I will contact her. Omusc is intelligent enough to find a hiding spot. I’m sure she—what are you doing?”

Ceria Springwalker stopped. She had one foot over the balcony. Revine lifted a finger and the water stairs fell into a thunderous cascade of water.

“Don’t be a fool. There are Bloodtear Pirates and raiders and, even if some consider you a friend, no one can see anyone down there.”

Ceria just looked at the Siren.

“Omusc’s a friend. Not a huge one—but I’d feel bad if she died.”

“Don’t be stupid! Circlet or not—”

The half-Elf snorted.

“The circlet has nothing to do with it, Revine. I don’t leave friends to die. Ever. I was always stupid. Not even a Relic can change that.”

She hopped up onto the balcony and windmilled her arms.

“Whoa. That’s slippery. Can you help me?”

“I will not. Come down here! Come d—”

Revine grabbed for Ceria’s legs. She missed. The [Arctic Cryomancer] did a hop. Just a little bunny hop forwards. She met Revine’s eyes and the two locked gazes.

Then Ceria’s butt hit the long slide of ice aiming towards the city’s streets and she shot down with a scream.

“Tree rooooooo—”

Revine saw her move so fast neither she nor Ceria had time to process it. Ceria flashed downwards, hit the ground, and lay there. Revine winced. Ceria levered herself up; she had a bloody nose and scrapes, and drank a healing potion. Then she ran.

I was always stupid. That was what everyone didn’t understand. Not yet. Wearing the Relic of the Putrid One didn’t change her. The circlet? It just made her more of that.

But also? The fighting people on the streets, the [Bandits] and [Raiders] and [Pillager] and [Pirates] and [Marauders] and [Killers]—they got to learn what the circlet also did. And that was let Ceria be the person she imagined. Move, cast like the [Mage] she wanted to be. Revine looked down and saw. Her lips moved and her eyes widened.

——

Omusc was bleeding. This was how she’d die. Not from her wounds; she pushed herself off the wall, and her chopping cut with her shortsword took a [Pirate] in the neck. He got her in the stomach, but she wrenched the blade free and ran.

“Kill them! Kill—”

A Garuda ran past her, mistaking her for an ally. He covered her with his death; the Bloodtear Pirates were easily distinguishable from the rest.

They wore red bandannas. Simple, effective in a night-fight. And they were stained more and more with crimson.

“Fall back! They’re everywhere!”

Omusc ducked. Something flashed over her head and the shouter was struck by an arrow or crossbow bolt. She saw a figure running at her and swung her sickle in her off hand. A strange weapon. Unpredictable.

She tangled, disengaged with a shove. Run. Omusc was no hero. Run! The Bloodtear Pirates were not screaming. They advanced with fighting ranks, engaging, switching out. Contrary to their image, they fought disciplined—but took no prisoners.

They were singing. The song was half-chant, half-Skill.

“We sailed under flags of no quarter. We took no prisoners.”

“A storm at our backs. Blood in the water, blood in the sky.”

Two chants, a terrifying song because of how calm it was. Even cheery.

“The bodies filled the decks. We fought until we died.”

“No mercy, no regrets, aye.”

Terrifying. The Bleakbeaks were experienced killers and marauders. But they were still raiders. They flew off if they thought they’d die.

Bloodtear killed or were killed. All or nothing. Idiots.

Where was Ceria? No—she wasn’t here. If she was, she was dead. Omusc was dead. She should have hid and risked the Siren’s wrath.

“Open! Open in the name of Savere and the Siren! Let me in!”

She pounded on a door, but no one answered. Of course not. Not on a Drowned Night.

Omusc kept running. A squad of [Pirates] was after her, and the Bleakbeaks and their friends had realized she wasn’t one of them. She stumbled down a street, locked blades, and someone planted an arrow in her back.

They seemed very surprised as Omusc kept running. Her ‘flesh’ rippled and ejected the barbed arrow, but she still bled.

“Bastards!”

She was running out of energy. Omusc wanted to lie down. But if she did…

Not yet. I have to survive. I have to take care of—

She stumbled upwards and ran. They were singing. The Drowned Woman heard a strange sound ahead of her and frowned upwards. Her mouth opened.

Omusc heard a familiar voice. Someone was searching for her. But…in the rain, in Runsblud, a port, how could she hope to find Omusc? It was a stupid idea, even if you were willing to risk your life.

You’d have to be an idiot to try it.

An intelligent idiot was doing just that. And Omusc saw her. Half of Runsblud saw her.

“Omusc! Omusc! Where are you?”

Ceria Springwalker stood on a pillar of ice, firing [Ice Spikes] down into the melee and crouching behind walls of ice. She was higher than anything else; she’d conjured a massive tower out of the water and was taking fire—mainly from the Bleakbeaks.

Some even tried to fly up, recognizing her or seeing the circlet. [Rogues] and [Thieves] saw Ceria and realized she had the circlet. They tried to climb the tower, and their gloves slid off the water-slicked ice. Garuda flew up and [Archers] took aim.

One nailed her in the head with an arrow.

Ceria staggered, and Omusc cried out. But she just shook her head, and the [Ice Armor] refroze. She pointed down, and an [Ice Spike] struck someone in the face.

“Ceria!”

The Drowned Woman ran, waving her arms, shouting upwards. Ceria didn’t see her at first. She dove, and a wall of ice shot outwards from the tower to block a [Fireball]. She picked herself up.

“Damn—”

Her return was an [Ice Lance] that splintered, sending deadly shrapnel everywhere. Then she spotted Omusc and her smile was relieved.

“There you are!”

Ceria leapt down, and the ice tower collapsed. She slowed before she hit the ground. [Featherfall].

Omusc shouted.

“What are you doing? Are you stupid?”

“Let’s get out of here!”

Ceria pointed but then ducked; another arrow flashed past her, and Omusc screamed. A second arrow—this one burning.

This one she couldn’t just remove. She collapsed, grabbing at it. Ceria bent down—then looked up. She raised her finger. The [Pirate] bared her teeth in a wary grin. She had aimed for Omusc.

The jagged shard of ice caught her in the throat. The Bloodtear Pirates stared at their friend. Then one of them grabbed a horn and blew it.

“You’ve done it. You’ve done it now—”

“It’s okay.”

Omusc was lying there. Ceria looked around. She saw more Bloodtear Pirates moving this way. It must have been a horn for ‘high-level foe’. A wall of ice rose, blocking her from the [Pirates] and arrows and spells. She bent over Omusc and uncorked a healing potion.

“Just stay here. I think I can hold them off. This is a good place.”

They were caught between both sides in a plaza. Nice, open, flat; not a place you wanted to stick around in for fear of incoming arrows. Ceria bent over Omusc.

The [Pillager] was at the end of her rope, clearly. Exhausted from multiple healings and fighting for at least an hour. Ceria doubted they could get to the palace. So she lifted a hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t worry. I’ve done this before. You’ll live.”

Something rose around Omusc. She tried to rise, but the casket of ice enclosed her. Thickening. She could only watch. Ceria left airholes, but too small to let anything else through. Then she rose. She smiled at the woman inside.

“Don’t worry. I don’t let friends die. Besides.”

She turned. The Bloodtear Pirates were advancing on one side, the Bleakbeaks on the left. Ceria Springwalker touched the circlet on her head.

“—I’m a [Cryomancer]. It’s raining, and they’re coming for me. This is my ground.”

She walked forwards as the red rain pattered off her armor of ice and the casket protecting Omusc. Ceria Springwalker called out.

“I am Captain of the Horns of Hammerad! Ceria Springwalker! Come any closer and I will kill you!”

She heard laughter. The Bloodtear Pirates halted. One laughed. An officer of some kind.

“We know all about you, ‘Ice Squirrel’. You just had to kill one of our own. Your friends won’t protect you.”

“They don’t need to. I am warning you. See this circlet?”

Ceria tapped it. The Drowned Woman eyed it. Then she threw a dagger, so fast Ceria barely dodged it.

“I’m watching. I’ll see how it fits afterwards.”

She flipped another dagger up. Ceria shrugged.

“I warned you.”

The Bloodtear Pirates didn’t answer. They just charged. Ceria Springwalker held up her hand. She aimed her wand at the leader, who juked sideways. The [Pirate] performed an [Evasive Roll] across the cold ground, got back onto her feet, teeth bared—

And slipped—

She hit the ground on her shoulder. Another [Pirate] went down, face-first. Two more began to slide and caught themselves with their balancing Skills. They stared down and across the ground at Ceria.

Two walls of ice had risen around her, blocking either approach. But that was not what halted the [Pirates] and [Raiders] coming in from both sides. Ceria murmured.

“[Slick Spell: Ice Floor].”

Just a simple adjustment to the ice. Wet ice. Wet, nigh-frictionless ice…One of the [Pirates] tried to get up and fell on their back with a curse.

Most of the Bloodtear Pirates slowed, but a number were equal to the challenge. The swearing [Boarding Officer] tried to get up, and a [Pirate] strode past her. His boots perfectly adhered to the ice.

“Nice trick. We’ve seen it plenty of times. Got any more?”

Half the other [Pirates] were moving forwards slowly. Ceria saw they knew how to do it; they were stabbing the ice, wedging blades into the ground as stabilizers. One had even produced…sand. Literal sand, and she was tossing it forwards, creating footholds.

“Damn. It’s never easy.”

Ceria turned over her shoulder and saw half the Bleakbeaks were lying on the ground. The other half were trying to fly, swearing. The Bloodtear [Pirates] rolled their eyes.

Then Ceria yanked her skeleton hand up and a spear of ice shot up from the [Ice Floor], nearly impaling the closest [Pirate]. She leapt back with an oath. The rest charged. Ceria took one look at them and ran for it.

Omusc saw the half-Elf just turn around and book it. Walls of ice rose to block the charging [Pirates], but they just dodged around them. Three stopped and one went to hammer on her casket.

“Tough as a rock! Damn—”

“Let’s pour some poison in. Hold on, I’ve—”

A Human reached for a vial and his head exploded. A spike of ice had just shot out of the casket. The others recoiled.

“Get the [Cryomancer]! Scatter!”

They pounded after her. Ceria was running, but she was already getting winded. She had a decent dash like any adventurer, but she’d been running searching for Omusc. She slowed as the [Pirates] began to encircle her. Ceria exhaled.

“Alright…”

She turned as a [Pirate] leapt through the air. Ceria looked up, smiled—and then stopped running. She leapt, hit the ground with both feet planted—

And shot away. The [Pirate] missed, slashing, rolling, coming up—and nearly crashed as she ran onto the second [Ice Floor] spell. The Bloodtear Pirates saw the half-Elf kick the ground.

“Damn, damn—”

She accelerated. Turned. A [Pirate] ducked as an [Ice Spike] barely missed her face. She saw Ceria heading towards a wall and the [Cryomancer] cursed—

Then a lip of ice rose from the [Ice Floor] and turned her. She changed directions, and a Garuda running for her was caught flat-footed. A [Pirate] shot the [Raider] in the leg.

“Shoot her!”

Arrows flashed after Ceria, but she was accelerating. Moving faster. She was…

Skating. Shooting across the slicked ice, conjuring more across the plaza, creating shields of [Ice Walls] for cover. She was moving so fast.

This wasn’t some new technique. She had done this before. Like on a waxed inn’s floor. But the concept? She skated across the plaza, firing [Ice Spikes] at the [Pirates] and [Raiders].

Yet even that was a copy. She had known this—even before.

——

Even before. Revine’s hands were trembling on the stone railing of her palace. She stared down and whispered.

“Illphres.”

It was her technique. Movements created by someone who had once been told by the young [Mage] who would later be known as Archmage Viltach that ‘[Cryomancers] had no mobility’.

Just to spite him. And that [Cryomancer] had refined the technique, until the day Ceria Springwalker saw her skate across the sea.

Illphres’ apprentice flashed around the plaza, but the [Pirates] were moving to intercept her. She was Illphres’ first and only apprentice. But her magic was her own. Ceria turned. A [Raider] leapt at her and crashed into a midriff-high wall of ice.

The Stitch-woman began screaming. Revine couldn’t see why—until she saw the other [Pirates] and [Raiders] recoiling.

More walls of ice and ledges were rising. No—other shapes. What looked like some kind of ice-made clothesline, just a line of ice at waist-height. Yet the [Pirates] looked around and began moving for the edges of the plaza, suddenly in retreat.

Why? Then Revine saw the blood. The [Raider] was impaled—

On spikes of ice coming out of the wall. The [Ice Walls] were developing jagged edges. The thin line of ice was as sharp as a razor! And on this slick battlefield, where you could slide into it—

Walls of ice were rising across the plaza. More to guard Omusc. Ceria slowed amid a playground of deadly shapes. A labyrinth of killing edges. She fired [Ice Spikes] from both hands, picking off anyone in the open. And still more ice rose, gleaming traps.

[Battlefield of the Frozen World].

Ceria Springwalker stood in the middle of her ground. Her territory. Revine’s hands were shaking.

Now, the Bloodtear Pirates had seen the battle. They were forming up. Not squads, but by the hundred. So were the Bleakbeaks. This was a flashpoint, and Ceria was still alone.

She had created a dome in the middle of her battlefield spell to protect her. Spells were hitting it, but the ice held.

What was she doing? Figures were flooding into the battlefield—but the traps were static. There was danger there, but only if there was fighting and confusion. A [Raider] charged past a wall of ice, and a hand shot out and grabbed their throat.

A hand? A claw of rough ice. The [Raider] screamed, and something lurched out of the wall of ice. A blocky, jagged thing, roughly humanoid, clawing, an open mouth of frozen water biting.

“Monsters! Monsters in the—”

A [Pirate] spun and slashed at another figure coming out of an [Ice Wall]. The Lesser Frost Elemental staggered, half its face gone, but kept attacking. The [Pirate] hacked it down in a shower of ice—but more were appearing.

They were tough. Unlike the slick, half-melted [Ice Floor], these monsters took arrows to the face that barely dug into their bodies.

“[Glaciersheet Ice].”

Revine murmured. She saw them attacking, forcing back the [Pirates]. But that wasn’t enough. They had killed true monsters at sea and were continuing to advance. Except…

One fell to her knees. She slowed, and her friends reached for her, then recoiled.

Cold. She shouted, and someone blasted her with flames—but then they went out. The Drowned Woman’s lips turned blue. Her shivering stopped.

The advancing [Pirates] saw the half-Elf sitting in the dome of ice shift her gaze. They dodged—but what was there to dodge? Nothing. The cold ate at them. They retreated or froze.

[Aura of Rime].

——

Each of her Skills and spells at work. Ceria Springwalker left the dome of ice a second before a floating pillar of earth hammered through the roof. She spun, going up a ramp, and [Ice Spikes] rained down around her.

“Enough! Fall back!”

The [Pirates] below her were falling back. The Bleakbeaks had already retreated. The [Frost Elementals] were flooding the field. Just two dozen; Ceria felt herself panting.

The Bloodtear Pirates quit the plaza, her battlefield of ice. There was no point. They couldn’t even get near her.

Except for…Ceria looked up and saw a grinning face. A pale, orange flush in dead skin.

A Selphid.

A Bloodtear Pirate.

With a hat. And a wand. The [Captain] pointed, and a pillar of earth punched through the ramp Ceria was standing on. She hit the ground with a grunt.

“Four o’my crew. You’ll die once and we’ll call it square, eh?”

The Bloodtear [Captain] grinned. Ceria sat up.

“It’s a Drowned Night. They knew the risks. Or did you think it was your night?”

The [Captain] recoiled. Some of the [Pirates] even laughed, but the Selphid narrowed her gaze.

“They call me Shipbreaker. Hammers of stone. Let’s see whose magic is stronger, eh, Ice Squirrel? Walls or hammers.”

“Wouldn’t you rather walk away? You or I could die. It doesn’t have to go this way.”

Ceria offered hopefully. She saw the [Captain] laugh. The half-Elf sighed.

“Thought not.”

She lifted her wand. A pillar of earth like a battering ram punched out of the air and towards her head. How did she do it that fast? Ceria Springwalker looked up—

And the pillar punched through her body. She stood there, then threw up her hands.

“Oh no. You got me!”

The [Captain] blinked at her. Then whirled.

An [Ice Lance] hit her barrier and knocked her backwards. She caught herself—aimed around.

“She’s damned invisible, [Captain]!”

A [Pirate] called out. The Selphid snarled.

“I don’t need your help, you idiots! I—”

She hesitated, looked around, and spat.

“So that’s what that fucking thing does.”

Ceria peeked around one of her [Ice Walls]. She also poked her head over a little ridge of ice. A third Ceria stood in the open, aiming her wand at the [Captain].

Illusions. One shot an [Ice Spike] and the [Captain] dodged—and the [Ice Spike] passed straight through one of the [Pirates], who recoiled with a yell. Another [Mage] looked at the Cerias, wide-eyed.

“I can’t tell which ones are fake!”

Illusion magic. Her circlet was shining. The [Captain] whirled, blasting at the Cerias—a wall of ice rose, ten feet tall, and then tried to fall on top of her. The Selphid kicked off it with an oath—she flew through the air.

Rampaging. Strong and able to cast [Earthen Pillar] and throw it around. She turned around, laughing.

“Is this the circlet or you? Come on, Gold-rank! Show me what you have! Is that your best spell?”

She raised her own wall of stone and an [Ice Lance] shattered on it. Her magic punched through an Frost Elemental and one of Ceria’s walls.

She had the magic Ceria did not. They were both Tier 4 spells. But one of them had been at that level longer, figured out how to make it stronger.

If Pisces were here, Ceria would have been able to let him support her with [Invisibility] spells. Yvlon could have taken the [Captain] in a straight fight, and Ksmvr was fast enough to dodge those things.

“I miss my team.”

The Ceria Springwalker standing in the open sighed. The other two Cerias not dead flickered out of existence.

The [Pirate Mage-Captain] spun warily to face Ceria.

“Out of tricks already? That circlet’s not that impressive. Or is it you?”

Ceria idly tapped it. The [Captain] looked around, expecting a trick. Which she was wise to. Ceria lifted it up and admired it.

“It’s true. I can’t make full use of it. Not yet. It even had to feed me mana so I could cast all those spells. It doesn’t have infinite magic. And I don’t have any Tier 5 spells or boosters. Yet. I’ll work on it. Good lesson.”

The Bloodtear Captain eyed her.

“You think you’ll get out of here?”

Ceria Springwalker smiled. She glanced up and to the side for a second.

“I think so. Ready? Take your best shot, if you dare.”

She aimed her wand at the [Captain]. The Selphid hesitated. She linked the magic in her mind. The largest [Earth Pillar] yet appeared in the air over Ceria’s head. It hammered the ground—but she was skating away.

Straight into a wall of earth. Ceria whirled in shock—as if she was the only person who could control a battlefield. Two shackles of earth leapt from the ground and grabbed around her ankles. She lurched. And the final [Earth Pillar] shot from the wand.

——

“Ereiyne!”

Captain Aldrail roared. He charged through the watching [Pirates] with Jiupe and another [Captain]. Too late. They saw the [Earth Pillar] fire. Captain Ereiyne’s signature move, which could crack the decks of unenchanted ships.

It struck home. The thunderous roar of ice and stone and bone filled the air. Aldrail watched, throwing up his paws to block shrapnel.

Wait.

Ice and stone and—?

Captain Ereiyne slowly backed up. She stared at the thing she’d hit. Two vast, glowing, purple flames stared back at her.

Two pissed flames in empty eye sockets. She had hit a giant…

Head. Poking out of the ground. Slowly rising upwards. But not a skull. Not precisely a skull. Not of ivory. Nor of ice.

Rather, ice coating bone, like skin. A paw rose, with glittering nails of ice, and slammed into the ground. Aldrail heard Jiupe whisper.

“Krakens. I thought she wasn’t a [Necromancer]!”

Slowly, the giant bear’s head rose higher as the rest of the monstrosity pulled itself upwards.

It dwarfed everyone here, towering over the houses. A huge monster of ice and ivory.

A Frostmarrow Behemoth.

Ceria Springwalker stood on its head. Circlet shining. Her eyes were glowing.

——

Death magic linking completed. Mana reserves: 49%.

It wasn’t quite in that way, but it burned across her mind like she had always known it.

Death magic. The other half of the combined spell. But without Pisces it was—

It all made sense now. What the circlet did. Revine was right.

What was a [Mage]’s greatest weakness? That they were alone. Even the Putrid One, for all his strength, was one magic. And magic…

Linked spells. She could cast linked spells through the circlet. The Frostmarrow Behemoth roared like an avalanche falling, and Ceria looked down.

“This is my best spell. Want to try yours again?”

The Bloodtear Captain looked up. Then she stepped back. Grinning. Raising her hands.

“Now there’s a fight. What say you?”

Four Bloodtear Captains stood there. Ceria cursed as she saw Aldrail and Jiupe. She spread her hands.

“I killed four [Pirates] from Ereiyne’s ship. I’m not sure about yours, Captain Aldrail, Captain Jiupe. Can we be friends? It’s a Drowned Night. But that woman is my friend.”

“What say you leave her and we call it even? We’ll be sporting, but it’s four versus one. Even if it’s just us.”

Jiupe tilted her head. Ceria Springwalker smiled.

“I’ve still got my circlet. It could do anything. I could do anything. Try to kill her and die.”

“Well said. Well said!”

The Bloodtear Captains shouted their approval. Ceria Springwalker was sweating. Because in a game of bluffs and cards, they’d call every time. They’d raise the stakes, turn the table over, and pull out the blades.

She saw Aldrail looking at Ereiyne. At Jiupe and the last [Captain]. Taking a silent vote. Ceria Springwalker closed her eyes.

Stupid people. Them and her. People who said, ‘this is the line, cross it and die’, and meant it. Who went into a city and risked their lives for a friend.

Ridiculous. Except…if there was a point. A point to all of it. The half-Elf spoke, to the Bloodtear Captains, to the air, and they listened. After all—they loved and admired moments and people like these.

“I care only for my friends. I went into a Death-zone for a friend. My team is scattered across Chandrar. This night, I walked into Shifthold’s depths. I walked out, because I didn’t care. My team matters. To find them and save them, and to bring my friend back—I will make any pacts. I will do what it takes. Believe in that.”

She looked down. Slowly, the four [Captains] turned. They eyed the lone figure standing on the docks. Then…the figures that appeared out of his shadow.

Alchemist Irurx watched her. The Bloodtear Pirates hesitated, unsure of what he was doing. But Ceria only lingered on him for a moment. She raised her head.

“Someday, I will go back to Wistram and avenge my mentor. I will walk Wistram’s higher floors. I am Illphres’ apprentice. Believe me.”

She reached up to the blood-soaked sky. A hand reached down. Revine Zecrew clasped her hand.

“I believe you.”

The Siren of Savere floated downwards and came to rest on the Frostmarrow Behemoth’s head. Her imperious gaze swept those below, and Ceria saw the Bloodtear Captains look up in alarm. Revine turned to Ceria.

“Put your magic in mine.”

Ceria nodded. Her eyes turned upwards, and the Siren of Savere raised her hand.

“Siren!”

Ereiyne raised her wand, but hesitated. [Rogues] had taken to the rooftops and were aiming bows down at her. Revine Zecrew stared down at the [Pirates] and her lip curled.

“This is my city. This is my kingdom. I did not give your fleet permission to land. Nor do you have the right to touch my people. This Drowned Night is over.”

“You can’t cancel a Drowned Night!”

Ereiyne shouted up at her. The Siren of Savere ignored her. She lifted her hand upwards, fingers splayed wide against the backdrop of the sky. Sweat appeared on her brow.

Ceria’s circlet was shining. She was sweating too, cold drops that turned to ice on her brow. Her flesh-and-blood hand clasped the Siren’s.

Slowly, the [Mage-Captain] stared upwards. She slowly muttered as she backed away.

“Krakens fuck me. I hate [Hydromancers].”

Aldrail stared at her, and then his [Dangersense] began to prickle. He glanced over his shoulder for his ship; [Pirates] were looking at the Siren, around for danger. Then they looked at the right place.

Straight up. The blood-red skies were slowly dissipating. The crimson combined Skill of the Bloodtear Pirates faded. Turned…grey.

But not lifeless. The skies swirled darkly overhead, like a [Sailor]’s nightmare. Winter storms.

The temperature dropped. A staring Bleakbeak Raider peered up and saw something fall from the sky instead of the bloody water.

It looked like—

The first dart of sharpened water went through the Stitch-man’s eye. Then another fell.

A needle of ice. Just a sharpened tip of ice…falling as fast and as hard as rain. Hardly a deadly weapon.

But then another drop fell. And another. And—and then it was raining. Raining—but every drop was a falling shard of ice.

The skies opened up. Ceria gasped, collapsing, and the Siren swayed. But she had enough energy to raise her hand and create an umbrella of water that caught the shards.

Everyone was in disarray. [Pirates] ran towards their ships, shouting, trying to take cover. Garuda dove out of the sky. Even Savere’s few [Rogues] sheltered. The Siren pointed towards the docks and a wave rolled upwards. Six of the Bloodtear ships tore loose from their moorings and drifted towards the sea.

And the rain fell. A combined spell. A linked spell.

“We made this one a while ago. Rediscovered it. With it, we could fight an army.”

The Siren stared up at the deadly rain. Ceria frowned upwards.

“What is it called?”

Revine smiled sadly.

“[Rain of Frozen Tears].”

The Drowned Night ended. For the first time in Runsblud’s living memory, ended not because of blood and killing or the sun, but because of the rain. Revine stood with Ceria.

“I could take that circlet now.”

Ceria was panting, seeing her ice melt. Omusc sat up, yelped, and tried to go back under cover. Ceria looked at Revine.

“But you won’t.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Revine seemed half-insulted, half-amused. Ceria shook her head.

“Because everyone needs someone they can trust. The [Pirates] haven’t left yet. Besides—if I help you, and you help me, we both benefit. The Siren of Savere is too canny to steal my circlet.”

Revine snorted.

“You are as bold and reckless as can be. Even Illphres had more sense, and she was as mule-headed as a block of ice. You need better magic. Come on, before either one of us collapses and they realize we’re out of magic.”

She turned, realized they were standing on the Frostmarrow Behemoth’s head, and Ceria laughed. It slowly lowered, and she nodded. They walked together, as Omusc ran under their umbrella. Alchemist Irurx, the [Pirates], Savere watched.

And Ureita, awash with tears. At the Siren and Ceria Springwalker. Who they would tell stories about. The bearer of a Relic-class item.

The half-Elf who had walked into Shifthold and survived. Who had faced down four Bloodtear Captains and survived a Drowned Night. For, you see, it was about the moment, not the exact details or technicalities.

Friend of the Siren of Savere. Captain of the Gold-rank team, the Horns of Hammerad.

Ceria Springwalker, the Ice Squirrel.

——

The Siren of Savere had a new ally. Everyone was talking about it, but given how gossip networks worked, half of the people who heard about the Siren’s increased power were uncertain whether or not it was because she had allied with a powerful [Cryomancer]…or bought a new pet.

Now, though…now, they said she was moving. Preparing Savere’s lawless army to give chase to the Empress of Beasts. She had thrown the Bloodtear Pirates out of her port city and was advancing into the conflict that had engulfed this region of Chandrar.

At the same time? People in Tyrant’s Rest, the capital city of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, and abroad watched the video of Prince Zenol returning to his homeland. Nerrhavia’s Fallen had too many [Princes] to count. Far too many, some claimed quietly.

But here was an instant hero. Not least because he had traveled home to aid another adventurer. Yvlon Byres, the Silver Killer, the Human with metal arms. Queen Yisame herself was said to have heard the petition by Prince Zenol.

——

“Your Majesty, I will vouch on the name of Isphel and my own class that Yvlon Byres was wrongly accused. I ask for an immediate inquiry at the highest levels into Magistrate Ducaz’s claims!”

Prince Zenol stood in the Court of Silks as it exploded. Yvlon Byres stood next to him and saw the angry [Prince] Esceit and his people, the royal line of Quarein, staring daggers.

“You accuse a [Magistrate] of corruption before the crown?”

The [Speaker] of Queen Yisame spoke, her tone imperious, chin tilted upwards. Behind her, the [Queen] herself sat on her throne—the true throne, where other monarchs knelt to supplicate her. Prince Zenol and Yvlon—surprisingly—had been granted permission to rise.

“I do, Your Majesty. No less than I ask that the crown pardon Yvlon Byres, that she might seek her team. She is an adventurer among adventurers and has triumphed where Named-adventurers died. In the Village of the Dead! Should her reward and view of Nerrhavia’s Fallen be that of a kingdom where corrupt men pervert justice? Do we not honor courage and valor?”

Zenol met the [Speaker]’s eyes fearlessly—not Yisame herself. The [Speaker] pursed her lips.

“You are bold, to implicate our will—that of this great kingdom—in errant justice. Nor do I take it lightly. Prince Esceit Quarein has displeased us with their actions in the Coliseum of Monarchs. Yet Isphel has shed blood between families. This is displeasing. Greatly displeasing.”

Zenol ducked his head.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty.”

The [Speaker] glanced back to the throne, yet there was no twitch, no movement of fingers or nuance of the fan held before Yisame’s face. Smoothly, the [Speaker] turned back and looked down at Zenol.

“Our judgment shall not b—”

She hesitated. Fell silent. The Court of Silks, who had fallen respectfully silent for the [Speaker]—but continued to murmur behind their hands—went abruptly still.

Queen Yisame of Nerrhavia’s Fallen stood. The [Speaker]’s eyes widened—then she was walking backwards into her shadow.

Prince Zenol himself seemed dry-mouthed, and Yvlon’s blush over his effusive compliments turned into nervous heart palpitations. They both looked upwards as the [Queen] herself spoke.

“You, Prince Zenol, return to Nerrhavia’s Fallen in the company of a being that has not walked Chandrar for a hundred years. Cognita Truestone. Lesser, but known across the world—Barelle the [Bard]. You, who fought in Izrilian affairs as an adventurer, have come to the Coliseum of Monarchs and shed the blood of Quarein on its sands. For an adventurer. Yvlon Byres.”

Her gaze swept left, and her eyes, like emeralds, flickered across Yvlon’s face. Zenol’s head was bowed, and he knelt once more. Yisame continued.

“A [Prince] stands before the throne and demands justice for corruption. An adventurer seeks her lost comrades, wrongfully imprisoned by the greatest kingdom of Chandrar. These claims fall upon my ears. So. This is my will.”

She paused, and the Court of Silks rustled. Yisame’s face was impeccable; Zenol and Yvlon were sweating. The Quarein family watched, caught between a desire for vengeance and…apprehension. When Yisame spoke, her words were carried across Nerrhavia’s Fallen.

“Let it not be said that Nerrhavia’s Fallen will lag behind any nation for justice, for righteousness. [Supreme Adjudicator] Coroint will take charge of this investigation.”

Every head swung left and there were gasps. The old Stitch-Man bowed. His eyes glittered as they rested on Yvlon. But the [Armsmistress] thought it was whoever was in his hunt that would truly be having heart attacks.

Yisame went on.

“You, Prince Zenol, have slain a valuable servant of Quarein’s line. Asked for pardon. If Yvlon Byres is freed, what will you do next? Tell us, adventurer.”

She looked down, and Yvlon realized it was her turn to speak. She rose, slowly, every eye on her.

“Your Majesty. If I am freed, I would go to seek my friends. My teammates. I know where one of them is, and the location of another…I think.”

The court stirred. Yisame narrowed her eyes.

“We know of this one. Ksmvr of Chandrar, the Antinium. He rides with enemies of Nerrhavia’s Fallen.”

“With respect, Your Majesty—he is not the enemy of anyone. He is searching for me. I would go to him and find my other two teammates and trouble Nerrahvia’s Fallen no longer.”

Yvlon croaked. Those eyes seemed to be boring into hers, looking her up and down as if she were some kind of book to read. Prince Zenol broke in.

“If you will grant me the right, I will aid Yvlon Byres in her search, My Queen.”

She looked at them. Yisame Beziin held perfectly still, painted lips pursed—

Then she smiled.

She smiled, and Yvlon’s heart leapt in confusion. The [Queen] snapped her fan open.

“It is done.”

The court stirred. Quarein’s family seemed to be having conniptions. The [Queen] pointed down at the two as Zenol and Yvlon blinked. Her voice rose, and she spoke faster.

“Nerrhavia’s Fallen will take Prince Zenol Isphel’s word on the weight of his rank and status. On the weight of a Human, a team that dared to stride into a death no other has returned from. I declare Yvlon Byres a guest of the crown and free her of her imprisonment. This is the stuff of stories. Go, Prince Zenol Isphel. Quarein shall abide by the blood spilled, and I say it was done well. Go, Yvlon Byres. Stay one day in the capital. Then go—seek your team. No less than Nerrhavia’s Fallen’s armies shall reunite the Horns of Hammerad.”

Dead silence. What was that last bit? Armies? Then—uproar. Yvlon Byres, favored by the [Queen], stood, seeing Zenol’s dumbstruck expression. Quarein was protesting, but flinching away, bereft of allies. Yisame looked down at Yvlon, smiling.

One day. Yvlon gazed up at the [Queen] and slowly bowed. She didn’t know what to say.

——

Armies sworn to help Yvlon Byres by the [Queen] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen herself—to help her reunite her team. Savere’s Siren in the company of another.

The Empress of Beasts had won a great battle with Ksmvr of Chandrar over the Empire of Scaied. Even now, they marched to break the siege on the [Monks] of Sottheim, who had been held in their monastery by the very same kingdom of scorpions.

The last of them was on the run, but in the company of a [Bandit Lady]. Freeing [Slaves].

They had scattered across Chandrar. A narrow escape from death that had thrown them into peril and danger, even slavery. Yet here they were.

The Horns of Hammerad.

Fetohep of Khelt finished telling the ghost of the young woman all that he knew. He knew more than most, for ghosts spoke louder than mortals, and more truthfully. He had both to tell him the truth.

She sat there, on the balcony, dangling her legs out into the air.

“They’re alive.”

Erin Solstice smiled. She stared across Khelt and into the horizon of Chandrar.

“What a strange continent. I’ve never been here. Not in the flesh. I would like to, someday. There are awful things here. And…beautiful.”

She stared down at Khelt, that paradise on earth. Fetohep spoke slowly.

“I should enjoy that day when it comes, Erin Solstice. Your friends have faced adversity. Yet all four live. Powers stand behind them—and danger.”

“Yes. The Empress of Beasts? Ksmvr…and Pisces? Poor Pisces. If I was alive, I’d…I’d…I need more levels. I need—”

Erin Solstice clenched her fists helplessly. Greater armies than she had ever witnessed were moving. Entire nations were at war and her friends were caught among them. She had only ever seen one true army. And it had cost her…

She was breathing. Breathing without air in her lungs. Longing. Fetohep stood there, watching her living in the lands of the dead. When Erin Solstice turned to him, the ghosts of tears in her eyes, frustrated tears, she stopped.

Because the Revenant King was smiling. Erin eyed him.

“Are you laughing at me?”

“Perish the thought. If I laugh, Erin Solstice, it is because you stand here, amidst the dead. Yet to be returned to life. Yet thou art guest of Khelt. Friend of the eternal stewards of this land. You have heard your friends’ plight. Others you love lay further abroad, a difficulty, if not insurmountable.”

He waved his hand to indicate distant Izril and Terandria. Fetohep turned his head, and Serept, Khelta, and Xierca stood there. They too smiled, with flesh and blood, and nodded. His golden eye-flames winked brighter, and Fetohep looked at Erin Solstice, who watched him curiously.

“Distant lands. Even Khelt’s hand weakens across the ocean, it is true. Yet you speak as if there is nothing that can be done. As if you must wait to live. This is Chandrar. I am Khelt. Tell me honestly, Erin Solstice. Would you like to aid your friends?”

Her eyes widened. Fetohep of Khelt smiled. Rather than speak immediately, though, Erin Solstice hesitated. She hesitated, and the [Witches] breathed out, the rulers nodded at what she said next.

“There will be a cost for it. There always is.”

He inclined his head slowly. His gaze fixed on her.

“Yes. The question is only if you have the will and means to pay it. Khelt’s coffers lie nigh infinite. So tell me, Erin Solstice. What do you will?”

——

“The [Monks] of Sottheim are entrenched within their monastery. Tens of thousands, perhaps. They’ve been cut off from the outside world, however. Ever since the King of Destruction announced his return. They have gardens—food stores—no trade. None have left their monastery; the army is too great, even for them.”

Empress Nsiia of Tiqr rode with her army a day after the battle where Ksmvr had learned his new Skills. He rode with her, feeling the eyes of the army on him.

A battered army, but triumphant. Ksmvr turned his head and saw Vasraf spit.

“Cowards. They boxed Sottheim in. Part of the reason Scaied never sent armies against us is that a bulk is here. Paid to keep them in.”

“If this is such a fearsome force, why do they not break free?”

Nsiia’s lips twisted.

“It is a killing field. They would have to run across bare ground under bombardment, then fight through Oisk Stingers—they have no [Mages], and their [Archers]…Sottheim could do it. But they must believe the cost is too great. They are patient. They wait for Flos Reimarch to free them. So I shall in his place, for I need them.”

Ksmvr nodded.

“Then you can defeat Scaied’s army?”

She hesitated.

“We will divert them. They are already moving to face us. Sottheim must charge, or we will be forced back.”

She was nervous. It was a gamble that based everything on the Monks of Sottheim being willing to help.

Loquea Dree flew after Ksmvr, and Leka Thri glided next to the riders. He spoke conversationally.

“Sottheim is strong. If they attack, Scaied flees. But they will still die.”

Ksmvr remained skeptical.

“What makes these [Monks] so powerful? And are you sure they will be able to fight? If they have been besieged for months, no, nearing a year, they may all be dead of starvation.”

If even Loquea Dree thought they were impressive, it must be so. Ksmvr saw Nsiia grin.

“Sottheim will not be dead. There lies a force that can march twenty miles on a single cup of water. Each [Monk] can match a [Soldier] with their fists—though, when we arm them, they will be a force to be feared! They cannot take Scaied easily—because their armor and weapons are more rust than metal.”

“That seems like a foolish mistake. Did they not maintain their weapons and keep an enchanted armory?”

For some reason, even Leka Thri laughed with the others.

“You will see the [Monks] have a strength that comes from their lack, Ksmvr. We must defeat Scaied. The army is still healing, but—”

Nsiia clenched her jaw.

It had to be done. To take back her kingdom, to take back her home—her greatest battle yet lay ahead. Nsiia placed the faith they would win in Loquea Dree. In Ksmvr’s new Skills. In her army.

They were cresting a hill, and Vasraf raised a hand.

“We are entering the range of their artillery. Ranged magic. Not as deadly as the House of Minos, but…we must assail them in the pass. Charge forwards.”

Nsiia rode ahead impatiently. Ksmvr hastened after her as Rémi Canada captured the entire scene with the camera. The [Empress] stared ahead, frowning, riding faster.

“Each second we give them is another second of preparation, Vasraf. Illivere still lies at our backs. Forwards.”

“It will be a slaughter until we reach their lines. My Queen—you must stay behind.”

Vasraf urged her. He turned to Ksmvr, Leka Thri.

“If someone were to distract the Magic Throwers long enough—”

Ksmvr hesitated. He looked at Leka Thri, and the Garuda looked at Rémi, up towards the First of Judgement, and towards Nsiia and Vasraf. She met his gaze steadily, hands tight on her reins. Ksmvr looked at Spitty, who harrumphed and tried to twist his head around so he could nail Ksmvr in the face. The Antinium looked at Vasraf, at Nsiia, at the flying undead man…

The flying undead man stared at Ksmvr. Ksmvr stared at him, then at Nsiia. She stared at the [Vizir].

Leka Thri, Vasraf, and Rémi Canada all stared at Vizir Hecrelunn. The Revenant’s burning red eyes were locked on Ksmvr.

“Att—”

Vasraf had his bow raised. Hecrelunn muttered.

“Bug people. Hah!”

Ksmvr unsheathed his swords, but the [Vizir] shot upwards. The entire army slowed as they saw him shoot higher. Loquea Dree broke, circling around him like hunters, but the [Vizir] accelerated.

He was heading towards…Nsiia went pale.

“What was that? Some kind of Revenant?”

“Khelt’s—but how is it—he—here?”

The Vizir was flying ahead, towards the foothills around the monastery of Sottheim. And…Ksmvr stared.

Scaied’s army, entrenched in the foothills. They all gazed upwards, mouths opened as, for the second time, the [Vizir], a figure from Khelt’s ancient past, hovered in midair.

“Halt! Scaied will allow no one access to Sottheim!”

A [Mercenary General] shouted up at the [Vizir]. The Magic Throwers, strange artifacts that shot magic spells rather than objects, like a catapult, were training upwards.

Hecrelunn ignored them all. He reached for something in his bag of holding. His blood-red glare seemed to fix all those below him with a malevolence and rage that dried the tongue. Hecrelunn slowly unfolded a piece of paper.

Then he pulled out a pair of spectacles. He was missing his nose, so he held them in place. He peered down, and read.

“‘I hate scorpions.’”

Scaied’s people looked up at him, bewildered by this objectionable statement. The Vizir stared down at the next line.

“‘Therefore…I am the crazy Vizir.’ Who wrote this?”

He was so angry he was shaking. But the Revenant suddenly calmed. He crumpled up the piece of paper, then incinerated it. Then he removed the spectacles, tucked them away, and pointed.

“Enough. [Blood Lightning].”

A bolt of red lightning cracked downwards. The [General] was thrown clear off his Oisk Stinger. Scaied’s army stared in horror as the Vizir looked around.

He smiled.

“[Meteor Strike]. [Meteor Strike]—”

——

Ksmvr watched the first flaming comets hit the hills in the distance. Nsiia’s mouth was open in shock. The Revenant swept the hill as Tiqr’s army watched.

“What is he doing?”

“Why is he doing it?”

Leka Thri stood next to Ksmvr, staring at the [Vizir]. That crazy [Vizir]. You never knew what he’d do next. Ksmvr said nothing. He had the most pertinent question of all; though, he couldn’t know it.

As he laid Scaied’s army to waste, freeing the [Monks] of Sottheim…

Why did he look so annoyed?

——

The letter burned. Words lost.

But elsewhere, further north and amidst a close victory, Pisces Jealnet looked up by morning and saw…

A miracle.

It was simple. He stared up, and something smacked him in the face. Pisces recoiled—caught it, and stared at it.

“Bread.”

“Mana.”

Izreal corrected him. He reached up and caught more of the strange bread. Pisces just stared at him. The [Pilgrim of Faith] smiled.

“Look.”

Someone else was filling water from a stone. It bled water. Pisces rubbed at his eyes. The [Slaves] and [Bandits] watched.

Eloque’s eyes were wide, disbelieving. Merr was slapping her cheek—but it didn’t change what they saw.

“Behold his miracles! You may doubt. You may question. But what you see is the truth! Come with us and find salvation. You shall not thirst nor hunger, even in the Great Desert. Monsters shall not touch you, if you truly believe.”

Izreal stood and preached to them. Preached, as more miracles shone. The others, the People of Zeikhal, clasped their hands together.

He had seen it before. But not like this. This…Izreal had accepted nothing more than a bit of the gold, some artifacts—little provisions from the looted Glass Bazaar. He wanted little of it.

What he desired was something else, and he had it here. The freed [Slaves] looked at him as he walked among them.

“Not even Roshal shall find you there. We serve a master beyond any other. Beyond the King of Destruction. Beyond mere [Kings] and [Queens]. Come with us, and be free. All wounds shall be healed there.”

He rested a hand on Eloque’s shoulder. She jerked away, but Izreal’s words struck their mark time and time again.

Even to Pisces. He could not fathom what he saw, not truly. His ears rang and his mind…he felt sick and dizzy.

“It will pass. You will understand the truth if you accept it, believe. There is a book. A sacred text. Soon, there will be more. This is the beginning of true glory. Will you not come with us, Pisces Jealnet?”

Marrieh looked at him. Pisces half-shook his head.

“I must find my team. My friends. I have promised to lead these people…elsewhere.”

“Is it safer than where we are going?”

“The Great Desert? No. I don’t think so.”

Pisces smiled, but he couldn’t be condescending. Bread was still falling from the skies, and water from nothing? It was real food. Not even a cornucopia artifact…Marrieh smiled at him.

“You doubt. I will pray that you reconsider. Look up—is there anything you can claim is greater than this? Any magic? Any Skill? This is the work of our Lord. This is…”

She hesitated. Frowned. Pisces had seen it too. Merr broke off her enraptured staring and snapped.

“Incoming!”

The [Slaves] ran backwards, shouting in alarm. The People of Zeikhal turned, surprised. Pisces recoiled—then stared upwards.

“What? Wh—”

He dove, leaping sideways, and the first gilded chest smacked into the ground in front of him. Another popped out of the air, and Marrieh ran as it went whumph into the sand and dirt.

Three more popped out of the air and hit the ground around Pisces. He picked himself up and stared upwards. No more attack-boxes emerged from the sky.

“That was—what was that? That was no Skill. Not even the [Prophet]…”

Marrieh was staring nervously at the chests. They were all rich, properly gilded boxes of sculpted, polished wood. Pisces stood up.

“That was no Skill. That was a teleportation spell. But what…?”

“Pisces! Get back! They could be attack Mimics! Or about to explode!”

Merr hollered at him. Pisces hesitated. He was of the same mind, but he thought he knew what they were.

But how? He had one idea. Yet this didn’t seem like Az’kerash’s style. He was about to retreat and have Ivery open a box when he saw something fluttering on top of the first one.

It had, in big, bold handwriting…his heart leapt.

To Pisces.

The young man slowly reached out, grabbed the note, and retreated. He unfolded it, ready to drop it if it contained a hostile spell. But it had no magic. Just words.

Izreal and the others had clustered around to see what was going on. Merr jogged over as Pisces read the note. Eloque, Bearig, Qshom, and Rophir came too.

They saw the young man blink—then turn dead white. He nearly dropped the note, then clutched it to his chest. Stared at the chests.

“Pisces? What is…?”

Slowly, the young man walked over to one of the chests of holding and opened it. Everyone gasped as they saw it was laden with sacks of neatly-packed, high-quality food. A second had armor, weapons. A third? Potions and scrolls.

“What? How?”

“Someone sent it to us. To me.”

That was Pisces’ only answer. Izreal’s look of simple pride and conviction faltered for a moment. He stared at Pisces.

“Is that the work of your…this other believer?”

He glanced uncertainly at Marrieh, then Pisces. The [Necromancer] turned. He blinked at Izreal, and then, to the man’s surprise, smiled. He laughed and read the note again.

“No. Not my master or lord. Someone…sillier.”

The blank look Izreal gave him, of sheer uncomprehending stupefaction, was so familiar. Pisces read the note again.

It was the wrong handwriting. Perfectly legible. But…he held it carefully. It was a short message. Rambling, slightly incoherent, and entirely confusing. It was the end he read, again and again. Something that Eloque and Merr, peeking over his shoulders, couldn’t understand. Why did he have tears in his eyes?

I’m not dead, only chilling. Don’t die on me, I have to serve you pasta again.

It was simply signed—

Erin Solstice.

Pisces Jealnet looked up at the sky.

He believed.

8.59 H

If you hadn’t heard of her, you weren’t from this continent.

Or you were deaf. Her songs were on every young person’s lips. They were played in royal courts and pubs.

They called her the Singer of Terandria. Her class was [Popstar].

Her name was Cara O’Sullivan.

She looked down from the moving, decorated stage upon which she stood—the top of a caravan wagon, a guardrail cleverly disguised behind illusion magic that made it seem like she stood on a far larger stage, a light shining on her, red curtains hanging out of dark skies.

There were fireworks and roaring flames. Magical light shows and a back up dance crew, who were entirely fictional. She walked under a rainbow and tossed a golden flower into a crowd of cheering fans, who fought for it with a savagery any [Street Fighter] would be appalled by.

Singer of Terandria. Cara, to her friends.

She had many names. But the truth was that few people knew her. She had a story of her own, but as she slowly rode into Ailendamus’ palace, singing, the focus of attention, amusement, disgust, and fascination by all—

Ryoka Griffin knew her. She looked up at the young woman who winked behind her colorful, dyed hair, the facade that came with glitz, glamor—a copy of the very same phenomenon from her world.

She knew Cara. What she didn’t know was that Cara knew her.

The Singer locked eyes with batman for one moment, then threw her head back with a spray of sparkling lights. Just for a moment—before she continued into her show-stopper, and her band picked up the beat once more.

Not Batman, the highly renowned, mentally unstable, fictional superhero who may or may not exist given the metaphysics of multiple realities—but ‘batman’. The handle of a user in a chat session that had influenced…everything that followed.

So she really is here.

That was what the Singer thought, in a clinically detached manner. Her body moved, walking her back behind a magical curtain.

Aaron was right.

Blackmage. She’d seen Ryoka—on Izril. Now she was here. Why? Why Ailendamus? Well, the location was answer enough. So, as the crowd grew silent, and the music fell low, Cara stared at her band. She tapped her clothing—and the illusion magic changed her. Cara, the Queen of Pop, the Baroness of the Beat, the Siren of Songs—

—‘Humble Actor’ as she was known to a few people in chat—

—Glanced up inquisitively. She met the eyes of her [Drummer], Thien. The young man raised his brows. He was actually playing. He was ready.

Greg was waving at the crowd. Rae, on the bass, glared. The [Performer], Greg, played as well as Cara did—and his part was covered by the music. But he needed to look the part. He started, looked at Cara guiltily, and flushed.

The rest of the band eyed Cara, and their tempo changed. They’d been playing straight, classic pop songs, the kind of stuff meant for huge crowds and concerts. It had been going well, despite this being a huge entry into a nation they’d never played in before.

Six stops, six shows. All paid for by the crown’s purse, and with exceptional comfort and the adoration of Ailendamus’ people—who hadn’t ever seen the Singer, only heard her song crystals.

They’d been asking her to perform in Ailendamus for months. Never ‘begging’—one didn’t beg. They insisted, offering Abebi, her [Manager], more and more.

Cara had never considered accepting.

She’d been surprised they even wanted her after her music video, but the people in charge must not have studied their recent history or missed her in it. However—

The times were a-changing. And with Cara’s new garb—it was time to change things up. She could keep playing the best of the yearly hits from Earth—after all, she had every song ever written to draw on as the Singer of Terandria.

But pop? The Singer sighed. This mattered. No matter what happened next, she was still the [Popstar] of Terandria.

She had to make an entrance. So she adjusted her hat. Straightened her blazer.

The hat was a fedora, incidentally. Cara glanced left, and one of the non-Earthers nodded. A half-Elf with dyed hair and a similar suit to hers checked himself, tapped his shoes together, and nodded.

Retihome was a real [Singer], a [Bard of the Voice]. He had two friends, who looked nervous—an apprentice and a female [Singer] who could adapt to Cara’s music—and had even sought Cara out.

I need better performers. Thien can barely keep up. Greg’s an idiot. Rae’s got no stage presence.

They were doing their best, but only the advent of lip-syncing and Cara’s own presence kept the performance from seeming artificial. That—and her habit of introducing a new music advent every month.

If you were going to steal every song and claim it as your own, you might as well do it right.

As the curtains rose, the audience—including no less than Queen Oiena, the Wind Runner, nobles, and several influential leaders of state—started when they saw Cara.

The cheering audience let out gasps of expectation and curiosity. Cara O’Sullivan almost forgot the last bit, but she worked it into her walk from behind the curtains. She fished out a pair of dark, wide glasses.

Spectacles. But the glass was colored wrong. It was dark brown, not clear. She put them over her eyes, smiling a pearly-white grin that oozed confidence. Her crew, Retihome, the two other [Singers], and a pair of [Performers] who were as musical as a sneeze in a bucket all followed her out.

They were all dressed the same way, in dark pants and colorful blazers. They also had the strange apparel on. And hats.

Cara strode out, singing Uptown Funk by Bruno Mars—with slightly adjusted lyrics. She blew a kiss to a half-Giant, whose mouth was so open it could have swallowed a pumpkin. Cara winked at a crowd of [Ladies] staring at the woman in a man’s suit—and began to dance.

——

Ailendamus went wild. With scandal. With shock!

They had never seen someone dance like this. No one—except perhaps the Lord of the Dance himself, Belchaus Meron, understood dancing could evolve.

That it could be solo, fast—performative. There were fast dances, there were plenty of performative dances—ballroom dancing in Terandria was an art.

This though…it was so many different ideas combined at once that it was like an alien performing.

Ryoka was trying to keep track of it all. The aspect of modern-day celebrities. Wild hair colors, a concert-like stage with illusions that even Earth lacked. Progressive dance. Hints—no, a distinctly flirtatious attitude that disregarded gender and clothing and the behavior of traditional Terandria.

Oh—and she could sing.

“What the f—”

Ryoka had no idea what was happening. She had just been outsmarted by Rhisveri, seen the object she had risked it all for going on auction—

And then here came the Singer of Terandria with the steel chair! Ryoka just gaped up at her. In that way, she fit right in with some of Cara’s audience.

She had the distinct impression the Singer was looking at her, but then—she was performing to everyone. Her caravan came to a stop and the [Singer] came down a ramp, dancing with her backup crew.

Then she stopped as the song ended, breathing hard, sweat beaded on her brow. Her hair was a light purple, waving after her every time she tossed her head. Under her hat, it was piled up, but now she took the hat off, skimmed it into the crowd—someone did a flying leap and caught it—and shook her hair out.

Her eyes glinted as she grabbed one of her props. Ryoka kept staring as Cara raised the microphone to her mouth. It was actually enchanted. The painted piece of wood magnified her voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Lovely people of Ailendamus and my shining stars—it is my honor to come to the Kingdom of Glass and Glory! I am Cara, known as the Singer of Terandria.”

She stopped, because the roar of delighted voices nearly drowned out all hearing. Young women and men, from [Servants] to commonfolk to—Ryoka noticed—some of the nobility, were crowding closer, blocked off by big security guard-types.

…Big, but not necessarily tall. A young man waving an autograph slip tried to jump at Cara and was checked at groin-height by a Dwarf’s arm. Half the shoving crowd—the male half—took one look at the Dwarf and the curled up ball of pain and decided to try and push past the other guards instead.

Cara went on, seemingly oblivious to that, but also looking around, meeting all eyes. She bowed low, in a stylistic bow like a [Courtier], one arm held wide. Ryoka started—

And realized Cara was staring straight at Queen Oiena. The [Queen], who was coincidentally standing right next to Ryoka Griffin.

“Your Majesty, it is my honor to stand in your presence. I hope I will not disturb the peace as I perform for the next two weeks across the capital. It has been a week beyond compare, touring through Ailendamus’ rich lands and happy people!”

Queen Oiena smiled and raised one hand, but didn’t speak. Cara’s words seemed perfectly calculated to gain the approval of even the people frowning at this singing raccoon with painted lips and dyed hair.

With a twinkle in her eyes, Cara stepped back and tapped her head with the microphone, like it was a wand.

A shimmer of what looked like someone’s idea of fairy dust, instead of the real thing—which was probably pepper spray if Ryoka knew Ivolethe—drifted down around her. Her clothing shimmered—then the suit turned into a long, flowing dress very much in the ruffles and layered ballgown style.

Cara wore the light green and rich purples of Ailendamus’ national colors. She took a deep breath—and, suddenly, the impish cheer in her face was gone. She was, in a second, no longer the cheerful, humble performer, but a dignified [Singer].

“It is now my pleasure to conclude our opening performance with an ode to Ailendamus, great kingdom of the world! I shall now, with all due respect, sing the national anthem.”

Her band struck up a subdued performance of trumpets and woodworks. Ryoka’s lips moved as Cara, straight-faced, looked up as a spotlight trained on her.

“Oh no. The anthem?”

Queen Oiena murmured. Even some of the guests who’d heard it multiple times hesitated. Because the anthem, glorious, fitting to Ailendamus—

Didn’t exactly fit with, uh…it was…

It was patriotic.

Yet Cara O’Sullivan began the first lyrics straight-faced, singing loud and clear and amazingly—Oiena’s jaw dropped next to Ryoka’s—

Sincerely.

“Let the lance-arrows fall from Ailendamus walls and guard the Kingdom of Glass and Glory/Until my dying breath, from sea to glorious sea—Ailendamus, the only Kingdom of Terandria for me~”

Ryoka’s face went through an amazing change any [Alchemist] would have been amazed to see as she listened to the words. Someone had written this. Someone—she suspected Rhisveri—had commissioned a song entirely in line with Terandrian ideals. And so it had just classic lines.

“…To protect crown and people, every [Knight] stands true. A [Soldier] I shall be, or if a [Farmer] be my calling, to my part I shall do~”

Terrible. Bearable if you were singing it in great concert or for formal occasions, but after a pop song and dance number?

Yet she sang it so well. With such sincerity, tears coming to stand in the corners of her eyes, that you might actually wonder if she had been born of Ailendamus and was coming home. Some of the older people watching made a gesture across their chests and stared up at the waving flag overhead.

Someone kill me.

Ryoka Griffin longed for death, yet the moment was made bearable by looking at Cara. Trying to figure out why she was here. Her music video. Her warning…Rhisveri had invoked Oberon, and Queen Oiena was angry about the [Knights].

It was looking like an average Ryoka week.

——

Cara O’Sullivan finished singing to wild applause. Not just for the singing or the nod to Ailendamus’ ego. You had to applaud someone with the courage to sing that with such genuine emotion.

She bowed, and her security swept around her, refusing autographs. There would be time, later, later! She was staying at least two weeks, after all! For now, the approving [Chamberlain] was very satisfied with the entrance and attention—which had been captured on a spell for playback across the nation.

Cara saw Abebi hurry forwards to get everyone settled, as Greg tried to reach past the security to grab a folded piece of parchment. She resisted the urge to kick him into the fans and kept her eyes ahead, bowing slightly to the [Queen], who walked forwards to speak to her.

She was good at her job. Which was her class. [Popstar]—but that was like [Singer]. A general class. All the details were Cara’s. And so was the other class, hidden by the ring on her finger.

You’d never know unless she told you about her other class.

[Thespian].

An actor’s class. She was so good, in fact, she had sung Ailendamus’ national song without seeming disingenuous. Cara never looked at Ryoka, but ‘batman’ had seen her, and that was enough for today.

She was so good that no one even suspected how much she hated this kingdom. Cara raised her head and thought of her friend. Trapped under siege.

Words she would never say here for the connection they’d bring. She stared up at that hated flag.

Her friend, and a place. Two places, but the first? Cara looked up and held them in her chest until she did what she had come here to do.

Seraphel.

Seraphel and Afiele.

——

“I hate her. You understand why, don’t you? Her—I have many enemies—but her I will hurt, in some way, some how. I will bring the Empress of Tiqr down to grovel in front of me, but this? This is even more personal. You can see what she’s done to me, can’t you?”

Ceria Springwalker sat in the palanquin rolling on a wave of water across Savere’s roads. She was chewing—predictably—on food.

Raider Rations, Savere’s specialty—which were misnamed because that implied they were bad. Some were, but Savere’s employed a delicate mince of crab meat mixed with sardines and other catch, flatbread crumb, sometimes stale, but in this case higher-quality, seasonings from the port, which imported any you could want, egg, and mustard, which was for some reason a top-level condiment here.

It was then sautéed in Ferfish oil, a plentiful oil that tasted a bit nutty when you fed the fish…nuts…in the fisheries. Ceria had eaten eight. Revine eyed her as the Ice Squirrel chomped down on more, reaching for a processed, little fish cake that was also enjoyed as a snack.

“I…don’t get it.”

Revine Zecrew glared. She pointed at the scrying orb.

“Her! Her! Don’t you see?”

Ceria eyed the Singer of Terandria.

“…Is it the hat?”

“No! Don’t you know what she calls herself?”

“The Singer of Terandria?”

Revine was practically frothing at the mouth.

“The Siren of Songs! She took my name! Half the Mage’s Guilds ask if I am referring to the Siren of Songs rather than the Siren of Savere! I have had that title for—and she took it and she is claiming it! It isn’t even her main title!”

The palanquin, which was gold and styled with Savere’s heraldry, was really comfortable. Plush, silk pillows, a place to recline and cast magic from—

And it was enchanted against arrows and a lot of hostile spells. It wasn’t just a fancy conveyance; any chance ambush would quickly realize Revine could sit in it and blast you to bits with water while her army chopped you up.

Her army, incidentally, got to ride or march around it. [Rogues] and [Bandits] stared up enviously at the two riding along. The wave of water supported the massive vehicle and seamlessly carried them forwards.

Ceria chewed down her bite.

“I think I get it. Huh.”

Revine stared at her.

“You don’t share my opinion?”

“I don’t think she meant to anger you, Revine. Frankly—and I know this is going to sting—I don’t think she knows you exist.”

The Siren twitched. Ceria glanced up, fingers frozen on a pink fish cake.

“Uh—I only mean that in the sense of—”

For once her enhanced intelligence let her down. Because what Ceria saw and instantly placed in the camp of ‘Kevin-weirdness’ or ‘Erin-phenomena’…had made her forget her audience. Revine inhaled and spoke one trembling word.

“Out.”

——

Omusc, riding on a wagon and playing cards as she felt at her regrowing flesh, heard a whump, a shout—she turned her head in time to see a half-Elf go flying as a jet of water hit her. She flew like a screaming brick and landed flat on her back with a thump. Omusc saw Ceria stare up at the sky, then, dazedly, up at her as the [Pillager] rolled by. One of the [Bandits] eyed her.

“…You sure that’s the same person who wasted two dozen [Pirates] and [Raiders] last night?”

Omusc carefully stole a card from the top of the deck and hid her bad card in her armpit as she went to scratch it.

“Believe it. Someone haul her up. And hide the snacks. She’ll eat every fucking thing.”

——

They were moving. Savere’s ‘Army of Waves’ had returned to the capital—just long enough to see off some [Pirates]. They’d had to leave a garrison, but the port had been cleared.

Most importantly? The ships were out of the port. The Bloodtear Pirates had left. Not as cheerfully since they did leave, but with more rueful shrugs than gnashing of teeth.

They’d made a play and failed. They hadn’t paid much in blood, and they had still gotten to wipe out most of a land-gang. There had still been sixteen full crews—but with five at sea, the army inbound, the [Pirate Captains] had taken a look at Ceria and the Siren—

And the Alchemist, Irurx, who dined with the two the next day.

They came to a reluctant conclusion and shipped off. No fuss, no drama.

——

“You made an enemy of Ereiyne. She won’t forget that.”

Captain Aldrail had grinned down at Ceria as Gorry blew her a kiss. She looked up at him and Jiupe’s ship, which lingered at port. Behind them, the port gates were closing to a half-opening.

It changed the way the water flowed and lapped around Savere’s port. More importantly? Ships could come in and out, but only in single-file, and not as fast, because the currents were artificially slowed.

So, if you were an armada, you’d have a hard time sweeping into port suddenly. Most importantly—the gates could be shut, in which case you’d be trying to knock them down while Savere held out in a siege.

That was how they acted when the Siren left. Which freed her to march.

Where, though? Why now?

Well…

The Ice Squirrel was wet. She sat, dripping, on the wagon, as the other [Bandits] stared at the fuming Siren. Every now and then she’d blast the air with precious water.

“She’s still mad as a scorpion with its stinger up its own arse. What happened?”

“The Singer of Terandria’s on the news.”

“Oh.”

The [Enforcement Raider], Abelesque, winced and picked up a card. She scowled at it, then her face went blank. She glanced around and the other [Bandits] sighed. They were an unscrupulous lot, who liked to play cards because you could level if you swindled, cheated, or just stole each other’s cards. It was rare, but someone had once leveled twice from the most dastardly, underhanded theft of a 200 gold pot. It was a legend in Savere.

…Mind you, it had been a [Thug] who, after unsuccessfully trying to steal a few cards, had kicked her opponent and grabbed her cards in the dustup and hid them up her sleeve.

Even so, Abelesque, who had many important qualities as a leader and [Raider]…had no card face. So even Savere’s worst rogues felt playing with her was a bit…well, it felt wrong to take her money all day and night.

Like stealing from a baby. Who did that? If they were holding a diamond, sure, but candy? Buy some. You want something covered in saliva? Dead gods.

They were headed to battle. Ceria? Omusc murmured to her as she leaned over. The two were sitting together, and Ceria was being dealt in.

“So you’re working with us now, huh? You’re part of the crew. Technically, I guess you’re the boss. Want me to stop calling you Ice Squirrel?”

The half-Elf calmly shielded her cards from the friendly [Pillager]. They hadn’t spoken long about Ceria saving Omusc’s life. But they didn’t need to. All of Savere remembered. The other [Bandits] walking or riding along kept staring at Ceria, even the ones who were regular army veterans.

She looked like she wasn’t wearing the circlet. But who would believe that? Ceria brushed at her hair and smiled around. Her poker face was the stuff of legends. So bland…one of the [Bandits] saw her motion for the bowl of cheaper fish cakes and reluctantly passed it around.

“Nah. It’s temporary. The Siren and I have come to an arrangement. I help her—she helps find my friends. One of them is with a [Bandit Lady] she knows. We’re splitting work. Got a problem with that?”

Omusc grinned.

“You’re the boss’ best friend right now, boss. Just tell us who to stab and keep us rolling in gold.”

“Hah! How about coppers?”

The [Bandits] laughed. They watched Ceria. Damn, she really did have a poker face like—

The half-Elf reached up, detached her face—Abelesque went over the wagon’s side with a shout of horror as she sprang up—and removed the mask of ice. She grabbed a handful of fish cakes, popped them into her mouth, then fit the mask back over her face. Only then did she look around.

“What? I know you’re cheating. Fold.”

Only then did Omusc and a [Rogue] glance around and see the little mirror of ice reflecting the cards on the lip of the wagon. It melted as Omusc whistled. She leaned over the edge of the wagon.

“Hey! Get the gambling bitches up here! You know them! All the cheating bastards. We’re playing a high-level game!”

Savere’s army reformed as [Conwomen], card sharks with various high-level classes, [Gamblers], and so on walked out of the crowd. The kind of people who no one was willing to play with for money. Or even peanuts.

Of course, the rules were that if you got caught, you got the shit kicked out of you. But that was the fun. Savere moved with raucous laughter, chaos, and a rapidly-diminishing snack pool. The Siren fumed, but she looked ahead.

Nsiia. Nsiia and…well. Ceria’s friends. Not that Revine was a fool, but Ceria was amazingly practical, and the half-Elf was changed for all she had not. She aimed for Nsiia; Ceria’s team was secondary, but they’d meet if the Siren found Nsiia. As for what came next?

They’d negotiate when it came to that. After all—the Siren had an army.

——

The procession that left Tyrant’s Rest was the stuff of stories. One of Nerrhavia’s Grand Armies was forming, and that meant days of celebration.

Each city they traversed along the wide, well-kept, Djinni-maintained roads would throw open their gates and celebrate the passing of one of Nerrhavia’s greatest hordes.

Stitch-folk marched to the cheers of hundreds of thousands of admirers. Even the Hemp got their day in the sun, wearing burnished armor and bearing proud spears under the flag of Nerrhavia’s Fallen.

It was not just patriotism; the riders on the chariots would toss coins, and trinkets from the capital would be given out. Food would be placed along the procession-ways, and it was like a festival.

Not that all of it gathered from Tyrant’s Rest alone, of course. A muster for a Grand Army meant that each city that was contributing a contingent to the army would have this kind of procession—speeches—and march to link up with the main horde.

It was masterful organization, even if you disagreed with the rest of it. Nerrhavia could raise many armies in this way, as they only drew from the garrisons or waiting soldiers of multiple cities lightly to form a giant force. Indeed, as the army passed by each city, it would do an incredible amount of business. Also, leave quite a lot of babies—broken stalls and furniture from fights—and a certain amount of chaos in its wake.

Nevertheless. It had begun. Ironically, at this moment, the very two people this Grand Army was meant to escort were not…with…the procession riding through the first city on their route.

General Thelican of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, appointed to this great task by the [Queen] herself, had set out on the day it had been announced. That was because an army—even an army boosted by multiple Skills marching down a paved road—was slower than those on horseback.

“[We March Under Friendly Skies]!”

“[Swift Infantry]!”

“[Maintain the Pace]!”

Multiple [Strategists] and experts in the simple art of getting to one place quickly—[March Commanders]—were hastening his army’s progress. Thelican rode, an arm raised as the people gazed up at one of the greatest figures in their kingdom with awe.

Internally, he was less sanguine. He was returning to Tiqr, which had not been a pleasant campaign in the least. Mind you, the elephants were dead…which was good, because the veterans of that campaign might well break and flee rather than fight a thousand rampaging Grand Elephants again, Nerrhavia Fallen’s honor or no.

Yet what really bothered Thelican wasn’t the location, but the decision itself. The thing was…he leaned over his saddle and murmured to one of his companions.

“[Tome Magus] Irwhil. Did you have a chance to ask Her Majesty’s inner court or anyone else on the Council of Steel about the formation of this army?”

The [Mage] riding next to him was the lead spellcaster attached to this army. In this case, he was also a figure of note instead of being just a [War Mage]; Yisame wanted no effort spared, so she had commanded one of the Tome Magi of the Hundred Thousand Tomes Academy to aid Thelican.

His exact rank was Spellcaster Selendia—a term that meant he had permission to cast magic in the royal palace. In practice? He was as important as a lesser [General], an important ally to have in the courts.

Especially for a man like Thelican, who had both ambition and need of magically-capable allies. Irwhil had been his first choice to share in any glory and as a trustworthy ally.

A Grand Army, for a grand occasion. But Irwhil’s face was as…confused…as Thelican’s as the two rode together. The [Mage] cast an illusion to make it seem like both were still waving and smiling.

“I did not. From what I saw, even the [Spymaster] was astonished. The [Chancellor of Coin]? Perhaps it was that bastard who…?”

“No, I talked with him briefly. Maybe it was the [First Diplomat]? The…I think it must be Queen Yisame herself who ordered it.”

The two exchanged a look of frank amazement. Nerrhavia Fallen’s courts were highly complex. Thelican tapped at his painted lips.

Why would she not only offend the powerful Quarein family, a royal family who was as close to the throne as any by supporting the poor Isphel house, let alone form a Grand Army and pledge it to save a few adventurers? No matter they were famous—

This was not how Yisame normally did things.

She was a clever woman. She had ascended in the bloodbath of a civil war and survived because she understood how to rule a nation like this. Which was by staying clear of political fallout.

Consider most wars. Obviously, the one with Flos was an exception, but despite individual defeats, the onus of failure did not usually fall on Yisame—nor for costly economic projects that failed.

Because she did not propose them. She was carefully neutral, and let those who clutched at ambition rise or fall. Thelican knew Yisame as a savvy, cunning leader with a viper’s reflexes—politically—who would strike at you if you bared your fangs. A generous ruler otherwise.

With peculiar tastes running towards sharp edges, or so he had heard. But what ruler didn’t have…interests? Thelican carefully collected such information and never used it since there was little point. No, he had high ambitions, but Yisame’s seat was too high, even for him. The throne was a precarious place to be.

So why did she pledge armies to Yvlon Byres? Irwhil was clearly wondering the same thing.

“It must be that someone petitioned her to do so and we do not know about it. Either that or…”

Or she is aware of something we are not. Thelican didn’t like that, but the [Queen] did have the [Spymaster] on her side. Mind you, the [Spymaster] had his own plans, but he was still subservient to the crown. Yet Yisame had her own networks…

Thelican snapped his fingers, eyes widening, as they passed by some giant peacocks whose radiant feathers were collected into massive fans. He ignored the proffered gift of one luxuriant feather.

“Of course!”

Irwhil looked at him. Thelican leaned over and whispered urgently.

“It’s obvious, Irwhil. Don’t think of this as a simple gesture to the adventurers. It’s so obvious I should have seen it at the time. Why would one form a Grand Army and send it west?”

The [Tome Magus] thought, then his eyes widened.

“You mean…?”

Thelican was nodding, smiling with relief as he saw Yisame’s grand plan.

“That fool got herself captured by Pomle. The [Martial Artists] are strong. I can well imagine they might put up a long fight against our garrisons, Nerrhavia’s might or no. Why would one want a costly, protracted war of humiliation? Not least—the Empress of Beasts has joined the damned [Monks]. She’s becoming more than a nuisance. Thanks to that insane Vizir. Did you hear he wiped out Scaied’s forces just because he hated scorpions?”

Irwhil shook his head.

“Khelt’s madness. I agree—the entire region has the potential to rapidly destabilize. Just today, I heard that Savere was moving. So Illivere and Savere are chasing after the Empress of Beasts…”

“Really? Then Queen Yisame must have known that. Multiple nations—the Magus Crafter is a sensible man, but he’s made too many blunders. I’ll be appropriately restrained with him, but Savere? Multiple nations, Irwhil, getting ahead of themselves. That’s what this Grand Army is for. Pomle, Tiqr, and reuniting this famous team, just to put the last diamond on top of the treasure pile.”

“Astonishing.”

The [Tome Magus] breathed. Thelican nodded several times. No wonder Yisame had personally risked her capital on this. He sighed.

“At least we’ll be taking credit for the victories. I’ll send word to the garrisons to procure the right troops for these battles. Gird your loins for some fighting, Irwhil. It won’t be easy—but this army will be larger than the one that took Tiqr.”

The [Tome Magus] nodded.

“I’ll make an appointment with the next [Weaver].”

Thelican glanced at him—then the two exploded into laughter. They’d have a drink tonight. To success and glory! And Queen Yisame’s bold cunning.

——

Armies on the move. A Nerrhavian force swelling with each day. The Siren in pursuit.

And…Tiqr.

A beaten army, partially replenished, leveled up from fighting, it was true, but hardly earthshaking. In dire need of inspiration, support…and a hammer to replace their lost vanguard, the [Elephant Riders].

That hammer stood before them now. One of the scariest forces on Chandrar. Warriors of an older time, who had risen to fame under another [King]’s banner.

The King of Destruction’s allies.

The Monks of Sottheim.

…Ksmvr didn’t think they looked like much. The Antinium was still staring at the smoldering foothills and abandoned positions of Scaied’s army. They had literally fled the field, and the Magic Throwers were ruined. In fact, Vasraf’s forces were seeing if any could be salvaged.

“So that is the power of a high-level [Mage].”

Ksmvr decided that his team needed to invest in anti-meteor protective spells. That, or find a way to fly. He would look into it. Maybe a flying carpet?

He turned his attention back to the moment of the hour—which was Empress Nsiia greeting the leader of the Monks of Sottheim.

“[Abbot] Shurein. I greet you in Tiqr’s name, and offer you water and the bounties of my kingdom—such as they remain. It is an honor to lay eyes on you once more, especially in these dark times. I hope you will forgive my sudden appearance. Nor—do I think—you wonder why I have come.”

The [Abbot] was a calm, older man. Bald, straight-backed, dressed in a simple robe of decaying red fabric, and he seemed…Ksmvr peered at him.

Withered? Thin? He was a Stitch-Man, but his thread was clearly in decay, and his skin had the look of a raisin or something left out for a long time. He was very thin—all the [Monks] were—but not necessarily malnourished. Just…no fat whatsoever.

They had been under siege for nearly a year, yet Ksmvr didn’t see signs of extreme starvation. Perhaps these were the best fed?

Yet…that wasn’t what was interesting. Ksmvr eyed the man’s sun-darkened skin. His bald head. Then his bare feet, standing in the baking sand that was so deadly Ksmvr had to wear a huge hat and enchanted cloak.

Not only that—he had a huge halberd he’d planted in the sand. It was practically covered in rust, and Ksmvr suspected that if you removed the rust, you removed the blade itself. It was so thin and worn that he was amazed the wind wasn’t snapping it.

Same for the old, old wood haft. The other [Monks] behind the [Abbot] bore weapons just as old. A bowstring that looked like it might snap with every shot, a shield with two holes visible through the rust…

The [Monks] of Sottheim did not have good equipment. Yet Tiqr’s warriors looked at them with great respect.

Ksmvr…also felt something. Which was a sense that if he drew his swords and charged them—he would regret it. The [Monks] might be thin, underequipped, and had been contained by Scaied for months, but there was a reason the Kingdom of Scorpions hadn’t just wiped them out.

They were dangerous. So not withered, Ksmvr decided.

Tough. They felt tough, and the [Abbot]’s callused hands were that of a warrior. He placed them together now and bowed before Nsiia.

“Empress, this day is mildly astonishing. You, we expected. That Revenant? No. For a moment, I thought none other than Amerys had returned—but I forget myself. I am chatty, after so many months of silence. I accept Tiqr’s graciousness gladly. Let us speak and sit. Outside Sottheim; we have little left within. Another four months, and we would have sallied out for lack of food. I would have regretted the slaughter.”

Whose slaughter? Ksmvr saw the [Abbot] glance at him and felt a keen presence behind those mild eyes. He saw the other [Monks] bow and walk forwards.

“Let us break bread, then. Abbot, first I must introduce you to a great ally of mine. He who rescued me in bondage. A Gold-rank Adventurer. Ksmvr of the Horns of Hammerad. You know my [Wild General], Vasraf. This is Seelaw Ya, First of Judgment of the Loquea Dree tribe, and Leka Thri. Rémi Canada, a [Journalist], stands yonder, to record all that passes. Lastly, Domehead and Yinah, two young companions.”

The [Abbot] looked from astonishing person to astonishing person, a completely odd assortment of people. All he did was raise his brows.

“Interesting. First of Judgment, two of the King of Destruction’s old vassals meet. This is a fascinating day.”

He bowed, politely, as the tall crow-Garuda greeted him. Ksmvr was impressed. He didn’t think the [Abbot] was hiding surprise.

The [Monks] were setting up with some old rugs and coverings with Vasraf’s people, making a tiny enclosure with a canopy so they could rest and talk. They offered their food as Vasraf ordered the best foodstuffs brought out. Ksmvr stared at the [Monks]’ contribution to the pile.

“Is that all you have left?”

Even Rémi Canada was astonished. He stared at a bag of clearly-aged grain, some Yellats—more vegetables that looked relatively recent, but enough to feed…about six Cerias.

That was apparently enough to feed all the [Monks] who sat outside the canopy in the baking sand, which were exactly eighty-three in number. One was cooking the grain in a simple pot over a fire.

[Abbot] Shurein smiled as he watched the others sit. Like his people, he sat in the hot sand without appearing to notice it. He accepted some water in a cup from Nsiia herself, but refused the rich cut of meat. Nsiia looked unperturbed and offered it to Seelaw Ya. She picked up a second bowl and found a cat had taken it.

“Yinah! That is for guests!”

“Do you wish sustenance, [Abbot]? I am Ksmvr, as Nsiia indicated. You must be hungry.”

The [Abbot] saw Ksmvr carefully offer his food. Once again he shook his head.

“You are kind, Ksmvr. However, my people are satisfied with what we have brought. I, like the other [Monks], have taken a vow—I will not eat rich foods. Nor do I need to.”

Indeed, Ksmvr saw the [Monks] were calmly chewing down on a tiny bowl of porridge mixed with the scant vegetables. The only thing they did take from their hosts was water.

Some of Vasraf’s people looked as dismayed as Ksmvr, but the [Monks] seemed quite content. Vasraf, Nsiia, and even Seelaw Ya and Leka Thri acted like this was to be expected.

“You must tell us all. We were cut off from news, so all I know is that the King of Destruction wakes. Does he still live? I expected him before you, Empress. You say these are dark days for Tiqr? And how comes an Antinium—I can only believe it is one of the Antinium—to Chandrar’s shores?”

The [Abbot] ate his pitiful portion as Nsiia sat opposite him in the shade, on a rug. He really didn’t know anything of what had passed, and listened intently.

He didn’t speak much either. All the [Abbot] did when Nsiia told him of Tiqr’s fall was sigh. When he heard the King of Destruction was besieged in Reim, he shrugged.

“I see.”

That’s all? Ksmvr was incredulous. The [Abbot] noticed his stare and smiled.

“We would have had difficulty reaching Reim in time to begin with. Sottheim cannot be abandoned; he will come to us, or some would march to him if the siege were lifted. That is what we decided, but I wished to know if he had the will to return. Your arrival and request, Empress, is far more interesting. Scaied is neighbor to Tiqr, and the fall of Tiqr is tragic indeed.”

Some of the other [Monks] nodded. The [Abbot] sat, cross-legged. He lowered his head and closed his eyes in deep thought for about ten seconds. Then he looked up.

“Sottheim will march with Tiqr. We will not wait for another siege, nor the King of Destruction. My people—half of us will go to war. Prepare yourselves and choose whether you will go or stay. Those that leave may never return. Empress of Beasts, I will request a second Sottheim be permitted in your lands if we take your kingdom. Is that fair?”

Nsiia exhaled slowly. Her hands, which had tightened on her bowl and chopsticks, relaxed.

“It is, Abbot. You have my deepest gratitude.”

He shrugged and smiled.

“It is what I believe is best. We will be ready within an hour’s time.”

Ksmvr exchanged a look with Domehead. Even the Golem’s dome-lights were blinking in confusion. The Abbot stood, and so did the [Monks], some of whom lined up after him. Ready to go. Possessions? Check. Ready to fight in a war? Check.

Ksmvr decided the Antinium could learn something from the Monks of Sottheim. He liked this [Abbot] indeed.

——

Alright, what was up with the Monks of Sottheim? They were indeed ready to go in forty minutes, and nearly six thousand [Monks] lined up outside of Sottheim.

Sottheim was a vast monastery. Ksmvr had never seen it up close; it lay in a valley with only one outlet, a bit weathered, but in fine condition. Gardens of crops were neatly planted around it, and it seemed that war had not come to Sottheim—not even artillery from the Magic Throwers.

Scaied had never attacked, only contained. Ksmvr saw huge, flat grounds with odd indentations in them where [Monks] would sit and meditate. He also saw what looked like training grounds, and obviously a huge, sprawling complex made of stone with little-to-no ornamentation.

But the [Monks] left their home, possibly never to return, without a word. They lined up in neat rows, wearing only robes—or extremely corroded armor—and bearing simple weapons. They didn’t have a set weapon like all-halberds or so on. They simply carried what they had. And, in some cases, that was nothing, so the [Monks] were armed with their bare fists.

“I shall be glad of weaponry. Scaied would have exacted a toll I was unwilling to pay—yet. We shall take your simplest arms.”

“We have many, in spades from our foes, Abbot. I will tell our [Quartermasters] to arm your people well.”

Vasraf was assuring Shurein, who was very humble, clearly impressed by the shorter man. Ksmvr kept staring at the bare feet. As the [Wild General] hurried off to do just that, and expedite Tiqr’s packing—which was ironically slower than the [Monks]’—Ksmvr strode over.

“Excuse me. Abbot Shurein? I am Ksmvr, Gold-rank Adventurer and friendly Antinium. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. As a conversational topic to begin with, I have an acquaintance who also runs about with bare feet. Hello.”

The [Abbot] glanced at him, turned, bowed with that odd greeting, and smiled.

“Hello, Ksmvr. I am glad you approached me. I believe we have much to talk about. Is your friend a [Monk], by any chance?”

Ksmvr thought about it.

“No. Simply odd. May I inquire about everything from your poorly-maintained weapons to eating habits to your bare feet and combat prowess without being rude? I believe you would appreciate such direct address.”

He clapped his mandibles happily together. Finally, someone who spoke straight!

The [Abbot]’s smile widened.

“I do indeed appreciate it. Forgive me if I am too abrupt. There are weeks I will go without speech; Sottheim needs little in the way of words, but I must remember the outside world loves speech and performance.”

Ksmvr nodded happily.

“They do. Little gifts. Compliments. Also, they frown upon eating wildlife. Some wildlife.”

Shurein actually laughed.

“They do. Rats are unacceptable. The same for insects in many countries. People spend a lot of time talking. They need not. To answer you directly, then, Ksmvr, I am a [Monk]. Although my exact class is [Abbot]—leader of monks. Do you know what a [Monk] is?”

Ksmvr tilted his head left and right.

“I have studied [Monks] in my comprehensive lexicon of all classes. The Antinium appraise them as [Warrior]-analogues with cultural Skills and background. There are few on Izril. We would not rate you highly as a threat. I would guess you use a staff and have hand-to-hand combat techniques if I did not see you holding a halberd.”

The Abbot was very pleased by this.

“Indeed? That is close to many [Monks]. There are other monasteries across the world, although it is true, I have heard Drakes make poor [Monks]. Perhaps that is simply bias. Regardless, Ksmvr, we are a class that tends to live in privation of some kind. We vow to strip elements out of our lives, that we might focus, meditate, train ourselves.”

“Like [Martial Artists]?”

Shurein nodded.

“An apt parallel. However, they focus only on combat. Some aspects they practice are a lifestyle. Our goal is entirely how we live and conduct ourselves.”

“Aah. And how strong are you?”

The [Abbot]’s smile grew a hair wider.

“If the Antinium had come to Chandrar, you would not underestimate the [Monks] of Sottheim. We were the King of Destruction’s vassals. You have met the Loquea Dree?”

The Antinium nodded. Shureim gestured at the [Monks].

“Loquea Dree as a tribe was small, and their numbers did not change markedly through the war. They grew, but few died since theirs was a small force that kept order. Sottheim’s [Monks] were fewer in number, but our ranks grew exponentially through the war. Yet by the end of the King of Destruction’s conquests, they dropped precipitously. Over ten thousand of our number perished on Baleros with the [Gambler of Fates]. We exacted a fitting toll; many others perished at sea against the House of Minos in their ambush. Since then, our numbers have swelled again. They will rise higher, now we leave and march to war once more.”

Six thousand [Monks], and the same number presumably left to guard the monastery. Ksmvr nodded.

“Six thousand is a small number compared to some armies on Chandrar. They number in the hundreds of thousands, so I can only guess that a [Monk] is superior to a regular [Soldier]. How would you rate their combat status?”

“It depends on their level.”

Ksmvr paused.

“Well, yes. But…on average, how good is a [Monk]?”

Shurein shrugged.

“Superior to a [Soldier] of the same level.”

Ksmvr scratched at the stubs of his antennae.

“…Broadly speaking?”

“Almost always.”

It didn’t sound like arrogance, but that was an incredible claim! Ksmvr eyed one of the female [Monks] walking along with a literal staff for a weapon.

“I believe we are being imprecise. I am not sure if I am ‘being laughed upon’. How strong is she, then?”

Shurein and the female [Monk] glanced up. The [Abbot] gave Ksmvr another polite, slight smile.

“Nothing is certain until the clash. You may be beyond us all, Ksmvr. I would not know from just looking. So…would you like to find out?”

——

Nsiia strode through the line of [Soldiers] watching, and pushed past people until she ran into that which could not be pushed.

Domehead. But the Golem politely stepped aside for her, and she saw Ksmvr fighting.

Not the female [Monk], but against [Abbot] Shurein himself. The [Monk]—and five others—were sitting, with bruises or, in one case, a split lip which they refused to treat with a potion, watching as the [Abbot] spun his halberd. He stepped left, then right, feinting with the halberd, a jab, a shallow cut—whirling the blade to threaten the right side, as Ksmvr’s swords shone.

[Silver Illusion]. A school of blade arts known for its incredible speed and deceptive cuts. The Antinium [Skirmisher] had inherited it. He still carried the twin shortswords Vasraf had given him.

On loan, much as the shining sword Nsiia carried was. The blades flashed together in a mesmerizing, glittering pattern that would distract you. Even if you sliced at Ksmvr, he might vanish.

The heights of his sword school were a mystery to even Nsiia and Vasraf. Yet it said much that someone had once walked down that long path.

Klbkch the Slayer. It sent a chill down her spine to think of it. Yet…Ksmvr’s delicate sword dance faltered. The Antinium stared at the [Abbot] as Shurein feinted, stepping left and right.

“I believe I am in trouble.”

He based that not on the pure technique of the [Abbot]’s handling of the halberd; they were just testing feints, inviting a slash, seeing if Ksmvr could tell they were fake. The Antinium, with his keen insight for battle and experience as an adventurer—

Mostly based it on the fact that the [Abbot] had afterimages.

He was moving so fast from left to right that Ksmvr saw two Shureins, and multiple halberds seemed to be flickering through the air. But while Ksmvr had a Skill and mastery of the two blades—

Shurein was just fast. He came in, hard, fast, and low, his halberd angled so the blunt edge would hit Ksmvr if he struck. Such a frail old man—who was about to hit Ksmvr like—

Shurein stopped. He put up his blade, and then smiled widely. Nsiia blinked. She watched as Ksmvr put up his swords and ran out of the circle of onlookers. He hopped over three people, ran—three arms waving—a good hundred feet, then turned to see if Shurein was chasing him.

“Ksmvr! I thought you were going to fight!”

Nsiia shouted. There was laughter as Ksmvr shouted back.

“I am an adventurer! I do not take fights where I will die. Mostly.”

The [Abbot] chuckled as he put up his halberd.

“That is a wise opponent. I see why Loquea Dree favors him. A [Skirmisher] who picks his battles.”

Ksmvr came back. He regarded Shurein, then copied his bow and placed his palms together.

“You are a very mighty warrior, Abbot Shurein. I believe I begin to understand why Sottheim is feared. Your [Monks] were very good opponents as well.”

Each one had been quick, strong, and proficient with their weapons. Not as much as Ksmvr, but they had adapted to his three arms and style fast—before he bonked them on the head with one of his swords. Ksmvr eyed the five [Monks] who bowed to him.

“What level are they? How many battles have they been through?”

Shurein scratched at his chin. He looked at the [Monks].

“No battles. These five came to Sottheim after the King of Destruction’s slumber; there are only a few hundred who lived past the end of the war. As to their levels? None here are over Level 30. Isn’t that so?”

“No, Abbot.”

They replied as one. Ksmvr tilted his head.

“They are very good. Very…good.”

Nsiia snorted. Ksmvr glanced at her, then Shurein’s small smile. He frowned, putting his mandibles together.

“I am being laughed upon. Everyone knows something I do not. What is it?”

It was Leka Thri who flew down and stood next to Ksmvr. He bent over and murmured.

“Sottheim’s [Monks] are not known for their levels, Ksmvr. Not weapons. Their Skills. Each [Monk] you could face has the same ones. Regardless of level.”

Ksmvr’s head snapped up.

“How? Skills are random.”

“Not necessarily. [Monks] are a different class from many. [Mages] differ. [Monks] differ. Those who master a weapon experience Skills differently. You know this.”

Shurein returned. He gestured at the [Monks], who bowed again.

“Each one of Sottheim’s [Monks] follows our class. Our class does not gain in strength simply by achieving great deeds, but how we live. We have taken [Vows]. For instance, I have taken a [Vow of Poverty]. I will never carry or use money. Should I try, it may slip from my grasp. Or my class shall become endangered.”

Ksmvr’s antennae stubs were waving rapidly. He looked at Shurein.

“I have never heard of this.”

“Few have the willpower to live their lives so. But that is what a [Monk] does. Each class has secrets. Some monasteries vow only one thing, or let their disciples choose. Sottheim? We have many vows. [Vow of Poverty]. [Vow of Privation]—we will not sleep or rest on luxury, we shall not eat rich foods. In exchange, we need less. Deprivation is strength, but it is a vow that will endure as long as we live. Or…we will lose our class.”

“A dire trade. I could not live so.”

Nsiia murmured. Shurein inclined his head at her. He gestured to the [Monks].

“Yet my people are free to come and go, Empress Nsiia. To renounce our class at any time. They do not, which tells me they find a reason to believe in Sottheim’s teachings. Someday—perhaps—there will be hundreds of thousands, millions of Sottheim’s people. Even if they take other classes, they will live under such vows.”

“Why would that be ideal?”

Ksmvr saw Shurein look at him.

“Because we fight wars over money, Ksmvr. Because many starve for want of food or water. Sottheim’s people will not. It is my dream, and the one the King of Destruction let me, and the [Abbots] before me, pursue to spread Sottheim’s teachings to those who will listen.”

“Ah.”

Another person who wanted something. Loquea Dree? Respect, a purpose. Sottheim?

Belief. To spread far and wide. Shurein gestured at one of the [Monks], who might be as young as fourteen. He bowed.

“Each [Monk] is given a trade for their vows. Each warrior you bested, Ksmvr, has the same Skills. That is why some claim Sottheim is mighty. Their Skills are these: [Lesser Strength]. [Lesser Toughness], [Lesser Dexterity], [Lesser Endurance]. Four vows. Four Skills. In time, they too will evolve.”

He smiled.

“Mine are greater.”

Ksmvr’s mandibles opened. He looked at the [Monks]. At Nsiia, who laughed at his expression. At the six thousand [Monks], all with…

“What. I am shocked. I am…”

He looked around for a way to express himself. How could he even convey—

“Aaaaaah! Aaaaaah!”

Ksmvr ran around in a circle, arms thrown high. Erin did it—it seemed effective at communicating his feelings.

People were laughing after a minute, so Ksmvr stopped.

Sottheim. Now, Ksmvr got it. He had only one last question.

“How did the [Monks] of Sottheim grow to such numbers? It seems you recruit and wish to create more monasteries.”

“Yes. Our particular monastery is new. But I believe we will grow over the course of this next war or campaign. Tiqr’s people, all people, will join us. But that is not why we will flourish.”

Shurein looked much amused at Ksmvr’s reactions.

“Two monasteries will grow twice as fast, regardless of whether the King of Destruction rises or falls. I hope for more, but, so long as Sottheim lives, we will grow. Time will tell if what we believe is right.”

He looked so calm and confident that Ksmvr was impressed. He also saw why no one bothered attacking the [Monks]: even at low-levels they were dangerous. A bunch of counter-leveling [Monks]? Even without weapons?

The funny ant-man was getting lots of laughs, and he nodded and bent down to pet Yinah. Ksmvr waited until Rémi Canada was focused on someone else. He wondered…

If Antinium could become [Monks].

Erin Solstice had taught him well indeed. Perhaps Shurein noticed, but the [Abbot] said nothing. After all. Sottheim’s beliefs were Sottheim’s, regardless of species. And wouldn’t it be interesting?

A slight smile that Leka Thri watched. Loquea Dree, the Executioners of the Sky, were feared. So was Sottheim. There were reasons they were equally feared.

“You truly believe you will convert that many people, then, Abbot Shurein? I admit, your monastery is very impressive. I wish you success and hope for your aid and our good companionship on our journey. Perhaps you may tell me more about your class later.”

They were moving out. Where to next? Nsiia had another destination, and now her army had a vanguard as powerful as any Grand Elephant. Shurein glanced at Ksmvr and bowed slightly.

“This is well. But I believe you make one mistake. I apologize for teasing you, Ksmvr of Chandrar. I did not take a vow against humor. So I shall clear it up. Recruits? We do not rely on that, for that is a dangerous thing to trust the future of our monastery to. Sottheim will grow faster than most monasteries.”

Ksmvr hesitated.

“…Why?”

Shurein pursed his lips. Then his eyes twinkled. He whispered to Ksmvr.

“Because, Ksmvr. We do not take vows of celibacy.”

The [Skirmisher] stared at Shurein. He looked around. His mandibles opened.

“Ew. Is that why you joined Nsiia’s army?”

The [Monks] were talking with the Tiqr [Soldiers]. Who were flirting. Ksmvr stared about. A [Monk] helping load a wagon. Was that flirting? Foreplay? How would you know? Was one of them talking and offering a drink from a water bottle flirting? Was kissing a [Soldier]—no, wait, that was definitely flirting.

He’d better be careful. Ksmvr wished he had the manual on reproduction that Belgrade and the others had helped him write. He turned to Shurein, but the [Abbot] was calm again.

“No, not for that. We joined Tiqr because Sottheim must be tested. Because I believe in Tiqr as a nation. That is selfish…but Sottheim does not court war with no chance at victory.”

He was serious again, and Ksmvr went still.

“Then you truly believe this war can be won?”

Shurein looked at him. The [Abbot] nodded and cast his gaze skywards.

“I do not know why Khelt intervened. My decision is my own, and the Empress of Beasts seems to be seeking out allies of Reim. That is one thing. But I have sources that have little to do with politics or current events. I believe Tiqr’s allies remain. And they are coming.”

He looked at Ksmvr. The Antinium looked around.

“Who…?”

The [Abbot] gave him a mysterious smile and walked off. Ksmvr followed him.

“No, who is it? Please stop smiling. Is it a secret? Who…?”

They were on the march without an answer before Ksmvr thought to ask where they were going. The Empress of Beasts answered him curtly.

“I know you seek your friends, Ksmvr, but Scaied will not let this go lightly. Nor can we wait with Illivere on our backs. They will not attack with Sottheim joining us—not lightly. However, I have word that Savere is marching on us from the south, and Nerrhavia stirs. I must find my people and retreat to the Kilalle Steppes. From there, we may conduct a longer war and locate your friends. First though, the last ally who might stand with us.”

“Which is where?”

Ksmvr saw Nsiia point northeast. Her eyes glittered.

“Word comes to me of a place where my people gather. Where a foe stands against even the great nation of Stitch-people. We march to Pomle.”

——

“Pomle. Truly? Not Savere?”

Pisces lowered his water flask. The water was sweet, drawn from some exceptionally clean well and purified further. Nothing like the gritty, brackish water of most desert wells.

Merr met his gaze stolidly.

“Pomle. Savere’s almost as close, but I hear Scaied’s all riled up with this damned Empress of Beasts.”

“Ah. The deposed ruler?”

Merr shrugged.

“Yes. No idea why. And we’re not risking being counter-scried, but the gangs say she’s on the run. Moreover—we’re not going through Scaied with Roshal on our backs. The entire kingdom is mercenary; we’d have to fight through all of them. But if we go along that route—”

She traced a road heading east.

“Pomle. Why Pomle?”

Pisces wondered. He knew the reputation of that small place. Merr glanced at him.

“No one fucks with Pomle, that’s why. They’re not at home with [Slavers], and Roshal never bothers them. If there was anywhere to lay low and rest—I hear there are refugees from Tiqr there. Pomle. We can strike towards Savere or Nerrhavia—or even head north along Zeikhal towards Reim depending on what it looks like from there.”

The [Necromancer] thought, but he didn’t have a better answer. He frowned as Merr pointed out their route.

“We are not staying on the Glass Straits any longer? Why not? This…this is a populated road. We will run into travelers. Even caravans.”

“Yep. [Slavers] too, I bet.”

Pisces eyed her. He opened his mouth to point out the obvious—then looked over his shoulder. Merr followed his gaze.

She stared pointedly at the remnants of her [Bandits], who were fighting over enchanted weapons pulled from the chests. The freed [Slaves]—no.

The [Rebels]. Including Bearig, who were armed with the dead [Slavers]’ weapons. The [Cook] was trying on a helmet as Rophir tried to jam it over his head.

Hundreds of freed [Slaves]. Not just a band of dozens. Pisces looked at Merr. Her eyes were on the map.

“The Death of Chains hit countless caravans and freed [Slaves]. I’ve never thought of it this way. But Bearig? He put the idea in my ear. Roshal’s probably dragging them to Lailight Scintillation as fast as they can. So there are huge caravans with [Slaves] on these roads. We can’t beat them all. But every caravan has [Slaves] too. Besides…we can take them. Without losing many people.”

She looked back up, and Pisces’ head turned once more. He looked back—and this time into the glowing gaze of…

A Zombie. They stood in ranks, denuded of armor and weapons. Some swayed, others opened and closed their jaws.

Zombies. Ghouls. Even Skeletons with their exploding chest traps. A force of undead.

“Both’ll grow the more we fight.”

“You want an army.”

Merr shrugged.

“They way I look at it, necro-lad—”

“Don’t call me that.”

She slapped him on the shoulder.

“—Pisces my boy—is that we’re already being hunted. If they want to take us, we should make it as hard as possible. What do you say? Up for a good old-fashioned rampage?”

The [Necromancer] looked at Merr. He felt at his neck, glanced over his shoulder at the freed [Slaves] and undead. Pisces Jealnet’s eyes flickered. He stood up, slapped Merr on the shoulder, and swore and rubbed at his fragile [Mage]-hands as she laughed. But then he looked at Merr and bared his teeth.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

——

Plans were coming together. Intersecting. You had to play something by ear, but they were drawing to their perfect conclusion. Like a net. Like a tapestry. Like a spider’s web. There would be snags, complications…intersecting goals and dreams.

And yet. Yisame Beziin, Queen of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, Steward of the Sultanate of the Freed Cloths, Guardian of the Tyrant’s Grave, Threadchosen of the Kingdoms of Nerrha—that was the old name for Nerrhavia’s empire—Monarch of etc. etc…

Watched as a woman awkwardly signed the cardboard card with her silversteel left hand holding the quill. It wasn’t good penwomanship because she was using her wrong hand and she wasn’t used to autographs.

That just made it more valuable.

Oh yes. It was all coming together. The [Silversteel Armsmistress] put the quill back in the holder and then hesitated, clearly wondering if you just…

“I will take it. Thank you, Adventurer Byres. I am much enamored by your exploits. Not just in Nerrhavia’s Fallen.”

The [Queen] accepted the autograph, and Yvlon ducked her head.

“You’re too kind, Your Majesty.”

“Not at all. You must call me Yisame, and I shall call you Yvlon. We only have a day…”

Yisame regretted that. She leaned over, and Yvlon leaned back. She seemed patently uncomfortable. Yisame tried not to look too excited.

“Do forgive me. I truly do admire your deeds in Izril.”

“I—I had no idea you even knew about them, Your Majesty. This is a high honor.”

Yvlon shuffled her feet. She grew more relaxed as Yisame clapped her hands.

“Servants! Leave the refreshments. I believe Yvlon and I will be best suited alone.”

“Your Majesty, with a Human from—?”

A [Servant] flinched as Yisame gave her a wide-eyed glare. They put down the refreshments, and Yisame turned to Yvlon.

“Drinks? Something to eat? I know it must seem—odd.”

After all, Prince Zenol was not here. Nor were the other [Gladiators]. It was just Yvlon. The Gold-rank adventurer had come in full of etiquette, not prepared for…

Well, Yisame knew she was smiling a bit too widely. She went to serve Yvlon a drink herself and the woman stood up.

“Your Majesty, allow me—”

“Yisame. Please!”

They stood, as Yvlon took one of the decanters and Yisame faced her. The [Queen] felt a lurch in her chest.

Oh no, this wasn’t going according to plan! They were supposed to be—no, wait.

She wasn’t blind. Yvlon was certainly a bit…weirded out. Off-put by Yisame’s demeanor. And the [Avid Reader] realized something.

In all her scheming to help Yvlon, to put her into a better position, then to salvage the disaster at the court—then her impulsive decision to throw it all to Rhir’s hells and help that brave adventurer and [Prince]—

She had never thought of what to do when she met Yvlon.

Suddenly, Yisame began to sweat. She was the ruler of the nation that had interred Yvlon. She had apologized, of course, and Yvlon accepted that, but did she mean it? What would they talk about?

“I—ah, I truly am a fan of yours, Miss Byres. I enjoy stories, you see.”

Wait, don’t lead with that! Yisame flushed slightly, and Yvlon slowly poured herself a drink.

“I see, Your Majesty?”

The [Queen] hurried on. Definitely don’t mention the writing! Or fan fiction. Sandquen—this was why you didn’t add yourself into your stories!

“I followed the entire raid on the Village of the Dead, you know. I know all of the Horns of Hammerad.”

“I see?”

Yisame’s desperate smile turned waxy.

What did I just say? I know all the—there are four of them! It isn’t like knowing the genealogy of a royal family! But her treacherous lips kept moving.

“T-that is, Pisces, Ceria, Ksmvr, and you.”

“That is the Horns of Hammerad, Your M—er…Yisame.”

Yvlon Byres looked like her teeth ached. The two stared at each other, realized they had locked gazes, and Yisame desperately opened a fan and began to wave it. She pretended to glance down at her cup. Yvlon Byres stared at her jagged wrist; her right arm was almost regrown.

This was a disaster. Yisame felt like she was going to cry. And if she started crying…

With every ounce of will, she suppressed her tear ducts. She saw Yvlon’s lips moving, perhaps trying to formulate some kind of nothing statement about the decor. Oh dead gods, what do I…

“Calruz of Hammerad too. Sostrom, Gerial, I believe there was a Marian and Hunt?”

Yvlon’s head snapped up. She blinked. Then her eyes widened.

“You know the original Horns of Hammerad too?”

Yisame breathed. She spoke faster.

“Of course. Once I looked into the Horns, I had to learn about them. The original team as formed by Calruz of the Beriad—I knew it had to be related to the House of Minos in some way, but I assumed one of you had been granted the right to use the name by the Minotaur King.”

“Oh, no. I—the Minotaur King?”

Yisame lifted her cup and drank. She began chatting, out of sheer nerves.

“The Minotaur King would grant you the right to use Hammerad’s name, as one of Minos’ regions. This Calruz—your previous Captain—must have been one of Minos’ citizens privileged enough to exit to the outside world. But—”

She bit her tongue.

“—He is currently imprisoned in Liscor. Sick silkworms, I am so sorry to bring—and your team, the Silver Spears—I apologize. I was only—”

She turned beet red. She’d done it. Mentioned the worst thing Yvlon Byres didn’t want to hear.

But rather than grow angry—Yvlon was just looking at Yisame.

“You…you do know about us. That’s incredible. Do you know my teammates’ names…?”

Yisame’s heart leapt. She closed her eyes, then used a Skill. [Re-read the Passage].

“Veronika, Dalia, Samite, and…Maisé. That’s all the entry said.”

Yvlon Byres sat back, eyes wide. An expression of pain flickered across her face, and Yisame’s heart sank. But then she nodded. She looked at Yisame and…smiled. She took a deep gulp of wine as she realized who Yisame was.

The Horns of Hammerad’s first, true, non-related fan. Someone who had never met them, but a fan. A fan who wanted autographs, who knew their story—at least, the accessible bits.

And who was definitely going to save that drinking cup. Yvlon took another deep sip and so did Yisame, in relief. They had completely forgotten they were not being served water, but wine.

——

Forty minutes later, Yisame was sitting on a couch next to Yvlon as the [Servant] came in and refilled the wine decanter and brought a lunch. The [Queen] leaned over as the [Servant] left.

“So you and Pisces truly aren’t, ah, romantic in any way…”

Yvlon half-recoiled.

“Pisces? Please. Never. I really do respect him. I hold him in high esteem, even if he gets on my nerves, truly—but as a partner? Never.”

“I knew it. I knew it, but some people think you and he—I am going to tell that goat-faced harridin—you wouldn’t mind putting out some kind of statement? Some kind of…”

Yvlon reached for the cup of wine.

“I’d make an announcement and post it in every Adventurer’s Guild.”

“Done! Send for my [Scribes]!”

Yisame half-rose, and Yvlon tugged her back. A [Servant] poked their head in and saw the two women, slightly red in the cheeks, laughing and arguing.

The [Queen] had made a friend. At first it had been terribly awkward, but when she proved she knew Yvlon’s story, wanted to hear the rest—the woman had begun to relax.

The wine definitely helped. But what also helped was Yisame’s confession. Yvlon looked at her as the door closed once more.

“So you’re really a [Reader]?”

“Books. I love them. It’s all so…adventurous. The world beyond the castle.”

“Is it? It’s a lot of dirt and grime and…”

“I know that. But you get—surely there are moments where you feel like you’ve done something else no one has. Triumph?”

Yvlon thought of Albez, of emerging with the treasure, of realizing they were alive and the Adult Creler dead, and of becoming a Gold-rank adventurer.

“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s terrible, but yes, sometimes.”

The [Queen] sighed.

“I long for that. I never wanted to be a [Queen], you know.”

She looked around guiltily. Yvlon was no fool. She looked at Yisame in astonishment, then lowered her voice.

“I never wanted to be a [Lady] either. But I am one. I can’t…not be one. I wish—I wish, sometimes, I didn’t have my older brother so I wouldn’t compare myself to him. But would I have made it without being born a Byres?”

Yisame was nodding, tears in her eyes. She went to hug Yvlon, impulsively. It was more physical than the Izrilian was used to, but that actually squared with Yisame as a [Queen].

“That is exactly how I feel. I wanted to go out—but I once got a magic sword, and I arranged to fight a Silver-rank monster…I couldn’t do it.”

Her face fell.

“I couldn’t. I can only read of things. I can’t change how I was raised.”

Yvlon tried to cheer her up.

“Most people freeze up, the first dozen times. I did—everyone has trouble with animals and monsters, let alone people.”

“Truly? That makes me feel better. I do love reading, you know. It’s just—I am [Queen] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. I would rather have read about the King of Destruction. Even him coming back—you know, I was truly excited? Until I realized what it meant. Until my kingdom made war on his. The Empress of Beasts…”

She sighed. Yvlon looked at her.

“Can’t you…change things? Give orders?”

Yisame gave her a fragile smile.

“A [Queen] can—but in Nerrhavia’s Fallen, even a [Queen] is not a secure position. I would that I were higher-level, but there are many checks on the throne. Nerrhavia, the Tyrant of Cloth, shall never return, and that is good because she was a monster given flesh. But…I must be careful.”

She sat there, rather like some kind of wondrously-sewn doll trapped in her role. Yvlon felt for Yisame. She knew what that felt like, even in part.

“You helped me and Prince Zenol. I will repay that, Your Majesty.”

Yisame looked at Yvlon.

“Do so by continuing to do great things. Things of such great stories that I can read them and know I met you, helped you. And—and I will continue to do so. Your arm is nearly healed. But is it entirely well?”

Yvlon flexed her arm, frowning.

“It’s…it feels off, sometimes, but I am learning to control it far better.”

Yisame took a long gulp of goat’s milk and threw her head back.

“Well, we will not spend all this time together. I have made arrangements with an expert I can trust completely. She will see to you before you go. Appraise whatever you might have carried from the Village of the Dead too.”

Yvlon jumped.

“How did you—”

She was rewarded with an arch smile. Yisame’s eyes glittered.

“I may be a low-level [Queen], but I did read Ducaz’s reports. The rest of my Courts did not. Even falsified, he claimed he only sequestered your Gold-rank artifacts—I will have them returned, mark my words. But I could not imagine he would do all this if it were not for a Relic-class item. As one was never found on him when an inquiry was launched, my guess was that you had hidden it somewhere. I can retrieve it if it is buried—but I was sure you had at least one once I heard of Ksmvr. Adventurers don’t leave treasure behind.”

Yvlon Byres hesitated.

“I do have the Relics.”

“Really? Where did you hide them? Was it that the Relics were undetectable? Wait. You hid them in your arms! Of course!”

“I—absolutely. That’s exactly it.”

Yvlon Byres would never tell anyone, anyone, even her biggest fan, how she’d really hidden the scrolls and rings.

It was a strange feeling, though. Meeting someone who liked you, and didn’t really know you. It could, as Yisame had feared, be entirely disastrous. The reason it wasn’t was because Yisame was still…

[Queen] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. And once Yvlon saw past her delicately hand-sewn skin, the luxurious fabrics, the painted lips, makeup, and power behind the often-cruel, gigantic nation…

She found someone she liked, despite only having met her for these scant few hours. A bookworm sitting on a gilded throne, willing to move earth and sky for the sake of stories.

As for Yisame? She listened as Yvlon told her some of the real stories. She told Yvlon her small life, surviving the bloodbath of a civil war, figuring out how to stay in power…the [Armsmistress] made much of it, but Yisame was hardly the King of Duels, let alone a ruler who had won their crown by cunning or blood. She had just survived.

She didn’t seem to understand how much that counted for an adventurer. In the same way—as Yvlon told her story, she was surprised how it moved Yisame. The self-conscious woman touched her metal flesh as she sat there.

“The…the first time I actually damaged my arms, during the battle with the Fire Elemental? It was too fast. I was there, trying to kill it, and I didn’t think. That’s how it goes, usually. But afterwards? When I was fighting the Adult Creler, and other times before that? I knew I put myself in danger. When I thought we were all going to die, I charged it because…”

She hesitated. A confession came to her lips she’d never really told anyone.

“…I was glad if it was me.”

“Why?”

Yisame looked up at Yvlon. The Human woman smiled bleakly, remembering.

“At the time, I looked at my team, and each one was special. Pisces was a silver-bell duelist-trained [Necromancer]. Ceria? She was a half-Elf and growing in ice magic. Ksmvr was Antinium and…Ksmvr. They had room to grow. What did I have? Training, experience—but I’d just level up into [Knight] at best. I thought I was dragging them down. So I was reckless. I should have died.”

“Do you know why you didn’t?”

The woman stared into that memory of her shattering the Adult Creler’s brain, surviving losing her arms. All the rest.

“I…just kept fighting. I said to myself that I knew I’d die. But I’d die in the next five seconds. After the next blow. Somehow, the next five seconds never came. Or someone would save me. That’s how it happened. Now I have something. Silversteel arms. So I suppose…I can keep up with my team now. I hope so.”

She thought it was an unmoving, uninspiring story. But Yisame blew her nose. When her head rose, her eyes were shining with more than just tears. A golden drop ran down one painted cheek, around a smile.

“Yvlon Byres. When you leave, we may not meet again. I know you have pressing business. I could not ask it of you.”

“I will surely not forget this, Your Majesty—”

Yisame raised a hand, and Yvlon halted. The [Queen] smiled at her. The [Reader] wiped at her nose delicately and went on.

“No. You have your own missions, I know this. I tell you this—do not concern yourself with me. I am a [Queen] of a great kingdom. But as a [Reader]…I will read and know many stories, especially in this new time where stories are shown rather than writ down. You, though…”

She reached out and delicately tapped Yvlon on the chest.

“You will be my hero. For I have met you, and I admire you all the more because of what I know. I hope you will continue to inspire me—and those like me.”

She looked at Yvlon Byres, and the [Lady], the [Armsmistress] and adventurer…was lost for words. Beet red with embarrassment and gratification.

Yisame would remember that look forever. Then Yvlon ducked her head, and her golden blonde hair fell around her.

“May I say that I do not know you well either, but I have profound gratitude for this meeting, Yisame?”

“Thank you, Yvlon. May we be friends?”

The [Queen]’s eyes shone with nervousness, until Yvlon’s blue gaze rose and the warrior woman smiled.

“…I think we already are.”

——

Neither Yisame nor Yvlon had a proper exit to the sentimental moment, so there was a good amount of aheming and scattered talk involving—‘what a beautiful cushion’, ‘oh, you like it? I received it from a [Sultana], do you want it?’…and so on.

However, Yisame was conscious of Yvlon’s time—more than Yvlon herself. Regretfully, after only six hours of talking and eating through brunch and lunch with Nerrhavia’s finest delicacies, she was reminded Yvlon had to make preparations to go.

Yvlon was entirely willing to hop on a horse and gallop after the army, which would already be at least two cities away thanks to all their movement Skills, but Yisame was more coordinated than even Yvlon.

Yvlon kept the Horns running like a good helper to Ceria. But that was only insofar as she would poke Pisces and ask if he’d repaired the bone chariot, or tell Ksmvr not to make all their travel rations eggs and oatmeal because that’s what he had found the best deal on in the market.

Yisame? She made plans.

“I sent General Thelican to head the army. Politics. However, he is a good [General]…not highly imaginative, but he succeeded in Tiqr where others might have failed. Consider him an exemplar of the standard Nerrhavian [General]. Prince Zenol will know what that means. He shouldn’t bother you aside from feasting you every day on the road. The army will find your friends, even if it must besiege Savere.”

Yvlon nodded, head spinning a bit. Yisame said that so casually.

“I will bear it in mind. Uh—what is Thelican like? He must be an impressive man, to be one of Nerrhavia’s greatest [Generals].”

“Not like you.”

Yisame looked at Yvlon. The woman felt this was unfair.

“He might not be an adventurer, but surely he has some qualities outside his levels?”

The [Queen]’s face was exceedingly blank, but she finally dredged up one fact about the man.

“…Patter songs.”

“Excuse me?”

Yisame shrugged.

“He is the 6th best [Competitive Singer] for patter-songs in Nerrhavia’s Fallen. I believe he goes to every competition he can make.”

“There are competitions for—I’m sorry, I think I know, but what’s a patter song?”

Yisame laughed.

“Silly little rhythm songs. Thelican is apparently obsessed with them. You know? I am a mighty, magical [General]…I will conquer and level again, just as my name is General Thelican…”

She didn’t actually know his songs, but there was Yvlon’s tidbit. Somehow, it reminded Yisame that she had never asked Thelican about it.

How curious. Still, the man was there to support Yvlon. He was the side character, just like Yisame, to the real heroine of her story.

Zenol? Well…Yisame would content herself with one person of note, even if Yvlon had to leave. She said her farewells to Yvlon, which surprised the adventuress.

“The day isn’t over.”

“No, but I fear we might not be able to meet. You and I will have a dinner—but I have sent for an aide to you. Nerrhavia’s Great Sage is a friend of my family. She is trustworthy…and few are. However, she is not…”

“…Socially acceptable for a [Queen] to be around?”

Yvlon suggested. Yisame glanced at her and shook her head.

“No. Enjoyable to be around when she is working. I would rather not have something thrown at my head if I interrupt her. You must go to her now if you want your relics appraised; she is not sure if she can tell what they do even now, and she will not head on the road with you for any favors. [Servant]! Take Miss Yvlon to the Great Sage at once! I will see you later.”

That was how Yvlon Byres found herself walking through the corridors of the palace, eyed by other dignitaries and [Servants]. Many people wanted a word, but a line of [Palace Guards] kept them at bay, marching Yvlon along like she was a valuable dignitary. Like she was the best friend of the [Queen] or something.

The Great Sage of Nerrhavia’s Fallen was waiting for her. Yvlon stared up as a figure paced down the hallway.

“Yvlon Byres. So Her Majesty hath not forgotten our promise. It is well done.”

Even the other nobles and socialites stopped respectfully at the booming, deep voice. They looked up at a non-Stitch-folk member of the palace—but no wonder that they had risen to such acclaim.

This Garuda was a [Sage]. A class Yvlon had never personally encountered before. Yet this was a Garuda far different from Bevussa or anyone else.

They were nine feet tall. A vast, curved beak and piercing eyes gazed down at her from behind a hooded robe—which trailed across the ground. Some serpentine fabric with such a long tail that everyone near the Great Sage had to walk carefully, even twenty feet behind them.

This was the kind of legendary [Sage] that would fit even among the ranks of the dead stories of Chandrar. Yvlon gulped as the figure bent slightly. She was surprised to hear a female voice, albeit echoing and grand.

“Come in, Adventurer Byres.”

The [Palace Guard] bowed respectfully as the [Sage] raised an arm, and the robe moved aside like a curtain to expose a doorway made of some kind of magnificent, rosey wood, inlaid with arcane gems and sigils. Yvlon Byres bowed and entered.

[Sage]. No [Alchemist]. No [Scholar], and no [Mage], but a combination of all three and more. The wise class of those who learn all things. She half-turned as she walked into a surprisingly comfortable waiting room with a very small chair—meant for someone Yvlon’s size, a dressing mirror—no sign of a giant perch or chair for a nine-foot-tall Garuda. Multiple work-rooms, including a library, a laboratory, a mage’s workshop, and more splintered off from this room in an open-wall design, no hallways or walls to clutter someone moving around.

“Excuse me, Great Sage. Her Majesty didn’t inform me of your name. I hope I’m not troubling—”

Yvlon turned and saw a dead stare. She jumped back as the giant Garuda in those magnificent robes…stood there.

Limp, unmoving, that piercing gaze suddenly blank. Yvlon Byres didn’t think they were dead. But that look. What was going…?

“Hah. There we go. One second.”

Then something rustled, and the Garuda’s chest under the robes bulged. Yvlon leapt backwards with an oath as a furry face with two fox ears poked out of the robes.

A Fox Beastkin woman hopped out of the giant puppet and rubbed at her back. She stomped over to a chair and threw herself into it. Then she gestured.

“Sit down, sit down. We’re out of the public. Let’s get to work. Stop staring your eyes out; half the Court of Silks knows I’m a fox. The other half is too stupid, so it works out. Appearances must and all that. Yisame didn’t tell you? She was probably too busy sniffing your feet or something disgusting.”

The Great Sage of Nerrhavia’s Fallen was actually a Fox Beastkin, fur going to silver, and short. As in, five feet tall and clearly very elderly.

She was also extremely no-nonsense, and chivvied Yvlon towards the chair next to her—by poking at her with a walking stick.

“Adventurers. Where are these relics I’m supposed to appraise? I’m not an [Enchanter], but Yisame needs someone she can trust. Well, we have one day. Don’t tell me you left them in your rooms?”

Yvlon hesitated. The Great Sage sighed.

“Wonderful.”

She leaned over, grabbed a speaking stone out of her bag of holding, and spoke into it. For a second, Yvlon heard a booming voice.

“The Great Sage Etrikah hath need of a City Runner or Courier beyond repute for a simple errand to the Coliseum of Monarchs.”

“Those are Relics—”

Yvlon protested. Etrikah raised her eyebrows.

“Then don’t tell them they’re Relics and they won’t notice. Do you think most Runners can tell if they’re carrying a cursed doomsday artifact or a simple lamp? They cannot. If you wish to hide in plain sight, do it mundanely. That’s wisdom for you. I’ll charge you for the next bit of advice.”

The first [Sage] Yvlon met turned out to be…completely indicative of her class. Which was to say, weird. Yvlon Byres was stunned, but Etrikah was settling in for a long chat. A cup of tea filled itself and floated over to her. She put her feet up, then stared at Yvlon.

She was finicky, crotchety, and probably other adjectives if you asked Yisame to describe her. She was indeed no powerful [Mage] who threw meteors around—nor the best [Alchemist], who could transform iron into gold and destabilize the economic systems of nations. She was the Great Sage of a kingdom in the waning world, with access to less information than the greats of old.

Even so…Etrikah proved she was a [Sage] in the first five minutes of meeting Yvlon. She took one look at the [Armsmistress] and narrowed her eyes.

“…What’s wrong with your arms?”

——

The City Runner arrived panting, and handed over the simple objects they’d collected to the [Palace Guards], who in turn knocked on the door. Yvlon went to collect the two rings and scrolls, and tried to keep her face straight. When she went to hand them to Etrikah, the [Sage] snapped at her.

“Don’t touch me. And don’t touch that! Go sit back down. Let me see. Burn that chair. Burn that foot table…put it on that foot table. The bad one.”

She kicked one over. Yvlon sat, gingerly, as the Fox-woman hopped around the room. She, like Vitte and Zirre, was unusual.

Gravity didn’t seem to touch her the same way, so she did a big bound across the room, snagged a giant piece of clear quartz, and continued grabbing objects and creating a magpie-like pile. Yvlon sat very still.

“Sage Etrikah, I don’t know what you’re talking about. My arms feel a bit off, but—”

“You said you’re snapping metal? Swords? Armor? Enchanted cuffs and collars?”

“Yes. I thought I might be taking the strength from the metals to repair my arms.”

Etrikah glanced up.

“And you didn’t test that theory. You just kept breaking steel swords in the Coliseum of Monarchs and put it down to a defect in the steel? How many times in a row? Six? Do you think the [Gladiators] would suffer that? They’d riot.”

Yvlon shifted uncomfortably. When you put it like that—

“I didn’t have much of a choice, Sage Etrikah.”

“I’m sure. The entire situation around your imprisonment was a classic Nerrhavian mess. Too large a space with not enough oversight. There are dedicated officials, but great nations are cumbersome. Do you know how much corruption the King of Destruction had to deal with when he conquered Chandrar? Half his forces were devoted to keeping all the places he subjugated in line. No wonder he quit.”

“Do you…study government?”

Yvlon shifted as Etrikah poured something into a basin of water. The Fox Beastkin glanced up.

“I study everything. I am a [Sage]. My class is devoted to understanding new things. Or recovering it, as the case may be. However, and before you ask, I am no [Scholar] or mere [Historian]. A [Sage] is supposed to be wise. Wisdom isn’t knowledge. It is in how you apply everything. And wisdom tells me that after having your arm ripped off by a giant plague monster, something might be wrong with all the metal you’re breaking. So. Don’t. Touch. Anything.”

It might be that [Sage] was, in fact, someone who applied common sense to most things. Then again…Etrikah frowned at Yvlon and shook her head.

“Hm. Hm. Rod of copper. Rod of silver…very well. Hold this bowl.”

She handed Yvlon a clay bowl with what looked like water slopping about inside. Yvlon held the bowl—then Etrikah placed two items inside.

A long rod of silver and one of copper; both looked like someone had been cutting from the ends. Supplies for alchemical reagents or something? She frowned at Yvlon.

“Now what do I do?”

“Now…we watch and wait. I may ask you to touch either rod—not yet! I want to see how far whatever this metallic effect is extends. If it’s just touch or anything else.”

Yvlon shifted. Etrikah had positioned what looked like a giant…monocle to stare at her from. It was a magnifying piece of enchanted glass, and Yvlon saw a vague, swimming outline of something around Etrikah. She had no idea what the [Sage] saw.

“How did you realize something was wrong?”

The [Sage] grunted.

“Your balance of mana is off. Your…vital essences. What do you Izrilians call it? Your humors. As if those exist. I can see something’s warping too much of your energy towards your arms. The right one makes sense—it’s regrowing.”

She nodded to Yvlon’s nearly-healed right arm.

“But your left? It looks exactly like when someone’s got a cold and is walking around the Court of Silks and I have to tell one of the [Palace Guard] to throw them out.”

“You can see that?”

Yvlon was amazed. Etrikah glanced up at her.

“The cultures and nations of this world have forgotten more techniques and methodologies than you can imagine, young woman. Of course we can see such things. But unless you unlock the Skill—which I did, and constructed these artifacts—it is a rare pair of eyes that can naturally see such things, and it requires extensive training. So…”

She swung herself left and fiddled with a cupboard. Yvlon waited for the next artifact as the [Sage] continued talking.

“…why bother? And that, as I have told Yisame, is why we forget how to create Potions of Regeneration. Not just because some old [Alchemist] dies, but because we forget to maintain everything that enabled him to create it in the first place. Even our roads!”

Her head popped up and she glared at Yvlon.

“We use Djinni to maintain the roads because they remember how to make bricks that last. Do we need Djinni? No! Get them to teach someone and let layfolk do it. Instead, we have Nerrhavia’s famous roads from city to city—and common folk have to deal with dirt roads or poor-quality brickwork. Idiots.”

She returned to her armchair, which she’d moved far back from Yvlon, and sat down with her last important object—Yvlon eyed it.

“Uh. What is…?”

“Soican pig sausage caponata. I’m hungry. This might take a while. I’d offer you something, but I don’t really feel like ruining my silverware.”

The Fox Beastkin began to eat. Yvlon stared at her and saw her bushy tail waving idly back and forth. Etrikah glanced up at her, and the pair of half-moon spectacles she’d put on glinted.

Her entire set of rooms alternated between insane glassworks and the propensity for bubbling vats of alchemical or magical rituals and someone’s living room. She had pictures on the walls next to esoteric spellbooks. And—Yvlon glanced around—a huge, life-sized statue of an impressive Fox-man holding a staff blooming with vines and…

The woman slowed, sat up, and looked at him. He was walking amid growing flowers and other plants as he seemed to be tossing something from one paw. His clothes were not magnificent; they looked like casual traveler’s clothes, yet this was a statue, so whoever had once carved it had made him look half-princely. His eyes were bright, and though the statue was simply marble, Yvlon imagined his hair might be shining…

“Black. He had black fur. The faintest blue and white on the tips of his tail and paws. Handsome as you could imagine.”

Etrikah followed Yvlon’s gaze. The [Armsmistress] swung back to her.

“Is that—Tottenval? The Blooming Plague?”

The [Sage] stopped eating. She looked up.

“Yes. Never seen a statue of him before, have you?”

“No. Not even a picture.”

The woman went back to eating.

“It figures. The King’s Seven were never much beloved after his slumber, and Tottenval didn’t inspire the mind like Mars or Amerys. You understand, he means far more to his people. Before you leave Chandrar, try to find one of Tottenval’s Gardens. There are some in Nerrhavia still. Plants he created to live in arid climates and give food for the hungry. That is legacy and wisdom.”

“Did you…know him?”

Etrikah glanced up. She regarded Yvlon—then threw a piece of sausage at her.

Some of the water slopped out of the bowl as Yvlon ducked it. Etrikah glared.

“Did I know him? It was twenty years ago that Flos Reimarch went into his slumber! How old do I look? Of course I knew him! Children. Do you know how many little yipping cubs ask me that question? You young people have no perception of time. There are people—who aren’t even half-Elves—who lived through the Necromancer’s execution and remember Perril Chandler, the respected Archmage of Death. Not just that uppity half-Elf on the scrying orb.”

She glowered, then glanced at Yvlon’s bowl. Yvlon looked down too; the water was clear and the two rods were staying still.

“Should something be happening?”

The Fox-woman shrugged.

“Perhaps. I have no time frame for how long your effect lasts. Hold onto the copper rod. Just touch the silver one—yep. Now, don’t touch it. Leave them in the mixture, there. We’ll just talk.”

Yvlon obediently held onto the copper bar as Etrikah sighed.

“We’ll spend…thirty minutes waiting for a reaction, then I will try to appraise whatever those rings and scrolls are. But if they are Relics, I doubt I can do much.”

“I know a good [Enchanter] in Invrisil. It’s not essential.”

“Mm. And you won’t put them on until then, will you? Good girl. You have some sense. The rest of my people would try them on just to see what happened if they didn’t think they could get them appraised within a week. Senseless, the lot of them.”

“So Fox Beastkin are common in Nerrhavia’s Fallen?”

The [Sage] put down her plate. She lifted up the cup of tea and drank. She looked at the statue again.

“We followed Tottenval. Beastkin live in villages in a certain part of Baleros, you know. But we don’t populate much—not with so much competition. So why not Chandrar? That was how we came here, and Tottenval…he shaped who we were until he died. His death shaped us too.”

Yvlon stirred. She half-lowered the bowl, then raised it as liquid threatened to slop over the edges.

“How, exactly? May I ask if it’s not…”

The Fox [Sage] glanced at Yvlon, then nodded. Briefly, she put her mostly-empty plate aside, and then drank down her tea. She snapped her fingers, and a pitcher floated over. Etrikah critically eyed the cup—then put it aside and found another one.

When she came back, it was with a transparent glass. She filled it with water up about halfway, and then put it down.

“There.”

Yvlon looked blankly at the piece of blown glass sitting next to Etrikah. The [Sage] indicated it with one paw.

“What would you say that glass is? Half-full? Half-empty? What? No, wait…I’m doing this wrong. Sorry. It’s been a while. What I do is…here.”

She pushed it towards Yvlon with one foot. It skittered across the floorboards and tipped over. Yvlon and Etrikah stared at the puddle of water. The [Sage] sighed. Yvlon tried to interject.

“Er…is this the adage about the glass of water being half full or empty? I know that one.”

The grumbling Fox-woman sat back down.

“That’s only partly it. What you’re supposed to do is hand someone a glass of half-full water and see what they make of it. It’s based on these Gnollish riddles. Fox-folk call it Life’s Riddle.”

“A…glass of water?”

The [Sage] fixed Yvlon with a piercing, orange-eyed stare.

“Good metaphors are easy to grasp. Let’s pretend that cup is in front of you. What do you make of it?”

“I…it’s half-full?”

Etrikah watched Yvlon’s face.

“Just that? What would you do with it?”

“Put it to one side? Drink it, I suppose.”

“Ah, practical. But let’s pretend the glass is a metaphor for life. What do you do with the glass?”

The Human woman just looked at Etrikah, completely stumped. The silver Fox-woman snorted.

“Don’t try too hard or you might turn that blonde hair white.”

Yvlon flushed a bit angrily.

“What do you mean, ‘what do I do with the glass’? What am I supposed to do?”

The [Sage] laughed, revealing pointed teeth.

“Ah, no one’s ever asked you that, have they? Children in our communities get asked that all the time. What do you do with the glass? What is the purpose of living?”

She looked pointedly at Yvlon, expecting an answer. The woman hesitated.

“Is there a purpose?”

“There’s an answer and a question. Is there, Miss Byres? Was your purpose to be an adventurer? Why did you become one?”

“To…help people. Because House Byres always has been.”

Yvlon replied, eyes flicking uncertainly to her arms. Etrikah raised her brows.

“Do you have to do what your family dictates? Is helping people important?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Why?”

The Gold-rank adventurer just stared at Etrikah. She tried to speak slowly. For some reason, it was hard, as if she had to explain the obvious.

“Because—people need help. Helping people is a just thing to do.”

“Who told you that? Where is the law that says that? Will they help you back? It sounds like something you were told.”

“I don’t need to be told to do the right thing!”

Yvlon snapped. She was getting a bit annoyed by Etrikah’s needling tone. Yet the [Sage] only smiled mirthlessly.

“You’re getting angry.”

“No, I’m…”

Yvlon took a deep breath. She smiled calmly at Etrikah, who raised her brows.

“I’m sorry, Sage Etrikah. I just don’t see the point behind your questioning.”

The [Sage]’s brows rose even higher.

“…That was quite incredible. I’ve heard the expression ‘swallow your temper’, but I’ve never seen it so literally done. You are fuming. Internally. No wonder you kept snapping in the arenas. Silver-Killer is an apt moniker.”

“That’s—!”

Etrikah’s orange eyes stared pointedly at Yvlon over her spectacles. The [Sage] tapped her glasses.

“Do me the courtesy of not lying to my face, Yvlon. And if those questions bother you—perhaps you had better ask why. Because Fox-folk ask. They ask what the purpose of anything is. You only get one life, sometimes very short. So what do you want to do? We all get handed a glass and come up with our own answer. Do you know what Tottenval, the Blooming Plague, did?”

Yvlon bit her tongue. Her mind was awhirl, but curiosity trumped any of the things Etrikah was hitting her with.

“What?”

Slowly, Etrikah took her cup of tea. She picked up the pitcher, filled it halfway. She placed it down.

“He looked at the glass, and filled it up. Then he handed it to someone who wanted a drink. Symbolism. This world is underwatered. He believed he could make it better. So his people decided his answer was the best. For a time, we were the King of Destruction’s allies and soldiers, people who saw the best in what he did. Tottenval inspired us.”

She lifted the teacup up, admired it—then tossed it down. Yvlon jumped as it shattered, spraying into pieces over the floor. Etrikah sat back down.

“Then he died. The King of Destruction’s empire fell to dust. Our people survived; we are resourceful and few pursued vengeance against us. But do you know what Vitte, Vitte Groundless of the Arena, did with her cup? It is the same answer many young Fox-children give. She takes the cup, and tosses it in someone’s face, or drinks it down.”

The pieces of broken pottery were slowly rolling to one side, collecting as some automated spell gathered them. Same with the water; it had begun to dry so fast Yvlon could see the puddle vanishing.

Without a word, she looked at Etrikah. The [Sage] waited, so Yvlon’s brows furrowed as she tried to work that one out.

“That would mean…the water, the world is for you? Or it’s useless.”

“Not bad. You do think. You just clearly don’t like to.”

Yvlon glared, and Etrikah snorted.

“You and Yisame must have gotten along. Prideful young women. You are right. To Vitte, to many in this new generation, the world is a joke. Good deeds don’t go rewarded. Great works collapse—so why care? You saw what she did to her sister.”

Yvlon slowly nodded. Even after all that had passed, and all the surprise good—it had been exceptionally cruel to Zirre to place her in danger, even if it would ‘only’ have been the feeling of being stabbed.

“That’s what she believes?”

The Great Sage looked tired.

“She and many. I think they laugh because they see what happened to Tottenval, the best of us. They pretend it did not affect them, but I truly believe it shattered parts of them, as much as I shattered that cup. He was our hero. Our shining star, and we are a few people, Yvlon Byres. When he died…it changed us all. That is the problem with people we love, who are good for this world.”

She looked at Yvlon, suddenly, and the [Armsmistress] saw something flicker in her gaze. She shifted, disturbed by all of this. These…were questions and conversations she had never talked about. She didn’t like thinking about them.

Perhaps that was why the [Sage] brought them up. For a moment, Etrikah sat there, then she clapped her paws, briskly.

“Enough. Let’s see those rings. And those scrolls. I can at least tell you if they’re activatable by reading, unrolling, or whatnot. I see two magical flows to those rings. One looks cursed—or malevolent. Maybe it just hurts something. The other’s beneficial.”

Yvlon blinked. She glanced down at her rings. One was a band of colorful stone—she even suspected jade—with a seam of some metal running like a deep blue river amidst it. The other? It looked…well, it was a ring, and solid, but it looked almost leathery. Or like scales—tiny scales—banded perhaps around a wooden core?

The Great Sage pointed at the scaled ring.

“Danger. The stone one’s beneficial.”

“You can tell that by looking?”

Etrikah tapped her glasses again.

“Intent. Like those scrolls. Neither one screams bursting at me—which suggests it’s a spell you must activate and read. Your [Martial Artist] friend, Mectail, can do much the same—but only with people. But you know how I can also tell one’s probably better than the other?”

“How?”

The Fox-woman produced a pair of tongs and lifted the scaled ring.

“This one’s made out of something that was alive. The other ring is jade, a friendly, protective, magical mineral. You figure out which one might be more hostile. Common sense. Although it is fascinating and worth you coming here. You see this scale-ring?”

“It looks like it was made of some kind of little creature’s hide.”

“Correct! And entirely wrong. That’s what they want you to think. But I suspect it’s a method old [Enchanters] based around high-monster regions used to employ. It’s just a theory, but you skin an entire Wyvern or some beast—then shrink their entire hide, wrap it around a ring, and you have all that power in one place. The question is—which hide? Hand me that magnifying glass. No, wait. Don’t touch it.”

She hopped over to investigate as Yvlon helplessly held the stupid bowl of water and copper rod. She glanced down at it, and even flexed the rod slightly. It didn’t break. Yvlon saw Etrikah glance back at her.

“Hm. Well, we’ll keep at it. I can’t cure what I don’t know, but I can recommend some generic cleansing spells and reagents. We could do worse than making you take a bath in purified water with soap and a few cleaning reagents. Put the bowl over there; we’re done with it.”

She casually nodded to a counter she’d cleared. Yvlon put the bowl down—

“Not there. To the left, the left.”

The Fox-woman was persnickety about organization. Yvlon shoved it left slightly, got a nod, and walked back over to sit down.

“Can I, ah, help in any way?”

“Yes. By not touching anything. Perhaps describe to me what this [Necromancer]’s lair was like. Who had the rings? Adventurers? What species? What were they wearing? Context clues. And do you know…who they were?”

Yvlon blinked.

“The Dullahan woman did say she was part of a team, but I had no idea—”

Etrikah whirled around.

“You met the adventurer who slew this [Necromancer]?”

“The Putrid One. Yes, and his servant told us his name. But we had no idea who they were. I remember the [Paladin]’s name and group if that helps. The Radiance of Canopies. A Balerosian team.”

The [Sage] pinched at the bridge of her snout.

“…So, you know their names, their team, the name of this Putrid One, a famous [Necromancer] who was clearly a famous individual in his time, and his servant’s name. And you didn’t think to tell me that at once? Forget the appraisal. I’ll just look up their team. Kitsune’s tails, young woman. They probably have the artifacts listed if this Putrid One or this team was famous! Let’s find a book.”

She strode into her library, and, after a quick search, ascertained she only had a few books that might even tangentially relate to adventuring teams or famous [Necromancers]. However, you know what Nerrhavia’s Fallen, an ancient kingdom of surpassing size and history, had?

Libraries. The Hundred Thousand Tomes was an academy that had books in the name.

“If only you could stay longer. We will be researching this, I promise you, but let’s take a trip there.”

“What about my arms?”

The two women were getting ready to leave, rushing about since there was a time limit. The bars of copper and silver sat in the plain mixture of what looked like water in the basin.

For a high-level test by a [Sage], it certainly hadn’t done much. And now, the two were completely ignorant of the bowl as Etrikah began to reset her puppet. Their chatter in the background completely obscured the faint sounds as the copper bar began to move.

A little, crawling shape slowly detached itself, edging away from the dangerous water. It made a tiny clicking sound as it edged up the top of the bar.

Lots of expensive metals here. Not necessarily ones that…worked. But there was a good source of iron and…the bug cast around.

“Mm. A bath. I’d like to take a sample of your arms if that’s acceptable…”

“I think it won’t hurt. I can turn the pain off…”

“Disturbing.”

The beetle fanned its wings. It took off from the edge of the bowl, stealthily flying into the [Sage]’s laboratory—

And then slammed into the invisible barrier that shimmered to life around the bowl. The trap rune glowed and an alarm went off. A high-pitched ringing.

Yvlon Byres spun around in alarm. Etrikah looked up, calmly dropped the puppet, and strode over to the bowl.

“Keep back. Hands away from everything.”

The [Armsmistress] froze. Etrikah eyed the squirming metal beetle on the ground. She took one look at the water and murmured.

“Interesting. It’s definitely magical, then. Or the Fulfield Water would have shown me something living. And what are you? Very clever. So clever, you only reappear after no one’s watching.”

She squatted down, staring at the copper beetle, which flew into the magical barrier again and again. The Great Sage of Nerrhavia’s Fallen looked at the beetle. She looked at Yvlon, who was staring at her arms in alarm. Etrikah removed her spectacles. She rubbed at her face as she thought of collars, gladiator arenas, and how long and where Yvlon had been. She came to a simple conclusion and voiced it instantly.

“We are in trouble.”

——

Yvlon Byres lay on her front, butt-naked and red with embarrassment. Yisame tried not to stare. However, it was quite amazing that Etrikah and a bevy of her most trusted apprentices, [Mages], and other [Alchemists] were not staring.

Instead, one of Yvlon’s arms was outstretched, and the group ensconced in protective, shimmering barriers was watching as a [Hydromancer] produced a needle-thin ray of water and blasted Yvlon’s arms.

The concentration was so intense the water jet made Yvlon’s metal-skin ripple. Etrikah called out.

“Yvlon. Does it hurt?”

“No—I don’t think so. I can’t feel it.”

“Well, good. Because my second option is literally scraping two layers of your metal flesh off your body. How’s the other sample look?”

Someone was staring at a metal fingernail in a bowl of water.

“I think we cleaned it.”

“You sure? It can’t be that easy.”

“It can if it’s ‘Minor’. It says here that the Putrid One unleashed many plagues across metal, flesh, wood—dead gods, there are magical plagues. Cloth, too.”

A [Scholar] looked up from a book. The Stitch-folk in the room blanched, including Yisame. Etrikah was unphased.

“If it were a Great Plague, we’d be dead or have noticed already. This is either Plaguesteel, Omen Rust, or Gariepe’s Twisting. Given the symptoms, I am convinced it’s Plaguesteel. And it looks like we can remove it, Your Majesty.”

“You’re sure?”

Yisame stared at her Great Sage. Etrikah gestured at Yvlon’s arm.

“It’s not in her arms. Whomever this Tolveilouka was…from Yvlon’s account, it knew she was a ‘person of metal’, which implies her class has yet to evolve—but more practically, it knew how to fight her. By infecting her with a metal plague.”

“Is it…is it safe?”

Yvlon stared at the buzzing beetle and the silver one that had later emerged from the two rods. Etrikah gave her a curt nod.

“Here it is. Elsewhere? I need you to muster the Council of Steel and tell them our sewers might be infected. This…could be bad.”

Yvlon was pale. She looked at Yisame. The [Queen] stared at her Great Sage, lowered her voice, and took her aside.

“How bad?”

The Fox-woman glanced at Yvlon.

“Depending on how fast the plague moves? That beetle came out after less than forty minutes of direct contact with Yvlon. I hope…the offspring are slower when not close to the originator. Either way. It may be very bad.”

Yisame looked at Yvlon. Etrikah added.

“All the more reason she should leave as soon as possible so no one makes the direct connection.”

“Your Majesty. I’m sorry.”

Yvlon didn’t know what to say. Her skin crawled at the thought. She stared at the water blasting her arm, but she didn’t know what the plague was supposed to look like. Yisame drew herself up.

“I told you, Yvlon, I would spare you no expense. This is secret, by order of the crown. Sage Etrikah, you will receive anything you ask for.”

Etrikah nodded.

“I will ask for everything. Be warned. For now? I know how that undead got Yvlon. Her arms aren’t infected.”

“Are you sure?”

Yvlon stared at her arms. Etrikah snorted.

“Firstly, if they were infected, you would probably notice bugs crawling out your arms. Secondly, silver is a famously defensive and purifying metal. The fact that we can clean that fingernail proves it.”

She pointed at the metal.

“Let’s do a wash of her arm. What Yvlon has isn’t an infection in her blood. It’s on her arm. Like…slime. A thin, thin layer, I suspect. I think we can actually blast it off with enough water. But all the water here? This room?”

She gestured around. The mist of water rising around Yvlon from the water spray was being contained in a barrier, and a foot of water was already swishing around on the ground. Etrikah backed away, despite the multiple magical barriers of containment around her.

“We are going to vaporize it.”

Yisame looked blankly at Etrikah.

“You mean, incinerate.”

The [Sage] turned to her.

“If I mean vaporize, I mean vaporize. If I could cast [Disintegration], I would. No one leaves this room without being tested. Yvlon? Yvlon?”

The [Armsmistress] had frozen as she began to pour the cleansing liquids over her arms and body. She nearly dropped the bowl, and then shouted.

“[Condition – Plaguesteel]! It’s in my head. It was in my—”

She began scrubbing furiously. The Skill—no, the Condition—was burning in her head, but she felt it receding as she scrubbed at her arms. It was turning…

Blue?

[Condition – Plaguesteel (Minor) Removed!]

Yisame inhaled. Etrikah nodded as Yvlon kept scrubbing, determined to leave nothing to chance.

“You did it so quickly, Etrikah. You are the Great Sage of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, truly.”

The Fox-woman eyed Yisame, and then tried to kick her in the shins. The [Queen] retreated.

“You fool. Treating it was never the hard part. It was catching it. I need you to think, Yvlon. How many people did you touch? How many pieces of metal did you touch? How many arenas…oh, dead gods. That fool, Thelican, shook your hand.”

Yisame went pale. Etrikah looked up. A Grand Army was on the move. Filled with metal objects. And Thelican?

——

The [General] was singing one of his famous patter-songs as he set down a golden cup. It was instantly whisked away by one of the [Servants] as he enjoyed a banquet in his honor in the second city. His aides were with him—except for the ones who had to coordinate the army bedding down, supply issues.

Normally it wasn’t hard, but [Soldiers] were complaining about shoddy tent poles and no less than fifteen axles had broken down in the chariots. The [Smiths] had clearly been mixing poor metal. They’d have to be taken to account.

Everything of lesser metal was in trouble. For now. The carrier was cured, but the rest of Nerrhavia’s Fallen?

Thelican’s touch would be dangerous for about three more hours. After which, now that the originating source was gone, the Plaguesteel creations would be unable to be rapidly spawned, and even these were smaller and weaker than that which Yvlon Byres touched. It was not her fault that Thelican liked to inspect chariots by touch or clap men and women in armor on the shoulders.

It was just insects. Metal insects that ate metal. Reproducing as fast as insects did. Tolveilouka Ve’delina Mer would have readily admitted it wasn’t his best work. Just a parting gift.

It was only a bit of trouble.

——

“Fold.”

“Fold.”

“Call and raise two silvers.”

“Go fuck yourself. Fold.”

“Call.”

Cards were tossed into the center of the pool and coins were put in. The circle kept changing as people were kicked out or decided they’d lost too much. The circle paused…and someone coughed, but no one quite dared interrupt the half-Elf lost in thought.

Not Ceria. Omusc was happy enough to elbow her, but not Alchemist Irurx.

He was lost in thought, staring off into the distance. After a few seconds, Ceria coughed.

“Irurx? You in or out?”

He looked blankly at her, then tossed in three spell-cards, a winning hand or good enough.

“I…thought I felt something calling to me.”

That was his only explanation. The [Gamblers] looked at each other, then went back to playing. Ceria Springwalker raised her brows, but the Alchemist just shrugged.

“Perhaps this will be more enticing than I thought. You were telling us about the Village of the Dead?”

There was a reason he had ordered his ship to sail up one of Savere’s rivers. It could not follow them far, but he was accompanying the Siren for a while. And Ceria. His presence…bothered many, but Ceria had shown the others he could be a perfectly pleasant guest. The fact that she knew what lay below Shifthold’s decks did not change her assessment that he was a useful ally. A good [Alchemist] was always helpful.

Besides, if worst came to worst? Shifthold obeyed no powers, not even Roshal, if it didn’t want to.

And Irurx had a ship.

——

The point was, at last, they were all on the move. Pisces rode with Merr the Storm on a rampage across the trade roads.

Ceria played cards and ate food.

Ksmvr pondered the exigencies of [Monks] and their odd mating rituals as he petted Yinah.

Yvlon Byres scrubbed at her skin until her flesh was raw, despite being pronounced with a clean bill of health by Etrikah, who promised to send a number of safeguards with her.

It was looking up for the Horns of Hammerad, where it was looking very down. Even so, as Yvlon Byres sat down with Yisame and Etrikah for a small, intimate dinner, she picked at her food.

“You’re clean. Not that I can blame you for not being hungry. Believe me, you finding that hidden condition and removing it is the best assurance I can think of. Hidden Skills. Hidden conditions. Even hidden classes. What have we forgotten?”

The [Sage] sighed. She was reading at the table. So was Yisame, who had a book open in one hand, expertly flicking through the pages; she had found an old story in the famous Tales of Adventure and Woe collection about adventurers in the time of the Putrid One.

“So you were Yisame’s, ah, tutor when she was young?”

Etrikah glanced up.

“I was a lesser [Sage], yes. I rose with her. Not that I bet on Yisame for the throne. And here we are.”

“Thank you, Etrikah. She put me onto reading, you know.”

The two were rather comfortable, and Yvlon was relieved that Yisame had someone like that. Although they were distinctly different. Yisame had found an adventure story about teams in the Putrid One’s time from the library of Nerrhavia Fallen’s vast wealth of ancient tomes—so vast even someone constantly reading couldn’t find useful information amid all the dross without a hint like the Putrid One—while the Great Sage had pulled out a history book.

“I put Yisame onto reading to improve her mind. She decided she wanted [Barbarians] carrying off [Princesses] while wearing only loincloths. Do you know what we call that? Abduction. Kidnapping.”

“Leave me alone, Etrikah.”

The morally dubious ethics of scantily-clad [Barbarians] aside…Yvlon truly had lucked out. Zenol was here, and, somehow, Cognita of Wistram too, and she had met the Silver Swords. Yisame had a lead on Pisces, Ceria, and Ksmvr, and she had an army at her back.

Things were looking up.

Yet.

Not one of the Horns was smiling.

Oh, they smiled. They laughed at times, they celebrated the good and they had fought through the ill.

Now they were freed, though.

Now they had a chance to breathe.

They remembered why they were here.

So Yvlon Byres, the angriest of the Horns of Hammerad, the conscientious [Lady], the berserker with the metal arms, looked at Etrikah, the Great Sage, at Yisame, [Queen] of all she surveyed, even if she rode for a month in every direction—looked up.

Like Ceria Springwalker, about to reach for a card. The [Silversteel Armsmistress] looked at Etrikah, then spoke.

“There is one last thing you don’t know, Yisame. The real reason my team went to the Village of the Dead. How we all came together. If you want beautiful stories, there’s one you’ve never heard.”

The [Reader]’s head snapped up hungrily. Yvlon Byres put down her fork and pushed her plate away. She looked at Etrikah.

“The glass being half empty or half-full and what you do with it—I know someone who also decided to fill it up.”

The Fox [Sage] glanced up. Yvlon Byres fiddled with her napkin.

“She died. Or…she was hurt so badly she had to be frozen in ice. I’m not sure if you’ve ever heard of that.”

“Ice? Never. Stasis spells, yes. Ice…is actually intelligent if you had neither. You can preserve meat. But I would never dare it.”

The [Sage]’s eyes glinted. Yvlon shook her head.

“Nor would I, but I wasn’t…there. She is a dear friend to many. She helped bring the Horns together after the crypt. She’s still there. It’s been…months. My team went to the Village of the Dead not for glory, not to use the relic we thought was there, but in order to gain it. To trade it for something that could cure her.”

“Truly?”

Yisame looked at Yvlon. She half-rose.

“What does she need? A Potion of Regeneration? A Scroll of [Restoration]? We have both, I think. Those are often used by rulers, but—”

Etrikah raised a paw and gripped Yisame’s arm, stopping the [Queen] in her excitement. She watched Yvlon’s face.

“It’s not that easy, or you wouldn’t have tried for a Relic-class object. Isn’t that so, Miss Byres?”

“No.”

Yvlon met her gaze. She closed her eyes, and looked up at the ceiling.

“No, it’s not that easy. Nor am I close to her. I don’t even have my team. But here I am. Before I go, Great Sage Etrikah, Queen Yisame. My friend. Her name is…”

——

“Erin Solstice.”

Ceria Springwalker put down her cards. The [Rogues] and [Bandits] were all staring at her. Even the Siren, just happening to be riding on her palanquin next to them, was listening.

“You went into the Village of the Dead on the chance you might find something to help your friend?”

“Yeah. That’s right. It’s like going up against the Bloodtear Pirates for someone you’ve never met. Shut up, Abelesque.”

Omusc glanced to her left at one of the audience, then looked at Ceria. The half-Elf smiled crookedly.

“Ice. I have experimented with that. There are creatures…who can survive freezing. I have never seen larger beings survive it.”

Irurx looked at Ceria. The half-Elf nodded.

“Maybe, though. Maybe. She needs many things. A cure to a poison. A way to unfreeze her—I don’t know the right spell. But maybe—”

She raised her hand and gripped the circlet on her head. Then she turned her head right and looked at Revine. Ceria half-rose. The dark [Alchemist] of Shifthold looked at her. The Siren of Savere raised her brows.

——

“…Do you have any ideas?”

Yisame held her breath. Sage Etrikah tapped her claws on the dining table.

“Again, you should tell me these things beforehand. I have mere hours before you leave. Research would take months. I can work on it—but you understand this is a crisis. Yes, though. I can certainly look into these things.”

Yvlon’s heart beat faster. Again, though, the [Sage] held up one paw.

“Intelligence. Wisdom, Yvlon Byres.”

“Yes, Sage Etrikah?”

The Fox-woman tapped the side of her head.

“…Why would I start from scratch? Who else is working on this? I assume someone must be.”

“Oh—Oteslia. Oteslia and I think—I don’t know.”

“Well, why don’t we look that up first and make contact? Then we can see. Speaking of which, have you told your mother you’re alive? Mothers do worry, you know.”

“Huh?”

Yvlon blinked. Etrikah sighed.

“That you didn’t die in the Village of the Dead. You were a [Gladiator]. I’ll stop shouting. Why don’t you send your family a [Message]?”

“Of course. [Servants]—”

Yisame clapped her hands and Etrikah slapped her hands down.

“It will not kill you to stand up for once. Come, come. We’ll use my [Scroll of Messages]. Tell your parents you’re alive, Miss Byres. I will inquire into this young woman’s cure if one can be arranged. You have my word.”

——

“Mine too. It is not a difficult thing to pledge. And it is quite…interesting.”

Irurx’s eyes glittered with the academic challenge. The Siren of Savere nodded too, however surreal it was to be on the same wavelength as he. Idly, she placed a finger to her brow and began to cast a few spells. Then frowned.

“…There is a substantial bounty on an ice spell in conjunction with an Oteslian multi-part cure project. Posted by Khelt. The reward is in the tens of thousands of gold pieces.”

“Really?”

Ceria blinked. She sat up, and the Siren reached out. At the same time, so did the Great Sage of Nerrhavia’s Fallen.

Hands or paws, joining together, asking to be let in on a project backed across different continents. Strange experts from all walks of life.

A name.

Erin Solstice.

Just who was she? May you have time to find out. Almost, that was what they learned.

Almost. But for a missing piece here. Elegance lacking here. An ingredient, a spell unperfected.

It was so frustrating, and even with it all, it was just incomplete. Hovering on the boundary of being realized, and this was something that could not be left to chance.

Pieces like the [Princess] in Oteslia, pledged to find her daughter or die trying. Fate intertwined with Dragons.

A Goblin Chieftain hunted for kidnapping the great Healer of Tenbault. Guest of the Goblin [Witch].

The Grand Magus of Wistram, preparing to elevate himself to Archmage. Mindful of his promise—

To a young woman who was suffering from a panic attack while a [Popstar] paraded into the capital and a Wyrm gloated.

A half-Elf and a woman with metal arms far from home. An Ant and a Necro-lad on the run.

An angry Fraerling with a [Message] scroll and an army. Oh, and a bunch of Goblins, Antinium, and some weird others.

Even more. A Necromancer who made a mistake and watched a wall of his castle go screaming into the void. A silly little Gnoll with white fur trying not to throw up lobster through her nose.

An [Alchemist] who smiled, mindful of her promise.

The ghosts of Chandrar and an undead king.

More and more. Incomplete for all this talent. Pieces of a puzzle not completed.

Especially since something was missing. Something…one last piece that no one had penciled into the checklist.

It wasn’t her fault. She had been busy with being kidnapped. Reviving the dead was never something she had been taught.

Now, though, a [Doctor] dove deeper into the depths of her Mind. Taking a deal to save a life. She reached down and finally saw it.

——

“Oh.”

Geneva Scala whispered. In the Mind, she stopped and saw it. A glimpse on the edges of her understanding.

A final thread. She pulled at it, following it along its source. Straining for understanding. She would have taken longer, never grasped it, perhaps. But she was a mind among Minds. At last. She actually smiled. It was so simple when she realized it. That would work.

“That’s what I was missing.”

There it was.

She found it at last.

8.60

[This chapter is out, as is customary for Patreons and Public readers! Which means the Public readers have to wait a week instead of a Tuesday release. Merry Christmas? Happy Holidays? Chapter’s out!]

Today was a very special day.

You could not tell, at first.

Fall was coming to Liscor, but it wasn’t obvious. A chill in the air. A certain lack of summer’s clear skies. Old [Veterans] grumbling about aches in their bones.

However, Liscor had no forests, so the glorious flare of color and light was entirely absent from the canopies. No one admired Boombark Trees up close. The few trees in the city did change color, but the largest indication of the season was…

The grass. Some of the many grass species of the Floodplains changed color with the passing of seasons. Why? It was unclear why grass emulated leaves, but the effect was to create entire rivers and swathes of the green landscape in orange, yellow, and even a purple hue.

Like a vast art piece. Or…rivers of color, fading into winter.

The [Guards] on Liscor’s walls were tired of seeing it already. When you had battlement-duty, you quickly lost patience with the beautiful landscape and found yourself wishing for better boots or a chair. However, the Watch Captain had them marching, checking their corners, and, of course, watching for monsters.

The newbies didn’t get that bored. The Humans were willing to work harder to impress. As for the Antinium? They would stare into the changing world around them like it was the first and possibly last thing they’d ever see.

So maybe you did appreciate it a bit more, when you realized that and heard the stories.

It was a special day. The [Sergeant] on duty knew it the moment an Antinium wearing the guard’s uniform waved an arm and rang the tiny bell the Worker carried.

Across the wall, heads snapped up. [Guards] grabbed their weapons. Antinium never rang the alarm lightly. The Worker had seen something.

“Helm, what are you seeing?”

The [Sergeant] jogged across the battlements, sweating already. Helm, or Iron Helm, denoted by the customized [Guardsman]’s helmet the Worker had been given, pointed. And spoke; they just didn’t like to all the time.

“Convoy, [Sergeant]. Danger?”

Three words. Which might be all Iron Helm said that day. The [Sergeant] cursed as she peered down. Iron Helm wasn’t an idiot. He’d been treated like that until the Watch realized he wasn’t stupid, just quiet. Antinium could tell apart a caravan from [Bandits]—and Liscor had had [Bandits] for the first time in living memory.

Bastards trying to prey on the outlying farmsteads and new villages. The [Sergeant] had a list of problems that ‘convoy’ and ‘danger’ could mean. Bandits, Bloodfeast Raiders, Hectval…

Raskghar?

She followed the Antinium’s finger down and frowned. She had a standard-issue seeing-glass, enchanted with doubling-vision. She pulled it out now, swore, and, after a gut-churning moment, the [Guards] on the battlements saw her pull her hand away from the alarm-horn and laugh.

“[Sergeant]? What’s up?”

“Stand down. It’s not an attack! Someone get me a Street Runner!”

Below, the figures at the gate winch took their hands off it. Liscor was now used to attacks, such that if the [Sergeant] had shouted, sworn loudly enough, or made that gurgling sound that suggested someone had shot an arrow through her throat, the portcullis would be down and the alarm would be going up across the walls in a heartbeat.

Instead, a figure who’d been half-asleep, lying on a bench next to the stairs, jerked, and shot up the stairs.

“Message, [Sergeant]? Who?”

The Human boy wiped at his nose as the Drake glanced at him.

“Watch Captain Zevara. Tell her to get to the battlements. Ancestors, tell the entire barracks!”

She pointed. A Gnoll shielded his brows, stared at the odd procession moving their way, which could be danger, an army in miniature…and then laughed. The [Sergeant] grinned as the Antinium and Humans looked blankly at her.

“Tell Watch Captain Zevara that Senior Guardsman Relc is back.”

She pointed at a tiny figure leading hundreds, maybe thousands of people across the Floodplains. It was hard to tell; they kept vanishing as they went up and down valleys, and many were riding covered wagons. Most were Gnolls, too, but there was no mistaking that huge Drake marching with a spear in hand. She even thought he was singing.

[Guards] flocked to the walls and pointed. They shouted and waved, and the Drake looked up and shaded his brows as Cellidel’s Gnolls slowed. Relc raised one claw and smiled.

He was home.

——

Vok stared up at a foreign Drake city with higher walls than Cellidel. Nothing like Cellidel’s Prelon orchards; there were virtually no trees, and the odd landscape? Much less the Bloodfields they’d passed in the distance—

It was all so strange for a Gnoll who’d lived his entire life in a single city. There had been danger, but not much. Mostly, arguments. Drake cities, wanting to know what a Gnoll tribe was doing, having to be talked down. Buying food, and once a monster attack—quickly quashed by the power of Relc kicking a giant fanged termite-thing about twenty feet.

Strangely, this was the most frightening thing of all. Hickery looked nervous as she and the Guard-squad, the nickname for the Gnolls and Drakes who’d banded together during the riots, marched alongside the caravan. Not that they’d fight alone. Most of the adults had bows or a single weapon, but they’d stuck to trade roads, pooled coin and resources to hire Bronze-rank teams for escort.

At last they were here, and it was nerve-wracking. Vok looked ahead at the back and tail he’d followed with his family all this way.

Senior Guardsman Relc. Gnolls had left their city by the thousand, and some others had left their cities too, hearing of the exodus to Liscor. Not many; many had stayed, and those that left had not gone for Relc alone.

They had left because of how Cellidel had been. But they had gone together because of him. For Liscor’s promise, yes.

But mainly because he told them this was somewhere that had what they wanted:

A fair chance.

It had been nearly a month and a half of travel. Not bad progress for a group like this, even on the trade roads. They’d been wary as they passed the Bloodfields, but the instant they came to the Floodplains, Relc had relaxed.

“All that we’ve got here is Rock Crabs, and you can beat one at a time. A group’s trouble.”

He’d pointed out the giant scuttling rocks in the distance, and Vok had decided that was a Relc concept, to beat one of those monsters solo.

The Drake turned, now, and grinned as the weary travelers looked up. He pointed, like he’d done the last three hours.

“Almost there! I think they’ve spotted us! That village did. They’ve got villages now. I bet that’s a pain to patrol.”

Indeed, the gates were fully open, and, in the distance, Vok saw a number of figures in armor gathering. He felt a moment of instinctive apprehension at seeing [Guards]—then frowned, shaded his eyes, and sniffed.

It was too far at first, but a chance gust of autumn wind brought a scent to his nose. Hickery pointed.

“Look. Lots of Gnolls.”

Her parents shaded their eyes too.

Senior Guardsman Relc looked ahead and blinked.

‘Lots of Gnolls’ turned out to be three. Three, loitering around with a Drake and six Humans on the southern gates, and a few on the walls. But yes, that essentially constituted all of the Gnoll-[Guard] population in an entire district of Cellidel.

It was almost unheard of to see a group of Gnolls in a patrol in Cellidel. Relc just shrugged, then he grinned, slowed, and clapped Vok on the shoulder.

“I told you we’ve got Gnolls in the Watch. I don’t think Krshia’s back from the Meeting of Tribes, but it’ll be great. Trust me.”

“I see bug-people on the walls. Antinium.”

Someone whispered. Relc glanced up.

“Klb—no.”

He shaded his eyes. Cellidel’s convoy slowed as people pointed up. Of everything, the sight of the dread Antinium stopped them. But Relc raised his arms.

“Hang on. It’s just a Worker. One of the painted ones, I think. Don’t worry—they’re peaceful. Remember the stories I told you?”

He had told them so many tales of Liscor, not all reassuring. Vok half-expected ice cream to be dripping out of the walls while Humans ran around causing riots and spitting blood and doing wondrously silly things.

“It is?”

Relc smiled reassuringly. His pointing claw shifted.

“Yep. That’s a Soldier.”

Vok’s gaze moved to the huge Antinium staring down at him and quailed. Relc glanced at the Gnoll’s face and realized he’d made a mistake.

He forgot how the rest of Izril and the world saw Antinium. He tried to rally the convoy and realized half of them looked ready to turn around and march back.

“Come on, guys. It’s just a few Antinium. You outnumber them, right? Let’s just get through the gates…they’re friendly. See?”

He waved a hand at the walls with a grin. Relc saw the Antinium stare at him. Vok, Hickery, and the Gnolls looked at Relc, but then saw a [Sergeant] waving down. Relc grinned in relief as a voice shouted down.

“Senior Guardsman Relc, as I live and breathe! Did you have to bring trouble while I was on duty?”

The Drake grinned.

“That’s Mudsa. Hey, Mudsa, who promoted you to [Sergeant]?”

“Go shove your tail right up your—”

Mudsa hesitated as she realized she was shouting to a few thousand Gnolls and children.

“—er, come on in! The Watch Captain’s on her way!”

She beckoned, and Relc stepped forwards. He looked back and saw the wagons begin to roll forwards once more. Relc was relieved, and wondered if Mudsa had gained a new Skill like he had—until he realized why the fears were partially alleviated.

He looked up and saw the Antinium Worker with the iron helmet and the Soldier waving all four hands. They did it carefully, and you couldn’t see them smile—their faces were alien, bug-like.

But they were waving.

Relc grinned up at them and saluted with one claw. Then, he walked towards the gates of Liscor. The [Guards] on duty stared at him.

“Hey. How’s it been, Rudell? Vrik, right?”

The [Guards] Relc recognized glanced at each other. Rudell snorted. ‘Vrik’ pointed at his chest.

“That’s not my name. Literally no letter in ‘Vrik’ matches my name. I’m Calog.”

“Right. Sorry. I’ve, uh, got visitors. I mean, new citizens.”

Relc jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the Gnolls and people slowly stopping for an inspection. The [Guards] peered over Relc’s shoulder. Calog, Rudell, and the other [Guards] looked at each other. Calog rubbed at his face.

“…You’re definitely Relc. What are we doing? Entry checks on…dead gods, there must be thousands.”

“They’re not monsters or fugitives. Most are civilians.”

Calog glowered and leaned forwards.

“I know that, but you can’t just let them in! Where’s Sergeant Mudsa?”

“Right here.”

The [Sergeant] was storming down the steps. She strode over, raised a fist, and bumped it into Relc’s.

“You big idiot, Relc. It’s great to see you. Where the hell were you? Some Drake city?”

“Cellidel, actually—”

“Tell us later. I think we’ve got to split up. [Detect Truth] crystals on each gate and we just cycle them in with a basic question in groups. South, East, West?”

“Better make it South, East, and North gates, Mudsa. West is too far.”

The [Guards] conferred as Relc stood there, blinking. It was so familiar. And different. This was the kind of thing [Guards] had to do. Mudsa slapped her forehead.

“Human district. Right. But isn’t there an auxiliary gate…? Let’s just get them in, but they have to meet in one place, right? So we need extra [Guards] to escort them to—what—Shivertail’s Plaza?”

Relc interrupted as Rudell began adding up numbers.

“Where’s that?”

“Center plaza in front of City Hall. They renamed it in honor of General Shivertail.”

“Oh. That’s—”

Then Calog caught sight of one of the Guard-squad.

“Are those Gnoll kids holding spears? Dead gods, Relc!”

Vok, Hickery, and the other young Gnolls started uneasily. They had drawn close enough to hear the discussion at the gates. Relc saw uncertain faces peeking at him, and he waved a claw, trying to smile.

“They’re alright. I taught them some tricks. Cellidel was nasty.”

Mudsa nodded.

“I heard. But look, let’s get them split up. We can sort the rest later…”

At this point Relc interrupted.

“Hold on. They’re going to all need housing. I know Liscor’s offering them resettling fees, but I was thinking they needed a place to rest first off. Put things? Is there a place they can all stay together while we sort that out? The new place Hexel’s building? Even a plaza would work; they have tents and they can park the wagons. We’ve got enough food for meals, so if we keep them together, we can roll them into the city and sort it out later. Can we just pull all the [Guards] here so they don’t feel worried about splitting up? We can just line up and send them in. They’ve had a bad run with Cellidel’s Watch.”

Mudsa, Calog, and Rudell, all the veteran [Guards], stopped and turned to Relc. They stared at him, agog. Relc looked from face to face.

“What? No good?”

“No…that would work. Hold on. Do we have anti-doppelganger gear? Calog, you heard that?”

“I think I did. I might be sick. Did Relc just come up with a plan?”

The Gnoll felt at one ear. Relc folded his arms.

“I’ve been thinking on how to get them into the city for the last three days, guys. What?”

“Relc is making plans. Relc.”

“You’re hurting my feelings. We’re wasting time here.”

Relc mock-glared, but Rudell put up his spear.

“Excuse me, sir. Please tell me something the real Relc would know.”

“You have warts on your tail. Come on—”

The [Guards] were laughing, and the newbies were grinning. So was Relc, but he was conscious of the nervous Cellidel people. And, sure enough, a Gnoll walked forwards hesitantly.

“Guardspeople. I am [Jeweler] Reson. Can I assist you in any way with the entry process? We’re quite willing to wait if it might take some time…”

He held his hands slightly to his sides, and he had divested himself of his weapon, a simple club. He waited for a truth crystal to be produced. Instantly, the [Guards] stopped laughing and Calog raised his brows.

The Gnoll [Guard] gave Relc a quick glance. Relc raised his brows in a silent ‘right?’, and Mudsa glanced at him. After a second, Calog stepped forwards. He offered Reson a paw. The other Gnoll blinked at it.

“You don’t need to be searched, Artisan Reson, sir. Apologies for the delay. We’re simply trying to expedite the entry process. We’ll summon more [Guards] and have you all into the city within the hour. My name is Guardsman Calog, on gate-duty for this day. Can I assist you all? Are any of you hungry, in need of the privy?”

Reson blinked. He took Calog’s hand uncertainly.

“I—that’s very good of you, Guardsman Calog. There might be some people, but we’re content to enter properly.”

He emphasized the word. Relc smiled slightly as Calog glanced at him. Mudsa whispered to Relc.

“You weren’t kidding.”

He nodded as Calog turned his head and whistled.

“It’s only a formality, sir. We have the Watch Captain on the way to meet you all. There’s no need for alarm. We only need to ask you, under truth spell, about past crimes and intentions…we’re a Gnoll-friendly city, see?”

Six more [Guards] walked out of their posts, trading with Humans, Drakes, and an Antinium with a baton. They were all Gnolls, and waved or smiled at the Cellidel crowd. Relc smiled as Reson relaxed at the sight of them.

Indeed, beyond the gates, citizens of Liscor had certainly noticed the commotion. And unlike Cellidel’s people, they had no problems walking out of the gates. Drakes, Gnolls, and Humans. Someone peered at the crowd.

“Oh, are these more visitors? People coming to Liscor? What a crowd! And—wait a second, is that Relc? I’d recognize you anywhere!”

A finger pointed accusingly at Relc. He turned and saw a Drake pointing at him.

“Where have you been all this time? Are these that horrible Drake city’s people I heard about?”

The Cellidel folk started. A group of Gnolls came out of the city and stared. They waved, and one even began to howl before someone kicked her. The growing crowd was murmuring.

“Oh, look. More Gnolls. Maybe we can put them in our district and win the vote this year.”

“Is that Relc? Where’s he been?”

“Why are we all standing here? Monster attack? New food? News?”

“Aha! This is the Cellidel group! They made it. Where’s a councilmember? They’re going to want to be here to take charge—”

More and more people were staring at Relc. He waved, recognizing faces, but his stomach lurched. There were people in that crowd who had fallen victim to the Golden Triangle scam. And he had not been gone long.

However, no one seemed angry. If anything…they pointed at him. Some even grinned. And then came a voice out of the crowd.

“You did it, you bastard.”

The others went silent. They turned, and someone called out.

“You got them from Cellidel, and showed that city what’s what. Welcome back, Relc. Well done.”

A Gnoll called out. The people of Liscor looked at him, along with the Watch, Cellidel’s people…Vok saw the Gnoll hesitate, grimace.

“What? Someone had to say it. It doesn’t sound right. Well done, Relc. Sounds wrong. But someone had to.”

People laughed, but more murmured agreement. A few even clapped, but that was going too far. Relc looked around and smiled. He was turning back to Mudsa to figure out the entry process when someone shouted.

“Senior Guardsman Relc! Stand to attention!”

Senior Guardsman Relc snapped up as a familiar voice rang out, and the marching sound of boots echoed down the street. Cellidel’s people froze.

Here came the Watch. But—the female Drake leading them had a mostly Gnoll army of [Guards]. She must have pulled every Gnoll on-duty and on patrol and switched them out.

Watch Captain Zevara, scales glinting light blue, strode down the street in full uniform. She came to a halt as citizens and [Guards] parted, and Relc drew himself up and saluted her.

“Watch Captain.”

“Guardsman Relc. I’m pleased to see you made it. Is this the entire Cellidel delegation?”

The Watch Captain halted in front of him, face impassive. Relc hesitated.

“Yes, Watch Captain. Two thousand, five hundred, and nine by my count. I was hoping to get them settled somewhere and, uh…I had the idea to put them in a plaza…”

He trailed off. The Watch Captain looked him up and down from head to toe. Relc was dusty from the road, and his light green scales were a bit sweaty from marching in his armor. He wore the chainmail he’d taken from Cellidel’s armory since it went well with his leather armor, and his enchanted spear stood at his side.

He was much the same, physically, as before. Even so, Relc was different. He even looked different. It wasn’t so much in the way he stood, with pristine military discipline when he needed to.

It was the way he glanced back, mindful of Vok and the others. Grinned at them.

Senior Guardsman Relc. [Trusted Sergeant of the Watch].

Zevara nodded. She took a deep breath, and spoke.

“I understand. Senior Guardsman Relc, well done. I will expect your debriefing and formal report on the Cellidel situation in person at two past dawning tomorrow. You are formally relieved of day-watch. Go sign out and have a break.”

The Drake [Guardsman] blinked at her. Vok and the others stirred, and Relc jerked his thumb at them.

“Wh—sign out? But the Cellidel people have to get in and—”

“On it.”

Indeed, [Guards] were lining up with truth stones, arranging themselves such that they could take entire families and do cursory wagon checks before they rolled into the city. Watch Captain Zevara saw Relc glance at them.

“What about lodging—”

“Councilmembers Elirr and Lism have been working on that. Miss Selys has kindly offered some of the new complexes being built, and we’ve temporarily opened some of the reserved spacing under construction for the investors. We have them in District 3—that’s the new city’s layout. They’ll all be together. Now that we know you’re here, I think we even have [Cooks] who can begin preparing the food. Some inns will also be serving for free—the Drunken Gnoll is close by, and their [Innkeeper], Timbor, has accepted a day contract.”

Relc blinked at Zevara. Then he saw a pair of figures hurrying down the street. One ran into the crowd, tried to part them like Zevara, and ended up having to push through. He was adjusting some formal robes, while the Gnoll followed in his wake.

“Who notified Watch Captain Zevara first? Commendable, but what about us? Have I missed them? Where’s my speech, Elirr?”

“I threw it away.”

Here came Councilmembers Lism and Elirr. The Gnoll was smiling and nodded to Relc; Lism’s claw was ready to shake every citizen’s who came through the gates, whether they liked it or not. Relc saw a puffing group of [Guards] and officials following—carrying a huge bag of what looked like coins.

“Councilmember Lism. Are you going to give away the money as they come in? I told you—”

“You get the money just as promised, Watch Captain. And who is this? Councilmembers Lism and Elirr of Liscor. Delighted to meet you! Come in, come in! Why are they standing around? Where are the refreshments?”

Reson jumped as Lism strode at him, purple-scaled claw thrust out for a handshake. Zevara exhaled a plume of exasperated smoke—coughed—then glanced at him.

“I’ve got this.”

“But—”

The Watch Captain put an arm on Relc’s. He looked at her. She met his gaze, and nodded.

“I’ll handle it. Take a break, Relc. If you want to help, you can help get everyone moving and answer questions. But you’re relieved of duty. This is my city.”

She smiled, and Relc felt like a huge weight had left his shoulders. He looked at her, and a slow smile spread from earhole to earhole. Relc slowly saluted.

“Thanks, Captain Z.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Some things never change. Alright. Councilmember Lism, to the rear! Excuse me, ladies and gentlegnolls! I am Watch Captain Zevara of Liscor, and these are Councilmembers Elirr and Lism. We will be admitting you into the city momentarily and answering any questions you might have! Please line up in front of the [Guards], who will conduct quick inspections! If you are hungry, in need of water or other facilities, please let us know!”

Like clockwork, the uncertain crowd found itself moving forwards, splitting into neat lines as Gnolls walked down, asked a few questions, shook paws, even talked and jested with the new people.

“Try the Drunken Gnoll. It’s run by a Human, but he employs a lot of our folk. You’ll get food from a bunch of places that want your business—but they have a very good [Chef] couple there. Imani and Palt. New food you’ve never tried before.”

Merka, a Gnoll, advised Vok’s parents as Relc hovered nearby. Another Gnoll he vaguely remembered called Geils, a Drake name, was passing Vok.

“Spear-skills and a [Guard] class?”

“Yes, Guardsman.”

Geils raised his brows. He gave Vok a toothy grin, which the young man didn’t know how to respond to.

“Well, if you want to apply for the Watch, we might need to account for your age, but you’re clear to move through the gates. Welcome! I think there are many Gnolls waiting to welcome you in, but we’ll get you settled before they come at you, yes?”

Vok glanced at Relc, and the Drake grinned. There was something in the air. The wariness was turning into the same thing that had propelled these people here. Only, realized.

Hope. Hope, that wasn’t an illusion. Hickery was hopping up and down. She felt it. She was excitedly staring at little Gnolls and Drakes and Humans who were running about. A little Visma was even holding up a Welcome to Liscor sign she’d hand-painted.

Cellidel’s people had mostly entered Liscor, looking at the coins Lism had put in each paw with some amazement, by the time Relc actually began taking a break. He took a glass of water, sipped at it, frowned at the lemon wedge attached to the glass, and looked around.

“Liscor’s changed.”

He had seen the expansion to the city from afar, and he had been there when it had first gone up. Yet the stone was creeping into an actual wall, and…there were a lot more Humans and Antinium on the streets.

Even a Dullahan, strolling about with an odd covering over their armor. Was that a shirt over the metal plate that said ‘I Survived Liscor Hunting’? Relc had absolutely no context for that, but he wanted some.

“You have no idea. Some of it’s great. What are you doing now?”

“Uh…”

Relc had been expecting to be settling people all day, but Lism and Elirr had an army of officials helping do just that.

“Go to my apart—no, wait. I don’t have one.”

“Then we’ll get you settled. Don’t worry, there’s cheap rooms everywhere.”

Mudsa assured him. Relc nodded; he had his bag of holding with all of his worldly possessions anyways. She jerked a thumb-claw.

“I can’t stay long, but you have to have a drink. Everyone at the barracks wants to ask what went down in Cellidel. Some Creler-crap, huh?”

“You could say that. What, you’re too good to say hi to me?”

Relc grinned. The [Sergeant] gave him a mock-glare.

“I’ve scheduled a date with my boyfriend for the last two weeks and if I miss it, he’ll give me ten Rhirs. We’re going on a walk to see the leaves. A wine-walk. You sip wine and, uh, stare at trees or something.”

Relc nodded, bemused.

“Wait. Trees? What trees?”

“Invrisil. No—wait. Somewhere north of there. It’s a special portal to one of those Human lands. It wasn’t cheap, and I had to reserve it right off.”

“A portal…oh. The door.”

Suddenly, Relc went still, and the jollity of the other [Guards] faded. Someone nudged Mudsa, and she hesitated.

“Yeah. They moved it to Shivertail’s Plaza. There’s a system and everything. Convenient—sort of. You have to have times and now they even want you to sign up on lists. But it works—for a fee. You can see it.”

“Right. How’s…the inn?”

The others exchanged looks.

“I haven’t been in, but we patrol around it and everywhere. It’s still standing.”

“Right.”

Relc glanced towards the gates. He had seen it, of course, but chosen to enter the city first. Now, though…Mudsa broke the silence by gesturing to the other [Guards] who’d been called down to help with the immigration.

“You’ve, uh, seen the new [Guards], right?”

“Oh. Yeah. Hey, I’m Relc.”

“Senior Guardsman Relc. He’ll be working once he sets in. He’s the guy you call to break up bar fights. Not that bright, but—”

Relc feigned a punch, then stopped and began to introduce himself. He shook hands with some Humans, and met Iron Helm, the Worker.

“Antinium in the Watch?”

“Yep. We even have an Antinium [Sergeant]. He used to lead the Antinium-only patrol, but Zevara started mixing us up. Yellow Splatters?”

“I know him. Wow. So…”

Relc was looking around, at a loss for what to exactly say.

This is how I remember it. But not. He remembered the feeling quite well. Relc looked for Vok, Hickery, or someone who needed him to reassure them they weren’t dreaming or being tricked.

There wasn’t anyone.

Suddenly, he was alone. A sense of terrible isolation washed over Relc—for a moment. Another familiar feeling, but he had a thought.

“Where’s my k—where’s Embria? Wing Commander Embria and 4th Company?”

The [Guards] fell silent again, and exchanged looks in a way Relc didn’t like. Rudell coughed.

“You didn’t hear about…? They’re engaged. 4th Company. And Liscor’s Volunteer Army.”

“Volunteer Army. Is that what they’re calling it? They’re fighting with the Hectval-Drisshia-Luldem alliance.”

Calog muttered. Relc’s stomach twisted up. So that’s why the letters stopped reaching him. He had assumed they’d been sent to Cellidel while he was on the march.

“How’s it going?”

“—Complicated.”

The answer no one wanted to hear. Relc had often been part of ‘complicated’. But he had seldom been the one receiving news. The [Guards] looked at his face.

“Let’s get a drink, eh? Maybe find some of the off-duty [Guards]? Jeiss will join us. We can visit one of the bars. The Drunken Gnoll. How about it?”

“Sounds good.”

Mudsa tried to reassure Relc as those nearing their cycle end made sure their replacements were here.

“4th Company’s been in the fighting, but I haven’t heard of significant casualties from them. We’d know if Embria were hurt.”

“Right. Then who has been taking casualties?”

“Let’s…start from the beginning.”

They were heading off when someone began panicking. Relc’s head snapped up as he heard a voice crying out.

“Antinium! It’s the Antinium—”

“Oh, dead gods. Is it a full march of Soldiers or something? Sounds like your people, Relc.”

The Senior Guardsman turned with the others. He was almost glad of the interruption.

For while he was sure he would be riveted by the discussion of the war, and he was glad to be among the Watch, it struck him once he realized Embria was gone. The inn was closed, of course. Watch Captain Zevara had promised to find him once her work day was over, but she worked day and night.

Maybe he’d find Menolit or some of the retirees, or see if one of the puzzle-heads, [Traders] or otherwise, was in the city.

Selys? Right, Selys, Drassi…he’d say hi. But they weren’t his closest friends. He would stop by the inn with…something. Check on Vok and Hickery—introduce them to Visma and Ekirra. That was a smart idea.

But that was Senior Guardsman Relc’s routine. His new routine, which was complicated and difficult, but necessarily so, and it mattered.

Relc? Relc was the same as he’d always been, and he knew it.

Alone.

Perhaps he’d go after Mrsha. Or Embria. It depended on if he was needed. He had been needed with Cellidel’s people.

Now? Relc strode over to stop someone having a panic attack, but was he really needed?

Apparently so, because there was a bevy of [Guards] standing around, even Liscor’s friendly citizens, and the shouting was continuing. A high, panicked voice from a Gnoll woman, pointing.

“Hey now, what’s wrong? I told you, the Antinium are friendly kids. Mostly.”

Relc tried to grin, but he saw a few hands on blades. What? And then he had a thought.

Aberration?

It all came into his mind a flicker before he saw what the problem was. The Gnoll woman backed away, running into someone else. She pointed a paw.

“The Antinium—the Antinium. It’s that one! The Prognugator. The—the—”

Relc’s head turned. He saw someone standing in the street, and even Captain Zevara looked astonished.

Xrn? Wasn’t she wounded in—

Then Relc knew. He gently took the Gnoll woman’s paws off his arm, and stepped forwards. At last, the words came out.

That famous name.

“The Slayer.”

Watch Captain Zevara started. She looked away from the slimmer, taller Antinium standing there. Watching her. She hesitated and spoke.

“No.”

“Yes.”

Klbkch the Slayer, Centenium, corrected Zevara. He stood in the center of the street, resting two hands on the silver swords sheathed at his sides.

Relc stared.

“Klb?”

The Antinium looked up. He was not the Klbkch that Relc remembered. His head was mostly the same, but every other part of him had changed.

He was lean, with a distinctly humanoid body, rather than the rounded shell of the Workers. His legs were oddly articulated, almost like someone had added a natural curve to the thin legs and feet. His chitin, the shell, was no longer the brown-black, but an odd, dark grey. It looked shadowy.

The real change, however, was in his arms. He had been using only two simple arms in his humanoid body before.

Now, the slightly refined movements had turned into something different. Klbkch seemed like he was balanced, standing at ease in the street. His arms had a reinforced look, as did his upper torso. He wore no clothing nor armor above his waist, and had a simple, kilt-like piece of clothing along his belt.

It was the same belt as when he had been a [Guard], with a little bag of holding added on. But Klbkch? He looked like his body was armored, shaped chitin moving smoothly as he turned his head.

He moved like a [Swordmaster]. He had always been good with his swords, but Relc had seen this one time before. That night Klbkch had lost his temper. He slid as he stepped forwards, as if any moment he could change direction to whichever he pleased.

As if gravity touched him less. Someone in complete control of his faculties.

Only the swords marked him as even remotely close to the Klbkch of old. But it was that—the famous blades that had marked him out in two wars—that the Gnoll woman had recognized.

Relc, and the others in the Watch, recognized Klbkch. Yet they all stood there, looking at him.

Because…

“Am I not how you remember me? Watch Captain Zevara, Sergeant Mudsa. Senior Guardsman Relc. Greetings.”

Klbkch’s voice was the same, at least. He shrugged, and the long traveller’s cloak around his shoulders moved slightly. He rested his hands on the shortswords and looked around.

“I appear to have interrupted the Watch in the course of their duties. Forgive me.”

“Not at all. Klbkch. Is that you, Klbkch?”

Zevara didn’t sound certain. Klbkch turned his head, and Relc recognized the slight head-tilt, as did Zevara.

“Of course, Watch Captain. I would like to inform you I have returned from my leave of absence. But I do not know if I will be quite able to return to my old position in the same capacity.”

“Oh, uh—I’ll check the schedule. We can discuss…”

Zevara trailed off, but Relc inhaled. Because he recognized it. Klbkch was as formal and precise as ever, but even Klb didn’t really expect to talk work the moment he returned.

He was, in his sly way, having fun. The Antinium’s head turned, and he looked around. He surveyed the cautious faces and nodded.

“Relc.”

“Klb, buddy. What happened to you?”

The Antinium turned to face the Drake as everyone else drew back. There they were. Relc remembered precisely the last time they’d truly met—and fought. Klbkch looked Relc up and down. He opened his mandibles, which had developed an odd, purplish tinge at the edges.

Poison? The Slayer shifted and so did Relc, moving his weight onto his right foot.

“Will we fight to the death, now? Watch Captain Zevara is within her authority to request my termination. As she always has been. I am Klbkch the Slayer of the Hives. I claim the authority of the Grand Queen of the Antinium. Well?”

The last note in his voice made the hair raise and scales tingle on a number of watchers, even his friends. Zevara’s head snapped up, but Relc Grasstongue just stood there. He had his spear in his claw, but he slowly reached out with his other claw.

“Klbkch.”

“That is my name, Relc.”

The Drake reached out—hesitated—and then grabbed Klbkch’s shoulder. The Antinium let it happen. He grabbed Relc’s arm, gently, just above the elbow.

The two stared at each other for a long moment. Then Klbkch opened his mandibles and raised them.

“I trust you have not gotten into too much trouble while I was absent.”

Relc looked around at the citizens of Cellidel still nearby. He looked at Klbkch, and then a grin spread over his face. He raised his claw, and then slapped Klbkch on his flexible back-shell.

“You have no idea, Klb, how many times I needed you to sort things out.”

The Antinium twitched his antennae and sighed audibly.

“Some things never change. I am quite glad I left, in that case. Then again…”

He looked around Liscor, and Relc saw something like his feelings flit over Klbkch’s face. It was so subtle. A shift in the way the light shone on his insectoid eyes. A movement, from foot to foot. The slow turn of his head and the way his antennae moved.

Even the other Antinium—Klbkch paused on them, and they stared at him. A stranger. Klbkch looked around Liscor, then seemed to focus on Relc, Zevara, and the Watch. He nodded to himself, slowly.

“I am back.”

——

Senior Guardsman Klbkch and Senior Guardsman Relc walked down the street. Off-duty, but word spread ahead of them like a storm.

They were back. The huge Drake with arm muscles second only to Magus Grimalkin, and his huge grin, strode along next to Klbkch, who had gained in height. Yet he adopted the relaxed swagger of a [Guard] on long patrol, nodding to people who stared at him.

For a moment, they just walked like that. As they always had. Walked, and the city of Liscor turned with them.

“Hey. Market Street’s the same as always. Does Lism still have his shop?”

“Evidently. Would you like to make a purchase?”

“Of what? Pork belly? He’s selling pork belly?”

“Am I to understand this is a particularly fine cut of meat? Pig bellies being desirable because…?”

“Klb. Klb. Don’t tell me you’ve never had pork belly before?”

“I have never inquired into the body parts I eat. That is a hamburger. Do you ask which nose went into it?”

A Human paused with a double-fish-pork burger and stared at it with a look of horror—trumped only by the look she gave Klbkch. The stall owner glared, and Relc slapped Klbkch on the shoulder.

“Now that’s the Klbkch I know. Ruining things for everyone.”

“I simply do not see why a belly is more desirable.”

“Taste, probably. I dunno. If something tastes better, everyone wants it, right?”

“Yes. This is simple fact. However, are all pigs the same in terms of belly-quality? Would not some pigs have…superior legs? Would, in theory, a pig’s ear not be better than your average pig’s belly?”

“It’s a belly, Klbkch. Don’t overthink it.”

“A statement perfectly at home with people who possess bellies and belly-buttons. I do not. This is all somewhat strange to me.”

Heads turned as the two [Guards] bantered back and forth. The metaphysics of belly-economics made half the shoppers decide to head to Lism’s stall, manned by a shop assistant, just to find out. Relc half-glared at Klbkch, but the huge smile on his face was too big to make it work.

“You’ve lived in Liscor for ten years, Klb. You need to stop being confused all the time.”

“And you, Relc, need to stop assuming the world is easy to understand. I highlight my ignorance, rather than assume I know everything erroneously.”

“Yeah, well…you could eat pork belly whenever you want.”

“But why would I?”

They turned a corner, and Relc laughed. He inhaled, laughed, and then nearly sneezed on Klbkch, who dodged.

“Please stop that.”

“Phew. You stink, Klb, buddy! I didn’t notice it before but—”

Relc sniffed, then went to plug his nostrils. Klbkch indeed had a fugue about him. Not entirely foul, but altogether so…

“It smells like you got musked—but not by a skunk! It smells like a butcher’s—but without the blood. It smells like—”

“Thank you for shouting how much I stink to the street.”

An elbow hit Relc in the stomach so fast he barely saw it coming. He grunted.

“And you’re faster. What happened?”

Klbkch raised one arm and apparently sniffed it, though he had no nose and didn’t make the same sound.

“Ah. I left so quickly the odor must still be on me. My body was just reconnected. Or rather—the ligaments were healed via a potion. The Birther sac must still be on me.”

Relc gave him a side-eye.

“What? Did you just get born or something? Birthers make Antinium, don’t they?”

“Yes. My body was remade. Hence my sudden reappearance; I am still somewhat stiff from the healing potions that were used to finalize the process. Inefficient, but effective. Incidentally, if you would like to eliminate me as a threat, now would be the best time.”

Relc stopped. He looked at Klbkch, who turned his head to regard him calmly.

“Klb. I just got back. You’re my best friend—or you were—and we haven’t seen each other for ages.”

“Ah. But you do have orders to watch me. And if necessary…if the Antinium of the Free Hive were ever to become treacherous, we both know your role.”

Relc nodded slowly.

“Yeah. But I just got back. If we’re going to kill each other, can we do it after we eat? Or tomorrow?”

The Antinium Senior Guardsman looked at Relc. The two stared at each other as every Gnoll on the street sweated under their fur, then Klbkch smiled and Relc laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.

They kept walking. Klbkch didn’t laugh like Relc, who chortled all the way down the street, but he smiled. For Klbkch…

They were back again. Klbkch pointed.

“[Pickpocket]. Left.”

Relc turned his head and saw a Human boy sneaking over. He raised a fist.

“Wait a second, neither of us are on duty. We’re not clocked in, even. I bet someone took my locker.”

“Indeed. So we are civilians with a Watch class, walking about.”

The two looked at each other. Relc raised a fist and shouted so loudly the entire street jumped.

“Hey, you! You brat! Get lost or I’ll break your legs! Wait, am I allowed to do that?”

Klbkch tapped at his chin as the [Pickpocket] looked up and ran for it.

“I believe not, as that would be assault on another person. However, if you witnessed the pickpocketing in progress, perhaps that would be aggravated retaliation against a criminal, in which case you might receive a warning. Threats are, however, quite acceptable.”

“Awesome. Not that I’d do it, you know. I am a [Trusted Sergeant of the Watch], now.”

Relc ran a claw through his neck spines. Klbkch came to a stop. He stared at Relc.

“You are a Watch Sergeant. You consolidated your class.”

Relc puffed out his chest.

“Yep. Twice, actually. [Guardsman of Trust] and then [Sergeant] from my army class. Nothing big. You, uh, level up any? Get some fancy new class?”

Klbkch didn’t reply. He walked forwards, then stopped and turned his head.

“You are a [Trusted Sergeant]. You.”

“Technically, I outrank you now. Not that it matters, Senior Guardsman Klbkch. But, uh, yep. New Skills too, by the way. Squad Skills, even. Probably necessitates a pay raise. And your new class is…you got how many levels?”

The Antinium’s mandibles slowly opened and closed.

“…I have received a new composite body at the height of Antinium form-shaping on Izril, with a multitude of unique capabilities.”

“Right, right. So no new class is what I’m hearing.”

“My mandibles are poisoned.”

“Yeah? And my farts smell. You’ve got nothing.”

Klbkch walked along for a few more steps as Relc grinned behind him. Then the Drake saw Klbkch turn.

“…I do not know if I will still act as a [Guardsman]. There is little reason for me to do so any longer. I returned to see Liscor. I did not know you had left until you returned.”

The Drake’s smile faded. He looked at Klbkch, and the Antinium stood there.

“You’ve changed, Relc.”

The six-foot-three Centenium with his shadow-grey body and lithe form remarked. The Drake checked himself, and tugged at his new chainmail and identical body. He nodded slowly.

“…I guess I have. Sorry for springing it on you, Klb. It just happened.”

The Antinium looked at Relc. He exhaled.

“I forgive you. Would you like to go for a walk, Relc?”

The Drake glanced about.

“I thought we were.”

Klbkchhezeim shook his head. He looked to the walls, and Relc followed his gaze. Slowly, the Drake murmured.

“Oh. In that case…sure.”

——

Two [Guards] walked out of the gates of Liscor and across the Floodplains, talking. Arguing, bickering sometimes, but just walking.

Off-duty. One had a spear over his shoulders, the other walked with twin swords at his waist.

One was Antinium, the other a Drake. They were headed towards a building.

An inn, on a hill.

That was how it always had been. For a year. Exactly one year, they had walked like this. Sometimes it had been one or the other. Or one hadn’t gone. Or…

But this was how it started.

It was not the same. They didn’t have as far to go anymore, and they were changed. One greatly; he was a [Watch Sergeant] now.

…The circumstances were different, too. Both kept looking towards the inn.

“Dark. It always used to look like that in that village, remember? A ghost inn, staying up when the rest fell to pieces. You always did say someone might squat there. [Bandits].”

“Superior construction to the other buildings. Perhaps the old [Innkeeper] had a Skill.”

“Yeah. Now…”

The windows were dark. Glass, dimly reflecting the sunlight. It wasn’t evening. The time was off. It should have been evening, and the fading sunlight turning the Floodplains to an ocean of orange and red.

But it wasn’t. Nor was there any light merrily shining from within. A telltale smokestack…

“Like the old days. She thought I was a Dragon, remember?”

“I believe you told me that over a hundred times that week, yes.”

“And she had those blue fruits. Dead gods, I asked about them when we got back to town and some people sold them, but everyone warned me about the poison.”

“Yes. They did.”

The Drake fell silent, because his companion gave him so little to work with. As if he didn’t care…until the Antinium spoke.

“Acid flies.”

“Hm? Oh, right. Her catching them and you eating them.”

“Such innovation. And I recall the high-grade Potion of Cleansing Wounds…”

“Yep. All on her hand. Good call, though. If it wasn’t high-grade, you’d have blasted her hand off. Wow, the hand-cut from the fish. I almost forgot.”

“Yes.”

Their footsteps slowed as they looked up the hill. The inn was dark. After a moment, Relc spoke.

“…Maybe she’ll be in there when we open that door. She’ll say something like, ‘I saw a Dragon!’.”

“That sounds quite like her. She will not be.”

“You don’t know that.”

Klbkch opened his mandibles. He looked at Relc, then slowly nodded.

“I do not. There is a chance, however small. A chance so minute, so incomprehensible, you would have to be a fool beyond saving to believe it—”

“Yeah, just watch it, Klbkch. I can still punch you one.”

The Antinium saw Relc raise a threatening fist. Klbkch looked up at the windows. He went on after a moment.

“…a chance so minute it cannot happen. But if there were a chance.”

“Yeah. Do you want to…?”

For an answer, Klbkch began walking up the hill. Slowly. So slowly. Relc followed him after a moment. They didn’t speak for the first few steps, then Klbkch did.

“Hectval is at war with Liscor. I did not realize.”

“Hm? Yeah. We sent the army out. The new army, I mean. Embria’s there.”

“Your daughter. Yes. Are you worried?”

“She’s alive. I’ll ask more later. What about you? I heard we sent Antinium to the front.”

Klbkch hesitated. He touched his swords.

“I could make a difference. However, if I enter the war, it will escalate.”

“Yeah. Do you know what’s happening, though?”

The Antinium nodded.

“Of course. What do you wish to know? The shape of the war? The military gains? The losses?”

“…Just how it is.”

Klbkch thought about the question. When he answered, it was simply.

“It is how you have always talked about Liscor’s wars to me.”

Relc Grasstongue looked up at Klbkch’s back. His eyes flickered.

“Brave kids. Heroes and bastards. Miracles and chance. A lot of dying.”

“Yes.”

They came to the front door. Relc hesitated. He craned his neck back and pointed.

“There it is.”

Klbkch nodded. He had seen it too. Hanging right under the name of the inn. And a sign hammered into the ground with the original lettering peeling slightly, but perfectly legible.

“Do you know where all the Goblins went? I expected the inn to be crowded, even without Erin.”

Relc started. He looked at Klbkch and slapped his forehead.

“Ancestors, Klb! You don’t know about Mrsha? I heard on the way back. Not about Mrsha or…?”

“I know about the Horns of Hammerad. Is that what you are referring to?”

“Dead gods. No. It’s—”

Relc hesitated. His voice trailed off as he raised a claw and curled it into a fist. He looked at Klbkch and then knocked. The Revalantor went still. The two waited.

“She’s not there.”

“Of course not. It would be silly t—I hear footsteps.”

The two stared at each other. Then Relc put one earhole to the door. He looked at Klbkch. Wordlessly, the Antinium stepped back. The two held their breaths and stared at the door.

The Wandering Inn’s front door opened slowly. Both Drake and Antinium stared at the figure in the shadowed hallway, holding their breath. Three hearts beat rapidly. It couldn’t be. But just maybe. Mayb—

“Guardsman Relc? Guardsman Klbkch? It’s you.”

Ishkr stood in the doorway. Relc exhaled in a rush, and Klbkch nodded.

“Ah. Ishkr. I hope we are not intruding?”

The Gnoll [Head Server] looked at the two. Then he smiled.

“Not at all. Would you like to come in?”

“Ah…no. No, we both just got back and…”

The inn was dark behind Ishkr. Relc looked at Klbkch.

“Erin’s not here, so…”

“She’s here.”

Klbkch murmured. Relc stopped. He stared ahead, down that long hallway. His voice lowered, and his hand grasped onto his spear tightly.

“…Yeah. Of course she is.”

The two lingered for a while, but then stepped through the entryway. The floorboards didn’t squeak like the old inn, and there was no dust because someone still kept them clean.

The [Grand Theater] was very big, and very dark, with only sunlight. It was echoingly haunted. Relc looked around the front of the common room, and it felt familiar. The bar and layout had changed slightly, and far more had been added.

He saw Lyonette’s work schedule pinned to one wall, an actual menu hanging up, chairs ready to be placed at other tables, even the giant mirror that Palt had enchanted to show the news.

There were menus hand-illustrated and sitting up as well, and someone had kept watering the flower boxes that held regular, beautiful flowers along each window.

…Yet the kitchen was dark and there was no white furry thing scurrying around. The stage was dark, without someone strutting their hour behind the curtain. No [Bard] sat playing guitar in a corner, and there was no bee or chatty [Bartender].

It was just like they remembered it. And not.

Klbkch sat down at a table. Relc trailed along one wall.

“They started putting up guest testimonials?”

“Miss Solstice did.”

“No way. Why—hey, that’s Magus Grimalkin. Why is his face up here?”

Relc pointed at the illustration and lengthy dissertation on the proper etiquette and form of using the weights room. Ishkr smiled slightly.

“Miss Solstice decided to put up a few illustrations, on the theory that some guests would appreciate it. She never…finished the project.”

“Oh. Right. The inn’s clean.”

Relc ran a claw over a table. Ishkr nodded.

“I clean it.”

“Obviously, duh. I just meant…”

“Silveran comes by now and then. One of the Workers.”

“Oh. That’s kind of him.”

Ishkr stood there, half in darkness, half in the sunlight leaking through the windows. He gestured to the stairs.

“Miss Imani and Palt moved out, as did Mage Bezale. Recently. Architect Hexel and his staff…my sister sometimes stays here as her landlady gives her issues and she doesn’t sign up for the new housing. Your room is still here. If you would like, I can give you the key.”

“Really. I…no. I won’t stay here yet.”

Klbkch looked up from reading the menu as Relc brushed at his neck scales again. The Senior Guardsman nodded to Ishkr.

“We’ll just…sit here, if that’s okay. For a moment?”

“As long as you need. I will get out of your fur.”

“Thanks. Uh—you don’t have to—thanks. Nice guy.”

Relc said that last part to Klbkch as he sat down. The Antinium nodded simply. Relc leaned on the table across from him.

Here they were. But no young woman came rushing out of the kitchen. Relc caught himself glancing at the doorway, and felt embarrassed…until he realized Klbkch kept watching the stairs.

“A lot’s happened. I missed it.”

That was all Relc said after a long while. Klbkch nodded.

“You were gone in Cellidel? On voluntary posting? Did you do something wrong?”

Relc’s head lowered.

“Yeah. I didn’t have you to talk me out of it. I went to Cellidel. It’s a long story.”

“In brief?”

The Drake hesitated and struggled for words.

“Nothing big. Just—idiots thinking they can beat on citizens and do whatever they want. Bad stuff happening. The Watch was a mess—nothing like Captain Z. That’s all of it. Riots—some [Painter] guy. But just idiots. What about you? How’d you lose your last body after…”

Klbkch shrugged.

“Largely similar. Incompetence uncovered on a fundamental level. I have yet to address it fully.”

“Huh. So you really are going to manage the Hives, then?”

“Yes. I believe I must. Xrn is wounded. She may never recover.”

“Really.”

Klbkch slowly opened and closed his hand.

“Not as things stand. They must change. You have made a change. Now I must. Not here. I do not know if I am needed here any longer.”

“Me neither.”

They exchanged glances, and then looked away. Relc looked for an open door. A garden. But it didn’t come, and he didn’t summon it.

It was too quiet. And Klbkch…Relc stared at the kitchen, then checked the sky.

“I promised to meet some of my people. And I don’t know if you’re busy—”

“I have over a hundred tasks to accomplish, yes.”

Which meant literally over a hundred, and Klbkch could list each one if he wanted. Relc nodded. He put his huge claws on the table to push himself back.

“We can—catch up later. If you want. I know…”

He had gotten up when Klbkch held up a hand. So Relc stopped. The Antinium hesitated. He sat there and hesitated, and it was an odd thing for Klbkch to do.

“I returned to the Hives, as you know. Incidents occured that meant I would receive a new body, but one of the things I did was to reestablish contact with the Queens of the Hives. Five Queens, and Wrymvr the Deathless. A fellow Centenium of old.”

The Drake [Spearmaster] stilled. He looked at Klbkch, and, aside from the [Strategists] and leaders who had dedicated their lives to studying the Antinium, and a few other people, he was one of the few who understood what that meant.

“Yeah?”

Klbkch drummed his fingers slowly on the table. His mandibles opened and closed. He made a kcrch sound, and then coughed.

“Wrymvr. It is difficult for me to express this properly, as I have never had to. However…Relc.”

He looked up into his friend’s yellow gaze. Relc just waited. Klbkch searched and spoke.

“I have known Wrymvr since he was created. I am the older of the two of us, but our existence reaches back to the beginning of the Antinium as a true species. We have served the same positions, and our goals are identical. We have experienced the same events, and we were created of the same Queen. Our history is a shared one.”

The Drake said nothing. At last, Klbkch looked at Relc.

“…Despite that. He was less pleasant to be around. I have thought of that, now and then.”

Relc blinked. Klbkch went on, as he looked around the quiet inn.

“It occurs to me, Relc, that over our career as [Guardsmen] of Liscor, you have asked me to go with you for a drink and/or meal over a thousand times. I can count the number of times I have done so on two hands. We have often had snacks together in an acceptable way as [Guards]. Seldom meals upon pre-arranged request.”

“Yeah?”

Klbkch slowly reached down for something and placed it on the table. Relc looked down, and Ishkr, like the excellent staff member he was, reappeared.

A single gold coin glinted on the table. Gross overpayment, of course, but you didn’t come here for the fiscal value. Klbkch looked up at Relc.

“As I believe it is customary, Relc, I cordially invite you to ‘have a drink’. Let us also have a meal. I will buy the first round. Tell me about Cellidel.”

The Drake’s eyes widened. He looked down at the gold coin, and then pulled his chair out. He sat down, and Ishkr hurried over.

“Can I get you two anything? The kitchen doesn’t have a [Cook], but I can do [Basic Cooking], and we do have stored foods. Any preferences?”

Relc glanced at Klbkch. The Antinium looked at him, and they both knew what they were going to order. Relc raised a claw and smiled.

“Do you have pasta? Spaghetti? And some blue fruit juice?”

Ishkr blinked. Then nodded. Klbkch raised his hand.

“I will have pasta as well, as I can finally metabolize it. Acid flies on mine, if you have any.”

“Aw, come on, Klb—”

“You can put meat on yours. Pork belly.”

“Oh. Yeah. Pork belly for the both of us! If you’ve got it. And, uh, I’ll have an ale with the blue fruit…”

The two began ordering. Ishkr ended up rushing out to see if he could get some pork belly, but he set them up with a bowl of acid flies, french fries, and drinks. Relc and Klbkch sat there. It wasn’t about the additions. It was the pasta and blue fruit that mattered.

The gold coin glittered on the table, catching the light as Relc fussed about the fireplace, and Klbkch eventually pointed a Wand of Flame Ray and lit it.

Some things were different. But then they sat, smiling, talking, and telling each other what had happened. They ate and drank in The Wandering Inn, the pair of them. Then, after a while…

They went to find Erin and say hello.

——

It was a very special day. Because it wasn’t.

Any day could be quite special. Extraordinary, even. All it took was a reunion, a new idea—and the mundane was kicked out of the way by the fantabulously interesting.

That was the lesson they’d all learned. Your boring every afternoon didn’t have to look like that. Of course, with that precious knowledge came the other side.

Terrible things could happen out of the blue. Disaster could be waiting around the corner with a crossbow.

It was a special day, because they thought of her.

Klbkch and Relc stood on a hill, chatting. No solemn silence. No flowers. It might have been that if they had come earlier. It didn’t…work.

Not today. Not for them. Klbkch pushed Relc slightly as the Drake joked around.

“…And I’ve been gaining classes. Klb here just has his new body.”

“With poisoned mandibles.”

“—So he can’t even kiss someone. He makes it sound good, but I think the Queens messed up.”

“This is not an issue that has ever been presented to me. Nor do I intend to seek the opportunity out.”

Relc gestured helplessly at his friend.

“You see? What am I supposed to do with…this guy?”

He trailed off. The [Innkeeper] smiled at him. Relc took a breath, and a bit of mist escaped his lips. The frozen bier was like it had been the last time. The flowers frozen and dead. The trinkets…

“So I might go off soon. I had to get the kids back from Cellidel. But after that, I’ll be after Mrsha. You know me. Kidnapping? I’m great at chasing and hitting people.”

Klbkch looked at Relc and nodded.

“I will also look into the matter.”

“Yeah.”

Relc knelt down, then decided to just sit. Klbkch kept standing…for a minute. Then, as if gravity were leaning on him, he sat too. They sat there, as Ishkr looked up from the door to the inn.

“You’ll be back. Right, Klb? She’ll be back.”

The Antinium opened and closed his mandibles.

“…If anyone could, it would be her.”

Relc nodded. They kept sitting there. Klbkch glanced at Relc and kept nearly speaking. The Drake just stared ahead, at Erin, at something else. They sat there, as frost crept over both, scales and chitin.

They didn’t move for a long time. It was that kind of day. That was how it began.

With memories. With…the thought of home.

How home should be.

Even if it wasn’t.

——

The problem was that the world was better. The problem was that the world was more interconnected. In the old days, which were the bad days, you couldn’t talk with people around the world.

Or, if it were possible, it was the kind of thing that took multiple Couriers or magic beyond the ken of most mortals and so on and so forth.

If something terrible or glorious happened, you’d hear about it in the news, and that was a grand and momentous—yet distant—thing.

Now? [Messages] were common and cheap, and the world was changing faster. The result was that you didn’t leave people behind; you could talk to them, talk with someone around the entire world, and that was glorious.

Sometimes, though—

It only reminded you that you were alone. Or that Erin wasn’t back yet.

Krshia Silverfang took a long sip of wine. One sip, and she put the cup down. She had business to do—[Chieftains] to meet, and she could not be tipsy when she was one of the faces of the Silverfangs, in the spotlight and grasping at the future with both paws.

But she took that sip, because she had to. She didn’t know if it was good, what she did. But Chieftain Torishi had advised her to tell the little Gnoll girl.

“She has had enough secrets. This is good news. Mourning and happiness are part of life. We must flee from neither.”

That was Weatherfur’s wisdom, from someone older and wiser. So Krshia told Mrsha.

“Relc has returned. And Klbkch, yes? Gnolls from Cellidel.”

The little Gnoll girl brightened up and smiled. Relc? He was back from stinky Cellidel? And Klbkch too? Great news! She began writing that Krshia should tell them she was well—until she realized Krshia would have to code that. Then she began to ask how many Gnolls.

Then she thought of Erin. And Krshia saw Mrsha look lost. The girl looked around for her mother, or Numbtongue, and recalled how far away all of them were.

On a quest—to save her. Not even Erin. She looked for Apista, or Bird, or Selys…then glanced up and kindly settled for Krshia. So the Gnoll [Shopkeeper] wouldn’t feel bad.

“We will be home soon, yes?”

Krshia hugged Mrsha tightly. The girl patted Krshia on the head.

Yes, we will.

Krshia wanted to linger, but Akrisa was already in a meeting. So she hugged Mrsha again.

“I will get word to them that you are well, so they do not run across the continent, hm? Do you want to go with someone?”

Mrsha held up a card with a big name written on it.

Gire.

Krshia nodded and took her by the paw out of the tent. She found the giant Gnoll waiting for her morning playdate with her best friend, and smiled. Gire sniffed the sip of wine on her breath, of course, but made no comment. Krshia saw Mrsha off, then turned. She strode, almost ran, to her first meeting, to shake hands and make complicated deals.

If she stopped too long, she would start crying.

As for Mrsha? The Gnoll looked solemnly up at Gire, who paused.

“Do you want to do something else today, Mrsha? Buy another lobster? Or we can go and see some sights? How about horse races?”

She was excited, and clearly doing sums in her head about how much food Mrsha could buy on the pretext of ‘snacks’. Normally, Mrsha would be raring to go as well. Today? Mrsha put up a paw, massaging at her back.

Not today, Gire. One moment, one moment.

She hobbled over to a table in the Silverfang camp like an old woman and sat down. Gire frowned as Mrsha searched around, made a groaning sound, picked up a cup, and headed over to the food tent. She came back, put the cup down, and cleared the space around it. Then she put a paw around the cup and…exhaled.

The cup was filled with goat’s milk, incidentally. However, the Gnoll girl began to nurse it. Taking small sips, exhaling.

“Mrsha? Is something wrong? Are you thirsty?”

Sit, sit. The Gnoll gestured with a paw. Gire sat. Mrsha stared past her. Around her, Silverfang’s Gnolls were bustling about, and a few Ekhtouch Gnolls were condescending about. Longstalker’s Fang, Greenpaw—and there was Rose, pretending not to see Adetr waiting for another chat.

Inkar and Tkrn. Even Feshi, glancing around for them with some of the Weatherfur Gnolls. Great and powerful allies. Interesting people, all.

Yet Mrsha didn’t run about. Not today. Gire poked her, and Mrsha slapped the finger down and snarled.

Not a friendly snarl either. Gire didn’t try it again. She saw Mrsha take another gulp, and finally recognized what Mrsha was doing. It was a copy of what Gire and Mrsha had seen—but Mrsha had been to more bars than Gire, and had seen this late at night.

A figure at a table or bar, slipping into their cups. Like Menolit, and an [Innkeeper] talking to them. She copied them, not because it was fun…

But because this was one of the ways Mrsha knew how to cry in public. She stared past Gire, and there were not enough words to write down to explain it.

Or just two.

Erin Solstice.

Gire watched as Mrsha began to sniff. The little Gnoll girl’s eyes welled up.

“Mrsha? What’s wrong? Does your stomach hurt? Don’t cry…”

Erin.

Mrsha wrote it down and pushed the card over. Gire turned the card over, but it lacked context, even for the [Paragon].

“Is that…your friend? The one who’s sick? Oh—oh—Mrsha, don’t cry.”

The girl began sniffing into her cup. Huge, blobby tears fell from her brown eyes as Gnolls looked at her. Gire—panicked.

“Don’t cry, Mrsha. It’s alright. See? I can juggle. Look! I can juggle eleven things. See? Isn’t it funny?”

She grabbed some silverware, cups, a plate, and tossed eleven objects up and did actually create a double-helix. Mrsha didn’t even stare at it. Gire stopped, not knowing what to do. Because she was young, and Ekhtouch didn’t teach you how to deal with tears.

Mrsha didn’t want Gire to do anything. She just cried into her cup as the others came over. Inkar didn’t know why.

Tkrn did. So did Beilmark and other Gnolls from home. So the Senior Guardswoman sat down, took off her helm, placed her badge on the table, and put Mrsha on her knee. Tkrn tried to explain, and Mrsha kept crying. For a bit.

She didn’t let Gire stop her, or anyone cheer her up until she was done. Because she was supposed to cry when bad things happened. She clung to Gire’s arm too, and rubbed her snot into Gire’s fur.

“Ew.”

Yet the [Paragon] didn’t pull away. She listened.

——

This was how it went. It was like…a stack of cards. A pile of painted wooden blocks. And someone had just kicked in one of the support beams.

Not maliciously, but in that Relc-way…it was him.

News of home.

It struck them all differently. Lyonette du Marquin looked up.

“He’s back?”

A figure nodded. Someone stirred uneasily. One of the Thronebearers glanced warily at her, but Ratici’s hat was off his head…and held between his claws.

It was not the same. Lyonette saw the Drake’s somber face.

“I’m glad.”

She put down her quill for a second. Cirediel and Rafaema, hovering there, looked at the [Princess] as she pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. A [Princess] did not cry, though; that would ruin her makeup.

One second, two…and Lyonette took a deep breath. She looked up, and her eyes shone, but her jaw was set.

“That’s wonderful news. If you could send him a word—tell him that we will see him soon. I may—send him something else later.”

“Of course, Miss Lyonette.”

Ratici dipped his head and walked back. Wilovan took off his hat for a second. The two Gentlemen Callers went for a walk, hats in their hands.

They scared the living daylights out of everyone they met, but they held the hats. Talking softly, walking like gentlemen. If anyone stopped them…

That was why they held the hats. Not today.

Lyonette du Marquin looked around.

“Would you all…excuse me for a moment? I must freshen myself up.”

“What, the toil—”

Rafaema stamped so hard and fast that Cire doubled over, clutching wordlessly at his foot. She nodded, and Lyonette rose. Ser Sest held the door open as she retreated.

To shed tears in private. The others stood around, uncertain of what to do. Some people went around calmly.

——

Xif and Saliss glanced up when they heard the news. The Gnoll blinked and wiped at his spectacles. Saliss’ claws never wavered.

“Thanks. Shut the door on your way out. Semi-poisonous gas.”

They kept working.

——

Like Ilvriss. On such days, he kept writing orders to his company, Alrric, and the Salazsar forces. His quill scritched across the parchment, and Osthia Blackwing didn’t see anything different about him.

But on such days, sometime between her delivering [Messages] and correspondence, something would appear on the desk, carefully placed above the pages and away from the quill and inkpot.

It would be a little amulet with a clasp. The kind you could open. The Wall Lord would carefully angle it and keep working. He would never glance at it that she could see in the brief snippets when she saw him.

However, it was there. If you saw it, you’d put the nonsense about Lyonette and wedding rings behind you.

That little illustration he had found somewhere and put in the amulet was not of a Human. Not a [Princess] nor an [Innkeeper]. After all. When he thought of Erin—

He thought of her.

——

It might be resonance.

Or synchronicity.

The explanation might be Relc.

Or a memory of the fall. When she first came to this world.

Perhaps it was just time.

Realizing how long it had been. Again, it was different. Similar, but different.

Ceria Springwalker stopped eating, refused to play cards, and marched with the army of Savere. She took out a spellbook that Revine had gifted her and began leafing through it.

Her pale eyes held no tears. She just kept glancing up at the sky, north. And the air…

Grew colder. So cold that she turned the sand and dirt hard and frosty when [Bandits] followed in her wake. The wind behind her so chilled that a gap opened up in the army behind her.

It was so uncharacteristic of the Ice Squirrel that everyone noticed it more than if she had been crying. Ceria brushed at her hair and looked at her skeletal hand. She smiled ruefully, and went back to reading.

——

Yvlon Byres sat and talked with Queen Yisame and the Great Sage Etrikah. She talked, as the [Queen] dabbed at her eyes and the [Sage] listened. She talked and paced and was restless.

Her hands clenched and roamed, touching silverware, checking her skin as if she were making sure it was pure. She sat back heavily, then stood. Resting her weight on the table.

Helplessly moving about. Frustrated with inaction.

——

It was the opposite of how Ksmvr did it. He rode along, so quiet that no one noticed for a while. Only until he refused to eat breakfast and lunch did Nsiia ride over.

“Is something wrong, Ksmvr? If you are feeling sick, tell us. Sickness can run through an army and leave it legless.”

Ksmvr looked at her thoughtfully, then shook his head.

“No, Nsiia. I am perfectly physically well. I believe I am sad, but I have not learned how to cry. I am uncertain what I should do.”

The Empress of Beasts’ eyes sharpened on Ksmvr’s face. His severed arm, his damaged antennae and exoskeleton…he had worn his injuries without noticeable pain.

Right now? He looked uncertain. As if moving would pain him, and he was afraid of it. Ksmvr kept touching his chest with one of his hands.

“Why are you sad, Ksmvr?”

“I do not know. It is unreasonable, so I would like it to stop. The person I am thinking of has already been in her present state for a long time. I am continuing to work towards her revival. Therefore, this sadness has no timing or reason. I…would like it to stop, now. How do you do that?”

Nsiia inhaled sharply. Domehead, walking by Ksmvr, turned, as the Empress of Beasts placed her arm on Ksmvr’s shoulder.

Rémi Canada hesitated as Leka Thri tilted his head. No emotion was visible on the Loquea Dree warrior’s beak, but he listened as Ksmvr tried to explain.

Rémi? He hesitated. Began to lower the camera. Then caught the motion and raised it to capture the Antinium’s face. Arguing the ethics of…

The Antinium [Skirmisher] looked around.

“It makes no sense. It does not feel good. I would rather be sick. Why is that?”

Nsiia looked at him.

“Because sickness goes away in time.”

Ksmvr leaned on Spitty as the camel glanced at him, pursed his lips, and decided against. The [Skirmisher] nodded.

“That makes sense.”

——

Pisces Jealnet was practicing fencing when Eloque, Merr, Bearig, Rophir, and Qshom found him.

“Is something wrong, Pisces?”

“Why would something be wrong?”

He turned, genuinely confused. Sweat was running down his face, and some of the freed [Slaves] and [Rebels] were watching him. He had been performing an excellent fencer’s drill.

Eloque studied Pisces. He seemed perfectly befuddled, and his face was straight.

“You’ve been doing that for two hours.”

“I am keeping in shape. Refining my magic.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

A hint of a defensive tone entered the [Necromancer]’s voice. He frowned around. Eloque looked at him, and the look turned to hesitation.

“You haven’t said a word to anyone all day. What’s wrong?”

The [Necromancer] scratched at the scarred skin around his neck, snatched his hand down, and gazed past them all.

“Nothing. Just thoughts.”

His friends looked at him. The [Necromancer] glanced about and realized he hadn’t refined any of the undead into advanced versions and hadn’t he better do that? He hurried off, and they followed.

It took them nearly four hours to get the reason out of him.

——

The music grated on his nerves. Niers Astoragon sat on the little pedestal he’d had recreated so he could ride in the view of others.

It got on his nerves, yet he didn’t snap at the Hobgoblin playing it because he knew exactly why it was playing.

It wasn’t even a sad song. It was…

The Ballad of the Redfangs. Numbtongue played it, again and again, and added another verse. As he played, Antinium looked up at the sky.

The others did. Infinitypear, Grass Shell, Touma the Great…and the Goblins chattered. Telling stories. The others listened, the Ghostly Hand tribe, to the Cave Goblins who told them of the leader of the Redfangs.

Salvation from the Raskghar. Rasktooth showed the tooth and waved his claws. Trying to get them to see it.

Cookies. A poofy hat from the luckiest Goblin ever. Five Hobgoblins and a cave. Another time.

A little bee buzzed about the heads of the Antinium, flying through the sky and remembering when she’d first come out of that little jar, and the world had been terrifying until that big blob with the red stuff fed her. And there had been that other blob too.

She missed that blob. Everything had been simpler, back then. She missed the white one, too. Apista didn’t smoke any Dreamleaf.

Niers didn’t either. But he had lit a bit of actual tobacco. He smoked it, sitting with an expression like thunder such that not even the biggest Gnoll fans quite dared approach him.

Failure. The [Strategist] counted each one. Listed it out, exactly in every mistake he’d made. Overconfidence, a lack of awareness. Preparation.

He worked backwards in time and his list had countless entries. He went back, then started again. The list had names and places. People. He smoked furiously. An angry Fraerling glaring at nothing.

Numbtongue just sat there. The Antinium stared at the sky. Only the Crimson Soldier looked ahead. The world was far better. If she came back, she came back.

It was far better even so, and she joined the fallen.

Garia and Fals jogged ahead, not really saying anything. Fierre scribbled furiously, sending little [Message] spells, checking the news, and not really processing anything she did. Gna and Salkis looked about. Gna knew part of it and was silent.

Salkis was impatient, fidgety, but aware this was not the time to interrupt. Pivr and Xeu looked about, wondering what everyone was staring at up above them and what they were missing.

The Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings, like their comrades, held their hats in their hands, walking along solemnly.

As for Ulvama? She sat in the wagon, pretending to be sleeping, as Octavia listened to Numbtongue’s songs and occasionally shed some tears. Upon which, she’d uncork a vial, let the tears roll into it, and hurry to start a potion or grind some ingredients. Then…her hands would slow until she was wiping at her eyes again.

Ulvama just stared up at the sky, one eyelid cracked open. Listening to the Goblins talk. Gothica added another spike to her parasol. Apista flew up, showing a Screaming Hawk her stinger.

Come on, bring it. Bring it. No? Why are you flying away, buddy? Huh? Huuuh?

——

There were more, of course. Many people knew her, and wanted to help. Griffon Hunt. The Halfseekers.

Some knew her, but didn’t mourn. Not fully. They had never known her.

Almost. A few more days and he would have.

The [Emperor] thought of that, now and then.

But not this day.

If you grieved, properly, you had known her. Like the [Strategist] pushing forwards with blood on the ground. Pursuing the one foe he had no forgiveness for. For two deaths.

However. Grief went hand in hand with glory. And it was that first story, that even the Cave Goblins didn’t know, that Rags told the Goblins of the Molten Stone tribe.

Anazurhe, the Goblin Chieftain [Witch], listened to the first tale of Erin Solstice. A Human who had every reason to hate Goblins because they had not been kind to her. Who had earned her first nickname.

Destroyer. She had killed a Goblin Chieftain. They had tried to kill her, more than once. They had killed her friend.

What was astonishing, why she mattered so much, was not that she had extended a hand in mercy and kindness to Goblins. Others had done that before. What mattered was that she had done that after it all. Despite it all. Because not all Goblins were alike.

Perhaps that was why the little Goblin, Rags, sat there in the great halls of the Molten Stone Goblins, dining with rich foods that were bought or obtained from far off. Calescent sat, munching happily on the food and trading secrets with the [Chef] here—so he could bring them back to the inn.

Yet Rags? She could have ordered anything she wanted, or trusted to the Molten Stone tribe to provide her with an unforgettable meal, like the giant, cooked roach they had placed in front of the Healer of Tenbault.

Actually tasty, if the woman bothered to try it.

Yet Rags had not. She poked at the plate in front of her, which was almost offensively plain…

Spaghetti. Anazurhe kept glancing at it, because Rags was eating.

“Ah. Is that why you eat that?”

She pointed a finger at Rags. The Great Chieftain of the Flooded Waters tribe glanced up and nodded. She took another bite.

“It tastes like memory.”

——

How many? The Players of Celum raised a glass, and performed with a tribute to the inspiration behind their play, the ‘Innkeeper of Solstice’, that night.

[Lords] and [Ladies] who had met the strange young woman, seen her at Lord Toldos’ funeral, remarked on the tragedy.

People of Liscor told stories about the really interesting times, when Liscor had begun to change, to the newcomers.

A Dwarf [Smith] worked furiously at his anvil.

Kevin stopped climbing back towards the resting Wyverns and looked around, before sighing hard and continuing his march.

Imani checked out of work early to go for a walk with Palt.

The Free Antinium stood silent and listened to a [Priest].

And there were far more. A [Baker] who baked bread and passed out loaves of it within his Hive. A Sinew Magus who pushed his apprentices so hard they collapsed because he had seen better and braver.

A couple who ran a bar in Pallass.

A young man in Wistram, who looked at all the magic and wondrous artifacts and felt something was still missing.

——

A [Knight] paused as he rode swiftly through a forest, evading [Scouts]. He looked around, and remembered an inn. A vision. A [General]’s strength.

Rabbiteater felt a hand on his shoulder, pushing him, so he straightened his shoulders. As weary [Knights] sagged around him, he sat up and rode ahead. Wondering how he would tell her about this part of his adventure.

——

But for those who had never met her—the people who interacted with these scattered folk, each one acting a different way—how did you describe her?

Hyperbole? That she was the one, the only person who had ever made a difference?

No. Yet—you could do it wrong, too.

Emphasize the mundanity of her, the silliness, and leave your audience thinking that was all she was, someone with no head for money, easily distractible, bad at managing a full team, and with a high weakness to crossbow bolts.

Which, to be fair, was a common vulnerability.

That wasn’t Erin Solstice, though. The true ‘her’ lay between myth and laughter. To capture that essence of her…you had to tell stories of what she’d done.

Or perhaps it was you. How you said it. How you looked, as you clenched your hand and stared at the three fingers and scars.

That despite everything, as the wind blew around you, blowing your raven-dark hair into the air, and you shifted from bare foot to foot—

You talked about her like that. A Courier, describing someone incredible.

The Wind Runner, friend of the fae, talking about someone who could do things she never could.

Her eyes shining, watering, as she stumbled over her words and kept going back.

To her friend. How they had met. Silly antics.

Glorious fire.

How did you say it? She tried.

“I…came here for her. Because it matters. Because with everything that’s happening and going to happen—we need her.”

“Who?”

Ryoka Griffin turned.

“Everyone. People do. She’s the reason why the Antinium are changing. She’s…she’s not invincible. She makes mistakes. She can’t stop a war on her own. But she meets people and connects with them. Because of her, a city didn’t fall to siege. Because of her, I saved two kids. She matters, so much that I came across the world.”

“Enough to risk your life?”

Ryoka looked up and met a glittering stare. Two dark eyes. An amused audience—half amused or curious or indifferent. The other half sympathetic, understanding, teary themselves, though they had never known her.

A few others. Yet Ryoka met each and every eye as her head moved about. She put her hand on the hilt of a sword from another time.

“Yes. Enough to walk the lands of the Tuatha Dé. Enough to seek a boon from the Faerie King, and challenge a Wyrm’s wrath. If it could be done, I would do it. Not because she is your salvation, or mine. Or that of nations. However. She will make someone’s life better. Many people’s. That is goodness.”

“Well said.”

Two peoples stood before her, and a gathering of other immortals. Gilaw, Menorkel, Fithea, Nemed, and more. Yet on one side sat Agelum—the other, Lucifen.

One side saw why. The Lucifen stirred, regarding their cousins.

“Goodness. Temporary, frail deeds. Explain it to us, now, why she matters.”

Ryoka Griffin saw a mocking smile. Paxere, one of the younger ones, who attracted disapproval from the more stately elders. They were better at hiding such things. Visophecin just tapped his lips as Ryoka glared—then relaxed.

She looked so rarely confident it took the younger Lucifen unawares. Ryoka turned back to the capital, where the Singer of Terandria was drawing her back—and Menorkel as well. But she looked Paxere straight in the eye.

“Because she broke the Assassin’s Guild in two and held Tyrion Veltras and his army back from Liscor. She is the world’s finest chess player, and Antinium and Goblins consider her a friend. She is the best at something. That is something no one here can boast lightly. Not even the ageless.”

She looked around, daring the Lucifen or Agelum to claim they were the finest in the entire world at…what? Being old? Magic? Breadth of knowledge? She knew a Dragon who had a far better claim than any of them to that.

She saw flashes of red ire from the Lucifen. Wide grins on the Agelum’s faces as they watched the Wind Runner rile their cousins up. Visophecin dipped his head to Ryoka with a slight smile.

“Well said. Although Lady Fithea could lay claim to expertise in earth magic.”

“Only in this world. Only…”

The Dryad’s murmur was background. Ryoka looked around. She was trying, oh, so very hard…

Not to cry. Not in front of them all. Half might care, but the other half would just quietly smile, delighted by her suffering.

Nor in front of Rhisveri, who wouldn’t care. Ryoka Griffin spread her hands helplessly. She was out of words. Only the burning desire. How did she describe that?

No. They knew. Each and every one of them here. Even Rhisveri.

They knew what it was like.

To want someone back.

That was why, across the world, it was not difficult to explain. Oh, immensely difficult, impossible to explain her with mere words.

But not that. Not needing someone. Ryoka Griffin had her explanation at last.

“I want her back. There are other people I want back. So many…but it’s impossible.”

Or if it is—just one—

She pushed the scroll out of her mind. Because that was the point. Ryoka looked around. Visophecin, Gadrea, Fithea, Gilaw…

They understood. The Wind Runner took in a shuddering breath.

“If it were possible? So many. The difference is—Erin—there’s a chance. It’s so slim, but it’s there. What would you do for a chance?”

Ah. They exhaled slowly. That, they understood. Ryoka closed her eyes.

If death were something you could fight—they would all, every living person, make such war as was never dreamt of before or since. But you couldn’t.

This was the lone battle. For one person she loved. Her friend.

She was not dead yet.

——

All the pieces were falling into place.

Yet something was missing.

Someone did not grieve, for she had never seen the person named Erin Solstice. Though she owed her a grave debt.

However, she fought for that chance like she would for anyone else. It all was so close. So close—

But there was something else.

So Geneva Scala fell. Into the depths of the Mind.

It was a void into which a hundred thousand different scenes repeated themselves. She could look around and ‘see’ it.

Geneva Scala stood over a dead young woman. The features kept changing because she didn’t know them. Skin tone, height, weight—but always a young woman.

Skin frosted over. Or completely ice.

Crossbow bolts sticking out of her chest—sides—barbed, poison still dripping from the tips as she removed them, or enchanted.

A hundred thousand Genevas worked. With a team or alone, with magic or Skills. Casting spells she had no access to in life, pausing time, walking about. Fighting…

She was grateful. The [Doctor] was so grateful despite it all, for the Mind.

Because this would have been a lesson learned on the bodies of countless patients in the real world. She would have had only theory there.

Here? She saw the effects of each spell. Saw her failures repeated without consequence.

To the living. But in each room, Geneva Scala fought, sometimes cursing, desperately, crying out with frustration. Chasing after that spark.

Almost. It was entirely theoretical. Heresy in modern science, to actually freeze someone and expect them to come back to life. They’d do this to rodents, not people.

There were so many factors. Cellular degradation from the freezing, poison, the crossbow bolts themselves, the sheer trauma…not to mention reviving her.

Impossible, Geneva would have said, even for modern medicine on Earth. Here? She had magic. Magic and Skills and it was still not enough.

Oh—she had pieces. Geneva Scala saw the Minds providing them to her.

Ethereal antidote. It seeped through the skin, neutralizing poison as it ran through her. Imagine how effective it could be! Imagine healing an internal wound with that precision? Removing a kidney stone? Or would it harm the tissue…?

So many possibilities. She was learning. And the Minds had insights few living people had.

A Potion of Regeneration. So powerful, even in her visions, individual Genevas recoiled from the sheer potency in the air, that made her hair grow in real time and fingernails lengthen.

Antidote, healing—and a spell to defrost the young woman without killing her. All three factors were in flux. Geneva tried different combinations of each; could you do it with a [Restoration] spell? How did you warm her consistently without turning her into a pile of meat and bone?

How did you keep her alive?

“Heartbeat.”

She heard it. A beating, fluttering heart, one out of every four attempts. Then—three out of five. Geneva Scalas tried compressions, even shocks to keep it moving. They refined the process. Made sure the antidote hit the poison and neutralized it completely.

She heard the heart beat. Then flutter.

Then silence.

Something was missing. Geneva Scala drifted downwards as the scenes replayed themselves, trying to figure out what the crucial element was. She almost had it.

What is missing here? The Mind was silent, using its entire, vast collective to generate these scenarios for her. It had no answer. Geneva Scala found herself at a loss.

Then—the Third Mind thought at her.

“What do you need?”

“Another perspective. Another…me!”

Geneva called out into the void. Frustrated. She shouted—then stumbled as she landed on the floor of the United Nations headquarters.

A woman sat across from her, fiddling with a cup. She looked antsy, and her brown hair, pinned back behind a white shirt and Lizardfolk-style sarong, swung as her head snapped up.

“You’re here. Good. Let’s figure it out.”

Geneva Scala blinked at…Geneva Scala. The [Doctor] gestured impatiently.

“Take a seat. Unless you want something to eat?”

“No. I can’t figure it out.”

Geneva glowered at herself.

“Neither can I. Let’s articulate the problem, as if we were attending a lecture. The cause of death was immediate exsanguination. Hemorrhage. Poisoned bolts.”

Geneva found herself fiddling with the same cup, a replica of the Geneva across from her. She stopped, spread her hands on the table. She needed—

A quill was in her hands, so she took notes, quill—no, pen—darting across the page.

“Then freezing, right. If we remove the freezing element, we are attempting to restart her heart. Provide blood, neutralize the poison.”

“The freezing complicates it. We cannot perform the necessary steps before warming her, and that alone is causing massive trauma.”

“Exactly. But the right spells and potions can account for it, in part. The lacking part is…”

Both Genevas stopped. They looked at each other and one balled up the paper and tossed it down.

“It’s not medical.”

“It is. It simply comes out in other terminology and processes. You’ve felt it.”

Geneva Scala nodded.

“It’s…her life.”

Not blood loss. Not her heart failing. Not the components—it was that sheer concept of her life. The individual body parts Geneva could fight to protect. Brain, blood flowing to organs, even the heart.

Yet the patient as a whole? She…died. The thing that medical professionals still couldn’t entirely grasp, the difference between someone who was ‘alive’ when hooked up to a medical instrument—

Life. It slipped away. The body was so badly damaged that all but the best scenarios, the strongest constitutions—had no chance.

“That’s what you’re missing.”

Geneva Scala told her mirror image. The [Doctor] across from her nodded. She put her hands on the table, rose—

And Geneva vanished. The Geneva across from her blinked at her copy’s dispersal, but then nodded.

“That’s it. That’s…”

Her eyes widened. She had a thought.

“Oh.”

Geneva Scala whispered. It was such a non-question for most medical practitioners. Of course the patient died. Of course they failed to capture life itself—that life was a function of many parts, so focus on that.

That was an Earth-solution. Yet she was not on Earth. So life itself? Geneva Scala breathed as something began to connect in her mind.

“That’s what I was missing.”

There it was.

She found it at last.

——-

Like a good [Doctor] should, Geneva tried her theory. The Third Mind realized what she was doing and approved.

It made sense. There were even real-life examples that Geneva had put down to hyperbole, or the phenomenon of…well, it did happen.

This, though?

What might I do? How many more chances might I receive? Patients who died…Geneva’s brain was whirling.

“Now that is worth.”

The smug tone of the Third Mind was the last thing she heard. Then Geneva was dropping out of the air, gently landing in Idis’ arms.

“What are you doing? I can keep going. I need to prove it works. A thousand—ten thousand trials.”

Geneva felt limited, like she was squeezed into her body, the physical world where she couldn’t fly or summon whatever she wanted to at the drop of a hat. Such a dangerous place, the mind.

She almost forgot to breathe and that she needed to move to reach things. Idis helped Geneva stand as the [Doctor] protested weakly.

“She has pushed her every limit. Her theory is sound. It works. Enough. Few, even Selphids, have walked in the Mind so long. The [Doctor]’s will is strong when it comes to her medicine.”

The Third Mind was right. Even the [Psychic Guardians] in attendance and Calectus seemed surprised at how long Geneva had communed with the Mind.

“Did you do it, Geneva?”

Idis was patently curious. The other Selphids turned to the Third Mind.

“Is this a discovery which might cure the Wasting or be substantive?”

“Wasting? Perhaps. Perhaps not, but perhaps. As to substantive change…Geneva Scala has formulated a way to improve the efficacy of [Healers]. Experimentation is needed.”

“Yes. Yes…but also—it works. I know what they’re missing. I need to tell them.”

Geneva struggled to her feet.

“Who?”

Calectus looked at her, concerned. The [Doctor] looked at the floating Third Mind.

“Even if they gather everything, they’ll never cure her. Or the odds will be remote without it. I need…”

She trailed off as she realized what she needed. The Third Mind slowed in its sedate rotation.

“Can that be arranged?”

The [Doctor] looked up. The Third Mind deliberated with itself.

“There is a non-negative risk. This Mind shall take a poll of the others.”

“Please.”

The Third Mind seemed to regard Geneva.

“You have never met Erin Solstice. You do not know she is of your world, only suspect.”

Geneva Scala, the [Telepath], felt the force of the Mind’s intelligence. But she pushed back.

“I owe her a debt. So do Selphids, and all those who might have died of the Yellow Rivers disease. If not even that—she is a patient. If they succeed, it will prove I am right. For these reasons—please ask the others and tell them it is necessary.”

The Selphid composite listened to her argument much like an analytical computer, weighing the weight of each. Not like the Second Mind at all. But, eventually, it thought at her.

“We will see.”

——

Ryoka Griffin sat outside, next to Ser Tubeliges’ grave, in the manor of House Lucifen. She knew the other [Knights] were about, but she didn’t talk to them.

Visophecin had brought her back for the rest of her visit after her meeting with Rhisveri, and the morning was bright and cheery, and the Agelum were amazing hosts.

Yet she lacked the daring, the sense of needing to win over immortals after yesterday. Nor would the visit be extended; the Singer of Terandria was here, and everyone wanted to go to the capital.

Even some of the Lucifen and Agelum, though the latter would most likely be denied. However, they were arguing.

It amused Ryoka, vaguely, even in her current state, to see how Paxere was arguing with Azemith and Igolze. The three stood together under the shadow of an aspen tree, and Ryoka thought the shadows seemed to move slightly off with the figures in the shade.

The faint glow of red across their eyes made her notice the slight movement along the ground. Oh. The shadows had tails.

The people just looked like well-dressed business-elites. Paxere was…what? Visophecin had described Azemith as Paxere’s guardian—which perhaps implied mother.

But none of them used that term. And, indeed, Paxere was angrily pointing to the Agelum, who were pestering Visophecin despite his best efforts to leave; one had a hold on his arm and he could not break free.

“She is a cultural phenomenon. Politically important—we have a file on her. As House Shoel, I could represent us to her. Besides which, her music is a significant force of her time, and artistic.”

“Vexatious. It is not proper music, and it abrades the hearing. I do not see your point. Moreover, you are still not adept enough to navigate even the Court of Masks. You needle when you could employ tact.”

Azemith retorted. Paxere’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Perhaps I do not employ tact when a needle is most direct. Especially around the quality of opponent found in closest company.”

Igolze chuckled, which earned him a narrow stare from Azemith. She and Paxere drew closer, smiling dangerously. Azemith’s fingers scintillated in the air, her painted nails flickering.

“That is a very bold claim. Need I remind you how young you are? Or shall I expect an apology?”

“Need I repeat it several times? Your hearing is clearly as deficient as your regard for the Singer of Terandria is.”

The two never blinked, and it was like if Ryoka had made the terrible, just completely wrong-headed decision of having a child and the two of them went at it.

On the other hand, it was objectively hilarious, especially as Igolze made an off-handed comment to deflect the tension. Language, setting, and identity of the two Lucifen aside, it sounded to Ryoka like the parents not getting the newest music and the daughter exasperated with the people who just didn’t understand.

“Funny. Some things never change. You know, I really thought I could do it this time. But I failed. I just keep going around like this.”

Ryoka Griffin spoke to the air. At first, the distant [Knight], Dame Chorisa, thought Ryoka was speaking to her, but her words weren’t comprehensible from so far away, and she wasn’t looking at Chorisa.

The Wind Runner sighed.

“I tried. Then Rhisveri just—twisted—my best plans. I wish I could just do something, take the victory, like saving Hethon and Sammial, and just quit. But I can’t. There’s always something else. If she hadn’t gotten hurt…maybe I’d be running from Tyrion Veltras giving me flowers or something. I wish that was my problem.”

She didn’t really expect a reply, though it wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that happened all week. Ryoka looked up again.

“It must be a simple life. A grand one. You save one girl from drowning, and you get a knighthood and food for the rest of your life. I envy you.”

The visage of Ser Tubeliges didn’t answer her. But the noble Sariant Lamb’s statue was a kind of inspiration. Look upon me, and know true happiness. Am I not the valorous lamb, who hath achieved both morality and the limits of hedonistic bliss?

Ryoka was just guessing. She stared as an actual Sariant Lamb mewled its way across the manor, looking for someone to pamper it. They were funny creatures, too. For instance, this one was searching for a loving pair of hands to feed, bathe, and comb its fur. It took one look at Paxere and the Lucifen and decided Ryoka was the most generous soul in existence.

A lamb actually did a little wiggle of its body as it trotted up to Ryoka. This Sariant Lamb had a pendant—not a collar, a pendant—and it had learned to do an approximation of a shy smile.

Ryoka glanced at the statue, at the Sariant Lamb, and flapped her hands.

“Shoo. Shoo. I’m not buying it, and you’re not a [Knight]. Come back when you are.”

She was rewarded with the Sariant Lamb nosing forwards, making a sweet little whining sound. It nearly ran into Ryoka’s bare foot and recoiled with clear disgust.

“Yeah, you like that? I’ll wipe my feet all over your wool. Back off.”

The lamb trotted back, crying with distress. It peeked at Ryoka as it covered its little face with a hoof—saw she was frowning at it—and the most amazing thing happened.

The Sariant Lamb, whose name according to her gold leaf pendant was Sarathine, realized Ryoka wasn’t going to be a pamperer, and her face changed. Sarathine’s innocent expression turned into a hostile glare, and the lamb made a ‘cheh’ sound and turned. It dug its back hooves into the ground and sprayed Ryoka with some dirt.

“Hey!”

Sarathine trotted off. Ryoka stared at its backside.

“No way. Are they really in control of—damn it. I better not have made an enemy of the Sariant Lamb cartel or something. Hey, that wasn’t personal! I’m having a bad day!”

Ryoka didn’t get an answer, but she caught herself and realized she was pleading with a lamb not to hold a grudge. She had low points, but could she go lower?

The answer was always ‘yes’, of course, but Ryoka hung her head with a sigh. That was, until she heard someone cough.

“Excuse me. Pretend I am not here a moment.”

Brimstone—the scent of forgefires.

A shadow leaned across the Wind Runner. Its owner stood against the lee of the statue. Viscount Visophecin adjusted his tie, and Ryoka saw, behind him, a bunch of Agelum casting about.

“Where did he go?”

“Inside? Anyone see Visophecin?”

A squad of wheelchairs and even a floating bed soared off in pursuit. The Lucifen held perfectly still, and Ryoka saw him peek around the statue. Then he relaxed and nodded to her.

“They should not visit the capital. They have a habit of exerting themselves. I fear they would take to the Singer of Terandria too well, and my cousins can be quite diplomatic and subtle—but only when they choose to be.”

“You think they’d dislike the Singer? Or trust her with too much?”

Visophecin sighed. He gave his garments a tug.

“…I fear they would attend her concerts and insist on dancing.”

Ryoka smiled. And she felt a pang for the Agelum. She heaved a sigh, and Visophecin hesitated, before sitting next to her.

“We will expedite our return to the capital. I understand Duke Rhisveri has complicated your efforts to save your friend. That you came to Ailendamus willingly for her sake is…interesting. I will discuss the nature of your theft with Rhisveri himself, as it is off-limits to you.”

Ryoka nodded wordlessly. The Lucifen looked at Ryoka.

“A noble decision, I believe some would call it.”

“What would the Lucifen say about doing everything to save someone’s life?”

The Devil smiled slightly. A bleak expression; not because he was hurt, but because he searched inside for any shred of empathy and found it was gone.

“Foolishness in the extreme. Especially given the odds. Especially for a mortal. House Shoel respects no altruism or friendship outside of our own. But if it was to cure someone else…”

His gaze rose, and he looked at Uzine, rolling about and calling for Visophecin. His odd stare of multi-faceted eyes found Ryoka and he smiled, seeing her, but Visophecin was somehow invisible.

Lots of practice. The Lucifen watched Uzine roll by, and paused.

“Yes. That is different.”

Ryoka nodded. She sat there, tired.

“I feel like a fool. I was so obsessed with what Rhisveri had…not to give it away. But I may have been chasing after the wrong thing the entire time. Everything else, though—nothing has worked.”

Viscount Visophecin saw Ryoka shake her head.

“The Village of the Dead. Oteslia. Even people I have never met. Everyone’s trying something and it doesn’t—work. So I bet everything on this and I might have to walk away.”

“That is wisdom. Better to walk than lose everything.”

“Is that immortal wisdom?”

Ryoka snapped, tired and grumpy. Visophecin didn’t smile.

“No. Observation of how all peoples die. They cling to what they love. It has killed every species in existence. I have not yet found the way out. Perhaps because I do not search.”

Ryoka’s head moved left, and she and the Viscount exchanged a long look. The Lucifen went on, after a moment.

“You may indeed fail, and I would caution you not to risk Rhisveri’s wrath. Yet you have trusted House Shoel with your quest. You have done what few do, and attracted the attention of both Lucifen and Agelum. And with respect to my fair cousins—the Lucifen are the far more difficult of the two to sway.”

“Thanks. I know it is an achievement, but…it’s one of those days. I’m just tired. I could have used an easy win.”

Ryoka stared up at Ser Tubeliges. Visophecin glanced upwards. He stared at the smug Sariant Lamb, and Sarathine, trotting around looking for love from the Agelum, and his eyes burned for one second.

“Four hundred and twelve gold pieces.”

“Hm?”

Ryoka glanced at him. The Devil muttered.

“The price of having the statue sculpted—discounted due to previous works commissioned and a template to draw on. Because Sariant Lambs look alike. Generous overpayment from House Shoel. Rush work, and granite from the Erthine mines. Even so. Four hundred and twelve gold pieces.”

He raised one long, perfectly manicured finger. Ryoka saw Visophecin half-rise and push at Ser Tubeliges’ feet where they met the base of the statue. She saw him press so hard his pale-grey skin turned white with the strain—then heard a faint cracking sound.

The Wind Runner stirred. Visophecin pushed at the other set of legs with his other finger, and there was another crack. He looked at Ryoka, and then, with a slight smile, pushed the statue slightly.

Ser Tubeliges’ statue went over with a whump onto the ground and nearly added Sarathine to the glorious ranks of the hereafter in this cemetery. The Sariant Lamb ran with a scream as she looked up. She stared up, and saw Visophecin and Ryoka glaring at her. The Lucifen pointed a finger, and a miniature arrow of flame passed over the Sariant Lamb’s head.

Sariant Lamb fact: like birds and other species, they void their bowels for increased speed when they flee. Or maybe just Sarathine does when Visophecin nearly blasts her with fire.

Ryoka saw Visophecin smile with genuine pleasure as he watched Sarathine flee. She glanced at the fallen lamb’s statue.

“How much would you call that?”

Visophecin regarded Ser Tubeliges and lowered his foot. He pressed and smashed the face into the flagstones.

“With [Repair] spells, perhaps cheaply. I consider that a four hundred gold reconstruction cost happily paid.”

He calmly kicked the statue into the grass. Ryoka heard a smattering of applause and turned to see Paxere and her two parents applauding Visophecin with great approval. He bowed slightly to them.

“Now, to business. You left so quickly, and the discussion turned to the Singer of Terandria such that I could not ask you more about the incident around Erin Solstice. Will you tell me?”

He turned to Ryoka. The young woman glanced up at him.

“Why? The people who did it are dead. And I…”

She hesitated. Stared at the Sariant Lamb’s defaced statue. Then at Visophecin. Ryoka spoke slowly.

“…Came to Ailendamus to find something to heal her. But nothing short of that has worked. I think they even tried a Potion of Regeneration. There are things she needs. A…an unfreezing spell. An antidote for the poison, and a healing mechanism. Or something more.”

The Lucifen looked down at Ryoka. He raised one eyebrow.

“It seems like an unusual problem and a grievous injury, especially for a Human. Yet, Ryoka Griffin. What is difficult or impossible short of a great relic for mortals is not so in Ailendamus. You stand in House Shoel, where some of the greatest spellcasters in the world gather. Lady Fithea is a magic user from an era where spells were created that used no conventional magic of today. I am Viscount of Ailendamus. Tell me about your friend. I care little for people with no value to me, or outside of Ailendamus.”

He extended a hand as he slowly brought out a dark glove to put on. Ryoka looked at it.

“…But we are allies. Whilst it is not in my nature—I know of more frost spells than any [Mage] of Cenidau or Archmage of Wistram living. I would bet upon that.”

Visophecin’s eyes glinted. Which just went to show how much he knew about betting. Ryoka looked up at him. Then her eyes widened. She rose, taking his hand, and he turned, as if they were dancing under the night sky in the shattered former palace.

The Lucifen and Wind Runner walked forwards, talking, suddenly with the young woman animated. The Viscount curious. Listening, casting a spell.

House Shoel turned as they heard the Wind Runner exclaim. Saw her eyes brighten. They listened—all aside from Gadrea, who paused in horror and stared down as she cried out.

“Ser Tubeliges! What happened to his statue? Did anyone see?”

——

It was a special day. But, you understand, it wasn’t really one day. It was a special day whenever it came to them, and you saw it happening.

“Do you see?”

“A thread?”

“Many threads. Drawing together. Good girl.”

A mother and a daughter sat, having a picnic in a forest, staring at some embroidery. The mother even patted the daughter on the head.

They stared past a swaying Zombie Giant, into the open facade of a castle of dark stone as the undead milled about. Powerful undead—who avoided the Stitch Witch on pure instinct.

A Necromancer sat in a smooth crater of dirt. It was just dirt, but something had scooped the most geometrically precise sphere out of the world. He inhaled—on reflex.

“I am alive. Have I lost any of my Chosen? Report?”

“N-no, Master.”

Ijvani was hiding behind the remains of a pillar. She sounded shaken. A few of the Chosen appeared. A wall had fallen on Venitra. Part of the castle was…

Missing. Not ‘knocked down’ or ‘scattered about’, but more in the vein of ‘disintegrated’. Or dragged into an entirely different plane. Which was why the Witch and her daughter, Maviola, were watching from a distance.

It was probably safe to return now the ritual was complete. Probably. So Belavierr hung back. She saw the Necromancer inhale again.

“Repairs. Ijvani, oversee them. I must—”

His eyes flickered.

“Pisces. Roshal has been left unchecked. Ijvani, see to it.”

The Skeleton [Mage] stared blankly up at the gaping wall and stone structure only standing because of the enchanted stone, not due to any laws of physics.

“Yes, Master?”

Az’kerash was striding towards the stairs when he was intercepted. An odd thing, that. No one got in his way.

Except for the depressed skeleton leaning on a wall, his violet eyes burning low. An anxious Healing Slime circled around him, but he was in a bad way. He had mold on his skull, and he was holding something in his hands.

The Necromancer barely paid attention to the undead after his harrowing battle with magic that threatened even him. He was also checking in on Pisces, so he did what he had done for a century in life: he walked around Toren.

Or tried to. Az’kerash absently realized someone was still in his way, so he spoke and stepped the other way.

“Excuse me.”

Only then did he realize someone was deliberately stepping into his path. The Necromancer refocused on the world around him. Venitra, Ijvani, Bea, Devail, and Wesixa all turned. Venitra’s eyes flashed with outrage.

How dare—

Toren ignored Az’kerash. He reached out, placed a bony hand on the Necromancer’s shoulder. Az’kerash stared at the familiar gesture. Ijvani’s jaw dropped straight off her skull in horror.

Listen, pal. I know you’re busy, but give me a second.

That was the attitude Toren projected. He handed Az’kerash something. The Necromancer took it blankly, and stared down at a young woman’s face.

Fake Erin’s head stared back at him. Or rather, what was left of it after being half-sucked into the void. Toren gave Az’kerash another pat.

See?

“Ah. The puppet. That is…completely fine. I am busy. I will return to—”

The Necromancer paused as Toren handed him something. Venitra was metaphorically frothing at the mouth as Az’kerash took it. It was…

A [Message] scroll. Toren patted him on the shoulder again. He meaningfully took Erin’s head and tossed it over his shoulder. Then he gave the Necromancer two finger guns.

Priorities.

He wandered off, leaving the Necromancer staring at the [Message] scroll. It had a copy of one of the open bounties on a certain cure. Someone had underlined it helpfully and circled it.

Belavierr watched Toren go. She turned to Maviola.

“You see? A thread.”

“He is a funny skeleton. I like him.”

Maviola smiled. Belavierr’s orange, ringed eyes narrowed disapprovingly.

“Do not emulate that one.”

“Yes, mother. Sorry, mother.”

——

It began with a [Message] spell. Or scroll, if you owned one of the artifacts that could auto-project a [Message] chain onto it.

Or an inquiry to the Mage’s Guild to source a particular conversation or open-viewing [Message].

It was actually a rather highly convoluted system that required a centralized location where all the relevant [Messages] were stored. They didn’t just…linger; someone had to write them down.

Highly inefficient, really. You could magically store data, and create an efficient, working system. But why bother to do that when you could pay for countless [Scribes] around the world to do it the hard way?

“Wistram mentality.”

The Grand Magus grumbled and added it to his list of things to fix. Yes, indeed, why bother learning magical data theory when you could just write down every [Message] and charge people to recover it? Some people said it was an economic boon. He, Eldavin, called that an excuse.

He was in a bad mood, so the half-Elf was going at twice the necessary speed as the [High Mage] and [Communication Mages] and [Scriers] in the group desperately cribbed notes.

“It’s very simple. The Walled Cities can do it. This is not even a [Communication] spell in terms of difficulty. You simply connect multiple [Message]-sending mages together. Like so, you see?”

They’d done it for a phone call, but inefficiently. He was showing the others how to do it with about a pound of soot, fifteen grams of magic-infused quartz, powdered, and your left foot in forty seconds.

The magical diagram shimmered as it ‘connected’ a group for this trial run.

“There. Does someone have it?”

“I think—I think I do, Grand Magus! This is extraordinary! Why, every Mage’s Guild could offer linked [Message]-casting—”

“Yes. Exactly. Group chattery, or whatever the Earthers call it. One of you teach the others. I’ll come back and teach you how to encrypt [Messages] later.”

“Encrypt—”

Eldavin pinched at his nose as he walked away. It really was just…infuriating. Gratifying, yes, but the umpteenth time someone goggled at you when you told them it was possible to do something as mundane as the magical equivalent of tying your shoes? It became more depressing than anything else.

He was overworked, understaffed—with intelligent, capable people—and he had been having odd problems health-wise of late. He had too many projects, but the Grand Magus took a moment out of his day between heading to teach [Green Mages] how to properly infuse plants with mana as he realized someone was doing something vaguely interesting.

A conversation he’d been monitoring in his mind suddenly pinged. Rather, the detection spell he’d set up told him someone was adding to a chain of [Message] spells that had gone silent. He put it on his mental notecard to review tonight. Then—the spell chimed in his head again, and then again.

“Hm? That’s odd. What’s…”

——

It began with the Great Sage Etrikah doing what [Sages] did best. Demonstrating the wisdom of her class.

Great Sage Etrikah of Nerrhavia’s Fallen requests the exalted honor of communication with the Eternal Kingdom of Khelt’s Illustrious Mage’s Guild in regards to a bounty and discussion of a cure marked within its listed bounties as of Althine, 12th, something something A.F.

It took about twelve minutes before a reply came, in which time Yvlon Byres was stabbing shrimp as she described Pisces’ anonymous contact. The Great Sage frowned and scribbled as Yisame peeked over her shoulder, and Yvlon broke off her discussion.

“Something?”

“Keep talking. There are formalities I need to get through.”

The Mage’s Guild of Khelt replies as follows to the Great Sage of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, may tyrants rest uneasy. Herewithin lies the documentation of the will of no less than His Exalted Majesty of the Eternal Lands, Sovereign of Khelt as ordained by Khelta the First…

A lengthy copy of the bounty followed. Etrikah rolled her eyes as she wrote back.

The Great Sage of Nerrhavia’s Fallen requests further clarification on said topic, with all available information and attempted cures or progress. I, the GSNF, beseech Khelt humbly with all due praise to his eminence, King Fetohep etc. etc. as it is my intention to join my efforts to Glorious Khelt etc.

There was a pause, as the poor person on the other end had to both decipher what ‘GSNF’ meant and wonder if the Exalted Kingdom of Khelt was being slighted, pranked, or so on.

To the Great Sage of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, in regards to your query. Such information is classified in partial relation to Khelt, but the Mage’s Guild will forward an information-sharing request to Oteslia for all pertinent—

GSNF: I don’t have time for that. Kindly inform His Majesty or whomever is leading this project I am willing to devote my time and effort to this issue, but I would like to communicate with someone who can speak to me on the issue at hand.

The Mage’s Guild of Exalted Khelt: The persons in question are currently occupied. The Mage’s Guild will petition His Majesty for a response upon the approval of—

GSNF: That will take weeks. Please inform Fetohep of Khelt that Queen Yisame would like to forward this matter to his attention.

The Mage’s Guild of Exalted Khelt: …As His Majesty is preoccupied with the rule of Khelt, the Mage’s Guild will lodge a—

GSNF: Queen Yisame will send His Majesty of Etc. Khelt a request to speak personally within the hour. In which, she may be displeased by the inconvenience of needing to intercede upon a simple request and highlight the issue. Your choice.

TMGEK: Do not do that with great respect. We will immediately contact the palace. Please hold.

G̶S̶F̶N̶ GSNF: Thank you. I would like this information now, with a direct line of [Messages] or speaking stone if one can be arranged.

TMGEK: This may prove difficult. His Majesty has sealed the project—

GSNF: Then please add that to his request. Also, put me in touch with the person in Oteslia who is heading this project.

TMGEK: We are retrieving the name. Your contact is a ‘Lionette Solstice’, who is partially funding the project along with ‘Saliss Oliwing’, and the project’s research and information belongs to a [Researcher] Dromenl of the Institute of Inquiry in—

Wistram: Hello! I see you are conducting a multiple [Message] spell program. Could I interest the participants in a new, multiple-[Message] spell connection at a nominal fee?

The Fox Beastkin woman nearly spilled soup all over her [Message] scroll. Yisame looked up from writing down a scene involving the real ship—which was clearly when Ksmvr came to Zenol’s rescue.

“What’s wrong, Etrikah?”

“I have no clue.”

GSNF: What is this?

TMGEK: There is no [Message] from Wistram inbound. Please hold—

Wistram: We see that Khelt’s Mage’s Guild is conducting multiple [Messages] on the same topic. If one of the recipients would like to trial our new system, please affirm with a ‘YES’. We will take that as a signal for consent and apply a slight surcharge of four silver and two copper for the entire trial period, as this magical system is in testing.

GSNF: Stop reading my private correspondence. This is Nerrhavia Fallen’s business.

Wistram: We apologize for any intrusion. This is a generic message being written into every active conversation with multiple contacts.

GSNF: Rhir’s demon-infested hells it is. I am lodging a formal complaint. Who is the fool on the other end sending this?

TMGEK: Wistram, please desist with sending [Messages]. This is Khelt’s confidential business.

Wistram: This is an automated message. Please disregard any intrusin into your conversations.

GSNF: You misspelled ‘intrusion’. Wistram can automate spells and I can use my tails to fly.

Eldavin: You are an embarrassment to the Academy. Apologies. I am shutting down Wistram’s end of this conversation. Prepare for [Multi-Message Link].

GSNF: That’s an advanced ritual. Wistram can’t just—

And then her [Message] scroll suddenly exploded with text. Etrikah yanked her paws away with an oath as an entire wall of text appeared that had hither-to not been there.

Someone else’s conversation.

Ailendamus: I believe our conversation is being intruded upon.

The Mage’s Guild of Eternal Khelt: That is an unusual claim. Please verify. We are rechecking our connection.

Wistram: Hello! I see you are conducting a multiple [Message] spell program. Could I interest the participants in a new, multiple-[Message] spell connection at a nominal fee?

Ailendamus: I would like to lodge a formal complaint.

The Mage’s Guild of Eternal Khelt: We deeply apologize for—

Etrikah’s page flickered, as more text skimmed across it, replacing the old words. Yisame was now leaning over.

“Etrikah, what is going on?”

“Someone’s using a linking spell for [Messages]. But it shouldn’t be easy. What’s…hold on.”

A few shimmering names engraved themselves at the top of her [Message] scroll. Etrikah eyed them, then saw the blank page begin to cross with words simultaneously. She read what looked like participants in…a group conversation.

Lionette: What happened? I was asking about the availability of Ghost Shrooms when the [Mage] at my guild started panicking. What is this? Is it Wistram?

Ailendamus: I believe this is a multi-[Message] link. Intriguing.

GSNF: Is this Lionette Solstice? Are you related to Erin Solstice?

Ice Squirrel: Whoa.

Ailendamus: Lyon LIONETTE is that you?

Ailendamus: Apologies, there are multiple individuals present. Please disregard.

Lionette: Who is this, please? I am related to Erin Solstice, yes. I am her sister.

GSNF: Erin Solstice has no sister. Who is this truly?

Ice Squirrel: Ailendamus? Is that Ailendamus the nation? What’s a GSNF?

Viscount V: I apologize for the misunderstanding. I am representing Ailendamus in inquiry to the cure regarding an ‘Erin Solstice’ and collaboration between Oteslia and Khelt.

Ice Squirrel: Khelt is trying to cure Erin?

The Mage’s Guild of Eternal Khelt: We are deeply sorry for this misunderstanding and event. It appears the Academy of Wistram is employing a [Message]-altering spell via the magic linking us. We are unsure of how this is occurring and are trying to receive clarification.

Lionette: I would appreciate being taken…off…this spell, please. My information is confidential.

Viscount V: As are my affairs. I intend to lodge a formal complaint with—

SALISS: THIS IS SO INTERESTING.

Ice Squirrel: What.

GSNF (Great Sage of Nerrhavia’s Fallen): Is that Named Adventurer Saliss of Lights?

Lionette: Saliss? What are you doing? Where are you?

Witch A: Hello? I am inquiring about a cure for Erin Solstice. What is this, please? We are calling from the Mage’s Guild of Anazuland. Very confused.

Viscount V: This is entirely chaotic. Exalted Mage’s Guild of Khelt. Upon resending a [Message] spell, I am re-looped into this [Message] chain. Will you send me the requested information at a later date?

The Mage’s Guild of Eternal Khelt: With greatest apologies, we are still contacting Wistram for a formal explanation.

Lionette: Wait, is everyone inquiring into a cure for Erin?

Ice Squirrel: Yes, it’s me, Lionette.

Viscount V: Yes.

GSNF: Yes. Wistram is mucking things up. As usual.

SAAAALIIISSSS: TELL ME WHEN THAT’S NOT WISTRAM. HAH.

Witch A: Why is that message appearing in capital letters? What is wrong with the name? What is going on? We are inquiring into a cure, yes.

TMGEK: Please hold, we are working on the issue.

Ice Squirrel: Who? Oh.

Lionette: Who is this now?

The Mage’s Guild of Eternal Khelt: We are shortening our address to TMGEK for clarify.

Lionette: That is clarity?

Fetohep of Khelt: I am exceptionally displeased.

Ice Squirrel: Oh wow.

The Mage’s Guild of Exalted Khelt With Great Apologies to His Exalted Majesty: We are attempting to clarify the situation with—

Fetohep of Khelt: Enough. Desist. I will take this matter over myself. To all those present, I am King of Khelt, who oversees the project in regards to a cure for an individual known as Erin Solstice. Direct such inquiries unto me and—

S.A.L.I.S.S: You’re in charge? Who put you in charge?

Fetohep: Desist in your writing.

Sal-iss: I didn’t put you in charge.

Fetohep: Enough. You speak to the ruler of Exalted Khelt. Deference is required.

Not Saliss: Make me.

Viscount Visophecin of Ailendamus: It is our extreme pleasure to tender our regards to His Majesty of Khelt, regardless of war or the circumstances. To the sand eternal, may Khelt reign.

Great Sage of Nerrhavia’s Fallen: Greetings to Khelt. This is a disaster. Is Wistram just tossing around magic link spells? I don’t need every conversation to be like the Arbitration Council.

Fetohep: I greet you, Viscount Visophecin and Sage Etrikah, to whom I believe I am writing. In regards to this conversation, it is my understanding that Wistram has ignorantly applied its magic to a similar interest. In regards to—

THAT DRAKE WITH THE POTIONS: HEY.

Fetohep: —the cure for Erin Solstice as first attempted by Oteslia. Khelt has funded and taken over.

NAMED ADVENTURER SALISS: HEEEEEY~~

Lionette: Khelt has not taken over any project to my knowledge. I am Lionette, Erin’s cousin. I am attempting to work on a cure. I am exceptionally willing to talk to whomever may have information or aid regarding Erin Solstice.

GSNF: You said you were her sister.

Saliss of Lights: Did you know that the Demonsoul Skunk has a musk that can be smelled over a mile away at peak potency?

Lionette: SALISS. STOP.

Ice Squirrel: That’s Saliss, right? Saliss, it’s me! I’m not alone, though.

Saliss: …Clarabessa?

Ice Squirrel: No.

It was at this point a few things happened.

Viscount Visophecin sat back to pour himself a drink of water and watch while Ryoka stared at the scroll. The Lucifen looked amused and exceptionally interested by turns.

Lyonette du Marquin looked around, saw the naked Drake energetically scribbling at a counter next to hers, and threw an inkwell, which he dodged.

Half the [Rogues] around Ceria started taking bets on whether this was real.

Sage Etrikah decided she needed a drink as Yisame and Yvlon stared at the parchment.

And then the others began joining in.

——

Grand Magus Eldavin was only partly aware of Wistram trying out their new spell like a child with a wand. He had stopped in his progress back to eject the fool who had caused this trouble with multiple reigning heads of state from the academy’s nearest window because another fool was in his way.

“Grand Magus. I know we have spoken, and you are busy, but I hope you will hear my request.”

“Ah. I believe we have met. Now is not a good time.”

The interloper nodded.

“Nevertheless, Grand Magus. I insist. I hope you will hear me out. I am prepared for your displeasure.”

Eldavin considered ejecting this young man through the nearest window as well, but there was a certain set to his jaw and determination the half-Elf liked. So Eldavin pointed.

“Very well. I respect preparation. Goodbye.”

The giant hand grabbed the Human young man with blonde hair and, before he could move, tossed Ylawes Byres out the window. Eldavin heard a shout as he strode on, followed by the sounds of alarm from outdoors.

The [Knight] caught him halfway to his destination, panting. Eldavin eyed Ylawes’ wet clothing and look of grim determination, and nodded.

“You’ve earned five minutes. Speak.”

The [Knight] inhaled sharply.

“It’s about two things, Grand Magus. My sister is currently captive of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. She is a Gold-rank adventurer. That—and I came to Wistram with my team in the hopes that you could cure someone who’s…not dead, but not alive. Trapped in a stasis spell.”

“What, the kind that ends with a kiss? Do they still do that?”

Eldavin wrinkled his nose. Ylawes shook his head.

“No, Grand Magus. She was injured and frozen. Shot by poisoned crossbow bolts, but she survived and—”

Eldavin held up a finger. The half-Elf stared ahead of him, put a finger to his brow, and looked at Ylawes.

He had the strangest sense of…all three things. And one of his greater goals, that girl who kept getting herself into—

“Erin Solstice. You mean…Erin Solstice.”

Ylawes’ eyes widened. He looked at the Grand Magus. The half-Elf stared at him, then put a finger to his temple.

“Come with me. Find a Scroll of [Messages]. Oh—and if you see an idiot wearing blue robes, toss him out the nearest window. Or just stab him.”

——

It was at this moment when the little Gnoll girl shyly ducked her head in front of the oldest [Shaman] in the Meeting of Tribes. Perhaps the world.

Shaman Perbne, the [Chief Shaman] of the tribe, bowed as the old, old Shaman Theikha of Gaarh Marsh, semi-retired but most venerable of all, peered at Mrsha.

She had graciously come to their location, upon no less than Weatherfur and Ekhtouch’s request. It was highly unusual; even if two famous tribes asked, they should come to her.

However, Theikha was spry enough, and the odd request was curious. Now, she fixed Mrsha with a calm stare that had the nervous girl sitting up straight. Mrsha was no stranger to important people, but this old Gnoll woman reminded her of her [Shaman].

And…Mrsha needed her help.

“Shaman Theikha. I thank you greatly for coming. The circumstances are…odd. Such that we must trouble you. However, the long and short of it is that Silverfang and four other tribes ask that you give us your great wisdom in divining a cure for a deathly-ill Human. A great friend of Gnolls. This child has come so far and hopes you will help us.”

“Ah. I see.”

Theikha glanced at Mrsha, and the Gnoll shyly waved. An over-nervous Gnoll woman interrupted.

“Honored Theikha, I am Krshia Silverfang. This is Mri, and she is very shy, but wished to see you. May I offer you food, refreshment? Anything else?”

They had all of that placed in front of Theikha, but Krshia and Chieftain Torishi Weatherfur and Akrisa were all here. So were Gire, Shaman Cetrule, even Satar as a young [Shaman], and two of Weatherfur’s [Shamans].

Not just because necessity demanded honoring Theikha, but because they wanted to meet one of the oldest [Shamans] themselves. The old Gnoll looked at Mrsha again and nodded to Krshia.

“Let us hear your plea. We can do no less for brave Silverfang, who has unveiled dark truths to us in these times. Do you have details?”

“I do, and a first-hand account, Honored Theikha. There are many factors…a friend is in Oteslia, seeking a cure, and we are retrieving their work. There is an [Alchemist]—but I get ahead of myself, forgive me.”

Krshia stuttered with nervousness, but Theikha smiled and she relaxed a bit. Mrsha edged backwards towards the opening of the tent, where someone was poring over an artifact.

“Well? Can she help?”

Rose whispered to Mrsha. The Gnoll girl hesitated, but Gire shook her head.

“They’re explaining the situation. Where’s the details about the injury?”

She hugged Mrsha as the Gnoll girl came out. Tkrn, even Tesy and Vetn, were all huddled around the tent’s opening, but kept fleeing every time Akrisa turned to glower. An annoyed Gnoll with golden fur was growling to herself.

“I’m trying to get it! Dead gods, don’t any of you believe in prep-work?”

“What’s wrong? Doesn’t the Mage’s Guild in Oteslia have it?”

Qwera, the Golden Gnoll of Izril stared down at her [Message] Scroll as Mrsha peeked over her shoulder. So did a Human woman, a [Merchant], Ysara Byres, with her brows raised. Qwera shook her head.

“You will not believe this…”

——

Lyonette du Marquin was frozen. Saliss was half-eying Wilovan, who had his fist slightly raised. The calm Gentleman Caller looked like even his patience was fraying.

But they were all looking down at the message scroll. Because this?

Lyonette’s lips moved. There was only one effect she had ever known that could cause this. Her hands were shaking.

Wall Lord Ilvriss: Hello. Hello, is there an expert on frost magic in this ‘discussion room’? I am prepared to financially back any project with a verifiable cure. Payment on successful delivery.

Fetohep of Khelt: I am Fetohep of Khelt. No payment is necessary. One shall not want for fulfillment as Khelt is my witness.

Wall Lord Ilvriss: Is this…Fetohep of Khelt, Ruler of Khelt, the nation?

Fetohep of Khelt: No less.

Golden Gnoll: Buttered goat testicles, is this real?

Fetohep: I’m Fetohep and I hate undead. Bleh.

Lionette: Dead gods. I am so sorry. I apologize without reserve—that is Saliss again.

Viscount Visophecin: It becomes clear that fraud is an issue. This system proposed by Wistram reveals more faults than benefits.

GSNF: True, but we are communicating multi-way. That’s something only a few groups like the Walled Cities can manage.

Wall Lord Ilvriss: I can verify this. Although the Walled Cities’ networks are encrypted. I believe this is an unsecured spell?

Fetohep: My sendings are secure. I cannot vouch for individuals elsewhere. Nor do I lack for such means.

Witch A: We’re just a Mage’s Guild in Anazuland. Hello! Please don’t spy on us, Wistram. :<

Saliss: Did that Witch just draw a sad face? This is amazing.

Anonymous Spellcaster A: I also would find the intrusion into my personal life discouraging. Good evening. This is an intriguing event.

Saliss: Who this.

Alchemist I: Salutations to all and sundry. I too, would like to participate in this discussion as an interested party into cures. I am an [Alchemist] of some means.

Ice Squirrel: Oh snap. Is that you?

Alchemist I: Yes.

GSNF: I am getting tired of so many people dropping in. This is chaos. Wistram, what are you doing?

Grand Magus Eldavin: I have reprimanded the offending party. Excuse me. You should see your [Message] scrolls rearranging. If you have a telepathic link, I suggest you retrieve an artifact.

Golden Gnoll: WHAT IS HAPPENING TO MY SCROLL

Grand Magus Eldavin: You now see multiple ‘rooms’ into which each intrigued party may write. This may alleviate the effects of so many parties conversing at once. Once again, I apologize for the issue. I tender my regrets to King Fetohep, Queen Yisame and the Great Sage of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, Viscount Visophecin, Wall Lord Ilvriss, and any other parties.

Anonymous Spellcaster A: Fascinating. You are the redoubtable Grand Magus of which many have spoken? It is an honor to meet with you.

Eldavin: And you are likewise intriguing. May I know your name?

Anonymous Spellcaster A: I am a simple [Mage] who was persuaded to look into Miss Solstice’s case by a mutual friend.

Visophecin looked at Ryoka. His fingers were twitching. Ryoka stared at the complex sigils that Azemith and two more of the Lucifen’s best were drawing. Fithea was frowning at a scrying orb.

“That is a lie. There are a few shielded spells, such as Fetohep of Khelt’s. However, I can pick up the details on most. Locations, even magical signatures.”

“Who is lacking, Visophecin? I count…they cannot be shielding themselves. They cannot! This is the Waning World!”

Azemith was frowning deeply. Visophecin was calmer.

“They can and do. This Grand Magus is a superior spellcaster, as we knew. Witch A…Fetohep of Khelt. And Spellcaster A. No…there is someone else, but they have written nothing. Interesting.”

Ryoka was shaking.

“I think I know who some of them are.”

Visophecin glanced at her.

“In that case…”

Windy Girl: Hello.

Saliss: Hey! You’re alive! Amateur.

Lionette: RYOKA?!

Windy Girl: No? That’s not me.

GSNF: Even I can tell that’s a lie. Hold on, I’m getting more snacks. This is hugely entertaining. Wait…someone’s having a choking fit.

Ice Squirrel: IT’S ME! Ryoka, you’re alive! We’re here!

Windy Girl: Is this ‘C’?

Ice Squirrel: Yep!

Mons: You’re alive!

Ice Squirrel: MONS!?

V: So fascinating. Hello, Eldavin.

Eldavin: Ah, you too? Salutations, V.

That was one chat which was going off the rails, into the water, and possibly through the Kraken’s maw. Another room was going ballistic as well.

Mri: …So unto you, I render the highest compliments of my personage, and a fine greetings to all parties not hither-to presented into this venerable estate of communications.

Fetohep: Your address is well-received, Mri.

Lionette: Is that you, Mri?

Mri: It is, forsooth.

GSNF: I don’t think you know what that word means.

Golden Gnoll: How do you have a message scroll, Mri?

Krshia Silverfang: Hello? Is this Lyonette?

Mri: You are a damned fool, Krshia! A damned fool with little thought in your vacuous head of cotton! There is no Lyonette! There never was a Lyonette!

Krshia: I am sorry…Mri? Mri?

Mri: Oh dear. I must leave posthaste for a moment. I fear I am in some distress, but I shall rally and communicate my thoughts as best able in time.

Lionette: No, don’t go!

Much less the main chat.

Witch A: So how much is a cure worth? I submitted a recipe for the Ethereal-ingredient antidote, but there are not enough ingredients in Anazuland for a full recipe.

Ilvriss: That was you? I will pay you for any items you have at twice their market price.

Fetohep: I will receive those items now. A Courier will go to Anazuland at once.

Witch A: No! No! Please, do not trouble yourselves! We can arrange a Courier…Anazuland is not on many maps. Because we’re so small.

Saliss: Wait, you have ethereal-reagents? Is that their name? That antidote looked like it would work, but I’ve never heard of ethereal reagents. Who’s just walking around tossing out new alchemical ingredients.

Alchemist I: You have never heard of Ethereal-type reagents? My, my. Unexpected of Saliss of Lights. If this is Saliss of Lights.

Saliss: You’re a funny person, Alchemist I. And I suppose you’re good at alchemy?

Alchemist I: I have a passing talent, yes. What is this recipe? I would greatly like to peruse it.

Fetohep: My [Mages] shall copy it over to each one of you directly. They also vouch for its efficacy, although it is not perfect. That may be due to a lack of ingredients for even Exalted Khelt.

Lionette: It takes a reagent? Could one be growing in Oteslia???

Saliss: Probably not. I checked, but then again, it’s a reagent no one knows about.

Alchemist I: Once again, many people know of this ingredient, ‘Saliss’.

Saliss: Go eat your tail. Who knows about ethereal-class ingredients?

Witch A: Anazuland had a few.

Saliss: Well, obviously you did, but that’s one—

Alchemist I: I have used them from time to time. They are rare, but seaborn variants exist.

Saliss: Don’t make things up. I’m talking about real authorities, not [Charlatans].

Anonymous Spellcaster A: I am familiar with ethereal-type substances, though I am not an [Alchemist]. I regret that I do not have many…although there may be a thread that I could obtain? A spool of such material?

Saliss: Now you’re just making stuff up.

Viscount V: I regret to say that I too am familiar with the substance.

Eldavin: Are we discussing ethereal shrooms? Ghost Shrooms? I would like to pay for a few cultures if they can be spared. Wistram is out.

Saliss: I hate you all.

GSNF: This is an astonishing chat full of [Liars] or odd people.

However, perhaps the best chat was the one where it was a bunch of ships passing each other in the night.

Or, in this case, a bunch of mad skateboarders zooming past each other butt-naked while jousting.

Golden Gnoll: Did I hear the Great Sage of Nerrhavia’s Fallen is in this? I would like to talk to her about a trifling matter.

Eldavin: I also, upon business regarding Nerrhavia and a matter of some import.

GSNF: I’m busy. What?

Ice Squirrel: Me too! I have a friend in need. She’s in Nerrhavia. My teammate? She’s falsely imprisoned. Is there someone I could speak to in authority?

GSNF: Hm? Interesting. That’s not really me, but I can pass on messages, I suppose.

Golden Gnoll: Wait, that is what I was going to discuss. I have someone I would like to pay any crimes or bounties on.

GSNF: That’s not how it works.

Eldavin: Would you consider some gesture a fitting act to consider a pardon? Queen Yisame and I did speak briefly; I would very much like to talk to her.

GSNF: Interesting. What would that be about?

Eldavin: A certain young woman in some distress regarding crimes committed or not. I would very much like clarity on the issue.

GSNF: Dead gods, how many young women are committing crimes in this damn nation? I’m not really willing to discuss information that may be confidential and I don’t know anything about. Can someone write a name?

Mri: Often, the greatest act of redemption is the vocalization of an apology. Yet what spirit can endure such humility without losing some of its own self worth? Forgiveness without is a virtue among like-minded spirits of such nobility.

Fetohep: Intriguing sentiments. What class do you possess, Mri?

Mri: I have often been described as a [Druid], but my ambitions soar to [Wizard], [Adventurer] itself, and other passions.

Fetohep: Ah, there is a spirit long lost.

Eldavin: Indeed, indeed, but perhaps not on topic? Excuse me. ‘Offtopic’?

Golden Gnoll: Yvlon Byres is my name. I would like to pay her debts.

Ice Squirrel: Wait, that’s my person too.

GSNF: ████████████████████████████

That was actually more like a huge blotch of ink.

GSNF: Sorry. Did you say that was your ‘teammate’, Ice Squirrel?

Ice Squirrel: Yes…

Eldavin: Yvlon Byres is the person of my concern as well.

Mri: I have occasioned a passing regard for Yvlon Byres, and am willing to put down good coin upon her release for whatever misdemeanors she has incurred.

GSNF: I…may have it on good authority that Yvlon Byres was freed and pardoned of all crimes this morning. I may even be able to put her on this scroll.

Ice Squirrel: WHAT.

Golden Gnoll: That’s incredible. Incredibly suspicious. Can Yvlon give us some information her…sister might recognize?

Eldavin: Her brother is standing next to me.

Ice Squirrel: WHAAAAT

Eldavin: He appears to be having heart failure. One moment.

The best part—or most chaotic—was that they were still coming in. By chance and, increasingly, because Wistram was notifying people who had inquired into this subject before.

Some had no access to [Message] scrolls or willing [Mages]. However, this was a Moment, and it was being at least partly manufactured. By [Mages] who thought even this gathering was worth a big secret—until their own [Message] scrolls began catching on fire.

Eldavin: Enough peeking. Any links within the academy will be backtraced and burned.

Viscount V: Admirable spellcasting. Is this a new feature Wistram intends to offer, by any chance?

Eldavin: That is the theory, yes. You are familiar with basic message-linking?

Viscount V: Naturally.

GSNF: I assumed Wistram forgot.

Anonymous Spellcaster A: There is much Wistram forgets, with respect.

Eldavin: No offense taken. I am attempting to rectify the magical situation here.

Alchemist I: Very commendable, Grand Magus. If we are ever to meet, I should highly like to sample a vintage from the villages with you.

Eldavin: Intriguing. I may accept. That presupposes I know who you are.

Alchemist I: I believe I would make it a point to seek you out.

GSNF: Not ominous at all.

jort2003: lol

Viscount V: What is that name?

Eldavin: That expression…

GSNF: I assume someone sneezed on the parchment or that’s a word.

Alchemist I: In which dictionary.

jort2003: srry. this is wild.

Eldavin: Correct your spelling at once. Name yourself. Pallass?

jort2003: !!!

Viscount V: Ah, backtracing. I would politely ask you refrain from doing so.

Eldavin: Noted, but I am attempting to understand if this is a literal child or fool.

Mri: One must take the child firmly in hand and feed them a cookie. For how will they not learn if they are not fed?

Joseph Ortega: Sorry. I’m not used to this.

GSNF: Oh, it’s that one. Why am I even surprised at this point?

Alchemist I: Fascinating.

Anonymous Spellcaster A: Beyond fascinating. Hello. I am an incredible fan of your televised performance.

Joseph Ortega: Oh, thanks. This is amazing. Who are you all?

Eldavin: I am Grand Magus Eldavin of Wistram.

Joseph Ortega: ヽ(°〇°)ﾉ

GSNF: He’s doing it again. Have they just…forgotten how to write in Pallass?

Saliss: It would honestly not surprise me. Believe me, sometimes I wonder if they know how to use toilet paper.

Eldavin: HAH.

Magus G: As a representative of Pallass proper, I can assure you, Saliss, that our hygiene is superior to most cities. As you might recall.

Saliss: And here come the [Fun Murderers].

Eldavin: Ah, is this Magus G? Have we met?

Magus G: Salutations, sir. Another achievement, however modest.

Eldavin: Mm. Only in reconstructing what is lost. Much like a [Historian]. But thank you. We must take wine and discuss magic.

Anonymous Spellcaster A: I am humbled. Is this the redoubtable Magus Grimalkin himself? I am a humble spellcaster compared to you all.

Magus Grimalkin, Pallass: You are exceptionally kind.

It was becoming so chaotic that even Fetohep with three [Message] scrolls floating before him was running out of hands. Much less the shouting ghosts behind him. He glared as he wrote.

Fetohep: I, Fetohep of Khelt, greet the following in brevity unbefitting my manner but the state of this hurried conversation—

Lionette: Mri, are you safe?

Mri: Though I confess to peckishness betimes, I have managed my salutary meals of leafed varieties with more wholesome peccadillos of sustenance, thank you. I eagerly await our meeting posthaste.

Lionette: I will come soon. If all is well.

Fetohep: Magus Grimalkin of Pallass, Joseph Ortega, the individuals referring to themselves as ‘Sandquen’, ‘YlawesB’, ‘Alchemist I’—

Krshia: All is very well as it can be. Is all well over there?

Saliss: Hey, someone show respect to Fetohep. He’s writing over there.

RainyEarl: Hello? Hello, can you see this?

Fetohep gave up. He looked around, glared, and then spoke into a scrying orb.

“There is a situation that requires your presence immediately. Return unto me at your quickest spell, Vizir Hecrelunn.”

A snide voice came from the scrying orb, replaced by a face with two glowing pinpoints of crimson light.

“You do not have more ridiculous speeches for me to write? Another army to wipe out as if I were a lap dog? Mind yourself, King of Khelt. You do not order your betters, but beseech.”

Fetohep’s golden flames flashed. He wrote, slowly.

Fetohep: I would like to remind those present upon the nature of this meeting.

GSNF: Yes, yes. But we have a situation and someone is about to stab me with a fork if I don’t—here.

Yvlon: Ice Squirrel?

Ice Squirrel: YV!

YlawesB: Are you well?

Golden Gnoll: It’s Ysara. Yvlon, is that you? Say something you said to me.

Yvlon: Belt over boots?

Ice Squirrel: ??

YlawesB: That’s her.

Golden Gnoll: Maybe…are you alright?

Fetohep: I am copying this message unto these separate rooms. The quarry is the revival of Erin Solstice.

Ice Squirrel: oop

Yvlon: Is something wrong, Ceria?

Ice Squirrel: No, Fetohep.

GSNF: I don’t think he quite understands how this works. I need to look up precedent.

Eldavin: They used to do this—albeit in different formats. I have removed the limitations of speed.

Anonymous Spellcaster A: Truly? It seems old, even for my knowledge of Wistram.

Eldavin: Ah, well, some of us are older than others.

Viscount V: It must be very old.

YlawesB: Are you in need of help, Yvlon? Are you still in prison?

Alchemist I: I don’t recall anything of the nature.

GSNF: Go back to your discussion ‘room’. This is private business.

Mri: Upon my sword, I shall rescue you, Yvlon Byres! If rescue needs be the occasioned, you have my sword.

Joseph Ortega: AND MY AXE.

Windy Girl: Dead gods.

Yvlon: Thank you, Mri? Do I know you?

GSNF: GET OUT

Golden Gnoll: If you need transport, or anything, we can fund it. What’s the situation?

Yvlon: I’m very well set. I have allies in high places. There is some issue, but Prince Zenol, a Gold-rank adventurer, is here and helping me.

Ice Squirrel: Zenol!?!? Great!

YlawesB: That’s wonderful news. I will head out with my team at once to help you.

Golden Gnoll: YLAWES, ENOUGH

Yvlon: No. I am quite well Ylawes, and I will make my way home and recover my team on my own means, thank you.

YlawesB: Apologies…?

Beard Lad: Lad…

Fetohep: I will be overseeing the main discussion, what I believe is now referred to as Room A: Efforts unto a Satisfactory Cure.

Ice Squirrel: Anyone seen Bone Boy? That’s what we’ll call him.

Yvlon: He’s in trouble.

Queen R: Your friend is out of Roshal’s grip. More than that will depend on the future.

GSNF: Who’s this now?

Ice Squirrel: Friend?

Queen R: Friend.

Saliss: Saliss!

Sandquen: Oh, this is wonderful. So many powerful people helping towards one cause! Hello! I’m hoping I can help in some way!

GSNF: Sigh.

Hecrelunn was still arguing via the scrying orb. Fetohep heard voices. Hecrelunn’s, obviously, the Mage’s Guildmistress begging forgiveness, some of his own researchers who were trying to enter the chat, and more.

The living, the undead—

“I will return as I deem fit. Brief me on the situation and I may agree—”

And the dead.

“Fetohep, it is I, Khelta. We cannot read this scroll as it lies too much in the living world. Repeat what is being said to us, verbatim.”

“Ooh! Ooh! Did he say Lyonette’s there? Say hi for me! No, wait. Let’s play it cool.”

“I, His-Xe, have a solution to this conundrum. A verbosity spell to read the words aloud.”

“Well thought, His-Xe. I have always admired your reign.”

“Thank you, Serept. I believe the Vizir could cast it easily. Where is he?”

“Being stubborn again. He was always so. Why is Fetohep not speaking?”

It was the exact same. He thought he had escaped it in part, but it was playing out verbally and on the text. Fetohep spoke.

“Vizir Hecrelunn, you will return to the palace now.”

The sneering Revenant laughed in his face.

“Is this your paltry little display of command? I believe I will—”

Fetohep rose. His voice magnified, and the Guildmistress froze. The [Servants] working in the palace and every citizen within three blocks looked up as a heartstopping voice echoed out like thunder.

“In the name of Khelt Eternal, you will return now. Be silent, ‘Little Brother-King’.”

Hecrelunn faltered. His image in the scrying orb stared at Fetohep, and he made a choking noise. Fetohep slowly sat back in perfect dignity—only ruined by the gales of ghostly laughter in his ears.

No, wait. That made it better. The Vizir began casting a spell. Fetohep was writing when he popped into space outside of the capital proper and began flying in. Fetohep wordlessly tossed him a [Message] scroll.

“We will require a verbosity spell on my scroll, I believe. It is organized into…”

“I see it.”

The [Vizir] quietly cast the spell. He didn’t meet Fetohep’s eyes, and he was silent as he began to write. Fetohep rather thought he liked the Vizir’s new attitude. The words began to echo as he wrote.

Fetohep: With apologies, I introduce the Vizir Hecrelunn.

Windy Girl: Hi.

Vizir Hecrelunn of Khelt Eternal, In Service to Her Majesty, Khelta, Undisputed of His Class, Steward of the Lands Claimed by Undeath: It is my—

Joseph Ortega: yo, is it that guy I saw on the news? this is wild

RainyEarl: ‘yo’ yourself?

Vizir Hecrelunn, The Fire of Khelt’s Wrath, Face of the Limitless Armies of Khelta, Empowered of the Servants of Chandrar: I am the Vizir of Khelt and I will have—

ArchmageV: I am a huge admirer of Kheltian magics from that era. Do you have a full, working spellbook? I would love to compare notes.

Vizir Hecrelunn, Who Will Not Be Interrupted, Sovereign King in Lieu of—

Mri: I too possess some aptitude with magic. We should compare spellbooks.

ArchmageV: Are you a fellow spellcaster?

Anonymous Spellcaster A: I as well. I believe I know you, Archmage Valeterisa? Well met. I am able to cast Tier 5 magics; a handful of spells. It is my singular accomplishment in life.

Eldavin: Respectable, respectable. A Revenant aside from Fetohep of Khelt? Possibly Tier 6-7. I sincerely doubt he can manage a Tier 8 unlinked, but I suppose backup spellcasters are useful.

VizirH: What did you just say?

Eldavin: I am the Grand Magus pledged to restoring Miss Solstice to life, as Windy Girl is aware. It is a compounding issue, but I believe I can do it once my affairs here are done. Which reminds me, Windy Girl—your situation?

Windy Girl: Good?

Eldavin: Where are you?

Windy Girl: You can’t tell?

Anonymous Spellcaster A: Oh my.

Eldavin: It is difficult with so many connections, and I believe I was asked to be private.

Magus G: I am amazed this ritual can hold so many individual links.

Eldavin: Well, in truth, this is a completely different magical system than the one Wistram or the Walled Cities apply. Far more efficient.

VizirH: BE SILENT, MORTALS. I AM SPEAKING. MY MAGIC AND WISDOM FAR SURPASSES ANY PRESENT.

Saliss: Oooh. This is going to be hilarious. You’re new here, aren’t you?

Mri: Thou hast met many foes in your lifetime, Mighty Vizir Hecrelunn of Khelt, but you have not met Mri, the Great and Terrible. Many have known my wrath; few have escaped unscathed.

Lionette: Mri…

True Grit: What are you doing to my academy? This is ridiculous. These days of [Mages] and petty politics have begun again.

Anonymous Spellcaster A: Haven’t they always been petty?

Rhis: Hah! Well said! They have always been petty and pathetic.

It was getting chaotic. Fetohep gave up on that room. The Vizir was so angry his [Message] scroll burst into flames, but the thing about being the immortal king of Khelt was that you had plenty of those.

Fetohep scribbled furiously.

Fetohep: Once again, I convene this to be Room B: Succinct Conversations Unto a Cure. Please focus your attention upon the issue.

Eldavin: Apologies. Frankly, this system needs work. Perhaps an overall moderator?

Saliss: And who’s that, Wistram? Funny how it’s always Wistram, huh?

Fetohep: We are getting off-track. Please remain focused.

Joseph Ortega: It’s off-topic.

The Revenant twitched. Fetohep’s quill paused, but before he could go on, more words appeared.

Windy Girl: Fetohep is right. We’re all here for the same reasons, aren’t we? You might need three rooms, though. Aren’t there three components? Healing, antidote, freezing spell?

Ilvriss: The potion has been taken care of. Healing, I mean. Unless a Potion of Regeneration at about one third dosage is not acceptable…?

Fetohep: Ah, this is commendable. A replacement can be arranged if need be, but I am assured it is effective. I shall ‘set up’ such rooms then and preannounce them.

Windy Girl: Don’t do that. I’ll write it into potions and tag…um, Saliss, Witch A, and Alchemist I. Anyone who wants can jump in. That’s efficient.

Hecrelunn, Vizir: You are insolent, whomsoever you are, before the rulers of Khelt.

Windy Girl: Hey, Hecrelunn. Shut up.

Which was a mistake, or so he felt—until he saw ‘Windy Girl’ disappear from that chat and appear in another room. The furious Hecrelunn followed her in, and their exchange of insults was joined by ‘Mri’, ‘Saliss’, and ‘Beard Lad’.

Impressive. He saw what this person was doing. Meanwhile—a kind of order restored itself. Yet even that was…beyond interesting.

Saliss: Alright, alright. Antidotes. Everyone keeps saying ethereal-type reagents are the way to go, but who has any?

Witch A: I have a few, but not enough to make a full potion out of.

Alchemist I: Or experiment. Sadly, my stocks would also be lacking, but I have the expertise to alter…any standard antidote. Is this some kind of advanced poison? Rotlung? Hetheic Death? Magical-vectors?

Saliss: It’s…a poisonous berry enhanced with some snake venom. Cosqe Stinger is the local term. About Intensity…14 on Relik’s Scale.

Alchemist I: I see…and the issue is? Not that I would trust Saliss of Lights to cure warts.

Witch A: Funny. :)

Saliss: You’re hilarious. Everyone must love you. Listen, I’ve made the cure. Liquid, gas—it’s for a giant ice cube, and that’s why it’s difficult. Understand? Do you need me to write down the exact ingredients?

Alchemist I: You may if you are attempting to alter a potion to interact with frozen flesh. What have you tried?

Saliss: Funny thing. You only get one chance. I think they’re trying the cure on squirrels.

GSNF: Regular squirrels, or is that a euphemism?

Saliss: Regular squirrels. I gave them a simple liquid injection, but ethereal-type potions aside, there’s no good vector.

Viscount V: Have you considered teleporting the liquids into the injuries…?

Saliss: What.

Witch A: That is not how potions work.

Viscount V: Apologies.

Archmage V: I have actually looked into a spell that would simultaneously redivide and redirect such potions like that—but the complexity and variance in each body makes it difficult.

Saliss: What she said. Listen, I don’t have another solution. Frozen flesh. Non-moving blood…

Alchemist I: Seeker liquid.

Saliss: Seeker…

Witch A: So smart. :o

GSNF: Hold on, can anyone actually make seeker liquids anymore? I’m only familiar with hostile liquids.

Alchemist I: I assure you, it’s possible. Seeker liquid antidote combined with a high intensity soak-factor.

Saliss: You’ll poison her with the antidote.

Witch A: Not if you use Skills. [Beneficial Tonic]?

Alchemist I: Exactly. I would also venture a guess that you could trial the ethereal-antidotes by replacing the missing component with a translucence-type reagent. Obviously, you would alter for the actual ingredient, but a sample antidote recipe lacking only for the exact ingredient could be formulated. I am close to my workstation and can attempt it tonight. Someone must, it seems.

Witch A: Brutal. :)

Saliss: I think I know who you are, ‘Alchemist I’. How did you get over here? I wouldn’t feed your ‘antidotes’ to Crelers.

Alchemist I: You couldn’t cure Creler poison.

Witch A: <3 :) :) :)

Alchemist I: Thank you.

Saliss: That’s it. I’m preparing a set of antidotes right now. I’ve created water-soluble liquids and I’m forwarding them to the [Researchers] and we’ll see how good my cures are.

Alchemist I: And I will demonstrate actual progress on my end shortly. Heading to my laboratory now.

GSNF: Dead gods. Sands save me from competing egos. Will someone start writing recipes? I’ll trial both.

Saliss: I’ll write down each successful iteration. You know who I have helping me? Alchemist Xif of Pallass himself.

Alchemist I: …Is that a net benefit?

Saliss: How dare you. Xif is the most hard-working, respected [Alchemist] in Pallass—aside from me. He is a credit to the City of Invention, and you will not slander his good name.

Witch A: Maybe I will make a cure too. I am good with ingredients.

Alchemist I: …That would be helpful, but I believe we have enough expertise on our end to formulate a cure if possible, Miss Witch A.

Saliss: Yeah, what he said.

Witch A: (ಠ_ಠ). I am a [Witch]. I am good at magic and alchemy.

Saliss: Yeah. Sort of in both.

Alchemist I: We are both [Alchemists].

Witch A: (ಠ_ಠ)(ಠ_ಠ)(ಠ_ಠ). I will hex you. I am better. I will make a potion. I have better Skills and levels.

Saliss: Listen to this. Let’s find out. Put your exploding bottle where your mouth is. I’ll have my first entry here in 15 minutes.

Alchemist I: 10.

GSNF: Sigh.

However, it still meant there were two, possibly three [Alchemists] competing. Not even that.

Sandquen: I have two [Alchemists] looking into these cures.

RainyEarl: I commissioned one a month ago.

Wall Lord Ilvriss: I, as well, believe I have at least ten in a research team undergoing trials.

Fetohep: I have eighty-eight. The issue is not the cure itself, but a new reagent or…spell. If anything, I believe the antidote is lesser to a more adept ice spell.

Wall Lord Ilvriss: True. We have had only standard [Mages] researching spells. Is there any capable [Cryomancer] here? Anyone with a passing knowledge of such magic?

Eldavin: You could say that.

Magus G: Perhaps. I also know about the body’s interactions with cold.

Viscount V: I too, am similarly proficient in ice magic.

Ice Squirrel: Me?

Queen R: I as well.

Rhis: Hm…

ArchmageV: I know in excess of three hundred spells, yes.

Anonymous Spellcaster A: I hope to be of some small assistance with you all.

The Vizir’s head rose triumphantly. Fetohep smiled, and he heard the ghosts cheering. He bent over the scroll.

Fetohep: I am prepared to offer a prize for any spell that is most effective, whereupon I introduce ‘Researcher Dromenl’ and ‘Cryomancer Ulea’ who have led the issue. They may communicate more, but the issue as it is presented to me is that the body is damaged when heated unevenly. A superior, elegant magic is required.

Lionette: Thank you all for helping. I and Wall Lord Ilvriss will also contribute in any way if that is an incentive at all, not that I would dare to assume I can add to Khelt’s largesse.

Mri: Yes, thank you. Please help her.

Viscount V: Not to disturb those here, but I must ask: this young woman frozen is alive, is she not?

Lionette: Neither [Detect Life] nor [Detect Death] work on her.

Viscount V: That is not…entirely encouraging. An object would also fail to register on both spells.

Eldavin: I assure you, a dead body would have some residual death magic.

Anonymous Spellcaster A: I would concur with that based on my observations.

Viscount V: Encouraging, then.

Fetohep: Erin Solstice is alive. I assure you of that. If she were here…she would be more concerned with the wellbeing of others. She is alive.

Windy Girl: That sounds exactly like her.

Magus G: How do all of you know her?

Ice Squirrel: Friends of friends or just friends. Let’s not get distracted.

Researcher Dromenl, Oteslia: Yes, hello! I am very gratified by all these experts. Very gratified. I would love to talk about any spells anyone might have an understanding of—we have to teach and cast the spells ourselves, you see, and there are few dedicated [Cryomancers] with ice Skills. Any help would be greatly appreciated—and I also would like to know more details on the live people’s trials, Cryomancer Ulea. Apparently one lived but shortly expired?

Fetohep: Enough. Desist, Researcher Dromenl. Some details are not to be m—

Windy Girl: The WHAT

GSNF: Uh oh.

Alchemist I: May I hear more about this.

Eldavin: I believe this requires an explanation.

Fetohep: Standby.

He did not return to the chat, incidentally. Something about having that read aloud might have caused…

Issues.

Yet here it was. Ice magic. In Fetohep’s absence, the chat room cast around for good spellcasters…and found more than you could shake a dead body at.

Eldavin: I am the most senior [Mage], so I will list five spells which might possibly be of some use: [Iceflesh], [Rune of Warmth]—if applied correctly, of course. Is the rate of warming essential? [Greater Resistance: Cold] for the opposite qualities. [Heated Room]. [Solar Ray: Wide Diffusion]. Each one creates a powerful warming or anti-cold effect.

Researcher Dromenl: We’re aware of all five, but these are all very potent spells…which we cannot cast. At least, [Heated Room], but [Rune of Warmth] would require a Fissival-trained expert, and we were unsure of the efficacy. Can you please elaborate?

Eldavin: Ah, of course. The ‘healing’ aspect of warming the flesh intrigues me. Enough for a Potion of Regeneration to work but avoiding the trauma of the injuries?

Anonymous Spellcaster A: I believe all those spells may fail.

Eldavin: Really? You base this on…?

Magus G: He may be right, with great respect, Grand Magus. [Iceflesh] and [Greater Resistance: Cold] are based on a living target. Which is disqualified in this case. Moreover, simply warming flesh still creates intensive damage.

Eldavin: Ah.

Anonymous Spellcaster A: Significant damage on a low level. Degradation of the flesh.

Eldavin: These were simply the five most accessible spells.

Rhis: Utterly juvenile. Is that the best spellcasting of a Grand Magus of Wistram?

Ryoka Griffin’s head slowly rose. Viscount Visophecin, resting in the moving carriage while the rest of the Lucifen argued, glanced up at her.

Azemith sounded smug as she flicked her fingers, casting a spell.

“Someone’s trying to find out where you are, Ryoka Griffin. They keep trying to locate you. Wistram.”

Ryoka gulped.

“Visophecin. Do you think…?”

“He is an adept spellcaster. He must have noticed the [Message] linking spell.”

They both stared down at the scroll.

Eldavin: I find your tone insulting. I take it that this is Duke Rhisveri of Ailendamus?

Rhis: None other, Grand Magus Eldavin of Wistram.

Eldavin: Well met.

Rhis: Indeed.

Eldavin: And I suppose you know instantaneously which spell will be most efficacious?

Rhis: I would not stoop to mediocre spells. Cast [Blessing of the Winter Warrior] and begin from there.

Archmage V: That is a lost Tier 6 spell!

Rhis: For some.

Eldavin: Quite a bold claim. And you suggest a [Researcher] in Oteslia can cast this spell because…?

Rhis: Do spell scrolls not exist in your understanding of the world?

Eldavin: No more than politeness lacks in yours, apparently. I would not fortify Miss Solstice’s flesh. If I were to skip to advanced spells, I would cast [Room of Paradise], which would, as a byproduct of the spell, instantly remove all ice and cold from her body.

Viscount V: That is quite a…powerful spell.

Anonymous Spellcaster A: Indeed. This is beyond me, greatly. Which spell school is this?

Rhis: Transmutation.

Eldavin: Transmutation.

Rhis: You also lack finesse. [Room of Paradise] simply removes and maintains an environment; the actual removal of said cold and ice is done poorly. I would venture [Inferno Skin] for the most instantaneous change possible.

Eldavin: You forget Miss Solstice is neither animate nor inanimate. Your spell would lack grounding.

Rhis: In the hypothetical situation.

Eldavin: Mhm.

Hecrelunn: You can alter that spell to target inanimate objects. Or do neither of you practice spell theory?

Archmage V: Wait, would you elaborate on that? Which method is this…?

Viscount V: That is an old style of spellcasting.

Eldavin: I am quite aware of that. I wondered if Duke Rhisveri was…?

Rhis: For someone who thinks runecraft on a frozen body wouldn’t take into account her natural magical field and leylines, you are quite thoughtful.

Queen R: This is astonishingly unhelpful, you fools.

Eldavin: Excuse me?

Rhis: Oho.

Hecrelunn: And your name is?

Queen R: I am someone who actually practices ice magic. None of these spells focus on what matters. Which is maintaining the person affected by the spell. Speed is not as essential as keeping them safe. I knew a fellow spellcaster who froze her own flesh, and she was a [Cryomancer].

Anonymous Spellcaster A: I concur with that theory. If you could apply [Greater Resistance: Cold] to the young woman…that is a working theory. If someone could experiment? I might be able to cast it in a weaker version. Hold on.

GSNF: That’s not going to work.

Eldavin: There are quite a lot of unverified claims flying about. Your expertise and classes?

Queen R: Private. I am an expert, however. At least, in this area. Ice Squirrel, you’re silent.

Ice Squirrel: Thinking.

Viscount V: We are trying this.

Ryoka grabbed for Paxere’s arm.

“No, no! Stop!”

“It’s a bunny.”

The squealing rabbit looked terrified as the amused Lucifen girl held a cold hand towards its face. Viscount Visophecin glanced at Ryoka, puzzled.

“Ah, ethics. Paxere, enough.”

“Mortals. This is to help your friend!”

The Lucifen girl sighed—then tossed the rabbit out the rolling carriage. Ryoka pointed and the wind caught the bunny—

Anonymous Spellcaster A: I’ve already trialed this.

Viscount V: Really?

Eldavin: That’s remarkably quick.

Anonymous Spellcaster A: I may know my way around this theory…the problem is that the [Resistance: Cold] spell applied to all of the frozen sample. Including the actual ice, and, I would imagine, clothing…

Magus G: This is true. Damn. Can you re-focus the spell…?

Hecrelunn: In my age, any [Cryomancer] would be able to affect such changes instantly. They have frozen and unfrozen people.

Rhis: Historically? Yes. What you neglect to mention is that such individuals, aside from the highest-leveled [Warriors] or those possessed of great recovery magic, expired in less than a month from the trauma—and only those immediately unfrozen. Those frozen for any period died within days or a week at most.

Hecrelunn: …Perhaps.

Queen R: Listen to me, you don’t need a higher-tier magic, but a specific one. Even something as simple as [Ice’s Caress]—if you could cast it on this person despite them not being alive—combined with [Warming Touch] would work.

Rhis: [Warming Touch]. What are we, children?

Queen R: You are irking me, little man. Stop posturing.

Witch A: So says the girl who can’t even hide her location. XD

Rhis: Hah! True.

Viscount V: I do not know if ‘Queen R’ is fitting. Without identity checks, I am leery of the concept…

Queen R: You are all getting on my nerves. I will remember this. I am among the finest spellcasters here, I have no doubt.

Rhis: What amazingly misplaced confidence.

Eldavin: With respect, my dear, I am the Grand Magus of Wistram.

Queen R: I am not your dear. I am over Level 40 in my magic class and—

Mri: Pshaw! Is that all? Come back when thou art of proper age, child. Have a goat’s milk.

Rhis: Hilarious. It was worth coming here.

Eldavin: Heh.

Witch A: XD XD XD

Queen R: I will remember this. All of you. All of you are upon my list.

Mri: I shake in my boots.

Queen R left the chat, much to the amusement of the others, but in that moment, someone began to write.

Ice Squirrel: I remember freezing the skin off my hand.

Witch A: :O. Painful.

Rhis: Wonderful. Is this an example not to learn from…?

Hecrelunn: Hm.

Ice Squirrel: My master always warned me about that backlash. [Cryomancers] survive cold magic by having natural resistance to cold, don’t they?

Magus G: That is standard theory, yes. Where are you going with this, Ice Squirrel? Glad you’re alive.

Ice Squirrel: Thanks, Testicles.

Rhis: What.

Mri: HAHAHAHA

YlawesB: I get that reference! I think?

Ice Squirrel: However, [Cryomancers] have to cast magic around…other people. Normally we restrict the area of casting or just cast frost protection spells. However, if you do need to thaw flesh…does [Cooling Wind] make sense to anyone?

Eldavin: Hmm!

Archmage V: That is odd. That is a Tier 1 aeromancy-cryomancy spell, more focus on aeromancy, with little efficacious effects. I cannot see why you would mention it.

Ice Squirrel: Something my master once said? I don’t recall. The theory is…well, I can’t quite reach it. Can someone help me out?

Rhis: Interesting.

Anonymous Spellcaster A: I believe I am grasping what she’s talking about.

Eldavin: Oh? I think I understand.

Rhis: Enlighten us and we will check your theory.

Anonymous Spellcaster A: [Cooling Wind] has little use as a spell for…anything. Aside from temperature regulation. However, it is so low-level that it’s closer to Tier 0.

Archmage V: Yes! But it has one interesting feature. It does not generate any cold.

Anonymous Spellcaster A: Precisely. It removes cold from one target to create cold air. Which is why it is not even that cooling…however, on a fundamental level, it’s different from the generation of heat.

Rhis: Of course.

Viscount V: I begin to understand. This is similar to [Void Room] in theory. The removal of something rather than…

Ice Squirrel: Yes! That’s it! She said there was a way to remove cold rather than heating and…hurting the flesh?

Eldavin: Magus G? Your opinion?

Magus G: In theory, removing the cold itself is less traumatizing than heating skin and creating two opposing elements. It would certainly be the smoothest method of thawing Miss Solstice I could imagine—if you could scale that up for a body-wide, seamless induction of heat.

Visophecin V: Ah. Adjust this spell in that manner? Quite possible.

Magus G: …I don’t believe it is that simple. Most spells cannot be altered at a fundamental level.

Eldavin: I believe you may be ‘putting egg on your face’, as the children refer to it, Magus G.

Mri: Children do not say that.

Rhis: It’s beyond possible.

Magus G: I will leave it to experts, then.

Anonymous Spellcaster A: I will test this theory on a rodent or two if I can find one. This…seems plausible, but I would like suggestions as to spells and the methods.

Ice Squirrel: [Frost Vortex] but you pull the cold out and chain the effect to one spot?

Rhis: Inefficient. It could work, but use [Zone of Absolute Chill]. Or [Hidden Spot of Deep Freeze].

Archmage V: Oh! Ambush magic? You walk into it and you die? Do you actually know the spell, or is this an example?

Researcher Dromenl: Er, this is all very helpful, but some of these spells might be beyond our capabilities here. Cryomancer Ulea?

Cryomancer Ulea: No. Absolutely not. How would you use the effects of [Cooling Wind] on another spell?

Rhis: Unbelievable.

Eldavin: I will begin writing up a lesson. Ice Squirrel, do you have any other insights into this?

Ice Squirrel: Not…too much for projecting sheer cold. I have an aura.

Rhis: Of course. Auras. That…could work if someone were there. However, for spells—

Hecrelunn: [Void Air]. Tier 4. Even amateurs can use it.

Ice Squirrel: Oh! Oh!

Anonymous Spellcaster A: Thank you, Vizir. Testing…

Ice Squirrel: Me too! I just need to find something. Uh—I’ve got bugs?

Viscount V: Searching for rats.

Mri: I can get a rat. Not sure about the magic. I am passing glad we are all working together to find a solution so effectively. Let’s all pat ourselves on the back.

It was surreal and strange. This was only one of the conversations happening, but for those reading it, it felt like something was happening.

So many things coming together. So many plans. So many…conversations.

Yvlon: Go to Nerrhavia’s Fallen. I have allies.

Ice Squirrel: So do I. Uh…where’re our boys?

Yvlon: We’ll find them.

YlawesB: Do you need help?

Queen R: They have help.

GSNF: Indeed.

The [Princess] wrote with trembling hands as the Thronebearers shielded her back.

Lionette: I will find you.

Mri: I know.

Krshia: She is here and will be protected. I promise.

RainyEarl: Do you need…help?

Wall Lord Ilvriss: They will have all the help they need.

RainyEarl: Good, but if you need it—call.

Windy Girl: What’s going on now? Do you need assistance?

Viscount V: I represent some power within my kingdom. Is there an issue?

Lionette: I…believe we are not all on the same page.

Not all of it was friendly. Indeed, ‘Rhis’ and ‘Eldavin’ were trading barbs. There were wildcards like Hecrelunn in chat, and rivalries like Witch A and so on.

Someone was trying to find all of them, and there was an invisible magical war going on that half the Lucifen travelling with Visophecin were involved in.

What was more shocking—or so it seemed to Ryoka—was that they found they weren’t the undisputed masters of this chat room, even discounting Rhisveri.

It was all working. Or sort of working. People were discussing spells and saying, ‘this might work’, or ‘this will work.’

But Ryoka and the others had heard them saying that before. These grand hopes could be dashed, or go stale.

The chat rooms moved faster or slower depending on how quickly people wrote. As the others converged on the three main discussions, funding and organization, alchemy, and magic…a new person crept in around the outsides.

Chatting. Moving from room to room, learning, like all the others. But different.

Almost like they were searching for something.

Much like a creature.

A…spider.

Belavierr: Hello. I see that you are looking for something with ethereal qualities. I have a spool of thread to sell. Are you interested?

Saliss: Who is this now? Are we [Weavers] or something? Wait…that is interesting.

Belavierr: I am a salesperson. I have many objects for sale. Alchemy related and otherwise. Hello.

Alchemist I: Is this…a joke?

GSNF: Wait. That name.

Two users disconnected. Saliss left the room too. It was quick. Lightning strikes of realization.

Belavierr: Is someone interested in a spellbook?

RainyEarl: No. No!

Archmage V: Don’t be hasty. Spellbooks are always welcome. What kind are we referring to?

RainyEarl: No. Do not respond to this person.

Magus G: Agreed. Is this real? Grand Magus Eldavin, into this chat now.

Belavierr: I am prepared to make a deal. The means change and are unfamiliar. There are always those that want something.

Golden Gnoll: Who is this?

Wall Lord Ilvriss: I’m not sure. Everyone is leaving. Wait. Wait.

Witch A: You.

Belavierr: Me?

Almost as if the emptying rooms were like actual rooms, squeezing together. Until that name entered the chat.

Belavierr: Hello. I hope I am not interrupting anything. I followed someone here.

GSNF: This is an advisement: do not speak to this individual. Do not mention her name. Do not make any deals. It could be a hoax. If not…

Eldavin: I know that name.

Rhis: I do too…

Viscount V: Ah. I believe this is either a hoax or…the most significant event I can imagine.

Mons: Oh no. No, no, no.

Archmage V: I am hugely interested. Are you truly Belavierr? If so, I would greatly like to talk to you.

Belavierr: What do you have to offer?

Lionette: You? You?

Mri: Don’t talk to her. She’s evil.

Belavierr: Odd. What a strange thing. I know you? I do know you. I do know you. There you are.

YlawesB: What’s going on? My ink just turned red.

Mri: I’m just me. Go away, stinky. Stupid face.

RainyEarl: Stop talking to her. Grand Magus!

Eldavin: I see it. The link isn’t breaking. It’s—

Lionette: Mri, leave, now. Krshia?

Krshia: I have her.

Eldavin: —stuck? I can’t sever the magic.

Rhis: That name.

Windy Girl: You.

Belavierr: I will find you.

Queen R: Who is this?

Ice Squirrel: I don’t know. I don’t like this. That’s not regular magic.

Alchemist I: Leave. I would advise you all to leave.

Anonymous Spellcaster A: Belavierr. You are not welcome here. I would advise you to leave, much less make threats.

Belavierr: I will hunt you down, oath or not. You are my nemesis. I will not harm you. You will wish you were harmed. I see your thread. You. You.

Hecrelunn: Who is this interloper? Why does that name sound familiar, even now? You invoke violence in the presence of Fetohep of Khelt. Begone.

GSNF: Truly, begone. This has gone from amusing to chaos to danger.

Magus G: Your presence is unwanted. By the rule of three, begone.

Belavierr: Where is she? Tell me.

Windy Girl: That is a child. I will not let you harm her. Do not make me invoke my friends. You were warned.

Fetohep: What.

Eldavin: What.

Belavierr: Her battles are not yours. Do not involve yourself.

RainyEarl: You are hunted. Someone, trace her magic. I will send it to the Hunter’s Guild of Terandria.

Belavierr: No one can follow my thread.

Hecrelunn: Begone, [Witch]. Or I will scorch your frail hat with fire. You cannot threaten Khelt.

Eldavin: Agreed. Wistram will not suffer magical interlopers.

Rhis: Nor Ailendamus, one supposes.

Viscount V: Not children. Nor the Spider of Terandria. Begone. You are marked, Belavierr.

Belavierr: I did not come here to offend. This is a personal matter.

Queen R: It becomes personal. Lose yourself, whomever you are.

Archmage V: In solidarity, I suppose. Begone.

Rhis: You do not want me as your enemy. Trouble me not.

Belavierr: Very well.

Then, like a spell was listed, her name disappeared. And the chat went back to normal.

Normal, but shaken. Like a cold hand made of water had doused the excitement.

Like frost.

Reality.

Saliss: Damn. You chased her off. Does no one think about tracing her so we can teleport explosive potions to her?

Alchemist I: You do not wish to attempt that. Not at range. Not with her.

Golden Gnoll: I’m suddenly less positive about this phenomenon.

Eldavin: That will not happen again. This is an aberration.

Wall Lord Ilvriss: I suppose we should discuss future meetings and efforts. This may not all come together perfectly.

GSNF: I doubt this will happen twice. Wistram was pestering everyone to get involved, for ill or worse. I will contribute my time. We made good progress.

Saliss: Progress…I hate that word. It’s slow.

Alchemist I: Sometimes, a project takes aeons. You must know that.

Saliss: It is too slow.

Windy Girl: Yes, it is.

Eldavin: It will not be long now. I will see you, Windy Girl. And you and I will discuss matters later, Rhisveri of Ailendamus.

Rhis: We may just do that indeed.

Acrimony. Different sides, even united across the same purpose. Fetohep sat in his throne, listening to a ghost cry out. Not for herself, but for the dead in her name.

The chat room didn’t end. That wasn’t how it worked. It just grew silent, as no one quite knew what to say, and they were busy. And perhaps they too stared at the blank bit of text, trying to figure out what to say, but not finding the right moment to continue. Wishing someone else had something truly meaningful to say, but they had gone into magic and alchemy and…done all they could.

What else was there? So the page stayed blank. For a while. Until something happened.

Into that day of hope, despair, sadness, and surprise…

Came the last person of all.

Geneva: Am I too late? Is everyone gone?

There was a long silence as fingers reached for quills. Then…a little entry.

Mri: No. Are you here to help Erin too? Can you help? She needs help, please.

Geneva: I think I can. My name is Geneva. I am a [Doctor].

RainyEarl: The Last Light of Baleros.

Geneva: Some call me that. It’s not accurate.

Lionette: You! I tried to contact you, but you were gone.

Geneva: I’m sorry. I have been indisposed. However, I did not forget my promise.

Hecrelunn: [Doctor]? That depraved class still exists? What mad sawbones is this? I doubt, Fetohep, that this is one you wish to court, even in this sorry excuse for an era.

Alchemist I: Ah! Greetings! A fellow practitioner of the craft?

Saliss: Oh, dead gods.

Magus G: No.

Joseph Ortega: No. It’s a [Doctor]. A real…?

Geneva: Hello to all. I’m sorry I’ve been out of contact. As I said, I am a [Doctor]. I have been working on the case of Erin Solstice. I must be brief, as I do not have much time, and I believe there is some issue about the security of these messages?

Eldavin: None at all, and your secrecy is assured, I pledge it upon my magic.

Geneva: Thank you. I will still be as direct as possible. I was the one who first drafted the possibility of a cure for Erin Solstice. However, I am not a professional in this field, and my understanding of cryonics this area is incomplete.

GSNF: Oho.

Viscount V: Indeed.

Geneva: I formulated the cure in three parts. Curing the poison before or after thawing the patient without damaging her body, or doing so in a way that would allow a sufficient healing potion or spell to take over.

Witch A: Yes. But it does not work :(. Not properly. Healing is tricky.

Geneva: It is. Even with medicine and magic, healing someone whose heart is entirely stopped is…the most difficult thing.

Windy Girl: Can it even be done? Restart a completely dead heart?

Lionette: Let her write, please, Windy Girl.

Geneva: I would consider it nearly impossible. There is a difference between a heart with an electrical signal and one…without. Someone who is functionally dead in all respects is not the same as bringing back someone who has suffered a heart attack or drowned, for instance. In those cases, clearing the airways, restoring blood flow, is enough to continue the body’s operation. Not here.

Wall Lord Ilvriss: What is the answer, then? A Selphid?

Geneva: A Selphid can make a body move, but if the person is truly dead, they are only moving a dead body. Perhaps there is some way to move every part of the body, restore blood flow, artificially or with magic. I do not know if I could consider that life.

True Grit: Someone will answer you when that time comes again.

Eldavin: Yes. They will. Please continue, Doctor Geneva. Do you have an answer?

Geneva: Yes, and again, I apologize because I wish to explain this to those working on the cure. There is a way to fill that last part.

Anonymous Spellcaster A: The missing piece.

Viscount V: A piece was missing?

Geneva: It was. To heal Erin Solstice, I am confident of this: it can be done.

Mri: YES!

Fetohep: Hush, child.

Geneva: The process is nearly the same as my rough outline. There are streamlined elements regarding the healing, antidote, and cold spells. I have read the backlog here, and the proposed changes work close to my own solution that is most efficacious in projected trials. I will append my notes. However, one more thing must be present when the cure is administered.

They waited. Geneva Scala wrote swiftly, and they waited.

What? The soul? Something like that?

If it were so simple…that was beyond the [Doctor]’s purview, anyways. So perhaps it was five things, but there was something else. Something simple, which made sense.

Geneva: When you revive Erin Solstice, you will need a particular class.

Lionette: [Priest]? [Priest]!

Windy Girl: wtf

Eldavin: Hm? What’s that?

Geneva: No. Please, let me explain.

Lionette: I’m sorry.

Geneva: When you revive her, it isn’t contingent on a powerful healing spell alone. If she truly is dead, she will die even as the healing is being administered.

Cryomancer Ulea: This is exactly what we have observed. Then what do we need?

Geneva: A [General]. You need a [General]. Or a leader, someone with a Skill that boosts and enables warriors and soldiers to fight beyond their limit.

Windy Girl: !!!

Witch A: Clever.

RainyEarl: Oh.

Eldavin: Of course. Elegant.

Yvlon: I don’t get it. I think I do, but please explain.

Geneva: A [General]. With a Skill that enables someone to survive the shock and trauma of death—hold on for that healing to take place.

Her quill trembled in her hands. Geneva Scala was breathing hard, but that was it. The thing every doctor from her world, every [Healer] wanted.

That thing you couldn’t really account for, and that was the will of the patient. How did you help them fight? Cling to life, start that heart? It was impossible. It depended on them.

On Earth, it did. But here…you could reach out and give them a hand. Now, her quill flew.

Geneva: That’s it. The most powerful Skill you can find.

Viscount V: You are referring to a phenomenon I have seen on the battlefield.

Geneva: Yes. But this will save them, not bring them back. Time. You are buying time. Perhaps even the most grievous injuries can be healed with…time. Another ten seconds. A minute. That’s forever, for us.

Fetohep: My [Healers] and [Mages] believe you are right, Doctor Geneva.

Lionette: It makes sense. It—makes sense.

Joseph Ortega: Is that it? Is that—I mean, it sounds good, but is that it?

Magus G: That is it. That may be everything. It may change a great deal.

Windy Girl: Yes. Is that what we need? I think I know someone who might be able to help.

Lionette: I do too.

RainyEarl: I can find someone to help.

Wall Lord Ilvriss: And I.

Mri: Thank you, Doctor. Thank you.

Geneva: Do not thank me yet. I have played a scenario out many, many times via a Skill. The chance is two in three with the best odds I can give her, the best spells and magic and Skills I can envision.

Fetohep: She will have the best this world can offer.

Mri: Thank you.

Krshia: Thank you, Doctor. We will do this. It can be done. A [Shaman] smiles; she thinks you have found something.

Anonymous Spellcaster A: Something magic alone cannot provide. I agree. She has something. I hope for your success. I will help if I can.

Witch A: Yes. If only you have the right ingredients, the potion will come. Magic? You need a good [Mage]. I know one. But the ingredients are missing.

Eldavin: Can anyone locate these ethereal-type reagents? Wistram can transport them from around the world. Khelt, I am assured, can pay for them. That is what is missing. The rest is here, is it not? [Mage]?

Witch A: Yes.

Windy Girl: Potion?

Wall Lord Ilvriss: Done.

Saliss: So just the antidote.

They lingered there. On that last piece. Geneva Scala read through the chat, but only one person had offered it, and they had banished her for reasons she only partly knew.

A chat full of interested people. Each one who knew or was related to Erin. A few observers, and one very confused adventurer who was just there because she wanted the money.

So someone who had been silent up till now calmly picked up a quill. His eyes had narrowed when he saw the [Doctor]’s name. But he had read it all in silence. Now, he leaned over, and nodded to a pair of crimson eyes. And a wide grin.

That was Fierre, but Chieftain Shaik also smiled.

Tallman: You will get your mushrooms. Alchemist Saliss, expect a delivery into Oteslia with your name on it tomorrow or the day after at the absolute latest. Coordinate with Alchemist I and Witch A regarding the details of the antidote.

Windy Girl: Wha

Tallman: Transport will be needed from Oteslia to Liscor. A Courier can be arranged, which I believe Fetohep of Khelt can provide. Funding for all three can also be paid, I take it? Whereupon all that is needed is a spellcaster competent enough to affect the spell and a high-level [Leader]. Magus G may be able to source multiple spellcasters given Pallass’ proximity to the inn. Please contact Chaldion of Pallass regarding a proper [General] or [Officer].

Fetohep: Who is this?

Tallman: Will Khelt pay a research and production fee for the underlined, as well as transport.

Fetohep: By Khelta’s name, it will be done.

Hecrelunn: Witnessed by the Vizir.

YlawesB: Who is this?

GSNF: You ignorant child. Guess.

Mri: It is you?

Tallman: It’s me. Expect the mushrooms immediately. They’re definitely the ones you want. Three dozen.

RainyEarl: Well done.

Witch A: THAT IS ENOUGH FOR MANY POTIONS. GIVE SOME TO ME. HOW DO YOU HAVE THEM

Alchemist I: Could I also obtain some…?

Saliss: Eat your tail. I’ll make it. Thanks, Tall Guy.

Yvlon: But who is this?

Niers Astoragon kicked the edge of the [Message] scroll and it rolled up. Someone nearly flicked him off the table in return. The Titan looked up at Numbtongue, Garia, Fals, Gothica, Infinitypear…

Everyone. Fierre unrolled her [Message] scroll, but Niers was walking away.

He wasn’t smiling. He stood, with his hands on his hips, looking out at the halted procession of Gnolls.

An army indeed. The Lomost Tribe and the Ghostly Hand tribe. Goblins, Gnolls—and the group from the inn, who had all stopped to read the scroll.

Fierre herself had brought it to his attention. Niers Astoragon inhaled and exhaled. His heart was beating fast, as it always did when he saw everything on the table, or in the air.

He felt it too. But unlike them, the [Grandmaster Strategist] watched. He waited. Until the puzzle fit. Until the moment came to strike. And then…

The [Bard] Hobgoblin looked at Niers. He had strode away, but the Fraerling was so small that he was only to the edge of the table. Numbtongue pointed urgently at the scroll.

“What are you doing?”

“Stop unrolling that scroll and don’t reply. I shielded us via Skills from their magic game of tag, but those are some high-level people in chat.”

“But the cure. You said you’d give them all the mushrooms.”

Chieftain Shaik corrected Garia. She tapped her chest where the white handprint was.

“Our mushrooms. You pay? Very hard to grow.”

Niers raised his brows at her.

“Khelt’s gold. Undead gold. But lots of it. Maybe even artifacts. How does that sound? He is a Revenant, but he keeps his word, even to Goblins.”

The Goblin Chieftain raised her brows and gave him a wicked grin.

“You can take.”

“But the mushrooms. We need to get them to Oteslia…by tomorrow? That’s a long run. I mean, we’re close. Fals, if you and I push it—”

Fierre broke in, waving a hand urgently.

“I can help. I can run almost as fast as Ryoka. What if we took a Wyvern?”

“There’s an army camped around Oteslia. Bad death. Lots-of-arrows death.”

Icecube looked alarmed as Snapjaw patted his leg. Niers just smiled to himself. Numbtongue narrowed his eyes. He put his finger against his thumb, and held it ready to flick.

“You keen on losing that finger, Numbtongue?”

Niers didn’t even look around. The [Bard] narrowed his eyes.

“Funny man. You have a plan.”

The others stopped arguing and looked up. Salkis slapped her forehead.

“Of course he does. That’s the Titan. Am I dreaming? Someone hit me.”

She’d asked that for days straight. Gothica obligingly kicked her in the shin with her boots. The Titan of Baleros just laughed. He stared up at the sky.

“Yes, I do. Do you think I’m a fool? Don’t answer that.”

Bird lowered his hand and Badarrow nudged him, grinning. Niers went on.

“There was a reason I asked for the [Message] scroll at the start and kept my cards close to my chest. You can’t interrupt a good flow. Besides—what could I have done other than be part of it?”

Aside from being part of it? The others looked at him. Niers just smiled.

“Wait. Watch. When they clash and the glory is on the field, the [Strategist] is watching. They don’t lead that final charge or die in the heart of it. They were never there. If they are, it’s because they have to shift the odds themselves. I don’t usually risk it, but I’ve been known to. I looked at this all, learned what I could—took notes for later. But there was only one thing I could do.”

“And?”

Numbtongue demanded. It had been a long watch, heart-wrenching without being able to say anything. Hours of discussion and glorious chaos. Yet the Titan just pulled out his cigar and puffed on it.

There was a story they told across the worlds. It had a lot of different variations, and some revolved around holidays. Others were just that. Stories.

One, for instance, had this fat man who forced reindeer to pull a sleigh and broke into people’s homes and left them ‘gifts’. Another, more recent, they told in only one village.

That was of a young woman who would run through the snow to deliver food and gifts, aid, in the darkest days of the year.

But these were two stories only around one time of the year. Others had tales of the [Messenger] who ran day and night, burning their life out to deliver warnings or medicine.

They had told these stories before, on Earth, this world, and more. They would again. Niers Astoragon stared at the sun setting across the horizon of Izril. Towards the distant ridge of the world, the High Passes.

Somewhere there was Erin Solstice. Or, at least, her body. Beyond the High Passes lay the north—to the west, Baleros, where he needed to be.

To the south lay a little girl who was still in distress. Two species embroiled in a bitter war.

So much ground. So many stakes, and he knew all too well how hard it was to get something anywhere, especially at speed. So Niers didn’t promise to go to Oteslia and break that siege.

He didn’t say he’d be at Liscor to be the one to help Erin Solstice, because he knew how things shook out. When the Titan put his stake in the pot, his finger on the scales—he did it the best way, the only way he knew would work.

“You’re all bright young men and women. But you are children.”

Numbtongue glanced at Ulvama. She motioned. Flick him off that cliff. Niers ignored her. He smoked as he stared across the horizon.

“Here’s a tip from the Titan of Baleros: when you know it’s time to strike, don’t do it too fast. Wait. Make sure you’re on-target. That you know what’ll come after. But then strike. Before you’re too late. I saw this all beginning this morning. Mushrooms. Damned mushrooms. Do you think I’d wait until the end of this to say, ‘well, I’d better get to work’? Idiots. That’s a [Message] scroll.”

Numbtongue saw Fierre go almost cross-eyed as she stared down at the scroll she held. Octavia got it first and clapped her hands as the Vampire girl suddenly began checking it.

“You mean…?”

Fals looked at the Fraerling.

Niers Astoragon whispered.

“Fierre can tell you exactly how I wrote it. But I think—when you need them, call. Call. We have two tribes’ worth of funds here. There may be danger—so what?”

He took the cigar out of his mouth and pointed with it. And now everyone’s heads turned, seeking, finding the thing he was watching, racing across the road. The Titan nodded to himself.

“When you need them—call. No expense spared. No delay. ‘For the Innkeeper of Solstice, come.’ Let neither war nor rain nor monsters slow them. Calling the Couriers of Couriers for a delivery of mercy. Izril’s finest.”

He looked down the road. It could have been anyone. But he’d known it wouldn’t be just anyone. He had sent out the call this morning.

Someone had answered. There the Courier came, streaking across the ground so fast that even the birds looked slow. That sight you saw on the roads, the symbol that had made the Wind Runner famous.

From Izril to Baleros, across Igawiz’s Jet, to deliver a cure. Against the Assassin’s Guild of Izril—if there was something to be proud of in this continent, it was probably them.

Which Courier? Everyone strained to see. Then they saw the Courier.

No…

Couriers? There were two, but it was one. When you heard their name, you might not understand. Each Courier had a title. But the name belonged to neither.

Niers understood. He saw a man, a [Mage], riding a horse as pale as the rays of the night sky, silver and grey. One half of a pair that would never meet again.

Ci. And the man, Salamani. The Mage Runner and one half of the Moonlight Rider. So when they referred to the two now, they called them:

Tritel’s Legacy.

The Courier rode towards Niers Astoragon as he stood there. He lifted a hand, and Bird looked at him and lifted all four of his so Salamani could see. The Antinium waved, and the Courier slowed down. He looked at their faces, Salamani’s haunted more since they had seen him. Yet he slid from the saddle.

“Erin Solstice?”

That was all he said. He looked at the Titan of Baleros and blinked, but Niers Astoragon just nodded. He took the hat from his head.

“Part of the cure, bound for Saliss of Lights in Oteslia, Courier. The Forgotten Wing Company and Khelt back your delivery. Let nothing stand between you and Oteslia.”

He gestured and Salamani stared at the Goblins. He saw the basket one offered him, with an autograph card, and ignored the latter. He reached out for the mushrooms, so translucent they looked like a memory, and hesitated as he went to put them on Ci’s saddle. The horse looked past them all, and Salamani turned.

“This. Is this part of the cure? Or is it something that will help? Is it…?”

Niers Astoragon looked him straight in the eye.

“It’s time.”

Salamani nodded. He almost smiled. Then he leapt into the saddle and rode.

Straight ahead, on a delivery to complete a task from around the world. Many people’s efforts, sacrifice, and hopes. He rode as if there were no army, walls, or obstacles between him and his destination. Nor did he slow.

At last—

It was time.

8.61

[The story is on break until January 15th for Patrons for the annual break and for a very secret project! Check the Author’s Notes to hear about…Gravesong.]

Even a day afterwards, he was chuckling about it all. Not always in pure humor. Wry contemplation and self-introspection would be part of how he’d describe it.

If, of course, he held any counsel with his most inner thoughts. But Grand Magus Eldavin did not, even to his occasional companionship. He did not even think loudly, not here.

For even Wistram decayed was still Wistram. The half-Elf often looked up, in the entrance hall, and remembered, faintly, a glorious institution of magic. So grand that all would pay homage and seek to learn here.

[Archmage], [Queen], Unicorn, even Dragon and Wyrm. Species so rare they no longer existed.

Then his eyes would begin to mist, and he did not know exactly why. For these were times so long ago even he could not have lived them.

Yet he spoke as if he did. Grand Magus Eldavin stood in his lecture class, which had [Mages] and students alike, and spoke. Like a compulsion had a hold over his tongue.

“Once, there were teachers of every kind. Once, Wistram’s professors were not [Mages]. Here! Where I stand, there was no mere half-Elf!”

His audience rustled. Eldavin stood to one side and pointed down.

“Once! You would have learned geomancy—no, earth magic in its purest form, the power of nature itself—not from someone with a class, but from a Dryad themselves! Great [Mages] would beg knowledge from beings with a magic they did not understand, trade favors for the feathers of Phoenixes. This was Wistram as it was. Let those days come again. Or—”

And here a lump entered his throat, so he had to speak quietly.

“—As close as we can come to them.”

Why did he say that? Some [Mages] thought he did it to humble them, to impress his long memory and knowledge of pre-Zelkyr times. Some—the Archmages included—regarded him as nothing more than a threat.

Like a greater scavenger, come to the carrion of Wistram as it is. They surely saw every flaw and weakness of the academy.

Feor did. He had been trying to fix it. After months here, Eldavin gave him that. Wistram’s [Mages] were not incompetent. They knew they were reduced, but the way they solved it was so…so classically Drake-like.

They had a fine teacher. Feor’s method of solving the weakness of Wistram was to try to amass power. To reach a breaching point where his own knowledge, or influence, let him ascend to Wistram’s peak.

Drake-like.

Dragon-like? The half-Elf was so busy. Eldavin was teaching at least six different courses a day, even if they weren’t referred to as such. He’d stop by to educate the communication-branch overseeing the Mage’s Guild about encrypting [Message] spells, pay a visit to Wistram’s gardens, then teach his official class, have a chat with some [High Mages] who wanted refining in their spells, visit his few apprentices…

All to a purpose. Eldavin could spend a half-Elf’s lifetime refining every aspect of Wistram, but he was prioritizing what mattered.

So—communication. Wistram’s finances, for the trees’ sake! Damned things. Why did his people have that expression anyways? Trees. They sprang up, died, and if you kept them around too long you had Dryads acting like they ran the place and hadn’t spent the last thousand years sucking up groundwater.

“Finance is power, Mage Teura. If Wistram Academy offers a real, truly encrypted [Message] service, everyone wants it. That supposes Wistram is trusted. Which is a vessel we have been siphoning coins from…”

Eldavin looked meaningfully at the half-Elf, formerly of Feor’s faction. She nodded, ears drooping with chagrin.

“Yes, Grand Magus. But the solution…?”

The Grand Magus snorted. He was reclining on a sofa, levitating snacks towards him, and she was facing him the same way. A Chandrarian style of relaxing; Eldavin’s head was propped up on one arm. He liked lounging. He could remember doing it all the time. People were too vertical.

“Well, I would normally say lead by example. Impeccable conduct for a decade. Given Wistram’s state and all these [Mages] you’d have to corral? The opposite will work. We make ourselves indispensable. Offer magic no one can match—or, at least, make such magic more convenient. That is how Wistram has survived before. Sometimes by virtue, other times by power alone. I say—power it is.”

She nodded, and he realized he wouldn’t get any arguments or her gainsaying him. It made him a bit sad. She was enamored. Perhaps rightly so, if he was truly the last Grand Magus with magic predating Zelkyr. They had forgotten so much.

Yet he thought of his first real student, even though she’d never shown much interest in magic.

Magnolia Reinhart. And that little brat…no, the original one.

Ressa. Ryoka had come later. She was grown. It seemed so fast, like it always did. Eldavin walked and talked, moving from Teura to Troy Atlas.

“Combat magic. You are a [Sand Mage] and a golem-owner. By rights, I should have you practicing sandstorm spells until you can sleep in the middle of one before I teach you a single arrow spell. [Sand Mages] are good at one thing. And that would be…?”

The young man frowned, his dark brown-red hair shifting slightly as he scratched at it. Dyed hair, Eldavin knew. Not from magic, he just knew a bad dye job when he saw one.

“Using sand, Grand Magus?”

“No. Being aggravating.”

He laughed, but Eldavin launched into an example.

“Sand is not exactly a superior weapon. [Geomancers] will kindly hit you with a giant rock…or engulf someone in the earth. Which, I grant you, is a variation on all elementalist classes. ‘Hit someone with fire. Hit someone with more fire.’ [Pyromancers], pah. No nuance. Higher-level spellcasters do more than just that. I was chatting with a young [Cryomancer] who seemed to understand her class was more than throwing frozen water around…”

Troy nodded obediently, but Eldavin saw him shifting as he sat cross-legged. He noticed these things, so he amended his dissertation.

“…You are a [Sand Mage]. Your entire class has made a history of ‘fighting’ by conjuring a sandstorm and annoying enemy [Mages] to death. Pop out of the sand, shoot an arrow through someone’s head, hide for a week, repeat.”

“I’d…like something a bit more direct, Grand Magus.”

Troy fought to keep his face straight. Eldavin snorted.

“And that’s why you’ll be the first [Sand Mage] to die. No patience. But I concede the point. There’s a simple remedy: we’ll respecialize you along two schools of magic. You’re already halfway towards the other.”

“Which is th…oh. Light magic?”

The young man got a nod. If he hadn’t figured it out, Eldavin would have had to reprimand him.

“Light and sand go together.”

“With glass. Someone told me that sand and light were fairly complementary schools, once.”

Troy began to smile, then it was swept off his face. Eldavin knew that look.

“I take it this person is no longer with us?”

He asked, as kindly as he could. Troy looked up.

“He died. Recently. I’m sorry, Grand Magus.”

“Think nothing of it. We will begin with a light-based spell, then. Light is weaker, but infinitely adaptable. Fast, too. It suits you. Incidentally, where is your Golem?”

“Killing roaches, I think?”

“Ah, very good.”

Another lie. But Eldavin didn’t press Troy Atlas on the distinctly stronger Lifesand Golem he detected via the boy’s mana link.

He didn’t tell the other [Mages] he had more magic then they could even dream of. Yes, he told them long-distance teleportation was not a thing of dreams anymore. Yes, he said you could encrypt magic, learn to levitate, and even bind elementals.

Eldavin didn’t tell them he could see their little magic spells, read rituals like a book. He didn’t tell them how many Tier 7 spells he knew.

He didn’t know himself why he was so reticent—besides a healthy interest in keeping a number of secret advantages hidden, of course.

Something told him they weren’t ready. Sometimes he said things. Thought things.

Dragon-like. I have met Dragons.

The certainty grew over him. Eldavin stood on the balcony of his sumptuous apartments and stared at the bubble of controlled weather around Wistram.

It was raining. He had told the [Mages] that pure, clear skies were idiotic. In fact, it was more impressive thus.

Wistram rained. A squall, fierce and sleeting over the magic towers. Rain steamed away over the Everburning Tower of Rais. It began to freeze around another one; the droplets reversed direction and flew away from a gravitational field.

In other places, they just poured down the magnificent, scattered facade of the Academy of Magic.

A storm in a bubble. For the world outside of Wistram was as calm as could be. Such that the ships coming to Wistram looked into a place that obeyed no rules but those it made.

That was magic.

“I have met Dragons.”

Eldavin said the words out loud after casting six spells to hide his voice. Just so he could hear himself say it.

He knew it was true. It was so true he wanted to shout the words. Yet…

“I cannot remember them. No…”

It was a faint memory. Slipping out of his grasp, even with memory spells. Memory spells existed, as he used them; even Valeterisa had them. Yet when he searched and the drawer in his head opened…

Nothing. As if what it had contained were gone.

Did I excise the memories myself? I must have—or they did. Did I lose some great battle with a nemesis, and am now a cripple? All too likely. Was it the Necromancer? Am I a puppet? No—no. I blasted that fool with fire; he is a skilled [Necromancer], but his adaptation to other schools is weaker.

Who else? The Death of Magic? She’s one of the few mighty spellcasters left in this world. But that’s so improbable I’d be alive. Djinni? Why would I be here? Who else could use such magic I’ve met recently? Regis Reinhart with an artifact? Hah! The only other person with comparable magic is…

“Duke Rhisveri of Ailendamus.”

It was surely him. Eldavin glowered. He had a name for a nemesis. It was not exactly hard to piece together. Well, he had been confounded by the long-range casting.

He had…lost.

He could admit that. Eldavin cast a spell.

“[Conjure Pebble].”

He then kicked the pebble over the balcony. It soared over the edge in a gratifying way. In a less-gratifying way, he heard the crash of pottery.

“My plants!”

“[Greater Invisibility].”

Eldavin thought to himself, invisible and inaudible, carefully ignoring the indignation coming from below. No, he had to have done it to himself.

Rhisveri. He knew who had taken Ryoka Griffin. Silly girl, always getting herself into trouble. She had some kind of Skill for it…except she didn’t. She had no class. He remembered being surprised by it.

But then—

Eldavin had no class.

That was what he didn’t tell anyone. The fact that he had given up levels and Skills. There were benefits, of course, but for the life of him, Eldavin didn’t remember why he’d done it. It had always been this way, and he supposed he’d given up on a class after living most of his life without one. A bit embarrassing to try now, eh?

“So why was I surprised by Ryoka? I remember it. As if…”

This was Eldavin’s problem. He remembered things and they weren’t quite right. As if something was shifted about how he remembered it. He had gaps in his memory. He…

The half-Elf felt a twinge. He touched his chest.

“Ever since Cognita. How hard did she hit me? Truestone. Damned unpredictable.”

He sighed. There was so much he had to do. But he had realized—Eldavin himself was his own biggest riddle to solve.

It would be so much easier not to care. So much easier to simply go back to the High Passes, retreat to his laboratory, and rest.

He could not. Eldavin had beheld Wistram, and it was too sorry to remain this way. Yet—he had also promised Ryoka to try and heal her friend. Valeterisa had inspected Erin Solstice—well, the inn—and been unable to even get through the garden.

He wished he could trust someone with the weight of his responsibilities. He had too many. Not just to Wistram.

It was that wretched girl…Ryoka, this time. She kept getting herself kidnapped. It wasn’t her fault—entirely.

“Duty is a heavy thing. It will be the death of me.”

The half-Elf spoke, and he wasn’t sure why that sounded so right. Only that he had once said it before. He lingered on the balcony. Then he smiled and chuckled again. There was one thing. It seemed he was not the only one trying to put the world right.

“A child. Forsooth.”

Eldavin laughed to himself. There was hope. People, young people, and fairly old, trying to do the right thing.

This world was dark. The Waning World, where the last remnants of great lights before were just flickering. In this last age—where another world interceded with theirs? Eldavin felt it. He clutched at his chest, his beating heart.

Fire. We must have fire. Flame beyond imagining.

He was no fire mage. He disdained the [Pyromancers] of today, what few there were in Wistram. So why did he think that?

A burning inferno, to never go out.

——

“You’ll be named Archmage tomorrow, Grand Magus. We have an announcement planned. Do you have a name?”

Eldavin lay in bed. He blinked absently at Teura.

“Hm? What, my dear?”

“A name? Each Archmage tends to choose theirs. As Archmage Feor is the Archmage of Half-Elves and there is the Archmage of Izril…”

“Oh, my title. That’s often something one is accoladed, Teura. Don’t tell me people seed their own names?”

She didn’t meet his eyes. Eldavin sighed.

“Very well, I can think of something. At least until the will of the people chooses one for me. For better or ill. They can be quite cruel, but it is fair. Do you know what they used to call the Archmage of the Eternal Grasslands?”

“No?”

“The Archmagus of Seeds. It annoyed her terribly.”

She smiled, and Eldavin admired her form under the sheets.

“Do you remember that from your mentor, Archmage Eldavin?”

“Hm? No…no. I’m not sure…”

Eldavin frowned. He looked at Teura and saw her face, as mystified as his.

“I suppose when one gets so old, fact and accounts of history blend together.”

He chuckled, and she did likewise. But uncertainly. Eldavin began to rise, briskly. He did that when…to cover up his weaknesses. He could not show them any. Not now.

——

“Earth.”

There were only two great issues on Eldavin’s mind. Three, counting himself. But two. Four if you counted that young woman, but that was a side project.

Five, six, possibly seven if you included ongoing issues like Rhir, the King of Destruction, the Meeting of Tribes and that debacle around an entire species.

But two main projects he had to tackle. Take them one at a time. Solve one and you compounded your solutions onto the others.

“Yes, Grand Magus?”

The half-Elf snorted impatiently as he sat. Once again, Troy was in attendance, but this was no gathering of [Mages]. He sensed only burgeoning power amidst most of them, yet they were trying. Troy was ahead of all of them by far.

Except for the young man sitting far at the back. Eldavin bookmarked him, but he fixed the young woman in front of him with a steady gaze.

“Do not be coy, Miss Elena. It does not suit you. We are long past dancing around notions of Earth. You have weapons. You have a world without magic and technological marvels to equal magic…in some respects. Now, continue explaining your theory of space travel to me. Or, if you like, we can return to nuclear fission.”

She shifted uncomfortably. The Earthers looked at each other and Eldavin sighed.

“I do not intend to create city-killing weapons. We have enough of those already. Let me rephrase this for you children: I do not need to obtain what I already have. I would rather like to learn something new, even to my mind. Or—how to counter it.”

“Then you don’t trust Earth, Grand Magus?”

That question came from…George. Who raised his hand like this were a class. Eldavin sipped from a drink; they were in one of the rooms that could change to look like anything, and they had a quite lovely—if mundane—beach they were all sitting on.

It relaxed them. Somewhat. Elena was wary, and it was a shame. She was a bright young woman…but she’d been soured on Wistram before he met her. Eldavin eyed her.

It was so tempting to reach into their minds and pluck the answers out. The Archmages had been debating it. But…no.

Never.

Why did he think that? He agreed, wholeheartedly. But why…?

“What was that?”

“Why are you so sure Earth will be the one attacking?”

Eldavin snorted.

“Young man. Your world apparently employs city-destroying weapons on its own species. Which there is only one—humanity. Why would we trust you to be peaceful?”

“No one’s used a nuclear weapon since…”

“…The first times they were employed?”

“Well, why would we trust this world to be peaceful then?”

That jutting chin and question came from another young man. Eldavin forgot the name. He sighed.

“What a question. I would think neither side would trust the other. Rightly so. But as I suspect Wistram would be a priority target for your vaunted nations if any had imperialistic tendencies…I would rather have some safeguards in place. Don’t tell me, by all means. Let us talk about celestial bodies and physics. Simply know that I cannot help you if there is no trust.”

“And how would you help us?”

Elena watched his face. Eldavin smiled.

“We are already trying to find out how you were sent here. I would not keep you from your homes.”

A ripple of excitement through the young people and wariness on others. Some wanted to go home, had seen too much. Eldavin’s heart hurt for the girl who had lost her family to rats. He…meant it when he spoke to them.

“I will send you home, but not blindly. Not with warmongering nations—yes, among both worlds, you brat!”

The young man, Jacques, jumped. Eldavin pointed at him.

“However, one world is comprised entirely of Humans, and it sounds like one world would panic more upon meeting other species. I still don’t entirely believe that one species was there to begin with. Which begs the question what happened to the other ones…regardless, one world seems highly intolerant or, at least, unused to other cultures.”

Which, of course, was the wrong thing to say because the entire discussion turned into an argument on whether ‘Earth was racist’ for the next hour. Eldavin sighed. They missed the point. Everyone was speciesist. It wasn’t your bias, it was how you acted…

He noticed that Troy Atlas was quiet around the others. An outsider within their clique from another world. He was certainly included—but he stood apart.

The reason why was complicated, Eldavin suspected, but one of the factors was simply that Troy had seen battle. The others? Elena had seen something. Others had suffered traumas. Yet when Troy saw Saif and Leon arguing about whether or not Earth could take this world in a battle, magic versus guns and planes and industry…

He looked angry. At the two young men who talked so cavalierly about death on that scale. That was why he was Eldavin’s apprentice. He understood.

If we come to that, we have already failed.

Eldavin ended the session by clapping his hands and dispelling the room. Everyone sat in a blank, tiled room and looked at him as he rose.

“You all bear a weighty secret. I trust you will hold that knowledge tight. You already do with me—and that is well. But you cannot be ransoms of another world forever.”

“We’re guests of each faction of Wistram. That hasn’t changed, Grand Magus. We are learning magic, but that’s a long way from us being proper [Mages].”

Elena pointed out. Eldavin nodded. He swept the room, counting their levels.

“Yes. There are a few of you with adequate levels, but with Wistram’s authority…it is difficult for you to advocate for yourselves. That must be rectified. The strength to stand on one’s own is a foundation of trust. I will take care of it.”

He looked at them. There were three with levels high enough to even be counted.

Troy, Elena to some degree, and…

The young man ducked back. Eldavin saw a mop of untidy hair.

Aaron Vanwell.

Now, why did he avoid Eldavin’s gaze? He had been patently fascinated before, but something had shifted. Well, there were many normal reasons for that.

“How will you do that, Grand Magus?”

Eldavin smiled, a bit patronizingly, at Elena.

“For that, my dear, I hope you will attend my ceremony tomorrow. I have an announcement to make.”

She eyed him, but the others looked interested. Eldavin checked the time.

“[Astral Clock]…ah, I am late. I will see you all tomorrow, then. Excuse me.”

He hurried out of the room with brief farewells, and nearly ran into his next guest.

“Archmage Viltach.”

“Grand Magus. Or is it Archmage?”

Eldavin smiled slightly.

“Not yet. Will you walk with me? I apologize for the delay. Children and their discussions.”

“Naturally.”

The two strode along the corridors, and Eldavin refocused. The Archmages of now were not the powerhouses of magic as before, but they were still people and clever enough.

He did not like them. Verdan Blackwood, Valeterisa, Feor, Viltach, and Nailihuaile—as well as one or two more with the honorary title, who hadn’t even bothered to come to Wistram yet.

They didn’t deserve it. They were [Politicians] before they were [Mages]. Valeterisa was a true scholar of magic, but she was hampered by her environment. She would agree with him; none of them deserved the title. Let them call themselves by their actual classes until they rose to the honor of that class. If it hurt their egos…it was fair.

Yet Eldavin did pretend to smile and talked with Viltach with as much aplomb as he could muster. The other man was certainly…oily.

“I must congratulate you in advance on your advancement. It must be a record.”

“Hardly. There have been [Mages] who took this title within a week. Far more deserving than you or I.”

Viltach hesitated. He nodded, baring his teeth uncertainly.

“…Yes, well. I’m told you have some project you will announce concurrently tomorrow? With your title?”

“The Terras faction has been hard at work, yes. All this magic must go somewhere.”

He had been casting spells every day. His level of spellcasting, which, even without Skills, was potent indeed. When you had so much magic and talent, why wouldn’t you use all but a reserve?

Viltach and the others knew it, too. The Archmage of Terandria felt at his side.

“The…wand you presented me with is a very fine piece of work. Very fine. I’ve admired the craftsmanship time and time again.”

“Have you taken it apart?”

The Archmage hesitated.

“Yes…extraordinary. Self-assembling?”

“Self repairing.”

Viltach had to pull out the carved Joi-marble wand and look at it again. Eldavin had put some hard work into it, much less sourcing proper materials. It was a complex design—a bit too overengineered, but he had done it when Troy told him how much of a craftsman Viltach was.

Joi-marble was a treated magic marble that was actually a terrible conductor for magic. You used it for insulation, so Eldavin had turned the handle into a magicore resin, into which he’d run three ‘channels’.

Channels for a wand were to conduct magic around the core and alter the magical nature. So he’d done a thin line of literal magma, some purified water ensconced with Starshell Aquamarine, and a final line of void-element magicore.

Of course, keeping the magma hot, all three channels in multiple outputs along the wand—such that you could see fiery stone burning along the outside of the Joi-marble alongside water and a ghostly, dark substance that ate away at the light—all needed a barrier. All of it was powered by the source of the magic—in this case, a four-element reaction contained in a tiny dimension-sphere.

Live elements, feeding off each other. Rather like nuclear fission, actually—only with magical elements that the spells conjured into existence to enhance one another. Eldavin had been a bit cheeky; the wand was certainly powerful, and it wouldn’t fade in power…for about seven years.

Real cores that could last forever were hard for him to get, and he had to be a bit thrifty. Eldavin would also admit—it was sort of a bad wand.

Oh, it would certainly boost Viltach’s magic to an extent that Eldavin doubted any other wand would for a [Mage] of his level, short of a ‘Relic’ of this era. However…well, look at the channels.

Purified water? Magma? Void? Of the three, you’d get most use out of the water, and maybe boosting your geomancy-pyromancy spells, but who used void magic exclusively?

It wasn’t designed for Viltach’s own magic, but rather made to impress someone like him with Eldavin’s own abilities.

It had certainly got the Archmage agreeing to back the Terras faction. Viltach had also been very effusive over the gift, which made up for a lot of borrowed ingredients.

“Magnificent work. I don’t think I could create this, even with it as a blueprint.”

The man murmured, not able to conceal the chagrin and envy in his tone. Eldavin was careful not to sound superior.

“It isn’t for experience, I think. I’ve seen your work, and you are an adept craftsman. More patient than I…it’s simply for lack of tools and methodology. With the right practice, you could easily improve it.”

“You believe so?”

Eldavin nodded. They were concealing their conversation as [Mages] watched them walk together.

“This is what I wish to do, Archmage Viltach. Take Wistram to a point where these wands are, if not commonplace, accessible. For purchase! That would mean the truly inaccessible wands are the stuff of Truestone. Or bound light itself.”

“The age of myths.”

Viltach looked up, as if he could see it. Eldavin nodded again.

“That is Terras’ goal as a faction. That, and managing the Earth situation.”

“Improving magic…has long been the claim of Centrists, Libertarians, and most groups.”

Viltach, as head of the Libertarian party, was quick to point this out. Eldavin met his gaze directly.

“It has been. But I am placed to make good on the promise. However, like every faction, Archmage Viltach—Terras has a nuance that intersects with politics. In a sense, ours mirrors your Libertarian faction. Wistram has been the political, yet independent, party too long. The vulture who plays both sides. We must entangle ourselves. It is not a perspective Feor’s Centrists share, nor Verdan Blackwood with his…”

Eldavin snapped his fingers briskly, conjuring mana sparks as he searched for an appropriate word.

“Armored interests?”

Viltach suggested. Eldavin gave him a wry nod.

“Archmage Nailihuaile is reasonable in this regard. So I hope I can count on the Libertarians tomorrow in a snap vote.”

“Regarding your announcement. And that would be…?”

“To be announced tomorrow. So secret that I believe my faction will first hear of it from my lips when I say it.”

Viltach looked at Eldavin. A snap vote on matters Eldavin’s own party hadn’t heard of? And he was asking for Libertarians to vote on it? An unconditional ‘yes’?

Madness. In old Wistram, that was. It would never fly, but, because Eldavin was here, he’d calculated this would work.

If I tell him or my people, word will spread and they’ll jumble themselves up over it. They have to start running and keep running after me.

But he couldn’t swing the Council alone. Eldavin could do what he wanted, in theory, and let them censure him, but he wanted this to drag all of Wistram in.

Nailihuaile, Terras under Eldavin and Valeterisa, and the Libertarian block would have a majority no matter what Feor, Verdan, and the independents wanted.

Of course, it depended on both other Archmages putting all their political capital behind a blind deal. Insanity?

Someone watched Eldavin and Viltach. The man smiled, putting up his hands, just as planned. You could still read his lips…if you tried very hard to pierce the obfuscation spells.

I can’t simply agree to…something something. Eldavin put a hand on Viltach’s shoulder. The watcher hesitated as he saw Eldavin say something. Viltach recoiled as if struck, then stared down at the wand.

“Don’t do it, you fool.”

Viltach looked at Eldavin…and then nodded.

Archmage Feor cursed a blue streak. Eldavin smiled, took Viltach by the hand, and pulled something from his bag of holding. He handed it to Viltach, and the Archmage of Terandria’s eyes locked onto it. Then he strode away.

“…be seeing what happens tomorrow. I assure you, more will be coming.”

Eldavin proceeded ahead, slowing as a [Mage] waved a hand.

“Grand Magus! Grand Magus! Please, can I ask you a question about magic?”

“Shut up, you idiot!”

A nervous gaggle of students watched as Eldavin slowed. The half-Elf sighed, but smiled.

“Yes, young man?”

The nervous Lizardman was holding a spell tome. He was so surprised he nearly fell over, but then was leafing through his spellbook.

“I had a spell I was stuck on. I think you can make it…elastic? But no one says it’s possible. But I said that if anyone would know…”

“Ah, advanced spellcraft. Show me?”

The students all gathered around as Eldavin waved apologetically at Viltach, but the other Archmage had stopped. Eldavin hmmed and checked the student’s question against his spellbook.

They used to do that to Feor. Not that the half-Elf could stop for every question, but he had been known to do that.

Now?

“We had an agreement, Viltach. Whatever he’s up to, you were supposed to refuse. Are you insane?”

Feor appeared and Viltach jumped. He half-hid what looked like hand-written notes from Eldavin. Feor took a mental snapshot, but he didn’t see much.

“Feor! You were watching us?”

“It seems I should have.”

The half-Elven Archmage glared at Viltach. Look at him. He was Archmage Feor, but everyone looked at the real Archmage of half-Elves now.

It stung. Teura’s betrayal stung. His sudden fall from grace stung. Eldavin’s clearly masked scorn stung.

The worst part was that Feor knew Eldavin was a spellcaster who knew magic beyond his own. He looked at Viltach.

“You agreed. Nailihuaile agreed, but she’s a young radical who can’t see beyond her own tail. How much did you sell your vote for? For anything he wants?”

Viltach closed his eyes. He held the sheaf of bound papers in his hand and refused to look Feor in the eye.

“…Multiple-artifact casting.”

“What?”

The Human man opened his eyes and looked Feor straight in his. The silver-haired half-Elf…Viltach knew he dyed his hair. It was the kind of secret the top [Mages] shared about, paid for, so they could know. Viltach looked at Feor, then at the genuinely old being standing there, calmly lecturing students about ‘elasticity’ in spells. Something Viltach and Feor would have happily learned, stood there, if not for their egos.

Because they didn’t know. Because Eldavin was…too powerful. Too old. He knew too much.

He was becoming Wistram. And it reminded Feor of the Drake who had done the same, but with Golems rather than magic theory alone.

Zelkyr.

“This is a manual on how to cast from multiple artifacts. Not just a wand in each hand. This is how I could hold eight staves if I had that many hands, or float them—and use each one to boost my magic, Feor. Without magical interference from each. Boosting—not linking them up for a minor improvement.”

The Archmage’s mouth moved silently.

“That’s…not possible.”

Viltach gave him a sickly grin.

“It wasn’t. It wasn’t—and now it is. Or do you think Eldavin’s lying? I don’t know what Nailihuaile sold her votes for. I don’t particularly care. You might be right. We might be dragged along in Eldavin’s wake, Feor, but you know what I think? You and Verdan missed your chance. If you were truly intelligent, you would have made a deal with Eldavin first.”

He turned on his heel and strode away. Feor looked at Eldavin, who had surely seen him, [Greater Invisibility] or not. The new, upcoming Archmage couldn’t be stopped. Feor turned away, rattled—and almost missed Eldavin as he bent down to take the young Lizardman’s claw.

Eldavin went sprawling. At first, everyone thought he’d tripped and gathered around to help him up—until they saw him clutching his chest, eyes squeezed shut with pain. Feor turned around as Eldavin slowly pulled himself up.

Wait.

——

“How long has it been?”

Eldavin didn’t respond. He grumpily lifted one arm, the muscles so fine against the skin without blemish that it didn’t seem real.

Of course, it was. A [Mage] with the right spells could make their body anything they wanted it to look like. Whatstheirface—the Ullsinoi’s leader—was proof of that.

Eldavin had just gone a step further to keep his body in pristine condition. It certainly impressed the woman inspecting it. She was trying very hard not to salivate.

Selphids. But she prodded him again as he sat, bare to the waist.

“How long, Grand Magus? I have to know. I won’t share the secret. I am in your faction and, besides, this is a [Healer]’s matter. Although I’m not a full one, so if you want me to get ours…”

“A [Mage] is more appropriate, Herbalist Sa’la. I believe there is a magical component, but self-diagnosis is hard. I don’t know how long, exactly. Three months?”

“Hmm. And your heart…hurts? Does it spasm? Does anything set it off?”

“…Not that I can think of.”

She gave him a long look. Eldavin sighed.

“Nostalgia. But that is an older man’s failings.”

“Ah. Well…that doesn’t sound right. Sympathetic pain. But it’s not like someone with a hole in their heart.”

“Perish the thought. I can perform that level of magic, you know. The heart is in perfect condition.”

The Selphid [Mage] frowned.

“Well, why do you need me, then? Alright, alright. Don’t glare. I can at least make you some of the remedies you want. It might simply be stress…although you can usually detect that.”

“I know. It is not. I would even consider you taking a look, but there is nothing…physically…wrong with me. Perhaps some vitality boosters.”

“Maybe it’s too much copious sex?”

The [Herbalist] grinned. Eldavin’s face was stony.

“If that was a serious advisement, I will take it under consideration.”

“It might be. That’s certainly an energetic endeavor. Why don’t you simply…rest? Don’t do the hundred things people say you do every day? No magic, no running about. For a week.”

“Hah!”

Sa’la rolled her eyes.

“You’d be so much easier if you were Telim. Very well—less of everything?”

Eldavin thought it over and gave her a grudging nod.

“Acceptable. It truly didn’t hurt that much aside from—nostalgia.”

“Which isn’t really a medical issue that I know of. I think…we’ll keep an eye on it. Come to me tomorrow, after your big ceremony everyone’s talking about. We’ll check in every day, agreed?”

“Very well. And secretly. Not that I can hide my first visit, but I can at least teach you some magic while we’re here.”

The Selphid woman smiled, but she watched Eldavin as he put his robes back on.

“Not everything is necessarily a give-and-take here, Magus Eldavin. Although, I will happily accept.”

He raised his brows.

“I know that. There are altruistic people in Wistram, your friend, Telim, being one of them, surprisingly.”

“He has a better heart.”

“And a bag of holding full of food. I saw him steal a table of ice cream yesterday.”

Sa’la laughed and shrugged. Eldavin nodded.

“I know Wistram is not entirely mercantile. But you all need to learn. So, I will take your remedies.”

She nodded, and began grinding up fresh ingredients for the first one. Sa’la glanced at Eldavin as he felt at his chest. That had been the most intense pain yet. He couldn’t hide his disturbed look—until he turned to her.

“What was that?”

“And what will we become, Grand Magus? What will we learn to be?”

For everyone could see he had a plan. The half-Elf exhaled slowly. He looked at Sa’la, and thought of his obligations.

He did not have to—but he had promised. That girl. It was always that girl. It always had been.

More trouble? You are always getting in trouble…and who did he think of? Not Ryoka, or Magnolia. Who…

To Rhir. To Hell’s gates. To the end of war or until kingdom crumbles.

The half-Elf’s mismatched gaze turned, and the Selphid stopped as he fixed her with a look that she couldn’t describe. An intensity in it that she had never seen before. Far more than a [Mage] who had lived in the Academy all their days could manage.

Worthy of an [Archmage]. The half-Elf inhaled and spoke.

“A glorious people, Sa’la. Mages of Wistram. What you have always longed to be. The coming days will be a forging fire. Don’t miss tomorrow. I promise you it will be the stuff of Wistram of old.”

——

The fire was banked low when she stepped into the room.

Even so, it was still sweltering.

But everything was wrong. Despite the best efforts, there was a sooty quality to the air. No circle of runes on the ground.

Someone had to make do with a fire based off of charcoal. The kind of thing everyone used, but a terrible flame to some.

So…dirty.

“Ah.”

Now she said it like that, it all made sense. The obsessive, laborious, yet perfect routine. Containment and purity.

Even the tools were no longer as pristine as they had been. Someone kept trying, and they were so clean that another forge would have little fault with them. Only the faintest layer of debris, which only a truly intensive wash could remove, remained.

Filthy. Yet there were no more hands to help. No one to cast magic. No one else here, either.

The owner of this forge, Master Daiton, was upon the walls, weapon in hand. He had left this place to her, because he could.

Nawalishifra. The young woman stood there, her veil and clothing sooty. Burnt, as if she had scorched herself on the fire, set the dress alight. She stood there, resting her weight on the anvil.

That, at least, was a mirror. Obsessively polished, despite the metal and grit that would be hammered onto it. She…never looked up, her head hung. Something clinked as she shifted her feet towards a waiting pile of metal.

“What weapon?”

The visitor said nothing. Nawalishifra, Nawal, swayed. Her cracked lips rasped.

“…Armor? Arrowheads?”

No response. So, slowly, with too much effort, her head rose. Slightly glazed eyes focused.

Teresa Atwood looked like she had known better days. She wore metal scale over leather armor and plated leggings; mismatched but snug. It had saved her life already; there was blood worked into the cloth and dried on the scales.

She had a sword on one side, a single-sided blade. Enchanted; fine work. Nawal had seen it once. It hung in the sheathe, and her hand was on it.

Not for violence, but ready to draw, unconsciously. Teresa Atwood, like her brother, had dirty blonde hair when not dyed. She had been a young woman, eyes amber, gawking at the world around her, even when Nawal had first seen her.

Now? Now, she stood there, balanced unconsciously, breathing slowly, surveying the room, Nawal…a warrior. A soldier in the army of the King of Destruction.

“What order?”

Nawal croaked again. Teresa looked at her.

“None. They’re coming for the walls. The Crown of Thunder is running out of magic.”

Nawal didn’t know what she meant at first. Crown of…?

“The towers. The lightning stopped. I can hear it, even here.”

Teresa nodded shortly. They had been firing off and on for days. At first, the enemy armies had tried to block the lightning coming down, then tried to bait it with smaller forces. Only when they moved in bulk did the lightning strike from one of the towers around Reim, the capital city named after the nation.

Lesser forces had tried to take the walls, but they were cut down by arrows before they could get close. So…Nerrhavia’s Fallen did what it had done this entire war.

It bled.

Hordes of Stitch-folk, the poor Hemp, charged at the walls, looked up, and saw a flash. Yet they kept coming, bleeding the magic dry—or trying to.

“They keep coming. Again and again. They stopped for two days, and I think the [Soldiers] tried to rebel. We saw Cotton, even Silk, leading charges. [Mages]—some of them could block a shot. They had to.”

“Even Hemp will not suffer forever.”

The [Smith] of Clan Tannousin murmured. She stared at the anvil.

“What work?”

Teresa shook her head.

“You asked that. We don’t have any work.”

The young woman, the Human standing at the forge, laughed. She looked up and moved again, around the anvil.

Another clink.

She had chained herself to it.

“There is always work for a [Smith] in war. My father told me that. Nails. Arrowheads. Blades to reforge, armor to mend. What. Work?”

“We have no more wood for arrow shafts. They haven’t reached the walls, not yet. We don’t need more blades. Not yet. Everyone is armed. Even the refugees.”

They had come from across Reim. People settling the new villages, fleeing ahead of Nerrhavia. Or…coming to defend the capital.

Defend the King of Destruction. They came, when his vassals could not. Orthenon. Mars. Takhatres—Gazi, absent on her great mission.

All of them embattled, or so Teres believed. The last she had heard, Mars had challenged an army alone.

Takhatres was fighting in Hellios, protecting the Gnoll tribes and keeping the region from flaring up into outright rebellion. If there were anyone who might come in time, it was Orthenon—but he was far to the north.

And the armies knew the King of Destruction’s vassals would not let him die. So they were coming.

“Venith and Maresar are preparing for the first clash. They have some siege weapons, but they tried trading shots. One of the towers went down; we got the rest. Maresar calls it a good trade.”

Teres walked forwards. There was nowhere to rest, so she leaned against a wall. Nawal stared down at the anvil. Teresa wasn’t sure if she heard, but she kept speaking.

“Venith says they have battering rams and ladders. A few towers, and they’re making more. The towers will recharge. We’ll blow those to bits, so it’ll be ladders. If they take any part of the wall, we’re dead. He thinks they’ll come through the gates before the walls fall, reinforced or not. They want their chariots to come in.”

Nawal said nothing. Teresa went on.

“Right now, it’s the [Soldiers] in the army and the garrison on the walls. The people without combat classes will fight next. Daiton’s on the wall.”

“He should not be. A [Smith] is not meant to wield what they make.”

Nawal muttered. Teres paused, but there was nothing to say to that.

“Soon, they’ll arm whoever is willing to fight. Children. Mothers. Grandfathers. Some of them already have bows. Everyone will fight before they get through. Flos is in the castle.”

“The King of Destruction. Is he breathing?”

“He won’t heal.”

The [Blacksmith] wiped at her mouth. She stared blankly at the soot on her arm and tried to scrub it off. Clan Tannousin had a system. Each member worked to prepare the forge, keep everything as clean as possible.

They had fled when the revelation that the Naq-Alrama metal was flawed had come.

No.

She let them go, and stayed to take the blame.

Teresa Atwood drew her sword. Nawal looked up. She nodded.

“Did he send you?”

The young woman stared at her. She didn’t flinch from the suggestion. Nor was she surprised. She just sighed heavily.

“Don’t be stupid. I came to set you free. You’ve worked enough. They keep telling Reim’s citizens to flee the walls. I don’t recommend it; I don’t trust them. But if you hide, you can surrender. They’re supposed to take prisoners.”

She stepped towards the chains wrapped around the anvil and stopped. Teresa bent down as Nawal shook her head.

“This is where I will die. Clan Tannousin’s shame cannot be repaid, even in blood. But it must be settled.”

She turned to Teres.

“If he asks, tell him I am here. If he asks.”

Teresa Atwood looked up at Nawal. She weighed what she would say next, but then her face firmed.

“…He doesn’t even remember, Nawal. He doesn’t care, not right now. Run.”

The [Smith] flinched.

“We are the reason he had no weapon to wield. All of this is our fault.”

“Not yours. Your father didn’t make the metal perfectly. Everyone told you to keep silent.”

“I am the Master Smith of Clan Tannousin. I should have said so the instant I knew.”

“The King of Destruction wasn’t here. You were waiting to tell him—you couldn’t have known the Djinni were coming.”

Nawal tried to spit, but there was no water left in her mouth.

“I make no excuses. I only ask that he blame…”

“You?”

Teres stood. She kicked the chains and Nawal staggered as the reverberation ran through them. Teres pointed towards the open door.

“They left you! They ran while you stayed. This isn’t your fault, Nawal! You don’t have to do this. Do you think Flos wants you dead? Trey? You—these chains aren’t even locked!”

She pointed down. Nawal glanced down.

“…I couldn’t find one. It doesn’t matter. I am the smith who must forge Naq-Alrama metal. The responsibility was always mine to know it was faulted.”

“Your father made it.”

“He is dead. He was old. It was probably my fault as I made it.”

The young woman, the [Bladeswoman], reached out to shake Nawal—and stopped. She stood there. What good would it do?

“Is that what they told you to say, or is that really what you believe?”

This, of all the things, made Nawal hesitate. The [Smith] avoided Teresa’s look. She looked around the forge.

“…Clan Tannousin is gone. It may never rise again. Only the elders remember the Naq-Alrama steel. Besides, our reputation is tainted. There is no [Smith] with the levels or talent to forge it either.”

“Besides you.”

Nawal smiled as her lips cracked and bled. She licked at them.

“They told me I was born under an unlucky star. I should have been a boy. They told me I was unlucky, because I was talented enough to help my father when no one else could. I stole someone else’s class and levels.”

Teresa pursed her lips and spat.

“You don’t believe that. I know you don’t.”

She waited for a spark, the familiar cutting tongue, anything of Nawal when she had met Trey. But the hunched figure standing over the forge just shook her head.

“My clan’s great knowledge dies with me. How could I not?”

A horn blew in the distance. Teres started and half-raised her sword. Someone was banging on a war gong.

They were coming. In the distance, the terrible clash of metal and distant chanting echoed into the smithy. Teres looked outside and a single horn blew close by. Still, the young woman waited. She was not needed. Not yet. She looked at Nawal, fully sheathed her sword, and spoke.

“I don’t know what star I was born under. Where I come from, my world, we have no portents or signs. Or if we do—they’re silly. They don’t have magic in them. Few people believe in fate.”

Nawal’s head rose slightly.

“Where is that? Trey never…said. Which land?”

“The United Kingdom. London.”

“I don’t know…”

“Another world, Nawal. Not this one.”

The [Smith] looked blankly at Teres. It wasn’t exactly an earth-shaking revelation. She was just…tired. Teres went on after a moment.

“Our father raised us alone. Poor guy. We weren’t rich, but it wasn’t that bad. We weren’t…”

She looked around the forge.

“Special. And we weren’t bad. That was who we were. Twins. Trey and me. Then, we came here. We teleported into the King of Destruction’s throne room and woke him up.”

“Aaah. So that’s how.”

Nawal looked up, a flash of interest entering her eyes. Teres nodded.

“Luck. Chance. Fate. Whatever you want to call it. For a year, we’ve been by his side, or fighting for Reim in some way. Trey hates some of it. I do too, but I fought. I like Orthenon. Trey’s somewhere else. Wistram, I think. But Flos wouldn’t tell me his big plan. If…”

There was a crash. Something—a ram running into a door?—far distant. Both women went still, and Teres listened, but the roar in the background didn’t change. She went on.

“…he’ll be safe. I hope he will be. He takes bigger risks than I do.”

Nawal nodded. She looked at Teres.

“He hated what you did. He did not tell me why. But you two split.”

“Around slavery. Around following Flos.”

Teres nodded. She leaned against the doorframe, staring outwards. Then she turned back to Nawal.

“You can run. But you’re not going to. You’re so guilty about what you did—make the Naq-Alrama steel again. He will forgive you. There is redemption.”

“Not if Reim falls here. Nor if his wrath falls on us when he recovers.”

The [Bladeswoman] sighed. She scratched at her head.

“I didn’t like you that much when you were sharp-tongued and rude, Nawal. But I liked you more than now. Your father made this mess, not you. It’s your choice to take all the blame and sit here forging crap steel.”

“It’s not crap steel.”

The [Smith] muttered. She looked up as Teres kicked at a pebble with a boot.

“It’s far worse than what you can do. I know that. You’re one of the greatest smiths ever, a prodigy. Can’t you try?”

Nawal started laughing. She laughed—then choked on her dry throat. Teres fumbled for a water flask and Nawal drank greedily. She wiped at her mouth, nearly threw up as the water went into an empty stomach, and spoke.

“My class? I was a [Peerless Magic Smith]. Peerless. Peerless! As all Clan Tannousin Smiths must be! Now—now—it lies gone. The blood comes for me. I am disgraced. Even the fates know it.”

Teres inhaled.

“…I need to ask Maresar about that. But—”

She glanced outside. The shouting was getting louder. Nawal looked at Teres, and the two exchanged glances. Looked each other right in the eye, for the first time ever, it felt.

“You could run.”

Teres paused by the doorway. She looked at Nawal.

“What?”

“You could run. Trey asked you. You could not ride with the King of Destruction. You do not know his legend. This is not your death. You could run, or live without that in your hand.”

She pointed at the sword Teres had drawn again. Nawal croaked.

“Why?”

Teresa Atwood stood there, and looked blankly at the sword. She looked at her patched armor, which hid scars, and out towards the fighting on the walls.

Death. A final stand, waiting for a miracle. An officer had climbed up and was laying about him on one of the ladders. A high-level warrior—perhaps higher-level than her. Beyond him lay Nerrhavia’s hordes, countless soldiers for every one of Reim’s.

But she didn’t run, or hide, though she could have, could have not ridden with him. Teresa smiled.

“I didn’t ever say? It’s not very grand, like Trey. I know there are things Flos will do—if he lives. Terribly bad things. Brave and glorious. I believe in him. I like him. But it’s not just because of him.”

Nawalishifra waited. Teres looked outside. Her lips moved.

“…It wasn’t a bad life, back home. But it wasn’t a big one, either. We were one in a crowd of billions. We just were. Trey loves history. He’d read to me about figures from the past. Attila, Churchill, Alexander…you have stories like that in your world, don’t you?”

“Yes. The greatest [Smiths] of old. Heroes of Chandrar.”

Teresa nodded. She looked at Nawal and pointed outside.

“If. If you were there, back then. If you could follow them, for good or ill. Even if you knew how it would end, even if you changed nothing and history never remembered your name? Would you go?”

Nawal looked blankly at Teres. The young woman looked at her sword.

“This. This matters, for good or ill. No matter what, I was there. I couldn’t go back. If we ran away, we’d just be two people in another world. You get one chance, Nawal. I was lucky enough to land here. You weren’t meant to die chained to that anvil.”

She looked at Nawal. When she got no reply, Teresa Atwood strode out of the smithy. She jogged towards the walls, out of the courtyard of the palace.

The fighting was getting worse. Someone was cleaving around, taking down [Soldiers]. Maresar and Venith had command of their walls.

The [Bandit Lord] stood on one of the towers, shouting instructions as she loosed arrows down into the throng, avoiding the hail in return. Venith was engaged with one of the battering rams, hacking the attackers down as his people tore the device apart and dragged the scraps in.

The officer of Nerrhavia’s Fallen was trying to clear the ladders around him. [Soldiers] came up, held back by Reim’s experienced warriors, but there were so many.

All it took was one foothold. Teresa began to shout, then stopped. She looked up, slowed.

The [Lieutenant] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, blade shining crimson against the light. They stared upwards, towards the citadel that dominated the center of the city.

The fighting people of Reim, and even the [Soldiers] of Nerrhavia’s Fallen, looked up. Towards a balcony, where a figure clung to the stone.

Bandages fluttering in the wind. Stained red just by moving. Even his face wasn’t visible, but Teresa saw a flicker of red-gold hair. She felt his presence.

The King of Destruction. He looked down towards the walls and lifted his hand. Teres saw a flicker—

Flos Reimarch threw a javelin from the balcony. It flashed through the air, like a meteor of steel, thrown by the strongest [King] in the world.

The [Lieutenant] tried to dodge—then block. The tip of the javelin struck them in the chest and carried them off the wall. Teresa heard a scream—then a roar from the defenders.

She looked up, and saw the King of Destruction staggering, collapsing. Telltale red spreading across his chest and arms where he’d re-torn muscles. Servants helped him back as Teres took the stairs two at a time.

They threw the ladders back as the disorganized [Soldiers] milled and retreated, screaming as hot oil, rocks, arrows, and alchemical weapons were thrown at them from above. Even sewage water.

Teresa stood there, sword drawn, watching this wave flee and another come towards the walls. She didn’t know what Nawal was doing. Nor how long they could hold.

First [Soldiers]—then the civilians by the countless thousands behind the walls. Or would they let it happen? Teres looked back at children, frightened faces. She looked ahead and saw helmets glinting as arrows forced everyone to take cover. She sheltered against the battlements, and the air flashed as a tower discharged lightning.

Thunder split the sky. Teres dragged herself up as the first ladder slammed against the wall. She stood. Breathing heavily as her heart pounded in her chest. Teres looked around and laughed.

“Ha.”

It came out of her. Raw laughter.

“Ha. Hahaha. I feel alive.”

Then she raised her sword and brought it down.

In the smithy, Nawalishifra listened to the fighting. Her lips moved, cracked, and bled. Like her raw hands. She stared down at the empty anvil.

“I am Tannousin. I was born to make something beautiful. Something worth far more than I. My clan is dying. My father lies dead. I have killed my brother.”

She lifted her hammer and stared at it.

“I would sacrifice everything for this.”

Slowly, Nawalishifra looked around. Vaguely, her mind slowly forming. The chains around her legs dropped away. Food. She needed food. She needed…she swept the raw metal away, the forged ingots. Searching.

It was surely there, even if she had to trade something for it. Slowly, the last smith of Clan Tannousin began her final work.

——

Troy Atlas watched the news. His lips moved.

“It’s time.”

He made some preparations. Wrote a few letters. Went to pay a visit to a fellow student. Emirea, the little girl, and Goelv, the Gazer, both went to ask if Troy wanted to study magic together, but something stopped them as he talked with Carn, who sometimes wrote ‘Calac’ on his homework.

The two young students looked at Troy. Then towards the door to his room.

A four-foot tall figure stood there. Very tall…for what she had been. Much more well-defined. She even had a mithril sword.

Minizi. She was normally tromping about, sometimes with a grisly ‘trophy’, and no one knew quite where she went, but Viltach and Troy worked on her. She was peeking out from behind the door, one of her gemstone eyes visible.

That wasn’t that scary…when she did it at night it was unnerving. But she wasn’t trying to creep anyone out, now.

Rather…the two young students hesitated. Because Minizi was staring at Troy’s back. And…

Shaking. She looked—

Nervous?

Troy Atlas smiled as he took Carn’s hand. The young man shook it and smiled himself. It was rare to see him less than grumpy.

“I’ll see you later.”

“Or not. Best of luck.”

Troy ducked his head.

“Yes.”

The young man turned, and the Lifesand Golem fled into the room before he noticed. Troy wandered back into his room and came out with something.

“Where are you going, Troy?”

“I need to give something to…Elena. I can’t study tonight. I’m going to be busy. Sorry, guys.”

Troy smiled at them. The two students exchanged a look as he walked off.

The [Sand Mage] knocked on Elena’s room. He handed her two things. The first was a letter, with a request to read it later and think about it. The [Beautician] eyed Troy, then nearly dropped the next thing.

“Troy. What is this? Where did you get…? You never said you had one!”

“It’s not mine. I’m leaving it with you all so I don’t lose it. You should…watch what it says. And this. It goes with this. I’ll come back for it. Maybe. We’ll see. But I wanted it to be safe. Other [Mages] and all that.”

Troy saw Elena turn the object over in her hands. She looked up at him, stared down at the grit worked into it, despite the [Repair] spells. Something about the young man’s eyes…she looked uncertainly at the backpack.

And the camera.

“What’s going on, Troy? You’re weirding me out.”

He looked up at the ceiling, then shrugged at Elena.

“Just getting everything in order. Eldavin’s big address is in two hours, right? See you there. Read the letter by tonight.”

He nodded and stepped away. Elena looked at the camera. Slowly, she turned it on, checked the memory, went to the first recording…

And felt a chill as she began to watch. Trey walked back. He wondered if Eldavin’s big plan would get in the way.

They’d see.

——

“Young man, young man. Would you like to be part of Grand Magus Eldavin’s big plan?”

High Mage Telim hated running about. He even had a habit of casting [Haste] on himself—or [Slow] on other people—just so he didn’t have to.

That alone made him a [High Mage]. [Haste], a Tier 4 spell with a higher complexity than normal, such that some [Mages] called it…Tier 4.5.

Which went far in explaining why the new Grand Magus looked down so much on the Wistram of now. Telim himself agreed. A Courier—the redoubtable Mage Runner of Izril—could cast [Haste]. In times past? Why, you could fly. No one liked to admit it, but the Garuda had most Couriers beat until, oh, Level 40?

The young man in question turned, looking guarded, but he smiled when he saw Telim.

“High Mage.”

“None of that, now. Troy, I’ve been tasked with finding you.”

“For what? Does the Grand Magus want something?”

Troy Atlas looked somewhat nervous, and Telim suspected…shenanigans. Which meant he was curious and sympathetic. Young [Mages], running off to play pranks or kiss each other in closets that turned out to be one-way mirrors. He and Sa’la had been young, once.

Youth. He smiled, but kept his tone hurried. Normally he’d jaw all day, but—he was part of a faction now. He’d escaped it all his life, but Terras came calling and…Telim knew how to ride a wave.

Or he had. Did they still surf along those shores of Baleros? Lizardfolk, the most naturally adept waveriders in the world thanks to those tails for balance?

Telim missed it, sometimes. Not the leeches. Or the piranhas. Or the crocodiles. Or the…wait, he didn’t really miss it. He just missed being young.

Youth stood in front of him now, fidgety, nervous, and…Telim brushed at his robes.

“Grand Magus Eldavin has a project. I don’t know what it is. But he wants a few of you lot—”

He waggled his brows at Trey, who got that Telim meant Earthers.

“—to participate. If you agree, I take you to get ‘ready’, whatever that means. He assures you through me it will be an occasion you do not want to miss. But, ah, also, he wanted you above most.”

“Me. I’m a bit…busy, High Mage. I don’t know if I can go with the Grand Magus. Even for a day of ceremony.”

Troy was reluctant. Telim sighed.

“Understandable. But—damn. What did Eldavin say? Oh, yes. ‘It was a shortcut for the thing you wanted.’ The spirit of those words, at least.”

Troy blinked. He looked sharply at Telim, and the High Mage noticed, once again, that Troy had that look.

The look some of the students who came to Wistram had. You had bright young people from around the world from relatively rich families. Then you had the ones who’d cut their way clear of a Manticore’s belly or something suitably dramatic. You put those two together and sometimes it was like children and adults, but their bodies had been swapped.

Troy Atlas thought, but in the end, he shook his head.

“I’m sorry, High Mage. Can you find someone else? I’m intrigued. But…I have something to do.”

Telim nodded, already calculating the most economical vector to another Earther or [Mage] on his list. He smiled, ready to brush it off—no one wanted to just stand in a ceremony for ages. Then he looked at Troy. Telim never said it as he bade the young man a hurried farewell, but he thought that decision had meant more than he knew.

——

By the time everything was ready, Terras knew. High Mage Telim, Teura, and his most trusted [Mages] knew—at least, part of it. They stared at Eldavin like he was some [Sorcerer] wielding a Staff of Mutual Annihilation.

Or some god of old.

“Huh?”

The Grand Mage’s breath caught for a second as he stood behind a floating curtain. He paused in adjusting his new robes and looked around.

“Eldavin?”

Teura was helping him put them on. These were no standard, monochrome or even lightly embossed robes. Eldavin had customized them himself, and they were robes that evoked fire.

Flame-red, crossed with white, green, and a void-blackness cut with blue along the interior to provide a relief of Wistram’s own sigil—that academy on an island.

Robes fit for an [Archmage]. Eldavin’s lips moved.

“Strange. It’s…nothing, Teura. Are the candidates in place? Hidden?”

“All sixteen.”

“The rest?”

“Ready to go. Thirty-four, prepared.”

“The Terras faction and others?”

“In position. I double-checked your ritual, but I couldn’t verify all the components…”

She was stressed. So Eldavin smiled, reached out, and gently patted her shoulder.

“My dear, I am only double-checking. Forgive me. I have everything in place, and improvisation is not impossible.”

Teura relaxed and smiled at him, and Eldavin—

Felt a pinch at his heart. He ignored it. But there it was again.

Something was off. Yet this was surely not the time to investigate it.

However, Eldavin’s chase within himself had found a thread which ran deeper than all the others, and he knew it just from that word. He stood there, absently tugging on his robes, as someone began to speak.

Archmage Nailihuaile. She was on the dais in front of him, in one of the largest halls of Wistram. The Council debated here, but they had forgotten its original purpose.

Before him and the floating curtain, he knew, there was a second ‘box’ of illusory spells hiding sixteen young people, half Earthers, half [Mages]. He was a bit upset that Troy had refused, but the young man also had a sense of the dramatic. He might accept…later.

Well, Eldavin would have to arrange it. Terras was also in place on the bleachers. So were the Libertarians, Centrists, Revivalists…

This would be a vote, as well. But the room was packed…because most of Wistram was here.

Few things could mobilize every [Mage] to come. It was worse than herding cats. The inauguration of an Archmage was one of the few things that could do it.

They all knew something was up. Little undead mice knew something was up. They could sense the cloaked magic in the air, and the other Archmages, even the ones Eldavin had bought, were waiting.

“…rare for such an august [Mage] to reach the heights of magic! Grand Magus Eldavin, via unanimous vote, has achieved that rank, and the Archmages present…”

Eldavin waited patiently for the demagoguery to end. Everyone knew he’d accrued enough political power to make himself an Archmage. He kept tugging at one sleeve.

“Like an ancient god. Or goddess. Or deity. For they came in many forms and sizes. So old, it was before my time. Before my parents’ time. And so long gone that my grand…grand…parents? Only knew stories from the mouths of those who had…”

He put a hand to his head. That wasn’t…right. That was three generations. Half-Elves didn’t live past a thousand most times. Death via unnatural causes. So short.

So short?

His lips moved, even as Nailihuaile’s voice dropped to the background and the other [Mages] speaking to complete the ceremony went on. This was all being televised on the scrying orbs, of course, but he knew it wouldn’t be well-watched except in the background. Not…not yet.

“We do not speak of them. Speak only of what they were. You will be told this once. Names, and their status unto the divine. Never again. Only that you remember. Tell no one. Tell no lesser races, but remember. Remember the way the world used to be. And why it—”

“—The Archmage of Memory, Eldavin!”

His head jerked up. The half-Elf’s gaze rose, and, for a second, everyone saw a look of complete surprise on his face.

There he stood. Newly minted, the Archmage of Memory, a title he had chosen himself. So…arrogant and telling it had half the old [Mages]’ teeth grinding. The other half shamefaced.

A half-Elf taller than any other, in the prime of his existence, hair naturally white, eyes mismatched heliotrope and cerulean.

——

“Hm?”

Rafaema stopped in chewing on cereal as Cire and Lyonette debated. She blinked at the image on the scrying orb in the background. She leaned closer, peering at…

——

Grand Magus Eldavin. No, Archmage Eldavin. He stood straighter, and his expression firmed. He began speaking smoothly, his voice echoing across the room as the magical camera panned around.

“Mages of Wistram. I thank you for awarding me this honor. The title of Archmage—even honorary—is a mark of esteem amongst [Mages]. I would not waste the world’s time with it, however. It is only a word. If I had the class, this would be a moment worthy of attention for that alone. Yet who now has this class? No one here. Wistram of old is dead. Many whisper it. I say it now, before you all, as Archmage of Wistram.”

The Mages of Wistram sussurated. Eldavin went on, striding left across the dais under a beam of magical sunlight. Viewers of the show began to tune in as they recognized Eldavin—who was, if nothing else, far from boring.

——

“Oho.”

The [Archmage]—or someone who had once held the class—turned his attention away from the separate scrying orb. He smiled, despite himself. He hadn’t had much of an impression besides a certain pomposity and arrogance in the chat, but he liked this.

Az’kerash turned up the volume. Toren crabbed over subtly with Healing Slime balanced on his head. The skeleton was grinning, despite having no context for any of this.

He liked this old guy.

——

Someone else was nearly assassinated by a Balerosian banana. The greatest threat to the mortal world, the magical nightmare only checked by the defenders of the world, one of Hell’s regents, the Death of Magic—

Finally got it down. Then she levitated the orb up with a wicked grin and saved that recording so she could re-watch the expressions of the other ‘Archmages’. She smiled—but only for a moment.

She knew Eldavin was right. But how did he?

——

The [Mages] of Wistram weren’t exactly taking to Eldavin’s speech. He should have been more diplomatic, but he was distracted. Chasing that thought.

“Attention.”

[Thunderclap]. The sound detonation deafened the people in the room as Eldavin clapped his hands together. He walked on, as if he were lecturing them, not being given a prestigious title.

“That was not a subject up for debate. Wistram Academy is not the vaunted institution it once was. We have changed. Once, we walked across the world and chose sides. We supported bravery, ethics in magic, and held this world together when cataclysm occurred. Once, magic died. Who relit the flames?”

He looked around and no one knew the answer. Some guessed, but no one spoke. Eldavin raised his voice.

“Wistram did! [Archmages] threw themselves into the void—the greatest [Mages] of their time. Centuries, millennia of knowledge. To rekindle magic itself. Do you know their names? Their sacrifice? I do.”

He looked around. Suddenly—his eyes were shining. Eldavin looked past them.

“The first to walk into that dark future was the Archmage of Sunlight. Ailet Sundrev, the last [Lady] of House Sundrev, of the dead Kingdom of Caonis of Terandria.”

He knew it was right. But how? Had he read that? Had he…

He saw it. He had seen it.

——

“How does he know that? Is that correct?”

Duke Rhisveri paused in taking tea, a tedious task, with his guests. The others looked up.

“I…do not know. That would predate our time. Azemith. Do you think those records exist in our libraries?”

“Maybe. That is an old, old time.”

Two of the Lucifen exchanged glances. Then all of those present turned to the oldest being here.

Fithea.

She blinked two glowing lights in her petrified wood body. The Dryad’s lips moved.

“First went sun. Yes.”

——

[Historians] around the world were trying to fact-check Eldavin. If they succeeded—they leveled.

Yet the Archmage was continuing.

“Once, Wistram’s greatest [Mages] died so that magic might live. Not once. Nor even a mere dozen times! You do not remember that. Yet remember this. When the world’s rot broke open. When the slumbering wound left across this globe burst and poured forth the greatest pestilence yet—the Creler Wars! Who joined the nations of the world in barring the gates?”

Now, his audience knew what their cue was. They echoed it, some rising with excitement, others…waiting.

“Wistram!”

Eldavin caught them there.

“Not alone. Every kingdom rose to fight. Let us not forget great sacrifice. The Charming Dancer, that girl, walked into hell to inspire cowards who slumbered and hid for the danger of it. Courage, to bring us to arms. But when we rose, Wistram stood at the fore.”

Who? The Archmage walked on.

“When each and every calamity struck, we were there. Who fought the Goblin Kings?”

“Wistram!”

“Who joined arms to drag A’ctelios Salash down to eternal slumber?”

A young man in the audience started. The [Mages] looked at each other, but the answer was written.

“Wistram?”

The angry old man strode across the stage.

“We have checked tyrants and driven monsters to their graves. We are not perfect—so I believe we should stop pretending to be. Wistram has always been petty. It has always been divided. But what we forget is that what Wistram does matters. We are not aloof watchers from the sidelines. We must have the conviction to fight for our beliefs. So, as my first act as Archmage, I put a vote to you.”

Here it came. Archmage Viltach and Nailihuaile exchanged glances, and their factions turned to them. Eldavin raised his hand. Everyone waited as he conjured an illusory spell into the air. What would it be? He revealed it with a word.

“Ailendamus.”

An image of Terandria floated into being. A vast, red stain across kingdoms being swallowed up. Eldavin saw the Terandrians in his crowd sit bolt upright—with sudden unease.

“Ailendamus. Kingdom of Glass and Glory. Or should I say…Empire?”

——

“Oh fuck.”

Ryoka turned sideways to stare at King Itorin II and the royal family. She slowly put down the bucket of popcorn and edged sideways. She had a feeling…this was going to be bad.

What was Teriarch doing?

——

“Ailendamus has swallowed nation after nation in a mere two hundred years. Now—it is the Dawn Concordat’s turn. Tomorrow, Pheislant. In ten years, Ailendamus might rule the lower third of Terandria. When that day comes—it will not be a matter of stopping them. The King of Destruction once took Chandrar. Ailendamus is in the process of taking the rest.”

“This is a political matter, Grand Magus Eldavin! Wistram does not take sides!”

An old man rose, wearing armor instead of robes. Eldavin snapped back.

“That is Archmage Eldavin to you, Verdan Blackwood. Wistram always takes sides, and the Iron Vanguard can attest to that! There are children from every nation here—some from nations that have suffered Ailendamus’ wrath! Although, I note…”

His gaze swept his audience.

“Few from Ailendamus. They have their own academies. They do not want representation in Wistram. They intend to replace Wistram. So shall we be so generous as to remain apolitical? It is a simple question. Will Wistram censure Ailendamus?”

The motion caught the others off-guard.

“A motion to censure? Do I hear you correctly, Archmagus?”

Eldavin snorted as Feor half-rose, uncertain.

“Of course. I do not propose Wistram declares war. We are no formal nation. But I would like a vote.”

His eyes glinted.

“—To declare Ailendamus an empire with imperialistic tendencies towards expansion. That their war on the Dawn Concordat is in fact a war of unwarranted aggression. To call other nations to check their danger. And to declare Ailendamus a threat to world peace, as once we did to the King of Destruction.”

The Council was not in uproar. That suggested they were shouting and throwing things. The Council was in stasis, whispering, looking at each other. And that was a good thing.

For Eldavin. It wasn’t…Nailihuaile whistled quietly and shrugged. Viltach frowned at Eldavin, trying to work the angles as the Libertarians argued—

Mostly in favor of him. In fact, Feor was watching his own party of Centrists agreeing. Eldavin had led them on an argument that pointed out Ailendamus’ danger; they had almost no total allies in Wistram, certainly none born of Wistram, but they were powerful. If Eldavin had demanded a motion to war or something far more drastic, he’d have…probably…failed.

Even Nailihuaile and Viltach couldn’t promise a rebellion in their ranks, and they too could flip. But this?

Censure? The [Mages] deliberated. We could do that.

It was like Eldavin could read their thoughts. He saw a snap vote called, the [Mages] beginning to argue, but Teura spoke.

“Archmage Eldavin moves for an immediate vote.”

“Without discussion?”

Archmage Blackwood argued. Eldavin raised his hand.

“Will you draw out Wistram’s petty politics before the world’s eye, Archmage Blackwood? If you would like, let us see where the lines are drawn.”

The Archmage of Dullahans hesitated. So did the Council; they’d seen how you could be embarrassed in front of the camera, and suddenly every [Mage] was checking their posture, robes, face for grime…

Teura went on.

“A snap vote for condemning Ailendamus. All members of Wistram’s Magic Council, please signal your approval, disapproval, or your silence via spell.”

Eldavin stood there, calm as could be. He knew the likely outcome, and it was only a gesture. If a powerful one.

Gestures mattered. They always mattered. A symbol was more than just meaning in the hearts of mortals.

They lived off symbols. Off of belief. Once, they had countless millions of followers and made mighty things. Great war, great mercy, great calamity. There were so many.

But remember the greatest of them all. First, the God of Leaders and Rulers. Head of his pantheon, he who ruled over even his kind. Tamaroth.

…He had a beard. What did he look like? Their faces changed. They wore many shapes. He had a beard. Stop asking questions, you little h…

Something fuzzed. Eldavin’s smile flickered. As if he were watching the vote. What was that next word? Little…half-Elf?

He tried to continue. Who was telling this to him? His teacher?

His mother?

Who was she?

“Next? Next…I suppose, among the most powerful, came the one who presided over death. Oh, yes. There was an afterwards. There still is. It used to belong to her. The Three-In-One. Goddess of Death. Goddess of the Afterlife, Kasigna. Most feared. Most beloved. Why beloved?”

Someone chuckled. Eldavin’s head turned sightlessly. He looked up, seeking a mismatched gaze. Such sad laughter.

“You will understand, someday. Imagine what that could mean. No? Feared and beloved for what she could grant. Next? Ah…ah. Perhaps now it is time to scare you. Don’t hide! You don’t even know what you’re supposed to be scared of, silly little Teri.”

“Who?”

Who?

The [Mages] rose, glowing lights flashing across his vision. Eldavin’s heart—he felt at it.

“Though you should be wary. Wary of what lies beyond. Not beyond the horizon, but further still. Some of them came from so far that they were foreign to even their kind—or so it was said. Such as the Deity of the Forgotten. First of the Lost. First of Nothing. Furthest. Traveller. God of Seekers. It was not male, nor female. It was not…known. They called it Norechl. Perhaps it named itself. That one, even the greatest feared, and not for strength.”

“Grand Magus Eldavin? Archmage?”

He stirred. The Archmage of Memory looked around and realized it was done. The Council looked at each other, and then at the half-Elf. They stood, condemning Ailendamus. Eldavin’s lips moved.

“Oh. Well, then. Good job, I suppose.”

His audience was slack-jawed. Eldavin blinked at them, and the words came out simply, those other words echoing in the back of his mind.

Names. One of them was so loud something stirred.

He who ruled Secrets, Magic, and Knowledge. God of Scholars and Magic. God of Studies.

Emerrhain.

A young man shivered in the back, watching Eldavin look about. The half-Elf’s voice was quiet, weighed down by something. Time, perhaps.

“Should I be amazed? We have censured Ailendamus. Well done.”

He clapped sarcastically. The sound echoed in the background. Eldavin looked about and shook his head.

“That is the most I could ask from Wistram. United we stand to throw words rather than spells.”

“You insult your own academy and peers, Archmage.”

Feor rose slowly. Eldavin glanced at him.

“Do I? Or do I say the truth, Feor? You voted, an overwhelming majority, to condemn a nation that threatens others. That makes war with terrible death. A vote is a vote, and you have done so in the eyes of the world. Perhaps—because they were watching. It is still only a vote. You speak your convictions as if that proves you hold them. I…”

He touched at his chest absently.

“I have no time for such things. I thank you all for joining my condemnation of Ailendamus. The Academy of Magic stands with the Dawn Concordat in spirit—a frail, useless, contemptible thing.”

The Archmage of Memory turned, and his eyes lit up. He raised his hand, and that silent box, that partition of hidden people, began to move.

“Now, with Wistram’s blessing, I shall be more direct. I am the Archmage of Memory. I am Eldavin, Lord of Flames! I call the Terras faction—to war.”

Eldavin saw Teura’s head rise. Telim swallowed hard. The other [Mages] hesitated. However, Archmage Verdan was in the weeds, and it was keep going or sink. So he sneered down at Eldavin.

“To war? You intend to sail to Terandria and enlist in an army, then? Or hire [Mercenaries]? How would you affect your war against a sovereign nation?”

The Archmage of Armor’s confidence died as Eldavin looked up at him. Feor was already taking cover; he remembered what Verdan had apparently forgotten: how Eldavin had first come to Wistram and introduced himself.

“[Refraction Barrier: Flame]. [Fourfold Arcane Barrier]. [Steel Scales]…”

Naili muttered under her breath. At last, she saw something happening. She looked down and swore.

“Oh, Nagas.”

The most skilled [Mages] sensed it first. Teura knew where to look since she and a few others had helped Eldavin set it up, but even experts in the field, like Beatrice, took a second. When she did see it, the Dullahan’s eyes went round.

“The floor.”

Everyone looked down. The tiles upon which the Magic Council had been set were…cracking.

Lines of force were snaking their way around, completing a vast circle, an intricate spellcasting pattern that put sweat onto everyone’s lower backs.

“Wh-what are you doing, Archmage Eldavin?”

“Sailing. Sailing.”

Eldavin muttered. He focused on Verdan, with a kind of pained air of disgust.

“Is that who we are, now? [Shipwrights] and [Sailors]? We are magic, little [Mage]. Nor do I need to explain myself to you. A faction will go unto war. Live or die—we will do what we believe we must. Terras of Wistram! If you gainsay it, if you disagree, meet me across the battle lines and challenge me in person.”

He pointed, and half the Archmages ducked. But no [Grand Fireball] came. Eldavin glanced around. Then he pointed.

“Ah, yes. I almost forgot to announce my second initiative. While the spell completes, please observe my new creation. I believe some of you might recognize the design.”

The curtains pulled back and revealed sixteen young men and women. Half were students. The other half—

“Flynn? George?”

Elena shot upright. Troy stared down. So that was what Eldavin—

Every head among the Earthers swung around. Someone had gone dead white. Aaron Vanwell’s lips moved. An angry dead thing was screaming.

“What has he done? What has he—”

“Archmage?”

They only got one look at it. A glowing spell circle had traced itself on the floor of the room. Old stone cracked, revealing…

A smooth floor, like glass or crystal. Semi-transparent, underneath of which lay a nimbus of glowing lights. Power.

Raw mana. The Archmage of Memory kicked a piece of the stones away dismissively. They forgot what rooms did.

It was, of all of them, Archmage Viltach who figured out what the spell circle was for. He looked down and freaked out, raising his voice.

“It’s a spell circle. This—this is a massive spell. This entire room is a ritual room! Get out of the radius! Get out of—”

The Libertarians went running, followed by the rest of the Council. They stampeded away from the edges of the glowing circle. On it stood members of the Terras faction. And the sixteen.

Ordinary people. Some Earthers with only a shred of magical knowledge, if any at all. But—Troy saw Flynn wave at him. Point down. Eldavin returned Verdan’s horrified gaze with a calm one. He took a breath.

My heart hurts. But he had learned something. This—this was going to be hard, even though this room was meant for such things. Yet…

I have no Skills. Somehow, though, I have a surplus of power.

He drew from it now. Something—the room began shaking. The [Mages] on the ground looked up at him, but Eldavin didn’t need long. It was a mark of him that he kept repeating that word.

“Sailing. You fool. The age of magic comes and goes, and always, always we say, ‘this time it shall last forever’. But the truth is that it will always come back. Again! Again and again! Always differently!”

He pointed a finger as the air charged, lifting every hair, filling the atmosphere with potential and pressure. A wondrous force, pressing down on you—not on your skin, but the very leyline of your magic. Troy saw Eldavin’s lips move.

“I do not need a boat to get to Terandria. I am Archmage Eldavin of Wistram. Archmage of Memory. And what I remember are two words: [Grand Teleportation].”

The circle flashed. Eldavin threw up his hands and the [Mages] shouted—

Then the world in the circle blinked, and that flash of what had been there lingered in the air, like a photograph’s flash—only it was them. Fading, a memory of what was.

Travelling around the world in an instant.

——

Ser Greysten, the Summer’s Champion of the Order of Seasons, put up his axe, weary.

“Form ranks! Hold them!”

The Season of Summer formed a battle line. They were coming. A full legion of the Order of the Hydra, pushing towards Pheislant.

They were coming along the coast, and Pheislant was forming a full army with more [Knights]—but the [Knights] of Ailendamus were relentless.

Greysten refused to let them regroup and pursue Rabbiteater and the others. So they fought. The [Knights of Summer] did not laugh or expect an easy victory.

So many [Knights]. They spread out, cheering for their kingdom. Ailendamus. No Dame of the Hills, but so many…

Counter-levelling against the Summer Knights. Greysten tasted a bit of bile in his mouth. He set himself grimly for another battle.

He had not been checking the news. So when one of the Autumn Knights galloped towards him, he didn’t know what was happening.

“Ser Greysten! Something is coming! I sense a huge magical signature on our position!”

“Break! Break! Magical artillery incoming! Shield spells!”

The Summer’s Champion reacted with perfect reflexes, and the Order of Seasons broke instantly. Greysten looked towards the north. Had Ailendamus sent reinforcements? Already?

But then he saw the Order of the Hydra doing the same things. Their lines of neat halberds broke up, and both sides stared at the other breaking up and…slowed…

Then the world split in half. Greysten whirled and saw the sky open and, for a second, he locked eyes with Archmage Feor across a gap in the sky. He recognized that magic.

“Teleportation.”

But instead of a group travelling across the void as the Order of Seasons could do—an entire section of Wistram came hurtling towards them. Terrifyingly fast. Greysten’s horse screamed and reared, unable to process what it was seeing. There—a half-Elf was pointing—

Then the two dimensions collided, and the backblast knocked a [Knight] flying. Greysten saw Dame Voost try to twist in the air and hit the ground with a sickening crunch on her left side. More [Knights] were knocked flat.

The shockwave rippled through the air for a moment, visible as the dust and debris were thrown outwards. And then…

Silence.

The Order of the Seasons and the Order of the Hydra, soldiers of Pheislant and Ailendamus, looked at the figures standing there.

Less than a hundred. Less than a hundred, teleported from the Academy of Mages in the ocean all the way to…

“…What is going on?”

Greysten had drawn his axe and raised his shield warily. He didn’t know what to call these [Mages]. Most were gasping and looking around; several were throwing up, including a pudgy [Mage]. Were they here to reinforce one side or the other?

Or unrelated?

Then he saw the one person who seemed in control of it all turn. A superlatively well-muscled half-Elf looked around. His eyes rested on the Summer’s Champion.

“Ah, ideal. Excuse me, Summer’s Champion. I am Grand Magus—that is, Archmage Eldavin of Wistram. Head of the Terras faction. We are here to participate in the war against Ailendamus. Would you allow us the courtesy of the first attack?”

Ser Greysten stared at Eldavin. The Summer’s Champion had no idea who this was—no, a vague recollection.

A spell out of nowhere. A dubious offer. A strange half-Elf?

Greysten was still Greysten. The Summer’s Champion began to smile. He raised his axe and saluted the Archmage.

“I take you at your word, Archmage! I cede the honor to you!”

Eldavin half-smiled. He nodded, and rose upwards. Now, his voice magnified, just in time for the scrying spells to catch up. He raised his hands to the heavens.

“I am the Archmage of Memory!”

He shouted it at Ailendamus. The [Soldiers] and [Knights] were reforming, but their weapons trained on the strange half-Elf…moved upwards. The [Knights] checked their weapons, and then lowered them.

For Eldavin had begun to rise into the air. He floated higher, and the skies darkened around him.

This…yes. Eldavin inhaled.

This was familiar.

“I am Eldavin of Wistram. I declare war on Ailendamus! Free the Wind Runner of Reizmelt. Those before me—flee or perish. Or I shall bring such battle as you have never dreamed.”

His eyes flashed.

“Forwards. A new era dawns. Forwards, [Mages] and children. Show them the war of the future.”

He pointed, and the sixteen volunteers looked up at him. Uncertainty. Greysten glanced down and blinked.

“What is…? [Knights]?”

That was what he thought at first. They looked like it. He saw a young man slowly sliding a visor over his face. Such…colorful armor. It could have fit with the Knights of the Summer, if their armor were more pristine. It was different, though.

“The magic. The magic. What are they wearing?”

Ser Zulv muttered. The [Summer Knight] stared warily at the sixteen. Young men and women. [Mages]—but not strong ones. They had…it was like a backpack was built into their armor. The visors were strange, more like masks. Bulkier armor than a [Knight] would want, to be able to move, even backflip or run.

You’d never be able to ride a horse with that kind of ungainly armor, not well. Greysten didn’t understand. Then…he saw the first figure step forwards, and raise an arm skywards. A fist, rising upwards.

A gesture? No…Greysten watched as the lone figure in their strange armor stared upwards. Such an odd posture.

——

There should have been a cape. Ryoka Griffin wasn’t breathing. The royal family eyed her. They were waxy with shock, but the Wind Runner hadn’t been breathing for about a minute.

King Itorin II did not understand what that armor did. The…look. The look was familiar.

——

“Aaron, you fuck!”

Cara shouted. She pointed at the armor. The young man in armor—the Human—looked upwards.

Then, they began to fly. The figure drifted upwards and almost jerked in shock. Their gauntleted hands flashed as they spread them out instinctively, to catch themselves. Then they flew forwards hesitantly.

The other fifteen drifted into the air. Some leapt, others flew up and then descended. The most experienced ‘pilots’ flew higher. Cara saw the [Knights] on the ground staring up as armored figures flew overhead.

Warriors of the future. Some clutched staves or held wands. A few just pointed the strange gauntlets ahead. They began to unleash spells from the armor as she watched. The Singer of Terandria was white-knuckled.

The future of two worlds collided.

——

Powered armor. Super-armor. Flying warriors. The first spells were wildly out of range, but Ailendamus’ army didn’t know what to do. Arrows flew backwards—and those that even hit the figures drifting through the air snapped on the enchanted breastplates.

The children were not good at using the armor. Some knew how it should be used. The rest were still mostly ineffectual.

But they had a chance to learn. [Mages] were notoriously fragile in combat. Experts like Magus Grimalkin ate Wistram-trained [Mages] for breakfast.

So—a simple, clever man would figure out a way to give them a chance to learn. Take a project from Aaron Vanwell and…

Complete it.

Archmage Eldavin saw the Order of Seasons jerk into action below. Moving forwards to support the flying magic-knights. They would have a new name for them, soon. Perhaps new classes.

He hung higher. Ailendamus’ army was stunned, but still willing to fight. An arrow flew towards him, propelled by a high-level [Archer]’s Skill.

Eldavin ignored it. It struck a barrier and vanished. Not broke, not ‘disintegrated’, but vanished. He flew over the enemy army, and they scattered around him.

“Flee or perish. This is your last warning. [Pillar of Flames].”

The ground underneath him turned into an inferno. The Summer Knights looked up into a bonfire a hundred feet wide, in a perfect circle, raging upwards.

Where does this magic come from? How do I remember gods?

My heart hurts.

So many questions. He wanted to go back to the High Passes and rest. But—Eldavin stared ahead. At those flags, waving.

That girl was captive of Ailendamus. He had vowed to keep her safe.

He did not forsake his promises. So the Archmage raised his hands. A spell gathered between them.

[Grand Teleport] captured the world’s eyes. It worried, stunned the other powers of this place. They looked at him and recognized him.

The laughing Death of Magic.

A furious Duke of Ailendamus.

A worried Necromancer.

Wondering who he was. Guessing. Countless more, who knew or not. A [Lady] clutching her [Maid]’s hand in a white-knuckled grip.

The armor was a signal. Arm them. Wistram would have an army. And an army to fear, no matter how few of them there were. A single [Mage] could turn the tides of a battle. Fifty suits of armor.

“You should have worn it, Troy. Or is it Trey?”

Eldavin drew on that unknown connection. Deeper, deeper…he gasped. The air began to morph around him.

So bright.

The Archmage of Memory cast his spell, to show them the last of it. Like his [Light Bridge]—

——

They descended to earth, bearing regalia of another time. Each one perfect in detail. Horns engraved with sigils of old blew a tune only the dead truly remembered.

In ranks, a legion of their own, marching forwards, so perfectly done in face and guise that only the golden light making them up—no, gentle light.

Sunlight—

Marked them as not real people.

“Silvenia. You could do scarce better. Who is that?”

The Death of Chains, Czautha, pointed at the warriors. Silvenia didn’t answer. She just listened, hands clenched, shivering with anticipation. She said the words as the half-Elf shouted them.

“[Legions of Radiance, the Sundrenched of Caonis]!”

A summoning spell. A thousand warriors charged as the Order of the Hydra looked up and quailed.

——

“Visophecin. Get me the Thief.”

Rhisveri spoke in the silence. The Viscount stood up.

“That’s your enemy?”

The Wyrm stared at Eldavin. His fake self vanished.

The Wyrm of Ailendamus hissed. He glared at the image.

“That half-Elf will die. Prepare more armies. We are taking Calanfer and crushing all of them. All of them. Do you understand me? All of—”

——

Then it was done. The remaining [Mages] in Wistram were merely an audience. They watched as the Archmage of Memory entered the war on Ailendamus. His faction was fighting, although it was a rout.

High Mage Telim, Sa’la, the rest. So that was what he meant.

They would level or die. This was the forging fire for [Mages]. A war.

The others were shaking. The other factions, each led by an Archmage or powerful [Mages]—they looked at each other.

Were they factions? Was there anyone but Eldavin worthy of the title of…

Feor was white-faced. He sagged against a wall. That damned Eldavin. He was ruining everything. There was no stopping him, was there? He could throw any plan into chaos. He was too powerful to stop.

Verdan had the same look on his face. The two Archmages had joined forces, but even if the others did—if they somehow persuaded Amerys to join them? If it was five Archmages versus one Eldavin, how were the scales balanced? Not just in power, but knowledge?

He was too dangerous. Too old.

Someone else agreed with them. As Feor tried to work saliva into his mouth, a hand tapped on his shoulder. He jerked, turned to tell someone else to begone—and saw one person not transfixed by everything.

Even though it was his creation, taken and refined…Aaron Vanwell had not joined the testing of his armor. He had a faraway look in his eyes.

“What? What is it? The Grand Magus—this is not the time to discuss…whatever it is, Aaron.”

The young man shook his head. He stared back at the Archmage of Memory in the scrying orb.

“He won’t be a problem, Archmage Feor.”

The Archmage stopped, about to step away, politeness or not. He looked at Aaron, and the other Archmages clustering to talk did the same. The young man spoke, his voice uncertain, but the words…

“Eldavin will not live long.”

It was such a ridiculous statement. So…so why did Feor’s skin chill? Why did the half-Elf look at Aaron’s gaze as the young man blinked and backed away? He turned back to the scrying orb. And…

Wondered.

——

It was time.

The Archmage of Memory made his move.

Great powers moved. In Chandrar.

Elsewhere.

Such silly powers.

It was time. Did you forget? However long it took, you should never…

Forget.

A mortal man—no, an immortal Dragon who thought he was a mere man?

The might of Wistram.

A nation as powerful as Ailendamus.

They were all dust.

Dust compared to the dreams of old. There lay the final resting place of the greatest beings who had ever walked this world. And each of them came here.

Dragon. Giant. [Archmage]. [Hero]. [Legend]. Monster. Tyrant.

All save for true nightmares.

All save for Goblins and their ilk.

All save for those that had already been…lost.

Yet even in the lands of the dead, the sun shone downwards. The memory of the sun, from the memory of an umbrella, stolen. Stolen!

The same for the sword, held aloft by the sentinels at the edge of Chandrar. Enough to keep the shadows and nothings at bay. Enough to stave off death.

Death had consumed one continent, but the rest of the bastions still stood. Indeed, in Chandrar, in the lands of Khelt as they had been and were now, there was great cause for celebration.

Someone was coming back. Or it might be possible, now.

Still, the young woman sat with her head in her arms. Grieving for the cost. Grieving…as an exasperated [Witch], her friends and allies, paced around her.

The other ghosts, kings and queens, were sympathetic, but made plans. All was going as well as could be expected. They had reached a stalemate, and it favored them.

The frustrated five could not advance into any remaining zone.

Five.

Each one had a name. Some people even remembered their names, but with no…

Faith…

In their hearts. Five. Some called the one with the beard the greatest.

That was all you remembered. The beard, because that was constant. A vanity? A way to remember.

They named him Tamaroth.

Another—they called Kasigna. She was the most powerful here, and the other four were wary—greatly wary of her growing power. Yet even she was frustrated by the defiance.

A third was named Emerrhain. Of the five, those three were the ones with power.

The other two were a man who looked like he danced with every step, a man to know and love and to speak to. The woman was always young, a hunter, a warrior, fierce and proud and always young, for what she represented burned bright and ended faster.

They hung around the other three like envious moths. Angry, jealous.

After all, all three had something. Emerrhain and Tamaroth had a…foothold. Safety. Strength from that.

Kasigna? A purity of power, especially here. All three were superior and knew it, and laughed mockingly at the other two, even as they traded aeon-old jibes, bearing grudges and feuds into the now.

If they cooperated, it was grudgingly, because they had to, to survive. Power was driving them apart, reminding them they were no longer dependent on the others.

Five.

Five.

…There had been six.

Know them. If he could remember, Eldavin would have known them. The other two were not the greatest of their kind. Great—but once, they stood among pantheons.

Even so, remember, if only for what they represented. The Gracious Dancer, the Lover, the Friend of the Divine, the God of Dance and Love.

Laedonius Deviy. Two names.

And that young woman, always fierce? Always representing her champions, the ones she loved? She would stand by your side in the heat of war, bless you. You, who took up arms. Hunter of Glorious Souls. Patron of Valor. Goddess of War and Youth.

Cauwine. Armed with bow, the wandering deity who had only taken sides at the last.

“Cauwine. You pale. Does that Archer-King with a bow pierce your flesh?”

Kasigna mocked her. The huntress bared her teeth, but was forced to endure in silence. For even that one name was a power—it told much that Kasigna used it. Hungrily, the huntress lapped at it, humiliated, a moth drawn to a single lifeline in this dark place.

“You make much of yourself, Kasigna. For one who cannot control what belongs to her.”

The scholar, the spellcaster, returned from his errand, and Kasigna’s fury could have scorched even this place—if only there were power enough. The others chuckled, for it was true!

“Ware yourself, Emerrhain. You claim that which is mine. You and Tamaroth, grubbing in Izril for scraps.”

The bearded man’s smile was overly bright. Yet—they stood in the ocean, neutral ground, for it was true that each had claimed a ‘zone’.

By their power, Tamaroth and Emerrhain kept the others from their…places. Kasigna could challenge either, but everyone was hoarding their strength.

They were still so hungry.

Starving.

Famished.

So, their barbs stayed alone to words. They were frustrated. Angry. Wary—this had not gone as planned. Chandrar should have been theirs. Then, with that strength, Terandria would fall next, and then Baleros and Drath.

Then…

But it had not happened. Not, for a thief, not, because of one damned kingdom. Not, for the defiance of those who should worship.

It repeated itself. Some of the five saw it, others ignored, but few voiced it.

This was as it was. This was why it was now.

Time again.

——

Erin Solstice’s head rose. She had been weeping, ignoring the others. Angry and sad.

And hopeful. That was the worst part. She had been hoping, and knew it came at cost.

So glad…so glad, despite the loss. Despite the pain.

She wanted…

Califor stopped, her hand resting on Erin’s shoulder. Cawe, trying to cheer Erin up by making faces, hesitated. Gerial straightened.

“…What was that?”

Every ghost milling about Khelt looked up. Every single one—and there were too many to count in a lifetime—froze. Erin saw it happen as one.

She felt it herself. The [Innkeeper] looked up. Her heart was only a memory, but it wanted to pound.

Her lips opened.

“Something just happened.”

“Erin! Where are you? To me, rulers of Khelt! To me, and the umbrella and sword!”

Khelta flew through the air, shouting. The ghosts of Khelt flew after her, and every other ghost on these lands. Instinctively.

Had they come again? Had the six—no—five, tried another attack on the shores?

No. It didn’t feel like that. It had never felt like that. Erin flew with the others, seeking—going to see, but not knowing how she knew.

It was…

Instinct. The ghosts travelled as one, a vast distance, taken in a heartbeat in the way of this world, where time lost some of its meaning.

Towards the shores.

Yet—the wrong shores. Califor noticed it, as did the other [Witches]. Somilune, Califor, even a few other ghosts slowed.

“This is not the same shore as before. Where are we?”

“East. East—”

Some ghosts were along the south of Chandrar. Califor looked at the other Witches.

“Naught lies those ways. If it came from Terandria, or Baleros, or Izril, Wistram—anywhere else. It would be the north and west. East, for the very edges of Izril, perhaps. But…”

“Some things lie to the south and east. Old, dead places. Sunken land. Yes, though…little. Perhaps Rhir?”

A voice. The other ghosts looked up and beheld a vast, winged form.

Xarkouth. The Dragonlord of the Void. He folded his wings, ready to breathe the element of the void itself in defense of all there. He glanced up, nodding at the Giant holding the umbrella, a [Queen] armed with the sword that shone even here.

Yet…

A Wyrm who had traveled far scoffed at the Void dragon.

“Do you forget basic geography, oh wise Dragonlord? Rhir lies north. North and west of Chandrar!”

Xarkouth stared at Rhisveri’s brother steadily. Until the Wyrm’s sneering look grew contemptuous. The Dragon spoke for all present, though some ghosts knew what he would say already.

“Rhir can be reached from the south. From every direction, if you fly and know the shape of all. Though the route is treacherous and you must skirt the place where even Dragons do not fly.”

“South? That is impossible. To the south lies only…”

The Wyrm trailed off. Califor nodded. She adjusted her hat as another secret of this world was revealed. Too late.

Erin saw the ghosts whispering and looked about.

“What are we looking at? Califor? Khelta?”

The [Necromancer]-[Queen] stared east.

“I can think of only one thing. It runs this world’s seam. The place where water ends. The place no one dares go, where magic twists and Dragons do not fly.”

Gerial whispered.

“The place where worse than Demons lie.”

Erin looked around. Then ahead. Towards the horizon, that flat, perfect line across the world…or did it curve? You couldn’t tell the distance. But at the edge, unlike Earth—lay an end to it all. They called it…

The Last Tide.

The end of the world. How it had been, for all of living memory. But not all of dead memory. And now…and now…

——

The five felt it. They drifted across the ocean, further than the ghosts hiding at the borders of their land.

“It cannot be. You said it was dead.”

They were bickering. The two, the huntress and dancing man, defended themselves.

“We saw it fall.”

“It must be dead. Even it.”

“If it is not? It is not of us. Norechl—”

“Shh!”

That name, like a drop of black ink in a glass of water…

Spread. Across the void. The five hushed. They looked at each other and felt it. They drifted further.

No matter where you went, you would eventually find it. The end of the world. So the ghosts looked, straining their eyes. Staring ahead.

For what? They did not know, only that it was there.

From Baleros to Terandria. The ghosts looked into the void. From Drath. Ghosts and dead things. Staring…staring…waiting.

But not for long.

It.

Was.

Time.

——

Then Erin saw it. At first, she didn’t believe it. Like a trick of the eyes, or the light. Yet there was no light or eyes to trick that far away.

“Does…does anyone see that?”

She pointed. The ghosts were silent. Nerrhavia whispered.

“I see it. I see…a face.”

Xarkouth’s wings flapped. He inhaled—hesitated, and then swallowed the fire. For they were so far.

“That—that is not a face. That is a head.”

The Wyrm’s eyes opened wide.

“That is no head. Is it a body?”

Gerial was shuddering.

“Is it alive? What—what is—it’s an Old One.”

Khelta gripped the memory of a weapon in her hand.

“No. That is not an Old One.”

Cawe was shivering so hard she couldn’t speak, but Elucina, the Rebel of String, murmured.

“It looks like A’ctelios—”

“No.”

Again, a voice spoke, and it was one of the [Witches]. She turned her head.

“That is not A’ctelios Salash. But it comes from the same place. It is no Old One. They are those that survive in the deeps. This is a thing Drath hunts. This—is what should not be.”

“They walk the world’s seam.”

Someone whispered. A rhyme meant for…a verse from the edge of the world. All the ghosts stared ahead. Then someone else spoke. The Sage of a Hundred Thousand Secrets.

“Those are the things that must never reach land. They are hunted from Cenidau to Drath. Yet they are killed. How…how does this come to this land?”

No one had an answer. Erin was shivering. She saw Gerial try to put an arm around Cawe. She looked at the umbrella for reassurance. Then—as her head swiveled across that distant horizon—she inhaled. There was no breath to catch, but Erin froze.

“There’s another one.”

Every ghost looked left. A ghost of a warrior uttered a soft oath.

“No.”

“This is impossible. Those are not…not…”

Queen Merindue hugged herself. The Queen of Nerrhavia’s Fallen stared ahead.

“Those are not ghosts.”

They were not. Such things left no ghosts. They should not have life.

Perhaps they didn’t. Perhaps that was why they came. But how? Why now?

There were places even Dragons did not fly. Places [Sailors] never went. A span where even ghosts did not walk.

From that edge of nothingness, that foreign zone…they came.

First one.

Then two.

Then…more.

They were rising across the horizon. Such that, even from afar, you could see them. Lesser and greater—but only the worst of them could climb…

“What has Norechl done?”

Tamaroth was the first to speak. His eyes were wide. Even he—even the five were frozen with the sheer horror of it.

This was beyond madness. Why did they come? This was a suicide for them, surely.

The question had a simple answer. They saw it coming. Striding across the water.

It had no face.

It had no real shape.

It had no identity, but it was.

Like them. But not.

Norechl. It was smiling.

God of the Lost. First of Nothing.

“You! What have you done?”

It was laughing. Kasigna raged, but Norechl laughed. And now they saw it. The countless shapes rising from that forbidden deep carved out of the world. The things that should never walk under sun.

They were following Norechl. It had fallen down.

Fallen over the edge.

Suicide for any but it. Somehow—it had survived down there. And it, it—that demented, twisted thing—

Had led them up.

Not just up. Not just convinced them to follow it—no, they were hunting, greedily following it—

Norechl had led them here. Out of where they should have appeared. An impossibility for any but them. After all…

It was only a matter of perspective.

They came. Too many to count, rising from every direction. To Terandria’s north. To Izril and Chandrar’s east, and Chandrar’s south. To the west of Baleros. From Rhir. Across from Drath…too many to stop.

In the lands of the dead. An army to break any stronghold. A gambit that would end all. The five. Norechl itself.

Ghosts.

Creation.

So nothing laughed. The Furthest Traveller brought ruin. The ghosts stared at what slowly pulled itself up. They rested there. Some fought each other. Most were so tired. It had been a long, long…climb.

Some had even gotten…

Lost.

Yet they sensed what lay ahead and came forwards greedily. Slowly. Towards the ghosts.

“This is the end.”

Khelta broke the long silence. Erin Solstice jerked her head away. The ghosts stirred.

They had been staring, watching the figures coming up. How long? None of them knew. Only that now—now—they turned away from that sight. Towards Khelta.

“This is the end. We must move. That will not be stopped with light and a single blade alone. To Khelt! To arms! This is the end of everything! To me, ghosts of Chandrar!”

The [Necromancer] howled, and suddenly every shape was in motion. They fled the shores. The Giants stomped away from their watch. It was time. It was too late.

It was—

——

The ghosts found the King of Khelt pacing about. Eighteen rulers and a young woman descended around him, as the other ghosts made plans, babbled, and a Dragonlord took flight. Surely the others had seen it.

They had time. Time—that army advanced slowly, but this was it. So Khelta shouted.

“Fetohep of Khelt! You must awaken Erin! You must hasten the completion of the ritual at any cost! Fetohep, the enemy has made its move and time has run out!”

All the ghosts shouted at him. The undead king jerked. He spun around.

“Great Khelta? What is happening? Is Erin Solstice alive? Where have you been?”

“Alive? No. We have seen the enemy. It moves! They come from beyond the edge! Fetohep—”

The [King] glanced around, patently bewildered. Erin flew about the capital and hesitated. She looked around, zoomed through the palace. Something was…

Wait.

Where were all the rooms filled with the research? Those poor, frozen bodies? She could only see the world as it was, the objects, not the people. But—but—

“Wait. Wait. That’s not—”

She flew out to the ritual and saw the [Mages] standing there. Staring down. Erin flew towards the palace and heard Fetohep’s voice.

“Great Khelta. Wait. Explain.”

“There is no time! We must move! There is not time to waste!”

“Time. I thought you had already—Khelta. Where have you been?”

At last, the tone of Fetohep’s voice made the ghosts pause. Serept, Xierca, Khelta looked around. And they realized what Erin had.

Something had…changed. The throne room was configured differently, which wasn’t a huge surprise. Things came and went. But—Erin couldn’t find the laboratories. She stared out the window.

“That building wasn’t there before.”

Khelta looked about.

“Fetohep? How long…we went to the coast to see…how long has it been?”

The king stared up towards the empty air. His golden eyes flickered with uncertainty.

“It has been one month since I last communicated with you.”

Erin Solstice looked at the ghosts. They turned. Looking at each other, then towards that horizon. Khelta’s lips moved. Then she looked at Erin. The [Innkeeper] saw the ruler exhale slightly.

“Then it is beyond time. Erin Solstice.”

She reached out and took the [Innkeeper]’s hands.

“Let us go.”

So slowly, slowly, they went to see how it would all end.

8.62 K

[No Killing Goblins, a The Wandering Inn podcast by Oshi and Dragonus, has released it’s 10th episode! Check it out here and consider leaving a like, comment, or whatnot!]

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“Do you know why Orthenon was never one of my Seven?”

Trey Atwood looked up, but just for a moment. He flicked his gaze up into that smiling face, eternally too youthful, despite the creaselines amid the red-gold hair. Dancing green eyes, like whenever he had some ploy.

A giant man, at least compared to the young man less than half his age. Thick arms and callused fingers currently holding a tiny piece of marble carved to look like a little Lizardperson riding a…heron. A literal bird.

Since this was the knight piece in their game of chess, Trey Atwood kept watching the chessboard. Not least because Flos Reimarch, the legendary King of Destruction, had twice tried to switch pieces while Trey was distracted or using the loo.

That was him to a tee; he tried childish gambits, lost his temper, and got visibly frustrated when playing games where he felt he should be winning. Video games, that was.

He was a proper sportsman in games of skill—or rather, what he considered to be games of skill. He would happily kick about a soccer ball and laugh no matter if he lost.

Chess now…Trey didn’t respond, so Flos coughed.

“Orthenon?”

“Hm? Oh—I, uh, don’t know. Did you tell me? Was it because he refused?”

Flos stroked his clean-shaven chin, smiling as he watched Trey push a pawn forwards. He placed his knight with a chortle, and Trey took it in a fork maneuver where he threatened the king and knight at the same time.

“Check.”

The King of Destruction’s face went flat. Trey tried not to laugh. Flos had only been holding the knight for the last minute. But Flos just folded his arms and sighed loudly.

“I truly detest this game. [Strategists] level playing it? If I could gain one level as [King] for a thousand games…”

He hesitated and sighed louder.

“…I suppose I would make it my passion. You know, I played the Titan of Baleros, once.”

Trey looked up.

“Really? I thought you and he…”

Flos’ smile changed. That was one of the interesting things about him. You could read his smiles like a book, and often his face as well, but he had as many smiles as a library had stories.

This one was rueful. For a second, something sparked behind it, a sharp glitter, but he gave Trey a calm smile that told the young man he would only get the part of this tale Flos wanted to tell.

“He visited me during my slumber. The audacity of it was enough to make me curious. We spoke—I confess, I tried far harder then than I do now. Thinking, overthinking…but I dislike these games.”

“Why?”

Flos waved an idle hand at the board, poking pawns and other pieces dismissively. He moved a bishop over and took one of Trey’s pawns.

“There’s no fun in a game a Golem could win every time. You told me that’s what chess is, isn’t it?”

“A solved game? Yes, but people still love it.”

The King of Destruction rolled his eyes. He looked around, and Trey leaned back in his chair.

The sky was still cold and dreary, but no snow fell in Reim. Winter was ending, and Flos was planning his next moves—but the truth was, this was a break between wars. Trey had expected the King of Destruction to be antsy, and he was in some moments. However, he did know how to relax.

Teres and Orthenon were engaged in a spirited duel with actual blades. Trey used to watch anxiously, but the [Ruinbringer Steward] was too good for Teres to touch, and she was proficient herself with the blade by now. Besides which, they were both attacking the third member of the duel, Mars. She was laughing merrily and holding both off, using a shield while each took a single sword.

Gazi Pathseeker sat in the courtyard, above the others. She was sitting in a tree, branches currently barren, one eye on the fighting, another skimming around for spies or assassins, and two of the smaller ones on Trey and Flos. The young man shivered and pulled up the fur coat Flos had gifted him. The King of Destruction looked around and shook his head.

“In every world. In ours, with magic and great beasts and dreams, and yours of machinery and technology and electricity, people still play such a simple, solved game.”

Trey nodded reasonably, but he felt compelled to defend the world’s most popular board game.

“But the skill and expertise required means that no person can ever win every game. Surely that counts for something.”

The King of Destruction shrugged moodily.

“It does, it does. I just prefer games with more variety. I feel as though the problem is…”

He searched for words, snapping his fingers lightly. Orthenon and Mars both glanced over at him, and Teres lunged for Mars’ stomach. The tip of her sword shot towards Mars’ bare flesh—or the illusion of it—

Venith Crusland, Maresar, and Calac Crusland appeared with hot drinks and food for an outdoor lunch. Calac was as stiff as a board as he bowed; Venith nodded to Flos, and Maresar stopped to grin at Teres; she was in a headlock, and Mars was messing up her hair and laughing as Teres protested loudly.

Flos finished his thought, waving with a smile to the others. More were coming, from Parasol Stroll to the Serpent Hunters; like other times, it was becoming a festival of his vassals. But he didn’t rise just yet.

“…a game which has no elements of luck, out-thinking the opponent, doesn’t appeal to me as much. Of course, Trey, before you speak, such elements exist. But the moment you told me a machine-thing could beat any person by the superiority of knowledge? I lost my interest.”

He shrugged his big shoulders. Trey sighed. He peeked at Flos, eyed the board, counted his pieces, and replied with a deliberately straight face.

“I just feel as though you’re saying all this because I’m going to win three games in a row, Your Majesty.”

Flos’ face went slack for a moment. Venith gave Trey a sharp, amused glance, if somewhat scandalized. Calac stared at Trey with a look of offended horror.

The King of Destruction started laughing. As Trey knew he would. He threw his head back, guffawed, slapped his chest and the table—sending the pieces scattering—and Trey sighed, because that was probably deliberate. But he did laugh in an infectious way.

“Ah, enough, enough! You’ve beaten me; I’m too simple for you, Trey, and you have travelling to do within the hour. But let us go back to Orthenon.”

To Trey’s surprise, Flos didn’t call the steward over. He and Trey ate at the table alone while the Cruslands dined, and Calac instantly went over to beg a duel of Mars. It seemed Flos really did want to tell Trey. He sat there, sipping at a hot tea with Trey, and looked into the middle distance. Flat Chandrar, dry Chandrar, stretched outwards, and Trey stared with Flos. There was still something hypnotizing about it. The feeling of endless space—and pockets of surpassing beauty and magnificence.

Like Khelt. Like Ger, and Reim, for that matter. Great beauty, great tragedy.

Great war. Flos looked at Orthenon.

“He is their match in levels. In wits. People call him my left hand, and they might as well call him my right hand too. You see how he can take over running my kingdom, and manages so much I do not?”

Trey nodded. Flos glanced at Orthenon.

“A surpassing [Steward]. But not one of my Seven. Do you understand why?”

Trey didn’t. He glanced at Orthenon, who had indeed arranged food for lunch and Flos’ schedule, was overseeing the training of [Soldiers], distributions of supplies—even with underlings, an incredible task—and had even sourced transport and Trey’s gifts. Although, Trey had come up with the items themselves. Flos nodded, smiling at Trey.

“…The answer, Trey, is because Orthenon—by his own admission—does not do or add much that I could not do.”

He instantly clarified as Trey gave the [King] a dubious look.

“Make no mistake! He is far more capable of patience, organization, and whatnot than I. But…he is not one of my Seven. Consider our game of chess. Drevish would have loved it.”

Flos sighed with true melancholy. Trey thought of the [Architect]’s head and shuddered, but he hadn’t known Drevish. Flos had told him stories of the cantankerous old genius. Now—Flos told him another.

“Drevish was truly unlike me. All of my Seven are or were. They thought in ways I could not. Orthenon? He grew up in Drath, you know, but we’re a bit too alike. The others now…each one has an insight I lack.”

“Even Mars?”

Flos laughed so hard he wheezed. Mars looked up as Flos pointed at her.

“Mars! Mars, Trey just said—no, don’t come over! I’ll tell you later! Wonderful, Trey. But yes! Mars has an insight into war and battle I cannot have, for all my conquests and strife. She has faced armies alone, slain every variety of monster—they were all like that. Drevish loved architecture. This twisted game of logic would appeal to him greatly. I can just picture him forcing us to play endless games, or making one of those giant chess-boards.”

He shuddered at the thought. Trey saw Flos’ smile twist into melancholy again, but Flos spread his hands across the stone railings of the courtyard; it overlooked much of Reim’s city. He touched the weathered stone, which Drevish had probably laid himself.

“…I met him during the middle of my wars of conquest. Back then, I had one main army, not armies, and led them myself. I remember we took an extraordinarily tough keep; it was on a huge incline, and the bastards kept opening gates that sent boulders crashing down towards us. I didn’t think much of it except to admire the design, but the next fortification we came to was a tower. It was just luck that Orthenon insisted on taking it; the entire damn thing collapsed when he was almost at the top. He broke a leg, and we lost some of our finest vanguards.”

Trey listened as Flos recounted the tale. The [King] frowned, gripping the stone angrily, but then gently, checking his strength.

“That was the worst direct casualties, but I kept running into more and more oddly-designed defenses. Sometimes quick alterations, sometimes month-long fortifications. Someone was selling their genius for almost nothing to my enemies. I was putting Gazi on finding whomever it was because I was getting tired of it all when Drevish asked to meet me one day. He came up to me, as bold as you like, and told me he’d had his fill of counter-levelling. He had a lot of projects no one was willing to fund. If I gave him gold and supplies and capable staff—he would design my wonders.”

The young man nodded. It was like many of Flos’ stories about meeting his best vassals. He beat them in combat, liberated them, or won their respect.

“So you hired him?”

Flos snorted.

“After eight months of running into his designs? I broke four of his teeth and tossed him in the dungeon myself! He could be the most insufferable…no, wait. Amerys could also be just as bad. Orthenon’s stubborn as two mules’ asses, and the temper on Queravia. Tottenval and his damn pranks…Gazi won’t leave you alone, and Mars when she drinks…then there’s Venith…”

He started muttering, trying to rank his vassals on levels of aggravation. Flos turned to Trey and shrugged.

“I needed him. We reconciled after two years; remember, he was not Drevish of the Seven then, just one of the most talented [Architects] I knew. That’s a story for a later time. But I needed him, Trey. He saw the world in ways most of my other Seven did not. Organization. Logistics. Orthenon can create a supply line a thousand miles long. Drevish? He would hear about your industry, your manufacturing and factories, and change all of Chandrar. That was his genius.”

Into the middle horizon Flos’ gaze strode, and Trey didn’t know what to say, exactly. So he said nothing. He was learning Flos, even if they disagreed harshly.

“…So that is why I need Amerys back.”

Flos got to the main point, abruptly, but as Trey knew he would when he started a story like that. He looked at Trey. The young man hesitated.

“Do you have a plan?”

The King of Destruction frowned. Tap, tap, tap went his fingers on the stone.

“I am beginning to. The problem is my plans are not Queravia’s…or Drevish’s. Nor do I like Orthenon’s, Gazi’s, or my other vassals’. And yes, that includes Mars. Whose plan was terrible.”

He looked ahead.

“I have one. But it depends on certain factors. I am pleased by some things, though. Tell me about your trip. Is all ready? Do you require anything else?”

Trey gave Flos a blank stare, because at the time it seemed like Flos was jumping from train-of-thought to train-of-thought. Trey instantly shook his head.

“I have everything.”

“…Do you want the damned chessboard? I feel as though I’ll break another one, and it is quite a good set.”

The young man hid a smile.

“I don’t need one, Flos. Both Fetohep and the Quarass have their own. Not that we’ll play chess.”

“No?”

Trey shrugged self-consciously.

“I can never beat them, so we don’t play.”

Flos eyed Trey knowingly. Trey was a bit put out since he did like a good game of chess, and losing twenty times in a row—every game of chess he had ever played with Fetohep—stung.

But what were you supposed to do? An immortal king with patience and as much time as he wanted to perfect any game, and a reincarnating Quarass with the combined experience of countless lives?

“There’s real geniuses. Why did you never ask one of them to be your Seven? They’re not like you at all.”

Flos snorted.

“Work with that insufferable bag of skin and bones? The Quarass—perhaps, but recall that the last two were different. They needed me less. The first was a practical Quarass. She aided me, took what I offered, and maintained her kingdom. The second was a matricidal fool who hated me like fire. This one…”

He sighed.

“The Quarass always wants something. The problem is, she almost always wants to protect Ger. So motivating her is difficult, and threats are very unwise since the Quarass will remember them. They are intelligent. But you…tell me. What did you bring them?”

He looked at Trey, and his gaze, from amused to nostalgic, focused on Trey’s face.

——

Trey Atwood didn’t notice the [King]’s interest, or if he did, he thought it was no different than normal. He self-consciously brushed at his dark hair and coughed.

Unlike Teresa, he wasn’t weathering, developing the warrior’s walk, or changing as visibly. He still looked a bit gangly and out of place…a bit lost amidst giants.

Yet he was visiting both rulers; Fetohep of Khelt himself had offered Trey free visitation, a right notably not extended to anyone else in the courtyard. Of Flos’ vassals…the King looked at Trey.

Only Tottenval and Drevish had ever earned that right, even in Reim’s greatest hour of might. As for the Quarass? She was inscrutable, but she too asked for Trey.

Because he could be charming. He was disarmingly charming, in fact. Likable. Not for humility alone, because he had a ‘selfie’ of Fetohep of Khelt, the first picture of the undead king ever. Which, yes, was a low bar to set…but he had something else.

So Flos listened as Trey counted on his fingers.

“I brought two books for the Quarass from the libraries, with Orthenon’s permission. Um, a bag of holding with some of the garden’s supplies—again for her, and for Fetohep, I brought one of the meringues—but frozen so it holds its shape sort of. We’re going there first so it should fit. And, um, uh…”

He hesitated, and Flos prodded him.

“Go on. I’ll just ask Orthenon. It can’t be too embarrassing, can it?”

He genuinely didn’t know. Trey squirmed, scratching at one leg with the other.

“A, uh, painting of you, Your Majesty. Not one of the good ones.”

Flos blinked. He hadn’t actually known what Trey had gotten for both rulers. He repeated Trey’s words slowly.

“You…are giving Fetohep of Khelt…a picture of me? Could you tell me why these four gifts? Why…why?”

And that was the thing that fascinated him. Trey looked embarrassed, perhaps nervous Flos would be angry, but when he spoke, it fascinated Flos, so the King of Destruction listened in rare silence.

“Well, they’re things they would want. I think, at least. I hope one of them will make them smile.”

“A picture of me. Fetohep. Has someone cast [Confusion] on me?”

Flos rubbed at one ear, but only to pretend. He saw Trey smile and duck his head, but Flos watched his eyes. He…knew what he was doing.

“It’s nothing they asked for—not exactly. The Quarass likes books, and she mentioned you had some from, uh, conquered countries, and I said I could bring a few. So that’s simple.”

“Why seeds from the garden? Or produce?”

Trey shrugged.

“Ger doesn’t have bountiful fields. Some of the things were from Tottenval’s era, weren’t they?”

Flos felt a pang, but he answered quietly.

“Yes. So for her fields.”

“She loves Germina. Anything for Germina makes the Quarass happy.”

“Not cakes, then? Not a bounty of sweets? The [Chefs] could make a hundred cakes. Why for Fetohep—who does not eat—and not the Quarass?”

Flos thought he had an inkling, but he saw Trey give him a blank look, and the [King]’s heart leapt. Because…Trey understood.

“The Quarass wouldn’t want a hundred cakes, even if I could bring them, Your Majesty, Flos. She can’t share a hundred cakes in her capital. Seeds…cuttings…”

“Of course. And Fetohep? A meringue and painting?”

Trey folded his hands behind his back and tried to look innocent.

“Um…he might burn the painting. Or, uh…uh…”

“Out with it.”

“I mentioned darts, and he said he had a magical set. But we had to leave, and I’m sure he’s set up some to play, so if I brought a target he enjoyed—”

The King of Destruction laughed so hard he thought he’d crack a rib. He slapped Trey on the shoulder, delighted, and caught the young man before he went over the balcony.

“Trey Atwood! You make me laugh too much! Go on, go on! The meringue thing? Why?”

Like someone watching a [Magician], he turned to Trey. The others were watching enviously or curiously, but Trey didn’t notice. He just swept back his hair with a hand, looking modestly pleased himself.

“It’s because it’s a good meringue, Flos. But, um…it’s a complex treat.”

“Yes, the [Chefs] had a devilish time figuring it out from your recollections. So why…? Ah.”

The young man nodded.

“Fetohep will want to take it and prove his [Chefs] can do better. No offense to Chef Yerinse, but…he will probably have a lot made, and it’ll be the talk of Khelt.”

“Of course. Prove Khelt’s superiority. You have thought through each and every gift. I imagine you even have an idea how to keep them entertained.”

Flos gave Trey a huge smile, and he watched as the young man tried to brush it off, blushing. But he, like the Quarass, remembered that, and a little idea began to hatch in Flos’ head. Naturally, it required time. And Gazi had her own ideas, but when she laid it out for him—

He knew who to pick. Of course, it wasn’t that simple. Cunning plans never were. You had to work hard at it. Too hard, like true games of chess, and he would have rather relaxed. But plans…

Trey could make plans.

——

Months later, Trey Atwood wondered if Flos Reimarch had been planning this all along.

If so—Flos could have done a better job of it.

But hadn’t Gazi had a hand in this plan? If so—Trey had to believe in her, although if her plan was working, she was, right now, sitting underwater, tickling fishes, and she had been for at least a week.

No…he hesitated. No, how long exactly had she said she would take to follow them? It didn’t really matter.

They were not busting out Amerys right now. He had no idea where she was.

It was his second week of being at Wistram. Trey knocked on the door as he stood in the near-empty hallway, shifting from foot to foot and trying not to look suspicious.

Students went to each other’s rooms all the time. If anything, this was normal. If anything, Trey being nervous sold the scene: someone would suspect he was going to partake in semi-frowned upon Dreamleaf. Or a romantic escapade.

Given the owner of the room, Trey hoped for nothing of the sort. Indeed, a moment later Calac Crusland, or ‘Carn Thustone’ as he was known here, opened the door.

“Hello, Troy Atlas. Would you like to come in for our studying of spells?”

The young man intoned with such a painful deadpan that Trey quickly shoved him inside the room. A little Lifesand Golem, Minizi, poked her head out of the hood of his robes as he hissed at Calac.

“You suck at acting!”

Calac instantly dropped his deadpan look and glared back at Trey.

“I don’t have the class!”

“You don’t need a class to be halfway decent! Are we secure?”

The other young man nodded. He pulled out a gleaming runestone and showed it to Trey.

“I check every night that the wardstones are working.”

“Just don’t show them around.”

Calac rolled his eyes. He was not Trey’s preferred backup and co-conspirator. Trey didn’t know Calac that well, but he remembered him from Venith and the first days of Flos’ campaign. Calac was hotheaded, impulsive, unlike his father and mother, who…no, he was sort of like Venith in that sense.

The difference was that Venith had been rightfully angry at Flos, and when he got angry, it was with genuine exasperation.

Calac was just angry. He had a darker skin tone that was a mix of his father’s and mother’s, and he had certainly inherited his parents’ gifts for combat. He was good with a sword, enough to be part of Wistram’s club of weapon-using [Mages] already, could ride, shoot a bow…and he had a chip on his shoulder the size of Reim’s palace.

He had dark hair and pale, off-white eyes that were faintly yellow. However, what always stood out to Trey was Calac’s scowl. In most of their interactions he would be scowling at Trey and Teres, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out why.

They were the King of Destruction’s companions. Calac was not. He was semi-disgraced in his own eyes—or perhaps his parents’—for once interfering in the duel between Venith and the King of Destruction. He…hadn’t proven himself.

This was his chance, but Trey still would have taken Teres. She was like Calac in some ways, though both would have resented the comparison, but she was his sister. You had to put up with family.

“I am a [Lord] of Hellios. It makes sense I would have anti-listening runestones. Just maintain your cover. You’re the one hanging out with your kind.”

“You mean, Earthers? Afraid I’ll turn on you?”

Calac stopped halfway over to the map of Wistram he was drawing. Which was a stupid idea because entire hallways could change location—but he had still made one, and drawn huge red X’s to mark where they’d searched. Which was another bad idea because they didn’t need to find Amerys like a needle in a haystack, they just needed to ask someone where she was.

The young Crusland pivoted slowly, hand going to the sword that hung at his belt.

“You had better not even joke about that. My father and mother and the [King] trust you. If you betray us all, you’ll condemn—”

“It’s a joke.”

It hadn’t really been, but Trey snapped and Calac shut up. The two young men glared at each other. After a second, Calac pointed at the map.

“We don’t know where she is. Have you been asking? Even hinting? I brought it up—”

“You’re too obvious. You can’t just ask someone where Amerys is!”

Calac snapped back.

“Why not? You’re too afraid to ask anyone a single question! It’s a fair thing to ask —where one of the Archmages is!”

“Just about her? ‘Oh, look at me, I’m Carn from Hellios, which isn’t at all near Reim. Anyone know where Amerys is?’”

Trey lowered his voice and parodied Carn’s rough tone. Calac turned red.

“We are on a schedule. Lady Pathseeker should be in position, which means we have to hurry—”

“We’re on a mission not to get caught!”

Minizi climbed out of Trey’s hood. He caught her before she fell—not that it would hurt the Lifesand Golem, she’d just ‘bruise’ and reform her head, but he still felt bad when he saw it—and he and Calac began to argue harder. Trey’s stomach hurt.

Go to Wistram, Trey. Take Calac. I can’t send any artifacts or they’d notice. I have faith in you. Just like I have faith in the Quarass to cut your throat. Also, can you pay a visit to A’ctelios to heal Gazi?

Fucking Flos.

——

“Get off! Get—[Light Arrow]!”

“Damn you!”

Minizi slowly ate a half-rotten slice of apple. Since she had no stomach, it just sank into her body, and she pulled it out, looking disappointed.

She was bigger, now, having been fed on milk, honey…metaphorically. More like Trey’s blood and sand for three weeks. She sat on the table since she had been told not to interfere, and watched as the two young men rolled about on the floor, throwing punches—and spells.

Calac threw punches. Trey ate punches, and threw spells since the other young man had him in height, experience, and muscle.

Magic was the great equalizer. In theory.

In practice, trying to fast-cast a spell while someone punched you in the face didn’t work. Even with Gazi’s training, Trey got the worst of it. Calac pulled a punch as he sat on Trey’s stomach, raising a bloody knuckle. They were both angry, stressed, with no real progress, and they kept saying things they regretted.

Then Minizi decided enough was enough—or she wanted some of that sweet, sweet Trey-blood—and she leapt on Calac’s back. Which wasn’t really a problem because she was only twice as tall as a big cup.

The problem was she had his apple-knife and she’d been learning how to stab rats.

——

It was very late at night, and Trey knew he was waking Calac up because the young man took a while to open the door. He probably hadn’t expected Trey; they’d agreed not to meet until one of them found something conclusive.

Since he had, Trey didn’t beat about the brush.

“Alright. I’ve found out Amerys is in Wistram. I even think we might be able to get a visit with her. Grand Magus Eldavin’s gaining in power.”

Calac looked up. The first flash of hope entered his face. He hesitated and put a hand on Trey’s shoulder.

“Good work.”

He smiled. Trey looked at him and glanced over his shoulder. He saw Calac’s map of Wistram—which had gone through about twenty one revisions before being scrapped—had been replaced by a map of the war in Reim with the King of Destruction. Calac was plotting a slow course of Reim’s advances and retreats.

But he had two pins which were in gold. They were fairly close to each other, and Trey looked at them and thought about what they might mean after he caught Calac up on the mysterious Eldavin who’d just blasted through the banquet hall.

Of course. His mother and father were fighting on the front. And here he was. Trey felt a pang and thought of Teres. They had both watched the Minotaurs beat Flos. Neither one said it, but…he decided to be nicer to Calac. If possible.

——

Four days later, Trey regretted trying to be nicer to Calac. The young man’s scowl was met with Trey’s weary one. Calac held up the diagram.

“Explain it to me again.”

“Calac…”

“Call me Carn. We can’t slip up, remember?”

Trey rubbed at his face. Minizi passed him a cloth, and he wiped his face…and realized it was the inkrag. Trey closed his eyes.

“Carn. It’s past midnight. We have class tomorrow! This isn’t part of the—the plan! Grand Magus Eldavin has a lecture!”

“On history. Teach me how to do the basic mana…projection again. I can’t master it.”

“You’re a first-year student. No one has to master it.”

Trey rubbed at his eyes and got ink in them. He cursed, and Calac handed him a water flask. He didn’t look any more energetic. Trey happened to know he woke at dawn to practice with his sword, and apparently had a few admirers—but he was insistent. Calac spoke around a jaw-cracking yawn.

Trey noticed his plain room had gained some decorations. Calac had a military-style setup with a chest containing his gear, his armor and sword laid out, polishing kits, and that map of Reim, but he’d started adding fresheners, and it seemed like he had begun sweeping up. Trey glanced around, frowning.

“Did you have company? It smells like perfume.”

Calac avoided his gaze.

“That’s private.”

“You did. What?”

The [Lord] flushed as if being found out were a huge source of embarrassment.

“It’s private. I don’t ask about your private matters. Don’t you have any common decency?”

He was quite different from the other young men Trey knew about. Intrigued, Trey yawned as Calac tried to master the basic spellcraft again.

“Nope. You’re still doing it wrong. Can’t we call it a day?”

Calac cursed.

“No! I can’t! Emirea can do this, and she’s eleven! So can Goelv and Tov!”

He named their friends. Goelv the Gazer boy. Emirea du Merrimom, the shy, young [Lady]. Tov, the Drowned Man who was half-slug.

“She had tutors. Goelv’s a Gazer, and uh…Tov’s from the Drowned Ships. You literally had no magic practice. I did.”

Calac just looked at Trey.

“I don’t want to fall so far behind that I can’t talk with them.”

It was such an honest, even quietly embarrassed statement that Trey stopped being grumpy and looked at Calac.

“I…didn’t think of that. Sorry.”

The [Lord] brushed it off, but he didn’t draw back. He was surprisingly genuine, and again—the fact that he was able to say that with a straight face outright was also different.

“It matters to me greatly. You seem surprised I want to learn magic. I do want to learn. The mission comes first, but my mother tells me a bit of magic is as handy as can be for a warrior. Even my father says he would have used some spells if he had the aptitude.”

“Venith said that?”

Trey was amazed. Calac shrugged, a bit self-consciously.

“They’re practical warriors.”

“I know. I just thought of Venith as not wanting to use magic. If they were fighting with swords…”

“Why? Magic is fair. Just like an arrow.”

“I just thought he’d not want to use any.”

Calac raised one eyebrow.

“Why? Oh…you’re thinking of Terandrian [Knights]. My father isn’t like that. He’s a warrior. A [Lord], but a warrior born. In battle, in war, there’s no way to duel like that.”

Trey was struck by his misconceptions. He ducked his head.

“I guess not. I’m sorry for assuming.”

Calac seemed on the verge of making a pithy comment, but then just sat down on his bed and tried casting again. Slowly. Trey showed him, and Calac struggled to copy it. He spoke as he practiced.

“We’re different, aren’t we? I realize that more and more. I spoke with one of the Earthers…George? He wanted to know how to use a sword.”

“Really?”

Trey saw Calac frown and bite his lip. Minizi tottered back to him with a wet rag. Trey picked it up, took one sniff, and handed it back.

“Minizi, you put alcohol on it. That’s Calac’s gin.”

“That’s a gift for one of my teachers!”

The Lifesand Golem trudged off. Everyone was a critic. Trey turned back to Calac.

“And? Did you teach him how to use it?”

Calac hesitated.

“He didn’t really want to learn. I just realized—you do come from a different place, don’t you? These Terandrians are like that too. I met someone who challenged me to a duel. He had a silver bell and a rapier. Charles de…something or other. I told him I didn’t duel for fun and he sneered at me.”

He must have learned his lesson after the magical dueling incident. Trey nodded slowly.

“That’s…”

Calac interrupted him.

“I didn’t finish. When I refused, he tried to provoke me with his sword.”

“Oh. Uh…”

Calac didn’t look hurt. The [Warrior] gave Trey a sideways grin.

“I kicked him in the groin and his friends accused me of cheating.”

Trey had to laugh at that.

“I think I know that guy. The Libertarians? Archmage Viltach’s people?”

“The same. They claimed I couldn’t use my feet or magic in a duel. Such strange Terandrians. And those Drakes! Messill can’t stand Lizardfolk. It’s…”

Calac stared ahead.

“Bothersome. Does it bother you? It reminds me of Garuda tribes not being allowed to camp near cities. Only, they don’t have reasons to fear thieves or anything like it here. It’s just Lizardfolk. Yet the Drakes can’t stand them, mostly.”

The [Sand Mage] nodded slowly. He watched Calac’s hands move and grabbed his shoulder.

“You had it! Wait—oh, sorry. Yes, it bothers me.”

The [Lord] had a pleased smile of triumph on his face. He relaxed suddenly and flopped back onto his bed. He looked at Trey.

“I will call that my victory. Thank you.”

Trey nodded. Still, he lingered since they were talking about something interesting, for once. Calac sat up.

“We are different, aren’t we? I didn’t realize how peaceful your world must be. George asked me if I had ever used my sword or killed someone. As if it were a question.”

Trey sombered. He twiddled his thumbs, not quite looking at Calac, and reached down. Minizi came up with a cloth dampened by water, and he dabbed at his face as she sat on the bed. Calac grimaced, but Trey assured him she wouldn’t leave sand.

“We are different. You know, most guys would tell everyone who they had over. People in Chandrar don’t do that?”

“People in Crusland land don’t do it. I don’t speak for Reim or Chandrar.”

“Right. Sorry. I just meant—”

Calac’s argumentative tone stopped suddenly. He raked fingers through his hair and looked embarrassed.

“I know. I am…different. My mother is Lady Maresar. You know her class, right?”

“Er, [Bandit Lord]?”

Calac nodded again.

“And my father is Lord Venith Crusland. I know I’ve been taught differently. Some things I learned my mother taught me are…different. Sometimes I wonder what other families must be like.”

He looked—not anguished, not sad or longing—but just curious. Trey raised his brows.

“I didn’t know my mother. Me and Teres are twins. Everyone’s different.”

Calac half-nodded.

“Yes…but having a mother who can be more of a man than my father is…odd. The first time I saw her use her Skill—the one which makes her look like a man? It was very strange.”

Trey tried to imagine that. He tried not to smile. Calac just gave him a look.

“Go ahead and laugh. She does. My mother is far too strange, and even I know it. My father? I can’t live up to my father.”

He sighed. Trey stopped smiling, guilty.

“I’m sure he appreciates—”

Calac’s weary look silenced the words coming out of Trey’s mouth.

“Don’t say it.”

So Trey didn’t. They passed a minute in silence, and Calac went on.

“My mother has peculiar notions of everything. Not necessarily right or wrong, but they confuse me greatly. You know that argument they had yesterday? Your Earthers and the Terandrians and Izrilians? Everyone got involved, but that one?”

Trey frowned.

“I don’t kn—oh, that one.”

The [Lord] gave Trey a meaningful look.

“Exactly so. It isn’t as…hugely problematic to Chandrar. There are no laws for or against it in Reim. A man doesn’t boast about his private life, anyways. My mother, on the other hand? She told me that, but for my father, she’d be flipping a coin and kissing whichever came first. Then she tried to give me advice on what to do from all four possible perspectives and…”

He saw Trey’s expression and nodded.

“That is my mother. Do you think it’s close to normal?”

Trey decided the best thing to do was get Minizi and go to sleep.

——

When did Calac Crusland become a friend? Trey wasn’t sure. It wasn’t the first month. Perhaps it started the second.

But it probably continued on these nights. Through arguments and surprising insights. Stories from home, encouragement, one helping the other, like Calac giving Trey food after the worms incident…not laughing…

It was pleasant, then. Although Trey did realize something. It was how odd Wistram was. Calac had his own opinions as a citizen of Reim who had grown up on stories of the King of Destruction from his people’s perspective.

To everyone else, they were stories.

“He’s back. Father says the King of Destruction is just a myth. I mean, he was. Mother said we didn’t talk about him—that was when he woke up! Is he real? Carn, Troy, you come from Chandrar. Did you ever hear about him?”

Emirea hugged Minizi as she looked at them, wide-eyed. ‘Carn’ and ‘Troy’ exchanged a slow glance.

“Hellios was conquered by Flos. So naturally I saw him. That is, I saw his armies. Never the man in person. But he did conquer Hellios. In a flash. We never stood a chance. Though we tried, honored be our stone halls.”

Trey didn’t wince; Calac was getting better. All of Goelv’s many eyes focused on Calac, and the Gazer sat forwards.

“Truly. Did you ever lay your eyes upon the one called Gazi?”

Tov, Astritha, Emirea, Trey, and Messill all looked at Calac. The young man hesitated.

“Not…up close.”

“But you did see her.”

Trey looked at Goelv. The full Gazer boy was fixed on Calac, so much so the young man froze up.

“Goelv. Goelv, you’re staring!”

Tov shook his shoulder, and Goelv’s eyes snapped away. Calac unfroze with a sigh as the lesser paralysis effect wore off. Goelv ducked his head, bending at the waist.

“I am very sorry, Carn. It just matters so much to me.”

“Do you like Gazi?”

One of Goelv’s eyes rotated in their sockets.

“She is the most famous Gazer. Half-Gazer. Even in the jungles, they tell stories of her. I…just wish to meet her.”

“Like meeting a story. Keep your eyes on the horizon and the tide, not on fables.”

Tov snorted. Goelv looked hurt, and the Drowned Man hesitated before making an odd sign. No one took it too seriously; you hurt each other’s feelings, coming from different and varied places.

Calac and Trey exchanged glances over their now almost nightly study sessions. He had to work harder than the others, while Trey had personal lessons from Eldavin and communicated them to the others, but each of them had an interesting thing to add.

Calac was the swordsman, who actually could tell you if someone could just duck or swat a [Fire Arrow] spell down with a gauntleted hand. Emirea was the gifted young [Lady] who helped them refine their basic spell theory. Goelv? Eye magic, so powerful in that he could cast spells just by looking. Tov had the Drowned People’s perspective and talked about magic he’d seen or theory even Wistram’s teachers—aside from Eldavin—found odd. And Trey had Eldavin’s magic, and his strange tutors.

“It’s a story to us.”

Astritha said reasonably. She was from Rhir, and less known to Trey, along with Messill, their Izrilian, but between them, every continent—and Earth—was represented. She was serious—often too serious—and was open about going back once she’d graduated to support the battle against the Demons.

Messill, the Drake, just yawned.

“It’s all hyperbole. Trust me—I actually think it’s Wistram’s fault. They cooked up the story of him. Yes, there was a [King]. There still is. But he’s not the only [King] out there, is he? Prove me wrong!”

He looked at Carn. The young man raised an eyebrow.

“He did conquer my homeland.”

“Yes, but if he’s so dangerous, why is he losing to a bunch of half-rate nations? Not yours, Carn, but the ones out there.”

Trey raised a hand. Calac just blinked at Messill.

“Half-rate…? You mean, like Nerrhavia’s Fallen?”

“Exactly. Never heard of it.”

“You mean…Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Half-rate?”

“You’re saying it like I’m wrong. Okay, how big are they?”

“…Bigger than all the Walled Cities’ controlled lands combined? Probably.”

Messill stared at Trey. He looked around, then threw his head back and laughed, albeit with a trace of uncertainty. He gestured with his claws to the others.

“See? This! This is what I’m talking about. There’s no way that’s true, Troy. Exaggeration. I know it’s big, but when they say ‘millions of [Soldiers]’ in an army, it’s an exaggeration of what actually happened. Exaggeration. Now, let’s go find a map and see how big this place really is. I’m sure it’s ‘big’, but…”

——

And then came the Djinni. Then…it was serious. They had known they were behind schedule, but they had been enjoying themselves.

Then—they made progress, and it stopped being a game again. Trey Atwood placed something down, and Calac just stared at it.

“You met Amerys.”

His eyes flickered up. Trey was pale, but smiling. He was trembling with nerves.

“I did.”

The [Lord] inhaled. He started and stopped half a dozen times.

“Did you say—what did—is sh—can we do it?”

Trey looked at Calac. A sand-eye poked over the lip of the table, and both looked around. Viltach had upgraded Minizi with Trey so that she was now three feet tall and tougher. She carried her mithril sword and looked up at them. Trey inhaled, and felt his heart beginning to race. He turned to Calac, and the [Lord] waited.

After so long—Trey looked at his friend. At the map, and the gold pins, all three of them, Maresar, Venith, and Teresa, at one space. Nerrhavia’s armies incoming. He thought of two conversations. When Flos Reimarch had approached Trey with his mad plan—and when Amerys had first met Troy Atlas.

Trey thought of the stakes, of Earth, the Earthers here. Wistram and their ambitions and how Wistram was. Eldavin. Teresa.

He looked Calac dead in the eye and shook his head, slowly.

“I don’t know. But we can gather the information and see what we’re up against. I know where it is—I saw as much as I could, and I’ll be back later. So…let’s get started.”

——

Archmage Amerys did exist. She was alive, and in Wistram.

After her long absence from the academy and the public eye despite the King of Destruction’s return, people were beginning to spread rumors that she had died, like Drevish, the Architect.

They didn’t know. Which amazed Trey; even in vaunted Wistram, rumors ran like water through the halls. Complete lies or misunderstanding where facts floated blissfully over people’s heads.

His pace was quite slow, which suited his companion. Also, Trey was able to ask questions and take his time. That would not be the case with the other two people who might have led him here. They were far, far more perceptive.

No…that was unfair. Trey glanced sideways at the portly [High Mage] who could be as spry as you wanted—in Mage’s Quest, the new magical-reality game Ullsinoi, Telim, and Aaron were pioneering.

Nor was he a bad man. If anything, he was Trey’s favorite [Mage] in Wistram, and that included Viltach, Eldavin, and all the others. Because Telim was splendidly uncomplicated when it came to morality. Not his interpersonal life, his mind—just the way he behaved. He didn’t do things he needed to give reasons for. Everyone else Trey had met, from his sister to Flos to the Quarass, Gazi…did.

Telim? He shuffled along amiably, his comfortable Super Silkworm robes swishing as he walked, a puff pastry filled with whipped cream in one hand. He offered one to Trey.

“Another?”

“Thank you, High Mage Telim.”

The man winked one bright orange eye at Trey and pulled another snack…out of his huge brown beard. He laughed hugely at Trey’s expression.

“Hah! Another one! You’ve never seen my beard-trick before? Tiny bag of holding. You pull it out—great party trick. Interferes with a regular one, obviously. Here.”

He showed Trey the little bag of holding buried in the nest of brown hair. Trey took the pastry, grinning ruefully.

“That’s amazing, High Mage.”

He chortled happily.

“You like it? I even made the Titan of Baleros laugh when I showed it to him. Back in the day—he was a Named Adventurer.”

“Wh—really?”

Telim’s eyes glittered. He kept walking through one of Wistram’s less-crowded hallways. He was a new member of the Terras faction, but Trey knew he was one of Wistram’s [Mages] for life.

“I met him. You’d be surprised how many people have visited Wistram, at least once. Him, Three-Color Stalker, monarchs—never the Blighted King or Queen, you understand. They seldom leave for fear of assassinations, but great heroes and people of stories have walked these halls. You came from Chandrar. What part, again?”

“Er…Hellios. Somewhere thereabouts.”

Trey carefully replied. They passed by one of the libraries, and he marked it. The Comfy Library. So named because it had the best couches. No big reason beyond that. You went here to read for a long time.

Telim was nodding happily. He peeked inside, waving at some students and [Mages] who glanced up and nodded to him. For a second, Trey looked inside and saw towering stacks of bookshelves.

This was a library that Alexandria would have coveted. In places, the book stacks rose so high that Trey guessed one stack held upwards of ten thousand books. Ridiculous architecture done, he suspected, purely because it could be done.

It was certainly inconvenient for the students, who filed the books everyone liked to use on the lower stacks. To get up that high, you had to know levitation, have one of the super-ladders and a head for heights, or [Light Bridge].

“You know, some [Aeromancers] and [Mages] love putting reading materials up there. Old Menisa—she passed nearly twelve years back, lovely woman—used to teach a class on telekinesis. You’d see poor students trying to pull books off the shelves each start of term. Alas.”

Telim sighed fondly. Trey eyed a Garuda calmly flapping upwards to return a book.

“What about Garuda?”

“Bastards. If I had wings…no, I’d probably walk. It looks so tiring!”

Telim’s laugh was nothing like Flos’ either. He had a huge belly laugh that was uncomplicated. Trey grinned with him. He rather admired Telim’s approach to life, which included raiding the buffet table without regard to anyone else’s desires.

This was Wistram. So, amid this vast library, Trey saw a Lizardgirl happily curled up on a splendid couch three times her size, reading a book on her back. He thought he might miss it when he left.

It was a strange feeling, to look at Wistram like a spy or infiltrator. Or…Trey swallowed hard and looked at Telim’s back.

An enemy.

He shook the feeling away. Not yet. They were close, Trey felt, to their destination, so he turned to Telim.

“Hellios, but I came south to get to Wistram. I was close to Nerrhavia’s Fallen a lot of the time. I didn’t know exactly where I was…”

Telim took it at face-value, without even apparently bothering to cast [Detect Truth]. Most [Mages] didn’t in casual conversation, although Trey was warded. He nodded as he chewed down another pastry.

“Earthers. Good that you landed there and not like the other poor children. Well, we’ve had quite a number of Nerrhavia’s Fallen’s nobility pass through. They have a competing academy—the Hundred Thousand Tomes—but they do come. I daresay every species but Fraerlings send their people here. I’m told…we’ve even had Goblins as guests in the past.”

“No.”

Trey glanced at Telim, shocked. The [High Mage] gave him another wink.

“Swear on my staff and balls. We even debated having Velan—before he became Goblin King. It was a vote on the floor of the Council—not that it had a chance of passing, but that was the feeling in the air. Monsters and heroes, Troy.”

That begged a question. They rounded a corner, went down a ramp, and Telim began checking the giant fresco on the wall. Trey’s instincts began to perk up. The fresco was of some raging war—and, with a chill, he realized it was of Crelers fighting people. A long war-mural that ended with them being pushed backwards.

“What about the King of Destruction?”

Telim slowed. His fingers traced across a hideous monster. Something bigger than an Adult Creler fighting a shining woman in armor. Trey had passed this wall before, but he hadn’t realized how detailed the [Artist] had been. There were even…names. He peered at the woman as Telim hesitated.

“Never him. I suppose that’s part of your enduring curiosity, eh? When he was strong—Amerys made overtures, but he scared us shitless. So no. After? Again, no. You know…you never did say why you wanted to meet her so badly. I never had the instinct. Nor is this permissible, and you are keeping this secret—even to the others.”

He turned a kindly eye to Trey, but a serious one. The young man hurriedly nodded.

“I know. Grand Magus Eldavin made sure I understood.”

Telim nodded.

“Very good. It’s not for the danger, as you’ll see. It’s more students. They’d come and try to talk to her, and rumors…well, Eldavin’s got the clout to authorize it. He’ll be an Archmage within the month, mark my words.”

Trey nodded. After so long—even Viltach had refused Trey’s requests. But one person had granted it, after looking Trey in the eyes and asking why.

“Why?”

The [Sand Mage] scrutinized the painting for a moment before answering, without looking directly at Telim. He made his voice as genuine as possible, which wasn’t hard. You lied with the truth. He stared at the woman. Was she…moving?

Very slowly? Yes. Telim saw Trey jerk back. He smiled.

“It moves, yes. You can see them fighting if you check back over the course of a week. I’m told it nearly killed the [Artist] because they had to redraw the mural…oh, countless times. Do you know who this is?”

Trey looked at the image.

“It says…‘Marquin the Radiant’. Where do I know that name?”

Telim grunted. He brushed at a bit of dirt on the mural and pointed at the woman battling the giant Creler.

“Your history lessons, probably. This is Marquin, the first [Queen] of Calanfer. One of the heroes of the Creler Wars. One of the ones who took the fight to Rhir. She was given Calanfer’s lands as part of her deeds. Imagine that; even if Terandria was partly in ruins. The Eternal Throne of Calanfer, the entire kingdom started because of one woman’s ability to kill Crelers. You had to admire that.”

Trey stared at the mural. Then glanced up at Telim. The [High Mage] was still watching him, and he was no fool. So Trey nodded.

“That’s why.”

“To meet a legend?”

The older man calmly took a bite of his snack. Trey met his gaze for a moment and slightly shook his head.

“No. Not just that. To see if she is one. I saw the King of Destruction’s return. I want to ask her a question.”

“Ahh.”

The [High Mage] nodded, exhaling in satisfaction. He patted Trey on the shoulder.

“You have seen things, my lad. You don’t talk of it, but I’ve seen that look before.”

Trey glanced up at Telim, and the older man’s face was full of kindness. He swallowed and saw Telim look at the line on his throat.

Lies and truth, blended so closely he couldn’t tell the mixture apart.

“Yes.”

“Then mark this well. Not that you can enter alone. But remember it; this is one of Wistram’s Hidden Hallways. One of six I know.”

Slowly, Telim reached into his pocket and drew something out of his robes. It was a key. Trey’s eyes locked on it. He saw the strange head, with no teeth like a regular key, but a spade-like design. Made of bright, clear stone, paler and lighter than a sapphire, that shimmered as Telim inserted it into the lock.

The lock, which was a tiny bit of space next to the first [Queen] of Calanfer’s head. Trey blinked. The hole hadn’t been there—Telim winked at him.

“Hidden Hallways. Spell phrases. Keys. Secret activation requirements like dancing naked under the moonlight.”

Trey smiled. Telim gave him an amused look. The young man wavered.

“Wait, that’s real?”

“You’ve clearly never met the more twisted [Mages] of Wistram. Give a high-level [Exhibitionist] enough levels in [Enchanter]…remind me never to show you how to get into that one.”

So saying, Telim twisted the key, and Trey opened his mouth to ask if they needed to keep this secret, because they were standing in a hallway, and a student could just walk by and—

Pop.

“Aaaaaaah!”

Telim nearly jumped out of his skin. He leapt back from Trey as the young man shouted.

“Dead gods, Troy! Don’t do that to me, lad! It’s just minor teleportation!”

“What—that didn’t feel minor!”

Trey felt at himself. Telim rubbed at his neck, removing the key from the wall and putting it in his pocket. He patted the engraved keyhole on the blank stone wall and shook his head.

“I forget you’re not used to it. I’m sorry. Well…here we are.”

They were on the other side of the wall. Trey looked around, still breathing hard. Then he stopped.

“Uh, High Mage?”

Telim looked around. He smiled at Trey’s expression and patted him on the shoulder.

“I told you. The issue’s not Amerys getting free. Although, frankly, I’m not getting into those politics. The Archmages are keeping her locked up…it’s not something I like. But at this point it’s somewhat inevitable. Amerys being Amerys…there’ll be blood if she gets loose. But it’ll be a vote or someone like Eldavin motioning to free her. Stay close to me and don’t do anything stupid.”

Trey stared up at the first layer of security, then at Telim. The [High Mage] looked up, slightly nervous despite his confidence they were safe. Both men stared up at the first Golem in the hidden area of Wistram.

The first Golem, about eighteen feet tall, with a huge, conical head with multiple eyes set in every direction, and six arms, like some mythical guardian of Greece. Each one holding an enchanted blade.

And there were two Golems. Telim nudged Trey.

“…And those aren’t even the ones in Zelkyr’s last test.”

“I didn’t know Wistram had Golems like—”

Trey didn’t take the Golems of Wistram for granted. Cognita—the serving Golems—he had definite feelings on them. But the biggest Golems who wandered the hallways were just made of clay, sand, steel—towering, but only eight to ten feet tall—already huge, but porters. Most were shaped like people, serving Golems.

These ones? Telim nodded slowly. He waved at one of the guardian-Golems, who didn’t move, and whispered to Trey out of the corner of his mouth.

“We keep—or rather, Cognita keeps—the really dangerous ones far out of sight. Too many accidents.”

“Accidents?”

Telim’s head turned. The man whispered to Trey.

“If you’re a drunk [Mage] who walks into a room and sees one of these staring down at you in the middle of the night? Believe me, you’re going to need a new set of robes.”

——

“Two Golems. How tall again?”

Calac interrupted Trey’s recounting. Trey just looked at him.

“Eighteen feet.”

“You…must be joking.”

The [Swordsman] licked his lips. His look of excitement faded. Trey pointed to the first room he was outlining.

“I’m not. They looked like…they’re not made of steel.”

The other young man brightened up.

“Oh? Wood?”

Trey hesitated.

“Sort of a bronze-gold.”

“So…a magical metal.”

Calac’s head sunk into his hands. Trey nodded.

“They have these strange gems on their elbows—chests, legs—everywhere. Each one’s different. I asked Telim, and he said they probably each produce a spell or some effect. They don’t have proper feet, either. Just giant poles and sort of hoof-like bases.”

“That doesn’t seem like they should be able to stand.”

The [Swordsman] muttered. He was trying to sketch a picture. Trey added his own clarifications, shaking his head.

“Apparently it’s gravity spells. I saw some kind of rune work around the bases—they looked very sturdy. I didn’t see them walk, but those, um, weapons? One had a spear, two swords—the curved scimitar kind—a flail, a shield, and some kind of short, wavy blade.”

“A kris. How did you see all of this?”

Trey grimaced.

“We…took our time getting through there. Telim had to show them an amulet, and he verified himself by tracing some kind of sigil. It looks like this, but it was magical, so I can’t tell what he actually did. He made sure we were safe, believe me. Apparently, they wouldn’t jump straight to killing us…unless we started fighting.”

Calac swore. This was room one of Amerys’ security, not even counting the magical lock. Defenses?

Giant Golems.

“What’s the second layer? Is that it?”

Trey hesitated.

“Well…we pass through a hallway here. There are intersections, but I don’t know where they lead. You see—”

——

“—this is a repurposed area. Hidden Hallways. Those Golems had to be moved here; few places in Wistram have security.”

“Oh. So this isn’t normal?”

Trey followed Telim closely in his steps. The [High Mage] looked at Trey.

“Aside from an experimental area or one of the sealed portions? Dead gods, my boy! Hardly! All this security is different. New. Can you feel what we’re passing through now?”

They were walking down some actually very nice hallways. Carpeted. Odd, actually; Trey didn’t know if he liked the feel of actual carpeted floors after so much of Wistram’s stone. It felt…cozy, and he kept feeling as though he shouldn’t be wearing shoes, but Telim assured him the carpets were self-cleaning.

“It…feels like the air’s charged.”

Telim nodded, waving a ringed hand around.

“Ward spells. They’ll know we’re coming. You see, this is certainly not a normal secure area. I think this was actually a private club of sorts. Nice carpets, all these paintings of [Mages]—and I don’t know who they are.”

He pointed out some [Mages], all of whom were grinning or smiling or nodding in their still portraits. They even passed by a dark room. Trey peered in. Is that…

——

“A taproom? Really?”

Calac paused. Trey nodded.

“I swear, it looked like it. It really is just a repurposed wing they converted to hold Amerys.”

“Why…this wing? It makes no sense. I would use the crypts or the upper floors. This is a nice place.”

Trey agreed, but he knew the answer.

“Telim told me that it belonged to Feor’s faction. The Centrists. They used to hold private gatherings within—as early as last year. They changed it to hold Amerys because it was convenient, hidden, and because there’s a set of rooms that do something convenient.”

Calac glanced up. He paused, his quill wet with ink.

“Go on. When did you meet Amerys? Did they torture her?”

Trey stopped him.

“Wait. There’s something else…”

——

“Frankly, the Golems and the ward spells are enough security. It is apparently a nightmare having to switch the guards, and no one likes guard-duty. We’re [Mages]. Lazy. So they decommissioned the magical maze.”

“The…”

“Ullsinoi set it up. They’re experts in that kind of thing. I think they have one in their Hidden Hallway—not that I know if they have one. Perhaps they have dozens. It would be just like them. Hey, if you lot are here, no pranks today!”

Telim shouted randomly as he and Trey came to a clearly-new door set into the hallway. It seemed out of place, and some telltale stone and dust cling to the doorway made Trey suspect someone had…built a door here.

“Second door. Another lock. Instead of a maze that takes fifteen minutes to pass through and requires nonsense like walking through the third mirror on the left backwards while hopping blindly.”

“Why did you shout at Ullsinoi? Are they here?”

Telim gave Trey a blank look as he inserted a second key. This one had a strange set of pointed teeth, but it was more like the real thing.

“You never know. I do it whenever I think they’re here. Just shout and assume someone’s cloaked. It’s worked twice in my life. Mind you, they’re smart. But you couldn’t pay me to walk that maze every single time…so someone made a door. It works.”

He opened the door, walked through, and shut it after Trey.

——

“They replaced a master-illusionist maze with…a door. And a stone wall.”

Calac looked at Trey. The [Sand Mage] put a hand over his heart.

“I swear.”

The two looked at each other. Calac noted the door down after a second. He believed Trey, of course. It fit in completely with the [Mages].

“And after that?”

Trey swallowed.

“After that…there’s only the two guards. And Amerys.”

——

The two [Mages] were clearly delighted to see Telim. After their initial argument, they relaxed and were as friendly as could be. Politics didn’t trump friendship in this case, it seemed. One was actually a Dwarf, a rarity in Wistram. A tall Dwarf; he was five-foot-two.

“Dead gods, Telim. I know you have some snacks! Fork them over! Do you know how boring it is, sitting here all day?”

“Read a book. Or watch a scrying orb. If you want my snacks, pay me.”

The Naga slapped her tail on the ground as she bookmarked her novel.

“We can’t watch scrying orbs; we’re warded. Come on, Telim. It’s a two-day rotation.”

The [High Mage] staunchly refused to give up the snacks.

“That’s what you get for joining a faction.”

“So says Mister Terras. Listen. Share some snacks, and let’s play a game of chess or magic cards. We’ve got a deck. Or else we’ll be very upset, and the next time you go to raid a buffet, we’ll put a motion in the Council banning [Mages] from taking more than a set amount of food each meal.”

“You bastards. Alright. Sage’s Grass Chiffon cake or Frost Fritters? Both fresh from today.”

“Both.”

“You’ll have both over my dead body.”

“Is that a challenge…?”

The two [Mages] were certainly able to make good on Telim’s promise. Trey half-watched them the first time. The second, he noted the duo changed.

What didn’t change was that the two [Mage] guards were good at fighting. Telim had told Trey that, but the young man saw it. He was no magical expert, though he’d had teachers who knew combat like Parasol Stroll, Gazi, and the Quarass.

How did you tell a [Mage] who could hold themselves in combat apart from a powerful magic-user who might make simple mistakes apart?

Simple.

[Battle Mages] always had magic barriers. The Naga and Dwarf’s were both different. One appeared as a shimmering field around the Naga. The Dwarf had glowing runes sewn into his robes. The Naga deactivated her barrier to levitate a fritter through and happily munch down on it. The Dwarf had no problem eating his.

Telim had no shields. He shook his head at them.

“You have to wear barriers all the time? You can’t even touch anything without deactivating them! How do you even play chess?”

“We don’t, or we use magic, Telim. Don’t kick up a fuss. Anything in our personal radius is within our barrier, so we can read books. I don’t know how you lot can’t be bothered to put on a simple ward spell all the time. What about accidents?”

“It’s a pain in the butt.”

The two [Mages] rolled their eyes at Telim and glanced at Trey.

“That young man knows what we’re talking about. You know, I was walking down the street one time and someone hit a nail wrong. Freak accident. It goes flying straight at my cheek and guess what I had? A barrier. Don’t you remember when that poor boy got hit in the face by that pot of hot soup? Barriers, Telim. Barriers…”

“Listen, Yolv. I understand you. I counter with this—you’re sitting on the toilet. You reach for the roll of toilet paper. Barrier spell.”

“You are…that’s your reason?”

“Yes.”

Trey barely listened to their argument. He only had eyes for the person in the room beyond. She sat in the padded room, bound from head-to-toe, and chained as well.

She had a mask-binding over her mouth, and her arms and legs were also bound. She looked like a prisoner in a mental asylum.

Even so. There she sat, eyes locked onto him. A stare that was unblinking. Two bright yellow eyes and a messy tangle of leaf-green hair. Almost like nothing at all…not the woman he had come here to see.

That was, until the two [Mages] opened the unlocked door and ushered Trey through the thick glass that looked out of the room. One reason why they had chosen this area to contain her.

The other? Trey walked forwards slowly and felt the air go dead.

Anti-magic containment. Not just that…he felt a strange tingling in his stomach. Telim looked at Trey and grimaced.

“Ah, that’s why. Nutrition rooms. Do you even feed her?”

“She bit the fingers off the last person who tried. And swallowed them.”

Telim hesitated, a fritter halfway towards his mouth. He slowly put it down.

“I’m going to take that as a ‘no’.”

In days before these, these rooms had been used for more than holding prisoners. In fact, Trey suspected that was not their purpose at all.

Configurable rooms, like the ones that they held the group-therapy sessions in. But unlike those rooms, which created false beaches or climates…these were for a [Mage] to train.

Anti-magic to deaden your natural magic. Artificial nutrition so that you couldn’t starve to death.

For meditation? Protracted study?

He didn’t know. Nor could he think. Trey just walked forwards.

There she was.

Amerys.

The Archmage of Lightning. One of the King of Destruction’s Seven.

Amerys, the Calm Flower of the Battlefield.

She just sat there. Like an untidy silkworm. She even smelled a bit…unwashed. Her hair was a mess, and she looked like she’d been sitting like that for a long time. Trey saw just a woman, bound in chains.

Then one of the [Mages] guarding her called out.

“We’ll have to unlock her mask, young man. But keep back; she bites. I don’t know what you hope to gain, but you’ll be disappointed. She’s not pleasant company to be around.”

The other added with a roll of her eyes.

“She never was.”

Trey looked back, then at Amerys. The woman didn’t move. But as Trey went back to take the little key which unlocked her mask, he noticed something as he left and entered the room once more.

A curious tingle in his stomach. The feeling of unwelcome satiety, growing a tiny bit every moment.

Deadness, a lack of magic that made him feel like he had lost something. In truth…it felt like home, in a sense, but even more oppressive. Magic was stifled here.

Yet the last thing had nothing to do with his own nerves or feelings of apprehension, anticipation. It was simply…Trey felt at his neck. Then his head. He realized what it was.

His hair was standing up on end. As he took another few halting steps forwards, he felt it grow stronger.

A static in the air. A…charge. So powerful that, even here, a dozen paces away, he felt all his hair stand up on end. Trey took a few more steps forwards and felt it grow stronger.

As if he were approaching a battery unleashing its current into the air. That was thrilling, not scary. It should have just been…well, magical.

However, Trey didn’t feel the static was an impartial force in the world. He hesitated. Glanced back at the [Mages].

“Something wrong, lad?”

“It’s a living legend, Telim. Give him a moment. She’ll disabuse him of it in a moment. You should have heard what she said to that other poor boy. Aaron.”

One of the [Mages] spoke dismissively. Trey looked at them. Then at Amerys. They didn’t feel it from where they were.

He did. And he wondered…how many times they actually stepped into this room. If they didn’t have to feed her, and she didn’t need to use the restroom? Maybe she turned it off. But he felt it.

The charge in the air was ominous. A crackling possibility. As if he were standing under dark clouds in the rain. On top of a hill. Waiting for a flash that would be the last thing he ever saw.

The static ran up and down his clothing. The woman’s eyes were locked on his.

Bright, yellow eyes. Like lightning itself. They stared straight at the young man, tauntingly. Daring him to come forward. Amerys tensed up a bit, like an evil lightning bug.

She was helpless. She was bound head-to-toe, and the faint electrical current in the air was all she could manage. Even so…she had yet to blink. Trey got the distinct impression she was smiling from behind her mask.

He slowed, stopped, and cleared his throat. She just stared at him as he reached forwards to unlock her mask. What…he wondered.

What did she see?

——

It was a comfy cell, but it was still a box. With glass windows.

There wasn’t time here. It passed by slowly. The lone occupant just sat there. Unsure how long had passed. Time dripped by.

You could go mad, here. Perhaps that was what they hoped would happen. If so—they were wrong. She passed time the only way she could. Waiting. Waiting. But she could wait forever.

Until something changed to break up hellish nothingness. And something did come.

A raised voice in argument.

Her head rose. A veil of hair parted, so she could peek up. What was this, now? A fat [Mage] she recognized was arguing with the two captors for today. She counted by their rotations. It was a heated argument, and they were all pointing at a fourth party. She made out their voices.

“…personally told not to allow this young man to…”

“…Archmage Viltach’s orders. Directly.”

A head rose, slowly, under quite a lot of weight. A mask on the face, chains and bindings. Because there was a second voice, one she knew. She would have laughed.

The [Mage], Telim, held his ground, impatiently waving his finger in their faces.

“I quite understand that, you two. But let me vouchsafe this to you. Grand Magus Eldavin. Who’s soon to be Archmage. You say Viltach? I say Eldavin. Let the lad through. It’s the kind of thing a young man just wants to do. Meet a story. That fellow, Aaron, comes here all the time?”

“Yes, but Archmage—”

“Eldavin.”

“But Vilt—”

Telim had a way about him. She would have laughed if she didn’t have the mask on her face. He rolled over the two. He could do that when he wanted, but he never did. What a waste. The [High Mage] cheerfully interrupted the two.

“Eldavin. Also Valeterisa, for what it’s worth.”

A new Archmage? Who was Eldavin? She had heard that name once from her guards. The woman listened, but she heard no more nuggets to stir their minds. The guards looked at each other, and then relented. They beckoned the fourth person forwards, clearly content to pass on the trouble to someone else.

That was when she saw him. The woman’s eyes narrowed. She saw a young man, brushing his hair back, bowing to the two guards. He looked like nothing, and she sneered as she recognized him. Like the other boy, though they were different in appearance.

Children.

She waited as he came forwards, taking the key. He stopped, sensing electricity in the air.

Would he run from that alone? No…she bared her teeth, waiting as he approached with key in hand.

“Archmage Amerys? Hello. My name is Troy Atlas.”

No response. She just stared up at him. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t blink. Pain, the need to blink, these were all things you could control with a rational mind. And she wanted to unnerve him. She saw the young man lick his lips.

He felt like sand. Sand magic? He was no great [Mage]. A curious little boy. He went on, after a second, face too-earnest.

“I’m going to unlock your mask. I hope we can talk, Archmage. Is that alright?”

She said not a word. Just waited. She could lie, unmoving, for hours, until they thought she was dead. If only that did anything other than scare them. However, right now?

She waited. The woman bore this boy no particular grudge. But she…was smiling behind the mask. The prisoner waited, very still, as he inserted the key into the metal section of her mask. At this, the [Mages] stirred. Telim glanced up as he was dealt a hand of cards. He raised his voice, cautioning the boy again.

“Troy…watch your fingers.”

The two guards both glanced up as well. The woman grinned. She felt the key turn, heard the snick, felt the magical cloth fall from her face—

And lunged. Her mouth opened and she bit in a flash.

He had been ready. But this Troy was too slow. She hadn’t ever caught Aaron after that first time because he was careful. But the first time…

He jerked his hand back past her face. So she turned her head and bit.

The hand jerked to a stop. He shouted—yanked—and she felt her teeth grind over his skin. Stop. She was biting his fingers. Three. All the way down to…

She tasted blood. What a familiar feeling. The [Mages] shot to their feet. So did Telim.

“Troy!”

“Let him go, Amerys!”

The Naga warned her. The woman laughed. She was biting hard as the young man shouted, trying to pull her jaws off his hand. She had the ends of his digits in her mouth, locked by the teeth. He would never pry her mouth off with his other hand. She was staring up at him, through a bloody grin.

The other guards were threatening her. One had a wand aimed at Amerys. The Archmage laughed silently. They had put her in a box that sucked away magic, made her a prisoner. What are you going to do to me?

Torture me? Kill me? They were [Mages] of Wistram. None of them had the stomach for it. Not Feor, Viltach…maybe Nailihuaile, if she saw the clear gain.

She bit harder and heard a gasp of pain. She could feel the bones in his fingers vibrating. The woman looked up at him.

She wanted to see his face. What will you do? You’re going to lose your fingers. Will you scream, beg? She gazed up into his eyes gleefully. She saw his expression of pain, his eyes locked on her.

“Archmage Amerys! I’m not your enemy. Please—”

A bit harder. She saw his face go pale. Telim was striding into the cell, wand raised, but he was going to be too slow. She rather liked Telim. But…Amerys grinned and continued to bite.

Then—she saw the young man’s expression change. The look of surprise, pain, fear—flickered. His wild brown eyes focused on hers and he inhaled. Then he lifted his other hand and put his first two fingers together.

“If you bite my fingers off, I will cast [Spear of Light].”

The woman halted. She did not snap bone. She hesitated, her mouth filled with flesh and blood. Telim halted.

“Troy?”

His hand was shaking, but he pointed the first two fingers of his right hand at Amerys’ temple. He met her eyes.

“I don’t know if I can cast it here. But if you take my fingers, I will try. Let me go. I haven’t done anything to you.”

The prisoner looked up at the young man. She stared at him.

Curious. That was…different. He was in pain. She could feel his hand shaking through her teeth. He was breathing hard, scared…

But the fingers pressed against her temple were the only calm things. She stared straight into his eyes.

Ah. Now those looked…different. He wasn’t in disbelief or simply panicking. If anything, he was more terrified because he knew he was a second away from losing his fingers. Even so, he pressed the tips of his fingers into her forehead a bit harder, so she felt the nails dig into her skin.

“Archmage Amerys. Don’t. I want to talk to you. I am not joking. I have been here before.”

What a simple, casual line. She blinked up at him. In genuine shock. The woman met his eyes. She hesitated—

And then Amerys’ teeth loosened on his fingers. She spat out his hand, and her head jerked backwards. Telim grabbed him, reaching for a healing potion. He dragged Troy back as the other two guards aimed their weapons at her.

But Amerys ignored them. She just looked at Troy Atlas as he poured a potion over his hands and watched his skin regrow. As he glanced up and met her eyes.

What a strange boy. He said strange things. Familiar things.

I have been here before.

She wondered if it was just coincidence. Or if someone had told him to say that.

Perhaps that falsely confident faker. The woman who wore masks far deeper and more complex than any other. Layers of armor over a fragile soul. Yet also, the [Vanguard]. The warrior who broke armies across her armor. Could it be?

The woman—Amerys, sat up as they bound her head back with spells. But she kept watching him. He didn’t run or hide, even after nearly losing his fingers, and that made him different from Aaron.

For the first time in a long while, Amerys began to hope.

——

Archmage Amerys sat there, spitting blood out of her mouth. His blood. Trey thought she did it just to get the clean room dirty and annoy the other [Mages].

She looked…odd. Now that she was calm, she seemed completely different from the madwoman bound up, unblinking.

Her head was bound back by little strands of magic, but her eyes were locked on him. Scrutinizing him from head to toe.

A remarkable transformation. That static charge in the air was gone. The [Mage] in front of him was…well.

A [Mage]. When she spoke, her voice had that precision that made him think of an academic.

“[Light Spear] is complementary with sand and glass magic. Why did you specialize in that?”

He just looked at her, cradling his healed hand. It still hurt with phantom pain. Telim was keeping an eye on them as the other [Mages] returned to their card game, but they were all watching her. Listening in? Almost definitely.

Even so, Trey didn’t run. Despite nearly losing fingers to her. Her voice—it was so at odds with her image of just a second ago. She seemed…relaxed.

No.

Tired. She lay there, bound from head to toe, and Trey thought she looked exhausted. Haggard. With a deadly core of wrath—but tired. Worn out from doing nothing.

It was a strange thought, until he looked around this cell and imagined being bound like this for a day. A week. Months.

“A friend told me the magics went together. So have most of my teachers.”

That was all Trey said. Amerys chuckled drily.

“Yes. Logical magic. Why…”

She paused to cough. She couldn’t wipe her mouth, so she licked her lips to catch the saliva. She glanced up at Trey and curled her lip.

“…Why did you listen? Because you thought it was your magic? Because you had no direction? Because you agreed? If it was their plan to teach you the best magic, abandon it. Run away from their designs.”

Trey looked down at her.

“Why?”

Amerys tried to wiggle into a better position and ended up falling sideways. She glared sideways and looked at him with a wry grin. Look at me and laugh, it seemed to say.

“Magic. Is magic a set of rules you follow? Or is it passion? Are we artists or bound by logic? Optimal magic. Complementary schools. That…that is magic for children who want to be the strongest. You know who I am. I did not gain my levels or class by pursuing the best magic for me. I cast the spells I loved again and again.”

Trey walked over and slowly rotated her shoulder so she was lying against the wall again. The [Mages] watched him, but Amerys made no move to bite him.

“You mean, lightning magic?”

She met his eyes calmly and chuckled. It was a rasp, tired at first, but she seemed to grow more alert with every second of talking. More alive.

“You’re doing it again. It makes sense for me to have a school of magic, doesn’t it? I don’t call myself a [Lightning Mage]. So I am not one. I do like lightning. Every intelligent [Mage] tells me it’s foolish to be an elementalist at my level. That everyone will specialize in anti-electricity wards. They say these things—while being ten levels below me. While never having lived through one war.”

She spat again. Trey and Amerys stared at the red glob on the ground. Amerys shook her head—or tried to with the bindings.

“Do you know how they captured me?”

“No.”

She exhaled slowly.

“Three Archmages. They tricked me into a meeting, and I didn’t have a chance. I was ready—not for that. Lightning, specialty, has nothing to do with why I lost. So there is your lesson. Love your magic. If you have to choose between what is efficient over what you want—follow your heart. No matter what they do to you, stay loyal to that.”

She looked at him. Her voice was raspy from lack of use. She was bound like one of the Super Silkworms that had made Telim’s robes. Even so, Trey was reminded of the rest of them.

“Is that a metaphor for why you supported the King of Destruction, Archmage?”

Amerys rolled her eyes.

“No, it’s a random aside. At least you understand what a metaphor is. Do you like light magic?”

“Yes, a bit. I do think it’s…neat.”

She laughed.

“Then there you are. However. I have answered your first question, haven’t I? They all ask me. That’s how I answered them, every damned year. Children with the same question. Children and Archmages. Why him? Why still? Is that what you came here to ask? Like that other boy?”

Trey half-shook his head, fascinated. She wasn’t like what he expected at all. The nearly biting his fingers off—that was unwelcome, unexpected, yet partly what he had imagined.

This?

He sat, cross legged, and Amerys watched him. Trey Atwood ducked his head. He wondered what to say. He had said one of the things he had meant to already. And he thought she had heard it.

“I came here to ask you a question, Archmage Amerys. That’s true enough. And to see that you exist, I suppose.”

“Do they think I’m dead, then? Or has Wistram leaked secrets that I live?”

Her voice was dry. Trey heard a loud voice clear behind him and turned—the Naga gave him a warning shake of the head.

“No current topics.”

He nodded. Amerys gave the Naga a baleful glare. Trey turned back to her.

“Archmage, I just have one question for you. Today. If I’m allowed, I might come back with more. But…”

He looked around the cell again. Inspected her bindings. There was no visible lock or key; just sigils drawn over where cloth wrapped around her. Trey’s heart sank—and then Amerys shifted. She looked at him as she revealed something half-hidden by her legs.

A small lock, made of pure mithril. Trey looked at it, then at her.

“…I just wanted to hear your perspective. On the King of Destruction. Not why you joined him. But whether you think what he’s doing is for the better or the worse.”

Amerys blinked a few strands of hair out of her face. Trey couldn’t see the [Mages] behind him, and he didn’t know if they were listening. So he went on, keeping his voice level.

“I have come from Chandrar. I cannot tell you what has happened—but I did see the King of Destruction’s return. He makes war again—or people make war against him. In the end, it doesn’t seem to matter. There is always another war. I’m told that’s how it happened the first time. But I wasn’t there. You were. Was it worth it? All of this—your imprisonment. Bringing Reim back. Drevish, the Architect, is dead.”

She twitched. Her eyes opened, and one of the [Mage] guards stood.

“Is all of it worth it? If he had won, would it be for the better?”

Amerys gazed at him strangely.

“You’re asking me, one of his Seven. His most trusted vassals, whether I support what my [King] did?”

She began to smile, but Trey just nodded. He felt at his fingers again, and rubbed at his throat. Amerys glanced at it.

“I suppose it’s a silly question. I just wanted to know if you had any regrets. Any reservations. Or if you saw nothing wrong and would do it all over again that way.”

The Archmage lay there, eyes flickering to him, past his face. She tried to stretch out her legs, grimacing. Three times she opened her mouth before she spoke.

“You know, I wasn’t there for the early wars. You have heard how Flos Reimarch first rose to power, haven’t you? His father passed, and Hellios invaded his kingdom. He was a boy who fought to save his people.”

Trey nodded fractionally. Amerys licked her lips.

“Well, he made those just wars at first. The Black Judgment. Hellios. Wars for people or causes. By the time we met, he was older. A young man, not a boy, and he began some wars to conquer. That was what drew some of us. Some for causes, for what he did, or people he liberated or fought for. Others for power alone. But I? I grew up in Chandrar. Not impoverished; it has many lands as rich as any you could dream of. But Chandrar alone…even more than Rhir…it has places where all that is left is sand and dust.”

Amerys’ tone deepened contemplatively. Like a historian going back through the world’s timeline.

“Zeikhal. The Great Desert. It has swallowed a hundred thousand nations. There are nations as old as time, that bear relics of great ages, and places where everything has been lost. I am a [Mage] and scholar. I am good at war and magic, unlike my peers, who understand neither.”

She gazed past Trey and grinned at someone. Amerys went on, turning back to him.

“I know his kingdom will end and most likely be forgotten, even if it spans half the world. I knew it before I joined him. But he instills loyalty in me for reasons beyond gifts. More than the fact that I rode with him across so many years. More than visions of kingdoms and power, or the backing to follow magic to its core. More than the fact that I relish grand battles where we live in the dance of spells!”

Amerys was breathing harder, and he could see her pushing, trying to break free. She could not, and lay limply. Looking at him.

“For one reason alone, I think his cause was right. For me. There are [Kings] and [Warlords] across this world. His kingdom was bigger than most. He is not a perfect man.”

Trey whispered.

“No.”

She nodded, eyes fixed on him.

“No. But when his Seven stood around him, and that one [Steward]—it was not just him. It was the best of us. And though much time has passed…though we die, I still think it is right. That it is correct, if I could join him. That I will see my world change for the better if he triumphs. For one reason alone.”

Trey waited. He sat there and felt like he knew what she was about to say next. Amerys took a deep breath. She stared him straight in the eyes.

“He keeps his promises.”

She heard nothing in response, but Amerys saw the young man’s head dip for a second.

Yes. He does.

——

It was not the courtyard when they met again. The [King] was at war. However, he had made camp early, thrown up the royal tent, and he was waiting when Trey Atwood stormed in.

“I’m done. She’s a monster. She—that place is monstrous. It must be erased. You—did you know what you were sending us to? Have you seen it? I’m done. This world. Chandrar? It’s filled with nightmares. Nightmares and tragedy and—I’m leaving. Let Teres go with me.”

He was shaking. White-faced. The [King] rose from his chair and put aside his cup. Water. He was on campaign. He had had a bit of wine—but only to toast Gazi.

This was his second meeting of the day, already eventful. The camp was buzzing. For Gazi Pathseeker had returned.

With her mended eye. That was the talk on everyone’s lips. Or for the presence of the Quarass of Ger, who inspired her people arguably more than even he. The cunning ruler of the ancient Shield Kingdom with endless knowledge and tricks.

A surfeit of kindness, though. He saw it all over Trey. Flos looked at the boy’s throat, but his eyes did not widen markedly.

Gazi had told him everything. Trey saw his look and laughed.

“That’s right. She cut my throat. She let me bleed to death in front of Gazi. She—she’s insane. I’m done. A’ctelios—that place is—”

His voice was raised, and he was sweating, red-faced, eyes shining. Hysterical. The King of Destruction stood there. Trey ranted at him.

“Your entire continent is filled with villains and horrors! And you! You’re turning Teres into a murderer. I thought the Quarass was—is she even the Quarass? Or did we sacrifice someone to turn her into that? Why do I have to live through all of this?”

“Trey. I’m sorry to hear of—”

“Shut up!”

Trey shouted at Flos. The King of Destruction saw the young man point a quivering finger at him.

“Just—stop. I’m tired of being your pawn! I know this is your fault. You asked the Quarass to make me stronger. Well done. Someone else can put up with you and tell you it’s alright. I won’t. Not anymore. I’m tired of…”

He searched around aimlessly. His legs buckled.

“I’m tired.”

He sat down, into one of the chairs in the tent. Trey stared at Flos Reimarch. The King of Destruction looked at him.

Slowly, the [King] raised a cup of water and sipped from it. Trey twitched. If he had his staff, he might have tried to cast a spell.

The [King] didn’t shift his gaze from Trey, but he did find a chair and sit as well. He was so uncharacteristically quiet. Flos murmured.

“The Quarass—”

“She cut my throat!”

Trey screamed at him. Flos Reimarch fell silent again. He kept drinking his cup and went to fill it with the pitcher. He offered Trey a cup, saw the young man’s stare, and sat back down with his. He was three sips in, and Trey was about to explode, when he spoke.

“Gazi tells me A’ctelios Salash stirred. She also informs me you have seen a terrible thing within. Which has to do with children from your world. Tell me what you saw.”

The young man looked at Flos. He had a hand on his throat; the scar was a straight line, long healed, but he kept touching it.

“A’ctelios Salash. That’s it? Nothing about me. Nor the Quarass?”

Flos coughed as he took another sip and inhaled some water by accident. He pounded his chest for a second.

“Would you like me to punish her? Or rather, try? What would you have me do? Cut her throat and let her heal? Kill one of her people? That would hurt more than if I were to stab her. She cut your throat. I did not ask her to—but I did ask her to help you. She has always been merciless when she thinks she must be. I am sorry. Nothing I can say will help. So.”

He put down his cup and looked at Trey. The King of Destruction leaned his full weight on his legs as he hunched over in his chair.

“Tell me about A’ctelios Salash. Tell me what you saw.”

“Gazi’s already told you everything. I don’t need to entertain you.”

Trey spat bitterly. The King of Destruction didn’t move.

“I want to hear your perspective. You saw what Gazi did not. You have…a device with recordings. I would see that too.”

Trey closed his eyes. He was tired, and angry at this [King] who was so blank-faced, so calm.

“So watch it. I don’t—I’m not—where’s Teres? I don’t want to do this, Flos.”

“Even so. Tell me.”

“Why?”

The King of Destruction watched as Trey shot to his feet. Flos Reimarch motioned him down. Trey felt an invisible weight on his shoulder and snarled, shaking it off. Flos looked steadily at him.

“Sit. Tell me what you saw. Tell me what they did. To your people. To children from another world. A’ctelios Salash has always had its darkness, but they balanced it with fairness of choice. They have always had horror, but it seemed to me they were people who walked with it. Now, Gazi tells me they are embracing it and falling into chaos. The Quarass shall speak to me after you, and we shall talk long of the future. But before that…tell me. Tell me what you have seen, Trey, and whether there are men, women, and children in the Carven City or if there are naught but monsters left.”

Trey’s head was hanging low. Something about Flos’ tone made him glance up. He breathed one word.

“…Why?”

For answer, all the King of Destruction did was pick up his cup. He drank like he was preparing for a long journey ahead, measuring each sip. He spoke past Trey, staring at a map hanging on one wall.

“When I conquered A’ctelios Salsh, my forces took Tombhome without a fight. The Shield Kingdom did not challenge me, for the Quarass did not. They agreed to tribute Reim—but they had nothing I wanted save soldiers, which I took and used sparingly. It was never my intent to slaughter foes who surrendered or capitulated to me. Monsters? I knew the Carven City’s reputation, but I met no monsters, only strange folk. Strange as Selphids. Besides which…nations have broken themselves trying to take A’ctelios Salash.”

His eyes went to the map of Chandrar on the wall. There was a tiny speck along Zeikhal, and he stared at that.

“It is a nightmare to face a foe that assails you like they can. I was told once that their forces when unleashed would fill the battlefield with soldiers who healed incredibly fast, were tough, fearless, and in vast numbers. Not an invincible force; far from it. Yet when led by a genius and armed with poisons of Ger—supported by the immortal beings of magic and the might of the Garuda? Each Shield Kingdom was part of an invincible army. Four remain, and removing one from this world is said to be a task beyond wisdom.”

He put his cup down and gestured at Trey. The young man just sat there, holding his throat, looking at Flos.

“No one has ever managed to destroy the city…A’ctelios Salash itself. Believe me, they tried. They tried and found the only way to keep it dormant was to consume it from the inside. I am told King Fetohep has pledged to investigate this matter, and the Quarass is deeply disturbed. We shall speak of that, and my enemies and allies alike will put aside their quarrels for it. But Trey. Tell me of the children. Tell me what was done to them.”

The King of Destruction’s eyes were fixed on Trey. The young man shifted. He felt the hair rising on his neck.

“Why?”

Flos exhaled, slowly.

“You know I keep the vows I make. For better or worse. I have seen Tiqr fall, but because I swore an oath, I kept it. Trey Atwood, you have served me well, and I give you little in return. I still need you. Gazi has a plan, and if you accept…”

“Another plan. I knew it. Another—”

Trey half-stood, but Flos halted him.

“I know. But it is to save Amerys this time. To rescue one of my Seven, she proposes sending you—and herself—to Wistram. To the Academy of Mages.”

Trey sat.

“That’s insane.”

“Gazi has a plan. I have had my own, and it dovetails nicely. I think there is a chance. I know you—but again. We will speak first of A’ctelios Salash. Tell me whether there is anything to save. Tell me of the injustice done to the children.”

“They’re still there.”

All the blood drained from Trey’s face. He sat there, shuddering, and Flos nodded. Gently, he gripped his cup and it cracked.

“Think long and hard, Trey. Even so, think hard as you might about the goodness you saw there. About anyone who did you a kindness. About any spark of humility or morality in them. Then…we will make a promise. A mighty oath, the like of which I have made to each of my Seven. If it will save them, redeem those children, or avenge them…I will slay A’ctelios Salash.”

Trey looked up at Flos.

“You’ll slay the city? Just like that?”

The King of Destruction looked at Trey, and the young man shivered at the calm green gaze.

“We are at war with Belchan now, Trey. With dozens of nations, on the field or in writing. I keep my promises. It will not be tomorrow. It will not be this year. But while I live, I will march with that promise in my heart. I am good at few things. But destruction? They named me King of Destruction. I can deliver you that. So think very carefully, Trey. Is there anything left in Tombhome worth saving? Because if you tell me there is not—when that day comes, nothing will remain.”

The young man sat there, staring at Flos. The mad words tumbling lightly from the King of Destruction’s lips. Or seemingly lightly, because he meant every one.

Is there anything worth saving? Flos gently set the cup aside; it was leaking. He got up to fetch another one.

“I can do nothing for your throat, Trey. There are healers, and you shall see one. Fetohep asks for you, and he is the better ruler than I. Nor will I force you to Wistram. You can leave. I do not know what Teres will do, but I cannot stop you. However. I need Amerys.”

He poured himself another cup, and Trey one, and handed the young man the cup. Flos sat down.

“I see the shape of this war. It will not be soon, but it will be inevitable without her. She is the [Mage] of my Seven for war. Without her or Tottenval…we need her. That is all. It is cruel, to send you on such a task so soon. Not right away. Fetohep first. But think on it. First, though…tell me.”

He looked up at Trey as the young man sat. He found himself drinking water, the words tumbling from his lips. Not because Flos Reimarch could comfort him or help him confront his death. Nor because the King of Destruction would offer him solace or respite. Yet Amerys was right. Trey believed one thing about Flos, flawed though he was.

He did keep his promises.

——

So here they were. Trey looked at the simple map they had designed.

A magical key to the Hidden Hallway. Two vastly powerful Golems. Ward spells that would alert anyone of intruders.

A second magical door. Two [Guards] and Amerys’ shackles, with the key…on the person of the [Guards]? No, they had no idea where the key to her actual bindings was.

This was a task far beyond him and Calac. To be honest, even with their ace in the hole…under the water…Trey feared they were in deep.

I will give you what I can. But this task will require subterfuge, secrecy, not great artifacts. I will send more than you and Gazi alone.

Trey had wondered what that meant. He looked up.

Calac. Great.

The young man saw the look.

“I know I’m not much of an asset, Trey. But I will do all that I can for Reim.”

Embarrassed, Trey shook his head.

“It’s not that. Just—I’m sorry. Meeting Amerys rattled me.”

“She nearly took off your digits. That would do something to anyone.”

Trey flexed his hand.

“Yeah. But not just that…I can’t quite explain it. It’s just—we break her out. Somehow. We defy the entire academy, bring her to Reim, and it’s war. She’ll fight.”

“Perhaps she can turn the tide of the war. My parents told me each of the Seven grew stronger the more they could rely on each other. With Lady Pathseeker and Archmage Amerys…”

Calac trailed off when he realized that wasn’t what Trey meant. The [Sand Mage] just stared at the map. All this to go back where they came from and continue the King of Destruction’s conquests.

Was it worth it? Sacrificing Wistram, for all its flaws?

Slowly, Trey looked up at the map and the three golden pins. He sighed. Of course, he already knew his answer. He had had months to think on it.

Now…he turned to Calac.

“We can’t break her out just yet. We need a plan. Now we know where she is, roughly, and what we have to do. So. Let’s get to work.”

——

Wistram was a funny place. So full of strengths and inconsistencies. Each hallway, each area different. Some built with care to memorialize greatness, or for the art of it.

Others? There was a hallway that reversed gravity on you. New students would be told to ‘hurry to class’, run onto the tiny, scintillating sandstone tiles, and flip. Literally. The only reason there weren’t a dozen deaths each year was because the gravity didn’t slam you head-first into the new floor.

In short, Trey Atwood knew that for every impregnable wall, some [Mage] had later designed a back door. He looked at Wistram like a puzzle you could take apart.

People were puzzles. That was why he liked history; he had wondered what these old figures were like. How they thought. You couldn’t know.

People in this world? Flos, Fetohep, the Quarass…they all had depths. Trey understood them, but, he felt, superficially sometimes. Even so—that was how he approached this breakout.

“Pieces of a puzzle, Calac. We find a solution for each part of the prison—and then we execute. We can’t do it like Flos would.”

That was what he’d told Calac. To which the young man had given him his huge, confused frown that seemed so aggressive to Trey at first.

“How would His Majesty do a breakout?”

Trey had blinked, because wasn’t it obvious? He knew Flos; it wasn’t hard to guess—on a superficial level, again—how it might go.

“He’d steal the key as soon as he found out where Amerys was and had scouted out the place in disguise. Probably mug poor Telim. Then he’d try to fight the Golems with his allies or just charge down the hall, ward spells or not. He’d break the other door and stride into Amerys’ cell—probably shouting at the guards, ‘I have come for Amerys. Release her or challenge me.’ Then he’d probably try to snap her chains with his bare hands.”

That was definitely Flos. Trey had delivered all that with a wry look…and seen Calac look out a window with clear admiration.

“That’s amazing. We’re not capable of that, though.”

Which said a lot about him. Which fascinated Trey. However, Wistram?

How would you take apart the Academy of [Mages]? It was easier than Khelt. If Amerys were in Khelt, they would never get her out.

Fetohep was too precise. Khelt was too orderly. Wistram, though…Trey ate breakfast in the banquet hall, glancing around.

Calac had joined him, but he wasn’t doing more than focusing on his plate of food. Later, he’d walk the Creler-hallway all day, checking to see how busy it was each time of day. Trey, though…he was searching for Wistram’s weak points.

Which wasn’t necessarily the architecture, crazy [Mages] aside. If Wistram had a weak spot, it was…them.

People. Trey saw how they gathered up. It was the same, even with Terras’ new faction. They had simply squeezed over to make room.

There were the Libertarians and Viltach’s people, Humans, Terandrians. The Archmage himself who walked among them, who many thought of as supercilious or even speciesist. He was not. He was, in fact, a craftsman, in his own way, kind and certainly enthusiastic about miniature Golems. However…he was pure Wistram.

Not a likely ally. Trey drummed his fingers on the table and reached for a glass of milk.

“Troy? Is something wrong? You’ve been staring around all day.”

Emirea saw the young man glance up. He blinked at her.

“Nothing. Sorry, Emirea. I’m just tired.”

He had to be circumspect. Trey joined the conversation with his friends while observing more covertly.

Centrists were—used to be—the biggest faction with a majority of all species, but led by half-Elves. Feor’s lot. Another Wistram-for-life Archmage and…Trey watched the old half-Elf murmuring to his underlings far more quietly than Viltach…

Someone to stay away from. He didn’t like Feor. Mainly because the half-Elf reminded him of the Quarass. He was too quiet; he’d suspect a lot from Trey but never let on what he was doing.

Same with Verdan Blackwood. That old Archmage sat with a handful of Dullahans, an outsider, and very invested in Baleros and the Iron Vanguard. He was, Trey noted, another bad candidate.

It was the armor he wore. If dressing was personality, Verdan Blackwood exemplified it. Cautious; he didn’t speak his opinions outright, and Trey knew less of him than Feor, for all he had been here the entire time.

On the other hand…there were two faction leaders who were the polar opposite. Loud, outspoken, and one was useful. The other was not.

The less useful one was, ironically, Eldavin. He was a dynamo; he hadn’t even stayed for lunch. He was striding off to do more great magic after eating for almost exactly twenty minutes, and a bevy of [Mages] followed him. He was friendly to Trey, knowledgeable, an outsider come to Wistram and clearly not happy with what he found, for all he had apparently been here long before everyone else.

The problem was that Eldavin was also as sharp as one of Nawal’s swords, and clever himself. Manipulating him? Trey felt, again, it was like a Fetohep situation. Easier just to ask him straight out and take your ‘yes’ or ‘no’. But outwitting an old person like that…

No. If there was a weak point in the Archmages and each faction, it was in the now third-largest faction. The Revivalists, filled with the youngest [Mages], students, the most outspoken, and led by Nailihuaile. The Star Lamia was in a laughing, loudly-speaking circle of them, and she was the center of it all.

She was not stupid, but she was willing to take more risks than the others. She wasn’t necessarily impulsive, but she was ambitious. She sat with Beatrice, that Dullahan who never smiled, and Trey had heard…he turned and murmured.

“Hey, anyone know a rumor about Archmage Nailihuaile? I heard she wasn’t…nice.”

His other friends looked up. Astritha raised her brows silently. Goelv, the Gazer, closed his mouth; he didn’t like gossiping, probably because so much was done about him.

Tov, the Drowned Man, raised his brows.

“Thinking about joining a faction already? I thought you were with Terras.”

“More like…I was wondering if I could get on her good side. You know, to get something enchanted?”

The others nodded. Ah. You could trade favors, even possibly get the Archmage to make you something herself if the favor was big enough. Emirea sipped from her glass of Sage’s Water with a straw. She piped up nervously.

“Um. I speak to the Libertarians sometimes. They like me. They don’t like her. You know, she used to have another helper? I heard she was a [Lady] from Terandria. Montressa du Valeros. She did something that made Archmage Nailihuaile so upset…she got Montressa exiled.”

The other students stared at her. The older students were appalled. Trey saw Tov just raise his brows. After a second, he prodded Emirea.

“…That’s it?”

Trey, however, liked that nugget. Nailihuaile held grudges. She also did things. Calac looked at Trey and leaned over the table.

“I have a big secret. I’ll share it with all of you.”

The others turned to Calac with great interest. That wasn’t something you did, but the young man was focused on Trey. He murmured.

“I heard a rumor Archmage Nailihuiale hired the [Pirates] who attacked the King of Destruction.”

Trey whistled and sat back. Tov blinked from Calac to Trey.

“You didn’t know that?”

The [Sand Mage] glanced at Tov.

“No. Is it open knowledge?”

The Drowned Man rubbed at his hair where it met the half-slug section of his face, which was glistening slightly. He took care to keep his Human hand away, or it’d be covered in a thin layer of mucus.

“Gossip about something as big as that? The Illuminary was paid in Wistram-gold. They brag, you know.”

“How can someone say it’s ‘Wistram’ gold, though? It’s not like Wistram stamps it.”

Messill interrupted. Tov gave him a calm look; the two didn’t like each other too much.

“Gold and artifacts, Messill. It’s obviously from Wistram. Trust me. You don’t guess about Drakes and politics, do you? Like our guests. Which city is that Drake from?”

He pointed at a small group sitting apart from the rest of the body. Ostensibly guests, but isolated, watching carefully.

Two groups. Trey’s eyes flickered over, and Messill snorted.

“Fissival. Obviously.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because only Fissival would send a delegation here. Alright, alright. I take your point. And you probably could tell us Depth Mage Doroumata’s ship or whatever, right?”

Tov nodded. He looked at Doroumata and her…daughters, who all had the same face if you saw past their veil. They sat in a group, dressed from head-to-toe in black. Tov bowed towards them slightly, though not one glanced their way. He lowered his voice.

“Don’t point. It’s rude. Of course I know her ship. Everyone knows her ship. Be more respectful.”

“Or what?”

Messill scoffed, pointing harder as if to prove Tov wrong. The young man ominously glared at Messill.

“Or you’ll need a new finger. Ever been hexed by abyssal magic?”

The Drake snatched his claw back, and Trey craned his head out from the table. Wait a second. He looked back at Calac, and the [Lord] raised his brows. He’d had the same thought.

——

“Why are the representatives of Fissival and the Drowned Fleets still here?”

Trey already knew the answer. He turned, and a young woman folded her arms.

“Because they know about us. Don’t worry, the other guests from the other academies are being kept in the dark. Why? Is one of them bothering you? Sometimes one of the Fissival Drakes comes around and tries to chat with us, but they usually get shooed off. The creepy Drowned Women? They just stare.”

Elena and Trey stood in the Earthers’ private rooms. Which, Trey realized…was another Hidden Hallway that even the [Mages] didn’t know about.

One that Aaron had found somehow, and, in theory…completely secret.

“Lots of different groups are finding out about Earth, then.”

“You have no idea. I’m worried what’ll happen when the truth gets out. Wistram thinks there’s someone looking for us—besides them. Of course, they’re still collecting us like trading cards.”

Her scowl said it all. Thoughtfully, Trey went over to one of the Earth-themed snacks that was always stocked in these rooms. He turned his back to Elena as he spoke.

“Good food, magic, safety…I didn’t know what I was going to find here, but it was better than war and death in Chandrar. Monsters and [Slavers]…”

“They really have lots of [Slaves] in Chandrar? I knew it existed, but…real slavery?”

Elena’s voice was uneasy. Trey looked over his shoulder and saw her appalled expression. He nodded slowly.

“You have no idea.”

The [Beautician] considered a response.

“Fuck.”

Trey turned back to the snacks.

“Mhm. Wistram’s better than that, isn’t it?”

“To some. But it’s still a cage. Nor do I trust Wistram. Honestly, Troy—if you don’t mind it, I’m glad. It’ll wear on you, though. It does after months. If they left us alone I think I’d enjoy it, but they keep prodding. Even Eldavin. I thought he’d be fine, but suddenly he’s asking us way too much—like that conversation about nukes. I don’t feel like this is a home.”

Elena was weary. She represented a vocal part of the Earthers here. Aaron was on the other end; for all its faults, he seemed content to stay. Trey nodded carefully.

“Where would you go if you could go anywhere?”

He stood with her, as someone played some loud music from down the hall. Elena stomped over to the door.

“Hey! Shut the door! There’s [Silence] spells on it for a reason!”

The door closed, and she frowned back at Trey.

“Honestly? Back to Terandria. I have a…friend there. But if not for that—not Chandrar from what you’ve said. Anywhere, though.”

She looked past Trey.

“You know Leon?”

Trey made a face. Elena smiled slightly and brushed at her hair.

“Yes, well…he told us about where he came from. Liscor. Pallass. Invrisil. It sounds amazing. If even half of what he told us was true…I want to see it. I don’t know why he left. Probably all the monster attacks, but that sounded like the inn he was staying at, more than anything.”

“Hm. Yeah.”

The [Sand Mage] chomped down on an éclair and felt like he was gaining weight. He turned back and caught Elena watching him.

“Why? We haven’t made any concrete plans. Everyone’s full of hot air, like Saif claiming he could commandeer a ship if we enchanted his airsoft gun right. Most of us…”

She hesitated.

“…Most of us don’t want to leave badly enough. That’s what I think the problem is. We talk about it, but there’s only a handful of people who’d really leave, even if we got a magic door right here and now. Do you want to leave?”

Elena frowned at Trey, and he stood there, blank-faced. After a long second, the young man looked at Elena.

“Yes. But I agree—at least half of the people here wouldn’t go.”

He glanced out the hallway as some of the Earthers walked by. Poor Sidney, who had seen too much, but who benefitted from Sa’la’s medicine and safety. Malia, the [Thought Healer] who was trying to create something with Elena’s help. Caroline, the [Writer], whose works were reaching a wider and wider audience under her alias of Heartslayi. Erik Muller, the darling of the Aquais faction, the [Actor].

Even Flynn, who was carefully watching as Sidney held Pokey, the Needlehound dog, seemed to like it here. Trey turned to Elena and saw the [Beautician] was inspecting him carefully.

She kept her appearance up. Trey had known people who wore makeup, but Elena was a professional—and a professional with magical tools as well. She looked like a fashion model, and her hair had the unreal gleam that he had always assumed was photoshopped or something. Not a single hair out of place.

However, calling her just a pretty face was incredibly stupid, and it amazed him how many people did.

The Quarass would like her. The Quarass was an expert on poisons, disguises, assassinations, powder, alchemy, and everything else in the world, of course, but Ger was known for its incredible [Assassins] and poisons. Trey touched his throat as Elena nodded.

“Half wouldn’t go. Some people want to. Eun—he hates the Libertarians, but it’s not just that. He’s a [Student] but he wants to see the world, you know? Lamont’s a [Sailor]; he likes the sea, for all his stories scare the hell out of me. Basil’s sworn never to go back to Chandrar—but Sang-min doesn’t regret landing on Terandria, even though he saw fighting. There are some people I’m sure would go. Including me. But we can’t get everyone on board.”

Trey just nodded. He picked up another éclair, stared at it, and placed it down, carefully. He glanced at Elena.

“Then if we left, we’d need to make them choose. You’d never get all of them. The ones who leave would have to be certain and never hesitate.”

The [Beautician] peered at Trey. Her eyes lit up with sudden interest. But Trey just packed a few more éclairs into a little box—then added more food. Then more…Elena began to look concerned.

“Please tell me you’re not going to eat all that.”

——

Trey was beginning to know the [Mages] on duty. There was a small rotation, and apparently they were being compensated for their time, but this was still an arm-twisting by their Archmages.

The Dwarf’s name was Yolv. The Naga’s was Texiasha. Yolv was from the Centrists, Texiasha from the Revivalists.

Trey offered them a box filled with snacks as Sa’la escorted him to meet with Amerys on his second visit, and their eyes lit up.

“How thoughtful! And here I thought we’d have to shake down Telim again. Sa’la, these young [Mages] are far better than we were. Or did you help arrange this?”

The Selphid’s gaze was amused as she looked at Trey.

“Don’t thank me. Troy thought of it.”

“Just because I feel like I’m disturbing you. And I remember you mentioning that you couldn’t get snacks easily unless you brought them in…”

The two were greedily helping themselves. Yolv brushed at his beard.

“Too right. Don’t you worry, young man. You’re the most interesting thing all day while we’re on duty. Come as much as you want—but I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. Brave of you to come back, though. Braver than most. Sa’la, did you hear what happened last time? Telim must have told you.”

He winked as Trey blushed. Sa’la looked confused—until Trey entered the room, removed Amerys’ mask, and sat down.

“Hello, Archmage Amerys.”

“It’s you again.”

She looked patiently amused, but her eyes flicked up and down Trey’s face. He? He offered her an éclair.

“Ah! You can’t feed her anything.”

Texiasha raised her voice, but Yolv muttered to her.

“She’s not going to bite him a second time. It’s just…what’s this? Another Earth food?”

Amerys blinked as Trey offered her an éclair. She let him insert it into her mouth and chewed it slowly, savoring each bite. When she was done she licked her lips for nearly three minutes as Trey watched.

“That…is the first thing I have eaten in months. You’re back.”

“I…have more food if they’ll let me give it to you.”

Amerys blinked at Trey. She nodded instantly.

“That’s very kind of you. Do you want something?”

Trey twiddled his thumbs. Conscious of the eyes on his back, he looked at Amerys. Why was he back and asking to see her? He was no Erik, who could play a part, but…he glanced back at the Wistram mages, blushed, and leaned over.

“Archmage, if I trade you, um, some food, and bring it regularly, would you tell me a few secrets? Even ones other people know about. Maybe—”

Amerys’ yellow eyes flickered over Trey’s face for a second with bright intellect—then her face developed into a sneer. Behind him? All three Wistram [Mages] exploded into laughter, and Trey turned beet red.

However, it was approving. Texiasha pointed her tail at Trey.

“The nerve of this young man! Trading food for…? I love it.”

Naturally, Amerys was less enthusiastic. She bared her teeth.

“Keep feeding me and I’ll consider it.”

Which meant that Trey came by with more food and began taking orders from the guards on duty. Not just Yolv or Texiasha.

“It’s not that we can’t bring food; it’s just that we don’t know what the dish of the day is. We have to stay here. Two days in a row. Yes, there are toilets and places to sleep and we can practice magic and whatnot, but it’s just boring. And she only talks to you.”

A rather chatty Dullahan confided in Trey as the young man unpacked buttered crab legs. He was a full [Mage] of Wistram, so he didn’t have his people’s customary reserve. The Human woman nodded; one of Viltach’s people. Trey casually paused as he brought out some napkins.

“Oh. So you have to bring all the food here yourself?”

The woman smiled at him. She had a scar running all the way down her leg; she’d fought in Terandria and apparently was an [Arrow Magus].

“Not at all. Someone does a delivery. Not Golems; we can’t order them around all the time for…and this is more delicate since Amerys was never stripped of her title. For caution, we get one of the younger [Mages] to do it, but they just grab whatever they can find. No decency to get the pick of the day, like you. The only one who’s ever thoughtful is that young [Bard]. What’s her name?”

“Mena. That’s the one. Terras. I cannot wait for Telim to be shuffled into guard duty now that Terras is an official faction.”

“Imagine it. I’ll visit just to laugh at him.”

Trey smiled, and then looked concerned.

“Um…could I use the toilet?”

“First left, down the hall. Mind the toilets. Use the one on the right unless you like the water features.”

The Terandrian woman shuddered. The Dullahan turned to her.

“It’s civilized.”

“If I wanted a water spell in my toilet, I’d cast it myself—”

Trey hurried down the hallway. He turned a corner, looked over his shoulder, and then gazed at the carpeted intersection. His breath caught. He took a few wary steps, looked over his shoulder again…and began hurrying forwards.

“No way. No way…”

Trey Atwood pulled something out of his bag of holding. He raised it slowly.

——

Calac Crusland’s eyes were huge in his head.

“You didn’t.”

Trey held the object out to him.

“I did.”

“They didn’t catch you? Or notice…?”

Calac’s hands were trembling, and he refused to touch the object as Trey set it down and configured it. The young man shrugged.

“Why would they? Even if the ward spells saw me heading down the hall and not to the bathroom—I bet they thought I was just curious, and I only took a minute. Tops. Then I went to the bathroom, and they were none the wiser.”

“But they didn’t detect…?”

Trey Atwood was still shaking with nervous energy. He thumbed the button…paused as he went back too far, and Calac stared at the odd face. The uncanny…place.

Trey switched back to a far newer picture without a word. Then he handed Calac the camera.

“They can only detect magic.”

He had taken a recording of the entire area. Calac saw the camera pan shakily as Trey hurried down the hallway. He paused in each room, just for a second, which meant they had to play and replay each image. Even so…

“It is a lounge area. Look at that. There is a taproom there! Even barrels still in stock. Is that some kind of magical game?”

The two young men tried to pick apart each scene. Trey pointed at the strange, oblong shape that people could stand around.

“Yep. It’s deactivated. Some kind of [Mage]’s game. And over there you can see where they’ve just set up beds. Toilets are there…”

Calac caught Trey’s arm.

“Wait.”

He slowed the recording, and Trey noticed something that he himself hadn’t seen the first time he’d gone hurrying around. The swinging view of the camera stopped, and the two stared at a dark room, some kind of…indoor garden?

Yes! Although the plants appeared to be mostly dead. The room itself transformed into loamy soil just past the doorway, and Trey saw a lot of dead plant matter on the ground. Creeping vines up the walls…

“Looks like a greenhouse. Or maybe a private area for a [Green Mage]? A [Druid]? What a shame.”

Calac was shaking his head. He stabbed the camera screen with a finger.

“Not that. Trey. Look! Look!”

The young man frowned. Then his eyes went round.

Greenhouses were a feature of both Earth and this world. Of course, in both worlds, people had learned how to artificially produce light to grow plants, but that was obviously something people did because there wasn’t enough natural light or they wanted year-round coverage.

If you were going to build a greenhouse…even [Mages] didn’t spend unnecessary effort. Trey’s breath caught.

“There’s no way that’s real.”

Calac just gazed at him. Then at the light in the picture that the forgotten greenhouse would have benefited from with a bit of water.

“They’re [Mages]. They didn’t even think of it. I bet you it’s real.”

“Maybe it’s camouflage. Maybe it’s warded too.”

Calac nodded.

“Maybe. But…”

They both stared at the light shining through from outside. Sunlight, coming through the glass ceiling…and a transparent door that looked suspiciously like it was open to a neat little railing and slight terrace.

A balcony.

——

Finding a balcony in the huge, dimensionally-challenged academy was as difficult as could be, especially because, given the twisting and changing hallways, Trey and Calac weren’t sure where that greenhouse balcony was.

However, they could guess based on the rough position of the Creler-mural hallway. They went one floor up and began to find every open window, terrace, balcony, or exposed walkway they could.

It was at this point where Trey started working on the other elements of his plan. He already had a simple one for the guards.

They didn’t eat all the food he brought; they were picky, and he was worried if one didn’t eat and the other did and Trey just happened to be sitting there while one or the other mysteriously fell asleep—he’d be in trouble.

They were high-level [Mages] who had seen fighting. Even if Trey got the drop on one, he was certain he’d lose. Plus, he didn’t want to kill them.

“But they do finish their meals. And if someone were to slip a sleeping potion into their food…”

“You’d need to persuade someone to put it in. And get a sleeping draught.”

Calac pointed out. Trey told him about Mena, who was one of the Terras faction and, he happened to know, also a personal apprentice of Eldavin’s.

“What if we helped her out? We give her some food to take—she thinks we’re doing her a favor.”

“And the sleeping draught? I suppose we could buy one from an [Alchemist]…that’s not hard.”

“Done and done.”

Trey showed Calac a little bottle and note with instructions on how to use it. Calac folded his arms.

“How…?”

“Malia and Sa’la. I told her I was having nightmares and trouble sleeping.”

Trey felt bad about it, because the [Thought Healer] had instantly gotten him a strong sleeping tonic from Sa’la and kept asking him how he was doing. Calac was purely impressed.

“That…that could work! The [Mages] would be out. That only leaves the balcony, if we’re skipping the Golems.”

“We shouldn’t discount them. I don’t know how we’re freeing Amerys; they only have the key to her mask that I saw. Maybe we just drag her out, but there are ward spells, that door…”

The secondary door they’d set up blocked off the rest of the hallways from Amerys’ cell. Calac nodded.

“I need to do my part, then. I’ll find that balcony.”

“You can’t just climb down out of every window you see.”

Trey pointed out reasonably. Calac smiled. He looked around Trey’s room and pointed at the camera.

“All I need is that. I can check each spot in minutes if I record.”

“What, put it on a string? You have to manipulate the buttons. I suppose you could record it, but it’ll just spin around. It has to be angled, Calac.”

The [Swordsman] frowned mightily. Trey was busy trying to recreate an image of the key. Could they pick that lock? He heard Calac walking around the room then exclaim.

“Wait! What about—”

Trey turned and saw Calac pointing to something. Or rather…someone.

Minizi, who was rather large at this point, raised her head. Trey and Calac stared at her, then the camera. She was four feet tall, and dangerous. Heavier, with all her upgrades. Calac turned to Trey.

“Lifesand Golems. She’s just sand, isn’t she? Does she have to be that big?”

——

Night. Wistram’s calm bubble of controlled weather created a glassy lake. The stars shone down in every color around the Academy of Mages.

Parts of Wistram were lit up. Laughing students at parties. Voices speaking from distant windows. But this section of Wistram was quiet.

A section of stone opened, and the image of plain, grey material flickered, revealing a hidden window. A hand thrust it open—and then a little figure clambered onto the balcony.

A foot-tall Golem, with something strapped to her chest. A professional camera. She looked behind her, got a silent nod—and then looked down.

It was a straight drop, but there was a lip of something below. The question was…what? The Lifesand Golem looked around, saw no one watching. So she tensed—and jumped.

Minizi leapt out a window, holding the camera. She didn’t fall, but jerked to a stop as the rope tied around her waist arrested her fall. Slowly, the Lifesand Golem descended, rotating and aiming the camera.

A little red light flashed as the lens panned across the outside of Wistram. The Lifesand Golem peered around, aiming the camera for thirty seconds. Then she reached up and tugged on the string.

Once.

Calac Crusland lowered it further. He leaned against the window, ostensibly taking in the night air. He nodded as a [Mage] passed him without a word, and blocked their view of the right side of the windowsill. He fed more rope down from the spool he was holding until he felt two jerks. Then…the rope began to swing.

What was she doing? Calac risked a glance and saw Minizi swinging herself back and forth. The Lifesand Golem reached out and grabbed the edge of a balcony.

“Minizi! What are you doing?”

He hissed, but dared not be louder because a laughing group of flirting male [Mages] following a few female peers—Centaurs all—were trotting down the hallway. Calac could only stand and stare out the window, hoping there was no one there.

Then he felt three quick tugs on the rope and began to pull her up. He saw a smug little Lifesand Golem aiming a camera at him and exhaled as he reached out to put her in the rucksack.

——

“She’s too intelligent. Are you sure she can’t think?”

Calac pointed at Minizi as she returned to her ‘main body’. The little Golem walked into her larger form, and larger Minizi stirred.

Trey frowned at Minizi. The angle of the camera was certainly good, and he saw her swinging towards the balcony.

“I don’t think she’s stupid, but she’s not a Sentient-class Golem according to the Quarass. Not…yet. Calac. Have you seen this?”

The [Lord] raised his head as he flopped back into his bed. He’d spent the last eight days and nights canvassing every window he could find. This was one balcony of many, and the camera’s memory was filling up. Trey kept deleting all but their reference material…and the original pictures on the camera. He felt guilty doing it, but it was useful, and the [Mages] had confiscated his iPhone for ‘inspection’, which meant playing Flappy Bird and whatnot.

“No. Is it…?”

He sat up as Trey silently showed him the footage. Calac took one look and cursed.

“Trey, that’s not the greenhouse!”

“No. But look at the stonework, Calac. It’s changed to that interior wood design—and the walls look like the stone of the balcony. It’s not granite, or regular stone. It’s got that odd green-tinge we thought was mold.”

“Iveine stone.”

Calac whispered. He looked at Trey.

“I’m on it. I’ll find out where this was and see if we can get access to that. If not…how are the locks coming?”

Trey smiled. This too was done in part with his Lifesand magic. He showed Calac something.

“Take a look.”

There was a lock, an actual lock and tumblers on the table. Calac eyed it.

“Where did you get…?”

“I found a door and blasted it out. Don’t worry, it’s just a cheap lock. And take a look at…”

Trey raised a finger, and Calac saw some rust-red sand gather around it. A little, plain key with two simple teeth appeared. A stereotype of a key, too large and, Calac was sure, not the key for this lock.

But then Trey poked it at the lock, and Calac saw the Lifesand ooze into the cracks. The key morphed, and Trey frowned.

“The trick is…moving the tumblers…aha!”

He twisted the key, and Calac saw the mechanism move. He heard a click, and saw the bolt shoot out. Trey glanced up at Calac.

“Locks picked. I wonder if Amerys’ lock needs that key?”

The [Lord] was agog.

“Th—then that just leaves the Golems. If we even have to fight them. The Golems and the ward spells. Then…”

In silence, the two young men looked at each other. Mages down. Both doors opened and Amerys’ locks. Balcony?

Calac found the balcony the next day. That just left the ward spells. And a distraction. Trey thought he had an idea for the distraction too.

——

Calac and Trey walked around the next day with a spring in their steps. A bit of swagger. Their friends noticed it. Of course, when asked, Trey just claimed he’d learned a new spell, and Calac honestly said he’d leveled up as a [Mage].

Neither one could tell the others the truth. Which was that they were taking apart Wistram like a jigsaw puzzle.

“It’s definitely the balcony. We land, we go in—we just need to bypass the wards. What are they? Do they [Detect Life]? Movement? Who do they report to, the [Guards]? If so, we’ve knocked them out.”

“I don’t know. I also don’t know if those two Golems ever patrol.”

Trey leaned against the ballroom they’d found that looked straight down into a suspiciously plain little outcrop a floor down. Far, far below, they could see the surf meeting the cliffs, and Trey’s stomach sank a little.

“It’s…sixty feet. We scale down with a rope. An enchanted rope. I barely got Minizi down far enough to photograph the inside the first time. But Trey—I bet you we can put her down in the greenhouse.”

“Interesting. But not without a counter to the wards! I can try to figure them out next visit. That’s tomorrow.”

Trey’s heart was beating fast. Calac was shifting from foot to foot.

“Can you do it faster? The war isn’t going well. His Majesty is injured, and the armies are approaching Reim.”

“We’ve nearly got this, Calac. Just give me a day. As for ward spells…wait. I have an idea. Let me do a bit of prep work. How are we doing on the distraction?”

Calac’s eyes glinted. He patted his side.

“I was just about to do my part on that.”

——

Calac Crusland casually strolled past one of the many doors in Wistram’s hallways meant for residents to live in. There were entire wings devoted just to that, but this wasn’t a space normally held by students or even [Mages].

This was the guest suite. The young man kept moving at a slow saunter, waiting as a trio of veiled young women slowly glided down the hall. They were one of the most notable guests of Wistram.

Drowned Folk. Half-Starfish Drowned Women.

Identical to their mother. Calac Crusland slowed down, glanced over his shoulder casually, and pulled something out of his pocket. He slid it under the door as he bent down to tie his shoes.

A little note. The young man stood up, checked himself, and went on his way. He was long gone by the time the door opened, a minute and a half later, and a face poked out, casting left and right down the hallway.

——

“Miss Mena. Are you busy?”

The [Bard] turned as she inspected the morning buffet table for the best picks she was placing into a pair of wooden boxes. Other [Mages] jostled her, reaching for food, but she calmly shoved back.

“Hey. Quit it.”

“You’re the one pulling a Telim!”

“It’s not for me, it’s a delivery. Shove me again and I’ll web your feet. Oh. Hello. Isn’t it Troy? Grand Magus Eldavin teaches you too!”

She gave him a huge, beaming smile, and Trey ducked his head.

“That’s right. Are you busy?”

“I’m just—that’s it, [Sticky Webs]!”

Mena swore, turned, and pointed at someone’s feet. There was a snigger.

“[Dispel Magic]. You don’t—hey, why isn’t it dispelling. Wait, wait—”

Trey watched the confidence turn to panic as the [Mage] overbalanced, sending utensils, food, and everything else flying up…down onto them.

The [Bard] gave him a superior look as she pocketed her wand. Trey stared at her.

[Dispel Magic] didn’t work?

That was Grand Magus Eldavin’s teaching. The other students looked at Mena as she packed her food and levitated the two boxes after her. She nodded at Trey.

“I’m just doing a delivery. I can talk. Is there something the Grand Magus needs? I can go find him right after this.”

She turned to him eagerly, and Trey saw the same look a lot of [Mages] had. It made him…uneasy. It was the kind of pure adoration or loyalty that made him think of…

The King of Destruction. Someone swept up in the cause.

Gazi looked like that. At times. But she was tempered by years of knowing Flos. This? Gazi was a Gazer, and she watched Flos with a hint of this passion. But this was closer to blindness.

“Not Eldavin directly, no. Can I walk with you?”

Mena visibly hesitated. She glanced ahead.

“I’m going somewhere private. Up till there is fine, but…”

“You’re making a delivery to the guards. I know. Grand Magus Eldavin has let me visit…her.”

Trey finished Mena’s sentence. The [Bard] turned to him, surprised, then smiling.

“Of course you know. In that case, come with me. Do you know what he’s planning for his Archmage’s coronation? I mean, ceremony? It’s coming up soon.”

Trey shook his head.

“No more than anyone. Does he say anything to you?”

Mena frowned.

“Teura knows, I’m sure. She’s had some of the older mages working hard…but I didn’t hear more. That’s just gossip; don’t repeat it. What do you think of her? Grand Magus Eldavin went to speak with her once, but he hasn’t again.”

“I bring her food. And the guards.”

“That’s you who’s doing it?”

Mena exclaimed. Trey nodded and she laughed and slapped her forehead.

“It all makes sense! The guards tell me someone else has been feeding them properly. I’m glad someone does. You know, the other people doing deliveries don’t even bother checking what they put in the boxes? One packed an entire loaf of bread in and eight raw carrots one time.”

“Really?”

They were chatting as they came to the Creler mural. Trey slapped his forehead as Mena fished for the key.

“You know what? I shouldn’t.”

She smiled sideways at him.

“Don’t be dramatic. It’s not as if you don’t have permission.”

“But the Golems. You know, the wards?”

The [Bard] shook her head. She glanced up at Trey and bowed her head.

“Archmage! No, it’s fine. I have an amulet, and the wards are spelled to ignore it, or that’s what they said.”

Trey smiled, but the back of his neck suddenly prickled. He casually turned his head, nodding.

“Archmage Viltach. Good morning to you as well.”

“Troy. On another…visit?”

The Archmage of Terandria smiled as he passed by Mena and Trey. The young man nodded slightly, suddenly feeling a little…sweaty. Mena just nodded, brushing frazzled hair out of her eyes.

“Just keeping them fed, Archmage.”

“Very good. Don’t let me keep you. Troy—we must speak about Minizi, later. Perhaps a dinner?”

“Perhaps, Archmage. I, uh, have a lesson with Grand Magus Eldavin late.”

Viltach’s expression changed. The friendly, bearded Archmage looked at Trey with…what? Envy? Betrayal? Resignation?

Just a hint of it, for a second, and he nodded ruefully.

“You do have to report to your Grand Magus. Another time, then.”

He passed by, and Mena calmly turned the key in the lock. Trey’s stomach fluttered—but then they were standing in front of the Golems.

“I don’t know how you walk past them alone, even with the amulet.”

She tugged it out of her robes and shrugged as Trey stared at it.

“It’s not exactly hard. They scare the older [Mages], and they’re unsettling—but they wouldn’t go straight to killing you. Honestly, they could open up this Hidden Hallway and no one would get hurt, even if they did wander in here. All these wards? The Golems? Hey, I showed you my amulet!”

She waved an irritated hand as she walked forwards with the floating breakfast boxes, and the two Golems swung down swords to block her way. She lifted it again, and their glowing gem eyes flashed. The two arms rose, and Trey tried to unwet himself. He’d actually come close…

“W-what was that?”

Mena strode on, heedless of the Golems. Trey thought he saw the hidden ward spells thanks to Eldavin’s tutelage, but all he could make out was a faint tracing of magic. There…there…

“There’s one.”

Mena pointed it out on the wall, and Trey nearly jumped out of his skin. The [Bard] smiled at him.

“You’re beginning to see them, aren’t you? Good! Eldavin will be pleased. Even full [Mages] can’t, but they weren’t taught by a real [Grand Magus]. These are the same ones as all the areas the old [Mages] want to keep private. You’re only a 1st Year, so you probably haven’t seen any.”

“No…”

The [Bard] winked at him.

“There’s wine cellars—only higher up. Private libraries with spell tomes, and so on. Older students try breaking in. The stupid ones get caught and punished, but the smart ones don’t even bother dodging wards or security Golems. Just get one of these.”

She flashed the amulet at him. Trey saw a circle, surrounded by eight different symbols. Elements? He thought he saw stylized representations of different elementalist spell schools.

“Wait. Just that amulet?”

“It’s keyed to most secure places. The trick is knowing who’s set up the wards. If it’s a big faction—they share this amulet around. Now, if an individual [Mage] has secured a wing, all bets are off, but if it’s Centrist, Revivalist, Libertarian, or any of the main factions’ shared property…”

“Really?”

——

At this point, Trey and Calac were wondering why they had ever thought it would be difficult. No—it had been. They had come to Wistram not knowing what was what, and Trey had needed to find the right people.

Eldavin arriving was a stroke of luck, and without being an Earther…Minizi was also invaluable. Lifesand, though Trey still hated to admit it, was beyond useful, and the Quarass had armed him with a trick that had gained Viltach’s favor as well.

“How’s the distraction going?”

“I think it’s set. We don’t need long. So let’s go over the plan.”

Trey had just returned from a long chat, and his voice was scratchy, but he walked over as Calac laid out their blueprints.

Now, they had a full vision of the breakout. It went like this, as Calac summarized:

“Archmage Amerys is being held in a magically-restricted room, here, surrounded by two experienced battle-mages. They have a magic door which blocks their way to the rest of the area, which is a converted lounge and private area. There are two ways in: one through the Creler-mural and two giant guard-Golems. Another—through a balcony from the Dazeid Ballrooms and a sixty foot descent. There are ward spells throughout the area, but they’re apparently keyed to an amulet all advanced [Mages] have.”

Trey nodded. He was shaking with anticipation and broke in.

“The plan is simple. We have one…ally who we signal a day in advance. At nightfall—no—”

Calac corrected him.

“Before that.”

Trey nodded.

“Before that, we have to be ready. So on the day of the event, Mena will deliver both [Mages] their food. We need to slow her down, maybe even delay her or hope she’s doing a lunch delivery. That way they’re hungry. They eat the drugged food and are passed out by the time we arrive.”

Calac traced a route through the map of Wistram.

“We are in place in the Dazeid Ballroom and descend using ropes. We camouflage ourselves with spells—one of us needs to learn [Camouflage] or [Invisibility].”

“Just [Camouflage]. Even Eldavin couldn’t teach me a Tier 4 spell that soon.”

Calac nodded.

“Or potions or scrolls. We land in the balcony, and one of us uses an amulet to bypass the wards and the other sticks by them. We get to the door.”

He paused at the door.

“Unlock it. That’s your job. We get to the guards and make sure they’re asleep and won’t come after us. I can do that. Mother told me how to bind a [Mage] so they can’t easily escape.”

Trey nodded.

“Then we try to free Amerys. If we can’t—we go to Gazi and bail out the window. Straight down again. So two sets of ropes. We’re on a ship. I bet you her sword can break the bindings.”

Calac nodded. He scrubbed at his chin; he hadn’t remembered to shave, so a light stubble was growing.

“The main thing is we don’t want anyone checking on the guards. We need a distraction. Which you’ve set up.”

He turned to the young man, and the Earther sobered for a second.

“…Yes. I think so. I’ve gotten it rolling, but it’ll be something, either way. It’ll definitely cause a distraction. It’s not nice, though.”

He looked at Calac, and the young man’s eyes flickered to the camera and then to Trey. He shook his head.

“No. It’s not. But just know that I appreciate…you doing it. They won’t get hurt.”

“They won’t. This is Wistram. They don’t cast magic to kill.”

Trey repeated that. He looked at the map, trying to put it out of his head. Did they even need a distraction? Too late now.

“The only thing we can’t account for are…the Golems. If they patrol, we’re dead. I need time to break that lock. We need to make sure they never leave that room.”

The [Lord] nodded, but cautiously.

“How do we do that? On another visit?”

Trey shook his head. He looked around and saw a figure practicing her sword swings. Perhaps because she saw Calac doing it? She had no muscle to build, but he thought it suited her. Minizi looked up as Trey smiled.

“I have a better idea. And it’ll help us finalize our plans.”

——

Minizi checked herself. Harness in place? Check. Amulet? Double-check.

No camera this time. She had to move fast, and besides, Trey needed the camera for the other part of his plan; they’d already finished that.

Calac had a spool of enchanted rope in one hand, and he was checking Minizi’s harness. The Lifesand Golem peered down at the balcony.

“Remember, Minizi, just go down, inspect the hallways, and come back up. Don’t be spotted!”

“Can you see what she sees?”

Calac murmured as the Lifesand Golem nodded repeatedly at Trey, almost impatiently. The [Sand Mage] grimaced.

“Vague impressions at best. No one’s teaching me Golem-magic, not even Eldavin—but I think she’ll be able to communicate to us if she sees the Golems on patrol.”

“How long do we leave her there?”

Minizi leapt from the balcony, was caught by the rope, and smacked into the stone wall. Trey and Calac winced. Alright, when they did it? Don’t do that.

The Lifesand Golem’s head slowly reformed as she carefully descended with Calac feeding her the rope. She wiggled, trying to swing herself towards the balcony’s railing. Trey shrugged.

“Maybe an hour? Two? Just so we know they don’t patrol. One hour would be fine.”

“We just stand here?”

“No, we anchor the rope with [Sticky Web] right outside the window and walk away. No one’ll see it.”

They were on the far side of the academy, and even if some ship captain were sailing in…Calac nodded. He was tense, but with excitement as much as anything else.

Minizi was halfway down. Trey turned to Calac.

“You never did tell me how you got the amulet.”

The [Swordsman] was embarrassed. He turned away.

“A…an older [Mage] in the Libertarians likes me. We were practicing with the sword and I suggested she divest herself of things getting in the way.”

“Oh. Oh.”

The [Lord] didn’t look at Trey.

“I’m ashamed of stealing it from her. Even if she notices, though, she’ll just think I stole it, if she connects it to me at all.”

He was a [Spy]! Trey didn’t know what to say, but he knew that Calac was guiltier then he let on. Solemnly, he patted Calac on the shoulder.

“I’m sure it’s not hard to get a replacement. Let’s just see about Minizi.”

Calac nodded. He peered down; she was ten feet away from the balcony. He turned to Trey.

“Do we signal her tonight if we don’t see anything?”

Trey’s mouth went dry at the thought.

“I…no. We have to set up the distraction. But…in three days? In three days?”

Calac looked at Trey, and the other young man returned his gaze of half-disbelief. Just like that? In three days?

Minizi jerked the rope once, impatiently. She was almost down and wiggling to get into hiding. Calac hurriedly spooled the rope down. Trey gazed out into the ocean.

“I’ll signal her myself. She—she told me all I had to do was find her, and she’d come when I did. But in this case, I th—”

Calac was turning back to Trey. He lifted his hand, fed Minzi another foot of rope, and the air shook.

Whoom. Trey heard the sound and felt part of the rumble. Then—a moment later, felt a flash of heat. A spray of smoke and dust and sand geysered up, and he recoiled. Calac stumbled backwards, line suddenly slack. Smoke billowed up as the two young men stared out the window.

“What was—”

Trey leapt up.

“Minizi!”

He stared down in horror and saw the balcony below was filled with smoke, dust—and a huge crater. Calac pulled at the rope and found a burning stump was all that was left. They looked at each other.

Then the klaxon alarm began to ring. From below—the balcony—echoing upwards. Trey and Calac heard a loud, and calm, and familiar voice of a [Mage] speaking.

“Hello. This is Galei of Ullsinoi. Someone’s trying to break out the Archmage. They might be dead. Sound the alarm. Hello, if you’re hearing this, they just ran into our traps. This is Galei of Ullsinoi. Someone’s—”

The two young men stared down in paralysis for a good ten seconds. Then they heard shouts of alarm from below. Someone threw open a window up and to the left.

“What was that sound?”

The two young men looked at each other and then Trey slammed the windows shut. They ran for it.

In his rooms, Minizi, the main body, sat up with a sudden jerk. The little sand-Golem looked around, and then folded her arms. She didn’t really understand all of it. She didn’t know the politics, the drama, the stakes…but she was certain of one thing from her trials in the depths of Wistram, clearing out trapped rooms. She could have told Trey and Calac that.

They’d underestimated those twisted [Mages].

They’d got got.

——

It was amazing how little the explosive trap and alarm was remarked on in the rest of Wistram. It was barely a footnote and even then—no one knew the reason why, only that an explosion had happened.

Which was normal life in the Academy of Mages, apparently.

Within Amerys’ prison though, things were a different matter.

Telim walked with Trey again, and the young man’s heart was fluttering out of his chest. He did not want to be here. He shouldn’t have been here, but like a fool he’d kept up his regular visits to Amerys.

He clutched a basket of snacks like an alibi to his chest. Nor did he have the luxury of chatting with Telim to create anything like a relaxed atmosphere or a cover story.

[Mages] were all over this area. Two were casually lounging outside the Creler-mural zone. And the ones inside?

There were now six Guardian Golems, two in their original spots, two more in the hallway, and two on patrol. Telim stopped when he saw them.

“Six? I didn’t know we had six of them! This is a bit overkill, isn’t it? Has something happened?”

He looked at Trey, and the young man tried to seem as shocked as possible. Telim glanced around. He peered down the shag hallway currently being torn up by the huge feet and called out.

“I say! Yolv! Has something happened?”

The Dwarf [Runic Warrior] was standing in the hall, armored up and shielded behind his magical barriers, in discussion with no less than eight other [Mages]. Including…Trey’s mouth dried up.

Galei, the Centaur of the Ullsinoi faction. Trey looked past him at an exasperated man and turned a shade paler.

Archmage Viltach was there too. He and a Libertarian were talking with the Ullisinoi’s representative and other [Mages] assigned to this duty. Nailihuiale slithered out of a room and caught sight of Telim.

“Who’s this now?”

The Centaur tilted his head and regarded Trey with a keen eye.

“Troy Atlas, one of the Earthers, and Telim. Are you here for guard duty?”

“You will never get me sitting guard duty for days on end. Galei, Archmages. Has something happened with Archmage Amerys?”

Viltach, Naili, and the other [Mages] exchanged looks. Viltach folded his arms, and Yolv coughed, spotting Trey.

“This might not be the time for a visit, Telim. Something did happen. We’re recreating the security on this floor. Which means, apparently, how many guards?”

“Let’s call it an even twelve. You can play cards or something.”

Galei spoke. The Centaur had an amazing mane of hair, silver grey, and a wicked smile over his kilt-like robes. He looked like mischief and had a balanced pair of spectacles on his face. Half-moon. No, he didn’t need them, but he’d added them after hearing stories of Earth.

He and another [Mage] who wore Ullsinoi’s curious eye-sigil on their robes faced the other [Mages]. Instantly, one of the Dullahans present complained.

“Twelve? Ullsinoi doesn’t contribute its members. We’re not having twelve guards, Galei. Or is it Galei-Taxiela? Am I even speaking to a person? You lot are as trustworthy as quicksand.”

She went to prod Galei, and the Centaur laughed as she poked his stomach. He covered it protectively.

“Stop that! You know, quicksand isn’t actually that dangerous. Now, Freefall Quicksand is the stuff that’ll bury you up to your nose in a moment. We’d contribute guards—but it’s a matter of trust. We’re willing to put in the magic, though. See?”

He nodded and two more [Mages] came strolling down the hall. Trey’s heart sank. Because the lovely shag-and-wood hallway no longer led towards the improvised door which Amerys was imprisoned behind. One of the [Mages], a smiling Drake with fiery orange scales, clicked his claws—

And the hallway devolved into a shadowy maze filled with smog. Labyrinthine walls thirteen feet tall—and, oh yes. Ominous cello music.

“Dead gods.”

Yolv took one look at the enchanted maze and turned to Galei. He raised a finger and pointed at the maze.

“You put it back. You bastards! It takes fifteen minutes to get through that shit! I am not walking fifteen minutes to use the toilet!”

“True. It’d take you fifteen minutes to run.”

Galei and the other Ullsinoi mages started cackling with laughter. Yolv just rolled his eyes.

“Short jokes. Archmage Viltach, please, speak some sense into them!”

“I’m still waiting to know what happened. Excuse me? Is Amerys free? Did someone try to break her out?”

Telim waved a hand. Viltach glanced at Trey, and the young man kept his face as straight as possible. He sighed loudly.

“We know what happened, Telim, roughly. This is private—but it appears Ullsinoi, not trusting to our safeguards, has been trapping this entire area with spells in case someone were to attempt to free Amerys. They planted powerful spells that could have hurt our own guards—”

“We were more clever than that. It’s directional. You walk out for a breath of fresh air, you don’t explode. Now, if you land…so long as no one started hopping there, they were fine! Besides, you’d spot it. Probably. Maybe. Nah, we hid it well.”

One of the [Illusionists] remarked cheerfully. Yolv swore, and the other guards looked at the Ullsinoi [Mages] askance.

“You didn’t think to tell us? We’ve been guarding Amerys—”

Galei interrupted calmly.

“Poorly. You didn’t think about the balcony. Don’t get out of it—you didn’t. That’s why we put a spell there; because we’re on your side. On the window, too.”

What window? The [Mages] present refused to acknowledge Galei’s point. They just glared—and Nailihuiale sighed loudly.

“The point is that one of their spells went off, Telim. Which has led to Ullsinoi condescending to tell us how flawed our security is.”

Galei cast a glance towards Trey. His eyes lingered for a second on the young man.

“…And he proves my point. Visitors. Even feeding Amerys snacks. You want to keep her prisoner? Do it properly.”

Trey jumped as the Centaur pointed at him. Viltach frowned, and Telim muttered.

“This is all…astounding. Astounding! Ullsinoi, helping out directly? But the spell—what happened? Someone did try to get in? Did they turn into silkap or what?”

“No. We know what happened. We did investigate, Telim. Despite what Ullsinoi might think, we’re not idiots.”

Viltach’s eyes rested on Trey for a moment, and the young man waited. This was it. He tried to think of something to say—and Archmage Nailihuaile sighed louder.

“Emirea du Merrimom.”

…Huh? Trey’s mouth opened. Of all the names—Telim started.

“Isn’t that your friend, Troy? What about her? She tried to—”

Nailihuaile lifted a claw.

“No, no. The poor girl. She was the victim. Apparently she feeds birds; the Merrimom estates. Poppingjays or some stupid things. Well, she feeds the seagulls here. She named one ‘Beaky’ or something inane—I say that in past tense, because the child was happily watching her little friend fly around when it must have crapped on the spell or landed for a moment. Ullsinoi blew it into bits.”

Trey’s mouth was open. Galei bit his lip, and the other Ullsinoi [Mages] looked away. Naili turned to Viltach and the others.

“She came to me, screaming, with a handful of bloody feathers in her hands, and when I realized what had happened—”

It was too much. Galei and the other three Ullsinoi [Mages] cracked. His cheeks bulged, and they started laughing so hard the Centaur had to lean on a wall to stand up. One actually went over, she was cackling so hard.

“Oh, for—Galei! This is not a joke!”

Viltach snapped. The Ullsinoi [Mages] kept laughing.

“That’s hilarious! Don’t glare at me! It’s a damn seagull!”

Galei was wiping tears from his eyes. Trey almost laughed himself. He felt his would be hysterical, though.

Poor Emirea. But the luck! One seagull fatality meant that no one had asked questions. However…Viltach turned to the maze, and sighed.

“I suppose we can rethink the security precautions.”

“Yes.”

Galei stood upright, and glanced at Trey, Telim, and nodded to the hallway.

“For instance, we can put more Golems in. Let’s have all six guardian golems. More [Mages]. And turn off the false wall in the mural walk.”

“What?”

Archmage Naili and Viltach looked at him. The Centaur sighed, his face expressing every level of weary resignation.

“A wall to keep us all boxed in means reinforcements have to turn that key. It means they’re funneled in. Open this area up. Keep the Golems. Add more [Mages].”

He smiled cheerfully as the other factions looked at each other.

“Take my advice. Or don’t. But trust me—if you want to keep Amerys secure, you’re going to need to sacrifice a few birds. Oh—are those snacks?”

He flicked his hand, and Trey jumped. Galei chomped down on a fruitcake and smiled. He turned to Trey and trotted past him.

“The point to making a prison is to make it impossible to break out of—at least, if you want to keep someone inside. You lot are far too nice. People trying to break into my domain only get one shot.”

He winked at Trey and dropped the fruitcake back in the basket. Silently, the young man stared up at him as Viltach sighed again.

——

Trey Atwood and Calac Crusland sat together. In silence. They had the warding stones up in their room, but they said not a word.

Minizi silently and expressively sucked down a thimble of Trey’s blood in the corner. She was rejuvenating her lost sand; even she couldn’t reclaim it after it was blown to bits like that.

All their plans were in shambles. The layout of the prison was completely redesigned. Worse?

They were made. Maybe. Possibly? Trey kept thinking back to Galei’s comments. But for Emirea, they would be caught.

And even if they weren’t, and they had a second chance…what were they supposed to do? He didn’t know. Worse, the veil had been stripped away and Trey realized how bad their plan was.

He just pictured it, again and again. Him and Calac landing on the balcony, all set to break Amerys out and—boom.

He had no ideas and no more time. An army was marching on Reim to besiege it. Trey searched for the words to express how he felt. But it was Calac who did.

“I let them down. It’s arrogance.”

Trey bestirred himself. The [Lord] was looking at his hands.

“I didn’t understand the King of Destruction. I thought I was better than I was. No wonder my father didn’t trust me. This was my chance and—”

“We’re up against Level 50 [Mages]. It’s just us versus the Academy. We…Flos himself said it was a long shot. He said there was limited help he could give, and that we might fail. I think…he was even testing to see if I wanted to stay.”

Trey murmured. Calac looked at him and turned away, towards his window.

“We’re just fools. I don’t think he believed that, Trey. I used to think you didn’t deserve anything. Let alone his ear. But you—you came up with most of that plan. You had so much set up. I couldn’t contribute enough. If I were better at magic, or thought things through…”

“Neither one of us is good enough. Calac—there’s pieces. We’re not sharing Amerys’ cell. We have to try again.”

The [Lord] was staring at the three golden pins in Reim’s capital. He nodded.

“We must. But we’re not good enough. Not us two. Not a [Sand Mage] with a Lifesand Golem and a [Lord] who knows the sword and a bit of banditry.”

He looked ironically at Trey, and the [Sand Mage] nodded. The lights were dim in their room, and they sat in the dead of night. They had blown out almost every candle; it fit their mood.

Minizi sat, drinking blood. She had a gem for an eye, and bones of mithril. The Lifesand Golem’s sand eye swiveled to Trey, to Calac.

What was wrong with them? They were so silent. So still. So hopeless. All Trey had done when he’d come back was go to Emirea’s room. She was still crying and mourning her friend, Beaky.

Trey had returned, lit a simple candle, and placed it by his windowsill. It guttered as it cast a long shadow over the room. Like despair?

They were so still, Minizi wondered if they were sleeping. But they did not, in her experience, sleep standing up. The Lifesand Golem saw Calac glance at the candle.

Then Trey.

It wavered. A single, burning glow now. It was very dark outside. The clouds covering Wistram’s night sky. Parts of the academy glowed, but two statues and a little Golem sat in the room.

The candle. Minzi stared at it. She was aware of some things. She was aware of being unaware of things. Like the traps in Wistram that Trey and Viltach sent her to try and clear. She learned to dodge them—sometimes by running into them two dozen times and finding a route by trial and error.

But she did learn. Context clues. Some were easy, like a bit of raised stone, a change in gradation that mortal people would miss, but was as obvious as the sun to a Golem.

Some things were harder. But this…this was more of a common-sense issue, so it took Minizi a while to figure it out.

The candle moved and danced as the night air entered and left. It was just a candle, melting low, lower. But something was off about it.

The flame. Minizi really tried. The flame was no bigger or smaller than regular fire. It was not hotter or colder that she could tell. So what was it…?

Ah. Perhaps it was simply that the flame was invisible. At least, to Minizi’s eyes. She saw the wax melting, but she did not see the flame, just the place where it distorted the air.

But that was fine. She had been made in someone’s image, but her eyes were sand. Her body was blood and sand, and the boy who had created her had many mixed emotions in his chest.

Desperation. A cold determination when he looked at the camera. Fear. Apprehension. Uncertainty.

And a growing feeling of…

Expectation?

Minizi’s head tilted sideways on her body. Slightly oversized, like a bobblehead. A cute little being with a sword. Razor-sharp teeth.

She didn’t know what she was based on, only that she was. The Lifesand Golem stirred as Calac and Trey looked towards the window.

The candle guttered out. Both boys sat in silence. But Minizi heard it.

The faintest sound in the world. A…scraping sound. Very faint. Metal on stone.

She rose to her feet. The little sand hand grasped her sword.

A claymore. Viltach, the other creator, had laughed when Trey suggested it. Fitting.

Why? Minizi stared at her reflection in the blade. Dreadlocks of hair around a huge, central eye. Four smaller ones over a mouth filled with pointed teeth. Four fingers on each hand.

That was all…not like Trey. Not like anyone, except for Goelv. But the eyes were different. Minizi touched her face.

She had no skin. Or rather, the sand detailing her didn’t depict regular skin. Her fingers, her body had an odd…segmented quality to it.

Like armor. A flexible armor of banded scales, from neck to toe. The Lifesand Golem heard another crunch of something digging into stone and looked up. She raised her sword and heard something outside the window.

Like a rat. The really big ones. Minizi tottered forwards, ready to swing her sword and rightly end it. Trey started as the Lifesand Golem charged past him.

“Minizi. Wait—”

The little Golem raised its sword with a strength that shocked Trey when he tried to stop her. A huge, pointed grin on Minizi’s face. She brought the sword down towards the windowsill—

A hand caught the blade as it fell. The impact made no sound, save for the muffled thump. Minizi jerked backwards in surprise. She aimed her sword again, as the four-fingered hand flicked it back. Curious, stumpy fingers. Almost like—

The Lifesand Golem saw a head rise over the ledge. Trey had frozen in place. Calac had left his chair and was half-kneeling, staring upwards. Minizi looked up, raising her blade—and stopped.

The hair was wet. The skin was a dusky orange, an alien tone again, save for one. Yet the head had dark brown hair. And…five eyes.

Four small ones around a central eye, so large it dominated that odd face. The eye. Oh, the eye.

The pupil glowed. So did the iris. Under the darkness, the vast eye stared down at Minizi. The Lifesand Golem looked into that eye and saw the pupil was not one plain ring of color.

It was a kaleidoscope which changed subtly, running from a bright yellow to streaks of red. An eye with no visible blood vessels.

It locked onto her like a beam from a distant lighthouse, and the Lifesand Golem felt a strange presence. The other four eyes rolled around, moving up into the other being’s skull, flicking left to Trey, Calac.

Moving in every direction, independently of one other. The dreadlocks swung, dripping with salt water, as the head rose higher.

Then came the body, slimmer, covered from head to toe in a strange, rust-colored armor. It looked cheap…until you saw how it moved and flexed, perfectly. A suit that adhered to the wearer’s body without flaw, watertight, untarnished despite its long submersion in water.

Slowly, the Lifesand Golem backed up. She had never feared anything in her life. She had never been disconcerted or afraid, save for what Trey did.

Yet her reaction was completely different from his, the leap of hope and affection in his heart.

Like a giant, she rose, spilling softly into this room like a cat, stretching, adjusting the huge sword on her back.

A claymore. A huge weapon, but she moved easily with it, sliding through the window and landing. Looking around.

An eye. Focusing on Trey, pupil dilating, at Calac, and swiveling around. Then, in the darkness, Minizi saw the eye flick to her. She saw that curious face open.

Gazi Pathseeker opened her mouth, and her teeth were sharp as they glinted under the moonlight. She stretched, hand going to her sword as ocean water ran off her armor. Aching like a prisoner long buried under the waves.

She regarded her little replica with amusement and interest, and looked at her student. She smiled.

“You look lost, Trey Atwood. Do not be. Now is the time. Time to break a flower’s bonds. To set lightning free. You have found her?”

Trey nodded slowly. The half-Gazer smiled. Minzi stared up and saw how to smile with her face. Like terror and delight. Like bottled carnage and expectation and wrath. Gazi smiled and nodded.

“Then, I will free her.”

8.63 K

Today.

They saw a vision of the future. Every army said it, and every nation thought it. When [Historians] dipped their quills in ink to write of the past, glorified or sardonically, they still drew a line between then and the present.

No matter how good your armies were, how inspiring your leaders—that was then. We are the armies of the modern era, who shall not be surpassed. We have built upon the bones of the fallen and learned all their mistakes.

Or rather, that was what Earth’s soldiers and warriors and thinkers believed. Unlike other worlds, they had never gone back. Realized they had lost an arms race against their ancient ancestors.

This was because Earth had experienced the fall of a civilization, like Rome. It had not seen the firmament break, gone through true armageddon where the survivors searched for pieces and found only dust. The Humans currently on top of Earth had suffered no giant cataclysm.

Yet.

However, even in this world, armies believed they were the greatest of their time. That they had, if not the greatest soldiers ever conceived, something. Superlative [Archers]. Tactics or discipline beyond others.

What a strange feeling it must be. For both children of Earth and [Soldiers] to look up and realize they were now the past.

They flew through the sky like mocking bullseyes. Armor painted so vividly, even beautifully, in monochrome colors that they seemed to call out for targets. Yet armored—enchanted, beyond the means of most to even hit. Only an enchanted arrow from a skilled archer could even bother them.

Slings? Pikes? Swords and armor? [Knights] riding around on horseback looked up at fire from the skies. Soldiers of the future, flying in suits of powerful armor.

The nightmare of two worlds, the future, flying overhead of the past with contempt for all who had come this far. Chasing down the [Knights] who looked up in their plate armor at their replacement.

That was the terror for anyone who wanted the world to stay the way it was. For people who understood that this would change…far too much. Far too swiftly.

For now, it was one battlefield, and one man—one half-Elf held the reins of power. Eldavin, the Archmage of Memory. However, he had made one mistake:

He had left Wistram. And the plotters who had no counter for him took that moment. Elsewhere in the world, armies were fighting with conventional arms and weapons. By the time he came for them—they would be ready. But for that, they needed their Archmage. Time was running out; Reim was under attack.

The siege was entering its ninth day.

——

Everyone said war was hot, which had always confused him. It might be true of other places, but Chandrar? Chandrar was cold on those nights. So cold you could freeze to your cloth in the open.

It was hot by day, but who would fight under the glaring sun? A true battle, in the young [Soldier]’s mind, was most economically fought under the moonlight, perhaps in some grand surprise attack. Under the clear skies, with ample moonlight? You could well take the enemy off-guard and have enough light to see by.

That was the kind of naive thinking of someone who had never seen a war. By the time his unit of Bast’s 14th was rotated into the front, he had seen [Soldiers] marching, running under the full heat of the sun. The glare of armor was baked into his eyes, and even standing in formation was hot. Some people collapsed from the heat of it, despite the [Line Captain]’s shouting or blows.

Heat had killed over three hundred, despite the water rations. Just…heat. However, the [Soldiers] fought until they dropped. They had to; they were pressed forwards by their fellow [Soldiers]. An endless wave of Hemp-caste [Soldiers] who followed regiments of Cotton and Silk leaders into battle.

This was Nerrhavia’s endless horde. It terrified the young Hemp-[Soldier] and exhilarated him. The roar was deafening as he turned his head and saw a line of bodies that stretched thousands of feet in every direction. Not a single mass like a swarming anthill; they were neatly separated into divisions, regiments, which were arrayed by type and level.

Waiting. Every few seconds, something would break through the distant roar ahead of him. That city, engulfed in motion across the walls. Figures climbing, falling—and the blood. You could see it, even miles away. The flash as someone raised a sword and brought it down on a helmet.

The young man stared at the person on the walls. A Human? A young woman? One of the defenders of Reim.

Capital of the King of Destruction. The last bastion of this war. He shivered, despite himself.

The jagged crown of towers rose around the walls and the city proper. There were ladders everywhere; you could barely see the wall for the ladders. A group began falling as someone kicked them down, and another set collapsed into flames.

“Fire.”

Someone murmured hoarsely, and the Hemp-[Soldiers] shuddered. They saw figures waving their arms, rolling on the ground, fleeing the fire as a [Mage] threw down a [Fireball]. That was what the young man feared most. Death by fire. He could survive losing an arm or a leg so long as he didn’t bleed out. But fire?

The terrifying thing was, he never heard them, even as [Soldiers] went up like distant candles, burning out, collapsing. The air was shaking from so many voices—he never heard them.

“Bast’s 11th and Phloem’s 2nd!”

The [Soldier] jumped. He almost started forward, but that wasn’t his regiment. Two groups advanced towards the retreating [Soldiers] fleeing the burning section, ladders ready to go. Infantry, like him, without distinct levels or gear, and a group of mixed slings and archers.

Thousands. Each division was two thousand strong. So four thousand went to take the wall. Compared to the number of [Soldiers] on it, it seemed they should overrun the city in a second.

But it was so vast, and that broken crown…the young man’s name was Eribis. He looked up at it.

They were not black towers, fit for some villain. They were grey and partly beige, but with dirt and dust more than anything. They were evenly spaced out around Reim, eight towers—or rather, six.

Two were broken, like the tines had been snapped off a crown. Yet the remaining six were the reasons why Nerrhavia’s great army was pulled back so far. Even as Eribis watched—a tower lit up.

“Inc—”

The rest of his [Line Captain]’s scream was drowned out. Eribis threw up his hands and felt something punch his armor. He stumbled, ran into someone, and the blinding flash was replaced by…

Eribis gazed out and the battlefield was silent for one second. He saw one of the divisions marching on Reim’s walls, those glorious armored figures, had been replaced by a huge crater of glass and smoke. The figures scattered around it were lying still. Some got up, stumbling around dizzily in circles. Eribis saw someone sitting, picking up their helmet, shaking their head.

“Bast’s 14th!”

The roar came for him. The dizzy [Soldier] felt the Hemp-soldiers jerk into sudden motion. They looked at each other, uncertain, but the [Line Captain] heard the order from the distant command tents and roared.

“[Obey Me: Forward March]! [Get in Formation]!”

Simple, low-level Skills, but they worked. Eribis felt himself moving forwards, and realized he was out of place. Like someone had drawn a ruler—Bast’s 14th suddenly began moving in orderly rows, not a disordered mass.

Straight at the walls. Eribis began to sweat. He realized what they meant when they said war was hot. It wasn’t just the heat of the sun, or the weather. He felt like he was burning up. His heart was in overdrive, and he longed to have someone stitch it up, make it bigger, cool him down.

It was too hot. Eribis heard the other Hemp soldiers gasping around him. One of them—an older [Veteran] who didn’t make the cutoff for a better regiment—was muttering.

“The King of Destruction falls. Heroes. We’ll be heroes…”

Eribis listened, along with everyone around him. That was what the [Great General] had proclaimed on the eve of the first attack. This was the end of the King of Destruction. Eribis felt the moment in the air. Yet…he looked up.

Eight days, and they hadn’t even breached the walls.

They’d tried. There were four spots where the walls had caved in when magical artillery and spells had blasted holes through, but the damned towers had destroyed the siege towers, even countered the [Mages]. And then—when they’d put two dozen holes in the walls the first time, the King of Destruction had used his Skill. The walls had risen, the gaps mended.

Higher. Thicker.

Now—they loomed forty feet tall. Even so, Nerrhavia’s Fallen had countered that. They’d brought fifty-foot ladders. The siege towers kept being destroyed before they could roll towards the walls, but Reim couldn’t stop ladders from every direction.

Eribis saw Reim was surrounded as Bast’s 14th marched. They jogged, looking up at the towers, moving faster despite their armor and exhaustion from standing tense so long. Better to get to the walls than face annihilation like that.

The towers did not glow. And Eribis looked at the walls and saw how each division was throwing itself up the ladders. Entire groups of [Archers] were skirmishing with the walls, and [Mages] were throwing spells up, rotating out once they’d taken too many casualties.

But the infantry kept coming. Multiple attackers for every defender on the wall, and even as Eribis watched, he saw a knot of [Soldiers]—enemy soldiers, flesh [Soldiers]—scream and break apart as a bolt of lightning struck them. Shouting Hemp-warriors took the walls, and Eribis stared at them.

We’ll win. Nerrhavia had put three vast armies into one. This was a force to wipe Reim out and end this battle. He’d receive his victor’s allotment, and he’d say he was there. He’d helped claim the King of Destruction’s head. He might even be promoted to Cotton or Silk; after great victories, entire divisions had received that honor if they were the ones who took the city…

“Ladders up! Ladders up!”

The [Line Captain] snapped him out of his daydream. Eribis turned and saw the ladders rising as dozens of Hemp-soldiers dragged them up. He stared upwards and, at last, he made out the faces of the soldiers on the walls.

They had bows, arrows; some even threw stones. But the majority of them had spears, swords, and axes and hacked at the ladders, trying to force them back. One splintered even as Eribis watched, but the first line of [Soldiers] were climbing up despite the danger, and a shower of arrows made the defenders take cover.

“Up! Up! Don’t stop climbing! Take that wall and hold it until reinforcements get up! Go, go, g—”

Then he was climbing. Eribis didn’t even think. He just realized he was climbing the wooden struts of the ladder, panting, arms shaking.

No, no. Dead gods. Not me! He’d thought he might be lucky and they’d take the city before Bast’s 14th even got to the fighting. It had happened twice before. He was a Level 8 [Soldier], but he’d gotten all 8 levels just by enlisting and training and marching for a few months. Conscripted—partly. He had a ‘choice’ and he’d chosen…

He wasn’t ready. The city loomed above him, and that citadel where the King of Destruction lay rose as his head cleared the walls. For a second, Eribis saw it. A faded, crumbling palace, but it made his blood chill and skin grow cold.

The legend of Chandrar had come from here. And now—

“Hold them off! Reinforcements! R—”

Eribis’ head snapped up. He reached for his gladius, panicking, and dropped his shield. The young man saw it flash past him and hit the ground, causing the [Line Captain] to jump back.

He tumbled over the battlements and hit the ground. He was dead! He was—

“Up, Eribis! You idiot!”

Someone grabbed him and heaved him up. He saw the [Veteran], a mad glint in her eyes, laughing. She had blood on her sword, and the Hemp-boy realized—

They’d taken this section of the walls. He looked around and gasped. All he saw were dead bodies. Torn flesh—

Glowing arrows? They stood out in a blank man’s throat, as his eyes stared deadly at Eribis. The Hemp [Soldier] realized they’d just been bombarded by a spell.

“[Scintillating Arrows]! Shields up! Shields up!”

They came from behind Eribis as he and the [Veteran] ducked. A rain of arrows that showered the sporadic Humans, enemy Stitch-folk, even a Garuda.

“Up! Up! Hold the walls!”

More Hemp [Soldiers] were climbing over the walls. One half-landed, stomping on Eribis’ leg. He rolled away, crying out, making way for the others. Scrambling to his feet, Eribis saw the city below, houses just as crumbling, a paved street as bad as any cobbled or dirt one because it was so worn and yet to be repaired.

Yet, a glorious city. And…he wavered as he saw racing figures headed for the stairs.

“To the breach! Alert Lord Venith! Hold them off!”

[Soldiers]. Reim’s reinforcements were coming, and Eribis saw a clear demarcation in the city. Civilians, actual children, women and men, were staring up at him with fear and hostility. Reim’s people. But the [Soldiers] were already fighting with the Hemp of Bast’s 14th, trying to push them back or hold them in place.

Yet every second, a dozen [Soldiers] came up the ladders. Eribis laughed as he saw they had taken a spot on the walls! A breach! And if they held this section—

“Tussar’s 2nd. Coming up the ladders! Make way, you ill-wrought scum! Take the gates and let the chariots through!”

A roar from behind Eribis made him flinch. He turned and saw a glowing helmet rise from the very same ladder he’d been climbing. A beautiful face. A Silk [Warrior] threw himself over the ladder as one of the very best of Nerrhavia’s army took over the assault.

“Tussar’s 2nd? Then we’re storming the city!”

One of Eribis’ friends breathed. The Silk [Warrior] ignored him and shouted—he shoved at Eribis, snarling.

“Forwards and fight, you slack-threaded fools!”

Hemp obeyed, and Eribis turned—but the press on the walls was so tight he couldn’t actually reach the fighting, two dozen paces away though it was. He saw Hemp warriors clashing with desperate men and women who were stabbing into their armor and flesh, yet the Hemp advanced without fear. Someone tried to ram a steel spear through one [Soldier], and it actually failed to penetrate their thick cloth skin!

The Silk were right behind the Hemp, brandishing enchanted blades, ready to fight.

Tussar. Unlike Bast and Phloem, named after the cheap components of thread and cloth, Tussar were named after types of Silk. Enchanted gear. The veterans had told Eribis that if he ran into the dead of any Silk-division to steal their armor or swords because one piece would be worth more than he’d ever make.

“The gates! Forget the walls and open the gates!”

The first Silk-warrior was howling in Eribis’ ears. The young man turned and saw a movement across the flat ground.

Chariots. Chariots and horses, a wave of them storming forwards, ignoring the danger of the towers. They had held back for eight days, but now they sensed the opening. Once the gates fell, they’d storm into the city.

Yet there were still so many [Soldiers] below. A wave was positioned just below the walls, waiting for the gates to open. Grim faces staring up at Eribis. He met someone’s eyes and felt a shock. And…the civilians were watching. Some were armed with kitchen knives, or even hoes. Would they have to fight them? Butcher them?

No, Silk will do that. Hemp had bled and formed a breach; as ever, Silk and Cotton would go ahead of them. Even so, Eribis yearned to see the glorious chariots of Nerrhavia’s Fallen storm through the streets, deploying enchanted blades, an unstoppable impact of force, crewed by deadly [Charioteers] throwing javelins and sending the best warriors into the fighting. In the streets, they’d crash through any press of bodies, although it would fall to infantry to take the narrow alleyways.

But this was the gap into which Reim’s fall began. Eribis shouted, feeling a wild excitement in his veins as he pressed forwards. He heard more people taking it up.

“The gates! The gates!”

“Horses! Horse!”

Horse? The cry was half-taken up, but then it changed into a stranger pitch.

“Horse!”

Eribis saw the Silk-warrior turn from watching the gathering riders as well. Both he and the man glanced at each other, for one second of simultaneous confusion, and then their heads turned. The young man looked across the wall, and the Silk-warrior of Tussar’s 2nd murmured.

“But we’re on a wall.”

Eribis agreed with a nod. Yet still. He saw someone riding across the battlements towards them. A man on horseback, ignoring the arrows, galloping past other soldiers, a spear raised over his head in two arms.

A…Human? Eribis saw the rider was mounted on a mare, not even a stallion, bareback. He wore ill-fitting leather armor, and Eribis saw hair white and wispy behind an iron helmet. He was an old man, laughing and charging the [Soldiers]. Behind him came charging [Soldiers], but the forces of Nerrhavia’s Fallen locked on the improbable rider, who had somehow climbed the stairs on horseback.

Coming straight at them. Then—Eribis heard a scream from behind him. He took his eyes off the charging [Rider]—who was only one man—and looked over his shoulder.

“Officer assault! It’s—it’s the [General]—the—”

A finger pointed. The [Soldiers] whirled, and the Silk shouted in excitement. Eribis turned and saw a knot of warriors pressing down the walls from the other end. He looked up and didn’t realize who he was seeing, at first.

All he saw was a helmet, a set figure holding a shield, pointing ahead with his sword in the middle of the fighting. Then the Silk-warrior shouted.

“Venith Crusland! Take his head! Command has promised a hundred thousand gold to the warrior who does!”

A hundred—Eribis’ head swam with the thought, but he looked at that figure. Venith Crusland, one of the vassals of the King of Destruction. His armor was red with blood, and suddenly he seemed bigger.

Bigger. The Hemp and Silk charged the new warriors, motivated by the gold and prospect of fighting him. But then Eribis saw Venith shoulder aside the warriors in front of him. He lowered his sword, and it began to glow. The [Lord] angled his sword like a spear and charged.

“Skill! Skill! Back up! Back—”

The press of bodies turned to confusion as the Silk warriors saw the danger and tried to back up, but ran into the others. One even tried to dodge and went over the battlements, screaming. The rest aimed their blades at Venith Crusland.

The [Lord]’s form grew. He seemed to turn into a man half as large again, armored head to toe, for a second. Eribis saw a giant hit the first rank of warriors, spearing a surprised Silk [Warrior] through the stomach. And he kept going. His other arm, holding his shield, rose and tossed three figures back over the ladder.

One of the ladders snapped as a figure hit it and sent a dozen screaming [Soldiers] down with it. Venith’s charge stopped as he literally rammed corpses into the others. The warriors stared up at him as he seemed to shrink—but that sword rose and beheaded a snarling [Captain] before he could lunge. Then it was plunging downwards, and Reim’s soldiers followed him into battle.

Howling. Eribis was screaming, but he looked into the faces of Reim’s soldiers, and his shout faltered. He felt like he was staring at a wild beast armed with a blade, who threw another [Soldier] off the walls before wildly slashing down another’s front. Wildly, as fast as a blink, but with all the experience Eribis lacked. Ducking a blade, coming up, spearing another figure below the gorget of armor through the neck. And that was one [Soldier].

The Hemp and Silk turned to face the advance of Venith Crusland and his personal guard. Eribis was setting himself when he heard a scream, felt an impact run through the people around him. He looked around and up—and there it was.

A horse. That old man had somehow closed the gap. But all the [Soldiers]? The [Veteran] who’d hauled Eribis up? Where…?

“Move!”

A hand threw Eribis sideways. The young man stumbled, gladius swinging wildly, but the Silk warrior charged the rider. He aimed his curved sword at the mare’s head, and Eribis saw a spear explode through the Silk warrior’s face. It was so fast he saw the afterimage of the Skill as the old warrior whirled his spear.

“Forwards! Run, you traitorous pieces of cloth! Twice we broke your armies! Then and now!”

The [Rider] was howling. His eyes looked like they were glowing as his spear flashed down again. Eribis cowered back and it saved his life. The old man whirled his spear.

“[Scythe of the Slaughter]! Die.”

Blood spattered Eribis’ face, and he screamed as he saw bodies collapse. The old man rode past him, howling, and struck down a ladder as he passed by. Venith Crusland was advancing on the other side. The old veteran—perhaps one of the King of Destruction’s original soldiers himself—rammed forwards. He couched his spear like a lance and ran two figures through with it.

An ancient, enchanted blade. So old that the glitter seemed faded. Deadly as could be. He turned, grinning, and the young man realized he’d been spotted.

There was one Hemp [Soldier] left on the walls still breathing. Eribis realized it was him and all the blood ran from his face. He turned and ran, dropping his gladius, screaming, fumbling to pick it up, and the [Rider] turned. The old man raised his spear, riding towards him—

And an arrow went through his back. Eribis, hands raised, saw the old man jerk. Another arrow struck him, and his look of bloody triumph turned melancholy. He grabbed at the second arrow, just under his armpit, and turned.

“Lord V—”

A third arrow hit him. Then a fourth, a fifth—a shower of arrows rained down around him, and the mare went down without a sound.

[Archers]. The old man was still alive, somehow. He stared up, no longer breathing, but still alive.

Waiting. Eribis saw a man walk forwards. Bend down.

Venith Crusland knelt, grabbing the old [Rider]’s hand. He stared down into the eyes, bent his head as the old man smiled and whispered. Eribis saw the [Lord]’s grip tighten—and those eyes close.

The spear slipped from a limp hand. Eribis saw Venith’s helmeted head bow. Then…

The [Lord]’s head rose. He looked straight at the boy, and the [Soldier] waved his gladius, shaking.

Hemp [Soldiers] were coming up the walls, listening to the screaming [Line Captain]. They hadn’t seen what had happened above. They landed around Eribis, and saw the armored warrior pick up the spear and hand it to one of the warriors behind him. He raised his sword and shield and advanced. Eribis was shaking. Then he looked over his shoulder and saw a squad of warriors charging at him. Screaming the King of Destruction’s name.

One raised a mace as they came. Eribis saw the motion and raised his sword, hesitating. Flinching. Blocking—

The mace bashed his sword into his face. Then it struck him. The gap disappeared, and the ladders fell back. Bast’s 14th retreated after taking casualties.

Reim held out another hour. But the dead [Terror Rider] never came back. Nor did any of the fallen. Still, for every one of the defenders who fell…they were replaced.

For now.

——

This was the moment when levels lost their meaning. Not because they were useless. On the contrary. They lost their meaning because it was war.

Levels jumped. People gained a dozen levels and died. [Blademasters] died, blinking, staring at [Greenhorn Recruits] who stabbed over their corpses, not knowing who they killed.

They were bleeding great warriors. She saw it.

Lady Maresar stood on a platform, loosing arrows from behind barriers. She shot a high-level warrior of some kind through the face. She had seen that boy die. She had loosed three arrows, but let Venith hold the line.

She hadn’t been able to save that old man. She didn’t know his name, but she thought she had known his unit of old.

Terrifying riders who charged alone into masses of infantry like that and wiped them out with area-of-attack Skills. A task for men and women who didn’t fear death.

Someone had fought in the first armies, and lived through Flos’ slumber. Had grown old enough to have white hair and not be called to the front. Then they took a mare, their spear…

And died on these walls. Maresar didn’t question why—she just charted his life like that and reached for another arrow. That was how it worked.

The [Bandit Lord] aimed an arrow, loosed it. She didn’t know what kind it was until it left her quiver.

Unenchanted. It slammed into an armored chest, and a figure staggered. Some kind of heavy-armored warrior who was cutting down too many people. He turned, saw her, and raised his shield. With his other arm, he made a taunting gesture.

What class? Did it matter? He had to die. [Legionary]? [Armored Officer]? [Immortal]? [Gladiator]?

Maresar reached for an arrow, realized her quiver was empty, and looked around. She saw a bundle of arrows lying at her feet, reached down—

“Volley incoming!”

The [Bandit Lord] threw herself down, smacking into the wood of the platform. She felt a heavy impact on her back, but her enchanted armor saved her.

Not so for one of the [Markswomen] in her group. Maresar rose and looked into the dead eyes of a Level 34 [Markswoman]. Another old woman who could barely draw the arrow to her chest but hit every target.

They died. Yet…Maresar saw someone roll over the woman. Shake her. Then, amidst tears, a wordless cry—a young man with blood in his dark hair grabbed her bow. Did he know her? Was he a grandson?

The [Bandit Lord] read his class. Level 12 [Hunter]. He wasn’t even one of the dedicated [Archers], but he had been running them arrows. He snatched up the old woman’s bow, lifted it, and drew an arrow. He loosed it—and Maresar whirled.

She saw, far beyond the walls, one of the distant [Longbow Archers] crumple. An arrow through the eye.

Maresar’s head turned back and saw a Level 14 [Hunter] loose another arrow. Someone else went down, an arrow through their throat.

“Back up! Back up and stop shooting!”

One of the other [Archers] hadn’t seen the arrows land and thought the boy had gone mad with grief, which he had. Maresar raised her hand.

“Take her place. Get another runner. Back in position!”

And like that, a boy found out he had a talent for war. When he slept—and he would soon—he would hear those levels and be stronger. Maresar kept her eyes on his face, counting. At Level 20. Or…

She turned. That armored figure was smashing his way forward, roaring, and she could see no weak points.

“Lady Maresar! That warrior—”

“I see it. Get me an enchanted arrow.”

A figure ran for the stash but they were out. Maresar cursed. She looked around for arrows fired at them—and her hand went to her side.

She had one arrow left. The tip was glittering with a beautiful, flawed metal. A jagged shard of Naq-Alrama steel.

Retrieved from Clan Tannousin’s failure. Maresar looked at it, the enemy warrior. Not that one.

Not yet. Another arrow. She hunted around. Then saw something which had been tossed at them, sticking out of the ground. From some volley? A throw from the walls? She grabbed it, lifted the javelin up, and checked the armored warrior.

“[I Can Shoot That].”

Maresar didn’t look at what she was holding. She nocked the arrow, felt the weight of it on the enchanted bowstring. Heavy—it was going to drop—she aimed up, above the helmet.

The armored warrior looked up, spotted the javelin coming towards his face, and blocked it. It still knocked him stumbling back towards the wall. His head tilted up, and Maresar shot him through that sliver of his throat. She lowered her bow, arm burning, and searched for Venith.

He wasn’t dead. So Maresar breathed in, checked herself, and reached for another arrow. How much longer until the walls fell? Until…

She wondered where Calac was. Maresar grinned. If this were any other battle, if she didn’t have him—her eyes locked on Venith—

She’d run. Run and live, but how was she supposed to run if he wouldn’t? If everything that mattered was here—

Ah, no wonder she’d stopped leveling in [Bandit Lord]. Maresar looked up.

And Calac was in Wistram. Wonderful. She smiled as she reached for another arrow. The army kept climbing, ten thousand targets, a hopeless battle. Maresar grinned as she shot another arrow, not for the love of blood or anger or joy. Just relief. Venith was still standing. Calac was in Wistram.

She had nothing to fear.

——

Three Days Ago.

Archmage Viltach was a man who took baths. As opposed to a man who took showers, which was largely what you could split most of the known world into. Baths—yes, steam baths and saunas and whatnot were variations—or showers.

There were also the degenerate monsters who took neither and just walked around accumulating and spreading filth, or the even more deranged [Mages] who cast [Cleanse] on themselves every day.

Viltach, however, was in a subset of bathing people who employed various mixtures to improve bathing. Herbal additives, oils, and bubbles.

Oh, lots of bubbles. Was it childish to create a huge pool of hot water you could jump into with suds so high they’d hide you from the world?

Yes. But his children loved it, which proved the point, and Viltach had learned the romantic and relationship qualities of a bath. Yes, you could in theory do that in a shower, but a shower was always rushing things.

He missed his children. Some of them missed him. It was about time for another visit. But the Archmage was stressed, busy with a war that Eldavin had begun—the situation with Amerys—

And his one moment of solace besides sitting at his crafting station was ruined three minutes into his bath. The Archmage stomped out of his rooms as the alarm-spell grew louder and louder.

“Who is making that racket? No one should be able to manipulate the door-alarms but me.”

Or an Archmage. If this was some j—

Viltach stopped. He looked up, went for a wand, realized he was in his hastily thrown-on, unenchanted robes, and realized this was the moment he died. It was, of course, never how you expected it.

The looming figure’s crushing hand of porcelain hovered above his face. A gleaming, perfect mask of sculpted ceramics. A Golem. This was it. They were going to kill him. This was—

Viltach realized it was not his death a moment later, and the instinctive fear turned to relieved anger.

“What are you doing?”

The Golem was no serving Golem. Nor was it Cognita, but for a second the pale white of the light blue porcelain had made him think—

But it was a male Golem, with an impressive physique under ornate, sculpted clothes. No serving Golem, this. They tended to have some element of puppet-qualities, a deliberate lack of details. This Golem?

This Golem had a sword on its back. It was one of the protector Golems. Viltach never saw it roaming about.

“Wh—what is this about? Who sent you?”

The Protector-class Golem looked at Viltach. The Archmage realized it couldn’t speak and was looking around when he was disabused of that notion. The Golem’s mouth opened, revealing a disconcertingly marble, uncarved opening. A puppet’s mouth, and the voice was equally unsophisticated. Yet it did speak.

“A Golem is destroyed. An intruder is in Wistram.”

Viltach stared up at it. The Protector-class Golem waited as the Archmage’s mouth moved.

“Who? What? Did you catch it?”

The Protector-class Golem stared at him. It repeated itself.

“A Golem is destroyed. An intruder is in Wistram.”

Viltach hesitated.

“Yes, but where? Who? How many? What’s the context?”

The Protector-class Golem stared at him, and the Archmage realized—with Cognita gone? He’d opened a bottle of wine to celebrate that monster’s absence. Now, he began to wonder if her absence was a bad sign.

An intruder is in Wistram. Viltach closed his eyes.

It had begun.

——

“There is a reason my King sent no great army to take Wistram. Or even a smaller group. He could not afford to send so many. Also? Unless he had his armies from before his slumber, there is no guarantee we could triumph. I knew this—but I was sure the moment I began my surveillance and study of the academy. There is a Golem buried at the base of the academy. Under water. It could wipe out a standard, unenchanted warship on its own. It is so vast it would be called half-Giant class.”

“So…”

“As large as Zamea.”

“D-does that imply there’s a Giant class? Or bigger?”

“Yes. But that Golem was made by the greatest Archmage in the field at the time. And it is not alone. There are more, buried there. I cannot kill them. I do not need to. Tell me about the layout of Amerys’ prison again.”

Gazi Pathseeker looked at Calac and Trey’s map. She had a map of her own. She sat in Trey’s room, and he remembered why he had not called for her instantly.

It was simple. Trey respected Gazi. He liked her. He felt very conflicted about her, but he saw her good qualities that she liked to hide behind her scary mask and reputation.

However, because he knew her, he also knew that she was terrifying. Trey had convinced Calac not to call on her at first because it was risky, because she might be noticed and then the game would be up and they’d be really out of time. However, Calac had agreed because Trey thought he understood the same thing he did.

When Gazi moved, people would die. And Wistram’s [Mages] didn’t deserve that, by and large. He had missed her, though. She was intelligent, scary…

And, currently, on her third pie. The Gazer licked her fingers; she hadn’t taken off her gauntlets, but she reached for another bowl of food.

“This is good. Earth food?”

“Um. Yes. Do you want more?”

One of her five eyes swiveled towards him. Another fixed his bag of holding with a pointed look.

“Yes. What are those round things with multiple components?”

“H-hamburgers? It’s just an Earth food.”

“I will eat them.”

Trey looked at Calac. The young man had heard rumors of Gazi, as had Trey, but neither of them quite remembered ‘Gazi the Omniscient’ also being known as ‘Gazi the World Champion Food Eater’.

However, the half-Gazer woman was chomping down food as fast as she could while she stared at their map and hers. Trey unpacked the hamburgers, grateful Wistram’s [Mages] didn’t blink twice at you stealing food from the buffet line.

“Are you hungry, Lady Gazi…?”

Calac ventured. Gazi stared at him, and the young man quailed a bit before that huge eye. Everyone did. You thought you’d been stared at hard by someone before? Try an eye half the size of your face staring at you without blinking.

“I have been eating food underwater for over a month. Raw fish. In the ocean. Preserved rations. Underwater. What is that?”

“A puff pastry?”

“What is that substance inside it?”

Another thing about Gazi—she saw everything. Noticed everything. However, she didn’t understand everything, so she was actually very cautious and demanded to know what whipped cream was before she had one of the dough treats filled with sugar that Telim loved so much.

Trey watched Gazi. Calac watched Gazi with as close to hero worship as Trey had ever seen.

Minizi? She peeked around Gazi from behind Trey’s bed. One of Gazi’s eyes was rolled up in her head, watching the Golem.

“You made a Lifesand Golem after me.”

“I, uh—uh—yes? I was bored and I made a lot but she—Minizi—stuck.”

Trey turned beet red as Gazi regarded him. The Gazer smiled, peeling apart the hamburger to inspect each section.

“I see. What is this…white stuff? I have never seen it before.”

“Um. Mayonnaise. Egg yolks and oil and such.”

“Hm.”

That was all she said. The Gazer licked the mayonnaise experimentally and smacked her lips. Which was such a normal thing to do, it didn’t fit Gazi Pathseeker.

Trey had often thought this privately, but even more now that he had been to Wistram and seen every species represented save for the myriad of Drowned Folk, Gnolls, and Fraerlings in person.

Of the known, civilized races of this world—Gazers were the most alien. He did not think this just because he had seen A’ctelios Salash and the parallels.

There was something different about Gazers. A lack of a nose, for one thing. The only species who had an equivalent were Lizardfolk and Drakes, but they had lizard-like nose holes and that distinctive reptilian cast to their face. Or draconic, if you didn’t want to make the Drakes mad.

Garuda also lacked noses, but they had beaks, which were arguably the same thing. Minotaurs?

No, that was it. Each species was patterned after some ancient ancestor. Many humanoids echoed monkeys. Drakes and Lizardfolk, reptiles. Garuda? Birds. Minotaurs—cows.

What were Gazers made in shape of? Where did they come from?

Such an alien woman, and she was the only known Gazer who had served Reim in the spotlight. One of her kind, half-Gazer, and the rest of her species in Baleros. Yet…she was here, and Trey was relieved.

Gazi smiled as she recompiled her burger and took a bite. She was watching as Calac spread out the maps, explaining what they’d learned. And how they’d failed. Gazi calmly looked at the shamefaced [Lord]’s expression.

“It was never easy, Calac Crusland. Focus on the next attempt. It will be our first and last.”

That was as encouraging as she ever got, and she spoke in that deliberate, quiet way that was all too ominous. Yet Calac seemed to take heart from it. He glanced at Trey, and the young man saw the complete trust in his eyes.

Of course. He was looking at a living legend. One of the Seven. Trey was reassured, but only because he liked Gazi.

He couldn’t help but remember the fact that she claimed to be the weakest of the Seven in levels. Also…that, until recently, someone had poked her eye out.

“So. They’ve trapped the hallways. Six Guardian-class Golems. Gembound Protectorate. Wistram’s old Golems, it must be.”

Gazi’s eyes fixed on the map. Trey stirred.

“Is that their name? Do you know them?”

One of Gazi’s eyes flicked to him; that was how you knew she was listening. She seldom turned her head to acknowledge anyone but Flos, but if one eye was on you, you had her attention. It was something people had to get used to, like Goelv learning that people got upset if you didn’t look at them with your entire body.

Goelv. What would he think if he knew Gazi were here? Trey kept glancing at the door, but Gazi smiled.

“No one is watching us. Yet. I can see [Scrying] spells and all but the most powerful illusion spells.”

“Can you see through all of Wistram?”

The Gazer instantly shook her head. She frowned, her one huge eyelid narrowing in a rare sign of displeasure.

“It is impossible for me. Some places…yes. Mundane enchantments. Most of it? No. Wistram is confusing. It has always been confusing. I knew it, coming here.”

“You’ve been here before.”

Calac sat up. Another eye rolled towards him and calmly fixed him with a violet glare.

“Yes. Amerys invited me before. I know some of what is dangerous here thanks to that. Those Golems I know. They are Gembound Golems. Each gem is a source of power. They fight well. They would be…difficult to kill for me. I would not fight two. Nor are they like the other Golems.”

“How so?”

Gazi sipped from a cup. She reached out behind her and poked Minizi in the eye as the Golem tried to sneak up behind her. The Lifesand Golem retreated, stared at Gazi, and instantly fled behind Trey’s bed. The young man stared at Minizi. He didn’t know what was up with his creation, but he thought Minizi was…nervous?

“They are Wistram’s soldiers of older times. Zelkyr did not make them. Hence, the Archmages can control them more directly. Hm. Even so, she has control. So. Trapped hallways, maze, Amerys in bindings, and guards.”

Gazi stretched her four-fingered hand as the two young men nodded. She considered the obstacles and shook her head.

“That alone I could handle. The real threats are the Archmages. Do they personally patrol the areas? The ward spells—are connected to them?”

“I don’t know.”

The Gazer nodded as Trey looked shamefaced. Her main eye kept buzzing around, checking every area for spells.

“Then…Ullsinoi. As great a threat. I remember them from the war.”

Calac and Trey traded glances. The [Lord] half-bowed.

“Lady Pathseeker. Do you mean the recent wars with Hellios, Belchan, and such? Or do you mean…?”

The [Scout] stopped eating.

“We fought them during my lord’s first kingdom. When the King of Destruction began to take Chandrar, I remember strange tricks. Powerful illusions. Orders that mislaid entire armies. We encountered them rarely. I killed two of their number—I think—over the course of the entire war. Amerys went to Wistram to negotiate a truce. They are a powerful enemy.”

Trey could only agree with that. He thought of Galei’s warning and shuddered.

“I think they know I was trying to break Amerys out, Gazi. I don’t know…if they know about you.”

She shrugged, her armor capturing every motion with ease. It was apparently feather-light; Gazi had once told Trey he could lift her up fairly easily. It allowed her to scale walls and perform tricks most [Knights] wouldn’t dare imagine.

[War Scout]. A former [Infiltrator] and [Mage]. Even a [Silent Commander]. However—

A Level 45 [War Scout]. ‘Low-level’, according to Gazi, which meant that she was a Named Adventurer almost by virtue of that level alone. But this was Wistram—unlike anywhere else in the world, Gazi was among people close to her level.

Or higher. Yet the Gazer was clearly going up her ranking of threats. Golems, Archmages—and then Ullsinoi. She seemed most concerned by one more factor and turned to Trey.

“Ullsinoi must be dealt with. The Archmages likewise; the Golems can be evaded or delayed. I have gear and preparations. A single Archmage I could battle. I do not need to free Amerys, only that we get to her. We have an escape route planned. However…what about her?”

“Her?”

Gazi shifted. She looked…uncomfortable for a second, and her spinning main eye kept zooming around.

“Cognita Truestone. She is the most dangerous being in all of Wistram. She could slaughter us all, and I am no [Mage] with the protection of the academy, but an intruder.”

She didn’t know. Trey’s mouth fell open—but of course! Gazi had been in infiltration mode for—the Gazer fixed on Trey’s face.

“Cognita? Has something changed?”

“She left Wistram, Gazi. Everyone’s talking about it. She left Wistram, and she’s apparently in Nerrhavia’s Fallen. No one knows why but—oh, I think I know part of the reason. Grand Magus Eldavin did something, but he’s gone too, along with half of Terras.”

Calac turned sharply to stare at Trey; the young man had told no one about what he’d seen. Gazi, though? All five eyes stared at Trey for a second.

Then she began to smile that evil, malicious smile she worked so hard on.

——

A Golem was dead. Or destroyed.

It was the talk of no one but the Archmages, who had all been summoned—for lack of a better word—to deal with the issue.

‘Alerted’ might be the word some would use, but the Archmages had been roused from their activities and been told this was an issue. Solve it. There was a difference in how each word was used, and the Archmages resented that difference.

Even so.

“It’s not one of the Gemstones guarding Amerys.”

“You’re sure.”

Viltach leaned on the table in one of the private rooms as four Archmages conferred. No Eldavin, no Valeterisa, or Amerys, or any of the others.

Just the ones here. Feor, Nailihuaile, Viltach, and Verdan. The old Archmage of Dullahans looked sleepy; he might have been roused from his rest.

Nailihuaile looked annoyed.

“Maybe one of them fell into a hole or ran into a trap spell.”

Feor shook his head impatiently.

“A Golem? A careless student who wandered into a dangerous part of Wistram—perhaps. But a Golem? This was no accident.”

“Do the Golems even know what happened?”

Verdan muttered. Viltach sighed in exasperation.

“The one I questioned didn’t have any answers. They just know one of their own was terminated—not by whom or what—but they want us to do something about it. More importantly—she wants us to do something. I have a [Message] from Nerrhavia’s Fallen, top priority from one of our Mage’s Guilds. Guess who sent it?”

The Archmages didn’t have to. Cognita’s missive was short and to the point.

Do not let any more Golems die. Or I will take measures to ensure they do not. There is an intruder in Wistram. Deal with it.

“The nerve of that block of marble.”

Naili hissed. She lashed her tail angrily, and glared in a way that Viltach was sure she wouldn’t do if Cognita were in the room or even in Wistram. Feor stroked at his beard. Viltach wondered how he dyed it. You could use just a basic alchemical dye, but those washed out. He had to be more cunning. Maybe he used a spider-polymer dye? He’d heard about those.

“Cognita may be pointing out that her absence means she will not hunt down the intruder herself, Nailihuaile.”

“And we need her?”

The Star Lamia scoffed. Feor and Verdan, far older than the other two Archmages, both chorused instantly.

“Yes.”

Viltach looked at them, as surprised as Naili. It was Verdan who explained. The old man coughed and rubbed at his armor. Did he sleep in the stuff?

“You do not remember, but Cognita has historically…dealt with all intruders to Wistram. Decisively. So quickly she would announce they were found—and dead—before we knew they were here. She is Wistram’s first, last, and only security needed. I didn’t think to consider what her absence means.”

“We still have every Golem but her.”

Viltach pointed out reasonably. Verdan shrugged.

“Yes, and they will most likely counter intruders—but Cognita is intelligent. It is one thing to send one of the most advanced Golems on a hunt. Another for Cognita to lay a trap and kill her opponent. There was an incident where one of our High Mages offended the Guild of Assassins in Baleros. I think they sent fifteen [Assassins] before they gave up. Cognita Truestone killed [Archmages]. Almost nothing gets past her.”

“Of course, they just assassinated the [High Mage] once he left Wistram.”

Feor muttered, sotto voce. Verdan nodded.

“Cognita does not care. Her authority begins and ends in Wistram. So we are on our own.”

Nailihuaile listened to her elders talk and rolled her eyes.

“Alright, we’re alone and we don’t have Auntie Cognita to hold our tails and wipe for us. There’s an intruder in Wistram? Who? An [Assassin] evening a score? A [Thief]? Or…”

She glanced at Viltach.

“…Was that trap spell Ullsinoi kicked up a fuss about not an accident after all? Maybe poor Emirea’s seagull was an accidental casualty and there really was something going on.”

Viltach kept his face straight as he watched the others for reactions. Verdan frowned, looking genuinely confused.

“What seagull?”

Feor calmly tapped his lips.

“We have already implemented their suggestions. The students and younger [Mages] might soon notice the Creler-mural hallway is open.”

“At least my [Mages] will stop complaining. They can damn well get their own food if we increase the guard.”

The Star Lamia rolled her eyes. Viltach agreed with that. Verdan raised a hand.

“Why did we open the Mershi-lounges? I thought the point was to keep it all hidden. Secure!”

“The what?”

All three other Archmages instantly turned and focused on Verdan. The Archmage of Armor compressed his lips instantly.

Naili’s eyes lit up.

“Is that what it’s called? Mershi? As in, Mershi, the City of Stars?”

Verdan refused to say anything else. Viltach didn’t need to write that down; he was going to remember that. He suspected Verdan had accidentally let slip a Major Secret.

Well, well, well. This meeting was productive after all. Feor eventually lifted a hand.

“Let’s keep our eyes open. I suggest we all do a bit of investigating. Amerys is under heavy guard. But…why not make absolutely sure, rather than leave it to Ullsinoi?”

The other Archmages looked at him, and the old Archmage proposed an idea that they all could instantly agree on. Secrets and knowledge—it was a weapon. Viltach knew Verdan and Feor had the drop on him and Nailihuaile, but he had one thing they didn’t. Perspective on what was happening.

The only question was—what did you do with it? Viltach had been wondering, wrestling with that for a while. But he had a feeling his window to make his decision was rapidly running out.

——

The problem with heroes was that they let you down. Even if it was just by being mortal and not flying into the sun to punch it out of orbit.

Gazi failed.

Trey Atwood watched it happen. He was shaking the entire time she stealthed towards the Creler-mural to investigate.

No…break Amerys out. If it were possible. The Gazer had listened to their detailed account of the traps and problems and nodded.

“I will attempt to reach her tonight.”

Calac and Trey had looked at her, astonished, but the half-Gazer just smiled.

“I cannot know how difficult it is until I attempt it myself.”

She was a professional, an expert. And confident enough to gamble on detection for information. Trey accompanied her on this mission. Not because he could keep as quiet as her; rather, as a distraction.

He had every ability to visit Amerys—or try to—so Gazi told him to walk to the Creler-murals, pace around or go inside if he thought it was permissible, and then return to his rooms.

Meanwhile, she would be attempting to bypass the layers of security. So Trey did just that. He wondered how Gazi was going to reach that spot.

Even if no one seemed to be actively looking for her, despite her intrusion into Wistram—and he was certain they had noticed the dead Golem—the hallways had ordinary Golems walking them, and [Mages]. And Ullsinoi.

The method scared the hell out of him when Gazi revealed how she was going to do it. And he realized—Level 40 was a long way from Level 20 or Level 30.

Trey Atwood felt Gazi’s breath on his neck. Probably because she wasn’t bothering to keep hidden. He felt his skin prickling, but he passed by a [Mage] who only nodded sleepily at him. The Selphid never saw Gazi.

She was walking right behind him. [Walking in Your Shadow].

He had no idea she could do that, but it explained how she was famously hard to find. Nor did Gazi simply rely on this cloaking Skill.

“Take a left. Speed up.”

Trey instantly sped up a bit. He didn’t know what Gazi had spotted, but she wanted him to take a detour. He turned down a hallway and slowed at Gazi’s prompting. He walked on, sweating. Trey wanted to mutter, ‘what was that’? But he didn’t.

She must have known what he was thinking, so she answered for him.

“Invisible Mage. Perhaps a student. Perhaps not.”

He nodded fractionally. Gazi was steering him away from any possible detection—and there was a lot more of it than he thought. Warded doors in residential areas. Entire hallways she didn’t know the purpose of. And Golems—

All the mundane ones she let him walk past, but every Golem that looked well-made—and even a few that appeared more mundane—she told him to walk wide of. Trey stared at one of the Golems he was told to back away from.

It looked like it was just a clay Golem. Rough-made, almost to the point where the dark brown, earthy clay might leave detritus everywhere. Constantly soft clay, a common laborer Golem that was carrying its burden down the hallway; it had a harness pulling a floating trolley piled up with gemstones from Salazsar.

Very rough, very cheap—for a Golem, an expensive creation that few people in the world could afford—especially for Wistram, the Academy of [Mages], and a Golem that Zelkyr or his people might have created.

Too cheap, Trey realized. He eyed the Golem as he turned and walked sideways. Gazi’s voice was a hair tenser in his ear.

“There’s something inside of it. Walk faster.”

Trey would never look at the Golems of Wistram again the same way. Not after this night. Especially because, when they reached the hallway with the Creler-mural at last, nearly twice as long as it would have taken Trey normally, even with Telim guiding him…

Gazi slipped past the Gemstone Golems in the time it took Trey to peer inside and be recognized.

“Is that Troy? Hello, young man! Out for another visit?”

He jumped and saw Yolv, the friendly Dwarf, waving a hand at him. He was standing in the antechamber that marked these Hidden Hallways, bold as you like.

The mural was gone. Or rather…Trey stared at the two walls, which had folded inwards, creating two murals and a hallway that connected to the lounge area.

He looked from Creler-mural to Creler-mural and realized they had split along the inside. So that now one mural depicted the first attack of Crelers and desperation and destruction—and the other was a triumphant victory as they were forced back.

Parallels. It was so disconcerting to see the wall gone, though, that he stared—and then looked at the Dwarf.

The [Battle Mage] was stretching in the open area as two of the giant Gemstone Golems waited impassively. Trey’s eyes met Yolv’s and he stuttered.

“Oh, I was just passing by and I thought I’d—I don’t have anyone to guide me. Now that Telim and Sa’la and…”

Yolv slapped his forehead.

“Grand Magus Eldavin’s faction’s gone! Ah, pardon me. Archmage Eldavin. I was wondering why you didn’t show up all week! Then again—after hearing about those trap spells? I couldn’t blame you, but anyone who came back after Amerys nearly took off their fingers, I thought…it’s fine if you want to visit. How about it?”

He smiled and beckoned. Trey hesitantly stepped across the antechamber. He was rather pale and nervous, and cloaked his unease by staring at the Golems.

Yolv looked at the two and chuckled. Behind him, the open hallway betrayed the tromp of the other four on patrol, and he glanced over his shoulder.

“Nasty, aren’t they? You’ve never seen them fight, I’ll be bound. Well, I have, once. They’re a terror on the battlefield. It’s overkill to have them here, but Ullsinoi had a point. I was just stretching out here; come in, come in. You don’t have to visit Amerys, even. Now the hallways are opened up, we’ve doubled the guard and we’re still bored.”

“Really?”

Trey smiled at Yolv. He felt sweat running down his back, an ocean of it. It didn’t have as much to do with him being a secret infiltrator or Gazi’s presence in general.

It specifically had more to do with Gazi slowly walking around the perimeter of the hallway, bold as you like, hand on the hilt of her claymore, smiling and staring up at the Golems.

Right in the open. Yet Yolv didn’t seem to notice her. Trey watched Gazi out of the corner of his eyes as the Dwarf complained.

“The Archmages told us we could let more people in—even bring guests. Who wants to sit about all day? Cards? We started betting scrolls, and it gets ugly. Mind you, we are being paid to sit here, but I am going insane.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Master Yolv.”

He laughed.

“Maybe I should start teaching students. That’s it! If I’m going to sit on my ass—well, I don’t think I have the patience to be a teacher, honestly. You’re pleasant to be around, but some of the hairless bandits that are younger students make me want to drink magicore. How about a little visit? We won’t keep you up. Do you have class tomorrow?”

Trey took a step forward and one of the Gemstone Golems turned to him. Gazi ducked as the Golem turned its head. He realized she had ducked a flashing red ruby.

As if each gemstone had a cone of sight. No…Trey saw the Golem on the left, nearest to her, flashing its gemstones slightly. Only the ones on its body near her.

Confused, as if it were checking something. Gazi slowly slid left, and some of the gems dimmed ever-so-slightly. The Golem turned to track him, and Trey lifted his hands. Yolv waved at the Golems, and both turned to focus on the Dwarf.

“Stop that. He’s with me. Desist. Understand?”

Gazi strode towards the wall and hugged it as Trey and Yolv walked past the Golems. He saw one of the protectors turn back—but Gazi flashed past him in a blur.

The gust of wind made Yolv stiffen. Slight though it was, he instantly tilted his head backwards and checked behind him. Gazi met Trey’s eyes as she stood to the side of Yolv.

“Hm?”

The Dwarf was still a battlemage. He frowned behind him, then looked around. Yolv touched a stone on his neck and glanced at Trey.

“One moment. I thought…?”

He turned in a slow rotation, and Trey saw Gazi slowly walk around him. He had never seen anything like that except in a movie—but this was no comedy. Gazi slid, doing a complicated walk that made no sound and kept her moving smoothly as Yolv rotated.

She had her hand on her sword and Yolv’s neck. Trey held his breath—

And Yolv shrugged.

“Can’t be too cautious. I—”

He smiled at Trey, whirled around, and bellowed.

“Got you, you Ullsinoi bastards!”

He stabbed the air with his finger, missing Gazi by a mile; she was already in a room adjoining theirs. Yolv stared at the empty air, as did Trey, and coughed. He blushed into his beard.

“I thought it was them. Must have just been a draft. Er…don’t tell anyone I did that.”

Trey’s smile was sickly, but Yolv was too embarrassed to notice. He saw Gazi poke her head out the hallway and tried not to explode with anxiety.

However…she had proved she could evade the Gemstone Golems. Even Yolv and the [Mages] as well. He was walking towards the place where Amerys was when Yolv pointed ahead and cursed.

“Ah, damn. I forgot. It’s a fifteen minute walk through the maze. You could just say hello to the outer guards. The poor bastards on the inside hate it.”

Trey looked ahead and saw the ordinary, carpeted floor turn to mist. He looked past Yolv, into a maze of old stone, fog…and ancient brick floors.

Ullsinoi’s maze.

“Ullsinoi made that?”

“Yep. One of their pet mazes. Trapped too. Makes me nervous, but we know where to go to get through. Actually, it does bother me. Maybe I was too hasty. Did you want to meet Amerys?”

Yolv rubbed at his neck. Trey looked around and saw three [Mages] glancing up from a table where they were all arguing.

“—if we’re fighting against Ailendamus, does that mean we’re involving ourselves in other wars? I agreed about the Fissival-Gnoll problem already. Those damn Drakes have caused problems for us so let them eat crap. But—oh, is that Troy?”

The [Mage]-guards turned, and Yolv waved, explaining he’d abducted Trey for a moment to say hello. The young man waved—and saw Gazi slip past him into the maze.

She was actually doing it. He saw the half-Gazer walking down the hallway in an odd pattern. Like a wavy snake, not at random, but clearly dodging tiles that had, to Trey, the faintest glint of magic now that he knew to check. That was Eldavin’s teachings in detecting magic on a ‘superior level’, as he put it. Trey would never have trusted to it, but Gazi?

She bent under what must have been a tripwire, squeezed through a curtain of something in the air, and seemed to time her next step. Then she was at the maze and glanced at Trey once.

A smile without teeth. A master-class [Infiltrator]. She looked around the maze and grinned. Trey felt like using the restroom—he saw her look at him and wink one eye.

She could see through the maze.

Golems down! The Gemstone Golems hadn’t noticed her on their patrol; Yolv and Trey had helped; they were stopping to scan him. The [Mages] were oblivious, and the ones inside? Trey didn’t know what was going to happen next. Would Gazi free Amerys? Would they come out? The half-Gazer disappeared into the maze, clearly carefully picking her path, stopping at intersections.

Would they come out and fight Yolv? He felt a sudden pang as the kindly Dwarf sat.

“It’s so boring. Maybe you should bring your spellbook, Troy. We could teach you some spells. What’s your specialty?”

“Sand magic and light.”

“Let’s teach you a few spells! Bring your friends, even!”

A smiling woman suggested, Viltach’s faction. Trey was embarrassed, and the Naga nudged the others.

“The poor boy has class tomorrow, probably. Don’t make him study tonight.”

“Another night, then. Or what about—how old are you, Troy?”

“Er, seventeen?”

The Naga smiled.

“Then you can have a drink! No party; we’re on duty, but—”

“He’s underage!”

“He’s seventeen. Oh, come on. Terandrians. Eighteen? You’re going to tell me you waited until you were eighteen in Wistram to drink…? It’s not even enforced equally across one continent!”

The guards started arguing, and Trey tried to focus on the conversation with them. But all the while he was imagining what might happen next, he really needed to pee, and his nerves were humming.

No. Trey glanced up and realized Yolv was frowning. The young man looked around and heard it grow louder.

The air was humming.

“What’s that? Oh, for the love of beard wax—”

Yolv half-rose. The other [Guards] stopped bantering and looked up. Trey heard a sound in the air. All the hair on his neck rose.

A voice.

No…was it a voice? It sounded…

Far too vast to come from lungs. Vast, yet high-pitched. An eerie wail.

“I thought it was supposed to stay inside the—”

“I know. Maybe it saw something. Another rat? Wands out. Troy—get behind us.”

The [Mages] rose in a second. Trey saw them walk forwards. He looked at them, then saw, as the [Mages] walked forwards—

Gazi. She had activated at least two more Skills because she was half-blurred and invisible to him. She reappeared, crouching by one of the open doors. The [Mages] didn’t notice; they triggered their detection spells almost as an afterthought. Magical barriers went up, and Trey saw them preparing spells.

The singing grew louder. The [Mages] seemed almost as nervous about it as…the possibility of an intruder.

“It’s definitely coming this way.”

“Fuck, fuck, I hate the idea that it’s malfunctioning. If it’s a rat again—”

Trey peeked out of the hallway over Yolv’s head. He looked into that maze of mists the Ullsinoi set up and saw something as the echoing voice came closer. He looked at Gazi, and the Gazer stared at him with one eye. Three were locked ahead of him, and she was no longer smiling. He saw something turn the corner in that illusory maze and cursed Ullsinoi. Cursed the pranksters of Wistram.

Galei had warned him. Ullsinoi, that jovial, mocking faction was funny and they laughed at everything.

Until they stopped. And then everything was for keeps.

Trey had seen the Golems of Wistram before. He had even beheld the terrible truth of Zelkyr’s final test. Golems made for war and destruction on massive scales.

The Gemstone Golems heralded a time when Wistram deployed them to fight as [Mages] made great war. An echo of Eldavin’s flying soldiers in magical armor.

But this Golem…

This was from a time neither dominated by outright war nor pure control and power. Had Ullsinoi had it all along? Was it just…buried in Wistram, condemned to wander other places? Or did the [Mages] keep it out of sight unless they needed it because they didn’t need nightmares?

Perhaps all of these things combined. The one thing Trey knew, the instant he saw the singing Golem, wandering the maze was simply this:

It had been made by [Mages], [Golem Artificers], of Wistram. For the singing…Golem…even had robes and carried a staff, like a parody of a [Mage]. Male? Female? He couldn’t tell. But instinct told Trey that whenever it had been created…

It had been made by Gazers. When an Archmage of their kind, perhaps, ruled Wistram.

He knew this because of the eyes. So many eyes. Too many—and not the gemstone ones that harkened to a machine’s look. Sculpted, too-real eyes. Nor was this Golem made of marble or stone. It looked…wet.

It sang, and each eye was searching around. They must have been able to see as well as Gazi’s eyes. Because when Trey peeked out at it, an eye was already locked on him. Gazi Pathseeker backed away. He saw her retreating, as the guards argued and shouted at it to go back. As unnerved as Trey, for all they hid it.

Gazi left, and Trey did too, not that any of the guards even blamed him after seeing that. But that was the thing about heroes and legends. It was reasonable that she failed; this was a scouting run. Even so, he saw the uncertainty return to Calac when they debriefed. Felt it himself.

That creeping possibility of failure.

——

“I do not know what that is. All I know is that the singing heard me. As Trey says…like bats and some monsters who use sound. What did you call it?”

“Echolocation.”

Gazi just nodded. She sat there, tending to her sword.

Which, to be clear, didn’t mean sharpening it. Gazi had told Trey once that she had never needed to sharpen her sword, a fact that defied belief for him until she cut through a stone, chunk by chunk, hacking it down and then letting him test the edge with a feather.

Rather, Gazi was applying something to the edge. Brushing it down with a strange, floral-scented liquid.

Poison? Something else? She sat very straight, calmly talking to the two young men.

“I could not bypass it. So I retreated. Nor do I like the four [Mages] on the outside and the two on the inside. I have proven I can reach the mage. So. We must account for the remaining variables.”

Calac Crusland nodded. Gazi glanced at him and gestured. One eye rolled towards Trey, and the [Sand Mage] hesitated as Gazi went on.

“…I have been prepared for a long time. I will take no chances, Calac Crusland, nor should any of us.”

“Of course, Lady Pathseeker.”

She smiled, still focused on her blade.

“Months of preparation. For me? Sitting in the ocean. I even levelled.”

Trey and Calac blinked.

“You leveled?”

Gazi lifted her sword.

“Yes. From hiding. Killing monsters—Reefeyes, among others—on the edge of Wistram’s barrier. Practicing magic. This is a difficult errand, but I did level.”

“Did you gain a Skill, Lady Pathseeker?”

She swiveled one eye to Calac and smiled mysteriously. The [Lord] flushed.

“Forgive me. That is surely a secret.”

“Mm. But take heart that I am levelling. Hm…”

Gazi checked the edge of her claymore with her thumb. She glanced at Calac.

“I need a whetstone. Could you find me one suited for enchanted blades?”

“I have one in my rooms. I could fetch it if it suits…?”

He instantly leapt to his feet. Gazi nodded, and Calac hurried off. Trey frowned as Calac closed the door.

“I thought you said that you didn’t need…?”

Gazi put aside her claymore. Then she stretched out. She lay her head against the edge of Trey’s bed, stared up at the ceiling, and her relaxed, confident demeanor vanished. She spoke upwards.

“I don’t. I needed him to leave.”

Trey saw Gazi exhale, long and loud. She sat back up, and he realized that she had been sitting deliberately. Confidently, her sword on her knees, looking Calac and Trey in the eyes.

With the young man gone, Gazi sagged, ever-so-slightly, and Trey saw the motion as familiar. Because it was what he would have done.

She didn’t put her head between her knees or cover her face—and she certainly hadn’t in front of Calac. But with only Trey in the room, and Minizi edging over to her claymore? Gazi revealed her own disappointment.

“That thing spotted me. It nearly had me, but it was on patrol. It saw me, Trey. It was made by my kind.”

“Gazers. Is it—how dangerous is it?”

The [Scout] shrugged. She looked at Trey.

“What did it seem like to you?”

“Um…scary. Too intelligent. The [Mages] made it go back, but I thought…it was following you.”

Gazi saw Trey shiver. She nodded imperceptibly. Then she hesitated.

“Did it seem…beautiful to you?”

Trey Atwood looked at Gazi. He wavered between honesty and…no, he went with honesty.

“No. It horrified me. I’m sorry if that’s…it scared me. It reminded me of A’ctelios Salash. It was terrifying.”

Gazi looked at Trey for a long time. Then she turned her head and smiled.

“I, as well. I did not find it beautiful. Though, surely, it is to Gazers. I have seen their artwork. The eyes, the look of it—it is beautiful. I could not find it so. I suppose I see beauty as my other half does.”

The young man sat up and looked at Gazi in surprise. She didn’t look at him with any of her eyes. Instead, she picked up Minizi as the foot-tall version of the Lifesand Golem tried to steal her claymore.

The Lifesand Golem began punching at Gazi’s arm at once. But Gazi ignored her and placed her in her lap. She watched as Minizi delivered the old one-two to her stomach, and her sand-fists did nothing at all to Gazi’s armor.

“Why did you make an image of me as your Golem?”

She looked at Trey. He was still focused on what she’d said and how sad it was. The young man muttered.

“I, uh…didn’t have anyone to talk to. I thought it was fun. Minizi isn’t you. She’s funny.”

“She is? Hm.”

Gazi tilted the Lifesand Golem left and right, ignoring the kicking and even attempted biting. Trey tried to elaborate.

“Viltach—Archmage Viltach, I told you about his private lessons? He likes her too. Minizi’s a good helper. I don’t show her around, but a lot of people like her. She’s not like you—she’s a toy, sort of. She’s cute.”

“Cute.”

Trey paled as he saw Gazi glance up at him. She held the bobble-headed Golem up and inspected her face, albeit with simplified cartoonish features. Trey had a horrible feeling Gazi was upset and Minizi went still suddenly. Nervously.

Then the half-Gazer smiled. Gazi looked at Minizi.

“Cute. I have never heard that word used about me. Good.”

She patted Minizi on the head, awkwardly, and put her down. The Lifesand Golem sat on her butt and stared up at big-Gazi. The two locked gazes, and Gazi sighed. Trey saw her glance at him.

“I cannot defeat it. I do not wish to try. So. That Golem must go, or we must find a way to bypass it. I will not gamble on Amerys’ release if I can—and if I must, it will be the best odds possible. Trey, I need your help. You must find a way to clear the path.”

“Me?”

Of all the things…Gazi just stared at Trey. Seriously. With no hint that she was pranking him.

“Yes, you. I need your help, Trey. I cannot do this alone. That is why I asked my lord to send you with me. Why you took so long to learn Wistram. You have to help me. You can do what I cannot and build this escape.”

“But I failed. I’m not good at infiltration or…”

She raised two of her four fingers and flicked them dismissively. Instantly, Minizi copied the gesture, looking at Trey.

“Not that. I know how to do those things. Hide, strike, be merciless—if this were another place, a war camp, and Amerys were a prisoner under lock and key, I would set fire to a nearby village. Or kill a patrol. Distract them. Harry them. Or slip in like a shadow and set her free without anyone noticing. I can do neither, here. This is a dangerous place—so I need someone who can move it from within. I need you to trick the [Mages]. Manipulate them. Charm them, Trey. You already have a distraction. It is a good one; you must help me as much as you can.”

She stared at him intently. Trey sat there, dry-mouthed. Gazi went on.

“Allies? Set them against each other. I will help you decide if it is good—but you must help me do it.”

“But…me? Why was it me?”

Trey had always assumed that he was picked because he was the only person for the job. Teres was a soldier, and she had been spotted on the scrying orb in Flos’ company. He was the only young man who Flos could trust…

…Besides every young man in all of Reim who was truly loyal to Flos. Oh. Gazi turned to Trey, and he saw Minizi now copying her, motion for motion.

The Lifesand Golem smiled sadly and touched just below her central eye.

“It was never possible for me to perform your role, even if I could disguise myself. I am not charming, Trey. I am not…friendly. You are. Even Fetohep and the Quarass like you.”

“She cut my throat!”

Gazi shrugged.

“She did it personally. She does not do that for just anyone.”

He thought it was a joke, but no one laughed. Gazi went on, and that look of melancholy intensified.

“I envy that ability. Seeing the best in people. I never learned how. I only saw the very worst in them for a long time. Until I met a boy who would be [King].”

Her gaze slowly lifted towards his. Trey was very still as Gazi went on, her eyes distant.

“He is flawed, stubborn, I admit, and he does not see the world I do. Nor even you. He harms people, and he has put people into chains, and he will do terrible things. He is not perfect. But he has never let power make him worse in all the many ways it makes others. He was the first person I met like that.”

Trey said nothing. Gazi put her hands on her legs and then stood. Her large eye flicked to the door, and she spoke as Calac Crusland edged back in with eight whetstones of various gradations.

“So. I am counting on you, Trey. Where do we begin?”

Trey looked at Gazi. He inhaled, exhaled hard, and spoke as Calac turned to him.

“Calac and I couldn’t do it.”

Someone kicked his leg. Trey amended his statement.

“And Minizi. You’re right, Gazi. We can’t do this alone. So…we’d better get reinforcements.”

——

Two Days Ago.

The bigger a plan was, with more moving parts and people, the more likely it was to fail. Trey knew that.

Not first-hand. Just from movies and stories.

However, it was also true that three people plus one Lifesand Golem was three. Or four, but no more than that. Against all of Wistram’s finest?

They needed an edge.

So Trey made a list, and Gazi checked it twice. She even recognized some names, and when she smiled—Trey knew they had a chance.

He had already made one plan with Calac for a distraction. Now? Trey expanded it. It was beyond risky, but he thought he had a shot. For one main reason.

He knew people, and he knew people who didn’t really like mainstream Wistram. Also, he knew a guy.

——

Tov was that guy. The Drowned Man gulped down a lot of water to keep his fish-half hydrated. He and Trey were standing on a balcony outside of Wistram. No scrying spells, no prying ears. They stared over at the surf and watched as a screaming student leapt off a higher balcony, trying to slow their descent. Both winced as they heard and saw the terrible bellyflop.

“If you want privacy?”

“Yep. Privacy. Absolute secrecy.”

Tov glanced at Trey, as serious as could be. The Drowned Man wasn’t sociable—mainly because he was a Drowned Man. He kept a lot of customs of the sea, and he had few friends. Trey was one of them, so he mulled Trey’s question over for a long time before sighing and replying.

“Ask her to swear by hull and ward. No…ask her to swear by Tillaevae’s hull and ward for privacy, deal or not. Make sure she swears not to tell.”

“What’s Tillaevae?”

“A ship. Not her ship, but one of the great ships of the deep. As close as we have to a city. She probably maintains the wards herself. If one of us swears by that and breaks the oath—”

Tov shook his head with a shudder.

“She wouldn’t break it.”

Trey nodded.

“Thanks, Tov.”

The Drowned Man looked at Trey, seriously.

“Don’t thank me. I’m warning you again. Don’t talk to her. Depth Magus Doroumata is not…she’s as to an Archmage to us as yours are to landfolk, understand? I don’t know why she’s stayed around, but don’t bother her. Seriously, Troy.”

He caught Trey’s arm, and his touch was sticky, but Trey just met Tov’s eyes calmly.

“I’ll be careful, but I need to speak to her. How much do I owe you?”

It was a big, big secret. Not one of Wistram’s, so Tov turned away, embarrassed.

“Pay me in gold or something. Or a big secret of your own.”

He stared at the crashing waves moodily for a moment—until he heard the clink and glanced back to see Trey counting gold pieces into a pouch. A lot of gold pieces. Tov’s eyes widened, and Trey realized he was never going to fit all of them in the bag. So he pulled out a carefully wrapped item so as not to break it and showed Tov a glowing opal.

“Will this settle it?”

The young man looked at Trey.

“What are you…yes, salt me! You don’t have to pay me—how did you get that?”

“I’ve got a few big secrets of my own. And I want to square up, Tov. Being Eldavin’s apprentice has some perks.”

Trey handed the young man the opal and gold. He walked off, leaving Tov staring at his back.

——

Depth Mage Doroumata would have taken the goth world by storm if only she had met them. She dressed in abyssal black, as did her daughters. Identical daughters. Descendants of a Starfish Drowned Woman.

Also, someone who had gone toe-to-toe with Eldavin. One of the great [Mages] of the sea.

Yet she had stuck around for far longer than her entry into Wistram, and there was only one reason why that Trey could see.

“Earthers. Since we swear to keep all secret…tell me. You are what they call Earthers, aren’t you? A boy from another world?”

Doroumata spoke…no, Trey saw the dark veil behind one of the daughters flanking her move. They spoke for her.

It was eerie, but Trey kept his back straight and his hands folded behind him.

“Yes, Depth Magus.”

She sighed.

“Wistram has achieved the land’s bounty. It explains more, though I cannot speak to any of you easily. Even this might have eyes…but only eyes on my door, not ears for what lies within.”

She gestured delicately at her guest rooms. Trey nodded again.

“…What does it explain, Depth Magus?”

The woman hesitated, perhaps having revealed too much herself. Trey saw her veil move, and one huge, dark eye regarded him. He almost shuddered until he realized it was…pity.

“Death. The Drowned Cities. The ships. We found them—they triggered the alarms. But we could not account for a single one. In a city? Perhaps, though it is beyond unlikely as an accident. But on a ship? Each strand of rope, crew, and rat is counted and marked. So why. Why did we find dead children in the deeps?”

Trey Atwood went cold. He stared at Doroumata, and the Depth Mage sat back.

“You found…?”

“Too far down for us to find much. Yes. It is one of the reasons why we came. To see if Demons or something were doing this. It must end. It will end; Grand Magus Eldavin has seen to it.”

“How? He did? What did he do?”

The [Depth Mage]’s daughters shifted, three of them, but she raised a hand, and they subsided. Doroumata answered for Trey.

“We will manipulate the barriers. Catch them as they come. It is not easy, but he knows the deep wards. A great man. He has sailed below the watery sky.”

Trey nodded carefully. He felt…he pushed the emotions down. He’d tell Gazi later. He met Doroumata’s eyes.

“So you don’t have any Earthers.”

“No. Which makes your proposal all the more curious. Tell me…how many would it be?”

“I don’t know exac—”

“How many?”

Three voices whispered it. Doroumata stared a hole into Trey’s soul, and he flinched.

“Truth and lies are simple spells, but I can use them anyways. You know. How many?”

“…Maybe as many as thirty.”

Five daughters shifted. Doroumata never blinked that he could see behind her veil.

“And you would all want to voyage in the deep? No. No, I can see a lie without magic.”

“Not a lie, Depth Magus.”

“Really? Then how would you reconcile our desires and yours? I have been watching you children. Landfolk all. Maybe one boy loves the sea, but even he has never sailed beneath the waves. I can be cruel and ruthless, but I am not a fool. I do not take fish out of water and expect them to breathe unless I find they have lungs. So above, beneath. Even if I…acted…they would be like here. And Wistram’s cage chafes. Which is why you are here.”

Well-reasoned. She was far more cunning than many [Mages] and…Trey thought…she also thought of the Earthers. He was sweating, but he hadn’t come this far and slipped notes beneath her door to screw up this audience.

Honestly, the ‘notes beneath the door’ thing was a bit embarrassing. The third time Calac had sent her covert messages, one of Doroumata’s daughters had opened the door to tell him to knock it off.

Yet Trey had something Doroumata didn’t, and that was perspective. He spread his hands.

“Depth Magus. Shadeward.”

She started, and one of the daughters smiled at the proper address.

“It’s true that most of us would be unhappy in places that don’t suit us. We aren’t happy here—not all of us.”

The truth. Stick to the truth when you lie around [Mages]. Trey went on earnestly.

“…But it seems to me the Drowned Folk have more of what we might want than anyone else. Freedom. Freedom to move, and travel. Drowned People don’t stay in one place long—but you have for months.”

“True. What is your point? Ahh. Do you mean…?”

Trey bowed to her deeply and pointed to something on the far walls. It was a map. A map of the known world—but not of the five continents above. It was a map of the undersea, and there were places never charted.

“Depth Magus. It might be that we’d be willing to…compromise. Compromise, with a people who are willing to make deals rather than have it one way. We want to see the world, and seeing the world means we could walk about on land. Or…what if you did something us landfolk would like?”

“Hm. Elaborate?”

She leaned forward, and Trey thought of Fetohep.

“Paradise. A safe, nice place where we could be and live. You could visit us. Depth Mage. Do you need more than one or three? If nothing else—do the Drowned Folk keep [Slaves]?”

Her eyes glittered. A daughter of hers spoke.

“[Slaves] make poor crew. Not all ships trade with Roshal. On another deck, that would be a deadly insult, Troy Atlas.”

“Silence.”

Trey bowed to the daughter and mother.

“I hoped the answer was no. I thought you were more righteous than that and I’m glad. I just ask because—if nothing else, Depth Magus. You could simply deliver us to a port of choice. Let us go free.”

“I would make a terrible enemy of Wistram. Wistram, which is mighty and growing stronger, and makes armor to fly above land and sea.”

The old woman said that, but she sounded so…calm. Deliberately calm. Trey licked his lips.

“That’s true, Shadeward Doroumata. But Wistram is political. You might make an enemy of some, but you get nothing but scorn from the academy, save for [Mages] who know your worth, like Archmage Eldavin.”

That he knew was true. Doroumata moved slightly, and Trey went on.

“Besides. You might gain a great ally of Earth.”

He watched her carefully and saw not a movement or trace of her face beyond that dark veil. But he heard a smile in her reply.

——

It was always the things you didn’t expect.

[Plotter class obtained!]

[Plotter Level 3!]

[Skill – Prepared Signal obtained!]

[Skill – Straight Face obtained!]

“I don’t want a [Plotter] class! That makes me sound terrible! Or like I’m a gardener!”

Gazi Pathseeker just smiled. She patted Minizi’s head and looked at Trey. She threw out a hand and two fingers opened.

Scissors. Trey closed his eyes. After a beat, Calac, who was wearing a blindfold with his back turned to the two, started.

“Uh—uh—paper! No, knife!”

“Scissors, Calac. I signaled you twice!”

The young man tugged up the blindfold, embarrassed.

“I know. I just forgot which one was which. I felt it twice! It’s like—what is that sound?”

“A beep.”

Trey had copied the electronic sound for his [Prepared Signal] Skill. He could bind it to exactly one person. Very limited use, and Gazi told him there was a limit to range…but undetectable, practically. At least from a magical angle.

Calac shook his head.

“It sounds strange. But it does work, Lady Pathseeker. I’ll remember, um, how many times.”

The Gazer was pleased.

“Simple is best. We will use it instead of speaking stones or other cues. With time, we can use one Skill to do far more. Even a simple signal can be used to create larger messages.”

“Like morse code.”

Gazi blinked at Trey, then nodded with pleasure when he explained what that was. Trey resigned himself to the class. He’d seriously considered turning it down, but he needed every edge he could get.

Meanwhile, Gazi was correcting their plan. Starting with the most egregious and stupid of their mistakes they’d made in their first botched attempt. She held up the lock that Trey could unlock so easily with Lifesand.

“Magical locks do not open with tumblers, Trey. Or if they do, they require magical signatures. There are ways to open such locks with keys [Rogues] use—not this.”

His heart sank. Calac cursed, and Gazi saw both look at each other.

“But then how do we open the door and Amerys’ lock?”

The Gazer stared meaningfully at Trey.

“I could most likely cut her bindings loose and remove her from the magical cell at least. She might free herself. But it would be important to find the key to Amerys’ lock. So. You may wish to talk to Archmage Viltach.”

Trey scrubbed at his face. He didn’t want to do that.

“How am I supposed to ask him covertly?”

Gazi shrugged.

“I do not know. But we also need the Golems removed, even with a distraction.”

“What about our escape route? Lady Pathseeker, it will be a race to the exit if we are discovered, and with Ullsinoi, we might well be. Do you have a ship? A [Greater Teleport] scroll?”

Calac turned to Gazi, and the half-Gazer shook her head.

“Not that grand magic—but I do have a way to leave Wistram. Believe me—that is not the issue. The Golems are.”

She frowned, and Trey frowned as well. He had a very…very risky idea, but he turned back to the others.

“Even if we remove the Golems, there are all those guards, and Mena went with Eldavin to Terandria. How do we drug them now?”

“We have to find someone else who delivers them food. Threaten them. Convince them to work for us. It is not difficult. I will do that myself. Or you could deliver them snacks.”

“There’s no guarantee they’ll all eat it at once, Gazi. And they’re not stupid. If one falls over…they have to be hungry.”

Gazi smiled, and Trey looked at her, growing slightly pale at the suggestion. Calac cleared his throat. He’d been working on his end of the plan, as well as surveilling the corridors. He gave Trey an anguished look the young man didn’t understand at first.

“I…think I have a solution to that, Trey. I don’t like it. But it might…I know someone who’s been asked to deliver food. She does it every few days and they trust her. But…it’s someone we know.”

“Who?”

Trey didn’t understand his hesitation until Calac spoke.

“Emirea.”

Gazi saw Trey bite his lip, hard. She raised her brows.

“What is the issue? I can threaten her…”

“She’s a little girl, Gazi.”

The Gazer blinked once at Trey. Minizi copied Gazi as the half-Gazer scratched her head calmly.

“So?”

Calac’s face was one gigantic wince as he looked at Trey. The [Sand Mage] and [Plotter] imagined Gazi blackmailing poor Emirea…his head slowly rose.

“Maybe we go the other way. Maybe…Calac. Gazi. You were talking about how Ullsinoi might have hidden [Mages] in the maze too. Even if I get rid of the Golems with this next stunt, we might be relying on you, right?”

Gazi nodded with a frown. They couldn’t drug or distract the people they didn’t know were there or not, and that was Ullsinoi’s biggest obstacle. Trey licked his lips.

“What if we didn’t have to rely just on you?”

“Do you know someone who can dodge traps? Or are we getting another security amulet? Because I’m not wearing it. We’ll give it to Minizi again.”

Calac frowned at Trey. The little Lifesand Golem emphatically shook her head. Trey did likewise. He glanced at Gazi.

“No…Gazi. You can see through the traps, right? And the maze? How…do you think someone else of your species might be able to do the same?”

She blinked one huge eye at him in surprise for the first time.

——

One Day Ago.

Reim was under siege. It was all over the news—along with Eldavin’s war on Ailendamus. Actually, it was only part of the news, and that was amazing to Trey.

The King of Destruction was under siege. This could be it. But until the walls fell…

He stared at the distant image of one of Drevish’s towers throwing down a massive bolt of lightning. As if he could see the battle. When someone took the walls for a second, or a high-level Skill was used, the [Mages] zoomed in.

Twice, they had shown Venith Crusland or Maresar, who they labeled as Flos’ vassals. ‘Carn’ pretended not to stare at the scrying orb.

“What’s this about, Troy? We have class in under an hour.”

The young man was leading the group out of the banquet hall. He didn’t answer Tov at first. Messill and Atritha weren’t with them.

It was Emirea, Goelv, and Tov. Calac helped Trey by distracting the Rhir-girl and Drake by asking them to help him study for a test and a spell he was getting wrong; they were all in the same class.

The more advanced students were with Trey, and his biggest friends outside of the Earthers. The Earthers…they’d be next.

They had to move fast. Tomorrow, Gazi had told Trey. Tonight was prep. Like him, she knew they had to hurry, but she insisted they had to get it right. Give everyone time to get everything in order.

He’d suggested leaving this part off till the end so his friends could choose. Giving them a night to think seemed unwise, but Gazi had overruled him.

“We will tell them now and let them choose. I will watch them. But we must know ahead of time what they will do.”

He couldn’t argue with that. Emirea glanced at Trey.

“Are you alright, Troy? You look pale. Is everything okay?”

“Please tell me it’s not worms again.”

Goelv elbowed Tov, and Trey almost flushed at the memory.

“No, it’s, um…I have something to show you. A big secret.”

“A Hidden Hallway?”

Emirea grew excited. Goelv stared at Trey, and the young man tried to smile at them.

First his friends. Then Elena and the others. Then he had to get rid of the Golems. Tomorrow? Viltach. Viltach, and Trey would have the key or know where it was. He’d link up—

And they’d go. Trey led them towards his room, and Tov snorted.

“Unless there’s a Hidden Hallway in Troy’s room, I bet he’s made a new Golem. What next? Flos-zi?”

He was in a bad mood today, for some reason. Perhaps it was guilt over revealing the secrets of the Drowned Folk to Trey or rightful suspicion. Emirea still seemed ready to be impressed.

Goelv? The Gazer boy was never talkative to begin with, slightly timid and self-conscious. However, he was chatty enough most times.

He had suddenly gone stiff as a board. His many eyes locked on one spot, which was so odd for a Gazer that Tov and Emirea looked at him with concern.

“Goelv? Is something wrong?”

“G—that—wh—”

The boy stammered. The young [Mage] looked at Trey, and the [Sand Mage] slowly opened the door.

“Just inside.”

Tov hesitated. He looked at Goelv, but the Gazer slowly walked forwards as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Tov followed, reaching for a dagger. Emirea hesitated, but she looked at Trey with such trust before she went in, he felt terribly guilty.

The three friends walked into the room as Trey closed the door. And cast a [Silence] charm just in time because the first thing Emirea did, as Tov and Goelv stared, was scream.

——

It turned out stories were true. Legends were real, and they smiled at you with sharp teeth. Kings woke up and…

And he was just a man. A man who sometimes did things beyond belief. A man who was sometimes too small, too disappointing.

At the same time, it was possible to fly on a magic carpet high over the world and breathe in that night sky. If you didn’t mind dying.

There was so much wonder in the world. Too many things to do. You could live free—or burn a rotten city to the ground to save a few souls.

What were you doing here, then? What was the point of risking your life if you only got one chance?

If you believed you would never die, that was one thing. You were simply wrong. But if you knew you would die? If you had seen an old man’s head encased in ice and known what it was like to bleed out on the floor? Why did you fight?

There had to be a reason. Trey had a reason to risk it all. Beyond that?

Wistram was too small. If the higher floors were unlocked, if they dared to descend into the catacombs and below—if they opened every door and smashed every cage, it would have been the academy of dreams and no one would ever think of leaving.

It was small, for as large as it pretended to be. Perhaps it fooled the other [Mages], but Earth’s children had already flown through the skies. They had walked through vast cities whose suburbs stretched out beyond the line of sight, looked up and seen skyscrapers too.

“If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

Trey Atwood brought it up over lunch that day. He sat with the Earthers. Not Emirea, Tov, and Goelv. They’d all skipped class, as had Trey, honestly. They needed a lie-down.

No, Goelv was lying down. Emirea might be more passed out. Tov had gone for a walk. Calac was watching Goelv’s rooms. Minizi was sitting in Emirea’s room. Gazi was watching Tov.

“Hm?”

The Earthers at the table looked up from food. Good food. A level—six levels above a continental breakfast at any hotel. Fine rooms. Silk bed sheets, if you could finagle them. Free room and board. Magic lessons optional.

They were staring at a scrying orb. A scrying orb showing Flynn flying through the air. That was one of the people in the magical suits of armor.

The others? A strangely intense young man, a boy, getting into the armor.

“Archmage Eldavin, what is the point of offering these suits of armor? To…can you tell me who this is?”

A Drake was speaking to the half-Elf on screen. Eldavin. He nodded.

“This is Lancest of Pheislant.”

“And is he a [Mage]?‘

The Archmage of Memory stroked at his beard as he watched Sa’la help the boy put each piece on, teaching him how to use it.

“Hm? No. Not a student of Wistram at all.”

“Then…is he an acquaintance of yours?”

The female Drake sat at a desk. Eldavin frowned.

“I met him only yesterday and interviewed him. Lancrest is a son of Pheislant, whose nation is de facto at war with Ailendamus. He has seen the wars of yesteryear. His parents died in the border conflict with Ailendamus. That is why he is wearing the armor.”

His eyes glinted. He seemed to be looking at Trey. He spoke, as if to the young man.

“He has no authority, no power to redress what happened to him. He never will. But he will have the chance to change the future. We all have our reasons to risk everything, [Reporter] Tewing. Ailendamus will be checked. To use a metaphor, this is my line in the sand. I invite them to try and wash it away, because I will continue to draw it until I find what I want.”

“…And what is it you want, exactly, Archmage?”

He did not reply. Trey saw everyone lock on the image of Eldavin as Flynn flew past him. The magic helmet was off, so they could see him laughing and flying over Pokey’s head as the Needlehound raced below him, barking.

“Fuck, Aaron. You made Iron Man. Congratulations.”

Saif spoke at last. He turned to the [Magictech Engineer] and slapped him on the shoulder. Aaron Vanwell gave Saif the exact opposite of a smile.

“What was that, Troy?”

Elena turned to Trey as another young man leaned forwards at the table.

“That’s Drassi. I knew her, back in Izril.”

“Yeah, I know, Leon. You said. Where’s your autograph?”

“I don’t have one, but…”

It was the same question, repeated a hundred times. Trey saw some of the others turn away from him, but Elena leaned forwards. So did one of the Earthers close by. A man that Troy had seldom talked to.

“Where would you want to go?”

He asked the question almost idly. Almost. Yet Elena looked at Trey as if it were the first time she had heard the question.

So did the Korean man. Sang-min. He didn’t always eat with the others, possibly due to the language barrier, though he could speak English fairly well, unlike some of the others who were from China or Punjab, not from the cities but more rural areas.

“Sang-min? Would you want to go back to Terandria? You were a [Mercenary], right? Want to borrow my gun?”

Saif had too much bravado—and too much of an ego for someone who happened to be holding an airsoft gun. The [Battlemages] made much of it, but even enchanted, Saif’s gun had all the force of a punch to the face.

And not even a good punch. Sang-min looked at Saif calmly.

“That is not a real gun.”

Saif’s grin faltered.

“No—but if you replaced the ammunition in the cartridge with custom-made enchanted stuff, it could do a lot of damage, Nailihuaile says.”

“So someone has to hand-enchant each bullet? That’s some real dark age shit. You know, they can’t even make steel everywhere?”

Basil remarked sardonically. Saif shrugged defensively.

“It’s not crazy! In this other universe in the future. Okay, do you know Warhammer…?”

“Oh my g—”

They broke off as Elena slapped the table. She was still staring at Trey.

“Go on, Sang-min?”

“Maybe a nice country. There’s too much war around Ailendamus. Where I fought. North. Or Baleros.”

“Why Baleros? It sounds like a hellhole of a jungle to me.”

George chewed on a pancake as he glanced over. Sang-min thoughtfully speared a bit of sausage with his fork.

“Baleros people look more like me. Drath. Maybe they speak my language there. Maybe not.”

“I thought they were Japanese.”

The [Mercenary] shrugged. Trey’s ears perked up as he muttered something that no one understood except maybe George, who tried to [Translate] it.

“…I thought she understood that. An [Emissary] from Drath came here.”

“Really.”

“You spoke to her? Sang-min, it’s a secret—”

The man shrugged. He looked around tiredly, one of many Earthers, but the only one besides Eun who spoke his language. One of the few who didn’t laugh about being an adventurer. He eyed Trey, and the young man nodded at him. Sang-min nodded back.

They recognized each other. Somehow. Trey looked straight into those brown eyes and saw they were haunted. He didn’t know who. He didn’t know where or exactly how Sang-min dealt with it, although it surely had to do with why he was so absent, kept to himself.

Yet Trey looked straight into the [Mercenary]’s eyes and saw someone dead there. Sang-min must have recognized the same on Trey. Elena looked at the two, then focused on Trey.

“Group meeting in thirty. Get everyone. At the place. Be there. No excuses.”

She announced to the table. Some of the Earthers glanced up, and a few groaned.

“Come on! I was going to play magic soccer with some of the [Mages], Elena. They enchanted a new soccer ball and everything.”

“I know Joseph, you know—”

Someone put Leon in a headlock.

“Tell me again, Leon. Tell me you know Joseph.”

Elena ignored them all. She rose, and Trey saw her follow him as he bussed his plates and tray.

——

“I got your message. I saw everything on the camera.”

Elena followed Trey towards the secret Earth-only rooms. The [Beautician] saw the young man flinch. However, when Trey turned to her, he was too calm.

Too calm, for the nightmares she’d had four days running. Elena had seen horror movies—who hadn’t? She was good at watching horror. She liked it. She got something from it, jump scares and all.

That hadn’t been a horror movie. It was nightmarish because it was real. It wasn’t found footage. It was a documentary.

“Was that real?”

She pressed after Trey said nothing. The [Sand Mage] just looked at her. Elena had met people who’d had to kill too. One look was her only answer and she turned paler still.

“Where did you get that camera?”

“A’ctelios Salash. From the people who owned it.”

They came to the secret door and entered as Elena muttered the passphrase. Trey glanced over his shoulder. Both of them had to do more than just speak the passcode, actually. Aaron had told them how to access this secret area and apparently reconfigured it to let only certain people in.

They stood in the sumptuous lobby area as they passed through a wall. Proper Hogwarts stuff. That was the thing. Everything was a reference if you wanted it to be. Right up until the monster from your book reached out and tore your head off.

“I saw the last part as well. The part you recorded. I was waiting for you to slip me a note or meet me here. I camped out for two days straight. What happened?”

Trey looked at Elena guiltily. He rubbed at his hair.

“A plan fell through. I’m sorry. I had to figure things out again.”

When Minizi exploded. Elena raised her brows.

“A plan fell through? You had one. You made one in secret and told no one. I can name three people who had anything like a plan.”

“Really? Who?”

Trey turned curiously. Elena jerked her head.

“Shun, from China. He tried to make a break for it. Actually, he got towards the edge of the calm bubble in a sailing boat before some [Mages] realized he wasn’t just having fun. He wiped out—good thing, too. He sailed straight out of Wistram into a storm. Not exactly a smart maneuver…but he thought it would work.”

“How? Wistram’s surrounded by water for thousands of miles.”

Elena smiled sadly.

“He thinks this is all a trick. Smoke and mirrors. A foreign government, maybe. Once he leaves the bubble—he’ll wake up or get out of it. He’s probably in, but I’m worried about him. Lamont tried too, you know. He was smart. He just hitched a ride on a ship; they were going to smuggle him out in the cargo hold, and he’d work off his debt. The [Captain] had no idea Lamont was one of us. He just thought Lamont was a student who’d had enough.”

“And?”

Trey thought he’d seen Lamont the other day, playing badminton with Sidney. Elena shook her head.

“That poor [Captain]. Five [Mages] teleported onto his decks before he was more than ten miles out of the academy. Blew up his sails—made him go back to harbor.”

“Ouch.”

Elena saw Trey grimace. His eyes flickered, and she took a seat on one of the plush chairs. Rich chairs. The kind of real-wood, hand-sewn whatevers that multi-millionaires wished they could afford back on Earth. They went for authentic Italian leather sofas. This? This was the kind of thing you might put down actual money for. Something old, grand, expensive.

If you wanted to live like a [King], Wistram was a fine place for it. Yet Trey had given her the camera. She prompted him.

“You know that means there are tracking spells on us. There was no clue; Lamont only told me, and I covered for him. They still found him.”

“I know.”

“Do you have a plan for it? [Dispel Magic]?”

“I doubt that works. It’s probably cast by a high-level [Enchanter], or maybe it’s not even directly bound to us. They can do that, you know.”

“Then how do you fix it?”

Trey scratched at his head. He spoke, too-casually. Too calmly. But that was why Elena believed they had a shot. He had confidence. He had a plan.

“If I were a [Mage], I’d have to do something complicated. Eldavin told me ‘first detect, then dispel’. You’d make some kind of sensor-net—that’s how I think of it. You make sure there’s nothing on you, then the air around you, then you make a kind of huge net if you’re checking an area. And then you look for invisible, hanging spells like distant hexes. They can be a mile up. And once you’ve found them all—you hope you’ve found them all—you can figure out how to get rid of them or trick them.”

“Dead gods. That sounds like a nightmare. Hacking and counter-hacking.”

Elena muttered. Trey gave her a rueful grin.

“I think only Eldavin and a few others can actually do that. He teaches me how it’s done properly—I bet it’s not even that sophisticated, what’s done to us. But I can’t find or counter them.”

“So…?”

Trey scratched at his chin, unconcerned.

“So we’ll get someone else to take care of it.”

The [Beautician] waited. Trey didn’t elaborate. She took a surprised breath.

“You are serious.”

“I am.”

He met her eyes, watching her almost as carefully as she was inspecting him. Elena grinned.

“I can tell. You look like her when you have a plan. She clams up too.”

“Who?”

“Cara.”

Trey blinked in surprise. Elena walked around the room and went to a cupboard. She checked the contents, looked back at him.

“I haven’t exactly been slouching, you know. I’m ready. We’ll see how many people are in. Some won’t be. We’ll have to swear the others to secrecy.”

What will you do if they tell the [Mages] the rest of us are going? Her eyes asked Trey, but she didn’t quite say it out loud. She knew he had to be thinking of that if he had a real plan, so she assumed Trey had a counter.

What Trey couldn’t tell her, what weighed on his conscience, was his reply.

I’m sorry, Elena. I’m counting on it.

——

“Yo, someone tried to get in. Not one of us.”

The Earthers’ secret room was crowded. Packed. Every single one of them was here. When Elena called, they came. They knew something was up.

Elena looked around sharply as she tried to keep order.

“How do you know?”

“Scorch marks. Someone got zapped by Aaron’s security. It actually works.”

A hand pointed at the entrance. Trey’s hair rose slightly. Elena gave him a quick glance and murmured.

“Maybe someone just saw one of us going in.”

“What’s this about, anyways? Someone said there’s a big plan?”

Eun was sitting with Sang-min. It was interesting; many of the Earthers kept together. With people from or close to their countries, if they were minorities, but they also had their friends, who sat next to them.

And enemies. And people who didn’t get along at all, like Saif and Sang-min. Or Erik and Haley, [Actor] and [Squire], for reasons which Trey didn’t know at all.

He didn’t know them well. He hadn’t made close friends with any and only knew Elena from their conversations. Perhaps it was self-defense. Trey felt like he’d known from the start he wouldn’t stay with them.

And this…he felt too calm. Was it the [Plotter] in him taking over? Or just the fact that when he spoke, when they shouted and asked questions and argued—

He wasn’t invested?

“Escape? Are you crazy? Do you know what’s out there? There are people hacking each other to bits!”

Caroline exclaimed. She looked at him as if horns were growing out of his head. Basil nodded, sheerly uncomprehending, but Trey barely focused on him. He was counting.

There were plenty of voices. Elena shouted.

“Let Troy explain. Shut up. This isn’t a game. Shut up—”

“This is a democracy!”

“Shut the hell up, George.”

Trey waited for silence. When he spoke, it wasn’t to Caroline, or George, or Basil, but to the people who were watching him and taking this seriously, not grinning like children.

Duha, Shun, Sang-min, Justin, Lamont, a young man he didn’t recognize fingering a cross, Elena…

He looked past them at Aaron Vanwell and saw the disturbed look on the [Magictech Engineer]’s face. Not him, then.

“I can’t guarantee where we’ll go. But anyone who wants to go—there will be a place and a time. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

Elena recoiled. He hadn’t told her that. The others just stared at Trey.

“Wait. You’re serious?”

Leon spoke into the silence. There were laughs, but Trey just kept meeting the eyes of the people who were listening.

“Absolutely. The reason why I didn’t tell anyone is because…it has to be fast. It has to be now, before anyone chickens out.”

“Before anyone spills the beans.”

“I hate your American expressions.”

“Who’s going to tell? Are you going to go? This is crazy. Who’s taking us?”

“I can’t say. If you’re in, you’ll know more. If not? Just don’t tell anyone.”

And then everyone had to know more details, which Trey refused to tell them. Some of them got in his face, but he held his ground. An angry guy or girl was not exactly the King of Destruction shouting at you.

“I can’t tell you where we’re going or how. I can only tell you—I’m leaving. I have to. No matter if it’s uncertain or risky. Don’t volunteer unless you’re certain. But if we do leave—we might be able to go anywhere in the world. Then we’ll be on our own. You can go your way alone or find others. That’s the deal.”

That was the promise. Trey hoped Doroumata would keep it. Elena rose, and everyone turned to her, listening. The [Beautician] scanned the room, and when she nodded, it was tiredly.

“I’m going. I hope some of you will go with me. I’ve been trying to get everyone to go…but that was never going to happen. I realized that, but Troy convinced me. Listen. I’m going to go, and if you don’t want to, that’s fine. But if there’s any loyalty, any friendship—don’t tell anyone we’re going. If I get out, I’ll take anyone who wants to go with me to Terandria.”

“Why there?”

Elena looked around. She hesitated, her eyes scanning the room, and she bit her tongue, thinking hard.

“Because I know Cara, the Singer of Terandria. And she…is helping more of us. That’s all I’ll say. I came here to see what Wistram was like for her. Some of you know that. If we can get to her, we’ll be freer and happier than Wistram. Maybe not safer, but that’s what I’m doing.”

Uproar. Trey silently looked at Elena. Someone else on a mission. Now, even the people who had every reason to stay in Wistram were looking uncertain, like Sidney. Elena was the mother, in a way, who helped take care of them. Some of the Earthers didn’t want Elena to go, but she was adamant.

“I want to help Cara. I don’t like Wistram. You’ve all seen what Eldavin did, haven’t you? He’s the best Archmage of the lot. I am not staying if there’s a chance of going and…that’s all I have to say about that.”

“You know the Singer of Terandria? What’s she like? Can we trust her?”

Caroline demanded eagerly. She’d flipped so fast once she heard that, Trey had whiplash. Elena smiled.

“She’s amazing. She has high levels. She’s fought real monsters. Believe me—if we get her, we’ll be as safe as she can make us. We can trust her!”

“No. You can’t.”

Someone interrupted Elena, and it was the last person Trey expected. He was watching Aaron, who was the one person Trey was almost sure wouldn’t leave. He had expected Aaron to say something and sway the others, but he just sat there.

Wrestling with himself, from the look of it. Both Aaron and Trey looked over and saw a young man rise to his feet.

Leon. He looked bewildered as he turned to Trey and Elena.

“Why do you want to leave? Wistram’s better than anywhere, and trust me, I’ve seen Pallass.”

“We know, Leon. You tell us. You’ve seen the world. I haven’t. I landed in one city and Wistram grabbed me. I want to go. Don’t squeal on the rest of us.”

A sharp voice from Randolph, sitting far from him. Leon glared, but then raised his hands.

“I know it sounds great. But you can’t trust the Singer of Terandria.”

“And why not? You’ve never met her. I know you haven’t, even if you’ve met all the other Earthers you claim to.”

Elena gave Leon a dark glare. The young man just looked at her.

“You can’t trust her. I mean—she might be great. Maybe she really does know a safe place, and she’s high-level. It doesn’t matter. It’s not safe because she’ll die. We all will. I thought I was safe. I…I knew someone who was high-level. The highest-leveled Earther in the entire world. I stayed at her inn.”

Everyone went silent. Trey turned back to Leon as the young man sat there. His detractors and hecklers and people who didn’t like him raised their voices…and hesitated.

Because Leon stood there, and suddenly he seemed lost. He gazed about, and something genuine was in his gaze.

“Her name was Erin. Erin Solstice. She was amazing. She did insane things—she had friends—even the Antinium. She fought monsters, and I knew I’d never be able to measure up to her, or the others. That wasn’t why I left. I could have made something of myself. Everyone did. I left because Erin was all that. She did everything right, and she was tough, and…they shot her. Some Drakes just ambushed her, and shot her dead. Just like our world. She was the best of us, and she’s dead and never coming back.”

He looked around, hands trembling as they clenched. He was shaking.

The room grew silent. Instantly, quiet. The excited, argumentative mood turned into uncertainty at once.

Someone began crying. Sidney. It was too close. Too real. Elena looked at Leon, searching for a rebuttal. But she didn’t have one.

It could happen. She had been there. She had seen it. She looked at Trey, but he was not able to say anything to Leon as well. The young man continued.

“I came to Wistram because I didn’t want to die. You either get lucky and you go somewhere safe and play football like Joseph—or you die. I came to Wistram, but I wasn’t a chosen one here either. Flynn has super-armor. I don’t. I’m not going out there again to get killed.”

Elena stirred. Her eyes sparked, and her sympathy turned to anger for a moment. She pointed at Leon.

“You don’t get chosen. You stand up. That’s what Cara did.”

“Then they put a target on your chest.”

He wasn’t right, but he certainly wasn’t entirely wrong either. The Earthers were split once more. And as if by magic, every eye turned to one person who’d been conspicuously quiet.

“What do you think, Aaron? You’re the person who helped find us all. You’re…the first.”

Aaron Vanwell, Blackmage, looked around as if he were waking up from a dream. He stood, slowly, and his dreadlocks moved as he turned from face to face. He seemed…odd.

Like he was fighting with himself. The words came slowly from his mouth, as Aaron looked at Trey. As if he saw right through him. Trey waited, and everyone looked at Aaron. First, despite all that had happened.

Yet what Aaron said surprised Trey. The [Magitech Engineer] took a deep breath and forced the words out.

“I think…I think we can’t tell what will happen if you leave the academy. It will be dangerous. It’s bad out there. Leon’s right.”

Elena opened her mouth, and his eyes slid sideways to meet hers. Aaron smiled.

“…But Elena’s also right. Troy’s given you all this chance. I think that you should all ask yourselves what you want to do. And go if you’re going. You might never get another chance.”

He looked around and sat down heavily. As if saying that had taken some great effort. Trey watched Aaron, confused.

Why did he smile? He had said nothing…but he looked up at Trey and smiled and nodded. So Trey bowed back.

He would never know it, but that was Aaron Vanwell’s proudest moment. His finest victory.

After that, it was simple. Trey told them when and where and let them argue. Elena wanted to speak with him; they all did.

“Take the camera with you.”

“You don’t want it?”

“I know what it says. Tell everyone you meet.”

“We could show it to the world. We have scrying spells. The television—Eldavin?”

Trey shook his head. He pointed at the camera in Elena’s hands.

“They all know about A’ctelios Salash. No one has done anything yet. It will fall to us. I will see you tomorrow, Elena. I have to get ready.”

She nodded. The [Beautician] stared at Troy for a long time, and he wondered if she saw right through him. But all she did was nod slowly.

“Good luck. I hope this works. I trust you, Troy.”

He looked at her and hadn’t the courage to reply. So Trey just nodded and walked off. Terrible.

He was betraying trust.

——

Gazi had gold and gems. She had artifacts for the breakout. She had given some to Trey to bribe Tov; most of her gold had gone to Calac, who was on another mission.

However, gold was worth less in Wistram. To move pieces into position…Trey found someone who could help him. The issue was Golems.

Golems, powerful Golems. It was and always had been, even with Cognita gone. Even so, the young man felt he was at the peak of danger as he fidgeted in front of the door.

A silent Dullahan woman stood next to him, her head held in her hands, inspecting him.

Beatrice. She never smiled. Nor did the woman who opened the door, the Archmage, make Trey any more comfortable. Nailihuaile was short—for one of the Naga—but the Star Lamia glowed, with strange radiance coming off her scales.

“Troy! Come in! Beatrice said you wanted to see me? Or that you had something to offer me?”

The young man started.

“I—yes, Archmage. I was hoping for a trade. That is—a favor? Something like that.”

“Interesting. Well, come in!”

Nailihuaile’s rooms were nothing at all like Viltach’s. Eldavin’s were still ostensibly guest rooms, albeit with many gifts and his projects, but the two Archmages who had time to ensconce themselves in Wistram had configured their rooms to their personality.

What Nailihuaile liked, it seemed, was magic. Visible magic, like the glowing crystals set into pedestals. A circle of magic drawn in the center of her room as visitors entered.

Viltach was a craftsman, but he and Nailihuaile both enchanted. The difference was that one’s room had practical tools in the workshop.

Nailihuaile’s living room looked like a great [Enchanter]’s domain. Books were strewn about, opened to certain pages, and she sat Trey down just past that, around an untidy set of what were more like bean bags than anything else.

But not filled with beans. One was a liquid couch, and Trey realized it was because the Star Lamia curled around her flexible cushion rather than a rigid chair. Indeed, there were odd chairs of twined wood that let a tail rest around them.

A place for Lizardfolk. But he couldn’t focus on that long. Naili fixed him with a smile and intrigued stare.

“So what do you want? Beatrice said you had something to…offer me? But you want something in return?”

He licked his lips.

“Yes. I’d like to trade for a—a scroll. Or artifact. A powerful one. A warding amulet. Something that could deflect Tier 4 spells, even, and attacks. Or something like that.”

Nailihuaile recoiled slightly. Beatrice, who had joined them, raised her eyebrows. The Star Lamia coiled around her seat, but her humanoid torso rose.

“That’s not an easy ask, Troy. Not even if you had…knowledge of Earth you were willing to give me. I’m afraid I wouldn’t want to part with an artifact like that—even if I had one—for nothing. Why do you need a protective charm like that, anyways?”

She peered at Trey, and he began to sweat. She was no fool. Nailihuaile’s eyes flickered over Trey.

“Is something wrong?”

“No—no, Archmage Nailihaile.”

“So there’s nothing I wouldn’t want to know about?”

“N—”

The Star Lamia’s slitted eyes glittered. Truth spells. Trey clamped his lips shut. She smiled, and her seat rolled forwards as she slithered a bit closer, now resting on top of it.

“Troy. We—the Archmages—really do sympathize with you Earthers. We know it’s not easy, and everything’s changing. But there are sides. I know you’re on Eldavin’s, or at least, he claimed you. But I want you to be honest. What’s up?”

Of all the Archmages, she made him most nervous. Not because she was smartest, best at magic…he had no measure, aside from the feeling that Eldavin was the best by far.

Yet he had the feeling Naili could be the most…vindictive of the lot. Nor was she slow.

“You know something. Out with it.”

“Nothing. I just—I wanted to know if I could trade a big secret. A Major Secret for…”

The young man stuttered as Nailihuaile left the seat and circled him. Beatrice saw Naili glance at her and stepped back. She became a statue, watching, as Naili frowned at Trey.

“What kind of secret? No, no. Let’s not get away from that first part. Why do you want an amulet to keep you safe, Troy? Someone…thinking of doing something dangerous, maybe?”

“It’s…”

He avoided her gaze. But now the Archmage was very intent on him, and she could put two plus two together.

“I hear you visit Archmage Amerys. You weren’t planning on breaking her out, maybe?”

“I—”

“You’ve seen the new traps and security. That would be a mistake, Troy. We’d have to be unpleasant about that. But that would be curious as to why you were doing it.”

“It’s the Golems.”

The young man burst out. He met Naili’s eyes for a second. She frowned.

“The Golems?”

Trey’s breath was coming too fast. He spoke quickly.

“Yes. The—I saw one of the Golems in the maze. And the other ones. Are you sure they’re safe? Are you sure—did you order them to come down and guard her?”

The Star Lamia recoiled slightly.

“Ordered them to guard Amerys? Of course we did.”

“Each one?”

The young man met her eyes. The Star Lamia saw genuine unease there. She hesitated.

“Yes…Ullsinoi did for…there’s a Golem in the maze?”

She glanced at Beatrice for confirmation then smiled at Trey. But with a hint of uncertainty behind the needle-sharp teeth.

“Why? Why would that matter?”

“I…I have a secret. A big one. I’d trade it for a charm. Something to protect me. Just in case.”

“In case of…? Beatrice, find me my best warding amulets. I don’t have an Amulet of Protection—but I do have some powerful ones. Besides, you know a secret has to be worth a lot.”

“It’s a big one. The biggest. It’s worth—it’s worth the best artifact you’d give me. I think I might need it. Maybe. I don’t want to need it, but I might.”

“Really?”

Nailihuaile looked at Trey and saw no lie in that. She hesitated, and slithered over to inspect the amulets Beatrice brought. She frowned, shook her head, and went over to a cabinet. She opened it, stared down at a carefully-wrought cage of silverish metal around a core of something bright and fiery red, scintillating like a little molten core in the center of it, floating.

“This is an Amulet of Xion, Troy. Do you know what that is?”

He shook his head as she came over with it. Beatrice silently held the other artifacts, and Naili dangled it in front of him, smiling.

“I can’t make it. Yet. Xion was an [Enchanter] who specialized in this kind of thing. Each gem is a powerful mana stone, the kind that you can’t make. Something like the core of magic dug out of a monster. This is the most powerful amulet I would ever consider trading; I don’t wear it myself because of interference with my robes and staff.”

She gestured at the Relic-class artifact. Trey looked at the curved piece of wood augmented with shining crystal and other strange stone.

The Serkonian Lance. Naili saw his expression and laughed.

“I know Viltach tutors you. And Eldavin? Neither one has the artifacts I do. The Serkonian Lance is a jealous weapon, though. Still, even the amulet is worth far more than most Major-class secrets. But let’s put it on the table.”

She did so, on the low table, and nodded at Beatrice.

“You can haggle with me for the lesser ones. What’s this big secret you have? Don’t worry about Beatrice. She’s beyond loyal. The Golems? Now why would you be worried about them?”

She leaned forwards eagerly. She saw the young man lick his lips. Trey looked Nailihuaile dead in her eyes.

What did [Mages] fear? Gazi had asked him that.

“What do [Mages] of Wistram fear? Know that—and you know one of their weaknesses. That they trust in their magic and truth spells is another. When you lie with the truth, they believe you.”

He looked Naili straight in the eyes, and he didn’t have to try to appear uneasy or afraid. All he had to do was remember.

“Are you sure the Golems are obeying you? Have…have you seen Zelkyr’s test?”

Naili recoiled slightly. Beatrice made a sound.

“Zelkyr’s test? Don’t tell me you went up there! That’s dangerous! And if it’s that secret flesh-Golem—that’s not a huge secret. But—”

She was off-guard for a second. Her answer told Trey everything he needed to know. She hadn’t been up there recently. The Archmages avoided that place like the plague.

“You haven’t seen what Cognita’s done, then.”

He looked at her, even more visibly nervous. Naili’s eyes flickered.

“Cognita? She left. Why. Do you know why she left? No one knows why. If you just happened to know, that would b—”

“She might be free. Eldavin might have set her free. He was trying to when he challenged her. That’s what I heard when I rescued him. He tried the test, and the Golems of Wistram…he fought Cognita.”

Archmage Nailihuaile’s grin was frozen on her face. Her head was slightly turned, and Trey saw her breathing—but the Star Lamia, always bouncy, moving—froze up. People could turn into statues, but she held every muscle still, half uncoiled, her body arched. Then her eyes slid over to his.

“What was that? He did…”

She didn’t know. Trey looked Nailihuaile dead in her eyes and delivered unto the Archmage of Lizardfolk, the Star Lamia, the [Enchanter], a nightmare.

“You haven’t taken a look at Zelkyr’s last test, have you?”

——

Five Golems had once held this ground. Four permanently, in the magical battleground, the reinforced courtyard in front of the massive, sealed doors. One the true protector and mistress of Wistram.

Six Golems, but not even Trey knew the one hidden in the heart of the giant metal warrior. However, that was always how it had looked.

An invisible Golem of flesh, stalking left and right, putrid breath wafting from its maw as its eyes glowed.

A Golem made of burning magma and stone, burning from within from a heat that defied belief—a core like a star.

The tall thing of wire and metal, a scythe of a body, thin, infinitely malleable.

That too-plain, too weak giant of metal armed with sword and shield, paling in comparison to even some of its other lesser peers.

The last of them, the greatest, would walk here and greet any [Mages] who dared the final test to become true mages of Wistram. Truestone. Cognita.

That was always how it had been. An understated threat, for all the overt death here.

No longer.

If you opened those doors, the first thing you saw was a real siege weapon. Not a ballista. Nor a cute cannon from the dawn of gunpowder on Earth.

A [Mage]’s siege weapon. One of their city-breaking siege weapons.

A Valmira Cascade launcher. It had a design similar to a bow, but since it didn’t fire arrows, the contraption had no elongated wings. It did have a dangerously fragile-looking construction of charged glass orbs that were blindingly white when filled with power.

Each one threw one of that famous Archmage’s spells with a regular shot. [Valmira’s Comet]. And it scaled up. However, the siege weapon could and would detonate all that charged magic that it pulled from the air and its magical fuel—which could wipe out anything nearby.

The gunner didn’t care. It sat fearlessly, aiming the rotating, hovering weapon on its pedestal straight at any intruder.

A Golem. No regular Golem either, but one made for war. Its outer casing was Wyvern-hide; it looked like the Golem was wearing leather all over, save for one huge, oval ‘eye’ that was its entire face.

Again, they had taken from Gazers, but this Golem just had one huge, glowing, oval gemstone for a face. Deep red, cherry dark until you noticed the swimming lights. Perfect vision.

That was one Golem. A humanoid one, with its claw-hands perfectly adapted for the controls meant for Drakes, pointing the muzzle of the spell-throwing weapon down.

One Golem.

They were legion. Archer-Golems stood with classic longbows behind fortified ground, glowing one-way shields. Golems with swords and weapons like classic armies—Zelkyr’s legacy—were arrayed in ranks, holding the choke-points.

The entire room had changed. Now, the four Golems stood like the final bosses at the end of the room. To get to them?

You’d have to go up, through narrow passes held by Golems. Simple choke-points. If you wanted to fly over them—a reasonable thought—the Golems with bows and similar siege weapons would cut you out of the air.

Or the flying Golems. Like the one that hovered in the air, a glowing Golem’s Heart in its center. Wind and rain and lightning all flashed around, forming a ‘body’ visible only by its contents.

Storm Golem. Some of the Golems were like that, elemental. Others were crafted after the physical form, built for war.

Some were neither, a mix of the two, like the huge, dog-like beast that bounded left and right, a crushing pair of mithril-alloy teeth opening and closing.

Zelkyr had made a lot of Golems. Trey thought this wasn’t even close to all of them—but it was apparently as many as their leader thought was necessary to hold this place in her absence.

He didn’t bother counting. Nor did Trey Atwood peek long. He simply took the Amulet of Xion from Nailihuaile’s limp grip, put it on, and carefully backed away as she and Beatrice stared at the Golems aiming every single weapon at them.

They even had laser sights. Trey walked down five flights of stairs, found the closest bathroom, and sat there for a while. He touched the curious cage of wire around the glowing gem. If Naili wanted it back, she could have it; it was a perk. But Trey had a sneaking suspicion she wouldn’t.

——

The buzz that evening was of confusion. Archmage Feor himself went striding over to Nailihuaile before dinner even started.

Why had all the Golems save the original two been removed from Amerys’ security? Not just that—there were far fewer serving-Golems in Wistram than before.

Oh, and some were now skirting the Revivalist areas and refused to do deliveries or carry goods through there. All per a certain Archmage’s orders.

Paranoia was a lovely thing.

[Plotter Level 7!]

Trey had taken a nap, or rather, a lie-down as a hunch and been rewarded. He saw Naili arguing with Feor, and the old half-Elf’s face changed from annoyance to uncertainty in a flash.

He was not sitting close to the head table or with the Earthers. Trey sat with his friends. Emirea, Tov, Goelv. Calac was still on his job.

“So. Were you all sick this morning or something? I heard you missed class.”

Astritha looked uncertainly at her friends. None of them answered immediately. They looked at Trey. Emirea was shaking visibly. Goelv was still stunned, but Tov was just inspecting Trey.

They were in. And his friends might be obviously off, but not so much that Astritha and Messill would go to anyone with the news. Trey looked around the room and saw one of Doroumata’s daughters was angled towards him. The [Depth Mage] herself? Not present. Nor was he overtly being stared at behind the dark veil.

He wished some of the others were as covert.

“You son of a bitch. I’m in—”

One of the Earthers slapped the other on the shoulder hard as he pointed at Trey. The [Sand Mage] sighed.

They thought it was a joke. He knew better. Trey looked around and rose.

“I’m going to bed early. I’ll see you all tomorrow. I have to meet with Archmage Viltach, but I’ll see you after dinner.”

He looked at Emirea, Goelv, and Tov, and saw them nod shakily. Astritha leaned over as Messill whispered to her.

“Look at this guy. Bragging. ‘I get lessons from Viltach. I talk with Doroumata and Fissival’s [Mage Lords]! I take lessons from Eldavin!’ Sheesh.”

Trey half-jumped and smiled guiltily. He saw Feor hurrying off to have an upsetting experience and saw Calac as he walked towards the exit. The young man looked at him and nodded.

——

Today.

“They’ve taken the walls twice now. We cannot keep forcing them back. The gates are…breaking.”

The reinforced wood and metal had been rebuilt into enchanted gates by the King of Destruction’s Skill. However, there was only so long they could endure bombardment, and even the battering rams that made it to the gates before they were destroyed.

Venith Crusland wore red. Maresar? Not a drop on her.

Teresa Atwood’s arm burned, despite stamina potions. She inhaled, exhaled, as she listened to them talk. Venith Crusland had no speeches. He uttered no fiery words as he turned to the officers present. They had held for eight days. Takhatres, Mars, Orthenon, all were fighting to return and bring a force large enough to break the siege while safeguarding their areas.

Flos Reimarch had told them to hold back. He could have sent Takhatres against this army, but for Hellios and the Gnolls. He could have pulled back and ceded Belchan and retreated—but then they would have come for him on all sides, and he would have lost everything.

Maresar spat casually as she stared into the distance.

“If it were any other battle, they would have already called this a disaster. Even Nerrhavia. They will not relent here. They see an end to this war. Venith. Call it.”

He nodded. The [Lord of Battle] turned to the others and gave a quiet command as he stared into the heart of the city, where people had gathered. Some ran water or supplies or tended the wounded, but most just waited.

Countless souls; some stayed in houses close to the walls because they had no choice. Every citizen from the countryside. Many had taken up arms, but they had lived and died on those walls. Now? He looked at the civilians with not a single combat level to their names and nodded.

“Arm them. We will hold them in the streets once the walls fall.”

Teresa raised her head to say something…looking at the palace. The King of Destruction lay there. She turned and heard a sound go up through the city.

A rending, winding screech of metal. The scream of a spell breaking and a roar from all around them from countless voices.

“The north gate.”

Venith stood. He started running, and Maresar lifted her bow.

“Another hour. Teresa—retreat to the palace if they take the walls. We will bleed them until they run for the death of it or fall, today. Do not throw your life away.”

The [Bandit Lord] stood as Teresa looked at her. She drew her first arrow and launched it skywards. The [Swordswoman] said nothing. She felt it, with that growing instinct that made all the others so quiet.

It would be today, one way or another. The sun was setting as the first gate went down. Then…soon after, the second.

Then one of the walls was breached.

——

Perhaps they were too slow. He could have been faster. He could have been smarter.

All Trey Atwood knew was that it had begun. All the pieces were in play—or would be soon. Distractions, plans laid, actions set in motion by himself, Gazi, and Calac.

However, one thing remained, and it was simply the end. Amerys. If they reached her—when they reached her, blood or perfect infiltration or chaos or not—

They had to set her free.

There was only one recourse Trey had for that. So he knocked, and carried the bottle of wine carefully under one arm as he put a smile on his face.

After a long, long time, the door opened. The face which appeared in the doorway was familiar. Welcoming.

“Troy, you’re early.”

“I’m sorry, Archmage Viltach. I brought a gift.”

The man blinked down with surprise and gratification.

“Where did you get that? And your amulet? Magnificent magic—you remembered my fondness for wines. Is that…?”

“Amentus wine.”

The Archmage beckoned Trey in, smiling.

“Izrilian. You know, the fruit is very poisonous? The seed core, not the rind, but that’s part of the allure. Although any basic toxicity test fails because even the best stuff is a tiny bit poisonous.”

“I know. But you mentioned you liked good wines, Archmage, and I wanted to present you with a little gift for all you’ve done for me and Minizi—”

Viltach smiled. He beckoned Trey in, and the young man saw they had a small snack platter, a pre-dinner dinner. Just as planned.

“Where is Minizi?”

“Below, I think. I can feel her returning.”

“Ah, should we upgrade her next? You know, this wine might be too good to waste. Especially because I don’t believe in hoarding bottles.”

“If you’d like, Archmage.”

Viltach smiled. He ushered Trey into a seat. He was a generous man to his friends, and he enjoyed fine things.

He was also a craftsman. He led the Libertarian faction, and Trey knew that Viltach’s great love was making wands. Making…things.

He had a few slimes in his workshop, and he had Eldavin’s gift on display. Archmage Viltach noticed Trey’s look at the complex, three-element wand and grimaced.

“I’ve barely gotten started on reverse-engineering how he made that. A cunning Archmage, that Eldavin. I don’t think it’s a practical wand. I rather feel like an apprentice being handed a test piece—you know, like blacksmith puzzles? An odd feeling at my age. But we can discuss that later. Do you drink? You’re a bit young by some standards…but I won’t tell if you won’t.”

He winked, and Trey tried to return it. Viltach was…kind. It made what was about to happen feel worse.

“To Golems who won’t kill you, friendships, and magic.”

Viltach suggested. Trey smiled as he took a cup. He drank, and the Amentus wine was very sweet. Almost too sweet.

“Gah, that’s sugary. But I knew that…you know, Magnolia Reinhart loves sugar?”

Viltach took a sip and grimaced, then tried it again. Trey took his time in responding. He had to take a bite of some brie…chomp hard on the powdery pill Gazi had given him, wedged along his back molars, and then cough and take another sip of wine.

Foul as hell. But he wouldn’t go loopy, prone to answering questions, and then topple over.

If a truth spell existed, did a truth serum? Obviously. Trey tried to smile at Viltach, but it was so hard.

He didn’t feel bad about Nailihuaile. He didn’t like her. Elena? He felt awful about that in part, but he was also acting in relatively good faith…

No. Trey would wrestle with that too, but this was direct. This was looking Viltach in the eye as the Archmage smiled at him and…Trey put down his cup as Viltach took another sip and put it aside, shuddering.

“Maybe we need to cut it with water or something.”

“We don’t have to have too much. A sip’s enough. How are you, Archmage? It’s been a strange few days, hasn’t it?”

Viltach agreed. The Archmage went for a pitcher of water and poured a cup. He grimaced as he swished the water in his mouth and gulped.

“It has. You visit Amerys, don’t you?”

Trey blinked at him. Viltach shrugged. He put the cup down and sighed.

“…I never let you see her. You asked and asked, but Eldavin was the Archmage for you, eh?”

The young man hesitated and ducked his head.

“I’m sorry, Archmage Viltach.”

The man spoke a bit sharply.

“It’s Viltach. We are friendly enough to say that, Troy.”

He relented as he looked up when he saw the young man’s expression.

“I was being careful. I know you went with Eldavin—who wouldn’t? Honestly, Troy…Amerys is just dangerous. I was being cautious—and we still are. But you and I make our choices and we can’t go back. So let’s not speak of that. Not yet. How are your studies going?”

“Good…I don’t quite like barrier spells, though. They give me a headache.”

“Keeping it up? I understand. You get nosebleeds. What spell did you learn first?”

“[Light Barrier].”

“Naturally, naturally. Er, you do know you can sneeze on that spell hard enough and break it? Well, that is what that amulet is for. How did you get that?”

“Archmage Nailihuaile gave it to me.”

Viltach’s brows shot up.

“So that’s why she…ah, we do have more to talk about. Do you have long?”

Trey checked the timepiece set on one of Viltach’s tables. He looked out the window at the fading light.

“I have a bit, Archmage.”

——

Calac Crusland met Tov and Goelv in his rooms. They were waiting for Emirea and Trey.

“You’re early. He won’t be here for another hour.”

“I cannot stay in my rooms. I am nervous. Th—where is Gazi Pathseeker?”

Goelv whispered after the door was closed. Calac met his gaze briefly, and Tov settled with his back to the wall, watching the door.

“In her place.”

“She won’t be with us?”

“She’ll meet us at the Creler-mural. She has to go undetected.”

“Hm. Right. So…we’re doing this.”

Calac nodded. He looked at Goelv and Tov, and took a breath.

“You’re both in. I never asked you why. Was Troy that convincing?”

The two young men looked at him. Goelv half shook his head.

“Troy? He is a friend, but…that is Gazi Pathseeker. She knows more about magic and our people—even as a half-Gazer—she’s Gazi Pathseeker.”

He said it as if it said everything, and it did. Tov was different. He just stared at Calac.

“She serves the King of Destruction. A living legend. I…”

He hesitated. The Drowned Man rubbed at his slug half.

“Greatness. Greatness lies in that, and I’d be part of a legend. I could say I helped free Amerys. And I will be rewarded, won’t I?”

Calac Crusland nodded. He opened and closed his hands. He had seen the news about the siege of Reim this morning. The speculation.

One more hour, and they’ll know Amerys has returned. One more hour and the King of Destruction can threaten them with her wrath. She might even reach Chandrar if she can teleport—

“You have my vow as a Crusland.”

Tov just nodded, then frowned.

“Who is he?”

“Who? Crusland? My father is—”

“No. Who is Troy? Why does the King of Destruction trust him so much he sent him? You, I understand. But who is…he?”

The Drowned Man frowned, looking at Calac and then at Goelv. He was surprised by Calac’s smile.

“That would take too long to explain. You can ask him yourself.”

Tov gestured at the window.

“We’ve over an hour left.”

“It would still take too long.”

Still, since they were here, Calac began to explain. He waited for Emirea and Trey, checking the sinking sun.

The others. Were they in position?

——

“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty…thirty-one…”

Elena was counting the Earthers preparing for their breakout. She didn’t see Troy, but he had told her he’d catch up.

“George? You’re coming?”

She stopped one of the young men entering. The Earther grinned at her, shamefaced.

“I wasn’t sure, but I talked it over and everyone’s coming. Saif, Eun—we’re packed and ready.”

“Does anyone suspect anything? Sidney?”

The little girl was clinging to Basil’s hand as he walked into the room. The [Smelter] was shaking.

“We’re all going. If you’re going.”

They were a group. George nodded at the door.

“I don’t think we were followed, but it’s hard to tell. Something’s…odd, tonight. You know those [Mages] were freaking out about the Golems yesterday?”

“Mhm? I heard they were being removed from key areas. It made my life harder. I was trying to sneak around and prepare a distraction.”

George glanced out the window.

“Us too. There’s a lot of ‘em in the corridors.”

Elena frowned.

“Wait…you made a distraction too?”

George shrugged.

“Well, we paid some [Mages] to help out. It’s just a prank. But it’s weird vibes out there, I’m telling you. Like…you know that funny Centaur guy?”

“Which one?”

“Him. The one who’s helping us?”

“Oh, Galei?”

George nodded. He glanced at the corridor again and licked his lips as he turned to face Elena. He grinned.

“It’s probably an illusion. But I swore I passed him four times on the way here.”

——

Could you…tell something was off? Gazi didn’t even have to look. She eyed the trotting Centaur. She couldn’t tell if he was an illusion or not, but she kept multiple hallways between her and each Galei.

They were made. Or perhaps it was the Earthers. The Gazer didn’t know, and, to an extent, she didn’t care.

She had factored failure into elements of her plan. What she didn’t like were all the Golems. That…made no sense.

But perhaps it was an element of Naili ordering them away from the key areas. After all—Gazi peeked towards the Creler-murals. She was nearly eight hallways removed and had chosen this vantage spot because these particular walls didn’t obstruct her main eye’s vision.

She could dimly, dimly sense the magical maze in the lounge area, but that wasn’t what Gazi was focused on. She counted.

Two. Two magical, artificial presences. Two Golem hearts.

She couldn’t see into that maze of course, not without being in it, but it was clear the other Gemstone Protectors were gone. Trey’d done the big thing. All he needed now was the key. Gazi was prepared to cause a distraction if need be since they had Goelv.

Multiple elements. She pulled the single-use [Message] scroll from her belt pouch. Slowly, slowly, Gazi moved down the hallway, watching for [Greater Invisibility], for more security from Ullsinoi. They were her opponents. But she was ready. She triggered the [Message] scroll.

They’d have a way out. Gazi moved a bit closer, and the huge eyelid of her main eye lowered slightly.

Wait. What was…?

——

“With Eldavin gone, we are in charge, still. Nominally. But we fight. You know, Nailihuaile pulled all the Golems but the original two out of the hallways, Troy? Countermanding Ullsinoi, Feor, and myself…but that is how it goes. We squabble.”

Viltach was noticeably…off. His voice wasn’t slurred so much as he was talkative, drowsy. Trey watched him with a pang in his heart as the Archmage fumbled for a seedless grape and popped it into his mouth.

“I don’t see Minizi. Is she coming?”

“She’s coming, Viltach. But tell me more about Amerys. You didn’t want me to see her?”

“Dangerous. She is a dangerous woman. She cannot be freed.”

Trey nodded. Viltach’s head was lolling.

“But she won’t be. Even if someone got to her, she’s all locked up. I saw that. The guards have a key to her mask…”

“Ah! It’s not the one to her shackles! Double—something. Protected. Who gives the key to the [Jailor] who stands right next to the cell? Seems…that always seemed silly in books, don’t you think?”

Viltach went to tap his nose, grinning at Trey. The young man was breathing hard, but he tried to keep as casual as possible as he sipped from his wine cup.

“Yes. Then there is a key somewhere else, isn’t there?”

“Exactly. The key…the key to Amerys’ shackles is in my possession.”

“Really?”

Viltach nodded, looking around as if they were being watched even here.

“Well, mine, Feor’s, and Nailihuaile’s. Silly damn stuff. None of us trusts the others, so we need three keys. That’s Wistram-logic for you. But only one of us can unlock it. So?”

He shrugged. Viltach unsteadily showed Trey a mithril key with a tiny gem on the handle. Trey’s eyes locked on it. Viltach put it into his bag of holding and patted it slowly.

“…I keep it on me. Feor probably hides his, and Naili too, but there is a scenario where we let Amerys go. If the King of Destruction started winning—one of us would probably slip in, cut her a deal, and let her go. It hasn’t come to that. He’s on the ropes, don’t you see?”

“I do.”

Viltach muttered, head lolling down.

“On the ropes. On the robes. Strange expressions your Earthers come up with. The King of Destruction will die soon, and all will be well. You see that, don’t you? That nightmarish man who slaughters people. Trey. You know…I’ll be glad when that threat is removed. Wistram should be peaceful. Eldavin—Eldavin’s a dangerous man. A genius, but I was sick of war before I even saw one. Life should be peaceful. That’s why I like Terandria. But for Ailendamus, war does not destroy nations. It—it’s stable, you understand?”

Trey looked at Viltach sympathetically. His fingers twitched towards the wine bottle, then he relaxed.

“I understand, Archmage. I would like that too.”

Viltach was shaking his head like a dog, but it was lessening.

“People think I favor Terandria over other continents. I do. Because I’ve always thought it was better. Better than Baleros, filled with bloodshed! Better than Chandrar with horrors—like A’ctelios Salash.”

The young man froze in his seat as Viltach looked up.

“Have you heard of that nightmarish place?”

“I have…I have.”

Viltach shuddered.

“They call it their Shield Kingdom. Izril? Izril is a little better, but the Antinium have infested it, and the Drakes can be so petty…look at Zelkyr. Look at the poor Gnolls. No, Terandria. That’s where my children are.”

“You have children, Archmage Viltach?”

The Archmage of Terandria nodded. He stared down at the table and sighed hard.

“I do. I keep it a great secret…because Wistram is so political. I have a family. I…I visit them as often as I can. I spend months in Terandria, when events like Earthers aren’t happening. I wish my children liked me. Some do. Some…I have made mistakes. But Wistram is also my home.”

“Can’t you put the two together?”

Viltach shook his head.

“Some of my children have no talent for magic.”

“Oh.”

The Archmage laughed.

“From me! And I’m…Archmage Viltach. Can you imagine what Naili would do, that serpent? That—they wouldn’t be happy. So I kept the two divorced. Which led to a divorce.”

His face fell.

“Which led to them hating me.”

“I’m sorry, Viltach.”

Trey looked at the man. The Archmage gave him the most rueful, melancholy of grins. He filled his cup with wine and the other with water and sipped from both.

“You know, Trey. I liked you. I thought of you like a second son—no, that’s an exaggeration. I thought of you like a young man and treated you like a son.”

“Thank you, Viltach.”

Trey’s head lowered further with the weight of his guilt. Viltach closed his eyes. His breathing was quieter now, and he slumped backwards.

“I truly did like you. Not just for magic. Nor just for any of that. Just you.”

“I’m sorry.”

The man sat back, head staring at the ceiling. His hand moved towards the wine bottle, and he murmured under his breath.

“Would you like another…drink? I have water too. The wine’s strong.”

“I’m fine, Archmage.”

Viltach nodded as he closed his eyes. Trey glanced out the window and then half-rose, looking towards the man’s bag of holding. Viltach’s breath was a whisper.

“You don’t want any water? I put the antidote in the water. You must have taken it already.”

Trey’s eyes snapped open. He recoiled—and Archmage Viltach sat up. Suddenly, the drunken, comatose Archmage looked at him.

“I was truly hoping you wouldn’t, Trey. But the King of Destruction has a hold on you. Doesn’t he?”

Trey froze, and then he realized—for the last little bit—he hadn’t noticed because it was his name, and he was used to alias and name both. But—

Viltach had been saying ‘Trey’, not ‘Troy’.

The [Sand Mage] had put his staff at the door, but he had the wand Viltach had given him. It rose from its little holster at his side, and Viltach pointed a finger.

“Activate!”

Something flashed, and Trey locked up. The Archmage stood, looking…immeasurably sad. Sad, disappointed, yet bitterly triumphant. He gestured.

“[Rune of Paralysis]. I thought you might notice, but I wrote it into the wood of the chair. Eldavin may have taught you well, but he only gave you a month. And you were too nervous.”

Trey was locked up. He could move his face, but nothing else. He stared at Viltach.

“How did you know?”

The Archmage of Terandria rubbed at his face, his goatee, wearily. He shook his head.

“Trey. I knew from the start.”

The young man watched him and the Archmage shook his head.

“You’ve been in the company of the King of Destruction. You might have anti-[Appraisal] wards and you’re clever—I don’t know who you’re working with, but I can guess from your friends. Did you really think I wouldn’t know? Trey Atwood. You went to A’ctelios Salash, you poor boy. And he has your sister.”

Viltach rested his hands on the table, looking at Trey. The young man spoke.

“I…she’s a prisoner. You can’t keep Amerys forever.”

“Nor will we. Nor you, Trey. Just until that man dies. I wish you had trusted me enough. I truly do.”

That seemed to be what hurt Viltach most of all. He drew the key from his bag of holding and held it out to Trey. The young man looked at it—and Viltach carelessly tossed it onto the table.

“—But I cannot let you free Amerys. Naili you duped. You even fooled Eldavin—or at least, he’s not here. Feor? Feor underestimates you all. But I do not. Ullsinoi is on patrol. And while it’s true four Golems were pulled off their sentry duty, I took care of that. Amerys is guarded by more than just her regular guards tonight.”

——

Gazi Pathseeker stared into the Mershi-lounge and realized they’d been made in all truth. She focused on the maze and saw a figure ghosting along the winding hallways.

The singing Golem. But not just that—she looked ahead and heard something that Trey and Calac had never seen when they had been scouting out the place.

Music. Laughter.

A lot of voices.

“Come on, everyone! Archmage Viltach has expressly opened the lounge tonight!”

Yolv and the other [Guards] sighed as a bevy of [Mages] strolled towards them. They glowered—the Naga especially, not because more people was unwelcome—

More because the all-Human crowd was. Libertarians, young and old, raiding the kegs, bringing food, and a lot of bodies.

After all—there was a taproom. Gazi stared grimly at an army of [Mages] and the Golem. Then she realized Trey was in trouble. Then she realized they were all in trouble as she heard the clip-clop of hooves behind her.

“Lady Pathseeker. You’re good at seeking. Less so at hiding. What now? Tag or hide-and-seek?”

She turned and saw four [Mages] including Galei facing her down the hallway. The Centaur smiled and calmly lit one of Palt’s signature cigars.

——

“He’s late. So’s Emirea.”

Calac checked the sun, and Goelv started.

“It’s only a few minutes past the sun going down the horizon. Maybe they’re delayed?”

“I don’t like it. This feels like a bad storm brewing.”

Tov stared at the door. Calac didn’t want to say it, but he thought the Drowned Man was right. Then…he heard a quiet knock.

They should have done a secret knock or something, but Calac was just relieved to hear someone knocking at all. Actually—why did you have a secret knock? He thrust the door open.

“There you a—”

“[Paralysis].”

A wand poked him on the chest, and he went over backwards. Calac’s mouth was open in shock, and Tov and Goelv froze as a figure slithered into the room.

The reason you had a secret knock was to let you know if it was a trap. Revivialist [Mages] followed the Star Lamia into the room, and Calac, staring at the ceiling, heard a plaintive cry.

“Don’t hurt them!”

A girl clung to Beatrice’s hand, staring at Calac in horror. The Archmage stunned the other two young men and then slithered back to pat Emirea on the head.

“We won’t. They’ve been very bad, but you were brave to come to me, Emirea. Now, where is Troy?”

She looked around, eyes meeting Calac’s. The young man stared up at her as his heart sank.

——

It was all going bad. Viltach looked at Trey sympathetically. He raised a finger to his forehead.

“Yes, I have him, Nailihuaile. You caught the others? Well done. I have been aware of the problem for over a month. And you? Today? Well, Ullsinoi can confirm my account. Yes, I thought that might make you happy.”

Component parts or not, squabbling [Mages] or not—the pieces were falling down. Trey Atwood sat there, as Viltach rose with a sigh.

“Ullsinoi’s run into someone. Her. No wonder you never backed out. But there’s four Archmages and an army of [Mages] between her and Amerys. So long as that rune is active, you won’t leave, and your friends are hostage too. I don’t take chances, Trey. I am sorry.”

“You…you could let us leave.”

Viltach looked at Trey blankly.

“I really couldn’t. It isn’t just that I oppose Flos, or that I fear what he’ll do. He’s dangerous, Trey. He has killed countless innocent people with his damned wars. Don’t you see what he does? I don’t take chances with him. And in case you’re wondering—I switched the key to Amerys’ lock. Nailihuaile and Feor can’t let her out. The key is hidden, and I won’t remember where it is until tomorrow.”

Trey’s mouth opened wide in horror.

“What?”

Viltach gave Trey an apologetic shrug.

“I read every book on breakouts I could find. Why bother letting you even open the lock? Her bindings are secure. I’m taking one last precaution too, incidentally.”

It was Viltach. He was the most dangerous Archmage. Not because he was as cruel as Nailihuaile. He was someone who made wands. Who made sure a plan, an object, was flawless.

Trey had made a plan. Viltach had made a plan. The Archmage, the thorough man, raised his wand to his throat and spoke.

His voice was on a delay—then Trey heard a reverberation through the room. Through…Wistram.

“I am Archmage Viltach of Wistram. Troy Atlas and Carn…Carn…”

He hesitated.

“Troy and Carn are agents of the King of Destruction, attempting to free Archmage Amerys. If you see either one, do not let them escape.”

He hesitated, lowered the wand, and Trey stared at him. Viltach shrugged.

“We’ll keep Gazi quiet. We don’t want a panic. I’ll return after I grab her. I’m sorry.”

He walked towards the door. He turned back just once when Trey spoke.

“Viltach. Do you know why I didn’t tell you everything? You, Eldavin? Anyone? It wasn’t because Flos threatened me or my sister is with him. Or Gazi.”

Viltach turned, curiosity winning over everything.

“Why, then?”

The young man met Viltach’s gaze. Bound, paralyzed, Trey still looked Viltach in the eye. There was nothing to gain by it. He closed his eyes, speaking as he used every Skill he could, straining every muscle using magic…he couldn’t move. So he looked at Viltach and told him, honestly.

“It was Wistram. You [Mages]…the academy. It is a beautiful place. Wonderful, magical. It could be so much better. But it isn’t. You think Wistram and Terandria are better than other continents? I have never been to Izril or Baleros or Terandria. But I look at Wistram and I see the same thing as Chandrar. You keep [Slaves]—you just call them something else. I liked you too.”

He looked at Viltach. The man stood there, very still, waiting, with a faint pain behind his eyes.

“But what?”

Trey smiled sadly.

“…You are a kind man, Archmage Viltach. Just not a good one.”

Viltach inhaled sharply. He looked at Trey, touched his chest, and rubbed it for a second.

“Well spoken.”

Then he opened the door and left. Trey was left alone, helpless. All except for one thing that Viltach had overlooked.

[Prepared Signal]. A little alarm was going off in someone’s head.

Not Gazi.

Not Calac.

After all, Trey was supposed to meet both of them. The alarm rang again and again, telling the person that things were going very bad. Even so…the little Lifesand Golem slowly raised her sword.

No one noticed her, at first. Alone, the Lifesand Golem was the only person not incapacitated or under attack. Elena and the Earthers were frozen in place, unsure of what to do. But the plan was moving. Parts of it, anyways.

The Golems in the hallways were prepared for something. Not Gazi, incidentally. Or Trey.

Archmage Feor sat in the banquet hall, counting Earthers. He was disappointed at how few remained, but Aaron Vanwell was there. The young man pretended nothing was wrong, but there was someone with the gumption to say what needed to be said.

“You are protecting them, young man. And I shall remember it.”

He turned to Leon as Aaron stared at the Archmage of half-Elves. Leon nodded, not meeting Aaron or the other Earthers’ glares—some already apprehended by the Golems.

“I know.”

The Wistram [Mages] and students were in uproar after Viltach’s announcement. Feor’s own skin was prickling unpleasantly at the thought. So that was what the King of Destruction’s last gambit was about.

But he was reassured by Naili and Viltach. They might fight, quarrel, and backstab, but when an outside threat came towards them, Wistram still pulled together. That was what Eldavin didn’t realize.

Wistram. Wistram, that Academy of [Mages]. The banquet hall was full with dinner diners and everyone was talking about the drama. Minizi tottered forwards clumsily, trying to stay unnoticed. She saw Feor…and was vaguely worried.

Trey was in trouble. Big Gazi was in trouble. But Minizi stuck to the plan. What came next would be different, but Trey Atwood did know one thing.

What did [Mages] fear? He had thought of it long and hard for the first part of the plan. Trey knew what wise men feared. He knew what [Sailors] feared. And [Mages]?

Minizi was beginning to get noticed. A few [Mages] frowned at her. Someone pointed.

“That Golem’s…odd. What’s up with…”

Then they noticed her sword. The [Mages] turned. A few backed away. Now Minizi was caught, but it was okay. She was clumsy, but she raised her sword.

A [Mage] stared blankly up at her as she found a random target. Well, not-so-random. Mage Rievan of the Libertarians was just about to head to the party—he’d pulled a Telim and raided an entire banquet table.

“What is wrong with this Golem? It’s got a sword—”

He hesitated. Then his eyes grew round as Minizi raised the sword. Feor’s head turned.

What did you see? Minizi saw the [Mage] staring at her, backing up, fumbling for a spell, but—shocked. Confused. He didn’t expect this, but it was the nightmare crawling in the back of his every thought when he looked at Cognita or Golems.

But it didn’t…happen. What did you see?

A Lifesand Golem? Minizi very much doubted it. What the students and [Mages] saw was probably one of the serving Golems, a ceramic-clad Golem. With a sword.

A Golem of Wistram has been destroyed.

Feor remembered what that Golem had said. His eyes locked on the Golem with the blade in the slow dawning realization.

Why would Gazi need to destroy a Golem? Why would any cunning infiltrator alert anyone? Minizi hadn’t gotten it—until Trey had begun gluing the shattered Golem’s pieces back into place.

Lifesand could fill anything. Become anything. It was hard to walk and move in this false shell, but Minizi didn’t have to do much. She raised the sword—

And stabbed Rievan in the stomach. He made a sound, falling backwards—it wasn’t even a good stab. But Minizi kept stabbing, until a spell blasted her across the ground.

In the silence one of the students lowered a smoking wand. The air was filled with a panicked silence, as people tried to figure out what was happening. Give them a second and they might—until someone screamed an alternate take into their midst.

“The Golems are attacking! The Golems are rebelling!”

Another serving Golem was trudging over to help Mage Rievan up. It was bending down with a healing potion in hand when two dozen spells blasted it apart. The people far from the actual scene began to panic at the scream, and the shouts were picked up and repeated.

Who had shouted it at first? Feor raised his voice to shout the truth, but too late. The first panicked [Mages] opened up on the Golems in the banquet hall, and then it was chaos.

Who had shouted that? Some panicked idiot?

The woman with the dark veil slowly walked out of the chaotic banquet hall. One of Doroumata’s daughters smiled. No one suspected someone who never spoke to shout. She quickened her pace. Things were going wrong, but their part in it remained the same.

——

An alarm began to ring as the Earthers looked at each other. Elena went pale and went for the door.

“What do we do? Did he betray us? W-what do we do, Elena?”

“The Earth-only rooms? We should hide! We should—”

The door opened. The Earthers froze and saw a figure standing there. He had…blonde hair, silver armor, and behind him was a half-Elf. And a Dwarf.

Ylawes Byres looked at the Earthers. He cleared his throat.

“Excuse me. We’re the Silver Swords. We’ve been hired to get you to a ship.”

Falene was groaning with apprehension, but Dawil and Ylawes had been talking with that friendly young man, Carn, and they were Gold-rank adventurers. In the chaos, the Earthers began their escape.

——

Golems under attack.

Somewhere a continent away, a Truestone Golem stopped paging through the Hundred Thousand Tomes academy for books on Zelkyr and Golems. She was going to have to pay a visit to Illivere.

But as the alarm reached her, Cognita Truestone’s head slowly rose, and her features changed.

“Those fools.”

Her eyes narrowed as she sensed Golems under attack. They were retreating in the face of panicked spells, many glancing off the Golems’ armor. Retreating…from their attackers.

A hauler-Golem stopped as a mage tried to blast the huge stone figure to pieces. The [Mage] had been casting spells wildly, perhaps even realizing the Golem wasn’t actually attacking and relishing the chance to damage—

The Lizardman looked up as the Golem’s impassive face suddenly turned…hostile. He backed up too slowly. The Golem calmly grabbed the [Mage]’s leg and swung him into a wall.

“Dead gods. They are att—”

Another [Mage] shouted in alarm—right before a serving Golem dropped its tray and put her into a chokehold. More and more Golems began to stop retreating and advanced. Cognita’s eyes narrowed.

Enough was enough. She sent a second command as her eyes began to glow, and one of Nerrhavia’s [Librarians] appeared with a stack of books. He took one look at Cognita, put the stack of books down, and ran. The Golems began to restore order. They were also going to find the intruder. And that meddlesome little Lifesand Golem.

And that stupid boy.

——

They threw themselves into the breach. The defenders and the attackers. Bleeding. Dying for a cause worth everything.

Somewhere, the Academy of [Mages] was in uproar. All to rescue one woman who sat in a guarded cell, watching and waiting.

Risk your very life for someone else. For a cause. It seemed nonsensical.

Yet she knew the feeling.

Honor. Respect. Fame. People laughed and said you could not eat these things, could not use them.

Yet they defined her. She was a name.

Tannousin. The small clan whose name was known and spoken louder than some petty nations because of what they wrought.

Naq-Alrama steel. Magic in their hammers.

Pride in the craft. That was her entire existence, the foundation of their clan.

Now it was in ruins.

The last true Naq-Alrama [Smith] was dead. His final work a failure. The secrets lay with her clan, with the elders, but their name was black with lies and failure.

She was Nawalishifra Tannousin. Daughter of the last [Smith] to ever forge a blade of Naq-Alrama steel.

It was not her fault she had failed her first forging. The metal had been bad to begin with. Bad metal had still slain a Djinni. It was not her error, as Teresa Atwood pointed out.

But the blame weighed on her. It was hers, so long as she wore Tannousin’s name and mantle. Nawalishifra knew that.

Such a heavy thing. Such an unfair thing. She could walk away at any time. All she had to give up was everything that defined her.

The [Smith] had left her forge. Her steps were unsteady. They actually cracked the old stone in places. She was sweating under the fading sun.

Feverish. Sick at heart. Tired.

But she kept walking.

They flooded the breach. Reim and Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Blood was spilling from cloth and flesh. Nawal walked forwards as she saw the citizens being armed. Ready to fight and die.

Not for her. She could almost taste it in the air. Blood and iron. Death.

She walked straight for that gap in the walls. The defenders paid her little mind at first. The attackers? They had eyes for swords, for the enemy.

It was wet on the ground. Blood. So much of it, and the dead bodies, that both sides were clearing it away. Nawal stared down with a shudder.

It was said of Chandrar that there was more blood than water. Which was true. This was the King of Destruction’s war. She was insignificant—and she had failed to deliver him his weapon.

So here they were. At last, Nawal found her spot and put down her burden. Her bones themselves felt bruised. A passing [Soldier] running forwards looked at her. At the…anvil placed on the ground.

Slowly, the young woman reached into a bag of holding and drew something out. A single, pure bar of steel.

As pure as she could make it. She looked at the single bar of steel and the anvil. Clean. Other [Smiths] saw Tannousin as obsessed with it. With purity and a perfection nigh-impossible to reach.

Every ritual Nawal knew was aimed towards keeping the metal pure. Towards preserving some quality, refining in voids without air, flame without heat.

Everything else was so…dirty to her. It became an obsession.

Yet there was no clan to support her and make these things happen. They had fled. Nawal was alone.

The last [Smith]. She could not remake the Naq-Alrama steel, not now, under siege. Not alone.

Slowly, painfully, Nawal bent. Her muscles tore and screamed. Her eyes were heavy for lack of sleep. She felt a terrible fear gnawing away at the dead rest of her.

Yet—

Also, relief. Nawal bent down, and the gleaming bar of metal slowly touched the blood running from the ground. The surface covered itself with grit and blood and filth.

The [Smith] smiled, like a girl who had been told again and again not to get anything on her clothing—who did just to spite the teller. A forbidden act.

Tannousin was an old clan. It had known great [Smiths]. Naq-Alrama steel was their great secret and treasure.

They knew more secrets of smithing. More dark tales and stories. Forbidden techniques.

Desperate, dark acts.

The steel was dripping wet when she placed it on the anvil. There was no flame. This was a parody of smithing. No tools and only a single block of metal. Not enough metal even to make a full sword. So little left after refining—now despoiled by corpse-blood.

Fire and material.

They would have both, soon enough. Nawal’s lips moved as she slowly, painfully, began to draw a circle around the anvil. Blood ran into the funnel her finger traced.

“Hold the line! Fight! Fight until your—”

They were fighting bare dozens of paces ahead of her. More blood. More death. The [Smith] knew there was a terrible power there. So she took up the one tool she needed.

Her hammer. Her hammer, and the bloody metal. Ah, yes. And one more thing.

Nawalishifra carefully drew a blade up. One of the fallen pieces of metal. Poor-quality steel. Practically iron. Even so…a poor [Smith]’s weapon could still kill. What a terrible irony that was. That the greatest [Smith] in the world could do what the meanest one could.

She cut her wrist. Nawal saw blood, her blood, dripping down onto the anvil. Not much. Just a drip. A drop.

Drip. Drop. Drip…

She saw the blood falling. Turning the anvil dirtier. Nawal smiled. A poor, dirty act for a girl who deserved better. Yet…her eyes rose to the palace. To the battle around her.

She thought of Trey, of leaving it all behind. But pride. She had failed Flos Reimarch and that was the truth. Excuses or not, she had promised him a weapon worthy of him, and that was her one oath.

Nawalishifra took one comfort. One relief, as she slowly raised the hammer overhead. She swung the hammer down and struck the metal cold.

A shivering peal of sound rang out, lost in the battlefield. The metal jumped, and Nawal kept it steady with her other hand. There was a truth in Chandrar, and it was this:

Blood would pay for every sin. Enough blood to redeem every failure.

Slowly, with a steady rhythm, the hammer began to fall. It never picked up speed, but it fell harder. Louder. At first, the metal just jumped despite her hand. It rang, bloody, filthy, until even the soldiers at the rear of the fighting heard it.

But they paid no heed if they saw her. A man split open a [Soldier]’s head and more blood fell. The hammer rose and fell. Blood soaked the stones and soil until it ran.

Then it began to ripple.

A [Warrior] reaching for her own blade amid the tangle of her guts looked down. She saw the blood…rippling upwards before the spear descended. The [Spearman] stared down at the blood.

It was rippling. Moving in a faint rhythm. Blood flowing, running in one direction now. Moving as Nawalishifra bled.

She had no more metal left. No magic save what was in her. A poor [Smith] had nothing to forge.

But blood? They said blood tasted like iron. Nawal tasted it in the back of her mouth. Blood was dripping down her arm.

The bloody hammer swung down again as the last forging began. A twisted, dirty blade.

A sinful creation to mend all bridges and pay all debts.

An apology in blood.

Nawal wished she could see Trey again.

8.64 K

The siege was almost over. There was a gap in Reim’s walls. A gate had gone down, and [Soldiers] were flooding the breach.

Of course, they were dying. A [Fireball] spell cast by a Level 30+ [Battle Mage] sent bodies flying. Screaming. Fire that Stitch-folk feared.

In such narrow confines, the attackers had to run into lines of spears and area-of-attack spells, not to mention hails of arrows. Only Skills, the press of bodies, and fear of their officers’ wrath kept them moving, and the promise that this would mean glory, gold, and an end to fighting. Their morale held—mainly because the waves of [Soldiers] going in kept marching into the breach without seeing what had happened to the last group.

Like a series of hovering moths, the individual divisions kept moving towards walls, climbing ladders, entering breaches. The trick was to move them around the walls, so they had no idea the breach they were sent to was a killing ground, unlike the groups who’d been staring at the carnage.

From the position of Nerrhavia’s command, it was an acceptable loss. All they had to do was overwhelm the defenders. By holding the breaches, they had to take from existing fortifications, and they were outnumbered. These two gaps were the first weak links. Open another, and everything would be on a needle’s edge. Four breaks in the wall? Six?

Then it would be over.

Now was the time for plans to be executed. So the command tent was abuzz with officers demanding to lead the first charge in. One excited [Artillery Master] was pointing at the north wall where the gate was breached.

“I have, [Supreme Marshal], a Scaied-designed hwacha. Imported and redesigned after purchase from the Drathian isles—a true masterpiece from the first wars of conquest under the foul King of Destruction himself. It would be supreme irony to use it. Allow me the offensive. I will launch four hundred enchanted arrows and destroy all who stand before us—perhaps even clear the way to the palace itself!”

“And I shall execute a Heron’s Strike on the breach, here. I have two hundred jump-capable warriors who will strike past the walls and break their lines. I petition for a Burning Spearstorm maneuver via friendly-fire Skills.”

Another [Major] was begging to lead a charge with his brigade. They surrounded the [Supreme Marshal], who, sensing the end was nigh, had abandoned all luxuries and was standing at the command table.

Mind you, his servants still entertained the guests, but the officers had forgone alcohol and other drugs today and yesterday, knowing they would need full use of their faculties.

Now was the time for plans. To be clear—the plan up till now had been to send the Hemp in. To do just this—mainly because the officers were keen on surviving their assaults. Far better to be known for striking the decisive blow rather than the opening offensive that would fail.

And it would fail, with those terrifying veterans and Reim at full strength. The lightning towers the Architect had set up had inflicted a terrible toll. So had the defenders. At last, though…

“Peace. Each one of you will be granted the autonomy you seek, and my plan of battle stands. What news?”

The [Supreme Marshal] turned as one of his [Strategists] begged an audience.

“Great Supreme Marshal—the primary breach under siege. Something is developing there.”

Instantly, the scrying spells, maps, and entire war room refocused around the breach. The officers winced to see the [Soldiers] engaged in a bloodbath with Reim’s defenders, but it was plain to see they were wearying. Civilians had begun to take up arms, but only a few.

“I see nothing wrong. What is the matter?”

“There is a…young woman. Behind the lines. There.”

The officers peered at the scrying orb, frowning. The [Supreme Marshal] stared at the image of Nawalishifra as she stood there.

Hammering on an anvil, bloody, dirty, a vacant yet intensely focused look in her eyes. Like a dreamer trying to hold onto what she saw as she woke.

“That is indeed unusual. What…is that a hammer and anvil? [Appraisal] spells?”

The [Strategist] bowed.

“Too far. But we have identified that as a [Smith] of Clan Tannousin. Their last smith. She appears to be…forging something.”

The officers began to mutter to each other.

“Forging something in the open? I heard Tannousin was mad—weren’t they disgraced?”

“I thought they were.”

The [Supreme Marshal], on the other hand, took one look at Nawalishifra, then the bloody ground, and turned to the [Strategist].

“What is she doing?”

The woman licked her lips.

“We don’t…know, [Supreme Marshal]. Few of our officers near the front are reporting back, but some claim the blood is—moving. We can hear her hammering. She looks ill.”

She did indeed. The [Supreme Marshal] wished the scrying orbs could zoom further. He was tempted to step outside his tent for a clearer view with another artifact, but Maresar the [Bandit Lord] had sniped three officers already. She had Naq-Alrama arrows, shards of the stuff.

Magic-piercing missiles. Even the poor, broken fragments were good for one death. So the Stitch-man stayed put. He looked at the [Smith] hammering, and his cloth-skin chilled as he watched the blood.

“It’s…pooling around her. She’s covered in it.”

It seemed impossible for someone to be that bloody unless she had rolled about in the gore. Now, the [Smith] stood in a circle of red. The [Supreme Marshal] looked up.

“A high-level [Smith] who uses magic—a disgraced [Smith] is standing in the middle of a blood-pool and creating something.”

“Yes, [Supreme Marshal].”

The general of Nerrhavia’s Grand Army looked at the other officers.

“Kill her.”

“She is by way of being a civilian in theory, Supreme Marshal.”

The man tapped his beringed fingers nervously on the map.

“That may be so—do it. She is making something, and every story in every dark hour tells me we must not let her finish it. Tell every archer unit on that side of the walls to kill that [Smith].”

He began sweating slightly. Because he had brought an army with the express intention of rolling over Flos’ army, stand or not. What the [Supreme Marshal] feared most was an attack from Takhatres or another of the Seven.

Or some last-ditch Skill, some grand sacrifice. He did not like this one bit. Still, it was one [Smith]. He turned to the [Artillery Master].

“Send your hwacha forwards.”

“But it’s a relic—”

“You were so eager a moment ago! Do it! I want the walls down and the city taken tonight. Send word to all legions—once we have multiple breaches, the army will end this now!”

Take the city. Flood them before the King of Destruction could pull out some trick or Skill. The [Supreme Marshal] saw his people hurry away and waved at a [Slave] to bring him a drink. He grabbed it roughly.

[Slaves] for serving staff. If Elucina could have seen him…

But Stitch-folk forgot and fell so far. And as their siege drew to its conclusion, another plan was falling into place in Wistram.

——

There were a few rules about planning covert operations, be it great heists, assassinations, betrayals, or anything else.

The first was assuming your plans would somehow twist or fail in some way. Another was secrecy; the more plotters, the more danger. Failure was baked into a true plot’s design. Not the expectation or desire for it, but preparation for failure itself.

The last, which many understood but few could do—was the mentality of it. Ruthlessness. Even cruelty. For a plan like this to succeed—you had to be ready to hide among people you might even come to like. To smile and kiss someone with a dagger. To do whatever it took.

Trey Atwood’s plan had failed, in part. He was captive of Archmage Viltach. Gazi the Omniscient had been found by Ullsinoi. Calac Crusland and his friends had been betrayed by Emirea and captured by Nailihuaile.

Yet parts of his plan were working. Even now, Golems and [Mages] were fighting each other. Or rather, the panic caused by one Lifesand Golem had turned into a kind of magical riot against the Golems. An excuse to demolish them or simple panic from seeing a serving Golem stab a [Mage]?

That was one thing. But then the Golems started fighting back. They hunkered down behind powerful, armored Golems, serving Golems picking up mops, tools, even chairs or tables, and advancing on terrified [Mages]. Subduing them…usually without much harm.

It added to the chaos, but it had been ordered by the true mistress of Wistram, Cognita Truestone, even if she lay a continent apart.

Had Trey known about that? Had he planned not only to incite the [Mages]’ fear but also counted on Cognita and the Golems refusing to suffer in silence?

If so, clever boy. It didn’t end there, either. That night, as Viltach announced Trey’s attempt to free Amerys, and the Golems and [Mages] fought, a second group began to move.

“Go, go, go! Get to the docks! There’s a ship there!”

George stood at one of the doors to the Earther-only passages, ushering a stream of people out like he was a paratrooper and they were deploying. Elena glared at him.

“George, shut up and stay quiet! Everyone, just get to—”

“There you are. Halt, in the name of Archmage Feor!”

The first Earthers exiting Aaron’s secret rooms froze as a trio of [Mages] suddenly dropped their invisibility spells, aiming wands at them. Two Golems, both made of steel, tromped around a corner, and the [Mages]—who hadn’t gotten the memo about there being Golem attacks—aimed their wands at the Earthers.

“Oh no!”

Sidney screamed, and Sang-min lifted a wand just in time for one of the [Mages] to blast him off his feet with a gust of air. He landed hard on his back and shot Elena in the back. The Earthers devolved into chaos, half fighting to get back into the room, the other half raising their hands or making a break for it.

“Don’t move! Or we’ll—damn it. [Sticky Web: Wall of Binding]!”

A [Mage] cursed and cast a variation on the spell. A wall of thin web, far more nuanced than the basic spell, appeared to catch the students and let the Golems grab them. It was halfway up, and Basil was fighting to stop everyone else ramming him into them, when the web-spell shimmered and abruptly faded away.

The thick strands of greenish silk turned to gossamer light and dematerialized into motes. The [Mage] checked his wand.

“Huh?”

“Someone just—”

Falene Skystrall poked her head out of the Earther rooms, aimed her staff at the [Mages], and snapped.

“[Stone Fist], [Light Cane: Extended Materialization], [Flare Firefly], [Water Jet]!”

The three [Mages] saw four spells flying their way. A fist of stone, which punched the [Mage] who cast [Sticky Webs] out of the air, a brilliant flare of fire, and a jet of concentrated water.

The half-Elf went down. A Garuda flapped backwards, cursing, but cutting both firefly and jet in half. The Lizardwoman looked around.

“Where’s the [Light C—”

A simple cane like a shepherd might use appeared from behind her, hooked one leg, and yanked up. She hit the ground with a scream, and the last [Mage] swore.

“Falene! You traitor—”

The Garuda dove with a shout as a bolt of lightning, jet of fire, and spray of sand followed the first spells. These [Mages] weren’t Ullsinoi or the [Battle Mages] guarding Amerys. Falene stepped out of the rooms and glared over her shoulder.

“We’re already made. We’ll have every Centrist in Wistram coming down on us—my faction! I told you this would be a disaster!”

“Pointy, shut up!”

For a moment, it wasn’t clear who she was shouting at. The Golems, who had watched the [Mages] go down embarrassingly fast, were still moving to block the students without harming them. One, a steel mask on its face, like some gentle giant nine feet tall made of steel, hesitated as it reached for Basil. The [Smelter] was shielding Sidney, who was screaming. The delicate fingers paused—and then the Golem swung as hard as it could to the left.

Towards an invisible patch of space which cursed, raised his shield, and blocked the Golem’s punch.

Ylawes Byres appeared, shedding the invisibility spell, and Dawil gave up their sneak attack as well. He threw the axe which had given him his class, and it cleaved through half of the second Golem’s face. The Golem lurched back as its face fell, but it started swinging its arms blindly.

“Stay back!”

Ylawes’ sword went up, and he slashed along the steel Golem’s arm. He was rewarded with a gash, but the Golem was big. He and Dawil started trading blows with the Golems.

This was not how their escape was supposed to go! Falene was moaning as she traded spells with the Garuda, who kept retreating—right up until reinforcements came running towards them.

Eight [Mages] opened up the instant they saw Falene, and the half-Elf shouted.

“[Forcewall]!”

A barrier appeared, and she felt her mana reserves evaporate as it blocked a dozen spells. The half-Elf backed up.

“Ylawes—”

Anywhere else she would be the undisputed best [Mage] around. A Wistram graduate, a [Battlemage] accomplished even by her peers’ standards. Not every [Mage] could walk into Gold-rank class, even if they graduated Wistram.

Here, though? They were all Wistram graduates or students! And the Golems weren’t even Gargoyles—they were magical creations, and one was punching so hard that Ylawes could barely block each blow with his shield. Not because it was bigger, heavier, or stronger than a Troll—but a Troll didn’t throw a haymaker with a [Martial Artist]’s posture and snap-twist at the waist, a full-body rotation!

Some [Mage] had programmed the Golems to fight. Wistram was hard-mode. It was stupid-mode to try and break anyone, especially Earthers, out of this place!

Why had they done it? Falene cursed.

——

Calac Crusland, or ‘Carn’, met Ylawes Byres in the one place the scowling [Knight] could be found, even angry as he was.

And that was the practice area for people who used swords or weapons, at dawn. The [Knight] was moody, training by himself, but Calac had a way with fellow warriors he lacked with words.

“You’re Chandrarian.”

The [Knight] observed after the two had a quick bout. Not a duel, just an exchange of sword blows. Calac nodded.

“No shield?”

Ylawes rubbed at his arm. Calac had an odd style that tended to try and go under his shield or around his guard—a quick flick that would twist up and take your sword hand off in battle.

“My father uses a shield. I could show you how he fights?”

“Hm. Fine. Thank you.”

Calac lost the next three bouts; it was a Gold-rank [Knight] versus a [Swordsman]-[Lord] who hadn’t even consolidated both classes. Even so, Ylawes was impressed.

“Your father must be a gifted [Warrior]. That shield-hook where you tried to move mine aside to stab me—that’s a risky tactic.”

“A battlefield one. He always said adventurers didn’t fall for the tricks a [Soldier] does.”

Calac ruefully rubbed at his shoulder; he’d lost fairly badly. That shield-flick trick only worked on someone who didn’t have an arm like stone.

“A level difference. I apologize for my surliness. I…am not in the best of tempers.”

Ylawes flushed guiltily. In truth, he felt poorly because he had been rightfully angry a few days ago. Angry at his friend, Falene, angry at himself for not joining the raid with the Horns…and angry they were here, rather than Chandrar.

Then he’d learned his sister was alive, well, and didn’t want him rescuing her. So he was trying to be angry without a reason. Angry, in fact, because he didn’t have a reason to be angry anymore.

It was odd for Ylawes to lose his temper like this to begin with. Righteous anger was one thing. This made him guilty, but Calac was polite, a good distraction, and they settled to talking about the differences in warfare, adventuring, and when they learned both were [Lords]’ sons, about that.

Calac met and talked with Ylawes for the next week, to the point where he, Dawil, and Ylawes began having drinks at one of Wistram’s bars. The young man was canny and only brought up a special quest with a hefty, hefty monetary incentive after five days.

Even so, Falene had rightfully argued that they’d tank their reputation with Wistram. She was a Centrist, the odds were against them, and a plethora of other reasons. Calac and Trey wouldn’t even have considered it, Gold-ranks or no, except for one thing:

Gazi Pathseeker had briefly observed Yvlon Byres, and she had ventured in Izril long enough to know the Silver Swords’ reputation. More than that? Calac put it to Ylawes Byres, Dawil, and Falene like this:

“They are children who wish to leave. Wistram will not let them, and is that any better than keeping them as prisoners forever? Hostages? Worse?”

If you just happened to know Yvlon Byres had just been unfairly imprisoned, or that Pisces was a [Slave]…and Ylawes Byres was an upstanding [Knight] who practically represented Terandrian ideals. Falene had begun drinking before the [Knight] even articulated his response.

——

Never let it be said the Silver Swords were known for taking the smart, practical quests. They were in the thick of fighting, as Earthers began to run past the Gold-ranks engaged with the Golems. Ylawes hesitated, putting up his sword, and he saw the giant metal Golem take one look at Julian unwisely ducking between the two fighters—

And step back.

The [Knight] and Golem stared at each other as a group of Earthers ran past, shouting, and then got back to the fighting. Dawil, meanwhile, had dove to pick up his axe.

“Grandfathers, I feel bad about this—”

He hacked the Golem down from behind one kneecap, and his hatchet went straight through the enchanted metal. Dawil jogged past Ylawes.

“Lad! Falene’s in trouble!”

He raised his axe to throw, looked at the [Mages], then cursed and lowered it. Ylawes ran forwards and shouted.

“[Shield of Valor]!”

A giant, glimmering shield took over Falene’s barrier, and she staggered back. The last Earthers exited the room. Elena and George—but the [Mages] were advancing, and the steel Golem walked towards Dawil, shielding its face as he turned with the axe raised.

“Cut them off! They’re all running! Tell the Archmage—”

The Silver Swords saw the [Mages] were shouting at each other. Ylawes looked over his shoulder and heard shouting from down the corridor.

More [Mages]. Feor had prepared multiple groups. The [Knight] cursed and backed up.

“Falene—distract them! We have to run!”

“The others—”

Elena didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. Falene raised her hands and spoke.

“[Flashbang]. [Noxious Fumes]. [Gust of Air]. [Ink Spray]. [Oiled Floor].”

“Oh, come on—”

One of the [Mages] got a chance to complain before they were deafened, then covered with stink and ink. Some of the smarter ones simply advanced, shimmering barriers protecting them—then slipped on the oiled floor. A few kept going, chasing after the Silver Swords and the Earthers with them.

“You stole that spell from Ryoka!”

Dawil panted as Falene ran. She didn’t dignify that with a response. Wistram [Mages] didn’t steal. They innovated. Ryoka’s spell just happened to be a bang rather than shriek and slightly brighter.

——

Other Earther groups weren’t so lucky. Saif lifted his airsoft gun and fired a round of bullets. They bounced off a magical shield as a [Mage] raised his brows.

“I don’t see what the problem is. How did you all manage to lose to this thing in the testing chambers?”

“If they’re magic-piercing bullets it’s a cause for concern. Put down the gun, Saif. You all, stop moving.”

A Centaur waved his wand at the group of eight. Saif turned.

“Go, I’ll hold them—”

“[Stun Arrows].”

A few blue arrows flashed from the Centaur’s wand and the Human man’s and hit Saif in the chest. He went over, and the man chuckled.

“Alright, enough. We have you. You won’t be punished much—but enough’s enough.”

“You thugs! You—you tyrants! You jack-booted bastards!”

Caroline shouted at them. The Centaur eyed his hooves.

“I assume that’s an Earth-insult. Listen, young woman. We’ve been very kind and patient, but enough is—argh.”

“That’s right. Wait, what did you say, Clempt?”

The [Mage] turned just in time to see a giant, shadowy hand pick him up and drag him screaming into a similarly giant, shadowy void. His scream was cut off, and the Earthers stared in horror as a wall of shadows roiled in place.

Then, after a second, it spat out both [Mages], unconscious, and morphed into a familiar [Mage] wearing all-black and a dark veil.

“This way. The ship is waiting.”

One of Depth Mage Doroumata’s daughters beckoned the students. They hesitated, and she stepped forwards.

“We are prepared to take you away from Wistram. Come with me. Hurry. The [Mages]—”

She spun, and a ward of darkness flashed around her, catching two dozen arrows of light. Not the glowing orb someone rolled towards her feet, which exploded and tossed her into a wall.

The [Depth Mage] crumpled as someone chuckled.

“I knew it. Ullsinoi to Galei? We’ve got a breakout. Tell Naili and Viltach we’re in trouble.”

A grinning figure stopped, inspecting the downed [Depth Mage] as she tried to struggle up. She raised a wand, but he blasted it out of her hand.

“[Mages]. Even the Drowned Ones never expect alchemy. Hands up, all of you. No—on second thought, [Sleep Mist].”

The Minotaur [Mage], an oddity that might be an illusion in itself, blew a handful of dust over the Earthers. They coughed and tried to retreat as the [Depth Mage] pointed her hand. She blew the dust away, but the Ullsinoi [Mage] aimed a wand at her—

—And someone kicked him so hard he screamed, two ribs broken, turned into a writhing Dullahan, and collapsed. The Earthers and [Depth Mage] both looked up as the flying kick carried the third [Mage] into view.

“[Combat Sorceress] Hezile in Hallway 12B! Earthers located! Backup requested!”

A Drake stomped on the Ullsinoi [Mage]’s back, then covered both directions with a wand. She advanced, as Doroumata’s daughter played dead. The Drake eyed her, pointed a wand, and blasted Doroumata’s daughter into true unconsciousness.

“With me, all of you. We’re getting you out of here!”

“Wh—who are you?”

Saif was sitting up, although his lower body was paralyzed. Eun and Xiang helped him up, and the Drake glanced over her shoulder as two more Drakes stormed down the corridor.

“Fighting on Hallways 11 and 51. We need another route.”

“On it. Golems are hostile, repeat, hostile.”

The three Drakes surrounded the Earthers, ushering them forwards. Eun stared at them.

“Are you our escape?”

He stared at Doroumata’s daughter, and the [Combat Sorceress] looked surprised. She was noticeably more fit than the other two Drakes, and she wore a different Walled City’s emblem on her armor—as opposed to their robes.

“That’s right. This is a joint force from the Walled Cities—”

“Led by Fissival—”

One of the Drakes added unhelpfully.

“—Providing you all shelter and sanctuary, as agreed. Where is Troy Atlas? Where are the others? That announcement…”

“We don’t know!”

The two Fissival [Mages] cursed, but one of Grimalkin’s combat apprentices wearing Manus’ badge nodded.

“Then you’re with us. Move out! Overlap your barriers around the group, and watch for invisible targets! [Sand Spray]!”

She blew a fine veil of sand down the corridor, and the Drakes followed.

“You don’t give us orders. We know perfectly well how to—”

“Shut up.”

——

There were Drakes joining the breakout as well as Doroumata’s daughters! Indeed, the ships at Wistram’s harbor were in a state of confusion as a Drake [Captain] chartered for the breakout saw a ship rising from under the sea and braced for fighting.

Drowned Folk answering Doroumata’s call didn’t hesitate. They opened up on all the ships at the dock with spells, aiming at the ships to scuttle them, burn sails, and stop any pursuit. A four-way battle between Wistram’s [Mages], the Drakes of the Walled Cities, the Silver Swords, and Doroumata’s daughters was in full force.

Glorious chaos. How had it happened? That clever boy. He had negotiated with Doroumata, of course, but he was arguably even more clever in how he persuaded the Drakes.

——

“Um, is it Mage Lord Ollempus? I was hoping for a private word? Um…about the plan.”

The Drake from Fissival was surprised that anyone wanted to talk to him. He was indeed one of the [Mage Lords] of Fissival, the City of Magic, one of the great magical powers of the world.

Not that anyone would know it here. Especially with the way the Drakes were treated—and especially in light of the revelation with the Gnolls.

Had he known about it? No! The [Mage Lord] felt like this was a disaster. Could he convince anyone, even the other representatives of the other cities? Absolutely not.

The fact that someone had sought him out was so surprising, the Drake stared at the nervous young man shifting from foot to foot for a good ten seconds before he coughed.

“Of course. What is this about…”

He realized this was one of them. Grimalkin’s Earthers, who no one could get near without an inconvenient half-Elf or someone else blocking them. This was an opportunity, so the Drake smiled, remembered Humans hated seeing teeth, and realized he was off to a bad start.

“Privately, Mage Lord? It’s about the…thing.”

“Er, of course. [Sphere of Anonymity].”

The Drake was a good spellcaster, after all. Level 46. One of Fissival’s best. A fitting representative, close to an Archmage in terms of levels, and again, treated like dirt.

He was also not Mage Lord Ollempus and was fairly sure no Mage Lord was named Ollempus and that this young man had his name wrong. But Troy seemed to think he had the right person.

“About the breakout, Mage Lord. I talked with the others, and they agreed. But it has to be in four days. We can’t prepare sooner.”

The Drake stared at Troy and did a double-take, which he turned into a huge cough.

“The b—of cour—right. The breakout. How many of you…? No, er, I’m fully prepared. But I’m not Ollempus.”

He had the wonderful experience of seeing the Human’s face turn dead white, and the [Mage Lord] hurried to reassure Troy.

“But I am on your side! You must have spoken with another one of us?”

“A—I—”

“It’s perfectly secret. What’s this about?”

He led Troy to his rooms, and the young man explained the plan—which he’d agreed to with an ‘Ollempus’. The [Mage Lord], whose name was Ascoden, incidentally, cursed as he tried to figure out who it had been. Illusion spells were a thing, but the important part was that one Walled City was trying to snipe all the Earthers!

“We were all informed, don’t you worry, young man. And we will be ready. Free passage, and, yes, we will not hold you like Wistram.”

He made the boy the promise; the High Command would agree, he was sure, especially since they had almost nothing otherwise, although they were looking and investigating odd reports.

Ascoden then went to report to Fissival and his fellow [Mages] after Troy had left, only for [Spell Brigadier] Ssolys to storm into a meeting with all of Manus’ Drakes and accuse him of a secret escape plot.

In the end, all six Walled Cities agreed, no matter who had arranged what to begin with, this needed to be a collaboration. They made plans, set up a diversion, and—

——

—And a young man’s [Plotter] class levelled up three times that day. So here they were, Drakes, Drowned Folk, adventurers, [Mages], and Golems, in the biggest tossup fight where no one knew what the others were doing.

All a distraction. Masterfully done. The only problem was that as clever as Trey had been…he was up against the pranksters of Wistram.

And they weren’t laughing. Then again—neither was Gazi Pathseeker.

——

If the fighting in the corridors leading towards the main hallway of Wistram were filled with flashy, low-level spells mostly to block or subdue each other, there was no such restraint in the mid-level hallways around the Creler-murals and the Mershi-lounge.

Mind you, the partying Libertarians didn’t even notice at first. Only when one of them, Timor du Havrington, walked out to find Rievan did he see the magical firefight going on.

A hallway of glowing, black flame stretched across his vision, so hot it was burning everything non-enchanted from the heat of it. Shimmering waves of heat rose amidst equally dark smoke, choking out the light. Timor heard nothing, and realized his own voice, his shout, was lost.

He saw five arcing spells and thought they were basic arrow spells at first—till they crashed against a wall and began to splinter into smaller arrows which rained down like needles. One needle struck him, and he staggered backwards, trying to yank it out of his arm—

The blade of the thin piece of magic cut up his entire hand before it vanished because it had no single edge to grab. Timor ran back as he saw a figure slowly walking through the black fire. A huge hound made of smoke itself, eyes burning with embers like sparks, sprang and tore into a howling Manticore, a summoned beast, which dissipated as a lance of the same too-bright orange arrows pelted it and lanced it from within.

Galei turned, eyes sweeping over Timor and grinning with amusement as he aimed two wands with each hand. The Centaur whirled and blasted as a figure leapt out of the smoke, but the Gazer’s armor took both spells. Needles rained down, but Gazi blocked one that splintered towards her face with a gauntleted hand. The rest bounced harmlessly off her armor, and she slashed, cutting the Centaur’s leg off.

The blood of the blade cutting through artery and bone and the Centaur’s silent scream as he jerked against the wall, fountaining it, made Timor try to shield his eyes. Gazi began to swing down—then hesitated. She stared at Galei and dove as a wall of fire consumed the air behind her, the smoke dog, the dying Manticore summon—

Galei’s illusion vanished as Gazi blurred down the hallway, touching a scroll at her belt. It flashed green with motes of yellow, and she vanished. Timor saw two [Mages] advancing after her, wands raised—

“Aaaah! Aaaaaaaaah!”

The young [Lord] from Terandria ran screaming into the Libertarians’ party. One hand was cut up, streaming red. The others didn’t even notice at first.

“Timor, I say, you gave me a start! What is it, did you find Riev…”

Charles de Trevalier looked up, saw Timor’s face of pure terror, and stopped uncertainly.

——

Gazi Pathseeker’s eye spun left, up, detonated a spell mid-flight, and her claymore moved in a complex pattern.

No sword dance.

No blademaster’s art.

Just following the path it needed to save her from dying. She had no true skill with a blade to claim—not like Mars or Orthenon. She was a better warrior than almost any you would find, but her style was her own. A calculation like any [Mathematician] might find beautiful because of how logical, practiced it was.

Deflect the stream of deadly acid with the flat of the blade, move your left arm—slice the tracking spell along its length there, it will splinter, but glance off your armor instead of cutting your face. So the blade must block the flash of light—one eye is blinded, the others see a [Shatterbolt] coming towards my side. My armor shudders, but it holds.

They are surprised, but that is my opening. I flick the dagger down, and the seal explodes, releasing a furious summoned beast. No—this one was contained. Drathian magic.

Of all the monsters, an Eater Goat. One of the two [Mages]—where is the Centaur? He is the most dangerous—instantly lances it with a needle-spell through the neck.

He doesn’t know that the goats will come for him until they are in pieces. This one lunges, and it goes to bits. Some kind of slicing barrier.

Still, it gives me an opening, and I charge them, my sword coming up to parry a spell, but I cannot parry the air itself. One of them throws what might be a pure explosion of mana at me as I lunge. I bring up my hand—it still burns my skin.

Healing potion. But first—I see it with my main eye and no other. A figure aiming a spell at me. I roll, even if my hair catches fire and a pit opens under me.

“Such fun.”

Is that what he says? Galei—I am on my feet. [Standing Roll]. I have to watch every Skill.

Calculate. One mistake and I die. But I can block almost everything—if only there weren’t three. If only they were not so good and did not cast spells that cannot be blocked or dodged even if I see them.

Still. I activate a scroll, and a barrier catches the second blast of fiery air as it roils around me. Each opening for one of us is a chance for the other to die. I toss my artifact taken from Germina’s vaults themselves at the figure, and he curses—vanishes. I do not look at the floating sigil with any of my eyes. The two [Mages] across from me cry out because it is trying to write madness and death into their very brains through their eyes. I charge, and they teleport.

They’ve predetermined safe-locations. Damn. But then I hear, through the silencing spells, someone dispel [Pealina’s Veil of Hush] and a shout. A Tier 3 spell comes down the hallway and I grin, block the lightning with my sword, and feel it earth.

The lesser [Mages] enter the fray. I think I can hear Ullsinoi cursing.

——

The first [Mage] burst through the smoke, ran onto the tip of Gazi’s sword, and screamed. The Libertarians backed up, and the Gazer swept an arm around the neck. The woman wasn’t cut—badly. But she used the [Mage] as a shield, swirling her to face her real foes.

“That’s—that’s—”

Someone cast a spell right at Gazi’s back. It bounced off her armor. Or no…that wasn’t exactly right. Magic wasn’t rubber, mostly. But it…refused to pierce the armor. Like it was Adamantium or one of the greater metals.

The Gazer stared into the hallways of smoke. The woman was shouting, crying out—the other [Mages] were aiming at Gazi uncertainly. She was a mother for goodness’ sake! That monster—how was she here? How was—?

“Don’t be fools.”

Gazi’s head twisted to the side, and the Libertarians froze, staring at her and the hostage. Then they realized she wasn’t speaking to them.

The first pin-point spell flickered across the hallway so fast Gazi barely twisted her head in time to avoid it. She blocked another one and cursed, stepping behind the female [Mage]. A spell blasted past the woman’s cheek, tearing it open.

“Stop! Stop!”

Who was fighting Gazi? Heedless of her hostage, they were shooting spells—one went straight through the shoulder of one of the teachers, and he stared blankly at the hole in his shoulder before starting to scream.

Gazi abandoned her hostage, seeming to realize Ullsinoi would rather kill her. Instantly, both the Libertarians and Ullsinoi opened up but then—

She vanished.

Not with a spell. With some Skill. Gazi faded out of the world, seeming to go right through a wall. One of the high-leveled Libertarians ran over to the woman who collapsed.

“You idiots! Who’s out there?”

“Stay out of our way.”

A calm retort from the air. Galei, leader of Ullsinoi as far as anyone knew, trotted out of the air. He looked straight past the Libertarians, who instantly began shouting at him. He cursed.

“She’s not bad.”

Another [Mage], a Gnoll with a staff of all things, appeared next to him, shedding a concealment spell. He wiped at his brow.

“She’s not bad? I didn’t come here to risk dying. Let’s get an Archmage.”

“Hm. Agreed.”

“We’ll—we’ll fight with you!”

A [Mage] spoke up. The two Ullsinoi [Mages] glanced back, surprised, and Galei took the cigar out of his mouth. He flicked it down, picked up another one, and shrugged.

“Your loss. We’re not going to protect you. But we could use some shields.”

The Humans didn’t know what to say to that. They hesitated and wisely hung back. Ullsinoi’s three [Mages] turned and multiplied, like ghosts stepping out of their real bodies. A small army. A kill-team, spreading out in search of Gazi. The half-Gazer had vanished, but with neither side able to kill the other, the advantage was to Ullsinoi.

An Archmage was on the way.

——

Two Archmages were on the way. When Nailihuaile heard of the Earther breakout, Gazi’s appearance, and the Golems on the rampage, she looked like she might have an apoplexy.

The Star Lamia’s eyes bulged, her body contorted—then, mindful of the Revivalists watching her and her captives, she caught herself.

“Who’s handling Gazi?”

“I am. I will link with Ullsinoi.”

“In that case, I’ll fight Fissival and the Drowned Mages. I told you we should have backed Eldavin’s vote to exile them!”

“Archmage Naili, now is not the time.”

She was in a linked call with the other Archmages. Viltach was headed to battle Gazi, and much luck to him; Naili’s scales prickled at the idea of fighting one of the King’s Seven. Here? Even with Ullsinoi as back up, no thank you.

She began sending [Message] spells to the Revivalists, telling them to get out there, restore order, and capture those Earthers. It was a safe bet; Naili didn’t think the Drakes were stupid enough to kill. Doroumata and her weird daughters? Perhaps. But the Star Lamia would bet someone else’s life on that.

“Beatrice. You’re with me. Contact the five best spellslingers and tell them to find me.”

The Star Lamia’s eyes were narrowed. She was going hunting. Feor was speaking to Viltach.

“If you lure Gazi close to me, I will join in the fighting. However—the [Mage Lords] and [Depth Magus] Doroumata are—”

There was the sound of a thunderclap or the air exploding, and he broke off.

“—rioting—”

It sounded like a three-way battle was going on around the banquet hall. Verdan Blackwood broke in, breathlessly.

“What is going on? I came under attack the instant I left my quarters and heard the notification! Three Drakes jumped me.”

Viltach’s voice cut in.

“Are you alright?”

“I’ve dealt with them. I’m finding students and [Mages] and sealing them into safe zones.”

“No, go on the offensive! The Earthers are leaving, and we have Gazi and Fissival and the Drowned Folk all trying to take what they can! Pick a target!”

Naili argued, but Verdan ignored her.

“I will reclaim zones of Wistram. The Golems are not attacking anyone who avoids them.”

That old, cowardly idiot. Naili’s tail lashed. She turned to Beatrice and hissed.

“Get me my team. We’re striking the Drakes first—then we’ll see to the others. Viltach, is Amerys guarded?”

“My Libertarians should be occupying her area, and no one has breached the maze. Although, I fear…they might have attacked the Melodin-class Golem.”

“Did it…kill them all?”

“No. But it has fallen back. The Golems are all moving in concert. Someone—she is directing them.”

Naili liked that least of all. However, it was clear that Amerys was secure, and Gazi was being countered for now. Which meant the Earthers were priority #1. She turned and nodded to the other Revivalist [Mages].

“Post a two-[Mage] guard on the door. These boys are paralyzed, but it’ll wear off. Bind them with a simple spell, but don’t let them leave.”

Two Level 30 [Mages] bowed to her. Naili turned, and the other [Mages] looked nervous as they followed her—but then remembered the last person in the room and turned.

“Emirea. It’s very dangerous outside, so perhaps you should stay here?”

The young [Lady] jumped. She’d been trying to tend to Tov, who was glaring and slightly bloody; he’d hit his head when he went down.

“H-here, Archmage? But Gazi is here…”

She had been terrified out of her wits by the Gazer, hence her decision to tell Naili about the plan. The Star Lamia smiled, but she was glancing down the hallway.

“Here is safest. You stay with my guards—keep her safe! Barricade yourselves inside if the fighting gets here—Emirea, I will reward you later. I have to go.”

The girl could do nothing but nod. The two [Mages] moved towards the boys as the girl looked pleadingly at Calac, who was glaring at her.

“I’m sorry. I’m…”

——

I’m sorry, Elena.

Trey Atwood thought the words. By now, it would be a mess, and he hoped the Earthers would get to freedom. Each side was serious—the problem was that there were multiple sides.

He hadn’t expected everyone to keep shut about the breakout, either. He’d had a suspicion it would be Aaron who told one of the Archmages what was happening—he had some kind of mysterious benefactor—but perhaps not?

Either way. Viltach had gone, and Trey was trying to get up.

Minizi, come to me and help!

The Lifesand Golem had achieved her mission. However, she was currently a Golem in the middle of a firefight. Calac was captured with the others. Trey cursed. He should have seen it coming.

That means the guards are still awake and protecting Amerys! However—he was most worried about Gazi. Gazi, alone, facing every [Mage] in Wistram.

This was a nightmare! He had to move! Did they run or try to get Amerys?

They had to try. He knew the Drakes and Doroumata were outnumbered, but the [Mage Lord] could probably fight an Archmage for a time, and so could Doroumata. They would never get another chance.

So Trey had to move. He tried to rock himself in the chair, knock himself out of the Rune of Paralysis that Viltach had drawn. Trey could sense it, just below him, but it was locking down everything.

His magic, his body…but not his Skills. Nor Minizi. Viltach had left Trey alone in his quarters. The young man wondered where that damn key was. But the problem was, he had underestimated a smart man.

And a smart man made precautions. Maybe the key wasn’t in his rooms. Trey strained to move a finger and couldn’t. He thought he burst a blood vessel in his eye.

“Minizi—”

A little noise made Trey’s eyes widen; he could still talk and even move his head slightly. He turned to the door and heard a thump.

“Minizi! In here! Get me out!”

The Lifesand Golem had made it. He thought she had lost some of her upgrades; she had certainly lost some of her sand-mass—about 11%—but he could easily replenish it with his blood. He heard an energetic thump on the door.

“Just open the door, Minizi. Open the—”

Someone rattled the handle, and Trey’s heart sank. Viltach had locked it, obviously.

“Can you squeeze through the cracks? Or…”

For an agonizing minute, Trey heard nothing. Viltach’s rooms were so well-insulated that he didn’t know what was happening in the rest of Wistram. Minizi was exploring the door for openings. Weak points. A window?

These were an Archmage’s rooms. Maybe she could infiltrate through a crack in any other [Mage]’s rooms, but Viltach’s?

After a minute, Trey heard a whumph. Then another soft thump as she tried to use her head as a battering ram to break down the door. He closed his eyes.

We’re doomed.

His [Plotter] class had more Skills—none of which applied to escaping. Trey bit his tongue, hard, and stared at the door. Give Minizi a year and she might break down the door with her face. If only she could get in! Calac was in trouble. They were bringing down Reim’s walls.

Teresa.

He tasted blood, he was biting so hard. Trey stopped—then felt at the cut in his mouth with his tongue. He frowned.

“Wait.”

He had an idea. Trey Atwood hesitated, but he had once felt the Quarass cut his throat. That terrifying emptiness, the pain and sensation of dying…

She had been right, that damn old-young ruler. It was an experience that made other things easier.

Deliberately, Trey found a chunk of his cheek. Minizi had gone silent outside, perhaps sensing what he was doing. Trey hesitated—

Then bit hard. He felt a searing flash of pain and nearly cried out.

“Mgh!”

He spat blood onto the plate, table, and Viltach’s carpet. He was definitely bleeding. Why did it hurt so much? Trey kept spitting blood as it pooled in his mouth. But he was staring at it. Trying to use…

There was one thing Viltach had underestimated. He had indulged Trey’s hobby, even found mutual admiration in it, but he didn’t understand the true power. Even Trey didn’t fully, but he was beginning to.

Even in an Archmage’s rooms, even with other powerful magic…

Lifesand…found a way.

[Create Lifesand Golem].

The blood on the table drew together. It began to solidify, like time was passing and it was congealing. Yet the blood began to shift. Morphing into…

Sand. Red-rust sand, and then a head rose out of the sand. Two raised arms. A tiny, tiny figure, even smaller than a Fraerling, rose, growing the more blood Trey spat onto it.

A miniature Viltach rose, stretching—then hopped off the desk. Minitach scurried over to the chair, pulled himself up, and as Trey waited—leapt and punched the Rune of Paralysis.

“Gah!”

The miniature explosion made Trey jerk and crash into the table. Mini-Viltach disappeared as the rune interacted with his Lifesand body in an unfortunate way. But Trey was free!

The first thing he did was grab a healing potion and heal the cut in his mouth. The second thing he did was lurch over to the door, yank it open, and let Minizi rush in. The Lifesand Golem stared up at him and then collected the remains of the Lifesand scattered around.

“What happened to you?”

She had scorch marks; someone had torn out one of her mithril ‘bones’, and her gemstones were cracked. Minizi wordlessly looked at Trey.

Stuff.

Trey shook his head. He looked at Minizi and found his heart was racing. He looked out the door and spoke.

“Calac’s captured. We need to rescue him. Gazi’s in danger, and we have to free Archmage Amerys. The Archmages are fighting. Plus Ullsinoi and every [Mage] we run into.”

Minizi drew her imitation-claymore. Let me at them, boss! Trey eyed her.

“…Right. We have to move. Calac…we need Calac.”

Not because the [Lord] was that much of an asset compared to Gazi. Trey just couldn’t bear to leave his friends behind. Not to switch one prisoner with another. How were they going to overpower [Mages] twice his level, though?

Trey was a Level 26 [Sand Mage] from Eldavin’s tutelage. He was also, now, a Level 13 [Plotter], and one could argue his magic was better than his level indicated.

None of that meant he could easily best Wistram’s experienced [Mages]. Trey searched around for his staff…then hesitated as he stared around the room and realized where he was.

Viltach’s…workshop. And personal quarters. And…Trey hesitated and looked at a cupboard filled with private potions, racks of ordered, neatly noted scrolls, and the artifacts Viltach made to sell. For some reason, what he was going to do next made him almost as guilty as everything else he’d done.

Minizi was inspecting a chip in the mithril claymore sadly. A Golem had smashed it into a wall. She looked up as her creator walked around the room—then beckoned her over.

“Minizi. Leave that. Take this.”

The Lifesand Golem indignantly waved her sword—then looked up, saw what Trey was offering her, and instantly dropped her imitation-claymore. She took the shortsword with the gleaming red edge on the blade and pressed a little sigil on the handle.

The sword burst into flame. Minizi stared at the burning sword and then saw Trey stuffing scrolls into his belt pouch. She kicked the mithril claymore aside. It was blunt, anyways.

——

Gazi Pathseeker hid from her pursuers, eyes darting in every direction. She saw a tracer spell coming her way and avoided the sensor-spell that looked like a glowing bird.

However, her main eye flicked up and spotted more spells moving through the walls. Her eye.

Her eye. She had one power, unlike the others of the King’s Seven. She had her eye, and she had been born with this advantage. Even…bred for it.

Gazers’ eyes were placed unpredictably. On their hands, different parts of their head—with unpredictable levels of power and effects. Gazi, though—she had been an experiment to combine the best functions of their eyes.

Roshal. Her main eye was powerful, and her levels, her training—had all gone to further that. She had not earned her eye like Mars had her skill in battle. But she had been born with it.

I have still practiced to earn my name. Of all the King’s Seven, including Amerys herself—Gazi had known she was best placed for this mission.

Her eye focused, and one of the tracer spells two hallways down abruptly flashed. Instantly, her pursuers changed, moving towards the location warily. One blasted the air with fire, but found nothing.

She was two hallways over.

Seeing through walls—Trey called it x-ray vision. She could also use her eye to focus. Paralysis was what Gazers and Medusae were known for, but that was simple, inefficient. Gazi could…manipulate magic. Even disrupt other spells from afar.

“Our sensors are all triggering. She’s doing it somehow.”

Gazi heard the frustrated voice as she slipped away. There was some irony to this battle. She counted three Ullsinoi [Mages].

Or one. But it seemed like three. Yet they had illusions, their own powerful cloaking spells and not [Greater Invisibility] alone.

The worst was the Centaur. Galei. His illusions were real. They could cast spells; they even bled. She thought she could sense a tiny bit of uncertainty in the fake ones, but he could avoid her eye to some extent.

However, they were also having trouble finding her. [Scout] versus [Illusionist] was an odd matchup. Gazi was not prepared for a spell she could not see through.

They were not used to being unable to locate her except through actual vision. All their sensor spells she could disrupt, but not [See Invisibility]. So they had to search—manually—for her.

[Bound Spell: Invisibility]. A function of her [War Scout] class from her [Infiltrator] days. Gazi could become invisible twice a day for free, and she could use spell scrolls, of course, but that was like being naked in front of Ullsinoi.

However, their lack of sensor spells meant they had to spot her with their eyes. So the [Mages] warily moved through corridors, flooding them with clouds, trying to blast the air with fire or other magics to reveal her.

Gazi? She carefully extended both hands, planted her legs on the wall, strained, and performed an aerial planking maneuver over the head of one of the Ullsinoi [Mages], supporting herself from wall-to-wall with sheer physical strength.

Don’t look up. Don’t look—

He looked up. Gazi dropped on him with a sword, beheaded him, saw the illusion vanish, and threw a spell scroll.

[Wall of Stone].

“That hallway, there! She just killed my decoy—”

Spells blasted the wall of stone to chunks, but it bought her the time to leap into another hallway. Gazi saw a window, leapt through it, and slapped one hand to the outside of the wall.

[Suction Grip].

She began scaling the wall upwards as the [Mages] followed. She had to get out of their planned area.

A powerful magical aura was headed her way. An Archmage. Gazi kept climbing, saw fighting on the floor above, and grinned in relief. Good! Golems and Drakes fighting [Mages]. She could lose herself among—

Her hand touched a patch of stone, and she realized too late something was wr—

Gazi teleported straight back into the room she’d been in, an old art-room by the looks of it, with enchanted materials for paint and canvases with multiple dimensions and so on.

She had no time to admire the magical, baroque artwork of aeons before. An alarm began ringing.

“She just tried to scale the outside. On me.”

Galei’s voice. Gazi focused on that—then the thing that had appeared just in front of her. A small, red pinpoint of glowing light. Appearing in the air, condensing, rather, into something so tiny…her eye focused on it, and she swore and leapt.

The orb detonated and blasted the art room as the Gazer felt something kick her into the wall. Her hair and face were on fire. She grabbed a potion and smashed it over her face, glass and all. Then she got up and ran.

She had to trust. Trust they were making progress. Trust Trey! Trust…Gazi looked out the window.

Their escape plan. She had never told Trey how they were getting out of here. She froze as a new spell raced down the corridor. Absolute frost—Gazi threw herself left before Viltach’s spell hit her, but her armor was freezing cold.

“[Frostbody]!”

She cast the spell and her skin avoided frostbite—just. Thank goodness for that spellbook. Gazi started running again.

Who had put it there in that handy block of ice?

——

[Mages]. Sometimes, it felt like they were cheating. She knew, knew and had seen that was wrong. They trained and learned and grew differently, that was all. She had tried learning magic seriously once, and she could cast a Tier 3 spell.

Maresar had felt like her head was exploding each day. She’d suffered migraines and nosebleeds—the kind she had never known you could have. She knew magic was not easy and they paid their own price.

Even so. When she watched a man or woman raise their hands, point, cast [Fireball], and lay waste to an area—it seemed unfair to her. She raised her bow, sighted, performed a dozen calculations she could never explain about distance, angle, wind speed, and even the weight of her own arrow and draw of her bow—and loosed.

Even drawing her bow was difficult. Her arms shook with exhaustion. How many arrows had she loosed over the course of the siege? Today? At least a thousand today alone.

A woman died, her spell uncast, choking on her blood as it went through her lungs. Maresar turned, plucking another arrow from her quiver.

Looking for another [Mage]. They were the greatest threats. If only Reim had a powerful one. They had Level 30 [Mages]. But if only…

How many arrows was that? A thousand?

No…she was no [Rapid Fire Archer] in a perfectly controlled space. She dodged and wove, but how many arrows per minute? She could put out thirty in rapid succession…but sniping? Let’s say three on average. Three every minute.

Three times sixty is…Maresar heard a ringing sound and looked up. It ran through the ground. A hammer on an anvil.

Someone’s doom. She saw a [Sniper] taking aim at her. [Eyes of the Bandit Lord] saw your direct enemies, even in battle.

Maresar loosed another arrow and saw them dive.

A hundred and eighty. Times eight hours? One thousand four hundred and forty. Not far—

She leaned back as an arrow streaked past her face. Maresar loosed a second arrow and saw it hit…and saw the woman stumble and then dive away from a third arrow.

Enchanted armor. The arrows that flew towards Maresar screamed—piercing, barbed, and poisonous. Maresar had no enchanted arrows left herself. Brave children were picking up enchanted arrows fired at Reim that hadn’t detonated and ferrying them to archers. She had no arrow…

Save for one. Maresar reached up for a worn, little leather bag hanging around her neck. Her bag of holding. She drew one final arrow and hesitated.

A jagged tip. A terribly-made arrow; the arrowhead was poorly balanced because it wasn’t made right. Because it wasn’t an arrowhead but a piece of Naq-Alrama steel. Maresar hesitated in that split-second of indecision.

Do I loose it? Or kill a [General]?

Hesitation was what killed you. A third arrow came towards her, and the [Bandit Lord] realized—she heard a voice.

“Maresar!”

Teresa Atwood. The [Bandit Lord] turned, saw the young woman slash the arrow in two. Both pieces went flying past the two women and exploded. Maresar lifted the Naq-Alrama arrow, but the [Sniper] was gone. Fled. She put the arrow back in her bag of holding and turned.

“Good save.”

That was it. She took aim again, and Teresa grinned proudly. She was wavering, but she had the battle-light in her eyes. Adrenaline; she couldn’t feel her wounds or how tired she was.

“It’s ending. They’re fighting at the north gate. The breach—we’re losing.”

Maresar nodded.

“Yes.”

Her eyes went to the north gate. Searching for the one figure she could always find before he found her.

Venith Crusland. He…wasn’t there. Maresar looked around. Had he fallen?

No. The [Lord] was riding towards them on horseback. He dismounted fast and hard, and the horse wheezed with exhaustion. It actually lay down as Venith climbed to the archer’s tower.

He looked worse than the horse.

“Maresar. Teresa.”

He was gulping down stamina potions. The [Lord of Battle] had stepped back—to survey the battlefield. He looked at the north gate, then the breach in the walls.

Again, that peal of sound rang out. Plaintive. Loud, but…Teresa’s eyes shifted towards it.

“Nawal. She’s doing something.”

“She’s forging steel amid blood.”

Maresar looked at the young woman standing at the anvil. She exchanged a glance with Venith. They…had seen the like of this before. The [Lord]’s weary head turned. Teresa shook her head, and her face lost its shine for a second.

“I told her to run. I told her to forget her debts.”

“She is a [Smith] of Clan Tannousin. She was brought up every day of her life to serve her clan. Some bonds are deeper than blood. She is a proud woman. She failed.”

Maresar felt at the arrow again. Venith Crusland nodded. He stood there, and Teresa spoke again.

“We’re going to lose.”

She looked at the two adults, and Maresar hesitated. Venith shook his head.

“Not yet.”

“Not yet?”

Teresa could count and see the Nerrhavian reserves and Reim’s. Venith just met Maresar’s gaze and turned back to Teresa.

“When Flos Reimarch takes the field, it will be over. There is hope. If there were not, we would surrender. I would. Maresar. What news from Wistram?”

“Nothing.”

The [Bandit Lord] had been listening. Surely…surely they would know the danger, but she heard nothing. Calac, alone amongst [Mages]…

Teresa looked up as that ringing anvil sounded again. Like a moth drawn to a flame, she began to head towards it.

“Nawal. I have to see what she’s making.”

“She’s sacrificing herself. Stay clear.”

Maresar warned Teresa, but the young woman didn’t listen. Venith turned to Maresar.

“Is that what that sound is?”

He hadn’t seen Nawal from his position. Maresar pointed her out, and Venith stilled.

“It might be a mighty weapon. But she is using blood—and that is not Tannousin’s way.”

The [Bandit Lord] watched Venith’s face. The [Lord] looked at his wife, and he saw the unspoken question there. He shook his head.

“That man.”

He looked at the palace, and they remembered the first time they had met. Meeting and forging a respect after Maresar’s capture and…

Slumber. Waking. Venith’s anger.

“That man has demanded too much of Reim and its people. Of Chandrar, endless war. He asks us to run a thousand miles, arm-wrestle giants, and tear down walls with our own hands. He wades through blood.”

Maresar nodded. She looked at the palace and wondered when it would be. When that ruler would emerge. Soon. Another hammer blow rang out, that pitiful tolling.

“But he brought peace. For one year, after we took Chandrar, I rode through the lands I savaged as a [Bandit Lord]. I rode across country and land, and I heard no drums of war. I saw no [Raiders] nor starving people or monsters.”

Venith nodded.

“Yes. And though his faults are innumerable—he has never asked us to sacrifice ourselves for him.”

The two looked at each other. Maresar nodded. She lifted her bow, and Venith began to descend through the streets of Reim. Walking tiredly.

How she envied [Warriors] and [Mages]. Maresar lifted her bow and put another arrow into the sky. Ten. Waiting. Buying time for…

The hammer sounded again, like a voice of metal counting down.

——

Trey Atwood ran into his first enemy not two hallways out of Viltach’s rooms. He saw a [Mage] turn, wand raised, as she and a gaggle of older students formed a circle.

A dead wooden Golem was smoldering in front of them. One exclaimed when they saw Trey.

“Another Gol—no. Over here!”

They waved, and Trey hesitated. He reached for his belt pouch and backed up. The [Mage] waving at Trey frowned, and the Drake shaded her eyes.

“Wait a second. Is that…”

One of his classmates in Eldavin’s lecture classes poked her head out of the group. The Garuda with pink feathers on her face spotted Trey, pointed.

“Troy! Over here!”

The other students turned. Half seemed to recognize him as a friend—the other half glared at him.

“The King of Destruction’s agent.”

Kelaw, the Garuda student, did a double-take and then recalled Viltach’s announcement.

“Troy Atlas.”

One of the Drakes breathed. Instantly, half a dozen wands rose. Trey froze—and the students stared at him. He braced himself, staff raised, as Minizi raised her sword and triggered the fire enchantment. The students looked at him—and one raised a hand.

“Are you really the King of Destruction’s servant?”

The young man hesitated. The words—[Karas Duststorm]—were halfway out his mouth, but he choked them back.

“—Yes?”

“No Ancestors-damned way. That was an Ullsinoi prank. It had to be.”

“From Archmage Viltach?”

The students began arguing. Kelaw gaped at Trey.

“Archmage Viltach said you—you, Troy? Worm guy?”

“Hey! Did you cause all this?”

An angry fourth-year Drake pointed a wand at Trey. The young man raised his staff.

“I’m on a mission for Flos Reimarch. If you fight me, I’ll have to defend myself. Don’t make me do that, please.”

The students looked at each other. There were about eighteen of them, one Trey, one Minizi. If it came to it—Trey was going to run around the corner and let Minizi eat eighteen spells. He remembered Naili’s amulet, but he had a feeling he was going to need it later.

However, the students just conferred quickly, and then one of them called out.

“So you’re really the King of Destruction’s agent? Someone said Gazi Pathseeker is in Wistram. Is…she?”

“Yes.”

“No way.”

An excited babble broke out, but the fourth-year Drake held up a claw.

“We’ll let you go. If you tell us something.”

“…Like what?”

The young man did a double-take. The Drake stared at him as if he were stupid.

“Something…important. Something from the King of Destruction.”

Trey Atwood just gaped at the gaggle of students. His mouth moved wordlessly for a second, then he spoke.

“The Emperor of Sands murdered Drevish and sent his head in a block of ice to the King of Destruction. That’s one of the reasons why he awoke.”

Gasps. Someone dropped their wand and began fumbling for a piece of paper to write that down.

“That’s a huge secret!”

The students looked at each other. The Drake lowered his wand.

“We see you—we get another secret.”

Trey backed up wordlessly. He saw them staring at him like an exotic pigeon that had flown into their window or something and turned and ran.

No one cast spells after him. He heard them debating, but…Trey remembered the conversation he’d had with Calac.

——

“Let’s not involve Gazi in it if we can. You know, most people here aren’t evil.”

“I know. They’re our enemies, though. If we have to fight—I will.”

Calac Crusland looked miserable as he thought of it. Trey shook his head.

“Maybe we won’t have to.”

“Not one?”

The young man amended his statement.

“The guards—perhaps. But even if we get found out, the students? [Mages] like Telim? They’re Wistram. We’re two guys, not Gazi.”

Calac’s eyes lit up. He thought about what Trey meant and nodded. Unless it was a monster, would Telim go for a kill-spell? Trey thought of his fellow students.

“Unless they think they’re in danger—we won’t be.”

——

Even so, they were outnumbered. The Earther-distraction was one thing, but Nailihuaile was right. Wistram’s [Mages] could prioritize. Gazi and Earthers. Two threats alone, with the Golems as a random variable.

Wistram Academy was in chaos. But it was not out-of-control. Yet.

The problem was the levels. Nailihuaile slithered down one corridor, pushing back twice her number of Drakes with her five best Revivalists plus Beatrice. She knew how to concentrate power.

Mage Lord Ascoden and Doroumata could punch with Wistram’s best, and Doroumata was currently giving Feor and his [Mages] a hell of a fight in the banquet hall. Dark void spells were opening everywhere as he threw light magic at her.

There was one last card to play, however. And it wasn’t Trey’s. Gazi had never answered Trey nor Calac on how they were going to leave Wistram.

Arrangements had already been made. Which begged the question, if you really thought about it.

Would Gazi Pathseeker really trust some random [Captain] in a ship with her escape once they freed Amerys? Of course, Amerys could fly, but there was no trusting she could just pick up the others and run.

Even if Gazi had a ship—who? Who was just going to sail into Wistram’s harbors?

Doroumata had her Drowned Folk ship. It was named Sorecue. Its crew had the honor of escorting Shadeward Doroumata, and they had held anchor for months. Watching Gazi just as she watched them.

Right now, the Drowned Folk were fighting on the docks with the other [Sailors]. Drakes hunkered over the balcony of their ship, loosing arrows and throwing spells at the Drowned crew.

“Who are these Drowned Folk? Get the Earthers on board!”

“To me, folk of the sea! The Daughters of the Shadeward require our aid!”

The [Captain] of the Drowned Vessel saw one of Doroumata’s daughters racing out of Wistram’s gates with a gaggle of Earthers. Drowned Folk [Sailors] charged down the gangplanks, clashing with other [Sailors]. One group of Earthers ran towards Doroumata’s ship—another group appeared on one of the balconies overhead.

“There. To the ship!”

The [Combat Sorceress] pointed. Saif hesitated.

“But we’re all the way up—”

The Drake looked over her shoulder. Both of Fissival’s [Mages] were backing up; a dozen Revivalists were advancing, overwhelming their magical barriers.

“Just run. [Featherfall].”

Then she kicked Saif over the balcony, and he went screaming downwards—then floated slowly to the earth. The other Earthers jumped with the spell active, and the Drake-chartered ships sailed along the perimeter of the island, shouting for them to get on.

“Stop those ships, by order of Archmage Feor!”

There were five non-Drake and non-Drowned Folk vessels in Wistram’s port. The [Captains] had watched the breakout with uncertainty, but two were [Storm Captains].

When they got word of what was happening in Wistram, they made up their minds fast. Drowned Folk and Drakes or Wistram’s favor? Easy choice.

[Storm Sailors] and [Depth Sailors] were fighting each other on the dock. Zeres’ Drakes were fighting with aplomb onboard their vessel; the other Walled Cities’ representatives fought with less grace on the water.

Five versus two. One of Doroumata’s daughters was throwing dark magic around, but they were outnumbered.

“Tell [Mage Lord] Ascoden we need him out here now, or we won’t have a ship to get out!”

The [Captain] was shouting. Two ships were boxing him in, throwing grappling lines to tether them together and board from either side. A [Boarding Crewmate] expert leapt across the gap, landed on the deck next to the steering wheel, and the Drake pointed at him with a claw.

“[Get Off My Ship]!”

“Oh sh—”

The [Boarding Crewmate] sailor went flying into the water. The [Captain] drew his sword and looked around, teeth bared. Then he stared out towards the bubble of calm that surrounded Wistram.

His eyes narrowed.

“What is that light?”

Outside of Wistram, a storm was brewing. The sea was choppy and the waves growing higher as night fell. Storms at sea. It would be a trial even if they left the harbor, and the rain was sleeting down.

However, something was moving out there. A bright light amid the waves.

Reinforcements? More enemies? The [Captain] watched as his crew fought. It was too bright to be a ship’s ordinary steering light. A radiance of the kind that illuminated the waters for hundreds of feet in every direction.

Shining through the ocean. His scales began to prickle as he had a sudden suspicion. The [Captain] swore.

“Combat mages?”

“What?”

A Drake snapping spells off from her wand looked up and saw the [Captain] point.

“Get ready. We’ve got…[Pirates].”

The Drakes turned, and one of the [Storm Captains] angling his vessel for a ram with the reinforced blade-prow on his ship looked left. He paled.

“That’s…”

A ship was coming through the waters. It surged through the waves like a bobbing lighthouse. A brilliant yellow light, but not the light of a sun. More like a lantern at night. A glowing hull. There was no mistaking it now, and while the bubble of calm surrounding Wistram let none of the roar of the storm outside in, it did let in faint…voices.

They were singing. As they did. And that ship was moving so fast. Like a glowing fish, surging through the waters. The entire hull was glowing.

That was what Calac realized as he stared out the window. The [Lord]’s lips moved. He knew that ship.

“How…?”

But why was it here? The vessel broke through the bubble of calm, and at last everyone could see it. A strange, semi-translucent hull with a lurid, yellow-green glow. A woman with the same glow coming off part of her body—the Drowned part—was steering the ship herself, a sharp smile across her face. A fearless, mad grin.

Captain Rasea Zecrew and the Illuminary sped towards Wistram. The same ship that had humbled Flos Reimarch in Medain.

They didn’t move with the speed of wind or oars; they rode a wave, moving so fast the other [Storm Captain] was still turning when they crashed into his ship. And his ship was the one whose wood buckled as the Illuminary’s crew boarded them.

“To arms! To the halls of Wistram! Let’s go, my lasses and lads!”

The [Pirate Captain] swung across the decks and locked swords with the [Storm Captain]. She planted her feet, and, swords locked, rushed him to the edge of his ship and pushed him over the railing. The surprised crew saw a Gnoll swing over to their ship—followed by a leaping figure.

A Centaur with two crossbows clattered onto the deck, hooves skidding, and fired both crossbows. Two [Sailors] fell, and one of the Illuminary’s ship-mounted weapons fired.

Doroumata’s daughter saw the ballista bolt coming towards her and raised her hands. The bolt vanished into the [Void Shield], and she backed up.

“The Illuminary is here, Mother! Move the ship!”

She shouted at the [Depth Captain], and he instantly obeyed. The Illuminary’s crew flooded the first ship, and the [Storm Captain]’s crew locked blades with one of the most feared, highest-leveled [Pirate] crews in the world.

Briefly.

Calac Crusland saw Rasea, her anglerfish-half glowing as brightly as her ship, charging down the docks, followed by four dozen of her [Pirates].

“What is she doing here?”

Tov, the Drowned Man, stared out the window, just as awed.

“I heard the Illuminary had been hired, but no one knew why. She’s…that madwoman. She’s storming Wistram.”

Rasea Zecrew was headed straight for Wistram’s gates. Then, Calac understood. Then he saw the plan.

If you were going to breakout, you hired the world’s fastest ship. And someone who had no problem with offending Wistram.

Yes, she’d been hired by Wistram, but so what?

——

Rasea Zecrew paused as she stood before the gates of Wistram. Her crew halted behind her. She raised a hand, and her first mate growled.

“Cold feet, Captain?”

She turned her head, a manic grin on her face. The same smile she’d had when she attacked Flos and the Minotaurs.

“Cold feet? Me? You could dunk me in Cenidau’s waters, and I’d come out steaming. Look at it, boys. Wistram.”

She spread her arms and took in the citadel. Rasea Zecrew spoke, turning to her crew.

“No [Pirates] have sacked Wistram for over eight thousand years. It was worth taking her money just for this. King of Destruction’s Seven or not…this is our entry into history.”

Her crew cheered. They had her crazy smile. If you knew Rasea—it wasn’t about money alone. It was about this.

“Into the halls of Wistram!”

The [Pirate Captain] laughed and charged through the doors, enchanted sword raised. Her crew stormed in after them.

“What th—”

The first [Mage] who met Rasea got a fist to the face and went over. Rasea saw one of her crew stop to grab the stave, battle-spellbook, and then try to remove the belt, bag of holding, and [Mage]’s robes.

Everything was loot! That gold statue? Loot! Golems? Loot! Wands, robes, spellbooks? The [Pirates] grabbed everything in sight. The confused [Mages] weren’t their targets—their gear was.

Even so, a Centrist tried to stop them and got two crossbow bolts through his legs for the trouble. The second [Mage] that Rasea met was a terrified Lizardman. He raised his wand, and she flicked it out of his hand.

The Lizardman, Cessic, stared up at the glittering tip of Rasea’s sword. He froze—and she grabbed him, yanked his bag of holding off his belt, tossed it to her [First Mate], then kissed him on the mouth.

“Haha! It was worth waiting all this time for her job!”

She laughed then pushed Cessic away. The [Mage] stumbled away as one of her crew threw a rope up.

“[Anchor Line]. We’re up, [Captain]! Where are we bound?”

“Find me a library. Once that Gazer gets here, we’re away. Until then—grab everything!”

Rasea grabbed the line, and, with a running start, took off. The semi-elastic rope swung her upwards, and she arced back, like someone on a swing. Cessic stared up as Rasea swung higher, flipping upwards like an [Acrobat] to land on one of the higher walkways in the entrance hall with a few of her crew.

“Wh—what? What’s happening?”

Wistram had [Pirates]. And they were just here for the fun of it all.

——

The primary choice of spell for the average [Mage] or student was [Light Arrow], [Flame Arrow], or another bog-standard arrow spell. Not a disarming spell like another magical academy.

Disarming spells were hard. You had to literally interfere with someone’s personal magical aura, yank something out of their grip—you could more easily cast [Force Arrow] and put them on their ass.

Higher-level [Mages], especially the duel-loving ones, used tricks like [Oiled Floor], and against Golems, they pulled out [Ice Spike], [Stone Fist], and all the other most common spells.

However, [Fireball]? [Acid Orb]? Let alone other Tier 4-6 spells? There were few flying in the air, even if the [Mages] could cast them.

This was not a killing ground. The Drakes were replying in kind, although most were using higher-grade bolt spells and attacks meant to subdue their opponents non-lethally.

Ullsinoi was the exception, of course, but the other one was…

The Golems.

Trey had gone through three more encounters, two of which had been peaceful; the students hadn’t even recognized him one time. The other time, he’d exchanged [Light Arrows] with [Mages].

“[Light Arrow Cascade]!”

Trey hurled more arrows down at the [Mages] shouting and throwing spells back, and caught nearly six on the [Light Barrier] he’d raised. He kept running, and more spells burst on the barrier, but neither he nor his opponents were hurt. If you couldn’t blast through the other’s shields, it was just a lightshow. And they didn’t want to kill him.

Golems on the other hand—

Trey came to a big intersection and saw a real battle taking place.

“[Lava Orb]!”

“[Blue Bolt]! [Blue Bolt], [Blue Bolt], [Blue—]”

“[Wall of Stone]!”

A glob of molten stone hit one of the giant Golems in the face and began melting through its body. Another kept trying to advance as blue bolts of magic hammered it in the chest. Someone else tried to make a wall of stone, but Trey saw the Golems advancing.

Three Golems versus nine [Mages]. The one struck by lava collapsed, and the other two, a serving Golem and one of the laborer types, had been in full-retreat. It was unclear whether they’d even been fighting. Still, the [Mages] had heard about the Golem attack, and they were fighting on their end.

Trey saw the Golems in retreat suddenly stiffen. The serving Golem’s body was female and cracked all over from the [Blue Bolt] spell. Her ceramic head swiveled around on her neck, and the other Golem, one of the odd brickwork giants, turned.

Both their carved eyes were not like undead, who had a ghostly light in them. The Golems were perfect representations of their material, sometimes like statues come to life.

So why were their eyes glowing…green? The [Mages] hesitated in casting spells as Trey felt an ominous chill run down his back. Also—they were clearly amateurs, because now was the time to cast all spells or run for it.

The serving Golem whirled. She ducked a [Blue Bolt], dodged sideways as another [Lava Orb] came her way, and vaulted the [Wall of Stone] rising up. The other Golem punched through the wall like a movie.

Only, a movie failed to capture the fact that the sheer shrapnel of exploding stone lacerated one [Mage]’s chest, eliciting a panicked shriek. The serving Golem did a spinning leap around a spell, grabbed the wand-arm, twisted it up, and broke it.

Trey saw the carved porcelain face turned to wrath and the punches—three of them he could see. So fast, and into the face of the [Lava Orb] spellcaster, who dropped.

She was among the other [Mages], and he saw what looked like a martial arts move—a palm strike to the side that probably broke ribs, a leg sweep—right before the other Golem reached out and slapped a [Mage] in the face.

A giant brick hand slapping someone, even lightly, was enough to down the Dullahan. The last four [Mages] tried to run, but the Golems were on them. The serving Golem looked up, saw Trey running for it, and…spoke.

“You will regret what you have wrought, Troy Atlas.”

He knew that voice. Trey ran faster. Minizi froze as Cognita—or the Golems embodying her will—chased after her. She raised her sword—

And the serving Golem’s knee crashed through her face. The Lifesand Golem fell, headless, and the serving Golem regarded Minizi as she tried to pick herself up.

“Your master has your loyalty. But he is not Zelkyr.”

The Lifesand Golem stabbed the serving Golem in the leg. The Golem staggered—performed a high-kick that sent Minizi tumbling backwards, and tried to go after Trey.

The Golem tried to hobble forwards and realized her leg was too badly damaged to keep moving. It was breaking, even trying. Cognita spoke in her voice.

“Repair yourselves. Do not let yourselves be destroyed.”

An odd thing happened. The brickwork Golem stopped and nodded. His eyes lost that green sheen, and so did the serving Golem’s. She stepped back as Minizi grabbed her sword and stumbled away. Cognita was no longer there, and the serving Golem let the brick Golem pick her up and carry her off.

None of that stopped Trey from sprinting down the corridors, breaking every personal record, heedless of the pain in his chest. That didn’t compare to the terror in his soul.

Cognita was in Wistram. And she was not happy.

——

Depth Mage Doroumata was singed. She walked away from the banquet hall with three of her daughters.

Feor did not follow her. The Depth Mage linked up with her last daughter and looked at Elena.

“Where are the Silver Swords?”

“They ran into a Golem.”

“One Golem?”

Doroumata scoffed. Her daughter licked her lips behind the veil.

“Mother. It was…singing. The Silver Swords volunteered to keep it at bay.”

Doroumata paused. She glanced down the hallway.

“Avoid it. To the ship. Now.”

“We only have a handful of Earthers…”

The Shadeward looked over her shoulder and shook her head.

“We will not have any if we linger, or a ship. We have been tricked. Go, now!”

She led the Earthers at a striding pace down the halls of Wistram. Not at a run; she was sweeping for spells ahead of her. Because of that, she held up a hand and stopped—just as Rasea Zecrew skidded around the corner.

“Whoa!”

The [Pirate] put her sword up. Doroumata aimed a wand at her chest. The two recognized each other.

“Shadeward Doroumata!”

The [First Mate] swore. Doroumata’s daughters recognized them and aimed their wands at the [Pirates].

“Hold on! We’re not here to tangle with the Drowned Folk’s [Mages]. Hold on! Truce!”

Rasea Zecrew shouted. Doroumata hadn’t unleashed any spells either. The two regarded each other.

“Truce?”

Rasea held out a hand to Doroumata, a wary but fearless smile on her face. The [Depth Mage] eyed her balefully, but nodded.

“Truce. Go.”

She put up her wand and began to stride past Rasea. The [Pirate] eyed the Earthers with confusion. Her Gnoll [First Mate] muttered to her.

“Doroumata’s not a [Slaver]. What’s with the Humans?”

“Maybe another breakout. Remember everything. Secrets are worth as much as artifacts. Let’s…”

Rasea glanced ahead of them as her crew checked in with their other groups looting around the entrance hall. She frowned, glanced over her shoulder.

“…What’s that sound?”

The [Pirate] turned and saw Doroumata striding back the way she’d come. She was firing void magic as she went. The Earthers went running the other way.

“What is that? What is that thing?”

“Run! Shut up and—”

Elena was shouting at the others. The Illuminary’s crew turned in just in time to see a Golem appear.

Well…six Golems. But the main one was obviously the one with all the eyes. They weren’t even sure it was a Golem at first. It looked more like flesh than stone. And it was singing.

The Golem had multiple arms, too, and it was still holding onto the remains of Ylawes’ shield. It pursued Doroumata as the [Depth Mage] strode back. The [Pirates] raised their weapons, but Rasea eyed the Golem.

“Back it up, boys. They’re Golems.”

The [Pirates] smartly stepped into a side-room. One noticed a bunch of improvised musical instruments from Earth and nudged the others.

“Grab them.”

“What? They’re musical instruments—”

“I like music. And I’ve never seen this stuff. Grab them or I’ll stab you in your sleep. We’ve got room.”

“Fine, but you’re holding the chest!”

They looted the room while the Golems passed by. The singing Golem kept following Doroumata; Rasea poked her head out of the room.

“Damn, some of those Golems are good. And I heard Cognita flew the coop. Alright, back to work.”

The [Captain] wasn’t here to pick just any fight. She went strolling out of the rooms with her crew…just in time to see one of the Golems glance over its shoulder.

It was a plain Golem. More like a wooden marionette. But the way it looked over its shoulder, rotating its head a hundred and eighty degrees?

That was unnatural. That was too…intelligent. The Golem with jade-green eyes stopped. Then it walked backwards.

Something interesting about Wistram’s Golems was that they came in every form. Centaur to even, rarely, Minotaur, humanoid variations being the most common examples.

Never Drakes. This Golem was fashioned like a male half-Elf. But it spoke with a woman’s voice.

“You are intruding into my academy.”

Rasea spun backwards lightly. Setting herself. She raised her sword, tilting her head.

“Now what’s this? A Golem that speaks? Who’re you?”

“I am Cognita. Leave or die, Rasea Zecrew. You and your crew are not welcome here.”

The Golem spoke, and Rasea’s smile flickered. One of the crew swore.

“Oh shit—”

“It’s just a puppet, boys. Allow me.”

Rasea stepped forwards before she even finished speaking, her sword snaking out to stab the Golem in the chest. But the surprise attack failed. The Golem twisted sideways, brushed the sword back with its fingers—and came in with a spinning backhand.

“Whoa! Scatter!”

The [Pirates] moved away, giving the Golem space, but it was fast, and everyone was a target. More than that? Rasea slashed, and her sword was one of the most feared on the sea. She lopped off the Golem’s arm.

It didn’t care. The Golem dodged her second cut and a crossbow bolt by kicking off the floor. Midway up, incredibly fast, it twisted, and the wooden doll kicked off the ceiling and smashed one of the [Pirates] flat.

The Drake hacked at the doll as its hand wrapped around her throat.

“Get it—”

Her voice cut off as the others hacked at the Golem. Rasea shoved one of her people back and beheaded the Golem.

“There. Get—”

It was still strangling the [Pirate]. Rasea’s sword moved. She lopped the Golem’s hand off and someone pierced the Golem’s Heart.

“Now—”

The hand was still strangling the [Pirate]. Rasea reached down and broke the wooden fingers. The choking Drake’s windpipe was half-crushed.

“Dead gods! What was—”

“It’s dead.”

The Centaur [Arbalist] shot the wooden Golem twice more through the Golem’s Heart. The Drake gasped as two of her buddies dragged her up.

“That thing fought hard!”

“That wasn’t the Golem. That was Cognita Truestone. She’s got some moves.”

Rasea glanced at the Golem. She smiled at the others—then the back of her neck tingled. Something began to ring faintly.

[Dangersense]. Rasea turned her head and muttered.

“Ah, Kraken’s tits. This job might be harder after all.”

Three Golems in maid outfits—sculpted onto them, not a Wistram design choice—were walking down the corridor. All three’s eyes were glowing green. Rasea pointed at them.

“Lads?”

“Aye, Captain?”

Rasea calmly pulled a vial from a wrist-holster. She tossed it down, and red smoke filled the hallway in front of her—then hardened. The Golems began smashing through, and she pointed.

“Run that way! Grab everything, and if you see a Golem, avoid it! And someone find me our employer!”

Things were getting a bit…complicated. [Pirates], [Mages], Earthers…they were all starting to realize there was one group who was going to take this in the long run.

The Golems.

They had to get what they came here for and go. So where…Rasea had a contract, and given how it had been set, even she was unlikely to want to break it. But break it she would if her employer were late. She wondered where she was.

——

He was almost at Calac’s rooms when a hand grabbed him.

“You.”

Trey Atwood wasn’t injured. Much. He had cut his own cheek open and been affected by passing spells twice in magical firefights, but he had not bled for his cause.

He saw the consequences of it now.

Ylawes Byres was injured. He had grabbed Trey, a sword in hand. Falene was kneeling over Dawil.

“Wake up, Dawil. Wake up—”

The Silver Swords had lost a battle. The walls were cracked in two places, and Ylawes’ armor was bent from a terrific blow. The [Knight] looked at Trey.

“You’re the King of Destruction’s agent. You used us. Where are the children?”

His grip was tight on Trey’s arm. The young man looked at the Dwarf; he seemed to be just unconscious. Trey hoped he was.

“Heading towards the ships. You should leave too.”

“Leave, and let you do what? Free the Archmage? Let that warmonger start more wars?”

“I am not going to argue with you. My sister is with him. I need to—”

Falene looked up as Trey raised his staff. She pointed, and his arm went numb as a green arrow struck it. Minizi ran forwards and tried to stab Ylawes in the leg; her sword skated off his armor. The [Knight] bared his teeth at Trey.

“That [King] is a monster.”

“I have to do it. Don’t make me fight. I don’t want your team to be hurt.”

Trey had a scroll in his other hand. Ylawes saw it, and Falene’s staff was raised. The Silver Swords looked at Trey, and the [Knight] hesitated. He could run Trey through, perhaps faster than the boy could activate the scroll.

Would he? He knew what Trey was going to do, but kill him in cold blood? The [Knight] looked Trey in the eye.

“Tell me why. Is it your sister?”

“No. It’s a promise he and I made. And something else. Let me go, Ylawes. Please.”

Trey’s grip was tight on his spell-scroll. Minizi lifted her sword and felt it.

A terrible, even frightening resolution. The Lifesand Golem looked at Trey nervously and shuddered again. What was that feeling?

There was more keeping him going than just a promise. Ylawes hesitated—and someone rounded the corner.

“Let him go, Ylawes Byres. I need him.”

Calac Crusland lifted his sword as the [Knight] half-pivoted, letting go of Trey. Tov and Goelv covered Falene with their wands.

“Calac! How did you get free?”

“Someone broke me out. Ylawes—”

“You tricked us.”

Calac didn’t shake his head. He just nodded.

“I swear, if I am freed, I will pay you your full due. More than I gave you.”

Ylawes’ face was a mask of frustration and anger. He watched Calac, and the [Lord] pivoted as Trey stepped back. Could he beat Ylawes without his shield? He clearly thought he could, and Trey looked at Falene as Minizi raised her sword again.

The Silver Swords faced Trey’s group, and Trey didn’t know if Ylawes would charge…until Dawil began to stir.

“Pointy? What hit me?”

Ylawes glanced at his friend. Falene bent, and the [Knight] cursed as all four young men backed up a step.

“Go! Go and—Dawil?”

He bent over the Dwarf. Dawil was looking around.

“My hatchet. It broke my hatchet. I…”

He was more concerned about that than anything else. Trey glanced back before he rounded a corner and saw the blade was snapped. Someone—that singing Golem—had snapped it while it was lodged in its body. He didn’t know why the Dwarf looked so anguished.

Calac didn’t wait to see if Ylawes would change his mind. He hurried Trey down the corridor.

“There you are. I thought Viltach captured you. We were coming to try and free you. Where’s Amerys’ key?”

“Calac? I thought you were captured! How did you get free? Amerys’ key—Viltach doesn’t know where it is! He switched the locks! I don’t know how to…”

“Shh! Shh!”

Goelv shushed the two, and Calac and Trey fell silent. The Gazer boy held up a four-fingered hand and pointed. Everyone rushed into a side room—just in time for them to hear shouting.

“Find the Earthers! Gazi Pathseeker is on the rampage!”

“Gazi—the Gazi—”

A group of [Mages] passed down the corridor. The four young men hid, barely making a sound, as Minizi raised her sword, looked at Trey, and lowered it. Goelv’s eyes were flicking left, right, up, and down, like Gazi’s.

“They’re gone. The Silver Swords are moving too. We must hurry! This way!”

“Follow Goelv. He’s the only reason we’ve gotten this far. We have to go to the Creler-murals, key or not. Where is Gazi? Everyone is talking about her fighting!”

Goelv led the way, followed by Trey and Calac, Tov and Minizi bringing up the rear. Trey spoke as fast as he could.

“I broke out of Viltach’s rooms. I snagged as many potions, artifacts, and scrolls—here, take some! And here’s a sword!”

He reached into his bag of holding and pulled out a longsword. Calac checked it.

“Better enchantment than mine.”

He didn’t switch blades immediately, but lifted it, cursed, and offered it to Tov.

“Need a sword?”

“Thanks.”

Trey looked at Calac. The [Swordsman] explained.

“Different weight and balance. I don’t trust myself with it, sorry.”

“Oh—right. How are we going to free Amerys? I think the singing Golem’s gone—”

“We have to try. At worst, we break her chains and just carry her out. We have to move, Trey. These distractions won’t last long! How did Viltach find out?”

Trey shook his head.

“He knew from the start. You?”

“Emirea. But Trey, she…wait. Wait. Did you not know about the [Pirates] either?”

“Pirates? What [Pirates]?”

Tov spoke up, his voice harsh with excitement and nerves.

“The Illuminary is raiding Wistram as we speak. That’s our way out.”

“The Illuminary is what?”

Calac looked at Trey.

“So you didn’t know.”

“Gazi told me we had an escape route, but that was all!”

The [Lord] nodded thoughtfully. For a second he had seemed reserved, but he nodded, relieved.

“Pieces within pieces. A plan within a plan. It’s clever. Just as you might expect. All we have to do is stick to our plan, Trey. Get to Amerys. We—what happened here?”

They rounded a corner. Goelv gasped, and Tov backed up.

The entire hallway was scorched black. Calac raised his sword, and Tov looked around, but there was only ash. Trey didn’t have to guess.

“They must have found Gazi. She must not have reached Amerys, or she’d have freed her by now.”

“Then we have to. There are Archmages coming here, Trey. Feor was held up by Doroumata, but the Drakes and Drowned Folk are abandoning Wistram. Goelv will take us through the maze. We have to fight the guards—four versus four.”

“Madness. They’re battle-mages.”

Tov whispered. Calac’s face was set.

“We have to try. We have more than just us and Lady Pathseeker, but we have to do our part. Maybe the [Pirates] can fight them? Or perhaps—”

He hesitated. Looked around at Minizi, running to keep pace with Goelv, striding ahead of them, halting, looking back in horror. Trey, staring at Calac, Tov, the Drake, the Drowned Man looking up, aiming his wand at—

“You lot really are a huge amount of trouble.”

The Ullsinoi [Mage] commented. He flicked his off-hand, and the dagger he carried plunged into Goelv’s back as he pointed a wand behind him. A beam of light flashed, and Trey went blind as it struck Tov, but he swung his staff up, and the Ullsinoi mage kicked him between the legs.

Trey doubled over as Calac shouted. His head went white with pain, and he curled up and heard Calac cry out. The Ullsinoi [Mage] listened to Goelv screaming in pain and then snorted.

He stomped on Minizi and looked around.

“Children are taken out, Galei. Have you or Viltach found her? I think we’ve got bait—”

The Drake stopped. He turned, lowered his claw, and murmured as Calac, on his hands and knees, looked up. Trey, through the tears in his eyes, saw the [Illusionist] throw up his hands, toss the dagger, and turn.

“No!”

He almost made it. He was in the middle of a [Flash Step] sideways when Minizi stabbed his foot. That was enough. The man had a chance to cry out, and he was a man, Trey saw.

No Drake, just a plainer half-Elf man, even a slight bit overweight from Wistram’s fine meals. That was his true body, and Trey saw it as Gazi leapt out of hiding along the wall and cut him from neck to ribs.

It was such a fast cut that Trey didn’t see blood until the man collapsed. Then his head and right shoulder lay, staring up at him, and Trey felt his bile rise. He felt at his neck, and Gazi turned.

“There you are.”

She croaked. Trey looked up and saw burnt, scabbed skin. The Gazer was toasted; her armor was still whole, but the one part of her he could see, her head, was burnt, and she was breathing hard.

“Lady Pathseeker!”

Calac scrambled up, but Gazi was already bending over Goelv.

“Poisoned blade. Antidote, now.”

She tossed Calac a vial, and he fumbled at it. Gazi strode over to Tov, dumped a potion on him, and looked at Trey.

“Get to Amerys.”

“Gazi! What about the plan?”

She bared her teeth.

“Ullsinoi is here. So is that Archmage. Get to Amerys and free her.”

Someone struck a gong nearby. The reverberation went through Trey. It went through him, his bones, the floor itself. Gazi spun. The gong sounded again, and Trey staggered.

“There you are. You won’t run again.”

A voice floated down the hallway. It was…Galei. The Centaur trotted down the hallway, looking far, far too calm.

Gazi lifted her off-hand and fired a spell through Galei, but the [Ice Spike] missed; the Centaur truly was an illusion. He trotted towards the dead Ullsinoi [Mage] and knelt. He looked down, then up, sightlessly. But he knew Gazi was there.

Her armor was ringing. The entire half-Gazer was…reverberating in space. As if the sound had coalesced around her and stuck to her like glue. Trey was sure any illusion or concealment spell wouldn’t work.

“Run.”

Gazi looked at Trey. He turned to Tov, Goelv, and saw Calac rise. The [Lord] looked at Trey and took off without a word, sword and wand in either hand. Trey ran after him.

Minizi halted a moment and looked at big-Gazi. The half-Gazer looked at her cute little imitation and then turned. She didn’t try to hide, but she did walk forwards, to keep what was happening next away from Tov and Goelv. The Gazer boy was still screaming; the broad-spectrum antidote must not have worked.

He went silent after a minute. Gazi didn’t look back at him. She found a hallway and placed herself there. Her eyes moved. One for the Ullsinoi [Mage]. Another for Galei.

Two more for Archmage Viltach. Her main eye moved, checking all her points as the Archmage stopped. Gazi put her back to the wall, but they had three angles on her. She saw Archmage Viltach aim a wand at her.

“I surrender.”

The Archmage hesitated for a fraction of an instant as Gazi lowered her claymore. He shook his head slightly.

“No, you don’t.”

She sighed, and he fired a wave of frost from his wand that turned the air to pain and deathly cold. Galei unleashed a triple-shower of needles which broke on the ceiling, showering down like deadly hail. The last [Mage] filled the air with sickles of cutting magic and a [Deathbolt].

Gazi looked around, eyes spinning. Her sword came up and she—

Her mind blanked. Where was the safe spot? Where was the—

——

The fighting behind Trey and Calac turned into a roar two minutes later. They stopped in front of the Creler-murals, and Trey turned back to see Minizi running after them.

“She’s Gazi Pathseeker. We have to use her sacrifice!”

Calac grabbed Trey. The [Sand Mage] didn’t argue. He looked at Calac, and they sprinted into the final part.

Amerys’ prison.

The two Gemstone Protectors were gone. Or rather, one was downed; it had been half-melted from the firestorm of spells that had struck it. The other was gone, and Trey saw no trace of it. The singer golem was gone, he knew for a fact.

The carpeted interior of the Mershi-lounge was torn up by the Golem’s tread, but that maze remained at the end of the hallway. Ghost-space. Trey Atwood glanced back, but Goelv was gone, and so was Gazi.

Even so, he and Calac ran at the maze, ignoring the ward spells, a dead run. Trey passed by the empty greenhouse and flashed past the taproom, brightly lit up—

“Now! [Magic Tripwire]!”

“[Sticky Webs]!”

The world exploded with light. Trey felt something trip him up, then a hammer punched him in the chest. He lay on the ground, immobilized, as Minizi and Calac both hit…what? Trey heard a triumphant laugh.

“We did it! Grab their artifacts! Someone subdue the Golem! We’ll imprison them for the Archmages!”

Trey looked up as the ecstatic voices broke out into a babble. He stared at Charles de Trevalier and the Libertarian [Mages] as he and Calac were stripped of gear and tossed into a magical prison. The Libertarians toasted each other with drinks, then sat back to gloat, interrogate the two young men—and watch the scrying orb of Reim’s fall.

One last hurdle.

——

“Archmage Viltach warned us there might be intruders. Well, we will not allow Archmage Amerys to be freed. Even Ullsinoi stands with us.”

The Libertarians let Trey stand. Calac sat; there was no point. He, Minizi, and Trey had nothing on them but their clothes. They’d even pulled Minizi’s mithril bones out.

They stood behind a gleaming barrier of magic, and what was worse, magical suppression spells. The Libertarians looked smug as they checked their spells.

They were rather like Viltach. When they had realized what was happening, and seen Gazi fighting Ullsinoi, the [Mages] had made a practical, selfish call.

They’d stayed put and prepared to ambush anyone trying to get to Amerys. There were no angry Golems, no [Pirates] or fighting [Mages] outside of here. They didn’t even bother tying the two boys up.

“Just keep the mana flowing. The magical suppression field is based on a two-to-one mana efficiency quota. Why, we could keep Eldavin himself suppressed, and another Archmage to boot!”

One of the Libertarians was lecturing the others. They nodded, and Trey looked at them.

Libertarians. Charles de Trevalier still hadn’t shut up.

“Chandrarians. I knew from the instant you were a man without honor. But you? Even you…‘Earthers’ cannot be trusted. That is what you are, isn’t it?”

He aimed a rapier, flicking it between Trey and Calac. Neither young man said anything, and a bell jangled noisily on the rapier’s handle. One of the older [Mages] rested a hand on Charles’ shoulder. He looked almost kindly at Trey and then at Calac with cool animosity.

“Now, now, Charles. That would be a greater secret of Wistram. Good that you know it; frankly, after tonight, I rather think we’ll all be deserving of the full story. I’ll arrange it myself.”

Charles glanced up at the older [Mage] and nodded. He lowered his rapier fractionally.

“Just so, High Mage Lallen. And I swear on the Trevalier name that these two will not go free. Nor Gazi Pathseeker herself if she comes!”

“Hear, hear! And I for Havrington!”

Timor du Havrington chipped in. The two were at the front of the group trying to interrogate Trey and Calac. The others had just sat back; the barrier kept them from the two young men as well as the reverse.

“So what else have you planned? How many co-conspirators are there? Tell us now and it might go easier for you.”

Another [Mage] warned Trey. The [Sand Mage] just stood there. He looked at Charles, Timor, the Libertarians, most of whom weren’t even close to battle-mages, and muttered.

“The idiots at the end. The idiots at the end got us.”

“What did he say?”

Charles and his friends bristled. Trey just looked at Calac. The [Lord] rose, and suddenly charged the barrier. The air flashed, and he recoiled and sat back down hard.

The [Mages] recoiled and then laughed at the two young men.

“What a [Brute]. How did you even get to Wistram? No wonder you were spies; you can’t have made it in normally. Any one of us could have stopped you; no need for a group.”

Charles sneered at Calac. The [Swordsman] cursed as he got up.

“Let me out, and we’ll see who could stop who. I’ll take you on with my bare hands.”

He glanced at Trey, and the [Sand Mage] stirred. He’d give Calac that fight—maybe. Charles bristled, but the older [Mage] who had cast the barrier and magic suppression spell was half-listening. He turned to a table and lifted a hand.

“Ah, ah. No falling for their provocations. I have sent word to the Archmages we have prisoners, but they’re busy. Archmage Viltach is capturing Gazi Pathseeker.”

“Capturing?”

“If he can, I think. Archmage Feor is moving to assist him, and Archmage Nailihuaile says she will come to ensure Amerys is safe.”

“That Lizardwoman would. Just so long as she knows who was here—we didn’t even need the inner guards!”

“Be respectful. And remember, there is still fighting in the rest of Wistram. Most of it towards the entrance, though. So! [Silence] spells up and wands out. Anyone sees someone coming this way, let us know. The scrying orb should be off, incidentally.”

The [Mage] looked pointedly at the orb sitting on one of the tables. As well as the drinks some of the [Mages] were quaffing while they waited. Trey looked up as a young woman protested.

“But [High Mage]—I think Reim is about to fall!”

Calac looked up as the [High Mage] turned, and the Libertarians looked from Trey and Calac to the orb. Trey’s heart squeezed, and he saw the [High Mage] hesitate—then nod towards the table.

“…Bring it over, then. And turn up the volume so we can all hear.”

“Let them hear it, High Mage? But—”

Charles began to protest, but High Mage Lallen gave him a cool stare, and the [Lord] hesitated. The man turned and looked at Calac and Trey.

“They risked everything. They might as well see how it ends.”

Slowly, the orb was brought over, and Trey and Calac looked at the scrying orb as the minutes passed. Trey looked into the orb and saw Nawalishifra’s last creation. Calac Crusland?

His parents.

——

Rain fell. Or so she thought, at first. Rain was a glorious thing. Water was precious.

But like Chandrar’s mirages, it was just a bitter illusion.

Arrows fell instead. A shower so dark it did turn the world into one of shade. She looked up and thought she saw a thousand birds.

Then they struck the ground, the anvil, and her. One volley of arrows, and then another. The [Smith] felt an impact on her shoulder—lifted her hammer.

She had to finish her work. She could die then.

Even if they struck her brain. Even if they riddled her full of holes—she had to finish her sword. Her vow.

Yet Nawalishifra felt only the burning pain of one arrow. She lifted her hammer again, brought it down, and the ripple ran through the blood.

They were watching her. [Soldiers]. Warriors on either side. The blood pooled around her. The foul steel was covered in it, yet it seemed as though, each time Nawalishifra raised her hammer, there was even more of it covering the steel.

She had hammered it flat, even without fire. Breaking the metal. Yet it was taking a shape. A bloody…

Sword. Each hammer stroke was far too long apart. Nawalishifra raised the hammer high and brought it down with all her might. She was used to such meter and measure…but this took all her weight and strength. It felt as if part of her ran out with each blow. And it did.

She bled, and the red formed the core of this blade.

More arrows. They sounded like a distant roar, like a giant made of clouds howling as they came towards her. Again, Nawalishifra waited, resolved to raise that hammer until she was done.

But they never struck her. So she raised the hammer again and brought it down and now the entire city shook, or so it felt. A ringing blow through her hammer into the ground.

Perhaps he heard it. The King of Destruction, sitting in his palace, waiting to see the end of it. Did he raise his head?

Was it time? He would surely sally forth at the end.

He did not come. But as Nawal lifted the last blade and saw the blood ripple as the mockery of smithing rose—a third volley flew down. She saw enchanted arrows now—and then a flicker.

The [Smith] looked sideways with eyes that lacked everything except will. Even so, they widened slightly.

Someone cut the air with a one-edged enchanted sword. It looked like one motion, cutting across the air and back. She put her entire body into it, and the arrows split midair as she slashed through the shafts, cleaving a gap in the hail of arrows for herself and Nawal.

Teresa Atwood pivoted, and the two young women beheld one another. The girl with a sword was smiling broadly, her eyes as alight, even delighted, as Nawal’s were empty.

Three arrows stood out in her armor, and she was bleeding around them. She had shielded Nawal with her blade art. Three times. She staggered slightly as Nawal’s head rose.

A girl who had everything she wanted. Or at least, this. A sword and a Skill. A momentous day.

A new class.

The [Blade of War] turned. No [Swordswoman]. Nor [Blademaster], nor [Soldier]. Not a warrior or adventurer. Turned and performed the sword art again, as Nawalishifra went back to her work. With no meaning other than this.

An edge of death, swinging so sharp she might cut herself. Teresa Atwood saw Nawal lift something up.

“Aah. Aha.”

She muttered. The arrows were poisoned. She fumbled for an antidote, grinning blearily. But she stumbled towards Nawal.

“It’s beautiful, Nawal. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever…”

Nawal said nothing. The [Smith] looked up and beheld the core of her blade.

Pure steel. A purity of steel you got only from reforging the metal again and again. Wearing away the excess, the impurity, wasting it, in truth. She could have made a dozen blades, two dozen, four dozen, from the metal she had burnt into scale and ash.

She had always known it was worth it for what she made. Art.

This? This…was that beautiful bar of pure steel. One that could become Naq-Alrama steel in time with a thousand other preparations.

Crushed. Beaten into broken pieces by a hammer. Pulverized into worthless metal and turned to slag by blood and dirt.

Worthless. Yet in defiance of that, she had hammered it in the very outline of a sword. If it held together, it was only because the blood had acted like a glue.

That was her blade. The former [Peerless Magical Smith] looked up and beheld the end of her class. She had tossed away her love of metal. Would it ever come back now she had betrayed it?

It didn’t matter. This dirty blade…that was not what Teresa was looking at.

It was the blood. Nawalishifra held up the blade to the sky and felt not the bite of metal scraps and blood on her hand.

Her grip was solid but…wet. The air rippled, and a red blade’s edge ran downwards like water. Nawalishifra had made steel that looked like it flowed as if it were water.

This? This was a blade of liquid. Yet sharp—so sharp it sliced the anvil as she lowered it.

The sacrificial metal was surrounded by blood. It formed a sword around its wretched core. A sword too long to be practical, dark red. Opaque and horrible.

A sword of blood.

That was all. Yet Nawal laid the blade on the anvil, and it did not collapse. She stepped away, raised her right hand, and looked at her wrist.

A thin line of red stretched away from the sword as the [Smith] staggered back. A…trail of her blood.

She and it were connected. But the sword was more than her blood. It was the ichor of the fallen. The price of so many bodies and lives taken.

The pooled crimson on the ground stirred. A perfect moat of it around the anvil. Slowly…rising upwards. Globules of red floating upwards and joining the blade.

It did not grow with the mass of the blood but seemed to condense it. Heavy. It was already filled with the lifeblood of many bodies. It was so heavy—but as light as the mere metal inside of it.

Heavy on the soul, light on the hand.

The [Smith] stared at it. She had never been more ashamed of a work in her life. She was not relieved—but there it was.

“A blade such as you have never seen, King of Destruction. With this, I fulfill my promise.”

The [Smith]’s face was pale under her veil. She raised it, but it was so covered with blood that she let it hang. She looked around.

“Now only a hand to wield it.”

The arrows fell no more. The archers had tried three times to kill the [Smith] in vain. Yet they had slaughtered the people at the gap. A roar of massed voices filled the air, and Nawal looked up.

Nerrhavia’s horde came for the gap, and there was no one to stand there. The end of Reim came. Civilians with weapons held in trembling hands looked towards a line of shining armor marching at the gap.

What a merciless sight, for this cursed continent of dust and blood. What a pathetic blade to leave for my legacy.

She regretted it. Nawalishifra weakly raised her hand to break the blade, but the red string pulsed, and she slowly sat down. She had given it all for this blade. She should never have made it, even to redeem her honor and clan.

She regretted it all. She tried to pull herself up but just lay there, connected to the blade. The weapon lay on the anvil, and someone went to pick it up.

“What a beautiful sword. For a fitting moment.”

Teresa stumbled forwards, eyes locked on the sword and the [Soldiers] beyond. She went to pick up Nawal’s regrets. Nawal looked at Teresa’s wide smile.

Then the young woman’s face turned confused, and she fell down. She reached for the arrows sticking out of her armor.

“Ow. Ow, I…”

She reached up for the blade longingly. She tried to climb up, but someone gripped her leg and held her back.

“Not you. Not you.”

Nawal held Teres. The young woman’s face twisted into confusion. She looked at the weapon, turning her head to Nawal and speaking almost plaintively.

“It suits me.”

“I know. That is why.”

Teresa looked so puzzled, as if she didn’t see it. How well one went with the other. Too well. They would never let each other go.

For Trey, Nawal clung to Teresa. The young woman tried to haul herself up the anvil, touch…but she couldn’t.

Slowly, her eyes rolled up in her head, and Nawal looked at her blade.

It had to be held. Held, and used. Or it had been made for nothing. She regretted stopping Teresa and did not.

“Tyrants die.”

A voice rang through the air. A massed chorus turned into one tone. They were chanting as they came. Nerrhavia’s glorious hordes. The last men and women staggered upright, saw what was coming, and wavered.

Into that gap, alone, a man walked. He strode down the street, as fast as he had flown to this spot—suddenly slowed. A figure who walked with all the time left in the world.

He paused by the anvil, and Nawal locked eyes with him. Lord Venith Crusland looked down at what she had made, and she saw the knowledge of how dirty and wrong this blade was in his eyes.

So she smiled as he picked it up. The [Lord]’s arm rose with the weight of the damned’s blood. The toll of a battlefield. He tossed his shield aside to carry his burden with two hands.

“Reim is not lost. Hold your positions. This dream is more than you or I. Now I have picked up my blade, I will pursue it until the end. I will hold this position alone.”

He turned to the others, and no one spoke. The [Lord] walked into the gap, and the charging [Soldiers] hesitated.

They saw a Human man who had ridden by destruction’s side. Just a man, armor battered, weary as could be.

Holding a sword made from blood.

He did not warn them. Venith Crusland uttered no vows. He stood in the gap and waited for them to come to him. The [Lord of Battle] said nothing.

They knew what he was. The [Soldiers] hesitated. Their officers shouted at them and called upon Skills and threats. Some of them went down, pulled down by their very troops who turned and ran.

Others did not. For gold or glory. For bravado or to take that blade—to see the end of this war—for every reason that was theirs alone, they charged into that gap.

The blade of ichor had no edge to break, so it cut through armor and flesh without end. It had no weight on Venith’s arm, but it fell with the weight of all the dead’s blood, crushing guards. It was long, growing, as long as a lance. Light as a feather.

Nawal could see it rising and falling. Feel as every drop added itself to the blade. She would know where it was anywhere in the world.

That little line of red hung in the air. Her fate and the sword’s intertwined. Pulsing with each beat of her heart.

The beating of blood was growing dim. Nawal lay there, bitterly watching as Venith held that ground.

An army came at him. Arrows struck his armor, and spells passed his guard. But his blood…the [Lord] looked down at the sword and paid the toll in someone else’s blood.

Silk followed where Hemp fled. Warriors with beautiful blades and faces traced dances of art in the air and died without a sound. The defenders of Reim looked down where a single point held back Nerrhavia’s great army.

In his palace, the King of Destruction stirred.

One sword. One magnificently broken blade. Nawal tried to smile, she truly did. But she couldn’t.

She wasn’t proud of it. It had been made with nothing but loss. It was nothing but suffering, a mass of it weighted together. Death, a void of it trying to drag everything else in.

But it is done.

They were breaking. Silk, despoiled by crimson. Only pride kept them coming, and that was snapping. Nawal’s eyes fluttered, and the line of red slackened.

——

Lord Venith Crusland had known blades like this before. Blades worthy of legends. Terrible, cursed instruments forged with hate and glorious metal.

He had seen them break and used and kept until the final hour by people who prized them more than their own lives.

Never had he held one until now. His arm was burning from the fighting, he felt each blow he took, but he did not bleed. But it was so heavy.

Heavy with the weight of the [Smith]’s regrets. Heavy…sucking him into it.

Yet they were dying. He saw the fear in their eyes as they backed away. The [Lord] felt invincible. He wanted to charge into the enemy army and scatter them.

It took all of his might to look away. To look back.

A woman stood on a platform, bow raised, staring at him. His wife. Maresar watched Venith, and he gazed at her. Yes…his heart remembered to keep beating. He regained something.

He looked back. Tracing a thin line of red, almost invisible, in the air. To its source.

That young woman, lying on the ground. She was still alive. The blood kept flowing from her to this blade. She was looking at him, a bitter expression on her face.

The final work of Clan Tannousin’s last [Smith]. A weapon to turn a battlefield around. To win a war. He knew that.

We will have to feed it with every battle until it grows so hungry it will devour us all. But for a time—it will reap that harvest faithfully.

A sword made of a dying girl’s regrets for a sin that was not hers. The [Lord] raised it higher, looking at it.

So beautiful? A ruby-red blade reaching towards the sky, hungrily trying to cut the firmament itself and lick at the ichor of stars. Venith Crusland beheld what it had been made from. Tarnished steel. Broken pride.

He nodded. The [Lord] planted the blade in the ground in front of him. Nerrhavia’s [Soldiers] stopped their flight, and Nawalishifra’s head rose.

Venith Crusland unsheathed his own sword. The blood-blade seemed to quiver in the fading sunlight, a red sky to match its nature. The [Lord] looked up at an army vast beyond counting, his enemies.

Then at the [Smith].

“I am Lord Venith Crusland, vassal of the King of Destruction. In the name of Flos Reimarch—I honor Clan Tannousin’s debt.”

His voice rang out across the battlefield. Venith Crusland took up his sword in both hands and turned. He saw Nawal’s eyes widen and thought, even across the distance that separated them, he could hear her gasp.

The bloody blade cried out for a second. It tried to stop him—but Venith swung through the coat of blood. He struck the core, and his sword broke.

So did the metal inside. It twisted, the slightest chip taken out of it—then the blood bubbled. It twisted, breaking free of the binding and quivered, as if it were alive. Venith stepped back—

And the blood of thousands simply collapsed in a wave of crimson. It spread across the dry soil outside of Reim’s walls, flowing past the boots of [Soldiers] who turned, officers and warriors, as the people on the walls and below them looked down.

They looked at Venith too. Why had he done that? Nawalishifra, the officers turning to look at Venith like a fool—they could not understand. What had he done? That fool. That utter idiot had thrown away a glorious weapon—Reim’s last hope. For a second, it had created a gap in the enemy’s onslaught. Even the [Archers] had put down their bows and run. Why?

The [Lord] looked back at the woman standing there with bow in hand. She nodded at him, and he looked back at the [Smith]. Lying there.

Still alive. Her bond with the sword was broken. Venith pointed at her.

“You are no longer Nawalishifra of Clan Tannousin. Your every bond has been paid. You have fulfilled your vows. Be free of your debts, to kin and honor.”

Two confused eyes. Before unconsciousness claimed her, Nawalishifra looked at Venith, uncomprehending. As if her life had ever been worth less than a sword.

Venith knew the feeling. When she picked up that hammer again—

She would walk higher on her long journey.

“Perhaps even as far as Drevish and all the others went. They will make this land’s future. Not me.”

The [Lord] felt light. He turned back and saw Silk-warriors standing there. A double-line of men and women with enchanted blades.

Their leader aimed a partisan spear at Venith’s chest. His armor was enchanted, immaculately made, and Venith saw a feathered helm, a dangling lover’s trinket—a locket—from the tip of the spear.

He reached for his shield, but he had cast it down. He lifted his sword and saw it was a scorched piece of metal snapped at the hilt.

The [Lord] tossed the blade down.

“Will not one of you offer me a sword?”

He turned to the warriors in front of him, a hand held out slightly. Beseechingly.

Nerrhavia Fallen’s soldiers looked at each other. Not one moved. They offered no blade to the [Lord], but they did toss their pride down. The [Spearmaster] advanced, and Lord Venith Crusland sighed.

——

Trey Atwood pressed his hand against the barrier. He was bleeding, and the blood turned to sand, but the sand helplessly moved against the barrier. Minizi was punching it.

Calac Crusland did nothing. He was just staring at the image in the scrying orb. He had gone still.

“It’s on a delay. Five minutes, I think.”

The [Mages] were looking at him. They could read his name without his warding stones.

Calac Crusland. Lord Venith Crusland stood unarmed in the gap. Calac watched him, and touched a little bag of faded leather. His face was so blank…

He never blinked.

——

Gazi Pathseeker was grinning. She was not happy.

A smile was just an expression. Like tears, it was something you showed people. She raised her sword and parried a spear of lightning. She swung around, pivoting, and let a pillar of stone punch her across the hallway. She hit the ground, rolling, more spells striking the ground.

“Don’t let her do that again.”

“[Deathbolt] failed. Switch to other spells. What is her armor made of?”

The [Message] spells flitted through the air. Words too, on speaking stones.

She could read the [Message] spells. A Centaur aimed two wands at her, and she threw herself sideways. She cried out in pain as her shoulder exploded into fire.

“She felt that.”

Still, the half-Gazer scrambled up. When she whirled, her eye forced a bolt of lightning to explode mid-arc. She thought her Skills.

[True Gaze of the Gorgon].

The spells flying her way winked out. One of the Ullsinoi [Mages] screamed, a layer of stone on her skin. But alive—her magic protected her. The Centaur grimaced, and the Archmage’s wards flashed and exploded.

Two dozen ward stones burnt away. But Archmage Viltach remained. He aimed at her, and the [War Scout] breathed.

[I Moved Like Thunder].

A thunderous roar. She vanished, skirting down a hallway, around the next, appearing in a blur. Not to run. Nor hide. She had to buy them time.

Instead of running, she stopped, lifted her sword, and grinned wider.

[They Feared My Name].

Distract them. The Archmage striding towards Amerys’ cell whirled. His fake white beard moved as he lifted his fingers. So much magic—

The first of [Valmira’s Comets] was easy to dodge. She cartwheeled away from the next, made another explode with her eye. Her sword pierced a third—and Viltach flung a stone, which unfolded into a spell she couldn’t dodge with Galei’s twin [Shatterbolt Storms] aimed at her face.

The Centaur, panting, lowered his wands as he saw the [Web of Magnesis] catch Gazi. The Gazer looked back at Viltach, and the Archmage nodded at Feor. The Archmage of half-Elves was preparing his great spell that even Eldavin had struggled against.

[Valmira’s True Comet Storm]. Galei sniped from the side as both Archmages filled the hallway with fire. He never saw the Gazer woman beg for mercy or surrender. She just smiled, suffering. She had known worse. She slid across the ground and finally lost her grip on her claymore. She shielded her face with her gauntleted arms and felt her armor crack for the first time ever. Her skin was far weaker.

Even so, she bought them another minute. Another minute. Another…

——

The first arrows landed around Venith Crusland as he threw himself behind a shattered block of stone. He reached for a blade, but they were all broken or submerged under blood. He looked up as a spearman charged the gap, a glittering tip aimed at his heart.

The [Lord] looked up, teeth bared, struggling. Struggling, in this last moment. Just a little longer and those gates would open. And—

The spear wove towards his heart, and Venith heard the air scream. He heard a whistling sound—an impossibly large thunk—and a cry.

The [Lord of Battle] looked up—and saw the [Spearmaster] stop, mid-lunge, and look in confusion at the weapon sticking out of his chest.

A sword, the hilt of it rammed all the way through his ribs. Venith stared at the sword blankly.

Where had…his head rose. He saw a figure standing in a tower raise her hand in salute.

Maresar. Venith reached for the sword, almost laughing. What a shot! What a beautiful…

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the figure look up. A cloud passed over Venith’s head, and he slowed, turning.

Four hundred flaming arrows tore through the sky. Each one launched by an artifact of war. Four hundred arrows as the [Bandit Lord] raced for cover.

Only one touched her. That silver arrow, loosed from a [Sniper]. It streaked across the walls and struck her through the side.

Venith Crusland saw it, forgetting the [Soldiers] charging the breach. He saw the dark-skinned woman, the [Bandit Lord]—stagger. She reached for the arrow buried in her side and looked at him.

Venith’s heart died.

——

Maresar Crusland stood there, swaying, as her tower burned. Slowly, every head turned to her. Fleeing citizens of Reim. Her fellow [Soldiers].

Her husband. She saw it all. Saw the triumphant [Sniper] she had missed. Saw Nerrhavia’s army roar and charge as the [Supreme Marshal] beheld the end.

It was all there, stretching out before her. A vast plain of understanding. A single second—she tried to breathe, but her lungs had stopped.

The [Bandit Lord] stood there and looked at it all. Peacefully. With every regret in the world. She spoke, and her voice carried itself across the winds. It echoed from every building and roof, in every ear.

“I have repaid every debt I can. Every home I despoiled, every life I ruined…”

Maresar felt at her side. Death had its hand on her shoulder, but she was granted the right of everyone who had walked her path. There was no wrath left in her heart. She had to tell them. Maresar licked lips bloodied and wet.

“I will pay them again if I have but the chance.”

There was no air left in her lungs. The woman felt her legs collapse under her. Her head lowered, and she felt herself going.

She had no breath. But still, the last words came to her lips. The [Bandit Lord] raised her arm and tore the arrow from her side. She raised it to her bow.

“[Share My End].”

An arrow curved through the sky. For the first time in her life, Maresar did not aim it. She did not even watch it land, striking the fleeing woman in the same place, the same death.

The [Bandit Lord] was reaching up to her neck. She fumbled at the object. The right of her class. Her long list of sins…she held something to her chest and whispered.

“My son. [Inheritance of the Bandit Lord].”

The bag hanging around her neck flickered—and vanished. For a second, she saw Calac’s face, staring like his father’s, angry—then confused. She smiled.

What a glorious last…

——

The woman crumpled. Nerrhavia Fallen’s army was silent as Reim—for one moment. Then they cheered.

Maresar the [Bandit Lord] was dead.

“Charge! Take the city!”

Heedless of the towers, of the rest, the legions swarmed closer. This was their moment of triumph. They came through the gaps as another gate fell. Chariots racing ahead of infantry.

The [Soldiers] went through the breach and found a single [Lord] there. He stared up at that burning tower. When he turned back to them, his face was blank. He brought his sword up and down like a Golem, like a machine, and chopped through a shoulder and chest. Someone raised their shield to block, and he crushed the arm and body.

The first Silk-warriors vanished, and the Hemp stopped again. They looked at the [Lord] standing there, and his aura was wrath. He said not a word, and they backed away.

Then he shouted. Then he screamed and wept and lashed out. A blind, deaf man, heedless of death or pain. Looking around as shadows fled around him. Searching for something to stop him from feeling. He could not find it.

——

Maresar was dead. Trey Atwood was weeping. The [Mages] looked at him, some sneering at his tears. Others were somber, but then the [High Mage] was puzzled.

“What was that last Skill?”

The little bag around Maresar’s neck…the scrying spells had zoomed in so far they had seen it vanish.

A little leather bag of holding. One of the [Mages]—Timor—frowned.

Hadn’t he seen it? It looked so familiar. But where…

The young man turned and looked over his shoulder. He saw a [Lord], a boy, a son, holding something in his hands.

A bloody leather bag.

But they had taken all his possessions. Trey stopped weeping. He looked at Calac Crusland, then at the scrying orb.

It was on a five minute delay. One of the [Mages] hesitated. Something had changed about the air in front of the two boys.

“Where…where did the magic barrier go?”

She waved a hand in the space it should be. The field, too.

Calac Crusland said nothing. Like his father—he looked at the scrying orb. Then down at his inheritance.

He held a piece of wood in his other hand. A thin shaft of wood…tipped with a glimmering piece of Naq-Alrama steel. Calac looked up as the Libertarians turned and saw what he was holding. He gazed at his mother’s gift, up, with lost eyes at Trey and then around at the hateful world without her.

Then Calac went insane.

——

An army charged across the ground towards the gates. A ruler stirred within the palace.

Maresar was dead. What came next was earth-shaking. Grand acts and battle and desperation and more death.

But, for a moment…a figure turned away from the scrying orb. She looked away from the battle.

“Halt the army.”

The people around her were confused. The Siren of Savere raised her voice.

“Halt the army. Now.”

Ceria Springwalker looked up as Revine Zecrew stood upon her golden palanquin of water. The Siren looked around, as [Rogues] and [Bandits] stopped marching or laughing or watching the battle. She gave one order.

“Open the stores. Fetch me a keg of the finest. Open a barrel for everyone.”

——

The words were repeated in Izril as well. The laughing, merry, hidden gathering of young [Lords] and [Ladies] had a number of others.

Rough folk, not nearly as well-off—at least in rank. They rubbed shoulders here. Equals, even if that was only the lie they said.

The Bloodfeast Raiders respected no heroism. They had nothing invested in Reim aside from entertainment. So a laughing [Lady] looked at the strangely-silent man.

“Why? That was—”

He reached out and grabbed her shoulder. The man’s grip was so tight his fingers were white. She gasped in pain and reacted, reaching for her side—but the room went quiet as the [Bandit Lord] whispered.

“Raise a glass.”

Confused, the Bloodfeast Raiders looked at him as someone poured a mug. The contents didn’t matter.

Fine wine. Rotgut. Fermented juice or water.

Whatever they had at hand. The Siren of Savere halted her army. The Bloodfeast Raiders looked at their leader and heard the same words.

Revine looked at the scrying orb. Rasea Zecrew looked at her crew, stopped fighting, and drew a flask from her side and lost her smile.

This is what they said:

“Raise a glass for a murderer, a thief and a knave.

A [Bandit], a [Pirate]’s gone to their deserved grave.

Now listen, for their seat’s open for another bastard’s ass

One of twelve the world over, the rarest noble’s class.”

Eleven men and women. The oldest [Bandit Lord] toasted the second most ancient to fall.

“Someone’s met the headman’s axe or gotten their just reward

Laugh if you hated them or go searching for their hoard

Spit upon their graves or swear they’ll be avenged

If you care not at all, go on your merry way and laugh.

But first—”

They tipped the cups up and drank.

“—raise a fucking glass.”

Then they laughed, or cursed her name. Or turned away and said nothing more. That was all she would ever get, and more than they ever asked for.

A tribute to the fallen [Bandit Lord].

——

Teresa was crying. Weeping as well. She stumbled back up the hill, towards the palace.

For Maresar. For the end. For the loss of that precious blade that could have changed it all. She was excited, too, so she was smiling behind her tears.

They were coming through the gates. Over the ladders on the walls. Reim’s soldiers were shouting Maresar’s name, but…

He would be there at the end. She would ride down with him and see what Trey always talked about. For the end or a miracle—

She wanted to be there.

Aside from one man standing at a breach, every [Soldier] was falling back. The only reason the [Soldiers] did not charge Venith Crusland was because they looked at him, a [Lord] bereaved, arrows snapping in midair before they could even touch him. The [Soldiers] were not fools.

They did not want to die.

——

Bast’s 14th took the walls once more, and this time they were one of a hundred points breaking.

“Reinforcements! Reinforcements!”

A [Captain of the Line] was shouting. If she could close her eyes and put her head down…she would level.

It wouldn’t be enough. She swept a sword down and beheaded her opponent, but there were six for every [Soldier] here. More were coming. She looked over her shoulder and saw—to her disbelief—reinforcements.

Every [Soldier] who could stand was committed. To saving Lord Venith’s life, to holding the gates as the first chariots charged in. So who…?

She saw a pale-faced boy, barely nine, struggling up the walls with a decrepit man holding a club. A veiled woman, possibly a mother, holding a spear.

“No. Not you.”

The [Captain] calmed down, despite the fire in her blood. She looked at the massed civilians and saw more groups headed towards the wall. She actually put out an arm to stop them, walking backwards.

Even the Nerrhavian [Soldiers] hesitated for a second. They had eyes; they saw their next opponents coming up the stairs and hesitated. The little boy looked up, his eyes focusing on the soldiers. He dropped the shortsword he was holding.

Bast’s 14th saw him raise his head. The boy had a thin bone flute in his hands. Was he a [Piper]? No, it wasn’t quite a flute. He looked at a [Soldier], and his cheeks puffed.

A faint sound. One of the [Soldiers] made a sound. Then…dropped. One of his friends caught him, and she saw something strange buried in his cheek.

A feathered…dart? A tiny little—

Thft. Thft.

Two more puffs and two more [Soldiers] fell over. They stared at the boy and then saw him change targets. Someone raised their shield, and the blowdart pinged off the metal.

“Attack—”

The next words were a gurgle as the veiled woman swept something up from her robes and clicked the trigger of the crossbow.

The bolt went through an armored chest at nigh point-blank range. Bast’s 14th saw another of the civilians calmly draw a curved dagger, a strange, angled blade, a kukri, and sweep it across the first face.

A spear stabbed, and one of the civilians dodged in a blur and threw something into the face of his attacker. Flames. The screaming Stitch-woman clawed at her face, and a kick sent her over the walls.

What was that? Reim’s soldiers put up their blades for a moment as more figures wearing cloth clothing covering all but their eyes or children took the walls.

An old man with a bow looked down at a group of [Soldiers] climbing the ladders. His cold stare met the eyes of the boys climbing.

“[Piercing Shot].”

Eight figures loosed a single arrow each. The [Assassin] lifted his bow and spoke into a stone at his wrist.

“Wall secured.”

——

The first chariots were coming through the north gates, and the shield line was braced in a desperate attempt to block the charge. The whooping [Chariot Riders] saw the first chariot’s lead driver and passengers jerk.

Dozens of arrows feathered their bodies, and the chariot slid, crashing and overturning, as the poor horses went down first.

[Assassins] on the rooftops. They threw down scrolls, and the next chariots slammed into the first, the barriers forming a wall of wreckage. Warriors struggled to get out of the crashed vehicles—just in time to look up and see the first bottles of exploding oil land and set them ablaze. The others kept loosing arrows as Nerrhavia’s charge came to an abrupt stop before it had begun.

——

What was going on? Teresa Atwood’s smile wavered. She looked towards the gates of Reim’s palace.

They opened. Slowly, the two broad doors revealing a ruler. Just as promised.

But it was not the King of Destruction. A far, far shorter figure wearing a veil strode through the gates, flanked by a tall, beautiful lady with a green tint to her skin, dark veins—a [Highborn Lady] that Teresa recognized. If changed.

Vaitsha Zectiou followed the little figure as she stopped at the top of the hill. As Trey, the scrying spells, and the people focused on her, the little personage raised their arm.

Then they said it. The civilians running towards the walls abandoned their disguises. The [Assassins] standing on the walls, the warriors raised their voices and screamed that famous name.

“The Quarass!”

The—? Nerrhavia Fallen’s [Soldiers] didn’t understand what they were hearing at first. But then the roar came louder, from her people.

“The Quarass of Germina!”

Down the hill she came, at a run. A blade in hand. Her sworn protector followed, and they headed towards one of the gates as Germina’s hidden soldiers revealed themselves.

The Quarass? Teresa stared at the little figure wearing a veil. She looked at the palace. But that meant—

——

[Assassins] took the walls. A group of Cotton-[Soldiers] looked up and saw a strange figure, carrying…was it a bucket and a ladle?

Nonsensical, like a [Cook] with a pot of soup. Until the figure flicked the contents of the ladle at them and they realized it wasn’t water or soup.

It was…burning water. No—the flames burst on their armor and clung to them as the warriors shouted and tried to knock it off. But it just spread. Flaming…slime? Flaming—

“Fire! Fire!”

The Stitch-folk panicked, screaming, trying to put out the flames that wouldn’t end. The alchemy-bearing [Assassin] continued spraying them with fire, setting them alight, burning them in their armor.

[Fireballs] were exploding around the walls, and another figure wearing a strange suit of cloth set themselves alight. They ran at the first [Soldiers]—

“[Full Body Throw].”

And threw them. The [Soldiers] touched the burning figure and started to catch fire themselves. The panicked [Spearmen] stabbed at the grappling expert as they lunged, trying to set them all alight like tinder.

——

The Quarass!

The [Supreme Marshal] was horrified as he heard the shouting. He saw the fires shooting down from Reim’s wall and knew it was her.

Only she was that cruel. She didn’t fight like the King of Destruction. Her [Assassins], far fewer in number, sowed terror as much as trying to kill the enemy.

Fire, fire! And Nerrhavia Fallen’s army was surging at the walls. This was what the Quarass had been waiting for.

A commitment. The chariots at the gates were being sniped from above, his prized warriors being slaughtered.

“Pull the ranks back! Pull back!”

The [Supreme Marshal] roared around the panicking command. They had to regroup! Germina would pay for this. They had to…

The [Strategists] and officers not attacking the city were in a flurry, trying to shout orders at each group, address the sudden attacks. They barely noticed one of the serving girls drop her tray and reach for something.

The [Slave] ran at the [Surpreme Marshal], and he noticed the motion, twisting, fumbling for his sword—

His [Bodyguards] ran the [Slave] through. The command reeled back from the glaring eyes, the gasping lips.

“The Quarass—”

“Assassination attempt! Order every officer to watch themselves! That—that damned woman! Inform the capital the Quarass has fully sided with Reim!”

The [Supreme Marshal] staggered back, nodding at his guards who stabbed the [Slave] again. She was grinning glassily at him. The [Supreme Marshal] snarled at her, as if she had wronged him. His [Slave].

The young woman gurgled as she died. She was still…smiling.

“The Quarass can set us free. [Death Spell—”

The [Supreme Marshal] looked at her and then went pale. He leapt with a scream as his [Bodyguards] shouted and—

——

The [Soldiers] marching towards Reim were staring at the fire from the walls when they heard the explosion. They whirled, looked back in horror, and pointed.

[Firestorm]. The spell engulfed the [Supreme Marshal]’s tent, raining blue fire down around them. Nerrhavia’s forces, in disarray, stared at their burning command and saw Reim launching its counterattack.

——

The Quarass had sided with Reim! The little figure fighting with sword and shield, inspiring her people to greater ferocity, greater terror—

Nailihuaile was shaking with frustration. Why now? Why…

“There’s a group of [Riders] coming from the northwest, Archmage. The [Strategists] are all reporting a force of cavalry. Barely four thousand strong. Nerrhavia’s Fallen is—wavering.”

Beatrice was keeping abreast of the rest of the battle as it happened. Naili snapped at her.

“Shut up! Don’t talk to me about strategy! We’ll bombard them with spells ourselves if we have to! Where is Troy Atlas? If I need to, I’ll put a wand to Amerys’ head and threaten the King of Destruction myself!”

The Gazer was fighting Viltach and Feor. Naili slithered faster as her bodyguard of Revivalists kept pace. Troy Atlas, that Earther—

She came across two fallen young men and stopped for a second. Tov was breathing, but scorched badly—yet a potion had saved his life. Goelv?

“Dead?”

One of the [Mages] bent down. It was Beatrice who asked; Naili didn’t even care, but she slowed to let them check. How had they gotten free?

“Alive. Barely.”

The Gazer’s eyes were all moving around randomly, rather than rolled up. Disconcerting. Eerie, even to someone who had met Gazers. He was definitely unconscious, but…

“Help! Help!”

A young voice screamed through the hallway. Naili snapped her staff—the Serkonian Lance—up but relaxed as she saw who it was.

A terrified [Lady] ran towards them, screaming.

“He’s killing them! He’s killing them all!”

“Emirea?”

One of the Revivalists turned, and the others stopped as the [Lady] threw herself towards them. Her dress was torn, and someone had blackened one of her eyes.

“What happened? How did they get free?”

Emirea was sobbing.

“Calac—he’s killing them! He has a Naq-Alrama dagger, and he’s—help! Help, please!”

Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she was shaking uncontrollably. Naili cursed.

“That [Bandit Lady] or whoever…keep clear of him. With me.”

“What about—Emirea, let go, let go, please.”

She was clinging to one of the [Mages]. Hysterically shrieking. Naili eyed her and suspected she’d been taken hostage. Those damned idiots! She hissed, but mindful of the girl, jerked her head.

“One of you take her somewhere safe!”

“No, Archmage! They hurt me last time! Please, take me with you!”

The girl instantly turned and grabbed at Naili’s lower half. The Star Lamia really, really did not have time for this! She smiled and tried to prise Emirea off her.

“Emirea, it’s dangerous. I—fine, come with us if you must! But stay behind me. I’ll shield you. Let go of my staff, please? That’s the Serkonian Lance. It doesn’t like people who aren’t its owners.”

She jerked the relic back; Emirea was clinging to it like a monkey. A bit worried, in fact.

“Beatrice, get her off. It will attack her.”

It was a relic of her people, after all. Beatrice bent down and winced.

“Ow! Lady Emirea, don’t scratch me! I…”

The girl clawed at Naili, and the Archmage yelped. Her nails were sharp! She lost her patience, hysterics or not.

“That’s it. Someone grab Emirea and put her in time-out. Just pull her off and—huh?”

There was a faint thumping sound. Like…a head hitting the floor. She looked over her shoulder. One of the two Dullahans had collapsed. Naili stared dumbly at him; his head had rolled off his body. Then she saw Beatrice sag and fall flat.

“Beatrice? What—wh—”

Attack! Naili spun, or tried to with the weight on her staff. She cursed, abandoning it. Her head felt…fuzzy, all of a sudden. She spun left, right, and saw another Revivalist choking, foaming at the mouth.

“Poison.”

Naili whispered. One of her Nagas was last to slump over. Someone had poisoned a Naga? Nailihuaile…

Felt a creeping sensation running down her scales. Her mind had fuzzed, but she put together the pieces instantly. After all…who could it be? She turned and saw a little figure wiping at her face.

Her tears had run down her face, and her eye was black and bruised, but when Beatrice had tried to grab at her, she had accidentally smudged…Emirea’s skin?

The little [Lady] brushed at her cheek, and Nailihuaile stared at the dark, sand-bronzed skin, not the pale, Terandrian features of a [Lady]. The little girl kept wiping and more of the false makeup came away.

“How did you…? That’s my staff. You can’t hold my staff.”

The Star Lamia looked dumbly at Emirea. Or whomever this was. The little girl calmly lifted the staff, and her eyes glowed. The Archmage of Baleros choked as she saw the staff activate.

“I have disguised myself ten thousand times and fought your kind and every other, Archmage Nailihuaile. I have prepared myself for every occasion. Twenty-one lifetimes ago, one of the Quarasses of Ger visited Baleros and asked to hold the Serkonian Lance. Just once. I did not know if this day would ever come, but I have laid every plan and contingency.”

The little girl’s voice changed. The Archmage heard old, even wearied tones. Immortality, scraped out of countless mortal lives.

The Quarass of Germina looked at the Archmage. The Star Lamia looked dumbly at the orb.

“But the Quarass…”

The little girl smiled thinly. She gazed at the small, veiled figure of a little child who could well be the Quarass since they were vaguely alike in height. Children all looked the same from afar. And Khalid, her [Champion], was fighting with sword and shield well enough as Vaitsha protected him.

Enough to inspire her people. She hoped he would not die, or Vaitsha. Maresar had already given up her life.

“Enough. All plans eventually must come to action or fail. I have what I want. The King of Destruction will have his Archmage.”

The Quarass gently touched the Serkonian Lance, and Nailihuaile’s eyes bulged as she swayed in place. The ruler of Germina looked at her and smiled without a hint of mercy or regret.

——-

It was about plans. When Flos Reimarch had first known he would free Amerys, he had not known how to make his plan work.

Oh, he had surely seen Trey Atwood’s talents, but the King of Destruction was also canny enough to know throwing one boy—even with an ally or two—against Wistram’s cunning was a fool’s errand.

It was Gazi who had beheld the Quarass and seen a better plan. The King of Destruction had presented it to her thusly.

“I will send Trey, Gazi, and I think Calac or some others. But you will free my Archmage, Quarass of Germina. Not even Gazi will know where you are, and Trey will believe he is the only agent.”

“Cunning. Why would I agree, and why do you think I would succeed where your Seven would not?”

The King of Destruction snorted softly as he offered her a cup. She wanted wine but took goat’s milk for a growing body.

“You are the Quarass of Ger. Also, I think, you might relish the chance to take what you will from Wistram. As for what I can offer…name it. You could, of course, betray me, Quarass. Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind. But I believe you will not.”

Her eyes narrowed as she considered his offer. She could have always betrayed his trust later, so it hurt her not at all to go with his plans.

It was not hard to pretend to be a [Lady] from Terandria. Changing one’s skin tone was easy, and she had been Terandrian in past lives.

As an [Actor], a [Spy], an [Alchemist] especially…even as a [Mage], Flos was right. Gazi was nothing compared to the Quarass’ ability—if only she was willing to risk herself.

The tipping scales for her were simply three factors. The Serkonian Lance. Nailihuaile walked around with it so casually.

The second? Earthers. The danger of Earthers and what Wistram was doing. The third?

Archmage Eldavin’s warriors of the future, clad in metal armor. The Shield Kingdom’s ruler recalled a similar sight—only with Drakes. But it bothered her.

——

So, now. Reim could not fall if she was allied with the King of Destruction. Maresar’s death was regrettable, but the Quarass had told Khalid only to signal the counterattack once Nerrhavia committed fully.

She had laid a careful plan. Of course, Trey had made his own plans and the Quarass had hijacked them. Naili hissed as she saw part of it.

“My guards.”

The girl nodded.

“Asleep. I freed the boys. Ullsinoi was my opponent. And getting to Amerys.”

Even for her, it was difficult. But…the Quarass was taking command of the Serkonian Lance. She was fighting Naili for control, so she spoke as she stepped back. The Star Lamia wasn’t falling to her poison. She was swaying, barely upright, but her eyes were locked on the Quarass with slitted pupils.

“Give me my staff!”

She attacked with a shriek of magic. The Quarass planted the staff.

“[The Serpentine Shield of Queth]!”

The spell activated, and Naili’s eyes bulged as a pair of [Shatterbolts] splintered right in front of the Quarass. The girl didn’t flinch.

“How can you cast…?”

“I am the Quarass. I have been [Archmage] and great spellcasters of lives past. Seldom do I have the chance to employ all my magic.”

Passingly seldom. Archmage Eldavin had given her tips that would help every Quarass in the future. Who was he?

Naili attacked again, screaming, striking like a serpent, but the Quarass shielded herself, broke the spells, and let the poison do its work. Soon, the Star Lamia was lying on the floor, unable to move as her muscles gave up. Feverishly, she stared up at the Quarass.

“You won’t get away with this. I’ll remember this. Do you know who you’re crossing?”

The Quarass sighed. She walked around the Star Lamia, shaking her head.

“I have known the Archmages of Baleros, and many were more cunning than you, Archmage Nailihuaile. Most would not be foolish enough to threaten me as they were helpless. But even if they were not—I know. I do know you would bear a grudge. So.”

She planted the tip of the Serkonian Lance on Naili’s tail. The sharp tip—it could be used as a weapon as a last resort—pierced Naili’s scales. Instantly, the Star Lamia went still.

“You…you wouldn’t. I’m an Archmage.”

“Yes. One that bears a grudge.”

“I’ll forswear it!”

The Star Lamia shouted instantly. Her eyes turned to sudden fear. She looked at the Quarass, and the girl hesitated. Her lips moved silently and she peered at Naili curiously.

“What would you swear by? What would you do to convince me to let you live?”

“I’ll ally the Revivalists with you. I’ll give you artifacts. I’ll swear by Nagas and anything on truth spells not to go after you.”

Naili was panting. She was burning up with the damned pain and poison! This little—she’d swear.

Or she’d unleash every ounce of magic and vaporize everything in this corridor. Her teeth bared, her body arched—

And she felt a pain beyond the poison, beyond anything she’d ever felt, even Hydra venom, tearing up from the inside. She looked at the Quarass and saw those calm, cruel, impartial eyes.

She’d cast a spell. The Star Lamia shrieked.

“You—you! You—”

She still tried to cast one last spell. The Quarass shielded herself—but the impact of pure mana, the Archmage’s last attack, threw her back so hard she snapped a collarbone against a wall.

She got up, grabbing for the staff, and saw Nailihuaile die. Collapsing into a pool of acid. The Star Lamia had never intended to surrender.

The girl stared at the dead Archmage and then, limping, picked up her new staff. Using it as a crutch, she dragged a potion out of her pouch and hobbled onwards.

This was not over yet.

——

The Libertarians were fleeing. Running, fighting in a panic, but they were running. From one young man?

Yes. Yes, because he had an arrow, which he wielded like a dagger that pierced all barriers. That killed. They would have blasted him apart, even so, but Trey put his fingers together the moment he realized the barrier was down and cast one spell.

“[Karas Duststorm].”

The sand and wind blinded everyone, so spells flew as the [Mages] fought for cover. Calac was howling, charging them, stabbing—

And he was a [Warrior]. A warrior who had lost his mother.

Charles de Trevalier was going to kill him. The young man had his rapier out. His rapier—he thought of it like that. The bell dinged as the wind blew, and Timor raised a dueling sword. They both had wands, but they couldn’t tell where their friends were, so they hesitated.

“Charles! Charles, stop that damn bell! It’s giving us away!”

The [Lord] fumbled for Pisces’ bell, but too late. Both young men saw something coming at them through the storm.

A glowing light. Timor aimed his wand at it.

“Stay back or we’ll kill you!”

Was it Trey or Calac? Surely Trey—Charles hesitated as the light bobbed—then charged.

“Die!”

He [Flash Stepped] into the light spell and stabbed his rapier home. He felt the impact and stumbled backwards.

“I got him! I got—”

The storm cleared slightly, and Charles saw the Lifesand Golem rubbing at her head. The glowing decoy-sword she held overhead waved slightly.

Trey burst out of the sand from the side, staff raised. He spoke.

“[Light Spear].”

Charles jerked back. The spear went through Timor’s chest, and the [Lord] stared at it, greatly perplexed.

He had no speeches, no time left. He fell down, and Trey whirled. Charles dropped his rapier and ran as Minizi pursued him.

Death. Calac and Trey fought to kill. The Libertarians weren’t ready.

They ran. The young man turned to Trey as he collapsed. The [Sand Mage] looked down at Calac and saw the tears running down his face. So he bent down for a second, murmured to him, and called Minizi back towards him.

The two went onwards. Towards the maze. They saw a little girl waiting for them, and Trey raised his spear—then stared at the Quarass. After Maresar’s death, he was almost not surprised.

“You. You…all this time?”

The Quarass smiled like Emirea for a moment, then looked at him solemnly. Those pitiless eyes…Trey had never disliked anyone or respected them like the Quarass.

“Let us put an end to this, Trey Atwood.”

——

At the end of it, Galei leaned against a wall and laughed. He laughed as hard as he could, even as a clone of himself, a perfect illusion, galloped towards the Mershi-lounge.

He would not go himself. Ullsinoi had lost two of its number. One to Gazi…

The other to her.

“Enough. Enough. We tried being serious and it failed. That [King] is going to shatter it all again. We almost did it right. Almost. But we lost!”

The two Archmages looked at him. They didn’t get what was so funny. Gazi was curled up behind a shield on the ground—but she was just the distraction. Galei laughed until he wheezed.

Ullsinoi was so damn confident. But they had been betrayed! Betrayed! Defeated! Their maze? All the traps, the tricks? They’d lost, not just because they’d been outsmarted or out-sneaked.

They’d lost because they had been betrayed…by one of their own.

That was the damn problem with immortals. They should never have inducted her, even for a laugh. She never forgot anything. She made amazing plans.

They were going to burn Germina for this. Or maybe shake her hand. It depended on how Galei and the others felt. Right now? All he could do was laugh.

——

Nerrhavia Fallen’s army was breaking. First their [Supreme Marshal] died. Next? The ferocity and revelation that Germina had allied with Reim broke their confidence and added to the horror of trying to take the city.

The [Soldiers] didn’t look at it like a numbers game, because they still could have probably overwhelmed Reim and Germina together.

They looked at it as one of the numbers, and they saw their kin burning alive, saw the blood blade and their leaders fall.

That was when someone noticed the four thousand [Riders] coming from the north. It was unclear who screamed it at first, but rumor spread like wildfire.

“The Steward of Destruction is coming! The Left Hand of the King of Destruction is coming to slaughter us all!”

It just took a few voices, panic—and, of course, the sight of a single [Rider] streaking across the ground at the head of a small army of mounted warriors.

The look of the thing. It didn’t matter that Orthenon was confirmed in the north, countless miles away. The Quarass understood the hearts of men and women; she had been both children and adults and on the winning and losing side of everything.

It just took one [Swift Rider], a flag, and a group of Germina’s youths riding together to break the spirit of an army.

[Soldiers] began to flee—or threw down their arms and surrendered. And like a wave—

It was done. Nerrhavia’s Fallen broke on Reim’s walls, and Teresa looked around blankly. It was a glorious victory. But—she went to find Maresar.

Too high a cost. Too high, and it would have been wonderful but for that one cost to her.

——

So, like an afterthought, Amerys lay in her new bindings, wriggling slightly. She could move—a bit—but they had cast a sleeping spell and changed her lock.

She feared that boy’s attempts would fail. Especially when the announcement came and the wary [Guards]—four now—were joined by two more.

The Archmage of Lightning, the Archmage of Chandrar, the Calm Flower of the Battlefield—a name given to insult her—watched as they conferred, deliberating whether to join in the fighting.

Calm Flower. Why was it always flowers for women? Well, Mars got ‘the Illusionist’, but the point stood.

They were too smart. None of the guards went to help at first. That was, until they heard the Earthers were breaking loose. Then two Revivalists and a Centrist broke ranks after a loud argument.

Three remained. They conferred about the door and the maze—not to mention a quarter of all the Libertarians at some party or other. The [Battle Mages] watched her, and Amerys waited.

“Ullsinoi changed their maze. Only they can get through. And there’s the door. They’ve got Gazi the Omniscient cornered.”

Yolv, the Dwarf, murmured to the other two. The Naga nodded, and one of Viltach’s Libertarians choked up on the staff she was holding. They were trying to raise the other [Mages] for news.

Rasea Zecrew was in Wistram. Amerys’ neck was tingling. She had heard stories—from Naili mainly, to gloat—about how she’d beaten Flos. But a [Pirate]…?

Gazi? Gazi hated bad plans. Amerys had a suspicion, but she waited. The [Mages] were watching the war in Reim, and she was checking their expressions when someone reached the magic door.

They went through the maze only Ullsinoi’s people could crack. They came to the door, the one that had sealed off the passageway and in their grand plan, their scheme amongst a scheme—

The Quarass blew the door down with magic.

All three [Battlemages] opened up with spells. One came back straight at them.

[Chain Lightning]. No…red lightning that created smoke. A rolling orb Yolv saw and projected a barrier around—

Someone good had come to save Amerys. The Archmage watched. It was…three against one. No! Three against two? Low-level spells and sand were flying through the air. Then a little Lifesand Golem charged forwards, got blown to pieces by own of Yolv’s spells, and the Dwarf shouted.

“Troy! No! Don’t do this—”

He hesitated—a spray of sand burst against his shield, and he ignored it. The Libertarian went down, choking, as a pellet of gas she hadn’t noticed finally took her out. The Naga swayed, and Yolv’s anti-poison charms fought it off.

A girl and a young man charged the [Mages]. They ran into killing spells. The girl had her own barriers. The boy?

His amulet flashed, and a scintillating cage rose around him. It ate three Tier 4 spells as the Dwarf swore, and the boy created a [Light Spear]. A powerful artifact. Amerys wondered where he’d gotten it.

The girl, Emirea, had the Serkonian Lance. But she was not the [Lady]—Amerys’ eyes widened as she saw the removed makeup.

Trey grappled with Yolv. The Dwarf dodged the [Light Spear], cast a force-spell at close range, and blew Trey off his feet. The Naga and Quarass fought in a close-range spellcasting duel. One was mature, had levels, and had a far larger mana pool.

The other was the Quarass. And she had the Serkonian Lance.

Yolv knocked Trey down and pinned him. The boy stabbed at him, and the Dwarf grunted—his barrier spells went out.

“Troy…”

He was too merciful. He just held Troy down, a knee on his back, suppressing his magic as he went to draw a bead on the Quarass.

It was sand. Amerys grinned as she saw the Lifesand the boy had thrown at the Dwarf slowly coalescing. A little figure swung itself out of Yolv’s beard—and hopped onto his face, covering his nose and mouth.

The Dwarf choked and cast spells wildly as the Lifesand Golem suffocated him. The Quarass ended her duel with a paralyzing spell that knocked the Naga out—but not before the Naga struck the girl into the ground with a barrier-breaking tail slap.

Trey Atwood staggered up and looked around. The Quarass, the guards…he saw Amerys, and there they were again.

Slowly, the young man walked into her cell and met the Archmage’s eyes. He had found the key to her mask, but none of her shackles. Even so, he unlocked her mask, and she snapped at his fingers.

More as a joke than anything else.

The boy didn’t smile or react. He just looked at her. He breathed, in and out, the remnants of tears in his eyes. Exhausted, battered; he had thrown it all at this plan and moment.

“Archmage Amerys? My name is Trey Atwood. The King of Destruction sent me. I came to set you free.”

“Why did you come?”

Amerys looked at him, so curiously. She understood Gazi. She even understood what had to be the Quarass, swearing in another language as she felt at her ribs. She could understand a child of Reim or follower of the King of Destruction.

But why Trey Atwood? She also didn’t know how she’d be freed; she was shackled, and while she could have cast magic in this cell if her bindings were off…the enchanted cloth now had a damned Adamantium lock that Viltach had claimed a Level 50 [Rogue] couldn’t break.

Trey Atwood wearily knelt. He met Amerys’ eyes and looked her up and down. Not in a lecherous way—more like someone trying to understand something. See…some quality that was seldom revealed on appearance alone.

“Flos asked me to. That’s not why I did it, Amerys. I told him to go to hell—I even thought so, even though he promised me that he would help me in a great way. By destroying A’ctelios Salash.”

“He keeps his promises. He rewards loyalty. But…that isn’t enough, is it?”

Trey shook his head.

“My sister is with him. But that isn’t my reason either. I’d rather knock her over the head and carry her off, or take her to Khelt. She’s getting worse with him.”

“I could help with that. I could change this war.”

His face didn’t move markedly.

“I know. But I knew what I’d do. Kill people. Make them suffer. And…lose friends. Maresar is dead.”

Amerys’ eyes flickered.

“Maresar Crusland?”

Trey nodded. He watched her face. The Archmage, for a second, debated lying and pretending to great emotion, but the truth was it was a distant blow.

“I’m sorry. I knew her, but I have been captive here a long time. Will you…free me, Trey Atwood?”

“I would be a fool not to, after all this time.”

The Archmage waited, but Trey held his ground.

“…Amerys. I thought and thought about why I might free you. The resolve it took to do it. I’m here to free you. And I will. If you do something for me.”

“Name it.”

Aah. This was it. Amerys smiled in relief, because she hadn’t known why. The boy—she couldn’t even speak to him directly on his visits, but she had worried because she hadn’t known if he had some great loyalty or desire. Now, Trey reached into his bag of holding and put something on the ground.

A simple little object. A truth stone. He looked ruefully at it.

“I hoped it would work in here, but I guess not.”

It was dead in the magic-suppression field. Trey shrugged, flicked it away, and looked at her.

“I only have your word, then. Can I trust you? Do you…keep your promises?”

Amerys’ green hair was tangled as she raised her head. She had had dreams of great vengeance, wrath, rejoining her [King]…but at some point she had just dreamed of running her hands through her hair. She looked at Trey so longingly she wanted to scream.

“Yes. Free me, and I will do what you want. Give you what you want. I will not forget this…what is it?”

What would he ask? Something craven and dark? Ask for a gift? For control? Ambition? Her hand in marriage? Ludicrous or twisted—she would agree to be free for many things.

The [Sand Mage] took a deep breath, and a little Lifesand Golem came to stand by him. One look at it and Amerys was sure he didn’t want her. She almost laughed—but Trey fixed her with a calm gaze and spoke.

“Archmage Amerys. If I free you, swear by the King of Destruction, by Reim and your magic…that when you are freed, you will fight for Flos Reimarch. You will serve him and do everything to support him—and end slavery within his kingdom and every land. Until the day it is outlawed, until he changes his mind…fight for every person in chains against their will, even if he stands against you.”

Her eyes opened wide, and the Archmage stared at Trey Atwood. At last…at last. She saw the color of his soul.

So Amerys raised her head, considered Trey’s words seriously, and all they meant, and then nodded. So that was his great plan.

“I swear.”

Trey Atwood sighed. He bent down, and the arrow of Naq-Alrama steel cut her bindings. Not the lock. Amerys gasped as the little arrow snapped and the magic flared. The anti-magic metal screamed and broke, disintegrating.

Amerys looked up—

And she was free.

——

Gazi Pathseeker had her hand on her claymore. She looked up, lying on the ground, panting.

“Will you capture me or kill me?”

She croaked at Viltach. The Archmage hesitated. He looked at Feor as the half-Elf watched her warily.

“Either option will end this. Must end this war. Viltach—”

Gazi blurred. She leapt—and they hit her with spells. She curled up but kept dashing on all fours, like an animal.

“She won’t quit until she’s dead.”

Viltach spoke, in that too-calm voice of someone who had made up his mind. Gazi swung around, eye shining, and Feor nodded. The Archmage of half-Elves raised his staff—and hesitated.

His fingers shifted and Viltach froze. His head turned slightly, and Gazi saw the blood draining out of his face.

The Gazer’s mad grin turned into a smile. Feor’s lips moved.

“That…that’s…”

They were in the banquet hall. [Mages] watched from afar, like the first time Eldavin had come to Wistram. The two Archmages slowly swung around.

Gazi saw the hair on Viltach’s head lift. The carefully groomed hair…rose into the air. She felt it.

Static.

The overturned tables and broken plates, cutlery, began to vibrate. The metal…began rising off the ground. Feor said not a word. Viltach groaned.

“It’s over. Rhir’s hells. Dead gods.”

He searched for a greater epithet. Feor slowly projected another barrier around himself.

“Elves’ remorse.”

What a strange oath. The Archmage of half-Elves was breathing quicker as Viltach glanced at him. Viltach swung around, looking about. Then he noticed Gazi was gone.

But neither man went after her. They stood, back-to-back, eying the other hallways leading into this room.

By now, the other [Mages] had noticed the charge in the air. One of them whispered.

“I feel lightning magic in the air.”

Someone looked out the window. A storm was brewing. Wistram’s bubble of calm was changing, and rain and winds were beginning to pick up.

“It’s her.”

One of the [Mages] muttered. The younger students glanced at him, but everyone else knew exactly who it had to be. Their heads turned to the two Archmages who were casting barrier spells.

“[Greater Lightning Ward].”

“Put it on me.”

Viltach hissed at Feor. The Archmage hesitated and then cast the spell. Feor looked around.

“Where is Galei?”

The Centaur was gone. And—as Feor watched—one of the older Council-[Mages] calmly and deliberately cast a spell.

“[Levitation].”

Everyone turned, wondering if the [Mage] was going to fight—they saw the Selphid float upwards, yank open a window, and fly out of the banquet hall. Another [Mage] cast [Invisibility]. More began to leave.

“Libertarians—”

Viltach looked around uncertainly. Feor snapped.

“Centrists, to me! Stand together!”

But no one came. Some of the [Mages] drew together rather than run.

“She’s one Archmage. We’ve got two here and she was locked up for…she’s only one woman.”

This was true. And the Golems were led by a green-eyed presence, who had restored order with the threat of violence to anyone who attacked her. Feor turned to her.

“Cognita—”

“I am restoring order with the [Pirates] and last outsiders. Do not bother me.”

The Golem turned her head to stare at him. The Archmage looked at her.

“Amerys is free.”

“Yes.”

The Truestone Golem’s proxy looked amused. Feor hesitated.

“Then…?”

“I see no reason to intervene in a dispute between Archmages of Wistram. Golems. Clear the area. Protect any students, I suppose.”

The Golems began to evacuate the room as well. The [Mages] ran. Viltach hesitated.

“My rooms…”

Feor just stood there. They wouldn’t make it.

The charge in the air was reaching a peak. Bits of electricity were zapping between hovering pieces of metal. Even with their ward-spells, the Archmages felt it.

It was one element. They had greater electricity wards.

But they also hadn’t…fought…Amerys the first time. Three Archmages had ambushed her.

This time…

She was coming for them.

“Amerys! You have a mission, and this will be a costly battle for the both of us! Let us negotiate or go our own ways!”

Feor raised his voice, projecting it into the hallways. He sounded bold, a force of power negotiating with an equal.

Gazi, hidden, cloaked, and drinking healing potions, could have told him how stupid and fruitless his bartering was. Her main eye was locked on one point. She was counting down.

Eight…seven…four…one…

Amerys appeared in the banquet hall so fast that the flash of lightning beat both Archmages’ bound spells. They fired, a series of ray-spells, a comet, a flare as a wall of fire erupted.

All far too late. Even Gazi couldn’t predict how Amerys would move.

Because she was lightning. She drifted into the room at a speed only Gazi could see. Head angled slightly to one side, almost as if she were sleepwalking. Barefoot—a sleepy walk from a woman whose muscles were atrophied from lack of use.

She left a trail of blue lightning in the air after her. At a speed beyond eyesight, she stepped through the world, leaving a trail of static and electricity. She swayed, coming to a halt in the visible world, and Feor and Viltach whirled. Their spells loosed harmlessly at her trail.

Amerys swung around, like a swaying zombie, and one eye opened.

Bright yellow, like the core of a lightning bolt. Her green hair was brighter, now. It waved around her, magnified by the static. The Archmage’s robes were a brilliant cloud pattern. Sky-blue and silver like clouds, mixed with red, the color of Flos’ hair.

“Amerys.”

Gazi smiled. She saw the Archmage look at her. Dreamily. Amerys breathed in as Feor and Viltach hesitated, spells on their fingertips.

They had never seen her fight directly. Quarrel, yes. But they didn’t walk battlefields. She did. Surely they had seen recordings, heard tales.

Amerys lifted a hand like a dancer. Her left arm, crossing her chest and arching back, like the curve of the moon. Her other hand extended outwards behind her, and she swayed, rotating her body around.

The world turned to lightning. A bolt of it came down from the ceiling and blew the two Archmages back.

Feor’s barrier flashed, and the lightning struck him, but he was warded against it! He was warded against—

His barriers evaporated underneath the spell. The half-Elf felt a force throwing him. Viltach popped out of the air to the left. He looked rattled; both [Mages] were alive, but their barriers had shattered. The electricity wards weren’t working.

“No one can resist my lightning. Hello, Gazi.”

Amerys threw her head back as Feor fired eight of [Valmira’s Comets] at her.

“[Two Hundred Arrows of Stone]!”

Viltach filled the air with lesser spells instead, focusing on rebuilding his shield. Amerys tossed her head back and her hair crackled. Each strand became the inverse of a lightning rod.

For a moment, some strange creature with crackling eyes and hair like a stormcloud flashed—

Then the bolts were travelling across the ground, leaping and striking Viltach, Feor—and blowing everything else around her to bits. Gazi ran for cover. She’d almost forgotten how much damage Amerys did to everything. She could take Feor and Viltach on her own. Where was Trey?

The eight [Valmira’s Comets] missed Amerys. Her counterattack frazzled Feor, and he looked around for her.

Amateur. He was an Archmage of Wistram, and he stood still like a tree. Amerys was a war-mage. She reappeared in another odd, slanted step as the spells passed her by harmlessly.

“Amerys—”

“Stop talking and get her!”

A wave of fire flew from Viltach’s hands. Feor threw all his magic at her as well. If she would dodge—then tracer spells! An orb of magic, like an Earther’s landmine, floating slowly after her but which would never—

Amerys charged them. Viltach had already cast [Haste]—Feor hadn’t because the self-enchantment spell was interfering with his other enchantments.

Viltach saw Amerys’ entire form glow and then elongate in a blur. Again, her entire body became more like a Lightning Elemental—or a woman made of energy.

She moved and crashed into Feor. No spells. She just hit him and carried him straight towards a wall.

Like Eldavin but—

The sound Feor made when he hit the wall made Viltach check if he were dead. The Archmage was surrounded by a magical, glowing shield, panting—and dazed. Viltach looked around and saw a glowing form coming straight at him.

“Dead g—”

Amerys saw him brace, triggering his spells, and swung past him. She skidded, angling her body like a sprinter, and flicked across the gap; she couldn’t turn easily. But she hopped onto Viltach’s back as he loosed a Tier 5 spell harmlessly and looked around.

No perspective. No reflexes.

“Tag.”

She poked his barrier on the back. Viltach screamed, whirled—and Amerys flickered away. What had she done? What had she—?

His barriers were all against energy and lightning magic. Some were against all forms of harm, but he knew Amerys as a lightning mage.

Silly man. Amerys reappeared, floating, arms stretched like she was lying on a bed of clouds above. Flying.

Below her, every piece of metal in the room took aim at the target she’d painted on Viltach’s shields. Forks, knives, candelabras—they came at him in a metal storm.

Feor was getting up, dazed, muttering one of his Tier 6 spells or some ritual as if he were an artillery mage, not on the front. Amerys dropped. She actually lay on the ground; her body was so weak. Feor was confused.

He looked at Amerys, lying like she’d collapsed. As if that meant she was harmless. She looked at him.

“[Grand Lightning].”

A Tier 5 spell flashed and struck his shields. Feor threw up his staff, rebuilding them. Amerys rose, like an odd zombie. She flung out a finger.

“[Burning Grand Lightning].”

A bolt of it blasted past Viltach and set the air on fire. He threw up his hands, backing away. The woman alternated fingers.

“[Frozen Grand Lightning]. [Transformation of Elements]. [Grand Lightning Tidal Wave].”

Two more bolts. The first frost—then a bolt of lightning that blasted a reeling Feor—and turned to a wave of water that rushed around him.

It wasn’t even a good offensive spell. It was…Amerys looked at him.

“Is this enough magic for you, Feor? [Empower Spell]. [Grand Lightning].”

Her mana reserves! Viltach was an Archmage and could cast countless spells, but he’d been fighting Gazi and he used magic on a daily basis.

Amerys hadn’t cast a spell for—she was holding Feor down with one spell. She turned to Viltach and set herself. Amerys smiled.

“I’m a bit angry, Viltach. Now that I’ve greeted you, I can express that honestly.”

——

Amerys’ battle with the Archmages of Wistram sounded like thunder. Trey Atwood didn’t see it. He found Calac sitting where he had come to rest.

Three Libertarians were dead. Trey had thought it was more. The Quarass barely noticed. She had a broken collarbone and ribs.

“We are leaving. To the ships. Calac Crusland, stand. Amerys is freed.”

“My mother is dead, Quarass.”

The Quarass’ eyes glinted. She stopped as Calac knelt there, white-faced. Trey reached for his friend, but the Quarass was faster.

“Yes. Your father lives. Will you leave him alone? Or greet your mother’s shade?”

Calac jerked and looked up. Trey instinctively grabbed the amulet at his neck. Nailihuaile had not told him you had to activate it. The Quarass had. He wished the Archmage of Nagas just a bit of suffering for that.

It might have simplified so much. Or maybe it had led them to this point.

Calac Crusland looked up at the Quarass with pain, anger—and rose. That was what the Quarass did. She stabbed you in the heart to get your legs moving.

“With me. Watch for Ullsinoi. They will likely not trouble us—but perhaps.”

“They won’t take revenge for this?”

The Quarass grimaced as she felt at her ribs. She stopped.

“Someone carry me. I am about to puncture my skin.”

Trey hesitated, but Calac picked up the little girl. The Quarass spoke as they ran through burnt corridors, and Amerys’ duel continued.

“They could kill us. To what end? Amerys is free. They hold grudges, but they are practical. They tried so badly to hold Amerys because they did not want Flos Reimarch to win. Now she is free? They will hedge their bets against him rising to power.”

Trey just nodded. He felt…empty.

Relieved Amerys was free. Empty, as he ran down the hallway. He kept waiting for one last thing.

“Trey.”

He jerked and the amulet flared to life, but Gazi was leaning against a wall. Her armor was cracked; a noticeable line down the breastplate. The Quarass eyed it. Gazi five-eyed the Quarass, Calac, and Trey.

“You’re alive.”

The Gazer looked like someone had beaten her to hell and back with magic. She rasped.

“You did it. We must leave. Zecrew and her [Pirates] are fleeing Wistram. Cognita is here.”

The Quarass tilted her head.

“She is? I did not anticipate that. We go, then. Amerys will find us.”

“Will she kill the Archmages?”

Trey saw Gazi join them and realized someone else was there.

“Goelv!”

The Gazer boy was sickly, but he and Gazi picked up another, comatose young man and dragged him after them. Tov. The half-Gazer had rescued the two. She spoke to Trey, curtly.

“She might try, but I don’t think she can.”

“But she’s…”

“Weak.”

The Quarass finished Trey’s startled sentence. She glanced up as another roll of thunder boomed.

“Too weak to risk the magic it would take to kill either, I think. She is distracting them. But she will only batter them then join us. Too many defensive wards. They would have to lower their guards first. Archmages die in battle seldom. Off-guard is how I have killed most.”

Something about the way she said that and Gazi’s stare made Trey focus on the Quarass’ staff.

“Is that…?”

The girl just looked at him as she carried the Serkonian Lance. Calac said nothing at all.

Hallway after hallway. They passed by Golems, students and [Mages]. The Golems turned, and Trey saw a green-eyed stare appear in one of them.

“You.”

“We are leaving Wistram. Hold, Cognita Truestone.”

The Quarass spoke, aiming her staff at the Golem. Cognita’s green eyes bored into Trey’s, but she saw Gazi and the Quarass. The Golem hesitated and seemed to check herself, realizing her body was not Truestone, but fragile.

Another Golem’s existence.

“I will remember this, Troy Atlas. You have been marked.”

Her voice followed the group. Troy’s stomach lurched, and Gazi looked at him.

“You have paid a dear price for this, Trey. I will remember it too.”

“And I.”

“You tricked me. Gazi—you and the Quarass! You knew! I thought I had to do it alone!”

The Quarass looked at Trey calmly.

“Yes. You made a good plan. I was proud of it. But you are young. We will speak on it later.”

Trey Atwood wanted to punch the girl—no, the Quarass behind the girl’s face. Calac spoke.

“Reim is standing. Nerrhavia’s Fallen has retreated?”

The girl looked up at him, and her tone did not change. Her voice did not soften, but she spoke directly to him, like a [Commander] to a [Soldier].

“Yes. They have surrendered or fled. It is a great victory. Your mother saved you—and perhaps us all.”

He didn’t react, but he kept running.

Students. Mages. Golems. The students looked at Trey, and the monster ran. That was how they gazed at him. He had brought war to Wistram.

A part of him, a terrible part that was like Teresa, almost laughed. Almost relished showing them how easily it all fell apart.

But the rest of Trey was aching. Grieving. Remorseful. But…

I will change that idiot’s mind. Change Reim. The Quarass had heard Trey’s secret plan that not even Gazi or she had expected. She kept glancing at him.

“You have an ambition beyond even what I could dream, Trey Atwood. And it will be the harder of your two desires. Believe me.”

Her pale yellow eyes glinted. Gazi glanced curiously at Trey, and Goelv wheezed.

“I’m dying. Lady Pathseeker, I’m dying.”

“Keep running.”

“Yes, Lady Pathseeker.”

——

Rasea Zecrew was on board her glowing ship when the group burst from the gates of Wistram. The other ships were gone—or sunk. The detritus of a war covered the academy’s front, yet the [Pirate Captain] looked nervous.

“Get on, quick! The bastards nearly took us out, but they’ve stopped! I nearly left, promise or no, Quarass!”

The woman was the most antsy yet—even Orthenon climbing onto her hull hadn’t spooked her.

“What happened?”

“Fucking Golems. Giant bastards with beams like the damn crab!”

The [Helmsman] swore. The Illuminary was knocked up, but the guardian-Golems hadn’t wiped out the ship.

The Quarass alighted on the decks, taking charge in a moment.

“Archmage Amerys called off the attack. She certified you as guests. Cognita abides; there are rules. Barely. I believe she would rather prevent more of her Golems being destroyed.”

Rasea tipped her hat to the girl, looking her up and down.

“So here’s the new Quarass, same as the last one! Remember me? Nice to meet you again.”

“You do not change markedly, Rasea Zecrew. Set sail.”

The [Pirate Captain] hesitated, although the helmsman was already spinning the wheel.

“What about the woman we all came to get? Amerys? She dead, or didn’t we get her?”

“She will find us.”

The [Pirate] laughed, and the Illuminary shot from port. Trey Atwood saw them break through the rainclouds—into more rain.

It was stormy within and without Wistram, although the lightning was only falling inside the bubble, oddly. Suddenly, he collapsed next to the Quarass. Calac sat, head bowed, holding the bag of holding. There was something inside it for him.

“I’m on the Illuminary. I’m alive?”

A voice spoke. Tov jerked to wakefulness, looked up at Rasea, and nearly fainted. She laughed.

“Now, who’s this lad? Hello, my boy!”

He just gaped up at her. The [Pirate Captain] helped him up, whistled for the [Ship Doctor], a class Trey had never heard before.

The Quarass had, and she was telling him how to bandage her wounds properly. The [Pirates], male and female, were whooping; someone had breached a cask.

“Wistram’s finest! We’re drinking tonight! To Maresar, the [Bandit Lord]! To legends and, if she graces us, the Archmage of Chandrar!”

Rasea climbed one of the masts and raised her sword. Calac looked up at the grinning [Pirate Lady] with all the hatred in the world for her laughter.

“She is being respectful. In her way.”

The Quarass told him. He didn’t respond. Trey didn’t know what to say. He just lay there, as a magical bubble surrounded the ship and the rain stopped.

Such a jolly crew. The Illuminary’s [Pirates] were simple, uncomplicated, and Trey envied them. They thought this was a grand day. They had looted, fought, leveled, and made their mark.

Trey looked for Minizi. The little Lifesand Golem tottered over to big-Gazi with a healing potion in her hands. She handed it up, and Gazi took it.

She was smaller, now. She’d lost most of her upgrades but…Trey thought when he leveled, when he slept, and in the days to come, Minizi would be more dangerous than Viltach had ever made her.

Dangerous. War. Amerys would return to Reim, and Flos would probably go on the offensive soon; Nerrhavia’s Fallen, his biggest nearby foe, had suffered a massive blow.

Back to war. Trey closed his eyes. Was that all this was for? He saw light peeking on the edge of his vision and looked up.

The cheering and laughter slowed. Voices rose, and Trey opened his eyes.

In the dark sky of Wistram, a light shone. Not a star. Something brighter. Closer. It flew from the Academy of Mages, freed. Like a firefly made of shining magic itself.

It did not fly directly at the Illuminary; like two lights in the sea, one racing and leaping among the waves and the other soaring through the sky—Archmage Amerys rose higher.

Amerys, one of the King’s Seven. The Archmage. The lightning mage. The great warrior.

But that was not what Trey saw. He saw the woman fly up in a nimbus of light, and do a loop in the skies. Soar through the darkness, dive and skim along the waves, even dip into the ocean and out in a spray of color and magic.

He looked at her and saw the joy in her.

Free. They should all be free. She would keep her vow. He had to believe that. If for nothing else than because she had known it.

A beautiful sight. The Archmage flew after the Illuminary, and the vessel slowed. Rasea Zecrew, beaming, saluted Amerys as she alighted on the decks.

Barefoot, a bit battle-worn. Exhausted, but smiling. She looked at Gazi, the Quarass, and then found Trey. She nodded to him, then Calac Crusland.

“Gazi.”

“Amerys.”

The two looked at each other coolly, and Trey wondered if they would be like the other of the Seven when they squabbled. Then Gazi put out her hand, touched Amerys’ arm, and the Archmage threw her arms around her.

“Of all of them, I should have known you would never leave me behind.”

“We would all have gone. He missed you every day.”

Amerys’ voice was muffled.

“I will see him soon. Thank you. Thank you.”

Trey Atwood sighed. For legends, for freedom, for a change and just the next part of his life…he saw Rasea throw her head back and laugh—then slap the autograph-card out of her [First Mate]’s hands.

“Don’t ruin the moment, you idiot furball.”

“But [Captain]—I used to buy cheap shock-wands and pretend I was her!”

Amerys looked around. She swayed.

“Food. Food. I haven’t eaten in…aside from snacks. Food. Food, and tell me. And show me. And…and food?”

“Oi! Food for the Archmage! Get everything! Get the [Ship Cook] out! Where is that bitch?”

Rasea howled. A door flew open, and a figure pointed a finger at her.

“I am a [Saucier Sea-Chef]!”

The [Pirate] spread her hands and went to calm down the angry food-preparer. The crew bustled around Gazi and Amerys, just watching them. Trey realized Amerys was older than Gazi by almost ten years. She looked younger when she cast her great magics.

“It’s time. For better or worse—this will be my last war. We have much to discuss. Much…but show me Maresar’s son. Your armor.”

The Archmage was speaking to Gazi, leaning on her. The Gazer shrugged.

“It might be for the best. Here…”

And so it was over. Trey Atwood lay back. The deck was so…wet and hard and smelly and frankly muddy too. A [Deckhand], probably the most fearsome [Deckhand] in the world, paused as she swabbed past Trey’s face.

“You want a bed or something?”

Trey would love a bed. He would sleep, Illuminary at sea or not. Sleep…and then talk to Calac. Process what he’d done. Feel regrets.

Level up. Would he advance both his classes? Would Minizi gain something? He pushed himself up, halfway tempted to lie down and find out now. He saw Amerys speaking to Calac, who’d risen to bow before her.

Goelv, gazing at him and Gazi. Tov, eyeing the [Pirates]—Trey.

They gave him a strange look. The boy who had caused this all. His friends…aside from Emirea—that was, the Quarass.

“I thought you were my friend.”

Trey knew it was the stupidest thing for him to feel betrayed after all he’d done, but he told the girl that anyways. As she wrote on a [Message] scroll, the Quarass glanced up briefly.

“Am I not? You and I will see more of each other, Trey. Especially for what you intend. Both things. But we will speak on that later. You are the key to Germina’s future or death. All of you children are.”

He didn’t know what she meant, at first. But then Trey saw them.

Standing together. A handful.

Some of the Earthers had been captured. Some had gone with Doroumata, or fled with the Drakes. Where they went now? Trey didn’t know. But he did see something that was entirely Rasea Zecrew.

A [Pirate] stole everything, after all. She had her own morality; she had let the Drowned Folk go because of their truce, and even refrained from attacking the Drakes. She had even helped toss the Gold-rank team on their ship.

And she had found that last group of Earthers and taken them aboard. There were a handful of them. But the one who Trey saw first, who was staring at him…

Elena. The [Beautician] looked at Trey, her gaze not even fully betrayed. Not even sure what he was. Trey looked at her, and put his head down. Minizi patted him on the head, and Amerys breathed in.

“I am free. Once more, my [King]. And…”

She hesitated, closed her eyes, and spoke, the words that made Gazi look up at her old friend, Rasea Zecrew turn and laugh, and the Quarass close her eyes and think.

“Let all those who hold chains, beware.”

[Conditions Met: Plotter → Chaos Schemer class!]

[Chaos Schemer Level 16!]

[Skill Change — Prepared Signal → Plotter’s Network obtained!]

[Skill — Chaos Theory (Low-Risk) obtained!]

[Skill — Walk Out of Trouble obtained!]

[Conditions Met: Sand Mage → Bloodglass Mage!]

[Bloodglass Mage Level 30!]

[Skill — Spell Refraction obtained!]

[Skill — Advanced Golem Shaping obtained!]

[Skill — Create Lifeglass obtained!]

[Spell — Arrows of Filled Glass obtained!]

8.65

(The author is on break until the 8th of February! Look out for the chapter then if you’re on Patreon and vote in the poll! I’m tired. My shoulders ache.)

The sky was beautiful. Everyone knew that, save for those who had grown up under lands perpetually shaded by cloud and darkness, like Noelictus, or where the sky was another place where danger could come from.

So, on the other hand, it was not a universal truth. Perhaps, though, many who did find the night sky beautiful forgot the first time a little child or even a baby had looked straight up into the first evening sky they ever took notice of.

Or the night sky resplendent with a million shining points of light.

If there was anything that Elena Othonos could ever admit—it was that this world had a more glorious night sky than hers. And she had been born in Greece, where they had seen great constellations and the very faces of deities staring down at them from the shifting aether.

This one, though…if you gazed up at some of the stars on Earth, like Capella in the northeast, you could see that it was golden. Some trick of its composition countless lightyears away and whenever it had looked like that in the past—because light and time were complex that way.

But faintly yellow. This night sky? Elena looked up and saw every color she knew, and more she didn’t. She was a [Beautician], and she knew color.

It was simply that there were variations she couldn’t see on Earth. A shade or quality like the harsh neon that she could call magical. But, of course, such things needed names.

Each star blazed with a different color, and two moons hung in the sky. One was silvery, almost like Earth’s, but instead of that yellowish glow, it was blue, and would sink to deep purple unlike the red that Earth’s moon could develop.

The other was a light green, like the palest refraction from an emerald or piece of glass. Oh…and someone had nibbled at one. Giving the sphere the tiniest little imperfection.

She wondered what that was about. Elena knew the sky, and she appreciated it and the vastness in the air—the sense that this world somehow had more space between her and the stratosphere. Clouds so distant overhead she could focus on them and find a world of detail.

If only she had a telescope. But as Elena looked up, the salt wind blowing on her hair, the faintest memory of pain on her back from where some idiot had shot her with a spell, lungs still burning from running and shouting, distraught, betrayed, and free of Wistram—she did realize she had forgotten to appreciate what the sky meant.

After all, she had lived under it so long, able to just step out whenever she pleased. But for someone who had dreamed of it for months…for an Antinium who looked up for the first and possibly last time in their life—

It was worth far more to them. A figure floated high above the moving pirate ship, arms spread, and, Elena guessed, eyes closed.

Archmage Amerys. She just hung there, flying through the air. Letting rain fall on her. Enjoying it, like a girl playing in a storm.

It pattered off a glowing veil above Elena, the Illuminary’s personal magical barrier. She was grateful for that; the wind wasn’t blocked, and it was chilly at night.

Of course, they could have blocked wind, as surely as they blocked water when the Illuminary dove. As magical vessels went, this was state-of-the-art. It combined the aptitude of Drowned Vessels for diving with the weaponry looted from Minos and a magical hull that glowed like a lighthouse—not to mention a speed practically unmatched on the ocean.

It could even go onto land—for a while—thanks to its [Captain]’s Skills. State of the art. Which meant it had probably been made in antiquity.

“What a strange world.”

Elena looked up, and someone heard her.

“You have more of a right to say that than anyone else, for you have known two. But if it is only because you compare it to yours, those who travel worlds will surely laugh at you.”

Elena jumped. She looked left and saw a slightly pointed nose. Someone who even looked vaguely like her—aside from the darker skin. The faintly yellow eyes. Oh—and the fact that the girl looked like she was only eight.

And eight thousand.

“Um. Excuse me?”

The Quarass of Germina had changed clothing. Instead of the demure [Lady]’s garb with frills and fashion imported from Terandria, she had a much more relaxed kind of toga. A bit more complex, but Elena felt like someone was pranking her.

Or maybe that was just what she saw, because this was one of Germina’s traditional styles of dress. But it was also…well, her people’s, again in antiquity.

The girl looked at Elena, and when she spoke, it was disconcertingly off. Just like her eyes; her voice had a cadence and deliberate quality to it. Elena had always thought children sounded like children because their voices were just ‘younger’, whatever that meant.

However, she now knew it was because they tended towards certain patterns of speech. Tripping over themselves, eager, struggling with expression, and wandering. The Quarass, like someone far older, knew what she was going to say and took her time enunciating each word.

“Your world. I have seen pictures of it. I have never been there, but I have heard it described. It seems outlandish to me. Positively unreal. You express the same sentiments of mine. I have heard it being described as a ‘game’, or ‘fantasy’ by one thoughtless girl. I would call yours a bad joke if I were equally rude. Yet we understand that we are comparing two different worlds.”

“Um. Uh…yes? Emirea…no, that’s not your name, is it?”

Elena was still taken aback, as most people were when they met the Quarass. But she knew this was not the shy girl that hung out with Troy, so she rallied magnificently fast. The Quarass watched the [Beautician] take a breath.

“You’re…the Quarass of Germina. A Shield Kingdom of Chandrar.”

“Well done.”

The Quarass nodded. She watched Elena approvingly; she wasn’t panicking or shouting or in disbelief. Rasea Zecrew had rescued her, and the [Pirate Captain] always stole the most valuable things. Elena’s features wrinkled, and the Quarass noted that she’d dyed her hair. Platinum mint green perhaps, if it was a dye Earth had. Not bad, and not a Skill either. Maybe the dye was, but she’d made it herself.

Very good. Someone who understood mixtures and the basis of alchemy.

“…Are you saying that neither your world nor mine is normal?”

The Quarass smiled.

“No. One might be archetypal. But who could tell? Only someone who has walked enough worlds to see a pattern. Now, I wonder if humanity is that common link. But we only have two examples, so it is a poor guess. It might be Garuda or some other species. Do you understand what I mean? We look at things as if our experiences are indicative of all, but we only see two marbles in a bag of holding full of them.”

She wondered if Elena would get the example, but the young woman’s eyes lit up.

“Oh. Our sample size, you mean? We could be outliers—we have no idea how large the data set is.”

The Quarass’ ears perked up.

“Interesting. You understand my example. Your world seems to understand such concepts better than mine. At least, without the Skills to comprehend it. Skills have weighed down our advancement. I see that now.”

Elena looked at the Quarass, startled, and ducked her head.

“I’m hardly a good student. I’m sure someone else could tell you even more. I dropped out of high school to work. I just took a few math classes.”

“Ah. So poverty strikes your world as hard as mine? Trey and Teres mentioned it, but they were not destitute.”

“Teres?”

“Trey Atwood’s sister.”

“Trey—so that’s his name. Troy Atlas? Trey Atwood. Oh, come on.”

Elena groaned. She looked over at the young man who was sitting, letting a little Lifesand Golem try to drag her shortsword as she climbed into his lap. She had trouble because she’d lost so much of her body-sand mass.

The Quarass lifted a hand.

“Do you bear a grudge?”

“Of course I do. But that makes…sense. I always wondered why Trey seemed a bit aloof. I put it down to him having seen combat. But—that camera. The King of Destruction. It all makes sense. Do you know…what he saw? At A’ctelios Salash?”

The Quarass nodded.

“I was there. I also know of the promise the King of Destruction made with him.”

“Promise?”

“To wipe that place from existence. To scour one of the four remaining Shield Kingdoms of Chandrar to earth…which I am pledged to support and defend until my bitter end.”

The ruler of Germina paused, and Elena eyed her. However, the girl just produced something and offered it to Elena.

“Enough. That is a conversation for later. A great moment has occurred. Will you speak with me, Elena? What is your last name?”

“Othonos. Elena Othonos…Your Majesty?”

“You may refer to me as the Quarass or ‘Quarass’. I have no true name.”

“You don’t? Excuse me—what are you? I don’t know much, but I heard people talking about you when the King of Destruction…cut off your head?”

The Quarass saw Elena look uneasily at her. She smiled, and the young woman wondered if the Quarass were like a Hydra, or if she reincarnated, or if she just flitted from body to body.

She was close, but the Quarass shrugged.

“I shall explain, briefly. And you shall tell me of your world. I have no name because each new person, young, old, man, woman, any species who becomes Quarass, becomes one of the countless number who have worn my class and duties. The girl who I was was young, poor, and grew up on the streets of Ger. Perhaps you understand that.”

Elena had worked because she had to, rather than continuing to stay in school. In, appropriately, a beauty parlor. Then she’d gotten herself through university. By herself.

There was a connection there, so she leaned against a railing as the Quarass spoke. Every now and then, her eyes would go up to the night sky and Amerys—or look at Trey.

——

Betrayer.

People were dead because of what he’d done. The largest name among the casualties was Archmage Nailihuaile. Also damaged—although not people—were Gazi Pathseeker’s armor and Dawil’s axe.

Wistram’s reputation, their monopoly over Earthers, his friendships and relationships with people he had liked, like Eldavin…

Trey regretted the dead. He felt guilty—and guiltier still because he didn’t know who had died, and the few he did know, like Nailihuaile and Timor, the [Lord] he’d stabbed…didn’t bother him as much as they should.

He’d killed someone, and it didn’t bother him enough. He would be struck like by a hammer if it turned out Sidney had died, or someone he found innocent. But a cold little part of Trey thought that the world was better off without Timor.

“We’re not changing for the better, Gazi. Teres and I? We’re turning into people like Flos. I don’t want that for the others.”

Trey looked across the deck, towards Elena. She glanced over and met his eyes, and he was the one who looked away.

The Earthers here. More had escaped; more had been recaptured or just never left. The Drowned Folk had some, the Drakes, others.

Of the ones here? Elena was the one that Trey knew best. There was also Lamont, the [Sailor], Erik Muller, the [Actor], two kids from China that he had seen with Shun and Xiang, and some others.

He would get to know them all, Trey suspected. They looked at him like he was a monster. Fair.

Gazi Pathseeker was running her fingers down the crack in her famous armor. She looked at Trey, and then her eyes shifted to the children.

“You and Teresa are my lord’s obsession, in part. He drags you two with him, and so you see war from his perspective. The others need not do that. Nor will they. If some wish to be safe, or leave, I think he will allow it.”

“Flos? You don’t think he’ll say ‘you have no rights, I’m the King of Destruction’?”

Gazi glanced at Trey. She almost smiled, then nudged him hard in the ribs with one foot.

“He might. But if they do not like him, he may be persuaded, especially if we speak our minds. As you know—he does not care for the company of people he dislikes. Those he wishes to like him…that is different.”

Trey nodded. That was as good as he’d get for now. He still felt slightly shocked by how it had all gone down. He lay on his back, and Minizi hopped on his chest. She had abandoned her oversized sword, and the two-foot-tall Golem stood proudly with a tiny twig like a claymore. She waved it at Gazi, and the Gazer smiled.

She too was enjoying her freedom. But unlike Amerys, what Gazi was doing was eating. She had a bowl of the [Chef]’s food in one hand and was eating with two chopsticks. She was also checking her armor, but the main reason she could do that was, well…

Because she’d taken it off.

It was the first time Trey had ever seen Gazi take her armor off. That she had done so at all might have had something to do with a month or two of sitting underwater day and night. Underneath her armor, Gazi wore what was surprisingly like a modern, form-fitting skinsuit. She was fairly lithe, as she stretched out.

Oh. And she had three-toed feet, and bigger toes per digit. Trey stared at them, and Gazi wiggled her toes as Minzi looked at her stumpy feet; Trey had only made little plodders without digits. The Lifesand Golem gave Trey a look of betrayal for his artistic license and began to poke at her feet, rearranging them into a copy of Gazi’s.

Gazi being out of her armor was as close to naked as Trey had ever seen, which made him not look at her—especially because the form-fitting fabric fit her form perfectly. Gazi seemed amused as she realized that.

Meanwhile, one of Rasea’s crew was feverishly sketching Gazi in her repose. Not just for the…art…of it, but because they had a suspicion that selling the artwork would earn them as much as their share for the raid on Wistram if they found the right clientele. [Pirates] were, after all, an unscrupulous lot.

Mostly, though, the oddly intimate scene, the relaxation, Gazi’s armor, was undercut by one thing. Trey coughed.

“Gazi?”

“Yes?”

She turned, and Trey looked around.

“…Maybe you would want to swim once the Illuminary stops moving? Or step into the rain? I think I have some soap in my bag of holding. I, uh—do Gazers have a strong sense of smell?”

She gave him a quizzical look until she realized that the two had a radius—even with admirers like Rasea Zecrew herself. Gazi had that two-month-armor smell, and Trey was doing his best to be polite…but even Goelv had retreated from his idol, trying to cover his nose-holes.

“Ah. Pass me that soap. I was in my armor.”

“Right. I know.”

“I couldn’t remove it.”

“No, I know that—”

“I keep clean regularly. Every day that we’re not on campaign. My armor as well.”

The Gazer insisted. Trey nodded as he passed her a bar of soap. The Gazer kept trying to explain what didn’t need explaining.

That was when Amerys moved. She stopped hovering in the air and flitted across the sky. Trey looked up, as did Elena, and one of the Earthers pointed up.

“Superwoman.”

It was just a comment. Because that was what it looked like. They had seen Eldavin’s armor, which evoked another type of hero…but this was more primal than even seeing someone flying in magic armor.

This was just…Amerys. Arms spread, flying down, whipping across the sea and waves, turning, as if it were the easiest thing in the world, and flying down to the decks with a spray of water.

Even Trey, who didn’t like heights, felt an instinctive urge to do the same. Magic. Superpowers. If there was anything left to wonder at—

It was that.

Of course, instantly, someone had to ruin it.

“Superwoman doesn’t exist. It’s Supergirl.”

“She’s not a girl, idiot.”

“Well, then, Wonder Woman.”

“Wonder Woman has an invisible plane.”

“That’s even dumber. She can fly!”

“Only in the latest movies. Canonically—”

The best of them and the worst of them. Trey looked for the comic book expert as Amerys laughed. She came striding along the decks for three steps, then fell flat on her face.

It was a slow collapse. She lay on the ground as everyone stared at her and tried to inchworm forward. Then she floated up a bit and floated over, turning onto her side.

“My legs don’t work. Trey, Gazi—you stink.”

“Stop telling me that.”

The Gazer was already lathering up. Amerys chuckled, and Trey got a better sense of her now that she wasn’t a prisoner speaking to a possible enemy or conspirator. She was, well…casual.

On the meter of the Seven plus Orthenon, with Orthenon and Takhatres falling on the ‘prickly’ side with Gazi as perhaps more of a scary medium, Amerys was on the Mars and Flos side.

Unless you’d seen her fighting. That was a good way of describing it. Now that all had passed, she was like a stormcloud that had vented all its static. Relaxed…until the time came again to get intense.

She floated past Trey then came to a halt, slightly off the ground between the two. Her slightly glowing, electric eyes fixed on the two.

Trey and Gazi. And the Quarass and Rasea.

“I missed what it was like to fly. I almost broke down crying so many times in front of them—but that my captors were watching me every moment was why I didn’t. You know, they offered me freedom. I just had to sign in blood and great magic not to aid him.”

Gazi looked up.

“You held out well.”

Amerys smiled, a weary, relieved smile, and met Gazi’s central eye.

“One year. I said—one year. One year, and I’d break. I didn’t know if he’d make it there before now. He can get swept up in his wars. Trey Atwood, isn’t it? Not Troy Atlas.”

“Yes, Amerys…”

Trey tried to get up, but the Archmage lifted a hand.

“Rest. I owe you my freedom, Trey. You, Calac Crusland, you, Gazi, but we are bound by service and blood. The Quarass, too. I count my debts. Where is Calac Crusland?”

“Resting. The Quarass slipped something into his drink. He can mourn tomorrow.”

Amerys’ eyes shifted to the girl on deck.

“Ah, as cruel as ever. This one seems inclined to aid us, though?”

She looked at Gazi, and the half-Gazer shrugged.

“She broke you out.”

“And stole the Serkonian Lance. Not entirely altruistic. The Nagas will throw ten kinds of tantrums, and there will be repercussions. No doubt that was why she did it. Well, better a viper in hand than one we don’t see. Just so long as we have an antidote in the other hand.”

Amerys remarked lightly. She sighed.

“No politics. Maresar is dead.”

Gazi stopped washing herself. She looked up, and her slight smile vanished.

“Yes.”

Amerys closed her eyes.

“Poor Venith. I always thought he would die first. Maresar was so clever; she ran from every fight she knew she’d lose. But if it was him or her…so goes the [Bandit Lord of Changing Sands]. One of twelve. Rasea Zecrew! Did you lift a glass?”

She turned suddenly, and a pair of boots stopped as they strode along the deck. Trey saw a pointed grin—and sharp teeth on the Drowned Woman’s anglerfish side. A light shone from Rasea’s eye on that side, and the Human one glittered.

“Of course. I’d never not, though I did it in the moment. One of twelve passes. But we’ll roll out another keg, and I’ll lift the first glass with you if you’ll drink with me.”

“Alcohol. After so long. I’ll drink even your worst—but after that, some proper wine. Just a bit. I haven’t eaten for two thirds of a year! Aside from fingers and Trey’s snacks. Now I’m starting to feel hungry.”

Amerys licked her lips. She turned, floating over, then tried to levitate herself upwards and stand. She drifted forwards, stumbled—then hovered. Trey watched as Amerys figured out how to ‘walk’, like a puppet held up by invisible strings.

There was something graceful and eerie about it. Like the Archmage of Lightning was dancing. Rasea Zecrew watched her and then looked at Gazi.

“Will you join us, Pathseeker?”

“Give me a minute.”

Gazi was washing herself briskly. Rasea Zecrew looked at Trey.

“And you. Do I know you? You’re the lad who broke Amerys out yourself. Do you know me?”

“You’re the [Pirate] who attacked Flos at Medain.”

The [Pirate Captain] laughed and swept off her hat to give him a bow.

“No hard feelings, eh!”

“All the hard feelings.”

Gazi muttered. Rasea eyed her but gave one of her fearless grins.

“You wouldn’t hold it against me on my ship as a guest, would you, Lady Pathseeker? Why, we’d have to duel, then! And I don’t stab my guests…much.”

“Want me to put on my armor and find out?”

Gazi bared her teeth. Some of the [Pirates] oohed, but Amerys lifted a hand as she turned.

“Gazi. Don’t provoke her, Captain Rasea. She’s protective of our [King]. You rescued me, so he might offer you a drink rather than go for his sword.”

Rasea shrugged. She was turning when Amerys remarked.

“Besides, if you and Gazi quarreled, I’d have to sink this ship. And I don’t like incinerating my rescuers.”

Oho. The [Pirates] looked at Amerys in silence as the Archmage turned her head. A little spark flashed from one eye as she winked. Rasea held still—then she burst out laughing and hugged Amerys.

The Archmage…squeaked slightly at the huge hug.

“I love you. Archmage, there’s a place on my vessel for you if you ever quit this King of Destruction business. Hey, open up the best barrel for the three fiercest women on the sea!”

“And what will you have?”

Someone drifted over. Rasea Zecrew turned as the Quarass shanked her from behind. She took the cup meant for Rasea, and the [Pirate Captain] was met with howls of laughter from her crew. She took her hat off ruefully.

“Quarass of Germina, you wound me. ‘Course, it’s four. I thought a mite-sized ruler might not drink?”

“One glass for an occasion like this is acceptable. I have been [Bandit Lord] before. Raise a glass. And I’m a [Drunkard] with over a hundred levels in the class cumulatively. You do not understand my thirst.”

The Quarass sighed. She peered into the barrel and frowned up at them.

“…Is this a barrel of Fissivilian scotch?”

Rasea winked at her.

“Yep.”

“A barrel.”

“You don’t make kegs for [Pirates]. Or [Mages], as it turned out. We got a good haul. Alright, let’s get this right. First, to Maresar the [Bandit Lord]! Second, to breaking Amerys out of Wistram! Third, to raiding the Academy of [Mages]!”

Rasea scooped up a glass and fearlessly downed what had to be six shots in one go. Amerys took a shot-glass and lifted it before sipping. The Quarass hesitated with a similar portion to Rasea in hand and emptied all but a single shot before sighing and drinking it.

The [Pirates] cheered and went for drinks, and that was how Trey experienced their sailing away from Wistram. Without much in the way of regrets. Just relief.

It was done. If the same had passed and they had all failed and it had been for naught? He imagined that and shook his head.

“Freedom. I’ll fly to Reim as soon as we land. I could carry you with me, but we need passage for the Earthers. Nerrhavia’s Fallen is broken at Reim; we must make sure it stays that way. Liberate allies, like the Mad Ones…or the Monks of Sottheim.”

Amerys broke her vow of talking about the future shortly after the toast. She floated bites of sushi in front of her, nibbling at them—her stomach was shrunken from disuse, but she savored each bite—as Gazi did likewise. The Gazer blinked one amused eye at Amerys.

“Someone already got Sottheim.”

“Who?”

“The Empress of Tiqr. She is gathering more of our allies. She has Loquea Dree too, in a bid to retake her homeland.”

Amerys blinked. She tripped again as she lost concentration and went floating head-over-heels before she came to a stop in the air and turned.

“Wait, Tiqr fell? What else has happened while I’ve been out?”

Gazi thought about it as a mischievous grin came to her face.

“Do you remember the ruler of Jecrass? The current one, not the old [King].”

“Um…um…Raelt? Ordinary, fairly low-level [King], likes oranges or something? What, did Jecrass get wiped out? They leaked some of that to me.”

Amerys snapped her fingers. Gazi snorted.

“He challenged the King of Destruction when our lord was set to take Belchan’s capital—you won’t believe what happened next. We have a lot to tell you, Amerys.”

“And a lot to do. I want someone to trim my nails. I want to bathe. I…I need to walk through a forest and smell the air. And beat Nerrhavia into the ground.”

Amerys stretched. Trey watched her, worried, and had to say something.

“As long as you remember your promise.”

Gazi and Amerys looked at him, and Gazi blinked.

“What promise?”

She didn’t know. Amerys looked at her and then at Trey with great amusement.

“You mean, Gazi didn’t put you up to it? I thought of any of the Seven, she might have had a hand in it. I made a promise to Trey, Gazi. He told me to my face he wouldn’t free me if I refused.”

Gazi’s eyes widened as she looked at Amerys. The Archmage whispered in her ear, and the Gazer swung around to stare at Trey. He smiled, and Amerys nodded at him.

“I will keep it, Trey. Not just because I am a [Mage] of my word—but because I have agreed, in part.”

“You have?”

Trey and Gazi chorused. Amerys rolled her eyes. She had a glass of wine now, and floated it around her with the sushi. She reached for something.

“I’m so glad I raided my rooms before I got out. Hmm…ah, here.”

She placed something on her nose—a pair of spectacles—and produced a little book with a flourish. She floated it in front of her, and Trey’s suspicions were confirmed. For all her idiosyncrasies and penchant towards war…Amerys was still somewhat scholarly. Somewhat…

“I have a list, here. Of things I was going to say to Flos when he woke. Let me just add that in…there.”

The quill she floated scribbled, and, with a flourish, Amerys closed the book, let it float into her bag of holding, and looked at Gazi and Trey’s expressions. She scowled.

“What? I write things down. Not everyone has an eidetic memory or Skill for that. Nor am I turning into Valeterisa, who can remember what frog burped twenty-three years ago in a pond, but can’t remember to put on her robes some days!”

Offended, she floated back down to sit cross-legged in front of Trey and Gazi. She met the young man’s eyes, serious.

“It has always seemed to me that Chandrar was the only continent to export [Slaves] in great number. In that sense—we provided a supply to a demand that might have cropped up elsewhere. And for that, other continents have mocked us. Because we trade in lives. Ransoming prisoners has fueled Flos’ victories in war, and my sympathies never went beyond that. I disliked Roshal as most of Wistram does; spending months in chains has changed my perspective. You have my word.”

Gazi exhaled slowly. She looked at Amerys, almost angrily.

“Years we argued. Queravia and I. Tottenval too, but Drevish wouldn’t commit, and the others…”

“Of course he wouldn’t. He needed Djinni for his grand designs, and he studied in Merreid. Well, Trey has convinced me. It will not be easy, you know. Nor simple.”

The [Bloodglass Mage] sat up. Elena had edged over, and the Quarass was calmly listening in with some of the [Pirates] on their conversation. Rasea wasn’t even trying to pretend, but making one of her crew take down their entire conversation, grinning all the while. He didn’t care. His attention was on Amerys.

“I know that. But you…will do your best?”

Amerys nodded.

“I have said it. But we must be ready. After all—when he changes his mind, they will stand against him. And Roshal? Roshal has all of Wistram’s might—and they all fight like Ullsinoi when their backs are against a wall. They might be the greatest foe of his return, Nerrhavia’s Fallen be damned. But once we gather, Gazi, I, Orthenon, Takhatres, Mars, and…Drevish…no. He won’t be joining us, will he?”

Amerys trailed off. Gazi hesitated. She looked at Amerys, and her features changed as she realized the last thing that Amerys didn’t know. She closed her eyes a second.

“Second-greatest, Amerys. There is one last thing you need to know. Come. Let us go for a walk. I must tell you how he died. And who did it.”

Amerys looked at Gazi. The Archmage stopped smiling. She rose.

“They’re still alive?”

“Yes. Come.”

The Gazer lifted her arm, and Amerys leaned against her. The Archmage looked at the Gazer, and, leaning on her for support, the two went for a walk. They traveled off the decks of the Illuminary and began to walk across the air and dark sea, fearless of what might lie below.

Talking.

“Now there is a magic I’d pay for. An Archmage unchained.”

Rasea Zecrew followed them with her eyes, and Trey couldn’t help but nod. He looked at Elena. The young woman came to sit next to him. She looked at Trey, the scar on his neck, the Quarass—the freed Archmage and Gazi.

She didn’t say anything for a while, just sat. She asked him one question.

“Trey. Was it worth it?”

He looked after Amerys and sighed. But Trey didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

——

Was it worth it?

Not Amerys’ breakout, but the whole of it. After the battle was over, and the army of Nerrhavia’s Fallen surrendered, at last, the King of Destruction came out of his palace.

He had been there throughout the battle, save for the one time he had emerged to throw the javelin. Not in fear or expectation of the end, as it turned out. He had known about the Quarass’ troops.

Rather, he had not shown himself because he’d been…hiding.

Hiding in shame.

He was still bandaged from head to foot, burned beyond healing. He should not have been on his feet, but he walked nonetheless, surrounded by [Healers] and bodyguards.

To see Maresar.

Venith knelt in front of her. He had folded her arms, but then retreated to sit two dozen paces away. Because he had to.

Her body was partly charred from fire, and the arrow had done terrible damage where it struck her on the side. The [Bandit Lord] looked like she was resting bitterly, but almost peacefully.

Venith Crusland sat away from her, staring at her. When he looked at the King of Destruction, two cores of broken metal seemed to pierce outwards—not just at Flos, but everything.

He sat in a cone fifteen feet wide of…destruction. The ground was torn up, the stones cracked. Everyone walked wide of him.

Wrath. It had snapped arrows, torn flesh, and it continued. An aura unchained.

Flos Reimarch said nothing. He just knelt too, his bandages bleeding red.

Maresar.

How many more? How much longer, and for what?

Venith didn’t say it out loud. Nor did the young woman, weeping, her wounds bandaged. Teresa Atwood looked at Maresar and saw only her, the one casualty in this war.

——

Nawalishifra shouldn’t have been alive, but she was. She wandered among a charnel house of the dead.

Burnt corpses. The Quarass of Germina had struck terror into Nerrhavia’s Fallen at the end of the battle, with one of the many ways she knew how. Fire. Fire and ash.

It made it less bloody. Almost less gruesome because she found only ash; Stitch-folk had burnt away, cloth and all.

Nawal was sick. Sick at heart. Sick with guilt. Lady Maresar, a living legend, was dead. Her husband had sacrificed a blade to free Nawal of her debts.

Even when I tried to die, I couldn’t make amends. Nawal did not know what would happen next. She had seen the King of Destruction come down from his palace, but he had no eyes for her. She had been forgiven by Venith.

She was Nawal…

Nawal…

Just Nawalishifra. No longer of Clan Tannousin.

It was not that Venith had the power to take away her ties of blood and home. He did not have the class or authority over her.

He had simply told her what she’d known, deep down. The day they had abandoned her, let her cast herself on his wrath…

She was no longer Nawalishifra Tannousin. Now, she was Nawal.

Free.

Freedom was a terrible thing. She didn’t have anything left. No pride, no belief in herself. Only her hammer to offer, and she had sullied the thing lying in the blood. Nawal had cast it down, and she would never pick it up again. Not after what she’d done.

The [Smith] looked around and saw at least one group of people were happy, even exuberant. Reim’s people were exhausted, mourning Maresar, but hard at work.

Stripping Nerrhavia’s Grand Army. [Soldiers] by the thousand were removing their gear, placing it down, filing past the warriors to stand or eat what was given to them. Silk, Cotton…the Hemp-caste looked darkly pleased as the Silk-warriors protested and were offered a choice to strip or be stripped.

They outnumbered Reim’s forces, still. But the fight was out of them. Not just because they had lost their command—but because of them.

Germina’s people. The [Assassins] and warriors of Ger were surrounding a figure, two figures, and cheering them.

“The Quarass lives! The Quarass triumphant!”

“Ger shelters her! She shelters us!”

Khalid, the Quarass’ [Champion], and Vaitsha, her [Highborn], transformed by poison into someone whose very touch was deadly, were surrounded by Germina’s people, who were cheering some great victory the Quarass had apparently won.

No one got near Vaitsha, but Khalid, who had posed as the Quarass, had led them into battle.

A great victory.

It was. Nawal was no military mind, but she saw it. Nerrhavia’s Hordes had brought their best weaponry to Reim. Enchanted weapons, potions, scrolls—even what some of Reim’s warriors were calling a ‘hwacha’, a mighty weapon of war.

Now, all of it was Reim’s, and they had truly captured the armory to forge the King of Destruction’s armies anew.

Will I make blades for him? More blades? Am I needed? Where do I go?

Nawal had no answer. Only the sense of being alive when she felt she should have died.

She wanted to live. That was what the [Smith] realized. She looked around at the bodies littering the ground. The broken walls of the city. Exhausted faces. The [Smith] felt tears running down her bloody cheeks.

She was alive. Nawal sank to her knees.

Alive. Dishonored, class lost, clan gone. She closed her eyes.

“I picked up my hammer and forged the blade of my end. I looked into my heart and saw it reap a hundred lives. I made a blade as rare as Naq-Alrama steel, and I have made the Jewel-Metal of Zeikhal. I have forged the swords that command that highest price in the world.”

She plucked her veil from her face and let the dirty piece of fabric fall.

“It was not enough. I need something more. There has to be something more than that. Than blood and filth. Something more than a sword.”

The [Peerless Magic Smith] had turned into a [Fallen Smith].

Now she was simply a…[Forgiven Magic Smith]. She looked back towards Venith, Reim, and then at the battlefield and what lay beyond it. So many dead bodies.

A sword would only have added to that carnage. A weight in death. That was no legacy. Even Naq-Alrama blades broke.

“All I did was give another weapon to this slaughter. This meaningless…a woman died. A brave woman. Tens of thousands of men and women died in fire and agony for a war, and I forged a blade out of their suffering and death.”

Nawalishifra wiped at her face and stared at the blood and tears there. She raised her head.

“Until I find something better. Until I find a meaning or metal worth putting an edge towards, for strife or something that matters more…I, Nawalishifra of Chandrar, will forge no more blades. There must be something more to my class than this.”

She lowered her head to the ground for a while. Then she rose. To eat and survive. And find a reason why she had lived.

[Vow of the Bladeless Smith declared.]

Nawal lived. They buried Maresar. And time rolled on, as word spread.

——

Time was a funny thing. So many things were happening so fast that they overlapped, or seemed to happen all at once.

For instance, Grand Magus Eldavin’s dramatic entry into the Ailendamus conflict with the Dawn Concordat seemed to come moments before news that Rasea Zecrew, Gazi Pathseeker, the Quarass of Ger, and the Golems led by Cognita had sacked the Academy of [Mages] and liberated Amerys.

Which was because it had been within four days of the events happening. Which was bad news for Ailendamus, because Tyrion Veltras had made landfall on Terandria two days before Eldavin’s announcement.

Also? Concurrent-ish with the Wistram drama—which was also highly inaccurate, by the way, because it missed a lot of the actual details going on—rumor had the Horns of Hammerad all appearing in the news for one reason or the other, although obviously they were far less important.

Save for the fact that Nerrhavia’s Fallen had moved an entire Grand Army just for one of their number.

Oh—and if you were counting timelines, this was all set against the backdrop of the Meeting of Tribes, which was ongoing, had been ongoing, and was now clashing with Drake armies.

Why did this matter? It didn’t. Not at all.

“And more than you can know. This isn’t random; someone was watching Eldavin for when he left to make their move. The same with Eldavin declaring war on Ailendamus merely two days after House Veltras established a beachhead.”

Niers Astoragon was someone who made timelines. The [Strategist] was plotting out dates and events and swatting at falling debris landing around him. He eventually looked up and cursed.

“Would you stop eating that? Or learn to chew with your mouth closed!”

His audience looked at each other, and all of them checked their snacks of rather crumbly sevi-crumbs. A Gnoll favorite that didn’t have anything to do with meat; it was a sweet flatbread made even more sweet and mixed into a bar with fruits and honey, a delightful snack.

It also meant that crumbs kept falling on Niers, and some were half as large as his head. Bird nibbled his; he was the messiest eater since mandibles did not make crumbly food less messy.

“Tyrion Veltras and Eldavin know each other. Or they’re after something. But what? Neither one’s an idiot from what I’ve observed.”

Numbtongue raised his brows.

“Tyrion Veltras isn’t an idiot?”

Niers snorted and pointed a finger at him.

“I like you, Numbtongue. Keep it up, and you’ll earn your [Sarcasm Bard] class. But let’s be honest. Yes, the man’s like a stubborn stone welded to a bull’s head, but he’s one of the world’s most competent [Battle Lords].”

“My what?”

The Hobgoblin blinked slightly uneasily at Niers. That was the thing about the Fraerling. From anyone else, it was a joke. From Niers?

Well, that was why it was so funny. The Fraerling glanced up and kept writing. It looked less like a series of lines…like a timeline…and more like a strange spiderweb of connected lines.

He saw the lines. No one else did, but they watched.

Rather like an audience watching something odd or marvelous. Like a blue rabbit that did backflips and cast Tier 2 spells, but more interesting.

“Don’t you all have anything better to do? This cannot be interesting.”

The Titan of Baleros looked up after a minute of writing. His audience glanced at each other.

They were riding along on a wagon as the Fraerling occupied a pedestal to let him see and be seen and not be squashed. Not that this was a wagon used for supplies anymore.

A Tribe was on the move. Multiple tribes, in fact. Not just the Lomost Tribe, or the other Gnoll tribes who’d joined them. Day by day, they were increasing in number.

Gnoll tribes versus Drake armies. Or, to be more accurate, Gnoll tribes fleeing Drake armies who were on the offensive. They were vulnerable, especially given that the highest-leveled Gnolls in most tribes were at the Meeting of Tribes.

Disastrous, another time. This would mean war. Since it already looked like it thanks to the revelations coming out of the Meeting of Tribes—the Drakes had jump-started their side of things.

And they would have gotten away with it too if it weren’t for that meddling Fraerling. Also, the Goblins.

The Ghostly Hand tribe was on the march too, and, for the first time in most people’s living memory, Goblins and Gnolls were marching under the same banner.

Which was Niers’. He kept checking his [Message] scroll. Not very high-quality. It was only something a Gold-rank adventurer might buy. Which meant you could still intercept [Messages] and whatnot, but it was the best artifact he could find.

He was writing to his company in code. Fierre peeked over Niers’ shoulder and got nothing.

Not even a sentence or two. She stared for a good half minute at the strange, stick-like characters before giving up. Even if she could read one of Drath’s tongues, the Titan was sure she wouldn’t be able to crack the interior code.

Things were not well at home, either. But there it was. They knew Niers was alive. Mostly because they were looking for him, but word was spreading. Niers wasn’t in hiding. Soon, little Rock Crabs hiding in their shells would know the Titan was here.

The Fraerling put down the scroll he’d been laboriously writing large upon; no one made Fraerling-sized equipment anywhere in Izril. He looked back at his events-list and swore.

“Bird! I will shoot you!”

He went for his crossbow, and a tiny bolt buried itself in Bird’s left upper arm. The [Hunter] looked at the tiny arrow.

“Ooh. Toothpick.”

“You don’t have teeth, Bird.”

“Then can I not have a toothpick? This is very rude, Octavia. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Bird carefully picked up the tiny bolt and tried to scrape some food off the side of his mandibles. Octavia Cotton looked at Numbtongue, then at Niers, who was swearing and trying to erase the stylized bird that Bird had drawn by connecting events.

There they were. The band of adventurers from Erin’s inn. Ulvama was peeking at Niers while pretending to sleep on a bed she’d made out of supplies. Numbtongue sat with Badarrow as Snapjaw leaned against the [Sniper].

Icecube waddled after the wagon, sighing, but perking up each time Gothica tossed him a scrap of meat. Octavia was mixing up some of Ulvama’s magical paints, and Captain Gna kept peeking at them as she rode next to a group of marching Antinium.

Salkis would have joined the group in the cart around Niers, but there was no room. So she rode by as Rasktooth and Infinitypear ate…pears.

The same as always. But more tight-knit. Niers didn’t have to look around to see more…familiar interactions.

The Antinium had always been Antinium and the same species, most from the same Hive, but now they looked animated.

As if someone had given sentience to Golems. An odd parallel, but it was true. Instead of marching along stolidly without a word, the Antinium…fidgeted. They had oddities.

Like, Grass Shell would now stop for a second, squat down awkwardly, then hurry off after the others. He’d trundle off to the side and come back with a flower or interesting piece of grass and add it to his shell. It was colorful now and had elements of plant matter beyond grass, despite the [Shaman]’s name.

What was interesting was that the clippings and flowers didn’t look like they were dying. Even days after being picked.

In the same vein, Infinitypear and Rasktooth were a duo, and the Cave Goblin and [Adventurer] Antinium even slept next to each other, though one slept sitting up and the other rolled into a blanket with a dagger in one claw as he snoozed.

Perhaps the most notable change, though, was Pivr and Xeu. The solitary Prognugators, aloof and unhelpful when they did speak, were different.

Pivr most of all. He scuttled next to the two Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings, talking, as one of them, Normen, usually, would tip his hat and dispense sage advice.

Or what Pivr took as sage advice. Alcaz and Normen, the two Brothers who had volunteered to be the last men to carry their perceived dues to Erin—they didn’t look like men walking to their deaths anymore.

As for Xeu, she was still hard to spot. But she followed someone around who belonged to a group of his own.

Soldiers and warriors. Even Salkis would head over and talk with some respect, and she was the person who had opened up least. A few Soldiers and the Redfang Hob, Dirtmouth, were included in this group—as well as Captain Gna.

The heart of it was The Crimson Soldier, for whom Xeu had developed something of an obsession. She would quietly follow him, moving left and right, always watching with interest.

Perhaps because…he always knew where she was. The Crimson Soldier could see or sense Xeu, or his instincts were just honed from literal years of war. It even commanded Gna’s respect. Niers thought the [Goblinfriend Bug-Captain]—what a class—was beginning to develop the abilities of officers of her rank.

A sense for the experience, aptitude, or simply career of a [Soldier]. Niers, of course, had known The Crimson Soldier was no ordinary Antinium from the start.

However, now The Crimson Soldier—and you had to use the ‘The’, just like Touma the Great was an entire name—showed it. He was a crimson red, obviously, like blood or a thousand sunsets he had never seen. The blood of other species, mind you. His was green.

If Gna entered into the weird, exceptionally rare line of classes like [Swarm Lord], he was going to laugh until he threw up.

Mind you, that’s what Niers wanted to see. There were classes or variations or just tricks on display with this group he had never seen.

Ulvama, by contrast, the [Shaman of the Old Ways], was as boring as you got. Her memories were an interesting trick, but that was bog-standard Goblin. For anyone who knew Goblin classes.

Numbtongue’s lightning song and his guitar? More interesting.

Fierre the Vampire and Gothica the [Goth]? A class that had never existed as far as Niers knew until recently, yet was not green?

Fascinating beyond belief. Niers wanted to stay here and just see what happened to this chaotic lot. What class would Badarrow get when he advanced past [Mountainrange Sniper]? Niers wanted to know, and he would bet the answer would surprise him.

But he had a job to do. And the friends of the inn…the Fellowship of the Inn? No, that sounded stupid. Their growing sense of camaraderie forged in battle wasn’t all that had changed.

They were the center of attention for Gnolls and Goblins marching around them. A tiny group—followed by the Ghostly Hand tribe, and amidst and following Lomost and other Gnolls who’d joined up after their rescue.

Thousands so far, and most of them non-combatants. The highest-leveled fighters were actually the…group of mixed species around the wagon. Which was fine; he had several Level 30+ warriors and [Mages], and besides, these were Gnoll noncombatants.

Every second Gnoll marching or riding along the ground had a bow or sling. Even children could hurl a stone hard enough to crack your forehead.

Not that Niers placed them anywhere near where a sneak attack might occur, if anyone could sneak up on him. But it was the kind of trick that made their perceived threat-count double or triple in an enemy [Strategist]’s [Threat Analysis] Skill if they just went by unit.

That was the kind of mind-game the Fraerling employed. You had to know how the Skill worked, know how to trick it…Niers glanced up as a Drake [Lady] peered around.

“They’re still watching us. Do they get bored?”

It was like an exact replica of his comment. The Goblins, Antinium, Gnoll, Drake, Stitch-girl, and Humans stared at him like some strange relic because he was Niers.

The Gnolls and even Goblins stared at each other and the group riding along like the oddest carnival in the world.

Little Gnoll cubs would race over, sniffing at the strange group, then be called back. Which was a good sign; the adults were losing their wariness of the Antinium and Goblins.

The first few days, they’d refused to move out of their group and had their paws near their weapons. Now? They weren’t comfortable, but after four days of not being stabbed by Goblins in their sleep?

The trick was exposure. Exposure to the Antinium and Goblins made them less of a threat.

It also helped that Bird was there. There was nothing quite like seeing Bird dueting his silly songs with Numbtongue reluctantly playing backup to jar the image of dread Goblins and the Black Tide out of your head.

“Do something interesting, then, Salkis. Juggle knives or something. Anyone?”

“We’re the Fellowship of the Inn, Lord Astoragon, not travelling [Performers]!”

Fierre remarked. Niers scowled.

“Stop calling yourselves that. Who came up with it, anyways?”

“Me.”

Numbtongue raised his hand. Niers rolled his eyes.

“And what are you basing that on? You know ‘Fellowship’ implies you’re all male?”

“Stories I’ve heard. Sounds good.”

The [Bard] was completely unruffled. Niers grumbled.

“It must be a really stupid story, because I’ve never heard of it. Who told you that? Goblins? In which case, I take it back or something.”

“No. Miss Erin told us. You are rude to her. Apologize.”

Bird poked Niers happily in the back. The Fraerling stumbled, raised his crossbow, and Bird drew his hand back quickly.

There they were. Their objective was questionably absent, though Niers had a funny idea he might know what she was calling herself—if not exactly where she was. He glanced at the [Message] scroll.

Then he looked up and inhaled. Numbtongue kept glancing at little Gnoll children with brown, black, red, and blonde fur watching him. He played a little riff on the guitar, and his claws flashed with sparks. One struck Snapjaw’s knee, and she jumped, so Badarrow poked Numbtongue and got a swat in return.

An army on the go, or a people who needed a hand after so many scaly claws had done them an injustice. A Titan on the wrong continent…thousands of moving furry people. Goblins chattering and laughing at the absurdity of it all.

Even Shaik, the Chieftain, riding on a giant Shield Spider, looked in good humor. The only other outstanding members of the tribe were the two white Gnolls. A little girl riding in the center of an odd formation of Gnolls on a wagon next to an older male Gnoll, scratching at his neck uneasily now and then.

And the entire time, the people looked at Niers or the strange circumstances in which they found themselves, amazed. Amazed that he was so calm.

As if he hadn’t been here before. As if the stories of him didn’t tell you that. The Antinium? These Goblins? Never. But Niers remembered the first time it had gone like this.

Slightly miffed, riding along while laughing Lizardfolk [Hydra Riders] dared him to see if he could walk on the practically microscopic lily pads and scum floating in the marshes and Foliana tried eating dragonflies.

Spoilers: he could not, and dragonflies could be poisonous. Then two children came running up.

“Lord Astoragon! Lord Astoragon, I think it’s working! How do I look? Have I changed my class?”

“I—I think I’m getting the hang of it too. Should I keep going, sir? Lord Niers?”

The [Grandmaster Strategist] looked over at the children. Slightly bigger children, but the two City Runners were still young.

Garia Strongheart was sweating and grinning. Fals was just sweating. Niers cheerfully raised his quill and spoke.

“No consolidations yet! Keep at it! I told you—I’m not an expert, Garia. But there’s a reason you practice tricks. Give it another thousand and see where you get.”

Garia nodded, rubbing her hands. But she obediently trotted back to the slightly-amused group of [Shamans], Gnolls armed with rechargeable wands of [Light Arrow], and children. She braced herself, took a breath—and they began to throw mud, fire off arrows, and cast other spells.

She did not dodge. That was another type of training. Instead, Garia did her darndest to deflect each missile coming her way with only her hands, twisting her torso or leaning slightly to the right or left.

Close-quarters deflection and training. Keep it up, and she might learn a Skill.

Of course, the net result was that Garia was soon covered in mud and bruises, but she had the kind of personality that suited her class. Like a [Farmer]’s daughter…she didn’t go insane from repeating her training.

Fals, on the other hand, looked maudlin as Niers told him to do another lap of the army. It might have had something to do with the literal chains and weights tied around his ankles.

“It seems cruel.”

“You mean hilarious.”

Salkis corrected Octavia as the [Alchemist] watched Fals running around the laughing or cheering Gnolls. Niers just shrugged.

“The boy wants to level up and gain a real advanced class. That’s one of the ways to do it.”

Fierre looked at Niers and raised her brows as she adjusted her big hat; she was already beginning to tan despite her layers.

“What if he breaks a leg? It takes like…weeks to heal a broken leg without potions, and you have to be careful of infections if you do use them.”

Niers carefully trimmed his quill with his enchanted sword. Everyone else turned to eye Fierre; she had guessed how long it would take, and she was still off.

“If he breaks a leg, he’d be halfway towards going through what that other City Runner survived. Fals is careful, a classic Runner’s Guild City Runner. He takes few risks, he’s practical, fairly well-liked from how Garia talks about him, and he will never break Level 30 before he’s actually 30 at the rate he’s going. Breaking a leg would help him. So would pushing himself. Running fifty laps with weights on his ankles isn’t half as hard as dodging [Assassins]. If he can’t do even that, he should give up on wanting levels. Which is respectable, but you can’t have both.”

Niers looked up at the silence. Gothica spoke, turning from Icecube to smile at him.

“Mean.”

“I’m being honest. People assume honesty is me being mean. Believe me, when I’m mean, I’ll do more than hurt someone’s feelings. And people assume rudeness is being straightforward.”

Niers snorted. He went back to writing and sighed.

“There.”

“What you working on now?”

Ulvama looked curiously at Niers as he folded up the piece of paper twice his height; he’d been writing hard on it to make it legible. She kept speaking in bad grammar, though he knew she had proper diction.

“Something for Numbtongue. Here. I’d recommend you check out a library later and read these books.”

The [Bard] stopped riffing and took the piece of paper with raised brows.

“Huh?”

He unfolded a list of titles on two columns. Niers smiled.

“Books. Stories and anthologies of songs. Don’t let me stop you from playing.”

“You told Garia to practice blocking magic, and you’re giving Numbtongue a list of songs? What about a weapon art? Can I have one? Know any for daggers?”

Salkis protested. Niers sighed.

“Does his class say ‘[Warrior]’ or ‘[Bard]’? You want a weapon art?”

“Yes, yes!”

Salkis shot up. Instantly, four hands did the same.

“No, me! I am great warrior!”

Rasktooth waved wildly. Snapjaw raised her hand and made Badarrow raise his hand for her.

“Lord Astoragon! Do you know any alchemical recipes?”

Octavia begged. Niers sighed.

It reminded him of class. He looked at Salkis.

“Alright. Take your daggers, form a cross across your chest. Think—stylized [Assassin].”

“Okay.”

Salkis did it eagerly. Niers nodded as she adopted a straight-backed pose, like some warrior flashing their daggers before leaping at you—which was a bad idea since that gave you plenty of time to activate a Skill, but whatever—he nodded and smiled.

“Now, stab yourself through the chest, pray like heck you survive that, and spray the enemy with your own blood. Then you do a leap forwards and slash them. Works like a charm. Trust me, they never see it coming.”

Salkis wavered. She gave Niers a narrow-eyed stare, and he gave the Drake whose class he couldn’t read a calm one in reply. He didn’t have to read it.

He knew a killer when he looked her in the eyes. Niers turned and whistled for Rasktooth and Infinitypear.

“You two. You’re low-level enough that you can level. Go challenge two Gnolls to a match. No blood, no death. But I guarantee you’ll level if you do what I say.”

Rasktooth and Infinitypear looked at him curiously, as did the other [Warriors], as Snapjaw laughed at Salkis, and the Drake sulked. It was a real Skill, but you had to really commit to learning it. And invest in healing potions before you got the Skill.

“How we level?”

“Go challenge one of them. Goblins work too, but between you and me, I’d challenge average Gnolls over Hobs. And when you duel them—Infinitypear, put that gold you found with Rasktooth on the line. Rasktooth? Your necklace…or your dagger.”

The Goblin and Antinium looked at each other.

“But that’s Infinitypear’s only possession, Niers. And Rasktooth’s necklace…”

The Goblin protectively covered the tooth of a Raskghar, which he had taken when he’d won his freedom. Niers nodded, meeting Fierre’s gaze.

“That’s why it matters. That’s why they’ll fight like they mean it. And any Gnoll will want a bunch of gold or a Raskghar’s tooth. Sacrifice. Sacrifice and stakes. Remember that, people!”

Fierre shuddered as Niers used the S-word. His students looked at Niers and began to figure it out. Ulvama was leaning over to prompt the [Strategist] to say something to her, and Octavia was elbowing Badarrow, who wanted to know if there were any bow-themed weapon arts, which of course there were. Bird wanted another story about fantastic birds and where to shoot them.

It was convivial, and Chieftain Orni of the Lomost tribe was riding over to humbly ask Niers for something—perhaps guidance for her warriors. A few Gnoll children were trying to saunter like the Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings, and Niers Astoragon was turning back to his [Message] scroll to keep talking with Altestiel, Perorn, or one of the pests who had located him.

Then his head snapped up. His eyes narrowed, and the words left his lips.

“Ambush! Straight ahead and in the grass, there!”

He pointed and shouted, and everyone whirled as a patch of slightly tall grass moved, and a group of Gnolls surged to their feet. They were surprised, but already preparing to loose arrows from the bows they held.

Also, the second shout that came after Niers and the short struggle as a bounding little figure—a Lizardman?—leapt up and shouted.

“Look out! Look out, they’re going to—”

Right before a Gnoll tackled him and roared. The other warriors surged to their feet, twice betrayed, and nocked arrows.

Niers had actually predicted their attack, which was practically unheard of, even for someone with [Dangersense]; it told you that you were in danger, but it could be fooled until someone shed their cover Skills or activated a trap.

The Titan, though…he had about thirty seconds on an ambusher sometimes, a lifetime of time. For larger groups or an army in wait? He could sense them up to an hour away.

Even so—off-guard they might be, but they had lain in wait. Now, the Gnolls rose.

Gnolls. The Lomost Tribe’s guards hesitated as they saw groups of Gnolls rising in small pockets. Nearly forty in total; well-armed, wearing magical paint, and holding enchanted weapons.

[Warriors] of the Plain’s Eye tribe. Five groups of roughly eight, in different spots around the marching group.

Five groups stood; Niers pointed at the one closest on their left.

“[Covering Fire: Archers]!”

Over a hundred arrows shot towards the Gnolls, and they dove. Three went down, magical armor or not. The bow shots had been immediate, before the Gnolls even thought to fire.

Skills.

The second group lifted their bows, and Niers roared.

“[Superior Counterfire]!”

Again, arrows shot towards them, but not hundreds; eight, one for each Gnoll. He heard a howl as they suffered their own attack, and a spectral arrow exploded in flames among their ranks.

Three more.

“[Arrowguard]!”

The arrows snapped and exploded off a barrier in midair. Niers saw the Gnolls cursing, but he was turning. The wagon had exploded into chaos, and his pedestal rocked as Snapjaw surged to her feet—and knocked him off-balance. Niers cursed, falling, as Numbtongue leapt off the wagon, drawing his sword. Ulvama tried to scramble up and got a foot in the stomach as Gothica leapt off her.

Damn! The Titan had gotten three groups at speed; his Skills were as fast as him looking at them and focusing. Two more Gnolls had a bead on their target.

They loosed a volley of arrows each, and the crossfire homed in on their target.

The two white Gnolls.

The little Gnoll girl looked up, uncomprehending. She had barely heard the Titan’s shout, but the older Gnoll tried to cover her. So slow. Neither one was a warrior.

Neither one was a Doombringer. Ulvama’s paint had coated their fur white, and even that had taken some convincing. Niers rolled to his feet just in time to see sixteen arrows, three glowing with enchantments, two more with Skills, home in on them. He looked at the Gnolls—

And grinned as the Gnolls around them snapped up their shields.

A ring of shields rose, and a curious, patterned barrier flickered into life in the air. The arrows snapped or exploded against the combined shield-Skill as the Gnoll [Shieldguard], [Shielded Warriors], and even [Missileward Lineholder] blocked the ambush volleys.

It wasn’t his Skill. But it was his formation. The curious group of Gnolls had been marching in a strange circle-pattern around the two fake Doombringers, which they had kept day and night. They’d kept their shields mostly hidden, but even if the ambushers had seen them—they were just shields. Unless you could fly or toss them up, it wasn’t going to stop arrows unless you were right next to them. Right?

And that’s why you attacked. Howls of alarm and dismay were sounding around Niers as he got to his feet and shouted.

[Commanding Voice].

“Guard the Doombringers! Hold your [Cascade Shield] and don’t move for anything, or I’ll gut all of you! Numbtongue! Gna—kill those bastards. Leave me four and that one. [Mark Target]!”

He whirled and a Gnoll jerked as he lit up. The same Gnoll who was wrestling with a little Lizardman, beating him ineffectually with a staff.

“A Lizardman? Here on Izril? Keep that one alive too!”

Niers whirled and saw the first figure go storming across the ground. Numbtongue, his Dragonblood crystal sword drawn. He was clinging to Salkis’ saddle as she charged, knives out.

She didn’t try Niers’ Skill, but Gna, the Antinium, and the rest of the Fellowship of the Inn were charging too. As well as the Lomost tribe’s warriors. Ah. That was a mistake.

“[Hear Me]! Fall back! Gna—[Speed Raid]! [Rapid Advance]! You lot—get those Gnolls! [Assault Formation]! Archers—those Gnolls! Loose!”

It was a mess of orders from the Titan, but his Skills meant that each group heard him as he intended.

Gnoll [Warriors] slowed in confusion as the elite Doomslayers tried to break for it. Meanwhile, Numbtongue’s group sped up and hit the first Gnoll group.

A second group of Goblins looked up at Niers’ voice and charged with whooping cries at the Gnolls nearest them. Archers loosed on a third group, and Niers turned to personally command a group of Gnolls closing with the Doomslayers he thought they could take.

Simple reasoning, for a [Strategist]. The ordinary [Warriors] would get diced up by what looked like elite [Shamanic Warriors] with enchanted weapons. However, Hobs and enough numbers and his Skills and command would win fights.

No one was going to die except them. Niers Astoragon grinned as the Plain’s Eye hunters tried to run.

“Killing children? Even on Baleros we don’t do that.”

He could have captured them all. One of his Skills was [I Left the Carrion None of Their Due]. A skill for someone who was sick of bloodshed and death and didn’t want to slaughter a foe.

He could always use that Skill.

Niers watched as the Gnolls started dying, but he made sure some survived.

He had questions for them.

——

The Doomslayers of Plain’s Eye knew their task. They had never stopped to wonder if there was another way.

Until the Lizardman asked, and they looked at him with his horrified eyes. But they kept going. With wrath. Wrath and fear for doom.

What they were not prepared for was wrath in return. The Gnolls had all the anger for the nightmares of their people in their hearts.

The Goblin who charged at them with that crystal sword of blood exceeded that. His eyes flashed with red light, as if it were made manifest. When the Antinium with the feather tucked behind his top hat rose, he didn’t hesitate and put an arrow through the first skull.

They had found their quarry. The Doomslayers looked up, and some saw the giant pointing down at them.

Slaughter them. What did the Plain’s Eye hunters see in the mirror? Just Gnolls?

Child-killers?

What the Goblins, Antinium, Humans, Drakes, Gnolls, that fellowship saw were dead people. They tried to make it a reality.

A [Shaman] stood up and threw the first burning arc of lava into the air. The righteous anger of the Doomslayers clashed with the howl of anger from a Goblin—a monster—and, somehow, it lost.

So they fled and fell, or fought and died.

It was almost a relief. A Gnoll warrior whirled with two axes in his paws. He tore around him, slashing down an arc of lava, and an arrow buried itself in his shoulder, but the magic on his fur protected him. He was fighting, lashing out, forcing a red Antinium Soldier to sway back.

Red? He didn’t know what was happening. He was roaring for them to run, but the other warriors and hunters were being cut down before his eyes.

He was fighting his friend. A little Lizardman hit him with his staff, stabbed him with the sharp tip, fleeing. He had tried to stop them. Called them…

Merish raised his axe, and he could have cut Viri in half. He didn’t. He whirled, threw the axe, and the Hobgoblin with the sword parried it out of the air. He was—good. He whirled it, and another Gnoll went down.

“Retreat! Retreat to the walls!”

Merish was howling. The other Plain’s Eye Doomslayers were running. They didn’t know what he meant, but they understood.

It was over. Merish, though—he saw the Hobgoblin with the sword advancing, blood running along the blade, and the crimson Antinium—more coming. Goblins riding spiders, arrows raining down. So he roared.

“5th Wall stands! It stands—”

The little Lizardman looked back once as the Gnoll spun, lashing out around him. Another arrow buried itself in Merish’s arm, deliberately missing his vital spots. A Goblin [Sniper] calmly shot his other arm.

The Gnoll kept shouting as the Hobgoblin slowed. A voice was telling him not to kill Merish. He wavered.

He very much wanted to. Merish turned.

“Merish! Run!”

Nearly forty of Plain’s Eye hunters were whittled down in a moment. They were still shouting at him, but the Gnoll was looking around. Where were they? Cirille? Where were Paxhal’s warriors? Where was—

Here he died. Some part of him knew it and was relieved. It had just been delayed. The Hobgoblin with that blade stepped forwards, eyes glowing, until the Lizardman leapt forwards. His staff met the sword and caught the first slash. Viri stumbled as the blade cut through his staff.

“Merish, run! Run!”

He landed on the peg-leg, and his staff met the [Bard]’s sword in a flurry of blows that hacked away at his weapon.

Merish heard the voice, amid the dream of Demons. He looked up and saw Viri shouting at him. He turned, blinking.

It looked so far away, but the Gnolls were shouting at him. Merish looked back at the Hobgoblin and the webs that struck Viri.

“Viri.”

The Gnoll began his final charge, but a voice roared in his ears. Loud, booming.

“Are you an idiot, warrior? Retreat! [Warriors Fall Back]!”

Something snapped him out of his rage. Merish turned and ran, and another arrow struck him from behind. But he—looked around as more Gnolls came charging past him?

Who?

——

“Attack! Attack!”

Chieftain Shaik howled, and Niers spun around. A second wave of Gnolls streamed over a ridge that had managed to hide their swift approach.

“What? I’ve been ambushed? Me?”

The Titan saw a wave of Gnolls cut off the pursuing Goblins and the Lomost tribe’s warriors. They didn’t clash hard; most were on horseback or aided by some kind of speed Skill; they threw nets and other slowing spells.

Distraction. Numbtongue was pursuing the leader of the attackers, though. But someone had seen the [Bard]’s charge and high-level warriors. So…they’d come right at him. Niers saw a group charge straight at Numbtongue.

“I’ve been ambushed. Me.”

He repeated the words slowly. His eyes spun across the battlefield, and there that idiot was, greatsword in hand. A gemstone blade, sweeping forwards as Numbtongue pivoted. The Hobgoblin blinked—and Venaz’s charge carried the two blades into a clash that rang through the air like a crystal bell.

The Minotaur roared as Wil, Peki, and Merrik charged into the Fellowship of the Inn, shouting. Niers took one look at them and began swearing.

“You idiots! You Sariant Lamb-brained, toad-licking, four-fingered, bumbling, incompetent—”

He glanced towards the last Doomslayers. They were getting away. And meanwhile—

——

“Cover their retreat! With me! With me!”

Venaz met the Hobgoblin with the crystal sword in the first charge. He’d picked him out as some kind of leader. Goblins and Gnolls?

Wil had wanted to find out what was going on, but Venaz had seen them trying to kill the Gnolls and acted. He saw Goblins? He knew which side he was on.

A master-crafted blade. The Dragonblood sword was superior to even an ordinary enchanted blade. However—Venaz bore something made by just as great a master, and his was enchanted.

The Diamond Greatsword of Serept sang as it met the Dragonblood sword and threw Numbtongue back. Venaz whirled the blade, and the Hobgoblin barely survived the next strike. The Minotaur was throwing his weight behind each blow, and he was bigger and stronger than Numbtongue.

What made the [Bard] blink was how fast Venaz was.

[Haste]. The Minotaur blurred across the battlefield, leaving a faint afterimage with each motion. He lifted a blade and deflected an arrow.

“Venaz! Fall back, fall back!”

“No! Push on! Rout them or we’ll not get away!”

The Minotaur knew he was right. They had to beat back this first wave, then run for it. The tribe they were with, the Hekitr tribe, could hamper pursuers with their trapsetting experts, but they were at the mercy of outriders.

Besides…he locked eyes with a second Goblin who appeared, aiming a bow at him with a snarl.

They had [Snipers].

“Bows! Down the bows!”

The Gnolls in his ambush party showered the enemy archers, and they had to take cover. But that Goblin was putting a bead on Venaz. He drew back—

“Hah! Goblins and Antinium? This is a real fight! [Sundering Blow]!”

Honored Berr appeared with a laugh. He tossed up a hatchet—then threw it.

The hatchet whipped through the air and split Badarrow’s bow. It exploded with a curse, and the Hobgoblin lurched back. But not just that—Gothica, waving her parasol, screeched as it too exploded. Gna’s paw rang, and she cursed; it felt like she’d broken her fingers! She peeled off as Salkis raced past her.

“Salkis! Stop!”

The hatchet had taken out three weapons with one throw! Honored Berr looked up as the Bloodfeast Raider leapt from her saddle, daggers flashing at him.

He dug his foot into the ground and kicked a spray of dirt into her face. Then he headbutted her. Then the famous [Berserker] gave into one of his rages.

“Dead g—”

Gna ducked as Salkis went flying past her, then another of Lomost’s warriors. Venaz whirled his blade back and clashed again with Numbtongue as the Wild Wastes [Mercenaries] entered the fray.

[Berserkers], running into the Lomost tribe’s warriors and thrashing them, outnumbered or not. Venaz shouted.

“Peki! Where are you and Merrik? Get your short legs over and—”

He swore, backing up as the [Bard] slashed at him. He was good! He moved like a sword-expert suddenly, and Venaz found himself trading blows.

Not that he needed to order his fellow students.

A Frost Wyvern was diving, poised to ice the entire wave of attackers, when Snapjaw heard Niers shout.

“Above you!”

She looked up. She hadn’t encountered a foe yet who had outmaneuvered her in the skies. But that was because she fought Drakes.

Peki snap-kicked Snapjaw out of her saddle, and the Hobgoblin went screaming over Icecube’s wing. Ulvama pointed desperately up at her to slow her fall, and Icecube tried to dive, snapping at the thing that had attacked it.

“[Anvil Kick]. [Rapid Fire Punches: Incendiary Fist]. This is stupid. Venaz is an idiot.”

Peki dropped, hit Icecube in the forehead, then flashed across the Frost Wyvern’s front. Her fists left a burning trail across his scales, and he dropped, disoriented, out of the sky. She dove as a Dwarf led a charge.

“[Unit: Stone Skin]! Take them down and fall back in order! Venaz, you clod, you’re in too deep!”

The Minotaur was dueling Numbtongue, and the Hobgoblin’s minute was running out fast. Merrik charged straight into Gna, who had recovered her blade, and she swung down, hit his stone-body Skill, and the [War Leader] took her down.

[Body of Stone]. Even stronger than his unit Skill. [Ram’s Charge] knocked Gna flat, and Merrik raised his hammer.

“[Giant’s Hammer]!”

The quaking impact made everyone lurch, and the group of Gnolls advanced on Lomost’s warriors. Meanwhile, the Fellowship was going after Venaz and Merrik.

Rasktooth stabbed Merrik from the side as he brought his hammer up and nearly shattered Gna’s jaw. The Cave Goblin stared at his dagger as it failed to pierce Merrik’s armpit, and the Dwarf backhanded him. Infinitypear lashed at him with his spear, but the Dwarf with a body of stone nearly caved in his chest.

Bird’s arrow saved Infinitypear; Merrik swore as an arrow glanced off his brow.

“Archer! Archer! Peki, take him down! Wil!”

“On it. Fall back, will you? [Ram’s Charge]!”

The [Lord] was on foot, which was odd because he preferred a horse. But the reason for that was because—

“[Ram’s Charge]!”

A [Lord] rode into battle, and two more charged past him. For a second, Bird thought he was hallucinating because he saw triple. One was on horseback, but all three had the Diamond Shortsword of Serept, the aptly-named Threefold Mirrorblade.

The Skill caused another crash as the Wild Wastes tribe happily smashed into their opponents. It was looking like a slaughter—only Merrik didn’t see any blood.

The roaring Human [Berserker] from Terandria had his axe raised to kill a downed foe when one of the Gnolls from Berr’s group knocked him flat. He kicked a Gnoll down and disarmed another—they weren’t killing their people.

The same wasn’t clear about the Goblins or Niers’ students. Numbtongue’s Skill ran out, and Shorthilt’s expertise left him. Venaz whirled his sword and took a chunk out of his arm. He would have cut Numbtongue’s leg off, except he whirled and deflected a slash from Badarrow. The [Sniper] had dropped his bow and gone for his sword.

Two Wils ran into battle, one of them hesitating when he saw Gothica, and then backing up as the Goblin slashed wildly at him. Another swung his sword and cleaved through Normen’s blackjack, then slashed through Pivr’s side, scoring a line of green from the Prognugator’s flank.

“Ow.”

——

Bird calmly took aim at Venaz. The Minotaur was closest to killing one of his friends. Pivr did not count. He drew back, looked up, and murmured.

“A b—”

Peki kicked him out of the wagon. Bird landed on the ground and flailed wildly as she took off for a decisive falling blow. Peki dove—and someone launched themselves up. The Garuda twisted, and the kick from the young Human woman missed her.

“Huh?”

Peki landed. Garia twisted, raised her fists, and went for a punch. The [Martial Artist]-[Lieutenant] twisted, pushed the punch sideways, and turned the push into an elbow. Garia staggered and threw another punch. Just like Ryoka had shown her.

A classic, knock-you-flat punch with all the weight of [Greater Strength] behind it. Peki saw it coming, grabbed the arm, and threw Garia. She saw the Human girl’s eyes go wide and learned that Garia had never figured out how to break her fall.

“Huh.”

Peki turned to Bird and then threw up an arm. Fierre’s kick sent her flying, but the Garuda caught herself in the air, landed, and charged back.

“Garia! Are you al—”

Fierre took a taloned kick to the chest and slammed into the wagon so hard she cracked the wood. She and Garia got up, and Peki whirled. It was the Antinium [Archer] who…

Bird rubbed at his back shell as he went to sit down next to Ulvama in time-out. The Garuda stared at him, then saw Garia charging. Fierre did a jump-kick. Peki stared at it and dodged as she threw a flurry of counter-punches that Garia took half of. She was in the thick of it, and Garia’s eyes went wide as she found herself losing. But Peki kept thinking it.

Hm? Something was a bit—

——

Honored Berr was thrashing the Drake with the knives and taking on the Antinium and Goblins in a whirlwind of punches, but one of the Wild Wastes Gnolls and Hekitr tribe were clashing with the majority of the Lomost Gnolls, backing up the strange group of irregulars. A howling Gnoll with a sword was charging another with a spear when the other raised his paw.

“Wait! Wait! Hekitr tribe?”

The sword-Gnoll slowed and nearly ran into the raised shield.

“Huh? Lomost?”

They stared at each other as the Gnolls, who hadn’t gone instantly for the kill unlike the ambushers, hesitated. One of the Wild Wastes Gnolls stopped punching faces in. The attackers and defenders looked at each other.

“…Why are we fighting?”

They stared at each other, and both sides lowered their weapons, save for the Human, who once again had to be tackled before he attacked everything in sight. The Goblins had already pulled back.

It was only the [Strategists] who were fighting…and the little voice that rang in both sides’ heads advised them to keep up the ruse. The Gnolls vaguely waved their weapons at each other.

“Take that.”

“What is this about? I thought you lot were to the east.”

For a moment it seemed like the battle was continuing long enough to fool the fighters. It was a good lesson.

——

Merrik swung his hammer into a patch of shade surrounding the angry Goblin with the parasol, and felt like he was trying to hit her through water.

Since he could swing a hammer underwater, it sent her reeling back. He felt another punch to the back of the head and whirled. The Crimson Soldier backed up and watched Merrik with an unnerving—the Dwarf whirled his hammer around.

“You—pests—”

The same with Wil. One shouted.

“[Swift Slash]!”

While the other two held off his opponents so he could score a wound against a cursing Normen. Three of the same [Lord], working in unity.

They fought, back-to-back-to-back, using their Skills and the enchanted blades to hold off their opponents. Wil was proficient with a sword—

Venaz knew how to use his greatsword, and he was winning. Two Hobgoblins were flanking him, and the Minotaur blurred from one to the other, riposting one’s slash, and cutting deep across the other’s arm with his swing back.

The two Redfangs were losing. It was an unfamiliar experience, even with the artifact speeding him up. The Minotaur was grinning, eyes red with battle fever. Peki put Garia into an arm-lock and gave her a knee-strike straight to her chin.

The Fellowship was losing? Bird and Ulvama watched. The [Shaman]’s arms were folded, and Bird was inching a hand towards his bow.

“Ah.”

The Titan of Baleros pointed at him. Bird frowned at Niers, his mandibles clicking together.

“What is the point of this?”

“Watch.”

——

Badarrow and Numbtongue were losing. It was life-or-death, but the thing the Hobgoblins felt most in that moment?

The Minotaur had the biggest smile on his face. Eyes red with battle-rage, and he moved from cut to parry with ease, watching both sides.

That was not a [Blademaster]’s form, but a warrior’s. A [Fencer] could die protesting you weren’t allowed to attack from more than one side. This Minotaur expected it.

Badarrow tried to kick dirt in his face, and Numbtongue charged in low. Badarrow nearly got impaled, and Numbtongue ate a [Swift Kick]. The [Bard] rolled back.

“My turn.”

Reiss was watching. So was Pyrite, but he didn’t volunteer. The thing was—Numbtongue looked at Badarrow and saw the exact same expression on his brother’s face.

Which was…embarrassment. They were losing? The two Hobs braced themselves as Venaz lifted his other hand up.

“[Break Their Morale]!”

An intimidation Skill. Both Hobs felt it wash over them. Badarrow scuffed at the ground. If Garen could see this…Venaz turned, eyes glowing, and both Hobs ran away. He blinked at their backs.

“Damned Goblins—”

He was surprised by their flight. But then Venaz saw a shape flicker behind him, and his internal battle sense told him to turn. He whirled, the diamond greatsword raised and…stopped.

“What?”

That was the only thing the Minotaur said. He looked across the somehow less chaotic battlefield at a figure who halted, four arms half-raised, curled into fists. An Antinium, who Venaz had longed to fight.

But this was no ordinary Antinium. Venaz could tell in a moment. For one thing…

The Crimson Soldier was red. For another?

The [War Strategist] locked eyes with the [Exemplar Warrior]. Was it the [Aura of Battle] he felt or something else? Venaz was a Minotaur of the House of Minos. He had fought, before going to Baleros, with veterans of their famous army.

What did you see in that battle-worn carapace? Those blank, insectoid eyes? Venaz saw what Niers saw. What the aura began to let other people see.

Ten thousand battlefields. Foes made of metal. Giant monsters in the deep. Bugs and giants. Crawling hordes.

[Assassins]. Traps. Dead Soldiers, dying like flies to a monster who stole their heads.

The Crimson Soldier remained. The Antinium watched Venaz, and the Minotaur’s victorious expression turned to one of wariness. He aimed his sword at the unarmed Antinium and saw The Crimson Soldier do something peculiar.

Veteran of battle. He raised one of his four hands and opened the stumpy digits. Put two together and…beckoned Venaz.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Venaz breathed. His eyes flickered around and he saw Berr happily pressing a foot down on Salkis’ head as he swatted away Touma the Great’s fists. He hesitated, looked at the imposing foe and the easy way out—

Then he holstered the greatsword on his back.

“Venaz, you idiot!”

Merrik roared, but the Minotaur was already charging in. The Crimson Soldier?

He smiled. Big warriors always did that.

——

Merrik was fighting an unusually skilled group of warriors. They couldn’t hurt him—but they were shielding each other. The hammer missed a screeching Goblin protected by…some kind of strange aura.

He turned, advancing on an Antinium with a strange symbol on its chest. Fruit? What was going on? Merrik felt like something was off.

Then he nearly tripped. He checked himself, pulling back as a slashing Antinium materialized, and Merrik swore, lifting a shield.

“Silent Antinium!”

Xeu and Pivr scuttled around, and Xeu slashed—but failed to strike through Merrik’s armor. She seemed puzzled as Pivr leapt back.

“Strong skin.”

“Back up! Back up!”

Gna was shouting. The Antinium, Goblins, and lone Gnoll moved back as Merrik saw their formation change. He narrowed his eyes, raised his hammer for a strike. Take out that [Captain].

“Sorry—”

Merrik’s charge was fast, unexpected, and had taken down foes in the thick of battle who didn’t think a Dwarf could move that fast.

It also failed because he nearly tripped again. Merrik swore and this time looked down. What was he—

A little loop of grass clung to one armored boot. He stared down at it.

“Oh, great.”

Grass Shell was waving his staff and dancing about behind the others. It was working! It was working!

[Grow Grass]! A spell with absolutely zero utility…unless you had seen either Eldavin or Mrsha use it. He tried to shake his behind and waved all four arms around like he was at some kind of rave.

Ulvama stared at him. Was that Antinium copying her? She was highly offended. Merrik changed targets in a moment. But then he heard a Goblin whisper and saw the one dressed all in black with black lipstick and makeup point a claw at him—also painted black.

And the lights went out.

[Aura of Midnight]. Gothica cackled as she figured out a new trick.

“What the—I’m warded! I can’t see! Backup! Peki, Wil!”

The Dwarf swung around blindly as something enveloped him. But it shouldn’t! His helmet was supposed to be protected against hostile spells like this! He didn’t waste time trying to figure it out but tried to retreat—and nearly fell over another loop of grass.

And then someone was stabbing him and his [Body of Stone] deflected the blade—but not the little, biting insects that swarmed over him. Which was just…annoying. Merrik flailed around blindly.

One of Infinitypear’s stones bounced off his armor. Rasktooth ducked back as the Fellowship pelted Merrik, and the Dwarf stumbled left and right, swearing a blue streak.

And he wasn’t dead? The Dwarf slowed and looked around. Blind, he caught onto something faster than the others. A familiar…concealed presence.

“Is that you?”

Slowly, with a grin, he dropped his hammer and raised his arms. Gothica threw a rock into his face, and Merrik swore.

“Stop it.”

——

“Give them a hand.”

Ulvama stood as Peki ducked a punch from Fierre and gave the Vampire girl an uppercut. She cast a single spell.

A cloud of darkness rose as Peki whirled and dodged—but it streamed up, blocking the sunlight. The Garuda eyed Ulvama for a second, but turned.

“Hiyah! [Flash Punch]! [Half-Circle Reposition], [Leaping Fish Combo]—”

Garia came at Peki with a fast punch, stepping right around her, and throwing out a series of punches that mixed an upwards jab into the attack.

Peki shoved the first punch away, twisted, and her claw-hands blocked or deflected each blow. Garia stopped for a second in dismay and Peki’s [Incendiary Fist] lit her hair on fire.

The Garuda saw the Human stumble back, shouting. She was…tough. The other one was quick and strong but even less adept. She frowned around.

“Odd.”

The Antinium with the bow wasn’t shooting at her, and Peki had been holding back every high-level Skill because he made her…nervous. She had a feeling he might be able to hit her.

She glanced at the cloud overhead. It missed. Not that it would have helped; she could fight blind, and she didn’t think the other two fistfighters could. She turned—

That was fast.

And something blurred past her back. Peki turned, and it leapt again. The Garuda threw an elbow backwards and hit Fierre in the face. She thought she heard something crunch—and felt a blow to her back. She flipped through the air—

That hurt! Peki landed, and the Vampire came at her. Overhand, claw slashing, uppercut, bite—

Peki used a Skill.

[Close Counter]! She timed it—then hit Fierre with a knockout punch that sent the Vampire girl reeling right…

Peki was looking for Garia when she saw the girl adjust her head and grin at her. Were those red pupils glowing? Peki frowned.

“Fierre!”

The [Martial Artist] launched herself forwards with a Skill and went for a kick. Peki dodged with ease, but the Vampire leapt—

“[Ground Dance: Taurus of the Desert].”

Peki’s attack was less like a combo of punches and more like a series of flowing moves, so fast Garia’s jaw dropped. And—unfortunately—each punch, kick, and blow was designed to hammer Fierre in the face, chest, stomach, legs, as the Garuda advanced in a savage series of attacks.

The Vampire girl reeled, bloody, dazed—and Peki whirled towards Garia—

And Fierre grabbed her arm.

Peki was astonished. The strange girl had definitely broken six ribs and her jaw. And Peki had torn some muscle, and she thought she’d dislocated that arm! But her grip!

“Got you. I got—whoa!”

Peki lifted her arm, and Fierre slammed into the ground as the Garuda used Fierre like a hammer and the earth like an anvil. Yet she didn’t let go. And Garia—

Peki turned and, one-armed, tried to block Garia’s punch. She felt her arm compress—then her ribs—then she was trying to fly, but that stupid girl was holding on—

Uh oh. Peki looked down just in time to see a girl with glowing red eyes and sharp teeth raise her fist. She and Garia hit Peki at the same time.

——

Venaz and The Crimson Soldier charged towards each other. The Minotaur was taller than the Soldier, heavier, and higher-leveled. His first punch threatened to shatter The Crimson Soldier’s armor.

But it stopped. The Antinium took the heavy punch on a crossguard block with two arms. The other two? Venaz blocked a fist and took one to the side.

Four arms. He grunted and threw a jab. The Crimson Soldier blocked it again. Venaz leaned backwards from another punch. Stay out of range—

The Antinium appeared under his guard. Venaz took a punch to his side and swore as he lashed out. That was a Skill!

He circled left and aimed a kick at the Antinium. The Antinium tried to grab the leg. Venaz backed up even further.

The Antinium charged. Two red mandibles snapped, and Venaz saw two fists rise. He raised one arm, and The Crimson Soldier spun. The arms on his left raised for a blow were a feint. The other two arms held low swung up with all his weight. He pivoted, and the uppercut made Venaz’s arm groan. The Minotaur swore.

This warrior knew how to throw a punch.

He didn’t realize it, but the other Antinium had stopped fighting. They were staring, at the Crimson Soldier. Venaz threw a flurry of jabs, using his longer arms to keep out of range. He saw the Antinium’s four arms rise and block.

Four arms. It looked like such a universal upgrade at first. Other species saw the Soldiers of the Antinium had four arms and felt threatened. It worked, too. Soldiers in the Antinium Wars were famous for overpowering their foes.

What was untrue was that it made them stronger. Antinium Soldiers had to control four arms compared to other species, who only had to manage two. And their feet. And what you saw if you really, truly knew them—something that even Erin Solstice couldn’t boast—was that they were…clumsy.

They tended to use their arms in sync for a movement, or they had to focus because they weren’t good at using their arms. Of course, even a new-born Soldier could throw a punch on both sides.

But it wasn’t using their body. For the first time, the other Free Antinium saw The Crimson Soldier raise his arms, and all four appendages moved independently of the other.

Two arms captured one of Venaz’s as he moved in, and another went to block Venaz’s right fist as he swung down with a roar to break free. The fourth hit Venaz in the side again, just below the ribs.

It hurt! But another fault of the Antinium was that they didn’t swing with their entire body; they were so compact they couldn’t put their full weight into a punch like other species. Venaz roared, and The Crimson Soldier reeled despite his guard, letting go of the arm. The Antinium stepped back as Venaz went for a straight punch to his mandibles to shatter his face.

And again, he pivoted. He turned, and all four arms moved. Two on his right going back while the other two went forwards.

Like a tree blowing in the wind, or how Peki or Garia punched. Redirecting his entire body into a punch.

“Oh. That’s how you’re supposed to do it.”

Bird murmured. He saw Venaz and The Crimson Soldier hit each other and the Minotaur’s face change as he took two hammers to the ribs and stomach. They staggered back, and Bird saw it.

Most Soldiers lived a year at the utmost. Even Workers lived longer. Most Soldiers fought well enough, but they had been engineered by Queens, who had only one template to work off of. Galuc the Builder—and he was not all Antinium of Rhir.

For the first time, Bird thought he understood how Galuc had fought. Not like some mindless, charging beetle, but constantly moving, swinging on both sides like a pendulum.

——

Venaz snarled. Was he losing? He couldn’t tell—that Antinium hit hard! His fists were more like spiked knuckles than flesh, and they tore Venaz’s skin and fur open. But the Minotaur ignored that.

I’m losing this way. He kept trying to circle and throw long punches, but the Antinium had four arms for his two and kept coming. So Venaz knocked back one arm and rushed him. He tackled The Crimson Soldier, taking a blow to the head.

But the Minotaur had seen the Antinium’s weakness. Their shell-backs. They had no spine. And what did a beetle or pillbug do when it was on its back? It was helpless.

The two went down, and Venaz raised a fist to beat the Antinium into th—

[Offensive Roll].

The world spun. The Antinium rolled off his rounded shell, and Venaz’s head slammed into the dirt. He looked up and saw the Antinium raising four arms. He began to hammer Venaz’s face and chest.

A Skill! A Skill to erase the problem that the Antinium himself had seen. He—

“—OFF ME!”

Venaz threw the Soldier off him with a roar. The Minotaur was bloody-faced but raging. Both warriors got up fast. They pushed themselves up—and The Crimson Soldier was charging Venaz at the same time as the warrior from the House of Minos charged him.

Most people standing up took the time to at least think. Before he was even up, The Crimson Soldier was running at his opponent. Fight or die.

He took a fist that shattered part of the carapace on his shoulder, and Venaz took two punches to the side. He lashed out and glanced off the Soldier’s back-shell—and ate two elbows in perfect harmony. The Minotaur looked down—and stepped back.

He was losing the infighting. Too compact. Too many punches! When he threw a haymaker in desperation, the Antinium captured it with two arms and tried to break his arm by bringing an elbow down.

The Antinium watching had never seen these tricks. A man with a hat, Alcaz, slowly took it off.

“I’ve never seen someone fight like that.”

The Brother of Serendipitous Meetings stared at the four-armed fighting style with the Antinium around him. Learning.

Venaz retreated as the Soldier came at him. He took a breath.

One blow, one death. His eyes, which had regained their usual color in shock—turned red.

“Uh oh. Stop him—”

The Fraerling looked up from his perch, but Venaz howled, and his last charge was a replica of how he had defeated a fellow Minotaur at the Games of Daquin. One blow, with all his weight behind it, aimed at the head.

The Crimson Soldier saw it coming and began to turn. Venaz saw he was shielding his face with two arms on his left so his trajectory changed to the shoulder.

Break the shoulder to pieces and cripple him for life! The Minotaur struck The Crimson Soldier like a sledgehammer and heard a gutteral voice

“[Body: Redirection].”

The Antinium spun with the Level 3 Skill. Spun, and Venaz’s fist missed the shoulder as The Crimson Soldier twisted, and two arms on his right came up to crack four of Venaz’s ribs. The Minotaur roared and stumbled backwards, hand on his sword. He couldn’t win this fight with his fists.

He’d lost.

——

The Crimson Soldier’s duel with Venaz had stopped most of the fighting, which had already closed out, but Wil Kallinad and his two clones were still holding their own. The Brothers of Serendipitous Meetings and Antinium had skirmished with him, but the [Lord] was frowning around the odd encounter when two Hobs ran at him.

Two Hobs versus three [Lords]. The three Wils moved in concert, spreading out to flank their foe. Which was a mistake, because the first Hob with the crystal blade clashed with the first two Wils—backed up as the second parried a swing—and both turned on the third Wil.

“Oh—”

Wil #1 deflected Badarrow’s slash, and Numbtongue calmly ran him through the side. The other two Wils blanched as the Hobgoblins calmly ganged up on the [Lord]. Seeing it, they tried to close ranks.

The two Redfangs spread out, so both Wils were back-to-back. Badarrow and Numbtongue watched each other, and the Wils realized that their teamwork was almost as good as—

“Yah!”

Badarrow shouted. He charged with a giant swing overhead as a feint as Numbtongue leapt forwards with a thrusting strike then backed off before he ran into the tip of Wil’s blade. Both Wils backed up and slammed into each other.

The Redfangs took the moment and Numbtongue tossed his sword. He tossed his sword, and Wil #2 parried it, looked up, and saw the guitar descend down on his head. It made for a fine mace.

“Don’t kill the last one, Badarrow!”

The Hobgoblin grunted as he heard the voice. He and Wil slashed at each other as the off-balance [Lord] tried to fend him off. Badarrow waited for his timing, slapped Wil’s sword down hard, then jumped forwards and booted him between the legs as hard as he could. The [Sniper] saw the [Lord] go white and keel over. He grunted, putting his sword down.

He didn’t like swords as much as bows. But that proved it. He still had it. The Minotaur was just good. The Hobgoblin put a foot on the fallen [Lord]’s chest as Numbtongue, chortling, claimed two magic gemstone swords. Now that was an investment. He almost touched the sword before Niers warned him to stop and sighed.

Curses.

——

Three [Strategists] were down, and the last one had drawn his greatsword. Venaz saluted The Crimson Soldier grimly as the Antinium backed up. He began to blur with the [Haste] spell and then realized his friends were down.

Dead? No. And Berr and the Wild Wastes tribe hadn’t been fighting. Indeed…they hadn’t gone to the rescue of their valuable clients, but had instead been watching with huge grins.

Even in his battle-haze, Venaz could realize something was off, and the Minotaur was looking around when a familiar voice rang out. Peki, staring up at the sky as Garia and Fierre high-fived; Merrik, blinded and surrendered; Wil, probably in too much pain to hear properly with Badarrow standing on him; and Venaz all heard that familiar voice.

“Students! The simulation is over. Your test is complete. You will now wake up from the illusion spell and receive your final grade.”

The Titan of Baleros stood on his pedestal and looked around. Just to see their expressions. The laughing little giant who cackled at their incredulity in his battle where no one had died—just thought they might.

And people wondered why he had enemies. Ulvama and Bird glanced at each other, then Bird flicked Niers off his pedestal.

——

As soon as Niers had seen the ambush and realized who it was, he had located Berr and told him to stop fighting. The Gnoll had seen his kin with Goblins and hadn’t decided to go into a blood-crazed slaughter anyways.

That the Titan had let his four prized students fight with the Fellowship of the Inn was because he wanted them to level. And test each other. One could argue his four students had been outmatched from the start in terms of sheer numbers, but Niers had told the really dangerous combatants—and one slightly incompetant one, Fals—to hang back.

Bird, Ulvama, and, naturally, Apista, had all been forced to stay on the sidelines because of their sheer unadulterated killing prowess. The bee hadn’t been mentioned by name, but she knew she was too good for that fight.

As for the students? Well, all of them had still been outnumbered, but the ones who looked truly shamefaced were Wil and Peki. Venaz kept staring at The Crimson Soldier as the Antinium stood, the silent victor surrounded by awed Workers and Soldiers.

“Alright. Who here thinks they did the worst? Class? Let me give you a hint: it’s not who you expect! We’re excluding Venaz for the sheer idiocy of putting away a Relic-class sword to fist-fight an Antinium.”

His students looked at the beaming Professor, rubbing his hands together, strolling about on a little pedestal of wood. Talking as if they were back in class. Wil kept pinching himself just in case this was actually an illusion.

He was a terrible little man. His eyes twinkled, and his greying hair was less well-combed than usual; he hadn’t his flamboyant dress, more like something cobbled together as best as the [Sewer] in the Lomost tribe could do on short notice, and he looked thinner than last they had seen him.

But it was certainly Niers Astoragon, the Titan. A half-foot tall man who dominated every room when he wanted to be known, with a presence a hundred times his height. A twinkle of pure mischief in his faintly violet eyes.

“No one? Alright, let’s start with Peki, who did magnificently, taking down the lone aerial threat, sniping the [Archer]—and then giving way to [Martial Artist] pride and fighting two young women hand-to-hand when she should have been maneuvering around the battlefield. And then losing. Second place—again, we’re exempting Venaz—is Wil, who fancied himself a Gold-rank adventurer and put his real body at risk rather than sending his two copies up as expendables. Third?”

“Professor!”

Wil shouted. The Titan stopped and turned to Wil.

“Yes, Wil?”

“Is that you, Professor? How are you here?”

Merrik was rubbing healing potion on the bug bites, and he was covered in filth. Venaz had cracked his ribs and taken other wounds, but he was ignoring them and just staring around. Peki was rubbing her own arm and ribs, and was tilting her head back and forth. Wil felt—dumbfounded, which he had associated with Niers long ago.

But even so! This was something else. Niers beamed at him.

“It’s a long story, Wil. Let’s just say we both found our adventures, eh? Now…unless we’ve gotten those bastards who tried to kill the ‘Doombringers’, which I doubt, I’m afraid, we have only a few prisoners to interrogate and a lot of catching up to do. Students! Fall in.”

And they did. It was so instinctual that the students found themselves following Niers as Touma the Great carefully lifted the pedestal and brought him over to the prisoners.

The Hekitr tribe was clearly amazed, but the students had been trained to adapt to new events. Honored Berr seemed the most calm out of his company, who were watching the Goblins with visible distrust, but the Fellowship of the Inn were also fairly adaptive.

Some of them. Numbtongue was still peering at Peki, and he realized they were the [Strategists] he’d seen at sea! His jaw dropped.

“This is insane. Goblins? I can understand the Professor appearing with a Gnoll army and a high-level group of fighters. That’s just expected. But Goblins?”

Venaz stomped after Niers. Merrik raised his brows.

“What about Antinium?”

“Pah. He was near Liscor. He must have picked them up. Obvious.”

Peki’s head swung from Merrik to Venaz, and she began nodding as if it were. Wil was still stuck on…well, the bee holding a cigar. He’d noticed it buzzing around, and that was one thing, but he had the distinct impression the bee was actually smoking it.

“My eyes. I think I’m dreaming—or dead. I died on the 5th Wall, and it’s just been a bad dream for the both of us. Is that…the Titan of Swamps and Jungle? The Marsh-parter? The second of the Forgotten Wing Company? Named Adventurer?”

A little figure was lying down—well, sitting—looking haggard and distraught with a few of the Gnolls who’d tried to kill the decoys. He sat up as the Fraerling chuckled.

“Go on, don’t stop with my nicknames. How in the name of Elves did a Lizardman happen to be travelling with a Gnoll kill-squad? Did I hear…Rhir?”

Viri, the Lizardman [Longstick Jumper], Merish’s friend and one of the irregulars from 5th Wall, where he would always be, in part, looked up at the Titan of Baleros with tears in his eyes. He sat up and bowed.

“Lord Astoragon. It’s good to see someone from home. I’m Viri. Viri Taxshirul, from the Stone Gaze company? We were in Rhir. I came here to…to attend the Meeting of Tribes with my friend. My detachment was wiped out, so I was given leave for…am I dreaming?”

Niers Astoragon knelt, looking down at Viri. Someone had trained the little Lizardman; he didn’t blabber like his kin, but gave something of a direct report. The Titan nodded, frowning.

“I know Stone Gaze. Auspicious. Gorgon-led group, or Medusa? 5th Wall? Then you’re the ones who ran into the Death of Magic.”

“You knew about that?”

Viri glanced up, eyes wide. The Titan hadn’t recalled which groups were there, though he remembered the report. It was simple deduction. But he was also the Titan, so he lied.

“I did. Your detachment fought bravely, didn’t they? What was your commander’s name? Forgive me, I’ve forgotten. Gorgon or Medusa?”

“Uxel. He was a Gorgon. But we also had a Commander. Cirille of Manus. She died too. Merish was there. Did he…is he alive?”

Niers shifted to look for Shaik. She shrugged.

“Your Gnoll friend? The one with two axes? I think he got away, thanks to my students’ untimely attack.”

“Good. He’s not a bad Gnoll. But his tribe is crazy.”

Viri relaxed slightly. The other Gnolls from Plain’s Eye were glaring at him, but they dared not speak. They stared at Niers with sheer disbelief, as many people did when they met a Fraerling for the first time.

“They were going to kill a little girl! And that other Gnoll. All because they have white fur. I told them—I told them you could dye your scales in Baleros. What did it matter? But they call them Doombringers. Lord Astoragon, Merish isn’t a bad Gnoll. But he’s going crazy.”

Niers nodded. He looked around and gestured.

“Separate Viri from the others. He’s not to be chained. I want a word with you, Viri, and for you to tell me everything—from Rhir to how you got here. I saw you try to warn us, and I’m taking that on credit. Do you swear by Nagas you had no idea what you were doing and tried to stop your friend and the others once you knew what you were about?”

Viri gulped and raised a claw.

“By the Nagas and Stone Gaze, I do, Lord Titan. I kept trying to talk sense into Merish, but with all the others about telling him he had to kill them…please don’t kill him. Please.”

Niers held his stare for a moment, then nodded. As if he could strike down a Gnoll from afar just by willing it.

“Good. Then we’ll see if we can find out what this is about.”

He rose, turned back to his students, and looked at the two Chieftains of Gnoll and Goblin tribes.

“Chieftains, let’s strike camp. I think we have another Gnoll tribe nearby—I’m sensing a mass of Gnolls to the north. Can someone tell them we’re not holding you lot hostage before we have a third ambush? Students? Get healed, meet me in the command space in fifteen minutes. Everyone else? You’re free to attend if you’re important. Who’s the [Mercenary] over there who kicked the stuffing out of everyone?”

“That would be me, Titan of Baleros.”

A small, old Gnoll strode forwards with a huge grin. Niers looked at him as he straightened.

“Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

The Gnoll [Berserker] grinned wider with appreciation.

“Berr of Wild Wastes. But I must be Berr, to the Titan of Baleros, who is beyond honored in his lands.”

Niers smiled faintly. Ah, yes, it was coming to him, the proper address.

“In that case, I will be just Niers, and I’ll call you Berr—I think that’s appropriate. May I invite you to have something to eat with me? Thank you for keeping my idiotic students safe, and for pulling your punches.”

The [Barbarian] grinned as the other Wild Wastes Gnolls chuckled.

“Only a [Berserker] can tell when it is time for strife and time to avoid breaking teeth or bone. You are well said, Titan. I accept. Do you have good food?”

Niers waved one hand.

“I’ve got Goblins, Honored Berr. I’ve noticed that they tend to collect the stuff.”

——

“Goblins. Professor, I understand the rest of it. You don’t have to regale us with stories of your escape—though we’re sure to listen and hear it—but why Goblins?”

Half an hour later, with wounds patched and everyone sitting or standing in a broad tent and the Hekitr Chieftain joining Shaik and Orni, Venaz was still protesting the one objectionable detail in this unexpected reunion.

Badarrow rolled his eyes as Snapjaw sniffed and gobbled down pumpkin tarts. She was still put out about being kicked out of the saddle, and a whining Icecube was being fed half a cow after his upsetting run in with Peki.

The Minotaur glanced at the [Sniper] and stared at the other Goblins. Merrik was eying the Antinium, and Peki and Bird kept staring at each other. Neither one had blinked, and it didn’t seem to occur to Peki that Bird was never going to blink since he had no eyelids.

Wil? Wil just focused on Niers, because he was positive the Titan was the center of all this. Niers clicked his tongue impatiently.

“Venaz, you are the most brilliant idiot I’ve had the misfortune to teach.”

“That’s a virtue of my people, Professor.”

“No, it is not. I’ve taught Minotaurs before, and you are the most egotistically stubborn one yet. You had the brilliance to actually take me off-guard, and the stupidity to try and fist-fight the most veteran Antinium Soldier in existence. We are facing an inter-species war across Izril, my company is under attack, and there is a sapient bee who smokes Dreamleaf over there, and you’re focused on Goblins.”

Niers pointed, and everyone looked at Apista, who was huffing a cigar while Rasktooth waited for a turn. Venaz blinked, slightly taken aback. Wil sat up.

“He actually ambushed you, Professor?”

Niers rolled his eyes and raked a hand through his hair.

“Yes, he did. I was focused on the other ambush, and it was commendably fast. Sneaking up out of my radius and then a fast charge in. Well done. Don’t let it get to your head.”

“But we ambushed you? You, professor?”

A delighted smile spread across Merrik’s face. The Titan scowled as Peki’s face brightened up, and Wil exchanged a significant look with Venaz.

“Yes, you ambushed me. Celebrating that is only acceptable when we’re at the academy. You’re leveling up. You are…leveling up. How’s Yerranola?”

The Titan quelled their excitement with a single question. Wil looked at the Fraerling, who had given him the start to the adventure.

“She’s better, Professor. We found something like a miracle medicine that stops her pain. I want to take a sample to Baleros but…she’s better. But she paid for my mistake.”

Niers Astoragon stopped pacing, and gave Wil a genuine look of sympathy.

“Now there’s a proper commander’s way of thinking. Yes, absolutely. You led the campaign, a friend paid the price. Remember that. Remember that, and never let it distract you or drag you down when you’re making the choices that have to be made. Only remember it. It’s good you found an antidote. Feshi’s alive, I take it?”

“At the Meeting of Tribes. We were headed north to find you, actually, Professor. The Wild Wastes tribe were our escort—until the war broke out.”

Merrik explained. Numbtongue raised his eyebrows as he looked at the four students. Badarrow nudged him, and both Redfangs plus Dirtmouth all turned to Honored Berr.

The old Gnoll was listening, cross-legged, eating almost as fast as Snapjaw and Ulvama and half the Antinium. He twitched one ear as the Redfangs looked at him with something approaching reverence.

Old warrior. He looked…tough. Numbtongue wanted to be him when he was older.

Oddly, though they had just been trying to kill each other, Numbtongue didn’t feel the hostility he might have—mainly because no one had died. Also? He saw the [Lord] eying him with wariness, but not an instinctive hatred.

The Minotaur, now…there wasn’t much Erin in him at all. And it was Erin whom Numbtongue thought of.

A chance. But Venaz folded his arms.

“How did you come here, Professor?”

The Titan stopped pacing back and forth, having heard Wil’s account of how they’d gotten here. He turned, and, for a second, everyone—especially the students—waited for one of the Titan’s thrilling tales of survival against all odds. It was in Niers’ eyes…and then it faded.

He looked at Numbtongue, and the silent inn, Mrsha’s kidnapping, and the rest was written across his face. He sighed, sat down on a tiny carved wooden stool, and shook his head.

“I made a mistake. I’ll tell you everything tonight, students. But the point? To summarize it all, I went on an adventure looking for a grand old time, and I made a mistake. But for luck, as much as my resourcefulness, I survived. I kept making silly mistakes because I thought I was the Titan of Baleros. I ended up here, in a warzone, chasing a kidnapped girl and investigating a plot to kill children among the Gnoll tribes. Meanwhile, someone is attacking my people—Fraerlings—and trying to take down my Great Company. I have myself to blame, and I will.”

His students blinked as the Titan sat there, looking weary. Then Niers raised his head and gave them a sardonic smile.

“Never let it be said your Professor doesn’t admit when he’s wrong. Trust me—I’ve had a lot of people remind me. In the last months, I’ve been wounded more badly than I ever have since my adventuring days by a damn avian, been outlevelled, and surprised too many times to count. Betrayed, too. Peclir Im is a traitor and a dead man.”

His students were astonished, but Niers clapped his hands.

“That is a story—and you are all invited to hear it—but not the point. Right now, I need us all on the same page. Students! I’m here, in front of you. No, this is not an illusion.”

Peki opened her beak.

“But you said—”

“I lied, Peki. I lie about things for fun and because it amuses me.”

The Garuda frowned and raised a fist.

“You lied?”

“He lies. He is a bad man. A bad man who is bad at chess and being nice to people.”

Everyone turned to Bird, and Niers scowled.

“Shut up, Bird.”

“Antinium. I’m looking at Antinium and Bird the Hunter, no less. I thought you were on Pallass’ walls.”

Merrik pointed at Bird, recognizing him. Bird tilted his head.

“You recognize me? I am banned from Pallass. I came here because I am looking for Mrsha. Are you a Dwarf? Do you know Pelt?”

Merrik growled in exasperation.

“Why does everyone think all Dwarves know each—”

Then his face changed into one of recognition.

“Wait a second. I do know Pelt. How do you know Pelt?”

“How about Dawil?”

“I—yes, but he’s a Gold-rank adventurer! These examples don’t count!”

Bird happily slapped his knees, but The Crimson Soldier put out a hand and everyone turned back to Niers. He nodded.

“Merrik. You just had your first conversation with an Antinium. One of the infamous Black Tide of Izril. Soulless, mindless killing machines, I’ve heard them called, from Rhir’s hells. If I told you Bird is actually more representative of their species than not—despite being weird, I will admit—what would you say?”

The Dwarf’s eyes closed, and his blocky expression turned thoughtful. Thoughtful. He looked at Bird with a quality Numbtongue recognized, like when Erin would sneakily drop her guard before pulling one of her stunts. Only, this wasn’t subterfuge, just thought.

“Honestly, Professor? It would knock me flat as a coin—a month ago. But after watching the Ksmvr of Chandrar series—I can believe it. People are people. Seems to me we’ve misjudged the Antinium or they’re changing.”

“A- thoughts. Mainly because you had help, but beyond satisfactory. Keep it up, and apply it to Goblins. At least, the ones here. They’re all on the same page—rescuing the little Gnoll who was attacked. A Doombringer, and if you have insight into that, I’ll give you a passing grade for the entire next semester.”

The Titan smiled proudly. Merrik nodded, and the Antinium stirred as the [Strategists] looked at them thoughtfully. Peki pointed at Fierre.

“What’s that?”

“I’m Human!”

Fierre spluttered. Peki narrowed her eyes without a word. Niers chuckled.

“A special Human with special classes, Peki. Drop it. May I present…”

A pained expression flitted across his face.

“The self-described Fellowship of the Inn? Ask them what it means. Goblins, Antinium, Gnoll, Humans, Stitch-Person, Drake, and I suppose I complete the bunch. A group of irregulars, plus two Gnoll tribes and a Goblin tribe. Those are the forces—this is not a simulation or a game. Together, we’re going to make war on Drake armies, Gnoll tribes, and conduct rescue and defense operations. Sound easy? Because I assure you, this is going to be difficult.”

The students blinked. Merrik rubbed his hands together, Peki began to nod with visible excitement, and Wil gulped.

“Professor. What about Feshi and Yerra…?”

Niers waved a hand.

“I want them, too, obviously. And if Weatherfur joins us—I’ll take any ally running, Wil, but we have a multiple-objective scenario. Halt the Doombringer killings. Uncover whatever plot that is, which might just take us into conflict with the largest Gnoll tribe in existence. Get me to a port—but only after we halt the Drakes trying to wipe out every Gnoll tribe and put our finger on the scales of this war. Lastly? Learn as much as we can and level up.”

He looked meaningfully at the Antinium and Goblins. The students stood there, daunted by his objectives. Yet Niers was looking at each of them.

“You’re all [Officers] and [Strategists]. I could have six of my best students helping me—and you’re all old enough and experienced. Plus, you have three Relics from Khelt no less. I won’t beat around the bush; you found me. Congratulations. You can claim whatever Perorn or Foliana offered you, or sell the information to my enemies, and I’ll see you in the academy for the fall semester. Or—you can accept immediate commissions to battlefield officers in the Forgotten Wing Company. Paid positions, and I will tell you I’m paying double-rates, and you can use me as a reference or enlist once this is over. You’ll level or die, but I could use your help.”

What a strange offer. Yet Niers was their Erin, and Numbtongue realized—they were Niers’ Goblins. That was how he rationalized the moment, because the way they reacted couldn’t make sense to him otherwise.

Merrik just laughed and rubbed at his hair. Peki was nodding instantly, and Wil hesitated, looking around before giving Niers a slight nod.

“If we can ask questions, I could see that, Professor.”

It was only that stupid Minotaur who obstinately folded his arms. His glare was boring a hole in Numbtongue’s head, so the [Bard] glared back.

“Professor. The Goblins.”

“Bird. Hand me my crossbow.”

Niers began to aim it at Venaz’s chest, but the Minotaur raised his voice.

“Professor! I am not being merely bigoted or intolerant of other species! I see the Antinium and Goblins here and both are exceptionally dangerous species who have attempted to or wiped out nations! I am a son of the House of Minos, and we fight Goblins!”

At this, Numbtongue couldn’t hold his tongue any more. The [Bard] rolled his eyes.

“Hah. Everyone fights Goblins. Big deal.”

Venaz turned, snorting, to glare at him, as the Goblins all laughed. However, two Goblins didn’t immediately laugh. Shaik gave Venaz a long stare, and, sitting quietly and trying to pick up some of the snacks…Pyrite’s ghost glanced up.

Careful. You might be wrong.

Numbtongue and Shaik looked at Pyrite, as the ghost of the Goldstone Chieftain glanced at Venaz. The Minotaur [Strategist] looked at Numbtongue and then away.

“I don’t answer to you, Goblin.”

“You challenged Numbtongue—that’s his name, by the way, Venaz—and Badarrow to a fight. I was already going to upbraid you for your fistfight, Venaz. Do I have to do it twice?”

“I noticed this wasn’t a true battle, Professor. I respect whomever that red Antinium is. Are you going to tell me I wasn’t right to engage a warrior with a magic blade at the onset of the battle, knowing how dangerous they could be?”

Niers blew out his cheeks, visibly annoyed.

“So taking on two Hobs by yourself isn’t bravado, Diamond Sword of Serept or not?”

“I had confidence I could win. They’re only Hobs, and the Goblins on Izril are known to be inferior to the ones Minos faces. But I object to working with either.”

Every Goblin in the room stopped chortling at Venaz’s expense. Slowly, the three Redfang’s eyes narrowed.

Niers? He glanced at Numbtongue’s expression with raised brows.

“Bold claim for you to make. I didn’t see you exactly wiping them out.”

Venaz shifted. He gave Numbtongue a grudging look, and Badarrow the same.

“They’re…more proficient than I expected. Almost as good as a regular warrior of Minos, Professor. So I underestimated them. I recant that, but not my comments about Goblins in general.”

“You think you know good Goblins? Hold still. I’ll cast [Lava Orb].”

Ulvama glared. Her claws glowed dangerously, but Niers waved her down.

“Venaz isn’t wrong. Listen, Venaz. I’m losing my temper, and you’re being obstinate. Before I shoot you, explain your comments. I know what you mean, but the rest of the world doesn’t actually follow the House of Minos’ every move with fascination. They have no idea about the Island of Goblins.”

Numbtongue’s ears perked up. Reiss, Pyrite, Shaik—even Snapjaw and Ulvama—all turned with a sudden, true interest. Venaz hesitated.

“Surely…?”

He looked around. Wil, Peki, Merrik—some of his fellow students were frowning but with faint recognition. Berr raised his paw.

“I know what he means, yes? But I’m old.”

Niers raised his brows. Venaz looked the most shocked since the entire conversation began.

“But they’re—no one? There is a reason Minotaurs, wherever they travel, will sometimes take on contracts to battle Goblins for no cost. We’ve fought them since the House of Minos was incepted! No one remembers?”

He looked outraged. Niers sighed.

“Leaders of nations are aware, and people who travel the sea. Venaz, the truth is that Minos is quite adept at keeping them contained, if not eliminating them so no one worries. Unlike Rhir, who attracts our attention by virtue of being in danger of losing their war rather constantly. Explain.”

“Yes. Explain. You’re not that good, Minotaur. I know one more dangerous.”

Venaz turned and peered at Numbtongue for the first time like a person, rather than an intelligent monster. He hesitated.

“Who would that be?”

Numbtongue shut his mouth. Niers looked amused, and Venaz ground his teeth.

“Your name is Numbtongue. I can hear. You’re not the most dangerous Goblin I’ve ever seen either. Not by far.”

The [Bard]’s eyes narrowed.

“I know I’m not. I know a Minotaur called Calruz of Hammerad. Strong Minotaur. Honorable…sort of.”

The [Strategist] of the House of Minos blinked.

“Calruz of—is he consorting with Goblins as well as dishonoring all of us?”

Numbtongue snorted. Niers’ finger twitched on his crossbow’s trigger.

“Venaz…”

“Professor! He surely knows—alright. Alright!”

Venaz took a deep breath. He looked around the room at Shaik, her bodyguards, the other Hobs, and eyed the Cave Goblins. He pointed at Rasktooth.

“Huh. A species variant. Unusual.”

Rasktooth pointed at his chest with a thumb claw then at Venaz.

“Me unusual? You unusual!”

The other Goblins went oooh and backslapped him. Venaz peered past Rasktooth at Gothica with a huge frown.

“Odd class.”

“Stick sword up bum.”

Gothica made an expressive gesture with both claws. Fierre patted her on the shoulder with approval. The Goblins didn’t lack for sass, but Venaz didn’t seem surprised they could talk or had classes, like Wil was. He was on a different level of surprise. He knew Goblins.

“Hobs, regular Goblins, and one [Shaman]. If I am dismissive and thought I could take any Goblin tribe, it isn’t because I’m a fool. Rather—I understand Goblins move the world over. Occasionally Goblin Kings arise, but the Goblins of Izril are rated as fairly unlikely to require intervention—especially with their Goblin Lord dead—by the House of Minos’ strategists. And we do watch them. I’m surprised by their martial prowess, but now I recognize Redfang, which were a named tribe.”

Badarrow and Numbtongue blinked, and Dirtmouth’s mouth opened as she chewed some clay for variety. A Minotaur kingdom knew of their tribe? She blushed, putting her hands to her cheeks. They’d made it!

“Why are we not strong?”

Venaz shrugged in answer to Badarrow’s question.

“Individual Goblins? We had a Tremborag listed, as well as a high-level [Witch] and one of your Great Chieftains in the north. In the south…”

He counted briefly on his fingers.

“…about the same number of Goblins, Chieftains or otherwise, we were uncertain of. I’m sure these Redfangs might be skilled warriors, and you were…good. What’s your name?”

“Badarrow.”

Venaz grunted.

“Hm. That’s not traditional Goblin naming. Nor does the House of Minos underestimate your intelligence or ability to adapt. It’s just…in all of Izril, you have one singular Goblin Chieftain confirmed as being one of the Great Goblin subtypes. A Fomirelin, as you call yourselves. He has as many as, what, ten of his kind in his tribe?”

The Redfangs and other Goblins stirred. Rasktooth frowned around.

“What that?”

Ulvama was watching Venaz like a hawk. Even Niers was rubbing his chin with interest, though he knew the term. Venaz snorted softly.

“You don’t even know. A giant Hob—massive, far taller than normal. Unto half-Giants as to regular Humans, I suppose. With more abilities than just that. Most of you don’t know what I’m talking about. That’s a Fomirelin. Your most dangerous tribe in all of Izril has ten. When the Goblins of their damned floating isle clash with the House of Minos every year, we have seen two dozen in battles regularly. A Goblin Lord haunts that isle, and it is the reason the House of Minos must fight to deplete their numbers. No force has ever taken that isle, but we keep them contained.”

Numbtongue’s jaw dropped. Pyrite had gotten up and was peering at Venaz. He looked at Numbtongue and nodded.

The isle of Goblins. Greydath had told Pyrite about it, once. A Goblin King’s legacy.

“Fomirelins? Great Goblins? An island? Is this true, Professor?”

Wil turned to Niers and the Titan shrugged.

“The House of Minos clashes with them once a year. A bloody affair. The island floats, you see, and it has strong magical protections. The Minotaurs have always laid claim that they keep the Goblins more or less contained by way of attrition, or else the Goblins would send out groups to lead other tribes—which they do, despite the Minotaurs’ best efforts. I have often wondered, though…who is containing who?”

Venaz’s look of satisfaction as he surveyed the room turned to one of astonishment as he glanced at the Titan. Niers met the gaze calmly, and Numbtongue remembered the powerful army of Minotaurs who had beaten the King of Destruction.

There were Goblins who could fight them? Who had their own island?

A city. Reiss was whispering it, but Venaz just folded his arms once more.

“I am sworn to prevent another Goblin King occuring, Lord Astoragon.”

“And you think I’m not? Venaz, you pig-headed idiot, I knew the Goblin King! I spoke with him! Who regrets Velan the Kind more? Me or you?”

Niers roared, and the Minotaur looked embarrassed. Everyone turned to Niers, and Ulvama gasped.

“You spoke with the Goblin King?”

The tiny Fraerling stood, the focus of so many crimson Goblin stares, and looked past them all. His right hand twitched.

“I shook his hand. I counted myself as his tribe’s ally, and I thought he would be the Goblin Lord to make a better way for their people. Then he went mad, butchered his allies, my people—and fled. I tracked him down to Izril, and I swore never again to ally with Goblins. So here we are.”

He gazed at Numbtongue, and the Hob saw the Titan’s weary gaze narrow.

“Goblins and Antinium and more. Venaz, they won’t become Goblin Kings from this, and these ones…have done nothing wrong but defend children. Enough. Walk off or help me, and learn something about Goblins that you can take back to the Minotaur King. If you want to know whether it was right or wrong, go back to her once this is over. But I have met her too, and she respects honor. Go back and tell her you didn’t fight against child-killing monsters and a war of aggression from Drakes because you couldn’t stand with Goblins when the time came.”

Venaz jerked in outrage—then slowed as he and the Professor came face-to-face. A tiny man on a pedestal, clothes blowing as Venaz snorted. The Minotaur looked at Niers, then at the Goblins.

“I will report everything I see, Professor. This is larger than you or I.”

The Titan never moved. The [Grandmaster Strategist] looked Venaz right in the eye, then slowly turned his head. To look at Numbtongue, Snapjaw, Ulvama, and the others.

“Yes. Before I die—I want to know the secret of the Goblin Kings. Are you with me, Venaz?”

The Minotaur took a long moment. Then he saluted.

“Lead on, Professor.”

——

And there it was. The Fellowship of the Inn grew, by a Gnoll tribe, some mercenaries…and four [Strategists]. Venaz stepped backwards as Niers began to redistribute their organization, inquire about supplies, locations of other tribes, and he interrupted less…but he still interrupted.

Numbtongue didn’t like him. However, he was gratified not to have shed more blood, and the students looked at the Antinium, Goblins, and introduced themselves afterwards.

“I am Peki. You are a [Martial Artist].”

“Y-yes. But only a bit. I mean, I learned a few punches and kicks, but I didn’t have a teacher, not really. My friend, the one who—she left.”

Garia was so flustered she tripped over her words. Peki stared at her, then at Touma the Great.

“You…are a [Martial Artist]?”

He clasped his hands together, all four, in that fist-into-palm greeting, and Peki’s eyes widened. She put a wing arm on Garia’s shoulder.

“You move bad.”

“I know, I—”

“You need training. You fight with me. We train. You too.”

She pointed at Touma the Great, who looked at the [Martial Artist] from Pomle with surprise. Peki looked around.

“And you, whatever you are.”

“I’m Human.”

Fierre hissed, looking around warily. Peki raised her brows.

“Uh huh. You all train. You all level. We will be the best warriors and you will be with me.”

She patted them happily on the arms, then went to show them how to fight. She didn’t have a way with words, perhaps because she had learned how to do a high-kick before she learned how to speak.

Merrik, on the other hand, was shaking hands with Gna, who was bowing to Honored Berr.

“Liscor’s army? Didn’t we fight you one time? Well, a few dozen times, but you’d remember the last one…”

The Gnoll was rubbing at his chin as some awed Goblins surrounded him. A careful Goblin poked him, and the Gnoll looked down.

“Hm?”

“You. You big Gnoll in fight.”

A timid Goblin asked. She was a regular Goblin, one of the Fellowship. Berr grinned.

“I am a [Berserker], yes? I get bigger when I get angry. And I only get truly angry when it matters.”

She opened her mouth.

“You get big when you get angry? And strong?”

Berr nodded. The Goblin looked around.

“You get strong the more angry you get?”

He nodded one more time, eyes twinkling brown. The Goblin grabbed his legs.

“Teach me!”

If ever there were a class for a Goblin, surely it was that! Berr looked highly amused, and Merrik glanced back over just in time to see a giant, invisible bug staring at him.

“Hard skin.”

Xeu poked Merrik and scuttled back. He eyed her.

“What are you?”

“Xeu.”

“Er…well, put it here.”

The Dwarf took off a gauntlet and held out a hand. Xeu tried to offer a scythe-arm, and Merrik drew the hand back quickly.

“I can do this better, Xeu. Watch. Salutations, sir. I am Pivr, who will not despoil your lands, ravish your women, or steal your purse.”

Pivr brushed her aside and held out a foreleg. Normen and Alcaz sighed as Merrik hesitated again. They came over to help their wayward friend as Apista buzzed by.

Wil kept staring at the bee, but he looked up as a Hob approached and stared at Numbtongue.

“Er…hello?”

The [Lord] was actually more ill-at-ease than Venaz given Terandria’s customs. Numbtongue nodded.

“Hello. I’m Numbtongue. You’re Wil Kallinad. A [Lord] from Terandria.”

“You know who I am?”

“I watched you. On the scrying orb. Very entertaining. Nice sword.”

Numbtongue gestured at the Diamond Mirrorblade. Wil started.

“Er…thank you.”

The two looked at each other, so awkwardly that Ulvama could have cut a slice out and eaten it if she were a [Witch]. She rolled her eyes, stuffing food into her bag of holding as Numbtongue searched for a way to open the conversation to say…

Do you hunt my people because you don’t understand who we are?

Can I tell you about an inn and an [Innkeeper] in hopes that you will change, or you’ll take that story onwards?

What is it like, being a [Lord]? What is Terandria like? What are your thoughts on the Ailendamus-Dawn Concordat conflict, because I have a [Princess] I know who’s quite invested in the subject? Also, my idiot brother might be running around disguised as a [Knight]—don’t tell anyone.

Can I have an autograph?

He hesitated, and his mind went blank. Embarrassed, the [Bard] blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“F-forsooth.”

“Forsooth?”

Wil looked at Numbtongue as the Hobgoblin turned red. Numbtongue tried again.

“Er…frills. Ruffles.”

He gestured at Wil’s clothing. The [Lord] looked down at his armor.

“Y-you mean the Terandrian style of dress? That’s out of fashion.”

“Um. Yes. I heard it was very big. Very big. I never knew why. So much lace and frills. Seemed stupid.”

Wil heard the very sensible, common byline among most young men who’d had to buy that kind of clothing when it was going around Terandria. From a Hobgoblin’s mouth. He took his time and tried to say something as if he were talking to someone from home.

“Yes, well…you know, it began because a rather lacy dress saved the Countess of Merrimorn from plunging to her death when she fell over the balcony at a masquerade? She was saved because all that thread caught and kept her suspended long enough for people to pull her up. And Merrimorn practically sets some trends.”

“Really? I had no idea. What’s…who’re Merrimorn?”

“Oh, they’re a noble family—do you, um, know Terandrian kingdoms?”

“I know someone from Calanfer.”

“Really? I mean—I’ve been to Calanfer! Er, I, uh, the war’s not going well.”

“Mm. Ailendamus, right? You ever been?”

“As a matter of fact…”

They began to actually talk to each other, and Wil found he was curious about the Dragonblood crystal sword, Numbtongue’s guitar, everything, really, and that damn bee!

The last of the [Strategists] was alone. No Goblin wanted to talk to Venaz. Even the other Wild Wastes Gnolls were more popular. Ulvama was flirting with them, and Venaz looked around for someone to talk to.

And there he was. Bird wandered over and looked at Venaz. He was eating a raw egg.

“You’re Bird the Hunter. Do you want to converse about your species or mine? Venaz of the Beriad.”

Niers glanced over, and his eyes lit up as he saw another fellow traveler walking down the roads to perdition. He did not stop Venaz.

“I am Bird, hello. You are Sir Cow. I am told this by the Dwarf to call you this. No, wait. I have gotten it wrong. It is Sea Cow or Sir Bull. I am sorry.”

Venaz’s face went slack as the [Liar] tilted his head back and forth. Was he a silly Bird? Even he didn’t know.

“You…are mistaken. My name is Venaz. I prefer the proper forms of address. Are you called Bird?”

“Yes. You may call me Revelantor Bird the Hunter, Ballistae-Protector of The Wandering Inn, [Bird Hunter], and good singer. Every time you talk to me.”

The Minotaur scrutinized Bird’s face and listened to the playful tone.

“I did not know Antinium had a sense of humor.”

“I do not like you. You are mean to Goblins. But I will speak to you if you tell me if the House of Minos has lots of…”

Bird hesitated. He leaned in and whispered.

“…birds.”

Venaz looked around to try and tell whether he was being pranked. He looked at Bird, and the Antinium happily ate more egg yolk.

“Are you…would you take tea? Is that a…custom Antinium have? Do you have any hobbies? I will converse with you, but I don’t quite know what would be socially acceptable. I doubt we can go on a hunt. Walk?”

Bird tilted his head back and forth.

“I could play chess. It is a silly game, but I will play with you. I have beaten your teacher so I am the best chess player in the world. I have also beaten Erin.”

The Minotaur just stared at him. Niers shouted grumpily.

“You beat me when I’m relaxed, Bird. Or when I let you have a pawn or two to make your stupid pictures!”

Bird happily ignored Niers.

“I could…play chess with you. I do find the game interesting. Do you know other games? Go? Shogi?”

“I was there when it was invented, silly Minotaur. Let us play. Then we will sing.”

“Sing? Wait, say that part again? You’re from Liscor. Do you know…who’s this Erin?”

The [Liar] happily walked past Venaz, humming under his breath. The Minotaur followed, to his later regret. Apista buzzed around happily.

Look at all these new friends! She landed on a furry head and Berr went cross eyed as she deposited a cigar into a paw. He blinked at her, then grinned and took a puff. Apista gave him a salute with one feeler and Wil rubbed his eyes.

Lo, the Doomslayers have been repelled, though some escaped, but enemy turned into friends reunited with teacher! Onwards! Now, onto war and salvation for the little child.

The bee buzzed around the tent and came to a stop next to the Titan.

To war and victory. The Fraerling eyed her. Apista waved an antenna at him, and he grudgingly passed his own blunt to her.

“Alright, alright. Let’s both go kick some heads in.”

Interlude – Hectval (Pt. 1)

Crusader 51, [Crusader]

There was a place in The Wandering Inn few people knew existed. Few people went there, even if they did know it was there.

Down the hallways that led up to the second floor, past the game rooms, the rec room, and yes, Erin had decided she needed both, the weights room, and even the bathing room, the wooden hallway branched right. If you kept going, you got to one of the private rooms, one of several entrances to the basement, and a closet, which held brooms and an emergency knife Numbtongue had placed on one of the shelves.

Walk a bit further, and you’d come to a suspiciously blank patch of wall that extended further than it should, with tiny ventilation holes. But there was no door, not even a hidden one, and there was only one room at the far, far end.

Even the drunk patrons of The Wandering Inn didn’t bother trying to explore that door, because it was locked and only a few people had the key. The door had a simple, chalkboard nameplate, which someone had neatly written an odd pair of words onto.

‘Altar Room’.

Inside, the wood flooring had been covered by a carpet which trailed up to a little platform, upon which was placed a pair of candlesticks. A few dressers had been installed to the walls of the room, but the main ornamentation were the chairs, filling the room for a congregation to sit in.

Of course, the imagery it evoked in layout had been changed for the true owners. The Antinium, when asked if they wanted a nice red carpet, had instead elected for a green one with little flowers sewn onto the fabric. Also, since giant, long-but-not-too-wide carpets weren’t in huge market demand, someone had bought three of the same color and put them together.

The altar was a coffee table. Someone had added a longer set of legs such that it was waist-high. That someone was actually the owner of the room, the very Antinium who it had been created for.

Pawn was no great [Carpenter], but he could do something as simple as add longer legs to an existing table. In other times, he would come here after a meal with the patrol he led up to the room. After they had taken in the common room, they would come here to sit, and he would tell them stories.

True stories. Parables. Complete and utter fiction. It varied from tales of actual events—embellished as Pawn saw them—to tales from another religion, or simply children’s stories. The Antinium who came with the [Priest] would listen, and then they would pray.

The Soldier who knelt in front of Pawn today understood all of what was normal. He had heard tales, though Antinium did not often speak, of how it happened.

You would likely be lucky enough to join the Painted Antinium after that. A meal of something other than the mushed paste that every Antinium ate, a chance to see the sky…and meet someone called ‘Erin’. Why this was a good thing, the Soldier had never known.

Yet he had wanted it. He had never wanted anything in his life of just over a year, but the day he had seen the first Painted Antinium…he had learned what ‘want’ was. What it was like to be jealous. And when he had seen the Painted Antinium walking behind the Individual holding the censer that wafted sweet incense through the dark Hive, seen the light of more than mere flame or magic…

He had felt something he could not name. It had no words. Nor was it even a good feeling, like sleep. It pushed at him. It was uncomfortable, even. A strange yearning, a sense of something that chilled and even scared him, like his first glimpse of the sky.

A void so vast and open he thought he would fall upwards into the fading orange beyond.

The Soldier beheld the Altar Room, and it was just as he’d known it would be. Yet…not the same.

There was no good food. No smiling young woman. The inn was dark. A Terrible Thing had happened.

Someone had hurt the [Innkeeper]. The person who made Painted Antinium possible, who had made this place.

The Soldier had never known her. But for all that he didn’t have…all that he had never known he wanted—he had volunteered for this.

The Soldier was the fifty-first Antinium to kneel in front of Pawn. When he looked up, he didn’t see much to set the [Priest] apart from another Worker. Oh, he had clothing instead of a loincloth and a few more scars on his chitin than a new Worker. The Soldier was almost disappointed—until he heard Pawn speak.

“Will you take up arms to defend the Hive? To do battle against our enemies? To become more than a Soldier? We are all bound to fight and die for the Free Hive of the Antinium. This is something else. When you march, you will march away from these walls. You may never return. But you will fight, and struggle, and die for something that belongs to you and all of us. Heaven. In this life and beyond. If you do not have that will, if you do not believe, go.”

It was the same line he had heard for the last fifty Soldiers and Workers in front of him, word for word. But when he looked up, the [Priest] looked at him.

No one had ever looked at him like that. The Soldier looked at Pawn and remembered the word.

Heaven.

Somewhere without fighting. Without dying or pain. Where food was good and everywhere. Where the little fuzzy things roamed about and no one would order you again. Incomprehensible, but what he had understood…called to him. As well as the rules.

You could not enter Heaven by dying alone. It was something Pawn had found, and it came to Antinium—but you had to wait. Wait in the darkness, fighting things, eating the same food…all for the reward that arrived only when you died. That was intolerable.

That was why you dreamed of joining a patrol, seeing the sky, and eating a bowl of soup.

Someone had shot the sky with six poisoned arrows. Someone had stolen the Soldier’s bowl of soup. He had not known Erin Solstice. But for a bowl of soup he never had, for the first moment of anger, the feeling that someone had taken something good from him, the Soldier looked up at Pawn.

For a dream of Heaven, a Soldier of the Free Antinium knelt.

A [Crusader] rose in his place. He turned and walked past the line of waiting Antinium, feeling…odd. The Workers and Soldiers looked at him as if he were different, and he was.

He was a [Crusader] now. A warrior of faith.

He had no paint.

He had no name.

But since he was a [Crusader], the Soldier decided he was Crusader 51. It would do, like Archer B12 or the other not-quite-named Antinium.

51. It was not 1, or 5, or 10, or even 50, which were bold, round numbers. Iconic. 1 was the first. 2 was second, which was almost as good. 3? Three was a trinity. Four was a quadruple number. Five? Five was half of ten and quintuple of one.

…You could do that for a lot of numbers, incidentally. Fifty-one? The Soldier had no notion of its intrinsic value. But he decided it was the number to have. Fifty was good, but he was one after that.

Fifty one. He liked it. Then he realized seventeen went into 51 three times and felt special.

Crusader 51 returned to the Free Hive through their secret tunnel in the basement, walking past lines of Antinium waiting for their vow. Pawn had asked for volunteers, and he had gotten more than enough.

The rest of his day was a blur after that. Crusader 51 got his armor from a Prognugator, but not Bird or Klbkch or Ksmvr. Rather, it was an Antinium wearing armor, who showed a room of a hundred how to put the armor on and gave them weapons of steel.

Prognugator Tersk. There was also Dekass, two of the Armored Antinium’s Prognugators. They were like the Free Antinium…but also vastly different. For one thing, they wore armor. The Free Antinium had thought it was strange, wearing a second skin.

Now Crusader 51 wore armor, and it was heavy. He was given a sword, a shield, and a bow and quiver of arrows.

“You have thirty. Don’t lose them. You will participate in training cycles along with Liscor’s army. Follow your squad, which will be assigned to a battalion and serve under the Antinium division fighting in Liscor’s army.”

Prognugator Dekass was making sure the Antinium receiving weapons understood their role and how to holster their gear. This was far more complex than mere armor; the Armored Queen had sent many suits of armor, but the Free Antinium had provided a number of the armaments.

So—for once—when Crusader 51 looked around, he didn’t see identical Antinium. They were given shields, most of them, but they weren’t the same shields! Some were round, others kite-shaped, and they didn’t get the same weapons. One Antinium to his left was holding a big iron mace with beveled metal making odd raised hexagon patterns across the head of the round weapon.

The Antinium to Crusader 51’s right? He had a spear.

The oddity of weapons had Crusader 51 nervous—and that was before Dekass told him he was assigned to new duties. The Soldier froze.

Squad? He didn’t go with his regular Soldier grouping? Did that mean he had to wake up differently? He didn’t know these Soldiers and Workers! And—and—battalion? Division?

Crusader 51 didn’t know these terms. They sort of made sense, but if someone asked him what they meant? He began to panic.

The way Crusader 51 panicked was to freeze up. He locked into place, looking for something to hit in case that solved his problems. And he realized—the other new [Crusaders] looked much like him.

Uncertain. Which was dangerous. One, the one with the mace, was even trembling. Was he becoming Aberration? Crusader 51 had seen an Aberration, once. It had spoken, and it had been shaking and—

Dekass seemed to notice the Antinium’s uncertainty, because the Armored Prognugator spoke, and his tone was laden with impatient authority. The Armored Antinium—whose armor was painted, far nicer-looking than the armor Crusader 51 had gotten, and possibly even enchanted from the way it glittered mesmerizingly if you stared at it long enough—snapped his mandibles together.

“You are Squad 5 of Battalion 1! Bow-armed. Battalion 1 will carry bows and a one or two-armed weapon along with a shield. Keep moving. You will follow Pawn to the surface.”

The world righted itself. The Antinium in the room, all ten of them, looked around at each other. Squad 5 of Battalion 1?

Crusader 51 realized that was his name. 51. It was special! He straightened and, stowing his weapons as he’d been shown, began to walk after the first Antinium closest to the door.

Heavy. But not impossible to walk or even run in! The Armored Antinium had balanced the armor for Antinium, and while the weapons were heavy, the armor was sturdy, and Crusader 51 found himself liking it. If the angry suits of enchanted armor fought him, they wouldn’t tear his arms off as easily!

Squad 5, Battalion 1. That was who he belonged to. That was who he was. Crusader 51 of Squad 5, Battalion 1.

His entire identity had changed. But now he knew what it was. It was all the new warrior of faith knew. He didn’t entirely know what he had signed up for. He didn’t know what his enemy was or what it looked like, only that it was called ‘Hectval’. He didn’t know what Liscor’s army was, or his new role.

But he had a name, an assignment, and that was enough for now. He followed the other Antinium in his squad as they lined up behind Pawn. When they marched into the streets of Liscor to line up in a plaza and swear to go to war against Hectval, Crusader 51 was there. When they trained, he was there. When they marched out of the gates past a crowd that cheered and shouted—even at him—

He was there. When they marched out of the Floodplains, down a long road, and towards the hills where Hectval lay—

Well, by that time, Crusader 51 had learned there was a lot more to the world than his small little Hive.

By the time news broke that Archmage Nailihuaile was slain, and the Archmage of Chandrar, Amerys, was freed, the war against the Hectval-Drisshia-Luldem Alliance had gone on for over three months. At the start, it had seemed simpler, even to non-Antinium.

Olesm, [Strategist]

“Do you…no, I suppose you think you have to do this. Sorry, that’s a stupid thing to say. So you think you can win? Are you ready?”

The question caught Olesm Swifttail off-guard. He looked up from his last meal in Liscor.

Which, as it turned out, was a drink. Nor was it the lavish meal with Lism, his uncle, set with all his relatives in the city and friends in Wishdrinks, one of the fanciest club-bars, and all comped by the owner.

It was at an open-seating spot at The Drunken Gnoll with Selys Shivertail, and his last ‘meal’ was a drink.

With little pieces of something odd at the bottom. Olesm took a sip and nearly choked on the strange, squishy stuff.

“Gah. What is this?”

“Something tea. It’s experimental. What did Imani…? Palt. Palt, what did Imani call it?”

A passing Centaur serving more drinks to the new clientele of mostly Gnolls stopped and turned. He was wearing a matching apron with the [Chef], who was hard at work at Timbor Parithad’s new inn.

“Boba tea. Well, experimental boba.”

Olesm stopped trying to suck another object out of his sweet-tea, and Selys stopped with her own wooden straw in her mouth. Both had…associations…with experimental drinks from Erin’s inn. Palt saw their looks and hastily clarified.

“All entirely healthy! It’s a sweeter flavorful tea, milk, and frozen fruits. It’s not quite there yet, though, hence the discount.”

He waved at the sign which had ‘Boba Tea’ carefully marked for nine coppers a drink. A bit pricy for a drink—and Olesm put that down to Timbor actually knowing how to price a menu—but it was nice and sweet.

“It’s not bad. I like the idea of having little bits of fruit in my drink.”

Selys chomped down on the cold square of what Olesm now realized was fruit. He took another sip and found he had strawberry? Palt grimaced.

“Yes…it’s not bad if you have it quick. But Imani won’t stop complaining.”

“About something you’ve done or the drink?”

Palt looked highly offended and swished his tail as he trotted over to argue with Selys.

“I’ve done nothing wrong! I even freeze the fruits, and believe me, you need some finesse to freeze them right without making them too hard or too soft. The problem is that Imani needs more of a jello-like bubble, rather than just fruit. It goes mushy, so we have to prepare them specially, even with preservation or cooling spells…”

“Ah. So it requires more effort. What’s jello? I’ve heard Erin talking about it.”

Olesm stiffened up at his table. Selys noted it and hesitated, but Palt was engrossed in the culinary issue.

“Some kind of gelatin. Think pudding, but more…jiggly? Water in a semi-solid state.”

“…Like slimes?”

“Yep.”

“And people eat that?”

Selys shuddered. Palt shook his head.

“I’m assured it would be a huge hit. There are gelatins in other dishes…they’re just not what Imani wants, and she’s searching for a jello-expert. Anyways, enjoy your tea. Olesm, are you heading out today? I saw the army moving, and I thought…”

Olesm looked up and caught the position of the sun in the sky. He straightened, and the scalemail armor he was wearing flashed in the light.

It had Liscor’s symbol, the city over water, emblazoned onto a badge he’d attached to a clasp around his neck. The clasp was connected to a crimson cloak, dark, enchanted, and covering his sidearm; a wand on his left, and a strange artifact on his right.

A Kaalblade. One of the House of El’s inventions, and a gift from a dead woman.

Selys looked at Olesm as he nodded.

“I’m heading out with 4th Company in under an hour. I was just saying goodbye to Selys.”

“I see. Well…I wish you the best. Stay safe out there. Don’t do anything stupid. If it’s alright, I think Imani would like to say goodbye.”

“Oh—of course. I can…”

Olesm began to rise, but Palt bade him sit.

“Afterwards. Enjoy your meal. Anything else? No? Just don’t run off.”

He trotted backwards a few steps and nearly bumped into a Gnoll server. Olesm realized Palt hadn’t been at his farewell party, which Lism had determinedly called a ‘Prelude to Victory’ party, and that he hadn’t seen Imani, Kevin, or many of the other inn’s regulars either.

Well, some were gone, and Olesm hadn’t seen Kevin anywhere—he was probably at Esthelm. Even so, he felt that if someone were here, he would have seen all of the inn’s guests. Been there, rather than sitting with Selys at the outdoor cafe-section of Timbor’s inn.

But Erin was dead. And that was why he was going.

Erin Solstice and Maviola El. Selys frowned at Olesm.

“Are you ready? You’re leading the army. Listen, Olesm. I’m not one to put bugs in anyone’s earholes, and the only one I could do it with is my grandmother—and she’s not going to listen—or Elirr. But Zel was my uncle. He always said [Strategists] leading armies was a risk. Not impossible—but have you rushed it? You can always call it off.”

Olesm looked at her. He felt a flush of anger creep into his face at her suggestion.

“Call it off? We’ve been training for weeks. We’ve mustered supply lines, sent the army ahead—we’re at war, and you’re wondering if we should call it off if I don’t feel ready?”

Selys, the [Heiress], gave Olesm a flat look like he was an idiot Bronze-rank and she were still tending the front desk of the Adventurer’s Guild.

“Yes. If it matters, you can call it off. It’ll take time, money, and be embarrassing, but I’d rather you do that than lose a battle or be dead, Olesm. What’s my answer?”

Olesm’s flash of anger turned to chagrin. Selys could do that, of course, but he realized he’d snapped because he was…nervous. Stressed.

Afraid.

He took his time replying.

“We’re…as ready as we can be, given how much time we’ve had to prepare. We put all the new [Soldiers] through the Watch and Embria’s crash training, and it works for the army. The Antinium aren’t integrated into our forces, but Belgrade’s leading them and they’re armed. Three thousand Antinium plus our five thousand regular soldiers.”

“Seems like a small army.”

Selys couldn’t hide her worry. Olesm frowned.

“It’s huge! For a city of Liscor’s size of a year or two ago? It would be massive. But you’re right…we are up against three cities. Hectval, Luldem, Drisshia.”

“And you convinced the Council to let you go to war because…?”

Olesm took a gulp of his tea and chewed furiously. The fruit was going a bit mushy, so Selys sucked on her straw.

“I don’t like this tea. I don’t eat soup with a straw.”

“Eh, it’s not cookies for me either. The war?”

Olesm curled up his tail around a chair leg. He tried to be impartial, but he kept thinking of their last battle. All the mistakes he’d made.

The fire as Maviola El burnt away. He knew he wasn’t thinking clearly, but…he looked up and met Selys’ pale yellow gaze. Olesm’s own blue raindrop irises, which matched his sky-blue cobalt scales, were collected.

“They won’t stop. Twice now, they’ve attacked. First with a raiding party. Second with an army.”

“We did march on them.”

Selys pointed out. Olesm growled.

“Yes, and we retreated before we even got within sniffing one of their cities. They put an army at Liscor’s gates with the express intent of bombarding us. They won’t stop. I’ve studied inter-city conflicts. I never thought I’d need to use that knowledge in Liscor, but Hectval will keep raiding caravans, harassing our new villages…now is the time to attack. They’ve lost chunks of two armies. They’re weak. Normally, it would be three cities versus one. We could beat Hectval one-on-one, I’m sure of it, but without the Free Antinium or this moment…so it’s now.”

He expected Selys to argue longer, but she nodded.

“If only uncle Zel were here. He’d…well, he’d probably try to stop the war, but I doubt he’d take their side. And he could have won the war fast. How long do you think this’ll take?”

Olesm cleared his throat. The cold tea was making it a bit sore.

“I didn’t put a time limit on it. Nor am I set on any one goal. It seems like a bad idea. I hope to reach Hectval and have their alliance sign a formal magical treaty within four months.”

Selys raised her brows.

“That’s fast. Uncle always said it took half a year even with the fastest campaigns.”

“Well, we’re close, and they’ve taken losses already. Don’t…don’t keep bringing up the dead.”

Selys’ brows snapped together. She looked at Olesm.

“Why? He’s my uncle. Zel, Erin, Maviola…we say their names to honor them.”

“Erin’s not completely dead.”

Olesm muttered, but the last of the three names struck him the most. Selys glanced at Olesm, and her face fell.

“Here I am making it worse. Argh. Ancestors! I should have just done it the way Uncle says to do it. Fast and quick. Here.”

She slid something across the table. Olesm blinked as he picked it up. A strange, metallic cube dangled from it with a symbol emblazoned on each side. They looked like stylized versions of elements. Fire, a bolt of lightning, an arrow…he raised his brows. It didn’t seem cheap, but it was made of bronze as far as he could tell. And it was clearly magical.

“What’s this?”

Selys huffed as she fished for her purse of holding.

“A ‘going-to-war’ gift. I’ve got two potions in here too…one second. I have beavers in my home, and they keep messing up everything.”

“Beavers? Wait—Selys, I have potions.”

The [Heiress] rolled her eyes at him.

“I know, and it’s cute that you think I buy the same quality as the city’s paying for. The cube-thing is from Hedault. Each symbol is one attack it’ll eat or block. Here.”

She pushed two bottles at him, and Olesm blinked at the colors within. He could recognize high-grade healing potions, and he looked at the Drake.

“Selys…”

“Just come back, alright? Don’t let those Creler-kissing monsters go easy. But don’t die.”

She reached across the table and gave him a one-armed hug. Olesm hesitated, but before he could return it, Palt and Imani came out to say farewell, and Timbor himself.

The [Innkeeper] shook Olesm’s claw, and Olesm recalled the man had marched on Hectval the first time, in the angry mob-army.

“Best of luck, Strategist Olesm. Here’s hoping it goes better now you’ve planned it out, eh?”

Olesm nodded slowly. Good people had died in that first group. He met Timbor’s gaze and looked towards the city, where people were cheering and waving goodbye to the [Soldiers] marching out. He looked for his horse and gave Selys, Imani, Palt, and Timbor a last look. He wanted to be reassuring, to say something like fire and wrath, that would be written down and underlined by [Historians] in years to come, even the unbiased ones.

All Olesm managed was a nod and a croak.

“We’ve prepared a bit more. We’ll see what we see. I’ll report back and see if our strategy’s viable. If not, I’ll reconsider.”

He mounted up, and the words burned in his head…and earholes as he rode off. They watched him go, not cheering, and with a kind of silence that weighed on him as he left. Olesm was glad they didn’t see his blushing face.

Selys rubbed at the side of her head with one claw and turned to the others as Olesm rode off.

“He fights better than he talks. I think.”

——

It was such a strange feeling leaving Liscor. Olesm didn’t join the procession to hear the cheering. He just caught up with Embria’s 4th Company, who were riding and singing a soldier’s song, My Broomstick’ll Level Faster Than Me, as they headed out. The cavalry and mobile forces were catching up with the infantry, hence the delay. 4th Company led the way.

Veteran [Soldiers] from Liscor’s famed mercenary army. Wing Commander Embria was still under Olesm’s command, though. She hadn’t argued hard, perhaps because Olesm was Liscor’s [Strategist].

Even so, as Olesm rode up and caught his breath, he felt a surreal feeling like the last time they’d done this.

“Off to war.”

It wasn’t far to Hectval’s ‘borders’, just past the Bloodfields, but the Drake city and alliance of three city-states were up a lot of rugged terrain—or some roads that Olesm was sure were fortified. This was no month-long campaign just to get there, and their forces could be anywhere from hiding in the Floodplains to waiting at their city for a siege.

His nerves hummed, and he turned to Embria.

“Ready for the fight, Wing Commander?”

The crimson-scaled Drake blinked one eye as she turned from watching the Antinium marching out of the gates with a frown.

“It’ll be a while before that, I think, Strategist.”

Olesm wavered. He looked across the Floodplains, towards where the High Passes began to shrink into hills and Izril’s south beyond.

“…You think so?”

That was the problem, for all he assured Selys he knew what he was doing. Olesm had been in battles, led defenses, seen fighting close up, and arguably encountered more high-level threats than most [Strategists] twice his age.

However…he had never been on campaign before. It took Liscor’s army eleven days before they even heard of the enemy.

Embria, [Wing Commander]

Dear Father,

We have embarked on our campaign against Hectval. It feels odd to be on the campaign again. I’ve missed it. I know you won’t like to hear it, so I guess this letter is a failure.

…I’ll keep writing even if I don’t send this because I have to tell someone. I can’t tell Wikir or Vell, Pielt, or Igissi, even if they are [Captains]. Wikir wouldn’t talk, but Vell’s a hothead, and it’s just not something you do.

Not that you were an officer, but you get it. The old guard always said you could lead a squad as well as any [Captain] and you did—just that you were too good at being a headhunter.

I wish you were here. We need someone like you against Hectval. It’s not just that we don’t have Liscor’s officers or the Antinium—and the Antinium are one thing. It’s…

This is a new army, Dad. You know what that means? I look around and wonder who’s going to die, because they’re so green it hurts. Even Olesm. He’s got the levels, but he’s not experienced. I almost wish I were in charge, but I don’t have experience in command either. I don’t think we should let Hectval be. I just wish either High Command or Liscor’s Council could have approved the army coming back, even a portion of it, and doing it right. But then the Antinium wouldn’t have joined.

It’s been three days and we’re climbing into the foothills around the Blood Fields. Rocky terrain. You know? The worst part, though, is that we’re still getting used to our chain-of-command, and I’m solid in 4th Company, but I think Olesm’s sub-commanders just aren’t good enough. They’re sharp, eager to fight…and not high-level enough. Former [Guards], mostly. Only a few Manus graduates, and they’re young.

So I’m a bit worried, Dad. Just a bit. The new [Soldiers] can’t even hike up hills at good speed. But I guess they’re levelling. I’ll write you something else instead, if we can send letters back to the army. Hope you got out of Cellidel.

—Embria

She rolled up the bit of parchment and wished she could breathe fire so she could set it alight. Instead, she put it back in her pouch and rubbed her shoulder.

Olesm wasn’t that bad. For one thing, he might not have had the field experience—

But he could move an army from A to B. And that was a talent even graduates of Manus’ war schools messed up.

Columns of [Soldiers] were climbing up the first series of steep, rocky terrain that was Hectval’s territory…or the border along the Bloodfields. They struggled up the hard, slightly reddish soil, swearing, carrying packs along with their armor and weapons, and generally trying not to slip and crash into the [Soldiers] behind them.

Liscor’s army had marched past the Blood Fields with no incidents, much to everyone’s relief, and had decided to take a route like the first army—climbing into Hectval’s territory.

It was that or take the known roads, and Olesm’s maps of Hectval along with knowledge from 4th Company told them there were enchanted towers emplaced there. Real pain-in-your-tail towers that some [Archers] would lounge in, taking long-range shots at you from behind magical barriers.

You could knock them down. Embria knew Liscor’s army could take one down, especially with the Antinium. She hated to admit it, but lacking any siege weapons, the Antinium were their best sappers.

However, breaking one of those towers would be hard, because an army would doubtless be dug in around them, just hoping you broke all your teeth on their fortifications, fighting uphill with enchanted towers and all the lovely traps they had to have placed waiting for you.

Slightly better to take a route Hectval couldn’t predict. They’d be waiting up in the hills, but assuming Liscor’s army got up there, there were too many ways to maneuver, and while the area had its share of narrow passages, there were entire plateaus; perfect for styming any defenders’ hopes of choking an advance.

The trouble was just what Embria had written. Liscor’s army was green. She rode her horse past the struggling infantry and sighed. Her war-trained horse carried her up the slope with ease, but 4th Company’s patrol past the [Soldiers] wasn’t just due to that.

Embria was the only member of Liscor’s 4th who had a horse. Wikir of 1st Squad, Vell, the other officers and [Soldiers]? No horses. Skywalker’s Company, as they were nicknamed for their use of the [Light Bridge] spell, were foot-sloggers, and Embria often fought on foot as well.

They looked like they were strolling uphill compared to the [Soldiers]. Vell stopped as a Drake windmilled his arms, cursing. She reached out, grabbed the [Soldier], and shoved him forwards.

“Put your pack lower down, idiot. Center of gravity! You’re so back-heavy no wonder you’re falling over. Dig your claws into the soil! You look like you’ve never climbed a hill in your life!”

“I have! I—well, the hills around the Floodplains aren’t this bad!”

The [Soldier] caught himself and tried to climb faster, but Vell snorted, and her squad marched past the [Soldiers], jeering—and giving out advice like that.

“It’s not just equipment, Commander. They don’t know anything. It’s like looking at babies. They can’t even adjust their armor, they can’t march, they get blisters…”

“They’ll learn. Faster, with us giving them tips.”

Embria had been writing in the saddle. Now, she addressed Pielt’s complaint out of the corner of her mouth. 3rd Squad’s [Captain] grunted.

“Fair, Commander. I just wish those bastards had more. Mind you, it’s hilarious when they fall down. So much for Antinium being good on any ground.”

He jerked his head, and Embria turned to look. She saw a tumbling shape rolling downhill, a flash of armor and a lot of clicking, and smirked.

The Antinium were having trouble too. The new, armored soldiers, which had chilled her to the core, were imposing with all their gear—but they rattled when they walked, and, like Liscor’s [Soldiers], they had trouble going uphill with all this new weight changing how they moved. She saw another Antinium racing downhill after the fallen [Crusader].

“Heard we’ve got a [Strategist] in their group.”

“Really?”

Embria saw Pielt and the [Soldiers] around him tune in with interest. Embria had already written her report, of course, and she nodded to the Antinium waving all four arms in distress.

“That one. Belgrade. Some kind of [Trapsetter Strategist]. Never heard of…well, I suppose his name came up. In the inn.”

4th Company looked at her, but no one brought up her father. They nodded—cautiously.

The inn was a sore point with them, as the soldiers of Liscor’s real army hadn’t liked what their city had become, and many had pointed to that [Innkeeper], as she’d been known, as one of the culprits.

However, she’d been killed by Hectval, and even the rowdiest member of 4th Company didn’t feel like insulting the dead. Especially when the commander of all these forces and a lot of Liscor’s citizens might overhear.

“At least they have a [Strategist]. What are we, a Baleros-led company? They should have put you in charge, Wing Commander.”

“Stow it. And shove your compliments back up your tailhole, Barkus. You all know I’m not about to take charge of an army. When I want pandering comments—I’ll go to Salazsar.”

Barkhus, whose name was adjusted for obvious reasons, laughed with the rest. They watched as another Antinium turned into a pillbug and rolled down the hill—and winced as a Gnoll did likewise.

“Hoi there! Commander says we’re breaking after the next hill! Get a move on and stop falling over!”

A voice from above. Embria saw an Oldblood Drake floating downwards.

“Huh. Hey, Maksie! You might be [Scout Leader] for an entire army, but give me lip again and I’ll poke holes in your wings!”

The Wing Commander shouted at one of 4th Company’s former members appointed to a larger role. The Oldblood Drake cheerfully made a gesture to the Wing Commander and flew on. She had wings—but no breath.

Stopping after only…? Embria saw it wasn’t past midday. Then again, the maddening hike uphill with all the falls and injuries must have been driving Olesm insane. She nodded to 4th Company.

“Double time up the hill. Let’s talk to Commander Olesm. And show these idiots how it’s done.”

——

A group of tired Drakes and Gnolls sat around on top of the steep hill they were climbing. Some were stretching or drinking water, but most were just sitting around. A few had even pulled off pieces of their armor—until one of the officers snapped at them to put them back on.

“It’s hot.”

“Yeah? The sky’s blue. Eat my tail.”

One of the Drakes snapped at a Gnoll. They were both young, below twenty, and the Gnoll growled back.

“It’s hot. You’re not wearing fur under your armor!”

“Yeah, well…I…you’ve never had to shed dry scales!”

“Oh, and that’s worse than split hair? Shedding fur? Lice? Why do Drakes have to always suffer worse? Just admit it, it’s hot for everyone.”

“Yeah, but it’s hotter for me because my scales are dark, and the sun—”

A helmet flew through the air, and the Drake ducked. It bounced along the ground and struck the feet of a [Soldier] who was bending over, inspecting something. She jumped and whirled.

“Gah! I nearly stepped on a fortune! Don’t do that!”

The other [Soldiers] looked up.

“What? Fortune?”

“Back off, I found it!”

The Drake waved her claw at the others. She plucked something from the ground and showed it to them.

“Look! I found a rare mushroom!”

She showed them all a mushroom with giant, vivid, rounded spots on it. It was purple, and each spot was a bright tan color. The Drake [Soldier] was delighted.

“I’ve never seen anything like it. I bet it’s a rare mushroom!”

“Could be worth something!”

Instantly, the other Drakes, Gnolls, and two Humans had gathered around. One of the Humans opined, backing away.

“Don’t touch it with your bare claws! Put some gloves on! It could be poisonous!”

“Yeah, but that’s still worth something to [Alchemists]. You know what? Don’t sell it. If it’s worth something, get it appraised and then culture more mushrooms.”

The squad of [Soldiers] stared at the purple shroom. One of them, a Gnoll without a helmet, pointed.

“Do we get a cut if it’s super valuable?”

“Hey! It’s mine!”

“We’re all in the same squad. Uell, don’t be stingy…”

“How’ll you even get it appraised?”

The Drake peered around furtively as she protectively held the mushroom to her chest.

“We have [Mages]. Maybe one of them knows how it works? Or I’ll put it in a bag of holding. Look, no one takes it from me, agreed? I’ll give you something if it’s worth it…does anyone have a container? It might be poisonous; look at those spots!”

“You can use my helmet. We’ll put something over it.”

The Gnoll eagerly offered. The squad was just about to look for more mushrooms when Wing Commander Embria rode past them.

“That’s not a rare mushroom.”

The [Soldiers] froze, and the one holding it tried to hide it behind her back. Embria sighed as she dismounted and looked around for Olesm.

“What, officer? What mushroom? We were just talking about, uh, a mushroom we dreamed about! A—”

An amused Captain Wikir cut the protesting [Soldier] off.

“That’s not a valuable mushroom. It’s just an ordinary purple one, yes?”

“Ah, but this one has spots!”

Wikir and Embria exchanged a weary, weary look. Embria sighed, and Wikir’s entire squad began laughing themselves sick. The new recruits looked uncertainly at the mushroom, and Wikir broke it to them.

“Those are insect eggs, you idiots. Haven’t you ever seen…?”

Embria saw the mushroom go sailing over the side of the cliff and rolled her eyes. But she had to confess…she’d done the exact same thing back in the day.

Everyone thought a mushroom with dust on it was the next big alchemical ingredient.

“Commander Olesm! Sir!”

She saluted and came to a stop as a Drake jumped and stopped arguing with two newly-instated [Division Leaders].

[Division Leaders]. Not [Division Captains] or [Marshals] or any combination of any military rank. This was derived from the [Leader] class and it meant…

Well, it meant the army wasn’t in the right shape to field a [General], much less most officer ranks. Liscor had an army, and they had countless officers. However, in lieu of such classes, or to make room, you had the [Leader] line.

[Wing Commander] Embria saw the Gnoll and Drake turn to her, and Olesm raised his head.

“You don’t need to stand on formality, Wing Commander. You’re second-in-command if need arises; speak to me.”

Embria glanced at the sub-officers and tried to be as diplomatic as possible.

“With respect, sir, is a halt a good idea now? We’re three days into our climb, and we were hoping to reach the fighting highlands yesterday.”

She glanced up towards a summit yet higher overhead, which marked more flat ground to maneuver around. To fight here, with an enemy occupying the high ground, was a nightmare, and her company would have already been lounging at the top.

But Liscor’s army was having trouble even getting into position. Olesm gave Embria a grimace that said he knew it too.

“The [Soldiers] are having difficulty climbing. Not yours…can I hope it’s due to a Skill? Do you have a terrain Skill, Wing Commander?”

She coughed into one claw.

“Er, [Mudgrip Boots] is the only one I have. I know one of my officers has [Climbing Expertise] as a unit-based Skill, but we have not had to use it, sir.”

Because it’s not hard to climb a hill. Olesm read between the words.

“Could he or she…use it to move a large body of soldiers?”

“The limit is forty, unfortunately, commander.”

Olesm rubbed at his temples.

“…We may still need that. I’m debating having someone cut stairs or some easier way of climbing up. Could we use your [Light Bridge] spell to…?”

Embria didn’t feel like wasting a scroll on getting [Soldiers] uphill. She looked around and raised a claw.

“A quiet word, Commander Olesm?”

He looked up, nodded, and abandoned his map to step closer. Embria whispered to him.

“It’s not bad for the [Soldiers] to learn climbing, sir. However, if we’re caught out—”

The Drake looked up at the summit and nodded, his face one of frustration as he observed the [Soldiers] arguing whether insect eggs were valuable to [Alchemists].

“That’s my thinking too. I’d send 4th Company to hold the top of the plateau, but 4th Company is an asset, and if they have to fight an entire squadron…”

Embria was glad to hear Olesm was thinking of their wellbeing—and a bit insulted by the suggestion they couldn’t hold the ground alone. Then again, one [Fireball] landing before they could dodge and Olesm lost his best [Soldiers].

“We could drag up some other recruits, Commander. Frankly, they’re wet Amentus fruits, but I’ve seen worse.”

Olesm brightened up a bit.

“You have?”

Embria felt the need to encourage him.

“They’re not worse than…well, a lot of rookies we get in Liscor’s main army. The difference is, we seperate ours, make sure they’re trained under a squad with enough veterans. They wash out or train up—and we fight with large numbers of green soldiers all the time. We’re famous for it, as you know.”

Liscor’s army used their officer-classes to turn even a Level 5 [Soldier] into a fighting whirlwind. Olesm rubbed at his chin.

“That’s true. Frankly, I was wondering if they were all somehow poisoned. Even Bronze-rank adventurers do better.”

He looked at the [Soldiers], and Embria murmured.

“A week ago, they were [Cobbler Apprentices], [Thugs], [Hunters], or any other civilian class. They’ve gone through training and can swing a sword, but it’ll be a bad first battle, too. However, they’ll level after tonight.”

Olesm nodded again. The first ten [Soldier] levels, or so they said in the army, were practically free. In that you could march, eat, dig latrines, use latrines, and complain about your pay and food and get to Level 10 without so much as sneezing at a battle.

When they went back to the table, Olesm took a breath.

“I think we need to restructure. Wing Commander, you’ve met our two [Division Leaders]? Bepol and Ramia, one from the Watch—[Guardsman], almost at her Senior Guardsman rank—and the other studied in Pallass’ academy.”

The Drake and Gnoll saluted Embria, and she saluted back.

Oh dead gods, a former [Guard] and an officer from Pallass’ academy. She knew Pallass graduated their officers at least Level 15, so they had a Level 15 [Trainee Officer] and a [Guard] who might be used to large-scale brawls or fighting since she had seen Liscor’s battles, but not a war.

Olesm read her look. So did the officers, unfortunately. Bepol’s tail twitched.

“I’ve served with Pallass’ 5th Army, Wing Commander, and you can rely on me to keep my formations in order. Frankly, I think we have more expertise than some Drake border cities.”

Embria opened her mouth to address the officer, bit her tongue on her words, then snapped back because she couldn’t help it.

“More experience than a border city…? Liscor is the most border-city of them all. Hectval, Luldem, and Drisshia might not be individually as large as Liscor, but they fight other cities constantly! The officers might not be Level 30 veterans all, but they will tear your tail off and feed it to you if you underestimate them!”

She regretted the outburst the moment it happened. Not because everyone had heard; the other [Soldiers] were too far away to hear, mostly. Mainly because it was unprofessional, and this army had to have discipline.

Bepol’s scales turned pale, but he threw a salute that said that he had been taught enough of when to shut up. Olesm was looking between Embria and Bepol, searching for something to say. He eventually snapped.

“Wing Commander Embria. A bit too frank. Division Leader Bepol and your company will serve together. Liscor’s army is inexperienced, but I’m sure you trust them as much as I, if you’re willing to fight alongside them.”

Embria’s cheeks darkened and she saluted, staring at the sky.

“Yes, Commander. I apologize for the outburst.”

Olesm exhaled. Then he heard a confusion of voices, and Embria was relieved to look sideways and see…

“Commander Olesm. Commander Embria, and Division Leaders Bepol and Ramia. I apologize, but my Antinium division has summited the hill and we are out-of-place. I apologize for preceding the other [Soldiers], but I did not realize we had moved ahead of them. Should we go back down and wait?”

Belgrade, the Antinium [Trapsetter Strategist], hurried over, looking distraught and embarrassed. Embria turned and saw his two fellow commanders, the Armored Antinium’s Prognugators, Tersk and Dekass, ordering the Antinium into neat ranks as they stood, some a bit dusty, but on the summit.

All of them. Well, most, and the rest were appearing so fast 4th Company looked startled at their speed.

“How did you…? Er, Strategist Belgrade? You’re not out of place. If anything—how did you do that? Did you dig your way up?”

The shorter Worker was wearing chainmail, and he had a sword, but he was a [Strategist] to his core. He was confused for a moment, then moved his mandibles up.

“Ah, Olesm. I apologize, Commander Olesm. That is a funny joke, ha-ha. Antinium cannot dig as fast as that. I saw that the Antinium were performing below-average in climbing the hill due to the weight of their armor. So I remedied the problem.”

Olesm, Embria, and the two [Division Leaders] all exchanged glances. There were a handful of [Tacticians] and other lower-level officers, and everyone trooped over to see what Belgrade meant.

What they saw was simple, known to Embria—and still impressed her.

In the short time since she had lost sight of the Free Antinium’s group, a simple structure had appeared in its place. The Antinium climbing the hill and passing the other [Soldiers], who looked enviously onwards, were all climbing, securely anchoring themselves to…

Ropes. Someone had hammered pitons and anchored ropes from the top downwards, letting the [Crusaders] balance and climb up. Not more than four per rope, and only the sturdiest lines at that, but it made it exponentially faster—especially because a slip was far less likely with Antinium holding the ropes.

“We do that all the time with tough terrain.”

Vell muttered, folding her arms as if the Antinium were doing nothing new. Embria bit her lip. They did do that in Liscor’s army—but she hadn’t thought of it. Nor was it her go-to idea.

She was a Wing Commander and had looked at her wing and seen they had no problem and stopped there.

Belgrade? Olesm’s eyes lit up. Belgrade was a [Strategist]. The Antinium stood there humbly as Olesm turned to him. He looked at Embria, and the Drake saw Olesm come to a rapid decision.

“It’s quite clear that the Antinium work well under you, wouldn’t you say, Belgrade?”

“They do not need much help, Commander Olesm. The Antinium will fight and are good at fighting. Tersk and Dekass have led armies before.”

Olesm was nodding.

“And your 4th Company is an exemplar, Wing Commander. I imagine they stack up with any one of our army’s other companies?”

“Any one of them, Commander!”

Embria didn’t bristle at the suggestion her company would be worse, although rivalries were real. She knew Olesm was onto something, and she was curious. Belgrade tilted his head left and right as Olesm nodded.

“Then…in light of the need for officers with experience to take the field, I am changing the structure of our forces. I will draw from our two main Gnoll-Drake-Human battalions. Belgrade, you will take charge of a third of our non-Antinium forces. Wing Commander Embria? I would like you to take three hundred recruits as whole squads and fold them into 4th Company as our shock force. Also—however you did it, Belgrade, please deploy ropes for all of our army.”

The other officers stared at Olesm, and then they began to argue—none faster or louder than Belgrade. However, Olesm looked straight at Embria and realized the same thing she did, however reluctantly.

Of the people leading or part of the army, the officers with the most experience in battle were Olesm, Embria, and Belgrade.

…And Calruz.

Calruz, [Honorbound Prisoner]

Though he was a prisoner, it was an odd thing. He had requested death, honorable or not, many times. If not death, he would settle for freedom because he would have the freedom to choose.

But it was not possible for him to be found guilty or innocent—at least as Watch Captain Zevara ruled it. His crimes were indisputable. The reasons behind them…?

So instead, she had come up with a solution based on his homeland. Trials. Calruz had eliminated Shield Spider nests with his bare hand. He had waded through Liscor’s sewers and slain everything that moved.

And he trained Liscor’s [Soldiers].

At first, the Council had argued, but Olesm had demanded Calruz’s help in no uncertain terms. Calruz had even heard him bluntly addressing the Councilmembers and people gathered to protest.

“I am aware Calruz of Hammerad is a convicted criminal. However, Watch Captain Zevara has engaged him as an asset to the city before, and this is no different.”

“You want a murderer to train our troops?”

Olesm’s lower left eyelid twitched.

“Frankly, I’ve heard worse ideas.”

“What if he trains them wrong? Teaches them to…”

“To what? Stab wrong?”

Olesm’s sarcasm provoked a furore, and, in truth—there were lots of poor ways to train someone. However, the Drake overruled the arguments with a simple one of his own:

“We need weapon experts. We have a few adventurers who we have paid to demonstrate their abilities. Guildmistress Tekshia is a [Spearmaster].”

“So why can’t we use them, Nephew—er, Commander Olesm?”

Lism was frowning at Calruz. The Minotaur waited. With one arm missing, he was hardly a good example of fighting acumen compared to, say, the four-armed Antinium, but that was only if you were armist.

Put another way, Calruz had more muscle mass than three of Liscor’s citizens put together thanks to the weight set in his room. He had more scars than any six. He was high-level, but if that were all, Tekshia would have been a better pick.

The truth was simply that Calruz was best because Tekshia Shivertail was a terrible teacher.

So were most adventurers. They were self-taught, or impatient, or they couldn’t explain what they intuited, or they didn’t know how to fight in groups compared to one-on-one, or all of the above and more.

Calruz? Calruz had trained in Minos. That was how he ended up giving lessons to Drakes, Gnolls, and Humans, but even if they hadn’t seen him directly or been in Liscor when he had attacked them with the Raskghar, most of the [Soldiers] knew what Calruz was.

They did not like him. So Olesm had Calruz teach a few classes, made sure Embria and her 4th Company took what lessons they could, and put him with the one group who wouldn’t complain.

Antinium.

——

They were a curious lot. Calruz had to admit, he had never known Antinium well. He had known Pawn and a few others, but he had never interacted with them closely.

Let alone seriously considered how they fought with four arms, much less how to improve them. He learned what The Crimson Soldier already knew within the first day of watching and training them.

Antinium couldn’t coordinate all four arms perfectly. At least—it was like someone who picked up a sword and shield trying to use them for the first time, only multiplied.

Everyone thought they would become a swordmaster within a moment of holding a sword. That they could just copy what they saw. They could not, and Calruz saw the same problem with the Antinium’s four arms.

They got in the way. They were, in fact, cumbersome, especially if an Antinium tried to chop, block, or reach for something and tangled two arms together. So Calruz improvised.

“You will move two arms together! Left side! Right side! Stab with your left! Block with your right! On my mark, stab! Block! Stab! Block!”

He had them in lines, performing a basic stab with a dagger and spear in their left hands, and a shield or even two shields in the others. The Antinium moved in sync with one another, learning how to alternate arms.

In theory, they could use all four arms independently, but Calruz was more worried about making them functional in combat. So he strode along their ranks, eying them as they stabbed, blocked, and progressed into a set of attacks. Even if they moved either side of their bodies in tandem, an Antinium could stab high and low at the same time. Terrifying for a regular [Soldier].

However, the Minotaur realized something else and began picking out Soldiers one-by-one. Strange. He hadn’t realized this earlier, though it was obvious now he saw them together. The moment he had seen Pawn, it should have been obvious. It threw the idea of ‘the Black Tide’ into the gutter.

The Antinium were not all equally talented. Some…were gifted.

Crusader 51, [Crusader]

He wasn’t sure why the Minotaur made him stand away from the rest of his squad and three thousand practicing Antinium. Had he done something wrong?

If he had, the trembling, mace-carrying Soldier had also done something wrong, as had two of the Worker-archers and a [Crusader] with a shield and sword, like Crusader 51.

By now, Crusader 51 knew the names of Squad 5. Each Soldier in the group was Crusaders 50 to 59.

The one carrying the mace was Crusader 53. Calruz, the Minotaur with one arm, stopped in front of their group and spoke.

“All of you are different from your peers. You…do not have the same awkwardness, or you have some quality I have identified. It may not be customary among the Antinium to do this, but I have selected you for training. Do you understand?”

Silence. The [Crusaders] looked at Calruz, and he exhaled slowly.

“I will take that as affirmation. You—Worker. What is your n—”

He hesitated. Calruz had been told not to ask an Antinium’s name, but the Worker volunteered it.

“I am Archer B12. I am a [Crusader]. [Archer]. Archer B12, Squad 1, Battalion 4.”

Like Crusader 51, he knew who he was. Calruz grunted.

“You speak as if you are one of at least twelve.”

The Worker hesitated, unsure of what to say. He replied slowly.

“I am one of ten in my squad. I am one of five hundred in my battalion. I am an [Archer]. I was one of Archer Group B in the Free Hive.”

Archer B12 stared at Calruz as he snorted and glared down at him.

“That is not what I meant. You…you are not like the others.”

“I am Archer B12.”

“Yes, but you are not like the other [Archers]. I have seen you shooting. There.”

Calruz pointed at a target. Every Antinium turned and saw a neat cluster of arrows in the center of a bullseye.

The other Antinium didn’t have a spread nearly as good. Archer B12 looked at Calruz as if he had done something wrong.

“I will copy the others.”

Calruz stopped him as he raised his bow.

“No. You are extraordinary. Do not aspire to copying your peers. You stand out. You—”

He pointed at Crusader 51, and the Soldier felt a jolt run through him. Calruz pointed at the other two Antinium.

“You have a coordination about you. You understand posture. You handle your sword like a master. For some reason, you use that mace as if you were born with it in your hand. Though you picked it up…what, yesterday?”

He pointed at Crusaders 51 and 53, who looked at each other in silent shock. They did? Crusader 51 had to admit…it was easy, copying the Minotaur. You just held the sword like he showed you.

He didn’t know why the other Soldiers held it crookedly. Calruz addressed his trainees.

“It is a lesson I am not sure you will understand, but I will repeat it to you. In the House of Minos, warriors are told to understand their strengths. If they are higher-levelled, more skillful, better than other warriors, they should know it and apply their strengths. Obeying orders is a virtue, but there is a time when every warrior must decide how to act. It is not arrogance or bravado, but understanding one’s strengths and limitations. You all have a gift. So you will train with me and show your peers how to fight.”

——

Crusader 51 had two weeks of training with Calruz directly. In that time, he learned Calruz was right.

The sword was simple. He held a dagger in his off-hand, a long dagger he could stab with, but he only did simple poking motions to threaten an opponent’s face. The same with the two shields on his right, both light and overlapping.

He didn’t…understand how to use all four arms independently. The arm that moved, swung, and changed with his body was his sword-arm.

And that arm slashed down and flicked up and nearly tapped the Minotaur as he leaned back. Calruz grunted.

“You cut well, but your footwork is lacking! There!”

He spun, kicked, and Crusader 51 staggered back, despite trying to cut the Minotaur’s leg. He was good.

The other Antinium? Less.

——

The five hatchet blows were all easy to parry. Crusader 51 saw each one, and the shield bash coming at his face, and deflected them all, just as he was supposed to do. Then, since he was allowed to attack, he feinted at the face and let his sword swish lower. The shield rose as if his opponent didn’t see it was such an obvious feint.

Crusader 51 poked the tip of his sword gently through another [Crusader]’s armor, in a weak spot under their elbow, and the Antinium froze. In the other duel, Crusader 53 sounded like he was making music.

The metallic thud of metal on metal was like drums. Crusader 51 looked over and saw the Antinium with the mace swinging two in both arms while his shields cheerfully blocked the spear jabbing at him. Three shields were not enough, and Crusader 53 brought down his foe with less aplomb, but almost as quickly as Crusader 51.

“A gift. Mace and sword. You two are skilled—but do not mistake that for being superior. A warrior harnesses their talent, but it does not define their ability. Even so—you two have a rare gift. More than mine.”

For some reason, the Minotaur smiled oddly as he faced them and the rest of his special trainees. Archer B12, Crusaders 51 and 53, and a dozen others were rare talents among the Antinium. It made them feel…odd.

Wrong, that they should find this easier than some of their brethren. In fact, one of the Workers assigned to archery was staring at his target. He had initially been given a spear, but he had been unable to coordinate all four arms enough to make Calruz happy. So the Minotaur had given him a bow.

Then a crossbow. Calruz looked over, and Crusader 51 stared at the most pristine target he had ever seen.

Every single bolt had missed. Calruz stared at the trembling Worker.

“…That is, in its way, extraordinary too. What do I do with…?”

He scratched at his head, genuinely perplexed. Tersk marched over with a row of pike-wielding Antinium.

“Is there a problem, Trainer Calruz?”

“That Worker, there. He…would be an unwise [Archer] to position near your back lines. I thought it was a fluke or deliberate, but if it is not? The same with spear and shield. He would die in the first clash.”

Tersk looked blankly at Calruz as Crusader 51 listened. He couldn’t help but watch the poor Worker. Was he going to die?

“Is that a problem, Trainer Calruz?”

The Minotaur gave him a sharp look.

“Not if you consider the Antinium expendable. Is that the case?”

Tersk thought about it. He opened and closed his mandibles, then replied happily.

“I do. Therefore, I have little issue with changing the Worker to spear and sh—”

Calruz slapped Tersk. Crusader 51 saw the hand come up and slap the Prognugator across the face so hard the crack sent Tersk sprawling. Instantly, Dekass whirled.

“Attack! Attack!”

He drew his sword, and some of the watching [Guards] surged to their feet, reaching for their weapons. But Calruz did not move.

Tersk rose, shortswords drawn, but eyed Calruz as the Minotaur stared down at him. He had two hatchets, two shortswords, and Calruz had one arm. Tersk…lowered the shortswords.

“Why did you hit me, Trainer Calruz? I do not think this was a friendly blow.”

The Minotaur snorted.

“It was not. You will not say that again, in my presence or on the battlefield.”

Tersk’s mandibles opened and closed.

“Is that an order, Trainer Calruz? The Armored Antinium do not listen to orders.”

Calruz shook his head. He looked at Tersk, and Crusader 51 saw him glance at the Antinium who had gone still. Calruz raised his voice and addressed them all.

“You will not. Not because I say it, but because a leader who speaks in that way deserves no loyalty from those he commands. If you ever wish to level—understand why you were wrong. I am not in the House of Minos, but if I heard that from any superior officer, be it [General] or anyone else, I would strike them or resign from my post. If you do not respect those who will fight and die for your words, you do not deserve to speak them.”

Tersk’s antennae were not visible under his helmet, but the Antinium backed up a step and stared at Calruz.

“I will…take that under advisement. What about that Worker, then?”

The Prognugator pointed at the trembling Worker, and Calruz frowned mightily.

“He should not be fighting. Sometimes there are those who cannot, by birth—or sheer…talent…”

He hesitated.

“…It is not their fault. Can that Worker not return to the Hive?”

Tersk shook his head instantly.

“He is a…special class. We have already allotted him to the war effort. What then?”

Calruz scratched at his head. He looked around and then had it. He snapped his fingers, and a little rat poked her head around his horns to see what he was pointing at. So did all the Antinium.

——

That was how, as Crusader 51 pitched camp on the fourth night, after climbing the hills, the Antinium making camp around him—which was really just them sitting down and leaning against their packs since they had no need for bedrolls or the like—were marked by a single flag.

An Antinium Worker holding the flag aloft nervously held it with all four arms. He had a simple job.

Do not drop the flag. It was one of Liscor’s, the only one attached to their division. The Worker, incidentally, was a Painted Worker who had volunteered for the army, but had been woefully unable to hit a target. His name was Artur, one of the ones taken from famous chess players. Crusader 51 was, by now, a Level 4 [Crusader]. The Soldier went to sleep since no one had orders and heard a voice.

[Swordsman Level 8!]

[Skill – Feint Slash obtained!]

[Crusader Level 5!]

[Skill – Lesser Endurance obtained!]

He started and awoke. Across from him, Crusader 53, who was holding the mace in his lap, raised it, but Crusader 51 waved a hand to show him all was well. He sat back, amazed.

He never leveled before this. But now he was. So strange.

——

In the distance, the Worker holding the flag aloft sat there, with it drifting in the night’s breeze. Someone marched by, inspecting his soldiers, and paused as he came to the hapless Worker.

“You are aware that you may remove the flag when not marching?”

Prognugator Dekass stared down at Artur. The Worker stared up at him and kept holding the flag as straight as an arrow. Dekass stared at the flag. He stared at the Worker.

“Very good. Hold that flag.”

He marched off. The Worker lowered his head. After a while, he fell asleep, still holding the flag.

[Flag Bearer Level 7!]

[Skill – Repair Fabric (Minor) Obtained!]

The Worker was just a bit pleased by that. He was a poor [Crusader]. So he did not level up as one. But the Minotaur, Calruz, had told him that a flag was important.

It meant something.

She had held the flag. A white one. This one was different and had a different sign, but it meant home, or so the blue Drake told him. Belgrade had told Artur that the flag was important too. So the Worker held the flag because that was what he could do. He held it as he marched. He held it as he ate.

He did not hold it when he excreted, but he made someone else hold it and washed his hands because that was what Miss Erin had told them to do.

He missed Miss Erin.

For her, he held the flag when battle was joined. When arrows fell, when swords clashed on metal…the flag flew overhead. That alone was what Artur could do.

Olesm, [Strategist]

The first fighting occurred eleven days in, and it was brief. By then, Olesm had already gained an unwelcome notification.

[Leader Level 6!]

“Oh no. Ancestors damn it. It’s [Strategist]! Get it right!”

He emerged from his tent shaking his fist at the sky. But the class remained. Worse, Olesm couldn’t find it in his heart to deny it—not that it was fitting.

Was he being a [Strategist] or a [Leader]? Well, it seemed to him like the answer was obvious. Olesm had drawn up the supply lists himself. He had plotted their course, checked for traps, briefed officers, done everything a [Strategist] might.

But he also settled disputes, or rather, found solutions to problems. Or just told people when to shut up. And one of the biggest problems he had?

“Squad Leader Holls, you are relieved of duty in Belgrade’s division.”

The angry Drake and small cluster of protesting officers relaxed slightly. Olesm looked up as he pulled a roster out.

“Thank you for understanding, Commander. To whom am I reporting now?”

“That would be…I will place you under Squad Leader Joit.”

Holls’ face went slack for a moment.

“Joit? But I’m a Squad Leader. Sir?”

Olesm looked up. His stare wasn’t hostile; he had learned hostile meant they thought they had something on him. His was cold. Flat. Maviola had told him to do that.

Which was ironic, given that Maviola and cold or collected were oxymorons when put together, but the [Lady] of the House of El had taught Olesm that there was a time for fire and a time for authority, and while the two could mix…

Not now.

“You are relieved of command, Squad Leader Holls. If you cannot obey a superior officer and insist on protesting to the commander of your army, you will get your wish.”

The Drake went pale. He began to protest, and in Olesm’s experience, getting to protest was also something he didn’t have to deal with. Maviola had said…oh, what had she said?

“When I lay down orders for the House of El, do the [Lords] and [Ladies] protest? Surely they do! They always do, because they are [Lords] and [Ladies] and I am not better, simply the matriarch. What they learn is that they may protest anywhere but to my face, for I am—was—the law of El. I do not have to listen to them. So I do not.”

“You are dismissed, Holls.”

Wait for it. Please argue, please argue…

Holls did. He began to splutter, and Olesm cleared his throat. A pair of [Soldiers] from 4th Company appeared, and the Drake found himself unkindly picked up. Then tossed.

Olesm looked up at the rest of the officers who had come to support, but not join, Holls.

“If you would like to resign your commission, please let me know now or privately if you wish. This is an army, not a nursery. I expect you to obey orders. Dismissed.”

They left fast, and Olesm sat back, glaring at nothing. Belgrade hadn’t even done anything wrong, but some people had a problem with him.

More than I thought. Did Erin not show them…? No, the issue wasn’t that the Antinium were fighting. Even 4th Company seemed to be grudgingly at peace with the Antinium fighting alongside them in this war. Every hand needed and all that, and Antinium had four.

The problem was that Belgrade was in charge of them.

Olesm happened to know how good Belgrade was—not from chess alone, but simply from seeing him direct Antinium during Liscor’s all-too-frequent battles. He had heard from Pawn, Garry, and Bird how Belgrade had cut down the Free Antinium’s casualty rate by an unbelievable number.

Did that mean he was ready for pitched battles with soldiers outside of his species? Olesm hated the niggling thought in his head, but the officers’ doubts put it there.

——

During the practice simulations, Belgrade moved each piece of his command adeptly. He had his own command Skills, so even with all the shouting, individual groups could maneuver. The question was…

“How’d an Ant get so good at strategy?”

Division Leader Bepol couldn’t hide his clear unease, watching Belgrade outflank Ramia. The former [Guardswoman] knew small-unit tactics, and her face said how flabbergasted she was as two lines of [Soldiers] neatly folded up her advance from both sides.

Olesm was impressed. He turned to Embria. The Wing Commander was scowling as she watched Belgrade’s [Soldiers] beat on their opponents.

Only a handful of troops were taking part in these exercises because of the clear danger of a Hectval attack, but Olesm had authorized it to prove Belgrade was good enough. Besides, they had time; they were approaching the first network of ridgelines.

If Olesm gazed across the hills in the shadow of the High Passes, he could see a pass in the plateau they had entered. Not up, but more like through a network of twined tunnels, like fingers on some overly-digited hand.

No way to go around, not without going down a lot of cliff faces and up more. However, the passes were wide enough for a huge column of [Soldiers] to pass through.

If they collapsed the passes, that would be a huge danger and problem, but Scout Leader Maksie had done several passes and hadn’t seen any magical traps or hiding figures up there. If there were lurking forces, they were in underhangs or within the ridgeline she couldn’t spot.

Olesm bet there were. He half-hoped Hectval would attack during the simulations, so they could bring all their forces to bear. 4th Company was slyly positioned on the outside, just waiting to greet any surprise attack.

None came. Olesm watched as Belgrade trounced Ramia and Bepol. The Pallassian-trained officer was better, but he ended up being flanked as well.

“How is he doing that?”

Ramia growled, dismayed. Embria broke in with a sour note in her voice.

“Harassing fire. My guess is it’s [Harassing Fire: Arrows of Slow]. He’s one-Skilling you both.”

It was lucky Bepol was still conceding defeat to Belgrade, because that might have started another fight. Olesm winced.

Ramia eyed him and Embria.

“I take it that’s a term I’m unfamiliar with?”

“Manus expression. It means he can hold down his opponent with one Skill. [Strategists] or [Generals] will do it in battle to…preserve Skills for the real opponent later on. It’s not necessarily an insult.”

Olesm saw Ramia bristle a bit, but Embria was looking pointedly at him and watching the Antinium—who was good. Olesm murmured as he scratched at his helmet.

“I’ve heard of General Shivertail one-Skilling [Strategists] like that. The same with Chaldion. [Steelscale Advance], you know? How does a Level 20 [Tactician] beat that? Belgrade’s using it to buy time to get his formations around you.”

Like chess pieces. There was something oddly static about the way Belgrade fought that Olesm thought was a weakness, but on the other hand—he issued orders so fast that it seemed like he wouldn’t ever flounder with a hundred things to watch.

Ramia ruefully shook her head.

“He should be commanding a larger share of the forces. No one’ll argue after today, I think, yes?”

Olesm nodded. If there were dissenters, well. They could grumble about the defeat, but then they had to call Bepol or Ramia’s talents into question. Which was another problem…

And that was why Olesm was leveling as a [Leader]. His first Skill?

As Bepol stomped back, Olesm gestured to him.

“Fine work, Bepol. Belgrade’s wrapped me up in chess games quite a lot. I’d give him a shot, but I think that proves he’s on-par with you two. Let’s move out. We’ll crack open a bottle from Liscor. Officer’s tents; Wing Commander, you’re on night duty. But I’ll, uh, send you a goat’s milk?”

Laughter. Embria rolled her eyes.

“Either spike it with Firebreath or I’ll go thirsty, Commander.”

However, there was no rancor in her tone, and she gave him an approving look. Just a flash—and Bepol relaxed almost magically.

Or…Skillfully.

[Soothe Ego]. Olesm didn’t have to touch him, but it was still a deft touch. The Drake sighed and Belgrade came over. At least he was levelling.

The rest of the day was spent marching towards the ridgeline. That first scouting party proved there were Hectval-Drisshia-Luldem [Soldiers] about, so everyone had their guard up. Contact came at dawn as the [Soldiers] were moving into the pass, and it was there that Olesm got to see the Antinium’s strength in battle again.

Crusader 51, [Crusader]

The lowly insects looked up one day and beheld the sky. It was the first time they had looked up since leaving their home.

The first notion they had was that the world was vast beyond the cramped darkness. They gazed upwards and beheld…

Giants. The ants quavered. They froze. Look up! Look up and see a face like theirs, hovering in the sky!

___s! For even the ants couldn’t articulate it. Giant effigies in their image! Titans walked among the heavens! It was a sign! It was—

——

The [Crusaders] of Squad 5 were squatting around, staring down in awe at the busy anthill. They were so still that only their twitching antennae gave them away as being alive.

What was this? Ants?

Yes, big, black ants, the kind that most other species would stay away from because they were big. Longer than a Human’s toe, if not all Drake claws. Step in that anthill and they’d be all over you.

However, the Antinium were fascinated. So these were ants. How strange.

Obviously, they occasionally found actual ants when tunneling around in the dirt of Liscor, but they were instantly destroyed or harvested by Workers. This was just…an anthill.

Crusader 51 stared at a little ant scrambling around near his foot. It bit his armor, decided he was actually inedible, and scurried away. Unlike other people or objects, the little ants seemed to know the Antinium [Crusaders] were real, and they were wavering between terror, awe, and a desire to defend their colony.

Now, how did he know that? Oddly, Crusader 51 thought he understood something about the little ant he was staring at. It had one mangled leg, still navigating the terrain nimbly. And it…was a she.

Female. Were all these little Worker ants female?

So odd. Crusader 51 had always vaguely assumed he was he, mainly because something told him that. He was based off of someone who had been male; ergo, he was.

However, it seemed like actual ant colonies had a lot of female ants. Crusader 51 debated what to do.

Destroy the Hive? They were by way of spoilage to foodstuffs, and one of the things a Soldier or Worker might do. However…none of the Antinium in Squad 5 moved.

Crusader 53, with his mace, kept raising it overhead to smash the opening and hesitating as the other Soldiers looked at him. He was clearly thinking the same thing.

They had to remove pests. Shield Spiders? They’d be paste in a second. Crelers? Sound the alarm!

But this wasn’t the Hive. Crusader 51 kept staring at the anthill. So…what did they do?

It never occurred to him that nothing was an option. The Crusaders squatted around the anthill during breakfast for over an hour, until Tersk spoke.

“Squads, assemble. March! Battalion 3, to the front!”

The [Crusaders] shot to their feet and strode away. Yet the petrified little ants realized not one had been stepped on or squished. The Titanomachy was over. Were they saved or spared?

They might never know. Crusader 51 marched smoothly into his squad’s position in Battalion 1. His squad of ten was boxed into a battalion of five hundred in an odd pattern, at least to Crusader 51.

The Antinium Soldiers were used to moving in a tightly-packed wave of bodies that surrounded foes and dragged them down. However, under Tersk and Dekass, the Antinium moved and fought in the Armored Antinium’s style.

In ranks. Spaced out to give each warrior room to swing a weapon, with a second rank buried behind the first.

In that way, Squads 1-5 might face the foe while Squads 6-10, armed with longer weapons like pikes or halberds, would thrust and stab through the gap or move in.

It was neat, orderly…and odd to Crusader 51. However, as part of Battalion 1, he was ready to fight. Which was why he was entirely confused when Batallion 3 marched ahead of the others into the first ridgeline pass as Liscor’s army cautiously advanced.

Why Battalion 3? Crusader 51 didn’t feel unhappy. Just confused. The battalion in front might get hurt. Die. It wasn’t that he pitied them either; he just didn’t understand the logic.

Some battalions in the Antinium division were armed with bows, or different assortments of weapons, but Battalion 1 and 3 were functionally similar. The main difference…was that Battalion 3 had crossbows instead of bows on their backs.

Crusader 51 had been issued with a Soldier-bow, which meant it was designed so even he could put an arrow on the string with his clumsy digits. The crossbows of Battalion 3 were in even shorter supply; they had oversized triggers so a Soldier could pull them. They were so cumbersome to reload you got one shot unless you had a break from the fighting.

One shot, as Dekass would happily point out, was more than zero. Math.

It was he who led Battalion 3 into battle. From the rear, but still ahead of the others. Crusader 51 had mixed feelings on that, too.

If Tersk and Dekass were new, they were still Prognugators and to be obeyed. Yet if Tersk, for all Calruz had struck him, was more like Pawn, then Dekass was the Ksmvr or Klbkch. Why, exactly, Crusader 51 couldn’t say. It was his…reputation?

These things spread through the Antinium without much verbal exchange. In Crusader 51’s mind, it simply was that Tersk was probably better to lead than Dekass. Dekass ate too much food. Dekass was greedy. Dekass was less intelligent. And Dekass was still better than Pivr, who Crusader 51 had never met and didn’t want to.

——

The Antinium advance ran into an attack in the first hour of marching. The [Crusaders] came to a stop as Dekass spotted movement down the pass. Then a line of Drakes and Gnolls advanced, and the first [Fireball] spell exploded among their ranks.

Contact! Battalion 3 was engaged!

“Tersk to Commander Olesm. One [Mage] capable of [Fireball]. Dekass is holding ground. Battalions 1 and 2, advance! Cover Battalion 3’s flank! That position! [Precise Orders]!”

Tersk was booming, and Crusader 51 marched forwards—not to join Battalion 3, which was fighting the Drakes and Gnolls, but to their left flank.

They had been attacked in a V-shaped intersection, and while fighting had engulfed the right, Tersk clearly thought another attack was coming on their left. Crusader 51 had his sword drawn, his long thrusting dagger, and two shields on his right raised.

You do not have the room to maneuver. Do not disrupt the fighting line if possible! Make economical strikes! Defense is paramount to offense; the enemy will tire and give you a weakness!

Calruz’s words bellowed in his mind. Crusader 51 was ready. Stab through the gap, raise the shield to cover his face like so, angled such that only an arrow from dead ahead would even find the narrow gap between helmet and shield cover.

He waited.

And waited.

And realized the enemy was fighting Battalion 3. Crusader 51 hesitated. He saw Crusader 53 turning his head to check the enemy. The other Soldiers in Squad 5 shifted ever-so-slightly.

What a strange way to fight! This wasn’t like the Hive. In the Hive, they would be engaged now and fighting, sometimes surrounded by the foe.

Hundreds of swarming insect-monsters, or surrounding a whipping Flesh Worm. Or—Face Stealer would be there, and every Soldier would be falling over.

If the armored foes attacked, they would fill the tunnels after passing Belgrade’s traps. And each Soldier not resting or retreating would be moving to a new hotspot; when the dungeon attacked, it was fighting, sometimes for hours—until it was abruptly done.

This?

Battalion 3 was fighting a rank of Drakes and Gnolls, who very politely weren’t exploding through the stone to grab Antinium and drag them into the darkness. Nothing was scuttling on the ceiling, and there weren’t any fliers.

When an attack did come, it was from the left as Tersk had predicted. A second group of Drakes and Gnolls charged down the pass, shouting.

“Drisshia! Drisshia triumphant!”

They had long pikes and heavy armor. Battalion 3 was advancing as their opponents peeled away; Crusader 51 was aware of Tersk bellowing.

“Battalion 3—hold! Hold—”

They met in a clash. Crusader 51 saw a pike aimed at his chest and side-stepped it. The tip skated off his shield, ran into an Antinium behind Crusader 51, and stopped as the Antinium blocked it. The Drake holding the pike slammed to a stop, and one behind him darted forwards with a sword and shield of his own.

“Die, Ants!”

He lunged, stabbing at the only spot he could see; Crusader 51’s face. The Antinium parried the sword.

The Drake’s eyes bulged, and he swung his shield across his body. Crusader 51 saw the Drake stumble backwards as Crusader 53 brought his mace down on an arm and someone screamed.

Still less noisy than hearing a Flesh Worm shriek. And…Crusader 51 saw the panicked [Soldier]’s shield blocking his face and chest.

So he stabbed the Drake in the inner elbow of the sword arm. Not deep enough; the sword didn’t slice the arm off, but the Drake screamed.

“Miuss! Get back!”

The pike-Drake thrust his friend back and the Drake retreated.

“Potion! Get a potion—”

“Fall back! Fall back! Allies away!”

Another Drake came at Crusader 51, and he blocked a sword that bounced off his shield. When he went to riposte, his opponents were running. Crusader 51 found himself, sword poised for a thrust, with no one to thrust at.

The attack had just come to test Battalion 1’s defenses, or let the other force fall back. Either way…Tersk hesitated.

“Hold ground! Bows!”

Crusader 51 fumbled for his bow and raised an arrow. He loosed as Tersk bellowed; he watched his arrow fall short and two Drakes fall. One got up as his friends pulled him to his feet. The other did not.

And then the battle was over. Crusader 51 was left with blood on the tip of his sword, a miffed feeling…and the Antinium’s first victory spreading across Liscor’s army.

However, it wasn’t Battalion 1, Squad 5’s victory. It was Battalion 3’s.

Embria, [Wing Commander]

When the first contact report came in, Olesm snapped an order through her speaking stone.

“Wing commander! To Tersk’s position! Be ready to assist!”

“Damn, damn, damn. We have to help the Ants?”

Vell shouted, but Wing Commander kicked her mare into a gallop.

“On me!”

4th Company didn’t waste time. They shot towards the pass where the Antinium were engaged and that was when Embria—and the rest of Liscor’s officers and Olesm himself—got to see how the Antinium did.

Embria had seen the [Crusaders] breaking the enemy morale before, but this was the first time these Antinium had gone into combat. She had to confess, aside from knowing the enemy, she was curious to know how they did.

Tersk and Dekass had been informed they should leave a passage for reinforcements like 4th Command to maneuver in the tighter passes, so 4th Company came to a halt behind the engaged battalions. Tersk was holding an intersection on one side, Dekass on the right.

“Idiots think they can take a two-pronged attack? Why not just pull back?”

“Can’t see what’s coming if they do. This isn’t bad strategy.”

Vell and Pielt argued the soundness of the two Prognugators’ strategy. Embria didn’t interject; she was watching the battalion who’d met the enemy in force.

It looked like these [Soldiers] were Drisshian. Embria knew the alliance, and Hectval-Drisshia-Luldem were a mixed army. Each city had a specialty. Hectval? Archers. Good fletching. Luldem had magic. Drisshia?

Armor. Their heavy infantry were decent. 4th Company could chew them up and spit them out, but they stacked up well against average groups. By the looks of it, their commander had known Antinium were coming and decided to try an old standby of the early Antinium wars on them.

Which was the armored charge. Pikes, longer weapons, ram into them, cut them up, and fall back. Superior damage and potentially no losses if you erased them.

…It was a solid Antinium Wars-era tactic, and Embria would have personally kicked anyone who suggested it on this group. That tactic worked because you were facing massed Antinium. It did work if they were boxed up in a narrow pass.

But these Antinium? They had armor.

You idiots. She growled at Drisshia’s forces as they slammed into Battalion 3 and it became a melee. Was she rooting for the enemy? No! But…

The Drakes and Gnolls slammed into the Antinium, and their long weapons failed to down their foes. The ones armed with swords and maces and whatnot charged forwards and ran into a line of Antinium. It was then that Embria recognized the tactics Dekass employed.

Armored Antinium fighting.

Each [Crusader] blocked and swung their weapons in a rhythmic pattern, fast, hard cuts or slashes, just like Calruz taught them. They hunkered behind shields and their armor, and their foes found themselves battering against foes with just as much armor as they had.

Few figures fell on either side. About six Antinium were down after that [Fireball], but they were stumbling up.

“To the rear! Squad 3, advance!”

Dekass smoothly let the wounded retreat, and another squad rotated in. The Prognugator was doing something…odd. Embria didn’t feel the need to charge and advised Olesm as much.

“We’re watching a punching match, Commander. Antinium…might be winning. Check that. They are.”

“Hold ground, then, Wing Commander.”

“Received.”

The Drakes and Gnolls were getting the worst of it. Drisshia might have veteran soldiers, but they did not like four arms. They were hesitant, watching for more attacks and struggling to deal with the simple fact of two blades coming at them when a [Crusader] struck.

However, armor was armor, and the truth was…neither side was hurting the other. Embria didn’t see any amazing bladework, so Liscor’s and Drisshia’s forces just hit each other as hard as they could. If one side dropped a shield or fell, then they were likely to die, especially as heavy as the armor was.

Enchanted weapons could cut through armor. Veterans like 4th Company could aim for gaps. Skills changed things, or a charge…this was good, old-fashioned Golem boxing.

Golem boxing, a term for heavy infantry fighting. Embria watched for a minute, then two, as neither side gave in. Then that peculiar thing happened.

Dekass had been doing something odd, standing behind Battalion 3, his enchanted shield raised to cover his face in case of spells or attacks. He had made the Workers with bows shower that [Mage] and other [Archers], but no Antinium were dying as some arrows rattled off shields and helmets.

However, Dekass had been…head bobbing? Ever-so-slightly, his head had been going up and down, up and down. Embria had wondered if he were sick, but she now knew what the Prognugator was doing.

“Squads 1, 3, 4, fall back! Squads 5, 6, 7, advance!”

The [Crusaders] fighting Drisshia’s front line…disengaged and stepped backwards, and the Drakes and Gnolls, surprised, watched a second squad advance straight into them. Fresh Soldiers hammered down Drisshia’s front as the Drakes backed up.

“Huh. What was that?”

Vell blinked at the odd tactic. Embria heard a grunt. Captain Wikir was glaring at Dekass.

“That’s Armored Antinium tactics. They’re rotating [Soldiers].”

4th Company murmured. Embria was familiar with the tactic; you simply rotated in a new line of fresh [Soldiers] every so often. Liscor’s Army didn’t use it; they had Skills that made up for exhaustion, and that took a lot of numbers and training.

It made sense to do with the Antinium, though. She watched Dekass head-bobbing and realized—he was counting.

Two minutes of fighting and he’d order a change. Drisshia’s own began to fall as their commander was unable to pull off the same maneuver and the exhausted front fell back in disarray.

Whoever was leading Drisshia’s forces tried to retreat. Embria saw the heavy infantry turn—and then saw Dekass raise an arm.

“Crossbows! Loose!”

The snap of Crusaders in the back ranks firing their crossbows made Embria and all of 4th wince. Now she understood why the Prognugator hadn’t ordered them to fire during the charge.

More screaming [Soldiers] went down. Drisshia turned, bringing up shields to try to cover their retreat, which slowed them down. And Dekass?

“Advance!”

He rolled Battalion 3 at them in a slow onslaught as fresh [Crusaders] marched on the retreating Drisshian forces.

“Flanking charge. Looks like they’re bailing their buddies out.”

Pielt pointed, and Embria saw a second charge coming down from the left. It did about as well as the first one, but both groups were fleeing. Dekass continued advancing until a wall of flames burst from the ground.

“Magical attacks. Commander, permission to follow?”

“Denied.”

Olesm had followed the entire battle with reports through the speaking stones, and so Embria found herself riding back with 4th Company as the victorious Antinium checked wounds, and then prepared to continue their progress.

She broke the silence as 4th Company trudged back.

“Thoughts?”

“It’s the Armored Antinium fighting style. Textbook. I saw it during the Second Antinium War. They haven’t changed. Makes my fur stand on end.”

Captain Wikir growled. A few of his squad spat but said nothing else. Embria looked at Vell and the others.

“How do they stack up?”

“We can take ‘em, Wing Commander.”

Lieutenant Kesa opined. She kept chewing on some long-bladed grass from the Floodplains back home. Always some of it in her mouth.

“Obviously, but how do they stack up otherwise?”

Embria had her opinion, but she wanted them to say it so she knew she was right. Igissi looked at her fellow [Captains] and gave a reluctant answer.

“…They’re pretty good, Wing Commander. Not veterans, but for a first-time unit? They just flipped up Drisshia’s tail and gave them a spanking. Not that they ran into Drisshia’s best, but…”

But that’s what happens when you give average Soldiers armor? Vell spat, and Embria nodded. She felt a twinge of unease in her stomach.

“Just so long as they win the war…let’s head on back.”

“Glad we didn’t have to bail them out.”

Pielt muttered. No one particularly argued with that.

Olesm, [Leader]

The first battles in the ridgeline were messy, and Olesm hated them. He couldn’t see any of it. He was stuck coordinating the attack, and his training had prepared him, but this was the first time he was coordinating a battle where he didn’t see the attacks and maneuvering.

It threw him off, but he had officers on the ground who were supposed to deal with that, so Olesm’s biggest move was keeping an eye on the entire battle.

One of the things he did was to check each group’s advance as they clashed with the Hectval alliance’s forces hiding in the ridgeline. They were skirmishing, trying to bait groups into following them and getting lost and surrounded. Olesm refused to let it happen.

“Ramia, slow down. You’re coming to another intersection—Belgrade, prepare to link up. Scout Leader Maksie, do you have eyes?”

He waited and then heard three voices in quick succession.

“Slowing down. I see movement on the far end.”

“Commander Olesm, my forces are moving to meet Division Leader Ramia’s. Pausing two hundred feet from intersection. Please give word to advance.”

“Commander, I am moving into position. Forty seconds to eyes.”

Each one had a different style and cadence. Olesm waited, listening to more reports filtering in. He was timing them so that if an attack came…they wouldn’t be unsupported.

Advance and secure each pass. It was like a puzzle. Some [Strategists] wouldn’t try this for love or money, but Olesm had guessed that Hectval hadn’t put as many troops here as the passes. They probably wanted Olesm to slow down so they could turn this place into an impassible barricade.

Olesm wanted to take the ridgeline as fast as was safe. But the real test, the real fighting?

He didn’t see it. He heard it, and it was obvious to Olesm that one group was under attack the most.

“Prognugator Dekass. Reporting a second attack. Battalion 3 is holding.”

“Commander Olesm to Tersk. Slow your advance. I want you to prepare to reinforce Dekass’ lines.”

“Prognugator Tersk. Acknowledged, Commander.”

Olesm was overseeing Ramia and Belgrade’s link-up when another voice came down the line.

“Prognugator Dekass. Forces are retreating. Harassing fire from cliff face. Minimal casualties.”

Olesm snapped around.

“Someone get me a [Scrying] spell on Dekass!”

The [Mage] capable of the spell hurried to a scrying orb. It took five long minutes before Olesm saw another line of Drisshia’s soldiers clashing with Dekass and archers on the cliffs.

“Dekass, hold out. Pull our sharpshooters and take those [Archers] out. Pull one lightning-bolt [Mage] as well.”

If only he had fliers! Olesm saw the order go out and one of his specialist squads move in. [Hunters] from Liscor, experts with the bow…the cliff-[Archers] fell back as one took an arrow and fell—Olesm looked away with a grimace.

It wasn’t bad so far. He couldn’t detect anyone intercepting their messages, nor was this a full army in the pass, clearly.

But Ancestors, they had it in for the Antinium! Or maybe just Dekass’ battalion? No sooner had the infantry pulled back again than Olesm heard Maksie shout.

“Commander! I just saw a magic flare high up! All stop! All stop!”

“All troops, halt and watch for collapses!”

Olesm shouted. This time he heard the distant thump and crumbling groan of rocks collapsing. He whirled, ran out of his tent, and saw dust rising from above the ridgeline.

“Where was that?”

“Antinium got it. Looks like…Battalion 3!”

Maksie reported in, breathless, flying over the collapsed passage. Olesm’s stomach churned. He’d thought they hadn’t had time to do that!

“Was that a prepared spell?”

“Nope. Looks like they put a [Mage], Commander. I’m watching three—and two are puking their guts out. They’ve overdosed on mana to pull that. Want me to try and take a shot?”

Olesm hesitated. He dearly wanted to, but Maksie was one of his only fliers.

“No…no. If there are any of your [Scouts] up there, or [Archers] on the ground with an angle, have them take down those [Mages].”

“Yes, sir.”

Olesm turned back to Battalion 3. He tried to raise Dekass.

“Dekass? Prognugator Dekass, status?”

Silence. Olesm heard Tersk snapping into the stone.

“…assault on Battalion 2. They are engaged with a Drake force which has flanked them in Battalion 3’s absence. Battalions 1 and 4 are pulling back to support them.”

“Wing Commander, get to the fighting. Maksie, watch for more [Mages].”

“Two dead. Last one is surrendering.”

“Make sure they don’t cast a spell. Wing Commander?”

“On it. Three minutes.”

Olesm stared at the map as a [Tactician] fumbled to try and put the little painted pieces in an order showing what was happening. He heard Bepol speak up nervously.

“Commander, I’m looking at more forces headed my way. Not armored, but a lot of them.”

Olesm’s head snapped up.

“In that case, pull your riders forwards and prepare for a charge with your infantry. Your discretion, Bepol, but prepare one volley with all your [Archers]. Give me a mark and three countdown.”

The Division Leader paused, but his tone was suddenly exceptionally relieved. He knew what Olesm was doing, but the [Strategist] didn’t say it out loud—just in case they were being monitored.

“They’re raising shields.”

“Aim up—then straight ahead. Ready?”

“Ready in…”

Bepol was giving orders. Olesm heard him exhorting the [Archers], then the Drake spoke.

“Three…two…one…now! Volley!”

Olesm heard the snap of bows and gave it another second, then he shouted.

“[Instantaneous Barrage]!”

He didn’t get to see the second volley of arrows appear and hit Hectval’s forces, but Bepol’s tone said it all.

“That got them! Charge! [Victor’s Push]!”

He was good on the attack. Olesm switched back to Tersk as the Prognugator began speaking rapidly.

“Coordinated attack. 4th Company arriving. Commander, Drisshia in retreat. Battalion 2 engaged. Battalion 3 engaged. Pincer on three sides. Enemy falling back. Surrendering.”

Olesm snatched up the speaking stone.

“What was that?”

Then he heard a crackle from Dekass.

“Prognugator Dekass. Communications restored? Commander, Drisshia forces are retreating or have surrendered. Orders to engage?”

“We can wrap them.”

“I—yes! 4th Company, Tersk, advance! Dekass, what happened?”

The Prognugator of the Armored Antinium was calm, but ever-so-slightly smug.

“We were buried by falling rocks, Commander. However, the burial was ineffective. Mostly dirt. Poor collapse of tunnels. Battalion 3 is continuing to dig itself out; however, I ordered an attack on the enemy’s rear.”

Olesm exhaled hard. Battalion 3 was alive! Not only that—they’d dug their way out?

Nothing like Antinium to thwart collapsed passages. Olesm sat back as he heard Embria routing the rest of the attackers.

“First prisoners of war, Commander. Battalion 3’s looking battered, but they really didn’t expect their attack to go south. Permission to advance?”

“Pull Battalion 3 back, and yes, Wing Commander. Tersk? Full advance.”

——

That was the largest engagement on the twelfth day by far. By nightfall, Liscor held over half the ridgeline at secure defense points, and Olesm counted several [Mages] taken out, all with Luldem’s insignia on their armor, as well as over eighty prisoners and an estimated hundred casualties on the Hectval alliance’s side.

Not huge numbers, but the battles had gone one way, mostly. The probing attacks on the Antinium and aggressive assaults had all been foiled, and he guessed three times as many of the enemy had been wounded, forcing costly potions or treatments.

If there were a star of the hour—it was certainly down to one group, who had not only fought in four successive clashes, but survived an avalanche and then dug themselves out to flank the enemy from behind.

“Battalion 3 of the Antinium division deserves a commendation.”

Olesm was sitting in the command tent, relaxing, when he suddenly came to an understanding, as if someone had snuck up and poked him with a Wand of Jolt.

Bepol stopped sipping at his brandy from a cask he’d somehow brought from Invrisil. He was a bit off-guard, but he blinked at Olesm.

“They did well, I suppose.”

The Drake admitted grudgingly. Even Embria nodded, and Belgrade leaned forwards as he broke away from playing chess against Ramia.

“I believe they may experience higher-than-average leveling tonight, Commander Olesm. Perhaps if a commendatory speech is read out loud they will level even more? This is a good idea.”

“No, no. I’m not familiar with all army traditions, but Wing Commander Embria, isn’t rewarding the best unit a tradition in the army?”

Olesm turned to her and saw the Wing Commander blink uneasily.

“I…yes, of course. The [Sergeant]—er, soldier who takes the most heads of officers, the best fighting unit, or one that got thrown into the thick of it. Everyone knows, but sometimes High Command does something like give them leave when we get to a city first.”

“We can’t do that for the first battle.”

Bepol pointed out. Olesm waved a claw; he himself was sitting at the mess table, though he’d dearly have loved to pull up a chair and play chess. But he sat with the [Tacticians], [Lieutenant] Kesa, and a few other officers. He eyed Kesa dipping a blade of grass into a bowl of sauce and then sticking it into her mouth. Embria mouthed at her.

Stop that.

Kesa, embarrassed, took the grass out of her mouth.

“Well, we can certainly draft some kind of statement. Battalion 3 fought valiantly and against superior odds…”

Ramia began. Bepol interrupted.

“Not superior. Significant. It’s in the wording. In fact, we might want to not use that at all. That implies we think the foe is significant.”

A Drake raised her claw.

“How about, ‘Battalion 3 triumphed in the face of adversity against Hectval’s numerous attempts to overwhelm them?’ That implies numbers, but…”

“Ooh, I like that.”

The others present began debating the way to phrase it. Olesm turned to Kesa, Embria, and the rest of 4th Company.

“In your experience, how well-received are High Command’s…verbal…addresses?”

“Permission to speak candidly, Commander?”

Embria glared at Kesa as the Drake raised her claw eagerly.

“Permission denied. Not that effective, unless it really mattered, Commander. Something…tangible would be better. Words won’t hurt, though.”

Olesm nodded.

“Maybe…do we have anything in the rations we could give? Say, a half-ration of something Antinium like? Belgrade, what would that be?”

“Anything but wheat-based products.”

The [Strategist] replied instantly. Bepol frowned.

“Yes, but dates, fruits…”

Olesm smiled slightly.

“Belgrade means anything, doesn’t he? Antinium don’t eat anything other than their rations…wait. How much of their…food…are they eating?”

The [Trapsetter Strategist] considered the question.

“Enough for eighty-six protracted days of battle, Commander. It is highly storable, highly difficult to rot, and highly…nutritious.”

Olesm shuddered. Embria raised her brows, but she had probably never seen the Antinium’s food-paste. It could be green. Grey. Brown. Orange…but these colors were, in and of themselves, not offensive. Something about the paste…and those colors being dominant and speckled in with things Olesm thought he recognized, like a tooth or…

“Let’s give them a half-ration of other food. And a commendation to Battalion 3’s fighting spirit. We’ll do that every day there’s major fighting or someone to celebrate. It seems like a good tradition so long as we’re not low on supplies.”

The other officers nodded, even 4th Company. Olesm felt that alone was good, but something was bothering him. This was good, old-fashioned leadership. Manus’ teachers would have approved and probably given him examples of ways military leaders encouraged or chided their soldiers effectively.

So what was he missing? Olesm sat there as Bepol began to do a draft and Ramia lost a game of chess to Belgrade, prompting Kesa to try and then lose in eleven moves. Something was missing.

…Erin’s inn? Olesm thought of her inn. Here he was, at war. There was little of what Erin did or her inn—save for the Antinium. She hated wars, for all he thought she was a brilliant [Strategist] who hid it only as a love of chess. What would she do?

The blue-scaled Drake brushed at his armor, free of any blood or gore, and looked up at Belgrade. He remembered the Painted Antinium and Belgrade…

Belgrade. The [Strategist] glanced at him as Olesm blinked. He rose to his feet and exclaimed.

“That’s it.”

What they needed, as much as commendations, as much as a little gift? Olesm saw the other officers look at him and glanced at Embria. He couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it, being in 4th Company. But perhaps she had and just hadn’t volunteered it, or she didn’t think of it as something Antinium would do. Olesm took a breath.

“Battalion 3 of the Antinium division is faceless. No one knows Antinium. No offense, Belgrade, but they look alike.”

“This is very fair.”

Olesm looked around. He saw Embria raise her brows.

“They need…a name.”

[Leader Level 9!]

[Skill – Bird’s Eye View obtained!]

[Skill – Boosted Morale (Unit) obtained!]

Crusader 51, [Crusader]

Thus was born Crab Battalion.

At first, Crusader 51 had no idea what they were talking about. The other Liscorian [Soldiers] camped next to the Antinium, but there was a bit of a divide. The Antinium did not speak, and Liscorians were trained not to ask their names or really interact.

There was a lot of staring that went on, but after the first battle, the [Soldiers] were celebrating, even the ones who hadn’t fought. A number of petitions were made for the officers to treat everyone for a few drinks…which Crusader 51 understood not to be water, but it was denied.

However, that night, Commander Olesm Swifttail himself gave a little speech to the [Soldiers] and Antinium [Crusaders].

“…and in recognition of their feats, I have awarded them a half-ration of supplies for their enjoyment and personally certify Battalion 3 of the Antinium with a new moniker.”

Murmurs of interest among the [Soldiers] standing to attention. They hadn’t really enjoyed the speech about the ‘valorous conduct’ of Battalion 3, for all it was true. Those were words.

But these words? Crusader 51’s antennae waved in the night air.

Moniker?

“What’s a moniker?”

“A monkey? From Baleros?”

“No, it’s monetary. He’s giving them a bounty?”

The whispering [Soldiers] were silenced by Division Leader Bepol’s glare. Olesm raised a claw.

“A moniker—that is, a name. In the future, each battalion may decide on theirs or find a nickname. However, in this case, given their stubbornness and ability to sneak up on the enemy by surprise, I declare Battalion 3 to be named…Crab Battalion. After our own Rock Crabs of Liscor and Little Crab football teams!”

Surprised murmurs and even chuckles. The [Soldiers], looking so bored or inattentive, came alive. They looked around, and Crusader 51 turned to the surprised Battalion 3. Who were now…

Crab Battalion. They looked at each other, much like Crusader 51 had done after he’d become a [Crusader]. Changed. Redefined.

And they got snacks. Crusader 51 watched as the [Quartermaster] carefully had a bundle of food remanded to Dekass’ care. Each [Soldier] in the five hundred stood up, collected a half-portion of food, and looked at it.

It was…yogurt.

The exigencies of Liscor being so close to the front, as well as holding spells, meant that yogurt was not impossible to store and carry. In addition, these were in handy pots. The [Soldiers] had been issued utensils designed for their hands, and the Workers had spoons. They stared into the pots as Crusader 51 looked at the food. Crab Battalion, thus named, had food and a moniker.

An odd feeling stole into Crusader 51’s chest. He had felt it before, but never as strongly. That unpleasant, possessive anger. Irritation too deep under his shell to be removed.

Jealousy.

Artur, [Flag Bearer]

He had not fought. He had carried the flag.

He might level for it, even so. However, before he slept, Belgrade found him.

“You must amend your flag. Crab Battalion is now a battalion. Therefore, they have a sigil. I have suggested they paint it on their armor.”

Artur looked up. The [Strategist] appeared quite happy, and even Tersk and Dekass, who had somehow allotted himself one of the yogurt rations, also looked pleased.

“This is a good endeavor. I may copy it among the Armored Antinium. What sigil will Crab Battalion have?”

Belgrade clacked his mandibles as the two Prognugators stood with him. He looked at Artur.

“…A crab? I do not know. Someone should draw it.”

Dekass delicately took a huge spoonful of yogurt and inserted it between his mandibles.

“Who? Who draws the Painted Antinium’s colors?”

“They do.”

Dekass nodded.

“Then who will do it for a battalion? You?”

Belgrade frowned, twitching his antennae slightly.

“I cannot draw. Dekass, you command them. You should draw.”

“I do not draw. I recommend Tersk.”

“I have never drawn anything except military-oriented maps.”

The three Antinium looked at each other helplessly, and then, as one, seemed to recall Artur. In a flash, Belgrade developed a true trait of command.

“Artur, you draw Crab Battalion’s new sigil. Yes. This is a good idea. I will go over here now and find something else to do.”

He hurried off, and the [Flag Bearer] stared at the flag he was holding and around at Crab Battalion. He looked around.

Draw? With what?

The Painted Antinium did have paints. Artur found some; the ‘quartermaster’ let him have some. After all, he was Antinium, and the Worker assigned to their supplies assumed he had orders. Which Artur did. So he could take anything he wanted. So he did.

He was finger-drawing a little orange crab onto a stone as a bunch of Antinium stared at him and trying to figure out if it was appropriate when he heard an argument.

“Belgrade. Belgrade. What are Battalion 3—Crab Battalion doing?”

Artur listened as Belgrade and Olesm stepped aside to talk in low voices next to him. He carefully put the flag in front of him and dipped his finger in the orange paint. Artur was so busy listening and working, he didn’t see one of the [Crusaders] in Crab Battalion edge over and dip a finger in the paint and watch Artur.

“They are sharing the food, I believe, Olesm.”

“With other battalions?”

Belgrade inspected the other [Crusaders].

“…Yes? Is this a problem?”

Artur glanced up. A lot of the [Crusaders] were offering spoonfuls of their rations to other Soldiers, who were lining up. The Liscorians were watching with fascination. Olesm made a sound.

“No, but—it’s their ration. I know it’s a virtue to share, but some of those Antinium didn’t even fight!”

Belgrade nodded reasonably.

“Yes, but it would be unfair for the others not to have a taste.”

“They can hardly share a bowl of yogurt among…six Antinium! That’s barely a mouthful each!”

“Ah, but the other Antinium would not get to experience it if it was not shared, Olesm.”

The Commander caught his breath. The blue-scaled Drake looked at Belgrade, not blankly, but thinking hard. He knew what Belgrade was getting at, but Olesm’s response surprised Artur and Belgrade.

“Perhaps that’s fairer.”

Belgrade stopped, and Artur glanced up. He saw the [Strategist]-[Leader] looking at Belgrade under the moonlight. For the first time, Belgrade looked uncertain.

“How would that be fairer? The other Antinium may never taste the yogurt again.”

“Yes, Belgrade. But Crab Battalion fought, and some of them died. That’s their reward. It’s not even much of one, but it’s theirs. That’s…the point. It’s unfair. It should be. They did something exceptional, so it’s theirs. I’m not saying they can’t share. But they don’t have to. Just…make sure they know that.”

He walked off, and Belgrade looked uncertainly at Crab Battalion. Artur ducked his head when Belgrade turned towards him, and lifted the flag.

A little, orange crab with a rocky, grey shell rose on Liscor’s standard. Artur held it high up, and later saw that little symbol appear on every member of Crab Battalion’s armor in some location over the next day. He also noticed that the yogurt didn’t get shared around as much. He never got a taste.

But he had not fought. Was that fair? Artur didn’t know, but when he saw the other Antinium looking at Crab Battalion, who walked as one, who the Drakes, Humans, and Gnolls pointed out as…Crab Battalion, he thought that was already unfair, so the yogurt was fairly unfair.

In the coming days, Crab Battalion would enter combat five times out of six days and receive commendations three times.

[Flag Bearer Level 10!]

[Skill – Flag: Inspiring Sight obtained!]

[Skill – Stainless Fabric obtained!]

[Skill – Basic Drawing obtained!]

…That last one felt like an insult to Artur.

Crusader 51, [Crusader]

On the fourteenth day, he never saw the arrow that killed Crusader 50. He was fighting forwards, trying to cut a screaming Gnoll who was running back, when he sensed a gap on his side. He looked left, and Crusader 50 was lying on the ground.

Each Antinium was issued with a single low-grade healing potion. Crusader 51 reached for it and turned Crusader 50 over and saw the arrow sticking out of his head.

He must have knelt there for a while. Long enough to see green blood running into the rocky soil. Long enough to see a tiny little beetle climbing on Crusader 50’s shoulder.

Someone tried to behead him. Crusader 51 heard a scream and saw Crusader 53 bring his mace down on a Drake’s head and leave a dent as the [Soldier] fell back, dead. The other [Crusader] had green blood on his armor. Someone had slashed through his chestplate, and he was leaking green.

The two Soldiers looked at each other for a moment, and Crusader 51 stood up. They turned and heard Tersk bellowing.

“Squads 5, 7! Fall back.”

So they did. Crusader 51 saw Soldiers running past Crusader 50’s body. A Worker with a halberd chopped down on a screaming figure. A Drake, who had been screaming and filling the air with sound as he blasted spells from a wand.

Crusader 51 hadn’t heard it. He looked up as Tersk bellowed.

“[Lightning Bolt]!”

All the [Crusaders] ducked, though the magic would run through them. Some raised their shields as if to block it. The spell arced across hundreds of fighting Antinium, Drakes, Gnolls—and exploded in midair as a [Mage] countered it.

A shower of ghostly arrows traced back the path towards the [Mage]. Commander Olesm’s [Instantaneous Barrage] Skill. Crusader 51 saw a Drake with a nimbus of crackling magic and two raised arms fall backwards as the arrows overloaded the barrier. The [Archers] in the formation dove for cover, and someone began to blow a horn.

“4th Company incoming! Move, move!”

Crusader 51 looked around and moved left—just in time to see a Drake riding past him, a spear raised. She surged past the [Crusaders] in front and rammed it into a Drake’s throat, whirling the spear.

The flash of red made Crusader 51 flinch. Some of it landed on him. He didn’t have a nose, but it smelled like iron.

That was what Hectval’s blood smelled like. Drakes and Gnolls.

Antinium blood smelled different. They smelled like insects, foreign to mammals when they died. Drakes lay staring blankly at the sky. Gnoll fur clotted with blood, but they lay like puppets.

Antinium curled up into little mounds of shell and limbs. Crusader 51 looked around at Battalion 1, Acid Jars, and realized he had made a mistake, somewhere.

——

Crab Battalion. How Crusader 51 had disliked them.

After the first day, it hadn’t been more than envy. Crusader 51 had not gotten any yogurt. Nor had he gotten something to draw on his armor.

They had. However, Olesm had been more cunning than anyone had known. He had created in the Antinium, for the first time…a sense of competition.

The fact that Crab Battalion had a name and award made them stand out. So had Olesm’s promise to commend the best fighting force. Naturally, the [Crusaders] decided that if you were going to get yogurt instead of your paste, they would fight for that.

Try hard. Not that they didn’t try, but there was an extra…keenness when they went into the fray tomorrow.

Passage-fighting. Narrow spaces to large areas for multiple squads to fight shoulder-to-shoulder. Dangerous if you ran into spells, but armor could save you.

Crusader 51 was ready. He and Crusader 53 were both Calruz’s students, and they were in the same squad. No other squad had two gifted Antinium. So naturally they would do better and receive the reward today.

…They did not. Mainly because they were both ordered to loose arrows as the first ranks of Battalion 1 repelled a few charges from [Riders]. The enemy did not attack Battalion 1.

They attacked Battalion 3 instead. That was—

Crab Battalion. As if Dekass were a lodestone, or for vengeance, the second day saw [Mages] taking potshots at Crab Battalion at range. Lightning spells. In response, Olesm mounted archers and had Maksie call out targets. [Mages] were an asset, and a limited one at that; if one of them cast a spell, they had better be ready to eat an arrow in return, and few [Mages] were of Magus Grimalkin’s caliber or even his students.

“For heroism in the face of an onslaught of spells, Commander Olesm has awarded Crab Battalion another commendation. News of their advance in the face of a storm of spells has reached Liscor, and the Council has commissioned an illustration of the advance.”

Tersk read out the announcement, and Crab Battalion was given pork tenderloin.

Crusader 51 had never known pork had a tender loin. This time, it was not shared. The scorched armor of the [Crusaders] still bore their crab symbol, and they ate slowly, savoring the meal while the other Antinium smelled it.

The next day, Dekass proudly strutted across the ground and announced to Tersk he had levelled up.

“My unit is now resistant to electricity. I therefore request permission to lead our advance. I also cite the increased levels among my command. The average is now 9, with many [Crusaders] having achieved their first capstone.”

Crusader 51 had never heard of the snowball effect, but he would have understood the dirtball analogy. Crab Battalion was leveling up. You could see there was a difference. Not just in levels, the Soldiers and Workers held their shields more confidently, and when they clashed, they looked—sharp.

Therefore, they got into the fighting more often as Olesm recognized that. Not that it was one or two skirmishes in the following days.

Liscor’s army took the ridgeline and emerged into what would become their main battleground: a series of gentler hills that nevertheless extended into a large network of caves and unexpected valleys.

Much like the Floodplains, but on a larger scale. The garrison force that had tried to slow Liscor’s advance fell back—and linked up with Hectval’s real army. That was when the first big engagements occurred.

——

Crusader 51 stabbed nine opponents and executed a slash that injured six more on the first day Battalion 1 saw massed combat. Squad 5 entered into pitched battle as the Antinium [Crusaders] met Hectval-Drisshia-Luldem in force.

He didn’t know the numbers, and he didn’t see the strategy at play. What Crusader 51 saw and heard were Drakes and Tersk’s orders.

“Antinium! Get them!”

“They’re wearing armor—don’t waver! That one’s a Prognugator! Get—”

“Traitors! You Lizardfolk traitors! Antinium and—”

They were angry. The forces of the Hectval alliance shouted insults and raged at their counterparts, but they were also afraid.

Afraid of the Antinium. This was the first time they met the [Crusaders] en masse, and that was when they experienced what their forces had felt before.

[Combined Skill: Wrath of the Righteous].

Suffer. Perish.

The sky. The sky!

Anger.

Voices that echoed in your head, in your very soul, that you couldn’t drown out. Voices from a group that had no tongues. What terrified the Drakes and Gnolls more, perhaps, was how the [Crusaders] expressed their fury. No great oaths, no litany of curses.

Just…

That. Crusader 51 saw Drakes go pale, back up, and run, even when they weren’t losing in the first few encounters. Even Drisshia’s heavy infantry did not want to fight the Antinium. A Drake would block a sword thrust—and the second dagger would bounce off their armor, slash, catch their weapon on a shield, open their mouth to call for help—and see a crossbow aimed at their face from the fourth arm at point-blank range.

——

Battalion 1 got their moment in the sun after that battle. And their name.

“They melted through their opponents. Acid Jars. That’s what we’ll call them. Acid Jars.”

Olesm excitedly commended Battalion 1 in the aftermath, along with three other groups. He had elected, given that there were four main divisions in his forces, to commend four battalions per day, one under each main commander.

The Acid Jars got their first meal of food, and it did not disappoint. Crusader 51 had never had the goat’s cheese and salsa before, yet he thought that when he took a bite of the loaded potato—it would have never tasted as good if it weren’t Battalion 1’s triumph.

He saw the other [Crusaders] watching him and almost went to share.

Almost. Then he remembered that Crab Battalion had eaten twice and not shared, so he did not.

A strange thing passed over Crusader 51 after that meal. He had never felt…hungry…after eating. Nor was he now, since the half-ration was in addition to his regular nutrients. But he wanted more. He wanted another day of victory.

[Crusader Level 9!]

[Skill – Enhanced Edge obtained!]

[Skill – Resistance: Sleep obtained!]

All was well. Crusader 51 woke up on the fourteenth day excited for battle.

Then Crusader 50 died. Crusader 51 wondered if his shield hadn’t been high enough. H-had it been his fault? Maybe he had moved out of line trying to kill more opponents so Battalion 1 would be commended again.

Battalion 4 got their first commendation and a nickname—Razorbeaks—that day. Crusader 51 didn’t care. He sat in his squad of nine and looked at the others. He looked left, and the [Crusader] who had stood in front of him and knelt before Pawn was gone.

Gone.

Soldiers died, but Crusader 50 had been…Crusader 50. Crusader 51 hadn’t known him to do anything iconic. He hadn’t been in Calruz’s class. But he’d been there. Somehow, Crusader 51 had forgotten, with his armor and the sky and everything else, that they could still die.

Embria, [Wing Commander]

Dear Dad,

We’re in the soup now. You know how it is. Though we never talked about it. Everyone told me that Sergeant Relc, the Gecko, always laughed going into it. That he would charge in and come out whistling and telling dumb jokes.

I can’t. I wonder if that’s a lie, like how they said old Durrell never flinched even when arrows struck him. He flinches. He just—doesn’t scream.

It’s the soup. It’s not hot as some fronts. We’re better than they are.

The Ants Antinium fight well. It scares me. I know they’re green as new grass, but they’ve been fighting Drisshia since they’re both heavy armor, and I think Drisshia loses. They’re regulars, and the Antinium fold them up. Not that we haven’t taken casualties.

Barely over a hundred dead across the entire army after…I want to say a week of real fighting. I’m watching Hectval’s alliance fall back now. Potions did it, but the truth is they’ve got a bit more magic, maybe, more [Mages]. Roughly equal numbers…so we won.

4th Company must have sniped four low-level officers and three [Mages] along with a few battalions. Hectval probably lost some of their best attacking Liscor, or they really thought Olesm would be worse than whoever they sent. He’s got…a few big Skills.

Remember [Instantaneous Barrage]? I can’t imagine how much they hate it. He’s also got [Vigor of Champions], so 4th Company goes in and doesn’t stop unless we need healing. So we got them.

It’s still the soup. But we’re winning. The question is—what does Hectval do next? They can maybe try to out-spell us, but [Mages] eat that [Instantaneous Barrage] or get sniped and they’re gone for good. They can’t out-shoot us. All those Workers with bows plus Liscor’s archers mean we tend to win. Either a cunning strategy or…

Hey Dad, I fought in another battle the next day. Idiots tried the Mellian Cascade. I really think they thought it would work. Liscor’s army might be green, but 4th Company just walked over and blocked each wedge when they went in, and they surrendered or got chopped up. Strange thing though—

There’s something off about those Antinium. I’ve heard that [Strategist]—Belgrade—and those two ‘Prognugators’ call them a strange class. I keep trying to get it right so I can report it, but I think it’s—[Crusader]? I’ve never heard of it. And they have weird powers. I’m beginning to think Hectval isn’t just incompentent.

Though they’re that, too. Either I tell you we’re at Hectval’s walls in a week or they surprise me, because we just took about eight hundred prisoners.

—Embria

Lulv, [Spearmaster]

The Mellian Cascade was an old tactic that originated from Manus. The theory was that you formed multiple spear-wedges and sent them into the enemy from multiple oblique angles while your hammer pinned them down from one angle.

Hit them hard enough and you popped the enemy formation. It had been famously unraveled by Chaldion when he was a young [Strategist], and the Antinium Wars had never seen it work that well.

It was what some thought of as a useful gambit against [Strategists] or [Commanders] who had never seen it happen to them.

“They tried it on the Antinium. See how they go in, there? Antinium turn—eat them. Same with Liscor’s army. There’s a shock—then that group of five hundred splits, hits two wedges, and they start crumbling.”

“4th Company. Liscor’s own. Looks like they’ve augmented it, but you can tell they’re veterans. They’ve seen the Mellian Cascade. Idiots.”

The ‘idiots’ were for Hectval’s commanders. Lulv agreed, but the Gnoll resting his paws on the table didn’t voice an opinion right away.

“I see…well, I see a lot of mistakes. See how they’re boxing in their opponents? They know this isn’t a border-conflict with Cauldus or another city, but they fight like it is. That’s a classic surrender pileup. Only, Liscor doesn’t surrender, and they eat a boosted charge from 4th Company. Again. And those were their veterans. Meanwhile, the Antinium just keep chewing up their left side.”

“Three battles. There’s some kind of morale-Skill at work; they’re not just running because they’re outmatched. Lulv, do you need a changeup? Lulv?”

The [Spearmaster] of Manus looked up. He focused on the High Command of Manus, the security council, and growled.

“No, Dragonspeaker Luciva. Apologies. I was thinking.”

The Dragonspeaker wore her armor like a second skin. An old, old sigil of Manus traced a line across her breastplate and helm; what was new was the feather. She added a feather with a blue plume, to match her scales purely as ornament.

The leader of Manus, Dragonspeaker Luciva, nodded as General Milka continued her breakdown of the last battle. She approached, and Lulv straightened.

“Hectval has accepted the mercenary offer for Wytel’s Spearlance. They were insisting upon direct leadership under one of their officers…until yesterday.”

She saw his grimace and grinned.

“We’re passing an attaché to them as well. A consultant for hire.”

“Do I know him?”

“Sokkel. He served in the Cyles Plains battle…”

“Huh. Good.”

Spearmaster Lulv looked at Dragonspeaker Luciva, armored almost like a [Knight]. To many of her kind, she was an example of her people. She had higher cheekbones, and her scales were predominantly blue, but mixed with white and yellow, a rare, tricolor blend. When she stood in the light from one of the crenelated windows, she looked like she held up the entire keep, sun playing off ancient armor.

Manus, the City of War. However, she had lost too much to be the young heroine to be cast in poetry. The notch at the edge of her lips dropped, where once it had just made her look battle-hardened. She had lost her daughter recently, and she walked heavier, spoke more deliberately.

Compared to her, Lulv knew, he looked far plainer. He wore dark armor, a rare lacquered wood rather than anything else, over dyed-black Wyvern hide. Lulv was lean compared to other Gnolls, but he had always been lean. When he walked, it was more like he stalked forwards, never fully tall, always slightly slouched—and he almost always carried the spear Luciva herself had given him.

Ashwood from Noelictus, written with Lulv’s name and title, and on the tip, the very finely-ground point of a dark red metal, crossing to a lighter pattern of off-gold. A near-perfect conical tip, not flattened or a teardrop or other type of spear. This one was almost like the tip of a lance, though he could cut with it if he had to.

Adamantium-tipped over Lord’s Bronze. A [Spearmaster]’s weapon.

That was the only thing immediately flashy about Lulv. He looked his part and admired Luciva for looking hers. Her ancient armor and the weapon she carried, the Fang of Manus, or Parentkiller, its true name, the glaive that permanently crackled with electricity, was just as showy.

And neither she nor he truly cared how they looked, only how they were seen. Lulv to skulk around in battle, Luciva to inspire. They both passed by the other’s attire as something they had seen a thousand times, the same with their faces.

If there was someone they would always scrutinize, to see if she was upset, bored, or anything else, it was the individual who wasn’t here. Wall Lady Rafaema.

Luciva was half-distracted, even now, speaking to Lulv. She was thinking of Oteslia, and Lulv had wanted to volunteer for that assignment. But this needed a [Spearmaster].

“Frankly, Hectval-Drisshia-Luldem have the numbers, but they’re worried about other attacks or a feint. Sokkel can improvise, but I think Milka will agree; they need to bring it to bear. They cannot trade equally against Liscor. I’ve identified three main assets: their [Strategist], who outlevels theirs, 4th Company from Liscor, and the Antinium. Do you want to amend that or requisition anyone else?”

The Antinium. Lulv focused in a heartbeat. He dipped his head for a second, thinking.

“No, Dragonspeaker. I’ll play it by ear, but I have my line of attack and fallbacks. Air support?”

“Six Wyverns. Although if we show them…”

“All I need are bombardments. I’ll head out within the hour.”

“Then I will wait on your report. Manus waits for you, Lulv.”

“Manus waits upon no foe. Thank you, Dragonspeaker Luciva. Before I go…is there anything from Makhir?”

Lulv turned once before he exited the security council. He saw Luciva’s commanding smile turn to a frown.

“Rafaema is withdrawn. She’s keeping time with Cirediel, and Makhir doesn’t cite him as a positive influence.”

“Has he ever?”

The Dragonspeaker tried to smile, but she flicked to their ongoing projection of the Oteslia-Zeres siege.

“We’ll make sure she’s safe. Get us a gauge on this new threat, Lulv. Or remove it.”

He picked up his spear and saluted her.

“With Dragon’s will, you’ll never know how good those Antinium are as a war asset. Spearmaster Lulv, sortieing.”

Then he left.

——

Lulv found his command waiting for him, ready to go by the time he reached the outer walls and the mustering point for them. He saw four hundred Drakes and Gnolls, packed and ostensibly wearing gear of [Mercenaries], albeit battle-trained ones.

No insignia, no other markers to show they were from Manus. However, subtlety tended to end there.

If Liscor’s 4th or any veteran group saw this lot coming at them in battle, they’d signal for reinforcements or retreat. It wasn’t hard to spot the faint…glimmer on weapons or armor that said that everything these [Soldiers] carried was enchanted.

Most of it wouldn’t be noticeable until it came out of its sheath, but this was not an infiltration group. The lowest-level [Soldier] here was Level 20.

“Officer present! Attention!”

The soldiers snapped to attention. Lulv addressed them quickly. He didn’t have a speech prepared, and he didn’t speak one now.

“Our designation is Wytel’s Spearlance. We are fighting for the Hectval-Drisshia-Luldem alliance, but our target is not Liscor’s general army. We will be fast-travelling via Wyvern to forty miles outside of Hectval’s war front and entering the engagement on foot. We will engage and decimate the Antinium contingent before withdrawing. If you are captured, you will be ransomed.”

He debated reinforcing the order not to identify themselves, but decided against it. These were not children. The [Soldiers] listened as Lulv rested his spear next to him.

“These current Antinium are Free Antinium that seem to have adopted Armored Antinium fighting styles. Do not assume they will stick to that strategy. Expect Skills. Mark any targets with unusual…abilities. I repeat, expect levels. We estimate most are still below Level 15. That is where they stop. Understood?”

A few quiet murmurs. Antinium with levels. That was one of Manus’ worst nightmares. Lulv heard a faint laugh amid the murmurs.

“So they’ve already out-levelled Hectval?”

Because they were veterans, Lulv didn’t expect or enforce silence, and he grinned along with the others.

“Our job isn’t to bail Hectval out. They started this mess; they can burn on it. Don’t let yourself get stabbed, but don’t clash hard with non-Antinium if you don’t have to.”

“Any veterans?”

A Gnoll raised her paw. Liscor’s army was a well-known outfit. Lulv shook his head.

“Only Liscor’s 4th. Our target is Antinium-only.”

“Sounds like we’ll be having a vacation. Level 15 Antinium? I thought this was a volunteer mission, not garrison duty.”

That wasn’t a comment to the group as a whole. Lulv’s ears perked up, and the Gnoll turned his head. The [Soldiers] recoiled instinctively as he grabbed his spear and pointed it.

“You. Out.”

A Drake froze as Lulv singled someone out in one of the columns.

“Sir?”

“Out. Get me a replacement. If any one of you thinks this is going to be an easy job where the hardest thing will be holding your tails out of the mud—step out now. The Antinium have deployed their newest combat unit. Free Antinium. Underestimate them and you’ll get your entire squad killed.”

The [Soldiers] went somber in a minute. Face burning, the Drake stepped out of line and retreated. Lulv went on.

“Don’t treat this like Armored Antinium. Think of this like a Twisted Antinium raid. Be prepared for anything, and if you slip up, you have something crawling out of your face. Report any oddities—and your officers will be debriefing me hourly, but report it to my face if you have to. We are not playing games here. I want those three thousand Antinium gone, and I will make sure that happens if I have to stab all three thousand myself. Since my arm gets tired, are you the [Soldiers] to back me up? Or do I have to get another group to—”

They shouted and roared too loudly for Lulv to continue. He raised his spear and nodded.

“Alright, then. Dragonspeaker Luciva is counting on us. Muster up—oh, and try not to antagonize Hectval. I don’t care what the Drakes do. If I don’t take a swing at them, you don’t.”

The cheering died down, and the [Soldiers] moved forwards to the waiting Wyverns. You needed a lot to transport even four hundred [Soldiers], but Manus was the City of War. If they needed to, they could have requisitioned [Mages] for teleportation or used horse relays.

Lulv climbed onto his Wyvern-transport, and the [Rider] shushed the unhappy creature. Shame these ones didn’t spit frost, but elemental Wyverns were notoriously even worse to train. Lulv sat back and waited. Just…waited, as the Wyvern took off. It would be a long flight, landing, forty mile march, introductions to whomever was commanding him, and then…

Then he’d see where to strike.

The [Spearmaster] waited, eyes half-closed, until it was time to move.

Embria, [Wing Commander]

Not one level.

They said adversity built character—and also raised your level. Well, Embria feared the war wasn’t adverse enough.

…Or she had her father’s problem, and that was that she was fairly high-level in two main classes. Not as much as the Gecko of Liscor—but enough such that leading 4th Company through so many victories wasn’t enough to guarantee her levelling, even in a warzone.

Embria was a Level 28 [Spear Hunter], having leveled twice after coming back to Liscor and training with her father.

She was a Level 28 [Wing Commander] too. Double-classed, same level.

Even one of those was enough to make her close to a prized veteran in Liscor’s army. Wikir, for instance, was one of the old-guard, and he wasn’t a Level 30 [Captain].

It was hard to pass your capstones. Mind you, Wikir had started from the ground and was old enough to remember the Antinium Wars, but he hadn’t always been in Liscor’s 4th. Pass Level 30 and Embria would be…

Well, she might be a [Spearmaster]. And if she also passed Level 30 in [Wing Commander]—she’d have passed Relc when he first began being called the Gecko of Liscor.

It was an odd thought. Embria was sure Relc was higher-level. But she’d gotten to where he was…faster? Around where he was?

She wanted to level. Frankly, if she could have traded two classes for, say, a Level 32 in one class…

Well, she wouldn’t do it, but she’d give it a damn good thought. Because your classes gave you variety, but the height of your levels dictated the power of a Skill.

Take Olesm, for example. He was new to leading armies, but Embria saw his [Instantaneous Barrage] Skill, which could launch hundreds of arrows in a free volley attack at least once per battle, and she saw what Level 30 meant. As a [Wing Commander] and [Spear Hunter], she could help take down a dangerous group, battle an enemy officer, and slay them.

Olesm could change the entire battle around, especially if he pointed at a high-level opponent.

Anyways, she wasn’t leveling today. Embria sighed. She scowled up at a hill as Liscor’s army advanced over the last battlefield. The confusing terrain behind them meant their army had kept moving from battlefield to battlefield, trying to box their foe in, and Hectval kept fighting back—then retreating.

Right now, she was overseeing the inspection of all the supplies they’d taken from eight hundred prisoners of war, who would be ransomed off or held in a prisoner train. Olesm had learned from last time, and they wouldn’t be breaking out any time soon. Nor would Hectval launch a sneak attack to free them.

“Nice arrows. Unenchanted gear, unenchanted gear…personal possessions…”

Vell, Wikir, Pielt, and Igissi were all present, showing other officers how to efficiently sort and strip enemy combatants. That was the kind of thing this new army didn’t know. Everything from how to organize your pack to how to loot properly.

“Is this…are we going to wear the enemy’s armor, Wing Commander? It seems a bit off.”

That was from Division Leader Ramia. The [Guardswoman] was patently uncomfortable with the idea of battlefield acquisitions. Embria turned to her and tried to explain as Vell made her squad sort the gear.

“It’s not theft, Ramia. Nor would I advise tossing on armor without checking it; there’s lice as well as all the crap enemy soldiers will put on their gear if they think you’ll get it—including crap. But if you’ve got a hole in your armor and you see some new chainmail…I advise you not to crack down on that so long as a [Soldier] trades their gear. Now, looting is different. This goes straight to command to divvy out. We’re not [Pirates], but we’ll definitely take healing potions, eh?”

Ramia nodded, a bit relieved by Embria’s reassurances. Wikir chipped in with a reassuring growl.

“Don’t worry, the fact that we have so many prisoners is a good sign. Taking eight hundred in one engagement—Hectval’s probably tearing their fur out over it. Look at them.”

He nodded in the distance to where the other army was camped on the hilltop. In theory, they had the high ground.

In practice, they had lost every other area of ground, and while they had the numbers, Liscor had beaten them again and again. Embria nudged Wikir.

“Don’t say that. They can probably conscript if they haven’t done a round already. Plus, they’ll empty their garrisons.”

“More loot, more levels, more prisoners, Wing Commander. Liscor’s army loves it all. Give me your best! I’ll sell your helmet with the rest!”

The Gnoll replied cheerfully, quoting one of Liscor’s army’s adages. The other members of 4th Company laughed and cheered, and Embria smiled. Ramia glanced at them.

“Liscor’s Army. I haven’t seen it in…ten years. I forgot how much I liked hearing the [Soldiers] on leave shouting that.”

Embria glanced at Ramia and then looked around for those familiar insects in armor. She saw Wikir frown, and Pielt looked up with a glower.

“Yeah. We miss the city too. But you know how it is. Always another front. We never came back too regularly.”

Ramia nodded uncertainly and brushed some fur out of her helm.

“But once every few years. Is it just…the Antinium? I wasn’t comfortable with them myself, but I’ve met some of them. Senior Guardsman Klbkch—everyone knew them, and they aren’t…monsters. Belgrade plays chess. Is it just that?”

Wing Commander Embria found she was suddenly very uncomfortable with this line of questioning. She coughed.

“Of course they’re not. But High Command and a lot of the veterans…fought against them. Sserys? General Sserys? Hero of Izril and Liscor? You know what they did.”

Twenty years ago. She was too young to remember that, not really. She just remembered Relc being really upset whenever she asked how he died later on. Liscor’s army had been with Sserys, a great number of them.

None had come back.

Ramia nodded, looking conflicted. Embria was grateful she was interrupted from another question.

“Speaking of adding to provisions, make sure you get it all checked for rot or poison, obviously. But if you take out a commander’s tent, you can find good eating. Let’s see what we eugh! Wing Commander!”

The Wing Commander and Ramia turned, and Vell nearly dropped what she was holding. She’d been going through Hectval’s rations, and she lifted a tin can in outrage.

“What, Vell? Is it asparagus? Grow up. Until you see an Asparagus-monster, I’m not convinced there’s a problem!”

Embria shouted and the other [Soldiers] laughed. Vell glared back, waving the tin.

“It’s not that! Wing Commander, take a look at what these Hectval bastards eat! If there was ever a good reason to go to war—this confirms we should wipe ‘em out!”

Curious now, Embria trotted over. She expected something revolting, although she couldn’t imagine what was worse than the Antinium’s paste. Not that they ate bugs. Did Hectval eat…?

She stared down into the tin perplexed for a moment. Ramia gave a huge sniff.

“Doesn’t smell bad. What is…”

The two women stared down into the tinned can of Hectval’s rations. They looked at Vell’s face, and Embria gingerly poked the half-eaten ration of…

“Is that…is it…pudding?”

The entire object wobbled from Embria’s poke. She saw Wikir crack open another tin and make a face.

“Eugh. It’s all of this. What is it?”

“Some kind of gelled…it’s not pudding. It looks like sausage mixed with congealed…what is this? Someone get me a prisoner!”

Embria was mildly revolted. Ramia was outraged. When one of the bruised Drakes was hauled up, he stared blankly at her when she thrust the tin into his face.

“What? You gonna feed us to the Ants? You’ve got our food—”

“Shut it. What is this?”

He went cross-eyed as she thrust the wobbling dish in front of his face.

“…Food? You gonna eat that?”

He looked hungrily at the can. Vell, Embria, Wikir, and Ramia traded glances. The Gnoll pointed a paw down.

“This is food? What, exactly, is it?”

The Drake considered the question.

“Looks like…beef stock sausage gelatin. Bit of boiled corn mixed in, and, uh, might be a lobster gelatin on the side. Nice. I remember eating that yesterday. Can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t finish it up.”

Embria stared down at the wobbling not-liquid stuff. Beef stock, sausages, bits of boiled corn, all contained in a…gel. Like a slime, but less viscous.

Hard soup. That was what they eventually got out of the prisoner. Hectval, as it turned out, made gelatins.

The horrified 4th Company found, as they opened more tins, that the preserved rations were all like this. Apparently they had something that helped make gelatins, or just specialized in it, because they didn’t bother with canned soup or even sandwiches.

Why would you, when you had the glorious slice of gelatin with a hard boiled egg, pieces of turkey, carrots, and other components of a fine soup…frozen and turned into a slice of gelatin?

Mm. Spread that on some toast. Oh, wait, Hectval didn’t believe in toast. They believed in gelatin.

If one of the people of Earth could have been there, it would have answered one of the dark questions they lay awake at night pondering. Which was—would any other culture outside of Earth’s organically come up with a creation like spam?

Yes. Yes, and it was Hectval.

Why have a fish when you could have an artful bit of gelatin shaped like a fish, with fish-colored gelatin flavored with fish…matter…concentrate? Speckled within with juicy goodies—because the gelatin was going to be juicy, and soft, and you ate it with a spoon—or perhaps a giant, wet, pink blob of what turned out to be tuna-flavored something?

——

When Embria showed Olesm the objectionable goods, his face said it all.

“…I don’t think we need to replace the [Soldiers]’ rations with that. Will it keep?”

“Probably. I honestly think we can’t use it, unless we want riots or hungry [Soldiers].”

Olesm agreed. He rubbed at his face as the officers encountered true culture shock. Bepol couldn’t stop poking a wobbling tower of three kinds of gelatin he’d stacked together.

“Just insane. Who would do this to good food?”

Olesm almost agreed, but something bothered him. He remembered a conversation he’d had…with Selys? He was staring at the gelatin, trying to remember, when everyone heard a slurping sound.

Slowly, Embria and Olesm turned to see Belgrade slowly, and noisily, trying to suck bird-poultry-spam off a spoon. The [Strategist] looked around and slowly put down the spoon.

“It is tasty, though.”

Olesm blinked.

“You…enjoy this, Belgrade?”

Vell gagged as Belgrade took another wobbling bite with every sign of delight.

“I find the texture very palatable. Nostalgic. It reminds me of the Free Hive’s paste, but tastes impeccably better. In texture as well. Hectval has lessons Garry must learn.”

Olesm wavered, but his personal horror aside, it simplified a lot of issues to feed the prisoners their own food. And to let any excess be quietly given to the Antinium for…disposal.

——

That was one event Embria remembered vividly, even as she wrote an actual letter to her father—then to High Command—and sealed both for delivery. She didn’t include war talk to him, nor did she know if he was getting the letters.

However, it wasn’t as if the Runner’s Guild wasn’t making an effort.

Liscor’s army was not stranded from home, nor did they have to rely on [Messengers] or the long supply chain. It was late at night, and Embria was waiting in front of the odd door with a glowing purple gem set in the top when someone else stopped.

“Ah, excuse me, Wing Commander.”

She turned and nearly touched the spear on her back, but relaxed…slightly.

“Strategist Belgrade. Not joining the officers playing cards?”

They had a habit of doing that, those not on duty, and Embria knew Olesm abstained, but she occasionally went there to talk. Belgrade tilted his head. He had a bundle of letters too.

“Excuse me, Commanders? We’re opening in one minute by our count, and it’s fast. Transit? Supplies? Messages?”

“Just letters. Here. Thank you.”

“I, as well. To Pawn. My report is also meant for Xrn. I have labeled both.”

Belgrade handed the letters to the [Mage], who nodded a bit warily. Embria eyed Belgrade.

“…You report back regularly?”

“Every night.”

The two stepped back as the [Mage] counting down with a flashing timer-spell decided it was time. She threw the door open.

“Letters. Three wounded! Detritus—”

She passed letters through first, then three [Soldiers] were helped through, and then crates of trash or things meant for Liscor. Briskly, some muscular folk of all species dragged them through on the other end.

“Damn, mana’s going down. Refill! Damn door…”

A weary official on the other end was complaining, but a crate of supplies was pushed through—just potions, nothing heavy. Everything cost magic, and the line of people behind the door were clearly waiting to go through.

“Hey, is that the army? What’s the news?”

“We won again! Obviously!”

The [Mage] shouted, to general cheers. Embria cleared her throat meaningfully.

“Don’t leak information.”

“Sorry, Commander.”

The [Mage] looked abashed. Embria stepped back as the door quickly closed with an agreed-upon time on both ends. She turned to Belgrade and found he hadn’t left.

The two leaders looked at each other, Embria far more uncomfortable than Belgrade.

“Well…it’s good to see Liscor. I shouldn’t keep you from the officer’s tent. I don’t see you playing card games, but, er, it’s open. Nightly.”

She wished she hadn’t suggested he come, but Embria was already edging away. Belgrade glanced at her, and replied in a fairly cheerful tone of voice.

“I do not attend. I am aware the other officers do not care for my presence. Yourself included.”

Embria swung back.

I don’t mind your presence…was a lie she didn’t utter because it would probably set off [Detect Lie] spells back in Liscor. She coughed instead.

“I, uh…apologize you’ve gotten that impression.”

“You attempt to hide it. But you are poor at subterfuge. I take no offense. I was told that Liscor’s 4th would not be hospitable or other elements of the army. I joined anyways.”

Embria did a double-take.

“…Why? You signed up?”

She had assumed the Antinium had joined because they had been ordered to. Belgrade looked at Embria oddly.

“Every Antinium in the army volunteered. We will hurt Hectval. For Erin.”

For…Erin Solstice? Embria blinked. Belgrade nodded at her.

“You see, they took a good thing away. Bird did not go to war; he must chase after Mrsha. Pawn stays with his people. Anand is elsewhere. Garry is a [Chef]. So I had to. One of us had to.”

“Is…there something about you five that makes that so important?”

Embria was wavering between the oddity of having a conversation with an Antinium—which she had never done, even with Klbkch, really—and finding out info on the Antinium. High Command had given her orders, but she had never thought to…ask.

Belgrade looked straight at Embria. He was like every other Worker, nothing visible in his insectoid eyes. They never moved. They had no pupils, and no eyeballs to rotate, and in that sense it was like talking to a statue. Creepy.

However, Belgrade’s tone was too…personable. He was cheerful, but there was a kind of edge to it that would have made Embria eye someone who said it at a bar. Or under her command.

“We were there at the beginning. We should have died before she did. Failing that…we will take revenge. Even if she comes back, someone will suffer.”

“Why Erin Solstice?”

Belgrade gave Embria a look like she was a [Recruit] and he was a [Veteran Lineholder] being asked why he held his spear like that.

“Because she fed us. Because she played chess with us. Because these things have never happened to us. You do not like Hectval’s food? You find it disgusting?”

“I—er, yes. Revolting.”

Belgrade nodded peaceably.

“It is the finest food I would have ever tasted had I not known Erin.”

“Do you mean you eat that paste every day?”

Embria was revolted by it. Belgrade looked her dead in the eyes.

“Of course.”

“But you don’t like it.”

The Drake tried again. Belgrade gave her another one of those looks.

“…Why would we enjoy it? Do you wish to have some?”

She raised her claws defensively.

“No, absolutely not!”

The [Strategist] nodded.

“Then why would we want to eat it?”

“Er…because you’re Antinium. I just thought…”

Well, that was it. Belgrade raised his mandibles, and Embria wondered if that meant he was angry.

“You are very funny, Wing Commander Embria. Do you think Antinium are…happy? That we are, on average, happy? Or that we do not feel?”

“…If I had to guess? I wouldn’t assume you were feeling much. Or that you’re happy in your Hive.”

A strange fluttering sound emerged from Belgrade’s mouth, like some vast moth making a weird noise. Embria jumped and put a hand on her sword, but Belgrade just shook his head.

“So funny. You are wrong, Wing Commander. Even about us not feeling anything. I did not know I was sad until I learned what happy was. Have a good night. If you find any bed bugs, give them to me, please.”

He turned and walked off, leaving Embria alone with mixed feelings in the night.

——

The Hectval army came at them an hour later. There was plenty of warning. Horns had Embria out of her tent and swearing. She had her armor on in a trice and saw Vell stumbling towards her, yanking a boot on as she cursed out Hectval.

“Those idiots want a night attack? Do they think the Antinium don’t see in the dark?”

“Do they?”

“I bet they do! I’m wiping my tail with a hundred of those [Soldiers]! 2nd Squad, with me!”

Angry 4th Company [Soldiers] formed up. They weren’t nervous—just pissed they had to fight sleepy. Even the regular Liscorian [Soldiers] looked more grumpy than nervous.

Morale was high, and Embria saw Olesm forming up a broad defensive line. Like always, the Antinium were on the left, and Embria saw Belgrade on the right while Bepol and Ramia, under Olesm, took center.

“4th Company! We’re maneuvering! Maksie, you see why Hectval’s in the air?”

The [Scout Leader]’s voice took a moment as Embria called into her speaking stone. Embria was marching her five hundred briskly, ready to hit targets of opportunity. Wikir had command of the other half of her forces and began to split off so they could hit more areas.

“I…I see a new group in the middle. Not big. I can’t tell anything from this high up. I’m…hold on. I feel like I’m being watched. Is there something up here with me?”

The uncertain note in Maksie’s voice made Embria hesitate. Olesm tuned in instantly too.

“Oldbloods? Watch for enemy [Scouts].”

“Yes, sir. It’s not that. I feel…no, I can’t see anything and cloud cover is nonexistent. There’s something off about this, though. Wing Commander, you feel that?”

Embria did. Whether it was Maksie provoking it or intuition…something like [Dangersense] stole over her. And in fact—Vell grunted.

“Wing Commander. My [Dangersense] just pinged me. Hard.”

Embria twisted in her saddle. She looked at Vell, then called out to Olesm.

“Commander, we’re getting…warning signs. Be advised, I’m expecting an ambush or something new.”

“Understood, Wing Commander. We’re braced. It looks like Hectval has called in reinforcements.”

It did indeed. Embria scanned the forces in the darkness for that odd group Maksie had spotted, but all she saw were [Light] spells, torches, and a lot of [Soldiers].

“Major push. It’ll be tight fighting.”

“I’m putting in a request to Liscor for our door and emergency forces. Just in case.”

Olesm’s voice was tight. Did he sense it? Embria sat up in her saddle, though she was watching for arrows. They were out of range as of yet, but…

What was that uneasy feeling? She shifted her grip on her enchanted spear. Something was out there.

“Charge! For Hectval!”

“Luldem’s walls—”

“In Drisshia’s—”

They didn’t even shout the same thing. Embria saw dull glints of metal as figures raced downhill, their armored tails skating across the ground. Looser formations, trying to keep pace. Scared faces behind the helmets.

Boys and girls. Gnolls in the front. They slammed into Liscor’s shields, and then she saw a line of figures, flailing, struggling to heave each other forwards, shouting…

Blood in the darkness. But once more, the attackers lost.

It was on the left side where their charge was forced back a step almost before it had come. The spectral arrows that landed among their ranks; the right side where screaming figures were tripping up their comrades, shouting about traps. Bear traps?

Wing Commander Embria wasn’t searching for a point to tear the charge to shreds, though. She was looking up at the hill.

The entire damn army’s coming down.

“They’re going in for a full attack. Commander, you seeing this?”

“They can’t even bring that to bear! They’ll be massed up!”

Bepol shouted in confusion. Olesm replied tersely.

“I see it. [Mages] will begin throwing [Fireballs]. Watch out.”

The army was clustering up, beginning to try to spread left and right around Liscor’s entrenched lines, but they were all heading down, save for their archers and mages. Embria’s eyes narrowed.

These are Antinium tactics. It was ludicrous, too. Their front ranks could fight Liscor’s forces, but everyone else would be bunched up, not fighting, and at risk of one [Fireball] exacting devastating losses.

Where is that group Maksie mentioned?

“Wikir! Take your side past the attackers and chop up their rear lines! Wipe out everything, including their command.”

“Aye, Wing Commander.”

He peeled off. In another battle, Embria would have elected to follow him and do as much damage, possibly even take out their commander.

However, she was growing more worried by the second. Where was it? It was out there. She had an instinct.

Relc, the Gecko of Liscor, had never talked about being a [Soldier] to his daughter when they went back to Liscor. Only as a girl while they traveled with the army did he tell her stories. One of the things that had kept her up at night was his comment about headhunters beside himself. Ambush teams.

“It’s like a feeling on your scales. They’re out there. They could be an innocent [Archer] or a green-as-grass Drake kid. Then they turn, and you see that you’re dead. They’re waiting for you. So you have to wait for them, even when you’re fighting.”

Embria had felt that a few times in battle. She waited, riding back and forth, as 4th Company watched her uncertainly.

“Wing Commander. We going in or…?”

Lieutenant Kesa began, but Captain Vell snapped at her.

“Shut up. There’s something in the air.”

She felt it too. Embria saw the [Soldiers] fighting the Antinium moving backwards. Once more, the massed voices of the [Crusaders] hummed in the air. Embria heard it.

…the sky. The…

Wrath and righteous fury. It made her scales tingle uncomfortably.

Hectval was pressed up against Liscor’s army, and Liscor was refusing to flinch. The alliance’s forces looked like they were going to break. Embria, watching the [Crusaders] fight, saw a strange group emerging from the retreating [Soldiers], disobeying their officer’s orders to keep fighting.

A panicked Drake was stumbling backwards when another [Soldier] knocked them aside. This Gnoll was bent over, hunched, and knocked another [Soldier] out of the way with his free arm.

He didn’t break stride. He was moving through Hectval’s ranks with a number of other [Soldiers], all of whom had a certain glitter about their armor that made Embria focus on them with alarm.

“Wing Commander! The left flank!”

“I see it, Maksie. 4th, on me!”

Embria began to ride towards that spot. Olesm was speaking into her earpiece.

“What have you seen? Scout Leader?”

How could either one describe it? It was something about the way those [Soldiers] moved. Too confidently. People were dying around them, and they were just alert, not panicking. They didn’t break formation, even with other [Soldiers] shoving them.

They had enchanted gear. Then, Embria saw their leader.

She picked him out like any other officer could have picked her out. He wasn’t at the front of the formation, but he led them. A Gnoll in black armor, stalking along with a spear held low.

That’s a [Spearmaster].

The [Spear Hunter] realized it in a flash. He had nearly reached the Antinium’s front lines. About three ranks separated his group of strange [Soldiers] from theirs, and the Antinium were calmly fighting. They had no idea—

“Tersk! Dekass! Elites incoming! [Spearmaster]!”

Embria shouted into her speaking stone. She saw the Antinium lines changing, maneuvering to bring their veterans to bear, angling their bows and crossbows down.

Too late. The [Spearmaster] saw the movement. He raised his paw and shouted something. Around him, the [Soldiers] charged. They knocked down the alliance’s forces in front of them. The Antinium in the front ranks looked up and saw the new threat coming.

The Gnoll shot past the others. Embria saw his spear raised, aiming at the first rank of [Crusaders] who pivoted, steel armor and shields gleaming.

Wrath. Perish.

Embria rode at the Gnoll, 4th Company accelerating.

“Skills! Now!”

Vell, Pielt, and Embria all began using their Skills to make the [Soldiers] following them as strong as could be. They were going to miss the first attack, but Embria was galloping now, racing ahead of the others.

“[Daring Charge]! [Piercing Arms]!”

“[First Strikes]! [Formation: Accelerate]!”

“[Blades of Glory]!”

The Gnoll reached the Antinium lines. Embria saw him jump. Jump? Why—

She saw his spear twist in the air. The glittering red tip of metal and dark shaft of ashwood twisted in the air. Curving impossibly, the spear’s tip striking down.

For a second, Embria saw something like a giant beast’s fang slice through the air. Left—right. So fast she nearly missed it.

Like a flash of lightning, it went through the Antinium in front of the Gnoll. One rank, two—

An Antinium Worker in the third rank lowered the bow he was carrying. He stared ahead, confused, at the collapsing Antinium in front of him and then at his third arm. He only saw green blood leaking from his torn armor. Where had his arm gone?

The Gnoll landed. Embria’s blood chilled. She pointed at him.

“Kill that—”

The [Spearmaster] raised his spear as the Antinium turned incredulously towards him. The wavering lines of Hectval-Drisshia-Luldem’s alliance clashing against Liscor looked up as something dark filled the night sky. Drenching torches and the light spells. Embria looked up as the Gnoll raised his spear overhead. She felt a dread creeping up inside of her.

[Fear].

Then everything went dark.

Lulv, [Spearmaster]

The Antinium looked like they always had.

Armored Antinium. He had fought them in the Second Antinium Wars, and after that in quiet skirmishes.

These ones were different. Not in arms. Lulv heard a voice.

Suffer. Perish.

Some kind of intimidation Skill? The Gnoll didn’t stop his advance, though it made his fur stand on end. A voice was still just a voice. He had seen far more terrifying things.

So these are Free Antinium. He caught a glimpse of their front rank. This was the battalion that had done so much damage to Hectval’s alliance? He could see why.

Heavy armor. Tight formation.

No gaps to exploit. The [Spearmaster] hadn’t expected any.

Sokkel was waiting for his signal. Lulv chose a spot. Someone had seen Manus’ advance. He felt a prickling in his mind. Threat incoming.

However, Manus’ forces needed a hole. So the [Spearmaster] leapt. His legs crouched on the rocky ground and then the Gnoll flew.

He saw the Antinium in the front rank raising their heads to stare at him. An armored Antinium calling orders.

Antinium on the right flank. Belgrade the [Strategist]?

[Covert Target Mark]. Both glowed in the split-second Lulv saw them. Then he used his Skill.

[Spear Art: Fangs of the Dire Wolf]!

His enchanted spear struck twice, twin flashes through the Antinium’s lines. Lulv landed and saw bodies collapsing. The Antinium recoiled, looking right and left.

Dead? Just like—?

The spear had gone through armor and bodies without stopping. Unenchanted steel couldn’t stop Lulv’s spear. Nor low-level [Soldiers].

“Charge!”

An officer of Manus roared. [Soldiers] streamed around Lulv, and he raised his spear overhead in one paw.

The signal. The flash of surprise in the Antinium’s ranks wouldn’t last. The enemy commander had eyes on him.

So Sokkel closed the eyes. The sky began to turn dark. The clouds gathered at an impossible speed—but not regular grey ones, or even dark thunderclouds. Pitch black mist streamed down from the heavens, engulfing both armies. Liscor and the Hectval alliance were thrown into darkness, but one side had been expecting it.

[Storm of Clouded Darkness]. Now was the time. Lulv shouted as his spear rose.

“[Intimidation: Spear of a Thousand Graves]!”

And fear ran through Liscor’s army. Lulv pointed his spear straight ahead.

“Forwards!”

Manus’ veterans ran past him, towards the Antinium who’d held their ground. Lulv saw a Soldier swinging a sword and hatchet with decent coordination at one of Manus’ [Soldiers]. The Gnoll swept his own sword up and took one of the Antinium’s arms off. The Soldier staggered, brought up a shield, and the Gnoll whirled. The slash took off the Antinium’s head, armor or not.

“Split their lines.”

“[Lance Formation]! [Steelsundering Blades]! Go, go!”

One of the officers roared, and Hectval’s forces created a wedge along Liscor’s lines, through the Antinium gap. Surprised Drakes and Gnolls found themselves flanked.

Not his job to win this battle. However, it kept Liscor’s army off them. Sokkel had advised Hectval-Drisshia-Luldem’s command to split Liscor’s army in a charge. He had promised the Antinium wouldn’t stymie them.

Of all the groups fighting in the darkness, the Antinium were the most cohesive. They pivoted and fought—but they had no idea what they were fighting. They had never met high-level enemies.

Lulv ran forwards, his job done, as he heard screams of panic, chaos in Liscor’s ranks. He saw an Antinium Worker with three arms raising a shield to block him. He stabbed through the shield and the Antinium with the adamantium-tipped spear, drew it out, and turned.

[Hurricane Stabs]. [Ten-foot Reach]. His spear shot out, six, twelve, fourteen times, ramming through Antinium, creating another gap that Manus’ [Soldiers] streamed into. Enchanted blades cut through armor. They didn’t panic under the darkness cloud; they could see each other, so each soldier followed the other forwards, listening for orders in the chaos. Lulv was looking around.

Where’s that Prognugator?

“Spearmaster! Enemy charging!”

Lulv whirled and saw a single [Rider] leading a group of infantry straight at Manus’ forces. He growled.

“Liscor’s 4th! Anti-Liscor tactics! First Assault, turn and repel with me!”

Manus had met Liscor in combat. Drakes and Gnolls turned and set themselves as 4th Company rode in. Fast. Hard. Each [Soldier] must have had a dozen Skills boosting them.

One of Manus’ [Soldiers] raised his axe calmly. He looked at the first [Soldier] of Liscor’s 4th coming at him and spoke.

“[I’m As Good As You Are].”

He brought down the axe on the shield, knocked the charging [Soldier] flat, and another of Manus’ soldiers speared the downed warrior in an instant. Lulv murmured.

“[Spear Art: Scythe of the Field].”

This time his spear was a horizontal crescent sweeping across the [Soldiers]. It would have decapitated the front rank—but then Lulv saw the pinpoint of death and twisted out of the spear art. He flicked his spear up, deflected the thrust at his head, and aimed a killing thrust at the horse.

“[Superior Parry]!”

His spear bounced as the Drake holding it knocked his thrust astray. She turned, riding her mount left, and Lulv saw another expert with the spear.

No [Spearmaster], though. Liscor’s army used to have a famous one. Lulv advanced.

[Ricochet Stabs]…his spear tip shot towards the ground and then seemed to bounce upwards, aiming at the rider’s legs and the horse’s unarmored belly. She cursed, deflecting them, then leapt from her saddle.

Lulv could have killed the horse. He did not. The Drake landed, wise enough to know that the horse was dead weight.

She was not prepared for his charge, a single leap like a [Duelist], that carried him across the two dozen paces to ram his spear through her chest.

Almost. Lulv turned as a sword threatened to cut across his chest. He took a slash against his armor. A Drake [Captain] had saved her Wing Commander.

“[Spearmaster]! [Captains], on me!”

She was roaring. The Drake Wing Commander hesitated, but then the red-scaled Drake advanced with her [Captain]. Lulv saw more figures coming his way.

They didn’t need to fight Liscor’s 4th. He blocked the slash from the [Captain] with his spear, whirled it, and knocked the [Spear Hunter]’s stab away. She tried to cut low; he stomped the tip of her spear into the mud as she swept it towards his legs. The Drake with the sword was waiting, though, and lunged.

Lulv’s spear knocked the sword aside, so hard it would have gone flying but for her claw locking it into place with a Skill. The [Captain] stared up incredulously at Lulv as he whirled, parrying a crossbow bolt at close-range. An Antinium Soldier tried to reload as one of Manus’ officers ran him through with another spear.

The Drake [Captain] looked at Lulv, and her eyes focused on his spear. She gasped.

“Oh shit! Man—”

Lulv ran through her stomach with a grimace. The Drake fell backwards, holding at her guts as the Wing Commander slashed her spear up in a flurry of strikes.

“Vell! On me! Fall back! Fall—”

Someone lunged at Lulv, and he choked up on his spear, slashed across a throat, and fell back as well. Liscor’s 4th was retreating from Manus’ blades. Lulv whistled, and the soldiers around him retreated.

“On me. Take out those Antinium.”

He turned back to his target. The cover of darkness wouldn’t lift all night or until it was dispelled. In that time…Lulv saw the Antinium retreating, disorganized. He nodded.

“[Each Death, Another Breath].”

The [Spearmaster] formed a wedge with the soldiers under his command and advanced.

Crusader 51, [Crusader]

The strange soldiers were killing them. Battalion 1, Acid Jars, had been ready to fight. Not eager for a commendation, but ready.

Then Dekass had said ‘elites’, the sky had gone dark, and…

They’d begun dying.

The first [Crusader] who died took an arrow through the chest. It went through their armor, and five of the other Crusaders tried applying healing potions, because it wasn’t a fatal wound.

But it was poisoned, and the Worker stopped twitching as the Antinium waited for orders.

“Reform…Battalion 3…”

Tersk was out there, but his voice was distorted. Battalion 1 waited for their name, but they didn’t hear anything. Only shouting, howls…and a kind of eerie lack of noise.

The clash of metal-on-metal was normal to Crusader 51, by now. He didn’t hear it. Were they not fighting Drisshia’s heavies? He looked at Crusader 53, who had raised both his maces, confused, waiting.

The Antinium of Battalion 1 saw nothing through the darkness. Nothing, nothing…a hint of movement?

Then the Drakes and Gnolls were on top of them. One swung a sword through one of Squad 4’s pikemen without a sound. The blade cut through armor, left a green trail—the [Crusader] died as Crusader 51 jerked. He began to advance and saw a blade coming straight at his face.

Parry! Calruz’s roar was an echo of Crusader 51’s desperate instincts. He parried the blade and felt his sword…tear?

The steel was cut from the contact with the enemy blade, but it missed his face. The Drake cursed; he had a buckler in one hand, and Crusader 51’s stab with his shortsword bounced off it.

And Crusader 51’s arm went numb. The shortsword dropped from his arm as the enchanted shield rose. His sword jerked back from a slash, and the Drake raised his arm for a thrust. Crusader 51 raised his own shield and realized—

It wouldn’t stop that enchanted blade.

Inexperience. The Drake thrust his sword forwards, and Crusader 53 brought his mace down on the arm and snapped the bone.

It was an armored arm, with some thin scaled armor, but the descending mace caught the arm on the downswing…at the same time as Crusader 53’s other mace caught it on the upswing from the bottom.

With nowhere to go, the arm snapped, and the Drake screamed.

“Aaah!”

He leapt backwards. Crusader 51 ran forwards to stab him through the face, and his blade vanished as a Gnoll parried the blade off the sword. She whirled her own shortswords around.

“Injury! Fall back!”

“Watch out! Those two are better!”

The Gnoll woman turned, and two more of the strange soldiers moved to face Crusader 51 and Crusader 53. But by now, the rest of Squad 5 had seen them.

Multiple squads were engaged, and one of Squad 5 turned to thrust a spear forwards. One of the strange soldiers knocked the spear aside, lunged with a spear, and tried to stab Crusader 58 through the chest!

Crusader 51 and Crusader 53 saw it and reacted instinctively. Crusader 58 hadn’t realized they were enchanted blades, but the two Antinium knocked the blade down and stabbed forwards—only to nearly dissect themselves on the other two [Soldiers]’ blades.

“Huh. They are better.”

The spear-wielding Drake commented. The strange [Soldiers] pulled back, counted the nine Antinium, and, to Crusader 51’s surprise, backed up. They joined another group of their own, cutting into Squad 2.

Did they attack? Squad 5 didn’t know. Tersk wasn’t here. They had to attack. Did they fire arrows? Crusader 51 stared at his severed sword tip. He had no sword.

“Continue fighting! Assist other squads! Do not retreat!”

A voice broke through the stifling darkness. Dekass! Crusader 51 had never been more relieved to hear his voice.

Squad 5 instantly advanced. The enemy turned to face them, dividing themselves up, and Crusader 51 swung his shortsword in place of his regular one.

Strike—parried. Shield block—one of the Drakes took a piece out of it. Slash at an arm and a wince, but no blood because the armor was too tough—

Then Squad 5 was backing up. Crusader 53 was bleeding. Crusader 58 was dead.

Their weapons. One of the Drakes whirled his sword through an Antinium’s arm. He severed Crusader 51’s shortsword as their blades met and turned to stab Crusader 53 in the stomach. The Antinium wavered, falling back, and Crusader 51 planted the jagged end of his sword in the Drake’s eye.

The soldier dropped, and the others spun. Crusader 51 backed up, grabbing for something, and Squad 5 fell back.

“Soldier down.”

One of the Drakes announced with a calm bite to his tone. The others checked the fallen Drake, but the sword hilt was buried in his skull.

Crusader 53. Was he alright? Crusader 51 kept his guard up—and saw the other [Crusader] pouring his healing potion onto his stomach. The wound closed. He would live.

“Do not retreat! I demand reinforcements. Tersk, to me! I must have ranged support! They have enchanted weapons.”

Somewhere, Dekass was shouting at the top of his lungs. Squad 5, in the chaos of it all, found themselves holding with Squads 2, 4, and 9…what remained of them. The enemy advanced, confidently sundering blades and armor. A Drake used a Skill that made his blade set one of the Antinium on fire.

Another drew an arrow and loosed it through a shield. A third raised his shield, blocking a barrage of strikes from three Soldiers, including Crusader 53! A fourth drew his sword in a glittering arc, and Crusader 51’s [Quick Slash] took off his arm.

The Gnoll blinked at his arm, and Crusader 51 ran him through. The other soldiers looked at Crusader 51 and spotted what he was holding.

The enchanted sword. One of them cursed, and Squad 5 backed up, leaving their dead behind—and another one of theirs.

“Three casualties. Back it up.”

One of the officers spoke quietly. The enemy glared at Squad 5, but they didn’t advance. Squad 5 let Squad 2 go for their bows, and the soldiers…retreated.

Crusader 51 hesitated, but Dekass had said to hold their ground. And besides…but for Crusader 53 saving him and the enchanted sword, they wouldn’t have had a chance.

Squad 5 looked at one another. One of them, Crusader 52, broke from 53 and 51 to see if any of the others were alive. Crusader 51 and 53 decided to help turn over the still bodies.

Crusader 51’s hands were green with blood. He stared at them and then the sword he’d picked up. Magic. He had never seen a magic sword. Did he put it back? It wasn’t his.

No. I need it.

The [Crusader] realized it was the only thing that could help him kill the enemy. How many were there? Where was the rest of Battalion 1?

Something whispered over his head, and Crusaders 51, 52, and 53 flinched. They looked up—and then around. Crusader 51 froze.

Where was Squad 5? Where was Squad 2, 9? He saw a few figures staggering—and then the Gnoll appeared.

He had a spear. Just a spear, but the tip glittered. He thrust once, such a simple move that looked so easy.

It was beautiful. Concise, economical.

He killed one of the [Crusaders] with it, turned, stabbed another, and looked around.

Every other Antinium was dead. Something had cut through them at chest-height. The spear?

Crusaders 51, 52, and 53 rose as the [Spearmaster] spotted them. He said nothing, but the Gnoll raised his spear. Crusader 51 lunged, sword slashing low, as Crusader 52 fumbled to stab with his spear, and Crusader 53 darted left, maces swinging hard.

The [Spearmaster] parried Crusader 51’s sword, ran the Antinium through the belly, tore it left, took one of Crusader 53’s arms on his right, then the other, and beheaded Crusader 52. He looked at Crusader 51 as the Antinium fell, and turned to the staggering Crusader 53. He frowned, raised his head, and blurred away as a hail of arrows struck Crusader 53’s back and armor and the ground around him.

“Volley! Volley on my target! Advance!”

Dekass led more squads forwards as Crusader 53 sat down, staring at his arm. The [Spearmaster] blocked more arrows, leapt forwards, stabbed three Antinium in a moment, and then went for Dekass.

Crusader 51 didn’t see what happened next. He was curled up in pain. It hurt. It really hurt. He wanted his potion. Where was his potion?

It was broken. The shards broke against his hand. Crusader 51 didn’t know what to do. It was going dark. He…

He didn’t want to die. He lay there, and the world grew fuzzy…

Something wet poured over his stomach. Someone yanked his hands away, and it hurt, so Crusader 51 fought to put them back…but then the pain went away!

The Soldier uncurled as he felt the hole in his stomach closing. He felt the world focus and realized someone was kneeling over him.

Crusader 53. He’d found Crusader 52’s potion and was pouring it onto Crusader 51. The two Soldiers looked around. Squad 5 was gone.

Crusader 53 fell over onto his back. Crusader 51 saw his two severed arms bleeding weakly and scrambled to his feet. He ran over to the bodies, searching for a potion, and ran back to him. He knelt over Crusader 53, who didn’t rise, even when his wounds closed. But his antennae twitched when Crusader 51 tore off his helmet.

He was alive. Crusader 51 knelt by him, the enchanted sword raised, terrified the Gnoll would come back. Antinium ran around him. Drakes and Gnolls shouted, ran past him—some looked like enemies, but neither paid attention to the two still Antinium.

Crusader 51 knelt for a long time, holding Crusader 53. By the time his friend woke up, the cloud of darkness was thinning, and light was rising.

They had survived. But neither [Crusader] felt anything like warmth or happiness, though every squad who survived was commended that day.

Squad 5 was gone. Crusader 51…

Who was he now? He looked around at the dead Soldiers and wondered how this was fair.

[Crusader Level 13!]

[Skill – Blinding Flash (Sword) obtained!]

[Skill – Faith is My Strength obtained!]

Crusader 51 clenched and unclenched his hands.

He felt as weak as a bug.

Belgrade, [Strategist]

The instant the darkness descended, Belgrade knew they were in grave danger.

His first hint was the speaking stones.

“Commander Olesm. Please come in. What are your directives?”

He heard nothing. Belgrade tried again.

“Commander Olesm?”

Nothing.

Then the [Fear] effect struck. Belgrade felt a terrible terror seize him. Something was coming to kill him! He was going to die!

The Antinium wavered—but wait. He had felt like that many times.

The Antinium resisted the fear. The same could not be said for his forces.

“Run! Run! They’re everywhere!”

“They’ve broken through our ranks! Fall back!”

“Hold! Hold your ground!”

Some of the officers tried to stop the panic, but Belgrade raised his voice.

“No. Retreat. Fall back!”

He had seen Hectval piercing Liscor’s lines. The enemy might be flanking them. The [Soldiers] began retreating as Belgrade tried to raise Olesm. They had a backup system if the [Messages] and speaking stones went down.

“Get me our runners. I need to speak to Olesm.”

The problem was…they had never needed to use it. And either the designated messengers were dead or they’d fled.

All Belgrade could do was fall back and try to rally his forces. So the Antinium retreated and felt it was…

Familiar.

Kerone, [Squad Leader]

The officers were on the verge of running. Squad Leader Kerone was no hero; he didn’t even have a true military class, just [Squad Leader] rather than [Captain] or [Sergeant] because this wasn’t Liscor’s army. If he held and told the others to do the same and listen to the Antinium, it was because he knew they had no chance if they scattered.

However, their leader wasn’t Commander Olesm—it was Belgrade.

Kerone hadn’t been one of the officers who’d vocally objected to an Antinium leading them, but he had held his doubts. Now? He heard a babble of arguments as the Antinium surveyed the fighting in the darkness.

Where were they? They could barely read maps—and this was surely not the time to try! Hectval was everywhere, and they were fighting around…what? Caves? One of the hilltops?

Belgrade seemed to know. He was trying to give orders.

“Squad Leader Messk, move your forces to hold that position, there. I require a runner to the embattled squads…there.”

He pointed at fighting and shouting down the hill.

“They must retreat to this location.”

“You want to send us into that?”

“Yes. I must.”

A panicking Drake shook her head rapidly.

“No! No! I won’t let you send me to my death like some Antinium! We’re people, not—”

Belgrade clicked his mandibles together.

“We must fight or die. You will not be safer hiding here. Order. I must have more Skills to tell them from afar. These are not Antinium.”

“No, we’re not!”

The [Strategist] turned to the officers. He twitched visibly.

“That is not an insult. If you were Antinium, I could save your lives. Our forces cannot hear me. If we lose our cohesion, we will be routed.”

That brought some sense back into everyone, Kerone included. He stepped forwards.

“Messk, you heard the commander. Get down there! I can divide my squad up into runners.”

Messk hesitated, but then she obeyed. It was that or…or what? Belgrade at least had a plan.

Kerone had to admit—it was cowardly, because dividing up his squad meant he would stay here, coordinating them. Belgrade glanced at the Drake.

“Good. You are Kerone.”

“Yes, sir. They’re pushing.”

“Yes. But Hectval is equally uncoordinated.”

“…Are you sure?”

The Drake could see virtually nothing in the darkness, but either Belgrade had Skills or simply vision he didn’t…or he understood more in the flurry of shapes below. The Antinium pointed.

“I see multiple squads engaging each other, not battalions. Hectval has scattered its troops as much as we. This was an intelligent plan—poorly executed. We must draw together.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

Strength in numbers. Belgrade wasn’t saying anything Kerone disagreed with. The [Strategist] pointed down.

“Get me those squads. We will reform a defensive line around the hill. Deploy traps and wait for Olesm to contact us or find a point from which to strike.”

He was a defensive, organized leader. Kerone sent his [Soldiers] down into that darkness to pull back the squads.

…And they never came back.

Some tried. He saw groups heading towards him, but many ran into the enemy—or even attacked each other. Belgrade kept giving rapid-fire orders.

“Reinforce those squads, there. Squad Leader Itr, direct your [Archers]…there.”

However, he was trying to yank his command together and struggling. Kerone shifted from foot to foot. He saw Belgrade standing and looking down into the fighting. He didn’t know how long had passed. Thirty minutes? An hour? Belgrade seemed to be coming to a decision.

“We must go down there ourselves.”

The other officers gaped at Belgrade in shock.

“Down? Are you mad? We have a position!”

The [Strategist] calmly glanced around.

“We cannot inspire and unite the squads. Either we risk ourselves or…it’s familiar. They’re scattered. Someone used a [Fear] spell.”

Familiar? Kerone frowned at him. The Drake had heard of Belgrade. One of the Antinium, whatever that meant. Like the Yellow Splatters who was in the Watch. He knew there was a story there.

It revolved around…the inn. The [Innkeeper], who, depending on who you heard it from, was a menace, a strange miracle-worker, a blood-spewing maniac who went around stabbing people.

A martyr.

A friend to Goblins and Antinium.

He didn’t know which, but one of the reasons people would follow an Antinium at all was because Belgrade was part of that story. The [Strategist] drew an enchanted shortsword.

“We will go down. Squad Leader Kerone, form a bodyguard with me. Our app—”

Kerone saw Belgrade stumble as he walked towards them. The Squad Leader waited.

“Sir? Our approach?”

The Antinium felt at his side. He grasped something and turned. Kerone saw, in the magical darkness, the [Strategist] grasping at a feathered shaft.

“I have been sniped. Take cover.”

Everyone dove as Belgrade stumbled forwards. Kerone reached for him, and the Antinium collapsed behind a boulder. They looked for more arrows, but none fell. It was as if someone had aimed for Belgrade, through the darkness.

Kerone fumbled for his potion.

“We’ll get you on your feet. Just one…why isn’t it…”

He poured the glowing liquid onto Belgrade’s side. The arrow was buried deep, and the Antinium caught his arm as Kerone went to yank it out.

“It is barbed. My wound is not healing.”

He looked up at Kerone’s terrified face as the Drake shook his head. The Antinium clicked his mandibles. So softly.

“Poison. Of course.”

Belgrade, [Strategist]

“Familiar.”

That was all he said. It was hot.

He was dying. The poison was trying to kill him, but he was Antinium. He had been engineered to resist poisons.

However, it also stopped him from healing, so in that sense, the poison had done enough.

The arrow had hit him in the guts. Not the chest or head. In that sense, it was a…poor shot. Belgrade was in no position to feel fortunate.

The churning pain in his stomach had already turned into a feverish haze. That was a bad sign. He was lying propped at the top of the hill, as the officers panicked.

“Hold the line. [Deploy Trap: Bear Trap]. I needed more traps.”

He was speaking to Kerone and the others, trying to keep them from running. They would die, running about in the dungeon.

“We’re not in a dungeon, sir. We’re at war in Hectval’s foothills.”

The Drake addressed him. Belgrade’s mandibles opened and closed.

“Did I say that? Similar. You will die uncoordinated, alone. The squads must reform. Form a fighting line. Hold choke points. It is easy. If I die. You do it.”

The Drake paled at the thought.

“We can’t get the squads. They’re lost out there. Belgrade, commander. Don’t die on us. Olesm—Commander Olesm. Someone try to raise him!”

“You will not. They have jammed our spells. We are cut off. Surrounded. A fear-Skill was used. Or spell. That…that is familiar.”

Belgrade could see the fighting from where he was propped up. Someone had tried to compress the arrow to slow the bleeding. The bandage was already green with his blood.

“There. Wipeout.”

Belgrade wanted to point, but his arm was made of lead. He ordered Kerone to save that squad, but the Drake refused.

He knew what to do—but his limbs, his command, were unwilling to listen. Or unable?

They were not Antinium. Olesm had made a mistake. If you could not have your commands obeyed, your level was meaningless.

They were afraid. Which was fair. Everyone was afraid. This—this reminded Belgrade of the past. Yes. The day they had all died.

“You’re alive, sir. Keep awake. Where do we go? What do we do?”

Belgrade’s mandibles clicked together.

“Hm? There…they’re coming up the hill. Just like last time. There’s one of them out there.”

“Who?”

“Skinner.”

A gasp. They knew that name, too. That monster. Belgrade mumbled.

“I was there. I saw him die.”

It felt like he was dozing off. He would say something, then snap back to dreaming. Remembering? The [Strategist] heard something talking.

“The inn? You were at…”

The officers were around him. More or less? Were others listening too? Belgrade nodded. Poor little soldiers, dying out there.

“I was there. Very familiar. There weren’t many of us. Barely a few squads. Workers. Low-level. We fought. Knight. Bishop. Good names. Garry. Bird. Magnus. Belgrade…”

Yes. There he was, standing, fighting with the others. Around an inn with undead swarming at the windows. Leaping ghouls.

“Stand and fight together. Dying. Until the end, until the end, he said. Then I was still there, but they were all dead. I regretted it.”

“You’re alive. You’re still alive. Belgrade…Belgrade…stay with us.”

Someone was shaking him. Belgrade wanted to sleep…and knew he couldn’t.

“If I could go back. I could kill Skinner myself. With traps. With Skills. You can never go back. I should have been there. Six crossbow bolts. I could have taken one.”

Something was calling to him. A warm fire. A quiet inn. A smiling [Innkeeper]…but if he slept, he would never see it.

Perhaps in heaven?

“I do not believe in Pawn’s Heaven. I cannot see it. I want it. But I was there. We are all Knight.”

They were like him, in the end. They panicked, and they couldn’t think together, in that rare, wonderful moment. They had lived under the sky and ate good food and took it for granted, and they did not like him, but that was what he saw.

Squads of Antinium. Standing and dying together.

“Yes. Do that.”

“Do what? Sir? Sir…?”

“Stand. All you can do is…”

Belgrade tried to move. He could not, so he spoke. Below him, each squad, fighting—his voice could not pull them past their foes. But perhaps…

Stand. Back-to-back, in a ring. Around an inn. They didn’t have the number for grand strategy. They were not pieces on a chessboard, even if they named themselves after the game.

Stand, until the last one fell. A little chess club, fighting for each other. They did not have to be there. But they had to. And each one fought so the other wouldn’t fall. For one more second.

A hundred little chess clubs appeared in Belgrade’s vision. He smiled.

Yes. Someday they would kill Skinner. Then…then came Goblins. The [Innkeeper]. Join together. Reform the [Archers]. Send a light upwards.

We are here. Until Klbkch came from the Hive.

“We’re doing it. Sir? Sir…!”

Belgrade murmured.

“Hm? I’m awake. I’m awake. I’m…”

His voice trailed off. His side truly hurt, but it was a receding ache. Belgrade clung to something. As if he had eyes weary to close. He wanted to drift off, but not yet.

“One after the other. But not yet. We will be with you until the end. Which is now.”

His waving antennae slowly stopped moving. Then…Belgrade sighed.

“Yes. Bird was right.”

Kerone, [Squad Leader]

Delirious. The Antinium was delirious. He was alternating between strategy, telling them where an attack was coming. Promote the pawn. Bishop coming.

The inn. He kept talking about the inn. Below him, the squads had adopted a strange formation. The Hectval soldiers fighting with them saw them forming rings, slowly trying to link up with each other.

Squad fighting. Slowly drawing together. It was working.

But the [Strategist] was fading away. The officers were kneeling, listening. Almost…hypnotized by the story. They would get up and go, but the [Soldiers] healing, resting—heard the Antinium murmuring that oldest tale.

“It is such a strange thing, fear. I was afraid. She was afraid. But there are things worse than dying. Skinner was scary. When I woke up and everyone was gone but Pawn, Garry, Anand, and Bird…worse.”

This was Belgrade? The [Strategist] didn’t see the [Soldiers] listening. Nor…he was feverish. He spat out the water they gave him. He trailed off.

“One after the other. But not yet. We will be with you until the end. Which is now.”

“Not now. Stay with us. Belgrade? Strategist?”

He heard nothing. The Antinium looked around, and the sodden arrow in his side leaked more blood despite the claws, hands, and paws on it.

“Yes. Bird was right.”

He went still. For one second, his antennae dropped. Then Belgrade stood. He pushed himself up and stood.

Swaying, bleeding, heedless of everything else. The Antinium hunched with the effort. But he moved his feet, angled his body…how? Where?

“I was right here. I was always here.”

There was no context to it. None at all, unless you had listened to his story. After all, he was one. Alone, he was a single statue in a ring.

Right here. Below him, squads looked up and formed their own rings of bodies. They pointed. There. The [Strategist] stood on the hill as the clouds of darkness began to break, so Liscor’s forces fought towards it.

I was always right here. Squad Leader Kerone had never thought to ask for an Antinium’s past. He had never cared, though he wouldn’t throw stones at Workers, and regarded them as strange but not necessarily evil.

He stood, propping Belgrade up, and looked at the [Strategist]. He knew his story, now. At least, one part.

Silently, Kerone promised himself one thing: if he should survive this day and this war, he would go back to Liscor. Walk out the gates and head up that hill. Go visit that ruined place where the inn had burned before being rebuilt elsewhere and see…

Where Belgrade had stood.

The Antinium was cold. He was always cold to the touch, but as the sun shone down on his armor and head—as Olesm’s banners came to view and they saw Hectval retreating, and the losses.

The officers were silent, but Kerone looked at Belgrade.

“Strategist Belgrade?”

The Antinium said nothing. Kerone’s grip loosened. The other Gnolls, Drakes, and Humans slowly looked around, and began to lower Belgrade down. They gathered around him, and Kerone went to unclasp Belgrade’s arm from the arrow and fold them across his chest.

The Antinium slapped Kerone’s claw away.

The [Squad Leader] jerked back. He saw Belgrade’s head move. The Antinium clicked his mandibles.

“Every time I try to sleep, the voice speaks to me. It is annoying.”

“Strategist!”

Kerone shouted. He turned and waved his arms.

“[Healer]! Get a [Healer]!”

Belgrade, [Strategist]

Belgrade sighed as Kerone grabbed at him. But he listened to the voice that told him he wasn’t dead. If he were, he would hear Erin saying something about popcorn with yeast.

All he heard was…

[Trapsetter Strategist Level 33!]

[Conditions Met: Trapsetter Strategist → Combined Arms Strategist Class!]

[Skill – Antinium-Expertise Command obtained!]

[Skill – Prepared Battleground: One Hour obtained!]

[Skill – Army: Springwood Supplies obtained!]

[Skill – Squad: The Chess Club’s Stand learned.]

Elirr, [Councilmember]

There was no celebrating the day after the new element entered the Hectval War. Every other time Olesm had sent a report through—he declined to waste the door’s precious mana—Lism had brought a bottle of something to pop, drink, and toast with.

The bottle of Amentus wine sat unopened on the table. Elirr could have used it, to be honest.

Anything to tell him the world wasn’t as it was, and he wasn’t reading the casualty numbers right. The rest of the army had taken terrible losses, but it was the Antinium’s numbers that made him read it again and again.

Antinium killed, estimated: 938.

Antinium wounded, estimated…

That one number.

“A third of the Antinium division. How? This is more than they’ve lost in the entire…”

The Council sat in a state of shock. Lism was hunched over, staring at the numbers. All of the forces had bled. Belgrade’s division had been cut off, in particular trouble, but the [Strategist] had apparently inspired them to keep fighting rather than be wiped out.

That number. Wounded lists were far, far higher. But the wounded tended to walk away because a potion was so powerful. So the real loss was the damage to armor, morale, or the loss of the potion.

The Antinium had been issued with potions and still. Elirr rubbed at his brows. It didn’t seem quite…he didn’t believe it, but he had seen the wounded being escorted through the magic door until it was shut down to be resupplied.

“We cannot move reinforcements through. We must advise Olesm that we don’t have the mana to do that. Potions? They need potions.”

“How many? I thought they had plenty, even…”

Guildmistress Alonna looked up. Elirr pointed.

“Down the page. Hectval went for their supply lines. We now have a shortage of potions.”

The council stirred. Tismel sat up.

“We can replenish them, though. Right?”

Lism glared, directing his vacant stare onto a familiar target for wrath.

“Oh, naturally. We can suddenly produce thousands of healing potions. A shortage is…we will issue an order to all [Alchemists]. Send for Celum, Invrisil’s stocks. Someone find our budget. But—we should make an announcement.”

“Surely not. That would be admitting we lost.”

Zalaiss spoke up. Elirr muttered.

“It will spread, regardless. Everyone talks.”

“We could order them not to—”

Lism closed his eyes.

“Zalaiss. Please don’t say anything stupid for one moment. Please.”

A terrible silence fell over the room. And they were not the ones fighting. Elirr looked at the lists. The army remained. The Antinium had lost a third of their forces, but it was mercifully—no, incredibly lighter on casualties, even though the loss of many supplies was a terrible thing. The rest of the army had taken a tenth of the losses per division.

Why was that? Olesm hadn’t written out anything definitive. But he had suspicions, and Elirr’s hair rose as he read them.

Embria, [Wing Commander]

She knew exactly who and how it had happened. It wasn’t hard. Embria had almost known, but Vell, lying in the [Healer]’s tent, had croaked confirmation to her.

“It’s Manus, Wing Commander. It’s Ancestors-damned Manus. That was their veterans. I’ll bet my tail on it. And I think that [Spearmaster]…that might’ve been him.”

“Spearmaster Lulv.”

Vell’s eyes flickered as she held her stomach. The enchanted spear’s wounds were not…easy to heal.

“You know him?”

“Reputation. His Skill made me suspect.”

“How many Ants did they kill?”

“Nearly a thousand.”

Vell put her head back. Embria didn’t know what to think. She had heard Belgrade had saved his entire division. And even if she bore the Antinium no good will…

Even she had trouble watching the remnants form up. Embria needed to talk to Olesm, though. Manus was in this war. They would probably deny it; that was their standard operating procedure, and there was no proof. But they had sent some of their best to kill the Antinium. She walked out of the tent and avoided looking at Tersk and Dekass. Both had survived, although someone had tried to snipe both with enchanted arrows.

Their armor had protected them, so the Prognugators were counting their forces.

Artur, [Flag Bearer]

Artur had been jealous of Crab Battalion. He was assigned to Battalion 4, Razorbeaks, and everyone had been envious of Crab Battalion, with their four commendations.

It felt so…wrong. Artur felt dirty, though his armor was still pristine. He had hung back in the fighting, holding the flag.

Doing nothing as Crab Battalion and the others died.

Crab Battalion…was gone. Tersk and Dekass looked at four squads, each with less than half their original number.

And that was it. The unknown soldiers with their enchanted blades had targeted Crab Battalion. Battalions 1, 3, and 5 had endured the worst fighting.

There were only two [Crusaders] left in Squad 5, Battalion 1. One had two arms missing. The other? The other had an enchanted blade, which Tersk inspected.

There was no counting how many of the enemy had died, but it was a low, low number. In fact, Tersk had reported to Olesm in Artur’s earshot that he could confirm six dead. And that had been with Dekass calling in volleys of arrows onto the [Crusaders]. In fact, that was the only thing that had made the enemy retreat. They had healed all wounds, retreated rather than stay and risk losses.

Artur could see other [Crusaders] looking at him and his flag. Perhaps it made them feel better. He hoped it did.

Artur felt so useless. He had been in the darkness, and if only…if only his flag could have done more. But he had seen Crab Battalion fighting against [Soldiers] three times their level at least. The difference was just that.

Levels.

Elirr, [Councilmember]

The Council of Liscor drafted a somber announcement to go out across the city. From their rooms, Elirr had a view of it from the windows. He heard the howls of Gnolls fearing their loved ones were lost as well.

“So what happens next? Do we retreat?”

Alonna sat wearily at the table. The first hour of their day had exhausted her, and Elirr just wanted to go to Jeckle, the Ice Wyvern he was training, and pet him and feed him.

However, Lism shook his head.

“Olesm hasn’t written that.”

They all looked at him. The purple-scaled Drake glanced around.

“I’m not being his uncle. I’m being realistic. You don’t surrender and roll over after one bad battle. He thinks there’s a chance. Maybe they retreat and fortify. Hectval is still out there.”

“But if Manus is in it…”

Jeiss had come back from delivering the news to Watch Captain Zevara. He had also run the news to the Free Hive. He closed the door to the Council’s chambers.

“That’s our job. If they are in it, we scream it as loud as possible and throw every accusation. Manus is interfering in other city’s battles. No Drake city likes that. I just told the Watch Captain; she got a copy anyways.”

“Smart of Olesm. What did she say?”

“She’ll take a muster of volunteers, make sure we’re ready for any Hectval groups sneaking around the Floodplains. Oh—and she’s answering one of his requests. But also…I have this. The Free Queen has written us a letter.”

The entire Council looked up sharply. Tismel blurted out.

“The Free Queen can write?”

Jeiss laid the letter on the table. It was unsealed, and he offered it to Alonna, who hesitated.

“Dictate, I think. Want to read it out loud, Alonna?”

The Guildmistress cleared her throat.

“The Free Queen…is she speaking in third person? It’s like a royal announcement. Er, let me…The Free Queen has been apprised of the casualty reports in Engagement #11. She congratulates Liscor’s army on its survival.”

“Congratulates…?”

Lism mouthed, but Alonna went on.

“The numbers of Antinium deceased are acceptable, the Free Queen feels, for a wartime scenario. She is prepared to resupply Workers and Soldiers in the same quantities, provided Liscor will authorize transit and aid in rearmament. She suggests the Antinium dead may have weapons or armor that can be repurposed for—does she not care?”

Alonna nearly tore up the paper. She whirled.

“Nearly a thousand Antinium die and she’s ready to send another thousand in!”

“They’ve seen worse battles. She might think it’s acceptable. But check the signature.”

Jeiss murmured. He’d already read the letter, then. Elirr saw Alonna go down the letter and blanch.

“What?”

The [Mage] pursed her lips.

“It’s signed…Xrn.”

The Council looked at each other, and Elirr felt that familiar prickling on his skin and fur. Well, that was one person who might not look at a thousand dead as a problem. But a thousand…

Was Belgrade alive? Elirr thought of Pawn, or Silveran, who cleaned his shop and would have done it for free just to pet the cats. The Gnoll put his head in his paws.

“Yet the war will continue. We can’t move the Soldiers and Workers through the door. On foot, then. And that replenishes the Antinium’s losses completely, doesn’t it?”

Tismel broke the silence, sounding almost cheerful. Even Zalaiss slapped his arm, but the Council began to break from its stasis.

“We need to send supplies. That damned door sucks more mana than a [Sailor] sucks down seawater. How did Erin ever make it work properly?”

Jeiss muttered. Alonna sighed.

“Her inn is a leyline. We could move the door…”

Lism interrupted.

“It’s disrespectful. And we can’t ship everyone through it.”

Alonna threw up her hands.

“Well, let’s prioritize! Send the [Healers] and any specialists. We have a few Olesm wants.”

“Anything. How many?”

“Just the [Healers] who we’re shuttling through. A poison-expert for Belgrade. Um…one from Zevara, and it looks like…three Antinium ‘specialists’ from the Free Hive. Huh?”

Alonna caught sight of the names on the list and stared down. Jeiss sat up, and Elirr leaned over. His face turned dark, and Jeiss looked at him.

“You okay with it, Elirr?”

The Gnoll hesitated, then nodded.

“Better Hectval than us. I won’t object. Who are the specialists from the Antinium?”

“No clue.”

Olesm, [Leader]

Olesm had leveled after that night. As a [Leader]. He had heard that you did, even if you lost a battle, but he felt disgraced.

He waited for the reinforcements. The Antinium had to march, but Belgrade needed the poison-specialist, even though he’d survived the worst of it.

However, Olesm had written to Zevara the instant he’d learned Manus was on the attack. They were now low on potions, but more would come, and they’d have to make do.

Strangely, when he’d told Belgrade that, the Antinium had begged for him to write a request to Pawn. The [Strategist] had insisted on being carried to greet the visitors as well.

It did move Olesm, seeing that the Antinium had some volunteers from his division to do it. The maligned [Strategist] had won over his command in a single night. Olesm wanted to ask him how.

“Who are we expecting?”

“Help for…healing. They did not come with the other Antinium. But if they are needed, they will come. They are an…asset. I am not allowed to say their classes.”

“I see. But they can help heal?”

“Yes. And the Antinium will benefit from them in other ways. They are like Pawn.”

Olesm’s brows sharpened, but he saw the door open.

“Crates coming through! Stand clear!”

The first supplies of potions were shoved through the door, and the most wounded, who needed to get to Liscor, went through next. However, Olesm and Belgrade were waiting for a few people.

“Antidote specialist? Who am I treating?”

A cautious Human came through the door, spotted Belgrade, and hesitated. Olesm waved him over.

“Check with our [Healers], please.”

“I am allergic to wheat.”

Belgrade called out as the toxin-expert hurried past him. However, the two were waiting for the last specialists.

There were four of them. Three came in a group. Olesm frowned.

They were like Pawn indeed. He had never particularly noticed them, mainly because Pawn was odd enough. Nor did he know their names.

However…the Antinium who walked forwards, three of them, all had robes over their chitin. They were Workers, not Soldiers. They carried simple clubs—but that was not their weapon.

At first, Olesm thought they were like Jelaqua. Until he realized what they held was not a flail, but…that object Pawn held.

A censer, Erin called it. Something meant to hold and burn incense. The three Antinium looked at Belgrade, and one stepped forwards.

“Strategist Belgrade. I am [Acolyte] Jerimy—”

“Shh! Shh! No classes!”

Belgrade waved his arms and winced. The [Acolyte] fell silent as Olesm stared. A what? However, another of the Antinium saw Belgrade’s bandaged side.

“You are hurt.”

“Yes. There will be fighting. You might need armor. I will speak with you…”

The [Acolyte] didn’t listen. He walked over, touched Belgrade’s side, and whispered. Olesm saw Belgrade stiffen…then relax. He didn’t understand what had happened until Belgrade slowly sat up and, to the amazement of all, hopped out of his stretcher.

“You should not do that openly. There is secrecy to discuss.”

His wounds were healed! Olesm had seen—he gritted his teeth, trying to piece it together. And wondering, more importantly, how to use that.

Despite their unique classes and abilities, Pawn’s disciples entered the Hectval war with little notice or fanfare at first.

Mainly because you could not [Appraise] what they had. Also, because the last specialist Olesm had called for made a larger impression. Olesm watched as they undid the specially-made bindings. He stepped through, and some of the Gnolls growled and the Drakes glared, but Olesm was certain.

He had written to Watch Captain Zevara only one thing when he had learned Manus had sent their best. If they wanted to enter the war…he would send someone right back at them. Manus was the Walled City of War. Perhaps, at last, the prisoner would get his wish. Either way, Manus and Hectval would regret it first.

Olesm had written to Zevara simply:

Send forth the Minotaur.

Calruz of Hammerad stretched his arm out as he looked at Olesm. The [Strategist] glanced back, towards his forces.

Crusader 51. Artur. Embria. Belgrade…the fighting Antinium, Drakes, Gnolls, and Humans of Liscor’s army.

The entrance of Manus into the Hectval war took place nearly twenty days into the fighting. Liscor’s advance would stalemate in the foothills for the next two months, and see the bloodiest fighting by far in that time.

Interlude – Hectval (Pt. 2)

[I am delighted to shout out fellow author Selkie Myth for winning the most prestigious and deadly award ever—the Stabby for their web serial! Go and check out their stories here, consider supporting them on Patreon or buying a copy of their stories if you enjoy what you read!]

Vess, [Magic User]

The class of [Mage] could be [Magus] as well, but the two were not interchangeable. [Magus] had other connotations that sometimes indicated royalty, a bent towards academia, and so on.

There were many magic classes. From [Witch] to [Wizard] to [Hedge Mage]—and those were only the base classes. The chain of evolving class titles and combinations rose beyond [Archmage]—and [Archmage] was what most people aspired to be.

However, if the ceiling rose past the sky…the ground floor had a basement. Below [Hedge Mage], below [Spellslinger] or [Apprentice Mage], existed a class that sucked scum off the underbellies of slugs.

And that was [Magic User]. A companion class would be—[Wand User]. There was only one class lower, and that was [Magic Gifted], as far as Vess knew.

It didn’t bother him. Much. [Mages] weren’t around enough to make fun of him, and he didn’t exactly wave his class around at the Mage’s Guild. In fact, it was a slight mark of pride.

He had taught himself magic. Not ‘he had read from a spellbook and become a magician’, or ‘he self-taught himself after a few lessons’. Vess had mastered the rudiments of magic by waving sticks around as a little Drake boy.

Not that it had been that long ago. Four years since he’d first created a spark with his wand, and Vess was sixteen.

Also, in the army. When the [Recruiter] asked his class, they raised their brows into the sky but issued Vess with an unusual item for a recruit: a wand of [Light Arrow].

[Light Arrow] was one of the weakest attack spells in existence. Depending on the mana and control of the [Mage], it could hit you like a sledgehammer after doing a terrain-following attack pattern over a mile, but that was only if someone like Archmage Valeterisa cast it.

Vess could make his pierce at about…one third of the actual damage potential of a regular arrow from a decent bow. The benefit was that he could throw [Light Arrow] by just pointing his wand and concentrate on dodging and moving.

His squad was called ‘Big Yam’. The Drakes in it were a mix of new recruits and three veterans.

“Just make sure you point that thing at the enemy. We stick together. The Commander’ll have his orders; you just follow someone in front of you. Got it?”

Velden was the [Veteran] in the group. He treated the others roughly at first, but he drilled it into their heads along with the basic training. When the shit hits the [Gust of Wind] spell—stick together.

The thought of battle made Vess nervous, but he needed the money, and you got paid by the week. He was hoping for light action, maybe a few levels, but when he heard he’d be rotated to the front, he pretended that was what he wanted.

The army, or at least, his command, set off to a parade and cheers. Vess looked for his sister or parents in the crowd. They said they’d be there, but he didn’t spot them. Gnolls and Drakes lined the streets, waving, shouting, as Velden led the squad out.

“I bet you we’ll get to the enemy’s gates within the month. And I’ll gain ten levels and make [Captain] as well!”

One of the Drakes, Shain, joked. Velden turned his head and snorted.

“Don’t say hatchling stuff like that.”

“Why? It’s just good fun.”

Shain protested, and some of his buddies backed him up. Velden looked at him squarely.

“Don’t say it. If you’re saying it even as a joke, you believe it.”

“I don’t—”

One of the other [Soldiers] who’d seen a battle or two roughly elbowed Shain.

“People who say that die first. Velden’s right. Keep together. Don’t try and be a [Hero].”

They had such a serious attitude that Shain blustered and walked back to complain softly, but didn’t refuse. Vess, for his part, stayed meek and quiet. It seemed to him that Velden knew what he was talking about.

Perhaps that was why Velden took Vess under his wing. It might also have to do with their names…as ‘V’s’, they lined up close together under company musters, so they saw each other more than most.

——

“Listen, Vess. You’ve got a shield—keep it raised. Until the enemy’s on you, keep it raised. Even if you see the whites of their eyes or whatever—that’s when I see most idiots lower their shields to block. And that’s when the arrows hit you. [Strategists] are bastards. I’m glad we have some on our side, but remember that.”

They were enjoying a hearty meal of Telgas spread after a hard day of marching. Vess’ legs ached from marching in light armor up the hills. He was a proper Luldem boy and had roamed the rocky terrain, but he dug into the gelatin dish with most of the components of a soup dish—solidified.

“What’s this about, Velden?”

“Keeping your little head on your shoulders so you go back to your family. What else?”

Vess chewed on the gelatinous meal. It was a popular staple among Hectval and Luldem, part of the Alliance. That was what people called it, although it was properly the Luldem-Drisshia-Hectval alliance. Drisshia, full of smoke and, Vess had heard, foundries from their iron mines, were all about smoked foods. He’d seen some of their units linking up with his, and there were good old jokes about Hectval, [Soldiers] asking if they’d brought the Gnolls to do Hectval’s laundry for them.

However, it occurred to Vess he didn’t know why the war was going on. Obviously, he knew what everyone was talking about. Liscor, that Liscor, was going to war. They’d sent Antinium and everything. They might be on the news, but they were warmongering bastards who’d kicked out Hectval’s Council or somesuch.

But the rest…?

Velden frowned.

“I hear it’s about the Antinium. Top brass says that, but sometimes I hear rumors…they say it’s also about an inn. Or something.”

The rest of Big Yam gathered around.

“An inn? What inn?”

Velden scratched at his jaw scales.

“Dunno. I just hear it’s about an inn. Some of the [Soldiers] who fought off Liscor the first time said that was all the prisoners said. We burned an inn or killed an [Innkeeper].”

“One [Innkeeper]?”

Vess was incredulous. Velden shook his head.

“Eh, war starts for many reasons, kid. Don’t think too hard on it. And get some sleep, everyone. Don’t stay up dicing. We might see battle tomorrow. We’re heading up. Seems like the army’s at Lookout Lookout Hill.”

“Only there? I thought we’d be closer to Liscor.”

Shain commented as Vess scarfed his food. This was good eating; he’d have gotten less if he was a day laborer mining for Magicore. Velden grunted.

Lookout Lookout Hill had two ‘Lookouts’ in the name because someone had apparently not heard the first warning and gone off one of the cliff faces dotting the area. Hence, the name.

“Seems like we pulled back to hold it.”

His voice was neutral, but Vess had a good look at Velden’s face. The Drake looked…concerned. He caught Vess’ eye as the others rolled up.

“Is that bad?”

“…I think Liscor being there isn’t good. We were going to hold them at Seventeen Fingers. The ridgeline?”

Velden pointed up, across the hills. Vess nodded. Velden went on.

“Good, defensive spots. They didn’t come up the road…so the Alliance moved to block them there. If they’re at Lookout Lookout Hill…”

He trailed off. Vess waited, but Velden rolled over. Vess thought about it. Sleepy and full as he was, it only occurred to him right before he slept.

If they were there, the Alliance must have failed. And if Velden didn’t want to say that directly…Vess began to wonder just how bad the war was. Come to that…

This was the second round of recruiting. They had an army. How big was Liscor’s?

——

Velden’s words quickly became more than a single [Soldier]’s hunch. By the time Luldem’s reinforcement company got to the front, the word was out.

The battles with Liscor were not going well. In fact, they were so not well that the regular army holding the pass had sent everyone they could to hold the line here.

“This is where they stop. Remember it! The Alliance is making a stand. I don’t want any dissenting talk or negative tail wagging!”

An officer walked through each squad’s tent ground the second night, and Vess felt better as the confident Drake strolled along. He even stopped at the Gnoll tents. Velden just grunted.

“[Morale Sergeant].”

Vess’ spirits slipped when he realized it was a Skill.

Velden was silent, tersely speaking with other [Soldiers] who knew something. Vess listened in, but Velden and the others tended to do a lot of talking when no officer was watching. Velden told Vess only some of what he heard.

“…It’ll be intense. Antinium are fighting.”

“The Black Tide?”

Velden nodded. Vess tried to appear calm, but the Drake [Veteran] just hefted his halberd.

“They die like everyone else. We beat them two Antinium Wars running.”

Vess nodded hurriedly.

“But if Liscor’s fielding them—are they allied? Why would Antinium and…”

“They have a Hive. Listen, Vess. Don’t spread it about.”

——

The older Drake’s injunction didn’t matter much. Everyone was whispering about it. The Antinium were fighting, and they were tearing holes in the Alliance’s forces.

“I heard that the enemy commander’s some high-level [Strategist]. They sniped three officers. They can conjure a hail of arrows. And Liscor’s army sent a company to fight. Veterans.”

“I thought their entire army was Liscor’s?”

“Their mercenary army! The actually dangerous ones!”

Shain snarled at Vess as the other [Soldiers] gossiped. Vess’ stomach dropped even more.

So there were professional soldiers—at least a company of them, though some rumors said four—Antinium who could speak, survivors said, and a high-level [Strategist]. Liscor had fielded Drakes, Gnolls, in surprising numbers, and Humans.

There were more outlandish rumors still, saying that Gold-ranks had joined the forces, but the [Sergeants] and officers came down on any gossip hard. Vess actually got two lashes with Shain, and the welts on his back made him shut up.

None of this made the impending battle at the hill any better. The only thing that cheered Velden up, and kept him from telling Vess to stay behind him and keep his head low and shield up every fifteen minutes before the day of the battle, was some unexpected news.

“There’s some hotshot Drake ‘consultant’ in High Command. I saw him arguing with the brass, and three [Strategists] went storming out of the tent. Also—there’s a group of [Soldiers]. Snooty bastards. Didn’t want to swap stories or anything.”

Vess’ neck spines perked up since he had no ears, and he listened in as Velden gossiped with some other soldiers.

“Really? [Mercenaries]? How’d they look?”

“Sharp.”

Whatever that meant, Velden just nodded and seemed encouraged. Vess almost went to see this new group, who’d marched in and made camp away from everyone else. It seemed top brass needed them, but didn’t like them, if the [Company Captain]’s grousing was any indication. They passed by Big Yam’s tents the eve of the battle.

“Not under our command? What do I do? Just ignore them? They’re being led by some Gnoll with a fancy spear. Listen, [Major]. I at least need to tell them where to go. I won’t have some cowardly [Mercenary Captain] running off if…”

Vess didn’t have that much of a problem with Gnolls. Sometimes they caused fights in Luldem, and he heard tales…like the Meeting of Tribes had violent, warmongering tribes, but they were a generally peaceable lot from his time working in the mines. They weren’t all [Thieves]. Hectval seemed the most outraged, though they had the most at stake in the war.

In fact, Luldem and Drisshia’s soldiers got into arguments with Hectval’s as it was ‘their fault’ the war began. Officers stopped them from becoming brawls, but it also seemed like an issue around Gnolls?

Vess didn’t know. He went to sleep and slept for maybe thirty minutes, or so it felt. When he woke up and assembled with Big Yam’s squad, behind Velden, he was afraid. Petrified. When he saw Liscor’s army and the Black Tide wearing armor, he almost ran. He braced himself for the fight, the wand in his sweaty claw. It had sixty shots; then he had to use the shortsword of cheap iron.

——

Vess didn’t fight in the first battle, just past midday. The Alliance retreated too fast. He saw the officers try a complex attack where wedges of [Soldiers] in squads attacked Liscor from all sides.

It looked like a nest of angry hornets striking the rough dome formation from all sides. Vess was about to go in when someone began blowing a horn. Velden looked up.

“Ancestors. We’re falling back!”

Vess looked at him in shock, but the Alliance abandoned the field after less than twenty minutes of fighting. Not for no reason; Liscor’s army was cheering as the Alliance left twice or three times as many dead as Liscor’s.

The Antinium broke Drisshia’s armor. That elite company kept charging the squads attacking, and Vess saw a flight of phantom arrows, glittering with magic far beyond any he had mastered, with his own eyes. He stood with Big Yam’s squad in a state of shock.

Vess noticed the Gnoll with dark armor and that spear watching the battle and talking with the Drake consultant as the high command’s tents erupted into a flurry of shouting. He looked calm. In fact, his eyes were locked on the Antinium.

Vess could hear Liscor’s army cheering as the Alliance’s forces fell back. One group of Antinium in particular were waving their weapons. The Drakes and Gnolls were cheering, those traitors! They were shouting…

“…battalion! Crab Battalion!”

Nonsensical. Inane. The thought that anyone could cheer Antinium was…Vess felt sick. He marched back to their camp, as limp as a rag despite not having fired a single spell. When he heard they would be doing a night attack, he almost ran. But if he was caught, they’d give him a deserter’s brand or hang him or…

He was afraid, but he couldn’t let Velden go without him. So Vess didn’t sleep. When they went into battle, the [Magic User] was ready to die. He had no idea what was coming next.

——

A storm of darkness covered the sky. Vess shouted, but the [Sergeant] roared.

“It’s the plan! Go! Go! That Gnoll—”

The Gnoll with the spear raised it overhead and howled, and Vess saw Liscor’s entire army shudder. He felt nothing but a sense of excitement, pants-wetting terror, and the juddering of blood in his veins. The Alliance’s army charged down the hill. Big Yam was on one wing of the fighting off-left from the vanguard.

They entered the fray amid swirling black mist, which revealed foes and allies only when you got close. From then on?

It was like a dream. Vess followed Velden. The [Veteran] followed the [Sergeant], and Big Yam shouted at each other to stay together.

“Shain! Keep up! Vess, you with me?”

“Yes, Velden!”

“Sergeant! Sergeant?”

“Here! We’re over here!”

The Drakes of Big Yam jogged forwards and saw a Drake waving at them. The Drake looked relieved.

“Where’s Commander Olesm? What are the orders? The cloud just came over us!”

“I don’t know! Stick to the plan! Attack the…”

The Drake [Soldier] and Velden looked across the gap, and Velden’s teeth parted. The Drake, wearing an armor with an insignia that Vess didn’t recognize, recoiled into her comrades. Both groups realized they were the enemy at the same time.

“Attack!”

Velden roared as the Drake raised her voice.

“The enemy’s here! Attack! A—”

Vess didn’t think. He raised his wand, triggered the spell, and the [Light Arrow] went through her mouth. The Drake toppled over, and he looked at the wand in his hand.

I killed her. The arrow spell was weak, but it cut deep even at his level. He looked at the wand, then Velden grabbed him.

“Fight!”

Vess raised his wand and…fought.

——

A struggling pair of Drakes, grappling over a spear. A Gnoll hacking at an opponent, not realizing the enemy was leaning on him, already dead, sword grasped in a dead man’s grip. A charging Drake, running onto a spear thrust from the side, never seeing it.

Vess fired a [Light Arrow] into the head of the Drake fighting with Velden, then turned. The wand blasted another arrow into a Drake’s armor, and the enemy barely flinched. It was a weak spell.

“Faces or skin! Big Yam! With me! With me!”

Velden whirled his halberd, and Big Yam fell in. They clung together in the fighting, advancing slowly, meeting the enemy in the chaos.

Twice, they nearly attacked the Alliance’s own. However, Hectval was more coordinated, and Liscor was falling back. In truth, Vess fought only three times.

The first, panicked encounter. Second? When a group of Gnolls and Humans ran into them, fought for one second, then fled backwards, shouting to regroup. Big Yam had taken no casualties so far, thanks to potions.

The first casualty was Shain. Someone realized he was gone. Velden backed them up—the [Sergeant] had never returned—and they found him lying on the ground.

An arrow was through his neck. Vess looked down at Shain.

“He didn’t raise his shield.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered. It went through the back of his neck. Was that friendly fire? Damn them. Shields up!”

Velden cursed. Vess raised his shield—and they ran into the Antinium.

Just four of them. Big Yam saw them marching through the mists and froze. The Antinium were staring around. They didn’t see Big Yam until Vess blasted one in the face. The Antinium didn’t fall—but Velden stabbed it in the legs, and another [Soldier] stabbed it repeatedly in the head.

It was a short fight, and two of Big Yam went down screaming as an Antinium shot a crossbow through one of their legs, and another slashed too fast to block. But they were outnumbered, and armor or not, it was four against one.

“That was [Quick Slash].”

Velden muttered after the battle. Everyone stood over the dead Antinium, and Vess didn’t stop shaking. One of the fallen Drakes got up; the other was dead. He’d bled out from the bolt in his leg.

“What do we do? If we’re near their lines…”

The other Drakes were afraid, but Velden raised a claw. He listened.

“Hear that? Someone’s blowing our signal. I say we fall back, find an officer.”

“What about the Ants?”

Someone had found a shield. Velden slapped it.

“Don’t take their gear! You want Antinium weapons?”

“We killed them. No one’ll believe it! We got them!”

But the Drake abandoned the shield. Velden hesitated. He looked down.

“That’s a good point. Hey—those things have…antennae. Someone cut them off.”

Big Yam looked at Velden, but the Drake pointed.

“Like Goblin ears. We’ll prove we got them. Hang back. Vess, you do it.”

“Velden! I don’t want to touch—”

The Drake protested, but Velden shouted at him.

“You want to advance into their lines? Do it! This way we can head back and prove we fought, instead of abandoning our officer!”

So it fell to Vess to hack off the antennae with a dagger. He stared at the Antinium as he did. They wore similar steel armor, and they hadn’t any eyes. They were giant bugs and horrific. That was his first encounter with the Antinium, and he held the bits of chitin until Velden let him put them into a bag. The [Veteran] patted Vess on the arm.

“You did good, kid. How many’d you take down?”

“Huh? I don’t know.”

“I saw at least six. You were a crack shot with that wand.”

Someone else in Big Yam piped up. Vess realized he had taken down at least…Velden clapped him on the shoulder again.

“You’ll level tonight. Maybe even get an award. No one else took down six. Let’s go.”

——

The rest of the battle saw no fighting for Big Yam. They retreated until they found the rest of the army in the darkness, and by the time an officer came to see the Antinium antennae, command had announced for all groups aside from the embattled ones to hold; they’d done their job.

Liscor was falling back. The Alliance had won.

Vess was the hero of Big Yam. Not only had his squad taken out the Antinium, they’d done a great job. Even their [Sergeant] returned! He’d apparently lost his squad and taken charge of another.

There was a round of good Luldem beer for everyone that night, and Vess rolled over and heard the voice.

[Magic User Level 12!]

[Skill – Recharge Minor Wand obtained!]

[Skill – Intensify Spell obtained!]

[Spell – Light Arrow obtained!]

Vess sat up with a yelp. He’d gained five levels, broken his capstone, and gained a Skill to recharge wands in a single night! Velden groaned when Vess shook him, but then he beamed.

“That’s great news, kid. Let me go to sleep.”

——

Vess’ chest was as puffed as could be the next day. Until he heard they were continuing the battles. That made him worried, but the excitement of five levels in a single day, more than he’d gotten in any one year, made him accept it.

Velden himself looked reassured.

“That new group of [Mercenaries] are all they claim to be. Apparently they killed a thousand Antinium in one go. Who are they? I’ve never heard of…what was their group even called?”

A thousand? Vess’ jaw dropped. That Gnoll with the spear had changed the Alliance’s fortunes with one attack. Even the top brass went to visit his tent, though they seemed disappointed as they left. However, that was Vess’ entry into the war. With the mysterious Gnoll, the mercenaries, it seemed like Big Yam had gone into the fighting just to see it turn around.

Lulv, [Spearmaster]

The worst losses were taken on the first engagement. Unacceptable losses, to Lulv.

“Five dead.”

Five, for a thousand. Not a bad exchange rate…in anywhere but Manus’ army.

“Any accounting for it?”

The officers under his command made no excuses. Lulv trusted each one of them. He listened as all five’s deaths were accounted for by eyewitnesses.

“No one can stop an arrow to the head. That might have been when Liscor volleyed on its own ranks. Brutal—but efficient.”

Lulv nodded. That was one of the few reasons his command hadn’t killed one of the Prognugators. He wasn’t risking a [Soldier] for that when he could try again. Someone in Liscor had cooler blood than he thought. Perhaps Olesm? He did graduate from Manus.

“Another was killed by 4th Company. We took a number of wounded there. Last one was a run-in against a lot of Liscor’s own before the squad got out. Lucky thrust from a spear.”

That was all understandable. Three was…well, casualties occured. If Lulv had hand-picked every single one of the four hundred out of Manus’ best, one or two dying would make sense.

However, those last two hadn’t just died—a single engagement, a single Antinium had apparently taken them out.

“Even Hensi? She had [The Veteran’s Second Chance]. So she got killed directly.”

[The Veteran’s Second Chance] was a Skill that meant the Manus [Soldier] should have walked away from anything but a direct, mortal wound. Even if she’d been hit in an artery, they might have dragged her away. At her level? She could have lost a leg and maybe survived ten or twenty whole minutes, even without a tourniquet.

“I think I saw that Antinium. With a sword? One looked sharper. I’m not sure if it died.”

Lulv growled. He shook his head as the officers went to corroborate that detail.

“We’ll aim for it. Maybe it was a higher-level one or…experimental. Alright. Pull fifteen.”

“From the city? Filter them in as [Recruits]?”

“You can pick from Hectval-Luldem-Drisshia—their damn Alliance if you want to. Make sure they’re decent, but favor trustworthiness over anything else. Mercenary outfit. Put them in a squad. Give them a minder and two regulars.”

“Yes, sir.”

That was how Lulv would return with an equal or greater amount of [Soldiers]—assuming those who joined up wanted to stay with Manus. They probably would, and they’d level or die.

Lulv thought about his next assault. Obviously, he wasn’t in charge, but Sokkel would help him get where he needed to be. He didn’t know if their [Sniper] had taken out ‘Belgrade’, but ‘Tersk’ and ‘Dekass’ were both priority targets. Unfortunately, they had actual amulets and officer-grade armor. So it would be tough.

Aside from that? Erase their forces. Erase them…and see just what they were made of. Lulv didn’t have to take part in every battle. But this special group of Free Antinium? They died.

When Lulv got word a thousand more Antinium had rejoined the army, he frowned. He didn’t take part in the next battle with Hectval; although, he let them have his archers, who calmly sniped Antinium. A thousand new Antinium.

Were they regular Soldiers and Workers wearing armor, or special? He hadn’t seen that much aside from a few Skills from the Free Antinium, but even one Skill made their Antinium unique, like every other specialist element a Hive had. Time would tell whether the Free Queen was willing to commit this finite resource to the war or not. Especially after the second assault’s casualties.

——

Lulv waited through two battles until Liscor dropped its guard, then had his forces assault the Antinium from a cliff with enchanted arrows. He watched as the enchanted arrows tore their lines apart and threw eighty javelins until they were out of range.

The next time, he attacked in the next battle and cut straight through one squad of Liscor’s own into the Antinium. Lulv used two [Spear Arts], went for Prognugator Tersk, and saw the [Strategist], Olesm, point at him.

The [Spearmaster] deflected the wave of arrows, took eighteen on his armor without damage, and his Wardstone Amulet took the last six. He retreated, cursing, watching his forces wipe out an Antinium battalion and fall back fast. Lulv debated throwing a javelin through Olesm; the Drake was unguarded. However, Hectval didn’t need to win this war, so Lulv fell back.

Four assaults later, Lulv frowned at the casualty reports.

Two deaths and four major wounds. That was two more than he expected, honestly. Manus’ [Soldiers] went in and got hurt, but…he eyed both reports, neatly noted down.

Arrow shot to the head. Both times. Neither one from the front. And Manus’ [Soldiers] wore helmets.

“Hmm.”

So eight dead. By now, Lulv counted another thousand Antinium in their graves. When the third wave of reinforcements came, he began to wonder if these Antinium were special at all. Until he saw the first Painted Antinium.

Theophilus, [Acolyte]

When a thousand Antinium died, the Hive did not just replace them. It was not that easy. A thousand deaths was a terrible thing.

However, the [Crusaders] had already been budgeted for, their replacements grown in the Grower Vats, and that was because Belgrade had reduced the Free Hive’s casualty numbers enough that there had already been a surplus.

A thousand more? That was not…easy. But the Free Queen had anticipated the need.

The cost, spiritually, emotionally, was greater. When Pawn had heard of the deaths, he had knelt in front of the Promise of Memory, as the wall of Painted Antinium’s markings was known, and looked up.

“Each one. I do not know their colors. They had no names. They were just…I sent them to their deaths.”

Theophilus and the other [Acolytes] had heard his pained whisper. The greatest Individual of their Hive, Pawn, the one who had discovered Heaven, who had known her, who had revealed the sky and the Painted Antinium…he had looked up.

“I wish I could weep. I wish I could. But when Bird does it, it sounds so silly. And I…I may be bound for Hell, if it exists, after all.”

That had made Theophilus shiver. For it was his first time hearing the word from Pawn’s mandibles, as an idea of something more than Rhir.

“Pawn?”

The [Priest] turned. Theophilus was one of his first acolytes. The Worker looked weary.

“It is only a feeling, Theophilus. I do not mean Rhir.”

“Why would this be, though? Are not all Antinium bound for Heaven?”

Pawn’s mandibles clicked softly as he touched Theophilus’ hands with his own. Two more [Acolytes], Zimrah and Jerimy, joined him.

They were named not as Painted Antinium, but based on one of the other stories Pawn told. Each held one of Pawn’s hands. They were [Acolytes]. Only Zimrah was a Painted Worker. She had gold butterflies on her cheeks.

She had Pawn’s kindness. Jerimy had learned almost all of Pawn’s stories. Theophilus? He had less of either, but he had been with Pawn when the [Priest of Wrath and Sky] had cursed Hectval. Had first summoned the guardians from beyond. Theophilus saw these things and believed.

It was easy.

Heaven was real…but the [Priest] murmured as he looked up from his disciples’ faces.

“Heaven is for all Antinium. It is promised, do not worry, Theophilus. Heaven is for any Antinium who was good, or just was. However young. The only Antinium who might not ever go there…it is an idea, but there is a place that is the opposite of Heaven. That would be Hell. Only an Antinium who did terrible things would go there.”

“Like an Aberration?”

Zimrah asked. Pawn shook his head instantly.

“What is an Aberration but a Worker or Soldier who sees the pain we are going through and rebels? They do terrible things, but they are suffering. That is what I believe.”

Heretical words—until now. Yet Pawn preached that Antinium were in need of something, that life was not good…it could be better. The other [Acolytes] had nodded.

“So if they do not go to a Hell…who would?”

Pawn’s antennae went still. He turned to Theophilus.

“That would be an Antinium who harms their kind deliberately. Who does…bad things that have no excuse.”

“Why would you be one of those Antinium, Pawn? Perhaps…Ksmvr might be one of them? Or Klbckh?”

Theophilus suggested, and Pawn smiled wearily.

“Perhaps. But I feel hellbound.”

“Why?”

The [Priest] knelt there, and his voice was leaden, resolved, and…bitter.

“Because I must send more Antinium to die. Or at least, I will ask it of them. And it seems…”

He checked Belgrade’s desperate missive, which had been handed to him after Xrn and the Free Queen read it.

“…I must ask it of you, my disciples, too. I cannot go. I must remain. To give Antinium a place. And…to pray.”

——

Prayer. Pawn prayed every day. He used to pray simply for Antinium to live and be happy. Now?

Now he prayed for Erin to live. He tried to level. He believed, Theophilus understood, that if he leveled, if he gathered enough faith…he might bring her back.

He apologized when he asked them for three volunteers to heal Antinium and lead the [Crusaders]. As if it didn’t make perfect sense for them to risk their lives while he remained.

He was important. Theophilus understood he was too, as an [Acolyte]. He could cast [Heal Minor Wounds], which was a miracle beyond spells.

But he was not Pawn, or Belgrade, or Anand, or Garry, or Bird. It was right that they not die.

The world made sense to Theophilus, that way. The Antinium who died were a tragedy that cut Theophilus until he felt like he were the sky when the sky was overladen with wet clouds of rain and they opened up and showered down. What a glorious sight. That was the fount of his faith; that such things could happen. As well as the sheer fact that Pawn had to live. That Heaven had to be guarded and created, on this world as it was beyond.

That one day, Erin Solstice would return.

Oh, and Hectval be punished. The anger Theophilus felt towards that city was a real thing, so he rejoiced when he was sent to lead the [Crusaders].

It was a very strange thing, going to the rocky, barren highlands, seeing so many [Soldiers], and following orders from Belgrade, who told them not to reveal their class. In a way….the highlands felt comforting. If only they could dig into the soil, Theophilus would feel safe.

Yet his duties were simple. He went among the wounded Antinium and murmured.

“[Heal Minor Wounds]. Heaven is real. Reinforcements are coming. I am Theophilus. That is Zimrah and Jerimy. Please, I have a little of Garry’s bread. Eat, in no particular expectation of anything but food tasting good.”

Zimrah used the same miracle and then touched a shaking Soldier with a third hand.

“[Touch of Gentleness]. You are brave.”

Jerimy and Theophilus turned to her. She had a Skill beyond theirs—and what a way with words! Neither one had thought to say that, but the Soldier stilled. Zimrah looked at him.

“What is your name?”

There was no answer, but then the [Crusader] tugged off his metal helmet and they touched antennae.

“Crusader 51. You are brave. Thank you for fighting.”

“Thank you. You are brave.”

The two other [Acolytes] echoed her, and Theophilus admired Zimrah and envied her way with words.

Zimrah. Of all of Pawn’s acolytes, she was the only female one. And the fifth female Antinium in the Hive besides Xrn.

One day she had said her name was Zimrah. She had taken a name and identity with the butterflies, but when Pawn asked, she had told him she was actually Zimrah. It was the first time a Worker had done that, changed identities, but Pawn had thought about it and said it was obvious:

You could get your name wrong. The same with everything else. Antinium were new at identity, so Zimrah was Zimrah.

——

“It is such a terrible thing. So many dead Antinium. We must do as Pawn would do.”

Zimrah, Theophilus, and Jerimy sat together, and all three Workers nodded. Theophilus had given out all of Garry’s fresh bread to the [Crusaders] and thought it had helped. They had healed until they were exhausted.

It was not like mana, what they used up, but it did tax them to use their miracles so often. It felt…draining. When Theophilus was out of the power, he felt as though the world lost its color. That all was grey and meaningless…until his faith rekindled itself.

He had a sea of faith, so he had healed at least forty Soldiers and Workers.

“We will heal as many as we can, every day.”

Jerimy agreed. Zimrah turned to both other [Acolytes].

“Yes, but Pawn would do more.”

Theophilus instantly agreed. Pawn would do more. Exactly what should they do? Well, after some thought, the [Acolytes] had a revelation.

That was how the ritual of morning prayer began.

——

Theophilus was nervous as the [Crusaders] knelt as one. Tersk and Dekass watched as the morning gruel was digesting in every stomach. The day after the battle, the first thousand reinforcements had yet to arrive, but already the [Acolytes] were doing what they could.

They would not fight; they were a valuable resource, and Belgrade decreed they stay back. They could help mend armor, do chores, and tend to the wounded in the meantime.

However, the one true thing they could do was spread the good word. Reinforce the knowledge, the faith of Heaven within the [Crusaders]. Give them hope, a fraction of what Pawn had given to the Painted Antinium.

Theophilus had been chosen to do the speaking. Jerimy said that he had a speaking disorder in his vocal chords that acted up even back in the Free Hive whenever he tried. Some kind of terrible birth defect in the Growing Vats. Zimrah had suggested Theophilus was older and had seen more of Pawn’s miracles, and thus was more qualified.

He had labored for a long time on his first sermon. Theophilus stood on a bit of raised dirt, robes swishing nervously, as Jerimy and Zimrah walked down the rows of [Crusaders], spreading sweet cinnamon incense with their censers. He clicked his mandibles together a few times, and then spoke with all the conviction and power in his voice.

“The sky…exists.”

One hand rose and pointed upwards at the blue, blue sky, filled with little clouds high overhead, which gleamed white as the sun shone down. Every [Crusader] looked up.

Theophilus stood there as they all drank in that effervescent sky. Slowly, he brought down his hand and clicked his mandibles.

They all looked at him. Theophilus went on.

“So does Heaven.”

He saw a slight stir run through the Antinium. Theophilus raised his arms and clasped all four together.

“Believe in it. Let us pray.”

——

His first sermon was a huge hit. Zimrah and Jerimy congratulated him when it was done. Theophilus felt a lot of pride in his words.

True, it was no Pawn, Upon the Hill, Cursing Hectval Unto Death and Decay a Thousand Times, but it had clearly moved the [Crusaders]. They looked up at the sky. Yes, look at that.

Theophilus swept up the camp, helped lay hands on a few confused non-Antinium [Soldiers], and felt good about himself.

Until the army came back, and he saw the gaps in their ranks. The dead. He ran forwards and laid his hands on wounded Soldiers and Workers. And Theophilus saw their heads turn to him as he spoke.

“Reinforcements are coming. You are brave. Very brave. Rest. Be healed.”

And he realized…tomorrow, he would need different words.

[Acolyte Level 17!]

[Skill – Sermon of the Believer obtained!]

Olesm, [Leader]

Olesm wrote a letter to Liscor’s Council every day and posted it via the door. He held a war council with his officers. He was at every major engagement, but the front was spreading out across the hills.

However, no one, not Selys, who sent him a gift of more potions, not the Council, nor even the other officers saw the entirety of the war. They saw parts.

Olesm saw all the dead. And what he saw was Antinium dying.

Not Liscorians dying. Not them losing the war. Antinium. Dying. He made the distinction in his mind, because if he said one Liscorian regular died for every ten Antinium, that was not hyperbole.

“Manus has entered the war. I can’t prove it, sir, but they’re in it.”

Wing Commander Embria was frank with Olesm the day after the first disastrous battle. He took counsel with her, Belgrade, and some of her senior officers. Olesm turned to Wikir.

“First Captain, you’ve been with Liscor’s army the longest, haven’t you? Can you corroborate that?”

Wikir growled, shifting from foot to foot.

“I was not with the part of 4th that clashed with them, but this would not be the first time, no. Manus does interfere in wars. Like every Walled City. This…this sounds like a bunch of their best operatives.”

Olesm’s scales went cold. He too knew the practice.

“I’ve heard of that. They want to quietly tip the odds—so they send a group in. Or fund an army, or hire a group like, well, Liscor’s army. I just never thought I’d see it. Wing Commander, are you sure that was…a [Spearmaster] you met? Not that I doubt you. You would know.”

Relc’s daughter inclined her head, and the command tent went through a simultaneous clenching of apprehension. A [Spearmaster]. If Olesm had seen one, he would assume it was Hectval’s champion.

Manus’ [Spearmaster]? Leading a group of veterans with magical gear? Even worse.

“What can we do?”

Ramia asked desperately. She had a bandaged arm, but she, Bepol, and Belgrade had all survived. In fact, they stood with Belgrade, rather than notably apart. If there was one gem amidst the filth of yesterday, it was that Belgrade had become part of the army for holding the line, even when seemingly mortally wounded.

4th Company still stood apart, and Olesm felt a flash of anger at seeing that. A thousand Antinium were dead…but he held his tongue.

“Let’s simplify the issue. The Mithril Razor, everyone. We can either retreat or fight on. Given the options? I choose to fight on. So the issue becomes dealing with Manus. Either we combat them, force them to retreat, or do it in a way other than warfare. I’ve already asked the Council to make a loud, public objection to Manus—and they’ve apparently denied it. However, it might force them off.”

His officers looked at him, and Embria grimaced.

“No proof. Manus probably won’t back off.”

“Then, we have to win. They’ve sent four hundred. It’s…a lot, but Hectval was on the back foot but for them. We collect ourselves, fight back, and account for their numbers. Especially if we can flank them or ambush them with [Archers].”

Elites or not, no one liked an arrow in the chest. Why…even a Level 40 individual died without Skills. In fact, even a [Lady]…

Olesm stared blankly at the table. He blinked when he realized he was drifting and spoke briskly.

“I also have to congratulate Belgrade on his class consolidation. I’m sure he’ll be an asset to the right wing. [Combined Arms Strategist] Belgrade…we’ll have to give you a party later.”

Belgrade lifted an arm as everyone turned, and a few officers applauded politely.

“When I am able to metabolize food without pain, I will gladly partake. My stomach was nicked by the poison arrow.”

“[Combined Arms Strategist]. Wonderful.”

A somewhat weak Captain Vell growled under her breath. She’d hauled herself up to participate in the discussions since she was out of fighting for at least a week. Olesm eyed her.

“Belgrade will now be making use of his new Skills in his command, and I’m leaving the right wing to him, not just one division. Ramia will serve under his forces. I trust Liscor’s 4th will do the same.”

Vell looked up and didn’t reply immediately, so Embria spoke for her.

“Absolutely, Commander. We’re ready to dig in. Now that Manus is here, we all have to curl up our tails and get to it. We’re in the soup now.”

Yes, they were. Olesm briefly nodded.

“In that case, let’s talk tactics. Captain Wikir…just how does Manus operate in groups like this? I’d love to say I can pull out a counter-strategy out of my pocket, but Manus studies strategy too. Let’s assume they’re coming at the Antinium. Now, how are we going to stop that from happening again?”

He was full of anger after the first defeat. He wanted to punish Manus for entering the war on Hectval’s side. Angry on behalf of the Antinium. Guilty, too, but angry. Olesm sent for Calruz. He stocked [Archers] up, creating a fast fire-group, and saving his barrage Skill for when Manus came at them. They could chew on arrows and see if the famous City of War had an antidote for that.

He didn’t even see Manus for two battles after the first. Hectval’s army was back on the attack, and they were feeling feisty after being bailed out by the City of War.

Olesm sent them packing in the first battle. The Antinium smashed a wave of Drakes, 4th Company led a daring charge into the center of enemy lines to snipe an officer, and Olesm gave the charge order as their entire vanguard fell apart. They ran, and only the surrendering prisoners stopped Olesm from taking a vast swathe of their army.

The second battle was more of a running engagement with mounted Drakes skirmishing with Olesm’s [Riders]. 4th Company got a bit battered, but he let the Antinium happily shoot arrows until the Alliance peeled off.

In the third battle, Olesm realized Hectval had adopted a new strategy. Instead of one battlefield…he had four.

“They’re coming from four vectors of attack and split up their army almost equally. We could hold in one giant formation…”

“…And be pincered.”

Lacking the ridgeline to put their backs against a wall, Olesm only had the sloping terrain. He hadn’t realized this would be a defensive battle, so, cursing, he divided his forces up as well. He put an Antinium force with Bepol, took command of one army, let Belgrade have a third, and put Wing Commander Embria in charge of the fourth. Olesm was halfway through watching his forces slam into Hectval’s when Manus struck the Antinium under his command.

“Archers! Archers!”

The first thing Olesm saw was a shower of frozen spikes of ice, like Ceria’s spell, explode among [Crusaders]. It showered off their armor and carapaces, but didn’t seem to do much damage.

More frozen ice exploded amongst them, then blooms of fire. The steam rising from their armor, the Antinium [Crusaders] lifted their shields as Olesm saw a force on a hilltop loosing arrows at extreme range.

His [Archers] tried to return fire, but they had elevation—and there weren’t more than…fifty?…with bows. But each one had an enchanted arrow. Olesm saw the ice melting to water around the [Crusaders]. He began to shout.

“Scatter! Scatter formation!”

The Antinium got the message and moved apart, but the third volley of lightning arrows struck the water and Antinium as Olesm watched.

Bodies fell to the ground as Hectval pressed in, cheering. Olesm saw them shouting gleefully, pushing past the gaps in the Antinium’s lines, and raised a claw finger. He aimed it at the first rank and spoke.

“[Instantaneous Bombardment]. Pull the Antinium back.”

A hail of arrows cut down Hectval’s front line and stopped the cheering. The Antinium fell back, and after more fighting, so did Hectval.

Olesm lost over a hundred Antinium.

——

After that, Olesm began digging fortifications, creating forts of dirt using the Antinium. Just in time, too; he realized Hectval was spreading out further.

“Some groups are even trying to get around us. Not big. We could ignore them.”

Ramia growled as they studied Scout Leader Maksie’s reports. Bepol shook his head.

“They’ll hit us from behind in raids or our supply line. Or maybe just go after Liscor. I think we need to move out.”

“…That’s what they want. No. That’s what Manus wants.”

Olesm saw it, clear as day. The spreading out of forces could only help Manus in their goal to fight the Antinium. Bunched up, Liscor’s army was far more of a threat. Spread out…the Antinium were on their own.

It fell to him to make a choice. Olesm pointed at the map.

“Bepol, you and Ramia have the left, Embria’s roaming. Belgrade has the right.”

“And what will you do, Commander?”

Surprised, Ramia turned to him. Olesm bared his teeth.

“I’m going Manus-hunting.”

——

He did his best. He saw Manus coming. He saw the Gnoll.

Spearmaster Lulv. If Olesm had to guess who held that adamantium-tipped spear…he was no fool. He could guess based on the number of [Spearmasters] in Manus.

The Gnoll leapt down a steep cliff face, so steep that the infantry looked like they were charging almost straight down. Olesm hadn’t expected that, but he instantly assumed a Skill.

“Got you. Antinium! Turn and brace! [Archers]! Prepare yourselves!”

Olesm rode towards Manus’ lines, and Hectval’s forces saw a group of nearly two hundred mounted archers join the ones already under Bepol and Ramia’s command. He had been waiting to ambush them. Olesm’s claw aimed straight at the [Spearmaster], wavered, aimed towards Manus’ lines.

[Spearmaster] or regular [Soldiers]? You don’t try to snipe high-level [Warriors]. Bad idea.

Olesm pointed towards Manus’ regular forces.

“[Instantaneous Barrage]!”

And his claw jerked right towards Lulv. Olesm’s Skill attacked Lulv! A decoy Skill! A taunting Skill?

The arrows shot towards Lulv, and the [Spearmaster] blocked them. His spear whirled, deflecting the phantasmal arrows, and the rest struck his armor and bounced off or vanished as a charm flashed. Olesm howled curses as his [Archers] loosed a second volley, but then Manus was attacking the Antinium.

It was so fast. Lulv’s spear howled, and twin fangs smote Antinum down. Olesm saw [Soldiers] using Skills too.

A long slash from a sword. Four arrows, nocked and loosed in quick succession. A flickering figure that turned into a wavering mirage as the real body struck home.

A sword set an Antinium ablaze. A hatchet was deflected by a shield—but the Antinium began bleeding as the blow struck through the metal and into the arm. A spear passed through armor into the body beyond.

Enchanted weapons. Lulv was retreating with Manus’ forces after one clash. That was all they needed. They unloaded their best Skills and fled.

Good tactics. Simple, effective…Olesm looked past them at the Hectval Alliance’s forces. They came at Bepol and Ramia in an enveloping wave, once more taking advantage of the Antinium’s losses. Olesm shook his head.

“[Riders], on me! [Attack Formation]!”

He led them in a charge along the sides, not following Manus, but heading left. A group of [Riders] came to stop him, and the mounted archers knocked them from their saddles. Olesm drew them to a standstill and parked them behind Hectval’s lines.

“Volley! Volley—break away!”

The [Soldiers] ate two volleys of arrows to their backs. More than the losses, it was demoralizing. Hectval’s commander turned on Olesm in a flash, trying to box him in. He just raised a claw.

“[Rapid Retreat]. 4th Company, your position?”

“Inbound. Keep them on you for just six…”

Olesm cut the overeager pursuers to shreds when Embria came out to attack them. And that was how he felt it went.

Hectval’s Alliance stalemated or lost. Manus won.

They had some kind of intelligence. Olesm suspected aerial scouts that Maksie couldn’t see, or just plain [Scrying] spells. They were fast, hard to keep track of…and they made gaps or openings even when he tried to counter them. In desperation, Olesm resorted to a new formation in the next battle. He placed Antinium companies among Liscor’s, such that there was no one unified body of Antinium. They were scattered like a patchwork among his command, inefficiencies or not.

In response? He could only describe it as Manus punishing Liscor. Olesm’s casualty list after that battle listed ninety-eight dead among the non-Antinium. Three times that wounded.

——

The officers rebelled. It was a quiet, polite rebellion, but still. Olesm woke up and found a gathering outside his tent.

“I’ve asked for Wing Commander Embria to help settle the matter, Commander Olesm. But they were insistent on talking to you.”

Bepol’s voice rose slightly, to tell Olesm she was aware of the issue. However, the officers didn’t budge. They stood with the lower-ranked non-commissioned officers, sixty in total.

It was a Gnoll who spoke for all of them. One of the Battalion Leaders.

“Commander Olesm, sir. We don’t intend a coup or anything like that. Have the Wing Commander listen…we’d just like to say our piece. We can’t—won’t have the Antinium in our ranks, sir. It’s not us hating them. It’s just—we can’t. If we go into battle like that again, we’ll fall back. Not desert. We hope you won’t call it rebelling. But I hope you understand.”

Olesm looked at the grim-faced Gnoll, then around at the others. Embria rode up, casually holding her spear, with two of her squads ‘casually’ jogging up.

“Commander Olesm. Problem?”

He saw the Gnoll warily eye her and shook his head.

“No, I think, Wing Commander. What’s your name, Battalion Leader? It’s early, and it’s escaping me.”

“Podk.”

Olesm nodded grimly.

“Come on in, Podk. You and…six more. The rest of you can wait outside. Let’s settle this. Someone get me breakfast.”

——

In another army, Olesm might have tried this as a mutiny, because it technically was. Embria was glaring daggers, but Olesm had counted how many officers were there. He had a feeling they spoke for the group.

That was what Podk claimed. He looked awkward, even ashamed, but he spoke.

“Is it Manus that’s fighting us? That group led by the [Spearmaster]?”

Olesm had issued a clamp order on discussing that with the lower ranks. He stirred, but Podk went on.

“That’s what everyone’s saying, sir. No one had to tell me. I have eyes, and it’s not like I think they’re Hectval’s best, no. They’re after the Antinium.”

That too was obvious to anyone who had seen…the battles. Olesm gave a grudging nod.

“I understand you refuse to mix ranks with them. Can you reiterate why?”

“Not because we hate them!”

A Human spoke up. She clasped her hands behind her back, and all the officers nodded, some faster than others.

“It’s just that they killed nearly a hundred of us. Today. Tomorrow? If the Antinium aren’t…apart? They’ll do the exact same thing.”

“That’s war, soldier. They’re on one side, we’re on this one. Grab your tail and kiss it if you want, but figure out how to stab them if you’ve got time, not your own side!”

Embria barked, and Podk turned red, but he held his ground.

“It’s not cowardice.”

“Explain it to me, then.”

Olesm saw the Gnoll look around for support and get slow nods. He flexed his paws.

“It’s…I know the Antinium got a thousand reinforcements, sir. Saw them marching up myself. Brave Antinium. We got what, a hundred?”

“Mostly volunteers. Two days ago, yes.”

“Right. If the Antinium took…more casualties. Not that I want it—if they did, would a thousand more come?”

Olesm had a terrible feeling he knew what Podk was getting at. He put aside his rations and looked at the Gnoll.

“Are you putting the Antinium’s lives below yours, Podk?”

The Gnoll met his gaze, unwaveringly.

“Yes, sir. I am. I know they’re Antinium, and I don’t hate them. I saw them save Liscor again and again. But if a thousand of them die, the Hive comes up with more. Somehow. I’ve lived for thirty-three years. If a thousand of us die…Liscor will have more trouble coming up with us. And we will die, with Manus on the attack.”

His paws were clenched so tightly. Yet he said it. Olesm gave him that. If he danced, Olesm would have been tempted to ignite the Kaalblade hanging from his waist.

The [Leader] sat there and calmly picked up a biscuit. He began eating it as the officers watched until they were just uncomfortable enough, not assuming he was mocking them. Make them wait was Maviola’s advice. Even if they have you naked and are looting the mansion, make them wait.

Experienced advice. Olesm nodded.

“I’ll take your words to heart, Podk. Make no mistake—I’ve heard you. You’re dismissed.”

The officers stood at once. A scowling Embria let them leave, but Olesm called out.

“Podk?”

The Gnoll turned in the doorway with the rest, theatrically. It was about…Olesm sat there, looking up at him calmly.

“The next time you all decide to do this? Send Podk, and I will hear him any time. If you do it again like this, I will have the Wing Commander arrest and try you all as mutineers. Have a fine day.”

They left fast. Embria stomped out to shout at 4th Company to disband and turned to Olesm.

“That was handled as well as I could ask, sir. We’d send that lot into battle naked, but it might have gotten…difficult if we tried them all. Nasty business. What’s the plan?”

Olesm scrubbed at his face with his claws. He sat there, and the [Leader] thought he could see Erin staring at him. He looked at an [Innkeeper], a genius chess player, someone who could speak to Drake [Generals] and rub shoulders with famous people and Gold-ranks without blinking.

He wondered if she would have been a great [General]…or a poor one. Because he had always thought she would be the world’s finest if she had changed courses. Now? He wasn’t sure.

Because he was about to do something Erin Solstice would never do. Olesm looked up at Embria.

“Do? I’m going to put the Antinium division back, Embria. And let Hectval at them.”

He waited for her to smile, one hand on a fork. If she smiled, he stabbed her, and she probably cut off a limb.

To her credit, she never did.

[Leader Level 15!]

[Skill – Preserve Morale (Casualties) obtained!]

[Skill – Bloodthirsty Engagement obtained!]

[Skill – Detect Disloyalty obtained!]

[Skill – Hundredfold Arms Repair obtained!]

Belgrade, [Strategist]

It touched him, slightly, that his officers did not take part in that mutiny. He had no doubt they took part in the clandestine meetings he was aware they were trying to hide from him, but they did not join the group outside Olesm’s tent.

Still, they requested it. And still, Olesm acceded. And Belgrade?

He understood.

He understood, on the level a [Strategist] could, why Olesm did that. It was simple: the Free Antinium could replenish their losses. Just as was pointed out to Olesm, if this was a war of attrition, Liscor’s morale and soldiers could not withstand the losses that the [Crusaders] could.

The Antinium died. The Antinium were reinforced. The survivors wore the dead’s armor, picked up the weapons of the fallen or captured arms.

It was a cold-blooded maneuver. Belgrade wondered if Olesm had leveled from it. Certainly, the Drake had quietly informed Belgrade that there would be no need for him to order the [Camp Smiths] to repair a hundred of the damaged mundane weapons each night.

Such a useful Skill.

Belgrade hated Olesm. But he did not mutiny. He did request permission to take over the Antinium command and was denied. Again, for entirely salutary reasons.

“You are a [Combined Arms Strategist], Belgrade. It only works if you have a mixed force to command. Moreover—you’re an excellent defensive-line specialist. Hectval is taking the battle into a wider and wider front. I need you to handle the right. Can I trust you to do that?”

Belgrade saluted Olesm with perfect posture, as he had seen Embria doing.

“You can trust me impeccably, Commander Olesm. I will do my duty to my utmost.”

He meant every word. Olesm was right. He was also wrong, but he was right in every order. Just like shutting the gates on the Goblins.

That kind of right.

——

Belgrade did not see his fellow Antinium dying. Oh, to be precise, he saw one die.

Exactly one. He had a bodyguard of twenty [Crusaders] that he had requested. One died when an arrow struck him during the fighting that followed in the next month and a half. The rest didn’t fight that much. They were bodyguards.

Belgrade was a [Strategist]. He had been apprised of assassination attempts by Tersk, and the Hive had sent more artifacts. Belgrade already had officer’s gear, but he had donned a strangely made torc, a segmented necklace of solid metal with a rune drawn on each side.

It had been made by Xrn to protect him. Belgrade was an asset. He had command of the right wing of the army.

He did a good job. Belgrade read each casualty report, heard of the Antinium under attack by the Manus forces. It became routine to see a column of Soldiers or Workers heading up from the rear, sometimes bearing supplies.

He focused on the fighting men and women of Liscor’s right flank. He saw Olesm implementing tactics on the left with the Antinium division and wrote Olesm his own. They didn’t seem to have a noticeable effect. Belgrade could not save his people, nor was his class advancing in the right way to help them the most as of yet.

However, over the next month, the right flank of Liscor’s army drew Hectval and their alliance into hell.

——

Belgrade was now a [Combined Arms Strategist]. He assumed being a [Trapsetter Strategist] was inherently implied to be part of that.

He had only four new Skills after his consolidation, but Belgrade found each one was strong. As any good [Strategist] did, he experimented and made sure he knew what they did before testing them out in battle. He made a mental list and wrote a note he instructed a Worker to personally hand to Xrn, Pawn, or the Free Queen that summarized his findings.

Firstly, and simplest. [Army: Springwood Supplies]. Belgrade had wondered if they had some kind of supplies from a ‘Springwood’, which sounded very much like Ceria’s home forest. If she had a home forest? Had he committed a racism?

He would ask Ceria if she ever returned from Chandrar. News from Liscor and thus the world was sparse, but Belgrade had heard she was alive. Good for her. She ate bugs, he ate bugs. They had a connection.

[Springwood Supplies] did not give him the half-Elven forest’s bounty per diem. Instead? It made all the wood material under Belgrade’s authority…springy.

Belgrade had bent a simple piece of cheap wood almost in half before it began to snap, and it was more…elastic in that it didn’t break as easily. It was springy.

He told his troops to make bear traps out of it.

Bear traps were an item used by [Hunters] and adventurers. A Silver-rank team had used them in Liscor’s dungeon. They had not worked, but Belgrade had seen some Goblins pulling a steel-jawed bear trap off Skinner when the monster had finally been brought down.

The silly Goblins had broken it down for weapon parts. A loaded trap that snapped shut and debilitated you when you stepped on it? That you could reuse if it was not broken?

That was the foundation of how Belgrade saved his Antinium in the Hive. He loved traps.

Springy wood? Belgrade demanded all of it he could get. It was a shame Liscor was so wood-sparse…so they imported it from Celum and sent it to him.

Springy wood didn’t just make traps. A simple trigger, some hard work wrestling it into place, and a boulder would conveniently fall and roll and kill everything in the way if you set it up right.

Pits? All you needed for a pit was some wood, or pointy rocks, or the drop, and all you needed for that was some time and effort and your hands.

Or a shovel, if you weren’t Antinium. That actually would have been a problem, as the Drakes, Gnolls, and Humans weren’t natural tunnelers. However, that led Belgrade to his second Skill:

[Antinium-Expertise Command]. It took effect as the Alliance’s army spread across the foothills. While the left side suffered Antinium attacks, and the ‘mercenaries’ inflicted their equally grim toll on Antinium lines, the right side feared to advance. They began to mutiny rather than pursue their foes into the caves, cliff faces, and valleys that were technically their homeland. Mainly because…

——

The Hectval patrol were trying to keep their voices low. An entire army was moving forwards at a snail’s pace, but they couldn’t help it.

Their [Scouts] and regulars kept stepping on bear traps. Just yesterday, an entire patrol had fallen into a pit trap and then been buried by rubble.

A ghastly way to go.

“How’d they dig it? Are there more Ants around?”

“Bastards. I haven’t seen them in a week. I’d rather be on the left flank. These cowards have their tails between their legs. You hear me? You hear—”

A [Soldier] raised his voice to shout to the darkness beyond, but his buddies shushed him. Another [Soldier] shuddered as she stood watch at the entrance to their camp. She kept staring at the cliff face beyond.

“They could be in those caves.”

“We’ve been here for a week. They’re not in those caves.”

A [Sergeant] snapped at her grumpily. He was watching the sentries every now and then, counting them. All was good. They’d held this place, fortified it…the cliffs might be a source of attack if they held enemies, but they’d been scouted. He relayed this to his command, and they relaxed…until the nervous [Soldier] pointed up at the caves.

“You can’t check all of them!”

“You can check most of ‘em. Trust me. We went all the way until you could barely fit in. There might be a few dozen, but that’s all. Get some sleep.”

The group did, but uneasily. The [Soldier] kept watching the caves and muttering about how they might be in there. Which showed she had a paranoid streak in her and some imagination, which might be officer material?

Squad Leader Kerone still thought it was hilarious, and he kept shushing the giggling Gnolls, Drakes, and Humans under his command. Not that they made much sound. They carefully marked the place where the soldiers were.

…Above their heads. The [Soldiers] marched through the narrow tunnel. So narrow, in fact, it was shoulder-to-shoulder wide, and the dirt almost scraped their heads.

Claustrophobic? It was a nightmare come to life, and yet each [Soldier] breathed easily. They also picked their way down the network of tunnels with ease.

“Huh. Ceiling needs another brace here. Get one of the dig-crews on it.”

Kerone noted a point where the ceiling showed danger. He didn’t know how, but he saw it. The other [Soldiers] agreed.

“Yep. What d’you reckon? Another day?”

“Sounds about right. Charges in place?”

Someone jogged up from the back lines. Their [Alchemist].

“Jars set. I think it’ll collapse the shitty loam they’re camped on, but, if not, I guess we’ll find out when we use the exit ramp. Idiots are right over an empty space. Who does that?”

It was hilarious because none of them would have known an empty space below their feet from bedrock two weeks ago. Now, though? Kerone felt like he had a good five feet of room in every direction, although he could have concussed himself by jumping too hard.

Antinium-expertise. Not only that, they dug like fools. Was this what it was like being Antinium? He had to admit…the upsides were up.

“Poor bastards.”

Kerone muttered, and the [Soldiers] sombered. The Squad Leader caught himself.

“Let’s give Hectval a really nice night. Just to thank them for it.”

They all nodded with grim satisfaction.

——

Belgrade’s new army of sapper-capable forces aside, his third Skill meant that if Manus had gone for him, or Hectval, when they were desperate enough to advance just to fight something, they had a bad time no matter how fast the battle began.

“[Prepared Battleground: One Hour].”

The army charging across the flat ground at Belgrade had seen little in the way of fortifications as he mustered a counter force rather than the guerrillas he’d hidden all over the pass. They saw one pop into existence now.

One moment Belgrade was staring across flat ground as Kerone and the others moved into formation—the next, he was slightly elevated, on carefully-piled dirt. The first rank of Hectval’s forces saw a ditch appear, and in it—

“More bear traps! Stop, st—”

They ran into the ditch as the carefully-positioned pikes speared them, and Belgrade watched his attack channels clear of traps let his forces advance. [Archers] shot down at their counterparts from behind makeshift barriers formed out of the camp’s supplies.

And still, this would not defeat Manus. It was a Skill dependent on the quality of his supplies, the Skills of his forces…would it have stopped the Humans or Goblin Lord?

It would have helped. Belgrade watched, directing his pieces in prepared moves, improvising only when needed. He liked this kind of battle, where he had all the time in the world to prepare.

“Come closer. Die for me. I am still angry. How will I stop being angry? Until you are all dead? Until your city is dead?”

The [Strategist] wondered aloud. A group of his soldiers cut off by a daring charge formed a ring. A last stand…and they did die. But sometimes they were rescued.

Belgrade would report, later, that over that month of fighting his divisions and [Soldiers] achieved the highest kill ratio in all of Liscor’s army. However, his wing would go on to earn a lower casualty rate than the left wing or center…because Hectval’s armies would begin to mutiny or retreat rather than enter his battle zone, leading to Belgrade’s steady advance over the right side of the battlefield, whereupon he threatened the center and even rear lines.

A perfect [Strategist]’s move. He played his part to perfection and leveled.

However, that was Belgrade’s part of the war. He did not bleed with the Antinium crusade. He led his [Soldiers] to victory, until their division even named itself ‘Belgrade’s Ants’ in his honor.

His soul marched with the other Antinium.

Crusader 51, [Crusader]

He had bad dreams. Nightmares.

They didn’t always come in the day. Sometimes, they were at night, too. Fighting where even Antinium couldn’t see. Arrows raining down. Spells and shouted commands and death.

A lot of death. Crusader 51 would swing his sword, block spells and blades, and sometimes see the harbingers of death falling upon a squad or a battalion. Drakes and Gnolls following a [Spearmaster]. He would wait for the end while fighting, struggling, flailing to prevent his death.

Then he woke up. Crusader 51 would march back to the camp, one of the fortified thoroughfares that Commander Olesm was building, or an emergency camp, or sit down and wait for someone to find his squad.

He would hear people, not Antinium, talking about the losses. Or Tersk and Dekass conferring. For a while, Crusader 51 would walk about, eat, sleep, listen…poke little bugs as they crawled past him.

But, inevitably, he would have the nightmare again.

Crusader 51 knew they weren’t really dreams. It was a way of thinking about battle so the world could be understood. He didn’t know how the rest of Squad 5, Battalion 1 thought of it.

He had a squad again. He was still Squad 5, Battalion 1, Acid Jars. Crusader 51 was still in the war. However, the Antinium who came into the army, into his squad, kept changing.

That was because they kept dying.

It was luck. If you were lucky, you didn’t fight at all. You just marched, shield up, following Tersk or Dekass’ orders or Commander Olesm’s, and you weren’t ever rotated into the front. Or you shot arrows and never met the enemy.

But if you were unlucky…they came for you. The Gnoll with the spear. [Mages] casting spells you couldn’t block. Archers.

Antinium would die, regardless. The question was…was it your turn this battle? They would die, and Tersk and Dekass would walk down the ranks. That was when Crusader 51 saw the Antinium he recognized and those who were new.

And the gaps.

“Squad 4…six casualties. Squad 5! Two. Squad 6!”

That, too, was part of the dream. But the dream…Crusader 51 didn’t like remembering them. He tried not to; let it slip away. If he thought hard…he remembered slitting a Drake’s throat.

Running a Gnoll through from behind.

Watching someone kill Crusader 50 again.

Waking was better. The waking world was not glorious or fun or beautiful. The sky had begun to lose its meaning to Crusader 51. But he had…food. A reprieve from battle.

And Crusader 53. Even some of the other Antinium he recognized. Not necessarily Squad 5.

Crusader 51 had met multiple replacements for Squad 5. The first time, he had fist-bumped every Soldier’s fist once. All eight of them, they had worn patched up armor, and he’d promised that they would never all die again.

The second time, he’d fist-bumped them all again. And the third.

By the fourth round of reinforcements…Crusader 51 still fist-bumped the new Soldiers, but didn’t sit with them or show them how to adjust their packs. Crusader 53 and some of the Soldiers who’d survived a few battles did.

However, there was one member of Squad 5 who didn’t receive a fist-bump from Crusader 51. Not because Crusader 51 hated that particular member. Their designation was Crusader 57; they wore the same patched-up armor, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was the weapon they carried.

It was cursed.

Crusader 51 realized it was a curse. Each Antinium marched around with it on their shoulder, propped up because there was no holster or sheath big enough; they had to carry it much like a pike.

It hadn’t been in Squad 5’s first inception. However, in the reorganization of the [Crusaders], Tersk and Dekass had passed out weapons and messed with the unity of each squad. So this weapon had appeared, and its curse meant that no Antinium who carried it into battle came back. The longest Crusader 51 ever saw was two battles.

The cursed weapon of each Crusader 57 was a giant sword. Not wide, but long. It was called a ‘zweihander’. Crusader 51 had no idea where the name came from or who invented it, but it was a long greatsword. A five-foot-long blade meant for the biggest warriors to strike and attack with all their strength.

Doubtless, the Free Hive or Armored Hive had somehow acquired the weapon and decided to arm the [Crusaders] with it. Crusader 51 bet that whomever had found the weapon hadn’t known it was cursed.

He didn’t see any obvious effect, but no Soldier carrying it came back. It was like…a giant target on them. Enemy soldiers saw the zweihander and sought Crusader 57 out. [Archers] shot him. Officers marked him as a target.

So Crusader 51 didn’t greet the new Crusader 57. There was no point.

Crusader 53 did. He was still fighting, despite only having two arms on his left side. Tersk and Dekass had debated sending him back, but they had decided it was a waste of resources to organize.

However, the mace-wielding [Crusader] lived. Crusader 51 watched his back. Crusader 53 wouldn’t die.

He was gifted with his mace, one-armed or not. He could make the heavy weapon dance, swing it from target to target with as much grace as the crushing mace could have. He would cheerfully let Crusader 51 guard his right side while he smacked his opponents with two maces held by his left two hands.

Crusader 53 was cheerful. He went around fist-bumping all the new Soldiers and Workers, even in different squads. He was a silly Ant.

By now, Crusader 51 knew more things. Like, Antinium were ‘Ants’. That was what some people called them. He knew they were ‘in the soup’, which was heavy fighting. He understood you had to change your socks or your boots got bad.

Crusader 51 didn’t have socks, but he was close enough to the rest of Liscor’s army that he heard these things. Indeed, though he didn’t want to…he got to know some of the [Crusaders]. He did not want to know any but Crusader 53 because the rest would die, but he kept seeing their faces.

And it seemed as though the war made some of the Antinium…odd. Crusader 51 began to make a list in his head as he played with pillbugs. The silly little things curled up as if that would save them. But they uncurled if you held perfectly still for five minutes, and then they’d nibble at some of his rations, just a little smudge of it.

Crusader 51 had seventeen he kept in a little pouch meant for the healing potion he’d never gotten re-issued. Crusader 53 thought they were rations. Crusader 53 ate every bug he caught.

Crusader 51 did not. He was apparently an [Insect Feeder]. But that wasn’t anything special. The really weird Workers and Soldiers who survived battles? Well…some were bad Antinium.

——

They were locked together, he and the Gnoll. They had both stabbed each other through their armor.

[Faith is My Strength]. Crusader 51 tried to shove the Gnoll back, but he wasn’t much stronger. Just a bit. And the Gnoll was big.

They were cursing, trying to pull the blade out and angle it for a better cut. It hurt. Crusader 51 realized the Gnoll was going to pull the blade out and run him through. So he twisted the sword in the Gnoll and heard the scream. He kept twisting…kept sawing into the bloody flesh as the Gnoll did the same.

He was faster. Crusader 51 yanked the blade out and turned. He looked around. Where was Squad 5? Crusader 57 was dead again. Crusader 53 bashed in an opponent’s head as Crusader 51 heard Tersk shouting for them to advance, adva—

——

The Liscorian [Soldiers] were sitting around, chatting. Humans, Drakes, Gnolls. But they were not just their species. One Human was trying to cook his food over a fire even more than it was already.

“It’s not crisp enough.”

“Any more crisp and it’ll be charcoal. Listen, I’m a Drake. We invented Firebreath Whiskey and Fire Shots. You’re burning your food. It’s broccoli.”

“All the more reason to burn it.”

The Human retorted. He had a flaxen hair color and walked and moved with a kind of begrudging swiftness, except in battle. As if he had to force himself to do everything—but he did it just to keep up with you.

“Alright, Mister [Chef]. Satel, right? Does everyone in Esthelm burn their food?”

Satel glared as the rest of the squad, Significant Beavers, heckled him. He folded his arms.

“When you’ve got a city that makes a lot of metal, you learn how to properly cook stuff. Coal-fired ovens. It’s got a taste, you know.”

“I just bet.”

One of the Gnolls snorted. She shuddered.

“Remind me not to settle in Esthelm when I finish the war. I’ll go north.”

Everyone looked at her. Utel Silverfang was one of the many Silverfang Gnolls from Liscor.

“What’re you doing? Leaving after this campaign? Just in it for the money?”

Satel eyed her. Utel nodded instantly.

“It’s just for the money, yes? It’s good pay.”

“Assuming you can collect it.”

One of the Drakes, Jordes, commented sourly. He amended his statement when Utel looked worried.

“I just mean that if you’re dead, it’s not in your pockets. It’ll go to your family, don’t worry.”

Utel sighed.

“Hrr. That’ll be Silverfang’s tribe, then. Honored Krshia or Honored Elirr will figure it out.”

What did that mean? Satel was nearly done with his broccoli and chewing on it. He had [Tough Mouth]…which was the Skill that everyone made fun of him for. On the other hand, he could eat steaming broccoli and not blink twice.

Utel did not explain. She just cast her eyes northwards.

“I’ll go north with the money from this campaign, yes?”

“And do what? Travel? I’m planning on taking my money and putting a stake in one of the mines. With Pelt in Esthelm, I could be rich…if I get a good [Prospector] and find a seam. We get a mine, I buy the rights to it…then I retire early and have three kids. I want a family.”

Satel had his own plan. Jordes laughed.

“Wait, where’s the female Human coming from?”

The Esthelm Human hesitated.

“…That comes with the success of the first mine.”

“Riiight.”

“Doesn’t have to be Human. I’m not picky. I’m desperate.”

More chuckles. Satel grinned, but Jordes just started laughing…because that was a bit too honest.

“Maybe you’ve got a shot in Liscor. I’ll take you around if we ever get a break. There’s got to be someone who enjoys toasted broccoli. Me, I’m taking my levels and going to enlist in Pallass’ army.”

“Pallass?”

Everyone in Significant Beavers chorused. Jordes lifted a claw.

“Think on it. Pallass treats their [Soldiers] well. You can get citizenship in a Walled City if you serve…thirteen years, I think, for Pallass? If I’m Level 15, I can pretty much guarantee I’d get enlisted. Normally, it’d be too hard to get into Pallass, especially for a Liscor lad. But guess what we have?”

A magic door. Jordes had an entire plan that revolved around getting posted to one of the armies that didn’t see much action, spending thirteen years, and retiring on a fat pension. Utel was upset.

“Shut up. Shut up. You didn’t let me finish! I’m not going north just for the sights, scales-for-brains. I’m going to get a big job in my tribe’s specialty.”

“Which is?”

Jordes saw Utel Silverfang fix him with an exasperated look. She growled under her breath as the squad chortled. They didn’t think they were going to die, you see. Antinium were different.

Like the Antinium watching them. The evil one.

Crusader 51 had been listening in, and he saw the bad Antinium waiting for his moment to strike. But he was waiting to hear what Utel was going to do.

“Silversmithing. I get my pay—there are other Silverfangs in the army. Maybe some of them want to join up. Maybe some Gnolls from the city. We pool our money, join on with a caravan…and go north. All the way to House Byres.”

“House Byres? Where have I heard that one?”

Satel glanced up, frowning. He was toasting more veggies; Significant Beavers was savoring their lunch, so they weren’t through their rations.

“It’s a noble house. They have a big silver mine. You want to work for Humans?”

Another Gnoll frowned at Utel. She shrugged.

“We have Gnoll techniques and styles. I can ask Honored Krshia for all our knowledge. Silver has lots of uses. Yes, my tribe has access to silver mines too, but what about the north? If we have even one thing Humans aren’t used to, we’d boost production and demand. I’ll form a group of Gnolls up north.”

“What do Gnolls have that’s silver-related that the north doesn’t?”

“Ever heard of a Purity Seal? It’s where you take a lot of silver and a [Shaman] and create this structure that helps deal with bad poisons or other problems. Some monsters hate it, too. I bet Humans don’t use many [Shamans], right?”

“Huh. And you want to…”

That was when he struck. Crusader 51 saw a Worker walk forwards, and Significant Beavers all stopped as one. They looked up, surprised, as a Worker in armor with his helmet removed walked forwards. He had an odd, casual walk, even with shoulders not perfectly straight.

He was doing it again. Every Antinium not busy or napping looked over as Significant Beavers stirred.

“Er. Orders?”

That was the only reason an Antinium would bother the Liscor regulars, right? Jordes muttered.

“Aberration…?”

But it was only a murmur from an old Liscorian. No one really tensed, but Satel hesitated, mid-roast with his skewer. The Worker faced the others. Then he opened his mandibles, not in an Antinum smile where he would raise them, but almost mimicking a Human one. He lifted all four arms in an odd, expressive gesture.

And he spoke.

“Hey, I’m Kevin.”

Significant Beavers all stirred. The Worker walked forwards, hand raised in a casual greeting. He stuck two hands out for Jordes and Utel. The [Soldiers] looked at each other.

“Er…Kevin?”

“That’s right. I’m Kevin. ‘Sup?”

It was the most odd thing to hear an Antinium say, but the Worker had perfectly memorized his intonation and even his way of wandering about, at ease, chill.

Not that Crusader 51 had ever met Kevin, but the other Workers and Soldiers who had known him agreed it was a perfect replica. However, ‘Kevin’ was a bad Antinium.

“Mind if I sit down?”

“Er…no?”

Jordes glanced around. It was an Antinium. Significant Beavers didn’t mind them. Poor saps. Getting chopped up. But they were still…

Satel looked extremely uneasy, as did the non-Liscorians. For that matter, Jordes wasn’t at home with them that much—but Kevin shook his hand and kept speaking.

“Don’t worry, I’m chill. You’ll like me. I’m Kevin.”

That confidence! There was something so…engaging about it, and the way Kevin just sat down. He glanced at Satel.

“Got anything to eat?”

That bastard. Crusader 51 watched as Crusader 53 shook his head. Satel gingerly offered Kevin a taste, and the Worker accepted the food. He cracked a joke.

“So listen, guys. I’m an idiot H—Antinium. I made this mistake one time where I didn’t know Drakes were, y’know, Drakes. So I said something about Lizardfolk, and man—”

Significant Beavers listened, and, within moments, they were laughing and heckling Kevin. Line for line. He took Kevin’s energy! His jokes!

He took Kevin’s…Kevin-ness. Just to steal food. They offered Kevin-Worker more of their food, amused and perplexed by the Worker.

The other Antinium watched disapprovingly. This Worker had no morals. Kevin-Worker did it every time. He just sidled over, made the other squads laugh or found ones he’d already ingratiated himself with, and stole food.

That was so wrong. Those poor Liscorians! But Kevin had no morality. He was evil. Crusader 51 folded his arms, feeding his pillbugs some of his rations. Kevin even went back with two links of sausage and handed them out among his squad. He went back to Significant Beavers over breakfast too.

Kevin. How dare he besmirch the real Kevin’s good name?

——

Kevin-Worker found Significant Beavers in the smoking crater of a [Fireball]. The squad halted as the Antinium wandered out of the chaos.

“Hey…hey guys.”

Utel whirled, raising her bow.

“Who—Kevin?”

“Hey. Mind if I sit down?”

The Antinium sat down without asking, again. He was still smoking. Jordes looked around.

“What happened? Where’s your squad?”

They all looked past Kevin at the crater where the [Fireball] had detonated. Kevin didn’t say anything. He just sat there as Significant Beavers closed ranks around him.

“I’m tired. I’ll just sit here a second, okay?”

Crusader 51’s head was ringing. He saw Significant Beavers clustering around Kevin as Squad 5 picked themselves up. [Fireballs]. Tersk was reporting the location of the [Mage] to Commander Olesm and Maksie, demanding they be taken out…

Kevin just sat there.

“I’m okay, guys. I’ll just sit here. Okay?”

——

Another bad Antinium was Shelly. This Antinium actually got no less than Scout Leader Maksie involved.

Maksie might have been only a Scout Leader, but she actually had [Aerial Scout] and [Lieutenant] as a class, being from 4th Company. So she had a quasi-rank above her station.

“Why can’t Tersk or Dekass handle it?”

She didn’t like Antinium, but the Squad Leaders with her watching Shelly and his evil criminality shook their heads.

“We can’t talk to them. They’ll execute the Ant buggers or something. Besides, it’s…”

Well. It was embarrassing. Maksie folded her wings as she glared at the Antinium. Then frowned and peered at the group of complaining [Soldiers] and the jingle of coins. And…

Bowls?

Shelly had one trick. Every time they made camp, the Antinium would wander over to the Liscor tents and sit down. He and another Antinium would wave their arms, and Shelly would produce three bowls. He would also place a single coin down.

Sometimes copper, sometimes silver. No gold; he didn’t have gold. [Soldiers] would see. Oh! A shell game!

They’d walk up after some hesitation and ask to play. Shelly would look at them, then wave a coin. One coin to play? No problem…they had some back pay. The [Soldier] would hand it over and get the three bowls in return.

“We have to do it?”

A Drake laughed as Shelly patted his knees. He watched as the Drake, amused, looked around.

“Who’s got the fastest claws? Let’s teach this poor Ant a lesson.”

Shelly didn’t prey on Liscorians who liked him. He chose the ones who didn’t or were greedy. So the Drakes would whisper, and one would put a coin under a bowl.

“Okay, Ant. Watch it closely…”

They were cheating. Maksie’s eyes narrowed. She saw the coin vanish from the first bowl, and a second Drake subtly slid it into the second. So everyone focusing on the middle bowl was wrong. It was the bowl on the right…and you could follow the rotations. The Drake was doing it just slow enough so that Shelly wouldn’t get confused and pick the right one on accident.

“Okay? Which one is it?”

Shelly’s antennae waved. The audience of Drakes, Gnolls, Humans, and a few other Antinium waited. Then he pointed towards the bowl in the middle.

The Drake’s jaw dropped as Shelly revealed the right coin. He looked accusingly at his partner, and the other Drake shrugged.

“Another round! Damn it—”

Maksie’s brows shot up.

“I’ve never seen an Antinium gambling. What’s the problem?”

“That Antinium does it every night. It’s not…they seem to enjoy it, but that Antinium wins almost every game.”

Maksie blinked at the other Squad Leaders. But that Worker was letting other [Soldiers] do the game. And they were cheating; some were honest, but most cheated.

“Wait, he wins?”

One of the Sentry Leaders growled. The Gnoll shook her head.

“Yep. And guess what he does with it?”

As Shelly’s winnings piled up, he took a handful of copper coins and approached one of the [Soldiers] chewing on half their ration. Maksie watched as way too many coins traded hands for the half-ration, but Shelly and two other Antinium, a Soldier and another Worker, gathered around and gobbled it down.

The Shell Gang. The most hated Antinium besides Kevin! Crusader 51 watched them. Food.

It was all about food. Most of the bad Antinium had found a way to get more. Maksie figured out what they were doing after two more shell games. She rolled her eyes.

“Oh, Ancestors. You morons.”

The Squad Leaders looked at her. She pointed out how Shelly was doing it. The Antinium was watching the moving shells. But even when the Drakes tried to trick him? Even when they slipped a coin out or even hid it behind their backs?

Shelly 2 and Shelly 3 in the crowd were watching them. Their antennae waved energetically. Ironically, the honest player who moved too fast for all three Antinium to spot was the one likeliest to win.

“That bastard!”

The Squad Leaders exclaimed. One went to break up the gathering, and Shellys 1-3 scurried away, abandoning their winnings. Maksie watched in satisfaction, but she had to admit—an Antinium conman was really funny.

The Worker was a [Cheater]. Crusader 51 stared daggers at Shelly as the Worker went to sit with his squad. He was clearly biding his time till the next group came by that didn’t figure it out. Well, Maksie often saw other squads. She could point it out to them and that was that.

——

Shelly lay on his back. [Spearmaster] Lulv lifted his spear and cursed.

“They’re bombarding their own lines again! Fall back! Fall back!”

Manus’ soldiers ran back as arrows rained down around them. One—just one—was dead. An arrow through the Drake’s earhole. Lulv bent down, frowning.

“The angle—”

He ducked an arrow and whirled.

“Sniper! We have a sniper! Find it!”

He ran off. The [Cheater] lay on his back. Dead. After a few seconds, one of the Antinium lying next to him sat up.

A Soldier. Shelly 2. He was alive. He’d lain down after taking a glancing blow. He looked around.

[Cheater]. He’d done it! He went to find Shelly 3 and Shelly 1. They had…had…

Shelly, the original, lay on his back, a bleeding green hole in his chest. Shelly 2 stood over him and saw Shelly 3 was dead, too, headless.

So. They hadn’t learned how to [Cheat Death] yet. The Soldier stood there and then bent down. He placed two coins on each of the Antinium’s eyes and then lay back down. Curling up.

High overhead, Scout Leader Maksie looked down at another dead squad. Every single battle she saw it. She saw that Antinium lie back down, and that—

That rattled her.

——

The next day, Shelly was back. Only, it was a Soldier and two new Workers instead of the original. A new group of Liscorian soldiers who hadn’t heard about the cheater were complaining about the Antinium’s luck.

“What do you think it is? Maksie? I think it’s cheating, but I don’t know.”

Wing Commander Embria had noticed the odd behavior. She turned to the Scout Leader. Maksie looked at the familiar Soldier.

“…Don’t know.”

Embria eyed Maksie. She drew her aside.

“You alright, Maksie? Is it…getting to you?”

Even veterans could snap. However, the soup wasn’t that thick. For 4th Company, at least. Maksie blinked. The Oldblood Drake fanned her wings, and the [Aerial Scout] looked at Embria.

“No. Not me. It’s the Ants.”

Embria hesitated. The Antinium? Maksie shook her head. She kept looking at them.

“Don’t tell me you’re feeling bad for them.”

Embria half-joked, a smile on her face. She half-meant it. They were getting torn up, but she wasn’t prepared for the silent look Maksie gave her. She couldn’t even joke about it. Embria’s face grew somber, surprised, as Maksie jerked her head.

“Listen, Wing Commander. I don’t like Antinium. I listen to the old guard. I know Sserys got…listen. I didn’t feel bad even when they were wiped out. We’re on the same side, but I know they’re Ants. I saw them getting minced by Manus. I see it up there.”

She jerked her head up at the sky. Embria nodded, uncomprehending, and Maksie went on.

“It’s not when they die—just when they die—that gets me. I’ve seen last stands. They go down fighting. You have to be able to survive that or you quit scouting. Give away your position.”

“Right.”

It wasn’t easy, being the observer who called in data. You couldn’t break cover. So…Maksie looked Embria straight in her eyes, and her wings fluttered like her breath: quick, pained.

“It’s not that. What gets me is when they run away. The Ants. Or pretend to be dead. Or don’t move and just grab a buddy. When they break and run.”

She looked past Embria at Shelly. The Wing Commander thought of something to say. What she didn’t say, what was illegal to say…Maksie muttered.

“They look like Drakes.”

That comment would later cause a fight in 4th Company’s private tents with the officers, after which Maksie would stop showing up. As for Shelly? He kept stealing coins and exchanging them for food.

Crusader 51 wondered why other officers didn’t stop him.

——

He was not strong. [Faith is My Strength] only made him stronger. He believed when they heard the sermons. Heaven…Heaven…

But he was not strong. Just stronger.

Crusader 53 was strong. They ran into an officer leading Hectval’s [Soldiers]. He cut down Crusader 57 again. A sweeping flamberge. Enchanted. Another piercing, too-sharp blade.

It met Crusader 51’s own enchanted sword, and the Drake backed up, cursing.

“Take out that Antinium!”

Crusader 51 fell back as spears jabbed at him, glancing off his armor, and he whirled his sword, slashing at the other weapons. But that left Crusader 53 exposed! The officer saw the lopsided [Crusader] and charged, his sword sweeping out for a cut straight through Crusader 53.

The [Maceman] turned. And his mace swung at the enchanted flamberge. The two weapons met—and the officer’s weapon went bouncing away.

“What—”

The Drake looked flabbergasted at the flamberge as it nearly juddered out of his claws. How? The mace was not enchanted! And yet…did it glow as Crusader 53 lifted it? How had it done that? How—

[Weapon of Faith]. Crusader 53 brought it down on the helmet, and the Hectval troops broke and ran. The Soldier happily patted his mace as Crusader 51 stared down at Crusader 57 again.

——

“Enchanted flamberge. We will send it back to Liscor.”

Tersk announced the moment Squad 5 presented the weapon to him. Dekass agreed instantly.

“This is an enchanted weapon of acceptable grade. Too valuable to be lost.”

He looked at the squad of Antinium. You could not lose enchanted items. Those were in short supply. The same with valuable Antinium. Everything else?

He spotted Crusader 51’s sword and pointed at that.

“Tersk. That Antinium has an enchanted sword as well. A potent one.”

Crusader 51 saw Tersk focus on him. The Armored Prognugator clicked his mandibles.

“Ah. You are right. I had seen it, but Dekass, as someone who has been a Soldier without armor, I considered Squad 5 might benefit from it, as that is a weapon they use.”

Tersk tapped the side of his head knowingly. Dekass nodded but twiddled his thumbs.

“Yes…but would that sword not be lost when this Antinium dies? I suggest, Tersk, that we return both blades to the Free Antinium. They have already accounted for more worth than one squad…given their turnover rates.”

Tersk reluctantly looked at Squad 5.

“You may have a point. Crusader, hand over your gear. We will replace it. I will send it tonight via door.”

His sword? Crusader 51 slowly lifted his sword up out of its sheath. Tersk reached for it impatiently.

A giant hand fell on the Prognugator’s shoulder. Tersk went still, and the specialist assigned to their division rumbled.

“You will not.”

Calruz the Minotaur, with his one hand, regarded Crusader 53. And Crusader 51. He nodded to them as Tersk began to argue. The Minotaur had one huge axe strapped to his back. He did not have his little rats, but he was Calruz. Crusader 53 stared up at the Minotaur as he snapped at Tersk.

“You do not understand your soldiers. I thought you were beginning to learn.”

Tersk’s mandibles clicked shut. He took a step back, regarded Squad 5, and abruptly nodded.

“You are right. They should keep the blade. We will even give another squad the flamberge.”

“What? Inconceivable. Tersk, this conclusion is nonsensical!”

Dekass protested, but Tersk and Calruz were inspecting each other, and the Minotaur jerked his head. Tersk slowly nodded back.

“Dekass, it is a lesson Pawn taught me once. I will explain it to you many times.”

Squad 5 watched as he marched Dekass off. Then they looked to Calruz. He nodded at Squad 5. Calruz eyed the zweihander the new Crusader 57 held.

“Huh. That’s oversized. Someone made that for a truly large form. Even a Soldier would have trouble with it. I’d think twice about using it with two arms. Give it to me. We’ll replace it.”

He reached for the blade, and Crusader 57 smacked Calruz’s hand down. All of Squad 5 recoiled as the Minotaur blinked.

“Give that to me. I will replace it with—”

He reached out again, and Crusader 57 bit at him. Two mandibles clicked, and Calruz jerked his hand back. He and Crusader 51 stared at the new Crusader 57. Who was this?

Another bad Antinium. The Worker with the zweihander on its back refused to let Calruz take the blade. And when they were dismissed for food, he elbowed his way to the front of the line.

Crusader 51 disliked him instantly. What was a Worker doing with Squad 5? When Crusader 51 sat down to feed his pillbugs, Crusader 57 took one look at them and tried to eat one! When Crusader 51 grabbed his arm, the Worker didn’t hand the pillbug back, but flicked it into the distance.

Crusader 51 punched him in the face. The Worker bit his arm. Every Antinium halted as the two began to punch each other and roll around fighting. Crusader 51 saw Crusader 53 get up to help, but the smaller Worker should have been easy for Crusader 51, a Level 14 [Crusader], to beat.

However, he was so strong! And he punched and bit—Crusader 51 had used his mandibles as a weapon, but he had never encountered an Antinium who tried to bite as a tactic. He was pinning Crusader 57 down when the Worker suddenly spoke.

“oFF. GEt oFf ME.”

Every Antinium drew back in horror. Crusader 51 leapt away, and Crusader 53 raised his mace.

The first Aberration appeared in their ranks as a survivor of one of the decimated squads. Crusader 57 with the cursed zweihander. Worst of them all.

Aberration.

Calruz, [Honorbound Prisoner]

“It must die. I will execute it at once.”

Tersk drew his sword and advanced on the pinned Worker. Once again, Calruz barred his way.

“Why?”

The Prognugator looked at Calruz with pure astonishment. Calruz did not know what to think of Tersk. He was intelligent, sharp, a gifted leader with a mind for strategy, and had a lack of fear, even when Manus, a Walled City, tried to kill him battle after battle.

At the same time, he was arguably less intelligent than Rhata or Haldagaz. Calruz missed his pets.

They were with Selys. He would not take animals to a front. Calruz had not trained them for battle or subterfuge…if you would even train common rats to do that. He did have a class.

[Pet Owner]. It had surprised him that he could gain a class as a [Prisoner]. Perhaps, though…he was not one.

Calruz was fighting with no chains on him. He did have a tracking spell and a bracelet sealed onto his right leg. But Olesm had let him fight.

He did not lead forces. Calruz did apprise Liscor’s officers of impending attacks, but he was not permitted to lead.

He fought alone, from front to front. The Minotaur took no joy in it, but he did find a certain satisfaction. This, at least, mattered. One-armed or not, the Hectval Alliance had learned to fear a Minotaur with an axe coming at their ranks.

The House of Minos would look at me like a fool, the way I fight. All of the Beriad would call me insane, even the most foolhardy of them.

One-armed warriors were not unheard of. Calruz had no prosthetic, but even then, he could have taken his position in an honorable rank of warriors if he were in the army. Yet he fought alone, charging into pikes and spears, trusting to his Skills.

[Steelbound Hide]. A relic from surviving Skinner, falling into the dungeon, and taking command of the Raskghar there. He had possessed [Thick Skin], then. When he charged the Crelers, it evolved.

Drakes would stab into him with mundane weapons, expecting him to defend—but his axe would crash into their ranks. Faster than they could attack.

Offense. Calruz didn’t think of it as a fair battle. Simply war. He would have challenged Manus’ forces for his honorable death…

If he thought he could kill any of them. They would shoot him before he got close. And besides…

The [Honorbound Prisoner] had realized he had to live. At least in this war. Not just so that Hectval would be punished.

For the sake of these poor warriors. For Tersk’s own honor.

“Why must that Worker die?”

“He is Aberration.”

Dekass said it as if it explained everything. Calruz frowned at him. Yes…if he thought of the two Prognugators in terms of his rats, Rhata was Dekass. She was a simple soul. Strong…Calruz had gotten a rare Skill as a Level 11 [Pet Owner]. He hadn’t expected to level so fast, but all he did in his cell was pet them, exercise, speak with Zevara, construct a miniature climbing gym out of scraps for the two rats, sleep, and so on.

[Pet: Best Quality, Refined]. A Skill for the House of Minos’ warriors to be proud of…for rats.

It was ironic, but it fit Calruz perfectly. Let them have a Skill most Minotaurs would be proud to receive. Rhata could drag a ten pound weight around when he tied it to her. 🐀

Dekass was Rhata. He was a simple leader. He did not understand nuance, but he was capable. Calruz even suspected he was better with his sword and shield than Tersk, who handled it less confidently. The Antinium did not seem to realize each warrior had their own best weapon. Or none, in the case of Artur, the [Flag Bearer].

However, Tersk was unto Haldagaz. Calruz’s white-furred little rat would sometimes sit on Calruz’s head, and the Minotaur would read a book to him. He almost thought Haldagaz understood; Rhata just ate while they read. Tersk was like that. Almost. Almost, and Calruz thought they would be warriors of different species, but on the same level.

Tersk was looking at Calruz like Haldagaz, trying to understand. Aware there was something he was missing. His mandibles clicked slowly.

“It…the appearance of an Aberration means they are a defective Worker or Soldier, Calruz. They must die because they will kill everything they see. They are not of the Hives.”

Calruz raised his brows.

“Do you see that Worker killing anyone?”

“He attacked Crusader 51.”

How could they tell them apart? Calruz recognized the sword-wielding Antinium, but the name? Crusader 51. He eyed the Soldier pinning the angry Worker with three more of the others.

“He also bit at me when I tried to take his weapon. But he did not try to kill anyone.”

“Ah, but he will. You are not Antinium, so you are unaware. We must execute the Aberration. The madness can spread.”

Interesting. Dekass was raising his sword, but the Worker thrashed.

“yoU. YoU. sTUPid DEKass. I AM [CruSAdeR]. i FIGhT.”

Calruz saw Dekass recoil and grabbed the Antinium.

“He speaks. This seems less like madness or…it seems more like an out-of-control [Warrior] to me, Tersk. A [Berserker] who has lost control of reason. Not desirable—but not deserving of death.”

Tersk turned to face Calruz.

“That is an interesting…idea, Calruz. However, my Queen’s orders are clear. I must kill any Aberration I see.”

“Do you know it to be an Aberation?”

Tersk was stumped.

“It clearly is one. It has behaved like every other Aberration I have slain.”

Calruz gritted his teeth.

“Yes…but do you know it is an Aberration? Tersk. Is there a way you could be wrong? Because listen to me. This Worker was a survivor of a squad that perished, all but one, yes?”

“Yes…we rotated them into Squad 5.”

The Antinium was very hesitant. Crusader 57 had gone still as Calruz tried to drip-feed Tersk an idea.

“Perhaps it is not an Aberration. Perhaps, if you are not perfectly certain, the honorable thing would be to let Crusader 57 be.”

“Why?”

Dekass laughed, a fluttering sound. Tersk was frowning at Calruz, his mandibles drooping. Calruz looked around. All the other Antinium were watching him.

“Because it is a poor precedent to execute a warrior in front of their fellows. It is not uncommon; the House of Minos has known the like, but not in modern day. The offense must be grave indeed, and we pride honor above all. We know there are reckless warriors, those with poor temper. We do not kill them for that, Tersk. What serves the Antinium, or Liscor’s army, in killing this Worker?”

“It would…eliminate a threat.”

“If this Antinium was going to kill, surely it would have already.”

“It disrupts Squad 5.”

Tersk countered, but his tone was…thoughtful. Dekass looked incredulous as Calruz knelt.

“Worker. Or…Crusader 57. You have caused a disturbance. If you refrain from doing so, will you fight and obey orders?”

The thrashing Worker slowed. It looked up at Calruz, and the strange, oddly quavering voice actually calmed down. Although that was saying a half-screamed warble turned into a molten hiss of unsurpassed rage.

“I…am obeying. Even your stupid orders. I fight Hectval.”

Calruz rose. Tersk looked struck.

“I…that is not what Aberrations do. Or say.”

“What is normal?”

The Minotaur was curious, not that he would ever return to Minos. But perhaps he could report it? Tersk shrugged.

“Curse the Queen. Swear to kill everything. Rebel. ‘I will not obey.’”

Calruz’s brown eyes fixed on Tersk, and the Minotaur felt his palm grow suddenly sweaty. Did the Antinium not know how it sounded? It didn’t sound like madness. That sounded like…

“Tersk. Will you let this [Crusader] live? His squad might watch him.”

“It is a risk to them and our division. Persuade me, Calruz.”

Tersk tilted his head left and right. Calruz met his gaze.

“I cannot give you a logical argument based on your Hive’s orders or history. I can only suggest this, Tersk. It would be dishonorable to kill this Worker. That is what I believe.”

Dekass rotated from Tersk to Calruz as the Armored Prognugator went still. He drew his sword.

“Alright then. Let us kill—”

Tersk grabbed Dekass.

“I see. Then we will let Crusader 57 live.”

“Whaaaat?‘

Dekass looked as flabbergasted as any Antinium Calruz had ever seen. Yet Tersk just nodded.

“Come with me, Calruz. We will dine as I believe is customary. You must explain more.”

The Minotaur agreed. They headed towards Tersk’s tent as Squad 5 stared down at Crusader 57. The Worker watched the Prognugators go, then tried to bite Crusader 51’s hand.

“Let go of me. Idiots.”

Crusader 51 jerked back. He rose and stared after Calruz as the Worker stomped back to his zweihander and sat down. He almost hoped Crusader 57 would die to the curse next battle. An Aberration was…?

Crusader 53 just watched Calruz, one-sided like him. The [Maceman] had seen Calruz nod at him. Thoughtfully, Crusader 53 sat down and began toying with his gear.

The next time Calruz saw Squad 5, the angry Worker was still alive. Oh—and the Minotaur did a double-take when he saw Crusader 53 had glued two makeshift horns to his helmet.

Poor little warriors. Calruz tapped one of Crusader 53’s fists with his own, looking in his eyes. He missed Rhata and Haldagaz. 🐁 But he fought that these children might live. Yet he—Olesm—they could not stop Manus.

Not yet.

Calruz could endure the losses of the Antinium because he had lost his team, his comrades before. He had lost his mind and honor. Rather than stop under the weight of it all, he fought harder.

He did not know how they dealt with it. Crusader 57 was a symptom, not an aberration. Even Antinium broke. And these…these weren’t mindless Soldiers or Workers.

They had a cause. That would make them weaker and stronger than any of their kind had ever been. But the suffering. You could grow numb to it. And that was the worst of all.

Artur, [Flag Bearer]

He saw it all. Like Maksie, like Crusader 51, he was there. The difference was that he did nothing.

Brave Soldiers like Crusader 51 fought. They survived and risked their lives on the front. Calruz jogged off alone, to fall on the enemy, one against a hundred.

Maksie flew through the sky, dodging spells and arrows, to call for reinforcements for the dying and wounded, to make sure their end was watched.

But Artur just held the flag. A useless Worker with no ability to fight. He held the flag he had been so proud of. It had the insignia of every single battalion he served with.

Even Liscorians. Even squads like Significant Beavers. They came up to him, the Worker with the flag.

“Er…we have a patch. If you want, we could sew it on?”

“Yes. That is good, please.”

Jordes recoiled as the Worker carefully retying the banner to the shaft of wood spoke. But then he handed the Fortress Beaver logo over, and Artur produced a needle and began to stitch it onto the flag.

It made the symbol of Liscor’s city look less…well, magnificent without detail, the icon of the city. Instead, the flag had dozens of little insignia, from cute to meticulously drawn. Like a children’s drawing.

Perhaps that bothered some of the people who saw it, because Artur had heard Olesm receive a petition that the Antinium not carry the banner. Or rather, that banner.

“Why in the name of the walls would I entertain that?”

He snapped back in a discussion with Bepol, who’d brought it to him. The Pallassian-trained Drake looked uncomfortable as Artur listened in.

He could get near the command tents. In fact, Artur alone could go wherever he pleased if he was in the right camp.

He was the [Flag Bearer], and as such, Tersk and Dekass rotated him from battalion to battalion. In fact, Olesm even sometimes requested Artur join a Liscorian section.

Because Artur had a Skill. Well, multiple Skills.

He could repair scratches and other small damage to the flag just by willing it, which was very important so that the patches didn’t need constant replacing. Nor would the flag get muddy or bloody; even water slid off the fabric. However, the Skill that mattered to all the officers was Artur’s first flag-Skill.

[Flag: Inspiring Sight].

He held the flag, and [Soldiers] saw it and didn’t break. They gazed at the flag and fought on. Weary limbs too leaden to move would rise—because they saw their patch flying on Artur’s flag. That was Artur’s first Skill, and it alone had made Olesm seek him out.

In that first battle when the cloud of darkness descended, Artur had stood petrified as Manus’ forces attacked. Liscor’s regulars and the Antinium crusade had looked for orders amid the chaos—and the flag had kept them rooted. When death surged around them and all was chaos and every officer shouted an order—

The flag flew.

What they didn’t understand was Artur’s guilt. He watched them die, sometimes right in front of him, sometimes from the rear. He was just a single Worker. Holding a flag that Bepol or someone found objectionable.

“It looks like a child made it, Olesm. There are laws in Pallass about disgracing flags.”

“This isn’t Pallass, Bepol. Besides…what’s the problem with it looking…”

Olesm looked around and didn’t notice Artur. Oh, the Worker had a giant flag, but he was standing with Liscor’s regular one. So it just looked like two flags were flapping in the breeze.

“…like children made it? Commander!”

“Children did make it. Do you know how old Antinium are?”

“Sir?”

“Do you know how old Antinium are? By any definition, Bepol…”

Artur watched as the argument turned into Bepol quickly exiting Olesm’s tent. The Drake looked patently uncomfortable with the idea Olesm was suggesting. Olesm emerged from the tent and saw Artur holding his flag. He eyed the Worker.

Artur held the flag.

——

The worst part was, Artur didn’t die. And yes, it was the worst part in a way. It meant he lived with the guilt of it gnawing at him each night.

Why? Well, even when Manus assaulted their lines, or Hectval attacked and the Antinium fell back and it was time for Artur to die…

They avoided the flag. It wasn’t that Hectval or the other [Soldiers] from Manus didn’t see him, it was that if they spotted anyone else, they went for that foe first. Because Artur held a flag and no weapons.

And because a flag wasn’t much of a target. At first, Artur suspected the very patches on the flag saved his life. It looked…less like an icon of hated Liscor, and more like that children’s flag Bepol suggested. So it just wasn’t a priority.

That was, until the other flags started getting destroyed.

——

Olesm Swifttail had a hundred thousand problems to juggle, and Artur sometimes observed him doing his [Leader] job. A lot of it was around managing the army as much as the strategy.

“He led us into a suicide charge. Commander…”

“He is your superior officer, and he thought it was an opening. I understand your reservations, Squad Leader. How open is the dissent?”

“I…kept a lid on it, sir. But I came to you as soon as…”

The Drake saw Olesm point at her.

“Keep a lid on it. That is an order. Bepol will transfer your squad across commands since you were chewed up. But I don’t want to hear any scuttlebutt. Any rumors. Is that clear, Squad Leader Nellb?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Drake looked relieved. Olesm was left cursing, trying to figure out how to arrange it so that Bepol didn’t see that the squads were being transferred out of his command because they’d lost faith in him. His eyes alighted on Artur as the Antinium stood in his favorite spot—next to the main flag in the command area.

“[Flag Bearer] Artur. You’ll be heading to Ramia’s command, and I’m assigning some squads to join you.”

Artur was a valuable excuse. The Antinium found himself marching with three battered squads, who didn’t exactly curse Bepol to hell and back…and he found Ramia’s forces as the Gnoll perked up upon seeing him.

“Three squads? Ah…not at full strength, no. But Olesm’s sent a flag? Wonderful. Er…what is his name?”

She whispered to one of the Gnolls, and Artur spoke.

“I am Artur. I have a flag.”

Ramia jumped and looked at Artur.

“Er—ah! Yes. Good to meet you, Artur. I knew we had a [Flag Bearer]…why don’t you tour our camps? Are you a non-combatant?”

“No. I am present in battles.”

Ramia looked relieved as she nodded.

“We will stick you with…Pricegougers. That’s Battalion 3. At the rear. You do have a morale Skill, don’t you?”

Again, Artur nodded, and Ramia exhaled.

“That will be very useful. Very useful. I will have one of our Squad Leaders show you a tour route. Squad Leader Nellb? Tell me—is there another, ah, reason you were assigned to escort our flag here…?”

The Worker left and toured the camp. [Soldiers] looked up, and a few pointed at him.

“Look at that. That’s the Antinium’s flag bearer.”

“Are there more Ants coming to our area…?”

“No idea. Hey, Squad Leader Kerone! Do we get more reinforcements?”

The Drake escorting Artur shouted back.

“You want more? Belgrade’s already hammered his side flat. Do we all have to come over and do your job for you?”

The [Soldiers] under Ramia’s command jeered good-naturedly. The Squad Leader looked more comfortable around Artur. So comfortable, in fact, that Artur spoke.

“Is Strategist Belgrade sending reinforcements to the center?”

Kerone jumped, like many who heard Artur speak. He hesitated, coughed into a fist, and replied.

“My squad’s part of a company that came to help fight, yes. The right’s going well. We destroyed an enemy camp, and they’re retreating hard. Division Leader Ramia’s forces requested some support, so Belgrade sent us over. Not that they needed us that much!”

Artur accepted this lie as a lie. He hung around Olesm. He knew Belgrade was doing better than any other part of the army.

Ramia’s forces…weren’t dying. Not like the Antinium. But the Alliance was showing its backbone, and she was not Olesm or Belgrade.

So it was the soup. Artur knew all that. What he didn’t realize was something trivial. Well, two things:

Firstly, Ramia’s forces had no flags left, aside from one standing outside her tent.

Second? There were no [Flag Bearers] but Artur.

It wasn’t as if [Flag Bearer] was a class Olesm had dedicated himself to creating. He had assigned [Soldiers] to carry a flag, but Hectval burned every flag they captured, just like Liscor would do to all three cities in return. They were not a critical resource, nor did Olesm request more flags from Liscor.

So Artur’s flag began to become a rarer and rarer sight. Indeed, he realized his Skill was one of a handful in Liscor’s army.

[Flag: Inspiring Sight]. As Kerone led him around Ramia’s command, [Soldiers] spotted it and some approached.

“Hey, is that the Antinium flag? What’s going on? Is the Antinium side sending Ants here? Or is it going so well we’re getting their flag? Can anyone add to it?”

Kerone shrugged.

“I don’t think so. Commander Ramia’s gotten three squads. A bit beat-up. The flag’s on tour for morale.”

A few Drakes, all of whom had an odd, strutting walk and an odd badge one offered Artur, frowned.

“Morale? It does feel…well, I feel a bit better looking at it. Fancy that. So no news from the other fronts?”

Kerone shook his head. Artur looked at him, then clicked his mandibles.

“We have received a reinforcement of two hundred and thirteen Antinium. Commander Olesm has also won a protracted battle on Division Leader Bepol’s side. We are also receiving a shipment of Corusdeer steak as premium rations, to be divided up per command tonight.”

The Drakes recoiled, and Kerone blinked at Artur.

“How do you know that?”

The [Flag Bearer] gave him a blank look.

“I heard it?”

He did not tell them about the bad things, like Crusader 57’s squad being wiped out. That was bad for morale. Or Bepol’s failed charge.

However, the [Soldiers] perked right up at the news about the steaks. One looked at Artur, and, to the Antinium’s astonishment, held out a claw.

“Do you shake hands? We’re from Liscor’s Players.”

That explained their badge, which looked like a stick-man with clothing. Or stick-Drake? Kerone was fascinated.

“You’re Liscor’s Players? Nice name. My squad’s Friendly Mold. Any relation to the actual thing?”

One of the Drakes chuckled, but with that note Artur had learned to hear.

“Any relation? Half of us are Liscor’s Players. Not the main cast…well, one of us was. We signed up after the first attack.”

“Why?”

Kerone didn’t know the connection Liscor’s Players had with…Artur kept looking at them, even as he toured on.

Each [Soldier] had a reason to be here. Sometimes it wasn’t much of a reason beyond ‘getting paid’, or that they didn’t know what else to do.

Sometimes it was a reason that had roots back to the inn. Artur kept repeating his news, because [Soldiers] asked and Kerone prompted him to.

“Corusdeer steak…a victory on our left. Yes, I believe they will soon become regular rations as Commander Olesm did not want them to go bad.”

That cheered them up. In that sense, the Antinium and Liscor’s soldiers were alike. Good food…just saying it made them smile, as if it were as large as a victory. Artur’s feet hurt from walking.

[Flag Bearer Level 12!]

——

He saw two battles under Ramia’s command and leveled up to Level 14. A level per battle.

Artur thought he encountered more arrows as two arms held a shield up. Ramia certainly told him to go back towards the [Archer] lines twice.

“Bastards are shooting flaming arrows at us. Keep that flag raised! Move Squad 9 up! There’s a gap…”

One hit Artur’s flag in the second battle. His flag caught fire and he had to put it out—but then he raised it again as the tear mended. That was all he did, and five arrows rattled off his steel armor, but Ramia sent him back to Olesm with a personal commendation and a request to have Artur return.

Olesm read out the note and glanced at Artur.

“Any new levels and Skills related to that flag?”

Artur had gained a new Skill—[Indefinite Marching]. He shook his head.

“No, sir.”

Olesm drummed his claws on the table.

“Well, I’m placing you back with Bepol and the Antinium. Report to Tersk. Oh—what now?”

A [Soldier] was waiting for Olesm even as Artur marched towards the tent opening.

“Someone to see you, sir. Not one of ours.”

“An enemy? Someone from Liscor?”

Olesm looked up sharply. The [Soldier] hesitated, and Artur marched out of the tent.

And almost into a strange fragrance in the air. An odd perfume…and a head that recoiled, and a look that made Artur’s chitin crawl.

A Drake man stepped back as a dozen odd warriors wearing cloth-type armor over their metal gear put their hands on their weapons. But he lifted a claw. He had an odd…tattoo…across his clawed hand. Artur stared at him as the group stood well clear of him.

“Interesting.”

“Come in!”

Olesm’s voice sounded from the tent, and the Drake turned. He walked to the tent, and two of his bodyguards went to follow, but he lifted a claw as the [Soldiers] guarding Olesm bristled.

“I will enter alone. Here is my weapon…you may, of course, search me.”

The [Soldiers] nodded, and one of the guards protested.

“But Master—!”

“Silence.”

Artur’s head turned as he watched the Drake consenting to a thorough inspection via magic and simply being patted down. In the tent, Olesm’s head rose, and his eyes narrowed as he saw the [Slaver] of Roshal smile politely at him.

——

Artur saw no more of that. However, it was glimpses such as these that gave him an insight no one else had into the war. Front lines and back.

He also got to see how people were changing. There had been no room for a [Flag Bearer] in Tersk’s understanding of how war was fought at first. However, when Artur reported his commendation from Ramia, the Prognugator paused.

“It seems you have a positive effect on morale? This is…problematic. Antinium have no morale. We do not break and run. Perhaps it would be best to place you in a position where you can aid Bepol’s command.”

He was learning. But he still didn’t understand. Artur nodded.

“I will do so.”

Behind Tersk, Calruz rubbed at his face.

“I believe we need another chat, Prognugator Tersk. A [Flag Bearer] is not a worthless class. It is a leader—of sorts.”

Tersk turned back to Calruz, and Artur tilted his head. The Minotaur did not meet with Olesm. He wrote notes and had a speaking stone, but most of Liscor hated him.

However…Artur had noticed Calruz, after the heavy fighting, would come to Tersk’s tent more and more and dine with the Antinium. So that he was not alone.

——

Artur learned there was a shortage of flags on his side as well. The Antinium had brought exactly one. And unlike before…this time, the flag was a target.

“Arrows incoming! Take cover!”

Artur crouched, shield raised, as arrows pinged off metal. He wore full armor—but with the right elevation and range…

Something pierced the metal on his side, and he felt a flash of pain.

“Wounded! Get them out of here! [Counter Fire]!”

The officer leading the [Archers] spotted Artur, but the [Flag Bearer] shook his head and produced his healing potion. He gulped it down, half-rising to peek across the battlefield as the officer stormed back, exchanging arrows with Hectval’s forces.

Hm. It was not good. The archer-duel was one thing, but Bepol was making the same mistake Olesm had chided him for once before in private. Artur had heard Bepol was fond of the line-breaking charge, and it had worked the first dozen times.

However…Significant Beavers were bogged down in the middle of a reinforced second line. Satel was covering Utel, who had a hole in her leg, as Bepol roared.

“Back! Back!”

And while he was focused on saving his charging soldiers, Hectval would…Artur looked up.

There. The [Riders] were coming. Hectval’s Alliance didn’t have many in the mountains, but the ones they did cut in, just like Olesm had warned Bepol. But the Drake had tunnel vision. The [Riders] nipped in, distracting one of the engaged squads, and forcing them to fight on two sides.

No! They retreated, and Bepol regained control, but Artur saw good Drakes and Gnolls fall. Then another arrow struck him in the shoulder but lodged in his chitin. It still hurt a bit.

[Flag Bearer Level 15!]

[Flag: Lesser Missile Defense obtained!]

——

After that battle, Artur spent three hours mending the holes in his flag. But he got a new Skill. The instant Bepol heard about it, he and Tersk began arguing where to put Artur.

“I need him with my [Archers].”

“The Antinium would benefit likewise from archer protection.”

“Ah, but it’s only lesser missile protection. Better to have it away from a direct volley. Is it permanent? That’s…not bad. Can we test it?”

Artur ended up standing with his patched flag as a group of [Archers] shot headless arrows at him and watched them swerve slightly. The Skill couldn’t block a direct shot, but it turned a lot of hits into grazes or misses.

An inch or two could be the difference between life and death. Tersk ceded Artur to Bepol…mainly because the Drake had taken some bad losses.

“It’s those damn [Riders]. They’re invisible or sped up. I know Commander Olesm claims he can see them, but I need 4th Company or something to handle them.”

Artur nearly fell over his flag when he heard that. Did Bepol not see the [Riders] coming at him, straight as day?

No…he didn’t notice. He was not infallible. Artur watched Bepol uneasily, because he didn’t like the Drake’s lack of vision. But did he say something?

Artur did not. He was only a [Flag Bearer].

——

The next day, Artur watched a repeat. Bepol didn’t charge the front; instead, they charged him.

“We’ve got them. Surround them—I want a [Shieldline Wall] there. Get me Archer Squad 2. Oh! Someone just shot their officer! Lucky!”

The Drake crowed as a fluke arrow nailed one of the officers through the eye. Artur watched as he eagerly set up a killing zone, funneling the unlucky vanguard through two [Shield Walls] in a V-formation while archers shot straight down the center.

And he never saw the [Riders] on the left. Bepol had a far larger group to deal with, and he might win the battle if he ate enough of Hectval’s own or made them surrender.

Artur’s gaze strayed left. He saw Significant Beavers on the flanks. They hadn’t spotted the [Riders] using boulders as partial cover either. They were locked on the warriors ahead of them.

Of course they were. Everyone had tunnel vision in a battle where death came one way. But Artur saw it. He could only watch and defend himself.

“Commander Bepol. Commander Bepol. The left…”

The Drake didn’t hear him. Artur raised his voice—looked down the hill. Bepol was surrounded by his people. He didn’t hear! Artur’s flag wavered.

——

Significant Beavers was skirmishing with Hectval’s [Soldiers] in a scrum. Some bastard was flicking [Light Arrow] spells at their ranks, so everyone had their shields up, guarding their faces.

“Someone get me a javelin. I’ll nail that bastard!”

Utel was growling. That was the same Drake who put a hole in her leg yesterday! Satel was passing one up when they heard a shout.

It was a loud roar, not from their regular Squad Leader, but off and to the left. Satel had never heard the voice before, but it called to them by name.

“Significant Beavers! Flanking charge! On your left!”

The squad whirled. The front line with Jordes began to disengage, but the voice shouted.

“First rank, hold! Second rank, pivot! Javelins! Third rank, forwards after the javelins and brace! Spears up!”

Who was shouting that? No time for questions. Satel tossed the spear, and Utel whirled. She hurled a javelin, and one of the [Riders] went down.

“That poor horse—”

She growled in dismay, for she’d hit the screaming animal. But then the [Riders] were charging. Satel anchored his pike, and the [Riders] tried to swerve. They were peeling off! So the voice roared.

“Arrogant Wyrms, cut them off! [Archers], loose!”

A squad behind Significant Beavers cut across the [Riders], and then the fighting caught the charging horses off-guard. A volley of arrows and over half the riders were down. Satel ran forwards to mercy-kill a screaming horse, but Utel yanked him out of the way.

“Hold on! Hold on! Healing potion!”

She got kicked for it, but the horse saw the arrows in its side yanked out, and stood up, shakily, as the Gnoll held its head and stroked its flank.

Significant Beavers fell back from the front as Bepol saw the disturbance and rotated them out. However, Satel kept looking around for who had spoken.

“Which officer was that? I’ve never heard that voice. They were right on the money, though.”

Jordes was nursing a cut on his arm. He looked around, frowning.

“I don’t see anyone else…maybe it was one of 4th?”

There was no one about. The only other person was…Satel blinked.

“Artur? What are you doing on the front? Get back behind the lines!”

The Worker with the familiar flag looked at Satel and nodded. He marched back as Utel frowned at him. Satel looked at her and then Artur and frowned.

“It couldn’t be…”

——

[Conditions Met: Flag Bearer → Banner Leader Class!]

[Banner Leader Level 17!]

[Skill – Unit: Moment of Frenzy obtained!]

A minor consolidation. A useful Skill. When Olesm heard Tersk’s report he put two-and-two together. His eyes narrowed, and Artur looked away as Olesm checked his reports.

“So that’s who saved Bepol from eating another side-charge. Artur. You issued orders in battle?”

“I did not mean to. I am sorry. It is just that he did not notice the charge and there was no time.”

Artur quivered as he held the flag, but Olesm just shook his head. He looked at Artur, almost wonderingly, then strode from the tent.

“Is that [Slaver] hanging around?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get rid of him. Get me Bepol and Tersk. I have a new position for Artur.”

That was how the Antinium found himself receiving his officer’s rank, a personal tent…and permission to command any forces as he saw fit.

The first Antinium to receive a promotion. The Antinium a lot of Liscor’s [Soldiers] could point out.

The Ant carrying their flag. Artur. [Banner Leader]. It left an impression on Liscor’s army. It left a larger impression on Manus’ forces the instant they heard an Antinium had been appointed as an officer. Artur was added to a list.

However, the one it left the largest impression on was…

Olesm.

Olesm, [Leader]

He’d gotten good grades in Manus. Not that he’d gone through officer-training. He’d passed through their [Strategist] courses and come out as a [Tactician] spoken of well by his teachers.

They didn’t rave he was the talent of a generation, but Olesm had been proud of it. More importantly, Lism had been proud of it. The fact that Olesm had gotten a job as the [Strategist] of Liscor was a combination of his predecessor joining the army in solidarity when the Free Antinium arrived, retiring, and being hired for another post at better pay.

Even so…that was sort of Olesm. A handsome lad. Gifted.

‘A good young man.’ People, especially Lism, said it until Olesm began to believe it. He forgot, sometimes, that it was not usual for your uncle to raise you because your actual parents didn’t want you. He had been fairly confident he was doing everything right.

Then Erin Solstice came along. Olesm ate humble pie—and then spent a week lying in a stone coffin after an undead monster nearly sacked his city, all because he went to play adventurer.

More incidents after that. He became a shadow to a real icon who united Goblins and Antinium, who did the things he, a [Strategist], didn’t conceive. However, Maviola El came through Liscor like a burning fireball. Changing everything in her wake.

You just need a spark. She was of the opinion the world was tinder, waiting to burn. Olesm had learned as much from her as Erin. Possibly more.

War taught Olesm one more thing about himself. And it was this:

Olesm was not a ‘good boy’.

Every night, he did not dream the same dream. He was no [Dreamer] or whatever class you might get. But he had a daydream, which was a night dream but not a dream…

He imagined Hectval burning. Olesm had a rough description of their city, and he wondered how long Antinium might take to break down an enchanted wall from below. Even with a fortified base, if you dug away an entire pit…Drake cities had fallen to Antinium Hives before because no one had met a species this good at digging.

If he had a single hill, or could build a tower, and put a squad of [Archers] on it while tying up the walls? 4th Company was specialized at taking walls and other vantage points.

Just put a squad of [Archers] on the walls for eight hours. Flaming arrows. He imagined the citizens might put up a defense. And he wondered how many would die.

Sacking Hectval was not Olesm’s goal. His goal was to reduce the Hectval Alliance’s strength until they signed a treaty of non-aggression. If they didn’t? He’d have to make sure they were not a threat.

He wanted them to fight until they came to those gates. The vengeful dream came to Olesm wondering, realistically, how he would deal with casualties among children. Among truly innocent people—and he stopped.

Because he didn’t like thinking about innocents, even though he knew many were. Olesm wanted Hectval’s people to suffer as much as he and Liscor had. A hundred times more. He hated them in a way he hadn’t even hated Skinner, a monster. A monster was just a monster. Those were people who’d done things he would never forgive.

That was why it was so hard to turn the [Slaver] away.

——

The [Slaver] of Roshal was a Drake. He had a tattoo of his city on his claw. To Olesm, it looked like a set of scales…but they seemed to change every time he looked at them. Never on one side. Never balanced.

Magical. Also, the [Slaver] was a Drake, though he had [Slave Bodyguards] of other species. In fact—no [Slave] was a Drake, and the [Slaver] was one.

That was just a kind of mental trick. Drakes would be more receptive to seeing that. Olesm knew Roshal did not have that many Drakes. But their agents in Izril?

“I am not selling any prisoners of war as [Slaves]. Liscor does not keep slaves, Slaver Cubol.”

The Drake offered Olesm a fine vintage of wine. Olesm pointedly ignored the proffered cup until Cubol sipped it. He never broke from his smile or took offense. Which made Olesm warier of him still.

“Liscor does not explicitly ban [Slaves], does it, Commander Swifttail?”

“We don’t keep them.”

Olesm frowned at the [Slaver]. Cubol raised one brow.

“Ah, but you don’t have a law in your charter banning them. Perhaps the sale or taking within your city, but certainly not the existence. That’s not a violation of your conduct of war either. I merely mention this as a fact.”

That was such a…Olesm put in an information request and did some reading himself. By the next time Cubol arrived, Olesm snapped at him.

“How did you know that?”

Roshal’s representative didn’t have a gift for Olesm to turn down. This time, he offered Olesm some news.

“Newspaper? Chandrar International. By a Rémi Canada. I order it from home. It is always nice to have another point of view, don’t you think?”

Olesm glared, but he let Cubol leave the newspaper because he wanted to know if it contained anything about Ceria. He was tempted to throw Cubol out of his tent and bar him from the army.

However, Olesm couldn’t arrest him, free the slaves, or touch Cubol in any way. Roshal was a foreign power, and they were notoriously protective of their [Slavers]. So why did Olesm listen?

Well, at first it was to argue over Liscor’s laws. Cubol had hit him with that before Olesm could tell him ‘no, and don’t bother me again’.

“How did you know Liscor has no anti-slave laws about them passing through the city?”

It was a notable lack. Cubol smiled.

“It would have been something I was briefed on. Few cities have that charter, Strategist. That would make them opposed to Roshal—whereas we can at least move freely. I believe Roshal does negotiate for that simple right.”

Olesm’s scales prickled. Did that mean almost every Drake—or most cities had that kind of opening in their laws? How long and how much had Roshal lobbied to do that?

He picked up the newspaper and flipped through it before he cursed and tossed it down. It was hard to tell Cubol just to get out, etiquette aside.

Am I under a Skill making me listen to this?

“I’m not interested in selling [Slaves].”

“Liscor could benefit very greatly from the sale thereof. I happen to know this war is not going…perfectly. A hundred enchanted weapons would turn the tide.”

That was why Olesm hated Cubol. If it were simply about [Slaves]…Olesm pushed aside the idea of buying a hundred Kaalblades and handing them to the Antinium. Wasn’t that fair? The problem was…Cubol looked at Olesm.

“I understand this is no normal war, Commander Olesm. I don’t visit regular city skirmishes. They do not tend to sell each others’ [Soldiers] into slavery. But this? Hectval? I don’t know all the details, but let me ask you one question before you throw me out. Your stance on [Slaves] or not—we don’t need to argue. If you hate my class and everything I stand for? All the better. Ask yourself this, Commander. How much do you want Hectval to suffer?”

He was good. Olesm looked up at Cubol and calmly picked up the newspaper. He had a magical lamp that he could use at night for steady illumination, but everyone had backup candles. He lit one, held the newspaper over it, and watched it catch fire.

Cubol watched calmly…until Olesm was holding a flaming bundle of paper in his claw. The [Strategist]’s face changed as he held the fiery bundle. It singed his scales. But he didn’t let go.

The [Slaver] watched as Olesm, in clear pain, stared into the heart of the flames. When the fire went out, he was holding ashes and his hand was burned. However—when Olesm looked up, the slight sweat on his brow rolled down around sharp eyes.

“That was a Skill. I’ve been taught how to break them, even adept ones like yours, Cubol. You are banned from Liscor’s army. Get out. If I want you, I’ll contact you. And I will never contact you.”

The [Slaver] frowned at Olesm, the polite veneer slipping away for the first time. Then he smiled ruefully and rose.

“I suppose the [Strategist] taught by the matriarch of the House of El would say no less. Although House El has sold [Slaves] to us before, you know. Even Maviola El had dealings with Roshal.”

Olesm’s head snapped up, but Cubol was already stepping out of his tent.

That was bait. Olesm refused to take the bait, but he was shaken by how much he wanted to.

Too competent by half, that [Slaver]. Olesm tended to his burned claw. He had more important things to do. Like realize that Artur had a talent for leadership.

Like…

Being a [Leader].

——

The morale of the troops was something Olesm worried about. He was no Zel Shivertail, and Olesm wished he could have taken lessons from the Drake. Each army was different, and each [General] had a different style.

For instance, Zevara was a leader who kept to her office, delegated to her trusted officers—but came out whenever it got hot. She inspired by competency but made a clear distinction between her and her command.

Olesm knew that Liscor’s army was more rough-and-ready, and high command would come down now and then. Zel? Zel would probably walk the camps. Ilvriss had been one of the delegators, the inspiring archetypes who [Soldiers] trusted by weight of his reputation.

Olesm…split the difference. He didn’t walk around clapping weary Drakes, Humans, and Gnolls on the backs, telling them to ‘keep their chin up’ or ‘fix that shield, son’.

He was young. It was a stupid look. Moreover? He didn’t think a lot of the army needed that. It was rough fighting. They were in the soup. But Liscor won more than it lost.

He went where he felt, instinctively, morale was hanging by a thread. Even when they won, it felt like they lost.

Olesm spent his time among the Antinium.

——

“I have eaten of the Rock Crab soup. It bleeds blue. The soup is filling and hot, and it tastes sour, such a deep sour as it makes your antennae wave, left and right. But the meat is so tough. So chewy. Some, I have heard, call it bad meat, but I have eaten of the Rock Crab soup, and my bowl was filled four times before I was sated. That is a soup you will one day have—if not here, then in Heaven. Believe that. Fight for that day and believe.”

Olesm listened to one of the [Acolytes] preach. Preach…it was an odd word, but it fit the odd style of address.

Nor did he quite understand what the Antinium was doing. Which one was it? He wore robes like Pisces’, white, trimmed with green, and all four arms were raised.

Theophilus? Olesm didn’t care about the words…he cared about the reaction of the [Crusaders].

They listened. However, Olesm saw a few staring more at the sky or at the food other [Soldiers] were noshing on than the [Acolyte]. It seemed Theophilus realized that too, because he had begun praying in more than single-sentence litanies.

Tersk, Dekass, and, to an extent, the three [Acolytes] and Calruz were the officers of the Antinium division. Olesm had far more than two main officers in every other division, but Antinium had no leadership, historically. A single Prognugator might command an entire army.

That needed to change. After the first bloody battles, Olesm walked around the camp and found himself…disconcerted.

The new Soldiers and Workers looked like they were settling in fine. They sat around, doing nothing but staring at the ground, plants, the sky…other [Soldiers], but the ones who’d been with the army from the start were more animated.

One lay on his back, just staring up at the clouds. Another was playing a…shell game? He seemed to be working it out with two other Antinium. Two Workers and a Soldier, squatting around.

Personality. Olesm thought that was a good thing. He scanned about and saw Squad 5, sitting around, idly watching pillbugs crawl about. One of the members caught his eye and earhole.

“…fUck. EAt pOOp. SEVer yOUR taiL. diE, DiE, DIE…”

“What is that?”

Dekass halted on Olesm’s tour of the camp.

“Ah. That is the not-Aberration, Crusader 57. We are watching him, Commander. Tersk has not allowed me to slay him, but if you would like to overrule that, I will be happy to oblige.”

“An Aberration?”

Olesm had seen and heard of Antinium going insane in his tenure as a [Strategist]. Workers going berserk and killing Liscorians…but mostly other Antinium. It was rare, but he knew how dangerous they were.

Yet when Dekass explained Calruz’s reasoning, Olesm looked around, glared at the Minotaur, and nodded.

“If he’s being watched…that’s your discretion.”

“Yes, Commander Olesm. I am pleased to report morale is high, as you can see.”

Dekass snapped his mandibles together happily. The [Acolytes] nodded, and one, Theophilus again, hastened to speak.

“We will fight and die to defeat Hectval, Commander. We will not mutiny or flee. Your concerns are unnecessary.”

Olesm looked at the Antinium, Tersk especially. He cast his eyes across the Antinium camp and shook his head.

“You’re wrong. Something is very wrong.”

Dekass looked puzzled, and the [Acolytes] snapped their mandibles together, worried. Tersk came striding up, putting on his helmet.

“Apologies, Commander Olesm. I was writing my own report to my Queen. Are you inspecting the troops for emergence of Painted Antinium or significant levels? They have not appeared yet, but my hopes are high.”

Painted Antinium? Olesm glanced at Tersk.

“Is that what your Hive wants? More Painted Antinium, Tersk?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Dekass and Tersk spoke at the same time. Tersk glowered at Dekass until the other Armored Prognugator clicked his mandibles.

“Oh. I was employing, ah, sarcasm. We do not want that at all. That would be entirely distressing and not our goal.”

Olesm rolled his eyes. He turned to Tersk.

“I’d like that too. But I was just saying to Dekass—morale seems terrible in the camp.”

Tersk peered around as Dekass muttered, ‘subterfuge successfully employed’ to himself.

“…I do not understand entirely, but I also comprehend your meaning, Commander. Calruz has expressed similar concerns. Can you elaborate? This is my failing as a leader to grasp. Your perspective as a non-Antinium is entirely valuable.”

Olesm raised his brows. Tersk was changing. He nodded around the camp and illuminated it all. It was so simple.

“They’re not angry.”

The [Acolytes] and Prognugators looked at Olesm. Tersk’s mandibles opened wide, but Dekass laughed.

“Why would they be?”

Olesm didn’t answer him. He turned to Theophilus.

“Acolyte Theophilus.”

“I am not an [Acolyte]. That class does not exist. I am a [Healer]. You cannot read my class.”

The Drake was getting sick of Antinium lies. He ignored that.

“When you…spoke to the Antinium this morning.”

“A morale-building exercise. It has nothing to do with—”

“Silence.”

The [Acolyte] fell silent, and the Commander glared at him. He spoke crisply.

“Why aren’t the Antinium angry? Why aren’t you angry? A thousand Antinium were killed. By Manus—or Hectval, if we want to go down the official line. Those Soldiers and Antinium? They lost their comrades. That Worker is the only one having a normal reaction.”

He pointed at Crusader 57 and saw the Antinium look up. Olesm received four middle fingers, but it just illustrated his point.

“Angry…?”

Theophilus looked at his two other [Acolytes]. It was Zimrah who replied in a lighter tone than Theophilus. She? She spoke to Olesm.

“Antinium die in the Hive every day, Commander. It is a terrible thing. I weep for it, though I have no tears to shed. I weep in my heart and pray for a day when no one will die again. However, even a newly-born Soldier and Worker knows it is coming. That is our tragedy, and why we dream of better days. We are not angry; this war is terrible, but no worse than how we live normally.”

Jerimy nodded, and Olesm recoiled. He had never heard an Antinium talk like that! Aside from perhaps Pawn. Yet he replied just as quickly.

“That’s wrong.”

Zimrah’s clasped hands unclasped for a moment, and Jerimy raised one hand.

“Respectfully, Commander, this is what Pawn teaches.”

“Not anger? He tells you not to be angry?”

The others hesitated. They conferred, antennae waving, and Theophilus replied.

“He is angry at Hectval. That anger is in us all, without a doubt.”

“But not towards the [Soldiers] who killed the [Crusaders]. Because Antinium expect to die. You’re not angry. You should be. They’re out there. Don’t you want revenge? Don’t you want justice?”

A few Antinium were listening in, Olesm knew. Zimrah opened and closed her mandibles.

“We cannot think like that, Commander Olesm.”

“Why not?”

The [Acolytes] conferred. It was Theophilus who raised his head slowly. He looked at Olesm, and the words were dragged out of him with less confidence than anything else he had said.

“Because…because if we were angry about our people dying. If we were angry that we were killed, that so many die…we would be too angry. We would be…so angry.”

There was a warble in that last sentence. Tersk and Dekass turned to Theophilus, and Olesm bared his teeth. It was not kindness. He looked around at the Antinum and saw them eating their horrible paste.

“Don’t you award a ration to surviving battalions, Tersk?”

“As per your orders, Commander. We commend a battalion after every battle.”

“Huh. That bastard offered me enough gold to arm everyone. And food supplies. We don’t have a food shortage. We’re close enough to Liscor and the door…”

Olesm stared blankly at the Antinium slowly eating the paste. Tersk waited.

“Sir?”

“Commander?”

Theophilus was waiting for a reply too. Olesm turned back to him. He gazed at the [Acolyte] and looked around the camp.

“Be angry. They did this to you. Not monsters. Not fate. Hectval’s [Soldiers]. You’re here, fighting and dying, because they killed Erin Solstice. Because of them. You’ll meet them on the battlefield. Think of that.”

Every Antinium in earshot had gone still. Their heads turned to Olesm, and he saw Theophilus step back. Zimrah looked anxious. Tersk? Tersk tilted his head and watched the other Antinium thoughtfully.

That was Olesm’s first change among the Antinium.

[Leader Level 17!]

——

Levelling like an adventurer. Almost none as a [Strategist]…but as a [Leader]?

He leveled. His [Soldiers] died. Was it because Manus was in this war too? Or the sheer losses?

Olesm didn’t know. But he did know his orders had some effect on it.

He leveled again after he instituted a new command.

“All Antinium are to now receive standard Liscorian army rations. Moreover—each new reinforcement of Soldiers and Workers are to be fed, regardless of the time, before entering battle. I would also like to request any supplies of easy-to-read books or other materials from Liscor’s Council…with consultation from Pawn for the objects Painted Antinium use.”

He finished muttering and signed the order. And again, it was not kindness that dictated it, but that dark thought that this would make them stronger.

His officers objected. Wing Commander Embria brought it up with a frown.

“We’ve just shortened our supply line from weeks of reserves to a single week or less. We’ll need to demand far more supplies—which costs coin.”

“We’re ransoming prisoners to the Hectval Alliance. Someone get me Artur. Artur, tell Tersk…”

Olesm summoned the [Banner Leader], who was coincidentally hanging outside of his tent, and the Antinium trotted off. Embria, Bepol, and some of the other [Tacticians] and officers saw Olesm get up.

“Commander, this is a matter of morale.”

Olesm met Embria’s gaze.

“I’m sure. Why don’t we walk over to the Antinium camp? Tersk has agreed to show us something.”

“What? Which is…?”

Embria followed Olesm. The Drake steeled himself. He was not going to enjoy this.

“…Have you checked the supply listings of the Antinium? They never ship more of their food with their reinforcements. Somehow, amazingly, it doesn’t seem like they consume any of their inventory of food. In fact, I think they’ve added to their stock.”

Wing Commander Embria’s brows rose. She had not checked the roster. She and the other officers walked straight into Olesm’s trap. The Drake hadn’t had lunch yet.

He didn’t have dinner, either.

Embria, [Wing Commander]

She did not write this down, even as an imaginary letter to her father. She could not—she summarized it to the rest of 4th Company like this.

“I just watched Antinium make their food. They had some of their dead. Stripped them of armor—and then began stomping them into paste.”

Captain Vell stopped eating. Maksie was not present; she had stopped showing up at 4th Company’s barracks.

“Ancestors. Do you mean…”

Pielt gagged. Wing Commander Embria wiped at her mouth. She had not thrown up—with effort.

“Not just that. They had grain, edible plants…bugs…and some of the enemy dead. I wondered how the Antinium cleaned up the battlefield. I never saw them burning…”

“Commander. Stop.”

Lieutenant Kesa looked ill. Embria stopped, if for her own sake as much as anything.

“And they’ve been doing that all this time? That’s what they eat? I—there’ll be a revolt once the soldiers hear that.”

Wikir growled. Embria shook her head.

“No, there won’t. We’re switching over to full rations for everyone, remember? And I can’t say I objected after that.”

Commander Olesm had gotten no objections. Rather, when Dekass had objected to the waste, Olesm had told him that Liscor’s army might suffer an outright mutiny if they didn’t switch.

So that was what the bugs ate. It made them more monstrous to Embria.

More monstrous. Cannibalistic things that ate other people.

More—

——

“Scout Leader Maksie. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

It was rare that Embria had to go to a superior to sort out discipline in her company. She was a Wing Commander. If she needed help, that was a failing on her part.

However, Maksie had gotten into a second fistfight with Vell, and this time it had attracted the attention of the regulars, rather than being a quiet brawl in the tents. Olesm looked at the black-eyed Maksie.

“No, sir.”

“Well, then, I am transferring your tent and command out of 4th Company. We’ll assign you with the rest of the regular [Scouts]. You are docked half a week’s pay. As is Captain Vell. Wing Commander Embria, your discretion for anything within your command.”

“Very good, sir.”

Embria saluted, and she and Maksie strode out of the tent. Neither Drake looked at the other until they were well out earshot. They stopped next to two flags flying in the center of the camp and began to argue.

“You’ve been with 4th for years, Maksie. What the hell has gotten into you?”

“What’s gotten into me? What’s wrong with you, Wing Commander? You and Vell and everyone else? Are you blind, or do I need to give you a lift up so you can see everything?”

Maksie was red, quivering—and it was a shock from the cool-as-glass [Scout] that Embria remembered.

“I’m not hopping in bed with the Antinium. But if Vell wants to run her mouth off, I’ll hit her again. I’m off.”

“You can’t leave. I’ll grab Vell. You meet us tonight and keep your fists at your sides. We’ll talk this out. 4th Company doesn’t split up. After the war…”

Maksie pulled away from Embria.

“After the war? I don’t know if I’m staying with 4th.”

Embria felt poleaxed. She staggered—someone leaving their company, Liscor’s army, was unheard of! It was so rare that only honorable discharges like Menolit or dishonorable ones were common.

Or…Relc.

Maksie looked like she’d stabbed herself as well. She faced Embria, breathing hard, and in a low, pained voice, hissed.

“I’m one of the army, Wing Commander. But they’re wrong on this. Can’t you see it?”

——

Wing Commander Embria had been a regular [Soldier] when she’d run away from home to join up. Liscor’s Army beat a lot out of you, like being an idiot, thinking you were the next Gecko just because you were his daughter…and they beat things into you.

Like Sserys’ history. Greatest [General] of their age! The veterans would tell stories of campaigns, give the newbies tips, even try to teach them weapon Skills.

Even tail-signs.

“What are tail-signs?”

Olesm poured Embria a cup, and she took a sip. She was talking with Olesm. Not because they particularly liked each other, although there was enough respect now. He wasn’t far behind one of Liscor’s [Strategists], and he was pulling double-duty as a commander.

But Embria had no one else to turn to. There was Ramia, Bepol, and arguably Belgrade. However, Embria could only visit one at a time given how they were split up. So she tried to resolve her issues with Maksie.

“Haven’t you heard of them? It’s when a [General] might be standing at the front, shouting…well, shouting whatever he wants. But everyone watches his or her tail. Sserys used to do it. It’s a simple feint.”

Olesm frowned.

“I think I recall…no. No, actually, I don’t think Manus teaches that. It sounds easy to break as an enemy [Strategist].”

Embria rolled her eyes. [Strategists] always thought of it in those terms.

“Maybe, but it could be a few seconds of difference when the enemy regulars hear you say ‘we’re charging down the center’—only for an entire army to go left. That’s the kind of thing we used to do.”

“Not anymore?”

“Well…they caught on. Besides, High Command is good. But we lost a lot during the First Antinium Wars. The core of the army Sserys took to end the war was Liscorian.”

Olesm nodded. Embria played with her cup.

“The old guard tells you about that. The bastard Antinium. Of all their horror stories—Crelers and Antinium were some of the worst. No one from that era doesn’t know a dozen people who died to them.”

There were more things the old guard told you. Things you didn’t reveal. Things the army did or had done—or just secrets about other commanders. Like…ah, well. Sserys was their hero, and that had never changed. Antinium? If Maksie had gone back to the rest of the army and said what she said, it would have been dangerous.

“They’re soldiers. Do you think it’s wrong for us to feed them regular food?”

“No. I agreed the instant I heard what they ate. But you’re feeding them before they go into battle.”

The Commander stretched out his claws, as he worked a cramp out of one.

“Absolutely. I didn’t realize it but…the reinforcements might not have eaten regular food. That’ll be their first and last meal. Oh—and I’ve told Tersk to announce the next meal to them.”

“What?”

“Like beans. Or fish stew.”

“No! That’s…”

Embria sat up, glaring at Olesm. She felt something and struggled to give voice to it.

“Even I can say that’s a kind of foul, Commander. Liscor’s army does something like that if we think we’re going into the soup tomorrow, but telling them what they get if they come back? Feeding them up before you send them into the blade trap? I wouldn’t treat cows or pigs like that!”

He was treating them like a [Farmer] treated livestock. Olesm raised his brows.

“I thought you weren’t on Maksie’s side.”

“I’m not!”

She recoiled instantly, but Olesm just leaned on his desk.

“I’d rather give them something than nothing. And they’re in this war because if the Antinium division pulls out…we might not be able to win. And Manus is assailing them time and time again, and they’re dying. If they were Gnolls or Drakes, what would you do?”

“I’d tell them to pull out and tell you this war wasn’t worth it. Not if we’re going into the meat-grinder. I’d expect the rest of the army to mutiny—unless they were war criminals or there was some other reason.”

Olesm gave Embria a bright smile.

“Amazing what being a different species does. How about Humans?”

She pushed herself back from the table.

“It’s Antinium. They’re the exception! They wiped out cities to the last Drake, killed Sserys, and would have butchered us all.”

Olesm nodded. He lifted his cup.

“Then should I send you a bottle each time we take over a hundred casualties? Why do you look so upset? I care about them, but I’m sending them to their deaths. What’s your problem, Embria?”

He was needling her. The Wing Commander refused to answer. She put her claws on the table, too upset to drink.

“Just tell me why. Not about me. Just…you. You don’t think like 4th. You grew up with them, but you’re willing to employ this strategy? Explain it, Olesm.”

The Drake toyed with his cup. He hadn’t drunk much either. He looked up at her, and his eyes shone by the candle’s light. Not his magical lantern, a more susceptible, flickering glow.

Fire.

“When I told Calruz I was going to continue sending them forth, he was not happy. But he didn’t stop me. Pawn knows what I’m doing, and he could probably stop the reinforcements. He doesn’t. I am requisitioning books, toys, whatever they could use in their spare time, and I’m even thinking of putting one squad with other divisions. Just…one squad, because Manus might retaliate to the rest. But when the new reinforcements come, they’ll eat good food and be promised more. I told Tersk to plan out bedding. A blanket or something.”

“Why?”

Doomed [Soldiers]. Olesm looked at the candle.

“Strike a spark. Light a fire. Do you know, Embria? This tactic was used once before. Just once, and the [Lady] who told me it said that it was one of the bitterest blazes she ever saw. It wasn’t Antinium. The regular [Soldiers]—they weren’t even [Soldiers], some were [Militia] or conscripted. They would have mutinied, but the [Lords] and [Ladies] went right with them. They were butchered, but a few embers caught. And the Goblin King never took the north.”

The Sacrifice of Roses. Wing Commander Embria rose and saw the scope of his plan. Very simply. She walked away from the desk and stopped at the tent flaps.

“Some day, there will be a Third Antinium War. You know it. I know it. Liscor’s army doesn’t go back to the city. We don’t go back, and we left you hanging to dry…even to the Humans. Because one day, Liscor will vanish and the Free Antinium’s Hive will be there. And High Command will send us marching back to burn it out of existence.”

That was what they believed. Olesm looked up.

“Harsh.”

“We begged the Council not to do it. You’re all sitting on a Tier 7 trap spell, and you won’t move. That’s how they always described it to me.”

Embria repeated the sentiments of Liscor’s army, word-for-word. Olesm just laughed at her. He raised a glass.

“Some day, Wing Commander, there will be a Third Antinium War! I think so too. The difference is? Liscor’s Army will march against the Hives. And when they do—the Free Antinium will be marching right with them. That’s what I believe.”

Embria whirled and stalked into the darkness. What a fine mess this was. He was employing the oldest tactic in the world. The one that had made the Tidebreaker. The simplest command—if you had the stomach for it.

Counter-levelling. A single spark for every hundred that went down. She hated him for it—and realized he’d won, maneuvered her right into his trap. Because to believe his strategy was working?

She had to believe the Antinium could actually level. And that meant…

Theophilus, [Acolyte]

At first, he spoke of the sky. Then, he tried to tell them of the good things they had yet to see. Theophilus realized he was failing when he began falling behind Jerimy and Zimrah. And when he saw that they did not believe.

There were some Antinium he had learned to recognize. The agony of watching them disappear and come back wounded and hurt? He clung to the ones he recognized.

Like Crusader 51, with the magic sword. The Soldier lined up each day with the others and listened to Theophilus’ sermon.

…And Theophilus did not touch him.

[Acolyte Level 18!]

[Skill – See Conviction obtained!]

One level over a week. Fast leveling, far faster than in the Hive. Slow, compared to Zimrah and Jerimy, both of whom were almost at his level—and he had been six levels above both!

Each one had a talent. Jerimy was the Antinium who was the most involved. Of the three [Acolytes], he would share his food ration with other Workers and Soldiers. He also read stories to them, from the book he’d taken from home, and he spent time in their company.

Zimrah? The most selfless. She would heal until she curled up and lay down. Healing was her forte, and she would even run to the squads coming back from the front to try and save another life. She had even asked for [Healers]’ bandages and such, for when her faith ran dry.

Theophilus was the preacher, the copy of Pawn.

…And he was failing.

Crusader 51 had a Skill, like most [Crusaders] who reached Level 10. [Faith is My Strength]. He was not…that much stronger. Some [Crusaders] seemed to react to Theophilus’ sermons, to the crucible of war. A shield that was unbreaking, or even, Theophilus had seen, an Antinium who could heal others, like the [Acolytes].

He used that as his example in his next sermon. Theophilus pointed from his pulpit, and every Soldier and Worker turned.

“Crusader 334 is my topic for today. Crusader 334 can heal. They have fought, and I have personally removed no less than eight arrows from their armor. Hectval attacked them and hurt them, and yet Crusader 334 lives. They stand against Hectval, for Heaven, and they are my example. If they still fight—so can you all!”

That moved them. Theophilus could see their conviction gathering. To him, his congregation was a sea of stars. Some faint, some barely glowing at all, like Crusader 57, the angry Worker.

Some blazed with faith, like Zimrah and Jerimy. Crusader 334 was one such, yet all the Antinium seemed to shine for a moment, as Theophilus’ sermon worked its magic.

[Acolyte Level 19!]

Theophilus smiled and slept the sleep of someone on the right path. He called out Crusader 334 again the next day, lauding his example, though it was not as effective…but Theophilus had thought he was on the right track.

After the second day, Crusader 334 was dead.

——

Theophilus stared down at his meal, untouched. Jerimy, handing out food to the others and speaking with them, looked at Theophilus.

“Theophilus? What is wrong?”

“Share my food ration, Jerimy. I am unable to eat.”

The [Acolyte] sat there, head lowered. Crusader 334 was dead. Manus had killed him. The [Spearmaster] himself.

Yet Theophilus could not make that sound good, no matter how he tried. The [Crusader] was dead. He had been brave, fought for Heaven, all the things Theophilus told them were right.

Yet he was dead. He had known [Heal Minor Wounds]. He could have healed Antinium and made them well as Theophilus, Jerimy, and Zimrah did. But he never would.

He was dead.

Olesm had told Theophilus to be angry. Zimrah was weeping quietly. She had clasped two hands together, and the other two hands were pattering down her upper arms, fingers tapping.

Like raindrops. Some of the Soldiers and Workers watched her. They had no idea what she was doing.

“It is Mrsha-speak. Of the Painted Antinium. I will teach you.”

Jerimy was telling a Soldier. Zimrah wept. Jerimy shared. Theophilus and Jerimy did not see where Zimrah went after that—if Theophilus had, he might have stopped Zimrah. But he was blind and deaf.

The [Crusaders] stood in ranks when Theophilus stumbled up to his podium, and their conviction was weak. It was not a darkness of unbelief…just the cold, grey mundanity of a world where Heaven was distant and death waited.

Theophilus tried. The [Acolyte] spoke.

“Today. I regret to tell you what you may know. Crusader 334, who was blessed with healing…perished in battle.”

The Antinium stirred. Just a slight movement. Crusader 51’s head was bowed low. He did not look up as Theophilus went on, speaking automatically, the words rushing out of him like blood from a wound in his face.

“The [Spearmaster] slew him. I am told Crusader 334 fought bravely. He was brave. Now he rests in Heaven. Believe that.”

He saw a few Antinium looking at him, clinging to his words. Many—too many—listened but saw no Heaven.

Heaven was hard to believe in. Even Pawn said that. You could not touch it. You could not see it. Yellow Splatters had died and told them Heaven was real, so Theophilus was filled with faith in his presence.

But Yellow Splatters was not here. The [Acolyte] went on.

“Crusader 334 was an example to us all. Despite the odds, he did not run or retreat. He was here to punish Hectval, to fight them. To protect Heaven and the Hive. He…he…”

The words did not come out. He could not glorify Crusader 334 enough. Theophilus believed he had been glorious. Yet…yet…

The [Acolyte] stopped upon his pulpit. The Antinium Crusade watched as Theophilus leaned on the podium, and Jerimy hesitated, hurrying up to perhaps pull Theophilus away.

Then Theophilus spoke.

“It is not right. He should not have died.”

The Crusade…stirred. Theophilus spoke, half to them, half to himself, in a muttering voice. Not projected with hope, but with something else.

“They killed him. That is what they do. Hectval. It is always Hectval. Some say Manus. But who took away our sky? Hectval. If not for them, we could be in the inn. She would be there, laughing. She would take my hands, and Pawn would laugh and smile. We should all be there. Instead, we are dying here. Crusader 334 is dead. Because of them. Hectval.”

Something was rising in Theophilus’ stomach. A kind of bile, but worse. Dekass and Tersk were used to his minute-long speeches, so they were hesitating as Theophilus went on. Jerimy had stopped, and, like the others, he was looking at the [Acolyte].

Every eye on him, Theophilus grasped at the podium.

“Hectval is bad. Hectval is wrong. Hectval is…”

He had talked about needing to fight Hectval but…now a word came to him.

“Evil.”

The [Crusaders] looked at each other. Evil? They knew the word, but they had never applied it to anything. Not Flesh Worms. Not Furfur. They had things that they disliked, even hated. But this?

The [Acolyte] on his podium looked around.

“Evil. Yes. Do you know what evil is? You do not. You, who have been in the Hives—we slay monsters. Facestealer is evil. It comes and kills us. Monsters? Monsters are bad. Hectval is evil. As evil as Facestealer. Why? Because you should not be here! Because you die! Because all of this suffering would not be if Hectval did not exist! That is what they have done!”

He struck his podium in a rage, cracking the wood slightly.

“Crusader 334! Your squads! It is all Hectval’s fault! That is why they must die! They are worse than Facestealer. That thing is a monster. They? They were born under the sky. They had lives, and they still killed her. They kill us. They have a choice. They…”

His breathing was disjointed, as if he were ill. The [Acolyte] looked up and hesitated. Faith shone in his gaze, brighter than ever before. He saw Crusader 51 gripping his sword tight. What was he saying? What was he doing? It came out of his mandibles in a flash.

“They will never go to Heaven. There is no Heaven for them. They are bound for nothing. Worse than nothing. They are…hellbound.”

Hell? The [Crusaders] looked at Theophilus, and he raised his arms.

“Hell! I have heard it spoken of! It is more than Rhir! It is where they will go. It is—”

He searched for what it surely was.

“—It is a place of suffering. It is a place where they will go when they die. The Humans have their Heaven and Hell. So do we. Ours is a place for our enemies to sink into. A watery grave. A place where they die and feel pain. They are hellbound, and you will deliver them to a place where they will be punished for every [Crusader] who falls. They are all cursed. Cursed! I mark you all for Heaven and they for Hell. Go! Send them there.”

His arms rose in a paroxysm of rage, twitching. Theophilus screamed at the Crusade—and then slowly toppled over backwards, onto his back. He did not hear or see what happened next, he just collapsed into a dead faint.

[Conditions Met: Acolyte → Cleric Class!]

[Cleric Level 20!]

[Skill – Weapon Proficiency: Club obtained!]

[Skill – Lighter Armor obtained!]

[Miracle – Cursed Hands obtained!]

It began. When Theophilus awoke, Tersk was standing over him.

“At last. I see it again. Pawn’s strange class.”

The Armored Prognugator looked down at Theophilus. He could not read the [Cleric]’s class.

[Cleric], not [Priest]. A class meant for…battle. Yet somehow, Tersk knew. He spoke, as Theophilus realized he was lying in the [Healer]’s tent.

“Your fellow [Acolytes] have advanced their class. They have fought on the front. Dekass does not understand. He will.”

Fought? On the front? Theophilus stood up and saw Jerimy.

The Worker had a flail. He also had two deep scars on his armor. And a new Skill. He was shaking with a fury, like many of the [Crusaders]. Theophilus hesitated as he saw Liscor’s regulars staring at the Antinium.

What had happened when he was out? Significant Beavers were pointing at the Antinium.

“Did you see them go into the fight this time? I thought they fought hard before—they were vicious. That little Worker with the huge sword bit someone’s face off!”

“Not the only ones. I thought they were going to chase Hectval into the Bloodfields. I’ve never seen one of the Prognugators—Dekass—have to order them to stop. Who was…she? The one who saved Satel?”

She? Theophilus looked around. He stumbled through the camp, as [Crusaders] stood about, the light of something shining in their gaze.

——

Crusader 51 was rolling a boulder half his height along, exposing a multitude of centipedes for his collection, marveling at his strength.

He believed. He believed or longed for Heaven, but what Theophilus had told him struck a chord even deeper. There was Heaven for him. And Hell for his enemies. That was justice. That…felt right. He wanted to believe in that.

——

Theophilus himself was grappling with what he had said. His new miracle, and the realization he’d had at the pulpit. He would fight. He was angry, just as Olesm had said. He would fight tomorrow, and levels had given him the Skills to do so.

Jerimy had felt his rage. He understood something that perhaps Pawn himself had not yet fully realized. Theophilus longed to speak with Pawn and hear his words, but there was something else.

For every dark mirror, there was a light side.

She stood among Workers and Soldiers—and Liscor’s regulars. Drakes were taking her hand and shaking it. Thanking her. Asking her questions.

Zimrah. The [Cleric] stopped when he saw the [Priest].

She had run into battle with the other [Crusaders], wearing only her robes. The unbearable wait had been too much for Zimrah, so she had found the wounded as they fell. And she had leveled in the battle itself.

Squad 5 was among those who had seen her appear. Crusader 57’s shaking had stopped. He looked up at Zimrah, holding one of her hands as she spoke.

——

What did you expect from her?

The [Crusaders] were hurt. Some were dying.

They had thrown themselves into the fighting, so intensely that some fought surrounded. Hectval was not Manus—but their blades were sharp.

A mortal cut ran down Crusader 57’s abdomen, nearly splitting him in half. Crusader 51 and 53 were leading the squad defending him, but they had no more potions!

The cursed zweihander lay across Crusader 57’s front. Though it had been a Skill—[Sundering Slash]—which had cut through armor.

That was when she appeared. A [Priest], her class’ name still ringing in her ears, running across the battlefield.

An Antinium in robes. Hectval’s [Soldiers] spotted her, and some marked her—but the [Crusaders] charged into them rather than let Zimrah die.

“Wounded? Where are—”

She saw Squad 5 and ran towards Crusader 57. The Worker was spitting.

“dyING. I’M DyinG. caN’t sAvE ME.”

He shoved her hands away. He knew her Skill. [Heal Minor Wounds].

“I am a [Priest], now. Hold still.”

He laughed at her. Crusader 57 knew Skills. So she had consolidated her class, right? Good for her. What did she have now?

[Heal Moderate Wounds]? He felt death eating him up from the center. The Worker began to curl up as Zimrah reached down for him. He looked up—and saw her dark brown-black eyes begin to shine.

They shone bright, a flash of color like the first beam of sunlight that Crusader 57 had ever seen. She grabbed his hand, and in that moment, as she spoke her new miracle, the Worker realized he had made a mistake.

He thought faith obeyed rules. The [Priest] grabbed him, and Hectval’s [Soldiers] saw a flash. A Drake boy, Vess, stumbled back as his squad retreated.

“Someone report this to command! Back! Back—”

Yet the Drake watched as the Antinium with the robes spoke in a…feminine voice? He thought he heard the Skill, but that couldn’t be. Because if he’d heard right, she said—

“[Cure Mundane Wounds]!”

Dekass, [Prognugator]

“What?”

Dekass slapped himself. Then he turned his head to hear again. Tersk repeated it.

“[Cure Mundane Wounds]. That is her new Skill. I am apprised of two Skills for combat that Theophilus and Jerimy have learned. They will employ them in the coming battle.”

Dekass just stood there. He knew how the world worked. He knew the intricacies of armored combat and the capabilities of his foe.

Nothing in his tutelage had prepared him for that Skill.

“Let us revisit Zimrah’s new ability. It sounds as though that would cure…mundane…wounds, Tersk.”

“Yes.”

The Armored Prognugator clicked his mandibles together a few times. He wondered if another good slap would help.

“Clearly my hearing faculties have stopped working. No, we are all under a [Confusion] spell. We must employ anti-illusion tactics. Tersk. That would imply she could heal all wounds that are mundane.”

“That is what mundane means, yes, Dekass. Hmm…yes.”

Tersk had a dictionary open. He tapped a word.

“Mundane. She insists on fighting, so I may put her in armor. She must be guarded. I have already told the Free Antinium to send artifacts to protect her and the other—”

Dekass walked out of the tent. He stared at the ground and tried to find the runes or hidden spells on him. He checked himself into the [Healer]’s. The Gnoll stared at Dekass and gingerly took his temperature. She felt at the cold chitin and hesitated.

“What is wrong with you, yes?”

“I am sick.”

“How?”

“I do not know. It is your job to tell me. If I am infected, kill me quickly. Have my sword.”

The Gnoll had a problem with taking Dekass’ sword. She’d never be a proper Antinium [Healer]. Olesm came to ask why Dekass was bothering her, and Dekass realized he couldn’t tell the Commander because it was a new Skill in a class he was supposed to keep secret. So he employed subterfuge.

“Nothing is wrong, Commander Olesm. I am coincidentally sick and nothing else of note has happened.”

The Drake gave him a long look as Dekass decided he might actually not be under a spell or sick. The Armored Prognugator walked back to Tersk.

“We must test this at once. I do not believe.”

Tersk opened his mandibles in a smile.

“Neither did I. But I am beginning to. That is the point. It is happening again. This is the potential of the Free Antinium.”

Dekass…had never quite understood what Tersk was raving about when he reported to the Armored Queen. The Armored Queen, in her graciousness, had opined that the Free Queen had a chance, and that the other Queens had been less than welcoming to her, but she had expressed reservations that the Free Antinium could survive with their enemies using the city against them.

However, she had sent Tersk to see. When Tersk reported to her, she had sent Dekass with him. The Armored Prognugator had considered food the Free Antinium’s real asset; their leveling Soldiers and Workers had not impressed him as much as the Grand Queen’s secret project or other specialist Antinium.

After that day…he saw wonders.

——

Three Antinium walked the battlefield and did something that no one could believe. Observers from Manus’ divisions watched, rubbed their eyes, and raced back to report to their [Spearmaster].

Most of the Alliance’s soldiers just laughed in the faces of those who claimed to witness it. Or nervously checked if they were going up against the Ants tomorrow.

On Liscor’s side, Belgrade looked up at the sky and smiled. Liscor’s [Soldiers] whispered about it, doing much the same thing as Hectval, but encouraged by something.

Yet all those who saw it with their own eyes? Saw…

Zimrah raced forwards, and Dekass watched as an Antinium with nine cuts across their body jerked. There was a flash, and they rose.

The light looked like the sunlight upon the Grand Queen’s beautiful form the first time Dekass had ever stood in her presence. The Antinium did not know what it was, but the Soldier rose, wounds healed.

It was not a perfect Skill. Poisons—more advanced poisons, anything from a spell or enchanted blade, stymied Zimrah’s power. Yet it did not matter how severe the wound.

It closed. It healed in a flash. Other times, Zimrah would use a lesser Skill, because she could use this…miracle…all of twice before she fell over.

The other two Antinium were easier for Dekass to understand, but their powers were…weird. If he wrote to the Grand Queen now—a foolhardy task given that it would be intercepted—Dekass would say that the Antinium might have developed their own [Mages].

But what odd magic.

Vess, [Magic User]

“[Cursed Hands]. Suffer, Hectval’s [Soldiers]! You are evil! I curse you! As Pawn cursed you, I curse you with bad luck and gangrene! With a lack of cats! With death! Hell! You are bound for—”

The screaming Worker was scary enough. He had a flail and was wearing armor like the rest, but then Vess saw a hand reach up from the ground and try to drag one of the [Soldiers] in his squad down.

The screaming Drake hacked at the hand, but his sword passed through the long, spectral arm. It was semi-transparent, like a shadow come to life. Vess aimed an arrow and blasted it apart.

“Magic works! Get back! Get back!”

Velden bellowed, and Vess backed up—until he felt a cold touch on his leg. Something pulled him down hard, and he felt one boot trying to sink into the ground. He looked down and screamed.

“Help! Help—”

He pointed his wand wildly as more hands reached up. They were everywhere! In a circle nearly thirty feet wide, hands slowly reached up and tried to pull down every [Soldier] in sight.

It was not the most dangerous spell ever. In fact, the hands moved about as fast as a zombie’s, a slow grab. But when they grabbed you?

“My leg! My—”

A Gnoll was screaming as he tried to pull free—and he looked up as an Antinium ran him through with a sword. The hands were strong. Vess’ leg hurt, and someone broke a leg before they pulled free.

They were trying to drag them into the earth. Was something down there? Vess aimed his wand, shot an Antinium through the face, and backed up.

He was levelling up. Now he could throw over a hundred [Light Arrows] per battle, and his squad, Big Yam, were the one of the most successful in the Alliance.

Aside from the mercenaries. Where were they? Watching again? Vess took down another Antinium and then saw the third strange one.

He had armor like the other two, and a club in one hand, a shield in the other. But he pointed a finger at Vess as the [Magic User] whirled. Vess shot an arrow and hit the Antinium on the cheek. It tore chitin, but the Antinium pointed at Vess…

And shot an arrow back.

An odd arrow, a twisting crackle with an eerie, crimson glow, hit Vess in the chest. The Drake stumbled, gasping, and felt at his chest.

“Vess!”

It had gone through his armor. Velden whirled and put up his shield. Two more arrows struck it, and Vess thought the magic went through the shield. Velden grunted.

“What was…? Back up! Back up!”

The Alliance was retreating. Velden, the newly-minted [Sergeant], ran back with Vess, but the Drake was still firing [Light Arrows].

“We have to hold them. Get ready for another charge!”

Vess felt hot. He nodded and then stumbled as he turned. He was sweating. What had that Antinium said when he used that…he didn’t have a wand. What was…?

“Vess? What’s wrong?”

“[Sergeant]?”

One of Big Yam looked at Velden. The Drake was…wobbling. Velden, the [Veteran Sergeant], looked at Vess.

“I think we got hit with something. I’m…”

He was pouring sweat. Vess leaned over.

“I don’t feel well, Velden. I…”

The Antinium had said something. Vess recalled it as he saw Velden slowly collapse, and Big Yam explode into chaos as the squad fell back. Another Gnoll who’d been struck was so bleary on her feet she stumbled forwards until her friends yanked her back. What was wrong with them?

Lulv, [Spearmaster]

“[Arrow of Fever]. Are you sure that’s what the Antinium said?”

Spearmaster Lulv stood well back from the Drake boy with the wand, upwind, listening with his keen hearing. The fever wasn’t contagious, or so it seemed.

It had broken merely an hour after the Drakes and Gnolls had collapsed, but that Antinium had fired nearly three dozen off. The arrows went through ordinary armor, and they made those struck feverish.

“I have never heard of that spell in my life.”

Sokkel, Manus’ representative, muttered in Lulv’s ear. The [Spearmaster] growled back.

“Neither have I. Three Antinium. Do you have marks on them?”

“Yes. Each one’s got amulets and rings, though. Our [Archers] took potshots…nothing. The one that was screaming insults even has a diffraction barrier.”

“Huh. They’re definitely on the list, then. Speaking of [Archers]…I have to investigate that, later.”

“Captain Yulre?”

Someone was calling Lulv’s fake name. He grunted and saw an officer of Luldem approaching.

“Sir?”

The Drake wasn’t as insulting as Hectval’s officers could be, but he was smiling a bit too-wide.

“I trust our consultant and your troops heard that? More…irregularities.”

His tone lingered on the word. This entire war was one big irregularity to the Alliance. Liscor didn’t go for surrendering nearly as much. They fielded Antinium. They were out for blood.

Lulv nodded.

“Yes, sir. My forces are considering the issue.”

“Ah. Then you’ll be deploying with us the next battle?”

Lulv kept his face blank as the officer looked at him.

“We are debating our best plan of attack.”

“I see. I see. But you will be fighting with us? In some capacity? High Command would look askance, given the circumstances, if we didn’t have—”

Sokkel interrupted before Lulv could snap.

“I can relay your question to High Command, [Captain]. I will be apprising them of my thoughts. Rest assured, Mercenary Captain Yulre will be engaged in the best position for his forces.”

The Luldem [Captain] looked at Lulv and then smiled helplessly at Sokkel.

“Yes, sir.”

He walked away, and Sokkel leaned over.

“Idiots. They don’t like [Mercenaries], but they come to us whenever they run into trouble.”

“Hrr. Can’t blame them. I’ll let you know where I want to go.”

Sokkel nodded. Lulv didn’t miss the frustrated look Luldem’s [Captain] and the other officers gave him as he strode off.

He was an annoyance, he knew. Lulv was turning the Alliance’s battles around by his presence, but he did not fight in the most advantageous spots for the Alliance. He only engaged the Antinium in numbers, and when, twice, a commander had tried to order him to follow their orders, Lulv had ignored it, and then, faced with court martial, offered to quit.

Wytel’s Blades, as his unit was posing as, was too valuable, so High Command put up with it. That was standard [Mercenary] stuff, and Lulv felt this could pass as standard. The problem came when he heard about the [Slaver].

——

“No [Slave]-trading. Where did that bastard come from?”

He snapped at Sokkel. The [Strategist] had reported to him the instant he’d heard. Sokkel grimaced.

“Liscor’s lines. He made the offer to them first—then came over here. The Alliance went for it. He’s promising a lot of gold, and he wants Antinium.”

“I bet he does. The answer’s no.”

Sokkel hesitated.

“That’s going to be a real problem, Lulv. I can lean as hard as I can…”

The [Spearmaster] put his arms together.

“Liscor will never quit the field if their people are ransomed as slaves. We don’t know if the Queens can see through each Soldier and Worker’s eyes. If one is Twisted Antinium…and Manus doesn’t hold with it. Tell them my company walks off the field if they engage this [Slaver]. I don’t care if they have an agreement.”

The very idea made him want to spit. Of course, that didn’t help relations at all, but did Lulv care?

No. He was considering, after a month of fighting…giving up.

Not because Manus had lost too many troops. They’d kept their casualties almost non-existent, playing each battle safe. They killed enough Antinium to make anyone happy.

But are we doing any damage? Manus’ Security Council had had a theory when they sent Lulv into battle.

Those Antinium were Free Antinium specialists in some ways. Non-replenishable. Capable of levelling. Well, Lulv had seen some levels, but the Antinium had sent thousands of reinforcements.

And either they’re just regular Soldiers and Workers we’re killing or…

Or…Lulv had a dangerous thought. But it would be inconceivable to Manus’ understanding of the Antinium thus far. He hadn’t witnessed any direct evidence to suggest these Antinium were all leveling. But he had spotted more unique Antinium than he cared to count.

Belgrade the [Strategist]. Tersk and Dekass, Armored Prognugators. That damned, flag-waving Antinium. Now, three unknown classes. More Prognugators than any battle save for the first ones at the start of the First Antinium Wars had ever contained.

Lulv had to eliminate a few, but each one had artifacts, and he had let his [Archers] try and snipe them again and again, only to fail. Truthfully, Lulv had already known he needed to risk his forces and had been choosing which one to take out; the others might flee back to their Hive. That was when these three new Antinium popped up.

However, Manus’ forces hadn’t suffered from any of these individuals directly. Hectval’s Alliance did. None of the unique Antinium got near Manus or were dangerous enough to make Lulv nervous.

What did bother him was the [Sniper].

——

Manus had taken less than ten casualties in every engagement. Less than five in most. However, it seemed like they took one or two more than necessary. Lulv could have seen less than three deaths on average.

The same for the Alliance’s officers. Manus had statistics on battles and the average death counts for front and backline officers, and this war had a higher-than-average ratio. You could blame that on Antinium and a [Strategist] and 4th Company.

But arrow-related deaths?

“Standard arrow. Liscorian local fletching. No enchantments, nothing beyond steel arrowhead. Which is good-quality. Not every Drake city affords steel.”

One of his officers showed Lulv a bloody arrow pulled from a dead [Soldier]. It was grim, but Lulv inspected it carefully with gloves, looking for tricks to the arrow, as a [Mage] and [Alchemist] went over it.

“Looks regular to me.”

“Us as well. No telling what bow it came from, but they’re not always straight.”

Lulv nodded. The conclusion was clear, at least to him.

“We have a [Sniper]. Why isn’t it dead?”

He had spotted one a dozen battles ago, and Manus had met [Snipers] before. Oldblood Drakes, Gnoll [Hunters], Human [Rogues], it was a common tradition to inspire fear and yield high-value kills.

Yet, for some reason, this one kept coming back. One of the officers who had experience growled.

“I could swear it was a Worker, sir.”

“And you let one kill two of your men and just ran back?”

The Gnoll flushed as Lulv looked at him.

“No, sir! I ordered volleys on the target and magic the instant I saw it! I could swear I hit it…it must have healed up.”

“Me too. I didn’t let it walk away. I thought I killed it.”

Another officer opined. Lulv scratched at his chin.

“Always from range, though. I suspect some kind of survival Skill. It needs a close-range kill. It’s not Bird the Hunter…”

They had looked and the Prognugator wasn’t present. Moreover, Lulv suspected that Antinium would have shown itself. He shook his head with a growl.

“I will personally keep an eye out. Let’s focus on those odd Antinium. I want at least one dead. And given that Belgrade is on the right wing…here’s my list of targets.”

He was bending over a map with his officers. He’d seen enough. Lulv still had that odd sinking feeling in his stomach that told him he was missing something, but he was preparing to go in. That was when Sokkel burst into his tent.

“Lulv!”

“Code names and stay clear of the camp! You’re an attaché, you idiot!”

Lulv roared, whirling on the [Strategist]. Sokkel came to a stop, but he was vibrating. Lulv felt a moment of apprehension. Something about the way Sokkel looked…

He could sense new twists and turns in the war like any veteran. Lulv straightened, hand on his spear.

“What?”

Sokkel was panting. He’d run to get here.

“The Antinium have more reinforcements! Two hundred just came in.”

“So?”

Someone asked the dumb question. Lulv just waited. Sokkel looked at him, wide-eyed.

“They’re all Painted Antinium. They’re moving onto the left flank, and it looks like they’re bound for the next battle with the Alliance.”

The [Spearmaster] held very still. Then…after one long moment, he began to grin.

“At last.”

Crusader 51, [Crusader]

It had all gone so well. Until the Painted Antinium arrived.

There was something in Theophilus’ speeches that called to Crusader 51. After that day, the [Cleric] spoke differently. No longer did he speak just of Heaven or the good things in the world. He began to define…

Hell.

“Hell is a place of suffering. There are no cats there. No dogs. Hell is…a wet place. Underwater. Hell is water and Crelers. And they eat paste. No, they don’t eat at all!”

He described a horrifying world of water where the bad people went. Where they would pay for killing [Crusaders].

And Crusader 51 listened and leveled.

[Crusader Level 17!]

By the time the Painted Antinium arrived, Crusader 51 and Squad 5 had stopped dying as much. Manus had gone…silent.

And Theophilus, Jerimy, and Zimrah were the icons around which the [Crusaders] fought. Not just because they had a place to send their foes.

Because…each one mattered.

Zimrah healed. She was so kind. Jerimy sat with them and gave his food until they made him eat, and he fought side-by-side with the others.

Theophilus was their voice. He condemned Hectval to wrath and suffering and named the dead. The sermons went from one minute to an hour each morning.

It was not that the nightmares ceased. However, Crusader 51 felt hope. Even Crusader 57 broke the curse of the zweihander. Crusader 51 hated him, because Crusader 57 cursed him and shoved people, but he survived battle after battle—probably because he was so mean.

The only mad person was Dekass. He lined up the poor Workers again and shouted at them. Crusader 51 recognized them.

‘B-Squad’ was their nickname. Crusader 51 recognized Archer B12 from Calruz’s training as the Worker lined up with the other Workers, their heads cast down. Dekass paced back and forth in front of them.

“Your numbers do not add up to your casualty lists! One of you is absent. I see it. I count your ranks in battle, and there is one missing. Is it mutiny? Desertion? We have rebellion in the ranks! Who is it? Who!? You? You?”

He pointed four arms at different Workers until Calruz stomped over to tell him to knock it off. Aside from that, even Tersk went around more and more, sometimes offering spare rations or listening to the sermons.

Then the Painted Antinium arrived.

——

The first indication of their appearance in camp was a sound. Crusader 51 was gambling with his squad. He put five pillbugs down and let Shelly roll the dice, watching the [Cheater]’s hands carefully.

All of them stopped and raised their heads when they heard it.

Click.

It was a unified sound. The snapping of two hundred mandibles at once. Crusader 51 looked up…and heard cheering.

The Painted Antinium marched into camp, and no less than Commander Olesm himself came to greet them. He looked for Yellow Splatters, or Purple Smile, but the Painted Worker who presented himself was neither.

“I am Starfold, Commander Olesm. In light of the new developments, the Free Queen, Pawn, and Xrn collectively agreed to send our forces to the front. We will fight and defeat Hectval. For Erin.”

He spoke. Starfold had a carefully-painted back and shoulders, like he was wearing a night-blue cloak of velvet, mixed blue and dark and painted with bright silver stars. It was the most advanced Painted Antinium that Crusader 51 had ever seen.

They were getting better at it. The Painted Antinium had armor, weapons, although some eschewed them to use their fists. Crusader 51’s mandibles softly clicked as he saw Starfold had a spear. An enchanted spear.

It was about the lowest grade imaginable, but it was enchanted. More of the Painted Antinium had such weapons and they didn’t stand in squads, but something more akin to how Free Antinium fought in the Hive. They were all so…animated.

Some waved at the Liscorian [Soldiers], who waved back, laughing. Others were peering at the [Crusaders], who’d all turned to see them. One was reading a book while he walked. The Painted Antinium marched into the camp as Olesm welcomed them, placing them under Tersk’s command. They walked over, introducing themselves to the other [Squads], offering gifts from home. Garry’s bread, some shaking hands, the Workers speaking freely.

Squad 5 hated them on sight. At first, they didn’t even realize they disliked the Painted Antinium because that was so foreign. But the longer Crusader 51 watched them, the more he realized how wrong they were.

They talked. The first time he saw it, a Painted Soldier walked up, and his arms flashed, his stubby fingers tracing a quick smile over his chest before a hand pointed at the dice cup. Four arms meant he could communicate multiple things at once, so he greeted them, asked if they were playing dice, and could he join?

The [Crusaders] looked dumbly at him. They had never known you could speak if you were a Soldier. Yet this Painted Antinium, Overstone, had learned how to.

“Mrsha-speak. We must teach you all how to do it. Here. Garry’s bread and some Ashfire honey. There is not much. The bee colony vanished, although one of our jobs is to resupply each week with sugar water. We get no honey, though.”

Starfold himself sat with Squad 5, talking easily with Theophilus and Zimrah, who sometimes came to calm Crusader 57 down. The [Cleric] eyed Crusader 51 and the silent Squad 5 playing dice with Overstone as he replied.

“I did not know this was a function of the Painted Antinium.”

Starfold smiled, and Overstone brought out something as he lost his game, and the pillbugs he’d been loaned were swept away by Shelly. He produced copper coins and offered them around. How much are these worth?

“We take jobs. Silveran employs some of us. This job was paid for by Mrsha herself. However, when we heard of the tragic battles on the front and Pawn asked who would fight, we all volunteered.”

The tragic battles? Crusader 51 looked at Starfold as Theophilus clicked his mandibles.

“Pawn is well, then.”

“Yes. He sends word for you to visit if you are able, Theophilus. We will help you end this war as quickly as possible.”

Squad 5’s heads rose as one, and they looked at each other. Overstone watched them politely, but funnily enough, the Painted Antinium could not understand the [Crusaders].

Since they wore helmets, their natural ability to sort of sense things was muted, and Squad 5 had a different sort of link. But they were alike in this.

End the war quickly? The Painted Antinium rose as Tersk demanded they show him how good they were. Crusader 51 watched as the Painted Antinium rose—and outperformed every battalion.

——

“Incoming attack. Left.”

The Painted Antinium pivoted as one to meet a charge from Drisshia. They barely needed Starfold’s verbal words; they signaled each other with sign-language, and they were so in-tune that they moved together.

But any squad who’d fought long enough could do that. The difference was…when the angry Drakes in armor came at them, the Painted Antinium opened up.

“[Long Uppercut]!”

A Drake went over as a Worker threw a punch. One of the Soldiers threw a javelin and called it back. A third calmly blocked a sword slash with gauntleted arms; the impact left no mark on the steel.

They had levels. Some were higher than Crusader 51’s level. Not [Crusaders], these, but regular [Soldiers], [Warriors]—even a few [Skirmishers] copying Ksmvr of Chandrar.

Because they watched television.

The Painted Antinium sent Drisshia packing. A wounded Painted Antinium was nearly run through, but five Painted Antinium jumped on the Drake trying to finish him off. Crusader 51 watched as the Painted Antinium lent their voices to the fleeing Drakes.

“Run! You must suffer for what you have done!”

“Flee to Hectval! Cowards!”

What made it worse was that they had morale through the roof, fought in perfect sync beyond even the regular [Crusaders], were beautiful in their colors…and had levels beyond all but the best [Crusaders], and they weren’t doing it on purpose.

They didn’t know they came across to the rest of the crusade as…arrogant. Perhaps the Painted Antinium realized they weren’t liked, so they went around sharing their possessions, even gifting them the last of the provisions they brought. They didn’t realize why that made it worse.

Nor…nor were they ready. Crusader 51 hated Starfold and his people. He hated them, simply because of what he knew was coming. The Painted Antinium were not fools. They knew death. They had come here ready to risk their lives.

But they did not know what waited for them. It was one battle. When they struck—Crusader 51 had the same nightmare as the first day.

——

A howl went up from Hectval’s lines. The Painted Antinium looked up, and a figure emerged past the wavering front line of ordinary Drakes and Gnolls.

A figure in black armor. The Painted Antinium rotated, pivoting to face him, and Theophilus shouted.

“Manus! Sound the alarm! [Archers]!”

“Bring that Gnoll down!”

Starfold pointed, and Painted Antinium [Archers] loosed arrows at the Gnoll. Two curved, and one split into two arrows, but the Gnoll knocked them down.

Was he grinning? Crusader 51 looked up as the two [Clerics] and the [Priest] pivoted. Tersk was roaring.

“Fall back, Zimrah, Theophilus, Jerimy! Olesm, volley on my front lines now! Starfold, hold! Hold!”

The Painted Antinium heard him, and they formed a line. The [Spearmaster] howled as he raced forwards, and four hundred of Manus’ [Soldiers] breached the Alliance’s line like a wave of shadows. They charged straight into the Painted Antinium as the skies opened up.

“Antinium! Break formation! Break formation! They’re in the sky—”

Maksie came screaming down from the heavens. The Scout Leader pointed up—and Crusader 51 saw a flash of light.

[Valmira’s Comet] hit the ground with an explosion. Crusader 51 lowered his sword as he saw more bombardment spells coming out of the sky. The [Spearmaster] charged Starfold, ducked an arrow that would have gone through his brain, and whirled.

“There. Kill that Antinium.”

A Worker with a bow on the cliffs lowered it. He whirled—and four Oldblood Drakes shot out of their hiding place higher up. They landed. The Worker drew a dagger—a Drake ran him through, and the corpse froze and fell off the cliff.

It happened so fast. One second the Gnoll was pointing, then Overstone raised a mace crackling with sparks and two more Soldiers leapt for him. Tersk had told them how to kill high-level enemies. Hold them. Drag them down and keep them from swinging their arms.

Lulv twisted, and his spear flashed up. Overstone fell down with a hole in his head, and the other two Soldiers dropped. The [Spearmaster] raised his spear.

“[Spear Art—]”

“No!”

An Antinium threw themself forwards. One of the [Acolytes]. Crusader 51 lifted his sword, and Squad 5 charged forwards, breaking out of line.

Lulv grinned. He ran the Worker through and then pointed.

“Target down. Now!”

A [Mage] ran past him as the Painted Antinium, stunned, fought with Manus’ [Soldiers]…and lost. A crackling bolt of [Chain Lightning] flashed down as Commander Olesm pointed at the sky. It struck their back lines. Another struck Battalion 4.

“Wyverns! Kill those [Mages]! Kill those—”

The [Mage] pointed down at the fallen Worker.

“[Acid Orb].”

A glowing orb engulfed the remains. Just in case. The [Spearmaster] whirled. Tersk was bellowing.

“Move formations apart! Battalion 1, split by squad! Battalion—”

He raised his shield as Lulv tossed a javelin, which exploded. One of Tersk’s amulets flashed. Five more arrows swerved out of the way. He blocked a second javelin, and his enchanted shield dented.

Lulv leapt. Olesm was riding at him—until a [Fireball] engulfed him. The Drake was flung from the saddle, saved only by Hedault’s charm. When Crusader 51 could see, Tersk was lying down. Lulv tried to behead him, but a dozen arrows made him dodge away.

“Target down, not necessarily dead.”

“Fight! Fight!”

He leapt, and Crusader 51 looked up. A grinning Gnoll soared through the sky as the Painted Antinium began to fall back. Manus’ [Soldiers] were falling too, but the Painted Antinium…

They were dying. Starfold raised his spear, and Spearmaster Lulv calmly deflected it. He landed. Looked around and spotted a second Antinium. The entire division was falling back, but Crusader 51 saw the Gnoll raise his spear—

And throw it.

“Target down. Two, three out of four? [Sniper]?”

“Dead, sir.”

“Good. Fall back. Hit those Painted Antinium.”

The [Soldiers] retreated, calmly disengaging as [Archers] with enchanted arrows aimed them at the Painted Antinium. Crusader 51 looked around and saw one of the former [Acolytes] left, kneeling, staring at the dead. The Painted Antinium fell back, dragging Zimrah away.

The next day, the Painted Antinium, less than sixty of them, left. And Crusader 51 lost hope.

Lulv, [Spearmaster]

“How good are they?”

The [Spearmaster] asked one of his officers as he watched the Painted Antinium’s first battle. His forces didn’t participate.

They watched the Alliance getting battered. Lulv was looking for important targets, but he didn’t see ‘Yellow Splatters’ or ‘Pawn’ in the mess.

“Sir. They remind me of Oteslia’s Wildfriend Scouts.”

One of his officers answered. It was an appraisal that few would ever give, especially a Drake from a Walled City. Normally, the line was that Antinium were rabble; dangerous, but more like beasts.

Lulv would have kicked whoever said that off a cliff. That comparison wasn’t an insult, either.

Scouting elites were dangerous and scary.

“Wildfriend? I remember them. Give me a comparison.”

The Drake shrugged, chewing on her lip.

“They’re…unified. See how they react so fast? Makes me feel like they have eyes in the back of their heads. Every damn bird is an eye for the Wildfriends. Let’s say less mobility, more numbers, and more toughness. But that kind of feeling.”

“Huh.”

She had just said they were as good as one of the veteran scouting groups from a Walled City. Lulv took it and agreed.

“They’re decent warriors. I want bombardment spells.”

——

Manus’ [Soldiers] watched as the Alliance sent a first assault in, and the Painted Antinium tore them up. The Luldem officer was screaming insults at Lulv, and he ignored him.

First wave tires them out. The hidden [Mages] were preparing to strike. When Lulv went through the enemy lines, he was grinning.

The Painted Antinium were the Free Hive’s best. Manus’ [Soldiers] came after him, roaring, their blood up.

You are warriors! We acknowledge you!

The first bombardment spells hit the Antinium lines as Manus went in. Bombardments, using the Alliance as a screen—

We know you’re good. So we’ll fight you with everything we have.

Two dozen [Soldiers] under Lulv’s command went down as the Painted Antinium threw their Skills against his. That damn [Sniper] died. Lulv threw himself into the fighting, ran through Tersk.

Killed two of those strange Antinium. The Painted Antinium didn’t seem to realize why they were losing. They were strong, high-level…

Manus just had more levels, more gear, and more numbers. This was what Lulv had come for. Send me more Painted Antinium! They were a threat if you could field a thousand. Or ten thousand. A hundred and forty less walked the world.

Next time, he hoped they’d field all they had.

Olesm, [Leader]

He survived the [Fireball]. Tersk lived.

Theophilus was dead. Jerimy was dead. A hundred and forty of the Painted Antinium were dead and just as many of the regular ones. The rest were leaving, and Olesm couldn’t blame them.

It was something Tersk said, as he lay on the bed. He was wounded still.

“I am poisoned. I will live. I cannot command. Dekass will command. They are weaker. Weaker…you cannot let Artur or Zimrah near the front. They will die. He came for me. It hurts.”

He was mumbling as Olesm trudged into the tent. Tersk stared up at the ceiling, but he turned his head to Olesm.

“Weaker? How?”

“I do not know. Maybe I thought they were stronger.”

Tersk was holding the hole in his abdomen. Olesm just looked at him.

“Get some rest, Tersk. You did…all you could.”

Morale in the army was as low as it had ever been. That was the problem with hope. The Painted Antinium’s arrival had been turned into a resounding defeat.

Damn Manus. Olesm punched the nearest post and had to go back to the [Healer]. Was there no hope? Was there…

Zimrah was sitting in the [Healer]’s tent. When she saw Olesm clutching his split claw, she tried to heal him.

But her Skill or whatever it was didn’t work.

“Why was it them and not me?”

The [Priest] looked at Olesm. He shook his head.

“I’m sorry.”

He had to know how many they’d lost. Dekass was counting the Antinium when Olesm walked towards him, claw bandaged rather than healed.

“Squad 5! Muster! One, two…nine. Who’s missing?”

He looked around. Crusader 53 was gone. Crusader 51 was shaking as he stood in line. Olesm found Dekass.

“Commander Dekass. Tersk is unable to fight. I need you to count casualties…but you are a marked target. Please remember that. Keep Zimrah away from the fighting. I’m sending Artur to Belgrade’s side to be protected.”

Dekass turned. The Armored Prognugator looked at Olesm and nodded.

“I am not afraid to die, Commander. I will attempt to survive. But someone must lead the Antinium. We are bound to die, it seems. I request placing Tersk with the wounded in your camp. He has leveled over the course of this war. One of us will return to the Armored Hive.”

He turned back to counting. Olesm looked at Dekass. It was the most he’d ever felt for the Armored Prognugator. Not a hint of running after what he’d seen? Then he realized Dekass was counting each squad out loud. He normally did it just by looking.

“Come to my tent later. We’ll figure out how to stop this. And have a drink.”

Dekass paused, but Olesm walked onwards. He walked past B-Squad, down a Worker, silent, past the Painted Antinium who looked at that battlefield where their beautiful colors meant nothing. Starfold sat there as Olesm passed by.

“It is more horrifying. Did our levels, our identity mean nothing after all?”

Olesm turned. He addressed the Painted Antinium curtly. With all the pain in the world, but as a [Leader]. As…a [Commander].

“No. It matters. You are all Individuals. You level. You have classes and Skills, and you are each one of you a treasure of the Antinium.”

The Painted Antinium looked at the Drake. Olesm nodded over his shoulder bitterly.

“The problem is that you ran into people just like you. And they’ve been alive twenty, thirty, forty times as long as you.”

Starfold listened, then bowed his head.

“War is unfair.”

Olesm walked on. Yes, it was. The Antinium realized it at last. And still, some fought. That night, Dekass reported the first and only Antinium desertion in the history of warfare.

Crusader 51, [Bug Collector]

He ran away. He put his sword down around the blanket he’d been issued and was going to go to the latrine when he saw Squad 5 looking at him.

Crusader 51 froze. He knew they knew, and so he waited for them to shout for Dekass or grab him. But none of them did.

They were not the original Squad 5. He was the last one. Crusader 51 saw Crusader 57 spit at him.

“Go. gO, cOWard.”

That hurt. But he didn’t raise the zweihander. Crusader 51 felt a tugging at him, to stay, to fight with them. But Crusader 53 was dead.

And he was just…tired of it. So he walked away. No one stopped him. Antinium did not desert. He walked past their sentries, who frowned at him, calling out as they saw him walk into the darkness, with his rations on his shoulder. He’d left his armor behind, too.

——

Every step he took, Crusader 51 longed to go back. He thought of Squad 5, who would get replacements, but not him. He thought of Crusader 53. He’d seen the Antinium trip and fall, but not who killed him.

Crusader 51 just walked on, eating his rations, and then collecting edibles that Tersk and Dekass had identified. He walked and he walked, towards the ridgeline where the army had first passed through.

It wasn’t far. They hadn’t advanced that much, so after less than a day—a day of walking, and that was how far they’d come in a month—Crusader 51 stopped.

He had found a spot perfectly, from memory. He sat down and looked about. There was water nearby, a spring, and some food could be scavenged.

He sat down in front of a little anthill, and big, black ants spilled forth, biting at his legs, then deciding he wasn’t a threat and going about their business. Crusader 51 placed a bit of stale sandwich in front of the hole and watched them swarm over it.

[Bug Collector Level 8!]

[Skill – Bugfriend obtained!]

——

The little ants were one small hive in a world of dangers. Like anteaters. The first time Crusader 51 saw it, he’d gone for water. He came back, and the armadillo-thing was licking up ants with its sticky tongue, dozens at a time as they helplessly scurried about.

Like Manus. Crusader 51 kicked it so hard it went flying over a cliff. He sat back down, and the ants calmed. They needed water, too, so he brought them handfuls and watched them lap it up.

They could use a pond or something. Something to gather rainwater. He dug a hole greater than their entire colony to the side, and the ants…seemed to watch him.

[Bug Collector Level 9!]

[Skill – Vague Directive (Ants) obtained!]

——

By the end of the third day, Crusader 51 realized there was a queen in the Hive. He gave her orders.

The ant hive was intelligent enough to gather food, resources, defend their eggs and larvae, but they had no vision. They came out in a rush.

He made them into squads. Sent them exploring, organized a fighting group that rested rather than move about.

[Vague Directive] worked to also let them stop doing things he could do. Like expanding the potential area of their hive by breaking up the dirt with his hands. Crusader 51 killed an anteater and spared their hive the need to find food for two whole days. His big levelup came when rain fell, and he realized their hive was at the mercy of the water table and spent all day digging a drainage system as water rained down around him.

[Conditions Met: Bug Collector → Ant Farmer Class!]

[Ant Farmer Level 10!]

[Skill – Minor Telepathy (Ants) obtained!]

[Skill – Doubled Collection (Ants) obtained!]

…What was an [Ant Farmer]? Crusader 51 didn’t know, but it was honest work. He felt like the Skills were a bit…off, though.

For instance, he doubled the collection of the anthill. But what would a hypothetical farmer of ants want? Well, if they produced something, he could take it.

Instead, what they collected was other insects, plant matter. And they pulled nearly twice as much of it as Crusader 51 doubled their ant farm. In fact…was the queen pregnant? She always was, but was there something…special about this one?

The first ant with wings was born, and Crusader 51 stared as a new queen emerged—and promptly started trying to fight the first one to the death. He separated the impending bloodbath, and, bewildered, the ant colony split into two colonies…side by side.

They kept trying to fight each other, the silly things! He made them work together. Two hives were better than one! His real relief came when he leveled up again shortly after his ants killed a roaming Rockgnaw Goat, a relative of the feared Eater Goat. It wasn’t ready for thousands of big ants to swarm him—or one of the pit traps Crusader 51 had begun to have his ants dig all over.

[Ant Farmer Level 12!]

[Skill – Abler Bodied Animals (Ants) obtained!]

Yep, there was definitely something odd about his Skills. He felt like the notifications sort of…hesitated. Then added the (Ants) bit.

Sometimes, Crusader 51 thought back to his command. He felt like he could feel them, but that was probably just the sensation of being linked to three hives by now. They were simpler creatures than he.

However, his Skills were empowering them. By two weeks, Crusader 51 was Level 16, and his ants could drag a Corusdeer to their lair.

The local wildlife objected, naturally.

——

The ant-war made Crusader 51 sick. He walked away from stomping large centipedes, snakes, and watched the smaller Black Tide cover their foes, who’d joined up to stop the ant hegemony.

Was this what I wrought? Crusader 51 looked at his tribute, a pile of skinned snakes. Four queens directed their hives, letting their foes enter into kill-zones, as squads of bigger soldier-ants scurried out and the worker-ants retreated.

They were…getting bigger. He had [Larger Livestock], but perhaps these ants were evolving? Crusader 51 had seen them feasting on two slimes, even the mana cores, and other magical animals had fallen prey to them.

The ruler of the anthills sat, fed. The ants hadn’t learned how to start a fire yet, but they were getting close. They could do almost anything, pile up bits of wood, transport huge objects…

Just not create enough friction for a fire. He didn’t mind. He could lie on his back all day and never have to do anything again. But since he was restless, and the visions kept coming…he dug, and fought, and dreamed of them.

He could see Crusader 57 fighting, in his mind. Hear the Worker shouting insults. Squad 5 was still out there. They took losses, but they kept going onwards. Commander Olesm had gotten unexpected reinforcements.

Crusader 51 had been declared dead, and Squad 5 had refused to tell Dekass where he went. So the Prognugator and Olesm had given up on him since no one else had deserted.

Did he know that, or was it just a dream?

[Minor Telepathy (Ants)].

——

He was an Antinium. Had someone made a stupid mistake? Crusader 51 felt like these…dreams…were too real.

Zimrah had changed. She tried to fill Theophilus’ role, but she wept. The Painted Antinium were gone. The Crusade was in jeopardy.

Crusader 53 was alive.

——

No. No, he was imagining it. Just like he imagined Manus redoubling their assault, trying to cut off Dekass, kill the Painted Antinium. They hadn’t even managed to escape. Manus had attacked them as they retreated, and there were only thirty left.

Just his imagination. Just like he imagined a Crusader 53, sitting while Drakes in Luldem’s uniforms argued what to do with him and someone offered him a tin of jellied raspberry.

[Minor Telepathy (Ants)].

——

Stop it! Stop it! Crusader 51 sat amid a world of little ants, who created effigies of him. The queens scuttled around, and he heard the tiny thoughts of rebellion.

Why do we have to feed this giant ant? They were definitely getting smarter. Crusader 51 watched as the ant collective now spanned a thousand feet—under ground, at least. Lesser ant colonies joined the swarm, red ants, black ants, blue ants, yellow ants…there were a lot of insect-kind!

Aphids. They were tending to aphids. Crusader 51 had decided they needed a permanent food source, so the ants were tending to different plants.

Squad 5 was under siege. Manus was coming. Zimrah fought, ignoring Dekass’ orders and the Painted Antinium had received a group from Liscor via the door. It wasn’t enough.

Crusader 51 looked at his ant hive when the first rebellions began. A hive of ants poured over him, biting, tearing at him as a queen battled with the others for full control. One would rule all kinds of ants!

…The ants couldn’t hurt Crusader 51. He looked down, picked up the ant queen. The other ants, even her hive, scattered.

The Titan has declared wrath upon them! A queen was no match for the hand of __! Flee! Flee!

He looked at the terrified little queen. He could squish her. She would probably keep trying to usurp the others. All this death…all he had to do was…

Crusader 51 flicked her, and she went flying into the distance. Perhaps to start another colony; some of her hive went with her. Crusader 51 went back to listening for his people.

Faith. He hated Hectval. He believed in Heaven. Crusader 51 killed a Corusdeer with his bare hands. It tried to scorch him, antlers igniting, but he was so strong he tore the antlers off the head and snapped the neck.

He believed that Theophilus, Jerimy, and Zimrah had power. He believed in Heaven.

He also believed he would die.

The ants of sixteen hives scurried about as Crusader 51 put the deer down, and they cleared a space and then swarmed it. He did not tell them to leave any for him.

There. That was enough food for now. He’d completed his little bypass, and a spring ran close enough to the ant hives for them to collect water. Enough for them to grow, thrive, and create an ecological disaster.

But that was all. Food for a day, and Crusader 51 rose. He dusted off his hands, patted a queen on the head, and walked off. The ant hives watched him go.

A lonely colossus, heading back to the world of the titans. Crusader 51 followed the thoughts in his mind. Until they were louder. He walked, then jogged, then ran. He had left Squad 5, Battalion 1 behind. Left his friend, Crusader 53.

But deep down, he had always known he would never be able to leave while they were there. His people needed him.

What could one ant do? Crusader 51 prayed. He had never prayed before, not truly. As he ran, as he found the camp, snatched up a familiar sword as bewildered [Soldiers] looked at him, as he charged forwards, he prayed.

Not for Heaven. Not for the condemnation of his foes. Certainly not for the forgiveness of sins. He prayed for something else.

And the world answered him.

Lulv, [Spearmaster]

The Painted Antinium were gathered up on the hill as the [Spearmaster] watched the last push begin. The [Strategist]—no, the [Commander]—had done his best.

He had placed Dekass and that other Worker behind their lines. However, he couldn’t hide them. Manus had struck their camp. Olesm had managed to threaten the skies—even down a Wyvern, damn him.

But the Painted Antinium died. Forty, counting the reinforcements, were making a final stand. No [Fireball] targets unfortunately; [Mages] were blowing every spell out of the air.

Lulv himself was watching his forces press in. He was waiting for a final trick, a teleportation spell. That was how he saw the Antinium.

“No class. Just like the others.”

One of his [Mages] pointed it out as it charged into Hectval’s lines from the side. Lulv turned his head. He frowned.

“I know that one.”

The other Drakes and Gnolls looked around. Lulv had thought it was dead, but there was no mistake.

Of all the Antinium fighting, even the squad rallied around the Minotaur with the axe, none of them were that…graceful with a sword.

It was no [Blade Dancer], but the sword parried a Drake, slipped through a gap, and sliced through bone. A single Soldier. No Painted Antinium.

“Mark it. Kill it.”

A dozen [Archers] pivoted and one gasped. Lulv turned and snarled.

“The [Sniper]!”

An arrow protruded from a chest. It was all chest-shots now. Lulv roared, searching around for it.

“Kill it and this time burn it to make sure it’s dead!”

A kill-team raced off, and Lulv turned back to see the Soldier swing his sword and chop a Drake in half.

“Strong.”

One of the officers muttered. He had a blade from Manus’ armories. Even so…was that [Greater Strength]? Lulv would never know; something about these Antinium meant you couldn’t read their classes.

“Alright, kill it. Loose!”

Eleven arrows shot at the Antinum. It was good; it ducked, but three curved and struck it. Deep wounds along the chest and stomach. It staggered…and seemed to look up at Lulv.

The [Spearmaster] saw the [Archers] nocked another arrow. He almost felt bad for it. A good warrior. But that was all. He was a Level 43 [Spearmaster]. It was probably Level 20 at best, a Painted Antinium-quality [Soldier].

If it had two dozen years…or just ten…? That was his job, to make sure they never got them. Especially the ones like that Worker trying to heal and failing.

The Alliance’s [Soldiers] charged, surrounding the Soldier and fouling Manus’ shots, the idiots. Lulv watched. One stabbed the Soldier in the side. He beheaded the Drake, whirled the sword up, stabbed a Gnoll through the chest, swept it through a spear, brought it down on a helmet—his shield deflecting a maul and axe.

“Dead gods, that one’s not bad.”

“Yep. If you have a [Guaranteed Shot]—loose!”

Carefully, two arrows flew. Leg hit, shoulder. The Soldier was bleeding, now. Staggering as the Alliance’s [Soldiers] hung back.

Yet it continued. Lulv had seen that, too. Heroes who kept fighting even when stabbed through the heart.

“Get me a javelin.”

He was going to end its suffering. Lulv grabbed the javelin impatiently and turned. He drew back—the Soldier looked up at him, and the [Spearmaster] threw.

The spear had such velocity that it punched through the Antinium’s left shoulder. It had partially dodged.

“Good shot, Commander.”

Lulv grunted as the Soldier fell back, pinned. An [Archer] took aim and stopped as a [Pikeman] lifted a spear to run the Soldier through. Lulv kept watching it as it lay, dying. He watched as it looked up, raised its mandibles…

And tore the javelin out of the stone. The pike struck the armor and glanced off. The Soldier rose, beheaded his opponent, and Lulv’s eyes widened.

“Counter-levelling.”

The Soldier raised his sword and slashed. A brilliant arc of metal struck every [Soldier] in front of him, ten feet across.

Had it passed out? Lulv turned.

“Javelin!”

It flew into his paws, and he took aim again. Consolidation? It had to be. But—it was one class—a handful of levels—

Lulv threw.

“[Impact Spear]!”

The javelin flew down, with enough force to splinter plate mail. The Soldier turned. It raised a shield and blocked the javelin. The sound was like thunder. Lulv looked down and saw it raise a sword. He didn’t know what it said—but then he felt something on his fur. Lulv looked up.

“What—?”

The clouded skies overhead split. A beam of light shone down. The kneeling Worker, the Painted Antinium, the regular [Crusaders] gazed up.

The Alliance’s forces threw their claws up and shouted. It was blinding! Lulv himself shielded his gaze.

“Light tactics! Special Antinium! I’m going in!”

He hefted his spear, blinking spots from his eyes, and saw the Soldier on the battlefield. He was impossible to miss, now.

Crusader 51

Did his armor shine like it was some precious metal? Was it his Skill? Was he taller?

He stood alone as the Painted Antinium and Soldiers and Workers began to fall back. No one had given the order, but they all heard…a voice. Even through their helmets.

Zimrah rose slowly, looking at him as the Antinium turned. He was still wounded. The new class had cured none of his wounds.

“Let me heal you! Please!”

Dekass dragged her back. He was staring at Crusader 51. How did they all know his name?

“Run. We must retreat. He will hold them off.”

Manus’ [Soldiers] surrounded him. The Antinium whirled his sword through a helmet. He was so strong. He punched with his shield and shattered a skull.

Their magical weapons rose. One [Soldier] darted around Crusader 51 and aimed a sword straight at his unguarded back. The tip of the claymore met his armor.

Magic met faith. The weapon skidded off the armor, and Crusader 51 lifted his sword again.

Skywards. The pillar of light shone down around him. He lifted his blade higher, and it seemed like the light itself coalesced around his sword. Drakes and Gnolls looked up as a giant blade, far larger than Crusader 57’s zweihander, formed.

[Holy Blade: Sword of Judgment].

It crashed among their ranks, and even Manus wavered. How many Skills did he have? From one class consolidation? Even for counter-levelling—

——

They couldn’t hear it. The Soldier laughed. He knew his people were running. Listening to him. One of them whispered. Dekass.

“A Unitasis Network. You must live. Tell us how. How…?”

Yet they were all fleeing. Crusader 51 stood alone, and the enemy lines tried to force past him, chase after their quarry. They ran into a barrier made out of swords, glowing blades.

How?

He kept hearing it, between the blades striking his armor. As arrows rained down around him. Crusader 51 lifted his head as he heard a familiar howl. He turned to greet the [Spearmaster].

[Crusader Level 24—]

[Crusader Level 25—]

The [Spearmaster] struck him like a bolt of furry lightning. Faster. Crusader 51 whirled his blade. He was no master of thousand battles. Just one war.

He saw the Gnoll duck, spear sliding sideways. His thrust dented Crusader 51’s armor, and the Gnoll cursed as the shield clipped one side of his helmet. He rolled, and the shining blade split the [Soldiers] above him. Up, the spear exploded, stabbing Crusader 51, cutting off his upper right arm.

Lulv leaned out of the way of the blade, and Crusader 51 smashed his jaw with the hilt of his sword.

The [Spearmaster] grimly planted a dagger in Crusader 51’s neck, and the poisoned blade ate into the [Crusader]’s life. Still, Crusader 51 stood. He turned away from Lulv.

A sword obliterated Manus’ front ranks. [Soldiers] backed away from the gigantic blade and Lulv cried out.

“[Spear Art: Fangs of the Dire Wolf]!”

The first fang destroyed Crusader 51’s chestplate. The second ran him through. The [Crusader] raised his sword, a spear through his beating heart, and Lulv caught it. The Gnoll’s arm trembled as the [Crusader] tried to bring it down.

“What are you? Where is that power coming from? Kill the Painted Antinium! Don’t let them get away!”

Manus was hammering on the golden barriers. Crusader 51 tried to bite Lulv in the face and the Gnoll jerked his head back. The [Crusader] was laughing. One Soldier watched as Manus’ army lost their quarry.

If one can do that—he saw Lulv break away and felt an emptiness as the spear yanked out of his breast. The [Spearmaster] whirled. He raised the spear to throw. Sighting on Dekass’ back.

Crusader 51 reached for him, but two dozen [Soldiers] grabbed him. He fought, but they held him down, stabbing. Crawling over him. Sacrificing themselves against a high-level warrior.

One look. Lulv turned a snarling face to the [Crusader] and saw the Antinium smile. Strength beyond fairness? No. Well, maybe. It occurred to Crusader 51 he’d been onto something. Perhaps someone hadn’t thought things through?

But this was fair. This was just…a miracle.

If you believed, if you were willing to sacrifice everything and you were the right one—he could do it. The [Crusader] tilted his head back and listened.

[Conditions Met: Crusader → Templar Class!]

[Templar Level 25!]

[My Noble Virtue: Sacrifice declared.]

The world turned white. Lulv went blind. Everyone saw nothing…and everything.

He saw the first glimpse of a cloudy sky, the light peeking around a cloud, revealing the sun, brighter than—

When the light cleared, the Antinium were gone. The [Templar] lay, body ruined. Arms folded, at peace. Lulv, arm shaking, lowered his spear. He saw someone raise a hand to destroy the body and caught the arm.

“No. No…don’t touch it. We have to know. We have to…”

He looked around, rattled. For the first time in this conflict…

Spearmaster Lulv felt afraid. He had witnessed something he had no name for. Something different from magic. If he could have named it, it would be—

Faith.

Interlude – Hectval (Pt. 3)

Selys, [Heiress]

Two and a quarter months since the army marched upon Hectval, the city felt different. A month was a long time. A year was a long time.

To Selys, it felt like it had flashed by in some senses. Dragged on after Erin’s death. But the war…

Liscor was changing. Not a day went by when she didn’t hear of some new enterprise like Liscor Hunted, or receive news from her friends across the world. The Meeting of Tribes, the King of Destruction not dying, Wistram, Ailendamus versus the Dawn Concordat…those were worldwide events. Everyone watched the news and learned, well, to stop worrying.

It had seemed, when the television news stories first came out, that when a war happened or a battle was broadcast, it was going on right next to you. Then you realized—it was Chandrar or Terandria. You’d never go there, most likely, and the repercussions were abstract.

At the same time, you got invested. In a very real sense, as Drassi put it—the audience of television learned how to be an audience.

Compared to that, some things were close to home. And that was Liscor’s war with Hectval. Not the army. The army had left their home. Compared to that, Hectval was a real threat. One that Liscorians felt more than a vague animosity towards.

However, time changed how people felt. The first shock of casualties coming in, hearing rumors of the carnage on the front…Selys had heard howling every time someone brought the casualty lists. She had seen people gathered around the [Criers], and later seen the lists appended to boards in the plaza because no [City Crier] wanted to deliver the news themselves.

She still saw it two months in, but the war had taken a different kind of space in people’s heads. These days she heard people arguing about it.

“Enlist? Are you mad? Do you want to end up with one less leg? Mom’ll hit you if you even say it.”

A pair of brother and sister Drakes were arguing fiercely. Selys turned her head as Drassi slurped Imani’s next incarnation of boba tea. The two friends listened in. The younger brother, perhaps eighteen, looked adamant.

“There’s a signing bonus. I’m not Antinium. I’ll survive and level up and then become a Bronze-rank.”

“A Bronze-rank? I’m telling Mother. You’re cracked in the head. You want to go into the dungeon? That’s suicide unless you’re Silver—no, Gold-rank. You’d be safer in the army!”

“Aha! So you admit signing up as a [Soldier] is safer.”

The younger brother looked victorious, as if he’d scored a profound victory in their debate. His older sister stepped on his tail. Unlike Humans and Gnolls, who learned how to pinch ears, the yelping Drake’s weak spot was his tail.

“You’re not doing it. If you really want levels, go sign up as an adventurer or [Guard]! Even Celum would be safer. I’m not waiting around one of the announcement boards to see your name on a list. Those poor Ants—what happens when they stop fighting?”

Those poor Ants. Selys watched the younger brother keep arguing as he backed away from the stompy boots threatening his tail. You’d have never, never heard that a year ago. Maybe ‘poor Senior Guardsman Klbkch’ in context with ‘did you hear what that idiot Relc just did?’, but never that.

Drassi commented out of the corner of her mouth as the two siblings left.

“I hear it’s going better. I think. Hectval is moving back.”

“Hm? When did you hear that?”

Selys looked up and saw her childhood friend, Drassi, finally stop sucking fruit-boba up a straw. Instantly, Drassi began talking, and the absence of sound had been an irregularity in Drassi-world.

Drassi Tewing talked like Selys breathed. It wasn’t even just that she wanted to, sometimes it seemed like she had to. Yet the Drake was as bubbly as her light yellow scales most of the time. Friendly—and cuttingly honest, which people were surprised by.

Drassi didn’t lie. However, the former [Barmaid] turned [Bartender] who’d also been a [Secretary]—and failed out of a lot of her jobs until meeting Erin—had a more professional look nowadays.

In fact, she even had an Amulet of Disguise on her that made her less noticeable. Drassi was the [Honest Reporter] of Wistram News Network; she often wore less of a dress than something like the business casual being pioneered by Lady Magnolia Reinhart and a few [Ladies], who’d begun vying with the other [Seamstresses] to occupy the market.

You could buy fashion from Invrisil that had that particular Earth-style vibe to the clothing, although only Selys knew it as coming from there. Something with less frills and adornments—the ‘modern’ style of Earth that went for that kind of simplistic design with few main colors.

Selys preferred more variety, but it was popular enough to have tags, like a ‘Sitil’-tag—after Lady Wuvren Sitil.

Funnily, there was also a new line of sports-wear that apparently came from House Ulta. Selys had looked into clothing herself, but she didn’t have an ‘in’ with anyone she wanted to work with. She’d been trying to get Bezale, the Minotauress, to give her a contact.

All of that was Liscor, but the war was the kind of thing people talked about. Selys and Drassi, in their bi-weekly meetups at the Drunken Gnoll, often exchanged news. Olesm sometimes sent news back to the Council, and Selys heard drips and drabs from Elirr and Tekshia, which she relayed to Drassi.

However, the irony was that Drassi didn’t cover Liscor’s war with the Hectval Alliance. Selys looked at her friend.

“How d’you know about the state of Hectval? Is Wistram News Network going to report it after all?”

The [Reporter] shook her head, stretching out her claws.

“Nope. I just talk with some of the wounded. I saw a group of [Soldiers] on leave—they told me.”

“They’re on leave? They can come back through the door?”

Drassi nodded, chomping on a spring-roll, baked until it was just crunchy but not hard, filled with a more meat-based filling for Drakes and Gnolls.

“Two lucky squads per week. Olesm must have talked the Council into allowing it. It’s a fair mana drain, but it seems like he thinks it’s good for morale, and the [Soldiers] loved it. Lottery. And no, Wistram refuses to let me cover it.”

Selys frowned.

“Still? Even with Manus…?”

Drassi looked around sourly and lowered her voice. She tapped a ring on her finger, and Selys blinked as Drassi activated a silence spell. Palt, trotting by, gave them a wounded glance…which was probably because he wanted to listen in. Selys massaged one earhole; it felt like it was filled with cotton.

“Sorry, Selys. Work. Anyways. I talked with Grand Magus Eldavin. He told me there’s no shot. It’s…Antinium. And when he says that it’s worth my job—it’s not like Relz or Noass. Speaking of which, something big is going down in Wistram soon. Eldavin has a big announcement in our television segment next week. No one knows what it’s about, and Noass and Relz are kicking a fuss up.”

She sighed.

“I hate them.”

Selys made a face. She didn’t care for either Drake herself.

“If they’re so bad…”

Drassi waved a claw, trying to swallow another spring roll in a single bite.

“I don’t hate hate them, but they’re just so snooty sometimes. Noass is actually a bit worse than Relz, but neither one’s evil. They just say the same thing Wistram does, though. Antinium bad. I wish I could introduce them to Garry or Pawn, but they won’t go to Liscor after the Rock Crabs incident.”

The famous one where both nearly got eaten by a Rock Crab on Liscor Hunted’s inauguration? Selys smirked. Then she stirred her cup of tea. Palt trotted past them, looking worried. Drassi lowered the [Silence] spell, and both heard Imani kicking up a fuss.

“What? What? Palt, get in here! Palt—”

“Yes, my unshod darling?”

The two Drakes waited as Palt vanished inside the inn. Drassi nodded after a while, apropos of nothing.

“Yeah. Poor Antinium.”

Olesm had decided to tell Liscorians how many Antinium died in battle. The numbers…well. A few years ago, maybe Liscorians would have felt vaguely shocked or bad, but now that Antinium had names, colors…if you dwelled on it, it made you ask some hard questions.

Some people wouldn’t dwell on it. Some did. Selys worried about Olesm and felt vaguely sick about the Antinium—when she focused on them. What would Erin have done? At the same time—she hoped Olesm got to one of those cities and knocked in a wall or two. They were the reason her first real Human friend was dead.

She turned her head as Imani burst out of her kitchen, and Palt caught her in a clatter of hooves. She was waving something that had just arrived via City Runner bulk delivery by way of Pallass, addressed to her. She shouted one word, and Selys’ instincts told her it mattered.

“Coffee! Coffee!”

Drassi and Selys turned, and Selys began looking for another investment opportunity. That was all they said about the war as Drassi walked headfirst into an addictive drug perfectly suited for her personality. Neither one thought of Hectval’s war until the commendation began to be posted in the plazas, and the Council appended their own statement to Commander Olesm’s address. When Selys did read it, later, it was simple, and made her think of them again.

Olesm, [Commander]

The war continued. The day after he saw a single Antinium holding off Manus’ finest, [Commander] Olesm Swifttail of Liscor debriefed Dekass, Zimrah, and every other officer who had witnessed Crusader 51’s last stand.

The Prognugator could not explain how a single Soldier—the Antinium’s one deserter—had come back and saved the Antinium. The Painted Antinium, who Manus had gone as far as to attack in camp, and even smash the mana stone to the portal door to stop from retreating, lived, thanks to him.

Olesm did not know Crusader 51’s story. He had never met or talked to that particular Soldier. However, he could not shake the image of the Soldier raising a sword made of light high overhead, standing against Lulv.

No Antinium could, he was sure. That morning, Olesm watched as Zimrah began the sermons that had ended with Theophilus.

Other people were listening in. Scout Leader Maksie, Dekass, even non-antinium [Soldiers] who’d been at the battle.

Ah, oops. One correction there—it wasn’t Scout Leader Maksie, but [Scouting Lieutenant] Maksie. Everyone called her by her generic title, but Olesm tried to use her class now and then. It was a source of pride for her. Olesm had personally granted Maksie the class.

One class. One officer class, unlike [Squad Leader], which was technically a civilian class. Maksie didn’t get it because she was 4th Company. She had made a fairly public break from her command.

She had gotten it from Olesm. The [Commander] had a new Skill.

[Officer Under Arms]. He had chosen Maksie for the honor after debating the others. Frankly, Olesm thought it eased her public rift with her 4th Company friends, especially because they were her family. In return, it brought her closer to the civilian-army. And the Antinium.

Right now, Olesm knew the Painted Antinium would be returning to the Free Hive with a letter from Dekass to the Free Queen, detailing the extraordinary…tragic…events of yesterday.

The problem with Olesm was that he was changing. Instead of feeling just sorrow and grief, he almost felt relief. Hope.

Instead of hundreds, a single Soldier had died. Olesm mourned Crusader 51, but he felt inspired as well. And that made him a monster, he knew. But that brave Soldier had saved his comrades from a massacre.

A single Soldier had died. So Olesm sent something of his own back with Dekass’ letter and the Painted Antinium. He had proposed it to Dekass, and so the Prognugator had written a short…commendation.

A public commendation from the commanding officer of the Antinium, Dekass of the Armored Hive, for the Antinium known as Crusader 51, Squad 5, Battalion 1. Olesm asked Lism to post it along with the casualty reports.

Dekass of the Armored Antinium wrote a posthumous commendation of Crusader 51 for valor in the face of overwhelming odds, engaging an enemy [Spearmaster] in a single duel, single-handedly saving hundreds of lives, if not thousands, slaying at least thirty of the enemy, and noted his dereliction of duty in flat terms. So flat that it was more effective than any flowery statements.

To Dekass’ own report, Olesm attached a simple missive to Liscor’s Council, the army, and the citizens of Liscor citing Crusader 51 as one of the most valorous soldiers under his command.

Such an impersonal, inadequate response for someone who had done so much. And the war continued.

Olesm drank his hot tea as he watched Zimrah preaching, repeating Crusader 51’s name. He was tired, but waiting for the Council’s response to one of his requests. It was another thing Olesm had thought of. Oh—it wasn’t a big secret. He had attached a note to Lism and the Council after his commendation and the rest of his report:

Councilmembers, in light of Crusader 51’s heroism, I would like to request the Council allot a budget to increase the squads on weekly break rotation to 3, instead of 2. I understand this means sixty [Soldiers] will be using the door’s mana, but given the circumstances, I would like to mandate one Antinium squad be given a break in the city with the other two non-Antinium squads.

Anticipating problems, I would welcome the Free Antinium’s willingness to coordinate any squad on break. However, I believe the other two squads on break may volunteer to lead around the Antinium [Soldiers]. I hope I can count on your support for this initiative.

He believed they’d okay it by nightfall. Another piece of tinder for the fire in the Antinium’s hearts. It wasn’t Erin’s kindness that made Olesm do it. It was good for them. It was kind. But that wasn’t why he did it.

The Drake was so caught up in listening to Zimrah and thinking of when to announce the lottery for vacation that he didn’t hear the [Soldier] at first.

“Commander Olesm, sir. Visitor for you.”

Olesm’s mood of awed contemplation turned into sourness instantly. His claw tightened on his cup of tea, and he didn’t look back to his tent.

“I will kill that [Slaver] if I see him. Not right now, Artur.”

The [Banner Leader], the nosiest Antinium who listened into all conversations, had become the camp’s unofficial [Messenger].

The Antinium holding his flag clicked his mandibles together in confusion, but he didn’t immediately leave.

“That is not who…”

A voice split the air, bright and cheery and completely foreign to Olesm.

“Yayde Re~! Is that Olesm of Liscor I see? Ah, greetings! Could we exchange words?”

The curious, warbling call made Olesm turn. He saw a peculiarly-armored Drake riding towards him, along with eighteen more on horseback. Their flag was…Olesm squinted at them.

He saw a curious Drake waving at him. Curious because he—she?—had oddly-patterned armor all over their head and neck, the most complete helmet that Olesm had ever witnessed, and shoulder guards.

It looked akin to a [Knight]’s helmet, but it was practically skin-tight, form-adhering, and it was stylized to mimic a Dragon’s head, giving the Drake and all eighteen [Soldiers] an odd, predatory look. The helmet even had tiny, tiny holes for their neck-spines to poke out of, and a few Drakes had even coated their neck-spines with iron barbs. If they turned their heads, you were in danger of being stabbed.

The helmet melded into the shoulder and neck-guards, forming a protective layer of metal or stone—some of the Drakes wore what looked like stone armor—all the way down to their shoulders. Like the upper part of a cloak or mantle fused into their helmet.

It was the most sophisticated armor Olesm had seen: scale armor, interlinking, smoothly-moving plates, which were not fun for [Armorers] to make; they preferred pieces, just like how obnoxious chainmail was because of all the links interwoven together.

The complex head-and-shoulders piece abruptly ended at the shoulderblades, and was replaced by the most dull, painted…iron armor that Olesm had seen.

The Drake officer waving at him had a sword at her waist, and she was riding a pony, not a stallion. Her other bodyguards had hatchets, simple longswords, spears…and a pickaxe? Olesm squinted at the odd mismatch.

“What are they…? Artur, who are they?”

“I do not know, sir. They identify themselves as emissaries of the Drake city of Yolden.”

“Yolden…?”

The name vaguely rang a bell. Olesm started towards the [Soldiers]. They were hardly unwatched; Liscor’s army had two squads eying them.

With a bit of confusion. As Olesm neared, he saw a second oddity. These Drakes—and they were all Drakes, all nineteen—all had the same, complex helmet-shoulderguard.

And iron armor. Or leather. Their officer had what looked like a steel sword, although it was carefully sheathed, but Olesm didn’t even think they carried steel weapons. Oh—and he realized that, instead of bows, they had slings hanging by their sides and an overfull, bulging bag of ammunition.

Rocks. Only their commander, who was goggling at Olesm, had a bow, and it looked like an heirloom. She leaned over her saddle, then got down hurriedly.

“Yayde Re! Hello! Doine! It’s an Antinium! Hold your weapons, everyone! Commander Olesm, I’m from Yolden! [Captain] Voita, of the 22nd Command of the Yoldenite Army! Could I have a word?”

She was the most unusual Drake that Olesm had ever met. From her strange, yodeling cry, to an accent that seemed to be half-shouting at him, to her odd phrasing and armor…Olesm saw her gawking at Artur as he approached.

“Captain Voita? The Yoldenite army?”

Now Olesm recalled. Yolden. He had studied a map of the area. Wasn’t Yolden another Drake city in this region? Even higher up in elevation than Hectval.

Were they going to fight too? He felt a sinking feeling, but surely if so, they wouldn’t have announced themselves? And this Captain Voita and her squad were staring at the Antinium in a kind of horrified fascination…but fascination as opposed to simple horror.

Many Drakes would attack or flee. Olesm thought quickly.

“Artur, go find Wing Commander Embria if she’s near our camp. Tell her to report at once. Greetings, Captain Voita. I apologize. You’ve caught me at a poor time. We just finished a battle, and I’m—scatterbrained.”

“Ah, that mess back with all the flashin’ lights? We saw it from afar. Put our tails over our heads, so it did. Not that it wasn’t encouraging. Sent the Drishy-Luly-Heckies packing, did you? That’s the Commander Olesm I came here to see! And your Liscorian army looks sharp as Metal Dragonbreath! I hope you and I can talk. Greetings from Yolden! The Township Councils all send their regards, and I’m acting as representative.”

Olesm knew Drassi. He had experienced a wall of words hitting his head, and he had learned how to wade through a chatterbox’s offensive wave of dialogue. However, everything Voita said made his mind wrestle for a bit.

Voita’s helmet revealed her face; it was oddly lax in a face-guard, but heavily armored upwards. Not even a chin-guard…and she knew him.

“You have me at a disadvantage, Captain Voita. I’m afraid I don’t know Yolden’s…Township? But your squad is welcome into Liscor’s camp. You’re welcome to keep mounted, but we can see to it you get some feed for your horses or a break if you’re staying longer.”

“Oh! Don’t mind if we do!”

What looked like Voita’s second in command instantly dismounted, and the entire squad was on their feet and stretching before Olesm could blink.

“Got any good feed? Captain, where do we park?”

“Wherever the Commander wants you! I was hoping we could talk privately. Some of it’s command-level talk, sir.”

“Er—”

Olesm looked around, and every officer in range tried to duck. His claw found a [Tactician].

“Merraw, feed, food, and maybe room around one of the fires for the Yoldenites. I will see Captain Voita in my tent. Send up some refreshments. Captain Voita, would you like to follow one of my [Soldiers] there? I apologize. I will be with you in five, ten minutes at most.”

She nodded understandingly.

“That’s very kind of you, Commander Olesm. Don’t mind if I do. My girls and boys won’t be any trouble or I’ll make ‘em go back home without their helmets!”

She laughed as if that were a real threat and followed a Gnoll up the hill. Olesm rubbed at his head.

This was going to be weird.

——

Wing Commander Embria didn’t keep a superior officer waiting. She galloped back, and, to Olesm’s surprise, he saw Artur riding a horse after her.

“I got your message, Commander. What’s this about another city?”

She looked vaguely worried. Olesm gestured at the squad of Yoldenites talking with some [Soldiers] from Liscor all dining on some rations.

“We have…an officer from Yolden who wants to meet me. I thought you might know who they were. What am I dealing with?”

Embria frowned.

“A who from where?”

She knew most cities in this region, having campaigned across Izril. Olesm repeated the city.

“Yolden. You don’t know about them?”

“I don’t know…every city. Yolden. Yolden…Wikir! Vell! Get over here! On the double!”

Both [Captains] raced over as Embria barked a command. Artur had dismounted and was feeding his horse an apple, patting it as the two [Captains] rode in. It was a mark of the times that Artur stood with them instead of either Gnoll or Drake giving him the stink-eye. Vell stood away from Artur, but that was it.

“Yolden…Yolden…it rings a bell, yes? But where? Vell?”

“Aren’t they the ones who make great helmets? What’s the saying?”

Vell snapped her claws, frowning. Artur came over.

“I will take your horse, Captain Wikir? Unless you will ride back?”

“Oh. Thank you…Artur.”

The Gnoll distractedly handed him the reins. Vell did likewise, and Artur came back as she blinked.

“That’s it! Commander Embria, remember? Whenever we go by here, High Command always makes some unlucky bastards like 6th ride up to Yolden and commission some gear.”

“Right…and what’s the saying?”

“You can’t kill a Yoldenite from above.”

Vell began it, and Wikir and Embria finished the sentence. Olesm raised his brows.

“So this is a famous city?”

“Nope.”

All three officers shook their heads instantly as Artur looked from face to face. Vell glanced at the Yoldenites.

“Look at that. Iron and leather armor, and that’s a command squad. Slings.”

“Nothing wrong with a good sling. You can knock on someone’s head with one.”

Wikir growled, amused. Vell glanced at him.

“Okay, want to trade your shortbow for one? We could take that lot with our eyes closed. Even the Ants would dice them two-to-one.”

“I believe we would, yes, Captain Vell.”

Vell jumped, then nodded at Artur.

“Er…right. See? Even our banner-guy could probably out-lead an officer in their army. This is a real border-city, Commander Olesm. Poor weapons, low-level…”

“Why are they here?”

Vell gave Olesm a blank look.

“Maybe they want to trade for gear? Or they’re worried we’ll come at them? I don’t think they’re on Hectval’s side.”

Wikir growled.

“Definitely not. Hectval’s not unified with all the cities. Hrr. I can’t tell you anything more, Commander. Liscor’s army doesn’t fight Yolden or other border cities…no profit. We’re hired for bigger battles. All I can tell you is that they have a weird city.”

“How weird? Commander Embria?”

The [Wing Commander] frowned.

“Something about towns…that’s all I’ve got. Should we socialize?”

“Please. I’ll send Artur for you if I need you, Embria. Be polite. No insults—no disparaging their armor, Vell.”

“Sir! I would never, to their faces. Oh, and when’s the lottery for…?”

Wikir elbowed them, and Olesm headed towards his tent. He distinctly heard Artur whispering to Vell and Wikir.

“It will be today. Commander Olesm will do a raffle of another two squads, but a third will be Antinium. Oh, and we are having a squash-based bread today because a shipment of squash was passed through the door…”

“I hate squash.”

“Vell, do you enjoy any vegetable at all?”

——

Olesm got a surprise when he entered his tent. He had his tent bodyguard ready…it had occurred to him this might be an ambush. But what he found instead of an attack was Captain Voita helping herself to the food he’d requested.

Oh, and she’d found a bottle that wasn’t meant for this moment and poured herself a cup.

“Yayde Re~. Lovely tent and army you have, Commander Olesm. And it’s an honor to meet you again. I didn’t want to spill over in front of my people, but I’d love one of those autographs I hear people talking about on the scrying orbs.”

“From me? Excuse me, Captain Voita…I’m glad you’ve settled in.”

She had pulled the chair out and loaded up a plate. The Drake looked at Olesm, then hesitated.

“Sorry, is this not good manners?”

Voita looked so worried that Olesm lied.

“…No, no. I meant that seriously.”

“Ah, good, good! I didn’t want to make a bad impression. They sent me because I volunteered—not that we have more than [Negotiators]! Plus, it was dangerous, even with our colors. The Heckies are jumpy as can be. You really rattled their heads.”

She seemed quite pleased by that. Olesm sat down.

“I think I need to start from the beginning. I confess—I don’t know much about Yolden, Captain Voita, so tell me if I make any mistakes. You came to meet me. You know me. An autograph? I don’t think I’ve done anything particularly noteworthy.”

She laughed, then looked at him incredulously.

“No? I saw you on the television—well, I also remember when everyone was talking about you. During the Goblin Lord’s advance, remember? Yolden was sending everyone to watch the Big Wall in case the Goblins came up in the mountains…and then we heard you shouted at Pallass! Pallass! ‘I outrank you!’ I loved it.”

Olesm turned scarlet as he realized she was referring to the very first time he’d been on the news outside of maybe chess. When he’d demanded aid from Pallass and other cities to hold Liscor’s walls.

“That was…a long time ago.”

“Only a year. Mind you, I never thought I’d meet you, what with Liscor being past the Bloodfields. Then we heard Liscor’d opened a road, and the towns debated sending someone—but Hectval got there first. Next we heard, you were cracking the Drisshia-Luldem-Hectval Alliance up. One versus three! We had to send someone, but the towns argued so much it took this long for them to send me. We’re here to talk about an alliance. I should’ve led with that.”

Olesm’s mind spun.

“You’re opposed to the Hectval—the Alliance as well?”

Voita gave Olesm a look over her food, which she was inspecting as if it were new and foreign to her, especially the squash.

“We hate ‘em. Hectval-Luldem-Drisshia? The Alliance members are the three biggest bullies around. ‘Course we came to you if it looked like we could team up and get even. You think you’re the only ones who hate them? We’ve hated them for years.”

Voita had reminded Olesm a lot of Drassi, an odd Drassi, but now the first bit of real Drake entered her tone as her tail curled up and she glared. Olesm sat back as his heart began to beat.

He hadn’t considered it, but the first officer, Voita, made him realize how blind he’d been. On a larger strategic scale than combat. Other Drake cities had obviously heard about Hectval’s war with Liscor. It just hadn’t occurred to Olesm to look for allies.

Liscor was so uniquely cut off that allies or enemies were a foreign concept to them. Now, Olesm’s world opened. Voita was only too happy to explain where she was from.

“You can’t see us from here, but we’re higher than Hectval. Truthfully, we’re closest to Drisshia, and they’re the city we feud with. All the time. They own the iron mines. You saw their heavies? Steel. It makes fighting them really hard. Not that Liscor’s behind! I saw your [Soldiers]. All of ‘em have steel?”

She gave Olesm an impressed look. He shook his head.

“That’s…standard gear for Liscor’s Watch. Leather too, but we bought up all our equipment, and the Antinium provided their own.”

“Huh. Where from?”

He was stumped.

“Celum, Liscor, Esthelm—Esthelm is a mining city. Invrisil, Pallass…”

She appeared frankly envious.

“We have to buy from Drisshia. Or hope a [Merchant] decides ours is a good trade route or sends a caravan out. They’ve got the monopoly. Hectval’s got their bows, Luldem has their magic…Yolden’s not the biggest tail around. I don’t know if you noticed.”

Olesm very carefully kept his face straight.

“Your [Soldiers] looked quite professional.”

Voita gave Olesm a toothy smile that told him she knew he was being nice.

“Doine, Commander Olesm, no need to be polite. We’ve lost enough battles with the Alliance to know we’re behind. Not that they get over the Big Wall.”

“Tell me about that. Big Wall? Is Yolden a…town?”

She shook her head.

“No, it’s a city—sort of. Big Wall’s the curtain wall around our towns. See? One big wall—we hold off foes there. And Yolden’s around Yodemite. That’s the name of the enchanted mountain. Throws off some magical stones…nothing like Salazsar. Ever heard of pumice?”

Olesm stared. Yolden was a city that, among its pastures and wide, wide land area, was more like a rural collection of widely-spaced towns behind a single, long curtain wall. They were nestled with their backs to a sometimes-unpredictable mountain filled with lighter stones.

Pumice, which was a stone so light it floated on water. Olesm had to see that. He saw a stone that was pale beige, so weak it was crumbly, with tiny airholes, come out of Voita’s pouch. She handed it over with a faint blush.

“It’s good for taking off dead scales. Put it in a cup. See?”

“Is it…magical?”

Olesm watched as the rock bobbed in some water. Voita shook her head.

“We wish! Just light. We’ve got it all lying about. Something about old Yodemite makes some stones float…there’s decent mining up there, but stones fall down all the time. You can get brained by one, and even pumice hitting from high enough caves in your skull. So we wear this. See?”

She tapped her odd headpiece, and Olesm realized why the helmets were so elaborate. It was a perfect shoulder and head-guard to ward off pieces of stone falling from above. Even children apparently had them, and the only times you took them off were indoors.

“This is…fascinating. So the Alliance isn’t friendly to Yolden.”

She snorted.

“Friendly? We’ve paid tribute to them…the Townships have to send a lot of our sheepies. No one likes them, but who can beat three cities all teamed up and close together? We’ve tried. Yolden joins up with Naughtl, and even Fillen, but we don’t trust them all the time…we hold our own. Then Liscor appeared, and we thought—we have to reach out, Antinium or not.”

Olesm glanced at Voita’s face. She had a big smile, perhaps because this was all so exciting to her, and an oddly metallic sheen to her scales, which were almost grey-orange. Metallic orange.

“You’ll forgive me if I’m skeptical, Captain Voita, but yours would be the only city I’ve ever met that didn’t treat the Antinium as a greater threat than anything.”

“Oh, the Black Tide? We know they’re nasty…but we hate the Heckies more. That was the big argument, see? However, Yolden didn’t suffer siege in the Antinium Wars, either one. We sent our girls and guys out, and some didn’t come back, but the Antinium never made it to us. They focused on Luldem! Hah!”

Ah, there was the pettiness. Olesm relaxed and offered Voita more of his Amentus wine. She was remarkably free with his things. It seemed Yolden was the kind of place where anything left out was fair game—so they hid anything they didn’t want guests to touch. Which was everything.

Drakes with a twist. Voita explained Yolden’s history in the Antinium Wars.

“They never came up this far. Yolden hasn’t ever seen an Antinium. We have a few heads mounted as souvenirs…er…”

She trailed off. Olesm gave her a steady look.

“I see. But the Antinium aren’t as much of a threat as the ‘Heckies’. Is this a formal offer or just an inquiry to see what we’re like, Captain Voita? I am pleased to talk to you, but I trust you’ll represent your entire city. Or do you not have that authority?”

Uneasily, she sat up and, though flustered, spoke professionally.

“No, sir! I can speak for the Township. However, I will need them to vote on agreement. But we’re prepared to vote fast. Frankly, sir, no one wants to lose the chance to get back what’s ours. I’m with 22nd Command; each town has their own force, and I’m from the last one.”

“Twenty-two towns? Go on.”

Olesm had learned the fine art of negotiation from Maviola and, to some extent, Chaldion as well. He was friendly…up to a point. But Voita deferred to him, which meant he had all his cards in his claw…and some of hers.

It seemed like Yolden really wanted a friend. And they really didn’t want to bleed much.

“See, we could hit Drisshia’s mines. Tie up some of their forces. They’ve got a big, fat one they’re practically leaving open. If your army ties up their forces…”

“Yolden gets to take a mine, and we bleed for it. I’m not interested in giving Yolden free real estate, Captain Voita. Why should my [Soldiers], who’ve been fighting and dying for two months, distract Drisshia long enough for Yolden to swoop in? If we take Drisshia’s mines, I’d rather collapse them or take control ourselves.”

She blanched.

“What? Collapse them? Take control?”

“Why not?”

“Well…we fight over them! We could really use the iron.”

Olesm smiled and looked past Voita at a map of the region.

“So will Yolden fight Liscor?”

“No—Commander, we’ve gotten on the wrong foot. Clearly! Doine, we’re not proposing Liscor do all the work!”

“That sounds like what you just offered me. Let’s try again. Why hasn’t Yolden already attacked? My guess is that you don’t care to antagonize Drisshia in case this war ends and they turn on you.”

Voita nodded uneasily, trying to stay ahead of the conversation. Olesm knew what it must be like. She wanted him to like her, and she had to report back to her Township. He knew what it was like to be a young officer who suddenly ran into a grandmaster chess player or suddenly had to deal with the threat of war.

Now that he was on the other side of it, he felt vaguely bad for her…and did exactly what would have given him cold sweats, putting her tail over the fire.

“What can Yolden offer me? I mean real forces, Captain Voita. Enforced by a magical contract. I have to report back to Liscor’s Council as well, but I am [Strategist] for Liscor. Let’s say Yolden wants those mines. How much are they willing to pay to keep them?”

“In…a share of the ore? Gold?”

Voita looked uneasy. Olesm gave her an incredulous stare.

“No, I mean how many [Soldiers] are they willing to spare? How many for a mine? Because if you want Liscor to back you after the war is done, I want at least a thousand.”

“A thousand—?”

“Convince me. How many [Soldiers] does Yolden have? What’s your distribution of forces?”

The poor [Captain] gave Olesm the standing number of Yolden’s army for free and realized halfway through him grilling her about their locations that she really should have held onto that. Olesm really did feel bad for her, so he signed her an autograph card. Then asked if she’d ever wanted to visit Pallass.

Embria, [Wing Commander]

“Ancestors, he’s hanging her out to dry.”

Wing Commander Embria was listening to the conversation in Olesm’s tent. He could have warded it, but he hadn’t, instead letting her listen in. She shifted, and the other person listening in nodded.

“Commander Olesm is quite unkind. He has Captain Voita on the back foot. He should press the charge. Unless that is not how you win verbal wars?”

Artur, the [Banner Leader], stood with his banner, almost invisible. He was conspicuous as a Worker standing behind a pole of wood, but he was so still that you forgot he was there. Embria hesitated. She looked at the Antinium and replied.

“I…er…she might back out, but I’ve seen the army negotiate. They tend to hang anyone trying to cheat us out to dry. You have to; small-time cities can be as bad as big ones.”

Artur nodded reasonably.

“In that case, I am glad he is being so mean.”

Mean? Embria listened. Olesm was offering Voita a chance to look at his Kaalblade.

“Steel? Liscor has steel. We also have access to two major cities, Human and Drake. Would you accept a gift? I have a fine, enchanted dagger. Perhaps you could show it to the Township as a symbol of relations…? Oh, and you should have one meal before you go. Liscor has its own delicacies.”

It was surprisingly mean. Embria had always thought of Olesm as somewhat of a nice guy. The war was making her rethink that.

She was actually a bit surprised Artur thought this was all fine. Embria frowned at him.

“You’re Artur, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Wing Commander Embria.”

“I thought Antinium liked being nice? I never saw those Workers and Soldiers at The Wandering Inn so much as curse. I thought you’d be all for hugs and kisses.”

Artur craned his head as Olesm poked his own head out of the tent to order a pizza—and Liscor’s own diplomatic core and Council to get in on this.

“If Yolden does not commit its forces, more of our [Soldiers] will die. So he should press her as hard as he can.”

“You mean, Antinium Soldiers?”

Artur gave Embria a look. She blinked because it could only be described as…withering.

“I mean, Liscor’s [Soldiers]. Do not be an idiot, Wing Commander. Sir.”

He gave her a three-handed salute, one hand holding onto his flag. Wing Commander Embria’s mouth worked.

“Sorry.”

——

The Antinium were changing. Wing Commander Embria didn’t speak much to Artur; she was busy meeting Captain Voita and watching Olesm impress upon her and her squad just how much she wanted to make this alliance work.

“We need to talk to the other cities, Wing Commander. I suggest [Message] spells rather than sending runners. I’ll put the Council on it. Stupid of me not to think of it.”

“Yes, sir. I mean—no, sir. I can pull 4th Company and see if they can glean any tidbits about which cities are trustworthy or useful.”

“Do that. Oh, and Wing Commander? I have a lottery for you to bring back to Bepol’s troops. Tell him I want him to take his rally point in the next two days or I’ll have his tail.”

Perhaps it was the directness. Olesm didn’t try to coddle people’s feelings. He could, and he had soothed Bepol’s ego at the start. However, these days he had a carrot and stick in either claw, and he’d smack you with both if he had to. Or feed you the stick.

That was how Embria had experienced command in Liscor’s regular army. She returned to her command with Wikir and Vell, and found three members of 4th Company were in trouble. And that Division Leader Bepol had personally come to sort out an altercation in her absence.

“They started it!”

Bepol glared but let Wing Commander Embria sort out Igessi’s squad. The Wing Commander saw Wikir walk down the row of [Soldiers], smacking them.

“You idiots. We’re 4th Company. You’re starting brawls with the army?”

“Not us, Wing Commander! They started it!”

“Oh, and someone wants to pick a fight with 4th Company. Who did?”

Vell raised a boot to kick a surprisingly battered-looking [Corporal], and the Gnoll burst out.

“The Ants! They jumped us!”

Embria unfolded her arms.

“What?”

Bepol had two Antinium squads of ten placed among their ranks. Ostensibly to let Liscor’s [Soldiers] see them fight alongside them. Unofficially? Embria guessed it was a kind of reward for a lucky squad.

They didn’t get minced up with the rest of the poor bastards by Manus. Although Embria had heard a single Soldier somehow held off Manus and saved the Painted Antinium. That had to be a rumor, but she wasn’t heartbroken that they got away.

There was definitely a change in the Antinium. The [Corporal] looked uneasy.

“We were just talking, and one of them heaved over and punched Samul’s lights out! We nearly stabbed them, but they fought with their fists, and Commander Bepol himself stopped it.”

“Antinium punched you? Why? Did you provoke them?”

Vell was incredulous. The [Corporal] visibly hesitated.

“N-no? We were just, uh, talking…”

Embria’s eyes narrowed. Another [Soldier] confessed.

“We might have been saying something about the…casualties? Like how the Painted Antinium weren’t as good as everyone said? Then—bam!”

Wikir hesitated, looking at Embria. The Drake growled.

“So you badmouthed them, and you were surprised when one of their own decided to knock your face in? Corporal, if someone said the Gnolls on Chandrar deserved what they got, what would you do?”

The Gnoll [Corporal] protested.

“Yes, Wing Commander, I’d give them the Liscorian handshake, but they’re Ants.”

Embria hesitated.

“I know. But…don’t do it again. Just don’t. And if any of 4th Company starts a fight that gets to Commander Olesm, I’ll let him kick you all into the latrine. Besides.”

Besides…Vell had her arms folded, but Wikir finished it.

“They’re getting chewed up and spat out, no? Stow it.”

Vell blinked. She looked from Wikir to Embria. The Wing Commander slowly nodded.

“Exactly. So shut the hell up and get ready to join the latrine diggers.”

——

Odd, odd, odd. Embria didn’t like it. Not the Antinium punching out anyone who bad-mouthed them. Or them getting more dangerous.

She didn’t like…knowing Artur’s name. Or feeling embarrassed when she said something stupid. She hated to admit it, but she had a vague uncertainty in the back of her head. She resisted it…like she would have resisted Olesm giving her an Antinium squad to command.

But part of her feared that her hatred of the Antinium? The dislike of them being in the army? She feared that one day, she’d wake up, or blink, and the reason would unravel like a piece of thread.

And if she thought like that…perhaps it was already undone. But the truth would come out later. Embria did not have to wait long for results after Yolden’s forces encountered Liscor. Manus kept coming at the Antinium lines, but with noticeable hesitancy after the mystery of Crusader 51. And elsewhere?

The stalled warfront slowly began to break as a second new force entered the mix.

Vess, [Arcane Warrior]

When he reached his class consolidation, Vess was Level 20. He’d reached Level 20 during the war, and Big Yam threw him a celebration.

“Prodigy! We have a real prodigy here!”

Velden crowed, and Vess grinned as they dumped a mug of beer over his head. This was allowed; the High Command had let Big Yam celebrate.

It was rare for someone to hit Level 20 so fast. Even in war! Vess heard people commenting about it.

“Another Zel. That’s what it is. You know how he got to that level? Before the damn Ants were fighting against us and the world was upside-down…”

His smile vanished, and Velden looked around with a glare.

“Hey. Shut up. Don’t go ruining the night with that. I don’t want to hear their name.”

Antinium. They haunted Vess’ dreams. Not just the sight of them in their armor, or the voices that sometimes called out to him. Everything.

Click. The way their mandibles clicked. They way they would swing all four arms when you only had two, how they refused to die. Even with the [Mercenaries] attacking them.

Everyone ‘knew’ they were from Manus. No one said it, but everyone knew. Yet there was no confirmation, and Vess wondered why a giant army of tens of thousands didn’t help beat Liscor. Velden couldn’t guess, only that Manus didn’t want to start another Antinium War. But they needed it.

They were…

Losing.

——

An [Arcane Warrior] like Vess could channel magic through the sword he carried. He created a temporary enchantment—[Stored Shock]—and electrocuted anyone who clashed swords with him. He could throw multiple [Light Arrows] out of his wand and reinforce his shield.

Big Yam was now a veteran squad who could hit the soup and come out in more or less one piece. That meant, ironically, they were safer. They didn’t eat the horrific [Instantaneous Barrage] Skill that all of the Alliance had learned to fear.

Nor were they facing Liscor’s right wing. Some of Hectval’s forces rotated into Big Yam’s when they went to the center to help push against Liscor there. Luldem’s squad found themselves sharing tents with hollow-eyed [Soldiers] who jumped at every shadow.

“They’re in the ground. They’re in the ground.”

One of the Drakes whispered at Velden. She rocked back and forth, holding her tail like a child.

“They were in this cave. One second we thought we were safe—then we realized they’d squeezed into cracks in the wall. They waited for us, then crept out and…and the traps! There’s bear traps all over. You take one step and you lose a leg. And while you’re bleeding out—”

“Shut up. Don’t demoralize everyone with that shit!”

The [Sergeants], Velden and a traumatized Drake, were whispering in a corner. It made Vess’ scales grow cold. The other [Sergeant] from Hectval laughed, a touch hysterically.

“Look at you lot from Luldem! You don’t know what we’ve seen!”

“You think we’re having fun with the Antinium here? Guess you don’t know about the immortal sniper. Even Manus can’t get rid of it.”

The Hectval [Soldiers] looked up.

“The what?”

There was a killer haunting the Alliance. It appeared across the battleground—mostly on the left and middle, but almost always around the Antinium’s deployment. Nor did this [Archer] stick to battles, though every officer now kept their heads low, abandoning easy markers like plumes or badges to show their rank.

“[Sentries] end up dead with an arrow in their neck. Sometimes just one. Or a [Sergeant] gets shot mid-charge. Or…”

“And Manus doesn’t stop them?”

Someone laughed.

“Manus? They’re the ones who get shot at the most! I hear their commander’s hopping mad. They keep killing the sniper—or so they say. The next day? Someone else gets shot.”

“I hear they found the Antinium—a Worker—hacked it up, burned the pieces, and watched it all night. Then one of the crew guarding the pieces got an arrow straight through the back.”

Vess shuddered. This was one of the things that there was no way to fight against. The Alliance was fighting Liscor because, if they lost, so High Command assured the [Soldiers], the Antinium would slaughter their cities. They fought because the Antinium were allied with Liscor, those bastards.

However, morale was at an all-time low. The right wing had apparently near-daily mutinies. The immortal Antinium sniper was one of the legends keeping [Soldiers] up at night and scanning for a sight of a bow and a Worker.

But there were also…tangible things to fear.

Like…

The Minotaur.

——

Vess saw him appear in a battle the day after that. He charged down the slope as Liscor’s army came after him, ahead of the others.

A giant Minotaur—Vess aimed his wand, and eight [Light Arrows] bounced off the Minotaur’s hide. Arrows broke against his skin and armor. He raised an axe and roared.

“Beriad of the Free Antinium! Death before dishonor! Charge!”

Behind him, thirty Antinium streamed towards Drisshia’s [Soldiers]. This was no ordinary grouping. The Minotaur had begun going into battle with allies. Worse? They fought like he did.

He rammed forwards, head lowered, one huge arm raised. An axe as wide as Vess’ chest rose and came down towards a [Soldier] holding a shield.

The Gnoll’s will broke, and she tried to dodge—the axe fell, and no one survived that. The Minotaur pivoted, and the axe slammed into another [Soldier]. He kicked someone, shattering a leg, and that axe rose.

No defending. No hesitation or dodging. Stab me. Attack me. Challenge me! The Minotaur’s eyes were red, and he roared.

A blow for a blow.

The Antinium behind him all carried two-handed weapons. Battleaxes, greatswords, mauls…they charged in, trading a swing for a swing.

Beriad?

That was what they called themselves. Or he called them.

——

The Minotaur appeared in another battle before the lines met. Both sides were trading magic and missiles, and Vess saw the Minotaur holding the axe up as his squad waited on the front lines. Then, as they waited for the order to charge, he heard a strange sound.

Thud. Thud, thud, THUD.

A rhythmic boom. A heavy echo that ran through the ground. Vess looked up—and saw the Minotaur and Antinium, hundreds of them, stomping in unison.

A rhythm. The Minotaur was leading them. The Antinium struck the ground with their feet as one. They kept their weapons up, shields raised—yet this was a way to make sound, even while keeping their guard up.

The Alliance jeered and shouted curses, screaming at the Antinium, but the organized sound made their voices falter. The Minotaur was staring at them. And the Antinium…

Challenge. Me.

The Minotaur walked in front of the stomping line of Antinium. They looked…angry. Fierce. There was something more in their insectile stare that made Vess shudder.

It hadn’t been there at the start of the war. Before, they had been…angry? Now—now. Vess thought they wanted to kill him.

It was his doing. The Minotaur turned his back to the Alliance’s lines. He walked forward, ignoring an arrow that cracked on the back of his head. The bits of wood splintered off the Minotaur’s horns, and he brushed a piece away from one ear.

The scars. He had as many scars on his back as his front. His fur rippled as his muscled arm rose. The axe rose into the sky, and the light was harsh.

Hot. The Minotaur’s fur stood out with sweat. His voice was a bellow, as if you had given a bull words. It shook as he addressed the Antinium.

Not in the throes of madness, though. There was something grave about the way he addressed them, as they stomped their feet, helmets raised, peeking out at him from behind their shields.

No mindless berserker. No raging bull-man. He spoke to them like a warrior.

“Antinium of the Free Hive! When a warrior of the House of Minos is judged worthy, in character, in might of arms, they are given leave to depart our shores. It is not just strength or the ability to kill that marks a true warrior.”

He walked down their lines. A bolt of lightning flashed across the ground, and every piece of him lit up. The [Minotaur] staggered. Turned his head.

Snorted. And went on.

“Those are the Beriad. It means, to our people, in our tongue—away. Away from home. They will fight and die from our shores. But they are of our home, and they will never forget.”

He aimed his axe at the Antinium as their stomping slowed.

“You are Beriad! You have left your Hive! If you die on these soils, or wherever you fall—you are true warriors. You are the Beriad of the Free Antinium. Give them no reprieve. Fear no end. You will not find your equals ahead of you. They stand at your backs. Now—”

He turned and aimed his axe ahead.

“For the honor of Hammerad and Liscor! Charge!”

The Minotaur’s feet churned the ground as he took off. Again, he lit up as a bolt of lightning struck him. A howling [Battle Mage] threw fire, engulfing the Minotaur, and the [Archers] focused on him as if he were magnetic. Bring him down! Bring him—

A howling Minotaur, mouth opened like a crimson red furnace, pounded towards the Alliance’s front. Behind him came the Antinium. Vess’ claw shook on his wand.

He wouldn’t die. He saw the first [Soldiers] begin to break and run. Too late. Too late.

The axe came down like the slowest bolt of lightning in the world and shook the earth.

——

When they took the Antinium prisoner, Big Yam was close to breaking themselves.

The Painted Antinium had entered the war. Painted Antinium. Who spoke. Who used Skills! Who—

Died.

Manus had gone through their ranks like a hot poker through a block of butter. Vess thought he’d seen that [Spearmaster] fight before, but it was nothing compared to the whirlwind the Gnoll turned into.

And the spells! Something was in the skies! [Mages]? Maybe…he saw Tier 4 spells hitting the ground. Tier 5 spells tearing the Antinium apart.

“Thank the Ancestors.”

Velden whispered. Big Yam looked up and saw Liscor fall back in disarray. Thank the Ancestors indeed. When Vess saw that, he thought they could win.

And he also wondered why Manus didn’t fight harder. Why those ‘[Mercenaries]’ didn’t fight every battle.

Vess didn’t know. His squad picked through the battlefield, taking some Liscor [Soldiers] captive.

No Antinium. No one even bothered; they never surrendered. You had to kill them dead. Instead, Big Yam occupied themselves with a grisly task they had fought for:

Looting the dead for weapons and gear.

Not just for themselves. Vess had pocketed a dagger with a jewel on it and tried to fence it with the [Quartermaster]. He’d gotten fifteen lashes for that, so Velden had helped him send it home with some ‘gifts’ to his family. It was good coin.

And an enchanted blade or weapon could save you. So even the Antinium were fair game, though you’d only get a steel weapon—that was still better than most could afford outside the army.

Vess had heard these Painted Antinium had enchanted gear, so he was rolling over bodies and staring at green blood. He heard someone from his squad exclaim.

“Hey. Hey, that Antinium who was shouting is over there. The one with robes on its armor. Look.”

Vess looked up and saw the Antinium who the [Spearmaster] had personally killed lying on the ground. Another Antinium was right next to it. Both had died in an odd posture.

One was propped against the other, mandibles still open, a hole through its chest—multiple holes, Vess realized. Green blood had stained the white robes and run down the steel armor.

The second Antinium, a burly Soldier with only two arms, had died…strangely. It knelt, two arms cradling the Worker, supporting it. Green blood painted its armor, and it had a mace lying next to it.

Dented, worthless. Vess walked forwards, staring at the glowing club in the Worker’s hand. He wondered how the Soldier had died. Then, as he reached out for the club, he saw something.

Did that mandible just move? Vess froze and stared at the Soldier. He’d definitely seen it…twitch. Then he saw, ever-so-slightly, the shoulders rise and fall.

It was breathing. It was—

“Ancestors! It’s alive!”

The [Arcane Warrior] shouted in horror. He leapt backwards, and Big Yam stumbled away, bringing their weapons up. Vess aimed his wand at the Soldier’s head and realized—it hadn’t moved.

It had raised the dented helmet slowly. The two arms on its left side were still holding the Worker, but the Soldier turned to stare at him. It didn’t attack.

“Blast it, Vess! Shoot it—”

One of the [Archers] was circling for an angle, and Vess lifted his wand. He hesitated. Was the Soldier mortally wounded? It looked like it had taken some damage, but it wasn’t attacking. It was…

“Hold on! Hold on!”

Velden roared. He yanked the bow down, and Big Yam turned to him. The [Sergeant] looked at the Antinium Soldier.

“It’s…take it prisoner.”

Big Yam stared at him incredulously. Yet the Drake looked at Vess and then turned.

“Someone get rope! Alert High Command! Tell them—tell them we’ve got an Antinium prisoner! The first one! Ever!”

Big Yam hesitated, but Velden was their [Sergeant]. Vess hissed at him.

“Are you mad, Velden? It’ll attack!”

He thought Velden had lost it, but then the Drake [Veteran] turned and whispered back.

“It could be our ticket out of the next battle if we’re guarding it!”

Vess saw the desperate gleam in Velden’s eyes. He realized this wasn’t about intel or novelty, just Velden trying to keep them alive another battle. Even so…

The Soldier was looking at him. Vess aimed his wand straight between its eyes. At his level and this range, he could blow a hole through its head. Velden watched Vess.

He wouldn’t stop the [Arcane Warrior]. Nor would Big Yam, none of whom wanted to touch the thing. They could run it through. Vess hesitated and saw the Soldier waiting. Waiting…

Vess lowered the wand and backed up. Ropes came, and Big Yam looped them around the Soldier, binding and rebinding it—then yanked it off its feet. The instant the Soldier was down, they resecured it, and began kicking it until Velden told them to leave it alive.

Vess didn’t join in. Nor had he killed the Soldier. Not because he bought into Velden’s plan to get them out of the fighting.

Simply because he didn’t kill unarmed soldiers. And he might have been persuaded there was no such thing with Antinium…but a realization had shocked Vess more than anything else.

The Soldier had been holding the Worker’s body. As if he were mourning him.

That was how Crusader 53 entered into Big Yam’s custody. And the end of the war—at least, for Vess—arrived.

Lulv, [Spearmaster]

A question ran through the Gnoll’s mind again and again.

Are we making a terrible mistake?

Not just in the Security Council’s supposition about the nature of the Antinium. Lulv had already doubted that.

He was a loyal son of Manus. Born and raised in the walls. He’d lived through the Antinium Wars, and he remembered when Nagas and the North were the enemies to fear. Lulv knew almost all of Manus’ dirty operations and dark secrets.

And their hope. Rafaema wasn’t just a Dragon for Luciva and Drakes. Lulv wanted her to become the Dragonspeaker of Manus. The leader who would treat Gnolls and Drakes fairly. For—while Manus made no distinction between the two as [Soldiers]—it was a Drake city.

Rafaema…he and Makhir believed she would change Izril for the better. However, the future grew more uncertain with each passing year.

What was that Antinium’s class?

No one knew. Some had speculated they had no class, but Lulv had seen that shining sword rise overhead, not magic, nor any ability the Antinium could feasibly create.

A hidden class. Perhaps it was some anti-appraisal gear. That was what Sokkel thought.

On an entire army? No. So the question that echoed in Lulv’s mind was—among other things—

Who was Squad 5?

Who was—who had been—Crusader 51?

——

It was that unease that followed him. Oddities in battle.

“The sniper’s back. We killed a Worker. We chopped it up, burned the body. Either it’s an entire unit or…there’s something about the arrows.”

Lulv met with his officers and inspected another one. Practically shrapnel.

“It went through the armor, [Spearmaster]. Back plate. [Hardening] enchantment—Grade II. Didn’t go through the front; didn’t have to. The shrapnel kept going and shredded the insides. The force behind it…it’s the same [Archer].”

“Then it’s something we’re not seeing. Body doubles. A Skill, a class…get a research team on it and put the [Mages] on [Detect Life] spells.”

“All the time, sir? They’ll reveal their position. And Strategist Olesm has advanced his class. [Delegate Skill]. That damn Drake scout can use his [Instantaneous Barrage] Skill. Our Wyverns are under threat.”

Sokkel protested. Lulv growled.

“Do it. You have authorization to take her out.”

“Yes, sir.”

A balancing act. Lulv was an aggressive [Spearmaster]. He had earned his class not by killing other [Spearmasters]—though he had done that—but originally by receiving the level just by virtue of his sheer ability in battle.

He practiced a Manus-style spear school that favored high mobility, rapid attacks, and thrusting stabs. However, a [Spearmaster] could adapt. Had to adapt.

If we crush Liscor, we weaken our frontline, and at this point, the city must stand. Manus had originally written it off as a casualty of the Third Antinium War given the Free Antinium’s Hive.

Now? Liscor was a liability and an asset. It provided unparalleled viewpoints into the Antinium—yet they were clearly benefiting from the relationship. At the same time, Tyrion Veltras’ near-conquest of the city proved it needed to be in Drake control.

And…well, Lulv’s vote went to making Liscor an asset rather than weakening it, because it had Gnolls on the Council. It could be a model.

Hectval was part of a trio of cities that didn’t add anything to the region. They forced Gnoll tribes out of their radius of influence, made war on Drake cities they could defeat. If Lulv had a side, it was Liscor.

The Antinium were the complication. So Lulv had stayed away from ordering Olesm sniped. If they could even manage it; he had magical protections. The world needed a [Strategist] of his level.

He was just…too good at his job. And at the same time, Liscor’s army was feeding Manus information as well.

“I have the full report. It took some doing to wrangle out of the Cyclops’ grip, but someone must have pushed Pallass hard. Sir.”

“Read it to me.”

Lulv snapped. Sokkel summarized the report for the [Spearmaster].

“Crusader 51. Squad 5, Battalion 1. A deserter who fled for about three weeks. The first Antinium deserter ever registered, apparently. Commander Olesm did not pursue him…let’s see. One of the original volunteers. Apparently gifted with the sword enough to have Calruz of Hammerad teach him personally. Uh…uh…mentions of the Antinium having that unique class. Nothing more.”

“Crusader 51. Where did the intel come from?”

“A ‘Division Leader’ Bepol. Pallass’ officer. Enlisted and commanding their center wing. He’s not happy about you, [Spearmaster]. It looks like he’s requested multiple times for Pallass to pull Manus out.”

Multiple agents of Walled Cities were in Liscor’s army, Lulv had no doubt. Manus got whatever the other Walled Cities deigned to share; since this involved the Antinium, even the Cyclops, Chaldion, was more open. Sokkel grinned as he paged through the document.

“I think there’s a note appended to us. Bastard wrote, ‘I hope Manus enjoyed that last battle. I have no idea how Crusader 51 did that, but say hello to the next one.’”

That was so striking for…anyone to say from a Walled City. Lulv still ground his teeth together.

“Crusader 51. If you had to rate those Skills and that class consolidation, what would you put it as, Sokkel?”

The Drake hesitated.

“It was highly subjective, and we didn’t know the entire level or class—”

“Give me a straight answer. Don’t dance. Answer.”

“…[Paladin]. Or if we’re putting it into classes we field? Eh…[Arcane Spear]. Rare, high-value class. Incredible abilities defensively.”

Lulv nodded. He saw the other officers look uneasy. The Antinium had a high-value class beyond [Soldier]? That was what you didn’t want to see in the enemy. And the most striking thing of all?

The Antinium thought so, too.

Free Queen, [Ant Queen]

Dekass’ commendation of Crusader 51 struck Liscor one way. His private summary of Crusader 51’s abilities and ability to hold off Manus’ finest hit the Queens of the Antinium like an explosion.

“Squad 5. Crusader 51. Is there anything interesting about this Antinium that you knew of, Pawn? Garry?”

Both Workers summoned to stand before the Free Queen shook their heads. Garry very nervously, for the Free Queen was not alone. Pawn answered for both of them.

“No, my Queen. He was a [Crusader]. He was…very brave. I believe he had some talent with the sword.”

“To what extent would ‘talent’ qualify? Inferior to the Custodium. Quantify that ability; does it have any bearing on this [Crusader] class?”

An authoritative voice. The Free Queen clicked her mandibles irritably; the Grand Queen was listening in. However, the Grand Queen was being permitted to listen in, and that was the Free Queen’s [Crusader] who had proved his value.

Her [Crusader]. Her Antinium were dying. It bothered the Free Queen more and more. She missed Bird, too. She stuffed her face with a triple-stuffed pizza as Pawn tried to explain, but another Queen cut him off.

“It would appear that Klbkchhezeim’s statements about the Free Antinium’s potential were not exaggerated at all. Although I had supreme confidence in his words, the proof is undeniable. Even if it is one among five thousand—that is a far more acceptable gain than even Prognugator-based creation.”

The Silent Queen was fascinated by everything and demanded constant updates. The Free Queen liked her, as a fellow student of Bessachidia, the last great Shaper Queen she had known. Even if the Silent Queen thought she was superior.

“Purely random. One instance is not a statistic but an outlier.”

“Except that a [Banner Leader] has been created. And the existence of the Painted Antinium. The loss of this Crusader 51 is unfortunate.”

The Armored Queen’s dolorous tones sounded next, and the huffing Grand Queen fell silent. What she didn’t say, what they were all realizing, was that the Free Antinium were passing even the Free Queen’s wildest boasts.

“The benefit is undeniable. I still weigh it as too costly considering Xrn’s injuries. Is she well, Free Queen?”

The Grand Queen managed at last, and the Free Queen clicked her mandibles with the other Queens. She could not deny that, but she resented the fact that the Grand Queen made it a point of comparison at all.

“She is…stable, Grand Queen. I believe she will speak to you privately.”

Stable. The Grand Queen instantly changed the subject, but the other two Queens seemed less focused on her, and more on Pawn, the report.

Crusader 51, Squad 5. The Free Queen had not known his name, but it was being read through all of Liscor. She wondered…

“Pawn. What would be appropriate for the commendation of this [Crusader]? I do not know how a military commendation is to be received.”

She muted the Grand Queen as she spoke to Pawn. The Antinium looked up.

“He is dead, my Queen. I would love to honor him, but I have nothing but his name to write on the Memory Wall. Perhaps though…”

He hesitated, and looked at Garry.

“Dekass did write, um, a request. Could Crusader 51 possibly be…returned? Via the Rite of Anastases?”

The Grand Queen had heard that. She stopped speaking, and the Free Queen’s feelers moved slightly. All four Queens moved their antennae, and the Silent Queen answered.

“Individual Pawn of the Antinium. Given the nature of your…rank, you are privy to Antinium secrets. This is one which you will not divulge. However, in the interest of preserving the Free Antinium’s war strength, is it acceptable to tell him, Grand Queen…?”

“Granted.”

She answered shortly. The Silent Queen rubbed her top-most feelers together.

“The Rite of Anastases is a highly intensive process a Queen may undertake. It is costly in far more resources than are acceptable for all but Prognugators or fellow Queens…”

“Not that we could repair their bodies.”

“No. But it was considered—”

“Silence.”

That was straying too close to where the Twisted Queen’s radical thinking had gone to. The risks…but having a mobile, small body? The Free Queen saw Pawn and Garry look from Queen to Queen.

The Silent Queen hurried on.

“…It requires more than simply one or more Queen’s efforts, however. The Drakes are not aware that to preserve a life, the Antinium who perishes must be within the authority of a Queen. Within the range of a Unitasis Network or…close to a Prognugator trained in linking with a Queen.”

Pawn digested that. His antennae drooped.

“Oh. Then Crusader 51 and the others were lost. I wondered if…”

He glanced at the Free Queen.

“Could Dekass and Tersk not have done it? They were on the front—”

“Their helmets block their abilities. It is a choice made to safeguard each Armored Antinium. I may adjust their helmets. Hither to this moment…I had not considered the need.”

The Armored Queen murmured. The Free Queen looked down at Pawn and Garry. So now they knew. The Rite of Anastases was not easy to perform…nor could it be done remotely, not without a link.

If Bird died far from the Hive, he would never come back. But she had told him that. And he went.

As for Crusader 51? He was dead. The Free Queen spoke briefly.

“I will ensure Squad 5 is accorded more safety if possible. It may be there is something unique about them.”

That had no basis in anything other than the correlation. But to Antinium minds—it made sense. If there was even the remotest possibility of any of Squad 5 having a fraction of Crusader 51’s abilities…the Armored Queen spoke.

“Their numbers have been thinned. My Listeners report oddities in the war front as well. Apparently, a new Drake city has entered the battle. And…what is the status of Squad 5, Free Queen?”

The Silent Queen was watching her. The Free Queen responded, a touch irritated.

“I have remanded their leadership to Prognugator Dekass, Armored Queen. And Commander Olesm. You would do better to inquire directly.”

“Just so. But you will send more reinforcements to the Antinium division?”

The Free Queen hesitated. She rubbed her mandibles together, like gritting one’s teeth.

“It…may be difficult. The losses are such that my Hive is struggling to replenish their numbers. However, I will make all arrangements necessary.”

The Grand Queen spoke, a touch smugly.

“I will send more resources to prepare further repopulation and expansion of your Hive, Free Queen. It seems your pact with Liscor and advancement into your Free Antinium’s leveling capabilities has stymied your Hive’s capabilities in other ways.”

The Free Queen twitched. She held very still as Pawn and Garry opened their mandibles wide, and one of Garry’s helpers scuttled further back into the kitchen. Deferred Sustenance, the Free Queen’s pet Rock Crab, snapped its pincers angrily from its hutch.

Slowly, deliberately, the Free Queen looked at the Grand Queen and inclined her head in a Drake fashion.

“You are eminently correct, my Queen. Garry, I would like to eat a triple-stack vanilla cake. With strawberry frosting. Prepare it for me. And a little cake for Deferred Sustenance.”

“Yes, my Queen.”

The Queens watched as the Free Queen calmly, and with all the poise of a [Lady] tripping her rival on the way down the stairs at the yearly ball, picked up the largest barrel of boba tea ever made and took a long sip from the straw.

Eugh. Garry was a good [Chef], but he really was sort of a baking-specialist. The fruit boba did indeed grow a bit manky if you let it sit. It really needed something firmer.

Gelatin. She wondered if the Antinium’s own gel-based creations would go well in it. Probably not. Food was such a non-Antinium thing.

Vess, [Arcane Warrior]

The Antinium prisoner was quickly a source of attention in the Alliance. Half the [Soldiers] wanted to kill it instantly, which meant Velden’s crazy plan worked.

Big Yam were put on guard-duty, which meant they had to feed the Soldier, keep it safe, and were pulled off the front. In some ways, that was more stressful than fighting.

“Is it going to eat?”

The Antinium had a cracked mandible, and it looked beat up. Big Yam had not been gentle with it, and it was covered in chains and rope. Which meant it had to be fed.

The longest spoon in the world contained a wobbling bit of jellied pasta and sauce. Not pasta and sauce.

Gelatin pasta and sauce. It wobbled like the screaming soul and faith in cuisine of many [Chefs] who saw it.

They just didn’t appreciate good gelatin. Luldem’s squad watched as the Soldier looked at it, then, quite nimbly, took a portion in its mandibles, flipped its head up, and let it slide into it’s real ‘mouth’, which gobbled it down.

“I’m going to be sick.”

One of the squad muttered, but Vess couldn’t look away. Antinium actually had two mouths! Their mandibles and that opening in their face. Horrific…but it ate the gelatin pasta with every sign of enjoyment.

“Stupid thing. We should feed it dirt.”

“And let it keel over? Shut the hell up, Coloz. Are you fighting them or sitting on your tail?”

Velden watched, a hand on his halberd, as Vess gingerly fed the Soldier more.

“What’re we going to do with it?”

“Dunno. Maybe trade it for one of our prisoners? Interrogate it, probably. I hear the mercenaries are interested. But they’re just sending one of their officers. High Command says it’s looking for someone to interrogate it, too.”

Vess looked up. That wasn’t encouraging. Then again, this was no officer so it made sense. If they’d gotten the Antinium who spoke, maybe.

He kept watching it. Once they’d pulled it away from the Worker, the Soldier had begun to fight. A bit. It had struggled, trying to break free, and bit at a few boots when the kicking started.

Now? It just sat there. It looked like it was…waiting.

To die? Vess knew they were monsters, mindless things that swarmed over the enemy. The Black Tide, one of Rhir’s dooms.

It just didn’t gel with the idea of the Soldier holding his comrade. It was something Vess had seen the Alliance’s [Soldiers] do. Holding someone bleeding out, calling for a potion, trying to stem the bleeding that poison or magic refused to let potions work on.

When he’d mentioned it to Velden, the [Sergeant] had just cuffed him.

“Don’t go imagining things, Vess. It probably just lost its direction or something. I hear they do that.”

Why…then why did they have voices? Why did he think they were glaring at him across the battlefield? Why had that Worker cursed them to…hell? Rhir’s hell?

Vess didn’t know, but he realized this Antinium was important soon enough.

——

“What is your unit? Unit. U-n-i-t? This thing’s stupid, [Sergeant].”

The Soldier stared blankly at one of Big Yam, trying to interrogate it ahead of the others. Velden snorted.

“And you’re some [Interrogator]? Soldiers don’t have units, you lizard-brained idiot.”

“Oh…”

Big Yam was sitting around, relieved not to be in the soup. Apparently…it was ugly. The Antinium had taken a hell of a beating, that strange Antinium that had saved the last of the Painted Antinium or not.

However, another group had just entered the war, and everyone was talking about it.

“Yoldenites. Those idiots with helmets for brains are on Liscor’s side!”

Some of the Luldem veterans were swearing a blue streak. The Drisshians—the closest city to Yolden—were livid.

“Why is Yolden with Liscor?”

Vess had met a few of them, when they weren’t at war. Velden shrugged.

“Who knows? They’ve always been weird. They don’t have a proper city, they do that stupid call—‘Yaydee Ray’ or whatever. And they’ll help themselves to anything while walking about in their stupid helmets. Inbred idiots.”

Vess had the distinct impression the Soldier was listening to them. So they didn’t have to feed it, they’d instead chained the Soldier’s legs, torso, and neck. It could move its two arms on its left side and move about. Well, about three feet given how many different chains were on it.

It didn’t blink, and the antennae waved, but not much else moved. The Soldier didn’t have pupils, but Vess still thought it was looking at him. He shuddered.

“What’re they doing, the Yoldenites?”

——

“Yayde Re~! Hey Heckies! Have a taste of this!”

The odd warning call was something Yoldenites said to each other from afar. It was like saying ‘hello’, or simply, ‘I’m here’.

Three hundred Yoldenites on ponies all shouted it down at the Alliance—then began whirling slings and tossing stones down at the Drakes and Gnolls. The instant the Alliance pivoted to attack them, the Yoldenites were retreating, showering their pursuers with stones.

They were obnoxious enemies and had adapted their tactics to battle Drisshia’s heavy infantry. Worse—the Yoldenites put the same helmets on their ponies and turned it into full-body armor—from the top. They would cheerfully engage in any ranged warfare with their enemies, and as the saying went—you couldn’t kill a Yoldenite from above.

Some people uncharitably called them ‘mountain Lizards’ after the cheerfully obnoxious Lizardfolk of Baleros. The difference between Yolden and Lizardfolk was…Yoldenites were still Drakes.

They were unused to the intensity of the battle between Hectval and Liscor. The first time they saw a Hectval line of crossbows open up on them, the Yoldenites experienced fairly significant casualties. They also tried to take a group of Luldem [Soldiers] prisoner and ended up in a close-quarters fight as the enraged [Soldiers] refused to give up until half their number were down.

In response, the Yoldenites waited until the Alliance was marching down a pass and then collapsed an entire shelf onto them, burying over a hundred and fifty [Soldiers] alive.

——

Over two thousand entered Liscor’s war, mostly as skirmishers harassing the Alliance or appearing to flank their foes from hilltops, where their slings did the most damage. They were hardly the hammer, but they were distracting and, most of all, demoralizing. Apparently, they were threatening one of Drisshia’s mines, and their city wanted to pull back and fight Yolden, which prompted accusations that Drisshia was abandoning the real battle where the most deaths were occuring.

Vess and Velden were discussing the issue when the Soldier’s rock pinged off one of Big Yam’s helmets. It missed the Drake’s eye, and the [Soldier] recoiled, shielding his face.

“You damn—”

Instantly, the squad began hurling everything in sight back at it. Velden had to yank people back, and the Soldier, covered in dirt and bleeding from multiple scratches, was re-chained at once.

“It tried to hit Dosel in the eye! You saw that! We have to kill it.”

“Just wait. The longer it takes to find someone to interrogate it, the more we sit around. Chain it back up.”

Velden panted, but Vess felt his scales crawl. There was something…cheerfully malicious about the Soldier. It seemed like it was hungry now, because it snapped its mandibles and turned its head to stare at the food tin.

“I’m going to—”

Dosel got up, and Velden grabbed his shoulder. Vess rose and picked up the tin and the spoon. He approached the Soldier.

“You. What’s your name?”

The Soldier stiffened. Vess offered it another spoon of gelatin pasta.

“You get food if you tell us something. What’s your name? Otherwise you can eat dirt.”

Did they eat dirt? Vess watched as the Soldier’s antennae waved wildly. Then he saw it try to wiggle.

“Vess—careful—”

The [Arcane Warrior] reached for his wand, but to his surprise, he saw the Soldier’s bound hands move.

It had stumpy ‘fingers’ more like stubs. They turned into terrifying, sharp fists, and could probably tear through dirt like miniature shovels. However, the Soldier slowly moved his arms and opened one hand completely—and raised three fingers on the other.

Five. And three.

Only Vess saw it. He frowned.

“…Thirty-five?”

The Soldier’s antennae waved frantically and he shook his head. Vess tried again.

“Eight? Three and five. No? The other way around? Fifty-three?”

The Soldier went still. Then he nodded.

Fifty-three. Big Yam looked at each other, and Velden exclaimed.

“What kind of a name is that? Do they just give Antinium numbers?”

“I thought they didn’t have names.”

53 stared at Vess and opened and closed its mandibles. Vess offered it a spoon, and Dosel slapped it away. The gelatin pasta went into the dirt.

“Don’t give it anything.”

“Aw, come on. I was interrogating—”

“Wait for the interrogators. Don’t feed it. We’re chopping its head off anyways. You hear that? Come on. I can’t stand to look at it.”

Vess backed away, and he saw the Soldier staring at the tin of food. However, the squad was riled up, so Vess closed it and walked back. He saw 53 wiggle…then fall over. Happily, the Antinium began to eat the bit of food off the ground.

“Look at it. It doesn’t even think. I bet it doesn’t even know it’s going to die.”

Vess doubted that. He thought the Soldier knew exactly that it was going to die. That was why it had thrown the rock. Still, that one morsel of information didn’t mean much. 53? It was just a number.

What he didn’t expect was what that number did. Big Yam had custody of 53 for just over three weeks of blessed inaction while High Command sourced an ‘expert’. However, everything changed after one big battle. And 53’s name took on another, unexpected meaning.

——

“Officer approaching!”

Big Yam snapped to attention as a Drake strode into their camp. He actually beat one of the grim-faced Drakes from Hectval.

“Consultant Sokkel. We already have someone in place to deal with this…captive Antinium. I thought you said that it wasn’t of interest to you?”

One of Luldem’s officers was walking with the [Strategist] that apparently gave orders even to High Command. Vess saw the Drake snap back.

“That was the case this morning. Now I want to speak with it. Opinions change. Captain Yulre will want to speak with this Antinium too, once he returns from his engagement.”

Big Yam listened as Sokkel approached the Antinium. He peered at it, frowned around, and then cursed.

“…Or not. I thought you said you identified this thing as 53? Fifty-three…who was that?”

“Sir! Corporal Vess, Big Yam squad! Luldem command, sir!”

Velden barked, and Vess stepped forwards nervously. The [Strategist] eyed him, and one of the [Majors] huffed.

“We have an [Interrogator] ready to…glean any facts about the enemy front, [Strategist] Sokkel. Believe me, we’ll be thorough.”

He meant torture. Vess looked uncertainly at Velden, and Sokkel’s brows rose. He looked at the [Major], at the Soldier, and rolled his eyes.

“An interrogator. Ancestors save me. You, Corporal. How did you learn this Antinium’s designation?”

The Soldier was eying Sokkel. It had heard about the [Interrogator], but it still hadn’t moved. Vess gulped.

“I, uh, offered to feed it if it told me its name, sir.”

“You asked its name.”

Sokkel’s voice was flat. He looked at Vess like the younger Drake was an idiot. The [Major] glared, mostly because the [Strategist] was ignoring him.

The mercenaries and Sokkel were not well-loved in the Alliance, for all they won battles. They were elitist, kept to themselves, and, Vess was sure, looked down on the Alliance. So Vess bristled.

“I was just hunting for information, sir. I got its name. It was holding up fingers. It even nods and shakes its head.”

“Fingers…interesting. And it can nod or shake its head?”

Sokkel rubbed at his chin. He still regarded Big Yam as if they were a load of idiots.

“You see? There’s valuable intelligence to be had. Our [Interrogators]…”

Sokkel interrupted the [Major] briskly.

“Call them off. Captain Yulre will arrive as soon as he can, and we’ll take the prisoner.”

“You can’t do that! It is the Alliance’s prisoner. We will share any intelligence—”

“How? By torturing the Antinium with hot pokers? Giving it [Detect Truth] spells? Refusing to feed it? Asking it its name? You’ve never dealt with Antinium as prisoners, have you?”

The [Strategist] was so contemptuous that all the others looked at him. He shook his head slowly.

“The Walled Cities captured countless Antinium during both Antinium Wars. They refused to talk under extreme duress. This one…”

He glanced at 53, and the Soldier clicked at him. Sokkel raised his brows.

“This might be different. That’s on us for not considering it.”

“Ah, so you admit you were wrong. Gratifying to hear for once! Our vaunted [Strategist] can make a mistake.”

The [Major] snapped back, clearly at the end of whatever issue he had with Sokkel himself. Sokkel’s flat glare made him back up.

“Yes, well. Courageous as your squad was for capturing the Antinium Soldier, [Major]…I very much doubt any other unit from a city would try that. Much less try to interrogate an Antinium Soldier. They can’t talk. They’re physically incapable of it.”

Vess’ mouth opened. The [Major] hesitated.

“…Oh.”

The look Sokkel gave him as he strode off to head off the [Interrogator] made Vess convinced that the [Strategist] had better not walk around Luldem’s camps at night, especially Big Yam, or he’d find out just how much they appreciated his attitude.

However, all this meant that 53 was now even more valuable, and the angry [Major] told Velden to guard him and wait…for the Gnoll [Spearmaster].

Apparently, he was on another battlefield, so it would be tomorrow when he arrived. Big Yam grumbled, but secretly, everyone probably hoped they’d have to guard the Soldier all the time. It beat fighting for sure.

“I’ll feed it.”

Vess announced after they had enjoyed their supper.

“It won’t die if it misses a meal…oh, fine.”

Grumpily, some of the squad watched as he approached. This time, Vess just pushed the tin over and saw the Soldier roll over and begin awkwardly eating out of the tin.

“What’s important about 53? Why did that [Strategist] kick up a fuss? You can’t answer, huh? Why are the Antinium fighting in Liscor’s war? Why are they attacking us?”

Vess squatted by the Soldier, and 53 looked up at him. His antennae waved vaguely, then he went back to picking out bits of sausage.

“You started this war! Why are you—”

Vess wanted to kick the Soldier and knew it would be like kicking a rock. The [Arcane Warrior] balled his claws into fists. He saw the Soldier look up from the tin and click at him.

Just once. The Soldier did it again as Vess jumped.

“Think it’s swearing at you? Go ahead and kick it; we won’t tell.”

Vess ignored that. He glared at 53.

“You bastards did this. If not for you, we’d all be at home.”

Click, click. The Soldier did it twice, snapping its mandibles together. And then he shook his head, deliberately, side to side. Vess…hesitated.

“What?”

53 just stared up at him. But the double-click sounded…deliberate. And he’d just…Vess hesitated, glanced over his shoulder. No one was listening.

“This is Liscor’s fault. You attacked first.”

53 shook his head back and forth repeatedly. Vess kept blinking at him.

“Is that…no? Did Hectval start it?”

Click. And he nodded his head once.

The Drake’s eyes widened. He looked towards Velden—then hesitated. The [Sergeant] and Big Yam weren’t very willing to investigate the Antinium. So he lowered his voice and went on.

“Wait. Liscor started it…maybe Hectval argued, but Liscor marched their army into Hectval’s lands first. Right?”

A shake of the head, impatient. The mandibles clicked twice. Was that code for ‘no’?

“Hectval started it.”

Click. Nod.

“Are you actually saying yes? Does one click mean yes?”

Click. Nod again.

“Uh…uh…your name is 53?”

Click.

“The sky is green.”

The Soldier turned his head up, stared at the orange glow among the High Passes and setting sun, and clicked twice. He seemed to enjoy that, more than shaking or nodding his head. Perhaps it was easier, trussed up as he was.

He also had a different kind of neck, so perhaps nodding or shaking his head was harder. Either way, Vess began…well, arguing with it. Interrogating it. Playing a game.

“Hectval did something?”

Click.

“But I heard…is that why the Antinium fought? Or is it because of something else?”

A long stare. Which question am I answering, stupid?

“Is what Hectval did the reason the Antinium fought?”

Click.

“What’d they do?”

Stare. 53 buried his face in his tin of food. Vess grew angry.

“What am I saying? You’re not people. You probably just fought because your Queen made you. You don’t know—”

Click-click. The muffled sound within the tin made Vess stop. Still munching on the gelatin, Crusader 53 looked up.

“No way.”

Vess breathed, and someone else murmured.

“Indeed. This is the most valuable find so far. And here I thought this wretched war wouldn’t have me send anything back to the Emir. A dead [Innkeeper], children guarded…but this is fascinating.”

Vess jumped, whirled, and saw a Drake standing there, with a bevy of Stitch-folk with collars around their necks and cloth armor staring at 53. The Antinium Soldier went still, gazed at Cubol the [Slaver], and then went back to eating. Big Yam got to their feet.

——

“I would like to buy that Soldier. I will pay you now for it.”

His name was Cubol. He was from Roshal. He sold [Slaves].

Vess had never met a [Slaver]. He’d heard some people owned [Slaves], but it was a super-wealthy thing. He wasn’t really comfortable with the idea.

However, he’d seen Cubol in camp and heard they were supposed to take prisoners for that—until High Command changed their minds.

It had caused a huge fuss, actually. A lot of [Soldiers] had been for it—and some vocally against. Cubol had left—or so Vess had thought.

This was his first time meeting the Drake, and Cubol was rich. He had a ring on every claw-finger, silk garments, and an odd tattoo of scales on his right claw. When he smiled, it seldom reached his eyes.

When the smile did touch his eyes, it was because they were filled with true, avid interest. Like someone staring at a valuable object.

That was the smile he had for 53. However, he wanted the Soldier now.

“I understand a commanding officer is going to look at him tomorrow, sir. You’ll have to go to him.”

“Ah, the ‘Mercenary Captain’, Yulre.”

Cubol’s smile turned into a frown, and one of the bodyguards, who was a [Slave], spat.

“I don’t believe he will be amenable…no indeed. I would prefer to take 53 now, [Sergeant] Velden. I will pay you handsomely.”

The [Veteran Sergeant] hesitated. He looked around, but none of Luldem’s officers were nearby.

“You’d have to speak to our [Major], Slaver…”

“No, no. Sergeant, I don’t believe you and your squad heard me. I would like to purchase the prisoner you have…now. And when the Gnoll comes, he will not find me. Or the Antinium. And I am prepared to compensate you all for this issue.”

That was when the bag of gold coins came out, and all of Big Yam caught on to what was happening. A handful of gold coins spilled into Cubol’s claw.

Fat gold coins. With Roshal’s insignia on them, the scales—but they weren’t balanced. They were weighted on one end, and there was a bag and…hand…on either scale.

But the gold was real. Vess knew that some currencies had different standards. These looked like they were a bit bigger than your average gold coin.

Velden gulped.

“I…think you are trying to bribe a [Soldier] of the Luldem-Drisshia-Hectval Alliance, sir.”

“I very much think I am. Before you do anything drastic, [Sergeant], let me do something.”

Eight gold coins, more pay than Vess would earn in the entire war, even as a [Corporal]—Vess and Velden and half the squad combined even at veteran pay, even for all of the fighting—fell into Velden’s claw. The Drake nearly tried to offer it back, but Cubol closed his claw around it.

“That isn’t a bribe, Sergeant. That is a gift. A gift such as Roshal tends to give out freely. That is a gift. Now—let us talk what I would pay for. And pay very dearly for, at that.”

He could retire on that. He could retire or give his family…he could quit this war tomorrow.

Vess’ mouth was open. Cubol looked around, and Big Yam all focused on him like a beam of light.

“Enough for everyone here, I might add. Or should I regretfully turn myself in to your [Major] for discussions?”

“I…”

“Velden.”

Vess whispered, but the [Sergeant] was hypnotized by the gold coins in his claw. He was not a bad [Sergeant]. He took care of Vess, taught him…

But that gold was like a magic of its own. The [Sergeant] put the coins into his pouch and looked around, a strange gleam in his eyes.

A Skill? Or was it just Cubol?

“Someone go make sure no officer’s on patrol. Why don’t we sit down? Less noticeable that way. We can’t just give up a prisoner, sir. That’d be obvious.”

Cubol sat down. Vess wanted to grab Velden, but Big Yam slowly spread out, hiding the [Slaver]’s entourage, the same gleam in their eyes as Velden.

It reminded Vess of his Hoarding years. He felt his own claw shaking. Gold. I’ve never seen so much—

He wasn’t a hatchling! He was a [Soldier] who had signed up to make money and fight the enemy. Vess clenched his claw, fighting with himself—and he realized he was the only one. Some [Soldiers] looked apprehensive, but Cubol?

Maybe it was a Skill. Vess was the lone magic-user. Maybe it was a charm spell? He would be resistant to that. His head snapped up, and he stared at the Drake’s claws.

But he couldn’t prove anything; he wasn’t good enough to identify what the Drake was doing.

“I don’t suggest you lose your command, [Sergeant]. I very much doubt I could compensate all of Luldem’s finest for the disgrace…but accidents happen. If, say, this Gnoll were to come tomorrow and find a Soldier in your command—tragically dead—he would be very upset. But if it were to have attacked you all, and you had to defend yourselves—”

“Velden, you can’t be thinking of this. We’ll be in so much trouble. The officers aren’t idiots—”

“Vess, shut up. I’m talking here.”

The [Sergeant] snapped at Vess. Cubol glanced over at Vess, and the Drake saw the [Slaver] smile.

“No, no. I realize I am asking a lot. Let me just…”

He leaned over and counted his coins. A flashing gemstone fell into his lap as he spilled more coins out.

“Gold is such a heavy thing to carry. But I find the value of certain objects is worth more. One must exchange them, but you can hide such things more easily. The worth of this opal, for instance…a hundred and fourteen gold coins.”

Big Yam stared at the shining gemstones with a core of glittering magic in each. Vess was transfixed as well—and he never realized that some of Big Yam were looking at him out of the corner of their eyes.

Cubol kept talking, and Vess realized too late that they should have called for a [Major] the moment he appeared. The moment he sat down, it had been too late. He realized the danger they were in as soon as Velden began asking where they might find a Soldier’s body, and someone got up.

He realized he was in danger far too late.

Crusader 53, [Maceman]

Crusader 53 was a Level 18 [Maceman]. And a Level 15 [Crusader]. There was a difference.

He liked to hit things.

It was not that he did not have wrath for Hectval, did not believe in Heaven, or did not weary at the horrors of war.

But he also liked to hit things.

Crusader 51 was different. He had liked bugs. He had been sad. Crusader 53 was also sad. Theophilus was dead. Jerimy was dead.

Hectval had to pay.

However, Crusader 53 had stayed with his squad. He had to. They needed him, someone who could hit people trying to kill them. Even angry little 57 and the others. Crusader 51 drew away because they died.

Crusader 53 tried to hug them with his two arms so they wouldn’t leave him again.

Now, he was going to die.

He knew it. It didn’t matter if it was ‘Vess’, the Drake with the wand, or this Cubol, or whomever was coming to interrogate him. He was dead.

It was fine. Crusader 53 had outlived everyone. Everyone except 51, and he was gone, now. He had seen Theophilus and the Painted Antinium and Jerimy die and…gone. 53 had seen something break.

——

He watched as the [Slaver] turned the squad. Convinced them to sell him. And kill Vess. Crusader 53 would have warned Vess if he had but words, but the younger Drake didn’t see it coming.

His [Sergeant] was no Calruz. Perhaps the older Drake might have stopped it, but the [Slaver] was smart. He had nearly convinced Big Yam, but for Vess, and he offered Velden a drink.

The Drake began getting drowsy at once. Maybe…some of the other [Soldiers] saw the powder one of Cubol’s bodyguards put into the cup for Velden.

But they never stopped him. They watched Vess as the [Arcane Warrior] shook Velden’s shoulder.

“I believe the [Sergeant] is tired. Do we have an accord?”

The [Slaver] rose, and Big Yam looked up. Vess rose too, a claw on his wand.

“You’ve poisoned him. You’re using some kind of charm on your ring. I’m not blind. I can see it. Everyone—”

He flicked his wand out and aimed it at Cubol, pointing the tip straight between the Drake’s eyes. The [Slaver] didn’t flinch. He just smiled, and someone clicked.

Crusader 53 saw Vess glance at him—then twist as one of his squadmates grabbed at his arm.

“What are you—no!”

A flash of magic. Just one flash—and he was down. Pinned. Cubol nodded and stood up.

“I understand this is very difficult for you all. If you don’t object—I will have one of my people bear this terrible burden.”

Big Yam were panting as one of his bodyguards unsheathed a sword. Vess began to scream, but someone had his jaw clamped shut.

Crusader 53 watched all of this.

You are are all bound for Hell. Theophilus was right.

He couldn’t move. He didn’t have [Faith is My Strength]. They had said the Painted Antinium had come…and been killed.

It was all so bitter. Cubol was watching him, not even paying attention to the screaming [Arcane Warrior] as the [Slave] strode over, blade poised. The Drake was smiling at the Antinium.

“I have so many questions to ask. The Emir will too. He may regard you as one of the finest…no, we’ll see.”

Crusader 53 smiled back. Wherever he went, whatever they did…he had no fear.

Heaven waited. And if he had his beloved mace, he would hit Cubol harder than anything had ever been hit before.

Vess looked up, and Crusader 53 saw his eyes go wide. A muffled sound escaped his lips, but his fellow [Soldiers] had lost their minds. This war had damaged them. They didn’t know why they were fighting, 53 realized. They had nothing to dream of but death.

He felt sorry for them. The Stitch-man raised his sword.

Someone clicked softly as the sword plunged down.

Crusader 53 looked up. Hm?

Who had said that?

The [Slaver], Cubol, looked around in the sudden silence. He turned and saw the [Slave] frozen, sword mid-stab.

“Goliepe, what are you…?”

The Drake trailed off as he saw the red, sticky strings and the…gap…in the Stitch-man’s torso. The warrior looked down with everyone as a thin, red line appeared, and a strange opening separated his chest and ribs from the lower half of his body.

The lower half dropped soundlessly. Everyone’s eyes locked onto the red blood as the legs of the [Slave] turned to cloth. Vess’ eyes were wide with incomprehension.

What was—?

Something was there. Something had just snapped the Stitch-man in two. No—it was a perfect cut.

Two things whispered now, blood trailing off the delicate blades. A pair of arms uncrossed, and something shimmered.

Like the colors a rainbow made off a bubble of soap. That was what the entire Antinium’s body looked like. It shimmered—and the faint outline of a scuttling, camouflaged Antinium, perfectly melded with the landscape, scuttled sideways.

Only the moving flecks of blood gave it away. Its chitin morphed so perfectly it was like a chameleon.

Natural invisibility.

The Silent Antinium clicked, and Big Yam’s shout of horror never came. A second pair of scythe-arms whispered, and the giant cross between mantis and ant swept a second deathly pair of scythe-arms together. It materialized behind another [Slave], and a third cut one of the Drakes on sentry duty apart.

Vess looked up as a Drake went down, split from shoulder to hip by a blade sharper than any sword he had ever seen. Cubol reacted faster than anyone else.

“Silent Antinium! Guard me! Sound the alarm! Sound—”

He ran left as Big Yam exploded into screams. Confusion! The [Slaver] leapt left as a wall of fire bloomed around him. He was reaching for a scroll at his belt—

When he slammed into something. The Drake bounced off and realized, as several shapes scuttled around him—

They were all around them. The confused screaming of Big Yam alerted the camp, but no one knew what was happening. A [Major] stumbled out of his tent.

“What’s going on? Where are the sentries? Night officer! Where’s…?”

No one knew.

Least of all Crusader 53. He recoiled as a giant, foreign insect materialized and scuttled over to him. He stared up.

What are you? What are you? Aaah! Aaaaah!

Only when a scythe-arm delicately descended and cut one of his chains free did he realize—

He was being rescued. And Vess?

Lulv, [Spearmaster]

The Gnoll knew something was wrong when Luldem’s forces didn’t challenge him. This was one of their permanent outposts well behind the front. He raised his paw, and the force of Manus’ [Soldiers] who’d ridden through the night slowed.

“No sentries. I smell blood. Guards up. Message High Command and Sokkel. Get me two Wyverns overhead.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Gnoll realized it was over before he got within a thousand paces of the camp. He could smell the blood.

He saw the carnage, and someone swore too-loudly in the quiet dawn.

Insects were everywhere. Not Antinium…but it had been them. Buzzing little creatures…

“So many fucking ants. Small ones, I mean. Damn it.”

Someone cursed as the Manus squad slowly advanced around Lulv. His hair was standing on end.

Slaughtered where they stood. This wasn’t a battle. This had been a one-sided ambush. He thought he knew…it was when he saw the razor-clean cuts that he was certain.

“Movement!”

Everyone snapped up, and Lulv whirled his spear—lowering when he saw a Drake wandering towards them.

“They came out of nowhere. They…they wanted 53.”

Vess stumbled across the ground, looking blank and white as a sheet. The [Arcane Warrior] didn’t have his wand or sword. He just walked around, past the dead bodies. Everyone had been slaughtered.

They’d left the Drake as a message. Classic tactics from the last war.

“Silent Antinium.”

Lulv saw Vess look blankly at them.

“They—they were invisible. The [Slaver] was going to buy 53. Then my squad tried to kill me. Sir?”

He was babbling. Lulv growled. He understood enough from that, though.

That damn—

“They took the Soldier? Where? Where was the [Slaver]?”

“There. There…”

Vess pointed aimlessly back to a hill. Lulv cursed. He turned his head. Then he hesitated as he looked around at his squad.

“Tell Sokkel…we’ve got Silent Antinium. Tell him the Dragonspeaker’s going to breathe frost out of both ends over this.”

One of the [Soldiers] lifted a paw to her ear where a little earring speaking-stone was pinned. Her eyes locked onto Lulv—

And she ducked the swing of the Silent Antinium’s scythe-arms. Lulv stabbed the one next to him.

“Ambush! Move!”

Dragonspeaker Luciva breathed lightning, not frost. Forewarned, Manus’ squad exploded into action. They whirled—and the Silent Antinium materialized.

Dozens of them. Lulv speared another one, deflecting a slash from one arm. Their arms were equivalent to enchanted blades! But—brittle—

“Spear art! Run! Don’t stop! Engage your emergency spells! Run!”

Lulv shouted. Vess was screaming. He curled up as the Silent Antinium, who had been waiting to ambush him, swarmed the [Soldiers]. Lulv’s spear howled as the Gnoll stabbed left, right—

But he had to run. A cut almost took off one arm. Six [Soldiers] were already dead. He wanted to grab the Drake boy—but there was no time.

Manus’ squad broke free, running as two Wyverns dropped out of cover. Spells blasted the landscape, but the Silent Antinium were already retreating. And they had learned how to foil [Detect Life] spells. Lulv barked into his speaking stone amid the confusion of voices.

“The Silent Antinium have entered Liscor’s war! All forces, watch for ambushes! Get me a line to Manus.”

His worst fears were coming true. More high-value targets had entered the war…but more than that?

It meant the Antinium thought there was something worth fighting for. Lulv realized it later.

They’d attacked this camp not because it was a priority, but to rescue a single Soldier.

Then he began to sweat.

Olesm, [Commander]

The return of Crusader 53 came on a day when Olesm’s senses as a [Commander], a [Strategist], hummed.

“Artur. Get Dekass. I need a word.”

He was looking around his camp. Olesm made a sign to one of his [Tacticians], and the Gnoll went pale. She silently began to raise the alarm—but over what?

It was just a feeling. Dekass reported in quickly.

“Yes, Commander Olesm?”

“Is anything…off today, Dekass?”

There was just the slightest pause. Olesm would have first guessed it had something to do with Captain Voita and the Yoldenites who had joined his forces, but his instincts said Dekass.

“No, sir.”

“Hm. I’m inspecting your camp. Anything eventful happen?”

“Our reinforcements have arrived as requested, sir. Four hundred and eighty-two, to replenish the losses.”

The bad battle after the Painted Antinium had been nearly wiped out had apparently taxed even Liscor’s Free Hive. Olesm was surprised that they’d mustered the numbers and gotten them here so quickly.

Then he was suspicious as he strode into the Antinium division. New Soldiers and Workers were filing into camp, being arranged into squads. Groups like Squad 5, who needed to replace Crusader 51, 53, and a few others welcomed the Antinium…sort of.

“Sit dOwN. You’re wearing your pack wrong, stupid.”

Crusader 57 roughly yanked a new Worker down and slapped their armor—but the other Antinium were doing the same. It was a thing [Soldiers] did, teaching the new ones.

Dekass reported to Olesm in person.

“Is something wrong, sir?”

Commander Olesm Swifttail glanced at Dekass. That settled it.

“Dekass, you lie as well as Mrsha. What’s…”

And then he saw it. Olesm’s eyes narrowed to points, he recoiled, swore, and looked at Dekass. The Armored Prognugator stared back at him as innocently as possible.

“Yes, Commander?”

It would have fooled the Alliance—maybe. Or your average Liscorian. But even the regular [Soldiers] had realized it. Olesm? He studied the Workers and Soldiers.

They had armor. They were clearly new, clearly the next to fight in the Antinium division. However…their armor didn’t seem patched up. Their gear was noticeably different, not a mismatch of weapons to arm them.

These weren’t Free Antinium. They were Armored Antinium.

Indeed, the [Crusaders] mixing with the Armored Antinium realized it too, and there was a shock as Workers and Soldiers, almost mindlessly obeying orders, ran into the personality of the [Crusaders]. Olesm looked at Dekass. The Prognugator innocently adjusted his helmet.

“I would like to report that a missing Soldier has also appeared, Commander Olesm. Crusader 53 has miraculously escaped imprisonment. He is unable to give a report on how this happened.”

“Crusader 53? From where?”

“A Luldem camp behind enemy lines.”

Olesm’s eyes narrowed.

“He just…happened to escape an enemy camp, made his way here, and report to you?”

“Yes, sir. Please ignore all other reports or commentary on strange occurrences on the battlefield.”

The Drake and Antinium locked gazes until Dekass was fiddling with a helmet strap. Olesm smiled brightly.

“Take me to him.”

“Sir? That is not necessary. He is a Soldier. He cannot speak. Artur, do not—Artur?”

Olesm strode over to Squad 5. The new Crusader 51 sat, not sure why they were all staring so at him. In fact…Crusader 57 was snapping.

“You are not Crusader 51. He is dead. You. Pick another name.”

The Soldier froze. He was Armored Antinium. Name? Name? Did they just ask?

nAMe? hE wAs—

A hand slapped his helmet. The Soldier froze.

“hEY, mORoN. ShUt uP. Pick a name and deal with it.”

The Aberration hissed at him. Totally confused, the Soldier looked up as a Drake strode over.

Enemy? He began to rise, remembered his orders, and sat still.

“Crusader 53?”

A Soldier with two arms and a cheerful, brand-spanking-new enchanted mace raised two hands. Crusader 53 stood and saluted Olesm. The [Commander] eyed him as Dekass ran after him.

“Crusader 53 is very tired. He must rest. Nothing is wrong. You saw nothing, Crusader 53. Nothing, as you single-handedly vanquished an entire enemy camp and came here.”

Olesm ignored Dekass. He looked Crusader 53 up and down.

“It’s good to see you, soldier. I’m glad you survived imprisonment. I am going to recommend your squad for a vacation. Crusader 51…was a hero.”

Everyone nodded. Crusader 53 nodded as well, slowly. He lowered his hands and his head. Olesm looked at the others.

“He was. And I will make sure his sacrifice means something. The war is changing. Yolden’s on our side. It also seems we won’t lack for reinforcements, will we, Dekass?”

He pointedly gazed over his shoulder. Dekass hesitated.

“I can neither confirm nor deny the veracity of that statement, sir. Incidentally—and this is related to nothing—how well does Mrsha lie?”

“Poorly. Crusader 53? Just one question. Nod or shake your head. Do we have Silent Antinium?”

The [Crusader] nodded happily. Olesm sighed.

“I knew it.”

Dekass was trying to figure out how to lie his way out of this one, and then the Armored Prognugator seemed to give up. He tapped Olesm on the shoulder.

“Would now be a good time to tell you about our prisoner, sir? I believe the Silent…er, the not-Silent Antinium took him as food rations or because Crusader 53 said so.”

And that was how Olesm met Vess, shivering, waiting for death.

“I don’t want to fight. Please. Sir! I just want to go home.”

A young Drake looked up as the [Commander] eyed a patch of air, swatted at it, and recoiled. A Drake not much older than him, but somehow far older at the same time, knelt. He looked at Vess, and there was little kind about his gaze.

But his claw was gentle as he reached out and touched Vess.

“I know. Don’t worry. I’m going to send you home.”

Vess, [Arcane Warrior]

In the days after that, the war went on. The mercenaries under Captain Yulre received reinforcements, and the Alliance learned to fear the darkness, or even daylight when they weren’t fighting, as much as the battles.

It was coming to…an end. Or, at least, that front was. There was no front that stretched across three wings now. Instead, the Alliance was pulling back its lines because the right had been completely overrun, and Liscor had built a giant dirt-and-stone fortress where they could sally from.

Vess didn’t see any of it. He just heard these things, because the Drake [Commander] of Liscor’s armed forces, Olesm Swifttail, was as good as his word.

Vess went home.

Not immediately. Not right away. He actually spent one week in Olesm’s camp, even visited Liscor with Squad 5 and other Antinium and [Soldiers] on break.

Not with them, mind you; he was a prisoner. Yet Olesm took Vess on a tour of the camps, parts of Liscor. He had a long talk with Vess and nearly eighty other prisoners he gathered up.

Mostly young men and women. Gnolls from Hectval were figured among that number, and Olesm told them they were going to their cities.

“I’ve made a deal with your High Command. You don’t appear on the front lines again. You go home…and tell them what you saw here.”

That was how they left Lookout Lookout Hill, which was developing a new name as the bloody front of Liscor’s war with the Alliance. Vess had no idea of the battles between Liscor’s [Negotiators] or Olesm fighting for this result.

He thought it was kindness. It had certainly felt that way. Kindness and…

——

Luldem’s gates opened up to fanfare. Vess hadn’t expected that. People turned, some dusty from harvesting gickel roots, having hurried into the gates.

Gickel, the big farms of it, and the heavy amount of livestock, for Luldem’s gelatin. Vess smelled the thick, heavy odor like faintly edible chalk that clung to the roots before they were cleaned, dried, and ground up for the gelatin.

The air was so soft. The sky never looked so…beautiful.

And tragic. He would never forget Big Yam or Velden. The [Sergeant] had died in his sleep, a single stab wound in his heart.

He couldn’t forgive the Antinium for that. However…it was not them that Vess was angriest about.

“Our brave heroes from the front! Vess, a [Corporal] and [Arcane Warrior]!”

The Councilmembers singled him out because of his class. He saw them, adorned in their customary outfits of poofy clothing. Thick, like a comforting bowl of gelatin soup you had to work at to even get a slice of.

His Council was so unlike Liscor’s. He shook the claws of each Councilmember, and his family was crying and waving at him.

And Vess? He looked at Councilmember Saiyl and wondered if he knew that Hectval had assassinated an [Innkeeper] after they’d been kicked out of Liscor.

Or did they know?

Vess was burning to tell someone. He had to. This war—the Council had to call on the Watch to stop people from mobbing him, begging to know if they’d seen their loved ones. He wanted to shout it.

This war could end tomorrow if Luldem stopped backing Hectval. Vess realized that the Council might know, but no one else even knew that two more Antinium Hives were in the war. They had no idea that the front was a bloodbath—all they heard was what the army told them.

“I’m…tired.”

That was all Vess said to begin with. He kept staring up at the sky. And he wondered if the Antinium thought it was beautiful too. That was what the one who talked claimed. And why would he lie?

Relc, [Trusted Sergeant]

After three months, after he visited the inn and had a meal with his best bud, Klbkch, Relc Grasstongue heard about the war.

Or, to be more precise, the war found him.

“Guardsman…is that Senior Guardsman Relc? Hey! Hey!”

Relc turned as he and Klbkch were walking down the street. They weren’t on duty, but habits never changed.

“Huh?”

A Drake was waving at him. A Drake in a squad.

Relc recognized it instantly. It was the walk. They moved together, unconsciously, just like they’d fought and died and bled together. They looked around Liscor like children, taking everything in again.

And like people who’d just realized everything bled and died. However, the smiles were real. A Drake whom Relc had never met before grinned at him.

“Jordes. Squad Leader Jordes, Significant Beavers.”

Klbkch tilted his head, and someone laughed.

“We’re not in the army, Jordes!”

“Oh—right.”

“I get it. Nice squad name.”

This was not his army, but he knew it. They even talked like…Klbkch murmured.

“Ah, the war front. I must inquire about it too.”

Significant Beavers were on vacation. They’d drawn a lucky straw…which might have been less lucky since they were escorting a wide-eyed squad of Antinium with them.

Buying souvenirs, showing them around the city. It was the most striking thing Relc had seen. Squad 5 had minders and…

“You can return from the front? You lucky bastards!”

He feigned a punch at Jordes’ arm, and the Drake grinned.

“Perks of the magic door. I’m glad. It’s been…soup.”

“Soup?”

Relc nodded at Klbkch. Another [Soldier] term. The Antinium was inspecting Squad 5 and Significant Beavers, and they were inspecting him. None carried their weapons aside from maybe daggers…aside from the Worker with a zweihander on one shoulder.

“That’s right. It’s good to see you, Senior Guardsman. Are you going to join up? I thought you left the city.”

“I did. I came back. I should…you should tell me about it. Listen, I was just catching up with Klbkch here, but you’re on the front? Do you know Wing Commander Embria?”

“4th Company? Of course! Wait, isn’t she…?”

Relc was more and more interested in talking with Significant Beavers, but, as always, the infamous Relc-Klbkch duo were causing trouble.

In this case, it was Senior Guardsman Klbkch who started it. He pointed at Crusader 57.

“Carrying that weapon openly is an act of aggression if not an adventurer or civilian moving about to a set purpose such as transport. Worker, you will stow that blade now.”

“FuCK yOu, Klbkch.”

Crusader 57 raised his middle finger instantly. Relc’s blood chilled at the sudden, familiar, warbling tones.

Klbkch drew his swords so fast that Relc barely saw them. He would have diced Crusader 57—except that all of Squad 5 drew their weapons too. A friendly Crusader 53 raised a mace, and Klbkch looked at them incredulously.

“What?”

Relc grabbed Klbkch’s shoulder.

“Easy. Easy, Klb. They’re off-duty and jumpy. I pity the [Muggers] who go after a [Soldier] on break.”

Significant Beavers had moved just as fast, forming a defensive wall. Klbkch spluttered.

“But that is an Aberration—how have Dekass and Tersk allowed this?”

“nyEh.”

Crusader 57 offered Klbkch more rude hand-gestures. Klbkch looked at Relc as Jordes rapidly tried to de-escalate.

“Commander Olesm knows about it. Feisty guy, but he’s just—mad. You should see him fighting!”

“I’m better than you, Jordes. I’m not Aberration. I’m different. Aberrations are weak. Pick a damn name. Right, Toni?”

Crusader 51—Toni—shuddered as Crusader 57 punched his shoulder. Klbkch looked from face to face.

“I require another drink. And I must speak with Pawn. Now. Relc, our meal was enjoyable, but this?”

“I got you, Klb, buddy. Catch me later.”

The Antinium nodded and began striding off. Crusader 57 shouted after him.

“That’s right. rUN. You—”

At this point, Squad 5 grabbed him before he could get himself stabbed. And Relc found himself hearing about the war from the [Soldiers].

——

“Damn. Manus.”

Jordes nodded as they all ate in an Antinium-friendly restaurant. All of Squad 5 were savoring their bowls of experimental beef udon. It wasn’t ‘right’, but Imani was doing her best.

The Drunken Gnoll. They were at the Drunken Gnoll. She had also stayed away from wheat for their udon.

Relc had barely touched his bowl. He felt sick. Manus’ elites led by…

“A [Spearmaster]? Are you sure? Is Embria alright?”

Jordes was speaking to Relc in confidence. The [Sergeant] shuddered.

“Know a ‘Lulv’?”

“…Fuck. What about Embria?”

“She hasn’t clashed with him—much. They stay away from each other, but she got chewed up in the first few engagements. Actually…it’s almost always the Antinium that get it. Poor guys. Squad 5 had this Soldier who…well, let’s start from the beginning.”

Relc listened to a familiar tale—only everything was different. But the bones were every war he’d ever known. Jordes kept eying him, and a Human who was flirting with the Gnoll [Servers] and striking out, Satel, looked at him.

“Are you going to enlist, Senior Guardsman? We could use a [Spearmaster]. Right guys—”

Utel kicked him under the table, and Relc stopped with a fork full of noodles.

“…No. I’m done with war. Sorry, guys.”

He waited for…condemnation? Insults? Joking, pressing that would turn ugly? Relc saw Significant Beavers glance at each other, and Satel shrugged.

“Damn. That’s fair.”

They weren’t Liscor’s army. Relc exhaled and looked at the Antinium, Gnolls, Drakes, Humans…and saw Liscor’s army. Their real army. The Drake smiled, felt at his belt pouch, and looked about.

He would not go there. Not where nightmares and death waited for him. Some part of him was always there, with 4th Company. With the men and women he had fought beside.

Yet he had left. They’d have to figure that one out too, some day. But that was an older [Soldier]’s war. Right now?

“Listen, you lucky bastards. My buddy Klbkch is coming, and when he does, you’d better pat yourselves on the asses because drinks and food are on me!”

They cheered. That was the greatest and most glorious gift any [Soldier] could get. Senior Guardsman Relc turned to Jordes.

“And in return, you can take a letter and see Embria gets it, right?”

“Yes, sir!”

The [Trusted Sergeant of the Watch] smiled. Huh. That weird chess-guy Olesm had turned out a pretty good army. In fact, he’d heard of a Crusader 51 on people’s lips.

Heroes.

It had been a long time since Liscor’s people had known the names of the [Soldiers] who fought and died for them. When had been the last time?

“Sserys, maybe. Or Zel.”

Relc rested his chin in his claws. Jordes glanced at him sidelong.

“I forgot you knew them, sir.”

“Senior Guardsman or Relc the Awesome, Jordes. I’m out of the army.”

“Right…well, I’m not calling you that. But if you had any tips—4th Company remembers that time, but an expert from the old days—any tricks to tell?”

Relc thought about it as Klbkch entered the inn, spotted Crusader 57, and the two began Medusa-ing each other across the room. Tricks like how to keep your socks clean? Or formations? He realized there was one thing that he could teach the army. Relc looked around.

“Relc? Is that Relc? I saw you coming in, but all the Gnolls were here and—”

Selys burst into the inn. Relc grinned. Jordes raised his brows.

“Gnolls?”

He didn’t know about Cellidel. Which reminded Relc.

“Actually, you’re in luck, Jordes. You can bring more than just a letter back to Embria. We had an escort on the way to Liscor. Which means the other two might be reaching your lines about now.”

The Drakes’ eyes went round, and a cheer rose from Jordes as the [Soldiers] looked at him. But Relc was waving Selys over.

“Hey, Selys. [Trusted Sergeant of the Watch] Relc here. Klb’s back and there are off-duty [Soldiers] here. Want to pay for our dinners? I could—but you’re still rich, right? And one more thing. I just realized there’s something we can do. We could organize it.”

Selys put her claws on her hips, gazing exasperatedly and fondly at Relc. Then she blinked.

“Relc. You have an idea? Organize? What happened to you?”

The Senior Guardsman just laughed as Klbkch turned and poked an invisible Centaur trying to listen into everything. Eavesdropping was a crime.

“To me? I have no idea!”

Embria, [Wing Commander]

She learned her father was back when she got his letter and a gift from him.

“For me?”

Wing Commander Embria got the package from a very disheveled Drake Sergeant who had run it through the door personally. She unwrapped it to find a long letter from Relc…on top of an entire basket of odd-smelling fruits.

“What are these?”

“Prelons. I don’t know what they are. Er, I’m headed back to the city if that’s alright, Wing Commander. Everything alright here?”

Embria looked up, distracted, wanting to tear open the letter, and made a face.

“More or less. Have you heard? We have reinforcements. From the—from our army down south.”

Jordes looked around and heard the commotion.

“Fancy that! That’s a relief, eh?”

Embria didn’t immediately nod.

6th and 9th Companies of Liscor’s army had ridden in last night. Apparently another company had escorted Relc’s citizens home, and would have to do some riding to get up through the hills to this part.

Embria should have been celebrating with all of 4th, but it was strangely…subdued. More [Soldiers] meant this would feel like home, right?

So why…?

——

6th Company were an all-mounted unit. The Bull Bastards. 9th Company, and the wayward 11th who’d escorted Relc, were like 4th Company, infantry-based.

9th was just called ‘Arrowstorm’—a group specializing in long-ranged archery. Ironically, 6th Company’s leader was female, Wing Commander Narkr. Wing Commander Xith of 9th was older than both Embria and Narkr by far.

The instant they saw Embria, their eyes lit up.

“So there’s the idiot who couldn’t handle one dungeon and needed to call in for backup! How dare you not defeat Tyrion Veltras and all the Humans yourself?”

Narkr, a Gnoll with two scars on her cheeks, loved to say things deadpan. Rumor was she’d taken the scar on one cheek and inflicted the other herself. Embria was fairly sure that was just a rumor, though.

“Wing Commander, what Narkr means is that we’re here to back you up. Sorry it took so long. None of us have long-distance mobility Skills, and Pallass wouldn’t let us skip four hundred miles.”

“Mana concerns or something.”

Xith and Narkr shook Embria’s claw as she smiled at them.

“I know Narkr was to blame. She probably kept you all waiting on her. 6th? Did they have to send me the slowest cavalry unit? 9th and 11th will move faster than them!”

It was true 6th was one of the slower groups, specializing in heavy charges, so Narkr threw a punch, and Embria deflected it.

“Still not a [Spearmaster]?”

“Still unmarried?”

“Alright, alright. I’m glad I don’t have to lead you two and you can hold your tails.”

Xith interrupted. The Drake looked at the other two Wing Commanders. As they were all of a rank, Xith would have priority command despite 4th being lower in number. Seniority. However, in practice, Wing Commanders were supposed to be able to work together.

“They didn’t send anyone higher? No [Majors]? I didn’t expect our [Strategists]…none of our field [Tacticians]?”

They were eating in Embria’s tent as Xith replied.

“Seeing as how this force is being led by a [Strategist], the brass decided to send proper leadership. When they heard he sensibly expanded 4th, they told us to just take over a wing. Not sure if we’re ruffling any scales, but you can tell us how green this lot is.”

“11th makes four companies. Enough to send Hectval packing. If Manus is in it—well, that’s ugly. But once we wrap this up, we’ll help you patrol, maybe even get another fighting force into line. Take the pressure off the Council so they stop enlisting bugs as [Soldiers]. I saw them coming in. Don’t know how you did it alone, Embria, but we’ve got your tail.”

And there it was. Embria realized why she felt vaguely uneasy. Xith almost went to spit before he checked the floor.

“Ants. Are they getting munched up by Manus? I hope so—how’s this ‘Commander’ Olesm? And how badly are the civvies getting destroyed?”

Embria looked at them. She saw two familiar friends from the army. Narkr and Xith weren’t the closest, but Embria appreciated Narkr’s dry humor, and Xith always spoke highly of Relc in private.

And…they were partly strangers. As both companies had ridden in, they’d glared daggers at the Antinium and come in like 4th Company had when they first arrived at Liscor.

Like they expected to take charge and set all things right. Embria recalled the numerous rude awakenings Zevara had given her.

What happened next? Well, Embria had a vision of her saying something—and remembered Maksie standing to attention as Olesm removed her from command.

She thought of her father, who 4th Company still didn’t speak to. She didn’t want that. Instead…Embria poured a full mug for each and pushed it over.

“Ah, well. It’s actually [Commander] Olesm. He got the class. Maksie’s actually a [Scouting Lieutenant].”

“What? That lucky…that’ll rattle up command. So he’s not all hot air?”

“Nope. [Instantaneous Barrage] is his best Skill. Nasty. Oh, and you’ll meet Bepol and Ramia, [Division Leaders]. Pretty sharp given it’s civilian-based classing. I bet you we’ll all be roving, though you’ll definitely take more [Soldiers] under command. Oh—and on the right, there’s [Combined Arms Strategist] Belgrade.”

Narkr choked on her drink of a flat Liscorian ale.

“They put a fucking Ant in charge of our right wing? How has no one mutinied? Or are they running off each day?”

Embria offered Xith a mug, smiled, and looked at them. Here it came.

“You’d have to ask them. But I’d watch yourselves. They call themselves Belgrade’s Ants, all of his command. And Narkr, Xith—tell 6th and 9th to watch their tongues. Because if there’s a brawl, Commander Olesm’ll send your forces back or discharge them from the ranks.”

Both Drake and Gnoll stopped drinking.

“You can’t be serious. Is that what you have to deal with, Embria? We can make a stand—”

The Wing Commander took a breath and looked as seriously as possible at them. If it were her, talking to her—how could she convince them?

Rattle them. Say it as if they were on the same side and she was reluctantly…

“I hate to say it, but he could discharge all three of our companies and 11th and still win the war. The army’s stacking up. They’re real [Soldiers], you two, and you should be careful.”

Xith and Narkr looked at her like she was insane. But Embria kept talking. She had to show them. The easiest thing to do was let them see the first battles with Olesm and compare that to the army. Even if they said—probably still accurately—that Olesm wasn’t as good as their [Strategists], a [Soldier] had to face facts. And Embria poured them a drink and told them…what they needed to hear before they could realize the truth.

[Wing Commander Level 29!]

Embria shot up in her bed, sweating and gasping. More terrified of that one level up than anything else. She waited for a Skill or—

[Combined Arms Wing Commander]. Or [Buggy Wing Commander].

It didn’t come. But would it? She lay in her bed. She thought…

Then came Relc Grasstongue’s little bit of brilliance, and she was proud of her father. After three days, Squad 5, Significant Beavers, and the other squads on break returned to the army.

They brought gifts.

Ishkr, [Head Waiter]

“Gifts? Of course. It’s so intelligent. Relc thought of it, yes? Relc?”

The Gnoll heard the idea from Drassi. The inn was so quiet and seldom-visited that he was one of the last to know.

It was a simple idea, and people laughed—as much at the idea as goofy old Relc had thought of it as…well. Embarrassment.

It was such a good idea, and so simple. Relc hadn’t thought it up from nothing. He had just pulled it from the past. Tradition and perhaps…Ishkr looked around the inn.

From here.

“It has to be small. You can’t address it to one group; you can send something to a relative, but otherwise just something small for the door.”

“What would be appropriate?”

The Gnoll saw Drassi pause, fiddling with a neck-spine ring—she was about to go on her television shift, but she’d come up to let him know when and where it would be expected.

“Relc said something edible usually works. You can send potions, books, anything else—but food is always welcome. I’m sending a song crystal. He says something like that would really lift spirits.”

“Hrr. I could send acid flies.”

“What, as weapons? Oh. Do you have any?”

Ishkr shuddered.

“I maintained Erin’s traps. The Antinium come to collect them, sometimes.”

Drassi hesitated. She’d just had breakfast, but the [Gossip] had to know.

“…How many?”

“I have begun filling barrels with them when they pile up. Sometimes a few survive.”

The Drake went pale.

“Ishkr, you are a credit to your class. I don’t know how you…”

She trailed off, looking around the inn. Ishkr looked at Drassi and spoke.

“She’ll be back.”

The Drake turned to him. She met Ishkr’s gaze and smiled, relieved.

“Of course.”

The Gnoll said nothing more. Drassi had to run, and he had to think of a gift. Besides, those words could mean anything.

It was just…a feeling. Perhaps it was only his imagination.

Or, perhaps, it had something to do with a little Goblin appearing in his inn. A Cave Goblin, who handed him a little note.

Soon.

He didn’t voice any suspicions to even Drassi. Ishkr just waited, wishing Silveran were here to do floorboard crack cleaning. He thought of a gift to send to the army. He thought of the Antinium, who had come to this inn to pledge to go to war.

“Oh.”

The [Head Waiter] hesitated. He walked past the cupboards of preserved food, and he did roll out a barrel of acid flies. Anything to get rid of them. Apparently some acid flies survived the explosion of acid, and he had the horrible suspicion it rustled sometimes.

Then he went to fetch something else. Ishkr vanished for a little bit and came back with a very strange gift. One that Commander Olesm himself came to receive.

The Drake gave Ishkr an odd look, like someone who noticed Erin’s silent help for the first time. He realized that no one Erin employed could ever be normal.

Drassi was just louder.

“Do you think it will help?”

“I…think it’s a [Strategist]-level move, Ishkr.”

“Hrr. Too bad I don’t have the class.”

And that was it. Ishkr went back to the inn, sat down, and unfolded the note. He kept checking the windows. He had a hunch…because he had free time, in between cleaning the inn, to keep up on worldwide affairs.

Because he had heard about a certain kidnapping, as yet unresolved. He watched the skies. And he waited.

Keep the Potion of Regeneration close. If a blind man or someone else with officer classes comes, let them in. We are coming too.

The inn’s first Goblin was frustratingly short on details, and she asked a lot, but for her…Ishkr made a special reservation.

Service with a smile.

Olesm, [Commander]

Ishkr’s gift went to the Antinium lines. Commander Olesm personally handed it over, and a group of Soldiers clustered around it.

But they shared it. Significant Beavers—other [Soldiers] went to stare. What a silent genius, that Gnoll was.

It was a classic Erin Solstice move. Perhaps that was why it was so fitting that it would be tonight.

Olesm Swifttail was surprised that he didn’t have to kick 6th and 9th company off a few cliffs. He suspected Wing Commander Embria had something to do with that.

“We’re getting movement all along our left flank. I think Manus is coming.”

Scout Leader Maksie had begun to pick up their movements by now. Olesm just nodded.

“Sounds good.”

He didn’t say anything like, ‘it’s time’, or ‘just wait’, because that was the most idiotic thing you could say into a tapped line.

Nor did he inform Bepol or Ramia or even Belgrade of a change. He gave routine orders that might have made them think twice…but the proof of the pudding was in the surprise. Olesm sent a note via Liscor’s door, but aside from that, it was all here, in the army. Ishkr’s gift was a welcome surprise, but the rest?

It was all just them.

Antinium of Liscor’s Army, 1st Division

It was the best and only gift they’d ever received, most of them. A [Crusader] peeled an orange, sharing pieces around. An Armored Antinium gobbled down the peel because the bitter was oh, so tasty!

[Crusaders] of the Free Antinium, Armored Soldiers and Workers—and the Silent Antinium infiltrators.

They weren’t supposed to show themselves, as the Silent Antinium could not be part of Liscor’s war. However, the strangeness infecting the crusade had already done something to them.

A fat bag of barley spilled out next to Crusader 442. He hesitated, orange half-peeled.

That wasn’t a gift. He looked around and saw a faint outline of a familiar mantis-Antinium.

Only, this one he knew.

[Thief]! The rest of Squad 4, Battalion 6, edged over covertly. Fluffy Lancers had encountered this particular Silent Antinium before.

It—she? They were all she’s—was notable not because they often saw her, but because of one detail.

She’d lost a single scythe-arm. Those didn’t grow back, and the Silent Queen did not invest in regrowth gels since the scythe-arms weren’t regrowable via the same restorative gels a lucky Worker or Soldier could get. The Silent Queen considered that the Silent Antinium would not live long enough to justify that kind of investment of resources.

Therefore, this Silent Soldier had half the fighting potential of others. That was possibly why Thief had developed her habit.

Instead of killing sentries or ambushing patrols, she kept stealing food from the Alliance. She would scuttle back, and, in exchange, Fluffy Lancers would quietly boil it up or cook it, and she got to eat the food.

Now, Crusader 442 offered her an orange as she greedily devoured it piece by piece. Thief, the Silent Antinium, was one of several oddities.

——

“…And rise as a [Crusader].”

Zimrah, the last [Priest], had leveled up today. She no longer smiled as she inducted an Armored Antinium into their ranks. It was a choice—but many of their Hive wanted it.

She spoke sermons, she healed, and her faith was strong. But the Worker did not walk around with the same conviction as before. Theophilus and Jerimy were dead. Pawn had offered to let her return with the Painted Antinium. He had not expected her to take the offer, nor could Zimrah.

How could she go back?

There was something here. The army was alive. The army…there were things Olesm didn’t know and accepted about the Antinium command. He saw what was important, for all he could be so terribly cruel.

Yet look at them.

Zimrah saw…tragedy and glory. She saw gifts, kindness, anger in Crusader 57, confidence, selfishness in Shelly, a desire to be loved in Kevin. She saw bravery and wrath.

These were not all good things. But for the first time—they were Antinium things.

——

Manus was coming tonight. Artur had gone around the camp, telling everyone to get ready. It looked like a night attack on their camps, maybe. A fully-backed army.

“Drisshia’s heavies. Manus will sneak through them. Do not die. That is an order.”

He passed by multiple squads, and some Workers offered him parts of their gifts, but Artur declined. The flag flew behind him. He would fight with them.

[Raise the Standard]. The [Banner Leader] had leveled up. Those who lived—got stronger. If you lived.

Manus was higher-level still. So they won. It was a thing any Antinium who lived long enough understood as a reality of war. Manus had done this longer. Manus had enchanted gear.

It wasn’t fair. But they had more than just faith and Heaven to help them face it.

“From days of war and wrath we ran

Exiled from every land

Searching for our honor lost

And found the House of Minos’ sands.”

A song rose over the ranks of the Antinium, and some turned to listen. A Minotaur with one arm sat with the Beriad, the self-named group who followed him into battle.

It was Workers who sang, in unison, and never had Antinium sung like that before, together. Even Bird could not have dreamed of that.

Or maybe he could. Bird was silly.

However, the singing broke off as the Minotaur lifted a hand.

“That’s how we sing it. But this is your song. It would not be the House of Minos’ sands. Er…what rhymes with sand?”

“Land?”

“That’s line two.”

The Workers and Minotaur sat together, trying to compose new lyrics. This was good. These were good things.

It would not stop Manus from killing them, but it would let them go to their deaths as brave as brave could be. If Calruz gave it to them, that was well.

However…another squad sat together, calmly waving their antennae at one another.

Hectval, not Manus, weighed on their minds despite the impending battle. They were an odd group. Not one battle had passed recently without one of their number dying.

Or at least, that’s what the casualty reports said. Despite them being an archery group, they had a higher-than-average casualty rating, which Dekass had noted.

Archer B12 sat with the others, one of the originals from the first volunteers. They were still around, like Crusader 53, the old guard. However, he was currently engaged in waving all four hands around as all of Squad B sat in a circle.

Come on, come on…

Four hands per Antinium. Ten Antinium per squad. Twenty games of rock-paper-knife. It took a long time for a winner to be found, but that was fine. Antinium sat out, and then it was B12 versus Crusader 995.

He won. B12 went still as the other [Archer] lowered his hands. All of Squad B gathered around B12. Slowly, he rose, feeling calm.

Ah. At last.

A [Sniper] was dead among the enemy lines. It had been found—blasted from above by a Wyvern hiding in the sky. Manus hated that [Sniper]. It had killed so many of them, so many officers. So many [Soldiers]—even shot a Wyvern through the eye, though the Wyvern hadn’t died.

They had orders now, to try and capture the enemy. Manus just had one thing wrong in their speculations as to how it continued, though.

It wasn’t a [Sniper].

Archer B12 rose and went around Squad B, shaking hands with all of them. Good luck. Good luck.

Goodbye.

They saw him off as he collected his bow, arrows, and trooped out of the camp. Archer B12 was ready. At last…

At last, it’s my turn.

Since Manus was coming, he found a good spot to set up and meet them. They were not Hectval, but they were on his list. Just like Bird had said.

An arrow for all of them. All of them. B12 took a little nap, and the class was waiting for him.

Just as promised.

——

The Antinium division was ready when the enemy appeared. Drisshia heralded their arrival with banging drums. They knew they couldn’t sneak up on Liscor.

So they didn’t.

“Yayde Re! Up and at them! Let’s kill some Drisshies!”

Captain Voita rode down the line of the Yoldenites, and they cheered, many having traded their gear up for plundered armor and weapons. Bepol was moving his lines up to engage Drisshia’s.

But everyone was waiting for Manus. They would attack from within Drisshia’s lines. As the enemy army moved closer through the darkness, someone swore.

“Selphid’s tits. There’s a lot of ‘em out there. I think those ‘reinforcements’ from Manus might have…doubled their numbers. Embria, you seeing this? I see multiple, multiple shadows in the clouds.”

Xith was reporting to the other officers via a speaking stone. Commander Olesm replied.

“We’re aware they reinforced, Wing Commander. Keep your squad back. Hit any Wyverns you can, but save those three Skills for my command.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wing Commander Embria listened to Xith, and the 9th Company’s leader sounded a bit leery—but he obeyed. Confidence went downhill just like crap, and Olesm sounded like he was in charge, so he was.

6th was waiting on the wings, but Narkr was watching Embria as 4th Company slowed, taking their position in Bepol’s lines.

Coincidentally, they were close to the Antinium.

“Hey! Who ate my chocolate? I know it was one of you Antinium bastards! I put it down, and you stole it! Chocolate. They said it came special from Imani’s kitchen, and there was one bag in the entire damn city! Who was it?”

Captain Vell of 2nd Squad was throwing a huge fit. The Antinium lines didn’t move. Then a familiar voice called out.

“Eat grass, Vell.”

“Who said that? Was it you, Crusader 57?”

4th Company sniggered, even Vell’s own squad.

“Order in the ranks! Are you children? Is that Significant Beavers? Good to see you. Want to join 4th?”

Wikir snapped. Significant Beavers waved at 4th Company and their expanded lines.

“No thanks! I hate heights!”

Embria saw 6th Company muttering and pointing at the madness of 4th. It hadn’t turned into outright disputes…yet. But, oh, the irony was that Maksie had come back to have a drink with them last night, and 6th and 9th were rumbling at 4th, who were angry that they were being called bug-kissing traitors when they—

“What’s that over there? Oi. Quiet.”

Wing Commander Embria saw something odd as Drisshia drew nearer. 4th Company instantly went silent, and she went to check it out.

Both armies were coming into arrow range, and shields went up. Soon they’d fight and die.

Something was up. She had noticed Olesm was here personally. She suspected he had a plan…but she had deliberately kept that to herself. Trust in the [Commander], after all. Fool the enemy.

She rode closer, breaking from 4th’s position. The others let her pass, and she rode straight into the Antinium lines. As an officer.

“What are you doing? Get into formation!”

She snapped at an Antinium squad who had not stayed in their columns and rows, but were clustered together, a prime target.

“Do you want to eat a [Fireball]? Spread out!”

Dekass had made his command immune to lightning, so whenever Antinium got hit by a [Lightning Bolt] spell, everyone called it ‘free mana’.

“They’re coming! Ancestors! Manus is in front! Six—eight hundred [Soldiers]! Get ready!”

Maksie was screaming into their linked stones. Embria whirled and heard one of the Workers speak.

“We have received a gift. Tonight is the night. We will die or they will. He walks among us. Wing Commander, do you want some?”

The Drake whirled back to him. Then she heard a roar go up across the Antinium ranks. She saw Spearmaster Lulv charging, and her scales prickled.

What was this? Why were they coming in so hot?

Then she saw him, standing amid a cluster of Antinum slowly emerging from the center. It seemed Olesm hadn’t disguised them well enough after all, or they had a mole. Embria looked up and whispered.

“Pawn.”

——

Lulv pointed at the Worker and the Painted Antinium around him. Yellow Splatters—he didn’t recognize any other high-value targets, but that was enough.

“[Mark Target]. Bring it down, no matter what!”

This was the battle. The instant he had heard Olesm had requested Pawn’s presence on the battlefield, he had known.

The Drake [Strategist] might have had a plan, but Lulv had one of his own, and it was simple: kill Pawn.

If Manus’ theories had any weight—the Free Antinium would collapse if that one died. At the very least, he was a leader on par with the others.

Pawn, Garry, Belgrade, Anand, Bird.

He had come with the best of the Painted Antinium, Lulv had no doubt. But that Worker had made one mistake:

This was a war.

Eight hundred of Manus’ [Soldiers] tore down the hill after the [Spearmaster]. Lulv raised his spear.

“[Intimidation: Spear of a Thousand Graves]!”

Manus’ [Soldiers] roared as the Gnoll leapt into the dark sky. They had seen him a hundred times. The Antinium didn’t flinch and lifted their blades.

The first ranks of Manus’ lines went through them without slowing.

——

Death. Those poor [Soldiers]. Embria whirled her spear up. The Antinium surged forwards.

“Protect Pawn! Hold your ground! Crab Battalion—advance!”

Dekass roared. The broken Battalion 3 charged. They had returned. Not one single Antinium had lived in the original five hundred.

Yet it was Crab Battalion who met Manus. They had inherited their name. Embria was about to ride towards her command when she saw the squad of Antinium unveiling their gift.

Ishkr’s gift.

She stopped, and one turned to her.

“You are Wing Commander Embria, aren’t you? Do you want some? We are going.”

“You don’t have orders for that.”

A figure moved through the darkness, and something glittered as it rose. Embria looked up and saw a familiar flag glowing in the night. Arrows swerved around her as a Worker lifted it higher, staring at what they held.

Artur. He turned to face Embria.

“I order it. Squad 2, Battalion 6. Prepare to charge. There is no strategy in it. But we will break their lines or fall.”

They were going for Pawn. Embria hesitated, looking down. She could hear Manus’ [Soldiers] shouting, roaring—but there was something different this time. They sounded—determined.

——

[Lineholders]. [War Veterans]. [Vanguards].

Manus’ [Soldiers] had been replenished, their numbers doubled. The new lot were ready to slaughter the Antinium. It was the group that had fought them these last two months who held them back. Told them something like what Embria had said.

These are not the Antinium you know.

Now, one of their [Captains] was waiting to get to the front. The Antinium were fighting, trying to stop Lulv as he advanced on that Worker and the Painted Antinium. Yet—

The Workers and Soldiers were waiting for Manus as their lines closed. The ones behind the engaged front ranks? The [Captain] muttered.

“What was that, sir?”

A [Soldier] looked at him. The [Captain] said it again. The Drake hesitated and reached for his speaking stone.

“Strategist Sokkel, sir. Report.”

“What?”

The [Strategist] snapped. The [Captain] hesitated. He said it again.

“…They looked like [Soldiers].”

“What? Have you taken leave of your senses? Get off the—”

Sokkel was bawling the [Captain] off until he realized what that meant. The Manus [Captain] didn’t know how to explain it.

They looked like [Soldiers]. They were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, fixated. Not pushing forwards, waiting. One of them held their mace grimly, and another was aiming his zweihander.

If I die, I will take you with me. They had always been Antinium. Lulv hadn’t taken anyone who mocked the Antinium’s ability to kill. Manus had taken them seriously. We know you are warriors.

These were [Soldiers]. There was a difference. The Antinium squad charged as some of their own fell back. Fell back to preserve their lives. Not a mindless attack until they died, like Dekass had first ordered.

——

“Squad 5, charge!”

They charged. Crusader 53’s mace met an enchanted shield, and the Drake holding it buckled.

Faith. Pawn was among them. He could not die. Squad 5 fought like lions. Too bad they were fighting Manticores.

“You iDiOt—”

Crusader 57 went down as Crusader 51—no, Toni—slipped, and a [Soldier] tried to run him through. The Worker charged into the way of the partisan spear. He fell back, and the Gnoll tried to tear the spear upwards.

Crusader 53 hit him on the head. The Gnoll’s head imploded. The [Soldiers] of Manus reacted as the mace crushed an enchanted helmet.

“High-level [Soldier]! Watch it!”

The Soldier whirled his mace up. It flashed, and a [Captain] turned pale.

“Oh shit. Mace arts. Take—”

A Soldier with two arms and battered steel armor lifted the mace up and rotated. Like a spinning top. The mace swung around—and then it was as big as a battering ram. A cluster of [Soldiers] vanished as it hit them like a gong.

“High-level Antinium! Mark it! Mark—”

The [Captain]’s last words were choked off by a crunch. Crusader 53’s mace smashed through the squad, scattering those who survived like pins.

[Mace Art: Big Hammer].

But he was marked.

——

“This is Aerial Team 1. We’re heading down.”

[Mages] on Wyverns. Dozens of them this time. Lulv roared amidst the sound of fighting.

“Watch out! That Antinium Worker is doing something. Watch for that [Scout]!”

“Taken care of, sir.”

The [Battle Mage] had a lock on Maksie, who was circling, trying to unleash Olesm’s Skill and dodge. He took aim, moving as the [Wyvern Rider] angled her beast in a dive.

“[Bound Spell: Hundredfold Light Arrow Volley]. [Piercing Missiles]. [Homing—]. Hey, we’re going too fast! Pull up.”

The [Mage] snapped at the [Wyvern Rider]. Instead of replying, the Drake lolled her head at him. And he realized there was an arrow through her goggles.

“[Sniper]!”

——

Archer B12 lowered his bow. He drew another arrow, put it to the string, and loosed it. A second Wyvern went down.

“We killed you!”

A scream from above. He looked up and saw an Oldblood Drake coming down at him. The Worker drew a dagger in one hand and loosed a third arrow. It went through a chest.

He wasn’t as fast as Bird. A falling Drake [Mage] shouted.

“There it is! [Sniper] marked!”

More Drakes were flying at him. B12 loosed an arrow from point-blank range at an open mouth.

Ice froze his body, but the Drake died before the breath attack could fully engulf him. The cloud of mist rose overhead as the body fell back, covering him.

The Worker ran out of the cloud and loosed an arrow through a second flier.

“How is it doing that? What level is it?”

“[Appraisal]!”

The [Mage] pointed at Archer B12. The Drake’s eyes widened. He hadn’t expected to see anything, but the class—

Worker B12 saw three Drakes go down as a shower of arrows covered his position. He looked down and saw B-Team loosing arrows at his pursuers! He raised his bow, sighted on Lulv, and loosed.

The Gnoll tried to parry the arrow with the haft of his spear and grunted. It was—heavy! He still managed it.

“Kill that [Sniper]!”

“Sir! I have identification on the class!”

The [Mage] was screaming. Archer B12’s first arrow burnt away on the magic shield. The second cracked it. The Drake tried to take cover, but he kept screaming.

“It’s not a [Sniper]! Class is [Avenger]! Say again—[Av—”

The arrow went through his enchanted robes and out the other side. Lulv’s head snapped up.

What?

[Skill – Arrows: Combined Weight of Our Wrath]

[Legacy – Long-ranged Shot received!]

[Legacy – Pinpoint Arrows received!]

[Legacy—

One after the other. With each one that died, the arrows were heavier.

Never shall we forgive Hectval. Bird was right. They had all been at that inn, and the Drakes had taken it from them.

It didn’t matter if he died. B12 stood there, ignoring the arrows striking down around him. Die. We will never stop until we’re all dead. And we pass on the weight of this class to the next one.

——

Advanced classes. Lulv felt his skin under his fur crawling. He looked up.

Pawn. The [Priest] was watching him. But he was one of two targets shielded by the Painted Antinium. The [Mages] were preparing to destroy the entire Antinium force if they had to. If they failed, Lulv would do it for them. And he would make sure these two died.

An [Avenger] only had strength if there was someone to continue the class.

Yet the other [Priest] was raising her hands higher. Pawn held his censer.

Zimrah was bare-handed. Lulv had seen her before as well. He recognized the odd words. The chanting.

“You, Hectval, you, our enemies, are doomed to Hell. There is no salvation for you. You could have lived long—you could have lived in peace. You choose this.”

There was something different in the way she spoke. Theophilus had raged at them. But Zimrah’s voice…it was sorrowful.

“Look at what you have done. We seek Heaven, and you killed the sky. You have lost everything. You were given all that we dream of, and this is what you do? You are damned. Damned for Hell.”

Sokkel calmly pointed a finger at her.

“[Highlight Target].”

Zimrah lit up, and Painted Antinium bearing shields moved in front of her. The [Priest] wasn’t done. Nor did she hide behind Pawn and Yellow Splatters, who moved to shield her. Both Antinium were looking at her. Zimrah’s voice grew louder.

“Do you think I fear death? I will never suffer in Heaven’s grace. You? YOU? YOU ARE BOUND FOR HELL. GO THERE.”

A trembling finger rose. She shrieked, and Lulv’s ears burned. Zimrah aimed a finger straight back, across Manus’ lines.

Straight at Sokkel. The Drake [Strategist] blinked as she screamed.

“[Marked For Hell].”

What? Lulv whirled around. Pawn and Yellow Splatters recoiled. But Sokkel just stumbled. He looked down. Something red, a mark, was inscribed on his chest. He brushed at it with one claw.

“Just a marker. I’m fine, [Spearmaster]. I’m—”

He stumbled again. Then clutched the arrow that B12 had punched through his armor. The Drake choked on his words. He clutched the arrow through his heart.

Then he began to scream. Lulv had been trained not to take his eyes off the enemy. But he couldn’t look away.

A void opened under Sokkel. Something reached up. It dragged him down, and he vanished, burning, his body twisting into wisps of agonized, terrified smoke.

“What was—”

A babble broke out around Manus’ lines. The [Mages] had no idea what they had just seen. But then that [Priest] pointed again.

“You.”

A Gnoll clawed at her chest as a mark burned onto her. Lulv shouted into his stone.

“Get that [Soldier] out of there! Protective spells! All of them! Now! Kill that Antinium! Priority target!”

“HELL WAITS FOR YOU ALL.”

Zimrah screamed as Pawn grabbed her arm. The [Hellspeaker Priest] was shaking as she tried to use her Skill again, and the marked [Soldier] was covered by a line of shields.

Manus’ lines redoubled their fighting. They were prepared to die. But that?

That Worker had to die. Lulv snarled.

“[Mages]! Unleash!”

The skies lit up. Pawn looked up as dozens of Tier 4 and Tier 5 spells came screaming down.

——

It was not about Pawn. He didn’t recognize them. These [Crusaders]…Zimrah. They were changed.

His Crusade battled Manus around him. Pawn watched Antinium die.

“I sent them to this fate.”

One of his hands touched his heart, for a second, then lifted the censer once more. He had sent them. And he would have sent them again. Because Hectval would not stop.

It hurt too much to see. He had been forbidden to walk the battlefield, and he had obeyed Xrn and the Free Queen because he was afraid.

Afraid that he would die and never see Erin again. Leave the Antinium without first building Heaven on earth.

Simply afraid of dying. Afraid he was needed—

And most of all, afraid of who he might become. Hatred and wonder warred in Pawn’s chest, and both of them were him.

He had seen the depths of madness and a glorious warrior before. To his right, Calruz stood, roaring as he fought, swinging his axe down at Manus’ [Soldiers] as Antinium sang. To his left, Zimrah was still screaming, the most hopeful of his [Acolytes] condemning the living to something else.

Why fire? What hands were those? They were not Antinium hands. They were clawed and—

Pawn saw a glowing Worker emerge from the air. Then another. They leapt forwards, grappling, trying to slow that Gnoll. He slew them so fast Pawn barely blinked.

He was not meant for this battlefield. He knew that. His faith fell before steel, and it was a bitter realization. But he had not come here to win this battle alone.

The [Priest of Wrath and Sky] tightened his grip on his censer. Two hands were clasped together in prayer, and Yellow Splatters was watching Lulv.

Olesm had command of them. He had only asked for Pawn to come for one reason. There was something Olesm couldn’t defeat. So Pawn bowed his head in prayer as comets and fire rained down. He lifted his arms and looked up.

“…[I Walked Under Heaven’s Sky]. You cannot break us that easily.”

To combat Manus’ flying [Mages], Olesm had requested Xrn take the field.

He had gotten Pawn. For all her magic, there were things he could do that the [Thaumaturge] had never dreamed of. The [Priest] looked up and smiled.

The night changed to day.

Pawn thought he heard someone singing to him.

——

Across the battlefield, Antinium slowed in their fighting and gazed upwards in awe. Lulv threw up his paws as the sky turned blue. Daylight filtered down for one moment—then it hung in the air like the lights of the sky.

Sky-blue radiance mixed with the night. It threw the struggling armies into darkness.

“What is that? What is…? Where are my spells?”

They were gone. Confused [Mages] threw more spells, and they vanished into the glorious vision of the sky.

“What level of Skill is that?”

It made no sense! No ordinary spell could do that! Lulv snarled. He stabbed, his spear flurrying through bodies. He’d do it himself. That Skill didn’t stop his spear.

Pawn knew it too. He was retreating, his job done. Lulv felt it instinctively.

If he beat magic…Lulv could still kill him. Yet the Worker had one more trick. The Worker pointed, and Lulv twisted, but though he ducked the pointing finger—the Skill still hit him.

“[Bane of Luck].”

What? A luck-based—

Lulv struck the ground, and his feet slipped on a patch of mud. His boots were enchanted to stick—it must have just been the perfect angle for him to slip. He caught himself—and a Soldier charged into him. Two hands caught his spear, the other two began to punch at him.

“Die.”

Lulv headbutted Yellow Splatters, trying to wrestle his spear away. They slammed backwards—the [Spearmaster] was higher-level and far quicker. He reached for his dagger to stab the Soldier and felt the kiss of pain on his back.

“Spearmaster! I’m so—”

One of his [Soldiers] had run him through from behind when Lulv and the Antinium went crashing backwards! The Gnoll howled in fury.

“Advance and kill those Workers! Now!”

He looked left and right, but the charge had stalled out. Manus had slowed down? Then he heard desperate shouts from the officers filling Sokkel’s spot.

“Liscor’s 6th on the left! Intercepting! 11th is hitting us—kill that Worker!”

“4th Company, approaching! [Spearmaster]! Watch out! Something’s wrong!”

Lulv looked up—and the bright light of blue skies and dream of heaven over the battlefield grew brighter still.

——

Embria looked down as Ishkr’s gift flared to life. Artur lifted his banner higher, and the squads of Antinium around him turned.

“We will charge into the enemy. Have no fear. Look.”

The Worker pointed at something one of the [Crusaders] held. It was…something from The Wandering Inn. Embria recognized it.

It had first arrived as a simple little thing. A neatly shuttered contraption made of wood, carefully filled to the brim with as much fuel as possible.

Mere tinder. It was there to keep the spark burning. The fire glowing.

She looked down and saw Glory. That fleeting, bright pink flame, like the very essence of the feeling it contained. Something that would never last would come to [Soldiers] and the brave and linger in memory.

Bright. The lantern burned as the squad holding it gathered around.

But it had not remained as a lantern. It had caught fire. Perhaps Ishkr had packed it with too much fuel. Or perhaps—the Gnoll had known it would ignite.

It covered the Soldier who held it. And it was burning on more than just the lanterns. The Workers and Soldiers had tossed everything onto the blaze.

Now, it burned amidst the Antinium, and more squads looked at it. Artur approached, flag waving.

He did not, as Embria thought, lower it and set his flag on fire. That would be a waste of a good flag. However, the Worker looked at her.

“Squads. You will charge with me. Formation.”

Antinium were gathering around. And as Embria watched—she saw them lifting their blades.

A Soldier dipped his spear’s head into the fire, and it clung to the tip. A trio of Soldiers placed their blades into the fire, and they burned with Glory.

“Wing Commander Embria?”

4th Company was moving. The Drake looked down. The Worker helping hold the burning brazier aloft stared at her.

Offering it to…

“Oh, Ancestor’s tits.”

Wing Commander Embria raised her spear. She looked at it, as 6th and 9th Companies began to sortie. She knew her own command was watching her. Perhaps Xith and Narkr didn’t see—but Embria would never deny this moment.

She lowered her spear, and a Soldier raised a hatchet laid into the fire. The Antinium raising their blade touched it to hers. Just for a moment. Embria looked around as a company burning with magical flames looked at her. She raised her spear into the sky—then whirled her mount.

Artur charged. And 4th Company rode into Manus’ lines. Following a Drake whose spear burned with pink fire.

Did it do anything? Perhaps not. Glory wasn’t much of an effective weapon. But she held it. The Antinium following Artur raced into battle carrying the dream of every [Soldier]. Fighting, the flames flickering on their blades.

Burning out. Fading.

So brilliant before they died.

Embria raised her spear, fighting to reach Lulv. The Gnoll deflected her first strike, and second. He whirled his spear, taking her on, running her through the leg, slashing one of Yellow Splatters’ hands off.

He would not fall. And she did not have the skill to bring him down alone. Yet still—

The [Spear of Glory] fought, her class burning bright.

——

Manus was slowing down. Lulv looked right and left. It was more than Liscor’s companies coming to their defense. He sensed it.

The Antinium had too many levels.

A [Crusader] raised his [Reinforced Shield]. [Battering Charge]. He slammed into a Drake, angling his sword. [Quick Stab]!

Three Skills? Those weren’t even all of them! A squad was holding down one of Manus’, refusing to give ground.

Who? Who was responsible for this? Lulv looked around and saw a Drake sitting on a horse. He howled, pointing at the high-level Antinium [Crusader] forcing some of his people back.

“Mark that target!”

The shield-bearing Antinium went down. But another stepped up. And then—it happened.

——

At last. Olesm held the Kaalblade in his claw, but he had seen how you died.

He had been forced to watch. Feed the Antinium to Manus.

He had done it. Erin would never forgive him. Olesm had watched the Antinium march back, the wounded, the survivors.

And he sent them into battle again. While they burned out—

He saved the sparks.

Erin’s fire raced through part of the army. Olesm’s heart squeezed as he saw Ishkr’s gift. But Maviola’s legacy burned brighter still.

“High-level Antinium—mark target!”

“We have a [Scattershot] on our position. Marking squad for—”

Manus’ babble was perfectly audible through the pilfered speaking stone Olesm was holding. How stupid of them. Did they think Olesm couldn’t tap their lines? He looked at the squads they were marking.

It wasn’t just one Antinium or two. It seemed like dozens of [Crusaders] were suddenly manifesting high-level Skills.

Because they were. Olesm looked down and saw one of Bepol’s two Antinium squads on the front. Survivors.

Members of squads who’d been nearly wiped out. Veterans he rotated into back lines or safer engagements. Out of Manus’ crosshairs.

Because they couldn’t read the [Crusader]’s levels any more than Olesm could. Now, the Antinium who had waited so long ran straight into Manus’ ranks. Olesm lifted a claw.

“Now.”

The Level 21 [Commander] used his new Skill.

“[Our Suffering We Returned Twofold]. Antinium! Push Manus back.”

His voice boomed across the battlefield. He saw Lulv look at him. Olesm saw the first showers of arrows coming from Manus’ side and stepped back.

“Shields up.”

He took cover as he watched. This time—there was no [Lady] of fire to break Hectval’s lines. There was no need for it.

The [Crusaders] began to burn.

——

“Kill them all. No quarter until they’re all dead. Not one step back.”

Lulv was prepared to die on this battlefield. He’d run that Drake with the spear through and cut her stomach. The Soldier, Yellow Splatters, was moving back with Pawn under guard.

They all had to die. Even if Lulv died—he saw what Olesm had done.

“Counter-levelling. Not one escapes. Do you understand?”

“Affirmative, sir!”

Even if he sacrificed half of his command—the Antinium’s grand experiment here would fail. That was what Lulv believed.

Then he saw something strange.

A Worker stood in his squad, fighting with those pink, flaming blades. [Crusaders] died around him. Manus’ [Soldiers] went down too, but they pressed on.

The Worker was stumbling. Wounded. He raised his shield as a Drake came for him. The last Worker in his squad looked around.

Then his eyes flashed. Lulv’s spear twitched as he saw the Worker raise his shield and the [Pike Expert] trying to run him through recoiled in a blaze of light.

“What?”

When Lulv saw him again, the Worker was a foot taller. Soldiers did a double-take as a giant Worker swung a sword, hatchet, and pair of shields, knocking down Manus’ [Soldiers].

The [Templar] lifted his sword to the sky and seemed really disappointed when a giant blade didn’t erase everything in front of him. However, he charged.

“Death.”

He ran into Lulv. The Gnoll took a heavy blow on his spear and then rammed it through the chestplate. He saw the Antinium fighting and twisted the spear.

No more of you! Not one remains! The Gnoll howled at the strange sky overhead.

Then he saw another strange Antinium appear. And another.

——

First it was one. They all remembered him.

Crusader 51 had been the first. Another [Crusader] reached the limit of his class. More. I call for more.

They had leveled. They had suffered. They believed.

Their classes began to change. The [Spearmaster] tried to kill them. Manus marked targets. But this time—there were too many of them.

“Hold the line! We fight alone.”

A Soldier strode forwards. He was not taller, but he spoke, and in such tones!

[My Noble Virtue: Speech].

Another Worker had grown like the one Lulv had killed. He pushed back a fighting Armored Antinium, running at the Manus [Soldiers] who backed up, visibly disturbed.

[My Noble Virtue: Stature].

A third [Templar] stood upon a bluff, fighting under a dome of light. It seemed like those around him could not die.

[My Noble Virtue: Protection].

——

The [Templar] of the Free Antinium began to advance. Lulv, snarling, looked left and right and realized—

They had flanked Manus. Liscor’s companies were cycle-charging their sides, and Olesm had neutralized the [Mage] spells from above. They had to descend and risk being shot or circle helplessly.

“Yayde Re!”

And there were Yoldenites, skirmishing with the Drisshians. Wait. Drisshia was pulling out!

“They’re fleeing! Spearmaster, we can’t stop their flight! Liscor’s right wing just overran their center! Spearmaster!”

They were—everywhere. Lulv’s spear killed everything he saw. But there were so many. Shining warriors. Sudden healing. That [Priest] aiming that mark of Hell at them.

Lulv went still in the fighting. He looked around and saw it all clearly.

A moment of calm ran over him. The fight drained out of him. He raised his speaking stone and calmly, in a relaxed tone of voice, even, breathed.

“Retreat. Retreat in good order.”

All the officers were silent a moment, then the order went down the lines.

“Sir? What’s our rally point?”

Someone asked after a moment. Lulv knew they knew. But he said it.

“Manus. We’re going home. We’ve lost this war.”

He stepped back, and the Antinium advance slowed as Olesm saw the retreat and halted the fighting. To preserve his forces. Lulv looked up at him and raised his spear.

Well done. The Drake offered him a rude gesture in return.

Lulv, [Spearmaster]

The Hectval Alliance objected to his pulling out of the front. Lulv ignored it. He was faced with speculation, officers trying to make sense of it all.

He ignored that, too.

The [Soldiers] of Manus were silent as they just…quit the front. Spearmaster Lulv walked with them, his spear on his shoulder. They would walk back to Manus. Or ride…Lulv was sure he’d need to catch a Wyvern flight to report directly.

However, he needed to walk with them. He had led them there. When the [Spearmaster] did speak, it was to all of them.

“I will make a verbal report, of course. But in my writing, which I think will be sealed to only the High Command of each Walled City—edited for the other ones, perhaps—I will write this.”

The soldiers and officers looked up and listened as the Gnoll spoke.

“To Dragonspeaker Luciva. I, Spearmaster Lulv, held my command in the fighting as long as I deemed the risks appropriate. In hindsight, I believe we engaged with the Antinium force too long. We have made three significant errors in our thinking.”

He counted on his paws. Three.

“Firstly. We do not understand the new classes the Antinium possess. They do not just ‘level’ as we do. They are capable of using a new type of Skill which is neither magic nor strictly a warrior’s Skills. I do not know its nature, but it is a highly powerful class and abilities I have never encountered before.”

More than just intimidation or [Fear] spells. Something about the way they talked…Lulv stared at his first finger. The most terrifying Skill he had seen on that battlefield had not been Crusader 51’s Skills.

It had been that Skill that Sokkel died to. Did it kill something more than his life? Lulv feared it. And he was sure that the other [Soldiers] feared it, too.

“Second, we have underestimated Liscor’s ability to work with the Antinium. They are not merely tolerant of the Antinium or see them as an asset. They are actively supporting and fighting alongside Workers and Soldiers. As…fellow [Soldiers].”

Manus’ forces stirred, but no one voiced any dissent as Lulv went on.

“Which brings me to my last point. Before thoughts about debilitating Liscor’s command or taking drastic measures against the city…I, Spearmaster Lulv, believe it is more beneficial to attempt to subvert the loyalty of the Free Hive. To study and learn what the Antinium are doing concretely. If necessary, to make radical steps to ensure that the Free Antinium do not join the rest of the Hives in a possible Third Antinium War. I suggest Manus employ every diplomatic angle we can.”

Dead silence. Everyone listened as Lulv went on, as if he stood in front of the Dragonspeaker. When he did—he would say the exact same thing.

“Failing that, my only other recourse is to ask if there is a…secret failsafe. Something beyond even the Security Council’s knowledge. A hidden Tier 8 spell. If we have one, I suggest we use it. If we do not, we must reconsider everything about the Antinium. Because I will swear on my class—the Antinium are either capable of this as a species, or their class enables it. I thought I could kill them all, but their greatest asset is not their new classes, abilities, or potential alone. In battle, they were counter-leveling without needing to sleep. If we learn how to do the same, Manus will benefit to no end. Otherwise? I mark the Free Antinium as the greatest threat in any Hive, including the Grand Queen’s.”

Spearmaster Lulv stopped. He looked around and waited.

“Thoughts? Objections?”

No one had any. So he lowered his spear, saluted the other [Soldiers], and went to make his report.

Olesm, [Strategist]-[Commander]

[Conditions Met: Strategist → Eleleu Strategos Class!]

[Class Consolidation: Commander removed.]

[Eleleu Strategos Level 35!]

[Skill – War Cry: Eleleu obtained!]

[Skill – Battlefield: Galuc’s Tunnel obtained!]

[Skill – Army: Charred Spellcasting obtained!]

[Spell – Army: [Firebolt] obtained!]

Olesm woke up, listened to his Skills, and then rolled out of bed. He wrote a response back to the Council, who wanted all kinds of confirmations after his late report. Then Olesm went to brush his teeth, comb his neck spines, have a cup of ‘coffee’ from Liscor, and remembered.

“Damn. Gelatin. Maybe we can get some.”

And the war continued.

Oh, not in the same way. Manus was gone. Olesm had double and triple-checked, and he would keep his guard up, but he thought they were actually gone.

They’d seen a real defeat. After hitting Liscor for three months, Liscor had been able to hit back. If Olesm had needed to, he would have called in Belgrade and really hammered them. But the [Crusaders] were enough.

Yet the war wasn’t over.

The Alliance was gone. They’d retreated practically back to their cities. Now, Lism informed Olesm, they were negotiating for a cease-fire. Olesm wrote back, repeating his words in his bleary state so he was sure he had them all down.

“Liscor’s Council is free to handle its end. However, please bear in mind that the army will continue its advance, and we can discuss a siege of the cities. The Alliance’s terms…should be no less than exceptionally generous. Also, please, we must keep our promises to the Yoldenites. A continuation of this war may see a fracture between Luldem, Hectval, and Drisshia.”

Even if the war ended, Olesm suspected Liscor’s army would need to patrol the Yoldenites’ territory, especially if they wanted to figure out how to create a trade route.

He realized then that the army wouldn’t disband when the war ended. What happened when Hectval made alliances with other cities, or someone else attacked? He would be the [Commander]—no, the [Strategos]—of Liscor unless their main army came back.

Olesm sat there, blinking in the morning’s light, and realized he was the leader of Liscor’s army. He stared into the cup, took a sip of the coffee, and shuddered.

“Gah. That’s terribly bitter. Artur? Do we have anything to put in this? Maybe milk. How’s morale? Break out double rations for breakfast and pull me up a roster. We’re rotating everyone who just fought into Liscor on vacation. I don’t care if we’re marching them down instead of the door, everyone over the next month. Tell Belgrade I want to speak with him—and ask Embria if she consolidated her class. Oh, and Captain Voita after her…”

He got back to work. Olesm continued his war right up until he got word of the gigantic battles in the Gnoll Plains. Then he was racing, racing his entire army back to Liscor.

But that…was a bit later.

Interlude – Satar 1 (Revised)

When she was unhappy or upset, the young woman could always count on a ball of fur to slowly somersault into the room. Light brown fur, like fresh spring bark, two ears, which perked up, and a little black nose that still seemed too large for his face. Curious brown eyes—and that high-pitched voice which had yet to deepen.

“Satar. I’m bored.”

He never came when she was in a good mood. Somehow, her little brother always knew when the least convenient time was.

She wished she had a cat instead. Or a dog. Little brothers were far less adorable, although other people doted on him.

“Go away, Cers.”

The Gnoll boy did another somersault forwards.

“But I’m bored.”

“I’m busy.”

She snapped back. The young [Shaman] of the Silverfang tribe put in her earrings—silver, of course, but with a bit of orange jade hung in one, and a tiny sigil of Silverfang’s crest…a silver fang…in the other.

Normally she wore other jewelry, because the traditional earrings were a bit…embarrassing. Big dangling earrings that marked her as a [Shaman]. She felt they were too old for her. Something she’d be happier wearing in…twenty years. Thirty. But they did make her look the part.

The occasion meant that Satar had gotten out her best [Shaman] attire, and she had even cleaned specks of wood off the largely ornamental staff. Cers poked a paw into her folded clothes, and she snapped.

“Cers. I’ll tell Cetrule!”

His ears flattened. Cetrule was his father. Also, the [Chief Shaman] of the Silverfangs, although Satar happened to know his real class was [Shaman of Purity]. He was Satar’s step-father, and Satar’s mother was Akrisa Silverfang, so she was privy to information like that.

“You won’t. Mother said [Shamans] are supposed to be responsible and deal with matters themselves.”

The Gnoll cub peered up suspiciously at Satar. She ground her teeth together as she snatched the top of her outfit up.

No robes for her like a [Mage]. That was fine; they looked hot with fur. Satar got a Corusdeer hide top—again, decorated with Silverfang motifs and lined with silvery fur—and leggings.

Not full-body cloth. On a Human or Drake it might have been considered scandalous, but Cers was still allowed to run around without any clothes on. Gnolls had a natural set of clothes. It was called fur, and some Gnolls walked around with only a loincloth. Some Gnolls didn’t walk around with any clothing.

Satar had seen them in the Meeting of Tribes, and they were fully-grown adults. Weird. For her, the old [Shaman]’s apparel was a bit too loose. She didn’t use it often. She preferred casual clothes, something like she saw Humans and Drakes in cities wearing.

There was a difference between species. Differences and similarities, but one was that Satar didn’t think of Cetrule strictly as a step-father or even a parent. She sometimes did, but that was because she was aware that was how Drakes would look at it.

He was just Cetrule. Satar had never known her father, but she did know his tribe.

Ekhtouch. The famously talented Gnoll tribe of mere hundreds who sometimes intermarried or had children with other Gnolls. Her mother had met an Ekhtouch Gnoll and had her.

Because of that, Satar was gifted. It wasn’t just that Ekhtouch Gnolls were taller from exercise, diet, and obsessive pair-matching through countless generations alone. They had Skills and passed down the best of their traits to their children.

That didn’t mean Satar was as tall as some of Ekhtouch, who were giants to rival Minotaurs, Centaurs, or even people with faint Giant blood. She was ‘only’ six feet and two inches, which was average for Gnolls. Some of Ekhtouch were up to eight feet tall, and there was one of them—their [Paragon]—who was over nine feet tall!

Thinking of them, Satar had an idea. The older sister turned to her brother with that too-casual air. She was nineteen; he was nine.

“Cers, why don’t you find the other kids if you’re bored?”

“I don’t want to play. They’re all with the Ekhtouch kids, and they cheat. They just want to play Triumphs.”

That was that game where you did complex things to prove your superior coordination.

“They’re just more coordinated than you, Cers. They’re Ekhtouch; it was how they were born.”

“That’s cheating.”

Satar sighed. But she had to admit—the other tribe she had come from was snobbish. She’d half-hoped they might like her…but the first night their tribes had met, one of the Ekhtouch Gnolls had come up to her and said she had done alright for herself, despite her mother’s line.

That happened to be Akrisa Silverfang, Chieftain of the Silverfangs, the mining-merchant tribe. But that was how they saw it, and Cetrule, her mentor and [Chief Shaman], had told her not to make an issue of it.

Satar had wanted to, but Cetrule was probably right. She wished he weren’t her mentor, though.

He was Silverfang’s best [Shaman] bar none, but he was also her mother’s partner, and it was…not unpleasant, but awkward. Sometimes she heard him dressing down another [Shaman], but he was always suggesting and offering opinions rather than telling her she was out of line.

Gnolls were not shy about that, usually. You earned your place in a tribe, if you were Honored—and Cetrule as [Chief Shaman] was certainly Honored Cetrule—you could tell another Gnoll when they were making a mistake. But Satar was Akrisa’s daughter…

She didn’t want to let him down. But Cers was poking his head into Satar’s spell-pouch, and she raised a fist.

“Cers—I’ll hit you! I have to take part in the Retellings. Wait for me, or go play!”

“I don’t want to.”

“Go find—yes, go find the new girl! Krshia’s ward! Mri! She’s with Gireulashia—the [Paragon]. Don’t you want to see what she’s up to?”

Satar wheedled. She felt like that wasn’t Mri’s name, but the little brown Gnoll with the gold ears was a mystery to Satar. Not only had she befriended Gireulashia, the [Paragon] of Ekhtouch herself, she seemed…important for reasons no one would explain.

Akrisa had stopped meeting other Chieftains just to welcome Mri personally and speak to her in her tent. Alone.

Well, with Krshia, her sister, Satar’s aunt, who fascinated the young [Shaman] so much, and Cetrule. But not with Satar or Cers…that meant it was important. Also, no less than Torishi Weatherfur and Feshi Weatherfur, both famous Gnolls from a famous tribe, also visited Mri. Oh! And the Golden Gnoll, Qwera, and her two friends. And Rose and Inkar seemed to know who Mri was, and all the other Silverfangs from Liscor!

She was important, and Satar ground her teeth, resenting not being trusted with the secret. Akrisa told her she was a full [Shaman] of the tribe despite her age because of her status—yet she didn’t tell her important information. She was lumped in the same category as Cers.

Cers smelled his own poo when he was done.

However, it seemed Cers was on the same page as his sister, for once. He glared and flopped onto his side.

“I don’t like her.”

“Why?”

“She doesn’t talk to me. And everyone says nice things to her. And Mother says I can’t bother her. And she gets to eat lobster whenever she wants. And she’s got a magic wand and I don’t.”

“Woe is you. Cers, get away from my spell-pouch.”

He was sniffing at it. Satar snatched it up and made sure she had all the compartments in order. She was almost ready…she took a few deep breaths.

“I’m ready. I can do this.”

“Why are you nervous? It’s boring. Anyone could do it, even you. Only baby cubs like Retellings.”

So said the nine-year-old. Satar glared at him.

“So don’t follow me.”

Of course, he did. Maybe it was some twisted form of support. As Satar hurried out of the Silverfang camp and towards the platform just outside the private area, she saw a crowd had gathered.

True to Cers’ words, they were all very young Gnolls, some with parents or older siblings or guardians in attendance. It did nothing to stop the man-eating butterflies in Satar’s stomach. She saw them turn to her and put on her best smile.

Her head rose, and she gazed out over the heads of little Gnolls who ran about on all fours. Brown fur, jet-black, even reds or blondes, though those were far less common. She had even seen Gnolls with faint purple to their fur, although it might have been dye.

The older Gnolls turned to grey, but kept most of their original color. Not that they were just fur; they wore colorful clothing mixed with dyes from across Izril and the world. Some had jewelry like her; others had dyed parts of their fur. Weatherfur’s Gnolls were practically pieces of art in and of themselves, having bright splashes of color on their fur.

Some Gnolls even dyed themselves in more dramatic ways. Fur, like clothing, was an expression, and every Plains Gnoll tribe of note was here, so they were incredibly varied. Any color of fur, brown eyes for the most part…

But no white fur. Never pure white fur, even as an aesthetic. Satar approached them at a trot, then realized she needed to slow down.

Slow. Walk! [Shamans] do not run! Unless there’s a fire or monster attack. Cetrule’s words came to her, and she tried to turn her stride into a confident stroll.

Cers slammed into the back of her legs and she nearly went over. The boy backed up, and Satar heard a titter from her audience.

Wonderful. She was sweating already, and not from her costume. She wished another older [Shaman] like Volah was here. But she was experienced enough to do this on her own.

Satar strode up onto the platform for her audience of maybe…at least a hundred…and her mind went blank. She hadn’t done this before so many. Hundred? There might be three hundred here!

Silverfang was a big tribe, but these were guests and this was the Meeting of Tribes—this was a free event anyone could attend. The Gnoll children were chewing on food from the free stalls, and Satar saw Cers plop down in the grass. She tried to speak, and her memorized lines she hadn’t bothered to refresh slipped away from her and tripped out of her tongue.

“Good morning. Um—greetings, Gnolls of the Meetings of Tribes! I am Satar. Shaman Satar of the Silverfangs. The Silverfang Tribe, that is! On behalf of the Meeting of Tribes, it is my honor to offer a small Retelling to you all now.”

Oh no. She saw some of the older Gnolls look resigned, just like her heart sank when she had to go to a Retelling and a bad speaker was doing it. Satar tried to rally.

She looked at Cers, cursing him for all of it, and saw the little Gnoll boy staring up at her. He hadn’t run off, and strangely…he was sitting there, not fidgeting at all. His head propped on his paws, and he stared up at her. Because she was doing a Retelling.

Like he always did, her little brother stared up at Satar when he was bored. He would seek out the [Shaman], or even when she was younger, as an [Apprentice]…and he would always say…

“Tell me a story?”

The young Gnoll woman stopped panicking. Satar saw her people look at her, even a few non-Gnolls passing by pausing to listen. She began as if she were talking to Cers.

“Tell me a story, Satar?”

Oh, alright…

——

This was how she told it to Cers each time, since he’d beg her to tell it to him again and again.

“Once, long ago, so long that every book ever written about it has crumbled to dust, so long that stone almost forgot and the world looked very different, Dragons flew the skies of the world in great numbers. Hundreds.”

“Hundreds?”

“Thousands. Tens of thousands, maybe.”

“Is that a lot?”

“That’s…yes. Dragons of every color and scale. Good ones, bad ones—Dragons. They lived on Izril, you know. Before the High Passes ever existed, Dragons were a species you could find everywhere. So were Giants.”

“I’ve seen Giants.”

“Not half-Giants, Cers. Real Giants. So tall they would get tired of walking through clouds and sit. Back then, you know, there were other species too. Djinni—you know them?”

“Bottle people?”

“Yes…and Jinn. Their half-mortal descendants. There were also, oh…Harpies? Lots of species. I don’t know them all, but there were Harpies who flew like Garuda, only they had no hands; they were more like people with wings for arms. We also had Elves, back then. Gnomes too. Halflings, I think.”

“What’re they?”

“Half…people? I don’t know. Stop interrupting my story. I’m just repeating the Retellings, and I have to get it right.”

“Okay.”

“In those days, Dragons created Drakes, their descendants. They built the first Walled Cities afterwards. Afterwards…the last Elves vanished, and only half-Elves remained. The Dwarves appeared, but they grew taller. The Gnomes vanished, and some species died. Some moved; many fought. There were times when other species ruled the world. Selphids, half-Elves, Humans…other species appeared, like Stitch-Folk.”

“Goblins?”

“No, they were always there too.”

“How about…Antinium?”

A little face shivered as Cers curled up. The girl stopped and shivered too, but Satar shook her head.

“This is long ago, Cers. Long before the Antinium. Before Humans even came to Izril. The point is…back then. When Drakes appeared. When the Walled Cities rose and fell. Through empire and war and cataclysm…always, always. We were here.”

Gnolls.

Across every age were Gnolls. But the same could be said of every species. That they had survived was an accomplishment in itself, but there was more to it than that.

“How come we don’t have a Walled City, Satar? Drakes have six. Why don’t we have a kingdom? I want an orchard.”

The boy would run around her, too impatient to sit, and miss the pained look in his mother’s eyes. Satar would have to catch him, sit him in her lap and comb his hair as she explained. She’d hand him a grasshopper she found in his fur, and he’d watch it hop away as she lowered her voice.

“We did. We had many things, Cers. We had a kingdom and cities. In older days, we were everywhere. We were in the stories each species tells.”

“Everyone is in stories, Satar. I’m going to be in stories. I’ll be a [Hero].”

“Not a [Chieftain]? You were a [Chieftain] yesterday.”

“Then I’ll be a [Hero Chieftain]. You can tell my story.”

She pulled at his ears and he squirmed. Satar shook her head.

“Maybe you will be. The thing is, Cers, we are in other species’ stories if they bother to tell them right. Think about it. We’re in their stories. When Goldesh the Vanquisher reclaimed Izril’s north from the Troll King, on the eve of the last battle, he sent a Courier to rouse every paw, hand, and claw to battle. He sent Tekre Fleetpaw. When the [Knight-King] Zotn went into his duel against his mortal nemesis, the shape-changing Venom Dragon, Ischeveil, he entrusted his belongings and will to the Explorer Enheirr, who later took it through his kingdom, as it descended into chaos, to his daughter.”

Stories. Cers wrinkled his nose, trying to figure out what they had in common. Satar explained it for him.

“We were travelers. Explorers! We went everywhere, from Baleros to Chandrar, to the depths of the sea, to the highest mountains. Into the sky, just like they say in Great Plains Sing. Remember? ‘Chieftain Seru’nial took her tribe beyond the clouds’. We were there.”

“Why aren’t we now?”

Satar exhaled quietly.

“Terrible things, Cers. Some people did terrible things. We survived them all. When Dragons scorched the entire world, we hid underground for a long, long time. A terrible time, in the darkness. We had terrible enemies. Humans took the north from us, and Drakes have always made war with us. We were exiled from Terandria. The storm that covered Chandrar in darkness and midnight and created Zeikhal—we fled Baleros. We shrank. We waned. Every species has, but we…we have great enemies.”

It was not a fair story. It was a story to explain why they were here, in a fraction of a continent, and not the world over. A story to remember.

“Not just other species or monsters or calamity either. There are…things out there Gnolls must be wary of. Like..Raskghar. If you’re bad, if you’re naughty and break the rules, they’ll come for you.”

The little boy would hide his head in her fur. She wouldn’t tell him the really bad stories, the ones that made her stay up at night. But that was what she had to tell them.

——

Her audience was listening quietly now. Even a Drake, a Gazer, and some other non-Gnolls were listening. Satar liked stories, and she told the glorious days of the Gnolls well. They had known kingdoms. They had sailed across the world, often helping other species in their stories. Now, though, she uttered one word and felt the hair on her own fur stand up.

“Raskghar.”

The children drew together or looked for their parents, because it was no longer a myth. It was real. Satar hesitated, but the Retellings were largely the same, even if the circumstances had changed.

“Remember to watch for them. Light the camps at night. Be good. Help your tribe. Because Gnolls have faded not when calamity struck—when it has struck, we have always survived. Terrible things happen, but we fell because we did not stand together. When we quarreled and fought in the darkness and turned on each other or acted like monsters…then came the Raskghar, creeping. Remember we are all Gnolls.”

She saw them nodding, looking at each other. Gnolls from every tribe, at this Meeting of Gnolls. They drew together, and Satar, emboldened, went on.

“Raskghar and…one more thing. If ever you should meet a strange Gnoll on your journey, or see one upon the plains with pale white fur, beware. Beware, for there is one kind of Gnoll that is marked that way. Not with color, but with fur as white as snow, all over.”

Her audience looked up, and someone murmured the name as Satar spoke it.

“Doombringers.”

The very word made the adults who’d been idly listening suddenly sit up. The children had already been transfixed, Satar saw, as she looked around solemnly.

“It’s not to scare you. Well, not just to scare you, young ones. They exist. Gnolls with no tribe—though they are of Plains Gnolls, not City Gnolls. Let me tell you a story of the Knocte Tribe and the Beast of Albez.”

The way you did a Retelling was stories within stories. So Satar set up the small, prosperous Knocte tribe, who lived in the foothills of Albez, long ago.

“They were a happy tribe, not one with great, high-level Gnolls, but happy. One day, one of the [Shepherds] saw a white Gnoll in the distance. She was headed towards their tribe, and though the [Shepherd] knew better, she did not chase the Gnoll off. She went to her [Chieftain], and her [Chieftain] knew better, but the Knocte tribe did not leave, though they saw the white Gnoll and knew what she was. The white Gnoll came among them, and they refused to deal with the white Gnoll, the Doombringer. But they did not do anything more, and for that—they suffered. The travelling Gnoll left, and the Knocte tribe thought that was the end of it. The next night—a terrible beast emerged from the foothills of Albez and fell upon them.”

——

When she heard the word, ‘Doombringer’, one of the Silverfangs leaning on a table and listening sat up. She was Silverfang, but she was also from Liscor, and the word meant more to her than other Gnolls.

Senior Guardswoman Beilmark glanced at Satar, but the [Shaman] was doing a Retelling. And she didn’t know. As she went on, her young audience drew together.

Wide eyes. Beilmark had heard stories like this growing up, but she’d forgotten how…grisly they were. The Beast of Albez fell upon the Knocte tribe, devouring them, unable to be killed. They tried to flee or hide, but it hunted them down. The [Guardswoman] gritted her teeth, listening as Satar told the Beast of Albez story.

The wide-eyed children were shaking when Satar’s low voice came to the end of it. Not just because the young Gnoll could project her voice or she had a way with words. She was a good storyteller and augmented her story with little bits of powder or magical components from her pouch.

A darkening of the air. Little shapes of Gnolls—the hint of teeth, a growl in the air as she cast cantrips.

“They did not heed the warning. By the last day of the week, the Beast of Albez had devoured the tribe. It sat there, fat and evil and sleeping—until a warrior came to slay it. Another Gnoll, who took vengeance for the Knocte tribe. But, oh! If only they had listened to the warnings. When you see a Doombringer—stay away. Flee the doom it brings! Tell your Chieftain so tragedy can be avoided. That is what white fur betokens. They bring doom. Misfortune. Wherever they go…”

She looked around, and Beilmark heard the Retellings again. As every Gnoll child heard it many times throughout their lives.

“…they bring only misfortune and death. But let us not speak too long on Doombringers and Raskghar and darkness, yes? My next tale…”

It was just one part of the Retellings. And the Retellings were a tradition that encompassed so much history that Satar could speak for seven days and nights and not come close to recounting all the tales—not that she knew all of them.

[Shamans] spoke like this; it was one of their duties. An activity for children, a peaceful one rather than hunts or gathering. Just part of life in the tribes.

Beilmark listened. However, she couldn’t smile or applaud Satar like Cers or the audience when the [Shaman] was done. They were stories of Doombringers, glory, downfall, and evil.

But they were wrong. A little girl with white fur lived in the Silverfang’s own camp. And this was the story they told about her. This was why they hunted her. These were the stories Mrsha had heard about Doombringers herself, growing up, Beilmark had no doubt.

Now Mrsha was one. A Gnoll with white fur. Doombringer. Beilmark shook her head. She turned away from the tribal activity she had remembered so fondly.

It was wrong.

——

Satar got into trouble for her Retelling, and she didn’t know why. She stood in the [Chieftain]’s tent, her home, with Cers whining and pacing around the tent outside. A weary Gnoll with silver-paint markings, a metal-tooth necklace, and that put-upon hunch to her shoulders when she was angry sat there.

Akrisa Silverfang. To her right was her sister, the [Shopkeeper], the Councilwoman of Liscor that had brought back an amazing gift—who had helped expose the Drakes’ treachery in stealing their magic. Krshia Silverfang.

Also present was Cetrule. The [Shaman of Purity] was silently at work, casting a spell. He could make sure ore mined was pure enough to go to the [Smelter], or ensure drinking water was clean, or the food. He was a practical [Shaman] for a practical tribe.

All three adults were angry at her. Akrisa spoke sharply.

“Why did you retell the Doombringer story, Satar? Of all the things…you’re only lucky our guests didn’t hear! Now? At this time?”

“Mother, I…”

Satar was confused. She had been riding high after her Retelling, and she’d thought she’d done a fine job. Everyone had said so. She’d come to see Akrisa and expected to be congratulated.

Instead? Krshia nodded slightly.

“Thank goodness she did not hear. But this…this is the heart of the issue. Each tribe tells it so, Akrisa. How will we put a motion before the gathered Chieftains? Now is the time. It must be the time, yes? But…”

She trailed off. Akrisa shook her head, but not to gainsay her sister.

“You are right, Krshia. I see it now. Like poison, seeping into our ears. From my own tribe and daughter! Satar!”

“What?”

The young Gnoll burst out, and all three adults looked at her. Satar was nearly in tears.

“I just told the Retelling like I’ve been taught! Cetrule—Volah herself says I tell the stories as well as she does!”

She didn’t understand. Akrisa opened her mouth angrily.

“That is not the point. With Mri here and—”

“Hold on. Chieftain Akrisa. Honored Krshia. I think we have made a mistake.”

Cetrule interrupted suddenly. All three heads turned to him as the [Shaman] looked at Satar, then glanced around.

“Satar…she doesn’t know about Mri. Or the situation.”

Satar looked up, and Akrisa’s angry expression turned to one of surprise—then regret. Krshia rose slightly.

“We did not…?”

“What about Mri? What’s this, Mother? You sent me away.”

Chieftain Akrisa hesitated. She glanced at Krshia, then back at Satar. A flash of shame colored her features.

“Satar, I…no, you wouldn’t know. I have made a mistake in anger.”

“As did I. Beilmark thought she knew.”

“Knew what?”

But both sisters were looking at each other with that meaningful stare, and Cetrule kept glancing sideways at Satar—but said not a word.

“What, Mother?”

Akrisa rested her paws on her knees. She looked at Satar, hesitating, and then spoke.

“—I cannot say, Satar. Forgive me. I have been the one to make the mistake. You could not know. But—no more stories about Doombringers. No more Retellings at all, in fact.”

“What? Why? Tell me. I am a [Shaman] of the Silverfangs, aren’t I?”

Satar stomped one foot. She knew that was a bad idea. But suddenly she was outraged! This wasn’t her fault after all!

“You are…”

Akrisa sighed. Satar waited and saw Krshia look at her with a keen analysis, then back to her sister.

“It might be wise, sister. But I will let you be the judge.”

Cetrule looked up from inspecting a bowl of silver dust.

“There is a danger in it.”

Krshia blinked.

“To Satar?”

The older [Shaman] could only shrug.

“To us all, Honored Krshia, Chieftain. Until a decision is made or even proposed…I am uncomfortable with the leeway Mri has to begin with to run about.”

“She is being watched, but she is a precocious child. You are right, Cetrule, but raising suspicions is equally as dangerous. I am comforted that…”

The adults all noticed Satar listening keenly, trying to piece it together, and fell silent. They looked to Akrisa, and the [Chieftain] of the Silverfangs hesitated. For a long moment, Satar waited—and then Akrisa looked her daughter in the eye.

“This is a matter between Chieftains, Satar.”

“But I’m—”

“Even other [Shamans] are not aware of what is going on. I am sorry, but…you do not need to know. Not yet. Nor will I take that risk. Satar, I apologize for—Satar!”

The young Gnoll didn’t reply. She whirled and stormed out of the tent. Krshia slowly reached for a cup of tea and took a sip in the ugly silence after she was gone.

“That could have gone better, no? We…could have told her, Akrisa.”

Her older sister stared down at the ground.

“It is dangerous. Satar is young.”

“Capable.”

Cetrule returned carefully. Akrisa glared at him, but not with any real rancor.

“She makes mistakes. All of us did, but we cannot. Not with Mrsha. It would take one off-hand comment to the wrong [Shaman] and all of the Meeting of Tribes would know a Doombringer was here. And some are murderous.”

“Would she do that? She’s a sensible young woman, from what I see.”

Krshia offered. Akrisa shook her head.

“You do not understand how deeply Doombringers are rooted in the tribes, Krshia. I myself felt a chill until you explained it to me many times. Cetrule?”

“I confess…I thought of every story. We tell many. I will not gainsay you, Akrisa, but I sympathize for Satar.”

“Yet she is immature. She has her head—not in the clouds, but in stories. She is good at Retellings, but if anyone were to take the stories seriously…”

Krshia looked curiously at Akrisa. This was a part of her family among the Silverfangs that she didn’t know about.

“Anything Satar has done?”

“Just silly things young women get up to. Nothing illegal or dangerous. Just silly. I was far too harsh to her with no reason. As for not trusting her…”

Krshia winced.

“It might have been a bad idea. Imagine how we would have taken that?”

Akrisa stared blankly ahead.

“Yes. I regret that already. But it is done. The Meeting of Chieftains awaits. We must bring it up then, Krshia. If all the rest of these disasters and moments of note don’t interfere.”

She sat, with a heavy weight on her shoulders. So heavy, she gave little thought to her daughter’s feelings when weighed against the life of a little girl and the fate of the tribes.

——

Satar did not slam into her rooms because she didn’t have a door. The yurt flaps didn’t slam. But she did hurl her staff down and tear off her [Shaman]’s dress.

She sniffed. So that was how it was! She was still just the [Chieftain]’s daughter. Not important enough to be trusted with…what was that about Mri? About her stories?

She couldn’t make sense of it—or if she did have a thought, it was so outlandish as to be impossible.

“How was I supposed to know I wasn’t to tell Doombringer tales? Is that fair judgment, Mother? Why did you bite my head off, and why won’t you tell me why it matters if I’m in trouble? Instead, you send me away like I’m Cers.”

She tossed her [Shaman]’s satchel down and rubbed at her eyes.

“I’ll never be respected here. How can I impress the [Chieftain] when she’s you? I’m…I’ll go somewhere where I’m not the [Chieftain]’s daughter. Like Demas Metal or Woven Bladegrass.”

She could do that.

That was how they had done it, long ago. She wished she were part of those tales.

Satar sniffled as she sat in her tent. It wasn’t fair. She knew her mother had to be a [Chieftain], but she couldn’t make Satar be both her daughter and keep secrets.

Satar wasn’t joking about leaving her tribe, either. It was something she thought of more and more. It was a terrifying prospect, but could she ever become more than Akrisa Silverfang’s daughter here? Aunt Krshia herself had left. Perhaps Satar had to as well, and if so, there would never be a time more fitting than the Meeting of Tribes. But, oh—

She didn’t want to leave her little brother, or mother, or Cetrule. It was too hard because she loved them, but her position made being family…difficult.

Satar looked around, and Cers wasn’t here for once. Even so, Satar cast a [Locking Ward] spell on the tent flaps. She looked around again and then went over to the comfortable roll of cloth rather than a bulky bed that she slept on. She hesitated and then felt around at a small package tucked into the corner of her bed.

Slowly, the [Shaman] pulled something out of its hiding place. Her secret…hobby. Obsession? Satar’s paws shook slightly as she unwrapped the object and held it up. It was…

A magical book. Thin as a journal, and with more pages than Satar could count. She rifled through it, as the little bundle of books she’d bought with her own coin sat around her. Yet that wasn’t what Satar was focused on. Slowly, she found where she had stopped, and her paw hesitated over the last passage. She traced the line with a furry finger and read out loud.

“…then, Ferkr Shallenside stood before the Meeting of Tribes as the Earth Elemental of the Gaarh Marsh tribe raised the crystal overhead. All secrets were revealed then; the treachery of the Drakes…”

She hesitated. Satar fiddled with something, and then lifted a quill. A magic quill, because she had no inkwell, and industriously scribbled. She re-checked her passage.

All secrets were revealed then; the treachery of the Drakes’ crystal, which had been buried under Az’muzarre’s traditional grounds, seemingly unbeknownst to all, shone plainly for all to see. Later, allegations that this was a part of Fissival’s ancient network repurposed to steal Gnolls’ magic, or a planted artifact by some other enemy of Gnolls, would surface. However, the truth of it was not yet borne out as of writing, in the 16th of Eviun, currently…

She left a blank. She’d have to figure out the exact year and write in multiple dates. And she felt strongly about writing down multiple dates, not just Wistram’s calendar, or the Gnolls’. This had to be an unbiased…less biased take. Especially if people would one day read it.

Satar sat, working hard, pouring her frustrations and anger into the book.

The book, which was entitled A Record of Satar, Volume 1. The world as she saw it, the news as she heard it. Someday, someone might read it, or she’d have it bound and copied by a [Scribe] and [Bookbinder]. Someday…

She might be a [Historian]. Or simply a [Writer], or even someone as famous as Krsysl Wordsmith. Satar tried to mix storytelling with history, because she didn’t like dry anecdotes. She liked [Shaman] stories. But she was more than a spellcaster, in fact.

She was…

A [Storyteller].

——

Classes had variations and secrets, but there was an order to classes as they pertained to storytellers, entertainers, and so on that most people cared not about. Like a [Soldier] became [Lieutenant] or [Sergeant]—which could be a dead-end class—or someday rose to [General] and beyond [General]…

Most great [Bards], [Writers], and advanced classes like [Historian] started as [Storyteller]. Or [Speaker]. Or [Scribe] or [Scribbler]. [Scrivener] was, of course, higher-level.

The class Satar had wasn’t secret to her mother or Cetrule; appraisal spells existed, and Satar was honest—especially because she liked the gifts and accolades for a level. However, she had justified it as being part of the Retellings, and her mother had allowed it because classes were something to be celebrated among the Gnoll people, regardless of what they were. You didn’t have to pursue a passion if you didn’t want to; her mother was a Level 7 [Fisher], for instance, and sometimes talked with [Anglers] when they visited the coast for hours about the double-line backflip supreme jagged hook or whatever.

Satar actually had a proper list of fishing terms and fish and hooks and whatnot lying around somewhere, but she was allowed to be petty. Indeed, her journal/chronicle obsessively noted a lot of details, like new monsters, any classes or Skills she learned the true nature of, and so forth.

Political events, important figures—especially the King of Destruction! All of it was grist to Satar’s level-mill, and, oh, she wanted to level up. She had found that the most economical way to level was by writing down everything important.

She wanted to level up. Everyone did, and Satar had an obsession with it. She was a bog-standard Level 16 [Shaman], which was fine for a nineteen year-old. Hitting Level 20 sometime in her 20’s was good progress.

But Satar did not want that. She knew that every famous Gnoll had stories of hitting Level 30 before they had turned thirty! Sometimes before they turned twenty!

She wanted to be important, especially because she was the Chieftain’s daughter. She might not become [Chieftain], but she wanted…

Levels. Her mother knew she was a [Storyteller], and she didn’t cast [Appraisal] since you had to pay for a [Mage], spell scroll, or have a Skill, none of which she actually had. So she had no idea that Satar had long surpassed her [Shaman] levels. She was, in fact, a Level 23 [Archival Storyteller].

[Archival Storyteller] wasn’t that great a class, incidentally. Satar suspected it was because she kept writing down the world around her, rather than telling a story. She wanted [Historian] or [Writer]…that earned you real respect among the community.

Not that the community of writers was very strong among Plains Gnolls. Of course, any Gnoll enjoyed a good book, but they had a very oral tradition, so a Gnoll who finished a book might end up telling the entire book with their own embellishments to friends over the course of a week or a hunt. The thing was…

They talked. They were good talkers, but that meant they were not strong writers. Books, paper, those were harder to get for a nomadic people, as was storage. [Shamans] remembered and did Retellings and passed on their information by word-of-mouth.

Satar listened and wrote it down. Because someone had to! She knew there was a place for it in libraries, and she wanted her story to be that.

The trick to leveling up as a [Writer] was to find what gained you the most levels. Other people were less deliberate about levelling. Satar? Immensely dedicated to each new level. She wrote down news and events every night and kept a little record of the days she leveled up. What made her gain her new level?

Often, at the start, it was just…writing down a big event, like the King of Destruction waking up. Devote enough pages to the account and she leveled, especially if she felt she had done a good job evoking the entire narrative. Satar realized that describing the world, describing appearances, the setting, earned her levels faster, so she did that.

However, like all classes, you slowed in leveling rapidly after Level 10, and more after Level 20…by Level 30 and Level 40, you were lucky if you leveled once a year unless you did something dramatic. For a [Warrior]? Fighting huge battles or in wars was how they levelled; people who just trained in peace stagnated at the same level for years.

Satar had wondered the obvious question—how did you gain massive levels as a [Storyteller]? If a [Mage] got levels from mastering a grand spell, and a [Warrior] for slaying some beast…

The answer was publication. Or—if you were a vocal storyteller like a [Bard]—performances, especially to important audiences. The only problem was that publishing a book wasn’t as easy as just…writing something down and magically copying it around.

Satar wished she could do that, but the truth was a book took a dedicated [Scribe]—or you had to do each book by copying over line after line with your best handwriting—getting good, quality paper, binding it—and you had to pay an expert for that—and doing that a few hundred to a few thousand times and finding a way to sell it! Distribute it! Get anyone to read—

…There were ways. And there were more than a few ways to level and write. You could level in [Storyteller] in other ways, like doing Retellings well. Or…

Reading. [Reader] was inherently tied to [Writer]; they were sides of the same coin. One could level in the other’s class at a slower rate by doing the opposite, and Satar had been a Level 11 [Book Reader] when it consolidated into her [Archival Storyteller]. Now, reading a good book might move her towards her next level.

Of course, you had to have a book to read first, and Gnolls didn’t own libraries. Satar couldn’t imagine a worse species to have been born as to be a book-loving writer-reader. Maybe Garuda? But they could fly and visit cities easily. Goblins didn’t count. Nor did Antinium. Fraerlings? Did they have tiny books?

They must have libraries! Satar wanted to visit one, go to a Walled City…but she was Akrisa Silverfang’s daughter. Sometimes, Satar wondered if she would have to tell her mother and what it would mean. Would she become a Gnoll of Silverfang or would she…

Leave? She hadn’t intended to leave at the Meeting of Tribes as some Gnolls could do, to seek fortune and fame. After today? She thought about it.

…But Silverfang was her tribe. Satar didn’t earn money, and she couldn’t fend for herself. Silverfang was a fairly rich tribe, so she had a good stipend of money, which she spent on her secret hobby. Only Cers knew she even had a book, and he just thought she liked drawing on the pages like he did, that book-defacing monster.

Satar had gear, Skills, and levels. She was unto the world of writing a Silver-rank adventurer in her mind. Her biggest weapon was her quill, which she had saved up for four years to buy.

It was a magic quill that you ‘linked’ to a bottle of ink with a simple dip of the pen. Then it wrote without needing to be dipped or running dry. It had cost her four gold coins and nine silver, down five silver from haggling with the [Enchanter] when she mentioned a book he liked and how she wanted to write as well.

Ink would have eaten the rest of Satar’s writing budget in a heartbeat, and in the past she’d even experimented with trying to make it herself—with bad results, as the ‘ink’ bled through the cheap parchment, ruining one of her earlier pieces of work completely.

The thing about leveling was that it made your life easier. For instance—the first Skill most [Writer]-based storytellers got was [Corrected Spelling]. Minor mistakes vanished.

Another great Skill Satar had gotten was [Quickened Scribing], which changed her writing pace with a quill to double its speed at Level 23. Another? [Remove Inkstains]. Perfect for fur.

Those were lower-level Skills. [Anti-Cramping Muscles] was actually universally useful, and Satar had once helped mend nets for the Silverfang [Hunters] while they visited a coast for two days straight without needing a healing potion once.

Her capstone Skills at Level 10 and Level 20 were naturally the best, though. For her Level 10 Skill, Satar had gotten the prize of a lifetime—at least in her eyes when the girl had received it at 15 years old.

[A Bottle A Day: Ink]. Every day, she’d wake up, and one of her carefully-placed bottles of ink would be full to the brim with whatever basic color she wanted. She’d experimented, and she could get red, blue, or even yellow and green—but not more than that. No fancy inks, and only a small inkwell, not a big one—although the amount of ink had grown as she gained the next thirteen levels.

It was beyond useful because, not only could Satar save her free ink, she could sell it—although, often, the cost of the glass bottle outweighed the ink itself. But she had made silver at times, selling it to [Scribes].

Her Level 20 Skill was a bit more mundane, but a bit more powerful. [Narrative: Spot Inconsistencies]. Far less materials, and seemingly useless…

Until Satar looked at her writing and saw how many times she used the word, ‘or’. Or realizing she had never given context to the Ferkr-Grimalkin connection in her anecdotes about him and wrote a section explaining who Grimalkin of Pallass was and referring readers to her notes on Pallass and the Walled Cities…

She wondered what her Level 30 Skill was and was determined to find out before she turned…twenty-five. Yes, that seemed possible.

Indeed, Satar had high hopes of leaving the Meeting of Tribes Level 25. She had come here at Level 21 and already leveled up twice from recording the dramatic events. And…

Well, if publishing was the goal of a [Writer], Satar was on baby-steps since she showed no one her work, right? She would never get to higher levels until she got enough money to really publish, and that was sort of a snowball effect because you had to have money to publish a lot and become famous, and you had to be famous and have an audience to have the money to…

Wrong. In fact, even among Gnolls, there were ways to get ahead. The storytelling community was not without…means.

Later that day, in the Meeting of Tribes, two hooded figures met behind one of the communal tents, this one reserved to let visitors see a [Performer]’s act. Amid the hubbub of someone juggling knives and the gasps of admiration, loud voices, and occasional suppressed screams as someone got stabbed—

Two figures met and were joined by a third. All three could smell each other; they smelled like paper and ink, and the disguises weren’t waterproof. Nevertheless, the first two growled at the third.

“Password?”

“Password? I don’t know a password—”

“Guess.”

“Um. Uh…‘Quintessential Literature’?”

The two looked at each other. The first thought about it.

“That’s got enough syllables. We’ll accept it.”

“I would have held out for ‘Nomenclature’. Literature’s too common a word.”

The other two figures turned to the first. The new Gnoll held up her paw.

“…What does nomenclature mean?”

The wordy-hooded figure cleared their throat. H—e—it was definitely a he—spoke.

“The way of devising or choosing names for things. Not the words themselves; that’s lexicon. The method.”

“…Can you use it in a sentence?”

A loud sigh. The hooded figures kept up their quiet banter as they rustled for bags of holdings or items.

“Alright, let’s see it. What do you have?”

“I have…two of the latest off-the-cover stories of Tales of Adventure and Woe. Big names—fresh off the Mage’s Guild. Literal hours.”

“Ooh. Who?”

“Heartslayi and Sandquen themselves.”

The new Gnoll groaned.

“Them? They’re romance.”

The nomenclature-Gnoll grunted beneath his hood as he waved the pieces of bound parchment at the other two. It was cheap; the other two had paper goods, but quality varied.

“Yeah, well, not this time. You know Sandquen?”

“I’ve read their work. Somehow; I bet she pays people to read it because there’s no other way it gets traded around. Even in her genre. Not impressed.”

Sandquen had never been published in Tales of Adventure and Woe. She lacked in some fundamentals, but she was just a weird writer too, who jumped to the glorious moments without proper buildup. Amateurs.

However…the Gnoll insisted on showing the others the first paragraph.

“She’s gotten better. This one’s about the ‘Silver Swordswoman’ in Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Very sentimental, and full of platitudes and whatnot, but it reads realistic and better than anything else.”

“Huh. It is…better.”

The new Gnoll paged through the story before it was snatched back and felt a pang of grudging envy. Both writers had an actual audience to be featured here. To have people peddling their works. They had to level up to that.

“What about Heartslayi?”

“Also different. It’s a mystery—she calls it a ‘heist’ story. It’s a breakout of a magical prison, but it’s come out in installments. No one knows how it’ll end, and she’s not updated—she normally posts a new one every few days.”

“Weird. Is it good?”

“Very. How much do you want for it?”

“Will you…trade for some poetry? I’ve got about fifty-two poems…”

“Pass.”

“It’s good poetry. Written by a Level 16 [Poet]!”

The second hooded figure’s voice was defensive. Both first and third Gnoll shifted, and one coughed. The second hooded figure’s voice grew louder.

“It’s not me! Swear by the tribes! Look, just read it—it’ll help someone level, alright?”

“Oh—fine. But I’m trading all of it for the Heartslayi copy, and you’re paying for the rest. I guess I can share it with people in the city…”

Grumbling, the first hooded Gnoll made the trade. The third, Satar, piped up uncertainly.

“I—I have a story too. Three copies. It’s entitled, ‘The Revelation of Ferkr’. It’s about what happened at the Meeting of Chieftains.”

The two other Gnolls looked at her. Satar was beet red under her hood, but the first Gnoll made a sound.

“Interesting. I heard Krsysl Wordsmith and other [Writers] were tackling it…is that a copy or something?”

“No. It’s…written from the perspective of someone who was here. It’s historical.”

No one had to say who wrote what, but the other two Gnolls exchanged glances. They took the pieces of paper Satar had paid for and worked so hard on and read.

“…Huh. History? But we’re all here. Why do we need this?”

“Because not everyone was here.”

The two looked at her, and the first Gnoll, who had been to a Mage’s Guild, nodded.

“Interesting. I’ll take…how many copies do you have?”

Her heart leapt.

“Six.”

“I’ll take four, then.”

“One for me. I bet you can get the others sold off, especially if you can get more. How much per?”

“I—I can get more! Eight copper.”

The others fished for coins. Satar held her breath; she priced her stuff low, mostly so that the people who attended these gatherings would buy. She took a loss most times, but gained in levels.

“Pleasure doing business with you. We have a meeting tomorrow. We’ll go to a big tent. Someone’ll hang a fish on the tent so you can find it—near the Steelfur camps. Late night.”

“A fish? That’ll stink to the skies.”

“I think it’s a carved fish, but we’ll see.”

The group of three had traded goods, and Satar had a copy of some poetry, the two new stories, and even a free little story she suspected the Gnoll with the poetry had written. But she’d read it all. This was the underground black market of words, and there was no better place for it than the Meeting of Tribes.

“See you there, then. Alright…”

Which also begged the question why all three bothered to do it in secret. The three hooded Gnolls standing behind the tent were turning to go when suddenly, someone howled. They froze—and then a Gnoll came bounding around the tent, a huge, spiked mace in hand.

Three more Gnolls, all wearing extremely dangerous-looking armor, what looked like shell armor to Satar, delicate mithril scale mail, and a poor Gnoll with plain leather, bounded around the corner, all holding weapons.

“By order of the Meeting of Tribes! Freeze!”

The Az’muzarre Gnoll brandished the club with spikes made of some monster’s teeth, and the Gnolls in hoods threw up their paws. One of the Gnolls sniffed.

“We were just—”

“Shut up. You lot make me sick. What are you selling? Selphid Dust? It can’t be Dreamleaf. Smells like rolls of parchment and ink.”

“Killing spells? Watch for traps—”

“Move and die! Hey, you. [Guardsman]. How do you want to search them?”

The Gnoll with leather armor gulped as the three high-level Gnolls, each from a different tribe, turned to him.

Guardsman Tkrn of Liscor hesitated.

“Well, if we think they’ve got something deadly—make them place it, and if they so much as twitch on the [Detect Magic] radar, we take them down. Hoods off, robes off, lying down so they can’t twist and stab us.”

“Good idea. Do it.”

The [Guardsman] watched as the Gnolls placed their suspicious cargo on the ground. Unlike the last three busts, which had seen Gnolls stealing everything from secret recipes from other tribes to dangerous drugs to stolen goods—he eyed the books and manuscripts.

“What’s this? Secrets? Hoods off!”

“But—”

“Now.”

The Az’muzarre Gnoll didn’t ask twice. The hoods came off, and Tkrn looked at Satar as she stared at him. He blinked.

“Satar?”

——

Held by her captors, the young woman stared the Archmage in the eyes. His sharp goatee and twisted smile on his face were like a piercing razor, but she never looked away. Her chest rose and fell as he snipped the first layer of cloth away with a spell.

“This would be easier if you told me where you were hiding the key,” he said. But the young woman refused to speak. Across from her, the bared chest and sculpted muscles of the young [Mage] shone with the faintest sheen of perspiration in the cell’s thin light.

“Then, some incentive will do. Call for the Golems—”

At this point, one of the [Shamans] had to put down the manuscript of Heartslayi’s latest novella. Another fanned himself.

“Is it getting hot in here, or is it just me, yes? So this is the illicit goods, eh?”

He turned, and Satar wanted to vanish into the ground like a [Shaman of the Earth]. She sat, burning with embarrassment under her fur.

“I thought you said she wasn’t writing romance!”

One of the two Gnolls sitting with her hissed at their companion. The male Gnoll, who was actually a [Tracker] from the Plain’s Eye tribe, held up his paws.

“It isn’t romance! Not really! She—it’s Heartslayi. What did you expect?”

“Silence.”

The Az’muzarre Gnoll glared at them, but even the [Warrior] was trying very hard not to laugh. He sighed loudly.

“Why were you hiding? Behind a tent? You wasted our time and yours, unless there’s some secret in it? Hidden codes?”

“If there is, it’s hidden under all the abdominal muscles and light torture. What is it with Humans and bellies?”

“Probably the lack of fur.”

A group of [Shamans] from each Gnoll’s tribe and a few others were investigating the criminality. Satar wanted to die; not least because she and the two other Gnolls were now known.

A [Tracker], a [Shaman], and a [Netweaver], all from different tribes, all with a secret uniting passion. The worst part? The reason Satar wished they’d all been killed on the spot?

Cetrule was half-covering his face, avoiding her expression as the [Shamans] read out another passage from the manuscript. They were all much amused.

“They’re definitely not in trouble—unless liking this is a crime.”

“It should be. This is bad poetry.”

“Hey! I know the Gnoll who wrote that!”

The [Netweaver] protested. The [Shamans] glanced over and one looked at Satar.

“This is hardly illegal, Warrior Kuzait. We regret the wasted time, but perhaps these Gnolls will stop doing this in the future. It is not embarrassing to have a hobby, yes? More openness might help.”

“As you say, Shaman.”

Kuzait sighed loudly. He turned to the trio with him, one of whom was Tkrn.

“Thank you for your help, fellow warriors. We are surely done with our parts. Tomorrow?”

“If we don’t go to war before then. Yes. An honor to meet you all.”

The Gnolls broke up, and the [Shamans] turned. One looked at the three [Readers] with some mischief in her eyes.

“You are also free to go, although I’m afraid this might get out among the tribes. Fear not. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I’ll buy one of these ‘Heartslayi’ stories myself. How much?”

And that was that. The other two Gnolls left the tent fast—after selling one copy to the [Shaman]—with their trade-goods. It was a lighthearted moment, if hugely embarrassing.

Satar sat where she was for a long while, before Cetrule walked over. He inspected her works and picked them up, offering them to her.

“We should, ah, get back to the Silverfang tribe. Akrisa sent me right away when she heard. She will want to know all is well.”

“Oh.”

So her mother knew she’d been arrested. Satar walked after Cetrule, head hung low. She tried to say something as they left the tent.

“Chieftain Akrisa doesn’t have to know why I was stopped, does she…?”

Cetrule hesitated, clearly torn.

“She…will want to know why. And not knowing the answer will bother her more than the reason. Which is not—awful? Not at all.”

He looked at Satar, and the [Shaman] didn’t say anything.

“It’s not a shame to have a hobby, Satar. If it is what you like—she knows you are a [Storyteller]. She might even be glad to hear of your level. Level 23 [Archival Storyteller]. You didn’t tell us you were Level 23! She would have thrown you a celebration.”

“I was going to. Later. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

The [Shamans] had used [Appraisal] on her to make sure she had no untoward classes. They were thorough. Cetrule nodded, looking at her.

“Then, you prefer this class over being a [Shaman].”

“I like being a [Shaman]!”

She protested, but she heard the disappointment in his voice. Satar looked at Cetrule wretchedly.

“I just like stories too. I didn’t want to do anything wrong.”

“You didn’t.”

“I was arrested. Mother will think I’m a child. That’s why she doesn’t trust me, isn’t it?”

Satar was close to tears again. Cetrule hesitated. He touched one of the silver charms hanging from his bracelet as he slowed. They were coming close to the Silverfang tribe, and more celebrations were on the way.

The Meeting of Tribes was winding down, but the threat of Drake armies, the revelation of the magic-theft…it was complicating the ending. Still, there was always an event, and Satar’s Retellings were one of a dozen on even the slowest day. It looked like a little parade, a celebration passing by their tribe, so Cetrule turned to Satar.

“She regretted that, Satar. Truly. It is unimaginably stressful for your mother and her sister right now, and they do not even trust the secret with the other Honored Gnolls of the Silverfangs. Only a handful know; even the Chieftains of other tribes working with us tell no one but their most trusted Gnolls.”

Satar’s head rose. The [Storyteller] felt a tingle on the back of her paws.

“Is it something like…Ferkr? Or our gift to the Meeting of Tribes?”

“Bigger still in its way.”

“Bigger? What, Cetrule?”

He hesitated. The [Shaman] looked around, then drew her into one of the tents not being used yet. He sighed.

“Give me five minutes. I would have to do this in the Silverfang tribe anyways.”

He drew something on the ground. A circle, no, a warding sigil Satar recognized. It took Cetrule seven minutes, and he actually pulled out silver dust to complete it. It was one of the most complete wards for privacy he could manage.

“There. I can tell you, now. But turn this way so no one can read my lips.”

The Gnoll angled his back to the closed flaps, and Satar’s fur prickled. She was excited—but suddenly nervous at the precautions Cetrule had taken. He leaned forwards, and Satar held her breath.

“That child who is in the Silverfang tribe—who Krshia and Akrisa made a fuss over when she arrived?”

“The one Qwera, the Golden Gnoll, brought? I thought she was her daughter or helper. Mri, you mean?”

“Yes…that one. She is not Qwera’s daughter, though she is under her protection. The protection of Silverfang, Weatherfur, Longstalker’s Fang, Ekhtouch, and Greenpaw. I fear it might not be enough for all that.”

“Not for two great tribes, Longstalker’s Fang, and Silverfang? Is she in danger or something?”

Satar wondered how that was possible. Cetrule nodded shortly.

“She is. And not from…Drakes. Or anyone else. She is in danger of other Gnolls killing her.”

“Why? Why…”

Satar felt like she knew. That little girl with the brown fur and painted ears who Cers didn’t like? Gire’s friend? But suddenly, the [Storyteller] found her mind wandering back to her mother’s anger. The story…

“A white Gnoll.”

The young Gnoll whispered suddenly, and Cetrule jerked.

“How did you—?”

“It makes sense. It’s obvious. It has to be—or Mother wouldn’t have been angry. I’m right? She’s a Doombringer?”

“Never say that.”

Satar blinked. Cetrule was pale. She grinned in delight—then her mouth opened wide.

“Wait. I am right? She’s a…?”

Suddenly every story she had ever been told flashed in her mind. Cetrule looked at Satar.

“You are.”

“She’s a—”

Satar was going through surprise the wrong way, from confidence to realizing more and more what that meant. Incredulously, she looked at Cetrule and suddenly—she wanted to talk to Mri. A Doombringer? How? Why would Akrisa let her in?

But she was a child. So the stories…Cetrule watched Satar thinking. She didn’t draw back in horror as her mother had feared. If anything—it confirmed he was right to tell her. He exhaled in relief.

“Her name is Mrsha. She is the girl that was kidnapped from Liscor. She is under our protection, and the Silverfangs of Liscor know her.”

“She’s that girl?”

Satar started. Again, Cetrule was surprised, but she remembered that broadcast. The [Shaman of Purity] sighed.

“Yes. It is a long story, and Akrisa or Krshia can tell you the rest. Even Beilmark or Tkrn—they all know. But you will not speak of it without a secrecy-ward in place, Satar. As [Chief Shaman], I order you to keep it secret. Understood?”

She nodded rapidly. This changed everything. She wanted to record all this down—then she saw Cetrule watching her and realized—she couldn’t.

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“Or write it down?”

“Cetrule! I’m not stupid!”

Satar blushed, knowing the last hour hadn’t really helped her case. But she put her paws together.

“By the pride of Silverfang, I won’t. I mean it. This isn’t about my class. This is…huge.”

“Wait until you hear about Rose and Inkarr.”

Cetrule muttered, and Satar’s mouth fell open. So he had to tell her about that. She nearly burst their secrecy ward from her voice alone.

“They’re from another world?”

Cetrule shielded his ears.

“Yes! Stop shouting!”

“Why aren’t you more excited about that?”

“We have every issue in front of us, Satar! Mrsha is in trouble, and her name is ‘Mri’—remember that. Be careful of even speaking about her in front of Plain’s Eye. They are one of the most active groups hunting her.”

“But another world—and you just—have you talked with them? Can I?”

Satar had three people she needed to interview. She had wanted to talk to Feshi, of course, but now Feshi was an ant compared to the mountain of treasure…none of which she could write! Someday! Someday—Satar just wanted to know.

Another world. Cetrule disappointed her with his mentality, but he just shrugged helplessly.

“I did. They are fascinating and have objects of another world—ah, that tragedy. Chieftain Orelighn found a vessel that crashed out of the skies from their world. With dead children in it. Young people. They always seem to be young. But I honestly cannot imagine what they tell me. They have pictures, though. I will make sure you speak with them. Again, we must wait for the Meeting of Chieftains to bring it up. I will let your mother explain the rest. But I have told you…and that will simplify things.”

He sighed, and Satar realized he had done all this on his authority as the Silverfang’s [Chief Shaman].

“Thank you, Cetrule.”

He smiled as he broke the ward and tried to reclaim the dust. He’d have to purify it and the dirt, but it was worth it to him to see the [Shaman] happy again. They headed out of the tent and smelled smoke on the air and grilled meats.

“I hope you will accept that, for me telling Akrisa about your hobby. Did you write that history of Ferkr?”

“Yes…I like stories. I wrote down all the Retellings. Someone should, Cetrule.”

The Gnoll didn’t argue like she expected, just rubbed his chin and hmmed.

“Someone should. There are books like that, you know.”

Her heart leapt and sank.

“There are?”

“You are not the only one to have that idea, but we never maintained a central library. We did once—but like everything, we lose and gain. The older [Shamans] might know more. But it is not a bad idea. You could very well write down stories of our people—Akrisa would surely let you do that and sell copies. We can bring it up after the Meeting of Tribes ends. I think she’ll be proud to hear of your levels. Hurt you didn’t tell her.”

“It’s just…I didn’t want to…”

The young woman was trying to explain what it was like to strike out, to do something in secret on her own without parental supervision, to be her own person to Cetrule, as if he had never heard of the idea before, when they came to the celebration as it passed by the Silverfang tribe.

That was when Satar saw Mrsha, really saw her for the first time.

A white Gnoll. A Doombringer.

Of course, what Satar saw was a little girl, roughly Cers’ age. Old enough to stand on her two legs if she wanted to, which she was doing now, clinging to a giant Gnoll’s hand. A [Paragon], so tall that she had to bend slightly to let Mrsha squeeze it.

Gireulashia, whose fur shone, perfect in mind and appearance. Compared to her, Mrsha looked so plain.

One child among others, although the tips of her ears had been painted gold. Golden, like the Golden Gnoll, Qwera. Aside from that? She was so plain that Satar hadn’t really noticed her.

Mrsha was a silly girl. She had, of all things, a crab’s shell strapped to the top of her head like a silly hat, and Gire had one too. A child’s fancy. She had a bag full of gold and a magic wand, and in that she was not like other children.

However, what Satar noticed now, as she coughed and smelled meat, burning wood, and heard a [Shaman] shouting and a crowd cheering happily, were Mrsha’s eyes.

Brown eyes, a Gnoll’s eyes. A girl’s eyes…

And far older than they should be. At times, like now, it seemed like someone far older, still a child, but older, ancient, was staring out of the little girl’s face. Not for knowledge or the weight of years.

Simply…weariness. A weary, sad expression. A terrible weight all in one look. Not directed at Satar or Cetrule. The [Storyteller] nearly ran into the [Shaman]’s back.

Then she noticed the celebration. So caught up in staring at Mrsha, Satar never saw…the event.

It was a simple one. Gnolls ate hot meat from a hunt. They laughed and drank and talked and followed the [Shaman] from the Plain’s Eye tribe as they led a strange contraption forward, hoisted on a few poles by Gnolls careful not to let the embers burn anything down or touch their fur.

It was an effigy. The kind of thing you burned. The flames were halfway up, and the smoke was acrid because of the paint. Satar looked up and saw a white Gnoll burning.

A Doombringer. The Gnolls cheered as it burned, and it passed by the Silverfang camp. Some Gnolls came out to join them, not knowing why Liscor’s representatives and some of the Gnolls went so silent.

But they weren’t Doombringers. The little girl watched the white Gnoll burning as Gire tried to distract her. The worst part? If Satar could have written it down, she would have put it like this:

The little girl looked like my brother. She didn’t look evil, and Doombringers were always described as evil to me. In every story. As bad as Raskghar. I wondered, then, if any stories were true. Because if she was evil, no one was good.

Maybe she was cursed. I didn’t know. But the saddest part as she watched the effigy of the Doombringer burning wasn’t that the other Gnolls were cheering. Or that none of us could say anything. The saddest part—was that she didn’t look surprised.

Satar would never write this down. Not until the day came when it wouldn’t endanger anyone. Never, never. But she kept writing in her heart, in her mental diary.

That was the moment when I knew I had to help her. Find the truth. Doombringer. What…

Were we lied to?

Something began to tingle in her mind. That rare class, that rare Skill…began to reach out. Highlight the mistakes in red, and they were everywhere. Satar reached for her Skill and felt it.

[Narrative: Spot Inconsistencies].

——

Mrsha du Marquin stood with her crab-hat on her head. It had seemed like such a good idea when she had crab legs with Gire today.

Now? She looked at the little bit of string looped through the crab shell and decided it was a mockery of a dead crab’s life. She took it off. She didn’t want to play anymore.

“Mrsha? Are you okay?”

Gire hovered around Mrsha, like an anxious terrier the size of a water buffalo. She nudged Mrsha.

“Want to play? I have the smartphone. Let’s play, Mrsha.”

The girl stared up at Gire. She reached for her notecard and wrote, staring up at the blue sky tarnished by smoke.

I am adequately entertained, Gire. I will lie here now and rest recumbent forevermore. Or until I get tired, thank you.

Gire hesitated. Her brows crossed. In anyone else but a Terandrian noble, Mrsha’s eloquent writing would have stumped them, much less from a child. Gire, though?

“Verily, Mrsha, I quite comprehend the impetus to laxitudity, but maudlin does not become you. I would that you repast yourself on fine foods or find something of import and would help you find that. What about…cookies?”

Mrsha almost smiled.

Forsooth, dear friend. It seems I needs must join you in some small measure of delight. Let us abscond, then. Carry me.

So Gire scooped her up, and Mrsha hugged her great friend. She buried her face into Gire’s arm. The [Paragon] hugged her gently and glared at the burning Gnoll effigy as she turned away.

It was then that Rose burst into tears. She started blubbering so hard for Mrsha, for Gire, that Adetr Steelfur stopped walking towards her, hesitated, and went to buy a gift and wait for her to stop.

——

Someone else was covertly watching the chaotic scene, yet he ignored everyone but the white Gnoll. That poor child.

Mrsha. How much more did she have to put up with? Didn’t you—if you knew what she had been through to get here—didn’t you want to pick her up, hold her, and tell her it would be all right and that that would never happen to her?

That was exactly why a Gnoll started forwards, paws outstretched. He never went through the Silverfang camp. A group of Gnolls stopped him.

“Chieftain Mrell. Chieftain Torishi Weatherfur has spoken. You are not permitted within the camp without invitation.”

A Gnoll patterned like the blue sky and clouds, with both on his fur, looked at Mrell as he casually put an arm out. He did not draw the glass sword at his side, but he didn’t have to.

Weatherfur’s Gnolls were guarding Silverfang’s camp, something confusing to anyone who thought about it. Mrell looked at the Gnoll.

“But I—”

He tried to push past the [Guard] without an explanation. Just that he had to hold…his daughter.

His daughter, who he had left. Who he…his daughter, left with his tribe who had perished while he’d been away starting a new life.

He had no right, and Torishi had told him that to his face. And yet. The Weatherfur Gnoll carefully grabbed Mrell, and two more Gnolls held him.

“Chieftain Mrell! what’s going on?”

One of his bodyguards had no idea what was going on, and the Gnolls of the Demas Metal tribe slowed. A Great Tribe like Weatherfur—no one wanted to cause an altercation, but they put their paws on their weapon hilts. Demas Metal—they were all armed with the new weaponry.

“Enough. Hold. It’s…just for a second? I—she needs me.”

“She does not need you, Chieftain Mrell. She has someone to look after her. You would make it worse.”

The lead-warrior looked at Mrell and delivered the address without direct hostility, but still, planted a dagger in Mrell’s chest and twisted it a few times. What Mrell deserved? Yet—the Gnoll looked up as a babble of voices broke out.

“Wait! Let me—”

Someone went down hard as three Ekhtouch guards appeared out of the shadows and tackled her. Of the two estranged parents—Prha got it worse because she had tried to stealth over the edge of the Silverfang camp walls. She was jumped on by three Gnolls who had a head and a lot of mass on her. Even so, the [Warrior] of the Sofang tribe looked after her daughter.

“Mrsha! Mr—”

“Silence.”

The struggling Gnoll woman and Mrell turned as someone walked through the camp. The guards nodded to Shaman Cetrule as he stalked forwards. He was angry. He cast a spell, and Prha’s words were swallowed away.

“You two are not permitted in the Silverfang camp. Begone, now. Are you mad? Do not speak that name. Begone and do not come back.”

He snapped, and Mrell remembered—Prha was using Mrsha’s real name. She was Mri, here. He had almost said it himself. The Gnoll stirred, and she was picked up, hustled to the edge of the camp, and Mrell was pushed back.

“Can I send her a message? Anything?”

“No. You have no right.”

“But she’s our…”

Prha and Mrell stood together, and the two glanced at each other, then away. Mrell, Chieftain of the new tribe, the up-and-coming Demas Metal with their wondrous steel, looked into Cetrule’s eyes. A young [Shaman] stared at him, confused, and then at Cetrule’s hostile face.

“That is why you have even less of a right. Begone. Stop trying to insert yourself into her life. The best thing that ever happened to Mri was that you two left.”

Cetrule jabbed a finger in Mrell’s face, and the [Chieftain] recoiled. He stalked into the camp, and the Silverfangs who had overheard blinked at the chief [Shaman]. They had seldom seen him so confrontational.

They left, because they had no other choice, but both of them kept looking towards the Silverfang camp. They listened…but they heard nothing. Their daughter never said a word. So the Gnolls sniffed, trying to pick up her scent. And they knew her.

Doombringer. Mrell had thought she had been cursed when she had been born mute. He had tried to abandon her, then.

Now? He wanted to make up for then and now. Do something. Something…

——

It came back to Doombringers. It came back to tradition, every time. The Waning World, this era, the smaller tribes, their situation—it was all based in the past. So long ago all they had were legends and fragmented memories.

Chieftain Akrisa met her sister’s eyes and knew it was time. Chieftain Firrelle of Ekhtouch, Chieftain Orelighn of Greenpaw, Chieftain Eska of Longstalker’s Fang, and Chieftain Torishi Weatherfur of her clan with Feshi Weatherfur, the [Strategist] of the Titan of Baleros, met in a tent.

Akrisa cleared her throat as she looked from face to face.

“I have a plan to propose the change to the Doombringer’s fate. I hope you will all stand with me on this.”

“Now? Today? We haven’t finished arguing about what to do about Fissival and the Drakes stealing our magic. Nor about the Raskghar. Or about Earth.”

Chieftain Firrelle frowned. Akrisa looked at her and wondered if she were on their side. She was—for Earthers. But Ekhtouch had never made their position on Doombringers clear. She looked at Eska and got a nod of support. Orelighn was also a good Gnoll.

Torishi? The Weatherfur’s Chieftain gazed at Firrelle, and the light shone down upon her, a beam of light from the skies, which followed Weatherfur’s [Chieftain of Countless Skies] at all times.

“Weatherfur will not allow that child to be killed. I say tradition is wrong, Firrelle. At least, where it intersects with Doombringers. If I must drag every Great Tribe with me—I will. We will put to motion the other issues. Akrisa will not bring it up just yet. She has a plan, but you must stand with her until it is time to strike, or else it will not succeed, yes?”

Firrelle raised her brows as Torishi deferred to Akrisa and let the Silverfang [Chieftain] explain.

“We will speak of Earth, today. Tell them of Inkarr and Rose—although their presentation must be careful and secret. But in the doing, we will bind other tribes to our cause. They have already seen we were right about magic.”

“A grand alliance of tribes. A majority to force the last, pivotal issue.”

Eska murmured. She fiddled with the dagger at her side.

“Tribes do not simply go along with each other.”

Orelighn pointed out reasonably. Akrisa nodded, and Cetrule bowed to him.

“Yet they do trust wisdom. Chieftains have already seen that we stand united and have been right about magic. So—if we present Earth to them, and garner their trust, they will come to see we are also right about Mrsh—Mri. We will present her to them and win them over.”

“Authority by winning each vote. Hrr. Very well. I agree on Earth, so I will back your words in the Meeting of Chieftains so long as they are the ones we discussed.”

Firrelle allowed after a moment, and Akrisa nodded tightly. However, amid the Chieftains and their [Chief Shamans] and occasionally seconds like Feshi, it was clear Firrelle and her [Chief Shaman] were reluctant to back the Doombringer plot.

Krshia and Akrisa would have left it there to avoid offending Ekhtouch, but a finger reached out and poked Firrelle in the arm.

“And Mri, Firrelle? Let me hear you say it.”

Torishi looked at Firrelle. The Ekhtouch’s [Chieftain] scowled at her.

“I have yet to make up my mind. There is evidence—”

“She is no monster to be burned. Say it, or you and I will discuss this in less than amiable words.”

Weatherfur’s Chieftain looked dangerous, and Akrisa saw Feshi grab the dagger at her side. The Diamond Dagger of Serept. Ekhtouch’s [Chief Shaman] looked warningly at Feshi, and Firrelle bared her teeth, completely unafraid of the threat. Torishi was a mighty woman, but Firrelle was Ekhtouch and, while lighter than Torishi by a bit, they were of a height.

“I will not be threatened by you, Torishi, or anyone. There is evidence that Mrsha is no…evil thing, but cursed? My [Shamans] have been looking into the issue, quietly. But I will not be hasty or…”

“We’ll help Mrsha.”

The Chieftains frowned at Firrelle. Firrelle frowned. She opened her mouth and spoke.

“I will help Mrsha.”

It was her voice…but it didn’t sound right. Also, Firrelle’s open mouth didn’t open and close. The trick was very good, and if they were distracted and Firrelle tired, you could almost believe it was her voice. However, Gire could throw her voice and imitate Firrelle—but not make her open and close her mouth.

“Gire! How did you get…?”

The [Paragon] had infiltrated Akrisa’s tent somehow, slipping inside past the [Guards]. She must have copied some kind of [Rogue]’s Skill. She rose calmly.

“You will help her, Firrelle.”

“You do not give me orders. Go to your rooms, Gireulashia.”

Firrelle turned red under her fur as the [Paragon] folded her arms at her She loomed over Firrelle. Like the best loomers over the world, she could loom while standing still, loom horizontally, and even speak in loom.

“We will help Mrsha. Or I will be angry, Firrelle. I am on her side, so you will be. You will help her. Or else.”

“Or else what?”

Firrelle might not have been Gire’s mother, but she had a part in raising her, and, like any good parent, she had the warning tone down. Unfortunately, unlike Akrisa, she had not realized Gire had entered a new stage of her adolescence.

Rebellion. Akrisa watched as Gire calmly raised a paw.

“Or else I will hit you, Firrelle. And if you do not listen, I will drag you out in front of Ekhtouch’s tribe and challenge you with one paw tied behind my back.”

“You are insolent—”

Firrelle growled, then looked up at Gire, who had three feet on her, probably at least a hundred…two hundred pounds? And the Ekhtouch Chieftain realized that Gire could probably pull her out in front of her tribe and punch her until she fell over. With one paw tied behind her back.

It was an amazing, dawning realization on her face. As a mother, Akrisa hoped it wouldn’t happen to her.

At the same time…she looked at Gire and wondered who could take her in hand if the young [Paragon] didn’t want them to. Torishi didn’t seem to mind.

“Firrelle?”

“I—fine. Present Earth to them!”

“And?”

Gire reached out and caught Firrelle as she went for the door. The Ekhtouch Chieftain tried to get away. She was fast—but Gire lifted her off her feet and shook her. It was so fast a dizzy Firrelle was yanked back before Akrisa could blink.

“Get off—”

Gire shook Firrelle. Akrisa had never seen someone shake someone like a child shook a figurine. It disturbed her because it was unnerving. It looked—painful. Firrelle made a sound. Gire put her down. The Ekhtouch Chieftain stood there, looking at Gire with such a mix of anger and shock—and sudden unease—she spoke curtly.

“I promise. I will stand for speaking against hunting Doombringers.”

Firrelle muttered, and the Chieftains eyed Gire. The [Paragon] nodded once and walked out of the tent. Firrelle followed Gire’s back with an ominous look, but she said nothing.

Either way—Torishi met Akrisa’s eyes, and the Chieftain exhaled.

Either way. It was time to go to the heart of it all. She had her alliance.

——

“We must stand together on the issues of the stolen magic and all to come, or we will perish. Tradition. Tradition and unity. If nothing else, Ulcreziek, I fear we will all perish.”

“Yes, Chieftain Xherw.”

The [Shaman], Ulcreziek of the Plain’s Eye tribe, frowned as he turned to Xherw. The Chieftain of the largest Gnoll tribe in the entire world looked—stressed. Small wonder, with all the unwelcome revelations.

All the danger.

“We must resist any…incorrect decisions. Most of all, we must avoid any unwelcome truths coming out.”

That was all Xherw said, even between the two. Ulcreziek nodded.

“That is a separate matter from the Meeting of Chieftains, surely. Any investigation will not matter for political support as much as if any evidence is uncovered. And short of the Walled Cities—all they have are allegations. There is no proof.”

“Yes…”

Xherw stretched out the word. He shifted, shook his head.

“Yes. You are correct, Ulcreziek, but there is also Earth, and Silverfang is poised to lead the arguments along with the other Great Tribes. I think Akrisa is a reasonable Gnoll, but I fear making a mistake in that or other things to come. I am simply worried. You are right. However, the easiest thing would be to find that Doombringer. To—reaffirm traditions.”

Ulcreziek frowned, then nodded.

“Ah. Focus the tribes on that.”

“What matters. Yes. The Raskghar—or doom. I feel odd, Ulcreziek. Almost as if Merish’s hunt was in vain in more ways than one.”

“He did his best by all accounts, though the Lizardman caused trouble. Will you hold it against him?”

Xherw shook his head.

“He is a brave, talented warrior. Why would I? Ulcre, no. I almost feel…”

He frowned and tasted the air, sniffing it. The Plain’s Eye [Shaman], with his one regular eye, the other he had inherited from the previous [Chief Shaman], looked at Xherw. Then the shadow he cast—the shadow in the air, the invisible presence Gnolls felt. Ulcreziek could see it.

Xherw spoke slowly, weighing each word.

“I feel as though one of them is in the Meeting of Tribes. And I did not feel so a while ago.”

The [Chief Shaman] looked at him sharply.

“That would explain a lot.”

“Misfortune? All of this? It would, Ulcreziek. It would be just what we need. Post watchers. Look around…carefully.”

Xherw touched Ulcre’s shoulder and turned.

“I will look myself, Chieftain Xherw, as long as I can take time from the Meeting of Tribes.”

“Split your time. And put our watchers out. Though, if it is that child or…they are so good at hiding. But I have a theory.”

Xherw’s eyes glittered.

“I think I know who it might be. But I will make sure.”

“How? Magic? My eyes?”

The Chieftain of the Plain’s Eye tribe shrugged. He began walking in a pointed direction.

“These things are too overt and would make them flee, especially if they know us, Ulcreziek. We have a talented way of finding things out. I will ask him.”

Him? Who…the Chief Shaman realized who Xherw was speaking of and rolled his eyes. In Plain’s Eye, the most traditional of tribes, they just had to spontaneously create the one Gnoll who had a class and mentality completely opposite of them.

——

Yelroan posed in front of the mirror and adjusted his signature look. To attract attention, of course, and inspire a new generation into believing the future was math. He tried striking another pose and adjusted his carefully-designed sunglasses so a ray of light blinded everything in a thirty-foot radius.

“Math. Arithmetic. Algebra. Statistics. Calculations. Geometry—oh, hello, Chieftain. Did you need something?”

Chieftain Xherw of the Plain’s Eye tribe was not a tall Gnoll, but he had a weight upon the world, and he was one of the most famous Gnolls in existence. Being around him was electrifying, and he never went most places without his bodyguard. He was a seasoned warrior, a great leader—and he rubbed at his forehead as if Yelroan were more styming than fighting one of the Centenium, which he had done.

“Yelroan. That is…Mathematician Yelroan.”

He used Yelroan’s title with a slight wince. He tried, unlike Ulcre and many others in Plain’s Eye, who patently hated the blonde Gnoll who dressed snappily and showily and did, to them, silly and stupid things in a worthless class.

That was why Yelroan liked Xherw. He tried. So Yelroan swept some papers to the side and offered him some cold tea.

“What can I do for you, Chieftain? Did you hear about the attempt on my life? Some issue come up with a tribe that needs accounting? Merish? Did he find the Doombringer? I’ve lost the trail, but I can try to find more data points…”

He worried for his friend. Honestly, statistics wasn’t his strongest suit, nor analysis-based models. Naturally, Xherw thought it was all one thing, if he even understood how math applied to such things to begin with.

Math was so complex and deep, yet people thought that all you could do with it was figure out how to supply an army. That was logistics, which, yes, had calculations, but was as much to do with knowing how much someone ate or terrain and whatnot as actual math.

Get a [Secretary of War] or [Strategist] for that! Sometimes it hurt Yelroan, feeling like a glorified [Accountant]. But then he saw how Xherw prized him, and how he showed up [Mages] and [Chieftains] and all those other classes with applied mathematics.

And he felt better about himself. Mathematics was deeper than that. It was a way of looking at the world. An entire perspective that you could see…everything through. Just like how a pair of spectacles brought things into focus, math was the lens by which Yelroan understood everything.

No one, especially Plain’s Eye, should look down on a new way of seeing the world. That was why he loved his craft, the numbers that could make sense of vast concepts with ease.

That was math. Yelroan really thought he should figure out how to explain it like that, but he had less of a way with words.

“No, Yelroan. I came to ask you to investigate something with your…math-Skills. I do not know if you can, but I suspect you can, and it will be a great service to the tribe. I hold you in high confidence and…did you say ‘attempt on your life’?”

Xherw must have been stressed. He normally caught things like that right away. He stiffened and looked around Yelroan’s organized tent.

Maps, data sheets, cabinets of holding—many cabinets of holding—and all kinds of tools that Yelroan used, from an abacus to sheets to plot data and more. Xherw glanced up and whistled softly.

Instantly, one of his [Bodyguards] appeared right behind Xherw, an axe raised. Yelroan saw the magical paint glowing, shedding the [Invisibility] spell. He knew Xherw’s bodyguards did that, but still slopped his tea all over himself.

“What issue, Chieftain?”

“Is there anyone nearby? Do a sweep.”

The [Shamanic Warrior] nodded. Yelroan clarified as Xherw looked at him.

“I don’t know if it was an assassination attempt. I just think my life might be under threat. Or maybe it’s a prank?”

“Why would this be? Did you…anger someone ag—at all?”

Yelroan coughed.

“Not that I can remember. But someone did break into my tent. I checked, but I don’t think they stole anything. They might have copied data down, but if they did, why would they tell me?”

“And who would use it?”

Xherw mused. Yelroan raised his brows.

“Chieftain, I have all the income, supply reports, even classes of all of Plain’s Eye and our allies written down.”

“Ah. That is concerning. But you say you don’t think it was that?”

Yelroan rubbed at one ear.

“No, Chieftain. If that were so, I’d never know about it—and I would like some bodyguards because I do have precious data. I know the other sub-[Chieftains] wouldn’t think of it like that…”

“You will have whatever you need, Yelroan. I understand. Tell me what was so odd.”

That was Xherw. He listened. Yelroan got up. He walked over to one of the chalkboards, flipped it over, and Xherw blinked. Yelroan pointed to it.

“See?”

Xherw looked at the big word written in chalk across the board. Yelroan had circled it, added question marks, but the original writing was clear. One word:

Sin.

“…Have you done anything to upset anyone, Yelroan? Beyond your usual antics? Slept with anyone? Injured someone, by chance?”

Yelroan threw up his paws.

“Honestly, Chieftain! I haven’t! I swear! It doesn’t even make sense. But look—”

He pointed. Xherw frowned. He saw…numbers after the word.

“I assume you wrote them.”

“Ah, you would normally be correct, Chieftain! Except I didn’t. Not this time.”

There was an odd set of numbers that made no sense to Xherw. If he read the entire thing and assumed it came from the mysterious intruder, it read…

Sin. 5

= (-) 0.95892427466

“…What does that mean?”

Yelroan’s eyes glinted excitedly behind his tinted sunglasses.

“I have no idea, Chieftain. But it might be…a puzzle? Look—there are more, and I think they’re examples.”

He pointed to another number, which corresponded to another random series of smaller numbers. Xherw’s eyes began to cross just trying to figure it out. He understood the decimal point, percentages, and even ‘exponents’, something from advanced math that Yelroan had studied, but there he had to stop.

The question was, who would break in, leave a random math problem for a [Mathematician], and leave?

The answer was, of course, a [Paragon] who didn’t know what it meant either. However, neither Gnoll knew that. Yelroan rubbed at his chin, and Xherw shook his head.

“I think we must assume it is a prank or…or a mystery. I will assign a guard to you, Yelroan, but I have more important business. Guards. Seal the tent and stand watch.”

They did, and Yelroan felt his fur rise as Xherw looked at him. The Chieftain chose his words carefully.

“You have always been loyal to Plain’s Eye. I do not trust you with everything—but I have motioned for it, and those who are privy are slowly seeing your great worth, Yelroan. I could overrule them, but I want you to prove your class is good.”

“You honor me, Chieftain. That’s why I stick around.”

Yelroan answered, trying to be genuine. He saw Xherw smile tiredly.

“That is what I see, and I will make sure the Gnoll who replaces me one day understands it. But Yelroan…while I cannot trust you with the full weight of Plain’s Eye yet—I have involved you in the hunt for the Doombringers because you could do what the others did not. You predicted their course.”

“And lost them. That wasn’t math so much as my Skills, Chieftain…”

Xherw lifted a paw, and the younger Gnoll fell quiet.

“Peace, Yelroan. We cannot be perfect. But you have a talent for finding the truth in ways that others cannot ward against. So…I am trusting you with this. I believe there is a Doombringer at the Meeting of Tribes. I can feel them.”

Every hair on Yelroan’s body stood up abruptly. The [Mathematician] licked suddenly dry lips.

“A Doombringer, Chieftain? Here? That would explain all the things that have gone so wrong, wouldn’t it?”

‘Doombringer, Doombringer, run away!’

The childhood game came back to him. Of course, he had always been…Xherw studied Yelroan carefully.

“Yes. It would explain things, and help us immensely to find one. Especially with all this uncertainty. And a Doombringer…?”

“…must die.”

It came out of Yelroan’s mouth before he even thought about it. Every Plain’s Eye Gnoll knew that. Xherw nodded.

“I need you to prove they are one before we strike. They are canny—and if they evaded Merish and all of us for so long, we must be certain. A false accusation will hurt Plain’s Eye beyond belief. So I need you to prove they are from a tribe, that they lost their tribe…with math.”

“…You mean, with records.”

Yelroan clarified after a second. Xherw blinked.

“Yes. That is in your purview, isn’t it?”

“Er…yes, Chieftain. I can certainly open drawers and read paper like the best of them.”

Xherw hesitated but then nodded.

“Whatever you must do to prove it, Yelroan. Of course, we can explain later, but there are ways to dye fur, and they have allies. But I can help you: I think I know who it is. I need you to investigate. I almost missed it, but I felt doom’s…presence.”

“It has a presence?”

The Plain’s Eye Chieftain nodded slowly, meeting Yelroan’s eyes.

“It does. I can sense it because of my class. Know this, Yelroan. I am fairly certain—but it could be—conflicting Skills or factors. So you will make certain. The feeling was strong though, but it could be something else. Even so, she tried to hide from me; she stays away from our camp, and that is also odd for her.”

“She?”

Yelroan whispered. Xherw nodded. He bent over and whispered.

“Investigate this Gnoll. Report back to me as swiftly as possible, and make sure, very sure, she is doom. Then we will kill her. Look for her tribe. Her name is Qwera. The Golden Gnoll of Izril.”

——

It was time to begin the investigation. Doombringers. Doombringers and secrets.

The Gnoll prepared as simply and thoroughly as possible. They could, after all, leave no overt traces. There were enemies who would stymie them or attack.

Satar Silverfang had only a notepad and enchanted quill. But she did don her [Shaman]’s vestments of authority; a [Shaman] could go where they wanted.

Yelroan put on his sleek, semi-reflective pants. He adjusted his sunglasses and collected a small plethora of items from the [Quartermaster], who sniffed at him, but Yelroan did have Xherw’s direct authority. Invisibility scroll, potions to mask scent, seeing artifacts…he also had a [Message] scroll and access to most Mage’s Guild records and Plain’s Eye’s own knowledge.

Satar saw her mother, Akrisa Silverfang, Krshia, and the other [Chieftains] off to the Meeting of Chieftains. It was going to be a day of grand deliberations. Maybe not about Doombringers, but…she narrowed her eyes. That just gave her more time to search, before Akrisa brought the issue up at the Meeting of Chieftains.

What did it all mean? Was it connected? She was going to find out.

Satar walked into the Meeting of Tribes, never knowing she was being watched and followed. Yelroan? He geared himself up, then went back to his tent.

He sat down, adjusted his seat, got up, found a cushion, and put it down on the chair. Then he reached over for a cup of tea and saw a new product had been sent to the Plain’s Eye tribe.

A ‘for-your-consideration’ gift from…Oteslia. He read the label.

“Ooh. Coffee? What’s this now?”

He put on a kettle and read the instructions as he pulled out the first file. Absently, at some point, Yelroan took a sip as he read through the pages, tracing the facts, the math, and the Doombringer.

His life was never the same.

——

The Meeting of Chieftains within the Meeting of Tribes was unsettled. That was the only word for it. Normally, they gathered with banter, arguments, a preview of the discussion that would lie ahead.

This time, there was a palpable unease as Chieftains of every stripe, age, and color joined the gathering in the largest tent. They looked towards the Great Tribes, to leaders like Xherw…and to the Silverfangs.

Not with excitement, though. More like a fearful anticipation. What would be next?

Some were ready. They waited, still angry, furious. They did not have to wait long for a target of their anger.

“Chieftains. Once more we must gather to discuss great issues. We have had enough—enough arguments over who was to blame for stealing magic.”

It was the oldest [Shaman], Theikha of Gaarh Marsh, who once again convened the discussions. Unlike before, though, there was no respectful silence.

“And what about the traitors who helped them? What about retribution? Are we to let that go?”

One of the younger Chieftains shot to her feet. Instantly, Chieftain Reizet of the Az’muzarre tribe rose.

“Silence. No one will interrupt Shaman Theikha!”

Her glare and the force of that stare, her very aura, was enough to send the other Chieftain staggering back into her seat. However, Chieftain Reizet’s glare was in turn subsumed as Theikha turned.

“That is true of any Chieftain, Chieftain Reizet. I will lead this discussion myself.”

Reizet hesitated, then sat with a stiff nod, chastened. Theikha waited, then spoke again, her voice carrying around the domed room.

In her seat, Krshia wished she could be that intimidating when she was older. Gnolls leaned forwards, for the calm reassurance in Theikha’s tone as much as her wisdom.

“We will find if conspirators aided the Walled Cities. We will do what we must. Yes, Chieftains, we will do these things, but we have already voted to investigate the matter. Each tribe pursues it on their own time; it is fruitless to waste time. So we will not, for ours is fleeting. The Meeting of Tribes must end. We are at war with the Drakes whether we say it openly or not. So we must continue. We will vote and discuss and argue as we always do. However, two great issues lie before us…for today.”

A susurration as she glanced around. Akrisa was tense by Krshia’s side. Waiting.

“The first is another part of the gift of Silverfang—Silverfang, Longstalker’s Fang, and Greenpaw.”

Chieftain Orelighn looked like he was going to have a heart-attack as everyone turned to stare at him. This was it. Today, that long secret would be unveiled to the tribes of Izril. Neither Rose nor Inkar were here yet, but Krshia had borrowed something.

Inkar’s upgraded smartphone. Also, Rose’s laptop. Orelighn had samples of the plane wreck, and what they had was the authority to tell this story without it being questioned. After Ferkr…

Ferkr was one of the Gnolls in attendance. The Gnoll was very nervous as she sat by Chieftain Torishi and the Chieftain of the Wild Wastes tribe, Perale, but she had been accorded a place here for her bravery and role.

A rare honor. Theikha looked at Akrisa. Then she paused and sniffed the air. Her expression darkened.

“But first…I think the second issue is more pressing. It will be quick, Chieftains. But as Chaldion of Pallass hinted—there are dark tidings from our past. Enemies we thought long dead. We have not spoken of them or deliberated the matter. What is there to deliberate, save that our enemies live? That is up to you. Before we discuss the last gift—Chieftain Reizet? Bring in the…Raskghar.”

Raskghar. A sudden chill ran down Krshia’s spine. She knew what she would see. The other Chieftains? A low growl swept through the room, tinged with uncertainty.

They had only seen them once, from afar, before they were spirited away. Krshia had seen them up close multiple times, so she knew what to expect.

But even so, seeing the…monster as it was moved into the center of the Meeting of Chieftains, behind steel bars—and shackled beyond that—was enough to send Gnolls to their feet, or drawing their weapons.

It was instinctual. Not just because the huge beast-person was bigger than any normal Gnoll, hugely muscled, with bigger fangs, a hunched body, and ripping talon claws—a match for any Level 20 [Warrior] already, more than a match—there was something else.

The Raskghar was instinctually, instantly, recognizable. Everything in Krshia screamed one word.

Enemy. Or was it…

Predator? She felt a fear that went to the root of childhood fears about the dark, the unease of the unknown. There it sat, in front of them. The font of all stories. Raskghar.

“Kill it.”

——

The first Gnoll to stand was another Chieftain. This one had a throwing axe. Chieftain Mrell, his hand on his own Demas Metal blade, saw her rise and throw the hatchet down towards the Raskghar.

It was chained. Mrell saw it in a flash. A chained Raskghar—then someone leapt from their seat. The Az’muzarre guards were a hair too slow, but this Chieftain was not.

Chieftain Iraz Steelfur didn’t try to catch the spinning hatchet. He just threw himself forwards, raised an arm, and blocked it. The enchanted axe struck his arm and he grunted, but it only cut his steel body. He tore it out, checked the light wound, and bellowed up.

“Have you lost your minds? That is a prisoner!”

The Chieftain was dragged down before she could cast another hatchet. Shaman Theikha restored order.

“The next Gnoll who casts a weapon will be exiled from this place until the Meeting of Tribes ends. The Raskghar is chained and caged. We must speak to it.”

“Can it even speak?”

Chieftain Xherw spoke next, and Mrell was amazed at how composed he was. The Plain’s Eye Chieftain looked down at the Raskghar as Shaman Ulcre leaned forwards.

Neither one flinched away from the Raskghar. What amazed Mrell more was, even when the axe was thrown, even under the stares of so many Gnolls…

The Raskghar didn’t flinch either. So the audience hesitated, because each Chieftain realized what Mrell already had.

That was no monster. Or if it were a monster, it was in the same category as Goblins or Trolls. The Raskghar watched them.

“The Az’muzarre tribe has kept the Raskghar from harm—to them or from others. They are…uncooperative. However, you should at least know the truth of the legends.”

Theikha approached the cage fearlessly, although the bars, guards, and chains did keep her safe. The Raskghar stared at her as the [Shaman] spoke, her voice and the Raskghar’s magnified for the benefit of the room.

“You are named Asoma.”

When the Raskghar spoke, Mrell felt another chill. It—she was female. And she spoke.

Badly. Each word looked like it pained her. He had heard they grew more intelligent when one or both of the moons was full. They had been found in Liscor’s dungeon. Why had so much come from Liscor?

“Yes. I am Asoma.”

The Raskghar growled. She was sniffing Theikha, and the [Shaman] didn’t draw away, but even she didn’t hide the displeasure on her face.

Mrell couldn’t explain the horror fully at first. It wasn’t just seeing a monster; he had seen Crelers, and they were nightmares. The fear of the Raskghar was entirely different. It was like looking at a person…twisted. Like seeing all the mannerisms you yourself had, but sinister.

Asoma watched Theikha and licked her lips.

“You are Raskghar. You call yourselves that, don’t you?”

Unlike what Mrell would have done, Theikha didn’t pace around the cage or walk back and forth. She just leaned on her staff and looked at Asoma.

“Yes. We are Raskghar.”

“Why do you call yourselves that? Do you know what we are?”

The female Raskghar narrowed her eyes. She tilted her head and tried to hunch over, but the chains restrained her too well.

“Gnolls?”

Interesting. Mrell forgot his fear for a second. He saw some other [Chieftains] look around sharply and murmur.

“Why do you know your name and not ours?”

Theikha pressed. Asoma blinked at her. Her eyes were smaller, as if she didn’t need them as much, but Mrell thought she could move around in the darkness with perfect ease. Yes, a stalker, who would grab you and—

He realized he still had a hold of his sword and forced himself to relax. His [Shaman] was visibly trembling, but everyone was listening, now. Theikha was showing them this and conducting this conversation for a reason.

“Don’t know food’s name.”

There it was. That mad grin. This time, Asoma pulled forwards until the mithril chains clinked tight, but Theikha didn’t lean back. That seemed to frustrate Asoma, so she growled and snapped her head. Theikha looked at her.

“Why are we prey? Who told you that?”

Asoma growled.

“Don’t know. Smell it. Hungry.”

She looked around. Repeating the word.

“Hungry.”

“They sacrifice Gnolls and eat their hearts. To gain intelligence.”

Someone spoke; Chieftain Akrisa? No—her sister. Krshia Silverfang rose to her feet, looking down at Asoma.

“Why? How is that even possible?”

“Some dark ritual. It must be. Raskghar appeared during the dark years of our people. During the Age of Hiding—we dug deep. Deep, to escape dragonfire and Drakes. We were never meant to live belowground, but we did. It was a terrible era that drove many of us to madness, but we survived it. It is then that Raskghar appeared.”

Chieftain Ulcreziek rose to his feet. He knew his history, and other [Shamans] nodded darkly, even Torishi, who had been trained as one.

“Raskghar split from Gnolls. Some stories claimed them as our faults and sins made manifest; others simply that they were made of darkness in our image. The truth may not matter. The stories agree; Raskghar hunted us. This is why. Chieftain Akrisa—no, Krshia Silverfang. You were at Liscor when they were found in the dungeon. Can you give us an accounting of what you saw?”

Even Asoma turned to Krshia as she spoke. She relayed the first encounters with the Raskghar simply. Mrell’s blood chilled to hear how they scaled the walls during the flooding, outfought the [Guards], and abducted Gnolls.

“They are three times more dangerous under moonlight. Stronger, smarter…”

“I know of that transformation under the moon. But not from this.”

Chieftain Perale spoke up. The Wild Wastes’ best warrior nodded uncertainly.

“Is it a shared power?”

“I refuse to believe we share anything with that! Even ancestry!”

Another Chieftain exclaimed. Chieftain Firrelle of Ekhtouch snorted.

“How can you? It is obvious. Look at that thing’s…her teeth. Her claws. Her fur and body—do you think she sprung up naturally from the ground?”

She rose too, and Asoma eyed her curiously, licking her lips. She seemed to be picking around the room, finding Gnolls she…liked. Like Xherw, Torishi, Firrelle…

High-level Gnolls. Firrelle looked down at Asoma with visible unease, but spoke to the room.

“We are Ekhtouch. We understand how traits are passed down. Raskghar look like us. But split off, long ago. They are related to us; I would swear every level I have ever gained on that.”

It seemed like a fair statement, but even so, the uproar it presented was enormous. Some Gnolls didn’t want to believe it.

“Enough. Enough. We can deliberate their origins later. Or that is a task for [Shamans]. Shaman Theikha, why did you bring this one here? For us to see it alone?”

Xherw spoke, and Theikha nodded to him.

“No. You are correct. I have a few questions to ask. Then we will deliberate in peace. You have seen the Raskghar. Now…Asoma. Answer a question for me.”

She turned to the Raskghar, and Asoma grinned.

“Feed me. I answer.”

“Answer, or you will regret it, Raskghar.”

One of the Az’muzarre guards didn’t even lower her voice. Asoma glared, and Theikha raised a paw.

“Answer, Asoma. You have killed Gnolls.”

Asoma’s face contorted with effort. She frowned, searching for words.

“Not me. I…surrender. Mercy. Forgiveness. You make us better. You feed us. Nice Gnolls. We surrender. Forgive. Let us out?”

She looked around, grinning, and the feeling of appalled anger in Mrell’s stomach grew. Theikha ignored that.

“Your people have killed Gnolls. Why? Why did you know to…sacrifice us? Why do you attack us?”

Asoma hesitated.

“Don’t know?”

She had the look of a child evading a question. Chieftain Reizet slowly rose, but Shaman Theikha planted her staff. She did not raise her voice…but the air around her grew dark.

Each Gnoll in the room felt a chill through the air. Theikha did not get bigger, but she seemed to focus, or the rest of the world grew blurry. It was unnerving to watch.

“Answer my question. Why do you hunt Gnolls? Who told you?”

No longer smiling or confident, the Raskghar backed up.

“Don’t know! Hungry. Know. We know food.”

Theikha took a step forward.

“Then—where did you come from? How long have Raskghar been below Liscor?”

“Don’t know. Long. Many lives. Lost. Can’t get out. Waiting.”

Mrell leaned forwards. Theikha glanced around.

“Did anyone put you there, Asoma?”

“Don’t know. When moons come, we look. But below is death. Above—no way out. Want to leave. Try to leave. No way out. Until bugs dig in.”

Antinium. The Antinium had unearthed the dungeon. The Raskghar had been…trapped? A buzz began, following this new idea, but Theikha had already lifted a paw.

“One more question, Asoma. Then you can go and eat. Tell me what you told Chieftain Reizet. What you told the others. Raskghar want to eat Gnolls. Your tribe wanted to be free of the dungeon.”

“Yes. Facestealer. Hrr. Facestealer. Mother. Bad things. Facestealer killed Stalker. Can’t kill Facestealer. Nothing kills Facestealer. And Mother is there.”

“Who is…?”

“Some kind of high-level monster down there.”

Mrell’s [Shaman] whispered back. But he didn’t know who…Mother was.

“Where would you go if you left the dungeon? If you didn’t—couldn’t eat Gnolls? Tell me what you said, Asoma. You can eat as much meat as you want. What did you say?”

Theikha coaxed. Asoma stared at her and around the room. She was clearly thinking, trying to figure out if she should say it. But the lure was too appealing, and she…she didn’t understand why it would matter. So she grinned and said it.

“Find people. Find more. Make more Raskghar. More, and more.”

Suddenly, Mrell had stopped breathing. He leaned over his seat, and Theikha whispered.

“Now, how would you do that, Asoma? Your tribe is the only one, isn’t it?”

The Raskghar frowned, then smiled.

“No. No…more Raskghar. Down deep. More Raskghar. Right there. See? See?”

She lifted one talon and pointed. Mrell saw her point, not randomly, but to the side—and down. Down. Theikha heard the low moan around the room and raised a paw.

“That’s enough. Take her away.”

——

It was a long time before order was restored. Even then, Krshia’s breathing was shaky.

There were more Raskghar? She hadn’t known that. Now, she understood why Theikha had brought Asoma here.

“The Raskghar revealed that during questioning. They didn’t even think to hide it, and they do have more secrets. They didn’t think it was something to hide. Mind you—we questioned them during the day, far away from full moon cycles. They’re too intelligent under the moons. They tried picking locks, and communicated—even by thumping the ground and hearing each other. We’ve begun putting them to sleep those nights.”

Reizet finished the summary. She looked around as Theikha retired. The [Shaman] seemed exhausted from that brief encounter, and it was the [Chieftains]’ turn to take the stage.

“I don’t know about you, but I see it one way. The Raskghar live. They live…in dungeons. In places hidden away from time. As Grand Strategist Chaldion said—we have enemies. We have enemies, and the Raskghar live, despite our wars to destroy them. Now, who could arrange that? Plant a seed of death to emerge later? Whenever they wanted to hurt us?”

The Az’muzarre Chieftain’s voice was too calm. Too…she looked around, and her answer came in an instant.

“Drakes. Only Drakes build dungeons. They did this. Just like our magic. It’s always them.”

A cursing voice. Growls of agreement. Xherw rose to his feet.

“I will not say it outright, but yes. Perhaps Drakes. The truth is we do not know. Maybe they fled. I counsel thought, Chieftains.”

“What is there to think, Xherw? Plain’s Eye counsels patience, counsels listening—first Raskghar, then our magic! How much more must we think on until we realize what the Drakes have done and always do? They march armies into our land. When will the Chieftains agree to force them back and punish them? A warrior does not think while her tribe is being slaughtered. She acts!”

Chieftain Werri of the Woven Bladegrass tribe stood. The younger and more radical Chieftains all stood with her, growling assent.

Instantly, Iraz of Steelfur rose to oppose her, and a wave of tribes that respected Steelfur as well, a clear split.

“I am a warrior as well, Chieftain Werri, and I will not risk a great war that will leave us open to death from the Antinium.”

“In that case, I propose to accept the Grand Queen’s truce offer! Let’s take their land.”

Werri grinned, and the Meeting of Chieftains went into an uproar. Theikha rose and lifted a weary paw.

“Is that a true suggestion or bravado, Werri? You brought the Grand Queen’s offer before the Meeting of Tribes—if you will ask it seriously, we will vote on it.”

Werri hesitated. She looked at Theikha and bowed slowly.

“…It is not a true suggestion, Shaman Theikha. Merely a point.”

She jerked her chin up at Iraz, and he gave her a slow nod.

“I do not take it lightly, Werri. We do not see eye-to-eye. But I have not forgiven the Drakes either.”

His eyes glinted, and he looked around to make sure everyone saw he was serious. Werri gave him a reluctant smile.

“Good.”

She was sitting when another Gnoll stood. This one had feathers attached to his fur. Krshia thought he was from Satest Fletching, a tribe known for their connection with birds and the sky. She thought Bird would have loved to meet him.

“I…do have a proposal to lay before the Meeting of Tribes, Shaman Theikha. I know Silverfang has its right, but since it is brought up, may I speak?”

“Each Chieftain is equal, Chieftain Yiew. Speak.”

The [Shaman] nodded, and the Chieftain looked around.

“I do propose that we take the Grand Queen’s offer for peace. Failing that? I propose—as I have heard rumored that other tribes will propose—that after this Meeting of Tribes, we head north. Past the High Passes into the north if Magnolia Reinhart will offer it. I will sign her contract. Or—if both fail? I will leave Izril and go to Chandrar and join the King of Destruction’s armies. Or even go to Baleros or Terandria. Anywhere but here.”

For a second, everyone just stared at Chieftain Yiew. Then there was shouting, howls of discord, and sheer disbelief. Theikha had to slam her staff on the ground three times and produce a charge in the air that made their fur crackle before there was silence.

Krshia looked at Yiew in disbelief.

“You would leave our home, Yiew? Truly? This isn’t just bravado for the sake of talk? Ally with the Antinium? They killed thousands of us, and the King of Destruction—”

Reizet argued angrily. Yiew didn’t raise his head. It was bowed, and his paws were clenched, but he did not flinch either. He spoke, and his tone was one of exhaustion. Calm exhaustion, after you had wasted every scrap of anger, burnt away everything.

“The King of Destruction? I see he is under siege, Reizet. Maybe he dies. Maybe he lives and kills his foes. But what I see is that he does not kill many Gnolls, if any. Antinium? Why are you so worried about peace with them?”

Reizet snarled with sheer disbelief at his stupidity.

“Because they will turn on us once they destroy the Drakes!”

“And how is that different than the Drakes slowly killing us? Better to have one enemy than two.”

Yiew countered. The Az’muzarre Chieftain hesitated, and Yiew went on.

“I’m simply tired of it. Tired of Drakes doing this and that. I am serious. I will take the Grand Queen’s peace, take her land if she will make a lesser offer. I will ally with the Antinium or flee Izril—go wherever other tribes will. But when I say this, I mean it. I will take the Antinium’s peace here and now and damn the Walled Cities. My tribe will never walk in their shadow. We are done with them. Be it war or peace or we flee—there is nothing to trust. We have no allies in Izril, only more and more enemies. I hear whispers of Doombringers, I see Raskghar—this Meeting of Tribes has revealed to me the foes set against us, and so I give up. They hate us. Raskghar. Drakes. We have such few allies.”

The Meeting of Chieftains was so silent after Yiew spoke. Not simply for what he was saying—but because it was so bleak. Even Theikha said nothing as he sat back.

They should have voted for the Antinium’s proposal, but it had not a chance of passing…or did it? How many Chieftains were like Yiew?

Krshia didn’t know, but she thought it was time. And because she thought it, her sister rose. Chieftain Akrisa’s silverfang pendant swung in the light as she stood.

“Though it may be out of turn…Shaman Theikha. I ask to speak. To speak to Yiew and the other Chieftains who see what I do and despair. Because such dire tidings—even if they are truth—have come to the Meeting of Tribes. Great gifts, yes!”

She reminded them of the magic tome and the hope of casting magic. The Chieftains’ heads rose, and they recalled that no tribe save for two had even offered their gifts. This was supposed to be a grand occasion for the bettering of all.

It did not feel it. But Akrisa turned to them and spoke, trying to meet every eye.

“There is one thing we of Silverfang, Longstalker’s Fang, and Greenpaw have not told you all. One final gift and revelation which—I would say—perhaps trumps even the revelation of magic. Well, perhaps not that, but is equal to it and the Raskghar’s warning.”

“Bold claims, Chieftain Akrisa.”

Chieftain Perale murmured. It was Iraz who looked at Akrisa and Krshia knew who spoke up.

“Yes, bold. But I say Silverfang has proven they do not boast idly time and time again. I will hear this, if you all will.”

He looked around for nods of support, and Akrisa turned. Among the Meeting of Chieftains, she called out.

“I ask for all the [Shamans] of the Great Tribes to seal this room!”

“It is already warded.”

One of the [Shamans] pointed out, miffed. Akrisa looked at her.

“I do not doubt it is, [Shaman]. But I ask you all to cast spells beyond the most stringent protections. You have already done so—cast your best spells. Cast the spells that cost you, because this secret must not leave this room until it is time.”

The [Shamans] glanced at each other, and Ulcreziek rose.

“I will do this.”

He drew a shining gemstone from his belt pouch, placed it on the ground, and smashed it with his staff before casting a spell. Theikha herself linked paws with Az’muzarre’s [Shaman], and the Gnolls looked sharply at Akrisa.

Even Ferkr, though she might have had an inkling of what was going on. Akrisa was trembling, but Krshia touched her paw and Cetrule stood next to her. When the room was secure, Akrisa spoke.

“This is not my story alone. So I ask Chieftain Eska of Longstalker’s Fang and Orelighn of Greenpaw to tell parts of it. But I will begin—my sister, in Liscor, was one of the Gnolls who first encountered Raskghar. She also worked to buy magical spellbooks, but that is not the revelation she considers most important. She found something last year, or rather…someone. A strange story, which she thought was madness at first, then realized could only be true. Perhaps—perhaps you have encountered hints of it yourself, but Chieftain Eska and Chieftain Orelighn have as well.”

The Chieftains looked at each other. Iraz was watching them, for he knew, but Xherw looked uneasy—confused. He didn’t know where this was going, nor did even Torishi, who gave Akrisa a sharp look.

Powerful Chieftains. Famous Gnolls like Garsine Wallbreaker, who raised her head as Akrisa went on. Thousands of Gnolls. The largest gathering in the world listened as Akrisa told them the secret spreading across the world.

“Each one of us met someone. Or found their passage. Each one…a Human or Humans. They are always Humans, you see, and, I think, always young. They are Humans among many in this world, but they are all different because they wear strange dresses or carry strange objects or…do not know what levels and classes are. They smell of oil and smoke at first, and things you cannot imagine. Perhaps you know them.”

There was a sound. One of the Chieftains that Krshia didn’t recognize sat up suddenly, and everyone glanced at him. Chieftain Mrell turned his head, then blinked at Akrisa as she went on.

“This is not a trick. Nor a coincidence. You will know these people when you meet them—and we must meet them, find them! We must learn from them and protect them and befriend them, because they are lost children. From nations no one here has ever heard of. They are travelers—by accident, or so we think.”

“From where? Drath? From a lost dimension, some magical accident?”

Reizet demanded. Even Chieftain Firrelle was peering at Akrisa. She didn’t know either. Akrisa smiled, and Krshia heard the tremble in her voice.

“No, Chieftains. They come from another world entirely. A world without magic. A world of Humans and technology more advanced than ours—but without classes or levels. They call it ‘Earth’, and they, like us, believed they were alone in the…universe. Now, they are coming here, though we do not know how. They are even at the Meeting of Tribes. We have proof.”

Dead silence. Chieftains gaped at each other. Torishi kept blinking. Theikha frowned at Akrisa, and Iraz sat back, looking towards Xherw and giving him a nod. The Plain’s Eye Chieftain looked at Iraz, then Akrisa, and he believed.

Chieftain Werri burst out into laughter. She guffawed, slapping her legs, and countless other Gnolls joined her.

“A fine jest, Chieftain Akrisa! Or do you believe it? That must be a trick or a great magic. Come now. You don’t believe that, do you? What evidence is there? Some artifact you can’t figure out?”

Akrisa held her ground.

“It is realer than you know, Chieftain Werri. Already, we think Wistram has some Earthers, and there are children in Terandria. One you might have even heard? They call her the ‘Singer of Terandria’.”

Werri stopped laughing abruptly.

“Come now. A [Singer]?”

“Have you ever heard the like of her music, Chieftain Werri? Do you not wonder about the strange new ideas appearing? Plays? Gelato? What about the news? Why did someone gain the idea to link scrying orbs together? Do you recall the game of football and Joseph of Pallass? Isn’t it strange how fast the world is changing?”

Chieftain Eska rose to her feet next, and she looked about. Werri stared at her.

“The world is always changing. So that means nothing.”

“Always Humans, though. Are Humans the font of all knowledge and innovation?”

Orelighn spoke, grasping something in his bag of holding.

“They’d say they are.”

Laughter as someone said that, but Akrisa was turning to Krshia. The Gnoll handed her something, and Akrisa lifted it up. It gleamed in the light, and the Gnolls focused on it. A strange…rectangle of metal. Metal and something else.

It looked a bit like glass, but even a [Smith] like Mrell didn’t know quite what it was. It was beautifully made, he could believe that. Akrisa handed it to the Gnoll on her left.

“We have objects that we will show you. Be exceedingly careful with them. But you will see—they contain no magic. Maybe it is hidden—but I think not. The material is not metal, nor is it any I have ever encountered. It is called plastic. These objects light up and do things no [Mage] I have ever met could dream of. They play music. They even create scenes that cannot exist. And these are small objects. Orelighn?”

“I have…something upon my lands, Chieftains. My gifts to the Meeting of Tribes. It is a giant vessel. Not as large as a warship, but made entirely of steel and strange substances. No—I say it wrong. Not steel. Something else. A hard, light metal. Yet it is broken. It fell out of the skies, and the children within were dead when we found them. A vessel meant to fly through clouds at speeds beyond the fastest Courier. They call it an airplane. This is a piece of it.”

The Greenpaw Chieftain was next, and he brought something else out; a piece of metal which he handed around. Salvaged, burnt electronics.

A watch that had been fixed with [Repair] such that it was even ticking.

Tick, tick, tick…the sensitive ears of Gnolls heard a strange sound they had never encountered before. One stared through the glass at unfamiliar parts more intricate than Pallass could dream of.

Slowly, Werri’s laughing face stopped being so merry. She looked around and sat uncertainly. Torishi was standing, breathing in hard.

She listened. Not quite sure what she was hearing. No—she couldn’t even imagine it. Even as the other three Chieftains, then Akrisa and the others tried to explain, the Gnolls couldn’t imagine it because the ones explaining didn’t have a full grasp.

But believe? They looked at the objects. Listened to strange music and saw a movie that could not exist play on the laptop. Xherw rose to his feet. One of the [Shamans] jerked away from a Dragon. The Chieftains of the Meeting of Tribes looked at each other and realized Akrisa had not lied.

The greatest revelation yet had just begun.

——

Investigations were a strange thing. It could take you ages to get anywhere. Satar realized she was in for the long haul after her very first [Shaman] interview. A kindly, old, male [Shaman] sat her down, answered her questions, fed her a toffee-like snack, and talked for three hours straight.

[Shamans] were good at talking to people. It was practically the job description; unlike a [Mage], a [Shaman] had to be part of the community. The problem was the [Shamans] that Satar had to talk to were old. Which meant they remembered everything and would tell you…everything.

“Old Doombringer stories? Why, I remember most of my Retellings. Not that they’re always spot-on. [Historians] call it a drifting in accuracy based on an oral tradition, but at least it’s communal. Compare that to one biased [Writer] like Krsysl Wordsmith who gets printed a hundred thousand times and everyone takes as the truth—you know, I met the Drake when I was young. Fantastic Drake. You think I’d be angry? Well, at the time he was eager, forthright, but fame got to his head. Now, Doombringers have always been such a contentious topic. I don’t tell stories like Plain’s Eye does—they have some horrific stories. I actually recall when one appeared and the tribes were terrified. But now the Raskghar are here—did you see them? Let me tell you about the Raskghar. When I was young, we thought there were Raskghar preying on us. This was back in the day—long before the Antinium came to Izril, mind you. You think they’ve been here forever? It’s been only twenty years. So as I was saying, we thought it was Raskghar…”

It was like a wall of words that someone was slamming Satar into. She was impressed; she’d read history books with much the same effect.

But she couldn’t get away. Each part of the [Shaman]’s story connected to the other, so when she hinted they should get back to the Doombringers, he just had to clarify one point or wouldn’t she like a toffee or meat…?

Three hours passed by very slowly. Satar survived via her journal. She took notes, doodled, and went to the next [Shaman]. The first [Shaman] had been from Greenpaw, the elderly Dolegroh, who did know a plethora of stories. She used it as the basis for her record-keeping. She had already pestered Cetrule and her own [Shamans] to recount the Doombringer stories.

Wild Wastes’ [Wild Shaman] was far more direct. She told Satar the story the entire time while wrestling an angry cow.

“Stand still and let me milk you. You want a fight? I’ll give you a fight—”

A cow. Not a bull. A cow with horns, the most ornery look that Satar had ever seen, and it took a [Shaman] with the muscle to force the cow to let her milk her and not knock her flat with a headbutt or just sit on her—which she tried to do twice.

The female [Shaman] looked at Satar as the [Storyteller] backed up from a stray hoof. Unlike domesticated cows, with their black and white spots, this cow had a dark brown coloration shot with small, pale yellow marks. Also, a thicker fur more like a yak, and horns. Not big horns, though the bulls in their own pasture looked like they could run through multiple people with one charge. They were even wavy, like a sword design.

This was just a female milking cow, and her milk was far more yellow. It tasted amazingly savory and buttery, but the effort didn’t seem worth it. The [Wild Shaman] explained apologetically to Satar that this was normal.

“Sorry. Our [Cowfriend Milker] is sick. And yes—it’s a very specialized class. Don’t laugh. Only he can do this and feed the bulls safely. These cows are the ones that our new warriors get to fight.”

“Fight. A cow?”

“Yep. Barehanded. Don’t worry, the cows are used to it. I think they enjoy it; the new warriors seldom win. Once you’ve met a cow who blinds you with a hoof, rolls over you, or kicks you with both hooves, you learn you’re not invincible. Good training—terrible for milking. Where were we?”

“Doombringer stories?”

The [Wild Shaman] grunted.

“Oh, those? I don’t tell them.”

“What, not at all? I thought Wild Wastes’ [Shamans] were…um, traditional?”

The Gnoll shrugged.

“We are. I just don’t tell those stories. Or Raskghar stories unless I have a mixed audience. Retellings are for the clan, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, Doombringer and Raskghar stories scare little cubs. They have enough to watch out for from real monsters without wetting themselves at night thinking a Doombringer is going to wipe out the tribe.”

“Oh. That’s…”

Actually sensible. The [Wild Shaman] obliged her by retelling the stories anyways, and Satar frowned at her journal.

Something was off.

Maybe it was just this tribe…but Satar’s instincts as a [Storyteller] told her she was onto something. She was halfway towards the third [Shaman] when someone appeared behind her.

“So you’re investigating Mri’s past. You’re helping. I see that. I don’t have to hit you. Good. Is that milk?”

Satar spun around and saw someone’s lower chest. Gireulashia loomed over her, and Satar’s mouth went dry.

“Honored Gire!”

“Is that milk?”

Satar was holding a jug of milk the [Shaman] had gifted her. She had intended it as a gift for the next [Shaman] she met, but Gire licked her lips, and Satar handed it to her. The Gnoll [Paragon] happily began drinking it.

“Yum. So good.”

It was practically a normal bottle in her paws. Satar was still wondering how a nine-foot-tall Gnoll girl snuck up on you, but that was Ekhtouch. And Gire was a [Paragon].

One of her Skills was literally called [Superiority Made Manifest]. Another was [Perfect Basic Action]. If it sounded arrogant to say she could do anything…Satar had seen it. One of Silverfang’s best [Archers] had tried to beat Gire in an archery competition. She had split his arrows three times, then hit the target blindfolded without using her Skills when he conceded.

“Did you follow me, Honored Gire?”

The [Paragon] lowered the bottle; she was sipping rather than wasting the milk, but greedily, savoring it. Satar had heard she wasn’t allowed to eat anything not on her diet; the [Paragon] seemed good at getting around that restriction of late.

“Yes. You can call me Gire since you’re on Mri’s side. I thought you were going to tell someone, but you’re gathering stories about them, aren’t you? Doombringers.”

“How did you…?”

Did she overhear Satar? Gire looked at the [Shaman].

“I listened to you, and I figured out what you were doing. It’s not hard. Secretive people act secretive. They tense up. When people lie, they move their eyes up and to the right. It’s simple.”

It was to her, but Satar was amazed nonetheless. The [Paragon] crouched down.

“I’m glad you’re helping. What are you looking for? Truth in stories? Lies?”

“Um…something. I—where’s Mri?”

“She’s writing to her penpal. She’s sad, so I left her be.”

Of all the things she would expect Mrsha to do, something as mundane as writing to a penpal was the last thing Satar expected.

“She has a penpal? Who?”

Gire took another big sip from her cup and shrugged nonchalantly.

“I don’t know who it is. Mri says it’s ‘a funny old guy’. Which to her means anyone over thirty. She’s occupied, is the point. I’ll help you search if you want. That old [Shaman] was boring.”

Suddenly, Satar found Gire had joined her investigation into the Doombringer stories. Gire knew a lot of [Shamans], and her very presence opened doors for Satar. She was intelligent, physically perfect…

But she was no [Storyteller]. She listened like a child, open-mouthed if the [Shaman] was good, fidgeting if not—although, when she caught herself, she was the model of attention. Faked attention.

The point was that she was an uncritical audience, insofar as that, while she was intelligent enough to read into a story, she didn’t read it like a [Storyteller]. She was yawning after [Shaman] number four.

“Are you just collecting a list of stories, Satar? Maybe I’ll go find Mri.”

“No…I thought it was just my imagination, but my Skill pointed it out, and now I’m sure. I thought it was just Wild Wastes at first—but it’s…strange. Beyond strange.”

The [Paragon]’s droopy ears perked up. She looked at Satar curiously, and the [Shaman] told her about her Skill.

“[Narrative: Spot Inconsistencies]. Sounds like something an [Interrogator] or [Guardsman] would use. Why is it working now?”

“Because of this. Look at this. I’ve written down the points of each Retelling of the Doombringer stories, as if I were giving you details so you could do it.”

“Oh…you simplified it.”

Without the gregariousness of details, or lurid, descriptive scenes, Satar had broken down each story into component parts, since writing down each [Shaman]’s story verbatim would have killed her ink supply, although it would have given her a great insight into how each one told stories.

However, when you broke down a story, you could make it very simple:

Doombringer comes. They’re chased off with sticks. Tribe dies. Tribe survives? Magic sword is found…

These were the parts of a story, the bare bones. It was arguable there was no story without the details, the meat and muscle and whatnot, but Satar had done this because she had noticed something.

“Look at this. Do you remember the Beast of Albez story?”

“Yes.”

“Well…look at how each [Shaman] tells it.”

Satar showed Gire the list. The [Paragon] flipped through page after page, reading at a speed Satar thought was fake. Her brows furrowed.

“Huh?”

The young [Storyteller] nodded. She felt it. She saw it on the page.

She had asked all the [Shamans] for the Beast of Albez story, and each one had told her it. They all knew it…but as she broke down the components into parts?

Each story was different. Not in the main elements, but in one key way:

The Doombringer.

It was the exact same story. Take out the Doombringer, and you had a fine, if generic tale.

Once upon a time, there was a tribe. Knocte. They lived in the foothills of Albez. However, they failed to heed a warning and the Beast of Albez emerged. One by one, it killed the tribe and lay fat and bloated among their bones. Amidst the tragedy, a Gnoll came to slay it.

The end.

The odd thing was…the Doombringer popped up in Satar’s story at the start. The Gnoll who was the dire warning to run and flee that the Knocte tribe ignored.

In the Wild Wastes [Shaman]’s story, it was completely different. The Doombringer didn’t appear at the start, but at the very end.

“And as the Beast of Albez lay sleeping, the last Gnoll escaped its clutches and ran off. Their fur turned white, and when other tribes beheld them, they knew Doom had touched the boy. For he carried the doom of Knocte upon him, for the rest of his days. The beast lay dozing, fat and horrid, until one day…”

Another [Shaman] from Weatherfur had the Doombringer at the absolute end, to Satar’s surprise.

“Lo, then came a Gnoll with a magic blade to slay the Beast of Albez. Not to avenge the tribe, but to answer doom with doom. A white Gnoll came, stole sleeping up to the beast, and planted the sword in its belly. Then it rose with a scream that made the foothills shake and the two did battle. Doom against doom, for where Doombringers walk, only calamity has followed.”

That was the oddest story. Gire’s brows furrowed.

“A Doombringer killed the Beast of Albez? But in the story I was told…I remember it perfectly. My [Shamans] had it like yours. A white Gnoll appeared, and the tribe was warned. They didn’t listen.”

“Yes, but look. There are multiple accounts of the Beast of Albez. Each [Shaman] is telling it differently. Why?”

Gire frowned, trying to work it out. Satar thought she had an answer.

“Gire. It makes no sense. We do change Retellings slightly, but the core of a story doesn’t really change. Not so fast, at least. And even if it did—other [Shamans] would be on the same page. This…this is like someone’s put the Doombringer into the original story.”

Gire’s eyes sharpened. She looked at Satar.

“Someone’s edited the story.”

“Yes. The question is why? And what’s the real story?”

Satar thought she knew the reason why. She closed her journal.

“Doombringers can’t be evil. They just can’t be, Gire. Mri doesn’t look evil. Maybe it’s just a curse. There have to be…records. Don’t there?”

“You mean, besides Retellings and [Shaman]’s memory.”

“Yes! Surely there are books? Cetrule said some people kept them. That we even used to have written records. Who would know if we have any left, even just one book?”

Gireulashia thought for only a moment, then she snapped her fingers.

“I know who would know. Come with me.”

She took Satar by the paw and led her off through the Meeting of Tribes. The investigation had taken five hours so far, and both were tired, but the Meeting of Chieftains had broken up. Little did they know their absence had been noted. Gire’s little friend wanted her big friend, so she found them.

“Mri! You shouldn’t leave without guards!”

Satar exclaimed as a little brown Gnoll with painted gold ears raced over. Gire turned, and Satar’s heart beat faster as Mrsha waved at her.

“Hello, hello. I’m Mri.”

Her pre-recorded words played, and Gire tossed her up and put her on her shoulder. Mrsha waved a little [Message] scroll at Satar.

“Did you talk to your friend? Are you bored? I’ve been listening to the same stories all day. We should bring food to Shaman Theikha, Mri. Do you want to buy something to eat?”

Mrsha indulgently patted Gire on the head, and Satar watched her carefully. So ordinary. So normal. Doombringer—

No. She seemed like a normal girl. She waved at Satar, and Satar smiled.

“We’re going to see Shaman Theikha, Mri. Do you want to come with us? Your guards…”

“They’re over there.”

Gire pointed. Satar looked around and saw no one in the hustling, bustling Gnolls and other people. Gire pointed to a Gnoll casually watching one of the fair games.

“See?”

Mri and Satar looked at Gire, but both were learning to expect that. So they went off to see Shaman Theikha of Gaarh Marsh. None of them noticed the Gnoll with sunglasses glance up and stare after Mrsha.

“What in the name of logarithms…?”

——

Yelroan’s investigation took him about twenty minutes. By twenty minutes and halfway through the cup of bitter coffee, which he wanted more of already, he had already found out that Qwera Hatail had been sighted in the very city where they’d searched for the Doombringer last—and failed to find her.

Then she had made a beeline straight for the Meeting of Tribes, which was not on her caravan’s published route.

Oh—also that she had no formal record before an eleven-year-old Gnoll girl apprenticed herself to the Mudrock Caravan under one of the [Merchants]. Which meant he was tracing down eleven-year-old Gnoll girls in any city around that time period, right? A labor-intensive task that might require months and a dedicated team, correct?

Wrong. Yelroan was a [Mathematician]. He did a pose, turned to a cabinet full of records of every deceased tribe that he had ever compiled for Doombringer hunts, and pointed.

“[Locate Number: Eleven]. Any tribe past then! Cutoff…let’s say, twenty years?”

The drawer shot open, and eight files popped up. He grabbed them. Yelroan sat down—after doing another pose for his nonexistent watchers.

The truth was that this wasn’t actually math. It was more to do with his job, which was a glorified accountant/secretary/whatever else had to do with filing and organization. Yelroan sighed to himself.

He was a [Mathematician], but most of his Skills and indeed his class had a lot to do with the real world. Which made sense to everyone when he explained it. What’s the problem?

How could he tell Merish that most of the Skills and powers he wanted didn’t apply to the real world? For instance, he had [Check Sum], which checked equations. Handy in making sure the sums were right. He could [Locate Number], which helped him do all kinds of things filing-wise. But these were Skills a [Secretary] or [Scribe] could get.

The thing was…that was how he’d started. Using math to do practical things. Yet Yelroan knew, knew in his heart of hearts, that he was only beginning.

“I stand at the precipice of a cliff, not a path forwards. A glass cliff, and no one’s told me how to fly.”

That was how he saw his class. He didn’t know how to advance [Mathematician] because no one used math like him. Only [Engineers] in Pallass had any idea what he talked about, and they used it to calculate weight, drag, the angle of trebuchets.

But math was deeper than that. Sin? Yelroan felt it was the first light on a new road forwards. For now, though, he looked through the lists of tribes and any hints as to ones who had perished in a reasonable timeframe for Qwera to have been born in.

Gnolls didn’t keep good records. However, Plain’s Eye had kept lists of dead tribes for this exact reason. This was not math, just logic. Yelroan discarded four tribes for not matching the criteria, another two for having confirmed Doombringers…and ended up with two tribes.

Kelmsand and Lairef Fur. Both had been destroyed by actual calamity around the time when a girl might have escaped and made it to a city. One of the two had been in the south, along the coast. The other?

Yelroan checked where Qwera the apprentice had once signed on as an [Apprentice Trader] and the Lairef Fur tribe.

“Within forty miles of each other. That’s a really unlikely coincidence.”

So he had a likely tribe, and an odd coincidence with the other Doombringer to show Xherw. The Chieftain might order an investigation just based on that, but Yelroan wanted to be thorough. Impress him!

Next, the [Mathematician] hit the mean streets. By which, most Gnolls gave him mean looks mainly because of his odd dress or sunglasses occasionally blinding everyone when he put them on.

He wanted to see Qwera with his own eyes.

Doombringer. It chilled him just to imagine it. Was he in danger for doing it? But if Merish could hunt down two, Yelroan could brave this. He found Qwera at the [Merchant]’s block, swanning around, making deals, stepping large.

A golden Gnoll, with obviously dyed fur. Yelroan’s own fur stood on end as he pretended to check out the small stand of spectacles one Gnoll was selling. What a brilliant trick! Paint your fur gold if it was white.

But…he stared at the Gnoll woman, not feeling too out-of-place doing that. Everyone stared at the Golden Gnoll of Izril. She was charismatic, smiling, a show woman…

She must be some twisted fiend underneath that look. By all Yelroan could dig up on her, she was an accomplished businesswoman who sold her advice as much as her goods. Respected…

He didn’t see horrors following her. But if she were a Doombringer, maybe he didn’t see what it was.

Disturbed, Yelroan decided not to linger. But he stopped and stared at something before he went. The [Glass Merchant] sighed. Male Gnolls.

Yelroan was staring at a patch of reddish-brown fur juuuuust below Qwera’s navel. Brown fur. It tended to draw the eye, and it was certainly provocative. But it stumped him.

Was he wrong?

——

Yelroan stood at his favorite place in the Meeting of Tribes to think. That was, the fair games. All the game-organizers stared at Yelroan with pure hatred because he won their prizes and cost them money.

The string-game he was at was the one where you pulled strings, and they were attached to costly items. Few people won even with Skills; the strings were enchanted, some were invisible, and the stall owner did her absolute best to make sure you lost money rather than get an enchanted shortsword, like one of the strings was attached to.

Yelroan had won three times already. He was watching her booth, calmly tracing each of the hundred plus strings and figuring out which ones were real.

He knew there was only one or two at most; not all the prizes even had a real string attached to them. Some were hidden, but it didn’t matter. He was using a combination of seeing people lose to the game to eliminate bad strings as well as sheer math and probability—and his own math skills.

The problem was, he did have too many skills that quantified the world in terms of math rather than math as a concept. Applied versus theoretical, and he wanted theoretical.

One of his Skills? The one that let him do most of what he wanted?

[Perfect Measurement: Length]. The string connected to that scrying mirror was exactly eighty-two inches long. Exceptionally long. Why was it…?

She must have looped it around or done something cunning with it. Maybe put it through a drawer of holding?

The stall owner was sweating as Yelroan used his Skills. Math was hard to counter as opposed to the cunning [Rogue] who could be fooled. The thing was—

Doombringers weren’t math. Why would Qwera have brown fur? Yelroan felt stupid as he gazed at the strings.

“Of course! It’s a fakeout! It’s a decoy!”

A Drake girl reaching for a string hesitated, looked at Yelroan and the stall owner, and chose another one.

“You’re banned!”

The stall owner pointed at Yelroan. The [Mathematician] sighed and wandered away, but he’d figured it out!

The brown patch of fur was fake too! What was cleverer than making people think that was your original fur? If she covered her entire body in gold paint, why not one spot too?

He could point that out to Xherw. Yelroan sighed. He gave himself over 80% odds he was right. Then they’d find out, and if she was a Doombringer?

Kill her.

The [Mathematician] stopped as he paid for a little stick with sautéed meat on it.

Well, obviously, yes. You had to kill Doombringers. You had to. The sky was blue, grass grew…

Doombringers died.

Would they…kill a respected [Merchant] in public? They’d tell everyone she was a Doombringer. Anything else, and that would be murder.

Yelroan was chewing on his meat, but it tasted off. Maybe he’d gotten some undercooked or bad food? He stared at the stick.

That…was against the law. For anyone but a Doombringer that would be murder, even if they were a convicted criminal. But he knew Doomslayer teams would put an arrow through a Doombringer’s chest as they were walking down the street.

Because they were Doombringers. It was just—knowing that and knowing it was right were different. He’d never seen a Doombringer before.

That was when Yelroan wondered why Qwera had come here, to the Meeting of Tribes, when she’d be in the most danger. He was thinking about that when a little Gnoll ran past him, and he heard a voice.

“Mri!”

He looked up and saw a little Gnoll girl with painted gold ears race over to the tallest Gnoll he’d seen besides Garsine. That had to be Ekhtouch’s [Paragon].

Qwera had a child? No! She didn’t, nor any registered apprentice. Who was this? The [Mathematician] lowered his sunglasses and blinded the stall owner cooking meat.

“My eyes!”

The little girl was clearly affiliated with Qwera. Either she was a fan, or she had a hold of gold paint dye; even Weatherfur didn’t dabble with gold paint. But Yelroan thought she had to be with Qwera. So…he stared at the little girl.

“What in the name of logarithms…?”

She joined a [Shaman] and Gireulashia, and the [Paragon] swept her onto her shoulders. Yelroan heard them speaking.

“Why didn’t you stay in the camp? Or go with Tesy to see Qwera? You wanted me? Aw.”

Well, that blew the coincidence theory right out of the water. But Yelroan had gone still, dead still, for another reason.

Which was that he was not an idiot. Little Gnoll girl. Golden Gnoll. Merish was hunting for Mrsha of Liscor. Yelroan’s breath caught, and he didn’t even whisper it…

[Perfect Measurement]. He stood up, adjusted his glasses, left a huge tip, and walked off. He almost ran back to his tent and searched around.

“[Shaman]. Do you have a recording of the Doombringer? The one Xherw had me look at?”

One of Plain’s Eye’s [Shamans] sighed but dug out the recording for Yelroan. The [Mathematician] took one look at a little, white Gnoll girl and used the same Skill. She was an inch taller than the girl in the scrying orb, but he knew how children changed. A Gnollish feature, which was distinct and didn’t change as markedly, was the length of your tail to the base of your body.

It could vary a good amount, although Drake tails were far longer. Yelroan ran the math. Every number was almost dead-on, with a little bit of growth.

“Is that all, Mathematician?”

The [Shaman] sighed, clearly eager to be back to her work. Yelroan didn’t answer at first. He had just felt a shiver run all the way through his body and straight through his soul.

Two of them?

Interlude – Satar 2 (Revised)

It would be quick. In the Meeting of Tribes, they would have to find out if they were right or not. So Plain’s Eye would strike Silverfang fast. Not hurt Silverfang’s guard, but go in, grab both girl and [Merchant], and apply a simple test to remove any dye from their fur.

Xherw might lead it himself. Fast. He’d take his best [Warriors], grab them, and if they were Doombringers?

Execute them on the spot. It would explain some of the events going on in the Meeting of Tribes. Yelroan would have two feathers in his cap and be inducted in the highest part of Plain’s Eye, and be able to make changes for the better. Take real apprentices and figure out what math…was. What sin was.

He knew that. Xherw was coming back from the Meeting of Chieftains, and the rumor was that it was so big each Chieftain refused to talk about it. Yelroan didn’t wait for him or Ulcre.

He didn’t tell anyone Mri, or rather, Mrsha—another oddity in names—was a Doombringer. Not yet.

He knew that was Mrsha Stone Spears. Mrsha from Liscor and ‘The Wandering Inn’. Numbers didn’t lie like that. Everything, even the inner pink of her ears, matched the girl in the scrying orb in dimensions. He could see the numbers adding up.

So she was a Doombringer. The same one Merish had hunted and who had slipped through his paws. Qwera might be one too.

Two, under their very noses. All he had to do was speak, and she’d die and stop plaguing the world with the curse she carried.

No—no, with the very evil she was.

Because it wasn’t a curse. A curse was different. That would mean she was innocent. There was a very good reason the girl giggling and licking the cone of ice cream had to die.

He just had to figure it out. He knew the answer. She was a Doombringer. But face-to-face with one, for the first time, Yelroan couldn’t help but think he was staring at a little girl.

Doombringers had to die. He kept hearing that. But the trio, Gireulashia, this Satar, and Mri, weren’t doing more than…their own investigation?

The little girl insisted on buying the biggest hat she could and wanted a ‘magnifying glass’, though all she did was write down her requests or do some fast sign-language with Gire. Another sign she was the mute Mrsha from Liscor.

The [Mathematician] watched them try on hats for a while. He had to step away.

“Just tell Xherw. You might be wrong. You might be wrong. But tell him and…he knows what to do. He’s the Chieftain.”

Xherw had to wrestle with difficult decisions all the time. Yelroan knew it was right. He was trying to do it, and his feet weren’t moving. He kept…staring at them.

“Yelroan? What are you doing out of your tent? Are you on your day off?”

A voice called out to him. Yelroan spun around, and one of Merish’s friends, Ghamen, another [Warrior], lowered his paw.

“What’s with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I…er, I’m just walking about.”

Yelroan looked at the warrior from one of Plain’s Eye’s other subtribes and saw him chomping down on a few sticks of meat, like he had. He was with a few other Plain’s Eye Gnolls.

“Well, if you want to walk about with us, feel free. This is Yelroan. Merish’s friend. A…math-person. What’s the class?”

“[Mathematician].”

Yelroan didn’t pose or do his sunglasses trick, so the other Gnolls eyed him and asked what that class meant and what his job was. He answered, not really paying attention.

“…Doombringer.”

“What was that?”

Yelroan glanced up. Ghamen looked at him and lowered his voice.

“Sorry. I just said that Merish is off hunting them. He hasn’t come back—you don’t know what’s happened, do you, Yelroan? He’s safe, right?”

“I…I can’t say. Chieftain Xherw’s orders. Confidential.”

“Chieftain Xherw speaks to you? Directly?”

One of the other Gnolls stared at Yelroan incredulously. Ghamen glanced at him and rolled his eyes.

“Yelroan’s a big-shot. Bigger than Merish, somehow. We all grew up in the same place, but look at them. Dead gods, but I can’t do more than count to a hundred, and I’m not hunting…them. I’d have nightmares.”

“Me too. I’d be too scared to move. Merish is tough.”

Yelroan saw the other Gnolls agree. He licked his lips and glanced over his shoulder at something.

“Do you remember, growing up, all the stories about Doombringers?”

Ghamen was asking the others. They nodded. Yelroan muttered.

“You mean, the [Shamans] dressing up in white and grabbing you out of bed before they’re chased away by warriors?”

The other Gnolls chuckled. One of them nodded, baring his teeth.

“I remember that. I wet my bedroll for three months afterwards. You know, I told that story to some other warriors the other day and they looked at me like I was crazy? They don’t do that.”

“Not chasing off Doombringers either? Really? It just goes to show what kind of traditions the other tribes keep…”

“Don’t start a fight, now. Let them do what they want. Plain’s Eye’s honor.”

“Here’s to that. What’s wrong, Yelroan? You look sick.”

There’s a Doombringer over there. Go kill it. The other warriors looked at the [Mathematician] as he stood there.

He felt a sudden, abrupt wave of nausea spill over him. Someone offered Yelroan a stick of meat just in time to see him clap a paw over his mouth—and vomit anyways, around it. The other Gnolls leapt back. They shouted and called for a [Healer] but had no idea why he was suddenly sick. Yelroan looked around, shaking.

He felt it too. That sudden, burning intuition that wasn’t math. But because it ran in his blood, he thought of it like that. An equation that didn’t add up at all.

There was something deeper here. Far, far deeper than tradition. And he was part of it. His eyes went back to the little girl heading through the Meeting of Tribes. He brushed off the paws of the other warriors and went after her.

He had to see.

——

The last investigation had taken over a month, and it was nowhere near its conclusion. The person leading it realized it might never conclude to his satisfaction.

But now, the news was out.

Feshi Weatherfur stared at Rose like she had giant Demon horns sticking out of her head and wings. The Earth girl shifted uncomfortably, but that was the same look Adetr gave her.

The [Battle Seeker] and warrior of the Steelfur tribe looked at Rose.

“Tell me…tell us more stories of Earth.”

“I’ve told you so many. History, my life…what more do you want?”

Rose complained, but mildly. She was flattered by Feshi’s attention and a little overwhelmed. Inkar had vanished on a ride with Tkrn once the secret came out.

The Chieftains knew. Their most trusted warriors and [Shamans]—they all knew. Now, they were struggling with the revelation.

Only, Adetr had learned a completely different way than Torishi, Feshi, and the rest. He had walked into a simulation of Earth’s [Soldiers] fighting on Rose’s behalf with his Skill. He had seen their weapons. Guns. Tanks. Even an aircraft dropping what Rose thought was a nuke on him.

So he looked at her completely differently than Feshi, for all the [Strategist] was clever and intelligent enough to understand what this meant. Adetr had seen enough to understand what they didn’t understand.

“Oh—okay. Just for Feshi. So, where I lived, Los Angeles—that’s one of the biggest cities in the world—”

“How big, exactly?”

“Um…if you included the suburbs, four m—”

“The what? What are ‘suburbs’?”

That was the thing. Rose backtracked, but she was really, really…bad at explaining a different world.

To be fair, not many people were good at it. Still, she kept forgetting that her audience had no grounding for anything. Adetr, after a month of talking with Rose, still couldn’t picture it.

Planes in the sky. Skyscrapers on the ground. Humans all connected to this internet…he felt like all of them had some kind of invisible tether attached to a giant cloud. That was how he saw it, and Rose kept correcting him, but he had gotten a rundown of Earth’s history and a lot of major events and factoids, even if she refused to tell him everything about their weapons and so on.

So as some other Chieftains approached them in the Silverfang camp, Adetr rose and bowed. Feshi caught sight of them and instantly did the same.

“Chieftain Iraz! Chieftain Reizet, Chieftain Werri!”

“Strategist Feshi. I should have known you would beat us here. Intelligent, while we sit on our paws…”

Rose blinked as three famous Chieftains joined them, despite two being rivals. They all looked at her, and the young woman licked her lips.

“Oh, wow.”

“May we speak with Miss…Rose? Please, join us. Adetr.”

Iraz nodded at his nephew, and Adetr bowed his head.

“Of course, Chieftain. I have been speaking with her too.”

“Ah, so Steelfur knew ahead of time? Well, I suppose that’s fine.”

Werri bared her teeth. She looked Rose up and down and sniffed the young woman, which Rose clearly found uncomfortable. They were all sitting when Adetr turned, and Feshi’s mouth opened.

“No way.”

Garsine Wallbreaker strode into the Silverfang camp. The tallest Gnoll in the Meeting of Tribes, nay, the world, was thin, stretched out, wearing the hide of the magic bear she could transform into.

“I have come to meet them. May I enter your discussion?”

Her voice was far lighter than Adetr imagined—still deep—but the other Chieftains instantly bowed to make room for a hero of their people. Rose gulped as Garsine bent.

“So you are Rose. From…”

She hesitated and looked around.

“We’re well warded, Honored Garsine. Please, speak freely!”

Feshi urged her. Garsine nodded.

“Well thought. You are from Earth. Another world. Is this true?”

“I—y-y—oh my god. Yes.”

If anything could have proven she was from Earth, it was that. All the Gnolls looked at each other. Garsine exhaled.

“I thought the grandest thing of my age would be the Antinium, and feared to leave the world behind with them. Now? Now, I fear I am too old for what will come. I must sit. I must listen. Chieftain Werri, it is good you and Feshi Weatherfur are here. The young must hear this. They must all hear this. Where is Lehra Ruinstrider? Where are our Named Adventurers? All must…”

“They are with their own tribes, deliberating, Garsine. But rest assured—all will hear Rose’s words. We are merely the first.”

Iraz assured the older Gnoll, and Garsine nodded slowly.

“This world apart. Earth, you call it. Earth…such a strange name for an entire world. Why that? Please tell me everything.”

“I—I—where would I—oh man, this is so—”

Rose was overwhelmed. It was one thing for Adetr to talk to her, and he was already intimidating enough with his body of steel and his piercing intensity. But Garsine?

Draped in the fur of the Racdelbear, she looked like half a beast herself. Her arms were so long that Adetr thought they were longer than he was. She smelled of the pelt, of nature itself, and it was not unpleasant, but it made even the Gnolls here feel like they were intruders into a wild place.

Garsine’s eyes were that of one of the greatest warriors of her generation, the Wallbreaker tribe’s hero, who had smashed through Drake stone again and again. Not to mention…her presence.

Her aura. Combined with Werri, Iraz, and Reizet, leader of Az’muzarre, that tribe of legends? Even when they weren’t trying, the air had that intensity you sometimes felt. That surging chill that ran down your spine when you felt inspired or scared or…saw something wondrous?

That was in the air, and intensified many times over. And that was when they weren’t upset. Right now, they were so intent that they magnified the aura, and Rose was like a bug being slapped repeatedly by the sky.

“Start from the beginning. How did Humans come to your world?”

Iraz suggested, with a look to Adetr.

Feshi leaned forward excitedly.

“Have you explored all of it? Why do you say Earth is a ‘planet’, as Honored Krshia claimed?”

Werri broke in before Rose could answer.

“No. Start with your weapons.”

The young woman started to panic. And in that sense, she was not the woman for the job. Of course, if Erin were here…and alive, she would have been chatty, aggravating, and less helpful. Ryoka Griffin would have already run off.

But there were still better people; Inkar perhaps, because she was close to the Gnolls and could relate to them and thus explain her perspective better. Or Kevin, who would be casually charming. Or…

Rose began stuttering, trying to clarify, and Adetr saw she was overwhelmed. Regular Gnolls did this too, when faced with this kind of pressure. So he raised a paw.

“Chieftains. I believe you’re pressuring her.”

All four Gnolls looked at Adetr and realized he was right. They had cups of water. The water was defying regular physics and pressed against the other side of the cup to get away from them.

“Apologies. We should introduce ourselves, go slow. This is a long lesson, and we must learn each part of it.”

Reizet muttered. She relaxed a hair, but was clearly antsy.

“It is just—without intelligence about Earth, we do not know if this transportation system is stealing our people. Whether a portal will open, or what will occur. And a world of Humans? That could spell a war worse than the Antinium. Assuming they are dangerous and not…weak from lack of magic.”

She looked hopeful at that, but Feshi bit her lip. And that was imagination for you. Adetr would have agreed with Reizet instantly before seeing Earth’s armies, even if he thought about it.

You cannot imagine what a gun is. They had no frame of reference for machine-technology, even Adetr. It was literally out of their understanding.

But he had seen it.

“Chieftain Iraz, Honored Gnolls. I think I can help. Rose has been speaking with me this last month; I happened to uncover the secret early. I have not understood Earth at all in many respects, but I understand it from a military angle. I can answer questions for you and take that burden from her.”

Rose turned to Adetr with surprise. The [Battle Seeker] clasped his paws behind his back so they couldn’t see them tremble as the other Gnolls looked at him. Iraz raised his brows.

“You do understand battle well, Adetr. Yes, he uncovered Rose’s secret through his ability.”

“[Analysis: Vision of Greatest Battle]. Annoying Skill. Makes my fur itch.”

Garsine growled, but she looked at Adetr as he bowed to her, shamefaced.

“I apologize for disturbing you, Honored Garsine. But I can see Earth’s warriors. Thanks to that, I understand more than I ever would without. I can tell you all, Chieftains, honestly, that we must prepare for Earth to meet our world. If we have time, I suggest we race to develop arms like theirs. If we have years…we may survive. If they appear next month, next year? We must find the best way to hide or surrender.”

The Gnolls looked at him, astonished. This, coming from Adetr Steelfur, the [Battle Seeker] and [Vanguard of Metal]?

It had far more weight than coming from even Rose herself. Werri sat up, and Iraz blinked at his nephew.

“You truly say this, Adetr? You did not say it to me.”

“I was making sure, Chieftain Iraz. But I am certain. Rose has spoken to me about Earth. I have…facts. They have superior weapons to ours. Not magically—we can use magic against them—but if two sides meet unprepared, ours will lose. Not just Gnolls. Any army in the world. Named Adventurers would stand a chance, depending on their Skills and artifacts. But if we meet tomorrow, and every nation allies without restraint, enemies and allies, and both worlds go to war—we will lose absolutely and instantly.”

Adetr was shaking. Now that he could say it, it was a relief. Rose sat upright.

“Adetr! That wasn’t what we talked about. I told you about Earth because…you were nervous! I thought you understood we’re not like that.”

He looked at her and almost smiled at her.

“I have talked with you, Rose, and you have told me many things. I cannot imagine your world fully. But I can understand your numbers. This is the number you should know first, Honored Gnolls, Chieftain. Seven billion. Possibly eight. That is a thousand times a million. Eight billion Humans reside on Earth.”

The Gnolls all looked at Adetr, completely unable to understand that number. Feshi’s fur drained of color, and she lowered her notepad.

“Eight…I cannot…the Walled Cities number in the millions, and they are among the grandest cities in the world.”

The huge [Shapechanger] rubbed at her head. Adetr nodded to her.

“Rose’s city is four million people strong, Honored Garsine. And it is one of many. But not just that—Earth Humans have the ability to fly in vehicles and launch explosive weapons at us, greater than [Fireball] spells. They can fly a mile up, and they have created metal vehicles like Golem armor—but controlled, with weapons capable of knocking down a Drake City’s walls with one shot. I have seen it.”

“With your Skill. I cannot credit that. Where is one of these weapons? How would Az’muzarre fare against them?”

Chieftain Reizet was patently incredulous. Adetr met her eyes, and saw the Gnoll woman stiffen as he delivered the next words.

“Chieftain Reizet. I say this with no insult but with the truth. There is a scenario where their average warriors—average warriors, with their weapons, guns, firearms, rifles—could face all of Az’muzarre from afar. And, before you took one of their lives, they could kill your entire tribe. Steelfur as well. I have seen it.”

The Chieftain of Az’muzarre stared at Adetr for a second in pure astonishment before she grew angry. But she was forestalled—

Iraz dropped his cup out of his paws. He didn’t even look at the water splashing down. All the Chieftains looked at him. Werri shot up, cursing, then saw Iraz staring at Adetr. Because what sounded like alarmist talk, or someone exaggerating?

Iraz knew Adetr. He didn’t lie.

“But—but listen. Adetr. I thought we talked. I thought…”

Rose broke in and saw all of the Gnolls stare at her like she were laying Creler eggs. Adetr turned to her, and Rose looked up at her friend.

She thought they had been growing to become friends. Adetr was a battle-obsessed Gnoll with poor manners. Who had looked at her like that. Like she was terrifying. But she hadn’t seen that look, of late.

“Adetr. I thought you weren’t scared of me. Do you fear me? Me, Rose, who can’t even open a bottle properly?”

She tried to smile, but Adetr looked so…so…

The [Battle Seeker] nodded after a moment.

“I don’t fear you, Rose. That’s true.”

She smiled, but he didn’t. The Gnoll went on.

“I don’t fear you, but your people scare me to death. A million soldiers in one nation’s army, all armed with weapons that can kill a Level 30 [Warrior] in a single shot. I do not fear you, but your people? There are eight billion to fear. I do not know them. I cannot imagine your world. You have tried to tell me the good, and I hear it…but I hear how many wars your people make and how you kill each other. And I wonder—what would Humans do to us? Especially if we have something they want, like magic, or gems, which you say you have so much less of?”

Someone else stood.

“We must discuss this. Adetr, you know our tribes. You can tell us most directly. We will return. Honored Feshi, you are welcome to join us, but you must explain it to us again, Adetr. I cannot believe it.”

“I will, Chieftain Werri.”

He nodded, and they rose. Rose reached out, but Adetr looked at her.

“You don’t have anything to fear, Rose.”

You don’t. He stared down at her, and she saw a flash of it. That fear.

What had he seen? He couldn’t tell her, only describe it. Not the other Gnolls…what did you see?

He couldn’t imagine Earth, even after a month of talking. But he could remember what he saw. A war. The Gnoll walked off, and Rose saw the Gnolls looking at her. Not like a guest, or something to be exploited. It was almost refreshing that of all the species, Gnolls looked at Earth’s Humans and saw another threat.

——

Adetr’s testimony didn’t help. Krshia wanted to kick him, but she felt like she’d break her foot if she tried that.

It was understandable, given what he had seen, but it did not help.

…Nor was it the only problem. When the Chieftains reconvened the next day, his words weren’t the only ones echoing around. The first thing a Chieftain did was bow to Akrisa.

“Once again, Silverfang delivers us the most important warnings. We know Earth exists. Now…we must prepare for it. I do not know if we tell other species. We surely must if the threat is this grave and prepare for the worst. But in what manner? Do we strike an alliance between all species or tell only those we know can be trusted? These are grave and dark considerations. Perhaps—and I say this not lightly—but perhaps we must find a place to hide. Prepare an escape, that some of our people might survive.”

A rumble went through the room. Not in disagreement. Just plain unease. Akrisa shot upright.

“Chieftains! There is no need for that! I will speak plainly—I had hoped we could agree to find, shelter, and work with the Earthers. To make them our allies, so that if we go to Earth, or find a way to return them or bridge worlds, we would greet them with open arms.”

“An easy way to be shot with one of their bullets.”

Chieftain Reizet muttered. Adetr nodded, next to Iraz, and Krshia glared at him. However, even Chieftains who hadn’t heard his horror stories shook their heads.

“It seems to me the tribes must agree that if there is a doorway, to slam it shut. To devote all our efforts—more than punishing Drakes, more than addressing the Raskghar or Antinium—to keeping Earth from our world. At least, until we can hold our own. Eight billion Humans could wipe out every nation combined in numbers alone. I vote to create a list of allies. Perhaps we begin with trusted guardians? The Blighted Kingdom, the Shield Kingdoms of Chandrar…the House of Minos? Would they be able to stand against even one billion, if they linked arms?”

“How many?”

“What’s a billion?”

“Someone get me a [Mathematician]. Xherw, what’s yours say a billion is…?”

The number ran around the room in a heartbeat. Krshia closed her eyes. She only opened them when someone else spoke.

“I agree. They have powerful, even wondrous technologies. It is already changing our world—but we cannot trust them. These…Human-Earthers are no less deadly than the other ones. For our survival, we must be wary.”

“Wary? Why must we call the first other species from another world enemies, Chieftain Thost?”

It was Torishi who spoke, but even she appeared troubled. The Gnoll looked down at her, and something like Yiew’s look was in his eyes.

“Why would we assume they are peaceful given that we know their world is not, Torishi? We have seen other species and how they treat us. Some have been friends. But many? Look at the Humans of this world! They took Izril’s north from us and the Drakes because they could. The Drakes have stolen our magic. What are the Humans doing, poisoning our rivers in secret?”

There was a broad murmur in the room of agreement, despite the hyperbole. Krshia Silverfang and her sister looked around and saw even Firrelle and close allies looked unnerved.

Too late, Krshia realized they had made a mistake. This…this shouldn’t have followed the revelations of the Raskghar and theft of magic. This was not the time to propose peace with another world after so much treachery and darkness was unveiled.

All the Chieftains were disquieted, and not least because when you looked for examples of Earth doing terrible things? Rose had told Adetr some things in confidence, but even when they asked her…she wanted to be honest.

So when he asked, ‘what had Earth done that was evil? What should I fear?’ she had far too many examples. Rose tried to cut it with the good, but he had seen only war.

And Rose had also told him the worst of it because it mattered to her not to lie. Not to hide it.

Genocide and gas chambers. Nuclear weapons capable of wiping out any world multiple times over. Rose was principled, if unwise in how she told them.

They had to know. So the Meeting of Chieftains listened. They looked at another world.

Collectively, they drew back in fear. Krshia Silverfang rose to her feet and spoke.

“Gnolls. Chieftains, Honored guests. Hear me.”

They fell silent. Akrisa looked at Krshia with a vestige of hope, and Krshia searched for the words to turn this around.

“It is true Earth has done terrible things, or so I hear. So has our world. They are one species, but is it not true Humans have done good and ill? Let me tell you—I would not be here to uncover the truth of magic to you, I might not be here at all but for one Human. One girl from Earth, who I knew. Who was a great friend. She was…is named Erin Solstice. She was the one who helped stop the Raskghar. I saw her stop the siege of Liscor myself. If there are Humans who are the worst of a species, remember. There are ones who are better.”

She turned to her right.

“Perhaps you have seen how many new goods come from Longstalker’s Fang this Meeting of Tribes. Well, what would you say if I told you much of it was made this last year? Inkar came to you, didn’t she, Chieftain Eska? Did she come with wrath or ill-intent?”

Chieftain Eska rose.

“I have nothing ill to say of her, Krshia. She gave us new knowledge and was nothing but credit—even when my own tribe was unkind to her. She was so beloved that Honored Deskie—Deskie, whom you all know—wove her very clothing herself. A mark of respect, for Honored Inkar, a Human who we are proud to call our own.”

Krshia nodded, turning desperately to her audience. Her words were not in vain; they swayed some of the Gnolls. But again, someone spoke, and this time it was Yiew. He looked at her with hollow eyes.

“You tell us of good individuals, Krshia Silverfang, Chieftain Eska. But I hear individuals. I do not know this people. I only hear what they are capable of. Good, yes, or ill. I cannot imagine a world where smoke belches into the sky and metal and lightning rules. I fear it.”

How could you imagine it? Krshia tried to argue, but the Chieftains, even Adetr, had never seen Erin Solstice. They had no idea what she was like, even if words could capture the way she laughed.

——

In an age long gone, aeons ago, if the Gnolls of another Meeting of Tribes had heard another world existed, they would not have feared a world of Humans. In those days, some would have prepared for strife, and others gone with open arms, but their people would have not feared, but gone as equals.

They would have rejoiced, because it meant there was twice as much of reality to explore, and been the first to walk across the furthest lands, for better or worse. A fearless people who walked arm-in-arm with myth and legend.

Once, Gnolls traveled the world. Once, we were explorers.

But that is only what the stories said. How could you prove it? Perhaps…perhaps someone had written it down?

Shaman Theikha of Gaarh Marsh entertained her guests in the evening, although she had to rest for tomorrow’s meeting on Earth. The Gaarh Marsh [Shamans] and guards wouldn’t have let them meet her normally, because Theikha was so important and wise—but Gireulashia was the [Paragon] of Ekhtouch.

“Ah, now, who is this? Mri?”

The girl hid behind Gire, and the Gnoll hurried to introduce her. Theikha gave Mrsha a keen-eyed look but turned to Satar.

“Well met, Shaman Satar.”

“You honor me too greatly, Shaman Theikha.”

Satar was red beneath her fur, and also petrified. Theikha herself! The oldest [Shaman] living smiled at her and gestured.

“Sit, sit! We are all Gnolls. Let us never forget that. And I have all the time for young Gnolls who ask serious questions, no matter what my minders say. Not least for gifts! These must be cookies. I will help myself and keep them as gifts.”

Her eyes lit up at the cookies Mrsha had bought as a gift. A big basket…and soft, nice, chewy cinnamon ones. Theikha took one and ate with great humor as Satar laid out her problem. She watched Mrsha anxiously, but the Gnoll had refused to leave. She wanted to hear the truth too, and, of all the [Shamans]…well, Satar hoped Theikha wouldn’t say anything grisly. The old Gnoll was certainly frowning as she listened, though.

“Hm? Each story of Doombringers is changed? That is odd. I have noticed…odd things in our Retellings, but you understand, each tribe keeps to itself aside from the Meeting of Tribes. Oh, we join up, but no wonder we seldom look at it as a whole.”

Theikha put aside her cookie as Satar showed her the notebook. She frowned as she saw how each story changed.

“It could simply be the style of it.”

“But…is it possible that we have an incomplete story, Shaman Theikha? Or if there is one, unified copy…is it possible we’ve written it down somewhere? Or someone has a Skill to recite it perfectly?”

“They would only have [Perfect Recall] as it was told to them, in most cases. Perfect truth in what are already myths? I do not know about a Skill, Satar. But I do know there is a library. Was a library, containing every record and scrap of history and knowledge we ever had.”

Satar’s heart leapt…then she heard the word.

“Was?”

Gire looked up from stuffing her face with a whole cheese round. Mrsha glanced up too, and Theikha nodded, protectively covering her gift basket from Gire’s wandering paws.

“Was. Do you know the old stories of the times Gnolls had silly things like [Kings]? Do you remember that, once, we had a Kingdom of Gnolls?”

The three shivered. Theikha smiled, and she was the [Storyteller] Satar longed to be. Her voice deepened, and she flicked sparks into the air with a simple wave of her paw.

“Once, there was a Kingdom of Gnolls. Ah, but I cannot tell you the whole story of its rise and fall. We have made grand edifices before, and great Gnolls arose. Kerash was one of the last, and I knew him. He would have led us into a new age but for…the Necromancer. Each time we build something, it falls. The Kingdom of Gnolls—at least, Izril’s—was here, in the Great Plains itself. It was one of our repositories of knowledge, craft, and wisdom.”

——

All three children listened as Theikha conjured a kingdom out of words. Satar tried to envision it, a nation where Gnolls had borders and land. Mrsha could almost see it too. Did they have [Knights]? A [King]?

Were they like Brunkr?

Then…Mrsha saw the kingdom shake.

“It fell into ruin. I do not know exactly how, because, in the chaos, it led to a dark age of our people as well as others. Some say treachery, but my mentors agreed—it was then that Raskghar crept in. They do when we fall. Raskghar appear, and darkness consumes our people.”

Mrsha hugged Gire and felt the [Paragon] squeeze her tight. Theikha glanced at her and smiled. The sparks lightened.

“I shouldn’t tell such scary stories to children. That was one of the last repositories of knowledge, Satar.”

“So it was lost long ago.”

“Was. Yes. And then we made a second library.”

Gire nearly choked on her cheese wheel. Theikha chuckled as Satar sat up.

“What, do you think we lose everything, throw up our paws, and give up? We made more libraries than that! The last one was a grand place that tribes came and went to. Do you want to know something strange?”

“What?”

Theikha looked at Satar, and her face grew mightily troubled.

“The last one was around four hundred years ago. A great library that had existed long before that. It burned one day. Burned—and I don’t need to tell you any [Librarian], [Shaman], or [Architect] would invest in magical spells against fire. But it was destroyed, and the tribes hunted for whoever had done it. They never found out, and Drakes were blamed since that is a safe bet. However, when you tell me these things…I wonder.”

Satar frowned and felt a tinge of unease creeping up her spine.

“It could be a coincidence.”

“Perhaps. But I know Doombringers were not always…so vilified.”

Mrsha, Gire, and Satar looked up as Theikha hunted around for cookies in her basket.

“Wh-what do you mean, Shaman Theikha?”

The Shaman glanced up, and Satar felt like she was the one being interrogated. Theikha looked calmly at the three children and spoke.

“Only that I am so old that I recall, very vaguely, my oldest mentors—that would be someone who was as old as I was when I was as young as Mri—disputing some of the tales about Doombringers. I don’t even recall the conversation, but I feel as though I remember it. That’s the trouble. I feel, as you now come to me, that Doombringers might have more of a story behind them. But I have never fought to know more. Frankly, they are rare, and I do know for a fact that trouble tends to follow them.”

Mrsha looked urgently at Gireulashia, who tried to clarify.

“But are they evil and cursed like the stories say?”

“Plain’s Eye certainly believes it. I know what you will say, Honored Gire, and the truth is I haven’t thought of them for a long time. For twenty years, I was consumed with fighting Antinium and rebuilding after the destruction they wrought—and the Goblin King. Before that? Zelkyr was striding about with his Golem armies, telling us to ‘do this, do that’. That was still before my time—I’m not old enough to remember more than when he died and a bit before that.”

Wouldn’t that put her at over a hundred and…? Gire silently did the math. Theikha threw a cookie at her to distract her.

“Stop uncovering my age. Uncover the truth instead, you silly child! Zelkyr marched about with his Golem armies, and the Walled Cities still had them when he died. Such fighting.”

“So it’s not just this era that has a lot of wars. Even without the Antinium.”

Satar murmured as Mrsha reached for a cookie, and her paw was slapped down. Theikha looked sad.

“No, Satar. But perhaps we can make tomorrow better. Everyone is abuzz about…well, you will learn soon enough.”

Mrsha’s ears perked up. Earth? But they weren’t supposed to know, and the [Shaman] did not elaborate if that was what she was referring to. She sat with a sigh.

“The truth is that we lost our history. Yes, Chieftain Seru’nial took her people into the sky, or so it is said. But we have no proof, so even Garuda laugh at us—as if they could fly that high! We went to Chandrar and Baleros, Rhir and Terandria, but we lost our histories, and Gnolls don’t write books as often as we should. So we can only claim it.”

She looked sad and weary.

“If there were any records of Doombringers, it would be from those Gnolls, but they are long gone, Satar. Here? I will tell you my version, but it is the same as Weatherfur’s. I wish…”

The [Shaman] looked at them, then around the room.

“I wish I could take you back and tell you all the stories as they were written. But I have forgotten, and even Skills cannot stop time and age. I wish you luck on your search, but I must prepare for tomorrow. Please, forgive me.”

And there they had to leave it. Satar rose and kissed Theikha’s cheek. Theikha pinched Mrsha’s ear gently as the Gnoll tried to swipe a last cookie, and bid them farewell. The three quietly left her tent. They felt enlightened, grateful to have talked to Theikha and hear her stories and…lost.

What did they do next? Not one had any idea.

——

Here they sat, by nightfall. Mrsha, Gire, Satar, staring down at her journal, Yelroan, Rose, arguing with Adetr and Feshi.

Uh…

Everyone had looked at Yelroan. The [Mathematician] had come and sat down with them without a word, and no one had told him to shove off.

Feshi was here because she was trying to wrap her head around Earth and wanted to talk to Rose. Rose was here to shout at Adetr.

“Why did you have to say it like that? Why do you have to talk about Earth’s weapons? We’re not all warmongers!”

He growled back.

“I told you. I saw them. I saw them shoot me through the eyes, Rose—and then I didn’t see anything after that!”

“You saw a projection! It wasn’t even real people! Do you think we’d just gun you down the instant we saw you?”

“Why not? You told me you love making movies about killing species you haven’t even met!”

“Most of them attack us!”

“You make the movies!”

The screaming match in the background made Mrsha shift slightly. She looked at Yelroan, hesitated, and poked his side. He jumped, nearly leapt into one of the campfires they were sitting around, and stuttered.

“D—er—yes?”

He stared at Mrsha like she was a monster. She eyed him, then pointed.

“Can Mri try on your sunglasses, Mister Yelroan?”

Gire knew who he was. The Gnoll hesitated, then handed them to Mrsha. She put them on and then began to do poses. I am so cool! This is the best pair of sunglasses ever!

The [Mathematician] looked at the girl laughing and doing poses that made Satar giggle with such an expression of pain that he had to turn away. He focused on the screaming match instead.

“You’re so unreasonable!”

Rose hollered. Adetr shouted, his nerves breaking at last.

“Well, I cannot help it! I’m afraid of you!”

Rose stopped. The young woman from California stared up at the Gnoll who had a head and a half on her, and probably three hundred pounds with his steel body. She spoke, surprisingly calmly.

“Adetr. You’re a huge, metal Gnoll. You scare me.”

He looked her in her eyes.

“Your people could kill us all. It would be easy.”

Yelroan turned to frown at Adetr, and the two looked at him guiltily, but the [Mathematician] waved a paw.

“I know about…it. Does everyone else?”

They all nodded. Yelroan had been summoned to Xherw and Ulcre with the other leaders to explain what eight billion was in context of their tribes. Horrifyingly huge numbers that appeared from adding a few digits onto the end of the last.

“I just wish we had stories. I want to tell stories, but what’s the use if everything I write will disappear?”

Satar whispered, and Adetr, Rose, Mrsha, Gire, and Yelroan looked at her. Satar rubbed at one eye.

“We were everywhere…and there’s not one book? Not one? Someone burned it all? We explored Baleros! We climbed mountains and fought with other species. And…all we have are Retellings. And they’re wrong.”

She thumped the journal and Yelroan eyed it. Mrsha looked at Satar and patted her on the knee. She handed her a note.

Forsooth, it will be alright, child.

Satar glared at Mrsha. Why did a child have better writing than she did? She started sniffing hard. At first, all of the other Gnolls thought she had smelled something. Then they realized Satar was trying hard not to cry.

Adetr patently didn’t know what to do, so he looked at Rose to do something.

“There, there…Mri, don’t bully Satar.”

“She isn’t bullying me!”

As if to prove Mrsha’s subtle bullying, Satar teared up harder. And not for reasons she could explain. It wasn’t just Doombringers somehow—she knew—being misrepresented in stories.

It was the dearth of stories that bothered her. Libraries. A kingdom. She hadn’t even known what the kingdom’s name was. Why didn’t Theikha and the others tell the story? When she asked, the [Shaman] had looked abashed.

Theikha, the oldest [Shaman] ever. Not a mere [Chief Shaman], but a [Shaman of Tribe and Plain], a class that only one Gnoll got. The great [Shaman], who would one day pass and leave less stories and memory of the world, looked embarrassed.

“I suppose, we are ashamed to try and tell the stories we no longer have, young Satar. To tell a story incomplete? We have our pride. We lost the right to tell it.”

Even things written down vanished. Satar kept sniffing, but she didn’t really cry. The others busied themselves by doing other things.

“You’re the intruder who wrote sin on my chalkboard?”

Yelroan exclaimed as Gire asked if he’d figured out how it worked. She promptly produced Inkar’s smartphone, and they bent over it as Yelroan’s mind tried to explode. This was it. This was—

He looked to Mrsha. Rose was sitting with Adetr, trying again to explain her world to him, and he was shaking his head, trying to see something besides blood and death.

Feshi Weatherfur watched Mrsha too. That sad little girl. So did Satar. She saw Mrsha bend down over a [Message] scroll, one of the more expensive ones, not a one-use one. Ink appeared and vanished, and the little Gnoll pulled something else she’d bought out of her bag of holding.

Satar closed her eyes. She lay back as a faint, click, click, followed by the familiar scritching of a quill made her small tantrum fade. She closed her eyes and drifted off, mind wearied by an entire day of listening to [Shaman] stories.

If only I could read their stories. Then I’d know how to tell stories about my people. I just…

There was a reason why she wrote a history. Not fanciful stories about people loving each other like Heartslayi or even great adventures like Sandquen. More than that—and that mattered to Satar—

She wanted to know they had happened. That they were…

True.

[Archival Storyteller Level 25!]

[Skill – Seal of Veracity obtained!]

With a yelp, Satar sat up. She’d been asleep for twenty minutes, but as soon as her thoughts reached that Skill, she woke. Mrsha jumped, and Gire, beating Adetr in an arm-wrestling competition, looked up.

“I leveled up!”

Satar smiled. With wondrous happiness. Two levels for her hard work?

“What is it? A new Skill about the past?”

Gire was excited, but Satar knew it wasn’t that. Unfortunately, this was no new Skill the likes of which no one had ever heard of, whose meaning was to be learnt.

“It’s…[Seal of Veracity].”

The [Paragon] looked at Satar and then rolled over.

“Oh. [Historian] Skills.”

Which was unfair, because [Contract Makers], [Notaries], people who inspected magical goods and documents, and so on, all had this Skill. It was the kind of thing Satar wanted.

She could put that on her writings and reassure her reader that the following was correct. Mind you, it had caveats; it could be correct as she understood it, but factually wrong, and so on, but it was still a seal.

Seal? So cool! Can you show me?

Mrsha danced about excitedly, looking away from her [Message] scroll and penpal. Obligingly, Satar reached out and drew…a magical stamp out of the air. Mrsha went cross eyed, and Satar pressed it into Mrsha’s forehead.

The magical stamper glowed and vanished, leaving a little, glowing stamp on Mrsha’s forehead.

“Oh! So pretty!”

Rose marveled. Because the stamp, the little symbol written therein, which looked like a book and quill as Satar would have preferred it, felt…like truth. Now, if only you could shake it from the aether and find what was lost.

Alas. Mrsha went cross-eyed trying to see it.

“It lasts as long as it’s true, Mri. I think it changes color if it’s less true. Go on! Try it!”

Mrsha frowned. Then she wrote, carefully, and held up a notecard for all to see.

I am always a good girl.

Instantly, the seal glowing a gentle green-blue, and even slightly changing to hues of yellow or purple—turned red, burst into flames, and fell off Mrsha’s forehead. The girl stared down at it.

“Well, it’s good for a job. You know, you could make some decent money just applying that once every day.”

Yelroan chuckled. Mrsha looked at Satar and handed her a note.

Your Skill doesn’t work. Stupid.

Then she went back to her [Message] scroll.

“Veracity isn’t like a simple truth stone. It’s…oh, fine.”

Satar stuck out her tongue at Mrsha’s back. She sat up, feeling a tiny bit better—but still upset over the entire lack of stories thing. Mrsha glanced up at Satar, remembering how sad the [Shaman] had been. She kept scribbling and that click-click continued.

Feshi came back; she had apparently gone out to the bathroom or something.

“They’re passing out food. Anyone want to eat at Weatherfur’s camp? We’re eating some fresh salmon someone brought. Even a tuna from deep at sea. Big. Gire couldn’t finish all of it herself. Anyone interested?”

Gire shot up.

“Me, me! I’ll go!”

The others murmured agreement, and Feshi assured them they wouldn’t be disturbing anyone, and it wouldn’t be for another twenty minutes. Yelroan looked down.

“It’s an equation. Sin, cos, tan…I can almost…”

His eyes were glittering, but he kept glancing at Mrsha. Caught between delight and…

The little Gnoll glared down and slapped something. The clack made Feshi, Satar, and even Rose and Adetr look up. Mrsha rolled over and whined in the back of her throat…then raised a notecard.

Feshi! Help me, please! Beat this stinky person up!

She wanted Feshi to help her? With…Satar looked over and saw what Mrsha was doing at last. She was writing on the [Message] scroll to her penpal. And…

Playing chess.

Feshi’s ears perked up instantly, and she crouched down.

“What is this, Mri? Wait a second…”

Everyone else crowded around, except Gire, who read the scroll upside-down. They all blinked down. Mrsha folded her arms.

She and her penpal had been corresponding. Incidentally…Satar had heard Krshia had been involved in some kind of amazing conversation via Wistram the other day, but she hadn’t known what. Now? She looked down and saw a conversation.

Fetohep of Khelt: Good evening, ‘Mri’. Would you kindly desist sending [Messages] to my palace?

Mri: But we’re penpals! Can I have a throne? Or a crown? Or jewels?

Fetohep of Khelt: No. You are a child.

Mri: You thought I was intelligent!

Fetohep of Khelt: Age is but a concept, yet a child remains a child.

Mri: Ur a bully. I hate you.

Fetohep of Khelt: Insolence is unwise. I am Fetohep of Khelt. A ruler of Eternal Khelt. Do you think it is wise, even for a child, to taunt me?

Mri: …I’m sorry. But you’ll forgive me! Because I’m cute :)

Fetohep of Khelt: I cannot behold any appearance of yours, Mri.

Mri: What do I do!? Everyone is nice to me! I am very cute and cuddly, Fetohep! Forsooth! No child hath more delightful appearance than mine own!

Fetohep of Khelt: You are a precocious child.

Mri: Please help Erin.

Fetohep of Khelt: I am in the process of doing so. There are…complications, however.

Mri: You should help Erin. She could teach you chess. Do you like chess?

Fetohep of Khelt: I am exceptionally adept in the game.

Mri: Erin’s better, you know. She’s so good no one can beat her. I’m one of her pupils. I bet I could whoop you like a backwards salmon being smacked on steps!

Fetohep of Khelt: That is a preposterous statement.

Mri: Nuh uh.

Fetohep of Khelt: Indeed? Then, I shall move Pawn to E4.

Mri: What are you doing?

Fetohep of Khelt: Playing chess. Or can you not visualize the game?

Mri: I can! Give me a minute!

It appeared the smack talk and conversation had taken place over the last few days, and the chess game had been carefully recreated on the board Mrsha was using, with Fetohep’s pieces on hers.

Oh—and this wasn’t the original game. This was game #8. The score was 7-0 so far, and if you understood how often you tied in games of chess…

Feshi looked at the winner of all zero games.

“You want me to beat him?”

Mrsha nodded rapidly. Feshi folded her arms.

“No. For one thing, he gave me the dagger. For another—that’s cheating.”

But I have to beat him! Just once! Please? It’s too hard! He’s cheating by being too good!

It reminded Satar of Cers, actually. Mrsha, for all she could write like a jaded [Lady] of Terandria sipping wine while staring out an ivory tower in the twilight of Terandria—could also be a little child.

Feshi refused. Mrsha slapped the chessboard—then her face fell. She scrambled to redo the pieces and then started crying…or fake-crying.

It’s not fair! It’s too hard! I can’t do it in my head! The pieces are stupid! You’re all mean! I’m cute! Be nicer to me!

She rolled around on the ground, and Feshi sighed. Gire calmly put the chess pieces back and nudged a bishop.

“Move that into check?”

Mrsha instantly sat up, and Feshi looked at Gire.

“Gireulashia, you shouldn’t help her. Mri needs to either learn the game or admit defeat. She won’t grow or level from cheating. Except as a [Slacker].”

A what now? Mrsha the Sloth sat up and contemplated her new career path. Feshi tried to show Mrsha what she was doing wrong.

“You’re starting a new game, and you have all your pieces. It looks like you don’t really know how knights work, do you?”

L-shapes?

Mrsha was, in fact, Erin Solstice’s worst student, and that included Toren. She hadn’t paid attention when Erin taught her, and…well, she didn’t even really understand how Fetohep kept checking her behind her own lines.

That was because she created a wall of Pawns and expected them to hold the line, like the actual Pawn would with [Holy Barrier]. Feshi, Gire, and even Rose tried to explain, but Mrsha held her head in her paws.

It’s too hard! Too many moves! Too many ways!

Fetohep had one of her knights in distress, and she kept nearly moving it into an early-demise. She understood how the knight moved, but the endless loop of possibilities and moves from each individual piece?

There was a reason why, even if a computer could do it better, people liked this game. Even Apista could beat Mrsha. Even a bee.

Feshi looked sympathetically at Mrsha, but then she snapped her furry fingers together. Which was a lot harder than when a Human did it.

“I know! Mri, I won’t help you cheat…but what if I help you play? Hmm? Sit down.”

Mrsha plomped her butt down, and Feshi waved a paw over the gameboard. Satar, watching, who was also bad at chess and, she feared privately, worse than Mrsha, saw Feshi speak.

“[Visualize Outcomes]. There. How’s that?”

Mrsha’s eyes went round. Satar, looking down, gasped. She saw Mrsha pick up the endangered knight piece—and saw a bunch of little squares light up on the board.

In L-shapes, just like where it was legally allowed to move. Mrsha looked around and saw all the spots the knight could move.

“Oh! Like a chess program! That’s genius, Feshi!”

Rose clapped her hand in delight. Adetr muttered in her ear.

“Yet another thing Humans can do that we need a Skill for.”

She slapped his arm and winced as her hand met metal. However, thanks to Feshi’s Skill, Mrsha could now see each piece’s threat zone and how they moved when she picked it up. She found a safe spot at last and smugly wrote in her move to Fetohep. Two seconds later, he checked her.

Feshi watched Mrsha throw a tantrum. In truth, that Skill’s application in chess had recently been discovered. It was more useful for a [Strategist] to see how a group might try to execute a maneuver and realize the terrain was too rocky, the shallows too deep in actuality to wade, etcetera.

“Not a bad Skill. You do visualization Skills too?”

Yelroan interrupted. Feshi turned to him.

“I do. Just that. Do you, Mathematician Yelroan?”

He smiled and adjusted his sunglasses, but modestly.

“I do. Take a look. Let me just find something like…how about all your ages? And then I…[Visualize Data Set].”

He did a quick scribble with their names, and ages, and then used his Skill. Instantly, the piece of paper turned into a little, floating graph. A crude drawing of Mrsha and her name shot up only a tiny bit with her age represented. Next, Gire. Then…Adetr?

“You’re younger than me?”

The Gnoll exclaimed as his bar came to rest just below Satar and above Rose. Feshi was next, then Yelroan. Mrsha looked up from angrily scribbling with Fetohep.

“See? Look how many times older I am. Seeing data is very useful to me. I’m amazed [Strategists] don’t all have the Skill.”

Mrsha handed Yelroan a card. He flipped it over and read two words.

You’re old.

Adetr looked at Feshi and Yelroan and cleared his throat.

“I have a Skill too. Only, I see battle in its entirety.”

“And a fat lot of good that does.”

Rose muttered. Feshi raised her brows.

“I’ve heard of [Battle Seekers], but not that you can visualize it. Can I ask how it works? Do fights shape up the way you see them?”

Adetr shook his head.

“Almost never. But some things I can learn—even enemy Skills or gear they carry. It’s not…precise. It is for a warrior to train their spirit, to learn how to defeat their foes. But I do not learn enough, not like a [Strategist] would want. My tribe’s [Strategists] gave up long ago on asking me to find out information. Part of it is simply…to sate my hunger.”

He looked embarrassed at the admission. Rose peered at him.

“Really. But that’s so powerful!”

“Hrr. Yes, well…it was my Level 20 capstone Skill.”

Rose and Adetr looked at each other, and the Gnoll bowed his head.

“I’m sorry. I’m only trying to protect my people.”

“Not from me.”

He hesitated.

“No. Not from you, Rose.”

——

The good mood in the group broke upon Adetr and Rose’s quarrel like waves on a beach. Both looked guilty and broke off their arguments, but it was true. This had been a pleasant distraction from the greater issue of Earth, but Feshi could not let go of Adetr’s fear either.

Feshi longed to believe Rose when she assured them Earth had enough good to balance out the bad, but she had a vision of a metal flying-thing dropping weapons—even stones—from a mile up. And Humans had a population of eight billion. Even if most were non-combatants? Even if they were armed with rocks…

They could outproduce us. They could take over our lands. We can’t let them reach our world. We need to be careful, to learn what they’re doing. We need…to tell the Professor?

She had been having nightmares of Humans flying through the sky. Feshi suddenly realized where Eldavin had gotten his new armor idea from. More danger.

——

Satar saw Feshi’s face grow troubled and looked at this strange group, from Gire to Mrsha, Rose, Adetr, Feshi, and Yelroan. They were nice people. They had all come together to help one another, and they had done their best. But Satar had tried to find out the truth in stories for Doombringers…and failed.

They really had lost so much. Mrsha’s ears drooped, and Satar saw her listening to Rose and Adetr arguing.

Satar remembered what she herself had said in the Retelling.

We were here.

We were there. But…no one could prove it. Kingdoms vanished. They lost their library. Mrsha sighed. Satar wiped at her eyes and sniffed again. Everyone avoided looking at her. Rose and Adetr argued again.

Mrsha looked down as Gire gulped down a snack, Yelroan fidgeted with his sunglasses, and Feshi headed over to see if dinner was ready yet.

——

Satar’s crying was perfectly understandable, given how hard she’d tried, only to be foiled by time and malice. She was a [Detective] with no leads, only questions, and it frustrated her to tears.

She had not found her answer in the Doombringer stories, only noticed the absence. She would keep trying, but her Skill had not miraculously solved all problems. If that were so, Gnolls would never want for anything.

Yet there was more to miracles than just luck. Even a Doombringer knew that. So while Satar had cried, Mrsha had been thinking big.

Mrsha could not predict when a bishop would swan into enemy lines and hold a king-piece hostage. But she had learned something from Erin Solstice, the master herself.

And that was that other people could do things for you. Mrsha, the [Slacker]-in-training—which pretty much meant she’d never get the class because she kept trying to work for it—had made a little plan. And the thing about little plans? When you handed them to giants or geniuses, they always turned them into big plans.

Mrsha the Delegator quietly wrote onto her [Message] scroll as Gire watched her out of the corner of one big eye. The [Paragon] winked at Mrsha, but Satar never noticed.

Mri the Magnificent Mind: Old guy. Old guy, I have a biiig favor to ask. Will you help me? Pwease?

Fetohep of Khelt: If you address me in such an obnoxious fashion again, child, I will be forced to hire an [Assassin] to burn your [Message] scroll. There is such a thing as etiquette.

Mri: In that case, um…forsooth—

Fetohep of Khelt: I will post the bounty at 1,000 gold coins within the hour.

Mri du Marquin: Your Gracious Eminence, I humbly beg your forgiveness for my misconduct. It is unbecoming for a young lady, and I can only apologize that I have taken leave of my senses. It would not only honor my house, but do justice to the endless bounty of Khelt’s munificence if you would consent to heed my petition.

Fetohep of Khelt: Who taught you to write like this? Truly.

Mri: My mother.

Fetohep of Khelt: Ah. I do not employ any such individuals in my palace permanently, as I have not needed to address foreign powers substantively these last five hundred years. Someone of her talents would be useful. Would she be interested in a position in my Mage’s Guild?

Mri: Nope. Can I tell you my big idea now? It’s smart!

Fetohep of Khelt: You may.

She outlined it in great detail and waited for him to agree. However, Fetohep’s response was succinct.

Fetohep of Khelt: I will not do this for you, Mri.

Mri: What? Why? Stinky! Rude! It’s so nice! You’d be on television! And you have lots of old things! You’d love it!

Fetohep of Khelt: Be that as it may, I am not a Djinni. I do not ‘grant wishes’, nor am I interested in guiding any among the living outside of my kingdom. This is a matter that goes to the heart of Gnollkind.

Mri: Yes. So are you not friends with Gnolls? That’s racist. You’re racist.

Fetohep of Khelt: I am not. ‘Mri’, you misunderstand my point. What you suggest is intelligent, original, and has a chance of success even the most precocious of children would envy for such a scheme. However, I will not do it simply because it is righteous. Even if it is easy for me.

Mrsha’s brow wrinkled up. She sat there as Fetohep wrote on.

Fetohep of Khelt: This is a Gnoll issue. Gnolls must overcome their own trials. You are a Gnoll. You may petition me as a penpal, to act in some small way. But the whole of it? I leave that to you.

Mri: Me? By myself?

Fetohep of Khelt: Yes.

Mri: But I’m a child.

Fetohep of Khelt: You will always be one until the day you decide not to act as one. It need not be you alone. Think. When you have a request I will agree to, I will heed your words.

Then he left her alone. Mrsha punched the [Message] scroll, hurting her paw, and rolled around, crying silently.

Fetohep was a jerk after all! The biggest jerk, who was stingy because he could do things and didn’t! She saw Satar look at her as Gire exhaled.

“That’s too bad, Mri.”

“What?”

Satar was done crying and looked exceptionally embarrassed to have done it in front of everyone. Yelroan, Adetr, and Rose saw Mrsha waving her [Message] scroll to show the others.

Look at my brilliant idea! It would work! But he didn’t want to do anything.

Satar blinked down at Mrsha’s plan. Her eyes widened.

“Mri? That’s brilliant! Of course there would be—oh. He won’t do it?”

Crestfallen, the [Storyteller] read Fetohep’s replies. However…as Mrsha threw a tantrum, she saw what the undead king meant. It made her fur rise slightly.

Gnolls must overcome their own trials.

That spoke to her. Mrsha didn’t understand, perhaps because she was so used to a certain Human solving people’s issues. Fetohep—King Fetohep of Khelt understood something about pride.

“It might not be the same, but I could at least…ask.”

Satar’s mumble caught Mrsha’s attention. The girl looked up as Gire picked up her little friend.

“Ask who? Fetohep of Khelt is the most influential person I know too. How do you know him again, Mri?”

The Gnoll shook her head mutely. It was a long story. Satar didn’t know any [Kings] herself, but…

“I don’t have to ask a foreign [King]. What if I…wrote to someone? Like a [Librarian]. Or—well, it doesn’t hurt to ask, does it? All it takes is a few silver at most, and you can send a [Message] to anyone in the world.”

The problem was most people wouldn’t answer it. It couldn’t hurt to ask, though. Mrsha’s ears perked up.

“Who could I ask, though? Um…um…is there a [Librarian] in the—uh—a nation in Terandria? What would that be?”

Desonis? I know Earl Altestiel too!

“How do you—nevermind. What if you wrote a letter to him?”

Mrsha scratched at her head. That sounded like work! Gire gently pulled at one of Mrsha’s ears.

“It’s not that much work, milady du etiquette, is it? And you know how to be fancy.”

My paw hurts when I write too much. And it gets inky.

Mrsha sulked, still in a pet about Fetohep. Gire tossed her up and down.

“What if I wrote for you?”

Mrsha the Dictator—no, wait, that sounded bad—thought about it and brightened up. She nodded eagerly.

“I’ll help too! I just…I don’t know an Earl Altestiel. I need a book of current nations. Um. Oh no, I need to find someone who I can [Message]. Not the rulers or leaders, obviously.”

Satar felt that frustration of not knowing exactly what to do. She’d have to grab a book, maybe bother a [Mage] who could send [Messages], and the cost—!

Mrsha plopped a huge bag of gold on the table. She could send [Messages] all day. However, the contact details?

Yelroan’s sunglasses blinded Satar.

“Exactly how many people did you need to talk to? Because I have a list of contact details for almost every major nation and group. Plus, the Plain’s Eye tribe knows who to actually talk to if you want a response.”

Satar turned to look at him, and Rose waved a hand, mostly because she wanted to be helpful.

“I could write to Drassi! And I just bet Joseph could help; he can run down to Pallass’ library.”

Adetr scratched at his head, still confused.

“I don’t see how this will all help. But I can help you send the [Messages]. There’s a group of [Mages] who do it for coin. Steelfur can reserve a few.”

Satar looked at the others and then bent over a piece of parchment.

“We could just ask them all. Even if he’s not willing to help do it all, Mrsha, can you write back to Fetohep? Be nice!”

Mrsha sighed, but with Gire translating her fast sign-language into writing, she began to ‘dictate’ a [Message], which was a lot of fun. Adetr trotted off to grab a Human [Mage], Rose began scribbling a note to Drassi, and Satar composed her own first letter to a [Librarian] in…

“Where should I start? Who would have what we want?”

She turned to Yelroan, and the [Mathematician] smiled.

“You can bother as many people as you want. From experience, I would guess that a rich company or nation has the best shot. Why not the Forgotten Wing Company?”

Mrsha’s ears perked up, but she decided not to interject as Satar stammered.

“The—the—you think they’ll respond?”

Yelroan shrugged.

“It’s worth a shot, yes? Oh—I have a contact for you. [Strategist] Perorn and—wait, don’t send it to [Chamberlain] Peclir. Not a good move. But send it to…let me grab a file.”

He headed off, and Satar began to write. She took her time on the first letter, but she got into the rhythm of it soon enough. Even if only one of the fifty [Messages] she sent got through…then a hundred…

Gire was massaging her paw, but Satar had no cramping, so she wrote on. It was an exciting gambit, like throwing a letter in a bottle into the sea. It was unlikely it would bear fruit, in her mind.

However, she hadn’t realized just how astute Fetohep’s observation was. Mrsha might have been young, and she certainly lacked for table manners, the ability to dress herself, and she was distressingly bad at math, much to Yelroan’s chagrin.

But a certain [Princess] had used many, many [Flawless Attempts] to hammer in the very foundation of proper formality in letter-writing.

Arguably worse, she had instilled the very best…worst…of Calanferian traditions in Mrsha’s mind. Gire laughed about it, and Satar didn’t read Mrsha’s letters, so she had no idea the vengeful Gnoll girl wrote her letters along these lines.

Dear Sir or Madam (Gire, write in their name and titles!),

I, Satar Silverfang, would humbly like to request your attention on a certain matter which I have corresponded with His Majesty, Fetohep of Khelt upon, and I believe Drassi of Wistram News Network is also considering a television segment regarding said issue. I would deeply appreciate a letter at soonest convenience, as the Meeting of Tribes is ending, and it behooves me to bring this matter forwards as an issue of highest importance among my people.

It may be that you have an object in your possession that may help my inquiry into the history of the Gnoll peoples. To be precise, I am referring to…

——

Satar felt a flash of hope as she wrote nearly a hundred letters—and she thanked Mrsha, who helped bankroll the entire affair. Adetr, who mainly got paper, convinced the [Mages] to send so many spells and refilled ink pots because his handwriting was atrocious and he couldn’t spell. Rose ended up going with Feshi—who’d waited for everyone at the Weatherfur camp for nearly an hour—to come back with food, and Feshi herself joined in after realizing what they were about.

She felt like she had done something! Then…Satar closed her eyes and realized no level ups were coming. She’d already gotten to Level 25, of course, but she’d thought maybe after all that writing…?

No. No levels for all her hard work. Mainly because she’d been writing letters, not a story.

So she rolled over and tried to sleep, despondent. Why would anyone respond? She was just Satar and…

The Gnoll girl went to sleep, in the particular expectation of nothing tomorrow but disappointment and silence. Because she had never seen anything marvelous happen except between the covers of a book. Those were stories.

——

Throughout the night, an undead king from ages of yore when the dead ruled the living did not sleep. Six hundred years old, a mayfly in immortal years but heir to one of the great kingdoms of Chandrar, Fetohep of Khelt sat upon his throne and considered one thing.

“They make much of the blinding ego of Dragons. The arrogance of Drakes. The wrath of gentle men, the enmity of Dullahans. Worst of all, it would appear, is the pettiness of little children.”

[Message] after [Message] flashed upon the dozens of scrolls surrounding him, all asking for a polite confirmation that, yes, this [Message] was genuine? Was there a plan to…? Would he like to speak with Grand Magus Eldavin now or later? Wistram News Network calling. Was this in relation to—?

A little girl did this. One who knew how to name-drop his name into the ears of the high and mighty.

“Calanfer. The Kingdom of the ‘Eternal Throne’ has changed markedly from its original ruler’s inception.”

Fetohep would have had a headache if such luxuries were afforded the undead. He looked at the chess board he’d set up with Mrsha’s last game. Despite all her help, a lone king-piece sat surrounded by his pawns. Fetohep looked at Mrsha’s personal request to him.

In the darkness, the Revenant smiled. Well enough for a child’s effort. He rose and gave the children’s plan a little nudge.

——

They had done something today. Each of the Gnolls and singular Human could rest easy, even if it might not come to anything, even if that good feeling didn’t last. They tried. They made friends. They slept well.

All save for one.

Yelroan.

He didn’t sleep. Chieftain Xherw found him with his head in his paws.

“Yelroan? Is something amiss?”

The [Mathematician] looked up. He spoke carefully, hanging his head.

“I…can’t make sense of it, Chieftain.”

“About what? Your investigation? Are you done, already?”

The [Chieftain] looked sharply at Yelroan and the [Mathematician] nodded. He pushed something across to Xherw and the Gnoll saw a jumble of numbers.

“What’s this?”

“Oh, facts, figures about Qwera. I can’t make them add up, Chieftain. I’m afraid…I can’t help you. I keep trying, but I can’t create a direct link between her being a Doombringer and…”

Yelroan shrugged, speaking very carefully. He tapped the paper with the confusing list of numbers. Qwera’s birth date, income, money earned, locations visited represented as coordinates.

Xherw studied the paper, but briefly. He shook his head, sighing hard.

“If you cannot, I believe you.”

“I’ll keep working, Chieftain! I don’t want to doubt your intuition, it’s just as a [Mathematician]…”

Yelroan trailed off. He gestured at the paper and knew every word he spoke was true. There was no mathematical way to make all the numbers about Qwera’s life line up into something that spelled Doombringer.

Math wasn’t silly. Xherw just smiled.

“I can be wrong. It may be she’s just…lucky. Keep working, but we will need you for this Earth-matter. Thank you, Yelroan.”

The Gnoll nodded and sat back down. He stared at the closed tent flaps, then began shaking uncontrollably. But he did it. He…

He wondered what Merish, his friend, was doing. Merish was a good Gnoll. A warrior.

Had he tried to kill that little girl? Yelroan sat in the darkness…then he pulled out more lists. More information, since he had insisted they keep such data. Older information too. It was time to begin another investigation. A better one.

He didn’t know what he’d find, or even what he was looking for beyond the obvious. Only…that he thought, now…it was there.

——

The next day, Satar was fast asleep when a Gnoll landed on her. Cers hit Satar, went flying as she yelped and rolled over, and jumped on her again.

“Cers! I’m going to hurt you! Leave me be!”

“Satar! Satar! What did you do? What did you do?”

Something had riled her younger brother up even more than normal. Satar raised a fist, but then saw how excited he was.

“What? Has the Meeting of Chieftains decided something?”

Blearily, the Gnoll girl stared at him. The Gnoll cub stopped, looked at her, and a gleeful expression filled his face.

“You don’t know? Satar! You’re on the scrying orb! Satar, what did you do? You’re in trouble! Cetrule’s looking for you!”

Satar sat up fast, blinking.

“What? Don’t lie, Cers. That’s a stupid lie.”

“Am not! Everyone’s watching! You’re in trouble—”

He raced out of her tent. Satar looked after him, heart suddenly pounding wildly. Did that have anything to do with…? But surely not—! They had just been letters! Why the scrying orb? Wait. Wait. Had Rose said she was writing to Drassi?

What did she write?

Satar stumbled out of her tent a second before Cetrule came running to find her. The [Shaman of Purity] was panting. He had something in his paw.

“Satar?”

She looked at him in confusion and then at the orb he was holding. And she heard her name echoing from it.

Across the Meeting of Tribes, as Gnolls tuned into the scrying orbs for the news and any major events in what was rapidly becoming a habit, the siege of Reim, on its sixth day, was interrupted by a special call in.

Fetohep of Khelt had begun his address and claimed the right to occupy the world’s attention in the following manner.

“I am Fetohep of Khelt. I have a moment of import to communicate. You are free to ignore me. At your peril.”

He was talking to Drassi and Noass. The [Reporter] and [Commentator] were listening as the Revenant-king spoke.

“Yes. Satar Silverfang, I believe. A…penpal of mine of whom I have found myself regularly corresponding brought up the issue. Naturally, it was within my vast purview, and I have taken it upon myself to answer the request in part.”

Satar stopped breathing when she heard her name. Cers touched her arm, then jumped as she inhaled.

“Gnolls. Gnolls have now come to Chandrar, and that was the cause of the King of Destruction’s war with Belchan and Jecrass. I listened to your commentary, Noass of Pallass.”

It was amazing that Fetohep didn’t laugh, and pronounced the Drake’s name so seriously. The Drake shifted uneasily.

“Er, yes, Your Majesty?”

“I found it inaccurate. You speak as if Gnolls came to Chandrar for the first time. As if one of their great [Archmages] did not hail from Chandrar itself. This question about Gnolls practicing magic could have been resolved by simply reading a book. Ah, but I am told that such books are passing rare in Izril. I communicated my surprise that the existence of Gnolls across the world was in such doubt. Even Feshi Weatherfur, who bears one of the Diamond Swords of Serept, did not have sufficient proof.”

“Satar, Satar, what did you do?”

Cetrule was shaking her urgently. Satar burst out.

“I don’t know! I didn’t do anything. We just sent letters, but I didn’t tell Fetohep to do anything. He refused to help at first! Why’s he on the news? It had to be—Mri!”

There was only one person who could even possibly be responsible for this. Cetrule looked around, and the smuggest little girl in the world poked her head out of her tent to look at Satar, confirming Satar’s suspicions. Mrsha’s satisfaction lasted only about five seconds until Krshia stormed out of her tent.

“Mrsh—Mri! You are in big trouble!”

Off the little girl ran, helter-skelter, but it was far too late. Fetohep of Khelt was still speaking.

“Feshi Weatherfur. I have no doubt you are listening to my address.”

“She could be asleep.”

Noass pointed out reasonably. Drassi elbowed him; annoying Fetohep didn’t seem wise. The golden undead’s eyes flashed.

“Then she will hear my words. Feshi Weatherfur, do you doubt your kind’s boast that you came across the world? You are a talented [Strategist]. But you are young. Investigate your possessions. Learn. Hold the dagger above your head. And call for Dorrer of Khelt.”

——

In the Weatherfur camp, all of the Gnolls turned to Feshi. The Gnoll [Strategist] paled. Then—at Fetohep’s words, raised the dagger over her head. She spoke.

“Dorrer of Khelt?”

The dagger flashed. Black diamond opened a portal to somewhere else, and something rose from the ground.

An undead. A servant in undeath, like the Minotaur champion of old. Like the other warriors bound to serve the wielder and Khelt eternal.

Of course, Feshi knew she could summon warriors to fight for her. But she had never thought…the Gnoll looked down and stepped back as a figure rose.

Like the others, the mummified corpse was so old it had lost almost all of its fur. It was bone in places. Yet even bones revealed the original form. And this warrior, armored in ancient golden metal and holding a spear and shield?

This was a Gnoll. A Gnoll? A Gnoll had once lived in Khelt? Feshi turned, and Fetohep of Khelt had his servants bring in a tapestry so everyone could see it.

“This hangs on the Serept-era hallways, quite appropriately. I had it brought out that I might illustrate my point.”

He smiled with modest satisfaction at his joke. Everyone looked at the illustration, and Drassi gasped.

“Oh my.”

It was one of those classic pictures of overwhelming victory. A half-Giant king—Serept himself—stood, pointing down at his enemies who were fleeing or surrendering in a rather craven manner. His trusted vassals, mostly half-Giants, were arrayed around him, each bearing a Diamond Sword of Serept. The same dagger that Feshi carried was in a Garuda’s grip.

But look. Among the vast—and it was a vast tapestry, maybe five hundred paces from end to end, because a half-Giant had commissioned it to be properly big—there was one tiny figure. Just one, but visible amid the scene of operadic triumph.

A Gnoll stood upon a hill of his foes. He was armored in the same way as the undead standing before Feshi, raising a blade in triumph.

“Just one Gnoll. Rather…kitschy. Tapestries are largely exaggerations.”

Fetohep actually made his eye-flames do something like a roll as Noass broke the silence.

“Unsurprisingly, you fail to take my point, Noass of Pallass. Behold. In the era of Serept, a Gnoll warrior was vaunted enough to be represented among Serept’s finest vassals. I happen to know Dorrer of Khelt traveled from Izril to Khelt and won Serept’s favor. It is a small, but noted passage in The Hammer of Giants, one of the many biographies of Serept published in Khelt’s library. It is my will that Satar of Tribe Silverfang receive it. She has no stories of Gnolls that remain in ink and paper? She will have one.”

Feshi stared as Fetohep lifted the book he intended to send across the sea—and handed it to a Courier ready to take it to a boat chartered to make a direct delivery. Such was Fetohep’s largesse.

——

Satar was sitting now, with her mother and Silverfangs watching. If that were it, it would already have been a small, but special moment. A book from Fetohep himself! So ancient! She’d probably level from reading it.

But that was not all. Fetohep did not know the meaning of restraint. He thought he did, and he knew the dictionary definition, but nothing about the undead king ever indicated he could put the word into practice.

“This is one example from Khelt. Now, I cede my time upon the orb to a ruler of surpassing respect. From Eternal Khelt, we salute the skies and the Shield Kingdom of Qualvekkaras, the Kingdom of the Winds. Sapki Makhita of the Garuda, I salute you.”

Fetohep made a complex gesture to imitate a wing-arm, and both Drakes on television gulped as they realized they’d have to pronounce that.

Then Fetohep vanished, and a Garuda appeared in a shower of trumpets and song. She stood upon a cliff, the clear skies behind her, and her royal guard bowed in a flash of feathers and armor.

Someone who knew how to make an entrance. And, forewarned by Fetohep, Makhita used her time to capture the eye. Nor did she waste time.

“In the days when Gnolls lived upon Chandrar, the greatest of them who raced across ground and sky came to us. When Fetohep of Khelt asked if her story remained, I laughed. Of course we remember her! Few species born without wings ever learned to fly without artifacts or magic alone. We have stories and books with her name.”

She turned and, with a flourish, produced a tome that looked like it was a well-worn novel.

The Gnoll Who Flew.

Somewhere, the Flying Gnoll of Pallass fell over in a dead faint. Satar nearly fell over as the Sapki of the Shield Kingdom of Chandrar lifted her head.

Her feathers were white. Because, to Garuda, that was special, even royal. Mrsha stared up at her as Makhita spoke. Not in the royal tones, but almost conversationally.

“I grew up reading stories of her! I would wager many rulers of Qualvekkaras did! We have books of her and her stories. Other Gnolls too! The thought that the tales of Arculen Jawbreaker were lost—I myself will pledge to send a copy of our stories to Izril. Although it may be simpler just to have a [Scribe] copy it. But I will send our tales to the Gnolls of Izril.”

“And who is this flying Gnoll?”

Drassi leaned forwards, and Satar’s fur began to rise of its own accord. It couldn’t be. But wasn’t it right there, in one of the most famous songs ever written and sung? The white-feathered Garuda looked at Drassi in shock and then threw her head back and caw-laughed. So did her retainers.

“I didn’t even say! I thought everyone would know her! She was the [Great Chieftain of the Skies], and she flew higher than most Garuda ever dreamed. Her name was—”

“Seru’nial.”

The Gnolls whispered it. The Gnoll who took her tribe into the clouds. The Sapki looked around, beaming.

“She came to us to learn to fly! Well, of course she did. Imagine if she’d been taught by Drakes! She’d have crashed before she got halfway up!”

All the Garuda exploded with laughter and slapped each other with their wings. Noass opened his mouth—and Makhita looked up.

“Ah, but I’m wasting time. Who’s next? Um—ah, yes. It’s written right here. Gorgon Lixctoria.”

“Wait, but—”

The image changed, and a Gorgon appeared—or rather, one slitted eye. Noass nearly fell out of his seat, and Drassi recoiled. The Gorgon boomed as a plethora of Lizardfolk clamored to get into the shot.

“Of course we had Gnolls. We have books of how they explored the Dyed Lands with the first of us. Or do you mean older? They came across the sea in ages past. Gnolls, who lived across this land. We were sorry when they left—we didn’t do it. Blame the Centaurs and Dullahans.”

She held up a book and brandished it, before one of the Lizardmen raced onto the scrying orb. One of them produced a ring and tried to kneel down as he spoke rapidly.

“Drassi, will you marry m—”

The Gorgon slapped him out of frame with her tail so fast they never heard the rest. And she was the last person Fetohep had prepared. But, of course, she was hardly the last.

“Gnolls? We had them. Obviously. There are records of Gnoll-[Knights]. You’d think they’d be called [Fur Knights] or something, but apparently that was a slur back in the day.”

A Terandrian [Historian] did his best to explain, but the energetic King of Avel was the one to use the unfortunate appellation, jostling for his screen time.

Satar said nothing. She just listened. And she looked. Not just at the stories each nation had…

At their books. The [Bow King] raised it triumphantly.

It wasn’t all about them. Some books were, but the others? It was just a single passage, or a side-character. But there they were.

We were here. Gnolls. They were in the other species’ stories. Heroes and villains and helpers, cunning tricksters and stalwart friends. More and more nations began cracking books open. Even nations that Satar had never heard of.

A Dullahan wearing what looked like coral armor from an island pointed to a library of a hundred books.

“We have a hundred books in our library. Of the stories with histories or adventures, over sixty have Gnolls. We counted. They’re here.”

“Well—of course. We have stories with Gnolls too, you know. Lots of Gnolls. We just don’t go waving them about.”

Noass tried to bluster. The Dullahan looked at him and frowned.

“Shut up, Pallass.”

They were there. Not just Gnolls…white Gnolls. Some of the pictures on the books definitely showed Gnolls with white fur—but Satar didn’t know what the books contained. It didn’t matter—later, she’d read everything anyone wanted to give her. Who turned down free books?

…Unless they were bad books, of course. But these? These were their history.

We were there. And they remember. Mrsha watched the scrying orb and knew this made up for all the missed dessert in the world.

Mri: Good work, old guy. You’re old.

Fetohep of Khelt: I am aware.

Satar was less sardonic. She was crying again. She saw her people across the books of the world. And not from their perspective. Other species wrote of them. Critically, complimentary—but in such ways that you couldn’t deny that they had been there and done great things.

She saw the world differently, and all because they had stood there and told her the truth. She looked around and saw the longing in even Cers’ eyes. Cers, who didn’t like reading.

He wanted to know those stories. If only they could know those stories…

Maybe we’ll know the truth behind Doombringers. See it.

Someone had tried to erase the history of Gnolls, and they had done a thorough job, especially with a certain Wyrm accidentally aiding them at one point in history. But they couldn’t erase everything and burn every book.

And that truth would set everything right. If any descendants of the original conspirators were still trying to hide the truth, this was a very unhappy day for them.

It was then, looking at this display of goodwill from people eager to give Gnolls something, however small, and stick it to the Drakes, that Satar realized what the Meeting of Tribes was missing.

She looked at Inkar, holding hands with Tkrn. The least monstrous person you could imagine to represent Earth. Rose too, come to it.

Adetr knew that. But still, he feared what he’d seen. Like Mrsha, in a way, Doombringers were a nightmare if all you knew were the Retellings. But if you looked at Mrsha, lying bloated after too many bites of tuna or rolling down a hill with Gire?

Could you see a monster?

Yelroan knew the answer, but Satar had no idea of what he had found. Or whom he now feared.

As more texts with Gnolls were unveiled and Noass’ name was made fun of at least a dozen times, which was bordering cruelty, Satar turned away. Because she had an idea. The only question was—could it be done?

Surely. They had to try.

——

Back to the Meeting of Tribes that morning. The [Chieftains] didn’t get to watch their achievements reflected in the literature of the world. They were tired of dark revelations.

Scared by the prospect of another world. A people they couldn’t comprehend.

Truly couldn’t. Adetr had watched Rose’s movies, and she’d realized something when he had ducked when he thought something was coming towards him.

The first Humans who saw movies, like a simple clip of a train coming their way, had ducked and gone for cover. They had been uncritical viewers incapable of that level of abstraction to understand it was simply an image because they had never seen the like before.

In the same way, Gnolls had no reference for a skyscraper. They imagined a tall building, but even that was largely foreign to Plains Gnolls.

It truly was hard for them to think of Earth and all too easy to understand the worst of them. Just like, frankly, Earth would fear a world where something like A’ctelios Salash just lay buried in the sand or Crelers roamed.

It cut both ways. Yet the point was not to cut. Another species—Drakes—could react by making a giant wall or reaching for a sword.

Not her people. Krshia Silverfang had wanted, had believed that they would be better than that. She argued desperately, alongside a few other voices like Torishi, but she was outnumbered. It was not that they were fools or bad people. They had simply seen betrayal and darkness too soon.

They needed something else.

So—as the Meeting of Chieftains began to swing one way, someone interrupted it. The guards at the tents raised their spears, but warily, remembering Ferkr. They took one look at who was coming their way, put up their spears, stepped aside, and threw open the tent flaps.

“Hold. I say, hold. Before we vote upon Earth and what happens—hold. For what we lack in perspective. You have not heard the children of Earth.”

Akrisa petitioned the [Chieftains]. Werri snorted.

“Some of us have talked to them. Will it change our minds, to hear one of them speak? One Human is not all. Just like the King of Destruction is one man—we understand there is good and evil, Akrisa Silverfang.”

“But you do not understand it.”

A voice rang from the opening at the entrance to the Meeting of Chieftains. As the Gnolls turned to look up, they saw someone standing there.

No one had noticed because she’d let someone else take over, but someone hadn’t been there to lead the Meeting of Chieftains.

Shaman Theikha of Gaarh Marsh had been absent. Now…she stood there. Akrisa half-rose and made a choked sound. Not because of Theikha—but because of who stood with her.

“Satar?”

Satar Silverfang was shaking so hard it looked like there were two of her. Yet she stood by Theikha’s side. The [Shaman of Tribe and Plain] was holding her staff and dressed in the full regalia of her office.

In clothing not much different from Satar’s, honestly. Dyed and worn…but she had put them on for this moment.

And Satar and Theikha were not the only ones who stood there. When Satar had proposed the idea, she had known that executing it would not fall to her. She hadn’t a fraction of what that would require. Satar had thought, recalled something her new friends had said that had a common link, and gone to each one.

They had all agreed, but even together, they doubted it would work. Satar hadn’t known either. There was no guarantee you could just…make a miracle.

So she had gone to the greatest Gnoll she knew, the [Shaman] who had lived over a century and a half without a drop of immortality in her veins.

Shaman Theikha. The [Shaman] had heard her, her eyes had crinkled up, and she had placed a paw on Satar’s shoulder.

“You are the future we need, Satar Silverfang. Yes, it will work.”

“But the power…we don’t know how.”

Theikha had laughed softly. She had looked around at the others and smiled.

“You are in the Meeting of Tribes, Satar. At the heart of a people, gathered together in strength, even in this age. Believe anything is possible, and it will be so.”

——

This is how they came to the Meeting of Chieftains. They met each other, looking the others up and down, as nervous as could be.

Satar Silverfang, of course, to explain it. To take responsibility if it failed and see what would happen if it succeeded. Journal in hand, quill poised to write.

Then was Rose, because she had to be there. Rose and Inkar, who were the heart of it. But they didn’t have the Skills.

Feshi did. Feshi Weatherfur, the Diamond Dagger of Serept at her side, turned and nodded to the Gnoll made of metal, who stopped, so heavy he left a trail of sunken footprints where he walked. Adetr Steelfur.

Mrsha ran over to them, and Gire picked her up, handed her to Tkrn, and Mrsha was captured. Because she would not be joining them. It was dangerous and besides—they didn’t need a Mrsha. She turned as the third Gnoll who most certainly had to be there walked forwards.

“Great Shaman. Are you sure you’ll need…me? This is old magic.”

Yelroan, the [Mathematician], looked nervously at Theikha. The old Gnoll chuckled.

“And since when has math not been old, young man? You have a Skill, just as Satar said.”

“But can we combine them? It doesn’t work like that. It’s about chance. Luck, working hard, and a confluence—”

Adetr demanded, but Theikha lightly tapped his forehead with her staff.

“That’s how you think it works, Adetr Steelfur. Which is fair. Now let me tell you how it truly is.”

She walked forwards, adjusting her [Shaman]’s outfit. Satar had helped her put it on. She had thought it mattered, but Theikha had just laughed.

“There’s no grand magic in these clothes, Satar. Nor would that necessarily help. It’s just so I look the part. And that matters.”

Now, she took the staff and walked out of her tent. She had called for the Gnolls, of course, but she had also prevailed on Cetrule, Gire herself—and others for help.

Because this was more than Theikha, Gire, Feshi, Adetr, Satar, and Yelroan. Six Gnolls stood inside the tent as Mrsha tried to kick Tkrn in the crotch and make him let go. Rose and Inkar walked over to Theikha as she gestured for them.

“We’re supposed to be there already. Are we going to be late?”

“You are going to the Meeting of Chieftains. As am I. Late? Satar, we are [Shamans]. We are always perfectly on time. Now…follow me.”

Theikha winked one huge, brown eye, and left her tent. Satar saw the others follow, and was last to go. She walked outside and stopped.

Stopped dead in her tracks, like the others, because she had seen many great things at the Meeting of Tribes—but always as an observer. Right now? She was at the heart of it all.

Gaarh Marsh stood around Theikha’s tent. Not one Gnoll, or a dozen, or even a fraction of the tribe. Nor even a thousand solemn faces, brown eyes shining behind fur adorned with gifts of the wetlands. Nor ten thousand. So many stood, silent, not a whisper passing as insects landed on fur, and animals like little packrats bounded forwards to watch, eyes too-intelligent, a sea of faces.

Such a stillness in the air that Satar’s heart juddered in her chest. She looked around and it seemed like there was no limit to them. This was Gaarh Marsh’s people.

All of them. Every Gnoll had come, forming a huge, vast crowd, parted on two sides. Leaving a wide walkway, positioning themselves, holding children and shorter Gnolls up so they could see one Gnoll who had asked them to do this for her.

They did it. Not for anyone. Not even for their Chieftain. But for her? Shaman Theikha?

Of course they did.

Other Gnolls in the Meeting of Tribes had seen the strange gathering. They saw Shaman Theikha emerge from her tent—then the sea of Gnolls forming a line straight to the Meeting of Chieftains’ tent.

Not just Gaarh Marsh. Oh, no. Ekhtouch was barely a drop in the bucket, but they stood there. Silverfang too. So too did a number of Plain’s Eye, though they had no idea what was happening. Longstalker’s Fang, Greenpaw…

Weatherfur.

Six tribes looked at Theikha as she walked forwards, the others following her. Just…walked. Head held high, pace measured.

——

The younger [Shaman], the [Storyteller], stumbled a bit as she walked through that ocean of gazes. She did very well, but for all her training, she was not prepared for this.

Satar hadn’t known how hard it was to simply…walk in front of so many people. To do it normally was one thing, but to do it in front of countless thousands? Yet Theikha did it, and as she passed, the first ranks of Gnolls slowly sank to their knees. They knelt—or sat—but they did it for her. Theikha smiled at them, and Mrsha, still in Tkrn’s arms, saw something familiar.

Something she had seen only once. The first Gnolls—[Shamans]—reached up for something and then they handed it to the next Gnoll. Those Gnolls took it, just for a second, and handed it to the next Gnolls.

It was invisible. But Mrsha thought she could see it, almost. Something. Passed from one Gnoll to the next. Small, but growing. And there were…hundreds of these things. Passed along.

“To create great magic is very simple, you know, children.”

The other Gnolls and Humans started and looked at Theikha as she passed along. The Gnoll turned her head, smiling, speaking almost conversationally. But this moment was anything but casual.

It was growing, in a wave, moving across the Meeting of Tribes, and now every Gnoll was watching. Something completely different than Eldavin’s great ritual, but something the Archmage of Memory would have recognized and respected beyond all else.

Theikha went on.

“To work grand magic, to do great things together is difficult and simple. It takes the heart to trust. The love to place yourself in another’s paws. Such difficult things. But to combine your Skills is easy.”

She turned, and her plain staff of wood set with a simple crystal rose, to show them the tribes passing along their magic. The countless faces, lives, all looking at them.

“All it takes is this.”

It was growing heavier, as each Gnoll passed it along. Heavier…yet still lighter than air. The Gnolls looked up, and Satar saw their gazes change.

Many Gnolls could demand they do what they did. But only a handful in the entire world could walk along like so. Theikha raised her voice and asked them one question as she lifted her staff overhead.

“Do you believe me, my people? Believe that I will create great wonders for you?”

The answer was in the burden they passed along, merging into one thing. The greatest [Shaman] carried it now, letting Gnolls touch it. It was too heavy, too vast to carry unaided.

It divided further, until only a few Gnolls were left. Then—Theikha reached the top of the hill. Six [Shamans], one from each tribe, bowed deeply to her and lifted something in their paws.

There was nothing there. There was…everything there. Theikha took it from them and threw her head back. Then she motioned to the Gnolls and Humans to follow her.

——

That was what the guards saw. That was why they let her in.

Now, Theikha walked slowly down the amphitheater, passing by Chieftains and Gnolls who were every bit as famous as she. They all turned to her and watched.

Satar could not take her eyes off Theikha. She still walked with that measured tread, but now it seemed like the [Shaman] was walking through the world as if it were mist. She was the only real thing in the world. When she looked back to smile at Satar—her eyes!

Oh, her eyes were filled with a thousand shining stars of light. Like the reaches of space. The air around her glimmered with magic. It was all contained in her chest.

The great [Shaman] of the Gnolls stopped in the center of the floor and turned. Rose and Inkar tripped after her. There came Gire, looking up at Firrelle, Satar, watching, as three Gnolls halted.

Yelroan, who looked at Xherw and smiled at his [Chieftain]’s surprise. Feshi looked at Torishi and saw her aunt beaming proudly. Adetr looked up at Iraz and bowed his head.

“Gnolls of Izril! You have heard the revelations of another world. They are terrifying. The world is changing. You fear what they have done and might do—rightly. I will never say that the world has been kind to us. Yet—as a young Gnoll pointed out to me—we lack perspective. It is too hard to look through another’s eyes.”

Theikha spoke to the assembled Gnolls, and one of them, Akrisa, almost guessed what was intended. She looked down at Satar and saw Theikha gesture.

“A great magic took place here once, to reveal the truth. Now—I hope to work one again. For only good, this time. For understanding. Permit me this moment. Rose, Inkarr. Take my paws.”

She reached out, and the staff floated upwards around her, curling her body as it defied gravity. Inkar and Rose gulped, then both young women reached out and took Theikha’s hands. They gasped as if they were touching the font of some immense power.

A Giant’s hands. That was how she looked to Adetr. But the [Battle Seeker] slowly looked at Rose and saw her glance at him.

“Will you try to see more than just death and battle?”

“I will try.”

He whispered and took her hand in his paws as gently as he could. On the other side, Feshi looked at Inkar.

“My teacher, the Titan of Baleros, always told me the world looks differently from where you stand. I want to see what he means.”

Inkar smiled.

“Me too. I want to show you.”

They linked hands. Then was Yelroan. He hesitated. He looked at them.

“I can’t…I have math, but I have no understanding of the rest. I don’t know people as well. I’ve been a fool and blind.”

He looked at Theikha. She didn’t respond. A current was running around them. Feshi nodded.

“I want to see. I can provide understanding. I have seen many peoples.”

“I have seen war. But I do not—I cannot make sense of the rest. You can. But I cannot understand it all.”

Adetr hesitated as well. Theikha’s head rose. It was incomplete. They were missing something.

So a giant girl stepped forward and Gire captured Yelroan’s paw in hers. She took Feshi’s paw and looked around.

“I can understand it. Whatever they made—I can understand it. Whatever you can do, I can do better. Trust me.”

She smiled, that arrogant [Paragon].

“We’re still missing something.”

Theikha’s voice was dreamy. Not a [Chieftain] moved. Not a Gnoll made a sound. The [Shaman]’s head turned, searching. She did not have to look far.

Satar started. The [Storyteller] saw the [Shaman] nod.

“Satar. Join us.”

“But I don’t have a Skill…”

“We have logic and math and understanding. We have the children of another world. But that is not enough. We need someone to fill in the gaps. Stand with us, Satar.”

So the [Storyteller] walked forwards like she was in a dream. She took Yelroan’s other paw and Adetr’s. One by one, they lowered their heads.

“I call upon something greater than each of us. I am [Shaman of Tribe and Plains]. I summon the magic of the tribes. My magic is [Magic of a Thousand Souls].”

Rose gasped, and Inkar lifted her gaze upwards to Eska and Honored Deskie watching her. Rose looked to Adetr. The [Battle Seeker]’s jaw was clenched. As if fighting for every word, to show them, for good or ill, he spoke. It was so hard—then he met Rose’s gaze and spoke.

“See what I have beheld. Our end. And…something else. Show me. [Vision of Greatest Battle].”

He added his other Skills into it, everything he could. Next, Feshi. She whispered.

“[Visualize Outcomes]. Let us see this world apart and know what it is!”

Yelroan lowered his head. His sunglasses flashed in the light now pooling around them. Shaman Theikha’s magic, shining like countless stars.

“My eyes!”

“[Visualize Data Set]. Let’s see who they really are, not just numbers.”

Gire joined them, her voice strong and level, but quivering with something she couldn’t process herself.

“[Superiority Made Manifest].”

She looked at Theikha and gasped. The magic ran around the ring of hands and people. Satar felt it building, but like a circuit with no end, an infinite loop, there was no outlet.

They knew what they wanted. Theikha had the power, each a piece of the puzzle. But there was no answer. The magic built—until Satar thought she would scream.

Maybe she was. Adetr’s mouth was open, and Feshi was silently howling. Yelroan’s eyes were wide, and Rose and Inkar were looking up.

At a vision of their home. But it was only what they knew. Satar’s soul cried out, looking at them.

If only I could see what you see! If only I could tell your story perfectly!

If only my words would one day reach into every heart and deliver meaning like that. It was too easy to be confused by poor words, by other people who couldn’t show you what they meant.

If…if it were possible. Let it be now.

Theikha was struggling to carry the magic with her. The others fought to share her burden, but still—it wouldn’t happen!

It was so close! Satar could see it, struggling to get out.

Why didn’t Theikha reach for it? The Gnoll was staggering, falling, failing. It was going away. It was right there in front of them. But not even Gire saw it. She was struggling to carry the weight of it all and failing.

“It’s…almost…”

Theikha looked up. Her eyes met Satar’s and her voice rose.

“Do it, Satar. Show us! Only you can.”

The [Storyteller] felt Yelroan’s paw tear away. Then Adetr’s. She looked at Theikha. And then—she reached out.

It was right there, trying to materialize. Something—an idea that had never been before. The Gnoll felt like every fraction of space was an eternity to reach across. But she had to see. It was not will, or courage—but simply curiosity.

She reached out and grabbed something. The other Gnolls were on their feet, and they saw it, for a moment.

It was…a book. Just a book. A book, shining with all the things written between them all. Written in magic, glowing. Satar looked at it and tried to lift the page.

It was there. She needed to see it. She would uncover the truth of the Doombringers. She would tell this story. And tell it right.

The truth of the world was not one fact. It was never one thing you could point to—but it was still truth. Satar gasped. She reached out, and with all of her might—

Turned that glowing page.

[Conditions Met: Archival Storyteller → Historian of the World Class!]

[Class Consolidation: Shaman removed.]

[Historian of the World Level 25!]

[Skill – Tribe: F—

All the shouting voices in her head, trying to tell her so many things, removing, changing—were silenced by the loudest one of all.

[Combination Skill — The World of You and Me created!]

It activated as Satar turned that wondrous page. She turned the page—

And the world vanished.

——

“Satar?”

Akrisa looked around for her daughter, but she saw nothing at all. Then—everything. She jerked with surprise and looked around.

Krshia Silverfang, staring, also looked around wildly. She turned—and nearly fell over. The Gnoll woman had an odd dress on. Akrisa looked down for her daughter…and saw something in front of her.

It was…a tiramisu tart. On a plate of white porcelain, and she was sitting in one of those precarious stools which crashed over as Krshia overbalanced and went down.

Everyone who saw it winced, and someone hurried over.

“Are you alright, Ma’am?”

Someone helped Krshia get up. The Gnoll got to her feet, dizzy.

“I’m fine. I’m fine, thank you…”

She stopped and stared at a polite young man wearing a server’s uniform, but in bright, monochrome cloth, with the little cafe’s emblem sewn onto it.

A young Human man. Akrisa stared at him and then around the cafe. Other diners looked at them. Her eyes fixed on a chalkboard where someone had spelled out all the food in what looked like…dollars?

She realized her clothing had changed too. She even had a handbag. Akrisa dug in it and found it was not a bag of holding but rather inconvenient. She pulled out green pieces of paper and stared at the number on them and the man staring back.

“What—where are we?”

Krshia staggered to her feet. The two Gnolls looked around—then caught sight of themselves in a mirror.

Two Human women stared back. Sisters. They looked around the cafe and then wandered out of it. They walked into the streets of a city and saw strange vehicles zooming past them. And everywhere they looked…

Were Humans. Most were going about their day. Some looked bored, or harassed, or angry or sad. Some were odd; others tried to blend in. There was a honking sound that made both Gnolls wince—and they looked overhead at a flying object that Krshia and Akrisa had only ever seen the wreckage of.

Akrisa stared up at a stoplight, and then Krshia pulled out her personal smartphone. She looked around at Humans.

Not at their best or worst. Not even caring about the two women. Someone in a giant fur-costume of a walking rat-thing moved past them. A Human, wearing it for reasons you could only guess at.

Humans at their weirdest. Humans at their finest. You could stop and talk to them, but they were probably busy.

Also, this was Los Angeles.

——

Inkar looked about and found she was lying on her back, staring up at the sky. She looked about and saw she was home. Home—and tears sprang to her eyes. There was no one around, though; she was in the middle of one of the rolling grasslands.

Only after a while did she see someone riding a horse around, poking it, checking the saddle, the gear. Chieftain Werri rode across the ground, looking up at the bright sky and laughing at how small it was.

——

Xherw jerked in his plane seat and tried to get up.

“Sir, stay seated until we’re at cruising altitude.”

A strange man in a uniform warned him. Ulcreziek looked about wildly as the two were crammed into tiny seats. Not even first class.

——

How did they know some things? It was like dream-logic. He knew the rules in vague, like ‘don’t walk into that street when the light is red’. However, seeing a traffic light was still a shock beyond shocks.

He looked upon Earth with fresh eyes, and everything else…fell to him. Yet he was not alone.

Adetr opened his eyes, and Rose was there. She was looking up at something.

“Come here, Adetr.”

The Gnoll looked around for Iraz and saw only Cetrule, the Gnoll tugging open a manhole to peek inside. Both Gnolls looked up as Rose pointed towards her house. She was trembling. Afraid of what was inside.

Longing to see it, if only for a moment.

——

“Math. Maaaaath—”

Yelroan ran about the university until someone called for campus security. Elsewhere, Theikha collapsed into one of those handy massage chairs at the airport as Gire brought her a drink and everyone stared at the nine-foot tall woman. Someone tried to recruit her for their university basketball team.

——

It was only for a second. It was only for an hour. The Gnolls within the tent walked out of it early, or just left because it was too much. Some died. They died like a dreamer, and some woke shaking, running from the tent, and others clutched at their heads, overwhelmed by what they could not, would not comprehend.

It was a story, and it told itself across each person differently. Wonderfully, with great joy and sights they loved—others like a horror unfolding piece by piece, a nightmare and warning.

But they did see, and for every Gnoll that ran, a dozen stayed to talk, ask questions or just walk down a street. Others walked into a pub, had a drink, and decided they had Earth beat on beers. Or they checked the news, played games, found out what coffee tasted like when done right.

——

Even the terrible moments. Chieftain Orelighn of Greenpaw could not take his eyes off a Human without a home. Without anyone who would take his hand, alone among so many. He followed the Human around and watched. A steel and glass city with flaws in how they had made it.

——

“So they are not that much happier.”

Iraz Steelfur murmured to himself. He realized how blind he had been.

Two nations represented themselves for the Gnolls, Rose’s and Inkar’s. Beyond that, the world turned to mist, but the Gnoll had the most unpleasantly nonviolent experience of being crammed into a metal box with other people going to work. He could not imagine it was pleasant.

He looked around and saw no great warriors here. Or at least, not a nation of conquerors. Just people. Look at their miserable, empty faces. His tribe could lead them forwards and show them something better.

——

That was how they passed the time, all of the Gnolls who stayed.

Looking at Humans. Not sterling examples of the world, especially depending on where you landed. Far from perfect. Rude, or helpful, or surprisingly gracious. With odd customs and beliefs and far too much of an obsession with navels.

But people. Not monsters, running around with weapons, making war. They did make war and do terrible things. But…if ever their worlds should collide? If those lost children found their way to them—

The Tribes of Izril would not welcome them with walls or distrust. They would treat a people like a people, varied, strange. And the children?

They would protect the children and let them choose who they wanted to be.

That was wisdom. And Satar Silverfang looked around, as she sat in a movie theater. She walked around and saw the story she wanted to write. The story of the world, as a proper account, never unbiased, but proper and true.

The story of two worlds. So she looked around for a journal, found a pad of paper and a handy scribbling pen. She looked at it with a frown.

Satar had seen a keyboard for the first time and decided she was done with quills forever. Just as soon as she could figure out how to make a computer. She sat down…

And began to write.

8.66

[The Wandering Inn is conducting a 2022 survey! Please consider filling it out here!]

Someone was dying before his very eyes. Everyone walked by, ignoring the plea written right there in ink. The look of—apathy. Hopeless apathy in grey-yellow eyes. Granite grey, shot with thousands of tiny lines, and the faintest yellow starburst around the pupil.

Good eyes. They didn’t belong on someone like that. They should have been vibrant, alive, full of wit or daring. It was all too easy for the watcher to imagine a great purpose in those eyes. The worst part was—they had once contained hope, passion. Or else how would they be so empty?

Too many lines on the skin. Too many creases. Too thin, as well. For all that, the dying man didn’t look that…dead. Or else, he might have been quietly shuffled away so he could die without bothering everyone.

More than a hundred people passed every ten minutes. A thousand or more per hour. Not a single one stopped to help him. Many probably thought they did something. Every now and then, Chieftain Mrell would watch a coin fall into the hat. Hear a mumbled thanks from the sitting homeless man.

He was going to die, a hundred coins or not. The man was a Human. A [Beggar]…no, wait. They didn’t have such classes, so he couldn’t magically suck coins from passing money pouches.

Wallets. Mrell found his wallet and awkwardly peered at the bills. He kept watching the man, but it had been nearly an hour. He looked the man up and down and saw him.

He had a lovely scarf, stained and dirty, which he used to protect his neck from the chill in the air. A jacket and pants, likewise faded grey, hung around him, decent clothing for the cold—but not for sitting there. Sitting cross-legged on cold pavement. Shivering. Arms wrapped around his chest, shoes worn flat and thin.

He smelled like cigarette smoke, ashy, but the entire city smelled like smoke and gasoline from cars, the sewers—perfumes and colognes from the people passing by. This man just smelled like he hadn’t been washed. And smoke. And a slow, creeping death that no one would save him from.

Homelessness. A plague that affected Human cities. Affected Earth. It was shocking to a son of the Gnoll tribes. Mrell regarded being without a home, even a temporary one like the nomadic tribes, as the worst fate of all.

You died, alone. Gnolls, Humans were social. Alone? Being alone was terrible, and that was why Urksh had cast him out.

A terrible punishment for a terrible crime. Here, though—it was a ‘thing’. It wasn’t an exception, it was the rule.

Mrell knew this was an imaginary man in a Skill that created a world for him to explore. It was not real—but he couldn’t help himself. Even if it meant he was ‘poor’ for the rest of his hour, having used up the other one already, he put all the money in the hat.

The dying man looked up at Mrell in astonishment. Those tired eyes opened.

“Thank you. What’s—are you serious?”

“Yes.”

The man looked down at the money in the hat, all the bills. Someone passing by blinked at Mrell as the Gnoll squatted down. Not because he was a Gnoll—but because he had done something odd.

“Are you sure? This is…”

The man was counting. Mrell nodded, eyes fixed on him.

“Yes. What will you do with it?”

“I—I don’t know. I’m…”

For a moment, Mrell thought he saw those eyes fix on him. Did they glimmer with tears? Confusion—certainly. The apathy lifted from the limbs and hunched back, and the man began to rise. To take Mrell’s hand? To…?

Mrell was reaching down to give him his paw, to ask him who he had been, what he might do. But as his furred fingers touched the ragged glove on the man’s hand…Mrell felt contact, for just a moment.

Then nothing.

Like mist, the homeless man vanished, mid-word. Mid-look. Mrell reached out, and the man…disappeared. No one seemed to notice as the Gnoll recoiled. He looked around and then down at the hat—and it was gone too.

Erased. Why?

The Gnoll [Chieftain] didn’t know. Perhaps—he’d violated the rules somehow. Perhaps the [World of You and Me] was too weak, or too many Gnolls were using it.

Or perhaps, simply, the two people it had been based on had never done something like this. Could not explain or even guess what might have come of Mrell’s gesture.

Rose and Inkar. It was not their fault they could not show Mrell, but he longed to know. He stood there, looking helplessly at the spot the man had been.

If he looked around, he could go anywhere he wanted. Into any shop, restrooms, cross the street, go into a business building, one of the towering skyscrapers of Rose’s city of Los Angeles.

However—that also meant Mrell could face the consequences. He could walk into the ladies’ restroom and find out what it was like to be arrested and spend the night in prison. Or to get shot.

Neither Rose nor Inkar had been arrested, so there was some extrapolation here. However, other Gnolls had told Mrell of much the same experience. Adetr had, in his classic way, taken out half a police station before being kicked out of the Skill. He had claimed he’d done it to see how good the average [Guard] was.

Yet you could get hurt, even ‘die’ here. It was exceedingly unpleasant, Mrell was given to believe. Not painful, but just frightening because it was real. Among the first casualties when the Skill had been activated had been Chieftain Xherw and Shaman Ulcreziek, who had opened the emergency door in a plane with sheer brute force.

They could learn so much here. Mrell knew he should be investigating, pulling all the information he could about how they made structures so tall. Or simply experiencing the effects of explosive depressurization and free-fall for himself.

But he just kept staring at the spot that man had been. Of all the things he had thought to see on Earth…the sheer suffering of Humans for all their advanced technology was not it. He had had visions of planes dropping bombs.

Now—he wondered what that man might have been. How did you create a giant moving box of steel and not find a way to give that man a purpose?

“This is Earth.”

Mrell looked about and sniffed the air. The Gnoll looked at his reflection in a piece of glass, and saw a dark-skinned man looking back with short-cropped hair. Miffed, he ruffled it. His paw touched his own fur, and when he looked down he had his body, but what other people saw was his Human self. Another conceit of the Skill, he supposed.

Is this how I look…? No, it’s random. I hate this haircut.

Aimlessly, Mrell went to go to a barber’s. Then he remembered he had no money. Mrell decided to interview for a job. To his bemusement, he found himself in a fast food restaurant, being taught how to use the ice cream machine less than thirty minutes later. He turned to the man showing him how to serve customers.

“This is the most depressing work I have ever known.”

The manager gave him an odd look.

“Yeah? Do you want the job or not?”

Mrell gave it a whirl. He was exceptionally glad when, thirty minutes later, the world turned to mist and he stopped leaning on the counter. The Gnoll stopped wearing the stupid hat, smelling the grease and arguably good-tasting food that he had to make in the cramped kitchen for people he would never know for a low, low wage—

And stepped back into the real world.

——

Adetr was sulking on the ground and watching Gnolls enter and leave the [World of You and Me]. He helped make the Skill, but it had ejected him so fast he’d stumbled out of the mist, landed on his face, and spent the next five minutes staring at the ground.

“It was just a fistfight!”

The Gnoll growled plaintively. The [Battle Seeker] glared at nothing. That was three times! And he couldn’t re-enter for sixteen hours!

[The World of You and Me]. A new combination Skill created from the combined powers and perspectives of Inkar, Rose, Adetr, Feshi, Yelroan, Satar, Gireulashia, and Shaman Theikha. A seven-person Skill with the power of four tribes behind it.

It took the appearance of a shining bubble of faintly-heard sound and noise, across which images of Earth would play out, often of the experiences of those within. Like…a dream come to life.

A beautiful, swirling barrier. Touch it or walk into it and you’d enter the Earth that Inkar and Rose knew. So, somewhere they had been, often places they were most familiar with, but sometimes a place they’d gone on vacation or a transitory hub like an airport. The experience was like walking into a cloud; swirling mist amidst the darkness that would gather—then reveal a new place.

Sometimes you had a job or were in the middle of work. Usually, you were just in some leisure activity. Your income, race, clothing, everything, seemed random, though no Gnoll had reported being actively attacked or in the middle of strife or danger.

You had to seek that out. Adetr sat cross-legged, frowning at the Skill. He thought he spotted Honored Krshia chatting at a bar—before it shifted to Chieftain Mrell flipping a burger and staring at it on the grill.

What was he doing? You only got two hours! Every sixteen hours, you had another chance to go in. If you tried again too soon, it was like running into a magical forcefield. Adetr had tried to punch his way back in—until Theikha had hit him on the head with a staff.

“This is a bounded Skill, you fighting idiot. Do you want to break it?”

Apparently, you could break it. This was not Adetr’s [Vision of Greatest Battle]—this was a physical manifestation. Such was the power of the oldest [Shaman] of the Gnoll plains. Adetr’s ears perked up as he heard her introducing more people to it.

“It will be uncanny, frightening, and even horrifying, Shamans. Or it may be wonderful. The experience is up to you. But it is Earth. It is the most secret thing, yes? Two hours. In sixteen hours, you can try again.”

The [Battle Seeker] turned his head and saw a few [Shamans] from other tribes staring at the bubble. One exclaimed.

“Shaman Theikha! This is truly a magic of older ages! You are the greatest [Shaman] of our generation, yes?”

“No. It is not I alone who did it.”

The old Gnoll gently flicked one of the younger [Shaman]’s foreheads with a finger. She waved it in front of the others.

“Seven brave young people combined their Skills. This is a combination Skill—and since they have learned it, any one of them can now deploy it. Know their names. Watch them. But this Skill…it only has power together. Earth’s children and ours joined paws to make it. Without their perspective, we could not see. Without our magic, it would not be so real. If we find more children, we may learn more. This may last…but it will require magic.”

“We should keep it forever.”

Another [Shaman] instantly volunteered. Adetr recognized him from being from Steelfur; he had a certain militancy to his [Shaman] gear, which was closer to armor. Theikha promptly flicked his nose, and he sneezed.

“Spoken like a Drake, young man. Why protect what we can remake? This is a perspective; if it is something to fight and die over, let it go. We have created knowledge, understanding. Let that be enough.”

That, Adetr supposed, was wisdom. Far better to have a deployable Skill across seven individuals rather than a vulnerable asset…

That wasn’t what Theikha meant. Even Adetr knew that. He had to concede—this was wisdom.

How afraid I was of Earth. I still am. But my nightmares of death by bombs and their soldiers? It is less now.

The [Battle Seeker] looked at the projection of Earth. True, he couldn’t even start a fight without being ejected, much to his annoyance. It had turned into a forty-person brawl—which he’d been winning—but Humans of Earth weren’t that tough.

Their armies were. But they were now a people to him, where they had only been a military juggernaut to be feared.

Indeed, there was so much to learn it made Adetr’s head hurt. Not only was this Skill a window into Earth, it was a bounty of information that, until now, Earthers could only describe in their limited terms.

It was one thing to say ‘car: a moving metal vehicle capable of speeds up to a hundred plus miles per hour, run without magic on a combustion engine’. That gave Adetr nothing but a vague impression.

Another for him to get into a car, pump the gas, get scared, hit a traffic light, pop the door open, sprint down the street at full-tilt, then jump back in the car and drive down the street to see how fast he was actually going, drive into four-lane traffic, observe how safety precautions and traffic lights organized their transportation, ignore all of it, drive onto the highway, hit a hundred and twenty miles per hour, jackknife off the road and—

That was the second time he’d been ejected, incidentally. Adetr wanted to do it again.

“A Skill where you can do anything and get away with it. Experiment. Break laws. Have fun.”

Theikha scowled as the [Shamans] heard Adetr muttering.

“Ignore that silly child. Learn. Be respectful.”

Adetr bowed his head at the six [Shamans]; oh, there was also an occupancy limit of a hundred. A hundred. Well, four tribes had combined their magic to create this…

“Try chocolate candies. You can buy as much as you want from any store. And it doesn’t stay in your stomach when you leave.”

“Ignore—actually, do that. There is much good eating. Adetr, why are you out and bothering me? Did you get expelled—again?”

Theikha was fairly tolerant of Adetr, like the grandmother he vaguely remembered as a cub. His ears flattened.

“I only got in a small fight, Honored Theikha.”

She snorted. The [Shamans] looked amused as they cautiously approached. Then backed up. Adetr and Theikha turned and saw someone walking out of the bubble.

“Chieftain Mrell! Chieftain Orelighn! Shaman Cetrule!”

Three Gnolls came out at the same time, shaking their heads, blinking as they returned to the real world, and however they’d been feeling—hurt, full, and so on—changed back to how they had been when they had entered.

“Ah.”

Mrell recoiled as a [Shaman] bowed and stepped out of the way. He looked around and then nodded as Cetrule and Orelighn both blinked and rubbed at their bodies, getting used to the experience.

“Extraordinary. I cannot believe it. Am I out? So soon? Argh.”

Orelighn exclaimed. It was early morning, practically dawn, but all four male Gnolls, Theikha, and the [Shamans] had gone to the Skill to use up their two hours as soon as they could. Time was standardized across the Skill and the real world, so they had to account for sleep and such, but Adetr didn’t want to waste any time.

Two days had passed since the late evening when Theikha had first used the Skill. Adetr gloomily decided he’d have to wait until this night to get another turn. Which let him do it again…

He was counting on his fingers as Mrell, Orelighn, and Cetrule began talking with the others.

“What did you do this time, Chieftain Orelighn? Shaman Cetrule? My experience was…revealing.”

It was interesting. All three Gnolls had clearly had a very different experience. Mrell looked unhappy, even troubled like some Gnolls who’d been jumped or held up or had to spend their hour in the hospital due to accidents. He didn’t look shellshocked—and some Gnolls had walked out and sworn never to return.

It could be traumatizing, walking around in a new world. Even seeing all those Humans, their foreign architecture, reading the news…

They had city-destroying bombs in all the major powers. Bombs that could destroy everything around it and poison the air itself for countless miles, and they thought it was normal? All those conflicts…Adetr had seen some graphic pictures when Rose had shown him how to access the internet.

However, Mrell’s troubles were not Orelighn’s. The Chieftain practically burbled with delight.

“I have had the most wonderful experience! I hope I can do it again? Disney world. You should all go! It has these…rides! And food! And such funny little characters!”

He waved his arms, trying to explain to the curious [Shamans].

“It does cost money, and there are lines, poor Humans. However, there are little children having such fun! And the rides! On one, you ride this roller coaster where you go upside down—ah, but there are multiple parks in the same area. Very humid. Oh, and there are giant lizards in the water.”

“Monsters?”

Adetr’s ears perked up as a [Shaman] looked worried. Orelighn waved it off.

“Only small ones. Alligators. Florida, I think. But they aren’t that dangerous, and I got exclusive treatment when one tried to eat my foot and I had to kick it. Which is wonderful because I got to the front of every line!”

He had had a great experience, it seemed. Cetrule was more in the middle.

“I…I think I fell into a trap of some kind. Has two hours already passed since I entered? I just sat down and…I’ve been tricked. She tricked me!”

He looked around accusatory, but didn’t immediately elaborate.

“Who did, Shaman Cetrule?”

Mrell and Cetrule seemed to be coming out of their experience, and the [Shaman of Purity] hesitated, then gave Mrell a look of instant reserve. They did not care for each other. Adetr was good at noticing impending hostilities, so he was intrigued.

Mrell and Cetrule did not get along, but it was Cetrule who clearly didn’t like Mrell, and he couldn’t even hide it that well. He turned instantly hostile, and Adetr wondered what Mrell had done to make a [Shaman] so impolite.

“Ah, Chieftain Mrell. I…took advice from someone and visited an ‘arcade’. A…very odd experience. Time flew away. And the littles games on…”

He shuddered.

“I could have lost my life there. Hours! Days! That little child wants to…?”

What was this? Adetr’s ears perked up. Little child? Mrell looked like someone had just poked him with a sharp needle. Cetrule’s mouth clamped shut, and he turned to bow to Theikha and give tips to the other [Shamans].

Mrell never took his eyes off Cetrule. Now curious, Adetr stood up. There was only one ‘child’ he knew of who would be precocious enough to give Cetrule advice on anything.

Okay, two. Cers was Cetrule’s son, but he had no insight into Earth. If anyone did—why would that make Mrell look so…?

There were more secrets in the Meeting of Tribes yet to uncover. More to do, clearly. However, the wonders of the combined Skill had not faded. If anything…Adetr thought that the event two days ago had changed so much.

For the better.

——

We were there.

The rest of the world didn’t know about the Skill that had been created in the Meeting of Chieftains. In fact, the grand tent had to be abandoned and a second one built, much to the confusion of the Gnolls.

They knew something had happened, but the Skill was being guarded by the best [Guards] and magic. And anyways, the secret of Theikha’s great wonder had been covered by another huge occurrence.

Books. Books and stories.

Satar Silverfang. Write down her name, underline it, circle it, and maybe highlight it too. Ferkr of Pallass. Krshia and Akrisa Silverfang.

She had gone from ‘daughter of the Silverfang’s Chieftain’ to Satar Silverfang overnight. All because of a certain name-dropping Revenant, a little Gnoll with a quill…and stories.

The first book had arrived for Satar that morning. The last two days had been spent doing interviews, meeting other Chieftains and fellow lovers of the written word who wanted access to the promised bounty, telling all her friends how it had gone down, and also visiting her new Skill!

And freaking out. Satar had been rolling around on the ground like Cers—and breaking into tears, so overwrought with emotion.

You could, in fact, be too happy. However, two days meant she wasn’t curled up in a ball with Cers howling for their mother to calm Satar down.

Her paws were only shaking so badly she couldn’t undo the fancy purple-and-gold ribbon and delicately-wrapped paper, such that it required no glue or magic to keep itself folded. The wrapping fell away as the Courier, Mrsha, Cers, Akrisa, and dozens upon dozens of Silverfangs and a [Cameraman] Gnoll hired by Wistram News Network jostling with one hired by Nerrhavia’s Wonders watched.

“…and it looks like Satar is opening the wrapping now, Sir Relz.”

Someone was commenting in the background. Satar shed the wrapping paper—which looked so pricey someone snatched it for reuse—and lifted up the tome.

Her breath caught as gilded lettering over beautiful leather came to light. It sparkled under the rising sun, and a pair of tiny jewels gleamed. Satar looked down into a leather-embossed cover with an illustration of an imperious ruler holding a staff and pointing down, catching the light. Undead marched before her in the illustration, and two tiny gemstones made up the [Necromancer]-[Queen]’s glowing eyes.

Anthologies of Khelt, Volume 1: Khelta the First, Undeath Queen, [Queen of Necrocracy], Khelta the Eternal, Sovereign Ruler of Khelt, Guardian of the Norrislands…

It had a long title. So long, in fact, that someone had worked the list of her formal titles into the outline of the tome, so it ran around and formed what looked like a solid line around the cover and across the spine and back…until you realized they were microscopic letters.

This was a first-edition book of Khelt, gifted to Satar by none other than Fetohep of Khelt. In fact, the Drake Courier herself let out a sigh.

“Delivered and witnessed. Will that do, Your Majesty?”

She turned and bowed to the figure who was watching from a scrying orb. Satar heard a calm voice.

“Admirably, Courier T’shar of Zeres. You have Khelt’s gratitude.”

The Drake bowed again, and looked around.

“A pleasure, then. Is it alright if I check out the Meeting of Gnolls?”

“Of course! And thank you—again—”

One of the Silverfang Gnolls broke out of their stupor as Satar, trembling, opened the cover. The Drake Courier smiled and jogged off to get something to eat. She had a slight limp on her left leg, but nothing that had stopped her from taking the book from Zeres the instant it had arrived.

Via teleportation. Then straight to Satar via Courier. Such was Fetohep’s largesse; more books were inbound via ‘slower’ boat travel to reduce the cost of teleportation.

That was T’shar Glassbreath. The Courier who breathed glass! Or something like it—and who had received the most fines out of any Courier on Izril for temporarily turning stretches of the trade roads to glass so she could slide to her destination.

However, arguably…Satar knew someone more famous. Fetohep of Khelt. She heard someone muttering behind her.

“Cover alone’s worth probably a few hundred gold. That’s not a poor gemstone cut up; that’s a magical gem. Hand-stitched lettering, first-edition Kheltian volume probably written over a few thousand years ago…”

Qwera the Golden Gnoll got a firm nudge from a Human woman standing next to her.

“Stop scaring Satar, Qwery.”

Ysara Byres was watching with clear envy. And a bit of concern. Satar looked like she might faint.

“…and there you have it, folks. The first book to the Meeting of Tribes. This is Sir Relz, and our [Reporter] on the ground, Casif Plain’s Eye. Now, onto our next story…”

The crowd—at least, the television side of it—began to break up. However, the Gnolls who were here for the stories, not just the short-lived fame of it, gathered even closer, begging to touch the book or asking for a turn.

“Absolutely not. It’s too valuable. It has to be guarded! We’ll have to watch for [Thieves]…”

Beilmark knew what she was on about. The [Guardswoman] was already watching the crowd, and Satar’s heart leapt painfully at the thought of it.

Good came with ill. Yet Satar thought this beautiful gift…she looked up, and a Revenant winked at her, one of his golden eyes vanishing in its socket a moment. She had never thought she’d love an undead face.

“I trust this satisfies, Satar Silverfang?”

“Yes. Thank you!”

“Do not thank me. It is well that Khelt be first to share its vast knowledge. You caused this. I trust you will share your enlightened view on Khelt and the world to your Chieftain and other Gnolls. Good day to you.”

The world’s friendliest Revenant vanished from the scrying orb, and the Gnolls began to talk and exclaim in earnest. But not before Fetohep gave a smug little girl a dark look.

——

Mrsha was getting too full of herself. And for a girl whose mother was a genuine [Princess], and who had been raised for the last year in The Wandering Inn by Erin Solstice—

That was saying something. Lyonette had not helped with Mrsha’s ego, only her manners and other things she considered important. The problem was—Lyonette was a real blue-blood.

Actually, she was a red-blood because she bled red if you stabbed her. Mrsha had been vaguely disappointed by that. False advertising.

The problem was, Mrsha had once been a terrified, half-feral girl in an abandoned inn traumatized by the loss of her family. Then she had been a curious, mute girl, getting into trouble, but wide-eyed and fairly innocent.

Now? Now she swaggered around on two feet with a bag of holding full of gold, wore a crab-hat, and not only could insult you in prose but considered bribery an effective way of getting out of any situation—followed by ruthless blackmail or pulling rank or calling in favors.

She was either a girl thrust into great events of strife, hunted as a Doombringer unfairly, and somehow still innocent and caring despite all she had been through…or all that plus a monster in the making.

To her credit, she’d gotten rid of the crab hat. Unfortunately, she’d replaced it with an obnoxious pair of sunglasses slanted in a crazy ‘w’ shape that blinded everyone every time she turned her head in the sun.

“Who gave you that? No—I don’t have to guess. Yelroan. Give it here, Mrsha. It’s blinding people!”

The Gnoll girl slapped Rose’s hand down. She handed the Earther a card.

Back off, punk.

Rose stared at Mrsha. The Gnoll put up her dukes. You want to fight? Huh? Huh? You’ll take these glasses over my dead—

The thing was, Rose was a fairly poor caretaker, and, despite knowing Mrsha, she did not really know how to deal with Mrsha. She mistook hesitancy for kindness.

Beilmark calmly snatched the glasses off Mrsha’s face. When the Gnoll went to kick at her, the [Guardswoman] raised one paw.

“Kick me, and I arrest you. These are a public nuisance.”

Mrsha hesitated. Beilmark was nice and friendly, but her grin was a bit too nice, if that made sense. Mrsha sat down in a pout.

She was being childish today. It seemed like you rolled a die to find out if you got a mature Mrsha or a bratty one. However, anyone mistaking this for a simple roll of the Mrsha-dice was a fool. There was a psychology to this:

Mrsha was sulking. Ergo, she acted out. Much like a [Princess] would calmly announce to the entire court she was pregnant in a bid for attention. Or how Erin would do whatever she wanted.

The root cause of Mrsha sulking was more complex, though. The Gnoll girl was not with Satar, who was still marveling over her book; she’d lost interest and retired to Krshia’s tent, which was a sort of living-room for people to gather since the [Shopkeeper] only used it to sleep.

She had been trying to raise Fetohep to smugly congratulate him, but she couldn’t find her [Message] scroll. Mrsha had then resorted to her gifted sunglasses—most likely to annoy everyone in a hundred foot radius, only to be foiled.

She searched around for her [Message] scroll, then saw to her shock that Beilmark had it! The [Guardswoman] had come into the tent, picked up her scroll—

Give it back! Thief! Thief!

Mrsha raced after her just as Qwera and Ysara entered to continue pricing out their analysis of Satar’s gifted book. Beilmark held the scroll calmly over her head.

“No, and no. No sunglasses, no scroll. Kick me again, and you will regret it, Mrsha.”

“Mrsha, here—come on. Beilmark, what are you doing with, um, Mrsha’s scroll?”

Rose was present; Akrisa, Krshia, Inkar, Tkrn, Gire, Adetr, Yelroan, Feshi, Cetrule, and everyone else were gone. It was only Mrsha, Beilmark, Rose, Ysara, and Qwera in the tent.

Rose suspected Inkar and Tkrn were on a date in the Earth-simulation so Inkar could show him around her home. Akrisa and Krshia were discussing the issue, and Yelroan, Feshi, Adetr, and most of the important Gnolls were allowed access to the Skill—so that’s where they were, or unpacking what they’d learned.

She was here because, well…home made her hurt too much. She had gone in once—and only Adetr had helped her avoid a breakdown. Even then…

It had been a mistake to go home. To go home and see people who were not her parents but looked like them and talked like them and…

Good things hurt. So Rose was here. Beilmark was here, not being trusted enough to participate. She was put out by it, but understanding. Mrsha was here because she was Mrsha, and Plain’s Eye would be all around [The World of You and Me]. Same with Qwera and Ysara; they were not in the know.

Beilmark tucked the scroll into her bag of holding. She read a card Mrsha was waving in her face.

“I am not stealing it, Mrsha. This is a request from none other than Fetohep of Khelt. He sent a little note with Satar’s gift. You have been annoying him. So you don’t get this back for a week.”

Tyrant! Thief! You can’t do that! I’m his best friend! I’m his only friend! He’s an old man with nothing to do!

Mrsha promptly proved why Fetohep of Khelt had requested the intervention. She rolled around, not quite daring to attack Beilmark. Beilmark was a mother, and she had injected the warning tone that Mrsha had learned to listen to, akin to a child’s [Dangersense].

“Hrr. You’ll get it back. The fact that you can talk to a ruler of a…I feel like the world makes no sense, but that’s normal these days. Now, behave. I have to make sure a [Thief] doesn’t steal Satar’s book out of her paws and run.”

Beilmark trotted off. Mrsha fell onto the ground and flailed about like Cers. That made Rose smile—until she saw Mrsha roll over onto all fours and narrow her eyes.

“Mrsha? Where are you going? Oh no. Not again. Mrsha—no, Krshia said—Mrsha!”

For the eleventh time so far, Mrsha the Fed Up snapped. She bolted for the tent flaps. It was time! She was going to Earth! To—

Ysara grabbed Mrsha with ease, and Qwera picked up the Gnoll.

“I don’t believe in punishing little girls, but I will spank you like I spank Vetn or Tesy. Sit down. Try to run off and regret it.”

Mrsha raised a fist…and hesitated.

But it’s not fair!

Now she was nearly in tears, and the Mrsha-childishness revealed the root cause of the Mrsha-psychology. She actually began to snot up.

Earth! Earth is right there! I can go play video games and see movies! You can’t keep me away! Fast food! Chocolate! Arcades! I want to go! Pleeeeeease?

She wrote and held up the card for Qwera to see. The Golden Gnoll looked blank.

“I don’t know what they did in the Meeting of Chieftains, and I don’t care. Some big Skill? It’s dangerous. Listen, you little idiot. Do you want to die? Hm? Chieftain Xherw of the Plain’s Eye tribe is right there. Think!”

She squeezed Mrsha—but gently—and the Gnoll’s face fell. She looked up at Qwera and drooped. And there it was. Childishness instantly replaced by the feeling of mortality.

Rose felt terrible for Mrsha. No wonder she tried to distract herself. Qwera was right.

“What did they do in the Meeting of Chieftains? No one will tell me, not even Krshia. Do you know, Qwera?”

The Gnoll turned over the card and eyed Rose. The Human girl gulped. She glared at Mrsha, who recalled, uneasily, that Qwera was definitely not in the know as an outsider.

“Looks interesting. Some kind of…place? Earth. Now why would you call something as stupid as that? Sounds like Krngnoll.”

Ysara read Mrsha’s card over Qwera’s shoulder as the girl leapt and tried to snatch it back. She’d given a secret away in her excitement! Qwera shrugged.

“Oh, the Gnollish word for the world. The Great Land, I think. Generic. Chocolate, movies, video games? Interesting. What are these things, and why does the Meeting of Chieftains have access to it, Mrsha?”

She bent down with a huge smile, and Mrsha avoided her gaze. Rose inhaled.

She’d completely forgotten Qwera was on the same side but didn’t know the big things Krshia and the others did! Mrsha had too, clearly.

Wasn’t it okay to tell her? Rose saw Qwera’s eyes flicker towards her.

“What’s this about, Rose? Tell you what, Mrsha. Why don’t I get that scroll back to you if you spill? No going into danger, but…I sense an opportunity. Or a secret, which is worth a lot. How about it? [Is It A Deal]?”

She held out a paw to Mrsha, and the girl hesitated—long enough for a Human hand to slap Qwera’s paw down. Ysara Byres looked exasperated.

“Qwera, one second you’re a nurturing, caring individual, the next, you’re a cold-hearted monster of a [Merchant].”

“Hearts of gold are cold, Ysara. Come on, don’t you want to know?”

Ysara smiled crookedly and adjusted her posture; she always stood one foot in front of the other, poised. A genius with a sword, Rose had heard.

“Of course I do. Which is why you ask Mrsha nicely. I’m sure she’ll tell us. We are friends, right?”

The [Merchant] bent over to smile at Mrsha. The Gnoll girl laughed in her face, and Qwera snorted at Ysara’s affronted look.

“That would work on an innocent girl, Ysara. But you’re still a [Lady] sometimes. Listen, you bribe Mrsha. How much?”

Neither [Merchant] got to break down Mrsha’s low, low walls, because the tent flaps opened in that moment, and Gireulashia came charging into the room. She swept Mrsha up and swung her about.

“Mri! It was amazing! I ate and ate, and I beat every single game! And I could do anything. It’s so fascinating! They have ideas that we don’t! And—oh. Qwera and Ysara are here.”

She caught herself, eyes shining. The [Paragon] looked as happy as Rose had ever seen her. However—she was deliberate.

Even in the private tent, she used Mrsha’s cover-name. Instantly, Qwera perked her ears up.

“Honored Gireulashia, don’t stop on our account. Earth? We know all about it.”

Ysara nodded, and Gire gave the Golden Gnoll a steady stare. She flicked her eyes down to Mrsha and saw the Gnoll girl shaking her head. Gire turned, and her face became a perfect, polite mask.

“That was a slip of the tongue, Honored Qwera. I hope you won’t repeat it? The Chieftains would be very upset to hear anyone was prying without their permission, even if you hear…anything.”

Qwera cursed under her breath.

“Smart. Oh, very well—keep your secrets. Mrsha—Mri. Keep away from whatever it is. For your own good.”

Gire instantly sobered. She tossed Mrsha up and down gently and caught her friend.

“Yes, Mri. You can’t go. Even though it’s amazing. Can you smell anything on me? I know it must be hard, but I have to tell you what I saw! Privately. Come, let’s go to my tent and…”

Rose saw Mrsha’s look of agony as Gire carried her off, chattering. Well, no wonder Mrsha was so upset. Of everyone, she knew what to expect from Satar’s combination Skill…and she couldn’t see it! And Gire was probably describing it in such vivid detail it was driving Mrsha insane. In truth, Rose wondered what this would change.

What had she done? What would the Gnolls get from a copy of Earth? In this sense, Rose differed from Ryoka Griffin greatly. She worried about it, then decided in the next breath it was done and for the best. Gnolls were good people, by and large. The Silverfangs were—so why not trust them?

——

“Hrr. So, I think it is based on what Rose and Inkarr know, yes? But perhaps the Skill and the power of it expands what they know? Or else—it takes anything they know, even on a small level. I will have to do this again—but I have written down a list of interesting metals we do not know. Let me see. Aluminum, cobalt, titanium. A lot are not as useful, like ‘seaborgium’…it is listed, but ‘radioactive’. Honestly, the information is so great that we cannot make use of it yet! So much time must be spent studying, and we only have two hours. However, I have this. Again—I need to go back and double-check. Oh, and we should send someone with [Perfect Recall] or similar Skills in.”

Some Chieftains and Gnolls trusted with access went to amusement parks or tried the local taps. Some were scarily practical. Chieftain Mrell was in the middle, but he sat with Chieftain Mneic of the Sootfur tribe.

Sootfur wasn’t onto something as big as Demas Metal, but they were another tribe that specialized in metal, and the largest sheerly dedicated to metalworking. Plain’s Eye and a few others might have more [Smiths] and [Smelters] and [Farriers] and metal-related classes, but only by size.

Mneic was also an incredibly practical Gnoll. He was the kind of person that Ryoka Griffin had nightmares about.

Why? Well, simply because, after his first two visits of exploring Earth and getting a sense of it, he had spent his last visit in one place.

He’d gone to the nearest computer he could find—in a library—and opened up the Wikipedia page for metal. What he had written down was the periodic table, or as much as he could remember.

A terrifying Gnoll. But he sat in good company; Mrell reached for the paper, and someone else leaned over.

Yelroan. The [Mathematician] was joined by Mrell’s own [Shaman], Fiziker, and three other Gnolls, one of whom was Hawkarrow’s Chieftain.

He didn’t know her, but the Gnoll had organized the meeting. To understand the Chieftain of the Hawkarrow Tribe, Chieftain Eitha, it was easier to understand her weapon of choice, as it provided an insight into her psychology.

Chieftain Eitha carried a ranged weapon like her tribe was famous for—but rather than a traditional longbow or even a recurve, she had a Dwarfsteel crossbow, one of their high-power variants from Deríthal-vel’s forges themselves.

However, the mad-Gnoll had gone a step further and gotten it enchanted. She’d shown Mrell, and he couldn’t physically draw the string back. Neither could she, nor even most Gnolls with [Enhanced Strength].

Oh, they might be able to barely do it, but unless they also had [Enhanced Toughness], even the ones with [Greater Strength] would be in danger of cutting off their fingers with how much force they were putting into the damn enchanted metal string.

A crossbow no one could reload. So overtuned that it could apparently hit a target over a thousand feet away without Skills. A draw strength of over one thousand four hundred pounds of force.

She couldn’t reload it manually and didn’t try. Nor had she tried to get it enchanted to reload; magic still obeyed physics, at least for most [Enchanters], and she had poured all the available magic into making it as sturdy as could be.

Chieftain Eitha didn’t bother. She just used [Instantaneous Reload]. She was, fundamentally, that kind of person. If someone presented her with a puzzle, she’d try to cheat.

“I’ve also scrolled through their internet. Fascinating. We can try building some of their techniques, but for now, I did some research. We are centuries behind their modern armaments.”

“Armaments aren’t the goal, surely. That implies war.”

Another Gnoll interjected with worry clear in her voice. Chieftain Mneic rumbled. The sturdy [Smith] looked warningly at Eitha.

“No. The other Chieftains will deliberate, but I spoke with Honored Krshia, and she emphasized the dangers of spreading such ideas. What can be made can be stolen; any [Smith] knows that. Perhaps if it is overly complex…but no. Honored Krshia had many good points. I encourage you all to listen to her.”

He gave Eitha a meaningful look. Krshia had indeed had enough talks with Erin and Ryoka to get a sense of the Wind Runner’s paranoia. Eitha…justified Ryoka’s paranoia fairly easily with a grin.

“Obviously not, Chieftain Mneic! An arrow shot at the enemy is one they get back—even if you fish it out of the guts of whoever was hit. I think we should have an order of technologies shown publicly. However, I meant that we can redefine our own weapons and tactics based on Earth. And that is, of course, the least of what they can do. I simply mean that as one avenue of research. For instance, I studied their crossbows, and they have a new system that relies on pulleys! I want to make it—but I did check their historical weapons. My crossbow is superior to any weapon made in their era of swords.”

She patted her weapon lovingly. Mneic sighed through his nose.

“It is true…with the Drakes attacking our tribes, defense is important.”

The others nodded, Mrell somberly. He had taken all of Demas Metal to the Meeting of Tribes, but many were under attack.

“So we strike a balance. We learn—but we must learn fast, yes?”

Fiziker, Mrell’s [Shaman], spoke reasonably. She was often helping negotiate with [Merchants], and she was a good balance to Mrell. Eitha smiled happily.

“Yes indeed. We can already surprise those damned Drakes. Guess what I just learned? How to make a trebuchet. No wonder the Humans in the north are making them if they have an Earther! You can print out an instruction manual—and there’s a video! Let’s start making those, if nothing else! Do you think we can do that?”

“Do that? I could redefine our architecture! Calculate the size of this world—assuming it’s like theirs! There are tiny particles we can’t see, and space—”

Yelroan exploded and caught himself. He sat, quivering.

“Anything…practical, Honored Yelroan?”

Eitha looked cautiously at Yelroan. The [Mathematician]’s eyes bulged at her.

“Anything—well, honestly, Earth is so far advanced in math that a lot is theoretical. However, practically? Systems. Earth has so many…systems that we don’t. Ways of thinking about money, organizing data. Chieftains, Honored Gnolls, I may love math, but even I can see—there is so much we need to learn. Have you studied…bacteria? Micro organisms?”

Of all of them, Yelroan was the most academic. Where Mrell or Mneic could go to a library, Yelroan walked into a university. Hence his involvement here.

“Let me write that down. A hundred Gnolls won’t be enough to investigate this! Not by far, yes? We need to get the [Chieftains] out of smoking whatever they call Dreamleaf and riding on escalators, and get specialists in there. No—new classes! Learning!”

Eitha slapped the table. She looked like a Gnoll cub learning you could ride cows for the first time. Mneic was intensely practical, eyes lit up with the idea of learning how to make advanced metals to compete with even the Dwarves.

Mrell? Mrell was as excited as could be.

But he kept thinking of his daughter.

It was like a spiral. Everything had been going so well. Mrell had been proving Demas Metal was truly all he made it up to be. He was rubbing shoulders with famous Chieftains like Iraz Steelfur, and his tribe was poised to not only make a killing financially but help other tribes. Redefine the industry of magical metals, put Izril on the map and underline it with his name.

Up till now, magical metals were highly, highly localized to the right [Smiths] and locations. You got raw ore from places like Salazsar, and there were mithril-capable smiths on Izril, but places like Deríthal-vel, the Tannousin clan, the mighty forges of Invictel, and so on had a monopoly. Even steel required a lot of dedication to produce great quantities, like Pallassian steel.

…That was the [Smith] part of his brain. The other part, that Mrell hadn’t been—hadn’t ever been for perhaps more than fifteen seconds, while he waited for his daughter to cry—

Was lost.

He went back to it again. He should have hugged her closer, rather than recoil. He blamed the [Shaman]. He had been old and traditionalist—married into the Stone Spears tribe from Plain’s Eye.

That was an excuse. Mrell should never have listened.

[Shamans]. Fiziker was more like a glorified [Firestarter] than a magic-user, which was probably why he worked with her.

Doombringer. My daughter is a Doombringer. The Gnoll wondered if it was his fault. He could not have stopped a Goblin Lord, but maybe…

He was banned from seeing her. Cetrule, Chieftain Torishi, and the Silverfangs would make sure of that. Yet it felt to Mrell, especially now, that things revolved around Mrsha.

Not just because of where she came from or her strange connections. In part, the Meeting of Tribes hinged around her because of who she was.

Doombringer. This was a reckoning. The most impactful Meeting of Tribes in the last thousand years, easily. Old versus new.

But all Mrell truly wanted to do was…was what? Hold her and pretend the last eight years had never happened? Make amends?

How could he?

So caught up was Mrell that he lost track of the conversation. He only looked up when Fiziker nudged him.

“Hmm? I’m sorry, Chieftain Mneic. I must have stayed up too long in excitement.”

The older Gnoll smiled understandingly. He had a broad, blunt face, and the others chuckled.

“I see. We should rest—but I cannot stop talking. You lie down, Mrell. We will pull you and anyone back into these discussions, yes? I’ll ask whether your Demas Metal has parallels to Earth’s or whether it’s new. I still cannot get my mind off…blast furnaces. The Kroll process, as they refer to it, to make titanium, is far too complex, yes? But magic and Skills provide. If only we had a Tannousin smith who can make their contained environments! Ah, and we need espresso.”

Yelroan sat up excitedly.

“Have you not had any Oteslian coffee recently, Chieftain Mneic? I got a shipment of the stuff.”

“What now? Then that means—!”

Mrell left. He walked slowly back to his tent. Earth was one thing. A giant, glorious puzzle, a promised meeting, a learning experience for an entire species. A world apart.

It could be wonderful. If only they had the time to pursue it. However, he feared that even as practical as Chieftain Eitha was, as instrumental as Theikha’s wondrous Skill was…

The Meeting of Tribes was simply coming to an end.

——

Satar Silverfang had taken her first step into the next stage of her class. She was no longer an [Archival Storyteller] but a [Historian of the World].

A powerful class that was…Gnollish. Like Inkar, the [Worldly Traveller], the class fit the combination Skill. Fit Gnollish history.

[Historian of the World Level 25!]

[Skill – Tribe: Full of Ink obtained!]

[Skill – A Missing Passage, Revealed obtained!]

[Bound Spell – Repair obtained!]

That last one seemed the most important at first—until Satar realized how valuable all of the Skills were.

A free [Repair] spell? She could cast it once per day! Fix books! However, that was nothing compared to the other two, as it turned out.

“Let me see…that is roughly one half of the ink pot. So we are using less…or maybe we have more? I would guess each pot has roughly four-tenths more ink, but I would need to ask [Mathematician] Yelroan to find out. And I do not want to.”

Cetrule had done a test on the camp’s ink supplies. They just…lasted longer. There was not actually more ink, but when a Silverfang Gnoll wrote, it meant they needed to replenish the precious ink less.

“The cubs will hate you for that, Satar.”

Amused, one of the Honored Gnolls in the Silverfang tribe turned to Satar and winked. Satar jumped.

“Me? W-why?”

“Well, because now we need to train [Scribes]! We make use of tribe-skills, and if we’re more efficient with writing, then we must take advantage, yes? Other tribes will come to us just to save coins! Especially if you keep levelling.”

Or we make a printing press. Satar and Cetrule exchanged significant looks. However, the last Skill was the most powerful.

How did Satar know? Because it had a comma.

No, facetiousness aside, it was a hint. Satar, as a student of the written word, knew that the longer a Skill was, the more powerful it was. There were highly powerful Skills that were short, but she knew you could chain Skills together like a poem.

What did the Skill mean, though? Satar was afraid to ask because it would give away that she had a Skill, but no one had an instruction manual for Skills, and no book she’d ever read describing basic Skills had ever mentioned this one.

She tried to find out as she read Khelt’s anthology. And what Satar realized instantly was this: when they talked about the glorious past and called this the Waning World, the twilight of the Gnolls and all species at large, the old [Shamans] did not lie.

She wrote it down, summarizing the long, long book of Khelta’s glorious past so she could tell her friends. The book was just over thirty thousand pages long; enchanted to be small enough to carry around. It did not just contain Khelta’s long life as ruler of the undead, but her exploits, legacy, the world in which she had lived…

It was a gold mine to any [Historian] and also spoke to Khelt’s mania for perfection and self-glorification, because it had probably taken multiple [Writers] a lifetime to create. However, they were good enough to create a magical table of contents and glossary, proving they were truly excellent souls. Satar had only to look up a chapter, press her finger to the glowing text, and the book would flip to it.

So, naturally, she read of Khelta in relation to Gnolls. And there Satar discovered that Khelta had attended the Meeting of Tribes no less than four times.

And in those days—Satar scribbled notes as she wrote.

The Meeting of Tribes did not always take place every twenty years. We knew that. But this confirms it. Nor was it every hundred years or fifty! Every two hundred years, the tribes gathered.

It is not like our Meeting of Tribes today. Not by a long shot! I considered this one going on overlong to hear from the other Honored Gnolls who remembered the last one. The previous Meeting of Tribes?

It could last years. Because it was so rare, every monarch who could attend would at least send a representative! Imagine it! [Courtiers] and [Knights] and [Mages] would all come because you could not miss it.

Because we were so important.

She stared at that last line. Then went back to reading. There was more to learn, and some of it astonished her.

That was when Satar found out what her Skill did.

[A Missing Passage, Revealed]. She was cribbing notes like a mad-Gnoll, jotting down whatever was written. Annoyingly, even Khelt’s [Historians] had not gone too deep into Gnoll culture; they wrote from a Khelta perspective. The Gnolls were mighty, so Khelta could be mightier still, the genius queen whom even the Meeting of Tribes revolved around.

It seems Khelta did not meet many white Gnolls in her time, or it is simply not brought up. However, there is a bastardized version of ‘The Beast of Albez’ written here! Kheltian literature really does include poetry, songs, and everything else. This one is almost exactly like the Silverfang story, I’m afraid.

The white Gnoll came to the tribe that lived among the Hills of Albez. The tribe was Knocte. When the white Gnoll came, they did not heed the warnings and did not chase the white Gnoll away, and were so doomed. The beast fell among them when the white Gnoll left and killed them one by one. While it lay sleeping, a heroic Gnoll crept up on it, stabbed it, and, after a great battle, killed it. That is all there is to the story, but Cetrule will be happy we got it right.

I can’t immediately find any white Gnolls in the book, but maybe it didn’t matter to Khelta. Or maybe it didn’t matter at the time, so—

Then Satar stopped. She peered at her writing and recoiled. For there, on the page, before her very eyes, the Beast of Albez story…

Changed.

It looked as though the neat, inky letters faded away, as if she’d written in invisible ink. Suddenly, Satar realized what her Skill did. With trembling paws, she held up the paper.

“No way.”

The white Gnoll came to the tribe that lived among the Hills of Albez. The tribe was Knocte. When the white Gnoll came, they did not heed the warnings and ______________. The beast fell among them when the white Gnoll left and killed them one by one. While it lay sleeping, a __________ crept up on it, stabbed it, and, after a great battle, killed it. ____________ but Cetrule will be happy we got it right.

The offending lines crossed themselves out, then slowly faded away. Leaving Satar with—

The truth.

Her other Skill, [Narrative: Spot Inconsistencies], chimed. And it told her this was it.

This was the truth. But she had written falsehood. So her Skill had erased it.

[A Missing Passage, Revealed]. Satar nearly fainted because she realized this was how she would do it. She would, with her own paws, write the history they had lost.

But she had to find out what it was, first.

Satar tried a dozen lines as she paged furiously through Khelta’s autobiography. She managed to fill the first gap! She tried a dozen combinations from ‘killed the Doombringer’ to ‘some fled, but others would not listen’, and she realized how frustrating this would be and how specific she would need to get. She could not cheat and write anything. Because the missing line was this:

When the white Gnoll came, they did not heed the warnings and ignored her warning.

Very specific. Very…Satar mumbled.

“Ignored her warning. That doesn’t sound that different? But I wrote—‘did not chase the white Gnoll away’.”

Her fur tingled. It was a hint. But the other two sections refused to fill in no matter what Satar tried. Moreover, she thought her retelling was incomplete to begin with.

But that was it. Satar knew she was on the right path. She furiously went back to reading, yet she couldn’t help but also feel pained.

The Meeting of Tribes of old was so glorious. In the first one Khelta ever visited, they wrote that, out of desperation, the last of the Unicorns of the Vail Forest of Izril had come to trade the horns of their dead and struck a mighty bargain with the greatest [Alchemists] and [Mages] living.

Like that was one event that occurred. Unicorns just walking into the Meeting of Tribes. Another was a Dragon coming to demand a tribe fight for her, and it nearly coming to a miniature war as the Gnolls objected to her presence.

Why, there were old heroes, fabled weapons that Satar wanted to cross-reference in other stories…these were the very tales of legend! Khelta was old—and so was Khelt. But it still did not rival the Shield Kingdoms in age. At least the book gave proper timelines, but they were all impossible to cross-reference to modern calendars.

Entire nations like the Walled City of Mershi, the City of Stars, had existed, and Satar wondered if Honored Lehra would be interested in that! Could she get an autograph? Wait…didn’t Mrsha know her?

If this book was right—then Khelt could rightfully boast it had been created in one of the ages of legends. Satar’s rough math made them out to be tens of thousands of years old…but only technically.

They were a nation twenty-one thousand years old from when Khelta had walked the earth. They had survived multiple cataclysms, the Creler wars of six thousand years ago being the last huge one.

So old that Satar was amazed Pallass, Zeres, and the other Walled Cities were described.

“And from Salazsar, still cut year by year out of stone, youngest of the Walled Cities, came a bountitude of gemstones to cease the war between Plain’s Eye and the Walled City of Gems. To strike this mighty pact…no way!”

It had been there. Salazsar had been a small Walled City because they’d begun mining into the mountain. It had been built after the initial foundings of the other Walled Cities and so was described like a provincial town!

Satar was hooked. She would die in her room, reading this book, and die happily. She read on, knowing she had to tell Lehra, her mother, show this to Theikha, Plain’s Eye, and so on…but one more page? One more page?

“…so bitter was the fighting that all sides feared Plain’s Eye and the City of Gems might well violate any truce. So, to mark this great peace and ensure it would last at least a century, the Archmage of Sinful Magics, the Guardian of the Vail—the leader of the Unicorns—and the infamous Witch of Webs all took the greatest gemstones as payment to create a binding pact. They struck it at the zenith of both moons, under moonlight, as a Wall Lady of Salazsar and the Chieftain of Plain’s Eye swore in blood and by magic to…”

What Satar missed in her excitement was that some stories never truly went away.

——

The Meeting of Tribes was so much smaller, now. So much…less grand. And with that decay, when Gnolls grew petty and weak, some stories repeated themselves.

When rot developed…

The Raskghar emerged. Like maggots breeding in a dying corpse. They were as much a herald as white fur.

One of those old threads was loose and roaming the Meeting of Tribes right now. It had taken a while to arrive, but unlike the others, chained by metal and magic…it was free.

Not that Belavierr particularly cared. She was interested in the same way a [Merchant] kept tabs on who was selling a lot of flax and so on. Only, her clientele were more…varied.

If anyone asked her, she could have told them a number of things. For a price. The Stitch Witch missed the old days.

She could have bought a unicorn horn, bartered for a Djinni, hired an army, and been sipping on tea poured from a Dryad’s gardens in a single day. She had woven a little tapestry just to see whether the Meeting of Tribes had anything of interest to her, but no. Nothing.

“What beautiful magic, Mother.”

Maviola whispered. The undead [Lady]’s eyes flickered with ghostly flames if you looked into the pupils. A burning fire hidden by magic so that she looked simply like a beautiful, if oddly pale young woman following her mother about.

Not exactly like Maviola El had ever been; Belavierr was too canny to risk that. But still…Belavierr’s second daughter had a resemblance to her.

She was chewing on a plate of delicate sarish, and that, at least, had not changed markedly in Drake lands. Belavierr ate, because it was seemly, but she felt that she was failing to blend in.

All the Drakes and Gnolls kept eying the tall Human woman with a hat so wide it threatened people sitting at other tables of the outdoor cafe. Did they not have half-Giants, even the small ones, anymore? Were huge hats out of fashion?

Belavierr hated catching up with the world. Still, she was getting better at it. She had left Az’kerash’s castle…mainly because she still wasn’t sure if he’d violated some dimensional boundary in creating his newest undead. Ambitious projects almost always carried some personal risk.

Belavierr went back to studying the tapestry of shifting threads. Oh, and here came the Drakes. She rolled it back up, much to Maviola’s disappointment.

“It is just magic. You must learn some yourself, though you will weave fire—far more tumultuous, my daughter. Wiskeria never cared for thread either, and you were made to burn.”

“I want to meet Wiskeria.”

“I will allow you to. When you are older.”

Belavierr hadn’t told Wiskeria about Maviola. It was just a mother’s instinct, but she felt as though admitting she had murdered a [Lady] of the House of El and used her corpse to create a second, undead daughter capable of levelling might disturb Wiskeria.

But parents never knew their children, anyways. Belavierr was, at least, grateful that she could feel anything. So long she’d been a…captive to her own immortality. Now she could think.

And she thought she was poor.

My immortality and protections, burnt. My fortunes, also burnt. I have been bleeding artifacts making petty deals these last few thousand years. Ah, well.

It beat hiding in the darkness waiting for the magic to come back. Or dealing with Crelers, ruining any opportunity for good business…no, on the contrary, great calamity provided excellent opportunities.

Belavierr sipped from her cup. Maviola kept chewing happily; she had taste buds.

“Mother? Why are we here? Are we waiting for the castle to be repaired? May we return soon? I miss the funny skeleton.”

The immortal Witch of Webs, the Stitch Witch, Belavierr the Spider, the Temptress, and too many names for her to bother to remember—twitched.

“…I told you not to speak to that one. It is a bad influence.”

“Yes, Mother. But he’s funny. Why are we here?”

The two were, of course, impossible to eavesdrop on. But Belavierr looked around carefully even so. She was annoyed even her ‘don’t notice me’ charms seemed to be struggling, but perhaps she really was out of fashion?

Belavierr loomed over Ryoka Griffin, who was six-foot-one, without a hat. The seven-foot woman plus her incredible hat made a Gnoll sway back. He focused on her.

“What an incredible…hrr.”

Then the magic persuaded him she wasn’t the most astounding thing he’d see all year, and he wandered off. Belavierr frowned after him.

“There is business to be done, Maviola. I must find a new client—after our work with the Necromancer concludes. However, there are poor pickings and I must rebuild my fortunes and magic.”

“Yes, Mother. So why are we here? You said you lost far more than you could have gained. Including your eye.”

Belavierr covered her left eye at the reminder. The new one was identical to the first, but she was still…very unhappy about losing the other one. An immortal’s lifespan even Dragons would admire and she had lost it to a Fraerling riding a bee?

The fact that Niers was the greatest [Strategist] of his age didn’t placate Belavierr’s wrath. And it was true; she’d lost far too much.

“We are here, my daughter…because I was thwarted.”

“By a child, Mother?”

Belavierr turned her ringed gaze, and Maviola went back to eating her food.

“…Yes. However, my daughter, I do not take defeat lightly. I have been thwarted. So this…is simply revenge.”

The outdoor cafe in Pallass containing the Stitch Witch and her daughter shivered as the temperature dropped. Belavierr was sitting on the 6th Floor. Calmly…looking down at a certain bar on the 5th Floor.

There was such a thing as a bad reputation. However, given how it had gone down, Belavierr was alternating between wrath and simply pique.

To be clear, pique was drawing a rune of pestilence on the doors of Tails and Scales and attracting every rodent in a ten-mile radius. Possibly deadly.

Wrath was pointing at the bar and casting [Everburning Firestorm]. And she was thinking about wrath. A bad reputation was one thing, but she also had to maintain her image.

Belavierr calmly produced a little flame from one fingertip and took aim. Then she caught herself, and the growing inferno winked out.

What was she doing? She turned to her daughter, almost embarrassed.

“I have made an error, Maviola. I must teach you better. When you take vengeance upon a couple bound by love, kill one and spare the other. Vengeance may follow, but that in itself is well. I taught Wiskeria this.”

She produced a tiny needle and hunted for a vial of poison. Maviola nodded and smiled, but it slipped as Belavierr looked away. Maviola wasn’t sure she liked her big sister that Belavierr praised so often.

Belavierr unstoppered a bottle that might kill everyone in the cafe over the next two days if the vapors were released and, created a little void of air so she could dip the needle into it. She was, after all, not a mass-murderer or some errant lawbreaker.

She just followed laws and practices as old as she was. That was why, when the announcement began to blare across Pallass and every head rose in alarm, she politely stopped and listened.

“I am Chaldion of Pallass. A Named-rank criminal has been located within our walls. All citizens, stay indoors. 1st Army is in position. A Tier 7 spell has been prepared, and wall spells are online. Remain indoors.”

“I didn’t know they had a Tier 7 spell anymore. How distressing. Be very careful, Maviola.”

Belavierr cautioned her daughter. Then she felt something writhing. She pulled out a tapestry of her deaths and saw a lot of tiny threads seeking her life.

Belavierr glanced around and then saw the [Snipers]. And the Dullahan [General] marching down the street as Gnolls and Drakes screamed and ran.

“Hm? Oh. Is it me again?”

She looked around—then uncannily, terrifyingly, twisted her head and stared across the city towards a disguised partition behind enchanted glass where a [Grand Strategist] was sitting, surrounded by wards.

——

Those eyes peered straight into his soul. Two eyes with infinitely smaller rings, staring at him. A contorted head and body, twisted around to stare at him across thousands of feet, through stone.

The Drake refused to flinch.

Her immortal gaze met his gemstone one, a flashing blue gemstone eye of [True Sight] set in one socket, a burning mortal eye narrowed and fixed on her. Everyone else in the room shuddered, but Chaldion spoke into a stone.

“Duln. Arrest her. I will sound the all-clear once she’s willing to leave peacefully.”

Timing a trap for the Spider was hard. It spoke to Pallass’ current state that she could so freely enter and leave. Like the Meeting of Tribes…it was decay.

However, Chaldion saw the Dullahan approach fearlessly. Belavierr would have probably forgone her vengeance now she knew he would stand in her way. She was practical. But Chaldion didn’t like gambling when too much was on the line.

“Tell Belavierr that she is under the laws of hospitality. If she accepts, fine. If not, escort her out of the city and inform her she’s banned just like I told you, under the old wording. Politely. But let her know that if she accepts and agrees to meet me as hospitality dictates…I have a job for her.”

The Stitch Witch could not hear him in the contained space, protected by so many spells even Archmage Eldavin would blink. She could not hear him, and she should not be able to see him.

But she was the Witch of legends. Chaldion’s scales crawled. In his magical eyesight, he could see her across the city as if she were right in front of him, the view magnified, enhanced, and revealed all secrets except hers. He saw Maviola El’s body, and if he thought he could kill her without a death toll so high…

But use whatever weapon you had, even a cursed one. What scared even Chaldion though, was Belavierr’s reaction.

She smiled as wide as could be. Ah, at last.

Proper employment. Belavierr met with Chaldion—briefly—and he paid her a pre-calculated fee with minimal haggling.

He would report to the Assembly of Crafts that Duln had helped run off a Named-rank criminal because that’s what they needed to know.

His private security council would hear of their deal, and Chaldion would summarize the results. His offer? Taken. The price was steep, and Belavierr refused a few conditions, like destroying the corpse of Maviola El. But she agreed to do what he wanted.

The problem was, even the [Grand Strategist] of Pallass couldn’t predict how Belavierr would act. Nor was he aware of all the factors. If he had been…he might not have sent her to her destination.

Belavierr departed Pallass and headed straight for the Meeting of Tribes.

——

If only they had more time. It could be glorious.

When they did meet each other, it was at lunch. Lunch was big, plentiful, and social, with Gnolls coming and going.

But since a certain little Gnoll needed to keep mostly out of sight, she had lunch catered to her. Sulking that she couldn’t eat sweet, sweet ice cream while playing on arcade machines and eating pizza and doing all the things without consequence, Mrsha splurged.

Not least because Gire could and did eat anything she wouldn’t finish. And where good food existed…

Lehra Ruinstrider followed.

“Mri! Hello! Is that Wyvern steak? Mind company for lunch?”

“Lehra, no. I am so sorry…”

The Stargnoll and her team peeked into a big tent where Mrsha was paying for a small feast of food. A drooling Gire was looking at marbled cuts of Wyvern, fresh and preserved from the famous attack on Pallass. Marinated, fried just enough to cook it, but still bloody and rare.

Oh, and there was also a Fruit Golem. Which was a Golem…made of fruits.

Not ordinary fruits, but rare ones. Bananas? Mundane. Pineapples? Passé. Glowberries, Jumping Durians, Sea Oranges…and more.

Such a bounty! Aside from durian, which was a horrible-smelling fruit that Mrsha refused to touch. However, Lehra had followed her nose, and that was how she became a guest, despite Elgrinna’s clear embarrassment as she tried to drag Lehra out by the tail.

“I know Mri! We’re all friends! What’s the issue? Hello! Nice fur.”

Qwera, the Golden Gnoll, Tesy, and Vetn all looked up from their spot at the table. They exchanged looks. Tesy waved, and they whispered together as Lehra said hello to others she recognized.

“Is that a Named Adventurer? I’m allergic to adventurers.”

Vetn edged as far back from Lehra as he could. The Thief of Clouds and a Named Adventurer at the same table?

But they knew each other! And it wasn’t just Mrsha—or Mri, rather—who made it happen. The other person was…

Tkrn. And Inkar. The Gnoll [Guard] was blinking at a little Golem made up of different bunches of grapes begging for its life.

“I…I’m not hungry. Who eats like this?”

“Sick people.”

Inkar agreed. Rose guiltily hid a grape she’d been about to eat. So Rose, Inkar, and Tkrn were there.

And so was Adetr, unapologetically already eating a huge steak. And then the tent flaps opened, and more guests came in.

“Hello! Am I late? I found Yelroan. We were visiting the thing—oh!”

Feshi Weatherfur and Yelroan both entered the tent and blinked around. They were followed by Satar and Cers…and the two young Silverfangs were agog by the company.

“You know Lehra Ruinstrider, Mri?”

Cers’ jaw dropped, and Lehra offered to sign his forehead. Satar squeaked, and Mri looked around smugly.

“That child is a nightmare. Who raised her?”

Qwera muttered to Vetn and Tesy. Ysara Byres slid into a seat at their table.

This was not a moment about them. They were peripheral to the Meeting of Tribes; their entire involvement was due to Mri, and honestly, none of the four were quite sure where they fit.

There was business to be done, but Sellme and the Thief of Clouds were clearly antsy.

“She has so many protectors. I don’t know how it happened. Maybe she’s safe now, Qwera. We’re not even allowed to know what’s going on. Unless you can find out, Vetn?”

The Gnoll [Thief] shrugged.

“I tried. They’re locked up tighter than any tribe. I could get out, but I’d have to make a scene. Something big’s going on, but I’m not interested. You, Tesy?”

“Nope. It’s not like there are any walls to paint on. I could do the grass…but grass grows. What do you think, Qwera?”

The Golden Gnoll rested her chin on her paws. She had risked a lot coming here, and so had Vetn and Tesy. Mrsha probably remembered, but the girl was in the midst of distracting herself.

“Poor child. She’s surrounded by protectors, but where were they when you found her, Vetn?”

“Hrr. That other idiot probably took her away.”

“All these Gnolls can’t stop an arrow. Well, Lehra Ruinstrider might and that [Paragon]…but we’re staying.”

Vetn watched as Tesy chewed on some durian with subdued horror. The Drake looked around brightly.

“Okay then, I’ll see you all later. Vetn, want to head to Oteslia? I hear we might be able to—”

Qwera grabbed both by the shoulders.

“You two. Are staying. Here.”

Both young men looked at Qwera and sighed. However, they had to admit—there was some energy here.

Tesy’s claw itched, and he absently began sketching the sight of Lehra, Gire, Adetr, and Feshi together. Each one a leader in battle in some way—but completely different.

Important Gnolls. Fascinating Gnolls.

Yelroan was positively shy, and he seemed nervous of Mrsha, almost sick to the stomach as she waved at him to sit and eat and told him how Beilmark had stolen his glasses. Yet he did sit, and while he was visibly reluctant, he opened up the instant Gire had asked if he’d figured out ‘sin’. Sine? That was the least of the math to be had!

On the other end, Adetr was trying to draw Emper into a discussion about [Monk] fighting styles while Emper ate the fruits, and Rose was whispering to Gire about all the good eats on Earth. Cers was staring at Suxhel and losing because the Gazer had more eyes to stare at him, and Satar was writing this all down.

Inkar and Tkrn were being disgustingly cute. Ysara sighed.

“What a mix. And here I thought my younger sister was exaggerating about the inn she visited. This is a gathering.”

“Biggest I’ve ever seen.”

Qwera muttered. Ysara raised her brows.

“You think so? It reminds me of when the Five Families gather. You’d see this around Magnolia Reinhart or another influential figure like Tyrion Veltras. Not that they’re ones to emulate. I think it’s good, Qwera. It means they like each other.”

“Like tips the scales, but gold and blood weigh more.”

Qwera quoted a famous adage from the [War Merchants] of Baleros. Ysara smiled.

“You’re too nervous here, Qwera. You got Mri to safety—and the sky hasn’t fallen! Relax! Here. Have some fruit. Do I need to feed it to you with kisses?”

She picked up a durian piece and offered it to Qwera with her lips before the Golden Gnoll flicked it away—and into the back of Feshi’s head.

——

Mrsha beamed as Feshi looked around, and Qwera instantly pointed at Tesy.

It was almost like home. Cers grabbed a pawful of food and raised it, and Feshi, with the instincts of a [Strategist], went for cover. Rose reluctantly was drawn into the discussion about sin since it wasn’t theology. Mrsha’s ears perked up as she heard Gire complaining.

“I like math! Math is fun, Rose. Just explain it. I think Yelroan understands, but I want to be certain! The universities certainly beat some of the other places.”

“The what now? What’s this about? Is this the big secret my Chieftain was talking about? Should I ask to visit?”

Lehra perked up, and Gire turned.

“You have to. If you’re allowed—it’s the most amazing thing ever, Lehra. And it has incredible food. But it’s secret.”

She glanced at Lehra’s team, and Elgrinna growled.

“Damn it. Is that my cue to leave?”

“No, since Lehra has no permission, I won’t tell anyone.”

Gire shook her head. Lehra looked crestfallen.

“But I want to know! Fine, I’ll get permission! Then I’ll tell my team. I wouldn’t keep anything secret from them!”

“And that is why you’ll never get permission.”

Adetr growled. Lehra gave him a supercilious look.

“My team’s trustworthy! I’m loyal to my tribe, but it’s silly to think non-Gnolls can’t be trusted.”

“This is bigger than just one tribe. You’re a Named Adventurer. Secrecy—”

“Anyways, Rose. Some places are boring. Not to give out secrets, but that thing with the pews and altar? Boring. The book is somewhat interesting, but it has a lot of words blanked out.”

“The…”

Rose sat up in alarm, but Gire just yawned.

“Is that really how it looks to you? The man who gave the entire service kept skipping the word too. Either the Skill’s busted, or you have weird…what’s the word?”

She snapped her fingers. Yelroan looked puzzled.

“What place is this? Fill-in-the-blank games?”

“I wish. It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

Religion.

Mrsha frowned at Gire, demanding to know more too, and Lehra and Adetr were arguing about the tribes. The tent flaps opened once more, and someone hurried in.

Cetrule. The Gnoll was winded, his ceremonial garb hanging askew. Only Feshi, peeking out to see if the food fight had begun yet, noticed. Had he had a bad turn? Gotten into a car accident or looked at some very…disturbing images online?

The Gnoll’s fur was messed up, and he looked at the chattering room.

“What are you…?”

No one noticed. Cetrule caught himself as Satar turned, beaming.

“Cetrule! I found out what my new Skill does! It’s—”

The [Shaman] of the Silverfangs cut her off. He took a breath and then bellowed, so loudly he drowned out everyone else. A note of high tension, a cracking voice bordering on a howl.

“What are you all doing?”

Everyone went still. Mrsha looked up, face covered in sauce, and the arguers, diners, and Cers himself looked in Cetrule in alarm. The [Shaman] pointed outside.

“The Drakes. They’ve crossed the water line. The Woven Bladegrass tribe sounded the alarm—every tribe is mustering its warriors. Honored Lehra, Gire, Adetr, Feshi, your Chieftains need you now.”

The tent went silent. Mrsha had been afraid for a moment that someone had found out her identity. This?

This was worse. Yelroan’s head snapped up. He saw Feshi pale; Adetr was already on his feet and racing around the table. Lehra dropped the fork she was holding, and the clatter was far too loud.

It could have been glorious. If only they had more time. Time to explore the wondrous Skill, to get to know each other, to enjoy life. If only this part could last forever.

If only…Drakes weren’t so petty.

——

“They are split up and coming from every angle into the Gnoll Plains. Not one unified army. We could smash any one army so far, but every Walled City has sent a force. Fissival has sent the largest by far. A Wall Lord Dragial is now leading it.”

Someone shouted in outrage.

“That bastard!”

Feshi Weatherfur listened, declining to interrupt as Chieftain Werri of Woven Bladegrass spoke. She, Iraz of Steelfur, and Chieftain Reizet of the Az’muzarre tribe were leading the discussions.

Werri because her people had been doing the scouting. Iraz to balance her and because he was a foremost military leader. And because this was their land and they had famously fought every foe who entered their homeland, Az’muzarre.

Feshi was present as one of the [Strategists], and Yerranola too. Some of the Gnolls gave her distrustful glances, but she was not a Drake. She just happened to be wearing a Drake’s body today.

“We could really use Wil, Merrik, Peki, and Venaz right now. Or the Professor.”

The Selphid whispered to Feshi. She’d been lying down rather than eating, but had risen for this. The poison seemed like it had mostly run its course, but the Selphid looked grim.

That was fair. Everyone was grim.

“First they attack vulnerable tribes. Now, they come after us. Does their treachery know no end?”

Reizet growled. Others agreed, but Feshi privately thought the Professor would have approved in his way. There was no way the Meeting of Tribes would have ended with the Gnolls happy with the Drakes. The cities had struck first.

“Do we have a list of which cities have sent armies? Or their reasons? This is a clearly aggressive act.”

Chieftain Iraz spoke up. Adetr wasn’t present; he was no [Strategist], and each tribe was mustering warriors. This meeting was to decide who went where.

“They are citing our tribes fighting back as excuses for the war. It doesn’t matter why—they’re here.”

Werri snapped. She pointed at the map.

“The point is they’ve split up. They know we can defeat them. My tribe alone can crush armies from any one Drake city outside of a Walled one, so they run the instant we get near. They link up and wait for us. But they’re not idle. They’re using tactics from before the Antinium Wars against us. They’re setting fire to the Gnoll plains.”

A low growl went up from those listening. Feshi growled herself.

“They’re trying to send a wall of fire at us. Wildfire, stoked by magic. We need to put out the fires with our [Shamans]. So we have to tackle them. This is the perfect time for it, with the heat of the summer and autumn detritus. If it were winter, they’d try to conjure blizzards and starve us of food. These are old tactics.”

A [Strategist] from the Wild Wastes tribes was old enough to remember those classes. Werri growled.

“I’ve highlighted the biggest armies. There’s one to the south of combined Drakes. Not all high-level—but over eighty thousand strong. Two more joining from the north, and Zeres has reinforced their lines. Smaller gatherings. Woven Bladegrass is in position to take the south.”

“They will not stand alone, no. My Steelfur Gnolls will split up. We must divide and fight. Which tribes will join our southern assault?”

“Hawkarrow will. But we are fewer. We must divide by specialty. Who goes north?”

“Weatherfur goes north. I will help lead the northern attack.”

Feshi spoke up. Iraz nodded at her, and they began tallying tribes. Someone else spoke.

“Ekhtouch will fight in the north as well. Fifty warriors.”

Fifty? But it was a tiny tribe. Then Feshi heard the speaker add.

“And our [Paragon]. I will lead twenty of ours to aid you, Chieftain Werri. Gireulashia will join the north.”

Chieftain Firrelle calmly strode out of the tent. And Feshi’s worries stacked higher.

——

“Gire is too young to fight!”

Rose was trying to argue with Akrisa, but there was nothing the Silverfang Chieftain could do.

“She must if Chieftain Firrelle says she must. I asked her—but she said that if Gire is old enough to challenge her for her position, she is old enough to fight. It is…pettiness.”

“Not pettiness. Vindictiveness. You saw how Gire dealt with her. All I can do is tell our warriors to try and shield Ekhtouch—but it will be a terrible battle.”

Cetrule muttered. Rose looked from Gnoll to Gnoll.

“What can we do?”

“Do? I am no war-[Chieftain]. I will place our command with our [First Warrior]—but it is a battle. Even Honored Beilmark does not fight in wars. I am afraid…we can only support our people from the rear, Rose.”

Akrisa looked pale and worried under her fur. Rose whirled and ran to find Gire.

The [Paragon] was hiding in her tent. She was hiding under her blanket as a little Gnoll girl worriedly patted her on the shoulder.

“I must fight. I must. I am a [Paragon]. I’m scared, Mrsha.”

Don’t fight. Don’t fight!

Mrsha was begging Gire not to, but the [Paragon] was one of many Gnolls going to the front. And going now.

“Where’s Ekhtouch? Move out!”

A roar made Rose jump as she stood in the doorway. She knew that voice. Gire poked her head out, and Mrsha turned. Rose saw an angry Gnoll standing in front of their camp, surrounded by nearly a hundred Gnolls with metal fur.

“Adetr! Can you convince Firrelle or Iraz not to send Gire to fight?”

The [Battle Seeker] stopped as he saw Rose. His face was not the joyful look he had when anticipating a fight. This was grim, and she saw his snarling face turn to surprise when he saw her. Ekhtouch was already lined up, and Gire emerged from her tent a moment later.

“Rose? Gire? No. She’s a [Paragon]. We need every warrior we can get!”

“She’s fifteen.”

“So?”

Adetr gave Rose a blank look, and she recalled that he had been fourteen when he was first made a [Warrior]. But then he recalled their talks. His gaze softened.

“This is a war for our people, Rose. If the Drakes start the fire, they’ll cast a windstorm across the entire plains. We’ll all burn by the time that inferno reaches us.”

Even the Steelfur Gnolls looked uneasy by his talk. Adetr was not good for morale. He looked around, then grabbed her arm and whispered.

“I’ll try to protect her. Feshi is coordinating the assault in part. We will look out for her, yes? But this war is…”

He knew other Gnolls were listening, so he didn’t finish it. Rose looked at Adetr desperately, then looked about.

“Hold on! I’ll get you a scarf! Or amulet! Or…”

“What for?”

Adetr gave Rose a blank look. One of the Steelfur Gnolls groaned, slapped the back of his head, and winced and rubbed at her paw.

“Dead gods, Adetr.”

“A lucky charm! Or something! Just don’t die.”

“I can’t wear a scarf. It’ll get in the way, and it’s not useful—stop that.”

The other Gnolls were jabbing Adetr in the back with the tops of their weapons so he’d shut up. Rose realized she wasn’t going to find anything to give Adetr and settled for a hug. His fur bit into her flesh, but she hugged him tight.

“Don’t die, you stupid [Battle Seeker].”

“I won’t. And I’ll keep the others safe.”

He nodded to her. Rose stepped back as Gire raised her paw.

“Ekhtouch, we fight with Steelfur! With me!”

She loped forwards, and the fifty Gnolls followed her. Adetr grunted, and he began jogging with Steelfur to their rally point.

No! No! A little Gnoll tried to run after Gire, trying to howl, her brown fur covered with tears, and the gold paint on her ears flaking. Rose tried to grab her, but she leapt past Rose and ran after Gire. She would go with her friend!

“Mri! Stop! St—”

Since the camps were in chaos, her usual guards were too few and too slow. Mri ran after Gire and might have vanished—but for a Gnoll who scooped her up and handed the kicking, biting girl back to Rose.

“Thank you!”

Rose grabbed Mrsha with all her strength, ignoring the sobbing, punching girl. She looked at…a Gnoll she had never met before. Prha got tackled again as she tried to reach Mrsha by a Weatherfur Gnoll.

“No problem, Miss.”

The Gnoll tipped his cap to her. He was still a bit puffy-cheeked. Damn allergies. But Ferris watched as Mrsha clung to Rose, sobbing. He scanned the camp and slipped away. By the time Mrsha and Rose realized someone had stuck a letter to her back embossed with Calanfer’s seal—he was gone.

Incidentally, so was Rafaema. And Ferris was only glad he wasn’t around to hear Makhir.

“I’m going to lose my job for this.”

The [Infiltrator] sighed. Then he went to figure out exactly how bad the situation was.

——

Wall Lord Ilvriss was preparing to go when he was asked for a quick meeting with Hunt Commander Makhir. The Gnoll didn’t beat around the bush.

“My ward is missing. Wall Lady Rafaema. Dragonspeaker Luciva herself considers her safety top priority. I know you’re a Wall Lord of Salazsar, but by our cities, I need you to help me, Wall Lord Ilvriss.”

Ilvriss raised his brows.

“She’s gone? When?”

“This morning. I found her quarters empty and a letter addressed to me. The contents—in brief, she wrote she was looking for something. She didn’t say who or where, but she was speaking to that [Princess]. But she refuses to say anything, and I cannot…persuade her to tell me. If I could force the issue, I would.”

That was as blunt as Manus, but surprisingly aggressive. Makhir looked…Ilvriss eyed him.

Beyond worried. Was he Rafaema’s father, or was she more important? Or was she Luciva’s adopted daughter?

He didn’t know. But the Wall Lord spoke directly to Makhir.

“I wish I could help, Makhir. I can speak to Miss Lyonette. But I am leaving Oteslia.”

Makhir grunted in surprise.

“How?”

“I am being permitted to leave.”

The words were sour, but Ilvriss spoke them. He glanced at the window; Zeres’ army was pulling back.

“Zeres has entered the war against the Meeting of Tribes, and they have brokered a deal. Any foreign dignitaries may leave. Any…Drake dignitaries. Miss Lyonette will have to stay. Perhaps that was how Wall Lady Rafaema left?”

Makhir shook his head instantly.

“She did not go on foot or even horseback. She left with Mivifa herself, via Pegasus. The First Gardener did not order it—I cannot imagine what possessed Adventurer Mivifa. To risk Rafaema’s life…it’s inconceivable.”

Yet he could conceive of a reason. Ilvriss saw Makhir’s eyes flicker.

This has something to do with Cirediel. Xesci said they were unusual. If I could pick this apart…Ilvriss replied, curtly.

“I wish I could help you, but I swear on the walls of Salazsar and my family that I don’t know why this occurred, Hunt Commander. I’m leaving to link up with forces from Salazsar. My house has sent our standing forces along with an army.”

“To join the attack on the Meeting of Tribes?”

Makhir fixed on Ilvriss, suddenly shifting to the pressing military issue. Ilvriss met his gaze without blinking.

“To take stock of the situation. Salazsar has not declared war on the tribes, and I will personally be damned if we do. But this is high politics, and I need an army. Without one…I’m stuck. I’m sure you can understand.”

The Gnoll cursed.

“I do. I’d leave for Manus as well, but I must know why Rafaema left and where she’s going. I’ll leave you to it, Wall Lord.”

He was turning to go when Ilvriss spoke up.

“Hunt Commander Makhir?”

The Gnoll turned. Ilvriss pointed at him.

“Aside from the diplomatic incident between nations, leave Lyonette du Marquin unharmed. Or you and Manus will answer to me. Press her by all means, but harm her or her people, and we will have a second issue.”

The Gnoll just snarled at him and stormed out of the room. Ilvriss went back to packing. Zeres was leaving some of its army to check Oteslia because the City of Growth might be disposed to help the Gnolls. But it was moving towards the Great Plains, and so was Liscor’s mercenary army.

“Not now!”

Ilvriss hurled a pair of shoes at the wall and winced at the damage they caused. But he cursed aloud.

“Not now! This is not the right time! Damn you!”

However, it was too late. The first battles between Gnolls and Drakes were continuing. If Ilvriss had one consolation, it was this:

He’d personally seen Salamani and Ci take Saliss’ antidote a day ago. Ethereal-class antidote; it required an enchanted container just to hold the liquid. It was en-route to Liscor.

——

So was Rafaema. Lyonette du Marquin sipped tea and listened to Makhir and his delegation arguing with her Thronebearers. A fight broke out after a minute, but she kept staring out the window.

She could not leave Oteslia. At least—not until Mivifa was back, and she might well be arrested by the First Gardener and Makhir for what she’d done.

Five days after the amazing conversation with everyone. Five days—and it had taken Saliss and Xif two days without sleep after receiving the mushrooms to synthesize the antidote.

They were sleeping through the fight. Lyonette had handed the bottle to Salamani, still cold from whatever they’d done to make it that way. She’d lost some skin and didn’t care.

“Wake her up.”

Now, Lyonette thought that Ferris would be in the Meeting of Tribes. She had wanted Makhir; Rafaema had only been sure Ferris would obey.

Lyonette wished she had sent Mrsha something more. An artifact! But Ferris had pointed out that anything magical would make her stand out more, so she had agreed reluctantly to wait. And handed over all but one of her artifacts to Rafaema.

Cloak of Balshadow. Ring of [Fireballs]. Wand of [Sticky Webs]. Mivifa had lent Rafaema her collection of gear too, but the Dragon was very well-equipped already.

A Dragon. Lyonette didn’t know if she was losing her mind because it felt so natural. Including turning her head and giving orders to the nervous Earth Dragon standing with her.

“Cire. Go and stop Makhir.”

“Me? He’s punching your [Knights]! And they have armor!”

The Dragon squeaked. Lyonette rolled her eyes.

“You are…you, Cire. He won’t harm you. Go and stop him.”

It was about knowing people. Delegation. Cire went out, and the crashing did stop—but the shouting didn’t.

What will I tell Makhir? Nothing? Everything? No—he doesn’t know what I know. I will be in danger. I have collaborated with Rafaema as per her wishes. I need to poorly intimate that I ‘know’ so he guesses that I don’t and am trying to ferret out information.

That was so simple she didn’t even have to dwell on it. Politics were her blood.

Mrsha was her heart. Lyonette waited for Mivifa to come back. When she did—Lyonette would leave Oteslia. For now, Ferris was guarding Mrsha.

Where was Rafaema going, though? Well, that was simple. And Lyonette suspected that the pink coach, Salamani and Ci, and Mivifa were all headed in the same direction.

“Honestly, we might have just had them all ride together, then. How fast would that carriage go if a Pegasus and Ci were pulling it?”

Lyonette was almost certain they were all headed to Liscor.

——

Two days ago.

“Liscor? You’re certain?”

Lyonette was watching coverage of the Ailendamus war. She looked up as Rafaema and Cire paced about. Well, Rafaema did it because she was nervous. Cire did it to copy her.

“Yes. The Dragon you’re looking for is at Liscor.”

“Are you sure it’s not him? He looks like us.”

Cire pointed at the image of Eldavin. Lyonette chewed on her lip.

“If he is, based purely on eye-color…it’s rare I’ll grant you, but not everyone with mismatched eyes is necessarily a Dragon.”

“True. He could be a dual-elemental [Mage]. His magic, though. And his…why are you certain I should go to Liscor?”

Rafaema turned to Lyonette. The [Princess] turned off the orb so she could focus.

“Because Erin met a Dragon there. She told me, and I never believed her; I thought she met a fire-breathing salamander or something. But there were other…hints.”

Like Klbkch refusing to deny there was a Dragon in the High Passes. Like whispers overheard from Ryoka that mentioned someone. Lyonette said it aloud.

“Teriarch.”

Rafaema and Cire’s heads turned, and they looked at Lyonette. The [Princess] got up.

“Now, that is just a name. Perhaps Grand Magus Eldavin is this Dragon. It is entirely possible, and he seems to be Ryoka’s benefactor. But it would make sense that if he had a base or something, it would be in Liscor, wouldn’t it? When Ryoka visited Eldavin—or Teriarch, if the two are different—she went to the High Passes. Or do you think Grand Magus Eldavin has all his worldly possessions?”

Rafaema chewed on the tips of her claws.

“…He does not. He’s had to beg alchemical ingredients, and he mentions his wealth, though he’s not specific.”

“How do you know that?”

Cire blinked at Rafaema. The Lightning Dragon irritably waved a claw at him.

“I read the reports from our agents in Wistram. And believe me…”

She eyed Lyonette and fell silent. The [Princess] gave Rafaema a happy smile.

“Wistram is hiding something hugely significant? Like…young people with interesting backstories?”

“You know about that too? Well, that’s one thing, but it’s convincing me that you might be right.”

Rafaema crossed her arms. Cire’s head swung from Rafaema to Lyonette.

“Wait, what’s this about?”

Both women snapped at him.

“Classified.”

Cire threw up his claws.

“This isn’t fair! I’m helping! I agreed to Lyonette’s deal.”

Lyonette was unmoved. She nodded at Rafaema.

“Ask her, but it isn’t my secret to give.”

“Then can I go with Rafaema?”

“No. Mivifa would never allow it. How are you going to convince her to give me a ride, anyways? She knows I’m a Dragon.”

Cire smugly rubbed his claws against his shirt.

“I’ll just tell her that I’ll scream, ‘I’m a Dragon’ from the rooftops if she doesn’t. Then, when she comes back, I’ll tell her I swore a death-pact with Lyonette. She has truth spells. Easy.”

Rafaema turned to Lyonette. The [Princess] saw the Dragon gesture to Cire.

Do you see?

Lyonette nodded fractionally. She pressed her fingers to her temples. Imagine if she had to deal with a male Mrsha in his teens…all her life? She felt for the First Gardener and Makhir, she truly did.

“Liscor. Dragons have caves, don’t they? Or is that a rumor?”

“I don’t know. Who would actually have a lair or cave? It sounds…stereotypical.”

Cire frowned, unfurling his wings slightly. Rafaema scratched at her neck-spines, equally dubious.

“I can see a secret base, but I’d hate a cave-cave. Still, you’re right. Finding proof Eldavin is a Dragon is far better than risking revealing myself to an Archmage. Okay, Liscor. I like it. Even if it’s a dead end—it’s an adventure. And you’ll lend me your invisibility cloak and whatnot?”

“Cloak of Balshadow. Yes. Now, I’ll write you a letter to Ishkr, but Erin is…asleep. Do you think you can track down a Dragon’s lair?”

Rafaema went to check her neatly-laid out gear and armor, all perfectly maintained. She spoke as she fidgeted; she couldn’t stand still. Cire, by contrast, could sit all day if he was focused.

“I…don’t know. I’m hardly that gifted in magic. I need to learn from scratch, and it’s hard when a [Mage] tells you how to do it. However, I might be able to smell the cave. I smelled the Dragon on you. So that’s how we know one exists. Let’s say I go there, track it down to the cave…and make contact. You and Cire will go save your daughter, or Ferris will contact you. Just—do you know what kind of Dragon it is? Maybe it’s an evil one. Maybe it is Eldavin. How do you know Teriarch is the right name?”

She sounded uncertain, longing, and afraid, and looked at Cire and Lyonette as if worried they would see that as weakness. Cire went to pat Rafaema on the shoulder, and she swatted him away.

They were alike as a species—and different in personality. Lyonette thought they felt younger than her, for all they were both many times her age. She would have helped them as much as she could, oath or not, normally.

But Mrsha needed her. So Lyonette was willing to let Rafaema find what she needed or her doom in the High Passes. All she wanted…was their help. If she had to unleash a full Dragon or drag Oteslia into war—she would.

And Oteslia’s Dragon was bound to her by life or death. She was going to use that. Magnolia Reinhart would be so proud, and Lyonette hated that, too.

But the mother took it one step at a time. Convince Rafaema. How? Oh, that was so simple.

Satar had just shown up on the news, and Lyonette had to believe her darling mischief-maker had helped organize that. Her first public event, and she’d probably helped write all those letters!

She was grounded forever, and Lyonette would never let go of Mrsha again. The [Princess] rose and picked up something. It was so simple. She handed Rafaema a book, and the Dragon’s claws locked onto it.

“Teriarch. When you meet him—I don’t know what he’s like. But you are looking for Teriarch, not Eldavin. The Dragonlord of Flame.”

Rafaema’s eyes went round. She looked down at the book, and Lyonette thanked Ser Dalimont. The Thronebearer and Ser Sest had been researching the ‘legend’ for her obsessively. Dalimont might suspect something, but Ser Sest had bought the line about Teriarch being connected to the Heartflame Breastplate.

The Dragonlords, by Ciarr Plain’s Eye. A copy of an ancient book. Cire’s jaw dropped.

“If you find him—good luck. I’ll write you more letters if you need them, and I’ll show you on a map where Ryoka must have gone. Oh—and stay away from Goblins.”

She had more instructions, and Rafaema only half-listened. She had a name, hope, and a certainty a Dragon existed.

So she went.

——

Now.

Brave children were going to do great things. They had already done great things. If only they had time, and the world wasn’t against them.

Children should have time to grow. They should have had peace.

All these revelations in the Meeting of Tribes were having an unusual effect. Some tribes embraced the new, like Sootfur and Hawkarrow. They followed Silverfang’s charge into revealing old truths.

Some tribes saw all these things and drew back. They gathered around Plain’s Eye, Gaarh Marsh, and older tribes. When the world shook, tradition and the past were roots to cling to.

“We must be wary of this new world. Those two—Rose and Inkar—they must be watched, don’t you agree, Chieftain? We cannot let them leave. And the danger—!”

An anxious Gnoll Chieftain of the Gembows Tribe was speaking. Her nerve was shattered. Some people, when faced with the incomprehensible or a great challenge—broke.

It was too bad she was a Chieftain. However, Chieftain Xherw of Plain’s Eye slowed long enough to nod to her.

“I will take care of it, of course, Chieftain Yinbe.”

She smiled and nodded, relieved. What Xherw carefully omitted was that he would not do what she wanted.

Not exactly. He was split on the Humans. On all these new events. He disagreed with the idea of shunning Earth. They had to join hands with Earth rather than face a great foe.

At the same time, Earth disturbed him. But he would not be the reactionary who fled from fire when someone invented it. He would be cautious—Plain’s Eye had to walk a narrow line.

Satar Silverfang was a good example of what ailed Xherw. She herself was not a bad Gnoll. If anything, Xherw admired the young [Storyteller] and [Shaman]. He could wish for a thousand Gnolls with her spirit. Her combined Skill? Wonderful. Her class…

No. No, that was a problem. She was digging into the past, and that…that was regrettable. That was what hurt Xherw.

None of these young people deserved anything but a bright future. Around him, horns were blowing.

The tribes were going to war. He had seen Feshi Weatherfur moving with Adetr Steelfur. Honored Gireulashia? A lot of the Gnolls who’d helped make Theikha’s Skill a reality were going north.

Two main armies were coming from the north, and Plain’s Eye would take the western one. The young children were headed to the eastern battle.

Actually, a lot of tribes had joined the eastern battle. Even Lehra Ruinstrider would be participating.

Four bright young Gnolls who all knew each other. By contrast? Plain’s Eye alone would fight on the western front. Plain’s Eye, augmented with Gaarh Marsh and Wild Wastes, but they alone.

Some tribes felt it was close to showing off or glory-seeking. Xherw intended to show them it was not, and to show them Plain’s Eye would bleed for the tribes. He had to prove it.

However, the eastern battle concerned him. So many children…

There was an opportunity, so Xherw left the nervous Chieftains still babbling about Earth behind. He approached the Silverfang camp, and some guards stirred to nervous attention.

“Chieftain Xherw himself? How can we help you, Chieftain?”

A…Weatherfur Gnoll blocked his way. Xherw frowned as some of his personal guards stopped, politely nodding to their counterparts.

“If it pleases Silverfang and Weatherfur, I would like to enter the camp, friends. This is a time of war—but I am seeking someone.”

The Gnoll hesitated.

“That—it would be easier if we could bring whomever it was to you, Chieftain. I am ashamed to stop you, but Chieftain Akrisa has given orders for no one to enter the camp unannounced. We have had an issue, you see. With another Chieftain.”

Interesting. Xherw looked about. His fur was…tingling.

Is the Golden Gnoll here? Quite possibly. Yelroan could not prove she was a Doombringer, but I think one is here.

However, that was a secondary concern to war, so he only smiled and nodded.

“Quite understandable. Then, could I ask to meet with a certain Gnoll? I understand Silverfang has joined the forces heading to our northeastern flank.”

“Yes, Chieftain. They are about to depart. Who can I send for?”

The Gnoll was oddly tense, but Xherw put it down to the mood in the Meeting of Tribes.

An opportunity indeed. He requested the Gnoll and saw the Weatherfur Gnoll blink but instantly agree. All these children heading to battle.

They should not die. They should not die, but some would. However…Xhrew smiled widely as a Gnoll stumbled out of a tent and hurried towards him, visibly apprehensive.

“Chieftain Xherw? Of the Plain’s Eye himself? H-h-how can I help you? No? Yes? I’m here! Did you want me or someone…?”

He was so uncertain that one of Xherw’s own guards gave his [Chieftain] a dubious look. This was the Gnoll that Xherw went to meet when all was turning to battle? However, Plain’s Eye had learned to trust their leader, and Xherw just smiled.

“Yes. I understand you have joined the fighters. Before you go—I will make sure you get to your destination, yes? But will you walk with me, Tkrn of Liscor?”

Guardsman Tkrn looked around, but no one said anything. So, stuttering, he nodded.

“I—yes! What is it? What have you heard? Why me?”

One of the Weatherfur Gnolls slowly covered her eyes. Someone else went to find Krshia. Xherw noticed, of course.

He noticed a lot. But his attention was on Tkrn.

So this was the Gnoll who seemed to know a number of important Gnolls. Who was sleeping with Inkar, clearly. Who made a splash.

But was not, in himself, a high-level individual. Xherw saw Tkrn’s history in a glance, even caught part of his shame. His regrets. The [Guardsman] was afraid of him, Xherw realized.

Perhaps he thinks I disapprove of him being with a Human? Or something else? Hrm. Well.

“You are fighting with the Silverfangs. It is brave of you to join.”

Tkrn jumped, then hastened to reply.

“I’m a Silverfang, Chieftain Xherw. When I heard some of the other Gnolls I knew were fighting…Inkar—um—Honored Inkar, from Longstalker’s Fang? The Human?”

“I have seen her. She attended the Meeting of Chieftains.”

“Yes! Right! She…doesn’t want me to go. But I have to. Gire is going, and Mr—Mri wants me to look after her.”

“Who? Never mind. I understand. You and I have not met long, young man. But I wished to speak to you about exactly that. Honored Gireulashia. A [Paragon]. Adetr Steelfur, an impulsive warrior, but one of the greatest in any tribe. Feshi Weatherfur, whom we all know. The Stargnoll. All friends of yours?”

Tkrn nodded, a bit confused now. Xherw turned to him.

“They are the leaders of our future. But this battle will be intense. The coming battles will. I…hope they will not fall. I fear they will.”

“I hope they won’t either, Chieftain Xherw.”

The young man replied slowly. Xherw wondered why he was so afraid. Nevermind. Xherw turned, and a bodyguard offered him something.

“Then, I hope you can understand that when I give you this…it is a terrible burden. Yours to lift, Tkrn. I hope you will accept it.”

He offered Tkrn something. The [Guard] blinked at the enchanted shield. It was made of truegold and had a giant, clear eye of gemstone drawn on the center. It was very magical, and the Gnoll’s jaw dropped.

“Offer—this? To me? Why?”

He hesitated. Xherw smiled at him. A bit sadly. It was not a trap. Or at least…his intention was truly to save lives.

Just not Tkrn’s.

“It is a powerful shield of Plain’s Eye. An Eyeshield…I didn’t come up with the name. I hope you will accept it from me, Tkrn Silverfang. And when you ride into battle, you ride with those four Gnolls. You understand? With one of them. I am sure the Silverfangs will allow it, and I will request it myself.”

“…Why? Chieftain Xherw, this is all very confusing.”

Tkrn took the shield and looked at his plain buckler. He didn’t look too poorly with it. Xherw was glad. There was only so much he could do. He put a paw on Tkrn’s shoulder, and the Gnoll started.

Everyone remarked that to stand around Xherw was to feel his aura. They mistook his true…advantages…for an aura, which was well. But Tkrn truly felt it as Xherw called upon the power that made Plain’s Eye greatest of all.

“Do not thank me, Tkrn. I am asking you to ride with them. To run next to Adetr Steelfur. Or Gireulashia. You see…there is a position for you in battle. When great warriors fight, someone must watch their back. Raise a shield that an enchanted arrow will not strike them from behind, or a sword pierce their backs. If need be—throw themselves before that spell. I hope it does not fall to you. But if you accept this shield, that is what I ask of you.”

He looked Tkrn in the eyes. The Gnoll started, looked at Xherw, and understood what the Chieftain was asking him to do.

A brave Gnoll who liked the others. Was liked. Who had something to atone for. His fur stood up as Xherw patted his shoulder.

There. As much as I can give him.

“I…I see. If that’s what you mean, Chieftain. I accept.”

Tkrn whispered. Xherw smiled.

“You are the kind of Gnoll we need more of, Tkrn Silverfang. Thank you.”

He hoped Tkrn would survive. But that was all he could do. An enchanted shield and…advice. Because, like Yelroan’s calculus, Xherw obeyed a cold equation of his own. If it were Tkrn or Adetr Steelfur’s life, he knew which one he would choose.

“To battle. Guard yourselves—we must make all the tribes remember Plain’s Eye’s name.”

The [Shamanic Warriors] around him nodded and growled as Xherw strode to his own warriors. He left Tkrn behind, looking at the shield.

Ride with them. And if ever there should come that moment—

Xherw had given Tkrn some help. The rest was up to his courage.

Brave children. They deserved a longer future. Xherw walked off to his own part of the war. And he wondered, briefly—

When had it all gone wrong?

Perhaps in the inception of Plain’s Eye’s most secret, darkest tradition. Necessity born of loss. If he wrote that story, he would begin like this:

We started hunting Doom after the fall of our kingdom. When they led our people to ruin, we swore never again. Everything I have ever done is to continue that.

I have lived for over half a century and seen the worst and best of two species, Gnolls and Drakes. I have done terrible and glorious deeds and kept this secret. After all this time I know—

I was not wrong.

——

Seldom had Mrsha seen people preparing for war.

Oh, she had witnessed terrible, sudden battles. One moment, a door could open and Crelers flood into the room. Or a Raskghar could appear or…well, monsters could attack out of nowhere.

But Liscor had been filled with great, sudden events. Only once had she ever witnessed the realization that a battle was imminent.

That was the siege of Liscor. What Mrsha saw was…grief. Arguments. Before they might never see each other again, Inkar and Tkrn fought terribly.

“Don’t go! Not like that. Not with that shield and—”

“It’s not cursed. I got it checked, Inkar. I’m not stupid!”

“Then why are you going to sacrifice yourself?”

She was pulling at him, and Tkrn was holding the enchanted shield he’d gotten. The eye stared at Mrsha as the Silverfang warriors embraced their loved ones. Or promised they’d come back.

Cetrule was going to war. Cers wouldn’t let go and was howling, so Satar had to prise him off as the [Shaman] rubbed his head. Mrsha watched as a Silverfang Gnoll carefully broke something in half. She handed a locket—no, half of one—to a little Gnoll girl.

“When I return…we’ll buy all your favorite foods, yes?”

That hurt too much. Inkar was still arguing with Tkrn.

“I will go with you.”

“You? You can’t fight!”

“I can shoot a bow.”

“Absolutely not. I’m a [Guardsman]. I—I have to do this. I promised Mrsha I’d protect Gire.”

The girl froze as Tkrn dragged her into the argument. He hefted the shield grimly and pushed Inkar back. She stumbled and nearly fell, and Beilmark caught her. She gave Tkrn a glare.

“What is this idiocy? Guardsman Tkrn, you are not a [Soldier]. Why did you enlist?”

He gulped, and his ears flattened as Inkar looked at Beilmark in relief. However, Tkrn saluted the Senior Guardswoman.

“I did it because I have people I need to protect, Guardswoman Beilmark. When war comes to the walls, the Watch is placed under the command of the army.”

The older Gnoll grunted as if struck.

“You read the rules?”

Tkrn gave her a blank stare.

“Yes, Guardswoman Beilmark. Only Relc doesn’t.”

The two [Guards] looked at each other, then began to guffaw uproariously. Beilmark laughed for a good ten seconds—then reached out and clasped Tkrn’s shoulder. She turned to Inkar.

“It is his choice. I cannot stop him; I will not go. Many must stay to defend the Meeting of Tribes, and I…”

She looked at the warriors preparing to go.

“I have a family. That is the cowardice of it. I will not tell you to stop him, but do not let it be a poor farewell. Just in case.”

As blunt as a hammer—but also true. Inkar looked at Tkrn, and he lowered the shield he’d been raising as if to defend himself. Mrsha crept away.

She didn’t want to hear.

This was too sad. Where was Gire? Gone, already, with Adetr. Mrsha looked around for Feshi in the Weatherfur camp adjacent to hers but…

She shouldn’t interfere.

Could she do anything? Mrsha wished she had one of Numbtongue’s spare crossbows to give to Tkrn—or an acid jar! Or Erin’s magic.

Wait. Someone might be able to help. Fetohep! Where was her scroll? He’d do something, right?

Mrsha ran for her tents, then recalled Beilmark had taken the scroll. She went back for the [Guardswoman] and heard someone howl shortly.

“Silverfangs! We fight with our kin! Follow me!”

Shaman Cetrule raised his staff, and Gnolls, warriors and not, howled as a mass of them began to lope after him.

She was too late! Inkar threw her arms around Tkrn, and Mrsha watched, helplessly, as the warriors began to exit their camp.

Halfway out, Cetrule slowed, and the valiant procession of Gnolls going to defend their homes and people choked up around the entranceway. Mrsha heard the [Shaman] suddenly snarl.

“You again? This is not the time!”

There was only one person that could be. Mrsha heard a sudden clamor and tried to push forwards, but she was short! Someone picked her up, and Mrsha gratefully saw Inkar lifting her higher.

“Oh no. It’s him again. Mri, get back.”

Rose appeared and groaned as everyone recognized a now-familiar face.

Chieftain Mrell of Demas Metal had not come alone or with just his bodyguards this time. Nearly a hundred Gnolls were behind him—but not warriors. His tribe had few good warriors, and he had pledged them all for the southern battle.

Was this him trying to get to Mrsha? Akrisa Silverfang strode forwards with Krshia right behind her. Cetrule was snarling at Mrell, who was raising his paws.

“Shaman. It is not that. I…”

“Chieftain Mrell. We are about to go to war! I assume you have a good reason for this, no?”

Akrisa snapped. The Demas Metal tribe turned and bristled at the harsh address, but Mrell ducked his head.

“I have no intention of bothering your camp, Chieftain Akrisa. Rather…because I know Silverfang is going to battle, I have something. I apologize; not all were ready, and we spent time finishing our work. We have been working the last few days, but we will only take ten, twenty minutes at most.”

“Twenty minutes to do—”

Then Akrisa saw it, and Krshia gasped, abandoning her hostility. She saw the Gnolls behind Mrell were carrying weapons and armor.

Demas Metal weapons and armor.

An entire suit of plated armor, very thin, with interior padding was being held across six Gnolls. However, that was the exception; most of the pieces that Mrell’s tribe had brought were tailored in the expectation that they would not be able to create a full suit of the expensive metal.

Even if Demas Metal was more accessible than Orichalculm…Mrell’s favorite, least metal-intensive creation defensively was chain mail. Exceptionally time-consuming, but efficient in terms of material.

He had dozens and dozens of the stuff! But the real bounty was the blades. Only blades; no maces or anything without an edge. To take advantage of Demas Metal’s unique ability to carry liquids and even magic, Mrell’s [Smiths] had produced shortswords, longswords, claymores, flamberges, hatchets, battleaxes, spears, short spears, glaives, halberds, partizan spears, long daggers, billhooks, kris blades, a war scythe…

And one horrifically stupid contraption that was essentially a flail if you attached long, thin blades to the ends instead of flail heads. It was so dangerous that if you let it dangle against your leg while simply holding it, you’d need a healing potion.

No one wanted that, and the disappointed [Smith] holding it was the only one left holding a piece of Demas Metal gear as the stunned Silverfangs armed themselves or had the [Armorers], [Tailors], and so on help them equip the gear, adjust straps and put the armor on.

A fortune in metal. Demas Metal’s fortune. Mrell spoke to Akrisa.

“I will need it back. But Silverfang will march into battle with our weapons and armor. We have given similar gifts to the other great tribes. I hoped you would accept this.”

“You give this to us—even temporarily—for nothing?”

Akrisa looked Mrell in the eyes, and he glanced past her, then bowed his head.

“I owe Silverfang a great debt. That’s all. I won’t take your time.”

He stepped back, and Shaman Cetrule hesitated. His unconcealed anger towards Mrell faded. Perhaps you couldn’t buy friendship…but you could pay your way out of sheer hatred. At least, right now Mrell could.

“Thank you. Chieftains Akrisa, Mrell. We go forth. Silverfang, armed with Demas Metal’s gifts! Onwards!”

They went. Inkar and Mrsha both watched a clumsy Gnoll walking in pure plate metal, swearing as he went for his horse, who seemed to groan as the animal eyed the extra weight. Was that coincidence?

…No. Mrsha saw Mrell nod to Tkrn and exhaled, slowly, through her nose. The Chieftain was very deliberately not looking at her as everyone watched the Silverfangs go.

However, it was the girl who wearily padded forwards and tugged on Krshia’s leg to get her attention. Mrsha handed her a card, and Krshia frowned at it.

“Are you sure? You don’t have to.”

Mrsha gave her a long look. Then she eyed Mrell, who was watching her, out of the corner of her eyes. Not alone. And certainly not happily, as Krshia approached Mrell and whispered to him, and he looked startled and grateful and began nodding at once.

But alright, you. I see what you’re doing. You get one chance, on top of all the other chances.

Show me something.

——

All the warriors were leaving. Well, not all, but oh, so many. The Gnolls were not stupid.

They had left many of their own to defend the camps. Powerful spellcasters like Shaman Theikha and, most notably, that giant earth-thing, the mud-swamp monstrosity that towered over the Meeting of Tribes, had not yet moved. It was probably a last-resort. A deterrent against anyone marching against the vulnerable population at large.

However, many warriors from each tribe were leaving or had left, and that meant opportunity.

A feral shadow watched as the little, familiar Gnoll girl slowly approached the bigger Gnoll who had all that strange weaponry. He offered her a hand, and she turned away and took the Human girl’s.

Rose. The other one had hurried off. And that giant, glorious [Paragon] whom all called Gireulashia of Ekhtouch was gone.

Too dangerous by far. Same with the one made of metal. Or the one who held the diamond dagger. Or the one with that strange artifact, the Stargnoll.

However, happily, they were all gone. The watcher had not included Tkrn in the list of threats around Mrsha, nor would she, even with his armor. Even if you canned food, it was still just a matter of opening the can.

Yet Nokha quite understood how dangerous these Gnolls were. Her mind was alight, and it felt as though she had been trapped underground in her head as well as her body.

Our destiny is to eat. I’m hungry. Still hungry.

She wondered, she wanted to know—what all those great Gnolls tasted like. Because now, Nokha was sure. Instinct had told her before that Mrsha was special. More than the other Gnolls. Instinct, her gift of her nature, of the Raskghar, told her that Adetr, Gireulashia, and Mrsha were…

Important. She would gain something from each one.

Nokha had not come this far by being reckless, though. She stepped back into the shadow of one of the tents where she’d been watching from. She didn’t even go out in the open.

Not when her only protection was seeming to be a Gnoll from afar. She wore a…cape of fur. Like any hide of an animal, until you realized what it was. She slipped into the tent and squatted down.

“Food.”

“Much food.”

Another voice agreed. Six Raskghar were in the tent with her. They all wore similar capes. And all of them had eyes full of intelligence by now.

A long journey. With some unexpected surprises. A few of their number had perished; their prey had not been without tricks. But Nokha had learned from each city and encounter, and she had come across Izril. Tracking her quarry.

She would gain much from Mrsha. Less from ordinary Gnolls. She had passed some kind of threshold of diminishing returns.

One sacrifice made Raskghar realize their heritage.

Ten completed the beginning of their gifts.

A hundred might bear more fruit. Or a thousand. But the true power lay in great Gnolls after that. If there was anything of interest to Nokha between her great quarries…it would be interesting Gnolls.

Like the gagged, writhing Gnoll fighting as two Rasgkhar pinned him. Overconfident and unwary. But why not?

His fur was steel. One of Steelfur’s Gnolls was a mighty warrior—but still only one. Nokha grinned as her people sniffed their prey.

“Toss the scent-killing powder down. Silence stones. One of you will get to see if it gives you great power.”

If it were that easy…Nokha doubted it. That Chieftain made of metal would give her fur like steel, probably. Not one of his tribe.

How fun. The Raskghar grinned, no longer bestial predators but thinking…monsters. And they had the tricks of civilization, like the ability to mask scent, disguise themselves.

Even invisibility spells. It was just a shame that her kin were so well-guarded by Az’muzarre, Nokha mused. If she could free them…

Well. One step at a time. Mrsha was unguarded, and she was visiting Demas Metal’s camp. Nokha had been thinking about getting some armor. Armor was a good invention. A helmet could hide your face, and then you were just an oddly big Gnoll.

She already had an artifact for a blade, but maybe she’d pick up some gear tonight.

And a bite to eat. She watched as her people began to feast.

——

The difference between good and evil was not a mathematical equation. Yelroan knew that. It was stupid to even try and reduce it to math, but he still thought of it like a formula.

If there was a difference…the [Mathematician] heard the call to war. He feared for the future. He sat in his tribe, as brave Gnolls went to fight the Drakes, and they were probably good and honest people, even if they hated math.

But they would also kill a Doombringer in a flash. And until recently—so would he.

Did that mean Plain’s Eye were all evil? No, Yelroan had to believe that was false.

If there was a difference between good and evil people, more than what they did—for his own sake—Yelroan had to believe the difference was the ability to believe you were doing wrong.

To question. To admit when you’d made a mistake.

That was the foundation of science in another world. Science so grand they challenged their own notions of self-importance. The sun did not revolve around the world.

He longed to go back and learn. To sit and pretend he was a student of math and lived in a world where being a Gnoll didn’t put a target on your back by the Drakes.

The fact that Yelroan idealized Earth meant he hadn’t learnt enough. And he was here, instead of hiding away, because he had to be.

He had to…fix what he’d done.

“A list of all the officer classes and levels I could pull from our records and data, organized by each army. Run it to whoever’s coordinating the strategy. Tell them it’s sent from Chieftain Xherw. Don’t argue, do it.”

He handed a sheaf of papers to a Gnoll girl, and she sprinted it off. Yelroan sat back.

If only I were a higher-level…[Statistician]? Or I had trained someone in that class. [Data Analyst]? We could not only measure the enemy army’s composition, but derive elements of how they might organize. Other factors.

Skills gave even theoretical sciences far more power—and they had already put Humans on the moon! Yelroan, without arrogance, now believed his class or his type of class might be more valuable than he had thought.

Right now, he was putting all of it to use, helping coordinate the defense of the Great Plains. One of his greatest assets was simple.

Yelroan was doing an advanced calculation simply based on the average number of Tier 3-4 spells a Drake [Mage] could throw in a battle. Using data from [Scouts] and so on, he could tell the Chieftains how many [Shamans] or spellbreaking experts to send to protect their troops per battlefield. Disperse them equally so that, aside from exceptional [Mages], his people would take less casualties.

He was so engrossed with his work, Yelroan barely heard the commotion from outside. He didn’t even look up when someone strode into his room.

“Good timing. Take this to the strategy tents. This is the northeastern front’s [Mage] tally and spell count. Minimum, maximum, average. Just tell them Xherw sent it. Don’t argue.”

He held out the paper. When no one took it, he shook it impatiently. Then he looked up and saw Merish.

“Merish?”

The [Mathematician]’s eyes widened, and he took off his sunglasses. The [Shamanic Warrior] looked exhausted. His fur was dirty, and the magical markings had all been broken or used up, leaving only dead paint, grey and colorless.

He still had blood on his fur; Yelroan smelled it. The Gnoll didn’t smell like he’d washed in days, and he stood, swaying a bit.

He smelled like despair and fear and…Yelroan hesitated as Merish spoke.

“We failed, Yelroan. It was an ambush. The Titan of Baleros himself was there. Had to be him. Two-thirds of us died, and Viri betrayed me. There were Goblins and Antinium and…”

Yelroan’s first instinct was to get up and grab Merish. Find a [Healer], embrace his childhood friend.

But then he remembered what Merish had been doing, and he hesitated. Just a single moment of hesitation and uncertainty, written across Yelroan’s face.

The Gnoll was a poor liar. Merish saw it. His unfocused gaze fixed on Yelroan with hurt puzzlement.

“What’s wrong?”

“—Nothing. Merish, you look terrible. Does Khaze know you’re back? Chieftain Xherw? No—he’s on the front. Shaman Ulcre isn’t going to war. Sit! Do you need a potion? A [Healer]?”

Merish shook his head, slumping into a seat as Yelroan sprang up, hurrying around to call for one.

“No. Some of us reported into our sub-tribes. We—I heard it was war. I haven’t seen Khaze. I thought you might know where Xherw was.”

“I don’t. Damn—where’s my potion? Here!”

Yelroan scrambled around, found a healing potion and then a stamina potion, and thrust them at Merish. The warrior took a gulp of the healing potion and coughed, making a face.

“Thank you. What’s happened?”

“Oh—nothing. Everything. The Meeting of Tribes, the Drakes crossing the water-line. But enough. What do you mean you failed? I thought you lost them!”

And that little girl is in the Meeting of Tribes! So who did he go after? The other white Gnoll? The adult?

Merish explained, and Yelroan sat down as he heard Merish’s account of how they’d lost the two Doombringers—only for both to pop up under the protection of the Lomost tribe. The failed ambush, which had turned into a near-total slaughter until the Hekitr tribe distracted their ambushers long enough.

“The Titan of Baleros himself? That’s…not impossible, actually. He was spotted in the High Passes. It makes sense he’s in this. I don’t know how Goblins or Antinium factor in. But…”

Yelroan’s mind spun. It was an incredible tale—and Merish looked like he fully expected Yelroan to disbelieve him. However, the [Mathematician] had been at the heart of an even crazier story recently. He related his part of it while a [Healer] hurried in, and someone brought something for Merish to tear into.

“A great Skill that Shaman Theikha herself worked? I would love to see it. A world without war or battle every two seconds…”

Merish raised an arm so the Gnoll could check on the healed wounds from the arrows that had gone into his shoulder. Yelroan thanked her and sat back; if Xherw or Ulcre wanted Merish, they knew where to find him. Someone was going to tell Khaze, but Merish was too exhausted to rise. For now, the two friends just sat there. Yelroan looked at Merish and thought of what to say.

“I’m glad you’re alive.”

He found he meant it. But Yelroan couldn’t bring himself to say ‘I’m sorry the Doombringers got away’. Even as a lie.

He had always admired and liked Merish, who had gone through life the proper way, as an esteemed warrior of the tribe. A [Shamanic Warrior] who’d gone to Rhir, survived an encounter with the Death of Magic.

A war hero, someone who didn’t laugh at Yelroan, and who was well-loved among his tribe. Yelroan had always been privately jealous of that.

Now? Yelroan looked at Merish.

What have you done? Did you know what you were doing or were you blind? He couldn’t decide which was worse…no, the first was definitely worse. But even the second?

“Viri betrayed us. Not that he caused our ambush to fail. But I thought he was with me. He didn’t understand. I explained it to him again and again, but he—he’s not a Gnoll, Yelroan.”

Merish broke the silence. He seemed shellshocked, not quite there. But he was focused on Viri’s betrayal. Yelroan fiddled with his glasses.

“It must have been shocking. For him, I mean. To learn you were after Doombringers. Didn’t you tell him?”

Merish stirred indignantly, and his brows crossed as he glared at Yelroan.

“I told him we were hunting doom. I forgot he didn’t know what that meant. He couldn’t understand, Yelroan! I told him what they did, and he called me a child-killer. Me. We fought together!”

His voice growled dangerously. Yelroan didn’t meet his eyes.

“Yes…well, think of it how a non-Gnoll…no, non-Plain’s Eye must look at it, Merish. You know, they don’t have our traditions where the [Shamans] tell Doombringer stories all the time? Or the one where they grab us and the warriors chase them off? Even city Gnolls don’t fear Doombringers as much. Let’s take out the white fur. It looks like—”

Merish’s growl deepened, like a rabid dog, and Yelroan cut off.

“You know as well as I do what they are! Xherw ordered me to destroy the Doombringers! Is he wrong?”

Yelroan gulped. Merish was a lot larger than he was. The [Mathematician] was sweating and wished he had his sunglasses to hide his eyes.

“No. But I’m just saying—look at it like Viri, Merish. If that’s what he thought…”

The [Shamanic Warrior] seemed poised to do violence, then he sat back. Abruptly, as if something had occurred to him.

“5th Wall. Combined arms…Commander Ciri had to deal with that too. I didn’t think about it. Is that really what he thought of me?”

“I’m sure he trusted you and knew you, Merish. You said he stuck with you until the ambush—but he must have been terribly confused.”

Yelroan felt odd. He was not on Merish’s side, but he tried to soothe his friend. It was working! Merish was nodding, putting his head in his paws.

“I was a fool. Viri or not, though…this is my mistake. I will accept the punishment.”

Yelroan nodded. His heart was already drumming in his chest, but he looked towards the opening of his tent and cleared his throat. This was it. Or did he say it later? Ah—ah—

“Maybe it’s just as well you failed. Frankly, Merish, it occurs to me we’re not in possession of all the facts. All the data.”

Merish’s head snapped up. He blinked at Yelroan.

“How? I know you’re smart, Yelroan. But Xherw himself—”

“Yes. Yes. I know Doombringers. I’m Plain’s Eye, even if no one thinks a [Mathematician] is traditional. But hear me out, Merish. And, um, keep it between us. But I’ve been thinking.”

Yelroan spoke faster and faster, hoping Merish could keep up with him.

“Listen. We know Doombringers are evil, because the [Shamans] tell us and that’s tradition. But consider how other species see it. What if—perhaps—I am just saying—if the Titan of Baleros is protecting a Doombringer? Other Gnolls? Of course, they could be wrong, but that is a world-renowned [Strategist]! He’s probably in possession of knowledge about Doombringers. Maybe he doesn’t understand, but Viri objected, and you—what if we interrogated the Doombringers rather than kill them? Have we tried that? I’m not saying it’s good the Doomslayers were killed. Tragic. But I’m just—”

Merish’s face was growing more blank with each passing second as he listened to Yelroan. The first few arguments struck him, Yelroan saw. But then…

Merish got angry. He surged up, grabbed Yelroan behind the desk, and dragged him across it, scattering supplies and paper and inkwells.

“Are you mad? You didn’t see what they did to us. We faced doom, and Doom killed us. It’s all their trickery. It’s—”

The terrified [Mathematician] was stuttering. Merish wasn’t punching him, but he was physically lifting Yelroan up. Yelroan was afraid of fights. He knew Merish could beat him like a drum, like he had once thrashed six Gnoll cubs bullying Yelroan in a six-on-one fight.

However, Yelroan thought of Mrsha. That little girl who was so sad and precocious and thought his sunglasses were the coolest thing ever. And Yelroan found that, more than fear, more than sympathy—

He was angry too.

“And maybe you’re wrong! Maybe the [Shamans] and Xherw were wrong too! Did you think of that?”

He threw a fist for the first time in years and punched Merish in the cheek. It hurt. Yelroan. The [Mathematician] threw another punch, and Merish blinked as it glanced off his arm.

It didn’t seem to hurt him, but his face was astonished. He let go, and Yelroan surged up, furious, throwing wild swings.

Merish blocked them with one paw. He swatted down each punch, and Yelroan was panting within twenty seconds of wild punching. But Merish looked like Yelroan had given him a [Giant’s Kick] to the stomach.

He was staring at the panting [Mathematician], backing up as Yelroan came at him when someone cleared his throat.

“I assume this is a personal matter, and I will forget I saw it. Yelroan. Back to work. We need your lists. Warrior Merish?”

Both Gnolls turned, and Yelroan’s blood froze when he saw Shaman Ulcreziek. The Shaman with one eye inherited from the past [Shaman] of Plain’s Eye looked coldly at both Gnolls, and Merish turned and bowed his head.

“Shaman Ulcre!”

How much had he heard? Yelroan was terrified, but the [Shaman] just gave him a long look. Almost…puzzled. Yelroan throwing punches was as odd as seeing Az’muzarre showing humility.

“Come with me, Warrior Merish. Whatever this matter is—you two may work it out later. We are at war. And you are both needed. Chieftain Xherw is fighting on the front, but I will listen to your report, Merish.”

He turned, beckoning Merish, and the Gnoll looked at Yelroan. The panting [Mathematician] met Merish’s eyes, and he saw the confusion and hurt there. Not all of Merish had come back from Rhir, and Yelroan was afraid he and Viri had only torn open that wound.

But he was wrong. His spirit and heart were damaged, Yelroan knew. But for the good of his soul…

“Think about what I said, Merish. Just—think!”

He sat down hard, and Merish left his tent without a word. Yelroan rubbed at his face. Oh, this was too much. He wanted to just let the numbers speak and fall into that. But why was he crying?

——

“Do you ever think you could forgive me?”

Mrell asked Mrsha that question like he was the child. And the little adult gave him a look full of scorn.

Forgive? Why did she have to do anything? Why was he making her life harder?

It was just as Torishi had said. Mrsha didn’t owe these two strangers anything. But Torishi was off fighting to defend them all.

And Mrell had done something for Silverfangs. So Mrsha agreed to talk to him. Or rather, listen as she clung to a certain Drake’s claw.

Tesy and Vetn didn’t really know who Mrell was, and they were not their first pick for bodyguards. Both would have nominated Qwera, but she was busy making flash-deals to sell needed goods to the tribes with Ysara—at the lowest margins they could.

There was such a thing as ethics in business, and neither one was exactly aloof to the plight of the tribes.

With everyone gone, it fell to Vetn, Tesy, and Rose to be Mrsha’s minders, and Rose walked along behind the duo…wondering who they were and why Mrsha didn’t want to hold her hand.

That was a fair question, because Rose had known Mrsha longer. On the other hand, she hadn’t exactly impressed Mrsha at the start of their relationship, and she hadn’t saved Mrsha from certain death like Vetn. Nor was she either a [Magical Painter], Sellme, or the infamous [Thief] of Clouds. Mrsha was a pragmatist; if she wanted someone to be protecting her, Rose was below Mrell.

Not that she didn’t have Weatherfur Gnolls, four of them, casually standing at a distance. Another reduced guard, but four Gnolls were more than enough to sound the alarm if Mrell grabbed Mrsha.

And what would he do? There were enough Weatherfur Gnolls within earshot to drown Demas Metal. The real danger was just…emotional.

Mrsha really could have used Qwera, or Krshia, or Torishi. Lacking all of them, she clung to Tesy’s claw as she glared at Mrell.

“I want to make amends. Chieftain Torishi is right. You needn’t see me again after this. But if you…I wish to…and I think Prha does too. To do something for you. Even if it’s just provide something?”

Mrsha jangled her bag of holding at Mrell. Don’t talk to me about money, peon! You can’t buy my affection! You’re too poor!

He seemed to get the spirit, if not the letter of her reply. Mrell nodded and sighed.

“If…if there is one thing, I would like to show you something. I couldn’t before, and they wouldn’t let me talk to you. But I think you should see this, at least. Thank you for agreeing to walk with me.”

“No problem.”

Vetn was chomping down on a carrot. Mrsha and Mrell both stared at him, and the [Thief] unapologetically began dipping the carrot into a jar of mustard he’d bought. Tesy nodded. They were continent-famous names after all! Here they were, playing escort duty to a little girl! It was only because Qwera had told them to. And she’d hit them if they didn’t do it.

Where was Mrell taking them, though? Mrsha craned her neck around. It wasn’t Demas Metal’s tribe they were heading towards. She had thought Mrell would show her something to make her like him, like how Demas Metal was made.

She would have dutifully gone to ‘take your daughter you tried to abandon to work day’, and then sold the information to Pelt at a premium.

However, it didn’t seem like that was their destination. Mrell looked…nervous. No—apprehensive? As if this were going to be hard for him.

“It’s…when I heard about Stone Spears, I blamed myself. I tried to do all I could, but Demas Metal was still growing. And we were far away. I don’t know what Prha has done all this time, but she’s a good warrior in her tribe. Not a Chieftain. She was more of a warrior.”

By that, everyone took that Prha was better at hitting things than Mrell. And that was sort of her only specialty. Mrell went on as Mrsha rolled her eyes.

Yes, tell me how much better you are. She was a hostile audience, and Tesy winced as she kept squeezing his fingers hard to indicate how much she didn’t like what Mrell was saying.

However, Rose thought there was one thing that Mrsha was missing. Not about Mrell. Rose didn’t like him much either. She did think Mrsha’s mistake was, well…forgetting that she was not the perfect saint. She was acting fairly self-righteous, and, if Rose recalled correctly, Mrsha had caused a number of not-so-little disasters.

There was a quintessentially Lyonette way to how Mrsha was holding her head, chin raised a tad too high. She had every right to be angry.

But she had forgotten something. Or just not considered it. Mrell led the group on.

If he had one chance to talk to Mrsha, he would not spend it trying to get her to let her hold him. Or forgive him. He wanted these things, so badly they were an all-consuming passion.

Because he had a second chance, he was trapped in the past. He would never be able to continue, even with all the wonders around him, all the opportunities, until he fixed this.

Perhaps he never could. But the first and only step, the only thing he could give Mrsha…the Gnoll looked ahead. He could not give her armor or a blade, even if she would accept it.

Actually, she probably would, but that wouldn’t protect a little girl. A Doombringer.

His fault. Mrell saw Shaman Fiziker herself waiting at the entrance to another tribe’s domain. He had sent her ahead to ask if they would be welcomed.

They were. Not that Mrell had doubted it, but he and the group of four slowed as they saw someone waiting for them. Someone unexpected, who blinked at Mrsha in faint surprise.

“A curious meeting. Hello, little one.”

Shaman Theikha of Gaarh Marsh leaned on her staff, looking wan and tired, but dignified beyond belief for all that. Mrsha blinked at her and waved with her free paw. Mrell bowed deeply.

“You honor us, Great Shaman.”

“When I heard what you wanted, I thought I myself should bear witness. Now, I see it was more than instinct. Mri, isn’t it?”

Theikha’s gaze focused on Mrsha, and Rose felt uneasy, because it was such a knowing look. Mrsha nodded, lips sealed. Theikha lifted her gaze to Mrell.

“They are waiting. Come. Have you told her?”

“No, Shaman—”

A staff promptly threatened Mrell’s head, and he ducked. Theikha stopped the group and frowned at him.

“You young Chieftains. Does everything have to be a surprise? Surprises are as unwelcome as grand gestures, young man. Especially for this! Stop!”

She halted everyone as they passed into Gaarh Marsh’s ground. And it was definitely their tribe’s.

Even in the short time the tribe had been there, the grass had turned to…well, fertile ground where more colorful plant varieties warred with the native grass. The Gnolls had planted magical flowers and welcomed nature into their midst.

Dragonflies flitted about, and butterflies, even hummingbirds and other creatures, large and small, roamed without fear—of everything but each other.

Mosquitos were prey to dragonflies, who in their turn watched out for birds and lizards. Nature was a cycle, and the Gaarh Marsh tribe didn’t try to erase it.

But they did benefit from all parts of it, like a little Gnoll girl harvesting a bush. An [Animalfriend] who rewarded a bird that brought several dead, bright orange dragonflies to her with a handful of fat worms.

Who wanted dragonflies when you got twice as many worms? And the dragonflies, from their bodies to their gossamer-thin wings, would make lovely, gross, reagents.

All of this natural chaos surrounded the still, smelly bog given life. The towering Earth Elemental, taller than most buildings in Liscor, loomed over its tribe, a hill at rest. No features visible; it didn’t even have the bipedal shape a Golem might. It was literally…nature. Plants grew out of the muck and mud, and a frog burrowed out of one huge leg to hop around until a heron snatched it up as a snack.

Gaarh Marsh. One of the Great Tribes of Izril.

The little [Druid] looked up at the Earth Elemental in awe. Mrsha felt a vast intelligence, a connection with nature so profound that even Nalthaliarstrelous, the [Druid], was an insect compared to it.

Khoteizetrough, the Earth Elemental, paid the others no heed, even Theikha. She stood in its shadow and turned to Mrell.

“Tell her. Tell her now, Chieftain Mrell. And explain to me later how you came to find her.”

Mrell bowed his head.

“Yes, Shaman Theikha. Mr—Mri. Gaarh Marsh has someone…some people you must meet. Even if you do not want to see me again. You must meet them. You see, when I heard about the Stone Spears tribe…our tribe…I was devastated. I don’t know what Prha did, but I’m sure she asked her Chieftain to do anything she could. But we were too far. Too late.”

Mrsha tilted her head, frowning at Mrell in silent puzzlement. Why was he telling her this? She looked at Theikha, but the [Shaman]’s face was unreadable. Mrell went on, slowly, glancing ahead, through the tribe’s tents.

“It took me a while to find the story. And then…find out how the tribe had fallen in battle against the Goblin Lord. Every adult, from Urksh to…every single one. Despite Zel Shivertail and a Drake army—two!—being there. I’m sure he did his best. He was a friend to Gnolls.”

Theikha nodded solemnly.

“Yes. He was.”

Both Mrell and Theikha looked at Mrsha. Why did she look so hurt by the Drake’s name? She, more than anyone, knew how kind Zel was. Mrell continued the explanation, gazing into Mrsha’s eyes.

“He made arrangements. That’s what I found out, later. You see, I think he heard about…how Gnoll survivors are treated. He had part of it wrong, though. But General Shivertail reached out to his coalition of Drake cities and hid them away, among the cities. I tried to track them down, but as it happened, another tribe beat me to it. Hence—Gaarh Marsh.”

Theikha saw Mrell nod to her and sighed.

“We have been friendly to Stone Spears as well. It grieved me terribly, and this was the least of what we could do. Say it, Mrell.”

She and Mrell glanced ahead, and Mrsha’s brow wrinkled. She felt a terrible, creeping feeling in the bottom of her stomach. She already knew what they were talking about.

But that couldn’t be, could it? She would have known. She had a class and everything.

Maybe the class was what you thought.

Or maybe it was something else. A bargain made with strangers from another world.

All for one. Now, the little girl had let go of Tesy’s claw. The [Painter] had no idea what Mrell was talking about, but he saw Mrsha stand on her tip-toes. Craning her head to see. Sniffing the air, listening with all her ears.

“Mri. I wanted to introduce you to them. They’re not like…”

Mrell looked at Theikha, and the [Shaman] sighed.

“They are not like you, child. They thought you were dead. We have worked with them for a long time. Their dreams of that night are ice and Goblins. A terrible [Necromancer]. Meeting with Chieftain Mrell and other former Stone Spears Gnolls was difficult. This will not be easy. But…”

Mrsha stared ahead. Now she heard it. The faint sounds of giggling. Yips of sound, chatter. She looked at Mrell and Theikha, and her face was as pale as…

“Mri. If you don’t want to—”

Mrell got no further, because the little girl took off. Weatherfur, Rose, Tesy—everyone but Vetn was caught off-guard, and the [Thief] didn’t stop Mrsha. She bolted ahead on all fours, ignoring the cries and adults chasing after her.

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t! They were all—she had always known they were all—

——

The little Gnoll girl with gold-tipped ears and brown fur raced out of the tents, into a little playground. Over a hundred Gnoll children were playing.

Not exactly happily, all of them, not with war hanging over their heads. But some had been told to wait here with a [Shaman], and, to distract them, the Gaarh Marsh [Shaman] had conjured a little playground.

Gnolls swung around on vines and pushed each other into boggy water. Another group was playing on a giant log see-saw, hopping on one end to catapult the others off. Most were simply playing tag. They rolled around, shouting, many with twigs or mud in their fur.

Unlike Weatherfur, Gaarh Marsh’s children didn’t use color in their fur. But many did have little companions they were exceedingly careful of. Or not-so-little, like a dog that played catch faster than any cub.

Animal friends. Like a little crow that a cub had helped raise when it had fallen out of a nest, or even a hercules beetle with colorful, red wings. It was hard to pick out any other group within them, but they were there.

About two dozen of the Gnoll children racing around—just two dozen—had almost no animal companions. A few had adopted them, but they were a bit more hesitant to get dirty, and they clung together, even when playing.

They had a bit of a different accent, and other differences. For instance, they all feared the dark. The coming winter would be a difficult time for them, and the [Shaman] watched them closest, sometimes taking a few cubs to the latrines.

The stranger to this impromptu playground skidded to a stop, so fast that she tumbled head-over-heels. Which was so funny that some of the children did likewise.

“Hello! Are you here to play? Who are you?”

A few children, barely five or six, raced around the strange girl, who said not a word as she sniffed the air, looking around.

That group of two dozen had gone still, waiting for their turn to play with the vines and swing over a pit of muddy water. The girl searched for them. Some of the children admired her golden ears.

“Do you know the Golden Gnoll? Is that a bag of holding? Can I see? Let me see!”

She slapped a paw reaching for her bag of holding, and a wounded girl retreated, howling. Another Gnoll boy ran up on all fours.

“Don’t hit my sister! Gragh!”

He tried to tackle her, and the other children tackled him, saving him from an overaggressive counterattack. Gaarh Marsh’s children were rough, but they stopped their own fights.

The two dozen children watched her, and finally she spotted them. Some pointed, incredulous, rubbing their eyes.

It was impossible. She was dead. But her face looked the same. But for the golden ears—maybe her fur was a bit darker than it had been, but it was her.

“Mrsha?”

Someone whispered the name, and the girl turned. Her wide eyes saw a Gnoll boy looking at her. He looked like any other Gnoll boy his age, barely eleven. But he stuck together with the others. And he had one thing that set him apart.

A little, delicately carved amulet made out of stone. It was a very simple design. Two crossed points, like arrows.

Or spears. Mrsha looked at the Stone Spears children, and they pointed at her like a ghost.

As Shaman Theikha hurried after Mrell, Vetn, Tesy, and Rose, the children realized who it was. And they reacted.

In many ways, Chieftain Mrell was a huge fool for wanting to surprise Mrsha with this. But give him credit—he was an even bigger idiot for not telling them this was Mrsha, not just any survivor. Perhaps he didn’t know the full story. But what did he think would happen?

A Gnoll with a chunk missing from her ear turned and ran, howling and screaming for the [Shaman]. She hid behind the adult, bursting into tears as that night came back. Another simply recoiled.

“She’s dead! You’re dead!”

Fear. Another Gnoll went to anger.

“You did this! You and that Human!”

She leapt forwards, and more Gaarh Marsh children tackled her as she fought furiously. The little girl was petrified. Other children among the Stone Spears survivors growled or backed away. One whispered.

“White fur. She lost it. She’s a…”

Disastrous? Mrell looked in dismay at the children who had greeted him so affectionately. As if he had expected—

Another child broke forwards and charged Mrsha.

“He’s going to be bad! Gnollpile!”

Fifteen children and a dog tried to leap on him, but he dodged them so fast that Mrell’s jaw dropped in disbelief!

[Evasive Scamper]! The Gnoll almost left an afterimage, and the interception squad tumbled all over each other. He raced at Mrsha—fast. So fast that he was used in the tribe to run messages because he had a class and levels despite his age.

[Survivor]. He leapt, and Mrsha, stunned, waited. For what? A raised paw? A bite? A stone? Mrell charged at the two as the Gnoll tackled Mrsha, and the two went rolling around. He was—Mrell went to pull them apart and saw the boy was hugging Mrsha. And licking her cheek.

“It’s you. You’re alive! Mrsha! Mrsha!”

He hugged her, and Mrsha recognized him. Wasn’t he—was he—?

“Kirne, she’s evil!”

The girl hiding behind the [Shaman] shrieked, but more of the Stone Spears children were racing forwards to surround Mrsha. Others hung back, growling, but Kirne and some others leapt on Mrsha, shouting.

“She’s alive! I knew it! Chieftain Mrell found her!”

“The Winter Sprites saved her! See? I wasn’t lying! See?”

It was a mix of joyous shouting and howls of anger and terror. As it went—Theikha exhaled. It could have been worse. Mrsha, trembling, was patting at Kirne’s head, trying to make sure he was real and she wasn’t dreaming.

“Who’s Mrsha? What are we doing?”

“Gnollpile!”

“No, get off! This is—”

Mrell was covered by little Gnolls and dragged down to nearly suffocate. They had so much energy! Young Gnolls raced about Rose, tugging at her clothes, sniffing her, asking if she had food, wanting to know why she smelled like blood. Like a hundred, well, Mrshas.

It was overwhelming, but Rose couldn’t take her eyes off Mrsha. They were shouting her name! This was a disaster! One of the Weatherfur Gnolls was looking around desperately, but it was too late.

Shaman Theikha had heard. The [Shaman] raised her staff and, with a look of complete unsurprise, brought it down.

“Enough!”

The ground shook. All the Gnolls went tumbling around and then turned to face her. As if casual quaking were nothing to be surprised at, Theikha raised her voice.

“Please get off Chieftain Mrell, children. And all those not of the Stone Spears tribe—go play, but please, leave little Mri and Chieftain Mrell to talk. This is their moment. If you wish to be helpful, you can help pick healing supplies. Off with you.”

“Yes, Shaman.”

The Gnoll children dispersed, obeying her without question. Which was amazing and had a lot to do with Theikha being quite willing to sink them up to their necks in the ground as ‘time-out’ if they didn’t listen.

Mrsha barely noticed. She was just looking at them all. Her tribe. Only…only…

Her eyes were filled with tears. She really had thought she was the last one! But of them all—only she had white fur. Of them all, only she had inherited that terrible curse.

Because it was her fault? Because someone had helped twist fate that day? Mrsha looked at the Gnolls cursing her, and she knew them all. They expected her not to talk, but when she held up a card, they blinked and yelped. Mrell, sitting up with dirt all over his fur, went to go to Mrsha and…

And stopped. He watched as she began to write, embraced Kirne, and tried to talk to the others, some of whom spat at her or tried to attack her. Mrell did try to stop that, but Theikha tripped him, and Vetn, Tesy, and Rose sat on him. The [Shaman] watched, occasionally speaking, but letting Mrsha handle it.

For better or worse, their anger, fear, distrust, happiness, or sadness. The Great Shaman of Gaarh Marsh let them have it and let Mrsha see it.

“General Shivertail was afraid they would be hunted down, so he hid them. Not a single one was marked like her, though. I wonder if it had something to do with how she was saved. Once, her kind had a different name. They did something terrible, but I wonder if all we do is wrong.”

The [Shaman] whispered, her eyes on Mrsha. Then she looked at Mrell. The [Chieftain] had gone pale, but Theikha just shook her head.

“This is a time of great calamity, Chieftain Mrell. If I was purely superstitious…but one child? I will not lay it all on a color. Neither can I ignore all our warnings and stories. Perhaps new children like Satar Silverfang will find the truth of it. But while she stands here—Weatherfur protects Mrsha Stone Spears?”

She looked at the four Gnolls, and they bowed deeply.

“From Chieftain Torishi’s own mouth, Weatherfur does, Great Shaman. To the end of our lives. White is a color. I could dye my fur tomorrow.”

One of the warriors looked at Theikha, and the [Shaman] inclined her head.

“Then she is safe in Gaarh Marsh. Though half my [Shamans] would object. But I see her and see a child, precocious, and all too spoiled perhaps, but a child.”

Mrsha’s ears twitched, and Theikha nodded.

“Yes, you.”

“You changed your mind so quickly, Honored Theikha.”

Vetn remarked neutrally. Mrell and Rose looked at Theikha, and the Gnoll gave him a stern look.

“I’m old, not unadaptive, young Gnoll who has no visible class. Which suggests you’re probably up to no good. ”

The [Thief] bit his tongue, and Theikha harrumphed.

“I am not certain Doombringers must die. Nor am I sure they bring no danger. But I listen to wisdom.”

“And is wisdom children’s words? Deeds done, not what tradition says?”

Mrell saw Theikha blink at him. She rolled her eyes.

“No, Chieftain Mrell. Wisdom is the oldest being in the Meeting of Tribes. Older than me. If she truly was evil—wisdom and the wrath of my tribe would have surely moved.”

She pointed up. The Earth Elemental, Khoteizetrough, sat still. Perhaps it hadn’t noticed Mrsha. Or perhaps it had and was thinking of what to do. Slowly. Like a tree thought.

But so long as it didn’t move…Theikha looked at Mrsha. She was in a huddle of children, watching her write, trying to understand her story as she leaked tears and snot, no longer Mrsha du Marquin, Mrsha the Magnificently Munificent…just Mrsha Stone Spears.

No longer alone.

“Now might be a good time to join them. Delicately.”

So Rose did and found children sniffing her hands, begging for her to give them piggy-back rides. She watched as Mrsha cried, talked with the others, and tried to bridge the gap. In the background, a war was being fought.

This mattered, though. And it was all Rose could do. What she didn’t notice, what Theikha watched as night fell and Mrsha left, promising to come back tomorrow, was the way a hill moved.

A slowly-turning head. So slow you would have to watch over hours. A blank face of moss and stone and dirt slowly changing. Developing mossy eyes.

Staring at the little Gnoll. The girl with white fur. The [Druid]. The Doombringer?

The Great Shaman looked up—and waited to see how the Meeting of Tribes would end.

——

There would be a great slaughter, before this was over. Teeth in the darkness.

She knew it. The Raskghar stalked through the dark camp, following the little girl as she and her guards headed back home. She had stayed away from Gaarh Marsh. That giant…thing…scared her.

So did the powerful [Shaman]. Even now, she didn’t like that Drake with the brush or the one who seemed too spry on his feet. But there were four guards on the little girl now.

And she had six Raskghar besides herself and all the surprise in the world. The Human was chatting to Mrsha, who looked subdued, having cried and exhausted herself.

All the Gnolls were subdued in the Meeting of Tribes. No festivities. No crowds. Nokha and six shadows slowly stalked down the street.

From afar, they looked like Gnolls. Maybe a bit taller than average, and if they didn’t hide their smell, they smelled like…blood. Death.

But they hid their smell, and only when you got close did you realize something was wrong. Their claws were too long. They were hunched to look smaller, and they were far larger, like some primordial offshoot of Gnolls.

And then it was too late. Each Raskghar didn’t need the moon anymore, though it would give them the peak of strength. They brushed past Gnolls who glanced back, puzzled, but didn’t dwell on it long enough.

“Crabs! Lobster! You, Miss! Want a crab?”

A vendor tried to get Nokha’s attention, and she ignored them. Irritating pests. She was locked onto her quarry. Someone pulled a wagon in front of her, and the Raskghar stalked around it. There! She was nearly on them—but the power of consumerism was getting in the way!

“Excuse me! Miss? Miss? Can I interest you in a deal?”

Of all the parts of the Meeting of Tribes, the merchant-quarter hadn’t stopped or slackened. If anything, it had picked up its pace. An annoying Gnoll with a huge, beaming smile was trying to make a sale to the seven Raskghar.

In the dim light, she probably took them for a tribe she didn’t recognize. As they headed through a quieter part of the camp, the [Salesperson] followed. Nokha glanced over her shoulder and saw one of her people licking her lips.

“Fine. Save her for later.”

She muttered. She wasn’t interested in this Gnoll. That Golden Gnoll…the oblivious Gnoll kept chattering on as the Raskghar sped up.

Almost. The girl was passing by a large, abandoned tent for gatherings that no one was using. One of the Raskghar casually slowed up as the Gnoll talking to Nokha kept speaking.

“I have just the deal for you, Miss. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before, but I think your fur could use a little bit of a combing. Maybe some shampoo? We’re both Gnolls here, and you know as well as I that you have a bit of a pong.”

Nokha rolled her eyes and heard sniggers from the Raskghar. The Gnoll politely laughed along.

“Yes, well, can I interest you in some no-dandruff, no-clinging smells, all-natural shampoo? Gives your fur a sheen.”

“No.”

The Raskghar creeping up on the Gnoll waited, grinning, as the poor Gnoll blathered on.

“No interest at all? Okay, then. Can I interest you in an all-expenses paid, all-inclusive ambush?”

“No—hm?”

Nokha turned her head with a frown just before she saw the gleaming eyes open in the shadow of the tent ahead of her. She looked up, and the Gnoll [Salesperson] with the little badge of an eye on her shoulder—ducked.

The thunk and fwit sounds of nearly two dozen crossbows and bows loosing in unison were drowned out by the roar as nearly three-dozen [Shamanic Warriors] leapt out of their hiding places.

They had been invisible! But that was their—

Nokha saw Merish charging at her and reached for her sword, only to go blind, deaf—but unfortunately still able to feel the axe bury itself in her shoulder. She saw the spellcaster just for a second.

Shaman Ulcreziek drew an eye in the air and crossed it out with one paw as the Raskghar went blind. Not that he truly needed to.

Three were dead in the opening volley, staring up blindly, riddled with arrows and bolts. The other three dropped just as fast as a hatchet buried itself in one’s skull. The last two swung around blindly and were cut down.

Nokha, though, was about to be beheaded by Merish when Ulcre spoke.

“No, leave it alive. We need to question it and find if more exist. Raskghar, preying on our people.”

He snarled as he walked over. His eye focused on Nokha, then swept back to stare at the child. Why had that Raskghar been going after that girl? Perhaps Mrell or the Human?

Nokha snarled up blindly at him. Ulcre put his staff on her head and leaned on it as Merish, panting, looked at him.

“This thing thought it could hide from us. Chain it and interrogate it. Chieftain Xherw will want to see it. Then we will present it to the other tribes. Well done, Warrior Merish. I can see a lack of fighting spirit was not to blame for your failing.”

He beckoned Merish, and the Gnoll stepped back. He looked down at the Raskghar. This was a monster. He had no doubt. Yelroan was mad. He ducked his head and followed the [Shaman].

“What is my next task, Shaman?”

“We will see. Your faith in the tribe has never wavered, Merish. Perhaps it is time to tell you why we hunt Doom. That is for Xherw to decide. Or perhaps we must simply fight. Such monsters will not end us, though.”

Blind, deaf, and wounded, Nokha thrashed until someone bound her and kicked her in the sides. Then she curled up.

She was so close! The Raskghar snarled. Almost. Almost! It wasn’t fair.

“I almost had that…prey. Almost. I almost had the white Gnoll.”

The Raskghar growled into the dirt. She did not weep. Prey wept. But she couldn’t help but moan. She didn’t see Ulcre or Merish stop in their tracks. The [Shaman] looked back, and Merish stiffened. Ulcre looked at him and breathed as he whirled.

“Merish. Perhaps your hunt has not ended yet.”

8.67

[The Wandering Inn is conducting a 2022 survey! Please consider filling it out here!]

[The author is on break until March 8th! See you then.]

When he grew up, they told him he’d been in the tribe. Grown up on the Great Plains. But he was too young to remember.

This vast wilderness, free of cities and roads, was alien to him. Terrifying, even. He liked his warm bed and a roof over his head.

Yurts were drafty. The walls, however thick the cloth was, even if they could survive storms, felt flimsy compared to enchanted stone.

This was not his home.

And yet it was.

Tkrn knew Gnolls had always been here. This was their land, and it said something that after so many ages, what his people had done was…keep it the same.

Not turn it into a world of stone and glass, but live here. He began to understand when he ran around like a child and everywhere he turned his head he saw green. As if the world were infinite, and he could shout and scream and run and never reach the end of it.

Adventure. Freedom.

He still liked Liscor more. But this wasn’t so bad. Tkrn’s friends were Drakes. He lived in a Drake city.

So it was so terribly strange to see them here, like scaled invaders, dragging their tails across burnt grass, holding shields in their famous Drake formations, neatly arranged like pieces on a chessboard, across from the Gnolls howling and blowing horns.

War. Tkrn had known battles. This was different. This reminded him of Liscor’s short siege, but unlike then—it did not smell of mud and rot as the spring rains receded.

This smelled like autumn. The first tang of it hung in the air, drowned out by the smell of smoke. The Drakes had been setting fires, baiting the Gnoll tribes into attacking them.

So smoke, ash, and rain from the shower pattering down onto the Demas Metal armor he wore. It coated the armor like a liquid, but didn’t make it feel heavier. Gnolls like Dekava, from the Silverfang tribe, were envious.

Chieftain Mrell had given Tkrn a full suit of the armor, and he carried an Eyeshield of the Plain’s Eye tribe and a shortsword of Demas Metal. The drizzling rain had extended the blade, and the watery edge looked like it was constantly flowing, rippling with the rain.

I look like a Gold-rank adventurer, Tkrn realized. He raised his head and saw a ripple in the rain, coming down from sparse clouds. Overhead, something shifted, and he heard a snarl.

“Shields up! Head down, you idiot!”

A Silverfang [Warrior] snarled at Tkrn. The helmeted head of the [Guardsman] looked blankly at the Gnoll; an arrow snapped off the top of the enchanted shield Tkrn was holding as the other Gnolls ducked their heads, growling.

I know my job. Tkrn wanted to say that, but he heard a howl and a voice.

“Silverfangs, to me!”

Shaman Cetrule was pointing, and the Silverfang warriors advanced, falling in to march towards the enemy alongside Ekhtouch and Longstalker’s Fang. Each tribe moved under command of their leaders, splitting up, loosing arrows, or retreating after fighting, but Feshi Weatherfur and Yerranola were among the [Strategists] and [Chieftains] coordinating them.

Chaos. Now Tkrn saw the front, where Drakes stood in line, fighting Gnolls who surged forwards and back. The Drakes listened to the bellowed commands of their officers; the Gnoll warriors howled, communicating with each other, cursing their enemies.

A contrast. Tkrn smelled blood, and that was the same, heavy iron. But both species fought so differently.

Drakes fought like Liscor; each Drake held the line. Where that line was changed, but they moved together, in unity.

The Gnoll tribes were scattered, free-form. The Drakes hated losing ground. They took strategic positions, tried to hammer their opponents with archers from elevation, and unleashed magic as they advanced step-by-step.

By contrast, the tribes treated the battle like Gnolls saw it. They would abandon a position if they thought they could save lives or attack elsewhere and didn’t stick long in the fighting. They preferred to harry their opponents, loosing arrows, even switching from bow to blade.

Organization versus versatility or something. Tkrn was no strategist.

He saw another ripple in the sky and angled his shield. The trick was knowing where your helmet was. Despite the Silverfang warrior’s snarling, Tkrn’s helmet would save him from all but an arrow through the front. So if he held his shield like this—slightly in front of him, angled upwards—he could peek out with minimal risk.

He felt like he was dreaming. Cetrule was shouting orders, and Tkrn looked around for the person he’d been asked to protect. Who Xherw had suggested he accompany. His friends.

Ekhtouch had sent fifty warriors total into this battle, where tens of thousands of warriors were taking part on one side alone. Was it eighty thousand Drakes?

Tkrn didn’t know. It was so spread out he couldn’t see all of them, but he thought he did see Gire.

Only one Gnoll was so tall. She wore armor from head-to-toe, treated magical leather rather than metal. She carried a number of javelins under one arm, and the Ekhtouch Gnolls each had a weapon they were most suited for. Many carried spare throwing weapons, and they set up a position here.

On the edges of the fighting. In the center, Steelfur and other great tribes led the offensive. Adetr Steelfur himself was in the front, swinging a pair of enchanted axes and howling as arrows and spears tried to pierce his fur.

In truth, Silverfang was not considered a mighty tribe, and Ekhtouch was so small that, despite their fame, this was a small area of the fighting. That might soon change. Tkrn edged out of line.

In a Drake army, they’d probably stab him for that. Here?

“Tkrn, where are you going?”

Dekava turned, eyes wide, and Tkrn waved at her.

“I’m going to join Ekhtouch. Cetrule knows!”

He jogged across the battlefield, a short eighty paces as Silverfangs looked incredulously at each other.

What was that idiot doing?

Some Drakes on one of the hills might have thought the same thing, because Tkrn felt an unpleasant sensation on his arm. He looked at his right shoulder and swore.

“Aaah!”

He was marked! A glowing rune was shining off his armor! Tkrn went running as a volley of arrows began to target him. He threw up his shield and ducked his head behind it. He prayed Demas Metal was as good as he hoped.

Ping! Ping! Ping!

The sound of arrows rattling off his armor had a far higher-pitched sound than he expected. Tkrn barely felt it, but Dekava gasped.

“Tkrn!”

The Gnoll [Guardsman] checked himself. An entire volley of arrows was embedded in the grass around him; the ones that had struck him had glanced off.

“Wow. That’s am—”

He lifted his shield and ran as a second volley of arrows began to land around him. But it stopped almost immediately; whoever had ordered the rain of arrows had probably seen it was as good as spit.

Tkrn was very surprised. But what he didn’t realize as he ran, swearing and trying not to pee, was how even the other Gnolls were looking at him.

Even for Gnolls, who let warriors fight individually, it was a kind of crazy to run away from your group and make yourself a target like that. Even Dekava, who was a seasoned warrior and hunter, was shaking and tense in this battle.

But Tkrn?

He looked at the enemy. Drakes. Poor [Soldiers] following stupid orders. He didn’t see Drakes as the enemy because many were his friends. But they’d kill him, and he’d kill them.

He’d be scared stupid if he had to charge at them. A wall of gleaming spears? Drakes armed with swords in the second rank, teeth shining as they bared them, armored tails lashing? Even with the armor, Tkrn would be so afraid.

At the same time…that was all they had. There were their commanding officers, high-level, a [General] whirling a massive halberd around his head and roaring orders like he was right out of Satar’s storybooks. Zeresian forces, with their light armor they could swim in, ranks of [Javelineers] hurling enchanted weapons, and their swashbuckling infantry. Dangerous, and Tkrn knew that.

But that was all they had. Tkrn didn’t freeze or panic. He could move, even run to Ekhtouch as his boots tromped through soggy grass and splintered arrow shafts, because he’d looked [Terror] in the eyes.

He’d seen two red gemstone eyes in a mask of dead flesh. Smelled rotten flesh so old it had turned into something else, stretched and patched into armor over a beast that commanded undead.

He’d torn through a giant moth with a razor mouth trying to eat his face off as they landed around him. He’d seen the Raskghar devouring his people and led by a fallen Silver-rank adventurer.

He hadn’t done much in those battles, but he’d seen tens of thousands of Goblins break the Goblin Lord’s army, following a white flag and a Human girl. Tkrn was not that brave.

But he could do this.

“Tkrn?”

Gireulashia was surveying the battlefield, a javelin in one paw. She turned to him, and her eyes were wide. She was younger than he was, and she looked like it as Tkrn slowed.

“I’m, uh, here to help. I promised Mrsha I’d be with you.”

Tkrn felt stupid, but Gire looked relieved. The Ekhtouch warriors snorted at his armor, but made room for Tkrn.

“Honored Gireulashia, they haven’t noticed us. What are your orders?”

Tkrn blinked. They were making Gire, a fifteen year-old girl, their leader? It seemed like Ekhtouch truly did obey their hierarchy at all times.

“So many Drakes. I see Adetr there. Feshi and Yerra there. Lehra…there she is.”

Gire looked around, almost as wonderingly as Tkrn. Yet she saw spots in that chaos, pointing a huge paw. Tkrn squinted. He had seen Adetr fighting amongst Steelfur Gnolls. The Drakes were engulfing their push on all sides, but Steelfur refused to fall.

It looked like a thin protrusion in a line at the heart of the battle. Solid Drake lines slightly pushed by Steelfur. On the edges, lines of Drakes held firm, rotating out, falling back only grudgingly as Gnolls charged and retreated.

Where was Feshi? Ah, there. A safe position on one of the hills. Not natural ground; Tkrn eyed the raised mound of dirt. A [Shaman] must have done that. Archers surrounded it, loosing long-ranged shots.

Longstalker’s Fang and Hawkarrow, probably. Gire pointed next at a flash of light. A rapidly-changing area of the battlefield where an entire battalion of Drakes was running back.

Because of the Stargnoll and her team. Stargazer’s Promise fought like adventurers, the four of them driving back ordinary [Soldiers].

Lehra, brandishing a glowing sword, armored in a metal beyond even Tkrn’s gear. Suxhel, hanging back, throwing spells and glaring at her enemies with her eyes, the Gazer protected from enemies by Elgrinna, the Dwarf, and Emper. The Stitch-man and Dwarf lashed out, Elgrinna holding a shield and axe, Emper spinning his staff, deflecting even arrows as Lehra fought ahead of the other three.

Adventurers in a battle. Those were the Gnolls that Tkrn knew. There were other famous heroes, of course.

Gnolls wearing Krakenhide armor, barely two dozen of them, crashed into Drake lines, as fearless as any [Knights], lashing out with weapons carved of Kraken ivory. Tkrn thought he saw extra appendages mixed with the flailing limbs; a tentacle or slashing arm that struck a Drake down.

Armor fashioned by one of the Gnoll’s greatest [Tailors] living. And [Shamans] from Weatherfur, one of the famous Great Tribes, were battling the Drakes, calling down shamanic magic.

Unlike [Mage] spells, theirs were closer to a [Druid]’s magic, a gathering of power. One was conjuring walls of thorns underneath Drake feet, ensnaring them and leaving them easy prey. Another was simply raising a staff and open paw to the sky.

Glowing orbs of light were gathering overhead, floating out of Weatherfur Gnolls, even those engulfed in the fighting. They gathered into a larger sphere of glowing light, bright green. Almost friendly.

Aside from the fact that when the Gnoll threw it, it struck a barrier of magic, expanded, and left a hole thirty feet wide in the ground as it exploded.

Faced with so many famous tribes, high-level individuals, it would have been amazing for any ordinary army to hold against them.

However, Zeres itself had backed the disparate groups that combined into this main army. A non-Zeresian [General] cut a [Fireball] in two with his halberd, holding the center against Steelfur Gnolls.

Those [Javelineers] were hurling enchanted weapons that exploded, bringing Gnolls down, and as Tkrn watched, a cabal of Drake [Mages] exchanged fire with the [Shamans], hurtling [Lightning Bolts] and [Fireballs] across the battlefield.

“Zeresian [Lineholders] and [Marines]. They’re keeping our warriors from the [Archers]. Those [Javelineers] are striking down anything trying to flank them. Heavy cavalry…I don’t know the city. Weatherfur’s Gnolls are losing to them.”

Gire pointed out fighting on both wings as Gnolls and Drakes—the Drakes wearing heavy armor, and with plated mounts—dueled in fast flurries of fighting. Gire looked around and nodded, coming to a conclusion in a matter of seconds. Tkrn was still stuck on ‘that’s a lot of fighting’.

“Feshi has to break through or we’ll lose. That [General] is a target. So are the [Mages] and [Javelineers]. We target the throwers.”

Ekhtouch’s Gnolls nodded and rotated their position. Tkrn saw thirty-one of the fifty Gnolls plus Gire plant arrows in the ground or ready spears, handing some to other Gnolls to serve as ammunition-holders. The rest simply stood, shields up, searching for enemies coming their way.

“Er…Gire? Do you want to coordinate with Silverfang or something?”

Tkrn hated to burst Gire’s bubble, but Ekhtouch did not look that impressive. There were eight hundred, nearly a thousand Drakes armed with javelins.

Plus, Gire was out of range. Tkrn wasn’t an expert on javelin-throwing, but he assumed you could toss a pilum or javelin about a hundred feet and hit someone. Ekhtouch and the advancing Silverfang line were both several hundred feet from the enemy. From the encamped javelineers?

Six hundred feet. A longbow could hit them…maybe, if you were a good shot. Throwing weapons? No chance.

Four of Ekhtouch’s Gnolls had longbows. Tkrn watched as the Gnolls gauged the distance, checked the wind, squinted down the shafts of their arrows, and then Gire hefted her javelin. She barely looked at the enemy.

“Ready? Loose or whatever.”

A military leader she was not. Nor was Ekhtouch. Some had already shot their first arrow, and they didn’t volley, but shot like each one was hunting.

Individualistic perfectionists. Tkrn lost track of the arrows, even Gire’s javelin, the lone throwing weapon among the arrows in the sky. He watched the distant Drakes throwing spears of their own. There was no way—

He blinked as a tiny figure in the distance suddenly clawed at their shoulder and dropped. Suddenly…twenty Drakes fell down, and confusion erupted around them. One of them had a distinctly long-looking shaft of wood stuck in their belly.

Tkrn’s mouth fell open. He turned and saw a tall Gnoll—not Gire’s nine feet, ‘only’ seven and a half—aiming a recurve bow high up.

“Wind…now. [Tracer Shot].”

A glowing arrow sped upwards, creating a glowing arc, what Yelroan would call a parabola, through the sky, and Tkrn saw it fly. Practically floating as the wind blew it straight towards the Gnoll [Archer]’s mark.

The [Markswoman] grunted as it hit a Drake in the helmet. She growled at the others.

“Adjust your aim on that. A third of you missed. Shameful!”

The Ekhtouch Gnolls began adjusting their aim. Tkrn knew the Watch of Liscor didn’t hit targets nearly as far. Two thirds had hit a mark? At that range?

Gire picked up another javelin, calmly peering around.

“Oh, officer.”

Her arm blurred, and her entire body seemed to rotate. She drew back, arching over incredibly far, then seemed to throw her entire form forwards and shift it into a throw, putting all the momentum into one arm.

The javelin vanished. Gire shaded her eyes as a Gnoll handed her another spear instantly. She smiled after fifteen seconds.

“Got him.”

Tkrn’s jaw was so far open he was in danger of swallowing an arrow. And, oh—they were coming. The first Ekhtouch Gnolls snarled as the Drakes realized some highly-skilled enemies were onto them.

“Javelins and arrows! Dodge!”

She flipped out of the way, and the other Ekhtouch Gnolls performed similar displays. One howled in pain, and another grabbed a potion as arrows pattered around them.

“Enchanted arrows! [Interception Fire]!”

A Gnoll swept a bow up. He shot a regular arrow into the sky, and a bloom of fire proved he’d hit a target. Tkrn kept his shield raised, trying to shield Gire’s…lower ribcage and left side. He realized he couldn’t really protect her; she was far too tall!

“Gire! If you need to take cover, get behind me!”

“Thank you, Tkrn. I’m f—”

Gire smiled sidelong at him, then caught something. She inspected an enchanted arrow, the tip frozen solid, and handed it to a Gnoll next to her.

“Javelin.”

She reached out, accepted one, and threw it. She hit her target, Tkrn had no doubt.

What an incredible, ridiculous girl. A [Paragon]. All of them. Ekhtouch kept shooting and hitting their targets. Tkrn watched Gire as the Drakes began to take more notice of her. She was surveying the battlefield, throwing javelins, looking for an opening. Doing all of that at once at her age.

But…he heard her murmuring.

“Three.”

She picked up a javelin, threw it, and was throwing another one when she spoke again.

“Four. I don’t know who they are.”

Tkrn looked up at her. One of the Ekhtouch Gnolls handing her javelins was watching her. Gire’s eyes were bright.

“I killed four people. Five, now. I never have before.”

Her paw trembled so slightly as she lifted the javelin that only Tkrn saw it. Gire looked up. She never stopped moving. She was entirely rational; she didn’t hesitate or miss. She knew the stakes. But she just looked at Tkrn, in that brief rotation of her body as she went to throw the javelin.

“It’s too easy.”

He watched her aging, that girl, with each javelin. Each rotation of her arm. Tkrn lifted his shield higher. He couldn’t shoot a bow or throw anything. But he’d keep her safe.

Or die trying.

——

On the Drake side of the battle, Zeres’ commanders noticed Ekhtouch’s arrival like they had marked Lehra, Steelfur, and the other significant Gnolls.

They had a different approach to the battle, however.

“Ekhtouch is on the field. They’re assaulting our javelin-lines. There is a tall Gnoll among them. Their [Paragon].”

“Good. Kill her.”

One of their leaders was an officer of their throwing-divisions. A [Thousand-Foot Javelineer Major]. He was accompanied by several Drake [Mages] from various cities and a few [Strategists] in his position.

He had specific orders from Zeres’ own Admiralty. Win the battle if possible, but more importantly—kill any Gnolls belonging to a tribe with unique war-capabilities, or famous heroes.

Like Lehra Ruinstrider. Reclaiming the Blade of Mershi was a war asset, and Wall Lord Dragial had posted a bounty in addition to the one already on her head. Of course, if the [Javelineer Major] got it, he’d turn it over to Zeres.

“Javelin.”

He put out a claw, and his [Munitions Expert] placed one in his claw. Of course, an entire class just for someone who held and handed out resupplies of equipment wasn’t impressive if that was all they could do.

That was why, as three dozen Drakes around the [Major] put their hands out, the same Drake handed them each a javelin, according to their needs. The [Major]’s was a [Seeking]-[Piercer] javelin.

Officer-killer. If they could, Zeres would recover each one thrown, because they were expensive. No non-Walled City could field so many. He took aim at the tall Gnoll.

[Doubled Velocity]. [Invisible Cast]. [Enhanced Strength: Throwing]—

The invisible, seeking spear shot through the air like a bolt of lightning. It curved, and the [Major] put out a claw.

“Javelin. Missed.”

She’d dodged. Somehow, the [Paragon] saw it coming. She threw herself out of the way, and he had another javelin in the air. He saw the distant shape whirl—and spot him.

“Incoming!”

Drakes cried out as Ekhtouch showered them with deadly arrows. The [Major] frowned. He looked up—and threw his javelin. Then he cursed.

“Incoming—”

He threw himself sideways as a javelin thunked into the ground so hard it split, leaving half of it cratered deep in the earth. Right where his head would have been. The Drake looked at the javelin.

“That’s unenchanted.”

The [Munitions Expert] blinked. The [Major] snapped.

“Javelin! Explosive tip!”

He raised the javelin and threw it. This time, he watched where it landed; the [Paragon] sprinted to cover, carrying a Gnoll in full-body armor to safety. He snarled—

“Sir!”

The [Major] ducked a second javelin. He stared. Had she just put that into the air before him? Ridiculous!

“Javelin!”

He put a claw out, and one slapped itself into his grip. He raised his javelin—and saw a third flicker going for his groin—

“Gyaah!”

The [Major] twisted, dropping the javelin as he did. He put out a claw, shaken.

“Jav—”

The javelin of the [Paragon] flashed past the left side of his head as one of the rings he wore overloaded, keeping it from his scales. The [Major] looked down at the ring that had saved his life. He backed up.

“Mark that Gnoll! Pull three companies and take her down! Now!”

He wasn’t above bringing his entire company to the duel. The Ekhtouch Gnolls fell back as hundreds of arrows and javelins began to rain down around them. Then a few began to die. But not the [Paragon].

——

It frustrated Feshi as much as it did Gire. The Gnoll [Paragon] panted into the speaking stone.

“I can’t get him. He’s too far. I thought I could, but his ring saved him. Ekhtouch is falling back.”

“Understood. Shaman Cetrule—move Silverfang forwards. Attack the Drakes there. [Mark Position].”

Feshi pointed, and a spot that only she and the [Shaman] could see lit up. She heard Cetrule’s growled reply a second before she switched targets of her speaking stone, cutting him off.

“I see it, Strategist Feshi. Silverfangs—”

From her ground, she and Yerranola were watching the battle. Gire had announced she was going after the Drake commander of the javelin-group, and Feshi had let her try. She was amazed Ekhtouch could hit them.

“If only we had a thousand, we’d have won already. Gire, get to cover.”

The Selphid turned from barking orders into her speaking stone.

“If wishes were artifacts, we’d be rich, Feshi.”

True enough. Feshi clamped her lips shut; the normally-chipper Yerranola looked serious and intense. She waited for Gire’s reply.

“I’m using Tkrn as a shield. We’re safe. Come on, Tkrn—”

Feshi was watching the battlefield with a Skill as well as her eyes. She had an aerial view of the battle—even the Professor had one. She was smart enough not to focus too long on one spot, even though Yerranola was there. She was not in command over everything, but she was close.

Even so, it was hard not to focus on what she thought was Gire sprinting away from the danger zone, holding Tkrn over her head like some kind of floppy umbrella.

Ridiculous. But that was adventurers and unique individuals like Gire for you. Nasty variables, the Professor called them. Even the most unpredictable enemy officer wouldn’t be as weird as civilians.

“Undead—advance!”

Feshi directed her attention back to her specific command. She saw a group of six undead champions of Khelt, the max the dagger could summon, charging a flank of scared Drakes. Their enchanted weapons and armor did a lot of damage—but they were outnumbered. Two went down fast, vanishing, returning to wherever they had been summoned from.

The Diamond Dagger of Serept was an asset. Free, summoned warriors. The sacrificial charge wasted all six, and it would take time for the dagger to allow her to summon more, but it slowed down an entire regiment of Drakes, allowing the tribes to complete a flanking maneuver.

“Nice undead charge, Feshi! Grandma’s tits, but this is ugly! Adetr Steelfur, you’re in too deep! I don’t care if you’re winning, you’ll be cut off! You want a charge? Charge left! There we go…”

Yerranola cursed. Feshi had to agree.

Were they winning or losing? And more importantly, if they were doing either, how badly were they taking casualties? Each Gnoll that died was a loss forever. Feshi would rather ‘lose’ with everyone wounded and able to fight later than win with ten thousand deaths.

So would the Drakes. She broke away from watching the Silverfangs charge under Cetrule’s [Wards of Defense]. They were doing well. Were those magic blades? She wished someone would have told her they were armed with magic!

“Yerra—how are we doing? Break and huddle.”

Yerra looked up. Then the Selphid put down her stone and looked at Feshi. The Weatherfur Gnoll was sweating. The battle had barely begun, but she was shaking, sick—

And leading. She hadn’t graduated, but she had already been a [Tactician] when she came to the Professor’s academy. She could do this. But she had to—

Win. And because he had taught her well, Feshi stepped back from commanding to realize something.

“What’s up, Feshi? How do you think we’re doing? The enemy leadership isn’t that good. They’re solid, but not original. I’m not as scared as I would be if Venaz were doing this. Mind you—we’re not winning any awards either. Is that it?”

Feshi growled. Then Yerranola had sensed it too.

“Yes. We’re facing the Selphid’s Dilemma.”

The what? A few other Gnolls coordinating the battle looked up. They were good leaders, who had more practical experience. Feshi and Yerranola, though, had studied terminology and gone academic.

Selphid’s Dilemma was a way of explaining what the two were facing. Which was—a [Strategist] or a [General] or whatever who knew what they wanted and what to do, and who couldn’t make it happen.

Like a Selphid’s own problems with a rotting body. Muscles would degrade, rendering limbs less mobile or useless over time. Hence the nickname.

The Gnoll tribes were not…moving like Feshi wanted them to. They listened, but sometimes they argued or took their time reacting. Had she been leading the Drake army, she’d have done better, but her people were less coordinated. Tactically, they were perfect, but these were disparate tribes!

“We can’t perform sharp maneuvering unless it’s Skill-based, Yerra. And we need something sharp. The Drakes have their back lines well-guarded. We need to break them open, or they’ll win the ranged battle.”

“Agreed. Who are we going to get?”

Feshi snatched up the speaking stone.

“Lehra? I have a mission for you.”

She heard confused shouting and then a calm voice, despite the battle.

“[Spears of Light]. Lehra, you are too far forwards. This is Suxhel. Feshi, what do you need?”

Feshi could see the Named-rank adventurer and her team in her Skill-view, pushing hard towards the center of the fighting. Lehra was scaring the Drakes; she was fighting impressively, but she and Steelfur were useless in the vanguard. Oh, they did damage, but that wasn’t how you won a battle! The Drakes were concentrating their strength there, checking the Gnolls’ best hammers. They had to hit them where they were weak and fold up their army.

“Tell Lehra to fall back! I need you to all regroup. Stargazer’s Promise will fall back, cast [Invisibility], and circle the battlefield. If you have to, go through the [Riders], or you can break through spear lines—get those archers! Throw them into chaos. Do you need more direction?”

Suxhel hesitated.

“I do not. [Barrier of Light]. But Lehra—Lehra! Fall back! Feshi needs you!”

Dimly, Feshi heard a voice roaring back, excited, over the shouting.

“I see the [General], Suxhel! Cover me! I’m going to take him out!”

“No!”

Feshi and Suxhel shouted it at the same time, but it was too late. The Stargnoll went charging towards the Drake with the halberd, who whirled and pointed at her.

“The Stargnoll herself! Thief! Fight me like a Drake!”

“Fight you? I’ll fight you like a Gnoll—ulp!”

The ulp was the halberd hitting Lehra so hard she went crashing back into Emper. Feshi swore as the [General] and his bodyguard engulfed Stargazer’s Promise. Suxhel stopped replying; her team was fighting for their lives.

“Damn! Adventurers!”

This was why the Professor told her never to rely on them! Worse, she knew Lehra had been sucked up into her mindset. If she could take out the enemy [General]…

But that was a gamble. It appealed to Lehra’s pride as a warrior, but Feshi didn’t like gambling. She knew that Lehra was a certified Named Adventurer. But she’d been Bronze-rank or barely Silver when she found the Blade of Mershi.

If she were the Drake commander, she’d bet on that [General], a seasoned warrior, killing her. Now she had to bail Lehra out of the fighting. Feshi looked around. She checked her dagger and spoke.

“I summon a warrior of Khelt! By my blade—protect the Stargnoll! Arise and fight!”

Outside of the tent, twenty feet away, a portal opened, and an undead Drake arose, holding twin daggers. It raced down the hill to throw itself into the fighting.

Am I wasting the undead? I’m not being optimal, but they’re not listening! Feshi’s mind raced as she heard shouting from Yerranola.

“Fall back, Hawkarrow! Fall—I think Chieftain Eitha’s down.”

She raised her head, and Gnolls cursed and turned. Feshi switched over to that side of the battle and saw a Gnoll with a giant crossbow clawing at an arrow in her leg as Drakes raced towards her. Hawkarrow’s Gnolls were trying to get her up, but they were running from the cavalry charge.

“Someone get Chieftain Eitha!”

Feshi shouted. She saw a desperate stand as the Gnoll Chieftain’s tribe tried to put themselves in the way of the charging Drakes.

Even another Silver-rank team. But would they make it? The Drakes were aiming at Eitha, no one else.

——

“Chieftain Eitha! Get up!”

Nailren was loosing arrows as The Pride of Kelia and Hawkarrow’s archers tried to shoot the armored Drakes off their horses. His arrows glanced off the armored horses. He didn’t want to kill them, but he was trying to hit them in the eyes—but they had blinker hoods on.

The Pride of Kelia, a Silver-rank team that had been around Liscor, had joined the fighting for their homeland. More Gnolls were bracing with Nailren’s team, but they were too slow. Gnolls carrying her on foot couldn’t stop that charge.

The Silver-rank team had come back for the famous Meeting of Tribes after struggling against Liscor’s dungeon and then the disastrous raid on the Village of the Dead with another team. They had arrived just in time for the war.

A sound like thunder. One of the horses and riders went down as a crossbow bolt pierced through both. Eitha lowered the crossbow, panting.

“Leave me! That is an order! Run!”

Hawkarrow’s warriors looked at the [Riders] and ran. Nailren wanted to stay, but he knew his team couldn’t hold the gap. If only Gold-rank teams were here—

“Chieftain! Chieftain!”

Gnolls were howling as Eitha tossed aside her crossbow, unable to reload it with her Skill so soon. She drew a pair of pocket-crossbows and waited for point-blank range, teeth bared. The enchanted arrow in her leg refused to be healed or come out. An Anchoring Arrow, courtesy of Zeres. It wasn’t poisoned or as deadly…but it left her weakened.

Gnolls on horseback were pursuing the charging Drakes, but the Drakes had lowered lances, aiming for Eitha. Nailren turned back as a terrible howl arose. He looked up as something huge thundered by him. A foot nearly booted him in the face. Nailren blinked as someone rode past him, bursting through Hawkarrow’s lines. But…

Was that a Human?

He saw a young woman with colorful, beautifully-woven clothing, wet from the drizzle, standing up in the stirrups, hand extending as she bent down, brown skin glistening with sweat. Eyes wide with desperation.

“Inkarr!”

A voice shouted from one of the speaking stones that Eitha carried. Nailren just shook his head.

Who?

She was riding towards the Drakes. And unarmored, she was faster. Eitha looked up as she fired her crossbows.

“Get back! Not you! Not—”

Inkar swung herself down across her beloved mare’s saddle and grabbed Eitha under her shoulders in an incredible display of coordination and trust. If her mount had bucked or even twisted—

The Gnoll came up, and Inkar almost screamed with the effort of lifting her—but Eitha grabbed onto the saddle and clung, hauling herself onto the back of the horse.

That only left the Drake [Lancers] now aiming at both Inkar and Eitha. The Gnoll scrambled for a weapon, anything! But Inkar was weaponless, and her horse, Flura, was too slow, even if the [Worldly Traveller] had Skills!

The tips of the lances aimed at horse and rider and Eitha. Inkar closed her eyes—and Nailren, waiting for the impact, heard a pop.

She vanished and appeared half a dozen paces left of the [Lancers], who thundered past her in confusion, looked around, tried to turn—and Inkar was racing away.

“Cover that Human!”

Hawkarrow’s tribe cheered and pelted the Drakes with arrows. Nailren shot a Drake through the helmet as Inkar galloped away, covered by Weatherfur [Riders], who swept the Drakes off their saddles with billhooks and other weapons designed for the task. How had she done that? A scroll? Magic? She had to have the timing of a genius or—

Or was it her? The Human so beloved by Longstalker Fang’s [Magical Weaver], Honored Deskie, that she had made the Human a garment herself.

Waisrabbit fur. Inkar rode away from the fighting, white-knuckled, as Gnolls cheered her name.

——

“Inkar?”

Tkrn nearly screamed into Gire’s speaking stone. What was she doing here? She wasn’t allowed to fight! She’d been arguing with him! But he was a [Guard], and she—

“Quiet. I need to listen.”

Gire covered his mouth with her paw. Ekhtouch had fallen back and were crouching in the grass. One of their [Shamans] had actually cast a spell to make it grow high enough to hide them from the rain of death that had tried to take them out.

It had killed two of Ekhtouch, despite their reflexes. A terrible loss for their tiny tribe. Even now, some were loosing arrows in secret.

Such simple spells. [Grow Grass] was useful. Or rather, [Grassy Meadow]. But still, it was the same basic spell. Who knew?

The same way [Detect Life] could find them here—if you put it on a long-range Skill or enhancement. Tkrn watched the battle with Gire. And he began to see why she was frustrated.

She had tried to take out an officer. She thought logically. The greatest impact Ekhtouch could make was not in decimating the enemy with their paltry numbers, but with taking out dangerous foes.

However, they had failed. And this battle wasn’t going well, for all some people like Inkar were saving valuable lives.

Drakes had [Mages]. They loosed spells with abandon. That was not to say the Gnolls were helpless, but they had only one kind of magic. Collective; there was a limit to how many [Shamans] a tribe could support, and their power was derived from numbers.

The Drakes truly had handicapped their old foes. If Gnolls had an equal number of [Mages] along with their [Shamans]…

But Gnolls had learned long ago to make up for that lack in battle.

“Fireballs! Stay behind me!”

Cetrule’s voice echoed over the speaking stone as Feshi gave him orders, and Gire listened. Tkrn could actually see the [Shaman]. Cetrule was fighting—not directly, but the only way he could.

A Drake [Mage] group was tossing deadly [Fireballs], which could wipe out all of the Silverfangs very quickly. The explosive orbs of fire were precisely scattered to just barely overlap their radiuses.

Hundreds could die within a few volleys. Yet Cetrule galloped, if not as adeptly as Inkar, certainly as bravely. He whirled on horseback and slammed something into the ground as he rode away from the Silverfangs. Not to run; to save them all.

A huge stave of wood, lengthened so it was as long as a spear, one end pointed so it could ram into the ground and stick as Cetrule struck it down in a moment. The top was a far more complex, carved beast of a snarling animal. Inlaid with runes and wards that Cetrule himself had carved.

“[Spellfocus Ward]!”

Cetrule howled, and the [Mages] throwing [Fireballs] cursed as their spells curved. The [Shaman] of the Silverfangs galloped away just in time as six [Fireballs] landed around his magical totem and exploded.

However, the reinforced marker was still standing, and the [Mages]’ next volley of spells all curved around it, missing the Silverfang lines. Instantly, they began screaming at the [Soldiers] to do something about it.

Anti-magic combat. Tkrn saw Gire smile briefly, then look up.

“I have to do something. Or else…I have to. I am a [Paragon]. No one else can.”

“Maybe someone else can?”

Gire gave Tkrn a blank stare. She shook her head with a smile.

“You don’t have to come. Ekhtouch. Eight warriors. Stealth specialists. We’re attacking the enemy. There.”

She pointed, and even Ekhtouch’s warriors looked apprehensive. Tkrn turned pale. Gire eyed him, expecting him to turn away. But he didn’t.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded once.

“I can do it. Let’s go. [Basic Perfect Action: Stealth Run]. [Keep Up With Me].”

She dragged Tkrn to his feet, and then they were running. Eight warriors followed Gire as they passed across the battlefield. Heading straight for the middle of the Drake lines and the javelin-throwing Drakes.

——

“We have a squad coming your way, [Major]. Our anti-stealth specialists mark it as Ekhtouch. [Paragon] again.”

“Damn. Kill that Gnoll!”

She was back for more? The [Major] spun and spotted them as someone broke their stealth Skill. That just made the ten Gnolls, one in armor and far shorter than the others, run faster.

“Command—I see a high-level Gnoll with the [Paragon]. Some kind of warrior with an enchanted shield and their Demas Metal. Mark as high-value. Get me any intelligence you can on it.”

“Marking. No immediate matches. Maybe Demas Metal’s Chieftain or one of their champions? We’ll keep you updated.”

“Command group—target those Ekh—whatevers. [No Overlaps]. Aim! Loose!”

Enchanted javelins and arrows split the air like trails of beautiful comets. They struck the Gnolls and ground, and it was less beautiful.

Four Gnolls went down. The rest broke off, retreating in dismay.

The [Paragon] and that armored warrior kept coming. She looked back, shouted at them, and then ran faster.

“Dead gods. That’s Courier-speed!”

A nine-foot tall sprinter blasted across the battlefield, so quick that Drake units barely caught sight of her before she was gone. Somehow—it had to be a Skill—the armored Gnoll kept up on her heels.

“Javelin! Take aim! Scatter your shots around her!”

The [Paragon] was looking at him. The command group took aim, and she—vanished. The [Major] blinked.

“How…?”

One second she was there, the next? She seemed to disappear so completely he whirled.

“[Battlemage]! Dispel that!”

A surly-looking Drake crossed his arms. He was apparently the highest-levelled [Mage] on their field and had been throwing spells with incredible accuracy; even casting [Boosted Velocity] on some of their volleys.

“I would have if she used a spell. No magical detection.”

“What?”

The [Major] turned back. For a few dozen heartstopping seconds he didn’t see the [Paragon]—but he did see that running Gnoll in armor. If he was there, then…

He caught sight of the [Paragon] and recoiled. She was out of sight because she’d ducked down, begun running on all fours! She skirted past Gnolls and Drakes, galloping like a Gnoll child. But so coordinated!

On the ground, up close, it had to look like the world’s largest dog or wolf coming at you, golden fur ablaze, eyes focused on you. From his point? She was impossible to hit!

“We can’t get a target, [Major]. She’s too close to the ground!”

“Then—get me Oldblood [Snipers] and hit her from above!”

Drakes flew into the air, sighting on the [Paragon], but they had to be wary of snipers from all sides. The [Major] slowly put his javelin aside and drew his sword.

“Command unit—prepare for an officer charge. Pull up two companies. Now.”

They looked at him, then switched to their sidearms uneasily. That Gnoll was going to come all the way here? She’d have to cross their defensive lines!

The Gnoll in that blue armor jogged past two groups of Drakes, who whirled and tried to stab him. Spears glanced off his armor as he ran past them. One of the interception squads came at him, and he raised his shield—

——

Gireulashia leapt. She had not a weapon in her hands, but she punched a helmet so hard it crumpled. Then she grabbed another Drake and swung the screaming woman around, knocking all the other Drakes down. She ran with the Drake as a shield towards the enemy command.

Tkrn followed her, shield in hand.

“Gire! Stop! Stop!”

She wasn’t listening. A little Gnoll had told her she could make a difference, and that was what the girl was doing. But…

Heroes died. General Shivertail had died. This was madness.

Even so, Gire reached the enemy command. She tossed the Drake into the others, fouling them up. Drew a throwing axe and threw it at the [Mage]. A barrier screamed, and the weapon exploded as the Drake recoiled. So Gire threw the second one with her other arm.

She was, of course, ambidextrous. A calculated attack. Someone had dropped their sword when she threw her living shield; Gire kicked it up and straight through the chest of the Drake standing next to the enemy commander.

Two axes thrown, a sword kicked, and Tkrn was just raising his sword and shield. The [Paragon] moved like clockwork from another world. A perfect assassination. She drew her sword and slashed it across the [Major]’s neck. A long-range specialist who—

—parried—

—the blow. The Drake was thrown back a step with the impact, but he spat.

“Zeres’ finest. To me!”

Zeres, City of Waves, who fought on ship decks, were known for their hybrid specialists. Even so, Gire’s other paw wrenched the sword from the dead officer next to the commander, and she swung it at the [Major] to kill him—

And screamed.

“Gyaaaaah!”

She bent back, dodging a bolt of lightning that flashed overhead, so close it scorched her fur. The [Mage] had survived the second axe?

Tkrn skidded to a stop and raised the Eyeshield just in time for it to catch a second bolt of lightning. He felt the current run through him, and every hair stood up under his armor—but that was all.

“Hm. Command, we need backup now.”

The Drake [Mage] winced as he rubbed at a chunk taken out of his shoulder. It was already healing; he’d dodged the axe. A [Mage] dodging an axe?

Tkrn had a bad feeling. Then the [Mage] confirmed it.

“Magus Grimalkin training graduate. Mage Belini. Entering combat.”

He raised his hand, and a sword and shield made out of magic appeared. Gireulashia whirled, and the [Major], his bodyguards, and the [Mage] all attacked. Oh, and Tkrn was there too.

——

“Gireulashia is in danger.”

Ekhtouch’s frantic report came to Feshi at the same time as she was making sure Chieftain Eitha would live. Inkar was panting and feeding her mare some food as Yerranola scolded and praised her and asked if she would try it again.

She wasn’t the only one in danger. Feshi looked towards the heart of the battlefield and cursed bravado, Lehra’s stupid desire to be a hero, and Named Adventurers in general for not living up to the hype.

She was losing.

The Blade of Mershi shone like a star. The Stargnoll herself was wearing the incredibly powerful armor that resisted even enchanted blades. Her weapon could adapt—but what it couldn’t do was win the fight for Lehra.

The Gnoll had changed it to a halberd to match the Drake [General]. She made the mistake of trying to overpower him. He was taller than her, and her arms shook as she tried to hold him back. Then he headbutted her.

Decades of battle experience! The Drake stepped back to tend to a wound caused to him. His bodyguard rushed into the gap, hammering Lehra.

“[Slam Kick]—”

The Gnoll took a kick, which did nothing to her armor but rattled the Gnoll inside of it. They even knew how to fight enemies with superior armor. She shifted her blade back.

“I can do this—just like the Minotaur—”

She learned, but too slowly. And this was a battlefield, not an adventurer’s story. The only thing that saved her team from being overrun was the undead Kheltian warrior and the Ruinstrider tribe, who were helping defend Stargazer’s Promise.

“Lehra! Back up!”

“I’m trying! I can’t—”

Elgrinna was swearing at Lehra.

“What do you mean, you tall-headed, ceiling-scraping pile of iron scrap? Move back, you idiot, or we’ll all die!”

“I can’t!”

Then her team realized that Lehra was really trying—but the [General] wasn’t letting her. Her back was pressed against something flat.

“[No Retreat, No Quarter]. Face me, Stargnoll.”

The [General] beheaded the Kheltian warrior as it died alone, facing high-level warriors. Feshi felt the loss, guiltily.

What a waste. She knew they were undead and didn’t ‘die’ forever, as they were phantoms. Even so…if they weren’t undead, she would have never used them like this. Not in worthless battles.

It was as if the dagger were…speaking to her. Her paws whitened on the table as she saw Gire charging the enemy.

“All wrong. All wrong!”

“It’s not insane, Venaz does it. They’re all Venazes, though—and the Professor says—”

Yerra was gripping at her hair, tearing the dead follicles out of her Human body for today. Feshi half-listened.

The Professor always reprimanded Venaz. Not because he put himself in danger or thought he could change a battlefield with his own two fists. Niers always reprimanded Venaz because he was predictable. He liked to make it a battle where his best met the enemy’s best—and his best won, of course.

But that wasn’t how you took an enemy down. Her dagger was being misused. There was no coordination. Lehra and her tribe fought. Silverfangs fought—but they didn’t coordinate. They didn’t know the other tribes, even Silverfang and Ekhtouch who’d been together for months!

They needed—

A crazy idea came to Feshi as she looked up. She started away from the war table.

“Yerra—I need you to take over command of the entire battle for the two of us. Can you do it?”

The Selphid spun. She hesitated—then saw Feshi’s face.

“You have a plan?”

“Just like the Games at Daquin. Except this time—I’ll win.”

Feshi looked around. Yerranola chewed at her lip.

“Is this Umina stupid or Venaz stupid, Feshi?”

“Both.”

The two friends looked at each other, and Yerranola nodded after one eternal moment. If only it could have been immortal.

“Then go!”

Feshi ran. She shouted at the young woman.

“Inkar! I need your help!”

The young woman turned, and Feshi leapt into the saddle. She spoke into the speaking stone as Lehra was tossed around like a ragdoll by the enemy commander. The only thing saving her was her armor. Feshi needed someone to respond now. So she named the only person she could, who could move like she wanted.

“Adetr Steelfur. Fall back!”

“I’m busy!”

The Gnoll snarled at her. Feshi shouted over him.

“Lehra is about to die! Get to her!”

“Lehra—?”

——

Across the battlefield, a [Battle Seeker] and [Vanguard of Metal] broke out of his battle haze. He looked around and saw the struggling Named Adventurer.

But he had to hold here! Steelfur’s Gnolls were fighting and dying and…Adetr looked at Lehra. The same Gnoll who ate too much crab, was fairly thoughtless, rude at times, and—

“Aargh! Fur lice! Steelfur! With me!”

Gnolls turned as their battle-hungry leader broke away from the fighting and retreated. Adetr ran, building up speed and ignoring the spears and arrows bouncing off his fur. Steelfur Gnolls followed as he saw multiple Drake formations encircling the cut-off team of adventurers and Ruinstrider Gnolls.

The Drakes didn’t want anyone saving Lehra. So Adetr ran. He charged across the muddy ground straight at a line of Drakes.

“Gnoll incoming! Brace! Brace.”

An officer saw Adetr coming and waited for him to be cut down. An [Archer] placed with her command raised their bow.

“[Piercing Arrow]—got him! Huh?”

An arrow struck Adetr in the shoulder and lodged—about an inch deep. He snarled. That hurt! And he kept charging.

“Hold them back! [Spearwall Formation]!”

“[Reckless Advance]! [Ram’s Spearhead Formation]!”

“Huh?”

Two Skills met one. And it was rather like rock-paper-knife-spell. You could have an advantageous formation beat one not designed to stop it. Or just be higher-level.

Adetr was both. He broke through the first line of spears as they failed to stop him. Steelfur Gnolls followed him into a wedge that pierced the Drake formation. He saw the officer draw her sword with a ringing flash of steel.

“Drakes do not run! Hold your ground!”

She swung at him as he charged at her and—missed. Adetr ran past her, shoulder-checking two Drakes to the ground. The officer blinked.

“Huh?”

Adetr just ran through the Drakes, knocking anyone in his way flat. They were so surprised that they failed to slow him down. He scattered the last guards with one shoulder-charge and found himself face-to-face with a bodyguard.

“Rear attack!”

The Drake slashed across Adetr’s face. The blade was enchanted, so it cut Adetr, drawing blood. The Gnoll howled. He buried an axe in a chest as another blade cut him again, and the Drake died. But he was wounded badly.

So Adetr slapped a spot on his shoulder and heard the crunch as a healing potion—or rather, the pocket of healing potions sewn into the lining of his clothing there—broke and splashed against his fur. Far faster than drinking it. Now, what had Feshi said? He didn’t like anyone but Iraz giving him orders, but…

The Drake [General] had Lehra captured—ironically by stepping on the tail-part of her armor. She was on the verge of being run through when he saw Adetr coming for him.

“Hm.”

He whirled his halberd, slashed at Adetr, and the Gnoll half-parried the blow. He took the cut to his chest and snarled. The howl of pain wasn’t mortal, though.

“Steelfur.”

The [General] went for another cut—blocked a slash from Adetr across his halberd—and saw the Gnoll leap into a tackle. The [General] pivoted, halberd raised—and missed.

Mainly because Adetr was out of range. He tackled Lehra, taking her in the stomach.

“Oof—what are you—”

All the air rushed out of Lehra’s lungs. She felt Adetr charging with her on one shoulder.

“Wait! There’s a Skill!”

“Yep.”

Then Adetr slammed Lehra into the [General]’s Skill. Adetr didn’t have a scale, and he’d broken the ones on Earth, but Rose had guessed he might weigh over four hundred pounds. He could still run as fast as any ordinary [Soldier], and he was carrying Lehra on his shoulder. And they both had armor.

Yelroan could calculate how hard Lehra hit the barrier. Adetr could tell Yelroan how many of her ribs he broke. Five.

Maybe they were just cracks. But they went through the Skill as Lehra gagged in pain. And she lived.

“Go! Steelfur, fall back with Ruinstrider!”

The Gnolls broke away as the [General]’s Skill faded. He tried to pursue, but Adetr kept running.

“Let go—I’ve got to—”

“Shut up. Feshi sent me. She needs us. Gire’s in trouble.”

“I—Gire?”

Lehra gulped down a potion. Suxhel, Emper, and Elgrinna looked at Adetr, transitioning from disaster to emergency. Adetr amended his statement.

“And Tkrn. But he might already be dead. Come on!”

It wasn’t a perfect strategy. But it was Feshi’s answer to the Selphid’s Dilemma. If she couldn’t move tribes—she’d move friends.

——

Tkrn blew his whistle. The [Guardsman]’s shrill whistle pierced the air and poked a red-hot needle into your brain, especially up close.

“Someone shut that Gnoll up!”

A weapon bounced off his armor. But Tkrn kept blowing—and guarding Gire’s back.

She was taking on six soldiers at the same time, her paws a blur as they moved left, right—she tossed up a hatchet, caught a blade with her fingers, yanked it out of a hand, tossed it, caught the hatchet, threw it—and maneuvered left. Her long arms meant that she could reach out and tickle someone with a blade in their eyes.

But she was alive because Tkrn was there. His shield was raised, covering the broad side of her back.

And he was still a [Guardsman]. He used [Fast Leg Sweep] and tripped a [Soldier] up. He wasn’t a good killer—but he was used to bar brawls and tripping up people, holding a point. And blowing the whistle.

“It’s not all-clear! Ignore the damn whistle!”

Funny thing—Watch patrols used the same whistle-signals since Drake cities standardized for efficiency, and [Soldiers] could hear whistle-commands.

But the main thing was the Demas Metal. Like a lesser version of the Cloak of Plenty, the rainwater—and blood—coated both armor and sword. In the armor’s case, it made it thicker. In the sword’s case, it gave Tkrn a longer range and wider blade. And it was still light, balanced and—

Argh! Tkrn’s legs buckled as someone stabbed through his armor into a shin. He slashed the spear aside, his mind blanking from pain. He couldn’t lower the shield, though, or drop his sword. Keep fighting.

Gire had to run. She was trying to back them up, but they were surrounded. He’d promised Mrsha and Xherw…

Why was he alive? Tkrn had the armor and shield but—it was the [Javelineers] at first, not being expert fighters in close-quarters, even if they could hold their own. Gire—who could move as fast as a striking serpent.

But then came the regular [Soldiers]. Tkrn turned aside a sword thrust, and a shield rammed into his face. He stumbled back, bounced into Gire’s back, and saw the Drake aiming a sword at him in another thrust, going for Tkrn’s face-guard.

If he dodged, Gire got stabbed. Tkrn lowered the shield, and the blade glanced away. Someone grabbed it, tore it back.

“Now!”

The sword rose for a third stab, and Tkrn looked a Drake in the eyes. Just some guy, snarling, raising the sword. Tkrn might have arrested him at any bar in Izril. The Gnoll strained to parry the blow, but he was no [Duelist]. The sword flashed forwards and—

The [Swordsman] collapsed, an arrow in the back of his head. Tkrn blinked, turned, stabbed the person holding his shield, and swung around, clearing Gire’s back.

An Ekhtouch bow? No—it didn’t have their beautiful fletching. Just some arrow. A lucky shot.

Lucky. Tkrn turned as the [Mage] snarled.

“More units incoming! We have disruption in our back lines! [Major], fall back!”

“Kill that [Paragon]!”

Something was happening elsewhere, but Tkrn just kept fighting. Guard Gire’s back. So lucky. Amazingly so, but Tkrn was a bit…perplexed.

…That was the third time that kind of thing had happened in the last ten minutes.

——

Feshi rode, clinging to Inkar’s back as the [Worldly Traveler] carried her into battle. She had to; Feshi needed to concentrate.

The Diamond Dagger of Serept was held over Feshi’s head. Inkar raced towards a line of Drake pikes—and blinked through their lines. The Drakes turned, but it was one rider.

Even if they were charging the back of the enemy—they’d be killed. Indeed, the nearest group of [Archers] spotted them, and a dozen Drakes pivoted.

Feshi didn’t see any Gnolls in the Drake attacking armies. They must have taken them out of the armies if there were any.

Good. That makes me feel a bit better. Feshi locked eyes with the archers. Lightly-armored, wielding short weapons for last-minute self-defense. She raised her voice as she strained.

She didn’t like necromancy. Gnolls didn’t like necromancy…but after meeting Fetohep of Khelt, Feshi had wondered why. The Necromancer was evil.

Not all undead were. And this—she embraced the magic of the Diamond Dagger of Serept. Fetohep had told her it had more powers. And the name it was given, from Serept’s Diamond Blades, was the Sarcophagus Dagger of Thiiem.

Pactbinder.

“Arise, great warrior of Khelt! Come and see your enemy. Bring them to ruin.”

Feshi pointed at the [Archers] as Inkar thundered past them. She didn’t have enough magic saved in her clothing to perform another jump.

She didn’t need to. The [Archers] loosed—but not at Feshi or Inkar. They had another target.

Like the huge, undead Minotaur with the halberd who hit their lines and scattered them like Adetr hitting a group of Drake children.

“Undead! Undead in the lines—call for—”

Feshi looked behind her at the carnage. Then pointed Inkar onwards.

“Those [Archers]! There!”

Another Kheltian warrior rose. This time—they didn’t assail the enemy from the front. They appeared among Drakes in the back lines and began to dice them apart. Even if they didn’t kill them all—the ranged formations turned into chaos, and Drakes had to fall back and save their comrades.

Chaos in the army. Feshi’s teeth were bared, and Inkar’s hair was blowing into her eyes, but she didn’t care. This was how you did it, Venaz. She was the first of the three students to use her blade properly. Then Feshi saw her plans come to fruition and pointed.

“They’re onto us! We have to run!”

“Where?”

They were behind Drake lines. Feshi just pointed.

“There!”

——

Adetr Steelfur crashed into the [Javelineers] surrounding Gire with a roar. Steelfur, Ruinstrider, and Ekhtouch warriors followed him into the breach, and someone shouted.

“In the name of the City of Stars!”

“Ah, wonderful.”

The Drake [Mage], Belini, turned as Stargazer’s Promise came to Gire’s rescue along with the others. The [Paragon] stumbled back, fur scorched, reaching for a potion to finally heal as Tkrn looked around. Elgrinna charged past him.

“Don’t stop fighting, you idiot! [Impact Headbutt]!”

She smashed her helmet with one of those spikes on top into a Drake’s groin. A male Drake; you had to know the weak spots. Tkrn followed her, shield still raised, and Belini took aim at Adetr.

“[Shatterbolt].”

He had to kill one of them. The magic flew towards Adetr—then splintered as it met a wooden staff.

“…That’s not how the spell works.”

The [Battlemage] looked at his opponent. Emper bowed his head slightly as he advanced.

“[Spellbreaker Staff].”

“Huh.”

Anti-mage classes and Skills. The magus stepped backwards and looked for the [Major]. He was down. Lehra had just run him through. Belini cursed.

“Command—fall back! Fighting retreat! [Haste].”

He turned and ran. Emper didn’t try to strike him from behind, not that it would have worked. Magus Grimalkin had taught his students well. Shield-spells were meant to be cast forwards and backwards.

The battlefield was changing. The Drakes were in disorder, their tidy formations disrupted. And as Gire caught her breath, Adetr turned—took a blade to the chest—and went down howling.

“You will not get away, Stargnoll!”

The [General] charged straight at Lehra. His halberd rose—and Gire grabbed it with her two paws.

The two giant warriors wrestled for it. The Drake’s eyes bulged as Lehra whirled, but Gire already had her opponent’s weapon, and the [General]…couldn’t…

Snarling, he let go of the halberd and drew a sword.

[Flash Unsheathe]! It sprang into his claw, and he aimed at the Gnoll in his way.

“[Tempest Impaler]!”

He launched towards her, all the fury of a storm behind the single stab to her heart.

The Skill went through armor and flesh and bone. The Drake [General] came to a standstill and looked at the halberd which had gone through his chest. It was his Skill.

She’d just been faster.

[Superiority Made Manifest]. Gire lowered the halberd with a shaking paw as the [General] tried to cut her. He slashed, walking onto the blade and his halberd. She’d gone through his heart—but he was alive. He reached for her, and she drew a fist—

“Back. He won’t die for a bit.”

Adetr yanked Gire away. He looked around as a horn blew.

The [General]’s death was like a physical ripple; his Skills vanished, and the lines began to waver. The Drake kept moving, spitting blood out of his filled lungs, but the Gnolls heard a voice shouting and turned. They saw Feshi and Inkar joining them and fell backwards.

The battle was done. The Drake [General] stood there a while before he fell, exhausted. Tkrn watched the Drake and Gnoll armies fall back.

He found…he had somehow survived.

——

[Conditions Met: Guardsman → Shield Companion Class!]

[Shield Companion Level 21!]

[Skill – Shield: Great Barrier (Steel) obtained!]

[Skill – Defensive Fighting obtained!]

[Skill – Earpiercing Whistle (Hostiles) obtained!]

[Skill – One Lucky Save obtained!]

As Skills went, for a lower-level class consolidation, they ranged from somewhat ordinary, if nice—like [Earpiercing Whistle], a disappointment for a Level 20 consolidation—to very nice, like [Defensive Fighting]. A Senior Guardsman would be expected to have at least one constant edge like that, although Tkrn would need at least a few more levels and more experience to qualify.

However, the higher-end of the Skills were [One Lucky Save] and the [Great Barrier]. Tkrn didn’t even know how good [Lucky Save] was. But a translucent field that appeared around any shield he picked up, thin, weightless, and which could extend his shield’s size, upgrading a buckler to a huge aspis-shield?

That was useful, even if the barrier would slowly break down the more you hit it. Tkrn suspected an artifact like the Forceshield he’d seen the Horns of Hammerad using was still better by itself, but what if you gave him the Forceshield?

He was over the moon about the consolidation. It was a great battle won. Tkrn had been napping while riding behind Inkar. They hadn’t even argued much over her involvement in the battle or risking her life.

They’d won. The Drake army fell back, leaving prisoners and equipment behind, and the only regret of the [Chieftains], Feshi, and Yerra was that they couldn’t harry the Drakes back to their camp and erase their threat as a whole.

However, it was done. As they headed back to the Meeting of Tribes, Gire still looking down at her paws, washed of blood, Adetr stomping across the ground, looking tired but satisfied, Feshi and Yerra breaking down the battle and new tactics around the dagger—someone began bringing news from the other fronts. A Gnoll raced towards the tribes on horseback, shouting excitedly.

“A great battle won!”

“Yes, it was. In no small way thanks to Honored Lehra and the others.”

Chieftain Eitha nodded at the somewhat subdued Lehra. The [Messenger] looked around.

“Here, too? I meant—Plain’s Eye has won a great battle to the west!”

The Gnolls stirred. Their victory had not come easily, and as Crusaders of the Liscorian army could have told Tkrn and the Gnolls—if they were there—that stung the pride to hear their victory was already overshadowed.

However, it was almost inevitable. The [Messenger] rode to Eitha, and Tkrn caught wind of the babble as the [Chieftain] and the other war leaders listened with disbelief.

“It was Chieftain Xherw and his bodyguard. I’ve never seen such fighting! Even Garsine Wallbreaker herself said he looked like Chieftain Kerash reborn! I don’t think a single Drake officer of the commander-rank survived to leave the field! They went from command point to command point, killing the Drakes!”

“Chieftain Xherw? How? What class does he have, exactly?”

Feshi was astonished. Lehra herself hadn’t been able to best a [General]. But the Chieftain of the largest Gnoll tribe had apparently taken the battlefield by storm. The [Messenger] shook his head in wonder.

“I saw it myself, Honored Feshi. I wouldn’t believe the rumors, but it was like he and his bodyguard couldn’t be stopped. Every blow was perfect; the paw of fate itself was hanging over Plain’s Eye!”

Something stirred in the back of Tkrn’s mind. An almost…suspicion born of one of his new Skills. But he didn’t have the context to fully understand it.

Regardless, the news of the second northern victory cheered up the tribes, and Plain’s Eye’s victory and their own lifted every head—

Until they heard that Steelfur’s main force, Az’muzarre, and the Woven Bladegrass tribe had fallen back from their southern battle in retreat.

“Chieftain Iraz lost? How?”

Adetr stormed over to grab the second [Messenger], but Cetrule blocked him.

“Why did they lose? Speak freely. Warrior Adetr, back.”

Adetr listened, quivering, as Tkrn’s jubilation faded. The Gnoll was winded from her ride. She shook her head.

“It was…Fissival.”

Fissival. That name alone made the hackles on every Gnoll rise. The [Messenger] explained that Woven Bladegrass, Steelfur, and Az’muzarre had been practically pressing the enemy into the dirt. All three famous tribes were peerless in hand-to-hand combat.

However, Fissival’s army had launched their own attack.

“They aren’t even near that battlefield, but they cast artillery spells and sent Wyverns with [Mages]. Death from the skies. Our [Shamans] did their best, but Chieftain Iraz ordered the retreat rather than risk a hollow victory. We would have been fighting with spells raining down around us.”

So not a rout. Adetr instantly began protesting, of course.

“I’ve fought Fissival. So has Chieftain Iraz. If they placed spell attractors and—”

Feshi broke in, forestalling his loud—too loud—criticism of the fighting.

“Adetr. I’m sure the southern tribes fought their best. We can only ask the specifics when we hear more, no? Let us hurry back to the Meeting of Tribes.”

Adetr hesitated, then nodded. Tkrn looked around, and Chieftain Eitha raised her paw.

“A victory twice over! If we ceded part of the south, it was only because a Walled City was too cowardly to take the field! Repeat Chieftain Xherw’s victory! No doubt the other tribes have heard of our own!”

A cheer went up as she reminded everyone listening they had won. That was a [Chieftain]’s power.

Even so. The Drakes took a bloodying, but they had more armies to come. And the Walled Cities, save for Pallass and Oteslia, were marching towards the Meeting of Tribes. Armies from Manus, Zeres, and Salazsar were all approaching from different angles. Tkrn’s blood chilled at the thought of more fighting as intense as this.

And yet—when he looked at Gire, whom Adetr paused to talk to, Feshi and Yerranola speaking to Lehra, who listened for once, Inkar, and even himself—

When the tribes stood together like this, he didn’t think they’d lose to even three Walled Cities combined. The triumphant warriors returned to the Meeting of Tribes just in time to see their unity…

Fall apart.

——

Shaman Ulcreziek knew there was so much left to do for the tribes. Investigate another world. Conduct great plans for the future of the Gnolls. Win this war; punish and find those who had betrayed their people. Individuals, each with their own dreams, flaws, and goals.

It might continue after this. And he personally would make sure the investigation found the right people—if any. The tribes would survive the war. If decisions had to be made—they would make them, before the Meeting of Tribes ended. But first…

Doom died. Waste no time, brook no arguments. There were none from his tribe, of course. He told Chief Warrior Merish to take the day off.

“This is not something that requires your aid, Warrior Merish. Rest. Visit your friend, Yelroan. He has been helpful. Xherw will speak to you. Rest easy; Doom dies.”

And they had found a way to identify Doombringers as well. Doom slain and a Raskghar captured. Two presents for the Chieftains along with Xherw’s great victory.

How much had he spent? Ulcre didn’t know, but he could admit it was worth the cost. It was on everyone’s lips, his fantastic deeds in battle.

So the [Shaman] did his part. He rented a tent, and Gnolls filed in. They set up with bows. A few even had crossbows. One of the Gnolls peeked out of the hole they cut in the tent and nodded.

“We have a sightline on our entrance, Shaman. Do we have permission to kill Doom the moment we see it?”

“No. Wait for my signal. The other groups are getting into position. The target is in Gaarh Marsh’s camp at the moment; it is imperative Shaman Theikha or other important Gnolls not be harmed.”

“Hrr. Understood.”

Ulcre stepped out of the tent and looked around. He looked up and saw a figure sitting on one of the aerial platforms the [Tumblers] used for their tricks casually adjusting a bow. Another Gnoll in the watchtowers reported in.

“I see the target, [Shaman]. Honored Theikha is very close. I can take the shot.”

Ulcre snapped back.

“You will not. Wait for my signal.”

They wanted this to be done with. The warriors were nervous, afraid of a curse, itching for it, but they knew they had to be perfect.

So they waited as a few more teams got into position. They would not wait for Xherw; he would give the same order in their place. Besides, better to do it now, before more warriors returned.

Weatherfur was guarding the Doombringer. There was no other explanation for it. Four [Guards] were looking around, and the Plain’s Eye warriors had to stay at extreme range to avoid detection.

Were they all compromised? Had Chieftain Torishi lost her sanity, or did she not know? Perhaps she was tricked. The [Shaman] didn’t know, but Ulcreziek would let Xherw make a final decision. This implicated Silverfang, Ekhtouch perhaps…Longstalker’s Fang and Greenpaw too?

Ulcre frowned as he heard someone else report in.

“Shaman Ulcreziek, please wait. There is a complication.”

That voice was familiar. Ulcre frowned.

“I told you to take a rest, Warrior Merish.”

He heard a swallowing sound, then a hushed growl.

“I was. But I had to see—hold, please. Someone is too near the Doombringer. It’s…Yelroan.”

Ulcre looked up sharply. He whirled and saw more Plain’s Eye Gnolls moving into sniping spots. He growled into the speaking stone.

“That fool. He must not have heard. Why is he there? Counting plants or blades of grass? Get him out of there.”

“Yes, Shaman.”

Ulcre tapped his foot, trying not to show any Gnolls walking around that he was waiting. He turned his head, counting how many Gnolls were in their positions. Almost…

It was almost done. Why was everything getting in the way? Perhaps Doom’s own power. Well.

Soon it would be put to better use.

——

Ferris of Manus felt like his heart was exploding. He had known stress before, like when Rafaema had nearly revealed herself. He had known terror in battle—but never like this.

A Dragon was going to die. If that child died—Cire of Oteslia died.

That was the bargain. It was not Rafaema—but it was one half of their future.

He saw Plain’s Eye moving into position. The [Infiltrator] was a single weapon sent by Rafaema in a game of spy-versus-spy. Killer versus killer. They didn’t know he was here, but he was outnumbered. Outmatched.

He had a number of tools he had never needed to use in Liscor on surveillance. The [Infiltrator] used them now. If they found a spy from Manus—he might die. But if Cirediel of Oteslia died…

He loaded the blowpipe, a short tube that looked more like a straw. Enchanted to make the projectiles fire with perfect range and accuracy. He took aim, lifted the straw out of his cup as if he’d found something nasty like a bug, and puffed.

His aim was true. Across the distance, in a camp with colorfully-painted Gnolls, someone swore.

“Gah! What was—”

A Gnoll woman clapped her paw to her neck with a roar of pain as people looked up briefly. That had definitely hurt. Ferris lowered the straw and strode off as the Weatherfur Gnoll grabbed at whatever had just stung her.

Weatherfur? Oh, yes. She yanked out the tiny, unpoisoned dart and whirled. She was about to howl an alarm when she realized she wasn’t dying. And that the dart had something attached to it.

They are going after the Doombringer. Plain’s Eye. She’s in the Gaarh Marsh tribe. Move.

Her head snapped up. The Weatherfur Gnoll put two fingers in her mouth and whistled, suddenly alert.

Caution to the wind. He had to move as fast as he could. Plain’s Eye were not slouches. Ferris was sweating as he walked towards the first tent with a view on Gaarh Marsh. Buy them time. Buy them time.

He tossed the cup and drink aside, and someone snorted at him.

“Littering. Pick that up.”

“Sorry.”

Ferris turned to the affronted Gnoll and smiled. He walked away, and the Gnoll bent down to recover the cup, cursing him. Ferris sidled around the tent, listening hard.

[Shadow Presence]. He could tell they were inside. They were good; quiet as mice. But Ferris had a pair of [Detect Life] spectacles.

And they were locked onto their target. They didn’t sense him as he calmly and carefully produced a wrapped bottle from his bag of holding. Hurry. Ferris pulled out a shortsword in his other paw and took a breath.

He might already be too late. What were they angry about? Someone in the way? Good.

He tossed the jar into the tent, and the whumph of oxygen and sound vanishing into a void was muffled. Ferris deployed the [Silence] spell and counted, waiting for the void spell to end.

“…four…five…[Shadowstep]!”

The Gnoll leapt into the tent, blade swinging. He was thinking one thing and one thing only.

My life for Manus.

My life for Dragons.

——

Chief Warrior Merish was only half-listening to the Doom Slayers that Ulcre had organized, getting into position and reporting in.

He had been told to stay away. That his job was done. That he’d done his best.

Like 5th Wall. He’d done his best, and his best was just that he ended up surviving.

Nothing made sense after 5th Wall. How could a monster like that half-Elf exist? Merish felt like his reality was coming apart at the seams, sometimes. Like everything after that night was a bad dream.

This felt like it most of all. Not just the Doombringer suddenly appearing or the Raskghar…this.

What was going on? Merish strode into the Gaarh Marsh camp as one of the [Guards] waved the Plain’s Eye warrior in.

“We’re gathering herbs today, Chief Warrior. You’re welcome to pick whatever you want. The children are mixing up poultices for the warriors, yes?”

That was the activity that had carried the little girl called ‘Mrsha’, the Doombringer, here. She was running around with the other children, picking healing herbs so Gire could have medicine if she was hurt.

That was her name, according to the Raskghar. Ulcre had identified her as ‘Mri’. Merish didn’t care. She’d be dead soon.

Doom didn’t have names. Doombringers had to die. It had been instilled in him and all of Plain’s Eye from the time they were cubs.

So why…

Why did that Gnoll with blonde fur and two obnoxious sunglasses stand there, posing like some kind of Drathian [Ninja] or whatever [Soldiers] from Baleros had gossiped about? One foot held against the other leg, arms outstretched in a ‘Y’ symbol as children laughed at him?

He was even smiling. Merish’s friend, Yelroan, stood there, next to the Doombringer as she tugged on a stubborn root with Shaman Theikha watching indulgently.

All were gathered in the shadow of the Earth Elemental. One of the guardians of wisdom and the oldest ways of all. Merish wondered why it didn’t sense the Doombringer, why it didn’t kill her.

Perhaps it left that to the Plain’s Eye tribe. And they were ready. But for Yelroan. Merish was terrified Ulcre would order them to fire.

He strode across the peaty ground towards Yelroan. The [Mathematician] could have been there by chance; everyone assumed he did almost everything because of his weird class. But Merish knew Yelroan was deliberate. Why was he here?

He had surely heard about the Doom Slayers; he was Yelroan. Did he want to watch?

Why was he so close? Merish’s brain offered the most logical conclusion, but the rest of him ignored it.

He was following the Doombringer around. When she scampered off, Yelroan followed her and did another pose.

“Are you going to help or pose there all day, [Mathematician] Yelroan?”

One of the Gaarh Marsh Gnolls teased him. The Gnoll replied with a quick smile.

“I like posing. I’m advertising how cool my class is. Anyone want to hear a math joke?”

Yelroan adjusted his sunglasses and blinded everyone for a second.

“My eyes! Get that idiot out of there! He’s fouling our sight lines, Merish!”

Ulcre shouted in Merish’s earpiece. The warrior quickened his stride. He slowed, hair raising as he saw the Doombringer helping mash the roots she’d pulled up. She barely took notice of him as he came to a stop.

“Yelroan. There you are. Come with me.”

That was all Merish blurted out. He didn’t have a cover story or an excuse. He reached out for Yelroan, and the [Mathematician] turned. He blinked at Merish.

“Merish?”

The two locked eyes, and Merish felt a slight shock run through his body. He saw Yelroan’s brown eyes lock on his behind his stupid sunglasses.

Yelroan was surprised to see him here, but those eyes were so calm and focused. He glanced at Mrsha and then Merish.

“I’m a bit busy spreading the joys of math to the world, Merish.”

“What? No. Come with me. What are you doing?”

Merish saw Yelroan sidle over to Mrsha, and his stomach lurched. He saw Yelroan looking at Merish and then around the bustling Gaarh Marsh tribe. He turned back to Merish, and his eyes blinked once.

“Is something wrong, Merish? It’s my day off. Have we won the battles in the north? I hope Chieftain Xherw is well. If I’m needed, I’ll go, of course. But otherwise…I like counting how many healing plants Gaarh Marsh harvests in an hour. It’s soothing.”

A [Mathematician]’s prattle. To most, Yelroan probably sounded relaxed and energetic. Merish looked at his friend, and the truth couldn’t be pushed away any longer.

Yelroan stood right there, in front of the Doombringer. Watching Merish. He didn’t say…anything. But he knew.

He was waiting. Merish’s eyes widened. He choked down a snarl. Then stood there, as if he’d been poleaxed.

It wasn’t just mad talk. He meant it. He—he knew. Had he known before Ulcre? He knew, and he stood there.

The two friends looked at each other. Merish took a step forwards, ignoring the chatter in his earpiece. Ulcre was cursing Yelroan, getting the Doom Slayers to check in, advising them to wait until—

“What is wrong with you? Yelroan. Have you gone mad?”

The children and the Doombringer looked up as the two adults faced each other. Yelroan’s fingers trembled as he adjusted his sunglasses.

“Have you, Merish? Honestly. If you have to ask…it’s not a hard equation. Put two and two together.”

He gave Merish a defiant look, balling his other paw up into a fist. Yelroan kept adjusting his stance, shifting. Looking past Merish, but clearly—not seeing what he knew was there.

His knees were shaking. So was his voice, ever-so-slightly.

“Come with me. You don’t know what you’re doing. I don’t know what’s come over you.”

Merish reached for Yelroan, and the [Mathematician] slapped his paw down. His voice was still light, but there was an edge to it, an undercurrent of that terrible tension.

“Merish, I know exactly what I’m doing. I’d prefer not to be here, believe me. But if it were a choice between not being here and…I have to be. Does that make sense?”

No.

A little Gnoll handed him a notecard, and both Gnolls stared down at it. Merish’s fur rose as Yelroan accepted the card, read it, and laughed. He laughed at…Doom. Then he looked up to Merish.

“You see?”

Merish couldn’t.

“How? You know exactly what we have to do.”

His voice choked back a shout, the urge to shake Yelroan. He couldn’t cause a scene. Yelroan tilted his head slightly.

“Do we? Look, Merish. What do you see? I see a bunch of kids helping make healing poultices. What do you…see?”

Their light conversation was being ignored by everyone, children, the [Shamans], and the Weatherfur guards who were loitering, spread out, on watch for other threats. Some eyed Merish, but he was unarmed.

Yelroan had a bright smile playing on his lips, like he’d solved some grand equation. Merish shook his head, uncomprehendingly. Like he was speaking to…

A Drake. It reminded him of 5th Wall. Meeting people and not getting them. But this…they were from the same tribe. Yelroan knew what was right.

“You know—everything we’ve been taught, Yelroan. All of it? Are you just going to ignore everything? You didn’t explain it to me. You must be sick. How can you turn your back on it all? Just like that? So quickly?”

Yelroan looked at Merish, brows raised high with disbelief. He looked down at a little head bent over her work, slamming a pestle into the wooden bowl as hard as she could.

“So quickly, Merish? It should just take a second. One second. It took me a few hours because I’m a fool. But all I had to do was look and open my eyes. What do you see?”

He nodded downwards, and Merish felt his fur crawl.

Doom. I see…he gritted his teeth, forcing the words out as calmly as he could.

“What do you see, then, Yelroan?”

The Gnoll fiddled with his sunglasses and replied quietly.

“I see the most precociously intelligent child I’ve ever met. Mrsha.”

The little girl glanced up in alarm and kicked Yelroan. Swearing, he grabbed at his shin.

“Mri, sorry. I see…you see that? Is that what you expected, Merish?”

The [Warrior] looked down at an alarmed brown face, who quickly went back to mashing roots. Innocently, like Ikl or Sveha, his sister’s children, when they were keeping a secret.

He felt sick. It was Doom wearing a mask. A child possessed. Yelroan smiled. He bent down and went to ruffle the little girl’s gold-painted ears. She reached up and swatted at his paw with a look of annoyance.

Stop touching me!

Children were scampering around, getting bored with mashing roots and giving them to [Shamans] to finish, but she bent her little head over her bowl with unusual dedication, though her paw clearly hurt. She kept shaking it out.

Merish could smell Gaarh Marsh’s natural scents, hear laughter from all around him. The sun shone down on the Doombringer, and she had a little shadow. There were even damned butterflies flying past her.

This was all a dream. He was back on 5th Wall, lying in the mud as his blood pooled around him. Half-buried by the corpses of Lizardfolk, Humans, Gnolls, Drakes, and every other species.

The dawn would break soon. Yet the skies that lit up would not turn bright but orange. The skies would become an inferno as magic crashed down. A thin line in the air. A pillar of fire.

A laughing woman in a sky filled with dark wings.

If that thing died, maybe it would end. Merish heard a murmur in his ears, the faint voice of a Gnoll.

“Shaman Ulcreziek to Chief Warrior Merish. We are ready. We are waiting for you. Team 3. I am waiting on your status. Team 8? Any moment, Merish.”

The Gnoll put a finger on the speaking stone clipped to his ear. He saw some of the Gnoll cubs running around stop playing and look around uncertainly. The little…Doombringer. The girl looked up, sighing through her nose.

So much work. She stretched her arms and looked at the two adults. She edged out of their shadow, and both stepped over. The girl waved a paw at them.

“Sorry, Mri. We’ll just be another moment. I told Rose I’d watch you, remember?”

Two expressive brown eyes rolled upwards in annoyance, and she turned her back to Yelroan as he bent over. Merish was breathing hard.

“Yelroan. Do you know what you’re doing?”

The [Mathematician] looked around, and his sunglasses shone, obscuring his eyes for a moment. But then they gave Merish that look. A piercing glance that rocked Merish to his core.

Yelroan had never looked like that, in his most serious, upset moments. He looked like Commander Cirille or a soldier from 5th Wall. Merish could grab him and just—yank him away. The [Chief Warrior] almost did just that. But what stopped him, what made him so angry, was that look.

More than the calm stare of someone looking death in the eye, it was that other thing. Was that pride Merish saw? Terrified, fluttering, like a shaking butterfly, like the Gnoll’s very knees. Yes. Pride.

A growl emerged from Merish’s throat, scaring the little children, who’d gathered in a huddle. They almost fled, and, abashed, the warrior stopped at once. A [Shaman] eyed him, and Merish felt a little pebble bounce off his arm.

He recoiled, reaching for an axe he didn’t have, and saw the little girl glare at him.

“Stop that.”

The words came from her mouth, and he stared at her. He’d been told she was mute. Was that some trick? The girl looked him up and down haughtily, like she was some kind of [Princess]. Then she waved the other children over.

“Mrsh—Mri. Mri, something’s bad. I think the Drakes are here.”

One of the children whispered to her. The D—Mrsha put down her pestle, ears flicking up. A scared little boy looked around. The Gnoll boy spoke into her ear, and Yelroan and Merish heard the quiet voice.

“My [Dangersense] is going off.”

The little Gnoll girl sat bolt upright. She looked around and then waved at Yelroan. She glanced at Merish and then, to his astonishment, yanked a little wand from her fur. She casually put it next to the mortar and pestle and wrote on a notecard. Merish saw the words as she scribbled with a quill.

Stay behind me, everyone. I’ll protect you this time.

This time. Merish felt an unexpected taste of bile in his mouth. How dare she say that? Like—like she was a warrior. She looked around, and he saw her protectively motioning the others around her.

Doom.

“What do you see, Merish? Have you gone blind? I’m wearing sunglasses, but I know what I see.”

Yelroan quietly prompted his friend. Merish looked at him and took a step back.

“Stop it. Stop it—do you think everything we’ve done is wrong?”

His voice was shaking, but his friend didn’t let him go for once. Yelroan’s own voice was harsh. Trembling with stress, yet contained in a whisper for only the two of them.

“Maybe. Or maybe we’ve been only partly right. Look at me, Merish. Do you think this is right? Stop blindly following orders and look at me.”

The children stared up at Merish. One recognized his markings and ran over. She tugged at his leg, and he nearly kicked her.

“Chief Warrior? I think something bad is going to happen. Do you have a weapon? We should tell the [Shamans], Mri.”

The little girl was nodding importantly. Merish saw a little face looking up at him and hesitated.

“I—I don’t have a weapon. I’m sure you’ll be safe.”

She shook her head. The little Gnoll from the Stone Spears tribe gazed up at Merish and clearly spoke.

“No, we’re not. You don’t believe me, but I know we’re not safe. We were attacked by the Goblin Lord. Something bad is going to happen. Please, get a weapon. Please.”

There was a look of mortal terror in her eyes. Merish gazed down at her dumbly. The Goblin Lord? She’d survived…?

There was a kindred spirit in the little [Survivor]’s eyes. She gestured at the others.

“Please? No one’s listening. Mister Yelroan, can you get a Chieftain?”

Yelroan knelt down, blocking Mrsha from one side. He smiled at the Stone Spears child.

“I’ll let the [Guards] know in a moment. Or Merish can. I need to stand here, though.”

Mrsha frowned at him. She wrote on a card and then looked up at Chief Warrior Merish. Slowly, her eyes focused on something Merish was wearing.

His armor had the insignia of his tribe. Along with other decorations—there was a white eye, stylized and drawn onto his shoulder-guard. The warrior saw her gaze lock onto it, and then her head swiveled to Yelroan.

She recognized him instantly, somehow. Merish saw her eyes go wide, and Yelroan’s own gaze flickered to her. She looked at him—at Merish—

Then the most terrible calm passed over her face. Her tense body went limp. She crossed out what she’d been writing and handed a card to the other children. They read it, sounding out the words.

“Go…tell Shaman Theikha? Go to her and be safe. Are you sure, Mri?”

She nodded, never taking her eyes off Merish. The children hesitated, but obeyed as she tossed the contents of her bowl at them. Slowly, the Doombringer, Mrsha, rose to her feet. She stood on her two legs and faced Merish.

By now, the Weatherfur guards had noticed something was wrong. A little Gnoll girl tugging on their legs and telling them she sensed something added to their own instincts. They were speaking into their own stones, alarmed.

“We are running out of time! Weatherfur’s Gnolls are moving towards the camp now! Merish! Team 5! Come in! Team 8! Team 9!”

Ulcre was shouting in Merish’s ear. The warrior barely heard him. He watched as the little girl stood up, facing him. She met Merish’s eyes, defiantly, and spread her arms. Then slapped her chest with one paw.

Here I am.

Merish couldn’t breathe. He felt like someone was choking him. Yelroan put a paw out, and Mrsha looked up at him.

“Don’t worry, Mrsha. He’s not going to hurt you. You know where to go? Stay behind Theikha. I think she’ll keep you safe.”

The Great Shaman of the Tribes had noticed the commotion as children clustered around her. She looked around, visibly confused—but her eyes locked onto Mrsha. Mrsha—and Merish.

She knew too. Yelroan was blocking Merish’s way. Ever-so-slightly, tensed.

“Merish. Merish…go home. Go to Khaze. You don’t have to do anything.”

Merish had to force each word out of his chest. He felt he didn’t have the breath for what he wanted to say, but he had to speak.

“Viri and you. Both of you. What’s wrong with you two?”

Yelroan took a slight breath. His paws slowly took off his glasses, and he tossed them down. He looked at Merish, and his voice trembled with sadness.

“Merish. I love you like a brother. You were a hero before you left for Rhir. I don’t know what happened to you there, but you were hurt. But the same good Gnoll I always knew. This is the only time I’ve ever thought something was off about you. Something truly wrong. Don’t do this. This is the greatest mistake you’ll ever make. You see it too, don’t you? Walk away.”

The [Warrior] couldn’t say anything. He was hyperventilating. Ulcre’s voice was a roar.

“Merish, grab him if you have to! Squad 4—”

A voice broke over the [Communication] spell at last, a desperate howl. Every hair on Merish’s body rose as Mrsha, Merish, and Yelroan all heard the panicked shout coming from the speaking stone.

“Shaman Ulcre! We’re under attack! Someone is ambushing our teams!”

“Who? Weatherfur?”

“No! [Maids]—”

A ghastly scream cut off the voice. Merish blinked. Then he heard Ulcre shout.

“Anyone with a target, avoid Merish and Yelroan and Theikha! Open fire!”

Everything happened at once. A shadow fell over Mrsha, Yelroan, and Merish. Yelroan leapt to cover Mrsha—and Merish tackled him to the ground.

“No!”

The [Mathematician] struggled as Mrsha froze, staring up. The Weatherfur [Guards] shouted in alarm.

“Assassins! [Counterfire]!”

A Gnoll raised his bow and loosed an arrow—it exploded in midair as it hit a projectile flying down. Shaman Theikha lifted her staff.

“What is going on? Stop! This—”

Then she also froze. Mrsha gasped as an arrow struck the ground next to her right foot. She flinched and looked around for somewhere to run.

A babble of voices broke out. A Gnoll was attacking the attack teams. There were [Maids] ambushing other groups! But Gnolls had a bead on the Doombringer.

The one on the tower took aim at Mrsha, and an arrow struck him from the side. Weatherfur’s Gnolls. Ulcre himself was charging for the Gaarh Marsh camp as Weatherfur’s tribe charged through the Meeting of Tribes, howling an alarm.

Gaarh Marsh’s Gnolls had no idea what was going on. They spread out, shouting about Drake [Assassins]. More arrows were streaking towards Mrsha, but they missed.

A group of Plain’s Eye Gnolls forced their way through one of the entrances to the Gaarh Marsh grounds. They sank to one knee, and Merish looked up. Yelroan shouted.

Crossbows. They took aim at Mrsha, and Merish let go of Yelroan. He turned to the little girl, frozen in place. Merish leapt—

And hit the ground face-first. He tumbled and felt no blossom of pain in his chest. He heard no click, no thunk of arrows meeting anyone’s flesh. He rolled over to get up again and realized Ulcre had stopped.

Theikha had frozen mid-spell. Mrsha hadn’t moved. Even the Plain’s Eye Gnolls had gone still, heads raised, mouths open in awe.

A shadow crossed over the world, blotting out the sky and clouds. Merish, on his back, looked up as a hill moved. A cascading face of mud and branches, even parts of trees, a bog come to life, a towering figure of mud.

Not Golem. Nor Giant. Something that was not delicately made, never created by any hands, nor even alive like a Giant. Earth given sentience.

An Earth Elemental. It looked like a huge mound of earth that sprouted arms when it was still. Now, it rose, and the earth itself shuddered as Gaarh Marsh’s tribe went still.

Two eyes appeared, so vast that Merish could have run around on them, horizontal slits of moss that grew and blossomed before Merish’s very eyes. With each second of movement, plant matter grew and decayed and rotted. The very earth blossomed and grew fertile where the Earth Elemental moved.

It stood. The entire Meeting of Tribes beheld the great protector of the Gaarh Marsh tribe, Khoteizetrough. A hand comprised of stone and muck, fingers tapering into the most delicate, narrow points, reached down.

Khoteizetrough’s hand closed around Mrsha. The power to break a Drake city’s wall with a single blow—as gentle as could be. Mrsha jerked and tried to run, but the fingers curled around her, drawing her into the mud-hand as it rose.

Shaman Theikha herself looked up as the oldest being at the Meeting of Tribes lifted Mrsha up. She lowered her staff.

“Now we will know.”

The Gnoll whispered up at the sky as Khoteizetrough’s wrathful head rose. Lifting Mrsha higher.

Higher.

——

Twice in the Meeting of Tribes, Khoteizetrough, the Great Earth Elemental, moved. First to unearth the treachery of a Walled City.

The second time to pick up a little child, who wriggled and tried to bite the hand holding her—spitting out a mouthful of mud.

Mrsha was terrified as she rose into the air, a dizzying height. The muck around her was as solid as stone, and she knew she was going to die.

Would it eat her? Kill her? She looked up—and went still as she beheld Khoteizetrough’s presence at last.

The Earth Elemental had been like an unmoving hill, a source of green power, but nothing more. Now, she realized the Earth Elemental had been slumbering.

Or hibernating? Because there was no mistaking the lighthouse of power that the elemental was powered by. A vast, simple intelligence.

Not stupid, but primordial. Ancient. It was like the very High Passes had developed eyes and a mind and judged her. And he was only the size of a hill.

Mrsha quailed. Her mind went blank, as a grasshopper would feel looking up at a vast tidal wave sweeping towards it.

Incomprehensible. Khoteizetrough saw her. He saw her class. Her connection with the natural world. He saw her nature, hidden by mere paint.

She gazed into the core of his soul. The origin that stretched back to the founding of Gaarh Marsh. An ancient pact with the very spirit of the marsh itself.

Until one or the other is gone, he would protect them. They were bound by more than mere blood or time. The bones and bodies of Gnolls had been buried in Gaarh Marsh, and they had lived their entire lives there. They were the swamp.

And, oh, how it had faded. How it had been glorious, wartorn. How great evil had befallen it, from foul Crelers to war that had slain his kin.

Khoteizetrough, the Earth Elemental, had died. A Dragon had torn out his heart. Burnt his kin to ash.

He was dead. The body that Mrsha saw was the ruined wreckage of an Earth Elemental, not the pure green of one in its strength.

He had died millenia ago. But earth…nature didn’t die, it just changed. So the elemental had risen from the death of the last, a being of the swamps itself.

Until the last days.

That was what she saw in the being before her. Wisdom and loss. But wisdom of nature. Enemies died. His people he protected. If the swamp died, it would die with him, and he would defend it to the last.

But the world was simple to Khoteizetrough. Rot was not an evil in itself, but what was evil would always be. He did not have the means to counter great and insidious plans. But he saw wrong.

And so he lifted her up. Higher, higher, as a face emerged.

Moss for eyes. Stone teeth, amid a mouth of swampy water. Loam and decayed plants for skin.

Every Gnoll in the Meeting of Tribes, even the returning armies saw him. That giant, bearing judgment.

——

Satar Silverfang raced from her tent, hearing the alarms, and saw Mrsha rising higher, caught in the grasp. She heard Qwera moan as the Golden Gnoll came to a stop.

“No, no, no. What is it doing? It’s killed her.”

A white Gnoll’s head rose as the paint Qwera had put on her washed out of her fur. Gnolls pointed up at the tiny figure and shouted.

“Doombringer! Doombringer! Khoteizetrough has found—”

Screaming—but then silence. Everyone watched as the Earth Elemental brought Mrsha to head-height. Satar’s heart was thundering.

——

Doombringer. Mrsha hated her name.

She had accompanied Satar and Gire because she had to know. Satar’s research into the past, the conspiracy, the lies surrounding magic…her trying to piece together the truth behind Doombringers, it mattered to Mrsha.

But she was so afraid the truth was that she truly was cursed. That she was responsible for all the bad things.

She knew Wer, the other white Gnoll, had told her it wasn’t their fault. That they only harnessed luck, for good or ill. But he didn’t know. If she could really make the world better by leaving, or just by going far, far away…

He knew the answer.

Khoteizetrough looked into Mrsha’s soul, and she saw that massive face begin to move. Slowly, the earth began to shake.

Gnolls fell to their knees. Gaarh Marsh was bowing before their great protector. The world rumbled, and even distant Drake armies halted in uncertainty and fear.

——

Hundreds of miles away, Dragonspeaker Luciva raised a hand, and Manus halted as they felt the tremor. Then—they heard the voice.

It didn’t merely come from the Meeting of Tribes. It was deafening, overwhelming, because it came from the earth itself. As if every blade of grass had suddenly grown a tongue. It was that kind of voice. Booming, massive—but not because it came from giant lungs.

Because a million voices spoke it in perfect unison. The Oldblood Drake’s blood chilled.

It was just one word. She had no context for it. But the Gnolls did.

——

Satar Silverfang looked upwards as Khoteizetrough spoke. She gasped and screamed, and her voice was lost in the roar of every Gnoll. In that single word he spoke.

He was no perfect being. Khoteizetrough could not save Gnolls from themselves. He could not defeat the Walled Cities alone. But he could remember. And what he realized, now, in this moment—was that his people, even his tribe, had forgotten.

The little Gnoll girl hung in the air, high overhead, as the elemental’s other hand rose, and his features contorted into an expression of wrath. He looked at Mrsha as that hand fell.

It struck the earth and caused an earthquake. The Doom Slayers of the Plain’s Eye tribe aiming crossbows at Mrsha screamed only once as Khoteizetrough struck them from this world.

Judgment. Passed and executed by the protector of Gaarh Marsh.

Then he spoke. And it was the one word that mattered, that set the mystery ablaze in Satar’s mind. The one clue she needed that proved it was all connected. Such a simple thing. A little lie that had been put in Gnoll minds like poison. Twisting the truth.

One word, that made Theikha close her eyes and weep for all Gnolls had forgotten. That struck Merish with the weight of what he had done. That began to shatter the illusion woven over them all.

A name for the girl. The white Gnoll.

Khoteizetrough said:

“Doombearer.”

And the world changed.

——

Chieftain Xherw returned from his great victory to find the Meeting of Tribes changed forever. Shaman Ulcreziek came to meet him with some simple facts.

“Yelroan has betrayed us. I found a Doombringer and could not kill it. And…the tribes have split.”

The entire Meeting of Tribes had changed. Once, there had been a vast camp, sprawling and encircled. Now?

Plain’s Eye and tribes affiliated with them gathered on one side, warriors holding bows and weapons. Facing the Gnolls on the other across a neutral ground.

Silverfang, Ekhtouch, Longstalker’s Fang, Greenpaw, Demas Metal…and Gaarh Marsh were the ones on the other side. Every other tribe was wavering, caught in the middle.

Over her.

A Doombringer, fur white, listening to the shouting, warded by lines of Weatherfur guards, Silverfangs looking uncertainly at Akrisa as she and Krshia stood in front of Mrsha. But no Gnoll protested because Shaman Theikha stood, staff raised, protecting the girl with a [Mathematician] posing with his sunglasses.

And…Khoteizetrough. The Earth Elemental sat, having killed almost every Plain’s Eye Gnoll nearby. Face set with fury.

“Doombearer.”

Xherw’s blood chilled at the word that had echoed across the Great Plains. The old word for white fur. He looked at Ulcreziek.

It was all falling apart. All the sacrifices, the safeguards that had kept their kind safe—Plain’s Eye was uncertain, but Xherw knew what would come next.

“The Meeting of Chieftains is called. Every Chieftain must attend. Chieftain—”

Ulcre looked pale and sick. Even uncertain? Him?

Xherw shook his head.

“It is time for a reckoning of our people. Hold firm, Ulcre. I will speak to every Chieftain who is uncertain. We must win this. With me.”

He looked around and saw Chief Warrior Merish lingering on the edges of camp. Looking as uncertain as all. Xherw turned as the Meeting of Tribes came to a close. The King of Destruction, the future of their people, retribution for Fissival’s deeds, war—it all boiled down to a simple, final question which divided them.

White fur. The first blood of Gnolls had been shed by other Gnolls.

Xherw feared…no, he knew that more would soon follow.

8.68

Trigger Warning: This chapter contains a non-graphic description of abuse in a relationship ending in death.

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One of the reasons why the Order of Seasons was one of Terandria’s most respected [Knight] Orders had nothing to do with their combat ability. And, to be fair, they were considered to be one of the most superlatively martial Knight Orders on the continent. If not in pure Skill—their ability to utilize their auras was a fearsome thing.

They were numerous and had relics and a base that was founded on the bones of one of the half-Elven cities of old. A semi-autonomous Order not plagued by accusations of dishonorable conduct, with four individuals who were all on par with Named Adventurers—in theory, if not always practice.

Yet that alone just meant they were a powerful group of warriors. And what…

What was the purpose of an army outside of war? There was always a need for peacekeepers, monster-slayers, and lawbringers. But all the training, considerable expense, and authority of the Order of Seasons for a few thousand elite [Warriors] was a hard sell.

What made the Order of Seasons useful were their other qualities. Such as their ability to answer the question that came to the Fall’s Sentinel, Venoriat, the morning after the great victory where an unknown [Knight] broke Ailendamus’ lines to best their [General], liberate the imprisoned [Knights], and escape on a mad dash behind Ailendamus’ front, fighting for the Dawn Concordat.

It came via [Message] spell from one of his own [Knights]. A Ser Ilm of the Season of Autumn, who dutifully sent the entire message in a cipher.

[Message] spells were a tricky business. High-level [Mages] could eavesdrop on most sent in their area, and, because of that, the Order of Seasons used one of the many techniques to obfuscate their communications.

Nothing as fancy as the Walled Cities, who might use an old, encrypted system for top-secret communiqué; the art of encoding [Messages] was lost to all but perhaps Archmages of this era.

However, you could be clever even without magical encryption. For instance, did you know you could send a [Message] spell in Drathian?

Venoriat did not speak Drathian, and the Order of Seasons had decided their [Knights] could not justify the time to learn a second language—imagine the idea!—just to write [Message] spells. Besides, [Translation] was a known, if odd spell.

So, instead, they used ciphers. Venoriat himself designed them, using passages or sayings to alter a message so it was incomprehensible unless you knew how to decode it. He read Ser Ilm’s gibberish and translated it as he sat in the Order of Seasons.

It was a bustling time in the great keep, as even his own studious Autumn Knights, from pages and squires to senior [Knights], ran about, keeping tabs on Ailendamus and the Dawn Concordat’s movements, trying to chart where Rabbiteater and half of the attack force led by Ser Greysten were.

And preparing themselves for more battles to come. Ailendamus had not taken the Summer Champion’s declaration lightly, and Knight-Commander Calirn was with Pheislant’s commanders, preparing for an all-out war.

Not to mention coordinating the disastrous crusade on Chandrar. As far as Venoriat knew, the best [Knights] of Terandria, all the Orders’ contributions—including two hundred Spring Knights—were coming in waves across the sea, landing on Medain and the Claiven Earth’s coasts, and fighting with their armies.

And only managing to deadlock Khelt. They were unable to meaningfully advance against Khelt; they could have swept aside a hundred times their number in zombies or, at least, continued an advance, but Khelt pushed them back.

Astonishing. In another time, Venoriat would have devoted his entire attention to researching Khelt, finding ways to combat their Revenants, and plumbing the depths of how dangerous they might be.

However, he had little time to spare for such enjoyable academia, so Venoriat’s quill scritched as he wrote out the [Message] in correct wording. If it was not essential, even Ser Ilm’s question or [Message] would have to wait.

A group of [Pages] of Autumn hurried by with scrolls to be scribed by Autumn Knights for war. One tripped, and Venoriat winced; all the scrolls would have to be cleaned to ensure they contained the magic.

“I’m sorry, Fall’s Sentinel!”

The girl got up, red-faced, and Venoriat turned and waved a hand.

“Clean it up and continue. Falling in my presence or out of it should change little. Perhaps to the Knight Commander or another Season it would matter…not here. Watch your steps. A bit of time spent saves you an hour with a brush.”

The girl gathered the scrolls up and hurried back along the deep reds, browns, and violets of the Season of Autumn’s floor tiles. She passed by one of their courtyards; not the grassy expanse where you could rush about practicing your swordplay in the Spring or Summer, or the ever-snowing, solemn places to refine yourself in Winter through meditation or self-practice.

No, Autumn used their space to grow mushrooms. Rich, loamy dirt let a profusion of roots spread out, or Sage’s Grass, or other plants that were useful and practical. Indeed, the Season of Autumn was known to be the least-martial of all four Seasons. The most bookish.

And the reason why the Order of Seasons was so respected. After all, who but the ‘Fall Knights’ of Venoriat’s order could scribe spell-scrolls at will? Certainly not Greysten and his lot!

Venoriat’s Season often sold their scrolls at virtually no markup to those who might need them. [Bugward] and [Detect Rot] were very popular among [Farmers].

In times of war? Each scroll that the [Pages] were carrying would be written with magic. [Firebolt] or [Forceshield] or [Smokescreen]—and every [Knight] would carry at least one into battle.

As Venoriat finally decoded Ilm’s missive, his lips moved in a smile. He lifted the scrap of parchment and decided—it was worth prioritizing after all. So he rose and went to the one place that made the Order of Seasons so valued, at least in his eyes:

Their library.

——

The library of the Order of Seasons was as large as Pheislant’s national gathering of tomes in the capital. However, the Order of Seasons had a far more varied assortment of books and magical tomes.

It was a benefit without calculation; even if Venoriat did know exactly how many books were in the library—61,822—that was not enough of a marker.

The thing was—libraries were hard to maintain in a grand sense. Not immediate; you could throw a bunch of books in a room and call it ‘a library’. But were they organized? More importantly, were they maintained?

Did you have preservation spells on each shelf? Did you have anti-moth, bug, and stain spells? Were you fireproofing the entire place? Did you scrupulously check each book that was loaned out for damage and make a point of repairing it, or were you a coward who let people dogear their pages without folding their ears in return?

Because it mattered. Not this year. Not next year. But each wrinkle, crease, and lack of a stasis spell was another second, minute lost. And paper and ink faded so quickly. When a disaster struck, knowledge was lost forever. Even the best [Librarians] had watched their collections vanish as an Elder Creler blasted a hole through a nation. Or a Gold-rank [Mage] with too much to drink threw one damn [Fireball]…

Let’s assume, in the best case, you had a library that avoided any major calamity over your lifespan. Well, even then—your books would invariably be damaged by usage, because books were meant to be read.

You could get a [Bookbinder] to touch them up, but what happened when the paper itself began to disintegrate from age? Okay, enchant it. No problem.

…What happened when the magic itself began to get old? A [Librarian] suddenly had to find a book-enchanting specialist to remake a magical tome.

How did you re-copy a spellbook created twelve thousand years ago by an Archmage who practiced the Albezian school of magic and wrote using the crushed husks of an insect that had been extinct for over two centuries?

That was why a real library was impressive; one that maintained its books, organized them, and had the largesse to lend them out to people with no appreciation for all the hard work that went into keeping things the way they were.

Hence, the Season of Autumn’s value. A [Farmer] could send a learned daughter or son or come here themselves and take off their hat, put on some gloves or wash their hands, and then read on how to cultivate a certain crop or keep their soil fresh without Skills.

In fact, [Farmers] were preferred because they had appropriate respect for the library the Season of Autumn kept. A Summer Knight who’d toss a book across the mess hall for someone else to read or turn a page while riding and tear it as their horse came down too hard?

Well.

Those souls met with the [Librarian Knights].

Yes, that was a class. And yes, Venoriat went to one of them with Ilm’s missive. The [Knight] delicately turning a page in the book they were checking for damage was probably reading on-duty. But you had to be a real bookworm and love the job to get that class, so Venoriat made no comment as the man hurriedly stood.

“Fall’s Sentinel. Does the Knight-Commander need another lookup? Will you give us half an hour to proof them against ice and water? He does his best, but the temperature…”

The aggrieved [Librarian Knight] had an understandable problem with Winter Knights, who practically generated mildew. Venoriat was pleased not to have to deal with that.

“Not at the moment, Ser Tulnous. I have a research assignment for you. A rather…interesting one. I leave it in your care as I must go back to my work.”

He handed the message over, and Tulnous’ eyebrows rose. He took the slip of paper with one callused hand.

He was a halberd-expert who had little cause to use his weapon in his beloved library but was rather fearsome among his Season nevertheless. Tulnous’ Skills included the ability to pull any book he wanted in the library, repair minor damage with just a finger, locate any book he lent out unerringly, sense if a passing [Merchant] had any books not in the Order of Seasons’ collection—

And those were just his mundane Skills. His truly powerful Skills included the ability to have any book in his possession read out loud, in his own voice, whenever he wanted—a Skill that Venoriat privately envied—visualize the fantastical stories, remember up to three hundred thousand words of his choosing, such that he could recite any passage, poetry, or quote he pleased—

And his Level 30 capstone was the most impressive. [Cover to Cover, Revision Reader].

Which meant that he could read every single version of a book ever read. So if you had eighteen versions of a book he held? He could read any one.

He had recently put that Skill to use backtracking the rise of Ailendamus, spotting the truth amid many revised histories.

The most senior [Librarian Knight] read the slip of paper, and his lips curved upwards.

“I assume this is not an idle question from Ser Ilm in the field? It would not be surprising if so.”

Venoriat’s smile had a twinkle in it.

“I suspect that this is entirely pressing, Ser Tulnous. It likely has to do with our illustrious Ser Solstice. Do you think the information is extant?”

“In one book or another on Skills and auras? Certainly! One will be easier than the other, I am sure. How fascinating. A dual-aura [Knight]…”

Venoriat lifted a finger, cautioning his subordinate.

“To be kept secret, Ser Tulnous. You and two others may look into the topic. Not a word—and I expect a report within two hours, which I will forward to Ser Ilm.”

The [Librarian] bowed.

“At once, Fall’s Sentinel.”

He smiled as he looked at the little note. Translated, the part Venoriat had given Tulnous was not about the battle or Ilm’s other observations. It was simply a question—a research request into two rather unique auras. Two, contained in a single person.

[Aura of the Hearth] and [Aura of the Brave]. Possible synergies, dual-aura combinations, the usages of each aura, and any other pertinent information. The Order of Autumn was only too happy to help. After all—if anyone knew what Rabbiteater’s new Skills did, it would be them.

“Well done, Ser Solstice.”

Venoriat murmured as he walked back. Well done indeed.

Especially for a Goblin [Knight]. But that was most secret of all.

——

“Excuse me, Lord Sophridel? I have a communication from one of the Order of Seasons. Encrypted. I was referred to you by the [Spymaster]. It is, ah, pressing, so she regretfully…”

Elsewhere in Terandria, a nervous servant stopped as a tall, intensely tall, still figure turned and closed the book he was reading.

Lord Sophridel—in truth, an Earl—was a rather reclusive figure in Ailendamus’ hierarchies. He was ‘Minister of the Interior Arts’ which meant he oversaw the libraries, did some commissioning of artwork—but not on the same level as those who coordinated statues, great galas, and more—and, secretly, ran the Court of Masks.

Running the Court of Masks was his main task, and as such, if you didn’t know, you might think he had one of those plush jobs with no actual work. If you did know, well, you considered him an enigmatic spellcaster who did a fine job and faded into the woodwork.

If you talked to him? The tall, nearly seven-foot half-Elf with pale skin was an oddity even to his own kind. He had a ponderous kind of speech and reminded one much of some long-forgotten [Scholar].

Of course, no one saw Sophridel. They just saw a mask. It was his preferred mask when he had to be…outside.

The astute half-Elf extended two nearly-translucent fingers to accept the piece of paper with Ser Ilm’s missive. The servant was all too ready to wait in an antechamber, or come back and provide him with more references from the [Spymaster].

She was used to the very competent wing of Ailendamus’ spy networks and in fact was no mere [Servant], but a [Servant of Intrigue]. That she was personally running this request was because there were some letters so important that even holding them without opening them required you to be important. Even within the safe and secure capital.

So she knew Lord Sophridel was important. She had never met him before, only seen him from afar. She was also uncertain why the [Spymaster], a scrupulous woman who had once blown off her own arm rather than let the letter she was holding fall into enemy hands, hadn’t sent him an entire packet of material for him to help with codebreaking the Order of Seasons’ ciphers.

This was a single note. Lord Sophridel would need more references—and they changed their ciphers on the regular! Even their own specialists hadn’t been able to immediately code-break it. So that was why it was astonishing when the quiet half-Elf handed the note back.

“A research request and report on the battle. I reference ‘Ser Solstice’ as a [Knight] and [Aura of the Hearth] and [Aura of the Brave] for lookup in their libraries. I will now write the contents of the message, verbatim, and my own recollection of both auras in brief. Allow me two minutes.”

He produced a piece of paper and quill and wrote delicately. The [Servant] gulped.

“Yes, Lord Sophridel.”

She retreated, understanding why the [Spymaster] considered the Minister of the Interior Arts a resource to be called upon at need. Her respectful gaze on the tall half-Elf, a silver mane of hair drooped across his angular features, absently brushing at the locks as he stooped slightly to write with impeccable penmanship…

Was all wrong. All she saw was the mask.

She saw ‘Lord Sophridel’. The servant saw the half-Elf. If she wanted to, she could have touched him, and he could have eaten and enjoyed food—not that Alniesierr Carnevien had ever truly enjoyed food. He could be roused to great passion, of course, and if that woman with her hair in a bun and a killing stiletto holding it all together had professed a great love of Selphid writings and fine wine—and baths along moonlit shores on cold nights with the hot water steaming—he would have positively swept her off her feet in a courtship of unexpected passion.

‘Sophridel’ would have been able to do that too, rather admirably, in Alniesierr’s case. But cut him open and you would find no blood or heart beating. Behead him and you would find, among clothing and dust, only one thing.

A mask.

A perfect mask of the half-Elf’s face. In fact, a death-mask, which the eclectic Alniesierr Carnevien had once commissioned thousands upon thousands of years ago. When Sophridel did not have it ‘active’, it floated in a dark void upon his body.

The Elemental of Masks stood in a private room, each mask, from animal to person, staring outwards. Each one…had a quality.

Some were cheap. He held on to them for nostalgia’s sake. Others were expensive. But what mattered was how much they in turn had been worn. Or what they were made of in conjunction with their purpose.

The Court of Masks and the nobility who argued and debated in his rooms wore masks. Each one was suited to them; multiple people could wear the same mask, but the effect was diluted.

Hence, the rules. It would bear little fruit in their lifetimes. But if someone attended the Court of Masks every day for most of their life, wore the same mask…when they died, it would be their mask. And perhaps, one day, far in the future, that mask might detach from Sophridel.

Picture the dark room. Now—see a shadow darker than even that. A bit of the void given form. Anchored, holding, floating upon it, hundreds of masks in every direction. The very idea of masks, of identity, given form.

An Elemental of Masks.

That was who Sophridel was. He was not one mask. He was not an individual if you took away all the masks.

He was all and none, and his likenesses could stride about. Someday, after the man had long-since perished, perhaps Baron Regalius would stride about once more, the very personality of him captured, from his abilities to his demeanor. Or—if it came to battle—a snarling mask made from actual Manticore flesh might materialize.

With all the power of a Manticore. All their limitations and strengths; a mask had to be an accurate representation, even if it was still a mask. Break it and he lost it forever. Sophridel hated losing parts of him.

Hence, his current guise in the genius of Alniesierr, aiding the [Spymaster] from time-to-time. Sophridel drew on more than just that, though.

“[Aura of the Hearth]. Defensive. [Aura of the Brave]. Offensive. A combination is rare. In one entity denotes a conflict or event of the soul. Past history, perhaps. No known combinations exist to my memory. However, the materialization of both is often unpredictable.”

Auras—as any [Lady] or Order of Seasons [Knight] knew—were made up of three stages. Simply manifesting the aura like the King of Destruction was akin to a second instinct. A powerful commanding presence. The ability to withstand [Terror] spells and so on.

Materialization came next, as the Order of Seasons practiced. They could make blades of flame or wind, shields—even change the ambient temperature and so on.

The last stage, rarely obtained, would be such a complete zone of authority that even magic failed before the very concept of their aura. [Mages] often found to their horror that their spells would have less effect against powerful individuals of that nature.

Sophridel, or rather one of his masks, had once heard that auras were part of a natural chain of superiority and weakness. If magic defeated regular warriors, for instance, in basic concept, auras were meant to counter…something.

Something that the theory fell apart around because the theory hadn’t been able to concretely say that auras beat people with swords or magic; it was simply one kind of superiority.

Sophridel wrote on, listing all the notes he had for [Aura of the Hearth].

“Base form—reassurance, the manifestation of morale or nostalgia. As it manifests? Limited cornucopia abilities. Extreme defensive abilities in places of home or shelter. Aura of the Hearth once repelled a King of Avel from entering a mother’s home; they were of roughly equal level. To research—see Disgraces of the Crown, by Goldtongue. The most high-level effects include the creation of structures. My information is limited. Aura of the Brave is far more documented among [Heroes], [Barbarians], and other warriors. Inspiring, courageous as implied. Manifestation of weapons. Overwhelming presence in massed battles. Sheer manifestation at higher-levels has, when consolidated and upgraded, created entire zones of anti-magic.”

He ceased writing, handed the note over to the stunned servant, and let his mask take over and turn back to work.

That was the thing. Sophridel was everywhere at once. He could have multiple masks, although for secrecy’s sake he only used them in very safe, non-combat settings. But one of his other selves was, at this very moment, doing internal bookkeeping on all of Ailendamus’ records.

All the records. She sat in a rather sumptuous room, with every whim catered to. She ate her favorite food, and the [Secretary], a notorious recluse, had once very publicly said she would have quite enjoyed being locked in a prison cell and forced to work rather than be married and deal with the rest of the world.

In her mask, she got her wish, checking for mistakes or corruption internally. Another of Sophridel’s selves was a [Teacher] who imparted magical lessons every few months.

That was who he was. The main body of the Elemental of Masks juggled his selves effortlessly. Again, he was his components. He was no mere Archmage who had to wrestle with parallel thoughts and a limited mind. The Elemental of Masks grew according to his resources, and he had been empowered by all of Ailendamus.

The only question was—er, well…

Was that a bad thing?

It certainly was to Ailendamus’ enemies, as the Elemental had broken almost every cipher and encryption sent against him. And Sophridel was only one immortal in the Kingdom of Glass and Glory. The others could be even more scary.

——

The Ministry of Intelligence—spying—was one branch of Ailendamus’ actually competent government. Suspiciously competent, one might say, and somehow devoid of corruption on any large scale.

It was hard to do that in a nation. For instance—did you trust your judges? Did you have a judicial system in your species?

Gnolls had [Shamans] and [Chieftains], who could be…biased. Drakes did have a judicial system, but they had certain provisions where the Watch Captain or Council or army had a certain overruling presence.

Humans sometimes just went to the nearest noble, who in turn reported to a higher noble and then a monarch.

Ailendamus had a court system. Not unheard of, but it had [Judges], [Arbiters], and so on. Individuals who would administer an entire region, hold Watch Captains to account, and even punish adventurers who were often considered above the law. They might be ‘above the law’ in a city state.

Not in Ailendamus, where a greatbow would tap you on the shoulder instead of a Level 5 [Archer] with a shortbow. But who were the judges?

“They’re here. Eleven of them.”

The rumor of one of the more famous groups of judges and nobility among Ailendamus was overshadowed by the arrival of the Singer of Terandria and the war. Even so—eleven of House Shoel descending on the capital was a nightmare for any prisoner awaiting judgment.

The cold, impartial men and women of Viscount Visophecin’s family were known for their famous adherence to the law. They entertained no emotional arguments, and each one was rumored to have an emotion-suppressing Skill, because they would send doe-eyed young adults to the chopping block if the crime warranted it.

They could not be bribed or intimidated, and the few who had tried had learned to fear House Shoel’s reach. It seemed to most to be a miserable job, to be so feared and to condemn so many to death, because the judges almost always presided over the worst and most heinous of crimes.

What they did not understand was how much the Lucifen enjoyed it.

Ryoka Griffin sat in on one of the court hearings. She heard the fear among the witnesses hoping that a young woman who had committed a murder, a crime of passion, might get a lighter sentence. She watched with more insight than the rest.

This was what they wanted. A system by which people—terrible people, yes—were legally and swiftly dealt with. Where they could not only administer perfect, beautiful law in an idealized version of a nation, to them, but also reap the rewards of those condemned to death.

The question was to Ryoka—was it corrupt?

She felt it had to be, hence why she took time out of her busy day of panicking about anything and everything to check. The Lucifen were not impartial judges. They had, in legal parlance, a big fucking stake in the outcome of every case they presided upon. They ate the condemned. So surely they were biased and this was a bad system, right?

…Right?

Igolze, the steely-eyed Lucifen judge, wore a kind of grey suit unlike robes that should have looked terrible on him. But the air of faint metal and oil, his perfect, slim posture, and the way he gazed down upon the proceedings without a hint of emotion, even in the face of tears, made him seem like some kind of otherworldly judge.

Which he was. The Devil sat, listening, refusing to change his posture during the hour of discussion where the entire backstory of the young woman was brought up. Ryoka listened to a murder of passion against her lover—who had been abusive—and his mother, who had been culpable and aware of the entire situation.

However, it had been a premeditated murder, not merely passion, although passion was the inciting event; the [Murderer] in question had hidden a knife on her body during the final, fatal encounter. On the other hand, she confessed that she had kept the knife six times before that and only snapped in the final, pivotal beating.

Whereupon she had stabbed her former lover to death and ignored his pleas for a healing potion. After which, his mother, hearing the commotion, tried to kill the young woman, and it led to a brutal fight which…

If Ryoka had been the jury or judge in this case, she would have been forced to make either an emotional judgment or one that had to rely on the rules, because she felt for the girl, but, she had to admit, it was murder. But the abuse…

Igolze had no such qualms. He spoke, sipping from a cup of water after an hour of directing the [Guards], [Mages], and other people present in the room to administer [Detect Truth] spells and so on.

“I judge the following: the defendant is guilty of murder. She deliberately and knowingly planned to murder her lover.”

A groan swept up from the room while some of those waiting for justice looked up. Igolze continued, lifting a hand and sweeping the room with his piercing, faintly red glare. It lingered just a moment on Ryoka, watching in the stands from above. Anyone was free to enter and watch.

“I also judge the defendant was a victim of abuse and assault from both victims. Neither instance exonerates her; she acted in what would be considered self-defense in the moment. That she knowingly kept a weapon on her is indication that she was prepared for murder. I consider the second death, of Northa Vales, in part self-defense as the defendant was attacked with a shortsword. However, Ailendamus’ laws are clear.”

He looked down at the terrified [Murderer], bound by magical spells. Not one muscle moved in Igolze’s face for mercy or anger. He looked at her like a bug defiling his home. More like disgust. We have rules. Why would you bother breaking them?

“You were not prohibited from moving about. You did not fear for your life, and indeed, a [Guardswoman] inquired about your wellbeing twice, Miss Iusa. You could have alerted the Watch or another official.”

He stopped the protest with a [Silence] spell.

“You claim you were afraid for your life. However, the Watch has arrested officials of the crown and protected the innocent without fail. If they had failed, I would be sentencing the Watch Captain and every [Guard] who failed to act.”

He looked calmly at the witnesses, who shifted uncomfortably. Igolze looked back at Iusa and went on.

“I put a question to you: why did you take the matter into your own hands? The answer you gave was that he had to die. You had a choice. It was not truly motivated by fear, but vengeance. You are guilty of murder, but not sentenced to execution. I offer you the choice between labor, twenty years; conscription into Ailendamus’ ranks, eight years maximum, reduced depending on your service; volunteering for magical experimentation, which will last…”

He gave her a list of options, which included volunteering to be a test subject of alchemy or magic, fighting as a conscripted soldier, labor—none of it imprisonment. Ryoka supposed Rhisveri, or perhaps Visophecin himself, had designed the system with the belief that spending money on locking people up was wasteful.

And she was so glad. Not for the poor girl who chose labor. Not for the family who saw justice done or her own family.

Part of Ryoka was simply glad because she saw the Lucifen’s justice.

And it was not hers. The Devils had no pity or humanity in them, and it showed. She listened to how Igolze broke down the [Murderer]—Iusa’s options logically. But logic in that kind of situation? That didn’t exist.

She couldn’t say he was completely wrong in all of it. But he wasn’t right. He had no compassion.

But then Ryoka Griffin realized how far the Luficen’s idea of justice cut when Igolze rose.

“Remove the defendant. In light of this ruling—the next trial shall concern the Vales family’s culpability in the case of abuse of one Iusa Vales. As the defendants are present, I summon them to the court. I summon the following witnesses…”

Every head in the courtroom turned towards the frozen people, and Ryoka saw, just for a second, what she’d been waiting for. At his podium, Igolze, the Lucifen…

Smiled.

Just for a second.

——

Afterwards, Viscount Visophecin met Ryoka as she tried to have lunch. She ended up just sipping from a fruit drink; she wasn’t hungry.

“What do you think of Ailendamus’ judicial systems? Compared to Earth?”

He appeared at her table as she turned her head. Ryoka nearly spilled the drink all over herself, but an invisible force stopped it from tipping over. She turned and saw Igolze, Azemith and a fourth Lucifen all watching her.

Visophecin did not preside over judgements, but he appeared interested as Igolze watched Ryoka with keen interest. She took a deep breath.

“It’s the most horrific thing I’ve seen so far. Magical experimentation? You’re judging the people you…”

She hesitated, but knew they were under secrecy wards.

“…eat? Haven’t you heard of bias? Or are Lucifen above it all? And you had no compassion for that young woman!”

The Lucifen looked at her, each face unmoving. Then they did it again. They smiled, and Igolze leaned forwards.

“Separating the issue of our presence as arbiters aside from the individual ruling…how, exactly, did you find my judgment wrong, Ryoka Griffin?”

It was not hard for Ryoka to break down why she found Igolze’s judgment heartless for someone suffering abuse. What she expected was indifference or contempt. Not the instantaneous debate that broke out among the four Lucifen.

“I would have considered it understandable self-defense on all counts, Igolze. Two murders, albeit with cause? You have erred. Reconsider your verdict.”

Azemith needled her partner as Igolze frowned.

“The law is clear. She is aware of the power of the Watch—”

Visophecin broke in.

“That is not something she was in a fit state of mind to consider. If she were a child, would you hold her to that standard?”

Igolze glared, eyes narrowing, and the smell of oil and fire intensified at their table.

“I would not, Visophecin, and I resent the comparison. Her district witnessed two public arrests within the last year; she would be aware that the Watch held no fear of authority. I remind you she testified under truth spell that it was her determination for her partner to die.”

The fourth Lucifen, a woman, smiled coldly.

“And you cast the onus of her crimes upon her? Not the Watch, for failing to investigate further? Nor the family who was culpable? I trust you will hold them to fair account. I characterize you as lenient upon the unlawful and too fond of imprisoning the victim, Igolze. The rest of the family agrees.”

The Lucifen’s eyes narrowed to points.

“Is that so? Let’s review the cases of last month—”

“Only the female ones. Of abuse. You have a failing in your mind—”

“Convince me of that now, or I will put a void spell under your pillow.”

Igolze’s smile looked like he was contemplating a crime that would send him to the chopping block. Based on how the other Lucifen returned that dangerous smile—Ryoka was sure it wasn’t an idle threat.

She saw Visophecin look at her as Igolze began a heated breakdown of all the cases—and he could remember them perfectly.

“Do you see?”

She sipped at her drink and looked at Visophecin.

“Your people enjoy this? The Lucifen?”

His eyes glittered, and all three other Lucifen looked up.

“Law, to Lucifen, and properly administering it, is a joy we have. Seeing Ailendamus function without issue or resolve a problem within the system we have laid out is…as close to happiness as we find it among mortals. Your point that we are biased is well made, but I offer you this admittedly biased rebuttal, Ryoka. To have those with the power and incentive in the seat of judgment is clearly flawed. But we are not Human, mortal, or other species. Our purpose is to uphold order. As we see it, yes, but we desire proper law. Igolze, Azemith, Shierxun’s rulings all differ based on their understanding of the law. But their intent is to render justice in its most complete form.”

All three Lucifen nodded. Ryoka looked at them, then Visophecin.

“And the experimentation on prisoners?”

He raised two brows.

“They may volunteer. It is not an obligation. I see your…moral quandaries. But I simply say this. Without live participants, we learn less, and less quickly. It is not moral. But it is delightfully efficient compared to those who hold the lives of others to be a virtue.”

Now he did look at her, clearly hoping she’d shudder. Just to spite him, Ryoka took a big sip of her drink. She nearly spat it out when she saw the unmistakable sight of two wheelchairs coming her way.

Wheelchairs? It was odd because it shouldn’t have been to Ryoka, but she was used to a world without even the expertise to make wheeled…chairs…common.

Ryoka would have more expected to see a floating dais or enchanted artifact because, in a way, that was easier. Or a palanquin carried by people. However, Ailendamus’ foundries and metalworks were advanced enough, and House Shoel’s especially, that the two Agelum could move about like that.

And they were here. That was the big thing. People respectfully passed, or noticed the Agelum like Ryoka; oddities even among Ailendamus’ palace.

“There she is. I told you she was somewhere about here. You have to watch the [Knights].”

Gadrea was scolding Uzine. The two sat in their wheelchairs as respectful servants of House Shoel wheeled them forwards. They looked as frail as butterflies, their odd eyes with too many pupils staring about hungrily at the bustling palace. They looked like they were enjoying all the excitement—and from the way the Lucifen watched with concern, especially Visophecin, overexcited butterflies that could hurt themselves by their sheer eagerness.

The fair cousins to the Lucifen came to a stop as Ryoka half-rose.

“Gadrea, Uzine. I didn’t know you two went about the palace.”

“Oh, we do! And I’d get around faster if I were allowed to push myself, no offense, Ollena. But I’m afraid we do injure ourselves; hence Visophecin limiting the visits to once every blue moon. Literally. At least there are two. Ah—you two, take a rest. Have some food and rest yourselves. I insist.”

Uzine produced some silver coins, which he handed over to the two servants. They retreated to another table as the Agelum sat at Ryoka’s table. They were too low in their wheelchairs to sit at head-height. Until they rose slightly off the ground. Ryoka peered under the table and saw blocks of light magic raising them up so they could look around at eye-level.

Gadrea’s eyes twinkled as she smiled at Azemith, whose face was perfectly blank as she nodded to her cousins. That was what tickled Ryoka. Heartless, certainly predatory, and prone to cruelties as they might be, the Lucifen cared about the Agelum.

“So, what did you think of our cousins’ laws and order, Ryoka Griffin?”

Gadrea fixed Ryoka with one of her pupils as the other eye moved about. Ryoka had seen Gazi doing much the same, and she replied after a second.

“…I didn’t care for it. I, ah…well, it’s complicated legally. Our judicial systems are different from yours.”

“How so?”

And she had to explain it all over again. What was interesting was that the Agelum had a completely different take on the matter. No sooner had Ryoka laid out the case than Uzine began frowning and shaking his head.

“This is why I cannot bear to see it. Our cousins are…fair. In that they pass judgment regardless of rank and age. I could never do so.”

“Fair like the blade of the Hedag’s axe. It cuts too sharply. Which is why they vanished.”

Gadrea put in quietly. Uzine turned to Igolze, who looked uncomfortable as the Agelum gave him a hard stare.

“You put that poor girl in a labor camp? Igolze!”

“I have had enough of my kin passing judgment, Uzine. I may reconsider my ruling—but I do not believe the Agelum are fair mediators. Or what would you do?”

The Lucifen’s voice was put-upon. Uzine glowered.

“I? I would make a [Knight] of that girl! Offer her a place in the Thirsting Veil, or at least the Order of the Hydra, and let her be the one that falls upon that kind of wretch without mercy. As for that family…they knew of what passed?”

Igolze folded his arms.

“I will not speak of the case until I have heard the witnesses.”

Gadrea’s glower was no less intense than Uzine’s.

“Yet they did live under the same roof. In that case, sentence them all. Eat the family that would let such a thing happen and toss their bones to the worms.”

Ryoka sat back as the two glowered fiercely. Visophecin turned to her as the Lucifen shook their heads.

“You can see why we split our family between the two of us. Uzine and Gadrea’s kin…make poor judges of character.”

“They would have each murderer who killed in self-defense accept a knighthood. Self-defense is not always virtuous, Uzine, Gadrea.”

Azemith retorted, speaking up for Igolze for the first time. Uzine sat back, letting the matter go, if not his frown. He turned to Ryoka, resigned.

“I am glad you spoke to our cousins. They do not listen; we have had this argument for millenia, after all. If not always in the same places and contexts. Why, my great grandfather used to throw his celestial arms at—”

A cough made him break off, and Ryoka saw Visophecin tap a finger on the table. The Devil looked at Ryoka thoughtfully.

“Igolze’s judgment is but one case. Pray, tell us more about your systems, Ryoka Griffin. It may lie in the mere presentation of how we sit and judge. A jury is…”

The other three Lucifen sneered, but Visophecin did not.

“…undesirable. But I do take your point well about the impartiality of judges. Perhaps it is finally time to establish the royal courts and remove ourselves. The training process will take a decade.”

“Not to mention corruption within their ranks and overseeing them. They are also susceptible to Skills and magic, even if their character is impeccable. But I may agree at last when our kin debate the issue.”

Azemith, Igolze, and Shierxun all nodded, which, again, surprised Ryoka. She took another sip from her orange juice. Nothing special. Just orange juice. It tasted a bit less sweet, but…fresher than she remembered. Probably because there wasn’t corn syrup and these were actually, genuinely squeezed from oranges. Was it wrong to miss the preservative?

“Why the sudden turnaround?”

Visophecin flicked his fingers, looking slightly amused.

“Why, because you object to it so. Because if we present ourselves to your nations and are seen—Lucifen aside—to fall behind in decorum, we are lesser. How can we seduce other nations and individuals to our cause without impressing upon them the quality of our laws?”

The Lucifen nodded as one. Suddenly, Ryoka had to explain the concept of a jury of peers, recollect how a trial in the modern world was laid out, not to mention the court system…

If there was a group interested in checks and balances and the formation of government, it was Visophecin’s people. Not Gadrea and Uzine. Gadrea promptly began ordering the latest delicacies. Uzine, after twenty minutes, put his head back and slept, only waking up when they were done and rising. He turned to Ryoka with a bright smile.

“At last! Now you have seen our kin’s gift and pact with Ailendamus and Rhisveri. We shall show you ours, next.”

Ryoka raised one eyebrow curiously.

“Pact?”

The Agelum smiled broadly.

“Of course. Or did you come here without knowing? It is our deal, we of…long-lived persuasion. Our promise with Rhisveri. Did you think he kept it all?”

He offered her a hand, and Ryoka found Visophecin pushing the wheelchair as he showed her what she had been looking for, in part.

The immortal bargain that lay at the heart of Ailendamus.

——

There were parts of Ailendamus that were truly wondrous. Like the Court of Masks, there were projects, areas, or simply parts of the nation that were amazing. And that was because they had immortal hands behind them.

Uzine was only too happy to elaborate to Ryoka how it had all come about.

“When first we struck our pact with Rhisveri, it was of aid and mutual convenience. We had—issues. Did you hear what happened to the last palace?”

“I, uh, saw.”

The Agelum laughed.

“Teething issues. We weren’t the first, either! Some came to Rhisveri in a position of weakness, rescued like poor Gilaw. Others, however? He had to offer us something, so our dear Wyrm established the basic rule that governs us. A deed for a deed. What we wish for with all our hearts will come true if it is within Ailendamus’ power—if we provide an equal value, of course. Gilaw and Menorkel are far from that dream, but House Shoel has provided unending aid to the crown. Therefore…”

“The entire system of law and justice falls to the Lucifen. As they desire.”

Gadrea was being pushed by Azemith as the group proceeded through the palace. The Agelum got looks. The reclusive members of Viscount Visophecin’s family got looks. Ryoka, bare-footed, the Wind Runner, got the most looks.

Perhaps ‘look’ was too simple a word. It wasn’t goggle-eyed, more like a speculative gaze from afar from the court. The servants had wary respect for the Lucifen, eyed Ryoka like trouble, especially because of her bare feet, and looked as fondly at the Agelum as any servants of the palace.

They all had a reputation, which each group cultivated because they desired it. Agelum were well-loved busybodies. The Lucifen, feared and aloof. Ryoka was confusing.

“So what did you ask for, Uzine? Or are we going to see it?”

The Agelum waved a hand, smiling.

“We do not have a set thing. You’ve seen Sophridel’s conceit, haven’t you? Fithea’s is within the walls. We Agelum asked for something that cannot be seen directly. And I must say—we relied on our cousins to fulfill the worth since we are so…”

He gestured at himself. Visophecin murmured.

“The Agelum provide a number of useful talents. Not least training our [Knights]. Did you have a chance to meet any you remembered, Uzine?”

The Agelum sighed.

“Only a few. The rest are deployed or at war. And I can only swing a blade for a minute! But I didn’t hurt myself, and it was quite fun, seeing how the [Knights] did. Their polish is lacking. I put eight down. Gadrea, ten.”

“They were the Order of the Hydra. The Thirsting Veil did better. They’re acceptable.”

The two Agelum were bright-eyed and missed Ryoka’s eyebrows climbing to the ceiling. As for what they had wished for…Uzine laughed.

“A simple thing. In Ailendamus—so Rhisveri has promised us—he will create a land where no one will ever die of hunger. Nor monster attack. The latter is nigh-impossible to achieve, I know, but the first…”

His eyes glinted.

“It will be done. Such that, even if you have no coin, a [Healer] will see you. No child without parents will starve before a [Guard] finds them. I have seen it done elsewhere, and Rhisveri has implemented laws that make us walk towards that goal. Someday, I will have it fulfilled.”

It was such a childish wish. Or…innocent. It was so genuine that Ryoka thought both Visophecin and Azemith slowed. She felt like shielding her own face from the simple compassion in Uzine. It made her uncomfortable.

It was like…speaking to Erin. She would have understood and been able to take the Agelum at face-value without making a joke or growing uncomfortable. Not Ryoka.

“So, uh, no palaces of gold? Or statues?”

She grinned weakly. Uzine gave her a blank stare.

“No. That would be what Rhisveri gets. I don’t understand his desires—but I am not a Wyrm. We don’t begrudge him his ambitions, so long as we get what we want. We have learned to compromise. Besides, for some, he is our only hope and shelter. Fithea…poor Fithea. She dreams of a day when he will give her a forest ten thousand miles across in every direction, untouched by even half-Elves.”

“That day will never come, even should we take all of Terandria.”

Azemith’s smile was crueler. Uzine shrugged his shoulders.

“Then Terandria and Izril? But in the meantime…ah, here we are. Part of her wish is this.”

They came to a stop, and Ryoka found herself looking up at the Royal Gardens. Not the hedge-maze of outside, nor, in truth, even the colorful walkways where visitors were allowed. For good reason. When they walked through the vast archway, they passed through a long hallway with lettering glittering on the walls. Ryoka gazed upwards and felt nostalgia, again. The messages—rules for visitors, really—were straight and to the point.

Littering is punishable.

Plucking flowers or any plants without permission is not allowed.

Do not stray off the paths for your own sake.

It is a crime to bring animals, insects, or other creatures into the garden.

Beware of the [Druids].

The area past the doors was so bright Ryoka shaded her eyes for a second. When she lowered her hands, she glanced up and blinked.

“Um. What happened to the ceiling?”

She stared up and wondered if they’d gone outside. For the ceiling was gone, and a bright, foreign sky, too bright for the day outside, shone down. The air felt more humid—and Ryoka would have looked for the rest of the palace if it weren’t for the trees.

The…trees she was sure that she had never seen before, because they would have been on-par with the palace’s tallest towers. Gigantic redwoods, as large as any of Earth’s biggest, and stranger plants still.

One tree had branches that were just long, with these spreading leaves such that it was practically as long horizontally as vertically. Impossibly suspended leaves fanned outwards, casting shadows a hundred feet overhead on thin, magical wood that was bright grey.

It could not physically exist on Earth because no wood or tree could hold that kind of weight, as impossibly thin and long as the branches were. One gust of wind or simply gravity would snap that kind of architecture.

But here, this tree existed, and it was thin and spread aggressively, fighting for light and water with the other trees. It was just one—but Ryoka’s eyes widened as she looked up at the…

“Blue fruit tree? Wait—is that a blue fruit tree?”

The Agelum and Lucifen were enjoying her reaction as the Courier spun around. On the ground were glowing plants, ranging from mundane plants like thistles, in their dangerous glory, growing without being pruned, to Sage’s Grass to…

It was like someone had taken a snapshot of every single plant they could and put it in this place. A vast preserve where plants were given leave to grow without end, even war with each other—but the existence of every species was preserved. Azemith craned her head to look at the blue fruit tree.

“It certainly has blue fruit. Please tell me that is not how your world names trees? What do you call apple trees? Red fruit trees? That’s the Amentus tree that Fithea wanted, wasn’t it? Didn’t the fruits poison some foreign diplomat’s son one time?”

“Poisonous pits, yes. I believe our Thirsting Veil Knights and the Ministry of Intelligence harvest the interiors. It’s grown quite large.”

Visophecin gazed up idly. Ryoka’s eyes bugged out as she stared at what she thought was a blue fruit the size of her head. What could Erin make with that?

“This is Fithea’s…wish?”

“In part. There is a ceiling, but we hid it with magic. Dimensional spells. She desired this, but her true dream lies to the north. Forests where half-Elves are allowed to live in peace. She wishes for trees thousands of years old to grow. Another Great Forest. But it will take millenia to bear fruit; the site has been marked for such a forest to grow, but Ailendamus is only two hundred years old. Still, Fithea’s dream may come true, if last of all of ours.”

The way they talked. The Lucifen sounded encouraging, like someone talking about this long-term project a friend had. The Agelum simply rolled around, inspecting plants. Uzine cautioned Ryoka not to emulate their example.

“This place is zealously guarded. Stay on the pathways, as the rules say. You wouldn’t even have access without us. Oh, and don’t pluck flowers. I know the rules say that, but the guardians really do get annoyed. See? There’s one watching us already. Hello! I learned my lesson last time!”

The Agelum waved a hand cheerfully, and Ryoka nearly jumped into the air as she saw there was someone watching them.

The [Druid] was nearly invisible as she stood in a maze of sunflowers. Her clothing actually took on the colors of the sunflowers, a bright yellow and brown around her hood, drifting to green and then brown lower down.

Oh, and she was a Dwarf. The Dwarf [Druid]’s yellow hood moved as she pointed a stubby finger at Ryoka. She had no beard, Ryoka couldn’t help but notice, but she did have a half-mask of wood over the bottom of her face. She spoke, voice slightly muffled as she pointed.

“You. Keep your wind harnessed. A sporing has begun. We will not have it blow across the gardens.”

“Er. Yes? Hello!”

The [Druid] then ignored Ryoka and glowered at the Lucifen, who nodded to her. Viscount Visophecin raised one hand.

“We are here simply to observe. Lady Fithea has allowed us entry.”

“She has.”

It was a grudging comment. The [Druid] shifted her glare to Uzine, who snatched his hand away from some kind of carnivorous plant, which kept snapping at a finger. But he kept evading it just in time.

Ryoka felt like she needed to say something. She pointed at the woman as the [Druid] turned away.

“Uh, uh—wait! I have something to say! N—Nath—Nathi—Nathal—”

The stuttering made all the Lucifen look at her. Gadrea leaned over to Visophecin.

“Is she having a heart attack?”

“Let me check.”

Azemith began casting a spell as Ryoka finally got it right.

“Nalthaliarstrelous! I know him.”

The [Druid] had been turning away impatiently, but at that name she looked back at Ryoka. The Dwarf woman raised her eyebrows.

“Nalthaliarstrelous of Vale Forest’s Circle?”

Ryoka nodded as Visophecin added that detail to his notes on her. The [Druid] stared long at Ryoka.

“I know his name too. Good for you.”

Then she walked off and vanished into the underbrush without so much as moving a branch. Gadrea and Azemith laughed as Ryoka stood there.

——

Name-dropping did not impress [Druids]. However, the final immortal’s present that Ryoka saw that evening concluded the decision she was coming to.

The Singer of Terandria was here, and the [Popstar] was dancing, singing, and captivating the entire palace. Most people were talking about her or the war, but Ryoka’s own arrival had resulted in the rare visit of the Agelum, Lucifen…and other events.

Like the Singer’s very arrival, although Ryoka could not know that. What she did know and even participate in were the plays.

“The what.”

Ryoka Griffin rubbed her ear as she sat at a late lunch with Sammial Veltras. After her visit to the courts and garden, Ryoka had gone to see him.

Their fortunes had changed such that neither were exactly a prisoner. Sammial was, more than Ryoka at least, but since she had paid her debt…he was given a free rein of the palace, albeit with an escort, and so was she.

That actually cut down on the problems the two caused. In fact, Sammial had spent all the morning in company.

Princess Oesca of Ailendamus watched Ryoka as she ate with a hovering [Nursemaid] glaring daggers at Ryoka and Sammial. The [Lord] speared a bit of sausage with a dagger and ate it with a grimace.

“What is this? I hate it.”

Ryoka eyed the green sausage.

“Why did you get it, then? Excuse me—plays?”

She turned to Visophecin, who raised his brows as he politely sipped at some soup, manners impeccable. He nodded, but Sammial cut him off.

“I got it because it was green. Duh! It tastes…weird.”

The Lucifen eyed the offending sausage.

“I believe it is made entirely of plant-matter. For half-Elves and other guests who would prefer not to eat meat.”

“No meat?”

In outrage, Sammial dissected the sausage. Ryoka took a piece and found it beat other vegetarian sausages she’d had. Indeed, the [Lord] chewed on his food furiously and relented.

“It’s good. If I put some fat gravy on it, I’d really like it. Do you have any?”

He turned to Oesca, and the [Princess] hesitated.

“I think we do? The [Chefs] can make everything, Sammial. Miss Ryoka, would you like some?”

Ryoka shrugged, then amended her statement.

“Er, I wouldn’t turn it down, Your Highness, but I don’t need any. Sammial—where are you going?”

“To get some gravy. Sausage needs good gravy. Aunt Buscrei told me that. Oesca, let’s go find some.”

That objectionable statement aside, what made the servants and bodyguards look on in horror was Sammial hopping off his chair, taking Oesca by the hand, and dragging her towards one of the kitchens. The [Princess] followed along, nervous and excited by turns at this breach of decorum. And Sammial’s aura meant that the [Nursemaid] had to fight to catch him.

Ryoka and Visophecin looked on as Ryoka chewed on Sammial’s sausage. She turned back to Visophecin and found he was staring at Sammial.

“…I do not interact with children often. That young boy seems unusually—gifted.”

The Lucifen frowned after Sammial. Ryoka shrugged.

“I’ve seen weirder.”

He focused on her with a slightly disbelieving look, which told her he really didn’t meet children. Just imagine what Mrsha would do?

Ryoka missed Mrsha. She stopped eating. Then she went back to Visophecin’s statement, to Oesca’s delight and Sammial’s interest. And Ryoka’s surprise.

“…Did you say there were plays coming to Ailendamus?”

The Lucifen nodded.

“We have obtained copies of the plays from the ‘Players of Celum’, I believe. It took some negotiating, but it is my understanding one of the palace wings is nearly finished with renovations.”

“For plays.”

“For a theatre, yes. Sophridel requested it, and since it would fall under the arts and not just personal…indulgence, Rhisveri approved the measure. Not that Sophridel couldn’t have simply put the request through our own systems. Indeed, it was already proposed. He simply enlarged the project.”

Sammial came back with about fourteen [Cooks], who placed a sample of over fifty sauces and gravies on the table. His first act was to dip a new sausage in a Sugarfish syrup and take a huge bite. Ryoka and Visophecin watched him in dead silence before Ryoka turned back to Visophecin.

“How big is this theater, exactly?”

The Lucifen pulled a folder out of the air and flicked through it. Princess Oesca watched the Viscount, normally so reserved, with great interest as she tried to copy Sammial’s example.

“Your Highness, a [Princess] does not eat an entire sausage or dip in syrup like…”

The [Nursemaid] tried to correct her, and Oesca lowered it.

“Just one bite?”

“Your mother would object, Your Highness. I’m afraid I must insist. Perhaps a small sample with it cut up delicately?”

“Oh—very well.”

Oesca’s face fell as the blond [Lordling] saw the nursemaid produce a knife and fork to manage her portions. Sammial, half-choking on a huge mouthful, still managed to force out one word.

“Coward.”

The [Princess] gazed at him as Ryoka twitched and covered a smile. Oesca’s brows crossed, and she snatched the fork and skewered the sausage.

“Your Highness, no—!”

Ryoka felt a tap on the shoulder and turned from pride, death by maple syrup sausage, prejudice, and Sammial, and saw Visophecin adjusting his spectacles.

“I believe it will seat up to six thousand people. The construction has taken…two months, and Sophridel implemented a number of design aspects, such as magnification of visuals, audio…extensive illusory spells. A chandelier? Rosewood flooring…”

He frowned at the cost. Ryoka’s eyes bugged out at the numbers. That had to be wrong. But Visophecin just hmmed.

“Sophridel is a lover of the arts, as you may understand. He was quite…passionate about the plays. I believe we have you to thank for the copies of the plays arriving. Your name helped persuade the Players of Celum to send them.”

“Me? Wait—how do you know—?”

The Lucifen gave Ryoka a steady look.

“You are listed on file as a close associate with the Players of Celum. It is not difficult to read a piece of paper. With an appropriately trained intelligence network, of course.”

“But I didn’t tell them to give you anything.”

Visophecin blinked at her.

“No, you did not. Perhaps the Players of Celum felt it was in their best interests to ingratiate themselves with one of Terandria’s biggest nations. Or that this would help your situation. They may have sent a [Message]. I could check?”

“No. It’s just…so you’re putting on plays?”

“Would you like to visit the theatre? I believe Sophridel may be presiding over the affair.”

“I’ll go too! Ryoka, you don’t take me to interesting things! I wanted to visit the garden! Let’s go, Oesca. And get your friends. Plays are interesting! That’s what Ryoka told me. If she lies, we’ll blame her.”

Sammial waved a hand furiously, and Oesca, dabbing at her dress, looked up.

“I do have lessons—”

“Stuff your lessons! Just tell them to go away and use your aura. I do.”

“But I’m a [Princess]…”

Ryoka and Visophecin could have stopped this as Sammial sneered at Oesca, but neither one did. Ryoka because she slightly approved. Visophecin probably because he found it intensely amusing.

“Exactly! You’re a [Princess], and I’m a [Lord] of House Veltras. No one tells us what to do!”

“Don’t listen to him, Your Highness. He’s Izrilian. Please, your mother will be furious…”

The [Nursemaid] whispered on Oesca’s other side, like the Angel to Sammial’s Devil as Visophecin watched. Unfortunately for the [Nursemaid]…the real Agelum wheeled over, having decided Sammial knew the way of eating sausages. Gadrea furiously masticated as she spoke, eyes gleaming.

“Are we going to see the plays? I will go too! You only live once, Princess Oesca. I would rather not waste a single second! Visophecin, we might even have to make you do some acting! He would be a natural, wouldn’t he? I would love to see him try to cry on stage.”

She beamed. Oesca looked into Gadrea’s eyes, and Ryoka wondered if Queen Oiena would try to have her killed. First the [Knights], now this?

Sammial blinked at Gadrea and glanced at Ryoka uncertainly.

“Who’re you? You’ve got weird eyes. Why are you in a moving chair? Can’t you walk?”

Rather than take understandable offense, Gadrea just laughed and held out a hand.

“I am Gadrea, Visophecin’s cousin. My eyes are strange to you, aren’t they? I cannot walk, and I have heard you are from House Veltras, young [Lord].”

His eyes narrowed, but Sammial did shake her hand.

“I am a prisoner, you know.”

“I know. But not a poorly treated one, I hope? You must tell me if you are. And tell me about House Veltras! I have always wanted to visit, but I couldn’t. Some of my family hunted in Vale Forest…how is it?”

Sammial found his match in Gadrea and actually walked with her rather than running ahead as an odd congregation marched down the hallway.

“It’s okay. Boring, really. We can’t go anywhere fun, and Father says the forest isn’t as cool as it used to be. It used to have Unicorns and whatnot. I’m not a poor prisoner, I suppose. That old Duke keeps taking off her clothing, though.”

He pointed at Ryoka, and [Princess] Oesca looked horrified at Sammial. Visophecin turned his head to laugh, and Gadrea eyed Ryoka.

“Interesting. I might have to have words…but it is Rhisveri. Let me assure you his intent is—different. Not un-nefarious, but differently so than a lech.”

“I know. Ryoka loses her clothes all the time.”

The Wind Runner was about to kick Sammial out a window. But then Oesca turned to her.

“You do know so many individuals in Ailendamus, Courier Ryoka. Viscount Visophecin is…seldom at court. I find it so very exceptional.”

She hesitated as she inclined her head to Visophecin, and he gave her a perfect bow. It was a searching comment, and Ryoka replied as blandly as possible.

“Couriers meet people, Your Highness. I hope you don’t take Sammial at face value all the time.”

“Oh, I don’t. I know young men are prone to exaggeration, and I’ve heard my brother. Sammial is adventurous, though.”

Oesca had a mix of envy and amusement on her face as she regarded the chatting Sammial. Then she leaned over to Ryoka.

“My mother is very unhappy with you. I do hope you’ll stay safe. She told me not to emulate your example.”

“Which part?”

“I think…any of it.”

Ryoka thought that was fair, but she saw Oesca glance at her again.

“Even the trousers. Is it so very common, as Sammial suggests, that Izrilian [Ladies] can wear it? And…do other things?”

Ryoka turned beet red. She decided to tackle the less mortifying question first. No, wait! If she was in for it…

“I don’t think either thing is wrong. Although the other thing is, uh, private. We should be allowed to do what we want, shouldn’t we, Princess Oesca?”

The girl brightened up as Visophecin looked at the whispering duo.

“I think so too! But I am a [Princess].”

Her face fell, and Ryoka felt compelled to give her some sinisterly honest advice.

“I happen to know a [Princess] who uses a sword, does her own cooking, and even fights monsters, Princess Oesca. As far as I know, she levels up from it. And she told me once—she didn’t level up by doing the proper thing. I think she’s gained, what, fifteen levels in a year? And she definitely wears trousers.”

She gave Oesca a wink that a [Nursemaid] watched with the deepest distrust. But when Ryoka finished speaking, the woman, who’d been walking a good fifteen paces behind them, snapped her head up.

“[Detect Improper Learning]—Your Highness! Please disregard whatever that woman just said! It is most likely a lie, anyways.”

Oesca’s own mouth had fallen open. Ryoka, the diabolical influence, saw her stare uncertainly backwards and then twist something on her finger.

A ring. She peered at Ryoka.

“Were you lying, Miss Griffin?”

“Um…no—hey, what’s going—”

Ryoka felt herself suddenly being pushed away from Oesca. Hard. The [Nursemaid] was moving her apart from her charge, and even Visophecin stepped back, although he looked more like he was just doing it so he wasn’t inconvenienced. And it was too late. A Level 40 [Nursemaid] should have been here, not some low-level amateur.

Because Oesca had just used her ring to cast [Detect Truth], and her eyes were as round as gold coins.

Then they arrived at the theatre, and everyone stopped and gasped.

“My! What have they done to the Tenniath Wing?”

Oesca pointed as they came to a clearly new construction, with [Masons] still working on the outside. Ryoka gazed through an archway as Sammial ran forwards and shouted.

“It’s huge!”

Sophridel’s theatre was indeed one of the biggest venues for any actor that Ryoka had ever seen. The Met, which she had seen in person, looked incomplete compared to this room.

Mainly because Ailendamus had no cap on a budget or space. Unlike New York’s limited real estate, Ailendamus had no lack of land, and they had dimensional magic on top of it.

So yes, the first impression Ryoka got was of a room so vast she had to crane her head back. It had all that…gravitas of a cathedral.

And her first thought was, ‘this is going to suck for a play’. Because a play should be intimate, not dwarfed by the building itself. Then she realized there was a trick to the room when she gazed at the room itself.

Ryoka saw seats enough for six thousand people to sit in a broad semicircle around the room, and she again thought those on the edges would have a terrible angle because it was too wide. In other words, they’d have a view of the back-stage, which modern stages obviously accounted for, and were thus more vertical in design to put people at more appropriate angles.

However, Ryoka had given Sophridel too little credit. The Elemental of Masks might not have seen a play in its current incarnation, but he understood how plays had to be.

The instant Ryoka and the others focused on the play, the room distorted. Not visibly or in a sickening change of perspective, but suddenly the stage felt like it was mere dozens of feet from Ryoka. And the people walking about on it were as large as life.

“Ah, those would be the magnification spells we paid for.”

Visophecin’s voice was close by, but simultaneously far away. Rather, Ryoka saw and heard, even smelled a strutting man on stage rehearsing his lines before Sophridel…or rather, the fake half-Elf Sophridel pretended to be.

Ryoka inhaled the faint scent of blood, saw the man’s torn clothing and the rapier in one hand—another man was lying, grimacing as some very realistic blood and organs spilled out of his stomach. In fact, Sophridel spotted Visophecin, Sammial, and the others, and raised a hand, and the magnification spell abruptly ended.

Ryoka staggered as she felt herself standing far, far away from the stage. Sammial raced down the steps, shouting.

“Amazing! That’s so cool!”

He leapt onto the stage as Ryoka followed him and heard Sophridel speaking.

“We will adjust the gore and blood. Realism is a conceit; balance the two. No smell of rot and less of blood. It need not rain on the audience, either. Perhaps a dissipating magical rain…no, not for the first iterations.”

“Absolutely, Lord Sophridel. But I don’t know if I can match them. I, ah—we’re only Level 8. If we had just one of these Players…”

The nervous [Actors] on stage turned as they found a [Princess] in the audience and became even more apprehensive. Visophecin nodded to Sophridel.

“We have come to observe your work, Sophridel. Does the theatre match your desires?”

“The theatre, yes. But the actors will require much, much work to create a satisfactory performance. Perhaps months of practice. Justice must be done to each work before I will allow it to be witnessed.”

Sophridel’s voice was a sigh. Visophecin raised his brows.

“I believe the crown will desire a performance far sooner, to justify the cost and showcase the event, Sophridel.”

“Unacceptable. Art cannot be sullied by a performance ill-made. We have few experts, and the few images of the plays are insufficient, as are mere scripts. I require…someone who has seen how it is done. I would like to send the entire cast to Izril to witness a play at First Landing. Perhaps for two weeks. Then return here.”

Visophecin exhaled as Sophridel raised his arms. He was a largely unemotional speaker; Ryoka suspected an Elemental would be rather logical and dispassionate. But he had a fire when he spoke like this, for all it was contained.

Sammial looked disappointed, but then leapt on stage and began to badger the [Actors] to let him try their rapiers. Visophecin glanced at Ryoka.

“As it happens, perhaps Ryoka Griffin would care to instruct the actors? I believe she has witnessed some, if not all of the plays.”

Instantly, all the [Actors] turned to Ryoka, and Sophridel himself peered at her.

“Ryoka Griffin. You are a being of many surprises. Which I understood from your presence in the Court of Masks. It is a refreshing revelation to understand you also have a soul. Those without art are lost.”

He spoke like some kind of theater kid. Or the most passionate art-lover ever. Which…he was. Ryoka remembered the being of masks as she lifted her hands.

“I do enjoy a play. But I can’t dictate…I mean, I can tell you a bit, but I’m not a good actor. I don’t have the class—”

He ignored her, practically pressing her forwards and demanding she show the [Actors] how to stand and face the audience properly, project—watch their plays. Visophecin observed as Gadrea and Sammial dueled to the side. She tapped his chest with the tip of a rapier as he stared at her.

“How are you so good with a sword? You’re in a chair!”

“I’ll wager your father could beat you seated, couldn’t he, young man?”

“Yes…but you’re good! Let’s do it again! Oesca, grab a sword, and we’ll beat her!”

And so the [Princess] did. Ryoka watched a [Lord] and [Princess] fencing with an Angel out of the corner of her eye as Visophecin, Sophridel, and the [Actors] talked shop.

“We must go, Sophridel. Ryoka may return later. But she has other obligations. As do you. I remind you of tonight’s banquet. And our gathering?”

Visophecin had to tear Ryoka away at the end, but Sophridel refused to let her go without a promise to return. She looked at the passionate director and immortal, his eyes alight as she retreated.

“I haven’t seen Sophridel so happy in a long time. It truly does matter to him. And you have a gift with a sword, young man!”

Gadrea patted Sammial on the head. The [Lord] would have snapped at anyone who did that, but he gave Gadrea a wary bow. And rubbed at his bruises. She had taught him actual swordcraft and struck him a number of times in their bouts.

As well as the [Princess], who had already been healed. But Gadrea was an even-handed teacher and had happily cracked two bodyguards on the arms when they tried to stop her.

So passed Ryoka’s day. And as evening fell, and she took stock of the immortal’s projects that helped define Ailendamus, Ryoka saw it.

Fithea, the Minister of Forests or whatever her title was, was responsible for many half-Elves in their villages, untouched by Ailendamus’ rule. Sophridel tended to the arts and created the Court of Masks, which helped him.

Visophecin’s people ate Ailendamus’ criminals and created their courts. There were more immortals still, and the one above them all, the Wyrm, Rhisveri, launched wars and made his kingdom powerful so that it might be his guard and tool.

All of it was far from perfect. But there was goodness to it too. So Ryoka came to the conclusion that had fallen over her since…well, since her last meeting with Rhisveri. What she had wrestled with since getting to know Itorin and realizing what Ailendamus was.

As she walked with Visophecin back to her rooms to take a bath and freshen up, Ryoka turned to the Lucifen. He was watching her, and so Ryoka said it then and there.

“I forswear it.”

The Viscount raised his brows.

“Forswear what, exactly?”

Ryoka looked at him.

“My attempt to steal from Rhisveri. You can use a truth spell—I give it up. I’ve paid my dues to him, and we’ve settled things. I’ve seen Ailendamus. It’s not a perfect land…”

She looked around at the vast palace, made up of pieces of other palaces, kingdoms crushed. She looked at Visophecin and knew what he ate.

But if she was going to point fingers…she shook her head.

“It’s not perfect. But it’s not my enemy. Moreover, I don’t want it to be. I don’t want Rhisveri’s enmity, or House Shoel’s, or anyone else’s. I want…to save Erin. And you helped with that.”

She had read the scroll and seen them all trying. Ryoka’s voice trembled.

“I want to go back and see her when she wakes. I want to bring Sammial home. Then—then I can focus on the other battles. But Ailendamus isn’t one of them. If you can, I’d even pay you to send a [General] to Erin. At the least? I think I’ve done all I can here.”

The Viscount stopped in his tracks and regarded her. Ryoka exhaled slowly and looked around. She stopped looking at Visophecin as a possible enemy. She really didn’t want to fight them. So she smiled and saw his lips curve up, just for a second.

Gadrea wheeled by Ryoka in that moment. The Agelum looked at the Courier and grinned.

“Did I just hear you forswore strife with our nation, Ryoka?”

The Wind Runner nodded, still shaking a bit with her resolution. Gadrea eyed her and then looked at Visophecin.

“That was not one of my concerns for the fate of the kingdom.”

She rolled past Ryoka, laughing as the Wind Runner felt a surge of nostalgia. Immortal humbling. However, Visophecin shook his head slightly at his cousin.

“I think it is just as well, Gadrea. Especially because a citadel-class warship and one of the Five Families is at war with our armies because of her. With her help, we may de-escalate the problems in this war.”

Ryoka smiled in relief and nodded. The two kept walking, and as they were discussing how to do it, Visophecin pulled something out of the air and frowned at it.

“I just received a [Message] from Rhisveri to check the scrying orb. Wistram News Network. Let me see…”

The two saw the orb flicker to life, and both of them saw a half-Elf, soon to be an Archmage, standing in the halls of Wistram. Ryoka saw Grand Magus Eldavin giving his famous address as he was given his new rank.

“Oh! Eldavin!”

“Miss Griffin! Do you know him?”

Ryoka turned. Princess Oesca had come running, hiking up her skirt. She waved at Ryoka.

“Please have a pre-banquet repast with Father and Mother! Father wants to speak with you about matters of state, and Mother, um…wants to speak with you too. We have some of the popped corn you told us about!”

Visophecin waved Ryoka off as the Wind Runner shrugged. She followed Oesca and arrived just in time to see the Archmage of Memory’s coronation.

It really was good she’d given up on the entire war thing, Ryoka reflected as she licked her fingers and tasted the buttery popcorn. How could she really see herself fighting Itorin, who she liked? Even if Oiena was giving her sour looks…Ryoka chewed on some popcorn and wondered what Eldavin was up to. Did he not remember…?

She chomped down on her popcorn, feeling more relaxed than she had in a long time. Then she frowned as she began to catch wind of what was going on. She watched Eldavin turn to address his audience—and then cast a single spell. She slowly went dead white.

Ryoka thus had a front-row seat to seeing people in super-armor flying over Ailendamus’ army, Wistram entering the Dawn Concordat’s war, and Eldavin, Archmage of Memory, blasting his way into Terandria’s spotlight. The room…was so very quiet as the royal family looked at her, and Ryoka choked on popcorn.

That familiar pain in her stomach was back. But the churning wasn’t of the rapids in the river. The river styx had just turned into an ocean, and out of a whirlpool came a Kraken of anxiety.

She should have known, really. Murphy’s Law, remember? Ryoka Griffin and de-escalation had never been friends.

——

It never failed to surprise Rabbiteater how unprepared other species were for battle, let alone war.

Three days had passed since they had made their dramatic raid and escape, and already morale was fraying around the edges.

Mind you, the fighting didn’t help.

“Wind, be my blade!”

Ser Markus raised his sword overhead as they charged towards a group of surprised [Soldiers] from Ailendamus. It was a pell-mell melee, and Pheislant’s forces were skirmishing with the column of armored warriors.

Both sides had walked right into each other. Oh, they had [Scouts], and the Spring Knights with actual stealth-Skills had spotted the enemy. Unfortunately, they had been spotted, so the Order of Seasons had elected to charge rather than waste the moment.

Markus was raising his sword overhead as he bellowed, and it was a stupid move. Because even in armor, his guard was down. A [Crossbowman] on the ground—woman, whatever—aimed the contraption up at him. Then heard a loud donk sound.

“Hm.”

Rabbiteater had just hit her as hard as he could with the flat of his battleaxe. Definitely a knockout blow from the way she dropped, and she probably had a concussion.

“Stop leaving your guard down, you idiot!”

Meisa raced past Markus, charging another group of scattering archers. Markus, shamefaced, whirled his mount and saw a rider coming his way.

Not another [Knight], but the [Rider]’s spear looked like it was wickedly sharp. Had it grown barbs on the tip?

Definitely a Skill. However, Markus didn’t use a Skill to create the rippling air around the blade of his sword. Even as Rabbiteater watched, circling Markus from the side to intervene—the Spring Knight flicked the wind off the blade, then whirled it.

A practiced move. He might be new to his newfound power and level, but he knew how to fight with his aura. The gust of wind was no sharp blade, but it did slam into the [Rider], and Markus’ opponent flinched. The Spring Knight swung his blade into that guard, and one-two—

Rabbiteater saw the blood and the falling figure. Markus actually reached for a potion at his side—but there was nothing to heal. Rabbiteater rode past him and saw a charging man with a pike. He bent down, swung Headscratcher’s gold-jade axe, and cut the weapon in two. The shaking [Pikeman] raised his arms, and Rabbiteater pointed at him.

“Yield?”

“I yield, Ser!”

The [Soldier]’s voice shook with relief. Rabbiteater nodded genially.

“Okay. Helmet.”

The man stopped as he tossed his shortsword down. He hesitated, but the axe aimed at his face made him fumble it off. Rabbiteater took the helmet, inhaled the sweat and cramped fugue, and then turned and tossed it as hard as he could.

Another satisfying donk as it hit a [Knight] from Ailendamus dueling Talia. She knocked her opponent off their horse as they staggered and glared at Rabbiteater, but the Goblin just rode past the [Soldier].

Yielding was so stupid. Any Goblin worth their salt would stab him in the back. But since it was a custom, he was happy not to kill the Humans. But Rabbiteater did insist on his twist; he demanded helmets. It took a bit of work putting a helmet back on, it was easy to tell non-combatants apart, and not having a helmet was a big problem that discouraged people going back on their word.

He could be so relaxed in battle because, frankly, this was not a hot engagement. Unlike the Order of the Hydra, these were regular [Soldiers], and the Order of Seasons were [Knights].

Even so—as Ailendamus fell back in relatively good order, Rabbiteater gazed around, watching all corners, and felt that expectation.

Is this the battle I die in? He dodged an arrow coming at him from the side so fast a young [Archer] was left breathless.

[Aspect of the Champion: Greater Dexterity]. Nothing was more important than reflexes in a rapid fight where the danger was from every angle. Rabbiteater whirled and raised his axe as he rode down on the [Archer], who was backed up by one last squad. They aimed their weapons at him as he raised his axe overhead, shield guarding his chest. Markus turned as Rabbiteater, Ser Solstice, shouted.

“[Aura of the Brave]. Brave be my axe or something!”

Ser Markus watched as the enchanted axe rose—and the Ailendamus [Soldiers] scattered. Rabbiteater brought it down—and hit the third [Soldier] with the flat of the blade on the helmet.

A third person fell down. Rabbiteater hesitated, then flicked his axe a few times at a scared young woman. He pointed at her.

“Activate. Hm. Damn.”

She stared at him until he kicked her in the chest and rode off. Rabbiteater sighed as he looked around at the cheering [Soldiers] and [Knights]. He still couldn’t figure it out.

——

He didn’t want to kill the Humans. Ailendamus’ [Soldiers] were not his enemy, aside from them trying to kill him, and [Knights] tended to survive if they surrendered.

In fact, the rest of the Order of Seasons held that view, which was why prisoners were taken. Goblins took no prisoners; they could do awful things to them like the Mountain City Goblins or kill and eat them. There was no other point unless you subscribed to the monetary system and/or had a relationship where you could trade prisoners for coin or goods.

Or interrogation but the point was, Rabbiteater thought that was a funny attitude for two nations at war.

I don’t want to kill you, but we might. But we’ll try not to unless we have to. As he had observed—the Humans of Terandria were not ready for a real war.

A real war was like Liscor versus the Goblin Lord. A conflict where you stepped over the dead on either side and fought until you died. No surrender, no yielding—and if your side lost, you all died. But again, he had gone through this.

What surprised his comrades was that he was sticking around. Some, especially some who knew his identity, clearly expected him to ride off now that the going was not so good.

The Order of Seasons won another battle, but they had no Greysten, no senior members of their Seasons. Ser Ilm was one of three Fall Knights and the most senior. Dame Talia was the leader of her Season, and the young Ser Thaime was leading the Spring. Meisa and Markus could have easily challenged the role—that was how little leadership they had.

Most of the [Knights] who had been taken prisoner by Ailendamus had been lower-level. It made sense; it was hard for a veteran to be captured. And unfortunately, any high-level senior [Knights] had already been taken captive and sent to Ailendamus’ command for genteel interrogation and ransom.

Greysten and the more senior [Knights] had also survived, Rabbiteater knew. But Ailendamus’ army and the Order of the Hydra had forced his group to head deeper into enemy territory. On a raid. It was a Goblin idea: if the enemy prevented you from linking up, just make trouble for them behind their lines.

The [Knights] had taken it because it was strategically sound, and, frankly, they had no choice. The Order of the Hydra, despite losing their [General], were thousands strong. The Order of Seasons’ elite…ness…had struggled against them.

Plus, there was a half-giant [Knight] back there, and Rabbiteater would rather fight low-level [Soldiers] all day than fight someone who had a sword longer than he was.

Nevertheless, morale was flagging. And that was despite liberating another train of prisoners. Rabbiteater observed it as the three [Knights] leading their Season met with the commander of Pheislant’s armed forces accompanying them.

A [Marshal] Huges. Rabbiteater liked the man. He was the bluff sort who heard ‘charge’ and said, ‘alright, let’s go!’. And somehow kept his forces together and actually encircled the enemy while the [Knights] did their thing.

A fast-thinker, if not a [Strategist]. He was unto Humans what a Goblin Chieftain was. Without him…Rabbiteater suspected the Pheislant [Soldiers] would be in worse condition.

What bothered him were the [Knights] in his group. They were less-than-radiant, and their paint was wearing thin after so much fighting. They had ill-fitting mounts like the slipping saddle Markus was re-cinching. But they had no poker face; their dispiritedness showed.

“How many, Marshal?”

“Around four hundred. Mostly Kaliv’s lot, but we have all three nations in the Dawn Concordat. Not too knocked up. There’s a [Glory Captain] Mithn who’d like to speak with you, Ser Knights.”

Dame Talia dismounted and strode to meet someone dressed in the most idiotic colors Rabbiteater had ever seen. Calanfer, one of the three nations in the Dawn Concordat, along with Gaiil-Drome and Kaliv, was the most familiar to him.

And it was the [Glory Captain] of Calanfer who wore his national colors with pride. Calanfer’s colors were, as far as Rabbiteater could tell, royal blue, gold, yellow, and white. Mostly the latter three colors.

A bright yellow uniform was a terrible idea for any kind of terrain aside from…the desert on a hot day? A field of dandelions? It was probably a lovely target for an archer. Badarrow could have tapped him from a thousand feet away with ease.

Oh—and it got dirty. The [Glory Captain]’s uniform was dirty, taking away from the beautiful stitching of some kind of palace-throne that was their sigil as he saluted Talia.

“Honored Knights! You are a sight for sore eyes. Throne protect us—are you the Order of Seasons? Has Pheislant entered our war? I am sorry, I am Glory Captain Mithn of Calanfer’s Eternal Army, Dawnsong’s battalion…”

He was so…pithy. Marshal Huges rolled his eyes but turned his head away as Talia began to speak with the leader of the prisoners. Rabbiteater rode over to the [Marshal], admiring his arm.

He had great tattoos. Pheislant, as a coastal nation with strong navies, had the [Sailor]’s influence, and one of them was cool tattoos.

Rabbiteater, as a former Redfang, loved warpaint and tattoos. The [Knights] would never do such a thing, but Huges had noticed Rabbiteater staring at his bare right arm, which often swung a maul around.

“You didn’t get cut during the fight?”

Rabbiteater could have sworn he saw Huges taking a blow to the arm; it was a target like an unarmored head. The [Marshal] flexed one bicep.

“Don’t you worry, Ser Solstice. Armored tattoo. Got it special from a magical inker. It generally takes more than one hit or two. Hurts like a bitch—excuse my language, Ser.”

He caught himself, and Rabbiteater wished he could show the man his face so Huges could see his grin. Rabbiteater wasn’t a very verbal person, but he was improving. What he gave Huges was a quiet chuckle.

“I don’t mind. Good tactics. I like tattoos. Smart, having magic ones.”

“Really, Ser Solstice? I’m gratified you say so, sir.”

The Marshal looked Rabbiteater up and down, and the Goblin knew he was guessing. Even the other Pheislant [Soldiers] watched the mysterious ‘Ser Solstice’ with murmurs.

It was a Human thing. Goblins got curious, but they didn’t have to know. But put a bucket over something and write ‘do not remove, big secret’, and someone would take it off and reveal the detonation rune without fail.

That was a Redfang trick, incidentally. Ser Solstice had an allure of his own by virtue of having a secret identity. Rescuing all of Pheislant’s army from being ripped apart by Ailendamus hadn’t hurt his reputation either. Rabbiteater decided to ask Huges how things were.

“Calanfer. Dawn Concordat. We rescued prisoners. Why is it a problem?”

The [Knights] had acted like it was. The Marshal cast a glance sideways.

“Oh—we’ll have to rearm them, and it’ll slow our pace. Makes us a bigger target. I think it’s just the lack of supplies our leaders are worried about, Ser.”

He was cautious. Rabbiteater looked sideways at the [Knights] and shrugged.

“We have food for six days. Now…four? Three? Half-rations soon.”

Hughes nodded seriously.

“It’ll have to be, Ser Solstice. My hope is we either find a supply train, someone to barter with, or we reach a friendly camp, but we’re headed into Kaliv, and Ailendamus has most of the lowlands. I’ve heard we might even signal for a Griffin drop of goods if we can communicate with their crown.”

“…Why?”

Rabbiteater scratched at his armor. Three days of food sounded like all the time in the world to find more to him. But that, he supposed, was the difference.

The Order of Seasons was really bad at roughing it. They could and had journeyed across Izril to get home without issue, but the instant they found they had chipped blades or were losing horses and such, or getting hungry, they started talking about finding their way back from enemy lines.

Huges seemed to agree. He cast dark eyes at the [Glory Captain].

“We’re poised to make a mess of their supply lines, Ser Solstice. A few more raids and we’ll have a real army following us if we don’t already. But it’ll take more speed, and I hope the prisoners can keep up. It might be better to send ‘em on their own way. Kaliv’s regulars are tough as the mountains they come from, but Calanfer is used to…protocol.”

“They suck?”

“Yes, sir. Not that I should say as much once we join ranks.”

Rabbiteater sighed. Soft Humans. Wonderful.

However, the Dawn Concordat’s spirits were actually higher than Pheislant’s and the Order of Seasons as Talia finished talking to their leaders, and they fell into line with the others. After all—allies were a welcome thing in the war the Dawn Concordat was losing.

“A floral lot, for certain. That [Glory Captain] talked your ear off, Dame Talia.”

“Hush, Ser Thaime.”

As the [Knights] regrouped for their discussions, apart from the regular [Soldiers] and without Huges, they talked over the recent arrivals and the battle. Rabbiteater rode with Thaime, Ilm, Markus, Meisa, Talia, and a few other veteran [Knights]. Markus shook his head.

“More hands won’t be too bad. More mouths to feed…they are good [Soldiers]?”

It was a question that earned him a slap to the back of the head—again—by Meisa this time.

“They’ve fought bravely, Markus. They didn’t just surrender. We’ll be well-served by them if we fight. I’d be more wary if we picked up four hundred Thronebearers.”

Quiet laughter. Talia frowned at Meisa, but she couldn’t hide a faint grimace.

“Let us not speak so in front of the Dawn Concordat—but yes, I think the [Glory Captain] was used to interacting with his own nation’s Order. And I regret to say it—but the Thronebearers of Calanfer have not stuck long in most battles. They are trying to hold the line, but the word is a huge army led by one of Ailendamus’ Great Generals is poised to meet them in battle.”

“Well, they must hold the line long enough for the Order of Seasons to push forwards. Knight Commander Calirn will be mustering a truer force to supplement Ser Greysten’s push. Once Summer regroups, I have no doubt Spring or Winter will push forwards on a separate front.”

Each Season would fight with reinforcements from complementary seasons, so the Order might have four different warbands as Rabbiteater understood it. Talia nodded.

“Then we’ll have to simply find our way back. Maybe to Calanfer—there’s a friendly pass—Krawlnmak’s Pass; it hasn’t fallen, and that’s one of the few main entrances.”

“Ah, the famed stand of the Dawn Concordat. One wonders why they don’t just pull back to there.”

Thaime shook his head, and Rabbiteater himself recalled Eldavin’s lecture. Even the Necromancer had held that place—when he had been the Archmage of Death, Perril Chandler. Talia just shook her head.

“Kaliv isn’t lost yet. But we should hurry. We only have three days of food, and Marshal Huges has recommended half-rations after tonight.”

The [Knights] didn’t audibly protest, but they looked gloomy at the idea. Rabbiteater just shrugged, and Talia turned to him. It was Ser Ilm—who didn’t know his real identity—who spoke up brightly.

“Ser Solstice. How do you think we should continue? Back or forwards?”

Thaime and Talia hesitated. They knew Rabbiteater’s identity, but the Goblin calmly replied.

“I’m not in charge.”

“Even so—you proposed the idea of a raid. What would you do?”

Rabbiteater shrugged.

“Keep raiding. Split up. Sixteen groups; we hit more prisoner trains.”

“What, like [Bandits]?”

Thaime was outraged. Rabbiteater smiled brightly behind his helm.

“Yep. Spread out, join up to hit any prisoner trains. When they come—run. Oh, and find a good hiding spot. This is a nice place.”

He nodded around, and everyone stared up at the imposing cliffs and mountain range that was Kaliv. It wasn’t the High Passes, but the mountains were wonderfully familiar to Rabbiteater.

“We live in caves. Probably some goats or deer live around here. Good eating. We need a deep cave…thing. Maze? Cave system. We hide, continue raiding. Four months.”

“Four months? What do we eat?”

Markus was horrified. Rabbiteater scratched at his head.

“Mushrooms? Mushrooms and goats.”

And bugs, but he felt that was a big ask. Ilm was fascinated.

“Those are historical guerrilla tactics, and I believe Kaliv may fall back to something similar themselves, Ser Solstice. But our arms? Armor? How would we maintain them?”

“You don’t. You try—then replace. Loot gear, and…”

“I’m afraid we won’t do that, Ser Solstice. It may be tactically advantageous, but that is not possible for our Order. We will regroup and take to the field with whatever army is nearby.”

Talia interrupted Rabbiteater, and the two looked at each other. The Goblin met her gaze and felt it searching him.

He had mixed feelings on Talia. She and he had stopped being, well, close after she discovered his identity. She had made it very plain how she felt about Goblins.

But she had also come after him to rescue him. So—Rabbiteater gave her a pass.

He shrugged.

“Suit yourself.”

Talia was in charge, so Rabbiteater wasn’t about to challenge her for command. [Knights] didn’t work like that, he was sure, and besides, he didn’t mind regrouping and hot baths and such. She began discussing their route back to linking up with the Order of Seasons with the others, but Ser Ilm, Markus, and Meisa beckoned Rabbiteater aside. The Autumn Knight regarded Rabbiteater curiously.

“I saw you using your aura in battle. Or trying to, Ser Solstice. No luck?”

“Nope.”

Three days of practice, and Rabbiteater was learning from the world’s greatest experts on aura-fighting…and he had failed to manifest his abilities. That was a higher-level thing, but the Goblin was having trouble with even beginner training.

“I, ah, put in that research request, and the Fall’s Sentinel’s reply is finally decoded. The damned cipher takes time, pardon my language. Fascinating higher-level manifestations. You know, we have no records of a dual-aura of Hearth and Bravery? You’ll be wonderful data. However, simply gathering your aura is still a first step. And that is…difficult? Even in battle?”

Ilm saw Rabbiteater shake his head. Markus frowned.

“Were you not being serious, Rabbit—Solstice? You sounded like you were having a laugh.”

The Goblin gave Markus a blank look.

“I gave it my best try. Didn’t work.”

“Even in battle? [Squires] have manifested their auras in battle. [Pages] too. I know it’s also tied to your level, but—Markus, you managed a wind blade for the first time. You were far too showy about it, though.”

Markus blushed.

“I know. I was doing pageantry…but the training did make it work flawlessly! I’ll be more discreet.”

Rabbiteater looked at Meisa and Markus and crossed his arms, frustrated.

“Hm. Can you two show me again?”

All three [Knights] obliged him. Meisa went over their lecture.

“You’d normally have years of training, so it’s not a surprise it doesn’t work right away, Rabbit. Markus hasn’t been able to manifest a blade ability until he leveled up from that big battle, but he practices the form. First, you learn to gather your aura, concentrate it. Manifestation is far harder.”

Ilm was nodding as the expert in teaching. He hesitated.

“…Why do you call him Rabbit, Dame Meisa?”

The Spring Knight hesitated.

“Er…because he’s fond of eating rabbits?”

That was very true. Although you could die of malnutrition from eating only rabbits. Ilm frowned.

“That makes no sense.”

Rabbiteater shrugged.

“Someone who likes killing birds is named Bird.”

All three [Knights] turned to him. Ilm’s mouth worked.

“Is this a common Izrilian naming practice?”

“Sure.”

Having further disrupted the Order of Seasons’ point of view on the world, Rabbiteater went back to his lesson.

“First…feel your aura. It is part of you. Think of things, triggers, that make you embody what you are. For spring—I think of gardening. Walking through a forest.”

“I think of a good rainstorm. Bracing. Fresh wind after all that snow. See, that is part of my image for the wind—”

“Shut up, Markus. It’s my example. Focus on that, Rabbiteater. Then…if you feel it, gather it around you. That’s step one. Even that can help resist [Fear] and some spells. And other auras.”

Rabbiteater tried. The problem was—he had two auras. And neither one was the [Aura of Spring] that Markus and Meisa had. He decided he’d try bravery.

Bravery, the heat of battle. Redfangs. He knew bravery. He had been in the company of twelve Goblins, the bravest he had ever known. Then less.

Then only five had remained.

Rabbiteater’s face changed under his helmet, but he held still as Meisa kept speaking.

“Your aura can do many things. What we tell young [Knights] to do is picture some element running into their blades. Talia burns. Markus harnesses the wind. I? Well, my aura is a bit different.”

The Goblin opened his eyes and saw her raising her shield. It seemed to him that he could faintly see vines, flowers, and brambles covering it. But it was more like imagination than sight; he didn’t see it, he felt they were there.

From experience, Rabbiteater knew that Meisa’s shield was reinforced with her aura, and it even ensnared blades striking it. The Order of Seasons had such…practical uses for their auras.

However, Rabbiteater felt nothing. And as Markus watched, the Spring Knight muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t think he’s even gathering his aura. Rabbit, is something wrong? Can’t you feel it? What about your [Aura of the Hearth]?”

“Trying. Shut up, Markus.”

Rabbiteater tried. He tried to imagine the hearth, relaxing around a fire—or the clash of swords. And he did. He felt the memories coming, both good and ill. The Wandering Inn. A Human’s kindness. A little Gnoll who snarled at them and then…

They were in him. Just like Erin’s blessing and his memory of the two. The [Innkeeper] and the [General], who were the inspirations of his aura, Rabbiteater was sure.

He remembered them—but nothing came. Meisa frowned.

“I don’t understand.”

“He’s not within his aura.”

Ilm came to the same conclusion as someone else. Talia rode over, and the four trotting along looked at her. The Summer Knight frowned at Rabbiteater, but she fell into place with them and no one chased her off.

“Oh. He’s not feeling his aura? Not in it? That’s not a problem most of our Order has…”

Markus trailed off. Talia shook her head.

“We embody a season. We carry it around with us in deed and spirit. But Ser Solstice’s are more nebulous. It isn’t the aura of a [King], which is who they are. His are…Bravery and Hearth. He has to feel either to harness it. He can—but he has to still feel it.”

All the [Knights] nodded and turned curiously back to Rabbiteater. The Goblin inhaled; this all made sense.

“Okay. So my aura is harder. How do I fix it?”

Meisa frowned.

“Well…you just need to feel either aspect. I grant you—Hearth may be trickier here. But Bravery? What about when we were fighting? I imagine that would be the moment, right, Dame Talia?”

Talia Kallinad nodded. Markus eyed Rabbiteater.

“Didn’t you feel brave, Rabbiteater? During the latest battle? Just a bit? Think on that. Grasp it and…”

“Nope.”

The Goblin stopped Markus. The eager Spring Knight frowned.

“Wait, no? Not a bit?”

The Goblin looked about at the other [Knights]. Bravery? He understood the assignment now. And the problem. What, did they feel brave in that last battle?

He had felt not a thing. The Goblin rode onwards, feeling…odd. This was a war. He knew he could die. He fought because his friends were there. That was a Goblin [Knight]’s way. He would put his life on the line for them.

But it wasn’t brave. He felt no bravery riding around in armor fighting Humans on foot in the company of [Knights]. It wasn’t righteous, either. He had no interest in the politics that put him on one side or the other.

It was just what mattered to him. And that was okay. But he wasn’t getting his damn aura today. The Goblin sighed.

It had better be a really cool blade. Way cooler than Markus’.

——

This war was linked to Ryoka Griffin. The more you looked, the more you saw it.

It was not about her. But Rhisveri was wrong when he called her a minor [Thief]. Because of her presence at House Veltras, Tyrion Veltras had cause and incentive to lead the Five Families across the ocean.

Because of her, Grand Magus Eldavin—no, the Archmage of Memory had moved Wistram to war.

If it turned out Ryoka had helped found Calanfer on a Dragonthrone, the Wyrm was going to flip.

However, there were more parts to this war that even Ryoka Griffin had no idea about.

“My dear Miss Griffin. Why don’t you leave us for a little bit? I am sure you understand this is a trying time, and we must…recollect ourselves.”

Queen Oiena’s smile had made Ryoka run for the door faster than anything. When the Wind Runner got to safety, she started hyperventilating. Then she kicked a wall, flung up her arms, covered a scream with her shirt, realized people were staring at her…

And wondered how she was going to fix things.

She had to meet with the immortals. She had to do something about Sammial, even if he wasn’t being abused. Rhisveri’s sale of the scroll…just sucked? Oh, and what about the Singer of Terandria? Someone had to help her—she had clearly been successful, but she didn’t know about all the dangers in the world.

Ryoka had almost forgotten about Cara, but she added it to the immediate scramble-list. Stopping Tyrion and Eldavin were also on there. And figuring out how to revive Erin now that they had all the pieces.

It was then that Ryoka realized she was doing it again. Namely—trying to be the lynchpin in every plan. Trying to be the one fixing everything when time had proved that Ryoka’s idea of fixing a hole in the wall was creating a sinkhole so you could rebuild everything from scratch.

That calmed her down, as well as the frank fact that she had done this before. She paced down the hallways, muttering.

“Okay. Don’t run off. Don’t panic or try to force things. Don’t, uh…don’t go near suspiciously inviting places in the faelands. Don’t accept requests from mythological beings. What else do I add? Don’t take on super-dangerous assignments? I tend to succeed at those. Only costs a finger or a few crossbow bolts to the back.”

The truth was, she suspected her best move was to petition Rhisveri to let Sammial go. After all—Sammial gone meant no Tyrion, correct? And if she left with Sammial, that meant no Eldavin war.

In theory. The point was, Ryoka knew she had to be at the capital to affect any meaningful change, and the immortals were de facto the most important people in Ailendamus. So she wasn’t doing the wrong thing.

She had just come to that obvious point when someone called out.

“Miss Griffin! Salutations! I hope I am not intruding on your thoughts?”

Only one man had that voice that was both commanding and impressive. And only one man used ‘salutations’ as a greeting.

Baron Regalius du Ecte, the [Baron of Ceremonies], styled harder than Visophecin in his dark attire. Ryoka had seen few men in a rosewood-colored tuxedo with the lapels thrown open—one of those older designs, clasped together by a silver brooch instead of buttons or lace—over dark leggings that had some kind of magical sparkle in the thread, and court-shoes…wear that.

Each part of the dark reddish-purple fabric was drawn with sigils of Ailendamus, naturally, and his cuffs had the insignia of his house drawn across the dark fabric in slightly brighter stitching. No silver, no gaudy gold or flash of metal save for the brooch and the sword-hilt at his belt. But hardly subtle.

However, she had also seldom seen anyone, male or female, pull off the cape he was wearing, which fluttered behind him rather than drag on the wind. Not a long-long cape; it was actually a huge overcoat, Ryoka realized, and it blew like he had a full movie effects team behind him.

It was the coolest and most useless Skill that Ryoka had ever seen, and she wanted it. Well, she had the wind, but the wind was hardly so obliging!

Regalius’ hair had a slight curl to it today, and the shining locks of it gleamed as he passed under a window. Ryoka wished she had her iPhone. Take a picture of this man and she could win any social media contest based on pictures.

No—he was born for another age like that. The most photogenic [Baron] she had ever met stopped, somehow half-in the light. Was he doing it on purpose?

The answer was, of course, yes. Maybe not always intentionally, but style was something you could cultivate, and Regalius, as a master of ceremony and dignity, had trained himself to look good.

“Courier Griffin, I am passing glad I caught you. Might I have just a smidgeon of your time? You have been with House Shoel, Minister Sophridel—one barely has to but raise a finger to the wind to hear your name.”

Regalius offered her a bow and an arm. Ryoka refused the arm, but smiled at him. He was a good man, she felt.

“Thanks, Regalius. I have time. I’m…a bit preoccupied, but I’m sorry I haven’t talked with you.”

“When Viscount Visophecin calls, a wise man answers. I can hardly compete with the royal family, and it is my delight you have seemingly redeemed this unpleasantness.”

Regalius and Ryoka strolled around, and she found he was calming because he had no knowledge of her identity or role in the greater drama at play.

…Right until he invited her to dinner.

“I believe I remarked upon it a few days ago. I hosted the Order of the Hydra at my estates in the capital—”

“I’m sorry I missed that. Uh, but I think I was with Visophecin—the Viscount?”

Regalius nodded.

“Ah, but my wife is simply besmitten with you, Miss Griffin. I told her about the Wind Runner and your exploits in the Court of Masks and elsewhere, and she ordered me to ask if you’d consider joining us at our estates. I know it’s an imposition, but she is terribly nervous at the capital. One can run into His Majesty and so many officials, you see. I should understand if you are too busy, but I had to tender it.”

It was so, so painful. Because he delivered it in the most easy way to turn him down. Which was the hardest. Ryoka squirmed instantly with the fear of social interaction…but she’d visited Garia’s folks, hadn’t she?

“I, er, maybe, Regalius. I’d love to, and you’ve been a good…friend. But tonight is a big banquet and—”

“Naturally not tonight! We should all be there, I think, myself included. My poor Yietha will make do…with her own friends. She’s quite willing to stay away, you see, rather than sit an entire banquet. She prefers the company of our animals or just herself at times. I can hardly tear myself away from any gathering, but we have our own quiet moments—in my frequent absence, she manages House Ecte quite amazingly. And our pets!”

Ryoka felt she might like this Yietha. She turned to Regalius, slightly tempted despite herself. But she had so much to do…

“You have pets?”

“Cats.”

“Huh. I expected dogs. No offense, but I can see you playing fetch with a dog.”

Regalius chuckled.

“A dog requires a bit too much time. I couldn’t treat an animal like that. Cats on the other hand…I will admit ours are a bit odd. Magical cats, you see. Strays from an incident in the palace. It created generations of magical cat breeds. Have you ever seen a flaming hairball?”

“No. They breathe fire?”

“Not mine, thankfully. I know a friend whose estate half-burned due to…well, mine were already an odd breed. Hairless. Very peculiar, but they’re quite endearing. They have the most unfortunate…or useful ability to stick to walls. So they get everywhere. More than once, I’ve seen a pair of eyes gleaming from one of the candelabras above me and spotted a doublet peeking down and thought I was about to be assassinated.”

Ryoka hesitated.

“Th—there’s a lot to unpack there. Did you just imply your cats wear clothing?”

“Indeed they do. The naked aspect, you see? Winters do get cold, and one day we dressed them up as a lark. The next thing I knew, we had a wardrobe, and they refused to be denuded of their clothing. Then a [Tailor] began doing clothing for pets…”

“I have to see these cats.”

Trust Regalius to have cats that enjoyed dressing up. The man smiled.

“Ah, then I needn’t tempt you with dining or anything else? If we are exceptionally lucky, we might see one of them sporting the new hats—at your convenience, Miss Ryoka. I know you have business here. I am not one to shirk duty. At least—anymore.”

Ryoka had had this feeling once. It was of thinking you knew someone based on how they looked. Like a puddle. Like Lupp. Then stepping into the puddle and almost drowning.

Regalius owned cats with hats. And that wistfully guilty look that flitted over his face as they stepped out of the shadow of the palace into the light and he shaded his eyes…

“Er…if that’s personal…what did that mean, Regalius?”

He started slightly, and a rueful look crossed his brows.

“Ah, oh. Forgive me. It’s such old hat—pardon me—at court that everyone would know. I would hardly like to conceal it. I have made many indiscretions as a younger man, Miss Ryoka. I suppose I should even go as far as to mention that House Ecte has had a troubled time of late. First in the past, entirely my fault, and now…”

Another wistful look came over his face. Ryoka saw his expression slip, and then Regalius smiled again but didn’t hide that look of brief pain.

“My brother passed away last year.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. I try not to dwell…it was a tragedy, and Their Majesties themselves…no. But in truth, he tried so hard to make up for my mistakes. You are aware noble titles can be awarded far more frequently in Ailendamus?”

“N—yes? A bit.”

Regalius nodded.

“Ecte is by way of being one of the stronger Houses, if I do say so myself. We occupy a newer province to the west—new is relative, of course, as Ailendamus is young—and we have been a strong ally to the nation in deed and the stability and profitability of our estates. Indeed, we are well thought-of, if I don’t mistake our nature at court. I have always believed we would have been elevated to a viscounty or perhaps even earldom by now. It was considered and in progress. But for me.”

Ryoka was fascinated. Someone moving upwards outside of marriage was exceptionally rare but unsurprising given Rhisveri’s views on the kingdom. A meritocracy was like him.

“Did you…do something?”

The [Baron] turned away and flushed slightly. He tugged at his gloves.

“Oh, absolutely. It’s an old story, so I won’t bore you with the details, Miss Ryoka. I’m ashamed to say it is a tale I cannot bear to speak long on. You see—when I was a boy, House Ecte was beyond itself as a rising star. The potential for an earldom or possibly even…marquis? My father took steps to ensure that and spent over half our capital in hopes of rising higher. So much so that he…arranged a marriage.”

Arranged marriages didn’t surprise Ryoka. What did was the complete look of shame on Regalius’ face. He went on.

“A marriage I promptly overturned to marry a [Shepherd]’s daughter, throwing us into disgrace for over a decade. My brother restored our name, and I have done my best to be a good civil servant. But it was no mere marriage.”

A boy overturning an arranged marriage for love. Checked out. Ryoka nodded slowly.

“You did love Yietha?”

Again, the [Baron] stopped. The shadow darkened.

“I do. But she was not the girl I tried to run away with. The elopement ended in an accident. She…the [Shepherd]’s daughter died. I married Yietha later. She was a [Merchant]. Is, rather.”

It was a tragedy worthy of any stage. After a long moment, Regalius lifted his head and turned to Ryoka. A decade had passed, and so he could talk about it.

“But Ryoka—it would have been one thing were it a…another family in Ailendamus, or even abroad, of similar rank. But promises were made, a fortune exchanged, all for what would have been. And I regret that perhaps this terrible war would not have come to pass. Perhaps, perhaps. You see, I was engaged to the 4th Princess of Calanfer, Princess Seraphel du Marquin, and I fear I am to blame for all of it. Including her own fate, as she has been married and divorced many times.”

Ryoka kept walking. She slammed into a decorative marble pillar so hard she got a nosebleed, and barely felt it.

It was all connected. And the genteel [Baron] who was so good a servant, whose brother had recently perished, and who had nearly been married into Calanfer’s royal family—offered her a handkerchief. Ryoka blew her nose into it and realized that was a bad idea a second later. She just had no idea what else was connected. What next?

Gnomes?

——

As they rode, Rabbiteater realized that the [Knights] really did suck at inspiring others. They did a good job with the Humans, Pheislant’s own especially.

But not with all. Especially not Gaiil-Drome’s forces.

Half-Elves.

They did not reach the pass Talia wanted to get to or friendly territory in three days. Well, maybe they’d reach it by the end of this day, but three more days had passed, and Marshal Huges was as good as his word.

Rabbiteater had to admit, he’d overestimated the abundance of life in Kaliv. The High Passes would have had a few Eater Goats coming to munch or be munched on after three days of riding, but he’d seen nary an animal aside from some birds who weren’t worth more than a mouthful or two and sparse game.

The [Knights] and some [Archers] tried, but it was hardly enough to feed nearly a thousand souls, even with dozens of kills on the march. The problem, as Rabbiteater understood it, was that animals weren’t stupid. They’d fled the war—and unlike Eater Goats, they didn’t head towards the sound of hundreds of horses and people.

“It’s a right mess, Ser and Dame Knights. Normally, there would be enough; we have enough animals for wild Griffins to hunt, and they’re the worst monsters by far. But not now. We’d hope that the Griffins that aren’t tamed go after Ailendamus; they’ve done it in other wars. But those Greatbows shoot even Griffins out of the sky.”

That came from a marching group of Kaliv [Soldiers] who were talking with the [Knights]. Ser Markus, Meisa, and Rabbiteater rode with them. Across from them, Rabbiteater could see Dame Talia speaking with some of Pheislant’s [Soldiers].

The Order of Seasons was raising morale. Theirs or the [Soldiers]’, it was hard to tell. However, morale had to be raised.

Unfortunately, the [Knights] had a classic type of way of trying to build character. Chin up, we’ll get through this! What’s your name, sir? My name is Markus, I hope we’ll both get through this, and I shall buy us all a round when…

Rabbiteater had heard all that almost verbatim from Markus. Meisa was a bit different. She conjured gusts of air, and it seemed like those around Talia seemed more energetic.

The spirit of summer. However, using an aura might work, and certainly Pheislant’s own cheered quietly as Talia rode on, but it was a bunch of people on horseback telling the foot-people to feel better.

As a Redfang warrior who had not been one of the Carn Wolf riders, Rabbiteater knew exactly how the infantry felt when the riders plodded on by and asked if they were doing okay. However…neither was he the [Hugfriend Commander of the Nice People] or an Antinium commander.

Rabbiteater’s opinion was that if a [Soldier] was feeling bad or hungry because of their growling bellies, they should suck it up and keep marching. He was a Redfang; this was not hard.

Even so. He was fascinated by the one group of [Soldiers] merely three dozen strong out of the four hundred rescued prisoners of the Dawn Concordat alliance.

Half-Elves. Rabbiteater hadn’t ever seen so many pointy ears since leaving Rags’ tribe to set out, and so many half-Elves?

Never. He knew Ceria, but she was one person, and they…

Well, they reacted to the [Knights] about as well as could be expected. With polite indifference or cordial gratitude as fellow warriors.

But no real enthusiasm. They walked, almost all of them holding bows. Gaiil-Drome was a forest nation, and they had sent almost exclusively [Archers] to aid the army. Good archers; half the kills of the wildlife had come from them.

Still, if Rabbiteater felt any pull…it was looking around at the trudging [Soldiers] and feeling the general dispiritedness in the air.

Not mutiny. Marshal Huges had claimed his soldiers could stand at least a day of no food at all, and Rabbiteater believed him. If someone shouted ‘down with the Order of Seasons, let’s all run for it’—he’d probably have his teeth kicked out in a moment.

The [Soldiers] weren’t going to run or break or mutiny. This was a war, and they knew the stakes.

They just weren’t happy. Walking sucked. Being hungry sucked. Facing a giant nation like Ailendamus sort of sucked.

Rabbiteater felt someone poking him in the side and stirred.

What would she have done? What would she want him to do? On the heels of that thought was the obvious knowledge—he was not her. She had…died.

And yet, as Rabbiteater looked around and Ser Markus went to shake someone’s hand and Meisa talked about her home with a Kaliv woman…Rabbiteater knew he wasn’t Erin Solstice.

But he could try. He could do anything. He was a Hufflepuff. Whatever that meant.

He could try.

——

The half-Elves of Gaiil-Drome’s alliance considered that everything since their last battle was stupid. Their entire command had surrendered rather than be torn apart by Greatbows and the charging Order of the Hydra—who had badly outnumbered the Thronebearers—and the Thronebearers had quit the field rather than be surrounded.

Probably strategic, but the [Soldiers] were just grateful that the Ailendamus [Knights] hadn’t hacked them apart.

As for the Order of Seasons rescuing them…it was plain to see the Humans had gotten battered in their own fighting, for all they claimed a victory. Maybe they’d even won, but if they had, why were they here, clearly trying to find safety?

They were losing this war. So the half-Elves resented the [Knights]—Human [Knights]—trying to lie to their faces. Their fellow Human soldiers knew it was a blatant attempt to make them feel better. No one was a fool; Gaiil-Drome’s people just didn’t want to spare the effort trying to make the [Knights] feel better.

“Here comes the odd one. The Goblin Slayer.”

One of the half-Elf [Forest Archers] called out, and the rest of his kin looked up with mild interest. A few Spring Knights had tried to connect vis-à-vis the love of forests, nature, and so on.

They had failed because these were not village half-Elf recluses, but urban half-Elves. For a given value of urban, of course. But someone assuming you just loved trees was fairly speciesist. As far as half the [Archers] were concerned, the only tree they loved was one that would make a fine yew longbow.

This [Knight] was interesting, though. For one thing, he had a crimson cloak of…blood? Not cloth. His armor was magnificent still, despite the fighting, and he carried an enchanted axe with a jade edge. Oh, and he’d beaten half of the [Soldiers] he’d fought by throwing helmets.

They called him the Goblin Slayer. Already rumors were spreading about him in the Dawn Concordat’s ranks because all they could do was talk on the march. He was apparently an Izrilian [Knight] that never took off his helmet. He had taken a vow—but he was a feared slayer of Goblins who’d bested an Ailendamus [General]—no, three—in battle.

He was a friend of the Summer’s Champion. He was an excellent fighter and solo [Knight] of no known Order. Oh—and people suspected he wasn’t Human.

Already reason enough for the half-Elves to be interested. The rumor had it that Ser Solstice was either a Gnoll or Drake based on Izril. Possibly a Drake without a tail?

Interesting, in short. But the [Knight] looked like he was on the morale-raising trip, so the half-Elves nodded to him warily. No bows, no ‘Ser Knights’. The armored figure stopped and then dismounted from his warhorse.

“Hello.”

“Ser Solstice? Good day to you. Is something amiss?”

Their leader nodded politely to the [Knight] as the armored figure strode next to them, the horse plodding along with its reins in his grasp. It was just as well they were close to civilization; if they hadn’t been, the [Soldiers] and [Knights] would have made the hard choice to eat the horses’ grain—then the animals.

However, the strange [Knight] just regarded the half-Elves with blatant curiosity. It was a bit uncomfortable as he didn’t reply to the male half-Elf for a while. Then he nodded.

“Nothing’s wrong. I want to talk.”

Of course he did. The leader smiled politely.

“Naturally, Ser Solstice. I am [Bow Leader] Verilien. I would be very interested in learning about you. Or discussing our homeland? Did you have something you wished to discuss?”

A few ears perked up. This might at least kill some time, but he had better not say anything about the spirit of the forest or half-Elven grace or…

Ser Solstice nodded once and looked around.

“Do you all eat bugs?”

Someone tripped, and there were curses. The half-Elves turned to Ser Solstice.

“What?”

Verilien frowned at the [Knight]. Ser Solstice shrugged.

“You eat bugs? Centipedes, roaches? Worms?”

“Wh—no. Ser Solstice! What a question! Are you asking if we’re willing to supplement our rations?”

That was the only thing the flabbergasted [Bow Leader] could think of. The [Knight] scratched at his helmet.

“Huh. No. Thought you ate bugs. I know a half-Elf who does.”

For a second, a terrible thought flashed across the mind of a few of the older half-Elves. Not all were old. Many were only in their thirties. One was even in his late twenties. These were urban half-Elves who were still mature by twenty. So they looked very young, if adult. But a few of the older ones were eighty…and one of them looked uneasy.

“…Which half-Elf would that be? An [Alchemist]…?”

There was one half-Elf who might do that. To everyone’s relief, Ser Solstice shook his head.

“No. An ice mage. She eats bugs. She did it in her forest. I wondered if you did.”

“Oh. A rural half-Elf. One of the forest-dwellers.”

Everyone relaxed, and there were some incredulous looks. He must have met…

“So there are some of our kin on Izril, of course. We, ah, do not eat bugs. Ser Solstice.”

Virilien replied with mixed amusement and outrage. The [Knight] hmmed.

“Too bad. I thought half-Elves would be tougher.”

Every pointed ear froze for a moment, and eyes narrowed. Virilien’s smile was markedly less diplomatic.

“Do you object to our pace, Ser Solstice?”

The [Knight] looked around; the half-Elves were not far apart from the rest of the column, so his voice was audible to other Humans listening in.

“Yep. You’re all slow. Pheislant, [Knights]…you could move faster. But that’s okay.”

He said it so insultingly calmly that everyone picked up the pace instantly. Now, the mysterious [Knight] was the source of glares, but he just increased his speed.

“I regret to inform you we do not have horses, Ser Solstice.”

“Neither did I. You want to race? I’ll race you fifteen miles.”

Was it bravado? He sounded so cheerful—but Verilian recognized what he was doing. The pace was picking up, but there was only so hard the [Knight] could push them.

He was clearly a warrior who was used to motivating others. The half-Elves were now striding rather than walking, but they deliberately kept up their conversation.

“I hope we haven’t offended you in some way, Ser Solstice? I don’t believe our people have fallen behind Humans in any way.”

“Nope. I don’t know your fighting. Eating bugs is useful. You could go faster. This is just talking.”

Did he mean that? A few of the warriors glanced at him oddly. So why was he here? The [Knight] strode along without seeming to even feel the enhanced pace in his armor. Then he spoke.

“Gaiil-Drome is your nation, right?”

“Yes.”

Virilien frowned at the [Knight]. The stranger hmmed again.

“Never been. Do you have good food?”

It was the most blaisé talk ever. About to scoff, the half-Elves hesitated because he sounded uniquely, completely, innocently curious. To test him, Virilien gave him another fake smile.

“Have you never heard of half-Elven cuisine, Ser Solstice? I imagine our food does not differ from the fare you might find in other nations.”

“Okay. But I have never eaten half-Elven food. Or at a restaurant.”

Hmm?

That had to be a lie. Even a few of the [Archers] from villages that were reclusive or the forest towns grinned. But Ser Solstice’s helmeted head didn’t move.

“A pub then. Surely you’ve had a few…Izirilian pubs might not have that many half-Elven dishes. A Gaiilen Salad?”

“Nope. I’ve eaten salads. What’s Gaiilen Salad?”

“Oh—”

Flustered, the [Bow Leader] found himself being honest.

“It’s a national dish. It comes from the Hinterthere Melons that we grow. A magical one that sparkles; it grows deep in the forests, but it can be cultivated. It’s just a fruit salad, truthfully, but it’s a meal unto itself. An entire bowl full of fruits. Wild blackberries from home, sometimes Peckle Nuts—tiny acorns sprinkled in.”

Bellies started grumbling at the very thought of the salad. They had other foods, too. Salad was not what the half-Elves wanted. A brisket…but the strange [Knight] was making appreciative sounds. Was he smacking his lips?

“Is it good?”

“It…you’ve never heard of it?”

A bit of national outrage sparked in a few breasts. One of the half-Elves leaned over.

“There’s many derivatives, and most places could claim to serve a ‘Gaiilen Salad’. But the truly magical dish, prepared correctly, is never left out. It needs to be fresh, of course, but it isn’t uncommon for squirrels or birds to try to eat it. That’s an indication of the real thing.”

“It also makes for wonderful pest traps.”

“Really.”

There was a smile in the [Knight]’s voice. Virilien felt like he couldn’t get a grasp on this stranger.

“Are you planning on visiting Gaiil-Drome, Ser Knight? We would be happy to host you if this war is won.”

That was the kind of statement that was acceptable. Vague promises. But Ser Solstice just shook his head.

“No. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m just hungry.”

And he thought talking about food was going to help with that? The half-Elves didn’t understand a Goblin’s perspective on food. He talked about it because he was hungry. Why not? There was no better time to talk about food, because that was when you appreciated it. You should be starving when you get to a banquet.

“What, may I ask, is your preferred dish from your homeland?”

One of the half-Elves asked with a smile. It was a testing question. If he said some kind of distinctly Gnoll or Drake dish…but the [Knight] wasn’t playing mind-games.

“Hm. Cookies?”

“…What’s that?”

Another smacking sound from within the helmet. The [Knight] looked ahead as everyone listening in grew more interested.

“It’s a circle. This big.”

He showed them with his hands.

“Made of flour and sugar and…stuff. Butter? Eggs? It bakes in this oven. Doesn’t take long. You put cinnamon on it. And chocolate, but I’ve never seen any chocolate. Might not exist. You can put other things in it. Like oatmeal. Oatmeal is good. Gives it chewiness. It comes out hot, but it can sit there.”

“Oh—like a bread?”

“Nope. Chewy, sweet. Dessert. Or a snack. You can eat an entire basket.”

“I’ve never heard of that, Ser Solstice. Is it a particularly Izrilian dish?”

“Um. Maybe?”

He was so vague, but a few people who could detect lies or were simply judges of character didn’t think he was lying. He was, well, casually fascinating. Despite themselves, Virilien and a few other [Soldiers] marching quicker along drew closer, not just half-Elves. And they didn’t notice the march.

“Another one, then. Another favorite dish, Ser Solstice.”

“Hamburgers.”

“You must be making these foods up. I have been to Izril, Ser Solstice, and I’ve never heard of these dishes.”

“It’s new.”

“Very well, I will play your game. How is it made?”

The [Knight] was smiling behind his helmet. It came out in his voice.

“You take some bread. A nice, fluffy bun. Then you cut it open and put a meat-thing in the center. A burger. Patty?”

“What is…?”

The [Knight] was growing more animated. And he knew perfectly well he was speaking to an audience who could appreciate meat. Ceria ate meat; half-Elves therefore probably ate meat. It was only the weird village-ones who would be horrified.

And while Rabbiteater was no [Cook]—his Cave Goblins had learned to cook, Pebblesnatch especially. He’d helped Erin in the kitchen.

Moreover, he was a Goblin. He knew food. No sooner had he provided everyone with the mouthwatering image of a burger sizzling on a pan or grill than he began describing the other foods that he’d encountered at her inn.

Like a stack of pancakes so high that someone had had the idea to hollow out the center and fill it with syrup and butter. Then, as you cut into it, it leaked out, until a little Gnoll girl almost passed out from sheer decadence.

Every stomach was rumbling, and perhaps it was the hungry [Marshal] himself who ordered rations broken out on the march.

Which was almost a bad idea, because as everyone stopped, they chewed on preserved, flat bread. Jerky. Liberated supplies of fish, goat’s cheese from Kaliv, and Calanferian grapes.

Ser Solstice put all of that into a sandwich—including the grapes—and inserted it into his helmet in a quick motion while hiding his face. But even he didn’t sound too happy.

“Hrgh. Dry.”

“Tasteless.”

The half-Elves ate their fare without enthusiasm but went back to talking about proper food.

“Calanfer has fine vintages of wine, you know. Proper dates and grapes as fat as walnuts.”

“Surely those are the worst. They’d be all water…”

“Ah, but they aren’t. Not with the right Skills by the [Vintners]. This bread…did you say you enjoyed properly risen bread, Ser Solstice? With a good [Baker] with leavening Skills, I assume?”

“Nope. Baking powder. Who needs a Skill?”

“Go on. Surely you don’t mean there’s a powder that…? I have a [Baker] as an uncle, and he has never mentioned the stuff.”

“It’s new.”

“Like hamburgers, ice cream—which is gelato—cookies, soufflés, and all these other things you’ve mentioned.”

“Yep.”

Everyone laughed politely at the deadpan [Knight]. If he was lying, it was still entertaining. But then they came to water.

“Save those rations! We haven’t come to a river today, so drink it sparingly! Not that it’s the greatest issue, Ser Solstice.”

Marshal Huges reassured everyone that water was not going to be a problem. Kaliv had enough sources of water; this wasn’t Chandrar. The locals could find water.

Lovely river-water. Slightly brackish. Everyone’s first ravenous bites had stopped, so they munched on hard bread and their poor quality fare very, very slowly as they continued marching.

Or rather, Ser Solstice did. He gave them all about one minute before he walked on, and everyone followed, cursing and trying not to drop their fare. Did he have no sense of needing a break? But he could walk the walk he talked, so they followed.

Besides, talking took the pain out of your feet. Even the Order of Seasons didn’t object. From Talia to Markus, they were listening to the Goblin. More importantly—Talia silenced objections from those too far back to hear what was prompting the faster pace or cut break.

She was watching Rabbiteater. Or was it not him but…? Meisa glanced at Talia and narrowed her eyes too.

Trying to see.

“It all came from a place. An inn. Cookies and pizza and more. Good food. I wish I was there.”

Rabbiteater stared ahead at the sky, and everyone thought of their homes. Virilien nodded.

“I miss our cities as well. Pray tell, what made this inn so special?”

The Goblin looked up at the sky, and his friends heard his voice.

“…It was the first place I felt safe. I could walk inside and smell something cooking. There was a little furball. She ran around. My brothers were there. And there was always something to drink or eat. I ate all the time. I never starved.”

What kind of life did he have? Everyone listened, but the Goblin’s voice was only a bit sad. It was more wistful than anything.

“We had a drink. A special drink. It was blue. I only had it once. It was out of season. But so good.”

“Alchemical?”

He hesitated.

“No…like squeezed fruit. Like oranges. Just blue.”

“Oh. Orange juice.”

“Yes, that. But with blue fruits. The insides are very poisonous, but you cut the outside up and squeeze it. It’s very sweet. The sweetest thing I ever drank.”

“Does he mean Amentus fruit? You can get poisoned terribly from—”

“Shh. Probably. Izrilians are crazy.”

The [Knight] went on.

“Blue juice. Sweet. Then she’d take out a pizza from the ovens, and we’d all eat. And the furball would try to steal food.”

“What furball? A cat?”

“Sure. Close enough.”

Everyone laughed, and someone leaned over.

“Pizza now. You must be making this up, Ser Solstice. Or is some kind of super-[Cook] inventing a bevy of new foods?”

“Yes. Pizza is this round, hot thing. Dough in a crust and cheese and tomato sauce baked in the center. Hot, nearly melting. Don’t burn your mouth. It has toppings and…it looks like this. See?”

He tried to sketch it in the air. The Goblin [Knight] was not an evocative speaker. He didn’t use big words like the way the ovens crisped the tops of the dough; he didn’t know what leavening meant and assumed it meant beating dough with a rolling pin. But there was still something in the way Rabbiteater talked that helped people imagine the scene and fill in the gaps.

“Always warm—except when she forgets to put the fire on. Nice chairs. My brother took a blanket and wrapped himself up around the fireplace. Then everyone stole it, and the little furball set it on fire by accident. But we sit there. All five of us and her and the others and sip tea. With cookies. Or milk with cookies. Or just cookies. Blue juice is too sweet.”

“What does blue juice taste like, exactly? I’m having a hard time imagining it, Ser Solstice.”

Markus asked. The Goblin scratched at his head.

“It tastes like sugar. And blue. It is a bit thicker than orange juice. But not like sludge. It tastes not-sharp. Not like…acid? Or acid fly juice. Not that I tried. Nice and sweet.”

Listening to him describe taste without reference was amusing. Virilien took a sip of his flat water, wishing he could have any fruit juice as the [Knight] struggled. Then his eyes went wide, and he sprayed the water all over Markus’ shoulder.

“Eugh!”

Markus reacted with dismay as Rabbiteater broke off. The half-Elf gagged, checking his water bottle.

“I’m sorry—something in my water flask. That can’t be…huh?”

He poured some water onto his fingers and stared at it. Everyone turned to him, and then someone else exclaimed.

“Is something wrong with the water? Mine’s—!”

Other people began checking their flasks. Alarmed that they might have taken poisoned or bad water, Marshal Huges hurried over. But the water was good. Even Ser Ilm checked.

And yet…when Rabbiteater tried his water flask, he blinked. And his eyes went wide. There was a familiar taste to the liquid that ran out of the flask.

It didn’t affect Talia. Or a bewildered Virilien as he stepped away from the [Knight]. But as he returned, it returned.

Instead of water, Rabbiteater tasted…blue juice. That sweet, almost too-sweet at times flavor. So refreshing if you wanted something other than flat water.

“It tastes like Amentus!”

A half-Elf exclaimed. Everyone turned to Rabbiteater, and he looked blankly around. Then he heard someone exhale.

“There it is.”

He looked about, and then he felt it. Amid his recollections, the stories…

A sense that was as natural as breathing. He had thought it would feel different, but his [Aura of the Hearth] simply felt like nostalgia.

It felt like home. Talia Kalinad looked at Rabbiteater as the other Order of Seasons [Knights] saw the aura swirling around him. Uncontrolled, wild—but strong.

A Level 30 [Champion]’s aura. Rabbiteater sipped at his drink as more people clustered around.

“It beats water!”

Markus laughed as he took another sip of water. He elbowed Rabbiteater.

“Some aura, eh? Too bad it’s not as practical…”

Rabbiteater elbowed him back.

“Bad wind sword ability or free blue juice?”

“Hey! Rabbit! It’s not a bad ability—”

The joking between the duo cut off as Meisa urgently touched Rabbiteater’s arm.

“Try to concentrate on the aura, Rabbiteater! Make it into…oh, a sword? I don’t think it’ll work for Hearth. But try to manifest it! That’s the next step!”

“He can’t do it untested, Meisa.”

“He can try, Markus. Try!”

Now, everyone watched Rabbiteater as he walked. He felt it. And once he had felt how it worked, he thought he could do it again. But it wasn’t…well, it wasn’t an aura for war. Was it?

He’d made his armor like the walls of the inn. Maybe…

But even as Rabbiteater tried that, he felt, instinctively, he didn’t have nearly enough concentration of his aura or power. It would be like lifting a boulder overhead with only Mrsha’s weak arms. So he cast around.

Concentrate. Materialize something you know. Something from home. What did he know that was the hearth?

A frying pan? A chair? Yes, aura-chair. Rabbiteater rolled his eyes. This was stupid.

He still had some of his sandwich left. Grumpily, the Goblin began to raise his visor, turning his head to hide his face. His terrible, poor, no-good-taste sandwich. He was getting soft. It was a fine meal for any Goblin, but he could practically taste…

The Goblin’s eyes narrowed. And Talia Kallinad, watching, saw the aura change. She saw it concentrate, and the taste of blue juice faded from the flasks around Rabbiteater, much to the disappointment of all.

It was only a seeming. It didn’t turn the water to actual blue juice. That was impossible. That was closer to a miracle. Even so, it was impressive. She watched where the aura was concentrating.

By now, even Markus, a younger [Knight], had picked up on the aura, though he had to shade his eyes to see. He hesitated.

“Rabbit. What are you…er…”

He stared at the object that the Goblin was concentrating all his aura into. Talia rubbed at her forehead. Meisa and Ser Ilm? They began chuckling. Then laughing.

Virilien had seen many powerful [Knights]. Even the Lightherald himself, the great champion of Calanfer. He had heard the Order of Seasons could do fantastical things with their abilities.

But he had to own—this was the most surprising use of an aura yet. Talia Kallinad burst out after a moment.

“Is that your first manifestation, R—Ser Solstice?”

The Goblin paused as he lifted something into the air and cracked his visor open a hair. The [Soldiers] were laughing and pointing in delight.

“Sure. Why not?”

A slice of pizza dangled in the air, the tip gleaming with a bit of oil and cheese and sauce. A pepperoni pizza slice entered the vizor, and the Goblin chewed it down happily.

“Yum.”

He was getting the hang of this. Ilm was writing a note to the Fall’s Sentinel.

“Incredible. Even for his level—a first try, unprompted food manifestation?”

The Goblin just laughed at the scandalized [Knights]. What did they think a Goblin’s aura would be like? And he was sure Erin Solstice would have approved.

He was happy. But he decided—

He had better not get [Aura Pizza] after he slept.

The column of [Soldiers] and [Knights] continued on their way. Laughing, fascinated. If that were all, it would have been a salutary moment, the beginning of a friendship and respect for a strange [Knight]. But no one realized that Rabbiteater was, well, Rabbiteater.

He wasn’t as talented as Numbtongue or Badarrow in one thing, let alone Shorthilt. He wasn’t as strong as Headscratcher.

But he was tireless. Adaptable. The other [Soldiers] were getting hints of good food and finishing their rations when Virilien felt someone clap him on the shoulder with an armored hand.

The half-Elves started as Ser Solstice, the mysterious [Pizza Knight], pointed ahead.

“Good. We ate. We had fun. Bellies sort of full. Next question—can half-Elves march?”

The question would have provoked bristling an hour ago. The [Bow Leader] simply smiled archly now.

“Do you mean to ask if we can keep up your pace, Ser Solstice?”

“Yes. Let’s see if you can.”

He began to speed up. Again, not on horseback. The horse trotted after him, feed bag in its mouth. Talia had to object as she rode forwards.

“Ser Solstice. There’s no need to tire ourselves out. The scouts are ahead of us—but we are headed to safety. We’ll soon be behind the Dawn Concordat’s front.”

The [Knight] turned to her.

“Yes, so we get to safety faster. Marching properly isn’t tiring. I’m tired of slowness. Come on. Half-Elves can run. I saw Ceria run like shit from a skunk.”

And he had the hang of his aura. The half-Elves were only too willing to pick up the pace, if only to show the Humans how it was done. True, they were carrying [Archer]’s gear, so they were certainly lighter than heavy infantry, but everyone began to speed up.

Talia watched the pace Rabbiteater set worriedly. It was a Redfang’s pace, which meant that it was a jog. And it could probably beat most standard armies’ speeds if he intended to keep it up all day.

But it was not sustainable unless they had stamina potions. Everyone realized their legs would be burning by twenty minutes of this—those not accustomed to roadwork, that was.

Marshal Huges himself jogged up to Rabbiteater.

“Ser Solstice—this might be too fast. It’ll wear out the troops.”

“Then they level.”

“If we have to fight—”

“We fight tired. Everyone gets more energy when they’re about to die.”

The [Marshal] couldn’t fault that logic, but he wondered if the soldiers were willing to follow the pace. The ones around Rabbiteater—perhaps. But the others, like the Calanferians, knew perfectly well they didn’t have to move this fast and that they weren’t in danger.

There was a risk. And yet, as the Goblin began to run faster and even the Gaiil-Drome [Soldiers] began to look askance, Talia’s eyes widened.

There was no way. He did not have that kind of control.

But he was a [Champion]. And an [Aura Knight]. And she realized something. Meisa breathed it out.

“It’s two. He just doubled it.”

The convivial heat and warmth of an inn far away and long gone faded from the air. Something odd made Virilien’s ears twitch. Yet it was still…coming from Rabbiteater. The same aura, but something had changed. The [Bow Leader], as a very low-level [Commander] himself, had felt enough auras during the war and over seventy years to realize this was an aura.

But this…was something that even Sophridel had never conceived.

[Aura of the Hearth]. It did what it said. It was an aura of home and comfort. Hearth, which was a broad word with many connotations and meanings. Even so—perhaps never before had it been used this way.

Rabbiteater’s second aura informed and expanded it. But that was only in scope, such that Calanferians, jogging along and protesting to the [Glory Captain], who was rapidly formulating a civil protest, the Kaliv infantry, the Gaiil-Drome half-Elves, and Pheislant’s army…heard something in the air.

A perspective from an aura-wielder that no [Aura of the Hearth] had ever had before. Markus felt it, but he didn’t push the aura away. So, in its aegis, he kept turning his head.

“Rabbit, what are you doing? I think I can hear…”

Meisa was looking around. She heard a faint sound—voices. Something so familiar as to be nostalgic. But she didn’t quite understand. Not yet.

It was growing louder. The Goblin jogged ahead and turned his head. He heard it too. To Virilien and the others, it sounded like…

Cheering? The rattle of metal. Panting voices. Grunts. Footfalls by the hundred. But far more than were around the actual people present.

It differed, from person to person, though the perspective…was Rabbiteater’s. To Meisa, it sounded suddenly like her brothers were encouraging her to run, as they had when she was young and trying to train to be a [Page].

To Markus, it was the sound of the Spring Knights on their morning run around the keep. To Virilien, the thwapp of arrows striking canvas as his group trained. But what they all heard was the cheering. And if they didn’t concentrate too hard, if they just looked ahead, panting, feeling the burning in their legs and chests—they saw them too. And they didn’t dare slow.

It was one thing to stop alone. Or to say ‘I don’t care, I’ve had enough’. Quite enough to have someone ordering you on.

But it was one more thing to run in the company of a hundred [Soldiers]. No…warriors. Shadows, who ran out of the corner of your eye, telling you to hurry up. Maybe even a fist, ungently punching a shoulder when you slowed.

A company of warriors. A tribe of maniacs. And—Rabbiteater looked ahead and thought he saw a tall Hobgoblin, his father, who led all his sons and daughters in his tribe. A famous blade on his side, running ahead of him.

“Is this Hearth? This isn’t…”

Ilm was gasping, running in plate armor. Talia said nothing. She just looked ahead at the Goblin.

He was grinning, she knew. One arm raised and pumping, telling the others to ‘run’ without words. This was his home. More than the inn, even. This was what he thought of when he thought of home and safety.

A cheering band of brothers and sisters, daring you to push yourself until you tasted blood. Run until you dropped. And if you fell down—they’d drag you across the finish line. The [Knight] ran and ran, and the [Soldiers] followed him until they stopped and fell into their bedrolls. Then—Talia began to suspect his auras meant more than even she and the Fall’s Sentinel had guessed.

[Aura Knight Level 16!]

They ran so fast and far that day and the next that low-level [Soldiers] leveled both days. And they were fast enough that they ran straight into…well. Rabbiteater held up a hand, and the [Scouts] shouted in alarm as the sky rippled. As the sun suddenly froze in the sky, and they ran into the first stragglers screaming of a terrible defeat. Trapped, fleeing ahead of an army. Into the aegis of a Great General of Ailendamus. An aura or power beyond the others.

It faded every Hearth to ruin, and Bravery could not overcome it. Seasons were helpless to its whim, and it humbled every [King] and nation. Even those without death by age bowed to it.

Time.

——

Cara O’Sullivan had her history with Ailendamus. Fortunately, it didn’t seem like the Kingdom of Glass and Glory remembered it.

Or, if it did, the people who wanted to see the Singer of Terandria didn’t know or care. And among those people was a half-Giant—at least, that was how he looked.

Menorkel found Ryoka Griffin as she was talking to Baron Regalius, agreeing to meet him for dinner. You didn’t just get a confession like that from the man and say ‘no, I’m busy’. He hovered as Regalius turned to the young man.

Menorkel looked like he was only ten feet tall. He was, in fact, far taller. And Ryoka had been told he was second only to Rhisveri in size. Even so, the half-Giant was thin, almost stringy. And he had his own sense of fashion.

It was nothing like Regalius, more like a modern approach—a scarf wound around his head, and he wore a long jacket that could have been a blanket for Ryoka and Regalius both. Ryoka knew some of the dress was to hide details about Menorkel, as well as the illusion magic.

Like his second head. The Titan was, for all of that, a nervous teen.

Oh, and he sang beautifully and was a huge fan of the Singer of Terandria. See? Connected. And Ryoka began to suspect Cara’s presence might have been partly to do with Menorkel’s desire to see her.

“Ryoka. Ryoka—Baron Regalius, I hate to bother you—”

“Nonsense, Menorkel. I was just finishing up—four days, then. If nothing comes up. I should actually make sure I’m not called upon to give a speech. The Master of Ceremonies sometimes prevails on me if there’s a sudden absence, and I oblige her—but it is good to have advance warning. Courier Griffin, Menorkel.”

He bowed and retreated. Menorkel practically hopped from foot-to-foot as Ryoka stared after him.

“The Singer of Terandria is here, Ryoka! You have to come with me to one of her concerts!”

“Huh? Me? Why?”

“Because I’m terrified to go myself! And I’ll never get to speak to her or show her my songs! You said they were good?”

“Wh—yeah. They’re really—did you know Regalius was nearly married to a [Princess]?”

Ryoka pointed to Regalius, still stuck on that. Menorkel shrugged.

“What…oh. Yes, it was a huge scandal. I remember that. He was exiled with his brother for years, until they redeemed themselves. They were on the border? Something like that. Regalius is very helpful, Fithea says, since he’s so responsible and does coronations—let’s go see the Singer! You have to come. Nemud and the others are too dry since they were at House Shoel, and Gilaw won’t go.”

“Wh—Menorkel, listen. I’m a bit—”

Ryoka felt herself being dragged by the Titan. Here was the thing—there wasn’t even the chance she could stop him. She could dig her heels in and break her legs, but Menorkel looked so eager she had to oblige.

“Actually, I want to speak with Fithea and the others. Will I get a chance?”

“Maybe later. I don’t know. Can you believe the Singer’s come here? She refused to come to Ailendamus for so long, I wonder what changed? I would have gone to see her on tour, but I can’t leave the capital without permission or an escort, and Fithea wouldn’t go. Did you hear her sing? And dance? It’s amazing. I saw her do that technique—moonwalking.”

To Ryoka’s amazement, he let go of her arm for a second and repeated the trick. He seemed to walk backwards across the ground.

You weren’t supposed to be able to do that without a slippery surface! But Menorkel did! It was a sight to see a ten-foot half-Giant do that.

No, Titan. Ryoka recalled how good he’d been with the baseball bat, not to mention how strong. If he was related to Greek Titans or that guy in the lands of the fae…she wondered what abilities he had.

“Menorkel, uh, can I ask a few questions if it’s not confidential? And we’re…in the open.”

Menorkel glanced at Ryoka and grew a bit warier.

“I…think I can answer them. What about?”

“Uh, how old are you? And what kind of abilities…do you have? Sorry, I’m just really curious. What about Gilaw?”

Menorkel sighed.

“I think I’m twelve. Fithea raised me, and we counted since she found me, so I’m ‘twelve’ in that sense. I grew up for a long time before then…I’m probably older than Ailendamus, but I think of myself as twelve. Which would be younger, if you understand.”

He raised his brows, and Ryoka gazed up at him. Twelve was obviously wrong. So he meant…younger than Ailendamus, which was 200.

So he was a hundred and twenty years old. To confirm, she muttered.

“That’s…by ten, not by a hundred, yeah? And you don’t count the time before meeting Fithea? Why not?”

Menorkel nodded.

“That’s right. And I don’t count the other parts because I didn’t do anything. I was just…there. Trapped. It’s a long story.”

His eyes shifted much like Regalius’ had, but Menorkel was not a man in his early thirties who had made peace with his past, so he didn’t elaborate. Ryoka saw him shrug as he went on.

“I’m not magical, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m really just like a half-Giant. Rhisveri keeps telling me to practice fighting, but I don’t like it, not like Gilaw.”

“Does she—she can, uh, turn? I mean, she rides a Griffin.”

“Yes. That’s one of her abilities. She’s just—stronger. Faster. She’s a Great Knight by our standards, but she’s still young, which is why she doesn’t fight in wars. I’m a bit stronger than her, but I don’t want to fight. I want to…you know. Sing.”

He whispered that last part as if that was the big secret here. And Gilaw was strong enough to match other Great Knights…which made sense since she was a Royal Griffin.

“So you don’t, uh, have any other talents?”

“I’m strong, I guess I’m tough…and I have two points of view. That’s about it.”

Menorkel looked embarrassed, and Ryoka felt she was pressuring the teen. She scratched at her head.

“Okay. Uh…well, I’m happy to go with you to meet the Singer of Terandria. I’d like to meet her too, but I doubt it’ll be easy.”

“Why?”

Menorkel gave Ryoka an odd look which she returned with interest.

“Because she’s the most famous [Singer] on the continent?”

“And you’re a Courier. If anyone would be able to meet her, it’s you.”

“Oh. I guess you’re right.”

When they got to the place where Cara was rehearsing with her band, Ryoka got to assess the Singer of Terandria, Cara O’Sullivan, and the caravan that had carried her across the continent at last, without surprise or panic. And she noticed some interesting things.

Firstly, Cara was from Earth.

It was the aesthetic. It was the songs. True, she could have murdered someone and taken their iPhone or found something by accident, which Ryoka had always banked as an outside chance, but Cara was too knowing. She sang words from the clearly-adjusted pop and rock songs and performed like someone from the modern era.

She mixed in elements of all the kinds of celebrity that worked. She was a personality, and it was manufactured.

Ryoka saw a five-foot-something girl, maybe a bit taller than average, but certainly shorter than Ryoka, who looked caucasian…and was probably Irish to judge by her name. She didn’t have any noticeable wounds on her face and hands or other unique details, although she was certainly fairly fit.

That was all Ryoka got physically, because Cara’s dress and even hair changed to match the [Singer]’s needs. One second, she looked like she was walking out with slightly curly, brown hair, waving at the cheering crowd of young people in a casual, if slightly odd white-and-black outfit of a modified t-shirt and pants—

The next, her hair shimmered, lengthened, developed gold strands, and she disappeared behind a curtain and came out in a blinding outfit of metallica like a popstar. No, Ryoka realized.

A [Popstar].

Her personality changed too. What did she call her fans? Cara put a mic to her mouth and shouted into it. Not a wire-and-electronic contraption either—the head of the microphone was a glimmering red sapphire built into a light metal base, which magnified her voice as she shouted.

“Hello my shining stars! I know you’ve been waiting all day—I told you, we’re performing tonight! But you’ve all waited out here—so just a preview, alright?”

They cheered madly, and Ryoka recognized the mentality as well. Cara had certainly brought the idea of celebrity to this world.

And Ryoka didn’t like it. She frowned and nearly jumped out of her skin as Menorkel cheered and Cara launched into a song.

She had speakers, or she could generate music on command! It was like having a portable karaoke machine, and Ryoka didn’t even know if the band was necessary; a few had come out, and one, a drummer, played along, but the guitarist and bassist didn’t.

Was it all show and glitz and glamor? Ryoka turned her attention to the band members themselves next and saw—Earthers.

Definitely Earthers. They were all Human, which was one sign, but the way they behaved was too familiar. The guitarist was signing autographs, while the other Earthers watched Cara or the crowd. One even pointed at Menorkel as they talked quietly. Ryoka’s eyes narrowed as she saw someone from inside the wagon come out.

Did she see the flash of an LED screen for a second there? Well, Ryoka bet that was how they got their music.

So you had this Singer of Terandria, who clearly plagiarized every popular song from Earth to make her career here. Ryoka wasn’t about to take her to task for that—it was hard to survive, and Erin had taken plays.

But she felt like this Cara had a target on her back from Wistram and all the rest. Still—she wasn’t a bad performer. When she spoke, every eye locked on her, and she had a presence that reminded Ryoka of the Players of Celum. Or even Erin.

A stage presence. Ryoka saw her entire caravan of wagons could create a wooden stage, and she had bodyguards—half-Elves, Dwarves, as well as Humans—and an entire team to keep her people rolling. Even what might have been a mobile kitchen. Cara had magical illusions, security, and she clearly didn’t hurt for coin.

What the Wind Runner didn’t realize as she watched it all, semi-disapproving, was that the Earthers were noticing her. Why? Menorkel was dancing around, attracting almost as much attention as Cara—and he was a good dancer; no danger of stomped toes with him!

Why indeed would a Courier, who looked like she was from Drath or somewhere else entirely, with two missing fingers and the power to harness the wind be noticeable? Oh, and the bare feet. A puzzler.

——

“Hey, it’s the Wind Runner. Ryoka Griffin. Do you think it’s her, the one we came for? She doesn’t look like she’s in trouble like Cara said.”

The caravan of wagons was parked in an entire courtyard in the palace. They didn’t have to sleep there, but Cara had requested it for the sake of entertaining her fans. While she performed on the temporary wooden stage they could deploy, her audience danced on the grass, to the horror of the [Groundskeepers].

And there, eying the entire caravan as she stood, arms folded, in the shadow of the dancing half-Giant boy, was the Wind Runner. The wind blew around her light clothing and her long hair at every moment, and a few magical items glowed on her body to anyone with the sight; an amulet, two rings…

The band saw her. The tall girl realized they were watching her and pointing.

“Is that…her?”

Rae wasn’t playing with Thien, so she, Greg, Abebi the [Manager], and two helpers—all Earthers—were observing the Wind Runner. She knew she should be playing, but she couldn’t turn it on like Cara, who could perform at any moment.

Was that her? A Courier—Rae knew how famous that was, and she had seen Ryoka Griffin on the news. It was surreal just seeing her here. She had some kind of weird, magical armband, and she looked—

Well, like other Couriers. Weird. Bare feet, yet surrounded by a magical wind and standing with a giant guy! Young man. In Ailendamus, where, according to Cara, the situation was dicey.

Yet Cara refused to tell anyone, even Abebi, everything, so they had to play it by ear. Greg objected, but Greg objected to a lot of things, and he was only too happy to sign body parts and cards.

Greg. Cara was going to kick him off the band and send him back to Safety later. That was the name for the place. Rae didn’t know where it was exactly, and that was good, because no one had heard from Elena in Wistram, and she had sworn she would come back within a month if she could.

That she had not was proof there were no real allies there. Anyways, Greg making his own list of people he wanted to jump into bed with wasn’t important. The Wind Runner was.

“I can go talk to her.”

Abebi slipped sideways, but Rae whispered urgently.

“Cara said not to! We’re being observed, and you’re the [Manager].”

The young woman hesitated. Cara had said that, but…

“We have to talk to her before she leaves anyways. I’ll be careful. Maybe I’ll ask if she wants to do a delivery. There’s worse people to do it. I’ll be subtle.”

That was true. Rae had gotten used to performing, enough to make this big important trip, but she was terrified of messing up and letting the secret out. Cara was as cool as glass, and Thien could do it, but he was doing a drum solo as the [Singer] took a gulp of water.

“One more song, my lovely stars!”

Her next song made Rae frown.

“Is she just lip-syncing?”

Normally Cara sang every song, but Abebi shrugged.

“She’s phoning it in. Don’t worry; they love it. She needs to head inside and rest, anyways. We’re only doing a few songs, but the banquet is going to be big. We’ll probably only get groupies, but Cara has to impress. Now, let me get to her…”

“But Cara said—”

True enough, Cara finished a short two-minute song as Abebi and Rae argued. She waved, blew the audience a kiss, and, to their disappointment, walked back to her trailer.

Odd as well. She normally did crowd work as Cara put it. But she must have been saving her energy. Abebi was just about to ask Thien to go out there.

“Okay, not me. Thien chats the Wind Runner up, okay? He pretends he’s interested in her—it’s a Greg move, but it’s convincing. If she knows us and she has to…we get to talk. If not, we know something’s up, alright?”

Rae could agree with that. But they could also get Cara. The two were hurrying over to Thien when Abebi saw something and went white.

“Oh no. That bastard. That Creler-headed idiot.”

Rae looked over and saw the worst person, ever, sidle up to Ryoka. She watched from afar as Greg introduced himself to the aloof girl, put his arm around her in a hug, and she recoiled.

“Greg!”

The two nearly went ballistic. Thien, sweating, looked up as he backed away from the crowd held back by security.

“Oh fuck. Is that Greg chatting her up?”

“Someone get me a wand. I’m going to kill him. Where’s Cara?”

Abebi looked around. The [Manager] took a deep breath.

“No—[Summon Subordinate]. Greg. Get your ass over here, or I will penalize you with a Skill so hard your balls drop off!”

She pulled rank. Rae felt like it was too late. Greg must have been resisting it because the Wind Runner was already—reluctantly—walking away with him as he chatted her up, eyes appreciatively on her chest. Talk about bad impressions. Abebi was frothing at the mouth, and she might have actually blasted the young man in the back when someone spoke up.

“Geeze, Abebi! What’s with the threats? I was just talking to them! I didn’t—hey, what’s with the looks?”

Greg hurried over, worried, as Abebi, Rae, and Thien turned and goggled at him. Greg looked at them and then peered into the distance.

“Wait, is the Wind Runner going? Who’s that with—is that me?”

His jaw dropped. Rae spun with a sudden suspicion. When all the Earthers barged into the wagon that Cara had definitely, 100% gone into and had no way out aside from a tiny window everyone would have noticed her squeezing through…

There was no one inside.

——

I am going to kick this guy in the balls, Earther or not.

Sleazy was the word for Greg. But he was Ryoka’s way of meeting with Cara. She really hoped he wasn’t as stupid as he sounded—but he had asked if they wanted to talk ‘in private’—and if this was an act, it was a good one.

“Listen, I can totally get you in touch with Cara. I’m her lead guitar. Do you know what that is? But I’d love to get to know you. Are you friends with that giant dude? He’s still with the band.”

“I…am. My rooms are here. They’re warded.”

They were after the Rhisveri incident. And guarded, too. Or rather, Ryoka was. Greg smiled widely.

“Awesome. Hey—warded. Good to know, right?”

He gave her a wink, and Ryoka twitched. It probably passed for a smile. She ushered him inside and spoke to the air.

“We’ll be in private, thanks.”

Someone half-materialized, and Dame Chorisa gave Ryoka a nod. But the Thirsting Veil Knight couldn’t help but give Ryoka the most dubious look of all time.

That one? Ryoka glared at her and shut the door. She heard a voice from inside as she turned, praying that the Thirsting Veil [Knights] knew her better than this. Not because it mattered or would ruin her pretense; if anything, it would help. But Ryoka’s dignity…

“Whoa. Amazing digs! Nice bed.”

That was it. Ryoka’s patience had lasted about seven minutes on the quick walk to her rooms. It snapped. She strode after Greg with a growl in her throat.

“This had better be you acting, because if you think—”

She stormed into the room, fist clenched, and saw a young woman with brown, frazzled hair shaking her head out. She wore casual clothing—from another world. Worn jeans, a shirt that had been carefully mended and patched, and she bore a single locket with a beautiful sigil of a scythe and crossbow, a coat of arms, melded onto dark metal over her chest. Two rings flashed on one finger, and when she turned, her light blue eyes pierced Ryoka.

Cara O’Sullivan, the Singer of Terandria, waited as Ryoka came to a dead stand-still. She looked Ryoka up and down, and her voice was far more precise, trained to enunciate, and direct, without mirth or hesitation.

“That’s better.”

There she was. Ryoka Griffin had, for an instant, a familiar feeling. The sense of walking into a cave, bleeding and dying, only to find a strange old man who turned out to be a Dragon. Or walking through a forest to meet three strangers sitting around a sword.

Looking up to see the Winter Sprites. You were expecting something else, or nothing at all, and there they were.

The difference was, it was a mortal who created the feeling. And this time—it was mutual.

The Singer of Terandria looked Ryoka up and down as the Wind Runner hesitated. She shifted her weight onto her back leg, the tips of her fingers in her pockets, thumbs hooked into her belt.

Casual.

Careful.

The wind rustled around the small room, blowing indoors, and Cara’s eyes flickered. Singer and Runner stood there in dead silence as Ryoka hesitated.

But only for a moment.

“That is an amazing Skill. Cara O’Sullivan?”

“That’s me.”

A hand with three fingers rose, and Ryoka extended it. Cara blinked down at the hand.

She didn’t take it. She twitched and folded her arms. Ryoka lowered her hand as Cara smiled faintly. With a reservoir of reserve.

“Pleased. Well and truly. I know I’ve sprung this on you, but I didn’t think we were going to get another chance, and you didn’t seek me out earlier.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I was considering my move—”

“I get that. And in light of that, can I ask the most pressing question? We can get to the niceties and history later. But I do have to know—are we secure? I have Tier 5 obfuscation spells. But if we’re not, we need to be done or I need to know that.”

She spoke rapidly, Ryoka noticed. To Ryoka, it was analogous to Jericha or someone used to giving orders. But the confidence in leading the conversation? That was her. The question was fair too. The problem was…

“I think we’re secure.”

The Singer’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s hopefully a yes or a no. Can we be secure?”

“Um.”

Against Lucifen magic or Rhisveri’s abilities? I have to believe that Rhisveri is careful around me. Plus there was the incident with the [Knights]. The Lucifen are sticklers for rules, and they tend to regard me as a guest. So the odds are low…

Ryoka hesitated too long before replying. Cara looked to a window and frowned outside.

“We could go to my caravan. It’s theoretically more secure. Or if there’s anywhere you can personally go…”

The Courier halted her with a hand.

“No. Sorry, that wouldn’t work. If we are watched or someone suspects, that would really tip them off. And if they want to listen in—we can’t stop them. But I don’t think they are. So we’re probably safe, but I want to be honest. It’s more like—if we’re not safe, we’re never safe. It’s not about the quality of your spells. It doesn’t matter.”

Cara O’Sullivan stopped, mid-step, which took a considerable amount of physical coordination, and just turned her head to Ryoka. The Wind Runner’s heart sank at the sheer, exasperated look she got. It was somewhat familiar.

“…Okay. Let’s go with that. I didn’t like that answer, but if there’s nothing that can be done, then we’re on to question two.”

“I—ah—okay?”

Cara seemed used to this. She was the fourth Earther or group of Earthers that Ryoka had ever met in person. Was that right? Erin, Laken, the Magnolia group…she was on the scrying orb, and Ryoka had speculated with Erin and the others for so long about her. Now she was here, she was completely changed from the bright Singer.

Frankly, without makeup and all the glamor, she was virtually a different person. Ryoka saw the bones of the Singer in Cara—someone had clearly taught her how to sing, and she was coordinated. But the woman was simultaneously direct and irritable. Or maybe that was just the classic Ryoka charm at play.

“Question two: are you in danger? Do you need help?”

What was it with the hard questions? Ryoka knew it was meant to be more direct, so she hesitated and shook her head.

“No. Not immediately. I have a…situation, but I’m resolving it. Did you come here to meet me? Or…?”

The Singer’s eyes narrowed fractionally as she looked Ryoka up and down again. She exhaled, slowly, and replied.

“Blackmage told me you ended up here. And I’ve known who you are since I saw you on the scrying orb. I wouldn’t come to Ailendamus for that. You did see my music video, didn’t you? You’re half the reason I arrived here.”

“Oh. I did see the video. You were not a fan of necromancers, Ailendamus—and you hinted that Calanfer and half-Elves were good allies?”

Cara’s lips smiled a bit sardonically.

“Glad you got the message. It pulled in about eleven people. That’s worth a budget of about fifty-six thousand gold coins, isn’t it?”

“Fifty-six thousand…?”

“Most of it went into spells or reserving Wistram’s time. Yes, Ailendamus is filled with shite. I don’t think I need to tell you that? I was under the impression you were a prisoner.”

‘Shite’ was pronounced like someone from the United Kingdom. Well, Cara’s name was a huge tip-off to her origins. Wasn’t it the name of a famous singer, though? Ryoka saw Cara looking expectantly at her and tried to explain. But the Immortals…

There was a problem both women were clearly facing. Which was that this sudden meeting was inevitable, desired by both parties—and neither one was willing to lay their cards down.

Ryoka because she couldn’t. Some things like Rhisveri’s ‘trust’ would probably end up in her actual murder if she let it slip, and she didn’t put it past the Wyrm to have a trigger-spell like the one Az’kerash had placed on her. For that matter—no Necromancer talk? What could she say?

Cara seemed to have a similar set of reservations, but with a different twist. Ryoka saw her frowning as she tried to explain.

“You know Aaron? Blackmage? I…yes, I was a prisoner. But I sorted it out.”

“You sorted it out. One second, to my knowledge, you were in House Veltras. I sent you a [Message] spell. The next, you were in Ailendamus. That’s not just a Tier 5 spell—that’s the kind of magic that should be myth and legend. Can you tell me what happened?”

“It’s…complicated. How do you know Aaron, again?”

Cara’s eyes narrowed further.

“I talked with him. He’s in communication with some other Earthers.”

“Really? Who? Where are they?”

At this point, the Singer of Terandria looked around Ryoka’s fairly expansive bedroom and began to walk about. She passed by the closet that used to hold a teleportation spell from Visophecin and then turned to Ryoka.

“I’ll tell you everything that’s safe. Right now, what I feel like I can say is this: I’m the Singer of Terandria, yes. My band and I tour the continent—well, we’ve done mostly the lower half—earning money, getting famous, and acting as a beacon for people from Earth. Anyone who we find, who’s trustworthy and not being followed, we take in. They go to a place called Safety. It’s our base. My band and I—we’re in the limelight. And we have a target on our backs from at least a few groups. I, personally, decided to take us here when I heard you appeared out of nowhere. And to try and end this fucking stupid war with the Dawn Concordat.”

It was everything Ryoka could have guessed, but hearing it made it sound—more impressive. Safety? There was a place? And—end the war?

Ryoka almost smiled, but Cara went on, staring her in the eyes.

“I’m a high-level [Singer]. [Popstar] is my exact class, but don’t let it fool you. It’s a good one. I’m also a [Thespian].”

“Wh—really? That’s so interesting. Are you a fan of…”

Cara lifted a hand, and Ryoka broke off. She sensed Cara’s deep distrust now.

“I’m willing to try and break you out if you’re in danger, Ryoka. Or find a way to get you released if that’s the issue. But I need to know—who spirited you away? How did that happen? What do I need to know here? At the very least, why do you claim that a Tier 5 spell wouldn’t keep us secure? Do you know how powerful a Tier 5 spell is? You’re a Courier. Is someone capable of breaking that?”

The questions were pointed, direct—and all of them tangled with the exact things that Ryoka couldn’t say. The Wind Runner bit her tongue hard as she fumbled for the most economical answer that contained helpful truth.

“I can’t tell you what my situation is, Cara. I’m glad to meet you. I’ve met…others. From Earth, but we don’t have that kind of organization. I can’t speak about my situation, but it’s a noble thing you’re trying to do. Maybe fruitless. But I’d love to help. I agree the war’s foolish! But can we just say that there’s some high-level people who exist around here? That’s what I’m tangled up in.”

She thought that was the easiest and fairest way to explain it. Just think of the Illuminati. If Cara did—she’d get it. The Singer said nothing, face unreadable, as Ryoka waited. She could feel the faint prick of sweat and spoke after an uncomfortable silence.

“I—uh—how did you get here? Where are you from?”

Instead of replying to that, Cara sighed.

“Okay. This has been really unpleasant.”

Ryoka’s heart sank. The Singer looked at her, frustrated, and there was a snap in her tone.

“I’m here. I came into what I regard as hostile territory where I could possibly be executed because I thought you needed my help. I understand there’s a situation.”

“There is. I wish I could say, but—”

Cara spread her arms.

“There’s something. I get that. However, I’m here. You see me, I see you. We are from the same world. Earth.”

She said it, and Ryoka almost looked around to see if there was a reaction, but Cara was glaring at her.

“Everything’s on the table here, Ryoka. If we’re not on the same side, that’s how it is. But you’re giving me mysterious answers rather than anything concrete. So either I have an invisible [Super Assassin] breathing down my shoulder—”

She flicked a hand as if to catch someone out.

“—or you don’t trust me or we really aren’t on the same side. And that’s my nightmare, because someone is going to sell us all out. And when they do, I need to know I can trust anyone I’m up front with. I didn’t come here to dance about. Let’s try this again tomorrow. You can think about what you’re willing to be honest about.”

With that, she began to stalk for the door. The Wind Runner felt…

Well, she felt it was unfair because Cara was right and wrong. Right because Ryoka had given her spit for two questions about listening spells and how she’d got here. Wrong because those were the questions that Ryoka could not, under any circumstances, answer.

Oh, and also because Ryoka felt like Cara was speaking down to her. A previous Ryoka might have tried to kick her in the back and gotten a frying pan to the head.

This Ryoka? She just sighed as Cara stormed away.

——

The Singer of Terandria ate, breathed, and manifested stress. If there were an [Aura of Stress]—and there probably was—she was close to learning it.

The Wind Runner might be the first traitor to Earth—or at least, someone who had allegiances to powers on this world—that she’d met. And if it were Ailendamus, she was dead.

At the very least, she was a ball of mysteries wrapped in aggravating string, and so Cara walked, to calm down, take stock, and try this again.

It probably should have been Abebi here, anyways. She was reasonable and personable. But she didn’t know what Ailendamus was capable of. Cara had told her, but she hadn’t been there.

Every second Cara walked in this gigantic, ludicrously opulent palace, she felt like she was walking amid the corpses of people she knew. And she laid it all at Ailendamus’ feet.

Afiele and Ovela. Sins of the Kingdom of Glass and Glory.

So she left. Or tried to. Because as Cara heard a sigh, the Singer also heard a faint sound of something being unclipped, and an alien noise. Was it…tshing? As onomatopoeias went, it was notable because that was not the rasp of a blade in a sheath. It was entirely foreign.

The Singer swung around, suddenly terribly afraid. Was this it? Was it all a tr—

But the sword wasn’t aimed at her. And was it even a sword? The Singer of Terandria stopped, dead still, because while she had seen it from afar on the scrying orb, it had been tiny and looked like the Kaalblades, or a version of them, retailing now from the House of El at reasonable prices, shipping not included. And she had bought the line about it being an artifact.

Up close? There was no way she could see the glowing, flat blade of projected light extruding from the strange handle, the neon-bright glow that lit up the Wind Runner’s face, the Windsword as some called it, or as Ryoka knew it, the Faeblade…as anything other than something out of science fiction.

Ryoka Griffin met Cara’s eyes as the Singer stopped, and all her assumptions about who Ryoka could possibly be or her ulterior motives…floated out of her skull. Ryoka Griffin slightly smiled.

“I really want to say, ‘there are more things in this world than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Cara’. But I think that’s sort of lame.”

Cara met Ryoka’s gaze as the magic…no, technological sword winked out with the squeeze of a hand. She walked back over and took an abrupt seat in a chair.

“Okay. I’m clearly not ready for this stage. Your turn.”

——

In all her years of existing, Ryoka Griffin had never met someone who was more naturally suspicious or cynical than her.

It was refreshing and scary that someone like that was out there. But her name was Cara…or was it?

“You do know we can be tracked via scrying spells? Sorry, throwing that out there.”

“Yep. But scrying spells don’t, uh, account for kanji or non-English lettering. It helps me out a bit.”

“Interesting.”

Cara was drinking some tea. Ryoka hadn’t been about to make it, but the Singer had some for her throat, mixed with honey. It was still less sugary than how Magnolia took it, so Ryoka had a cup.

She was reminded of the complicated talk she’d had with Magnolia Reinhart, but this was different. For one thing, the biggest issue between them of Earth wasn’t a problem. It was the rest that they were negotiating about. Cara looked up after a second.

The Faeblade’s hilt sat on the table in front of them. She kept eying it but didn’t move to touch it. Still, it had convinced her that Ryoka was willing to talk, so she was far less visibly wary as she nodded at Ryoka.

“Let’s both agree there are things we can’t talk about. Safety, for instance. No one but me and a few others know where it is. Even people we take to it don’t know exactly where. That’s for our sake and theirs. They’re not prisoners; they can go. But I won’t have them lead people to our doorstep. Because there are people hunting us. Let’s get into that. Everything you and I think we can share, that any side, anyone from Earth needs to know—we put on the table, agreed?”

“Absolutely.”

Ryoka smiled a bit weakly, but Cara didn’t. She glanced at the hilt of the alien sword.

“I, uh…huh. Sorry. My head is spinning. I can go first. I think you’ve got the more interesting story, and believe me, I didn’t think it was possible.”

Was there a hint of smugness there in Ryoka? No, no…just satisfaction. Just a smidge. Cara looked at Ryoka and then launched into it.

“From the top—I’m Cara. That’s not my real name, but I am from Ireland. Swear to it. I came here from Earth in the year of 2018, from Galway. One second I was coming out of a theatre and crossing the street—the next I was in Noelictus.”

“Noelictus? Is that, uh…”

“It’s a nation to the west. Noelictus, the Kingdom of Shade. They have lots of undead. Lots of farming…I was there throughout the fall and into winter. When I left, I started up as the Singer of Terandria. Small-time at first, but I used pop songs and my levels to make a name for myself. The rest you can guess—I built up my reputation and tried to find other Earthers and established Safety.”

Ryoka blinked.

“Wait, hold on. Sorry—”

Firstly, it was amazing that she had created a song-empire or the start of one from just landing in…an undead kingdom. Or a kingdom with undead, unlike Khelt, Ryoka supposed. However, what threw her from the start was…

Cara obligingly halted and saw Ryoka frowning.

“I’m from Earth. Obviously, sorry. America, Ohio. I was on a jog. But I came from Earth in 2016, and I arrived just before fall too. Last year, I mean.”

The Singer’s eyes instantly narrowed.

“That’s…I won’t say impossible. It leads me into another point. Time’s different. I met someone from 2017 who came after me—or so close that our timelines mixed. And recently? Guess what year it is on Earth—at least from people arriving?”

Ryoka had a terrible feeling in her stomach.

“2025?”

“…2021.”

“Oh. Well that’s—five years for one?”

Cara saw that Ryoka wasn’t even that blown away. Shocked, but not stunned. Ryoka had some kind of context for this. Cara just shook her head.

“Something’s different. The people from Earth are arriving later.”

“Could they be lying? Sorry, just throwing it out there. I met people from 2017, but Erin—someone from Earth—and I just assumed that made sense time-wise.”

Cara shook her head again.

“That was my first instinct too. But guess what they had?”

Ryoka snapped her fingers.

“Phones.”

“And laptops, tablets if we’re lucky. They have new songs on them. Even new movies. New tech and updates…I’ve seen it. Our world is moving faster than this one. Or…something’s up.”

Cara’s fingers tightened until they were white on her mug. Ryoka Griffin just sat there.

“Yeah. That checks out.”

The [Singer]’s head snapped up, but Ryoka gave her a weary smile.

“We’ll get to it. I swear. What’s next?”

Cara rubbed at her hair.

“…It takes all day sometimes to convince people of that. When they’re not crying and asking if this is a dream. You know—well, you know we were connected via Blackmage? Some phone call. I didn’t get it. It would have really helped, but I think I came after. The first wave, I assume you lot are, at least knew there were more people. But a lot have vanished or been collected up, and the next wave has no idea save for me and other hints that there are Earthers out there. It doesn’t help that some right bastard told everyone this was a simulation; people are still saying if we die, we wake up.”

Ryoka burned bright red, and the Singer gave her a pointed look.

“No one’s going to try that. But I do know about you from Blackmage. Aaron Vanwell. He’s at Wistram, you know?”

“I—I know. He got in contact with you?”

Cara shrugged.

“When I became the [Singer], yeah. I was on his radar. He helped me set up the song crystal stuff, but I haven’t been able to trust him. He’s in Wistram’s grip, and they’ve tried to grab me before.”

“Shit.”

“Yep. Hence my bodyguards. But he seems like he’s trying to be helpful. When he’s not a complete idiot.”

“I…sympathize with that. Do you know other groups?”

Cara began counting on her fingers.

“Absolutely. And this is top-priority information: do not trust Wistram. Watch out for Roshal, just in general, but Aaron thinks some of them are grabbing us. And…there’s a group of Earthers on Rhir. A big one. You know about that?”

Ryoka remembered the American-group. She nodded, slowly.

“Yeah. So they’re well-known? Isn’t a world power, the Blighted Kingdom…”

“Fully aware of them. Wistram and the Blighted Kingdom haven’t said as much, but I’m fairly certain both know the others have Earthers. They have a ‘gentleman’s agreement’ not to shout out what they’re doing, but they’re not on the same side.”

Cara’s lips twisted, and Ryoka’s heart sank. The Singer watched Ryoka’s face appreciatively.

“I’m glad you understand why that’s such a huge problem. By the way, regard all three groups as dangerous, if not hostile. I can’t verify Rhir; I’m not sending anyone to be killed by whatever’s there. But I sent a close friend I trusted to Wistram, and she sent me letters proving she’s alive. She never came back, though, and they tell me she likes it too much to leave. Which I have a hard time believing since she swore she’d come back.”

Ryoka wondered if there were a tea for ulcers, because she might be developing them.

“I knew Wistram was getting people from Earth. They sent a [Mage] to grab some of the ones I knew. Twice, actually.”

“Damn. Is that confidential? Where they are?”

Again, Ryoka hesitated, and Cara lifted a hand.

“You don’t need specifics. I get it. Just…tell them that the Singer will help them if they want to come to me. There’s Safety. Half-Elves might be trustworthy…some of them know me. Not as a species, but you’d be surprised how they know each other. If you mention Piloriet the Musician…they might help.”

Piloriet the Musician? Ryoka decided to remember that. The Wind Runner just nodded.

“In that case—Liscor is a safe place. And so is…the Silverfang tribe. Gnolls. Mention my name, and they might help. At the very least, I can call in favors.”

Cara didn’t write that down, but she too committed it to memory, murmuring the names. Ryoka decided Pallass, Grimalkin, Magnolia Reinhart…less than trustworthy.

“How about House Veltras?”

“I…they don’t know me, but yes. Good point. I think they’d help if someone mentioned me. Oh, and Riverfarm. Riverfarm is…safe.”

Cara’s eyes flickered. They were specific places that Ryoka was mentioning, and that wasn’t nearly as secure as Safety.

“Are the other Earthers safe?”

“Safe. Ish.”

Cara sighed, and Ryoka elaborated slowly. She felt a growing pit in her stomach, but she said it. As naturally as she could.

“We had a safe place. Someone—an Earther had an inn. The Wandering Inn. But she’s dead or…her name was Erin Solstice. She might come back.”

Cara stared at Ryoka, and the Wind Runner told her a story. What did the Singer see when she saw Ryoka Griffin?

At first, probably, an aggravatingly vague person. Suspicious, shifty. Literally barefoot, stammering. An oddball.

Then perhaps a mystery. Someone who had seen something.

Lastly, as Ryoka told Cara about her meeting with Erin and her life, someone filled with regrets. Hands clasped, shaking slightly, voice breaking.

“I wasn’t there.”

“Cryogenics? They killed her. They just…”

Cara had to stand up. She turned away from Ryoka. Hiding her face. When she looked back, the Wind Runner saw something behind the [Thespian]’s own facade.

She had seen something too. But before they came to that, Cara nodded at the Faeblade.

“So you were a Runner who did…incredible things. Three death deliveries. And you kept doing it. You outran a Goblin Lord’s army.”

She gave Ryoka a mystified look, and the Wind Runner had to clarify.

“With help. That’s part of how I got this. There’s something else that I think I can share. Safety matters. Knowing who our enemies are matters. But there is a mystery to why we came here. And I think there’s one real threat, and one clue.”

Now she was calmer, Ryoka spoke more clearly. Cara raised her brows, and Ryoka laid out the best and only explanation she had. Something that Cara—everyone who could be trusted—needed to know.

Was it a risk? Absolutely. But if she could have talked to Erin after the Summer Solstice…Ryoka would have told her it all like this.

“Cara, there are more worlds than just this one and ours. I’ve seen them. There are the lands of the fae. Avalon. Perhaps they’re the center, but I suspect they’re just one of many gateways. There are other realities, and even other Earths out there. Perhaps it’s as many worlds as there are stories. All I know is that they exist—but the gateways from this world and Earth are few. But that was how we came here. Someone opened a door, and it sounds like it’s still open. And I think I know who.”

Cara lifted one hand as Ryoka looked at her, hands clasped together.

“Wait. I know it’s a mistake to say this—but are you being serious? Avalon? We’ve jumped from fantasy to myth. I’m exceptionally suspicious, but you must admit that’s hard to say with no basis.”

For reply, Ryoka just looked at Cara. She had no object of the fae beyond Nama’s wraps, and she didn’t think those would be that impressive. But the green eyes of the Wind Runner fixed on Cara, and the Singer turned.

The wind blew. For a second, across the trees and gardens outside, the wind kicked into a gale. But that was something every [Mage] could do. The Singer glanced dismissively outside. It was wind magic. Maybe not with Skills or a class, but…

She hesitated. And stared out the window and into the air. For a second, she saw a swirl of autumn leaves, the first to fall, fly upwards. And the yellow and red and orange leaves formed a giant, smiling face in the air. Just two dots of leaves and simple lips.

It…winked at her and floated apart. When she turned back, Ryoka had a bag open. And what spilled from it were stones, currency the likes of which Cara had never seen. Ryoka Griffin held up the very essence of magic, old runic stones. Obol of the Faerie King in one hand. With the other, she picked up the Faeblade and held it out to Cara.

“An alien soldier gave this to me. This is coin of the Faerie King. I’ll let you have a coin or two; you might be able to learn magic from it. Real magic. The kind that Skills and spells have nothing on.”

She offered both to Cara, and the Singer reached out for both—and jerked her hands back.

She did not touch Ryoka. The Wind Runner noticed. And she had…a sudden suspicion.

“The Summer Solstice.”

Cara wiped her hands on her legs; they were a bit sweaty. She looked at Ryoka.

“I felt the Summer Solstice was odd. And that text message made me suspect Aaron or someone was…off. But did something happen to you during the Winter Solstice?”

Ryoka felt a chill race up her arms and back. Cara was sweating now, despite the gust of wind in the room. The Singer hesitated.

“Did you meet anyone? Anyone off?”

It was just a guess. The Wind Runner looked at Cara.

“Which three did you meet?”

Cara’s face turned pale. She hesitated, searching for words. Names she didn’t have.

Names better left unsaid. Now Ryoka knew.

Erin had met them too. Had Laken? She had suspicions, but Cara just whispered.

“I met three. Yes. A man who looked like he was dancing. Three women in one. And a younger woman with a bow. A warrior. They wanted to make me a deal. I refused to take their hand. I would have rather died there. I think they did something terrible.”

Ryoka knew all three. And if Cara had taken each one’s hand…Ryoka nodded to her.

“Good. Never touch them. They’re…this is the heart of what’s happened to us, Cara. You may not believe it. But I’ve seen enough to believe. We are up against dead things. Dead ideas. But they won’t stay dead. And I think they want to be believed in. They want bodies. Hosts. They want to be worshiped. The gods are dead. But you understand—they have to stay that way. Even talking about them, much less their names, is dangerous. They’re memetic. Do you know what I mean?”

Tamaroth. She wished she didn’t know that name. A memetic threat—not memes, but something that grew more dangerous the more you knew. The worst kind of foe.

Ryoka Griffin was prepared for some kind of exclamation or more disbelief. After all, this was bigger than Avalon being real, arguably. So why did Cara turn dead white? Why did she look like she was about to vomit? Her lips opened a fraction. She gazed at Ryoka with frank…then she whispered.

“You didn’t see the text? I thought you had a phone.”

Ryoka felt a sudden pit in her stomach. Laken had told her he’d gotten…but she had assumed it was limited. Had everyone…?

“Mine was stolen. What text?”

No answer.

“Cara? What text?”

Slowly, the Singer produced her phone and turned it on. It was listed under a simple number. Somehow, he had gotten it working. It was still there in her text log. Ryoka looked at it, covered her mouth—and rushed to the bathroom to throw up.

Cara deleted the message. She had saved it. Now, she deleted it and turned to Ryoka when the Wind Runner finished retching.

“Aaron sent that to everyone.”

“He’s…made a deal. He has to. Or he’s compromised.”

What did that mean? Neither one wanted to speculate. But Ryoka felt sick.

That explained why Oberon had failed to close the rift. Cara? She just looked grim.

“Great. I thought the worst we were up against were fools and monsters and bastards. So they’re behind it all?”

“I would bet the rest of my fingers.”

Ryoka raised her right hand, and Cara shuddered. She looked away.

“I can’t process this. I won’t even try. But you’ve convinced me. Let’s move on. If we’re talking about enemies, I have only two left. Ailendamus might not be trying to do…something all-encompassing. It’s just a warmongering nation with all that entails. I personally witnessed two attempts to destroy parts of Noelictus. They sent a [Necromancer] into the Kingdom of Shade to murder innocent people, and he killed hundreds. He raised an army of the dead. Ailendamus paid him to do it.”

Ryoka felt her mortal fear turn different in her stomach. She stuttered.

“You—you’re sure?”

Cara looked at her and spread her hands.

“I have no proof. But I personally witnessed it. All the evidence pointed to him being a sponsored assassin. And after that—one of Ailendamus’ war leaders invaded. Or tried to. He attacked Ovela. Both times I helped. I made the situation worse the first time. I had no idea what I did. The second…”

She closed her eyes.

“Ailendamus failed, but I was involved. It seemed like they didn’t notice me; I wasn’t the Singer of Terandria then. But I came here because I know someone in the Dawn Concordat. I want to stop this war. I hope you can help.”

Ailendamus hired a [Necromancer]? Ryoka wanted to believe it wasn’t true, but she could just imagine Visophecin lifting an eyebrow and asking what was wrong with it. Or Rhisveri snorting and…

“Yes. I’ll do that. I…I offended the powers that be, here. I can’t tell you, again. That’s dangerous. But I’ll help. Absolutely. I just don’t know if we can do anything.”

“We have to try.”

Cara looked resolved. She almost stood up, but one last thing reminded her of things left unsaid.

“We can talk about the rest later. The band will want to gossip about Earth. You won’t believe what’s happening. Our disappearances have been noted. But one more thing. On the topic of monsters…there’s little chance you’ll ever meet her. But if you ever should see a tall woman with a huge hat and strange eyes. Rings in her eyes. Her name is…I shouldn’t say it out loud.”

It was always connected. Ryoka’s head rose. Cara was hesitating, so Ryoka spoke.

“Belavierr the Stitch Witch.”

Cara nearly jumped out the window. She spun.

“You met her too? Is there anyone you haven’t met?”

She looked almost exasperated. Ryoka grinned weakly.

“I, uh—encountered her. Briefly. But she wasn’t after me. If she were—I’d be dead. She’s done other things that mean I have a grudge with her. Not that I think she’d notice.”

Mrsha. There would be a reckoning, but Ryoka doubted even the Faeblade would do much good. What about the other functions? Still doubtful.

Cara rubbed at her face, cheeks too-pale.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? For what?”

The Singer of Terandria turned to Ryoka, and her smile was mirthless.

“I think I was the one who unleashed her. I ran into her, and she was…well. Making a kind of lair. I barely escaped, but I ruined her plans, and she evaded the Hunter’s Guild who went after her. You know how dangerous she is?”

Ryoka nodded. And she looked at Cara with newfound respect. Singer was one thing. But to offend the Spider of Terandria and survive?

That was the last thing that made the two like each other. Something about pissing off powerful immortals, despite their differences. Cara looked at Ryoka.

“I cannot believe you have no levels.”

“I can’t believe you’re a [Popstar]. And a [Thespian]. What’s your level?”

Cara gave Ryoka a polite smile.

“High. It’s thanks to both classes I can even walk around in disguise. Did you like my cover identity? That’s Greg—and he behaves pretty much like that. I played him up a bit.”

“…Can I not meet him?”

The Singer laughed.

“[Alter Ego: Greg]. The worst Skill I have ever used, incidentally. It does give me some insight into his mind. I just wish I could tell whether it’s his nature or…him not having a fecking brain. But I can certainly appreciate the female body while I’m in his shoes.”

Ryoka just shook her head.

“And here I thought the worst gift I ever got was an alien tech-blade that breaks if you sneeze on it with magic.”

“It does that? Could I try to…?”

Everyone wanted to swing a lightsaber around just once. Of course, you couldn’t activate it.

Not unless you knew how to re-tune it. Which Ryoka did, or rather, added Cara as a registered user. Which she now knew how to do.

Instruction manuals were very…interesting. Someone competent had written that one up. Even evolved apes could figure this one out. Honestly? Probably even apes.

Ryoka danced around Cara, not afraid for herself, but trying to let Cara know how sharp those edges were. The Singer gave her an amused look.

“Who’ve you met who’d slice their hand off like an idiot?”

“You have no idea. And please—remember, the gods are dead. I don’t know who you trust, but it’s a kind of thing where the less people know, the better. And again—I’ll absolutely help you as much as possible, but we need to pretend we don’t know each other. We should come up with a cover story. Are you leaving as Greg? When do I meet you tomorrow? We should come up with a plan—”

Her stomach began to tie a Gordian knot now that the initial contact had been made. Now, Ryoka was worried for Cara’s group. If she had been against Ailendamus…and now she knew about the dead gods, what did they do? Did they keep in contact?

Cara’s amused look turned to a quick analysis as Ryoka scrubbed her fingers through her hair. She turned, lowering the Faeblade as she turned it off.

“Ryoka, inhale and exhale for me.”

“What?”

“Breathe. Slowly. We’ll work it out. We can improvise. Yes, I’ll keep my cover. I’m worried too, but breathe. Come to that—you’ve nearly died how many times?”

“Uh…I don’t know. Lots.”

Ryoka saw Cara shake her head slightly.

“This is just a…question. Don’t be offended, but did you by any chance have any medication you were taking? I’m worried I’ll meet someone who needs something we can’t provide. And have you ever gone to a [Healer] and discussed nearly dying all those times?”

Ryoka instantly grew defensive.

“What? No. I had some prescriptions. Why?”

Cara eyed her.

“So you haven’t talked about nearly dying or checked on your health for…a year? Which is longer than our years?”

“N—that’s not a priority.”

The [Singer] raised both eyebrows as Ryoka realized how that sounded.

“So you don’t have any regular [Healer], friends, or therapists that help you after you nearly die of being shot through the back or getting your fingers torn off.”

“I mean…I talk about it. But I’ve been busy. I was in House Veltras after that run, and I didn’t get a chance to go back to the inn before Erin…”

Cara lowered the Faeblade. She put it down and turned to Ryoka with a bright, false smile. Ryoka backed up too late. Cara gave her a very gentle hug with one arm.

“I’m glad you didn’t let me storm off, Ryoka. I should tell you now, I have a terrible temper. And you are the most aggravating girl I’ve met. You breathe drama, and you have too many problems.”

Ryoka frowned, but Cara just laughed.

“You remind me of my best friend from Earth. We might get along after all.”

The Wind Runner was affronted, in the midst of denying it, and trying to edge out of physical contact. Then her brows crossed.

“Oh no. No, no, no…I’m not that friend, am I?”

The Singer of Terandria just gave her a look that made Ryoka want to hop out the window.

——

They had more to say. But they both agreed that Cara needed to prepare for her performances and spread word. Besides, they could talk about Earth with Cara’s band, so they resolved to do that.

Cara was still in a bit of shock—and just denial. She couldn’t encompass all of what Ryoka had told her. She had to go back to other planets.

“So an alien space-soldier gave it to you. What did they look like?”

“Uh…orange. Weird number of fingers. Fairly humanoid, actually. But they weren’t all the same. And there was this trick with perception. They had amazing battle armor that did squat against magic. This was a gift. Honestly, I’m glad it wasn’t a gun or spaceship. But I could have used both. It probably wouldn’t have helped, and there’s proliferation of tech to worry about.”

“Proliferation of…you’re worried about that?”

Ryoka frowned.

“You’re not?”

Cara gave Ryoka a cynical smile.

“It’ll happen. We can’t stop everyone. That’s where I landed.”

They had the same thoughts, but they landed on different points. Cara not worrying about that made Ryoka frankly incredulous and a bit jealous. But Cara frowned at Ryoka’s sword.

“Is there any chance of hitching a ride to space? I assume they’re somewhat friendly and we can talk to them? Or going to…another world? Home?”

She didn’t say it with the same longing as some, but Ryoka realized she had to explain about the closed gateways. Cara cursed.

“Wonderful. So it’s a one-way problem. And we’re closed off from the other places because…of them? How many are there?”

“Six. And countless weak ones. But six matter. As for why we’re closed off, that’s pretty much it.”

The Singer closed her eyes.

“So we have the interdimensional equivalent of a nuclear arsenal in this world?”

Ryoka hesitated.

“Maybe. But if it is, it’s aimed at us. Think of it more like a plague and no one wants to be infected. Or…it’s Chernobyl. And the fallout is still coming down.”

The Singer of Terandria turned to the Wind Runner.

“You have a fantastic way with words. Anything else?”

She had her hand on the doorknob when Ryoka snapped her fingers.

“Oh yeah. Another dead thing is under Rhir. So stay away.”

Cara turned back. Ryoka turned into a beet as she raised her hands.

“Sorry. Forgot.”

The Singer just rubbed at her brows.

“Okay. I can’t…we’ll take it under advisement. Let’s just go. Now—if I put my hand on your backside in the next few minutes—”

“I deck you?”

“Please. Just no permanent damage.”

Greg and Ryoka stepped into the hallway, and he was far less pleasant company. Still, there was something of Cara in Greg, but it was tempered by…Greg.

He was not a Kevin. He might not even have been a Leon, frankly. Ryoka assumed there was some depth to his character, but Cara chose to play a simple impression of a young man who had one goal in life represented by many, many women.

Was it slightly unfair? Probably. Was it convincing? Ryoka sighed. Absolutely.

The two did realize something was up as they passed through corridor after corridor of the palace, though. The Singer’s arrival in Ailendamus was the talk of the palace, but the banquet was also a celebration.

“Excuse me, Greg. Chorisa. What’s up?”

The Thirsting Veil Knight appeared, and ‘Greg’ nearly leapt into a wall with an oath. Greg-Cara gave Ryoka a look that said she was beginning to understand Ryoka’s paranoias as the [Knight] nodded to Ryoka.

“I believe it’s the announcement from the front. The banquet is being rededicated. The Singer of Terandria is the star, but His Majesty has announced a celebration.”

“For…Archmage Eldavin wading into the war?”

That was the only thing Ryoka could think of, and it didn’t fit. Chorisa’s lips pursed.

“No. You will hear this later. No doubt the other nations will dispute the rumor, but a great battle has been won at the front. The Dawn Concordat is in full retreat, and we are poised to take Krawlnmak’s Pass. Our advance has reached one of Kaliv’s southern border-fortresses.”

Ryoka’s eyes went wide with shock. Cara-Greg whirled.

“What? I thought they were like, way away from there! Nice. Invisible [Knights]. My name’s Greg. I’m a [Guitarist] at—”

Chorisa ignored him. She smiled at Ryoka, not bothering to disguise her patriotic pride.

“News will spread, but no one will believe it. A Great General has taken to the front, the first in this entire war. Great General of Ages, Lady Dionamella, has broken the Dawn Concordat’s army, and she will not cease until Calanfer is taken.”

A Great General? Ryoka had met a Great Knight of Ailendamus, but she felt a sudden chill at that name.

“What’s…why would no one realize what’s happening until then?”

Chorisa hesitated, perhaps not knowing the entire reason herself, but a smug voice behind Ryoka spoke up. A tall figure with a goatee that made Cara-Greg back up a step swept past them, pausing long enough to deliver the news himself.

Duke Rhisveri frowned vaguely at the young man, but he paid as little attention to the Humans as he could. But he did stop to tell the Wind Runner why. His eyes were filled with satisfaction, as was his voice, as he headed off to a quick meeting with the real leaders of Ailendamus.

“That would be because she is my Great General. Not some half-wit fielded by lesser nations. I instructed her myself. She is a master of time magic.”

He enjoyed the looks on the other’s faces, then walked on, chuckling to himself.

“Competency. That should shut those whining flesh-blobs up who talk about strategic retreats. Competency doesn’t lose to begin with.”

Ryoka Griffin stood, poleaxed and possibly also gutted and stabbed as Cara whispered through Greg’s lips. Just one name. Her friend, whose very nation and fate lay at stake in this war. Countless people, but Ryoka knew one [Princess] who belonged to the Dawn Concordat.

So did Cara. The Singer’s head turned south, as if she could see the 4th Princess of Calanfer.

“Seraphel.”

——

Seraphel du Marquin stood on the battlements of Aielef’s fortress, never meant to truly be besieged. And never meant to be surrounded with her and two other [Princesses] inside.

But time…rolled across the valley and the pass as fleeing [Soldiers] ran past the fortress and others headed for the gates.

They were already under attack. Ailendamus’ forces were in hot pursuit, and lance-arrows, regular arrows, spells, and riders were harrying the panicked retreat.

It should not look like this. The Dawn Concordat would have rallied an army in the middle of a defeat, rescued their stragglers, and tried to rebuff this huge force’s advance before it could get this far.

However…Seraphel looked up at unchanging clouds. The ground below had shifted when the wave of time rolled over it. This entire battle, indeed, their siege had begun as someone had sped up time in a huge radius, letting them advance with a speed that defied comprehension.

A sneak attack worked if you had all the time in the world. She saw one of the Thronebearers race over to her as [Archers] tried to rescue as many [Soldiers] as possible. Some were being told to run on.

“We cannot house you all! Retreat to Calanfer! Go, go!”

The bulk of the defeated army raced onwards. Princess Aielef herself was arguing with the [Fortress Keeper], the commander, demanding the gates not be opened.

Ailendamus was coming. Their march was like thunder, but they had also employed massive, booming drums, and Seraphel watched a line of silver and purple and green snake down the valley.

Like some massive serpent from myth. Somewhere, the [Princess] could sense an impossibly powerful aura.

She was a [Princess] of Calanfer and could sense auras like a warrior, if not judge the pure martial prowess of it. But this one encompassed the entire army and more. Like a giant beacon similar to Pheislant’s lighthouses.

A Great General.

There was no chance of the three [Princesses], Seraphel, Vernoue, and Aielef retreating. The [Soldiers] were under fire, and if the three made a break for it, the Thronebearers’ leader had assured them that Ailendamus would probably launch an all-out assault.

So they waited. It would be a siege.

“The third one in two years.”

Aielef and Vernoue turned to Seraphel. Of all of the people present, even arguably the commanders, she was the most relaxed. Hands folded, hair blowing in the wind, she watched with a kind of weary resignation.

“I truly should have abdicated my class. This is ridiculous. Noelictus and our nations…are they going to erase every nation?”

No one responded. The drawbridge had lowered enough to let the last stragglers in. They would never make it otherwise; Ailendamus’ army was moving to encircle the fort. And to advance down Krawlnmak’s Pass. They were already elongating, one huge arm spreading out. In fact, Seraphel suspected that only one force would remain here to bottle them up.

That was how many troops Ailendamus had fielded. She was turning; even with her enchanted tiara, it was dangerous to be above, and she had no desire to see more people die or distract the defenders. If they were all captured, well. They would hardly be treated poorly, she suspected.

It just…was. Seraphel only looked back when she heard a desperate argument break out.

“Ten more minutes, Your Highness! Ten more! There are nearly a thousand [Soldiers] coming—they’ll be cut to pieces against our walls if we don’t!”

“They are nearly on top of us! Close the gates!”

Aielef was shouting. But the [Fortress Keeper] was begging her to wait.

“There are [Knights] in their number, Your Highness! We need them for the walls!”

“No! Close the—”

“Hold. Hold the gates open!”

Seraphel shouted. Her head whirled back, and she sensed something, nearly lost among the gigantic aura coming their way. The hostile presence had overshadowed many—nearly a hundred smaller auras.

Seraphel’s eyes widened. She felt…the bright energy of Spring. Heat of Summer, even the refreshing strength of Fall, waxing strong here. The tenders of the gates looked up, and Aielef turned to Seraphel.

“I am the [Princess] here! By my crown as 3rd Princess, I order you to—”

“[Royal Rebuke].”

Seraphel du Marquin had leveled during the last two sieges in Noelictus, in the company of the Singer of Terandria. Her finger flashed, and Aielef shrieked and stumbled backwards, tiara flaring protectively. The others gasped, but she shut up. And Seraphel was on the walls, shouting down, heedless of the danger.

“Hold open the gates! Let them through!”

The desperate band of the Dawn Concordat’s forces—and the banners of Pheislant and the Order of Seasons raced for the keep. And Seraphel looked down as Ailendamus’ advance slowed—letting them in?—and she looked for the strange aura among them.

Among the familiar auras of seasons, she saw a plain figure in armor riding through the gates, craning his head up. Seraphel looked down and sensed two auras coming from the figure. It reminded her of home. Home, and of courage. Like Cara herself, in fact. The Goblinslayer of Izril looked up and traced the royal aura upwards to its source.

Seraphel and Rabbiteater blinked at each other—then the gates were closing, and the fortress lay under siege.

——

The fortress was surrounded. The Great General of Ailendamus, Dionamella, the General of Ages, who had personally been taught by Duke Rhisveri, learned the secret of Ailendamus, and been instructed by Fithea, House Shoel, and others…

Preferred to be called Dioname. It was not much shorter, but Dionamella was too fanciful. She was composing a report back to the crown via [Message] spell, encrypted, but she gave orders.

“Hold the siege here. Attempt to crack the walls if you must, but leave the [Princesses] unharmed at all costs. Martyring one will prolong this war and make restoring order in Calanfer far harder.”

She looked to the time after this war ended in her decisions, and the lesser [Generals] and [Strategists] and commanders bowed to her will. Nevertheless, one did ask.

“Why did you allow that force of Pheislant to escape us, Great General? If I may ask—we could have attacked them.”

The Great General shook her head.

“They would have escaped our forward troops. We could have slaughtered two thirds, I have no doubt. But I have no time to waste on them. I would rather not have them harrying our back lines. We know exactly where they are.”

She nodded at the fortress. Her fingers touched the staff she held, and her subordinates nodded. There was more to Dioname’s words. A double-meaning.

I have no time to waste on them. The half-Elf’s fingers were an immortal’s fingers. Half-immortal’s. Like every one of her kind, she was caught between mortality and not. Some could grow old beyond counting, like the Claiven Earth’s. Or Archmage Eldavin, perhaps.

Feor was but a man who dyed his hair white. True age looked like…

Dioname. Her hair was silver, and her hands had developed the faintest signs of atrophy, a fraying of the skin. Her face had developed the first lines. She was the oldest half-Elf most had ever seen and would see, even in the oldest, most timeless villages.

She was only a hundred and fifty-six years old, but she had lived that time as a mortal, born and raised in Ailendamus. Each year counted, not wasted. She had served as a warrior, [Mage], and [General] for nearly a century, but had not been called on regularly.

Chronologically? She guessed she was over sixteen hundred years old. The Great General of Ages sighed as she looked down the famous pass that had won so many wars. Was this her end? She smiled and waited to see how the Dawn Concordat would hold it. Then she raised her head to the sky.

“To Duke Rhisveri. We have reached the mouth of Krawlnmak’s Pass. Time dilation has ended. Our advance in real-time has begun. I await the final army of Calanfer. Please let me know if the Five Families are coming.”

They would be a problem, but the Wyrm of Ailendamus had taught her well. The Great General looked ahead, then behind, and then to the sky. A great battle and, hopefully, victory approached.

But then, what was it she sensed? Something else on the wind?

In time, they would find out.

8.69 T

One of the easiest ways to tell a casual poser, imposter, or fake out from genuine nobility was to bring up the Hundred Families of Terandria. The most basic test was to talk about them like a literal hundred.

Because they weren’t. The Hundred Families of Terandria, each one who could trace their bloodlines back to the days of myth and legend and the Hundred [Heroes] of Terandria, were not still extant.

Some had been wiped out. Some bloodlines, irrevocably lost. The Goblin King—the second-to-latest Goblin King had wiped out a number of families to the last.

But blood mixed over time, and most royal families, even ones newly made of commoner-stock like Calanfer, married into the ‘purest’ blue blood and thus gained their claim to fame.

The point was, the Hundred Families was a metaphor for the royal blood that ran through kingdoms and powerful families. If you didn’t get that, you were quickly slapped with a Skill and ejected from any gathering. Or just beheaded, but that was the good old days.

However, what was not an analogy was—the Five Families of Izril.

Veltras, El, Reinhart, Terland, Wellfar.

They were old. Older than Calanfer. They were ‘new’ to Izril in the way that you called Salazsar one of the ‘newest’ Walled Cities. Admittedly, there was a time you couldn’t find much Human presence on Izril and they had yet to fully occupy the north like Terandria.

But even so. The Five Families of Izril traced their lineage back to the Hundred Families of Terandria. Hence…the name. The nobility were unsubtle sometimes, but the point was they had conquered Izril acre by acre, foot by foot, pushing Gnolls, Drakes, and even Dragons off their territory.

Five families. They had help. They made alliances and manipulated their foes, but if any group embodied the strength of the Hundred Families—perhaps it was the five who had left their home.

But artifacts got lost or broken. Vast armies turned into heirlooms and stories. Land changed hands, and the greatest [Lady] of her day was succeeded by her daughter, who might never step into those shoes.

Were they as good as their inception?

——

Hardly.

If this were the old Veltras Family, they’d all be dead. That was the sole comfort in [Rear Admiral] Madiur’s mind as he led his force of [Sailors], [Soldiers], and the rest of Ailendamus’ navy up the cliffs.

Cliffs. Not the comforting sway of ship decks. Worse, it was Calanfer’s terrain, or close enough. Madiur had committed a capital sin among any [Captain], let alone an entire fleet.

He had run his entire navy into the beaches, ordered them scuttled, and taken every fighting hand into the elevation.

This was the second day after the Five Families entered the war, and he took some bitter pleasure in knowing that the history books would record his force was the first to step foot on Calanfer proper.

It was even a genius move in a sense; if this had been a regular landing, they would have threatened Calanfer.

But it wasn’t. They were here because they could not hold the sea. Even now, the [Rear Admiral] glanced over his shoulder and thought he saw one of those glorious sails, that beautiful vessel with construction and details no modern warship could dream of, gliding along the coast.

The Pride of the Wellfar. A Citadel-class ship which was, at this moment, blowing the coastline to bits.

Not all of it. But the spells were hitting anyone in the open, and it had sunk five ships yesterday in the brief retreat. Their hulls were tangled along the shore.

That was Wellfar’s might. A portion of it. A tenth? Madiur didn’t know exactly, but it was worth more than any living [Lord] or [Lady]. It had endured beyond thousands, into tens of thousands of years.

And he regretted he couldn’t even scratch it, let alone board it. He had briefly—briefly considered it.

But Madiur was not Admiral Idiot. His name was Admiral Dakelos, who had been fooled into attacking Nadel and the Lord of the Dance, but his reputation was dirt as far as Ailendamus was concerned. If he hadn’t been fooled, maybe they could have risked a battle with their warships, but the idiot had lost some of their best vessels and made an enemy of Nadel.

Ironically, he might survive this. He’s attached to some tug-boat with his command, and we’re…

Madiur was trying to decide whether they were going to live or not. The thing was, he wasn’t Dakelos.

Dakelos, for all his gullible faults, was a full [Admiral] of Terandria, highest-level, second only to a Great General or his equivalent at sea, and they were few. Madiur was a step below, but he had something Dakelos did not, and that was a [Historian] for a mother. He knew the Five Families, and so he’d taken his crew on land since it beat fighting a legend that had killed Dragonships.

The Pride of the Wellfar could generate a distortion in space that allowed it to sail upon seas few dreamed of. Also—it allowed it to take a thousand fireballs and change their position, so you’d burn your own fleet with your fire.

Better to take on mortals. As far as Madiur could tell, they were still disembarking.

“What’ve we got?”

“Duke Rhisveri and Royal Strategist Citz are waiting for you, Rear Admiral—”

“Not that. The enemy, the enemy! Tell Citz I’ll speak with him shortly. Set up those damned palisades! [Archers]! There, there, and there!”

He’d found his place to die, and it was a good one. Madiur had a steep cliff face, and below him, he saw his forces taking points on the incline up.

Simple, good old-fashioned choke-points, and Madiur had his [Archers] and [Mages] on a plateau with nigh-vertical cliffs. He glanced over the edge of one and was rewarded with no back-trails, no stupid weak points. Just a river entering the sea on his left flank; his right, a gentler forest crossing with the cliffs.

The open ground and beach were below, and his troops were hunkered down as artillery spells rained around them.

But Veltras would have to climb up, and Wellfar wouldn’t leave their ships.

So come on. Let’s see how good you are.

It was only House Veltras who was landing. They had assistance from the other Five Families, but Veltras alone was a famously martial house. Madiur updated Citz, glad the Royal Strategist didn’t hang on formalities.

He had no time for Duke Rhisveri. This was not politics, and Madiur would take whatever censure from the King’s touchy brother later.

“…we are not counting many [Lords] and [Ladies], Rear Admiral. Taking one prisoner would ensure some safety. Calanfer is mobilizing a force to assault you from the rear.”

“We won’t need to wait for them, Citz. Just be glad we didn’t land in Gaiil-Drome!”

The half-Elves would have torn them to pieces in the forest. The [Strategist] agreed, and Madiur lowered the stone.

“Hold on. I’m getting you your force estimate. It might heat up soon, Citz. I’ve ordered my men to surrender if need be. I will take responsibility for it.”

“You have permission to surrender your force, Rear Admiral. Try to take out one of their leaders.”

Madiur exhaled a breath he didn’t think he had been holding. He could? But that strengthened his resolve to kill one of their [Lords] or [Ladies]. Just one, and he could at least say he’d done his part in this disaster.

Now, he counted, and his voice was almost incredulous.

“The Pride of the Wellfar’s disembarking them fast. Citz—it’s a force of a few thousand. Four…six? Lots mounted. I’m counting heavy bows too.”

“Strike force. They’re all veterans.”

“Yes, sir, but we outnumber them by—”

Madiur realized how stupid a statement that was, and bit his tongue to avoid it going down in the books. He tried to spot their nobility who would be leading them, but the only one he spotted was…

A man riding ahead of a column of [Riders]. He had dark hair and a straight-backed posture, but that was all Madiur could see from here. His helmet shifted as he looked up the slope, and the Rear Admiral saw Tyrion Veltras.

The 2nd best [Lord] in the world—according to one biased [Writer]—had a presence that lit up the battlefield. His forces seemed to move a bit sharper, and even at a canter as they disembarked, they moved fast.

He was a famous lancer, renowned as a great war leader and strategist, and Madiur itched to see how good he’d have been on a boat’s slippery deck without that damned horse. Still…he’d have to ride through all of Ailendamus’ forces to get here.

“They’ll be circling our fighting once this battle concludes. The Pride of the Wellfar will be assailing every coastal area from afar if we cannot stop it.”

Citz’s voice was frustrated, and Madiur saw what that would look like. They had lost their forward fleet sent to encircle the Dawn Concordat. They could risk the rest of it, but Ailendamus was not a powerful naval presence. If Pheislant joined the war with the Order of Seasons, Ailendamus would have to prevail on the Taimaguros Dominion, their allies, for help.

Embarrassing, costly, and all the while, Tyrion Veltras’ army would be assailing weak spots using that powerful ship as a base.

Or would they? Madiur’s jaw worked as he saw something inconceivable.

“Hold on, Citz. You’re not going to believe this. The Pride of the Wellfar is…moving away!”

“What? Are they repositioning? [Sense Attack] is failing to pick up any flanking maneuver…”

“No! They’re heading full-sails away! They’ve left Veltras on the beach!”

Madness. The most powerful mobile artillery that could not be taken was abandoning House Veltras. True, he was fighting the fleet, but he was outnumbered, and they had entrenched themselves. Madiur’s blood boiled, but Citz was plainly worried.

“They must think they can take your force here. House Veltras may simply advance through Calanfer.”

“They’ll have to go through us, sir. And they just got rid of their long-range bombardments.”

Madiur growled. He saw his forces spreading out as House Veltras entered the forest and moved into position. There were multiple leaders, he saw now. Citz had listed some of them.

A Lord Swey, infantry specialist. Renowned for his family’s location—a giant plateau that required climbing.

Lady Buscrei of the Marshes of Oswen. Their bows made up some of Veltras’ best hunter-snipers.

Lord Pellmia Quellae, not Veltras but close. A formidable [Commander] who was best for long wars; his forces would never go hungry thanks to his class. Also—and this was a distracting detail—Citz had mentioned he had recently been appraised as a [Matchmaker]?

Ailendamus’ intelligence was varied, substantive, but sometimes weird. Madiur tried to keep his eye on all of them, find which target he’d focus on, but House Veltras was too competent.

A sandstorm kicked up along the beach, and he cursed as their entire force save for that closest to the water vanished. Madiur shouted at his officers.

“Hold ground! Hold! Call out any fighting with your horns!”

They just had to hold. He looked around for the flag of Ailendamus, Kingdom of Glass and Glory. The [Rear Admiral] was an odd man in that moment.

He was no fool, and he didn’t want to go down like Admiral Idiot as a disastrous leader in this war. But he also had dreams of a glorious stand, or even, in the back of his mind, a wild victory.

Vainglorious. A man was allowed to dream. It continued as the sandstorm cleared, and Madiur realized he’d completely lost sight of Tyrion, a number of Veltras’ forces, and the rest were coming up the beach hard. Arrows began landing as his forces opened up, and [Sailors] fought on the sand. They held the line for a few seconds, and that was as long as Madiur’s dream lasted.

Because then Citz snapped in his ear.

“Attack incoming on your position! Take cover!”

“Where?”

Madiur looked around. Even Tyrion Veltras couldn’t have ridden at him this fast! [Archers]?

“Barrier spells are up, [Rear Admiral].”

A [Mage] assured him, but Citz’s voice made the [Rear Admiral] shout.

“Brace! Brace for…”

For what? Magic or arrows or people? Each one necessitated a different response. Citz only knew it was coming, so in that brief window, Madiur spun and saw the danger. He stopped…and his dreams evaporated. He looked down at the small, tiny contingent of the non-Veltras forces.

The Five Families had sent only a little. Reinhart, nothing at all. The House of El, two of their own, who had their mercenary-irregulars armed to the teeth with Kaalblades and their artisan-quality equipment.

Wellfar had sent a ship. Which Madiur had focused on as the sole, largest contribution to their forces. What he had missed at first, so small compared to that old legend, was that House Terland of Golems had sent three of their [Lords] and [Ladies], simply to escort their contributions.

Golems.

Madiur saw a gigantic figure, an alien construction, slowly rotate towards him. It was tiny from his vantage point, but he could see it was about twice as tall as the men and women standing beside it, and many times longer.

It was no Golem he had ever seen. It reminded him of the Greatbows of Ailendamus; at least, the figure of a woman holding a bow did. But that was attached to a curious, boxy torso…like a Centaur?

But a Centaur did not float, and where her legs should have been was instead some kind of broad stomach that glinted at him. And the entire body hovered over a pedestal. Gravity magic—and huge legs carried it left and right up the beach, like some kind of turtle.

A weird amalgamation of magic and stone, albeit brightly painted. The Golem had a single bow. Oh—and as Madiur watched? He realized that the ‘stomach’ was, in fact, filled with arrows.

——

House Terland’s greatest Golem on the field had been based on siege weapons of old. But unlike Drakes or those who relied on other methods like alchemy, the designers had wanted to create a Golem that didn’t need to rely on anything but itself for propulsion.

The arrows floated in the air as Lady Ricuv Terland watched. Such artistry. Such design. It had been worth coming to Veltras’ war—for Sammial Veltras, of course—just to see it.

“Enchanted arrows loaded. Batch of sixty. Targets?”

“I see the enemy as they bravely stand/Human’s get, woman and man. Is it Terland’s wish to rain fire upon this land?”

Shivers. Just pure shivers from Ricuv. The Golem, the torso of the woman holding the giant bow loaded with an arrow of its own, spoke. One of Terland’s technicians gazed up in awe as the floating arrows and eyes of the Golem focused.

Not just the eyes on the carven head. Ricuv could appreciate the other magical sensors that were scrutinizing the battlefield. It was her peer, Lord Jopnel, who had the privilege of ordering the assault.

“Yes. Death to the enemies of the House of Terland, beauteous Aegis!”

The Aegis of the Bow, one of Terland’s ancient war-Golems, could speak in poetry—albeit limitedly as it was not actually sentient—load any ammunition, including rocks, and propel it farther than a longbow via gravity magic.

Oh, it also had amazing aim.

The arrows exploded out of the Aegis’ chest with a surprisingly soft sound, but they divided upwards, spreading across the air and shooting towards their targets, each one different like a glorious lightshow. Ricuv clapped her hands in delight as they struck the ground.

It was part of the reason Lord Veltras had requested Etril Wellfar to take his ship and harry Ailendamus from other angles. There was no need for it here. The first of Terland’s Golems calmly reloaded one arrow as the helpers hurried to insert more arrows into the firing stomach.

“Regular arrows. Batch of eighty. Shorter-range. We will advance as Lord Tyrion bids. Not one scratch on the Aegis!”

Ricuv ordered, and a giant Golem, eighteen feet tall and armed with a mirror-shield to protect them from spells, lumbered forwards. The [Lady] fanned herself as she watched the Aegis prepare to fire again.

She wondered where the [Lords] and [Ladies] of the House of Veltras had got to. Ricuv didn’t actually care. The only other place she would rather be than this would be meeting Cognita Truestone up close. Of the many families and nations, Illivere and the Terlands were among the few who had truly respected Archmage Zelkyr.

——

Lady Buscrei didn’t like the Terlands. They were weird about Golems. You heard things.

Not about the sex-Golems. That was practically a given, and odd enough.

Some of them wanted to be more Golem than people. And they were willing to sacrifice limbs, not just wait for accidents.

They were odd. But then, so were Veltras to them. So were the Reinharts, El, Wellfar…it was family. But distant family.

This was for Sammial. And Ryoka, but Buscrei would happily admit, she wouldn’t have come herself for the Wind Runner.

They could well die. And that was fair; she did not like the Aegis of the Bow. She watched as arrows landed among Ailendamus’ forces and they died.

“Poor bastards.”

It was barely a whisper. Maybe that Golem could win the entire battle, but Buscrei didn’t like it. That wasn’t how you fought. She put an arrow to her bow and prepared to shoot someone through the head, and that was fairer. If they found her and her people, she might die. But she’d admit—it was still unfair.

“Loose. One volley.”

The bows of Oswen’s folk hissed rather than thwapped. The arrows were likewise silent. A group of [Sailors] collapsed as Veltras’ folk advanced. Buscrei lifted a hand, and her people followed her.

They were not in the vanguard. Neither was Tyrion; he was riding at speed through the forests on the right. The only group actually advancing directly was led by Pellmia, Swey, and a few of the others. Slowly.

They didn’t need to take casualties. Buscrei was one of those trusted to take charge herself and flank the enemy. So the question was…why were they here?

Not here, here, creeping up the river, moving through the mud and water unseen by Ailendamus. That was just strategic.

These [Sailors] thought they had a view of the river, but Oswen was all-swamp. One of the [Marsh Hunters] surfaced after nearly three minutes underwater, and their bows and arrows were waterproofed.

In Oswen, if you didn’t have stealth and keen eyes, you’d miss your prey or become prey yourself for whatever lurked in the water. Buscrei had grown up shooting arrows from her tree-home, and her group had her Skill on them.

[Aquatic Invisibility]. Any part of them submerged in water vanished. Camouflage Skills and their own gear made up the rest of the lack, and they left no trail as they headed up the river, pausing to hit their opponents. If they were spotted, Buscrei would simply have them dive to the riverbed and let the current sweep them to safety.

But why were they here? Buscrei had not been ordered to by Tyrion, and she could have refused even if he’d tried. Same with Swey. They both were important members of their households.

Was it just for Sammial or Ryoka? For Buscrei, it was about that boy. He didn’t deserve this, and if she had to shoot every [Soldier] between her and Ailendamus, she’d see him home. She had known loss, and Tyrion Veltras didn’t need to lose a child.

Swey…had different issues. That was the thing. House Veltras brought their losses and past regrets into war. She saw him fighting his way forwards with his people, who would never lose their grip on anything. They could climb those cliffs ahead if need be with their bare hands, with ease.

Buscrei suspected Swey had come, though, because of Ryoka as much as Sammial. Not just for the young woman herself, but what she represented. She had been kidnapped while they’d been at House Veltras, and if he turned away from her, even if he sent only his forces, he might have felt he had abandoned her.

Let go.

There was an old story about Swey as a young man, climbing with a friend. They had gone up a shelf in the spring, and it had begun to collapse. A younger man had held his friend’s hand in the rain and muck, clinging with the other to the rock face, trying to hold them both up. His grip had slipped.

That was the past of each [Lord] and [Lady]. It changed their classes and informed the present. They might not have had the levels of their heroic ancestors, but Veltras had never lost that wildness. Buscrei found her position at last and showered the enemy from the back, distracting them.

“They’re surrendering to Swey. Hold—redirect!”

She put up her hand, and her [Archers] halted. Buscrei put an arrow through another [Officer] and didn’t fire as [Sailors] surrendered. Some fought on, but she didn’t hate these [Soldiers]. Her war was for Sammial, and she’d reserve her arrows for the [Knights] who’d gone after Ryoka and him.

But one man burned hotter than she’d seen him since…well. Buscrei eyed the [Rear Admiral]’s vantage point. If she were in his shoes, she would have put up the white flag already.

——

Veltras’ advance was like lightning. It seemed like Madiur’s orderly defensive line just…folded up.

Arrows from above. Arrows from behind. Veltras didn’t even need strong [Mages], and they had a few. [Sailors], good fighters, met Veltras’ most experienced warriors and died.

But where was Tyrion Veltras? Madiur looked around. Surely he was somewhere.

“Brace yourselves. Rear Admiral, we are poised to sally forth. Do you have a target?”

“No. Hold. Hold—damn the tides, where is he?”

Among the people around him was the one hammer that Madiur had on land—the Order of the Thirsting Veil. The [Knights] were ready for the final clash, but Madiur wanted to know where…where was Tyrion?

“Two groups of riders are coming up the hill, Rear Admiral. Straight at our pike-line. We can stop them.”

The [Knight] offered. He pointed at two groups of riders charging up the hill with commendable speed. Madiur frowned. He had a bunch of pointy sticks in the way of the horses. He wasn’t at home with horses since they did poorly on ships, but it seemed like a stupid strategy.

So it means they’re coming.

Madiur spun around. Citz was directing the army. So the [Rear Admiral] stalked across the too-solid ground. Where? Not the river. Was that…?

“Archers in the river!”

They dove as soon as his forces on the plateau turned. Madiur cursed. The infantry had halted below. Madiur had a lot of bows in cover, ducking the Golem’s shower of arrows, and they could do some damage, so the footsoldiers just halted out of range. The riders—

He couldn’t come up the cliffs, could he? Madiur strode back to the vertical cliffs. He had people watching them for climbers, but if Veltras tried, they’d just shoot him through the head on the way up.

Madiur peered over the edge of the cliffs as he strode by a [Sentry].

“Did you see anything in the forest?”

The woman didn’t reply. Madiur turned, began to snap at her, and saw the wild, rolling eyes. The way the soldier had locked into place, unable to move.

[Stasis] spell. Madiur felt a chill. Then he looked down the sheer rock, moss, and dirt. Unassailable by…

The [Rear Admiral] had a sudden sense of confusion. The world…tilted. He felt unsteady on his feet and thought he was sick and this entire attack hadn’t happened. It was a dream. Or how else did he explain the man on horseback…galloping up at him?

Straight up, as if his horse were riding on flat ground and Madiur were the one perpendicular to the world. The [Rear Admiral] recoiled.

“Attack! Attack from the—”

Everyone whirled. The Thirsting Veil Knights broke off their interception of the other [Riders] and turned.

Then the first horse leapt over the cliff’s edge. Tyrion Veltras landed on the ground, and a hundred [Riders] followed him. They had galloped straight up the cliff.

“[Vertical Charge]. Split. Jericha, left.”

“Charge in the name of House Veltras!”

They swept forwards so fast Madiur was still stumbling back when Tyrion Veltras’ horse knocked him flat. He raised his head, dizzy, as hooves thundered around him and saw them descend on his command.

Horses versus archers. A terrible thing. Tyrion’s assistant, Jericha, stormed around the camp as he rode at the group of Thirsting Veil [Knights]. Both sides had lances; they fought in the most archaic, Human fashion: horseback, with giant pointy sticks and heavy armor.

The Thirsting Veil had poisoned weapons and excellent training. House Veltras did not field [Knights], but their scion had trained with the lance every day he could ride. The two charged across the short plateau at each other. Then Tyrion’s force curved.

They rode left. The Thirsting Veil turned to track them, lances poised. Tyrion Veltras’ shield was covering his chest and the lower half of his face, a near-perfect guard with his armor. His enchanted lance was aimed ahead as his warhorse thundered towards the edge of a cliff fearlessly. He spoke.

“[Lightning Hooves]. [Company: Zigzag Maneuvering].”

His riders changed direction like a perfect geometric angle. The bewildered Thirsting Veil [Knights] saw them speed up—angle, and changed direction. Then the [Riders] shifted again, and suddenly they were charging the [Knights] from the left!

And their foes’ lances were out of line. House Veltras hit them, and armored bodies were thrown from saddles, run through, or just knocked silly by the impact. Tyrion rode through them.

“Regroup—rear charge! [Thirty-Foot Thrust]!”

His group whirled and he ran someone through from afar. Then they ran over Madiur’s spear-line from behind. Tyrion ran through a third person with his lance, drew his sword, and cut as the [Soldiers] turned, breaking into chaos. He was counting. As [Rear Admiral] Madiur rose to his feet to do what had to be done, dizzy, sick, he saw Tyrion raise a hand.

“Breakaway.”

His riders retreated, and the shocked [Soldiers] began to chase after him. Just in time for the second group of [Riders] to hit them from one angle, and the third to hit them from the side.

The last of Madiur’s camp was in chaos. [Knights] were fighting alone or back-to-back, and his [Archers] and [Soldiers]…the [Rear Admiral] saw Tyrion turning, head surveying the battlefield.

The [Lord] saw his quarry at last and rode towards the [Rear Admiral]. Madiur raised the weapon he was carrying, a wicked hatchet, and tossed it down. The [Lord] slowed as the [Rear Admiral] bellowed.

“Surrender! We surrender!”

He looked up as the [Lord] slowed. Instantly, all but a few [Knights] put up their weapons and repeated the call. Even the [Knights] did, as they saw more [Soldiers] climbing up the plateau. Madiur looked up into two cold, dark blue eyes.

He was surprised. He knew Tyrion Veltras, of course, even if he was another continent’s name. He had heard of the stony-faced [Lord] who seemed to live only for the campaign or saddle. He had expected a rock of a man, but there was a bright core of anger in that gaze.

Nevertheless, Tyrion slowly lowered his lance.

“I am Tyrion Veltras. I accept your surrender. Jericha, report.”

He turned away, and the [Rear Admiral] looked around as his people surrendered. His part in this war—at least for the foreseeable future—was definitely over. He had a feeling, a bad one, that when it came to the history books, he wasn’t going to get more than a single entry.

——

Tyrion Veltras’ entry into the Ailendamus war was like Sammial kicking open the door to a [Lady]’s private room and demanding why she was naked. Which yes, he had done more than once. Not just to Ryoka.

That kind of effect. Politically and militarily. That was because Sammial took after his father.

He took after his father. He was not an outlier. Tyrion just had decades of tempering.

It was something about how he conducted his battles. His war. The [Lord] knew the Dawn Concordat had fought Ailendamus bravely or, at least, fought for a number of months before this.

Now that he was here, he gave instructions to his allies like Etril Wellfar, surveyed the ongoing war front, and informed the Dawn Concordat he was entering the conflict.

As in, he informed them he was fighting on their side. He did not offer elaboration. He did not answer their requests for coordination with their [Generals], and he did not reply via communication spell with any of the three nations, including Calanfer’s crown, whose soil he was riding upon.

He did pass off the entire captured force of Ailendamus’ fleet to the nearest garrison commander. Or rather, Lord Pellmia did.

After making sure there were enough guards and they were secured enough not to riot, he returned to Tyrion with two hundred [Riders] from Calanfer added to his ranks.

“They were not happy about it, Lord Veltras. I had to ride off with their [Garrison Commander] trying to hold onto my saddle. His Majesty of Calanfer wishes to speak to you.”

“Hm. King Reclis du Marquin.”

Tyrion slowed a bit so a panting Pellmia could join him. The [Lord] had ridden hard, even rationing two doses of stamina potion to catch Tyrion’s main force. And they were the foot-soldiers!

Three days since their landing on the beach passed like a whirlwind. Tyrion Veltras sent the captured [Soldiers] of Ailendamus to the garrison and then marched his army through Calanfer. He was famous for being able to cross Izril as fast as Magnolia Reinhart’s coach; a smaller nation like Calanfer was not an issue.

In fact, it was Tyrion Veltras himself who’d ridden back to meet with Pellmia. The [Lord] nodded ahead.

“My [Riders] are seventy miles ahead of this position. Are you willing to continue leading our forces on their current heading? I’d like to take Lord Swey and a few of his people into my command.”

“Eighty miles…? We barely slept! Dead gods, Tyrion! There’s such a thing as pacing yourself!”

Pellmia looked at the [Lord] with a mix of amazement and admiration. Tyrion just shrugged.

“I need your answer within half an hour; we need to catch up by nightfall. The only thing keeping Ailendamus from adjusting to us will be speed. We must enter Kaliv and begin harassing them at once. Lord Etril has already begun patrolling the southern coast, and he is heading up towards Pheislant to aid the Order of the Seasons.”

At this point in the war, neither man was aware of Eldavin’s plans, so Pellmia saw the sense in Tyrion’s objectives.

“What about Calanfer?”

“What about it?”

Tyrion glanced over his shoulder. Pellmia had spotted a rather radiant banner on his way here, and he pointed to the [Courtier] who was arguing with Jericha, clearly trying to get to Lord Tyrion.

“I see it’s taken them three days to even catch you in person. They cannot be at home with one of the Five Families marching through their lands!”

Tyrion nodded.

“I have given the Crown several reassurances under oath that we are on their side. Kaliv has accepted them without reservation, as has Gaiil-Drome. I understand that the [Courtier] wishes me to stop at The Eternal Throne to speak to Their Majesties.”

“Understandable. And you are going to…?”

Lord Pellmia had a sinking feeling he knew what Tyrion’s decision on that was. The [Lord] sighed.

“Are you willing to take command?”

“Naturally. Just tell me where to go. That encoding on your [Messages] is wonderful stuff; I don’t need to worry about code-phrases as much. Is there any word about Sammial or…?”

“None.”

Tyrion was curt and as taut as a nocked arrow. And that was the thing. Pellmia was used to his campaigning-style.

If anything, he had been charming, friendly, and even obsequious to everyone during the Goblin Lord campaign, mainly because he had to keep the various nobility together.

Tyrion had no such issue with his allies here. As the [Lord] conferred with Pellmia and broke away, the [Courtier] made a break for it.

“Lord Veltras! Honored Lord Veltras—The Eternal Throne greets Tyrion Veltras in the name of—”

Jericha and the bodyguards stopped him riding for Tyrion with bared blades, but the [Lord] held up a hand.

“I greet The Eternal Throne of Calanfer. I tender my warmest thanks to His and Her Majesties of Calanfer and bid them well. House Veltras stands with Calanfer, as I have communicated. Good day, sir.”

His face didn’t move one whit as he delivered his ‘warmest’ greetings. And compared to any kind of formal address…the [Courtier] shifted and gulped. He rode after Tyrion, conducting a conversation with Jericha in between them as Tyrion gave brisk orders.

“Two hundred of Calanfer’s [Riders]. Fold them into our lines, Jericha. We’ll reinforce our riding front.”

“Yes, Lord Veltras.”

The [Courtier] hesitated. He had strict orders, but he was also a representative of Calanfer. One did not just interrupt a [Lord] of the Five Families, but Tyrion was not even paying attention to him.

“Beg pardon, Lord Veltras! His Radiant Majesty, Reclis du Marquin, is overjoyed at House Veltras’ overtures. He invites you to The Eternal Throne itself…”

Tyrion’s head turned left slightly.

“I must decline. The issues of war press me. I am sure His Eternal Majesty understands the need for haste.”

The [Courtier] gulped. He deployed [For Your Ears Only], and the Skill engulfed Jericha and Tyrion. He had been warned Tyrion Veltras and Magnolia Reinhart were two famously difficult nobles to deal with, but he’d always thought Magnolia Reinhart would be worse. As it turned out—at least she listened to you!

“Yes, Lord Veltras. But if I might say—House Veltras’ noble aid in this time of need—”

Tyrion was riding faster, and the [Courtier] realized that if he kept to formalities, he was going to lose the man.

“—have been rendered in great service to the Dawn Concordat! His Majesty is—slightly perturbed, however, and wishes to clarify an issue? Certain promises were made for the hand of one of our [Princesses], but there has been no binding contract…”

This was an aggressive move from House Veltras, and not one that Calanfer liked. Them entering into the war for a promise without clear contracts meant that they might ask for more when it was over.

That was, of course, how they saw the issue. Tyrion Veltras turned, and the [Courtier] was impressed. He actually looked like he was surprised.

“The contract? Ah…yes. The hand of Princess Lyonette du Marquin.”

The [Courtier] winced as Jericha looked up sharply. Tyrion Veltras just said it out loud.

“Yes, Lord Veltras. His Majesty is—uncertain as to your intentions.”

Tyrion thought about the question.

“We shall negotiate the matter once the war is done. House Veltras has entered into conflict with Ailendamus over the abduction of one of its own [Lords]. My son. As well as a Courier by Ailendamus’ forces. I believe that should satisfy His Majesty’s interest in the matter.”

The [Courtier] actually halted in place. He suspected Tyrion of some kind of massive bluff—until he saw the look of pure pain on the face of his assistant. Politically…Tyrion had been poised to twist a knife. He had promptly handed said knife to Calanfer and told them he was the one in need.

“Surely this matter is better discussed with Their Majesties, Lord Veltras? Our [Generals] and [Strategists] are poised to discuss your position—”

And again, Tyrion cut the [Courtier] off.

“I have no time. I will battle Ailendamus on my terms. Not the Dawn Concordat’s. Your strategy is…”

He hesitated.

“…best conducted on your own terms. Out of necessity, I will maneuver to keep Ailendamus off-guard.”

And that was him being tactful. Which said a lot about what he was going to say. Actually, the [Courtier] could almost agree with Lord Veltras on that. The Dawn Concordat was plagued by three nations trying to dictate the best course of action, but he had his orders.

His best [Winning Smile] on his face, the man followed as Tyrion sped up; he looked to be heading north, ahead of his footsoldiers.

“Lord Veltras. His Majesty politely insists upon a meeting. You must understand, the Crown should at least entertain House Veltras. It would not be a delay of more than one day, and in light of the situation, it may be Calanfer can ransom those two!”

Politics were Calanfer’s forte, which was why Ailendamus’ refusal to entertain their overtures at all was so effective. But House Veltras and certainly this man could be negotiated into staying in the war, even if Tyrion got what he wanted.

If he visited the throne. Tyrion glanced over his shoulder at the [Courtier].

“I regret to say that I have a pressing engagement on the front. Please inform His Majesty I was most heartbroken at my inability to comply. Only for the sheer necessity of war must I tender my regrets.”

The [Courtier] was braced.

“Sir, [By the Throne], I must insist that you rec—Lord Veltras? Wait! Lord V…”

His best Skill could, indeed, perhaps even cause a powerful individual to hesitate, as it conferred the power of Calanfer’s throne on the [Courtier] if he was so authorized.

But…that did sort of require him to catch and talk to the person. And the racing [Courtier] nearly severed his own tongue as he realized his horse was slowing. He tried to make the mare go faster, but she balked and nearly tossed him. He realized he’d been in full-gallop—and Tyrion Veltras had just rode away from him at a canter.

The messenger came to a stop as Tyrion Veltras accelerated into the distance with a trail of a few hundred [Riders]. The Eternal Throne’s clever machinations, the will of Their Majesties, and so on were hardly behind a man as blunt as Tyrion Veltras.

The only problem was, they were too slow. And arguably…they had little insight into Tyrion’s own mind. He was as straightforward as a lance, which quite perplexed Calanfer’s lot. They could understand it, but they expected at least one wobble or warp in his character.

——

Tyrion Veltras was just straightforward. In his mind-of-minds, he thought of things like that. He liked knowing the quality of someone like Pellmia. He disliked people like Magnolia, who were inconsistent.

That was not to say he was a simple military leader. On the contrary, he sent the riders he led on a positively obfuscating route into Kaliv. They could ride up cliff faces, through terrain ordinary horses would never climb.

And with Jericha shielding them from scrying, they became phantoms who could strike Ailendamus from any angle while Pellmia moved his main force through Calanfer.

Tyrion did a lot of thinking in between the clash of battle. He had lots of time; even at the speed he rode, and with all the communication he did with his own allies if no one else, planning, surveying terrain…you still tended to sit in the saddle and think.

Sometimes he just loved watching the scenery. Other times he lost himself in the mindless concentration of exercise. But right now he thought.

Ryoka Griffin. Tyrion picked his way up a slope of gravel, checked the top of a cliff, decided it was impossible to take his force up there, and pointed.

“[Light Bridge]. There to there. We ride up to the plateau.”

“Yes, sir.”

A bridge of light appeared, and Tyrion rode over it without bothering to look left or right over the sheer drop. He was trying to think about how he felt about Ryoka Griffin, the far more serious and difficult topic.

He rather admired her. She could fly. She had…a wondrous ability there.

Few beings in this world were as fast as Tyrion. True, most of it came from his horsemanship; he was far slower on foot. But it did…hurt how he enjoyed some things.

Say, a hunt. Noble sport. He didn’t enjoy the talking and socialization as much. And when it came to the hunt itself…he could catch the boar, or deer, or any other animal and spear it within minutes of sighting it. He didn’t need hounds or hawks.

Naturally, that was poor etiquette, and he’d only done it twice when he truly wanted the hunt to end. But it was indicative; no one could ride with him. Truly ride with him, unless they were willing to ride behind him on the same saddle.

Or fly.

…The [Lord] felt awkward, thinking about it. Was it a betrayal, to…like another woman in this fashion? Salva was his wife.

Had been his wife. And he had thought of her so much since her passing and folded every painful feeling into a plan to destroy the Walled Cities. Manus especially.

Ryoka, though, made him realize that he had not thought about remarriage or anything else about Salva for a long time. Deliberately. He had…not thought about being lonely. But as the Wind Runner would put it, she could certainly depress people. That was a Grade-A Ryoka talent.

Tyrion Veltras had a thought as he sighted an Ailendamus force harrying Kaliv.

Ryoka Griffin was attractive.

His blank face turned even blanker as his mind wrestled with the ethics of that thought. It was too troublesome. Was he biased because of appearance? Was that appropriate for a [Lord]? It wasn’t about that, surely.

Was he interested in her because of the qualities of her character or her looks? He had proposed to her for more reasons than that. Sammial and Hethon needed someone who could help them, more than Ullim or Jericha.

Was he biased?

The shock of battle. Tyrion Veltras cut through Ailendamus’ flank, not swinging his sword once. Ailendamus was attacking Kaliv’s [Soldiers], but they had never seen his forces riding down on them. His bared blade only rose and fell once over the entire battle.

It struck the enemy commander of Ailendamus, and he felt the slight shock as it cut through the back of the neck. Then he was away; Jericha tossed a [Siege Fireball], and his [Riders] were heading for their rally point. A single commander was worth a thousand men in the cost to Ailendamus to replace.

Tyrion Veltras ate, barely tasting the standard fare as Buscrei talked about having to shoot a Griffin harassing their forces as she and Swey climbed for a vantage point, and laid out a map. He felt he needed help at this stage, so after discussing their next attack location, he coughed.

“Buscrei. Do you feel as though the divide in our ages is too extreme for a relationship? I am referring to Ryoka Griffin and I.”

He watched Buscrei’s face go pale, then red, and Swey had to slap her on the back as she nearly choked on her food. Then she started laughing at him.

He was not good at people. Tyrion had always known that. He recalled, quite distinctly, rather disliking his wild cousins from Oswen.

As a young man, he had known them all. Buscrei had been annoying, then. Teasing him for his imperfections. Tyrion quite admired her now, but he didn’t know how to reconcile that.

When had it changed? He couldn’t remember, only a growing sense of understanding duty, of realizing, year by year, battle and experience teaching him to respect those under his command. To not pine for battle as harshly.

In some ways, though, Tyrion missed being young. He was arguably stronger, faster, and certainly higher-leveled, but youth…youth was youth.

He would never admit this, ever. But some of Tyrion missed the days that had seen him as a warier friend to Magnolia Reinhart. Of course, then he hadn’t understood much either, and she had annoyed him worse than Buscrei. And he recalled proposing to Ressa—which is what Buscrei was telling him now.

“Tact. Pellmia has spoken with me about it quite often, Buscrei. I wouldn’t have brought it up to Ryoka Griffin…”

He hesitated.

“…I will not. I am willing to listen. Do you think it’s an issue? If so, I will abandon the idea. And I would appreciate you informing me earlier to prevent any such mistakes if it is entirely untoward.”

There was that look again. Buscrei looked exasperated, and Swey’s amusement turned to…what? Pity? Sympathy?

“Tyrion, I have seen you enjoying a woman’s company twice in my life. And that was Salva and now Ryoka.”

“I enjoyed Ressa’s company.”

And she spat out her soup and nearly choked again. Tyrion decided he might need to be less than honest. Buscrei, though? A younger woman would have needled him. The older [Lady] just looked at Tyrion and sighed.

“I’d ask so many questions here—but let me put it like this, Tyrion. Before you ask about age—and she’s not exactly sixteen—what are you offering the girl?”

“My estates and the name of House Veltras? Even if we divorced—”

Buscrei put her head in her hands, and Swey took over.

“That’s a poor gift, Tyrion. Buscrei is asking what you can do for Ryoka.”

“Ah.”

——

What had he given Salva? The question plagued Tyrion as they rode up some difficult terrain, even for him. He had to walk his own horse; the footing was dangerous, and while there were Skills, the danger of a rockslide across the highly-gravelly terrain meant that a falling stone could easily snap a horse’s leg.

And he refused to lose any of them. Tyrion had found Kaliv’s forces and admired their mounted unit: a goat. Not Eater Goats, but a Crenneth Goat, a huge, stout goat that grew so big you could ride it. Like a bull that could climb rocks. They were capable of heading up nigh-vertical slopes even without Skills.

But they hardly had the endurance or speed of regular horses. Camels? Tyrion had ridden camels, horses, mules, donkeys, magical beasts…maybe he should look into a magical horse. He had the highest-quality purebreds, but magical animals couldn’t be replaced. And while it was tragic, he had lost many a mount in battle.

That was the problem. Tyrion slapped the side of his helmet, and Jericha looked at him oddly as she created barriers to stop the rocks from falling. He could think about horses, supply lines, and so on all day.

People were harder. Sammial was harder. Hethon…

What had he given Salva? No, perhaps that was the problem. Tyrion had never considered it, because she had pursued him. Rather aggressively, Pellmia had once said. Tyrion had to confess—

He hadn’t noticed at first.

Was he oblivious? The [Lord] spotted a tamed hawk scouting their position and had Buscrei take it out from nearly three hundred feet away, hidden in the rockface. But he couldn’t see the invitation to dance unless someone handed him a card. Then, a terrible question came to him as he watched Jericha preparing spells to throw at an Ailendamus column.

Had Salva been happy?

Tyrion just remembered…cessation. That irritable, prickly feeling as he adjusted his clothing before a banquet fading as someone took him by the arm. He looked up into sparkling, bright yellow eyes and someone pulled him. Tyrion followed that voice.

“Tyrion, don’t scowl. You will love it. Pellmia’s there. And if you don’t love it, we’ll leave.”

Then they left after fifteen minutes, and he looked at her and saw how she fumed and thought her tossing her drink on Magnolia Reinhart was the funniest moment he’d seen all year and–

Thought about Ryoka. Then thought about Salva again guiltily. And worried if she had been happy. He hoped so.

He thought she had been. But he wondered. What could he offer Ryoka Griffin? What did she want? Put on its head, the answer was obvious.

He…felt…strongly that Ryoka was good for Sammial and Hethon. They laughed. They pestered her. She had saved their lives and that alone would have been more than enough.

——

“But Tyrion, what about you?”

The question came after six officers, from a [Major] to what might have been a sub-[General], had fallen to Tyrion’s hand alone. Pellmia himself said it, having reached Tyrion’s front.

Now they’d had to take care with the slower infantry, but a few [Griffin Riders] had joined their ranks, and with Calanfer’s recruits and Kaliv’s rescued soldiers, Tyrion was beginning to have an army.

And reputation. The Ailendamus forces were slowing as they realized they could not spread out and be hit by him—and the Griffin Prince of Kaliv. Both their groups routed even strong enemy forces on their own. Tyrion by virtue of his maneuvering, his levels, even tasking Buscrei or Swey with targets while he hit other ones.

The Griffin Prince? People said he was immortal. He had been ‘killed’ many times, but he came back. Tyrion was interested in meeting him himself.

“Give me? I…believe I would greatly enjoy her company.”

He said it so honestly that Pellmia turned red. Tyrion meant it.

He had a duty to Salva to seek vengeance. He had his duties to his realm. But in the times when there were no monsters or war or…anything, Tyrion could admit, he grew weary.

He enjoyed jousting, riding, and training, but Salva had been that person who filled that last part of his life. And if he had his passions like jousting, his duty for a purpose, and…

“Do you think she’ll stay? She’s a Courier, Tyrion, and she has obligations.”

It was another of his extended family who brought that up. Tyrion considered the question all day and delivered a reply over dinner.

“I believe that wouldn’t matter.”

“Hm?”

The man, Lord Inyith, was completely nonplussed until Tyrion reminded him of what they’d been speaking of.

“I believe it wouldn’t matter. If she had to leave, her own obligations—I understand that. But if she returned, I think I could enjoy those times. I could wait for her the other times.”

Buscrei, Swey, the [Lords] and [Ladies] and Pellmia all looked at each other in silence. Buscrei covered her eyes.

“He’s serious. Someone slap soup in my eyes or hand me an Otterdog.”

She smiled, and some were patently uncomfortable, but Tyrion was realizing something. He gave voice to it quietly, and only to himself.

I am lonely.

And it felt like he had realized the obvious that had been staring him in the face for many years. But since he hadn’t known he was cut, it had only hurt a bit. Now?

Now he began to bleed.

——

Blood on his gauntlets, shaking arm—

Some of Ailendamus’ forces were high-level. But he had an enchanted shield, sword, armor…Tyrion Veltras didn’t count how many [Soldiers] he killed that battle. It was one thing to strike an unsurprised enemy.

But he had to win battles too. The first conflict where Ailendamus sent a force at him, he beat them.

They sent countless [Knights] of the Order of the Hydra. Greatbows—it was one of their huge arrows that numbed even his arm. An enchanted ‘arrow’ hitting him at near point-blank range. Troops with strong morale.

It wasn’t hard. Their leader was good, but Tyrion had fought men. Men, women of any species, were only as good as their people.

And this leader didn’t have enough eyes. Not enough—Tyrion had attacked from the front. And the sides. And their [Strategists] had covered that. And the rear attack.

But not the [Light Bridge] that went over their lines and let Tyrion ride into the center of their forces. Not Lord Swey’s carefully calculated avalanche, or Pellmia’s feint on the eastern flank. Kill their [Mages] and toss a screaming, blinding spell to stymie their archers.

Take out one pillar and the rest fell. If they were heavy on [Mages], engage them in melee. If they had too many archers, armor, maneuver…

War was simple. His son was not.

——

“His Majesty of Ailendamus has assured Lady Ulva Terland that Lord Sammial is well, Lord Veltras. They demand we withdraw from this war.”

“Have they threatened him?”

Tyrion stopped eating, and Jericha shook her head.

“No. They are warning us of the consequences; economically and otherwise. They suggest that any trade to House Veltras through their lands or Taimaguros might end, and they could stifle trade throughout a good deal of the continent.”

“Are they threatening war upon House Veltras?”

“…Not yet. The Five Families will all go to war.”

“Then we continue. What of Ryoka Griffin?”

Jericha hesitated.

“…I had not asked, Lord Veltras. Should I inquire? My sources say that she has been spotted in Ailendamus. Unchained; she apparently flew about.”

“No, then. She is alive. Seemingly unharmed?”

“Yes, Lord Veltras.”

Tyrion considered all of it.

“Then we continue.”

But what happens when I meet Ryoka Griffin? Buscrei kept telling him not to bring up marriage.

However—wasn’t it fair to think of the future? Wouldn’t it be honest? Tyrion felt like giving her some promises would be better than not, and everyone agreed with that.

But Pellmia claimed he was counter-levelling when Tyrion proposed some of his guarantees for the future.

“Tyrion. Tyrion! I know you’re—but are you serious?”

The [Lord of Orchards] had his head in his hands. He had a fresh cut from an enchanted blade on his arm, but that was nothing to the pain on his face.

“I’d merely bring it up so she wouldn’t be worried. As you said, Buscrei—”

“You cannot tell her you’ll guarantee she’ll only have one child, Tyrion!”

She slapped him on the back of the head. Tyrion allowed it to happen.

“None, then?”

Surely that was a concern. But he didn’t understand, he didn’t understand—the [Lord] was getting annoyed.

Surely there was something he did understand about Ryoka? Or was he wrong about that too?

He realized, after an ambush, wiping blood off his lance, that he did understand Ryoka. He thought he understood she was like him. This was all so complicated. Sometimes it seemed to him they were kindred spirits.

I rather like you. You do not have much in the way of sword fighting sense, you do not ride well, and you and I have our differences. But I like you because you run like I ride. You flew, and I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had seen in an age. You make my sons smile. And me.

I feel better around you.

Of course, he was sure that fell under things never to be said. Tyrion gave up. And then he began to wonder, seriously—

What did he have to offer Ryoka if he did not trade on the name of House Veltras? What did Tyrion, the man, have?

Surely not his personality. His…affection? Pellmia loved his wife, Keireen. Eiress, his previous wife, who had passed away—

Tyrion thought Pellmia knew love and expressed it well, not that he was a voyeur. But the [Lord] could hold Keireen’s hand, praise her, give her gifts…

Did Tyrion have any of the attributes his friends had assured a younger man he had? Good looks…skill at arms…wealth…

Vanity. He looked in a mirror of a bowl of water as he shaved after two weeks of combat and saw only a man. Older—so he didn’t even have youth to show her.

All he had was a lance.

——

Tyrion Veltras slowed as a group of eighteen [Knights] of Ailendamus halted. They were…different.

“Drell Knights. Water experts. Huh.”

It was the first encounter Tyrion had with the third Order of Ailendamus. Unlike Thirsting Veil, who used poison, and the Order of Hydra, made of commoners, he didn’t see the strength of the Order of Drell. But then—they were out of their element.

And outnumbered. Buscrei had a bead on them with her [Archers], and her arrows could pierce their armor. However, they refused to surrender. One called out to Tyrion, fearless, exposing his head as he took off his helmet.

“Though we may fall, our souls belong to the Kingdom of Glass and Glory! Is there anyone of you in the famed Five Families who will answer a [Knight]’s challenge? I demand a single duel!”

“Dead gods, save me from idiots and duels. Let’s just take them captive and save their lives.”

Swey growled. Tyrion Veltras, though, saw their leader pointing at him.

“Are you the renowned Tyrion Veltras himself? Lord Veltras, we have heard of your courage on the battlefield! Will you not answer us or have the Five Families of Izril strayed from honor that far?”

Buscrei adjusted her aim.

“If I shoot him in the balls, do you think he’ll sing a different tune?”

“Buscrei. Enough. Jericha, pull your forces back.”

Tyrion was still thinking on what he had to offer. He noted Drell’s [Knights] truly embodied their nation’s nickname.

Glass. Their armor was like some kind of glass. He knew the Kingdom of Keys had a glass motif, but their armor was clearly meant to some purpose.

Water, maybe? He couldn’t fathom it but raised his lance as he let Jericha argue with him, and the [Knights] of Drell stirred.

There was pageantry in it. Bravado. Everyone, Buscrei to Swey, called him a fool. Except Pellmia, who knew better. But Tyrion just saw…

A [Knight] of the Drell, whirling a horse clearly used to water. Interesting, was it a Kelpie-breed? A horse that might have gills or stronger lungs?

It meant that it surged far slower; it was nigh on a plough horse as the [Knight] rode at Tyrion. But strong. Some horses would falter at an impact; this one could ride forever.

And the Drell Knight? He was low on his saddle, lance poised…but aimed up too high.

Ah, he might be used to fighting Hydras or Griffins. Perhaps the Order of Drell didn’t have a history of jousting.

That was their problem. He had accepted Tyrion’s offer. And he had to know—

The Lord of House Veltras was one of the most famed jousters in the world.

Riding was like breathing to Tyrion. So too was aiming at a target. It was different in battle and different in a tourney. Where you hit the opponent mattered.

Center of gravity, angle, the type of lance and armor—Tyrion cracked the breastplate on his first pass, deflecting the lance that tried to hit him.

Shieldwork, too. He circled and realized the glass armor was heavy. However, the Drell Knight still flew from the saddle the second time, and Tyrion pointed the lance at the stunned man’s face.

Then he turned.

She loves to run. Ryoka Griffin…what are her hobbies? I don’t know these things. Could I offer her something like riding? She doesn’t care for it.

Could I change?

A second [Knight] followed the first. Angrily. As if they thought Tyrion were insulting them. The second was better than the first, ironically. She was waiting for the hammer-blow which could knock even her shield into her body and send her flying.

Tyrion detected a Skill, so he performed a maneuver rarely seen even among [Lancers]. Flick the lance up, cushioned below his elbow, and strike her across the helmet.

Not a deadly blow, though it could have been. This one just dropped her in a dead faint, and the horse dragged her along the ground. Fortunately, in her armor.

Tyrion turned.

I would like to try. Try to do something. I would like to learn how to fly.

A third [Knight]. It took three passes as the figure swayed in the saddle, but Tyrion was learning from each one. He shook out his arm and turned. As he rode, he looked up at the sky for a moment, then focused on his opponent like a laser. A [Piercing Thrust]—Tyrion slid it to one side with his shield.

I would like to ask her these things. But then—I never asked if she had anyone she loved. This war is for Sammial, but I should ask.

A fifth time. He heard Buscrei swear.

“Shave me bald and toss me with naked otters. He’s tilting.”

Yes. Tyrion rode across the bare ground, changing his horse once, as if he were on the green outside his keep. He focused, with all the intensity in his being, then relaxed and thought. When he did, he thought of Ryoka and Sammial and Salva and the past and future.

Tyrion Veltras only slowed when he heard the cheering. He lifted his lance, arm aching, body burning, and saw no more [Knights]. No more opponents.

Eighteen [Knights]’ horses were pawing at the ground or snapping at the handlers trying to calm them. Eighteen [Knights] lay on the ground or were being tended to. Tyrion Veltras slowly handed the lance to Jericha, then dismounted. He rubbed at his arm.

“That’s all.”

His people and the army cheered him wildly, but Swey, Pellmia, all gave him strange looks.

“What’s all?”

Tyrion nodded to eighteen of Ailendamus’ finest, each one unhorsed, and the worst injury a pierced shoulder. None dead. Not a scratch on his armor, though he had bruises and he suspected his enchanted lance might be wearing thin. He’d have it replaced.

“You were right, Pellmia. That is all I have to offer. And that is not much. I will think of something else.”

He walked off. The [Lords] and [Ladies] of Izril watched him go, and after a moment, Lady Ricuv Terland burst out.

“I know it may be ironic—but that man is a Golem, and I mean that in the rare pejorative! I cannot understand what goes through his head!”

——

By the time Tyrion Veltras heard about Eldavin, the Archmage of Memory, entering the war, Ailendamus had sent him three peace offers, and the Dawn Concordat hailed him as a hero.

He watched Eldavin’s entry into the war with a frown. For once, he had to stop thinking about Ryoka Griffin to figure it out.

Flying armored [Mages]. It would require rethinking tactics entirely. He couldn’t use [Light Bridge]; any decent combatant would fly out of the way.

Did he have to learn how to ride a Pegasus? Tyrion wondered if that was how he could keep up with Ryoka Griffin. He’d flown two and never fallen off, but he was hardly confident with them.

Everyone else was thinking of the politics of it, or asking who Eldavin was. Tyrion…

…Was fairly sure Eldavin was Ryoka’s mysterious benefactor. Were they in a relationship?

He hoped not.

His thoughts of Ryoka had grown spiky where it concerned the idea of her having a lover. Despite that being a rational thought. No, Eldavin was far too old. And besides, he had asked Tyrion whether Ryoka was Ailendamus’ captive. Tyrion had told him yes.

They were in this war for similar reasons.

But Tyrion was more uncomfortable now than when he’d started this war, despite Eldavin’s entry meaning it would be easier. And that was important—Tyrion was growing a bit uneasy because Ailendamus was falling back.

He had secured the area around Calanfer’s borders through his attacks, but his army was barely eighteen thousand strong, even with the Dawn Concordat’s forces added to his own. He would have preferred Ailendamus to keep pushing because no nation was infinite.

He could bleed their morale and soldiers. However—they had withdrawn rather than waste troops.

Tyrion did not like the sensible decision, which was entirely devoid of emotion. It spoke to him of intelligence. Unlike elements of the Dawn Concordat. Each nation had intelligent moves, of course, but some decisions were simply…foolhardy.

Like the Thronebearers of Calanfer refusing to fight hard. In that, Tyrion would have sent their forces in and let them hold tough positions. He would have risked their deaths for levels. They had to level, but Calanfer refused to commit them.

Of course, Tyrion avoided that kind of grinding in his campaigns, but he did not control the entire Dawn Concordat’s army. They had to bleed; he was preserving his strength, but he was sure they would prefer him to fight as hard as possible and bleed while they fought like him.

Regardless, he had won many victories and felt close to levelling. What would it be now? 48? It had been a while.

Close to 50 as a pure [Lord], or his true class, [Lancelord of A Thousand Victories].

Too pithy for his taste, but a strong class. There were stronger. Level 50 might make him…

Well, truly worth any title. Tyrion knew that [Lords] leveled slower than [Warriors], and that levels were lower in this era, but he had always felt ashamed to be called a model of House Veltras below Level 50.

His father hadn’t reached Level 50.

It was an odd feeling. Tyrion had been feeling odd a lot, and it was because of all this introspection. Understanding he had surpassed his father, even in martial prowess, was something he had to think about. Push it away and it would just be there, waiting for you. Tyrion had pushed many feelings away, but he was realizing—

He had to face his foes.

Including his greatest foe yet in this war. Tyrion knew the Dawn Concordat was poising itself to break the siege on Kaliv’s highlands, and Calanfer was raising a large army to join the one that was meeting Ailendamus’ in the field. He wondered if now was the time to join them. But he felt…something was coming.

But that wasn’t Tyrion’s greatest foe. He couldn’t discuss this with Jericha or anyone else, including Buscrei or Pellmia. They had weathered many of his questions. Pellmia had leveled. But Tyrion refused to talk to them about…it. He struggled against his enemy, but he failed.

The lewd daydreams about Ryoka Griffin were inexcusable. The actual dreams somewhat. But Tyrion Veltras, who could project the enemy’s route through mountainous terrain, was not used to his imagination poking him and asking, ‘what happens when clothes come off’? Of course, he knew, but rather—what did it look like in this instance?

He wanted to know. But the [Lord] refused to speculate. He fought with himself. Discipline!

[Ascetic class obtai—

Nor did he want or need that class. Tyrion Veltras just knew that he needed to push towards Ailendamus’ border. To ensure Sammial and Ryoka were rescued.

Three peace treaties. Or rather, ‘non-aggression’ pacts, immediate cessation of hostilities, and guarantees of peace.

The tone changed the more Tyrion fought. At first, they were what Jericha described as ‘insulting’. The second offer was more tempered, with a non-specific agreement to possibly extradite both after certain agreements were met.

The third offered Tyrion coin to quit the war. And a substantial amount.

“What of Sammial and Ryoka Griffin?”

Jericha frowned.

“They were…oddly nonspecific, Lord Veltras.”

The [Lord] frowned as well, and deeper.

“Inform these negotiators that the Five Families and House Veltras will continue this war until both are released, unharmed, and on Izrilian soil, or at the very least, The Pride of the Wellfar. In addition to substantive reparations. Nothing less will serve.”

“How much, in coinage? For reference, Lord Veltras?”

Tyrion thought and very calmly replied.

“Two million gold coins.”

And he was serious. Or was he…angry?

He was angry. Tyrion realized that, and Jericha had faithfully carried his message away, but he had meant it. Two million gold coins for two [Princesses] would have been ridiculous. One million gold coins? If House Veltras got that, they’d never have to worry about their finances for…a decade! More, obviously, with how much they could invest. They were not a rich House, second only to the House of El since they poured so much into their [Soldiers] and they did not trade in rich goods. Yet Tyrion would accept no less.

His son? If Sammial were treated like royalty, unharmed, Tyrion would still demand no less than a million gold coins. He…was furious.

But also aware Sammial might be in danger. The Five Families were prepared to go to war if he were harmed; that was what kept him safe as his father attacked Ailendamus. Tyrion had been prepared to harry Ailendamus hard to secure his release.

Now that Eldavin was in the war, though, it might be that the fortunes were changing.

Wistram had taken a side. House Veltras was on the Dawn Concordat’s side, and Ailendamus did not lack for enemies. They were a powerful nation, but Tyrion wondered if the cracks would precipitate a flood.

However, he was prepared to stop fighting if he got both Ryoka and Sammial back. Both. Unharmed.

Ailendamus was hardly blind to how Tyrion had essentially stopped their push into the Dawn Concordat. He had, with his six thousand troops, turned a solid push into Calanfer into a pure deadlock on the main front. They wanted him gone, gone, gone.

What puzzled him and Jericha, then, was that the negotiators never promised either Ryoka or Sammial’s return. Which they should have, because to do otherwise was an asinine move that Tyrion wouldn’t even consider and said as much.

However, neither Tyrion nor Jericha knew the situation in the capital. Thus, they couldn’t be aware that because of a certain Duke, Ryoka and Sammial were off-the-table for a good portion of the war.

——

Dreams of Ryoka, worry about his son, negotiations and battle. Tyrion Veltras demonstrated to the Dawn Concordat how to defeat four hundred [Knights] of the Order of the Hydra with minimal losses.

As far as they were concerned, he was an amazing ally who had come out of nowhere to give them hope.

…But as far as the leaders of each nation were concerned, Tyrion was also getting dangerously helpful. As in—was one [Princess] enough? And if she was—did they have her?

The ulcers he caused to the [King] and [Queen] of Calanfer were unknown to Tyrion Veltras. He might well have said, ‘I entered this war for my son and Ryoka Griffin, who I have every intention of propositioning. I require no further debt to Calanfer’.

Which would have been…something…if broadcast. But Jericha was canny enough to stop Tyrion from saying that, as the invisible debt of Calanfer grew. Gaiil-Drome and Kaliv just thought Calanfer had pulled some diplomatic magic to get Tyrion involved, and it had risen Calanfer’s reputation after they had failed to pull their weight militarily.

Tyrion calling in that debt…

Well, that might have been why Tyrion Veltras woke up one day after a dream about Ryoka Griffin flying over a sea of Sammials riding Otterdogs to learn he had an esteemed guest. And for once—an interesting one.

The Lightherald of Calanfer was a famous name. The Lightherald had been there when Az’kerash had been sentenced to death. He had even been a friend of the Necromancer when he had been Perril Chandler. The Lightherald had battled one of the last known Dragons, fought on Rhir, and was the greatest warrior in the Eternal Kingdom of Calanfer.

And like the Hundred Families of Terandria, the ‘Lightherald’ was not one man or woman. It was a title. It was…a blessing.

A literal blessing. Tyrion Veltras saw the shine off the armor and realized the man was giving away his camp; he lit up the entire canyon like day.

“Lord Veltras. I am humbled to meet such a great warrior. I salute you by the Eternal Throne of Calanfer. Let all evil quake and all Terandria remember the name of Veltras. By the Hundred Families, the blood of ancient heroes still runs strong.”

The Lightherald’s voice was a booming one, and he himself had the manners of a Thronebearer—but the bearing of a warrior.

No less than a greatsword hung on his back, an enchanted blade, and his armor was the best in Calanfer’s armory, the Lightherald’s of old.

But what added to his abilities and levels was the blessing. The Lightherald was quite frank about it once formalities were done.

“No less than His Majesty, King Reclis du Marquin, has bestowed it upon me. It is a Royal Skill passed down from generation to generation. I am empowered, as you see Lord Tyrion, by the very nature of dawn and light. My sword blinds my opponents; my armor is enhanced. I am strongest as the dawn breaks and weakest by night, but even at night, the Dawn Concordat’s armies will not be blinded but see by the radiance bestowed and our enemies blinded.”

…So he was bright. Tyrion Veltras suspected the blessing also depended on the level of the [King] and the individual abilities of the Lightherald. The man did not have long to talk, but he did speak overlong about Calanfer’s debt to House Veltras.

“I understand no contract was secured. But His Majesty wishes me to personally assure you it is a debt he considers strong as any pact signed in blood. Calanfer will not forget this deed.”

“I see. I regret that my forces cannot join you on the front. You are bound…?”

The Lightherald’s helmet showed none of his face; not one bit of skin on his entire body. He might not have even been a man. Maybe the voice was faked too.

“For our forces. Ailendamus has sent a great army. Well, now is the hour for my Order, the Thronebearers, to stand as one. I confess, I am eager for the battle. His Majesty did not wish to risk my defeat or capture, so, as shameful as it is, I have waited overlong for battle.”

“I see. Then we will discuss any ties after this war. I would be wary of that army.”

The Lightherald nodded seriously.

“Yet we must go. With the Archmage of Memory, Order of Seasons and Pheislant on our flanks, we may finally concentrate our forces. Kaliv is in danger; I will not tarry. Lord Veltras, it was my honor to meet you.”

He bowed and walked away. It seemed like everyone who saw him, especially Calanfer’s own, were struck with awe and courage.

Tyrion was not. He recognized an aura when he saw it. The blessing also did that. He was pleased to see Jericha eyed the man as she hurried over.

“Lord Veltras. What would you say was the level of the Lightherald?”

Tyrion considered the question.

“…Level 37. Below Level 40, but not weak. With his blessing and armor, he may well be on par with a Named-rank adventurer. A fitting champion for Calanfer.”

“Yes, Lord Veltras.”

Neither one of them said anything else. It would have been improper, because the Lightherald was valorous and seemed true in action or deed.

But Tyrion was glad that Ailendamus struck before the Lightherald got to the frontlines. Because if they had—well.

The Great General of Ailendamus, the General of Ages, entered the war, and Tyrion saw his foe at last. The Lightherald’s force didn’t go to reinforce the Dawn Concordat’s main army.

They became the Dawn Concordat’s main army, and hastened their steps towards Krawlnmak’s Pass, where three [Princesses] of Calanfer were under siege, and a vast army of Ailendamus waited for their foe. Tyrion Veltras closed his eyes when he heard it.

“Tyrion?”

Swey, Buscrei, Pellmia, the [Lords] and [Ladies], all waited on his word. Tyrion opened his eyes.

“It will be there. Strike our camps. Pull every [Soldier]—but do not have them rally. We will establish our modes of attack.”

“Is it wise to commit to the Lightherald’s counterattack, Tyrion? He has to rescue the [Princesses]; we do not.”

Pellmia was worried. Tyrion just shook his head.

“The bulk of the Dawn Concordat’s army is there. They have lost once, and every [Soldier] Calanfer and Gaiil-Drome can send will join them. If they are routed, there will be no army for us to fight with. Our goal is simple: slay the Great General of Ailendamus.”

Do that and the Kingdom of Glass and Glory would lose too much. If the Dawn Concordat won, Tyrion was in position to bargain. If they lost? Then Ailendamus would keep them.

So the [Lord] of House Veltras rode after the Lightherald. That was his battle, and for once, his mind was clear.

No thoughts of Ryoka. Or Sammial or the future of marriage.

He had to focus. After this battle…everything could happen or nothing. So for once, Tyrion Veltras sat forwards in his saddle. He devoted his all because he felt that [General] waiting for him.

A worthy foe. And because, for the first time, Tyrion felt that uneasy feeling of being…outlevelled; he remembered the last time he had felt so.

Facing the Goblin King and his armies. It was an unpleasant feeling, so Tyrion turned to Jericha.

“We will make arrangements in case I should fall.”

“They have already been made, Lord Veltras. If you should fall…we are ready. I have appointed Ullim with the task.”

Jericha met his gaze, and it was clear that she thought if he fell, she would be dead. Tyrion shook his head slowly.

“If I should fall, you flee, Jericha. And if that happens…it is a selfish thing.”

He looked up and thought it was. But perhaps Pellmia would approve because if that happened, Tyrion was dead. Jericha looked at him sharply.

“Why would I flee, Lord Veltras?”

“To deliver my amended will.”

The [Lord] of House Veltras smiled as he looked ahead for the one thing he knew. The one thing he could offer this world. The one thing he was good at. It was not raising his sons, and that was something he realized he regretted with all his heart. So. He turned to Jericha.

“If I should die, you live. And ask…ask Ryoka Griffin to help raise them.”

He left her behind in dead silence as Tyrion rode. He spoke as he looked ahead.

“Raise the banner of House Veltras. Every enchanted weapon is to be unveiled. This battle will be the pivotal moment in this war. To arms! For House Veltras!”

He rode ahead, lance raised. Feeling as free as a butterfly.

Until—

He heard Ryoka Griffin’s name on the wind.

8.70 E

Chess fact. On Earth, the queen-piece used to have the ability to move like a knight-piece in ‘L’ directions. Her ability to do this was removed by people who objected that a queen shouldn’t have the powers of a knight.

Also, possibly because her abilities made her too powerful. Chess, as a certain [Innkeeper] could have told anyone willing to listen, had evolved in the very rules of the game.

That wasn’t the interesting fact. The interesting fact was that Earth’s chess game had once had a super-queen.

And this world’s chess game had evolved too, which would have fascinated both the [Innkeeper], a certain Fraerling [Strategist], and almost anyone else who heard of that.

The difficulty of a balanced game was such that the chess board had gone back to the original. But other boards had been designed and subsequently lost.

Larger boards. Experimental 4-player battlegrounds. Entirely new pieces.

The [Mage] and [Bishop] pieces were largely synonymous, but some boards introduced the Archmage piece, which could teleport to any square not under threat by another piece like a coward, a clear insult to Wistram.

In the same way—there used to be Dragon pieces. Who would occupy a four-by-four square and whose deployment eradicated an entire area of pieces but on delay. The original rules had them breathing dragonfire, even if they were ‘slain’, so a player could preserve their Dragon or use them aggressively.

It was also common to apologize when using the Dragon-piece and congratulate the opponent for taking it out. A styling of higher-level players was to always take the Dragon out with a pawn-piece for maximum insult.

The rules, the customs around the piece, and the naturally oversized impact a Dragon-piece could have on those ancient chess boards were all a nod to the power of Dragons, those eternal meddlers. But the somewhat pathetic way they were used and the rules around them also pointed to another fact.

People really didn’t like Dragons. They were unpredictable, touchy, and worst of all, sometimes, principled.

One particular Dragon had been giving a being named Emerrhain trouble. In lands of the dead and through a mortal vessel, the ___ of magic and secrets was at work. Hurrying, rather.

Because he sensed what that fool had done.

Norechl had put a gambit into play that not even the ___ of luck and fortune would have risked. It risked throwing Emerrhain’s own designs into chaos. But first…

Take out the Dragon-piece. It was difficult, and he had opposition. But during periods of confluence, as symbolic as magical, like full moons, he had more influence.

“Write it like that. You have gotten your little wish, Aaron. Now it is my turn.”

A hand shook as Emerrhain concentrated hard. It messed up a straight line, and he made the young man correct it. He had to work to bridge the gaps between points of view. That was how it was for him; other people could not step between that fine line of life and death so easily.

He had to hurry. This was not his land. Kasigna was ruler here, and Norechl had brought a terrible plague into her domain. They might all die.

But still. Emerrhain’s head rose and turned across sea and land from Wistram, where he walked the halls.

They were still climbing. The ghosts of this place stood at the boundary, The Last Tide, transfixed. So, painstakingly, the ___ corrected his project.

He had time. He was even smiling; he had to admit, danger aside? It was a genius move to break the last three continents who held them back. Let the mortal souls tremble.

This game was theirs to win or lose. It just depended on which one won. It was not fair, of course. Some might call it rigged, and Emerrhain might agree to that.

It always had been.

——

“Glorious Calanfer. You know, as kingdoms of Terandria go, it truly is new. Six thousand years. Founded after the Creler Wars. Founded on a Dragonthrone. There are bricks in other kingdoms that are older.”

First fact, now history. Someone mused at the site of the Archmage’s Pass. Or Krawlnmak’s Pass. A choke-point where great battles had been won. But how ‘great’, really?

Calanfer was a young nation. So young that Khelt, which was called new by the Shield Kingdoms, was ancient of days compared to it.

The person speaking had no idea of the name or history. She kicked at a few stones, and her foot passed through.

“Stupid name for a pass. Who was Krawlnmak? Huh? Thronebearers? That’s a terrible name for a [Knight] Order. What, are they supposed to carry the Dragonthrone? Ten thousand of ‘em couldn’t! Might as well call them, uh…The Light Boys and Girls of Calanfer. I don’t know, fuck. It’s a stupid name. And the ‘Lightherald’? Calanfer isn’t about light.”

Her audience was very few in number. Everyone else was transfixed by the horror at the edge of the world, but this woman had a point to make. She slapped her chest, and her gauntlet touched rather resplendent, golden armor.

However, the difference was that her armor was practical. It was made of Truegold, rather than following a motif. Indeed, one gauntlet was stained black, and she still bore the scars she had carried until her last days.

She was not as old as her deathbed moments; few were. But she had decided on her older self. Her mane of light brown hair was rather like a lion’s, but quashed by a helmet. She took it off now.

No red hair of royalty. But one of the resigned men standing by her, tall and austere, dressed in shimmering robes, was wincing at all this criticism. Another [King] with a glowing crown looked exceptionally unhappy—but also nervous as she tried to toss the helmet at him.

“So why the light?”

“I—it seemed fitting for Calanfer’s nature. It was the nation that stood during the Creler wars. Light, dawn, resurgence…”

“Light’s weak. You ever see a [Light Arrow] spell? I could eat them. Thronebearers? It’s about the name. You should have called them, uh—the Crelerbane Order or something.”

“But that implies they would have had to fight Crelers, and the cost in lives—”

“Yeah? So we get fancy [Knights] who can’t wipe their own asses without hurting themselves instead of a bunch of girls and boys who stomp Crelers for breakfast. Wonderful!”

The woman stormed across her small audience. Some of them, all who wore crowns, were [Kings] and [Queens] of Calanfer.

[Princesses] too, and [Princes]. Many, the majority, looked unused to war like this woman clearly was. Some had risen to battle, but most had lived without touching a sword except for ceremonial purposes.

They watched this woman with a kind of stunned horror, but none quite dared contradict her rather pithy insults to their nation. The royalty of Calanfer watched as the woman slapped her chest.

“Look. You did a good job. I said Calanfer should be a smart nation that had lots of cunning and diplomacy. I didn’t say we should forget how to fight. Dead gods, you even got the statues wrong!”

She pointed accusatorily, and the [Kings] of Calanfer, the first four who had reigned after its inception, ducked. The woman moved as if to go back to where the statues were, in the capital.

“It’s wrong. And you know what you got wrong?”

No one wanted to say it. So she slapped her chest.

“Even the ones without armor have breasts. Plural! Whereas I’m pretty sure I had to have one removed from all the Creler-poison! Not that it stopped me from breastfeeding you with one, right, Centis? Eh? Eh?”

Queen Marquin of Calanfer, the famed [Hero] who had rallied Terandria and fought her way onto Rhir, turned and elbowed King Centis du Marquin, the first [King] of Calanfer’s new bloodline.

He covered his face in his hands.

“Mother. Please.”

He had not been the war-queen she had been. Marquin the Radiant’s reputation had been such that even as Centis established Calanfer as a new power, the legend of her had helped his entire reign.

He must have done a bad job, though, because Calanfer had lost some of the mentality from its inception. Certainly the levels and military prowess, as Marquin was pointing out. He, Centis, was thus being punished for his failures, because he had spent six thousand years with his mother in the afterlife.

His regal descendants looked upon Centis and then Marquin as she rubbed her nose in a decidedly warrior-like manner. She turned and spat, and one of the [Princesses] tried to swoon, but unconsciousness was not a boon one received here.

“Cleverness is good stuff, though. Just—with a bit more ability to punch the bastards, okay? If we had actual heirlooms and stuff, we should have said that. I’ve been shouting it for the last four thousand years. Do you think Crelers negotiated? Nope! Not until you were stomping through their brains! Hah!”

She laughed hugely. And her audience reflected that Calanfer had truly gone a different way than their founder.

Or had it? Marquin turned back and nodded at Centis.

“I’m mad you did the two-breast thing, son. What about the time all the Cyclopses…Cyclopi…those one-eyed giants gathered for the last Eye-Meets? Bunch of them stomping around, causing trouble, kicking [Knights] over hills. Someone had to deal with them and get them to stop stealing cattle and pay for stuff.”

“And how did you do that?”

A great, rumbling voice. All the royalty stopped as a vast head rose. Two crimson-scaled eyelids rose, revealing slitted eyes.

A Dragon, red like the very essence of fire, had been napping and listening to the ranting. Now, she seemed mildly interested. She had not known Marquin, but the [Queen] turned to her fearlessly. The Dragon murmured.

“Cyclopes are not weak. Their Eye-Meets were a great threat. My kin would hesitate to disrupt their number, and for all you were the hero of your era, you did not reach the peaks of your forebears.”

That was an insult, and Calanfer’s generations bristled at it. But Marquin just laughed.

“With diplomacy. Their leader said, ‘who are you to stand before us as equals’? And I? I said, ‘I am Queen Marquin of the Single Breast. So we’ve both got one important thing in common!’.”

Dead, horrified silence from the mortals. The Dragon? Her cheeks bulged—and then she and three Giants sitting and waiting for the end started laughing so hard they all fell over. One clung to the small mountains, clutching at his side.

Marquin grinned.

“That was about what they did. I wasn’t as elegant as my descendants apparently were—but I met your kind too, Dragon. They gave me the Dragonthrone as well. I talked down [Barbarian] tribes. I remember the first time I did that. It was just me and their [Chieftains] screaming ‘diplomacy’ at each other and seeing who could do it longest and loudest.”

It was strange. At first, she looked nothing like those who had come after. Until you realized there was something there.

After she had defeated the Crelers, Queen Marquin of Calanfer had put down her sword and raised it only six more times in her life. She had never fought in a war again.

She came to rest and sat, one bushy brown head among mostly reds—dyed or otherwise. The Dragon stopped laughing and regarded Marquin with something like respect. Her voice rumbled as she spoke.

“I begin to see why you earned the respect of the Dragons, what few of them remained.”

Marquin saluted her with one hand.

“I don’t see any of the ones I met. One of them died on Rhir. I saw that myself. But he must have gone to another continent or…”

She glanced towards the shores, and every soul went silent. The six enemies were out there. And worse was yet coming. Yet Marquin just sat cross-legged, hands on her knees.

“Shame. The Dwarves are all elsewhere, yeah?”

“Their descendants remain. But yes. They gathered elsewhere. I am an emissary of Baleros; they are there. We may see them yet before the end.”

The red Dragon murmured. Marquin sighed. She looked again towards the edge of the world.

“Part of me wants to see what’s coming. I feel a terrible pull, but I yanked the rest of you away to sit here.”

She had resisted that urge for two reasons. Even the Giants and Dragon had not, but Queen Marquin now grew somber as all listened.

“I felt that pull just once. As a mortal woman, when even the oldest Crelers died. I’m told I’m not the greatest who’s ever lived, but a greater gathering of heroes and stories never was seen while I lived. We took back Rhir, and the Crelers formed small mountains of corpses. Then, as the others planned to build a kingdom to stop this from ever happening again, some of the adventurers and heroes—even an Archmage—decided to descend into that darkness. To find the root of it all and tear it out.”

Her audience listened. Marquin’s lips twisted.

“We were warned not to. That strange [Bard] of the insects and the others told us it would be our deaths. I listened. I felt that call and left Rhir and never returned. In doing so, I saved my soul.”

She shuddered and looked across the flat deadlands. Marquin went on, after a moment. She was a warrior who had become a diplomat, and that was what her descendants had taken. Grown overly proud, lost their way. But she looked at them all with a grandparent’s pride. Stern pride, judging them, but still.

“They made a nation, the Blighted Kingdom, over a trap. And I’ve heard they too lost their way. But I will not rise and leave Terandria’s shores, even to see the end. Or go to Rhir. Until such time as I can hurt my foe…”

She clenched one helpless hand. All her levels and strength were useless against her foes here. The six.

She turned to Centis, to the others, shamefaced.

“I should have told you to covet the relics of Terandria. To build power such that it could be wielded even in death. I did not know such foes waited for us here. After I was named [Queen] and given a nation to rule, I laid down my sword. Men. Women. Half-Elves, dogs, even ‘monsters’ like Goblins and Cyclopes. After Crelers, I saw nothing I could call a foe. I had no desire to kill anything.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Now, I feel it again. A true foe of the world, like Crelers. Yet here I sit, as a new nation invades my own. A pointless war; unable to tell my descendants how to fight or where the enemy lies.”

Her head bowed, and her voice grew quieter.

“It is a small thing. Calanfer. No great kingdom. Six thousand years old. By all accounts, pettier than it should be. Not one Lightherald named to champion the ‘Eternal Throne’ has ever matched me. Increasingly scrawny [Kings] and [Queens] and [Princesses].”

Indignant glares, but no one dared interrupt. The Dragon listened as Marquin sighed. Then her head rose, and the [Queen] looked around. Marquin the Radiant gazed solemnly at the land and smiled.

“…Yet I made this. The last Dragons bequeathed their throne to me as a sign of respect. This was blasted land after the Crelers ravaged it, and yet—six thousand years a nation has stood that I founded. For better or worse. I must see how it ends.”

She smiled proudly. And every ghost of Calanfer bowed their heads to her, even the Giants.

Predictably, the female Dragon did not, but she thoughtfully fanned her wings and looked at Marquin. Then she gave a regal nod and spoke as the [Queen] looked at her.

“We are kin, then, in purpose, Queen Marquin. I too have come here to face my end. I wish to see how something…someone I knew meets his destiny.”

The [Queen] nodded, and the Dragon and she stood there, waiting for the newly-dead to tell them news of the present. For Marquin of Calanfer, she waited here at this pass to see whether her beloved nation would fall to Ailendamus’ advance.

The Dragon? She waited for a name, a false name, but one that she knew. She had followed him across the sea, from Izril to Wistram, chasing rumors. Of Eldavin. Or Teriarch.

Lord of Flame.

——

Archmage Eldavin, the Archmage of Memory, looked like a half-Elf modeled after some ancient statues of Earth. He had, to those sculptors, the idealized form. Symmetry in face, strength of body, even though his hair was white.

It was an illusion, and even Eldavin knew it.

“The physical form can be changed. I, clearly, altered my own appearance to best suit my needs. You see, there are [Mages] and schools of thought like the esteemed Grimalkin of Pallass that prioritize the body. Shapeshifting. Bodily alteration. That does intersect with [Alchemists] and other classes of shapechangers, but we can do it with magic! Some may consider it a side-path to true magic, and that is fair. But it is possible.”

He wondered what his original face looked like. He didn’t know.

His audience, of course, was hanging on every word. From Magus Telim to Sa’la, who waved a hand.

“Archmage Eldavin. Would a Selphid be able to change into another form…?”

Eldavin pondered the question.

“To a Human, for instance? Of course. But the most obvious change would be to something of smaller mass like a beaver or whatnot. Selphids have less bodily mass, so it would be harder. I would imagine the difference is a Level 20 [Shapeshifter Mage] transforming into a squirrel. A Level 40 one becomes a Human.”

His audience looked at each other. No Level 20 [Mage] in all of Wistram could just…transform. But that was Eldavin’s standard, and he knew it was right.

He had seen it. But where?

The half-Elf did not know, and the things he did not know increased the more he tried to find out one concrete thing he did know. He continued his lecture.

“I believe the basis of magic that is lost is the ability to alter one’s own magical nature. Or others.”

“Archmage! No one can just alter someone’s mana from afar! Even [Necromancers] need touch.”

A [Mage] protested, and Eldavin pointed at her.

“You are wrong. It can be done. Touch makes it easier by far; willingness likewise. But how else would someone transform an enemy into a squishable frog? It is possible. Now, I am going to give you a basis of the concept, and if I hear ‘no one can do this’, or ‘impossible’, or ‘never been done’, I will eject you from the class. At altitude.”

The threat quelled most voices, but what also did the trick was Eldavin’s confidence. And the fact that he could do what he was talking about.

The age of legends walked among mortal [Mages], dispensing magics as he pleased. Small wonder he had created the largest faction in Wistram practically overnight. Eldavin was more knowledgeable than all the Archmages combined. He stood on the platform of hardlight as it floated across the road.

Below, the students riding along or using spells to follow stared up in awe. Travellers looked up at a platform a hundred feet by a hundred feet made of beautiful light as solid as rock just…floating overhead. A pedestal from which Eldavin could see, talk, and sleep if need be while they headed to their destination.

Around them, armored figures flew. Some did loop-de-loops or flew high; others were wary of such extreme movement, but even if they slammed into the ground at speed, the enchanted armor kept them safe. A few tried out spells in the air, which sometimes earned them censure if they started fires.

Especially by the wary [Knights] following them. If Eldavin looked left, he could see the Order of Seasons and Ser Greysten, the Summer’s Champion, keeping pace with Eldavin’s faction.

They just watched, in a kind of awe, as the Archmage of Memory advanced into Ailendamus’ territory and taught magic at the same time.

Awe and wariness. Eldavin was no fool. He knew he was making possible enemies with his displays of power. He knew that he had a giant target on his chest and that Ailendamus would not take this lying down lightly. He knew his fellow Archmages would conspire against him.

Yet he didn’t care. Eldavin had so little time. So he spent every moment of it leaving behind…sparks.

Why do I feel this way? He touched at his heart absently and waited.

“The fundamentals of altering your mana is changing the very quality of your magic. [Elementalists] do it…the [Icebody] spell is a good place to start if you can cast it. Shapeshifting is that idea taken to an extreme. You have to know the form you wish to embody and lock it into place. That’s essential. If it wavers once, you waver, turning into some kind of agonized puddle of flesh will not be pleasant. And that is the best scenario.”

His students blanched, and Eldavin heard it at last.

Lub…dub…

He had spoken for over half a minute. His fingers had felt only warm flesh. Then—

His heart beat.

Once.

Eldavin was no biological expert, although he could have probably taught that too given the standards in this world. But he was fairly certain your heart beating about twice-per-minute was a bad thing.

Something was happening. After the last—incident—Eldavin had realized his heart was slowing down. He could still move, his blood circulated, as if it were being pumped, but his heart had changed.

What is wrong with me?

Sa’la was in the audience of [Mages] and watching Eldavin carefully as the others tried his lesson. She alone knew what was going on, and Eldavin intended to keep it this way. He could not afford to show weakness.

But he had to know what was going on. So Eldavin cast every spell he could think of.

[Memory Search]. [Annie’s Contemplation of the Mind: Ryoka Griffin]? [Annie’s Contemplation of the Mind: Magic, No, Blast It, That’s Too Generic]. [Annie’s Contemplation of the Mind: Identity]. [Crystalized Thoughts]. [Superior Analysis: Self]…

Annie was a [Mage] who had once delved deep into the realms of mental magics. Hence the name. Not everyone was named…Thresk. Or Az’kerash.

Eldavin knew there were holes in his memory. He knew something was wrong. But what, exactly, still eluded him. The thing was—

What he did remember was confusing too.

——

“[Beam of Fire].”

A beam-spell blasted from Eldavin’s finger, hit a tree, and everything along the line of fire exploded. Eldavin raised a finger as Ser Greysten watched.

“That is a classic Tier…5 spell? Tier 4 if you reduce the effects. A simple beam of fire. The problem is, it is eminently dodgeable. Slower than a regular arrow. [Mages] unused to combat would use that. Of course, the Albezian school of magic changed that completely. Now consider this. [Thresk’s Seekers]!”

He fired six short beams of magic that wove through the air like hungry snakes. They even had a motif like that; instead of a boring beam of blazing fire, they transformed into writhing serpents of fire which attacked, curving towards their foe and following the little pigeon of light Eldavin conjured as a target.

“Seeking, diffusion of the magic, and far more varied. Warmage Thresk pioneered this magic along with the other Albez [Mages] in a brief renaissance. Among them were the [Temporal Mage] Udatron, the [War Mage] Thresk, and the [Knight of Spells], Siza. If acceptable, I would prefer to grant your Order, or rather, this Season of Fall about fourteen spells you can copy and use in battle.”

The Summer’s Champion looked at Eldavin. The Archmage of Memory folded his hands behind his back as Greysten thought.

“That…would be extraordinarily kind, Archmage. You mean—spell scrolls?”

“No, I mean the spells themselves. Spell scrolls? Young man, I believe we all are aware this war might be difficult. It is a shame only your [Autumn Knights] can cast magic, but if they can all cast a Tier 5 spell, it will be for the better, don’t you agree?”

The Summer’s Champion looked at Dame Voost and Ser Zulv, two of the most senior [Knights] in his Order. One of the Fall Knights was trying not to punch the air and throw up their hands in delight.

Would it be for the better if every Knight of Autumn could cast a Tier 5 spell? Greysten thought about it.

Well, yes. And it would also make the Season of Autumn, whose value to the Order of Seasons was often academic, not only the most useful faction outside of combat, but arguably the most useful group in battle too.

His code of honor was such that Greysten refused to bring up the sting to his pride, so he just bowed.

“That would be a great boon, Archmage.”

…What do you want for it? But the half-Elf, who was actually taller than Greysten and looked as physically fit, just nodded.

“Excellent. In that case, I will scribe the teaching scrolls…tonight. I apologize, but I am managing too much. Would it be acceptable if I forwarded the spells to you at dawn? Or I can send them to your Fall’s Sentinel if teleportation isn’t off-limits in your keep.”

Greysten had just been fighting for his life against the Dame of the Hills two days ago. He had realized that the Order of the Hydra and Ailendamus were a greater threat than he had previously thought and had been prepared to lay his life down to win their safety. Rabbiteater’s daring charge had barely, barely let them regroup, yet the Order of the Hydra had been pressing them hard, and Greysten had been holding out for reinforcements.

They had come, but not from Pheislant or Knight-Commander Calirn or the Winter’s Watcher. Instead, Eldavin and his faction had appeared and calmly blasted the entire army that had held the Season of Summer at bay into flight in less than twenty minutes.

Greysten was a bit peeved about that. It devalued the sacrifices of his people. And yet—

That was Eldavin. So the Summer’s Champion just bowed again as Eldavin smiled benignly. What Greysten noticed, but put down to something else or his imagination, was the slight…reddening of Eldavin’s cheeks.

——

Eldavin was embarrassed.

He was mortified.

Eldavin was ashamed, and he was relieved the [Knight] didn’t comment on his blush. The half-Elf didn’t know why until he thought about it, but that interaction was emblematic of the mystery that was him.

He was embarrassed, but it took the half-Elf a few minutes of striding about to figure out why.

He was embarrassed because he was teaching Warmage Thresk’s magic?

Yes! If he thought about that, the embarrassment definitely came from that. But why? It was good magic. It did the job.

It was intensely embarrassing to teach this no-name [War Mage]’s magic. Someone who was not a truly famed mage.

But why, then, do I know it?

That question unlocked a door in Eldavin’s memory. Understanding. And with that—he understood more of himself.

Ah. I learned Thresk’s magic and Albez’s magic to tell Ryoka Griffin. Because it was so important to her, I was going to tease her about it.

I regard this magic as inferior because it is just ‘new’ magic that are copies of older spells already invented. Albez was no true renaissance. Everything they discovered and created was a reinvention of the old.

I learned this information recently. I know spells that date back tens of thousands of years. This is nothing to me.

Who am I?

It hit him, and he almost fell over. A sudden realization that came with the context. Yes! Yes, he had memorized that and put the knowledge in him just so he could make topical conversation with Ryoka Griffin about that door or the adventurers.

But that wasn’t the important thing. The important thing was realizing he knew spells that old. No…not just knew.

He had been there when they were new. Therefore, he was old. So old this half-Elf’s body, as old as it looked, wasn’t nearly a reflection of him unless he had used time magic to preserve it. Had he remade his body?

Was he a half-Elf or something else?

The first clue in the puzzle came to Eldavin as Telim ran up to him. Eldavin was distracted.

“Not now, High Mage. Unless someone’s transformed their stomach into teeth, I am busy—”

“Grand Magus! There’s been a disaster at Wistram! Archmage Amerys is free and…”

Eldavin turned and heard about Trey Atwood’s escape. That hurt him more than anything else.

The betrayal was too…familiar. It cut deep because it was a fresh cut on top of countless old wounds. Eldavin understood that Amerys was free but took a better view of it than anyone else.

“She has little reason to oppose me. The casualties and loss of Earthers are regrettable, but we got most of what was valuable. If anything—this will highlight the fact that Fissival and the Drowned Folk are opposed to us. We have been too tight and grasping, as I said. Perhaps this will also motivate Wistram to do something about the King of Destruction.”

The [Mages] were aghast.

“But Archmage! Nailihuaile is dead! The Quarass of Ger stole a relic and…”

Ah. Eldavin hesitated. The Star Lamia was dead. He cleared his throat.

“Archmage Nailihuaile’s death is regrettable, of course. As for the Quarass?”

He found himself about to blush again. Why?

Because he knew the Quarass. And she had been under his nose? Yes, she was an amalgamation of souls as ancient as most beings.

But how embarrassing! And he’d taught her like she were some child.

When next we meet, she will never let me live this down.

When next we meet? I knew her of old. When she was new.

How old am I?

——

He realized that if he had failed to recognize the Quarass, she had failed to recognize him. Because they had met. The fact of that memory was clear.

But she didn’t know Eldavin. Ergo, she did not know me. I remember meeting her as I am. But who…

He didn’t know who it was, but he recalled looking down at the Quarass as a grown woman. The memory was fragmented, fuzzy. But it spoke to a growing conclusion in Eldavin.

He sent rapid [Message] spells to restore what order he could in Wistram. The other Archmages were panicking, and all three were trying to get him to do something.

…What, exactly? Fly off and face a [Pirate Captain] on a famous ship and an Archmage and this Gazi of Reim at sea?

Eldavin was too busy! For one thing, he had decided that the [Mages] of his faction and the children in armor would advance with the Order of Seasons—but carefully.

“The Pride of the Wellfar is coming up the coast. However, I imagine that if Ailendamus sends any kind of proper fleet, they will flee.”

“Flee?”

Ser Greysten was patently incredulous. Eldavin flicked his fingers.

“Tactically withdraw or however you would like to put it. Even if they are a Citadel-class warship, they are alone. Pheislant must support them. Or we need more ships! If your Order of Seasons is truly advancing up the main road, you could well push into Ailendamus from the west. My [Mages] are not yet ready for battle, but our [Magearmor Soldiers]—”

“Is that their class?”

Eldavin shrugged.

“Among others. There appears to be nuance in how some regard their armor.”

Like the Earthers. Eldavin went on blithely, ignoring the looks from Greysten and the other commanders.

“—I place under your capable commanders, Ser Greysten. I suggest you appoint one of your most senior [Knights] to ensure not one of them is lost. Commit them to strikes and withdrawals; they can be captured or killed if surrounded. Perhaps your Dame Voost?”

She seemed like a high-level, careful leader. Greysten hesitated.

“Not you yourself, Archmage?”

The half-Elf gave him a calm smile.

“I am no war leader. I could fill the role, but my time is better served elsewhere. I will contact The Pride of the Wellfar and coordinate its advance. Then—we will truly push Ailendamus.”

Thus far, he had not actually fought in more than one battle. But Eldavin considered that his contribution to the war was more than spellcasting. He’d get to that, but uniting opposition against Ailendamus?

That was how you won wars. So he stepped out of the war tent as Greysten hurried out.

“I will be back by…oh, supper? I would be very grateful if you taught my Magearmor candidates to avoid being captured. Perhaps some self-defense techniques? They are relying on their armor too much, but I can well envision them being roped or captured or simply someone hitting them with a sufficiently large hammer. They are drunk on power. Which is expected. Thank you, Summer’s Champion. Now—[Fly: Speed of the Swallow].”

And he took off. The Summer’s Champion’s jaw dropped as Eldavin spread his arms and took off, faster than any ordinary man or woman on a horse. As if it were the easiest thing in the world.

Too easy. He didn’t belong in this era. Eldavin was coming to an unfortunate realization. Obvious, really.

He was not a half-Elf. So who was he? The unhappy Archmage began piecing it together with the facts.

I have no class or levels. My magic is ancient. The half-Elf falsehood, the white hair, all these people I’ve met and my fragmented memory—it must have been after Cognita hit me. But I know who I might be. It’s obvious.

My enmity with the Necromancer? Where I was hiding in Izril? Oh no. Oh dear.

I’m a Unicorn.

He hated that conclusion. But it made sense. The white hair was a dead giveaway. Not to mention the long life? The superior spellcasting?

Actually, his reaction made Eldavin suspect that was the wrong conclusion, so he ran down the list. Some of the things he could be were rather…well. He needed proof. And Eldavin actually suspected he knew at least two people who knew what he was.

Ryoka Griffin and Magnolia Reinhart.

But one was captured and the other was curiously silent. She had talked to him, but something about their conversation had changed matters. Yes, Magnolia was under siege in Oteslia, but he knew the girl. She could conduct any clandestine conversation she wanted.

That she was refusing to talk to him meant—she suspected something was wrong with him.

He hoped she didn’t do anything rash. Eldavin was sure he was acting in accordance to what he would normally do. Was reviving Wistram, fighting a foe like Ailendamus, not what he would do?

Surely it was. Eldavin was still on the Unicorn thing, though. The thought unearthed another memory.

More and more, he was convinced he had somehow partitioned his mind into chunks and dumped information into the parts he could access. That was almost as stupid as what Valeterisa had done, and he had no idea why he would do something that stupid.

Unless it was an accident caused by a Truestone Golem punching him, which was a valid reason for most magical things to go wrong. Or…

He had a bad feeling, but Eldavin just wrote it on the list of hypotheses. For now—Unicorns. What did he know? Eldavin’s spell collected the data.

[Annie’s Contemplation of the Mind: Unicorn].

There is still a Unicorn living on Izril…at least there was last I checked, twelve years ago. Odds are he is still alive.

The last living Unicorn of the Vale Forest is a Valesian-trained duelist, adept at war magic and sword…hornplay? Which is an unfortunate choice of words because he is also exceptionally randy.

Which is a word I will never use. But he has sired children among horses, such that his offspring sometimes appear in stables with superior qualities, much to the mystification of those trying to figure out the breeding stock.

I have no idea about young, virginal women not of the horse variety. One would hope…not.

I regret remembering this.

Eldavin’s factoids and remembered information was regrettably specific at times. The Archmage slowed as he passed the coastline. Swallows flew fast, especially when you cast [Haste] on them.

But he did slow, mainly because he sensed about two dozen hostile spells suddenly targeting him—and these were of a caliber such that he actually respected them. Eldavin cast [Loud Voice] and spoke.

“I am Archmage Eldavin. Here to parlay with Etril Wellfar! May I come aboard?”

A vast ship was sailing off the coast, and The Pride of The Wellfar slowed. Eldavin saw a figure stride out onto the deck and confer with a crowd, but brush them aside.

Etril Wellfar was not someone he knew at all, Eldavin was sure. But his research into the man had told him his personality was amenable to this sort of thing.

Sure enough—Eldavin was landing and taking Etril Wellfar’s hand as the [Lord] looked him up and down.

“Salt of the seas. You are an [Archmage] of old.”

The half-Elf smiled.

“Accept no inferior copies. And you are the only Wellfar daring enough to bring this great vessel to sea. Wellfar never made a name for themselves cowering in their ports.”

Etril’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he decided to take it as a compliment rather than an insult.

“What can we do for you, Archmage of Memory? I didn’t look to meet with you. Truth be told, I was dismayed you were in Pheislant. It means there’s less use for The Pride here.”

He wanted to attack Ailendamus, and his ship could certainly threaten hundreds of miles of coastline—but nothing inland, certainly not where the Dawn Concordat was fighting. The frustration on Etril’s face was plain; since the Terras faction had appeared, there wasn’t even any real need for his support with the Order of Seasons.

Eldavin nodded in agreement to all of this.

“Indeed not. And I suspect that when Ailendamus sends a fleet, you will wisely retreat. The Pride of the Wellfar cannot be lost. Let alone if the Taimaguros Dominion enters the conflict.”

The young Wellfar didn’t bother hiding his glower.

“If you could magic a fleet up, we’d risk it, but you are right. No one sails into a war without an escort, Archmage. Pheislant has good ships of its own, but I cannot…risk…them sailing in close proximity with my ship.”

Just in case Pheislant decides it wants a relic-class ship of old. It was understandable paranoia, but it tied the man’s hands. Same for Nadel, even if you could convince Nadel to enter the war. Or Desonis.

Eldavin had considered all the nations near Ailendamus, and that was separate from his meeting with Etril here. He nodded to all of this.

“Well reasoned. I am glad to see you are a practical [Captain]. I have a proposed solution to your problems.”

“Go on, Archmage?”

The [Lord] was not one to take anyone—even an Archmage—lying down, and his annoyance at being talked down to slightly, let alone accosted on his own ship, was politely suppressed. In a way, Eldavin liked that more than Greysten’s carefulness. Or perhaps it meant the Summer’s Champion was even more wary of Eldavin, given his reputation as an honest, straightforward man.

Either way, Eldavin didn’t care. Unicorns, Thresk…there was a growing certainty in his mind. He had his hand on his heart, absently, as he spoke.

I am running out of time.

I should leave. This is dangerous.

That certainty was in him. And that was his true feeling. But at the same time, Eldavin thought differently.

But I cannot abandon Ryoka Griffin. I will repay this Duke Rhisveri his insult.

There it was. The dissonance. There were two parts of him, warring. One wanted to—leave. To disavow Terras, to vanish. This part of him, the part that felt awake and alive, told him to continue. To make magic shine bright.

To live.

He obeyed the latter’s call. So he turned to Etril, smiled benignly, and produced…a contract scroll. The [Lord] squinted at it.

“What’s this, now?”

“Oh, merely a magical contract. Not a blood-contract, but it can be signed by a proxy of the Wellfar family. I don’t wish to fly all the way to Izril or teleport. It gives me gas. Would you, Lord Wellfar, please contact House Wellfar for an immediate consultation? I would like to hire them to enter this war. I am prepared to sell you a monopoly on weather magic.”

Etril Wellfar looked at Archmage Eldavin, then uttered a faint curse as someone squeaked. Eldavin just smiled, eyes shining bright, mismatched heliotrope and cerulean.

He had gold if Wellfar were so crass, but he suspected selling them spells beyond the pale of any academy—that might do nicely too. Eldavin had been very displeased to learn how little money he had, so he’d been rebuilding his fortunes.

The nice thing about being the undisputed master of magic was that everyone was a buyer. Eldavin turned to someone—another [Lady] of Wellfar? Yes, he read her class.

“Ah, young woman. I forget myself. While Lord Etril is setting up the call—I believe gifts are very customary.”

Sea gifts for goodwill and all that, even if negotiations fell through. Eldavin produced a beautiful scroll made of bright, sky-blue paper, frayed at the edges purely for cosmetic effect, and bound by a golden string. He handed it to her with a flourish.

“What is this, Arch—”

She choked as she took it, stumbled, and nearly fell overboard. Two [Sailors] had to grab her and keep her from going over the railing. Eldavin polished his nails on his robes as Etril whirled. Yes, truly gratifying.

A lesser, more unhelpful [Mage] would have made adventurers’ lives difficult by not writing the spell on the scroll. Well, in this case, Eldavin suspected any adventurer who found this scroll would take it to an [Enchanter] first. Then try to copy it, but scribing a temporary scroll wasn’t like teaching someone magic. It was possible for a true expert to reverse-engineer it, but he’d sell it to Wellfar too if they sent, oh, twenty ships to battle?

The scroll Eldavin had so casually handed the young [Deckhand Lady] had a simple word written on it in plain language:

[Flight].

Eldavin beamed at the expressions of those around him and began to say that if they would like proof that was a genuine scroll, he was happy to enchant anyone for a test-run. But the words never came out.

Lub…dub?

His heart beat once. Eldavin collapsed.

——

When Eldavin woke up, it was in Etril’s personal cabin. He sat up and felt it.

The connection wavered.

That was it. There was something that had bothered Eldavin from the start. His weak mana supply for someone with his magical ability. The sense that this entire body was artificial.

Because…it was.

“I am quite alright, Lord Wellfar. I overexerted myself, and it is age more than anything. You can see why I need House Wellfar to enter this conflict, yes?”

He carefully lied as he assured the [Lord] all was well. Eldavin swanned into the meeting with Wellfar’s seafaring nobility and took two damned hours in getting them to agree to enter the war.

Two hours!

Heh. Two hours and one of the Five Families sent thirty ships to sail with Pheislant against Ailendamus. Nadel, Desonis—every nation in Terandria had to be counting the odds.

Eldavin declined Etril’s offer to drop him off anywhere. He flew back to the Order of Season’s camp and enjoyed the expressions of the [Knights] there. Ser Greysten just looked at him.

“House Wellfar has declared their part in the war against Ailendamus, Archmage. Supporting House Veltras. Did you arrange that?”

“Politics, Ser Greysten. Politics. A word in someone’s ear—this is proper Wistram politics. Direct, efficient—take notes, all of you!”

Eldavin beamed at the other [Mages] in his faction and felt buoyant.

Enjoy it while it lasts.

His smile flickered out, and he frowned. Greysten, watching him, saw the Archmage feel at his chest.

“Archmage Eldavin? Do you want to speak now? About anything?”

Sa’la hurried forwards. The Selphid [Herbalist] looked at Eldavin intently, but she was surprised when the half-Elf turned to her with a calm smile.

“No, Sa’la. I believe I am as well as can be. Thank you.”

She stared at him, patently confused. But Eldavin had figured it out.

——

That night, Eldavin drew a complex magical circle and tried to check the quality of his connection to his real body.

Not in the camp. He flew to a hill, cleared the area, and spent nearly an hour setting up a complex monitoring spell trying to backtrace, well, his magic.

He’d done a devilishly good job. Well done, Eldavin. The half-Elf spent the next four hours cursing himself and kicking rocks and hopping on one toe before casting [Stoneskin].

Even knowing what was happening, he could barely tell that he was being connected to something. But it was that which was causing all these irregularities.

Not him. In fact, Eldavin realized his mana supply was just based on his own, fake body! He had created…this half-Elf’s body and imbued it with enough power to go toe-to-toe with an Archmage with the right cunning. While his main body had…how much power?

Who am I?

What was clear was that the link had not been made for this range and possibly had been damaged by Cognita’s punch. Damn that Golem! Worse, Eldavin couldn’t figure out what was wrong. It was like being in a bottle and trying to fix a crack from the inside. He found a few broken links in the spell he could mend but knew there was only one way to fix it.

However, the fact that he did have a body—elsewhere—made him feel curious. Ryoka must know who he was. And Magnolia.

Was he…a Dryad? No, no. He hated earth. Damn bugs. Then again, Dryads didn’t like bugs eating their roots either.

Was he some kind of Djinni? Very possible. Eldavin disliked Roshal and the idea of chains. Maybe the last Jinn? But he didn’t feel a burning desire for vengeance. Maybe he’d suppressed it?

A Ki’rin of Drath? He spoke quite fluent Drathian! All the dialects. In fact, Eldavin stopped kicking stones to take a brief call.

“Hello? Hello? Who is this? I am Archmage Eldavin, and I’m quite busy—”

Then he realized who it was and adopted a quite different tone. And different language, and realized he was fluent. After introductions and a quite lengthy conversation, he found himself speaking to—

“(Your Eminence of Drath, I apologize for the delay. I am Archmage Eldavin. What?)”

He hesitated.

“(…Yes, that spell was indeed used by me. I, ah—yes, the sword. A beautifully constructed spell which I assure you was employed only in the most dire need. 剑圣 – 心火之刃, indeed.)”

He didn’t often sweat, and the conversation was very polite, but the edge in the speaker’s voice, the ruler of all of Drath—or what remained of it—made Eldavin sure that a wrong answer might end up with a nation as fearsome as Khelt on his back.

And the problem was—

“(I am permitted to use that spell, Your Eminence. With the utmost respect, my knowledge of it is answer enough. That you do not know this individual of Archmage Eldavin is of little consequence. Who, may I ask, would be permitted to use such magic? Who has ever been granted that right?)”

The silence was telling. It was a careful move from Eldavin. If he got an answer, then he knew who he might be.

Otherwise? Drath’s [Emperor] was not keen on revealing the list of names who had been granted access to a spell that was literally locked to those permitted to use it.

The rough translation was [Sword Saint: Edge of Heart’s Fire]. A spell of such magnitude that being granted access to it was a right that could pass from generation to generation, a spell in the form of an heirloom.

But who had Eldavin been, to win the right to it?

Well, the call was abrupt. The [Emperor] was in a tetchy mood. Interestingly, he asked Eldavin one more question in his native tongue rather than rely on the speaker. Which meant it was personal and he wanted no one else to hear.

“(Archmage Eldavin. Are you aware of any disturbance around The Last Tide?)”

“(Not at this time, Your Majesty. But I am far from there.)”

Of all the questions—Eldavin did not like when an [Emperor] of a nation sworn to guard against the horrors that came up from there got nervous. He added it to his list of things to do.

Which was…pick up every Tier 7+ spell, fly to the edge of the world, and start chucking them down if he didn’t like what he saw.

There were so many things he could do, and this might revolve around the fate of the world. So why was he…here?

Eldavin touched his chest absently.

Well. Because a young woman he had sworn to protect was captive of Ailendamus.

And he did not abandon those he had sworn to protect.

He knew, somehow, in his heart. Eldavin closed his eyes.

He had never abandoned them. Not once.

The next day, Archmage Eldavin flew into Ailendamus’ territory for war. And he realized something else about himself.

——

If Greysten knew what Eldavin was planning, he would have tried to stop the half-Elf.

If anyone had known Eldavin’s plan, they would have said even Eldavin was cracked in the head.

However, Eldavin knew, somehow, that direct, outrageous attacks sometimes worked. He was aware there was at least one powerful spellcaster on his level in Ailendamus. He had even…lost…a distant battle of control against this Duke Rhisveri, the most probable spellcaster.

However, Rhisveri had been prepared, and Eldavin had been casting off-the-cuff from Wistram. Technically, he hadn’t lost.

Besides, this time, Eldavin prepared for a very simple plan in concept. Only he could pull it off, and if he did—why, he’d resolve any number of problems. No one knew the limits of his power. And this Rhisveri was not an equal to him.

[Bound Spells] were a magic that [Mages] had not lost. It was a simple spell where you prepared something then unleashed it.

Of course, [Mages] had lost a lot of other spellcasting techniques. Not just shapeshifting. They had lost the ability to auto-cast spells. Forgotten a lot of linked magics that combined disciplines.

They could barely create dimensional magics and had almost no grasp on the other dimensions they could access. Time magic? Hah! There was one [Mage] in Rhir who knew how to use time magic. Although Eldavin admitted that time was tricky, even for him. He didn’t mess with the stuff.

He stuck with [Bound Spells] because they were simple, elegant if done right, and he could bind up to a hundred spells, unlike Grimalkin, who could do…two loci. One in each fist. Maybe four. One in each foot too.

Embarrassing.

Eldavin had to admit, he wasn’t playing fair. He muttered as he cast some spells in his tent.

“[Disintegration]. [Siege Fireball], I guess. Er—[Chain Lightning]. What else can I fit in here? Well, if it’s for destruction, maybe [Mass Paralysis]. That will do.”

Carefully, he flexed his pointer finger. Four spells would activate if he pointed and willed it. That was as much as he could get in one finger.

All nine of his other ones waggled. Eldavin frowned.

“Let’s do [Diamondheart] for the girl. Er—[Greater Invisibility]—damn. That’s all. Well, that’ll do for her. Wait, wasn’t there that young [Lord]? Two fingers, then. Maybe double [Diamondheart] on one finger. Yes, that works.”

His plan was just to slap them with a [Teleport] spell and pop them back here. Eldavin had carefully inscribed a runestone, put it on a pillar in his tent, and it would act as a beacon for a [Teleport] spell. No waiting around—just touch and go.

Of course, the other spells were for getting there. Eldavin bound varied spells to each finger, then began muttering more spells.

“[Flight]. [Tenfold Refraction Barrier]. [Greater Invisibility]. [Greater Haste]. [Magic Void]—better surround myself with that. Don’t forget the soles of the feet.”

Everyone forgot the soles of their feet. Eldavin sprang into the air and flew so fast he left a wake. Then he slowed, casting a frictionless spell to get rid of air resistance and hide his trail.

The plan was simple. Fly into Ailendamus, find Ryoka Griffin and Sammial Veltras, extract. He’d get a measure of how good this ‘Rhisveri’ was too.

If he ran into trouble, Eldavin pointed his first finger. If [Disintegrate] didn’t work, that was a problem.

But he hadn’t found many things [Disintegrate] didn’t solve. Eldavin wasn’t in this for innocent deaths, so he didn’t bind something like [Tempest of the Lightning Giant]. But he was ready to obliterate anything he ran into.

On the way, Eldavin would also be scouting Ailendamus’ movements. He had a lot of the nation to cover, even at ridiculous speed, under haste, flying, and without air friction to slow him. He wouldn’t attack any targets and give himself away. He was covert, stealthy, invisible to any Archmage of Wistram.

Even if they all worked together, frankly, Eldavin suspected that he was armed to the extent that he could have killed them all. Amerys was the only unknown factor. With ten fingers he could have killed four Archmages of Wistram.

It was risky, overly daring, and he knew he had just spent time organizing Wellfar’s entry into the war because it was foolhardy to rely on a single hero. But he was also Eldavin. If he had expressed the feeling in his heart in honest terms, it was a simple belief:

There is nothing and no one who is my equal.

So he went after Ryoka to prove that was the case, expecting a confrontation with Duke Rhisveri.

——

The Archmage of Memory got fourteen miles past Ailendamus’ established borders before he nearly died.

It was fast. One second he was flying, humming under his breath and wondering what to have for lunch—but alert!—the next something put a hole in his shoulder.

“How—?”

Eldavin dove as three more bolts missed him. Only a spell pre-programmed to activate had saved his life.

[Time Slow]. It allowed him to twist, and see three more black shards of magic appearing out of nowhere and aiming for him.

Barrier-piercing magic. His spell wore off, and Eldavin dove. He had one chance as his body screamed in agony at him, but he ignored the pain.

They would expect him to dive, cast a defensive spell—and he was dead if he did that. Experience told Eldavin there was only one move.

[Earthshift: Stone Flows Through Me]!

He hit the grass and passed through it. The earth dislodged around Eldavin and rippled as he passed through it like he was entering the water.

Stone, soil, all moved aside for Eldavin. An ordinary mole saw a huge half-Elf pass through his burrow and stared at the super-mole.

Then the mole vanished as a vortex of dark magic swallowed it and everything around it, and more of those deadly bolts of magic struck the earth. They chewed through the ground, only stopping after fifty feet had been vaporized.

Eldavin kept diving. Then he stopped and cast another spell.

“[Displacement]. [Lesser Teleport]. [Clone of Cete].”

An Eldavin lay there, panting, but the genuine article vanished and reappeared fifty feet away and further down. Only then did Eldavin feel the pain and begin healing.

“What hit me? Argh! It’s—”

It was agonizing. Something had blasted through his shoulder where it met his armpit. It had nearly taken his arm off!

Not [Disintegration]. No…Eldavin could think from experience in taking wounds before. An unwelcome realization to know how much he’d been hurt.

This is dark magic. Localized vaporization. They sent a vortex spell after me. I’m up against dark mages. Someone like Depth Magus Doroumata?

No, she was an expert in defensive magic. And she would have blinded him first. Disoriented him.

Eldavin realized the potion wasn’t working. He had to neutralize the dark magic! So he gritted his teeth.

“[Pure Radiance].”

The spell blasted whatever was eating his flesh away, and the healing took. He had top-quality potions he’d made himself, and his flesh knitted. Shaking, Eldavin muttered.

“But what was that? [Replay Memory]!”

He analyzed the attack as he monitored his clone. It wasn’t being attacked. Interesting. Either he had dove too deep or they were setting up traps or searching for the real him.

Eldavin assumed all three. He also got a lot more information as he analyzed the ambush.

Firstly—the magics were not unique to one caster. There were minute variations, but it seemed like he’d been hit by multiple spellcasters, all using the same spell. That was unpleasant enough, but Eldavin realized something else.

“They tossed those spells at me. They’re sniping me from afar!”

They were scrying him and attacking! He was outraged, impressed—and worried at the same time. Firstly, this meant that he wasn’t necessarily up against Rhisveri. But he might soon be if the Duke were alerted.

That was bad because it meant multiple high-grade spellcasters were in Ailendamus. Who? Visophecin? ‘Viscount V’ from the chat?

That they had seen him told Eldavin a few things. He was now sensing cautious probe-spells searching for him. They found his decoy and halted, but one passed through Eldavin as he flinched.

Oh, interesting. There was a pause—then a bolt of magic, eight of them, lanced the clone of Eldavin. The body, filled with holes, collapsed, and the probe spells traced around it, again, passing through Eldavin’s magic.

The Archmage lay there, thinking. That was…very interesting.

He wondered who he was up against.

——

Paxere was excited as she and seven of the Lucifen on ‘guard-duty’ cast more spells.

“Did we get him? Was that it? I thought he was the best Archmage in centuries!”

They were all younger Lucifen, for a given value of ‘younger’. One was the very same Lucifen who had been on duty watching the manor that Visophecin had met. Vultapheles was the oldest and the one who’d sensed Eldavin passing over the border.

Ailendamus might not have. The Lucifen were the primary magical safeguard. Fithea and Rhisveri were both magical geniuses, but the Wyrm’s own protections were closer to the capital.

The Lucifen had far more wide-reaching spells out of paranoia. Even to guard against their own kind.

Indeed, the custom-altered mirror was one Visophecin had personally enchanted to watch for enemies. Even Rhisveri couldn’t hide from it. Visophecin might not have the pure magical power of a full Wyrm, but his expertise was second to none.

As this encounter showed. The eight Lucifen had all been in the manor, having been prohibited from visiting the capital.

Paxere had wanted to do her first ruling, and she had been angry that Igolze and Azemith hadn’t trusted her. They had pointed to some of her interactions with Ryoka as a sign of immaturity.

Well, she had been called upon by Vultapheles and was pleased she had stayed after all. Even if she was young, the Lucifen made sure their children could cast deadly spells. For self-defense.

And for times they might have to go to battle. They were ‘only’ what a [Mage] would classify as a Tier 6 spell.

A Tier 6 spell with the same reputation [Shatterbolt] held at lower levels. A mage-killing, barrier-piercing spell. And the Lucifen had all learned how to remotely cast it.

They’d been surprised by the Archmage’s dive, but they’d found him with location spells and killed him as he tried in vain to heal. The Lucifen had a number of powers, like their ability to gateway to other locations that [Mages] lacked. Their magic required you to know how to counter it or it wouldn’t heal.

“Should we recover the corpse?”

The eight were arguing. None were young—they aged like half-Elves, though they could live forever. So even Paxere was in her thirties. But they had lived through eras of peace, unlike the ‘old’ ones. The old ones remembered the Goblin King, Curulac of a Hundred Days. They had fought him.

Even Paxere could admit—she was glad to have been spared that. Agelum and Lucifen had died, but they had thrown him back at cost. And while her blood was running hot, they were still Lucifen.

“No. Let’s alert Visophecin and the others. Who’s in the manor? The eldest?”

“Ah—Razia?”

The Agelum was no spellcaster, though, so after a moment of hesitation, the Lucifen decided to send a report to the capital. Visophecin might be here in moments, so they relaxed.

And that was their mistake. Their view of the hole they’d cut into the earth never changed, but one of the Lucifen held up his hand.

“Hold on. I think I sense—”

A blaring siren blasted through the manor and the room they were sitting in. All eight Lucifen jumped, and someone shouted.

“Magical attack!”

Razia came blurring into the room, out of her wheelchair, looking for a sword. The Agelum hurt herself with that movement alone; her frail flesh tore, but she moved faster than anyone could believe.

“What’s happening? Where—Vultapheles?”

More Agelum joined her, scaring the [Servants] to bits with their sudden reaction. They looked around, and Razia cursed.

All eight Lucifen had just—vanished. She grabbed the nearest speaking stone and raised the alarm.

——

“Good evening. [Chain Lightning].”

It took him four tries to shatter whatever safeguards they had, but Eldavin did it. The hostile teleportation spell had grabbed no less than eight of the strange young men and women, and brought them here.

He burst out of the ground as they staggered and unleashed one prepared spell to see how they took it. It might kill them, but if they were at all competent, it wouldn’t.

And frankly? Eldavin was angry.

But his opponents had made a few mistakes. Eldavin analyzed them as time slowed, to give him a vantage.

Nobility? They had oddly grey skin. Was that a tail? Not Drake—completely foreign but I feel I should know it. More missing memories? Horns too, but not long.

Strange. They smelled of metal and oil, and their eyes were fairly red.

Some species he had never met. Oh—and they were protected. The lightning cracked around them, and he saw barriers flaring, heard cries of pain.

Then the fight began. Eldavin was ready this time, though.

They had made a few mistakes. Or rather, he realized some things about them.

Firstly—they had a powerful artifact that had seen and detected him. But these eight were not on the level of the artifact. For proof? They had missed him when he dove into the earth, and their individual spells had not located him.

They were dependent on it. And they hadn’t the skill to hide where they were casting from. He had located them, and the magic on them had been strong—

But they were overconfident.

“He’s alive! Kill him!”

“Sound the alarm! Tell Vis—”

“Get to safety, fools!”

They all immediately tried to fire back, and Eldavin dodged a spell. He began flicking spells at them. He didn’t want to kill them.

Not yet. But he changed his mind as the first vortex opened and he nearly went into it.

Their offensive magic is on another level! They might not have nuance, but it was like facing a bunch of children with crossbows. No finesse, no tact or ability to scout—but a deadly weapon.

“[Disintegration].”

Eldavin unleashed the spells on his fingers, and one screamed—but an amulet exploded instead.

And they all have Gold-rank gear or better! Who are they?

Eldavin realized their spells were capable of killing him as the Lucifen realized they were outmatched by the angry Archmage. So they tried to run, and he saw them step into…

What is that? Some kind of portal?

He dove, and the closing portal held itself open as a block of magic inserted itself. Eldavin tackled a young man with all the force of a falling meteor. Then he looked up.

“Ah.”

The sky had just turned black. Dark, like the death of suns. Eldavin looked around and saw only blasted ground. He smelled that scent even more now. Oil and metal. And he realized he had made a mistake.

He was in their area.

Seven figures around him. Eldavin looked up and saw them walking on stairways of magic. They vanished through portals, pointing at him.

The black death spells crisscrossed the air as he threw himself sideways in a blur. Eldavin flew. No more games—

“[Arrows of the Lightning Queen]!”

A three hundred arrow salute shot through the sky, fast as electricity could move. And they—missed—the Lucifen.

She was so fast! Paxere ducked into a portal, appeared on Eldavin’s side, and put a hole in his leg. He roared, and light flashed, blinding the others. His finger turned as he healed himself with a potion.

“Thresk’s idiotic beam!”

This time eight tracers shot from his finger and tried to hit all eight Lucifen. All eight missed.

They tracked their targets peerlessly, but the Lucifen vanished—and reappeared elsewhere.

This area lets them teleport without end. I’ve entered into a place perfect for them.

Eldavin flew. They followed, trying to hit him. He tried to break out.

“[Teleport]. [Emergency Exit]…it has to be a [Dimensional Sh—]. Argh!”

He needed time to cast a proper exit spell, but another spell hit him. Dark magic? No, not this time.

A burning cloud of ash and fire engulfed him. Eldavin blew it apart—and ran into a hail of magma. He screamed, though his protective spells spared him the worst of it.

But he was furious.

Fire? They were trying to burn him? The Archmage whirled.

“[Volcanic Rain of the Ash Giant]!”

——

Paxere did not like fighting for her life after all. Teeth bared, she was poised, dodging the spells coming her way.

This was the Lucifens’ territory, though. The problem was—the Archmage was good. What was saving his life wasn’t just his spells.

They were mostly elemental. He had some kind of penchant for them. As she ducked a meteor of burning ash and fire, Paxere stepped across this battleground and reappeared. She aimed at his back, fired a spell, and he dodged.

What both the Lucifen and Eldavin realized was that the Archmage was a battle-expert. More than spells? More than experience or quick-thinking?

He flew. Even as he cast magic, he was doing a terrain-following maneuver, inches off the ground, whirling around spires of ash, changing course unpredictably. Paxere had never seen anyone fly like that.

“He’s quick! If we had our war forms—”

“Don’t give him anything. He’s seen us. He has to die.”

The other Lucifen were arguing. They would have already left if not for Eldavin seeing their identities. They had to lock him down until Visophecin or one of the others could get here.

They were too weak to kill him, but one shot was all it took, and he couldn’t tag them. The Archmage’s dodging was also limited; if all eight coordinated their shots, even his amazing agility wouldn’t save his life.

He seemed to realize that too. Paxere heard his voice as he created mirror images of himself, weaving across the battlefield.

“Slow. Why is [Flight] slow…children. Children are holding me? Children!?”

He was losing his temper. Another bolt of lightning flashed—[Bolt of the Lightning Giant]. But one of the Lucifen sucked it into a void spell with a laugh.

“He doesn’t have the magic to beat us!”

That was it. Paxere did grin, then. The Archmage was using exceptionally economical spells. His mana supply was weaker than theirs. Mockingly, they began throwing fire at him, such that he was flying into clouds of ash and darkness and fire. Paxere aimed her finger and shot six barbs of darkness into the cloud. She drank a potion and heard him scream in pain. She waited for him to emerge as the other Lucifen threw magic into the cloud.

Then she hesitated. Paxere shaded her eyes as the weakening mana-presence of the Archmage suddenly got…a lot brighter. And she realized.

“Oh no. He’s counter-levelling.”

She was of course—

Wrong.

——

His body had so little mana. Because it was a fake! Eldavin thought he even knew the spell he had cast. He had not intended it for battles.

Any Archmage—even Feor and Viltach—had more mana than him. They had Skills to make spells more efficient than they should be.

He was limited, for all his power. And the fury of being ambushed, the embarrassment of realizing children were besting him, and their mockery?

Eldavin snapped. In his fury, he tapped into something that he had forgotten since fighting Cognita. Like a switch in his mind—a reconnected bridge—he reached for what he knew he had.

He tapped into a well of mana like nothing he had ever felt.

A ______’s magic.

“[Wings of the Phoenix].”

The first spell Eldavin cast created two burning wings on his back. The Lucifen saw something break out of the cloud.

A man with white hair. Two pointed ears, two mismatched eyes. And burning wings of feathers that were made up of glorious flame.

Green fire, molded into a feather. Violet flame, licking at the air of this blasted place. The wings beat, and he shot through the sky. Up—one of the Lucifen licked their lips.

“Should we retr—”

“[Cometfall of the Harpy Queen].”

Valmira’s Comets was a Tier 4 spell. Tier 5 was when you used a storm of them. They flew slowly. They did a lot of damage.

Eldavin’s spell conjured bolts of magic that hit the ground so fast and with such velocity that Paxere tasted blood and found herself staring at the ground before she knew what had hit her. Then she saw Eldavin pointing at her.

“[Wave of Mercury].”

The Archmage’s other finger was pointing under his arm. He was struggling with the vast flow of mana, but he felt it. Power without end. Enough to do—

“[Ten Thousand Spriggan Stakes].”

Fast spells. Nothing complex. Fast spells—but a hundred feet ignited around another Lucifen. A third was aiming at Eldavin when the invisible [Fireball] hit him.

“[Spire of Mud].”

…Four. A burning Lucifen, one ensnared in mud, another fried, and the fourth covered in poisonous metal. The last was diving for a doorway.

“[Aquatic Sinkhole].”

The figure took a step into an abyss of water two thousand feet deep.

Five Lucifen were engulfed by spells, but none of them were killed—even the one covered in poison. They were tough, naturally, with magic, artifacts—and the last three of their kin were protecting them.

But they were still children. All the Lucifen aimed at Eldavin, and he saw their teeth lengthening. Their tails…were they trying to change? He didn’t care. He stood around the five he’d hit and sighed.

They didn’t even see it. Then—Eldavin tapped the ground with one foot. Eight dark spells struck him—

And broke as harmlessly as shadows on his skin. The Lucifen looked at their fingers in fear and sudden trepidation. Then the first one that Eldavin had hit glanced down.

“Oh no. Oh, nononono—”

She was covered in mercury, a metal, and Eldavin stood away from her. Across from her—Vultapheles, burned by the fireball, was getting up.

Next to Paxere and Vultapheles, but still at a roughly equidistant position, was the Lucifen who’d been engulfed in mud, still trying to blast his way out. And then across from him was the hole with the Lucifen engulfed by water. One last Lucifen was trying to heal and tear stakes of wood that had torn her flesh.

A Vampire-killer’s spell.

But think about it. Wood, fire, water, metal, earth…that was a very specific combination of elements. The spell didn’t matter.

But the positioning of all five in a rough pentagram around the Archmage did. And so did the ritual he invoked.

“[Pentagram of the Five Alchemies: Protection].”

All five Lucifen embodying an element felt the magic working on them. Taking—their nature! And their spells were suddenly shadows that bounced off the Archmage.

“Run! Get to the others! Run—r—”

Eldavin looked around as Paxere screamed. She grabbed an emergency artifact and twisted the ring.

The others had done the same. A shimmering set of feathers engulfed all eight. It folded around them, and they began to…vanish? The Archmage’s eyes widened. The spell around him whirled as he pointed.

“[Five Alchemies: Anchorage]!”

The Agelum-made artifact screamed as it met the spell. Paxere shrieked as she felt her entire body pulled back to the safe room by the magic—and her entire being anchored by the spell Eldavin had used, which used her very nature against her. She flickered—the ring exploded—

And she collapsed. Eldavin, panting, saw the dimension he’d entered begin to unravel and the real world appear around him. He looked down at the Lucifen girl and winced.

“That is why you don’t use rings but amulets. Their Viscount is coming. So is that damned Duke.”

He swayed, suddenly exhausted, despite the magic buoying him up. The Lucifen girl was unconscious—and the ring had detonated, taking her finger with it.

“This was a mistake. I didn’t expect—”

Eldavin looked around, and a golden chariot appeared. Eldavin leapt into it, and his fiery wings vanished. The Lucifen girl lay in the back as he took off like a meteor, racing back to safety.

Less than a minute later, six figures stepped out of gateways where the fighting had taken place. Three dark-skinned Lucifen, Visophecin included, and three Agelum. They looked around and found no Paxere or Eldavin.

The air seemed…darker…around Visophecin. He looked around, eyes glowing, and adjusted his suit, which looked like the cloth had been made from something other than mere fabric.

“This will mean retribution. If she is dead—”

Azemith had found a single scorched finger. Igolze stood over it, face blank—but that was only how he looked. Gadrea, Uziel, and the third Agelum who had been at the capital when they got the alert looked at each other.

“It will, Azemith. But hold.”

“If she is dead—”

“He has a Lucifen. Hold your ground.”

Azemith held, and Visophecin nodded.

“Clear the area. Igolze, Azemith, with me. We must speak to Ryoka Griffin. Now.”

The immortals vanished. After five minutes, the ground appeared grassy and normal, and nothing, not even a magical footprint, hinted they’d been there.

——

Archmage Eldavin realized three things after that battle. Firstly, he was an idiot who had rushed in, overconfident of his abilities. Or perhaps…he hadn’t realized who was truly behind Ailendamus’ rise to power.

Because whoever they were—they were on par with true [Archmages].

Regardless, the second point was that whoever he was, he flew. He didn’t fly or move like a fool with [Levitation]—he had flown battlefields.

Third? He now had access to a mana supply that dwarfed even the current Archmages of Wistram. So next time—

Well, next time he’d have the mana to cast any truly powerful spell he wanted.

But the danger was now that Ailendamus was aware of him. Yet he did have a hostage.

Eldavin landed in Wistram’s camp and began casting the highest-level security spells he could, drawing on that mana from his true body without reserve, ignoring the babbled questions. He’d cloaked the girl.

Be safe. Be protected. Even Rhisveri wouldn’t be able to challenge him on his home-turf, with all this magic. But when he left it—he was in danger.

That was the new situation. Eldavin pulled enough magic to cast a Tier 7 ward, and Telim fainted dead away. There was no time to hide it.

It was a tremendous amount of mana. Eldavin knew even his body didn’t have enough to cast Tier 7 spells without reserve. Even the greatest [Mages] he had ever known could cast one Tier 9 spell and then lie in a corner and die for the next three weeks.

How much am I drawing from my body? He didn’t know. He couldn’t feel it. But he pulled as much as he could to keep himself safe.

By the time he was done, an army could have charged him, and he could have walked naked in front of every [Mage] in the Terras faction as they did everything they could and he’d be safe.

That was all Eldavin could do for a temporary fix. But he was…

Afraid. He was up against foes who could kill him, and he suspected—no, he knew—that he had fought eight children. And their parents or guardians or something else were out there.

So that was why, panting, he walked into the tent. He heard his heart beating.

Lub. Dub. Lub. Dub.

Faster, now. It sounded labored. Eldavin cloaked the room in more magic and saw his captive sitting there.

“I am a member of Ailendamus. You do not want to kill me.”

Paxere was calm, or looked like it, as Eldavin came to a stop. The Archmagus snorted softly.

“Kill you? My dear, I am not an idiot.”

That was good, and she relaxed, but the Archmage didn’t look ready to let her go. He sealed the tent with privacy spells, then walked over to her and took a seat.

Wearily. She could not believe how much mana he’d just used. She had felt it outside. Even Rhisveri would struggle to use that much. Surely that had a consequence?

But his face didn’t show it. The ‘half-Elf’ sat there and regarded Paxere. He did not waste time, immediately asking questions.

“Who is Viscount Visophecin? Who is Duke Rhisveri, and what is your nature?”

She bit her tongue.

“No answer? I must know.”

“I will tell you nothing. Torturing me will not work!”

She was—nervous. Insofar as the Lucifen ever got afraid. Not just of the torture. Eldavin eyed Paxere.

“Ah. Death spells for revealing it. That—might be complicated. Of course. It’s too much to hope I’m facing idiots, isn’t it?”

He scrubbed at his hair and looked exceptionally tired. Then he smiled, and his mismatched eyes lit up with a cold fire.

“I suppose I must not condescend, but use everything. Fascinating. I haven’t felt this way in—”

He caught himself and looked at her. Sympathetically. Paxere was staring at the stump on her hand. He’d healed it, but her finger? She was an immortal, and regeneration potions were not easy.

He would pay for that. But the Lucifen saw Eldavin sigh.

“Alas. What is your name, young woman?”

She glared at him. The Archmage shrugged.

“I will find out soon enough. And I…well. I apologize in advance for what you may have to endure during this captivity. Hopefully, I will secure the release of those I desire, but it seems like this may not come to a happy end.”

The ones he desired? Who? Paxere watched him as Eldavin began murmuring spells. Then…he produced something, and she hissed.

“What are you doing? I am a prisoner and a noble of Ailendamus.”

“I quite understand. And believe me, I take no joy in this. But I do not know you. I shall endeavor to make it painless…but I need to know my enemy.”

The Archmage produced a single spark of lightning, then fire, and then ice, and set them on a palette of magic. He made the first dance on her skin, frowning at the way fire barely tickled her hand. Paxere watched him and grew more nervous still.

Two cold eyes watched her. Cold…but made more chilling still because she saw the little pinpoints of fear behind the half-Elf’s gaze. She began to grimace, as he tried to see what hurt her. And…she knew she was a Lucifen in his captivity. Rhisveri and Visophecin and the others might well crush him, but if he told the rest of the world what House Shoel was…

She did not want to die. And she feared that the Archmage of Memory would never forget this moment. What would it mean for Ailendamus? For everyone?

——

Eldavin’s heart hurt. With emotion, as much as anything.

You do not treat prisoners like that. Not like experiments to find their weaknesses. What was he doing?

Surviving. He was afraid. Eldavin began to draw up plans for more protections, tried to figure out his next move. He had [Messages] from Ailendamus. And word of a disastrous loss on the Dawn Concordat’s side.

“Damn them. Am I the only competent person here?”

Eldavin shouted, losing his temper. He sat there and realized his hands were trembling. He did not want to die.

His time was running out.

The Archmage of Memory sat there, wondering what was next, what to do, and who he was. Until the wind whispered an answer. He looked up and heard Ryoka Griffin’s name.

Table of Contents

8.00

8.01

8.02

8.03

Interlude – The Revenant and the Naga

8.04 T

8.06 RT

8.07 L

8.08 J

8.09

8.10

8.11 E (Revised)

8.12 T

Interlude – The [Rower] and the [Bartender]

8.13 F

8.14 N

8.15

Interlude – Paradigm Shift (Pt. 1)

Interlude – Paradigm Shift (Pt. 2)

8.16

8.17 H

8.18 H

8.19 H

8.20

8.21 L

8.22 HE

Interlude – Senior Guardsman Relc

8.23

8.24

8.25 KH

8.26 FK

Interlude – Luan the Giant

8.27

8.28

8.29

Interlude – The Pets of Innworld

8.30

8.31

Interlude – Pisces 1 (Revised)

Interlude – Pisces 2 (Revised)

8.32

8.33 R

8.34 R

8.35

8.36 H

8.37 H

8.38 H

8.39

8.40 CTV

Interlude – Of Vampires and Fraerlings

8.41

Interlude – Songs and Stories

8.42

8.43

8.44 O

8.45 O

8.46 G

Interlude – Perspective and Past

8.47 H

8.48 H

8.49 M – Revised

8.50

Interlude – Conversations

8.51 D

8.52 MN

8.53 FH

8.54 H

8.55 L

8.56

8.57 H

8.58 PFH

8.59 H

8.60

8.61

8.62 K

8.63 K

8.64 K

8.65

Interlude – Hectval (Pt. 1)

Interlude – Hectval (Pt. 2)

Interlude – Hectval (Pt. 3)

Interlude – Satar (Revised)

8.66

8.67

8.68

8.69 T

8.70 E